Date: Sun, 8 Dec 2013 13:26:31 -0500
From: redpatience@Safe-mail.net
Subject: The Lad on the Train, Part III

((Peter's mother, Helene Van Nuys (nee Lovinfosse) has her name compromised
into a big mess in the prior installment due to formatting problems with
the accents in her name.))

	A few discreet telegraph messages and a private investigator was
hired. This man in Amsterdam took only a week and one day to send Andrew a
dossier cataloguing all of Job Van Nuys' comings and goings. The undertaker
went into the red light district twice but disappeared after entering the
Boerensteeg, which was known to have two houses of ill-repute where men
could associate with rent-boys. The investigator also witnessed a young man
come calling at Job's apartment near the mortuary between one and two in
the morning. The young man did not leave until daylight, and only then
through the back door, being spotted by the detective leaving the scene on
a bicycle hidden behind the building. The young man's name was Thom Vuerner
and he worked as a dogsbody in the kitchens of a bordello near the
Boerensteeg. He had been arrested twice on suspicion of lewd conduct. In
all, it was quite enough evidence to cook Job's goose.

	A week later, on a few-days leave, Andrew arrived most unexpectedly
at the doorstep of Mr. Job Van Nuys with the same handsome young lawyer in
tow. They left the lawyer behind in the parlor, and entered the mortician's
study. There was a distasteful boar's head mounted on the wall, and many
muskets and bad landscapes. The windows looked out on the snowy lawn of the
church next-door.

	The conversation was brief. It amounted to blackmail, ultimately,
but Andrew was very tactful in his phrasing. He made no threats, but told
Job he knew all about his nighttime proclivities.

	"Don't ask how I came to know this--I have many friends in
Amsterdam. As to why I care--I'm concerned. Because I believe your nephew
is a prodigy and I am concerned for his future."

	Job looked utterly terrified; his jaw hung open and his eyelid
twitched.

	"You needn't worry--I mean you no harm. I certainly don't wish to
hurt your reputation, your business, or your family. Your secrets are not
my business, nor your vices." Andrew added, "but I find it curious the
degree to which you exert control over your nephew's life. I am dubious of
your motives."

	"How dare you!" the Mortician hissed.

	"How dare I what?"

	"Insinuate--that I would--"

	"I don't know what you would!" Andrew said, "but I have it on good
information that a boy of thirteen who works in a bordello comes here
between midnight and dawn on a regular basis. What upstanding Christian
would be so daft as to think you'd draw a line between this wretched street
urchin and your nephew? With this in mind, I will again suggest that you
will give your consent for Peter to come to Edinburgh as soon as the
Christmas holiday concludes. Good day," he said, and tipped his hat.

	"You know nothing!" Job attested.

	"I know Thom Veurner's name, and a good deal of other things,"
Andrew said matter-of-factly, and let himself out the door.

	"You won't intimidate me!" the Dutchman shouted after.

	Andrew walked down the corridor with face flushed and hands
shaking. He heard Job shout the same refrain one more time before letting
himself out the front door of the mortuary, his young legal representative
coming along in a hurry. The streets were covered in a fine dust of snow
and his breath steamed; Andrew could not believe what he had done.

	"He did not take that well," the Lawyer said. "And you have all but
crossed into the realm of blackmail."

	"I know, my friend. Fortunately, I have an intuitive grasp of human
character."

	"So?"

	"So I believe I know what Mr. Van Nuys will do. Take this," the
Scotsman said, and slipped an envelope out of his coat pocket. "Deliver it
to the boy's mother. Discreetly. The brothers musn't know you've
called. Explain to her what we discussed. Emphasize that she says nothing
to anyone."



	In precisely three nights' time, in Geneva, Peter was chewing on a
pencil like a horse with a bit in its mouth, a mathematics text split open
in front of him. If drops of blood began to drip from his brow onto the
figures and equations, the boy would not have been surprised. His eyes
ached. He rubbed them and looked at the clock; it was nearly eleven. His
roommate had long ago wrapped his head in a scarf and gone to bed.

	As he cleaned up his books, he found the letter from his mother
that had gone unread all day. He was meaning to save it for later. No doubt
it had the tiresome details of his train ride to Amsterdam for Christmas
and how long he would stay before returning to school; his mother never
wrote anything of interest, and since his uncles and she had summarily
rejected his hopes of a life in Ediburgh, he had essentially written her
off and become more bitter about her passiveness than ever before. He tore
the envelope. A few strange sentences. Then, even stranger ones:

	"You ought to say farewell to friends at school,"

and

	"We are discussing matters right now, but it is certain you will
not be returning to Geneva."

	Peter's brow furrowed, and his heart sank. It had to mean he was
going to be apprenticed at the mortuary even sooner than he
thought. However, he read on to see nothing more. A train ticket was
enclosed, and he would leave in two days.



