The seat was very uncomfortable: Brendan had occupied it for nearly 6 hours. There aren't many options in an airplane seat nothing like the crazy positions he could get into on the old sofa in his bedroom. As he came out of a brief snooze, Brendan heard activity at the back of the plane and hoped the flight might soon be over. He had a piss-hard, which could be an embarrassment if he had to reach the toilet somewhere behind him.
Though he tried to appear worldly and traveled, the stewardesses immediately figured out this was his first over-seas flight. (Perhaps they had seen his send-off at the airport, with his mother wailing and fretful: "Jeez, Mom, I'm only going to be away three weeks!") They gave him free sodas, and an extra dinner (at least, that's what they called it). The somewhat prancy steward, with a sly wink, slipped him one of those little bottles of red wine. Brendan thought he might be "one of those queers" he'd heard his friends discussing at school. But the wine helped him sleep for much of the long flight to Paris.
Paris! The Eiffel Tower! The river Seine! Dozens of other famous sights he'd been reading about, and home to untold numbers of sexy young girls! Wild, naughty Paris! Brendan was on his way to Paris, a place he'd heard a lot about because he had an uncle living there. He'd studied the stamps from the letters that arrived now and then. He would finally meet the youngest of his father's eight brothers, Uncle Mike, who had left the states and never returned.
Pictures showed that Mike looked pretty much like his brothers, all of them "as Irish as Patty's Pig" (his mother said all too often). For that matter, Brendan resembled them too, having the same pinkish complexion, brownish-red hair, and eyes an extraordinary green hue. But Brendan hadn't developed the paunch his Dad and Uncles all had, nor the ruddy noses their tippling added to their features. At 15, Brendan was a handsome, almost pretty lad: how many times he'd heard an Aunt exclaim, "Sure'n he's goin't' be th' death of some sweet lass, mark my word!"
But, not far in the back of Brendan's mind was the notion he might find a nice French girl on this trip, and break the family habit of marrying only red-haired Irish ones. Almost everyone in his family spoke with a brogue, and he was frankly tired of it. The few words of French he managed to remember sounded so musical when the instructor spoke them and so strange when he tried to speak them, but he thought perhaps two weeks of immersion in the language might help. He hoped even more fervently for "immersion" in one or more of the racy French cuties he'd also heard so much about.
This line of thinking called attention to his piss-hard which had not subsided. Slipping the seat-belt aside, he stood awkwardly (the only way one can in an airplane) and stepped into the aisle of the darkened 707. In an instant a stewardess the older one ran up to him, grabbing a blanket as she rushed toward him. She held the blanket in front of her, as if she were a matador and he the bull. And Oh, My Gawd! he was the "bull": he'd forgotten to zip up his pants, and the hard-on he'd been playing with had slipped "out the barn door."
The stewardess was experienced and smooth; unruffled, she shushed Brendan and guided him back into his seat with the blanket placed strategically. She whispered in his ear: "Don't worry, Darling, most everyone is asleep. I was probably the only one who saw your difficulty, so you can relax: it happens more often than you might think. There's no need to be embarrassed at all. ... And sweetie, you're really going to wow the girls in Paris!"
By now, Brendan's face was as red as his mother's hair. Thank goodness the seat next to him was unoccupied! He'd lost his hard-on of course, but still had to pee, which meant going to the back of the plane, which meant facing the stewardess, "who must thing I'm awfully stupid." But his bladder threatened to burst if he didn't do something, so after carefully putting himself away and zipping up under the blanket, he stood once again. Everyone was asleep as the stewardess had said, so he walked casually to the rear of the plane and went into one of the tiny toilets.
Alone in the cubicle, he flopped his meat over the top of his shorts ("the way real men piss") and was soon liberally rinsing the stainless-steel toilet. He turned and saw his reflection in the mirror: he could do this at home, too, the way their bathroom was built, and he almost always watched himself pee. He didn't know why, he just did. He had no idea how exciting the reflection he saw really was. The full bloom of youth is gorgeous to behold, but those who have it are often unaware. He didn't think of himself as ugly, of course: he knew he was "passably handsome" (his own phrase). His popularity at school attested to a more flattering assessment: his stunning good looks were something other people noticed: girls flocked to him, boys envied him.
Brendan's penis, pumping out the last of his bladder's contents as he aimed, was usually the focus of his attention. Furtive glances at classmates in the showers told him he had nothing to be disappointed about in his hand. As always, once he began to think about it, his penis began to inflate, a process that always fascinated him. That flaccid little thing in his pants when fully engorged left a good deal of the end exposed when he wrapped his hand around it, and the exposed glans shone in the fluorescent light of the little bathroom. Brendan thought about jacking off, but decided it would be too easy for the stewardess to hear what he was doing. Reluctantly, he put himself away; as he washed his hands his erection wilted. Satisfied he was presentable, he pushed the lever, folded the door aside and went out.
"How many hours to go?" he asked the younger stewardess, whose pert face he rather liked.
She glanced at her watch: "About three more hours. We're fighting a head-wind."
"Sure is a long flight!"
He ambled back to his seat: he was bored. He put the blanket back over his lap and slipped his hand inside his pants. The warmth there was always comforting, and truth to tell, he played with himself many times each day, whenever he thought no one would see him doing so. His mind wandered: visions of buxom girls all clamoring for him filled his mind. Then an image of Nancy appeared. Nancy was one of several dozen cousins, and the only girl with whom he had attempted any kind of sex. He'd been 13 at the time, she younger yet, but pleasantly plump and seemingly willing to experiment. They were alone in the little potting-shed behind the garage; Nancy asked him for a kiss. He pecked her on the cheek, but she had something more in mind, and guided his mouth to her own. Filled with strange sensations, he scarcely noticed when her hand went to his crotch. Before long, his pants were down, her dress was up, and the head of his cock was aimed at the magic gap between her legs.
Alas, that was as far as he got: Nancy suddenly got cold feet and scampered off laughing, leaving him horny and unfulfilled. Then, as now on the plane, he felt ready to explode. That time, he'd jacked himself rapidly to a cum-spurting climax, and here on the plane (he realized suddenly) it was likely to happen again unless he stopped playing with himself, which he did just in the nick of time, for someone was pushing past his legs to get at the seat beside him. To his surprise, it was the cute stewardess.
She sat, folded the arm-rest out of the way, and pulled the blanket quickly over their laps. With a finger to her mouth to signal "quiet", her other hand dove under the blanket and homed in on his crotch. Swiftly, his zipper was down again and she expertly withdrew his favorite toy from below the waist-band of his shorts. She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, "I'd love to bang you, Sweetie, but this is the best I can do, and I can lose my job for it if we're found out. Sherry said you had a nice prick, and I can feel" (she squeezed his turgid penis) "she was right! Just relax and try not to make any noise."
She put her left arm behind him, and went to work with her right. For his part, he tried to make a tent out of the blanket so her motions would not be quite so obvious. It was not his first hand-job (he and a boy from a neighboring farm had "experimented" when in the grip of pubertal hormones): but considering the time, the place, and the danger, is was extremely thrilling. He knew he would reach a climax quickly, and wondered how he'd clean up the mess, but he was past the point of stopping: stretching his legs as far as he could under the next seat and clenching his teeth to prevent his usual loud moans, he pumped his copious young load into the stewardess's skilled hand. It was glorious! It seemed as if he couldn't stop ejaculating, but eventually he calmed down. The girl caught his wad expertly, and smeared it into his pubic hair and shorts as she tucked his meat away, leaving herself just enough to taste furtively as she withdrew from beneath the blanket.
"Thanks, Sweetie," she whispered as she got out of the seat. "Sherry's right: you will wow the girls when we get to Paris!"
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will be landing at Le Bourget in about an hour, so we have turned on the lights, and will be serving coffee and croissants shortly. Bon Apetit!"
Brendan was instantly awake. Had his dalliance with the stewardess been a dream? He checked inside his shorts: the sticky wetness proved only he'd had an emission. It had certainly seemed real, but then dreams, especially wet ones, usually do. The older stewardess (this must be Sherry, he thought) appeared with a tray of hot croissants: she was all business as she poured fragrant French Roast from a carafe. The younger stewardess was nowhere to be seen. Sherry passed out some papers to be filled out for Customs, and before long, the 707 pitched downward and began its descent. Soon, through breaks in the clouds, landscapes appeared, taking shape with farms and houses as they dropped ever closer to the French countryside. Before long, the plane swooped down on its runway with a lurch, then the engines roared in reverse to slow the plane down. Brandon forgot all about his dream, real or otherwise; he was about to set foot on french soil! He patted his shirt pocket, where the instructions for finding Uncle Mike were safely stored. He would find his way into Paris, locate its most famous street, the Champs Elysees, and then find a side-street where Michael had a walk-up apartment. He had it planned well on a map: there should be no problem.
Once the plane stopped at its gate, all hell broke loose; everyone tried to get their belongings together and get out of the plane at once. After a long delay, the doors were opened, a welcome message was read in several languages, and people began to exit, passing the open cock-pit door. The steward, and the half-dozen stewardesses all said good-bye to anyone who would listen. Brendan scrutinized their faces, hoping for confirmation that his paramour had been one of them. When he tried a stilted au revoir, he got a breezy "Bye, sweetie," from all six and the steward. The smirk on the steward's face disquieted him: could it have been his hand under the blanket? Now he would never know. He stumbled through the door onto the gang-way and followed the other passengers into the terminal.
Brendan's first surprise was to find all the signs were in French. He was a bright boy, though, and knew everyone would head for Customs, so he went with the crowd. Eventually a surly guard glanced at his passport, took the form and waved him onward. His instructions, which by now he knew by heart, were to collect his luggage, change a little money, then get a taxi to the Champs Elysees. It all seemed simple enough, and he had no problem until it came time to hire a taxi. Where the Customs guard had been surly, the taxi driver was downright hostile! Brendan's halting French did him no good. The problem, of course, was two-fold: Brendan was "un Americaine", and the Champs Elysees is a long street. The driver wanted to know where Brendan wanted to go, but Brendan could not tell him. However, it really didn't matter, as the hack had some plans of his own. Eventually he tossed Brendan's bag into the boot, and set forth with much honking and muttering under his breath.
