A gay story: A Boy Who Came In from the Cold Ch. 19 “Well… the end has come at last. It’s taken me a little over a year to write this story and I’d like to say a big thank you to all the kind people who have read A Boy Who… in its entirety (some of you, amazingly, more than once!) You’ve been very patient with me, and I’m so grateful for all the wonderful comments and e-mails you’ve sent. It just makes me happy to know that you’ve taken some pleasure from Rayne’s sorry tale and that makes all the hard work worth while.
I wrote A Boy Who… for my friend Ant, who originally wanted a role in a vampire tale. This epilogue is for him. It’s a strange little piece, written as a bridge between Rayne’s life and his Unlife. I hope I’ve done him justice.
A Happy New Year to you all!
Love… Sadie.xxx”
*
TEN YEARS LATER:
(LONDON — SEPTEMBER 1999)
It was already dark outside when Mr. Wright left the cinema on Shaftesbury Avenue. A steady drizzle made the pavements gleam in the coppery glow of the streetlights. He turned up his collar, dissatisfied with the cinematic fare, which overzealous reviewers had tried to work up into some kind of priapic orgy when in truth it was nothing more than a fairly tame rom-com with a bit of full-frontal nudity thrown in to piss off the censors. He walked back up to Piccadilly in search of a cab, reflecting ruefully on warmer days and sunnier climes. In a few weeks he would be off to Cornwall to spend a short break on one of his boats with some close friends, but for the time being he would have to be content with this business trip to the Capital.
It had been several years since Ant had last lived in London. When it finally became too expensive to moor in Greenwich he upped anchor and moved up the Grand Union to Oxford, spending a year or two on the outskirts of the bustling academic town before finally settling in the Black Country. His businesses there and in Cornwall now yielded enough income to purchase a house and add to his collection of sailing vessels. One was the yacht down in St Mawes, where he was currently looking forward to some well-earned R+R. The other was a restored restaurant boat moored on the Canal du Midi in France. Currently Terry Goodwill was minding the latter for him. He hoped the old bastard had not managed to sink it during some wild party.
Terry had barely known what to do with himself in the eighteen months since Daniel Leland’s death. Although they had never been lovers, he and Leland had been a virtually inseparable couple for nearly twenty years. Ant felt sorry for his old friend. The boat got Terry out of Ambonne and kept him busy. There were still boys there every weekend, even though Goodwill was in his sixties now. Ant could almost hear him chuckling; “You can keep a good man hard but you can’t keep a hard man down, Rosie!”
He felt guilty at having missed Daniel’s funeral. Terry had brought his body back to Dulwich, where apparently the old man still had surviving family. It had been quite a send off, by all accounts, though he wondered what the blue-rinsed, well-to-do relatives thought of the glamorous porn starlets gathered at the graveside, and vice-versa! Ant had been over in Ireland on holiday at the time. He did not find out that Daniel had passed away until after his return to England, although the news still saddened him. Leland could be a contrary old so and so but he was a loyal friend. He had never turned Ant away from his door in times of need. Even though they had not seen one another for nearly five years, he still felt the sorrow acutely. In some ways he had been closer to Dan Leland than to his own kin.
The memory of Leland and the glorious summers spent at Port Ambonne turned his mind unexpectedly back to that bizarre time, nearly ten years ago, when he had fled to the Cap with Rayne Wylde. Jesus Christ! His friends still refused to believe that story; that he had once dipped his wick into the sweet, hot flame that was rock band Whipsnade’s crazy, beautiful, screwed-up lead singer. The band were in all the magazines and Wylde was on the front cover of the tabloids at least six times a year for some form of riotous behaviour, usually being escorted from restaurants and clubs, or the back of a police car.
Last week he had seen the boy in action for the first time since Ambonne. Okay, so Rayne had been performing with his band on Top Of The Pops, but apart from pictures in the press and on the worn sleeve notes of ancient porn videos, he had not set eyes on the little hussy since Rayne ran out on him in 1989. It had been a revelation.
He was quietly aware that the boy — no longer a boy now — was the singer with a well-known band, but had not realised just how successful they were until he tried this week to get a ticket for one of their upcoming concerts in London. The helpful girl on the sales counter told him apologetically that all five nights at the Roundhouse had been sold out since February when the shows went on sale.
Ant would have been the first to confess that he knew nothing about pop music but Whipsnade had invaded his consciousness over the past twelve months. It had been a shock the first time he opened a magazine (one of the Sunday supplements, he thought now) to see that achingly familiar face staring insolently back at him. Initially he refused to believe it was the same boy he had dragged out of the snow all those years before but as his brain assimilated the accompanying interview he was forced to accept the truth.
At least the young man was no longer hiding behind a pimp or an alias these days. He hoped, with only a hint of bitterness, that this meant he was ‘finally’ comfortable with his identity. From the interview he did at least glean enough information to know that Rayne had not yet settled down. He coyly fielded enquiries about potential girl/boyfriends, although he was candid about his assorted addictions and the trouble they had got him into over the years. The magazine said he was 25. Mentally Ant calculated that the singer had to be at least 29 years old if he had been telling the truth about his age back in Agde. He looked pretty good for a man approaching thirty.
Watching him on TV last week, Ant saw some of the same defensive aggression behind his wide, kohl-ringed, emerald eyes. Rayne Wylde might be ten years older and spelling his surname differently but he still seethed with latent anger. His voice was stronger than Ant remembered from that long-ago gig at the Camden Falcon. It swung from a sweet falsetto croon to a crowing snarl as he swamped the microphone and stared challengingly into the camera. Poised on the edge of the sofa, unable to take his own eyes off the screen, all Ant could think of was the memory of that soft, sweet mouth wrapped around his erect cock.
It made him hard then and there, and he had no way of explaining to Elaine that once he and Wylde had shared the pleasure of that stiffening flesh. Like the rest of his friends, she would not have believed it, for a start.
Ant had been with Elaine since the spring of 1996, when he bought his house. Elaine worked for an estate agency, and whilst he did not actually bring her any business, for some reason the pretty branch manageress did accept his invitation to come out for a drink. A drink led to a meal and then a couple of pleasant days out and a weekend on his boat in Cornwall. Elaine shared his bed on that trip. Two months later she sold her own flat and moved in with him.
He loved her soft, sensuous curves, the fall of her dark hair and the swell of her gorgeous breasts, overflowing his caressing hands as he sank down onto her and into her. Elaine had the sweetest, wettest cunt he had ever tasted and he loved to lose himself inside her. He had not yet told her of his appetite for boys, nor did he think he ever would. It was not that he feared her disapproval, more that they were two separate parts of his life now. A part of the thrill of coming to London alone was about the secret cruising. It allowed him to do something daring and forbidden; something for himself, never to be spoken of in the polite circles Elaine moved in. Although he loved her and he enjoyed the time he spent with his girlfriend, the thrill of doing something dangerous still turned him on like nothing else.
Piccadilly Circus was oddly quiet in the gathering gloom of this rainy evening. He pushed sodden hair out of his eyes and scanned the streets for a taxi, but the black cabs he spotted were either occupied or running empty. Instead he set off on foot along Piccadilly itself. Even the whores around the Circus Plaza were unappealing tonight.
Outside the Ritz Hotel, one of many glamorous venues dotted along that famous thoroughfare, he was forced to swerve out into the road to avoid a sudden throng of people. He crossed to the opposite side where he was able to observe from the kerb with a little more detachment. They swarmed like bees or feeding pirhanas, converging on the colonnaded entranceway with a single-minded determination. He saw cameras flash as someone came out into a cordoned area beneath the portico but it was only a doorman in a top hat and long tails and the air of tension holding them together relaxed briefly.
Ant spotted a cab with its light on just then and abandoned his brief spectator’s role, stepping back into the road and waving a hand to attract the driver’s attention. Fortunately the vehicle was slowing to navigate around the throng that spilled off the opposite pavement and it stopped for him at once. As he opened the rear door to let himself into the warm, dry, black leather interior, the swarm began to buzz again, more urgently this time.
“King’s Road, please,” he told the driver with a sigh of relief at escaping the rain and the chaos.
And then the other door of the cab opened and admitted a howling, baying scene like some Dante-esque vision of Hell.
