Author's note: This is the third 'Toyboy' story and follows in the timeline from 'Toyboy Hits the Road'. It can be read easily as a stand-alone story, however.
AT HOME WITH THE TOYBOY
1986, Yorkshire, England.
Part One
Chapter 1
My dad was a flat cap wearing, straight talking, no-nonsense, Yorkshire stereotype. If you crossed him, the response was short and sharp, then forgotten. Similarly, if he was pleased or impressed, the response was brief and to the point. He said few words, but made them count. He had a good, kind heart, however.
So kind in fact, that he had given to me the bond for my first flat. My four younger siblings were getting bigger and that was one of the reasons why it was time for me to fly the nest. The place was nothing special, but it was mine. I was proud of it.
On the second floor of a converted, Victorian terraced town house near the centre of town in Trembley, Yorkshire, I had a square room opposite Town Park, overlooking the noisy main road with a small kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom.
The flat was advertised as 'furnished', but there were just the basic creature comforts. An old, but comfortable, green fabric couch, a tv with the standard four channels whose construction pre-dated the advent of remote control, a refrigerator, cooker and an old double bed, which the landlord kindly took away and put into storage when I said I'd be buying a new one. There was no way I was sleeping on that!
There had been no curtains, "Why would you want curtains up this high? No bugger down there on the street will see you!" the landlord joked when showing me around. My mother made a set for me, dark green to match the couch. I had hung them up that afternoon.
It was a Tuesday evening in early September, the days were getting shorter fast. At the age of just eighteen, I was in my own home and there was nobody to whom I had to answer, or with whom I needed to compromise.
Sitting in just my boxers, my dark, wavy hair was still damp from the shower. With my feet resting on a footstool, I was watching live football on the tv. To my right on a coffee table was a cold, half-full bottle of Stella beer. To my left on the couch was a beautiful, dark haired woman, in a pretty little white, cotton summer dress, who happened to have her sweet, dark red lips wrapped around my hard dick. I breathed in and savoured the moment. Life was good!
The woman was Millie, my thirty-seven-year-old, Italian born, Yorkshire bred lover. She and I had met three months before when she moved into the house next door to my parents. She claimed my virginity two weeks later.
The blow job my lover was giving was tender. She wasn't chomping greedily, tonsils-deep, like so many previous occasions. It was like she was merely grooming my dick. Doing plenty to keep it hard, but not so much as to make me shoot my load anytime soon.
If my team had scored a goal, I was wary of celebrating suddenly and choking the poor woman.
The couple of weeks since our visit to Sherwood Forest had been momentous. Waking up at Millie's the morning after and seeing that my customised, orange Ford Escort had been stolen was earth-shattering for me. Millie had just finished a full English breakfast, but I could only eat a bacon sandwich. We had been contemplating a call to the police. Given the fact she had bought so many custom performance parts for the car from 'Scrap' Arty Ginelli, a gangster who had, only a couple of days before, been arrested on suspicion of stealing cars to order, breaking them and selling the parts, we knew we were on shaky ground.
Then came a knock at the door. It was a firm knock that sounded like the police.
They were making the decision for us!
Millie went to the door wrapped in her dressing gown; I heard her spit something in Italian that sounded none-too-complimentary.
That was when the two men walked in behind her. One was tall and thin in his early forties, with a haunting, pale face and black hair. The other was a big bruiser, a little younger, just as tall, with a shaven head. Both were smartly dressed in suits and wearing trench coats, which seemed completely out of place in late summer. It took me a few seconds to recognise the thin man. He was the waiter who took our order at Ginelli's restaurant where Millie took me and introduced me to him as her "
Toyboy."
The man looked like he'd had a rough few days.
"Something smells good," the big man said.
Millie offered the men a seat on the brown leather couch. "No thank you," said the thin man politely, who had the air of seniority between the two men, "I've come to see your..." he paused for dramatic effect, "...Toyboy. Seeing as Emiliana is not going to introduce us, allow me. My name is Franco Ginelli, this is my brother Riccardo." His accent was thick Italian and his voice somewhat sinister, which was probably deliberate.
I shook both the hands offered to me. "Call me Arty," the big man said, with the kind of wide grin that wasn't a smile and showed several gold teeth.
"Ed," I completed the introductions, "how can I help?"
Franco continued, "I don't know if you heard on the grapevine, Arty had a little run-in with the local police the other day. All is sorted now; they didn't find anything. However, your car had to be, shall we say, removed from the situation."
"It was bright orange and very loud. Basically, it stood out a mile," Arty interjected.
"Had you been stopped and searched by the police," Franco carried on, "it could have caused you, and maybe us, a lot of problems. We rectified that for you last night as you probably will have noticed."
"I noticed," I said, unsure about the direction in which this conversation was heading.
"We took it upon ourselves as good friends to Emiliana, and therefore yourself, to replace the vehicle with our compliments," Franco finished.
'Scrap' Arty pressed a car key into my palm firmly. "This car is perfectly straight; you can be stopped by the police in this with no problems. If it gets stolen, they will have me to deal with." I shuddered at the thought of being the person 'Scrap' Arty dealt with.
The brothers made to leave, "Just one more thing, Ed," Franco turned around in the hallway on the way out, "we will be in touch. There may be a job coming up that needs to be done by someone like you."
"Someone like me?" I asked.
"Clean, young, nice. Unconnected to us. Just like you." Arty said.
"Now, we're off to church so we can give thanks to the Good Lord," Franco said, without a hint of irony. The two men crossed the road and drove off sedately in a dark blue Mercedes.
With the key to a Ford still in my hand, I pondered the twisted logic that meant when they stole my car, I owed them a favour. I had a mind to drive the car straight to the scrapyard and hand it back to them.
"I'm sorry," Millie said sadly over my shoulder.
