Date: Tue, 10 Dec 2013 21:33:26 -0500 From: redpatience@Safe-mail.net Subject: The Lad on the Train, Part IV The very first day, they went with legal documents to the lawyer and notary public who would give Andrew power of attorney to represent the boy, sign for him at the hospital should accident occur, and essentially exercise legal rights of a parent-in-proxy. After they sat filling out the paperwork for a long time in the smoky office of a solicitor general, they left and took luncheon and a pint in a crowded pub. It was noisy, smoky, and there were drunken Welshmen singing in a back room. They ate a couple of sandwiches and polished it off with an excellent pickle and draughts of beer. Andrew pulled out a rare cigarette and gave one to Peter, as well. "Congratulations, lad." Andrew grinned across the booth, rubbing the boy's shin with his toe. "Thanks," the boy smiled. He inhaled, and immediately began coughing. "In Scotland, I'd be legally referred to as your curator, now," said Andrew. "Really?" the boy asked. "This word, curator? It's not just for art?" "Well," the man said, "You are a masterpiece." The boy smiled. "In answer to your question, though, yes. It can refer to being the guardian of a child. A minor." "A miner?" Peter furrowed his brow, "a child? A miner? Like for coal or rubies or something?" The Scotsman burst out laughing. "It's easy to forget that English is a second language for you, lad. And then you say something priceless." Peter went red and looked frustrated. "It's alright, sweetheart," the Scotsman cooed, exhaling over one shoulder and putting his hand on the boy's. "What's a miner?" "Minor. M-i-n-o-r. It means somebody under the age of--well, the age of majority. Whatever that means. Like--minority. `A minor aspect.' Minor as opposed to major. You know." "I have taken Latin, yes," the boy said haughtily. "I just didn't know it could be a noun in English." Peter was still blushing and hid his face in his pint glass. "No need for embarrassment, my lovely. That's the first word I've ever taught you in English. And I use some jolly big ones! Like perfunctory. And vacillate." "Those sound dirty," Peter purred, grinning. His eyes gleamed with devious light. "Do they, now?" Andrew asked, grinning back. The boy took another drag off the cigarette and then handed it to Andrew. "I can't finish it. It makes me feel like my head's going to...float away." The Scot finished both cigarettes and they walked, tipsy and exhilarated, down the street toward the hotel. "This way, lad," the Scotsman said, turning right, "we're not going back just yet." "Aww," Peter whined. "You'll get what you want soon enow!" the Scotsman whispered, poking the boy in the ribs. They were stopping by the tailor to have his suit fitted. They'd sent the measurements ahead, and now four suits were almost ready for the boy. "Four seems like a lot," Peter had said, "Mama would say it's a waste of money because," "--You'll just grow out of them." Andrew interjected. "Well, by that logic a man ought never to buy a suit because he'll just die eventually." Mr. Carmichael said. "Change is inevitable; style is not. You're moving up in the world, my boy. You must look the part." Peter almost thought Andrew had done this to him because he liked watching the boy play dress-up. He'd get stripped down to his knickers in front of the tailor, a curly-mustached Frenchman named Louis Chantier who seemed to enjoy watching Peter change in and out (mainly out) of smart attire nearly as much as Andrew. First they had him try on the white tie formalwear, which he thought looked absurd. Monsieur Chantier helped him straighten all the pieces and the white tie, and when it was finished, Peter turned around in the mirror. Andrew was smiling uncontrollably, and the boy couldn't help but blush. "Why are you making that face?" "You look dashing, lad. Handsome as hell." "I look like a need a top hat," the boy said darkly. He stripped out of that as quickly as he could, the white wings of his shoulder gleaming in the pale light. He tried on the black tie and morning suits. Finally, he put on the blazer and slacks that would be his school uniform. "Not a typical school, St. Giles'," Andrew explained. "First off, it isn't a boarding school. Some lads live on campus, others come in from all over Edinburgh. A lot of wealthy middle-class lads there, like us. They'll still require you to wear a blue suit like this one: school insignia on the breast pocket of yer sweater or blazer. Alright. Back in your regulars, mate." Peter shucked off his schoolclothes and Andrew felt his cock fill out and harden as he saw those coltish legs and the white hairs standing up on them, the firm round buttocks jiggling as Peter jumped into his trousers. "Let's get back to the hotel. Don't want to miss tea," Peter said, pulling his red cashmere sweater over his head. They were staying near Hyde park in an old Georgian townhouse; they entered and a footman took their coats before they practically ran up the stairs. Once inside, Peter double-locked