Date: Thu, 19 Jan 2006 18:48:58 -0800 From: Jingjok Subject: Death in Venice - Chapter 1 Death in Venice by Jingjok ===== WARNING: The following story contains depictions of explicit sexual activity. If the laws of your jurisdiction do not permit you to view such material, please leave here at once and go where you can learn how to work to change the laws of your jurisdiction. If you are offended by such material, please seek psychiatric counseling to discuss why you are here in the first place. On the other hand, if you simply don't care for the type of material indicated by the story codes, well, have a nice day. gay, adult-youth, interracial, Mm very-old/teen CAUTION: Look at the title. DISCLAIMER: The following is entirely a work of fiction. All of the parts in this drama are portrayed by mature actors who are masters of makeup and disguise. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I bow with respect to Thomas Mann, and humbly hope I have made an appropriate use of his title. ===== Chapter 1 The old man moved away from the kitchen and went into the hallway. He had come to recognize the sound of gunfire in the street. Had come to know the danger, when a bullet had shattered one of the small, beveled glass panes that framed the big picture window in the parlor. The repairman had no idea where to find glass like that, and now a plain, flat replacement panel filled the hole. That wasn't the only scar on the old building. The house had been the place of the old man's birth, seventy-nine years before. The place where his father had been born, twenty-five years earlier, when the house was nearly new. From his upstairs window, the old man could sometimes watch boats moving along the nearby canal. He remembered stories told by his father about the days when Venice was an elegant neighborhood of Los Angeles. Then there had come a long period when the water had become polluted, and the neighborhood had decayed. People like the old man had moved away, to be replaced by poor working people with darker complexions. The old man loved his house and its memories, and so he had stayed. He had celebrated the fortieth anniversary of his marriage in the house. His wife had died in her bed before the forty-first. The old man had gone to his desk in the library, remembering he needed to write a check to pay his household insurance premium. He heard a sound that had to be the doorbell. It was an old-fashioned thing - the kind that had to be cranked around in a circle to make a sound like an old telephone bell. Now his cell phone played Mozart when someone called. When he peered through the curtain over the tiny window in the door, the old man saw the dark brown face of a boy. One of the boys from the neighborhood, he thought. Then recognition came to him; it was the boy who lived next door. The maid had hired him to mow the grass. The maid checked his work, and gave the boy his pay. The old man had never spoken to him. The old man opened the door as far as the safety chain would permit, and greeted his visitor, "Hello. What can I do for you?" "Hello," said the boy. "Could I come inside, please?" The old man was tall; the boy's head came up just to the man's chin. He looked at his caller more closely. There appeared to be an ugly purple bruise on the boy's brown cheek, below his left eye. "What happened to your face?" the old man asked. "My stepfather hit me," said the boy. "Because I was crying. Please, mister. I just need a place to sit down for a while, where they won't look for me." The world outside could be a dangerous place, but the old man saw that this was no time for caution. He pushed the door and released the chain, and then opened it wide to admit his unexpected guest. The old man led the boy into the parlor; there he gestured to a soft, upholstered chair. The man moved toward his accustomed spot on the sofa, and then remembered his manners. It had been a while since he'd had a visitor to attend to. When his children came, they took charge of the house and waited on him like servants. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked his guest. "Sure," said the boy. "What have you got?" "Not much for you, I suppose," said the old man. "Would you like some apple juice?" "What are you having?" the boy asked. "Tea," the old man replied. "Hot tea." "Tea," the boy echoed, as if repeating an unfamiliar word. "Could I have some tea, please?" The boy followed the old man into the kitchen. The old man ran water into an aluminum tea kettle and set it on the stove and lit the burner. Then he took a cup and saucer from the cupboard and set it on the counter. He saw the boy watching with interest, as the man opened an old, wooden tea chest on the shelf and took a packet from one of the eight nests of different tea bags. The old man opened the packet and placed the bag in the cup. "This is black tea from Ceylon," he told the boy. When he saw the boy's expression was blank, the old man smiled. The tea kettle was making no sound yet, and there was time. "Come," said the man. He led the boy into the library. "Have you really read all of these books?" the boy asked. The old man remembered the days when he would browse the shelves of used book emporiums, and