Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2017 07:15:31 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Lion-King Chapter 20 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 20 It's 31 August 1971. I'm 42 - supposedly the answer to everything, although it will be several years before that happens. Since Ace died 14 years ago today I've been extremely promiscuous, caring nothing for the risks I've been running. I don't wear a helmet when I'm on the bike; I don't wear a johnny when I fuck; I don't care. If I die, so what? Who is there who gives a tuppeny fuck if I'm dead? The guys I employ will sort out a new boss soon enough - I've left everything to them to be divided up, although they don't know that. The bikers will get my bike - that's if I don't destroy it and me in one glorious last pile-up. I'm going to be invisible pretty much all the time now, I think. I didn't go abroad BL. I'll watch the biker orgies from the side-lines. The orgies have changed a bit since Ace and I met Jack near Ely that night. There's a hard core of regulars who turn up most weekends, but the mutual tolerance of the straights and the queers from 1957 blew up badly some years ago, and now it's only queers in our group. We vary in age from about 50 down to - well, that would be telling. The youngest biker is probably 17, but there's plenty of pillion riders who aren't old enough to apply for a licence yet. Not for some years, a few of them. When the straights and the queers had their bust-up in 1964 - not a year I'll be revisiting, thank God - the queers who weren't in hospital got together to decide what to do. There were about 10 of us. We argued for a while, then we biked off to a nearby pub and argued a lot more. Eventually one guy stood up and said he'd had enough bloody arguing. Next weekend we'd meet at the Scratchwood Services on the M1 to fix things properly. Things calmed down after that, and after a few more beers we all drifted off. I'd had far too much, as usual, but I couldn't have cared less. If I died, so what? But I didn't die. The Scratchwood Agreement (we didn't call it that, but we ought to have done, it was so important) decided that we'd meet as we had done before, only no straights. Guys into boys, guys into drugs, guys into piss and scat, guys into pain would all be welcome. We'd work out ways that each group could have peace and quiet to do their thing. A rota of where we'd meet was worked out over the next couple of weeks, and after a month or two things were pretty much back where they'd been. But no bloody straights: they were a menace. That's ancient history now. The Scratchwood Agreement brought, if not peace and harmony, at least hassle-free orgies. That was all we wanted. I'm going to take a moment out from this journey. It's 1971, as I said. I have six more days in the fairy's gift, not counting the last one - the important one - 1957. I'm afraid the orgy descriptions are going to be rather shocking in some years, and what we all got up to was pretty samey many weekends - lots of fucking, lots of drinking. I never did drugs, even after 1957 when I would certainly have had an excuse. I suppose I'm lucky in that. Some years I won't be telling you about any orgy because I still have to try to find out about Robin and Barry. It's a pretty hopeless quest, but I owe it to Jack's memory to try. Maybe the fairy will bring me luck: she certainly did with Bob and the other Jack. But 1971 wasn't a find-the-missing-boys year. It was horrible. The orgy was in a barn on a farm in the middle of nowhere in Oxfordshire. About 30 bikers gathered in the agreed pub from 6 onwards and by the time it got dark we'd ridden the few miles to the barn. We'd been there a few times before - the farmer wasn't into queer goings-on, but he liked the £300 we gave him to use an empty barn for 24 hours. Until now there had been no difficulty - he got paid by Reg (who ran the money side of things) and the rest of us never saw him. The farmhouse was a good mile away from the barn, so no-one was anywhere near. By about 1 the next morning things were getting lively. The druggies were out of it, as usual. I don't know why they came: they could smoke and inject anywhere, and none of them ever did any fucking as far as I could see. The whippers (there were only two tonight, which rather put the mockers on their night as neither of them would whip the other. In the end they paid Reg a tenner each to lay into them.) were bleeding and happy, collapsed on a mattress, sucking each other's cock. The piss guys were drenched, and kept on drinking more beer, some of which had already been drunk twice by this time, but they could go on all night. The scat guy wasn't there tonight, so some of the piss guys who used to pleasure him had to go outside to shit in the long grass. And we boy guys? There were four of us, each with a boy riding pillion. I'd taken mine - Phil - to orgies a few times before and he was rapidly becoming hooked. I'd picked him up at the bus station in Cambridge where he looked lost. Deliberately, of course. He wasn't lost any more than I was. He lived in Cambridge; he knew he was queer; he wanted sex with a man; he was street-wise enough to know the risks; he accepted my offer of a burger (it was 8 at night when I picked him up); he took about three minutes to make it clear that he planned being fucked by me as soon as the burger was finished; he enjoyed the fuck enormously (it had taken place unromantically behind the waste bins at the back of the burger place); he expressed the hope that our fuck could be repeated; he was pleased that my view was the same; he agreed to be picked up at the bus station the following