Date: Thu, 3 Aug 2017 19:13:17 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Lion-King Chapter 2 Lion-King by badboi666 =============================================================================== If you haven't read "Fourteen Again" here you really ought to read it before starting "Lion-King", which is both a prequel and a sequel. You will meet men and boys here to whom you have been introduced in "Fourteen Again". You'll meet some new ones too, so there will be fresh flesh to read about. 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. We need to establish a few things first, however, so there isn't much activity in the first few chapters. But there will be - oh yes, there will be plenty. 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 2 My name is Rex Perry. I was born on 20 August 1929 fifteen minutes after my twin brother Adam. Adam and I were identical; indeed we were told by an expert in these things that he had never before encountered adult identical twins with no visible differences. Our mother died in 1944 when a V2 landed when she was shopping. We were 15 and had left school to work in our father's building firm. That day we were miles away when it happened, on a site in the City shoring up a dangerous ruin. Dad was excused military service because he was so short-sighted he was practically blind, so Adam and I were his eyes most of the time. The police were there when we got home. They never found anything, so there wasn't a funeral. She'd been there, cheerful as always, at breakfast; then she wasn't there at all. The neighbours were kind, but there was a war on, and people were being killed all the time. Still, it was hard. Adam and I wanted to get into the army to fight the fucking Germans, to pay the bastards back for killing our mum, but of course it didn't turn out like that. We were only 15 and Dad needed us. We should have been called up for National Service when we were 18, but for some reason it didn't happen. Maybe they were too busy with the demob still - I don't know. It was a long time ago. We didn't get our call-up until 1949, a few weeks before we were 20. We were lucky, because the War Office kept us together, being twins, and by 1951, with only six months to go, we were both in Egypt. That's when Dad died. They gave us compassionate leave to sort everything out. Adam - I still have difficulty thinking of him as Adam - persuaded them to give us an early discharge. If Dad's business hadn't been building I don't think we'd have got it, but with the terrible housing shortage they reckoned we were more use at home putting up houses that farting around Egypt guarding God knows what. Anyway, we were back in Britain by the middle of 1951 and settled down, the two of us, to running the business. We were both as bent as nine bob notes. In those days we were queer: 50 years later we'd have been gay; now I think we're probably getting round to being queer again - there's a need to be in people's faces occasionally. But I'm jumping ahead. Like most brothers we played with each other - noticing that our cocks were sometimes tiny and floppy and sometimes, if we paid attention, a bit bigger and stiff. I suppose we were about 6 when we started doing nice things to each other. By the time we were 10 the things were a lot nicer, and when puberty hit we were full-on queer boys. We both loved it. Unusually for the time (we learnt this later) we were entirely guilt-free. Neither of us ever had a moment's regret for what we were. As I say, we loved it. And we loved each other - we were the only ones left to love. By 1957 the business was doing really well. We'd started to specialize in doing what are now called 'make-overs' for queers. We just called them 'improvements' in those days. Turning bedrooms and bathrooms into orgy rooms, that kind of thing. Believe me, there was a bloody sight more demand than we could supply. Adam - no, dammit, I can't go on with this. I must explain more. After Dad died and there were just the two of us living together we shared everything, including a very large double bed. One of our queer friends who joined us in bed was so impressed with ... No, I've got to go back a bit more again. Sorry about this. I said earlier that my brother and I had no visible differences. That's true if we had our clothes on. Each of us had a very explicit tattoo which we got done on our 21st birthday in Cairo - explicit in that they were portraits of us with a boy (the tattoo artist's son, whose arse was thrown in for nothing given what we paid for the tattoos). My cock was a fine 9 inches erect, but my brother's was a good 2 inches longer. Now let's get back to the queer friend who joined us in bed. He hadn't seen us naked before, and when he'd admired the tattoos he couldn't take his eyes off our cocks. He took