The Locksmith

An Envelope Collection Vignette

By Alp Mortal

Copyright © 2016 Alp Mortal

Written by Alp Mortal - http://alpmortal.weebly.com

Cover Design by The Carter Seagrove Project LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by

The Carter Seagrove Project LLC

Indiana, USA

Website:  http://carterseagrove.weebly.com

Email:  thecarterseagroveproject@gmail.com

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First Edition 2016

Contents

Contents

Author’s Note

PART ONE

PART TWO

About the Author

Also by this Author

The Carter Seagrove Project

Author’s Note

The Locksmith is the second story in The Envelope Collection, a collection of short, intense, and largely erotic vignettes written by Alp Mortal, exclusive to the Carter Seagrove website, offered free and available as a mobi and epub download.

I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: alpmortal@hotmail.com.

Visit the website, www.alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on the next gay romantic story or crime thriller which I am working on.

Thank you,

Alp Mortal

PART ONE

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Yes. It’s been driving me crazy for ages; look how thin it’s getting at the front, and I can never have it down while I’m working - so what’s the point?”

“You’ve had long hair all the time I’ve known you - for years.”

“Will you still love me?”

A quirk of the lips, in the reflection in the mirror, suggests that it was a dumber than dumb question.

Seated on the bar stool - the one we rescued from the skip, later finding it to be a Conran classic design from the 60s - in front of the bathroom mirror, my vulnerabilities were never more on show. Any lapse in the exercise and diet regime will quickly get me a membership card for the Dad Bod club - Rile has no such concerns; being a 23-year-old contemporary dancer with a leading London company keeps him on the lean and mean side. If I didn’t shave the chest and keep the pubes trimmed, the grey would already be centre stage; for now, it remains in the wings, offering the audience the odd soliloquy on the dangers of chasing the tail of my youth. Coincidentally, I have a tattoo of the tail-devouring snake on my left pec - the Ouroboros; whereas Rile has a phoenix on his right. A sort of homage to the idea that we are renewed after death. We got the tattoos on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday and my fiftieth birthday - our milestones falling in the same month - July.

Older for younger - yes; but that is a label or a slogan used by our detractors. Apparently, we defy the definition because we are in love - so says Rile. I hasten to agree with him on every occasion.

“I can do it myself but I’m sure to get the back all messed up.”

“No; I’ll do it if you’re absolutely positive it’s what you want.”

“It is; and if I resemble an ageing poster boy for the Neo-Nazis, I won’t blame you.”

“Plenty of guys have their heads shaved and don’t look like thugs ... keep the beard trimmed to the same length and you’ll look even sexier than you do already ...”

“I guess it will grow back a bit.”

“Do you want me to do it or not?”

“Do it! Now or never.”

“Relax ... and close your eyes.”

Using the electric razor with a size three comb, he begins the process of shearing off my locks, starting at the front and working backwards in tracks. Rather than shedding a tear, I spring a woody. Judging by the complete lack of a reaction, either he hasn’t seen it or he’s ignoring it. The feeling of each clump tumbling down my back is tantalising, to say the least. It’s very liberating.

“I never realised that you had such a beautifully-shaped head.”

“Michael shaved his and found that scar he never knew he had from the time when his brother pushed him so high on the swing that he fell out of the seat and cracked his head open - he only remembered the incident when he saw the scar ...”

“Yours is perfect - and you don’t have any horrible fat veins like Polo has; I can never take my eyes from the one on the side of his head that pulses whenever he gets angry.”

“Did he cast you in the lead role this time?”

“I’m waiting on a text - it’ll either be me or Rory ...”

“By rights, it should be you.”

“Nearly done; just gonna go round the edges with the blade and make it neat; I’ll shave your neck too.”

“Can I look yet?-”

“No! Be patient ...”

Patience. I have so little and have to work so hard to keep what I have got. Not so when Rile and I first met - then I was very patient - also transfixed by his performance on the stage that night. It was all Bryony’s doing.

Bryony. My half-sister. Mum and Dad divorced - a rarity for their generation compared to mine, and unique in their circle of Bridge playing Conservative Party members. After the dust had settled, Dad remarried; a younger woman - Chloe. Apparently, she’s from a long line of hippies. She’s an artist. They produced a sprog - Bryony, whom Dad dotes on and spoils rotten, and whom Chloe ignores, making Bryony all the wilder at times as she attempts - unsuccessfully - to win her mother’s attention and-or affection. I unofficially adopted her for the sake of some normality in her life. When she can be bothered to turn up, she’s training to be a locksmith - my apprentice - kind of Pygmalion in reverse.

One day she says, as she so often did, “Gui; got someone I want you to meet ...”

“A boyfriend?”

“Yes - for you!”

“Bryony; sweetheart, that’s really-”

“No; you have to meet him - Friday!”

Finding me a boyfriend was her pet project - I went along with it for the most part just to keep her quiet. One or two of her ‘finds’ did turn out to be nice young men; the vast majority couldn’t string two words together for the effects of the drugs they were taking - that didn’t stop me from fucking three of them. I’ve told her that if I ever catch her with drugs, I’m dragging her to the police station myself. It seems not to be her thing, thankfully.

“Who is he and what does he do?”

“His name is Rile and he’s a dancer.”

“How did you meet him?”

“At a party after one of his performances; he’s gorgeous.”

“And yet twenty?”

“Very nearly twenty-one.”

“Couldn’t you find me someone who is at least half my age?”

“Silly Gui - age is not important ... it’s all about love.”

“Very true, sweetheart ... Are you working today by chance?”

“Depends.”

“Got your pick and tension wrench? Got a call-out in Holland Park.”

“Oh, goody! A breaking and entering job!”

“You scare me ... Come on!”

***

“Can I open my eyes yet?”

“Just tidying up the back ...”

The sensation of his fingers on my freshly shaved skin has kept my cock erect; the cool tip suggests I’ve been leaking heavily.

“Now you can open your eyes ...”

While I gaze into the mirror, he uses a huge makeup powder dusting brush - the size of something you could sweep a chimney with - to clean the tiny clippings from my back and shoulders - the brush is an old one; I bought him a new set of brushes last Christmas, seeing as he has to provide his own for applying his stage makeup.

“What do you think?” Rile asks.

“Wow ... it’s amazing!”

