by: Eastbayjag@aol.com

This story is posted for the exclusive enjoyment of readers of the Nifty Archive. While you are free to make a personal copy, no copy of this manuscript may be published, copied, posted to another web site, or otherwise disseminated without express permission from the author, who holds and retains copyright.

The contents of this story are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read further.

Chapter III - Falling

I woke up when I heard the motor switch off, and knew right where I was, in this Yank's car, probably at a Tube station, maybe the same one the guy in the old '82 XJ Jag dropped me at last week -- I heard a landing jet plane somewhere a few seconds ago. I yawned and opened my eyes, and we were parked on a street of big houses, real grass lawns, low front walls, and flowers and trees.

"Where we at?"

"Home," he said. I looked at him, and he was smiling at me, just as beautiful as I thought. No shit.

We got out of the motor, and I heard a plane coming. It was HUGE! A British Airways giant 747, with four engines and wings that already had those funny ladder-like things sticking out of the back of the wings close to the body of the plane, and the wheels hanging down like it was going to land right down the street. The sounds were magic, deep rumbles, high-pitched whines, the air vibrating with waves coming from it.

"Cool!" I think I said, and walked to the boot, where . . . what was his name? He never told me. He was pulling bags full of stuff out of the boot, some in paper, some carrier bags. There was no way he could carry them all hisself, so I took a few of the carrier bags. They were full of groceries.

"Ya cook?" I asked, trying to find something to say, not just stand there with me thumbs up me bum.

"Can't afford restaurants," he said. "You hungry?"

"I could eat," I answered. I was starving. Hadn't et but the batty since that morning, plus his . . . stuff. I wondered if he was offering me to eat with him. God, that would be . . . ! No, he's probably just going to pack me off. But he looked at me nice as he turned to the pavement.

"Piccadilly Tube's all the way down at the bottom of this road, then left, maybe a quarter mile. Takes a half hour at most," he told me, nodding up the road. Then he gave me directions to get to the Richmond jitney bus shuttle, and I felt a cold hand in my chest, because that meant he expected me to leave as soon as I put the bags down.

Then he said the words I thought maybe I wanted to hear: "But I'd like you to stay, at least for for supper."

Me mind went back to the punter what looked so fine, but not so fine as this bloke, then took me to the Black Room, and I didn't know for sure what to think. I mean, if the punter could do it, maybe this bloke would do something like that. I didn't think so, but how do you tell? So I just out and asked him, because I couldn't think of any other way to find out before I went into his place.

"Ya won't do anything funny?"

"Like what?" he said absently, looking down at me. I shuddered a little. I mean, the bloke could crush me if he wanted. Nobody knew where I was, least of all me, except I was near Heathrow and he told me where the Tube (might) be.

"Like try to hurt me," I answered. "I c'n take care o' meself. I got a brown belt." A complete lie. Eric told me to say that if I thought I might have to get in a scrap. Not many punters are into the physical stuff, and judo can be impressive. "Ya can't say 'black belt,' 'cause that's not likely fer low-lifers like us," Eric told me.

He stopped and stared right into me eyes, making time stop. "I never hurt nobody on purpose," he said.. "Never in my life."

He looked real soft all of a sudden, and there was no way I couldn't believe him.

"K," I said. "Ya gonna tell me yer name?"

"Oh, shit," he said with a grin. "I'm sorry. I'm Kurt Carson." He looked right in my eyes, and it felt nice.

"Noel," I said. I took the plunge and told him my whole real name. "Noel Allen."

"I'm glad to know you, Noel," he said. He said it with a serious face that smiled at the same time.

"Same here," I said, and we started walking down the pavement again, just as another British Airways plane, this time with just two engines, with a long and narrow body, swooshed overhead, nowhere near as loud as the big one.

"757," Kurt said. "A lot quieter than Jumbos and Tupelovs." I didn't know what he was referring to, except that the plane was a 757, which you could read on the fuselage, like I learned at the Tube the week before, but I was going to find out, even if it meant going back to the library..

When we got to the door where he lived, he couldn't get his keys out of his pocket, so I took them out of his trouser pocket for him, and he let me open the door. It felt nice to do that, like I was coming home or something. He lived on the ground floor of this huge house, a really big one-room flat, maybe half the ground floor, with a private indoor loo and a bathroom, and a kitchen in the corner. Windows with curtains. A big front double window, and two windows on the side, one above the kitchen basin, the other in the front corner, all with summer curtains. There was even a microwave, and a huge telly, and his own telephone.

He offered to let me take a bath, probably because I smelled so bad, but then it would be nice, so I said yes, after I warned him not to try anything, even if I might maybe have wanted him to. Not before I was real clean for him, at least. Then he saw the marks from the Black Room, and he asked me if Frankie had done that to me.

I wanted to tell him no, that it was those two sickos, but I couldn't do that without telling him I was on the game, and I guess I just got all soft on the inside about it, and I couldn't help it, but I got water in my eyes. He went to hold me, but I wouldn't let him, and got into the bath. It was heaven, even if there were a few spots on my back where the hot water stung. I listened to the planes going overhead, the music he had playing, the sounds of him doing things in the kitchen. It felt so . . . comfortable. I wished . . .

All of a sudden, the front door opened, and I jumped out of the bath, worried that someone else was coming in, someone like the evil-eyed bastard from the Black Room, and my heart started pounding like it does when I have the nightmare. I pushed aside the door, real fast. I figured if I ran out the front door naked, I'd at least maybe get a little attention before they caught me. I got ready to shoot out the door, just to the right of the bath, took in a deep breath to start hollering as soon as I was past the door. He was alone, standing right in the doorway, but just doing something with tree leaves. Me heart slowed down a little, but I was trembling a lot worse 'an those leaves. He turned an' looked at me an' winked an' smiled, then closed the door an' went over an' threw 'en into a pot he had steaming on the countertop burner. It wasn't really a burner, it was a glass plate with an electric coil underneath it, real modern. The sauce smelled so good I couldn't stand it -- I was really, really hungry.

