PRELUDE TO A WEDDING
by David Williams
WARNING This story is a fantasy/dream that I have developed overtime. None of the characters are real and no event is based on any real event. It involves sex between men. If this offends you, don't read any further. If it is illegal to read such literature in your country, don't read it.
Copyright resides with the author. You may read it, download and store it on your computer and print out a hard copy provide you print out the title and this copyright notice. You may not reproduce it without the permission of the author nor may you use it to make money. Should you have any questions about the copyright of this material, e-mail the author.
PRELUDE TO A WEDDING
I stopped the Cooper S in front of the garage door. Before I could switched the engine off and unbuckle the seatbelt, a hand slapped the drivers window. "Where the fuck have you been? I was beginning to think you'd gone without me."
"Law School. I had to read a tutorial paper. Only Fisher would insist on holding a tute on Thursday afternoon before Easter." I climbed out of the car and opened the door to the flat.
"What are we taking? The Aston?" Mike asked as he dumped his knapsack inside the front door.
"Yeh. My gear's in the boot. I packed this morning. I just have to change then we're away."
"Good," he grinned. "I'll help you."
"No you wont. We don't have time for that if we're to get to Hallaton for dinner."
"Come on. It may be the only chance you'll have this weekend, with the place full of people." He moved towards me. There was already the outline of a developing erection in his jeans.
"No. We really don't have time. I can't afford to be late." I twisted away and climbed the stairs to the sitting room with Mike close behind.
The flat was built about five years ago in the loft over the old stables and coach house. A small entrance hall at street level contains a hall table, opposite to which is a door to the cloakroom with the garages and workshop beyond. Opposite the front door is a flight of stairs up to the sitting room. The flat is large, nearly the size of an average suburban house. Half the space is taken by the sitting room with the other half comprising a kitchen, two bedrooms and bathroom. My bedroom is spacious despite its queen-size bed. The second bedroom, much smaller, is set up as a guest room. For appearances sake I suppose; I can't remember anybody other than Mike using it.
I went into my bedroom to change. As I kicked off my jeans, Mike grabbed me by the waist pushing me onto the bed. He had one arm across my chest holding me down as he felt for my cock through my jocks. It wasn't worth the struggle; he was bigger than me and anyway, I was rapidly stiffening. I relaxed and reached for his cock, which he was rubbing against my leg.
Mike Hunter is the son of the manager at Hallaton Park, our property in the South East. I should say my property for that is what it now is. He is six months older than me, tanned from working in the open and broad shouldered. Although well muscled and strong he lacks the definition gained from gym work, preferring to develop what muscles he needs just by working and playing tennis and football, which he does with enthusiasm. From the time he was about sixteen he has had an air of raw sexuality, attractive to both men and women, which he broadcasts indiscriminately. What his attraction is, is hard to define. His face is homely rather than handsome, being squarish and topped with nondescript brown, wavy hair. His eyes are a hazel colour and in no way commanding. In fact there is nothing about his face that compels people to look twice at him. But he is a well built, vibrant, virile, human animal but with just a hint of the predator.
My father appointed Jim Hunter manager of Hallaton eight years ago. We spent Christmas there that year on our way to Anglesea to give Jim and my father a chance to get to know each other. I don't remember especially being encouraged to do so, but somehow it was only natural that I should spend my time with the Hunters' son. I remember the impression Mike made on me the first time we met and still feel a similar sensation each time I see him after several days absence. But at thirteen, feelings and impressions are difficult to analyse and put into words. All I knew then was that being in his company was exciting and slightly dangerous. I somehow knew that he was going to lead me to places I might otherwise not go and was the person with whom I would do things I might not otherwise have done.
I used to tag along with him as he accompanied his father in the daily round of work on the property. Curiously, that fortnight first led my father to believe that I was developing a genuine love of Hallaton and an interest in its management. That belief was reinforced over the years as I took every opportunity to spend time there and when my father died, I found that he had separated it from the rest of the Trust and willed it directly to me. If I'm honest, in the early years Hallaton's main attraction was Mike, but as I grew I began to appreciate the property and its history and I have a genuine love for it in its own right.
That summer, Mike and I helped with the harvest and the sheep, ran messages and did whatever Jim and his two farm workers thought we could achieve. I remember being surprised to find that Mike could ride the trail bikes and even drive the ute. He was equally surprised at finding that although I had visited Hallaton many times in the past, I had never ridden a motor bike before. He set himself the task of teaching me and we made any excuse to take the bikes out along the tracks and through the paddocks. My parents were almost as proud of my grazed arms and legs, the results of many spills, as I was and did nothing to limit my time with Mike and his father. My hero worship grew and Mike did nothing to suggest that he found my company irksome. Unaware, that fortnight we formed the basis of a strange friendship that has lasted ever since.
The last afternoon before we left for Anglesea, my father came out with us to muster sheep and move them to a recently harvested paddock. We all travelled in Jim's ute; Mike and I bouncing on the tray behind. On the way home, as we approached the Home Dam, Mike banged on the roof of the cab.
"Hey, Dad. Let us off. Will and I'll have a swim and then walk home."
We scrambled over the side of the tray and the ute drove off, soon out of sight behind the stand of trees at the edge of the paddock. Mike shrugged himself out of his t-shirt as I looked at the brown water and vaguely wondered how I could swim without speedos.
"Come on. Strip off." He was already bare footed and was undoing his shorts. He dropped his clothes on top of his sneakers and turned around. I remember being stunned; just standing there with my mouth open, looking at him. I had seen boys at school changing for sport but I had never been near a naked person who intended to do anything other than to quickly dress again. The prospect was somehow exciting and overwhelming. I realised that I was staring but found that I couldn't take my eyes from his cock and balls. Hair was starting to grow down there, something I knew about but had never seen on someone near my own age. His balls even had a few wisps of hair growing on them that caught the late afternoon sun, almost like a halo around the circumcised head which hung level with the bottom of his scrotum. Gradually the whole of him registered. He already had the broad shouldered structure that is so noticeable now and although growing tall, had no sign of gangliness. I thought that I had never seen anyone so breathtakingly beautiful before.
He grinned when he noticed that I was staring at his cock and it started to harden. I remember growing red with embarrassment but being unable to take my eyes away. He walked the two or three paces separating us and jerked my shorts down from around my hips. I hadn't realised that I had an erection until it was twisted in my descending jocks. I must have exclaimed for I remember his look of uncertainty and then he saw that I, too, was stiff. He grinned again and immediately took me in his hand. I was still embarrassed; whether from the first erection I had seen other than my own or from the realisation that I still had the body and experience of a child, I couldn't tell.
He pulled me to the ground. "Lie down. That way we wont be seen if anyone drives through the paddock."
