Bad Ways

Short Story

Michael Gouda

Stephen Taunton always maintained that he was an aesthete. Well, that's what he called it. Others described him as a milksop, a nancy-boy and in other terms too crude to relate.

His mother always alleged that he was delicate. She kept him indoors as far as possible, wouldn't let him associate with other boys of his age, who, she claimed, were coarse and 'would lead him into bad ways'. That last phrase always interested Stephen who wondered what 'bad ways' were. They sounded, he thought, rather exciting but at that time he was not allowed to learn.

His father, who might have been more amenable to the idea that Stephen should find his own level with his peers, had fled the coop soon after Stephen's fifth birthday, having been driven away by his wife's constant keeping of their son in a sort of cocoon and had gone to live with a female truck driver who, it was said, used to beat him with a belt if he didn't behave. Chacun à son goût, as they say.

* * * * * *

"Ricky," shouts my mum from downstairs, "get up. I won't call you again."

But I know she fucking will. I turn over, grab hold of my cock through the slit in my Y-fronts and wonder whether it's worth having a wank. But I know she'll be upstairs in a few moments and to get myself to the point of cumming and then have mum slam open the door and start pulling at the bedclothes will be off-putting to say the least.

I give my cock an affectionate squeeze and push it back where it lies, half-hard, against my leg.

I can hear her downstairs in the kitchen banging away with crockery and cutlery, and she says something quietly to my sister, Sara. I can't hear what she says but Sara's answer, her whining voice raised, is clear.

"Oh, mum, do I have to?"

It's Thursday which means mum has just asked Sara to get her order to Waitrose where Sara works and gets a discount for her own purchases. But this means that Sara will have to carry plastic bags of groceries back on the bus, so, as always, she complains.

It also means, of course that Sara will be given a list of groceries which will take some time. "Sod it," I think and reach again for my cock.

* * * * * *

Stephen's education - at primary level - was undertaken by his mother who had once been a teacher and was quite competent to teach him to read, write, play with solids and liquids - and thus form concepts of material values - and the basics of mathematics. She also encouraged an interest in painting and drawing of a rural nature, the study of the human form being distinctly off-limits. Secondary school education though was a somewhat different matter, and she realised that, unless she wanted a visit from the Schools Inspectorate, she'd have to find a 'proper' school for him.

She held out as long as possible, though, and it wasn't until Stephen was nearly fourteen that he went to a private school, based on the public school ethos, closely vetted by 'mummy' of course. There he discovered the word 'aesthete'. His art teacher had mentioned it in connection with the pre-Raphaelite painters and the word had amused Stephen.

He looked it up in a dictionary though it was a bit of a struggle as he wasn't sure how to spell it and it sounded as if it ought to begin with an 'e' but the library teacher helped him and he found that it meant someone who has a special appreciation of art and beauty. That, as far as Stephen was concerned, was him exactly.

He found that there were others who had preceded him, People like Robert Byron, Evelyn Waugh, Nancy Mitford, Anthony Powell as well as the painters, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and Edward Burne-Jones (grand names) and poets like Algernon Charles Swinburne. Many of these had 'grown out of it' but one who hadn't was a playwright and wit named Oscar Wilde.

Apparently this last had had some sort of legal problem which, as the 'expurgated' school encyclopaedia informed him, had something to do with his association with stable lads and lower class boys. Stephen was intrigued and wanted to find out more but the book was reticent. He finally assumed this was something like 'getting into bad ways' with rough boys which his mother had warned him against.

There was another word which appeared from time to time in connection with these people and that was 'decadent'. It seemed to be a derogatory term but was also linked with self-indulgence. This seemed fine to Stephen who liked to indulge himself, especially in the way of chocolates, so it was then that he decided that he was a 'decadent aesthete'.

It is no fun though being in a movement of one and Stephen scouted around for someone of like mind with whom he could associate. He found it in the form of a boy called Dorian, who was actually the scion of an aristocratic family. He had a title, Sir Dorian Mount-Havelock. Stephen was never quite sure why he chose Dorian as he didn't have a very prepossessing appearance. Unlike Stephen who was dark, Dorian had a rather pinched face and brown straggly hair which lay on his head like badly layered straw on a thatched cottage.

He waved his hands about too when he talked and his voice had a high fluting quality to it which accounted for his nickname amongst the other boys of 'Batty' - though there may have been other reasons. But he was highly intelligent, had a quick wit and knew a great deal more than Stephen about the things of the world, things that Stephen's mother either didn't know or didn't think he should be made aware of.

And so they drifted their way through Lower School without being overly teased though one term they were referred to as the 'Two Lilies' which didn't upset them. Indeed Stephen was quite flattered that they should be associated with Wilde's covert badge for homosexuality (though at the time he wasn't exactly sure what this was).