He asked me to clean the tub with cleanser, and it seemed kind of neat that he would want me to do that, like I was good to do something. The bad part was I saw in the mirror over the wash basin what my back looked like. Those shits did a real bad thing on me. It was real ugly, and I wanted to hide it, 'specially from Kurt. But it was too late for that. He done seen me, the bruises all over me, yellow-blue, the red and brown lines from the whip, the wide red and black lines -- from the belts, probably, an' the round blisters from the hot metal rods, all red from heat from the fire, that they touched me with. How could somebody do that to a person? Why hurt me that way? Even if I wasn't worth as much as a real person, how could they treat me worse than you'd treat a . . . a . .  . a bloke what killed babies and fed them to rats? I had to shake my head hard, and keep scrubbin', bite on my lip to stop thinkin' on it, keep from gettin' fuckin' teary all over again, like some kid, or a girl.

I cleaned up as best I could, and he seemed pleased. Even gave me a little hug, and that made me feel proud, that he appreciated what I did. Nothing sexual, I mean.

He gave me sweats to wear around the flat, just like that. When I was putting on the top, I caught him looking at me deformed dick, an' called him on it. He was nice about it though. Said it was pretty, even. I couldn't believe he said that. He said "I guess nobody's ever satisfied with what they get in hair and dick," and I figured how as that was right, 'cause I hated me fuckin' loopy, uncool hair.

He liked it, though. Even said so, and touched my hair nice. I almost wondered if maybe curly hair was such a bad thing, after all. Then he announces he's gotta go wash laundry, and he's gonna throw my things in with 'is, and -- he was just being too nice. I figured I knew what he wanted from me. I hoped it wasn't me bum. I could do him, I guess. But I didn't want it to be like that, I mean like for service I done got from 'im. I was no way gonna let 'im stuff that thing in me bum, anyway.

"Think I'm some kinda charity case?" I asked. Maybe he thought I was just a kid he could play "puppy" with. But he said he just had extra room, and noticed that me clothes could use washing, so I said it was okay. When we were leaving to do the laundry, he said we could get a video to watch after we ate, and my first thought was that he was going to pick up a skin flick to try and get me hot so he could jam that thing up me bum, but he surprised me and said that he wanted science fiction. I really like science fiction --I saw Star Wars a few times on the telly when I was a kid -- before we ran off, I mean. Magic. I can't remember what me Mum looked like no more . . .

I went barefoot -- me plimsols went into the washing -- and he didn't seem to mind, even offered that he'd wash my feet when we got back. I don't know why, but I remembered the Bible story of when Christ washed his apostles' feet, and I looked at Kurt, and somehow he reminded me of the picture in the National Gallery I saw in some special exhibition. Maybe it was the halo.

Sometimes I just can't keep me gob shut, and I said it, about when Jesus washed their feets, I means, and he looked at me like I had green spots on my face. I felt like a fuckin' fool.

When we left, he left the sauce boiling real low on the ring, which I thought was pretty risky, I mean everybody knows you can't go out and leave electrical stuff on, but he seemed to think it was okay. Said he din't understand the English paranoia about switching everything off all the time, fuses in everything, even the power cords. Sommat about not turning off fridges. I listened, an' din't really understand why we did that either. He sounded so . . . knowing.

My hand went all of its own to his leg when we were in the motor, and it felt so natural it was weird. I wondered if he was going to ask me to sleep with him. Did he think  I . . . I mean, did he know the tariff? Did he know I was on the game, after all? So I asked him if he wanted me for the night. I just out and asked him, afraid he would start haggling about the price, even more afraid he would say "no," and half wishing he would ask me to stay, would hold me a while in his strong arms, make me feel . . . good.

When he just asked me to stay, after what seemed like hours, but was probably only a second, because I was afraid he'd say "no," I just about creamed. And it din't sound like a punter talking -- it was like a invitation, not a . . . a business deal. I wondered if he would hold me like Frankie used to, close and all night long. I couldn't think of anything but that while we put the clothes into two washers (he said it cost a little more, but it got the clothes a lot cleaner if you only did small loads) and went to the video store next door to find a film. I didn't dare tell him. He'd think I was a wimp. Then I wondered again if he figured I was on the game, if this was just a punt. But no, a guy like him don't need ta pay for it. Din't know about me . . . probably.

Kurt let me choose two movies, and after we looked at all the Science Fiction things, I chose "War of the Worlds," and "E.T." because neither of us had seen them, and they sounded okay. We almost took "Alien," but because Kurt said it was supposed to be super-scary, I decided against it. Plus, H. G. Wells was English. I read "Time Machine" when I was reading books, and even if it was dumb to think that some bloke could make a machine like that -- even before they made tellys and transistors -- it was fun to think on what it would be like to go back and forth in time.

The bloke behind the counter who checked the videos out was a pouf, but not real obvious. I could tell he fancied Kurt, but Kurt didn't give him back the time o' day, just treated him like any other bloke. I din't let on that I sussed him out, and he din't pay any attention to me, anyway.

The washers was done when we got back, and we puts the clothes and me plimsols all into one big dryer, then went for a cigarette on the bench in front. He smoked one, I din't. I don't really enjoy 'em much, 'cause they make me dizzy. I noticed somethin' funny -- Kurt din't inhale the smoke. He took it in his mouth an' let it out real slow, sometimes through his nose.

We talked about Kurt's growing up in this little town in the State of Kansas, on a real farm. He talked about it for a few minutes, and I was really getting interested in what it was like to be a kid in Kansas, with a real family, but it started to rain, steady like it can as Spring pushes Winter away, so we goes back in and waits until the machine stopped. I helped Kurt fold his sheets and stuff. He wears Y-fronts all the time, and had seven -- all the same -- in the wash, so he changed every day. There were eight pair of socks, all identical white, and five pair of black socks, also all the same. (I wondered why he wore two pair every day. Work, maybe.) Seven T-shirts, real heavy. And three pair of those trousers with side pockets, which he told me were cargo trousers, that got washed with my plimsols and trousers and the black socks and some shorts and stuff.

One of the women in the laundromat kept looking at me and Kurt, and smiling. It felt good -- normal.

