The Dark Horse, Part 2
Title: The Dark Horse, part 2/?
Pairing: George/Ringo (mainly), John/Paul/George, Paul/Ringo (slightly), Paul/George (slightly), John/Ringo (if you squint), George/Other
Warnings: Sexual scenes, sexual fantasies, sexual references, prostitution
Previous Part: Here
Summary: Richard, an ambitious seventeen-year-old, has his life turned upside down by the wickedly devious, yet deeply endearing, street urchins- George Harrison and Paul McCartney. (AU)
Authors notes 1: "Pandemic" update is next on the agenda, I promise!
Authors notes 2: The italics in this is part flashback, part fantasy. You should get it, you're clever people.
Richard and John balance precariously on the railings of the bridge, backs turned to the waves of water that crash feet below them. There is a slight wind today, and the streets are moist from occasional rain that whips their faces and creates water droplets on their eyelashes. Richard is comfortable here, greeted by the smell of fish and chips and blessed with the company of his greatest friend. This is where he and John first met, and being the sentimental type, Richard finds this another reason to treasure the location. It’s also the place he had his first kiss, with a pretty girl from his school. It’s the place he waved off his father when he boarded the ferry out of Richards’ life forever. It’s the place he got punched in the face by a drunken thug, and the place he cried when he fell off his first bike. To many, this is a Merseyside bridge and nothing more, but to Richard it is another haven of memories. Richard treasures any memory big or small, sweet or ugly. He’s the type that keeps souvenirs and postcards; at home he has a whole box full of the stuff. Richard loves to clasp precious sentimentality because it’s what makes him who he is today. If he could, he’d conserve every tear drop, every laugh and every joke he ever told.
He and John sit quite happily for an hour or so, completely undisturbed. They share jokes that are all of tasteful, crude and irreverent. They laugh until their stomachs ache, as always, and share ciggies and popcorn. Richard is the sentimental, loving type; he cherishes his evenings with John, no matter how ordinary or trivial. Life has taught Richard that time goes too quickly to take these things for granted.
This evening is not special and nor is it in any way significant, but to Richard it is perfect.
That is… until they are joined by some unwanted company.
Two forthright strangers saunter up the street. Two young boys, fourteen and fifteen, who Richard wishes he never has to see again. Two pairs of identical grins, shining eyes and faces flushed with cold. Two pairs of bare arms covered in goose pimples, and two pairs of outstretched hands wave in Richards face.
John willingly hands them each a cigarette, and Richard hopes that is the end of it.
But it isn’t.
No, of course it isn’t. George and Paul don’t care whether they are wanted or whether they are making people uncomfortable, because alas, they’re always unwanted, and they always make people uncomfortable. And right at this very minute, George crawls up and jumps without asking onto Johns’ lap, while Paul shifts to sit in between Richard and his friend. Richard shuffles irritably upwards, forced into making space for them. They don’t even appear to notice him. Even John, faced with the prospect of more exciting, alluring friends, fails to observe Richards sudden outcast.
Richard sits silently for a while, listening in half-interest and half-resentment as the three chatter wildly amongst themselves. Paul sounds excitable, and animated, and nothing like the vindictiveness he presented during his and Richards last encounter. George, Richard notices, is more quiet. He’s happy to laugh at every dirty joke John and Paul bounce between themselves. He fiddles distractedly with Johns’ fringe, and the top button of his shirt, though it doesn’t appear to be flirtatious… just a matter of childlike curiosity. Childlike. Richard cringes as memories lumber him once more. He feels himself slipping off the fence, heart heavy with rejection and embarrassment as he makes to rid himself of this escapade.
But John stops him.
“’ey, wait a minute!” he cries. “Where ye goin’?!”
Richards heart stops as he feels deep eyes and severe attention being pushed onto him. He knows without looking, that Paul and George are watching him. He wanders if they even remember him. No. To them, he’s just another guy conned, another dick swallowed. Not a day goes by where he doesn’t reflect upon those two faces… but he means nothing to them.
But, as is typical of an urchin, George proves him wrong.
He raises his eyeline to fixate on Richards’ face, and a small smile creeps across glistening lips, as he says softly, “I know you.”
Richard feels his heart-rate quicken, his insides curl up in embarrassment.
George continues, “You’re the one with the big dick and fat wallet.”
Richards’ stomach churns in disgust and dislike, as is familiar to him when he reflects upon this tramp. Richard has never hated anybody. But he’s never felt anything so irrationally intense before as he does for this boy, and now he feels sure the feeling must be one of loathing. Because he feels his face redden at the memory, and feels himself cringe at the guiltlessness in which George Harrison reflects upon it.
