Date: Fri, 04 Jan 2002 17:40:03 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: Vancouver Island, 10, finale

This story involves teen/boy, teen/adult, 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. Not real, not true, no way, no how.
It is not meant to encourage unsafe, unprotected sex.


Feedback to javabiscuit@hotmail.com


Vancouver Island ~ chapter ten


by Biscuit


I was sound asleep when he showed up. The lounge couch
in the airport was the warmest, most comfortable place
we'd been in a long time. My eyes had gotten heavy and
I'd sunk into the corner of it, Yves sinking with me. The
next thing I knew, Joe Davis was waking us up.

What was I expecting? Not the slightly tired looking,
handsome man smiling down at me, saying my name. He
was saying it quietly, cautiously, like he was trying to wake
me up without scaring me.

I had never seen Joe Davis out of his office. I certainly had
never seen him in anything but a smart business suit. It was
him, all right, I knew his face, but he was in casual, warm
looking clothes, an open necked shirt and sweater. Funny
how he looked younger to me, like that. Plus, I think when
you're a kid, grown-ups seem to stay the same age longer
than you do. You're the one changing the most. I guess he
was about forty or so, I'm not sure. He looked friendly,
not formal.

Yves stirred, stiffly, when I moved. He was curled around
me in a way only he can manage, with his head hanging
back on the arm of the couch. I helped him sit up, my
joints protesting from the way I'd been sleeping. Joe was
watching closely, but calmly. It was unreal to be touching
Yves in front of him, my hands around his ribs, him on
my lap. To me, Joe Davis was the eyes of the world, the
real world where I came from.

My heart was in my throat, but when Yves knocked his
heavy head on my cheek and rested it there for a moment,
to get his bearings before getting up, I let him, and turned
my nose into his hair. The scent of the beach was long
gone. He smelled more like french fries and cigarettes,
but underneath was the smell of him, his warm skin.

I guess it happened right then. The way he waited for us
to get up. The way he was calm. I got my first sign that
there was life after calling Joe Davis. He'd seen me
touching Yves and the sky wasn't falling. Joe Davis had
watched and was still looking at us with eyes full of
sympathetic concern, not disgust.

He took us to a hotel by the airport. We had a flight back
to New York in the morning. I didn't know then that he'd
done it on purpose, wanting a chance to talk to us before
taking us to my mom. He wanted her to have a chance to
get ready to see us. To talk to us himself.

I was relieved to have a little time before facing her.
Time to get used to the decision I'd made. I was very
grateful for how he was treating us, especially Yves. It
shouldn't have surprised me that he liked him. People
did. But for him to like Yves was different. He was
going to be the one to help us or hurt us.

He took us to the hotel and sent us off to the bathroom
to take a shower, gathering up our clothes and calling
the laundry service. I was surprised. No weirdness about
me and Yves showering together. I couldn't believe he
was so matter of fact about things. He was a lot more
calm than I was. Both of them were.

It felt good to be in a shower, so good that we undid
Yves's hair and washed it. We didn't fool around in
there. I was still too nervous for that. I think it may be
the only time in my life I was that close to Yves's naked
body without sprouting wood.

In the shower, Yves told me, "I be liking him a lot,
Jamie. He don't make me go away." He seemed so sure.
I wanted to be. I was tempted to be.

They had big fluffy robes there and I think I did feel a
twitch when I looked at Yves bundled up in one, with
his hair hanging loose down his back.

Joe had questions. A lot of questions. And a notepad
where he kept track of what we told him. We sat on one
of the two beds and he sat on the other, with a beer and
his case next to him, open, and a clipboard on his lap. I
was sitting behind Yves, combing out his hair as it dried.
It was a soothing thing to do, working out the little knots,
slowly, until it was all smooth as silk spread out on his
back. Time consuming too, which was good, since I
couldn't smoke or anything.

