Date: Mon, 24 Dec 2001 17:00:50 +0000 From: Java Biscuit Subject: Vancouver Island, chapter one This story involves teen/boy, male/male graphic sex and is not intended for reading by minors. If you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where you live, please stop now, and go read something else! This is a completely fantasized story meant only for the purpose of pleasurable reading. This story is not meant to encourage unsafe, unprotected sex. Feedback to javabiscuit@hotmail.com Vancouver Island by Biscuit I had no right to take that kid. His dad had no right to give him to me. But that's what happened. I was sixteen years old, a total fuck up, entrusted with a ten year old kid. My pockets were stuffed with peyote buttons and psilocybin mushrooms, like some kind of dowry from his dad. The biggest difference between me and the other losers living in the beach shacks, was that I had money. Well, I didn't have it. My family did. But I could get my hands on some if I needed to. And I had a semblance of a brain. A speck of gray matter that made me the fucking Einstein of the beach shacks. Calling them shacks makes them sound a lot better than they were. We're talking driftwood and plastic sheeting and other kinds of shit nailed together. The good ones, like mine, had a kind of stove like a an old garbage can in them, we called them airtights. A dozen of them were scattered at the bottom of a steep wet trail loaded with rotting cedar, about fifty miles up the west coast of British Columbia. Vancouver Island. Calling the place a beach is a a cruel thing to do somebody whose only seen ones made of sand. Boulders and rocks, stretches of stone and pebbles, caves. Fallen trees that grew right down to the water in places. Seaweed from hell -- giant slimy snakes of kelp -- twenty feet long, and fat around as your arm. The surf was so rough you'd be battered to death if you didn't freeze first. The people who lived there were fucked up. Druggies, homeless would-be hippies, some fruit pickers out of season, though God knows migrant work was beyond the grasp of most of the guys living there. At the top of the trail was a changing cast of nature lovers and loggers looking for blowjobs. I spent the worst and best summer of my life there and the only reason I did it, was to be near a ten year old boy that I'd fallen for like a ton of bricks. I ended up on that beach because of Saguaro. I met him at a music festival in Oregon. We were both of us sixteen years old with nowhere to go. He was into pot and mescaline and I was into whatever, with whoever. Mostly guys. After three days of drugging and fucking, in God knew whose tent, he asked me if I wanted to head north with him. I said sure. I'd been drifting for months. I'd walked out of school so many times my mother had just stopped sending anyone after me. She was a mess. A mess with money, but a mess, all the same. Just then, she was trying to pretend to be normal. She'd gotten married again. She and my step dad were practicing "tough love" on me. What a joke. I'd call her lawyer when I was desperate and he'd send me money, general delivery, where ever the fuck I'd ended up. Saguaro had a mystical streak; kind of cute but goofy. A French Canadian boy who'd changed his name to a Southwestern cactus when his lover took him to Arizona the year before. Anyway, he got me all hyped up about going to this beach, feeding me stories while we hitched north into Canada. We had to sneak across the border because we didn't have papers. He said there were magical people at the beach with great drugs and we could live in one of these cool shacks for nothing. I swallowed the whole nine yards. I liked fucking him. I could do without the magic, but drugs and beach sounded good. If I hadn't been strung out and frozen I'd have beat him to death the night we finally got there. We'd half slid, half hiked, forty-five minutes through mud down the side of a cliff in the dark. The sound of the waves crashing below us was like the mega voice of doom. Me, stoned, still thinking I was going to find a sandy California beach at the bottom of it all. The smell of cedar from the rotting trees, and burning in the wood smoke from the shacks, was so heavy it stuck in my throat. To this day, just a whiff of cedar smoke gives me a hardon and makes me feel like crying. We'd gotten rides, all right, as long as one or the other of us, mostly this one of us, took care of the guy behind the wheel. How many times did that little fuck Saguaro look at me and shrug, "He likes you." I no longer wanted to fuck Saguaro, I wanted to fucking kill him, revive him, and then kill him again. Unfortunately, I hardly had enough strength left to make it to the pile of wood that was the home of his buddy Armand. "You'll love this guy, he's crazy," he said. He was right about one thing, the guy was certifiable. Armand actually lived on that beach with his family. A pasty faced Ontario girl and their son, the boy I was about to fall for lock, stock and barrel. Sarah, the wife, only talked about food. Wistful memories of