bring home half a dozen volumes that were older than himself. Some of them had been put on the shelf and then forgotten. "Most of them," he said to the boy. The man led the boy to the big globe that rested in the floor stand by his desk. "Look here," he invited the boy. He traced a finger on the globe from Los Angeles to a small oval shape in the Indian Ocean. "There is Ceylon," he said. "Now they call it Sri Lanka. They grow very good tea in the mountains." "And you get your tea from there?" asked the boy. "No," said the man. "I just buy a popular brand in the supermarket." The old man heard the whistle of the tea kettle and hurried back into the kitchen. He turned off the fire and poured the steaming water into the cup. The man found a teaspoon in a drawer and placed it on the saucer. Then he removed a sugar bowl from the cabinet. "Bring your tea," he said to the boy. "I'm sure your hand is more steady than mine." The boy followed him into the parlor. When the man took his usual seat on the sofa and set down the sugar bowl beside his own teacup, the boy walked around the coffee table and sat beside the old man. He dipped his spoon into the sugar and put a generous amount into his tea and stirred it. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea. The old man said, "You can talk to me, if you want. Old men can be good listeners." "I never talked to my grandfather," said the boy. "He didn't want to be bothered." "My grandchildren never talk to me," said the man. They sat in silence again. Then the boy asked, "Did you hear the shots today?" "Yes," said the man. "I ducked into the hallway. I hope they didn't hit anyone." The old man saw the boy shudder. He moved his arm along the back of the sofa and rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy let out a moan of pain, and cried, "They killed my best friend. Why? Why?" The water of his sorrow gushed from his eyes, streaking down his brown cheeks. The old man pulled him, and the boy turned and buried his face against the man's shoulder. The old man held him close with both hands, feeling the boy's frame shaking with his sobs. The awful sounds of the boy's agony were muffled, as his tears soaked the old man's shirt. After a long time, the boy's moans faded into silence. The old man could feel the regular movement of the boy's back and realized he had fallen asleep. He held the boy in his arms for another hour. Then the boy lifted his face and looked at the old man. "Thank you," he said. "It's all right," said the old man. "I know it hurts. I lost my wife some years ago." "I'm sorry," said the boy. "Are you hungry?" asked the man. "I could order a pizza." "Yeah," said the boy. "That would be good." "With everything?" asked the man. "No anchovies," the boy insisted. "Cokes OK?" asked the man. "Sure," said the boy. The old man got up and went to the window and closed the drapes. He turned on a lamp and walked over to a table near the door. The man pulled the yellow page book from a drawer and found a nearby pizza parlor and called them. "I'm sorry," said the voice. "Your address is not in our delivery area." They were less than a mile away. The old man sighed, and dialed another number and placed the order. When the doorbell rang, the old man paid and tipped the middle-aged Mexican delivery man. He handed the bag of Cokes to the boy and carried the pizza to the breakfast table in the kitchen. The old man managed to eat two slices, while the boy finished off the remainder of the pizza. Boys haven't changed, the old man thought, remembering his son. When they were done, they walked back into the parlor. Before they took their seats, the old man asked, "Would you like to watch a movie?" "Sure," said the boy. The man walked over to a cabinet near the television set and opened the double doors. There were dozens of videotape boxes arranged on the shelves. Some were commercial tapes; others bore handwritten labels and had been recorded off the cable. "Wow!" exclaimed the boy. The man smiled. "You can pick one," he said. "I'm going to the bathroom." When the old man returned, the boy had selected one of the home-taped boxes. He handed it to the man. "How about this one," he said. "Out of Africa," the old man read the title. "That's one of my favorites." He put the cassette into the player, and sat down at the end of the sofa. The boy sat beside him. He kicked off his basketball shoes and swung his bare feet onto the seat and snuggled close to the old man. The boy intertwined his fingers with the man's hand. They watched the movie together in silence, holding hands. When the movie ended, the boy noticed tear streaks on the old man's face. