Losing Tim
by Nigel Gordon
Chapter 11
A sharp pain shot through my buttocks.
"Ah, that's brought him round."
I recognised Steve's voice. I was face down, tied naked spread-eagle style on a large leather covered bed. I looked to my right, Tim was there tied in the same way, his left arm going over my right arm and tied by the wrist to the upright in front of me. Tim was whimpering.
"You see boys you could have sold me what I wanted but this is going to be a lot more fun, for us at least."
Tim screamed with pain. I turned my head to see that Steve was forcing his cock into Tim's arse. There was no lube, no foreplay, just shear brutal fucking.
Then Tim's scream was joined by mine as an unlubed cock was pushed deep into me in one thrust.
I have no idea how long it went on for or how many fucked me, I know Steve fucked me at least twice, I think he had Tim three times. Eventually it ended. They washed us down with a hose pipe then cut us free.
When I could get up, I saw we were in an SM play room. Steve and the cameraman left, the two hunks and the skier stayed, they looked a bit embarrassed, but they did help us. One of them got a couple of pads of lint to push into our arseholes to help quench the bleeding and they helped us to dress. I don't think we could have managed it on our own. We were both staggering and I vomited. The skier got the hose and washed it down, there was a sink hole in the floor. This room had been clearly built for the purpose it was used for.
They led us out through the door, and we were back at the pool, the far end from the house. Steve and the camera man were sat at the far end having a drink, we were escorted up to them.
"Well, that was enjoyable, next time I hope you will be more obliging," he commented.
"Why the fuck do you think there'll be a next time?" I asked.
He laughed and placed a set of Polaroids on the table. They must have posed us whilst we were unconscious, that though did not matter. The photos were quite explicit and showed me and Tim in situations that could would get us into a lot of trouble.
"Oh, there will be a next time."
I heard a car pull up at the front of the house and shortly afterwards Alfie came through to the pool. One look at us must have told him what had gone on.
"You fucking stupid bastard," he shouted at Steve, "I told you they have friends."
"Why should I worry, what friends are going to stand up for a couple of queer whores?" He pointed to the Polaroids.
Alfie named the twins, Steve went white, the skier and the hunk moved away as if they did not want to be associated with this.
"Shit, why didn't you tell me."
"I told you they had friends; that should have been enough." Steve turned and went into the house. Alfie told the hunks to put our kit in the boot of his car. Alfie turned to me and said he would get us home as quickly as he could then he would sort this out. Just then Steve came out and dropped a wad of five-pound notes on the table.
"Give them that, it should cover it, it's more than the cost of a rough night with a couple of whores." Alfie picked the money up, then looked at Steve.
"And the Polaroids. There is no way they are any use to you, you'll never be having these two again." Steve pulled a pack of about twenty from the camera case by the table. Alfie took them and picked up the half dozen laying on the table.
"I'll destroy these," he assured me. Somehow, I believed him.
Alfie, with the aid of the two hunks got us into the car. He asked me where we wanted to go, I told him my place but asked him to stop at a phone box to phone James. I knew Tim needed a doctor and could not think of anybody else. The first phone box we got to Alfie stopped the car, jumped out and ran into the box. I saw that he made three calls but when he got back into the car, he just said that James had said we were to go to his flat on the Edgeware Road and that he would meet us there. When we got there James and another man were waiting in the lobby, they came and helped us out of the car and took us up to James's flat.
"This is Doctor Bryce, an old friend, we trained together." I looked at James questioningly.
"It's OK he's a friend." The term friend said in that way meant a lot, a friend of Dorothy, a queer, one of us.
"I'm a researcher, I don't treat people, I'm not licensed to prescribed, in fact I'm not licensed to practice these days. Tim will need medication, you both will Malcolm can sort that out for you. Don't worry it is all being taken care of."
It was, within the hour both Tim and I were wrapped up in the bed in James's flat. Tim was out cold; the doctor had given him an injection to kill the pain and help him sleep. He said he should really be in hospital, but we all knew where that would lead. Homosexuality was illegal and it did not matter if you were the victim, or not if you were engaged in homosexual sex it was prison. Oh no doubt we could have taken Steve with us but both Tim and I would have ended up inside.
To be honest, if it had just been me, I would have thought it worthwhile but there was no way I was going to let Tim go to jail.
Malcolm gave me a couple of tablets to kill the pain and something to help me sleep. I asked him why not the injection. He told me I was not in as bad shape as Tim, he was a virgin and had been torn up pretty bad. Malcolm said that he had to stitch the tears in a couple of places, and he could not have done that with Tim conscious.
We spent a few days in James's flat, Malcolm came in to check on us each day. Most of the time Tim was heavily sedated, even when he was awake, he seemed out of it. I was starting to get worried about him, there seemed to be an emptiness in him that I had not seen before. Once Malcolm reduced the sedation we moved back to my bed-sit. Alfie brought my photographic gear round and the money that Steve had given him. I didn't really want it, but Alfie said I better take it, he said Tim might need it. There was over a grand, more money than I had ever seen.
One of the twins phoned and said he had heard that we had had trouble and wanted to know what had happened. I told him, his only comment was that he would take care of it, he then said that if I needed anything to let him know. He told me that Alfie could always contact him with a message.
The following Friday Malcolm removed Tim's stitches. He said everything was healing well, one of the advantages of youth, but he was concerned about Tim. He refused to talk about what had happened and seemed totally lost, he also avoided contact with anybody. He no longer came to me for a hug or sat next to me. OK we still slept together, we did not have much choice, there was only one bed, but he avoided any contact with me. If I touched him by accident during the night, he would flinch away from me.
On the Sunday morning he turned to me and told me he wanted to go home.
