The ifs:
If your country’s laws or your young years tell you that you shouldn’t read smutty stories, leave this site. Now, please.
If you stay, I hope you’ll be entertained. Just bear in mind that this is nothing but fabrication.
If you’re squeamish about men and underage boys getting it on, you wouldn’t be here in this section, so no warning necessary.
If you expect wall-to-wall sex and little else, my stories are not for you.
If you think my language is a bit unconvincing or faulty at times, you’re probably right. But since so few of you speak Norwegian ...
If you think stealing from this story and/or posting it elsewhere is a good idea, you’re a skunk and a snake.
If you feel like communicating something/anything to me, I’m here:
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And finally:
If you have read any of my previous stories, you will know that I tend to invade my protagonists’ heads and spend a lot of time and words dissecting feelings and thoughts. Not so much this time. This time I want to see where more external descriptions and less mindreading will take me.
Anyway, on with the story:
There’s a reference to a ship in this story, but not the one that figures in a bawdy song that I guess many of you have heard. The MS “Venus” (also called “The Black Prince”) existed for real and was in traffic between England and Norway for years after it was launched in 1931.
The Willow Flute
Magnus Winter
Bergen
May 31st. 11:30 AM
Twenty minutes since M.S. Venus from Newcastle docked at Bergen harbour. Such a splendid, majestic vessel, all new and impressive with its long, black and elegant hull and double funnels, said to maintain a hitherto unsurpassed speed at 20 knots, and said to provide luxurious comfort if you have the money to spend.
Spectators gather on the wharf to stare in awe at the ship and watch with curiosity the British tourists in their unfamiliar and sophisticated attire slowly disembark in the heavy rain; one by one big black umbrellas unfold down the gangway. Along the quayside men in oilskins and sou’westers are busy shouting and loading crates and trunks onto carts and trollies. Two boys of eight or nine stand under the awning, shielding their stack of newspapers from the downpour, yelling their sales pitch. Their oversized flatcaps and big load of broadsheets make them look smaller and frailer than they really are, for their grubby short trousers reveal legs with sturdy calves, naturally so because running is their main skill, running is what they do. Mostly away from things, the little rascals.
Amidst the commotion and the clamour, the passengers gather in smaller groups awaiting further transport, making it known they belong together, almost like staking out their territory here on foreign soil, wordlessly defending their flock and forbidding intruders to their party. Three teenage girls in lumpy and shapeless raincoats are watching them, huddled together and hiding their tittering mouths behind their hands, gawking at the ladies’ clothes, each of them filled with vague excitement, with dreams of fashion, with longing for the unattainable. Oh, those smart tweed suits! Those elegant brogues! Heels, even! And oh, those exotic hats! But my, oh my, some of those intimidating and arrogant faces! And those weak chins and protruding teeth! The girls’ elbows are busy nudging each other.
William Waxton Croft is among the last to disembark. Backpack slung over one shoulder, large suitcase in hand, his slow steps down the gangway belie his spry constitution, but his belted Mackintosh speaks of broad shoulders and a slim waist. His light grey hat is pulled forward and almost hides his eyes, but his full lips and square jaw make the three girls inhale sharply as their young ovaries say hello.
To observant eyes it is clear that William Waxton Croft’s feet are happy to connect with firm ground. His frame straightens, his stride becomes quick and confident, his face gains colour again, for he had been sick throughout the passage. Now he hurries towards the railway station, seemingly as used to and unbothered by this kind of weather as the local Bergen population itself.
12:45 PM
The train takes William Waxton Croft through a hilly landscape made gloomy and dark by the rain, birch trees with young green leaves giving way to coastal spruce, growing shorter and more scattered as the train ascends, heavier and denser when they puff downhill again. And then the whole scenery opens, and just as they come down to a long and rather narrow fjord the sun breaks through. He moves in his seat to get closer to the window, filling his keen eyes with the magnificent nature, letting the beauty of the landscape sink into his soul.
He stands up. Despite the warning in four languages, he pulls down the upper half of the window, maybe to enhance his adventure with new and unknown smells, maybe in need to break down the glass barrier and be one with the magic brilliance out there. Bending forward, his tight-waisted loose flannel trousers hug slim hips and buttocks, suggesting firm and well-shaped flesh, promising hidden beauty. But the train again moves inland through murky forests and rock-strewn slopes, and he sits down.
And this is how his journey passes: In and out of darkness and light, from barren rocky hills and dark woods to glittering blue and green glimpses of fjord and back again. Past the occasional small and lonely farm, past plantations of fruit trees exploding with white blossoms, through the odd little village with wooden houses painted white or tarred brown, picturesque in their modesty and their testimony of struggle and lack of affluence, more apple orchards, then through nothing but trees and rocks for a long while, and finally along the south shore of the lake where his destination sits at the far end.
Vossevangen
3:10 PM
At Voss Station William Waxton Croft climbs out to meet the familiar smell of burning coal, steam and oiled machinery: The universal, reassuring scent of travel that somehow reminds one of home and diminishes the traces of suspense of the unknown. A small evening breeze tickles his skin, but it’s a warm wind, and he carries his coat over his arm as he walks the few steps from the sombre, utilitarian station building to the hotel.
He stops and stands still, gazing at the imposing edifice. He has seen photos, but nevertheless he seems stunned by its beauty: The largest wooden framework building he has ever seen, almost incongruous compared to the smaller buildings he observed along the main street on the other side of the station. Three stories high, not counting the towers, lengthwise it seems to go on for ever, gables and towers and turret-like balconies resplendent with carvings and latticework, all dazzling white. He softly shakes his head as if in disbelief and walks along the arched apertures of the front terrace, looking for the entrance.
7:05 PM
William Waxton Croft has not bothered to dress for dinner. Still in his light grey flannel suit he enters the dining room. The hostess, in national costume complete with pearl embroideries and an abundance of silver jewellery, welcomes him. In heavily accented but surprisingly fluent English she wants to know if he is happy with his room, asks if he prefers to sit on his own or with some of his compatriots. He stares thoughtfully into the room and recognizes two couples from the boat seated together, dressed to the hilt, one of the men in a white dinner jacket making him look like a waiter, the ladies in their slim dresses with elbow-length puffy sleeves. Luckily for the dandy in white, the waiter he spots at the other end wears a black waistcoat over his white shirt. Not full occupancy this early in the season, there are several empty tables, and he makes his preference clear and is led to a small table set for two in the corner by the windows overlooking the lake. He looks a bit worried as he sits down, perhaps he regrets his casual attire.
A young waiter, somewhere in his late teens and son of the hostess if looks are anything to go by, pours straw-coloured wine in William Waxton Croft’s glass, disappears and reappears with a creamy fish soup. The waiter seems to him the archetype of a Scandinavian: Tow-haired, rosy-cheeked, bright blue eyes, wide mouth that looks grave, almost sullen. He observes the waiter’s backside as he leaves the table, the tight waistcoat says slim waist, but the wide, black trousers reveal nothing of either posterior or legs.
