A gay story: Tail in the South Pacific (Note to reader: For a fuller context for this story, read the “Wolf Creek” novella series and “The Photograph 1: John” and “The Photograph 2: Jamie.”)
Joe knew his unit shouldn’t have entered the Scharzwald this close to dusk. The doughboys had been picked off one by one by the huns, hidden in the trees. But Joe knew someone must get through and warn the big brass. He was the last one alive. He had to press on; he could not fail. This could be the turning point. The Yanks and all of their loved ones across the sea who depended on them to prevail over Old Fritz could be saved if the warning of the impending German troop movements got to the American lines in time.
They saw each other at the same moment as Joe splashed out of a shallow creek; the German soldier was as surprised to see Joe as Joe was to see him. A moment of shock during which it registered with Joe that the German was just a boy, a young and scared boy. Could he possibly be an enemy? He was shaking like a leaf. Could Joe possibly take advantage of that? Was he sent here to hunt young, vulnerable boys? Could that ever be the right thing to do? In the moment of indecision, the boy raised his ancient two-barreled pistol and sent a bullet whizzing through the material of Joe’s uniform sleeve.
An overload of sensations: surprise, slight pain from the bullet nicking his arm, the sound of the misfiring click of the second chamber of the youth’s pistol, and a new, ominous sound—harsh snuffling and snorting and thrashing about in the underbrush beside the creek. A huge wolf, a magnificent creature, really, broke into the small clearing Joe had been caught in and stood, menacingly between the American doughboy and the young German hun, his great muzzle turning from one to the other, trying to decide which direction to pounce. With a little cry, the trembling German youth slipped from his precarious perch in the tree and fell to the ground. The wolf was upon him in a flash. Awakened from his paralysis by this new, more worthy, better-defined foe, Joe whipped a long-bladed knife from the sheath at his thigh and fell upon the wolf, slicing and stabbing the beast relentlessly—man against the natural elements, a suddenly clear-cut understanding of the point of the struggle of man.
The battle was furious but short, and once more man was triumphant. With a mighty heave, Joe thrust the carcass of the magnificent wolf aside. The German youth was gashed and his clothes lay on his bruised and trembling body in tatters—but he still breathed and his eyes were filled with panic and fear as they looked up at the panting American doughboy standing over him with raised and bloody knife. Joe . . .
“Jules! Jules! Jules Kincaid, where have you crept off to? Oh there you are. Come in this instant and go to your room. You can see what time it is.”
Yeah, right, Jules thought. Time for one of those men to come and start playing hide the sausage with you. With a sigh, Jules left off writing his story, closed his tablet, and slid back into the shabby little Kincaid living room from the Chicago tenement fire escape. The fire escape and his stories were Jules’s escape from the sordid world he and his mother had been propelled into by the death of his father the previous summer.
“Jules, hurry up now and go to your room. It’s almost eight o’clock.” Jessica Kincaid sounded more weary than angry. This wasn’t the life she’d planned for either of them. At least Jules had his stories to escape into. All she had was her low-paying receptionist job by day and what she had to do by night to bring in enough to keep the two of them going. All because of Joe. All because of his bravado—and because he’d never learned how to swim.
“Step to, Jules. In your room now. And finish up your homework, or you’ll never graduate with your class. Don’t be spending all of your time on those adventure stories of yours, do ya’ hear?”
Jules heard all right. He heard that hated name, Jules, pounding at him. He certainly heard that. The first thing he was going to do come July and his eighteenth birthday, in the year he’d had his eye on for a decade, 1917, was to get rid of that name, have it legally changed if he could. Reduce it to nothing more than an initial if he couldn’t. But as far as hearing, he could do that better than his mother seemed to think. And he had two good eyes too. Who did she think she was fooling?
There wasn’t a thing wrong with either his hearing or his eyesight an hour later, when, shortly after hearing the knock on the apartment door, he opened the door to his bedroom a crack and saw them doing it on the couch. His mother was on her butt on the sofa, sideways, with her back arched and her shoulders digging into the sofa arm. And her legs were splayed wide. And some big bruiser of a guy was kneeling between her legs with his knees buried in the sofa cushions and that big fat dick of his buried in Jules’s mother. The guy was gruntin’ and groanin’, and Jules heard his mother making all sort of moaning sounds with her mouth. But from where he stood, he could see her eyes. And her eyes were dead and focused on someplace far, far away. This wouldn’t have been happening if those Krauts hadn’t swarmed over his dad—his war hero dad—and gotten the best of him finally after he’d killed hundreds of them. His dad would put a stop to this if he were here. Jules himself was almost eighteen, and he’d learned a thing or two about fighting, but he somehow knew that his mother didn’t want him to intercede. She apparently was doing what she wanted to do. But she sure wouldn’t be doing it if his father were still alive.