it, current supplies of it, plans to get some, etc. Armand talked bullshit, insane philosophy of life stuff. He told grandiose stories you knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of being true. His shack was the most solid one on the beach; he'd been living in it for years. His son Yves was born in that shack and that's where I met him, the most beautiful creature I'd ever laid eyes on. Even in the state I was in that night, he just about made my eyes bug out. My dick saluted in my clammy, grimy pants, stealing much needed blood from my weary, drug-addled brain. Like a little wood nymph, stinking of cedar and smoke, like every other thing on that beach. His dad's dark good looks and his mother's washed out English prettiness had given him the world's biggest green brown eyes, ringed with heavy dark lashes in a face that was part sultry and part sweet. His coloring was exotic; dusky skin and ashy blond hair. He had rough cut bangs and the rest of it looked like it had been growing forever, braided down to his ass. He was bare assed naked in the steamy shack. Even as I was thinking about how I could get the fuck out of there, I could hardly keep my eyes off of him. He'd gotten up from the one bed they had in there, and was sitting on his dad's lap, leaning back on him, watching me like a little hawk. He'd look away every time I looked at him, but then he'd peek to see if I'd stopped looking so he could stare at me some more. It was summer, but you'd never have known it. It was so fucking cold outside. I was grateful to be in a room with a fire going. Armand was nuts but he kept his family warm and fed and he always had drugs. He passed me a pipe loaded with hash in a bed of tobacco. He and Saguaro were going on, half in French, half in English, and I prayed that the upshot of it all would be a place to sleep. Food would have been good, but sleep would be better. I needed rest so I could get up and get the fuck out of there in the morning. The kid wasn't the only one staring at me. Armand was doing a pretty good job of it too. He and his kid were across the table from me. All of us; Armand, me and Saguaro, were sitting around this table made of a board on top of an empty cable spool. I was getting buzzed, and trying not to stare at the kid, at Armand's big hand on the boy's naked belly. Armand's devil dark eyes were catching the flicker from the burning candles. He suddenly spoke to me directly, in English, with an accent thicker than Saguaro's. "I be telling Saguaro," he said, "that you're having perfect lips." Jesus Christ, was there any guy on the planet who didn't want me to suck his dick? "Yeah, well thanks," I said. Don't get me wrong. He was a hot looking guy. Broad naked shoulders, and a hard chest showing around the bib of the old denim overalls he was wearing, with nothing under them. Not big, but real solid. Hawkish face, with a sensuous mouth he'd bequeathed to his son. More than just good. Another time I might have hoped he'd look at me like that. But I was so pissed off at being where I was and so beat; I could still taste the guy who'd shot his load in my mouth at the top of the trail. Sarah had poured us mugs of tea, and the hot, honey laced stuff still hadn't wiped out the scum in my throat. She was sitting five feet away from us, on the bed, sewing by the light of a kerosene lamp, like some kind of weird pioneer woman. Yves was draped in his dad's lap, so fucking sexy. I couldn't see below the edge of the table, but it looked like Armand had let his hand drop down between the kid's legs, he probably was fingering him. Armand considered Yves's prick his to play with as much as his own. "Armand says," Saguaro interjected, "that one of the shacks is empty. He'll take you up there. It's a good one," he said, looking at me sheepishly. "He likes you Jamie. He could help you out. He's got a lot of supplies here." "Me? What about you?" I said. "Armand says Pierre is here. He misses me." That's when I found out that Saguaro had lured me to that hell on earth looking for the fuckhead who'd taken him to Arizona and dumped him. Pierre. He was about to dump me for a guy who made Armand look like he had his shit together. Oh Jesus. It was the last straw for me and he knew it. My little fuck buddy must have seen his death in my eyes. He was up on his feet, giving me a sad look one minute, and the next he was out of there like a shot, with me jumping up and trying to chase after him. It was dark, and wet out there and I lost him at the base of the trail which he knew like the back of his hand. Fuck! I looked back at Armand's shack, and told myself I'd done worse for a place to spend the night. In the morning, I swore, I'd be out of there. Armand was grinning, refilling his pipe, his elbows planted on the rough hewn table. The kid had gone back to bed, curled up on his side, watching me with his thumb in his mouth. My shack was about sixty feet up a different trail. I knew it was a big deal, Armand helping me, but I wasn't feel very particularly grateful. I knew he'd make me pay, one way or