Blessed Be the Merciful
by Rafael Henry
Chapter 11
Losing Peter
I'm happy to be the outsider. Peter and Leon have found sandcastle building mates in the form of two local boys. Most afternoons, ready for the water at any moment we boys clad just in our joyful swim wear, stroll the length of the beach surveying the scene, before Henry has a wander into the town. He's always looking for something to buy. Peter spots the likely targets…….two boys that look roughly the right age for them. After a short exchange of schoolboy French and then better schoolboy English from them, they join forces against time and tide wondering no doubt just how long it will be before the gentle waves destroy the ramparts and flood the castle. Leaving them in the safe company of the two French golden beauties with, I note, hardly a stitch on, I walk close to the promenade and in front of the long lines of blue and white striped beach tents put up on the sand for the whole season. At the far end near the Casino, I retrace my steps. I have noticed something, or rather someone, about half way along the row of beach tents with their awnings giving shade to the front. If Peter and Leon can find a playmate, so can I.
He's still there, lying on a towel pretending to read a paperback. When I passed him the first time he looked up from his book, saw me, and didn't look back down at his book. I looked away, and then back at him straight into his eyes. To an English boy like me, there's something deeply interesting about a French boy, like him.
Inside the tent, dark in contrast to the blazing light outside, what I take to be the boy's mother sits on a folding chair, reading a magazine of some sort, Paris Match I think it is. The boy has turned onto his side. The scarlet colour of his swimsuit works beautifully with his summer colour and his deep chestnut coloured hair. I glance at the swimsuit again to check for signs of maturity and see nothing. He might be my age or a little younger than I, but right now, that's not a consideration. I'll leave it to fate. I stand for a moment and then give the boy a smile, for a few seconds longer than I ought. He doesn't smile back, and looks down at his book again. I walk on a few yards, maybe twenty, and l stop and look back. The boy, bored maybe, has sat up, his book dropped onto the shady sand and is looking towards me. I smile again and walk on, now turning away from the beach tents and towards the open beach and the sea. I stop and look back again. The boy has stood up, and is talking to the figure inside the tent. I walk a bit further and look back yet again. The boy has left the tent and is walking slowly seawards, but in a slightly different direction than me. He's about fifty yards behind now. It takes me another five minutes, walking slowly, to reach the water's edge. I stand there for a couple of minutes thinking the moment has passed, but it hasn't. To my left stands the boy, no more than ten yards away, and he's looking straight at me, arms to his sides. With the afternoon golden sun on his shoulders and legs, he's truly lovely. And then when he smiles, I'm smitten.
The conversation, in English, went like this. Him first……
'You swim?
'Yes.'
'You swim now?'
'Yes!' [big smiles and nods of heads].
Where the water is still relatively shallow, it's warm, and you can run through it easily, splashing the water in front of you. He chases me and then I chase him. It's just playful amusement to while away a little time and meet a new friend that you will probably never speak to again. It's just a matter of time before one of us makes the first move, the move both of us want to make. In the end, he does. I fall over and he falls on top of me, laughing. Then in the warm shallow water he lies with me and no one can see where our hands are or what they are touching. He loves the feel of my wet, warm and slippery skin, and I love the feel of his. We touch each other gently as we lie side by side in just a few inches of water. I run my fingers through his long hair and he smiles again…..
'Encore!'
Ok, encore it is, and more. He skin tastes salty. The water is too shallow for what we might want to do, so we wade deeper. When it's deep enough, we are free to roam at will. I feel his hand as I reach for him. He breaks away and I chase him and catch him. He wants to be caught. I fall and he falls with me. I taste his skin again and we lie still in the warm water. He reaches for me once more as I reach for him. Bolder now he is as his hand encloses me, as mine encloses him. Swelling begins and time passes sweetly.