Saturday for the orgy; he was 15. Tonight was the sixth time he'd been to an orgy. I'm afraid I can't tell you how often I'd fucked him - I didn't keep tabs in those days. But since the orgies often saw him being fucked several times it was probably getting on for 30 times. And he was a great fuck. Behind the waste bins we'd both had to be quiet. But at an orgy he could make all the noise he wanted, and you should know that Phil was a very noisy boy indeed when he was being fucked. Most of the other guys into boys would pass them round - with the boys' enthusiastic concurrence. Some of the boys were professionals, but most were like Phil - horny queer teenagers with balls full of spunk they were desperate to shed, and no sense whatever of danger or risk. After all, you're immortal when you're 15, aren't you? But Phil was different. The first orgy I'd taken him to he stuck to me like glue. The second time he said he was interested in being fucked by other guys. Unfortunately two of the other guys were pretty close to being sadists, and after than a rather chastened Phil stuck to me like glue again. Not that I was complaining. Phil's body was just what I was after - hot, randy, inexhaustible, tasty, gorgeous to look at, a cock to die for, an arse you could lose yourself in. Hell, I was getting close to the bloody L-word. Not that I ever said it. Too fucking close to the searing pain of 1957. But fucking him three or four times on orgy night kept us both happy. Anyway, tonight we were at it as usual. I'd fucked him twice in about an hour, and he'd cum three times. We were naked, of course, and the third time we'd been there he'd seen the piss guys having fun. Well, you know how teenagers are. "Can we try that?" Fucking silly question. Every time after that the piss guys would come over and hose us down now and again while we were fucking. He loved it. So did I, but you know that already. Anyway, tonight we got hosed down again. Three of them were giving us a good soaking when there was an explosion. Suddenly one end of the barn was in flames. The druggies were at that end, and not all of them were as alert to danger as they should have been. The piss guys all got out, and so did Phil and I. Two of the boys were badly burned and one of the boy guys died trying to save them. Two of the druggies never even knew what was happening. Three dead queers wouldn't have made much impact, but two burned boys made the headlines. They never got the bastards who put the petrol canisters there, but I reckon the fucking farmer knew all along. I took Phil home, both of us still covered in piss inside our clothes. He was petrified, and I don't blame him. I put him in a hot bath and got in beside him, holding him against my chest. He was weeping like a baby. We went to bed and I cuddled him as tight and warm as I could, and after about an hour he stopped shaking. He looked at me, and I've never forgotten what he said. "You saved my life, Rex. You saved the life of a rotten little queer boy with no fucking future. You gave me a reason to go on living." I cuddled him, "Ssh, ssh, don't talk, Phil." I never fucked him again. I took him to Cambridge the next morning and gave him my phone number. I told him to get in touch if he ever needed anything. He never did. I wish I knew what happened to him. ***** Two years earlier, 31 August 1969, the swinging sixties were grinding to an exhausted close. Sex between consenting adults in private was now legal, but queers were still being hounded by under-cover cops. You had to be even more careful with a pretty young man in a toilet than before. It was weird. Catching queers took up more police time than catching proper criminals - criminals who were out for violence or robbery, that is. This year I set myself the task of trying to find Barry. All I knew from Jack's story was that Barry lived in Croydon in 1957, and that he was then 13. He lived in a detached house with a large garden a few minutes from a bus stop, and the bus went to Victoria. That would narrow things down quite a lot. I went to Croydon yesterday and bought a street map and a bus map. I went to the Library and marked the bus route from Victoria onto the street map. I reckoned Barry's house would have been within 500 yards or so of the long line I had drawn. I talked to one of the library staff - I'd always found them helpful if the query was an unusual one. I said I was doing a sociology post graduate degree (I was 40, after all) into the different income levels of people in Croydon, and how housing changed as you got further from transport links. It was a bit thin, but it worked. The guy was interested. "Which streets in the area that's coloured would have detached houses with gardens, say?" I asked. That was easy, he said, and drew a line enclosing about five streets. "The rest are terraced, and won't have gardens." I thanked him, and asked to see the Electoral Rolls for 1967, 1966, 1965 and 1964. If Barry's parents still lived where they had in 1957, and if Barry had still lived at home until he was 22 or more, then there ought to be a family - I couldn't remember whether Barry's father was around - with a Barry appearing in 1965 or 1966. The guy came back with four large bound bundles. "You can have these until we close, but you can't take them away." Since the place didn't close for over two hours I had all the time I needed. I looked up the five streets in 1967, but there was no Barry in any of them. There was a Barry in 1966, living at the same address as a woman called Ada. Barry and Ada were still there in 1965, and I hit the jackpot because in 1964 I found Ada and against Barry's name was the date he'd be 21 and old