Brendan relaxed in the back seat. Nothing he saw was familiar, except the occasional sign for Coca- Cola or Pepsi. The highway into town from Le Bourget was pretty much like any other, though the cars looked small and strange. Even the suburbs through which he passed somehow looked different, and as the taxi wound into the town proper, large old buildings such as he'd seen in pictures began to appear. Before long, however, these handsome old buildings gave way to run-down old buildings, then to seedy apartment blocks, and eventually to disheveled buildings of a distinctly industrial sort. The taxi drove into a narrow alley between a couple of these, and stopped. Brendan was sure this was not the Champs Elysees.
Before he could question the driver, a rear door of the taxi was yanked open and a large hand reached in and grabbed Brendan's wrist. He was unceremoniously pulled out of the cab before he knew what was happening. Moments later he was pinned against a wall by two burley guys Brendan felt sure wanted to hurt him: he had no idea why. A glance around showed there were three other young toughs, all of them babbling in rapid-fire French which Brendan found incomprehensible. It was a difficult situation. His tormentors soon made their intentions clear: they got his bag out of the trunk of the taxi, and several hands were not-so-gently groping in his back pockets: they had his wallet and passport out in a trice, and emptied his front pockets and shirt as well. Then, as suddenly as it began, the five fellows piled into the taxi which sped away with a squeal of rubber. It had gone exactly according to plan: Brendan had been "rolled" within an hour of his arrival in Paris. He was left penniless, with no more belongings than his clothes, and bereft of his self-respect: he had not even tried to fight back!
There seemed nothing to do except get out of the alley and see if he could find help. Alas, there was no one around: the whole area was abandoned, the buildings decrepit and empty. There would be no food in any of them, he was sure, not even much shelter, since most were standing open with windows broken out. He walked a long way on what might have been a main street, though it was now devoid even of street-signs.
After some hours, weary and foot-sore, Brendan sat down on the steps of what had been a house. He needed to take stock. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, his predicament became increasingly obvious, and panic set in. It had all gone so well, and then: disaster! He buried his head in his hands and wept quietly, mopping his tears on his sleeve: he didn't even have a handkerchief to his name. He did not hear the police car as it pulled up quietly in front of him.
A portly gendarme got out of the car and gruffly hauled Brendan to his feet. "What you are doing here?" he asked in heavily accented English.
"I've been robbed," Brendan replied simply. "Everything I came here with was stolen except my clothes."
"This bad place for you."
"I see that: can you help me?"
"Oui, maybe..." He opened the rear door of the car. Brendan sank into the seat gratefully.
After some driving, during which the appearance of Paris began to look a bit more like what he'd been expecting, the car stopped in front of a modest building with several other police cars parked nearby. Brendan's spirits rose: surely someone here would speak English. The gendarme beckoned him to follow and went inside. There followed nearly half an hour of discussion by his rescuer and several others, all in French. Brendan was ignored. Telephone calls were made, the officers shouted at one another, more phone calls. Eventually, Brendan was returned to the police car with another officer and they set off. Brendan had spoken to no one.
Darkness was upon them when the Peugeot pulled up to a large building several stories high: it was a detention center for juveniles but looked more like a jail. Led inside, Brendan was left standing once more while his driver and a man sitting behind a desk carried on another animated discussion which might have been about Brendan, but then again, might not: there was no way he could tell. At length, the officer departed, and the man behind the desk waved him over. "You name?"
"Brendan Brady. Yours?" The man gave no response, and wrote slowly in a large book.
"You from?"
"America." He wrote again, then rose from his desk, took a large ring of keys from a hook, and beckoned Brendan to follow. They rode an elevator up a couple of floors, walked along a hallway, and eventually came to a door. With much rattling of keys, the guide got the door open and pushed Brendan through it; "Un Americaine!" he announced loudly. The door clanked shut, the keys rattled: Brendan was in a French jail. He wondered how long he might be there.
When his eyes adjusted to the low light, he found himself in a dormitory. Beds were arranged three-high along most of the walls; each bed had a steel box attached at one end. All the beds appeared to be occupied, and bodies were stirring in some of them, apparently interested in who had come into their midst. It was difficult to make out features: most of the occupants had been asleep, even though it was not much after 9 o'clock.
A sallow youngster stepped out of a bottom bunk and sauntered over. "American, eh? How'd you come to be in this hell-hole?"
At last: someone speaking English! Brendan explained his dilemma. "Ah, yeah, that's old 'Jacque the Tax's' MO. I know most of his boys. Looks like they didn't have to rough you up too much."
"No, it happened so fast, I never knew what hit me. Nothing like it ever happened to me before."
"Gotta name?"
"Brendan. You?"
"Sammy. Well, you're in a fix now, for sure. No one cares about us in here. We get crap they call food and work they call 'rehabilitation'."
"I have an Uncle in Paris."
"Don't we all?" Brendan was beginning to dislike this boy, but at least he could communicate with him. And he was very tired. He needed some sleep.
"Are there any empty beds?"
"Why sure, they's always empty beds 'cause the guys pair up, you know?"
"To keep warm, I suppose." "Yah, sure, ..."
During this conversation, boys had gotten out of bed and were standing around them. Most wore only filthy, droopy shorts. There was a low murmur among them in languages Brendan did not understand. Sammy turned and joined in with this hubbub, babbling in french and presumably telling the group of Brendan's predicament. Brendan wanted to get control of the situation. He asked Sammy once again if there was a spare bed, and if there was a toilet anywhere near.
"Can's through that door. Top bed in that tier (he waved a hand) is probably empty. Your duds go in the box, not that they'll be there in the morning."
"Well, I've had a terrible day, and I need to get some sleep. Thanks for helping me out, Sammy."
"Oh, don't mention it," Sammy replied, but don't expect to get much sleep tonight. We all need some new meat for a change."
Brendan looked around: a quick count showed there were over 20 beds: presumably, there was about the same number of guys. He'd already had a bad day; all he wanted was to be left alone to think things through and get some much-needed sleep. He pushed his way through the group of fellows, and climbed up the little ladder to the top bunk. There was a thin, heavily-stained mattress on the bed; nothing else, and nothing in the box. Nevertheless, for good or all, this was "home" for the night.
Brendan had not undressed on a bunk bed since his days at Y camp, but he managed, despite the closeness of the ceiling; he put his clothes in the empty box, leaving his sox and shorts on. He failed to notice how the load he had lost on the plane had dried among his pubic hairs: that scene had faded rapidly given the events since, and sex was far from his mind as he climbed down the ladder and went to the door marked "W C". It opened into a small, fetid bathroom having one stall shower, two filthy toilets and two urinals encrusted with yellow salts. The ammoniacal stench assaulted his nostrils, but once again, he had to pee, so he pushed his briefs down below his meat and let loose. That done, he thought a shower might be nice, but he saw no towels anywhere, nor soap, so decided just to get a night's rest.
As he pushed the bathroom door open, he was met by an array of youths, Sammy among them, most of them now nude and playing either with themselves or with one another. There were dark skins and light, glabrous and hairy, tall and short, fat and thin, but all seemed to have something in mind. Since they were all standing looking at him, Brendan assumed he might be the object of some sort of prank. His experience so far in life had not prepared him for the possibility of boys raping boys, and "gang rape" had not yet entered his vocabulary. Sammy broke the silence: "Me first!" he said authoritatively.
With that, he stepped forward, grabbed Brendan's shorts and pushed them down. This was more than Brendan could accept: he pushed Sammy away from him violently. "I don't think so," he said in as menacing a tone as he could muster. "I don't fool around with guys."
"Don't you now?" Sammy replied. "You any idea how long since we had a fresh piece o'meat in this frickin place?"
"Not my worry!" Brendan replied. "I do NOT fool around with guys!"
"Well, then: we'll just fool around with YOU, won't we fellas?" A murmur of approval swept through the group. "We don't really care if you fool with us, but we sure gonna fool with you! C'mon, guys have at 'im."
The group surged towards him: Brendan, at last, stood his ground and did not run (not that there was any place to go, except the stinky toilet behind him). He tried to strike out, but his arms were pinned quickly, and hands of every hue began to paw at his body, fondle his privates, ruffle his hair. A finger was pushed between his lips, but he clenched his teeth against further incursion. Soon he felt what must be tongues lapping at various parts of his body, and despite his revulsion at what was happening, his cock soon stood with several hands working with it.
Suddenly, a loud deep voice was heard: "Arrete!" The gang froze, then fell away from Brendan and scuttled back to the beds like roaches. Brendan was left facing a fellow far taller than himself, powerfully built, and dark as night. He pulled up his briefs and shivered, wondering what on earth could possibly happen next. The two studied each other in the half-light, unsure of what to do. Responding to the sheer terror he saw in Brendan's face, the black man's mind flashed back to the time when, in the early bloom of youth, he'd been gang-raped by a bunch of randy prisoners. The boy shivering before him did not deserve the same fate. He spoke to someone in French, who replied similarly: Brendan heard his name mentioned. The big man smiled and spoke: "Brenn'n.", then stepped forward and effortlessly picked Brendan up and carried him to a nearby bunk bed. This one had blankets; within minutes, the two were ensconced spoon-fashion under them. The hunk muttered strange words, but the sense of it for Brendan was that he'd been rescued from a horrible fate. Though he figured his friend could crush him like a gnat if so inclined, for the moment at least he felt safe from the bunch of horny guys who clearly had some sort of lewd mischief in mind. Despite his aversion to the notion of sleeping with another guy, unexpectedly he felt warm and safe. So he slept.
