Joe knew his unit shouldn’t have entered the Scharzwald this close to dusk. The doughboys had been picked off one by one by the Huns, hidden in the trees. But Joe knew someone must get through and warn the big brass. He was the last one alive. He had to press on; he could not fail. This could be the turning point. The Yanks and all of their loved ones across the sea who depended on them to prevail over Old Fritz could be saved if the warning of the impending German troop movements got to the American lines in time.
They saw each other at the same moment as Joe splashed out of a shallow creek; the German soldier was as surprised to see Joe as Joe was to see him. A moment of shock during which it registered with Joe that the German was just a boy, a young and scared boy, no older than fourteen, dressed in tatters that barely covered his body. Could he possibly be an enemy? He was beautiful boy and was shaking like a leaf. Could Joe possibly take advantage of that? Was he sent here to hunt young, vulnerable boys? Could that ever be the right thing to do? In the moment of indecision, the boy raised his ancient two-barreled pistol and sent a bullet whizzing through the material of Joe’s uniform sleeve.
An overload of sensations: surprise, slight pain from the bullet nicking his arm, the sound of the misfiring click of the second chamber of the boy’s pistol, and a new, ominous sound--harsh snuffling and snorting and thrashing about in the underbrush beside the creek. A huge wolf, a magnificent creature, really, broke into the small clearing Joe had been caught in and stood, menacingly between the American doughboy and the young German Hun, his great muzzle turning from one to the other, trying to decide which direction to pounce. With a little cry, the trembling German boy slipped from his precarious perch in the tree and fell to the ground. The wolf was upon him in a flash, tearing at the boy’s tattered clothes with sharp fangs. Awakened from his paralysis by this new, more worthy, better-defined foe, Joe whipped a long-bladed knife from the sheath at his thigh and fell upon the wolf, slicing and stabbing the beast relentlessly--man against the natural elements, a suddenly clear-cut understanding of the point of the struggle of man.
The battle was furious but short, and once more man was triumphant. With a mighty heave, Joe thrust the carcass of the magnificent wolf aside. The German boy was gashed and his clothes lay on his bruised and trembling body in shreds that no long covered him decently--but he still breathed and his eyes were filled with panic and fear as they looked up at the panting American doughboy standing over him with raised and bloody knife. Joe...
“Jules! Jules! Jules Kincaid, where have you crept off to? Oh there you are. Come in this instant and go to your room. You can see what time it is.”
Yeah, right, Jules thought. Time for one of those men to come and start playing hide the sausage with you. With a sigh, Jules left off writing his story, closed his tablet, and slid back into the shabby little Kincaid living room from the Chicago tenement fire escape. The fire escape and his stories were Jules’s escape from the sordid world he and his mother had been propelled into by the death of his father the previous summer.
Where would he have taken the story if he’d been permitted to continue to write? Hormones were raging in the fourteen-year-old boy. He was hard and had been fingering himself. He would have to be careful with what showed if he encountered his mother in the hall.
Questions and feelings concerning his sexuality and his preferences were coursing through his veins. Would he have the American soldier dispatch the enemy with his knife, even though he was just a trembling, vulnerable fourteen-year-old boy? Or would he have the soldier let the boy scramble off in an escape, or would he take the boy back behind the lines as captive? Would the he hesitate a moment too long and the boy would lift his pistol and shoot the American soldier dead? Or would this be another written story Jules would have to hide from his mother. Would the soldier go down on his knees, hold his knife to the boy’s throat and just take the boy? What would “take the boy” mean? And feel like?
Jules knew he shouldn’t have such thoughts, that he certainly shouldn’t write such thoughts, that he shouldn’t let such thoughts make him hard at his age. But he had several stories spun out that way hidden away. And such thoughts and his writing gave him pleasure. It had made him hard. He knew what he wanted to write, but he didn’t quite have the courage to do so for anyone else to look at yet, to let his wants out of his brain and spill onto the paper and then show it to someone else. He had dreams of having someone he could show the writing to and then who would lie on top of him and help him act out some of what he wrote.