enough to vote: 16 December 1964. I was pretty sure I'd found him. I wrote down the name and address. The phone book gave me Ada's phone number. This morning I phoned, and a woman answered. I asked to speak to Barry Calvert. She said that her son didn't live there any more - he had moved two years earlier. Could she give me his number? She did so, and I was pleased to hear that it was another Croydon number. I thanked her, and rang Barry. "Is that Barry Calvert?" "Speaking." I explained that I was from the Daily Express and that his name was one of 10 drawn from a hat in the August Prize Draw. "I haven't heard of that," he said. This wasn't surprising, because I'd just invented it. "That doesn't matter," I said cheerfully, "we've heard of you, and you've won £25." As I'd expected, the suggestion that he'd won about a fortnight's wages blew any doubts out of his mind. We agreed to meet at a pub near the station at 11.30 where I would present him with his prize. When he got there I bought him a beer and we sat in a quiet corner. I passed five £5 notes across the table. "That's yours to keep, Barry." He thanked me. "I've not been completely honest with you," I went on. "I'm not from a newspaper. I'm trying to find someone who was very friendly with my nephew Peter. He was killed in a road accident, and his diary described the fun he had in Croydon with a boy called Barry 12 years ago." Barry looked uneasy, so I reassured him. "I've read what Peter wrote, and I'm not in the least shocked by it. I'm not trying to blackmail you, or anything like that. I know what Peter got up to, and I was the same at his age. I quite envied some of the things he got up to." Barry relaxed a bit. "If Peter wrote about what we did, and if you read it, and if you're not shocked by the kind of things I liked when I was 13, then I think I can trust you. So why are you here?" I wasn't completely ready for such a direct question, and I had to think quickly. "Peter was very fond of you - that's clear from the diary. He has no family apart from me - he was an orphan - and I want to tie up as many of the loose ends of his life as I can. So tell me, what has happened to you since your summer of mischief with him?" I hoped that might encourage him to open up. It was flimsy, but it was the best I could do at short notice. "It's embarrassing. Did the diary mention the being tied up bit?" I nodded. "OK, he was being accurate then. I was, and still am, someone who likes being tied up and beaten. I left home when it became impossible to keep my desires secret from my mother - she has no idea that I'm queer." I said quietly that I was queer as well, so that he needn't feel embarrassed telling me. His whole attitude changed and he suddenly relaxed. "Can I buy you another beer?" he asked. When he came back with the pints he sat down and quietly told me his life story since 1957. "You're not going to write any of this down?" I assured him that what he told me would not reach anyone else. He started with something I knew - that he had written in the Victoria Bus Station toilet that he wanted to meet an older boy for fun and games. Peter had been the only boy he'd met, but finding Peter had been wonderful. The fun they'd had was the best fun that year. He'd known he was different - his word - from about the age of 10, but he couldn't put his finger on what it had been that had convinced him of this. By the time Peter met him he knew he was queer, that he liked being smacked - "although nowadays I want something a lot more vigorous than smacking" he admitted with a smile - and that he went through a period of 'enjoying being with next door's dog more than I should have done'. I grinned. "Peter wrote about that too. It's not one of my pleasures." "It's not one of mine any longer. I learnt the hard way," and he bent down to lift his left trouser leg. It was badly scarred above the ankle. "One of my sex partners bit me, so that was the end of that," he said, "I was 16 and had a hell of a time with it. It was several months before it healed properly. At least human beings don't bite" (he grinned) "unless you ask them to." My eyebrows shot up. "Only joking," he said. I asked if he had a partner. "If you mean am I living with someone, no," he said. "I have a regular guy I see every so often - an older guy: he must be your age - whose needs match mine. He lives alone and I spend most Saturdays there. He ties me up and whips me and we both get our satisfaction from that. We fuck as well, of course." He paused and I didn't want to interrupt his train of thought. At last he spoke again. "I've often wondered what it would have been like if Peter hadn't had to go away. He was the first boy who really got into my soul, and I was a bit in love with him, I think." I smiled. "I was in love with him too, and in much the same way as you," I said quietly. "But he was your nephew!" I smiled again. "What difference does that make?" I asked, "fucking your nephew is about on the same level as fucking dogs in terms of how everybody else sees it." He laughed. "Yes, I suppose you're right." There wasn't a lot more to be said. I had found out what I wanted to know - that Barry was alive and well, and that he remembered Peter - Jack - with fondness. It wasn't a bad thing to have on your tombstone - 'people remembered him fondly'. We shook hands and I got up to go. "Thanks for the £25," he said, "I'll buy something to remember Peter by." I wondered what it would be, hoping it would be something reprehensible. A nice new whip perhaps. =============================================================================== badboi666@btinternet.com is where you should send comments and suggestions