I didn’t know how he’d managed to get me into a pity fuck. I had tried to let him down easy, working toward that for a couple of weeks, nearly as long as our fling had been. I didn’t think it was my fault that the daddy he’d been two timing left him when he found out. I hadn’t known Ben was in a partnership when we started up our arrangement. I hadn’t known he was eighteen, either. I thought he was a few years younger than that, the earlier age being what aroused me. He acted younger, though, which had helped.
It had been a good arrangement. Ben McLaughlin, a student orderly at the Bermuda hospital, King Edward VII Memorial, in Bermuda’s capital city of Hamilton, was a cute, young trick of eighteen and, as I noted, looking an acting much younger. He was a Devon-origin sunny-dispositioned former British cabin boy, who had been initiated in the navy and mustered out in Bermuda, was very cuddly and submissive, and was capable of taking what I had. Some rough-and-tumble British sailors had had their way with him and trained him to complete submission. In the weeks we were at it, all I had to do was walk into the room and he’d lie on his back, roll his pelvis up, spread his legs, and pant for me like a puppy. After several days of such easy compliance, joy of the taking tended to get a little boring, though. I didn’t have to work for it or seize it from him.
I didn’t know at the time that he had a live-in arrangement with a Jamaican jewelry store owner, Jarden, thirty years older than Ben. It had started with a quickie up against the wall of a supplies closet in the hospital where, as a visiting American doctor, I was an orthopedist. Ben came on to me. We’d happily found that I was as thick and long as his Jarden and that he could quickly adjust to me and take me with his knees hooked on my hips when most other boys took it with much more difficulty. Ben had been a great lay; I just stood there, holding him and providing the hard shaft, and he fucked himself on it, taking me deep and increasingly vigorously while he whimpered and dug his claws into my shoulder blades. The climax was explosive and fully satiating. It was the start of a lovely affair.
How was I to know that he had an arrangement he relied on for his living or that cuddly would turn into clingy?
I knew he’d be sobby, so I had him drive me out to near Robinson’s Marina on the George’s Bay peninsula jutting out into the Little Sound southwest of Hamilton Harbour. I had friends who lived off Evans Bay Road on a small cliff above the sound, where there was a good view of the marina and the water skiers who did their thing in the quiet waters of the sound. The friends were in Florida, so I had Ben pull his Mini-Cooper convertible—which Jarden no doubt had given him and hadn’t thought yet to pull back from him when he tossed the young man out of his house—behind the house to the edge of the cliff, where we could look out to the George’s Bay peninsula to the east and Hamilton and its harbor to the northeast. I took the failure to pull the car as a sign that this was just a blip in the relationship between Jarden and Ben and that the jewelry intended to take Ben back when Ben begged him to return.
He was near to hysterics when I said it was over, crying of how he was completely abandoned now, how I had toyed with him when he had thrown himself at me, and how my misuse of him and lost him his berth with the Jamaican jewelry shop owner.
“Jarden will never take me back now,” he wailed.
“I rather think he will,” I said soothingly. “I’m sure it will all work for the best.” I did think the Jamaican would take Ben back. He was a big black bull, and, like me, he was hard pressed to find a cute young piece who could open enough to him to take it all.
To shush Ben, I put my arm around him, drew him to me as we sat in the front seat of the Mini-Cooper, and nuzzled his neck. Although he quieted down, cuddling him was a mistake. Before I knew it, we were kissing and he had unzipped and exposed me and was stroking me—and I was doing the same with him. Erect and panting, I made no move to stop him when he rolled over into my lap in the passenger seat of the Mini-Cooper, straddled my lap, and slowly descended his channel on my thick, long, hard shaft. A full journey down to the mingling of curly bush hairs—his blond and mine a reddish auburn—and then a gasping rise until I was afraid I was going to lose him. Then a full descent again. Up down, up down, and I was lost. God he was good.
We were fucking and moaning and sighing. He disengaged his lips from mine when he knew he had me and, with a contented sigh, burrowed his mop of blond hair into the cleft of my bare chest. I looked out over the sound as he fucked himself on my shaft and I waited for the cum to rise and for the explosion I knew the little vixen could pull from me. That didn’t mean, though, that I was going to take over the keep of this expensive little toy. He’d just have to beg Jarden to take him back.
Up down, up down. Groan and sigh. I grasped his waist and started helping with the rise and fall, making it rougher, more vigorous. Lifting him and slamming him down.
“Yes, yes. Fuck me. Gititgitit!” he cried out. And I was fully into getting it.
I almost didn’t notice the drama unfolding down in the sound. But then, after I tensed, jerk, and fired off deep up inside Ben, I realized what I was seeing down on the water. There was a water skier in trouble down there. His boat had brought him too close to the rocks of the shoreline, he’d lost his balance, and he’d careened, floundering, off the tow rope and toward the rocks. A slight, beautiful-bodied boy stood in the stern of the boat and flopped out into the water. It was obvious he couldn’t swim, but he was thrashing his way toward the rocks to where the skier was now floating, face down.