I instinctively rub my hand over my scalp, feeling the tiny hairs as they prickle against my palm.

“Let me trim your beard and then you’ll get the full effect ...”

“What do you think?”

“I like it - love it ... a definite improvement.”

“It doesn’t make look old?”

“You look sexy; let me do your beard ...”

Moving around in front of me, he blocks my view of the mirror, consequently, I have no choice but to allow my eyes to rest on his face as he trims me up.

“You’d best take a shower after this to wash all the little hairs away ...”

“I’d best have something ...”

“So I noticed ... Stop grinning; I can’t get the sides even if you grin.”

“Sorry ...”

“There! The best-looking ageing poster boy for the Neo-Nazis that I have ever had the good fortune to fall in love with.”

The comment, however lame it might have sounded, brings tears to my eyes, which I blame on the hair flying about. He leans back, with his bum resting against the sink, arms folded across his chest and looks at me like he’s looking at a piece of modern art.

“I do love you, you know.”

“I know you do, and I love you.”

The performance to which Bryony dragged me - not exactly kicking and screaming because having to watch fit guys in tight clothing, bending and stretching in provocative ways can hardly be described as purgatory, can it? - was a performance of a contemporary ballet called Trilogie - three dances; each in a very different style. I was informed that Rile was dancing in the second piece - something between classic and modern - and it was a solo piece with just a violin to accompany him.

Now, here’s the coincidence that sets the ball rolling. My father repaired violins from an atelier in Brick Lane before Brick Lane became Mecca for the young and trendy - what happened to Carnaby Street? Anyways; he repaired violins - and other stringed instruments. The chap playing the violin had been one of Dad’s last customers - how strange. I recognised him. At the after party - I was never entirely sure how Bryony got us access to these things - I caught up with the chap and we had a bit of a chinwag. Bryony was impatient to introduce me to Rile - had it not been for the fact that the violinist needed to catch a bus, I am pretty certain that he and I would be married with three Chihuahuas by now.

“Gui!”

I caved and let Bryony introduce me. His first question was, “Gui? Is that short for Guillaume?”

“Yes, it is ... Rile?”

“No clue; my mother saw it on the side of a box of Chinese noodles ... could have been worse; my father was championing Severn ... which is my middle name but I never use it. Are you French?”

“My father is from Alsace; my mother is from Sissinghurst in Kent ... You dance beautifully.”

“Thank you ... Do you mind if we leave and grab an espresso somewhere?”

“The pleasure would be all mine.”

“Not entirely ...”

He was - and remains - so polite and just a little bit erudite.

My attention is grabbed by Rile dropping his towel.

“What were you thinking about?”

“The night we met ...”

“You were so patient as I insisted on taking off my makeup first ... Do you remember the look on the face of the waiter at the café where we had coffee?”

“Give the chap his due, you were half-naked and painted blue.”

“Which you’d have thought, in Soho, wouldn’t have turned a head.”

“I’ve never been with anyone who grabbed more attention than you.”

“P-u-l-e-a-s-e ... Are you going to fuck me before you have a shower?”

“Come here!”

He leaps onto my lap - bar stools are accommodating like that - and wraps his legs around my waist, slipping his hands behind my neck to stop himself from falling backwards. Before I can say another word, his lips are pressed to mine. My hands drop to his slender hips - his body is as beautiful as that violin - sublimely curved, finely balanced, honey-hued, and timbrous, I would say - yes; he resonates, like a reed or a spring - but he isn’t tense. There isn’t an ounce of spare meat on him but he doesn’t look like a crack whore - a musculature that is finely shrouded in perfect skin. When he moves, you can see exactly which muscles and tendons are working - an anatomist’s dream, I should think ... and then there is the perfection that we call Rocinante ... that probably needs an explanation.

The second piece I watched - with Rile performing with Rory - was an interpretation of Don Quixote. Rile played the part of Rocinante, the horse. Two hours of highly original and pretty cutting edge contemporary dance with the two guys dressed in just little snips of posing briefs - Polo’s budget for costumes obviously only stretched to a couple of face flannels. The guys were painted up as geometric shapes that harked back to or referenced - I think - Flatland by Edwin Abbott Abbott. Bryony gave me a running and comprehensive critique of the piece but I have to admit to being mesmerized by the pony with the pony-sized dong, which Rile had gallantly tried to get into the pouch - the audience didn’t care, and neither did I. I insisted that he wore the thong whenever we fucked for about a month thereafter ... until the string broke.

With him sat on my lap, our cocks standing to attention, side-by-side, I trace my tongue over the lines of the tattoo while he wanks us off together until I’m amply lubed with his precum and mine, and then he plants himself on my cock and eases himself back down, wrapping his legs around me again. I slip my hands under his buttocks and gently lift him up and down, seeing as I can’t thrust. His cock is trapped between us and slides over our slick stomachs, liberating the scent of wet HB pencils. His plums - that never seem to rise up and resemble a walnut like mine although look like a used tennis ball when relaxed - drum on the base of my cock, thumping out a regular beat that quickens once I reach my point of no return as I bounce him higher and faster despite the burning pain in my arm muscles - but it saves going to the gym.

“Fuck-FUCK-fuck ... RILE!”

When I cum, I hold him tight and force his buttocks down as hard against my groin as possible, barely able to maintain my balance, seeing stars and sucking in breath like one of Bryony’s bong-using pals. While I’m all flushed and swooning, he eases himself off my prong very, very slowly to then slip from my lap and grab my hand, pulling me up and guiding me to the shower, where he fucks me under the rose - twice - before scrubbing me thoroughly and rinsing me off to a triumphant, “There! You’re done!”

I am so done.

In bed.

“Te amo ...”

“Spanish?”

“Cast as the matador in Polo’s next piece - he texted; Rory pulled a hamstring.”

“Shit!”

“I get gored to death ...”

I snuffle and start to gently bite his shoulder.

“... Gored not chewed ...”

“My horn is weak though my mind is willing ...”

He slips down, pushing the duvet ahead of him, to latch on to Old Faithful, who needs a little coaxing but after a few minutes is hard enough to get inside his sweet, sweet buns - still slick and hot - and eventually, we make yet another unholy mess of the sheets.

When I’ve finished licking up the dregs from between his thighs, he wanks over my newly buzzed crown and then licks the cum off, concluding, “That look is so doing it for me.”

