Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 20:55:59 -2200 From: Opus J Subject: Steven Revisited Part 1 Unlike my last effort, this story is completely fantasy. Or is there a Steven somewhere in my past as well ? It involves sex between an adult and a minor, which in case you haven't heard, is not allowed. I do not condone law-breaking, however I do encourage imagination and romance, so thanks Nifty. One In the quiet moments between waking and rising, when the air is still and the scent of sleep hangs heavy in my room, I remember him. How he came into my life and changed it so completely . Such a short time, the time of my awakening. So full of love. I am Casper James, 39-years-old and a self-made-man, or so I am told. I began selling mobile phones from the back of my Ford Escort in 1989, 30 quid a pop, no questions asked. After a week I had made enough to go legit and open a small shop in Croydon's Whitgift Centre. A year later I was turning two grand a week. In '96 I realised the iron was as hot as it was going to get, for me at least, so I struck. Vodafone bought me out for twelve-and-a-half mill and suddenly I was unemployed again at 33. The difference this time was the mansion in Sussex and the extensive record collection. The first six months were heaven. Spending money like water, drinking like a fish, acting like a dick. All I really remember are the first two weeks and the last night. The time in between is white noise to me now. Static interference; an annoying sound, but no clear picture. The interference was delivered by Carmen and her posse of just-about-old-enough whores, who partied at the house at my expense, drinking my champagne, snorting my coke and peeing in my fern-surrounded swimming pool. I never knew their names but they all had the same cheap South London accents and they all fucked me when I told them to. The bored expressions on their greedy faces should have given them away, but coke tells lies to those who are prepared to listen. The last night was in March of 1997. From about twelve, 'Carmen's girls' had dwindled to three. One was called Sonia, the other two may as well have been Abbott and Costello for all I cared. Sonia was straddling me , writhing over my groin as she snorted a line from a mirror, sighing contentedly. The other two were gone, far gone, fighting over a half-empty bottle of Louis Roederer, giggling at each other inanely between taking swigs. I suddenly realised that Sonia could writhe until the end of the millenium, but I was not going to get hard for her. Roughly, I pushed her off, ignoring her outraged squeals and muffled curses. "GET OUT" I roared, suddenly tired of the whole deal. "All of you, OUT". They looked at me in amazement. Slowly it dawned on them that I wasn't joking, that the six-month party had finally ended. I walked over to the stereo and cut The Cure off in mid-verse. Robert Smith had never sounded better. "Get out" I repeated, quieter now, almost apologetic. They left slowly, grumbling about rotten hospitality, cheering up when I gave them 50 quid each for the taxi home. As I closed the door behind them I thought I saw a shape move in the garden, a sudden burst of colour in the darkness of the bushes. I was tired now. I thought for a moment about calling the fuzz and decided to sleep on it. I decided it was time for something a little more mellow, so I poured myself a large whisky and settled back to the sound of Paul Weller and the Style Council, regretting that the 'Long Hot Summer' had passed him by. For me it had been a long cold winter, but gone was gone. I should have left it there, but it seemed a shame to leave the last two lines of coke, and the whisky bottle was only half empty, so I decided to make a night of it. Not a good decision. Two I awoke the next morning feeling as if a building had collapsed on my head. The first few minutes were full of pain, giving way to full-blown nausea. I lay for a while contemplating the steadily revolving ceiling, groaning loudly as each wave of nausea rocked me. I managed to raise my head sufficiently from my pillow to check my immediate surroundings for vomit. Nothing. I slumped back again with a sigh of relief. I needed water, lots of it and cold. My mouth felt like I had been licking a cardboard box. After several attempts I was upright and heading for the kitchen, locomoting only in the absolute certain knowledge that there was a litre of Evian siting ice-cold in my refrigerator, offering sweet relief from the paper-dry thirst of my hangover. The bottle was not there. Despair swept over me. I slammed the door shut and couldn't hold back a shout of surprise. There was a boy standing in front of me, holding the precious bottle of Evian. Which he dropped when I shouted. The smash of glass served only to heighten the sudden rage which had now replaced my fear. "Who the FUCK are you ? " I yelled, taking a step back at exactly the same moment he did, a look of fear wiping a half-smile which I had hardly noticed off his face. