New Friends

By Blue Sapphire

The knocking had started again and was relentless. Ignoring it was not an option so he opened the door.

But it was not a reporter on the doorstep but the dashing Devaney with his all-too knowing eyes and secretive, slightly sly, smile.

He knows what the man wants (what they all want) but is he of a mind to give it? Going with a man like Devaney is dangerous but refusing him perhaps more so? The man holds out his hand, offering him things he sorely needs: protection, privacy...somewhere far away from the prying eyes of the journalists; somewhere he can breathe and take stock over the time he had spent with the man they were now calling the Middleton Murderer.

Devaney has a price though. He wants him: in his home; in his bed. The man wants his body, and is that too high a price to pay? He would not be doing anything he had not already done. Countless times before. But Devaney is a greedy man and wants his mind too; his secrets. He wants to know all that went on between him and the man now languishing in a mental institution for the criminally insane.

He is not the only one who wants to know. Ambitious writer, Samuel Preston, scents a juicy story and is hot on William’s trail.

Will Devaney’s protection be enough? Will he care enough to keep him safe once he has unearthed all of his secrets?

New Friends follows on from Old Friends and continues William Mayfair’s story from the moment he is reacquainted with possible serial killer, Lucas Blackstone.

He recounts for the benefit of Stefan Devaney the time he spent with that man: the things they did and the secrets they shared.

Devaney laps it up, eager to hear everything and eager to prove that whatever thrilling things Blackstone did to William he can go one better.

But while he becomes increasingly obsessed by William his own past history clamours for attention. An old lover appears on the scene and Devaney finds himself imagining this old lover together with his new. The picture in his head is very pleasing but what will William make of it? What will precious Peter think of it?

There was a time he would have done anything Stefan ever asked of him: asked, ordered or commanded. Done it all with a soft smile and wept his gratitude at the finish.

But Peter is not the man he once was. Inner turmoil gnaws at him and unlike William he won’t easily give up his secrets.

But perhaps he will reveal them to William?

As the two men grow closer Peter opens up. His secret pours out and Stefan turns to an unlikely source to ask for help.

A man must have justice for the wrongs done to him is Devaney’s belief but is it justice he truly seeks or revenge?

Does Blackstone really care? Justice or revenge Devaney has chosen him to carry out the task. He is after all uniquely qualified for the job. But is he interested?

It’s a moot point if Devaney can’t follow through on his promise to free him from the nut-house, but if he can...?

He would like to see William again. He has missed their adventures.

He would also like to see the man who has had such an effect on Stefan Devaney that he is prepared to break a mass murderer out of his prison. Who is this Peter fellow? Is he worth killing for?

One look is all it would take to know.

He just wants one look at the man.

One look and perhaps one touch.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yvonne C.
• Release date: Jul 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463525159

Blue Sapphire

Blue Sapphire is the pen name of English author, Yvonne Carsley. It is the name she uses when writing m/m erotic fiction.

Book preview

NEW FRIENDS

(Book two of the Good Friends stories)

BLUE SAPPHIRE

New Friends

(Book two of the Good Friends stories)

ebook (Smashwords Edition)

Written by Blue Sapphire

Published by Yvonne Carsley

Copyright © Blue Sapphire 2018. All rights reserved.

The rights of Blue Sapphire to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Warning: This work is not suitable reading material for the under eighteen’s and/or those who find descriptions of homosexual acts offensive.

This author advocates the practice of safe sex. Fictional characters do not require condoms; you, dear reader, do. Whatever your sexual preferences please practice them safely.

Other work by this author

The Heat of Desire

Flesh and Spirit

Slave (Book one of Passion amidst the Stars)

Need (Book two of Passion amidst the Stars)

Want (Book three of Passion amidst the Stars)

Desire (Book four of Passion amidst the Stars)

Rescue

Captured (Book five of Passion amidst the Stars)

Awakened (Book six of Passion amidst the Stars)

Hunger (Book seven of Passion Amidst the Stars)

Old Friends (Book one of the Good Friends stories)

Written under her actual name of Yvonne C. Carsley

The Gathering of the U’Narai (Book one of The Free Land Chronicles)

Kings and Queens (Book two of The Free Land Chronicles)

Secrets (Book three of The Free Land Chronicles)

Jargo (Book four of The Free Land Chronicles)

Swiftsword (Book five of The Free Land Chronicles)

The Red Lady (Book six of The Free Land Chronicles)

The Dark Queen (Book seven of The Free Land Chronicles)

Three Queens (Book eight of The Free Land Chronicles)

Valorian (Book nine of The Free Land Chronicles)

Poetry

The Little Book of Haiku

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

The knocking started again.