When we got back to the flat, there was a parking spot right in front of it, so we didn't get wet when we ran through the rain to the door, laughing when a great splat fell right in our faces when we were halfway there, as a gust of wind shook it from the branch of a tree. The smell of the tomato sauce was just amazingly good, and me stomach turned with hunger. Kurt didn't rush to eat, though. I figured 'he don't know what it's like to be hungry, bein' a Yank and all.' He put the clothes away in the tall chest and a separate chest of drawers, and the trousers on hangars that held them with clips from the bottoms. They went into a hanging cupboard under the tall part of the stairs, next to the loo. He had a lot of clothes - a raincoat, dark blue trousers, some shirts with collars, four ties. He poured us a coke. I drank most of mine in one go. He put a popping corn bag into the microwave, but din't start it. I wondered if he was being cruel.

Kurt actually washed my feet, sitting me on the counter at the front of the tub and washing them with the shower hose he took down from the high part of the bar above the tap. He knelt on the floor and soaped them all up in the warm water, massaged them, then rinsed them, and soaped tham again. All the while talking about little things, asking me if I understood cricket (of course!) and if I would explain it to him the next day if we could find a cricket match on the green in this little village he'd found called Farnham. I watched him in amazement, his big hands loving my feet, his face concentrated on them, his hair a deep brown with a little red, except a patch directly over his right eye of jet black, the size of a 50p coin.

I couldn't help touching it, and he looked up at me.

"What?" he said, holding the warm spray off my feet.

"Ya got a black patch in yer hair," I said. I was still smoothing his hair back a little. It felt almost like a soft brush, it was so short and straight.

"It'll turn grey when I get to thirty," Kurt said "My uncle and my Dad have the same tache, and they both went grey just at thirty."

"It'll make ya look smart, not just handsome," I said. He blushed, then finished rinsing my feet and made me stay there while he dried them. I went to put on my socks, because my feet were cold, but I couldn't find them. Kurt said he didn't see them in the laundry, and throws me a pair of his white ones to put on. They's the thickest, warmest socks I ever wore. They even fit.

"Let's watch a movie," he said. "The sauce will be ready in an hour or so. Get the bowl from under the counter there, will you?" He punched buttons on the microwave, then pointed at the cabinet, and went to switch on the telly and put the cartridge into the VCR under it. I got the bowl, then watched the bag in amazement as the kernels popped inside the bag, only one or two at first, then dozens, then hundreds and hundreds all at once, and then stops, just as the paper bag gets full. It was the first time I ever seen a microwave up close and working. I mean, I seen them in cafes sometimes, but they either din't have windows in front, or you couldn't see through them.

I took out the popcorn and opened it without burning myself, and got it into the bowl. It smelled just like the popcorn smell in the Odeon in Leicester Square. I got inside once with Frankie, but we got throwed out before we gets in to see the movie, and they closed the exit doors after that.

Kurt poured us some more Coke, and we started watching "War of the Worlds." It was a little hokey, because it was made in the old days, but it was pretty good overall. We started out sitting on the ends of the couch, but the popcorn was on a little table in front of the middle of it, we both ended up in the middle. By the time the movie was over -- it's short, about an hour and a half -- I was sitting right next to him, his arm draped over my shoulders. It felt like it belonged there. I guess I et more of the popcorn than him, even though I tried to only take a little, and only after he took a handful.

We et, and it was fab. Kurt toasted bread in a big toaster oven on top of the microwave, with butter and garlic, and salad with tomato and lettuce and lemon juice and pepper. We talked about Kansas some more, about when he played football -- the American kind. He tried to explain it to me a little, but it sounded like football and rugby all mixed up. I was almost full when we finished. First time in I couldn't remember, probably the Salvation Army Christmas meal. He offered me more spaghetti, but I didn't want to look like a pig, so I said I was full, even if I really would have liked a little more. We did the washing-up together, then sat to watch E.T. He just pulled me into him when we sat down, and I almost had a hard time concentrating on the movie.

It's a crashing movie. I guess it's about my favorite, after the Star Wars films. I almost cried a little when E.T. "died," and I looked up and saw Kurt's eyes were full, too. He looked down just then, smiled at me hot enough to melt diamonds, and rubbed me on the forehead. "Softy, huh?"

I jabbed him in the ribs, then he tickled me under the arm, and we had a few minutes of tickle-match. We ended up on the floor, him on top of me, holding my arms down, and I couldn't stop laughing, and I sprung a hard. I'm sure he could feel it through the sweats. He stopped and stared into my eyes for a few seconds, and I thought for a minute he was going to try to kiss me, and I didn't know for sure if I would let him or not. I never let any bloke kiss me before. But he shook his head and got off me with a laugh.

We had to rewind the tape to get back to where we were. I loved the rest of the movie. The chase scene was magic, and when E.T. left, damned if I didn't let another tear go. I figured Kurt had the same reaction, so I said without looking "Softy, huh?"

"Yeah," he said simply. The man is 90% muscle, and just as soft on the inside as me.

"I like that."

He hugged me into him, and we watched the credits a while until our eyes dried up a little.

"Want to make it an early night and get going first thing in the morning?" he asked. He clicked off the telly and was on the way to the kitchen with the glasses and the bowl - he made another bag of popcorn, sometime or other, which I guess I ate most of.

My heart sank -- he expected me to leave as soon as we got up. "K.," I said.

"We can make sandwiches and have lunch on the lawn," he said.

Why was he jerking me around like this? One minute I figure he's gonna give me the toss, the next minute not. He started washing the glasses and the bowl. I grabbed the dishtowel and dried.

The running water reminded me I had to pee a lake, so soon's I dried the bowl and glasses, I ran to pee. While I was in the loo, I heard him move something, and when I came out, he had the sofa turned into a huge bed, and was getting a quilt sort of thing out of the top of the big chest.

"I only have one bed," he said. "But it's pretty comfortable, and big enough for two."

"Which side?"

"Either," he said. I looked at him, not sure what I was supposed to say.

"I mean, I don't move much when I sleep, so I won't roll on top of you, or anything," he continued.

"Closest to the loo," I finally said. "I drank a lot of coke."

