A Boy Who Came in From the Cold

Chapter Two – LIVE AT THE FALCON

A WORD FROM YOUR AUTHOR: "A warning to those who regularly read these evil, perverted stories. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SHAMELESS HETEROSEXUAL NAUGHTINESS. If such behaviour offends or revolts you, please skip most of the last page. To the rest of you happy degenerates, enjoy!" xx. Sadie

THE MORNING AFTER:

Rayne needed to sleep after the rigors of his enema-induced multiple climax. Ant curled up with him under the duvet for a while, holding the beautiful young man in his arms until his breathing slowed and steadied. However he could not relax. Once he was sure that Rayne was sound asleep, he got up again and wrapped the quilt snugly around his delicious new house-boy, then pulled on some clothes.

It had stopped snowing outside and once he came up on deck he took a long breath of the damp, cold London air, wishing they were somewhere warmer; somewhere he could sail out onto the open ocean and drop anchor to screw Rayne, naked on the decking in the balmy sunshine. The kid needed some sun on his skin. He was pale as milk. Warmth and light would help to heal some of those nasty bruises on his skinny arms and lean thighs.

As he walked along the embankment Ant was in a kind of reverie. He wanted to tell everyone he met about the fantastic sex he and Rayne had enjoyed last night and how this gorgeous boy was still sprawled naked in his bed, waiting for Ant to come home and fuck him some more.

At the shop, he rummaged around vaguely, trying to find something that his young guest might eat without turning up his pretty nose. He had never cooked for a vegetarian lodger and had no idea where to start. Since the kid had already attempted milky tea, he decided that Rayne was probably not one of those militant veggies who would not even sit in the same room as a pat of butter and bought cheese, pasta, tomatoes and chillies, and a large bag of apples. The girl at the checkout was one of Mr Gulati's casual assistants, a big, bottle-blonde Ukrainian immigrant who never met the eye of anyone that came to her till. The pink checked overall she wore was almost too small, stretched tight across her voluminous breasts and big, round arse, straining the buttonholes until they looked ready to pop open.

Ant speculated idly that she was nude beneath the coverall (or coverlittle!). There was no telltale bra line and he could not imagine how she might have squeezed a layer of clothing between the polyester garment and her milky skin. He could see her nipples, pressing prominently against the pink and white material. His cock stirred in his pants as he imagined how her huge, white tits would spill over the counter if the buttons burst from their overstretched holes. He wondered if she would even notice she seemed so immured to everything else around her.

As she checked his shopping through with her customary ennui, he contemplated how it would feel to have her big, bare breasts spilling out of his hands as he thrust himself into her plump, wet pussy from behind. Would she even acknowledge his presence as he forced her over the counter and pounded her with his cock (which was almost unbearably hard again now)? He wondered if Rayne would like to do her too and the idea of his gorgeous new companion on his knees, eating her plump wet cunt in the shower as Ant fucked her from behind almost made him cream his pants.

"Five pounds twenty five," she said atonally, breaking into his fantasy, one ringed and taloned hand outstretched for the money. Her nails were long and candyfloss pink. Her gaze was fixed on the till readout.

Ant fumbled for the cash and stuffed his shopping into a carrier bag as she got his change.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked her as she dumped the money in his hand.

She actually looked at him for a moment; a blue-grey gaze that swept him like an arctic wind from his crotch to the top of his head. Then, in a husky monotone, she dismissed him.

"Get lost!"

Back on the boat he found the young man awake, his hair already damp from the shower and wished privately that he had delayed his trip to the shops for a while so that he might join Rayne under the cascade for some more water sports. The boy was now perched up in the bows smoking a roll-up, gazing out at the river with a curious yearning. His clothes had dried out overnight for he was dressed and wrapped in the throw from the galley sofa. He glanced over one skinny shoulder as Ant climbed back on board and flashed a smile that did not reach his beautiful eyes before returning his attention to the scene beyond the prow of the boat.

"Are you okay?" Ant dumped the shopping and scrambled forward to lean on the bow rail beside him. Rayne blew out a long plume of smoke; chin tilted upward slightly and eyes half closed.

"I'll live," he exhaled huskily.

"Not for much longer if you carry on smoking those things without a roach," Ant pointed out.

"Who made you my mother?" Rayne did not look at him. Long black lashes shielded his ice green gaze as he surveyed the cold, dark waters of the Thames.