Pushing Ben off me and back over to the driver’s seat, I growled. “There’s a skier in the water and in trouble down there. Drive us down to the marina as quick as you can.” Ben knew I meant business as I pulled out my cell phone and, first, called the hospital’s ambulance boat that was kept, ready to be dispatched, at the Hamilton pier and then the police on 911. Ben was well-trained as an orderly. He didn’t panic. He switched modes as quickly as I did and we were down in the marina within two minutes.
As I dove into the water, I heard the separate tones of the ambulance and police boats speeding from the Hamilton Harbour. I got to the two men—one young and one appreciably older—in the water near the rocks below Evans Bay Road before the emergency boats reached us. The boy was floundering but he’d managed to reach the older one, the man who had been water skiing, and get him flipped over so his head was out of the water. The older man’s head was bleeding badly and he was unconscious.
It was all I could do to handle them both before emergency help arrived. That didn’t keep me from noticing, however, that the boy was a black-haired, Apollo beauty, and, without intending to getting a good feel of him in trying to bring his floundering body under control.
What can I say? He and the older guy had interrupted a good fuck with their water sport drama. Not interrupted, exactly, as I’d gotten a good ejaculation—if a wholly unintended one—with Ben. But I didn’t normally restrict my shoot-offs to one. That had been a nice aspect—well, just one of several, if I was honest—about Ben. He’d always stayed with me until I was fully drained.
“Is he going to be all right? I mean, is he ever going to wake up again and recognize anyone ... recognize me?”
“I can’t say, Dylan,” I answered. “I’m an orthopedist, not a neurologist. But Dr. Walker said this could go either way and we probably wouldn’t know for days.” Walker had told the luscious boy all of this already, but Dylan did look glazed at the time, like he wasn’t all here yet himself. He certainly looked all here. I’d taken the ambulance boat with him and the older man, Sir Albert Sedgwick, who I recognized once we’d gotten him out of the water. Sir Albert owned and operated the exclusive forty-room Rosedon Hotel on Pitts Bay Road on the northern shore of Hamilton Harbour, in the thick of high life in the Bermuda capital. We’d met—usually at one of the private, and illegal, gay hook-up clubs hidden here and there on the island, where older men could hook up with teenage boys. We were both tops, so our meetings hadn’t been intimate, although I had heard rumors that he wasn’t above sharing a boy with another top. We sometimes intersected because we were both interested in younger teens and they usually were at a premium and caused competition in acquiring them.
I hadn’t seen him at the clubs recently and had heard he had settled down in a relationship. If it had been with this young dark-haired beauty with the alabaster skin sitting across the hotel bed with me, I could see why Sir Albert had taken himself out of circulation.
“His head has taken a nasty hit. His chances all depend on how his brain decides to respond—says Dr. Walker. If it swells, he may not come out of the coma. If not ... well, we shall see. The coma is a good thing. It forces him to rest without moving around.”
“I suppose,” Dylan Harden said. He was leaning over the bed, holding Sir Albert’s hand, and I saw a tear drop on the pristine-white sheet. Sir Albert was in one of the hospital’s VIP rooms, as was befitting his position in Bermuda society. The cream of Bermuda society was able to pretend his sexual proclivities didn’t exist. I had already ascertained that Dylan, an American, like me, but still fourteen, unlike me, who wouldn’t see thirty-five again, lived at the hotel. His mother was British, though, and he’d been living in England when he signed on for an apprenticeship in the British navy. I highly suspected he also worked under Sir Albert in bed, and I had ached for him to do the same for me from the moment I dragged him out of the Little Sound.
“Are you Sir Albert’s son,” I had asked, knowing full well that Sir Albert didn’t have a young son.
“I’m his ward,” Dylan had answered. I was quite sure that he was more than that, though.
We had gotten to the hospital quickly, which had been critical for Sir Albert’s condition. Both the medics and Dylan had credited that to me, first, by getting to them quickly and second, by having the clout at King Edward VII Memorial Hospital to quickly call the ambulance boat to us and then to clear the way to the hospital, where I was a doctor. I was quite all right with the look of gratefulness Dylan gave me, as, from the moment I groped him in the water, I was lost in lust. But the boy’s primary concern and attention at the time had gone to Sir Albert, and I could see that I wouldn’t win points with Dylan in trying to interpose myself between them. The older Englishman must have some connection with the young American that transcended financial support. But then I’d heard that Sir Albert was an accomplished lover, even at an age that was well north of fifty.
Still I maintained some hope. Occasionally I caught the boy giving me “interested” looks. I didn’t think it was all because I had saved him from drowning.