He lay on his back. I couldn't take my eyes from the sight of his cock reaching for his navel, its head across the tan-line made when he had worn speedos. He took my hand and placed it on his cock. I squeezed it hard. So hard that he cried out. I hadn't known what else to do. He gripped my small shaft with his thumb and fingers and started to slide the skin up and down. "Like that." No other person had touched my cock before and I was filled with a plethora of sensations that, despite a residual feeling of embarrassment, were surprisingly pleasant. In bed at night I used to play, squeezing it and rubbing the head on the sheets and fantasising about just such a situation as this. But that was all forgotten now; this was real.
I tried to imitate his grip but was on the wrong side to hold him the way he was holding me, with his thumb on top and fingers underneath. Gradually I found that I could hold him comfortably in my palm with my fingers circled around his shaft. Gradually I started to stroke him, aware of the living hardness imprisoned within my hand and marvelled that it could be surrounded by such smooth, sliding skin. I became aware of a growing tension in him and suddenly he arched his back and gave a strange sound; part grunt and part cry of pleasure. His cock started to jerk of its own accord, not in time with my strokes and the first drops of a viscous white fluid spurted from the head. I had never seen cum before. I was so startled I let him go.
"Keep pulling it. Keep pulling it. Don't stop."
We both fumbled for his cock that was jerking up and down off his stomach of its own volition as cum sprayed across his ribs. Somehow I imprisoned it and continued my previous movement. I was conscious of Mike's pleasure at what was happening and some instinct already told me that when the white fluid appeared, it didn't matter who was stroking him for all the attention he was giving to anything other than his own feelings at the time. I remember wondering at a sensation that could so take over a person and I was jealous that I couldn't experience it yet. And there were the physical sensations of the sticky touch and cloying smell of what had been pumped from him. The smell was strangely like the smell around certain trees at school.
Mike scooped up the puddles of cum from his stomach and rubbed it over his cock. He took my hand and placed it on the sticky shaft and told me to continue pulling it because it still felt good. I had already surreptitiously wiped the cum that had splashed over my fingers onto the grass between us and was now slightly repelled by his cock's stickiness. I made myself move my hand up and down again until, touching the head, he arched his back and grabbed my wrist.
"Not the head. Don't touch the head after I've cum."
Mike lay back breathing deeply as if he had just been running. He had forgotten my cock. I realised that he was gradually softening and must have slowed my stroke for he pushed my hand away and stood up.
"Come on. Swim. I have to wash this off."
I remember lying there, still erect, watching in wonder and envy as he walked into the dam. I must have joined him eventually because I next remember walking the kilometre back with him to the homestead with dry clothes sticking to my wet body and bits of wet grass and leaf stuck to my feet inside my sneakers. I wanted to think about what had happened. Mike at last realised that I had never done anything like that before and started explaining as much as a fourteen year old could. He said that I would soon be able to do it too and that the first time you pissed after cumming felt pleasantly different but not as good as cumming itself. I knew that there were questions I should be asking him, but I was still so overpowered by the experience that I couldn't put them into words. Out of that jumble of impressions I was left with two thoughts; I wanted to be able to do that myself as soon as possible and I wanted to feel his cock in my hand again. As we neared the homestead he said that on no account was I to tell anyone, just say that we had had a good swim. With that he ran home to the New House.
I didn't see Mike for another three weeks for we left the next morning for Anglesea and what was to be for me the first of three unhappy annual holidays. When Mike and I next met it was at school. He was boarding but we were in the same sets for English and maths. In his first year there he made an impression as a tennis player in summer and a footballer in winter and was subsumed into the group of serious sportsmen that dominated the school. My father made a point of taking me to watch his football matches whenever possible and my mother used to invite him home at weekends. He was given his own room in the old servants' wing where my sister and I lived until my flat was built. Despite my sister Caroline being at home most times he stayed, he somehow managed to contrive opportunities for sex, many of which were risky as I often realised after the event. It was as if the risks we took were an essential element to his sex and I quickly came to realise that the sexual drive is so powerful that risks one would never consider taking normally are of no concern when aroused: something I later heard described as the "standing prick syndrome".
Although he considers me a friend, he has never shown any affection or love in his relationship with me. I have always been a convenient partner when his need arose and if I wasn't there, I'm sure that he would have easily found someone else. He was content with being pulled off or doing it himself in my company. When he was sixteen there were several months when he wanted to experiment with oral sex, but it took much cajoling on my part before he would reciprocate. Although he never said so, I thought at the time that he had decided that sucking me was contrary to his view of his own masculinity. It was as if he had decided that masturbation was an activity that he was comfortable with and told himself that if he did nothing other than that, his masculinity was intact. He is much more adventurous with women and tells me of things he does with them that he would never have thought of doing with me.
By the time he was fifteen, I realised that Mike's need for sex was far greater than mine. He would pull himself off many times a day, coming five or six times if he had the opportunity, his thumb rubbing raw the top of his cock behind its head. The pain of rubbing that raw patch didn't stop him. The need to come was too great. Occasionally he would let slip that someone else had pulled him off at school, or he would make a comment about the cock of one of the other footballers, indicating that more than changing occurred in the Pavilion before and after practice. In our last year at school, I wondered if he was asked into the Pavilion at half time during a First XVIII match he would come, complain that there was only time to cum once, and then go out and finish the match as if nothing had happened. When a friend told me the story of the country footballer who, when trialed for one of the league teams in the city, was told that he could play on Saturday but would be pulled off at half time, replied "Great. They only give us oranges at half time in Mount Gambier." I said without thinking and to the surprise of the teller, "That must have been Mike."
Mike discovered girls when he was sixteen, although it would be more accurate to say that Mike and girls discovered each other. I knew that girls would appear one day but had selfishly hoped that it would happen latter rather than sooner. I suppose I had expected that once he had experienced fucking, he would stop wanting to masturbate. I had pitied the girls who were to receive his attentions if he applied the same intensity to fucking them as he did to masturbating with me. I was wrong. Although he soon knew a number of girls who were prepared to let him do as he pleased with them, he just added them to his previous activities as if they were the icing on the cake. He would often let himself into the flat late at night, smelling of sex and wake me up to tell me about it in every detail. The telling was always enough to bring him erect again and he would not go to bed until we had both cum.
I lay on my back with Mike straddling my thighs, our cocks held in his hand and pools of our cum on my stomach and chest.
"When did you last cum? I thought you wouldn't stop." Mike has a belief that the amount of cum produced is inversely related to the length of time between each orgasm.
"Last night when I went to bed. Now come on. Move. I've got to have a shower and we're already late." I pushed him off me and carefully walked to the bathroom trying not to drip cum on the floor. Mike followed and started rubbing my chest with soap. I pushed him away.
"Let me rinse it off first. Soap only makes it more difficult."
