Date: Mon, 24 Dec 2001 17:00:50 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: Vancouver Island, chapter one

This story involves teen/boy, male/male graphic sex and is
not intended for reading by minors. If you are underage,
or this type of material is illegal where you live, please stop
now, and go read something else! This is a completely
fantasized story meant only for the purpose of pleasurable
reading. This story is not meant to encourage unsafe,
unprotected sex.

Feedback to javabiscuit@hotmail.com


Vancouver Island

by Biscuit

I had no right to take that kid. His dad had no right
to give him to me. But that's what happened. I was
sixteen years old, a total fuck up, entrusted with a
ten year old kid. My pockets were stuffed with peyote
buttons and psilocybin mushrooms, like some kind of
dowry from his dad.

The biggest difference between me and the other
losers living in the beach shacks, was that I had
money. Well, I didn't have it. My family did. But I
could get my hands on some if I needed to. And I had
a semblance of a brain. A speck of gray matter that
made me the fucking Einstein of the beach shacks.

Calling them shacks makes them sound a lot better
than they were. We're talking driftwood and plastic
sheeting and other kinds of shit nailed together.
The good ones, like mine, had a kind of stove like a
an old garbage can in them, we called them airtights.

A dozen of them were scattered at the bottom of a
steep wet trail loaded with rotting cedar, about fifty
miles up the west coast of British Columbia.
Vancouver Island. Calling the place a beach is a
a cruel thing to do somebody whose only seen ones
made of sand. Boulders and rocks, stretches of stone
and pebbles, caves. Fallen trees that grew right down
to the water in places. Seaweed from hell -- giant
slimy snakes of kelp -- twenty feet long, and fat
around as your arm. The surf was so rough you'd
be battered to death if you didn't freeze first.

The people who lived there were fucked up.
Druggies, homeless would-be hippies, some fruit
pickers out of season, though God knows migrant
work was beyond the grasp of most of the guys
living there. At the top of the trail was a changing
cast of nature lovers and loggers looking for
blowjobs.

I spent the worst and best summer of my life there
and the only reason I did it, was to be near a ten
year old boy that I'd fallen for like a ton of bricks.

I ended up on that beach because of Saguaro. I
met him at a music festival in Oregon. We were
both of us sixteen years old with nowhere to go.
He was into pot and mescaline and I was into
whatever, with whoever. Mostly guys. After
three days of drugging and fucking, in God knew
whose tent, he asked me if I wanted to head north
with him. I said sure. I'd been drifting for months.
I'd walked out of school so many times my mother
had just stopped sending anyone after me. She was
a mess. A mess with money, but a mess, all the
same. Just then, she was trying to pretend to be
normal. She'd gotten married again. She and my
step dad were practicing "tough love" on me.
What a joke.

I'd call her lawyer when I was desperate and
he'd send me money, general delivery, where
ever the fuck I'd ended up.

Saguaro had a mystical streak; kind of cute but
goofy. A French Canadian boy who'd changed his
name to a Southwestern cactus when his lover took
him to Arizona the year before. Anyway, he got
me all hyped up about going to this beach,
feeding me stories while we hitched north into
Canada. We had to sneak across the border because
we didn't have papers.

He said there were magical people at the beach with
great drugs and we could live in one of these cool
shacks for nothing. I swallowed the whole nine
yards. I liked fucking him. I could do without the
magic, but drugs and beach sounded good.

If I hadn't been strung out and frozen I'd have
beat him to death the night we finally got there.
We'd half slid, half hiked, forty-five minutes
through mud down the side of a cliff in the dark.
The sound of the waves crashing below us was
like the mega voice of doom. Me, stoned, still
thinking I was going to find a sandy California
beach at the bottom of it all. The smell of cedar
from the rotting trees, and burning in the wood
smoke from the shacks, was so heavy it stuck in
my throat. To this day, just a whiff of cedar
smoke gives me a hardon and makes me feel
like crying.

We'd gotten rides, all right, as long as one or the
other of us, mostly this one of us, took care of
the guy behind the wheel. How many times did
that little fuck Saguaro look at me and shrug,
"He likes you."

I no longer wanted to fuck Saguaro, I wanted
to fucking kill him, revive him, and then kill
him again. Unfortunately, I hardly had enough
strength left to make it to the pile of wood
that was the home of his buddy Armand.

"You'll love this guy, he's crazy," he said. He
was right about one thing, the guy was
certifiable.

Armand actually lived on that beach with his
family. A pasty faced Ontario girl and their
son, the boy I was about to fall for lock, stock
and barrel. Sarah, the wife, only talked about
food. Wistful memories of it, current supplies of
it, plans to get some, etc. Armand talked bullshit,
insane philosophy of life stuff. He told grandiose
stories you knew there wasn't a snowball's
chance in hell of being true. His shack was the
most solid one on the beach; he'd been living
in it for years.