At least, his body slept: his mind writhed with tortured re-plays of the day's events. He was alternately attacked by wild dogs, snakes and scantily-dressed hags. A crooked, mangled Eiffel tower appeared: he somehow found himself at the top of it, then fell, and landed with a lurch that woke him momentarily. Except that there was a large black hand cupping his private parts, he had not moved and his mate's regular breathing quickly sent him back to sleep. Noisy activities in other beds nearby went unnoticed.
Suddenly, there was a loud clanging of bells, and the room was awash in electric light. The door was opened and two bundles wrapped in brown paper were tossed into the room. Brendan's hunk pushed him gently aside and got out of bed. He was so black, he seemed to absorb the light in the room as he stretched, strode over to the first bundle and ripped the paper from it. He pawed through the towels it contained to find two the least stained and torn, which he threw to his bed. Then he attacked the other package, which held flimsy draw-string pants. These (like the towels) might once have been white, but were now a dingy grey that spoke of hundreds of washes without benefit of bleach. All the pants were the same size. Hunk selected the best two, tossed them as before, then kicked the heaps into the center of the room; boys piled out of beds and fell upon them as if they were manna. Ignoring them, hunk returned to his bed and smiled at Brendan, flashing regular, brilliant white teeth. He dug some soap out of his metal box, helped Brendan to his feet and pushed him towards the bathroom...
...and into the scummy shower stall. He turned on water, which was frigid. Hunk seemed to revel in it, but Brendan wanted water that was at least warm. And he got it, first in the form of tap-water that went from ice-cold to tepid, and then in the form of piss gushing from Hunk's flaccid phallus. Brendan thought he might be sick, but swallowed hard to force the bile in his throat back into his stomach: he was sure it would be a bad idea to vomit on his benefactor, who (if nothing else) had apparently gotten for him what little warm water there was. It was already cooling off again: the rest of the boys would shower in ice-water.
Hunk soaped Brendan all over, saw to it he was rinsed, then handed him the bar of soap: there was no question Hunk expected Brendan to wash him. The idea of doing so appalled him: putting his hands on another man's body for any purpose was something he'd never even imagined, much less done. Yet here he was, about to wash someone not only older, but clearly from some foreign place, probably deepest Africa. Still, this fellow had helped him when no one else would: one good deed deserved another, so Brendan set to work. It seemed as if he was polishing a statue: his friend was so muscular, he could have been cast in bronze. Once again bile rose in his throat as he forced himself to wash the statue's large penis and pendulous balls, and he nearly tossed his cookies as that phallus quickly became stiff. Compared to his own, this one seemed at least twice as large; he struggled to get his hands around the thing. As quickly as he could, he moved on to the sturdy legs below, and soon had his statue clean.
Threadbare towels did little towards drying either of them, but when they were through toweling each other, hunk pushed Brendan back into the dormitory. Sammy slunk past, apparently the second to have access to the single shower. Following hunk's lead, Brendan put on a pair of the thin dingy pants: they were too large for him, but on his friend they were stretched to the limit of every seam.
Hunk took Brendan's wrist in hand and led him to a third door he hadn't noticed: they entered a large room fitted with tables and chairs. At each place was a tray with some paper dishes, cups and plastic utensils. Boxes of cold cereal were arrayed on each table along with pitchers of liquid. Still without a word between them, Hunk and Brendan sat, filled bowls, poured milk and ate. Despite his size, Hunk seemed fairly benign, and he often smiled approvingly at Brendan. Presently, they were joined by Sammy: a cold shower seemed to have put him in a better mood. He and Hunk began chattering in a patois of French, English and some other language Brendan did not recognize. After a bit of this, Sammy turned to Brendan: "He wants to know if you slept well."
"Sort of. It's all too new for me. Does he have a name?"
"We call him 'Big Al': it's really Ali. He's the 'Big Cheese' in our dorm, mainly because he's bigger than any two of us put together. And I am number two!" he said grandly. "Where's he from?"
"Somewhere in Africa I think, Sudan maybe."
"Why is he here?"
"Why is any of us here? We fucked-up somehow. Me, I stole a junky Citron and got caught. Ali, I don't know for sure: he probably raped somebody he's a horny mother. Mosta the guys are here for stealing."
"He seems to like me for some reason."
"That's plain to see! He likes white boy-toys like you, and it's a good thing for you: he's taken you for himself, so none of us dares mess with ya, at least not as long as you're his and he says so. But watch your back if you don't keep him happy: he can be a mean sonofabitch."
Brendan was aghast. Ugly images took shape in his mind. Sammy's matter-of-fact discourse on what the future might hold frightened him.
"Uh, well, you know I don't really go for that sort of thing."
Sammy laughed. "You don't have any say in the matter: you either keep him happy, or you keep the rest of us happy. For that matter, Ali has been known to share now and then." He grinned lasciviously at Brendan, whose stomach turned. Those French "cuties" he'd longed to meet seemed to have changed gender.
"Christ!"
"Oh, don't worry: Ali broke-in most of us here, and he done a good job. Before long you'll be begging for that prong of his up your butt."
"Oh, NO!"
"Oh, YES!" Sammy cackled gleefully.
By now, most of the other boys were at the various tables, eating the cold cereal and thinly-mixed powdered milk. They babbled among themselves: Brendan recognized some French, but there were other strange tongues mixed in. Suddenly, those awful bells went off again, ringing for nearly a minute. When they stopped, a door at the far end of the dining-room opened and a man in a crumpled uniform barked some orders. Ali grabbed Brandon's wrist again, and with the others they went through the open door. Commercial washing-machines filled the place; it was hot, steamy, stifling. There were carts full of laundry everywhere. Other guys, dressed just like Brendan were leaving the opposite end: the swing shift going off duty. The place stank of steam and sweat. "Just follow Ali's lead," Sammy shouted: "nobody even knows you're here yet." Four grueling hours later, the machinery stopped long enough for the boys to go back to the dining room to eat the thinnest sandwiches Brendan had ever seen. They did nothing to assuage his hunger. After half an hour, it was back to work. Though there were two uniformed guards reading magazines at their desks, Ali seemed to be in charge of the place. He did no physical labor himself, but directed all the others, including Brendan. There were several small oriental boys who were clearly afraid of Ali, and not without reason: he seemed to push them harder than anyone. Brendan only had to move large carts full of smelly laundry around, but he worked up a sweat and soon stank like all the rest. He was glad when the bells went off again!
Dinner at the center made the airplane meal look like a feast! There was something vaguely resembling meat-loaf, (mostly loaf) and thin brown gravy. This was nothing like the french cuisine Brendan had looked forward to! Some mushy boiled vegetable he didn't even recognize and thin black coffee completed the meal. After an hour, they were herded back to the dorm, where cold showers once again washed off most of the sweat. As before, Brendan and Ali showered together, and this time Brendan noticed that many other pairs, even threesomes, used the funky stall after them. He also noticed a good deal of hanky-panky going on. Soon enough, the bells rang yet again and the lights dimmed to nearly nothing. Nine o'clock, and time for bed. Brendan went to climb up the little ladder to his bed, but found it occupied by someone else. As he got back down on his feet, Ali somewhat roughly grabbed his wrist again and led him back to his bunk. He pointed at Brendan with a long black digit, then at the bed. The message was clear: he was to sleep with Ali, whether he liked it or not.
Brendan really did NOT like it! However, the reality of his situation made it imperative that he keep Ali satisfied insofar as he could without compromising his self-image as a perfectly normal boy who, naturally, would eschew these activities and reject any advances made by another guy. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized Ali was the only person he'd met in France who had shown any real kindness toward him: his sense of fairness suggested he should reciprocate, but the idea of doing so in any way he thought Ali might like resulted in mental images he couldn't deal with.
Ali shouted some orders: sounds in the room made it clear he was being obeyed. Sammy dragged over a mattress, followed by two very young boys: Brendan wondered where he'd found them. However, he saw they were two oriental fellows, probably not as young as he first supposed, but they looked not much over 12 or so. Sammy put the mattress in front of Ali's bed; Ali sat on the edge of the bed and gently pushed Brendan over beside him. The youngsters knew what was expected of them, and began to slowly remove the few rags of clothing they wore. Sammy bent down to Brendan's ear.
"Watch closely Bren'," he whispered. "You 'n Ali will be next. He wants ya to have some idea of what to 'spect."
Ali wrapped a muscular black arm around Brendan's shoulders and pulled him close. The heat of Ali's body was a sensation utterly new to him. This much, at least was comforting, so he relaxed and turned his attention to the morality play performed for their benefit by the two boys, now utterly nude and standing, arms akimbo, awaiting a signal. Ali beckoned the boys to approach, and pushed one gently to stand directly in front of Brendan. In the dim light, Brendan could see his fair skin, many shades darker than his own, but still many, many shades lighter than Ali's. Ali reached out and stroked one boy from his shoulder down over his stomach: with his other hand he coaxed Brendan to touch the boy in front of him. Brendan reluctantly obeyed; and found the sensation was not unpleasant. In fact, running his hand over the smooth skin of the youngster's stomach felt rather good, another entirely new sensation perhaps requiring a re-evaluation of his aversion to touching a guy. He put his left palm on the boy's fleshy thigh, and found the slight ripple of muscle there intriguing. But he had to be forced by Ali to touch the boy's erection: this was "beyond the pale" as far as he was concerned, and as soon as he could he released his grip and put his hand back into his own lap. There, to his surprise, he found the fabric of his shorts pushed out into a noticeable tent.
At Ali's command, the boys returned to the mattress. With a few preliminary strokes here and there, one of them presently up-ended his friend's bottom and dove into it with his tongue. Brendan thought he would heave! He could think of nothing so demeaning: if it were not happening before his eyes, he would not believe it possible. That both boys were enjoying themselves escaped his notice. When the boy stopped slathering his friends ass, and plunged his turgid penis into it, Brendan bolted for the bathroom where the images in his mind and the general stench combined to bring his meager dinner into his throat. He sank to his knees and threw up violently into the nearest filthy bowl until there was nothing more to spew. Sweat poured down his face and dripped from his nose into the mess. He felt absolutely miserable: abandoned, alone, afraid, and now sick.