He was hard and touching himself through the material at his crotch. He lifted the pen. Was this the moment he’d cross that line, in his writing, on the page? He’s had a writing teaching tell him about writing that was on more than one level--understood differently by different people. That’s how he wanted to learn to write.
“Jules, hurry up now and go to your room. It’s almost eight o’clock.” Jessica Kincaid sounded more weary than angry. This wasn’t the life she’d planned for either of them. At least Jules had his stories to escape into. All she had was her low-paying receptionist job by day and what she had to do by night to bring in enough to keep the two of them going. All because of Joe. All because of his bravado--and because he’d never learned how to swim.
“Step to, Jules. In your room now. And finish up your homework, or you’ll never finish this year with your honors class. Don’t be spending all of your time on those adventure stories of yours, do ya’ hear?”
Jules heard all right. He heard that hated name, Jules, pounding at him. He certainly heard that. The first thing he was going to do when he reached his eighteenth birthday, three-and-a-half years hence, in the year he’d had his eye on for a decade, 1920, was to get rid of that name, have it legally changed if he could. Reduce it to nothing more than an initial if he couldn’t. But as far as hearing, he could do that better than his mother seemed to think. And he had two good eyes too. Who did she think she was fooling?
There wasn’t a thing wrong with either his hearing or his eyesight an hour later, when, shortly after hearing the knock on the apartment door, he opened the door to his bedroom a crack and saw them doing it on the couch. His mother was on her butt on the sofa, sideways, with her back arched and her shoulders digging into the sofa arm. And her legs were splayed wide. And some big bruiser of a guy was kneeling between her legs with his knees buried in the sofa cushions and that big fat dick of his buried in Jules’s mother. The guy was gruntin’ and groanin’, and Jules heard his mother making all sort of moaning sounds with her mouth. But from where he stood, he could see her eyes. And her eyes were dead and focused on someplace far, far away. This wouldn’t have been happening if those Krauts hadn’t swarmed over his dad--his war hero dad--and gotten the best of him finally after he’d killed hundreds of them. His dad would put a stop to this if he were here. Jules himself was almost fifteen, and he’d learned a thing or two about fighting, but he somehow knew that his mother didn’t want him to intercede. She apparently was doing what she wanted to do. But she sure wouldn’t be doing it if his father were still alive.
Jules’s attention was arrested by the working of the man’s dick inside his mother, the rhythm of the movement as it pushed in and pulled out in concert with the man’s grunts and his mother’s moans. It was almost poetic and was arousing--or would be if it weren’t his own mother who was being worked. He wanted to be where his mother was, lying under the big brunt, the man’s fat cock inside him, Jules, working his channel, pulling the cum up from deep inside Jules’s balls. His hand went to his crotch.
Jules wanted to moan like his mother was moaning.
But then Jules had the most guilty feeling, and he saw now that his mother had seen him watching and that her eyes had become even more dead than before and were brimming over with tears as her mouth formed a silent, wounded scream.
The inevitable confrontation between mother and son the next morning didn’t take the direction that either had envisioned.
Jules caused the floodgates to open by trying to deal with the tension between them--and the reason behind it--indirectly by extolling the war hero exploits and high moral character of his dead father--assuming his mother would get the message without forcing them to talk about what he’d seen. But Jessica was having none of that, although she took her reaction to a place she’d carefully never taken it before. And she surely would not have taken it there now if her world hadn’t been shattered by the undeniable truth of what her son had seen the previously night--and the interest she’d seen in her son’s eyes--a truth that had been there for some time but that she could, until now, pretend wasn’t real because it wasn’t acknowledged.
“God, will you stop this about your father, Jules? Joe wasn’t a war hero. He didn’t even make it to France. His ship sank and he drowned. We aren’t still fighting because some quirk stopped him from saving the world. He died a useless death--and he left you and me with nothing.”
“He loved and protected us and went to France to make the world safe for us,” Jules responded stubbornly, refusing to hear the truth. “He...”
