by JL Merrow
He pulled Michael back into the bus shelter. Which, huh, lived up to its name, cos the stiff (heh) breeze he’d felt out by the fence was blocked by the walls. It was almost cosy. Not that Michael gave a shit. He was too busy feeling Rufus up. “So how many blokes you brought here, then, you tart?” He nibbled at the soft skin on Rufus’s neck, just below the line of barely there stubble. Jesus, that was tasty.
“Hundreds. Thousands.” Rufus laughed, the vibrations in his throat catching at Michael’s lips and going straight down to his balls. “Two or three. Or four, maybe. Possibly five—”
Michael shut him the fuck up with another kiss. He didn’t wanna think about Rufus giving it up for anyone else. He gave Rufus’s arse a squeeze before pulling back. “Gonna blow me, then?”
Rufus’s lips were plump, wet, and curved up at the edges. Cocky little sod. “Depends. You gonna blow me?”
Which was a no, obviously, cos sucking dick was something gay boys did and Michael wasn’t gay. “Maybe,” he hedged. “You do me first.”
Rufus’s eyes narrowed. It was too fucking cute. “Why do I get the feeling I ought to get something in writing before I start?”
Michael laughed. “Cos you’re not as stupid as you look?” Not that Rufus actually looked stupid. He looked like he oughtta be a bestseller for Twinks“R”Us.
Rufus grinned and gave him the finger. “Bastard.” Then he pushed Michael down onto the bench, which wasn’t the way things usually went—usually Michael was the one doing the pushing, but hey, whatever. “Come on, flop it out. I haven’t got all day.”
“Oi, it’s not gonna fucking flop.” Michael undid his jeans. His hard dick was already poking out of the top of his briefs, moisture leaking from the tip. He shoved the front of his kecks down roughly, unable to stop a groan. Jesus, he’d been waiting for this for so fucking long.
“Bet I can make it flop.” Rufus dropped to his knees and plunged his mouth down over Michael’s dick in what Michael would swear was one continuous movement. Well, if he could get the words out, cos fuck, that was incredible.
He’d always reckoned there was no such thing as a bad blowjob, but there was good and there was fucking awesome, and Rufus was fucking awesome at sucking dick. And Christ, what a view. Rufus’s hair was all tousled, and his dark-blond eyelashes brushed cheeks with bones you could cut yourself on, especially when they hollowed as he sucked. And those lips . . . Jeez, those lips. Michael had no words. No fucking words.
Electricity was fizzing up Michael’s spine and his balls were drawn up tight, ready to explode. He had that heavy feeling in his belly that meant it was all gonna kick off any minute.
“You’re gonna swallow, right?” he gasped out.
Rufus nodded—well, Michael reckoned it was a nod, but seeing as his dick was still in Rufus’s mouth, that was all it took for him to come so hard everything went black for a mo.
When Michael’s vision came back, Rufus was licking the last bit of jizz off his lips. Which, fuck, should not have made Michael wanna kiss him, but it just did, all right? Michael pulled him up and onto his lap. “You’re heavier than you look,” he said, and kissed him hard.
Tasting his own spunk was never Michael’s favourite thing, but it wasn’t so bad on Rufus. Cos Rufus was really into kissing, yeah, which the guys Michael usually went with often weren’t, and since Rufus was a bloke, Michael could let go, be as rough as he liked. Rufus gave back as good as he got, twining his fingers into Michael’s hair and pulling with exactly the right amount of force.
Rufus moaned into the kiss, which was a fucking turn-on, and let go of Michael’s hair to scrabble at his jeans like he was desperate, which was even better. He broke the kiss with a cute little whimper. “Shit. Gimme a mo, here.”
Rufus opened up his jeans with shaky hands and freed his dick from his boxer briefs. Christ, that was a thing of beauty. Then he grabbed Michael’s hand and wrapped it round the hot, hard shaft. “Just jerk me off. I know you don’t wanna blow me.”
Which, yeah, was true, but it felt . . . off having him come out and say it like that. Like Michael was being a shit about it. “I could blow you,” he found himself saying.
“’S okay.” Rufus’s fingers settled over Michael’s.
Jeez. Try to do a guy a favour. “I’m gonna blow you, all right?” Michael pushed Rufus off his lap. “Sit.”
