A Boy Who Came in From the Cold

PART SIX – WHATEVER FLOATS YOUR BOAT

By Josh and Sadie Rose © 2005

"Ahhh, sun sea and sex... our favourite combination. What starts off as a potentially uncomfortable endeavour quickly turns out to be anything but... except perhaps for Rayne, but he's not complaining. Much!"

***AS EVER... IF THIS STORY SHOWS UP ANYWHERE BUT LITEROTICA.COM IT HAS, UNLESS OTHERWISE SPECIFIED, BEEN TAKEN AND USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. COPYRIGHT FRAUD IS THEFT AND WE WILL TAKE ACTION AGAINST ANYONE CAUGHT STEALING OUR MATERIAL***

The concourse of Agde railway station was like the seventh circle of hell. It was a sweltering ninety degrees in the shade once Ant and his travelling companion emerged from the underpass in the midst of the evening rush hour. Taxis and cars vied dangerously with buses mopeds and bicycles for every inch of space outside and the air was heady with petrol fumes, sweat and frustration. People shouted and pushed their way into the available cabs and Ant stood precariously in the doorway for a moment, surveying the scene with a thumping heart, searching for a familiar face in the heat of all this alien chaos. Beside him, Rayne located a bench and dumped his bags on it whilst he retrieved the mangled roll-up from his jacket and extracted a lighter from the tight back pocket of his jeans. Once his cigarette was lit he leaned back against the wall observing their new environment with a cool detachment that Ant briefly envied. There was a sheen of sweat on the bridge of his upturned nose and his recently cropped hair was still somewhat unruly but apart from this he looked as calm and unconcerned as a native.

A taxi pulled up at the kerb and the back window rolled down. Christophe called out; "Do you want to share our car?"

Ant was tempted but a glance back at his inscrutable companion swayed his decision. Rayne was not even looking at them.

"Someone's picking us up," he called back. "We should wait really."

"See you at the Cap," the Frenchman saluted him and the long black car pulled away.

When he returned to the bench where Rayne had been guarding their luggage, the boy was gone but a quick, panicked assessment of the forecourt located him almost immediately. He was talking to a scruffy, rather dirty looking fellow with a deeply tanned, wrinkled face. The man spoke with his hands, pointing along the street and gesticulating in Rayne's direction. The boy shook his head a couple of times then nodded and blew a streamer of smoke in the fellow's face. As Ant approached them the wizened man quickly shuffled away and accosted someone else.

"Who was that?" the older man asked warily. He was still not sure if Rayne was talking to him.

"Dunno," his lover responded with infuriating apathy. "I think he wanted me to go with him but I'm not sure why. I told him I didn't have any money and he buggered off sharpish."

This was in fact a blatant lie. Ant could see as much in the closed nature of his lover's stare. He returned to the bench and checked through his bag but all his things were thankfully still there. Rayne had taken his backpack and guitar case with him, of course.

"We could have been robbed," Ant pointed out now.

"We 'aven't got anything worth nickin'," Rayne reminded him, taking a long pull on his ratty roll-up. "I thought you said somebody was coming to pick us up," he exhaled in a plume of smoke.

"He is," Ant said irritably. "Maybe he's stuck in traffic. Maybe I should ring them."

"Maybe we should get the bus," Rayne suggested pointing to a line of service buses under the trees on the main road. He wandered off to inspect the timetables whilst Ant located a telephone kiosk and called Daniel to let his friend know they had arrived.

As he was scrutinising the list of destinations with no real idea of where they were going, Rayne became aware that the scruffy guy from the forecourt was watching him again. He sidled closer as the young Englishman pinched out the last embers of his smoke and flicked the ashes away deftly. Dark, calculating eyes took in the boy's attitude and his looks in one appreciative sweep.

"You need more?" he asked again now. "Your friend, he not know what you..." Pressing two fingers together he mimed taking a long toke and Rayne laughed humourlessly.

"I doubt it."

"What you like? I get for you," the fellow promised him, resting a long, brown hand on his arm.

"I'm broke," Rayne said apologetically, shrugging him off. "No cash... no francs. Sorry."

"You want Marijuana, I get... just two hundred francs for two ounce."

"No." Rayne told him more firmly. "Not interested."

"You want Ketamine? Heroin? I get." Dark eyes bored into him and Rayne chewed on his lower lip speculatively.