“The only one he loved was himself, Jules. He wanted me until he had me and then I was just another one of his possessions. And it was the same with you. He...” She couldn’t go on; she recoiled in horror at what she’d said. She’d never spoken of her husband to her son like this. Even though she had spoken the truth. She might have said something before now, knowing that Jules was sinking ever deeper into his misconceptions, but Jules was growing up to be so much like his father. She didn’t want to plant any more of Joe’s self-possession and disregard for others in Jules’s brain than was naturally there. She didn’t want Jules to know that his father had had a desire for boys--boys Jules’s age. As far as she was concerned he was best drowned.
Both sat there, staring each other down. Jules still worshipped his father. What he was hearing now wasn’t the warning that his mother intended; it was more like a blueprint.
At length, Jessica changed tack. “It isn’t about last night. I was going to tell you anyway, but now it’s just as well that I did it.”
“Did what?” Jules asked belligerently.
“Last week I was informed that you won the school system’s citywide writing competition. I was going to tell you then, but something else came with the contest win, and I’ve been struggling with it ever since. I think now, though, that it’s the best thing that could happen--for you, certainly.”
Jules was interested now. He actually knew he’d won the contest. And he knew what his mother hadn’t told him. He had been agonizing for days that she would say no, that he would be trapped in this tenement with her and in this sordid life forever. He’d already decided that, if the war lasted that long, he would enlist and go off to the waning fighting in France and Germany if she didn’t agree to the what came with the contest win.
“The novelist, Arthur Brolin, has agreed to take you on as a personal student,” Jessica said. “But he’s leaving for a year’s sabbatical in the South Pacific in late June. If you want to apprentice to him to learn what he can teach you about writing, you’ll have to be gone for a year. You’ll have to leave Chicago. And I can’t come with you. The school, of course, is worried about how young you are. You’re the youngest ever to win the prize. But there’s nothing I’d like to see more than you being freed from ... here” ... she couldn’t bear to add, “and not watching how I make money from men,” but she was thinking it... “and I gave my permission. Mr. Brolin said he was delighted that you won. He said he knew your father, that they were friends.”
Jessica had voiced these stipulations like they were negatives. But they were honey to Jules’s ears. Each and every stipulation. He was free. He was going far, far away from Chicago and his mother, and he was going to study under the novelist, Arthur Brolin! And Mr. Brolin knew his father.
“It’s good, of course,” Arthur Brolin said as he handed the typewritten pages back to his pupil, Jules Kincaid. But he wasn’t looking at the boy and he offered no further comment. He had, of course, seen in the writing Jules’s struggle with his sexual identity. Brolin was struggling with revealing his as well--especially that his weakness was for young, early-teen boys. It was in indulging in this weakness that he had met Jules’s father.
Jules followed his teacher’s gaze out onto the white-sand beach beyond the palm tree line. Sid--their fourteen-year-old Sumatran houseboy, Sidharto--wearing a gaily colored sarong pulled up and tucked into his waistband to escape the foam of the waves, was casting his net into the turquoise-blue surf off the perfect beach. For his year of writing sabbatical, accompanied by his young protégé, Brolin had settled on this beach paradise, just up the coast from the coastal town of Bengkulu, yet so isolated that few came this way. Here, Arthur Brolin was like a king in his domain--and few knew or cared how what he did in his domain.
Brolin sighed, still gazing intently on the rippling muscles of the lithe, diminutive, yet perfectly formed fourteen-year-old houseboy, who was focused on catching their dinner. Jules knew what that sigh was about. He’d heard Brolin fucking the houseboy in the dark of the night in their thatch-covered sprawling hut. Jules had followed the sounds and found them on Sidharto’s mat in the room he was allowed to use during the day, backlit by flickering candles on a steamer trunk beyond the bedding.
The houseboy was on his back, his legs spread and bent, his feet flat on the matting. Brolin was on his knees between the boy’s thighs and hovering over the boy, his fists buried in the matting on either side of Sidharto’s shoulders. The boy was slight, lean, and slim hipped. The man was larger, adventurer muscled, almost overpowering in aspect in this tableau. The boy’s hands were pressing into the man’s bulging pectorals, their faces were close together, periodically meeting for a kiss. The man was big cocked, using the entire length in his slides into a pelvis that looked unable to handle him, but that did.