It wasn’t particularly loud or aggressive but there was something relentless about it.

He’d heard it before, several times. In the beginning it had been loud and more than a little aggressive. There had been thumps on the front door and bangs on the back. There had even been a few thuds at the window. He’d been forced to keep the curtains closed even during the day. In the end he’d had enough and packed up his stuff and left.

All right, snuck away. Snuck away like some criminal, which he was not. He’d done nothing wrong (well, not as far as they knew) so why did they continue to harass him? And that’s what it was – harassment.

He knew why.

He was news.

He was their kind of news. If there was even a hint of grubbiness they wanted to know of it. If the story was in any way salacious or dirty they couldn’t help but salivate. Anything to do with sex or murder and they were on to it, sniffing out the mucky details, wanting to know all about the blood and the cum.

They claimed that their readers wanted to know about the emotional aspect of the tale, that they wanted to hear about the courage and the fight for survival, but that was total bollocks. They wanted to know about the filthy stuff. What had it been like in that place, that hell? How many times did the bad man hurt you; do that nasty thing? Did he make you crawl on your knees and beg him to spare you?

The newspapers (gossip-rags, he called them) were written by people with smutty minds and read by readers with smuttier ones. They didn’t want to hear stories about bravery and survival against the odds. They didn’t want to know how he’d remained strong and kept positive during those dark days. What they wanted to know was had he sucked that man’s cock, had he bent over for him and let him go bare in exchange for letting him keep his life.

He imagined them sitting at home, in their kitchens, drinking their morning coffees while they read their papers, drinking in the story with their greedy piggy little eyes: pictured them licking their lips with relish as they feasted on the words. That’s all he was to them. Not a person. Not a man with thoughts and feelings. He was words on paper. He was a story. A story they got off on.

How many of them creamed their shorts as they read about him being made to get on his knees? Did they wonder if he had cried and said please? Please, don’t hurt me. Did the thought of him crying and saying please turn them on? Of course it did. The kind of people who read those papers were turned on by the thought of others suffering, especially if there was a sexual angle to that suffering.

He stood, statue-like, in the middle of his bedroom, breathing hard though his nose. The anger had been ebbing and flowing within him for many months now. It was starting to become a problem.

The knocking continued and he ground his teeth together.

How had they found him? He’d told no one where he was going. He’d simply left. His old house, his car, his job. He’d left all of it without a word – packed a suitcase and crept away in the dead of one dark night.

It hadn’t been much of a wrench. There was no one at home to miss him. His face crumpled a little thinking about that. There had been no one at the museum he’d been especially close to who might care enough to come looking. Unless, he smiled faintly – a tad bitterly – Sanderson should care to come searching.

He choked back the rising lump in his throat.

What a sad little life he’d led before. No family. No true friend. The one person who might have cared was long gone and there was no one else.

His only constant and consistent companions were the so-called journalists who had been ever so keen to make his acquaintance last year.

Were they still so very keen? Was he not now yesterday’s news?

He supposed that with the ongoing legal proceedings that there might well be follow-up stories they’d want to do. Perhaps someone was even writing a book and wanted him to contribute to it.

He huffed and pursed his lips.

They could fuck off if that was the case. He was not a chapter to be fixed into a book.

Assuming it was a chapter they had in mind. It might just be a paragraph or even – as awful as it was to imagine – a footnote.

And is it that which really bothers you? Not that these people won’t leave you alone, that they treat you like a juicy story, but that perhaps you are not the whole story but merely just a footnote. Did you think yourself extraordinary? You know you weren’t the only one. There had been others in your…special friend’s life. You were not unique. You were one of many. Victim number ten, or maybe twenty. Forty seven even. Perhaps number one hundred.

You won’t be a chapter in this book. You’ll be a number on a list in this book. Your story isn’t as fascinating as you think. Whoever is at the door they don’t want your tale. They just want to make sure they spell your name properly when they add it to the list.

He shook off that train of thought. He didn’t care about such things. He wasn’t interested in how worthy, or not, they found him. He wasn’t that shallow.

All he wanted was for them to go away and leave him alone. He just wanted to get on with his life. He wanted to go back to who he had once been: careful, cautious William, the considerate gentleman who was well thought of if not well known.