However, he was not alone: Ali had quietly joined him, and helped him stand and go to the sink to wash the last of his dinner out of his mouth. Once again, it was Ali showing him kindness. He mopped Brendan's brow, splashed a bit of water in his face and wiped it away. He kissed Brendan very lightly on his forehead, and urged him back into the dormitory. All was quiet: the boys were gone, though the mattress remained. He nearly fainted as he recalled Sammy's words: "You 'n Ali will be next." Only Ali's tight grip kept him from falling.
Ali shouted some words, and Sammy responded from the dimness: "OK: that gets you outa yer performance tonight, but don' think it's gonna work every night. Ali has the patience of Job."
Ali stuffed one edge of his blanket under the mattress of the bunk above: it hung down and enclosed their bed below. He ushered Brendan into the private space thus created, and got in with him. He stretched out fully on the bed, Brendan beside him. Ali began to stroke himself slowly and soon his penis was standing to full height. Now, this at least was something Brendan could relate to: he'd been jacking off alone for several years, and knew how good it felt. So, even though the notion of doing it in the presence of someone else had never occurred to him, he could see little harm in it. Feeling somewhat better, he took himself in hand and soon matched Ali stroke-for-stroke, though he could not begin to match him in size. He was beginning to "get the feeling" when Ali reached across his stomach and firmly guided Brendan's hand over to his monstrous tool. Brendan's stomach churned, but there was nothing left to come up, and he knew it would not be appreciated if he spewed in this situation, so he swallowed hard, and applied the familiar motion to the huge phallus in his fist. Not only was it huge, but it was slippery: apparently Ali (like himself) tended to "leak" a lot before reaching a climax.
Brendan could barely see in the extreme dimness, which helped him deal with what he was doing. Soon, he felt that Ali was benefitting from his handiwork. He knew the signs well, after all: rapid breathing, tense muscles, moans and groans. He scarcely noticed the vice-like grip Ali had on his own left thigh, and he found it oddly thrilling when Ali's cock began to pulsate and send long ropey spurts of seed out over his belly and chest. There was enough light, and his eyes had dilated to the point where Brendan could make out the white trails and pools against Ali's inky black skin. There was a great deal more than he usually produced himself. Brendan also recognized the signs of relaxing after a good climax that Ali was experiencing, and he thought, "Now, here's a way I can repay Ali's kindness."
This thought allowed Brendan to tenderly spread Ali's copious effusion over his skin so it could dry. He noticed its pungent smell: similar to his own, yet subtly different. And, yes, he tasted a gob of it as well: he often tasted his own, as most guys do. Here was a chance to see if another's tasted the same: it seemed like Ali's load was a little different in flavor as well as in smell. For his part, Ali reveled in the attention his boy-toy had finally been able to show him, and he soon seemed fast asleep. Brendan, though, was unfulfilled and, he had to admit, horny. He decided he would masturbate: it always helped him sleep.
But Ali wasn't asleep: the bouncing bed told him what Brendan was doing. He could recognize the signs of an impending orgasm far better than Brendan, so as nirvana neared, Ali pushed himself up, bent over and forced his mouth past Brendan's busy fingers and over his drooling cock. Before Brendan quite realized what was happening, he let out a wail and erupted; great gobs of his boy-cum shot into his friend's fiery throat. It was his first blow-job, and it felt terrific. Relaxing, he thought it probably wouldn't be his last. As he drifted off to sleep he wondered if a girl could do a better job of it.
Too soon, those damned bells went off and the second day of Brendan's incarceration began. There was no change in the routine. Lunch was thoroughly forgettable. Well into the afternoon's laundry activities, he realized he had to move his bowels. He'd seen no toilet in the laundry area, so he sought out Sammy, who he thought could tell him how to get a bath-room break. "Ya mean, ya gotta take a shit?" Sammy asked sarcastically.
"Well, yes, that's basically it: I haven't 'taken a shit' here yet: seems like I'd better do it pretty soon." Brendan's strict Irish upbringing had not exposed him to some of the more colorful phrases that describe what he needed.
"Good. By chance, you've asked just the right person. Follow me."
Brendan followed, getting uncomfortable, worried he might not make it. Sammy led him to a dark corner behind some stacked boxes: he palmed a few smelly towels from a pile along the way. Satisfied they were unwatched, Sammy said, "OK Bren', drop your pants and bend over."
"Oh, NO you don't!" Brendan exclaimed. "You ain't sticking anything up there."
"No, from what you say there's no room anyhow. Don't make a fuss. We'll be missed in a few minutes and they'll come looking for us. Do as I say: you won't be hurt."
With great reluctance but urged on by pressure in his colon, Brendan complied.
"OK: spread your cheeks," Sammy ordered.
Not since a PE-class inspection in Junior High had Brendan heard that command. At the time the coach had inspected the entire class that way: Brendan wasn't really sure why, but no harm had come of it. But this time, the effect of pulling at his backside got things moving: he could no longer prevent himself from going, and indeed there seemed no reason not to just go ahead and do what Sammy apparently expected.
"Christ, Man, you weren't kidding!" Sammy exclaimed, catching each smelly brown baby neatly in a towel before it reach the floor.
"Ya through?"
"Yes."
Sammy cleaned Brendan's butt carefully with a towel, then inspected it closely.
"Yep, virgin ass! Ali's gonna freak when I tell him ya never been fucked."
"Oh, my Gawd! There's NO WAY his thing could go in there: you've GOT to be kidding!"
Well, I might be persuaded not to tell him you're a virgin."
"How so?"
Sammy pulled the cord on his pants, which dropped to reveal his hard-on: he was not as large as Brendan. "Suck it!" he ordered.
Brendan froze.
"Suck it, or I'll tell Ali, and he'll split you wide open!"
Terrified, Brendan's knees went out from under him: he landed in the pile of towels; the squish in one told him he'd just mashed one of his own turds. He knew it was blackmail, but forced to choose between Ali's monstrosity in his bum and Sammy's little dick in his mouth, he chose Sammy. Under the circumstances, it seemed wise to try to placate the number two guy anyway, so, with no real idea how to proceed, he shut his eyes and opened his mouth. Sammy stepped forward and stuck his prong into Brendan's face. Nothing much happened: he realized with a start that Brendan really was a neophyte, and didn't know how to administer a proper blow-job.
"Close your mouth and suck, dammit!"
Brendan tried to recall what Ali had done the night before, but then he'd been so overwhelmed he'd paid no attention to the mechanics involved. He closed his mouth around Sammy's dick, bobbed his head forward and back, and tried to do his best. Concentration was made more difficult by the need to pee, something he always did right after a movement.
"Faster! Tighter!"
Something had to give: Brendan's sphincter relaxed and he pissed, drenching his pants and the pile of towels. He steadied himself by grasping Sammy's knotted thighs, moved back and forth, in and out as fast as he could, tiring rapidly. No expert, he was unprepared when Sammy grabbed his head and fired his wad at Brendan's tonsils. Brendan choked and snorted, but Sammy would not let him up for air until he had taken out his frustration fully at being number two. He thought Brendan was one of the cutest guys he'd ever seen, but "that monster Ali always got the goodies."
Sammy's frenzy finally subsided. He helped Brendan to his feet, noticing the yellow-soaked pants.
"Man, do you have a lot to learn! Take those off. I'll getcha some dry ones."
He darted around the boxes and came back immediately with the regular-issue pants. They weren't clean, but they were at least dry. Brendan slipped into them quickly. Sammy grabbed up the soiled towels and soggy pants and they headed back into the room.
"That had to be the worst bee-jay I ever got, Bren'," he said. "Think maybe I'll tell Ali you's a virgin after all."
"Please don't." I'll get the hang of it..." "Ya better. Put your finger in your mouth and suck on it: hard! Good training. I'll get you again tomorrow," he said as he tossed the wad of towels into an empty basket. "Let's see those little chinks get those rags clean!"
No one had missed the boys: work went on apace. Brandon felt utterly degraded. In such a short time, he'd touched another boy and fondled his privates, masturbated a black man, and sucked on another guys penis. What horrors lay ahead? And, why had no one come to get him? Surely Uncle Michael knew he had not shown up, and would be trying to find him. No one in this god-forsaken place seemed to give a rat's ass about him or his well-being. Except Ali, and he wanted to...
The clanging bell ended the work period and all the boys traipsed into the dining room. The dorm, the diner, and the laundry (and that foul bathroom) were the only parts of the huge building he'd seen. There must be a kitchen somewhere, since food (if you could call it that) appeared in a timely fashion. This night's "cuisine" consisted of ground up meat in a starchy sauce utterly devoid of flavor, more mushy vegetables, some rancid french-fries, and the ubiquitous watery coffee. It was horrible to behold and worse to actually eat. As usual he was joined at the table by Ali and Sammy, who again translated a few of Ali's utterances.
"Ali says ya gotta eat all that: need to keep up your strength for a good fuckin'!
It occurred to Brendan that Sammy's interpreting might not be all that accurate: if he lived up to his part of the bargain struck earlier in the day, presumably Ali was not so interested in probing his backside unless he knew it was virgin.
"What little appetite I might of had, just went away. Or did you lie to me this afternoon?"
"I ain't said nuthin' to Ali 'bout you bein' a virgin. But he'll be wantin' to plug you anyway, jus' cuz you're the new boy in town. He already been up everyone else he likes, especially those little chinks: I told ya he likes boy-toys."
No matter how he tried, Brendan could not imagine those tiny oriental guys receiving Ali's pecker in their behind. It seemed physically impossible. His own anal sphincter clenched at the thought.
"It can't be done!"
"You think not, eh?" Guess we'll hafta have a little demonstration for ya tonight."
"Doubt if I'll be able to stay awake for it. I'm really tired."
