Moon In Hand
By
Louise
“You know I may as well
wish for the moon in hand...” ~~ “I
Can’t Own Her” -- Andy Partridge (from the album Apple Venus by
XTC).
Sometimes, when he closes
his eyes at night, just before he falls asleep he sees again how it was the day
they first met...
*************
The snot-nosed brat of a
dockside whore, fending for himself on the streets and at seven years old
already a tough little brawler, Wat had been pitched from one debateable
relative to another for as long as he could remember. Until now, when he had fetched up in the stews of Southwark.
Pitched between a butcher’s that sold cat meat disguised as rabbit and
a mercer's shop selling everything a man's heart might desire, the Tabard Inn
was the closest thing to a safe haven Wat had ever known.
His uncle Harry was a loud, rough-hewn man, but for Wat he represented
warmth -- security -- home.
Exactly what had
happened to him in the years since his birth wasn’t clear to them -- but the
moment his aunt and uncle had laid eyes on the tatterdemalion little figure
staring up at them from the doorway, thumb in mouth, all bright red hair, green-filtrumed
nose and huge, wary eyes they knew that here was a damaged little boy who'd seen
too much and been loved too little.
And so Harry and Constant
had taken Wat in, scrubbed him clean, dressed him, fed him, and loved him
unconditionally until at last the scars and welts on his body had begun to fade
and the guarded look in his eyes had slowly been replaced by something
approaching trust and affection. The
Tabard Inn had given Wat the stability he needed and which was beginning to
soothe his ragged soul.
Until...
*************
He shifts restlessly on the
pile of furs and straw that serves them for beds in their tent.
Roland, stretched out behind him, grumbles under his breath.
“For the love of God an’
all ‘Is little cherubs, Wat... I‘m
tryin’ to bloody sleep, ‘ere. You
know, sleep? That thing you do when
it’s dark an’ you close your eyes an’ little farty noises come out of your
nose and you burble on about tansy cakes with peppermint cream?”
“I know, I know...!” Wat
grumbles back indignantly. And
closes his eyes again, desperate to rest his aching body and quieten his racing
mind.
But it’s no use...
Wat is remembering the first
time he ever saw Will...and as usual that means it’s going to be hard for him
to get to sleep tonight...
*************
Running away.
Yet again, he was running away.
His small fists had bloodied
the nose of a merchant’s spoiled brat for making fun of his wayward crest of
flaming crimson hair just once too often and now the child’s parents had sent
servants into Southwark seeking retribution.
And it wouldn't be long before they got it -- not when golden coins were
being offered for any helpful information they might receive.
Wat was never going to be
able to hide forever; he'd upset too many other parents and shop-keepers in his
short life to expect any protection from the locals. Besides, with his unmistakable shock of hair, pale but grubby
skin, expressive face and clear blue eyes, young Wat was as distinctive as a
peacock amongst a cloud of starlings. There
was no honour amongst thieves and the poor where Wat was concerned; his
explosive temper and ability to transform himself into a furious whirling
dervish when provoked had not endeared him to anyone save those just as violent
as himself.
As he pounded down the
crowded streets, arms and legs pumping and his heart hammering in his skinny
chest, Wat knew he couldn’t go home again.
He thought despairingly of the warmth and comfort he’d found at The
Tabard and the love his aunt and uncle had shown him. Before when people had spoken to him of love -- grimy men
reeking of sweat and foul, rancid breath...wild-eyed hags with fingers like
polished bone...rich men and women, bored with what their money could buy them
-- it had meant unspeakable pain and degradation, strong hands holding him down
on his knees or his back or on all fours as his mouth or his cock or his arse
had been violated. But with Uncle
Harry and Aunt Constant, love had meant warmth and cuddles and laughter...tansy
cakes with peppermint cream...jugged hare and cabbage...egg custard dusted with
saffron...home...
Tossing a quick glance over
his shoulder, Wat spotted two bully-boys dressed in the merchant’s livery.
Turning back he instinctively increased his speed, ignoring the tearing
pain in his lungs and the agonising cramps in his leg and thigh muscles -- only
to have the breath knocked from his body a bare heartbeat later as he collided
with a mountain of muscle and steel.