The boy was shivering a bit. He had come in soaked to the skin from his impromptu swim. I’d ordered up a hospital orderly’s outfit for him, but the cotton material was thin. I’d insisted on him taking a shower before putting the light-green draw pants and pullover top on, as he’d been in the water of the sea, and I’d managed to stand at an angle that accorded me a full view of him showering. I fancied that he knew I was watching him and posed for me.
His sweet little body was as perfectly formed as I had imagined that he would be. Naked he wasn’t as pale as it had seemed he was when I pulled him out of the water. He was lightly tanned, but this was primarily evident because there was the outline of a skimpy bathing suit at his pelvis that showed just how alabaster his skin tone could be. I longed to play in that zone with my lips. It was no exaggeration to say that I had immediately been smitten by the boy.
“You’re shivering,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t find more substantial clothes for you. We’ll have to get you home, where you can change into something of your own. I can drive you there.” How I would like to take him home. My Jaguar was, indeed, here. Ben had picked me up at the hospital for the drive out to George’s Bay. I briefly thought of Ben and what had happened to him in all this—but only briefly. A cutoff of our encounter by a medical emergency was probably the best of all exits in the circumstances.
“I can’t leave Albert ... not until there’s some change—either way,” Dylan answered.
“It could be days,” I said. “But we’ll discuss that later.”
“Thank you again for saving us,” he said. “I don’t know how I would have gotten Albert out of the water if you hadn’t been there. I must find a good way to thank you properly.” I may have dreamed it, but I thought I’d seen him fluttering his eyelashes at me.
“You did seem to be floundering a bit,” I answered.
“I can’t swim,” he said, sheepishly.
“And yet you jumped in the water without hesitation to try to save Sir Albert.”
“Yes.” It was said quietly and his gaze turned to the man in the coma, a handsome, manly man despite his age. I could see the love in the boy’s eyes. I ached for someone to love me like that. Not just anyone, though, I reasoned. I would die for the young American Adonis to exhibit a love for me that he was revealing for Sir Albert. There, at the moment, I realized that it was more than lust I felt for this boy, Dylan Riley. This was what love felt like. I was smitten and lost to him and it had all happened within the splash of the water in the Little Sound.
And I wasn’t so thickheaded that I wasn’t able to connect this circumstance—my falling for someone irrevocably taken unless the gods took Sir Albert away from us—with what had happened before the George’s Bay rescue when I had rather callously been breaking off with a young man who proclaimed the same sort of affection for me. It was a plotline worthy of Shakespeare. I wasn’t accustomed to being either smitten or placed in a dilemma.
I wanted Sir Albert to recover. Certainly I did.
“At the motor court, turn to the right rather than the left. We have a cottage at the edge of the hotel grounds over there.”
I followed Dylan’s directions and arrived at a one-story bungalow at the top of a cliff down to the harbor with a marvelous view from the back terrace. The boy hadn’t bothered to even pretend that he lived someplace other than with Sir Albert. I had convinced him that there would be nothing happening with the older man’s coma for days, at least, and that he was in good hands at the hospital—that Dylan needed to get some rest and certainly needed to get a change of clothes and something to eat at least. We’d stopped at a restaurant with an outdoor dining area overlooking the harbor after we’d left the hospital. The conversation had been terse and a bit awkward, but polite. The stumbling block seemed to be the “gay” thing—how clearly did I understand his relationship with Sir Albert and, seemingly incidentally, what was my orientation. I pretty much settled that by noting what clubs—all gay—where I usually encountered the hotel owner.
“Listen, Dylan. It’s OK? I see Sir Albert in clubs, where he—where both of us—are looking for boys your age to bring home—to bring home for sex. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know you aren’t his ward—or even if you are, I know why you live with him. I know it’s what he does, because it’s what I do too.”
“You too?” was all Dylan asked before he turned his face toward the harbor to watch the water traffic there. I didn’t answer. Not answering was an answer. We went back to innocuous chitchat while I drove up to the hotel.
“There’s a bar over there,” he said as we entered the cottage, which was elegantly furnished and covered with oriental rugs. “You can fix us drinks if you like while I change. I can’t have hard liquor, but Albert lets me have beer or wine. There are cans of ginger beer in the frig. I’ll take one of those.”
Something had bothered me about the décor in the house as soon as we entered the cottage and I had time after I’d mixed the drinks I had time to walk around the living and dining rooms and sun porch across the back of the house to figure it out. The artwork on the walls was borderline atrocious. But still, it was professionally framed, displayed, and lighted as if everything was a Monet, Cézanne, or Picasso. Picasso came closest. It could be considered abstract if it weren’t pretty clear that it wasn’t meant to be. The display was inexplicable because I knew Sir Albert to be an art connoisseur, with expensive tastes. Nothing on his walls here met that criteria. Dylan cleared that up when he returned—wearing just a silk robe, which was less clothing than the hospital orderly’s garb he’d been wearing before.
I was standing in front of a particularly large and garish lighted sloppy oil painting on a dining room wall when he appeared.
“So, do you like it?” he asked.