The young waiter turns his head and catches him looking. Their eyes lock for a moment.
This repeats itself with entrée and pudding and finally coffee, the silent exchange of looks becomes a game they both enjoy. The waiter hazards a quick little smile the last time he disappears with plate and cup into the depths of the terra incognita behind the double doors that presumably lead to the kitchen. For a minute his face lingers in the glass pane on the left door, as if to make sure he has seen what he has seen: Auburn hair that won’t stay in place and flops over pale forehead, green eyes above prominent cheekbones and square jaw covered with thick, pale unblemished skin, full lips, beautiful lips, enviable lips … and those big, pale hands, that taut, hairless skin shielding veins like little thin snakes, those long, bony fingers ...
William Waxton Croft rises, walks out of the dining room. The young waiter is busy debating something with a couple sitting near by the open doors, he loses his thread as he stares after the tall, limber Englishman moving with such effortless grace past him. His guests loudly remind him of his job, and he blushes fiercely.
11:45 PM
A restless and very awake William Waxton Croft is coming back from his walk through the village, this village that is basically one gravelled street winding westward from the hotel along the north end of the lake with two- and three-story wooden houses with shops and other facilities on both sides, just one row deep on the lake side. On the north side behind the main street shops and the railway line, narrow dirt roads and paths crisscross between clusters of smaller houses and orchards in full bloom. Further away he had discovered a relatively speaking large stone church and a couple of other big edifices, one of them had looked much like a prison but proved to be a school.
The night is fairly warm, with precisely the beautiful and mystic northern-summer-night's light one has read much about. One does not sleep through this magic, at least William Waxton Croft has no plans to do so. Not yet. The remote, eerie wail of an animal, a fox most likely, alerts him, sharpens his senses. He stops to stare out on the lake. The air is still, the water is a mirror that reflects green hills and snow-capped mountains, and his face changes. The slightly worried expression goes away. He looks radiant now, he looks exceedingly alive.
He rounds the far corner of the hotel; the scent of lilacs hangs in the air and there are rhododendrons just starting to blossom. He wanders off to the stone fence behind the building and surveys the field on the other side of the tracks; pale purple, white and yellow wildflowers adorn the grassy slope that slants upwards and turns steeper and overgrown with forest trees a few hundred yards away. Again, he hears the fox. He turns his head, suddenly aware of being watched.
His young, fair waiter, waistcoat doffed and white shirt untucked, is standing motionless just outside the tradesmen’s door. Well, not quite motionless, his hand lifts a cigarette to his lips. William Waxton Croft turns around and slowly lifts his hand to chest level in salutation. The boy hesitates. Then returns the gesture and remains standing in the same place. Smoking. Watching. Waiting.
William Waxton Croft moves slowly towards him. When he’s halfway there, the boy stubs out his fag with the tip of his shoe and walks furtively away, sneaking along the wall to the far corner, stops and looks back over his shoulder, and vanishes from sight. William Waxton Croft follows. His body tingles with apprehension, with excitement, with promise.
Around the corner there’s a bulkhead with steps leading down to a cellar door, almost hidden in dark shadows, but the white shirt sings out I’m here!
He descends slowly, the steps are rough and a bit slippery. When he’s down and closes in on the boy, the immobile figure that waits there seems to explode with life. Not a word is spoken, but a hurried step is taken forward, head is thrown back, hands shoot out and trembling fingers search for and find fly buttons. William Waxton Croft takes a step back, grabs the boy’s hands and holds them aside, looks searchingly into the boy’s eyes, then takes a step closer and leans his face in for a kiss. The boy turns his face to the side and wrings his hands free, but William Waxton Croft now holds the boy’s head between his big hands, and his lips cover the boy’s mouth as the boy pants and struggles, then finally shudders and gives in. Tongues meet. Soft moans and whimpers, like from a small animal, is heard from the boy’s throat as he clings to the Englishman. Lips still locked to his conqueror he fumbles for the fly, and this time he’s allowed access. The boy’s body trembles uncontrollably as his finger’s find what they search for, and with a small, almost inaudible moan his shaky hands close around silky skin on long, hard shaft, and the smell of cock drifts up to his nose as the desired object is released from its hiding place.
The boy lets go of the cock, takes a step back and unbuttons his black trousers, lets them drop to his ankles. Lifts his shirt up, and wide-eyed and open-mouthed stares anxiously into William Waxton Croft’s face, silently begging the man to appreciate what he has to offer. The boy’s body quivers and twitches as big, soft, yet firm British hands glide over his smooth chest and large, pink areolas with stiffening little buds in the middle, down over taut abdomen framed by shallow furrows that slant and lead down to young pubes. Whispery moans escape as those hands caress their way downwards, tug a little at his blond bush and cup his tight balls. And when one of those hands close around his fatter than expected, upwards curving, and bone hard cock, breath is caught and then let out with a sharp, short moan, and the boy’s two hands find William Waxton Croft’s powerful tool. Skin prickles as the boy strokes and explores the great length, the egg-shaped head covered with skin that easily peels back, and he bends his neck to better see the pale, majestic shape that stands out almost luminously here in this dark and shady place at the bottom of the steps to the cellar.
William Waxton Croft wants more. In a whisper:
“Come to my room.”
Headshake, sigh.
“No! I can’t!”
So ...
Side by side they toss each other off, the boy’s eyes never leave that mighty and luscious British cock. And he comes, he comes like a torrent. His sperm flies far, one can hear faint splashes on the stone steps above his soft, breathless moans. It is enough to send William Waxton Croft off, and his warm fluid follows in the boy’s trail.
June 1. 5:55 AM
William Waxton Croft could not have wished for more: Morning comes bright and fresh and gently stirs him awake with birds tweeting through his open window. He gets out from the crumpled sheets, goes over to the window and lazily stretches his svelte, naked body. He parts the flimsy curtains. Everything is stock-still out there, nothing or no one he can see has yet started the day. He lets the morning air caress his skin, chilly now, but the sun has started its journey over a clear, blue sky, and anyone awake can tell it will be a beautiful and a warm day.
William Waxton Croft yawns and stretches his arms high above his head and rocks from foot to foot; small muscles ripple across his back, buttocks clench and relax at the top of long, slender legs, thighs and calves made for long-distance running rather than explosive sprint. His musculature is long and supple rather than bulging, and a good bone structure is evident in those wide, straight shoulders and the knuckles of long fingers and toes.
He raises himself up on his toes, anyone watching from outside will, if they should happen to look up, see his full front: Lightly chiselled chest, flat stomach with a hint of definition, all so slick and hairless, and trim dark red pubes crowning a long, floppy cock with foreskin puckered at the tip, cock exactly the colour of the rest of his smooth, pale skin. Suddenly soft laughter rises from deep down in his throat as he lifts his package and rests his balls, by the look of them shaved, and his lovely cock on the windowsill, like he is challenging the world to evaluate his assets.