"You got it," he said, and threw the quilt over the bed so it covered it all around except the tops of the pillows. I couldn't believe we were going to sleep together in a real bed. My dick could -- it was almost all hard already.

He bolted the door while I took off the sweats and jumped under the quilt, but it wasn't a quilt, and I remember thinking it was thick and soft, like it was made out of feathers. The bed was soft and hard all at once, and din't smell at all, just clean. He switched off the light on the bookcase, and went to the side of the bed. He took off his trousers and the checked shirt, but left his T-shirt and Y-fronts on, and got under the cover.

"You want me to do you?" I asked softly. "I wouldn't mind. You been good to me."

He rolled towards me and put his head up on his elbow. "No. I don't want it like that,: he said. "It has to be more."

"Whattaya mean, more?" I said, a little louder, a lot nervouser. "Ya ain't gonna fuck me with that thing, ya'd kill me! Besides, I ain't never done that."

"That's not what I mean," he said. He reached over and put his hand around my neck, his thumb rubbing my temple. I felt like a cat -- I wanted to purr. "C'm'ere."

He didn't pull me, he asked me to get close to him, and I moved over next to him. He smelled so good, I couldn't help getting totally hard. He was hard, too, under his knickers. I felt it against my thigh. I couldn't figure why he kept them on, but I didn't say anything yet. He still had his head up on his hand, and traced his hand around my side, but only to the waist, then back up to my neck, where he gently rubbed me again. I must've been purring aloud by then.

He leaned down over me, and I knew he was gonna do it, and he did, and I didn't pull back at all, I just watched the form of his head as it came down to me, and opened my mouth a little, not sure what it was going to be like, but knowing I was gonna like it..

"I . . . " was all I could get out, and his lips touched mine, and I just reached up and put my arms around him and pulled myself up to him. I didn't get any of that "electric shock" or any of that other stuff you hear about all the time. I got hot. I mean, seriously searing, unbelievable hot. I got cold at the same time, all down my back, and he knew that and put his arms around me and warmed up my back with his hands, so I could get my mouth a little more open and we got serious.

Then it was all tender and loving, and I felt so good, I knew everything was right, that Kurt was really special, maybe the one I . . .

We came up for air finally, when he was kissing my nose, my eyes.

"I never did that before," I said.

"What?"

"Kiss a punt . . . a bloke on the mouth," I said.

"You like?" His lips were on my ear, and he whispered into it.

"I like," I managed to get out, before his tongue swept into my mouth again, sending tremors through me.

"Take 'em off," I managed to croak somewheres along the way, pulling on his shirt and knickers. I wanted to feel him against me, touch his body all over. He had them off in a flash, and came back to my mouth. His hands were all over me, and mine were all over him. His muscles were rippling under his skin, and he shivered when I traced his backbone down to his bum. He only has hair on his chest and the line that goes down to his belly button, none on his back, except this tiny patch right below the belt. I didn't dare go any lower. His dick was right over my leg, hot, heavy. I moved my hand from his back to touch it, but before two seconds were up, he took my hand back and put it on his shoulder.

He kissed my chin, my Adam's Apple, my chest every where, and I just kept saying "Kurt . . . Kurt," over and over, not sure where this was going. It wasn't like with the punters, it was like . . . like with . . . Kurt.

He got down to my dick, and kissed it under the cover, licked it, teased it, played it with his lips, and finally took me into his mouth. His side teeth scraped me a little, but I didn't care. Then he pushed down on me, and gagged, and I could feel him trying to spew, and then he moved back and just nursed on me until I screamed and came in his mouth. A real loud plane went over just then, I remember. It shook the bed. I know now it must have been a Concorde coming in late from New York, but it seemed timed to our loving. He took me until I went soft his mouth, and kept nursing on me, almost like he was afraid to let it get away. I played with the brush of his hair, his ears, his neck. When he let me out of his mouth, I urged him up to me and kissed him as he wrapped himself around me.

"Sorry," he said. "I never did that before. I'm not very good yet. You okay?"

I couldn't believe it. I mean I believed him, but I couldn't believe a bloke as hot as Kurt had never made it with a bloke before. Kurt was serious "Pay whatever it'll take" material. He could easy go to that place where the Queen's Guard went to get extra spending money in Belgravia, and make a fortune off the punters. He's far better-looking than 100% of them. No lie. If he walked through the 'Dilly in his running shorts and top, he'd create a Punter Parade behind him, all waving fistfuls of £20 notes.

"I . . . " tried to say something, but I didn't have the right words, I just didn't have the vocabulary then, didn't understand the feelings inside me. I was a little scared, even. A lot confused. It was wonderful. "I never felt like that," was the best I could do.

He kissed me, and I felt so good, I can't tell. I was wrapped up in him, surrounded by him, and he made me feel like the most important bloke in London. The world. The Universe!!

I started to move down to take him, too, but he stopped me. "Not now. I need you up here more," he says, and he taps at his chest, right over the heart, and I got whisker-burn kissing him.

We didn't talk any after that. We just held each other, him me more than me him -- his arms are longer. I eventually turned around and moved back into his nest, his arms around me, and me holding on to his arms, and we fell asleep like that. I never felt better in my whole life before that night, laying in Kurt's arms, listening to him sleep.

I woke up before he did on Sunday. His dick poked between my legs, right under mine. I was hard, too, and his stuck out almost as far as mine, like a second regular dick. I scooted to the toilet before I wet the bed, then crawled back under the cover to get out of the cold. I shouldn't have done it, because I didn't have his permission, but I did him a "blow-you" until he woke up, and had him over the edge before he knew enough to stop me. I din't take him down in my throat. I just nursed on the part that fit in me mouth, and moved my hands all over the shaft, not wanking it so much as exploring it. I could make it out pretty good, because it wasn't completely dark under the cover, and I tried to memorise it.

When he got off, he just made this huge long "uh" sound with a "n" on the very end, up and down. His spunk really is sweet, and I made sure I got all of it, waiting until his dick started to get soft. It was different than with the punters, somehow. I felt kinda real soft happy, knowing it made him feel good, knowing his spunk was in me stomach. It was diff'rent than when ya was relieved that it was finally done, ya'd spit out the punter's spunk in the bowl or somere's, that ya'd soon enough get yer money and leave.

