Home · Quick Search · Advanced Search · Submissions · F A Q · Contact
TITLE: GOBSMACKED
AUTHOR: XScribe
RATING: NC-17
CLASSIFICATION: Mulder/Original male character; Mulder/Phoebe Green SPOILERS: Fire
SUMMARY: Mulder had more than one reason behind his reluctance to discuss his experiences at Oxford. He preferred not to acknowledge the outcome of his failed liaison with Phoebe Green, nor was he willing to share the account of the very deep relationship that developed between him and his best friend. ARCHIVE: I'd be honored; just please let me know. DISCLAIMERS: No infringement intended on the legal ownership of these characters. NOTES: Innumerable thanks to Siberian Skys for flogging me into writing this fic, for all the wonderful assistance and effort she's provided along the way, and for her ever-so-helpful beta. Also, a special thank you to my long-time friend, TeenaMarieW, for her one but truly inspiring suggestion for this fic and for the invaluable help from Red Scully and Chica. FEEDBACK: Please. I really appreciate hearing from readers. xscribe123@yahoo.com
GOBSMACKED
WEDNESDAY--OCTOBER
PERRY
Fox was one of those intrinsically good sorts. The kind one came across only once in a lifetime. A genuine genius, he'd impressively aced his first year at Oxford, despite the fact that he was essentially a stranger in a strange land--an American on British soil for the first time in his life.
There was no denying that he did study a lot. University, he took very seriously. That and a few other things he shouldn't have. Not himself, though. It was an odd combination to find someone with his brains and sense of humor all together in one person. It was that easy-going nature and the fact that he didn't take himself too seriously that made him so likeable. Almost everyone who knew him liked him. Which was why he was the last person in the world to deserve the trouble he was so dead-set to create for himself.
It had been my father's life-long dream for me to become a barrister in the family tradition. My goals in life were a lot less rigid. I'd taken after my mum who'd studied art. Despite that her family didn't have all the affluence of the Elden-Becks, her talent earned her a successful career as a set designer for stage and eventually film. But, to please my dad, I dutifully studied law at Oxford like my older brother had--so long as I got to squeeze in a couple of art classes. For incentive, my dad promised to buy me a motorcar of my own choosing when I graduated, so in the end, I agreed.
It was through the law courses that I came to know of Phoebe Green and through the psychology courses that we all came to know of each other. I knew more about her than Fox did, though, because I shared more classes with her.
During our first year, Fox and I lived at the same hall and became mates. The second year, we were neighbors. I helped him with maths, which he said was one of his weaker points, while he helped discipline my swotting and essay-writing for my law courses.
It was art where my passion lay. According to my mother, before my earliest recollections, I was always taking crayon, pen, pencil--any medium I could find--to paper. In the event that I had no paper, I'd use the walls and furniture, which our housekeepers were never too keen on.
As students in art are encouraged to practice their skills as much as possible, we were to choose our own subjects to perform this exercise outside of class. My dry law textbooks could serve me better as doorstops, for all I cared. So I imposed upon Fox to be my model. With his striking good looks and fantastic, toned body, he was perfect. His immediate reaction, of course, was to think I was barmy. Though I didn't say as much, I fully understood; I shared exactly the same sentiments, when my fellow classmates put the same request to me. Thus, I had to execute my practice in stealth, reading and taking notes from my books, as I should, until he'd become engrossed in his own studies. Then I'd open the binder I'd tucked my sketchpad in, and furtively attempt to capture his lovely features with my pencils. Being no idiot, he caught on fairly quickly and was none-too-pleased. It took time to attain his begrudging cooperation, but being as we were study-mates, he didn't have much choice.
It always bothered me that a good bloke like him, for all his intelligence, went and let himself get mixed up with Phoebe Green. The fact that she was a rich snob wasn't even the worst of it. Truth was she was something of a slag. There was rumor she'd slept with a tutor who'd mysteriously disappeared over the Christmas holiday and never returned because, we were told, he'd found another job. Perhaps that was really all there was to it, but all rumors start out with some kernel of truth. Just because she returned the next term didn't mean her rich family hadn't paid off the university to overlook the incident.
Most of it didn't have to be rumor, though--a lot of students dated her and could give first-hand reports about her. There was no denying she was pretty. She could probably have been a fashion model if she'd tried. Despite that, I'd never been tempted to ask her to sit for me.
I didn't see when it came about, but somehow or another, Fox fell for her. If I had seen it, I would have intervened in a heartbeat. As soon as I figured it out, I told him about her reputation. By that time, it was too late for him to listen--he jumped on me in her defense. I knew the only thing I could do then was back off. For his sake, I looked out for him. I don't know why--for some stupid reason, I went and appointed myself as his guardian or something when I should have known better.
Though it was some time in our first year at Oxford that the sordid affair started, I had the impression they hadn't had one official date until the second year. Why that fact alone didn't put him off didn't make any sense to me right off. Then I realized that like all geniuses, Fox had a serious blind spot in some category--and it wasn't in maths. He was even more of an idiot than I when it came to romance.
FOX
Once again, her persuasive looks and promises made after class dissipated like fragile gossamer into disillusionment. Empty echoes fading down the ancient, stone halls of Oxford.
I waited more than an hour at the library for Phoebe at one of the vast, imposing tables while everyone else around me studied. Every time someone would walk by, I'd look up. She'd done the same thing before--making promises she didn't keep. But still, somehow, whenever she'd flash those expressive blue eyes at me, I'd feel winded. I'd have to remind myself to breathe. It was like the best adrenalin high I'd ever experienced. And as during all adrenalin highs, coherent, logical thought would fall to the wayside. All I knew was, the crap they said about love was true. It was like every other ephemeral experience out there--it all seemed like so much hypothetical bullshit--until it happened to you.
Phoebe was incredible. She was absolutely beautiful, alluring, exciting, vibrant, assertive...and confident to the point of dangerous. I wasn't like other guys. They dated all the time. I didn't know how to talk to a girl. Despite all my well-meaning classmates, I pretty much ignored their suggestions. I guess I never saw enough reason to play the game. I knew I'd get turned down, anyway. So why put myself through that? I'd always been skeptical about the whole "falling in love" thing. I'd developed a theory that the whole concept had been invented by men as a ploy to coax women into having sex with them. The other theory was that the idea had mainly been developed and honed to serve commerce. Business entrepreneurs were always trying to find some angle to part the average sucker from his money. I learned different.
My first year at Oxford was killer. The educational system was a lot different in the U.K. A student couldn't hope to coast through simply by passing some screw-around courses to meet graduate requirements. A student really had to apply himself or herself a hundred percent to the chosen subject.
I've always enjoyed studying and learning, so that wasn't a problem for me. It was merely a matter of getting used to the program. What I did miss were basketball, baseball, swimming--all the sports I used to go out for. They kept me busy and focused on something I really enjoyed when I wasn't reading and studying. There in England, their sports programs were different. Cricket was nothing like baseball and I've never been able to compete at football. From what I knew about rugby, it was doubtful I could compete at it, either. The only activity they did have I could have pursued, was running. The problem was, I'd have to join a club and I'd never been one for getting involved in social cliques. Which was just as well, anyway, because I wouldn't have had any time left over to spend with Phoebe.
I think it started with the way she looked at me. Through her gaze, alone, she could make me forget everything else. I couldn't begin to guess all the messages she conveyed in each look. I already knew she was brilliant from her comments in class and the scores she earned. That a girl like her even noticed my existence was amazing.
It was just before exams that she came up and talked to me for the first time. All through the summer, I worried that she'd probably forgotten our parting words. That didn't turn out to be the case at all. She hadn't forgotten me. From then on, we began studying together. Every second I spent with her was like an illusion. Her intelligent commentary was stimulating. Well, everything about her was. Maybe it was her effort at theory and analysis that I admired. Yet despite that I knew she was perfectly capable, I found myself doing more than half the writing on her term papers. As if I didn't have enough of my own work to do.
Contrary to what my friends thought, I knew I wasn't being taken advantage of. Considering the way their thought patterns worked, it took no stretch of the imagination to understand the reasoning behind their accusations. Being guys, they were of the belief that everything that transpired between a man and a woman of the right age group had to be about sex. As attracted as I was to Phoebe, the mere fact that she willingly spent time with me was enough of a shock to my system. I might have wanted it, but didn't dare hope for anything more. Her signals suggested she wanted to be more than friends, but evidently, she'd been brought up like I had--with old-fashioned values. I deeply respected her for that. She wasn't at all like some of my acquaintances tried to intimate.
Illuminated by the reading lamp on my desk, the words in the textbook scrambled into a blur. All I could think about was the captivating scent of her perfume, the lilt of her refined British accent, the grace of her motion in something as simple as tossing her hair from her eyes. God, I was beginning to think about her in corny greeting card phrases. It was impossible not to hate myself for my weakness. A weakness that made me look for her in everything. A weakness I couldn't control.
Tired, I rubbed my eyes beneath my glasses. It was time I overcame my hurt and disillusionment and studied. I should have been used to being stood up by her.
A rap on the door interrupted my superficial scan of the pages. Even if they didn't make sense at the moment, I knew I could recall them when I had to.
I held my breath. The anguish I'd been struggling with instantly evaporated. If I had any sense, I should have ignored her, like she had me. That was a laugh. Instead, I got up so fast I nearly dropped my book and ran into my chair in my rush to get to the door.
Even before I opened it, I was ready to forgive her.
Instead, I found one of my classmates waiting in the corridor. Holding his sketchpad, a textbook, and a notebook, Perry was in good spirits. "Hey, I just got the latest MSG, AC/DC, and U2 tapes. Thought you might want to lessen the drudgery of swotting by giving them a listen." Attempting to invite himself in, he saw I hadn't moved, and paused. "Oh, I'm sorry. You've got company."
In an attempt to dismiss my disappointment, I released my breath. "Nothing like that." I stepped out of the way so he could see I was alone.
Back at the desk, I slid the portable stereo over for Perry's access. While he set up the music, I tried to resume studying.
"Stood up again, eh?" he commented.
Perry was cool and we'd become pretty good friends over the first year, even though sometimes, he could be an annoying know-it-all son-of-a-bitch. He didn't like Phoebe. Since they were both studying law, he had more courses with her, but that didn't make him an authority on her. Admittedly, he was impressed with her looks, but had no interest in her. Some time ago, he'd made up his mind that she was arrogant and self-obsessed. He was one of the acquaintances who'd tried to convince me that she slept around a lot. He didn't have a clue. "Stood up?" I lied. "I didn't have any plans--"
"Oh, then that wasn't you talking to Miss Green in the hall today. Must've been some other bloke I saw her with, then. My mistake."
"We were just talking," I enunciated stiffly, readjusting my glasses to focus on the page. "We didn't make any plans about studying together tonight."
Without a word, Perry went to switch on the bedside lamp then threw himself onto the bed. Eventually, I glanced back and saw him scribbling in his sketchbook instead of studying. It wasn't any business of mine, but the guy would never get his essays done in time at the rate he was going. Maybe he was right about the music--I was able to read again. Until out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shift to the nearest corner of the bed. Then I felt his gaze exchanging between me and his sketchbook
"Would you mind kind of turning this way a little?" he suddenly asked.
Modeling for him unnerved me. Even though he'd explained it to me in a way that made sense, I still wasn't comfortable about it. "The light's better right where I am," I said.
"Then...would you mind taking off your shirt?"
I made no mystery of my disapproval. "Aren't you sick of drawing me? Hasn't your tutor told you to find another subject by now? Say a still life? Try the bookcase, for a change." That would have to provide far more interesting results.
"It's a life drawing class, you dumb git. Besides, you know I get plenty of experience drawing other subjects in class." Holding the sketchbook out, Perry returned to the desk to show off his last assignment, a nude female.
Once again, I was reminded of his skill as an artist. Talent like that shouldn't go to waste. "Why don't you go ask one of the other guys to model for you, for once?"
"Who?" Perry kidded, returning to the bed. "Waltham the walrus? Come on. Off with it."
In fact, the guy was a hell of a looker and wouldn't do bad to invest in a full-length mirror so he could draw himself. At something like six feet three inches tall, with curly, golden-blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, along with an incredibly tight, lean-muscled body to match, he'd make a hell of a model. That was territory best left untraveled. I kept my mouth shut. Besides, the suggestion was completely impractical for a student. In support of his talent, I removed my glasses then took off my pullover. That done, I replaced the glasses and turned back to my book.
Maybe fifteen seconds later, Perry spoke again. "Mm, now the rest. Then bring the book over here and you can study on the bed."
"Hell no."
"Why not?" Perry baited. "Don't want me showing off your assets in class?"
We'd had the argument before. I didn't bother to answer.
"With your book in front of your face," he chided, "no one's going to know it's you."
I sighed. "First of all, I don't have any assets. And second, you know I don't like the idea."
"Oh, if you only knew half what you got..."
"Evidently nothing women want." Damn, I hadn't meant to say it out loud--it just came out. Thinking about it hurt enough, let alone saying it. Ultimately, I feared Phoebe was really only looking for some geek dumb enough to write her papers for her. She knew I had a high grade point average. Any romantic interest I liked to imagine she had in me could have been nothing but pure fantasy, on my part. With the help of my studies in psychology, thus far, I tried to make sense of it. I'd not reached any revelations.
Not looking up from his sketchpad, Perry laughed. "That's not the way I see it."
"What do you know about women?" I muttered. "All you know is you like dick--particularly when it's stripped."
"What was that?"
Deliberately, I'd spoken beneath the volume of the music. Still, Perry had a way about him. Affable and laid-back, yet assertive and cool. Neither demanding nor manipulative, but still persuasive in the best possible way.
I gave in and humored him. To fully undress, I took off my sneakers and socks, first. Then stood up to shed the rest of my clothes, except my glasses. I needed those. With book and notepaper, I went to the bed to sit against the headboard. Ordinarily, being naked didn't bother me--it was the idea of modeling that made me feel awkward. Knees up, I held the book in front of my face. "Mind you, I'm only doing this for the sake of your practice. Draw all you want--just not my face."
"Not behind them window panes, anyway. Look, I can't see a thing if you don't lie out. Otherwise, it's all shadow, isn't it?"
While he angled the work lamp on the desk and turned the chair around, I obeyed. Reluctantly.
"If you're going to go about throwing yourself into a mood every time you get stood up by a girl, you'll have ulcers before you reach twenty-five."
It was pointless to discuss a subject outside his realm of experience; I didn't answer.
For a short while, I traded between the book and my notebook to jot down notes. Every time I caught a glimpse of Perry he was busily scribbling away, trading his gaze between me and his paper, and different pencils from his mouth. My book blocked the view when he dropped the U2 into the stereo, next. Then I felt the bed give.
Inevitably, the knowledge of the lust behind his scrutiny couldn't help but arouse me at least somewhat. The combination of flattery and anticipation got to my libido, which I had about as much control over as I did my emotions about Phoebe.
Putting aside the sketchbook, Perry took my semi-erect cock to pull and pet. I about dropped my book on my face, which could have done a number on my glasses. Rather than risk that, I gave up studying for the time being and set my things aside, as well.
Left to my own devices, it would have been a safe bet that I may never have had sex. Call me an idiot, but I had no idea there was anything wrong in finding males just as sexually stimulating as females until prep school where the rage was to insult everyone by calling them homos and faggots. Even when I found out what it meant, my sexual tastes weren't fazed. It didn't matter, anyway--it hadn't begun to occur to me to seek a sexual partner. I kept quiet about my interests and meant to leave it at that until whenever. The next thing I knew, guys started coming onto me through prep and high school. Needless to say, I was thoroughly confused. It was rare, but it happened. I didn't respond--I didn't know how. The method was rough--mostly cruel teasing and contrived circumstances for furtive groping.
At Oxford, I noticed a slightly different atmosphere. Sure, in general, British males were like Americans in a lot of ways--they played macho and threw around insults like "girls", "faggots", and "Marys" to deride other males. Despite that, my circumcised status earned me some fairly blatant gawking, in the communal showers. The truth was, I was as equally fascinated by their uncut cocks--I just did my best not to stare. In American, no one would, unless he didn't mind being ostracized as queer for the rest of his years at the given school. Having grown up accustomed to those social mores, the first time I came across some less-than-clandestine sexual activity going on in the communal showers among my Oxford hall-mates, I about fell on the floor. I guess because I didn't run off and report them, that meant it was "safe" for them to mess around in front of me. Once again, all I could do was avert my gaze and pretend I didn't notice a thing. That wasn't the end of it, by any means.
It wasn't long before I got approached. That couldn't have been merely because I didn't report them--apparently, no one who was aware of it did, either. Or if it was reported, it didn't stop. And, since the number of students to share bathrooms--or lavatories--was limited, after I was determined to be "safe", it wasn't any hardship to keep track of who was into it, who wasn't, and who was ignored. Curious as I was, I found myself too nervous to give in to the advances.
Until it happened with Perry. By then, we'd already developed a friendship. Aside from being in one of my classes, he roomed across from me. Of all my hall-mates, he was the one I had the hardest time not gawking at and I sure as hell wasn't the only one. Even our rigidly straight hall-mates would look at him. And he was one of the ones I'd find looking me over. I'd learned soon after we started hanging around together that he accepted the idea of sex between two members of the same gender as casually as if it were the norm. That open-minded, level-headed rational acceptance of different ideals that the British possess, as a whole, is where our cultural similarities come to an abrupt end.
Even though I knew that much about him, the first time he came onto me, I was so stunned, I didn't know how to act or react. Yeah, we were friends, and I found him extremely attractive, but I flustered. Conversely, even though my brain was going haywire, that didn't interfere with my body's instantaneous response to arousal. Not that that was the first time he'd had that effect on me.
When he took me in his mouth, I raised my knees again, and held them apart while my heels dug into the mattress. Having my shaft pulled and nuts gripped while my cock was crushed between his palate and tongue had this tendency to make me forget everything else. My prior mood was successfully obliterated--for the time being, anyway.
Gripping my pillow under my head, I was near writhing by the time Perry let me go. I popped right out of his mouth to full mast. Just like I loved playing with and teasing his uncut piece, he'd always gotten a kick out of toying with me for the opposite reason. I didn't watch but I enjoyed his exploration of my trimmed cock. Then he tucked my knees up to tongue my ass. I have to admit--I never would have guessed foreplay like that could feel so good. Once he got me good and slippery, he tucked his finger in and rubbed, taking my hard-on back onto his mouth. That was it--my cock and balls throbbed too hard to hold back. I planted my feet back on the bed so I could thrust to explode.
Abruptly, Perry got over me, trading his finger for the head of his fully exposed penis. For someone who wasn't used to seeing cock in its natural state, I was always doubly impressed by this phenomenon; it looked so damn good, plus I couldn't get over the knowledge that I was the one responsible for having coaxed it out of hiding.
Panting, he prodded my ass with his erection, ready to push in. "Come on, then... Let me--let me have at you..."
Being over twenty, and not having had intercourse with anyone yet, it wasn't something I advertised. Not when the male ideal was to have scored at the youngest possible age. Somehow, my lack of experience seemed apparent, anyway.
Growing apprehensive, I relaxed beneath him. I wasn't sure I was ready to go this far with a man before I'd accomplished as much with a woman. Was I really that much of a loser? Maybe if I was purely homosexual that thought would never have entered my mind. But, I wasn't.
Persuasively, Perry slipped his finger back up my ass.
Instantly, the pleasure spread right into my nuts, to head of my cock. Gasping, I shut my eyes in ecstasy.
"If you think that feels good, wait till you feel the real thing..."
The thought of the "real thing" was intimidating and would have to hurt. I was tempted, yet equally not.
When he tried to pull me onto his lap, I resisted. Leaning over me, he ground his organ against mine and I shot right back up. Before I could caution him to grab something to keep from messing up the bedcover, he was rhythmically pumping his cock against me. Looking down his perfectly-chiseled chest, the dark gold curls on his breastbone, then down the awe-inspiring ridges of his washboard abdomen, to see my shiny glans just before he trapped it between us, I wasn't about to stop him for anything.
Thursday after class, during which I'd tried to ignore Phoebe since she'd made no effort to talk to me or explain herself, I heard her calling me in the hall. Trying to act casual, I glanced back. Resolutely, I made up my mind to turn down another study session with her, no matter what.
"Fox," she said, appearing all-innocent. "Have you got any plans for this weekend?"
Suspiciously, I hesitated. "Why?"
"I thought it would be fun to go to the cinema." She readjusted the books in her arms.
If she thought I was going to offer to carry them, she had another thought coming. "Are you inviting me?"
"Course, you silly."
"Who else is going?" I was still suspicious. The thought of going on an outing with her and a team of her friends didn't sound inviting.
"No one." Seeming surprised, she looked around them. "Just you and me."
It was my turn to surprise. "You mean like a date?"
Nudging me forward, we proceeded down the hall to the exit. "If that's all right with you."
All right? I felt lightheaded.
Revamping, she caught my arm. "Was it improper for me to ask you out instead of the other way around?"
"N - no. That's perfectly okay." As if I could ever work up the nerve to ask her out.
"Good, then," she smiled. "Saturday night. Let's find out what's playing."
Being as my parents weren't in the habit of factoring in extra funds for me to spend on dates, I couldn't afford to take Phoebe to dinner, too. However, Howeshe proposed dinner then insisted on paying for it. After that, we went to see "Blade Runner" which I, in turn, insisted on paying for.
When the lights went down, I put my glasses on. The last thing I wanted was to appear like a dork in front of her, but if I didn't wear them, I was bound to get a headache.
Evidently, the glasses didn't put her off at all. She leaned real close to me. Then in the middle of the movie, beneath the cover of her coat, she took my hand and guided it beneath her skirt to her lap. I couldn't believe it. She wasn't wearing any underwear. I went hard instantly.
Willingly, she opened her legs and let me finger her all I wanted. Boy, did I want. Much as I'd wanted to see the movie, I didn't care that my concentration was devoted elsewhere. We were interrupted only once when someone in our row got up, but she put my hand right back as soon as it was possible.
For the remainder of the movie, I pretty much kept my hand up her skirt. The fact that she got wet and slippery turned me on so bad I had to back off a few times for my own sake. If I thought I'd been lightheaded before, that was nothing compared to the way I felt when we got up to leave. At the last second, I remembered to hold my own coat in front of me, in case my hard-on could be detected.
The bus ride back to her hall seemed to take an eternity. I couldn't think of anything but the fact that she was naked and wet under her woolen skirt. Then when we got to her room, she meaningfully kissed me on the mouth, but sent me back to my hall. Sure, I wanted to protest, but I saw her point. Technically, it was only our first date and I couldn't blame her for not wanting to rush things.
During the next week, she invited me to go to the college bar with her one evening. I hardly ever drank, but I jumped at the chance. After the trip to the movies, I forgot all about all the times I'd been ditched.
She didn't. When I got to her room, she was ready and waiting.
We argued only briefly over whom would pay for the drinks. If I did, I knew I could wind up eating in the dining hall the rest of the month. The food was good, so I couldn't really complain. Still, since her parents didn't have to pay extravagant fees for her education, they could afford to send her a nice allowance. I let her pay.
Cigarette in hand, she leaned by my ear. I was met with the subtle fragrance of her perfume. "I'm going to let you in a little secret," she whispered. "I'm not wearing any knickers."
The following weekend, she invited me to the movies again. If I'd been paying for all the entertainment, I would have had to write my parents for more money. Despite the approaching end of the Michaelmas term, and our neglected studies, I agreed to go. We sat way at the back where we'd remain fairly isolated and I knew I was bound to get a headache, even with my glasses. I didn't stay focused on the movie long enough for that to happen. Before I knew it, she tossed her coat over her lap and invited me to feel up her naked lap. About the time her quiet squirming and gasping were really getting to me--halfway through the movie--she rushed me out of the theater and straight to her hall.
In her tastefully decorated room, I was in such awe I just stood there, unmoving, while she took a seat on the edge of her bed. "Don't just stand there," she urged, lifting a foot. "Help me off with my boots."
With minimal effort, I eased her slightly muddied, knee-length boots off her. Only then did I finally get a look at the heavy, sweater-knit leggings that went up over her knees.
Lying back on her elbows, she raised her knees so her skirt fell back. Between her pale thighs, I saw how slick she'd become from my toying.
"I'm going to teach you something most men have no concept of," she said. "I'm going to show you how to satisfy a woman. Give me your hand."
Totally entranced, I dropped my coat on the floor. Without hesitation, I got on my knees in front of her and fully surrendered my hand into her educated guidance. She took my forefinger, and together, we slid back the hood of foreskin to reveal her clitoris.
"Eat me," she breathed. Releasing my hand, she stretched her inner lips wide apart. The pearly interior glistened.
God, did I want to, but more than that, my cock lunged to sink into the minute aperture that promised to provide sucking, nut-wrenching stimulus beyond my wildest imagination. Still, I obeyed as instructed. It was important that she trust me, implicitly. The salty flavor made me jerk again; it was the similarity to the taste of cock that got to me. While she told me where and when to lick, I hardly heard her. The deeper I explored, the more her instructions gave way to pants, moans, and gasps. When I slid my fingers up inside her without receiving prior authorization, her vocalizations of pleasure intensified.
Feeling the tight contours inside her made the throbbing in my cock pound harder. Evidently, it did something to her, too, because soon her vocalizations rose in urgency. I hadn't noticed when she'd stopped giving instructions, but all of a sudden, she spoke again. "Rub my clit with your right hand and put your left fingers inside me."
Instantly, she took over as navigator again and pressed my thumb with an exact amount of pressure on the shaft of her rigid little organ. Through my touch, she ground my touch against it, demonstrating the necessary rhythm. With the muscles in her crotch clamped down, her panting and gasping mounted in desperation. Right in front of my eyes, I saw her juices run down to coat her rear entry and that was more than I could endure.
Drawing my left hand from her hot confines, I unzipped. If I didn't do something, I was going suffer a lousy climax and worst of all, in my pants.
"Wha...?" she gasped, strained. "What are you doing? Don't take your fingers out."
I could do better than that. For a moment, I recovered my right hand to unfasten my belt and waistband.
"Oh, no, no," she admonished. "Don't stop now. I was almost there. Quickly. Give me your hand back."
"But, Phoebe --"
"Hush and give me your hand."
The moment I touched her clit again, she seized control of my hand to stimulate herself, in a frenzy.
In breathless excitement, knees still up and wide apart, she further commanded, "Now the other hand -- in and out with your finger like you're fucking me."
To hell with that. Lying back on the bed, her knees up and wide open, she couldn't see what I was doing, anyway. While she worked my forefinger over her, I popped out of my briefs. Just then, she caught her breath and cried out. Violent, rhythmic waves from her orgasm rocked her pelvis, matching each stroke we made.
The sight threw me over the edge and I caught myself in time to make it pleasurable when I shot all over her bedcover and spread vulva. Figuring she'd be upset, I winced. But, she was too wrapped up in her own ecstasy to notice.
DECEMBER
Standing behind Phoebe as she transferred my hand-written notes onto paper, I studied her exquisite bare neck and shoulders with the added magnification of my glasses. She was wearing one of those blouses with the wide collars, so it slid down to expose plenty of her pale skin. No unsightly bra straps showed, indicating she wore nothing underneath. If I looked over her shoulder, I could see slight cleavage and the rise of her sweet, little breasts.
"What are you doing after exams?" I finally dared ask.
It took her a few moments to answer. When she ceased typing, she paused to take a hit on the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray on the desk. "I'll be going home for the holidays, of course. My family is expecting me."
Hedging, I toyed with my bottle of room temperature ale. I didn't like the taste of beer or ale much as it was, and it was even worse at room temperature. But, that was the Brits drank it, and I was getting used to it. "I...I guess I'll be sticking around here..."
Leaning forward to set the cigarette down again, then fix an error on the paper, Phoebe mused, "Haven't you got family at home waiting to see you?"
"I went home last year for the holidays and it's pretty expensive. They're paying enough for me to be out here at all, you know..."
"I'm sure it is," was all she said, sounding vague.
Not yet had she let me go any further than to practice bringing her to climax. I couldn't help it--I'd come into her bedspread, which she must have noticed, but never said anything about. I fully understood that she wasn't ready to go that far, yet, though I don't know what she told the scout.
While Phoebe finished typing out her paper, I ran my hands over her shoulders until one of her tits threatened to show. She let me. Exposing her, I pulled and played with her nipple and eventually the other one, too. This didn't last too long; once more, she stopped typing.
"What do you say you open us another couple of ales? This one's done." She emptied her bottle, at once then stood up.
Papers forgotten, we reconvened on the bed. She brought her freshly opened bottle of ale and another cigarette and the ashtray. Then let me completely undress her. Beneath her skirt, she wore a minuscule pair of sheer thong panties.
I loved the way she acted when drunk. I liked the way I felt, too. She'd grope me through my pants and giggle. At the most, she'd unbutton my shirt, rub my chest and tug on my hair, and pull on my nipples, in turn, but she wouldn't undo my pants. Then it was time to shift my attention to her.
With exams coming up, I knew time was running out for our trysts. Then she'd be gone for a whole month until Hilary term began. Lying on her, trading back and forth from one of her thick, jutting nipples to the other, I pressed my clothed erection against her crotch but all she panted was, "Oh God, Fox, eat me."
Once again employing self-control, I worked my way down her body to do as asked. By all means, she had every right to maintain her virginity and I had no right to expect anything more.