one look at Adam's and said - these words are etched in my brain - "Fuck me, that's ace!" From that moment on Adam became Ace, and obviously Rex had to become King. For the rest of his life he never called me anything other than King, and I never called him anything other than Ace. And that's how I still think of him. It'll be 60 years at the end of this month. And I think about Jack too. Oh God, I'm crying again - who for? Jack? Ace? Leo? me? Old men cry easily, don't they. I can't bring myself to write about the night that Ace was killed - even after 60 years it's too painful. My whole life was suddenly utterly pointless: I'd lost the only person I'd ever loved - loved as an adult, that is, not loved as you love your parents. He'd been killed on his motor bike, skidding on a wet road. I'd been a few seconds behind and saw the whole thing ... no, I can't say any more. Maybe one day, maybe after I've seen thus stuff Jason's found. After the funeral I just carried on the best I could. I stopped being King: I became Rex again. I sank myself into work. Before that month - that fateful August 1957 - Ace and I were completely promiscuous. We were out fucking at bikers' rave-ups every weekend. Then on our 28th birthday we met Jack, and Ace and he fell in love. Nothing odd about that nowadays, but what you don't know is that Jack was only 14. Despite that he was the sparkiest, sexiest, funniest, wisest person I'd ever met. We both fucked him, and he loved it, but it was Ace he loved and it was with Ace he ... no, I can't. We never found him. We never even knew his real name. Ace and I were queens, so he had to be Jack. Every single day of my life I've remembered him, even more than I've remembered Ace sometimes. The last words Ace said before he died, lying there in the rain, were "Where's the boy?" The police looked and looked but they never found him. That has haunted me for 60 years. At least I had a body to bury, and to mourn, with Ace, but nothing for Jack. Poor Jack. Poor old Ace. Poor old King too. And poor dying Leo. Oh God! For almost 15 years after Ace was killed I formed no relationships. I fucked around - God! did I fuck around, but there was no-one who was allowed anywhere near my heart. My cock was as far as they got - well, my arse sometimes, I suppose. Then at that Gay Pride march Leo came into my life. And now Leo's going to die. I told Leo about Ace of course, but not about Jack. Those 12 days were not to be shared, even with Leo. They would go to my grave with me. As soon as he heard about Ace Leo, being the sparky bugger he is, said that I should go back to being King, because of the Lion King thing. I smiled; I like the way he wanted to connect with Ace and that way we'd been linked by our nicknames, but it never stuck in the way Ace and King had. Maybe it would be right to honour Leo now, in his last days, by my letting the barrier down enough to call him Lion, and let him call me King. It's been a help writing all this down. I can't wait to read the stuff that Jason's found. ***** I collected the stuff from Jason this morning. Leo's been busy all day making his lists and writing nice old-fashioned letters to say good-bye to people. I've spent six hours reading. As a piece of erotic prose it's fun to read, but the author clearly marks it as fantasy, so the nonsense with the fairy on his bed when he's 70 is amusing, and obviously it's necessary to start the ball rolling. The episodes this Peter gets up to are a bit startling, but nothing prepared me for the chapter where Ace and I suddenly appear. What's really frightening - the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up right now, as I write this - is that every fucking thing that's in that story, from that moment right to the end, is exactly as it happened 60 years ago. Jason knew about Ace's death, and that's what made him tell me. What the hell was going on? Here's a fairy story in which real people and real events start to appear. That wouldn't matter if the real people were good and dead, Napoleon, say, or Henry VIII, but when the real people are you and your brother it's pretty fucking unsettling. I got to the end, sobbing like an old fool. The old wounds had been wrenched open again with a vengeance. If the story was to be believed then Jack was the old man - it made sense in the context of the fairy's gift, after all, but the fairy was make-believe; Ace and I weren't, and Jack, warm, loving, tender, brave Jack hadn't been make-believe either. That boy was the hottest 14-year-old either of us had come across (no, no jokes, this is too serious ... oh well, just this once, in Jack's memory), and he was real enough, believe me. What do I do now? Leo will need to know - it would be unthinkable not to share the knowledge that this story had revealed. How will it affect him? What