"You really are up tight about this weekend aren't you." he grinned.
I didn't answer but stepped out of the shower. He was right. This Easter weekend would be hell.
My father had died eighteen months ago. His secretary found him slumped at his desk when she arrived for work. The stroke was massive and death must have been immediate. I miss him greatly and the loss is emphasised each day as my mother and I finalise his estate and manage his business affairs. I hadn't realised how much time I had spent with him or how much I had relied on him until he was no longer there. I still miss being able to discuss with him my daily doings, of having him talk of his business concerns with me. I miss the companionship of working with him in the workshop as we restore yet another car or prepare the Subaru for a rally and hearing his encouragement and praise as my mechanical and driving skills improve. His death meant that I have had to take a greater level of family responsibility.
Our house at North Adelaide is a substantial, two storey, nineteenth century stone building with a large coach house and stables now converted into garages and a workshop backing onto the street behind. Under the terms of my father's will the stables, with my flat above, was subdivided from the rest of the property and transferred into my name whilst the remaining house and grounds are held in trust for my sister and me until either our mother remarries or dies. Along with the stables my father left me Hallaton Park and his collection of cars whilst Caroline will receive the house at Victor Harbor when she turns eighteen later this year. We are also well provided for with annual allowances until our studies are finished.
As my mother and I grappled to take over my father's business concerns we have been subjected to the attentions of Geoff Donnelly, one of my father's business colleagues and a trustee of his estate. He and my father had entered into a number of joint ventures over the years, many of which are still running and profitable and Donnelly had his own interests to protect. He and my father were in many ways opposites. Donnelly is well over six feet tall, broadly built and has a love of contact sports which, I am told, he used to play ruthlessly. He used his league football contacts, made when he played for Hawthorn in the 60's and 70's, to build considerable and successful business interests. The characteristics that made him excel at sport and business also made him opinionated, loud mouthed and a bully. In contrast, Jenny his wife, was both gentle and considerate. She was petite with that wonderful Scandinavian creamy white hair, blue eyes and golden brown skin. She was able to constrain his worst excesses, but with her death from cancer just over two years ago, that restraint disappeared.
My earliest contact with Donnelly can only be described diplomatically as `unfortunate'. He set out to needle me and as I hadn't the experience to hide my dislike of him, I treated him with ignore. He needles me continuously and compares me unfavourably with his own son, something he knows enrages me. Not even the presence of our lawyers constrains him and there have been times when even his lawyers have taken my side in some matters when he has been unreasonable. As negotiations continued, I became aware that my mother had almost the same control over him as Jenny had had and that he was a much gentler person in her company. Whenever possible I meet him only in her presence.
The independence my father gave me in his will seems to anger Donnelly as he has no financial control over me. He was surprised at the profit Hallaton had made over the past few years under Jim Hunter's management. The property can now easily support the Hunters and provide me with a reasonable income. Donnelly made no secret of his wish that it had remained within the general estate and after an initial probe to see if I would repudiate the gift, which I countered with threats of legal action, he let the matter rest.
Donnelly's other point of contention was the Aston Martin. My father had ordered a new DB7 Volante about eight months before his death. Several days before he died, he and I had seen the car being prepared by the distributors and the remainder of the purchase price had been paid. It was not until a week after the funeral that our lawyers had the opportunity to discuss the matter and it was agreed that we had to take delivery of the car and that a final decision about its fate would be made later. That decision was never made and it was accepted that the car was part of Father's collection. When Donnelly heard about it he was furious and told my mother that it was indecent that such a car should be in the hands of a 20 year old student, that it should be sold and the proceeds placed in the estate.
It was over dinner about four weeks ago that my mother broke the news that she intended to remarry. At first I was delighted for her but pleasure turned to dismay when I realised that she intended to marry Donnelly. He was the last person I wanted as a stepfather. I remember telling her that if she married him, I would have nothing to do with the new family and that if she wanted to see me she would have to come to Adelaide.. My dismay deepened with the realisation that the marriage would mean that his son Peter, who had believed me to be gay and had been deliberately unpleasant to me each time we had met, would become my step-brother. Trying to ignore my comments, Mother suggested that both families should spend Easter together to start building the new family relationship. I cannot remember losing my temper with her before although I suppose I must have at some time as I grew up. But when she suggested that we all spend Easter at Hallaton, because it was a convenient near half-way point between Adelaide and Melbourne my dismay turned to anger. I pointed out that Hallaton was mine and that I would invite what guests I wanted there and that never would I invite Donnelly. I had deliberately kept him away although he had tried on a number of occasions to find some excuse to look the property over. Jim Hunter had mentioned six months ago that he had seen a large, Victorian registered Benz, similar to Donnelly's, driving slowly around a boundary road with the driver appearing to take a greater than normal interest in the property. When Jim tried to speak to the driver the car had sped off. I left the table in a rage, my mother in tears. The only bright spot was that Peter would be playing football over Easter so that I would have only one Donnelly to deal with.
My father's friendship with Donnelly had grown to the extent that by the time I was thirteen, both families started spending several weeks together each January at the Donnelly's Anglesea beach house. The house is on the southern side of the valley overlooking the village, as close as one can get to the cliffs where the road to Lorne winds out of the village. It is built of stone, with four bedrooms and large sitting and games rooms and had just escaped the bushfires of the 1980's; the house next door was burnt down. The view across the river to the cliffs towards Bell's Beach is superb and our parents spent many hours relaxing on the balcony. It is only a hundred yards or so to the path that winds through low scrub, past the lifesaving club house, to the beach. It is an ideal place to spend a summer holiday.
Donnelly has two children; Peter who is a year older than me and Sarah, the same age as Caroline. Both families had the expectation that, being of similar ages, we would get on well together and in the case of Caroline and Sarah this is so. They are good friends and spend many school holidays together, either with us in Adelaide and Victor Harbor or with the Donnellys in Melbourne and Anglesea. My introduction to Peter was unfortunate and set the tone of our future relationship.
We arrived at Anglesea that first visit late in the afternoon, to be met by Donnelly, Jenny and Sarah. It had not been a restful drive for me as I was still churning over the events with Mike at the dam the evening before, concerned that nobody saw my miniature erection, which seemed permanent that day. When I was eventually shown to the room I was to share with Peter I started to unpack. The room was set up for two and crowded. Peter was as untidy as any other fourteen year old; a small pile of clothes lay on what I took to be his bed and a suitcase was half protruding from beneath it. The bedside table we were to share was covered with surfing magazines, used handkerchiefs and a dirty coffee mug. As I pushed my empty bag under my bed I became aware of raised voices in the front of the house. The bedroom door was flung against the foot of the bed and Peter shouldered his way into the room. I found myself looking at a boy about a head taller than me, blue eyed, well proportioned with striking blond hair contrasting strongly with his tanned skin. Peter has his mothers looks, his father's build and as I was soon to find out, his father's temperament also.