RITZ HOTEL, LONDON — SEPTEMBER 18TH 1999
“This is not good!” The tall, impossibly-skinny, blond-dreadlocked youth, who had been pacing back and forth across the foyer for the last fifteen minutes, as near to the doors as he dared, now stared aghast at the growing pack of restless reporters trying to shelter from the rain beneath the portico of the Ritz Hotel. There was not much in the way of space out there and he was visibly unhappy with the situation. What had begun, earlier in the evening as an informal round of civilised interviews with the broadsheets in the Palm Court Tea Room, was now turning into bedlam as those elements deliberately excluded as a result of recent hostilities between the band and the press in Dublin got wind of the game plan. Now the press-pack was growing by the minute. “Not good at all. Can’t we call the police?”
The polish concierge, who had been hovering by his shoulder for a little while, wearing a polite and would-be-helpful smile, shook his head.
“They say that they have right to be there.”
“This is your doorstep,” the lanky, blond fellow told him irritably.
“Technically, no,” his companion pointed out. “I am only employee here.”
“But you can make them go away,” the blond insisted more adamantly. “This is ridiculous.”
“If you go out and talk to them, maybe they go away,” the little man answered him as diplomatically as he knew how.
“If we go out there now they’re gonna kill us,” the taller one pointed out to him, shaking his head until his long, honey coloured rat-tails of hair swayed like the thongs of a whip. “You’ve seen them! They’re savages!”
“They cannot kill you. That would be crazy,” the concierge told him soothingly.
“They are paparazzi! They are not sane men!” the blond shouted at him. He wheeled away irately, clutching his head in both hands. “For Christ’s sake, where the hell is Chaz?”
He glanced at his watch again and paced back across the foyer to the group of bemused looking people waiting on a circle of velvet upholstered sofas near the bar. They were a dissolute looking bunch for sure, but not — he considered — worthy of a full scale press riot outside one of London’s most prestigious hotels. If it had not been for the Dublin incident earlier in the year none of this would be happening.
“What’s the score, Matty?” That was Ciaran Hartney, their laconic Irish bass player, who was sprawled with his feet up on an oriental lacquered occasional table, a half-empty pint glass in his hand, looking probably the least concerned of their tribe. Ciar stood a towering six feet three inches and was possessed of a fearsome Celtic stare that would probably have cowed the most determined journo. Maybe he should go out and talk to the press, Matt Greening thought grimly.
He had been managing this band for too long. Whipsnade were doing well in the charts and they were making money, in spite of the insane amounts that went on their ‘excessive’ rock lifestyle but Matt was exhausted from running around after them. It was like managing children sometimes, which was ridiculous too. With the exception of guitarist, Sean Courtney, they were all older than him. It was not fair, he decided with another shake of his head. Why couldn’t someone else be the sensible one for a change?
“We can’t go out the front way,” he declared now, wishing he had agreed to be an accountant like his brothers. Wishing Rayne hadn’t taken it into his head to deck that mouthy photographer last month in Dublin. “They want our blood.”
“Correction…” That was pink-haired Noriko Mori, official band mother and keyboard genius. The curvaceous Japanese-American girl was perched on one arm of the long sofa, with the band’s maverick singer Rayne Wylde draped languidly at her feet smoking a roll up and looking smug. “They want his blood!”
She pointed one long, magenta talon straight down at the top of Wylde’s dark, tousled head.
“Great thinking! Throw Mouth Almighty to the press and we’ll make a run for it out the back door!” Ciaran chuckled, raising his pint to her appreciatively.
“Thanks a bunch, you lot!” The singer blew out a long streamer of smoke, aiming it upward into Noriko’s face. “I’ll remember this!”
As she was waving the smoke away, looking unconcerned, the other two members of their party returned from their brief reconnoitre of the rear of the building. Their drummer, Simon Hathaway ran a hand through his short, spiky auburn hair and slumped down on a vacant chair shaking his head. Little Sean tugged fretfully on his chestnut ponytail and stared at the throng beyond the main doors with an anxious frown.
“No joy,” Si exhaled. “They’re out the back as well. I think Chaz tried to get round that way but he can’t get near.”
“He’s driving a 20 foot, bullet-proof Merc!” Rayne exploded incredulously, swinging himself into a sitting position so that he could glare at his oldest friend. “What’s his fuckin’ problem? Run the bastards over!”
“It’s that kind of attitude towards the press that got us in this situation to begin with,” Sean reminded him tersely.
“They started it!” Rayne countered.
“You broke that guy’s nose!” Sean was staring at him now, his blue eyes wide and openly hostile.
“He shouldn’t have invaded my personal fucking space then, should he?” Wylde was shaking his head again irritably.
“I do not believe you, sometimes!” their young guitarist huffed, turning his back and staring miserably out towards the seething rabble beneath the portico.
Several hotel guests occupying the bar were now glancing warily in their direction, monitoring the heated exchanges between the band members in case something interesting kicked off. At least two of them were reporters from their earlier, prearranged press conference in the Palm Court Tea Rooms, who had hung around to see what would happen now that their tabloid brethren had arrived. Matty was conscious of this, and also of the fact that Rayne was beginning to loose his cool.
“It’ll be all right,” Matt heard himself say distantly. “They’ll get bored with this in a while. We’ll have another drink.”
As he spoke one of the unfortunate doormen stumbled back into the foyer looking rather less composed than he had a few moments before. The doors closed smoothly behind him and the brief chorus of howls that followed him was swiftly muted again. A camera flashed hopefully just before the press were shut out.
“Call the cops!” Ciaran remarked from his deep, comfortable armchair in the foyer, utterly unconcerned. “We’re being harassed here!”
“They’ll bill us,” Matt reminded him gloomily.
“Let them!”
For a moment all eyes moved back to the ashen face of their singer-singwriter, stretched out on the sofa opposite Ciaran’s chair. Clad in black from the high-collar of his Alexander McQueen coat to the tapered toes of his ebony, cuban heeled boots, Rayne Wylde was a brooding shadow. The rumpled sable bangs of his shoulder length hair and the darkness of his snug-fitting attire were only alleviated by his pale, heart-shaped face; leached of colour by a recent mystery illness that had stalled the band’s European tour midway through. Currently he could barely talk, let alone sing. The press alleged that he was in rehab. Rayne Wylde insisted it had been pneumonia. The flashpoint of this argument had been the punch up in Dublin. At the moment it looked set to culminate here in the Ritz Hotel.
“I’m serious,” he croaked.
“I know, babe,” Matty soothed. “Kris’ll go ballistic though.”
Kris Speddings, the head of SOLD Records had been less than impressed about having to bail out his primary asset in Dublin. The police were already in talks with Whipsnade’s gig promoters about the cost of manning the upcoming shows in London. Then, twenty-three days ago, Rayne lost his temper and punched out some wisecracking arsehole from the Daily Mail in the foyer of Dublin’s Point Hotel. The scumbag had asked for a knuckle-sarnie, to be frank, but about five photographers got a good shot of the knockout blow and it made the front page of most of the tabloids the next day.
‘Whipsnade Beast Goes Wylde!’
Hilarious… Not! At least, Kris and the Board of Directors did not seem to think so.
“Not bad for a half-dead junky, yeah?” Rayne had remarked insouciantly when he saw it.
“No publicity is bad publicity,” Matt had valiantly reminded the Board, but this only earned him a ‘look’ from his generally tolerant Boss that warned him his head was in danger of winding up on a spike outside the record company’s Notting Hill Gate offices.
“What’s gonna be more expensive? Cops or getting’ a couple of rooms here until they get bored and piss off to hassle someone else?” Rayne stretched out wearily on the sofa, tilting his head back into the cushions and closing those pale, tired eyes again.
He had a point, Matt conceded. Plus he had seen the pin-prick pupils of those eyes. Rayne was completely wrecked and the younger man was just thankful that he had managed to hold it together for the actual interviews and the formal photo session. Matt could not even remember letting him get out of sight, but someone must have got to him. Briefly Matty experienced another surge of irritation, tinged with envy that Rayne could get off his tits so easily and not even share with him. Things had been a bloody sight easier before the band got this big. He remembered promoting their first album with a surge of pleasure and pride. Back then everything had been fun. He and Ray fucked each other every chance they got. High on life and no small amount of illicit substances, they enjoyed every minute.
Now their relationship was almost exclusively business. Matt Greening could hardly recall the last time Rayne had been straight enough or horny enough to get inside him. It did not help that his former lover was still so fuckin’ gorgeous. Even wasted, exhausted and desperately ill, he was beautiful to Matt’s stinging eyes.