He hears the banging of a downstairs door. He abandons the window, puts on his dressing gown and leaves his room for the bathroom down the hallway.
9:30 AM
William Waxton Croft’s khaki shorts and grey knee socks generate furtive smiles and stares. Well, his attire confirms he is what he is: a foreign young man about to go on a hike, although a few whispers suggest he must have confused his visit to Voss with an African safari. The stares do not bother him, the whispered comments are not comprehendible to him, and his face is carefree and happy as he strolls through the village hunting for a bookshop.
The shopkeeper’s mastery of the English language is diffident, but all in all functional. William Waxton Croft shows him his grandfather’s worn, almost falling apart Baedeker and asks for a newer edition, but no go. He does obtain a pocket size two-way glossary, though. The shopkeeper shows interest: Where is he from? How long will he stay? Is this his first time? And what does he think of Norway this far?
William Waxton Croft leans his elbow on the counter and answers as briefly as he can without seeming terse and unfriendly, but one can see he is impatient to get on with his day. However, there’s one last thing:
“Is it so unheard of to wear shorts on a day like this? I seem to be the only one, and I’ve noticed some people stare.”
The shopkeeper’s hands illustrate trouser lengths. “Short trouser … for boys. For men, no. Fourteen … confirmation … we get first long trouser and …" Something in Norwegian that sounds like it has to do with bathing.
“You are tourist, you can ...”, the shopkeeper smiles and points at the khaki shorts. “Look English! Or with this!” He points below his knees, indicating plus fours.
William Waxton Croft’s face is pensive. Maybe he considers this information: Local boys in short trousers, not yet fourteen. That could well be useful knowledge.
But he gets restless and takes his leave.
Noon
William Waxton Croft has been walking for more than two hours, following a path by the side stream to the main river westward. He is sweating under his hat, for the sun is at its highest, and the day is uncommonly warm. His walk has taken him past houses and farms, in and out of shadowy copses with intense, emerald foliage and open, grassy hillsides where the sun burned his neck. It would probably be cooler higher up than here at the valley floor, but he takes no chances. He is a stranger in a strange land, and it’s just too easy to get lost. A river will always help to lead you right.
Still, the freshness of it all makes the noonday heat less stifling. And this must be what he wants, this is what he likes, for he had told the hostess this morning: Guided tours, stuffed into couches packed with annoying chatterboxes, no thanks. Here, surrounded by the fresh smells of early summer, the gurgling song of the rushing stream, the sudden screeches and flapping of wings, the occasional distant bleating of farm animals, here is where he wants to be right now. Alone, with no one to tell him what to look at, where to go, what to think. And his body shows it: His steps are light and springy even now after hours of walking; his face looks enchanted and wondrous despite those pearls of sweat running down his nose and his cheeks.
The landscape changes, the valley becomes narrower. Pastures and fields are no longer to be seen, the banks of the stream are rocky and rugged, and his hike turns more strenuous. But he’s not about to turn back just yet. A joyful little brook comes purling and trickling down the steep hillside and rushes into the stream, he squats beside it, cups his hands and drinks. Takes his hat off and dips his whole face into the ice-cold water.
He comes to a bend in the stream. On the other side he finds a wide backwater pool framed on his side with large slabs of rocks, moss free, looking all but polished. The almost unnoticeable breeze ripples the surface softly, just enough to create millions of little diamonds glittering towards him. Lush green birches and willows grow all the way down to the pool on the opposite side.
William Waxton Croft drops his rucksack and sits down on warm, smooth stone. Takes his shoes off, then his socks. Leans back on his elbows and wiggles his toes. Sighs contentedly.
He sits up, looks around, eyes thoughtful, hesitant, undecided; something is going on behind his sweaty brows. And slowly he unbuttons his shirt. One by one his garments are removed; he rolls them up and lies down with the bundle under his neck, hat hiding his face, his tall British body stretched out, pale and sleek like marble, naked and unprotected.
There is a sound. A thin wail from a bird. No, not a bird. The long, silvery tone glides like an arch, then dies off and stops. William Waxton Croft lifts his head, pricks up his ears. And here it is again, but it’s a sort of tune now, a random sequence of notes, gliding into each other, sprinkled with small tremolos, melancholy and brittle, almost unearthly. A tin whistle? No, it can’t be. This is unlike anything he’s ever heard.
And suddenly the riddle is solved. There, on the other side of the pool, a person appears amidst the lush, green vegetation. A boy, in short trousers held up by suspenders and blue striped collarless shirt with rolled up sleeves. The boy is holding what looks like a twig to his lips. His hair is sun-bleached, nearly white, and his bare legs show the start of a summer tan. He is barefoot.
The fragile notes die abruptly as the boy spots the man on the rocky slabs. The hands holding the twiggy flute fall to his side, and he stands motionless staring at William Waxton Croft for what seems like an eternity. William Waxton Croft stares back. And finally lifts his hand like a greeting, or maybe a welcome.
The boy slowly raises the hand holding the flute in a small wave. His face at this distance seems like a simplified childish drawing, for his eyebrows and lashes are so light they’re invisible. William Waxton Croft sits up, draws his knees up and folds his arms around them. The boy still does not move. Feet apart, like frozen in place, he stares and stares. William Waxton Croft gestures for him to come closer, his waving hand then mimes playing a flute, hoping the boy will catch his meaning.
The boy stirs, looks to both sides. There’s a possible crossing a bit upstream, but the boy seems to think differently. And wonder of wonders, just like that the boy drops his shorts, tears his shirt off inside-out, and wades into the pool, holding his flute high in the air, for at the deepest the water reaches up past his pink little nipples.
Spellbound, William Waxton Croft watches the naked boy come out of the water. Mesmerized, and rightly so, for the boy's body is beautiful: long legs finely curved, shaped by childhood years of running around in the hills, arms strong from climbing trees and digging in the earth, lightly tanned from the elbows like his legs are tanned from just above the knees. The rest of him is as white as milk, the contrast seems to enhance his nakedness. Pink nipples, stiff from the cold water, stand out on chest that is just starting to develop. His upper torso tapers down to slim waist and sunken navel, his abdomen presents a shallow V down to the possibility of a few invisible hairs above a now frozen and timid cock above drawn up, cold balls, big enough to indicate he’s well into puberty, but hasn’t been for all that long.
He halts in front of William Waxton Croft, hesitant and shy. Not, it seems, because he is naked, he makes no effort to cover himself, but because there is a strange man in front of him, and he does not know how to act or what to say. And it does not help that the stranger is as naked and as pale as he is, because this stranger, from what he can glimpse behind the man’s raised knees, this stranger has a cock that is bigger than any cock he has ever seen. He can’t take his eyes off it, he seems to stand there hypnotized, like he is waiting and hoping for the man to open his legs and show it to him in full.
The man says something. The boy seems to wake up, he lifts his platinum blond head. The man is smiling and patting the rock beside him, inviting the boy to sit. The boy sits.
The man points at himself.