He pulled me up to him effortlessly and kissed me. "Good mornin' Noel Allen," he said softly. "I never woke up with a cute guy in my bed before. I never woke up getting a blowjob, either." He had to stop between words, as I was kissing him pretty good. His breath was stale, but it was a good stale, and I didn't mind it at all. I guess mine was more bad -- no, because I'd swallowed his stuff, maybe he couldn't taste me.

"You got raped," I said to him. "I couldn't help it."

"You'll never rape me," he said. "Rape means doing it to someone who would object."

"You don't mind?"

"You gotta be kidding!" he said. "Now I gotta pee. Outta my way, knave!"

He leaped over me and went to the loo. He left the door open, and I heard the heavy stream hit the water in the bog. It was another one of those moments in life I wish I could preserve forever. I was warm, in my . . . in Kurt's bed, I was sexually fulfilled and really happy, the sun was coming up in a blue sky, and Kurt was near.

"Breakfast?" he hollered out as he pulled the chain, and the bog roared its disapproval. (I hadn't flushed, so as not to wake him.)

"Had it," I spat back, stretching like the cat I'd been the night before.

"I mean . . . " and he jumped on the bed. I got wrapped up in the cover and tickled unmercilessly for a minute. "Smart-ass."

"You make a lot of stuff," I said evilly. "I almost drowned."

"Bull!" he laughed, depositing me in the chair, still wrapped up in the cover. I watched him make the bed turn back into a sofa. "I only make the usual amount - no more than half a tablespoon."

"How many tablespoons in a gallon?" I joked. "Three?"

He threw a pillow at me and went to the kitchen, still nude, switching on the wireless. It was some classic stuff, nice. I just watched him move, grinding coffee, putting it in the coffee machine, all that. He was just too pretty to be real. His dick was still real long, not yet shrunk for the day, and it looked perfect for his body, just a lot bigger than what would have been "normal" for his size, huge for anybody not as big as him. The hair around it was thick. like a pelt, not very curly. His chest hair was like a haze of dashes on his tan body, arranged in perfect swirls and lines. His legs were all muscle, you could almost swear he had no skin over them, except for the tiny dark hairs on his lower legs. The things behind the knees that join the muscles to it stood out like cables. He was nice and tan above the waist, and a little less on his legs. His feet were long and narow, with real high arches, and little hairs on the tops of the toes.

"You bathe while I go for my run," he said as he pulled a pair of stretchy running shorts on, with another pair of shorts on top. "I'm on a short one today, just twenty minutes."

He put on a pair of white socks and running shoes, then a nylon singlet, talking non-stop about Farnham, cricket, the Sunday Market, what we could have for dinner. It looked like he had our whole day planned out, and it was nice. Then he was out the door and I ran a short bath, amazed that he would just go out and leave me there alone. I coulda lifted anything I wanted.

I didn't though -- I just toweled dry and stayed in the towel, trying to brush my hair straight. Kurt pounded on the door, and when I opened it, I got another of those memories that never die: this absolutely magnificent bloke all glistening with perspiration, breathing heavily, perfectly proportioned, singlet in his hand, sweeps into the room, grabs my head between his hands, plants a big sloppy wonderful kiss on me, and disappears into the bathroom before I can catch him.

"Pour us some coffee, Noel," he called out, "The mugs are on the shelf over the sink!"

"Milk and sugar?"

"Black without, just coffee," he said, splashing shower noises adding to the music, the smell of the coffee, the warmth of the room.

I took him a big green mug with his name on it, and a white one for me. I felt like getting into the shower with him, but let him alone and went back to try and find my knickers and socks. No go, not under the chair or sofa, nowhere.

"What are you looking for?" said Kurt from the bathroom doorway as I backed out from behind the sofa, my bum in the air. He probably got a eyeful of my winkle, but nothing to do for it.

"I can't find me knickers an' socks," I said.

"I threw them out," said Kurt. "There were more holes in the socks than you have toes, and your underpants didn't have any . . . uh . . . any cloth left in the back under your butt."

"But I don't have any others!" I said. "You can't just throw my fucking stuff away like that! What the fuck am I gonna wear! What . . . " I was getting mad, getting that funny scared feeling you have when you just don't know what you're going to do.

"Sorry, Noel," he said softly. "I should have told you."

I didn't say nothin; just looked at him. I was trying to decide whether I should put on me trousers and plimsole without socks and get out. But I didn't want to go, please, not yet.

He walked over and folded me up in his arms again, and everything was okay again, just like that.

"How old are you, Noel?"

"Sixteen," I lied. I felt like a shit, but I lied to him.

"Who takes care of you?"

"Frankie. He did. I mean . . . before. I don't know, now. I . . ."

"We need to talk, but not now. Toast?" he let go of me and chucked my chin.

"Yeah," I said. "But what do I wear for breakfast?"

"Looks pretty good to me right now," he said laughing. "Except for the towel."

I felt my face go hot.

"Put on a pair of my socks from the top drawer, the white ones, and a pair of shorts from the second drawer down."

I found the socks -- a whole drawer full of 'em!. There was another drawer with his knickers and the stretchy running shorts, and I took a pair of white ones out. They fit okay, except you could almost see through them.

"Sexy," said Kurt. He licked his lips. "You'll have to take them down to pee, though. 'Til we find proper ones."

"Kurt, I don't have any money."

"I know. You want to tell me yet?" He said it all casual, not looking at me, like he knew what I was, maybe.  He was taking toast out of the oven, and gave me butter and marmalade and orange juice out of the fridge to put on the table.

"I . . . " I started to do this big "piss off" speech, but then folded. I just told the truth about me. From when Frankie used to hide me in the cupboard when me Mum's boyfriends were there. I told him how Frankie was gettin' shagged, but I didn't know it was that when I was little, I just knew they was hurting him.