Lilies were out of reach of their limited pocket (even Dorian had to keep to the rules as regarding the amount of money boarding pupils were allowed) but they experimented with green carnations ie the ordinary white variety available in the school gardens and it was possible to obtain some green ink from the school stationery store. The dyeing process was messy and resulted in green fingers but they were satisfied with the results and after the flowers dried out, they sported their green carnations proudly.

"And what are those ridiculous flowers in your buttonholes meant to signify?" asked their house master.

"We just liked the colour," said Stephen innocently.

The house master, Mr Johnson (what a plebeian name, as Dorian had once remarked) not wishing to implant ideas where there were apparently none, made no further comment.

* * * * * *

I'm skint - again.

I wonder whether mum will have anything in her handbag after Sara leaves but she, worldly wise to my ways, keeps it as far as possible in her view, often just keeping small change in it, while the notes she distributes about her person, in the pockets of her jacket or tucked into her bra where they nestle, uncomfortable but safe, at least, from my light fingers.

I'm sixteen though I look older, quite able to get served in a pub. My body is quite strong and well-developed, not a Mr Universe you understand but I can stand up for myself. They tell me I have the face of an angel, the skin fresh and young with high cheekbones and a wide mouth which, when I smile, show white teeth. Only my eyes give me away. Though an almost perfect blue, they are shrewd, calculating, but I know I can open them wide and appear as innocent as a baby.

This is useful.

By a quirk of fate, and the fact that my birthday falls in September, though I am sixteen, I am in fact still in year 13 with another year before I can legally leave school. Not that that often bothers me as my attendance at school is not what you could call regular. School attendance officers from time to time call to find out where I am but often I am so much bother when I do attend that my teachers prefer my absence to my presence and will often 'forget' to record the fact that I haven't been in school. Sometimes I arrive to record my morning attendance and then 'disappear' for the rest of the day.

That morning I surprise my form teacher and almost surprise myself by appearing at the morning attendance register and then actually being carried along by the rest of the class to my first lesson which happens to be English. Mrs Simms, the teacher, is a comfortable, middle-aged woman who looks as if she would prove to be easy to con but has a sharp tongue and is nowhere as defenceless as she looks.

Although the school has a uniform policy, she apparently decides not to remark on the fact that, instead of grey trousers and a dark jumper, I am wearing jeans and a T-shirt. No sense, she probably thinks, in aggravating me. Like all the teachers she knows too well how easily I get upset and then the sparks really fly.

But I guess I go too far when she asks me, pleasantly enough, if I've done my homework. Me? Homework? She must be out of her tiny skull. "No, miss," I say.

Well, she could have left it at that but I suppose she thinks that if I'm allowed to get away with it, others will follow my example.

"Now look, Ricky," she says.

I'm a bit pissed off. Have I read the set book? Have I fuck! So how can I write an essay (as she calls it) on the motivations of the main character. I'm not stupid. I could walk the course through on my head - if I wanted to - but bollocks to that. It isn't worth it. I can speak properly too - if I want to. No one listens if I do, and the other kids laugh.

So I say, "No, you look, Mrs fucking Simms. I ain't int'rested in all that bollocks. 'Motivations' and that. I got enuff 'motivations' of my own which ain't goin' to be gratified by writing 'essays'." (Fuck! I shouldn't have used a word like 'gratified'. Big mistake. Perhaps no one will notice.)

Mrs Simms does, I think because she blinks. Probably she'd like to to comment on it, but she can't ignore the swearing.

"OK, Ricky, That's it. To the Headmaster. Sit outside his office until I tell him why you're there. I'll not have you in my class if you behave like this."

But I am out of the classroom before she even finishes.

For a moment I'm tempted to walk straight out of the school but then I think I wouldn't mind giving the headmaster a mouthful as well. Fuck him. He can't do anything to me - except tell my mother, and she isn't bothered.

* * * * * *

So Stephen and Dorian drifted somewhat languidly through the remainder of the Lower School and, at age sixteen went to the Upper School.

Puberty came rather late to Stephen. It was not not that he hadn't realised he was growing. Of course he had. He and Dorian regularly compared their respective heights almost as a sort of competition. Sometimes Stephen was a few centimetres in advance, at others Dorian had shot ahead. Stephen's genitalia of course grew as well but that was right as well. He was a little surprised when, for instance he compared his own to a picture of that of Michelangelo's 'David' and found that, relatively, he'd exceeded the size of the masterpiece's.

But that did not worry him either and it was only when he had a rather lurid dream one night and woke to find he was pumping liquid into his school-approved pyjama bottoms that he wondered what was happening and if something was radically wrong.

Dorian would know, he reasoned and asked him,"Am I becoming incontinent?" This was a word he'd discovered from a recent investigation into a medical dictionary which had quite entertaining illustrations in full colour, and which he knew meant an inability to control the bodily functions - though usually it was associated with old age or disease.

Dorian did know. "It's just a nocturnal emission," he said. "I have them all the time. It's just the body's way of getting rid of superfluous semen. It is coarsely known as a 'wet dream'."

