Date: Sat, 7 Dec 2013 16:40:38 -0500
From: redpatience@Safe-mail.net
Subject: The Lad on the Train, Part II

Part II

((Apologies for various inaccuracies in part I: namely, the Genovese locals
speaking German, mixed up sculptures of David, and some other details. I
answer to the question about Andrew's cock, I suppose I always assumed it
was reasonably large but not unrealistically so. A very gladius-shaped,
full circumcised seven inches.))


Fog thickened around the train as it roared downward, through the swift
pines and into the valley. Sheep sat, plush and white amid the heather and
patches of early Autumn frost; the mountains stretched up into low-hanging
clouds, their summits hidden, but these were not the alps. He was in
Scotland.

	Andrew was thankful that he had a single compartment on his way
back to Edinburgh, for this time he was alone and racked with a rare grief
and even rarer tears. His eyes watered as he tried to read the morning
paper and he sucumbed once again to weeping like a helpless idiot. All his
hopes, those which had glittered and seemed so close-at-hand, had been
broken, fragile as jeweled dew on a spiderweb. He was alone again,
powerless, and trapped.

	He had just that morning escaped Amsterdam after a night spent
wandering in a drunken haze through the red-light district. Initially, he
thought he would just look around; after his disastrous confrontation with
the Van Nuys' brothers, he wanted to see some kind of color and life and
light--even if it was of the most lurid and base kind. Eventually though,
after a long brooding time in the bordello, he had wandered through the
alleys, hoping he might find some sickly sweet substitute for the fair
loveliness of his boy.

	He found a few ladies of the evening smoking cigarillos in the
dark, their bosoms rouged and their faces lit only by the dull glow of an
electric lamp around the corner.

	"Pardon me," he whispered, "I don't mean to offend you, but I must
ask a rather strange question--I'm afraid I haven't anywhere else to turn."

	"Ja?"

	"Is there a place a man might find--other types of love?" he
couldn't bring himself to be more direct. The prostitute looked at him from
head to toe.

	"You'll have to be a little more specific than that."

	"I mean the--Oscar Wilde sort of thing."

	The girl shook her head. Apparently that was too obscure.

	"Boys," he whispered.

	She laughed and told him about an alley called Boerensteeg a few
blocks away.

	He stumbled with his flask open, taking a few sips every now and
then, cash waiting in his breast pocket in case--well, he didn't even want
to think about it. He would know what to do when he got there, he supposed.

	He found a lot of dirty, mangy looking lads shifting around in the
half-light. They had cruel, starved expressions. Andrew could never exploit
such an abused and miserable creature! The thought of it turned his
stomach. He hadn't spoken a word, and the two boys standing in the shadows
with backs against the wall didn't make any motion to come toward him. At
once, they broke into a run and fled the scene.

	"Must have thought I was a copper," he whispered. Poor wretches.

	As he turned to leave the close, he glanced back and saw a man
enter the alley, his long overcoat fluttering in the lamplight. He was
swinging a cane and whistling. He heard the gentleman call a few boys'
names out loud. His voice sounded strangely familiar.

	 Andrew stumbled away and found himself back at his hotel far too
late. No sleep would find him: he just stared at the ticking alarm clock
and recounted his failed plans for a life spent with the lovely and
incomparable Peter Van Nuys.

	At first, back in the Chalet, he concieved of a plan to move to
Geneva. The Swiss museum did not need him, however; nor could he feasibly
teach at the University without angering his many allies and mentors in
Edinburgh who had made him curator for their own reasons.

	Then he thought, by damn! I'm a man of influence and wealth, I've
no children, I've no wife and no other hopes: I'll bring Peter to
Scotland. He wrote letters back home asking his former headmaster at
St. Giles' to provide a scholarship for a most astounding prodigy he had
encountered in Geneva whom he hoped to groom for the academy. He added that
he himself would house the boy, provide him with the bulk of his tuition
fee and costs of living, if only he were allowed to enter the school.

	With no objections, the headmaster wrote he would be delighted, and
Peter and Andrew both swooned at the prospect of being bachelors together
under one roof.

	"All you need," Peter said, "is to convince my uncles."

	"What about your mother lad? Shouldn't she have more a say?"

	"She does whatever they tell her," Peter said, his face
darkening. "She hardly has the vigor for anything anymore, much less
disagreeing with those two."

	So, after leaving Geneva, Peter had gone to the mortuary in West
Amsterdam wearing his best suit and bowtie, looking very dapper and
carrying himself in his most bold and no-nonsense manner. He even brought
along a handsome young lawyer to make appear him all the more officious.