Jules’s attention was arrested by the working of the man’s dick inside his mother, the rhythm of the movement as it pushed in and pulled out in concert with the man’s grunts and his mother’s moans. It was almost poetic and was arousing—or would be if it weren’t his own mother who was being worked. But then Jules had the most guilty feeling, and he saw now that his mother had seen him watching and that her eyes had become even more dead than before and were brimming over with tears as her mouth formed a silent, wounded scream.
The inevitable confrontation between mother and son the next morning didn’t take the direction that either had envisioned.
Jules caused the floodgates to open by trying to deal with the tension between them—and the reason behind it—indirectly by extolling the war hero exploits and high moral character of his dead father—assuming his mother would get the message without forcing them to talk about what he’d seen. But Jessica was having none of that, although she took her reaction to a place she’d carefully never taken it before. And she surely would not have taken it now if her world hadn’t been shattered by the undeniable truth of what her son had seen the previously night, a truth that had been there for some time but that she could, until now, pretend wasn’t real because it wasn’t acknowledged.
“God, will you stop this about your father, Jules. Joe wasn’t a war hero. He didn’t even make it to France. His ship sank and he drowned. We aren’t still fighting because some quirk stopped him from saving the world. He died a useless death—and he left you and me with nothing.”
“He loved and protected us and went to France to make the world safe for us,” Jules responded stubbornly, refusing to hear the truth. “He . . .”
“The only one he loved was himself, Jules. He wanted me until he had me and then I was just another one of his possessions. And it was the same with you. He . . .” She couldn’t go on; she recoiled in horror at what she’d said. She’d never spoken of her husband to her son like this. Even though she had spoken the truth. She might have said something before now, knowing that Jules was sinking ever deeper into his misconceptions, but Jules was growing up to be so much like his father. She didn’t want to plant any more of Joe’s self-possession and disregard for others in Jules’s brain than was naturally there.
Both sat there, staring each other down. Jules still worshipped his father. What he was hearing now wasn’t the warning that his mother intended; it was more like a blueprint.
At length, Jessica changed tack. “It isn’t about last night. I was going to tell you anyway, but now it’s just as well that I did it.”
“Did what?” Jules asked belligerently.
“Last week I was informed that you won the school system’s citywide writing competition. I was going to tell you then, but something else came with the contest win, and I’ve been struggling with it ever since. I think now, though, that it’s the best thing that could happen—for you, certainly.”
Jules was interested now. He actually knew he’d won the contest. And he knew what his mother hadn’t told him. He had been agonizing for days that she would say no, that he would be trapped in this tenement with her and in this sordid life forever. He’d already decided he would enlist and go off to the waning fighting in France and Germany if she didn’t agree to the what came with the contest win.
“The novelist, Arthur Brolin, has agreed to take you on as a personal student,” Jessica said. “But he’s leaving for a year’s sabbatical in the South Pacific in late June. If you want to apprentice to him to learn what he can teach you about writing, you’ll have to be gone for a year. You’ll have to leave Chicago. And I can’t come with you.”
Jessica had voiced these stipulations like they were negatives. But they were honey to Jules’s ears. Each and every stipulation. He was free. He was going far, far away from Chicago and his mother, and he was going to study under the novelist, Arthur Brolin!
* * *
“It’s good, of course,” Arthur Brolin said as he handed the typewritten pages back to his pupil, Jules Kincaid. But he wasn’t looking at the young man and he offered no further comment.
Jules followed his teacher’s gaze out onto the white-sand beach beyond the palm tree line. Sid—their Sumatran houseboy, Sidharto—wearing a gaily colored sarong pulled up and tucked into his waistband to escape the foam of the waves, was casting his net into the turquoise-blue surf of the perfect beach. For his year of writing sabbatical, accompanied by his young protégé, Brolin had settled on this beach paradise, just up the coast from the coastal town of Bengkulu, yet so isolated that few came this way. Here, Arthur Brolin was like a king in his domain—and few knew or cared how what he did in his domain.
