Date: Fri, 28 Dec 2001 20:22:40 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: vancouver island, chapter four

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, or relations with minors.

Feedback to javabiscuit@hotmail.com


Vancouver Island ~ chapter four


by Biscuit


Armand was crazy. He had to be to have spent all
those years on that beach. To raise a son that way.
Yves, I found out, could write his name but not
much more. He'd spent his whole life around the
drifters on the beach, it's no wonder I looked so
good to him.

Armand was crazy but shrewd. He could read
people. He'd taken in the details about me that
spelled money. It was in the make of my backpack,
the condition of my teeth. Like some kind of
forensic scientist -- even my dental work spoke to
him. My voice and the way I talked. Even my panic
at finding myself stuck on the beach that first night
had told him I was cut of a different cloth. What else
he saw, I don't know. But he was constantly checking
me out. I don't think I was the first pervert to look
at Yves and pop a boner. But compared to what
Armand had seen come down that trail, I looked like
a good deal to him. Plus, he knew his kid.

For all it seemed like he was trying to make me
feel at home on the beach, he started talking a
different theme about halfway through the summer.

"A boy like you," he said one day, "he got to
stop fooling around sometime." Another time, when
we were waiting for a ride into town, he said, "Don't
be spending your life doing this, Jamie."

And then there was the Post Office. Armand had me
waiting in there for him. He was getting something
from General Delivery. God only knows what scam
that was, because he would cash in a money order.
But I was waiting, looking at the bank of phones
and thinking, I could get some money if I called Joe
Davis, my mom's lawyer. It wasn't a thing I liked to
do, but I think I'd always done it for more than the
money. Just to let her know, if she wanted to know,
that I was okay.

It's hard to describe how I felt about my mom. I
hated her, but I loved her. I wished she could just
act normal, not the pretend normal, like marrying
this guy Stan, but like, I don't know what. I wished
she was still a lesbian. That's how it was when I was
a kid. We lived on Perry Street in New York. In the
Village, where nobody thought it was weird that my
mom was gay and Jody was with us. God, I missed
Jody. She was a big woman who tended bar for a
living and got me the biggest collection of beer caps
any kid ever had. When Jody left, everything went to
hell. My mom starting throwing herself at one loser
guy after another. She sold her mom and dad's
business. We moved uptown to the Upper West Side
and nothing was ever right again. I walked out of
every school I didn't get thrown out of and did
every drug I could get my hands on. Even when I
went to school I spent half my time in the bathroom,
smoking and sucking off older kids for drugs, for
fun.

Joe Davis. I never wanted to really talk to him
when I called his office. I think I was scared that if
I talked to him, I'd break down. He was an okay guy.
He'd known my mom forever, and me. Well, ten
years, anyway -- forever to me. I'd always give his
receptionist the info about sending me money and
hang up before she could get him on the line. But I
was standing there, watching Armand wait to get his
stuff. And the receptionist didn't answer the phone,
Joe did. I guess I didn't realize how early it was in
New York. He was at his office before anyone else
and just picked up the phone.

"It's me, Jamie," I said, my heart suddenly beating
about a million thuds per second. Just the sound of
Joe's voice from so far away, from a whole different
world that I knew and left behind, made the backs of
my eyes hot, like I might cry.

"Where are you Jamie?"

By the time I hung up the phone, Armand was near
me, rolling up a couple smokes. He handed one to
me and we headed outside. He didn't ask me anything
right away. I guess I looked shook up.

Joe was going to send me money. He said my mom
and Stan were done. She was divorcing him and she
was going crazy wondering where I was. I wasn't
ready to cave in, but I was shaky.

I guess it was August already. Armand was laying on
supplies for winter on the beach. So much stuff.

He'd made a deal with one of the bikers to drive us
up with a carload of shit, in exchange for fucking
me. This guy had had eyes for me since the first time
we crashed at their place, but never bugged me, not
with Armand always right there beside me. He was
a big bruiser, like the poster boy of bikers, with a
big old gut on him and tattoos from his wrists to his
shoulders. Maybe it was another way Armand was
trying to push a wedge in, to make me think twice
about settling in too comfortably. I was not a happy
camper when he told me about the deal he'd made
with this guy. But with Armand, like always, I
ended up doing what he wanted.

God, the bastard was an assful and a half. He stunk
of beer and sausage and I'd be shitting him out of
me for hours. So fucked up, driving back to the
beach with my ass on fire and my guts cramping,
stuck between him and Armand, with this guy's big
beefy arm around my neck. He was pointing my
head between his legs, like I ever wanted to see his
stinking dick again.

He left us at the top of the trail once he got the
message that the fun was over. I was a black cloud
in a boy's body. I didn't even want to look at
Armand, who was calmly organizing the stuff we
had to get down the trail.

My ass was tender and I was hating Armand. Yves
knew something was up but he was like a little
soldier, up and down that trail with us, loaded up
like a pack mule. He could climb like crazy and
never slipped in the mud. It made me feel bad that
I was so quiet, taking out feeling so bad on him,
even though it was nothing to do with him.

By then, I could make out a little bit of their
French, phrases they used a lot. I would have known
anyway that Yves was asking his dad about what
was wrong with me. Armand said, in English, so
I could hear him, "He be getting sick of the beach,
that one." Way to go, Armand. Now the kid was
looking at me with big worried eyes.

How could a kid, ten years old, be such a fucking
grown up? He carried the bulk of stuff that was
for us up the trail from his dad's shack to mine.
I was dead. I wanted to crawl in my bed and hide.
That's pretty much what I did, after I shit another
watery bunch of crap.

