Date: Wed, 26 Dec 2001 12:04:38 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: vancouver island, chapter two

This story involves teen/boy, teen/adult, 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 ~ chapter two

by Biscuit


"This is the best stuff here," Yves said, unloading
the basket onto the table. He shook a tin at me before
setting it down. "Coffee for you."

I had pulled a pair of jeans from my pack that were
far from clean but blessedly dry and was stuffing my
very unruly dick into them; with those big hazel eyes
of Yves's tracking me. He let out a laugh.

"Guess you like coffee pretty much," he said. I turned
my back and made myself think about climbing the
trail as I rummaged a shirt from the mess in my pack.

I heard Yves fiddling with the stove and he struck
a match. God, the trail. I had to find Saguaro, or get
the kid or Armand to show me the way up there. I
picked up the pants that were caked with mud from
the night before and knocked as much crap off them
as I could before rolling them with the muddy parts
covered.

"Cat got your tongue?" he said. Like his dad, he was
suddenly on me. Little bare arms around my waist
and his head between my shoulders. "What are you
doin' eh, Jamie? Not packing, right?" I couldn't
believe how good it felt. He was sliding around to
the front of me, still hanging on, forcing his head
under my arm. Jesus, to look down into those eyes
from so close, with his head tilted back and his
stomach brushing against my once again very hard
dick.

"Got to pack," I said, but I was smelling the sweet
smoke of the fire he'd started and my free hand was
on his bare shoulder. His skin was smooth and warm
and I could feel a healthy layer of muscle over the
bone. He was a slim thing but not frail, taut
muscled like his dad. That face. High cheekbones
under his big eyes and a straight fine nose over a
pair of wide firm lips. He'd pulled off his wool cap
and his bangs were standing up every which way,
his eyebrows were mostly pale like the rest of his
hair, with darker smudges right at the start. His
brows furrowed then relaxed as he bumped his
belly against me and grinned.

"How come?" he asked. "You don't have to go
nowhere."

My hand was moving on his shoulder. I couldn't
help it, just to run my palm down and feel the
shape of the blade. He shivered when I slid my
hand under the strap in the back. Then I pulled
my hand back, stepping away from him before I
could do something a whole lot more serious than
touching his back.

"I've got to pack and I need to get up the trail," I
said, walking around him to start packing my bed
roll. He sat on it, and pulled the edge I'd picked
up out of my hands. And then he just stared at
me, defiant.

God, I knew how bad that kid wanted me to stay
there. It wasn't so much of a sex thing for him,
though I felt him wanting to touch me. Since I'd
laid eyes on him he'd been focused on me like I
had some thing he wanted and needed. The look
on his face got troubled so fast, like he'd fight me
if I tried to get him off my sleeping bag. I didn't
know what to say to him, how to tell him I was
nothing to be looked at with such big hopes and
longing. Six years is a big deal when one of you
is ten and the other sixteen. To him, I was a
grown up. To me, he was a kid. But we were
neither of us exactly that.

Where did I have to go? What did I have to do
that was so fucking important?

Then we heard Armand, calling out on his way
up the trail.

"Yves," he yelled, and the boy went running,
shooting me a last hard look. I started rolling up
my sleeping bag, but without much enthusiasm,
feeling like leaving suddenly weighed a ton.

The door to my shack was nothing more than
flaps of cloudy plastic and Armand came through
them with armload of shit. He and Yves were
jabbering in French and English.

"No," I heard Armand say, "he don't go nowhere,
go on." Yves looked at me, setting down the over
spill he'd taken from Armand, clothes. Jesus, were
they going to try and dress me up in overalls?
Then he took off.

"I need a guide up the trail," I said.

"You need a coffee, and a nice big bowl to smoke.
Don't be scaring the boy."

He pulled a pouch from one of the pockets of his
pants and started sprinking some powdery shit
over the bare planking of the bed shelf.

"Get rid of slugs," he said.

Yves came back in with a big metal bucket of water,
straining his arm muscles, and set in on the floor.
He dipped into it with the oldest, beat-up looking
coffee pot I ever saw and dumped in grounds
from the tin of precious coffee; stealing anxious
looks at me. Then he put it on the crackling stove.

I set down my bedroll. I might as well have raised
a white flag and said, "I give." I sat down on the
rickety chair by my table, watching them. I wasn't
going anywhere. Not that day.

I watched Armand spread a pair of rug-like
blankets over the bed boards and then he calmly
unrolled my sleeping bag and spread it out, zipped
up but flat, with the top of it folded over like a
pillow.

"I present you, the bed of Louis Quatorze,"
Armand said, turning to me, waving at the bed
with a flourish.

"Louis Quatorze," Yves said, bubbling, hazel
eyes full of glee, "had the best of the best of
everything." The way he said it was everyt'ing.
As it turned out, Louis the fourteenth was their
measure of luxury in all things.

Yves knew I'd given in and was beside himself
with shy grins, like he was trying not to flaunt
his victory. He'd flash a big smile and then try
to hide it. Killing me, that's what it was. Every
bright happy beam from those eyes. I could no
more resist him than, I don't know what. There
was nothing to compare to the temptation of him.


He lifted up a parcel wrapped in an ancient tea
towel and brought it over to me, getting right
between my knees to unwrap it under my nose.
God, my belly grumbled at the smell of food as
he opened the cloth to show me a flat loaf of
cakey bread.