Winded, the force of the
impact sent Wat sprawling on his arse, barely able to take in what had happened
before a dark shape was leaning down over him and he was watching a huge fist
heading slowly towards the neck of his jerkin as though in a dream.
Moments later Wat was dangling in mid-air, face to face with a bearded
giant smelling of horses, leather and ale, as the sounds, smells and colours of
the street careered around him. After
a second’s pause Wat recovered from his initial shock and began struggling to
get free. Arms and legs thrashing and kicking despite the resultant
tightening of his jerkin around his neck, Wat fought and spat as too many black
memories came flooding in before his eyes like corpses washed up on the bleaker
banks of the dark Thames.
A low roll of laughter broke
over Wat‘s head as he squirmed. “Like
a little eel, aren’t you, boy...” The
rumble was friendly, but Wat had good reason not to trust men who held him fast
in their grip and spoke to him in cordial tones.
Almost choking as the strong
hand tightened its hold on the cloth of his jerkin, Wat tried hard to focus his
gaze on the man now growling at him -- but it was no use; being so close his
eyes couldn't take in the face in front of him and he was forced to stare
cross-eyed at the man’s nose. “I’ll
fong you,” Wat gasped with effort. “Fong
your arse -- you and the rest of your army...
Fong you -- I‘ll fong you!”
“Is this piece of shite
bothering you, my lord?”
The big man turned, and the
merchant’s men swung into Wat’s line of sight.
“Bothering me?” The
Goliath snorted with derision. “Does
it look as though he’s bothering me?”
He shook Wat like a puppy and stars danced before the boy's eyes.
The smaller of the
merchant’s men turned egregious. “Beg
pardon, my lord. I meant no
offence, my lord. Only...”
“Only?”
The larger of the two thugs
spread his hands. “Our master
wants a word with the brat--*boy*, sire; a little disagreement between him and
our master’s son...nothing more. If
we could just take him back with us, my lord...if you’d be so kind...”
The knight looked from the
men to the small, snarling boy clutched in his fist and then back again.
“How much is he paying you?”
The small man looked blank.
“Paying us?” He checked
himself. “My lord?”
The big man studied the boy
again. “Watkyn the merchant.
What’s he paying you?”
The two men exchanged
puzzled looks. “Er...”
“For the love of Christ!
How much is he paying you to hunt this child?”
“Oh, not just us,
sire,” the bigger, more stupid bully said cheerfully. “There’s a gold florin for anyone who helps us find
him!”
“You’ve found him,
then.” The knight’s voice was
expressionless. “Now give me my
florin.”
Meanwhile the smaller man
was rifling through a heavy pouch at his belt.
“Here,” he said at last, drawing out a bright coin and handing it to
the knight. “Thank you, my
lord.”
Shaking Wat again, the
nobleman took the coin and stared at it, turning it over in his fingers.
“A gold florin...for one small, ragged-arsed, snot-nosed boy...”
The smaller merchant's man
coughed discreetly. “My
lord...the boy... Our master...”
“Hmmm?”
The knight seemed distracted, hypnotised by the sunlit piece of metal.
“Sire...the boy...?”
A sudden whirl of movement
and fury, the knight took a step towards the two men. “...Is mine,” he snarled.
“He’s my apprentice. If
your master wishes to take issue with him, then he must first take issue with
me.”
The liveried men paled
visibly. “My lord!” the smaller
one squeaked. “We meant no harm
-- we did not know...”
The bigger one nodded.
“But sire, your apprentice -- what I mean is...we never realised...he’s
been living at the Tabard Inn for several months now...”
The knight smiled at them,
eyes cold. “Then I must thank you,
for I too have been seeking this boy. He
ran away from me and I’ve been halfway across the city looking for him.
Here, take your reward...” He
took a purse from his belt and threw it at the merchant’s servants.
“There should be ample there to complement whatever Watkyn may be
paying you. Tell your master that
his child should be honoured to have been bested by the apprentice of the
greatest tournament champion in the country.
Now go -- and let me hear no more of this, or your master shall answer to
the king himself!”
At that, the two servants
exchanged anxious, calculating glances; then took off back up the street, the
waves of passers-by parting to let them through.