Sidharto was fucking Brolin as much as Brolin was him. The boy’s pelvis was thrust up and rolled up to receive the shaft, and using the leverage of his feet, Sidharto, who they called Sid, was pushing his pelvis up to meet the thrusting down of Brolin’s cock, taking the shaft in to the hilt with a gasp and a groan before the man slid the hard rod almost all of the way out again, only to begin another long descent into the quick of the boy. There was no question that the boy was willingly receiving the cock. He was reveling in the copulation. The sex was something he craved.
Jules stood there, encouraged by the naturalism of what the two were doing, the pleasure they were giving each other. He took in Sid’s moans and groans as his as well. He watched and worked himself, until, with a series of shudders, gasps, and exclamations, Brolin and Sidharto had satisfied themselves and each other, and then Jules stole back to his bed, also satisfied in the moment, having left his seed on the ground outside the door to Sidharto’s room. But Jules’s frustration of having another man, a man like Brolin, inside him was still out there, an unattained goal.
Jules had no illusions why Brolin had come this far from the American Midwest for his year’s sabbatical of writing. And, now, he also had no illusions about why Brolin had volunteered to bring him along and to mix his own writing with developing the young escapee of the Chicago tenements. He just wished the man would get on with pulling Jules’s virginity out of him.
“It’s good ... but what?” Jules said, waving the pages of his latest attempt at a short story near enough to Brolin’s line of sight to break the man’s concentration on the fishing houseboy.
“It’s good. It’s very good... , “ Brolin answered again, absentmindedly.
“But what?” Jules persisted. Brolin was usually much more communicative than this. But Jules had been writing story after story for two months now in this Dutch colony paradise, and he still hadn’t won anything more than lukewarm comments from Brolin.
“But ... we’ve discussed this before, Jules,” Brolin said as he gave his handsome, eighteen-year-old student his full, undivided attention now. “It’s good in a mechanical sense, but it has no passion.” That was it, in fact, with Brolin. He could see the technicalities of seeking sexual release under the surface in the writing, but the boy had not come to grips with the passion, the emotional charge of having sex with another man yet. Jules had not shown him his secret stash of more revealing stories.
“No passion?” Jules asked. Brolin had put his hand, that hand with the long sensuous fingers, on Jules’s wrist and hadn’t taken it away. Jules shuddered at the touch, but not wanting Brolin to feel his trembling and misconstrue it, he let the words tumble out.
“What is this about no passion? I write adventure stories. I write of men struggling against the elements and eventually winning out over nature or the cruelties men force on other men, like war. War stories, like the one we just went through. Situations where people like my father struggle against impossible odds. I pour out everything inside me on these. But you say they have no passion?”
“Your writing is very good ... no, extremely good, Jules, as I said. And there’s nothing wrong in the themes you pursue. But they are missing something nonetheless. And I think what they are missing is passion. I’m sure you put everything inside you into your writing. But clearly the problem seems to be that you don’t have nearly enough passion inside you to give to your stories--to make them sing with passion, to put them above what any other young writer is producing. I didn’t invite you out here to make a competent writer of you. I brought you out here to make an internationally acclaimed writer of you. And I think you have that in you.”
What the underlying themes of Jules’s writing didn’t have yet, Brolin was thinking, was the commitment to the act with a man, the trust in a relationship between an older man and a boy too young in society’s eyes to be fucked by the man. Jules had to genuinely want it and to be committed to a relationship with a man to the point of holding it as a secret between them. It would be particularly delicious with Jules, considering the interest Brolin and Jules’s father had shared--and some of the fourteen-year-old boys they had shared as well.
It was easy with Sidharto. He was from a loose-principled, take life’s pleasure as you find them culture. It was given that if he came to work for a man like Brolin in this island paradise, the boy with writhe under the master, if that’s what the man wanted. Jules was more of a challenge. Brolin had savored preparing Jules, bringing him all the way out here from Chicago, where what they did could be very private.