* * * * * *

So here I am sitting on a hard chair outside the Headmaster's office. I've been told by his secretary - a scrawny cow with no tits - that he's out at the moment but I'd better wait. She writes down my name, Richard Parks, at the top of a piece of blank paper. OK, I'll wait for a while but if he ain't back by dinner time, I'm off to the school canteen. Fucking awful food they serve but, as I said before, I'm skint so I can't go down the chippy. Buggers can't be choosy sometimes.

There's an electric clock on the wall opposite with a second hand which moves around jerkily and I watch it for a while. It clicks every time it moves. What am I doing waiting here while my life clicks away? Then the headmaster's door opens and the secretary comes out, gives me a look and walks off, stiff-legged, to the staff bog just along the corridor.

If she's gone for a piss, she'll be there for a few minutes, if for a crap even longer. I open the headmaster's door and peer in. There's her desk with a computer/word processor on it. Beside her chair is her handbag. What a dipstick. Almost without thinking, I grab the bag. As I turn to go, I see the bit of paper with my name on it. I grab it then I'm off, at a run, out of the front gates, out into the street.

In the park, I find a seat and check the bag. There's a purse with some notes in it, a twenty, two tens, some change. There's also credit cards. Food problem solved at least. I pocket anything of value and throw the bag into the bushes. I know the school will get the police and they'll suspect me, but what can they prove? I'll have spent the money and sold the credit cards. I'll look innocent and young and flutter my eyelashes. I know. I've done it before.

With money in my pocket and a spring in my step, I go to the chippy. I'm really hungry. I didn't have any breakfast so I'll order two pieces of fish and a double portion of chips. I don't want to draw attention to myself so I don't push in front of the queue as I sometimes do. So I'm a bit pissed off when I feel an elbow in my ribs from behind, but it's only Split, my mate - well sort of. He's a good bit older than me but I've know him from way back and I've sometimes done deals with him.

With our fish and chips we walk back into the park and I show him the credit cards.

"How much can I get for these?" I ask.

"Fiver each."

"Is that all?"

"Soon as they're reported 'lost'," he says, "they won't be worth fuck-all. Can''t get cash without a pin number. I suppose you don't have that."

I shake my head. "It's getting more and more difficult to make a living," I say, only half jokingly.

Split gives me a calculating look. "There is one way," he says.

* * * * * *

For the first time Stephen began to take stock of his body, and his body's needs and desires.

He thought of his dream, his 'wet dream' as Dorian had called it and, though he had been shocked by the emission, he knew that it had been accompanied with a feeling of intense enjoyment, almost of ecstasy. Thinking back he knew that in the dream he had been accompanied by someone else with whom he had been rolling around. Who that person was, he did not know but he recognised that there had been a feeling of skin against his skin and a convolution of limbs as legs and arms had wrapped round him and inflamed his desire.

Who it was, he had no idea. Certainly it hadn't been Dorian. Though Dorian was his friend, he couldn't imagine cavorting with him naked. Indeed the thought made him shudder. So who was his partner in that dream?

The pupils had learned the basics of sexual reproduction in the biology lessons, given by a teacher who wore a most unprepossessing ginger goatee beard. Consequently, although the whole subject had fascinated some boys, the actual mechanics hadn't made much impression. According to Mr Parker, it needed a male and a female, that in most species the male had to insert his organ of generation (or penis) into the female and pass semen to fertilise the egg. It all sounded rather messy and nowhere did Mr Parker mention that there was any enjoyment involved. In fact from his expression as he explained the process, it seemed that it wasn't a very pleasant experience.

Stephen tried to analyse his feelings toward the other sex. If he was honest he hadn't had a great deal of experience. There was his mother obviously who had sheltered and cosseted him during his early life. School though was almost entirely male – the pupils were all boys of course, the teachers male. There was a matron who certainly had a large bosom and was presumably female but she did have a considerable and obvious moustache and short, cropped hair so that she seemed to be a mixture of male and female. The idea of romping naked with Matron was marginally worse than with Dorian.

* * * * * *

"What's this easy way of making money?" I ask Split, as we sit on a park bench, licking grease from our fingers. "nicking from Woolies? I tried that and nearly got caught."

"Nah," says Split. "Easier than that. You can make twenty quid in five minutes – more if you want."

"Sounds good," I said.

"You're not a bad looking kid," says Split. "Steady eyes, nice mouth, good teeth. You need a bath, a haircut, new clothes." He pauses. "You could be earning five hundred a week, easy. Maybe more. Yes, five hundred . . ."

He lets the words hang in the air. My mouth hangs open in surprise.

"What would I have to do?" I ask. "I haven't got qualifications or experience."

"You've got a dick, haven't you?" says Split, smiling again. "If you've gotta cock and a mouth, hands and a butthole – you've got everything you need."

I can feel myself going red. Suddenly I realise where this is leading. Not in detail, but certainly the rough direction. Frightened, almost panicky, I start to get to my feet.

