“Mostly,” Mike answers. The boy on the floor has given up; he’s flat on the sticky carpet, his mouth open, staring up at the remnant glitterball high in the club ceiling. Mike zips himself up with a smirk. He can’t remember the litter’s names so he doesn’t bother with them. Aston wouldn’t care who they were, and they know it, they cast around for lesser prey.
“Seen George?”
“Yesterday,” Aston says. “Sends his love. I thought I’d bring it.” He spouts bullshit about his absence, been filming, he says.
Mike listens and tries not to show how pleased he is to see him. He knows Aston’s lying; he knows Aston went home for the monthly lecture and payout. He doesn’t care. He stands up and takes Aston’s hand. “Come on,” he says. “I’m not staying here.” He grabs his beer, takes the blow-job boy’s beer for Aston, and they split.
They stagger out onto the narrow pavement and take control of the night. Tourists stop and stare; they point at the madness of Aston’s hair and when they try and take pictures Aston gets aggressive, ends up kicking a waste bin over, the papers spilling out to join the crap already littering the streets. They jump the barrier at Oxford Circus, and run down the escalator laughing like drains.
All the way home they play for the train. They behave like they are expected to. Aston spits on the floor, Mike swears like he’s got Tourette’s. They sing “Hurry up Harry,” their boots crashing in time against the slatted wooden floors, and make obscene gestures the way they’ve seen Rotten do. They glower at the travelers from under kohl-rimmed lashes. When they kiss, Aston devours Mike’s face like some kind of maniac and a man and his wife get up and move into the next carriage. Aston gives him the finger, and gropes Mike’s crotch, just for fun. “It’s fucking legal!” shouts Aston. He stands and swings around on the pole. He yells over and over again. “It’s fucking legal! Live with it!”
Mike’s reminded of a wildlife program, the stags bellowing in rut, and he giggles uncontrollably, falling against the woman next to him, who moves away. “You’re my stag, man. You’re my stag.”
Back in Mike’s squat they share a line before fucking—broken mirror, McDonald’s straw. They hardly undress, first time. Boots and bondage too hard to cope with in the speed of the lust.
Aston takes control, all jealous need. He pushes Mike over the back of the settee. His trousers hit the floor with a clank. “Baby-bird suck you off?” he says as he pulls Mike’s cock out with a possessive air.
“Couldn’t manage it.”
“Gettin’ old, old man.”
“Was thinking of you.” He gasps as Aston pushes in, straightens up so he’s closer. “They like it. You like it.”
“I do,” Aston says. “Would have watched if he hadn’t passed out. What’s in those pills you give them?”
“Who gives a fuck?”
The coke takes the edge off, strings them out, and slowly everything focuses into details. Mike can feel every muscle in Aston’s palm as it slides up and down his cock, almost too gently. Aston’s hair is hard against the side of his face, his face harsh with stubble. Mike can nearly count every hair, tries to, fails.
“Fuck this,” Aston says, pulling away. “Why should I do all the work?” They undress. It takes time.
Mike falls back on the bed, grabs a spike of Aston’s hair and pulls him down. Aston’s body is a pale wonder, slender and long, his cock the same with a subtle curve Mike knows Aston hates. Aston had wanted to dye his pubes the same pillar-box red as his head and they’d tried it, once, but Aston had ended up screaming in pain, and he’d punched Mike in the head as he rinsed off the dye, almost helpless with laughter.
When Aston tries to turn him over, he shakes his head, shuffles forward so his arse hangs off the bed. He wants to watch as Aston comes.
They’d laugh, he thinks, if they could see us now. Almost tender, almost lovers. Aston pushes back in, his eyes screwed shut, and like always, Mike wonders who he sees. It’s hard not to wonder if he sees someone younger, more Adam than Iggy. He’s too aware that Aston could—does—have anyone, and that he’s a good fifteen years younger. That Aston shapes the world around him, and Mike is only wearing camouflage. He’s scared that one day Aston will scratch the surface and find the remnants of the Isle of Wight Festival, flowers in Mike’s hair, broken tambourine.