	Peter's Mother, Hélène, had recieved him at the door
with enthusiasm, but when they met in the parlor, Peter's uncles were
waiting in their morbid clothes: black derbies they did not remove indoors,
black frock coats, and long dark mustaches. They were dour, forbidding,
quiet. Just as Peter warned.

	These two men, both unmarried, lived in seperate houses and seemed
equally estranged from each other as they were from their
sister-in-law. Without a doubt, Andrew thought, one or both of them had to
be a "confirmed" Bachelor. Peter often spoke of how one of uncles, Andrew
could not remember which, was so private and eccentric that the boy had
never even seen the inside of his apartment two blocks away.

	Andrew brushed these suspicious thoughts away, smiled at the three
Van Nuyses, and made his proposition. He swore he would take full
responsibility for the lad's education and future.

	"Well," said Peter's uncle Job, "this is very flattering, but there
is the problem of the family business."

	"The family business is a problem?" Andrew asked.

	"You see, neither of us has a son, and the Van Nuys' have the
oldest and most respected mortuary house in West Amsterdam. Peter must
carry on this legacy. It's what his father desired."

	Andrew furrowed his brow and sipped his tea.

	"I'm not sure I understand," Andrew said, "and it's not my business
to interfere in family matters, but it's quite clear that Peter wants
nothing to do with the family business. He wants to go to University, not
become an undertaker."

	"Mortician," Johannes corrected.

	"Yes of course."

	They all continued to stare at him with the same stolid faces, as
if nothing had changed.

	"Don't you wish to take into account his interests?" Andrew asked.

	"He's not capable of making such decisions for himself," said Job.

	The four of them remained stuck in that disagreement for the
remainder of the conversation. All hope of resolving the matter was
dissolved when Peter's mother, who had his same sweet brown eyes and golden
hair, cleared her throat.

	"You will not persuade us, Mr. Carmichael. Peter must carry the
torch his father and grandfather have passed to him."

	"Even it means he lives in misery and sells the family business the
moment his uncles' are buried?"Andrew was trying not to become heated, but
it was clear in the whites of his eyes that he was frustrated.

	Job put a heavy hand on the kitchen table. "This is no concern of
yours,"

	"Very well," Andrew said. Tears were threatening, but he smothered
all his anger and fury with Presbyterian stoicism and swallowed.

	"Please forgive me," he said hoarsely. "I hope you don't disagree
that there's no harm in the lad learning to paint?"

	"Harm? No," Hélène said reluctantly, "A lot of wasted
time and money, I suppose."

	"I can't convince you of the value of art, but I mean to pacify
your financial concerns, if you'll allow me. I wish to pay for the boy's
lessons. It's the least I can do."

	After arranging this with the lawyer and Peter's Mother, he shook
the Van Nuys' hands roughly. Job closed his coat, put on his bowler hat,
and grasped his cane: a long black shaft with a most peculiar bronze knob
fashioned in the shape of a duck's head.  Andrew walked out with his jaw
clenched and his eyes stinging.



	He reached his apartment in Edinburgh the next night with desperate
hope of a letter: when he checked the table in the anterroom, however, he
found missives from friends, business associates, and no Peter. He scaled
the steps to his study: a cozy third floor room that looked out over the
closes. It had a big bay window of green copper casements. He sank down
onto the leather sofa and didn't even bother to take off his shoes. Other
than making himself scotch after scotch, he would lie there in that very
spot for the next twelve hours remembering with deep despair those precious
three days in the chalet.

	After their first ecstatic afternoon, where so many boundaries had
been broken down, Andrew felt strangely. Corrupting a boy of sixteen
sounded bang-on when he was randy and the lad was eager; he felt more
ambivalent about it when the boy was putting on his shoes and suspenders
while biting his lower lip: he had offered to go find Andrew a German or
English paper, if there was one to be found. He was too perfectly sweet. He
was a child.

	"Peter," Andrew said softly from the bed, "please forgive me."

	"What on Earth for?" the boy asked incredulous, his head tilted as
he buttoned up his cardigan.

	"It's not right, I think," he trailed off with a sort of wheeze, "I
know how we feel about each other, but there's still this sort of--it'll
never be quite right. It's not wrong, I suppose, any more than it's wrong
for your gran to have died or for you to be named Peter instead of
Daniel--it's just what is. It's how life is. How we are," the Scotsman
furrowed his brow. "I'm not making any sense."

	"No," Peter said softly. "You're not."

	"Well. Forgive me anyway," Andrew said.

	"For what?"

