Date: Tue, 01 Jan 2002 04:24:10 +0000 From: Java Biscuit Subject: vancouver island, chapter 7 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 seven by Biscuit Yves and I sat on a bench in Golden Gate park. It was kind of cloudy, maybe more like a solid gray fog, I guess. We had coffees and I had a newspaper. Yves was rolling me a smoke from the battered package of what remained of our stash of tobacco. He'd put a sliver of apple in it to keep it moist and every time I was sure the stuff must be gone, he'd take it out and gather up of a good fingerful to roll up in a fat cigarette. I kind of suspected he'd nicked a few smokes from people along the line and shredded the tailor-mades into his stash. I'm not sure what I was looking for in the paper. A cheap hotel, a hostel address. I honestly didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I still had some money hidden on me but was hoarding it. If I could figure out a cheap place to stay, maybe I could think of what the fuck to do next. A lot of times other kids, drifters, will find you in a park and have some advice about where to go. I think I was half hoping for that. Yves's feet were better than they'd been but Dave had just about wrecked the kid's shoes trying to make them stop hurting him. What had been a pair of little hard hiking boots, now were more like a pair of laced on sandals with ankle cuffs. Very weird looking with his socks sticking out, but he said they felt a lot better, so what the fuck. He seemed more than content, drinking his milky sweet coffee, watching people; unconcerned about what I would decide to do. I was getting restless, not seeing anything in the paper that I'd hoped for. Maybe the bus station should be our next move, I thought, feeling like San Francisco was too big to start exploring on foot. I wasn't sure how much walking those little ones, swinging in the air next to me, could take. I saw the orange color before anything else. It was super bright in the grayness. A man and a boy dressed in brilliant orange clothes, kind of like the guys at the Krishna temple, but not exactly. These two had orange shirts and pants on under their wrapped up things. The boy was about Yves's age, maybe a little older and had really long hair, pulled back in a braid. He and Yves were checking each other out. Weird. The man was holding the kid's hand. He sort of smiled at me as they went by. He had that bland Krishna temple look on his face but his vibes struck me more like Nathan Jones. Especially when I saw his eyes take in Yves, even though it was quick. They went past us a ways and then turned and started walking back. "That boy, Jamie," Yves said, "I think he likes you pretty much. He be coming back to get you." I had my own thoughts on the subject, more along the line of the guy and what he was up to. That they were heading back and that they were checking us out, that, I didn't doubt. Maybe, I thought, if they were from something like that temple in Victoria, we could get a meal and if we were lucky, a cheap room of some kind. Armand never stayed at the Krishna temple but he'd told me they would put you up if you were desperate for a place to stay. He preferred to drink their coffee, load up on their free food and sleep somewhere else. "Shanti, good morning children," the man said when they were in front of us. "Shanti," the kid said. That was their particular brand of hello. Both of them were wearing long beaded necklaces, with medallions hanging off them. It looked like some guy's picture was on it. Not Krishna though, that's for sure. Krishna's a blue guy who plays a flute and this one looked white. "Right," I said, not wanting to say whatever it was they'd said, and feeling funny about a straight hello. "You guys know any cheap places to stay? Have you got some kind of temple or something?" I swear the two of them looked at each other like I'd just confirmed their belief in the hereafter. The boy beaming, all kinds of adoring at the guy, and the guy nodding at him. "Yes, indeed, child. You and your companion would be most welcome to come with us. My name is Swami Ganesha, and this is Ganesh." "I'm Jamie, this is Yves." I got up, tossing my coffee in the trash. I shouldered my pack but saw Yves still sitting on the bench, looking at them like he'd rather do just about anything in the world than go with them. "It's okay," I told him. Fool, that I was. "We don't have to stay there, we can have a snack or something and go someplace else." "Most certainly," the swami said, but Yves got up real slow. He shrugged and picked up his pack. I knew he didn't want to do this, but was going along with it since I'd said we wouldn't have to stay. As soon as they were walking ahead of us, he turned his little reproachful face to me. "Me," he whispered, "I don't be liking that boy." I grinned at him, reaching over to tug his braid. "I be liking you," I whispered back to him and he did give me a begrudging smile. Little Flower Templee was in the middle of a neighborhood that once upon a time had been called Haight-Ashbury, maybe it still was. Except for the fact that I couldn't smoke, the place really wasn't too bad. It was clean and bright and it smelled awesome, like spices and incense. It was kind of good too, that you had to take your shoes off, since it was a break for Yves's feet. "It's not so bad," I said to him, especially not with two trays full of food in front of us. "There don't be no girls in this place," Yves