"Just think about it," says Split quickly. "Five hundred a week guaranteed. I'll get you clothes to wear, good clothes." I stand still, thinking. "I'd look out for you, make sure you didn't get hurt."

I hesitate – and in doing so am lost. I sit down again. Split smiles.

"I've never done anything like that," I say. "Not, you know, with . . . " I pause, again not sure what is being asked of me. Will it be with men? What is this about my mouth, and my arse? "I wouldn't know what to do."

Split gets up. "I'll show you," he says. "Come back to my house. Have a shower. You can borrow some of my clothes. I'll show you what to do." His smile is warm, convincing – almost seductive. "You might even enjoy it," he suggests. "And you don't have to do more than you want."

* * * * * *

Dorian, worldly wise and blasé about the whole thing, suggested various options to Stephen. They discussed it as they lay sprawled on the grass of the sports field, one summer's day. A few midges flew around their heads, dispersed by airy waves of the boys' hands.

"This sex business," said Stephen, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.

Dorian nodded, his thatch of blond hair flopping over his forehead. "How often do you wank, Stephen?"

"What do you mean?"

"Wank! You know, stroke your penis until it gets hard and then spurts."

"Oh that!" said Stephen. "I don't know, Twice, three times a day. Is that too much?"

Dorian considered the question. "Probably," he said. "The point is, who or what do you think of when you do it?"

"I don't know. Sometimes just me. At other times, someone else rubbing themselves against me."

"But who?" persisted Dorian. "Male or female?"

Stephen blushed. "Sometimes it's just another person . . ."

"With a penis?"

"I suppose so," said Stephen.

"Someone like Robert?"

Stephen was taken aback. He sat up and then picked a blade of grass, put it in his mouth, attempting insouciance.

Dorian persisted. "Robert Blandford."

"He's just a kid."

"He's beautiful, and he follows you around everywhere."

"You think he wants to . . .?"

"Gagging for it," said Dorian coarsely.

* * * * * *

Well, it's OK with Split. I quite enjoy it. He is sexy and makes sure that I'm not just an object to shove in his prick. He wanted me to enjoy it – and I do.

The job though isn't always - or indeed often - all that pleasant, but fairly soon I get to thinking of it as 'just' a job, just an occupation to be got through as quickly as possible. I get the 'menu', and the tariff, off pat so that it trips off my tongue without me even having to think of it - 'Fiver for a wank, mate; Blow job's ten quid and a fuck's fifty.' The jerk-offs are easiest, mostly in the punter's own car. Money first - 'thank you, guv' - then a drive round the corner to a darker place where the street lamps are further apart, the client lies back in the recliner seat, zip down, my hands into the warmth to find it. Rubbing gently, as Split had taught me, other hand fondling the ballsack and sometimes under if the punter raises himself or indicates that was what he likes, and often it's over within a couple of minutes.

Occasionally the john will change his mind mid-operation and ask me to suck it, but, after one incident where, having been satisfied in this way, the client pushed me out and drove off without paying the extra, I'd always wait for the other note before obliging. I never swallow.

The fifty quid fuck of course is back at my room, the one Split found for me. Scarcely larger than a moderate sized cupboard it contains a single bed, a washbasin with a curtain round it and a small chest of drawers in which I keep my clothes, condoms and some gay magazines which nervous clients sometimes need - though I always think it a bit of an insult if anyone goes limp on me. Someone has tried to brighten the walls with an amateurish painting of a country scene showing a cottage set in a wood with hills in the background but the proportions and perspectives are all wrong and if the room had really been mine, I would have painted it over with a coat of white emulsion. A greasy-looking rug - once red - covers the centre of the floor.

Often I myself never come. Occasionally, if the punter is moderately young, not overweight and doesn't gasp and pant too much, I imagine it is Split who is in me, probing my guts from behind with that erect piece of plastic-covered flesh, holding my own prick so that I do ejaculate sad streams of semen - but this isn't often.

Sometimes the john is pathetically grateful and on those occasions I feel nothing but contempt. They pay their money. I give good value. I don't want their thanks. I don't seem to realise that, on the few occasions when Split invites me over to his flat, to his bed, I myself feel that same overwhelming feeling of gratitude - I never allow myself to express it in words though, merely being exceptionally compliant in the things I know Split enjoys most.

The best jobs of all are the sporadic ones that Split himself arranges, sometimes in the Imperial Hotel itself - all-nighters in luxurious surroundings with a meal and drinks. I've no idea how much the punter pays for these but Split always gives me the full fifty quid, whereas for the street trade, I have to pay half of each transaction to Split. I guess that's fair enough; he's set up the whole thing for me.

All the same, to get anywhere near the five hundred a week that Split promised I would, I have to work very hard - three fucks or fourteen sucks or twenty-eight hand-jobs - seven days a week, we never close! Often my wrist almost seizes up - repetitive strain injury, I'd heard it described as . . . And frequently my arse is sore.

