Date: Tue, 3 Oct 2017 15:46:34 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Ace-Jack Chapter 2 Ace-Jack by badboi666 =============================================================================== If you haven't read "Fourteen Again" and "Lion-King" here you really ought to read them before starting "Ace-Jack", which is the final part of the trilogy. If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex with fresh young lads then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. Don't leave, however, without doing this: Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to eat. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 2 That performance with Simon was, for both of us, highly erotic and utterly satisfying sexually. What I didn't know at the time was that a conversation at breakfast would spring directly from it. Gervase is one of those old-fashioned courteous types who's able to change from naked, lustful sex maniac (I mean, perving over two teens fucking like that? goodness!) to thoughtful Oxford host at 8 the following morning. Paul was the formal servant again; bacon, eggs, kidneys, all that kind of stuff, were in chafing dishes, and guests descended in varying states of alertness. Simon, of course, was wide awake and sparky and soon got himself outside a large restorative meal. Like all 13-year-olds he had little table conversation: why bother talking when there's eating to be done? Ace was sitting next to a man of about 45, very distinguished-looking. He was one of the pair who were an item, but his other half, a much older guy of 70-odd, hadn't shown up yet. I was on Ace's other side and initially I wasn't paying much attention. I pricked up my ears when this guy told Ace that he wanted a conversion done at their place. As Ace's apprentice, this would involve me. They talked business and shook hands. Doubtless Ace would fill me in on the way home. It turned out that this guy, whose name was Arthur, lived in Harrow and worked at the Home Office. His partner was a retired Home Office Civil Servant. The details of the conversion, which we did a couple of months later, aren't important. What matters is the grand opening. Arthur had been so taken with the performance that Simon and I had put on for Gervase that he asked for a repeat. Ace wasn't too happy, but, as I was party to the exchange, I put my tuppence-worth in. "Look, Arthur," I said," I'm happy to do it, and I'll ask Simon. I think it'll be OK." So it was agreed, and the weekend after Ace and I had finished Simon and I performed much the same routine again for an audience of just three: Ace, Arthur and his partner Clive (who remained grey and unremarkable, even with his clothes off). Arthur was beside himself with joy. "Ace," he said, "if there's anything I can do for you, you've only to ask." Simon and I had disengaged ourselves by this time, so I decided that the moment had to be seized. "Arthur, there is something really important you can do for us." I explained that I had no knowledge of who I was, or where I came from. All I knew was that I was an orphan, and that my name was Peter Brown. "Why are you called Jack then?" I told him that it was a long story that Ace might be willing to fill in - Ace nodded - and that what I needed was a Birth Certificate. Arthur was taken aback; I don't think he'd expected this. Ace picked up the ball perfectly. "Look Arthur," he said, "it's really important to Jack and me that we can give him a formal identity. You must know how that can be done. If you can get him a Birth Certificate I'll tear up the bill for the conversion." Risky, I thought. Ace explained. "I think we can trust each other, Arthur, so I'll be completely honest with you. Jack was riding pillion on my bike when my brother, riding a bit in front of us, hit a car. He and the car driver were both killed. We'd met Jack at a party a bit like Gervase's a couple of months ago, only for bikers, and nothing like so tasteful." Arthur grinned. "I can believe that. Go on." "Because of the trauma, Jack has no memory of anything before the day we met, and that was only 11 days before King was killed. He's really only 14, but when the police talked to us after the accident I told them he was my apprentice, and that he was 15. If I'd said he was still of school age there would have been too many awkward questions. I love Jack and he loves me, and we mean to go on living together. I'm sure you and Clive understand that an age difference is irrelevant." Arthur smiled. "Clive met me when I was 16. He was 40, so, yes, I'm on your side there. Go on." "What we need is a Birth Certificate showing Jack's 15, then I can get him proper National Insurance and all the other things like a passport." Arthur thought about it. "What is his real name? You call him Jack, but you said he's Peter Brown. Does he have any living family? Aren't they worried?" I spoke up. "I'm an orphan, and Peter Brown is my real name. Ace and King called me Jack because it fitted us as a family. I don't mind how old I have to be. Can you help us? I don't want to leave Ace and without a Birth Certificate I'll never be able to be myself and do things." "I can see that," said Arthur. He turned to Ace. "Are you saying that if I can give you the Certificate you'll do our conversion for nothing?" Ace nodded. "OK, I'll see what I can do. It's not my area, but I know how these things work." He turned to me. "Who would you like to be, Jack, and when would you like to be born." My real birthday was on 31 July 1943, so I chose exactly a year earlier, making me now 15. I decided to choose Peter Jack Brown. Would that be OK? Arthur could see no problem - after all, Jack was a common enough name, and plenty of boys had that, rather than John or James, on their Birth Certificates. Ace was very grateful. "Don't thank me till I've got it," said Arthur, "it may take some time. This must be a complete secret; if anything gets out I could lose my job." "Arthur," I said, "all five of us, Simon too, have to have complete