“Like I said, we only need to get ‘him’ out. It’s ‘him’ they want.”
Noriko, perching on the arm of the sofa beside the singer, crossed impossibly long legs, in thigh-high white PVC boots that rose almost to the hem of her short black and white, oriental cut dress. Beneath them she wore metallic purple stockings. She folded her arms across her tiny breasts and tossed her long fall of sleek, vivid pink hair, impatient with the boys and their lack of impetus. In spite of her appearance Noriko was older than any of her fellow band members by a couple of years (and about a century when it came to common sense!)
“Get the door guys to flank him, put him in a cab, the scum try to chase him, get bored and go home,” she elaborated. “Then ‘we’ can leave.”
“Cheers Niko,” Rayne muttered without opening his eyes. “Throw me to the fuckin’ dogs why don’t you?”
“They won’t get near. There is less traffic now,” she pointed out. “If a cab comes, and they get you into it, you can go home safely. We give it a few minutes and then we can walk out of here. It is a good plan.”
“I’ve no money though,” Rayne Wylde crooned in a broken imitation of her sing-song voice. He tilted his head back to look up at her, one eye still closed.
By way of a response to this she uncrossed her legs, hooked up the front of her skirt, oblivious to the stares of the non-Whipsnade occupants of the Ritz Lounge and retrieved a folded £20 note from the tiny, lacy condom pocket on the front of her purple thong panties. Without a word she passed it down to him.
“I’ll remember that,” he told her knowingly, taking the warm, slightly moist note and pressing it to his nose with a grin, inhaling her scent.
“Touch my moneymaker and you’ll die horribly. Being ripped apart by the press will seem like a holiday,” she warned, adjusting her skirt again. She was standing now and the long pink tail of hair cascaded forward over one shoulder as she bent to this task. Rayne caught it and towed her lips down to meet his own.
“Come with me,” he whispered huskily into her mouth.
“My husband is home,” Noriko said with a brisk shake of her head. “He is taking me out for dinner, if I ever get back tonight!”
“Fuck me in the cab, I’ll drop you off,” Rayne promised, brushing his lips against hers, tasting her magenta lipstick.
“Dirty pig!” she laughed with another shake of her hair as she pulled free of him. “Get your skinny ass out of here, Wylde. Let us go home!”
Rayne just managed a wicked chuckle as he levered himself into a sitting position and ignored the dagger-glares he was getting from Matt. As the plucky doorman returned to let them know a taxi was stopping, Rayne Wylde rose stiffly to his feet. He ran a bold hand over Noriko’s pert arse as he passed her. She dealt him a slap to the rear in return.
“You know you want it,” he murmured teasingly. “You want to hump that tight oriental pussy on my hard cock. Again!”
“Like, fat chance you’ll be hard tonight!” Noriko flashed back cheekily, blowing him a kiss. “No way you’re getting a boner today, honey!”
And then four burly, top-hatted doormen were flanking him, shielding the singer with their bodies and virtually racing him through the double doors and out through the chaos on the concourse where they hustled him into a stationary cab.
THE BOY WHO CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD:
“Drive!” the skinny, black-clad creature yelled huskily as he tumbled into the back of the taxi and the kerb-side rear door slammed shut behind him.
For a nanosecond the cab driver looked over his shoulder from one man to the other then, as the horde of paparazzi surged around his vehicle, scrabbling for the door handles he seemed to reach an executive decision. He flicked the internal locks on and floored the accelerator, scattering howling journalists like confetti.
“Fuckin’ hell!” Rayne Wylde exclaimed enthusiastically. “That’s more like it! Mow the cunts down!”
At about the same moment he seemed to realise that he had company after all. Simultaneously Ant Wright recognised his fellow passenger with a sudden, painful jolt of emotion.
“You…” he wavered helplessly. So many times he had rehearsed what he would say if he ever saw Rayne again. Even so, all that finally came out of his mouth was one word. “You…”
“What the fuck are you doin’ in my cab?” Rayne croaked, a brief flash of panic animating his ashen face. “Are you a fuckin’ journalist?”
Ant stared at him. He wanted to laugh… or cry, in that split second he was not sure which.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, his voice barely audible. “You’ve forgotten. Me… Agde… everything!” Ant looked away, shaking his head. “No surprise, I guess. You’ve moved on in the world since you dumped me!”
Rayne’s ice green eyes widened automatically. The instant of recognition froze him in his seat.
“Fuck! It’s ‘you’ isn’t it? Jesus fuckin’ Christ! What ‘are’ you doing in my cab?” he demanded more boldly now.
“Actually…” Ant pointed out, growing increasingly annoyed with this line of enquiry. “I think you’ll find it’s my cab. I was here first.”
“You’ll have to get another,” Rayne protested, grabbing the handle above the door as they skimmed around Hyde Park Corner, leaving the pursuing press pack well behind. “I mean… we’ll drop you at the Dorchester, right? You can get another taxi easy enough there.”
“No.” Ant countered, his temper beginning to fray. “Bloody Hell, Rayne! What is it? Ten years? And you still can’t just say ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I’m sorry, Ant. I fucked you over!’ You can’t say it can you?”
“I ‘paid’ you!” Rayne snapped back at him, his voice cracking with the effort. He coughed painfully, shaking his head so that his dark hair flew like the tendrils of some dark sea anemone. “I gave you your money back, you bastard. With interest! I didn’t take a penny for myself.”
“Don’t you get it?” Ant yelled in response. “I didn’t ‘want’ any money from you. I wouldn’t have cared if you ‘never’ paid me back. That’s not what I wanted Rayne!”
Fear glittered in the wide, expressive eyes that turned back towards him then. Automatically, Rayne wriggled back towards the door, groping blindly for the handle. The locks stayed down and he banged a fist against the panel in his frustration. He was like a hunted animal, Ant thought miserably. That much had not changed.
“What ‘do’ you want?” the singer pleaded huskily in a brittle, tortured voice. He sounded tired and ill and suddenly Ant just wanted to pick him up and take him somewhere warm and safe where he could rest and relax. It seemed wrong that he was still so scared after all he had been through. “What do you want to stop stalking me and just leave me alone?”
“I’m not fucking stalking you!” Ant reached for one of the overhead safety handles beyond the singer’s head and pulled himself across the back seat until he was close enough to touch Rayne. Still the smaller man pulled away from him, his back pressed against the door. Those fierce green eyes were screened behind his hair, hiding his emotions. His breath came in short, desperate bursts. “I haven’t been near you since you walked out on me in France. I didn’t even know if you were still alive until a couple of years ago when I saw your face in a magazine. Do you know how that made me feel?”
He rested one careful hand on the young man’s lean, black-clad thigh and lowered the other from the door handle to run it gently through Rayne’s sleek, ebony hair. He felt the singer quiver furiously under his touch, too scared and angry to speak.
“You ‘know’ what I want,” Ant whispered to him, leaning close enough to feel Rayne’s rapid breath on his face. His hand glided slowly up the boy’s inside leg. “God almighty, you’re still so beautiful. Even now!”
Rayne closed his eyes and groaned quietly as Ant’s searching hand cupped his balls through the tight black crotch of his trousers, squeezing and rubbing him firmly until he felt the beginnings of an erection tenting the material. Biting down on both lips the younger man squirmed and moaned under his touch, reluctantly aroused. Ant unfastened the button and zipper awkwardly as the restrictive garment impeded nature’s course. His hand eased steadily into the front of Rayne’s snug-fitting pants and he groped Whipsnade’s sexy vocalist shamelessly, delighted to discover that Rayne still went commando after all this time. The young man would not look at him but he did not push Ant away.
Ant fondled his freed cock for a little while, until Rayne was panting urgently in his loose embrace. Keeping his left hand at the base of Rayne’s skull, supporting his head, he stroked the other slowly up over the singer’s heaving belly and chest, caressing the soft material of his black shirt, reaching for the triangle of pale skin at his throat. He let his fingers slide up under Rayne’s chin and pressed his thumb against the younger man’s soft, full lips. They parted wordlessly around it, taking it into his mouth. Rayne sucked on his thumb and fingers, reaching a hand down between his legs to rub on his neglected cock as the cab lurched through the rainy night.
There was a little silver stud in the tip of his tongue now.