* * * * * *

Stephen considered Robert Blandford. When he came to think of it, it was true what Dorian had said, Robert was indeed besotted with him. He followed him around whenever he could, fixed his big brown spaniel eyes on him and blushed a bright red if ever Stephen should actually speak to him. Not that those occasions were often, and when they did occur they were usually of the, 'What are you doing hanging around, Blandford?' or 'Shouldn't you be somewhere else, Blandford?' type of comment.

Perhaps he could be kinder, less of a martinet, though chatting, almost on an equal level, between a sixth former and a sprog from two years below, was generally frowned on in school etiquette.

Still perhaps an experiment in 'fraternisation' might be interesting. And it would be a form of rebellion against the establishment – something that Dorian would certainly approve of when Stephen told him.

So, the next time he saw Robert 'skulking' as he thought of it, instead of sending him away, he beckoned him over. "Robert," he said (and the use of the first name made Blandford blush even more freely than usual).

"Robert, I wonder whether you could do me a favour. I know you're not my fag but I left my copy of Roget's 'Thesaurus' in the 'swill room' and I need it now. I'd go down myself but I seem to have sprained my ankle at games and it hurts like heck."

To Stephen it sounded a very weak excuse. Anyone who knew him at all would know that the only thing that might get strained during games was incredulity that he'd actually turned up,

Robert, though, seemed to take it all in; his face lit up in a seraphic smile. "Gosh, Taunton," he said, "I'm sorry to hear about your ankle. Of course I'll get your book. Where shall I find you?"

For a moment Stephen felt a bit guilty. This seduction was going to be so easy. "Bring it to my study room," he said. "Do you know where it is? The one I share with Mount-Havelock." Dorian wouldn't be there, of course. He was in town on a Saturday afternoon's exeat to buy a bottle of wine – one of their little 'decadences' that no one in authority knew of.

Robert bounded downstairs like an exuberant puppy and Stephen went back into his study dorm to await his return. He sat in the only comfortable chair with his foot raised and resting on the seat of an upright one. He didn't have long to wait. There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and then a pause while Robert obviously waited outside the door, perhaps not sure what to do. Then a shy tap. Stephen waited. No point in appearing too eager. The knock was repeated, this time a little louder.

"Enter," said Stephen.

The door opened to reveal Robert's flushed but eager face. The rest of him hovered on the threshold out of sight.

"Well, come on in," said Stephen.

The boy did. His shirt was slightly dishevelled, the tie crooked and his hair, as blond as Stephen's own disarrayed. He looked, altogether enchanting. He was carrying a book in his hand. "I'm sorry, Taunton," he said, slightly breathless. "I couldn't find your copy, though I looked everywhere, so I brought my own."

It was hardly surprising that he hadn't been able to find Stephen's Thesaurus as it was on his own shelf above his bed. Stephen could actually see it there but decided it wouldn't make a difference if Robert did too. He'd hardly suspect that the whole situation was a devious plan.

Robert looked around, taking in the two beds, the two desks, the wash basin and Stephen himself, his leg propped up on the chair.

"Thank you, Robert," said Stephen. "You're a good chap."

"Is your leg very painful?" Robert's tone was sympathetic.

"It is rather."

There was a pause. Robert looked as if he was about to back out – almost as if from Royalty.

Stephen cast around for an excuse to keep him there. "I suppose you couldn't wet a flannel and wrap it round my ankle. There's one in the basin over there."

"Of course." The puppy had been offered a bone and willingly went to get it. He came back with the cloth, and stood beside Stephen, not sure how to proceed. Stephen's ankle was covered in sock, shoe and of course the leg of his trousers.

Something spurred Robert into boldness. "Can I take off your shoe?" he asked. "I'll try not to hurt you too much."

Without waiting for an answer, he knelt down and undid the laces. Gently he eased the shoe off, looking anxiously into Stephen's face to see if there were any signs of pain. Stephen made one grimace, though of course feeling nothing but pleasure. The boy was his slave.

"I'll take your sock off." He gently edged his fingers under the top, pulled it down and then off. Stephen's foot looked bare and white and somehow defenceless on the chair. He was glad that he hadn't skipped the morning obligatory shower. Robert pushed the trouser up, exposing more of his leg. Pale hairs glinted in the light.

Robert gazed for a moment almost as if the foot was an object of worship. Then he covered the ankle with the cloth and Stephen started, not with any feeling of pain but from the coldness.

"I'm sorry," said Robert.

"Massage it," said Stephen.

"I don't know how."

"With your hands. Rub it gently."

Robert did so, tenderly, his eyes trained closely on the object. Stephen sighed and Robert stopped. Stephen put his right hand on the back of Robert's head, his fingers entangled in the curls, and gently applied pressure, pushing it closer to his foot. "Don't stop," he said.

Robert's hand clasped the foot, his fingers rubbing the ankle, over and under the foot itself and then in between the toes. "That's good." Robert's face and lips were only an inch or two away. And now it didn't require any pressure on the back of his head. His tongue came out and licked his lips.