trust in the others. You and Clive and Ace could end up in prison, and Simon and I could end up in Borstal or in care. I reckon we all know where we stand." For the first time Clive spoke: he had listened to all that had been said. "I think the suggestion is utterly mad, but there's a bit of me that is sufficiently unorthodox" (he took Arthur's hand and kissed it - a wholly unexpected gesture) "that I think you should do it for them. It'll be a challenge for you. Jack is right - we all have to trust each other. Jack, Simon, thank you for your being here tonight. Your performance was the most erotic thing I've seen in a great number of years. The best present we can give Jack is his identity. I wish to give you something, Simon, which I hope will be to your liking." Simon moved across the bed and kissed Clive. "Thank you," he murmured, "I enjoyed doing things with Jack, and I'm glad you liked seeing us." Clive went on. "I know you are a treble in the College choir. Your voice will break soon, and you will have to leave. If you wish to resume singing when your voice settles down in two or three years we will pay for you to have lessons." Simon's eyes widened. "Gosh!" he said, "I'd love that. Thank you so much." One happy boy kissed Clive and Arthur. Ace put his arms even closer round me, and kissed the top of my head. "That's everyone happy then," he said. Several weeks later a Registered Letter arrived at home addressed to Mr P. J. Brown. Ace smiled when he saw it, and passed it across to me. "I think you should open this," he said. At last I existed on paper! I flung my arms round him and buried my face in his neck. He held me close. The emotional tension drained from me - I had no idea how wound up I'd been without this single small piece of paper. And without our performance in Oxford with Simon, Arthur might not have sat next to Ace at breakfast that day, and had the life-changing conversation. Now the only thing that could affect Ace and me was the same thing that could affect other queers living together. Society. But at least I existed now. The rest of my life could begin in earnest. I noticed that I had been born on 31 July 1942 in Manchester. I wondered why. Had there been a real Peter Jack Brown born there that day? Was he still alive? I would never know - the main thing was that this Peter Jack Brown had a formal identity now. It did cross my mind that if at any stage my memory of what had happened to me before my birthday in July 1957 did return, I would have the identity crisis to end all identity crises. Not today's problem though. "Thank you Ace, you've saved my life," I said, a catch in my voice. "Yeah," was all he could manage before tears engulfed us both. The last six months have seen us weeping a great deal, but now the tears were less often of grief and more often of sheer happiness. ***** Life with Ace couldn't have been better. I was growing up in a home full of love. Sex was abundant, and Ace was the most considerate, as well as being the wildest, lover. I was learning a trade, and by the time I was 18 I was sufficiently experienced to do smaller jobs - the 'normal' ones - pretty much on my own. I could lay a perfect course of bricks, I was a competent joiner and plasterer, I knew enough about electricity to assist the sparks, and he was pleased that I was learning that skill as well. I wasn't up to much in the way of plumbing, but since plumbing was the main part of the conversion work I knew Ace would always be handling that, at least for many years yet. We'd fallen into the habit of celebrating the end of conversion jobs in the way Arthur and Clive had done. Simon was even randier as his teenage years went on than he had been at 13. We'd kept in touch - mainly because I fancied him rotten, and Ace, as always, was relaxed about my fucking other boys. I saw quite a lot of Simon in the few years after our first encounter at Gervase's. His voice did break not long after the night at Arthur's, and he stopped singing for a couple of years. He got in touch with Clive to ask if the offer of singing lessons was still open, and hearing that it was they drew up some kind of contract whereby lessons at some London academy would be paid for a year. We remained friends after we stopped being sex partners when he was about 17 or so, and Ace and I see him and his partner occasionally. He'd split up with Paul a couple of years after Gervase's party, and was now with another guy his own age. By about 1962 there were so many conversion requests coming in from queers who'd heard about them, or been present at one of the parties, that Ace set up the second division in the business. I was 20 by then (officially) and I felt able to become part of that, but Ace was all against it. "No," he said, "you're far too good at other bits of the business to do simple things like building a wet-wall playroom. I'd like you to be more involved in talking to clients, and giving them ideas about what could be done in their particular houses." I was thrilled by this. As well as giving me the chance to be a real part of Ace's business, as well as his life, it was something I'd wanted to be more involved with for a year or two. Ace usually took me to meet new clients - my natural teenage beauty, I suppose (and my natural teenage modesty) - and I often had ideas which we discussed on the way home. Ace pointed out how some of them were impractical, and I learnt quickly what would work and what wouldn't. So when Ace suggested that I should become more involved I was really pleased. Being cuddled and fucked by the person you love is great; being trusted with serious stuff is great too. We agreed that I would deal with the next client on my own. It went well. Like most of the others it was an introduction from another client, so I felt I could trust the man I was meeting. He was a pop singer - not one I'd heard of, but that didn't narrow the field much - and he'd bought an extravagantly large farmhouse in Shropshire. He was rolling in money, like all