Brolin sighed, still gazing intently on the rippling muscles of the lithe, diminutive, yet perfectly formed houseboy, who was focused on catching their dinner. Jules knew what that sigh was about. He’d heard Brolin fucking the houseboy in the dark of the night in their thatch-covered sprawling hut. Jules had no illusions why Brolin had come this far from the American Midwest for his year’s sabbatical of writing. And, now, he also had no illusions about why Brolin had volunteered to bring him along and to mix his own writing with developing the young escapee of the Chicago tenements.
“It’s good . . . but?” Jules said, waving the pages of his latest attempt at a short story near enough to Brolin’s line of sight to break the man’s concentration on the fishing houseboy.
“It’s good. It’s very good . . . ,” Brolin answered again, absentmindedly.
“But what?” Jules persisted. Brolin was usually much more communicative than this. But Jules had been writing story after story for two months now in this Dutch colony paradise, and he still hadn’t won anything more than lukewarm comments from Brolin.
“But . . . we’ve discussed this before, Jules,” Brolin said as he gave his handsome, eighteen-year-old student his full, undivided attention now. “It’s good in a mechanical sense, but it has no passion.”
“No passion?” Jules asked. Brolin had put his hand, that hand with the long sensuous fingers, on Jules’s wrist and hadn’t taken it away. Jules shuddered at the touch, but not wanting Brolin to feel his trembling and misconstrue it, he let the words tumble out.
“What is this about no passion? I write adventure stories. I write of men struggling against the elements and eventually winning out over nature or the cruelties men force on other men, like war. War stories, like the one we just went through. Situations where people like my father struggle against impossible odds. I pour out everything inside me on these. But you say they have no passion?”
“Your writing is very good . . . no, extremely good, Jules, as I said. And there’s nothing wrong in the themes you pursue. But they are missing something nonetheless. And I think what they are missing is passion. I’m sure you put everything inside you into your writing. But clearly the problem seems to be that you don’t have nearly enough passion inside you to give to your stories—to make them sing with passion, to put them above what any other young writer is producing. I didn’t invite you out here to make a competent writer of you. I brought you out here to make an internationally acclaimed writer of you. And I think you have that in you.”
Jules had lowered his head and was trying his best to drink in what Brolin was saying to him. But all he could think of were those searing fingers on his wrist, feeling his pulse, no doubt searching for the passion inside him.
“I do. I do feel very passionate about what I’m writing,” Jules stammered out in his defense. “I feel . . .”
“You only feel within the limits of your experience, Jules,” Brolin said softly. “And your experience is limited. You can’t really feel passion as a writer until you’ve experienced passion. That’s what the best writers do. They let themselves go and they experience it all. And it comes out in their writing. You are young, so young. You’ve experienced . . . nothing . . . really, before now. I could . . .”
“You showed me this picture, this picture of an elk,” Jules rushed on, not wanting to hear what Brolin wanted to say to him. You told me to write a story about it, about a majestic animal, about the relations between all that the elk is and my protagonist, Joe. And I did that. I wrote of Joe and an Indian warrior coming upon each other in the wilds of Wyoming and how they fought each other, meaning to do so to the death. And how the appearance of an elk stag on the mountain ridge above them made them both stop and realize how futile their fighting was and then separate and go their own way. I wrote that with passion. Man against the elements, the majesty of nature, the bonding of men in dire straits.”
“That wasn’t the bonding of men,” Brolin said in a voice both soft and full of steel. “Those men fell away from each other when confronted with the majesty of nature, as represented in the elk, Jules. Don’t you see? Nature won. That didn’t show the strength of your protagonist; it showed his weakness. What I see inside you, what I think you have to give in your writing is showing the ascendance of your protagonist over nature and over other men. The passion in the protagonist’s relationship with nature, as symbolized by that elk stag, is not in accommodating or respecting the elk, but in mastering and possessing it. And the same can be said of the man, the Indian warrior.”
Brolin’s voice had become insistent; he was flooding Jules’s mind with the power of his smooth, honey-toned voice and the strength of his storytelling. Jules felt almost as if he was going into a trance. He could feel the pressure of Brolin’s grip on his wrist, and now he could feel the palm of Brolin’s other hand on his thigh. Jules felt his chest heaving, and, looking at Brolin, he could see that his mentor was similarly affected. They were both bare-chested and in colorful sarongs, just as Sid was. They had gone completely native. Jules felt what was coming next, but the mesmerizing effect of Brolin’s voice and Jules’s aching need to produce the writing that Brolin wanted, to become the writer that Brolin said he was capable of becoming, possessed the young man, and he made no move to stop his mentor.
