Chapter 5
Paul closed the book and carefully put a ribbon between the pages he'd been reading. He reached over and placed the paperback on the table, then looked down at the sleeping figure of Rick by his side. Paul's lips twisted into a smile. Rick was breathtakingly handsome, he thought, really the most beautiful boy he'd ever laid eyes on. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the boy's shining hair, then lightly traced his finger over the lad's full lips. He saw Rick stir, twitch his lips, and shake his head in sleep. Quickly Paul pulled his hand away. Laughing silently, he carefully lifted the covers and brought them down to Rick's feet. Delicately, he touched Rick's ankle and glided his fingertips over the dark hair of Rick's calf. He pulled himself up and sat facing the sleeping boy, leaning on one elbow. He gazed at the lad's smooth, hard body, the knot of rounded muscles of his shoulders, the tanned chest, the well-developed pectoral muscles, at the tiny belly button, the dark patch of belly hair. He stared in wonder at the tanned, muscular thighs, caught his breath at the sight of Rick's spread legs, his young manhood, now relaxed and arched downward, the tip of it and the large balls touching the sheet. He reached out and touched it, his fingers sliding over the cocktip. Hesitantly, at first, he felt the youth's prick swell in his hand, then in a great rush of force begin to lengthen until it stood upright, fiercely strong at soldier-like attention.
"My God, how beautiful," Paul whispered.
Paul quickly withdrew his hand. No use in waking Rick. Poor guy, he'd been at him four and five times a day from the moment he'd arrived. It had been like that for two weeks now, he thought, fourteen days of the most wonderful sex he'd ever known. No matter what time of day or night, he found he could not keep his hands off this dark-haired Adonis.
He lay back against the pillow and felt the relaxation flowing over him. God, but he felt glorious. Happy, content, and sexually fulfilled. He'd never known such complete happiness. Up to now his life had been empty. He'd learned how to live alone and figured that was the way it was to be the rest of his life. He began to think himself incapable of love, for surely he could not fall in love with some of the screaming fags he'd taken up with. Certainly no young guy would want to fall in love with him. Most were after bigger game, seeking successful homosexuals who could give them the good life. But then, that was exactly what he was looking for. He wasn't successful and perhaps he would never be. Besides he wasn't getting any younger. Quicksilver homosexuals were constantly flitting from one sex partner to another, searching, searching, searching, and when they found someone, it was not long lasting. They were always looking for someone better, someone more handsome, someone who could offer more security. He thought of the handsome suntanned youths he had known and had, of the butch tricks he'd dragged home from bars. Remembered the way he used to wink the rear turn signal of his car in front of trucks. He'd have the truck driver right in his own goddamn truck. Fags, straights, young and old, he'd had 'em all. Sex! That's all it had been up to now. All those good-looking guys with their great bodies and their big cocks paled now in comparison to Rick. Since Rick had come into his life, he had dropped everybody. He didn't even go to the bars or the baths anymore. Nobody seemed to interest him. There was no one but Rick. Just touching Rick, just being near him, sent shivers down his back and motivated a throbbing deep in his loins. Thinking of the boy's large hands taking his body, thick sensual male lips crushing against his, Rick's anxious tongue exploring his mouth, Rick's legs locked tightly around his torso as he buggered the youth, made him dizzy with desire.
Rick seemed equally as happy and content with him. At least, there were moments when Paul thought so.
Okay, that was the setup; a young, handsome boy had come to live with him. Now what? Just what did he, Paul Harris, have going for him? This same young boy was apparently troubled. The hatred he harbored for his mother was obvious. He had good reason. No doubt the mother had deprived the son of natural maternal love. From what he deduced, Rick's mother was a promiscuous, sexually eccentric, glamorous, and quite neglectful mother. The boy's self-image had been destroyed. There was no goal for him to strive for. He toyed with the idea of being a writer, yet he'd never really written anything, and he seldom read. A sense of achievement was missing; everything had been handed to Rick. Rick's life was dreary for want of motive, lonely for lack of love, empty because of self-defeat. Already, at the age of nineteen, Rick had an emotional scar that he would carry for a lifetime. Because of this, Rick hungrily sought friendship. In his case, the craving took the form of an avid sexual curiosity. Rick had confessed this to him readily-all those tired women he'd screwed. Fortunately, with him, Rick seemed to have found something-perhaps it was because, he, Paul, had sensed it and reacted to it. Why else would the boy move in with him?
All right. What now? He'd had similar setups, strange guys had lived with him before. At the time he had thought he would be able to have a lasting relationship with another male, but always he'd been disappointed in the results. Always! Instead of the friendship enriching him, it left him wounded. What of Rick? Would the same thing happen? Would the friendship survive a week, two more weeks, then crumble as all the others had? He didn't want that to happen. Okay, then how could he insure this relationship? By giving, that's how, he answered his own question. Friendship is not all taking. With Rick he would have to work harder. Instill courage in the boy. Be compassionate, sincere, understanding. Share confidence, repair the damage done to Rick's self-image. A tall order! Did he wish to take on this responsibility?
