Date: Sat, 13 May 2017 16:22:18 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Fourteen Again Chapter 39 Fourteen again by badboi666 =============================================================================== This story is - guess what! - fantasy. 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 a 14-year-old then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. Remember the three things: 1 Cum 2 Wipe 3 Donate =============================================================================== Chapter 39 Like all vows it was destined to be if not broken, then decidedly bent. I wanted to be fresh and lovely the next day for Jack, and that meant I had to sleep somewhere with a shower. Furthermore I hadn't slept much last night, and hardly at all the night before. All this pointed to a hotel. As I walked down into the Tube at Liverpool Street an idea came to me - even if it came to nothing it might be fun. I went to the hotel where Cy had been staying and sat in the lobby ready, if anyone asked, with a story about meeting my mum. Needless to say nobody paid the slightest attention. As it was approaching lunch time I went to look in the restaurant and there my eyes lit on Luigi putting the finishing touches to a table setting. I went up to him. "Hi Luigi." He whirled round. 'What the hell are you doing here/" "Looking for you, big boy, I need a favour." "We can't talk here," he muttered. "No, but if you point to a table where you are the waiter we can talk while you take my order." His eyes widened. "Are you real, kid?" No, I thought, but it would freak you out if I told you why. He pointed to a small table in a corner. "Over there - I'll keep it for you. No-one likes sitting there, it's dark." "Sounds ideal," I grinned, "see you in ten minutes." I went back to the foyer to wait until they started serving lunch. I didn't want to be the first person in, so I waited until a few tables were occupied then went over and sat in the little corner table. Luigi was over almost immediately with a menu saying, "I'll be back shortly to take your order." I opened the menu and was surprised to find an envelope tucked inside marked 'For You'. I opened it. A single piece of paper read 'Dear Randy - I'm glad to see you again. Are you staying in the hotel? Luigi xx'. Interesting, I thought - was this an invitation; was Luigi trying to make amends? I studied the menu. Whatever appetites I might have which needed satisfying, hunger was the most immediate. I was to all intents and purposes a 14-year-old in casual clothes. The palate, however, belonged to a man of 70 not so long ago (although 86 by now), and was tempted by fare unlikely to have been selected by an adolescent. The lobster looked good, but without a glass or two of Chablis it wouldn't be the same. Similarly the duck without the claret. Oh bugger! It would have to be that new delicacy, still a novelty in 1957, the hamburger. Luigi reappeared and we pretended to discuss what I might like. He bent close. "Hamburger and chips," I said, "but is that Yank still staying here?" "No, he left on Saturday." "OK, you'll have me all to yourself then - well, you and Tony, that is." His eyebrows shot up. "What are you suggesting?" "I need a room for the night, and if I could snuggle into your room the three of us could party." "You're weird, Randy." "Funnily enough, you're the second person to have said that to me today," I replied, "but is my suggestion possible?" "I'll need to think about it," he said, and went off to give my order. The hamburger arrived, brought in by a waiter I'd never seen before. It was tasty (as was the waiter, but not really my type except to look at). Fifteen minutes later the same waiter came to take away my plate, leaving me with the dessert menu. I wondered what had happened to Luigi. The tasty waiter came back and I ordered strawberries and cream, and coffee. He looked surprised that a kid wanted coffee, but he didn't say anything. The strawberries and coffee came, brought in by Tony. My eyes lit up, partly at the size of the portion of strawberries but mainly at the sight of Tony. This must mean good news, I thought. He laid the dish before me. "Hi, Randy," he murmured, "Luigi says it's fine. He'll bring the bill shortly. Be sure to read it carefully. See you later," and he was gone. So, a couple of minutes later, were the strawberries. I sat back to enjoy a cup of excellent coffee while ruefully observing that my resolution to abstain for 23 hours had weakened so quickly. I persuaded myself that it would be OK if I played games with Luigi and Tony provided I didn't cum. A few days ago I had cum in both their mouths - would I be able to hold myself back for Jack and Barry tomorrow? Ten minutes later Luigi appeared with the bill - a very reasonable £3 10/-. Under the bill was a folded piece of paper which read 'Be outside the staff door in Upper John Street at exactly 11.05. Tony will let you in.' I gave him four pound notes ("that's fine"), and left with a smile. I left the hotel and went into Upper John Street to find the staff entrance. It was unobtrusive, but had the name of the hotel and 'Deliveries' above the door. I now had ten hours to kill. One downside of my plan, I now realised, was that the good night's sleep I had planned would now be a lot less likely what with the expected in-bed activities and the likelihood that I would have to be up and away at the crack of dawn. That meant sleeping this afternoon. In those days, before the people that run the Tube made the lunatic decision to change things, the Circle Line ran in a loop of 25 stations, and if you bought a ticket it was very unlikely to be checked until you got off. I walked down to Trafalgar Square and on to what was then called Charing Cross. (Another idiocy was changing this station to Embankment, and renaming the perfectly well named Strand as Charing Cross. It's enough to give the Time Traveller nightmares.) I bought a ticket and went to the front of the platform. In those primitive days the rear carriage carried a guard to open and shut the doors, and I didn't want