"Your friend... the one who gets the stuff. Where can I find him?"

"No... you come with me," the wiry fellow countered, shaking his tatty dreadlocks determinedly.

"I can't... I'm not on my own."

"You give me money and I fetch."

"No... I told you, I haven't got any money. God's truth!" Rayne put his hands in his pockets and brought them out full of cigarette papers and sweet wrappers.

That earned him a disappointed look and he shrugged his shoulders evasively.

"You like men?" the tout persisted. "Tout le cul?"

Rayne blinked at him, not quite comprehending this.

"I take you to meet a man, oui?" The little dealer elaborated. "He will give you money if you let him fuck you in the ass. Five hundred francs, very quick."

"Fuck off." Rayne was already walking. The scrawny guy followed him, persistent to the last but as Ant came back down towards him with a huge, relieved smile on his face he melted away almost magically.

"What's up with you?" Ant wanted to know as they drew level.

"No buses," Rayne said with a shake of his head.

"No matter... Terry's on his way. Like I said, he's probably stuck in the traffic."

Around ten minutes later a long, dusty black Mercedes that looked to have seen better days (probably in the 1970s) pulled up on the rapidly emptying concourse and a round, cheerful face framed by a shock of yellowing blond hair peered out of the near side front window at them. Sky blue eyes twinkled merrily as the shirtless, sun-tanned driver asked in a broad, Cockney crackle; "You 'eading anywhere I know, mate?"

"Terry!" Ant exclaimed. "Thought you'd got lost."

"Long time no see, Rosie!" the driver retorted with a grin like the white keys on a grand piano. "Who's your friend then?"

Ant opened the door and ushered his lover into the back of the Merc complete with all their baggage. As they settled on the back seat he made cursory introductions.

"Terry, this is Raymonde, aka Rayne Wilde. Ray, my old friend Terence Goodwill. We go back a long way, me and Terry."

"'Allo," Rayne said non-committally.

"All right gorgeous?" the man called Terence asked over his right shoulder as the Merc pulled away into Agde's rush hour traffic. "What's a proper darlin' like you doin' hanging about with an old salt like Rosie?"

"Rosie?" the boy repeated, mildly curious.

"Rosie and Jim," Ant explained wearily. "I used to live on a narrow boat in the Black Country with a friend of Terry's called James Hawkes. It was a kid's TV programme..."

"Yeah... Rosie and Jim, I know." But Rayne was grinning for the first time since Lille and Ant allowed himself to hope that things could only improve from here on in.

"How's Daniel?" he asked now, settling into the worn leather of the rear seat and watching his beautiful lover out of the corner of his eye.

"Ahh... you know Dan," Terry answered cryptically.

They made small talk for much of the short journey back around the cape whilst Rayne looked out of the window at the river and the dusty roadside haciendas. He was half asleep again wrapped in the stifling heat when the car pulled up at a checkpoint and inched forward through the traffic until a barrier rose and it was allowed through into the Port of Ambonne.

Ant shook him gently when the Merc stopped on the roadside by the harbour. He saw the younger man stir and blink back at him drowsily then sit up straighter as he seemed to realise that they were here, wherever 'here' was. His green eyes widened as he took in the palm trees on the main boulevard and the clink of mooring ropes and hoops against the jetties to their left. As Ant opened the door he climbed out and stared around him at the vast harbour town that was Port Ambonne.

There were boats moored everywhere; large and small, old and new; roped up side by side along the wooden gangplanks off the boulevard and curling around the harbour to his right. An ex-trawler was up on the hoist at the chandlery just off the main road, being inspected by a big woolly bear of a man in a skimpy pair of yellow lycra briefs and nothing else. Beyond that there were chalets and flats with open, inviting balconies all around the man-made cove. Away to the left was a huge block of apartments rising like a concrete cliff to meet the cerulean sky.

Terry, who had probably once been a muscle queen but was now a stocky fellow in his late middle age, wearing nothing but tight denim cut-offs and deck shoes, helped to carry their luggage down through an iron barred gate onto one of the jetties. Rayne found himself watching his step as the wooden planks bobbed and swayed underfoot. The sunlight glittered on the water to either side. An elderly fellow in a small, open-topped motor boat hailed them cheerfully and it was only as he looked away that Rayne realised the man was stark bollock naked. His chest and crotch were densely furred in white but his sun browned knob dangled down from the carpet of thick white hair like a pendulum on a novelty alarm clock. He blinked and wondered had he got too much sun waiting outside the station.