Ant drew his thumb out of the singer’s mouth and reached down to unzip his own pants. At the same time Rayne leaned towards him uncertainly. Their lips met and Rayne kissed him hungrily. He tasted nicotine and marijuana on the singer’s lashing tongue.
“Touch me!” he panted into Rayne’s mouth, before easing his own tongue between the young man’s cold, wet lips and returning his right hand to Rayne’s twitching cock.
For the first time Rayne turned those huge, icy-green eyes up towards him as they kissed again. The pupils were like needle-points. He still had not said a word since Ant began to seduce him.
“Are you all right?” Ant asked him now, suddenly wary of the wide-eyed, slightly feral gaze that was fixed on his face.
Rayne blinked once, never taking his eyes off Ant. He nodded his head briefly.
Ant groaned deep in his throat as he felt long, slender, chilly fingers slide into his open fly and close around his stiffening member. The stoned, sexy youth fisted his erection vigorously as their lips met again, surging and parting. Rayne’s tongue entered his mouth and he sucked on the tiny stud, catching it lightly between his teeth, trapping the boy’s lips against his own. His thumb rolled slowly over the slick, leaking head of his lover’s pulsing hard-on and he felt Rayne’s lithe body arc upward, towards him as the young man whimpered with pleasure.
“Christ, guys! Get a fuckin’ room or somthin’!” the cabbie growled at last, reminding them that they were not alone.
His words briefly broke the spell that held them. They moved apart unwillingly, both panting and still hard. Ant’s heart was pounding eagerly and Rayne’s beautiful green eyes glittered like jewels in the winking light from the street-lamps and storefronts they passed. His full, wet lips were as tempting as original sin as he struggled to force his cock back into his pants.
The cab driver’s eyes flickered back and forth from the mirror to the road, watching Rayne’s impossibly pretty face.
“You’re that singer, aren’t you?” he queried at last, unable to resist. “The one what decked that photographer bloke in Ireland?”
“Yeah!” Rayne told him huskily, a little smile tugging at his lips.
“Thought so.” The cabbie began to look happier now that he had some juicy gossip to relay to future customers.
Ant could almost hear him; ‘Yeah… I ‘ad that Rayne Wylde in the back of my cab the other day. Randy as a bitch on heat! Getting it on with some bloke he only just met!’
He moved his hand possessively down Rayne’s spine and back up again to the nape of his neck. The singer was still so slender that he felt the curve of each individual vertebra through the fine material of his summer jacket. His fingers crept back over Rayne’s collar beneath his dark, shoulder-length spill of sable hair. The skin there was sweat-damp but surprisingly cool. Ant watched him close his eyes again and suck in a long shuddering breath, remembering how the boy loved to be touched in certain places.
“Where you going?” the driver asked now.
Rayne said nothing. His trembling fingers moved up to the neckline of his gauzy black shirt and tugged on it so that the buttons peeled free and it fell open, baring his pale torso and belly. He tilted his head back into Ant’s caressing hand. It was such a trusting, submissive gesture that the older man stiffened again for him.
“King’s Road,” Ant said quietly now, glancing at his companion to see if he had any objection. When none was forthcoming, he eased his right hand back inside Rayne’s shirt and began to twist his small, firm nipples lightly between his forefinger and thumb. The boy’s lips parted around a sudden moan of delight; a little sound exhaled forcefully as he was teased.
“Yeah… right… thought so!” the driver said again, in a strained voice, his eyes moving rapidly in the mirror, unable to look away as the singer writhed in the back of his cab with his shirt and pants undone, succumbing to his companion’s touch. “Saw your picture in a magazine the other day. Stark bollock naked with a load of chains and a couple of big black panthers. What was that all about, eh?”
Rayne laughed breathlessly, never opening his eyes. Ant’s hand eased down his backbone again, curling under the tail of his shirt and sliding down easily into his pants to explore that final erogenous zone beneath the very end of his tail bone; the small, round hollow at the top of his sexy arse-crack. It was still there, and Ant slipped the tip of his middle finger into it, feeling Rayne squirm restlessly under his hands.
“It’s… uhhhhh… it’s about…. About how I’m a… ahhhh… a total slave to huhhh… hot, black pussy!” he panted as Ant’s head went down and the older man began to suck and nibble on his erect nipples.
Ant snorted with amusement, the sound muffled against his chest. Rayne pulled on his hair roughly, recovering his breath enough to declare; “It ‘is’!”
“Yeah, right!” Ant whispered, kissing his way back up to Rayne’s throat. At the same time his probing finger moved lower, circling the singer’s puckered ring and pressing down on it firmly. He felt Rayne’s breathing quicken against his left ear and the younger man struggled in his arms as Ant’s finger breached his tight, hot rectum and thrust deeper into his writhing body. “Hot black pussy, my arse!” Ant chuckled softly against his skin, as the cab turned right onto the King’s Road.
“Where’re you guys getting off?” the cabbie grunted, sounding increasingly uncomfortable with the behaviour on the back seat of his vehicle.
‘Right here, if you don’t get a fuckin’ move on!’ Ant thought as Rayne began to hump his intrusive finger eagerly, gasping and panting in his embrace. He lifted his head and peered out through the steamed up window.
“Next block will do,” he replied to their driver’s obvious relief.
He paid the cab driver, struggling to keep his pants up as Rayne lolled against the side of the car, oblivious of his half-dressed state. Fortunately it was late and quiet down this end of the road and he was able to steer the singer down the alleyway to the little courtyard, which allowed access to his temporary residence, before he exposed himself to some unsuspecting passer-by. The flat belonged to a friend of a friend but he was often away in Portugal on business and had no objection to Ant staying over there on his visits to London. Only as he struggled to get the singer up the stairs to the front door did Ant realise just how stoned and sleepy Rayne was. In the end he hoisted the boy over one shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carried him up, letting himself into the warmth of the kitchen. He strode through to the lounge and dumped Rayne Wylde onto the black leather sofa there shaking his head at the way the slender youth sank into the soft embrace of the yielding cushions. He could not stop thinking how easy it would be to rip Rayne’s clothes off and fuck him hard right now.
Déjà vu was kicking in. A little over ten years ago he had carried Rayne back to his boat in a similar state. The memories were still etched vividly on his mind. Rayne lying on his couch, cold and wet, unsure of where he was. It had taken him a little while to pluck up the courage to touch the boy back then. Now he knew what he wanted. He just hoped that Rayne wanted the same thing.
“I’ll get you some coffee,” he said, controlling himself sternly. If they made out tonight he wanted the singer to remember it.
“You got any vodka?” his guest crooned huskily, without opening his eyes.
“You’re wasted enough,” Ant called back from the kitchen where he was already putting the percolator on. “What is it this time? Drink or Drugs?”
“Bit of both!” Rayne admitted, struggling to sit up for a few seconds then giving in and flopping back down onto the couch.
“I wasted my time trying to clean you up then?” Ant came back to the doorway, unfastening his shirt and shrugging it off.
The younger man was watching him from the sofa, where he sprawled languidly in a state of semi-undress. Ant let his trousers drop to the floor and stepped out of them, toeing off his shoes and socks. He pushed down his underpants and pulled on his half-erect cock.
“Once a junkie, always a junkie,” Rayne agreed sleepily. “You living ‘ere then?”
“It’s not mine, I’ve just borrowed it,” Ant wandered back through to the kitchen and hunted out a pair of coffee mugs.
“It’s nice,” his guest assured him, raising his voice to be heard in the next room. “Very… comfortable.”
“Are you still living in London?” Ant asked as he busied himself with the cups.
“Mmm,” Rayne made an affirmative noise. “Not in a squat though, now. I’ve got my own place.”
“You must be doing well then.”
“I’m doin’ okay,” Rayne said casually.
Ant carried the mugs through into the long, low-ceilinged lounge area and smiled when he observed Rayne stroking himself lazily as he waited. The younger man had eased his pants down around his thighs and peeled off his long black coat. It hung over the back of the sofa like a charred corspe. His filmy black shirt hung off the narrow wings of his pale shoulders and his head was tipped back into the soft, leather cushions of the low sofa. Long, dark eyelashes fanned his cheeks seductively. His tongue flickered between his lips as he pulled on his cock and balls with both hands.
“It looks that way,” Ant told him, smiling. His own penis stiffened appreciatively at the thought of those soft lips around his aching shaft. “Would you like some sugar or cream with that?”