“Bonding is important to a writer, Jules,” Brolin was saying. “Experiencing bonding and letting the passion of that build and pour down to your fingertips as your fingers sit on the keys of the typewriter, and imbuing your writing with a full, mature knowledge of passion through experience . . .” His eyes were fully intent on Jules now, although Jules was still unable to look up at him, and his hand on Jules’s thigh had slipped into a fold in the sarong and rested on the warm, smooth skin inside Jules’s thigh, high up. He was lightly stroking the inside of Jules’s thigh with his index finger and a thumb, sending ripples of electricity through Jules’s body.
“You need to acquire a much deeper and richer experience to even begin to know what the passion is, Jules. Bonding. Bonding. I could . . .”
“Kiai Brolin. Kiai Brolin! Venerable teacher! Look what I’ve caught.” The chestnut brown houseboy, Sid, full of life and laughter and with a smile as broad as his handsome face, was running up the beach toward Jules and Brolin, a big fat fish in his hand. “We eat well tonight, Kiai Brolin. The god’s are good to us.”
Brolin joined the infectious laughter of his houseboy and also joined in the rejoicing over the catch. When he turned back to Jules, though, his young apprentice was gone and only the scattered sheets of his “only very good” short story and the picture of the majestic elk stag remained where he had been sitting on the pillows beside the low table at the palm-treed verge of the white-sand beach.
Hours later, unable to sleep, burning with the implications of what Brolin had told him, knowing now, instinctively and irrevocably, that Brolin was right—that he would never be able to write with the necessary passion until he had allowed himself to experience passion—Jules crept out of his room in one wing of the thatched hut and quietly moved to the doorway of Brolin’s room in the other wing.
They were there. The little Sumatran houseboy was flat on his belly on Brolin’s bed, his legs tight together and his hands firmly gripping the brass rods of the headboard above him for dear life as Brolin, nude and crouched above him, encasing the pelvis of the smaller man with his strong thighs, his sensuous fingers wrapped around the Sumatran’s wrists, plunged a thick and long cock between the houseboy’s pert butt cheeks again and again and again. Sid was whimpering and Brolin was panting hard. Jules stood, transfixed, and moaning slightly to himself as his hand went to his own rising cock and the passion of the moment flooded into him. This, more than anything Brolin had been telling him earlier, demonstrated the majesty and monstrousness of what full, passionate possession meant. Jules’s mind started to race and all sorts of sensations and images flooded in. He withdrew from the doorway.
A pen and some paper; he had to find a pen and some paper. He had to write. Now!
* * *
Jules wrote far into the night, feverishly. He knew the writing was better than he had ever accomplished before. But he also knew that it wasn’t good enough. His mentor had been right. The experience of the passion was what was missing. What he had seen earlier had transmitted to him in some degree, but that wasn’t enough. He knew now what he had to do. He had to have the passion; he had to become the writer he wanted to be.
He was focused so intently on his work that he hadn’t noticed the sounds until they had become insistent, close by. Drums and shots and screams.
Jules jumped up from his desk and ran to the window and pushed aside the palm frond matting. The sky was aglow over Bengkulu, lighting up the beach and the pounding surf of the Indian Ocean. Bengkulu was burning. It seemed as if the whole sky to the west was ablaze. A shot rang out nearby, and Jules instinctively fell away from the window.
“Quick. No time. The storage shed,” Brolin muttered in a guttural whisper as he lurched into the room and pulled Jules up from the floor. He was completely naked, his firm muscle twitching in the shock of the moment, his manhood and ball sack hanging and swinging low.
“What . . .?” Jules muttered, dazed by the sudden eruption of activity on their peaceful, isolated beach.
“No time. There’s a hiding place in the storage shed. And it’s concrete. We could be quickly burned out here or plugged by a stray bullet.”
“Sid . . .?” Jules said idiotically as he permitted Brolin to pull him toward the back door and the pathway away from the beach toward the storage shed. His sarong went to his ankles and constricted his movement so that he hobbled in a shuffling gait as Brolin propelled him along. Brolin reached down and tore the material off Jules, freeing the young man’s movement but making him as naked as his mentor was.