There had been a time when no one could have guessed at who, or what, he truly was. No one suspected the things he got up to. No one cared enough to find out. He could screw two guys at once, fuck a man in the workplace and give up his arse to a neighbour and the wider world knew nothing about it. He had been free to do as he pleased without judgement, without strangers on the street giving him the eye and turning up their noses. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, just how free he had been.

He wanted to go back to that. To doing what he wanted without the whole world even so much as suspecting.

How long had it been since he’d been with a man, been touched or kissed? How long since he’d gone on a date without wondering if the other guy knew all about him?

Had he ever gone on a date?

The thought brought him up short.

Had he ever actually gone on a proper date?

He’d done things with men but had he ever gone to dinner with them, taken in a show, gone to a concert? Had he ever sat in a park with them, holding hands and just chatting while they enjoyed the sun together?

He had had meals with Michael but they hadn’t been what you would call dates. He’d been to functions at the museum that involved getting dressed up but that had been about work.

The only time he had sat with a man, holding hands, enjoying the sun, had been…

He uttered a long sigh, feeling suddenly like crying.

Would the journo knocking on the door want to put this in their story? Would they like to hear about his sadness, about the times he’d woken up feeling a strange sense of bereavement, how he grieved for the loss of that time?

He smiled crookedly.

Of course not. That wouldn’t fit in with their narrative at all. That wouldn’t be in-keeping with their theory that he was a victim of terrible (yet still titillating to their readers) abuse.

What would their readers think if they knew the truth?

Would they be horrified or would they salivate even more and beg to know all the details?

That knocking was really starting to grate on his nerves now. He would have to do something about it.

He crept to the window and peered through the heavy nets.

There was a man standing on his doorstep. He was well turned out for a journalist. Perhaps he was a lawyer or something. That would explain how he’d been tracked down. Perhaps they wanted him to go over his statement again.

He sighed and stood staring down at the man.

Fancy suit from what he could tell, long dark coat, well-polished shoes, no briefcase in his hand but he was wearing gloves.

Were they leather?

His belly tightened.

A classy ensemble. Very Cary Grant. His father had been keen on those old movies. That was how life should have been, he had often said – when men were men and women dressed like ladies and not scruffs or hoes.

And would Cary Grant have scarred his son for life and called him names like queer and faggot, he thought acidly? Would that have been the classy thing to do?

He continued staring down at the man.

Why wasn’t he giving up and going away? That’s what the others had done, back before he’d moved here.

Knock, knock, knock.

Whoever he was he was persistent.

As though the man knew he was being watched he suddenly stopped, took a step back and turned his face up to the window.

Will jerked back, stifling a small cry.

What the hell?! What was he doing here? How had he found him? What did he want?

He stood trembling for a long minute and then crept back to take another look, sure that the man would be gone.

He wasn’t.

He was still stood staring up, waiting – staring straight at him. He could see him. He knew he was home. The nets were thick but the man had good eyes: the eyes of a demon.

He shivered and stepped back.

He made his way across the room and down the stairs. He moved to the front door and pressed his eye to the spyhole.

The man was facing him. He knew he was there. How could he? Yet he did. He stood staring, a small smile curving his lips up.

Will reached for the door handle.

What are you doing? You’re not going to let him in are you? After all the trouble you’ve had this past year are you really keen for more?

What trouble would this man cause, Will thought?

You know damn well what trouble. You still owe him. You remember that, don’t you? He was ever so generous and still expects payment in return. After everything you’ve been through just lately are you really going to turn that handle?

His hand was sweaty around the knob but he still managed to get a grip on it.

Don’t be a fool. You said you wanted things to go back to the way they were. Careful William, remember? Cautious William. Is this being careful? You open that door and you’re inviting more trouble. Perhaps not the same kind of trouble the other brought you but trouble all the same. Don’t be a fool. Don’t open that door.

He gripped the handle tighter and twisted it.

CHAPTER TWO

It seemed aeons that they stood there, regarding one another. The man gazed at him, smiling faintly, a touch secretively – slyly maybe. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t get an exact read off that expression. He stared back, his mouth dry, his face – he suspected – pale.

Mr Devaney, he finally managed. What…?

What indeed, he thought.

What are you doing here?

What do you want?

The questions sounded rude and yet he had every right to ask them. Yet, why couldn’t he? Why did he tremble so? Why did he feel so nervous?

Mr Devaney, he repeated, for lack of anything better to say.

The man’s smile widened.