Rufus sat. Michael pushed his legs apart and knelt down between them.
At least the floor of the shelter was wood, not concrete. It was still fucking hard and cold on his knees. Michael eyed the stiff cock bobbing in front of his face. Shit. He was gonna do this.
Shit. Would that make him gay?
No, it was okay. Cocksucking only made you gay if people knew about it, right, and no one was gonna know. He leaned forward, grabbed hold of it, and opened his mouth to guide it in. Rufus’s dick tasted . . . pretty much like he’d expected, actually. Salty, with a strong musky smell flooding his nose from Rufus’s neatly trimmed pubes. It was okay.
Then he looked up and saw Rufus gazing down at him, his eyes wide like he couldn’t believe what was happening, and suddenly it was fucking fantastic. Rufus’s mouth was open and letting out little panting breaths, and Michael hadn’t even done anything yet, just shoved his dick in his mouth.
He pulled back and ran his tongue over the head. Rufus gasped, so he did it again. Jesus, why did some girls make such a big deal over giving head? This was easy. Way simpler than trying to find a clitoris in a fucking haystack.
Michael really got into it after that, remembering all the things he liked done to him and having a go at doing them to Rufus. He couldn’t suck on Rufus’s balls or finger him further back, cos he still had his jeans on and the angle was all wrong, but he worked his way through the rest of the tricks he’d picked up.
Rufus was trying to say something, but Michael ignored him. Who the fuck talked during sex?
Then hot spunk spurted in his mouth.
Whoa. Michael jumped back and fell on his arse just as another jet hit him in the face.
Christ, that was fucking gross. He’d forgotten about that bit. “Jesus, you coulda warned me.” Grimacing, Michael wiped off his face with the back of his hand and glared at Rufus, who was red-faced and panting and still fucking gorgeous.
“I did! What did you think ‘Stop, I’m gonna come’ meant?”
Oh. Fair enough. Michael levered himself to his feet and grinned down at Rufus. “So what do you reckon? Fucking awesome for a beginner, or what?”
Rufus grinned back. “Not bad for a first attempt. You’ve got, um, something in your eyebrow.”
“Lick it off,” Michael said, cos he thought Rufus actually might.
“Come here, then.” Rufus zipped up his jeans and lay back along the bench. There was just about room for Michael to join him, so he did. Rufus snuggled in against him.
He wasn’t a cuddler, Michael wasn’t. But it was nice, all right? Rufus pressed tight up against him like he’d been moulded to fit, he was warm, and he smelt good. Michael couldn’t see his face from this angle, but he liked to think of him lying there, smiling.
“I’m not licking your eyebrow,” Rufus said after a mo.
“Wuss. Call yourself a gay boy?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.” He reached up and wiped it off with his thumb, though, so Michael didn’t mind too much.
Lying on the hard bench, a warm Rufus in his arms, Michael gazed around idly and realised the inside of the place was covered in graffiti. And not the usual Gazza is a wanker sort. Some was in pen, and some had been scratched in the wood, but almost all of it was initials and dates, the initials in pairs and connected by plus signs or the number four, and a lot of them inside hearts. “Fuck, this really is a love shack, innit?”
“Yeah. Been here, like, decades. See the dates? There’s one from 1980, one from 1973 . . . The earliest I’ve seen is 1967. Wasn’t that the original Summer of Love?”
Fuck if Michael k
new. Even his mum hadn’t been old enough to get involved in that.
“And see that one?” Rufus pointed into one corner. “AR and GK, 1977. That’s my mum and dad’s initials—Alison Robins and Gerald Kewell. They were childhood sweethearts, except they split up and then got back together again ten years later. I mean, I don’t know it was them here, cos I’ve never asked, but it’s nice to think it was, innit?”
Michael reckoned there was nothing that’d make his dick go limp faster than the thought of being somewhere his mum and dad had shagged, but horses for courses. Then he frowned at the date. “You’re saying your dad was a kid in 1977?” That was the year Michael’s mum and dad had got married. He remembered, cos she always went on about it being the Queen’s Silver Jubilee that year and how the local pub had just kept the bunting up for a few extra weeks until they had their wedding reception there.
“He was eighteen. He’s fifty-seven now. Why, how old did you think he was?”
Fifty-seven? That was Michael’s mum’s age. “Christ, I dunno. Seventy?” He couldn’t believe Mum and Gerald were the same age.