“I could buzz yours off too if you like ...”

“Tempting ... but for the sake of my art, I think I’ll pass for now.”

His locks fall in ringlets of chocolate brown - Jim Morrison-esque - and I would kill anyone who even thought about cutting them off.

We habitually sleep face-to-face, wrapped in our limbs like one fat and one thin stem of a corkscrew Hazel. After a kiss, we close our eyes.

***

“Can I speak to Mr. Rile Montgomery, please?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Montgomery; my name is Inspector Jacob Knight. This is a little difficult-”

“Is it Gui? Has something happened?”

“Can you confirm the nature of your relationship with Mr. Daval?”

“He’s my partner. What’s happened?”

“There was an incident and we are trying to contact his parents but so far, we’ve failed to do so. Your telephone number was one of those stored in his mobile phone-”

“What’s happened?

“It really would be better if-”

“What’s happened?”

“There was an incident; apparently, he was seen attempting to break in-”

“Break in!”

“We now know that he was attending a call-out, which is why what I am about to say is rather upsetting, to say the least ... his assailant believed that he was trying to break into the property, and accosted him - there was a scuffle.”

“Where is he? Is he alright?”

“No, Mr. Montgomery, he is not ... he died on the way to the hospital from his head injuries ...”

***

“Bryony; I’m so sorry-”

“Can you fucking believe it?! Thought he was a skinhead; that’s what the guy said ... thought he was a skinhead trying to break in, so he hit him over the head ... I can’t believe it; I just can’t believe it ...”

PART TWO

“David! Can you bring my jacket down with you when you come?”

“Okay ...”

A few minutes later, David appears at the bottom of stairs, holding out my jacket.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you. Bryony called to say that they’re running a few minutes late.”

“Only a few! Probably got time for a cuppa before we leave then.”

“Not for me, thanks.”

David disappears into the kitchen but I remain in the hall, studying the prints, which I have examined closely so many times - there are no answers to be found in the exquisitely rendered roses that Redouté painted for Marie-Antionette. They are really not my cup of tea but seeing as Bryony didn’t want them, I took them to save them from being sent to the charity shop. I have almost everything from the flat, which belonged to Gui - the barstool sits in our bathroom and is mainly used as a perch for dirty towels. I couldn’t stay in the flat; too many beautiful memories. Memories that were in danger of being turned into a kind of virtual reality. When, after three months, I still couldn’t bring myself to move the coaster, which he always used for his cup or glass, from the table beside the sofa, I knew I had to move on. I still have the sofa, the table, and the coaster - David uses them.

My reverie is broken by the toot of a car horn.

“David! They’re here!”

We’re off to the cemetery - Gui died five years ago today. We go every year, Bryony and I. I go much more often by myself, except I don’t tell anyone. Now, she is with Patrick - her husband - and I am with David - my boyfriend. It is only partly out of remembrance that we go - how could we ever forget him? We also give thanks - she and I both inherited a substantial amount of money from his will. We tidy the grave - I don’t do it too often when I am alone or I risk causing suspicion when we go together like today - as it is, I have to lie to her and say that the Council probably keeps the graves looking nice. We go mostly to talk. Bryony talks to him about the business - she kept it and, all due credit to her, she buckled down and is making a real go of things - Patrick is very supportive. I talk to him about everything going on in the world and what progress my students have made. I gave up dancing for the company when it was obvious that the front row of the audience was not so much there to see me dance, but just to point and say - that’s his boyfriend; you know, the fella who got beaten up because the lout thought he was trying to break in ... that’s his boyfriend.

I teach dance to a select group of young and talented boys and girls - most of whom are foreign and have no clue who Gui is - or was.

“Bryony!”

We haven’t seen each other for a few weeks, so our greetings are heartfelt.

“Rile! I’m so pleased to see you. Sorry we’re late - had an emergency call-out. Where’s David?”

“Just getting his shoes on.”

Patrick is waiting in the car.

“Lunch is our treat today - we have some news.”

“You’re-”

“Not before lunch!”

“Oh my God ... I’m so happy for you.”

“Shush; Patrick is dying to tell you himself so you must act surprised when he does.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem. Let me hurry up David ...”

By the time we reach the cemetery, it’s begun to rain. We wait in the car for the shower to pass, during which time, while Bryony is regaling us with Chloe’s exploits - of only passing interest to me - I watch as a young man, wearing what looks to be a pair of overalls, beneath an old Parka, scurries into the cemetery and disappears behind what I know to be the hut where they keep the lawnmower. If he plans to take refuge, he’s in luck, because the door is no more than a bit of plywood and I’m sure even I could pick the lock, it’s that cheap-looking.

Finally, the clouds move on and we’re able to make our way to the grave. David and Patrick stay for the regulation five minutes, and then wander off to watch the hockey match being played on the field next door. It’s a Sunday league match. David used to play before he injured his knee.

Standing either side of the grave in contemplative silence, we hold our conversations. No guesses for what Bryony’s opener will be this time. I give him a run-down of the students and their progress since we spoke last - about a week ago - and make sure to list the music I used in each lesson because, for all his typical, bloke-like ways, Gui was very interested in music. He was a bloke; he was my fella - I loved him with every cell in my body and if I could, I would slit the throat of the man who killed him and cheerfully watch as the cunt bled to death.

We had so many things to look forward to, so many places to visit, and so many things we wanted to do. The huge differences in our ages - 29 years - was a meaningless number to us - our love for each other had found a way to bypass that - even if we were constantly reminded of the fact by everyone else. He was young at heart - looking after Bryony helped in that regard, I am sure. I am a little old before my time - as they say - due partly to my father sending me to a conservatoire rather than to University ... and partly because I acted the part to make Gui’s friends feel less conscious of the difference, especially when we were out together. In any event, like he always said - and I remind myself - we are all of us recycled, and our souls are millions of years old. Hence the tattoos. David wants one but it seems crass in some respects - like he’s trying to compete with Gui. There’s no competition; I love David for a whole host of reasons, and none of them are because he is remotely like Gui.

A slight movement catches my eye and I can see that Bryony is finished having her tête à tête.

“You go on, Bry; I won’t be long.”

“If you’re sure; I wanted to see gramps and nonna too.”

“See you back at the car, sweetheart ...”