“William.”
The boy repeats the name in a whisper. It sounds like “wool-yam” from his lips. The man points at the boy with a question in his eyes.
“Tore.”
The r rolls from the boy’s tongue. The voice is a boy’s voice, soon to change timbre, but still light and clear.
The man points at the twiggy flute, gesturing he would like to inspect it. The boy gives it to him. It’s a finger-thick twig of willow or rowan, he can’t really tell, about six inches or so, cut where the twig was straight and without sprouts, one end carved diagonally with a windway slit into it, a good inch down from this there is an opening cut through the bark and into the wood, like the labium of a recorder, and the man sees the twig is hollow within, and he wonders how it is done. There are no fingerholes, but the bottom end of the flute has a wooden stopper, the inner wood loosened from the bark no less, and it will slide in or out to change the pitch of the tone. Like the principle of a trombone.
The man fingers the flute, looks every now and then up at the boy’s face, noticing the deep blue of those big, wide open eyes framed by white lashes, and the weird beauty of them makes his hands quiver. He mimes slicing with a knife and points questioningly at the flute and at the boy’s chest, almost touching skin.
The boy nods. A small smile creeps up on his face, there’s a growing pride conquering his bashfulness. He takes the flute back, puts it to his lips and produces a silvery string of notes.
William Waxton Croft is lost now, lost in the boy’s strange beauty, lost in the clear but fragile sound of the flute, lost in a sudden need to be even closer to this unexpected revelation sitting next to him. Feel skin. Taste lips. He reaches out and touches the boy’s cheek, one tentative finger first, then his whole hand.
The flute is silent. Big blue eyes stare. Apprehensive? Astonished? Wondrous? Not frightened, though. William Waxton Croft lets his hand slide down the boy’s neck and stop where the tan stops, just below the hollow between the collarbones. All he can see in the boy’s face is amazement. He lets his hand slide further down until it softly touches a nipple. He feels a small tremor rush through the boy, hears the boy’s ragged breath, sees the boy’s lips open, and as he softly tickles and squeezes the nipple sees the boy’s cock grow and rise, long as his middle finger. And William Waxton Croft’s fingers are long.
William Waxton Croft grabs the boy’s shoulders, tries to pull the boy down on top of him as he lays himself down on the rock. The boy will not lie still, he wriggles and glides down over the man’s body, all the way down until he is between the man’s legs. Trembling, the boy lifts himself up on his elbows and watches the man’s cock as it grows and grows. He is breathing heavily and swallowing hard.
The boy lifts his head, a big searching question in his eyes. William Waxton Croft smiles and nods. The boy turns halfway over on his side, rests his head on the man’s thigh. The boy’s hand cautiously touches the now fully hard cock, so near his face he can smell it, and now his hand closes around it to feel its thickness, moves slowly up to explore its length. The cock twitches and jumps from his touch.
The boy abruptly sits up, and with pink tip of tongue showing at the corner of his concentrated mouth he wraps both hands around William Waxton Croft’s mighty cock, and he laughs out in awe and wonder when he cannot cover the length with his two hands. Swiftly he picks up his flute and closes his hands around both flute and cock. His delighted laughter tingles and echoes from the surroundings as he discovers the man’s cock is way longer than his flute. He leaps up, bounces a few times on his feet. His stiff cock, not little boy anymore, but not yet man, swings in the air.
Then the boy turns, and with his flute held aloft runs into the pool and splashes his way across to the other side. William Waxton Croft calls after him but hears only the boy’s exhilarated little laugh as he picks up his clothes. And William Waxton Croft watches the white tufts of hair disappear in the abundance of green foliage, his heart beating like thunder, the image of the running boy’s small, compact bum imprinted on his retinas.
Balestrand, Sogn
June 3. 9:30 PM
After the first formalities, the joy of reunion well-hidden behind British reserve, after the required tour of the house interspersed with occasional and insignificant since-last-time questions and answers, the two men now sit on the porch, staring at the heavy clouds drifting in from the west, painting the fjord a dark grey.
William Waxton Croft’s beer glass is empty, now he’s sipping at a smaller glass of amber and strange-tasting Aquavit, fingers absentmindedly caressing the crystal stem. Distracted and deep in thought.
“Tired? It’s quite a tiresome journey, I know. Want to turn in early?”
William Waxton Croft is jolted back to the present. Purses his lips and shakes his head.
“Not tired. Things on my mind, is all. Sorry.”
Glasses are refilled, the wooden platter with thin slices of different cured meats is almost empty. William Waxton Croft leans back and watches his host light a cigarette.
“I don’t think I could live here. Don’t you miss home?”
The man beside him, twice his age but still so handsome with his bronze tan and silver hair, blows smoke through his nose and guffaws.
“What’s to miss? The smog? The noise? My stuck-up family? Honestly, the only thing I miss is steak-and-kidney pie. And sometimes your mother.”
“Not father?”
Deep sigh. Long pause. Vacant look in those eyes.
“Of course. Of course I do.”
They both sit quietly for a while.
“Do you know how to make those little flutes from twigs? Seems a very Norwegian thing to do, but do you?”
The older man cocks his head, noticing something in the younger man’s voice.
“Ah! A willow flute! Never tried. Seen some boys do them, though. Why?”
Silence. Then:
“Why did you have to leave? You bloody well were the only one of their friends who was even remotely tolerable! I missed you a lot, you know.”
“Tchah!”
Another pause, a little strained.
“You know, there wasn’t all that much left for me back there.”
“Because of father?”
“That, too. Well, yes. Because of your father. You didn’t answer my question. Why do you want to know how to make a willow flute?”
“Give us a fag. Please?”
Cigarette is offered, received and lit. Aquavit is sipped. Thoughts are thought. Silence gets just a bit oppressive. William Waxton Croft clears his throat.
“Day before yesterday … I had found a nice spot by the river. You know, all peaceful and lovely, and I was alone, and I thought I’d get some sun. And then out of nowhere this boy popped up … well, I heard his flute before I saw him, I first thought it was a bird …there was something unreal, almost magical about it all ... the sun, the water, the incredibly green trees, and then that ethereal sound of the flute ... and the boy looked just as unreal, I’ve never seen anyone as blond as him ... I mean, had he been blonder, he would have been albino … but the beauty … Anyway, the flute fascinated me, so I’d like to learn how to make one.”
The older man studies the younger man’s face. Thoroughly.
“The flute fascinated you?”
The older man suddenly laughs out loud. “My God, you’re a chip off the old block, aren’t you?”
“Meaning?”
“You not only look just like him, you’re also just as dishonest. Or secretive. Or whatever. Listen, why did you come here? Nobody comes to Norway for boys, you know. Then you go to Sicily. Or Morocco. Like the rest of them. Like he did.”
William Waxton Croft looks stunned. Swallows.
“What?”
“Oh, don’t get all miffed. I’ve always known about you. Like I always knew about your father, even if you didn’t. We all knew. Even your mother knew.”