Ant shook his head in disbelief. How could this kid be so gorgeously hot one minute and yet so completely distant and frigid the next? He was a total mystery, and one that Ant was determined to unravel.

"Are you hungry?" he wanted to know. "Only I though I could cook us dinner tonight. I hope you like pasta?"

Beneath him Rayne sucked steadily on the crumpled cigarette between his fingers then removed it from his mouth and seemed to contemplate it for a moment as if it might answer the question for him. He breathed out the words in a wreath of smoke.

"Very domestic all of a sudden, aren't we?"

Ant experienced a little twinge of irritation. What was it with young people these days, first the girl in the shop and now Rayne Wilde? They were so bloody antagonistic.

"I have to eat, even if you don't. If it were down to me, I'd just put a steak on the grill pan and be done with it, but madam won't eat that, will she? Oh no!"

That had some effect. Rayne looked up at him again, somewhat quizzically. His pale face was almost girlish beneath the tumble of blond-tipped fringe, framed in that soft, woollen throw. All Ant could suddenly think about was the way those full, bloodless lips felt wrapped around the shaft of his cock. He got another hard on right away and pushed his hands into his coat pockets, drawing them together over the offending protuberance. It simply refused to stay dormant this morning. The boy frowned slightly, though probably not at the bulge in his pants, as he had not taken his eyes off Ant's face. He looked slightly perplexed, as though the outburst had come as a surprise to him.

"Pasta's fine," he said at last, with a shrug of his shoulders as he looked away.

Ant was about to give up on him and go back inside. It was still bloody cold up here, even with his coat on but he glanced back once as he made his careful way towards the hatch.

"I 'am' worried about you, you know," he told the youngster. "It's not just the sex. If you regret it..."

"I don't," Rayne said before he could finish the sentence. "I don't regret it, all right?"

He sucked the life out of his roll-up and flicked the dying embers away into the cold, grey river as he pushed himself to his feet. Ant wondered if he imagined the darkness that he felt gather around the boy in that moment.

"What day is it?" Rayne asked bluntly as Ant was making toast in the galley. The younger man had shed his woollen wrap and was pacing the small living area in tight, artfully torn bleached, blue jeans and a skinny-fit black tee shirt. His sneakers squeaked on the polished wood of the floor as he turned on every fourth step.

"I wish you'd sit still," Ant said with a shake of his head. "It's Friday, all right. The day after 'Thursday' when we spent all day 'screwing', which was the day after 'Wednesday', the day I fished you out of the fucking snow and saved your life. Will you cool it for a couple of hours?"

Again Rayne stared at him with the unfocussed expression of a creature ripped from its natural environment and thrown to the lions. He took a quick breath, then another. Ant recalled what he had admitted the other day about his drug use and was the first to look away. The hunger in his eyes was not for food or for sex, or even affection. He wanted his fix.

"Sit down," Ant told him, forcing himself to be calm. "You 'need' to eat. I don't care what you think. I'm not gonna let you starve yourself..."

"I think I've got a gig tonight!" Rayne interrupted him, clearly having listened to none of this.

Ant risked a glance but the boy was tearing through the contents of his guitar case now, swearing under his breath. The other man blinked, wondering if he had completely misread the last half-hour.

Rayne was swearing softly, flicking through the notebook that contained his random smut as he hunted down the information he so obviously needed. At last his frantic fingers stilled and he poked at the page in front of him. "Tonight! We've got a gig at the fuckin' Falcon, 'tonight'!"

"That... that's good, isn't it?" Ant ventured, wary of the potential backlash. He buttered the toast vigorously and grated some of the soft, yellow cheddar over it before tucking it back under the grill.

"I've not practised! I've nothing to 'wear'! All my stuff's back at..." He ran out of words and huffed rapidly, shaking his head.

"Then we'll go and get it, after breakfast," Ant said rationally.

"Did you not fuckin' 'listen' to me at all yesterday?" Rayne shrilled, metaphorically climbing the walls. "If I go back there, he's gonna rip my fuckin' bollocks off!"

"Then we'll go out this afternoon and get you something 'else' to wear," Ant countered, managing to keep his voice calm and quiet. "It's no big deal, Rayne."