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Were you crying?" "Sorry," said the man. "Since I got old, I find I usually cry when I watch a movie. Sad ending or happy, it doesn't matter. Don't worry about it." The boy wiped the old man's cheeks with his fingertips. "It's OK," he said. The old man smiled. "Thank you," he said. "I almost cried when the Baroness left the Africans behind," said the boy. "Did she really have to do that?" "If it had been I," said the old man, "I should have had a hard time doing that. But she was right, I suppose. Denmark probably wouldn't have been a good place for them back then." "White folks can go wherever they want," said the boy. "Black boys have to stay where they are." The old man hugged the boy's shoulder. He couldn't think of anything to say about that. "I'm afraid it's getting to be about my bedtime," said the man. "I've really enjoyed your company this evening. I hope you feel better now." "You made me feel better," said the boy. He hesitated, and then said softly, "I don't want to go home tonight." "Do you want to sleep here on the sofa?" asked the old man. "I can get some sheets and blankets." "Please," said the boy. "Can I sleep in your bed? I used to sleep with my grandfather, when I felt bad about something." The old man wondered what he had gotten into. The idea of having a boy share his bed hadn't occurred to him since his son was ten years old. But his bed was big, and he couldn't think of any reason to say no to the boy. "All right," said the old man. "Turn off that lamp over there and come upstairs." "Thank you," said the boy. They went up into the old man's room. Out of years of habit, he closed the door. "Can I take a shower?" asked the boy. "Sure," said the old man. "The bathroom is through that door. There's a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet that you're welcome to use." The boy pulled off his T-shirt and hung it over the back of the chair by the dresser. Barefoot already, he unfastened his baggy trousers and stepped out of them and laid them on the seat of the chair. Then, to the old man's surprise, the boy slid his yellow boxers down his legs and tossed them on top of his shirt. The boy looked at the old man and grinned. He turned a pirouette, showing off every side of his youthful body, and walked into the bathroom and closed the door. The old man thought about the sight he had witnessed. The body of the young black boy had to be called beautiful. If he were an artist, he would want to paint a portrait. Or he might, like Michelangelo, make a statue of the youth in marble. No, he mused, better to work, like some African craftsman, in ebony wood. If anyone would ever create such an image, the old man thought, he would like to have it in his home. The old man removed his clothing and tossed his shirt into the laundry hamper. He extracted the contents of his pockets and placed them into the organizer tray on his dresser, and then hung the trousers in his closet. Undressed to his white cotton briefs, he took out the old silk robe his wife had given him and put it on. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, awaiting his turn in the bathroom. The sound of running water in the shower stopped. After a while, the old man heard the tap running in the sink, and guessed that the toothbrush was being put to use. Then the door opened, and the naked black boy came out, drying his hair with a towel. The boy did another turn around and smiled at the man. Water droplets had glistened against the smooth brown skin of his back. The old man arose and took the towel from the boy and moved behind and dried him. He handed the towel back to the boy. The boy smiled, and asked, "When was the last time you were this close to a naked boy?" The old man chuckled. "Probably when my son was eight or nine," he said. The old man walked into the bathroom and closed the door. When the old man came out of the bathroom, the bedroom lights were out. An open window admitted the light of a half moon in the night sky. The old man could see the shape of the boy under the white sheet on the bed. He went to the other side of the bed and removed his robe and climbed under the cover. The old man lay on his back, apart from the boy. He thought about how long it had been since he had shared a bed with another. Then he felt the bed move; the boy's hand touched his chest. The boy squirmed closer and snuggled against the man. He lay his head on the man's shoulder. The old man's arm wrapped around the boy's back and held him, just as he had once held his young son. It wasn't like being with his wife, he thought. She had always worn a nightgown to bed. The man felt the boy's breath against his bare chest. He smiled, and waited for the boy to fall asleep. The boy reached across and put his hand on the old man's ribs and pulled himself closer. His upper leg pressed against the old man's thigh. The old man felt the boy's hard cock moving against the smooth skin of his hip beside his own soft organ. "What are you doing?" the old man said. "Shhhh," whispered the boy. The old man realized that the boy's unwanted advance was something the boy needed to do. Maybe he had done this with his murdered friend. The man held tight to the boy's back and caressed his shoulder with his free hand. The boy's cock dug into the old man's skin. He began to breathe faster as he humped against the man's smooth flesh. The old man felt himself start to respond to the boy's activity beside his groin. He felt himself filling, pressing out against the tight fabric of his briefs. It was an experience that had become unfamiliar over the long years since the death of his wife. The boy kept on humping. He was rubbing his cheek in circles against the old man's chest. Heated by his exertion, he grasped