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to startle you " he mumbled as he knelt and started picking up pieces of the broken bottle. Suddenly he hissed in pain and shock and clutched his hand to his chest, looking up at me in genuine fear. "I cut myself." His voice was barely more than a whisper now. "Look, who are you and what are you doing in my house ? " The shock and anger I was still feeling must have been apparent in my voice because the boy began to look around wildly, searching for something. Lurching to his feet, his hand still clenched in a fist to his chest, he began to walk quickly towards the door which opened to the swimming pool. All the rooms on the ground floor had a door opening onto the pool. As he opened the door he broke into an awkward trot. He was heading towards the patio doors, which were wide open. Wide open. There had been a prowler in my garden and I had gone to bed leaving the patio doors wide open. Jesus Christ. The boy had almost reached the open doors when I called out to him, "Wait. Wait, please." He stopped at the doors but did not turn around. I walked slowly towards him. With each step, I felt a change come over me. His shoulders were shuddering now as he wept, his back to me, head bowed. I wanted to make his crying stop, to make it better. I was standing behind him now, close enough to notice that his hair was reddish brown, he had freckles on his neck and he was very much in need of a bath. "Let me see your hand." "I'll be alright." His head jerked back as he spoke through gritted teeth, still choking back the last of his tears. I remembered enough of my youth in Bermondsey to know that that movement was one of defiance and pride. Abused children can see abuse in others. We recognise the symptoms. "I just want to look. I didn't mean to shout at you. You surprised me, that's all." As he turned, I held my hands out to him, palms up, the international sign language for 'I will not hurt you' He looked down at my hands, then back at my face, my eyes. God, the abuse was deep in him. I felt a sudden ache for this child who had to look into my eyes to know my real intentions. Hands are treacherous things. One moment they are holding and caressing, expressing love. Seconds later they are hard-knuckled-fists, full of hatred and anger, slapping and punching. Dont trust hands. Trust eyes. They always tell the truth. Whatever he saw in my face persuaded him to open his injured hand to me, never taking his eyes off mine. I held his gaze for as long as I could before I looked down and saw the bloody mess that was his hand. He had a deep cut between the two middle fingers. I turned and beckoned for him to follow me as I walked back towards the kitchen. I sat him on a barstool, spreading a clean tea-towel over his lap, turned his hand palm up, ignoring his hiss of pain. "I have to check for glass before I clean it. Tell me if it hurts." Gently I massaged the palm of his hand. I spotted a thin sliver of glass and picked it out between thumb and forefinger. As I continued to massage his hand, I noticed his fingernails were filthy. "I think that's all. We'd better clean you up before the wound gets infected. Looks like you haven't washed for days." He let me lead him to the ground-floor bathroom. As I began to wash around the wound , I looked him up and down. I guessed he was about fourteen years old. His hair was just above his shoulders, parted in the middle. He was wearing a bomber jacket, white cotton T-shirt and faded Levis. He wore two earrings in his left ear and one in his right. He was too thin, too short for his age. "Do you want to tell me what you were doing in my kitchen now ?" I smiled at him to let him know that I wasn't going to get angry with him again. I continued to wash his hand gently as he replied. "Last night, I was outside in the garden. I watched you throw the bitches out. I thought you had seen me so I was getting ready to get out of there. Then I saw you crying." I jerked my hand away in surprise and he glared at me in sudden pain, clutching his hand to his chest. "That hurt ." He said, staring at me indignantly. "I'm sorry." I said, meaning it, holding my hand out to him. He looked at it nervously, then turned his hand palm up and placed it in mine again. "I dont remember crying." I said by way of explanation. "You were pretty far gone by then." He said with a mischievous smile. "You were playing Elvis Costello." "Which one ?" I asked, stifling a laugh. " 'King of America' ? " "Worse - 'Blood and Chocolate' " he grinned. "A man who knows his Elvis" I said wrily, "unusual for someone your age." "Yeah well, my Dad`s a big fan." he said, suddenly distant. "You certainly know how to make a bloke feel old." I joked, trying to keep him here, in the room, with me. No talk of Dads, please. "After a while, I came in. You were so far gone you didn't really know I was there. You kept calling me Steven. I liked that." He smiled again, suddenly shy. I looked up in surprise at the mention of a name I had long forgotten. "Who's Steven ?" he asked, as