(Please note: I'm British and my stories are written in British English. I write whatever comes to me and in whatever way feels right to me. Some of my stories are down and dirty, some are slightly more restrained. They are all a part of my imagination and I don't censor my muse to fit any aesthetic. You might find that you like some and hate others. That's perfectly fine. I genuinely enjoy writing all of them and hope that each will find its intended audience.)
Eighteen-year-old James Bartholomew peered up at the five-storey mansion as the chauffeur drove up to his uncle's South Street address in Mayfair. The elegant red-brick, Grade II listed house with its double-fronted Edwardian façade was as familiar to him as his parents' much more modest four bedroom house in Chelsea.
He'd always loved the sense of grandeur he'd felt each time he'd visited as he'd walked up the Portland stone doorway that lead into the stately high-ceilinged entrance hall with its polished diamond limestone flagstones, large stone fireplace and imposing staircase.
Today he was too angry to be impressed by anything.
He was furious that his selfish parents had decided that they'd done their duty by him, parenting him until he'd reached majority age in the UK, and now wanted to have fun for themselves. They had joined an exclusive nudist colony on a private island, so exclusive that they wouldn't tell him where.
They had been good parents to him in most ways, except perhaps for making him feel that if he hadn't lived in the same house they would have walked around naked and fucked all day.
They had thrown the world's biggest party for him a week ago and now they had sent him to live with Uncle Edward, his father's identical twin brother, who was nothing like his five-minutes-younger brother, James's father Henry.
Being the first born, Edward had inherited all the family's wealth. Some stupid long-dead ancestor had decided that the only way to ensure that the properties he'd bought by scrimping and saving weren't sold off was by making them entailed property.
Several members of the family had challenged the practice of primogeniture over the years and had all failed.
The stupid thing was that despite its wealth, the family wasn't acknowledged by upper class English society.
James's father had never seemed to resent the fact that his twin had inherited both of the luxury London houses which had been in the family for over a century. Perhaps he believed that the half a million pounds he'd inherited from his maternal grandfather and living in his twin's Chelsea house rent free were an adequate enough consolation prize.
The forty-seven-year-old twin brothers had always been incredibly close, although they were as different as siblings could ever possibly be.
James and his uncle had also been close, up until two years ago when his uncle had started acting as though James didn't exist.
Then, as though he was a schizophrenic, his uncle had attended James's eighteenth birthday party last week and had acted like a fond uncle as though the two years had never happened.
Everyone in the family called Edward 'The Recluse' because he kept strictly to himself when he was not being the formidable owner and headmaster of St Gabriel's Boys' School, at which James had just completed his A-Levels.
Though Edward and his father were identical, they somehow managed to look quite different. While his father enjoyed the life of the idle rich, drinking and partying for as long as James could remember, Edward worked out regularly and took great care of himself.
The reason his parents had foisted him off on his uncle was because Edward had never married and James was his heir.
James didn't mind inheriting the man's wealth when he died, but he didn't know why he had to bloody go and live with him.
He could have stayed at the Chelsea house by himself—it wasn't going to be occupied or rented while his parents were away—and had as much fun as he'd wanted now that he was finally eighteen.
The annoying thing was that while his parents were hedonists, they hadn't allowed him any freedom. He'd spent most Saturdays from the age of 12 to 18 attending Royal College of Music Junior Academy.
Most Sundays, his parents had taken him to fun fairs, car and horse races, operatic and ballet performances, museums and art galleries. James had enjoyed every minute, but he'd sometimes wished that he'd been allowed to go clubbing and do all the other things boys his age did.
His father knew that he was gay and had sat him down at the age of fourteen and told him that while he fully accepted his son's sexual orientation, he wanted him to wait until he was eighteen to start dating.
James had been furious at first and had reminded his father that the homosexual age of consent had also finally been lowered to 16 in 2000, five whole years before James was born!
Instead of getting angry his father had told James that he was making the request out of love and not making the demand simply because he wanted to be an autocratic parent. He'd said that sex wasn't something that should be taken lightly. He'd said that he would have wanted James to wait until he was eighteen, if he was straight.
His father had always been a loving parent and after some thought, James had realized that his father really did want the best for him. The world was a scary place for vulnerable young gay boys and too many of them got taken advantage of.
But, his father had promised that James would be able to do exactly what he wanted as soon as he turned eighteen.
With that in mind, James had been seriously thinking of deferring his place at the Royal College of Music and kicking up his heels for a year.
He'd even thought that he might decide not to go at all after the year was done. His father hadn't been to university and it hadn't hurt him.
James had known that his parents had planned to leave the UK indefinitely. He'd planned to accompany them to the airport and make sure that they were safely onboard their flight. Then he'd planned to spend the day pampering himself, then get dressed and go to the most famous gay nightclub in the city, pick up the best-looking guy there and have his virgin butthole thoroughly fucked by morning.
Instead, late yesterday his father had dropped a bombshell—James was going to live with his Uncle Edward from today until further notice.
Suspecting that he would be held a virtual prisoner by his even stricter uncle, James had devised a plan. He'd connected to Grinder and made plans to meet up with a sexy-looking much older man.
He'd intended to arrive at his uncle at a minute to midnight at the very latest, just so that he couldn't be accused of not arriving on the planned day, with his dratted virginity a thing of the past.
Instead, Uncle Edward's chauffeured limousine had first dropped his parents off at Gatwick Airport where they'd said their goodbyes an hour ago and had now brought him straight to his uncle's door.
He hadn't even been allowed to make his own bloody way to his uncle's house and in his own bloody time!
Life was so fucking unfair sometimes!
Worst of all, his father had warned him that his uncle wouldn't tolerate any partying or reckless living while James lived under his uncle's roof.
He would probably still be a virgin when he was fifty!
***
His uncle was sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair when Simmons the butler ushered James into his uncle's study.
"So you've arrived in one piece," his uncle said, giving him an icy stare from his almost colourless eyes.
It was odd that while his father's pale grey eyes always sparkled like cut diamonds, his uncle's reminded him of icicles.
"Yes, Uncle Edward," he replied.
"Dinner will be served at eight sharp. You may retire to your room until then."
"Yes, Uncle Edward," he replied and turned back to the door.
As he was about to leave the room his uncle added, "Formal attire."
James didn't own a single suit or anything that could be considered formal.
"But I have nothing..." he started to protest, but trailed off when he saw the stern look in his uncle's eyes.
"Wear your school uniform."
"Yes, Uncle Edward."
James breathed a sigh of relief, but only for a minute.
He'd had enough of wearing the damn things!
He had five sets—a fresh one for each weekday, but the only reason he hadn't already chucked them was because they were in good condition and he'd planned to donate them to a charity. It was highly unlikely that anyone who bought them second hand could afford the fees at St Gabriel's, but students of several schools in London wore the exact shade of dark grey uniform.
James had hated wearing a uniform to school; he would have much preferred to have been able to express his individuality. Instead, he'd been forced to wear the same clothes as the idiots who had called him a 'faggot' when no one in authority could hear.
It had been annoying that he'd had the misfortune to go to the only boys' school in the country where all the boys had been raving heterosexuals.
All the books he'd ever read on exclusive boys' schools had hinted that a lot of butt-fucking took place and James had been eager for some when he'd first started the school.
He was almost sure, though, that there had been some butt-fucking going on, but it had been kept on the down low.