"I'm sorry Peter I can't make it work, I need time to sort things out. I love you but I can't cope with this." I did not like the idea of Tim travelling up on his own by train and I was stuck in town, there was work I was committed to doing and I had been off for over a week.
Then I remembered what the twin had said. I phoned Alfie and explained the situation. I told Tim what was happening and helped him pack. I tried to give him the money, but he said he did not want it, he felt enough like a whore without taking the money, if he took the money it would mean he was a whore.
The car pulled up outside dead on one o'clock. I helped Tim carry his bags out to it. We stood by the car and he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.
"I'm sorry Peter, I love you, but I just don't want be queer, I can't deal with being fucked like that. I need time to sort things out please give me that. Till then I don't want to see you, I'll write as soon as I have decided. Will you give me that space?" He got into the car and they drove off, I stood there feeling empty.
Somehow, I managed to pull things together in London and got on with my work. There was though no sense of excitement in it now. With that loss of excitement there was a loss of edge in the photography, what I was producing was no different than any high street studio photographer could produce.
A week turned into a month, which turned into three months and no letter. I was not getting so much work, which was not surprising, my work was not up to it. I started to hawk myself around the clubs once more but even there, where once punters would flock to be with me, there was not the demand that there once had been.
Finally, the letter came. It was a five page long rambling goodbye. He told me how much he loved me and how grateful he was for what I had done for him, he said that he had really hoped that we could make a life together. Then came the crunch, he knew that for us to make a life together we would have to be sexually active together, that I would want to fuck him, and he could not give me that, not now, not given what Steve and his friends had done to him. He could not face the idea of being fucked. For that reason, he did not want to be queer and he was going to make sure he was not queer.
I wrote back telling him that if he did not want to be fucked fine, we did not have to fuck to be lovers. Christ if it came to it, we did not have to have sex to be lovers. I wanted him, I needed him. The letter came back marked 'Gone Away, Return to Sender.'
I dropped everything and got the first train up to Wednesbury and went straight to Timmy's house. There was a Pakistani family there, fortunately I had learnt enough Urdu from Raj to make myself understood. They told me the previous tenants had left two months ago, that was before Timmy had sent his letter.
London for me now was dead, I packed up and returned home. The money Steve had dropped on the table gave me enough to start a Second-hand/Antiques shop. In the next few years I kept trying to find out where Timmy had gone, all with no success. The Antique shop never really worked, let's be honest my heart wasn't really in it and it soon eat up all the money Steve had thrown at us, plus what I had saved up from my photography and other activities in London, the money I had intended to set Tim and myself up in a flat.
I had passed my driving test and got myself a small car. A variety of jobs had drifted past, I had even gone back to London for a time but that did not work out. To be honest I really did not feel there was much point in anything. Then Tim phoned me.
It was a Saturday evening, seven years after that night. I answered the phone as my parents were out, it was Tim, I had to sit down. He told me he was back living in Darlaston, that he was at Art School and he had a part-time job at a Petrol Station on the Moxley Road. He wanted to see me, he felt he owed me an explanation. I agreed to pick him up when he finished his shift at nine.
When I got there, he had not changed much, even though he nearly twenty-three he looked about seventeen or eighteen. We drove into Walsall and went to an all-night coffee bar, one he knew that was used a lot by students. I did not tell him that twelve years ago it had been a major pick up place for boys. It clearly wasn't now.
Tim explained to me how he felt about me and about what had happened. He told me that he had not wanted to be queer and he wasn't. He had met a girl at Art School, and they were going to be married once he had graduated in a few weeks. She had already graduated but was now doing a PostEd so she could teach art. Tim was doing Graphic Art and Design and was assured of a First. Once they were married, they were emigrating to New Zealand. Tim already had an offer of a job out there and as a teacher she would have no problems getting work. It all sounded rosy but somehow it sounded false. I sensed that there was an emptiness in Tim which did not feel right.
We sat there and talked till about one in the morning, then I gave Tim a lift back to Darlaston, he was living with his mother, her second marriage had broken down and she had moved back to Darlaston. Fortunately, the settlement from her second husband had been enough to let her buy a house near the baths. Tim promised he would keep in touch and let me know how things were.
He did keep in touch for a bit. I got an invitation to the wedding which I thought it best to decline. I had a good excuse it was on the same day as my parents wedding anniversary and that year, they were having a big celebration, having missed the one for their 25th the year before because my father was ill.
Shortly after I received a postcard from New Zealand saying they had arrived. That was followed by infrequent letters, announcements first of a daughter then a son being born and the usual birthday and Christmas cards. I wrote to him in reply but there was not exchange in our letters, no conversation or discussion, just a polite correspondence to an acquaintance. Then after seven years it stopped. I wrote but never heard anything.
I made enquiries of course but never heard anything and got no news.
My own life by then had also turned around. On one of my forays back to London, James had seated me down and given me a lecture about sorting my life out. As a result, and with a bit of financial help from James, I had gone back to college. Then I had gone on to read law and accountancy ending up somehow in the computer industry. Chance worked in my favour and more by luck than anything else I ended up being one of the experts in the new technologies that were bursting on the scene. So, some years later I found myself working in Holland.
One Friday evening I was in Schipol Airport and noticed a man seated at the bar who looked familiar. It took me a moment but then I remembered, it was Tim's older brother. I went over and introduced myself, he vaguely remembered me, which is not surprising as I think he was only introduced to me twice, though I had seen him on a couple of other occasions, but he did confirm that he was who I thought he was.
I asked him about Tim.
"Don't you know?"
"Know what, I have not heard from him for ages."
"He topped himself, he was a fucking queer, his wife caught him and the gardener at it, phoned the police and they both were arrested. He hung himself in the police cell."
I told him I was sorry to hear that and made my excuses to get away, then went to the First-Class Lounge and found the bar. I missed my flight.
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