Bright Path
BRIGHT PATH NORTH-EAST' The green and white Perspex sign hung by the door, covered in a thin layer of dirt and cracked diagonally through the words A place to call home'. The slogan was written in friendly, rounded lettering with a childish drawing of a house for a logo. Pete passed the supported housing unit every day on his short walk to the train. He'd lived in the area all his life, and it had been getting steadily edgier ever since Bright Path opened.
A male only hostel for 18 to 25 year olds, the organisation provided short-term housing for young men who were leaving the justice system, at risk of homelessness or with no place else to go. A halfway-house for down and out young men, societies most vulnerable and volatile.
Pete's flat was on the adjacent road from where he could hear the familiar, thick North-East accents of the residents fighting or partying through the day and night. Pete tried not to get frustrated with them; at the very least it could be entertaining to watch them through the curtains on lonely nights, all Adidas, testosterone and badly drawn tattoos. At twenty-nine years old Pete owned his own flat and had a decent office job in town, not a lot of lads from this area could say the same and he was grateful to be one of the lucky few.
Today was the first hot day of the year, the chill North wind that hassled the city had ceased and anyone lucky enough to not be working had been drinking since noon. Pete had spent the train journey home sending text messages, hoping to organise an impromptu trip to the pub but everyone was busy or away. He was considering his options for the evening and pondering that he'd never had a wide circle of friends when he looked up from his phone to see a young man passed out in the doorway of Bright Path. His hand, which lay slumped by his side next to a half-finished bottle of Lambrini was covered in blood and a bruise was blossoming around his right eye. Pete considered walking past but something jolted in his stomach, he thought of the difficult life the younger man must have led to land him here; the chaotic family, the lack of opportunity, the violence. No one gave a shit about these lads, that's why they ended up slumped in doorways - carried on a tide of misfortune and washed up here. `Bright Path, a place to call home.' read the sign, smiling ironically down on the youth. Pete stopped and knelt by the tracksuited figure,
`You alright mate?' The lad looked to be about nineteen or twenty, he had cropped red hair, freckles softened his unhealthy complexion. He half opened his eyes, a suspicious furrow between his brow, his words were so slurred it took Pete a moment to decipher them;
`Any spare change, mate?' His pale blue eyes were rolling back in his head slightly, the guy was off his face. Pete ignored the request for change and climbed over the prostrate form to buzz the door of Bright Path. He buzzed once, twice, no answer. The lad had now staggered to his feet and was walking away whilst downing the cheap booze, he tripped over his own feet and, putting his hands out ineffectually to break his fall, landed on his bleeding hand with a cry; the bottle hit the pavement and roled away, staying intact by some bizzare accident of physics. The right side of the young man's face laid against the pavement and he howled. Pete winced and went to the boys aid.
`Okay, let's get you up. Can you stand? What's your name?'
`Carl. Who the fuck are ye?' He replied in thick geordie, along with a string of inarticulate obscenities, amongst which Pete managed to discern he had been robbed.
`Okay Carl, let's get you sorted out. See if we can call someone.'
He slung Carl's arm over his shoulder and half walked and half lifted Carl down the road towards his flat, chatting to him in a vain attempt to keep him awake. By the time they arrived at the door Pete was slick with sweat under his office attire and his heart was racing in his chest - Carl was skinny and not that tall but could hardly hold his own weight as he walked. He slumped on the wheely-bin that was housed in the front yard as Pete unlocked the door. Carl, speaking legibly for the first time groaned, 'Me hand. Me fucking hand is killin' us.'
`We're gonna get that sorted mate, don't worry.'
`Who the fuck are you like?'
`Pete. Your night in shining fucking armour.' – ungrateful shit.
Minutes later Carl was flopped on Pete's sofa and Pete was googling the number for Bright Path. It went straight to answer phone. Pete grumbled about the Tory government and austerity as Carl began to come round. He was cradling his hand and his eyes, which were slowly coming into focus were pained.