Usually getting back to the beach was a kind of
celebration. This time I was fucked up, thinking
about my mom, thinking about how I couldn't
stand to be trapped on the beach with Armand
for the winter, hating him for letting that guy
fuck me.

The worst, though, was trying to see any way out.
I only had to look at Yves and feel like my heart
was ripping. It was near dark by the time we
were done and he had the stove stoked. The coffee
pot was on it and a pot with one of his mom's stews.
She cooked these things up out of God knows what
and they were awesome. But I was curled up in my
bed, watching him. Sarah had done the major job
of washing the kid's hair and brushing it out the
week before. It was shiny like silk in the fading
light, the braid fresh and tight. He lit the lamp on
the table and rolled me a smoke, sprinkling a pinch
of weed in with the tobacco, like a doctor deciding
what his patient needed. He brought it to me lit and
climbed onto the bed, on top of the cover.

"Maybe you don't stay here much longer," he said
to me. God, Yves. It was enough to make my eyes
start leaking. I wiped at them and waved off what
he said. I couldn't say a word without busting out
crying for real, so I smoked my roll-up, letting the
smoke dry up the tears. I'd climbed into my bed in
my tee-shirt, leaving my scummy jeans on the floor.
I wished I could have taken an honest to God shower
instead of just wiping at myself with water. But I
lifted up the edge of the sleeping bag, tugging it out
from under him, to invite him in there with me. He
shed his overalls on the bed and fit himself over
me, both of us boned up, craving the feel of being
pressed together.

Holding him between my legs, the weight of him
on my chest, it was magic. The smell of him, and
the stuff getting hot on the stove, crowded out the
biker stink clinging to me. I let go everything for
the moment but him, kissing his face, his eyebrows
and his cheeks, rocking him a little to feel his
belly move on my dick. I would have liked to be
sucking him but I didn't want to let him go yet.

Sucking Yves's dick was just about the best thing
in the world. I loved everything about that mini-
bruiser of his; pushing the soft little hood back
with my lips, sucking his small sac. I did just about
everything to that kid that could be done, except
fuck him. I wanted to. God, did I want to. And
there were plenty of times that he seemed to want
it just as bad. But it wasn't going to happen. I
drew a line and wouldn't budge. I'd finger him,
I'd tongue him, I'd come between those cheeks
but there was some kind of alarm built in to me
that wouldn't let me into his hole.

Mostly we did what we were doing that night,
we rubbed against each other like we were
fucking. It was good, better than any fucking I'd
done for real, because it was him. Yves was the
sexiest thing in the whole wide world. He could
practically bring me off just teasing me with the
tip of his braid. He'd soak the end of it with spit,
shaping it like a paintbrush in his lips and draw
patterns on my nipples, making me swear to lie
still, watching to see how much I could take. I'd
be sweating and quivering, my dick jerking
without him even touching it. Torture; sweet,
sweet torture.

He was a kid, and I was close enough to being
one that it was still like a game in some ways,
though the feelings weighed a ton. I guess, not
fucking, was a game rule I'd laid down and
I wouldn't break it.


Armand kind of left me alone for a day or so
after that trip to the city and I gradually eased
out of my funk though I kept thinking about my
mom and New York.

The next time he and I went into town I got the
package from Joe, with money and my papers,
and a letter from my mom in it. She wanted me
home, big time. Stan was gone. She was sorry
for what she said she'd put me through.

On that same trip, Armand bought a bunch of
weird clothes for Yves. I guess I thought he was
getting him stuff for the winter. He combed
through the Salvation Army, picking out little
socks and even shoes. A bunch of shirts. I helped
him decide on a jacket that would fit the kid.
What he was doing was getting ready to send the
kid away with me. Unbelievable.

That night, at his buddy's place, Armand
made it clear who my ass belonged to. He just
kept me next to him. I remember that even late,
when I'd have crawled off to the couch on my
own, he went with me, foregoing the last of
the drinking and storytelling.

"Jesus," I said to him, "I think your buddy got
the point, Armand. You don't have to fucking
baby-sit me."

He stretched out and thwacked his stomach
with his open hand.

"Come here, you," he said. I was stoned and
tired enough to make him look like a good
enough bed, but I didn't like the look of his
stiff dick in those overalls. "It don't got to
have you," he laughed at me. Armand didn't
fuck me much since Yves had started sleeping
with me every night. Every once in a while.

I got on top of him, and it felt pretty good.
He smelled like the beach and I found a place
to put my head that was comfy enough on his
shoulder. His big hands were stroking my
back, playing with my hair.

That's when he started talking to me about
how he wanted me to take Yves with me. His
voice was low and private and he even kissed
my head a few times, like I was a kid.

"I like you Jamie. I think you got to go soon.
I think you be taking my boy with you. He
don't want to be left behind."

I made some noise, maybe like a protest, but
Armand hushed me and kept up his quiet
patter.

"Yves got to go to school sometime, live in a
nice place. He's a queer boy for sure, since the
day he popped out. You love him," Armand
whispered, "you got to take him with you."

"You're crazy," I said. But my brain was on
overload, trying to think if it was possible. How
the hell could I take Yves with me? I couldn't
even imagine getting him across the border and
then what the fuck would we do? Armand took
hold of me by the back of my head and turned
his face to mine, his warm mouth suddenly
covering mine, quieting down my thoughts by
licking at my lips and trying to get his tongue
in my mouth. I took it in, I kissed him, letting
him distract me from the whirlwind of stuff he'd
unleashed in my head. Armand, what a trip he
was. I think that night was the last time he ever
fucked me. I was okay with it. Feeling like it
was taking away the other time; him making up
for what he'd let that guy do to me.