Forever Jocelyn
by Lara Biuts
Part 1
“Itself, by itself, solely, one everlasting, and single.”
(Plato: Symposium)
January 7. Rome. A Blue Speedwell
They did not talk on the way home. It was late at night, when they got to the house in Via Nomentana. The gates opened, the car drove in, and the Villa enfolded them in its paternal embrace.
Anthony exchanged several words with Mario, who was on duty tonight, and along the drive he directed the car towards the gray stone facing of the house illuminated by outside spotlights. The park behind the house was dark, washed only the light of the moon. The rosy marble fountain kept silence. Anthony did not drive the car into the garage, but left it to stay.
“Bambini! Bambini!” Jocelyn turned to two Dobermans, who noiselessly, as though from under the ground appeared before the indwellers. Anthony went to the lit porch, Jocelyn came after.
The door was opened by Vittorio, who got tips from Anthony every time he did this service at night. Anthony saw Jocelyn to the door of the boy’s room. He waited till the lock clicked behind the boy, and then he went to his room.
The boy stood the night out fairly well, thought the time of a day was unusually late for him. Anthony switched on the lamp on the night table--the lamp lit up the white walls of the spacious room, the deep-blue furniture and draperies, the crimson-and-black Japan screen and the deep-crimson bedspread. Today’s work was over, and Anthony hurried to go to bed. Throwing his clothes off he visited the bathroom, and in ten minutes he was in bed.
Five minutes later he sank into a deep sleep.
But his sleep was not serene till daylight. Tonight he dreamt about Santino. In his sleep Anthony was at the mercy of that man again, and he woke because he nearly cried like a child of grief and pity to himself.
Opening his eyes he threw the blanket off his bare chest, and taking breath he stayed lying on his back for some time. He stared at the darkness straight before him and listened to his throbbing heart. Is he in his room again? And that man and that room… thank heaven, thank heaven, it’s only a dream. What kind relief! The sense of despair and hopelessness that took him in his sleep changed to the sense of quiet joy. Waiting till his heartbeat back to normal, he smiled and closed his eyes.
No surprise that he had had the dream. Strangely, he had not the dream before. Tonight he dreamt about what had happened with him in reality, but it looked much more fearsome, because in the dream his escape was not a success. Ghastly dream--he should forget it as soon as possible. The mortifying fear--he never experienced a fear like that even in reality, even when he was in hand of Santino. In hand of that old corpulent male. That old fat son of a bachelor. It’s so good that the man is no more. If he were not be killed, Anthony would experience day by day the horror he dreamt tonight.
Now, his heartbeat was normal. He blanketed his bare chest again--sleeping in the nude tonight--and he moved with his body settling more comfortable. He turned his head to his right shoulder to inhale the smell of his skin. The familiar smell of his skin, dry or sweaty, washed or bed-warmed, which he could smell out even through the fragrance of his expensive perfume, calmed him down as it was always. If he lay on his side and sank his head, then the smell would be warmer, and he would be able to inhale it to his heart’s content. The smell of his skin could take, and intoxicate him. As it was often the charming smell excited him, making get hard. That amused him, but he never gave way to his sensuality right now. He sighed drawing in a deep breath the smell as though a dose of coke and he closed eyes.
Blanketed up to his chin he was lying on his back; the plaid covered his legs, his eyes closed, but he could not sleep. His thoughts returned to Santino and that night in October again. There was the only consolation on the evil night, when he was kidnapped. The fact that he was taken by the man who was tall and handsome. In everyday life, Anthony liked to see tall men, the men who was taller than he. He sympathized the tall men, improving an opportunity to be near a man who was taller and more corpulent than Anthony himself; he appreciated the opportunity to seem more miniature beside a big man, therefore to look younger. He wished to look younger, and realizing this peculiarity of his mind, he felt tenderness to himself. “It was horrible, of course,” he thought remembering the night when he was forced to make love with one of tall men, “It’s horrible, but… if there was anybody else instead of the old Santino, anybody younger, for example, those guys wearing black jackets, his bodyguards… Both of them. In turn. Then it would be easier to me. Not more pleasant, but easier. And even… perhaps, who knows, I’d like that.” This thought, usual to a sophisticated whore more than to a man, did not rouse indignation or vexation to himself in his mind; this thought just whipped up his imagination making it work.
He pictured to himself a situation--another dreadful situation, dreadful and yet attractive in a way--he pictured that he found himself at the mercy of several young men. He was their captive. For a while. Maybe they kidnapped him. Now, they decided to take advantage and to take him. To while away the time. They were about to do it in turn. They were six. He went on imagining. Night. A solitary place in countryside. The campfire lights the temporary camp of his kidnappers, who have settled under the open starred sky. They have untied his hands eventually, and now he is lying face downwards on the heap of dry leaves as a bed. He is stark naked. Without turning round he can see only flecks of the fire on his bare hands, but he knows that there are the guys behind his back. All of them are wearing black jackets; all of them are young, sportive and taller than he. One of them is ready for taking him, all the rest will be standing by, watching and waiting for their turn. Now he feels the touch of a hand on his bare back, then intimacy of a naked male body, and the first violator possesses him. There’s no help for it, he is helpless against several men; closing his eyes he tries to relax. Now, in bed he felt certain, for some reason, that he would catch his keif with the second partner.
Nice, though the unwholesomeness of the fantasy was obvious. That might be delightful and might entice away, if only… if only he could be sure concerning the guys’ delicacy. Could one expect delicacy from the young bandits? Delicacy and silence during the sacred ritual of befouling his body. Could one expect that the proper number of condoms would be found in countryside? For the boys could feel like repeating and taking him more than once. Could one feel certain that the boys would feel like using condoms? And he would be able to do nothing against. Nothing! Ah no, this sort of pleasure includes a heap of needless risk… Though, one could hire boys. Any number of boys. To hire and invite to a hotel, and there, in the largest room of the suite deluxe… Anthony felt a slight sweet spasm in his inner; a dreamy smile came in his face. There was nothing fearsome in this artificial situation; there was nothing new in this sort of pleasure: obeying to their satiate desire, the Roman Emperors gave their bodies to their slaves. Nero married his freedman in the same way that Sporus had been married to him, and was a wife abed; Elagabalus was so young yet depraved enough for giving himself to the first comer in his palace. True, it’s not necessary to follow all the unwholesome and morbid excesses of the satiate crown-bearing voluptuaries of antiquity, but some of their habits were worth noting. “Quite another matter. But I digress…” His thoughts floated slower and slower in his mind, his eyelids were heavy with sleep; he understood that the slumber, the desired vanquisher began overcoming him. Then he turned on his right side, covered himself with the blanket properly and gave himself to the arms of Morpheus.
Published by Turner Maxwell Books
Copyright © Lara Biuts 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without permission in writing by Lara Biuts or Turner Maxwell Books.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which this is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The purchase of this book is a private sale between the reader and the publisher; at no stage will indemnity be claimed against the publisher. The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental and may be more the work of your own imagination. Why not write a book yourself? Turner Maxwell Books are an alternative co-operative of new writers, working towards publishing inspirational literature.
Printed and bound in the United Kingdom for Turner Maxwell Books.
£12.99