"That's my bed." He grabbed my arm and pushed me onto the other bed amongst his dirty clothes which he made no effort to remove. "Come on. Get changed. We're going to the club."
He changed his t-shirt and put on a pair of jeans, telling me all the while to hurry. I was dragged through the house, raced down the street, across the highway and then left to follow him down the track through the scrub to the lifesaving club. The clubhouse is two stories, tucked into the southern end of the beach. Surf boats, boards and other equipment are all stored at ground level in a dark cavern that almost covered the whole ground floor area. Surprising little light entered from the roller doors and I could see shadowy figures moving between the boats and stacks of equipment. The first floor was another open space with a bar at one end, facing down the beach. The long front wall was all glass and opened onto a wooden deck. There were about thirty people of all ages and in all states of holiday dress in the room and on the deck. Peter left me at the door and joined a group of boys his own age and older. I walked over to join them but was largely ignored or greeted with curious looks. Peter made no attempt to introduce me or include me in his talk.
Bored, I moved away from the group and started looking at the framed photos of lifesaving teams hung around the walls. When I had looked at each photograph I tried to find Peter. I walked onto the deck and looked up the beach. His hair would make him easy to spot, I thought. He was nowhere to be seen. I was beginning to feel like an intruder and decided to return to the house. Peter eventually arrived home and loudly asked where I had got to. He had looked for me everywhere he said. He had turned his back and I had vanished. Ruined his evening and that of his friends in trying to find me. Donnelly also made a few sarcastic comments at my expense which only encouraged Peter.
I went to bed early after dinner. Peter and his father stayed up to watch a football match being replayed on television. I could not get to sleep in the strange bed and after about an hour of restlessness, turned on the light and started to read. Sometime later the door opened and Peter came in. He asked what I was reading then stretched to take off his t-shirt letting me see his solid build; pectoral muscles already outlined and moving as he raised his arms. He sat on the bed and removed his shoes and socks and then stood again looking at me. Slowly he undid the belt of his jeans and let them drop to his ankles before stepping out of them.
I lay in bed mesmerised, watching the second person in just over 24 hours to undress in front of me. As I looked at him, I realised that whereas Mike was attractive, Peter was beautiful to the point of almost being pretty. He was as broad across the shoulders as Mike but already was more heavily muscled. I later found out that he was spending time using weights. He had a small waist and narrow hips and the start of a washboard stomach and a pronounced runner's girdle. His thighs were well muscled and his calves large and defined. All were encased in smooth, hairless skin, the tan of which was emphasised as much by the low light level as the whiteness of his jocks and hair.
Slowly, without turning away, he placed a hand on either side of his jocks and started lowering them. He allowed them to fall to his feet and stepped out of them. I had a glimpse of a circumcised cock resting on two large balls before he picked up his jocks and quickly turned his back on me.
"You queer or something." he snarled. "Can't I get undressed without you staring at me?"
I felt myself turning deep red. I had thought his provocative show was done for my benefit. I ducked my head and turned over facing the wall. Feelings of embarrassment and mortification were surging through me as I heard the rustle of bed-clothes and then the light was turned out. I slept fitfully that night. The strangeness of the bed and the naked display I had witnessed and its accompanying embarrassment kept me from proper sleep. I must have slept in the early hours of the morning for when I awoke, Peter's bed was empty. That was the only time I saw him naked.
That day was spent on the beach. Peter had left early for the lifesaving club and eventually joined us for a picnic lunch. I had seen him in the distance, unmistakable with his white hair, wearing brief, white speedos, yet when he came to sprawl on the rugs for lunch he was wearing a pair of baggy board shorts. I thought that he had changed because of me, and was terrified he would say something to his parents or mine about what had happened the night before. He barely acknowledged my existence, then after lunch, rushed off back to the club. I soon saw him, now in his white speedos, with two other boys his own age or slightly older, walking up to the path through the tea-tree behind the clubhouse.
Donnelly enjoyed himself commenting on the differences between Peter and me. Although I now know that I was average for my age, he compared my build, colour and activities with Peter. As a family we did not participate in overtly physical activities and I would certainly not have considered joining the local football club had I known that one existed. This attitude was incomprehensible to Donnelly who made much of my dislike of contact sports when he learnt of it and scoffed at my interest in motor sport and gliding although he knew Father keenly participated in both. He seemed to accept Peter's enhanced development as normal and commented on my "under developed" musculature. These comments were a mixture of outright statements and general snide remarks that could apply to anyone. Yet it appeared that it was at me he was looking each time he made them in my hearing.
By the end of the first week my parents had noted my unhappiness. They thought it was because of Donnelly's constant comments and criticism. What they didn't know was that I was very much in love but also very confused. Without a doubt, Peter was the most handsome person I had ever seen and despite his attitude to me, I found myself deeply attracted to him. The feelings I had for Mike, generated over the previous fortnight at Hallaton and reinforced by the time at the Home Dam, were different and nowhere as intense as what I now felt for Peter. Yet there was no interest at all on his part. Worse, he obviously thought me queer. Being in his company was a torture. The days were hot and most times I saw him, he was only wearing speedos or board shorts, both of which showed off his developing physique. For the first time in my life I faced what so many people face daily, being physically attracted to someone who doesn't acknowledge their existence, or in my case, someone who was contemptuous of my existence. I could not discuss this with anyone and spent a doubly miserable fortnight at Anglesea withdrawn into my self.
The following year was much the same. Peter had grown in the intervening twelve months and I found him even more attractive. I had managed to achieve orgasm soon after that first visit and commenced regular masturbation during which Peter figured largely in my fantasies when Mike was not present and occasionally when he was. It was therefore disturbing having to share a room with him, knowing his dislike for me but acutely aware of him undressing behind my back or asleep in the other bed. I longed desperately to touch him and to make him cum. Seeing him kiss a girl behind the clubhouse one day reinforced my opinion that he was straight and from his obvious disinterest in me I knew that any sexual activity between us would not occur.
During our second visit, it was obvious that Jenny tried to constrain Donnelly's attitude towards me. It was an unusual situation that a grown man should attack a teenager younger than his own son in the manner he attacked me. Later, when I felt able to discuss it with my father, I realised that Donnelly treated me as he treated all other people that he either disliked or saw as a threat. Father tried to shield me from most of the vitriol, but because of the commercial ties with Donnelly, he had to be careful not to jeopardise those interests.