Down on my knees on the floor, I watched her slide down to the edge of the bed, blushing tits standing out. I drew off her pants. Her lips already sparkled in anticipation. Lifting her knees far apart, she put a hand on the dark curls on her prominent pubic bone and spread herself wide open.
I dove. Sucking, licking, exploring. The more I did, the more honey she put out and the more she gasped, panted, squealed, and moaned. She kept her volume in check, but not her enthusiasm.
Like an idiot, I'd worn jeans. Damn. Difficult to get out of and near crippling on a hard-on and taut nuts. Maintaining steady attention on her while I struggled to undo my pants wasn't easy, but she'd protest if I showed any signs of distraction. So I centered on probing her clitoris with my tongue, thus freeing my hands. When I sucked, she really went wild. Catching her hands beneath her knees, she submitted herself impulsively, squealing and panting anew. I drew her into my mouth.
With all that, I had to let my zipper go to grab myself through my jeans. I was getting desperate enough to jack off right through the heavy denim and deal with the wet consequences later.
A harsh, burning smell cut through my sex-muddled daze.
The sight of gray tendrils of smoke curling up from the side of the bed had me instantly on my feet. I yanked Phoebe off the mattress with me, and shot to the far side of the room.
"Fox!" she remonstrated, struggling not to trip.
On the rumpled bedcover, I saw the ashtray with crushed cigarette butts and ashes. Her last goddamn cigarette must have fallen out and off the edge of the bed. There were only two exits--the hall door and the window. The window was closer. In a blind panic, I tried to rush her to the window.
She wrenched from me. "Are you daft?" She raced back to the bedside, naked, except for her heavy, knit stockings. Ripping the cover from the bed, she threw it over the fire in attempt to smother it.
"Phoebe!" I threw open the window and climbed onto the sill. "Get over here! Now!" The threat of a scant two-story jump to the frozen ground was nothing compared to the alternative.
She burst into laughter.
Poised to escape, I dared look back. The smoke had diffused to a mere haze. Totally calm, Phoebe picked up her bottle of ale and headed for me, still laughing.
"My goodness," her eyes widened, mocking. "What are you on about? It was all of a spark or two. You could have put it out if you'd spat on it." She laughed harder.
Waiting for my pounding heart, shuddering lungs, and cold sweat to resolve, I couldn't move.
"What is it?" Phoebe prodded, taking a drink from her bottle. Her gaze dropped to my groin. "You weren't taken short, were you? Come now. And what happened to that nice, hefty package of yours?" She traced a finger over my crotch.
I jumped down from the sill to avoid her reach, but it was too late.
"Oh, my," she remarked. "Are you a phobic, Foxy? Have you got a fear about fire?" Leaning past me, she shut the window, making no effort to cover her nudity. At night, with the lamps on inside and the campus lights on outside, she could well have been seen.
I yanked her aside of the window. "Someone's going to see you!"
"But, it's freezing cold," she stated, "and you weren't closing it. Besides, a minute ago, you were ready to send me shimmying down the drainpipe without a thing on."
She was right. I was so terrified a minute ago, I hadn't even thought about it. As we were still in front of the window, I hastily drew the curtains closed.
"So, tell me, then." This time, she felt me up with uncharacteristic presumptuousness. "Are you phobic?"
Instantly, I knocked her hand away. Banter I was used to, but this crossed into the boundary of vicious mockery. She'd already set my sense of masculinity back a few years, but now she seemed bent on completely castrating me.
"Well," she stated. "Aren't we the touchy one all of a sudden? You were all very willing for me to give you a hand job a few minutes ago." She nodded toward the bed. "And here I was, all but convinced to let you make love to me." Pacing away, she drew her robe from the hook in her closet and wrapped it around herself.
My knees nearly buckled. I wanted her so bad, and I'd ruined it. My stupid, idiotic terror and panic had overcome me. She'd never look at me the same, now that she'd seen me like this.
"Well, then," she enunciated, tying the sash of her robe, "if you've got nothing to say, you may as well leave. I'll take care of the bedcover, myself. While I was rather thinking this episode might advance our psychology studies by leaps and bounds. It seems you may well harbor an actual phobia, yet you refuse to analyze it. Whereas I was thinking it might be quite educational for the both of us to dissect and examine this dysfunction of yours."
Just because I saw her point didn't make it easy to cooperate. At least I managed to step away from the window, though I left a wide berth between myself, and the burned area. Despite my studies in psychology thus far, I'd never seen my incompatibility with fire as a phobia. It was just common sense. Who in their right mind wouldn't be afraid? Now that she'd pointed it out, I had to wonder if her diagnosis might be accurate. "I-I don't know if you could call it a phobia..." I allowed.
"Not that I'm any sort of an expert, myself," she said, toying with the lapel of her robe, "but if you'd only seen your reaction...I'm sure I can submit your pallor, dilated pupils, and obviously accelerated respirations for analysis to our tutor. But, interestingly, I don't recall reading anything about penile retraction. Let's have a look, shall we?" Pouting in condescending manner, she bent to unzip me.
It was then I knew she was still mocking me. I had to get out. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. Beyond her door, I could hear her near hysterical laughter.
The afternoon before turning in my first two papers, a couple of days later, I poured over them at my desk, looking for errors. If anything, the knock on my door grated on my nerves; even if it was Perry, I knew he couldn't do shit to alleviate the way I felt.
When the door didn't rattle, I knew it wasn't him. That meant whomever it was I had even less desire to waste time with.
Opening the door, I started when I found Phoebe standing in the hall. Ordinarily I would have been thrilled, but instead all I felt was humiliation and shame.
To add insult to injury, she smelled fantastic and looked better than ever. Bundled up in her coat against the cold, her cheeks were flushed and her alluring eyes sparkled.
"May I come in?" she asked.
"What for?" I countered, dropping my gaze to the floor.
Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. "To apologize. I'm so dreadfully sorry. Please forgive me."
Wary, I met her gaze again, but only for a moment. Her sorrowful eyes and full-lipped pout were irresistible. "Forget it," I exhaled. "You were right. I guess I do have some sort of a stupid--"
Pushing into the room, she kissed me, shoving the door shut behind herself. Before I could do anything, she kissed me again, turning her head, working to get her tongue in my mouth.
Shocked, I pulled away. I was still hurt from the crap she'd just put me through and was certain she was back to inflict more damage. I couldn't look at her and I couldn't cuss her out. "Don't," I said. "I think you'd better go."
"Please, Fox," she persisted. "I was very tipsy. I said and did stupid things. It was all a mistake. I'm so terribly sorry..."
With near-zero experience with women, I was at a loss. However, I had lots of experience with hurt, confusion, humiliation--you name it. I wandered back to the desk, still averting my eyes. "I'm working on my papers. I'm kind of busy--"
"You've helped me quite a bit through this term; I'd like to help you."
"Don't worry; you've given me a deeper understanding of psychology..."
"That inebriated reaction was a grave error on my part. Please give me another chance..."
Hearing the fall of heavy fabric, I glanced back and saw she'd dropped her coat to the floor. Underneath, she wore a short, wool shift, no blouse, and heavy stockings. The shift's narrow shoulders and very low-cut neckline made it obvious it wasn't wearing a bra, either. I turned back to the desk, immediately.
Suddenly behind me, her arms slipped around my waist to unfasten my trousers. "I think it's time," she said," I satisfy you..."
No games, no humiliation. As I was still wary and smarting, she had to fight and bribe me to unzip my trousers. The glimpses she'd allowed me of tit and snatch instantly overcame my psychological reluctance; physiology took over, so thankfully I wasn't drawn when she unzipped me. In my chair at the desk, I suddenly realized she'd never seen me before. After the incident in her room and in my indiscreet circumcised state, uncertainty hovered. My male classmates had made it pretty clear they weren't used to seeing cut cock.
I fought a little to remain hidden, but she was already hell bent on exposing me. "Oh, my," she cooed. "There we are. And aren't we lovely?"
My cock convinced before my brain engaged. Idiotically hypnotized, I slid way down in the chair and let her wrestle off my socks and shirt. The pert bounce of her little tits threatening to reveal nipple from behind her skimpy shift straps was enough for me. I went way too hard. She seized me and thrust me deep in her mouth.
Well, at that point I ceased caring if she had any tricks to spring on me. Particularly after I felt her throat grip and swallow me. That was an unbelievable sensation. Was fellatio an innate ability in women? She hardly coughed and didn't choke. Working me into the tight, hard, slick recesses of her throat, she gripped my testes a little too tight, but the deep-throating made up for it.
Hooking my legs over the arms of the chair, I hoped she'd finger-fuck me the way Perry did; I was so excited, I could overlook the difference in the length and strength of her fingers. Laying her forefinger alongside the underside of my shaft, she wet it. The next thing I knew, it poked at my asshole and thrust in.
My turn for instinctive behavior. With a little effort, I soon had her stroking inside me in the same place Perry did. What proper etiquette was in these circumstances, I didn't really know. No "facts of life" discussions had ever transpired between my parents and me. I did know what I wanted, though. Clumsily, I reached to drop one shoulder of her shift. She caught on, and bared both shoulders down to her waist.
With my legs wide apart by peering down her shoulders, if I was lucky, I could catch a glimpse of her swinging little breasts capped with the prominent prongs of her standing tits. That wasn't all; as she was up on her knees, I figured out she had a hand thrust beneath the hem of her shift and was eagerly masturbating.
I couldn't help it; I came. Stumbling to keep from gagging, she swallowed, and that only added to my ecstasy. The opening and closing of her throat on me introduced me to a whole new kind of stimulation--one I couldn't have dreamed existed. All through it, she kept swallowing, and stroking out my ejaculate, masturbating herself all the harder. In complete awe, I let her do whatever she wanted, even after I was spent. Her strong sucking and tonguing kept me hard, though it threatened to become too intense. Then judging by her dramatic, stifled vocalizations on me, and the slowing massage at her crotch, I knew she'd climaxed.
In backing off, she gave me one last slurp, which I felt down to my testicles.
Recovering her hand from beneath her hem, she carefully got up, clearing her throat and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Well, Mr. Fox, you are no disappointment, indeed." Chest shuddering, she righted her shift to cover her jutting nipples. Making me self-conscious, her gaze was glued to my wet dick, which now stood at better than half-mast.
Abruptly, she snatched her coat off the floor. "Well, I'm off." Flashing me a smile, she bundled up then rushed out the door, shutting it behind her.
PERRY
Still in sub-fusc attire, save for the mortarboard, I went round to Fox's room after exams. I felt bad for him, hanging around the university with the few other stragglers, missing the holidays. And worse, I knew he'd be pining over that Green slag the whole time.
He was doing nothing at all. In fact, he'd not even changed out of dress, himself. As academically oriented and conformist as Fox had seemed at first, I'd learned a while back that he was, in fact, an anarchist at heart. We almost never attended formal dinners if we could help it, so it was uncommon to see him in his formal attire. I'm sure he thought the same of me. Still, he was right cute, all dressed up.
I followed as he trudged to his bed and collapsed on it.
"What are you brooding about?" I taunted. "Think you forgot to dot an 'i'?"
"I don't give a shit if I washed the whole term."
It wasn't my imagination--he sounded truly despondent.
The shades weren't drawn, keeping the room dim, even after midday. "I'm about packed to leave. My dad will be here soon with a lorry. Mind giving us a hand?"
Hesitating only briefly, Fox sat up. "Sure."
"Maybe you want to change," I suggested.
He looked down at himself. Then at me. "What about you?"
"Yeah, I'll change," I volunteered. Mainly, I wanted to watch him strip. He was beautiful. He had the kind of body the Greeks would have had wet dreams about when they made up their gods. Sleek and slender curvaceous muscles, little hips and fantastic abdominal and pectoral muscles.
In my room, while I changed, he played with my artist's manikin instead of packing it. Fascinated with the thing, he'd pick it up practically every time he came into my room. "You're really not going home for the holidays?" I queried, casually.
"I'll be fine," he said. "My father doesn't get into Christmas all that much, anyway."
For the last couple of weeks since I learned he'd been considering staying here at the university, I'd come up with a crazy idea. I'd already broached my parents about it and they agreed wholeheartedly. They did exactly as I knew they would and got all sorry for Fox.
Turning to face him as I pulled on an old jumper, I caught him looking down me. "How 'bout spending the holiday with me and me folks?"
"I-I can't do--"
"Like my parents' couldn't afford it," I scoffed. "Don't worry about exchanging gifts. They know you're a student with a budget to keep."
"I don't know them." He busied himself taping up one of the last boxes. "They don't know me. Why would they want a stranger living in their house at Chris--?"
"That's what the old Christmas spirit is about, isn't it? Anyway, I've asked them already and they were all but ready to send you a gilded invitation."
"Oh, so you painted me out to look like a homeless vagrant?" Fox took his turn at bantering, which he was quite good at.
"Oh, yeah," I readily retorted. "I told 'em your father was Ebenezer Scrooge incarnate and your mother had died givin' birth to ya. Broke me parents' dear old hearts, it did. They were both bawlin' their eyes out by the time I got done with the story."
Wryly, Fox twisted his mouth. "Seriously..."
I came to assist. We both picked up the telly to place it by the door. "Well, I had to make something up, didn't I? You've never told me much about your family."
"There's not much to tell. They're just your typical, run-of-the-mill mother and father."
"I hardly call having your father send you away to England to be rid of you, typical paternal behavior."
He thought a moment. "I think it may have been fifty-fifty; I wanted to be away from him, just as much."
Fox was the first American I'd ever met who had no trouble coming to understand British. Or at least who caught on, quick enough. In class, it was easy, as students who didn't speak the Queen's English were constantly reprimanded. I was among the few. I'd grown up with a mum who'd come from a working class family. I'd always loved the lilt of her accent, as opposed to my father's proper, formal one. Both my brother and I had taken to her accent when we learned to talk, up until primary school. From then on, we were taught to talk like our father. In third form, my brother began to lapse back; it turned out his rebellious mates had adopted an informal, slang-riddled, Cockney-based speak. For my brother, it came natural, since he'd always been a non-conformist and the lingo and pronunciations were closer to the way our mother spoke. I couldn't help but take to it, too.
When I was younger, I carefully balanced the two--proper English in class and the cool, informal speak, outside. In time, my own rebellious side won out and I ceased to make the differentiation. At Oxford, however, my informal speak wasn't well tolerated by tutors and I ignored the number of posh students who looked down their noses at me for using it. My classmates could all sod off, for all I cared--it was only for the sake of my education that I resorted back to proper English in class. As soon as my classmates learned I was actually as well educated as they, I suddenly had plenty of mates.
At first, Fox had a bit of trouble understanding me outside of class. I didn't even think about it, and therefore it struck me as odd that he had no trouble communicating with other Britons--including the tutors. That was admirable for an American. Rather than ask questions, he did his damnedest to learn my language. I wasn't the only student there who spoke it, though we were in the minority. That effort and his acceptance of my choice of speak were a couple of the reasons I first got on with him.
"It can't be all that bad," I said. "You went home last Christmas."
"Mainly for my mom. I went to see her. My parents are divorced."
If he wasn't kidding, my own dear heart was going to break. "Not really?"
He nodded with a closed look.
"I'm sorry to hear that. What about your mum, though? What's she like?"
"I don't know. She's like a mom. She's a lot more open and communicative than my father. I get along with her just fine."
I knew he was being vague on purpose. He didn't want to talk about it. I already knew he'd had a sister who'd been stolen away from the family when he was twelve. That, I hadn't told my parents. Which was what made the separation of his parents all the more heart-felt. Perhaps I'd better not reopen any more wounds. "My parents' are going to want to know about them," I had to point out.
"Like I said, there's not much to tell. My father works for the state. My mother was a housewife until they divorced. She got the house and alimony, and took part-time work."
"What does your father do for the state?"
"I don't know. I never did."
"You don't know?" I laughed. "I thought you said they were typical. If they were all that typical, you'd know what your father does at his job."
"All right, so he's not typical. The thing is he never told us what he does. I asked him a billion times, but he'd never explain his title or position. All I know is he's some sort of chief of staff or executive."
"Working for the state is like working for the public sector, right? Yet he gets paid well enough to support himself, send your mum alimony checks, plus send you to Oxford? Wow. Why did I have the impression public sector employees in the U.S. didn't get rich? Sounds like they pay your department managers like royalty over there."
"I've often wondered about that, myself."
Checking my watch, I nudged him. "Hey. We'd better hurry and get you packed, then."
"I don't want to be an imposition."
"When my dad gets here, I can assure you, he's not going to take no for an answer."
FOX
Sure enough, Mr. Elden-Beck wouldn't have taken no for an answer. He was a lot of things that my father wasn't. The two most notable differences on first impression were that Perry's father was animated and talkative. A long time ago, my dad used to be more like that but by now I'd all but forgotten. It was that forthright cordiality that cured me of any uncertainty I had about imposition. Still, I was left with the discomfort of knowing I had no way to repay the generosity. The traditional hospitality my mother had taught me was that magnanimity was not about expecting absolute reciprocation, but still, when not repaid to some extent, violators were cast in doubt for the rest of their lives. I didn't know what the British rule was, but then I wasn't given the option of backing out.
Their large house was upper middle class with a carved wooden staircase, fireplaces, and a library, but more comfortable than presumptuous. Mrs. Elden-Beck was so gracious she kissed me on both sides of my face when she met me, surprising me. Like I was her long-lost son or something. What the hell had Perry told them about me?
Though secretly I'd longed for an invitation to Phoebe's house for Christmas dinner at least, I knew realistically it was an improbable hope. At the very most, she might tell her parents she had a boyfriend.
The Elden-Becks offered me a guest room, but Perry rejected that plan and opted for us to room together. I thought that might seem weird to his parents, since it was unnecessary.
"You said you didn't want to be any trouble," he argued, soundly. "If we share up, that'll be one less room for Dorothea to look after." Dorothea was their housekeeper.
On entering his room, though, I discovered there was only a double bed present. Not only was I unused to sharing a bed, the issue of sheer propriety for the sake of Perry's parents was at stake.
His dad was prepared. "Well, there's an old camp bed up in attic, but it might not be so comfortable any more. Or we can pop one of the singles from the guest room in here, quick as you please."
"Nah, leave it," his son responded, waving a hand. "One bed's enough. There's plenty of room for Fox, skinny as he is."
"We'll see to putting some meat on the both of you," Mr. Elden-Beck remarked, blithely accepting the proposed sleeping arrangement as though it was perfectly normal. "You don't look like you've had more than a bite or two since you left for last term, yourself, Perry. There'll be plenty of food over the holidays to make up for your wasting away at University."
In shock, I unpacked beside Perry. All I could think of was how bizarre and unacceptable our sleeping arrangements would have come off in the states.
The main reason I hadn't gone back home was about expense. Every round-trip plane ticket cost hundreds. Since I'd be going to Greenwich to stay with Mom, she'd pay for it and would probably have to ask Dad for the extra money. He'd either give excuses about being too busy with work to visit over the holidays, or he'd show up, and act tense and obligated. I didn't want either of those circumstances. But most of all, it was the money. They were both spending more than enough on my schooling. As it was, I knew Mom would send me some expensive gifts and pack them up airmail. I couldn't stop her from doing that.
Had I gone home, though, I knew I wouldn't have had to spend the break exercising my best behavior in front of Perry's parents. That didn't really turn out to be the case. Once the initial welcoming was over, we weren't expected to hang around with them. They were perfectly okay about it, too. And since they had various kinds of hired help, Perry wasn't immediately put to work tending chores like I had to do at my house. Taking out the trash, shoveling the sidewalk and driveway, chopping wood for the fireplace--we didn't even have to pick up our dishes after meals. I'd felt bad for Mom when I first left for school, but she assured me she'd found someone to do a lot of those things for her, so I relaxed about it. Although again, it was an added expense for her. I had to keep reminding myself that I couldn't expect to stay home and do those things for her forever, but at least once I started working, that would untie a lot of her funds. It really hadn't been my idea to go overseas to complete my education--that had been my father's idea. He insisted that I have nothing but the best, but that was bullshit. I could have gone to Harvard or Yale--I'd been accepted at both. At least I would have been close enough to drive home every weekend and help Mom out. That's why I pretty much figured his main motive was to get rid of me.
Over dinner, Perry's parents asked all about mine, as I'd been warned. I understood why, though; it made perfect sense that they'd want to know the background of any guest they'd invited to stay under their roof.
I'd always felt stupid admitting I didn't know much about my father's occupation. Fortunately, I'd learned to explain it away as "classified" when I was in high school. Evidently, it was, and that always impressed inquirers. I just left a lot out--such as how, over the years, it had turned my father increasingly cold and unfeeling, as well as into an alcoholic. Certainly, Perry's parents didn't need to know any details. It was best to describe the situation as superficially as possible.
After a lengthy discussion of university and academics, Perry effortlessly ended the inquisition with a simple, "We're kind of tired after exams and packing and all," and we were immediately excused.
Because I wasn't about to ask my parents for a TV for my room at the hall, I got a kick out of watching Perry's. Despite the limited programming in Great Britain compared to what I was used to, the withdrawals were horrible; in no time, I was grateful to watch any televised programming. It wasn't much, but it could be a lot more informative than American TV. With less commercials. On the BBC channels, there were none, and fewer than I was used to on the other channels. That was going to spoil me, when I got back home. There was also a means of information through what they called Teletext--something that didn't exist in the states.
Casually, we hung around Perry's room, watching TV and talking till his parents looked in for the night a little before 10:00 p.m.
Right after that, Perry went wild. I'd barely slipped under the blankets, when I was attacked. Not quite that naive, I'd known this was his ulterior motive. We were both soon naked between the sheets, teasing and stroking each other. I couldn't help it; I got so distracted playing with his foreskin, I had a hard time keeping quiet. Covering my mouth, I buried my face against his shoulder.
"Don't worry," he supplied, quietly. "Their room's at the far end of the hall. They can't hear a thing."
"How can you be so sure?" I whispered.
"These walls are brick," he chided. "I never hear a peep out of them with their door shut unless I'm right in front of it. But, if you want," he suddenly spoke up, "I'll try calling them 'round and see if they come. Oh, Da-ad --"
"Shh!" There I was, lying right on top of him. Immediately, I slapped a hand over his mouth.
Turning me onto the mattress, he abandoned that effort in favor of running his mouth over my chest. Until he began tickling me, which had me struggling to keep quiet again.
Evidently, Perry was right about the brick walls. Despite our muffled giggles, laughter, gasps, and moans, we weren't interrupted. He didn't even get caught when he snuck out for a towel.
There was something exciting about maintaining a perfectly normal camaraderie in front of Perry's parents while indulging in sex with their son, behind their backs. Sleeping with a partner was a whole new experience for me, but I quickly got over my reluctance to share a bed; the reward of having sex on a daily basis was downright addictive.
Though I understood Mrs. Elden-Beck was gainfully employed, she didn't go anywhere to work the first week I stayed there. She did, however, make and receive a lot of phone calls pertaining to her work. A few days later after lunch, which she'd apparently eaten in the study, she called Perry in before we could find something to do. Inside, she was on the phone again, standing between the desk and her drafting table in front of the window.
One of the distinct things about Mrs. Elden-Beck was that was the kind of a mother who almost didn't look like one. Thick, brunette, shoulder length hair, and a youthful figure. It was his dad who had the curly, golden blond hair. Both of Perry's parents were good-looking, so it was easy to see why he was. She tossed him her set of keys then covered the mouthpiece of the phone. "Can you go down the shops for me?" she asked. "A couple of things are all I need."
Now, Perry struck me as the type who was far too independent to readily agree to waste the afternoon playing errand boy for his mother. I expected some degree of dissent, although in the end, he'd probably give in because he did respect his parents. As for me, I'm the kind of sucker who wouldn't have argued, no matter how much I disdained shopping. Which I did.
He looked to me appearing surprisingly agreeable. "Let's go."
It kind of made sense that his mother was the one who drove an MGB, since she was the eccentric in the family. Not that that made the outing thrilling for me. The ride was uncomfortable and noisy. At least the heater worked; the heavy cloud cover kept the temperature low. Perry offered me the chance to drive the car on the way back. I really wasn't and have never been that much a car buff. So the offer didn't make a major selling point for me. Furthermore, I wasn't used to driving a manual transmission. For the most part, my parents had owned nothing but automatics. And the time I'd spent in the U.K. had rusted my driving skills; it was completely unnecessary for me to ever get behind the wheel. Add to that the fact that I was in a strange country where they drove on the opposite side of the road dotted with unfamiliar traffic signs. I knew that sounded really lame for a guy and Perry's smirk only reinforced that fact. That meant he'd insist I drive back just for the opportunity to garner every possible ounce of pleasure in making fun of me as I flustered and stalled out the car. What the fuck? We weren't doing anything else, anyway. I may as well provide some source of humor for the afternoon.
What I did derive pleasure from was the view of London at ground level. The Elden-Becks lived about twenty miles outside of London where they both worked, and only some twenty-five to thirty miles or so from Oxford. My whole experience of London consisted of the route from Heathrow to Oxford by bus.
Seeing my awe I guess prompted Perry to show off a little of London. Since his mom told us she had a dinner to attend that evening and an appointment to get her hair done beforehand, we didn't have much time.
The traffic seemed all the nightmare I'd imagined it would be in a small MGB, as opposed to a bus. The markers on the road were confusing enough, but Perry--and many other drivers--seemed to take liberties and dart around on the narrow, crowded city streets as recklessly as possible. There didn't seem to be much order, anyway. No wonder he hadn't insisted I drive yet--I would have gotten us both killed, for sure.
Aside from that, the city--like Oxford--looked spectacular to an American citizen. I was used to seeing plenty of historical landmarks throughout New England, but these ancient, historical buildings were of a whole other culture. Despite the cold, I had to lower my window to lean out and take in the city through every sense I could. Perry ribbed me of course, but then concluded he was sure he'd hang out the window, too, if he ever got the chance to visit my country.
In between the abbreviated sightseeing tour, we took care of his mom's shopping. It had to be the first time I'd ever enjoyed the activity other than as a kid at toy stores. I was too enthralled observing all the differences between the British and American shops to have time to get bored. I swear, I didn't even notice what we'd been sent out to buy.
Until we got to the "chemist's". That was when I realized Perry's main motivation for the trip. I felt pretty dumb. He dragged me just past the feminine hygiene products, to the sex aids.
"Help me find the lube," he urged. "Do you see the K-Y?"
As if I'd know anything about it. I wasn't keen on taxing my eyes without my glasses--especially for something outrageous like that. "You think I'd know what it looked like?" I quietly demanded, itching to wander off and explore some other part of the shop.
"Well, I'd rather not stand here gawking or someone will come 'round and ask if we need help. So let's hurry and find it."
"How are you going to explain the difference in change to your mom?"
Unruffled, he continued to scan the shelves. "She's not going care now, is she?"
From the chemist's he made me drive back. Naturally, my protests of reluctance went unheard. He just cast me a knowing look with those irresistible, sparkling, light sapphire eyes of his and stepped out onto the street to climb into the passenger side.
Bracing myself, I slipped into the uncomfortably small car. I admit--I always did like the smell of the genuine leather seats. After cranking the engine to life, with one foot firmly on the brake even before I released the parking one, I lay a hand on the stick shift knob. Fuck. I hadn't driven a stick shift since high school--and that was only rarely. I had a friend who had inherited his father's old stick shift pickup when he bought himself a new one. My friend hadn't really had to teach me how to drive it, though he had let me practice. I'd never understood how it was that I somehow intrinsically knew the mechanical basics of driving that pickup.
Some three years later, I thought I'd probably have to learn all over again from scratch. But, I didn't. Perry teased me about easing slowly from the curb like an old lady, rather than bolting out to miss the next barrage of traffic. Like hell I would. First I had to get used to synchronizing the clutch and accelerator while shifting gears.
To my relief, it all came back to me nearly like second-nature. Having a photographic memory and all the perks that go along with it has saved my ass many a time. Unfortunately, it couldn't do a thing to help me navigate London traffic.
Just as I figured, the foreign-marked roadways and roundabouts fucked with my head. My confusion earned us flak from the other drivers, but Perry laughed it all off. Even when I nearly got us sideswiped. Leaning out his window that time, he yelled after the motorist. "Bloody well learn to drive, ya prat!" Collapsing back into his seat, Perry whooped harder when he saw the look on the other driver's face.
After that, I couldn't help but calm and allow myself to see the humor in the situation. How could anyone stay agitated for long around Perry? He had a great laugh, too--a little dumb-sounding, to the point of being cute, and when he'd bite his tongue to keep from laughing too hard, that was even cuter, making it impossible to remain sober. Part of my anxiety was also invested in the notion that if we survived the trip, his parents would probably kill us if we put so much as one scratch on his mother's MGB, but once again, his casual, assured attitude put me at ease. Pretty soon, we were both laughing off the traffic and I was taking chances I never would have taken on my own.
That evening, we couldn't leave the dinner table fast enough. While Mr. Elden-Beck watched TV downstairs in the great room, I was upstairs with his son, wrestling for the use of the K-Y jelly first. We wound up making-out on the rug on the far side of the bed, grinding our unbridled hard-ons together, me on top. Struggling to hold Perry's foreskin closed over the tip of his glans while it lunged in response was one of my favorite games. The object was to make him fight until he got so turned on, the lubricant seeped out. He could protest all he wanted but the game enhanced the enticement. I loved squeezing the crystalline drops from his foreskin. He could tease the hell out of me all he wanted out in the open--that was part of his charm. I knew he'd succumb to my teasing in bed.
