Eight weeks of Indoc, of Sugar Cookie Summer, we steeled it out together, Jonas and me. And when someone finally broke, and rang the black bell, it wasn’t me. But by then, Jonas was steeling it out with someone else – with Chuddah – and I was wishing it had been me who’d rang that black fucker of a bell.
Whatever they tell you about becoming a SEAL, whatever they write in the papers and whisper during war time, it’s true, but it’s not the whole story. It is harder that I can even tell, after all these years. It made me believe in super heroes and the strength of gritting through, at a time when I didn’t believe in anything. Less than half of our guys made it. I made it. I made it by waiting every night for Jonas to come back to my bed. But he never did.
Now, with him bound in front of me, in the uniform of the other guys, looking up at me with those fucking eyes out of my past, I know he’s come for me again.
I put my dick back in my pants. My hands shake around the zipper. I pull the hood off and there’s Jonas. His hair’s a little darker now and there are frown lines across his forehead, but it’s him. The man I loved so many years ago.
‘What the fuck, Jonas? What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Same thing you are.’ He laughs, a short bark. ‘Trying to catch the bad guy.’
He looks up at me and shakes his head. ‘Fuck, I thought I was done for. All this time, I’d been thinking you were that fucker I came to kill. That fucking BB guy.’
He eyes my crotch. ‘Lucky I didn’t bite that thing off. I was seriously thinking about it.’
Jonas is saying all the right things, but there’s something in his eyes. He’s trying to figure it out. Me, I’ve figured it out. But I don’t let on.
‘Shit,’ I say. I put my hand over my dick. It’s still half-hard, and the front of my pants are damp. ‘So you’re here after BB?’
He nods. ‘Agency can’t get their act together. Sends in two of its best men, but doesn’t tell either of them? Stupid.’
‘Stupid,’ I agree. I knew they’d send someone after me, but I didn’t expect it to be Jonas.
I look into Jonas’ pale-pale eyes. He’s waiting for me to cut him free. He doesn’t know; he hasn’t figured out that we’re not on the same side. I have to let him up. I owe him at least that. I lean over him and slide my knife through the rope. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ I say as I give him my hand.
‘No worries,’ he says. He barely pulls on my hand as he gets to his feet. ‘Now we’ll catch the fuck …’
For the first time, Jonas sees my wrist, the heavy black bell tattooed across the back of it. A perfect replica; I had it done in Asia from the mental photo in my head.
‘Black Bell,’ he whispers. ‘You’re … BB.’
He’s still good. His elbow slides through my defences and knocks against my windpipe and I cough, hard and fast. He’s better than me, still, probably. But I get my knife into his side even as he knocks me sideways. And in the end, I’m the one with steel in my hand and steel in my heart. Jonas taught me that.
Beauty And The Beast
by Penelope Friday
Len rang the buzzer at the house and waited for Sebastian to answer, his heart thudding uncomfortably, as it always did.
‘Yes?’ Sebastian's drawl echoed through the intercom.
‘It's me.’ It is I, Sebastian had told him so many times, was the correct grammar. Len listened, nodded seriously, and continued to use his own form of words.
‘Come in.’
The burr of the door unlocking, that so familiar sound. Len must have heard it hundreds of times in the past. Sebastian had never offered him a key; Len had never asked for one. He pushed against the door and let himself in; took his boots off and put them neatly on the shoe rack before climbing the stairs to find Sebastian.
‘I'm in the kitchen,’ his lover called, and Len strolled, hands in pockets, into the large, gadget-driven room.
‘Cooking?’ Len asked.
Sebastian raised one eyebrow at the improbable suggestion.
‘Opening wine. Sit down.’ He indicated the oak bench that stood by the kitchen window, and Len slumped down onto it. ‘So, my dear, how are you?’
‘Fine. Long day,’ said Len concisely. ‘You?’
‘Oh.’ Sebastian made a little moue with his lips, his hands busy on the corkscrew. The cork came out of the wine bottle with a pop. ‘As well as ever, if a little dull. However, I can at least look forward to tomorrow. I have nothing on until a lunch engagement. My morning is my own.’