“Sid’s PNI,” gasped through his pants, and then when the sense of that didn’t seem to register with Jules, he spoke again. “He’s a member of the communist movement. If they come here, it will be because of him. The Dutch are burning out the resistance movement. If they find we’re harboring a PNI member, we’ll be burned out too. Sid’s gone into hiding away from here.”
Both of them were panting heavily when they got to the shed. Looking back toward the beach, Jules could see figures of men with lifted torches and rifles, silhouetted against the glow on the horizon from Bengkulu, coming through the palm tree verge and heading toward their hut. Brolin pulled him roughly into the hut, moved some boxes aside at the back of the small room, pushed Jules roughly down on his back in a narrow space been the back of a wooden-back shelving rack that went nearly to the ceiling and a concrete block wall, and then, after pulling the boxes back to cover the entrance to their hiding place, and sprawled down, full-length, on top of Jules. There was no room in the confined space for him to do otherwise, but Jules was fully aware of his mentor’s nakedness, and the hairiness of the very fit man’s chest, heart pounding and muscles taut, on top of his own naked chest.
Adrenaline was pumping through both of the men. Brolin couldn’t help himself, having wanted to be doing what he then did for the entire two months they had been in Sumatra. And Jules, aroused by what he’d seen Brolin and Sid doing earlier and the sudden awakening to passion couldn’t help himself either. The danger and the passion of the moment swept them both up into its clutches, and Brolin was cupping Jules’s head in his hands and was kissing him deeply in his full and sensuous lips. At the same time his pelvis was grinding against Jules’s. Jules reach down and took possession of Brolin’s cock and felt it grown long and thick and hard. His own cock was rising too, and Brolin was left with no doubts about Jules’s willingness. Brolin took one of his hands away from Jules’s cheek and spit on it and moved it down between Jules’s thighs and found his young student’s virgin hole.
Jules arched his back and rocked his head back, away from Brolin’s lips, and opened his mouth wide, preparing to scream out in surprise and pain as Brolin entered him with his moistened finger. Brolin’s strong hand went to Jules’s mouth, however, and covered both his mouth and his nose, as his finger continued to probe. Jules was trembling and gasping for air beneath the stifling gag and he was beginning to black out. Brolin released his hand over Jules’s air passages, but he replace his hand with his possessing mouth. He was kneeling on his knees now between Jules’s thighs and pulling Jules’s legs up to his shoulders.
Jules felt the large dick head at his hole as Brolin removed his searching and stretching fingers, and Jules arched his back again and silently screamed around Brolin’s probing tongue as the head of the teacher’s cock obtained purchase just inside Jules’s hole.
They both froze at the sound of voices outside the door to the storage shed. The room was full of light now that blazed over the top of the shelving unit that didn’t quite meet the ceiling and through cracks in the backside and around the edges of the case.
Voices. Angry voices. Firing off rapid-fire exclamations in Indonesia, clearly not pleased that they hadn’t found any communists to exterminate. Jules knew now that their lives depended on him not screaming. This was a moment such as he’d written about. But the reality was so much more intense than his imagination had been when he was writing. He now fully appreciated what his teacher had been trying to tell him about experiencing being necessary to capture the passion of a story that would lift it head and shoulders above the competition—about danger and what a man had to do in the face of danger to survive and to come out as the master.
Brolin took advantage of the moment of Jules’s fear of making any noise to start the plowing of his plump, experienced cock up the young virginal ass canal.
Regardless of the danger of the moment, Jules started to whimper and to struggle underneath Brolin, the hard thick possession of the older man being almost more than Jules could take. Brolin covered Jules’s mouth and nose with his hand again, and all of the fight went out of Jules as he began to drift out from oxygen starvation and Brolin’s dick continued its throbbing invasion up his canal.
And then the light and the voices were gone, and Brolin had removed his hand and was kissing and sucking and nibbling on young Jules’s neck and nipples and the pits under his arms as the master’s cock bottomed deep inside the tender canal and began to pump and pump and pump deep inside his student. Harder and faster. Jules was gasping and groaning and moaning now.
Brolin had gathered control of himself enough to murmur that he’d try to stop fucking Jules if the pain was unbearable and that’s what the young man wanted, but Jules was too far gone in the experience now. He could only manage and breathless, “No-o-o.”
“No, what?” Brolin grunted.
“No . . . don’t . . . stop,” Jules cried out.