Green eyes opened and surveyed him silently. Rayne managed a lazy smile. It bared the longest, sharpest dog-teeth Ant had ever seen. He felt his pulse race at the sight. At the same time he wondered how he had not noticed them when he was kissing the boy urgently in the cab.
“Jesus Christ! When did you get those done?” he laughed quickly, to hide the shock.
Rayne licked one of the long canines, taking his time, running the studded tip of his tongue down the outer curve like an invitation. At last he leaned back again with a little sigh.
“Do you like them?” he breathed, wriggling seductively on the sofa.
“They’re amazing!” Ant nodded, setting down the cups and coming to sit beside him. “Do you bite people with them?”
Rayne Wylde eased his slight weight onto one hip and leaned forward so that his tip-tilted nose touched Ant’s. He let the tip of his tongue run over Ant’s lips, then traced a cool, wet trail to his lover’s right ear, licking his face and neck like a dog. He shuddered again, as he had in the car. Ant pulled him closer, running his hands up under the gauzy shirt as he towed the slender singer into his lap and kissed his neck. His fingers crept back down to Rayne’s hips, gripping and parting his firm, white cheeks as they nuzzled one another breathlessly.
“I want you,” Ant whispered to him at last. “I want to fuck you. I want to feel your mouth around my dick.”
Rayne kissed his bare chest, open-mouthed. He nipped Ant’s teats between his small, white incisors and licked at them greedily.
“You taste good,” the singer purred huskily. “I want to make you bleed. Can I bite you?”
Ant felt his cock lurch at the idea. A jewel of semen leaked from the glans and he nodded eagerly.
“Yeah!”
Rayne needed no more invitation than that. He bent his head again and bit down harder, worrying Ant’s left nipple with his front teeth until the tender flesh ruptured and yielded a little blood. Ant moaned appreciatively at the sharp, stinging sensation in his breast. Rayne’s lips encircled the wounded bud and he sucked gently on his lover’s pierced flesh. The seductive brush of his cold, wet tongue on that sore, sensitive nipple was enough to make Ant tremble eagerly.
“Mmmmhhhh… so good!” Rayne crooned with his eyes closed.
He lowered his mouth to the other nipple and bit down hard. Ant yelped out loud, but the boy’s clever hand was already curling around his cock, placating him as he began to suck. Under him, Ant moaned with mingled pain and pleasure. His nipples were on fire and his balls were throbbing urgently. Rayne moved between his thighs and slid down fluidly to the polished wooden floor, on his knees. His hands firmly parted Ant’s legs as wide as they would go and he bent his head, wordlessly taking the crown of his lover’s pulsating sex into his mouth. His lips were impossibly cold as if he had been drinking iced water. It felt amazing and Ant did not resist as the beautiful young man took him deeper. His studded tongue flickered deftly over the underside of Ant’s erect shaft and teased him mercilessly.
“Uuuhhhh…” Ant groaned. “You’re still good at that! It’s even better than I remembered.”
His fingers groped for Rayne’s head and closed in a silky mass of black tresses. Ant urged his hips up from the sofa, thrusting impulsively into his lover’s mouth between those long, sharp canines. A dimly heeded part of his brain did suggest that such an act was rash in the extreme but he ignored it. Rayne’s teeth and studded tongue felt delicious on his aching cock. He was going to explode at any moment. He could not remember ever wanting so badly to come.
Rayne tilted his head slightly. His eyes were still closed reverently and those long lashes fanned his cheeks as he sucked. With his hair longer and a dusting of glittery makeup on his cheeks and eyelids he was even prettier now than Ant remembered from ten years ago. It was hard to believe that he was nearly thirty. He was still as slender and beautiful as a teenage girl.
Ant felt him check and swallow urgently as the head of his mate’s long hard cock pushed against the back of his throat. Rayne knelt up a little higher, nodding down more energetically on the leaking tool in his mouth and pharynx. His wet lips caressed the base of Ant’s prick and the older man rested both hands on his dark head now, pressing down and thrusting his crotch upward more vigorously.
“Ohhhh… yeah!” he exhaled, as the singer nuzzled his exposed groin, unfazed by the change of pace. His head was still canted to one side so that Ant could watch the way his full, sexy lips worked industriously on that pulsing bone. Pale, solemn eyes opened briefly and the pupils flickered up to meet his earnest, needy gaze. Ant felt and saw the mischievous smile that tugged Rayne’s mouth tight around his cock as it had on the beach that night before the boy walked out of his life. He lost control right then and there.
Rayne knelt back and opened his mouth wider to take the lavish spray of rich, salty ejaculate on his tongue. As he did so, Ant bucked and roared like a wounded bull, overwhelmed by the surge of glorious, pulsing pleasure gushing from his balls. The younger man rolled the foreskin right back with his fingers and caressed Ant’s leaking helmet with his lips, kissing and lapping at the fat, spongy, purple head like the consummate professional he was; teasing the last droplets of satisfaction from it. Maybe Ant was getting used to them, because Rayne’s dog-teeth did not look nearly so long or scary as they had when he first set eyes on them. He pulled the young man up into his arms and kissed him, sliding his tongue between those cool, salty lips.
“So-o-o-o tasty,” Rayne whispered into his mouth.
Ant was overwhelmed. He distantly recalled the boy murmuring something similar to him when they made out for the last time back in Adge, with the sea rolling restlessly behind them. His rage was subsiding now. There seemed no point in being angry, not with Rayne curled up in his arms looking eminently fuckable.
“Have you got a boyfriend?” he asked with a twinge of jealousy.
“Have you?” Rayne asked him coyly, licking the tip of Ant’s nose and kissing him softly on the lips.
“I’m engaged,” Ant said, finding it hard to think of his relatively normal life with Elaine sitting here with Rayne in his lap.
“To a man?” The boy snorted incredulously.
“To a woman,” Ant corrected him. “We’re getting married next year.”
“Doesn’t she mind that you fuck around?” Green eyes looked accusingly at him.
Ant stroked Rayne’s soft, pale face with both hands, brushing the dark tangled hair back from his cheeks.
“I don’t… much.”
“Yeah… right!” Rayne laughed quietly. He sat back and peeled his shirt off slowly, watching the way that Ant’s blue eyes devoured him. “I don’t go with men all that much these days,” he admitted now. “I haven’t done for ages. Not when I wasn’t on top, anyway!”
“You can be top,” Ant assured him breathlessly. “The first time, you can, at least! Then I want to fuck you.” He kissed Rayne quickly to stave off any argument. “What happened to you after you walked out on me? I’ve wondered for years.”
“I came home,” Rayne said with a little shrug. “My band split up. I hung about in Manchester for a bit. Then I came back to London. I formed another band. We got famous. The end.”
Ant looked sceptical.
“‘Are’ you with anyone?”
“I’m too busy for that.” Rayne smiled, chewing on his lower lip suggestively.
“I worried about you, you know,” the older man was stroking his neck and slim white shoulders tenderly. “I worried that you’d gone back to how it was before. I went to all the places I thought you might hang around, looking for you.”
“Yeah… I thought you might. I wasn’t there though,” Rayne said with a shake of his head. “Like I told you. I moved on.”
“So did I,” Ant told him. “Thierry came back with me, you know. He lived with me for about three years.”
Rayne laughed softly and shook his head again.
“Good for him.”
“I missed you though.” Ant smiled up at him painfully. “He was good to me, but he wasn’t you. He got homesick in the end. It was hard for him speaking English all the time. He went back to Lyon, to his family. I moved away from London and met Elaine.”
“That’s nice.” The younger man was looking at him suddenly, with an expression that said he couldn’t care less. Ant felt his heart lurch at that. It had always been a battle to keep Rayne’s attention and he was no different now. “Ant, are we gonna fuck, or what? Only I’m in the studio tomorrow, I’ve got be up early.”
Ant stared at him, unable to comprehend this. His mind could not fill in the gaps. It was as if he had seen Rayne only yesterday and yet there was a vast gulf between them now.
‘There always was!’ his conscience sneered.
“Stand up. Let me get you stripped off,” he said, ignoring it and following the urgings of his cock.