Joe wanted to know everything. He seemed really
interested in what life was like for Yves, growing up. I
liked hearing it too, being carried back there, in a way,
listening to him. He was the opposite of Armand in the
way he told a story, no embellishments, no spinning. But
it was better to listen to, I thought, because it was plain.

It was so strange. We didn't hide anything from him. As
far as I could see, there wasn't a single thing that made
him flinch. Maybe it's a lawyer thing, to just absorb stuff
and take notes. There were times he seemed moved, or
he thought something was funny, but he never acted
shocked, only kind of surprised.

He asked us really personal stuff too. That wasn't easy.

A maid brought our clothes back, washed and folded.
Joe asked me if I wanted to go have a smoke. I did. I
got dressed and went down to the lobby for a cigarette.
He gave me money to buy a pack, and told me he was
going to talk to Yves alone for a little while. I guess he
wanted to ask him about sexual stuff, without me there.

We had dinner at the restaurant in the hotel, not long
after I went back upstairs. It was good to see Yves's
hair clean and freshly braided, to see him in clean
clothes. He looked better, sitting there next to Joe in
that place, eating a hamburger, than he'd looked in a
long time.

I'd only known Yves for five or six months and I
couldn't imagine life without him.

Of course, as it turned out. I didn't have to.

I guess you could say that Yves succeeded in getting me
back to the palace. I wouldn't call the apartment on
Riverside Drive the palace. It would be when we moved
back downtown. Not to Perry Street, but Banks Street,
close enough. My mom had gotten her fill of uptown
and loser guys. The best part was when she broke down
and called Jody and the two of them started going out
again. A little bit, and then a little bit more, until she
was back living with us.

The brownstone on Banks had three floors. The third
floor was our own world. The first floor was theirs
and the second was where we came together, me and
Yves, and my mom and Jody. Jody was bigger than
ever. She'd gotten into working out and her shoulders
were awesome. Still tending bar. Still loved my mom,
after two years of waiting for her to come to her
senses. Maybe she realized my mom didn't have
much sense to come to, and decided she loved her
anyway.

Jody could have given Karl lessons in being a Daddy,
for real. She was the anchor for all of us. She barked,
she kept us line, but like a big old guard dog keeping
her family safe. With her there we had roots. Even
when my mom would wig out a little bit and decide
everybody had to stop eating processed food, like
immediately, so she threw out all the food in the
kitchen, or we had to have algae drinks and we'd
find lined up waiting for us, or become Wiccans,
which meant that the coven had to meet at our house,
or that she was going rearrange all the furniture,
again. Jody would be there, like a mountain of calm
in the midst of my mom's whirlwinds. Refilling the
the fridge, pouring out the undrunk algae, policing
the witches, etc.

Did they love Yves? Like I'd brought them Louis
the fourteenth on a silver platter. He became my
brother, in name, and I wouldn't doubt he became
the favorite son.

Joe was inclined to help Yves before he even met him,
just because he was a kid that needed help. But he
made up his mind, for sure, how he'd do it, the night
the three of us spent in Chicago.

When he was alone with Yves he asked him about
sex stuff. When he was alone with me, he asked about
the sex, but he talked more about other things. We'd
taken Yves back to the room after dinner and went
walking together, me having a smoke in the lobby.

"I'm not going to tell you what you and Yves can or
can't do together," he told me. "But what you have to
understand, is that if we take the steps to make him
your brother, he'll be part of your family, no matter
what. If he decided tomorrow that he never wanted
you to touch him again, you would have to accept that.
If you fall in love with somebody else, he'll still be
there, whether it makes you uncomfortable or not.
Your brother."

I nodded. No use saying, I'll never fall in love with
someone else, though I believed it. And I didn't think
that Yves was going to wake up the next morning and
not want me to touch him. But that wasn't the point.
Even I knew I was too young to make that kind of
pronouncement and have anybody take me seriously.
This was better. Better than, more than, a marriage.
A chance to keep him with me, no matter what. It
made me glow from the inside out and Joe saw it. My
brother. Solid and real. Protected. "What about my
mom?" I asked him.