	"Because, you know--even though we both want each other, and want
to do these things...it's dangerous. Not in the way that people might find
out. I mean in a deeper way. You could be hurt. Burned,
so-to-speak. Because you're too young and I'm too old."

	"How do you mean?"

	"Well I don't want to invite bad spirits, but everything ends, my
boy."

	Peter's eyes filled with tears and he sat on the bed. Andrew felt
his hand enveloped in Peter's softer, smaller ones.

	"Yes, I know."

	"By God, though," Andrew said, "I promise we'll find a way to make
it last as long as we can."

	They slept together for the first time fitfully and
intertwined. Both of them exhausted from the hike and the run and the
erotic sport, glutted on a baked leg of lamb and some champagne with
dessert, they bundled together and spent much of the night with cocks hard,
half asleep and half pressing against one another; Andrew would envelop the
boy with the lad's back against his chest and put one large hand around the
complete bundle of Peter's bollocks and cock, always rail-hard. Andrew
awoke around dawn to find the lad beneath the covers, touching himself and
licking the man's cock with barely disguised moans of longing.

	"Can't wait til morning can we?" he whispered.

	 "Please, can we do it again?"

	In answer to this, Andrew put his hand over Peter's crown and
pushed him back down under the covers. The lad sucked and slurped and
swallowed noisily as the man made slow, luxurious thrusts into that wet,
warm mouth. When he was about to climax, he pushed his manhood further down
Peter's throat than ever before. The boy gagged but Andrew swiftly removed
his cock and sighed.

	"Come here, lad," he whispered, pulling Peter up to face-level by
his smooth armpits.

	They kissed and Peter broke into smiles every time they parted, his
white teeth flashing and his eyes glittering with joy.

	"Lovely, lovely lad," Andrew said. "Let's try something different."

	"What?" the boy queried.

	"Well, first, I need you to sneak down to the kitchen and find a
little butter."

	As soon as he was back, Andrew slicked up the boys cock and then
got on all fours.  He guided the boy's cock toward his puckered anus. Peter
sighed as he poked past the knotted limens of Andrew's hole; very quickly
he had plunged all the way in and the man had to admit there was a
surprising amount of discomfort along with the overwhelming feelings of
pleasure.

	"It's very tight," the boy whispered.

	"Well, you're big for a sixteen year old. And I haven't done this
since I was your age."

	 Dawn light was coming in through the windows, and they had thrown
down a towel so as not to stain the sheets.

	"Well lad, bugger away," Andrew whispered, sweeping a little butter
onto his own cock.

	"This is buggering?"

	"That's what it's named for."

	Peter pumped his pert asscheeks together again and again as he
thrust into Andrew's meaty, hairy arse. The man stroked his member to keep
it at full mast, and had to pause several times lest he erupt
prematurely. The boy was inhaling more and more laboriously, finally
collapsing onto Andrew's lower back as he pumped his cock furiously into
the hot tight chute and gave up a muffled moan, pouring his young seed
within. It lasted three times longer than usual, it seemed, and Peter felt
as if he were unloading gallons of his semen inside the man.

	He removed himself and Andrew quickly turned around and told the
panting boy to hold out his tongue. With one hand wanking himself, he
combed through Peter's soft hair with the other and then, as the heat of
his loins boiled over, he hissed for the lad to suck.

	Peter obediently closed his mouth around the swollen red cockhead
and began to suck the buttery flavor from the knob. He bobbed his head back
and forth, forcefully licking the underside as Andrew taught him. With a
hoarse exhalation, gripping the boys armpits and stroking his lovely dainty
nipples with his thumbs, Andrew shot strings of hot come into the lad's
mouth, draining his bollocks totally onto Peter's tongue.

	With a wrinkled nose, the boy ran to the window and spit most of
the load into the grass, swallowing the remainder. He stood there
silhouetted in the window so perfectly Andrew told him not to move. His
form was dark but haloed by the downy hair that covered his limbs and
caught the morning light like a halo over his curvaceous sweet body.

	"It doesn't taste as bad," he said quietly, coming back to the bed,
"but there was so much I thought I would choke."

	"You did beautifully, my love," Andrew whispered, and pulled the
boy in for a kiss. As if it were the first time all over again, Peter
melted in the man's arms, his face upturned like a perfect white flower,
his chest ballooning in a deep gasp of joy. Andrew had to hold him up to
keep the boy from sinking to the floor.

	"How was that?" the man asked.

	"Even better than coming in your mouth," the boy said softly, with
a blush.

	"Sometime, I'd like to do that to you," Andrew admitted. "If you
felt brave enough to let me."