successful pop stars, and sex and drugs completed his trio of interests. In those simple days drugs generally meant pot, so he managed to remain sensible during our business meetings. He was queer and, at the time, unattached. He was 23. An ideal first client for me to cut my teeth on. He said I should call him Red. He showed me round and indicated where he wanted his playroom. I made measurements of walls and plumbing - the basic stuff Ace would need to draw up the design which would form the basis of the contract. I asked him what he wanted. "What d'you mean? I want a room I can fuck about it in. You're queers, aren't you? You know what's needed." I explained that different guys had different requirements. Most of the clients we had wanted the conversions because drainage and general wetness would be needed - did he understand? "Oh - you mean guys into piss?" I nodded. "I've not tried that," he said. I was at my first business cross-roads. There were three ways forward. I could tell him that we were only interested in jobs where our plumbing skills (as well as our vows of secrecy) were wanted; or I could take a step back and try to find out what he was into, and design something to cater for his current needs. Neither of these seemed ideal. I took a risk. "Forget the details just for a minute," I said. "We want to get the thing exactly right for you. I don't know what turns you on, and you don't seem to be able to tell me. Is it something really way out perhaps?" "No, it's not that. It's just ... is this conversation completely secret?" I nodded. "Well, all this macho pop star strutting is something I've had to learn to do. It's not difficult to ponce around making sexy gestures on stage when you're tarted up in sequins and stuff." I grinned - I knew what he was talking about. "But I'm really still a council estate kid from Leeds, and if the fans knew too much about me I'd never sell another single." "So your public image is the handsome guy the girls all wet their knickers for?" I said. "Yeah. Ironic, isn't it? The teeny girls all want me to fuck them, and all I want is to fuck their teeny brothers." We were getting somewhere. "So you want a nice place where you can fuck boys?" He nodded. It was time to get to the point. "Look, Red, I'm going to take a risk. Most of our clients are a lot older than you are - 40s, 50s in the main. I don't find them attractive. But I find you very attractive indeed - and like you, I fancy boys. I'm 18 and you're 23?" (no harm in a white lie) "so am I in your age range?" Either he'd throw me out and I'd have to creep back to Ace as a failure on my first assignment, or he'd bite. He bit. He stood up and took my hand, and led me upstairs into his bedroom. There at last I began to learn what he wanted in his playroom. 'Red' described him well. You'll know from what I wrote in my journal for August 1957 that ginger pubes are a big thing with me. Well, Red was red all right. The hair on his head was obviously dyed blond, but the hair in the more interesting places was as nature dictated. Well, that's not strictly true. The colour was as nature dictated, but the shape was artistically contrived. When we were naked (a process occupying about 50 seconds only) I admired his body. "Who does the shaving?" I asked, "it's great." "I do it myself," he said. I was impressed, as it was very neat. His balls were completely hairless and his pubic hair - flaming ginger (aah!) - was cut in the shape of a heart. Corny, perhaps, but still nice to see, and nice to nuzzle. I decided that cementing good relations with my prospective client required me to suck him off, and this I did to the satisfaction of both of us. Despite his fame and the ready availability of worshipping fans I don't think he got it on with anyone very often, because the volume his cock poured into me was immense. I swallowed it all and felt the need to comment. "Fuck! that was enormous. When did you last come?" It was really sad when he said it was over two weeks ago. The need for a playroom was urgent. One thing led to another over the next two hours. He fucked me (pretty well: he had a decent-sized cock and he used it skilfully) and then we went downstairs for a beer. He made it clear that this was a half-time break only, a situation which I was only too happy to accept. One beer led to another, as they do. We went back upstairs and this time I fucked him. "Don't cum up my arse," he said, "I want you to shoot it on my back." It didn't make any difference to me, so when I was nearly there I pulled out and sprayed it about. "Aaaah! rub it into me," he said. At last I was getting a picture, and a chink opened. I used both hands to spread the juicy cum all over his back and down towards his balls. It was obvious that this was a big thing for him. After I'd finished he turned (I'd been fucking him doggy-fashion) and cleaned my cock with a very skilled tongue. We needed to clean up, and I needed this to be in a shower, and a shared shower at that. It was nearly an hour since he'd cum and the beer was ready. Would my plan work? He was still pretty frisky in the shower and after we'd soaped each other neither of us was in any hurry to get out. The moment has arrived. I knelt and sucked his cock again. He moaned. I turned him round and made him bend over so that I could rim him. His moans became more urgent. I kept at it - I wanted him red hot. I was ready. "Stay like that, Red," I said, "you're going to love this." What guy would move in such circumstances? I stood up and aimed my cock at the spot between his shoulder blades. My left hand reached down to hold his balls. My bladder started to empty; my piss drenched his back; I aimed it lower, covering the same area that I'd covered with my spunk. I was pleased that his cock hardened while all this was happening. While I was still pissing he suddenly stood up and turned to me. Christ! was he going to thump me? I closed my eyes. His hot piss arced up onto my chest. He leaned forward - my eyes were still closed, only