The boy blinked at him rapidly then turned away. Ant was on the verge of going to him but he looked back suddenly, naked bewilderment in his eyes, his voice curious and less agitated. "Why?"

"I'm not on the poverty line. I can afford to buy you something decent, I'm sure." The aroma of singed cheddar teased his nostrils and he rescued the grill tray, glad of the distraction. Rayne's expression was somewhere between 'frightened puppy' and 'potential cock whore'. He knew the kid was not naïve. His next question was half expected.

"What do I have to do for 'that'?"

Ant took a deep breath. "Nothing... if you really don't want to. Look..." He risked a glance. Rayne was staring at him incredulously. "You were nice enough to me last night. I 'thought' you were enjoying it. If you 'weren't'..."

"I..." Rayne interrupted him then could not speak for a moment. "I..."

"Come and sit down," Ant told him. "Have something to eat and let me look after you. God knows, you 'need' someone to look after you."

The boy bristled for a few seconds, clearly offended by this implication, but the smell of hot food finally won him over. As Ant put out two plates on the table and set the larger dish of Rarebit between them, he seemed to deflate and came quietly to heel. He ate in silence, eyed lowered, like a ravenous animal. Ant made three helpings and he scarfed his share down every time, and most of Ant's third ration too.

"Good?" the older man asked gently at last, as he was licking his fingers, still huffing softly under his breath.

A nod was his only answer. Rayne's tangled hair screened his face, shut away his feelings.

"It's been a while since anyone took proper care of you, hasn't it?" Ant suggested carefully.

"I... I don't 'need' it," his guest stated in a defensive tone. He lifted his head now, glaring back at Ant through the cascade of his bi-tonal forelock. "I can look after myself."

"Yeah, I can see that." Ant sighed and shook his head. "What am I gonna do with you, huh?"

He could think of quite a few options but given the mood that Rayne was in this morning decided it might well be wiser to keep them to himself. Instead, he washed the breakfast dishes and put them away. His guest made no attempt to assist with this. Whilst Ant was busy in the galley, he retrieved his guitar and spent the next half hour plucking and picking at the strings making what sounded pretty much like random noise to Ant's ears.

"What sort of music is that?" he asked at last, returning to the living area to observe Rayne's progress.

"Know something about music do you?" the boy sneered cynically, without looking up. Then, before Ant could respond; "It sounds all right when it's plugged in."

Ant left him to it and went for a shower.

"I need to make a phone call," Rayne informed him when he stepped out of the bathroom naked. The boy had put his guitar away and now the case was propped up in the doorway.

"Ahh... I was hoping we could... you know?" Ant looked suggestively at him. "Before I get dressed again."

The younger man's pale eyes moved dispassionately over him from his feet to his face. "Later... maybe. Have you 'got' a phone, or do I need to find a box?"

His host sighed wearily. "There's a kiosk up near the pier. I'll walk there with you if you like."

"No need." Rayne had already bounced to his feet and was rattling the loose change in his pocket speculatively as he headed for the door. He grabbed the guitar case and threw it across one skinny shoulder then vanished up the steps onto the deck before Ant could even call him back.

He had pulled on some trousers and a warmer shirt and come back to the kitchen to look for some mints stashed in his coat pocket before he discovered that his wallet was missing.

Swearing under his breath, Ant raced back along the embankment towards Greenwich Pier, hoping desperately that Rayne was serious about making that phone call. He was cursing his own naivete as much as Rayne Wylde's name. The boy had not glossed over his background and still Ant had trusted him, maybe because he wanted to prove himself wrong above all. He 'wanted' to believe that Rayne was redeemable, even if it was just for the sake of his own libido. Their incessant lovemaking yesterday had been out of this world. Ant refused to accept that it had just been Rayne's way of getting under his skin; softening him up.

Soft, he certainly had not been. In fact he could not remember a lover who had kept him hard and satisfied for so long.

There was a queue of people waiting to use the telephone booths on the pier and none of them remotely resembled Rayne. Ant leaned on the railings and looked frantically up and down the embankment for a fleeting glimpse of that blond-tipped, sable fringe, fluttering in the watery June sunlight. It was all in vain. Rayne Wylde had vanished completely.

He contemplated ringing the police and his credit card company to report the theft of his wallet. At least they might track him down if he tried to use the card. Ant trudged towards the foot tunnel instead. The idea of confronting his sexy lover in a prison cell, confined and restless, at the mercy of his horny, uniformed gaolers, caused a stirring in his trouser crotch but he could not do it. He would find the little bitch and punish him personally.