In his room, I concentrated on wresting down Perry's trousers, then poking a jelly-covered finger between his legs to find his entrance. His erection shirked its foreskin as he gave in to the prep. He surrendered the rest of his clothes. Then with what looked like a nervous glance at my cock, he raised his knees and held his breath.
In other words, he was letting me take the first honors. Right then, I learned that the concept of ass-fucking wasn't given the credit it deserved. I didn't know what it would feel like to sink my dick into pussy, but I didn't see how it could beat the crush of rock hard muscle that wouldn't have yielded if not for the slippery coating. Perry's erratic breath-holding, panting, and gasping intensified as I spread that ring of muscle open around me. As I slid in, I saw his pouch loosen some. Delirious, I plunged deeper, still. The hot, slick interior gripped me. Within, the stroking was unbelievably seductive.
From then on, I pretty much lost track of what I was doing. If ever an appropriate word had been dreamed up to describe the sensation I felt, it was "rush". Blindly, I seized Perry's long, lean legs up to openly expose his crotch to watch as I pumped in. All his muscles had tensed up; he panted, open-mouthed, appearing astonished. With each thrust, his full nuts and arcing, semi-sheathed penis bounced hard, adding to the appeal as a sense of power. Overwhelmed, I lost control and didn't care if I never regained it. When I came, I practically saw stars. Afterwards, all I could do was collapse on him.
"Oh, God," Perry gasped. His strong muscles forced me out.
My sentiments exactly. When I finally revived enough to think, I felt his soft organ trapped against my hot skin. I backed to cool off and lick up the anticipated puddles, but didn't feel any. All I found were his relaxed nuts and hooded cock. Only a glimpse of the very tip could be seen.
Puzzled, I blinked.
Slowly, he sat up on the rug, wincing. "Hoo, that's a bit of rod to take on all at once."
I didn't get it. So I sure didn't know what to say. It had only been the best fucking climax I'd ever had, but he hadn't enjoyed it? He'd being trying to persuade me to go this far for some time, and I'd been so tempted. Disappointed and dazed, I sat on the rug with him a few moments.
Hearing someone on the stairs, I threw Perry's pants over his lap and got up in a hurry. Just in time, I managed to grab my robe off the back of the door and was tying it shut when his Dad knocked and looked in. "How about us boys--?" He paused on sight of my robe. "Awfully early to be turning in for the night, isn't it?"
"I-I was on my way to take a shower," I explained, feebly.
"Where's Perry?" he asked.
Not daring to turn around and check, I swayed slightly, holding my breath.
To my relief, Mr. Elden-Beck brightened, focusing past me. "Ah, there you are, son. What are you doing back there?"
"Nothing," Perry answered. I heard his soft, bare footsteps as he approached. "Just faffing about."
Since his father seemed unperturbed, I had to assume Perry had successfully replaced his pants in time. "Well, look," Mr. Elden-Beck went on. "I was about to invite you and Fox to the pub. Just us boys, since your mother's off at her meeting. What do you think?"
While I freaked over the bizarre and untimely invitation, Perry answered, "S-sure."
I was granted my shower. Still confused and uncertain, I returned to the bedroom to put on clean clothes. Perry had redressed and was on his way out of the room when I entered. His uncomfortable expression didn't bode well.
"We still going?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said, over his shoulder.
In hastily redressing, I sort of searched for the K-Y tube. First, to make sure it was good and hidden, and second, to determine if Perry had thrown it out. Not finding it in the bin, I had only to open the nightstand drawer on his side to locate the tube. With a shade less trepidation, I quickly finished dressing.
In an effort to dry my hair, I toweled it one last time before combing it out. At the length it had grown to, it took longer to dry. Getting regular haircuts during term was a bottom priority task. Anyway, Perry's was shaggy like mine, and he looked fantastic. It was just the years of scolding my mom always gave me about running out in freezing cold with my hair wet that stuck with me.
While I was in front of the mirror with my comb, he looked in.
"Come on, already," he urged. "Dad's waiting."
Before I could say anything, Perry was gone again. Not that I knew his dad well, but so far, I hadn't seen him demonstrate impatience about anything.
It was raining when we got into Mr. Elden-Beck's dark blue Mercedes, where he did just about all the talking.
I felt weird. Deliberately, I avoided looking at him. From the backseat, that meant dodging the rearview mirror. All I could think of was that I'd just had incredible sex with his son. And not just something that could be passed off as harmless, experimental foreplay. I'd just experienced a monumental milestone in my life, and I'd done it with Mr. Elden-Beck's son. There was no question that the couple had no idea their boy had homosexual tendencies. If they had, they would never have permitted us to sleep in the same room together.
While I remained fairly silent in the backseat, wiping the fog off the window with my coat sleeve, Perry acted a little more subdued than normal beside his father. I hoped it would be attributed to fatigue and his father wouldn't become suspicious.
Over dinner, we'd discussed my brief visit to London. On the trip to the pub, I tuned in to hear Mr. Elden-Beck suggest Perry and I spend the whole next weekend sightseeing. It had been my intention to one day take myself on a tour there before I finished up at Oxford. His offer was way better. That was, if Perry's cordial consent wasn't just an act in front of his dad. By then, I'd learned Perry could act casually about anything. Usually, it wasn't an act--that was just his nature. But when he did act, he could be damn good at it.
My anxiety only got worse when we got to the pub. Not only did I have to face his dad, but I had to drink with him. Since I didn't drink much, I sure as hell wasn't used to doing so around my friends' fathers.
We weren't the only ones there despite that it was a weeknight. Mr. Elden-Beck paused briefly to socialize with a few acquaintances along the way before we got to a wooden table and chairs. There, we shed our coats to the fourth chair and he ordered up pints for all of us.
The first and only thing I wanted to do was down enough of the tepid ale to relax. While we were waiting for the waitress to return, though, Mr. Elden-Beck noticed the silence between us, while he lit a cigarette.
He looked to Perry. "Something wrong, son?"
Shaking his head, he started to sit up in his chair, but not by much. "Bum a smoke?"
The question seemed to surprise Mr. Elden-Beck as much as it did me. "You smoke now?" he asked, nevertheless, producing another cigarette from the case.
"Once in a while," Perry responded, gesturing vaguely.
I'd forgotten about it in the interim, but the first couple of times Perry and I went to the college pub, he'd smoked. Only cigarettes he'd "bummed" from friends there. We didn't go there often and as we spent more time together, he seemed to have stopped smoking altogether. I'd never said a word about it. I guess in light of the circumstances, I couldn't blame him. He had to be as weirded out as I.
In proper etiquette, Mr. Elden-Beck extended the case toward me, next. I shook my head.
To my relief, the waitress arrived soon, giving me an excuse not to talk. While I calmed my mild revulsion over the taste of the warm ale, Perry's dad laughed and patted me on the shoulder.
"Why you're the first American I've ever seen not to whinge over the taste of warm draught."
"You missed all his whinging," Perry supplied. "He's not much of a drinker, but he's gotten used to it."
"He's not, is he?" Mr. Elden-Beck remarked. "There's a good lad. But you've no classes to attend in the morning. You may as well drink up while you can." In toast, he touched his glass to mine.
Guilt hovered claustrophobically; I took another drink.
It came as no surprise that his father's talkative nature was compounded by alcohol. By the time he asked me about the state of my romantic affairs, I was leaning back in my chair, too, pleasantly drunk. Because I'd never actually had a girlfriend before, I practically tripped in my excitement to answer. But, before I got too far extolling upon Phoebe's numerous virtues, I caught a glimpse of Perry's abrupt attitude shift. Suddenly, he was toying with his glass, frowning at the table. That was when I remembered how much he disliked her.
Cutting myself off, I promptly rounded up my response. Knowing Perry, if I antagonized him on a subject too long, he'd break in and make rude comments. Considering the subject and the fact that this was his father, that seemed like a worst-case scenario to me.
"Have you talked to her since you've been staying on with us?" Mr. Elden-Beck asked.
"Uh, no," I replied.
"You've got her number, don't you?"
"N-no," I went on. "I thought she'd be busy with her family over the holidays, you know?"
"Oh, now, it'd be a tragedy if you went the whole break without ringing her," he said. "What's the family name again? I'll call around and find you her number. You'll be inviting her to go to London with you. And surely, you've got to see her on Christmas Day."
Once more, I was floored by the Elden-Beck magnanimity. I hadn't expected to see Phoebe until Hilary. "Green," I instantly supplied. "No 'E' at the end."
Perry spoke up then. The subtlest of acidities punctuated his tone. "Maybe you'd prefer to have her show you 'round London, instead. She must know it just as well." He glanced up at me, blue eyes iced.
"If you've got the funds," Mr. Elden-Beck said. "Being as you're a full-time student and all, I know how it is. If you go with Perry, too, of course, I'd be more than happy--"
"I understand, sir," I immediately explained. I knew that meant I wouldn't be taking a tour of London with Phoebe, which was too bad. Not that I'd expected to. Though we'd talked at length about the reputedly haunted Tower of London, we'd never made any plans to go there together. For the time being, such an expense was unrealistic for me, even if I went on my own. I'd meant to do some saving beforehand.
"More than likely," Perry said, searching for the waitress, "she'd turn you down, anyway. And sure as shit, she wouldn't pay both your ways. I'm ready for another glass."
Pained by the astute remark, I flustered. Fortunately, his father came to my defense. "What sort of talk is that? We raised you better than to expect a lady to provide her own funds, let alone that of her fellow's."
"It's not a lady we're discussing, though, is it?" Perry inferred. "If Fox prefers to go with the likes of her, let it be his loss, then."
"Now that's enough of that, Peregrine," his father rebuffed. "I won't hear another word against Fox's lady friend. He's your guest. Now, if you had a girl, you'd invite her along, too, wouldn't you?"
Perry caught to the waitress' attention. "Who says I don't?"
His words sliced through my agitation over his accurate assessment of Phoebe's response. He had a girlfriend? I wasn't aware of it. I'd never seen him spending time with any one particular girl. If I'd known he had a girlfriend that would have been different. I began to feel ill. He hadn't enjoyed what had just transpired between us, and therefore, needed an excuse to promptly terminate that aspect of our friendship, right then and there.
Instantly, his father relaxed. "Well, why didn't you say so? Who is she? Tell me about her."
The waitress arrived, keeping his father and me in suspense a few moments longer. In the interim, I was becoming exponentially queasy. I was sorry when she withdrew to bring the next round of drinks.
Before going on, Perry took a long drag from his cigarette. "I'm not stupid enough to obligate myself to some girl by inviting her to London with us. What would I want to do that for?"
"In other words," his father observed, "you're not interested in getting to know her. You'll never get yourself a girl if you chose not to spend time with her."
"On the contrary," Perry answered, gaze on the ashtray as he tapped off some ashes. "I have no trouble getting girls. I just can't think of a one I'd care to take to London."
"That's precisely what I mean. I'm talking about someone you would care to take about. Someone you'd want to settle with. Someone who'll ground you." His father leaned closer and quietly added, "And for Christ's sake, I hope you're being responsible and not shagging around."
"Look." Confused, disturbed by his father's accusation, particularly in view of the perimeter of territory my relationship with his son had just crossed, and unwilling to hear more, I struggled to appear unaffected. "I wouldn't want to impose on Phoebe to spend time away from her family, anyway. It's Christmas. She's probably got all kinds of relatives to visit and catch up with."
"That sounds like her." Perry smirked. "Always giving of herself."
I didn't know what to say or how to respond, so it was just as well his father took charge of the conversation again. "I'll leave you boys to map out the details. I wouldn't worry about it, Fox. You'll see. Your young lady will be much more delighted to spend time with you than she would a barrel full of aunts and uncles. I'll get that number for you. Give her a ring and see if it isn't so."
Because Mr. Elden-Beck had to be at work the next morning, we didn't stay too long. Which may have been for the best or I may have gone on drinking. By that time, Perry was at least talking to me again, even if most of it was teasing.
Returning from the bathroom after preparing for bed, I found Perry lying on top of the covers, still fully dressed. It took me a few moments as I changed, but finally, I asked, "Are you going to sleep like that?"
The way he started indicated he'd probably been asleep. Trying to wake himself, he frowned. "I would, but I need a bath...what, with the way you sweat all over me..." Slowly, he dragged himself to the edge of the bed to sit up.
With his back to me, it was a little easier to address him on the subject. "Look, it was your idea. We never have to do it again, if you don't want to."
Drunkenly, he pulled off his shirt. "Just be up when I get back, 'cause I'm already planning to do it again."
PERRY
It was just like Fox to get such a batty thought in his head. Unlike most blokes, he had a heck of a conscience. Not like a twit, but he had his smarts and genuine compassion about it. I guess he must have seen that I wasn't all that comfortable, afterwards. He sure didn't notice a thing during--not the way he was going at me. I couldn't really blame him, though, considering his virginity. I mean, he never stated as much, but it was pretty obvious. Not that I was all that well-rounded about it, myself. So I wasn't exactly prepared for the pain all over again--particularly when it was being delivered by a fellow as nicely-endowed and anxiously eager as Fox, a somewhat painful combination.
Afterwards, while I struggled to gain back my senses, I saw him doing the same. That explained what he'd been looking so worried about, since. Still, it was downright barmy for him to think I wouldn't want it any more. The ale had both numbed the discomfort and made me randy. The only thing I needed right off was a good shower to revive me.
Beneath the spray of the water, I couldn't help thinking about my dad's insistence on getting Fox that scrubber's telephone number. Or about the way Fox had carried on over her like she was the Christly Holy Virgin Mary or something. Never mind that he'd just fucked me, an hour earlier. Had he just pretended I was her, while he went at it? It would serve him right if I never let him stick that unwieldy gut-raker up me again, the prick. Not if he was going to go about dreaming it was her he was having it off with. Right, and if it was her he was thinking of every time we were together, then he wouldn't get so crazy over my handle and knackers, would he? And he got crazy, all right. Obviously he liked boys. All right, so I already knew he was bloody "in love" with her and I was just for getting off on.
As for my father, I had no doubt he'd find the bug-eyed cow's telephone number, too. In his line of work, with his connections and cocksure manner, he could ring up the Queen, if he had a mind to. That was what made him so effective at his job. That was just the problem. It hadn't been a whole week, but at least Fox had ceased his moping about. Not only was I sick of her, I had no mind to spend a minute with her, let alone a whole weekend. There was no way to explain that to Dad, though. He'd get that rotting number and after that, the rest of the holiday would be down the pan. Once Fox started chasing that slag around again, I'd turf him out. He was staying on out of the goodness of my heart, after all.
Seeing no light under my folks' door, I nicked a towel and went straight back to my room. Fox was under the covers in his nightclothes, the lamp burning on the opposite side of the bed. I thought he may be asleep; as he was turned from the door, I couldn't be sure. No matter, I'd wake him up and make his cute little backside my own. He could marry the cunt if he was so fucking determined, but that was one thing she could never do.
He wasn't asleep, though. He watched me through his lashes till I switched off the lamp. Sliding under the covers and up against him, I felt his warm, bare skin from his hip, down.
Enticed, I felt up the thin hair on his chest and ran my mouth over his pecs to suck on his titties. They stood right up for me.
"You didn't..." he murmured, "...you didn't seem to like it..."
"Don't be daft," I assured him.
All my licking and mouthing seemed to do the trick. In no time, he turned to me. Entangling, our erections nudged each other--or, in our enthusiasm, they'd miss and we'd grind into each other's bellies. Finally, I reached to the night table for the K-Y and he wrapped himself around me from behind, his lengthy prod poking my biffin. All right. I'd let him have at me again. I'd said as much, after all, though I'd really been hoping to have a go at him.
Though his long fingers were coated with K-Y, I jumped when he introduced one up my sore backside. It wasn't recently that I'd last been done in such quick succession and it hadn't been by someone of his caliber. Once I got over the initial discomfort, the feel of his warm breath, his lips, and his soft bites on my backside, while he stroked inside me, I forgot all else. I scarcely remembered to put the towel under me.
Then he traded off his finger for his bellcap. As beautifully tapered and streamlined as it was for the job, it hurt. I gripped my pillow and took him, holding my breath until the head of his cock made it through my ring. Then as he bore in, blind pleasure swept over me; I pressed back into him. He attacked me.
Back at the pub he'd been so subdued and proper, no one could have imagined he could act so wild. He drove me right to the edge of the mattress and up on my knees. I was beginning to wonder if bedding the well-hung American wasn't something of a mistake. Ramming away in me, he felt even longer. Then he reached around and yanked me. Whether or not he was just getting off on his fascination with my uncut piece didn't matter; my cock jerked so hard in his hold it almost hurt. With his pulling my prick while he stroked my insides, I went right stiff in his hand. He tended to be a little rough on my exposed head, but when he played at me through my proper skin, his heavy fondling was perfect. At any rate, as I tried to keep from being shoved off the edge of the bed, I struggled to get him to ease up and wank me the way I liked it on my bare bellcap. Pretty soon, my arse was numb to any pain. I just wanted him to fuck me harder and faster.
There was no guessing where the towel had gone to when I couldn't hold back any longer. Because I was falling off the bed, I was pointing at my chest, I realized, as that was where my first load of mettle hit. Fox spontaneously launched into his orgasm with the onset of mine. With his mad thrusting, I think his embrace was the only thing that spared me from being thrown to the floor.
As I spiraled down from climax, I pressed back against his heated body and we settled on my pillow. It was odd, but it was the first time I'd ever felt so content I didn't mind being hot and exhausted with someone literally wrapped around me. So content, in fact, I fell asleep.
The usual muted morning commotion stirred me awake. Dad rushing around to get ready for work--doors opening and closing--footsteps hastening to and fro on the hardwood floors. Half asleep, I expected him to poke his head in my room and ask me what I was doing lazing about in bed when I had classes waiting.
Soon as I turned onto my back I felt Fox and was reminded I was on break from uni. Fortunately, no one would be looking in unless it got around to 11:00 or something if I'd still not shown up for breakfast. Dot would be antsy to do the breakfast dishes and make up the beds.
Waking up next to a mate wasn't a common experience for me. He was a pleasant sight in the mornings. When I happened to wake before him, I liked watching him sleep. He was a hell of a fine-looking bloke. Innocent and sweet, like a little boy. His wavy, golden-tipped hair would be a mess, I could see the length of his lashes on his cheeks, and depending how he lay, his full staff could well be seen poking up the bedcovers.
That morning he lay facing me, making it impossible to see his erection, but the sight of his bare shoulders reminded me he was naked beneath the covers. All night I'd dreamed about having sex with him; I sure hadn't forgotten that. Sometime during his lovemaking, he'd stripped off his shirt.
Shifting up close, I kissed his bare shoulders and worked toward his neck, then his jaw. I really liked the sensation of our whiskers scratching against each other's. Before I knew it, I went for his naturally pouty lower lip. He tipped his head to me and we started kissing.
Other than for brief brushes, I'd never really kissed a bloke straight on the mouth. Girls, yeah, but that came as a prerequisite for a hope of getting into their pants. Blokes were different. With me, kissing and sex didn't go hand-in-hand at all. But, that wasn't how I felt with Fox.
All of a sudden, I wanted to kiss him. I didn't know why. It was a deep-rooted, strong urge that didn't make any sense, but I couldn't stop myself. The next thing I knew, I was sucking hard on his tongue. Catching on, he stole atop me, his long, impressive morning stiffy pressing into my cock and lower belly. Just then, I remembered I had to piss, but the prospect of sex could make me wait forever.
Vaguely, I felt the shift of his come inside me. I must have slept pretty sound and stayed on my side or belly all night. But as he stayed atop me, I was pinned on my back. It was going to trickle out if I didn't do something. So I rolled him onto the bed beside me.
"Got to go to the loo," I murmured in a last fleeting kiss. The thought of Dot's surprise when she came in to make up the bed, if I didn't make it out in time, wasn't a pleasant one. Seeing Fox frown, I quickly added, "I'll be right back," on my way to grab my dressing gown off the back of door.
It had been the same, the evening before. I wasn't all that used to this sort of inconvenience, so when it hit me I was nearly taken unaware. I'd been about ready to break in on Fox's bath last evening, but he returned, just in time.
Bloody hell. I was reminded of how much it had hurt to be skewered twice so soon in a row. In the midst of my pained grimacing, Fox came in, wrapped in his dressing gown. Quick as I could, I went straight to the shower and turned on the taps.
We'd long been used to showering together in hall--we just couldn't do it in my parents' home as it might seem rather queer of us. Using the lav, however, while the other showered was perfectly normal.
"You're going to shower, too?" Fox asked, sounding annoyed.
Despite how cheeky it was in my parents' house, I ventured, "You want to have a shower together?"
"Your parents--"
"They won't look in," I assured him. "Dad's in too much of a hurry to get to work and expects us to sleep in on holiday. Mum won't be up for at least another hour."
Bathing together at home turned out to be a whole other experience. Maybe it was our assured solitude, knowing a hall-mate or scout wasn't going to come traipsing in, or maybe it was the graduation of our friendship to another level. Other than for gesture, we'd never really washed each other. Somehow, we both took to it like it was the most natural thing in the world. We soaped each other's hair and bodies down to every last detail. In using him as my model, I'd caressed the planes and lines of him with my pencils--but using my hands gave me the deepest pleasure.
The better I got to know Fox, the less enjoyment I found in taking advantage of him. Way back, he'd been awful fun to tease about sex, but out of nowhere, the amusement in that began to slack off.
Before I should lose every manner of sense, I had to stop him from giving me head right there in the bath. Leaning on the wall, my ripe prick was up at full attention in Fox's hands, while he knelt. A sharp rap hit the door and we both must have jumped a mile. My father called in something like, "I'm off, then. I'll see you both later tonight."
That evening, we discussed the weekend trip in my room instead of watching telly. When Dad had come home, he'd not said a word about the Green slag or her phone number, which was for the best. I decided to play it like she had no part in the plans. Most every American tourist wants to get a good look at the Tower Bridge and Buckingham Palace, but Fox wasn't interested in that kind of stuff. He already had some places in mind. It didn't surprise me that he wanted to see as many London museums as we could, being as he was the brainy sort, and I was more than willing to take him. In fact, when he brought up the allegedly haunted wartime museum and the exhibit of the cursed mummy, I was reminded of his fascination with the supernatural. Growing up, I'd always enjoyed a good ghost story, but didn't know how much I believed to be true or just rot. In his infectious, intelligent way, Fox turned me around about it. He was always reading up on every related subject. At first, I'd begun to think of him as an amusing kook in that aspect, but as I got to know him better, I realized he wasn't really a kook at all.
In fact, he had a whole itinerary of spots he wanted to visit, all over London. After ripping into the box of his few possessions from his room at the hall, he lay open a book of British hauntings he'd obviously studied long and hard. Some of the places I'd heard of when I was a boy--some not. Fox had done his homework, as usual, and knew exactly what he wanted to see. I promised I'd take him to every one of them, time allowing.
WEDNESDAY--DECEMBER 9
It was the next day when Dad came home to the dinner table, that he dropped the bad news. Not that it was bad as far as he was concerned. He was beaming like a regular Cheshire cat when he set the notepaper before Fox. It had two telephone numbers under the title Superintendent Green under Dad's bold print.
"Wasn't the least bit hard to locate the Greens," Dad announced. "In fact, I'm acquainted with her father, being as he's a police superintendent with Scotland Yard." Proudly, he clapped Fox on the shoulder. "If she's anything like her father, she's quite a girl. Sharp and dedicated."
Suddenly, I lost my appetite. Sharp, I knew she was--like a razor. But dedicated? To what? The aim to fuck every bloke on campus? I wondered what old Superintendent Green would think if he knew what his princess did to amuse herself between classes.
Of course, Mum, the romantic, seated at the table, piped up. "Who's that you're on about?"
Still grinning away, Dad took his seat at the head of the table and leaned to peck her cheek. "Turns out Fox's girlfriend is the daughter of an honored police superintendent. Isn't that something?"
"Really?" Mum remarked to Fox. "You never let on."
Stunned, Fox shrugged and gestured his own surprise.
"Now, there's the type of girl you should be looking for," Dad said to me, attacking the plate Dot set before him. "That should be a lesson to you not to listen to rumormongers. Whereas I looked to reputable sources for information."
To hold back a smart retort, I took a drink from my water glass, first. "I think my sources pretty much knew their subject, considering that they'd dated her."
"What do you know about her?" Mum asked me.
"Mm," Dad intervened before I could open my mouth. "Bawdy talk and rubbish. The tales of a bunch of young scalawags who only just learned to shave, yesterday. I knew plenty of boys like that when I was your age, and as little as it speaks for the evolution of mankind, there always will be. I wouldn't listen to a word of it."
"I won't deny that," I replied, "but I know these blokes well enough to differentiate between the ones who make up stories from those who don't."
"What did they say?" Mum persisted, curious.
"That," my dad went on, "is what's known as hearsay and you know it. There's good reason it's inadmissible in court, and I think you're bright enough to figure how it applies here."
After dinner, Dad followed Fox from the table, badgering him about ringing the Greens. Before he could answer, I interrupted. "Leave off him, already. Why is it so important to you?"
"I thought Fox rather fancied the girl," Dad pointed out. "Why don't you use the phone in the study?" he suggested, stalking us out to the stairs.
"Well, I--" Fox began.
On the first step, I stopped to cut Fox a heated look. Then frowned at my father, who was halfway toward the study doors. "Look, Dad, if Fox wants to ring her, I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate you hanging around, having a listen."
"Right. Of course he wouldn't." Tugging his tie loose, Dad nodded and started for the great room. "Help yourself to the phone, lad. I think I'll go catch the rest of the evening report on the telly."
When Dad was safely out of sight, Fox continued up the stairs past me, making no move for the study. Then I saw him slip the number into the pocket of his jeans. I suppose he thought he'd just hold off till I wasn't watching, then sneak behind my back and invite her along. By that time, it would be too late for me to put up a protest, especially with my dad's blessing.
Behind the shut door of my room, I braced myself, watching him back to the bed and remove his shoes. "Let's have it," I bristled.
"Are you kidding?" he scoffed, chuckling softly. "I don't remember your dad saying anything about running her number by you, first."
"If I leave it with you, like as not, you'll ring the tart and arrange for her to come meet you somewhere in London."
Incensed, he got to his stockinged feet. "I'm getting real sick of your attitude. You don't even know her. So you've had a few classes with her? How does that make you an authority? I have plenty of classmates, but I don't profess to 'know' them, just because of that. Why is it you hate her so much? Did you ask her out and she turned you down?"
"Like I'd be wanting a case of VD."
Even though I was ready for it, I was reminded how quick he was. Pouncing, he knocked me to the floor, but I blocked his strike.
"You don't know the first thing about her," he spit.
"I don't care what my father says," I argued. "I know those blokes a lot better than he does."
Incredulous, he got off me. "Why? Because you've had sex with them, too? How does that make them exempt from lying?"
Surprised, myself, and expecting he might tackle me again, I sat up. Considering the lot we were discussing, I couldn't help but laugh. "They're all straight. I don't know any other bi's dumb enough to bang her."
That time he hit me. Right in the mouth, as I was too busy being amused to pay attention. Then he grabbed my collar, threateningly. "If that's what they said, they lied. I'm sure she refused to sleep with them. I can guess what kind of self-inflated egotists they are, like most of the jerk-offs at Oxford. They couldn't cope with the idea that they weren't as irresistible as they thought, so they made up a lot of crap about her."
Much as my mouth smarted, I wasn't about to rub it and give him the satisfaction of seeing he'd inflicted pain. My tooth must have cut the inside of my lip, because I tasted blood. No less threatening, I knocked his hands away. Truth be told, I had no physical proof of her scrubber ways. She'd flashed her skirts at me, and I'd seen her do it with other blokes, but that wasn't enough evidence. I didn't want to tell Fox she'd flirted with me, when he was so batty about her. My dad was right--all I really had was hearsay. I thought. "What makes you so sure the rot she's been telling you is gospel? Don't you know that every girl tells the bloke she's banging that he's 'only one'?"
"She's never said that to me." He looked away.
"Then what are you on about?" Gingerly, I touched my mouth where he'd cuffed me. "If anyone's doing any lying, I'd say it's you--"
"How the fuck do you think I know what I'm talking about?" he snapped, still on his guard, coiled to strike again at any moment. "I know she's nothing like they said, because she's never done it with me."
Suspicions confirmed, I eyed him a moment, then got up to wander toward the bed, still carefully checking my lip. It didn't make any sense, but that was a woman for you. How could she be having it on with every other bloke at Oxford but Fox? He was easily one of the best-looking, best catches at Oxford, from what I'd seen. I knew blokes could be intimidated by girls with brains, but I didn't know it could work the other way around.
Settling on the edge of the bed, I took off my own shoes, then unbuttoned my shirt. Part of me was relieved to learn for a fact that he wasn't having sex with her, but at the same time, I felt for him. If it had been one of my other mates, we would have traded a few choice words about the cunt, then gone on to discuss strategies for finding him another girl. Fox was different. I don't know why, but it made me despise the bitch all the more.
After battling with myself a moment, I let my breath go. "Even so, if she should show up this weekend, you're on your own. I won't care if we're in the middle of Westminster Abbey or Stonehenge; I'll ditch the both of you right there. I'll not sit back at the hotel and listen while you try shagging her on the other bed. And don't bother coming back here afterwards, either."