William Waxton Croft stares astounded and speechless at the dark waters of the fjord. Ghosts seem to fly around his head. One can almost see enigmas of the past unravel in front of his disbelieving eyes.
“Oh.”
The older man sighs heavily.
“Oh, come on. There’s no need to make a mystery of it. Not anymore. Are you ashamed of the truth?”
Silence. Shrug.
“Have a guess: Why do you think I could be sure of your … disposition? Or your father’s? Because we, the different ones, we recognize each other.”
Fresh cigarette. More Aquavit. Even darker waters out there.
“We were old friends, your mother and I, we practically grew up together. When she met and eventually married your father, I stuck around, partly because of our old friendship, but most of all because of him. I was so in love with him. Really loved him, you know … and I kept hoping … But he didn’t love me, not like that. Not like I was desperate for him to do. Nevertheless, I couldn’t let go, even if it was torment from day one.”
William Waxton Croft holds his breath.
“Once … Once he let me touch him. To be nice, I suspect, he knew what I wanted. But it shouldn’t have happened, because then I knew for real what I couldn’t have … For your father … he only loved boys. Young boys. Oh, he did love your mother in his own way, make no mistake about that. But it was boys …"
William Waxton Croft looks away from the fjord, his anguished eyes meet the older man’s, moisture glitters there. He blows air out, almost like a horse.
“When he died, I thought I would die too. And there was nowhere to go with my grief, no one knew how I felt, I couldn’t show anyone how devastated I was ... no comfort anywhere. Just a huge black hole that swallowed me. So, I left. Now do you get it?”
The older man shudders, his rather long silvery hair is dishevelled from fingers running through it.
“Listening to your story was like listening to him, always glossing over the real issue by fixing on some trifling detail, like your flute. Because William, it was the boy, wasn’t it? Focusing on the flute, that’s just diversion, am I right?”
“No! You’re not right. Or maybe you are … Because in a strange way they’re one and the same thing. And yes, since we’re letting all the cats out of the bag, I wanted the boy. Correction, I want the boy. Not just any boy, that boy. But how? I’ll never bleedin’ see him again. But a willow flute will be … like the next best thing? No, that’s nonsense. Oh, I don’t know. I can’t think.”
William Waxton Croft abruptly gets up, wrings his hands, goes to the banister and grips the cap rail so hard his knuckles turn white.
His parents’ old friend, who now suddenly has become confidante, or mentor, comes softly up behind him. Hand touches shoulder.
“You are now … what, twenty-six? And this boy?”
“No idea. Still in short trousers.”
Firm older hands grip young shoulders hard.
“Listen, William. Never take anything for granted, you never know what will come. But never expect too much. Never want anything too much. There lies the road to hell.”
William Waxton Croft turns aggressively against the older man.
“Tais toi! Spare me the platitudes!”
A flash of unexplainable fury is born from his misery but vanishes almost as quickly as it arrived. Low voice burns with intensity:
“He came to me naked! Completely naked across the pond! You’ve no idea!”
Suddenly William Waxton Croft bends over the banister, retches two times and throws up. Now he straightens, turns around, and all his British reserve is gone; he looks devastated.
“Oh, bloody hell! This is so stupid. I might just as well want the wind! Or that mist out there on the bloody fjord!”
Vossevangen
June 5. 11:45 PM
William Waxton Croft, back at the hotel and in his underwear, is hammering away on his recently acquired typewriter, sheets of papers neatly stacked beside it, wastepaper basket half full of crumpled ones.
Someone knocks on his door. Slow, soft knocks, but he hears them over the din from the noisy machine. He rises from his chair and answers.
It’s the young son, or young waiter, or young jerk-off buddy, whatever one prefers. Stands there awkwardly, face slightly blushed.
“Excuse me. Mother says please ... not write in the night. Guests are … not happy.”
His hand indicates the neighbouring rooms. William Waxton Croft smiles wryly, shrugs and spreads his hands in a lame oh-for-god's-sake kind of way. The boy remains in the doorway, like there is something else on his mind as well. For one thing, one can easily see that the sight of the man so intimately dressed interests him, his lips move like he needs to moisten his mouth.
"Come in if you like.”
The boy looks behind him, hesitates, but eventually makes up his mind. He slips through the door and closes it, leans against it. Waits.
“I say. I’m sorry for the disturbance. I guess the walls are thinner than I expected.”
“What is it … you write?”
“Oh, you know. Stuff. Lies and fairy-tales.”
The boy warms up enough to take a couple of steps into the room. Points at the typewriter. His speech is slow, meticulous, searching for the right words.
“New? It was not here before.”
William Waxton Croft cocks his head and frowns. The boy must have been to his room without him being there.
“You’re right. I didn’t think I’d be writing on this trip. I got stuck back home, you see, writer’s block they call it, so I came here to forget all about it for a while. But here I am, at it again!”
A hand goes into the pocket of a pair of roomy, but well-cut linen slacks, slacks that fall so much nicer than those baggy black waiter’s trousers. William Waxton Croft sees the furtive movement down there. The boy notices he’s been caught and blushingly stops his fingering.
“Come and sit. I’d like to get to know you a bit better. Since we’ve already … you know.”
The boy’s flushed faces can’t get much redder. In his pale linen trousers and eggshell knitted sweater, and his fair hair and red face, he looks like a tall vanilla ice-cream cup garnished with a cherry. But he sits down on the edge of the tightly made bed.
It turns out he’s only here for the summer, having been away and privately educated in Bergen for three years, now he’s here helping out because his father died this spring. He’s seventeen, will turn eighteen in August, and by then he will be in Oslo starting his medical studies. Some disappointment can be traced when he tells this, he had hoped to study in Germany, his mastery of the German language better than average according to his tutor, and the reputation of the university of his dreams superior to the one in Oslo. But his mother will not let him out of the country.
While he struggles through the English version of his life, his eyes constantly roam over the white cotton underwear across from him. A small devil enters William Waxton Croft’s brain, he spreads his legs and moves a bit, making sure there’s a suggestive outline to enjoy.
The boy gets very distracted. His English fails him more and more, Norwegian and German words sneak their way in, and in the end, he gives up.
William Waxton Croft takes his cue. Presents the boy with the story of why he quit his architectural studies to become a writer, of how he struggled to make it and how he finally succeeded with two novels, and of the heartless pressure from his publisher and the fear of failure as he suddenly dried up and couldn’t write a single sentence anymore. And as he speaks, he deliberately shifts his legs ever so often, from time to time his hand rearranges the cotton in his crotch, watching the boy’s eyes, relentlessly teasing him.
Silent now, William Waxton Croft slouches on his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, white cotton pushed up and bulging, small smile on his full lips, staring intently at the obviously tantalized boy. And then:
“Can you teach me how to make a willow flute?”