`Fuck. Me fucking hand.' He said, indistinctly,
`Do you have a phone? Is there anyone I can call for you? Mate?'
Carl stared into space for a moment,
`Fuckin' cunts stole me... me... You know what's the worst, right?' his head bobbed up and down like a child trying to stay awake, his hand had started bleeding again.
`They took me... Fuckin'... They took... Ahh, me fuckin' hand.' his head slumped back revealing his white throat, his mouth slightly open. His eyes closed.
At a loss for what to do, and more than a little frustrated, Pete fetched some water and a clean cloth from the bathroom along with a First Aid box. Carl was still unconscious when he returned, as the younger man slept Pete gently cleaned his bleeding hand, holding it gently in his own, he washed away the red from the grazed skin and cleaned the short fingernails and he rubbed antiseptic cream into the wounds. Carl winced and grumbled a few times but didn't open his eyes. Pete stopped to look at him properly for the first time; the shabby tracksuit looked like it hadn't been cleaned in weeks, the bruise around his eye had blossomed and was an angry pink and shiny, his squarish face looked innocent as he slept. The cut on his hand didn't look so bad once the blood was washed clean though his wrist and little finger were swollen. Pete stared at the boy and realised he was still holding his hand, that he'd been holding his breath, that there was a nervous fluttering in the pit of his stomach.
Without really thinking, Pete reached out and softly placed a hand on Carl's cheek, he allowed his finger to brush dry lips, the thin stubble that grew over his top lip and the edge of his chin, the boyish hairlessness of his pale cheeks and square jaw. Pete felt a sort of affection for this stranger, who had probably never really been looked after, been loved by anyone in his short life. Pete reflected on his train-ride home, the short list of contacts on his phone and the string of rejections he'd received. Pete was one of the lucky ones, but sitting here with this unfortunate, lost young man he realised how desperately lonely he was.
Casting his eye down, Pete drank in the sight of Carl's form. The curve of his thigh, his round shoulder, the dirty trainers and white socks. He was stocky but slim, with strong looking legs and broad shoulders for his height. Pete allowed his hand to feel down the soft neck, over the round shoulders, feeling strong arms through grey fabric. Comforting him, he told himself. He pulled the zip down the hoody and reached inside feeling the muscles of Carls chest and stomach through his tee-shirt. The nervous energy in the pit of his stomach was now at odds with the pressure in his groin. His wandering hands slid down the young man's torso, his thighs and back up to his crotch. Carl's legs were apart, stretching the fabric of his soft cotton trackies between his thighs. Pete's hands felt mainly taught material and nothing underneath. Pete hesitated for only a second before fumbling on the waistband for the cord that tied the elasticated band tight around Carl's hips. He untied it, and reached inside. Feeling the floppy, warm flesh of the stranger's genitals, his heart hammering in his own chest, his eyes wide, he looked down at the sleeping form, alert for any movement, any sign that the boy would wake up and he would be caught, but Carl's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady.
The tense silnce in the room was shattered. Pete's phone vibrated on the table and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Pulling his hands from Carl's pants he leapt to the other side of the sofa, hardly able to breath. The sound had seemed abnormally loud, but Carl hadn't flinched. He looked at the message, another so- called friend with a weak excuse for not meeting him. Pete turned his phone on silent and tried to control his breathing.
`Carl.' He held onto the young face, gently tilting his head this way and that. This lonely boy, lonely like he was. Softly but firmly he tapped the freckled cheek,
`Carl.' His voice was louder, commanding.
`Carl, wake up. Can you hear me?'
