Blessed Be the Merciful
by Rafael Henry
Chapter 8
'How's Peter?' Henry asks, as we sit in the car, parked at the far end of the carpark at Holywell Bay.
'He's fine. He's got a match this afternoon.'
'You two still getting on well?'
'Yes thanks.'
'Still involved?'
'Yes, just about. I think he's broadened his circle a bit.'
'Is that good?'
'Yes I think so. It doesn't change it for me though.'
'But does it change it for him?'
'We'll have to see. Not so far. He still……..'
'He still needs you?'
'There's no appropriate answer that I can immediately think of to that question. Henry goes on……
'And there's the question of your needs Jamie. I don't think they should be ignored.'
And then, without thinking, I just said it……..
'And yours too.'
I'm not in school uniform. We are allowed to parade in summer shorts [winter or summer] and one casual jumper of the colour of our choice. Such amazing freedom indeed. When Henry had picked me up outside the cinema, as arranged, he had commented.
'You look very nice today Jamie.'
That's the idea. To look interesting for Henry. I heard older boys refer to shorts like these as 'shagging shorts', the kind you can get down fast and easy, and the kind that queer folk such as I wear that show how brief your knickers are. They are the kind of shorts, thin material, revealingly semi-transparent, that small boys are seen in who have nothing much to reveal, apart from their innate beauty. I know already that what Henry regards as my innate beauty comes out of my body, roughly half way down, and at the front. I have also worked out that Henry knows that there's a part of my anatomy that goes in rather than sticks out. I know that he has something I want, which I have yet to see, or feel, that might, just might, give me a sensation far beyond my current understanding. Teach me O Lord, that flaxen hair is dust!
On the back seat with the front seats as far forward as they will go, there's room, just. I've wriggled into a nice position on Henry's lap with his hands on my bare thighs. I remember one of my first encounters with Peter, sitting in a chair and him wanting to plant his weight on me. It wasn't long, as Peter wriggles into a position that he feels comfortable with, that his fresh length of boy-equipment pushes up into his pants as hard as they come, so to speak, with mine in a similar state pushing elsewhere. One of these days!
It was a lovely session with Henry, energy released from my fully charged state, twice, and now running on empty, more or less, for a few hours.
'There was just a thin bit of cloth between you and a great deal of pleasure for me young man.' Henry observes.
'Yes, it must be very frustrating for you. So near yet so far.' I joke. 'Can we walk for a while please?' I ask, still lying on Henry who is suggesting with his hands that he needs to be relieved of the weight on top of him.
'I don't think I can Jamie. I have had a near event, Sorry.'
Henry helped me pull up my pants and shorts after I had levered myself off his body and into the space next to him. I could see what he meant by 'a near event'. I had been lifting and lowering, pushing and pressing, and wriggling from side to side, trying to get as much purchase on Henry as I possibly could. I was also aware of his movement too, and wishing that we were fully skin to skin. The dark patch over the front of his pants must be a couple of square inches in area and close to the waistband. The thin white fabric had become transparent and I could see quite clearly the sculpted form that had been responsible for the existence of my beloved Peter. He gives me that resigned look. Suddenly I'm finding the prospect of an 'older man' rather interesting…..attractive in fact. I'm thinking back to Mr Drew, a very appropriate name for my art teacher wouldn't you say…….drew, past tense of draw? Ho ho. I could quite fancy him too.
'Sorry. Was that my fault?' I say, smiling, just as a thoroughly inappropriate unsuitable thought enters my head……..well, don't let a thin piece of cloth come between us next time. But I don't say it.
'I believe it was Jamie. I'm afraid you are way too lively. See what you've done?'
'So that was a near miss? Such a waste too. There must be zillions of potential Peters in there.' I say, gesturing towards the still perky object. Can you remember making him?'
'Yes, pretty much. But it doesn't work like that with the males of the species Jamie. It might feel roughly the same but the result is rather different.'
I'm sensing that we might be embarking on an interesting topic of conversation here.
'So is it nicer to do it, or be done to……do you think?'
'I think it would very much depend on who you are with. If I am with you, as I am now, there's no doubt in my mind. I would like to give you pleasure while I take mine.'
'Would I get pleasure from it?'
'I'm guessing now, but I suspect you would Jamie.'
'And getting all those tiny Peters in me. That would be nice. Would I feel them swimming about inside me?'
'No, I don't think so. But you would know when they were coming.'
'How?'
'I would tell you.'
'Where are they now?'
'Waiting to come out.'
'And be wasted?'
'It's never a waste darling.'
'Can I see him. The thing that made Peter?'
'Of course.'
The Thing That Made Peter. Henry is showing me now. It's nothing like as hairy as I was expecting, or as big. I suppose one imagines at my tender age that all adult Things are huge, and hairy, but there's very little of it in this example of a thirty-three-year-old Thing. Unlike mine it has no extra skin covering the end, so the sculpted head is fully exposed, and according to my aesthetic sensitivities, bloody perfect. A couple of minutes ago it had shrunk somewhat in size, but now it looks as hard and inflated as they get. Henry's balls that appear to move by themselves, look compact and hard too, and again, not that big. Like his balls, the Thing performs little jumps and involuntary twitches. I suppose mine does and do the same. Peter's do, or did. They churn when he's excited. Very strange indeed.