I’m sure I’ve given you permission to call me Stefan. Won’t you address me by my given name?

The man breathed the words rather than said them. He felt that breath caress his ear as though the man was stood mere inches from him and he shivered.

After everything he’d been through how could this man still affect him so? How could the mere sound of his voice have him quivering like this?

Mr Devaney, he forced himself to say. What are you doing here? What do you want? How did you find me?

He felt himself wilting with each question.

Devaney smiled even more brightly.

William had once likened him to the infamous blood-sucking Count of Stoker fame and for a brief second he was convinced he did indeed see a flash of fang within that hungry mouth then Devaney took a step closer and he knew that it wasn’t blood this man was after.

The man stood looming over him, looking down, his dark eyes boring in to him.

It wasn’t hard for me to find you. I have ways of locating the things I want. Having money is a marvellous thing. It can buy you almost anything.

He stared so unswervingly at William that he felt himself bristling.

Did the man think he could buy him?

He already has. Don’t you remember?

Devaney moved another step closer. He was almost but not quite over the threshold. He was close enough that he could have kissed him easily.

Money can do so much for you. It can greatly ease your passage through life. It can buy you nice things, ensure others’ loyalty, it can provide you with protection: in the form of bodyguards, good lawyers or simple walls.

Will frowned.

This is a lovely house to be sure but that low hedge doesn’t deter the gawkers, does it? Those net curtains won’t keep you safe from telephoto lenses and high-powered binoculars.

Devaney reached up and trailed his gloved fingers down Will’s cheek. It was leather: no doubt the best quality. Will shivered. Those gloved fingers were warm on his face. They would feel warmer inside him.

He looked up and knew by Devaney’s smile that he knew his thoughts.

What do you want? he whispered, knowing full well what the answer would be.

To offer you protection.

Will blinked. All right, he apparently hadn’t known full well what the answer would be.

I know you don’t need my money. You have your own. You don’t like to use it but you could if you wanted to. What you don’t have is my influence, my power. Devaney placed his hand flat against Will’s chest. Come home with me. My house has high walls. There are acres of land around it. Those gossip-mongers would have to travel far to find you and if they did would find those walls too high to scale. And if they did by some miracle scale them to take their intrusive photos my lawyers would bury them. I can keep the nosy-parkers away from you. I can keep the cheap rags from scribbling their lies. The court cases that you will no doubt be involved in will go on for months if not years. My legal team can handle the worst of it for you. I can keep the majority of the hassle away from you. I can give you peace. Don’t you want that?

Oh god yes, Will thought, trying not to let the thought show in his eyes.

But what did Devaney want in return? As if he couldn’t guess.

What is the price for this protection? he murmured, knowing but wanting to hear Devaney say the words.

The man swept a gloved thumb across his lips. It was a tender touch and he missed touching and tenderness.

You know the price, Devaney crooned.

Do I?

Say the words, William thought. Say them. I want to hear them aloud. Don’t put this all on me. Take some of it for yourself.

The price is you. Devaney pressed close – he was so wonderfully warm – and touched his hand to the back of his neck, softly stroking with his gloved fingers. You. In my home. In my bed, lying beside me. He stared unblinking at him. Is there more you would hear me say?

Yes. Say all of it. Say what you really mean. What you really want. Don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you. Say what you truly want. Me. Naked. Legs spread wide. Cum pouring from my used rectum at the finish. Tell me you want me writhing and sweating on your sheets, gasping and calling your name. Tell me you want to fuck me and fuck me hard. Don’t tell me you love me and want to marry me. Tell me the truth. I’ll respect the truth. Tell me you want me on my knees, face down, arse up. Tell me you want to make me your slave.

Devaney bowed his head and pressed his lips to Will’s.

He moaned softly. Oh god, he’d missed this.

Devaney pulled back after too short a time. Teasing him, he knew: a little taste to tempt him.

You want to know all of what I’d like to do to you? There wouldn’t be much room left for surprises.

I don’t care for surprises. Just tell me what you want. You want to fuck me?

Devaney chuckled at how fiercely William uttered that word, as if trying to shock him. It would take a lot more than that.

Of course I want to fuck you. Ever since I first met you I’ve ached to spread your legs and plunge my manhood in you. To the hilt, he added with a wide grin. I suspect you can take it. I suspect you’d enjoy finding out if you could.

Will felt his face warming.