Jules had lowered his head and was trying his best to drink in what Brolin was saying to him. But all he could think of were those searing fingers on his wrist, feeling his pulse, no doubt searching for the passion inside him.
“I do. I do feel very passionate about what I’m writing,” Jules stammered out in his defense. “I feel...” He wanted so much to tell the novelist about his secret writing. He had brought his other stories with him, not trusting them being left where his mother might find them. If only he could have the courage to show those to Brolin. Then the man would understand that Jules was capable of passion--and of other things as well.
“You only feel within the limits of your experience, Jules,” Brolin said softly. “And your experience is limited. You can’t really feel passion as a writer until you’ve experienced passion. That’s what the best writers do. They let themselves go and they experience it all. And it comes out in their writing. You are young, so young. You’ve experienced ... nothing ... really, before now. I could...”
“You showed me this picture, this picture of an elk,” Jules rushed on, not wanting to hear what Brolin wanted to say to him. “You told me to write a story about it, about a majestic animal, about the relations between all that the elk is and my protagonist, Joe. And I did that. I wrote of Joe and an Indian warrior coming upon each other in the wilds of Wyoming and how they fought each other, meaning to do so to the death. And how the appearance of an elk stag on the mountain ridge above them made them both stop and realize how futile their fighting was and then separate and go their own way. I wrote that with passion. Man against the elements, the majesty of nature, the bonding of men in dire straits.”
“That wasn’t the bonding of men,” Brolin said in a voice both soft and full of steel. “Those men fell away from each other when confronted with the majesty of nature, as represented in the elk, Jules. Don’t you see? Nature won. And did you take a good look at the elk, see it in all of its majesty? That didn’t show the strength of your protagonist; it showed his weakness. What I see inside you, what I think you have to give in your writing is showing the ascendance of your protagonist over nature and over other men. The passion in the protagonist’s relationship with nature, as symbolized by that elk stag, is not in accommodating or respecting the elk, but in mastering and possessing it--or being mastered and possessed by it. And the same can be said of the man, the Indian warrior.”
Brolin had given the photo of the elk to Jules, in reality, simply because the animal was a big brute and was in enormous erection in the photo. That’s what he’d wanted the boy to be thinking about while he was writing--the animal’s basic needs and its huge erection.
Brolin’s voice had become insistent; he was flooding Jules’s mind with the power of his smooth, honey-toned voice and the strength of his storytelling. Jules felt almost as if he was going into a trance. He could feel the pressure of Brolin’s grip on his wrist, and now he could feel the palm of Brolin’s other hand on his thigh. Jules felt his chest heaving, and, looking at Brolin, he could see that his mentor was similarly affected. They were both bare-chested and in colorful sarongs, just as Sid was. They had gone completely native. It would be so easy to lose the sarong and even the loin cloth under it. Each was tied with a simple knot. Jules felt what was coming next. The mesmerizing effect of Brolin’s voice and Jules’s aching need to produce the writing that Brolin wanted, to become the writer that Brolin said he was capable of becoming, possessed the young man, and he made no move to stop his mentor.
Jules was ripe for it.
“Bonding is important to a writer, Jules,” Brolin was saying. “Experiencing bonding and letting the passion of that build and pour down to your fingertips as your fingers sit on the keys of the typewriter, and imbuing your writing with a full, mature knowledge of passion through experience...” His eyes were fully intent on Jules now, although Jules was still unable to look up at him, and his hand on Jules’s thigh had slipped into a fold in the sarong and rested on the warm, smooth skin inside Jules’s thigh, high up. He was lightly stroking the inside of Jules’s thigh with his index finger and a thumb, sending ripples of electricity through Jules’s body.
The imagine in Jules’s mind was of Brolin sitting at the typewriter and Jules sitting in his lap, both of them naked, both of them having some sort of merging and pleasurable sex, although Jules hadn’t worked out how that was accomplished yet--and both of them typing on the typewriter, each typing his own story that somehow, though, melded together in one coherent story like they would be melding together through the sex.