‘Mine isn't. I can’t stay,’ Len said quietly.
‘I haven’t asked you to.’
‘No.’
Sebastian hadn’t asked him to stay the night. Never would. Not because he didn’t want him to stay, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of being turned down. And Len would turn him down – they both knew that. Not because he didn't want to stay, didn't love Sebastian, but because ... oh, because their lives were so very different that they had scarcely a single point in common.
Theirs was a pointless, hopeless, relationship leading nowhere.
Sebastian was – one of the Fortesque-Lloyds, one of the richest, oldest families in the country, with everything that their name stood for. Was blue blooded; a proud, arrogant man who believed that there was no one as important – as good – as his Family. His days were spent in luxurious idleness, in engagements with other important families. What Sebastian described as work was time spent at charity fund-raisers, paying sums that Len could only dream of in order to attend dances or suppers with all the people he saw every week anyway.
Len was – a carpenter. Having said that, considering Sebastian’s background, there was perhaps no need to say more. A gay carpenter. Sebastian at least had the distinction of loving (and sleeping with? Probably: Len knew better than to ask a question that he didn't want the answer to) women as well. Len loved no one but Sebastian. Not like that. And yet it was Len who refused to stay; Len who put the limits on their relationship. Len, whose soul was bound to an entirely different set of ideals – to the ideas of service, hard work and graft – even whilst his heart was Sebastian’s alone.
The Family (always spelt in Len's mind – and, he suspected, in Sebastian's – with a capital F), the Fortesque-Lloyds, were never mentioned when Sebastian and Len were alone, though Len was aware of their presence at almost all times. The only place in the entire building that they did not haunt was the bedroom: when Sebastian and Len made love, there was no room for anyone else in word, thought or deed. They belonged to each other, in total oneness.
‘You’ll have a drink whilst you’re here, I presume,’ Sebastian said. ‘You're not leaving immediately?’
Len nodded. Sebastian poured him a glass of white wine and passed it to him. He had no need to ask Len what he wanted, any more than Len had needed to answer the question. They knew each other, these two: knew their habits, their likes – dislikes – failings – thoughts. Len sipped the drink. Sebastian would allow him three sips before suggesting that he might like to sit somewhere more comfortable. They would start on the sofa; Sebastian would take Len’s glass from him – sniff it, sip it, savour the taste. Then he would kiss him.
‘So how was your day today? Any reason for the dullness?’ Sometimes, Len thought, they had the stilted conversation of total strangers. But it was harder still than that: there were so many things that could not – must not – be said; that hung unspoken in the air between them.
Sebastian shrugged elegantly.
‘No more than usual. Yourself?’
‘The same.’
Len took that third sip, and Sebastian looked over at him.
‘Is there really any need to sit in the kitchen as if we were servants?’ he asked laconically. ‘Would we not be more comfortable somewhere else?’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘The drawing room, perhaps?’
Len had once teased Sebastian for the pretentious use of “drawing room” rather than “living room
” or “lounge” as most people would have called it. Whenever Sebastian said the words now, there was a slight spark of amusement in his eyes.
‘The drawing room sounds great.’ The spark was reflected in Len’s smile.
To begin with, Len had always felt a little uncomfortable in the luxurious surroundings of Sebastian’s London pad. He had sat on the edge of the leather sofa, realising the full extent of the difference between their ways of life. Len spent his days scrabbling round for a job, any job. His profession was on its way out, and his undeniable ability did not change the cruel facts. Today had included being turned down for several artisanal projects which would have guaranteed his being able to afford to eat for the next month or two.
Sebastian … Sebastian had no idea what it was to have money difficulties. His “job” was being a Fortesque-Lloyd, an aristocrat. They lived in the same city but inhabited different worlds. Len knew that if he ever told Sebastian that he was short of cash, his lover would have provided for him without a second thought. But there were some things that were sacred. At the moment – OK, Len and Sebastian occupied different positions in society, but the relationship between them was equal. Neither man was beholden to the other: each gave as much as his lover. That was what Len wanted; that was right. He would accept Sebastian's wine, accept his hospitality, but not his money. Never that. He managed, and he kept his self-respect: could face himself in the mirror each morning.