"Christ," thought Stephen, he was about to kiss his foot, lick it - and that was surely what he, Stephen, had wanted.

Suddenly he knew that things were going too far.

"No," he said. "That's enough. Thank you. It feels much better now."

Robert looked up, his eyes anxious, pleading. "I can do more," he said. His hands stroked upwards, under the trouser leg, smoothly to where Stephen's knee made further passage difficult.

"No more," said Stephen.

He took his leg from the seat and put his foot on the floor. "See," he said. "It's much easier already." He didn't want to stand up as he knew he had an erection. "I have some work to do."

"Perhaps some other time," said Robert.


* * * * * *

There is a knock at the front door. I'm preparing to go out on my 'evening job'. I hear mum answering it and then she says something like, 'Oh no, not again'. Then she shouts up to me. "Come down, Ricky. It's the police. They wanna talk to you. What you done now?"

There are two police in uniform, one is a woman, the other a man with a silly looking moustache. He says to me, "Are you Richard Parks?"

But before I can answer, the woman says, "Of course he is. We've met before, haven't we, Ricky?" I've seen her before when she's talked to me about taking stuff from Woolies, and not turning up at school.

I put on my special smile. "Hello, Constable Peters," I say. "What can I do you for?" I open my eyes very wide so that I look innocent and hope it's not anything to do with my activities on the street.

"Come on, son," says the moustache. "You know what we're here for. You took Miss Barton's handbag." Miss Barton is the school secretary.

It was so long ago that I'd almost forgotten about it. Blimey, the fuzz are slowing down even more these days. I guess it's all that bureaucracy they're always moaning about.

"I never," I says.

"You were last seen outside her room when she went out to spend a penny. When she got back, the bag was gone and so were you."

"I got fed up of waiting," I say. "I didn't take no bag, didn't see no bag. Honest." I open my eyes wide again. Who could suspect such innocence? Well, the two pigs do but they've no proof. They obviously haven't found the bag that I threw away into the bushes in the park. It's hardly a major crime. They aren't going to spend too much time and manpower on it.

"Why aren't you at school today?" asks the moustache.

"I didn't feel well," I say.

The woman P.C. turns to mum. "Is that right, Mrs Parks?"

"Yes," says mum. "He's got a touch of the runs." Good old mum.

The woman P.C., sighs. "You're dressed to go out now," says the moustache. And it's true. I've got my trollin' clothes on, tight jeans that show off my cock and balls, a smart sweater and a hoodie, though the hood is down. Good trainers which cost a bomb – I can afford them now.

"We may want to speak to you again," says the moustache and I know I've won.

"Give us a lift into town," I say cheekily, knowing they won't.

"Think you're the cats whiskers, don't you?" says the moustache, and I pretend not to understand.

They leave.

I give mum a twenty quid note, could have given her more but I don't want her to get too suspicious. As it is, she asks, "Where you get that from? You've not really been thieving?"

"No," I say. "I gotta job. With Split." In a way that's true.

She sighs but doesn't ask anything more.

* * * * * *

Dorian came in clutching a plastic carrier bag. It had 'Thresher's Off Licence' emblazoned on it but no one had stopped him nor questioned what was in it. With a flourish he produced a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

He opened it with the action of an expert and poured the wine into two glasses "Mon ami," he said. "A ta sante."

They drank, Dorian sipping gently as if appreciating the wine, Stephen taking a thirst-quenching gulp.

Dorian looked at him in surprise; it wasn't how Stephen, the aesthete' usually behaved. His glass was empty and Dorian filled it again. Stephen drained it.

"Is there something the matter?" asked Dorian.

"No." Though he wouldn't look Dorian in the eye.

Stephen arranged his limbs in what he imagined was an aesthetic position but he didn't look comfortable, and kept shifting uneasily.

"There is something the matter," insisted Dorian. Suddenly he appeared to realise. "You've tried it with Robert," he said. "And he turned you down."

Stephen looked outraged. "Certainly not. He was quite willing. It was just that I . . ." He tailed off into silence.

"Tell me everything," said Dorian, suddenly lubricious. "What happened – exactly."

Stephen filled and sipped from his third glass of wine. It seemed to give him confidence. "Well, I persuaded him into the study – not that he needed much persuasion. I told him that I'd sprained my ankle and suggested he might massage it."

"And did he?"

"With enthusiasm."

"So what went wrong?"

Stephen struggled to understand something that was confused in his own mind. Eventually he said, "He was the wrong person."

"The wrong person?" repeated Dorian. "In what way? He had a penis, I assume. He had a mouth. If you were thinking of going that far, I'm sure he had an anus."

Slightly embarrassed at Dorian's explicitness, Stephen waved his hands in the air. "He wanted to be a . . . subordinate," he came out with at last. "A minion."

"One who pleases rather than benefits?"

"Exactly," said Stephen with relief.

"And that is what you want to be?"

"I think so."

Dorian considered. "I'll have to think about that," he said.