THE SEARCH:

Enquiries made on the other side of the river led Ant relentlessly towards Camden. He stopped in at the bank on the way there, told them he'd mislaid his wallet and by showing ID managed to obtain at least enough money to tide him over until he was able to recover his cards. Luckily he was always able to recall his bank account number and the pretty, buxom cashier there knew his face since he had chatted her up on plenty of previous occasions. It was she who informed him of the whereabouts of the Falcon. He thanked her and promised to take her for a drink in return, which she diplomatically did not decline.

'Why can't I always fall for nice girls like that?' he grumbled to himself as he headed for the tube station at Whitechapel. Of course he knew the answer before he even thought the question. Girls like that would never do the kind of things that he had been up to with Rayne on the boat last night.

He spent the day drifting in and out of pubs and shops in the Camden Lock area, one eye always open for the distinctive sight of blond on black hair and the flash of a fierce, preoccupied lime-green gaze across a crowded street. He wished that he had managed to get some of the photographs printed so that he could at least ask if anyone had seen the boy he was searching for.

Shortly after lunch he found the Falcon pub, tucked away on Royal College Street, which looked closed until he tried the door and tumbled into the smoky darkness of the snug. Beyond this realm of all day drinkers, was another section with a small dance floor and a stage. He located the bar and ordered a pint of lager, only realising when he came to make enquiries that he had never asked the name of Rayne's band.

The bartender, who looked even younger than Rayne Wylde, was busy wiping pint glasses with a dirty looking rag. He never met Ant's eyes and hid away behind a tumble of greasy, mouse-brown hair as the older man asked if there was live music tonight.

"Couple'a bands on, yeah," he responded, without pausing between words so that it sounded like a bizarre new language.

"You seen any of them before? Are they any good?" Ant persisted, handing him a tenner in exchange for his lukewarm pint.

The youth shrugged. "Dunno."

"You haven't seen one of their guitarists in here, have you? Little guy, really skinny, green eyes and black hair with..." He broke off as the young man lifted his head, catching a glint of a sceptical stare behind his forelock. He was appraised for a moment then the bartender rummaged for a fiver and handed over his change.

"Nobody like that, nah," he muttered, returning to his glass polishing duties.

Ant considered pressing the issue, but the deliberate evasion suggested to him that he would be better off just biding his time and staking the place out. If Rayne had not been lying about the show, then at some point he was going to have to turn up. He found a quiet corner free of career drinkers and a discarded newspaper, settling down behind it with his pint.

Posters on the wall by the doorway informed him that there were three groups playing tonight. One of them was called Pantylicker, which amused him. Also on the bill were Adolescent Sex and The Spangles. It was billed as a "Nite of Manacal Punk Mayhem" and Ant was already pretty sure that had nothing to do with BDSM.

At about five thirty, by which time Ant was already on to his third pint and was beginning to wonder if Rayne had just made the whole thing up, a bunch of youngsters in scruffy denims and baggy sweaters rolled into the Falcon. From their inane conversation and scarecrow clothes he quickly deduced that they were students but as other ragbag misfits began to file into the venue in twos and threes a social pecking order was quickly established. One little group had formed around a couple of girls in heavy black eyeliner and short, mesh skirts, mainly younger, plainer looking females but one or two skinny boys in make-up as well.

A separate, slightly older crowd had begun to congregate at the bar in original punk attire, complete with safety pins. They wore their hair in many colours and severely gelled spikes. Even the women among them looked tough. One was wearing a tee shirt with "Lick my Box, Bitch" sprayed across the chest. Her blue jeans were so tight that he could see the outline of her pussy lips against the snug material.

Two young men with longer hair, one of whom was carrying a guitar, hurried in and looked around hopefully before taking a place at the other end of the bar from the punk crowd. The guy with the case was tall and blond haired, dressed in dark baggy jeans and a striped, multi-coloured top. His mane hung down into his eyes and he shook it away from his face almost constantly. The smaller of the pair was wearing suit pants and an open necked, ladies' blouse in pale lilac. His dark brown hair was cut into a shaggy bob and he was wearing eyeliner and lipgloss. From time to time he ran back to the front door as if he was looking out for someone.