Chapter 8: James, the Pavilion at Stanton Reach, Malaya

As the sky split asunder and the wind howled, I ripped Damian’s clothes off him. We might both die tonight in the deluge, with the sizzle of a lightning strike on the fragile pavilion. All those concerns about family, jobs, society, were suddenly irrelevant, however. Now all that mattered was the heat that was exploding inside me at being alone with him—of him knowing what I wanted, what I needed, what I would have from him. He looked afraid of the storm, and of me, and I would wipe the fear off his face. There was no place for him to go, no place for him to hide. He needed this fuck. I knew it, and he knew it.

He put up a momentary struggle—no doubt wracked with guilt over his sister’s honor. But the struggle was weak, ineffectual. I knew it was token, that he wanted this as much as I did. He subsided into sobs as I ripped the boy’s clothes away.

His body surrendered to me, quivering, wanting to be mastered, to be transported. He screamed in shock and pain, as, too fraught with need and the long wait, I flung him down on his back on the rattan table in the center of the pavilion, backhanded him once across the face to stun him, and then roughly pried his thighs apart and plunged my engorged, throbbing, cock into what I believed to be his virgin hole, my hands grasping his lean hips. But he roughly pulled me down to his chest as I entered him.

I paused then, the thunder shaking the lacey pavilion walls. I was in, I had possessed him. He was mine. Now I could gaze down at the look of surrender on his face and kiss his willing lips, as I waited till he adjusted to me, before I began to slide in and out of his center, making him mine forever. I was going to send him to paradise; he was going to know what he had missed all these months that he had been shying away from what we felt. Him afraid of his hunger for me, of society’s judgment. Me afraid of ruining my whole world by pushing him toward the inevitable.

Now, as the thunder rolled across the heavens, and lightning cracked and shook the wooden frame of the pavilion, we became one, joined, melded, consumed by the heat of the fuck. As we attained a rhythm of the fuck, we were both panting and moaning, and the storm passed and the wildness of Malaya went silent around us and held its collective breath in anticipation of the long-awaited climax. He had finally adjusted to me, and a look of wonder and passion began to transform his face as I plowed him, deeper and deeper and with faster and faster strokes.

Right before I ejaculated, long after Damian had arched his back and trembled and come, I saw his eyes turn from me and dilate. I turned my face as well and saw, across the lake, leaning against a veranda pillar of the overseer’s bungalow—Bradford Blandin, silently watching, attesting to the total taking of Damian.