the sheet and threw it toward the bottom of the bed, exposing their bodies above the knees. The old man looked down at his groin, struck by the contrast between the dark skin of the boy and his own pale flesh. He could see that whenever the boy thrust forward, the head of his cock would emerge beneath his own brown hip, and then disappear when the boy pulled back. The boy was moving faster, and moaning now. He thrust his cock forward and groaned aloud. The old man felt a splash of wetness against his skin. He looked down and watched spurt after spurt from the boy's dark cock fill the creamy puddle that grew on the man's pale skin. Finally, the boy's movement stopped. The man could feel his deep, regular breathing. He held the boy's warm body close with both arms, wondering what to make of the remarkable experience. Then he felt the boy release his ribs and tug at the waistband of the old man's briefs. "No," said the man. "Don't." "Yes," insisted the boy. "Help me." The old man couldn't comprehend what was happening, but he raised his hips. The boy quickly pulled the tight briefs down to the man's knees. The boy moved his foot to push the garment lower, and then pawed at it until it fell from the man's feet. The old man felt the boy's hand find his softened cock. He felt embarrassed by his lack of excitement, and sorry for the boy who wanted so badly to please him. His hands caressed the boy's smooth back, trying to convey his affection despite his failure of lust. The man felt the boy's hand scoop into the puddle of cum. The boy's slippery fingers began to rub the old man's cock. His fingers pulled back the man's foreskin, so his thumb could rub the sensitive head of the soft organ. The old man felt it begin to stretch. As the old man's hose grew longer, the boy could stroke his slippery fist along the length of the firming organ, while his thumb and finger teased the head. The old man began to moan softly, as he felt his excitement rising. The boy moved to press gentle kisses onto the old man's cheek, moving to keep in place as the man's head began to move from side to side. The boy felt the man's cock enlarging to what must have been nearly its full length, although it never achieved the iron hardness of the boy's own rod. He scooped up another gob of spunk to keep his fingers slippery, and pumped faster along the old man's cock. The old man began to thrash around in the bed. His excitement was building to a level he had not felt in years. He felt his heart beating faster and tried to control his breathing, taking deep, regular gulps of air. At last his sensory threshold was exceeded and he raised his hips in the air as a small gush of cream issued from his cock. He groaned aloud as the boy's busy hand coaxed another drop of juice, and then another, from the old man's throbbing prick. The old man lay back, breathing regularly. The boy lay his cheek on the old man's chest and flung his leg across the old man's thighs. His fist gripped the length of the old man's hose as if trying to prevent it from shrinking. When the boy's breathing became quiet and regular, his hand relaxed, but did not release its prize. The old man raised himself and stretched to reach the sheet; he pulled it over their naked, sperm-soaked bodies. He drifted into a state of supreme satisfaction he had not known for years, and soon joined his companion in sleep. When the old man awakened, the light of the moon was gone. He untangled himself from the boy and made his way through the darkness of the familiar room into the bathroom. He relieved himself into the bowl and flushed the toilet, hoping the sound would not awaken the sleeping boy. The old man climbed back into bed and tried to gently slide his arm beneath the neck of the boy without disturbing his rest. The boy stirred, and squirmed closer to the old man. The man's arms once more embraced the sleeping boy, and his nose brushed against the boy's hair. The sweet scent of the boy gave the man a feeling of contentment, and he drifted away once more. When the morning light awakened the old man, his bed was empty. He heard the sound of water running in the shower. He lay back, marveling that he could have found such warmth in the winter of his life. The water stopped, and soon the boy emerged, gloriously naked, toweling his hair dry. The boy smiled when he saw that the old man was awake. "Have to go to school," he said. He pulled on his clothes and walked over to the bed. He leaned down and softly kissed the old man on the lips. "Thank you for the tea," he said. "I'll let myself out." The old man watched the boy go out of the room. After a while, he heard the tinkle of the wind chimes on the front door, before it slammed softly shut. The old man sighed and rose from the bed and went into the bathroom to prepare himself for the morning. ===== To be concluded in the second part ... ===== AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please accept my apology if this story has stirred any painful memory in the reader, or if anyone has found the subject offensive. Please consider joining or contributing to a project to save children from the gangs of our time. They are everywhere. Search the internet for "antigang yourtown".