Holidays
can be the devil. This one's first prize in a
competition - five nights for two, just
before Christmas, in the birthplace of Mozart
himself - but that doesn't stop it being a
disaster. On a whim I've asked Ben along,
pleased but startled when he says 'yes'. For
one thing I'm not sure how he feels about two
blokes sharing; for another he's been
resisting my advances for months. But I have
this naive belief that he'll succumb to the
romance of Salzburg and fall into my arms
without a backward glance. You can tell I've
got it bad.
Trouble
is, he hasn't, and he's letting it show. No
matter what we do or see he's unimpressed, in
a 'seen it, done it, got the T-shirt' kind of
way. He came last year with somebody else,
and now he thinks he knows it all. In the end
I leave him to it and explore the place on my
own: the brawling river chock-full of storm
waters and snow-melt; the narrow, bustling
streets; the chocolate-box churches; the
wedding- cake cathedral looming over its
square. Over all, the squat lump of the
fortress, brooding on its rock. It's a
magical place and in spite of the lack of
company I'm glad I came. But it would still
be better with someone at my side.
Things
come to a head on Friday, when I find we're
expected to attend a lunchtime gala concert.
It's Mozart - what else - and I'd forgotten
clean about it. I'm not ecstatic at being
reminded, although I can't really complain
since I won the damn holiday from a music
magazine.
Ben's
not delirious either. "Christ! If it's
not the Sound of Music it's bloody
Mozart," he snarls, glaring at me as
though it's my fault. For the umpteenth time
this week.
We don
our poshest togs and join the end of the
queue. Lucky it's a mild, dry day because
we've got half an hour to wait - and then I
discover my ticket's for VIPs and we could
have got in straight away. I'm getting a bad
feeling about this. If only there was some
way to escape.... But if there's a God he's
busy somewhere else. We trudge into the
auditorium, find our seats and settle down to
endure the artistic feast. Agony of agonies,
it's excerpts from the Magic Flute. Opera's
not my thing at the best of times and this
seems worse than most. The tenor misses all
the high notes and the soprano's got a cold;
after ten minutes I'm not sure I can cope. I
study the scenery instead but the lights are
low and the half-seen pillars and shadowy
swags soon pall.
At the
interval the lights come back on and Ben's
eyes roll. "Race you to the bar,"
he says, suiting action to words. Given the
crowds down there I don't think we'll get
served, until I see they're not waiting at
the bar. There's a minor celebrity in town
and everyone's clustered round, clamouring
for her to sign her name on anything they can
find. Including, I might add, their butts.
Her gain is our gain too, because everyone's
heads are turned. Seizing the opportunity -
and my arm - Ben drags me down some steps.
"Come on, Pete," he says with an
impish grin. "Never mind the drink.
No-one's looking. We can get out down
here."
We
abandon the opera to its fate. It doesn't
seem very ethical but his grasp is too strong
to break and besides, given the choice
between Mozart and him it's easy to take my
pick. Ben may be infuriating but at least he
isn't dead.
We
cross back over the river and I assume we're
heading for the hotel, but without warning he
pulls me under an arch and up an alley
between two shops. It's dark and dingy and
looks like the sort of place they store the
dustbins but he taps the side of his nose.
"Trust me, you've got to see this.
Eleanor found it when we came before."
Eleanor's
his girlfriend, when he wants her to be. I'd
rather push her off a cliff than believe a
word she says, but he's dashing ahead of me
up the hill, turning every now and then to
make sure I'm still there. He looks like an
eager puppy and I can't deny the plea in his
eyes so I do as he says, trying not to look
at his bum in those black skin-tight pants he
always wears. That's easier said than done,
because it's constantly in my face. The
lane's so steep it's nearly sheer, with
flights of steps every few yards and
back-breaking stones in between. I thought I
was fit, but on this slope I'm starting to
flag.
Ben
turns again, grinning, to wait. "Come
on, grandad. You can do better than
that!"
I stick
out my tongue and soldier on. He's only three
years younger than me really but you'd never
know it the way he carries on.
The
lane is obviously a religious place. It's
lined with shrines, each more ornate than the
last, painted and gilded, rococo statues
gleaming in dancing candle-light. The last is
a calvary, Christ flanked by two thieves -
three naked bodies assailing my eyes. It's
all I can do not to gasp, all I can do not to
picture Ben hanging there instead. My
trousers are getting tight.