The third visit was similar to the previous two. We arrived late in the afternoon after driving from Hallaton. I was surprised to see Peter sitting on the sundeck with his parents as I swung the BMW into the driveway, proud of my newly acquired P-plates. As I stepped out of the car, I was aware of Peter watching me closely, although I could not interpret what he was thinking. It was as if he was measuring me afresh. I had certainly grown since the previous visit, being now near my full height, and a year of conscientious use of the weights room at school had broadened me and given me some bulk and definition that was apparent through my t-shirt. Peter had also developed and at seventeen had the physical maturity of a person in his twenties. My attraction to him intensified and I hoped that his first scrutiny indicated some change in his attitude towards me. I was mistaken. I was now mature enough to know that by watching him as intently as I had in the past, I was in great danger of letting him see my interest in him. Noticing again my unhappiness, my parents agreed that I should stay at Hallaton during any future visits to Anglesea. I haven't seen Peter face to face since that last visit to Anglesea.
It was not a complete break however. There was too much movement between the families for that to occur. Caroline, after spending school holidays with Sarah in Melbourne would come home and inevitably talk of Peter. Whereas he had contempt for me, with her, three years his junior, he was gentle, kind and attentive. Most of her holidays provided at least one new photograph of him and I was aware of her noticing my intense study of a series taken around the swimming pool. I was well aware of him, his physical development and all his doings. His acceptance by the Law School at Melbourne University and selection to play football for Hawthorn when he was eighteen was celebrated as intensely in our house as in the Donnelly's. Peter's success on the football field and his academic progress provided other opportunities for his father to needle me when he visited us on business in Adelaide.
My attraction to him somehow survived all that had happened at Anglesea. Peter was still the object of intense fascination and a figure around whom I could weave my sexual fantasies. Football matches were a wonderful opportunity to see him and I used to watch each Hawthorn match that was televised and read the sports pages daily just to see if he was mentioned. In January this year he and another of the Hawthorn players played a charity tennis match with Pat Rafter and Mark Phillippousis. The day of the match, under the caption "Hot to trot. Two young men to raise the temperature of any court." The Advertiser had a large photograph of Peter and Rafter walking from the court after a practice game, stripped to their shorts. Rafter's grunge was in direct contrast to Peter's blond, boy-next-door look. Both were superbly built, although Peter, the younger, was the more muscular. I could imagine that photograph pinned up and used as the basis of peoples' erotic fantasies and wondered whether Peter knew. I could imagine his comments at the thought that other guys would get off over it.
That was the last photograph I had seen of him. There had been several paragraphs in the press two weeks ago commenting that he had not signed with Hawthorn this year and speculating that he was talking to another club. Then, on Monday this week, there was a statement to the effect that he would not be playing in the Hawthorn match on Easter Saturday for family reasons. I rang my mother in Melbourne to challenge her with the news and she admitted that Peter planned to come to Hallaton with his father and sister.
It was past eight thirty before I swung the car through the Hallaton gates. The lights lit up the century old avenue of Cedar trees that led to the house. The drive down had been frustrating; the road was heavily policed and seemed full of hoons, heading for Melbourne I supposed. Whilst dealing with traffic I had also to listen to Mike trying to elicit my support to help him convince his father to plant several acres with vines as a trial. That was the last thing I wanted to think about, but I knew it would have to be addressed soon.
The original Hallaton homestead was built of local stone, single storey and not very big. It was never one of the grand South-East houses like Yallum Park. Over the years, internal walls have been knocked out to make reasonable sized sitting and dining rooms. There are now three smallish bedrooms remaining in the main part of the house. Three years ago the old housekeeper's room and two storerooms behind the kitchen were converted into a bedroom, sitting room come office and bathroom for me to use when I visited so that the main house did not have to be opened. My rooms overlooked the original stone farm buildings, still used as garages and workshops, that form a courtyard behind the house.
Several hundred metres away, across the tennis court and set in its own garden, is the New House where the Hunters live. This was build in 1951 and is altogether grander than the old homestead. Until the Hunters came, the manager had lived in the old homestead and my grandparents had stayed in the New House whenever they visited Hallaton. Father decided that as the Hunters had a young family, they should live in the modern New House and we use the old homestead whenever we visited.
I stopped the car in the yard, said goodnight to Mike and went inside through the kitchen door. Mary, Mike's mother, greeted me with a kiss and a sour look. My mother had asked her to cook dinner for us the first evening, knowing that we would all be tired and not wanting to cook. Mary, a superb cook loved using the old wood stove in the kitchen, even in summer, particularly to slowly roast meat.
"Sorry I'm late. I brought Mike down. How's it going?"
Mary raised her eyes. "I don't envy your mother. He's done nothing but complain and ask questions since he arrived. Nothing's right. House is too small. Where are people going to sleep? And he tried to tell me how to cook dinner." She paused. "You're right. He doesn't like you. He hasn't stopped complaining that you had the shorter distance to drive and haven't arrived yet."
"Oh, God. I'll just wash and then go in."
"They're in the dining room. He insisted on starting without you." She flashed me a look of compassion and returned to preparing a cheese board.
The first person I saw as I entered the room was Peter, directly across the table. Not even the light tweed jacket could disguise his footballer's physique. As he looked up I registered that he was much more attractive in the flesh than his photos suggested. He smiled the same smile so often seen when he was exceptionally pleased at a good mark or an important goal. The same smile that one football commentator stated would make any mother glad to know that her daughter was going out with him. Why should he waste it on me?
"So you didn't forget." Donnelly was seated at the head of the table in my carver chair, with my mother at the foot. "You decided to join us after all I see. In future I expect a jacket and tie at dinner in my family."
It had been a long day and the anger and anxiety of the past few weeks boiled over. "First, this is my house, my dinning room, you are eating my food and sitting in my chair. I will dress as I please. Tomorrow you will sit anywhere but there, and if you can't be civil, you can get back into your car and piss off."
Before anyone else could react, Mother stood up, flashed Donnelly a look and gave me a hug. "Come on. You're hungry. Geoff didn't mean anything. It was good of you to get here as quickly as you did. I haven't seen you all week and I want to catch up calmly. Sit down and we'll sort out things tomorrow."
She moved me towards the chair facing Peter. He half rose as if to lean over and shake hands. I ignored him as Mother helped me to a plate of roast beef. I hadn't eaten for six hours and as I registered the smell of dinner, suddenly realised how hungry I was. Conversation started around the table again as I began to eat. I was aware of Peter holding a bottle of wine and pouring me a glass, flashing that smile again. It means nothing, I told myself. He turns it on and off at a whim, the supercilious prick. I tried to ignore him and his father as I ate, controlling myself with an effort to answer civilly my mother's inquiries about what had been happening in Adelaide and the comments from Caroline and Sarah. Donnelly made small, dismissive sounds as I answered questions, and I was aware of Peter watching my every move. Each time I raised my eyes he was looking at me and as our eyes met he smiled. My distaste of both Peter and his father grew as the meal progressed and by the time my mother suggested moving to the sitting room for coffee, I could barely control myself. I wondered how on earth I was to clear their presence out of the house once Easter was over.