if reading my thoughts "An old friend from school. A long time ago." I replied. "You must have done something wicked to him. You kept saying 'I'm sorry Steven' over and over again." He was looking at me now, asking a question with his eyes that I knew I would have to answer. "Yes I did. I hurt him a lot. Not like that " I said quickly when I saw the suspicion in his eyes. "I said things I didn't mean. Bad things. Wicked things." What was this boy doing to me ? I hadn't talked about Steven for over 15 years, and here I was discussing him with a complete stranger, a young boy at that. "Look there's no point in bandaging your hand until you've showered, otherwise it will be days before you can wash and you're already ripe enough. Let me get you a towel and you can shower in here. I'll dress your hand afterwards." When I came back from my bedroom, towel in hand, he had already taken off his bomber jacket and T-shirt. I gasped in shock as I saw the evidence of the beatings he had taken. His painfully thin body sported a veritable rainbow of bruises. Dark purples and blues jostled with ochres and yellows for what small space his back could offer. Between the bruises his vertebrae bisected him, a sad mountain range in a miniature desert of pain and loneliness. He was fumbling with the top button of his jeans. "I cant do this with one hand." He looked at me, cocking his head to one side. I pressed a flannel into his still-bleeding hand, reached forward and popped the button for him. The top of his boxer shorts showed white against his flat stomach. For some reason I found myself unable to look away. He turned his back on me, undid the remaining buttons and slid his jeans and boxers to the ground in one movement. His bottom was as thin as the rest of him, shockingly white against the background of colourful bruises. He stepped into the shower and closed the door behind him. As he turned and began to wash himself with his good hand I could make out the smallest triangle of dark hair, which confirmed my estimate of his age. I left the bathroom, closing the door behind me, my thoughts turning back to my monumental hangover. Three I made coffee, showered quickly in my own bathroom and put on a pair of chinos and a black V-neck T-shirt. By the time I was back downstairs the boy was sitting on the barstool, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist . I began to dress his wound. "What's your name ?" I asked "Matthew." He replied. "Matt to my friends." "What should I call you ?" I asked, smiling. "Matt would be nice. Or Steven, perhaps." He looked at me cheekily. "You rascal" I laughed. "You'd better watch yourself, I'm not done with your hand yet. I'm Casper by the way. No jokes please." My name had always been a source of teasing in school, but in business had proved, if anything, to be an advantage. Still the younger generation found it amusing, especially since the film had come out a couple of years before. "I like it. It's different." He said, looking down as I tied off the bandage. "How about a late breakfast ? " I asked as I cleared away the first aid kit. Suddenly he looked worried again. He jumped down from the barstool, clutching the towel at his waist. "No, I'd best be off. I dont want to be any more trouble." "Dont be daft" I replied, "it's no trouble, and If I dont eat I'll never shake this bloody hangover. Come on, I'll scramble some eggs for us and you can make toast." I didn't want him to go just yet. I wanted him to be here with me for a few minutes longer. To convince him I cracked half a dozen eggs into a bowl and began to beat them. With a shy smile he put four pieces of bread into the toaster and slid back onto his barstool. "You can really cook." He said in awe. "I have a lot of spare time right now." I offered by way of an explanation. The toast popped up and he jumped down from his barstool to get the butter from the fridge. His towel was working itself loose as he carried the butter over to the breadboard and I couldn't help but laugh as he stood in the middle of the kitchen, desperately trying to hold it up with his bandaged hand, not wanting to drop the butter as he did so. "Aw come on Casper, give us a hand," He said in mock desperation. Laughing, I took the butter from him, leaving him with both hands free to adjust himself. "I meant with the towel." He said, with a look that didn't belong on a face so young. I turned back to him in surprise. He was standing there like a boxer, arms loosely by his side, the towel barely covering his hips. My mouth was dry now. A few wispy pubic hairs were showing above the towel. I moved towards him and pulled it up around his waist. He did not look down. I pulled it tight around him, tucking it tightly to make sure it would stay put this time. "Thanks, Casper." His voice was husky, deeper than before. "Let's eat." I said. Four I managed to persuade him to stay long enough for me to wash his clothes. The reason they stank so much, he confessed, was that he had been sleeping rough for almost two weeks, the last