The knight looked round at
the small crowd now gathered about him. He
shook Wat again, threw him in the air one-handed, and then caught him by the
scruff of his jerkin. “Do you
know this boy?”
Wat closed his eyes, feeling
dizzy and sick. He was going to
die, he knew it.
“Do any of you know this
boy?” There was silence, then the
knight snorted and nodded. “No-one
knows him...but do you know who I am?”
“Aye...”
The murmur of voices swelled around them.
“Here, then...a florin for
your trouble!”
The big man flashed the
crowd a broad grin, then pitched the bright coin up into the air.
The people oohed and aahed as the gold piece spun as though in slow
motion, sunlight reflecting from it as it somersaulted through space.
When the florin finally hit the cobbles, there was a brief spasm of wild
scrabbling and then the crowd dispersed, leaving the knight and the boy in
peace.
Wat suddenly found himself
tossed up in the air and then caught by a strong hand under each armpit.
He also became aware of the knight's saddled horse, a dray-horse hitched
to a bundle-filled cart, and a tall, plump youth with watchful eyes behind them.
“Now then, boy...” the
knight mused. “What are we
going to do with you...”
Head starting to swim, Wat
panicked. He’d heard that phrase
before, and it always meant pain...lots of pain... “I’ll fong your arse!” he squeaked, with the last of
his strength.
The knight merely smiled at
him. “Will you now, little
one...”
“Do you really know
the king that well, then, Sir Ector?” The
voice, from behind him, sounded northern to Wat’s ears.
The big man laughed.
“Of course not, Roland. But
they don’t know that, do they? Neither
does Watkyn. And it did the trick,
didn’t it?”
“Aye, it did that...
So what are we going to do with carrot-top, then?
Take ‘im back to the Tabard?”
“My name’s Wat!”
Wat snarled. “Not ‘carrot-top’!”Ignoring
the outburst, Sir Ector placed Wat down gently on the ground.
“Do you promise not to run away, Wat?”
Eyes suddenly huge, Wat
stared up at the dark, bearded knight. Wat
was strong and tough; but to the boy’s eyes the knight was very tall and must
also be at least a hundred years old -- and it didn’t do to argue with elderly
giants, who were given to being fractious and easy to offend.
“I promise,” Wat hiccupped. “If
you ain’t gonna ‘urt me, that is.“
Ector gazed down at Wat
solemnly. “Young man -- Wat -- I
promise you that I am not going to hurt you. You have my word on that, and I am a man of honour.
Small boys eat too much and make too much noise and snore and make
smells, it’s true -- but that isn’t reason enough to hurt them.”
He smiled again, showing a lot of white teeth.
“Very well, Wat. What
would you like to do? Shall we
indeed take you back to the Tabard Inn? Shall
Roland and I take you back to your mother and father?”
Wat opened his mouth to
speak -- then closed it just as quickly as tears threatened to humiliate him.
Then knuckled his eyes as the tears came anyway.
“Don’t ‘ave no mam an’ dad,” he whimpered, ashamed even at
seven years old of the plaintive wail in his voice.
“So ‘oo were you livin’
with, then?” Roland, a tall,
chubby youth with an open face and twinkling, friendly eyes, stepped forward,
offering a piece of marchpane he’d dug out of a sack.
“Me Uncle ‘Arry an’ me
Auntie Constant,” Wat replied, taking the marchpane and nibbling it
gratefully.
Sir Ector ruffled his hair.
“And don’t you want to go back to them?”
The kindness in the
knight’s voice, combined with his flight through Southwark and Roland’s
marchpane, was Wat’s undoing. Letting
out a yowl of misery the boy sat down with a thump, drew up his legs and laid
his head down on his arms as he hugged his scrawny knees.
“I can’t! After I
belted that little tosspot ‘is dad said as ‘e’d flay the skin off me back
if ‘e ever saw me again. ‘E’ll
make my life a misery if I go back ‘ome -- an’ I don’t want ‘im to
‘urt me uncle an’ auntie, either! ‘Cos
‘e will, you know -- ‘e will!”
Ector and Roland exchanged
sombre glances over Wat’s scarlet coxcomb.
“I’ll go and speak to them,” Ector said quietly.
“Come to some arrangement. He’ll
be company for Will and he’ll be another pair of hands for you.”