Rayne moved to his feet, swaying a little. He was still quite wrecked and unsteady as he leaned on Ant’s shoulder to wriggle his expensive looking boots off. The older man slowly pulled his tight black pants down to his ankles and helped him to step out of them. He knelt in front of Rayne and fondled the singer’s pale, hairless groin wantonly, then took the boy’s cock in his mouth. His mate uttered a small, incoherent noise as Ant swallowed and sucked him slowly, taking his time. He wanted to enjoy every minute of this and he wanted Rayne to enjoy it too. Even if his lover did not care what happened so long as he got to make his recording on time.
The singer swayed dangerously and Ant caught him as he began to tumble to the floor. He pulled the boy close and laid him down on the soft, white rug in front of the sofa. Then he spread Rayne’s legs and climbed onto him, kissing him fiercely on the mouth. They entwined like rampant vines and the singer uttered a long, low moan, deep in his chest.
“Are you all right?” Ant whispered breathlessly in his ear, still protective of him after all this time.
“I am soooooo horny!” Rayne groaned in a low, husky, tempting voice. “And sooooo hungry!”
That was a first! Ant could not recall a time when he ever got the boy to eat anything but cock without being cajoled into it. He kissed his way down the boy’s slender body, stroking and caressing him as he writhed on the soft, pale rug. His lips and tongue worked Rayne’s heavy balls for a little while as he stroked his mate’s hard, leaking cock. To his satisfaction the young man whimpered and cried out with pleasure beneath him. Ant pressed one of his knees back to his chest and wriggled his tongue up that sleek, hairless chasm between the singer’s buttocks. He still waxed himself perfectly smooth and the silky touch of his skin made Ant’s mouth water. That searching tongue lapped at his clenching orifice and tickled there until it opened up for him.
“Ah…ahhh…ahhh…ahhh…!” Rayne panted as Ant licked his way deeper into his body, alternating his fingers and tongue until the lean, naked creature was thrashing eagerly on the rug. Ant’s deft fingers rubbed and squeezed his erect cock as he probed the singer and buried his face in the lad’s crack.
“Mmmhhhh… You need a good hard fucking,” he crooned delightedly, clambering up on top of his sexy lover once more. “You want a big, fat knob in your arse, don’t you?”
Rayne’s arms moved up around his neck, towing him back down and they kissed ravenously as Ant gripped his slim thighs, lifting and spreading them so that the younger man’s pert arse was raised up off the rug in front of him and his open hole was positioned temptingly just a few inches from his dribbling cock head. He guided himself to that welcoming aperture without looking down. Rayne sucked on his tongue and clung to him fiercely as he slowly pushed his hard tool into the lad’s snug, wet chute.
“Nnnnyyyyggggghhhhh!” Rayne groaned incoherently, as Ant penetrated him, squirming and bucking on the rug beneath the older man. He planted his bare feet in the small of Ant’s back and began to ride his lover’s cock eagerly. Ant thrust himself deeper and harder into Rayne, holding that slight, pale body tightly as he pounded it. He grinned delightedly, wondering what Rayne’s army of teenage girl fans would think if they could see their idol sprawled like a slut underneath him, moaning with desire as he began to cum for the long, thick penis thrusting hard in his arsehole.
And he ‘was’ cumming. Ant felt his rectum clench and release rapidly as the pearls of spunk were ejected from his twitching slit. Rayne’s balls jumped and tightened as he began to squirt his eager load over both of them. His mate pulsed faster and deeper in his hot, wet passage and Rayne’s lips found his neck as he howled with pleasure. Ant winced briefly when Rayne Wylde bit him; not just a little nip below his left ear but a deep, probing bite that drew blood. The singer was kissing and licking him there at once.
Ant hesitated, running his hands up Rayne’s bare chest towards his face. It felt good but at the same time he was suddenly wary.
“Don’t stop,” the singer urged with his mouth full. “Fuck me, Ant!”
“You bit me!” he protested breathlessly.
“I told you, you taste good,” Rayne huffed into his ear, curling his arms around Ant’s neck and shoulders. He was wrapped around the bigger man like ribbons around a parcel, pulling himself tight against Ant, licking his neck. “Just screw me!” he muttered between strokes of his tongue. “Please!”
He did not need urging twice. Ant’s hands forced his lover’s thighs wider and he pulled Rayne Wylde close as he began to pump away urgently at the boy’s throbbing anus. The singer threw his head back and cried out in mingled pain and pleasure. There could be no mistaking it. His long, curving fangs were fully extended and streaked with Ant’s blood. The gore ran down his chin as he writhed and twisted on the rug under his mate. He came again; the force of his orgasm milking the semen from Ant’s balls this time. Ant pressed into him as deeply as he could, shooting the heat of his passion up into Rayne’s gut as the dark haired youth towed him back down into a fierce embrace. His lips worked Ant’s neck and throat greedily. It should have been a shock but Ant had never been particularly squeamish. He knew that Rayne liked to cut himself and he guessed that this was just another fetish that had been brewing in his dark heart for a while.
They snaked around one another like dancing serpents on the rug and Rayne managed to roll the bigger, older man onto his back to lick and kiss him, his lips moving from Ant’s neck to his mouth then down to his torso, biting his nipples. He roamed back up to Ant’s throat and sank his teeth in again, mercilessly. Those bites went deep, and for the first time his lover was anxious. Surprisingly it did not hurt so much. He could feel the pressure of his mate’s jaws on his neck more than the bite itself. Rayne did not tear at him like an animal, he just bit down, puncturing the skin and licking up the residual spill greedily.
“I thought you were a vegetarian!” Ant gasped huskily, once he lifted his head again, wiping his bloody lips on the back of his hand then licking it appreciatively.
“I am,” Rayne Wylde said with a little quirk of his lips. “I don’t eat animals… or fish… but people are fair game, aren’t they?”
He winked after a moment, just as Ant was beginning to believe that he was serious about this.
His lover relaxed at once, stroking his hands up and down the young man’s slender white arms.
“You lost that nice tan,” he observed.
“I’m not made for a suntan,” Rayne told him with another little smile. “I’m a creature of the night, you know.”
He laughed at his own words as if this was some arcane joke, shaking his head quickly. Ant noticed that he seemed calmer now. His eyes were darker, the pupils more regular and less like pin holes in a skein of green silk. There was a little colour to his pale cheeks and full lips.
“I’d better not look like I’ve lost a fight with my razor blade,” Ant warned him, entranced by the young man’s unblinking stare.
Rayne licked his lips again, with a look like a sweet, satisfied little cat. He stroked his fingertips down Ant’s bare chest very slowly.
“Don’t worry… you’ll be fine in the morning. It’s only a tiny little bite. You’ll barely be able to see it,” he murmured huskily.
“You shouldn’t really draw blood from someone in this day and age,” Ant cautioned, realising as soon as he pointed it out that the advice was of little use to either of them now. “You never know what they might be carrying.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rayne said dismissively. “I ‘know’ you, Ant. You’d never hurt me, would you?”
Ant shook his head automatically.
“But what about you?” he asked in all seriousness. “The stuff I’ve read about your lifestyle…”
He got no further for the singer just made a disdainful noise, a little huff of breath between his pursed lips. Rayne touched a soft, cool hand to his cheek and pushed his face away.
“The rubbish you read in the tabloids is just that, okay? It’s garbage, Ant! I don’t shag babies.!I don’t live in a crack house and I certainly don’t spend every hour of the day off my tits on heroin! You did me ‘some’ good in France. All right?”
“Okay,” he said with a small, nervous smile. “Now you’ve got that off your chest, are we going to fuck some more?”
Rayne Wylde knelt back with another knowing quirk of his soft, full lips.
“Am I on top this time?” he asked, reaching down to stroke his quickening shaft with a steady hand.
“‘This’ time, yeah!” Ant promised, letting his fears melt away in the genuine warmth of his lover’s tentative smile.
“I’d better get a move on then. I figure this could be a long night,” Rayne chuckled, parting Ant’s thighs and spitting into his hand, rubbing the wetness over his pulsing cock head.
It had been a while since Ant had submitted to another man. He was prepared for it to be uncomfortable at first but Rayne was surprisingly adept. He knelt and treated Ant to the sweetness of his tongue first of all, laving the moisture of his saliva all over his lover’s hot, twitching crevice and up into that tight, dusky rosebud. He did not use his fingers, although he stroked Ant’s stiffening cock slowly in both hands once he had eased his swollen glans into the other man and worked the leaking device carefully in and out, ensuring there was enough lubrication to avoid discomfort. His sex had grown thicker and a little longer since they were last naked together. Maturity had given his manhood more substance, but it still felt cool like the rest of his body as it began to thrust slowly into him. Ant lifted his knees and let eight inches of thick, sexy prick stretch his cock-hungry ring.