Authority spotting a boy sleeping for a few hours. Along came a Circle Line train. I got on. It was 1.35. I woke as someone sat heavily in the seat beside me. I looked out of the window. We were at Liverpool Street and the time was 4.55. The sleep had been refreshing, but I was in no mood to give up my seat, so I went back to sleep while the rush hour passed me by. The next time I regained consciousness was at 7.50. We were at Gloucester Road. Six hours sleep had recharged my batteries wonderfully, and I was, of course, hungry again. I got out and changed onto a Piccadilly Line train back to Leicester Square. There was bound to be somewhere in Soho where I could obtain something more suitable to an adult palate. I walked along Brewer Street slowly, noting where darker eateries were located. I might persuade a waiter to serve me something, but there was no need for it to be obvious to the other patrons. I pondered where I was most likely to be successful. I cruised up and down a couple of times, keeping my eyes open, and I noticed a little French place. It had three advantages. It was French, and therefore the menu would (even in 1957) have been good; it was dark inside; and best of all the two waiters I had seen serving their few pavement customers were clearly queer. Both were around 20, Mediterranean looks, very slim (exaggeratedly so in very tight trousers displaying a usefully-sized basket of goodies). We were, after all in the Queer Heart of London in those days. Deciding that the worst I could get in the circumstances was a thick ear I sidled up to one of them. "I like the basket," I murmured, "and I'd like to taste it." No thick ear, but a strange look - which I returned with a nod - followed by a very quiet "follow me." He went through to the back of the restaurant - two small rooms with a kitchen and servery between them - and led me through a curtain into what looked like the staff changing room-cum-toilet. "What are you after, kid? Did someone put you up to this?" "No sir, I'm a kid who likes sucking cock, and yours looks tasty in those trousers. Here's the deal: I suck your cock - you can cum in my mouth if you like - and I eat here. I can pay, but I want you to serve what I order, and not to worry about my age." He thought about it. "OK, but you have to do me now and my friend after the meal." This was even better! "Agreed," I said. He took me into the little toilet cubicle where I serviced him with relish. He lasted all of 20 seconds before I was served with vichyssoise. Normally served ice-cold, of course, but this room-temperature version was exactly what I needed as an aperitif. Garlic-flavoured too, just as expected. He pulled up his trousers ("thanks son, pity it was so quick") and led me to another small table. The menu was much more like it. I ordered duck and a half bottle of claret, getting a very old-fashioned look, with a crab salad to start with. I was amused to see that the claret came in a porcelain jug, rendering my under-age sinfulness wholly undetectable. After dessert (raspberries this time) and a truly excellent coffee I wondered whether I dared risk a cognac, but my better judgement prevailed. No point in tempting fate. There was gin in the backpack beside me, and it would have to stay there for the time being. The bill arrived, brought, as I had expected, by the yet unexamined other waiter. The bill - a whopping £7 15/- - was duly paid with two £5 notes. "I have no change with me," he said, "would you come with me to the office." Gladly, I thought. When we got to the office, which I had earlier dismissed as a mere changing room-cum-toilet, he motioned to the chair. "Sit down. Marcel doesn't think the flics sent you, but who did?" I assured him that no-one had sent me, that I was 16 (a small lie, but a necessary one given his suspicions), that he had seen the colour of my money ("keep the change, by the way") and that I had a deep passion for sucking cocks, especially nice big ones like his and Marcel's. "He says you're very good." "Tell him thank you. Can I get on with yours now? I need something on top of those raspberries - some more cream would be good." His cock was nicer than Marcel's, not least because it remained in my mouth for almost three minutes before the inevitable happened - six times - and my meal was satisfactorily completed. "Much better," I said, "you lasted a lot longer than he did. Maybe next time I'm passing he could have a second chance?" and I grinned. "You're a bad boy," he said, "and I'm sure he'd like to see you again - I would too. I enjoyed your mouth. Maybe next time, if there is a next time, we could take more time and be more comfortable." I liked the sound of this. "What do you mean?" "Marcel and I are lovers and we have a little flat nearby. You could visit us one day when the restaurant is not open." "I would love that very much," I said, "what should I call you?" "Yves." "Eh bien, Yves, merci and au revoir," and I gave his package a little squeeze and left. Marcel was attending to another patron, but still managed a smile. "Au revoir, Marcel, et merci bien." And I was out in the street, fed, watered and thoroughly satisfied. It lacked, as Yves and Marcel would have said, a mere hour until my rendezvous in Upper John Street. I wandered about the queer area marvelling at how much had changed since those repressed days, but that how the queer culture was vibrant if you knew where to look. It was seedy enough, but behind those seedy doors consenting adults were doing what consenting adults were doing 60 years later, albeit less visibly. There were probably a few under-age boy-bars within a couple of hundred yards of where I was standing. If you filled them, they would cum. And so far I hadn't. At 11.05 on the dot I was in the right place in Upper John Street. The door opened. Tony beckoned. I went in. =============================================================================== badboi666@btinternet.com is where you should sent comments and suggestions. Make sure you drop something Nifty's way at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html