June 6. 10:00 AM
They’re following a trail winding up the hill behind the hotel. It’s an easy walk, the terrain is kept open and free from shrubs and undergrowth by grazing goats. The short grass under their sturdy shoes is such a lustrous green it dazzles William Waxton Croft. The boy seeks out and touches selected trees, feeling the branches, looking at the foliage. He’s very talkative this morning, naming the different trees along the way, explaining why only rowan or willow is possible for their purpose, describes the kind of twigs they must look for. And there is also the problem that it might be a little late, because the sap rises only in a short period in spring, and since spring came early this year, now is probably the tail end of the season for flutes.
“We must go higher up.”
Eventually the boy seems to be satisfied. He cuts off a couple of willow twigs, moves to sit under an old birch tree, leaning against the thick stem. He examines the small branches while William Waxton Croft watches, still standing. The boy cuts off the pieces he wants, gestures for William Waxton Croft to come and sit beside him.
The boy makes a diagonal cut at the end of one of the sticks, then he cuts out a triangular notch a couple of inches down and a couple of inches further down he cuts through the bark all the way around. He taps the bark with the handle of his knife, again and again, while he turns the twig round and round. Now his hands close around the twig on both sides of the lower incision, carefully, but firmly twists and jerks and pulls the bark off the upper half in one piece. And the carving of the bare wood to make a windway and a hollow to give resonance can start.
The boy grins as he hands William Waxton Croft his knife and a new twig. His smile transforms his normally rather sullen face.
11:30 AM
It's taken several attempts until William Waxton Croft manages to make a flute that works. The noonday sun is high and hot, and William Waxton Croft has taken off both jacket and shirt, and now his undershirt goes as well.
The boy has sat close to him all through his struggles, leg touching leg, shoulder grazing shoulder, hands brushing hands more than strictly necessary. The boy’s underhand glances turn to stares as William Waxton Croft rises and bare-chested takes a few dancing steps, flute to his lips, first shrill tones now turning smoother, more mellow.
The boy gets up as well. They skip and dance around each other, clownish moves to cacophonic tunes. The boy gets too close, they trip on each other’s feet and tumble down to the ground, the boy on top of William Waxton Croft’s naked chest, cheek on nipple, arm across taut belly-skin.
The boy blushes, wriggles, tries to get away, but William Waxton Croft’s arms now hold him tight, keeps him down.
“Thank you. Thank you for teaching me.”
Stroking the boy’s cheek, William Waxton Croft lets go of his grip. The boy jumps up, escapes to the birch where they had sat, leans his back against the trunk. His chest heaves inside his shirt.
William Waxton Croft rises slowly, brushes down his trousers, very thoroughly at the crotch, all the time holding the boy’s gaze. He leisurely moves towards the boy, hands softly and lazily brushing his chest and his stomach.
William Waxton Croft stops an armlength away from him. The boy swallows, fidgets with his open shirt collar, his voice all but a whisper:
“Can I … see it again? Please?”
“See what?”
“Your … your …eh, penis?”
William Waxton Croft just gazes at the boy for a moment. Then steps back a few paces and silently unbuttons his trousers. His roomy white underpants follow the trousers down to his ankles. He steps out of them and stands broad-legged showing himself to the boy, his cock not yet hard, but bit by bit growing.
“And you.” It’s a command, not an option.
There’s an anguished plea in the boy’s eyes as he slowly shakes his head.
“I … am not … beautiful.”
Enough teasing. William Waxton Croft treads closer, reaches out for the boy’s hand, holds it for a moment.
“You are. Now let me see all of you.”
With trembling hands, the boy undresses, hesitating between each garment. And now the two of them stand facing each other, both wordlessly taking full stock of the other’s naked body.
William Waxton Croft feasts his eyes on the young body: On the skinny side, no bulging muscles anywhere. Big, lovely, rosy nipples on that flat, hairless chest, slightly puffy, begging to be sucked. The beginning of a treasure trail, just a few soft hairs, from his faintly protruding navel towards the denser growth around his thick cock, risen to its curvy max, almost as if it wants to penetrate his abdomen, foreskin taut around the fat head. A light dusting of downy blond hairs on drawn-up balls and down nice, strong thighs, still very soft, but getting thicker and more visible on calves and ankles.
William Waxton Croft opens his arms, beckoning the boy in. And now they’re skin to skin, cock to cock, big English hands stroking the boy’s smooth back, gliding down to cup firm, round buttocks, fondling and caressing, discovering the small silky hairs that grow in the crack between the smooth hemispheres. The boy shivers, his ragged breath tickles the skin on William Waxton Croft’s neck, and now the boy’s tongue gently touches skin, gets bolder and licks to taste the faintly salty flavour.
The boy shakes like a leaf, thrusts and grinds his hips hard against William Waxton Croft’s groin, and moans almost like a whimpering child as his balls empty themselves, his rigid cock forcefully shoots his sperm up between them. And he sinks. Just sinks.
William Waxton Croft tries to hold the boy up, but the boy collapses and turns into a heap on top of the man’s feet, and now he weeps, not loudly, but silently from the bottom of his heart, like all hope’s gone, like he’s lost everything that’s dear to him. William Waxton Croft bends over and puts a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder, but the boy shudders and shakes the hand off.
William Waxton Croft whispers softly in the boy’s ear.
“Do tell me what’s wrong. Please. Tell me.”
The boy lifts his wet face, full of worry, of agony and pain.
“Eg e’kje homo! I’m not … like this! I can’t be!”
He mumbles something incoherent between sharp little sobs. William Waxton Croft sits carefully down on the grass beside him, tries again with a small touch on the boy’s shoulder.
“Then we won’t do any more of this.”
The boy hides his face in the crook of his elbow.
“Why me? … I can’t! It’s sick! Why? Why? I want to be … normal! Faen i helvete!”
“I know. I used to ask myself the same. But you know, there’s nothing much we can do about it. Except abstain from the practice, maybe. But the feelings will never go away, one must learn how to live with them.”
The boy groans. Gets up and looks disgusted down at his belly and groin, sticky and smeared with his semen. Sighs heavily. William Waxton Croft hands him his undershirt.
“Here. Wipe yourself.”
The boy rubs frantically at his midriff, as if the sperm was poison. Gathers his clothes, starts to dress. William Waxton Croft squats beside him, knees apart and elbows leaning on them. Watching. Wondering. His still bloated cock dangles between spread legs, almost touching the ground. He speaks to the boy while the boy is busy getting dressed.
“Listen, don’t fret. It doesn’t have to be hell. One can have a good life despite what others may say. You can find love, you know. For real. Because there’s more to it than just sex. In some ways the sex bit may well be the easiest part to deal with. Sometimes it will be hard to cope, you may find yourself falling for the wrong blokes, but love, when it happens, is just as beautiful and strong as you think it is for … well, the others. Maybe even stronger because of all the suspense and the secrecy and what have you that we must endure.”
The boy, now fully dressed, looks wounded and angry.
“No! You lie! It’s … forbidden. It’s crime! I will go to … prison!”
“No, you won’t. You will just have to be a little discrete, is all.”