Over time, however, Len had accepted – grown accustomed to, even – their different styles of living. Had known that, despite the pleasure he got from being surrounded by such beauty and opulence, he would never have felt at home here. The bed-sit he rented on the other side of London, while not the sort of place he could ever have taken Sebastian, was nevertheless “home” in a way that this expensive apartment could never be. He leant back now against the smooth leather sofa, his right side touching Sebastian’s left from knee to shoulder, revelling in that touch.
‘Is the wine satisfactory?’ Sebastian asked.
He put out his hand, and Len, smiling, handed him the glass. Sebastian swirled the liquid around the crystal cut wineglass, brought it to his nose, and then finally took the smallest of delicate mouthfuls.
‘It will do, I think,’ said Len quietly. ‘Don’t you?’
And Sebastian’s lips were on his, the glass put gently but firmly down on the occasional table by the side of the sofa. Len could feel his heart already beating faster at the first touch of Sebastian’s mouth, of Sebastian’s hands on his body. They had been lovers for three years, and Len still had no idea what it was that Sebastian saw in him: the handsome, blond aristocratic Sebastian Fortesque-Lloyd and the dark-haired, scarred carpenter Len Price – the beauty and the beast. Len surrendered himself into the kiss, his arms encircling Sebastian; and his lover said, as was his way,
‘I think the bedroom might suit our needs, Len.’
Len never had words to answer this; instead his hands were still clutching at Sebastian’s clothes as they shifted themselves into the sumptuous bedroom, his mouth fusing back onto Sebastian's as soon as the other man had finished speaking. Sebastian guided them both to the bed, rolling Len onto it and lying on top of him on the more-than-king-sized bed.
‘Sebastian … Sebastian …’ Len heard himself mumbling, as his fingers fumbled with the buttons that separated him from his lover. ’God, I want you.’
‘Len.’ And the sound of Sebastian’s voice was a caress, more intimate than any gesture he could make as he took Len’s name and made it his own property, just as Len was his.
Len dug his fingers sharply into Sebastian's skin, marking him as his own. Later, he would wonder whether he could not help himself, or whether it was his way of claiming Sebastian, so that every other person Sebastian might (or might not) fuck would know that they weren't alone, that this man belonged to another. Sebastian never complained: at this moment he was arching into Len, his cock rubbing hotly against Len's thigh as he pushed warm hands under Len's T-shirt, forcing it up and over his head. Len shrugged it off, gave up the gentle approach and ripped at Sebastian's shirt, regardless of the buttons, so that they lay chest to bare chest. Sebastian pulled back a little, his eyes seeking Len's, and he smiled a little as Len put firm hands around his arse, dispensing with his trousers before pulling him closer than before.
And they were naked, and Len could feel the hurried beat of Sebastian’s pulse; knew that – for some inexplicable reason – he was as important, as desirable, to Sebastian as Sebastian was to him. Knew that this was the one place where there was no doubt of their equality; that like called to like as they groaned and rubbed against each other. Knew, as he rolled Sebastian over, slithered down his body, his mouth closing around Sebastian’s cock, that this need, this hunger was all for him, that it was …
‘Ah, God, Len,’ Sebastian cried.
… was a mystery, perhaps the mystery of life; and yet that at the same time it didn’t matter, nothing mattered but the feel of their bodies; the sound; the smell; the taste that was so purely Sebastian. Oh yes, especially that salty, sexual taste that made Len want to come without even being touched himself.