Sammy chuckled. Ali spoke again.
"He's asking why no one has come to get you outa this place."
"I suppose my Uncle must be trying to locate me, but he has no way of knowing what happened, or where I am. I don't have any way to get a message to him, either: I lost his phone number and address with everything else, and no one lets us out of here anyhow."
Sammy's translated reply seemed to satisfy Ali: the three lapsed into their own thoughts. Then the bells rang and the gang headed for the dorm. By the time the lights dimmed, most everyone had cleaned up as best they could. For at least an hour Ali and Brendan had lain side by side, relaxing and snoozing after the day's hard work. Their reverie was interrupted by Sammy, once again dragging a mattress across the floor. He chattered with Ali briefly, then went away. When he returned, he had another oriental boy by the arm. This fellow looked a trifle older, and had a bit more meat on his bones, but stood barely half Ali's height. He bent over their bunk and kissed Ali passionately on his lips, letting his hand roam over Ali's pants: they were too tight for him to get his hand inside, and when Ali developed a hard on, there was an audible rip as yet another pair was destroyed. The youngster proceeded to tear the remaining parts to shreds, quickly denuding Ali completely.
Indicating Brendan should stay put, Ali got out of bed and stretched, then sank on to the mattress. On his back, his hard-on stood straight up, hooking neither right nor left. Fascinated in spite of himself, Brendan sat on the bed to watch, where Sammy joined him.
"Ali's gonna fuck that Lee six ways from Sunday."
"His penis is larger around than Lee's arm: it can't be done." Brendan was incredulous.
Lee knelt between Ali's massive legs, then bent forward. He put his tiny hands around Ali's prick as best he could, and slathered spit over the exposed head, not much of which he could get into his small mouth. When Ali had been well lubricated, the boy stood up and planted his feet beside Ali's stomach. He squatted down quickly, perching his buns on the tip of Ali's dick. Then slowly and deliberately, shifting his weight as necessary, his glabrous butt began to descend over Ali's turgid phallus: little by little, the black monster disappeared from view. Brendan winced, feeling every inch go up his own colon. He could only imagine the stretching and tearing he thought must take place to allow what he was seeing: ultimately, the disappearance of Ali's entire cock in the behind of the diminutive oriental boy.
"Told ya!" Sammy chortled.
"Incredible!"
Sammy had quietly slipped his left hand into Brendan's shorts where he played with his pecker. Engrossed in the scene before them, Brendan had scarcely noticed this intrusion, and truth to tell, under the circumstances having someone play with him didn't seem out of place. But Sammy had to coax Brendan's right hand into his shorts: Brendan still could not initiate such a thing on his own. On the mattress, the scene changed. With his meat impaled in the boy's backside, Ali first drew his feet up against the boy's back, then bent himself up to a sitting position. He put his arms around the boy and his legs, then slowly rolled over on his side: putting out one sculpted arm, he forced the two of them to roll further until Ali could straighten up on his knees. Lee, his head down, was now on all fours, pushing himself back against Ali. Once they were comfortable, Ali gripped the boy around his middle and began to move him forward and back, slowly at first, then faster and making a further excursion with each thrust. Brendan expected Lee to cry out in pain, but the sounds he heard were satisfied grunts instead.
"Buck me! Buck me! Ohwoooie! Buck me!" he cried.
Sammy smeared Brendan's leakage around the head of his cock: if felt rather good.
Slowly, Ali sat back on his haunches: his dick now pointed at the ceiling, and Lee pushed with his thin legs until he could lean back against Ali's chest: Ali continued to pump the boy up and down on his massive tool, faster, faster...
In the dim light beyond the mattress, Brendan perceived many boy-shapes, slowly moving closer to the coupled pair. They were all playing with themselves or each other. Brendan fondled Sammy's cock and noticed some wetness...
"BUCK ME! BUCK MEEE! BUCK MEEEE AHHLLEEEE!" the boy cried out.
Ali quickened his pace.
Out of the shadows one of the boys stepped forth, frantically jacking himself, and within seconds shot his stringy pud in the general direction of the two on the mattress. Soon others did the same, some jerking themselves, some doing others, but all intent on release. Even Sammy succumbed, took his hand out of Brendan's shorts, stood up and aimed his second load of the day across Ali's broad back where it joined several others to run down, glistening, and drip onto the filthy mattress. Ali gathered up some of the boy-sauce and slathered it on his dick during the moments when a major portion of it was exposed, before plunging it back up Lee's tortured butt.
Lee's fist flew on his own prick; he likewise gathered up some boy-juice, and within seconds shot white lightening bolts high into the air. This seemed to signal the end: Ali slowed his pace until they remained motionless for several minutes. Then Ali gently raised Lee up and off his tool, which was rapidly shrinking back to its "normal" size. In spite of himself, Brandon was sorry he had not seen Ali's climax.
No longer impaled, Lee gave Ali a hug and scampered off, apparently none the worse for wear. The other boys had disappeared, gone to bed or to the bath-room. Even Sammy had departed. Ali lay, glistening here and there, presumably exhausted. Brendan was still rock-hard: entranced, he stood up, stepped to the mattress and knelt over Ali, one massive leg between his own. Ali opened his eyes and watched as Brendan jacked himself, slowly gathering speed. Ali joined him, and in a few moments they came simultaneously, shooting long white streaks of gooey cum out over Ali's form. Brendan had to admit it felt wonderful. And in light of what he'd seen earlier, he supposed it might be possible for Ali to "buck" him, but he had absolutely no interest in trying it. The next day Brendan found there was a toilet for the boys working in the laundry: when he saw two lads come from behind a stack of boxes, he investigated and was pleased to know it was there. "Taking a shit" in the normal way appealed to him, so when the urge hit, he found himself enthroned in a dilapidated stall. Through a large crack in the door he could see a row of stinking urinals. It was not a place he wanted to linger any longer than necessary. He'd been there just a few minutes when the door opened and a lanky teenager pushed another boy into the room ahead of him. He barked an order, possibly in french, and the boy immediately sank to his knees and opened his mouth: Brendan's mind went back to the day before, and he realized how abject he must have looked in the same position before Sammy. To his surprise, however, the tall boy did not move ahead to plug the waiting youngster: instead, pulling his dick out through a hole in his thread-bare pants, he pissed with perfect aim into the up-turned mouth. Given the filthy state of the nearby urinals, Brendan thought this means of disposal was not entirely without merit, though receiving someone else's waste was yet another practice he'd never have thought of on his own. He had not been noticed in his stall, so when the standing fellow had disposed of his bladder-load of urine, he and the other, who seemed to have enjoyed the interlude, departed.
Each day was much the same, and most nights were some variation on what Brendan decided was the norm under these circumstances. He was sensible enough to realize that if a bunch of horny boys are put in one room together, sooner or later some sort of hanky-panky would ensue. Along about the fifth day of his incarceration, there was a break in the routine: it was Sunday, so there was no work. Following breakfast, the boys returned to the dorm: with nothing to do, some boys slept, others chatted, others fooled around. About ten, keys rattled in the door; two orderlies pushed a weird box-like contraption resembling a telephone-booth on wheels into the room. Behind them was a portly black-robed priest, who briefly harangued the boys in French.
Brendan sought out Sammy. "What's this all about?" he asked.
"It's Sunday. That's a mobile confessional, in case any of us is so inclined."
"Ye Gods! If he only knew!" Brendan exclaimed to Sammy.
"Oh, he knows, alright! There's a convenient little door in there..."
Brendan was aghast. "You mean he..."
"Father Coine is the original 'dirty old man'. He's seen more dicks than most urinals."
"Good Lord! What next?"
"Well, actually, what's next, after this nonsense, is the weekly visit of the Chief."
"The Chief?"
"The guy who runs this place. He loves young boys like us: that's why he takes such good care of us." Sammy's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Say, do you think Father Whosis could get me out of here? Maybe he could take a message for my Uncle."
"Forget it. For one thing, he's forbidden to do it. For another, he will, but only for a price you don't want to pay." Brendan put two and two together: lewd behavior with his peers was bad enough, but the notion of doing anything with the aged padre was appalling. He quickly decided that asking the Chief to do something would be equally "pricey", even though he had not yet met the man in charge.
Nor did he. Following dinner, the boys had an old fashioned farting contest. Brendan didn't need to speak French to join in: farts sound the same in any language. That night's meal had been "the speciality of the house" beans. It wasn't long before familiar rumblings and eructations were heard from all quarters, punctuated by the occasional belch, all accompanied with wild fits of giggling. Brendan had little trouble adding his gastric effluvium to the lot, and for the first time in several days he actually laughed. But in the midst of this ribaldry, more serious matters were being attended to: Ali pulled his stack of beds out from the wall about a foot: those on either side about half a foot. In the dim light, it was not easy to see the mis-alignment. Once again using blankets tucked under the mattress above, Ali created a hiding space between them and the wall. With Sammy as translator, Ali made it clear that when he said so, Brendan was to hide himself behind the blankets and under no circumstances let it be known he was there.
Ali's signal came moments after the keys rattled again in the dormitory door. Brendan scampered behind the blankets, parting them just enough so he could see at least some of what might happen in the room: his curiosity got the better of him.
The "Chief" was a grotesque, troll-like man of medium height, grossly overweight. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, he stood in the center of the room and laboriously removed his clothes. He must have thought of himself as Adonis, but any resemblance to the Greek god was in his mind's- eye alone. Around his middle were great rolls of fat: somewhere below them, there might have been a penis. He sagged everywhere: his breasts were pendulous, his thighs oozed over his knees, his calves rolled over his ankles. His strip-tease complete, he strutted around the room peering into bunks seeking a mate for the evening: he chose a wan youngster Brendan hadn't met. The Chief brought his choice with his mattress into the middle of the room where all could watch. He positioned the hapless lad on his stomach and with some effort collapsed upon him: the poor kid all but disappeared under this mass of adipose tissue, cellulite and guts. There followed a parody of the amusements the boys engaged in among themselves: much rolling about, heaving and groaning which led eventually to a quivering sort of climax. Brendan found it disgusting, and settled down in his hiding place for a snooze: he was immensely grateful to Ali for preventing that mountain of flesh from landing on him.