Getting up on his knees, he was a fetching sight, but again, I quickly turned my gaze aside. "Fuck it," he said, "I won't call her."
That was what I was aiming for, but I couldn't relax until I got that number from him. "I'm supposed to believe that?"
Hair in his eyes, he stood. Despite the bitter pout that made him look like a sulking schoolboy, the pain in my lip and tailbone were convincing testimony that he was no kid. "Why don't we just screw the trip, if you're going to act like an asshole?"
Taken aback, I blinked at him. "I'm acting like an asshole? You're the one throwing punches."
He didn't say anything.
Exhaling, I sat down on the edge of the bed, shirt undone. "In other words, you don't want to go unless she comes along?"
"I didn't say that." Passing around to the opposite side of the bed to take a seat, he could avoid eye contact. "I don't even know if she'd come if I called her, anyway, so fuck it."
I undid my trousers. "She'd have to be a bloody idiot not to," I mumbled.
"You don't want her there, anyway, so what the hell do you care?"
"Look, I don't want to go if you don't want to."
"I didn't say I didn't want to!" he raged. "I want to go, dammit!"
"Shh," I quickly admonished. "You want my folks to come poking 'round? All right, we'll go, just like we've been planning." I'd leave him keep the bloody number. It wouldn't make any difference. With our moods right buggered, I couldn't see how the trip was going to be worthwhile, anyway.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 10
The next day we spent sorting out an itinerary. It wasn't easy with all the places Fox wanted to visit. And neither of us was near as excited as we had been about it. Somehow, we managed to get through the day without another scuffle, though we did lapse into a few verbal rows.
In the middle of the day, Dad rang to tell us he was arranging the hotel reservation. His generosity surprised me a bit--I hadn't expected anything posh, but then he inquired about the attendance of the "young lady." I supposed he'd meant to impress her and her family. He was ready to set us up with a suite.
Thankful I'd left Fox in my room pouring over maps, I could give my dad any answer I chose. "She won't be coming. Fox changed his mind about the whole thing."
"Oh." Dad sounded disappointed. "I'm sorry to hear that. Did he call her, then?"
"Nah, he didn't even bother. He just decided against it."
"Perhaps he's worried her parents might not understand. Tell him I'll give them a ring on his behalf--"
"No, nothing like that. See, it's not like they're all that serious. We plan to go pubbing where there'll be lots of girls. We decided it might be more fun that way. We want to have a good time, you know?"
Because I'd handled Dad right, he didn't mention "Miss Green" at all, over dinner. Of course, he did inquire about the bruise on my lower lip. By that time, I'd already lied to Mum and told her I'd hit it on a cupboard door. To my surprise, Fox volunteered that it had been his fault, though he didn't say he'd done it with his fist. I guess he may have felt a little guilty, because he really didn't have to take any blame. I told my father the same story, including Fox's part in it. With both of them present, I kind of had to. Other than that, we discussed the progress on our London itinerary.
When we went upstairs for bed, Fox made it clear his mood wasn't any better. He settled against the headboard behind his glasses and the latest Sherlock Holmes novel he was reading. Apparently, he was planning to shut me out another night.
Right after Mum said good-night and shut the door, I switched off the telly and dove under the blankets next to Fox. It wasn't Holmes I had anything against, but it was my guess Fox had become a fan on account of Miss Green. I'd seen her carrying around and reading different Sherlock Holmes novels, from time to time.
Choosing a paragraph at random, I started reading aloud.
Annoyed, he shut the cover down. "Go get your own book."
"Is that what you really want to do?" Beneath the blankets, I groped at his lap.
"What does it look like?" He raised his knees higher, pulling from me to open the book again.
Strategically, I left him be for a bit, waiting for him to relax. At last he loosened up some while he continued to read. Slipping my hand beneath the shirt of his pajamas, I tickled him.
He gave me a sharp rap on the head with the book. "Leave me the fuck alone!"
FRIDAY--DECEMBER 11
Come the morning, he didn't give an inch, either. Just as I feared, he was going to give me the same treatment over whole the weekend. Maybe I deserved it, but my interest in the trip continued to dwindle. We put up a front around my parents, but Fox was still a little more enthused about it than I, in private. Except if I said or made any sexual advances. He wouldn't have any of it. It was pretty clear I'd only be attending strictly as a tour guide. I no longer cared to go, but there was no backing out at that point. I had no idea how to explain to my parents why I'd suddenly decided to forego the whole thing.
We packed and had lunch. Mum saw us off in her car, kissing us both, fussing a little over my lip. "That pretty face of yours should never be marred," she'd said, taking my chin. "And here you are, going out this very weekend all roughed-up."
The wound wasn't all that noticeable, and anyway, I rather thought it made me look cool--like I'd been in a bit of a brawl. I drew from her and worked the gearshift into reverse. "We'll see you, Mum."
"Give us a bell," she called after us, waving.
The drive was nowhere the lark I'd been counting on. The weather was cold, but relatively clear. At least it wasn't raining or snowing, though a thin layer of clouds blocked out the sky. I sped towards London, saying little. Fox did likewise, until we got close to town. Then he proceeded to reiterate the first day's itinerary verbatim, like he was reading it. Only he wasn't reading a thing.
The first time I'd ever heard him do that, I was amazed. I'd played around with him, testing him, and he didn't miss a thing. When I remarked that he had to be a true genius, he denied it, assuring me it was nothing more than an abnormal glitch in his brain. It allowed him to be able to take a snapshot of any image and recall it down to the tiniest detail, any time later. The rest of us should be so lucky to have a glitch like that, I'd told him. It was just like Fox not to give himself much credit.
I was also said to have a high I.Q. and a remarkable artistic talent and all that sort of rot. The only thing I knew for certain was that I'd never been the type to hold a grudge for any length of time. That day was no exception. Like Fox, all that stuff didn't mean much to me. It had gotten me into Oxford, though I honestly would have preferred to attend art college. As fate had ordained, though, my entrance into Oxford had introduced me to Fox Mulder.
In utterly genuine manner, he took on like a kid in candy store. He marveled over everything. It was odd, but I soon came to feel I was viewing the same old, diehard exhibits I'd seen many times as a kid, for the very first time. Eventually, we lost track of the schedule for tarrying too long at each site. I knew I was supposed to be the tour guide, but if my guest wasn't concerned, neither was I.
In the evening, we went pubbing, all right, but not in the sense I'd led my father to believe. It was specters Fox was on the prowl for--not girls. Being a virgin with women, one would think he'd want to get some practice in so he'd not have to face Miss Green a right twit, in the event she ever opened her legs for him. Which still bothered the hell out of me. If she couldn't see what a great specimen he was, it was a wonder how she passed her exams. Perhaps she'd banged the administrators, too. Whatever the case, she deserved to have her ass flogged. I don't know why he'd had to focus on that particular twat when there were plenty of other women around, but he had. I could only imagine that Miss Green best preferred her cock belong only to the absolute upper British crust--the types who excelled at narcissism above all else.
At the first pub we stopped in, we took a quick dinner along with drinks. After all, my aim was to get a smashed, not eat.
In ghost-hunting through the pubs, I started out kidding Fox whenever he'd claim to "feel" something. I'd read some of his books and articles on the subject, but had yet to be thoroughly convinced. Still, it'd be a lie to say I didn't feel a thing, but it had nothing to do with any spooks and spirits that were supposed to be hanging about. After a few pints, I think his infectious prompting got to me. A nasty chill did sweep through me at one point, but I laughed it off. Back in the middle of the pub with another drink, I soon put the experience aside.
Seated at a table, he leaned across to me. "Look, if you want to talk to them, go do it, already."
"Pardon?" I queried, baffled. The formality of my response, spoken out of reflex, felt awkward. To compensate, I deliberately botched my grammar, lowering my glass. "Talk to who?"
"You know who."
I glanced around. That was when I saw two pretty girls at the bar openly looking us over and another in a booth with a bloke using a little more discretion, but eyeing, just the same. "What makes you think I want to talk to them?" I queried, bemused.
Sans his coat, Fox had his elbows on the table, sleeves pushed back. His long hair had become ruffled over a long day of intrepid sightseeing. He was fucking beautiful, lashes lowered as he gazed into his glass. "Because those two and ten billion other women have only been gawking at you, everywhere we've been. You're bi. It's only natural for you to want to."
In all honesty, I hadn't really noticed any women gawking or otherwise. I supposed that was because I'd been too busy gawking at Fox. I had to laugh. "What makes you think it wasn't you they were looking at?"
"Are you kidding? Look, you don't have to pretend. Like you told your father: you have no trouble finding women. Obviously, they're as attracted to you as you are to them."
Both amused and charmed, I watched him steadily a moment. "I was humoring my father."
"That's bullshit and we both know it. Way back, you said you were bi, too. Plus, you have a lot of female acquaintances. Whenever we go to the college pub, invariably, girls you know show up and flirt with you."
"Is that what you call it? I thought they were just being friendly. I get on well with my classmates, I guess."
Stunned, the argument he was about to pose died on his lips. He wasn't wrong, though. They flirted, all right, but I didn't take up many. When he found his tongue again, he advanced, "So, are you saying you're not interested in picking up any girls?"
"I hadn't noticed them until you pointed them out."
With that, he finished off the rest of his glass. When he lowered it, he drummed his fingers on the table. "So, do you like women or was that bullshit?"
Pretending to debate, I set an elbow on the table, too, and thoughtfully leaned on it. "I'd have to say I find them just as attractive as I do men, given the individual, of course."
Unsatisfied with this answer, he frowned. Then leaned closer, still, to be heard over the general din. "Have you really ever slept with a woman?"
"I think you misunderstood what I meant about humoring my father. I'd prefer he didn't get any ideas about my bisexuality, because I don't think he could handle it, but I've never lied about any of it. I've simply never let on that I like blokes, to my parents. If it came down to it, I'd tell them. And, no, I don't have trouble getting girls and yes, I've shagged more than a few, whether my parents would approve, or not."
He waited. Only so long, until he couldn't keep from putting forth the nagging question. "You didn't like it?"
I straightened and emptied my own glass. "Are we off, then, or do you want another pint here?"
"Hence, you're ignoring the five or six women who've undressed you with their eyes at this pub, alone."
Laughing, I dug into my pocket for the keys to the MGB. "That many? I'd wager there are at least as many undressing you." I paused. "Look, if I didn't like it, there wouldn't have been more than a few, would there have? So, would you like me to chat them up so you can have at them, too?"
"Not me!" he flustered. "I'm not about to do something like that with a total stranger!"
That strong moral fiber in Fox was just one of his many charms. "And I'm not so rude I'd think of leaving you to sleep out in the car park while I took them up to our room to have it off with them. Let's be on our way, then."
Once the pubs closed up, we straggled back to the hotel. By that time, I was bloody shattered. I'd done all the driving and basic tour-guiding which took more out of me than I would have expected. After a hot shower, I was ready to collapse. Our lavish accommodations were equipped with two double beds, which made plenty of sense to Dad, I suppose. That was because he couldn't possibly have anticipated the sight I stumbled in on.
Towel about his shoulders, Fox sat upright upon the bed, nearby lamps blazing while he perused the brochures we'd collected along the tour. Other than for his glasses, that was all he wore--except for a semi-erection. Drying hair falling over his glasses, he looked up when I came in. "Let's make sure we get to Tower of London later in the afternoon so by the time we do the Jack-the-Ripper route, it's dark."
Considering the topic, I didn't think his arousal had much to do with the next day's schedule. Standing between the beds a moment, pretending to be reading over his shoulder, I took in the view of his perfect, velvety prick, instead.
Handing me the brochure he'd been studying, he paused a moment. Between the strands of his mop of messy hair, behind his lenses, I saw him discreetly look down my body. Then busied himself with the clutter on the bed. While he was preoccupied, I watched his piece fill out further.
Enticed, mine did likewise. Quickly, I turned away so he'd not see it, and drew back the blankets on the other bed. If he really wanted something, he'd better come after it. How was I to know for sure he wouldn't cuff me again? "I don't see why not..." I yawned, tossing my wet towel to the carpet before swiftly covering up as I slid onto the mattress. Chances were, he was thinking about all the prospective snatch we'd left behind and wondering if he'd made the best decision in not encouraging me to go after it. I shut my eyes, wondering if I could get to sleep when I knew very well he was wanting in the other bed. He'd probably prefer if I drifted off so he could have himself off, fantasizing about the bug-eyed tart, if not the ten billion other girls who, according to him, had been looking me over, during the course of the day.
To my surprise, I was awakened when Fox climbed into bed with me. The room was darker--only the lamp on the far side of the other bed was on. He'd doffed his glasses. Without a word, he uncovered me to play. There was nothing coy about it--he took me deep into his mouth while he worked my shaft, fondled my balls, and stroked toward my backside to get me to open my legs.
Before I could think to rebel, I gave in. I'd come to associate his over-excited pulling, tugging, and biting with pleasure. Leaning over me on his knees, he reared back a moment and prompted me to bend my knees and get my legs up. I was granted a striking but fleeting look at his impressive body and full, blushing erection, just before he went down to lick my entry. I knew he wanted to have me, and I knew it would hurt, but god, did I want him.
With new sympathy, I pulled my knees up tighter to make it easier for him. He went crazy. The tonguing wasn't enough for him, though it was making me throb, so he slid a couple of fingers in me as he got up to mount. My unabashed hard-on made my interest clear enough by jerking and spilling over in anticipation.
Much as I loved sex, with Fox it was a trial. He was only just learning how to do it and with his lack of finesse, his good-sized member could be more of a liability than an asset. This time, he went at it with nothing more than spit as a lubricant. His initial, titillating crush of my prostate stopped me from kicking him off, until he sunk well beyond it.
To minimize the discomfort and maximize my pleasure I slid down further and gave him full access. Yielding to innate male instinct, he gathered me up on his lap and leaned over me in full rut. Much as the sight of his standing muscles, tendons, and nipples got me on, to forget my discomfort, I had to seize myself and wank. With that view and the rhythmic pumping up my backside, I was ready to climax so soon, it surprised me. Watching me gush all over myself, Fox held his breath and thrust harder. Deep inside me, I felt him do likewise.
Both of us still pleasantly intoxicated, we made out again in the lav. When he was washed off, I backed him up beside the lavatory to suck his cock while I worked a wet finger up him to lubricate. His tight, little, virgin entrance hardly let me in, but once I centered on his prostate, as usual, he took right to it. Going full mast into a pretty curve, his cock jerked gently with each stroke, a little cascade trickling down the cleft of his glans.
Much as I wanted to swallow his tallow, there was something I wanted more. In his excitement, he nearly fell off the counter, so we stole back to bed.
Once there, however, I discovered I had no say, which I hadn't expected. Whatever I fancied, Fox was no girl; he wouldn't be put down on the bed. Never mind that he was littler than me--despite being pissed and primed, I knew with the row we'd had over his infatuation with the rumper, I had to give in.
This time, I didn't get the benefit of his sumptuous lips and probing tongue. Lying on one pillow and hugging the other, I fought to keep still while he bucked up behind me. A clear picture of his full-length hard-on was all I could see in my mind's eye as he stabbed the tapered tip at my hole in a paltry gesture to lube me.
Then he ran a hand over me--down the small of my back, side and hip, and to my thigh. Quietly, he murmured, "God, you're fucking beautiful..."
Numb from shock, it took me a second to feel the pain when he forced my smarting backside open again. Yeah, I'd seen him rake me over with his gaze, and make a few offhand remarks but he'd never said anything so forthright before.
Damn, did it hurt, until he'd become sufficiently coated with his spill from the first time. Once his exuberant stroking began, I was ready to give in to anything. More than once I had to curb his over-zealous pulling; I was all the more sensitive now. His lack of experience resulted in some painful miscalculated fumbling with likewise reinsertions that had me wincing and gasping. As long as he supplied me with manual pleasure, I eventually reached the point where all I knew was that I wanted him, giving me all he had.
After the first night, I made sure to invest in another tube of K-Y. Expecting the worse when we'd left for the weekend, I'd stashed the other tube in my closet. My bum was so sore, I practically felt every painted line on the road in the harsh ride of Mum's MGB. Yet somehow, despite my discomfort, I found myself trading off my sightseeing between his good-sized bulge and the tour. He was oblivious, of course.
Saturday night, after a few pints when I could wait no longer, I rushed Fox out to the car. He may have thought we were going to press on to the next so-called "haunted" pub on the itinerary, but I had other plans. I made to check about the car for traffic, but I was really looking for passers-by. When I saw none, I leaned to him, motor of the MGB running, and kissed him.
In a nervous shot, he pulled back to take a sharp survey out the windows. "Are you crazy? Anyone can see us out here."
"I've been dying to do that all day," I teased, knowing that would wind him up all the more.
"This isn't the place, either." He kept glancing around, outside the car.
"You worry too much," I further taunted, releasing the brake. "So what if someone sees us? If they don't like it, they can sod off."
Taking a chance, I guessed he had no answer, because he said nothing. At the next traffic stop, I snogged his lovely jaw. He didn't pull away, but he tensed right up again.
In the hotel car park, I lay onto him, wantonly kissing, like to shag him right there. It was just as much tease as desire on my part. He wouldn't open his mouth, despite my impassioned efforts, though his soft, lower lip yielded to mine. Tolerating my overtures only briefly, he finally backed into his door. "Wait till we get to our room."
Unlike at home, we didn't have my folks or Dot hanging about. We could be as noisy as we wanted and had full access to a lavatory without having to map out a stealthy plan just to get there.
Once I stripped him off, I was reminded how much it offended my sensibility as an artist that his body should ever be hidden beneath so much garb. At least his parents had the right idea by having him clipped to insure his handsome cock would be rightly exposed in all states.
Without the threat of observation about, Fox's attitude came around. Acting just as hungry as I, he attacked, biting, sucking, and running that sultry mouth of his all over me. As good as it felt, I wanted at him, too. I'd only been daydreaming about tracing the lovely, sinuous lines of his muscles with my own mouth and tongue.
The new tube of K-Y beside us on the bed at last, I coaxed him to lie on his belly and slide his left knee up. That did a magnificent job of coyly displaying his plump jewels, smooth crotch, and entry. Abandoning any measure of temperance, I explored further with my tongue, savoring. As I focused on his sweet, virgin ring, he lifted his hips back toward me, eventually sliding onto both knees. The deeper I ate, the more he panted and softly moaned in a voice still heavily laced with adolescent tones.
Seeing me reach for the K-Y, he pulled from me and tried to turn over. "Wait," he said.
"For what?" I toyed, straddling his legs so he'd not escape. Piercing the tube, I placed a dab on my finger.
"I-I don't know," he swallowed, muscles visibly firming up.
"Ease up," I chided, poking my finger between his cheeks. I'd held off far too long for this. "It won't hurt that way."
Hesitantly, he lay motionless on his belly, beneath me. Looking at him like that, I momentarily longed for my sketchpad for the chance to caress those taut muscles throughout his back and round bottom with my pencils.
"Come on," I teased, shifting my weight off him, so I could get a hand beneath him to fondle. "Let's have at you..."
He didn't stop me, but that was all he did. While I'd been eating him, he'd filled out to full erection, but now he'd softened some.
"What's this?" Disguising the twinge of hurt I felt, I maintained the taunting. Like he'd done me the night before, I made to wank him off. It was such a common game between us, it didn't take long for him to come 'round. Carefully, I worked my knees between his and he slowly got back onto his to allow room for me to stroke his long piece.
By forcing it downward between his legs, I could take him in my mouth. For that, he scrambled way up on his knees, bracing them well apart. Throbbing to climax, I hastened to mount him.
Prepared for his own orgasm, Fox's crotch had tightened up hard. The slippery K-Y I'd already applied was my one saving grace--though not by much. The mere pressure as his muscle gave around my primed head was all it could take; I was thrown straight away into an amazing orgasm. My own spendings slicked the path for me to drive further in with each dizzying wave of unbridled ecstasy.
Surprisingly drained, I pulled him down to lie with me and wrapped myself around him to recover. Fox lay so still and quiet I nodded off...
FOX
I was different.
I was no longer the same kid my parents had sent off to school. As significant as the rite of passing from virginity into adulthood is, I didn't feel that I was different in that sense. I guess everyone wonders if the transition is going to make him or her feel like a mature, responsible adult the next morning, but I sure didn't. If anything, I was just as confused afterwards, if not more so, than I had been before. As attracted as I was to guys, I never gave any realistic thought to the notion that I might be gay. That was easy to figure--I was very sexually aroused by women. Way before I understood it. But guys could do the same for me, too, way before I understood that, either.
My ongoing interest in Phoebe kept me from considering the full implications of what was going on between Perry and me. I regarded him as someone who was a hell of a lot of fun to hang out with and a really good friend. He'd complained about the boredom he'd expected to face over the holiday. My boarding with his parents for the interim was supposed to be a mutual convenience for both of us; he'd have a mate to give him something to do and buffer him from having to co-mingle with relatives for the holidays and I'd have a place to stay. I still I'd be an imposition on his family, but he'd pretty much forced my hand.
Suddenly, everything had become a lot more complex than that.
First, it hurt. A lot worse than I was expecting. I mean if it hurt that bad, then why did guys do it? But feeling Perry's every pulse of hot emission flood inside me turned me on in unimaginable ways, despite the pain. The moment he stopped thrusting, he was forced out, which felt even weirder. It was both a helpless lack of control, and a titillating surge deep inside that shot into my testicles and through the muscles in my pelvis to make my dick jump.
Cock throbbing, I held my breath. I'd just lost my virginity to a man. I'd never expected that to happen.
My most basic instincts wanted satisfaction, but when that didn't seem forthcoming, my desire--or rather, my peaking adrenalin and testosterone--began to turn the tide of my emotion to anger. Then, he startled me by taking me in his arms and tucking me against him. As if somehow a switch had been thrown, my anger defused just as abruptly as it had come on.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18
The week before Christmas, Mom called. I hadn't told her much about where I was staying because I knew she'd try and convince me to fly back to New England, but I had to give her the Elden-Becks' number. She would have gotten hysterical if I hadn't, and flown out to England to track me down. Mrs. Elden-Beck was all excited and turned the study, which was her office, over to me for privacy while I took the call.
I heard the doors shut softly behind me, then spoke into the receiver, in the large, cluttered, but comfortable room. It smelled of marking pens, paste, and paper from Mrs. Elden-Beck's drafting board and work supplies. "Mom?"
"Fox, darling," Mom said. "How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"Well, Mrs. Elden-Beck seems like a lovely woman. Although I really wouldn't have known what to expect with what little you told me--"
"We were on our way out, like I said. It was a last minute thing. But Perry's parents are cool." I glanced back at the doors, still standing by the large, antique desk.
"I know that now, dear. Mrs. Elden-Beck has nothing but the most wonderful things to say about you. I'm pleased she's so impressed, but it's time you come home. It's Christmas and I really miss you."
"I'm only trying to save you money," I protested. "Once I graduate and go back home, you'll see me every Christmas--"
"Don't worry about the money. Your father got a generous Christmas bonus this year and your grandparents want to see you, so they offered to help pay for your ticket. I'm going to stay with your Grandma and Grandpa Kuipers for the next couple of weeks. I couldn't bear to be alone. But I'd be much happier if you came with me."
Not that I had anything against most of my relatives, and I'd stayed at my grandparents' plenty of times and them with us. But suddenly it was different. Suddenly, I felt panicked about leaving. It had been years since I'd felt as alive as I had this past year. It hadn't all been good, but at least it was real. Like the thaw of spring, it had been gradual, frost melting away to disclose the vivid colors of obscured life. I hadn't even realized how numb and distant I'd been for nearly a decade of my existence. I didn't want to go back. Not to the sterile environments my parents' homes had become. Interaction with real life again had been precisely what I'd needed. It had been a major step for me to come to England alone, but I'd needed it.
In time I'd go back, but not now.
I felt sorry for Mom. I knew how she suffered. She used to cry a lot. For a while, she even took all the family pictures down. Then one day, she put them back up and made herself numb, just like I had. But my presence couldn't help her. "You won't be alone, you'll be fine. I'm sure you can use whatever Dad gives you for the ticket for something else. Get yourself something special for Christmas. Tell Grandma and Grandpa and everyone I'll see them next Christmas."
"But what I'd really like for Christmas is for you to come home."
I had to laugh. "I was just there in August. Come on." Holding the telephone cord, I wandered to the window to view the raindrops trailing down the pane. About to reassure her that I was exactly the same as when she'd last seen me, I cut myself off. I shook my hair out of my eyes; I'd have to get a trim before the semester started. "I look exactly the same as I did in August."
"That doesn't make me want to see you any less."
I sighed.
"Then look at it in a practical sense; if you stay there over Christmas, you'll be obligating your friend and his family to give you gifts. And you'll have to do the same. Being as they're very well-to-do, we'll have to give them something--"
"Wait a minute. How do you know how well-to-do they are? How long did you talk to Mrs. Elden-Beck? She actually told you--?"
"Now, what did you expect? You didn't tell me a word about them. I discussed it with Bill and he looked them up."
Instantly, I was offended. Because my father was some major executive with the State Department, he thought that gave him the right to pry into anyone's life at his own discretion. Whether or not any of the Elden-Becks held a record of imperfect behavior, it wasn't my parents' business. Then I remembered how and why I had Phoebe's phone number; Mr. Elden-Beck had done the same for me. "I already told them I couldn't possibly afford to give them anything," I said, annoyed, "and that they don't have to give me anything in return." Of course, that had been a waste of breath, considering the genuine leather jacket Perry had insisted on buying me on our trip to London. And the clever way he'd justified it by assuring me his father have given him the money to spend on himself for a Christmas gift and that was how he'd chosen to spend it.
"But, dear," Mom laughed. "We're already indebted to them. After all, they're putting you up for the whole break. Food, lodging, laundry, utilities..."
"All right, all right. I get the picture. If you insist on sending them something, don't overdo it. It's not like they're poor and need charity."
"In light of the circumstances, I can't just send them a cheese basket or a canned ham," Mom chided. "I'll send you the money and you pick something out for them. You know them--not me or your father. Shall we say five hundred? Or maybe--?"
"Five hundred?" I echoed, appalled. I didn't know crap about this sort of etiquette, and hated it. "I could fly home on that much."
"Well, you could, in which case, we could just ship them some live Maine lobster or crab. That's one thing they can't get that over there, for sure, and it would be considerably cheaper. I think that should be sufficient for the time you've been there. That way you'd skip the whole Christmas holiday."
Bless Mom for being such a genius. I never would have thought of anything like that. Dorothea was a great cook, too; I was sure she could work wonders with lobster or crab. "That sounds like a great idea. But are you sure that wouldn't be enough for me to stay?"
"It's traditional to serve goose in England at Christmas, not lobster, so no, that wouldn't suffice. And anyway, it's only good for one meal; you know shellfish can't keep and freezing is out of the question.
"I'm packed and will be leaving tomorrow. I'll call your father to tell him to either buy the plane ticket or have him wire you the five hundred dollars for gifts. Which is it going to be?"
"Mo-om," I moaned, hating the idea of having to shop. "I really want to stay, but I'm no good at that sort of thing. I wouldn't begin to know what to get them."
"Well, dear, I'd know even less. Ask your friend what his parents would like and ask him what he'd like. If you're going to insist on staying over there," she added, sounding unhappy, "that's all I can suggest."
When at last I got Mom off the phone, I considered the opportunity she'd just presented me with. It was neither about a trip home or the money; for the first time since arriving at the Elden-Becks', I had access to a telephone in complete and utter privacy. Much as I liked Perry, he'd never let me near one without hovering close by, since his dad had given me Phoebe's number. And I'd been dying to call her. As far as he knew, by his mother's announcement, I was exchanging Christmas greetings with my folks, in the drawing room. Since I hadn't communicated with them other than the one brief call at the end of Michaelmas, he had to figure I'd be tied up for a while.
To insure Perry wouldn't find it, I'd hidden the number well within the box I'd never finished unpacking. No matter--all I needed was one good look at it. I dialed the number from instant recall.
"Green residence," an elder woman answered.
Fighting anxiety, I bit my lip. "Um, is Phoebe there?"
In the background, I heard company. Of course. Everyone had relatives over for Christmas. The Elden-Becks were expecting Perry's brother, Wyeth, and his girlfriend. "Oh, yes," the woman said. "Whom shall I say is calling?"
Right then, I was so freaking intimidated, despite that I figured I was talking to the hired help, I wanted to hang up. "Look, if she's too busy..."
"We'll see, then. Who's calling please?"
"Fox. Fox Mulder. But it sounds like she's got comp--"
"One moment, please." I imagined a white-haired, old lady pausing to fix her apron and hair after putting the phone down, before dispatching for Phoebe.
An eternity seemed to pass. An eternity during which I nearly hung up. God, was I an idiot. I shouldn't have called. What made me think she wanted to hear from me? Well, it wasn't like she could have called me. She didn't know where the fuck I was. Unless her father had told her a Mr. Elden-Beck was asking after her for a friend of his son's. Oh, God, was I an idiot.
Nervously, I perched on the edge of the deep, supple, leather office chair at the desk. What if Mrs. Beck looked in and thought I was snooping through private papers on the desk? What if they knew my dad had been looking them up? Would they ask me to get the hell out of their house? It was bad enough Perry would if he knew I was making the call.