He frowns. “I’ll ‘ave that wallet back.” he mutters, “There was personal stuff in there.”
“Oh, we know.” Paul grins, “We put the pictures on our wall.”
Richard flinches, and George adds, “We gave the condoms away.”
For the first time, Richard raises his eye line, and without wanting to, he catches sight of the young urchins face. Droplets of water have lined down the boys pointed cheeks, and look like tears that are lit up in moonlight. Dark shadows have formed underneath his cheekbones, making them look deeper than ever, cast and illuminated sensually in the orange streetlights. His fringe seems to have grown even longer since the last time, and strands fall into his eyes. Otherwise he just wears an expression of mild interest, as he scrutinises this victim in front of him.
Right now, John has his arms wrapped possessively around Georges’ stomach as the younger lad remains balanced on his lap. Richard has not seen John act so openly affectionate before. For the first time, he considers that Johns’ loyalties may be tested if Richard were to fight against these two urchins. For the first time, he considers the possibility that he is not the most important thing on Johns’ mind. He doesn’t like this. Another reason to detest these brazen street boys.
“I’ll see you later John.” He mumbles, and makes to head in the other direction.
But something stops him.
“Ringo.”
Richard frowns, and turns around, locking eyes once more with the source of the noise. George smiles, noticing the affect of his words.
“Ringo.” he says softly.
Richard swallows, his legs shaking as he breaths, “huh?”
“Ringo. That’s what we call you. Ringo.” He points down to Richards’ shaking fingers, “Because of the rings.”
Richard takes a deep, quivering breath, and looks down at the rings that line his fingers; all are presents fro m family and friends, and items of great sentimental value. He shoves them quickly into his pockets, scowling. Trust a pick-pocket to notice THAT.
“Stay Ringo,” is all George says after that.
Already, Georges’ attention has shifted, and he returns to picking at the buttons on the front of Johns’ shirt. Richard could leave right now, like he wants to, and these urchins wouldn’t care. And yet… he feels himself compelled to obey the simple, blasé commandment. He feels himself gravitating lifelessly back towards the fence, back into their circle of scrutiny and mockery.
George smiles at this, more to himself than anybody else, and then goes back to fiddling with the lining of Johns’ pocket.
“Want a cigarette, Ringo?” Paul asks
At first, Richard is impressed and appreciative of the sentiment. But the cigarette Paul hands him belongs to John, and so all meaning is lost.
Still, Paul seems happy to continue conversation.
“They’re very nice rings, them ones you’ve got. Nick ‘em, did ye?”
Richard grimaces. “No, I didn’t.”
“Oh no, not our Ritch.” John beams. “He has a JOB.”
“Oh yeah?”
“A respectable one and everything.”
“Really??” Paul sounds impressed, but his smile is one of mockery. Richard realises right now that he is victim of some warped ridicule. And he doesn’t quite see how HE should be the one being scoffed at, being the one here to have NOT spread his legs for cash.
Paul pulls the tie Richard is wearing from the inside of his jacket, and Richard flinches as the lads fingers brush stimulatingly across his chest, causing goose bumps to parade his skin like a soft disease.
“Very nice!” Paul scoffs at the garment.
Richard snatches the tie back, face glowing with awkwardness. “Thanks.” He mutters quietly.
“What job is it then?”
“Plumber.” Richard answers shortly. This determination to not engage in conversation is startlingly familiar, and once again his mind races back to their last encounter. He feels his skin flush warm; his nerves tingle as he remembers. He swallows hard, suddenly aware of how close he is to the boys of his memory, and hating himself for feeling early signs of provocation.
“You need a tie to be a plumber?” Paul raises his eyebrows.
“No…” Richard frowns. “Jus… it was jus’ a trial.”
“Bet they thought you looked a right pillock, didn’t they?”
Richard scowls, eyes diverting to the floor. “They didn’t say anything.”
And what would YOU know about it!?, he thinks.
Richard is so busy staring at the floor that he doesn’t notice the sudden activity his best friend has engaged in. When he looks up, his heart drops in surprise and uneasiness. Johns’ lips are pressed against Georges’. His hand has travelled to Georges’ hair, and his fingers rake through the locks that Richard too has had the displeasure of fingering. Johns’ tongue pushes in and out of the younger boys mouth, again and again and again, and Richard watches - quite transfixed - as John nibbles on the succulent bottom lip that grabbed Richards’ attention the last time.