I appreciate the time I have alone with him; especially on a day like today. I have no issue with letting the tears fall from my eyes - yes; I have moved on - and, somewhat like my phoenix, I have been reborn but, there is a hole in my chest that nothing can fill ... not even a lake of tears.

Walking slowly back to the car, I put my head around the corner of the hut to see if the young man is there - the space is empty, and the door does not look like it has been forced. Maybe he was taking a shortcut to the tram station.

After I have re-joined the others, we leave for the restaurant and, once we are installed at our table and the champagne is served - which David and I query - we are officially informed of the happy event, and invited to be godfathers.

After our main course, David and Patrick take a coffee out onto the terrace to smoke a celebratory cigar, leaving me and Bryony at the table.

“We’re going to name him Guillaume if it’s a boy, or Guillaumette if it’s a girl ...”

“That’s beautiful, Bry ... really beautiful.”

“When are you and David going to get married and adopt?”

“If and when it feels right ... there’s no reason to rush into anything.”

“You’re so good together.”

“We are ... largely because we don’t put any undue stress on each other - and he’s probably going to be travelling with work for a while, which is another reason not to rush it ... We’ve already agreed to discuss it seriously once he gets back.”

“I have to be your best man, Rile.”

“Darling; there is absolutely no one else capable of filling those shoes - the job is yours.”

“I love you. I’m still so angry and sorry about what happened ...”

“Me too ... but it doesn’t do any good to dwell on that ... especially when we have your news to celebrate.”

“He’d be proud, wouldn’t he?”

She’s still chasing that spectre of parental affection - Chloe will never give it to her, and her father is next to useless. Gui was always so happy and proud of her that she really needn’t worry.

“So proud and so happy, Bry ...”

***

“Are you okay? You seem awfully quiet, Rile.”

“No; I’m fine ... just thinking.”

“About Gui?”

“No; actually, about the future, our future, our plans and the time when we will hopefully be announcing the arrival of our child.”

“I thought you didn’t want to discuss that until after I got back.”

“I don’t want to discuss the finer details ... but I do want you to understand that it is what I want - it is just a matter of when not if.”

“Really?”

“Yes; really.”

“Are you coming to bed?”

“I was just going to choose the music for this week’s lessons.”

“Let me rephrase the question ... Are you coming to bed?”

“Ah! In that case, the answer is yes ... give me five minutes.”

Gui made love like a rutting water bison - and as gently as a butterfly when the moment demanded a more delicate hand. I literally couldn’t get enough of him, and when I was buried in him or he was buried in me, there was nowhere on Earth I would rather have been. David is very different - he has to be - and there is nowhere on Earth I would rather be than with him ... except for that hole in my chest that sometimes sucks the moment dry, leaving me numb and unresponsive like a piece of wood. I don’t think it will be the case tonight.

He is dominant; an alpha male. I relish being taken like I am his first mate. That makes me sound feminine - and if I’m honest, he probably thinks of me that way. We met at the gym. I wasn’t there to train - dance keeps me fit and toned. Neither was he; he sells the equipment and he was overseeing the delivery of some new machines. I was there to meet Bryony after her aerobics class before we went to view the house, which she later bought with Gui’s money.

Coincidences; Gui used to say that they were the tiny clues to the existence of a past life; that they showed you the overlaying patterns of those lives, where normally, you’re so oblivious to them. The door to the back of the van was padlocked, and the driver had mislaid the key. David was making a call to the office to get someone to bring the spare out when Bryony emerged. I told her what I thought was going on. She walked straight up to David and offered to open the lock for him - she never leaves the house without her pick and tension wrench. Bewildered but grateful, he accepted, and in less than a minute, the door was swinging open - reputation saved - his not hers.

He said, “How can I thank you?”

“Go on a date with my brother ...”

I’m her brother - whereas Gui was her half-brother. I suppose she transferred something - a bit like keeping some framed prints or a coaster with a picture of Clovelly on it.

He looked at me, and back to her, and then back to me. I was just as shocked - though I shouldn’t have been because her gaydar was - and is - always one hundred percent accurate.

“Tomorrow, eight o’clock, Luciano’s?” he suggests, getting his composure back just before me.

“It’s a date!” she said, practically pushing me forward into his arms. We swapped numbers and, of all things, shook hands to her chorus of ‘that’s better; much better!’

I find him propped up in bed with the edge of the sheet seductively covering his prize water bison’s tackle - the only feature he shares with Gui. My mouth is already watering at the thought of being impaled by it - hopefully in both ends. I should have guessed at his dominant nature at the time of our first date - he picked me up, opened the car door for me, seated me at the restaurant table, ordered the food and wine, and paid the bill. He likes to be worshipped; I like to worship. With Gui, it was always a fifty-fifty approach to everything in life and love. Like I said; it has to be different.

He gazes at me like I’m his favourite food, being brought to him on a silver platter. His eyes travel up and down and then back up to my face - he’s imagining how his cock is going to look as it slides in and out of my mouth ... but first, he wants a kiss. I dance my way into his lap and sit astride his thighs; the anticipation of his hands snaking around my neck to draw me in is almost too much. Just before he plants his partly open lips on mine, he says, “I love you.”

I combed my fingers through his tidy locks but rather than clasp his neck, I drop them to his shoulders and then slowly rub his upper arms; the contours are so familiar to me now. He’s sucking on my tongue as gently as a hummingbird sips nectar ... until I tweak his proud little shell-like nips, causing him to gasp; the sucking becomes more ardent. When I back off, he doesn’t complain because he knows where I’m going. Flicking my eyes to his, I smirk, before kissing my way down his chest, planting an especially long one on his sternum, taking a moment to breathe in the subtle hint of Allure Homme before tracing a line with the tip of my tongue along his treasure trail, pausing to peel back the sheet, waiting for him to settle his thighs into a more relaxed pose, to then envelop my bison’s horn and get my nose filled with the bouquet of vanilla-scented wet wipes - he always cleans his cock with a wet wipe after taking a leak - and the keener tang of chlorine - he swam before coming home from work - and the sweet-sour top note of varnish - what else should wood smell of?

When he’s cum, I’ll tea bag each of his bullock-sized balls until he’s ready to fuck me; my hole is aching to be stretched and I’m hungry for the hot seed that’s as thick as wallpaper paste and tastes of party balloon rubber.