There was no response. He wasn't waking up any time soon. Leaning down, Pete kissed Carl softly on his supple, unresisting lips. Growing in confidence, watching all the time for any response, he let his tongue penetrate Carls mouth and run along the teeth. Carl didn't stir. Pete gripped the waistband of Carl's trackies again and began to tug them down, as he pulled them Carl slid slightly down the sofa, and made a soft grumbling sound, the tracksuit bottoms slid off the rest of his legs to the ankles, Pete pulled off the grubby Nike Air-Max trainers and then removed the bottoms completely. Carl's white legs were athletic if not muscular, his white sport socks black on the soles of his feet. Pete lost all inhibition now, he'd come this far. He groped at the boy's crotch and savoured the feeling of the soft flesh through the lank fabric of his boxers, he pulled out the floppy cock and balls, slightly sticky and warm to the touch and surrounded in reddish blond hair. Manipulated the flacid penis, pulled back the foreskin, tugged gently on the soft pink testicles. He pulled the shorts off completely and admired the sight of Carls tackle; slack and soft in the summer heat, he leant down and explored with his mouth, the sour smell filled his nose, the texture of the pliant skin filled his consciousness, Pete sucked and licked every crease, every curve of Carl's genitals.
Pete knelt before the sleeping youth, took one of his feet in his hands and felt every contour, every shape beneath the cotton, his hands running up the calves, lightly dusted in gold hairs and the thicker muscles of the thighs. He pulled the legs up, felt the weight of them, lifted them high enough to see the hairy perineum and hole. Carl still didn't react in any way, dead to the world. Pete wondered if he'd ever been in love, ever looked into someone's eyes and trusted them completely.
Pete unbuttoned his own jeans and let his erection spring out, there was a string of precum hanging from the end. He had never felt so sexually exhillirated, so in control, so aroused. He didn't let himself feel guilty. Lifting Carl's legs again he let his aching cock-head brush the hairy gap around Carl's ass. He hurriedly pulled the rest of Carl's clothes off, faster now, almost in a frenzy, pulling Carl's naked body round to lie on the sofa, Pete licked and lapped at the white chest and pink nipples, breathed in the smell of stale sweat and lynx body spray, pushed his cock against the warm skin beneath him
`Mmmm' Carl's eyes were still closed but screwed tight. His brow furrowed, an arm heaved up and draped itself over his eyes exposing ginger armpit hair and a fresh wave of the acrid Lynx fragrance. Pete was frozen to the spot, his cock softening between their bodies, his heart in his mouth. He slid off of Carl's reclined body, too scared to breath in case it woke him fully. Carl lifted his head slightly, one eye half-opened but it was bleary and stared into space. He grasped his hurt hand, shifted his weight and lay back down on his side exposing his arse to Pete, and commenced to snore softly. Pete began to breathe again, Carl's back had a pink imprint of the fabric from the sofa on it. How long had he been here? Twenty minutes? Trying desperately to come up with some excuse as to why Carl was lying in nothing but Sport Socks on his sofa he swallowed hard and shook the pale shoulder. Carl didn't make a sound, he shook harder, slapped his cheek again, called his name.
No response.
He'd gone this far. The sleeping form of the young man seemed, in that moment to belong to Pete. A living, breathing object that was his. He reached out and placed a finger on Carl's spine, ran it down to the white cheeks of his arse, continued into the softly haired crack and found Carl's anus. He wriggled his finger, feeling the skin part slightly in the dry hole, the tight band of muscle gave some resistance but Pete slid further until he could feel the soft, hot and moist lining of the rectum, his finger inside this stranger up to the knuckle. His cock was hard again, looking over to the coffee table he spied the first-aid box. With his free hand, he pulled out a tube of after-sun lotion, unclipped the cap and squirted the fragrant cream onto his cock which bobbed with his racing pulse. Sliding his fingers out of Carl he lubed up the young man's unsuspecting ass-hole, prodding in one, then two, then three fingers in. The unconscious boy's sphincter barely resisted but for a gentle, twitching squeeze; pulling the white cheeks apart Pete could see a beautiful pink arse-hole, surrounded with red-gold hairs, it was wet and glistening with the lotion. Pete knew he would never get a chance like this again. He tried not to think of the moral implications of what he was about to do; to focus on his affection for this youth he didn't know. He pressed the head of his dick against the hole and pushed.