A hand tries to wave it all away.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, then don’t! But please calm yourself, please try to think rationally. No one needs to know anything of this, it’s nobody’s business. We can be just friends, if you like. I would like that.”
Strange light in those blue eyes. Weird sneering lips in that face.
“Friends? Now? After … How?”
William Waxton Croft’s exasperated breath sounds like whistle.
“All right, just run away from everything, then. But give it a good thought when you’ve calmed down, and if you change your mind, you know where I am.”
The boy is ready to run away, but somehow his demeanour is indecisive, his feet seem reluctant. William Waxton Croft wants to give the seemingly impossible friendship one more chance.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
The boy bites his lip. Fights to find words.
“Why? ... and you make it so … difficult. In my head. I just wanted … “
His hand masturbates the air in front of his trousers. Then almost shouts:
“Why can I not stop? … And love? Are you crazy? Love? Love must be … clean … not feel bad!”
Hands spread out. Too aggressive to be apologetic.
“And now ... I know nothing. Just ugly, ugly ... Always dirty like sin … like shit from a cow… And my name is Bjarte.”
The boy starts to run. But he stops, turns his head and fires off one last outburst.
“Bjarte … It means bright and shining! Hah!”
June 6. 7:00 PM
At dinner, his young waiter, his bright-and-shining Bjarte, his unhappy not-to-be friend, is nowhere to be seen.
All day he has been in his room. Typing, discarding, swearing in frustration, impatiently pacing the floor, typing again. Sitting motionless with his head in his hands, willing the ghosts away. Leaning back, letting out a growling roar of exasperation, and typing again.
The bovine girl serving him annoys him with her vapid smile, with her ridiculous little white apron on her huge, waddling body clothed in black silk, one look at his face is proof of his petulance. He gets up and leaves in the middle of his crumbed pork cutlet.
Grim-faced, he walks through the village, fast and furious. A drizzle begins, ought to make him think again, but no. Passing the church, he breaks into a run. Out of village, along the river, he doesn't slow down until he gets to the side stream where he took off from the main route the other day. Panting and muttering obscenities, he bends down in the now pouring rain, hands on his knees, tears of anger and vexation mingling with the raindrops running down his face.
An hour later, soaked to the bone, he climbs the stairs to his room. Undresses, leaves his drenched clothes in a heap and a puddle on the floor, and gets under the covers. Bites into his pillow, whimpers like a trapped animal. Twists and turns, gets up, picks up a sock, and masturbates into it.
Twice. But it doesn’t help.
June 7. 9:30 AM
Against his better judgement, William Waxton Croft has let himself be cajoled into joining a horse-and-cart excursion to a dairy farm in the mountains, a farm where they make the famous brown goat cheese that isn’t really cheese at all, but caramelized whey. A price to pay for information, as it were. He had struck up a conversation with his hostess right after breakfast with the purpose of learning more about her son, but of course he had to circumvent the issue, and discussing the different activities on offer seemed as good a gateway as any.
He had managed to casually insert a few questions about her son, but to avoid suspicion, focusing on planning an outing seemed the best idea, and this trip to the farm stood out as the least strenuous of the choices. Sadly, the only thing he had learned from her was that her son had gone to stay with his grandmother for a week.
The sky is cloudy and grey and suits his gloomy face to perfection. The forecast promised clearing up by noon. As if he cares. His expression stays dark and forbidding as he climbs into the two-horse open landau cart. He averts his eyes from his fellow passengers, an older couple with a young girl in tow, looking prim but outmoded. Their initial attempt at conversation earns them shrugs and excuses, and since their English is as good as non-existent, William Waxton Croft is left to himself.
It’s a long and at times bumpy ride. William Waxton Croft stares at the landscape without really noticing much, a kind of dismal indifference is all one can read from his face. Sulking, one is lead to think.
11:30 AM
They’re greeted by two women, obviously mother and daughter, plump of figure, aproned and head-scarfed. The small farmyard includes three low, unpainted wooden buildings with turf roofs, they look like they grew out of the ground; the women lead them to the smaller one where smoke rises from a stone chimney. The coachman wanders off and slumps down on a wooden bench by a stick fence off the yard.
Inside, a large copper vat sits on a wood-fired stove; several small hinged wooden boxes sit in a row on a shelf. A small girl, maybe eight years old, in a blue-striped dress, is stirring the contents of the vat with a long wooden spoon: a thick, brown soup with a pungent, but not unpleasant aroma, a bit like the smell of toffee with a sour touch. William Waxton Croft’s heart jumps and his breath stops: The girl’s hair, long, blond and untidy, as snowy blond as her eyebrows and her lashes, her big blue eyes now looking at him. As close to a spitting image as you get.
The older woman talks and talks, William Waxton Croft gets nothing, hears only a string of rolling r’s. His hands tremble. He feels his stomach churn. He bolts.
The grassy farmyard sits on top of a steep south-facing hill, surrounded on three sides by distant snow-capped mountains. The sun is just breaking through the clouds right above the edge of the yard where it opens to the valley below. A clearly agitated William Waxton Croft drifts as if in a trance in that direction.
The view opens, and dizziness overtakes him. He sits heavily down on the grass; a sharp involuntary moan escapes his throat, his heart pounds in his chest. For down there, far down there is a stream, far down there is a pool encircled by slabs of rock, far down there the water twinkles and beckons, far down there he can almost see the ghost that’s been haunting him for days.
One can see everything from here. Everything.
William Waxton Croft jolts as his eyes are suddenly covered from behind by two hands, followed by a small laugh. Oh, how he recognizes that laugh! He falls backwards as the hands vanish, rolls over and with his face in the grass laughs like every care in the world has been lifted from him.
“Wool-yam!”
The boy jumps on top of the prostrate man, sits across the small of the man’s back, his not so small, but still boyish hands grab on to the man’s shoulders and jiggle them. William Waxton Croft lifts himself up, the boy clings to his back, giggling, as he rises and swirls around in a happy dance. Their dance.
The boy slides off him, takes his hand and starts to pull him towards the houses. William Waxton Croft lets himself be dragged along, softly laughing, frown gone from his now untroubled face.
The boy calls out. His call is answered from the middle building, a low, timbered house with small-paned windows, a door stands open at the far end. The younger of the two women is in there, selling square chunks of brown cheese wrapped in waxed paper to the couple from the ride. The boy talks quickly and excitedly to her, William Waxton Croft doesn’t even try to decipher, just listens to the strange melody of the language, the frequent ow-sounds and the sharp r’s. He hears that cute pronunciation of his name twice.
William Waxton Croft suddenly looks, and surely feels, shy and self-conscious, for they all cast many quick looks at him. But the woman, apparently the boy’s mother, finally comes to him with a smile and an outstretched hand. He shakes it and smiles a bit sheepishly, clearly a bit bothered by not having understood a word of what was said. But her smile is genuine, her eyes are blue, and her lashes are white, and whatever it is she tries to tell him now, his reserve appears to melt away from his face. Even when the boy pulls his mother to the side and whispers something with his hand shielding his mouth and her ear.