He therefore missed the performance of the chap who was later selected to try to bring the massive Chief to a second orgasm. After nearly an hour of tiring work, his flying fist brought forth a pitiful droplet or two of runny yellow cum that oozed slowly from the gnarled head of the lump of flesh the Chief called his "bone". And the show was over.
All too soon, it was Monday morning, and the regular daily routine resumed. At breakfast (soggy omelets made from reconstituted eggs and far too much milk) Ali was unusually loquacious, requiring Sammy's services as a translator as never before.
"He says you do not belong here." Sammy reported. This certainly wasn't news to Brendan! "And he is making plans to get you out." "Me?"
"Yes, you! He thinks this is a bad place for you." Brendan had to agree.
"But how?"
"He has a plan. It might work."
"And it might not!"
"It's risky, yes. Don't you want to leave?"
"'Course I do: don't you?"
"Ya know, Bren', I really think I'm better off here. Out there, all I do is get in trouble. But you, you aren't like us: you got a life to live. We just a bunch o'losers jerkin' each other off for kicks."
Brendan had to agree with this. However, the notion that he might be freed perked him up. The clanging bell ended the conversation.
That night, as he and Ali relaxed in their little bunk, Brendan was overcome by mixed feelings: on the one hand, he was afraid of Ali, whose power over him, and all the boys for that matter, was so complete. Yet Ali, though claiming him as his own, had never harmed him, nor made any attempt to assault his back side. All that Sammy had led him to believe about Ali was refuted by Ali's behavior; and now came the revelation that Ali wanted to get him out of this hateful place. He felt obliged and wanted to do something for Ali, to reciprocate the kindness Ali had shown him when no one else would. After some thought, he decided on a course of action.
Brendan, stretched out alongside Ali, rolled closer to him, raised himself up on his elbow, and tentatively sought Ali's lips with his own. For any other boy, this could have been the defining moment: the moment of truth, the awakening. For now, for Brandon, it was only a matter of courtesy: he owed Ali thanks and allegiance, and in their circumstances, there was no other way to express himself. To kiss another man might not be the lowest form of debauchery, but it was close! Hence, he was unprepared for how pleasant it felt! Ali responded by wrapping his massive arms around Brendan, hugging him powerfully, while lightly exploring Brendan's lips. Despite Sammy's dire warnings about Ali's intentions, all Brendan ever felt from Ali was tenderness, to which Brendan responded because it's in the nature of things to do so. As they explored each other more, they both became aroused, Ali as a matter of course, Brendan somewhat surprised and a little ashamed.
But, surprised, ashamed, or whatever, Brendan had decided kindness should beget kindness. He was far from ready to even consider letting Ali intrude on his person the back way, but he'd made up his mind he could swallow his pride far enough to attempt to swallow Ali's pride and joy. He'd been following Sammy's advice, had practiced on his finger, and thought he was ready to administer a proper blow-job. As he felt that mighty phallus rise between his legs, his own came to attention, stimulated by Ali's probing tongue and oral stimuli never before experienced. It slowly dawned on Brendan that two men could arouse each other; that sex was a physical event to be shared, savored, enjoyed and forgotten, all without harm to either's ego. These realizations and feelings relaxed his mind, his soul and his body: he began to explore more aspects of Ali's magnificent physique, to notice the rippling muscles, smooth skin, erect nipples, manly odor. Where his tongue had been tentative in exploring Ali's mouth, it now was emboldened by the mild salty flavor it found on Ali's surface. Before long, he was slathering his saliva over superb abdominal musculature, admiring the definition, the hardness, the thin fuzziness as he moved downward toward the root of his desire.
But when he came to Ali's huge boner, old fears intruded. He was about to put another man's organ into his mouth, not because he was forced to or black-mailed. No, he was doing this on his own volition: some ramifications of this bothered him, but he was beyond the point of no return. He was horny, and in a way he could not fully define, he found Ali's cock fascinating. He wanted to suck it, but a little more exploration was necessary before he could bring himself to do this evil deed. Therefore, he by-passed Ali's prong and devoted his tongue and fingers to Ali's muscular legs. It was surely the first time Brandon had paid attention to much less touched any man's legs, or even his own in this way; he naturally compared the twitching thighs under scrutiny. Beside the obvious difference in color, Ali's were pure muscle: Brendan's had a fleshy appearance that spoke of insufficient exercise. He had no idea how it would feel to have someone lick his legs, but he could tell from satisfied moans that Ali loved it. But the most remarkable difference between their respective limbs was what lay between them. Brendan had thought of himself as well endowed up to now, but proof that he might be somewhat below the norm stared him literally in the face, standing proud above a pair of huge balls in their loose dark-brown sack. Brendan lapped at these tentatively: short tightly-curled hairs tickled his tongue. He found it strangely erotic.
So, it was now or never. Sensing his hesitation, Ali gripped Brendan's head and ever so gently, but ever so firmly, guided Brendan's mouth to the tip of his throbbing hard-on. Brendan shut his eyes and relaxed, submissively letting Ali force his mouth down over his manhood. He was surprised how hot the thing felt: hot on the inside of his mouth, in his hands as well, for instinctively he put both palms around the base hoping to prevent being choked to death. Nor was he prepared for the flavor: indefinable, in no way offensive, even pleasant. The hand behind his head kept pressing him ever downward: just where all that meat was going Brendan wasn't sure, but he was able to breathe through his nose, so he removed one hand, then the other. Ali's curly pubic hairs scratched the end of his nose: all of Ali's cock was in Brendan's mouth and throat. It astonished him how easily he accomplished something he'd thought impossible. More amazing was the discovery that it was intensely arousing! He gripped his own cock and found it harder than he could ever remember: the tip dribbled copiously. Where he had expected to feel depraved beyond measure, instead he felt elated, excited and pleased with himself. Yes, he was doing something for Ali in return for his many kindnesses, but he was also doing something for himself, satisfying a primal urge he had up to now managed to suppress. This was not the perfunctory blow-job resulting from Sammy's blackmail: Brendan was sucking cock, and enjoying it.
Alas, his inexperience caught up with him: he did not correctly gauge Ali's level of arousal. Ali, whose fetish was breaking in young boys! The mighty orgasm caught him off guard: though he had managed to get this far, he'd never intended to let Ali erupt in his mouth. He gagged violently as spurts of jizz struck the very farthest reaches of his throat: with a mighty effort, he swallowed his fast-rising bile, swallowed again and again as Ali's syrupy exudate inundated him. Once his stomach calmed, he could savor the very essence the flavor, the smell, the texture of his first load of semen, and found it exciting beyond his wildest imagining. For his part, Ali steadied Brendan's head so each gooey spritz would be felt and appreciated; he knew Sammy had initiated Brendan in his usual underhanded way, but nevertheless it felt like it was Brendan's first-ever, so it excited him wildly. He flooded Brendan's gullet with his freshest heavy whipping-cream again and again, emptying every vesicle of his precious love-juice.
As Ali's meat began to soften, Brendan came up for air: his throat ached and his jaw felt dis-located, but he was pleased with his performance and glad he hadn't puked when Ali ejaculated. He sat back on Ali's legs and watched the object of his attention shrink back to something more manageable. He was proud of himself, and extremely horny! He needed relief with a sense of urgency he had rarely experienced. Glancing around, he saw boys in the shadows once again, watching, groping, playing with their toys, content to stay in the background and enjoy the show. All except Sammy, who, stiff cock in hand, swaggered close to the bed, ready to initiate the customary circle-jerk. To Sammy's surprise, Ali reached out a long black arm, swept him off his feet and forcibly pushed him down on the narrow mattress alongside himself. Face-down, his fleshy buns exposed, Sammy knew what to expect, even if Brendan only dimly perceived (at first) what was supposed to happen. Ali grasped Brendan's aching prod with his free hand and aimed it between Sammy's cheeks, then reached behind and none-too-gently pushed Brendan down upon the helpless lad. Sammy screamed, but too late: aided by an hour's-worth of leakage, Brendan's cock swiftly disappeared. His rutting instinct took over: he plunged wildly in and out of Sammy's ass, and moments later exploded in a frenzied climax unlike any he'd ever experienced. He had the briefest twinge of pity for Sammy, whose scream had almost unnerved him, but remembered Sammy's little black-mail, and decided getting even was most delicious. Delighted to see Sammy get plugged for a change, the other boys moved in and beat forth their youthful loads over the trio even before Brendan's orgasm was finished. As soon as he could extricate himself, Sammy scuttled away, thoroughly humiliated. Ali curled himself around his juicy boyfriend and both were asleep within minutes.
Nothing more was said about springing Brendan, but there were animated discussions between Ali and Sammy at nearly every meal: Brendan heard his name mentioned often enough to know that much of the chatter was about him. Wishing not to get his hopes up only to have them dashed, he decided to wait-and-see, and to keep Ali as happy as he could. Ali got his rocks off every night in some way: no boy in the dorm was safe from his predation. Except Brendan, who was becoming accustomed to Ali's different behavior towards him. Though Ali would fuck one boy or another almost every night, if he wanted Ali to himself, Brendan had to aggress upon him to initiate their contact. The ache in his jaw had subsided by Wednesday, and he wanted (rather more than he cared to admit) to feel Ali explode in his throat again. But Ali was usually content to cuddle Brendan after doing someone else,
and refused his advances until Saturday. Anticipating Sunday's visitations, Saturday nights were usually given over to the wildest debauchery the boys could devise, apparently in the erroneous belief that if they were thoroughly spent, neither Father Coine nor the Chief would be interested in them.