“Ouch. Don’t tell him that.”
“Not my fault, is it? He should dye his hair or something. They grow up on the island, then, your mum and dad?”
“Yeah, then Mum left to go to uni. She was really clever—got a first in English, which is supposed to be, like, really hard.”
No one in Michael’s family had ever been to uni. He’d left school with a handful of iffy GCSEs and a muttered “Good riddance” from most of his teachers. He’d always worked better with his hands than with his brain. “You ever think of doing that?”
Rufus was silent for long enough that Michael lifted up on his elbow to look at him. “Difficult question, was it?”
Rufus sighed. “I don’t want to do anything, like, academic, but I’ve always had this dream of training to be a chef. I mean a proper one in a Michelin-starred restaurant, not just your bog-standard hotel cook.”
Michael frowned. “Why don’t you, then? You’re good enough.” Not that he knew anything about it, but he had taste buds, didn’t he? That meal last night had been fucking fantastic. Breakfast had been pretty bloody good too.
It was going to ruin him for Mum’s cooking.
“Can’t. Dad needs me in the B&B.”
“What about your evil stepmum? Can’t she pull her finger out and take over?”
“Shelley’s not evil, all right? She’s . . . just not very good at that sort of stuff.”
“What, hard work?”
“Don’t be a git. She’s been really great for my dad. Cheered him up loads.”
Michael sniggered. “I bet she has.”
Rufus shivered and sat up. “We’d better get going.”
“Why? There someone else waiting to use this place?”
“Nah, but we’d better go somewhere proper. You can bet Dad’s gonna ask questions over dinner tonight.”
“So we’ll eat out. You cooked last night.”
“Well . . .”
“Go on. Live a little.”
“I’d have to let Dad know.”
“Later.” Michael got up, impatient now. “Come on, I wanna see some sights. Hey, are we anywhere near that place with the dinosaurs? I don’t mean that museum in Sandown. I mean the big ones you can climb on.”
Rufus grinned. “Bless. What are you, five? Sorry, but Blackgang Chine won’t open until Easter.”
“We could go in over the fence?” Michael suggested hopefully as they scrambled back up the sloping lawn to the car park.
“Yeah, great idea, if you want to be front-page news in the County Post. They do have security, you know. And the off-season’s when they do all the work around the place—maintenance and stuff. There’s probably loads of people there.”
“Sod it. That was the best bit of holidays here.”
Rufus slung an arm around Michael’s shoulders. “I’m getting this really cute picture of you as a kid. Sort of like a cross between Christopher Robin and Tigger.”
Michael shrugged. He could live with that. Christopher Robin was all right, at least when he wasn’t dressed in a girlie smock like in the original books—Christ, what were his mum and dad thinking? And Tigger was the cool one who had all the fun.
“Where did you used to stay?” Rufus unlocked the car, and they climbed in.
“Dunno, really. Some holiday park on the coast. We used to stay in chalets, mostly, but I reckon there was a caravan once.” Michael frowned as he struggled to remember at the same time as fiddling with his seat belt. “It was a long time ago. Once all my sisters got too old to wanna come, Mum didn’t bother with holidays no more. S’pose I was seven or eight the last time.”
“Must’ve been nice, though. Family holidays.” Rufus pulled out of the car park and back onto the road.
“What, you never had any?” Jesus, his dad must be a right stingy git.
“We run a B&B, remember? And live in a tourist resort? It’s not like there’s loads of money in it for going abroad off-season and stuff, and I was always at school anyway. Mum and Dad went abroad lots of times before they had me, so I s’pose they felt they’d done it all already. Um.” Rufus went quiet for a mo. “What are we doing here? Really? I mean, like, you and me?”
Michael shrugged, feeling suddenly put on the spot. He stared out the car window. The road had gone inland, and he couldn’t see the sea anymore. “Having a bit of fun.”
He felt bad as he said it, wrong, and it got worse as the silence went on. But that was all it could be, right?
Rufus spoke. “You don’t wanna try, you know, going out together?”
“What, like boyfriends and stuff?” Michael found it hard to keep the sneer out of his voice as he said the word “boyfriends.” It just crept in there, like on automatic. He didn’t do relationships with guys, all right? Guys were for fucking around with. If he wanted someone to go out with, he found himself a girl. Someone he could take home to Mum—could take out anywhere and not care who saw them. “You know I’m only here until the end of the week, right?”