A couple of passerbys tut or make noises of disgust as they pass, and Paul sniggers at them. It’s quite easy to recognise Johns’ intent, and to recognise Georges’ eagerness to comply. Richard finds himself cringing at how easily the young boy gives himself over. He bets John isn’t paying him, other than in cigarettes and friendship. But friendship is always enough with John, and apparently even soulless street-boys can’t argue with that.
Johns’ hands travel from the boys back, down and underneath his arse, groping through his jeans, and George moans softly. In fact, they’re making quite a show of this, and with all the stares they’re receiving, it’s a wonder they’re not already in prison for such blatant exploits. There’s only one person who’s not transfixed by this performance, and that is because Paul McCartney is staring unwaveringly at Richard.
By the time Richard notices, Paul is standing against him, his eyes serious suddenly, severe with some kind of warning. Of course, Richard hasn’t forgotten his threat at knife-point. And evidently, Paul hasn’t either. Richard almost scoffs at the very sentiment; Paul doesn’t have a problem with George bending over for greasy paedophiles, but Richard watching a performance like theirs is out of the question?
“I’m gonna go.” He mutters sourly.
This time John doesn’t object; he’s much too busy pulling Georges’ body to rest on his crotch. In the middle of kisses he grunts a quick goodbye to his friend, and Richard does not wait for any other sentiment. Paul nods to him shortly, and discards his cigarette in one swift movement to lie across the cobbles.
When Richard looks back, Pauls’ moth-breath has directed itself to butterfly kisses across the older boys face. Pauls hands move tantalisingly across Johns’ stomach, and he whispers inside Johns’ ear, as his fingers snake into the rim of his jeans. At the same time, George is rocking himself on Johns’ lap, and Johns’ hands ghost around the outline of Georges’ willing body.
Lennon is sandwiched between the two iniquitously sensual physiques, and breaths heavily, “You sure you don’t want to come with us, Ritch?”
A rush of heat surges inside Richards’ blood.
He doesn’t know how it’s possible to turn such an alluring offer down, and yet he feels wrong, disgraced. He feels sick by these boys, who produce wretched churns of his stomach every time their memory haunts him. He is repulsed by them, and their tongues too young to have touched what they have, mouths too young to utter the words that they do.
His heart beats with nothing but detestation for these wretched creatures of the street, who con and trick and deceive, and spread their legs to lonely perverts, just in the favour of hard, cold cash.
“Oh fuckin’ ‘ell Ritch,” John groans, and his head falls back as the youngest sucks and bites on his neck, and he gasps as Pauls’ hands squeeze and tug expertly at his hardness. “I’m offerin’ to share here, what the fuck is goin’ on with you?!”
But Richard doesn’t want to share.
He doesn’t want to share these boys with John, nor any of the other hundreds they’ve allowed into their bodies.
And so he says no more on the matter. He turns on his heel, and he tries to block the three different gasps and moans that echo after him. He tries to rid his mind of each set of wandering fingers and sweaty palm.
He walks home, and his hands shake as he fumbles for a cigarette, struggles with the lighter. He closes his eyes and blocks out the sensual sighs that haunt his remembrance, until the only sound is the rain. The rain bounces on his bedroom window, and water patterns form across the decorate glass.
Richard lies flat down across his mattress, and he wonders what sickly spell these two have put him under. He wonders why they caress his mind the way they do, and why he obsesses almost hungrily over his passionate dislike for them. And no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake the moans from vibrating inside his eardrums. Those gentle, sensual, erotic moans that pour like music notes into the misty air of night. Richards hand moves down, and his fingers wrap around his own cock. He remembers those urchins eyes; so dark, heavy, piercing. That night, the desire that seeped from Georges’ voice as he pleads with Richard, fuck me.
“Oh shit…” Richard whines, and his hand grips tighter to a throbbing erection, and he begins to move his hand slowly up and down his own shaft.
He remembers the young boys head disappearing between his knees, his mouth wrapped around Richards’ cock, his head bobbing between his legs, and oh so talented at that. He remembers eyes glazed over with want, because that boy WANTED Richard, whether it was for sex or money, he wanted him.
Ringo. What a strange thing to call him and yet how exciting when uttered with air between those red chapped lips. Fuck me, he said. Ringo, he said.
Fuck me Ringo.
Richard sighs softly, and shuts his eyes, his hand squeezing and rubbing at his hardness.
’Oh fuck Ringo’, the boy moans, and he’s coated in shiny sweat, legs wrapped around Richards waist, begging to be taken, pushing against the head of Richards’ ready cock. ‘Ringo’, he breathes that special name. ‘Ringo, fuck me, fuck me.’