"Your mom wants you home, Jamie. She'd take him
in just to make that happen. But I think, once she
meets him, she'll want to help him for his own sake."
He smiled at me. He put his hand on my shoulder as
we started back to the room. "I think you're going to
make your mom very happy when you bring her
Yves." He was one smart lawyer, and good friend to
my mom. To me. To Yves.

And I was blessed with Eros for a brother, for all
time.

At the age of thirteen, on his birthday, in fact,
puberty hit Yves with a vengeance. I like to think I
brought it on him with my birthday present.

At ten he was beautiful, at thirteen he was criminal.
Tall enough to reach my chin, his body longer, just
as silky and slim, but naturally sheathed in sleek
muscle. Even with all that long hair and his sultry
face, he rarely got taken for a girl. He exuded a
masculine energy, still boyish, but potent. And God
help me, the boy was well on his way to packing his
dad's rod.

To walk down the street with Yves was to watch
heads turn. He was the prince. The prince of our
neighborhood. Amazing to see how he made it his
own. At the bakery, they stuffed extra pastries into
his packages. At the grocery store the cashiers lit up
at the sight of him. Every kid on our block knew his
name. Me, I was the lucky one to have his big hazel
eyes look at me, the way that others looked at him.
Shree Devi was right, I must have had really good
karma.

There was an early snow the November he turned
thirteen. It was cold and the pipes were clanking up
on the third floor. In honor of Yves's birthday, we
were free of teachers for the day. I was done with
high school by then and had actually gotten my ass
into NYU, which meant I could live at home. He was
still getting tutored at home and attending classes at
an open school run by lesbian nuns. Friends of my
mother's.

I was just plain cutting classes. I was eighteen. Still
prettier than I wanted to be. Still shy of 5'9".

At one point I'd buzzed off all my hair, hoping for a
macho effect, only to hear my mom gush, "Baby, so
beautiful. You look like that actress, you know, when
she was young. Mia Farrow!"

The thing to remember is, my mom was nuts. I did not
look like Mia Farrow, who I can only think of in that
flick, Rosemary's Baby. But I was still stuck with my
face, more Bambi than butch. I gave up the buzz, since
it did give me a deer in the headlights look. I gave up
and let it grow out. When it would get past my chin I'd
let Jody trim it up. She liked it to look neat, so it I went
around like looking like a cross between little Lord
Fauntleroy and the Little Dutch Boy and stayed away
from mirrors. I tried to cultivate a macho sneer and
told myself I looked tough.

My beard was pathetic. I didn't shave to keep from
growing it, I shaved to hide the fact that it wasn't there.
If I didn't, it looked like I had a smudge of dirt on my
lip or something. And the lips still looked like they
ought to be wrapped around somebody's dick.

But I was manly enough for Yves. And I was going
to prove it by letting him tie me up for his birthday.
For real. He'd never lost his love for making me
pretend, but I knew he'd like to really do it. It was
obvious from him joking about it, pointing in sex
shop windows (of which there were plenty in the
Village) at handcuffs or restraints.

He'd lift his feathery eyebrow at me and grin. I'd
shake my head. No way.

But with my palms sweating, I'd gone into one of
those shops and blown a lot of money. Leather cuffs
with big-ass rings on them. For the rope, I hit the
local hardware store. Yves had trusted me a thousand
ways, a thousand times. I felt like it was my turn to
trust him. I knew he'd never hurt me. At least, I was
pretty sure I knew it. It was just the thought of really
not being able to move, to make it stop. I'd never
blown the game by moving, or not much, but I knew
I could, easy, if I wanted to.

A golden day, for sure, in spite of how gray it was,
and spitting snow. Yves and I had taken the biggest
room on the top floor for our bedroom. It faced the
street but there was nothing to see out the window
from our bed but the edges of bare tree branches
and gray sky.