While I suck him off, I keep his balls gripped firmly in my hands, never letting them ride up - which they don’t much do anyway. The palms of his hands are pressed tightly against my cheeks and his fingertips are playing with the lobes of my ears. A succession of grunts signals the first volley is being loaded; simultaneously, he slides his hands to the back of my head and holds me firmly and begins to buck. The base of his cock swells and then fires a warning shot, before letting rip a salvo of hot gobs. And every time, I am reminded of the day that Gui and I blew up hundreds of balloons for a friend’s birthday party. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have saved one and I’d have sucked the air into my lungs in hopes that it might have filled the hole, which feels especially vacuous as I swallow.

He releases me as the shuddering aftershocks melt the tension out of his muscles, and he slumps; my cue to take each fat roma into my mouth, where I suck it and tease the looser skin with my teeth, recharging him. Having resurrected his arousal, I turn and present my rump to him, which he dutiful lubes for me so that I can plant myself, my back to him, readying myself to twerk a little to get his fat head into the right place to bring myself off while he holds my waist and jerks upwards. Once the rhythm is established, he grasps my cock with one hand and sleeves it and presses the other flat to my stomach - which I find comforting - until I can no longer hold back, dropping forward a little, giving him the space to thrust higher and faster. My bison-lover breeds me as I decorate my chest and neck with my own cum, which he will gather up on his thumb and allow me to lick off.

I am safely destroyed, as Lorca wrote. Which reminds me, I really must get round to choreographing the dance for the students’ end of term interpretation of il Mantello Rosso by Nono.

***

“Be careful; call me when you can.”

“I will; a month is not all that long.”

“I know ...”

Quotes, deals, and calls finally secured his trip to promote the equipment in three or four major new gym developments in the USA. A month is not very long.

On the day of his departure, I do nothing but housework. Once I hear from him that he has landed in New York, and is being entertained by Budge, his contact, I relax into the evening and read. Tomorrow, I plan to go to the cemetery first thing, and then buy flowers for the studio, and also choose new flooring.

At breakfast, I pick up a call from Bryony and feign overwork to put her off; she wants to meet for lunch and no doubt talk babies. Putting the phone down, I finish my breakfast and then get ready to leave, planning on taking the tram to avoid the extortionate parking charges.

By the time I get to the cemetery, the wind has gotten up and the first big splats of a heavy shower are exploding around me, forcing me to find shelter under the tiny roof above the door to the groundsman’s hut. I am not the only one seeking sanctuary.

“The heavens are just about to open, I think.”

“No umbrella?”

His voice is friendlier than his filthy Parka and stained and ripped overalls would have suggested.

“I have a pocket one; I suppose that might just keep the worst off us ...”

I ferret in my bag and find the umbrella, putting it up and offering to shield us.

“I’m Rile, by the way; I saw you on Sunday.”

“You were here with the couple and the other man ... Billy.”

“Do you live around here?”

“I live in a squat in Station Road; I come here to use the standpipe and clean my teeth ...”

And as if to reinforce the point, he slips his hand into the pocket of his coat and partly withdraws a toothbrush, which I wouldn’t have cleaned grouting with, and the gnarled up remains of a tube of toothpaste.

“... Water got cut off soon after I moved in; found a box of candles in the cupboard under the stairs ... You smell of lemons ...”

“Body wash - it was on offer.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you have the self-same dimples that my boyfriend had ... it’s his grave that I visit ... five years since he passed.”

“I’m sorry ...”

The gusts of wind are getting stronger, forcing us to pull the umbrella down over us, and in so doing, we have to get very close to each other. He smells unwashed, except for his breath, which smells of toothpaste. Gui’s brand - fennel flavoured - which I used to get for him from Holland and Barrett when I bought my Manuka honey.

Memories are beginning to ignite like the little intense blue flames around the edge of the big ring of the gas hob.

“Got any cigarettes?”

“Sorry; I don’t smoke ... Would you like a cup of tea? The café by the station isn’t too bad ...”

“They don’t like me in there; they call me a sponger - which ain’t true ... just down on my luck at the minute.”

“Why?”

“Lost my job and everything with it ... seriously fucking annoyed cos my boss owed me a month’s pay and holiday pay, which would come in dead handy right now.”

“On the other side of the cemetery, there’s the other café with the terrace outside. The rain looks to be easing off now.”

“Could we have a coffee?”

“Sure ... Where were you working?”

“The metal fabricators in Deal’s Yard - did some good work for him too.”

“Nothing else going?”

“Hard to get a job when you’re homeless - always the first fucking question they ask - address, please ... Gave me notice and didn’t pay me; couldn’t pay the rent and got tossed out by the landlord - who’s a git! ... I don’t know anyone round here cos I’m not from here.”

“Where are you from?”

“Dartmouth ... and I’d go back if anyone there was going to be pleased to see me - which they won’t be.”

The rain has, by now, stopped and I put the umbrella down, securing it with the Velcro strap, slipping it in the outer pocket of my bag.

“Shall we get a coffee?”

“Yeah; handsome ... What do you do?”

“I teach dance ...”

“I love music - you know Woodkid?”

“Vaguely ...”

“He wrote the soundtrack to Desierto - best film I ever seen.”

“I don’t know it; most of the music I listen to tends to be classical. Bryony would know it. My partner - the one who died - had a half-sister, and we still see each other a lot ...”

“Nice.”

“She’s just announced that she’s pregnant ...”

“Wow ...”

I can’t think of anything else to say without opening the floodgates and dumping the last seven years in his lap - I want him to have known Gui, and for us to reminisce - how bizarre is that?

“... You miss him ...”

I can’t work out if the question begs an answer or was just a statement - I nod.

On the way to the café, we pass a shop, into which I dive to buy him a packet of cigarettes. He doesn’t know what to say - neither do I, except, “It’s nice enough to sit outside now ...”

I order us a coffee and muffin.

“There you go; it’s banana nut and cinnamon ...”

“Cheers ... How did he die?”

“Oh ... he was attacked and beaten ... he died of his head injuries.”

“Fuck ...”

He looks to be genuinely moved - not just morbidly curious, which most people are - were; I don’t say much about it anymore.

“... Are you going to eat that muffin ...?”

“Uhm; no ... I’m not really hungry; you have it.”

“I don’t expect anything for nothing ...”

“What do you mean?”