do I say to Jason? ***** I told Leo the gist of the story over dinner. He was incredulous, and insisted on being allowed to read the whole thing. "No, don't be mean, Rex ..." "Please call me King, I owe it to all those dead people I loved," and I was sobbing again. "Then you must call me Lion, and that will help me to be strong. Strong for my next days, and strong for you, King, love, while you deal with the pain of this story. Now give it to me and let me read it for myself." He started to read at around 8 o'clock, and he read non-stop until well after midnight. I sat up, getting us glasses of wine every now and then. It was interesting to watch his face as he read, and to try to guess what Peter - Jack - was up to at that stage. I could tell when he got to Ace and me. He started to frown. By the end he was in tears too. "Oh King, love, is that really what happened?" I nodded, unable to speak. "You poor, poor bugger - come here and let me hold you." A dying man can bring so much comfort to a man sentenced to go on living. Soon Leo - Lion - would be gone, joining a long list: Mum, Dad, Ace, Jack, Lion. "Let's go to bed," I said, "and talk about it in the morning. Daylight will be a help." "Of course," he murmured, stroking my head, "come on, we'll cuddle each other and cheer each other up." Next morning after breakfast (nowadays only a glass of orange and a piece of toast: it's all poor Lion can keep down) we sat down to talk it through. "I need to talk to Jason," I said. "Yes, but do you need to go into too much detail. I mean, isn't it enough to say that it's all very mysterious, and leave it at that?" "It's worth a try," I said, "let's see what he says when I tell him." "No, King, when we tell him. I've stood in Ace's place for 35 years - not taken his place, stood in it, keeping it fresh for him in your heart - and that gives me the right to stand in his place when you tell Jason about him." More bloody weeping from me. I nodded my agreement. "Good," he said, "then we'll invite him round for tea. We don't want this conversation in the Feathers." ***** In the end it went very easily. Jason's really quite sensitive, and when I told him what I felt able to share, he was wise enough not to press me, even though I could tell that his curiosity was very far from being satisfied. "Well," he said, "it's all very mysterious." Lion giggled and couldn't meet my eyes. There was no need to tell anyone else. The likelihood of anyone else in the village discovering Nifty was pretty remote. Lion and I settled down to the serious business of easing his last days. This isn't the place to go into detail. It was getting pretty ghastly towards the end, even with all the palliative stuff they gave him. One evening - it was 14 August, less than a fortnight since they gave us the news - he smiled from his pillow and said "Plan D, King." I leaned forward to kiss his lips for the last time. I stroked his brow and looked into his eyes for the last time as I kissed him gently, gently. I gave him the drink and he smiled as I put it to his lips. "Goodbye, King, it's been special, hasn't it?" He died then, peacefully. I had murdered him and that was what we'd agreed. It was the least I could do for him, poor old bugger. ***** The funeral was yesterday, Friday 18 August 2017. Neither of us were church-goers, in fact I hadn't been in a church since Ace's funeral 60 years ago, but the village church was where funerals were, so that's where Lion made his farewell to the world. He's under a shady tree now. The turn-out was huge, which would have pleased him. The vicar, who is slightly our side of sympathetic, but very discreet, was witty - not something you expect somehow, but entirely appropriate to Lion, Leo ... oh God! What do I put on his tombstone when the time comes? All today has been sorting things out - a never-ending task usually, but one made much easier for me by Lion's meticulous planning. Everything was filed according to how it was to be disposed of, so that made life easier. (Lion would have wanted me to write that 'that made death easier' because that was his sense of humour ... and as I wrote those words it hit me that that was Jack's sense of humour too. Had I been attracted to Lion because he reminded me of Jack? The fucking was great that Sunday, but there had been countless fucks before without my heart being touched. Was opening my hear to Leo, as he then was, Jack's posthumous gift? Was it posthumous anyway if Jack had been whisked away by the fairy only 19 days ago?) Too many fucking questions too late at night. I went to bed. Tomorrow would be my 88th birthday. When I woke on the morning of my 88th birthday there was a tiny fairy perched at the end of my bed. =============================================================================== To be continued ...