How many times had I seen him run his hand up
one of the four posts of our bed, and taunt me.

"Perfect, Jamie."

Now I was lounging there, pretending to relax with
my coffee and a tobacco roll-up, watching him open
the box. He was in a pair of fleecy sweat pants, like
me, almost all we wore to hang out in. He had his
shirt off, showing off his beautiful strong chest. The
funky leather cord necklace, with its handful of small
beads, was still on his neck. We'd been wearing them
for two and a half years by then.

My stomach was doing queasy things as I watched
him. I felt myself on the verge of breaking a sweat
and my dick was doing a nervously twitchy thing. I
was getting hard because it was Yves, it was about
sex, and what the fuck, I was ready for it, even if
it scared me.

He was taking his sweet time, looking up at me after
peeling back every piece of tape. Honest to God, the
torture had already started.

In the soft folds of fabric stretched across his crotch,
there was one fold that was stiff, a good five inches
long. Under there, with a few, downy, baby curls
of the softest hair imaginable, was the world's most
suckable dick.

The little bugger knew exactly what was in that box.
He'd found the package in the closet the week before.

"Maybe, I open it later," he said, stretching out on
his side with the box all but free of its wrap. "Jody's
gonna feel bad if she don't see me open everything."
Bastard.

"If you don't open that box, right now," I said, "I'm
going to kill you and Jody will be really, really upset."
Not how I'd envisioned this scene. You know, kisses,
excitement, him throwing himself in my arms.

"Okay, okay," he said.

The lid came off, he peered inside, and my stomach
did flips. Yves took out a cuff and slid it out of its
plastic wrap. He examined it slowly, turning it over
in his hands. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed the
leather like he was some kind of cuff connoisseur.

"Well, do you like them?" I asked him, nervous as
all get out. His subdued reaction was so far from
what I'd expected.

He nodded, and gave me a small smile.

"For you, yes? Not to put on me?"

I think I may have actually blushed. I felt my face
get hot.

"Yes, for me. What do you think? Don't you want
me to wear them?"

"Sure," he said, like he could take it or leave it. He
was like that all the way through buckling them on
me. Monsieur Nonchalant, cutting up lengths of rope
and knotting me up to the bedposts. I knew he was
turned on, I could see his boner, but he was so cool,
almost indifferent, it was making me crazy.

Not until the last knot was tied and I was stretched
like a piano wire to the corners of our bed, did he
break into the leering grin I'd expected to see when
he'd opened that box. The last chick was hatched,
and that's when he did his victory dance. No fool,
my kid brother; he didn't count them up till the
last shell popped.

The gift wasn't in the box. The gift didn't exist
until I was splayed out in front of him, honest to
God, tied up.

"Oh Jamie," he said, rubbing his dick in his pants.
"I hope you did a nice long piss when you wake up
today. You don't be getting up again for nothing."

Fuck! Just him saying it made me do a brain check
on my bladder. Did I feel something? What I felt
was wide open, sweaty, and scared. A live lab frog
with a hardon.

Yves took off his pants and put on his favorite music
tape, something weird and French that he loved. I'd
opened the gates to hell and unleashed a monster. He
was dancing in front of the chest of drawers that was
his, his beautiful butt swaying, and his braid swinging,
as he searched for junk. I couldn't take my eyes off
him. My nerves were strung as tight as my body.

Out of the top drawer he pulled a long silk scarf of
my mom's. He'd rescued it from her bag for Good
Will. It was frayed and worn out, with holes in it. I
watched it sail through the air as he danced his way
back to the bed. In his other hand was a fat tube of
KY jelly. He deposited his booty on the ratty armchair
we had near the bed and for a moment he came to me,
stretching out out over me with a full body press that
was heavenly. He kissed me good and deep and I ached
to put my arms around him.

"Thank you, Jamie," he said. "The best birthday gift
ever." Well all right, I thought, that's what I wanted
to hear. It calmed me down a little and heated me up
at the same time.