* * * * * *

There is a road, Sebastopol Street, not far from the station which is where we hustlers stand. I know some of the others and we chat, sometimes about the johns we have been with, at other times about football or computer games, or pop records – things that normal teens chat about. It is as if life is divided into two parts, the sex part and the ordinary part.

The punters are usually in cars, though there are a few who walk through but I guess it's a bit embarrassing for them to have to run the gamut of the dozen or so guys staring at them. Much easier to drive slowly along the kerb, checking out this or that one's finer points before drawing up and beckoning. Though I say it myself, I'm quite a popular choice.

This evening it's mild and I've left my hoodie in my room, so I'm wearing just my T-shirt and jeans and I've already had three hits, all hand jobs, so fifteen quid in little more than half an hour. They were easy ones, coming quickly so that I was back in my place almost before I'd left.

Then up comes a BMW, dark blue as far as I can make out in the orange sodium light of the street lamps. The guy isn't particularly attractive. His waistline has increased while his hairline has done the opposite, but he speaks civilly enough and I trot out my 'menu'.

"I'll have a tenner's worth," he says.

"OK," I say. "Let's drive somewhere a bit quieter."

He tries to make conversation as we move off. It's a nice car, smooth with scarcely the sound of the engine audible. "I'm Adrian," he says. "What's your name?"

I really don't see any point in swapping names for these little encounters which mean nothing – except some pocket money for me, and relief for the john, but I don't mind telling him. "Ricky," I say.

"Hi, Ricky," he says.

"Hi, Adrian," I say. "Take the next turning on the right."

We turn into a narrow alley with street lamps spaced quite far apart. I tell him to pull up in the dark area between two of the lamps. There is no one around. He hands me a tenner and lies back. I fiddle around with his belt and zip being careful to draw it down gently. It doesn't do much for trade if you get the guy's cock caught in the zip mechanism, but he's wearing underpants. They look clean.

Being in the passenger seat, it helps that I'm left-handed. Soon he's hard and I go down on him. It's only a job and I've got used to most sorts but it helps if the guy's cock is clean. This one is and I soon have him moaning in what the johns usually assume is a measure of satisfaction. Then I use my hand but instead of cumming he just stays hard and nothing seems to be happening.

"You cumming?" I ask.

"Talk dirty," he says.

Oh Jesus, I think, one of those. "Lovely cock," I say. "You're all man. I'd know where I'd fucking like to stick it. Come on, big man, let's have your sticky stuff spurting." On and on. I wonder whether I ought to charge extra for dirty dialogue. Eventually I get pissed off; my wrist is getting tired anyway. "For fuck's sake, cum you shitty bastard."

Apparently that does it for suddenly he gives his 'sperm wail' and spurts, so unexpectedly that I can't get my mouth out of the way in time and some of it goes down my throat. I spit and the guy says, "Mind the upholstery."

Fucking cheek, it's his spunk after all. I'm not planning on leaving any evidence of me in his car. He wants off so he drops me back on the main road, and it's not too far to walk.

I'm nearly there when I meet up with this young guy in jacket and trousers. He's tall and dark and nice-looking in a sort of posh, middle-class way. He talks in a posh way too. "Excuse me," he says. "Can you tell me if this is Sebastopol Street?"

"Yes," I says. "You looking for something?"

He hesitates, and I look into his face hard for the first time. I realise he's very young, probably not much older than me. He doesn't need to buy his little bit of sex; he could have it and get paid for it. He's obviously an innocent but not innocent enough not to know the right place to look for it. Perhaps he's on the game himself, but if he is, he's stupid not to get someone to look after him.

"I'm looking for a friend," he says.

"A new friend?" I ask.

Again he hesitates, then obviously makes a decision. "Yes."

"P'r'aps, you found one," I say, still not sure what the situation is.

He gives me a look. It's obvious one of us has to make the first move. I have conflicting ideas. First it is clear that a kid like him won't have any money, so I will be losing a trick, possibly more than one. Second, I rather fancy him. It isn't often that this happens but he is young and a change from the johns I usually go with. It might even be fun. For a long time Split and me haven't done anything in bed. I suspect he has someone else.

I finally decide and move closer to the guy. He looks slightly startled, but doesn't move away. Then I touch him, give him a grope and find a handful of softness which rapidly gets hard. He's obviously willing, so I know what to do next. "You want to come back to my place?" I ask.

Perhaps I have moved in too fast for he hesitates, backs away slightly but my hand is still holding his cock and I know that that wants to.

"Is it far?" he asks.

"Just a bit up the road." Split has found me a place close to the trolling ground. It's useful. The punters don't like to have to go far to get their jollies off.

We walk together companionably. He says his name's Stephen and I say mine's Ricky. I ask him if he's still at school and he says he isn't. From the hesitation I know this is a lie but I don't mind.

"Is this your first time?" I ask.

Again the hesitation which is an answer in itself, but he says, "No, of course not," putting on a show of experience which I'm sure is false but sounds good anyway.

