Date: Mon, 17 Dec 2001 22:52:45 +0000 From: Java Biscuit Subject: Babying Reuben, chapter one This story involves 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. Feedback to javabiscuit@hotmail.com Babying Reuben ~ chapter one by Biscuit It wasn't the money, though God knew, the money helped. Reuben's head hung down, his arms hugging the too-light weight of his battered trench coat around him. It hid his body. His dark hair fell forward in loose, looping curls, hiding his face. He tried to make himself as inconspicuous as he could in the back of the shop. He knew he should have waited until Jean was alone, finished with business for the day. Reuben stole a glance at him. He was talking patiently to his customer, an attractive young woman, wrapped in a thick fur coat. She was buying a piece of furniture they were calling an armoire. Jean sounded calm, charming, and the woman was blatantly flirting with him as they made arrangements for the piece to be delivered. Not just a customer, Reuben realized as he heard them speak of mutual friends, of a drinks party. Bastard, thought Reuben, feeling the man's easy banter with her as a slap in his face. His stomach was in knots. He'd never shown up like this before, without being called. It wasn't because he needed money, though Reuben knew he'd ask for some. It wasn't even for the sake of the hardon he'd had off and on for hours, thinking about coming here. I'm sicker than he is, Reuben swore at himself, craving the game itself, the way the man treated him. The heavy heat of the shop was seductive. Every time Reuben thought he'd go mad from waiting, scream if the woman lingered one more second, he'd glance through the window at the wind whipped scene outside, and stifle the impulse to flee. "Well then," she said, for what seemed to Reuben like the thousandth time, "stop by Laurent's later. We'll probably be there until at least eight or so." "All right," Jean replied, easily, walking her toward the door. In your dreams, bitch, thought Reuben. At that moment he wished that Jean was an ugly man, a man that only he could love. Love? Want. Fuck! The door was closing, they were alone. As much as Reuben had wanted this moment to come, to be rid of her, his chest and throat constricted. He jammed his hands deeper into his pockets and felt his face tighten as he turned, forcing himself to look at the man he was in love with. Reuben tried to summon a pose of defiance. He wanted his look to say that he didn't care whether Jean wanted him or not. "Reuben," Jean said, the deep timbre of his voice was instantly soothing. The boy's shoulders relaxed slightly and he drew a breath. He prayed his eyes didn't betray the hunger he felt. Jean looked tired, but it suited him. He was auburn haired, tall and slim; beautifully built, thought Reuben, who would have loved to draw him. The strength of his features made what might have been a too pretty face, strikingly handsome. Reuben rarely saw him like this, in the neutral territory of the shop. It startled him to see how at home Jean was in this world, the normal world of business, women in furs, casual drinks parties. Jean's clothes were impeccable; he wore jeans that were deep blue and seemed tailored, fitting him as if they'd been custom made for him. Well, they might be, he thought. Jean certainly seemed to be well-off enough to afford something like that. His white shirt was crisp. "I thought it might be okay to come by. I guess I should have waited and come to the back door," Reuben said, trying for indifference, but sounding apologetic and defensive in his own ears. He bit his lip, wishing he could take the words back. But then Jean smiled and Reuben felt warmed from the inside out. "You'd have had to knock pretty loud to be heard from there," he said. "It's okay, Reuben. I'm feeling rich today, child." As he spoke, Jean was turning and Reuben watched him, wondering why in the world such a man paid for sex. He saw that Jean's hair was getting quite long, gathered at the back of his neck, it now reached between his shoulder blades. Reuben loved when it hung loose and brushed against him. Jean was dimming lights, making the scene out the windows more vivid. It was early evening but impenetrably dark beyond the streetlights. Darkness so early was still shocking in autumn. By winter, Reuben thought, I'll be used to it. "I need to buy paints," he heard himself say. True. Paints were expensive but his parents sent money to his uncle for him to buy them with, at least the basics. "You do, indeed," Jean said. The shop was dark now except for the spot lit windows and Jean was moving toward him, past the dining table display with its expensive china, past the much discussed armoire destined for delivery in the morning. Reuben's heart was beating fast, his cock swelling outrageously harder in the trap of his jeans. When Jean touched him he felt his nerves tingle from the backs of his knees, up his spine, to the nape of his neck. One of Jean's hands curved behind his neck, the other slid into his coat.. "My baby needs paints," Jean murmured close to Reuben's mouth, and kissed him softly, hand straying downward over his stomach, finding his erection, stroking down to his balls which he cupped and fondled in the palm of his hand. It was the words, the tone of Jean's voice, the endearments Reuben craved as much as his touch. Jean's tenderness made his knees weak and his cock, rock hard. Jean guided him toward the back of the shop, to the room Reuben knew intimately. They went through a cluttered storeroom to the studio where Reuben had thought Jean lived. It had surprised him to find out that Jean lived upstairs; the two floors above the shop. Reuben had never been up there. It was chilly and dark in the studio. Shocking to Reuben, who always imagined this place warm, full of rich light from its strange collection of lamps. Strays from the shop, Jean said, when Reuben had wondered aloud where such odd things came from. His favorite was the bedside lamp. The base was a painted wooden horse and the pink shade cast a very rosy glow. "It'll warm up soon," Jean said, turning on lights, mirroring in reverse the closing of the shop. The familiar scene came to life, the vast four-postered bed, the low armchair and ottoman that spoke of comfort to Reuben in a way that ran deeper than sleep. Reuben moved toward the bed, perching on the edge of it, nervously. He'd never come here uninvited before, never seen the room this way. He felt better when Jean turned on the light in the corner where the kitchen was, revealing the gleaming counter stacked with colorful bowls and tins. Jean was taking a beer for himself from the chest-high, round-cornered