Now he looked around a little more attentively he began to notice that the old guy in the boat was not a lone eccentric. A pair of young women strolled along the quay, boldly naked as children. Their full, brown breasts bounced as they walked. One was shaven clean down below and the other had a trimmed stripe of bleached blonde pubis. Rayne blinked, quite astonished. His eyes followed them admiringly until they vanished from sight and he ran into the back of Terry who had stopped beside a long, white ocean-going cruiser. There was an open deck to the rear with a wooden table and cushioned chairs. A pair of half-empty glasses stood on the table as if a pleasant meal had been interrupted and was waiting to be resumed.

"Welcome aboard," Terry declared, ushering them both onto the sun deck and following them into the cooler shadows of the lounge.

Two shallow steps led down into a spacious, maple floored leisure room. A low futon in the same pale wood, covered with a rumpled white duvet occupied the floor space on one side of the wide, bright room. The walls which were not windows were lined with cabinets and shelves filled with books and videos and even a few DVDs. Digital Video Discs were still a relatively new product on the market in the late eighties and Rayne stopped and examined one or two as he passed by. As he was thus occupied, a tall, white-bearded, sun-tanned man stepped out from one of the rooms beyond the lounge and greeted them in a baritone voice that was as rich and melodious as an opera singer's.

"Antoine, my child! You've put on weight! And what is this dark angel you have been promising me?"

Rayne Wilde lifted his head and his pale green eyes met a solemn, familiar silver grey stare that almost stopped his heart in his chest. For a moment he just gaped at the man in front of him, not quite sure what to do next. Daniel Leland was about six feet tall and lean as a wooden ruler. His skin was tanned a deep, golden brown, which set off the long white hair that fell to his waist in a thick braid, hanging over his left shoulder. He wore a neatly trimmed white beard and moustache and his loins were draped artlessly in a skein of pale blue silk like a short sarong, his only attire apart from the silver loop he wore on a long black cord around his neck and the cork-soled deck shoes on his feet. He looked like Gandalf on a beach holiday. The man was ageless; he might have been in his late forties or early seventies. It was hard to say.

Except that Rayne already had a good idea.

Ant seemed not to have noticed his companion's state of shock. He made the introductions with a naïve sweetness that genuinely hurt. Rayne felt sick. He knew that he should have put two and two together when Ant first spoke of his friend Daniel the pornographer and the boat he owned in the South of France. He had seen Dan Leland's name written down on his passport application form and still he had not made the connection.

When Ant announced his name, Leland's pewter stare narrowed speculatively and Rayne could see him trying to remember. He lowered his head for a moment, wondering if he should lie when the inevitable happened. There was a pensive silence and then their host rumbled; "I 'know' you, don't I?"

Rayne wanted to deny it. After the events of this afternoon on the train the last thing he wanted to recall was his past knowledge of Dan Leland. He bit his lip, aware of Ant's incredulous stare and unable to meet it. Finally he nodded his head.

"Thought so," the quiet, cultured accentless voice remarked. "I never forget a pretty face."

The man moved closer and touched his fingertips to Rayne's chin, lifting the boy's head to look into his eyes. Rayne swallowed nervously, his mouth suddenly very dry. Ant murmured his name in bewilderment but he ignored it.

"You were in one of my movies, about... four years ago?"

"Nearly five," Rayne whispered, his tongue so parched that he could barely make a sound, let alone speak coherent sentences.

"Yes, it's all coming back. You don't look nearly old enough. And you didn't call yourself Rayne Wilde either?" The elderly pornographer cupped his face in a long-boned, surprisingly gentle hand. His skin was warm, like well-tended parchment. Rayne shook his head just once or twice. "What was the name of that film? A sweet young schoolboy surrendering his innocence to two horny strangers in an empty house."

Rayne tried to speak and had to clear his throat twice before he could get the words out.

"'Going All The Way'," he volunteered huskily. "And it wasn't the only film I made with you. I was in 'Dying for It' as well."

Ant made a small, astonished noise in the back of his throat. "You never told me you'd been in porn movies!" he protested at last, visibly shocked.

Terry stood by him, a hand on his shoulder as if he was worried that Ant would collapse and foam at the mouth.

"You never asked," Rayne said awkwardly, unable to meet his eyes. "I did it for the money. It's not something I brag about, Ant."