now in ecstasy rather than alarm - and I felt his lips on mine. An hour later we had to shower again. After that I sat down and roughed out a proper playroom with a drain, wet-wall, shower heads, all the usual stuff, and (a bit like Ace's and my room at home) leading straight into a room with a whopping great bed. I mentioned wall bars, but he said he wasn't into that kind of thing. He did want a sling though, and we sited it over the central drain as usual. When I got home Ace was keen to hear all about it. I left nothing out. "You lucky little bugger," he said, "your first client and you end up seducing him. I think I'll keep you on." "Do you mind?" I said, "after all, I'm not supposed to fuck other guys." "Wrong again, Jack, you're not supposed to fuck other guys in secret, and neither am I. If he agrees to our contract, and we'll make it attractive to him, there'll be a string of queer pop stars queuing up for us." That contract was the break-through one really. Red was delighted - we charged him £600 for a de luxe job - and we agreed that he would get a fee of 10% from any work we got through his introduction. His earnings from that over the next 20 years were pitiful compared with his earnings from his music, but they still came to almost £9,000. But I'm running ahead. We did the work and, as usual, we were invited to the opening event. Ace and I had no idea what sort of do Red would have wanted to hold for his grand opening. You couldn't call it 'coming out' because that was what it certainly wasn't. Red wouldn't come out of the closet for another 20 or more years, by which time his fan base couldn't have cared less. We debated before we set off for Shropshire whether there would be loads of pop idols, and I thought not. Red had seemed incredibly buttoned-up at a time when flamboyance was becoming the stock in trade of the pop idol. What I knew of Red suggested that the party would be very small, perhaps only four of us. We got to Red's place at around 8, well after dark, and parked the bike. We rang the bell. The door was opened. There was no light either outside or in. "Come in," said a voice of a rather higher pitch than Red's. We went in. A hand reached for Ace's hand and another for mine, and we were led towards the playroom - a journey we knew rather better than our two guides, judging from the amount of stumbling. It had been five days since we'd finished and handed over to Red, and Red had spent the five days preparing things, and adding to the fittings. As we got nearer the playroom we began to make out dim lighting, and our guides stepped out more confidently. One of them knocked on the closed door, which was thrown open with a dramatic gesture by a naked Red. "Come in, friends," he said. We were conducted into a space now lit by over 100 candles - eerie in the extreme - with some interesting additions since we'd last been there. Our two guides were now seen also to be naked, and one look told us that they were identical twins. I shot a worried look at Ace, but he didn't seem troubled. The startling - and to me delightful - thing about the twins was that they looked to be about 13 or 14 at most. My guess that the party would number four was only one out: this was it. Red's preference for boys was exactly mine and Ace's. The twins would have a whale of a time, always assuming they were willing participants in whatever Red had in mind. Since Ace and I were the only ones with clothes on we soon put that right. The boys took our clothes and put them in a wardrobe in the bedroom part of the playroom. Were they too polite to comment on the size of Ace's cock? Quite possibly Red had instructed them to say nothing until all five of us were assembled. Still, Tattoo-boy ought at least to have raised an eyebrow. But no; not yet anyway. The boys then led us to a table at the other side of the playroom set-up. Red had made quite a lot of changes to the furniture. It was uncannily like what Ace and I had at home, except that where King's old room was Red had a sitting room with, on this occasion at least, a dining table. The wet-wall reached about five feet into both the bedroom end and the sitting room end. The bedroom end had a king-size (at least) double, and closer to the wet area another smaller double with a waterproof sheet and a fabric cover. ("The plastic's really cold, so I've put a sheet on top," explained Red later.) The table was set for five: Red at the head with Ace and me on either side of him and a twin on our other side. There was a cold buffet laid out on a sideboard with, to Ace's delight, a small barrel of beer. "Now that we're all comfortable," Red began, "I'll introduce you all. The boys are Witek and Lech. Boys, this is Ace, and this is Jack. Ace and Jack built our playroom." The boys smiled and said 'hello'. As conversation developed it was immediately clear that, despite their names, the boys were as English as Ace and I were. Red told us their story. Their father had escaped from Poland in the early days of the War and had joined the RAF in one of the Polish squadrons. Once they were trained they joined in missions and Witek (the father) had flown over Germany on many occasions. After the War he stayed in Britain and soon after married the English girl he'd been dating since 1943. The twins were born in 1948, and had celebrated their 14th birthday three months earlier. Their parents had divorced when the boys were 6 and the boys stayed in England when their father left. They hadn't heard from him since. Their mother's brother was Red's sound engineer - that's how they'd met Red at a recording session two years ago. Their uncle Vic had taken the boys because he thought they would be excited to meet a real pop star. What he hadn't expected was that the real pop star would take the boys under his wing to quite the extent he had. Vic was the only one of Red's entourage who knew that Red was queer, and this was only because he was queer himself. Each respected the other's secret, but since Red liked them