You like to be fucked, don’t you? You like it but feel guilty about it. I like to fuck but have never felt guilty. Why should I? It’s very enjoyable. I wish to enjoy myself with you. Everything two men could possibly do together I want to do with you. Do I want you on your knees, prostrate before me? Do I want you moaning and groaning, gasping and begging? He shuddered. Most certainly. Do I want to fuck you again and again, opening you up and filling your sweet arse with my hot cum till it overflows? He smiled broadly. Absolutely. Will I make a slave of you, make you crawl and grovel? Definitely.

Will shuddered in turn.

I will make of you a prisoner, more tightly bound to me than any inmate was ever bound to a jailer. I will make whatever happened between you and your murderer seem like children’s games.

And just like that Devaney was over the threshold. He nudged William back into the hall, kicking the door shut behind him, without taking his eyes off him. He pushed Will up against the far wall and rudely shoved his left hand down the front of his trousers.

Fingers encased in warm leather curled around his cock and he groaned in remembrance.

The hand gripped him only briefly though before it was removed.

He was turned, roughly spun on the spot and shoved once more up against the wall. His trousers were yanked down, underwear too. Devaney was on his knees behind him, mouth fastened to his anus, sucking hard, tongue stabbing hungrily into him.

But this too was just a tease. Just a quick taste and Devaney was rising, pulling his clothing back into place and turning him around again.

His anus was tingling madly, his cock hard and pushing insistently at the front of his trousers but Devaney offered no relief from either feeling. He stepped back and watched as Will slithered to the floor.

You want me to speak of all that I would do to you? You want words? I can give you words, and deeds. If you’ll give me the same.

Will sat with his knees pulled up and his arms wrapped around them. He looked up at the other man, confused. He knew what deeds he could give the man but what words did he want from him?

I want to hear about it, Devaney breathed. I want to know what happened between you and that man. Not what you told the authorities but the truth.

Will gulped.

I want to know what it was really like.

Why? William whispered.

Because I’m mad with curiosity. Because I like a good tale as much as anyone does. Because I’m a greedy man and I must have all of you. Your body and your secrets.

And what do you plan on doing with my secrets? Are you writing a book?

Heavens no! Such secrets wouldn’t be for sharing. I want to know your secrets so that I can know you better and better provide you with what you need. My desire is to worship you. I can do that much more successfully if I know you.

Devaney lifted Will to his feet and pulled him close.

You will come home with me now.

He phrased it as a statement not a question. Men like Devaney didn’t ask. They were confident in the knowledge that they would get whatever they wanted.

The man was right to be so confident. Had there ever been a doubt? Had Will ever really thought to refuse the offer? He was tired of prying eyes and knew that even though interest had died down lately it would only be a matter of time before it flared up again. He would always be that guy, the man who had survived the Middleton Murderer’s madness. There would always be those who wanted to know how he’d done it, what he’d done or offered to keep the man from killing him when he’d killed so many others.

They imagined they knew what the answer was, what shameful things he had done to ensure his survival, but if they knew the truth they’d be sorely disappointed.

He’d lived because the man had loved him.

But had he loved him in return? Was that what Devaney wanted to know or was the man only interested in hearing about the sex?

Whichever it was wouldn’t it do him good to talk about it?

What he likely needed was to talk with a shrink but could he trust such a person to keep his secrets? Shrinks didn’t always make much money and selling his story would net someone a small fortune. Devaney had no such need of financial reward. Telling him would be safe. Safer than telling a shrink anyway and didn’t he ache to tell someone?

He wanted to tell someone how he felt, to discuss his thoughts and figure them out. He was confused. There had always been an element of confusion and uncertainty in his life. Devaney seemed a man who was never uncertain. Would he not bring some clarity to his life? Had he loved his mad murderer? Was it a good or bad thing if he had? Devaney might dispel his confusion. That would be a good thing and if the price to pay for being certain was his body what did that matter? He wouldn’t be doing anything he hadn’t already done before. Many times in fact.

And if he was being truly honest with himself he had to confess that it wasn’t just his feelings he wanted to talk about. He wanted to talk about what he had done with that man. Those things. Those sometimes crazy and disturbing things. He wanted to talk about the van and the cellar: the creak of the door, the sound of the heavy footsteps on the stairs, the way his anus had spasmed with anticipation.