	He now measured every train ride against the one with
Mr. Carmichael. In the rearmost car, in a compartment shared with two
snoring old Dutchmen, he propped his feet atop the table and read from a
book Andrew had sent him: Leaves of Grass, by Whitman. He'd never read an
American poet before, nor seen poetry that sprawled and did whatever it
seemed to want. Nor poetry that so openly seemed to proclaim the virtues of
what he shared with Mr. Andrew Carmichael. Nor poetry that made him hard.



	Now the sun set, now the train reached the station, now he saw the
maid on the platform ready to pick him up, her brown coat buttoned high,
her severe face impassive when he greeted her.

	"Vrolijk kerstfeest!" she said flatly.

	Merry Christmas, Peter thought. You might as well smile.

	They climbed into a car with his suitcases and Peter felt his
stomach twisting in anxiety as they reached the house. Inside, the fire was
low and Peter's mother gave him a rare hug and kiss on the cheek.

	"Go to the dining room, now. Supper is waiting on a tray."

	"But--I want to know why I'm not returning to Geneva."

	"All in time, mon petit chou."

	He ate cold chicken and potato in silence, a single candle lighting
the table. His mother came in at last, and sat across from him.

	"Things are changing. I know what you'd like for yourself, but
right now your Uncle Job and I are in a disagreement."

	"What--about what?" Peter asked, surprised. His mother had never
disagreed with anybody, really.

	"That's not for you to know," she said, and with that she bid him
goodnight and went upstairs.



	Peter lay in his bed with a lantern lit. He read some poems lying
on his belly and then found himself wishing his door had a lock. He crawled
under the blankets and blew out the lamp. There was a little bit of butter
on the nightstand, heaped on a soup spoon. He melted a little in his hand,
lying on his back, and licked his fingers, imagining that fleshy, rich
taste was Andrew's big fleshy cock.

	He moaned, more in sadness than arousal. The memory grew more and
more distant every day, but he still rubbed his groin with his other hand
and tried to evoke their days in the chalet. One time, in specific, had
been the fodder for his masturbation for months because it was probably the
hardest he had ever come.

	They were on their way back to Geneva and on the train, Peter
needed to use the toilet. Only a few minutes remained before they arrived
in the city, and he was in a hurry. The instant he flushed, there was a
knock on the door and a loud

	"Peter!"

	He let Andrew in and the man, without explaining, made him stand on
the toilet seat and turn round. He hadn't even zipped up his pants, so
Andrew easily whisked them off and buried his nose in the boy's crack.

	Peter squealed and reached behind to stroke Andrew's graying
temples as the man kissed the lad between the cheeks. He removed his
hankerchief, spat into it, and then told the boy to spread his arse.

	"What are you doing?"

	"Wiping you clean a bit," the Scotsman whispered, and as the lad
exposed his pink pucker Andrew spat twice onto its pristine wrinkles and
wiped at it with the slick hankie. It smelled strongly of teenage sweat;
salty, sweet, and a little bit like fennel or anise. Unable to resist any
longer, the man buried his face in the boy's arse and tongued his hole,
licking all around in circles. The smell, that rich sweet musk of teenage
ass sent him into a trance of ecstacy; he may as well have been smoking
opium.

	 Peter moaned in a desperate agony of pleasure, both of his hands
rubbing his own inner thighs, squeezing his own balls. He had never felt
such overwhelming bliss in his life. Andew thrust his big strong tongue
through the sphincter, the coarse stubble of his chin grinding into the
lad's pereneum. It was too much, in fact, and he twisted to put one hand on
Andrew's face.

	"Ik kan--I can't..." he panted.

	"Give me your arse again, I'll go gentle," Andrew promised with his
eyes.

	The boy immediately thrust his buttocks out, the small of his back
arched delightfully.

	This time, the man took Peter's balls and cock in his hands and
licked as he stroked the boy. Peter's peter was hard as wood; pre-ejaculate
streamed out harder than perhaps ever in the boy's life and the man used
one thumb to spread this all around. He spat into his palm and returned his
slick hand to jerk the boy tightly, all the while fucking him in the arse
with his rough meaty tongue.

	After less than thirty seconds of this, Peter's breathing became so
labored that it seemed theatrical. His chest heaved, tears ran down his
cheeks and his whole body weight was essentially resting on Andrew's face
as the man nibbled and tongued and ate at the lad's arse.

	"MMMGH!" he moaned through clenched teeth, "Mmmf!"

	Jets of semen came spraying out of the boy's dick, so fluid and hot
and copious that they spattered the toilet walls and ran like water down
Andrew's hand. The orgasm continued long after his cock was thoroughly
milked, the boy girating his pelvis and clutching his bollocks in ecstacy
for nearly a minute after the last drops of come oozed from his knoblet.