And Brolin fucked on. he had Jules’s cock in his fist and he relentlessly stroked him off until Jules ejaculated with a gasp and collapsed back to the floor. But Brolin fucked on and on and on. The passion flooded back into Jules and he moaned and groaned and cried out for the fuck, his mind racing, forming words and images and experience-filled themes to pour out onto the typewriter keys.
* * *
The next day dawned much like any other on Sumatra. Brilliant sunshine filtering through rustling palm fronds at the verge of a bright white sandy beach. The surf relentlessly lapping at the beach and the birds chirping away in the inland pine trees. It was as if nothing had happened the previous night that was in any way out of the ordinary. And the people would continue living their lives as if nothing had happened the previous night, as if the Dutch and their native underlings hadn’t conducted yet another of a long series of nights of the long knives. And if the mothers and wives of the young men who had been singled out as PNI members or supporters mourned the permanent absence of their loved ones, they did none of the keening in public. The Dutch were the gods on Sumatra. There might come a day when all of the people of the archipelago were free to think what they wanted to think and do what they wanted to do, but 1918 was not such a time.
Brolin was still abed, having had his fill of both Sid and Jules the previous night, and exhausted from the loss of adrenaline over their near brush with the long knives of those doing the bloody bidding of the Dutch.
Jules, again wearing the sarong from the previous night, was walking the surf line of the beach, grappling in his mind a reworking of the elk story. He didn’t want to write a totally new theme. He still wanted to work with the elk image. He wanted to show his teacher that he had been right—that Jules’s brilliance as a writer could be touched and could shine out increasingly as he gained passion and experience. He knew now that Sid would not be spending all of his nights in the hut—that Jules’s himself would be draining the teacher of far more than words in his search for new and richer experience and for the passion he needed to convey to his readers.
Jules had been walking for long, lost in thought. When he looked up, at the sound of rustling in the jungle beyond the fringe of palm trees, he discovered that he was well beyond their beach area toward the east, in the direction away from Bengkulu. He walked toward the sound.
What he first saw were the bright colors. Lengths of brightly colored sarong material, waving and dipping in the thick covering of ferns under the palm trees. Then he heard the giggling. He moved stealthily to behind a fat palm tree and observed Sid in the process of fucking a comely Sumatran lass. She was on her back with her legs spread wide, and he was crouched between her thighs and leaning over her, his lips working a nipple on her plump breast, his hand caressing her cheek, and his dick thrusting strongly in and out of her cunt. She was thrusting her hips up to meet his downward thrusts and was laughing and moaning for him.
More experience, Jules thought. And he watched the two making love, drinking in the experience of it, trying to merge with them from his position behind the tree. He could feel his cock engorging and he was stroking himself as he watched them fucking with abandon and obvious enjoyment. The passion and enjoyment of the two were obvious. Jules felt that he should rejoice in what they were doing with each other, both fully giving and receiving, no regrets, no shyness, no inhibitions. But there was something missing. What Jules wanted to write about—what Arthur Brolin had defined to him the previous day that he, deep down, wanted to write about—was possession, not mutual satisfaction. No, not the abandon of shared passion, really, but the possession of, the mastery of one over the other. There had to be a winner. Someone had to be in total control.
“You want to fuck too her too?” Sid was asking, having seen Jules well before Jules realized that his presence was known. “Come, yayi. Come, younger brother. She is very nice and ripe. She does very nice ju ju. And she likes you. She’s always telling me she wants to make ju ju with the serious, strong, young American. And you are beautiful too. She wants you too. Come, yayi, come and share the joy.”
What a simple culture, Jules thought. Last night Sid was escaping just ahead of a mob that wanted his blood, and today he was leisurely fucking a comely young lass on the beach. Jules tentatively moved toward the coupling lovers as Sid pulled his cock out of the girl’s cunt and made way for Jules. Not being real sure what to do, Jules went down on his knees between the girl’s outstretched legs. She looked up at him and smiled a big smile of welcome. Sid leaned down and kissed Jules on the lips to show the complete abandonment of the time and place.
There was no need for Jules to prepare his cock. It was already at full attention and was dripping precum. The young Sumatran girl gave a little giggle and came up on her knees. She took Jules’s cock in her hand and straddled his thighs with her own and guided him inside her. She was deep and moist and her passage walls were undulating around Jules’s cock. She flung her arms around his waist and began to rock back and forth on his cock with her hips. He joined in that motion and buried his face between the fragrant mounds of her pert, full breasts. The girl gave a little lurch and a gasp and Jules looked up to see that Sid was crouched behind her and obviously had entered her ass with his cock. The three of them rocked on and on and on as Jules’s two companions gave small, satisfied exclamations and muttered to each other happily in the sing song tones of the Indonesian language.