“You know ... something in return ... a guy offered me a place to sleep in exchange for a fuck ... I told him to fuck off.”

“I don’t want anything in return ...”

“I found the squat ... he had disgusting, greasy hair - made me feel dirty!”

He laughs and displays perfect teeth - Gui had perfect teeth and very healthy gums - his dentist commented on it every time he had a check-up.

“Would you like to take a shower and wash your clothes?”

“I’d let you fuck me ...”

“I don’t want to fuck; I just wondered if you wanted to freshen up ...”

“Would be so good to shave - and I’m petrified that I’ve got lice.”

“Why not come back and get freshened up ... and maybe that film you like will be on Netflix ...”

Gui would have done exactly the same. Unfortunately, due to my conservatoire-style upbringing, prior to meeting Gui, I never really had a clue about what the world was really like. Whenever we met his friends - perhaps in the pub - he’d make sure he had a firm hold of my hand and he never let go - it gave me a lot of confidence to speak without worrying too much that everyone would think I was a pretentious prig. I still don’t have much of a clue, but I do understand how people are apt to judge your appearance - and the consequences of making the wrong judgement call.

“It’s about a border patrol guard in Texas, who takes the law into his own hands and starts shooting the poor bleedin’ Mexicans trying to make it across the border ...”

I guess that’s a yes then.

***

“I’ll fetch you some towels ... and some clean clothes to wear while yours are in the washing machine.”

“Thanks ... Who’s that in the picture?”

“Gui ... my partner ... the one who was killed ...”

His eyes flick to mine; I interpret that as ‘he was much older than you’.

“... He was much older than me - not that it mattered to us.”

“Who’s this?”

“That’s David; my boyfriend - he’s in the States on business at the moment.”

“He’s handsome.”

“Yes; he is ... He sells fitness equipment.”

“Was never one for the gym; I like running.”

“Let me get the towels and a new razor ...”

Billy trails after me, examining closely the Redouté prints and photographs as he walks along the hall and up the stairs. He stops in front of a photograph of me, performing in Polo’s Don Quixote.

“That’s you ... wow; you’re like a coiled up spring ... fucking beautiful.”

“That was a few years ago now ... I teach these days.”

I show Billy the bathroom, and while he noses about, I fetch the towels from the airing cupboard, which is in our bedroom.

“Here you go; there’s a box of new razors in the cupboard under the sink. What do you want to wear?”

“I’m not fussy. Where shall I put my clothes?”

“Oh; let me get you a spare set and when you’re done, bring yours down to the kitchen - the machine’s there.”

“Okay ...”

I quickly ferret for a pair of decent tracksuit bottoms, a rugby shirt, and clean underwear.

“I’ll leave you to it ... I’ll pop the kettle on and maybe make us a sandwich, yeah?”

“Lovely; ta ...”

It’s a relief to close the door and escape to the kitchen to regroup - I’m not feeling afraid of having allowed a perfect stranger into my home - it’s the hole in my chest that is bothering me ... it’s shrunk.

Making a nice pot of tea and cutting a few sandwiches keeps my mind occupied, especially when I hear Billy’s dulcet tones filtering down from the bathroom - I have no idea what song he is slaughtering - actually, his voice isn’t that bad.

“I cleaned the shower tray,” Billy announces as he appears at the kitchen door.

“You didn’t need to worry; thanks. I made some cheese and pickle sandwiches ... tea?”

“Thanks. Where shall I put these?”

His own clothes, which smell like a dead animal, hang limply from his hand.

“I’ll put them in the washing machine; what about your coat?”

“It’ll take forever to dry.”

“I’ve got a tumble dryer ... or I could lend you a jacket ...”

“It’s not worth washing - don’t suppose these are either ... pretty rank.”

“Up to you ... leave them in the conservatory and come through to the lounge and we’ll try and find that film ...”

I have to escape or betray my emotions - it’s as if his mere presence is sewing the hole back up. But being stitched by a novice, who is pulling too hard on the thread, making me catch my breath as the pain radiates out to the ends of my fingers and toes.

Flicking through Netflix allows me to meditate on my breathing.

“Love cheese and pickle ... reminds me of all the times I went fishing; always took cheese and pickle sandwiches and a flask of tea with me ... Did you find it?”

“The damn system is still loading ... What were you singing?”

“Shit! I wouldn’t call that singing exactly ... Do you know Ray LaMontagne?”

“I’ve heard the name but I don’t think I know any of his songs.”

“While It Still Beats ... from his latest album - Ouroboros ...”

“Ww ... what was the title?”

“Ouroboros ... came out in January - last album I bought.”

“What happened to all your stuff?”

“What could I do with it? Had no place to keep it and no one to look after it for me ... took it all to the charity shop. I kept a few clothes and had them in a rucksack but someone nicked it ...”

“Ouroboros ... the mythical snake that eats its own tail.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fundamentally, that all the universe, all the energy, and all existence keeps repeating for infinity - it’s more to do with seeing things as cycles ... there is a kind of contentment in achieving an acceptance of one’s fate - amor fati - a love of one’s fate ...”

“You know a lot about it.”

“Gui had the Ouroboros tattooed on his chest ... I have the phoenix tattooed on mine ...”

“Rising from the ashes ... I’ve got a griffin tattooed on my back - with vengeance and salvation in two scrolls under it - did you want to see it?”

“Uhm ... sure ...”

He turns and pulls his shirt up, displaying his back, upon which is a simple depiction of the griffin in black ink - more of an outline and not in-filled - beneath it are the two scrolls. The whole design fits snugly between his shoulder blades.

“Cool, huh?”

“Very ... Netflix is saying that the film is not found ... was there anything else you wanted to watch?”

“Not fussed really ... could do with a kip.”

“The spare room is made up if you wanted to go to sleep ...”

“Don’t get much sleep at the squat because I’m always afraid of someone getting in ... I don’t want to take any liberties.”

“It’s fine; I have work to do in any event.”

“Maybe I’ll just have a cigarette and then lie down for a bit ... this cheese ain’t your regular cheddar.”

“Wensleydale ... did you want more tea?”

“Handsome ...”

While I make the tea, Billy steps outside, through the conservatory door, and has a puff. I make a decision regarding the clothes or I can see that I’m going to have to fumigate the place.

“Billy; I’m going to put those clothes in a black sack.”