Then he went to work.

I think that silk scarf eventually tickled every inch
of my skin. But he started at a nipple, like a pitcher
throwing a warm up ball or a guitar player, testing
his strings. He let it barely flutter across my flesh
and I jerked like I'd been stung, pulling at the cuffs,
muscles tensing like crazy. The strain through my
armpits and chest took the feel of it and cranked it
up a thousand percent, like he'd plugged me into an
amplifier. Oh God, I thought, I won't last five
minutes.

Yves McCaffery, sex demon from hell. He had me
sweating and squirming so fast, I started making
let me go noises. Twenty minutes into it, I almost
ended. He was working on the insides of my thighs,
sliding that scarf and his fingertips up to and not
touching my balls. My arms and legs were aching
and I wanted to touched so bad.

"I can't... stand it," I said, feeling awful the second
the words were out of my mouth. He looked at me,
calculating. He walked around the bed, feeling each
foot and both of my hands, stroking my ankles
and my forearms.

"It's not too tight," he said. "You want out, for real?"
Did I, or was I just freaking? While he was doing his
little inspection routine, I'd calmed down. Thinking.

"I guess I'm okay," I said.

"All you got to do is say stop. I stop," he told me.

I watched him squirt lube in his palm and reach for
my dick. And that was what I wanted. He twisted his
juicy fist around the knob, watching my face, and
gave me a hard stroke. Jesus. All I wanted was more.
Harder, faster, more.

"No," I groaned, "don't stop."

"We don't stop yet," he said, giving me two more
delicious dick rubs before letting go, listening to me
pant for air.

He got on the bed, between my knees, in his little
flower pose. He was twisting up the scarf, turning
it into a ribbon or rope and he tied it around my
swollen dick and balls, knotting them into a tight
package. Looking down my own belly I saw a big
fluffy bow with my tortured rod pointing over it.
My whole crotch was pounding with blood and Yves
was looking down at his handiwork like it was the
hottest thing he'd ever seen in his life. Then his big
eyes swept up my body to my face. He looked like
he was teetering at the edge himself, flushed and
heavy lidded.

He leaned forward and ran his fingertips through
my armpit, tickling the hairs so lightly I could just
barely feel it. One, and then the other, and my
whole body tried to lisft off the bed, dick first.

"That was good, Jamie," he said.

He moved up me, straddling my chest to show me
his cock. I was so far gone, it didn't register at first
that that plum bulb had a bubble of precum oozing
out of its slit. He started jacking it, bringing himself
close with feverish stroking and then stopping, his
whole body quivering. I looked up and saw his eyes
had closed. I wanted that thing in my mouth so bad I
was swallowing spit like crazy.

Then it happened.

He was pounding his dick nonstop, his breath puffing
hard. He gave a growl and the first wet cum of his
life spurted out of him. It hit the headboard behind
me. Yves's butt dropped onto my chest, his hand still
clenched around his cock. He was shaky all over, still
groaning, and a big wet drop was drooling from the
end of it. The two of us stared at it as he tried to
catch his breath.

"Oh God, Yves," I looked up at his stunned, flushed
face. So fucking beautiful. I could not believe I'd
seen him shoot his first spunk. "You okay?"

He nodded.

"I do it for real, Jamie," he said, kind of quiet. He
was looking it as his dick like he'd never seen it
before, tilting the wet head up to peer at the new
look of it, shiny with cum. He looked at me. "You
want to taste it?"

"What do you think?" I asked him, and his lips
curled up in a smile.

Then he leaned forward, guiding it into my mouth.
That's what I wanted, all right. He was a warm
mouthful, even though he wasn't hard anymore and
I bathed him with my tongue. Since he didn't pull back,
I started sucking a little, gently at first, until he started
getting hard again, his hips rocking into me. I wanted
him to come in my mouth, but my baby brother had
other ideas.