I had told him almost everything by the time we'd et, done the washing up, dressed and driven to Salisbury. Kurt listened, asked a couple of questions where he didn't understand a word, like "punter," or what "O" levels and "A" levels were, what "shag" and "bugger" and some other words meant, that kinda thing. I never cried, even when I was afraid that what I told him was going to make him hate me, like the first punter I let do me, like taking only £5.00 from the old geezer when I was getting hard up. I told him about the Black Room. Not everything, but most all of it.  Almost everything. More'n I never told no one else, especially Frankie. I even told about Frankie doing me.

" . . . so when Frankie left me at the Cottage, I don't know if he meant to really dump me this time, or if he was just pissed off at me. But I still hurt from . . . Sunday, and I know he'll hit me a lot, he's so pissed at me. The worst is, I think he'll just not be there when I go to the squat, he'll just disappear."

"When is your birthday?" Kurt asked me when the story was about over.

"Friday the Thirteenth," I said bitterly. "August. Lucky fucking day, eh?."

"Judas!"

"What?" I asked, sure I made some kind of fuck-up.

"That's my birthday! What year?"

I almost told him the truth, but I had to be sixteen, so I told him 1974.

"What about school?"

"I ain't been since I was eight or nine, I think," I said. "You can't go to school if you're on the street. They pick you up and put you in a Home." I caught myself. "Until you're sixteen, I mean."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I dunno," I said. "I gotta least try and find Frankie, . . . " but I knew that wasn't the answer. If I found Frankie, I would just end up doing like him. I didn't like the idea, now. I could go back to the 'Dilly if I had to, but that would mean . . .

"Can he help you?" asked Kurt.

"I don't . . . no, I s'pose not," I thought about how Frankie was sometimes gettin' hard put to get punters any more, about how he was drinking a lot, an' hitting on me more, and how maybe I was too much a weight on his back any more.

"Who can?"

"I don't know," I whispered. "Probably no-one." We were at a traffic light, and I saw a kid my age in the back of his Mum and Dad's motor next us, a little in front. He was talking to one or the other of them, laughing at something. It was like looking at a different world. Science Fiction.

"No other relatives?"

"Not that I know. I mean, I don't know if I got any."

"You staying with me tonight?"

"Can I?" I said. My heart beat faster.

"Only if you want to," he said looking at me. The light changed, thank god, and he had to look ahead again before I got all damn teary. Fuckin' eyes never know to shut up.

"I do," I finally said.

"What?" he said.

"I wanna stay," I said, looking at my plimsols, with the holes where me toes were growing through again.

"Done," he said quickly.

I felt weight come off me back, I swear. I coulda jumped ten feet high, if we wasn't in seatbelts in the motor.

"We need to find some way for you to get back into school," Kurt said. "Your whole life depends on you getting an education."

"If I go back, I'll get pinched," I said. He said "we," din't he?

"Pinched?"

"Nabbed," I translated.

There was a long pause, as we turned into a parking bay. He switched the motor off and looked over at me, right in the eyes.

"You aren't sixteen, are you?"

"Of course I'm . .  ." But it was no go. I had to tell him. I couldn't tell him another lie. "No. I'll be fifteen in August."

"Oh, shit!" he said. "Oh, shit! You're a minor!"

"Of course I'm a minor!" I said. "I won't be legal to drink for years!"

"No, I mean . . . you aren't allowed to have sex with anybody under sixteen," he said softly. "I mean if you're over eighteen."

"How old are you?" I asked. Over eighteen, that was plain.

"I'll be twenty in August."

"So you're only five years older than me," I said. "What's wrong with that? Me Dad was six years older than me Mum when they was fucking." I had no idea what I was saying with that.

"Was she under sixteen?"

"Sure! She was fifteen when she had Frankie."

"Didn't your Dad get in trouble?"

"No, he just pissed off whenever Social Services came, because me Mum got more money as a single Mum that way. It's just when I came along, he pissed off and din't never come back." Funny -- I hadn't wondered about me Dad for years -- once Frankie told me about how babies got made. Me Dad fucked me Mum to make me -- then pissed off. I just figured he wan't important.

"I think it's different with two guys," he said soft. "Hey! Look how the cathedral shines in the sun from here!" The sun had poked from under a cloud, and we saw the tower all bright and golden, just up the road behind some shops.

Kurt didn't say anything more about it for a while, as we walked to the market near the Cathedral. There were a jillion people, 'cause it was a major great day, sun shining, puffy white clouds. Kurt bought me some knickers -- eight of 'em, brand new! They were just like the stretchy boxers from Marks and Sparks, black and with a little button on the flies. Only four quid, 'cause the labels were cut out of 'em. Probably fell off the back of a lorry.

The next stall down, we found a bunch of white cotton socks, same as Kurt's, and he bought me nine pairs of 'em for five quid, instead of a pound a pair from the start.The guy had a lot of sneakers, too, and I looked at 'em, but din't let on. Kurt asked the old geezer how much were they, and the answer was £35. I told Kurt they wasn't worth but twelve, 'cause the Nike slash was backwards, so they was knock-offs, an' the geezer dropped his ask to £20, but Kurt said no, an we went on. Good thing -- two or four stalls up was a ol' lady an 'er son, one 'o them Mongol kids, but not stupid as some -- nice, jus' wi' the Mongol look, an' they has all kindsa sneaks, and Kurt bought me a pair of real Adidas fer only £18. He didn't bargain her at all, I guess 'cause the price was fair. They wasn't perfects, but the only wrong thing we found was a extra hole for the laces, but in the wrong place, between two holes in the right place, and only on one of them. I wanted to put them on right away, an' all, but I figured that would show I was low class. I told Kurt he shouldna, but he told me to "can it" so I shut me gob.

When we walked away from the stall, he thanked the ol' lady and her son, too. As we walked up through the crowded lane, he said we had to be grateful for people like her an' her son. 'cause they reminded us how important it was to love people, and how we what didn't have real troubles like her son needed to thank Him for making us whole so's we could help others like him sometimes. I never went in a church, 'cept to get out of the wet, so I didn't know if that was what they said in them, but it sounded right to me. I mean, the way a real God would want.