Such is life on Dinard beach! Henry has warned us about our behaviour on the beach, referring to me I think, rather than Peter and Leon. Henry is all too aware that I'm more than an embryonic homosexual now, and quite obviously promiscuous. He says I'm at that stage when I'm prepared to take risks with my health and well-being. He's right of course. He's worried that I'll let some hormone crazy young buck pick me up and take me to a beachside bar and put vodka in my pepsi, and in a mad moment I'll agree to go back to his place and I'll get hurt somehow. He's wrong. I know that Henry wants me. But I can play with a boy I meet on the beach. We can play in the water for a while, and have fun, feeling and laughing, and just be.
Evan, my casual French boyfriend, wanted me as soon as he saw me, and I wanted him just as badly. It's the comforting warmth of the sun, the sand between your toes, and sights and sounds all around us that turns a boy on to sex. Playing games under water is not the easiest thing to get done with any satisfaction, but with our pants around our knees, Evan, the kissy boy, and I did nicely enough without either of us managing to pollute the water. It was a curious contrast between the up-front French attitude to casual sex, even at our age, and our English reserve. Evan showed no such reserve. I was definitely born in the wrong country.
Re-united with mum back at the beach tent, I don't suppose Evan made mentioned of our aquatic antics, at least I hope not!
I found Peter and Leon at our default location in a shady spot on the sand amongst rock pools directly beneath our apartment building, the sandcastle they had built with friends was now long since disappeared under the ocean waves.
Dinner tonight was at the Oyster Club. Henry made me try a half dozen of those slimy creatures the last time we were there, and I have to say I like them with a little pepper and lemon juice. Not so Peter and Leon.
We three young'uns showered together tonight, which is always a pleasure. In the wet room, as Henry calls it, I took special note of Leon examining his penis as he carefully drew back his foreskin. What a tool that boy has. Both he and Peter graciously allowed me to pamper them under the generous cascade of water, gently stroking the shower gel into their backs, legs, and elsewhere, much to their delight. I went a little further with Leon. I'm fairly sure that Peter won't be queer, but I'm equally sure that Leon will be. If I have heard rumours circulating at Truro suggesting same, I think that's fair indication that my strong suspicions are correct. They don't seem to have sussed me out, apart from one or two lads who wouldn't say anyway.
As the two boys were both facing me in the shower area, large, we formed a kind of triangle holding our three elongated members and joining forces at a point in the middle, rather like Henry's Mercedes star. It's just another little fun game to make our world go around.
In our little shower game, Peter comes last in the length game, much to his chagrin. As we pointed our tools towards a centre point, Peter's didn't quite meet Leon and I in the middle. He wasn't amused. Like father, like son.
The boys had grilled grondin for their main course, which is gurnard in English apparently. Anyway it's an ugly critter and I was amazed they chose it. Henry reckons that the French eat any fish that lives on the same line of latitude with, and to the south of France, and the English eat the fish that live level with, and to the north of our sceptred isle. I don't have a view on this.
Henry sat next to his son Peter, and I sat opposite him, next to Leon. Several times Leon and my bare knees touched, and it wasn't by accident. I am in in urgent need of education in the ways of sexual techniques from Henry. Should the boys give in to slumber tonight before I do, I'm going to exit our bedroom for Henry's, and do something about it.
As predicted, the boys dropped of quite early so I made my escape to Henry's room. I did my usual reconnoitre under their duvet and all's quiet down under for once. Pretty but quiet. That sight has put me in the mood I must say. I found Henry sitting up with a book.
'Are you sure Jamie?' Asks Henry, turning towards me in his bed.
'Yes.' I answer, because I've never been more certain of anything. 'Teach me please. You do know how to do it don't you?'
'Yes I do. What will it be then, a couple of minutes of you and then a couple of minutes of me?'
'I suppose so. You'll have to go first.'
'By the way, I'm assuming this isn't designed to give me a good time but someone else. Let me guess. It's Leon isn't it?'
'No! It's you Henry!'