His son Yves was born in that shack and that's
where I met him, the most beautiful creature I'd
ever laid eyes on.

Even in the state I was in that night, he just about
made my eyes bug out. My dick saluted in my
clammy, grimy pants, stealing much needed
blood from my weary, drug-addled brain. Like
a little wood nymph, stinking of cedar and
smoke, like every other thing on that beach.

His dad's dark good looks and his mother's
washed out English prettiness had given him the
world's biggest green brown eyes, ringed with
heavy dark lashes in a face that was part sultry
and part sweet. His coloring was exotic; dusky
skin and ashy blond hair. He had rough cut
bangs and the rest of it looked like it had been
growing forever, braided down to his ass. He
was bare assed naked in the steamy shack.

Even as I was thinking about how I could get
the fuck out of there, I could hardly keep my
eyes off of him. He'd gotten up from the one
bed they had in there, and was sitting on his dad's
lap, leaning back on him, watching me like a little
hawk. He'd look away every time I looked at him,
but then he'd peek to see if I'd stopped looking
so he could stare at me some more.

It was summer, but you'd never have known it.
It was so fucking cold outside. I was grateful to
be in a room with a fire going. Armand was nuts
but he kept his family warm and fed and he always
had drugs. He passed me a pipe loaded with hash
in a bed of tobacco.

He and Saguaro were going on, half in French,
half in English, and I prayed that the upshot of it
all would be a place to sleep. Food would have
been good, but sleep would be better. I needed rest
so I could get up and get the fuck out of there in
the morning.

The kid wasn't the only one staring at me.
Armand was doing a pretty good job of it too.
He and his kid were across the table from me. All
of us; Armand, me and Saguaro, were sitting
around this table made of a board on top of an
empty cable spool. I was getting buzzed, and trying
not to stare at the kid, at Armand's big hand on the
boy's naked belly. Armand's devil dark eyes were
catching the flicker from the burning candles.
He suddenly spoke to me directly, in English, with
an accent thicker than Saguaro's.

"I be telling Saguaro," he said, "that you're having
perfect lips." Jesus Christ, was there any guy on the
planet who didn't want me to suck his dick?

"Yeah, well thanks," I said. Don't get me wrong.
He was a hot looking guy. Broad naked shoulders,
and a hard chest showing around the bib of the old
denim overalls he was wearing, with nothing under
them. Not big, but real solid. Hawkish face, with a
sensuous mouth he'd bequeathed to his son. More
than just good. Another time I might have hoped
he'd look at me like that. But I was so pissed off at
being where I was and so beat; I could still taste
the guy who'd shot his load in my mouth at the top
of the trail. Sarah had poured us mugs of tea, and
the hot, honey laced stuff still hadn't wiped out
the scum in my throat.

She was sitting five feet away from us, on the bed,
sewing by the light of a kerosene lamp, like some
kind of weird pioneer woman. Yves was draped in
his dad's lap, so fucking sexy. I couldn't see below the
edge of the table, but it looked like Armand had let
his hand drop down between the kid's legs, he
probably was fingering him. Armand considered
Yves's prick his to play with as much as his own.

"Armand says," Saguaro interjected, "that one
of the shacks is empty. He'll take you up there.
It's a good one," he said, looking at me sheepishly.
"He likes you Jamie. He could help you out. He's
got a lot of supplies here."

"Me? What about you?" I said.

"Armand says Pierre is here. He misses me."

That's when I found out that Saguaro had lured
me to that hell on earth looking for the fuckhead
who'd taken him to Arizona and dumped him.
Pierre. He was about to dump me for a guy who
made Armand look like he had his shit together.

Oh Jesus. It was the last straw for me and he knew
it. My little fuck buddy must have seen his death
in my eyes. He was up on his feet, giving me a sad
look one minute, and the next he was out of there
like a shot, with me jumping up and trying to chase
after him. It was dark, and wet out there and I lost
him at the base of the trail which he knew like the
back of his hand.

Fuck! I looked back at Armand's shack, and told
myself I'd done worse for a place to spend the
night. In the morning, I swore, I'd be out of
there.

Armand was grinning, refilling his pipe, his
elbows planted on the rough hewn table. The
kid had gone back to bed, curled up on his side,
watching me with his thumb in his mouth.

My shack was about sixty feet up a different
trail. I knew it was a big deal, Armand helping
me, but I wasn't feel very particularly grateful.
I knew he'd make me pay, one way or another.