“And another mouth to
feed...”
“Aye, another hungry mouth
to feed. But God love him, Roland,
you heard what he said -- I can’t leave him to fend for himself on the
streets.” Ector bent and scooped
the red-haired boy up in his arms, then threw him across to Roland who caught
him expertly. “Look after him,
Roland. Give him some small beer
and some bread, then settle him down in the back of the cart with Will and wait
for me; we’ll be on our way as soon as I return.”
As the knight mounted his
horse and clopped away up the street towards the Tavern, admirers casting
deferential glances in his direction, Roland hoisted Wat up against his shoulder
and carried him towards the ramshackle cart. “Come on, young man,” he said.
“Time for you to meet Will. He’s
Sir Ector’s apprentice -- just like you’re goin’ to be, by the look of it.
How do you fancy the idea of bein’ an apprentice to a knight then,
young Wat?”
Wat smiled, suddenly sleepy,
and feeling safe and at ease with these two men. He wrapped his arms around Roland’s broad neck and burrowed
his nose into the stout youth’s sturdy shoulder.
“Nice...”
Roland chuckled.
“Nice, eh? Well, lad,
you’ll ‘ave to work ‘ard and mind your mouth and your manners, but
you’ll be all right with Sir Ector -- ’e’s a good man.
’Aven’t you ever ’eard the crowds chantin’ ’is name at the
stadium when there’s a tournament? No man better than Sir Ector at the joust in the whole of
England, lad -- if not the world!”
Wat, impressed now, let out
a gasp. “Really?” he
exclaimed excitedly. “The best
jouster in the whole of the world?”
Roland “hmmm”d
sheepishly. “Well -- maybe not
the whole world,” he acknowledged. “But
certainly the best in England -- which amounts to the same thing in the end,
doesn’t it?” Roland winked up
at Wat and grinned, and Wat grinned back.
As Wat nestled back against
Roland, he caught sight of a grave-eyed boy looking out at him from beneath a
bundle of furs in the back of the cart. The
boy saw his look and lifted his chin. My name‘s Will,” he said.
“What‘s yours?”
“Wat,” said Wat.
“Wat for -- for -- for ‘Walter‘, I fink.”
“I‘ll call you Wat, like
Sir Ector and Roland do. I like it
better than ‘Walter‘. It suits
you. Hello, Wat.”
“’Allo, Will...”
“I see you’ve met,
then,” Roland chuckled wryly.
Introductions over, Roland
settled Wat in the back of the cart with a child-sized mug of small beer and
some bread and cheese, then sat on the cart steps and took out a pile of
mending. As he ate, Wat watched
him, finding it hard to believe that Roland‘s brawny hands could handle a
needle and thread with such delicacy.
“Never seen a man sewing
before?” Will‘s voice broke his
concentration. “Roland's very
good, aren‘t you, Roland?”
“Aye, I am that.
Me mam taught me. Comes in very ‘andy, it does -- if I‘m not sewin‘ up
Sir Ector‘s wounds then I‘m a dab ‘and at rustlin’ up a new tunic or
two.”
“Made me my tunic,
didn‘t you, Roland!”
“Very proud of that, I
was,” the older youth acknowledged. “Nice
bit o’ stitchin‘, that...”
As Wat chewed his bread and
cheese, Will and Roland continued nattering cheerfully.
Wat liked Roland already, but Will intrigued him.
The child was around the same age as himself, but slighter, oddly
fine-boned and almost feminine-looking. His
blonde hair fell to his shoulders in wild, sun-bleached tangles, and his brown
eyes studied Wat as though scrutinising him through to his core.
Something in that gaze unsettled Wat in a strangely pleasant way --
something he couldn’t understand, but which made him feel warm in the pit of
his stomach...
*************
“You're doin’ it again...”
“Sorry...”
Wat squirms and sighs, punching the sack stuffed with straw that serves
him for a pillow and cuddling closer to his cushion.
“What in the name of St
Erconwald is the matter with you, anyway?”
“Can’t sleep.”
Roland chuckles
good-naturedly and Wat feels the big man’s body shake with gentle mirth.
Oddly, it comforts him. “Thinkin’
of Will off with Chaucer an’ Kate in the big bad city?”
“Yes.”