The phone was picked up. "Well, hello." It was Phoebe's rich purr. "How pleasant of you to ring me, Mr. Fox."
Stupidly, I stammered, "I-I just wanted to-to say...Merry Christmas."
"Oh, how very sweet of you. Though it is a bit early. Where are you? The university?"
"Uh, no. I'm staying with a friend in Windsor."
"Is that so? Why that's not far at all. I'm only a stone's throw away, in Richmond. Would you like to get together?"
I almost fell off the chair. Before I could stop myself, I was saying, "Yeah." Then a modicum of sense kicked in. "But-but you've got company, don't you?"
"Not this minute, silly. How about tomorrow evening? At 7:00, say?"
"Sure."
"Very well, then. I'll be looking forward to seeing you."
After I hung up, I realized the mistake I'd made. Not that I wanted to realize it, but it hit me like a death ray. What the fuck was I doing? I had no excuse to leave the house by myself. There was no way in hell I could get away with it. Perry would really kick me out if I went out on a date with Phoebe. I hadn't really understood why before, but I was beginning to.
Before Phoebe could get far, I seized the receiver up and dialed again. Goddamn dials were so slow compared to the touch-tone keypads in America.
A knock on the door startled me and I dropped the receiver. Mrs. Elden-Beck looked then came in. Whispering, she tiptoed toward the desk. "Don't mean to interrupt you, love. I just need something."
Flustered, I'd lost my place in the numeric chain. I promptly hung up.
"Oh, crap," Mrs. Elden-Beck remarked, perturbed. "I didn't make you ring off on your mum, did I?"
"N-no," I flustered further. "I-I was done talking to my mother. I was calling my friend, Phoebe Green."
Finding what she was looking for, Mrs. Elden-Beck tucked the envelope beneath her arm. "Were you, now? I'm terribly sorry to interrupt. Never mind me. I'm out of your hair already." Quickly retreating, she shut the doors again behind her.
Part of me wanted to go so bad, yet part of me didn't. With the assistance of Perry's parents, I'd be granted easy passage. Perry wouldn't even be able to open his mouth. I sort of knew Wyeth from my first year at Oxford--he was in his last, obtaining his BA. I'd meet his girlfriend and have dinner with them later on and put in some polite time with them the following day. I wasn't family. No one but Perry would think it rude if I took off before dinner to go on a date on a Saturday night. Wasn't that normal?
Still, I couldn't do it to him. I really didn't want to.
I called back.
Someone else answered the phone. Another lady. Only one who sounded around my mom's age--but with the same, clipped, formal British accent as Phoebe's. That shattered my nerve all over again. But it would be worse if I hung up and I knew it. "M-may I speak to Phoebe? I was just talking to her a minute ago..."
"Oh, of course." I think the woman sighed. "Hold on. I'll get her for you."
Before I had time to think, Phoebe was back on the phone. "Yes?"
"Um," I hedged, toying with the receiver cord. "This is Fox. I-I don't think I can make it."
A moment of silence, then, "Pardon? How do you mean? Don't be silly--"
"No, I mean, like I said, I'm staying with a friend, and his family and visiting family might think it was rude if I just took off at dinner--"
"It's only your friend's family, not your own. It'll hardly make a difference to them."
As wrong as she was about that, I couldn't explain. "I just don't think--"
"It's not as if I don't have all manner of family coming 'round to visit me, too. Frankly, I'm getting quite bored with it all and would love a chance to get away and spend time with you. I find your company far more interesting than theirs. Give me the address and I'll be there at seven sharp."
"I-it's just that my friend--and his family--"
"I've got something very special planned," Phoebe breathed. "Something, my dear Fox, only you could appreciate."
PERRY
Everything went well with Wyeth's arrival. He and Camille brought gifts which all went under the bare Christmas tree, except for the scotch. That, we opened after dinner and shared with Dad. Though Fox's drinking hardly made a dent, we made short work of the first bottle, and started on the second.
By midnight, we were all pretty pissed. Wyeth caught me in the foyer after the women had gone to bed on his way back to the great room where the fire burned and Dad was probably boring Fox to sleep with gab.
"If that one ain't half good-looking," Wyeth remarked.
Being bisexual had seemed natural enough, since Wyeth was the same. As he was my elder brother, I didn't think to question his judgment about a lot of things--sex included. In time, I came to develop my own tastes and opinions on various subjects. One thing we'd always agree on was our like sexual orientation; as it's an innate characteristic, there's no changing it out with the laundry. Because I was kind of desperate to get to the loo, I wasn't eager to stop and chat.
"You said that the first time you met him." I tried to get past him.
"Good as he looks, I felt it warranted repeating. And tackle like that on an American? I could see it all down his pant leg. He must be stonking when's he's on. You're sleeping with him, then?"
Out of nowhere, a defensive fire lit in me. I paused to regard my brother. "What do you think?"
"How is he in bed? Is he really as hung as all that?"
If it had been anyone else but Fox, I would have told Wyeth. We'd discussed these sorts of things openly enough with each other, before. For some reason, I didn't want to. "Look, I'm wazzing myself here. Do you mind?"
Always the card, he gestured elaborately at me to proceed.
Ever since our trip last weekend to London, things just kept getting better between me and Fox. Maybe it was the scotch, but it was incredible when we slipped off to bed. When Dad looked in for the night, as usual, Fox and I barely managed to break it off in time, to shoot to our respective sides of the bed and hopefully appear as if nothing was amiss. After that, I tucked the chair under the doorknob to insure against any more interruptions.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19
Because we got up late the next morning, Fox and I missed breakfast with everyone else. Alone at the dining table, we were only having toast and marmalade and tea. My stomach was growling, but I honestly didn't have much appetite after all the scotch, the night before. Bright and cheery, Mum came in with Dad. They were both dressed down--Mum with a kerchief on her head, and a spot or two of dust on her clothes. Dad also appeared a little dusty, as well as mildly hung-over. He went straight to refill his tea cup from the pot Dot had left on the table for us.
"Aren't you two coming to help decorate the tree?" Mum asked, carrying her cup to the kitchen door.
"Can't we have breakfast first?" I answered, in more of a mood to crawl back into bed with Fox, even if just to sleep.
"You call that breakfast?" she scolded then looked into the kitchen. "Dotty, can we have a fresh pot of tea and cups in the great room for everyone? Where's Wyeth?" she asked me.
"How should I know?" I mumbled.
Abruptly, Dad addressed Fox. "So then. Are you going to be seeing Miss Green for Christmas, at least?"
Fox stopped eating.
What little appetite I had was promptly finished off, too.
"I understand you gave her a ring, yesterday," Dad went on.
"Um..." Setting down his toast, Fox wiped his mouth with the linen. "She did want to see me..."
Dad was pleased. "Well, of course she did. Didn't I tell you so? That's just smashing. Will she be coming over or do you need to borrow one of the cars?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fox fidget, sipping at his tea. I couldn't believe my own Mum would do something so underhanded. I was sure she'd talked him into it after he rung off on his mum yesterday. Suddenly, I knew why he'd been so willing last night--he'd already invited the bitch out and thought I'd be more tolerant about it after I'd been satisfied.
I heard Dad saying something about loaning Fox the Mercedes, but he interrupted. "That's not necessary, sir. She-she's going to drive over."
"Well then," Mum said. "I'll be telling Dot to expect more company for dinner--"
"We-we didn't say anything about dinner." Fox looked helplessly to my parents.
"Don't be silly," Mum went on. "Of course she's invited--"
Fox started. "N-no! I mean, I don't think it's a good idea." He glanced to me, while I tried to keep from shattering my teacup in my grasp, my eyes averted from everyone. "Perry doesn't like her. I don't want to make him uncomfortable."
"Why don't we give Perry a proper chance to get to know her?" Mum suggested, unhelpfully. "I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding. He's never been one to be unreasonable, you know. I'm sure he'll be willing to give her the benefit of the doubt."
Trying to appear nonchalant, I got up, wiping my mouth with my own linen. It was all I could do to keep my parents from getting suspicious. Bugger Wyeth, anyway, for not being around; he would have jumped in on my behalf, even though he didn't know a thing about the grotty slag. Being no idiot, he'd catch on right away. "What difference should it make to me? You can invite whomever you want to dinner. It's your house, isn't it?"
"Look," Fox said. "I'm not absolutely sure Phoebe's going to be able to make it. But, if it's possible, I-I kind of need a ride into town. My father wired me some money yesterday."
That much Fox had told me. I'd agreed to take him, if we could get use of one of the cars, only all of a sudden, I didn't give a damn about granting him any favors.
"Perry," Dad said slowly. "Did you tell Fox you'd take him?"
"It doesn't matter to me." I started for the great room, unwilling to be alone with Fox for a while. "But, Mum did want my help with the decorations..."
Wyeth appeared before Dad and Fox left for town and offered his services straight away to make the trip with our guest. Ordinarily, Wyeth cared for Christmas decorating less than me. Knowing he had an eye on Fox, I intervened. That left the family--with the inclusion of Camille for the past couple of years--decorating the house and tree. Dad did help some, though he always found excuses to leave most of it to us, once Wyeth and I were old enough not to break the fancy, heirloom glass ornaments. For one, he said Mum and I were best at it. We did share a much better sense of color and symmetry than him and Wyeth, so that was a legitimate excuse.
The first thing I wanted to do was complain to Wyeth about our backstabbing parents and get him on my side, but I couldn't seem to get him alone. Even when we went up into the attic searching for a carton of ornaments that had gone missing, Mum popped in within minutes to help with the search. After more than a couple of hours, she made the announcement, herself. She and Dot briefly carried on about dinner, then Mum broke the news to Wyeth and Camille to expect a guest. Wyeth was up on the ladder, positioning garlands over the mantle to Mum's specifications. He looked at me like she'd gone barmy.
"Girlfriend?" he echoed while I smirked in disgust. Then back to Mum. "I don't understand. Since when did it become sociably acceptable for guests to invite other guests 'round?"
"He didn't invite her," Mum assured Wyeth, while Dot withdrew. "Your father and I invited her. If you knew Fox better, you'd understand. He's such a sweet boy. So shy and reserved. Your father was quite taken when he learned Fox is seeing a girl who's studying law, like you and Perry."
That wasn't quite an accurate description of Fox, though he'd seemed that way at first to me, too. "No she isn't," I corrected. "From what I gather, she's only studying to be a bobby."
"I thought you said you knew her from your classes at university," Mum pointed out.
"I do." The topic threatened to bring back my nausea. "Being as she's studying to be a bobby, she'd have to take more than a few criminal law courses, wouldn't she?"
"Well, anyway," Mum continued, "she's been invited and that's all there is to it."
Sounding every bit as calculating critical as he should, Wyeth asked me, "What's she like, then?"
Ready as I was to grass her out, I remembered the admonitions about hearsay and held off in front of Mum. "I guess--I guess I don't know her all that well."
"Is she cool?" Wyeth inquired to the best of his ability in front of mum. "Do you like her?"
There was one thing I could relate about the dirty slag that I knew, firsthand. "She's a right snob."
"Now, Perry," Mum rebuffed. "Even if she is, we oughtn't be rude. If she wants to look down her nose at me, that's one thing, but being as poor Fox couldn't be home for--"
"Mum," I started in her defense, to be instantly assisted by Wyeth.
"No one better dare come into my parents' house," Wyeth stepped off the ladder, "and look down her nose at my mum. I'll wring her bloody neck before I ever let that happen."
"Now, Wyeth," Mum tried to laugh it off. "That's all very chivalrous of you, but I'm sure Perry's exaggerating. Fox seems to have enough sense to have found himself a decent girlfriend. Her father's a superintendent at Scotland Yard. That's impressive, isn't it?"
Behind Mum's back, Wyeth and I exchanged another look then he exchanged one with Camille. She'd been a bit of a challenge for my father to accept as his eldest son's first steady girl. Beneath the expensive, chic clothes she wore that border-lined between high-class society and rock and roll beat the heart of a rebel. Aside from being very attractive with a great body, she was smart and very cool. I liked her a lot, and could certainly see why Wyeth had chosen to live with her. In a short, pink, cashmere jumper and tight, black trousers fixed with a leopard-spot belt, she was carefully arranging the nativity set. "It all sounds a little odd to me."
"Why is that?" Mum asked. "It's still skew-whiff there, Wyeth. Could you climb back up and bring the garland a little higher on the left?"
"Well," Camille went on, "why isn't the girl visiting with her own family? It would be one thing for her to visit Fox's, but that's got nothing to do with us."
"We're substituting," Mum said.
Back on the ladder, Wyeth readjusted the garland. "I agree. And anyway, what do we want with a snotty bitch around?"
"Look," Mum answered, "Fox is Perry's mate and we're all fond of him, so we'd like to make his stay here as pleasant as possible. Whatever she's like, let's all be polite, for his sake."
"He's welcome here." Satisfied with the job, Wyeth took a step down then jumped the rest of the way off the ladder. "He seems like a good sort."
"Oh, yes," Camille concurred, sweeping a lock of her latest shade of brunette/blonde hair behind her ear to peer inside the manger. "Quite."
It was nice to have the approval of all my family on a mate, but the timing was lousy, since I'd be turfing Fox out, later. Without the leather jacket I'd just bought him. To hell with Fox; I'd give it to Wyeth. He'd look right smart in it.
First chance he got, Wyeth swept me outside, alone, on the pretense of listening to the stereo in his motorcar. The story was, he thought perhaps a channel might be cutting out and wanted a second opinion.
It wasn't the state-of-the-art stereo in Wyeth's '72 Jaguar XKE that he wanted to talk about, and we both knew it. "What's this shite about your boyfriend bringing some snotty cow 'round?" he demanded, rattling the keys from his coat pocket as he yanked open the door of the Jaguar.
Good old Wyeth; I knew he'd understand. "Dad's got this hard-on over this girl for Fox since he raved about her when we all went to a pub one night. Of course, Dad started harping on me about finding myself a girl. I think he was trying to get me off my arse about it, seeing as how my mate's got one, but I don't."
"Raved?" A couple of inches shorter than me, Wyeth paused to eye me under his brows. "I thought you and Fox..."
"Oh, he likes women, too. Only he's never been with one before, so he's all the more dotty for this one. And like Mum said, I know her." I shrugged, hands in my pockets against the cold. "She's an out-an-out jack whore. I understand Fox wanting quim and all, but he's downright barmy over the scrubber."
"A slag?" Wyeth repeated. "And Mum and Dad are having her over for dinner?"
"That's what I said. Only Fox is too naive to believe it, Dad got his back up about the treacheries of hearsay, and Mum--well, you heard what she said."
"I'm freezing my bollocks off. Go 'round and get in and I'll put the heater on."
It was still bloody cold in the two-seater, which had been sitting on the drive, overnight. We could see our breath while we waited for the motor to warm up enough to put out any heat.
"If she's such a twidget," Wyeth reasoned, "why hasn't he humped her already and gotten it over with?"
Hands between my thighs, I watched Wyeth light up a cigarette. "That's what I don't get. I know she's doing every other bloke at Oxford. I know several. She's tried fanning her skirt at me, as well. They say she's a right cock-tease, so most of them don't waste their time on her for a second 'round. They say she's more trouble than she's worth."
"Bloody hell. Of course she wanted to get in your trousers. Now what's a virgin boy want with a bitch like that?"
"I dunno. Can I have a smoke, too?"
"I thought you quit." Unfazed, Wyeth pulled out another cigarette and gave it to me. Handing over his own, he let me light it off his.
"I have one every now and then," I replied.
"Well, now's a good time for it. What with your cute boyfriend pining after some tawdry whore. She must know he's a virgin, so she's giving him a run for it. Does she look any good, at least?"
I hated admitting this. "Yeah, I guess so."
"You 'guess' so? Either she is or she isn't."
"Okay. Yeah."
"Blonde or brunette?"
"What the hell difference does that make?"
"Don't be thick, man. You know yourself. Blokes always go for what we like."
Realizing my brother was right, I exhaled a waft of smoke in resignation. "Brunette."
"Oh." Wyeth's tone echoed my emotions, as he glanced at me, fiddling with the knobs on his stereo at a low volume. "That's something of a problem."
Opening the window a crack, I puffed harder on the cigarette. "Just fuck it, all right? Leave him to his slag. I know she'll rip his heart out and spit on it without blinking, then press on with her whoring. But that's what he wants."
Popping in his tape of the Scorpions' "Taken By Force", Wyeth puffed, too. It amused me to imagine what his colleagues and clients would think if they knew the sort of music he listened to or how many rock and roll concerts we'd been to. Or even if they knew how he preferred to snub proper English and heard the way he really talked. And I certainly could use some amusement at the moment.
After a moment or two, he asked, "So, was he virgin when you did him?"
Wyeth had always been open about his sex life, while I tended to use discretion. And discussing Fox just felt dead wrong. "I'm not going to tell you a thing like that," I laughed.
"Why not? I've told you enough."
"I know, but--"
"Is he cut, then? The few Americans I ever saw naked were cut."
All right, I'd concede that. "Yeah," I nodded, picturing Fox naked. "He's cut."
"Then he must be stonking, inn' 'e?"
"Is it measurements you want?"
"Details are important in our trade, you know. You'll need to get used to dealing with strict detail."
Whenever I thought of Wyeth sitting in his plush office, pretending to play barrister, it made me laugh. I couldn't imagine anyone taking him seriously at it. Surprisingly, since he'd graduated last year and Dad had taken Wyeth into the firm, he'd actually helped increase the clientele and aided far more than remotely in attaining success in several cases. His methods weren't necessarily conventional, from what I understood, but my brother had always been great at the art of clever negotiation. "I'll save that for after I get my degree, then."
"So, was he virgin?"
"Leave off it, I said."
"I guess not. Otherwise, you'd be boasting about it."
Lowering the window a little further, I flicked the ashes off my cigarette. "I don't think I'd be wanting you defending me in court, then. With judgment like that, I wouldn't trust you to win my case."
"Oh, hell," Wyeth moaned in ecstatic agony. "You popped his cherry!"
Having confessed too much, I shut my mouth again. Fox really didn't deserve to have me carrying on. Or did he? Son-of-a-bitch he was, fixing it so my parents would pave the way for him to go screw his cheap curb crawler.
Wyeth produced another couple of cigarettes and we lit up again. "You really like him, don't you?" he asked, all of a sudden.
"I don't give a shit about him," I snapped. "There's plenty of other arse around."
"Yeah, but you didn't invite any other arse home for Christmas, did you?"
"It's not like I was desperate." I inhaled sharply on the cigarette, annoyed at my brother for seeing through me. While I struggled to sort out my feelings, it seemed he already had a better grasp of the situation than I did. "Fox was kind of like a lost puppy. It was pretty pathetic. He was going to spend the holiday at the hall because he felt guilty at how much his parents were paying for his education. He told me they were divorced. His father keeps two separate houses, pays alimony, and for Fox's support and education, even though the cut-off age in America is 18, apparently. His mum only works a few days of the week. Hell, I'd feel guilty, too, if I had to put Mum and Dad through expenses like that."
For a few minutes, we smoked in silence. "Fuck this. I've got coke and smoke. I think you could use one or the other. What'll it be?"
Fuck was right. Drugs were outside my league for the most part. I'd only tried both on rare occasion--usually through Wyeth and Camille. I knew for sure the last thing I needed was the hard-on cocaine gave me and the pot would probably make me too soft to run Fox off after the slag left. "I don't think I want either," I decided.
"Don't be such a Nancy boy," Wyeth scolded. "I think it's the coke you'll be needing. We should both be out here when the slag shows her gammy twat at the gate."
There was a thought; Wyeth and I raising hell like we used to. I had to admit, I loved the idea. "All right," I laughed again. "Let's do it. Only we'll have to be sneaky about it. He can be right skittish. If he knew we were out here, he wouldn't go through with it."
"Sneaky's all the better." Wyeth switched off the stereo and seized the key. "I don't know what's taking Dad and your darling boyfriend so long, but we'd better get on it before they're back."
A good lot of the decorations were up so Mum soon let us off duty. We made quick work of putting the boxes back up then Camille invited me to follow with her into Wyeth's room. That was when I really took note of his absence for the past fifteen minutes or so, since he wasn't already holed up in there, bent over a line of coke.
While Cammie went in to set up, I ducked off to find Wyeth. It didn't take long. I thought I heard rustling in my room, and looked in. I'd left a light on in there, and he was standing before it, slowly perusing one of my sketchpads.
Since it wasn't the same one I'd shown Mum and Dad, I knew what Wyeth was doing. Quietly entering, I shut the door down behind me, in case Mum or Cammie should pop in, and exhaled. "All right, already, I'm sure you've seen enough." I went to take the pad away from him.
He turned from me to hold me off. "What's this? Hiding your artwork from us?"
"I never noticed you taking interest in seeing it, anyway." I made another grab.
Since he couldn't fight me off and continue ogling without threat of causing serious damage to the paper, he let me take it. "He's really built, too. I can definitely relate to your attraction. Those pictures ought to be framed and put up on the walls, you know."
Tucking the sketchpad back into the leather-bound art portfolio Mum had given me, I passed Wyeth an impatient look.
"No, really," he went on. "They're quite brilliant. Not to mention your subject...is that accurate, or did you take artistic liberties?"
I was in the guest room with Wyeth and Camille, finishing off another line when Mum called us down because Dad and Fox had returned. Like I cared. I had nothing to say to Fox. Dad announced they'd been off buying more Christmas gifts. No doubt Fox had used the money his father had wired on buying the cow some fancies for her arrival. I hardly said a word to him then went back up to the guest room with Wyeth and Camille.
"What do you think?" Wyeth broached while Camille prepared to go bathe. "We know he'll be sorely disappointed once we run off the whore, but since he's wanting fanny, do you think Fox would go for Cammie?"
Before leaving, she stopped in front of me and opened her dressing gown; she hadn't a thing on, underneath.
Evidently, somewhere along the line, Wyeth had traded words with Camille. I was speechless.
Bending down, she kissed me and fondled my lap. I already had a hard-on from the coke--her peep show got me all the more excited. Pulling on me through my trousers, she snogged, using her tongue. "Mm," she commented, drawing her head back just enough to talk. "Do you think he'll want some, too, little brother?"
Randy as I was, I was taken off-guard. I hadn't expected this, and it disturbed me. I knew my brother and Cammie would be doing Fox a major service, but at the same time, I didn't like it. I knew Wyeth had it in mind to be present, since it was his girl he was lending out, and I knew he had every intention of inviting himself to Fox. If Cammie came onto the poor kid like she'd just done me, I didn't see how he could resist. Once indebted to Wyeth, Fox wouldn't be able to bring himself to turn my brother down.
I pulled from Camille. "No."
Puzzled, but not alarmed, she looked to Wyeth.
Beside me on the bed, he was as confident as ever. "No what? Come off it. You don't honestly think he could take one look at Cammie and not jump her. Oh, then I suppose we should invite Fox's little bit of fluff in to make chummy with the folks. Then she and Fox can get all cozy, and the next thing you know, she'll be welcome 'round for regular visits."
"If she's what he wants, I can't do anything about it." Even though I knew it would complicate matters, I couldn't take my eyes off Camille when she got on her knees on the bed over me and advanced. "I-I," I stammered, "I was planning to turf him out, after tonight..."
"A prize like that?" Wyeth posed. "You'd have to be soft in the head. The beauty of it is, you can do something about it and we're offering you the solution. You needn't lose him to a whore."
While he spoke, Camille forced me onto my back and lifted my jumper. Lowering her head, her hair tickled my chest, soon followed by her warm breath, lips, and tongue. Mouth seductively coursing over me, she slowly slid her hand down my belly to my waistband.
"Don't..." I mumbled, without much conviction, trying to keep her from unfastening my trousers.
Against my feeble attempts at intervention, she soon had my zipper down. Naturally, I popped right out. Without hesitating, she took me and licked the underside of my bell-end, poking her tongue into my cleft, savoring. Rendered useless, I let Wyeth pull my jumper off me, flashing on recollections of the many things my big brother had taught me.
PHOEBE
If I'd had to put up with one more moment of my cousins' bragging, I would have screamed. They'd been visiting for two days now and already it was torture. It was the same every time I was subjected to more than a few hours with them. How I was dreading the next fortnight. The summons to the telephone had been a godsend. It really didn't matter who was on the other end--I was just thankful for the interruption. When I heard it was Fox Mulder, I was pleasantly surprised.
He was a remarkable fellow, really. His comprehension was uncanny. His insight and commentary incurred much praise from the tutors. This put him at odds with most of his fellow students. However, as soon as I learned he had an adorable crush on me, I quickly found a way to put his good looks and brilliant mind to my advantage.
There were plenty of eager gentlemen around, but none with such a high level of competence. The research and supplemental work he did on my papers was second to none. And it gave me time to pursue other, more interesting pastimes. Unfortunately, I still had to study for exams, but I much preferred to do so alongside Mr. Mulder. His flair for discussion could make even the dull textbooks a fascinating read.
It would give me great pleasure to leave my cousins' company for a while. Especially because I knew my evident popularity with gentleman callers would goad them all the more. They'd sit roosting at the house with the relatives like a couple of homely hens while I spent my Saturday night on the town with a dashing young fellow. That should cease their escalating attempts at self-adulation for a while.
Of course, Father and Mother weren't too pleased with my arrangement to see gentlemen callers while family was visiting, but I'd been doing it ever since I was 16 and wasn't about to stop that year. Understandably, they insisted on an explanation as to why my date wasn't picking me up in proper manner so I divulged his status as a foreign student from America. Obviously he had no transportation other than the bus. On hearing that, Father reluctantly handed over the keys to his second motorcar, his white1980 Audi.
Soliciting the assistance of our long-time driver, Lloyd, Saturday morning, I received a map and directions to get to both destinations I had planned. Though he was not a particularly attractive fellow, I'd learned even as a child how to coax our middle-aged driver to do my bidding. I made sure he promised not to tell my parents that I was going any place further than Windsor, where Fox was staying.
After a few more probing questions, my cousins finally left me alone to prepare for my date. I made certain to dress right--a full, woolen skirt, stockings, boots, a button-up jumper, and nothing underneath. Dear Lloyd had the car fully gassed and polished clean for me, on time. Bundled in my coat, I kissed Mother and Father then dashed off. Down the block, I stopped the car and checked inside the boot. Good old Lloyd would deserve a kiss, too; he'd packed my favorite bubbly complete with cups, just as I'd requested.
Having made a wrong turn or two down unmarked roads, I began to get frustrated. At least I had a near-fresh pack of fags at my disposal while I peered in the dark at scarcely readable road markers. The distances between the moderately expensive homes suggested these residents each owned a nice little spot of land. Fortunately, Fox had given me a few landmarks to look for, including that of a low-slung, dark-colored Jaguar sports car on the drive. Sure enough, I found one.
Stepping out of my vehicle, I tossed my cigarette on the road and crushed it out with my boot. The next thing I noticed was an escort waiting to greet me. He was a good-looking fellow with neatly trimmed, medium brown hair, wearing jeans and a short coat. He walked out of the shadows, holding a bottle of ale.
"Hello--" I began, but he cut me off, rather rudely.
"You must be Miss Green," he drawled, sounding intoxicated.
Behind him, I saw another fellow. Oh, my. It was the very lovely Mr. Elden-Beck, from my criminal law classes, at university. The house lights glinted off his shaggy, golden curls. He, too, carried a bottle of ale.
"Why, hello," I said, expressing sincere delight. "What a pleasant surprise. So you're the friend who's been so magnanimously putting Mr. Mulder up over the holiday."
"Oh, sod it all," the first fellow groaned. "Shut your gob and quit talking that plummy rot. Get your crusty, shriveled carcass the hell--"
My classmate, Mr. Perry, began to laugh outright.
"Off my parents' property," the dark-haired fellow went on. I assumed he must be the brother, then. "Mind you, we're giving you fair warning." He held up a finger. "If you don't march your stiff, snotty arse straight back to that feeble little motorcar of yours, you'll give me no choice but to ring the local constabulary."
Of all the lovely sights I'd encountered thus far at Oxford, Mr. Perry Elden-Beck was certainly among some of the finest. Those blazing blue eyes and classic, beautiful features could set any woman's heart afire. The fact that he'd been about the only one who'd always treated me with indifference, however, had never set well with me. Ordinarily, I had no need to rake men with my gaze, but in the case of both Mr. Fox and Mr. Perry, I couldn't help myself. I couldn't keep my eyes off them. My ogling had won Fox's attention, but not on the latter. Unintimidated, I stepped around Mr. Perry and his brother, to the walkway. "Little boys," I tsked. "And a very good evening to you, too, sir. I see you're looking very well, Mr. Perry."
"Did you hear me, you stinking cur?" I heard a single pair of footsteps on the frozen ground behind me as the brother followed. "I said get the hell off the premise--"
Ahead of me, the front door of the house came open and Fox rushed out, pulling on a coat. Behind him, a middle-aged couple followed--the Elden-Becks, I presumed.
"Miss Green?" the gentleman called. "Is that you, dear? We're Mr. and Mrs. Elden-Beck. You know our son, Perry, from university, don't you? We're all very pleased to meet you."
In sharp contrast to their boorish sons, the parents seemed quite civilized. I took Fox's arm and huddled close to him, the moment he was close enough. "Indeed, I do," I replied. "I was just saying hello. I'm delighted to meet you all, too." Just because their children were rude was no reason for me to be the same.