	The boy was visibly surprised. "You? I mean," his hand cupped
Andrew's weighty balls and tumsecent cock, still slick with come. "You
would tear me apart, wouldn't you?"

	"It will be uncomfortable, at first. But not painful. Not if we
we're careful."

	"Not yet," Peter said, sounding incomfortably apologetic. "When you
put your finger in--that hurt. I can't imagine..."

	"It's all right, lad. It's nothing to feel bad about." he tousled
the boys hair and squeezed him.

	"Now let's get washed up and have a hearty breakfast."

	The rest of their time had gone in a flash. The dreadful weather
gave them a perfect excuse to stay in their room the entire week-end, and
by the time they had to go back to Geneva, Peter was chafing between the
legs because he couldn't keep his cock out of Andrew's hands, mouth, and
nether eye.

	Of course there was much more than lust. In the corridors of the
train station, when the boy had been so brave as to see him off, he kissed
Andrew on the cheek in the darkness of an alcove and told him he loved him.

	"I love you, lad. With all my heart."

	"We'll find a way," Peter said. "You've been alone--since you were
my age. You can wait a little longer."

	The sun was rising over Edinburgh. It was a blue-sky day, and the
rains of the day before glittered in puddles between the ancient
cobbles. At the museum, everybody said that Andrew looked ghastly.

	"Are ye sick, man?" asked Lord Dalmeny. "You look God-awful."

	"I'm afraid I didn't sleep at all," the curator said.

	Lord Dalmeny looked at him skeptically.

	"You look worse than that."

	"I also had rather too much Scotch."

	"Those are the symptoms, true," the elderly aristocrat, "but ye
seem more like a man heartbroken."

	"Aye," Mr. Carmichael said softly. "I won't deny it."



	Autumn came, and a deep meloncholy for both of them. Andrew told
Peter to burn any of his letters, and not write to as frequently, and only
then with a pseudonym. He wrote a lot of sad, queer poems to the boy, but
stopped after a while, fearing that they would make the boy even more
morose.

	The first of November, Peter sent a letter with a small photograph
of himself standing in formal attire, a cravat at his throat. He barely
resembled his living, breathing, angelic form; he seemed
stuffed. Nevertheless, the image of him was something that made Andrew's
throat close off and his heart stop. It was dated that September. Andrew
had it framed and hanged in his study in a place where he mounted a few
other photographs of relatives, something he had never cared to do before,
but did now solely to camoflauge it.

	"My cousin," he whispered with a sad grin.

	He dreamt of the boy often; his blonde locks would touch Andrew's
face as they kissed in landscapes of cotton candy and white smoke. They
would lie on their backs together under skies the color of tangerines or
cream sodas, the boys hands passing under his clothing to thrill
him. Andrew would awaken in a cold sweat, feeling a sinking in the pit of
his chest as if he had tasted realms of paradise but been exiled from
heaven, like Lucifer himself.

	The next day, in the museum, one of the new aquisitions came in. A
street scene by Grimshaw, absolutely stunning: women in hoopskirts, glossy
black carriages. The wet streets mirroring the golden light of cafes; smoke
hanging over the river. A figure of a man in a top-hat and a
cane. Something about it triggered his memory.

	Andrew's eyes must have looked wide as boiled eggs. He ran to the
telegraph office to write to a colleague in Amsterdam in search of a
private detective, because he had just recalled something incredible. That
night in the red light district, in the boerensteeg, the man he had seen
had a cane with a bronze duck head.




((Part three is coming. Apologies if this is less sexual and more
plot-intrigue-y than you all anticipated. This is not just a
wish-fulfillment story. Or anyway, it isn't yet (wait for part four)

If you enjoy these stories and my writing and are a Man of means, I wish to
ask you to consider sponsoring another story. Historical, fantastical, or
science fictional gay romance between lovers of any number, age, etc. I'm
delighted to cater to all fetishes and proclivities, with the exception of
stories that violate the human law of consent.

I am a young and starving writer and PRINT IS DEAD. Nifty is a rare place
where literary people go to get off--and imagine what could be in
life. Many stories here are just unmitigated pages of frustrated pederastic
idiocy; however, I have other work and writing that demands my time. Like
public broadcasting, I'm asking for you to support further works of
pederastic literary fiction. Sometimes I get writer's block---but when
luscious boys are my muses, my fountain pen runs ink forever.

If you would consider being so generous as to become a patron of this young
Artist, commissioning a story for yourself or for the public at Nifty,
please write to redpatience@safe-mail.net))