Richard wraps his left arm around his mouth, trying to muffle his moan as his hand works harder on his erection, and he bites down on his own skin in agonising lust. His blood rushes frenziedly, and nerves pulsating like fireworks as he’s consumed in a mixture of passionate detestation, and fervent covetousness for this young, mysterious creature of the street.
“Come on,” he grunts, already feeling himself coming close. “Come on.”
”Come on, come on.” He coaxes his long-haired lover, and he holds the small body inside his arms while he rocks gently, compassionately into him. And the urchins bare thighs close around Richards waist as he lets low deep moans pour from the deepest point of his throat. His head rocks violently, consumed with obsession, as Richard claims him as sacredly his. His, to protect and harbour from the rest of the worlds envy.
“Fuck…” Richard sighs in pleasure, and he grips his left hand tightly to the bedpost, toes clenching in yearning. He sees Georges’ long talented fingers, red glistening lips, arched hips, fluttering eyelids, soft hum, piercing eyes. He sees George as magnetism, wicked allure, mastery, trickery, sexual capture. He with the soft voice, with the gentle charm, quietly exotic aura. He who creeps from shadows in the night, with sexual maturity that stretches beyond his age. He who hunts Richard down like a feline hunts a mouse, and begs him, and only him, and chooses him; ”Fuck me.”
Richard gasps, and he climaxes, his speed spills violently across his hand.
And he lays, chest bouncing quickly up and down, panting for breath, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Everything is silent, and even the raindrops fizzle and drown out inside Richards’ mind, and he’s caught in a vacuum of stillness. All he can hear is the same soft sigh, elevating from Georges’ mouth when Ringo pulled him forward onto his lap that time. All he can see is the same still, black eyes, that radiate the painful combination of naivety and deceit.
All he can see, and all he has ever seen, is that street urchin, in all his wicked glory.
Richard wonders now, whether he should have just paid, and followed through with their arrangement? If he’d taken him, would he be hounded by these endless reveries? If he’d entered the boys body, pushed through his bones… would he still be cursed with such painful, passionate loathe and crave?
Its’ only hours later, when many like Richard are asleep, that George stands waiting inside the circular tunnel beneath the train track. The whole street is silent; the only sound is the rain that bounces on the roof of the tunnel, and echoes spookily off the curved brick walls. Water trails like miniature waterfalls down the red stone. Puddles trickle through the gaps in the cobbles, seeping closer to Georges’ hiding place.
A stranger approaches. He wears a long overcoat, which George pulls off him with slow movements. George has learnt to judge early on the pace of which these men wish to move at. He discards the overcoat onto the cobbles, pushes himself against the man, rubs his stomach against the mans erection, and moans. The man groans back in a low hum, pushes George to his knees, and pulls open his own zipper. He leaves the young prostitute no room for his own skill; he just pushes his head repeatedly up and down his hardened cock. He leans back against the wall, grunting, hands clasped in the mound of hair as he continues to push and pull the talented mouth up and down his shaft. The urchin is obedient, and lasts a long time before his mouth aches.
The man only tugs him harder, sensing him falter, forcing his mouth to continue up and down his penis. After another few minutes he takes mercy; he holds the young boys head still, thrusting in and out of his mouth, sighing as the boy gags and chokes. He fucks his mouth again and again, and takes great pleasure in doing so.
“Take those off.” He grunts, and releases himself of his own trousers.
The young boy is light, easy to manoeuvre. The man can lift him, and he does so, pushing fingers into the small hole as he holds him there. The boy moans, bouncing onto the fingers that support him in the air. He’s pushed against the wall of the tunnel, and he knows what to do, and he wraps his legs around the strangers waist, and gasps as the cock pushes into him. He closes his eyes, listens to the pants and grunts of his customer, pushes himself up and down the shaft.
The mans hands travel his back and his arse cheeks, tugging at the skin as he moans in ecstasy. He draws back, pushes George hard into the wall as he thrusts back into him. The whore gasps; his breathing is hard and ragged.
The man releases his seed inside the young body, holding him there, balanced against the wall, slowing his thrusts as he comes. The boy reaches with shaking hands to his own prick, pumping his hand, but before he can finish he feels his body dropped to the floor.
Some money is handed over.
Clothes are reapplied.
The stranger moves off in one direction, and the boy in another.
At the end of the tunnel, the boy meets another, who wears no shoes. They say nothing to each other, but cigarettes are passed between them. They balance on the railings in this thoughtful, reflective silence for a long time. If anybody were watching them, they would comment that the boys are too young to be up at this time of night. But nobody is around to notice.
The taller boy kisses the smaller one gently on the cheek, and they finally move away. They seem to glide gracefully inside the midnight fog. The outdoor setting suits them.