the doors turned with a maniacal smirk. "You've got a wicked glint in yer eye, wee beast," commented Mr. Carmichael. He went to a the bar at the front of the suite and poured himself a gin and soda. They had two rooms: the front was a sort of parlour with a large fireplace, wet bar, table, and chairs for cards or breakfast; the other room had two single beds. They hadn't the brazenness to push them together--servants came in day and night at regular intervals. Andrew sprayed some soda water over the ice and heard stealthy footsteps behind him. The boy groped his buttocks. Andrew rolled a lime under one forceful hand, breaking down the insides as Peter pressed his cheek against the man's back, wrapped his arms around Andrew's waist, and sighed. Andrew sighed as well, hooked one foot around Peter's calf, and cut the lime into sixes. He felt a cool hand slip down his trousers and squeeze his copious bollocks as he squeezed lime into the drink and involuntarily humped against the bar. Groaning, he took a first sip and turned to lean against the bar. "Alright," he said, "be a good lad and I'll give you something special." The second he had turned, Peter was unbuckling the belt. There was a knock at the door. Andrew fixed his belt as Peter plopped down onto the settee and hastily opened a book on bird watching. Andrew went to the door and found the sloe-eyed maid who tended to their room. "So sorry to disturb you Mr. Carmichael," she said, "only I wondered if you'd like the fire kindled?" "We would, lass. Thank you for being so attentive." She came back with a coal scuttle in a moment and set to work on the fire; Andrew sat down next to Peter and, as she was stoking the coals and tinder, passed his hand up and down the length of the boy's inner thigh. Peter arched his back involuntarily and suppressed a moan when the man squeezed his pouch. "That's quite enough, Miss--I'm sorry I don't believe I've introduced myself," "Elaine," the girl curtseyed. "Miss Elaine. Thank you ever so much. Please do tell the manager we'll be dining in tonight, and not to disturb me before I call the front desk--I've a great deal of work to do." "Of course, Mr. Carmichael," Elaine said. Soon the fire was crackling merrily; its orange flicker a contrast against the icy blue light coming in the windows. Andrew made himself another gin and soda threw a cushion to the floor and lay down on the carpet in front of the fire. "Lock the door, will you, lad?" he asked. Peter tiptoed, as if it were a matter of utmost stealth. He slid the bolt into place, and then made his way over to Andrew, who lay on his back with one elbow akimbo, his head resting on his hand. The boy slid his cold fingers up to warm them underneath Andrew's sweater, and they both grinned and mooned into each other's eyes. Unbuttoning the man's shirt and tugging its tails out of his pants, Peter unfastened the belt once again and worked his hand through to massage the man's perineum and balls. Peter's bangs were long enough to drape down to his nose if they weren't swept aside, and they hung in his eyes as he kissed Andrew's navel and the tender plain of muscle between the navel and the pubis. The man groaned and put his hands through those silken locks; Peter then jerked down his undershorts and Andrew's swollen balls escaped into the cool air. Then he felt the boy's lips tug at them; his hot, wet tongue poked and slickened them until one whole egg disappeared into Peter's mouth. He moaned and Andrew trembled at the vibration; then the boy applied the rough, heavy suction he knew the man loved. Andrew propped himself up to take a heavy draught from his cocktail and watch his Adonis sucking up and down the end of his rigid shaft. The squelching noises and husky-but-high-pitched grunts of sincere effort sent a chill down Andrew's spine. Warmth spread through his whole body, both from the fire and from his own incredible arousal, and he gave a little extra bump, bump, bump of thrusts into that velveteen mouth. Peter broke away, sweeping a string of spittle into his hand and wrapping it around the swollen red cock as he came up for a kiss. Those big, soft lips: Andrew lay back and rubbed the boy's rosy cheek with the backs of his knuckles as he tenderly sucked those pouting beauties. "Can we try something different?" the boy asked. Andrew whispered, "what'd ye have in mind?" From one pants pocket, the lad produced a small tin of petroleum jelly. The sight of it, the same type that was issued to his unit in the bloody trenches, nearly sent Andrew round the bend. "Good God, lad, are you sure?" "I want to. I've been...dreaming of it," he said with a strong accent. "Whenever I touch myself I am thinking about that time on the train--when you made me stand on the toilet. Except, I keep dreaming of--what must it be like to have your whole cock?" "I love you, Peter Van Nuys," Andrew whispered, grinning, "and not just because of this." They shed the boy's trousers while kissing, and then Andrew told the lad to give him the vaseline and turn around 