Date: Wed, 26 Dec 2001 12:04:38 +0000 From: Java Biscuit Subject: vancouver island, chapter two This story involves teen/boy, teen/adult, male/male graphic sex and is not intended for reading by minors. If you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where you live, please stop now, and go read something else! This is a completely fantasized story meant only for the purpose of pleasurable reading. This story is not meant to encourage unsafe, unprotected sex. Feedback to javabiscuit@hotmail.com Vancouver Island ~ chapter two by Biscuit "This is the best stuff here," Yves said, unloading the basket onto the table. He shook a tin at me before setting it down. "Coffee for you." I had pulled a pair of jeans from my pack that were far from clean but blessedly dry and was stuffing my very unruly dick into them; with those big hazel eyes of Yves's tracking me. He let out a laugh. "Guess you like coffee pretty much," he said. I turned my back and made myself think about climbing the trail as I rummaged a shirt from the mess in my pack. I heard Yves fiddling with the stove and he struck a match. God, the trail. I had to find Saguaro, or get the kid or Armand to show me the way up there. I picked up the pants that were caked with mud from the night before and knocked as much crap off them as I could before rolling them with the muddy parts covered. "Cat got your tongue?" he said. Like his dad, he was suddenly on me. Little bare arms around my waist and his head between my shoulders. "What are you doin' eh, Jamie? Not packing, right?" I couldn't believe how good it felt. He was sliding around to the front of me, still hanging on, forcing his head under my arm. Jesus, to look down into those eyes from so close, with his head tilted back and his stomach brushing against my once again very hard dick. "Got to pack," I said, but I was smelling the sweet smoke of the fire he'd started and my free hand was on his bare shoulder. His skin was smooth and warm and I could feel a healthy layer of muscle over the bone. He was a slim thing but not frail, taut muscled like his dad. That face. High cheekbones under his big eyes and a straight fine nose over a pair of wide firm lips. He'd pulled off his wool cap and his bangs were standing up every which way, his eyebrows were mostly pale like the rest of his hair, with darker smudges right at the start. His brows furrowed then relaxed as he bumped his belly against me and grinned. "How come?" he asked. "You don't have to go nowhere." My hand was moving on his shoulder. I couldn't help it, just to run my palm down and feel the shape of the blade. He shivered when I slid my hand under the strap in the back. Then I pulled my hand back, stepping away from him before I could do something a whole lot more serious than touching his back. "I've got to pack and I need to get up the trail," I said, walking around him to start packing my bed roll. He sat on it, and pulled the edge I'd picked up out of my hands. And then he just stared at me, defiant. God, I knew how bad that kid wanted me to stay there. It wasn't so much of a sex thing for him, though I felt him wanting to touch me. Since I'd laid eyes on him he'd been focused on me like I had some thing he wanted and needed. The look on his face got troubled so fast, like he'd fight me if I tried to get him off my sleeping bag. I didn't know what to say to him, how to tell him I was nothing to be looked at with such big hopes and longing. Six years is a big deal when one of you is ten and the other sixteen. To him, I was a grown up. To me, he was a kid. But we were neither of us exactly that. Where did I have to go? What did I have to do that was so fucking important? Then we heard Armand, calling out on his way up the trail. "Yves," he yelled, and the boy went running, shooting me a last hard look. I started rolling up my sleeping bag, but without much enthusiasm, feeling like leaving suddenly weighed a ton. The door to my shack was nothing more than flaps of cloudy plastic and Armand came through them with armload of shit. He and Yves were jabbering in French and English. "No," I heard Armand say, "he don't go nowhere, go on." Yves looked at me, setting down the over spill he'd taken from Armand, clothes. Jesus, were they going to try and dress me up in overalls? Then he took off. "I need a guide up the trail," I said. "You need a coffee, and a nice big bowl to smoke. Don't be scaring the boy." He pulled a pouch from one of the pockets of his pants and started sprinking some powdery shit over the bare planking of the bed shelf. "Get rid of slugs," he said. Yves came back in with a big metal bucket of water, straining his arm muscles, and set in on the floor. He dipped into it with the oldest, beat-up looking coffee pot I ever saw and dumped in grounds from the tin of precious coffee; stealing anxious looks at me. Then he put it on the crackling stove. I set down my bedroll. I might as well have raised a white flag and said, "I give." I sat down on the rickety chair by my table, watching them. I wasn't going anywhere. Not that day. I watched Armand spread a pair of rug-like blankets over the bed boards and then he calmly unrolled my sleeping bag and spread it out, zipped up but flat, with the top of it folded over like a pillow. "I present you, the bed of Louis Quatorze," Armand said, turning to me, waving at the bed with a flourish. "Louis Quatorze," Yves said, bubbling, hazel eyes full of glee, "had the best of the best of everything." The way he said it was everyt'ing. As it turned out, Louis the fourteenth was their measure of luxury in all things. Yves knew I'd given in and was beside himself with shy grins, like he was trying not to flaunt his victory. He'd flash a big smile and then try to hide it. Killing me, that's what it was. Every bright happy beam from those eyes. I could no more resist him than, I don't know what. There was nothing to compare to the temptation of him. He lifted up a parcel wrapped in an ancient tea towel and brought it over to me, getting right between my