Tomorrow, the whole thing will be repeated again.
Pairing: George/Ringo (mainly), John/Paul/George, Paul/Ringo (slightly), Paul/George (slightly), John/Ringo (if you squint), George/Other
Warnings: Sexual scenes, sexual fantasies, sexual references, prostitution
Previous Part: Here
Summary: Richard, an ambitious seventeen-year-old, has his life turned upside down by the wickedly devious, yet deeply endearing, street urchins- George Harrison and Paul McCartney. (AU)
Authors notes 1: "Pandemic" update is next on the agenda, I promise!
Authors notes 2: The italics in this is part flashback, part fantasy. You should get it, you're clever people.
Richard and John balance precariously on the railings of the bridge, backs turned to the waves of water that crash feet below them. There is a slight wind today, and the streets are moist from occasional rain that whips their faces and creates water droplets on their eyelashes. Richard is comfortable here, greeted by the smell of fish and chips and blessed with the company of his greatest friend. This is where he and John first met, and being the sentimental type, Richard finds this another reason to treasure the location. It’s also the place he had his first kiss, with a pretty girl from his school. It’s the place he waved off his father when he boarded the ferry out of Richards’ life forever. It’s the place he got punched in the face by a drunken thug, and the place he cried when he fell off his first bike. To many, this is a Merseyside bridge and nothing more, but to Richard it is another haven of memories. Richard treasures any memory big or small, sweet or ugly. He’s the type that keeps souvenirs and postcards; at home he has a whole box full of the stuff. Richard loves to clasp precious sentimentality because it’s what makes him who he is today. If he could, he’d conserve every tear drop, every laugh and every joke he ever told.
He and John sit quite happily for an hour or so, completely undisturbed. They share jokes that are all of tasteful, crude and irreverent. They laugh until their stomachs ache, as always, and share ciggies and popcorn. Richard is the sentimental, loving type; he cherishes his evenings with John, no matter how ordinary or trivial. Life has taught Richard that time goes too quickly to take these things for granted.
This evening is not special and nor is it in any way significant, but to Richard it is perfect.
That is… until they are joined by some unwanted company.
Two forthright strangers saunter up the street. Two young boys, fourteen and fifteen, who Richard wishes he never has to see again. Two pairs of identical grins, shining eyes and faces flushed with cold. Two pairs of bare arms covered in goose pimples, and two pairs of outstretched hands wave in Richards face.
John willingly hands them each a cigarette, and Richard hopes that is the end of it.
But it isn’t.
No, of course it isn’t. George and Paul don’t care whether they are wanted or whether they are making people uncomfortable, because alas, they’re always unwanted, and they always make people uncomfortable. And right at this very minute, George crawls up and jumps without asking onto Johns’ lap, while Paul shifts to sit in between Richard and his friend. Richard shuffles irritably upwards, forced into making space for them. They don’t even appear to notice him. Even John, faced with the prospect of more exciting, alluring friends, fails to observe Richards sudden outcast.
Richard sits silently for a while, listening in half-interest and half-resentment as the three chatter wildly amongst themselves. Paul sounds excitable, and animated, and nothing like the vindictiveness he presented during his and Richards last encounter. George, Richard notices, is more quiet. He’s happy to laugh at every dirty joke John and Paul bounce between themselves. He fiddles distractedly with Johns’ fringe, and the top button of his shirt, though it doesn’t appear to be flirtatious… just a matter of childlike curiosity. Childlike. Richard cringes as memories lumber him once more. He feels himself slipping off the fence, heart heavy with rejection and embarrassment as he makes to rid himself of this escapade.
But John stops him.
“’ey, wait a minute!” he cries. “Where ye goin’?!”
Richards heart stops as he feels deep eyes and severe attention being pushed onto him. He knows without looking, that Paul and George are watching him. He wanders if they even remember him. No. To them, he’s just another guy conned, another dick swallowed. Not a day goes by where he doesn’t reflect upon those two faces… but he means nothing to them.
But, as is typical of an urchin, George proves him wrong.
He raises his eyeline to fixate on Richards’ face, and a small smile creeps across glistening lips, as he says softly, “I know you.”
Richard feels his heart-rate quicken, his insides curl up in embarrassment.
George continues, “You’re the one with the big dick and fat wallet.”
Richards’ stomach churns in disgust and dislike, as is familiar to him when he reflects upon this tramp. Richard has never hated anybody. But he’s never felt anything so irrationally intense before as he does for this boy, and now he feels sure the feeling must be one of loathing. Because he feels his face redden at the memory, and feels himself cringe at the guiltlessness in which George Harrison reflects upon it.