young, and Vic liked big hairy bears, there was never any competition between them. Ace asked Red whether Vic had any problem with him messing around with his nephews. "He was a bit iffy at first, but Lech told him that he and Witek wanted to get inside Red's trousers and that they wanted him - Vic - to bring this about. After that Vic surrendered. That was when they were 12. They've been here off and on ever since." "What about their mother - doesn't she care?" I asked. Witek answered. "She's too busy with a succession of boy friends herself," he said, "it suits her to have us out of the way at weekends, and it suits us too. She thinks Vic's looking after us, and Vic's happy. If we're happy then Red's happy, and if Red's happy then he goes on working and Vic's happy." While all this was being related we'd helped ourselves to the buffet. Red explained that he wasn't a wine drinker, but that beer would no doubt be welcome, as well as productive. Ace and I grinned - we'd done the plumbing. There was squash for the boys. We all understood what was going to happen later. I could tell that Witek, sitting next to me, was getting excited. I asked him what he was looking forward to in the new playroom. "Lech and I have done things at home in the bath, but we've not done them with Red. He wants to, and we want to, and now we can." "What kind of things?" "Piss, of course. What else?" There was no answer to that. I asked him what sort of things he and Lech liked to do at home. "Everything, Jack. We can't remember a time when we didn't play with each other's body. It must have started long before we understood sex, or how nice coming is. The first real deliberate wanking was when we were about seven or eight, and we've never stopped. One day he told me he had a big secret to share, and it turned out that a boy had told him about a dare some other kid had made to lick someone's cock. The other kids thought that this was excitingly disgusting, and all the boys giggled about how horrible it must be. Lech and I thought differently: we thought how much fun it must be. I expect you've tried it?" "Oh, yes, Witek, several thousand times. I'm good at it, as you and Lech will soon find out, I hope." Witek grinned. "You bet," and he reached under the table to touch my cock. As I was hard, and had been throughout the meal, he gave it a squeeze. "Nice," he whispered, "mine's the same." I looked down, and saw that it was so. So Lech and Witek were cock-suckers. Did they fuck? "Yeah. He likes to fuck me more that he likes me to fuck him, but we both do it." All-round players then. I wondered, but not out loud, what Red brought to the party apart from a venue. I would soon find out. The three men had each drunk a fair amount of beer, and it was beginning to make its presence felt. The boys, knowing the pleasure that would soon be coming their way, had swigged a vast amount of squash. Red stood up. "Come on," he said, "time to play. Boys, you are now free to notice that Ace and Jack are naked, and have bodies you've not seen before." Lech and Witek exchanged looks, and a tiny nod was exchanged. Lech said that neither of them had seen a cock as big as Ace's, but that it looked very exciting to them, and they had no qualms about getting to know it better "including being fucked by it". Ace looked pleased. Witek joined in. "But first we want to be the boy in the tattoo. Did you really do that?" Ace assured Witek that the activity depicted had indeed taken place, and that he, Ace, would be very happy to replicate it with Witek. "And me!" cried his brother. "And you too of course, Lech," agreed Ace, smiling at the twins. It rather looked as though virtually all possible pairings were on the cards. Red said "Ace and Jack, you've built this playroom. You should each choose which of these lovely boys you each wish to play with first." I looked at Ace and he nodded to me. "You go first, Jack, you got the contract." I was pleased; it was nice to be praised like that. "I don't know which boy I want to choose," I said. "They are identical, and I can't tell them apart." This was maybe what Red had set up, because Lech said "We're not identical. You have to find out which is which." He and Witek then stood facing me, their legs slightly apart, their arms by their sides. I looked carefully. "Can I touch?" "Yes please," said one of them (I had failed to notice where Witek was standing). Their faces were identical as far as I could tell: they both had crew cuts and their eyes were of course the same. Cute noses, freckles, teeth, all the same. OK, it was bodies then. No obvious differences. Cocks? This was when I'd need to touch. Both were half-hard and uncut. After manipulation both were fully hard with easily retractable foreskins. Nice smooth balls, indistinguishable. The twins grinned. "You're not even warm, Jack." I made them turn round. Nothing there. "I must examine your arses," I said - this was a good excuse to have some fun - and there it was. "Which of you is the Pole with the mole near his hole?" I asked. Gales of laughter. "Witek," said the unblemished Lech, "that's the only thing." It was a small mole on Witek's left buttock about an inch from his very nice rosebud. I gave it a lick. "Only moles get licks, sorry Lech," I said, "so I'm going with Witek first." "Goody," said Lech," that means I get Ace first. Red was going to have to play the good host - family hold back - at least for the first round. I turned to Witek. "Time to play. We have an audience. What would you like to do first?" "I want you to give me the best cum I've ever had," he said, putting the responsibility straight back onto me. Two could play at that game though. "OK," I said, "but as I intend to give you three orgasms in the next 90 minutes which one would you like to be the best?" Get out of that, Mr Smarty. He thought for a few seconds. "The one that no-one else can see." Now it really was up to me. He could cum in my mouth - as I fully intended he would, and that would be invisible. He could