Date: Thu, 24 Aug 2017 14:29:05 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Lion-King Chapter 12 Lion-King by badboi666 =============================================================================== If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex with fresh young lads then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. Don't leave, however, without doing this: Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to eat. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 12 31 August 1993 was another day when Leo and I were in the UK. I realized that this was going to be a feature of a good number of my revisiting dates. I decided I would see if I could find any more about Peter after his move to Taunton some time in the early 1960s. I decided to wake up there, and found myself in a good hotel in the town centre. After breakfast I got a taxi to take me to the address Peter had given when he left Camborne. The taxi driver shook his head. "Don't know that place," he said, "I've never heard of it." This was odd, as the address had appeared in the Camborne solicitor's file, so it was probably genuine. The driver asked an older colleague who remembered the address. It was in a part of the town that had been 'developed' (you could almost feel the disapproval in those inverted commas) about 20 years earlier. A dead end therefore. I went to the Library and looked for a Peter Hughes in the phone book and the Electoral Roll. Nothing. I decided to ask one of the librarians for help. She was very keen to see what she could discover, and dug out old Electoral Rolls from the 1960s. "There he is," she said, pointing to Peter Hughes at the correct address in 1964. She moved forward two years. "There he is again in 1966," she said, "and there's another man living there as well. A lodger probably." I looked over to see the entry. Zachary Black. I smiled to myself. By 1966 Peter would have been 34 and Zak 21 or so, too young to have been on the list in 1964. They looked happily settled together - at least they were in 1966. Was that 27 years ago, or 51 years ago? Either way it was heart-warming to know that their relationship had continued from when Jack had first known them in 1957. I could see why Woody had been such a convenient (and no doubt appropriate) name, given that the real Peter was also part of the scenery. I always forget that Jack's real name was Peter. There was no sign of them in the next Electoral Roll she could find, for 1968. Some time after 1966 they had moved on. Did she have any idea of how I might find them? Had I tried the phone book? No? Well, she would help me. It was lucky that Mr Black's initial was an unusual one, wasn't it. She consulted some database (could it have been an on-line one in 1993? I had no idea. Whatever it was it contained all the UK phone books. Microfiche probably, I decided). It was nearly 15 minutes before she gave what would pass, in a well-ordered library, for a whoop of triumph. "Here they are," she said. "There are four Black Zs in the country, but only one of them has an address where there is also a Hughes P with the same phone number." She wrote the details down for me. They were living in Preston. I thanked her profusely and left. Ten minutes later I was back with a big corny bunch of roses. She had no idea how big the favour had been. There was no way I could get to Preston that day - it was already past noon. The only way to find them would be to do so tomorrow, two years ago. This was now the top of my list of things to do, so rather than go in search of sex I just pottered around Taunton for the afternoon. It was a nice place - or it certainly was in 1993. I couldn't see the 'development' that had so pissed off the taxi driver. I found a nice park and watched kids at the swings for a while. Two teenaged boys caught my eye and I was amused when they went off into a more wooded area and came back ten minutes later. Smoking or wanking? The park had toilets about 50 yards away, but I couldn't see any illicit comings and goings. No doubt the cottaging scene in Taunton occurred elsewhere. After a while a boy - 13 or so - came and sat at the other end of the bench where I was sitting. I glanced at him - nice face, slim - but he paid no attention to me. He dug into his backpack and pulled out a book. I tried to see what it was, but he was a little too far away. Whatever it was was engrossing, as he read for a good 25 minutes without raising his eyes from the page. When at last he looked up I smiled and said, "that's a very interesting book. You haven't moved a muscle for half an hour." He jumped, but smiled when he saw me smiling at him. "Yes," he said, "it's a maths book - I love maths. It's all about Fermat's Last Theorem." I was aware of