Jules let his thighs part and he moaned deep from inside his chest, leaving no doubt that he was giving Brolin license to proceed. Brolin’s middle finger moved up under Jules’s pert little balls and he was lightly stroking the boy’s banus, the tender skin running between the boy’s balls and his anus. Jules twitched and sighed. Do it, do it, do it, his mind screamed.
“You need to acquire a much deeper and richer experience to even begin to know what the passion is, Jules. Bonding. Bonding. I could...”
“Kiai Brolin. Kiai Brolin! Venerable teacher! Look what I’ve caught.” The chestnut brown houseboy, Sid, full of life and laughter and with a smile as broad as his handsome face, was running up the beach toward Jules and Brolin, a big fat fish in his hand. “We eat well tonight, Kiai Brolin. The god’s are good to us.”
Brolin joined the infectious laughter of his houseboy and also joined in the rejoicing over the catch. When he turned back to Jules, though, his young apprentice was gone and only the scattered sheets of his “only very good” short story and the photo of the majestic elk stag, in full erection, remained where he had been sitting on the pillows beside the low table at the palm-treed verge of the white-sand beach.
Hours later, unable to sleep, burning with the implications of what Brolin had told him, had been bold enough to do to him, knowing now, instinctively and irrevocably, that Brolin was right--that he would never be able to write with the necessary passion until he had allowed himself to experience passion--Jules crept out of his room in one wing of the thatched hut and quietly moved to the doorway of Brolin’s room in the other wing. He would give himself to Brolin in the darkness. Brolin would know what to do; Jules would leave the mechanics of it to him. If they did it in the darkness, they need not refer to having done it when it was light, but Jules would have gained the passion his mentor talked about it. And if it worked well--well it was dark every night.
They were there. The little Sumatran houseboy was flat on his belly on Brolin’s bed, his legs tight together and his hands firmly gripping the brass rods of the headboard above him for dear life as Brolin, nude and crouched above him, encasing the pelvis of the smaller man with his strong thighs, his sensuous fingers wrapped around the Sumatran’s wrists, plunged a thick and long cock between the houseboy’s pert butt cheeks again and again and again. Brolin’s erection was pink and thick and long. The image of the elk in the photo Brolin had given to Jules to write about came to the boy’s mind. The elk’s erection had been massive, insistent, as well. Brolin’s hard, plunging cock reminded Jules of the photo.
Sid was whimpering and Brolin was panting hard. Jules stood, transfixed, and moaning slightly to himself as his hand went to his own rising cock and the passion of the moment flooded into him. This, more than anything Brolin had been telling him earlier, demonstrated the majesty and monstrousness of what full, passionate possession meant. Jules’s mind started to race and all sorts of sensations and images flooded in. He withdrew from the doorway.
A pen and some paper; he had to find a pen and some paper. He had to write. Now!
Jules wrote far into the night, feverishly. He knew the writing was better than he had ever accomplished before. But he also knew that it wasn’t good enough. It was still standing on the outside and looking in, observing, not experiencing. His mentor had been right. The experience of the passion was what was missing. What he had seen earlier had transmitted to him in some degree, but that wasn’t enough. He was sure now what he had to do. He had to have the passion; he had to become the writer he wanted to be.
He was focused so intently on his work that he hadn’t noticed the sounds until they had become insistent, close by. Drums and shots and screams.
Jules jumped up from his desk and ran to the window and pushed aside the palm frond matting. The sky was aglow over Bengkulu, lighting up the beach and the pounding surf of the Indian Ocean. Bengkulu was burning. It seemed as if the whole sky to the west was ablaze. A shot rang out nearby, and Jules instinctively fell away from the window.
“Quick. No time. The storage shed,” Brolin muttered in a guttural whisper as he lurched into the room and pulled Jules up from the floor. “Distress signals have been sent out, but who knows how close any help is.” The man was completely naked, his firm muscle twitching in the shock of the moment, his manhood and ball sack hanging and swinging low.
