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.