The Eternal Youth, written and (c) 1993, 2003 by drow elf. Version 2.0. Chapter 2: where Larson meets Eastbayjag.
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Nifty has seen fit to give me my own spot in the prolific authors section. Thanks, Nifty! There you may witness all my mad scribblings, most typed in a single evening, one-handed...a practice that might explain my faults of grammar.
This is a fan mail I received recently from Eastbayjag in reaction to chapter 1 (revised) of The Eternal Youth:
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Tis a Pitie that thy Tayle has not been simplie told, unprefaced by the Blather of Conceit, for the Tayle is in itself of no small Merit in this debut Installment. 'Struth, it does suffer from a lack of Breadth, no doubt the Consequence of the poor Letters of the Lad. His Cant of the Deflowering of his Person leaves the Reader unable to discerne Eros that he might partayke of parallel Pleasure.
Wouldst that the Effects of Time and Maturation repair this small Defekt in his Abilitie to tell his Storie.
Partikular Readers, those more sensitive than your Correspondent, might pray that an Editor of even poor Talent be consulted, for the Fawltes of Grammar - which can but be unintentioned - would easily be rendered, that the Reader's Course not be brayked mid-stream. Pitie, too, that the Tekst of the Letter from Ian was not taken direktlie from the Original kept by Larson - the Words contayned in the Storie could not flow from any Pen of 1716.
I shiver in Anticipation of the next Installment, praying Larson's cant of his Tayle takes Profit from his reading of The London Gazette, from which the Prose of many a Writer took great Example in those Tymes.
--Eastbayjag
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The following story can be best understood as a response to this message.
Like every writer I crave feedback, criticism, and acclaim.
From the lair of the drow May the 22nd, 2003. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
THE ETERNAL YOUTH Chapter 2: where Larson meets Eastbayjag.
Written by Drow Elf -- r a d i x m a l l o r u m
Io credo, che saranno radi
Che tua ragione intendan bene
Tanto lor sei faticoso ed alto.
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For six days I walked to London, begging food where I could and stealing, too, growing increasingly adept at the profession of thievery. Upon arriving at the outskirts of the city, I stopped at the first pub I found, thinking I know not what, for I had no money. There was this ridiculous hope that Ian might be there. Ian was the mysterious smuggler who had fucked my virgin self. I loved him, but he was very strange. He had claimed that his enchanted seed, swimming within my nether regions, had conveyed to me the Immortality of the gods. What other disturbances addled his mind?
The pub was called "The Fornicating Ferret," if you can believe that. I walked around, checking out the men in case Ian should be among them. Perhaps I checked them out for other reasons, I can't be completely sure...
I saw one odd-looking, tall and gangling, thin man in his early forties, dressed in a style that indicated some means, earnestly reading The London Gazette by himself. The middle finger of his right hand holding the paper had a beautiful silver ring with the likeness of Eros, the god of Lust. I imagined how well that ring would look on my finger. Passing by unnoticed, I also observed his money purse carelessly placed on the bench beside him, a much easier target. Passing by a second time, I swiped the purse into my pocket. The coins within jingled, startling the man from his private reverie. He detected nothing amiss and merely noticed my presence for the first time. Examining me closely, his lips curled into a lecherous grin, implying a taste for pederasty. That was by no means unwelcome news, for I needed money and being a healthy lad, wanted sex.
He dropped the paper and motioned me to sit beside him, which I did. "My name is Jag of the East Bay. You can call me Jag. Do you know why I'm called Jag?" I shook my head. "An odd appellation, true, not known to be a Christian name. 'Tis an acronym, lad, standing for Jolly And Gay. I am Jolly And Gay the live long day, for I have sure-footed horses, smoking tobacco and a boy named... and what is your name?"
"Larson is my name, Sir." I smiled and stopped myself from explaining that I called myself Larson because my parents had been hung on account of larceny, a fate that might well befall me, with my growing predilection for pelf. "Jag, I am quite pleased to make your acquaintance, but am hungry after a long journey. If you could but spare a trifling amount for my sustenance, I offer you my companionship and sincere gratitude- "Say no more!" he thundered, waving at the server and ordering bacon, potatoes and biscuits; and a pitcher of ale for us both. I liked the man immediately, though not enough to return the money pouch.
While I feasted, Jag feasted his eyes upon me. No more was I the innocent boy; I acknowledged his obvious interest with a knowing grin. I knew a thing or two about what men could do with one another sexually. Jag was far more forward than I had expected, though. I was swallowing the last of the potatoes when I felt his paw on my penis, and nearly choked.
He whispered in my ear in a demanding voice, "You have enjoyed your meal, which I paid for, and in return, you must grant me parallel pleasure!" I wiped my ear of his spittle, and said, "Just what, Sir, is a parallel pleasure?" He hesitated. "Err... ahm... well, you see, it is when I get parallel to you! You know, doing the old in-out," he leered, wriggling his eyebrows meaningfully with an effect that was unintentionally comic. I was not sure I liked him much any more. I noticed for the first time that he wore a gold necklace. That would be worth something.
"Jag, you had best get a room, unless you mean to brown me here. Shall I ask these gentlemen to move aside, that I might bend over the table?"
"I know an alleyway just outside."