Aston is everything Mike wants, and he keeps him only by not caring. He keeps taking what the boys give him because it keeps Aston coming back, knowing he could stop Mike dead, lead him by the nose-ring, lead him to Hell and that’s how they both like it.
The world turns.
They all turn around to a new beat, free of cardigans and the home counties; they steal straws from McDonald’s and stock up on blues, three for a quid and no questions. The world slows in a London night, stealing time from the dancers. Lyceum and the Marquee, all blurred guilt and pogo frenzy. Adam teaches them to wear khaki, Jordan has them in bondage, and the flick flick flick of the tube strobe shows Aston’s face, thin white duke painted white in the neon, black mouth, black nails, a lad a little insane. They fuck all night on pills and lager and Aston sits for hours in front of the mirror, saying how the black holes in his eyes will kill him—there’s a hole waiting to suck him in, he says. Mike listens endlessly to Kraftwerk and feels Aston deep in his throat and heart, swollen like blood.
“One day,” Aston says, “we’ll fuck right off.” He lights a joint and flings himself across Mike’s body. Mike can’t help but stroke the brittle hair, now limp and sticky around Aston’s shoulders. “We’ll go to Bali and drown some hippies. We’ll go to New York and break the scene. Dad will pay just to see the back of me.”
Mike closes his eyes as Aston sucks him in again. He feels his soul spiraling down Aston’s throat. He can see the palm trees but to him they line Oxford Street and they drop blue fruit onto the crowded pavement beach.
NIGHT VISIT
Barry Alexander
His security system was the best. I should know; I’d helped install it. Slipping through the shadows between the massive oaks, I evaded the cameras and alarm beams. No security lights glared. He liked the dark. My Nikes and jeans were damp from the dew-soaked grass. The heavy scent of lilacs drifted on the night breeze. Undisturbed by my silent passage, bats continued on their solitary night hunt.
While congratulating myself on my stealth, I saw a giant shadow racing across the lawn. Shit! I’d forgotten the dog. Huge paws struck my chest and slammed me into the ground. Pinned beneath his weight, afraid to move, I stared into his gaping, fang-filled maw. You don’t mess with rottweilers.
I tried not to breathe; the dog’s breath could have asphyxiated a wino. Memory clicked just as the huge tongue started polishing my face.
“Darth, you big bastard! Get off.” I shoved and he let me up, whining and dancing and wagging his big butt. I thumped his chest. I’d missed him, too. He bounced at my heels while I located the panel and disconnected the alarms. I felt like a burglar sneaking into the darkened house. My key still fit. He hadn’t bothered to change the locks. He wasn’t usually so trusting, but I guess he never expected me to come back. Pushing the dog aside, I slid inside. I knew he would be alone, asleep and vulnerable; it was why I had come.
All the staff was gone, but then he never kept much staff. Even old Alfred got a night off now and then. He didn’t mind being alone. He was damned good at taking care of himself.
I felt strange moving through the familiar rooms. Very little had changed—a new painting, a chair relocated. It was almost like I’d never left. For a moment, I felt like the distraught sixteen-year-old boy who’d been forced to leave the only home he’d known since his parents’ accidental deaths.
I wasn’t sixteen anymore. I wasn’t a boy at all. A year of prep school and two years of college athletics, weightlifting, and burgeoning hormones had packed a sizable amount of muscle on my basically slim five-ten frame.
Thick carpet muffled my steps as I threaded the maze of rooms, breaking the bands of
moonlight shimmering from the leaded-glass windows. My elongated shadow mounted the steps ahead of me. He was a light sleeper, but he’d taught me how to move silently, as he had taught me how to develop the new muscles in my adolescent body. He had taught me a lot of things. I owed him for that. I owed him for a lot of things.
A huge bed dominated the sparsely furnished room. The few pieces were solid, simple, and functional. Light flooded the curtainless room. He liked watching the night.
My rubber soles made no sound on the polished oak floor. He was sprawled on his back, sheets tangled at his feet. I smiled; he’d gone back to sleeping in the nude.