Away from the distraction of eating I was at the mercy of them all. Peter asked questions about Adelaide that I answered as shortly as possible. I had barely finished coffee before he asked about the stocking and cropping of Hallaton. I didn't have a chance to answer before Donnelly interrupted.
"Now tomorrow you and I are going to sit down and re-evaluate the productivity of this place." said Donnelly.
"Like hell we are." I shouted, on my feet in a flash. "This property has nothing to do with you and you can keep your nose out of it."
"William. Sit down and keep quiet." Mother had hold of my arm and was pushing me back into my chair. "We are all tired and its time we were in bed. We will clean away in the morning. Now, Sarah will be sleeping in the room next to Caroline and Peter will have to share with you."
As her last words sunk in a red film of anger engulfed me. My last place of privacy had just been taken away. I flashed my mother an angry look and ran from the room, through the kitchen and out into the courtyard. I could make out someone calling my name from inside the house, but without looking around, I started running down the south track, towards the Home Dam.
It was light when I awoke. I realised that I was on the wrong side of the bed and that brought back the memories of last night. I had walked slowly back from the dam. Not wanting to go inside, I put the Aston under cover, then walking through the workshop, started to reassemble an old trail bike I had stripped on my last visit. When I returned to my room, after midnight, Peter was already in bed, lying where I normally slept, and appeared to be asleep. I undressed and then froze. I have slept naked since I moved into the flat at home and now own only one pair of pyjamas which were ironed and neatly folded in a drawer 300 kilometres away. I put my jocks back on and crawled into bed, careful not to wake Peter. As I raised the sheet, I noticed his back, brown and broad although relaxed in sleep. I wondered if he was naked but daren't risk waking him by moving the covers any more. I settled on my side with my back to him and tried to calm myself and get to sleep.
I must have slept eventually for I remember waking several times during the night. Once I had rolled over and woke with the feel of one of Peter's legs under mine. The second time, I woke with the weight of Peter's arm across my chest and the warmth of his body along my back. I could feel his chest and his cock squashed against me, the realisation of which quickly brought me erect. I gently slid away from him and the movement caused him to turn over.
Fully awake, I realised that I had an erection, whether from his propinquity or the more mundane need for an early-morning piss I couldn't tell. I knew that I had to get out of the room before he woke and gently slid out of bed. I put on my shirt and was reaching for my jeans when I heard him stir. I spun around. He was looking over his shoulder at me as he swung out of bed. I grabbed my clothes and rushed out of the door. As I left I had a glimpse of Peter standing beside the bed, with the front of his jocks tented. Outside the room I struggled into my jeans and boots and ran to the workshop. I took the first trail bike I could find, kicked it alive and headed out of the yard. As I left, Peter ran from the house. He made straight for the workshop and the other bikes.
I had several hundred metres start and I knew the paddocks. With the stock grazing on the other side of the main road, all the gates were open. Now that the need to get out of the bedroom was past, I began to think about what I should do. I knew that I couldn't stay. Also I would have no hope of getting the Aston from the garage without being intercepted. It looked as if the best plan was to ride into Naracoorte, hire a car and drive back to Adelaide. I wondered how long it would be before I would want to return now that the Donnellys had polluted Hallaton for me.
Peter had managed to get a bike working and was several hundred metres behind me but didn't appear to be able to close the gap. I watched for him each time I turned a corner of the tree line. He was a competent rider; he wouldn't have kept up with me otherwise. I slid the bike through a gate into the South Fold watching to see how far away he was. I had almost reached the far end of the paddock, by the old shepherd's hut, before I realised that he hadn't turned through the gate. "Good," I thought. "He's given up." But then the realisation that the Peters of this world don't just give up dawned and my relief was replaced with a fear that he might have dropped the bike. If he was hurt, he could lie there all day before anyone found him.
I turned and slowly followed the track back through the gate and along the edge of the tree line, around to the right. There, about 100 metres in front of me, was the trail bike on its side and Peter sprawled face down in the grass beside the track. In trepidation I stopped the bike and crouched beside him, feeling for a pulse in his neck. There was no sign of any head injury and the pulse was strong but he appeared unconscious with one arm tucked underneath his body. I gently felt along the other arm for broken bones, then along his back. Subconsciously I noted how smooth his skin was as I checked his legs below his shorts. In my mind was the thought of newspaper headlines such as "Star full forward to miss season after trail-bike accident" competing with the realisation that here I was, able at last to touch what I pleased of him but all I was doing was patting him to check for broken bones. From seeing him on television I had thought that his legs were hairless, but I now saw a light dusting of fine, very blond hair that gave a silvery sheen to his tanned legs in the early morning light. His calf muscles were hard and superbly developed and I ran my fingers lightly up the inside of his legs to the bottom of his shorts. I was aware of my cock beginning to stir in my jeans as I did so. I decided to roll him over to check his other arm and chest and placing a hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip, gently pulled him over.
Suddenly, with the speed and strength of a steel-jaw trap, his arms were around me, pulling me down to his chest as his lips fastened onto mine. I was stunned, breathless, unable to respond. Gradually as the realisation of what was happening penetrated my mind, I started to relax and began to return the kiss allowing Peter's tongue to enter my mouth. When he was sure of me, Peter released his grip and his hands started to explore my back as I moved myself to bring more of him into contact. He pulled away gasping for breath.
"I've waited eight years to do that." he said smiling, running a hand up my neck to the back of my head.
He pulled me down to his lips again and this time there was no hesitation on my part although I still couldn't quite believe it was happening. I was aware of his erection rubbing against me and knew that I, too, was hard. Peter's hands were exploring wherever he could reach. He rolled me onto my back and ran his hands down my chest to the belt in my jeans, which he started to undo.
"Not here." I said. "There's the shepherd's hut in the next paddock."
The shepherd's hut is a small, one roomed, stone building standing in the edge of the tree line. It is just big enough for an old iron bed to stand against an end wall with an old wood stove build into the other. Behind the hut is an iron rainwater tank, beside which, out of sight of anyone that might drive through the paddock, we parked the bikes.
I led the way into the hut. Jim Hunter kept everything at Hallaton in superb condition and the hut was no exception, despite the fact that it was used only during lambing. It was clean and the foam mattress on the bed was covered with a strong, vinyl mattress cover. I pulled the mattress to the floor as Peter impatiently tried to turn me to face him. His arms were around me as he lowered his lips to mine and probed my mouth with his tongue.
Breaking the kiss, he pulled my shirt over my head and ran his hands over my chest. Quickly he removed his own shirt, stretching in the same way he had that first night at Anglesea when I watched him undress. This time there was no doubt as to what he wanted to do. He dropped his shirt and reached for his shorts.