He frowns. “I’ll ‘ave that wallet back.” he mutters, “There was personal stuff in there.”
“Oh, we know.” Paul grins, “We put the pictures on our wall.”
Richard flinches, and George adds, “We gave the condoms away.”
For the first time, Richard raises his eye line, and without wanting to, he catches sight of the young urchins face. Droplets of water have lined down the boys pointed cheeks, and look like tears that are lit up in moonlight. Dark shadows have formed underneath his cheekbones, making them look deeper than ever, cast and illuminated sensually in the orange streetlights. His fringe seems to have grown even longer since the last time, and strands fall into his eyes. Otherwise he just wears an expression of mild interest, as he scrutinises this victim in front of him.
Right now, John has his arms wrapped possessively around Georges’ stomach as the younger lad remains balanced on his lap. Richard has not seen John act so openly affectionate before. For the first time, he considers that Johns’ loyalties may be tested if Richard were to fight against these two urchins. For the first time, he considers the possibility that he is not the most important thing on Johns’ mind. He doesn’t like this. Another reason to detest these brazen street boys.
“I’ll see you later John.” He mumbles, and makes to head in the other direction.
But something stops him.
“Ringo.”
Richard frowns, and turns around, locking eyes once more with the source of the noise. George smiles, noticing the affect of his words.
“Ringo.” he says softly.
Richard swallows, his legs shaking as he breaths, “huh?”
“Ringo. That’s what we call you. Ringo.” He points down to Richards’ shaking fingers, “Because of the rings.”
Richard takes a deep, quivering breath, and looks down at the rings that line his fingers; all are presents fro m family and friends, and items of great sentimental value. He shoves them quickly into his pockets, scowling. Trust a pick-pocket to notice THAT.
“Stay Ringo,” is all George says after that.
Already, Georges’ attention has shifted, and he returns to picking at the buttons on the front of Johns’ shirt. Richard could leave right now, like he wants to, and these urchins wouldn’t care. And yet… he feels himself compelled to obey the simple, blasé commandment. He feels himself gravitating lifelessly back towards the fence, back into their circle of scrutiny and mockery.
George smiles at this, more to himself than anybody else, and then goes back to fiddling with the lining of Johns’ pocket.
“Want a cigarette, Ringo?” Paul asks
At first, Richard is impressed and appreciative of the sentiment. But the cigarette Paul hands him belongs to John, and so all meaning is lost.
Still, Paul seems happy to continue conversation.
“They’re very nice rings, them ones you’ve got. Nick ‘em, did ye?”
Richard grimaces. “No, I didn’t.”
“Oh no, not our Ritch.” John beams. “He has a JOB.”
“Oh yeah?”
“A respectable one and everything.”
“Really??” Paul sounds impressed, but his smile is one of mockery. Richard realises right now that he is victim of some warped ridicule. And he doesn’t quite see how HE should be the one being scoffed at, being the one here to have NOT spread his legs for cash.
Paul pulls the tie Richard is wearing from the inside of his jacket, and Richard flinches as the lads fingers brush stimulatingly across his chest, causing goose bumps to parade his skin like a soft disease.
“Very nice!” Paul scoffs at the garment.
Richard snatches the tie back, face glowing with awkwardness. “Thanks.” He mutters quietly.
“What job is it then?”
“Plumber.” Richard answers shortly. This determination to not engage in conversation is startlingly familiar, and once again his mind races back to their last encounter. He feels his skin flush warm; his nerves tingle as he remembers. He swallows hard, suddenly aware of how close he is to the boys of his memory, and hating himself for feeling early signs of provocation.
“You need a tie to be a plumber?” Paul raises his eyebrows.
“No…” Richard frowns. “Jus… it was jus’ a trial.”
“Bet they thought you looked a right pillock, didn’t they?”
Richard scowls, eyes diverting to the floor. “They didn’t say anything.”
And what would YOU know about it!?, he thinks.
Richard is so busy staring at the floor that he doesn’t notice the sudden activity his best friend has engaged in. When he looks up, his heart drops in surprise and uneasiness. Johns’ lips are pressed against Georges’. His hand has travelled to Georges’ hair, and his fingers rake through the locks that Richard too has had the displeasure of fingering. Johns’ tongue pushes in and out of the younger boys mouth, again and again and again, and Richard watches - quite transfixed - as John nibbles on the succulent bottom lip that grabbed Richards’ attention the last time.
A couple of passerbys tut or make noises of disgust as they pass, and Paul sniggers at them. It’s quite easy to recognise Johns’ intent, and to recognise Georges’ eagerness to comply. Richard finds himself cringing at how easily the young boy gives himself over. He bets John isn’t paying him, other than in cigarettes and friendship. But friendship is always enough with John, and apparently even soulless street-boys can’t argue with that.