said, leaning across the cafeteria table where they'd left us alone to eat. Ganesh had put a tray on either side of the table but now that he'd gone, Yves was sliding his over next to mine and coming around to sit next to me in a hard plastic chair. Orange plastic, of course. "No, there aren't." "Aren't," he echoed. He kept trying to imitate me, but as soon as he'd speak freely, he sounded just like Armand again. If anything, I ended up copying him half the time. The food was good. I hadn't eaten fresh vegetables and soup, or good bread in ages. I felt good seeing him eat food that wasn't a Big Mac or hot-dogs, like it meant I was taking care of him. There were pictures on the walls of the same guy whose picture was hanging off everybody's bead necklaces. Definitely a white guy, with long black hair, gray over his ears, a bushy gray beard and real piercing dark eyes. He was Shree something, something way too long to remember. The short cut to his name, I found out, was Shree Devi. There was a cut out in the wall at the end of the room, looking into a big kitchen, and a guy kept showing up there, looking out at us. He was maybe about my age. All done up in orange, like the others, but his hair was shaved real short and he had an orange knit cap on his head. "Are you finished eating, brothers?" he asked when I guess he could see our bowls and plates were empty. "Yeah, thanks." "You can bring me the trays and I'll show you the room you may stay in." Yves gave me a killer look. "Just for a night, Yves," I said. "What can it hurt?" God, a more sullen face would be hard to imagine. But I kept thinking that I just wanted to be able to park myself and think for a few days. The kid's name was Ghandi, and he was an odd one. Looking me over pretty good. I was starting to think it was some kind of gay guy's temple and I wasn't far wrong. Ghandi showed us a bathroom across the hall from our little room. It was for the whole floor, I guess. Lots of shower heads along one wall and some benches. A whole row of toilets with no doors or anything along the other wall. These guys were not into privacy, that's for sure. Still, I was thinking that getting some of the road dirt off might be a good thing. The room was tiny. Two cot like beds and just enough room for our packs at the ends of them. Kind of creepy that there wasn't a window or door. We helped ourselves to a shower. I had one eye on the door in the beginning but it was impossible not to get distracted by a naked soapy Yves. He was so young, still shooting blanks when he came, but it seemed like he could do it a lot. He was doing it on my leg when I looked up and saw Ghandi watching us from the doorway. Yves felt me being startled but he was so close he just hung on to me and finished. Oh Jesus, I thought, we're in for it now. The guy looked upset and came striding over, shutting the water off. He threw a towel at me. "Cover yourself, brother," he said, glancing pointedly down at my stiff dick. Then he brought a towel and draped it around Yves's shoulders. He ushered us to our room, swiftly. There were orangey looking pajamas, like he was wearing, laid out on the cots for us and our packs were gone. "Swamiji says you must put these on. Your others clothes are disturbing the energy of the temple. Go on," he said sharply. "Do it." Suddenly the doorway filled with Swami Ganesha. He was beaming at us. "It's all right children. Your things are being kept for you. Ghandi, Swami Ghandiji is waiting for you upstairs. Shanti." What the fuck. The nervous boy darted a look at me, mumbled, "Shanti," and hurried out the door. The swami turned to us, with his hands folded in front of him. "Don't be alarmed by Ghandi, children. He should not have intruded on your privacy in the shower. He doesn't understand that you are not bound to follow our ways and was disturbed by your sex play." Jesus, fucking, Christ. I suddenly felt like I was back in the car with the guy that wanted to hold my hand, but there was nowhere to pull over and get out. What the fuck was I going to do, run out of there barefoot, wrapped in a towel? Believe me, I thought about it. I reached for Yves, but he didn't come to me. He was putting on the orange pajamas, figuring, I guess, that if there was running to do, at least he wouldn't be bareassed naked. "I'd like to get our stuff now," I said. "Thanks for the shower and all, but I think we have to go." The swami looked pained. "Child," he said. "Jamie, why don't you come with me up to one of the classes that's in session. I think you'd enjoy it very much. You're upset for nothing. No one wants to hurt you here. No one will stop you from loving your companion. Your clothes are in the laundry just now. They'll be cleaned and packed for you later. I promise. You have to admit that your things were somewhat grimy. We are very sensitive to scent and vibrations here. No one is trying to steal your things, just to clean them." Oh God. All my money, my drugs, my things. I felt like I was having a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. It was Yves who held the drawstring pants up to me. "Put on the pants, Jamie," he said. His big hazel eyes were as serious as I'd ever seen them. I nodded, choking up with panic, taking them from him. Then the shirt, which was filmy and loose. God, I wanted to throw myself at Yves's ravaged little feet and beg him to forgive me for getting us into this mess. He knew it and had already forgiven me. "It's