180, him full access to the lad's posterior. "Now keep doing that lovely thing you were," Andrew said. Taking a deep breath, the boy went noisily back to sucking and slurping the big thick cock that would soon puncture his virgin rosebud. Andrew looked up at those pert, lovely arsecheeks, round and square at the same time, like Cezanne's peaches; almost girlish in their plump wideness, ample, no bone protruding from beneath. Saliva flowed into his mouth looking at that tiny orifice, so pure and clean and sweet, like a dark pink confection. He spat into his hand and rubbed the saliva into the hole, much to the boy's arousal. Within moments Peter's cock went from a pendulous swinging halfie to a tight erection that curved toward one thigh. Andrew used a hankie from his pocket to sweep the anus once, and then proceeded to devour it like the aforementioned confection. He bit and sucked and poked his tongue into the lad all the while keeping the boy from touching himself. "Not yet," Andrew said authoritatively. Peter moaned in frustration around the girth of the cock stuffed in his mouth, which Andrew was largely driving in and out because of Peter's tremendous distraction in being tongue-fucked. The boy bucked his hips backward onto Andrew's tongue again and again; he was aching to be buggered. At last, after a long luxurious loosening of the boy's hole with his tongue, Andrew swept a couple fingers into the petroleum jelly, buttered the edges of the pan, so to speak, and then pushed his fingers inside that tight sphincter. They stopped at the second knuckle. Andrew immediately felt the boy take his whole cock all the way down his throat. So overwhelmed by the sensation was he that his gag reflex was utterly eclipsed and he found his nose buried in Andrew's hairy bollocks. Sucking up the spittle that ran in rivulets from his mouth, Peter detached from the purple plum of Andrew's knob and jacked it with his eyes squeezed shut as the man poked and probed and worked at the tightness of his rectum. "Ow," he said softly, "that does hurt a bit." "I know lad. Take a deep breath and push out--like yer shitting." "Eugh," Peter whispered, but he did as the man said, and in that moment Andrew slid just his middle finger all the way into the boy's ass and touched ever-so-lightly that magic jewel buried under the mountain. Peter gasped and pre-come oozed from his slit; then he felt his cock spasming and beginning to erupt, clasped one tight fist over it, and pumped himself into his hand. "Wait, lad!" "Too late," he whined, and thrust himself onto Andrew's fingers. The man decided to make the most of it, and dug forcefully into the boy's prostate. Tears spilled from Peter's cheeks and hot semen shot all over Andrew's belly. He gasped and gyrated his hips in craving for even more force against his prostate. He panted after it was done, kissed Andrew's cock, and went to go get a rag. Andrew chuckled to himself, lying on his side and nursing his beverage. "What a mighty little bugger he'll be," he said softly. Peter came back and knelt down next to Andrew with his buttocks resting on his heels. "I want you to keep going," he said. "You'll have to kiss me first," the man said. They locked lips and Peter seemed even hornier than ever before, if that was possible; his lips were still slick and swollen from sucking and his eyelashes fluttered against Andrew's eyebrow. "You alright, lad?" "I feel wonderful. I want to keep going." He swung his knee over Andrew's face and set to work reviving the man's tumescent member. Andrew took another glob of vaseline and poked through the slippery hole with two fingers, now. Then three. The boy winced, but he was also getting hard again. "Is it possible to feel pleasure and pain at the same time?" he asked suddenly. "Some people can't much tell the difference, my boy." "I think I'm one of those people," he wheezed, and stood up. Andrew looked up, the boy's sleek form and hard penis looming over him. "I want to put it in," he said softly. "How should I do that? Do I need to get on all fours?" "No, no. I'll stay on my back. That way you have more control." The boy squatted, and eventually sat with Andrew's cock pressed against his own, rubbing them together, looking down apprehensively. "I'm still very scared." "Don't be, lad. You can stop anytime you wish! No pressure. No pun intended." The boy giggled. "All right," Peter said. He straddled Andrew's lean torso as the man slathered more vaseline all over his own cock and helped the boy aim it toward his tight pucker. "Now sit back on it just a little bit at a time," the man whispered. The boy bent forward, thrust out his arse and curved the small of his back. "That's it." The tip of Andrew's penis was pressed against what seemed to be an impenetrable wall of muscle. Eventually, the boy remembered--and pushed out as if he were shitting. The tip of Andrew's cock was, he could feel it, smothering the entrance. "I feel like I might actually shit," the boy whispered, "is that normal?" "Yes--well--yes. And when we