Johns’ hands travel from the boys back, down and underneath his arse, groping through his jeans, and George moans softly. In fact, they’re making quite a show of this, and with all the stares they’re receiving, it’s a wonder they’re not already in prison for such blatant exploits. There’s only one person who’s not transfixed by this performance, and that is because Paul McCartney is staring unwaveringly at Richard.
By the time Richard notices, Paul is standing against him, his eyes serious suddenly, severe with some kind of warning. Of course, Richard hasn’t forgotten his threat at knife-point. And evidently, Paul hasn’t either. Richard almost scoffs at the very sentiment; Paul doesn’t have a problem with George bending over for greasy paedophiles, but Richard watching a performance like theirs is out of the question?
“I’m gonna go.” He mutters sourly.
This time John doesn’t object; he’s much too busy pulling Georges’ body to rest on his crotch. In the middle of kisses he grunts a quick goodbye to his friend, and Richard does not wait for any other sentiment. Paul nods to him shortly, and discards his cigarette in one swift movement to lie across the cobbles.
When Richard looks back, Pauls’ moth-breath has directed itself to butterfly kisses across the older boys face. Pauls hands move tantalisingly across Johns’ stomach, and he whispers inside Johns’ ear, as his fingers snake into the rim of his jeans. At the same time, George is rocking himself on Johns’ lap, and Johns’ hands ghost around the outline of Georges’ willing body.
Lennon is sandwiched between the two iniquitously sensual physiques, and breaths heavily, “You sure you don’t want to come with us, Ritch?”
A rush of heat surges inside Richards’ blood.
He doesn’t know how it’s possible to turn such an alluring offer down, and yet he feels wrong, disgraced. He feels sick by these boys, who produce wretched churns of his stomach every time their memory haunts him. He is repulsed by them, and their tongues too young to have touched what they have, mouths too young to utter the words that they do.
His heart beats with nothing but detestation for these wretched creatures of the street, who con and trick and deceive, and spread their legs to lonely perverts, just in the favour of hard, cold cash.
“Oh fuckin’ ‘ell Ritch,” John groans, and his head falls back as the youngest sucks and bites on his neck, and he gasps as Pauls’ hands squeeze and tug expertly at his hardness. “I’m offerin’ to share here, what the fuck is goin’ on with you?!”
But Richard doesn’t want to share.
He doesn’t want to share these boys with John, nor any of the other hundreds they’ve allowed into their bodies.
And so he says no more on the matter. He turns on his heel, and he tries to block the three different gasps and moans that echo after him. He tries to rid his mind of each set of wandering fingers and sweaty palm.
He walks home, and his hands shake as he fumbles for a cigarette, struggles with the lighter. He closes his eyes and blocks out the sensual sighs that haunt his remembrance, until the only sound is the rain. The rain bounces on his bedroom window, and water patterns form across the decorate glass.
Richard lies flat down across his mattress, and he wonders what sickly spell these two have put him under. He wonders why they caress his mind the way they do, and why he obsesses almost hungrily over his passionate dislike for them. And no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake the moans from vibrating inside his eardrums. Those gentle, sensual, erotic moans that pour like music notes into the misty air of night. Richards hand moves down, and his fingers wrap around his own cock. He remembers those urchins eyes; so dark, heavy, piercing. That night, the desire that seeped from Georges’ voice as he pleads with Richard, fuck me.
“Oh shit…” Richard whines, and his hand grips tighter to a throbbing erection, and he begins to move his hand slowly up and down his own shaft.
He remembers the young boys head disappearing between his knees, his mouth wrapped around Richards’ cock, his head bobbing between his legs, and oh so talented at that. He remembers eyes glazed over with want, because that boy WANTED Richard, whether it was for sex or money, he wanted him.
Ringo. What a strange thing to call him and yet how exciting when uttered with air between those red chapped lips. Fuck me, he said. Ringo, he said.
Fuck me Ringo.
Richard sighs softly, and shuts his eyes, his hand squeezing and rubbing at his hardness.
’Oh fuck Ringo’, the boy moans, and he’s coated in shiny sweat, legs wrapped around Richards waist, begging to be taken, pushing against the head of Richards’ ready cock. ‘Ringo’, he breathes that special name. ‘Ringo, fuck me, fuck me.’
Richard wraps his left arm around his mouth, trying to muffle his moan as his hand works harder on his erection, and he bites down on his own skin in agonising lust. His blood rushes frenziedly, and nerves pulsating like fireworks as he’s consumed in a mixture of passionate detestation, and fervent covetousness for this young, mysterious creature of the street.