'Oh, you little liar!'
I said nothing but I suspect that the change in my complexion said it all. Henry in my mouth? Fine for now, but Leon will be in my future thoughts.
It was two minutes of Henry 'working' on me and then me on him for the same time, with constructive comments from him and some pertinent questions from me throughout this rather steep learning curve, but this is something that I want and need to be good at.
As far as my efforts are concerned, Henry's only comment was 'Well, we are making progress', and 'Practice makes perfect.' I wanted to know why Henry pulls me off him after a relatively short time.
'You're not very good at this Jamie, but if I leave it too long, you will have been good enough.' I think I'm going to tie his hands behind his back next time.
There's something weird going on between Peter and Leon. I'm suspecting that Leon thought, or hoped, that their friendship was going to develop into a full-blown romance, but Peter has disappointed thus far. That's what I'm thinking. Leon has been giving me quite strong indications in the last few days that what he was expecting from Peter and not forthcoming, I will provide. Further evidence for that is Peter's burgeoning friendship with one particular girl who frequents our bit of beach. Ok, she's nice enough, but Leon's nose is put out of joint when she hoves into view and distracts Peter's attention away from him. I don't blame Leon for being put out. He was invited here, just as I was, and Peter should bear that in mind before turning his back on his real friends.
Tonight at dinner at the 'Oyster', Leon and I only wanted one course. Henry suggested that we wandered the beach for a while. He and Peter could eat more and have a chat, perhaps about how the holiday was going, and would go for the rest of our time here. After our wander, we return to find Henry at the coffee stage, and Peter looking like he's had a telling off. Henry has noticed changes in Peter, supported by a few comments from yours truly, and the consequential change in the social alignment of our group. The upshot is that Henry will have Peter with him during tomorrow's afternoon rest time. That means that Leon and I share the other bedroom, alone, and on hearing this news, I'm licking my lips.
I woke early this morning, around five thirty. The sunrise comes over the cliff opposite us on the other side of the curving beach. More houses of the same vintage as ours rise up high on the cliff casting their shadows onto the wet sand. At first I thought the sounds I can hear were Peter and Leon up to something, but as I glance towards their bed, I can see exactly what's causing the rhythmic sounds. Leon is on his tummy and is basically humping the mattress. His head is on one side and his hands are gripping the edges of the pillows, and he's going at it like he means business. I've seen boys do this before at school, and I've woken myself up once or twice aware of what I'm doing just like Leon's doing. It's the first indication to me that Leon can produce semen, which I had thought unlikely. It is one of those things that I ponder from time to time when I look at a boy. Can he or can't he? Or better still, will he or won't he?
I had a friend in the next bed to me a couple of years ago who could, but didn't masturbate out of choice, or for some other reason, and was terrified that he would wet his bed in the way that Leon is about to, by the way he's going at it. This boy asked me to wake him up if he ever saw him humping his mattress. I did once or twice, and he was very grateful. Meanwhile, in just a few seconds watching Leon about to ejaculate into the sheet beneath his thrusting hips, I have developed the mother and father of a hard-on. But in those few seconds I have a plan.
I quickly and very deftly get out of my generously wide single bed, and nip over to Leon in the vast double bed. He's quite close to the edge as luck would have it, with Peter well-separated from him on the other side, rather telling in itself I think. I put my hand firmly under Leon's tummy and after a few failed attempts I manage to turn him over without waking him. He's now lying in all his glory on his back, and I think it's fair to say, at my mercy. Time to rescue this sweetest of boys from his predicament.
I don't think for a moment that Leon has any memory of that event this morning, although on waking he looked a trifle bewildered, like 'something has happened but I'm not sure exactly what', look on his face. I think the event must have triggered something in his mind and body because a full half hour later he sits on the edge of his bed, staring down at his penis, half inflated between his legs as if it's some alien being that's landed on his body and has nothing to do with him. If circumstances allow at some point in the future, I shall tell him what transpired this morning. Anyway, the question of whether he can or can't has now been answered without any doubt at all.