take it out, you will definitely feel like you just took a huge shit all over me." The boy started sniggering. Then giggling uncontrollably. He laughed so hard that he collapsed onto Andrew's chest and kept laughing hysterically for at least a minute. After a while, Andrew was laughing equally hard, tears streaming down his cheeks toward his ears. Then there were only intermittent spasms of giggling, and they looked into each other's eyes. "I love you so much, Peter Van Nuys" Andrew whispered, combing his fingers through the boy's hair. Peter's eyes were watery and he swallowed thickly. "I love you, too, Mr. Carmichael. All-right," he said. He straddled Andrew's hips again, and stroked the man's cock a few times, and rubbed it against his slickened crevice to get it back to full timber. Andrew moaned. He then aimed the shaft into his greased cherry. "Ohh yes, lad. Now push out. Go slow." The tip of Andrew's penis penetrated, and his cock bent a bit at the base. Then the whole cock head slid through, and there they rested. It felt like a vice grip, and it took all of Andrew's self-control not to thrust himself further in. Peter's nostrils flared. He was grinning though, and flushed, and not in a way that seemed painful. He lowered himself further, and further, until he had quite suddenly taken the entire length of his lover inside. Andrew let out a huge "oooof!" through puckered lips. "Good God, lad, doesn't it hurt?" Peter looked as confused as he did. "No. Not really." Andrew felt the tremendous warmth and gushiness around his cock; likewise the tight grip of the lad's pucker around the base of his cock. They began to gyrate and move. The boy quickly hardened again to a full stiffie, and Andrew put his hands on top of those smooth thighs, wrapping his hands around the roundness of those heaving buttocks. He began working his cock in and out, slowly, piercing into the tightness as fast as he dared. Peter arched his back and leaned backward, his whole body gyrating and his tiny pink nipples pointing skyward as the man thrust again and again, slowly, softly, deeply into his arse. "Ohhh," the boy moaned. "Does it feel nice?" Andrew asked. "No!" Peter whispered. "It feels terrible, or terrific! Like I'm going to burst apart and lose control or..or.. piss all over you or something," he said, blushing. "C'mere," Andrew whispered. He drew the boy down into a kiss as he thrust his lengthy meat in between those perfect pert buttocks. Glancing down, he could see his rod penetrating that intersection of perfect curves: the full buttocks, lean white thighs, the smooth swell of the perineum and that silken ballsack. He thrust in and out, feeling the velvety tightness of the boy's arse gripping him and hearing Peter's moans in his ear; he fucked that tight boy who would never ever again be a virgin and for all that scarcity and rarity and pristine, boyish perfection he fucked Peter all the harder. The boy bounced up and down on his cock and indeed thrust himself down onto it harder and harder, eyes watering and mouth hanging agape, eyes never leaving Andrew's, watery and ecstatic. Andrew's hands pinched one nipple and jerked his lover's member until the boy let out a nasal and animal mixture of moans and yammering nonsense and sprayed a second and magnificent fluid come all over the man's hairy chest, face, and the carpet. After thoroughly squeezing every drop out of the boy, Andrew slowed his thrusting into that tight, hot, perfect hole, for he could feel that he would burst at any second. Peter leaned down and opened his voluptuous lips against his own, his sweet tongue licking the roof of his mouth as the man gave up an uncensorable growl of satisfaction and felt his cock erupt into the boy's tight darkness. He thrust and thrust and thrust into Peter's porcelain cleft, and his cock spilled the most copious ejaculation of his whole life; at last, drained completely, still pumping into that wet perfection, his anus and the boy's both relaxed completely and they lie together, glowing, burning with residual friction. The fire crackled and Andrew slid his cock out of the lad. He wouldn't have been surprised to hear the pop of a champagne cork. Later, they twisted together in one of the two beds, heaped with down comforters against the chill between coal scuttle and the window. Drowsy Peter ran his fingers through Andrew's chest hair, his cheek resting on the flat of the man's bicep. The sun was setting outside and the light was weak and silver as a film screen. "I love you," Andrew whispered again. He kissed Peter's forehead, and the boy grinned with his eyes closed, pearly whites bared. "I love you," Peter repeated, and kissed the man's adam's apple. "I love you," Andrew whispered again, even softer. He kissed the boy on the cheek, then the corner of the mouth, then the lips, so softly. Peter rolled over to bury his nose in the man's chest, feel those long arms envelope him completely, and inhale the smell of Mr. Andrew Carmichael, his own dried come, and the faint hint of Eau-de-cologne.