Roland guffaws.
“Our mad poet I‘m not so sure about -- but I think our Will’ll be
quite safe with Kate lookin’ after ‘im...”
Wat’s thinking of Will,
certainly. Will and only
Will. Will first, last, and
everything. Will...
And again the memories
slither across his closed eyelids, taunting and tormenting and arousing him
until he feels sure that his skin will catch a-fire.
*************
It had been neither planned
nor expected; but once, a long time ago, Wat and Will had been lovers.
Well...
Perhaps “lovers” was too
noble a word to describe what they’d been and “love” too grand for the
effects of the basic, animal hunger that had possessed them; certainly there had
been nothing romantic about their furious couplings. But afterwards, Wat was to remember it as a heaven of sexual
experimentation driven by a sultry afternoon and the frustration of boys at the
cusp between childhood and the world of adults. A paradise motivated by the pleasures of firm, male flesh
sticky with sweat and salt and the overwhelming need to fuck and be fucked.
It had been almost farcical
in its inevitability -- a bout of horseplay in a hayloft that began as energetic
wrestling and ended in frantic kisses, rough, exploring hands and the heedless
tugging at clothes demanded by the desire to feel a naked body against one's own
bare flesh as soon as humanly possible. To feel another’s hands on your cock and balls instead of
your own.
Jesu
-- how Wat had needed that. To feel Will's calloused palms stroking and tugging at his
cock and balls, rough hands gripping the cheeks of his arse as Will, blind with
need, ground his cock against Wat’s own, the two of them grunting out an
obscene litany of crude words and cruder demands as their bodies wanted more...
And there had been
more. And Wat had relived it over
and over again down the years, always getting impossibly hard as he
remembered...
...As he remembered Will, on
all fours, begging to be taken, to see how it felt to be fucked.
Telling him that he wanted to be fucked senseless, even though he only
had a faint idea of what that might mean -- and not caring that he didn‘t.
Wat remembered the look in his eyes -- the glazed, almost possessed
expression of a boy half-drunk with lust -- and knew that his own eyes must have
held the same shameless stare as he slicked his tumescent cock with spit and
then plunged without further preamble or preparation into Will’s virgin arse.
If Wat heard Will’s yelp of pain it didn’t register as Wat’s own
lust, triggered by feeling Will’s arse tight around him, took control.
Given Will’s response once the initial shock had worn off -- the
bucking, jerking hips slamming that pert round arse back against Wat’s groin,
the howls of pleasure and the loud, throaty groans -- most likely it hadn't
mattered...
*************
Wat closes his eyes, feels
his cock rising and hardening inside his baggy breeches.
He remembers how stars had danced before his eyes when Sir Ector had
shaken him by the scruff of his neck, the day he first met Will.
And he remembers how those stars had danced again as he lay exhausted in
the hay, body draped across Will‘s, as their sated bodies and minds drowsed
away the rest of the afternoon until they were needed again.
But it was not only the
fixed stars; he recalls lying sleepless on the cart into the early hours,
watching constellations, shooting stars and planets wheeling and whirling
overhead, their wild careening matching his delirious joy in learning that the
sights and sounds and smells and sensations of sex could be pleasurable.
Learning that someone’s hands on his body could bring him bliss.
That someone’s mouth and tongue sucking and licking eagerly on his cock
and balls could feel like paradise. That
to watch and feel his cock sinking between the plump buttocks spread under his
hands could make him forget his own name. That
a thick, engorged prick slamming rhythmically into his own arse accompanied by
grunts and the sound and feel of strong thighs and swollen bollocks smacking
against his sensitised flesh could send his soul soaring beyond space...
...Above all:
learning that he loved William Thatcher more than life itself.
And nothing has changed.
He’s still in love with Will and always will be -- and hates Jocelyn
for having from Will what he knows he will never have.
Wat longs to fuck Will again and have him as his lover; longs for it with
a hunger so basic and fierce that it makes him ache.
Makes him ache with a pain so intense that he fears it might kill him.
Christ Jesu, he's hard -- so
fucking hard...
He yearns to fold his coarse
fingers and palm around his cock -- to let the pictures flood his mind as he
wanks, hips jerking frantically, until the pain goes away.