You want to brag? Is that it? You want to tell this dark-eyed man how you took large cock again and again, handling it with greater ease each time? Such bravery. Do you seek his praise? A man like this would probably praise you. Though that’s not all he’d do. Tell a man like this how well you were able to handle a large cock and who knows what he might do to you, in that house, with acres of land around it and that high wall to keep out prying eyes? How far away is the nearest neighbour do you suppose? Far enough that you could scream at the top of your lungs and still not be heard. Does he want to make you scream? He wants you gasping and groaning and begging but does he want you screaming? That’s something your killer didn’t want. Begging yes but not screams. Begging him to do it, harder, harder; weeping his name with such gratitude, whispering to him in the dark that you were his.

Will looked away from Devaney’s hungry gaze, certain the man was reading all these thoughts on his face.

But isn’t it what you want, for him to know these things? Tell him all. He won’t judge. A man like this is in no position to judge anyone. He will listen and understand. A man like this understands a great deal. He will help you to understand yourself.

Go with him. You know you want to. It was never in doubt. A man like this always gets what he wants.

And what about what you want?

You want his offer of protection. You need it.

Go with him. He’ll look after you. Let someone look after you. It’s nice to be taken care of. He’ll pamper you and keep you safe and if now and then he wants you on your knees with your head down and your bottom up it’s not such a big deal. What can he want from you that others haven’t already taken?

Go with him.

CHAPTER THREE

He’d slept long and deep before waking slowly to the sound of twittering birds. He lay in the bed for long minutes, stretching his limbs and gazing around the room.

It was the same room from before, plain and sparsely furnished, though quite clean he noticed now that he had time to really look. There was no dust in evidence, no cobwebs in the corners or smell of damp. His nostrils quivered as he smelled something else. Polish, he thought. The room had been cleaned just recently.

Perhaps in anticipation?

He frowned. Of what?

A guest.

Nonsense. His would-be rescuer could not have anticipated his arrival. They had met quite by chance.

Are you sure of that? Just when you needed help there it was. And he was well prepared to take care of your little aches and pains, wasn’t he?

He turned his head to the side, gazing thoughtfully at the tray on which wads of cotton wool were piled up next to various creams and lotions.

Everyday household things that one might find in any medicine cabinet, he uttered inwardly. There’s nothing sinister here.

Oh really? That man watched you while you slept. Did he do more than watch? When you woke he was very free with you, wasn’t he? He had undressed you without asking your permission. I bet he enjoyed that, touching you while you were insensate. He certainly enjoyed touching you when you woke.

He was examining me, much like a doctor would have.

Would a doctor have concluded his examination by going between your legs to first suck you then fuck you?

What kind of a man is this supposed knight in shining armour? He rescues you from the clutches of that wicked Paterson, who would have done such nasty things to you, while that weak old duffer Dawkins just looked on helplessly, brings you to this place (where are you, do you even know?), strips you, does god knows what to you while you sleep then when you wake shoves his huge cock in you as deep as he can get it to go. The man doesn’t know you from Adam yet he felt it acceptable to screw you. He didn’t ask your name. You don’t know his. You know nothing about him: not who he is, where he’s been or what he might have got. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know who or what you are, if you would welcome or repel his advances. He just took one look at your used arsehole and thought hey, he’s had a cock in him already, what’s one more?

For all he knew your bruises were a result of rape not an over amorous ex P.E teacher’s firm but consensual ministrations. For all he knew you were fleeing after being sexually assaulted but still he felt justified in spreading your legs and forcing you to take him.

He didn’t force me. He was gentle. I enjoyed it.

Did he know that? Did he ask if he could do that? Did he check afterwards to be sure you were all right?

He said not one word to you.

He licked me clean, placed a fresh wad of cotton wool between my legs to soothe any hurt he might have caused and then tucked me up in bed. Does that sound like something an evil rapist would do? He was kinder by far than Paterson.

And where is your tender knight now? Has he left you all alone after enjoying you so thoroughly or is he downstairs sharpening his knives in readiness for killing you?

Will sighed and sat up, heaving the duvet aside. He went to the door, on which a dressing gown hung from a hook. He wrapped himself in it, seeing no sign of his clothes anywhere in the room, and reached for the door handle.

Don’t bother. It’s locked.

He hesitated and then pursed his lips.

Why must you always be so negative, daddy dear. Oh yes, I know it’s you, back to haunt me again. Just when I think you’re gone you’re back. Well, you can prattle all you like this time. I no longer care.

Whoever this man is he didn’t hurt me. He’s shown no sign of wanting to hurt me and if he wanted to kill me he could have done so while I slept.

And where would be the fun in that?

He clenched his jaw.