“What... ?” Jules muttered, dazed by the sudden eruption of activity on their peaceful, isolated beach.
“No time. There’s a hiding place in the storage shed. And it’s concrete. We could be quickly burned out here or plugged by a stray bullet.”
“Sid... ?” Jules said idiotically as he permitted Brolin to pull him toward the back door and the pathway away from the beach toward the storage shed. The hem of his sarong drooped to his ankles and constricted his movement so that he hobbled in a shuffling gait as Brolin propelled him along. Brolin reached down and tore the material off Jules, freeing the young man’s movement but making him as naked as his mentor was.
“Sid’s PNI,” Brolin gasped through his pants, and then when the sense of that didn’t seem to register with Jules, he spoke again. “He’s a member of the insurrectionist movement. If they come here, it will be because of him. The Dutch are burning out the resistance movement. If they find we’re harboring a PNI member, we’ll be burned out too. Sid’s gone into hiding away from here.”
Both of them were panting heavily when they got to the shed. Looking back toward the beach, Jules could see figures of men with lifted torches and rifles, silhouetted against the glow on the horizon from Bengkulu, coming through the palm tree verge and heading toward their hut. Brolin pulled him roughly into the concrete storage house, moved some boxes aside at the back of the small room, pushed Jules roughly down on his back in a narrow space been the back of a wooden-back shelving rack that went nearly to the ceiling and a concrete block wall, and then, after pulling the boxes back to cover the entrance to their hiding place, and sprawled down, full-length, on top of Jules. There was no room in the confined space for him to do otherwise, but Jules was fully aware of his mentor’s nakedness, and the hairiness of the very fit man’s chest, heart pounding and muscles taut, on top of his own nakedness.
Adrenaline was pumping through both of the men. Brolin couldn’t help himself, having wanted to be doing what he then did for the entire two months they had been in Sumatra. And Jules, aroused by what he’d seen Brolin and Sid doing earlier and the sudden awakening to passion couldn’t help himself either. The danger and the passion of the moment swept them both up into its clutches, and Brolin was cupping Jules’s head in his hands and was kissing him deeply in his full and sensuous lips. At the same time his pelvis was grinding against Jules’s thighs. Jules reach down and took possession of Brolin’s cock and felt it grown long and thick and hard. His own cock was rising too, and Brolin was left with no doubts about Jules’s willingness. Brolin took one of his hands away from Jules’s cheek and spit on it and moved it down between Jules’s thighs. He only had to stroke Jules’s inner thighs for a few seconds before Jules’s spread his legs for the man and found his young student’s virgin hole.
“Please, please,” Brolin croaked.
“Yes, oh yes,” Jules’s whimpered. And then, not having words for the sensation of the man’s finger rimming his asshole, “Oh. Oh, oh, ohhhhh.”
Jules arched his back and rocked his head back, away from Brolin’s lips, and opened his mouth wide, preparing to scream out in surprise and pain as Brolin entered him with his moistened finger. Brolin’s strong hand went to Jules’s mouth, however, and covered both his mouth and his nose, as his finger continued to probe. Jules was trembling and gasping for air beneath the stifling gag and he was beginning to black out. Brolin released his hand over Jules’s air passages, but he replace his hand with his possessing mouth. He continued moving his finger in Jules’s channel until he felt the boy relax and naturally go with the movement, moving his pelvis with the probing of the finger. Brolin then knelt between Jules’s thighs and pulling Jules’s legs up to his shoulders.
“I’m going to put it inside you now,” he whispered. “I need to be inside you. Please let me put it inside you.”
“Yes, yes. Now,” Jules whispered with a whimper.
Jules felt the large dick head at his hole as Brolin removed his searching and stretching fingers, and Jules arched his back again and silently screamed around Brolin’s probing tongue as the head of the teacher’s cock obtained purchase just inside Jules’s hole.
They both froze at the sound of voices outside the door to the storage shed. The room was full of light now that blazed over the top of the shelving unit that didn’t quite meet the ceiling and through cracks in the backside and around the edges of the case.