"No." I said. "I am going to do that."
I knelt in front of him and removed his shoes. Running my hands up the insides of his legs, I again felt the excitement generate in me as it had when I touched his superbly muscled legs only ten minutes ago. I slipped my hands inside the waistband of his shorts and slowly lowered them. His cock sprang out and pointed directly at my face. I looked up at him, past his runner's girdle, washboard stomach and through the v-shape between his tight, developed pectoral muscles. Peter was looking down at me with an expression I found difficult to interpret. He gently moved his hips forward so that the head of his cock was just touching my lips.
His cock was as I had dreamt it to be, about the same length as mine, but slightly thicker. I remembered from the fleeting glimpses I had had of his crotch at Anglesea that Peter had large balls for the size of his cock and registered with delight that he had kept the same proportions.
I still felt in a dream as I gently pushed my tongue out and licked under the tip of the glans. Already a small drop of semen was emerging from the tip and formed a thread when I withdrew my tongue as his cock jerked upwards. I moistened the head with my tongue before drawing his cock into my mouth. Peter sighed and put his hands on my head, just holding it. Slowly I eased my mouth forward until the head of his cock was at the back of my throat, and my tongue moving around as much of his shaft as possible. I moved my mouth back and forth along his shaft, at the same time running my hands over his stomach and chest until I cupped his pectoral muscles. I massaged and then squeezed his nipples which were standing hard and proud from his chest.
In one fluid motion, Peter pulled out of my mouth and placing his hands under my armpits, raised me to my feet.
"I don't want to cum just yet." he murmured.
He kissed me before moving his tongue down to my left nipple. The feeling made me draw in my breath as he played with it using his lips and teeth. He gave it a nip, which made me catch my breath again, before moving his mouth to the right one. With his tongue on my skin, he slowly squatted, his tongue resting in my navel. His hands fumbled to undo my belt and flies. I pushed his hands away, undid my jeans and stepped out of them and my jocks. Peter knelt in front of me, his hands on my thighs, and looked at my crotch with a small smile on his lips. He slowly moved forward, then, ducking his head under my cock until I could feel his breath on my balls and my cock resting on his face, started to lick my balls, sucking one into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue. Although not as big as his, my balls are too big to get both into a person's mouth at the same time. He gently pushed the ball out of his mouth and replaced it with the other one, looking up at me as he did so and making a small moaning noise in the back of his throat. He raised his head, letting my scrotum with its contents fall from his mouth and started to lick the underside of my cock. My reflexes jerked it hard against my stomach and he had to move his head closer to me to keep his tongue in contact with it. I put both hands around his head and raised him so that his mouth was level with the tip, and moving my hips, pushed the helmet shaped head between his lips. Peter opened his mouth and lunged forward, driving the tip of my cock to the back of his throat. The gentleness with which he had savoured my balls only seconds before was replaced with a fierce intensity as if he couldn't get enough of me. Within a dozen strokes I was close to cumming and struggled to pull away as he followed me with his mouth and applied yet more suction.
"Don't. I'm very close." I said urgently as I bent down, as much to remove my cock as far from him as possible as to lift him to his feet. "Come on. Let's lie down."
Peter slipped down on the mattress, and pulled me after him. He wrapped me in his arms and spread his body along mine, our cocks hard against each other, one of his legs between mine.
"You've grown." he said, rubbing his hands down my back. "You've got a good body and a great cock."
"Not as good a body as yours, though."
"I wouldn't say that." Peter untangled himself and lowered his head until he could place his mouth over my left nipple. He sucked and nibbled it before moving further down, to take my cock back into his mouth. I swung myself around, pulling his legs towards me until my face was in line with his crotch. Peter made a small noise in his throat that I took to be agreement or satisfaction as I engulfed his shaft with my mouth. Excitement was building quickly; the surprise and relief at what was happening were being heightened by the physical action of his mouth and tongue. I could already taste Peter's pre-cum and knew that I, too, would not be able to hold out much longer. I let his cock fall from my mouth.
"I'm almost there." I said.
He made one deep lunge along my shaft before raising his head and swinging around on the mattress placed a leg over me and sat on my thighs, clasping the sides of my stomach and chest with his knees. Taking both our cocks in his hands he started to stroke them as one.
"So am I." he said, his balls moving against mine with the motion of his hands. "It would be good to both cum at the same time."
It was an incredible sensation having him astride me, stroking me to the point of cumming. I couldn't hold back any more and noticed that Peter, too was straining, his head back and eyes closed and I could feel the tension as his legs gripped me. Through my cock, I could feel the first contraction as he began to ejaculate. A burst of thick white cum shot from his cock onto my chest as he let out the breath he was holding. More cum shot from his cock leaving a trail down to my navel. The feel of his pulsations was all that was required before I came, shooting cum onto my chest, something I seldom do unless seriously excited. As I came back to reality, I was aware of Peter, still holding our cocks looking at me with that smile on his face.
Peter lowered himself onto my chest and kissed me. Our cum bound our chests together as our softening cocks slid stickily against each other. We rolled over onto our sides, my arm under his neck. Peter started tracing patterns in the cum dripping down my chest.
"That was everything I ever dreamt it could be." He grinned. "I'm glad I didn't have time to bring condoms and lube. It was great watching you cum the first time."
"Yeh, but I'm still in shock." I replied. "I've always thought you were straight and hated my guts, or at best couldn't care less. Those three holidays at Anglesea. You weren't particularly friendly then."
Peter blushed. "I know. I'm sorry. I was coming to grips with my sexuality as I grew up and Dad was always inciting me. It wasn't until Mum died that I began to understand what he was like and what he was doing. He has to be best at everything and put people down and he tries to make sure that I am the same. It's a pain in the arse."
"But at Anglesea, you weren't particularly friendly, right from the start."
"Do you remember Rick Algrove at the Surf Club; about a year older than me, big guy, with curly black hair? The day you arrived that first time, he had just pulled me off. It was the first time anyone had ever done anything to me and he promised me that he would suck me off that evening. I had to be home to meet you and at that time all I wanted to do was to continue playing with Rick. Then when I couldn't find you later, when Rick and I came back from having it off again in the scrub, I guess I was feeling a bit guilty about what I had been doing and took it out on you. I wanted to do something with you that first night, but I became scared. By your second visit you had started to grow and I found you really attractive. I love your black hair and blue eyes and that English complexion is a real turn on. I didn't know how to handle it then. You were the first guy I felt any real attraction to and I was having difficulty with the idea that I might be gay. I threw myself at some of the girls at the lifesaving club I think to prove to myself that I was "normal"."
"I know. I saw you. It was that that convinced me you were straight."