Jules and Sid came almost simultaneously and the Sumatran girl cried out her satisfaction of having been doubly ridden and filled. She was the first to move. She extracted herself from the two young men and smiled and chattered to them in low, silky tones as she, rewrapped her colorful sarong around her waist and backed away to a place where she had left a water jug. And then she turned and disappeared into the jungle.
Jules and Sid sat there, on their haunches, facing each other. Jules knew he should feel satisfied. But he wasn’t. He wanted possession. He wanted mastery. He wanted to win over the elements and other men. Women were fine, but men were equal adversaries. They were what he needed to master.
Sid gave him a little smile and started to rise and reach for his own sarong. Searing passion flashed through Jules’s brain, though. With a cry, he came up onto the balls of his feet and grabbed Sid by his hips and turned him and pushed him down on top of his spread sarong on all fours. Then, crouching behind and above him, Jules thrust his still-engorged dick inside Sid’s ass and rode him hard, fucking him like a dog, until Sid collapsed to the ground underneath him, gasping and groaning and moaning. Jules followed him to the ground, grinding his cock deep inside the young Sumatran, while his prey, his majestic elk, writhed under him and whimpered for relief. At last, Jules spouted off deep inside the Sumatran houseboy, who just lay there panting, a big smile on his face, as Jules rose, rewrapped his sarong and turned and walked back up the beach with strong, proud strides.
* * *
“Excellent, excellent. Ready to be published. Sure to win an award,” Arthur Brolin was crowing with pride and full satisfaction after reading Jules’s rewrite of a story of the elk stag the following day. Once more they were sitting at the low table at the palm-tree edge of the beach and watching a gingerly treading Sid cast his net in the incoming tide of the Indian Ocean. This time, however, Jules was cuddled into Brolin’s lap, his back to Brolin’s chest, and Brolin’s cock deep inside his student. Brolin was rocking his pelvis gently back and forth in rhythm with the rustling of the wind through the palm fronds overhead, and Jules was doing his best to concentrate. He’d give Brolin is enjoyment for now. But before the year was over, Jules was determined that Brolin would be begging for Jules to fuck him—and Jules would only be doing so when it pleased him.
In Jules’s rewrite, his protagonist, now named Pete, had tracked a mighty elk stag up in the snowy and rocky reaches above the timberline of the Wyoming Grand Tetons for days until both he and the elk were near exhaustion. When he finally cornered the elk, he found that an Indian brave had been hunting it as well and had fallen while notching his arrow to launch against the beast, which was upon him, lashing at him with his antlers. Pete had shot the elk, but it hadn’t died. And then Pete’s rifle had locked up and the wounded elk had pawed the ground and lowered its fourteen-point rack and charged the hunter, forcing him to the ground and piercing him again and again with the sharp points of his antlers. Pete had fought back with his bare hands, helped by a weakened and bloodied Indian brave, and Pete had, in the end, killed the elk. The Indian and the White hunter had briefly stared at each other, taking each other’s measure, prepared to take the struggle to its ultimate conclusion. But in the end, the Indian had bowed to Pete’s mastery of the elk. The brave had gone off with the hide, but he had insisted on the ascendance of the White hunter, and Pete had its head hanging over his fireplace and the Indian brave’s turquoise-beaded breastplate lying on the mantel.
“You are ready to write your novel of man against the elements and of male bonding now,” the teacher said, his voice full of approval. “And I know it will strike a note in an America just opening up to its destiny of mastery of the world. Jules Kincaid will soon be a household name.”
“Not Jules Kincaid,” the student said quietly. “From now on I will be J. Harvey Kincaid.”
And J. Harvey Kincaid wrote his novel of the great American west, full of its symbolism of a new, resource and space rich nation coming into its own and possessing and mastering everything in its wake as it reached out to embrace the world. And when his first novel won the Pulitzer Prize, he kept writing the story over and over and over again. And the depth of his theme and the richness of his imagery increased manifold as he lived life on his own terms and sank into being his theme.
And before the year ended, Brolin would be begging to be fucked by Jules, and Jules had met and mastered and possessed many of Sid’s Sumatran friends.