cum up my arse, certainly invisible but not all that likely as I wanted to be fucked by Red and Ace. He could cum on his belly, or on me, but that would be highly visible. So it was cum he had while I was sucking his cock that was to be the best. No, wait a minute, if he came in someone else's mouth while I was making him come that would be it! My plan was now clear. I lifted him up into the sling and made him comfortable in the stirrups and cuffs. His arse was truly delightful, mole and all. You've heard me describe how I rim and finger boys before, so I don't need to paint the picture. My tongue's first contact with Witek's perineum started a long series of moans, sighs and pleas for release - a joy to me and to the audience. Ace and Lech were cuddled together watching from the 'wet' bed, waiting for it to be their turn. Red was lying beside them, occasionally stroking Ace's cock. As I went in with my fingers Witek's bladder couldn't stand the build-up any longer, and a golden stream of hot 14-year-old-boy piss flew from his cock. The first gush went over his head, but I caught his cock and aimed the rest of it onto his chest where it ran down to cover his belly. His twin, excited by this, gave a cry of "Yeah! Nice one, Witek!" I reminded the other three that Witek and I would welcome a similar offering from them should they feel inclined. I resumed my assault on Witek's insides. Witek resumed his moaning. I leant forward to kiss his lips and whispered, "Are you anywhere near?" "No, but it's not far away." "Tell me when you're 15 seconds away." "OK." By now I had three fingers in him, and his prostate was responding nicely. If he hadn't been strapped in his wriggling would have tipped him out of the sling. The moaning increased. "15," he cried. "Lech, get your mouth on his cock now," I said. Lech bounded across and had his lips comfortably round his twin's cock before he bucked in the sling, raising his hips and shot his first load into Lech's hungry mouth. Ace called out from the bed, "Don't you dare swallow, Lech, I want some of that." Lech closed his lips, sucking the last drops, and went back to Ace where there was a noisy exchange of Witek's spunk. Witek's moaning had stopped and his cock, now only half hard, leaked the last couple of small spurts. I took my fingers out. He was completely taken by surprise when the next thing he felt was my cock. I pushed it all the way in without pausing. "Ah! fuck!" he cried. I did, hard and fast. He'd had the slow treatment from my fingers; he was now enjoying - yes, he was, I checked - the merciless pounding I was giving him. Fucking someone in a sling isn't ideal because the damn thing keeps swinging, but I managed to find a speed which kept it reasonable stable. There was no way I'd come like that though, so I did the next best thing. Instead of emptying my bladder in one fell swoop as I usually did in these circumstances I decided to let it out gradually, a little at a time, so that Witek wouldn't realise he was being piss-fucked at first. Ace knew, of course, and Red probably worked it out from my stance. I plunged in as far as I could then held it there. I forced a trickle of piss out. I pulled back and fucked him a couple of times then plunged deep in again ... more piss ... "Hey! you're pissing in me," he cried. "Yeah. You like it, don't you, Witek." "Mmm." Lech said that Witek was the biggest piss-hound he knew. "Apart from you, you little prick," said his twin, speared deep by me and being flooded with piss as he spoke. "Oh Christ! I'm so fucking full," he moaned, "now fuck me properly, Jack, the playroom's meant to get messy." Indeed it was, and indeed it did. I couldn't cum with him in a sling, so I leaned over, still deep inside, and whispered to him that I was going to undo his restraints and fuck him properly on the wet bed. "Keep your arse as tight shut as you can when I pull out," I said. He nodded. Still inside I fumbled with his stirrups and cuffs. Red could tell what was about to happen, so he made room on the bed for us in the middle, between him and Ace. "I'm pulling out now," I said. Quickly Witek's arse closed as I withdrew and he clenched his buttocks as hard as he could. Inevitably there was a dribble of piss, but he managed to keep most of it in. Ace was standing next to the sling and he carried Witek to the bed so the boy wouldn't have to walk, and laid him on his back. "Ready, Jack?" he said, giving me a quick kiss. By the time I'd lifted Witek's legs and got them over my shoulders his arse was leaking piss, so I got my cock back in quickly. "Thanks," he murmured, "this is great. Now do me properly." He wound his legs even tighter behind my back and put his arms round me: I was completely bound to him. I started a long slow fuck. Piss gushed from his arse as I pushed in, wetting my thighs and spreading onto the bed. Every six or so strokes I paused to squeeze some more piss out of my cock deep inside him. My bladder was empty long before I was ready to come. "I'm getting near," I said. Lech moved so that he was kneeling behind his brother's head. I caught his eye and nodded. Witek would get a double spraying of liquid in a few seconds' time. My last inward thrust arrived ... I cried out ... my cock spurted spunk into Witek's pretty little arse ... Lech started to piss on Witek's pretty little chest ... he aimed lower at Witek's pretty cock (not little, by any means) and pissed on it ... Witek's cock gave a lurch and spunk flew from it, mixing with the pissy mess on his chest. Red stood up and clapped. "Welcome to my playroom, guys!" he said. I disengaged from Witek whose arse sprayed the rest of my piss onto me. "That was something special," he said, "I'll be doing that again." The wet bed was sopping, so Red took off the sheet and put another one on: it would need to be replaced soon if we kept on at this rate. The good ship Playroom being now safely launched it was time for the other three to join in. I needn't go into details, but Lech's desire to experience Ace