“Chuck um; they’re no better than rags ... if you’re sure about me keeping these.”

“No; it’s fine ...”

I bag up the clothes and lob the sack through the internal door into the garage, ready to be thrown out on collection day.

“Which was the spare room?”

“I’ll show you - well; it’s the door opposite the bathroom.”

“Wake me up whenever you want me to go.”

“Ssure ...”

It’s almost more than I can do to remain standing; the pain has subsided but has been replaced by a throbbing headache and a rolling boil sensation in my stomach. Choosing music is impossible and I collapse on the sofa in the conservatory - with the door open - and close my eyes, finding some relief in meditating and practising my alternate nostril breathing regime to clear my mind.

In the course of which, I dropped off and woke up an hour and a half later, desperate for the loo. I pad upstairs, hoping not to disturb Billy, who I can hear snoring through the partly open door of the spare room.

Returning to the conservatory, I realise that I haven’t turned my phone back on since this morning when I switched it off before going to the cemetery - it just feels appropriate to turn it off when I am with Gui.

“Shit!”

I find four missed calls, four messages and one text from David. I quickly text back, assuring him that I’m okay and just suffering from a migraine. His text was just before he boarded the plane to Chicago, so I am not expecting another call for a few hours. I’m surprised he didn’t call the landline. But then maybe he did because when I check, I find that I failed to turn the answer machine on when I left this morning. I decide that it would be a good idea if I had a lie down myself.

***

“Rile ... Rile; you okay?”

“W-h-a-t?”

“You were talking loudly in your sleep; I thought you were having a bad dream ...”

I come to my senses and find him sitting on the edge of my bed with his hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll fetch us a tea, shall I?”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight.”

“Jesus; I was dead to the world.”

“Stay put; I’ll get us some tea ...”

When he opens the door wider, the light from the landing reveals that he is wearing just his underpants. I have the feeling of stepping out onto thin ice - for no apparent reason. I lie back and listen to the various noises of tea being made, and when I hear his footfalls on the stairs, I’m aware that my heart is pounding in my chest - I flick the bedside lamp on.

“Here we go!”

He pads into the room and places a mug of tea on the nightstand, returning to sit beside me.

“Your phone was ringing earlier ...”

“David checking in; he’s just arrived at his hotel in Chicago, I imagine ... Did you sleep well?”

“Like a log ... I wasn’t sure if I should go ...”

“It’s late ...”

“Makes no difference to me; not like I have to get up for work in the morning.”

“Take advantage ...”

“I really appreciate what you’ve done for me ... I was getting a bit desperate."

“Don’t worry; I’m happy to help as much as I can ...”

“If I could get a job, I’d be back on my feet in no time ...”

“Maybe we can think about that tomorrow.”

Silence descends for a moment, which is only punctuated by the sound of tea being sipped.

“How old are you, Rile?”

“Twenty-eight ... you?”

“Twenty-two ... You seem a lot older.”

“Old before my time, Gui always said ... studying for so long has rather warped my perspective of the world - and I never had much time for normal stuff.”

“What about David?”

“David has helped me enormously to get a little more grounded.”

Rather distractingly, Billy pulls at the hem of the legs of the trunk-style briefs I gave him, and absently rearranges himself to presumably make himself more comfortable. I had shucked my jeans and shirt before getting into bed and I’m wearing just my briefs and socks beneath the duvet.

In pulling myself up to lean more against the headboard, Billy sees the tattoo of the phoenix.

“Wow! That’s a work of art ...”

I peer down and gaze at it myself, recalling the pain of the needle.

“Hurt like hell ... but it was worth it.”

As I gaze down, remembering Gui’s reaction to it once the dressing had come off and the scabs had dropped away, I watch as Billy reaches out to touch it. His disconnected hand - surreal. His touch, which is as light as a feather - surprising. His fingertip tracing the lines - arousing. The swelling root that I am barely able to restrain by clamping it between my thighs - in danger of betraying me. The rose-tinted blush that paints my chest - inevitable. The tightening and hardening of my nipples - an invitation.

He takes the mug from my hand and places it, along with his own, on the bedside table, to then clamber over me and slip under the duvet, snuggling up with his arms encircling my chest.

“Been so long ...”

“Billy ...”

“Just want to hold you; can’t remember what it feels like.”

The sensible man would insist that he went back to his own bed, or left ... but I can’t do it, and I slip down, turning and slipping my arms around him, burying my nose into his neck to breathe in the scent of lemon mixed with his own smell that reminds me of old leather-bound music score folios.

***

I sleep better than on any night since Gui died. I wake up feeling relaxed and in the moment, whereas normally I spend so much of my time looking back, or looking forward to the day when none of this matters. Perpetually recycling through Time and Space to spend two years with the first man that I fell in love with - two years out of what ... eighty, maybe ninety? That seems like a poor average, despite the fact that those two years were the best I could remember before or since - amor fati - love of one’s fate. I might have loved it before I met Billy yesterday. Only now do I admit that meeting David did not have - has not had the same result. That’s perplexing.

Try as hard as I might, I cannot shake off the absolute certainty that when Billy wakes up, I am going to be unfaithful to David. Nothing happened after we snuggled up to go to sleep - we just slept like two babes in the wood. Now the two babes have wood. He remains asleep for the time being. His face is completely relaxed and it is as if he has shed five years. His lashes lay like feathers on his cheeks - a darker shade of the blond of his springy curls. When I saw him for the first time, I thought he had dreads - he didn’t as it happened, just longish spirals of gorgeous blond hair - which is now clean and smells of my nectarine-scented conditioner.

So often, we ignore a man’s lips - as if they are not really important. A woman can and often will draw attention to hers with lipstick. Some men hide theirs under a moustache. On stage, I have worn lipstick many times. The shape of a man’s lips is fascinating - and I don’t mean when they are stretched! Billy has full lips, which appear symmetrical but perhaps the bottom lip is a little fuller than the top - which is actually very common. A cupid’s bow with wide points ... and the colour of ... oh; so hard to describe - darker than pink but not as dark as true red - somewhere between maraschino cherry and coral? Kissable to say the least.

He has a strong, straight nose. I think he looks like the offspring - had there ever been one - of Kirk Douglas and Monica Bellucci.