But even as his hand begins the slow slide down his body towards the hot
flesh that calls to him he knows that tonight this will not be enough.
Tonight he needs to be fucked. Tonight
he wants to feel another’s body moving with his own -- not merely to satisfy
the urgent need for a cock deep inside him, but for the warmth and the comfort
and the reassurance of feeling that someone cares.
Hunger suddenly possesses
him, focussing his concentration solely in his groin. He flips over as though controlled by another power, nerve
endings alive and his mind alert, if single-focussed. He reaches out his hand and touches a shoulder clad in rough
homespun.
“What is it now...”
Roland’s voice is toneless but slightly irritated, as though he has
been on the verge of falling asleep.
“Roland, I...I need
you,” Wat says simply. “I
can’t sleep.”
Roland sighs heavily and Wat
feels the older man’s warm breath against his skin. “Don’t tell me. It’s
Will again, isn't it...”
“Yes...”
“And you need me to ‘elp
you get to sleep...”
“Aye, I do, Roland.”
“In the usual way?”
There is no reproach in
Roland’s voice, only kindness and understanding and the hint of a chuckle.
Wat feels tears flood his eyes as waves of affection for his friend wash
over him. “Yes...” he replies,
almost inaudibly. He knows that he
has nothing to explain to the Yorkshireman.
“Okay, then...”
Roland stirs and huffs, getting into a better position.
“Clothes on or off?”
Wat needs contact, needs the
feel of skin against skin. “Off.”
“Bugger.
I thought you’d say that. Are
you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Humph.
It’s a bit too bloody cold for the full monty tonight,” Roland
mutters, not even half-serious. “Can’t
I at least keep me kecks on?” Wat
shakes his head, grinning, and Roland beams back.
“Oh well, please yourself. It’s
a good thing I’ve got such a big dick -- even if it shrinks a bit in the cold,
at least I know me belly’s not gonna get in the way...”
Laughing with Roland as the
big man undresses and shivering with desire as he shucks off his own clothes,
Wat lies down on his side again as soon as he‘s naked, and waits for Roland to
join him. He doesn’t have long to
wait.
Still chuntering cheerfully,
Roland nestles against Wat‘s back and slaps his arse playfully.
“Right then, ‘andsome stranger.
What‘s it to be, then? The
usual, you say?”
Wat laughs again.
“Aye, the usual.”
“Want me to ‘old your
dick as well, or are you gonna do that?”
“I‘ll do it...”
“Thank Christ for that.
Can't get a good rhythm goin‘ if I ‘old your todger.
It‘s like pattin‘ me ‘ead an‘ rubbin’ me belly at the same
time.” Roland huffs and wriggles
with discomfort. “By St Kenelm, this is ‘ardly comfortable -- an‘ I
‘ope I don’t get a straw up me arse, neither.
Not like you,” he adds with a jovial leer.
“You‘re gonna get somethin‘ a damn sight bigger than a bloody straw
up your arse tonight, you lucky bastard, you...”
Again Wat laughs at
Roland‘s mischievous chortles, but trying to smile makes his face hurt now
that his need is so desperate. “Please,
Roland...” he whispers. “Please...”
Roland relents and blows a
loud raspberry against Wat’s bare shoulder.
“Just let me get settled and standin’ to attention...”
He leans over and takes a small vial from one of the packs piled on the
floor. “This is that oil Will
uses to polish ‘is sword,” Roland explains -- then lets out a wonderfully
filthy gurgle of laughter. “I’m
gonna be polishin’ my sword with it in a minute...”
He unstops the vial, pours some oil into his hand, then swears as he
realises he hasn’t enough hands to re-stopper the vial easily.
After a few more choice words he succeeds and throws the vial into the
straw, out of the way. “Now
then...” he says huskily as he begins slathering the oil onto his cock and
between Wat‘s buttocks. “Let me
‘ave a think...”
Wat can hear Roland’s hand
lubricating his cock and can imagine his friend's erection engorging and
hardening as he applies the oil first to his cock, then to the dark cleft
between Wat’s buttocks, unaware that as his hand moves between the two he has
set up an agonisingly sweet rhythm.
“That pretty little maid
of Jocelyn’s,” Roland replies dreamily.