Daniel Leland had moved away from him and was flicking through an index box now until he came up with a small, blue card. He scrutinised a bank of videos on one of the shelves then produced a box and handed it wordlessly to Ant. The fair-haired man studied the cover for a little while, his cheeks flushing steadily. The crotch of his pants began to protrude slowly as he examined the stills on the sleeve.

"Jay Raymonde," he said finally. "Is that your real name?"

Rayne shook his head. "I told you, Ant. I was christened Raymonde James Wilde, after my grandfathers. Rayne Wilde 'is' my real name. I don't like using it when I'm selling myself so I go by Jay or Jason."

"How old were you...?" Ant began but Rayne was already shaking his head.

"Work it out!"

He could see that Ant was already doing the maths. "Christ, Ray!" he exhaled tremulously. "I knew you weren't an innocent but... this is something else."

"I think they call it Hardcore, Antoine," Daniel took the video box from his hands and put it back on the shelf. "Are you excited my dear? Would you like to watch it?"

"No!" Rayne exclaimed before Ant could even open his mouth. "No... don't!"

He stood for a moment, worrying his lower lip between his small, white teeth as Ant gaped at him visibly aroused and perplexed. Rayne felt betrayed. He stared back at the older man accusingly then whirled away.

"I feel dirty. I need to have a shower then I wanna sleep. Alone!" he said in a grim voice.

Whilst Ant and Daniel were still talking in subdued murmurs in the day room, Terry showed him to the bathroom, which was an ornate, white-tiled cube with a showerhead protruding from the ceiling like a silver flower and a drain hole in the floor. There was enough space in the room for at least six men. Sunken lights in the walls made the cube look like the inside of a swimming pool without the water. Once he was alone, Rayne stripped and dumped his clothes outside, then hunted for the lock on the door before concluding that there wasn't one.

Warily he turned the chromium dial in the far wall and a spill of water cascaded down onto his head and shoulders, pummelling his gritty skin until he actually began to relax slightly. It felt good to get clean. An array of soaps and gels in blocks and bottles sat on ledges around the edge of the cube and he rubbed a sweet, minty-smelling foam all through his hair and over his naked body then rinsed it off three times in all before he began to feel human again. There were no towels but when he turned off the water a soft, warm breeze began to blow from vents in the ceiling and he was soon touch dry, save for his dark, spiky hair.

His discarded clothing had gone when he stepped out into the corridor that led to the bows of the boat. The next room along was a bedroom and he discovered his bags and guitar case and also Ant's gear in here, next to the white-shrouded, king-sized bed. There were two other bedroom suites, a toilet and a galley, which adjoined the day room where meals were prepared and eaten. As he turned to leave the largest bedroom he ran into Terry who had removed his tight denim shorts and was naked except for a pair of blue espadrilles and a broad smile.

"That's better," the stocky Cockney fellow told him approvingly. "Nice little body you've got, still. Shame about the bruises but I guess they'll fade."

"Does everybody wander about in the buff here?" Rayne wanted to know, ignoring the other fellow's curiosity about his injuries.

"That's what Naturism's all about," Terry laughed, then seeing the confusion on his guest's face, he added; "Didn't Anthony tell you this was a naturist resort?"

Rayne swore quietly under his breath and vowed that once they were on a level playing field he was going to beat Ant Wright to a bloody pulp for this. As if it was not bad enough that he was stuck on a boat with a man who had once filmed him pretending to surrender his virginity and being ripped apart by a humungous dildo, he was now surrounded by naked perverts as well.

"Do I 'have' to walk about in the nude?" he asked disparagingly.

"You can suit yourself, darlin'," Terry laughed at him. "But it gets hot as hell out here during the summer. Some days it's a blessed relief to get your kit off, I can tell you. I reckon you'd look good with an all-over tan, don't you?"

Rayne did not answer that question. He was still preoccupied by the expression on Ant's face as he studied that video case. Fending off Terry's genial attempts to coax him back on deck for a cocktail he retreated to the bedroom again and curled up on the cool sheets, his head beginning to ache slightly. Once he was lying down, alone and quiet for the first time in days, he was able to take stock. It was in the back of his mind that he had smoked the last of his Kings Cross stash as they waited for Terry to collect them from the station. He was okay for the time being but it would only be a matter of about thirty-six hours before he started to get the shakes again. That was not a comforting thought.