Why should he want to kill me, Father? Am I so odious a creature that anyone should want to take my life? Do you think me so hated by those around me that even a stranger should want to murder me?

The only two people I can say have hated me in my life have been Paterson – who clearly hated everything I represented but nevertheless wanted to fuck me – and you. You, Father, were the only one in my life who has ever physically hurt me. You are the only one I ever felt might want me dead. All these men you warn me about want to get with me – want to, as you so crudely put it, shove their dicks in me – but I have never felt true danger from any of them.

Whoever this man is, whatever he may want from me, I do not fear him as I once feared you.

He gripped the door handle and pulled.

His heart stopped for a moment as the door did not move but he quickly realised it was just stuck and not locked. He pulled again and the door swung inwards.

He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and stepped out into the hallway.

The carpet was thick beneath his bare feet and he padded along it until he came to the top of the stairs. He stood looking around and listening. There was no sign of any life upstairs. If his would-be rescuer was home he was downstairs somewhere.

He made his way slowly down the steps, his mouth suddenly dry and his hand trembling slightly as it slid down the banister.

He stepped quietly into each of the downstairs rooms. Each was as plain and spartan as the bedroom had been but very clean. There was something new about the place. As though the owner had only just moved in and not had time to make the place their own yet. The rooms were waiting to be tended to. The walls waited for pictures to be hung on them. The shelves waited for books and knick-knacks to be placed upon them.

The rooms were also empty of anyone but him.

Of the neatly-dressed but oddly scruffy-haired man there was no sign. There was no sound indicating that he was close by. Had he gone out? Was he coming back?

Miss him, do you? Miss that thick cock and the way it slid so tenderly into you?

He ignored that and moved on into the kitchen. He was hungry. He hoped there was food.

There was but not a lot of it. Perhaps his knight had gone out shopping.

He spread some jam on a piece of bread and chewed it slowly while flicking his eyes around the room. They fixed for a long moment on the door.

He went towards it and tried it, knowing that unlike the bedroom door this one would be more than stuck.

It was. Locked securely and though he searched through the drawers he found no key.

He’s got all the keys. You’ll find all the main doors and the windows quite firmly locked. He doesn’t mind you wandering about the house but he doesn’t want you leaving it.

Will moved out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front door. It was locked and again he could find no key.

He chewed his lower lip and then went to try the windows.

All locked as well. All he could do was look through them. Not that there was much to see outside.

Trees.

Trees as far as his gaze could see. Trees and not much else. No other houses. No cars, no people. Wherever he was it was far from prying eyes. He’d be surprised if even the postman knew where this place was. His eyes fixed briefly on a small building nestled in amongst those trees. It was nothing really, little more than a shed. His gaze moved away from it, taking in once more the sight of all those trees: tall and leafy. They cast their shadows long upon the ground.

----

I wasn’t unduly worried at this point, Will uttered, feeling Devaney’s eyes on him. Yes, the windows and doors were locked but perhaps my rescuer was simply being cautious. He had gone out for supplies and was concerned about leaving me alone. What if Paterson had come after me? I was more afraid of him than I was my unnamed saviour. After what I’d heard him planning for me… He shuddered.

He felt Devaney’s unspoken question hovering in the air.

Were you really afraid of what that man had in mind for you or were you afraid that you’d actually be tempted by it?

Will shuddered again.

Paterson had planned to film him, take pictures – pictures of him doing things with other guys. And how many guys? And would Dawkins have joined in or stood there merely watching?

And what about those pictures, those films? What would Paterson have done with them? Used them against him no doubt. Threatened to send them to the board of directors at the museum. Got him fired as he had been fired by people who travelled in the same circles he believed he travelled in. William was one of them: the Richie Rich’s who got away with every bad thing they ever did because they had the money, the lawyers and the influence. Paterson had lost his job over a kiss, a mere kiss. It was unfair and revenge was likely his goal. It wasn’t Will’s fault he had been fired but to a man like Paterson that didn’t matter. He was one of Them. One of the movers and shakers. One of those whose lives would always be easy because of who they were. Paterson had wanted to fuck him but no doubt the thought of screwing him over would be just as satisfying. Taking sweet Willy Mayfair, once the son of a future prime minister, and turning him into nothing more than a cheap rutting whore would in Paterson’s eyes be considered an evening-up of the score. A win for his team. Us getting one over on Them.

