“Usually George would want to take this assignment,” Sir Walter, the London male brothel procurer, said to Gabriel when he called him into his office. “It would be an opportunity George would jump at, but Mr. Jones’s driver is downstairs and he wants a boy from now through the night and he wants the boy now. I’m sending you. Just as well George isn’t here. He’s not fourteen, and the man wants a boy.”
George wasn’t really one of Sir Walter’s stable of male whores--he was Sir Walter’s boyfriend--but George was a poet and the client was a novelist.
“Mr. Jones?” Gabriel asked, somewhat amused. “That’s his name?”
“Of Course not, but he’s important enough not to want people to know he diddles boys. So, it will be Mr. Jones unless he tells you otherwise. The driver is outside, and Mr. Jones won’t want him idling out there long either, so off you go. Oh, you should know that he requested someone who would take the fist and a double.”
“Of course,” Gabriel muttered. “Don’t they all want a young boy who will do everything?”
Mr. Jones’s flat was in another one of those rich-looking crescent townhouse curves off of Belgrave Square. It was a penthouse flat, and the flat itself was in stark contrast to the stately historical structure it was in. The driver, a solidly built, foul-mouthed, ruddy complexioned lower-class thug who was stocky and built close to the ground, let Gabriel into the flat with the comment, “He’s not here yet. Make yourself comfortable, but don’t even think of pocketing anything.”
In the same vein, the driver, who had made lewd comments, if in general rather than directly to the boy whore coming on an assignment, had inspected the contents the small suitcase Gabriel brought with him, saying, “I’ll look in here when you leave too, so don’t get any ideas about putting anything in here you didn’t come with.”
Upon instruction, Gabriel had brought evening clothes, sexy mesh underdrawers, and a pair of sleeping shorts. Going through the suitcase, the driver suggested, pushing his tongue against the inside of his mouth and making a popping sound, that Gabriel should put on the sleeping shorts, so Mr. Jones wouldn’t have as much to contend with in taking it off.
“That be the sound of your male cherry popping,” the driver said, and then laughed.
“That’s no longer a worry for me,” Gabriel answered back. For some reason he liked this crude man and his banter.
“All the good for you, then. Some of the boys he sends for can’t say the same until they’ve left here. He’ll fuck you before going to the theatre,” the driver said. “He’s got a good cock on him. He’ll stretch a little bird like you to the limit. I guess, though, that’s why he goes for the boys. May name’s Syd, by the way. You need anything I got, don’t be shy about asking.” The look the driver gave Gabriel was self-explanatory.
So much for whether the driver knew why he was here, Gabriel thought. “If I could afford you I’d fuck you myself before taking you back to the whorehouse,” the driver added, with a wink. Syd was a hunk and a half, short but solid--muscular. He also was younger than most of the clients Gabriel had been lying under. Gabriel wouldn’t have minded being fucked by him.
The flat seemed to be one large room, with all glass walls toward the back of the building and to one side, where a terrace courtyard had been carved out of what once must have been part of the original building. Areas inside the flat were delineated by furnishings as living room, dining area, and kitchen, but there were no walls between them. It was all very modern. There was a kitchen bar between the appliances and the dining area. It took Gabriel a minute to find the winding staircase that went down to the level under this one. The place was deserted.
The staircase took the boy down to the bedroom level, which contained more living space than the upper level. Gabriel found four bedrooms, each with a bath, and a study or office. Two of the bedrooms--the obvious master bedroom and the smallest one--had men’s trappings in them. Mr. Jones and the driver? Gabriel wondered. He presumed he wasn’t supposed to explore as far as the office, as the walls here blasted the Mr. Jones identification out of the water. There were photographs and award plaques on the wall. If the memorabilia belonged to the owner, this flat belonged to Spencer Reardon, the best-selling novelist--Sir Spencer Reardon now, according to the most recent awards. Gabriel now understood why George Smythe would be upset he wasn’t sent here. George, the poet, would give anything to meet the novelist.
Gabriel looked at the photos, picking out which one would be of Reardon. No, he thought, he wouldn’t be displeased by being fucked by this man.
Gabriel picked out one of the bedrooms that didn’t seem to be occupied and unloaded the suitcase he’d brought.