Moonlight pooled on his broad chest. I’d been proud of my new body—until I saw his again, massive pectorals covered with a thick mat of dark hair, bulging biceps impossible to hide even in his three-piece suits, and the large, soft penis nestled between his powerful thighs. His body was magnificent. And I was having my first really good look at his genitals. I took my time. The size and thickness of his cock awed me. The large helmet-shaped head was sheathed in a long foreskin that terminated in a twisted nipple of skin. His balls were richly feathered, hanging low and heavy beneath his cock. I inhaled the slightly musky scent of clean male body, and my own cock swelled. I settled its length more comfortably down the leg of my jeans, then sat on the bed.
“Bruce,” I said softly. He was awake instantly, body tensed for action. When he recognized me, he slowly relaxed.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. Puzzlement and a certain amount of hostility colored his voice. We hadn’t parted on friendly terms.
Unable to resist the temptation, I laid my hand on his warm, bare chest. His body stiffened, but he didn’t push me away.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Now?” he said with outraged incredulity.
“Believe me, now is the perfect time.”
“For you, maybe.”
“For both of us.”
His chest rose in anger. I felt the deep rumble of his voice through my fingers. “You couldn’t think of anything to say in the last three years except that damned note—‘I’m alive. Don’t worry.’ And now you want to talk?”
He frowned at my hand on his chest and started to sit up, to pull away. I pushed him back, enjoying his surprise at my new strength. He settled back, unwilling to use his power against mine. “Hear me out. You owe me that.” He was silent, so I continued. “It took a long time to figure things out, even longer to find the courage to return. I hated you for sending me away.”
“I told you why,” he said quietly.
“Part of the reason. You were afraid I’d get hurt and that you’d be the one to do it. That’s why you sent me to that fancy European school. You wanted me as far away as you could send me.”
His massive body tensed under my touch. It was as good as a lie detector. Bruce was skilled at controlling his expression, but the slight changes in breathing told me when I hit the truth.
“You should have stayed there instead of running off like some damned fool kid.”
“You knew where I was.” I tried to hold my anger. “I knew you’d be able to track that note. You never came after me.” I hoped he hadn’t noticed the break in my voice. It still hurt.
“Your choice,” he said coldly. “I didn’t want you to run. You were getting good grades, working your way through school.”
I detected the faint touch of pride under his words. My anger faded. “And you thought it was safer. I was blind not to see it, all those times you pushed me away. You knew how I felt. You thought I was just a kid, too young to know what I was doing. You couldn’t let yourself react.”
Slowly I traced a line across his damp chest with one finger. “I’m not a kid anymore, Bruce,” I said softly. “I know what I want. What we both want.” His body quivered under my touch, but he set his square jaw and glared at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know.”
My hand slid gently between his sculptured pecs, crossed the ripples of his taut stomach, and spiraled around his belly button. The shudder was stronger this time. I could see the first swelling of the huge cock cradled between his thighs.
I smiled. “Then why are you trembling?”
“Physiological reaction to unexpected stimulus. Automatic neurological response.” He shrugged, his face impassive. “It means nothing. I think you’d better leave. We definitely don’t have anything to talk about.” The granite in his voice hardened to steel, and the glaciers in his eyes locked deep in polar winter.
He was convincing. I flushed, certain I’d made more fool of myself than I had at sixteen. I was about to apologize when I realized that for all his protest, Bruce hadn’t moved one inch away. I tried to read him, but his face was set as hard as the will behind it. I had to try one more time.
“For all our disagreements, you’ve never lied to me. Tell me I’m wrong, Bruce. Tell me you don’t want me.”
“I don’t…” He started to say, roughly.
I swallowed hard, afraid of the answer but unable to look away from his eyes. “Don’t what? Tell me then.”
The ice melted. “You know I can’t,” Bruce said so softly I almost didn’t hear. “Damn it, why did you have to be so beautiful?” As if he couldn’t help himself, he slowly reached up and tangled his fingers in the loose mane of my hair. He sighed deeply as he stroked it.
Now it was my turn to quiver. “I was right.”