to the full was his priority. He and Ace made a nice tableau of Tattoo-boy, and Ace gave him a good rimming. "I've looked carefully, Jack," he said, "and I agree that Lech's arse is mole-free." The rimming led inevitably to other methods of conjunction, and soon Lech was on his back, as Witek had been, with Ace continuing to give his unblemished arsehole the careful preparation it would need before Ace fucked him. When at last Ace touched bottom Lech's cry of delight was a joy to hear. "Fill me, Ace, no-one's been that far in before!" I felt a bit sorry for Red, lying on the side-lines. Still, he'd be the main player here once the party was over, and Red had a good 8 inches with which to satisfy the twins' need for being fucked. I moved across to Red and took his cock into my mouth, sucking him quickly to a big climax. I swallowed it all. "Thanks, Jack," he said, "you and Ace have done a fantastic job here. The boys are loving it." By about 2 in the morning we were all knackered. I'd had sex of some kind with all four of them, and I'm pretty sure that each one of us had done the same. The only pairing I'd not seen was Witek and Lech, but they were now almost asleep, one on either side of Red in the clean bed. Well, 'clean' apart from a fair number of cum stains made in the few hours before. The last thing to happen was that Ace popped me in the sling and gave me a lovely long fucking. We've got our love-making to a fine art now, and we both came within half a minute of each other. Red called out as we came down from our high. "You guys must come to another of my parties here some time." In fact we went to Red's anniversary party every year on this date until he died in 1983. The press all assumed it was AIDS, but it wasn't. Just fucking cancer. It's funny how pop legends can't seem to die of anything boring and ordinary. Maybe it's because drugs or drink gets them first. But poor old Red died because his pancreas gave out. He'd been living with Witek since the twins were about 20 and their mother finally lost the plot completely. To everyone's surprise Lech turned into a model heterosexual citizen - wife, 2 children, dog, nice little country house - and ended up as a big-shot lawyer to lots of pop stars. But Witek stayed faithful to Red, and was with him at the end. Ace and I went to the funeral - it was huge, of course - and we talked to Vic and the twins afterwards. It was then that we learned that Red had made his final gesture of thanks. He left most of his wealth to Witek and Lech, which came, with royalties, to over £1,500,000 each. The next sentences of his Will were intriguing. "Because Lech has turned away from the path Witek and I have chosen I am not leaving a share in the farmhouse to him. He has a house of his own. I leave 50% of my farmhouse to Witek and 50% to Adam Perry and Peter Jack Brown jointly. I hope they have as much enjoyment there after my death as we have all had during my lifetime." It took several months for Probate and all that kind of thing. Witek went on living there, of course, and we visited him a great deal during those early months. At last he told us he felt able to hold a commemorative wake for Red. Ace and I were there. Lech was invited, knowing that he wouldn't come (but he did send a barrel of real ale, with a note saying 'I expect this will be enjoyed several times. Love, Lech'. Witek had managed to find three nice young lads to share the celebration. It was another memorable night. The next day Ace and I went to see Lech and instructed him to give our 50% to Witek. He grinned. "That's not in order at all. He must buy it from you. How about £1 each?" We agreed. He asked with a grin, "Went the beer well?" ***** Red's contract opened doors Ace and I had never imagined, and by 1965 the conversions were accounting for the bulk of our business. 'Our' because Ace had made me a partner when I was officially 21 in 1963. The normal building stuff kept us respectable-looking, and there was enough steady local work in the Harlow area to keep two men fully occupied. The conversion stuff needed specialist input, and we had another two guys permanently on that. A fifth guy - the plumber - worked wherever he was needed. I didn't do much labouring work after that. I was competent, because Ace had trained me well, but I was far more use in getting business. Ace was the boss though, because without him the whole things would have fallen apart. All of us were queer, as it would have been impossible any other way. Recruiting was never any problem as we were known in queer circles as having an interesting work-load, and queer builders came to find us, rather than the other way round. Ace was clear about his - our - requirements. He wanted guys who were queer; he wanted guys with the skills we needed for the conversion jobs; he wanted guys he could trust to do high quality work without constant supervision; and most of all he wanted guys who were completely loyal to us, to the whole team, and to the business. We only ever made one mistake in recruiting, and luckily he saw he'd made a mistake at about the same time we did. £500 in 1966 kept him very happy, I'm glad to say. Recruiting was simple. After contact had been made we invited to guy to meet in a local pub. We chatted there, then invited him back to the playroom to see the sort of thing he'd be building. Even the 'normal' guys got this treatment. If his eyes didn't light up at the playroom we thanked him and sent him on his way. If he liked what he saw we had a practical interview. That usually sorted out the ones we could see as members of the team. Our failure rate, as I say, was precisely one out of about 20 or so over the years until we retired. ***** The years rolled by. Ace and I went on the first London Gay Pride march in 1972. We found it difficult to call ourselves gay, rather than queer, and to this day I prefer the in-your-face aspect of queer. In the 60 years since I met Ace public attitudes have changed unimaginably, but there are still little