'Can I feel them?'
'Of course you can. Try not to tickle, so be firm with them. You won't hurt me. If you do, I'll tell you.'
I am firm with them. When I squeeze the hard Thing, it barely gives at all. I squeeze even harder this time and again, there's no give in it, or very little. About the third time I move my hand that surrounds it, starting from the base and moving up slowly to the business end, like the way I do it myself, the same clear viscous fluid emerges. I play with it with the soft pad of my thumb. Henry looks on.
'What is that Henry…..exactly?'
'Very clever stuff. It clears out any debris inside which might degrade the sperm and make it less potent inside the woman's privates, shortly before the main event occurs.'
How queer!
Our conversation continues while all this is going on. Henry wants to know if we kiss, Peter and I. I tell him we always do. It turns us on. I know what he's getting round to asking me. He wants to know if we have ever attempted 'sex', whatever that word means at it's extremity. I told him that it was going that way when we were both together in the bath tub at the Rectory a couple of weekends ago, but we hadn't managed to join ourselves together.
'So have you ever?'
'No, was my next honest answer, wondering what his next question might be. What he said surprised me.
'Peter has no mother. Did you know that? I thought I had better mention it. Peter lives with me. He needs to live away in term-time because I have a busy life, but in holiday times, he's with me almost all the time. We go to the same place every summer, an apartment in a large house in Dinard. That's on the western Normandy coast in France. Would you like to come for a few weeks?'
It's a no-brainer if ever there was one. I will have eight weeks stuck in the rambling Rectory that my father can't keep up, whilst getting stressed by a number of his nutcase parishioners. We've been there ten years and they are still saying the last vicar was better than this one. Take me to Dinard please, or anywhere. I don't care if it's the biggest dump in France, it's still better than eight weeks behind thick granite walls with just dreams and my dick to play with.
'There's just one other thing. Peter has asked me if he can bring another boy along. His name is Leon. Do you know him?'
That came as a shock. I know that Peter's crush on me, or whatever you might want to call it, has cooled of late, much to my dismay. Fair enough, he's younger than me by a mile and he's entitled to hang out with a boy more his age. I don't know Leon, but I've noticed him, notably at the swimming gala recently. He's currently wafer thin, but he'll fill out in time. Having said that, he's what I would call an elegant boy, very dark eyes and long eye lashes, and almost black hair that goes where it will with a charming sort of tuft of spikes on top, and all neatly trimmed at the sides. Somehow his ultra-slender arms and legs compliment his rather beautifully formed head and face. His short trousers, even the lightweight cotton ones they wear in summer, don't give any indication of what is contained within. I also noticed that he has large feet and hands, what my mother would call piano playing fingers. I would have expected Peter to take up with a hearty and sporty type, but Leon is certainly not that. He's definitely what the boys at school would call an aesthete, as opposed to those appalling hearty types that smell of sweat and are disgustingly hairy. I have to admit that the little I currently have gets removed. What with my little boy haircut, I can pass for a boy three years younger. Abel told me that.
I've recently been looking at Giacometti's sculptures. They are those elongated figures, some tiny, that all look the same, but I love them. Mr Drew took us to the Royal Academy last term to see a show of his sculptures and paintings. I have thought already that I would very much like to use Leon as a model, but that's rather a long way off at this juncture.
I told Henry I was sure that my parents would agree to his invitation to holiday in France. Why wouldn't they? He gave me a long hug at this news.
'I think you will like Dinard and the apartment Jamie. It overlooks the beach. It has two bedrooms and a very large reception room with tall windows you can open like doors with a veranda outside with chairs. A nice place to sip cocktails and do a spot of people watching below. I use the master bedroom and the three of you can share the other. It's quite big. There's a double bed in there plus a single. I'm thinking that Peter and Leon should share the double as Leon seems to be the new kid on the block, so to speak. What do you think? I'm sorry if this is a shock to you? I had to tell you. They seem to be getting on rather well. Try not to be too upset?'
At that moment I didn't know what to think, apart from the opportunities that those arrangements could present? I've been dumped effectively but not known it. Poo. It has taken Peter's father to tell me. Shit. Shit shit shit. Oh well, I knew anyway really, but it still hurts.
When Henry drops me back in town a five-minute walk from school, I'm still tingling all over. So much has happened in the last few days that I'm struggling to gather it all up and make sense of it. With an hour to spare and needing to think about nothing much, I decide to wander over to the Arts block. I want to have another look at my sculpture of Peter, if I may call it that. As I open the door to the 3D studio I see Leon in there, sitting alone at a table, pencil in hand, and my model of Peter in front of him. His fine charcoal drawing of my ex-boyfriend cast in plaster is very expressive, and in my view, exquisite. I'm pleased now that there will be a menage-a-trois in Dinard, or perhaps a menage a quatre even, or more likely, just a menage-a-deux…..Peter and Leon kissing and cuddling in bed, morning noon and night, with me the glum and frustrated wall flower making do with a silent wank in the single bed. Poo again. I would gladly warm Henry's bed each night in preference to that kind of suffering, but what boy needs to know that his father is fucking his erstwhile best friend in the next room? Not many I suspect, quite rightly. Perhaps this holiday is not such a good idea!
Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.
[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]
* Some browsers may require a right click instead