"Do come in," Mr. Elden-Beck sanctioned. "It's awfully cold out here."
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Elden-Beck concurred. "We're anxious to hear all about your father's work with Scotland Yard and all."
"Thank you just the same, Mr. Elden-Beck," I said, hugging Fox's strong, thin arm, "but I've made other plans with Fox."
"Uh, well..." Fox began.
"Other plans?" Mr. Elden-Beck was clearly mystified. He looked to Fox. "But we were expecting you for dinner."
"Look," Fox said nervously. "I'm not sure--"
"It was rather a surprise," I interrupted my date. "I made us reservations at a restaurant. I'm terribly sorry if I spoiled your dinner plans."
"What?" Mr. Elden-Beck looked stunned, but then collected himself just as quickly. "Oh, no. That's quite all right. You two go and have yourselves a wonderful time."
Behind me, I heard the brother mutter, "Bloody hell."
"Could-could you give us a second?" Fox pulled me to the car, pressing past Perry and his brother.
Without choice, I almost tripped on the high-heels of my boots on the walkway, trying to keep up with Fox. We didn't stop until he'd pulled me onto the roadway by the driver's side of my vehicle. All the while, I knew we were under the scrutiny of the Elden-Becks.
"I'm really sorry to have dragged you all the way over here," he said, quietly, his long hair falling over his eyes, "but I can't go with you."
"What?" This seemed only distantly like the Fox Mulder I'd come to know. "I don't understand. Why not?"
"I just can't. It's not right."
In the dim glow of the car's headlamps and the remote lights from the house, I studied him, trying to comprehend. I couldn't see much, but there appeared to be nothing but sincere apology in his expression. "They're not your family, you know. It's not as though you're so terribly obligated to stay with them every moment."
"I know that. I just don't think it's a good idea."
With some minor calculation, I began to understand. That annoyingly handsome bastard, Mr. Perry, must have related some none-too-flattering gossip to his brother about my popularity with the gentleman at Oxford. They might well both evict Fox for going out with me--even if it was only to a simple, innocent dinner, as far as they knew. Damn them both. I loved virgin boys and Fox was the most beautiful and tempting one I'd ever encountered. "You don't want to have to spend Christmas and New Year's Eve alone at the hall, do you?"
"I really think you should go."
"Very well." Drawing close, I looked up him, mischievously, then quietly added, "but tonight, I was very much hoping you'd be ready to go all the way."
For a moment, he froze. Then I think he swallowed. He gestured at the elder Elden-Becks, ignoring Perry and his brother. "We won't be late."
Like hell, I thought.
Oh, he was lovely. Anxious yet nervous, wavy hair falling over his obscenely alluring eyelashes, long, exquisite fingers fretting. As I drove toward the motorway to head west, I tried to reassure him. "Look, please don't feel you have to pay for dinner. My parents give me quite a generous allowance. I understand how costly things are in your situation and as I've told you before, I perfectly understand."
He said nothing.
So I ventured, "You know, I was very pleased that you telephoned me."
"You-you were?"
"Oh, very much so," I said with earnest. "But I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with your friend's family. I'm afraid I didn't actually make any reservations. And I certainly hadn't intended to have dinner at your friend's house, as I said. That wouldn't do at all."
"So where...where are we going?"
"It's a surprise."
"But where--?"
"Hush, now." I pulled off to the side of the road and tossed my hair back, one gloved hand on the gearshift, depressing the brake. "I have some gifts in the boot. Go bring them 'round."
"That really wasn't necess--"
"Oh, yes, it was. I bought the gifts for both of us. Now bring the lot around."
A few moments after he'd gotten out to peruse the boot, he came back to his door and opened it to lean inside. "Are you crazy? It's got to be illegal to drink and drive--"
"Oh, don't be silly," I laughed. "It's the dark of a lovely night. No one's going to see us. Now get in and open one up."
On asking Fox to consult the map Lloyd had furnished in the glove box, I discovered he'd not brought his glasses and was therefore having a difficult time reading the tiny print. So I drove off the road again so we could switch duties. The only drawback was that I thought Fox deliciously sexy in spectacles.
At once, he tried to defer. "I'm not used to driving here--"
Only then did it occur to me that he might not know how. That was normal enough for English persons; however, I had the idea that driving was mandatory for all Americans. That may well have been an erroneous assumption. "You do drive, don't you?" Shifting to rise, I found my skirt a tad wet in anticipation.
"Well, yeah, but--"
"I understand you Americans are quite skilled at it," I gushed. "You shouldn't have any trouble handling the chore at all, then." With that, I got out of the car. The cold air went right up my skirt and all but frosted my wet privates and bare backside. I hastened around to the passenger seat.
As I slid into the other seat, under the dome light I think I saw him poking up his trousers, as he cleared the transmission to take the driver's seat. To be certain, I hesitated before shutting the door. Fox was endowed with a nice, admirable length, I knew, and through his draping, wool trousers, I saw his erection collide with the steering wheel. Enticed, I switched the dome light to remain on, so I could study the map, and shut the door.
"We're on the right motorway," I said after exchanging some subtle perusal between the map and Fox's lap. "I'll tell you which interchanges to take."
"Where are we going?"
"Basingstoke. Now drive."
"But, I thought we were going to Wokingham."
"We had to. To get to Basingstoke."
"Oh. So we're really going to Basingstoke. What's in Basingstoke?"
"You'll see when we get there. Now drive."
It was a good ways to our destination. I slipped off my gloves, lit a cigarette then switched on the stereo to listen to classical music. When at last we polished off the first bottle of bubbly I reached into the back and took out another. After some struggling with the cork, I finally gave up and thrust the bottle between Fox's thighs. The cold, hard contrast of the icy glass plunged against his privates should be extra stimulating.
On the way to Basingstoke, I couldn't hold out any longer. After all that bubbly, I was ready to burst. I asked him to pull over, which he did without argument. Switching off the dome lamp, I popped open my door then stood up, legs apart, and yanked up my skirt for relief. This should make it evident that other than my long, knit stockings, I was quite bare beneath my clothing. I heard him get out and he went to go relieve himself, as well, a polite ways off.
We got smashed on the champagne quite soon. I even let him switch channels on the stereo to listen to rock and roll. Politely, he left the volume low. I had to remember to keep an eye on the map as we chatted away about our curriculum, tutors, and classmates. His apparent apprehension gave way as we continued to drink.
Cruising at full speed on the motorway, I took his cup from him to place his hand on my skin, above my heavy stocking, instead. This prevented me from drinking or smoking any more for the time being, but also gave me the chance to regulate his alcohol intake. Up to that point, he hadn't been drinking much, but he seldom ever did. So I made him finish off what was left in the plastic goblet. In the meantime, I slid his hand upwards, little by little until he took to fingering my nest all on his own. How splendid that felt. Unwillingly, I was forced to intrude on the ecstasy he was deftly supplying, with instructions to change roads again and drive toward Winchester.
"What?" He withdrew his hand. "I thought we were going to Basingstoke."
"Well, not exactly. We do have to go by way of Basingstoke, though."
"That was what you said about Wokingham." Deliberately, he took the steering wheel in both hands. "Where the hell are we going?"
"As I said, it's a surprise."
"Can't we just stop anywhere for you to give me my surprise?"
"The location's all part of it."
"How much further do we have to go?"
"Oh, a bit."
"How much is a bit? Two miles? Two hundred?"
"My, we are rather delightfully impatient, aren't we?" Instead of reaching for the champagne bottle to pour more drinks, I reached to his lap. His stiff bayonet could be felt straining under his layers of clothes. My fondling silenced his grousing for another several miles.
To heighten the suspense, I released him to pour more drinks. Being well mannered, he kept any complaints to himself, though he glanced after me. The champagne seemed to appease him to at least some degree.
At the next interchange, he gestured with his goblet. "That's the route we took to get Stonehenge."
"You've been to Stonehenge?" I queried with a twinge of jealousy. That would have made a fascinating trip with Fox.
"Yeah. Just last weekend."
"Oh, I see." I took another sip of champagne, set the goblet aside, and lit a cigarette. "Did she enjoy it?"
"What she? I went with Perry."
"Oh, him." My jealousy dropped a few points, but I would like to have been the one to introduce Fox to the mystery of Stonehenge. As it was, I was particularly displeased with the abhorrent behavior of Fox's mate at the moment and didn't care to think about him, at all.
"Did-did he say anything to you at the house?" Fox asked, tentatively.
I had to think a moment. "No, actually, he didn't say anything at all." Upon reflection, that had been odd, considering that Fox's mate wasn't shy to actively participate in class discussions. "It was his brother who did all the talking." I wanted to add that for the seemingly well-bred parents, it was unfortunate that they'd gone astray and raised two dreadfully spoiled brats for sons.
"What did he say?"
If I told Fox, a fight would ensue and he'd surely be evicted from the household. "Just nonsense, is all. He was drunk. I wasn't about to pay him any mind."
"What nonsense was that?"
"Nothing worth mentioning. What time did you go to Stonehenge? In the daylight?"
"No, after dark."
"Ooh, that's when it's the eeriest," I commented. "Quite extraordinary, wasn't it?"
Over the next near twenty miles to Winchester, he grew restless and began to gripe again. All I had to do was cuddle close to him and nuzzle his ear and once more, he calmed.
Finally, past Southampton, we entered New Forest. Through the vents, we could detect the scent of pine, damp earth, and ocean within the mist rolling in off the English Channel. The moment I saw the markers, I pointed. "There. Minstead. That's what we want; take the slip road to Minstead."
"What's in Minstead?"
"That's where the surprise awaits."
Never having been in New Forest before, I was as disoriented as Fox. We'd finished off the second bottle of bubbly and it was before 9:00 p.m. Most of the quaint, tiny village of Minstead appeared closed up for the night, but then we spotted a lit establishment with a circular drive. Through the mist, I could see it was large enough to be an inn. "Let's stop there," I suggested.
"Is this it? You made reservations to spend the night here?" He sounded more aghast than pleased.
"Of course not," I chided. "But, we're all out of bubbly and I wanted another drink. Besides, I have to use the facilities in the worst way." I gave him an earnest look.
For a Saturday night, there were perhaps a little over a dozen patrons, at the most. That was probably the entire lot of the village denizens who went out to socialize.
Upon locating a spot at the bar, I ordered two hunter's cocktails. If I'd asked for more bubbly, it could well have invoked some inquiries. Our presence was peculiar enough, since we were strangers with accents that didn't even match each other's, let alone that of the locals'. At any rate, I was in the mood for something stronger.
"What's in it?" Fox asked when he saw the dark concoctions garnished with black cherries.
"Whiskey and cherry brandy," I replied. "That should warm us up nicely."
He toyed with the cherry stem. "By the time I leave England I'm going to be an alcoholic," he muttered.
As we polished off our two drinks, I looked around the yuletide-decorated pub. Because we were tourists, we were treated with cordial hospitality. The innkeeper and his wife and everyone we spoke to all assumed we were staying on. Before we left, I asked the couple sitting next to us for the remainder of the directions to my planned destination.
Walking out to the car, I was all the more pleasantly tipsy. Once more, I had him take the wheel, expecting he had to be the more sober of us, as I'd had more of the champagne. Instead of driving off, however, we took to passionate necking. Unfastening a few buttons of my jumper, he slipped a hand inside. His cold touch on my bare skin was deliciously arousing. Undoing more of my buttons, he pulled my nipples to full erection then pressed me back into the door and applied his mouth, seeming famished.
Before we both got too carried away, I had to restrain him. "Hold up," I panted. "We've got one more stop to make."
It took him a moment to obey, but he finally backed off the handbrake with a wince. "What? We're already at the back of beyond. How much further can we go?"
"Why, the Minstead Church, of course, silly. It's hardly any further."
"Church? Why are we going to a church?" He sat up, alarming.
"It's not just any church," I laughed. "It happens to be the very church where one Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is buried."
"You want to look at a grave right now?" His brow furrowed with uncertainty.
"That's the whole reason we're here."
"I understand that part." With care, he righted himself in the seat. "But can't we go later?"
"First to see Sir Arthur."
What Fox didn't know. The quest of mine to one day visit Sir Arthur's tomb was the holy grail of my existence. In my teens, my fascination with Holmes began to veer toward the erotic. Oh, I knew Fox greatly admired the world's greatest detective, but he could never understand the mysterious, cool sexiness of the character of Sherlock Holmes from the viewpoint of a woman.
According to the couple in the pub, if the church had been any closer, we would have tripped over it. They'd scarcely been exaggerating. And as anticipated, the brandy did a commendable job of warming us--or me, anyway. I snatched the keys from the ignition and dashed off to the boot for the torches from the road kit. The cold air swirling up my skirt actually felt quite bracing.
With torches in hand, we searched the tombstones at the front of the church, keeping well in sight of each other's beams. Adding to the thrill, it was all very much like the scene from a horror film, only darker, as it was only three days out of a new moon and the fog blocked off any nearby light sources from the little village.
On our way to the rear of the church, Fox blew on his hands to warm them. "I keep expecting Bela Lugosi to jump out from somewhere."
"Be serious," I rebuffed, elbowing him.
"Oh, wait. What's that over there?"
"What?"
He pointed his torch beam off toward the back of the grounds. "Over there. I saw something moving."
All I saw was a wall of thick fog. "You did not."
"Yes, I did," he insisted. "Something black. Maybe it was one of the Baskerville Hounds."
"Oh, stop it!" I thumped him lightly before we went back to reading markers. But just in case, I kept glancing toward the back of the grounds.
For all Fox's admirable intelligence, he could still act very much the little boy. We'd only searched a short while longer, before he became restless and impatient again. "Come on, Phoebe, I'm freezing out here. I'm going back to the car. When you find the tomb, come get me."
"It's no warmer in the car," I pointed out.
"It is with the heater on."
"You'll use all the rest of the petrol. For certain, any petrol stops around here are all closed up. As you saw, it's a bit of a ways to the closest stop on the way back." I didn't mention that from what I knew about Lyndhurst, only a few scant miles on, there should be some 'round the clock petrol stops there.
"Then you come warm me up. I promise we'll come back and look until dawn if we have to."
"I believe the grounds are fairly small. We can't have much more to search." Directing my torchlight about, I peered through the fog. In doing so, at the perimeter of my beam, I thought I recognized the leaves of an oak tree. Holding my breath, I rushed closer and trained my light along the boughs. Somewhere, I'd read Sir Arthur lay beneath a large, old oak tree. As my beam probed the mist, I espied a tall cross on a headstone set on the ground before an oddly branched trunk of an oak.
"I think this is it!" I cried.
When Fox arrived beside me, I read off the inscription my torch illuminated. "Steel true, blade straight. Arthur Conan Doyle, Knight. Patriot, physician, and man of letters...twenty-two May, 1859 - seven July, 1930, and his beloved, his wife, Jean Conan Doyle, reunited 27 June, 1940..."
Heart pounding, I stood stock still upon the grave. "Fox..."
In respect, I suppose, he hung back.
"Come here." Taking his hand, I drew him against me, tucking my torch into my coat pocket to dim the light. Then I slipped my arms around his neck. As I'd only tied my coat shut, I worked it open then began to unbutton his to press our bodies together without the heavy wool between us.
"Mm." He tried to pull back.
I worked my mouth over his precious lower lip, down his chin, to his handsome jaw.
"Wait." Laughing uncomfortably, he put me off. "You don't mean here...It's freezing."
"Not to worry..." I continued to ravish his jaw. "You're dressed and I assure you, I'll keep you quite warm." Single-handedly, I gathered my skirt up to my waist and ground my naked pubis into him.
"Stop it." Firmly, he took my arms and pushed me off him. "Are you fucking crazy? You accuse me of being pyrophobic, but look at you. I knew you were really into Doyle, but this is beyond that. You seem to have some sort of an abnormal, sexual obsession. I mean, you drag me all the way out here at near midnight, take your clothes off in this freezing cold, and want to have sex on his grave?" Abruptly, Fox headed back the way we'd come.
Astonished, I dropped my skirt and ran after him. "I thought you wanted to come with me. I thought you wanted to make love to me. Surely, you're not afraid the dead are going to rise up and get us, are you?"
"I wouldn't blame them if they did. But, this has nothing to do with haunts."
"I don't understand you. I thought you loved Sir Arthur's novels as much as I do. I thought you were a fan." I tried to take his arm.
Without so much as a glance at me, he shook me off. "Look, go hump the headstone and leave me the fuck alone."
Never could I have anticipated such a reaction. I'd employed all my usual tactics of seduction. They'd never failed before. Wet and throbbing, the cool air on my half-exposed chest, I stopped at the side of the church, heaving, and watched Fox proceed alone. "Where are you going?" I demanded.
The fog muffled his voice, already closing in between us. "Back to the inn."
"Well, fuck you, too!" I yelled after him, truly cussing for the first time in his presence. "Don't expect me to drive you home!"
FOX
Fuck, I was furious at myself for having let her talk me into coming out on this insane trip. What the hell had I been thinking when I agreed? I mean, Phoebe was beautiful and everything, and I'd had a lot of respect for her. The trouble was, I hadn't been thinking. The moment she'd told me she wanted me to go all the way, my brain quit functioning. Now out here in the middle of some English black forest, in the wilderness, in the freezing cold, common sense flooded to the forefront. I'd screwed up and I'd screwed up bad.
In front of the church, a single light burned, which helped guide me back to the street. As eerie and silent as it was in the village of the Twilight Zone, it was also kind of cool. Well, not as cool as Stonehenge, though there'd only been a very slight mist on the Salisbury Plains. Having grown up on Martha's Vineyard and spent my entire life living on a coast, I was used to fog. Oxford was the furthest inland I'd ever spent so much time. If anything, it had been hard for me to get used to living without it, and the sound of foghorns.
At the hour we'd visited Stonehenge, the parking lot was closed off along the narrow motorway, so Perry had pulled off the road behind some meager brush, where the MGB wouldn't be spotted immediately. We walked the rest of the long distance. We'd taken torches there too, because the moon was well on its way into waning. Despite the cold and our surreptitious, short visit, it had been a real trip. Like through much of my British experience, I had been in awe--just compounded beyond my wildest dreams. The sight of those monolithic stones towering and perched above us, in the light of our torches was breathtaking enough, but there was this weird, inexplicable reverence that overtook me.
This place wasn't like that, but from what little I could see and feel, it certainly didn't want for tangible atmosphere. From there, with the aid of the flashlight, I made my way back to the inn. It wasn't long before the light began to creep through the mist.
Inside, the front desk was empty again. I knew where to find the innkeeper and his wife, who'd very graciously introduced themselves, earlier. As it was now later into the Saturday evening, the noise in the pub was louder and there were a few more patrons present. Going up to the bar, as soon as I could, I gestured at the innkeeper's wife.
Quickly, she drew from a raucous conversation at the bar and rushed over. "Change yer mind about a room, did ya?" she queried over the din.
"Uh, no," I said. "But I need a phone. Is there a phone I can use?"
She led me back out to the front desk. "Where's your girl? She's not waiting out in car, is she? If you've got a moment, why don't you bring her in and have one last drink on house before ya go?" A phone was set before me on top of the desk.
"Um, we'll see. Is it okay if I make a long-distance call? I'll give you some money." I reached beneath my coat for my wallet. "I've got to call Windsor."
The innkeeper's wife waved me off on her way back to the pub.
On the fourth ring, Mrs. Elden-Beck picked up, sounding as if I may have awakened her. "Hull-o."
Aware of the trouble I was causing, I briefly hesitated. "M-Mrs. Elden-Beck? It's Fox."
"Fox?" She promptly stirred awake. "What is it? What's happened?"
God, I hadn't meant to worry her, but I knew it was coming. Mom would have done the same thing. "Don't worry. I'm fine. Phoebe's fine." Well, physically, anyway. "Can-can I talk to Perry?"
"I'll go fetch him." She set the phone down.
A few long moments later, Perry picked up the phone. I could tell he was on an extension. God, was it good to hear his affectionately dumb-sounding voice, even though he seemed surly at the moment. "What are you after? Your stuff? We'll be sending it--"
"Can you come pick me up?"
"Pick you up? Why? Did her car break down? And she was afraid to ring up the good constable--?"
"I took off. Her car's fine and everything, but I didn't want to spend any more time with her. She can take herself home."
There was no answer. For so long, I began to wonder if the phone had gone dead. "Perry? Hello. Perry, are you--?"
"Yeah. Let me write it down. Just tell me where you're at."
Behind me, I heard the inn door open and shut. "I really hate to put you out, but I don't know the area or where I can catch a train. I can ask, I guess--"
"Tell me where you're at."
"Do you think your mom or dad will let you borrow one of the cars?" I winced. "If not, I under--"
"Where you at, already?"
"It's this little place called Minstead. In Southampton--"
A gentle tug on my arm interrupted me and I looked back. Phoebe had returned to the inn, despite her surprisingly vehement order to fuck off. Sweater closed, hair in her eyes, she clutched my arm, wearing one of her best disarming-waif expressions.
"It's a drive," I warned Perry.
"Southampton!" He seemed aware of the distance. "Are you bloody--? I'll find it. Give me an address."
"It's the only pub in town, from what I saw. A place called The Trusty Servant. Just follow the signs off the M27 to Minstead. It's foggy, but--"
Phoebe tugged harder on my arm. "Fo-ox," she enunciated a little too loudly.
Once again, I tried shrugging her off and turned away. "You shouldn't have a problem finding the place."
Sidling up to the desk, Phoebe pressed against me. "I'm not going to leave you stranded."
"I won't be stranded," I assured her, letting Perry hear this. "My friend's coming to pick me--"
"Don't be silly," she urged. "My motorcar's right outside. I can't let you impose on your mate to come all the way--"
"All the same, I'd rather go with him."
Unexpectedly, she tried to take the receiver from me. "Here. Let me speak to him."
"No!" I snapped, blocking her. "There's nothing you need to say. Look, you'd better get going before it gets too late or your father will probably alert Scotland Yard to comb the country for you."
An amused smile quirked at her full lips and she quit pestering. This gave me a chance to get back to Perry. "Sorry. Anyway, if you can't make it, I understand. I'll try and get a ride to the nearest--"
"I'll be there," Perry stated, leaving no room for doubt. "If you leave, when I do find you, I'll thrash the living hell out of you."
For the second time in less than an hour, I'd somehow managed to elicit the worst possible reactions from the two people who mattered the most to me, in a country where I was otherwise alone. Prior to her outburst at the church cemetery, if I'd had to rate Phoebe's language, a PG would have been about the strongest. And I'd never heard Perry threaten to kick anyone's ass, other than in jest. Hardly anything ruffled him.
Dazed and still mildly drunk, I pressed past Phoebe to a lobby sofa and sat down to wait.
She came after me and stood before me. "We don't have to leave you know," she said quietly. "We can take a room and spend--"
"Don't even suggest it." I wouldn't look at her face.
"I don't understand. All the way down here, you were so anxious to pull over. Let's do things properly, with a romantic little room--"
"No!" Getting up, I paced away from her to look out one of the front windows. Damn, it was going to be a long wait.
Once more, she followed me. "We're not out in the cold anymore--"
"I don't care," I hissed. "This wouldn't be 'proper'. There's nothing proper about this at all. Go home. I don't want your parents getting worried about you, much less the APB your father's going to issue on me if I keep you out overnight."
Pausing, she eyed me in the dim parlor lighting. "You're serious. You're honestly sending me off on that long drive home, by myself. What if the car should have engine trouble or a punctured tire? I'll be out there all by myself on the middle of the motorway, after midnight--"
"That car and those tires are practically brand new," I scoffed. "There's no way in hell anything's going to go wrong." Abruptly, I steered her to the front door. "Go home, already."
"I can't just leave you," she stressed on the way outside. "It would be terribly dreadful and uncivilized of me to simply abandon you out here."
"I'm not going to be abandoned. Perry's coming to pick me up."
"But, what if he doesn't show up? Do you have the funds to take a room here?"
"He'll show up."
"You don't know for certain--"
"Don't worry about it. He will."
Once the inn owners heard my story, which I was forced to tell them, they invited me into the pub and served me all the free ale I wanted, until my "mate" should arrive. It was a version of the story, anyway, because I lied about Phoebe's perversion over the corpse of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. God, that was way worse than telling them I'd just found out she was in love with someone else. The innkeepers were extremely sympathetic, even though I hadn't been seeking any.
Having nothing else to do, I drank. And talked a little to the nearby patrons with whom the innkeepers shared my tale. As an American, I never thought to expect publicity over my private affairs, but I guess people who live in small villages are different. All I could think about was what an idiot I'd been. Right from the start, I'd known better than to go on the date, yet I'd been dumb enough to let her talk me into it.
The place was closing up, with only me and a few close friends of the innkeepers' hanging around, while they cleaned up. I was willing to help them, but they "wouldn't hear of it." That was when I saw Perry come in through the lobby. I was amazed at how fucking beautiful he looked. Oh, he was pissed, and his golden curls were a sparkling mess, looking as though he'd scarcely run his fingers through to comb them, making him all the more sexy. The pretty, little nose, the sharp, expressive, dazzling blue eyes, the thick, dark blond lashes, and five o'clock--or rather after-midnight shadow...
We didn't say much. His eyes flashed at me, uncharacteristically dark and malevolent, his handsome mouth a straight line.
Outside, I saw his brother's Jaguar parked in front of the door. It was a hell of a long drop to the low seat in my drunken state, which Perry didn't help me manage. While I was orienting myself in the bucket seat, he adroitly cranked the ignition and turned the stereo down to a whisper. Then wrapped his long fingers around the stick shift knob, regarding the image through the rearview mirror.
His voice was hollow. "It's out of your system, then."
Confused, I tried to figure out what he was specifically referring to. Phoebe? How could I get her out of my system that easily? How did I feel about her any more? I didn't even know.
Evidently, he didn't like my uncertain hesitation. He ripped from the curb in a neck-breaking jolt.
Even if I'd known what he wanted to hear, I wasn't about to lie. His silence didn't make it any clearer. I buckled up.
On the motorway, he played with the stereo, switching from the rock and roll pirate radio stations to a tape of "The Game" by Queen. He let that play for a while, then turned it down to the previous low level. "So what happened? Could it have been that you didn't feel her cherry break?" I'd anticipated antagonism, but didn't expect it to be so vicious. "Do we have to do this right now? Can't we postpone--?"
"If you hadn't given me any reason to be here right now, we wouldn't have to do it, at all. You drag me out of my warm bed to drive out to the middle of the Southampton forest, after you have a row with your girl because she's got no cherry--then you expect me not to be pissed off? And all at the expense of my brother's petrol, no less."
Holding the seat strap, I noticed the speedometer creep upwards. Even though I'd been in desperate want of his company, I lashed out. "Why do you keep saying that shit? What the hell do you know about it? Did you sleep with her?"
Once more, he fell silent.
Shit. I knew it. "To be honest, I didn't find out a thing out about her cherry. So if you're so damn certain, why don't you just say it, already?"
Glaring out the windshield, he answered immediately. "I've never had a moment's interest in her."
I didn't have to think twice. Perry wasn't a liar. He kidded, he joked, but he didn't lie. He was always cool with the truth--whatever it was--he wouldn't have had reason to. Already, I couldn't get him out of my mind, and that confession really did it for me. "Pull over."
"Christ," he remarked, quickly searching for a safe shoulder to do as asked. "My brother would only kill me if you sicked up in his Jag."
Though I didn't give him any details at the moment, I made sure he found an obscure rural road into the forest, then told him to drive just far enough so we were hidden from the motorway. "Turn off the headlights, and come with me," I told him.
The narrow road faded from view, when he hit the switch for the lights. "Thanks, but I'd rather not watch."
Without another word, I got out and went around to the driver's side. As he could see I wasn't throwing up, he appeared bewildered when I opened his door and pulled him out. It had been awkward enough for me to navigate the low cockpit of the car, but at six foot three, all long, magnificent limbs and confusion, he nearly fell to the asphalt when I jerked him out.
After the unmerciful temptation Phoebe had put me through all evening, I couldn't take any more. At the boot of the Jaguar, I took him from behind, fumbled beneath his coat, and unfastened his trousers. I fully expected an argument if not a fight; I didn't know if he was too shocked or something, but he didn't stop me.
The only light around was the soft glow from instrument panel from inside the old Jaguar, which was accompanied by the quietly thrumming engine and stereo. I knew it was bloody cold out there, but he let me drop his trousers to the ground. Obediently, he opened his stance and bent over the back of the car for me.
Jesus, I couldn't believe it. He'd blown me off all day. I'd been lucky if I got so much as a fleeting, pissed glance from him, as opposed to total indifference. All of a sudden, I was being graced with complete compliance. He even held his coat out of the way, giving me a shadowed view of the curve of his utterly beautiful ass, from the soft glow through the rear window of the Jag.
Unzipping, I popped out. Despite that I'd been leaking, I couldn't force his rock-hard ring open.
To my further amazement, he backed and swiftly shed his boots and trousers. Then he braced his right foot onto the rear bumper to essentially dry hump the rear of the Jag.
Given access like that, I spread those round cheeks and probed with my tongue. My liberal licking seemed to defuse his anger; he moaned softly.
I couldn't wait. Shifting position, I leaned over him to prod and poke between his cleft with my throbbing hard-on until I felt him give. Taking his strong shoulder, I proceeded to fuck the hell out of him.