another. "This belong to Steve," Armand said. "But he be gone for long time, you know, picking." He lit a kerosene lantern on a plank table and set about making a fire in the stove. I didn't realize how lucky I was to have one. I felt about as lucky as a cat dropped into the dog pen. I was stoned, hungry and felt like crying as I picked banana slugs, six-inch slimy bastards curled up in the damp corners of the shelf-like bed. But there was no way I was going to let Armand see me break down. I unrolled my sleeping bag; a ragged red thing that looked like the last friend I had in the world. "You be one nice slipper for somebody's foot," he laughed at me, suddenly right there behind me with his hands on my waist, pulling me back against his hard dick. I tried to wrench away from him, even though part of me wanted to be touched -- I needed something, but it wasn't his big cock near my ass. No fucking way. It only made him laugh more when I tried to get away from him. Like I said, he wasn't a big guy but he was bigger than me, and solid as rock. And I was so fucking tired. His hands climbed the front of me, getting under the sweater I'd gotten from a trucker who decided he didn't want head from a kid with blue lips and hands like ice. "I'm too tired for this shit," I said, my voice whispery, right at the edge of tears. His hands on the move. His fingertips were calloused like crazy, poking into my flannel shirt. The button holes were so worn out and loose they just let go the buttons with a slide of his hand. He was playing with my tit and my dick stirred up a little, between that and his hot breath on my neck. I did not want that thing inside me but the little bit he was holding me felt good in spite of that. "So, you don't have to do nothing." He said, like it made all the sense in the world, his hand dropping down to my crotch, finding my cock and using it like a handle to press me back into him. His dick felt so fucking huge across my ass, it made my knees feel watery. Just let him do it, I thought, and he'll leave you alone. "Whatever," I mumbled, not fighting him. I just wanted into my sleeping bag. I wanted morning to come so I could crawl back up the fucking trail and get the hell out of there. At least it was warm with Armand's body on top of me. I'd been used a whole lot worse. And it's true, all I had to do was lie there and take it. My shirt bunched up under my head, my eyes closed. He played with me for a long time and it almost got good. He knew he had a wicked huge piece and he took his sweet time getting it in me. It's not my thing, getting fucked. I know I look like I was made for it. I couldn't tell you how many times guys have told me that. I say I'm 5'9", if somebody asks, but I'm lying. I'm too fucking pretty, even when my hair is chopped off, which it wasn't then. I got this barbie doll face and dumb blond hair from my mother, likewise an ass that gets looks from guys who'd say they'd never dream of fucking another guy. What a waste. I'd like to look in the mirror and see John Wayne and instead I've got fucking Britney Spears staring out at me. I don't know half of what Armand was grunting in my ear. French, most of it. But he was loving it, that much I knew, and I guess I was grateful he knew what he was doing. He pulled out of me to shoot his load on my back, rubbing that pole between my cheeks. Thank God. He came like he'd been saving it up. I'd have been dripping that shit for days. I must have been asleep when he left. I don't remember it. Just waking up with a jolt of panic, my ass aching and my bladder full, the smell of the place swamping me. Then I heard the rain. A sound I'd get way too used to. Shivering, naked, about ten feet away from the shack I let go a hot stream into the vines at the base of a tree. Then I hunkered down with the wet leaves slapping my ass to shit out the little I had in me, softened up by Armand's dick. That's when I saw him. I never heard him coming, he was just there on the bit of a trail, looking at me through the trees. Big eyes taking in the sight of me, a smirk on his face and his arms around a big gray basket. He was dressed like his dad in a pair of big overalls with a knit hat on his head and bare feet. "Eh, bon jour, good morning," he said. Hefting the basket on his hip, he plucked a fat wet leaf off a vine and handed it to me. "Better wipe your ass, Jamie." Damn. He didn't take his eyes off me for a second. The leaf actually felt pretty good in my crack and I resisted looking at it to see if I'd gotten clean. I straightened up and wasn't feeling the cold any more. My whole body was hot with a flush and my dick was reaching for the sky. Yves took a good look at it and back up to my face, grinning. "I got you some stuff here," he said. His voice was so odd. He didn't have his dad's accent but some of the rhythm of how Armand talked and his h's were lost. I wrapped my hand around my hard dick and went past him, trying to act like it wasn't the weirdest thing in the world to be naked in some kind of rain forest with a big ass hardon for a ten year-old boy.