Brendan's second Saturday incarcerated was uneventful and no different from most other days. After the lights went dim, however, everyone seemed to relax. He and Ali languished in their bunk, both enjoying the nearness of the other. Since they were unable to have meaningful conversation, they had to communicate in subtle body language. Brendan was beginning to feel a bit horny, and wondered if he might coax Ali into letting him suck on his big penis again, but his musing was interrupted by the approach of another boy. This must have been by pre-arrangement, as the fellow smiled at Ali and stretched out beside them in the small bunk. Brendan was beginning to feel possessive of Ali, and resented the intrusion; but, there wasn't much he could do about it except wait to see what might happen.
He didn't have to wait long. Ali grunted, then raised himself up enough to roll over the boy, at the same time pushing him into the position he had just left, beside Brendan, who assumed he and the boy were supposed to do something together. Sure enough, the fellow rolled towards Brendan, smiled, and began running his hand over Brendan's chest and stomach. He whispered something in Brendan's ear that ended in a name: Marcel.
"Your name is Marcel." Brendan said slowly.
"Oui."
"Brendan." Brendan pointed to himself.
"Oui."
There wasn't much more they could say. Marcel's hand had already found Brendan's dick and was playing with it gently. As Ali watched with a smile of encouragement; Brendan recalled Sammy's words: "...Ali has been known to share now and then..." So, sanctioned by his benefactor, Brendan rolled towards Marcel and tentatively stroked his chest. He was surprised to find it covered with hair! Brendan's few experiences with guys had been with Ali and Sammy, both glabrous like himself, so body-hair was something new. He explored further and discovered his hirsute friend was, if nothing else, different, most of the boys being so young they had not yet developed secondary sexual characteristics. All this fuzz beneath his fingers reminded Brendan of his Dad, whom he'd seen in bathing-suits often enough to know he had a lot of reddish hair in many places besides his head. But Marcel's hair seemed different: for one thing, despite the low light, Brendan could see it was very black, and it lay on skin of a dark olive complexion. It was also fine and wispy, un-curled and altogether different from the tightly-twisted hairs in Ali's crotch. For his part, Marcel was pleased to feel a smooth, boy-ish body under his fingers: he'd long since grown tired of his own fur.
They were soon closely entwined, both enjoying how the other felt, both rapidly becoming aroused. Brendan found it very different to lick a hairy body, even if he did have to stop now and then to remove loose hairs from his teeth and tongue. When Marcel turned over onto his stomach, Brendan licked his back, which, in contrast to his front, was smooth. So, too, were the globes of his butt, which Brendan found unexpectedly alluring. He could not bring himself to lick Marcel's anus deeply, but he lapped all around it. Meanwhile, Ali spread Brendan's pre-cum around his rigid tool, and at the right moment, guided it into Marcel's receptive colon. Marcel immediately went to work: he had a muscular ass and could effectively massage anything placed in it. It felt to Brendan as though he was being jacked off, but he knew what he was actually doing: whereas he'd had to buck and snort to get off in Sammy's behind, in Marcel he had no more to do than enjoy the exquisite sensations and let Marcel bring about the kind of crashing orgasm he was beginning to expect. His body arched, suspended in the air by arms and toes above Marcel, who pushed his shapely buns up and down on Brendan's rigid tool: when he erupted, Brendan saw stars! He'd never had such an orgasm! He collapsed on Marcel and remained impaled for twenty minutes while the other boys cluster-fucked around them, spraying his back again and again with their warm sweet essences.
On Sunday, their only day of "rest", the boys engaged each other in various games, some sexual and some not. They all dreaded Sunday night, when the Chief would appear and make one or two of them miserable for a while: there was never any variation in their existence. When the disgusting chief arrived, Brendan was again sequestered behind blankets, to avoid being the object of the Chief's attention. That is, he was hidden until the Chief had completed his fun: then, the scene changed radically. Brendan was called out of hiding; Ali and Sammy on either side, he was presented to the Chief, whose eyes grew bright with lust at seeing a boy new to him. There followed an animated discussion between Ali, Sammy and the Chief in rapid-fire french Brendan could not understand at all. The Chief's face grew red, then purple; he reached for Brendan, but to his annoyance was easily stopped by Ali. After much more discussion, he appeared defeated and calmed own: soon, all were relieved to see him leave.
As usual, it was Sammy who explained what had happened.
"Ali has just gotten you out of here," he said.
"How?"
"He threatened to expose the Chief's screwing with us, if he didn't let you out. That hateful little prick between his legs rules his life, so he'll arrange things at once." "At once?" Brendan's heart skipped a beat.
"Well, tomorrow, actually. You'll spend tonight in the kitchen downstairs: in the morning, you'll find out how it's done."
"And for now?"
"That's up to Ali." Sammy babbled a few words to Ali, who responded with a pat on Sammy's butt. He gathered Brendan into his huge bear-hug, then propelled him into the bath-room, picking up a bar of soap along the way. Inexplicably, the water in the shower was almost hot; they luxuriated in it, cleaning each other tenderly. Though each was excited, this would not be another sexual rut, but a sad good-bye. They knew they would never see each other again. Ali had decided Brendan was too nice (and probably too straight) to remain cooped up in this awful place. Since he had the power, he saw to it Brendan left with his rectum, at least, intact. Brendan, rescued from a fate he thought worse than death, had become much fonder of Ali than he wanted to. And neither could adequately express his feelings, because the only lingua franca between them was the language of touch.
The long hot shower concluded, Ali dried Brendan tenderly, then took him back to the dorm. From his steel box, he brought forth a bundle wrapped in brown paper: Brendan's shoes and clothing, which had instantly disappeared from his own steel box, just as Sammy predicted. Ali watched Brendan dress, on the one hand indescribably sad that his latest boy-toy was departing, on the other hand happy that he could engineer his release. Brendan felt strange wearing clothes, including his briefs, socks, and shoes, none of which he'd seen for two weeks. Soon after he dressed, keys rattled in the dormitory door: the man there seemed to know just what would happen, as Ali gently pushed Brendan towards him. Sammy had better sense than to intrude on this tender moment as Ali and Brendan hugged each other. Then, gruffly, Ali pushed Brendan into the hands of the waiting attendant with a barely whispered, "Adieu, mon ami."
Without a word, the officer locked the door and led Brendan back along the hall and down the elevator to the tiny office. He rolled a form into a typewriter and pecked away at it, asking Brendan his name once again. Brendan also told him about his uncle Michael. The officer handed the completed form to Brendan, and said, "When you out, give to policeman. Do not take taxi."
He then led Brendan down a flight of stairs to a kitchen. This was where his most recent meals had been prepared: it smelled of grease. It was deserted, since by now it was after midnight. The officer slid aside the door to a large cupboard under a work-space, and pushed Brendan down into it. "Wait: make no trouble: it will happen," was all he said as he slid the door closed.
The space was small and confining, the air inside stale, though there was a faint odor he thought he ought to recognize, but did not. Brendan had to crouch, either on his knees (which soon ached) or on his heels (which cut off circulation to his legs). Since he was alone, he slid the door open enough to sit with his legs sticking out of the cupboard. Going over the most recent turn of events in his mind, he quickly fell asleep.
He awoke, startled when someone kicked his shin: he withdrew his legs and the door slid shut. He heard noises: the rattling of pans, filling of pots and other sounds of a kitchen. When there was thumping on the work-space above his head, he pushed the door open some, but all he could see was a dirty apron, below which emanated two legs in pants, and a pair of shoes. He opened the door more so he could breathe; presently, a small, dainty hand appeared from above to scratch at the center of the apron. The hand went away, but not for long: when it came back, it lingered, fondling the magic spot. The next time the hand appeared, it remained for several minutes: a distinct enlargement was evident behind it.
Brendan had to see what was behind that bulge! Fearfully, he reached through the opening of his closet and touched the apron: the lump pulsed with life. Emboldened, he slid his hand up under the cloth, feeling for the crotch behind it. There he found an open zipper: a long gristly cock, rising rapidly to full attention, extended through the fly. With some difficulty in the cramped space, Brendan re-arranged himself: kneeling allowed him to raise the apron far enough to slip the hard-on it no longer concealed into his mouth. This dick was different from those few he had experienced. Not especially large in girth, its length perhaps exceeded his own: it was difficult to judge as he mentally allowed for the clothing which concealed all but the phallus itself. Brendan sucked the best he could under the circumstances; apparently well enough, for he soon recognized the pulsations which launched a load of sperm into his gullet.
Perhaps it was the knowledge that both he and the object of his attention could be caught that added an edge to the encounter: Brendan realized his own pecker was begging to be freed from the confines of his pants. As he opened his fly, the apron dropped down and quickly disappeared. Almost immediately, something similar replaced it. This time, the person behind was more direct; he quickly hiked up his garment, un-buttoned his pants and extricated a soft fleshy penis from his Y-fronts. Brendan fell on it hungrily, before it had become hard of its own volition. His warm mouth was soon filled to capacity as the penis engorged, and in just a few moments it disgorged several starchy white gobs: Brendan swallowed every drop as he groped himself, not far from squirting juice of his own. Before this could occur, yet another person stepped in front of his hiding place.
By now it was clear to Brendan the "word was out": there was a cock-sucker in that closet, taking on anyone who stood before it. Brendan accepted and exploited the situation. He would not be coming to this place ever again, so he would not be coming in it again. For now, as long as there was something to suck, he was willing to suck on it, and suck he did. He didn't know the kitchen staff was a bunch of youngsters not much older than himself, working off their sentences for various petty crimes. Nor did he know the cupboard in which he found himself had been occupied (over the years) by a succession of youths on their way out of the detention center. His predecessors had received the same send-off: the opportunity to blow the entire kitchen staff anonymously, and to leave the place with a belly full of sperm.