Though it was slippery on the well-waxed, aerodynamic boot of that Jaguar, he kept his foot hooked on the bumper, and held on through my pounding. As the frigid air dried the nominal lubricant, the drag, at least, added to my stimulus. During this, his panting became as labored as mine. On attempting to work a hand down him for want to handle his tantalizing male genitals, I found it wasn't possible; he was grinding himself against the polished, metal deck. I had no idea if he was enjoying any of it or merely tolerating my lust. That was, up until his gasping and panting became feverish--then I felt his crushing pelvic muscles lock tighter, just before they launched into the rhythmic contractions of his climax. Instantly, that set my own off. To hell with the cold--I couldn't have been in greater ecstasy.
With a moan, he forced me out, losing his footing on the bumper. Not that I had any desire to be out of his hot confines and exposed to the cold. Suddenly, I caught myself; it would be a hell of a mistake if I retracted into clothes someone else laundered for me.
Meanwhile, Perry's coat fell, regrettably covering his ass. Still panting, he retrieved his trousers off the rear quarter panel.
I was still panting, too. "Hey, wait a second. How'm I supposed to clean up?"
Leaning on the left fender for support, he struggled to dress. "What do you want me to do about it?"
Single-handedly, I began unfastening my own trousers. "At least help me loosen my clothes until you can get me something to clean up with."
Beneath his trousers, he hadn't been wearing anything, indicative of his hurry to leave the house. Leaving them undone, he came to me and helped me not only unfasten, but lower my pants and underwear, slightly. "Dot's not likely to be very understanding..." he concurred. Straightening, he fixed his clothes and zipped up.
While he searched the interior of the car, I drew my coat closed over myself, placing my feet apart to hopefully keep my clothes from dropping any further. At least the heavy wool of my outerwear blocked out some of the cold. Of course, if a car were to turn down the road, to hell with the housekeeper--I'd hasten my pants up in a second. Listening to Perry's activity, it became apparent it was going to take him so long, the residue of my come would turn to ice, and thus eliminate any problem.
The music ceased and the tail and parking lamps came on. He returned, jingling the keys. "I'm going to have to check the boot," he announced.
"Don't worry about it," I said, lifting my pants beneath my coat. "I'm so fucking frozen, I'm sure all I'd have to do is brush off the ice crystals to clean up."
Apparently he found that so amusing, he burst into his charming giggle.
Exhausted, relieved, my clothes fully repaired, I finally sank into the passenger seat and shut my eyes. Vaguely, I heard him get into the boot, anyway, as I started to drift off. Then he opened the driver's side door, letting in the frigid air, and joined me.
Cranking the engine, he ejected the tape, but left the FM on at a quiet level. Demonstrating admirable driving skill, he promptly threw the Jag into reverse and negotiated the same, single-laned road backwards, rather than attempt to turn the long wheel-based car around. A wise decision, as there was no telling what hazards the deeper edge of the shoulders of the road might be fraught with. "Wyeth's going to be pissed off," he said. "I'm sure my buttons scratched the finish, not to mention what I must have done to the wax job."
I hadn't even thought of any of that. Eyes still shut, I considered. "Nothing that won't buff out," I assured him.
"I've messed my shirt, too," he went on. "Soaked towels are one thing, but Dot's going to wonder why I'd hand-wash a shirt before throwing it in the laundry." He started giggling again. "You shouldn't have made me come, you know."
"Me?" Opening my eyes, I looked to him. Weird, how sleepy and tired I was, yet I couldn't miss his striking, bright blue eyes and adorable nose and mouth in the headlights of an approaching vehicle on the main road. "I didn't even have a chance to get at you, before you gushed all over."
"You think feeling you ream me out inside doesn't do a thing for me?" Focused out the rear window, he waited for the car to pass.
A wave of arousal swept through me, stirring my cock from it's chilled, spent state. Sure, it hurt when he made love to me, but the ecstasy had quickly come to overshadow the discomfort, and kept getting better all the time.
With uncanny adroitness, he whipped the low-slung Jaguar onto the motorway with a pained cry, as he slammed into first gear. "Bloody hell," he cursed, hitting the accelerator.
"What?" Fully awakening, I quickly glanced around the roadway and interior of the car for something amiss.
Even as he dialed the gears, he slipped down lower in his seat, looking pained. "I think you ripped me from stem to stern."
SUNDAY--DECEMBER 20
It was after 3:00 in the morning when we got back. We tried to be as quiet as possible. Tiredly, I kicked off my damp shoes in the bedroom and collected our robes, having left Perry in the bathroom to start cleaning up. Then I thought I heard his father's voice in the hall and looked out. Sure enough, he stood at the bathroom door in his pajamas, tying on his own robe, addressing Perry. I couldn't understand a word, as they were both speaking quietly, but I could easily guess that his father would be checking on me next, to make sure I was all right.
Right after I stepped out into the hall, his father turned around.
"There you are, Fox," he said, appearing concerned, then relieved, when he saw me. If I'd shown up after 3:00 in the morning at my parents' home, my father would have been too pissed to show any concern. Mr. Elden-Beck came straight to me, which made me shy back, slightly. Hell, if my father detected that I'd been drinking as heavily as I had, it would have been even worse. "What happened with Miss Green, then? Did she get home all right? I hope her father wasn't too upset, considering the late hour, and all."
Not having seen her father, I had no idea what to say. "I-I couldn't say for certain, sir," I stammered stupidly. Then quickly added, "I mean, she was fine when I last saw her."
"The whole thing's a bit puzzling," Mr. Elden-Beck ventured. "Perry left the house hours ago."
Evidently, Perry hadn't told his parents he had to drive all the way to Southampton--only Wyeth, which explained the use of the Jaguar. Finding the bathrobes still in my arms, I leapt at the chance to avoid the interrogation. "Um, I was just about to take Perry his robe and get ready for bed."
"Right. Well, I hope you had a good time."
While he went back to bed to go tell Mrs. Elden-Beck God-knows-what, I went to the bathroom door, which had been shut, knocked softly, and tried it. It wasn't locked, though Perry was only wearing a towel tucked around his waist.
He glanced up from the sink where he was industriously spot-washing not just his shirt, but his trousers. Somewhere around Basingstoke, he'd had to stop the car and get out, and his curls were still wet. His father must have been pretty inquisitive about all of it. Though it was raining there in Windsor, too, my hair had gotten nowhere that saturated on the short walk from the driveway to the house. I was puzzled, myself.
"What are you doing?" I asked, likewise starting to undress. Aside from our muddy cuffs, which were explicable, I decided I'd better check my own things for spot-washing.
"What's it look like? Let's have your clothes, and I'll wash them off, too."
"You-you don't have to," I said, feeling bad enough for all the trouble I'd caused that day. "I can wash them, myself."
"As long as I'm doing laundry, I may as well."
"How did you explain why you were washing your clothes?"
"I told him I got splashed with mud and didn't think Dot would appreciate a mess in the hamper."
"My pants are wool," I said, handing them over, reluctantly. "You know what'll happen if they get too wet."
Preparing the shower, once again, I couldn't help but consider what an idiot I'd been. He really was incredible--a valuable, understanding friend, exciting in every way, and God, was he beautiful. I'd been so stupid; I'd nearly thrown it all away for a morbid necrophiliac.
Less than a couple of minutes after I got into the shower, he joined me. We both knew how risky that was, but he mumbled that he couldn't stand it any more, and assured me he'd locked the door. Not that I was about to complain--I loved showering with him. There was still a possibility that either of his parents or even Wyeth might come to check on us, so we had to be quiet and stick strictly to bathing. To accomplish this, I did my best not to watch him, or I'd attack him again.
He hissed sharply.
Surprised, my gaze snapped to him. Twisted back, he was soaping his ass, giving me opportunity to freely observe every delectable, naked curve, slick with lather and streaming water. I was going to hyperventilate. Perfect pectoral and abdominal muscles, broad shoulders, slender waist and hips, coyly hooded, dripping cock...
"I won't be sitting down for anything, tomorrow," he grumbled. Promptly, he turned toward the showerhead to rinse off, and I was rewarded with an equally fantastic view of him from behind.
Considering our limited resources, he was bound to be sore. Aware he was prone to exaggeration for a laugh, I decided to humor him for my own pleasure. "Want me to have a look?" Without waiting for an answer, I took his little waist and drew him back a step so I'd not have to kneel where I'd get hit with the shower spray.
More hesitantly than the first time that evening, he cautiously planted his handsome feet apart for me. Through his flinching and hissing, I found he wasn't anywhere near over-dramatizing. Though he'd just washed, I saw fresh blood. Suddenly, I knew why he'd been scrubbing his pants.
Alarmed, I stood. "Why the hell didn't you stop me?" I whispered.
"What are you? Batty?" He calmly resumed showering, back to his normal self. "It was fucking fantastic. Why do you think I couldn't keep from shooting all over the car and myself?"
The next day, I awoke to find Wyeth sitting on the bed, silently studying us. As I further awakened, it became clear that Perry and I were way too entwined with each other, even though we were in our pajamas. My start woke him and he started, too.
Before I could go into cardiac arrest, Perry handled the situation adroitly. "Get the fuck out of here, you tosser," he growled, sounding angry, but not horrified.
Wyeth got up. "Lunch is ready and Dot's been on about making up the room." Fortunately, he didn't hang around.
While my heart pounded, Perry dropped his head back on my shoulder, as if to go back to sleep.
"Your brother." I moved to get up.
"Don't worry 'bout him," he murmured against my chest. "He's queer, too."
PERRY
Both still somewhat groggy, neither of us were properly prepared for the inquiry that took place over lunch. I got the worst of it, being as Fox was the guest. My discomfort in trying to sit straight at the table didn't make it any easier. I appeased my parents' with the assurance that their precious "Miss Green" had been home by midnight, then told them that Fox and I had skived about for a while at a pub, on the way home. Course, I didn't know and didn't care when she really got home, and Fox didn't correct me. As for the reason he'd called me out, at all, he had to handle that one. To the disappointment and sympathy of my parents, he admitted that he and slag had had a bit of a misunderstanding, and left it at that.
After I'd covered the excuses for our wet clothes with the story that it was raining harder where she lived, the matter was finally dropped. Right after lunch, I offered to go refill the tank of the Jaguar for Wyeth, my main intent being to check the upholstery and finish before he could get a look at any of it. The thought of the hard ride I was setting myself up for made me whinge, but it wasn't that great a distance to the nearest petrol stop.
Unexpectedly, Wyeth invited himself along. I hadn't even meant to take Fox, just in case I'd messed the seat. He'd been guiltily doting over me since last night, and it would probably make things worse if that turned out to be the case.
Being ushered out of the house by Wyeth only aggravated things for me, sparing Fox, which was precisely what I wanted.
"This is perfect," he remarked on the walk out to the driveway, sounding devious. "Fox and the bitch having a row and all. Did he tell you what it was about?"
"No," I said, truthfully, peering out at the Jag, as we approached it. Except for the splatter of road mud along the undercarriage, it looked sound as ever.
"Surely, they didn't have sex for the first time, then broke up the same night."
I didn't comment; I was too busy becoming increasingly leery, as we neared the car.
Out of nowhere, Wyeth handed me the keys. "You drive."
If nothing else, that would at least give me first look at the driver's seat.
"Christ," Wyeth commented, bending slightly to eye the mud with misgivings. "That was a bit of a drive out to Southampton, wasn't it? The wheels are filthy. It's going to be a right bitch, cleaning them up."
While he was preoccupied at the left front wheel, I unlocked the door. If he was expecting me to scrub the spokes, I'd do it--and at the same time, buff out the wax. After I had a chance to recover. Meanwhile, I performed a quick once-over of the driver's seat. Nothing where I was expecting, but I thought I saw very faint, drying water stains along the outer edge of the seat. My wet coat. Sod it.
Then I noticed Wyeth wandering toward the back of the Jag. Prepared to duck into the low-roofed vehicle, I froze again. "What are you looking for? You think I got into a wreck? Let's go, already." Briefly, I surveyed the boot from where I stood. Thankfully, the heavy rain had done a right thorough job on the dark sable finish; from where I stood, anyway, it appeared shiny as ever.
At the last, I realized there wasn't going to be any way to get into the car without appearing obviously crippled. Aside from my smarting rectum, I'd over-extended muscles in my hamstring, groin, and backside during last night's escapade. All I could do was attempt to slip into the car as normally as possible. Fortunately, Wyeth was still coming 'round from the rear, because I had to bite my knuckle, when I hit the seat, to keep from howling.
On the way, he carried on, no longer focused on the Jaguar. "That means the boy's still going to be pining for a woman, don't you see? Cammie and I figured it out this morning. We'll tell Mum and Dad we're going into London because Cammie needs to finish up some last-minute Christmas shopping. You haven't had a chance to get her a gift, either, so we invited you and Fox to come along then have dinner. They won't expect us back the rest of the evening. If it gets too late, they'll understand if we spend the night at my flat."
I knew what he was getting at, and I didn't like it. I was already gripping the wheel tightly, trying to keep from wincing and grimacing at every imperfection in the road.
"Instead, we'll go straight over to my flat and spend the day partying."
"You and Cammie can spend the day doing whatever you want, but don't expect us to come along."
"So, Fox does coke, right?" Wyeth continued, as if I'd not said a word. "I'll ring in advance and we'll pick up--"
"I said we're not going, dammit, or did you suddenly go deaf?"
"What? Don't be stupid. You want your little Fox to go chasing after snatch again? Because he'll do it, and he'll keep doing it until he gets some. As long as it's inevitable, it would be far better if it took place under controlled conditions, don't you agree? With you there, and with a girl you can trust."
"I just don't like the idea, all right?" I said, increasingly uncomfortable.
"Well, that's odd," he taunted. "You've always been quite pleased with Cammie. I'd think you'd trust her well enough by now, for all the number of times you've had it off with her."
"It's not Cammie I don't trust, it's you." I glanced toward him to emphasize my vehemence.
"Me?" he laughed. "I'm your brother. We've always been square on just about everything."
"Not everything."
"Damn it all, if you're keeping such thorough count on every little thing, you'd know how I always go out of my way for you."
Rain began pelting the windscreen; I locked my gaze on the road.
"You know that Cammie and I have been steady for two years, now, and how odd that is for me. Obviously, I care a great deal more about her than I ever did any of the others. You've got to admit, my generosity in sharing her with you over that time has got to be the ultimate show of trust, on my part."
Considering Wyeth's history, it wasn't all as magnanimous as he was making it out to be. I'd never asked for it, either. Still, not only had she been his steady girl for two years, he'd chosen to live with her. That did show that he had a hell of a lot of trust in me. The use of his prized Jaguar to make the midnight dash to bloody Southampton had been further evidence of that trust.
I released my breath. "I'm not being ungrateful..."
"Then what are you being?"
We reached the petrol stop before I had to answer. Upon leaving the house, he'd waved off my offer to chip in what money I had, seeing as it had been my mate I was wasting his petrol on. I tarried in filling the tank to give myself time to word my response. Anyway, I was glad for the excuse to be out of the seat.
A moment later, Wyeth was out of the car, as well. He gestured at the shop next door. "I'm going to run in there for a pack of smokes and some ale. Want anything?"
I shook my head.
By the time I'd paid and was heading back for the Jag, I saw he'd not yet returned. That gave me the chance to lower myself into the driver's seat as slowly and carefully as needed.
I'd barely had time to find a comfortable position when the passenger door opened. Empty-handed, Wyeth effortlessly tossed himself into the seat, making me jealous. Then removed a pack of fags from inside his jacket. "The only ale they had was crap. Let's drive to a proper offie and get something decent to take to London."
Now he was going to make an excursion of it. I'd drive him one more place and that was it. I'd do much better if I took it easy that day, and I knew it. Starting the engine, I drove off, while he lit a cigarette and handed it to me. Then lit his own.
Sighing again, I took the cigarette and lowered my window just enough for the smoke to escape.
"You know Dad will lend us the Mercedes without our even asking," he went on. "As I said, it's all perfect."
For reinforcement, I took a long drag. "Look, Wyeth...I'm sorry...but I can't do it."
"Rubbish. You don't think Fox would turn down the chance to be with a woman for the first time, do you? Are you barmy?"
"Look, I just can't because...because...I just can't. I don't see him that way."
Lowering his own window, Wyeth tapped off an ash. "What is it, then? Do you think you're in love with him or something?"
For some reason, I felt my temper flare. Ordinarily, I didn't get angry--just lately anymore, whenever anyone mentioned Fox's snotty little bitch. Having grown up with Wyeth, I was accustomed to his occasional larks to try and deliberately set me off. Since I usually I found his efforts more entertaining than anything else, he seldom ever got the better of me. This time he succeeded. Almost in one straight breath, I laid it out, and once I got started, I couldn't seem to stop. "Don't be fucking stupid. It's just that he's not like that. You don't know how he is. He'd only been chasing that bloody Green tart for more than a year, and yesterday was the first time he'd actually ever dated her. Can you believe that? All the while, the slag's been shagging blokes right and left. Plenty who have nowhere the looks, intelligence, or equipment Fox has, I can assure you." Christ, did I know it. "There's only one thing that's kept him from banging her in all this time, and I'd bet my life, it's him.
"I didn't mean I don't trust you, like you're thinking--it's just that you don't know about him. I swear, I've never met anyone like him. He's different, that's all. He's not the type who'd take to sharing. And it wouldn't be right for me to stand by and just let you take advantage of him." Some time during my tirade, I'd gone numb. My knuckles had turned white from my tight grip on the steering wheel and gear stick, but I knew if it wasn't for that, my hands would be shaking. I honestly didn't know for sure how Fox would react to the offer--the only thing I knew for certain was that I couldn't bear any of it.
"Well, if you didn't turn out to be one selfish, unappreciative, little prick!" Wyeth snapped, affronted, rather than chuffed at having hacked me off. "I never thought in a million years my own brother would wind up like this. Haven't I always been generous with you?"
"I'm not saying I don't appreciate--"
"Who the fuck was it who did his best to turf out the nasty twat with you, last night? Then gave you his car and a full tank of petrol, so you could go rescue your little boyfriend? And all that after he'd very generously let you fuck his girlfriend."
"I didn't ask for it! You were right there. You could have stopped it."
"I knew you were in a way. And unlike you, I trust you implicitly. With my car and my girlfriend."
"It's not the same," I shook my head. "Cammie and I have gotten on since we met. We all have a mutual concern and respect for one another. But Fox hardly knows you and Cammie. Hell, I don't even know him well enough."
"Then how do you know he won't take to it?" Wyeth posed with annoying logic.
"He's not the type," I defended. "If he wouldn't even fuck that stupid cow he's been lusting after, how could you think he'd jump into bed with you and Cammie?"
"But, you just said you didn't know him all that well. So you're not at all certain what type he really is, then, are you?"
"Well, no, I--"
"When I asked earlier if you knew what their row was about, you said he wouldn't tell you. Judging by everything you admitted yesterday and right now, I'd say all you're doing is speculating. I say we leave it to him. That's only fair. After all, he seems to be a very intelligent, young man, perfectly competent to make his own decisions."
"No!" I heard myself rage. "I'll not have it, and that's all there is to it! Not everyone's like you, Wyeth. Not everyone is quite so indiscriminate when it comes to sex. "
"Is that it how it is, then?" he questioned, calmly exhaling his last drag.
Suddenly racked with guilt, I toyed with the gear stick knob. "N-no. That doesn't mean I'm putting you off. You've done a lot for me these past two days, and I really owe you. I'll make it up to you, I swear."
MONDAY--DECEMBER 21
PERRY
In the morning, I didn't want to get out of bed. Mornings weren't exactly the high point of my day, even on holiday, and I had even less reason to want to, with Fox between the sheets with me, keeping me warm. It wasn't any of those things that undermined my motivation to rouse, though. And I hadn't overindulged on alcohol the night before; in fact, Fox and I had gone to bed early.
I just felt lousy.
After I'd agreed to go London with Wyeth and Camille, the previous day, he noticed my limp. From there on, it had taken a great deal of effort on my part to keep him from so much as hitting Fox up with accusations, true as they may be, let alone from attempting to stomp the crap out of him, once we got home. To keep the peace, I heard out their concocted story for our departure the next day, and promised to uphold it. By morning, I was reluctant to go through with the plans that would entail lying to and ultimately spending the day without him. If that wasn't enough, I had a scratchy throat, and my head felt a bit thick and muzzy.
That didn't stop me from necking with Fox in bed a while longer, until we heard everyone else was up and about. When we'd finally showered and shaved, we reached the dining room in time to hear that Wyeth and Camille had already announced our trip to my parents and Dad was already offering up the keys to the Mercedes.
"That's all right," Dad was saying. "Your mother and I both have to go into work a few hours today, so I suppose we can to ride together."
"Oh," Wyeth said, haltingly. "If you need to, you know...you can--you can take the Jaguar." We all knew how much he didn't like lending out his motorcar.
"Are you sure?" Dad asked, skeptically.
Taking a seat at the table, I spoke up. "Sure, he is. If you're lending him your car, it's only proper." Before the tea should cool off too much, I served myself and Fox. "That is, if I was going with them for certain. Which I'm not certain of, after all."
"Going where?" Fox asked.
Before I could open my mouth, Wyeth replied for me. "What's that? You've changed your mind about Cammie's Christmas gift? Considering what she got for you, I think that's pretty damn rude."
"Why can't I get her something down the local shops?" I argued.
"It was your idea," he pointed out. "You're the one who wasn't happy sticking around here."
He was right, of course. "Does it have to be today?" I tried.
"The longer you wait," Wyeth warned, "the worse trouble you'll cause for yourself, with Christmas only a few days off, you know."
While Dot served Fox and me, I went on. "I happen to think leaving Fox on his own like that is pretty damn rude, too."
"Leave him?" Mum started, thinking it just as rude as I. "He's going along, too, isn't he?"
"He'd be bored," I said, over my teacup.
"Why would he?" Mum queried. "There are so many exciting shops in London, he could hardly get bored." Setting her empty plate up, she stood. "Well, I'd better hurry and finish getting ready or I'll be late."
Cammie presented further ammunition. "See," she said to Fox, "I was going to be getting my folks a gift, as well. It really wouldn't be very interesting for you."
Bravely, Fox offered to comply, despite his loathe of shopping. "Where are we going?"
"Do you like golf?" She set her plate up, too.
"I-I'm afraid I don't know anything about it," he said.
"Well," she went on, "we'll be going to my father's favorite golf shop so I can surprise him with this golf bag he's been pining for. And for Mum, I'm buying this fancy peignoir set with lace--"
Politely, Fox cleared his throat. "I see what you mean. On the other hand, maybe Perry and I can find something to do while you're buying your parents' gifts."
"Don't be daft," Wyeth rebuffed. "We lose track of each other at midday in downtown London--especially right before Christmas--and you'll be taking the bus home, for sure."
Up in my room, I changed into a warmer pullover then combed my hair with my pick, while Fox made up the bed. I'd given up reminding him that he was doing Dot's work. I didn't believe in using a comb and straightening my hair into waves, like Dad did his. The unruliness of leaving it au naturel suited me fine for the most part. And Fox seemed to enjoy tugging on my curls and watching them spring back.
"How long will you be gone?" he asked.
Too long, I knew. "I don't know," I sighed. "You probably know how women are about shopping."
"I guess I'll find something to do in the meantime. Your parents have some really interesting books in their library. Do you know what you're getting for Camille? It helps, if you know what you're looking for."
We'd already made up the story the day before, in the event we were questioned. "There's this music box or something of the like she's got her heart set on."
"Do you have enough money?"
"Don't worry, Dad already slipped me an extra thirty quid and Mum, twenty." When my curls were neat enough, I went to the corner of the bed to set my foot up and tighten one of my trainers.
With the bedcover drawn neat as a pin, Fox sat down and leaned against the headboard to toy with the manikin. "Your hair looks great."
"Thanks." I paused, looking to him. "You know, I don't really want to go..."
"How long did you say your brother and Camille have been together?"
"Two--two-and-a-half years," I shrugged.
"Are they planning on getting married?"
I laughed. "How could I know a thing like that?"
"I mean, are they that serious? Two-and-a-half years isn't that long. Why do you feel compelled to buy something so special for a girl your brother might break up with tomorrow?"
Slowly, I straightened. He was a smart bugger in the first place and those psychology classes were making him all the more keen. If Cammie were my sister-in-law, it would make sense to buy her a gift like that and only then. In fact, the only thing she wanted from me was a rumping. "They may," I allowed, "but if you knew my brother...She's the only one he's ever been serious about. He never dated a girl for longer than four months, at best, before her. I'm not saying they're going to get married--they probably won't. She's all right, though. If she wants this music box, then why not?"
"I take it you've never dated a girl for longer than four months, either."
To hell with that. Going to him, I took his chin and promptly tipped his head up for a kiss, ending it by tugging on that luscious lower lip of his that I couldn't get enough of. "I've been dating you steady for around as long, you silly git. And I've no mind to go anywhere."
Neither I, nor my throat were feeling any better by the time we left. I stretched out in the backseat for a kip, only Wyeth kept pestering me from the front passenger seat, plus the scratch in my throat began to make me cough, so I never did get to sleep. With all my coughing, he finally made an inquiry.
"What are you on about?" He eyed me askance, over the seat.
"It's just a cough," I said.
"You're not sick, are you?"
"It's nothing."
"You'd better not be, or I'll give you a sound thrashing."
We made a couple of stops in London before reaching his flat, over which time I continued to feel worse. The ale Wyeth gave me to drink that they purchased at the last stop made no difference--it only made me feel all the muzzier. Dutifully, I accompanied them up to their flat without a complaint, save for the coughing I couldn't control.
Just as Cammie brought out the mirror and paraphernalia for the coke, Wyeth reprimanded us, nicking our bottles of ale into his custody. "What do you think you're doing? Off with them, first," he gestured.
We'd forgotten. Cammie and I exchanged a look then started to undress. The flat was still cold as a tomb, the heat having barely been turned on after four days, when we walked in the door. Since she didn't object, I followed her lead and went about stripping. Once I got past my jacket and scarf, though, I hesitated, uncomfortably chilled.
"Off with them, I said," Wyeth prodded, nudging me with a bottle. "You know you're not getting fuck-all, as long as you're dressed."
Lethargically, I got my shirt and trainers off, coughing all through it. In the interim, Cammie stripped down to nothing, and Wyeth to his trousers. At that point, they readily helped themselves to the buffet.
Seeing my slow progress, Wyeth, got onto the sofa beside me to take over. "Come along now, Peregrine; don't be all...day..." Hands at my waistband, he paused while I turned my head away and coughed some more. Then he slid his touch up my belly. "Christ, you're burning hot." He glanced back at Camille. "He's feverish."
In the softly lit living room of Wyeth's flat, I lay on the pull-out sleeper, covered with a duvet. Aside from sick, I felt like a right twit. Wyeth had finished undressing me and put me to bed. Then he sent Camille out to the chemist's. Sitting on the bed with me, he went about re-soaking the towel from my forehead that had gone warm, in a bowl of ice water.
"You should have said something," he chided. "All you said was you had a bit of a cough."
In the first place, he knew me better than to think I'd act like a Nancy-boy, even if my leg had been broken in three places, and in the second, I knew him, and it wouldn't have done any good, anyway. "Because that's all it is. Prob'ly all I need is a kip and I'll be good as new..."
"Don't be daft. You're bloody burning up. It's a good thing you didn't do any Charlie, 'cause right now, you need to sleep. It won't make you well, but it's the best thing for you. I know why you're sick, too. Your boyfriend got you naked out in a bloody piss-down, in the middle of the night to have his way with you. Dad said you and your clothes were wringing wet when you got home. If there's any justice, the yank will be sick as a dog, too. It would serve him right."
Briefly, I recalled the scenes from the night in question. It hadn't happened the way Wyeth described, though he wasn't far off. I'd been in so much ecstasy, I'd not even noticed the muscles I'd pulled, holding onto the back of the Jag. All I knew was that I'd wanted it badly, and I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. On the way home, I'd had to stop off the motorway in a downpour much like Wyeth's description, to tend to Fox's spendings. He'd fallen asleep and I'd left him to it. That was when I discovered I was bleeding and got a good drenching, all at the same time. Thus, my brother was probably right, but I'd not agree and give him more reason to dislike my mate. "I could've taken ill from anywhere, and you know it. There's no saying."
"I don't know about that. I suppose we'll find out, if you and your boyfriend are the only ones who come down with it. But, I am sorry for dragging you out when you're under the weather." He gently drew the duvet down me. "Now, let's get this thing off you; you know you oughtn't to cover up, with a fever."
Chills aside for the moment, I was grateful to have the hot cover off and for my brother's concern.
A while later, I was rousted awake by Cammie, shaking a thermometer in front of my face. I was covered again. Behind her, Wyeth hovered, trousers fixed, shirt half-buttoned. I let her poke the thermometer under my tongue and shut my eyes. The cold, wet towel was reapplied to my forehead and I started coughing again. I had to take the thermometer from my mouth to keep from breaking it.
In minutes, I was trying to go back to sleep again, while they argued. If I hadn't been sick it would have been funny. I heard, "you're holding it wrong," "no, you're reading it wrong," "well, if you know so much, how come you can't read it, either," "I could, if you'd quit standing in the light," and all that sort of thing. Finally, they both concluded that my temperature was above one hundred and two point five. They gave me some aspirin from the bottle Cammie had just purchased, and let me go back to sleep.