The boy grins, his eyes sparkle as he grabs William Waxton Croft’s hand and drags him out of the dim, narrow room. Outside he lets go of the hand and starts jogging towards the northern slope, turning and waving William Waxton Croft along with him.
High noon
The trees are smaller up here, but the lush greens of the Nordic early summer are, if possible, even more intense and overwhelming. They’ve just passed through a herd of goats, bleating and coming at them, nibbling at their clothes. The boy petted a few of them and talked to them as if they were people, but then shooed them away and started to run.
Laughing and whooping, the boy now stops his running, does an almost prefect somersault and waits for William Waxton Croft to catch up with him.
And now he moves close to the man, almost rubbing up against him. Mischievous eyes look up.
“F’sjao kuken!”
Oh yes. William Waxton Croft intuitively understands. The boy wants to see his cock again. But here in the open? With a goat attack imminent? He shakes his head and flutters his hands palms down.
The boy laughs his silvery laugh again. Takes the man by his hand and leads him through a grove of crooked mountain birches, down a steep slope.
At the bottom of the hill the thicket opens to reveal a small waterhole, shielded by dense vegetation all around. A tiny stream trickles out from it, almost hidden by thick grasses and cow parsley, and at the other end two large boulders rise like thrones. The boy squints up at the man, the sun is in his eyes, but his meaning is clear. And now William Waxton Croft is ready.
The boy is the first to get out of his clothes, after all he has a lot less to get rid of, only a shirt, a pair of short trousers, no underwear. He skips and dances about, impatiently watching the man kick off his shoes and remove his pieces of garments one by one. A small, triumphant squeak leaves him as William Waxton Croft’s underpants hit the ground, and he runs straight into the shallow water.
William Waxton Croft follows him, reluctantly, anticipating the worst. The water is cold, yes, but not as bad as one could expect. The water only reaches up to mid-thigh, the sun heats their skin pleasantly, and gazing at each other they quickly dip down in the water and up again. William Waxton Croft emits a shivery wail, the boy laughs at him and splashes water on him.
William Waxton Croft scoops water up, starts to wash his groin. Holds his cock out and peels back the skin, scoops more water up to clean the head. The boy watches entranced. Now he comes wading closer, his restless hands want in on this. He copies the man’s moves, and now the boy’s determined hands grip and splash and stroke the man’s growing cock, for what cock on earth could withstand treatment like this and stay soft?
William Waxton Croft, in a daze, removes the boy’s hands, and his own hand for the first time finds the boy’s slender appendage, caresses its long foreskin, softly bares the pink head beneath and scoops up water to splash over it. Finger runs around the ridge of the oval head. The boy’s cock stiffens and lengthens and thickens even more, quivering waves pass through the slim body, breath is sucked in between clenched teeth. And the man’s other hand brings water to the boy's backside, wet fingers plough in between firm ass-cheeks, more water is brought up and fingers rub and fondle thin perineal ridge, tickle behind swelling balls, and sweep backwards again to softly prod a tight little hole.
The boy shivers and surprised moans echoes across the water. William Waxton Croft puts his arms around the boy, lifts him up, feels the hard boy cock throb against his stomach as he wades ashore, carrying the boy to the narrow grassy bank. He sets the boy down and gets down on his knees, his lips now envelop the rigid shaft, sucking it in, all the way until his nose touches skin. The astonished boy yelps, and almost shocked tries to withdraw, but his body knows different, his hips live their own life now, and he claws into the man’s shoulders and pushes, pushes his cock in, like he can’t get it far enough in, like he needs to bury all of it in this amazing, warm cave. William Waxton Croft opens his mouth wide, tries to get the boy’s smooth balls into his mouth as well, but they’re just a little bit too big and a little bit too tight for that, so his tongue laps over what it can reach, and the boy lets out a shaky, strained moan.
William Waxton Croft lies down on the soft grass and pulls the boy down on top of him. Big British hands roam over sleek limbs, over smooth back, over compact buttocks, lips graze slender neck. A smaller hand works its way in between their bodies pressed so tightly together, finds and closes around long, hard cock, skin like silk, skin that moves under fingers, and those fingers feel their way along the full length until they find an elastic opening and one finger softly digs in to discover sticky moisture on slippery cockhead. And the boy’s hips do what hips have done since the beginning of time, they start a slow, relentless motion: pushing and withdrawing, again and again. Now the boy’s hand leaves the man’s cock and both hands are placed on the man’s shoulders, supporting his lifted chest as eyes close and pushing turns to humping. Faster. Harder.
There’s no time to lose. William Waxton Croft grabs the boy’s humping hips and hauls him upward until the boy’s ready-to-explode cock again enters his moth. The boy’s movements get frantic, he wants in, in! And when a long British finger suddenly circles and prods his tight little asshole, he whimpers and shivers and jerks and spews his small, thin load into the warm, soft paradise his cock has found.
The boy sags down, his thirteen-year-old body weakened and spent. But there’s no crying, no regrets, no guilt and no fear. There’s only wonder, naïve amazement, and beautiful fulfilment. He crawls back down to snuggle against the chest of the man who has given him the greatest rapture he has ever felt, the most exciting man he has ever laid eyes on, the man who brought him more lust and more contentment than he’d ever dreamed of even in his most blissful jerk-off fantasies.
William Waxton Croft’s balls ache, his need for release is so urgent his entire body hurts. He eases the boy over to lie in the crook of his arm, his other hand finds his majestic cock and starts moving. The boy is alerted, leans up on his elbow to watch. It doesn’t take long. The man shudders, his breath is caught and let out in a gush, and suddenly a fountain of pearly liquid is flung through the air, drops land on the boy, drops land on the man. The boy’s delighted laugh sings in the air, his blue eyes beam, and he bends down and light as a feather kisses William Waxton Croft’s cheek.
London
December 21. 3:30 PM
A small boy in school uniform, jacket buttoned tight, collar turned up, knees rosy from cold and cap slightly askew, tugs at the winter coat sleeve of the man standing next to him.
“Daddy, look! Please, Daddy, that’s the one I want!”
He points at a book on display among several others in the bookshop window. The man looks, clears his throat, swallows and puts his hand on the boy’s bony little shoulder.
“Is that so? Looks like a book for toddlers. Why that one?”
“Cuz Alec’s got it and it’s a super story and full of super pictures! It’s not for little kids, it’s almost like for grown-ups! Please, Daddy!”
The book in question is a large one, Crown Folio format, leaning against a gift-wrapped box. Front cover shows a watercolour painting of a stream running through a forest, and at the far bank a white-haired boy dressed like a medieval prince holds a small flute to his lips. In the misty background one can just barely make out a tower and a face behind bars. The title in bold, red capital letters on top of the author’s name reads
THE WILLOW FLUTE
W. W. CROFT
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(Search for “winterboy”, and you’ll find my other stories.)