knees to unwrap it under my nose. God, my belly grumbled at the smell of food as he opened the cloth to show me a flat loaf of cakey bread. "His mama's best bread," Armand said. He'd pulled a wooden crate over to the table and put another folded up rug on it before sitting himself down. Then from one of his pockets he fished out his pipe and his stash. "Make him a plate, quequette, and don't be forgetting the other." The other proved to be a hunk of cheese. My stomach went nuts. Yves served me and then hung by my side, watching me eat with his arms wound behind his back. He bumped me with his knees. "It's good Jamie?" "It's really good. Your mom's a good cook." That she was. The bread was dense with raisins and molasses and my mouth was awash in spit. I held a piece of bread up to him, thinking he was hinting he wanted some, but he shook his head. Armand laughed, "He want to be on your lap." Not a good idea, not the way I was feeling about him right about then. Like I wanted to grow him up about six years and fuck him. Thank God, Armand passed me the pipe and the moment passed without me having to say or do anything but take a lungful of hash though my mouthful of cake, and Yves moved away to check the coffee pot. It was no small thing all the stuff they'd given me. Everything on the beach had to be gotten in town and transported miles up the road and then brought down that trail. Armand traveled into Victoria about once or twice a month for supplies. There were other towns, not as big, closer. But in Victoria there were places he knew to get stuff, shelters he went to, churches that gave stuff away. And he had friends he could crash with. Armand had scams. I found out he wasn't as generous to others on the beach. Even Saguaro, who came looking for a smoke. "You with Pierre, boy," he told him, "tell him to get you some tobacco." I thought the payback Armand wanted was to fuck me. He did. But what I didn't realize was that he was sizing me up for his son. Crazy. But when I think about it now, maybe not so crazy, at least by his way of thinking. The beach was no place for that kid. I think I was a fucked up alternative, but to Armand, I smelled of money and possibilities for his boy and he saw how Yves was drawn to me. He and I drank coffee that morning and got high. He started spinning tales. What crap he could talk. I listened with half an ear, his voice mixing with the sound of rain. My eyes wandered to the bed where Yves was going through my pack, taking things out one by one, looking at them, making a pile of clothes he would bring to his mother to wash for me. Any objects, like the odd handful of music tapes I had, he placed on the wall shelf by the bed in a little display after he'd carefully looked it over. Through my haze I heard Armand say, "You be a real pretty thing, Jamie. My Yves, he be pretty as you when he grow up." Wrong. He'd never be pretty. He'd be full out, drop dead gorgeous. Pretty would never contain what Yves was. Me, yeah, unfortunately it fit me. But him, maybe you'd say beautiful, exotic, some whole other order of thing. Part of that would be Armand's looks coming through in him; like a dark undercurrent that gave his looks depth. I don't even know what my real dad looked like, but I'd guess it was like Ken to my mom's Barbie. Me and Armand did mushrooms that morning. I'd go hunting with him for them later that summer, in fields with big piles of cow shit. Tiny little things we swallowed a bunch of. Gradually, the sun came out, inside me, if not on the beach, ripples of warmth and well being flowing through me as the mushrooms came on. I was on the bed with Armand. His touch felt sweet, like I was a field of tall grass and he was a breeze ruffling me. I remember how dark his big, uncut dick looked next to mine. I have the world's most boring prick. Not big, not small; even-colored and neatly circumsized; like they slapped it on me at the doll factory -- the next step up from the molded plastic hump they gave Ken. Armand's heavy cock was something to write home about, a live branch of wood from a thick dark forest of hair. Damn if it didn't taste like cedar and smoke. I know I spent a long time between his legs, exploring that monster with my mouth. Not trying to get him off, tripping on the taste and feel of him, getting lost in the world of his massive balls before scaling that pole to do some serious sucking. He let me play for awhile, watching and murmuring stuff in French I didn't understand. But he didn't want to come like that. Armand wanted to fuck. He'd take his time getting to it, but that's what he always wanted. I learned a lot about fucking from Armand. Like I said, it's not my thing to have a guy's dick pounding away in my ass. But he was like a master chef of some kind of food you'd only ever had cooked by somebody who didn't know what they were doing. He was good enough at doing it to make me like it, at least, more than anybody else had made me like it. So, part of me was taking notes. I wanted to be able to cook it up for somebody else, like he did. The somebody else who would eventually benefit from the lessons I was getting -- he was there too that morning. Not on the bed at first, but lurking and watching. He appeared so suddenly afterwards, when I was groping for something to wipe my stomach, that I knew he'd been there the whole time. Yves popped up from the floor by the bed with a tee-shirt from my dirty clothes. "Use this, Jamie. We be cleaning it anyhow." I think I just stared at him, not knowing how to react to him being there like that. Armand took the tee-shirt from him, muttering to him in French, matter-of-factly wiping at my stomach and then his dick before tossing it to the floor. Yves looked away, and moved away from the bed. He started gathering up the dirty clothes. "I take the laundry," he said, eyes cast down, sounding like he was shrugging off what he was doing. I was sure I was missing something, something going on between the two of them; not for the first or the last time with Armand and Yves.