I couldn't stop coughing. It was hours later and the telly was on. Chilled and miserable, I dragged myself to the edge of the bed, duvet about me. Unable to breathe, it seemed the only way I could get any air would be to sick up. Before I could get off the bed, Wyeth was there, holding the bin for me, so I wouldn't have to try and make it all the way to the toilet. Even after that, when I managed to control my coughing, I could hear why; I was wheezing and rattling in my chest something awful. The last time I remembered breathing like that was when I was around ten and had contracted a bad case of bronchitis.
Sympathetically, Wyeth wiped my face for me. Then I lay back. It went on like that another few hours. I finally had to stay propped up against the backrest of the sofa; otherwise, when I lay down, breathing would get more and more difficult and the coughing would start all over. I tried watching telly, but for the life of me, I couldn't suss what was going on.
Apparently, I'd fallen asleep, then woke again when Wyeth got on the bed with me. "Come along, sleeping beauty, we've got to get you to hospital."
"I'm not going to hospital," I mumbled, groping about for the duvet. "I'll be all right."
"Hear yourself breathe? I've heard tippers that make less noise. Remember when you were so sick they nearly put you in hospital? That's what you're sounding like."
"Bollocks. Mum took care of me and I was fine. I'll go home, but I won't go to hospital." Finding the duvet, I pulled it up to my neck.
"Well, I can't remember what all Mum did for you. So I'm going to give her a ring and get instructions. I'm sure Cammie and I can tend you."
Getting off the bed, Wyeth went off to the kitchen. I curled up in the duvet to go back to sleep. I didn't succeed, as another bout of coughing woke me right up.
From the kitchen, I heard Wyeth talking on the telephone. "Well, no. He's been ill all day, so we never went anywhere...I think it's the same thing he had when he was a kid--when they wanted to smack him in hospital, for pneumonia. He sounds the same, and god knows, I've had bronchitis, myself...He doesn't want to and I can't say I blame him. We've been giving him aspirin all day, but he keeps getting chills and fevers. And the coughing...He's having a hell of a time...No, no. It's after nine. Unless you think we should get him to hospital, I think we can manage..."
Vaguely, I was aware when Cammie came into the sitting room. She was wearing a dressing gown. When she neared me, I saw her hair was pinned up, showing her dark roots. Apparently, she'd just come from the shower.
Coming to the pull-out, she touched my forehead. "We're going to have to get you to hospital."
"I'm not going," I insisted. "Wyeth's talking to Mum. She'll tell him what to do and I'll be fine."
"You keep sicking up." Cammie leaned over me, still touching my face. "You're terribly ill."
"I'm not sick like that. I'm just coughing is all. I can't help throwing up."
"I'm going to talk to Wyeth." She took my shoulder beneath the duvet, then went off to the kitchen.
Through the haze of my illness, I decided I didn't want to stay there anymore. I felt a burden to Camille who knew nothing about nursing, I had a fantastic mother who already knew what to do, and most of all, I just missed Fox. "Cammie," I called, coughing again.
Instantly, she swept back in.
My chest hurt and I was dizzy, but I carefully sat up with her assistance. "Have Wyeth tell Mum I'm coming home."
FOX
The moment I heard the telephone ring, I dropped the book I was reading, and ran downstairs in my glasses. I'd only been waiting all day for Perry to return. Since the Elden-Becks had been completely calm about it that meant it was fairly commonplace for their sons to take off all day and I shouldn't be worried. Still, I was anxious; I missed Perry.
On the stairs, I heard Mrs. Elden-Beck talking on the phone. "Is he having a hard time breathing?...That sounds like it all right..." As she rubbed her temple, I saw she appeared as anxious as I felt. "Okay, listen, Wyeth: turn the shower on hot and have him sit in the loo for at least fifteen minutes with the door shut. That'll loosen him up so he can breathe. Then bundle him up and take him to A and E. Your dad and I will meet you there--"
"Perry?" I started, gripping the bannister. "Perry's sick?"
Looking up at me, she gestured and nodded, while Mr. Elden-Beck appeared at the doorway of the great room, television forgotten.
"What's this?" he wanted to know. "Perry's ill?"
Unable to stand the thought of waiting at home, I insisted on going with the Elden-Becks to London. With only two two-seater automobiles, though, I had to drive the MGB on my own and follow behind that mink-brown Jag, the sight of which has become indelibly etched in my mind. It was the first time I'd driven in England, on my own, as well. The rain didn't help any and it never let up. Fortunately, I'd learned all the instrumentation in the little MGB, as Perry had me drive several times over the course of our outing. I was really grateful that he had; it made my solo, agitated trip to London in the rain that much easier.
Parking outside the emergency department was limited and confusing. I saw the familiar dark blue Mercedes. I could only hope I didn't wind up costing the Elden-Becks a parking ticket. They, too, parked in the only place they could find and rushed into the emergency entrance, barely ahead of me.
We spotted Camille sitting alone in the busy waiting area in completely different, casual clothes, missing a lot of makeup, her hair pinned up as if in a hurry. We pounced on her with questions; unfortunately, she didn't know much. She could only tell us that Perry had had high fevers, coughed incessantly all day, and had thrown up several times. God, I'd had no idea he was sick when he left that morning; he'd only seemed a little tired. I wouldn't have let him go, otherwise, particularly when I knew that he hadn't wanted to.
Just as Mrs. Elden-Beck made up her mind to storm the department in search of her youngest son, Wyeth appeared in the waiting area. I didn't remember what he'd been wearing that morning, but I didn't recognize his clothes, either. His straight, dark hair was messy and he was in need of a shave.
"I don't know if they're going to admit him or not," Wyeth reported. "They took x-rays and put him on oxygen, plus they stuck a--" he motioned at his forearm. "You know. To put him on IVs."
"Take me to see him," Mrs. Elden-Beck said, anxiously.
Mr. Elden-Beck was no less concerned. "What are they saying it is?"
Wyeth rubbed his whiskers. "Some kind of acute bronchitis. When they took him in, they said his temperature was a hundred and four. I would have brought him here earlier, but he refused to come. Cammie and I had to fight him to get him here."
Without waiting, Mrs. Elden-Beck shot for the double doors of the treatment area, her husband instantly following.
"Now, let me do the talking, Anora," he advised.
I started, wishing I could go with them. I had no right to.
Abruptly, I felt a hard jab against my chest. Wyeth was glaring at me. Quietly, he addressed me. "And you, you son-of-a-bitch. You're the one who put Perry in here."
"Me?" I was taken completely off-guard. "What are you talking--?"
"You know damn well." In disgust, he turned from me and went after his parents.
Sitting beside Camille in the waiting area, neither of us spoke. I was too busy brooding over my impulsive act in New Forest, Saturday night, ripping Perry's clothes off. Hell, I'd been freezing that night, and I got to wear my long coat and pants, throughout. Whereas poor Perry had to strip down to his socks and shirt, his coat up around his waist while he hugged the icy, steel trunk of an automobile, in order to accommodate me. Somewhere along the way, he apparently got out of the car and got drenched. I don't know where or when--I slept soundly through the rest of the trip back to Windsor, in the warm passenger seat. One never thinks about things like that in moments of passion--and even less, when drunk. But, how the hell did Wyeth know about it? He couldn't possibly be referring to those events. Unless Perry had told him. Why would he tell his brother something so personal and private? That didn't seem anything like Perry.
Coat thrown open, I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and rubbed my face, feeling in need of a shave, myself. If it was my fault he was sick, I felt even worse.
"You don't know how Wyeth can be," Camille said quietly. "He's very, very protective about Perry."
Yeah, well I couldn't blame him--I felt the same way. And I'd always been protective of my sister. Much as I wanted to know why Wyeth had made such an accusation against me, I chose not to ask Camille--just in case she knew the answer.
"You're lucky Perry talked him out of thumping you once, already; I've known Wyeth to pull his knife on blokes for mucking with his brother."
In new horror, I looked to her. "Wh-at?"
Opening her purse, she dug inside. "I'm going out for a smoke."
FOX
In about a half hour, Mr. Elden-Beck returned, alone. Camille was back and I hadn't asked her anything more about her boyfriend and she hadn't volunteered any further information about him, either.
"They're admitting him," Mr. Elden-Beck announced. "They want to observe him overnight. You two may as well go home. Here are the keys to the Jaguar." He held them out to Camille.
"Sir," I stood, restless. "Can I--can I go see him?"
"Let's go talk them into it, shall we?" He led me toward the treatment area doors. "It'll do Perry good, being as he was asking after you."
That news was so encouraging, I forgot about the brother for the time being. When we got to the room, Mr. Elden-Beck sent me in, alone, explaining only two to three visitors were allowed in at a time and that was pushing it.
On entering, I was immediately disturbed to find the head of the bed raised at an angle and enshrouded with a clear oxygen tent. Only a single fluorescent light on the wall in the same vicinity burned. Mrs. Elden-Beck was in a chair drawn close up beside the bed. I expected Perry to be asleep, but he wasn't. The moment he saw me, despite his wan appearance--made all the more evident against the contrast of his dark whiskers--he lit up. Instantly smiling, he lifted his unencumbered hand and reached for mine.
"Hey, they let you in," he said. "Either that, or my dad's giving them hell right now."
His golden curls were a becoming mess, but he no longer resembled his vibrant self. "Why didn't you say you were sick?" I asked, deeply reassured to have his long fingers wrapped around my hand, no more willing to let go of me than I was of him. "You shouldn't have gone if you knew you were sick."
"Didn't think it was much of anything." He coughed.
From behind me, I heard Wyeth. "All right, that's enough. You've done enough to the poor kid, already, haven't you?" he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me from reach, forcing Perry and me to let go of each other. "Now, get on--"
Abruptly, Perry pushed himself sitting beneath the tent, still coughing. "Leave off him, Wyeth, or I swear I'll--"
Before I started grade school, I'd been learning to take care of myself. Turning back on Wyeth, I shoved him off.
Mrs. Elden-Beck rushed between us, taking her eldest's upper arm. "Boys! What the devil's got in you? What you think you're doing, brawling in here, upsetting Perry?"
"It's his fault Perry's sick at all." Wyeth yanked from his mother's hold. "Dragging him out in a rainstorm the other night, all on account of his sorry bitch."
I went to Perry who couldn't seem to stop coughing. I took his hand, again. "You okay? You need me to get a nurse?"
Wyeth lunged at me again. "Fat lot of good your feeble gestures do for him now!"
Mrs. Elden-Beck caught him. "Stop it right now, Myrddin! I'll take the switch to you, sure as I ever did! Look what you've gone and done, riling up your brother. Go on, get out!" she arrived at Perry's other side. Lifting the oxygen tent, she got beneath it with him to help him to a drink of water and pat his back.
On my guard, I noticed Wyeth take a step toward me. Still holding Perry's hand, I straightened to defend myself.
"Myr-ddin!" Mrs. Elden-Beck threatened from beneath the tent.
Casting me a warning look, Wyeth withdrew.
TUESDAY--DECEMBER 22
The hospital released Perry the next day, in the late morning. I supposed it was his mother who did the intervention, but somehow, I was spared from having to deal with Wyeth again, one-on-one. When she was out of the room at one point, I'd asked Perry what language she'd been speaking, when reprimanding her eldest son. Though it made him cough, Perry laughed. He said it was Wyeth's first name, which was Welsh. Not many people could spell it, so somewhere around the time he'd started primary school, they took to calling him Wyeth. That didn't stop the family from using his first name every now and then.
On Perry's release from the hospital, I got to stay in his bedroom, which gave me a great excuse to help care for him, along with Mrs. Elden-Beck. The arrangement didn't set well with Wyeth, but I didn't give a damn. I wasn't about to let him intimidate me, with or without a knife.
Changing Perry into his pajamas from the clothes he left the hospital in, I realized that I didn't recognize them at all. Suspecting his brother must have lent him some clothes, I said something to that effect, but Perry assured me they were his own. That suggested that his brother's residence was essentially a home away from home for Perry. In the same way that we used to keep plenty of clothes and belongings at our summer house in Quonochontaug.
Once he was settled under the blankets that neither of us had slept in that night, I went upstairs to the attic with his father to bring down the camp bed that Mr. Elden-Beck had offered when I'd first arrived. As far as I was concerned, I would have been willing to continue to sleep with Perry; it did make a little more sense not to, so I wouldn't wind up sick, too. I couldn't very well tell everyone that Perry and I had openly kissed on the mouth countless times the same day his symptoms had manifested.
The camp bed turned out to be a cot, which we set up in Perry's room. And Mr. Elden-Beck was right--it wasn't all that comfortable. I'd slept on worse, though; whenever our grandparents used to visit us in Quonochontaug, Samantha and I would give up our room and we'd sleep out on the covered veranda, on the porch furniture.
For some reason, Wyeth didn't hassle me too much that day, other than to give me a few warning looks. I believed I began to understand where his sudden animosity had come from. Like Camille had told me, he was indeed a caring and concerned brother. He checked in frequently and took care of everything else the rest of us weren't already doing for Perry. Essentially, Perry was waited on completely--that even though Dorothea had been given the rest of the week off, so the cooking and housework had to be tended by the family, as well. For that reason, Perry was all the more determined to try and do as much as he could for himself.
That first day, he continued to spike fevers, despite the antibiotics we very diligently administered. Fortunately, they were a lot lower than one hundred and four, according to Mrs. Elden-Beck's thermometer. One hundred point nine was the highest. When they proceeded to drop, I was relieved.
The doctors had advised plenty of fluids and a very light diet. Not that Perry was particularly hungry until dinner, but on the positive side, he didn't once throw up, as Camille had alleged. While he'd sipped water and lemonade all day, at dinner, he finally took soup and jelly from the tray, in bed. To me, the lemonade appeared to be lemon-lime soda and the jelly was what I knew as Jell-O.
As I'd managed to shower and change some time during the day, knowing Perry was being well cared for, after dinner, I curled up on the bed to read to him. Not Sherlock Holmes, though. For the time being, I didn't want to think about anything that would remind me of Phoebe or imagine what I'd be going through if I didn't had Perry to keep me occupied.
The next thing I knew, we'd both fallen asleep, and Mrs. Elden-Beck was trying to coax me to put on my pajamas and go to the other bed. None of us had slept, the night before.
WEDNESDAY--DECEMBER 23
The following day, Mrs. Elden-Beck had to go into work again, but she was the only one who did. I'd eventually learned that Mr. Elden-Beck had his own law office in London and after Wyeth had obtained his degree from Oxford, he'd gone on to be employed there, as well. Which Perry was expected to do, when he graduated. That fully explained why the two eldest males in the household discussed their cases and clients at home as if they were both completely familiar with them. They were. Trusting Perry would receive all the care he needed in her absence, after kissing his curls, profusely, Mrs. Elden-Beck finally tore herself away and drove off in her MGB. She'd also left me her work number, just in case I had any questions.
Once she was gone, Perry set the breakfast tray aside and insisted having a shower. I offered to give him another sponge bath like I had the day before, but he was too intent on having the real thing.
Only because it would have to seem strange to his father and Camille, did I not volunteer to assist him. Since Wyeth already knew about us, we didn't have to worry about hiding from him. Anyway, if Perry still felt so ill as to require my attendance, it wouldn't even have occurred to him to shower. I sent him off with his dressing gown and perched on the foot of the bed to watch TV while I waited for him to return, so I could shower next. Within moments, I alarmed when I heard him and Wyeth fighting in the bathroom.
It was disturbing enough that the guy would suddenly provoke his younger brother out of nowhere--especially in light of the sympathetic consideration he'd been demonstrating, the day before. Add to that the fact that such peculiar behavior from Perry was unprecedented, as far as my experience with him. The only time we'd ever fought was over Phoebe's phone number and I had to admit, I'd acted much more aggressive than he had.
I rushed to the bathroom. The door was shut. Inside, I heard them arguing, voices muffled. Still, between coughs, I understood Perry yelling at his brother to "Get the fuck out!"
Seizing the knob I found it unlocked and threw it open. Neither of them seemed surprised by my entrance, though they did cease arguing. Perry proceeded to cough, uncontrollably.
Wyeth, likewise in his pajamas, tried to take Perry's shoulders, but was hastily shrugged off. "Is that how it is?" Wyeth countered.
Advancing, I demanded, "What the fuck is going on?"
"Don't just stand there, you git." Wyeth regarded me. "Turn on the steam. That's what he's needing."
Whether or not a fight was ensuing, he was right. I went immediately to the shower and turned the hot tap on.
"Close the door," Wyeth said calmly. "You'll let all the steam out."
Wondering how the hell he had the nerve to order me around, I busied myself adjusting the tap and showerhead. "You close it. You're not doing anything."
"I'm getting Perry ready to shower, can't you see?"
The moment he took his brother's shirt to unbutton it, Perry shot to my side, crashing into me. "Get the fuck out of here," he ordered Wyeth, again, struggling not to cough. "I told you, already."
Momentarily, Wyeth hesitated then headed for the door. "We'll talk about this later." Leaving, he shut it behind him.
"What the hell is his problem?" I asked, tempering the hot water from the cold tap.
Bending over, Perry held his abdomen and coughed so hard I thought he might very well throw up, after all. He didn't, though, then managed to control his coughing enough to answer. "Bloody hell, my belly's getting sore. It's just that...sometimes...Wyeth can be a real arsehole."
"I gathered that," I admitted, thinking of how Wyeth had challenged me the night before last, in the emergency room. "But, yesterday, he acted like he couldn't do enough for you. What did he say?"
Seeing Perry struggle to undress, I immediately assisted. I found the front of his pajama pants to be wet.
In explanation, he supplied, "I wazzed the floor, on accident. I'll mop it up when I get done showering."
I'd learned what that term meant some time ago. Glancing toward the toilet, I saw the lid up and a puddle on the tile, on far side of it. Though I was confused, I couldn't help but be aroused when his pajama pants dropped to floor, rendering my mate otherwise completely naked. "Why? Was he harassing you while you were pissing?"
Scoffing, Perry held the wall to carefully step into the tub.
Doubly confused by that answer, I shut the curtain, then draped the pajama pants over the edge of the hamper, and the shirt, within. "Don't worry about the floor," I said, placing a towel over the puddle. "I'll get it. Give me a second to get my dressing gown so I can shower, too."
"Wait! Don't leave--! Okay, but don't dally."
In the hallway, Mr. Elden-Beck had apparently confronted Wyeth about the fight, as well. His father had risen earlier, and was already casually dressed. They were standing before Wyeth's closed bedroom door, engaged in discussion.
"He's just out of sorts," Wyeth explained. "Being sick and all. I offered to him help and he stubbornly insisted he didn't need any."
Judiciously, his father wasn't buying it. "What the hell are you doing, winding him up when you know he's ill? What kind of crap is that? If you can't treat your brother properly, then stay away from him."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Dad--"
"Don't sass me. I know damn well it'd take a hell of a lot more than that to stir him up the way I heard. Now let him be."
Aware that Mr. Elden-Beck had seen me, I slipped off to Perry's room, as soon as Wyeth retreated behind his door. I wasn't certain what to do, since Perry was waiting for me, yet knowing how weird it would look if I went in to shower with him.
Sure enough, their father came to the door and looked in on me. "Hear, now. What the devil's going on? I'm downstairs tending to important business on the telephone, and I hear a row going on upstairs. Mrs. Elden-Beck and I trusted you to look after Perry; what are you doing faffing about in here? The boy's ill, lad. What are you doing leaving him on his own for his brother to harass? Come about."
Thoroughly confused, I leapt off the foot of the bed and switched off the silent TV. "I-I thought I'd shower right after Perry, so I came to get my dressing gown. But, I would never have thought--"
"Right after? Are you mad? Grab your dressing gown. As long as you're planning to shower, too, get in there with him, man. I'll not have my boy pass out in the middle of his bath!"
Awe-struck, I raced after Mr. Elden-Beck with my bathrobe to do exactly as told. While I quickly stripped, through the shower curtain, he briefly explained to Perry why I'd be joining him, then left us.
I have to admit, Perry looked pretty surprised when I stepped into the bathtub with him. Neither of us were about to turn down his father's consent to shower together. And as Perry had recovered from his coughing fit and seemed to have improved from the day before, I had a hard time restraining myself to strictly bathing.
PERRY
FRIDAY--DECEMBER 25
Every Christmas, we'd have dinner with Dad's side of the family. It was the only time of the year we saw them. Boxing Day, we'd spend with Mum's family.
We viewed Christmas dinners at my paternal grandparents' estate with increasing ambivalence over the years. Starting around late September to early October, Dad would fret and grumble about buying appropriate gifts. Fortunately, I'd been away at school the past two falls and missed most of that. Then, once Wyeth and I had reached the ages where we had to be on our best manners, and our cousins began to act like snobs, we'd come to appreciate the stuffy, formal affairs even less.
By Christmas day, I was well enough to make the trip, even if I may have preferred to miss it. Both Fox and Cammie were invited to come with us, of course. Despite my cuddling with him, he'd not come down with so much as a sniffle. Nor had anyone else, which was all very well with me; I would have felt like hell if I'd someone had had to spend Christmas day suffering fevers, on account of me. Cammie had gone to her parents' Christmas Eve, and would be back in time to present herself as Wyeth's date.
For Fox, I tried not to depict the dinner as dull and uncomfortable as they could be; I already knew his company, alone, would make all the difference in the world. Particularly so because me and Wyeth still weren't getting on.
That morning, we'd all opened our gifts by the Christmas tree. While I thoroughly enjoyed the astonishment on Fox's face upon the receipt of his presents, the mood was much more subdued in my brother. Wyeth and I had hardly spoken to each other since our row. That had suited me fine at first, but it was Christmas day--not a time for us to be feuding. Furthermore, I couldn't stand the idea of going our separate ways after holiday without reaching an understanding with him.
If he'd just acted like a prick and lost his temper, it would have been a lot easier. I could have just treated him like the prick he was, in turn. It wasn't that Wyeth was just pissed--he was hurt and brooding. He seldom ever got that way. He had better than all the self-assurance, strength of character, and pluck than most blokes in his position might. Coming from two different sociological classes of family, we were naturally were rejected by both. That had never bothered him, though, and having grown up under the shelter of his casual, cocky attitude, it had taken me years to realize any significant differences existed between our snotty classmates and us. So, to see him hurt and brooding disturbed me.
When he gathered up the discarded boxes to take out to the bin, I slipped away from Fox a moment, to follow. I hardly had time to pull a jacket on, from the downstairs closet.
Seeing he'd dropped some rubbish, I picked it up on the way. "Wyeth," I said.
He paused to look up. "What you want?"
The vapor from our warm breath lingered in the cold air; I hoped I wouldn't start coughing. "The other day...I came off like a right bastard...That was fucked..."
"You just now figured that out?" he posed sarcastically, snatching the rubbish from me to stuff into the bins.
I looked away.
"And? Are you just apologizing, or what?"
"I owed you that, didn't I?"
When I hesitated, he exhaled impatiently. "You'd better get back inside before you catch your death standing out here. I've got more concern for your health than your boyfriend does."
"Would you quit blaming him for everything? It was my fault, too, you know. I told you as much."
Covering the bins, he promptly tried to steer me toward the back door.
"Why'd you think I came out here in the freezing cold?" I said, standing my ground. "I owe you more than that. A hell of a lot more. That's why I came out here."
As he was wearing nothing heavier than a flannel shirt thrown over a thermal, he put his hands in his pockets, gaze sweeping down me. "It's all very easy to pretend to make amends when there's no time to prove you're not talking crap. This isn't merely about trying to smooth things over for appearances' sake at dinner tonight, is it?"
"Fuck appearances. Since when have I ever given a damn about appearances? It's Christmas. You're my brother."
Reaching to me, he drew my collar up and covered my chest a little better. "Think you can do something about your bodyguard--?" Suddenly distracted, he fixed his gaze toward the corner of the house. "Speak of the devil..."
I looked, too.
The peevish expression on Fox's pretty face was priceless. Not only that, he was wearing the new leather jacket I'd bought and had wrapped on our London trip, and therefore presented a picture that was all the more stunning.
"It's kind of cold out here," he remarked, as he approached. "You're just getting over bronchitis, Perry; the last thing you want is a relapse."
"We were just coming back inside," I assured him.
He waited, leaving me no choice but to accompany him to the back door.
"Why were you two fighting?" he asked quietly. "You never did tell me."
And hadn't meant to, either. From what he'd told me about his relationship with his sister, I didn't think he could never fathom the complexities between and my brother and me. It seemed that though he'd regarded her as a playmate, she was still his charge to be looked after. That wasn't how it was between Wyeth and me; we were mates, above all else. Sure, he looked after me as I did my best to do the same for him. But, we were mates first and always would be. As I'd discovered, that didn't mean I could go on sharing everything with him. "Nothing much. I was just in a bad way--not myself, and all...I overreacted and was sorry for it. I had to apologize."
"Just the same." Fox opened the back door for me. "I wanted to make sure you guys weren't killing each other out here."
In the afternoon, Mum and I set up her 35 mm camera in the drawing room for the traditional Christmas family photos. It gave her a thrill to see us all dressed up in formal attire at once, so she was always sure to take the family portraits then, with the stockings on the mantle and the rest of the Yuletide decorations as background. She'd started the tradition with Wyeth's first Christmas and had photos from every year, since.
By late afternoon, we'd showered again, shaved neatly, and were preparing to go. Fox wasn't relenting an inch as my bodyguard, as Wyeth had observed. The odd part was that my brother had never tolerated anyone's attempt to monopolize my time like I allowed Fox to do, before. Unless it was by a mate who was strictly heterosexual. Then Wyeth didn't care. That he didn't bring one of his knives after Fox to quietly threaten to cut his balls off was a first. My brother had a couple of beautiful Sheffield blades--no feeble little jackknives or stilettos for him. He'd used them several times to chase blokes off from me. Thus, I tried to be cautious about how I presented my mates. Once he'd discovered that I ceased informing him about my prospective male sex partners, he stopped being so hostile. But, he had to meet my mates to determine if they met his criteria and if they did, he'd want at them, too. That was where I'd drawn the line with Fox. Had Wyeth come after him, if I'd had to thrash the bloody hell out of my brother, I would have. Though my brother's fighting skills were impressive, I had no doubt, with what I knew Fox to be capable of and the fact that I was taller than both of them, we could easily have taken Wyeth down.
Once Fox was properly dressed, I couldn't get over him. I thought he was lovely in his sub-fusc, but he was even more so in the tux Mum and Dad had seen to for the occasion. One thing about my parents--they weren't a couple of farty old sods. Mum's sense of style was always superb and spot on and Dad well appreciated it. While I straightened out Fox's tie and smoothed the shoulders and lapels of his jacket, I had a daft wish that I could dance with him after Christmas dinner, in the ballroom. "You look downright smashing," I told him.
"Thanks," he said, then went about fixing my tie and jacket and arranging my curls all the way down to my collar and shoulders. "You look pretty damn smashing, yourself."
There was a knock on the door, which we'd left about an inch ajar. Instantly, we backed from each other. Mum looked in. She wore a resplendent formal dress of velvet, her hair pinned up, except for a few strands which she'd kept wrapped in curlers all day to make sure they'd spiral by dinnertime. She'd always envied the curly hair my dad and I had inherited.
A long time back, I'd learned that the beauty I saw in her wasn't merely subjective; my mates had always carried on about her looks. When she dressed up, she was more spectacular than ever. For some reason, she was holding her 35 mm Canon with the flash attachment, despite the fact that we'd already set up other camera in the sitting room.
"Oh, my," she said quietly, putting a hand to her heart and looking faint. "You're both so beautiful, it makes my heart skip a beat."
While Fox blushed over the compliment, Mum shut the door behind her and crossed the room to switch on another light.
"What you doing?" I asked, confused.
"Taking your picture, silly. What's it look like?"
"But, downstairs--"
"That's different. I want the two of you. Together."
As I was used to Mum popping up with crazy ideas for photos, I figured this was just another one. I sighed. "How do you want us, then?"
"Me?" Fox queried. "Why would you want to take a picture of me? I'm not family."
"Don't be silly," Mum further chided. "You're Perry's mate."
"So?" he went on. "You should see all the mates he has at Oxford--at least a million."
I couldn't help but laugh. Sure, I had them, but I'd never had a mate like Fox.
"Oh, I'm sure he does," Mum replied, gesturing at a spot for us to stand at, then peered through the viewfinder. "He's always been a very popular lad."
"Then," Fox tried, "you take pictures of all his friends?"
"Not at all," Mum dismissed. "Only the special ones."
Beside me, Fox shifted nervously, seeming ready to edge out of the frame. "Are you sure you want me in the picture?"
"Now, don't just stand there like a couple of twits," she said. "Hold each other."
Feeling a bit awkward, we attempted to casually comply. I draped my arm around Fox to his opposite shoulder, and I felt him take my waist, lightly.
"No, no, no," she admonished. "Cor, but I should've brought some mistletoe. I want to see you really hold each other like you do when no one's about. I want to see you kiss like--"
I about had a fit. Instantly, Fox and I shot to opposite sides of the room.
"Now, don't take on with me," she rebuffed, waving at us to get close, again. "I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. It's all very well with me. And I swear on my soul if you two don't make the most adorable couple."
--End--
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to XScribe
|
Home · Quick Search · Advanced Search · Submissions · F A Q · Contact |
|