"His mama's best bread," Armand said. He'd
pulled a wooden crate over to the table and
put another folded up rug on it before sitting
himself down. Then from one of his pockets he
fished out his pipe and his stash. "Make him a
plate, quequette, and don't be forgetting the
other."

The other proved to be a hunk of cheese. My
stomach went nuts. Yves served me and then
hung by my side, watching me eat with his
arms wound behind his back. He bumped me
with his knees.

"It's good Jamie?"

"It's really good. Your mom's a good cook."
That she was. The bread was dense with raisins
and molasses and my mouth was awash in spit.
I held a piece of bread up to him, thinking he
was hinting he wanted some, but he shook his
head.

Armand laughed, "He want to be on your lap."

Not a good idea, not the way I was feeling
about him right about then. Like I wanted to
grow him up about six years and fuck him.

Thank God, Armand passed me the pipe and
the moment passed without me having to say
or do anything but take a lungful of hash
though my mouthful of cake, and Yves moved
away to check the coffee pot.

It was no small thing all the stuff they'd given
me. Everything on the beach had to be gotten
in town and transported miles up the road and
then brought down that trail. Armand traveled
into Victoria about once or twice a month for
supplies. There were other towns, not as big,
closer. But in Victoria there were places he
knew to get stuff, shelters he went to, churches
that gave stuff away. And he had friends he
could crash with. Armand had scams.

I found out he wasn't as generous to others
on the beach. Even Saguaro, who came looking
for a smoke.

"You with Pierre, boy," he told him, "tell him
to get you some tobacco."

I thought the payback Armand wanted was to
fuck me. He did. But what I didn't realize was
that he was sizing me up for his son. Crazy.
But when I think about it now, maybe not so
crazy, at least by his way of thinking. The
beach was no place for that kid. I think I
was a fucked up alternative, but to Armand,
I smelled of money and possibilities for his
boy and he saw how Yves was drawn to me.

He and I drank coffee that morning and got
high. He started spinning tales. What crap he
could talk. I listened with half an ear, his
voice mixing with the sound of rain. My eyes
wandered to the bed where Yves was going
through my pack, taking things out one by
one, looking at them, making a pile of clothes
he would bring to his mother to wash for me.
Any objects, like the odd handful of music
tapes I had, he placed on the wall shelf by
the bed in a little display after he'd carefully
looked it over.

Through my haze I heard Armand say, "You
be a real pretty thing, Jamie. My Yves, he be
pretty as you when he grow up."

Wrong. He'd never be pretty. He'd be full
out, drop dead gorgeous. Pretty would never
contain what Yves was. Me, yeah, unfortunately
it fit me. But him, maybe you'd say beautiful,
exotic, some whole other order of thing. Part
of that would be Armand's looks coming
through in him; like a dark undercurrent that
gave his looks depth. I don't even know what
my real dad looked like, but I'd guess it was
like Ken to my mom's Barbie.

Me and Armand did mushrooms that morning.
I'd go hunting with him for them later that
summer, in fields with big piles of cow shit.
Tiny little things we swallowed a bunch of.
Gradually, the sun came out, inside me, if not
on the beach, ripples of warmth and well
being flowing through me as the mushrooms
came on. I was on the bed with Armand. His
touch felt sweet, like I was a field of tall
grass and he was a breeze ruffling me.

I remember how dark his big, uncut dick
looked next to mine. I have the world's most
boring prick. Not big, not small; even-colored
and neatly circumsized; like they slapped it on
me at the doll factory -- the next step up from
the molded plastic hump they gave Ken.

Armand's heavy cock was something to write
home about, a live branch of wood from a
thick dark forest of hair. Damn if it didn't
taste like cedar and smoke.

I know I spent a long time between his legs,
exploring that monster with my mouth. Not
trying to get him off, tripping on the taste
and feel of him, getting lost in the world of
his massive balls before scaling that pole to
do some serious sucking. He let me play for
awhile, watching and murmuring stuff in
French I didn't understand. But he didn't
want to come like that. Armand wanted to
fuck. He'd take his time getting to it, but
that's what he always wanted.

I learned a lot about fucking from Armand.
Like I said, it's not my thing to have a guy's
dick pounding away in my ass. But he was
like a master chef of some kind of food you'd
only ever had cooked by somebody who
didn't know what they were doing. He was
good enough at doing it to make me like it, at
least, more than anybody else had made me
like it. So, part of me was taking notes. I
wanted to be able to cook it up for somebody
else, like he did.

The somebody else who would eventually
benefit from the lessons I was getting -- he
was there too that morning. Not on the bed at
first, but lurking and watching. He appeared
so suddenly afterwards, when I was groping
for something to wipe my stomach, that I knew
he'd been there the whole time. Yves popped
up from the floor by the bed with a tee-shirt
from my dirty clothes.

"Use this, Jamie. We be cleaning it anyhow."

I think I just stared at him, not knowing how
to react to him being there like that. Armand
took the tee-shirt from him, muttering to him
in French, matter-of-factly wiping at my
stomach and then his dick before tossing it to
the floor.

Yves looked away, and moved away from the
bed. He started gathering up the dirty clothes.

"I take the laundry," he said, eyes cast down,
sounding like he was shrugging off what he
was doing.

I was sure I was missing something, something
going on between the two of them; not for the
first or the last time with Armand and Yves.