He wouldn't stop. I got two pairs of jeans, for £4.75 each, a jumper the color of green I like the best, a super San Francisco sweatshirt, with "Champion" on the front, and on and on. He spent £54.50 on me all told, and he bargained hard every time to get the best price. He said it was in his farming blood to haggle. He didn't had to explain what 'haggle' meant, but I'd never heard it called that before. I remembered every purchase, and kept track of how much he spent. I was going to make sure he got back every ha'penny, even if I had to go on the Game for a couple of days. He bought a whole chicken, too, from a egg and poulter stand. He didn't bargain. He said farmers didn't make enough money to lower their price.

It made me feel special to be there with him -- people would look up at him and you could see they liked what they saw. He was taller than almost anybody we met, and I think that was part of it, but mostly he just looks so nice to look at, the smiles all the time, the beautiful face, the perfect teeth, the angular smooth face.

We never made it to Farnham. We saw a cricket match on a green near the Cathedral, so we went to the car and locked my new clothes in the boot, except I had to put on my new Adidas and a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and knickers. It was warm, or I'd a took either the jumper or the sweatshirt. Kurt held up a little blanket so's nobody could see me with me knickers off but him. He looked -- I saw, and it made me feel nice that he wanted to look. Then we sat on the grass and ate our sandwiches and drank cokes, out of this little insulated backpack cooler he brought. He put the chicken in it, under these foil packets he had in his freezer that stayed cold somehow. I tried to explain to him what was happening in the match, but it was hopeless. For starters, he thought it weird that the bat was triangular, that the fielders had no gloves, that the boundary was just a chalk line, and the bowler was allowed to run before he threw.

We dozed in the warm sun, and then went to Stonehenge, what I'd never seen, then to two other stone circles nearby that were just as old, even older. Kurt knew more about them than I did, and I was embarrassed that I knew so little, even being English. It was the nicest way I could think of to spend the day, just the two of us. I can't remember what we talked about, but it was comfortable, easy talk. I promised me I'd find out more about the circles when I could go to a library.

We got back at five, and Kurt let me fill the chicken after he made a mix of the rest of the old loaf of bread, mixed with parsley and celery fried in butter, plus some sage and pepper and other spices he had in the top cupboard. He cleaned some green veg -- mangetouts, he said they was, which is French for "you can eat the whole thing" -- which I never et before, and put them in a dish with some butter. Kurt said they's a kind of pea, but flat. He used a lot of spice. He said food was too big a part of life to "just eat, use as fuel," and the best way to eat was just a little food at a time, but a lot of different things, and fixed differently so it was interesting. He never lived poor.

We watched some telly while the chicken cooked in the toaster oven -- it barely fit in. I curled up against him, and he put his arm around me, and I felt better than I never felt with Frankie. I loved hearing/feeling the rumble of his voice in his chest when he talked. It was the first time I saw "Red Planet," at least that's what I think it was called. Inside a space ship, wi' this guy dressed like a robot, all silvery, camp as a pink goose.

Then came the heavy stuff, as we sat at dinner. I won't go into all the detail, but we talked about what I wanted to do, how was I gonna live, all that. We talked about sex, too, naturally. Kurt said he didn't think we outta do it, because it wasn't right I should be with him that way because I was under age. I told him about the kids at the 'Dilly, how some of 'em was only twelve or thirteen, and they were a lot more experienced than I was. I told him about how Alan, a kid Eric had told me about, was only twelve, and took it up the bum all the time. How there were a lot of punters that only went for the real young ones, with no hair, and they never got pinched.

"I don't like to think of you doing that," Kurt said after a long silence while we were doing the washing up.

"What?"

"Having sex with other guys for money," he said.

"I gotta eat," I said. "Ain't nobody gonna get me to go to no Home. I'd slit me own throat first. 'Sides -- I can maybe pass as a school leaver in June."

"What's a school leaver?"

"Somebody what turns fifteen or sixteen and don't stay in school, but goes and works as a 'prentice or shop clerk."

"But they know how old you are," Kurt said. "Won't the DSS pull you out?"

"I ain't got no past," I said. "I can tell 'em I was born in Leeds and run away wi' me brother to London when I was eight, and he brung me up in the East End, and I don't know if me Mum is still around."

"Don't they take fingerprints of babies in the hospital?"

"I got borne at home," I says. "So I don't think so." I wasn't so sure.

"Let's talk first about this week," Kurt said as we finished up and cleaned the counter. "I think you should stay here, at least until we find out what you can do about school, and maybe work."

I looked up at him and about toppled over, because he was so close in the little space between the sink and the counter with the hob. "You'd do that?"

"Do what?"

"Have me stay wi' ya?"

"I never say anything I don't mean," Kurt said. He was looking right into my eyes again, and I knew he wasn't lying.

I moved the extra inch and threw my arms around him, my head leaning on his shoulder sorta sidewise, and I saw our reflection in the mirror-like window of the microwave. I watched him look up at the ceiling, then move his arms out like he was going to try not to touch me, then he looked down, and his arms went around me and he put his cheek on the top of my head, looking the other way. So far, so good.

"You smell good," I said. "I won't either."

"Won't what?"

"Say what to you I don't mean."

"You'll stay?"

"Yeah."

"No sex, though," he said. "We can't."

"Can we sleep together like last night?" I wasn't gonna agree to that without a fight.

"Long as you don't do to me what you did this morning," Kurt said.

I didn't say nothing. I wondered if he didn't want me like that any more.

"Okay?" he asked real soft.

"You don't like me?" I said, looking up at him.

"Of course I do, Champ," he said. "I like you a lot."

"Who else you gonna have sex with?" I wondered if he had a girlfriend he fucked.

"Nobody."

"Then you'll just wank?" I said. "At least let me do that wi' ya."

He didn't answer.

I never told him I wouldn't. Do him, I mean. It was nice to feel that it was something I could decide, not have someone else decide for me 'cause they had the money and I din't. I figured after a while, he'd get used to me, and we could do more than wank. I wanted . . . I dunno. I wanted him to like me as much as I liked him, I guess. More, but I couldn't find 'xactly what is was. Fer the very first time, I wondered if it would hurt real bad if he put his dick up me bum. I wondered why I thought it was gonna be special to have him in me like that, but only fer a second.