“Yes, damn you.”
“I thought you were angry at me, that you didn’t even like me, but you’d gotten yourself stuck with me. You kept pushing me away, but I never stopped hoping there was something I could do to make you like me. I tried so hard to make you like me.”
“Like you?” He sounded almost angry. “You were sixteen. I was your guardian, and I loved you more than I ever loved anyone in my life. I had to drive you away. You were too young; it wasn’t decent. I had to get you out of this house. I didn’t trust myself: wanting you, seeing you every day, and knowing that all I had to do was let it happen.” He broke off with a snort of self-derision. “God. Listen to me. I’ve no right saying this stuff to you. I’m fourteen years older than you.”
I’d never thought that the separation had hurt him too, but I couldn’t deny the pain I saw in his eyes. “I don’t care how old you are. I never thought of you as a father.” I drew patterns through the silky curls around his nipples. He gasped as my thumb brushed the hard nub. The feeling of power was incredible, as intoxicating as the rush of blood to my aching cock. That huge, beautiful body was helpless and trembling under my touch.
“Why did you come back now?”
“I met someone.” He didn’t move, but he pulled back. “It didn’t work out. He was gorgeous, and I liked him, but he wasn’t you.”
For once his face was unmasked. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. I think he was close to crying. I know I was. “Shut up and do what I’ve wanted for so long. Touch me. Please.”
His big hand slid under my hair and cupped the back of my neck. Slowly he drew me down until our lips touched. I threw my arms around him, shaking with need and want. For a long time, we simply held each other, content, until our bodies demanded more.
Bruce crushed me to him, probing every inch of my mouth. Reveling in the taste and texture, I teased my tongue along the edge of his and lapped the underside.
He broke away. “How in the hell much experience do you have?”
“Not a lot,” I said with a wide grin. “But a college education sure makes you well read.”
His lips moved down my throat, nibbling and drawing the heated flesh into his mouth. “I don’t remember them offering this class.”
“Individual study project.”
Slowly, deliciously, his lips moved up the bulging veins of my throat. His mouth swooped down on mine, devouring me, taking control and possessing me. His tongue did something indescribable; I started leaking precum, frantically grinding my
cock against his.
He laughed. “Didn’t your studies cover that?”
“No,” I gasped. “I think I need a private tutor.”
He slipped his powerful hands under my T-shirt, slid them up my back, and embraced my shoulders. “I could suggest someone.”
I sat up and straddled his stomach. For a long time, I looked down at him: the strong lines of his face, his full sensuous lips, the knot where his nose had been broken. For the first time, I noticed the tracing of lines around his deep gray eyes. I had never seen his face so vulnerable, filled with naked longing and a need as strong as my own. It was too intense. I forced a smile. My hands wandered the forest on his chest until I found his hard nubs. I tugged them gently.
“Is he hard?” I asked wickedly.
He knew the moment was too much for me. “Can’t you tell?” he asked lightly, rocking his hips against me. The blunt knob of his cock rose between my cheeks and nudged the small of my back.
“Definitely.” Reaching behind me, I circled as much of its heated girth as I could. “But what about homework?”
“He’ll keep you up studying for hours.”
“Mmmmmm. Sounds perfect. When can he start?”
“I happen to know he can give you the next several hours of his undivided attention. But you do have a problem—you’re overdressed for his class.” He peeled my T-shirt over my head.
I stood up to remove my jeans. He stopped me. “Let me.” I stood between his widespread thighs as he sat on the edge of the bed. Deftly, his fingers unbuckled my belt and popped my jeans. One warm hand rested on my back as he slid the zipper down.
I held my breath, trembling, as he slid his hand inside my tightly packed jeans. His rough palm pressed against me.
“Nice.” He eased my jeans off my hips. My cock sprang free, bobbed, and slapped against my belly. Though it was nowhere near the size of his—it was six-and-a-half inches, cut, slim like the rest of my body—my dick was well formed and straight. I was proud of it, of the large, heart-shaped head that sprouted like a bright red mushroom over the stiff ivory stalk, dangling a thin streamer of precum.
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