"It didn't really work though. I still thought of you but didn't know what to do. After I had worked out how Dad attacked people, I remembered that you hadn't responded to his goading, and I realised how strong you were inside, much stronger than me. And then on your last visit. You had grown and were looking stunning. That was when I knew I wanted you but by then it was too late. I didn't know how to change tack."
"I wish I didn't respond to your father now. I'm sorry about last night."
"Yeh. Dad kept up at me all the time about how I had to be better than you and then he started in at you as soon as you arrived each year until you stopped coming. Caro said that was because you were unhappy at Anglesea and I realised that Dad and I had treated you pretty badly. I'm sorry about that. I used to question Caro whenever she came to Melbourne until she started to become suspicious. I got every photograph she had of you. They are still in my desk at home, locked in the drawer so that Dad wont see them."
"Why didn't you phone or write?"
"You gave me no encouragement when I last saw you. Caro said you never mentioned me, yet you used to watch our football matches. That was a puzzle, although I had resigned myself that you would make sure we never met again. Knowing that you were watching the match was always a turn-on for me and made me play my best. I was more worried about what you were thinking than anyone else. And then Dad broke the news that he and Gill were going to get married. He couldn't understand why I was so excited and I couldn't tell him it was because you were going to be my brother."
I gave him a hug. "Do you know I went ape when Mum told me?"
"Yes. Caro told Sarah. She thought it was funny. Said you got over it though."
"No. I was still angry. I've been dreading Easter, expecting you to treat me the same as you did at Anglesea. I fought like mad to make Mum find another place for us to meet. I didn't want your father here and I didn't want my feelings for Hallaton polluted by any conflict or tension with him or you. I was running away just now, back to Adelaide."
Peter was silent for a moment, then; "I saw you in Adelaide two weeks ago."
"Near your house. I was sitting in a car as you turned into your garage. I've dreamt of living with you for years and as soon as I knew of the wedding, I decided that if anything was to happen between us, it would have to be now. When Dad said that Gill and Caro would move to Melbourne after the wedding, I decided that I would have to make a move."
"But how? What if I'd been a real shit and told you to piss off?"
"I didn't think you would. I was egotistical enough to think you only watched our matches and read the football pages because you had some interest in me. Of course, it might have been to see me roughed up." He punched me playfully in the chest and then hugged me. "And I got all the confirmation I needed by the way you were feeling me when I faked the accident."
"God, you took a risk."
"Yeh, I suppose. The real risk was that I didn't know the country. It would have been my luck for the next paddock to be full of trees so that you couldn't have seen me even if you had looked back. I knew that if you didn't turn around there was no hope. If you came back to find me there was a chance that you had some interest in me."
"I was interested alright. Just terrified that you were straight and would ridicule me in front of the family."
Peter grinned and wrapped his arms around me. "Now you know."
"But what about football? You're tied to Hawthorn aren't you?"
"No. I haven't signed their contract. As soon as Dad told me about the wedding my agent and I came over to talk to the Crows about playing for them. It was on the last of those trips that I parked near your flat and just waited. I saw you in that green Mini and watched you let yourself in. It was the first time I'd seen you in five years. I had planned to knock on the door but when the time came I was chicken. Hadn't the guts in case you turfed me out."
I hugged him again and kissed him. "You were right. I most probably would have kicked you out then. But are you going to play for the Crows?"
"I am now. The clubs have agreed and I have to give them my decision next week. They agreed not to make any public announcement until after Easter. I didn't want any news of the talks to spoil this weekend. You see Dad will go ape, but that's too bad. This weekend was my only chance to make things up with you. If I couldn't, then I was back to square one and I would have to stay in Melbourne. I was fairly desperate when you ran from the bedroom and wouldn't talk to me."
I squeezed his neck. "I'm sorry. I haven't been able to think straight about all this."
"You see, I thought I knew you. Caro had told me so much about you and what you did. The one thing she never mentioned was a girlfriend. She only said that you were too busy when I asked who you were taking out. That gave me some hope and I was determined to try. I was hoping that after the wedding, when Gill and Caro move to Melbourne, we could live together in Adelaide and I transfer to the uni there. It will be fun starting a law firm with you when we graduate."
"Shit, we are going to have to be careful. I can just see what the press will say if they get an idea why you're moving."
"Yeh." He gave me a hug. "But it will be fun."
I rolled onto my back, close to tears. Something that had been dammed up inside me for eight years finally burst. I had a great sense of peace and love made tangible. I turned over and buried my face in Peter's neck, as he held me close.
I was aware that time was passing and that Mother would most likely be up to cook breakfast. "Come on. We have to get back. I have to take all this in. You've had years to plan it all."
We left the bikes in the workshop and walked over to my rooms.
"Good morning you two." said Mother coming out of the kitchen door. "You were up early. Good ride?"
"Yes," said Peter.
"It couldn't have been better." I added as he flashed me a smile. I caught Mother's eye watching us both.
"Couldn't it?" she asked. "Well, breakfast in half an hour then,"
Peter had already moved through the door. Mother smiled quietly at me and mouthed "I'm glad." before returning to the kitchen. How much does she suspect I wondered as I went through to my bedroom. Peter was already in the bathroom with the shower running.
"Come on. Room for two. I'm going to wash your back. You're going to have to get used to that. I love showering with a friend."
"You're hard again." I said as I closed the shower screen behind me.
He wrapped his arms around my chest and drew me back to him, his cock resting in the small of my back.
"You have that effect on me," he said. "I had a raging hard all through dinner last night, sitting opposite you, particularly after you gave Dad an earful. I'm surprised no one noticed when I stood up."
"I was so angry last night, I don't think I would have noticed if you had had it hanging out. That feels great." Peter had soaped my back, rubbing into the muscles and with soap in each hand, had drawn me close soaping my chest, stomach and was now lathering up my cock and balls. I gently disengaged his hands.
"Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes and we don't want to make anyone suspicious." I turned him around and started to soap his broad, brown back, marvelling again at his muscles, superbly developed.
"Tonight, I am going to massage you properly," I said. Put some oil into you to keep your skin smooth.
"Mmm. Sounds great." He said and pushed his buttocks into my crotch. "What are we going to do with these?" as he rubbed his cheeks against my hard cock.
"Nothing now," I said. "We'll find time later this morning. We could get a motel room in Naracoorte if we cant wait until tonight. I want to explore you properly, in peace and quiet. And we have to talk. We have to work this out; work out how to deal with your father and the family."
Peter swung around. The water, cascading from his head, had washed the soap off him leaving his face framed by that incredible blond hair. I had forgotten that he was so blond that his hair hardly darkened when wet. He kissed me hard on the lips.
"Come on," he said. "Breakfast. I'm suddenly hungry for food."