The sphincter stayed taught at first, but as he increased the pressure his cock popped through the first inch or so. Slowly he squeezed himself into the almost painfully tight hole, Carl made a murmuring sound but Pete was too enamoured with lust to care. Carl's arse was his, Carl was his. He didn't care if he woke up now, it no longer mattered. He watched as the last centimetres of his cock pushed into the pink ass, Carl was wriggling slightly and when Pete looked up he met Carl's pale blue eyes, the right one looked all the bluer for the bruise that surrounded it. The younger man looked over his shoulder at Pete, bright and awake. His mouth was a small dark circle, then, his teeth bared as Pete pulled out and thrust back in again,
`Fuck' Carl's voice was higher than before and broke slightly. Pete pulled out and in again, building to a rhythm, Carl whimpered in something that could have been pleasure, could have been pain but he didn't try to push Pete off. There were no apologies, no shame, Pete didn't try to hide his face, he looked Carl right in the eye as he fucked him. Faster now, Carl's ass relaxing enough to allow a smooth, pumping rhythm. Harder, the slap of skin on skin reverberated around the room, Pete gripped Carl's hips to move him into opposition, increasing the length of the thrusts as the blue eyes stared wild and confused at him over the alabaster shoulder. His dick popped out and Carl cried out,
`What are ye doin'? Fuck. Where the fuck am...?'
Pete interrupted him by thrusting his tongue into Carl's compliant mouth. Carl could have turned his head, shut his lips, but he didn't. Pete looked down and enjoyed the chance to watch his cock slip in again, unceremoniously breaching the tight band of muscle, making Carl swear. He slowed down the pace, pulling out to the head then pushing in again in as deep as he could go, long sliding thrusts, all the time Carl staring wide eyed into his eyes. Popping his dick out of the hole he manhandled Carl's unresisting body onto his back, Pete noticed with pleasure Carl was semi-erect. The pink hole gaped a small dark opening which Pete plunged into. Carl cried out in earnest now and Pete fucked him. Fucked like he had never fucked before with carnal, lustful, furious energy. Hoarse, animal sounds roared from his throat as the pressure built to a climax, fucking like a piston, his hand was round Carl's throat, Carl's legs bouncing as they rested on his shoulders, a helpless expression on his freckled face. Pete's stomach muscles couldn't go for much longer, he was close to running out of steam - and then the release poured out of him and into Carl's gut. Carl cried out in time with his final thrusts, the pace waning, his body collapsing onto Carls, into Carl's, and he was done.
He breathed ragged gasps of air, his hands were clinging to the young man below him. As he came to his senses he could feel Carl's legs gripping round his waste, his good hand grasping his back, his arse hole twitching around his softening cock. He could hear Carl panting, the word `Fuck,' whispered with each quivering exhalation.
It no longer mattered what had brought him and this stranger to this point, whether Carl was straight, whether he would have consented, Pete looked into the wide blue eyes and gently touched the purple bruise, he kissed Carl's mouth, not rushed, not aggressive but slow, light and gentle. Carl let his mouth be invaded by Pete's soft tongue, and he kissed back. Their eyes remained open, staring at one another, shocked, like they'd both been born again. Carl still clung to Pete's body with all his limbs, Pete still inside him. Slowly but surely, his limbs relaxed, his blue eyes began to blink slowly. Pete slid his sticky, soft cock out of the young man and climbed off his companion, their skin sticking as he moved away. Carl hugged himself, his eyes drowsy and closing.
With a shaking hand, Pete picked up his phone, still on silent with four missed calls. He dialled the answer phone and heard a woman's raspy and disinterested voice;
`Hello, this is Ivonne from Bright Path, I understand you've had a run in with Carl Sanderson. Hope he hasn't caused you too much both...'
Pete hung up, took Carl's hoody from the floor and draped it over the now sleeping boy's shoulders, kissed him on the cheek, tenderly and waited for the young man to awaken again.
Thanks for reading, please feel free to offer any feedback via email