And that . . . that didn’t make his gut twist with hurt and regret.
It was just . . . indigestion. Or something.
“Yes,” Rufus said with a lot more enthusiasm than Michael would’ve expected. “That’s why it’s perfect. You can have, like, a trial run of me.”
Michael’s guts untwisted themselves cautiously, like a hedgehog peeking one eye out to see if the coast was clear. “Yeah? What happens at the end when I go home?”
“We can sort that out then. You know. Decide if it’s worked, and, you know. Sort something out.” Rufus’s ears had gone pink.
This was a bad fucking idea. Michael knew that. But shit, it was tempting. Could something work out between them? After all, Rufus was fun to be with—at least, when his dad wasn’t around—and all that enthusiasm when they shagged was a serious turn-on. Not to mention the way Rufus looked, which was like he really oughtta be a model. In a porno mag. Michael wouldn’t ever be able to take Rufus home to his mum, obviously, but they could meet up places. Maybe he could persuade him to move off the island? That’d be perfect. Rufus could get a room somewhere and maybe do that chef’s course he wanted.
And Michael could go round and see him there, where no one would know about it. Yeah. That’d work. That’d be fucking brilliant.
“It was just an idea,” Rufus said in a small voice with hints of Brave Little Toaster. (Shut up. His nephew Sean fucking loved that film.) “Doesn’t matter.”
Shit, he’d been silent too long. “No.” Michael said it quick, without thinking. “I mean, yeah, why not? We’ll give it a go.”
Rufus’s smile made him glad he’d said it. It was like a fucking ray of sunshine on a cold March day—wide and happy and Christ, it made him wanna kiss that mouth.
“Any more love shacks around here?” he asked hopefully.
Walking back into the B&B that evening, Rufus felt all fizzy, like a bottle
of Coke that’d been shaken up and left for some poor unsuspecting person to open unawares. No, not Coke. Like a magnum of champagne, right, just before the Grand Prix winner sprayed it all over the crowd. Michael was going to be his boyfriend. Was his boyfriend. And okay, he didn’t live on the island, but Southampton was only a ferry ride away. Michael could come over all the time. Every weekend, or whenever he had his days off. For evening dates, even. The hydrofoil took, like, twenty minutes, and even the car ferry got there in an hour. It was just like getting a bus. Only wetter. And more expensive. Maybe they had season tickets?
Or Michael could move. There must be loads of washing machines on the Isle of Wight that needed repairing, what with all the hotels washing sheets and towels every day. And it wouldn’t be like he was leaving his mum on her own, cos, see, only a ferry ride away. She could come and visit as often as she wanted. Or she could move too. Lots of old people moved to the island when they retired. Rufus was sure she’d like it here. And he was sure he’d like her. He liked Michael, after all.
Michael’s mum would like him, he knew it. Most people seemed to like Rufus, especially people’s mums. He wasn’t sure exactly why, but he wasn’t going to complain, either.
And Michael liked him. He really, really liked him.
They’d had a totally brilliant day, deciding to have lunch out instead of dinner. They’d eaten at the Wight Mouse Inn and spent the afternoon on the west side of the island, bombing down the military road at, like, seventy miles an hour, which was all Dad’s old Ford Focus could manage these days. They’d ended up at Freshwater Bay, where they’d wandered down the beach and chucked stones in the water. On the way back, they’d stopped at Mottistone and taken the short walk to see the thirteen-foot Neolithic standing stone there.
Michael had acted all unimpressed, moaning it wasn’t exactly Stonehenge. Then he’d pushed Rufus back against it and snogged him silly. He’d have done more, Rufus reckoned, cos he’d started going on about how the stone was just a fucking great dick, yeah, so it was bound to be a fertility symbol, so maybe if he leaned Rufus up against it and shagged him, Michael would get him up the duff, and he’d seemed well up for the attempt. Only just then a couple of elderly ramblers wandered onto the scene, which Rufus and Michael only noticed when the bloke coughed politely and asked them if they’d mind awfully moving over so his wife could take a picture of the stone. So then they’d legged it, laughing, and Michael insisting Dad had to be behind the interruption somehow and probably had spies all over the island.