The morning followed the usual pattern…….beach play with the boule set, a little soccer, another pool of sea water created later to be demolished by the incoming tide, and Peter wandering off for a stroll with the girl . But in a way, the nameless girl in a pretty pink bikini bottom and no top because she had nothing to hide, has been to my advantage. After lunch, croque messieurs all round, the new social alignment was made by Henry. Peter looked slightly puzzled by Henry's new order, but was obliged to obey as Leon and I headed for our bedroom for the after-lunch rest period, and Peter followed his father into Henry's room. The night time arrangement is unaffected. Peter sleeps with Leon in the big bed and I'm in the single.
There are locks on all the doors, and contrary to Henry's instructions, I turned the key to ensure there would be no uninvited entrance from a disgruntled Peter. As soon as we were safe in our room, Leon and I closed in on each other, arms around shoulders. We kissed, wet, hot and deep, for a good two minutes before we undressed each other. Naked and excited, we jumped into the bed together and kissed again with Leon on top of me. We didn't stop, even as Leon wriggled himself in a position whereby my erection was jammed against his back passage. I'm taking it as a message of intent. Either that, or he just likes the feeling of something pressing on his bottom. Before I had left for the beach this morning, and Peter and Leon already on their way, I slipped the tube of goo that Henry had given me, under the pillow. As we broke our second extended kiss, Leon rolls off me and onto his back with his knees raised up and wide apart. I doubt if he's just resting like that, so I reach under the pillow for Henry's gift as Leon watches, expressionless. His legs, already apart, widen still. There's no doubt now. He doesn't take his eyes off me for a second as I go about my business. In a couple of minutes I shall be pleasuring Leon in not just one place, but two.
Despite Henry's misgivings about my oral technique, it's easily good enough to satisfy Leon, albeit augmented by my naughty little finger in his bottom. That touch I thought was for my pleasure mainly, and a bit risky, but I was wrong on that score. Drawing his tummy in and out rapidly, and with urgent gasps of air to compliment the constant bony jerks of his body, Leon rewards me with a series of pained little cries and everything else that I could have wished for. I shower my boy lover with kisses, messy, warm and sharing kisses. It was like falling into the abyss, so deep and dark did it feel before the light strikes and the body exults with the eternal hot spring. Total bliss. Afterwards, lying together quietly, we had a bit of a debrief, if you pardon the expression. Leon was all smiles, and when I apologized for the interference up his back passage, his smile broadened. Really? Well ok then……..good news. There's another thing about Leon I really like. He's beautifully clean. Teeth, mouth, tongue, underneath his prepuce, finger nails, hair [although quite long], ears, around the bottom and within, everywhere pristine. I had noticed that Leon does indeed apply moisturizer, not soap, to the first two inches of his back passage whilst showering which I have never known any other boy do, not that I would necessarily know anyway. I'm beginning to regard Leon's bottom as some sort of holy grail, as I suspect he does. Some boys are not so clean. Some are filthy creatures who often smell and should know better. They should be escorted to the showers and scrubbed!
Dinner is a quiet affair tonight, at the Oyster as usual. Bedtime came early, Peter and Leon sharing the double as usual. It's interesting to see Peter's reaction to his exclusion this afternoon. He's spooned into Leon's back, tight against the sleeping beauty, so slim, dark and moody. Perhaps Peter is learning what real friendship is? For me the memories of the afternoon are vivid and real as I seek solace from my own body this time, denied the pleasure of the warmth of Leon's body. I'm sure that this night both Leon and I are in shock. Now, everything has changed. With just a few days before our return to the south west of England, I just can't think straight. The love for Peter that drew me here seems to have been snatched away just as night overcomes the day, to be replaced by an altogether different kind of passion, so urgent, desperate almost.
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