Brendan acquitted himself well: he had no idea when or how this would end, so his own orgasm was repeatedly delayed as, one after another, the bevy of workers and cooks got their jollies standing in front of the special cupboard. He lost count of the dicks he serviced, and completely lost track of time. When one of the garcons closed the door of his little hut, he presumed the orgy was over. Despite being cramped and uncomfortable, he swiftly jacked himself to an intense climax, recognizing as he did so the smell he'd been trying to identify: he wasn't the first to beat his meat in this place, nor would he be the last. His load splashed across the inside of the sliding door to join dozens of streaks already dried and yellowing there.
Amid the general hubbub, he heard voices that sounded like greetings. Then he heard rumblings of wheels: some sort of carts being moved around. Suddenly, the door of his cupboard slid open and a hand was extended: he gripped it and was assisted out of confinement. He faced a youth about his own age whose countenance was that of an angel: he had soft, flowing hair, similar in some respects to a girl, but nonetheless masculine. Brendan had never seen long hair on a boy, but on this kid it looked sexy. Large brown eyes that sparkled, and a cupid's mouth, all in a mask of flawless skin completed this vision of loveliness. Brendan knew boys could sometimes be handsome, but this boy was pretty ! He instantly regretted just having shot his wad and wished he had time to flirt with this lovely creature.
But the youngster had nothing of the sort in mind. Instead, he purposefully pushed Brendan past a stack of empty boxes through a large rolled-up door into the back of an empty truck. He was hustled to the front, and empty boxes quickly followed, thrown in by that spectacular boy Brendan knew he would never see again. When he was fully hidden, the truck's door was pulled down with a crash, the engine came to life, and the truck lurched. Brendan was on his way to freedom: he immediately forgot his savior's haunting face.
The truck moved a short distance, then stopped: Brendan heard voices. The rear door was raised part way: presumably someone looked in. The door crashed back down, a voice shouted. The truck got underway again. This time, it continued to move for a long time, stopping and starting now and then. They were in traffic, and Brendan was sure the detention center was far behind them. He wished he could get out of the truck which smelled strongly of diesel fumes.
He soon got his wish. The truck stopped, the engine died. The roll-up door went up, voices disappeared in the distance. He was alone, the door was open, so he pushed boxes aside, dusted himself off and walked to the back of the truck. He jumped down and looked around: he was in a small street, and half expected to be set-upon by thugs once again. However, there was no one near, so he strode towards what looked like a thoroughfare and was pleased to find many people there. Immediately he felt safer: now he needed to find a policeman, to read the paper safely stowed in his pocket. And, wow! There were girls on the street: pretty ones, about his own age. Perhaps he was near a school...
"Hi there, handsome." Brendan looked up to see who had just greeted him.
"Hi, there, yourself."
"You look a little lost."
"Well, I haven't been here long. I've been in jail, actually, and..."
"Ooooh! Poor baby, you must be really horny!"
"Um, well, not exactly. I mean..." Brendan was loathe to describe why he wasn't horny.
"Look, dearie, I think you are really, really cute! I don't get many like you, so come on up to my place for a while."
It dawned on Brendan that he'd finally found a French Girl, and she wanted to see more of him. For a prostitute, she looked very presentable.
"I don't have any money, I'm afraid."
"Oh, you 'Merican boys all say that. Never mind, come on along anyway." She folded her hand into his and set off down the street. A short distance along it, she led him into a doorway and up several flights of stairs to a tiny, stuffy, rather dirty apartment. No sooner was the door closed and locked than she began to remove his clothes. "C'mon, sweetie, get out of those rags: get it up for little Nicole."
She pushed his pants and shorts down, dropped to her knees and slurped his flaccid cock into her mouth. He was slow to respond, and she was not skilled; her hands, which might have been busy on him, were busy on herself instead. No one stroked his thighs, kissed his nipples, or did anything to help him along: Nicole just mechanically bobbed her head in and out. When his mind wandered back to that first blow-job by Ali, Brendan managed a mild orgasm. The moment he succeeded, Nicole rose and went to a small sink where she hawked up a throat-full of phlegm, noisily spat out his load and gargled loudly as if she'd just been poisoned. Brendan was disgusted: he hiked up his pants, glad it was over. He recalled asking himself just s few days before if a girl could give a better blow-job, and quickly concluded this girl, at least, had no clue how to do it right.
"That's a hundred franks, sweetie. Two hundred for anyone else, but for a cutie like you, just a hundred."
"I told you: I've been in jail, I have no money."
"Aw now, honey, don't give me that old line. I got rent to pay. I don't give a good blow-job away."
"You don't give a good blow-job, period! You'll have do without this time."
"Merde!" She grabbed his hand and led him out of the apartment and back to the street. When she saw a policeman, she began screaming. "I've been robbed, I've been robbed!"
The gendarme sauntered over. The girl harangued him in rapid french, and the policeman laughed.
"She says you didn't pay her," he said to Brendan.
"She's right. I told her, I've been in jail, and I have no money!" Brendan pulled the release paper from his pocket and handed it to the man, who read it quickly. He spoke to Nicole; she gave them both a hateful look, but ambled off, muttering.
"Come with me, young man." Brendan followed him to a nearby telephone booth, where the policeman worked the dial, waited, spoke again, then dialed again. After speaking to someone for a few moments in french, he handed him the phone.
"Hello?" Brendan said tentatively.
"Brendan, IS THAT YOU? This is Michael here. Where have you been?"
"I can't begin to tell you, but yes, it IS me, and I want desperately to see you."
"We'll come and get you. Stay where you are. Put the policeman back on: he'll tell us where you are." Brendan handed the telephone back to his benefactor, who spoke to Michael briefly, then hung up.
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes, very!"
"Your Uncle will meet us at that cafe: it will take him a while to get here. You can eat."
French cuisine at last! Brendan was not sure what he ate, but it tasted very good: it had been many hours since he'd had a meal.
"So, how did you find Nicole?"
"Uh, well, she found me, actually: I was just trying to find a policeman, but she had other ideas. And if I may say so, she isn't very good."
The policeman laughed heartily. "They rarely are! Look, my boy, I have to get back on duty. Promise me you will sit right here until your Uncle arrives."
"Absolutely!"
"Au revoir, then!" He handed the paper back to Brendan and departed.
Before long, Uncle Mike came into the cafe: he'd know him anywhere, for he'd seen many pictures. Michael strode directly to his table, and Brendan leaped up to greet him. They hugged like brothers.
"You have had us all worried to death! I already phoned your home; the folks are ecstatic you've turned up. What on earth happened? Oh, and meet Armand and Martin."
Brendan shook each boy's hand: neither looked much older than himself, and Martin, with long hair, resembled the guy who had rescued him from his cubby-hole earlier that day. He glanced quickly down at their crotches; their tight pants revealed promising bulges. Mike's friends would surely be O K. Brendan handed the release paper to Michael, who read it, puzzled.
"So, you spent two weeks in detention, but why?"
Brendan described how he'd been robbed and how he ended up in the jail. He did not elaborate on how he'd gotten out, just that "I was released." He mentioned Nicole, who had only "helped me find a policeman," so, "here I am." Just then, he realized he had to pee. "Is there a toilet around here?"
Michael pointed to a door marked "W C", and Brendan headed for it.
"Mon Dieu, what a gorgeous kid!" Armand whispered loudly.
"Ooooooh, la la! Look at that sexy ass: what I could do with that!" Martin replied.
"Now, now! Remember, he's my little nephew. We don't want incest in the family. I don't think he's gay, do you?" Michael patted Armand's leg affectionately.
"After two weeks in that detention center he can't be straight!" exclaimed Martin. "Remember: I was in one of those once."
The four went out to the street when Brendan returned: Michael's car was nearby, so he and Armand got into the front seat of a sedan far smaller than the American ones Brendan was used to. He and Martin were crushed together in the back seat. Martin put his arm around Brendan to relieve some of the pressure, but this increased it in Brendan's crotch.
As they drove into the city center, the scenes Brendan had long hoped to view appeared: the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, Notre Dame, the Louvre: Mike drove around a while so Brendan could see some of Paris. Despite the thrill of this, Brendan found himself distracted by Martin: the more he studied him, the more he wanted to see of him. There was a freshness about his face that appealed, and sitting so close he could feel Martin was compact, nicely proportioned and muscular. Finally, they drove almost the entire length of the Champs Elysees: so many sights, so many people. Elegant shops, trees, statues, the Arch de Triomphe: everything a real thoroughfare ought to be. Sure enough, Michael's apartment wasn't far from the famous street.
Mike and Armand held hands as the group climbed four flights of stairs; Brendan followed Martin: he noticed the shapeliness of Martin's legs as each step up pulled his trousers taught around his thighs. He found himself wishing he could touch Martin, feel those muscles as they worked. By the time they reached the top landing, Brendan had a hard-on: his attempt to conceal it came too late. Martin, sure of himself, groped Brendan vigorously. "Welcome to Paris! I, for one, am delighted you finally got here," he said.
"Yes! Mike has been worried sick, wondering what happened to you," Armand chimed in, still holding Mike's hand in his own.
"Hmmm: Well, I guess what's happened so far is only the beginning of something at least I hope it is, though I'm not quite sure just what." He turned to Martin: "Do you mind if I kiss you?" he asked.
So, here is was at last: the defining moment, the moment of truth, the awakening. He felt a tidal-wave of relief as he came to grips with his inner self, and prepared to "come to grips" with Martin.
Martin embraced Brendan passionately: "Not at all, mon ami, not at all."
Copyright BRUCE BRAMSON 2004
To my fans:
Here is a list of my stories: they are all on the Nifty Archive, though you may have to hunt for some:
AIRBORNE EXPRESS
ANIMAL CRACKERS
FIRST AND SECOND COUSINS
GRAPEVINE
THREE LETTERS TO BILL
SCHOOL OF HARD KNOX
THE ORPHANAGE
PIECE ON EARTH
THAT BOY
MIGUEL
ALTAR EGO
JORDIE
CENTRAL VALLEY HIGH
COLLEGE DAZE
HEARTBREAK MOTEL
INNOCENT ABROAD (NEW)
Bruce Bramson organs@bdcsi.net