At nearly 5:00 p.m., he was sitting on a living room sofa facing north and watching the colored lights in the terrace courtyard go on and play in the water of a narrow exercise pool running along the far wall. As suggested, he was wearing only the cobalt-blue silk sleeping shorts he’d brought, which fit him, but were designed to ride low on the hips and high above the knees.
He turned his head toward the door to the apartment when the lock was turned and it opened and then Gabriel sucked in breath as Spencer Reardon entered. He was all that his press photographs promised: tall; slender; perfectly proportioned; gray hair; slight beard; everything perfectly trimmed; elegantly dressed; carrying himself like the model that he obviously essentially had been throughout a life in the spotlight.
He smiled, said hello, and noted in a honey-toned voice, “You must be my date for tonight. Gabriel Hardy, is it?”
It wasn’t. He was Gabriel Beaventon. Hardy was his mother’s name. But it wouldn’t have been wise to use the Beaventon name, as it was well-known in royal circles. And Gabriel didn’t want his father to find him. He’d just send the boy back to Rugby, the torture chamber boy’s school the Baron von Sternburg had saved Gabriel from only to turn him over to Sir Walter’s male brothel in London.
“I’m Robert Jones.” Obviously he didn’t want his true name known either. Gabriel, of course, was fine with going with that. He had a patrician English accent, although Gabriel gathered from what he saw in the office downstairs that he originally was Australian. The accent was the type that was used on London theatre stages.
Gabriel stood up from the sofa as Reardon moved across the room toward him, giving the boy an appraising scrutiny as he moved, his smile indicating that he liked what he saw--which Gabriel assumed he would. Gabriel kept himself finely honed, while being careful to maintain a boyish body. It was quite an effort to do so and involved rigorous and organized exercise since he’d entered the brothel.
“I see you’ve settled in. I hope you found yourself at home.”
“Yes, thanks, I did ... I do,” Gabriel answered.
“It’s been a busy day so far. We’ll have to be on our way at seven. But we have time for a drink. I’m having red wine. What would you like? I’ll let you have wine.” It was a recognition that Gabriel was but a boy still.
“Just water, thank you.”
“Ah, I do suppose that a boy whore is like a model--that you have to continually watch your figure. You can’t muscle of too much, can you, or your clients will have lost the sensation that they are fucking a boy.”
This knocked Gabriel back a bit. Along with the concession that he was a boy had come the raw statement that he was a whore.
Reardon had said that while he was in the kitchen area getting the drinks. When he came out, he handed Gabriel a glass of water, took a sip of his wine, and sat down close beside the boy on the sofa.
“Really, you can have wine if you wish. It won’t cause me to feel that I’m not fucking a boy.”
“The water is fine,” Gabriel said. He felt a tingling sensation all over. He rather liked this raw language from a man who looked so refined.
“And I could continually watch your figure as well,” Reardon continued. “Very good shape you’re in, I’m happy to say. You’ve kept the look of a boy. When I asked for a boy, I wasn’t thinking how small you might be, though. How small are you down there? Can you take a big cock? I hope there won’t be any trouble--”
“There won’t be any trouble,” Gabriel said. “You may think there is at that beginning, but I’ll open to you.”
“I hope not too quickly,” he said. “I like a tight fit at first. But, yes, for my needs you have to open a good bit. I like the feeling of the boy opening up big for me. Do you mind if I check what I’m paying for?”
“No, of course not,” Gabriel answered in a breathy voice. “As you said, you’re paying to do whatever you want.”
The man was being refreshingly direct. Most of the patricians Gabriel had been servicing liked to cover their lust with indirect comments. It was refreshing to have a man--one who looked this good for his age--be this bald about what they were going to do. Perhaps it was because he was a writer--and maybe because he was an Australian. While Gabriel was thinking these thoughts, Reardon was acting on them. With the wine glass in one hand, Reardon had the other hand high up the inside of one of the legs of Gabriel’s sleeping shorts, weighing the boy’s balls and fondling his engorging cock.
“Do you want me to take the shorts off?” Gabriel asked, with a small smile.
.... There is more of this story ...