Not a very romantic sort, this Jag. An alleyway for our coupling emphasized sordidness. Was I become a dirty whore? That was a question for another man to worry over, a man who was regularly fed and gainfully employed--such a man as I was not.
I negotiated. "Your meal was repaid by my companionship, as I promised. You now want more from me... All right, then, you must pay more. My arse doesn't come for free, Jag." He looked at me as if to say, well, how much? My bluff called, I was at a loss. I had no notion of the going rate for rent-boys, or catamites as they were sometimes called in 1716. A pound seemed a good amount of money, so I named that. Jag looked incredulous and said, "The only reason you name a price that high is because you know you're pretty. You'd better be good, at that price. Suck me dry!" "I don't suck cock." "No? Well then, you'll get my pecker up your bum. And I warn you, my pecker's big, like me." I tried to look worried, which puffed up his ego, as I caressed his hand touching my groin, removing his silver ring and placing it in my pocket.
As he led me outside, I put my arm around his shoulder in an apparent show of affection, and he smiled with pleasure as I untied his gold necklace and tucked it in my shoe. I considered running away once were on the road, but my greedy eye caught sight of a gold belt buckle, and I decided to steal that as well, when the opportunity presented itself.
We walked through a side street to an alleyway that appeared deserted except for an old woman nursing a bottle, muttering to herself. It sounded as though she were carrying on a conversation for two. I pointed at her in dismay, but Jag shook as head, unconcerned. We walked to the end of the alleyway, where it was dark and quiet, though I could still see the old woman, peeking at us from underneath her arms.
Jag came close and I saw his cock tenting his trousers. He laid hold of me and unfastened my trousers, pulling them down, revealing my tumescent uncircumcised penis. Something fell to the street with a metallic clink. It was Jag's silver ring, flown from my trousers pocket. He stared at it in recognition; then at me, in recognition.
I bolted, gaining several yards, but stumbled into the old woman, who screamed and grabbed my left foot, tripping me so that I felt down. Jag seized me, his strength greater than mine due to his size and my youth, and dragged me, struggling, back to the end of the alleyway, my trousers falling from my feet, leaving me naked from the waist down. Helplessly, I watched the old woman making faces at me.
He sat down on an old barrel and dragged me across his knees. I faced the ground on the other side, my bottom in the air. I tried to roll off and escape, but his strength, fueled by anger, could not be denied. Then he locked both my legs into position with one of his and placed a hand on my back to keep me down.
"Thou thief!" he hissed, slapping my buttocks hard with the flat of his hand, "Deceitful, (SLAP) wicked, (SLAP) and most especially, ungrateful (SLAP) (SLAP) (SLAP) young man!" I could see the old woman, smiling at me with a gleam in her eyes. I felt the sting of humiliation in addition to the stinging in my rear. I said, "You're wrong! You fool, I didn't do it!" "Don't lie! (SLAP) (SLAP) (SLAP) You stole from me after I had fed you! (SLAP)You deserve (SLAP) every (SLAP) bit (SLAP) of the punishment (SLAP) that's coming to you (SLAP)!"
My bottom felt like it was on fire now, and his spanking kept intensifying with every blow it seemed. "Oh it hurts, oh, please, oh, Jag be my lover," I tried using his name as if it were magic and would earn me forgiveness. "Larson, (SLAP) tell the other boys you meet (SLAP) not to steal from me (SLAP) (SLAP) (SLAP) (SLAP)." "Oh yes Sir," I bawled, "oh please stop, oh please!" "I know you're just an immature, uneducated young pickpocket (SLAP) (SLAP) (SLAP) (SLAP) but I'm just the man to teach you right from wrong (SLAP) (SLAP) because I am a man of letters (SLAP) who studied at the University (SLAP) and know far more than you do!" Then he stopped, and I cried.
He got up, made me kneel, and took out his penis which like mine was uncircumcised but unlike mine was huge, erect, and drooling precum, having profited at my expense obviously. My own sex was not entirely soft, I confess, though it confounds reason and logic, I know. How can one explain the pleasure of the English vice to the uninitiated?
Jag smiled. "You see, Larson? I enjoyed that. Now give me your pretty face, and let's make up and be friends again." I did not resist, having been strangely subdued by this man, letting him push my face toward his cock. Obediently I opened my mouth and accepted the peace offering, feeling it slide past my teeth and tongue to the back of my throat, at which point I gagged. He pulled out slightly, then back in, and began fucking my face, slow at first, then faster. "Ohhhh," he sighed, over and over, gripping the hair in the back of my head, his cock harder and harder.
He stared at me, working on his cock. "You are the very picture of- of- of-" I looked up at him, curious to know who or what I resembled. "Eros!" he climaxed, his seed warm in my throat as I swallowed reflexively.
He smiled in ecstasy, his breathing coming back under control, as I wiped my face on his trousers and touched my pockets to discover that, indeed, I still had his money pouch. In my right shoe I could feel his gold necklace. I wondered whether I should confess my other crimes and resolve never to give offense again. I decided not, because I anticipated rather than feared the consequences if I were found out. Besides, I wanted to buy myself better clothes than the rags I still wore.
He patted my head as he reassembled his clothing, and told me to look for him in the same place the next time I was in the mood, as he left me kneeling in the alleyway, with no trousers on. Such a romantic, that Jag.
[End chapter 2.]