“’Er tits are too small and there’s not enough meat on ‘er bones
for my likin’, but she’ll do for now...
Oh Christ...” Roland’s
breathing quickens. “Oh God,
yes...she’ll do for now, Wat... Oh
Jesus and ‘Is 'Oly Mother... Wat,
are you ready?”
Wat nods, hardly able to
breathe now. “Aye, I’m
ready.”
“Want me to go straight
in?”
“Aye -- aye...
Just...just fuck me, Roland...”
“Anythin’ you want,
lad...”
Wat stops breathing
altogether as he feels Roland getting ready, the trail of hair on the older
man’s chest and belly brushing and tickling against his back and bare
buttocks. He is tense, his whole body ready for this.
He feels the head of Roland's cock pressing against the ring of muscle
between his buttocks and wills himself to relax so that the entry will be easy.
“That’s it...nearly
there...don’t want to hurt you, lad...”
Wat’s smile is broad and
affectionate. “You never do,
Roland...” he reassures his friend.
“I aim to please,”
Roland replies, sounding delighted.
Roland clasps his hands
around Wat‘s waist and blows another loud raspberry against the young man‘s
skin. “Now remember,” he says,
hugging Wat close. “It’s all
all right. Do what we always do.
You pretend I’m William, and I’ll...well, I’ll do me best to be
‘im for you...”
Wat pats Roland’s hands to
let him know that he understands, then closes his eyes, savouring the feel of
the hard flesh within him. They
begin to move together, both of them taking what they need from the other and
giving as much in return.
As the pleasure builds,
Roland’s moans and soft cries of “Oh yes...!” and “You beauty...!”
soothe Wat and his troubled soul. Roland's
consoling bulk and willingness to give comfort touches Wat and gives him ease as
his fantasies unravel before his closed eyes and he begins to answer Roland’s
ever-more vigorous thrusts with whimpers and thrusts of his own, hips grinding
back against the warm plump body. As
they reach climax, Wat is lost in his own pleasure, switching from fantasy to
fantasy. He sees himself plunging
hard and deep into Will’s body as he masturbates; then, with each of
Roland’s thrusts he imagines that it’s Will who’s fucking him, Will
whose cock is slowly sending his mind into free-fall -- before Roland's sudden
cry and the pleasurable convulsions that seize his own body mean that for a
while, he simply cannot think at all...
*************
“Roland,” Wat begins
afterwards, limbs tangled with his friend’s.
“Mm-hm?”
Roland is on the verge of sleep and sounds as though he suspects Wat
isn’t going to let him drift off.
“Roland -- do you fink
Will’ll ever love me? You
know, forget Jocelyn an‘ love me instead?”
Roland goes still, and is
quiet for a time. “Hmmm!” he
says at length. “It’s a
thought. I mean, ‘oo knows? After
all -- what is it Will says? That a
man can change ‘is stars? Maybe
the same will ‘appen to you, Wat.”
Wat nestles down in the
straw, wrapping himself more securely around the big man.
“Mmmm...maybe...”
He lies awake, listening to
Roland’s breathing slowing into sleep and to the sounds of the city preparing
for bed. He thinks about what
Roland said; that perhaps he could change his stars and make Will see that
Jocelyn isn’t what he wants -- that what he really wants is a rough,
argumentative, quirkily handsome red-head with broad shoulders and a big heart
who already knows what it is to make love to him and what it is that most gives
Will pleasure when making love.
But even as the gratifying
thought enters his head, Wat’s heart sinks.
It will never happen. A man
might change his stars, but some things are destined to remain forever out of
reach. He thinks of how he watched
the stars that night after making love to Will and realises that he knows the
truth of it. Will is as cold to him
now as those stars -- and just as remote. They
will never now be more than friends, and Wat’s heart will probably never mend.
Because he knows that while he might dream about touching the stars, a
dream is all it will ever be; Will is destined to take Jocelyn as his bride:
he will never be Wat’s. Taking
the stars and weaving them into a garland for Will’s hair would be easier.
As he sighs and curls up
against Roland’s warm, comforting bulk, Wat tries to ignore what he knows, but
it pushes itself into his mind anyway: he
wants Will, but he knows all too well that he may as well wish for the moon in
hand...
~f~i~n~i~s~