Watching Rayne’s face as the young man mounted and entered him was almost as satisfying as being fucked vigorously by the boy. His lover had such a beautiful, expressive face. There were no secrets to him during sex, as Ant already knew. He opened up and his pleasure was completely honest. From time to time his head went back and his lips parted in an astonished gasp or a trembling half-smile, weak with arousal, all his control swallowed up by that clenching sheath of muscle around his pulsing dick.
There were no words between them. Their bodies did all the talking now. Ant watched and moaned softly as he felt Rayne surge deep inside him, one knee over the boy’s slim shoulder the other leg draped loosely out to one side as his mate knelt over him, pumping it harder and faster into his chute. He felt the vigorous motion inside him, quickening and intensifying as Rayne leaned forward, his breath coming fast and hard now as he bucked more ferociously. His long fingered hands moved to Ant’s hips, constantly circling and caressing, never gripping tightly. The sensation was overwhelming. He was being stoked up inside and out.
Rayne’s eyes closed briefly every few minutes and he bit down on his lower lip, holding in a little cry of burgeoning excitement or clenched his teeth as if the pleasure was too much to bear. Ant loved to watch the quiet flashes of ecstasy on his beautiful face. When his eyes opened there was such a look of amazement in his stare that Ant wanted to catch him up and hold him tightly, never letting him go. The dark centres of his gorgeous, green eyes were huge and dark now, swollen gravid hearts in the midst of that field of emerald moonlight. He leaned forward, hands planted in the deep, white rug to either side of Ant’s shoulders and his lover stared up into his huge, emotive eyes as Rayne drove those lean hips faster and faster between his thighs.
Rayne began to groan softly as he came closer and closer to the moment of release. His head went back again and his mouth opened wide in a soundless cry. Ant undulated fiercely beneath him, on fire inside from the incessant agitation of his mate’s delicious cock. He was ready to explode and he knew from the unfocussed look in Rayne’s eyes that the boy was not far away either.
“Uuuuhhhhhh!” he moaned eagerly. “Uuuuhhhhh… yeah!”
He felt the thrusting between his legs quicken again and Rayne’s eyes closed tightly this time. His lips peeled back in an animal snarl from his gritted teeth as he drove himself deeper. This time Ant did not miss the differential. He saw the dog-teeth extend, although afterwards he always tried to tell himself that it was his fevered imagination. Rayne’s jaws parted around a little scream of pleasure, forced apart by the extension of his perfect canines. It was not extreme, Ant would later think, when his head was clearer. They did not grow to obscene points like something from a horror movie or a gothic joke shop, but he reckoned that they almost doubled in length before the extension stopped, curling inward gently so that the slender vampire was unable to bring his jaws together without pulling the lower mandible back slightly.
Ant screamed and Rayne ignored him because he was screaming too. He pressed himself deep inside his mate and held his cock there, pulsing and jumping furiously within Ant’s colon for over a minute whilst short, panting breaths were torn out of his heaving torso. As he sank down into the older man’s arms, collapsing onto Ant’s bare, sweat soaked chest, his dick lost none of it’s rigidity. Ant felt it begin to surge slowly inside him again as the boy’s mouth sought out his neck once more. He wanted to piss but his cock was still too hard.
“Christ!” he exhaled in a quivering voice. “What ‘are’ you?”
“I’m whatever you want me to be,” Rayne whispered in his ear, his voice little more than a breath of air. “You mustn’t be scared, Ant. I promise not to harm you, sweetheart. I swear it. But I do have an addiction still, a terrible thing, and I’ll never be rid of it. I need to taste your sweet blood and your hot cum, Ant. I need to bite you again, while I’m in you. Can I do that to you?”
He was shaking now, his voice tremulous and small, a desperate, pleading thing. Ant felt the sexy little vampire nuzzle his ear seductively. He could still feel the thick, pulsing pleasure of the creature’s hard cock, easing rhythmically in and out of his arsehole. Ant wanted to cum harder than he ever had before. He knew that he ought to be in mortal dread for his life but all he could think of was the sensation of being joined physically to Rayne, at the throat and at the hips. The boy felt ‘so’ good inside him that he was ready to spill his hot load on his belly at any moment.
“You won’t kill me?” he whispered breathlessly.
“I promise you,” Rayne groaned in a soft voice. “Please feed me, Ant. I’m begging you!”
“I won’t… it’s not…?”
“…contagious?” Rayne finished for him sweetly. “No, Ant. I swear it’s not. It doesn’t happen like that. You don’t become like this just because someone feeds from you. It’s more… complicated.”
“How? How is it complicated?” Ant was quivering with a combination of terror and need. He needed to cum but he also needed to see Rayne’s face, to know that he was not about to die.
“Shhhhh…” his mate exhaled softly. “Let me bite you and I’ll explain. Let me feed from you and I’ll suck your balls dry all night, Ant. I promise. On my knees, with your dick in my mouth, sucking it until you can’t cum any more…”
“Nnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Ant groaned helplessly. He could not stop himself. The image Rayne had just sown in his mind now translated itself to his twitching nuts and he flooded his belly with hot semen.
Rayne Wylde knelt back between his thighs, smiling in a way that was almost boyish except for the curve of his fangs. He trailed his fingers through the lake of sticky ejaculate and lifted them to his mouth, sucking them delicately one by one. After teasing Ant this way for a little while, he slowly pulled out of the man’s arse and bent over him, licking his salt wet belly and chest with feline elegance until he had devoured every last drop. Ant was throbbing with need again by the time he was done.
Slowly, Rayne licked his erect cock from the balls to the tip. He rubbed the tiny silver stud in his tongue back and forth in the weeping eye of Ant’s bell-end, then lifted the hot, nine inch rod in one hand and drew it into his mouth. Ant moaned with terror and delight as he was gently sucked and teased. Rayne’s hand caressed the base of his shaft and his pulsating nuts and his mouth worked on the head, nodding carefully so that Ant’s pride and joy moved in and out of his mouth between his extended dog-teeth. The skilful little vamp did not even nip him. When about six inches were gliding wetly in and out of Rayne’s mouth, Ant gave the boy his reward.
He cried out hoarsely as the spunk spurted from his throbbing penis and the slender singer lifted his head slightly so that only the squirting plum was left in his mouth. Once Ant had filled his mouth until it was overflowing, he let the fat, purple bulb of his lover’s cock head slip from between his lips and slap wetly onto the man’s bare belly. Rayne kissed Ant’s twitching glans, then crawled astride him and pressed his lips to Ant’s mouth, sharing the bounty of his payload. Ant cast his trepidation aside as the little creature slowly and deeply French kissed him, thrusting his tongue up into the spunk filled mouth of his sexy little mate. For a long time the only sounds in the room were the occasional blissful ‘mmmhhh’ noises and the little wet slurps of two sets of lips locked together in the throes of passion.
“Do you trust me now?” Rayne murmured at last, when their lips finally parted enough for breath and speech.
He was lying, naked on his left side on the rug and Ant lay facing him on his right, caressing his pale visage and the softness of his slim, bare body. He was still reeling from the pleasure of that long, slow, cream-filled kiss.
“I… I ‘want’ to,” Ant declared ardently.
“Good,” the little creature smiled up at him. “I want to make you happy before I go, Ant.”
“You’re going?” The older man looked puzzled and a little hurt.
“Of course. I told you, I’m in the studio tomorrow. I need to rest. But first…” He shrugged his shoulders slightly as if the words embarrassed him.
“You want to suck my blood,” Ant finished for him, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“That would be… good,” Rayne ended with a wan smile. “To bite and fuck you.”
Ant was still running his hands over the boy’s beautiful body. He felt as if he had fallen asleep and was dreaming all of this. In a while he would wake and everything would be normal again. Rayne leaned towards him and kissed him tenderly again. It was a gentle, careful contact. His fangs were still half-extended and as Ant knew from their previous kiss, they were sharp. His lips were bleeding when they pulled away although the blood seemed to have stopped flowing now.
“How long have you been this way?” he wanted to know.
Rayne shrugged again.