corners where annoying the bigots who lurk there is a pleasing way to pass the time. We met some nice guys on the march and spent a happy hour in the Coleherne with one of them afterwards. It was his 40th birthday, he said, so we drank to his health and future happiness before going our separate ways. Bloody Thatcher didn't do much for queers, what with her insistence that Local Authorities shouldn't 'promote homosexuality'. Ace pointed out that he hadn't noticed any posters in the Town Hall advertising Queer Night: Come and Try. Still, bad dreams don't last for ever. Blair, for all his faults, set the ball rolling: the ball first coaxed into action by Wolfenden only a week after King's death. Then 1967, with its 'consenting adults in private' stuff. A big step forward, but one which really only showed that that big step was a bit like Mao's first step. A long way still to go. Blair gave us Civil Partnerships in 2004. Randy teenage Jack, who got up to so much wickedness - joyful wickedness - in August 1957 could never have imagined how ordinary - in the best sense - being queer would be. Randy teenage Jack took the Blair route with his biker Ace, but not until he was over 60. Ace and I retired in 1994. He was 65 and I was officially 52. Luckily we were both in perfectly good health. We spent six months on a world trip before deciding that, despite many of the places being beautiful, we'd rather stay in the UK to get old. The business had been looking after itself for several years in practice, and we made the five guys (only one of whom had been with us right from the start in 1957) partners before bowing out ourselves. We sold the Harlow house and used the money to buy a little place in Devon (where I'm writing this) and a flat in nice queer-friendly Morocco. We spend two or three months there most years, enjoying the warmth. That's the sunshine as well as the local boys. Yes, Ace and I are still both into boys. You don't change as you get older. We used to fuck guys from time to time, but after a few years these occasions only happened at playroom parties. Moroccan boys are very friendly and, being good Muslims, are endlessly fascinated by foreskins. Naturally Ace and I are happy to pander to their insatiable curiosity in this area. **** We got older and slower, but no less happy. Ace and I had been together for 60 years - a damn sight longer than most marriages, and with few - very few - sour days. Maybe being illegal for so long made us each more conscious of the need to be, well, nice to each other. ***** When I woke on the morning of my 75th birthday there was a tiny fairy perched at the end of the bed. "Happy birthday, Jack," she said, "I've something to tell you. You'd better wake Ace." Ace was, as usual, sound asleep. At 88 he's not the quickest to wake these days. By the time I had roused him to full consciousness and propped him up on his pillows several pieces of a jig-saw puzzle had clicked into place in my mind. The fairy was strangely familiar, I thought. "Hello, Ace," said the fairy, "we've not met before, but I've known you most of your life." Ace looked at me as though he'd gone mad, but I smiled, patted his hand and looked back at the fairy. "Be patient," I murmured, "it'll be good news, you'll see." "You should have died, Peter. When King ran into the other Peter Brown the paperwork became confused. A Peter Brown was dead, and the records were fine. It was only afterwards that I noticed that it was the wrong Peter Brown. By then it was too late to delete you, so you had to go on living." She smiled. "No, I'm very happy. Thank you," I said, squeezing Ace's hand. God! how close it must have been. "I was told to delete your memory though - that's why you remembered nothing apart from August 1957. I hope you understand? I've re-set it now." I nodded, unable to speak. Everything had come back to me. She turned to Ace. "When King left home on the day he died he left a card for you, and you read this thinking it was a suicide note. He also left an envelope which he said would explain everything. Unfortunately he wasn't allowed to let you have that information, so we removed the envelope. I'm sorry if you were distressed, but we had no option." "We?" I said. "Oh yes, there's quite a few of us. Funnily enough King asked exactly the same question on his 88th birthday." Ace shook his head, "this is crazy." "Yes, Ace, it must seem like that, but trust me, when you've read what King left for you you'll understand." She waved her wand and suddenly on the bed in front of us was a faded envelope stuffed with papers. "Read this," she said, "it will explain everything. Take your time, it's a long story. Goodbye Jack; you were Peter last time I saw you five years ago. Goodbye Ace. I shan't see you again," and she was gone. The last piece of the jig-saw fitted. That bit about my being Peter 'five years ago' took me back to my being here in bed, alone, on my 70th birthday all that time ago. "Come on, Ace, we have to read this right now." ***** By 6 o'clock we'd read the whole thing - the print-outs that King had, because someone called Jason had told him about Ace's death, the hand-written stuff King had put in about what happened afterwards. The story stopped in 1959 - there was nothing left in the envelope. "Are you sure?" said Ace, "have another look." I did, and to my delight I found a small slip of paper which hadn't been attached to the big file. It had two URLs on it. I logged on to my iPad and read the first one. We wept when we read about King's sacrifice, just as he had done when we had died. Nothing would ever be the same - I understood now. The other one was oddly familiar, and I wondered who had written it. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/lion-king-26 https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/ace-jack =============================================================================== This really is The End. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. badboi666@btinternet.com xxxxx