Fermat's Last Theorem, and that it had never been proved. Well, that's not true, but it was true in 1993. I decided to have a little fun. "I bet you that someone'll prove it before you're my age," I said. "No way," replied the lad, "it'll never be proved now." "Maybe you'll be the one to prove it," I said, "you never know. What's your name, so that I can look out for you when you're famous?" He grinned. "Don't be daft, I'll never be famous." "OK, let's say 'special' then." Worth a try - he was an engaging boy. With all their clothes on the only things you've got to go on are their eyes and their grin. This boy seemed promising. He blushed, just a little: enough to indicate that my using the word 'special' had conveyed a meaning to him across the ten feet and the two generations which separated us. I reached out my hand. "I'm Rex Perry, hello maths genius without a name." He grinned again and shook my hand. "Hello Rex Perry, I'm Daniel." He paused, not letting go of my hand. "Are you the kind of man they warned me about?" As this unexpected question was accompanied by an even wider grin I decided that it was one of those questions they'd taught me about all those years ago: a question expecting the answer 'yes'. "Confession time, Daniel. Yes, I am. Let me ask you: are you the kind of boy who isn't put off by meeting a man like me?" He blushed again. "Yes," he said very quietly. "May I have my hand back, Daniel," I said, equally quietly. He moved up the bench beside me. I had to think quickly. The boy was attractive - aren't they all? - but I had no idea where we might go to further our brief acquaintance. "Is there somewhere we can go?" I asked. He thought a moment. "Follow me in 15 seconds," and he was up and away. Was this a trap? It seemed unlikely - after all, half an hour or more had passed since he sat next to me. The vice cops wouldn't have waited that long. I followed and, surprise! surprise! I saw him go into the bog. Cottaging has never been high on my list of delights, but there again, it's still on the list somewhere lower down. In I went. He was standing at the urinal. I stood next to him. We exchanged a look. He whispered, "there's no-one in here." I went into the end cubicle and he followed. The partitions went right down to the floor, so the problem of multiple feet wouldn't arise. I stood him on the bog seat and opened his trousers, revealing a nice hard uncut cock of about 4 inches. My mouth engulfed it; its owner sighed happily. It would be nice to share with you the details of the long time we spent together that afternoon, but it would also be fictional, because Daniel's excitement at what he told me afterwards was his first blow-job was so great that he came in my mouth far, far too soon. His cum was tasty though, and a good quantity. I lifted him down and was ready to go, but he whispered in my ear "I want to do you now." This was a welcome piece of news. I sat on the seat with my trousers and pants at my ankles. Daniel knelt in the time-honoured way and addressed himself to his chosen task. He broke off after a minute or two to whisper that it was OK for me to 'do it' in his mouth. Good, I thought. He resumed, pretty skilfully for a 13-year-old, and I duly came, as quietly as I could. He swallowed and whispered, "thanks, Rex." How could I reward him other than by giving him his second blow-job. This was much more prolonged - fully two minutes - before a second (smaller, but just as tasty) load of cream was delivered. I kissed him chastely on the lips - kissing wasn't in his repertoire yet, I noted - and we tidied up. I left first and, seeing no-one about, I beckoned him out too. I left the bog and headed back to the bench to enjoy the memory of the preceding quarter of an hour. To my surprise and delight Daniel came and sat next to me. "I really liked that," he said. "So did I." "Will you be here again?" "No, Daniel, I'll be hundreds of miles away tomorrow. But I will always remember this afternoon in Taunton." "So will I, Rex." He stood up, smiled, "bye", and walked away out of my life. Would I hear from him? How could I? Would he remember 31 August 1993 and Rex Perry when Andrew Wiles finally cracked it in less than two years time? ***** I woke up in Preston on 31 August 1991. Today I might actually meet Peter and Zak. I had their phone number and address. I decided to go there, rather than phone. I wanted to see what kind of life they were living. I got another taxi. "Why do you want to go there?" he asked, "are you buying one of the plots?" My heart sank. It turned out that the address they would be living at in 1993 had not yet been built - the estate was still a field. In less than two years they would both be here - in a field - but they weren't here yet. As with Taunton