okay," he said, though I'd said nothing. He tried a small smile on me. "You look not too too bad in that, Jamie." Armand had us dead to rights when he told Yves to take care of me. God knows he was trying his best, if I'd only pay attention to him. The swami was smiling in a way I'm sure he meant to be reassuring, but the only thing reassuring me was the steadiness of Yves. He was keeping a grip and that's all that stood between me and freaking out completely. We put on little cotton socks and followed the bastard down the hall and upstairs where the smell of incense was even stronger and there was music playing. The so-called class just about blew what was left of my pitifully undrugged mind. The guy took us into a room where there were six of these of swami guys spread out with their feet pointed at the center of the room, like some big-ass sunflower made up of swamis. Every one of them had a kid kneeling between his legs, and was sporting full blown wood. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or start jerking off. The light was low but I saw the main swami was there, the guy whose picture was plastered all over everything. He was on a gold, pillowed platform in the corner of the room, naked, with his legs folded around a huge honking hard dick. It was one of the biggest tools I ever saw in my life, pointing straight up from his hairy crotch. "Tabarnac," Yves muttered. That's tabernacle, for sure. I saw little Ganesh, the kid we'd seen in the park, kneeling in front of an empty space. He saw us and smiled like we were about to get to do a really great thing, that he already knew about. The other kid, Ghandi, was there too, not smiling. He was kneeling between the legs of another swami, I guessed Ghandiji -- since they all seemed to be named in pairs. "This way," the swami said in a hushed tone. He guided us to an empty space between his boy and the Ghandis. "You will take the swami's part," he whispered to me. Damn. That's when I saw my old buddy Ghandi shoot me that look again and it dawned on me that he was fucking jealous. Boys weren't allowed to do it with other boys here, and that's what was pissing him off. I couldn't help it. Freaky as the whole thing was, I sprung a boner as tight as an eggplant. It matched all the rest of the orange tent poles rising around the room. When Swami Ganesha had taken his place beside me, with a happy looking Ganesh planted between his legs, the big swami, Shree Devi rose from his cushion and started to speak. "Shanti, my children. Shanti, my brothers. Join me in welcoming two little flowers to the temple." The guy was standing right over my head, he had a long peacock feather in his hand, but it was hard to look away from the upside down view of his giant balls at the top of his hairy thighs. My God. He swirled the peacock feather over me. "Brother Jamie, welcome. You are a precious soul. Your spirit is ancient, your karma to attain the state of swami at an age that is still tender. Your spiritual name has been revealed to me. Henceforth, you are blessed to be called Swami Anandaji." I watched that feather shimmy over my chest and down to my hard dick. Then it skittered up to Yves's face. "And you, child. Beautiful, beautiful. Your name is Ananda. Bliss." It was the strangest thing I've ever been through in my life. Shree Devi retreated to his throne and from there, in a voice that was bizarrely soothing and mellow, he started putting all the little flowers through their paces. "The rising spirit of the swami is the flowers' source of joy. Let the petals of your hands seek the energy made flesh, the precious purse of your swami." I watched Yves check out what his little friend Ganesh was doing to Swami Ganesha. I did too, and my dick started drooling, as I anticipated Yves's hands on my balls. It seemed to me like my own personal swami spirit was going to be creaming my pants really soon. But the big swami had his eye on things. "If the spirit is too strong, withdraw your petal fingers. It is vital to perform the ritual with patience." Yves saw the spreading moisture over the head of my dick. His big eyes moved up to my face, and he betrayed only the tiniest smirk, taking his hands off my way too eager balls, waiting a few minutes for me to cool down before touching me again. The music and Shree Devi's voice droned on. I don't think my dick ever felt that hard and huge before in my life. Getting blown in slow motion in a room full of guys all getting it at the same time was almost enough to make me a believer. Our flowers opened our orange pajama pants and started in on some naked dick work. By the time Shree Devi instructed them to bathe our purses with their tongues I think I hit a state of consciousness I'd never been to before; Yves washing my balls and breathing hard on my dick for what felt an hour poised at the edge of erupting. Ananda, for sure. I was so blissed out by the time I finally blew my load that it felt like tidal waves rising from my balls. My little flower's wet lips were dancing over and over the head of my spurting swami stalk. That's when Shree Devi collected his tribute. With the swamis dead on the floor, he had himself a parade of little flowers that he sucked off, one by one, reclining on his big gold pillow. He chose my personal flower to suck his holy cock. I saw murder in my flower's big eyes when he was done and came back to me, his head hanging down. Oh God, Yves. I had to get him the fuck out of there.