Will had known all this while listening to the man on the phone. He’d known that at some point Paterson would have had enough of screwing him and would be keen to get on to screwing him over. Yet knowing that, hadn’t he been a little tempted? The thought of it: cameras clicking away, films being made, his image captured for all time – face frozen in mid grimace, body caught in mid writhe, the resolution of the pictures so good that every bead of sweat and drop of cum would be so clear…

The thought of it had given him the tiniest of thrills.

As had the thought of the men Paterson would bring to the house to take part in these films with him. What men, how many, would they have been strangers; would he have known them? Hadn’t he been curious to know?

He kept his eyes down, staring fixedly at Devaney’s no doubt expensive and top-notch quality carpet.

The no doubt equally expensive glass of top-notch whisky was going untouched in his hand. He gazed into the depths of the golden liquid and mused on that first day in that house, that den of bloody vice as the newspapers had called it. Which was frankly odd as that man had never killed anyone in that house. His home though sparse was his castle and he kept it clean if meagrely furnished. His dirty deeds had been done out there in the world. He was a man with a mucky job but he left the filth outside, taking off his boots before he entered the house, never so much as tracking a bit of dust into the carpet. Metaphorically speaking.

The first day, he mused.

Technically the first day was the moment that man had brought him unconscious into his home. Or maybe that first night when he’d woken in that bed and the man had touched gentle fingers to his anus to see if he was still sore there. Or maybe the morning he’d woken for a second time and the man had parted his legs and eased his way inside with such tenderness he’d felt like crying.

Those were all firsts but they had seemed so dreamlike that he’d begun to wonder if they had actually happened.

The first day he could clearly state with confidence that he was awake and clear in his head was that morning. A long good sleep had refreshed him in both mind and body and that morning he had been truly alert and aware of his surroundings.

That first day he had been alone for the better part of the morning. Alone and with no distractions he had been able to look around and assess the situation.

I was alone, locked in a stranger’s house, and not quite certain if I was a prisoner or just being held secure. He glanced up and back down, a fleeting smile crossing his face. "All right. I knew I was a prisoner. I’d been locked in to keep me from fleeing not to keep me safe. I knew that and yet I didn’t feel like I was a prisoner. Do you get what I mean?"

Of course, Devaney murmured. Iron bars and steel doors do not a prison make. A man in an actual jail may disagree but a true prison is one that is made in the mind. If you feel you are a captive then captive you will be. If you don’t feel that you are then you won’t be, no matter how many locked doors and windows surround you.

He leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes glistening.

Go on, he urged. Tell me more about this first day. Did your…friend return that day?

He did and it turns out he wasn’t just a friend but an old friend. I got quite the shock.

----

It was almost dinnertime when he heard the sound of a key scraping in a lock.

He was sat in the living room, contemplating the picture-less walls and the bookless shelves. With nothing to read to pass the time it had been a long few hours in which he’d had too much time to think and not enough to eat. His belly was hollow. He’d eaten the rest of the bread, only a few slices left, and he was more irritated with having been left to go hungry than he was at discovering he’d been locked in.

He leapt up at the sound of the door thudding open and stood waiting for his rescuer to come in and explain himself.

He’d worked up quite a head of steam by the time the living room door opened and had been ready to rage at his…new friend for having left him with nothing but jam sandwiches to munch on while he waited for him to return. All supposing he’d been planning on it.

Think you can screw me, lock me in and then just run away, he’d been planning on saying. Think you can use me just because others have? Think you can just use me and leave me all alone?

The door swung inwards and he opened his mouth to say all this when the man walked in and pulled up sharply. He hadn’t been expecting to find him awake and out of bed.

Will didn’t know what he had been expecting but it wasn’t this.

A shivery sort of sensation moved through him. His body felt suddenly heavy. It was dragging him down. The room tilted, as did he.

When he came to he was on the sofa. He was lying flat, his arms crossed atop his chest and a warm hand was resting on his forehead. A face hovered above him. He had to fight to focus on it. It slowly homed into view.

Gone was the scruffy beard and straggly hair. In its place was the clean-shaven face with strong features that he remembered. There was that closely-cropped hair and those so very intense eyes. Good god! He had stared into those eyes the other morning as the man had pushed so very gently into him. He ought to have recognised him then.

You certainly should have recognised that big thick cock. Though I suppose, to be fair, the last time you knew it the man wasn’t so very tender, was he? He pumped you quite vigorously with it. There was none of that gentle thrusting of the other morning. He fucked you good and hard. No messing about. None of that tender touching and solicitous care. He