"What do you like doing?"

This is sneaky and there's a pause. "Oh you know. Anything," he says.

"Like what? Sucking, fucking, rimming? Snowballing, bit of bondage?" I'm teasing him of course.

But he won't show his ignorance. "Sounds good," he says but there's a hint of apprehension in his voice.

"You'll be OK," I say. "You'll enjoy it."

We get to the house which is a three-storey Victorian one with my room, the size of a moderate cupboard on the top floor. It's dark and, like all these houses there's a system with a button which switches on the light for the next flight of stairs. Then we have to to run up before the light goes out and press the next button.

It's fun and we laugh as we bump each other and then the light goes out and we grope each other before we find the switch. At last we reach my room. Stephen looks a little disappointed at the size and appearance.

I feel I need to apologise. "I'm sorry it's so small."

"My study at school is only a bit bigger," says Stephen, "and I have to share that with someone else."

"I thought you said you weren't at school."

He blushes but I laugh and push him onto the bed, feeling for his groin and giving him a kiss. His breath tastes of peppermint and I know that the last thing in my mouth has been Adrian's cock and his cum.

It's obvious that Stephen hasn't had much experience – and it's also obvious that he is very willing to learn and also that he is anxious, if not eager, for sex. His cock, almost before I touch it through the material of his trousers and – as I soon discovered – his underwear, is rigid. He loves the kissing though his first response when I try my tongue is surprise and a slight withdrawal, he obviously decides though that this is an enjoyable if new experience. His tongue finds mine and explores my mouth, teeth – almost my tonsils – with enthusiasm.

He loves, I find, to be treated, if not roughly, at least with determination and wants things to be done to him. I am happy to do this. The punters do things to me, and I am paid to accept this, even if I don't really like them. It is exciting, for me, to do things to this eager pupil. Stripping his clothes, exposing a body which, though relatively unformed, is almost beautiful, gives him obvious pleasure. The expression on his face shows this. As I stroke his body, bite his nipples, grab hold of his prick tightly, he sighs and groans in ecstacy.

He said he was into rimming but when I actually go down there, pull his legs open, expose his hole and lick him, he gasps as if he can scarcely believe I am doing this. Not that he finds it unpleasant for soon he is forcing himself back on my tongue and later on my fingers, one, two, three into the slick-lined hole. When I take them out, he moans in protest.

I promise him that I will replace it soon enough with something equally satisfying. And so I do, first putting on a condom. He watched this in surprise and I really know I've got a virgin.

"Can I do that?" he asks, reaching for the sheath.

Concentrating, his tongue protruding slightly from between his lips, he unrolls the latex onto my cock. He loves the touch of my flesh and almost seems sorry to cover it. Later I will explain to him why this is necessary.

As this is obviously his first time, I use some KY and he winces at the coldness of it as I insert it into his arse. Then I prepare, kissing him first.

"Shall I put it in now?" I ask. "It may hurt a bit at the start, as it actually goes in."

He nods.

I press against the sphincter muscle and he tenses.

"Relax, Stephen. Allow me to get in."

* * * * * *

Ricky laid him down gently on his back, lifting Stephen's legs so that his arse was exposed and vulnerable. He knew what was coming and tensed himself for the assault but instead of a steel-hard rod, first he felt the tongue again, slightly rough like a cat's, licking under the base of his scrotum and then along the perineum that sensitive area between the anus and the balls which is the centre of sexual being.

Stephen could scarcely bear the delight and arched his body upwards so that his arse was even more open and into which the cat-like tongue probed and licked. He could not stop himself making animal-like noises being almost out of his mind with the desire to cum and be fucked.

Then Ricky's cock plunged in searing him with a pain which was both ice-cold and red-hot, exquisite agony and delight. It filled him and at the same time fulfilled him. Ricky's cock was giving him the most acute physical pleasure, the frenzied ecstasy spreading out through his whole body in wave upon wave of anguished delight. He had never felt anything like this before and he wanted the cock to remain inside for ever, going deeper and deeper until it merged with his very being.

He felt it being withdrawn and then plunging in again until the movement was regular - and at each stroke he knew delight and physical satisfaction.

Then the cock inside him pulsed and he knew that Ricky was coming. He could feel the spasms inside him and in response he reared his own body up, clutching the other's haunches and pulling him if possible even closer, even further inside. His own cock twitched and jerked seemingly stimulated from behind, from some central core in his bowels. He came and came again and could not stop, the throbbing pulses feeling as if they were emptying out his very entrails.

He collapsed backwards on the bed, utterly spent, gasping and panting, his limbs trembling uncontrollably.

Dimly, through the mists of that aching, ecstatic post coitum he heard Ricky's voice. "I guess you enjoyed that."


"I hope I haven't led you into bad ways."

So that's what mother meant.

Stephen smiled.

* * * * * *


* * * * * *

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Date started: Saturday, September 16, 2006
Date Finished: Tuesday, December 26, 2006 19:05
Words: 8,423


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