I can feel his penis, which is rubbing up against mine through the layers of thin material. Will it be a quickie, after which, he’ll disappear? Will he be athletic, adventurous, amorous, sensational, dominant, versatile, or even sensuous? Will I regret it, lie to myself about it, lie to David about it, or should I get up now and avoid it?

Is the damage done? Have I eaten of the apple? Am I doomed? Am I saved?

“You grind your teeth when you sleep ...”

“Oh; I thought you were still asleep ... good morning.”

“Good morning ...”

He flicks his eyes open - two crystals of blue set into the delicate china teacup orbs. A betting man would say ‘doomed’.

“... yes; you grind your teeth ... and mumble.”

“Did I disturb you?”

“No; I felt safe ... I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before - I liked it.”

“Would you like some tea?” I ask as I make a half-hearted attempt to extricate myself from the bed and the situation that I feel could quickly escalate.

“Rile ... what are you afraid of?”

Good question.

“Doing something I will regret ...”

“Do you want me to go?”

His tattoo reads vengeance & salvation - how can inflicting punishment bring about salvation? And who is saved? He is altogether too oblique for me to read; music that is off-key; a dance with one too many or too few steps - I am unsteady - perhaps unnerved.

“I don’t know ... perhaps it would be better if-”

His maraschino-coral coloured, near-perfect cupid bow lips pressed to my own will inflict a terrible wound to my conscience, and in the process, I will be saved - no longer having to be the dutiful and slightly sad partner of a memory; no longer having to respect barely voiced and little remembered wishes to keep everything just as it was; no longer having to look beyond the man in my bed to the time when I will be reunited with the man I loved - still love.

A tender but confident stroke with the back of his hand across my cheek and down my chest, until, somewhere over my midriff, he turns his hand over and glides on to slip in under the waistband of my briefs, to grip me.

“I want you to fuck me ...” His voice is just this side of urgent; encouragement wrapped in wantonness.

Without waiting for a response, he turns in my arms, simultaneously pushing his briefs down to expose his buttocks. Being young and supple, he turns his upper body slightly and tips his head back to lay it against my shoulder, re-presenting his lips.

“Fuck me ...”

Wrapping his upper body in one arm, I use the other push my briefs down and grip myself, to work my cock into his crease, hoping pre-cum alone will be enough to get me inside his chute, already imagining the glory of sliding in and out of his young, tight arse, recalling how I always relished how Gui opened me up, making me gasp until his fingers, which tasted of 3-in-1, found their way into my mouth.

In juddering stages, I get to the gasping stage and force my tongue into his mouth, rocking my hips a little to thrust just enough to grease the piston sleeve before slamming in hard, holding the pose, pulling him in, slipping my free hand under his top leg to grip the hard stump of his cock. Stroking him as I pump brings us both to a quick and heady surge. Palming his load and rubbing it over his stomach gives me a frisson of pure and unadulterated pleasure - the same one I get when I steal the last chocolate from the box - usually a white chocolate with a fondant cherry centre ... if I’m lucky.

***

“I should get going ...”

“I don’t want you to go ...”

“But; you’re sorted ... Why would you fuck that up?”

“I already did ... but the fact that I don’t care is telling me that you have to stay.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I thought I knew myself ... seems I was wrong. I held onto the idea of me for so long but it wasn’t wholly true or complete ... please stay.”

“I can’t stay; I have no job, no money and you have a boyfriend-”

“We’ll make it work ...”

“I don’t think there’s much hope of that ...”

“I wouldn’t say that ... How does it go? ... for hope is always born at the same time as love[1] ...”

“Who said that?”

“A madman ...”

About the Author

I'm English by birth from the Isle of Wight, living in Newport, spending part of the year in France in the stunningly beautiful department of Haute-Saône in the Franche Comté region. It is heavily forested and very tranquil but the winters are pretty harsh and my home is 820 metres above sea level so I get plenty of snow.

I am also spending increasing amounts of time in the USA, co-managing The Carter Seagrove Project LLC - an independent publishing house, incorporated in the State of Indiana.

I will be 50 years old in 2015. I only started writing in 2009, proving, I suppose, that it is never too late. I didn't think about self-publishing until late 2012, now, more than two years later, I'm even more energized by the process than ever before.

I'm a qualified English teacher, specializing in teaching English as a second language (TEFL), though I don't do much of that now. In the distant past, I taught software skills. In the very distant past, I was a project manager on big IT projects and at the very beginning of my career, I was an Internal Auditor. I have degrees in Internal Auditing, Computer Auditing and Project Management. I'm studying for my degree in Sustainable Development at the moment. Renewable energy is what really interests me and I generate my own power at home via a solar panel.

I'm a member of The Society of Authors, The Society for Editors and Proofreaders and The Independent Author Network.

I grow some of my own food and from Easter to the end of October, I'm outside for the largest part of the day, tending the garden. I write in the evening and during the winter when there is very little else to do. I have no great philosophy except "energy follows intention" and "honour your gifts". These two principles keep me sane, very happy and exceedingly busy!

I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: alpmortal@hotmail.com.

Visit the website, alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on the next gay romantic story or crime thriller which I am working on.

Together with Chambers Mars, I am half of Carter Seagrove, author of Dust Jacket and The Inspector Fenchurch Mysteries.

Alp Mortal, Chambers Mars and Shannon M. Kirkland are The Carter Seagrove Project LLC - an independent book publisher. Find us at www.carterseagrove.weebly.com, on Twitter @carterseagrove and on Facebook www.facebook.com/thecarterseagroveproject.

Also by this Author

Thank you for choosing to read this story. You may be interested in reading other stories which I have written.

Click the Book Cover to view on The Carter Seagrove Project book gallery where you will find the link for all of the eBookstores where it is currently available.

Some of the titles written with Chambers Mars:

The Carter Seagrove Project

The Carter Seagrove Project LLC, created by authors, Alp Mortal and Chambers Mars and Shannon M. Kirkland is a creative space within which authors and artists are invited to collaborate ... any project is considered which furthers the boundaries of the indie dream. Whether you are an artist/illustrator, author/poet, editor, cover/text designer, webmaster or involved in independent film-making, there are limitless opportunities to get involved and do something amazing.

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Notes

[←1]

Cervantes

Table of Contents

Contents

Author’s Note

PART ONE

PART TWO

About the Author

Also by this Author

The Carter Seagrove Project