Why not? It was his one chance to get out of the vacuum of loneliness, of oppression, of the belief he was a nonentity. He too had his problems. By helping the boy he would be helping himself. He automatically wished to do this anyway; it wouldn't be too much of a chore for him. He enjoyed all moments with the boy, eating with him, sleeping with him, walking, swimming, seeing films with him, watching television, bowling and playing tennis with him. The fact was, as a human being he owed the boy something, he felt responsible for him; he just couldn't take what Rick offered so generously, and then ignore the boy's basic needs. And perhaps Rick would help him-financially. Hell, the boy had money. Imagine, his own Rolls at nineteen! Yes, perhaps Rick would be generous with him.
What he was telling himself was that he was in love with Rick. He was surprised by his own thoughts. Surprised and caught off balance; his own definite realization brought a flush to his cheeks. He fumbled for his cigarettes and lighter, found them, lit a cigarette and blew a long, thin line of gray smoke to the ceiling. With one hand under the back of his head and his long, well-muscled legs crossed at the ankles, he stretched out comfortably, enjoying his cigarette.
Paul's thoughtful excursion was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. Quickly he picked up the receiver on the first ring, side-glancing at Rick. Fortunately the boy had not heard the ring.
"Hello?"
"Hello. To whom am I speaking?" a female voice asked. "This is Paul. Paul Harris. Who is this?"
"Susan Lundman."
At the mention of the name Paul gripped the receiver tightly. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Lundman."
"Then the name is familiar to you. Then Rick is living there." It was a statement more than a question.
Paul hesitated. Did Rick wish for his mother to know his whereabouts?
"Hello? Mr. Harris?"
"Yes," he answered slowly. "I'm here."
"My son, is he living at the Laguna address?"
"Yes. Temporarily," he emphasized.
"I see. You know, I've been worried something awful. Rick just disappeared. Two weeks it's been. Without a word. He's never done that before. I was going to call the police-"
Paul felt his heart hammer away. Rick was only nineteen! The police would not be welcome.
"-but then I checked with our lawyer," the voice continued, "and he told me that Rick had mailed a postal card from Laguna instructing that his monthly allowance check be mailed to Laguna. I got your telephone number by checking the name and address with information. I've called many times during the week, but I never seem able to get anyone at home."
"We-uh-Rick is seldom at home, and I've been busy between my studio and the house."
"Just what is going on? I mean, Rick has never told me he had friends in Laguna. Paul Harris ... Paul Harris," she tasted the name. "I don't recall Rick ever men-"
"We've recently become friends. We-we met at a mutual friend's house," Paul lied.
"I see. How is he?"
"Fine."
"What is he doing?"
"Working," Paul blurted, "on-on a book. Yes, a book."
"Rick? Writing? My! That's rather hard to believe. Where is he now? I'd like to speak with him."
"Out. He went to a film-with a girl."
"Naturally! Well, tell him I called. You will make sure you tell him I called, won't you? I want him to telephone me as soon as he gets in." The voice hesitated. "No, on second thought, I won't be home until very late. Ask him to call me in the morning."
"Yes, I will, Mrs. Lundman."
"Goodbye."
There was a click and then the sound of a drone and Paul put the receiver back in its cradle.
"Whew!" he sighed, going over the conversation in his head. Had he said anything to make her suspect? No, he didn't think so. Now what? Would she be visiting? Was she a nosy mother? Would she size up the situation? This was something he had not thought about. Rick was only nineteen. Jail-bait. That's something else that had slipped his mind. Rick had run away from home. Suddenly an aching depression surged through him He was right back where he started. Damn it! I knew it was too good to be true.
Turning, he looked down at Rick. Leaning over, he pushed aside a wave of hair that had fallen across the boy's closed eyes. "God, you're beautiful, Rick," he whispered. "I don't want to lose you, fella, not now, not now that I'm in love with you." He felt the blood rushing to his cock. His hand lightly caressed Rick's cheek. Slowly his hand passed downward to Rick's side, down to his hip and thigh. It would be awful to have to give up this handsome boy, he thought. His lips touched Rick's cheek. Desire welled up in his throat as he gazed at the firm-muscled body.
"My love," he whispered. "My beautiful, dark-haired boy." He brushed Rick's ear with his lips. His hand clasped the boy's limp penis. He squeezed it to hardness. His other hand touched the boy's nipples, his navel, his black pubic curls. Taking Rick's heavy, now half-erect penis, he put it to his mouth, feeling it harden to fullness against his tongue. His fingers explored in the hairy cleft of Rick's firm buttocks. He sucked all the warmth of Rick's being into his mouth. In less than five minutes, Paul felt Rick's cockhead swell up like a balloon and erupt into his mouth and down his throat, hotly, fiercely, chokingly. Seconds later, Paul relieved himself into his own hand. After washing himself, he returned to the bed and lay down beside the boy. "Rick," he whispered against the youth's cheek, "I love you ... I love you."
Rick stirred, moved, turned to his side and plopped his arm heavily across Paul's hairy chest.
Paul grinned, his arms encircling Rick, cradling his head against his chest. Suddenly Paul knew what he would do. It was really quite simple. He would visit with Rick's mother in Los Angeles. Meet her face to face, on his own. He would charm the panties off her. He'd win her over, even-and he had to laugh at the thought-if I have to fuck the hot bitch!