yesterday the Library was the place where I might get moving forward. In the end it was simplicity itself. Hughes P and Black Z were both listed at an address in the town, and this address was findable on a street map. It was about a mile away, so I decided to walk there. They lived in a semi-detached house in a quiet street. The most notable feature of it was a large van parked in the drive. It bore the encouraging legend HUGHES DELIVERY, and the phone number matched the one on the phone book. I had found them at last. No point in waiting. I rang the doorbell. It was answered by a slim middle-aged man. This had to be Zak, who would then have been 46. If I had business here it would surely be with Mr Hughes, so I said, "Is Mr Hughes in?" "Yes, he's in the office, come in." I was led into a room at the back of the house where a man of about 60 was sitting. "I'm Peter Hughes. Can I do anything for you?" I have to confess that up until that moment I hadn't given a great deal of thought about what I would say when I eventually found them - if ever I did. I regretted this oversight. The best thing was to be completely honest. "May I sit down and talk to both of you?" A chair was pulled up and I sat on it. Zak - assuming it was he - sat on the bench beside Peter. "This is going to sound very strange," I said, perhaps unwisely, "but please bear with me. I've spent a long time trying to find you both. No, I'm not a policeman or a journalist or anything sinister." (I noticed a tension when I'd said I'd been trying to find them.) Can I ask, are you the Peter and Zak that were in Camborne in 1957?" A silence. Peter eventually asked why I wanted to know. I unbuttoned my shirt and showed them my tattoo. Zak whistled. "Christ, Peter, it's Ace, after all these years!" Peter shook his head. "No, it's not Ace, but it's bloody like him. The tattoo's different. Who are you?" I explained that I was Ace's twin brother. Telling the story and catching up on how the preceding 34 years had treated them took most of the afternoon, the latter 3 hours of which were spent in the pub. I was able to be truthful about my life with Leo: the Gay Pride march in 1972 ("We were on that!" said Zak), and the years since (26 of which were still in the future). I told them of Ace's death and how Jack had died with him. I left out the finding of a very old man - it was unbelievable anyway without bringing the fairy into it. They were both greatly affected by those deaths, even though they'd happened 34 years earlier, and happened to two people they known only for a few days at most. Funny how Ace and Jack got into people's hearts (and elsewhere). Peter and Zak had a story not without its dark side. Rather as Jack had hoped, Zak fell hopelessly for Peter and they saw each other (and did a great deal more than seeing) as much as they could for the next few years. When Zak was 18 he left school and went to university, living at Peter's address and representing himself as a lodger. By then his mother had died, so he had to lodge somewhere. One day, out of the blue, there had been a knock at the door and Peter was hauled off to answer a charge of gross indecency. This was in 1966, still a year before the law changed. He got 9 months jail. Zak was distraught. They never found out who had shopped them. Zak, being the younger 'offender', was deemed to have been seduced by Peter, and led into wickedness by the older man. Zak was bound over to be of good behaviour for 3 months. As he told us in the pub, "There was no way I wasn't going to be of good behaviour while the only person I loved, and wanted to misbehave with, was in the fucking slammer." Peter was released early and Zak was bold enough to be waiting outside the prison to drive him away. "Where did you go?" I asked, "weren't the police just going to get you again?" "We thought of that," said Zak, "so we went abroad a few days later, to Sweden. We lived there for five years, quite openly, as the English couple. Nobody gave us a second thought. By 1972 things had started to improve here, so we came back. Provided we didn't frighten the horses or flaunt our sexuality we were left pretty much alone. Peter went back into haulage and I work as a teacher. We're both very happy." They planned to retire next year when Peter hits 60 and buy a nice little house in a new estate in the town. My list of outstanding tasks was now shorter. Robin was going to be the hardest nut to crack as I knew nothing whatever about him, other than that he'd been a scout in Norwich in 1957. Jack - the other Jack - and his Winchmore Hill pals might be the next enquiry. =============================================================================== badboi666@btinternet.com is where you should sent comments and suggestions