Tight
pants or none I make it to the top; the hill
is crowned by a friary, remote and forbidding
behind high stone walls. It reminds me of
Ben, who always retreats when he can't handle
life. He's spent the last few months
retreating from me....
Thinking
about it won't help. I turn aside, find a
path that leads to a viewpoint hidden away in
the trees. The light is fading but even in
the dusk the view takes away my breath - dark
huddled roofs, punctured here and there by
floodlit domes and spires. At our feet lies
the river, a hurtling silver snake, while
over the valley the castle squats like a toad
on a rock, draped with an incongruous
necklace of fairy lights. It's a far cry from
a stuffy concert hall with hot-house,
over-perfumed air. I breathe in deep, holding
the magic in my lungs.
Ben's
silent and I assume he's sulking again,
although for the life of me I can't figure
out why. We're doing what he wants; we
escaped from that concert, didn't we? He's
standing too close and the hairs on his arms
brush mine whenever he moves; when I turn my
head I can see the cool breeze riffling his
hair. I want to stroke it flat again, to feel
the soft strands against my hand, but I can't
summon the courage alone - I need a sign from
him to say it's all right. Deep down, I know
it's a sign I'm not likely to get.
But
then he turns to me and I see the awe in his
eyes. "I never found this with Eleanor.
It's beautiful," he breathes. So he
wasn't sulking after all.
"Yeah.
Stunning." He's right. There's places on
this earth that leave their mark on you, that
imprint themselves on your heart so you can
never let them go. Even if I never come here
again I know I'll remember this moment till
the day I die; if only Ben would fall into my
arms and make it perfect.
He's
looking up at me again with just the hint of
a smile. "You talking about me or the
view?"
What
can I say? The slightest word now and I'll
betray myself for good, lose myself in those
luscious dark eyes, spout poetry or grab him
and kiss that smirk right off his face. It's
impossible, of course, so I keep my mouth
shut, but I can't prevent a sigh from
crawling out.
"Oh,
Pete, don't be like that," he says, and
for once he isn't snapping, there's a soft
look in his eyes and he reaches to stroke my
face.
I shy
away - one touch from him and I'm a drowning
man. "Don't!"
But
it's the wrong thing to say. His eyes darken
and his mouth pouts. "Thought you wanted
me."
Oh God
- if he only knew.
But
then it hits me. He sounds... disappointed.
Is it possible? Has the magic of Salzburg
rubbed off on him after all? I risk a glance,
though I barely need to bother, I'm so aware
of him. Aware of his upper arms, stretching
the thin fabric of his shirt sleeves, aware
of his warmth and the faint tang of sweat
from his run up the hill, aware of the rise
and fall of his chest as he catches his
breath. What's more of a surprise is his
crotch, which seems bigger than before. I've
almost stopped breathing. Could it? Could he?
How will I ever know, unless I ask him now?
This
time I know it's the right thing to do. I
hold out my arms and he walks into them, slim
body pressing its length against mine, so
close I can feel the bulge at his groin. The
relief turns my knees to water; I cling to
him, hugging, wrapping him tight as if I'll
never let him go. Breath shortens and pulses
race; suddenly we're kissing and he winds his
fingers in my hair. It would be so easy to
take him, right here and now, but we're on
the front step of a monastery, for heaven's
sake. "Not here," I grunt, panic
welling. "Ben. Ben! Stop it. Somebody
will see."
But he
fastens himself more tightly, arms weaving
like bindweed round my neck and waist.
"Don't care. I've waited too long as it
is, I can't wait any more." And his
excitement carries me with him.
At the
last moment sanity prevails. I glance round,
spot a stand of trees behind the nearest
shrine. Even in the twilight the cover's not
perfect but it'll have to do. Half dragging,
half carrying him I get us there, deep
beneath the branches, undergrowth draped like
a curtain to hide us from prying eyes. It's
quiet in there, only the leaves rustling as
we clasp and kiss once more, his mouth
opening to mine as a crocus to the sun. I
shimmy down his body, opening buttons as I
go, ripping the fabric in my haste. I have to
get at him, have to experience him with each
of my senses in turn. It's as though I won't
know he's real if I don't.
He's
panting too, pulling what's left of his shirt
over his head, pushing my head against his
chest. Tufts of hair brush my cheek; my lips
fasten on a nipple and I hear him groan. A
trickle of sweat breaks free from his chin,
falls onto his chest and starts to journey
south. I watch, then follow its progress with
my tongue - his skin tastes of salt, and he's
so hot my saliva dries to an instant sheen.