fridge. No beer for me, thought Reuben, and an anxious laugh almost escaped him. Babies don't drink beer! What they drank was much better. But maybe, he thought, there was nothing for him since Jean hadn't known he was coming. It was painful to realize that the small world he'd come to adore didn't always exist. I shouldn't have done this, he thought, sitting so close to the edge of the bed that his legs were tensed to support him. I should have waited until he called me. "Let's see," Jean said, "what I have for my boy." He sounded so unperturbed, bent forward to move things around in the open refrigerator, that it steadied Reuben. He relaxed fractionally against the mattress. The dull ping of pipes expanding and the sound of rushing water signaled that the heat was coming up but Reuben didn't feel it yet. He wished the wood stove was burning, and shivered. He loved the toasty heat and smell the stove gave off and how Jean would warm things on top of it in winter. Winter, almost a whole year since he'd first come to this place. I'll be sixteen, soon, he thought, wishing he could propel himself to eighteen and be free of his uncle's house. He'd be grown up. Jean's equal. Jean produced a box of milk and set it on the counter. He turned and looked at Reuben, brows drawn in a frown. Reuben swallowed hard, wondering yet again how bad a mistake he'd made by just showing up. "You're cold," Jean said, starting toward him. "I'm okay," he mumbled. He was, in fact, very cold, his hands and feet like ice, his thudding heart and hard cock competing for blood. "I don't think so," Jean said, unfolding the fat satin comforter rolled up at the foot of the bed. "Down you go." Reuben's tense muscles tensed even more when he touched the cool surface of the unwarmed bed and pillow. He curled stiffly on his side. The moment Jean spread the puffed cover over him, he felt the beginnings of warmth. "Poor baby," Jean said, reaching under the cover to pull off Reuben's loosely tied sneakers, tucking the soft comforter over them. He wants me here, Reuben told himself, eyes closing. Jean was gently freeing him from his coat, carefully keeping him covered as he slid it down his shoulders and patiently eased it off of him. Always, Jean's large, graceful hands caressed, no matter what task they performed. If he were a cat he'd have purred as Jean's hands moved over him, unbuttoning, undressing. By the time Jean kissed his cheek and left him to attend to his preparations in the kitchen, Reuben was warm in his nest; stripped naked. Through his lashes he watched Jean. At peace now, enjoying the pulse of anticipation in his unconfined genitals, he watched the man as he took two glass bottles from the cupboard and set them on the counter. Reuben's mouth watered, and he realized he would see, for the first time, what it was that Jean actually put in them. Cognac and milk, and sugar, warmed on the stove. So, the mystery is solved, he thought. In the beginning he'd suspected that Jean was drugging him. It was his excuse to himself for how good it all felt. Drugs. He was being drugged, he decided. Marcel, the boy who introduced him to Jean, had laughed at him when he said so. Reuben never told Marcel what he did with Jean, but he'd hinted that he didn't think he could do it if it weren't for the drugs. Marcel now hardly spoke to him, piqued that Jean no longer called him, and that Reuben wouldn't consider seeing any of the other men that Marcel tried to hook him up with. Jean was the first and he'd be the last, thought Reuben. Marcel's men; they were fattening the boy's savings for college. Reuben didn't care that Marcel had stopped talking to him. Marcel, who'd fascinated him at first, so different from anyone Reuben had ever known; handsome, openly gay and so sure of himself. Marcel now seemed safer at a distance; so flagrant with his male companions that it made Reuben nervous. In the one painting class they had together, there was a nodding acknowledgment between them, no more. Reuben saw that Jean was hard, the crotch of his jeans distended in an angle across his lower belly toward his hip. How could he still look so unruffled, so unconcerned? Reuben was ever amazed by Jean's unhurried lust, his seeming indifference to his own erections. He was moving around the room now, gathering the things he wanted. Usually it was all lined up on the bedside table or on a little wheeled cart: jars of cream, the bottle of oil and the canister of powder. There would be a stack of snowy white cloths of various sizes, a pitcher of warm water, a basin, and towels. Reuben saw him fix a fresh blade in the razor and a surge of arousal shuddered through him. He closed his eyes, trying to think himself under control. He pictured himself at home, alone in his cramped room in his uncle's attic, with a blank canvas in front of him; using the image to calm himself. He felt the bed dip under Jean's weight and opened his eyes. The man's eyes were a blend of colors that had begun to show up in Reuben's paintings, dark to medium shades of blue with impossible gold and green flecks. He felt a sigh rise in his chest as he gazed up into them. Jean's eyes lingered on his for a very long moment before he went through his ritual of testing the heat of the bottled milk. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms -- a sight that Reuben adored. He tipped the bottle and a drop of milk splashed his skin. "Perfect," he said, smiling, a slight curve at the corners of his beautiful mouth. Reuben was so hungry for the nipple that his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. He'd found himself in a drug store the day before, eyes roaming over a display of infant supplies, with a hardon. He'd contemplated buying a bottle, wondering if he could use it to relieve his need for Jean. Catching himself on the verge of buying one, he was horrified and had fled from the store in a panic. Here, there was no panic, only the softness of the nipple between his lips and the sweetness flowing through the rubbery tip into his mouth. His eyes were locked on Jean's as he sucked, drinking him in along with the liquored milk. Reuben was on his back, his knees spread and bent, his ankles crossed, his hands closed in loose fists at his sides. His cock was leaking a steady thin stream of precum, soaking the satin cover that teased its head. I could come from this, he thought as he sucked, his ass muscles clenching to barely press himself into the pressure of the fabric. He felt his nipples harden, sensitive to the slightest movement of the satin. Jean was subtly moving the bottle, tugging gently against Reuben's sucking, then sliding the nipple slightly deeper.