"This belong to Steve," Armand said. "But he
be gone for long time, you know, picking."

He lit a kerosene lantern on a plank table and
set about making a fire in the stove. I didn't
realize how lucky I was to have one. I felt about
as lucky as a cat dropped into the dog pen. I was
stoned, hungry and felt like crying as I picked
banana slugs, six-inch slimy bastards curled up
in the damp corners of the shelf-like bed. But
there was no way I was going to let Armand see
me break down. I unrolled my sleeping bag; a
ragged red thing that looked like the last friend
I had in the world.

"You be one nice slipper for somebody's
foot," he laughed at me, suddenly right there
behind me with his hands on my waist, pulling
me back against his hard dick. I tried to wrench
away from him, even though part of me wanted
to be touched -- I needed something, but it wasn't
his big cock near my ass. No fucking way. It
only made him laugh more when I tried to get
away from him.

Like I said, he wasn't a big guy but he was
bigger than me, and solid as rock. And I was
so fucking tired. His hands climbed the front
of me, getting under the sweater I'd gotten from
a trucker who decided he didn't want head from
a kid with blue lips and hands like ice.

"I'm too tired for this shit," I said, my voice
whispery, right at the edge of tears. His hands on
the move. His fingertips were calloused like crazy,
poking into my flannel shirt. The button holes were
so worn out and loose they just let go the buttons
with a slide of his hand. He was playing with my
tit and my dick stirred up a little, between that and
his hot breath on my neck. I did not want that thing
inside me but the little bit he was holding me felt
good in spite of that.

"So, you don't have to do nothing." He said, like it
made all the sense in the world, his hand dropping
down to my crotch, finding my cock and using it
like a handle to press me back into him. His dick
felt so fucking huge across my ass, it made my
knees feel watery. Just let him do it, I thought, and
he'll leave you alone.

"Whatever," I mumbled, not fighting him. I just
wanted into my sleeping bag. I wanted morning
to come so I could crawl back up the fucking
trail and get the hell out of there.

At least it was warm with Armand's body on
top of me. I'd been used a whole lot worse. And
it's true, all I had to do was lie there and take it.
My shirt bunched up under my head, my eyes
closed. He played with me for a long time and it
almost got good. He knew he had a wicked huge
piece and he took his sweet time getting it in me.

It's not my thing, getting fucked. I know I look
like I was made for it. I couldn't tell you how
many times guys have told me that. I say I'm 5'9",
if somebody asks, but I'm lying. I'm too fucking
pretty, even when my hair is chopped off, which
it wasn't then. I got this barbie doll face and dumb
blond hair from my mother, likewise an ass that
gets looks from guys who'd say they'd never dream
of fucking another guy. What a waste. I'd like to
look in the mirror and see John Wayne and instead
I've got fucking Britney Spears staring out at me.

I don't know half of what Armand was grunting
in my ear. French, most of it. But he was loving
it, that much I knew, and I guess I was grateful
he knew what he was doing. He pulled out of me
to shoot his load on my back, rubbing that pole
between my cheeks. Thank God. He came like he'd
been saving it up. I'd have been dripping that shit
for days.

I must have been asleep when he left. I don't
remember it. Just waking up with a jolt of
panic, my ass aching and my bladder full, the
smell of the place swamping me. Then I heard
the rain. A sound I'd get way too used to.

Shivering, naked, about ten feet away from the
shack I let go a hot stream into the vines at the
base of a tree. Then I hunkered down with the
wet leaves slapping my ass to shit out the little
I had in me, softened up by Armand's dick.

That's when I saw him. I never heard him
coming, he was just there on the bit of a trail,
looking at me through the trees. Big eyes taking
in the sight of me, a smirk on his face and his
arms around a big gray basket. He was dressed
like his dad in a pair of big overalls with a knit
hat on his head and bare feet.

"Eh, bon jour, good morning," he said. Hefting
the basket on his hip, he plucked a fat wet leaf
off a vine and handed it to me. "Better wipe your
ass, Jamie." Damn. He didn't take his eyes off me
for a second. The leaf actually felt pretty good
in my crack and I resisted looking at it to see if
I'd gotten clean. I straightened up and wasn't
feeling the cold any more. My whole body was
hot with a flush and my dick was reaching for
the sky. Yves took a good look at it and back
up to my face, grinning. "I got you some stuff
here," he said. His voice was so odd. He didn't
have his dad's accent but some of the rhythm of
how Armand talked and his h's were lost.

I wrapped my hand around my hard dick and
went past him, trying to act like it wasn't the
weirdest thing in the world to be naked in some
kind of rain forest with a big ass hardon for a
ten year-old boy.