“Come on,” he grunts, already feeling himself coming close. “Come on.”
”Come on, come on.” He coaxes his long-haired lover, and he holds the small body inside his arms while he rocks gently, compassionately into him. And the urchins bare thighs close around Richards waist as he lets low deep moans pour from the deepest point of his throat. His head rocks violently, consumed with obsession, as Richard claims him as sacredly his. His, to protect and harbour from the rest of the worlds envy.
“Fuck…” Richard sighs in pleasure, and he grips his left hand tightly to the bedpost, toes clenching in yearning. He sees Georges’ long talented fingers, red glistening lips, arched hips, fluttering eyelids, soft hum, piercing eyes. He sees George as magnetism, wicked allure, mastery, trickery, sexual capture. He with the soft voice, with the gentle charm, quietly exotic aura. He who creeps from shadows in the night, with sexual maturity that stretches beyond his age. He who hunts Richard down like a feline hunts a mouse, and begs him, and only him, and chooses him; ”Fuck me.”
Richard gasps, and he climaxes, his speed spills violently across his hand.
And he lays, chest bouncing quickly up and down, panting for breath, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Everything is silent, and even the raindrops fizzle and drown out inside Richards’ mind, and he’s caught in a vacuum of stillness. All he can hear is the same soft sigh, elevating from Georges’ mouth when Ringo pulled him forward onto his lap that time. All he can see is the same still, black eyes, that radiate the painful combination of naivety and deceit.
All he can see, and all he has ever seen, is that street urchin, in all his wicked glory.
Richard wonders now, whether he should have just paid, and followed through with their arrangement? If he’d taken him, would he be hounded by these endless reveries? If he’d entered the boys body, pushed through his bones… would he still be cursed with such painful, passionate loathe and crave?
Its’ only hours later, when many like Richard are asleep, that George stands waiting inside the circular tunnel beneath the train track. The whole street is silent; the only sound is the rain that bounces on the roof of the tunnel, and echoes spookily off the curved brick walls. Water trails like miniature waterfalls down the red stone. Puddles trickle through the gaps in the cobbles, seeping closer to Georges’ hiding place.
A stranger approaches. He wears a long overcoat, which George pulls off him with slow movements. George has learnt to judge early on the pace of which these men wish to move at. He discards the overcoat onto the cobbles, pushes himself against the man, rubs his stomach against the mans erection, and moans. The man groans back in a low hum, pushes George to his knees, and pulls open his own zipper. He leaves the young prostitute no room for his own skill; he just pushes his head repeatedly up and down his hardened cock. He leans back against the wall, grunting, hands clasped in the mound of hair as he continues to push and pull the talented mouth up and down his shaft. The urchin is obedient, and lasts a long time before his mouth aches.
The man only tugs him harder, sensing him falter, forcing his mouth to continue up and down his penis. After another few minutes he takes mercy; he holds the young boys head still, thrusting in and out of his mouth, sighing as the boy gags and chokes. He fucks his mouth again and again, and takes great pleasure in doing so.
“Take those off.” He grunts, and releases himself of his own trousers.
The young boy is light, easy to manoeuvre. The man can lift him, and he does so, pushing fingers into the small hole as he holds him there. The boy moans, bouncing onto the fingers that support him in the air. He’s pushed against the wall of the tunnel, and he knows what to do, and he wraps his legs around the strangers waist, and gasps as the cock pushes into him. He closes his eyes, listens to the pants and grunts of his customer, pushes himself up and down the shaft.
The mans hands travel his back and his arse cheeks, tugging at the skin as he moans in ecstasy. He draws back, pushes George hard into the wall as he thrusts back into him. The whore gasps; his breathing is hard and ragged.
The man releases his seed inside the young body, holding him there, balanced against the wall, slowing his thrusts as he comes. The boy reaches with shaking hands to his own prick, pumping his hand, but before he can finish he feels his body dropped to the floor.
Some money is handed over.
Clothes are reapplied.
The stranger moves off in one direction, and the boy in another.
At the end of the tunnel, the boy meets another, who wears no shoes. They say nothing to each other, but cigarettes are passed between them. They balance on the railings in this thoughtful, reflective silence for a long time. If anybody were watching them, they would comment that the boys are too young to be up at this time of night. But nobody is around to notice.
The taller boy kisses the smaller one gently on the cheek, and they finally move away. They seem to glide gracefully inside the midnight fog. The outdoor setting suits them.
Tomorrow, the whole thing will be repeated again.