His lover had his head thrown back; was running his fingertips gently (so different to the fierce, desperate need of Len's own touch) over Len’s shoulders as Len made love to him. Len knelt between his legs, the feel of Sebastian's erect cock in his mouth almost overwhelming his senses as he swirled his tongue around the head, took Sebastian deep, deep into his throat. Then, before he came, Sebastian pulled him up beside him, and was kissing him over and over again with a passion that had grown, not lessened, with every time they did this. And Sebastian was reaching a frustrated hand to find the lube; his voice whispering things he would never say at any other time to Len – dirty things, sexy things ‘Please, please, fuck me. Screw me into the bed. I want to be your slut, Len’.
Wanting, wanting, needing him. Len took the tube from Sebastian's clutch, squirted the cold liquid onto his hand and smoothed it on his cock. And Sebastian's body opened for him as he pressed gently, then with a firmness and determination that had Sebastian groaning and crying his name.
‘Len, Len, ah God, there Len, yes – yes, there. Fuck ...’
They were consumed by each other, even as they fucked. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing else mattered, but one thing had changed. For afterwards, as they lay together on the bed, at last Sebastian said it. Those final, fateful words.
‘Len … Stay.’
How Many Times Is The First Time?
by Chrissie Bentley
I don’t think anybody was really sure whether or not Marty was gay – or cared, for that matter. He was nice enough, but he wasn't going to win any awards for the hottest boy in the office, either.
I thought he was cute the first time I saw him, though, and we were going out for after-work drinks within a few days of my starting at the company. But even when a few beers before we caught our buses turned into meals before the occasional night at the movies or a club, any secret fancies that Marty may have been harbouring never raised their head – and I never said a word. Which, considering we were both well into our 30s, probably strikes you as a little odd.
He was so easy to get along with, though, that it really didn't seem to matter whether we ever went any further. Occasionally, we'd discuss past relationships, but in the kind of general way that kept us both guessing – “my old partner …” this. “My former lover …” that. We could have been discussing household appliances for all the humanity and gender we invested in our descriptions. We'd been hanging out together for about three months when I locked myself out of my apartment. It was my own stupidity, as these things usually are – waking late and racing out, I slammed the front door before realising my keys were still on the dressing table.
After half an hour spent fruitlessly trying to break back into my own home, and another hour waiting for the landlord to arrive with a spare set, I wound up spending the rest
of the morning getting my own duplicates cut, then wondering who to give them to. Marty was simply the most obvious choice. If I was going to lock myself out again, at least I'd know there was another key at work.
Time passed. We were still going out after work three or four times a week, still fencing around any subject that even threatened to introduce any intimacy to our friendship. And then, one morning, I awoke to hear Marty “hallo-ing” from the kitchen. More than a little puzzled, I pulled on a robe and padded out there. ‘What....?’
‘Oh my God, I'm such an idiot. This time I locked myself out!’ He'd run out to buy some milk and cigarettes – and the same thing. Slammed the doors, forgot his keys, and ... here he was. ‘Well, it was either go to the coffee shop and drink my first cup with a load of strangers, or come round here and have it with you.’ And then he stopped. ‘Uh ... you may want to run and put some shorts on. Or are you just very pleased to see me?’
I glanced down to where Marty’s eyes were resting. My robe was still tightly tied at the waist. But that early morning hard-on that we all wake up to find was pushing at the fabric regardless. He laughed. ‘Still, at least you’re never going to lose something that size,’ and his voice suddenly sounded strangely questioning, ‘I was beginning to wonder about you.’
How do you respond to something like that? You were beginning to wonder? In what way? I tried to deliver a witty reply, but of course there were none to be found, just a murmured, ‘No, all present and correct,’ as I willed my willie to behave itself. Excusing myself for a moment, I went back into the bedroom, pulled on some briefs and trousers, and the kettle was boiling by the time I got back. Crisis averted.
Or was it? Two or three times during the day, I caught Marty glancing over at me with what looked like a faint smile playing about his lips; and two or three times, too, I felt a stirring … no. It was a long time since any guy had commented on the size of my dick, but it didn’t mean he wanted to actually do anything with it. I resolved to bide my time, and see if he raised the subject again. Sometimes, my patience astonishes me.
Boy Fun, Four Book Bundle Page 2