“Not long… a few months. The press have been having a field day, saying I was in drug rehab and all sorts of crap, but it was all down to him. The one who bit me. I was sick as a dog at first. I couldn’t even stomach the idea of drinking blood. But it’s an addiction, like heroin, only worse because I need it now to survive. I could come off Junk but if I don’t feed…”
He bit his lip, then winced as one of his long canines pierced it, drawing a small bead of carmine fluid that lingered briefly until he licked it away. There was no more blood.
“How did you get like this?” Ant asked sorrowfully.
“It’s a long story,” Rayne murmured, with an evasive smile that told Ant he was not about to hear the truth of the matter. “I’m still not really sure. Maybe I’ll tell you about it some day, when I’ve figured it all out. I guess that addicts attract other addicts. I just fell into the path of one who was addicted to other people’s blood. He saw that need in me and he gave me something else to depend on.”
“What happens if you don’t feed. Will you die?” Ant realised that he felt anxious on Rayne’s behalf, even now.
“I don’t know,” the singer exhaled, sitting up and running a hand over Ant’s upper arm and shoulder. “There’s people who are experts on this kind of thing. I always used to think they were nutters, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve been told that if I don’t get blood, I’ll eventually get too weak to move and that anything might happen to me then, but whether I’d die or not… I just don’t know.”
He moved to his knees and pulled Ant up into his arms, kissing him on the cheek and on the neck. They held one another in silence for a little while, just rubbing against each other in the faint, warm light from the fire and the lamps. Then Rayne whispered; “Turn around.”
Ant moved for him automatically, kneeling before the younger man in silent co-operation. He felt the softness of Rayne’s skin against his back and then the moist, warm thickness of his erect penis between his buttocks. Rayne leaned against his back, easing his body up and down against Ant. His lips touched the back of the other man’s neck wetly as he guided the head of his cock back to his mate’s still-twitching ring. It penetrated him easily this time and Ant grunted urgently as he felt Rayne’s long, delicious hard-on begin to fill his snug passage once more. The singer rocked against Ant steadily until it was buried all the way inside him, his long, white hands resting on Ant’s hips. Now Rayne pulled him back and began to thrust in earnest.
He exhaled a little gasp of pleasure, then another. Ant was groaning eagerly as he felt the younger man begin to bugger him harder. His strong fingers gripped Ant’s hips more tightly as he rammed his sex in deep and fast. When the friction of their horny bodies began to produce a natural wetness in his chute, Rayne let go of Ant’s hips and let his hands slide up the other man’s bare belly and over his broad chest.
“You feel good,” he panted, just about the only thing he had said during any of their acts of intercourse tonight.
“You feel amazing!” Ant assured him breathlessly as he was pounded from behind.
Rayne’s left hand stroked gently up his neck and cupped his chin, tilting Ant’s head back onto his shoulder as they coupled urgently, on their knees. The other hand reached for his penis and began to pump it vigorously for him. Soft lips kissed his neck, just below his ear.
“Are you ready?” Rayne whispered almost inaudibly.
Ant nodded just a little, his heart almost pounding its way out of his chest.
“Do it!” he panted.
The vampire needed no more encouragement. His mouth pressed harder on Ant’s exposed neck, just above the collarbone. The other man moaned in pain as he felt Rayne bite down hard there, sinking deeper than he had done before and pushing his cock up hard into Ant’s colon at the same time. There was an instant of stillness, then he began to pulse vigorously again. Either his fangs had withdrawn completely or they were so deep that Ant could not feel them any more. Rayne was sucking steadily on his neck as if he was trying to leave the mother and father of all lovebites there. Ant pushed back against him, taking him deeper and deeper as the beautiful young man pressed up against his back showing him pleasures he had only recently dreamed of.
“Mmmmnnnhhh… that’s fuckin’ amazing!” Rayne mumbled at last, nuzzling his cheek roughly.
They were slamming against one another savagely now. Rayne’s hand was a blur on his cock. The fingers of the other hand pinched and pulled on his erect nipples and his lips returned to Ant’s neck, sucking hard on the soft flesh. Ant felt the singer force his hot, hard cock into the depths of his arse one final time before he heard Rayne make a long, low, whining noise like broken machinery or a kicked dog.
“Omigod!Omigod!” he growled into the curve of Ant’s neck, then his mate felt the violent leap of his stiff cock and the hot flush of Rayne’s massive climax deep in his bowels.
He groaned in response, for Rayne’s hand had stilled on his aching penis and he still sought relief. He was not to be disappointed long though.
Rayne was as good as his word and as soon as he was sufficiently recovered from the explosion within his balls, he pulled out of Ant’s arse and lay down on the soft white rug before him, taking his lover’s throbbing prick between his soft, wet lips. There was a little blood still in the corner of his mouth, which was disconcerting, but Ant was soon distracted from this by the feel of that skilful tongue working his leaking cock to yet another cascading, creamy climax. Ant was in heaven.
They spent the next couple of hours naked on the rug together, mainly engaged in slow, seductive oral sex, after Rayne explained that since his mysterious conversion, he also found male ejaculate irresistibly tasty and almost as energising as blood. Ant was only too happy to oblige him on that score, and they whiled away some more of the night slowly frigging, licking, sucking, stroking and snowballing one another to climax after delicious climax.
AM:
Ant woke up alone with stiff hips and a sore jaw. The bed was rumpled and sweat-damp beneath him but apart from this and the stickiness of his aching body there was no trace in the room to show that he had company the night before. The clock suggested it was a little after six thirty in the morning.
The lounge was fairly tidy. Two coffee mugs still sat on the low table in front of the sofa. There were a few splatters of dried spunk on the rug in front of the fire but no other traces of his mate. He had a sudden flashback where he was excitedly thrusting into Rayne’s tight young bum on the bed. He had just taken a good mouthful of spunk from the horny singer, which the boy was now greedily eating from his mouth as Ant fucked him hard. Ant’s morning hard-on stiffened a little more at the delicious memory.
He stumbled to the bathroom and checked his face in the mirror. After last night he probably looked like the bride of Frankenstein. To his surprise his reflection’s lips were full and unmarked and there was not even a bruise on his neck where Rayne had almost sucked the skin off him. No puncture marks, no blood, not even a tiny lovebite!
He took a shower, which was also a good opportunity to wank himself off. As the water beat down on his head he daydreamed idly about Rayne’s soft mouth on his long, hard, sticky prick, sucking it greedily until he squirted in the boy’s mouth. Ant enjoyed this fantasy so much that he carried it on for a while after he had cum, jerking his lovely hard, nine-inch cock until he had spilled his seed twice more. He rinsed himself of and towelled dry, then pulled on his dressing gown and shuffled through to the kitchen to make more coffee. A small, white note was propped against the percolator. In painfully familiar, rapid, slanting handwriting, he picked out his name on the front and unfolded it with a sigh.
‘Morning Ant!’ it said. ‘Hope you’re feeling okay and I didn’t leave you light last night. It’s your fault for tasting so nice. You know that I can’t see you again, don’t you? Probably for the best if you’re getting married though, isn’t it? I had fun last night, hope you did too. You were such a good fuck. Thanks for everything! xx.R’
Underneath in smaller letters, but firmly underlined, it added; ‘By the way, you DO understand, don’t you, that if you tell ANYONE about what I am, I WILL come back and suck you dry while you sleep. And I DON’T mean your balls!’
For a moment Mr Right just stared at this bizarre little missive. He was surprised to discover that he felt no pain, or grief, or even incredulity, just a burgeoning sense of hysteria. He began to laugh uncontrollably, then folded the note and put it in his pocket whilst he made himself some coffee. In spite of the tone of his message, Ant still had the strangest feeling that this would not be the last time Rayne’s path would cross his own. But even if it was to be so, surprisingly he was content with that too.
::FIN::
THE BOY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD
© Josh Rose & Sadie Rose Bermingham 2005/6
“AFTERWORD — This story touches on the sometimes inescapable trap that prostitution and drug addiction can lead into. It’s sometimes easy to forget that the boys and girls on the street are real people just like you or I. At the moment in England we’re all too conscious of the dangers inherent in their lives, thanks to one maniac who murdered five girls in Ipswich just before Xmas. This story is also dedicated to Gemma Adams, Anneli Alderton, Annette Nicholls, Paula Clennell and Tania Nicol, and to the family members who love and miss them.” Sadie