We was in bed at a little after ten, and after I got a goodnight kiss, he just rolled me around so my back was to his front, and wrapped me up like I was a Paddington Bear. I got a kiss on the back of the neck, and woke up the next morning in the same position. His dick was between me legs again, ready for action, and I wanked him real gentle, trying not to wake him. He started to wake up, so I stopped.

He got out from between me legs, and moved away like he was gonna get up and go to the loo, probably to finish tossing himself off, but I "woke up" just then, and felt his dick openly. It's big, warm and fits my hand perfectly. He jumped, took my hand away, but reluctant, I could tell, and gave me a little kiss on the side o' me face, then ran to make a lake in the bog. He left the flush for me, then made coffee as I watched for a minute. Even in his Y-fronts and T-shirt, he was naked, if ya get my drift. I stretched and yawned while he was behind me, puttin' on his runners, an' he leaned over the back of the sofa back and gave me a upside-down kiss. It felt weird to have the tops of our tongues together like that. Weird wonnerful, I mean. Then me dick started to ache with the hurt of holding back me pee, so I said sommat nice at 'im and jumped out o'' bed. I managed to get to the bog before me bladder exploded, but barely, and I had to stand spread-legged and lean over to get it into the bowl at all. I din't hear the door close, I guess 'cause the bog was so loud when I pulled tha chain, but when I came out, he'd gone on his run already, and there was a glass of orange juice and a tablet of some kind on the table at each place where we sat before, and there was a key next to mine, too. The radio alarm clock went off just after he left, but I didn't know how to turn off the buzzer, so I just let it go. It played music at the same time, and eventually the buzzer stopped, but left the radio on BBC-4, the one that plays classical stuff all the time. I never listened to that stuff before -- it's only for the upper classes, ya know? But what they was playin' was nice, something I'd heard before sommeres..

I put the sofa back together like Kurt had done the morning before, putting the duvet up in the big chest he called an armoire, along with the pillows. I took a real quick bath, and put on me new clothes. I looked almost nice in the mirror, 'cept a bruise on me arm an' a scab on me neck. An me hair, a course. I got out Kurt's mug an' the white one fer me, and sliced a new loaf of bread for toast, and put four pieces in the toaster oven with butter on them, waiting on him to come back. He was gone longer than than Sunday morning, probably thirty-five or forty minutes. He was dripping with sweat when I opened the door to him just before he pounded on it, his singlet in hand like always. So sexy, I couldn't resist a kiss. He gave in and kissed me back.

"I have to get out of here by seven," Kurt said as he went into the bath. "I've put a door key next to your vitamin pill, so you can come and go as you please."

"For real? Ya don't worry I'll pinch something?" I couldn't believe he'd take that kind of chance on somebody he only knew two days.

"Don't be dumb, Champ." he called out from the shower. "How can I not trust you?"

"I told ya I was a thief," I said, bringing him a coffee in his green mug.

"Yeah, but not a good one," he laughed. He opened the curtain a little when I stuck me hand through it with the mug. Jus' looked at me an winked, then put the coffee on the shelf an' closed the curtain.

"Yer Telly an' Video is worth a bomb," I babbled. "I could get a good price fer 'em in a hot shop."

"I figure you'd forget to unplug the TV if you tried to take it, and give up when it wouldn't go out the door."

I poured a glass of cold water from the sink over the top of the shower curtain, and got a empty threat along with a belly laugh. "I needed that," he said. "Right on my front."

"Ya wanking in there?" I said, filling another glass just in case.

"If I was, I'm not any more," he said. "And you pour another glass on me, you're gonna get seriously in trouble."

I thought better of it, and poured the glass down the sink, then sat on the floor and drank coffee and talked with him as he showered. We talked easy together, just little stuff, where the shops were, how far to the library, that kind of stuff.

"You going to keep me under surveillance to make sure I don't wank?" he laughed.

"Sure," I said, looking up as he opened the shower curtain and dried off. His dick bounced around as he dried, and it wasn't all red, so he hadn't wanked. It was bigger than when it was its littlest, though. Even little, it was big as me when me willie was hard.

"Stop staring, Champ," he said with a grin.

"Can't help it. I never saw nobody like I see ya," I said without thinking. "I mean, I seen guys naked afore, at the baths and stuff, and I saw Frankie all the time, but I din't feel 'bout him what I feel wi' ya. I mean, I like ya different 'an 'em. To me, I mean." I didn't know what it was I was trying to say.

He looked at me with a serious expression, despite the smile that stayed in place and the red flush he got in his cheeks.

"Well, yeah," he said, breaking the spell. "I think I know what you mean."

Then we ate, real quick. He asked me to take the pill next to the orange juice. Said it was just a vitamin tablet. He took one too, so I could see how to take it. It was a big pill, but it went down easy. Then he got dressed to go -- just cargos and a shirt and a jacket, but another shirt, five of them actually, all starched an' pressed, in a plastic hangar thing.

"Ya wear a different shirt at work?" I asked as he put the shirts in the bag.

"Yep," he said. "Change at work. Uniform."

"What do ya do?"

"I'm in security," he said.

"Like a watchman?"

"Sorta," he said. "Oh. I left a little money on the table by the telephone. You need any, go ahead and use it. There's chicken in the fridge and lettuce and tomato (he said it like all Yanks do, "mayto, not "mahto") for a sandwich, and there's milk on the porch from the float. Drink at least one bottle of it a day" he said.

"How come?"

"You haven't finished growing. Your bones won't grow enough if you don't drink milk and eat right. And take that vitamin pill with the orange juice. Every day."

"K." I answered automatically. "What time ya get home?" I was a little amazed he'd think of all that. Frankie never said nothin' 'bout stuff like that.

"I get off this week at four, so I should be here by five or so," he said.

"Ya want me to do anything before ya get back?"

"Would you get a couple of potatoes for dinner?" he asked. "I've got the meat and veg, but the potatoes were too small at Asda."

Then he was gone, and in my new clothes, new feelings, new hope, I began life.