	 Remembering that frantic ejaculation on the train, Peter nearly
always came within minutes; he now lay in his childhood bed, pictures of
lighthouses on the walls, the stuffed bears his Nan sent every Christmas,
but with one thumb up his ass and his rigid cock thrusting into his
buttered palm. He imagined Andrew jamming a finger up his tiny virgin hole,
working it and abusing it and stretching it until he came again, hot and
thick nectar all over his pale tummy.

	He wiped up with an old sock, hid it in the closet, and returned to
bed with a down pillow against his back, wishing it was the taut, doting,
tender form of Mr. Andrew Carmichael.



	The disagreement between his mother and Uncle Job remained a
mystery until two days later, when Peter had gone on a long walk to the
park. His mother had gone for tea at a friends' nearby, and would not be
back until supper. The boy went for a long meander through the
neighborhoods, breathing the chill air and returning somewhat earlier than
he expected.

	 He entered what he thought was an empty house, and in his typical
quiet manner scaled the stairs to his room. When he reached the door,
however, he heard the sound of someone breathing and walking around,
shuffling papers.

	"Mama?" he asked.

	The door swung open violently and his uncle Job stood there. The
man glared at him like a feral dog, grasped his shoulder and dragged him
in, throwing the boy to the bed and blocking the doorway. In his hand,
unfurled, was a letter. A letter from Andrew. A letter he had been told to
burn, but had foolishly clung to.

	"Well now, Peter," the man sneered. "I see what's truly been going
on."

	"It's not--its not what you think," Peter stammered.

	The man shook his head. He was still grinning devilishly. "Feeble,
boy. You will do exactly as I say from now on, knapper. Do you hear me?" he
shouted.

	Peter nodded, frightened. The older man grabbed Peter's hair.

	"You have no more secrets from me, do you understand? I know
everything. Or I can guess. I asked do you understand?" his uncle
shouted. Peter nodded. Tears were running from the corners of his
eyes. Everything was ruined.

	"Now. You will tell your Mother from today on that you wish to do
what your father intended for you. You will enter the family business. You
will write to this Mr. Carmichael and tell him that if he continues to try
to manipulate our family, that young Peter Van Nuys will live a life worse
than death. And I never thought I would ever lay a hand on the son of my
brother, but..." the man clenched his jaw. His eyes watered and his face
was flushed with some powerful rage or confusion. "I know what kind of
little monster you are, now. What you like to do with men. You like men
with big heavy bodies, like mine. Don't you, boy?"

	Peter swallowed and shook his head, and at that moment the door
opened. Or rather, the door burst open with enough force to hit Job in the
back and make him dodge a second strike and fall onto the floor. Helene
stood in the entrance, face red. In her hand glinted a long kitchen knife.

	"Out of my house!" she shouted.

	"You were gone!" Job hissed.

	"I was warned you might try something," the woman said, shaking
from head to toe. "I haven't left the house since Peter arrived. But I
never believed you were capable of this!"

	"Your son is a pervert!" Job said venomously, pointing a finger at
Peter. He held aloft the letter from Andrew, as if she could read its
impossible cursive from that distance.

	"You're a madman." Helene said.

	There was a loud knock on the door downstairs.

	"That's the police," she said triumphantly. "I called them the
moment you came up the stairs."



	As if a river of emotion, grief, and affection for her son had
erupted into life after being pent up for fifteen years, Helene was
livid. It took Peter's furious begging to get her to drop the charges
against her brother-in-law; he knew that if the authorities truly
investigated thoroughly, his relationship with Andrew was likely to be
exposed. So Peter pleaded with her, begged her to leave the man to rot and
keep the documents from the Private investigator as ammunition in case of
further conflict.

	At last, she relented. The family business would continue without
Peter or his mother; Helene sold her share of the Mortuary to the brothers
and returned to Rouen where she was raised, realizing at long last that
there was nothing she had loved in Amsterdam since her husband was killed,
and she had spent a decade and a half living with the dead as a greater
concern than the living.

	Peter, shed of all his burdens, crossed the English channel on
boxing day, 1924. He took the train from Dover to London and there, on the
edge of the platform, under an umbrella shedding the sleet that fell, stood
Mr. Andrew Carmichael.

	They did not meet on the platform; instead, he followed Andrew at a
distance through the station with his one large suitcase. The man ducked
down a corridor and entered a men's lavatory. There, signalling that it was
empty, Andrew had left his umbrella hanging from the doorknob. Peter swung
the door open. Around the corner, Andrew waited, leaning against a wall.

	"Hello lad," he said softly.

	Peter went limp in the mans' arms and turned his face toward the
electric lamps on the ceiling as they kissed. They wiped tears from each
others' eyes, and giggled, and kissed each other slowly on the neck, on the
side of the mouth, on the nose.

	"It's ours now," Andrew said, grinning as he broke away.

	"What is?"

	"The whole fucking world."



((Chapter 4 is yet to come, and hopefully the most wonderful yet. Think of
it as an extended epilogue.))