three days in my garden. I desperately began trying to remember what I had got up to with Carmen's girls that he might have seen. I quickly realised I was in trouble here. "Then I take it you saw some of the things that went on, Matt ?" I asked cautiously. "Nothing much." He said innocently " I was asleep early most evenings, before it got going." "Before what got going ? " I asked pointedly. Realising he had given himself away, he blushed furiously. "What's it like Casper ? With a girl, I mean" He looked down at his feet. "You`ll find out in good time Matt. Just wait and see." I buttered more toast as I spoke. he had already eaten four pieces and was showing no sign of slowing down. "Better than with Steven, Casper ? " He asked, looking at me sideways. "Jesus Christ, Matt, " I exclaimed. "You dont hold back, do you ?" "Well ? Is it better." He was insistent, almost pleading. "Different, Matt. Not better, just different." I stopped buttering the toast and hung my head. I was ashamed. After all these years I had finally confessed that Stevie and I had been more than friends. But I had lied. It had been so much better with Stevie. Tears welled up in my eyes and I couldn't focus anymore. Suddenly I felt thin arms slipping around my waist and Matt's head between my shoulder blades. "It was real, Casper. That's the difference. Everything else is just pretending." Somehow I managed to turn around without losing his embrace. We were face-to-face now, my head buried in his sweet-smelling hair. The tears were pouring down my cheeks as I wept for lost innocence, for betrayed love, for the love that I had betrayed. When the tears subsided I saw his upturned face staring with wonder into mine. Slowly I leaned forward and kissed his lips, softly at first, then with increasing passion as he responded, forcing his tongue into my mouth, his hands plucking at my T-shirt, untucking it, undressing me. We stumbled upstairs to my bedroom, losing his towel and my T-shirt on the way. As he flopped into the bed I kicked off my chinos and briefs and knelt alongside him. His penis was rigid, flat against his belly, jerking with excitement. He was looking deep into my eyes, still asking the question. I answered without words, begging him to trust me. He sat up and embraced me again. My cock pressed hard into his belly as he squirmed against me and I thought I would come there and then. I took his shoulders and pushed him down onto the bed again, and began to pleasure him. I covered every inch of his upper body with my tongue, delving into his armpits taking his rock-hard nipples into my mouth to tease them with my teeth. He squealed with delight and tried to rub himself - I pulled his hand away and murmured "Not yet, Matt. Not yet". He obediently placed his hands flat by his sides to allow me to continue my downwards journey. I traced the V-shape of his belly as far as his pubic hair, feeling the heat from his throbbing penis on my chin but not touching it. Passing his groin I ran my tongue slowly down the inside of each thigh, causing him to growl with pleasure like a bear cub. I picked him up and flipped him over onto his stomach - he was so light it was like lifting a rag doll. I traced the backs of his legs with my tongue, covering his buttocks with small loving bites, anxious not to inflict real pain. This boy had had enough pain in his life for ten grown men. I would not add to it. I pulled his buttocks apart and he gasped as my tongue entered his anus. He shuddered as I continued to lick around the hole, widening it with my tongue, teasing it with the tip of my finger. "Stop, Casper, please - I can't take anymore" He gasped into the pillow. Once again I slid my hand under him and flipped him over, and in one smooth motion took his penis deep into my mouth. His few pubic hairs brushed the tip of my nose as I sucked him into my throat. Instantly he came, a thin but plentiful stream of cum, sweet and bitter against the back of my throat. He bucked three times, his penis deep inside my mouth, then pushed my head away with a long sigh. Rolling over onto his side, his head propped up on one crooked arm, he stared into my eyes, not looking away for a second. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he reached out and caressed my chin, then my lips. He reached behind my neck and pulled my face to his, sucking eagerly at my mouth, his free hand going to my pulsating cock. In no time at all I began to feel a powerful orgasm rising up out of my aching balls. He sucked my tongue into his mouth and my cum exploded over his chest and belly. Letting go of my cock he wrapped his arms around my back and pulled himself up into my stomach, using his body to milk the last few exhausted spurts from me. Afterwards we sat, naked and silent, eating more scrambled eggs. I told him with my eyes that he should stay a while. He said he would. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Opus likes to get emails at He doesn't like people who dont like him for WHAT he is, without knowing WHO he is.