Voices. Angry voices. Firing off rapid-fire exclamations in Indonesian, clearly not pleased that they hadn’t found any insurrectionists to exterminate. Jules knew now that their lives depended on him not screaming. This was a moment such as he’d written about. But the reality was so much more intense than his imagination had been when he was writing. He now fully appreciated what his teacher had been trying to tell him about experiencing being necessary to capture the passion of a story that would lift it head and shoulders above the competition--about danger and what a man had to do in the face of danger to survive and to come out as the master.
Brolin took advantage of the moment of Jules’s fear of making any noise to start the plowing of his plump, experienced cock up the young, virginal ass canal.
Regardless of the danger of the moment, Jules started to whimper and to struggle underneath Brolin, the hard, thick possession of the older man being almost more than Jules could take. Brolin covered Jules’s mouth and nose with his hand again, and all of the fight went out of Jules as he began to drift out from oxygen starvation and Brolin’s dick continued its throbbing invasion up his canal.
And then the light and the voices were gone, and Brolin had removed his hand and was kissing and sucking and nibbling on young Jules’s neck and nipples and the pits under his arms as the master’s cock bottomed deep inside the tender canal and began to pump and pump and pump deep inside his student. Harder and faster. Jules was gasping and groaning and moaning now. But his hips were moving with the fuck. His body was accepting the fuck.
Brolin had gathered control of himself enough to murmur that he’d try to stop fucking Jules if the pain was unbearable and that’s what the young man wanted, but Jules was too far gone in the experience now. He could only manage and breathless, “No-o-o.”
“No, what?” Brolin grunted.
“No ... don’t ... stop,” Jules cried out.
And Brolin fucked on. he had Jules’s cock in his fist and he relentlessly stroked him off until Jules ejaculated with a gasp and collapsed back to the floor. But Brolin fucked on and on and on. The passion flooded back into Jules and he moaned and groaned and cried out for the fuck, his mind racing, forming words and images and experience-filled themes to pour out onto the typewriter keys.
So explosively occupied were the two that they didn’t hear the door to the storage house open or see the Australian sailor, rifle in hand, start to enter but then see them and draw back into the doorway and watch Brolin fucking the boy briefly before he drew back further and was gone. He didn’t leave so soon, though, that Jules didn’t see him standing there--with his hand on his crotch.
They were back in their beds by midnight, the contingent of Australian navy men who had come to their rescue bedded down in improvised tents up beyond the beach. They had promised to stay around to help rebuild the burned-out shacks, which wouldn’t take long as they were quite primitive to begin with. Only a section of Brolin’s larger shack has been burned. His bedroom and Jules’s--and the servant’s area--had survived.
At the sounds of sex, clearly discernible as that now, Jules had risen from his bed and padded through the ramshackle shack. The boy was kneeling on his knees and elbows on the mat. Brolin was riding him like the boy was a horse, in the position that many animals copulated in--Brolin big, majestic looking, in long, thick, pink erection. Jules’s mind went to the photo of the elk. The beast had found a mate. Sid was back.
Brolin looked up and saw Jules standing there. Giving Sid a pat on the rump and whispering in his ear, Brolin pulled out of him and climbed off his back. He walked over to Jules, cupped the boy’s chin, and brought their faces together in a kiss.
“Will you go to my bed with me?” he asked in a low, hoarse voice.
“Yes,” Jules answered.
“I will be inside you again if you go with me. I will fuck you again.”
“Yes,” Jules answered.
Brolin gathered Jules up in his arms and took him to his--Brolin’s--bed. He put Jules on the bed on his knees and elbows, mounted him, slid inside Jules’s channel as the boy panted and groaned, grabbed Jules’s hips to hold him steady in place, and rode him to a mutual ejaculation. Jules lay, trembling, under him, totally in the man’s control, and murmured, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” images of that long, thick, pink shaft moving in and out of his rippling-walls channel matched with the feel of a man, an all-consuming man, inside him.
Jules no longer was a virgin to anal sex. Brolin had fucked that out of him--twice thus far in the night and then again later as they both wakened in heat.