Love - Existentially

by John Teller

Prelude - The Dark Awakening

WARNING: This story – a fictional one – is about adult-youth relationships. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.

Anyone wishing to contact me can do so at john.thestoryteller@gmail.com

All rights reserved. All parts of these documents are © Copyright 2017-2018 John T. S. Teller, and may not be reproduced in any form without the author's consent. iomfats.org has permission to reproduce it here. Readers may download any or all parts of this story for their own personal use but must not share or publish it without the author's consent.

This story is fiction and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of any celebrities mentioned or any personal knowledge about their private lives.


Love – Existentially.

By John Teller.

Proofed by my dear friend Lars, C/O Barmy Burrows. (Many thanks.)

For he: Friends.


I dedicate this book to a special young man in my life from a long time ago, who became my greatest love, and to the few very special people who became the foundation on which I built it; especially Dada and Alex and Mr. Bourne.

And in the shadows of The Valleys
I will remember you... and
Your acidic tongue and wit shall comfort me
... And my cup runneth over.

Alain d'Evreux.

I had never liked him, but when my twenty-two year old cousin Giles Ravillous went with his parents back home to Avignon after spending a week with us at Soldeu in Andorra on a skiing holiday, I detested him with a passion.

It began on the third night, in the double bed he and I shared in our room at the hotel.

Midnight, and it was late for an eleven year old to be sent to bed, but the day had been so enjoyable that I was allowed to stay up with my older siblings and cousins even though we had another day's skiing booked for the following day. So, tired but very happy, I went to bed. But I did think it strange when Giles said he would go to bed because he also was tired.

We got into bed, and because we were not familiar, I left a respectable distance between us. Then it happened. He moved closer and began pawing my body. I moved away. He moved even closer. The aroma of him was overpowering and not at all nice, and his hot breath smelled of cigarettes and the wine he'd been drinking. I told him to leave me alone, but I was eleven and he was a bully twice my age with sociopathic tendencies. Fondling changed to determined hands and fingers in places he was not allowed to go. Then brute force when I was on my tummy and his strong hand pinned my head to the bed while he lay on top of me. That first night he did not penetrate me, but I was left to sob myself to sleep after he had throbbed his inebriated scorn between my boyishness.

The second night was just as dreadful... in fact, worse. He had come prepared. Lubricated fingers probed and softened me up, and this time he did penetrate me, but only as far as I would allow him.

Allow him. Yes, I was complicit in the affair, not by choice, but because of the consequences of being otherwise.

The consequences of being otherwise. A shattered holiday and a shattered family. That would have been the price of forthrightness, and I was not prepared to pay that price.

Night three... deeper penetration... night four and the final night... gay abandon and complete coupling and I was at last declared a man even though it was spelled out to me that I would never be one. Giles Ravillous described me as the prettiest girl he had ever been with.


Back home in Paris. A week of sorrow and guilt and soreness. Then many months of guilt. Why guilt? The prettiest girl he had ever been with. Those words were an awakening. Yes, I despised and hated Giles Ravillous with a passion, but my abuser had unlocked a door to my psyche, one which, once away from my abuser, remained firmly locked to others. But if the door was locked to others, it was not locked to me. Those passions... the act... I visited that dark room regularly as I began to discover what changes a boy into a young man who becomes sexually aroused by thoughts of being abused by a much older man.

Two years later and Giles Ravillous was killed on the same ski slopes of the resort where first my innocence was forcibly taken from me. I was pleased he was dead, but something within me missed his presence upon the earth, and I did not fill that void again until three years after my vile cousin raped me. The next time that door was opened, it was not battered down as Giles Ravillous had done, but was opened willingly, by me... when I truly discovered what Alain d'Evreux was to become for the rest of his life.


And now, before we begin this story properly, I will introduce you to an analogous 14yo... Alain d'Evreux. https://youtu.be/YISX5PbDTZg

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