Heading downwards again, licking as I go, I
reach the top of his pants and try to dip
inside.
Before
I know it I'm being rolled onto my back, and
a ferocious wild beast is attacking me. Well,
that's what it seems like, as a knee settles
on my stomach to hold me down, and fingers
and thumbs and lips and teeth begin their
assault. My shirt's flung aside; it's cold
without it and I've got twigs digging into my
back and bramble thorns much too close to one
thigh, but I don't care, can't care, with him
astride me, setting fire to my veins.
Soon my
pants join the tumbled heap of clothes beside
my head and Ben's making inroads on my
undies. He slides them down my hips, stroking
as he goes, worshipping my skin with his
hands. The hair on his arms catches against
my skin and my cock leaps like a salmon,
begging to be noticed. He notices, all right.
He takes me right into his mouth, rubbing his
lips along my length. Oh, God, it feels so
good; he's done this before, I can tell. His
tongue swirls my glans, his teeth nibble, his
two-day growth of beard rasps against my
balls. It's all I can do not to explode. But
it's not enough; I can hear from his
breathing that he's needy too. I'm turning
him on, but while he's kneeling over my legs
there's no way I can reach. I touch his
shoulder, gesture, pull and squirm and
writhe, until he's lying on top of me the
wrong way round. Except that it's the right
way for this....
He sets
to work again, sucking hard, but I hold back,
blowing cool air on his balls and watching
the goose bumps travel east and west. I can't
rush this moment, I've been hoping too long.
Finally, when I've looked my fill I open my
mouth, poke out my tongue and lick from root
to tip. He purrs. I swear he was a cat in a
previous life - he stretches like one now,
arcing his backbone and pushing himself
deeper into my throat. His glans catches
against my tongue and I hear him gasp, then
purr again as he begins to thrust. Down
below, he's doing the same to me, matching my
every move with one of his own, licking when
I lick, his tongue following the same trail,
slower now or faster as mind and body
threaten to blow. It's so intense; whatever I
do is passed back to me, magnified a thousand
times. His hands squeeze my buttocks a second
after mine squeeze his. My tongue probes his
slit, and his follows suit. I move my finger
and suddenly it's my anus being stroked, the
nerves shrieking their joy. And all the time
that steady pressure, up and down, in and
out, as our mouths work over each others'
pricks.
It's
too much, and I can't take any more. I come
inside his mouth, filling his throat with my
seed, and want to stay there for good. Even
in this he mirrors me, his own cock pumping
as he groans his pleasure into my hip.
He
folds, and lies exhausted on top of me, and
this time I mirror him, my arms sliding off
his back to fall, wide-spread, on the ground.
Even the twigs can't hurt me now. We should
move - it's too dangerous to stay. We're
naked, head to groin, in a public place; if
anyone looks behind the shrine we'll be seen.
But I haven't the energy to push him off and
he hasn't the energy to roll. We lie, taking
quiet pleasure in one another, until the
lethargy fades and the shivering sets in, and
only then does he angle round so our faces
are together again.
It's
dark now, and the stars are out, pin-pricks
of light in a coal-black sky. As I watch, a
pallid glow limns the castle roofs as the
full moon rises from beyond the hill, a
perfect silver orb. The wind is less perfect
- straight from Siberia from the feel of it -
and I can sense my skin turning blue. Ben
hands me a tangled heap of clothes and I
untie legs and sleeves and begin to draw them
on.
The
kiss I give him would be suitable for a child
- soft, gentle, filled with gratitude and,
dare I say it, love. "Thank you."
"You're
welcome," he grins, and sits up.
I don't
want him to go. I want him so much it's
making me shake. Or is that fear? It would be
so easy for him to walk away, to smile and
jump up and start putting on his clothes. I'm
so tense I'm holding my breath. But he
doesn't go. He stays, lying next to me, a
loose arm across my chest, and smiles into my
eyes. "Wow," he says once, his
voice barely a whisper. "Why did I wait
so long?"
I can't
even begin to answer that, so I kiss him
instead to shut him up. I expect him to
argue, to push me away, but he doesn't
resist, although his eyes tease me. He knows
what I'm doing, he's just decided to go
along. That's Ben all over - he sets the
pace, he chooses what will happen when. I
should mind, but I'll go with the flow. I'm
just grateful that, for now, he's succumbed
to the magic and chosen to be with me.
© 2003
Fiona Glass