He was planning to pop his own cherry. Taking the
choice right out of my hands, after all that time. That
was the real torture he'd planned for me. I watched
him slick up his ass and I wanted it, but I was so used
to how things had been. For so long I'd safeguarded
that backside of his. Like my badge of honor, or
something; like I wasn't abusing him as long as I
didn't fuck him. Maybe I was lying to myself all that
time, but it was a big, solid lie that I'd believed in.

"I'm gonna do it, Jamie."

"I know," I said, my mouth gone dry.

He was on his knees over my bound up dick, leaning
forward with his braid hanging in front of him. It
was the sexiest thing I ever saw in my life, him bent
over me with his cock waving up to his belly and
his hand reaching around to guide my dick into his
ass. He got me in there on an ocean of lube, his face
serious, concentrating.

"Fuck, Yves, don't hurt yourself," I begged him,
but just the tight heat around the head of my dick
was too good for words. It felt like I was a foot
long and five inches around; just fucking huge in
that tight ass.

"Shh," he quieted me. I shut up and tried to lie
still, not gouge at him like my body was crying
for.

He tugged open the bow that was about to get crushed
between us, pulling my mom's scarf away, and sank
down my pole. All of me in there! He was breathing
hard, goose bumped up, his brown nipples squinched
up tight. Oh, Yves.

"I like it," his voice was whispery and he started to
move, and he must have got me where he wanted
because his hips shuddered and he let out a groan of,
"Chalice!" and started fucking me for real, his strong
thighs and calves working to lift him up and down.

If I'd waited another ten years, it would still have
been worth it, to feel myself clamped inside his hot
body, all those muscles squeezing and stroking me;
to see him squirming on it like it was the best thing
he'd ever felt. His mouth open and his eyes shut,
panting like the little engine that could. I went off
like a stick of TNT.

His eyes shot open when I started exploding. I was
wrenching at those fucking cuffs, trying to dig my
heels in and shove my way up to his throat through
his ass. He planted his butt on me hard, with his
knees spread and shaking, pumping his cock in a
feverish fist. Bastard made it. Squeezing the last of
it out of me like a wringer, his ass clenching my
dick like vise as he shot off his second wet load.

You'd think we'd run a marathon. I guess we had.
Big, big day for a thirteen year-old boy and the
semi-grown up guy that worshipped the ground he
walked on.

His ass was tender, afterwards, and I felt a twinge
of sympathetic guilt, hearing him shit it out of him.
But we celebrated in a hot, steaming bath and then
crawled into bed like a pair of worn out puppies.

It was a landmark. His birthdays always would be.
The eighteenth, his twenty-first. Mine, in the spring,
never seem as momentous.

Eventually we left the Village. Settling in the woods
of Cape Cod, not far from the water. Once again it
was Joe Davis who helped us, when Armand and
Sarah came to the states. The city didn't suit them.
And I think Yves is happier here too. Our cottages
are about as close to beach shacks as civilized man
should have to get. Lovely things with electricity
and running water.

My mom and Jody come to visit a lot, and it's funny
to see Jody with Armand. They're good friends. She's
taller than he is, and their shoulders match. She's got
a lot of patience for hearing his stories. And I guess,
loving my mom, she's got a big tolerance for crazy
people. Maybe tending bar all those years gave her the
knack for listening. She drinks her beer and he smokes
his bowl, and Sarah tries to show my mom how to
cook stuff. Sarah is still the best cook in the world.

Five and a half years between us doesn't seem like
much now. I write. Yves does everything else. He is
more beautiful than ever. An inch taller than me.
Slim and sculpted, with skin like butter, and an ass
that should be cast in bronze and worshipped in
churches. I perform my own personal obeisance,
every chance I get.

He's showing it off right now, bending over a row
of new tomato plants. Oh, Yves. Maybe it wasn't the
smartest thing, to set up my desk overlooking his
garden. But what the fuck, I can't spend my whole
life writing.