"Now, to continue the story," said Bill, "our boy discovers first of all that, whatever he and his parents may have thought, they are no longer British citizens. Changes in the UK nationality law have had the result that they, and thousands like them, who have lived overseas for more than two generations, have lost the right to a British passport, or to come to live and work in Britain.
"If somehow they get in, they are illegal immigrants, not entitled to any benefits, and liable to be deported. Meanwhile, however, the entire Turd World seems to be being welcomed in and given preferential treatment. This is a bitter pill to swallow. However our lad is not daunted. He decides to enter illegally; optimistically reckons he'll land a job; "sort things out" with the authorities; and then bring his parents over to join him as soon as he can afford to support them. He gets in, but it is not that easy. He spends a lot of time temping in fast-food outlets and other low-status jobs. Good jobs are not available to him as serious employers want to see your birth certificate, National Insurance number etc, and he has none of those. So it's Catch-22 with a vengeance. One day he discovers a way of making better money, but at some cost to his personal pride. Acting on the advice of a casual acquaintance, he becomes a rent-boy: he signs on at an up-market male brothel in Earl's Court. He's tall, he's slim, he's athletic, he has nice skin and he's pretty good looking. But even here there is a catch: actually, he's under age. Although he's tall for his age, he is only sixteen going on seventeen. Anyone who has sex with him is therefore guilty of a statutory offence: sex with a minor. Naturally he does not let on. If people ask, he assures them that he's nineteen. But that does not matter. Even if he's misled you, you are still guilty as charged. Concepts like natural justice do not apply to statutory offences."
Bill paused to let this sink in and sipped from a bottle of mineral water. I was now racking my brain.
"You knew that boy-brothel," said Bill. "It no longer exists, although other ones still do. You've been there quite a few times. You recall that you had to go down to a paved basement area to get to the front door. It had a lot of well-tended potted plants, including bamboos, both in the paved area and inside the brothel itself: a snug, dark waiting room with an enormous aquarium and a statue of the reclining Buddha, for some reason, where you could sip tea and wait while you made up your mind which boy you wanted to have. There was a sort of illustrated catalogue: the owner would tell you which boys were in, which of these were busy and, if they were, when they would next be free. The boys not currently busy would be relaxing in a lounge of their own, where you could view them through a two-way mirror; fully clad, partly clad, or stripped to their Calvin Kleins, You also know the young man - then still a minor - in question; very intimately."
Billlooked at me grimly.
"Your career would be smashed and you could face a jail sentence if that story ever came out. So, if you survive this session with us" (and here he grinned sardonically), "you can see that you would be ill-advised to report us to the police or anything like that. Your past would come out! The tabloids would love it! And in jail you'd be punishment-gang-raped because, as far as the other prisoners would be concerned, you'd be a nonce!"
I did see: and, yes, the tabloids would love it. My employers would not. As for being gang-raped in jail, I now had a lot of relevant experience.
"In case you really have forgotten him, the boy's name was Danny Shipton," said Bill.
Once again he withdrew the glass dildo from my asshole and thrust it in deep again, causing equal measures of pain and lust: literally prodding my memory. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry out.
I thought; then I remembered Danny, all right: I had not thought about him for half a dozen years. His looks were a kind that tended to appeal to men, rather than women. He had been tall; very tall indeed if he had really only been sixteen, with a swimmer's or runner's build: not gawky, but fit and slim. He had a delicate, tanned skin with no blemishes; floppy dark hair with a high parting; dark brown eyes, delicately handsome features with sticky- out ears, which I found rather sweet. It was as though he were about to break into charming flight. Sometimes I called him "Dumbo," which used to annoy him. Although I was not into tattoos, I had liked his. Danny had only two: one on each ass-cheek. They were modest and would be hidden by the briefest bathing slip. There was a mischievous eye tattooed on each buttock. One was wide open and bright: the other was closed in a roguish wink. He had to wear glasses for reading - on his face, I mean - and, when he did so, he looked like an American college boy in a Scott Fitzgerald novel. He had been a nice kid. We had lost touch when I left London to work in Dublin.
"I see you do remember him," said Bill. I nodded. Bill continued:
"You seemed to become quite attached to Danny, or so he thought. You got into the habit of ringing in before visiting the boy-brothel and asking whether he would be in that day. Latterly, if he was not available, you would never accept a substitute: you would visit on a different day when he would be there. Danny got fond of you too; very fond. He looked forward to your visits. If he had to be fucked, he preferred straight-acting men like you. One time you did not come for a whole month. Danny was really worried. Then you came back and explained that you'd had some unexpected expenses. You had economised on brothel visits. Danny said that he'd rather stand you the occasional free session at your place than not see you at all; he'd grown that attached to you. That night he slept with you for the first time in your first flat: a studio in the Barbican. From that point you became more like lovers than prostitute and client. He was really happy about that."
It was all starting to come back now. I had not been in love with Danny but I had liked him; especially his ears. I had liked all of him, now that I thought of it: the long, slim legs; the very small un-tanned area round his loins, showing that he had worn the briefest of trunks in sunny South Africa; the sight of his gasping, grimacing face, when he was riding my cock and it was deep inside him... his big grin afterwards, when we had both shot our loads. Yes, I had really liked his grin. Whenever I could afford to, I would stand him treats too, just for the sake of that grin. I'd given him dinner at Rule's in the Strand for his birthday; I'd taken him to the theatre and the opera; I'd even riskily popped him into a dinner jacket and taken him to my posh Territorial regiment's all-male annual dinner. A minor Royal had been present. He had loved that; especially as he could truthfully write home about it afterwards to his family in South Africa, who no doubt got the impression that, although he might still be "temping" and did not yet have a proper job, he was at any rate moving in the right circles. But what had he, or any of this, got to do with Gary and Bill?
"You don't seem to realise," said Bill, "how much love and hope he had invested in you. He thought of himself as your boyfriend. He gave you a lot of free sex. You'd given him a taste of your world; a fun, secure and outwardly respectable world. He reckoned that, without too much trouble, you could help him to sort out his life in the UK. As a matter of fact there were one or two simple things that you could have done to help, but he did not know to ask, and you were always too busy with your own career to give it any thought. Then you dumped him. He'd have come to Ireland with you, but you never gave him the chance. He was gutted when in effect you just said 'farewell, my concubine' and buggered off. He even thought of topping himself."
"He didn't, did he?" I asked, now slightly appalled at my own behaviour.
"In the end he did not. He's still alive," said Bill.
"So what did he do?"
"He chummed up with an Australian who was in a similar position to himself. And he did what the Australian had done. He went to the Register of Births and found a boy child who had been born in England at the right time; about two years before Danny's real birth date. This boy had died in infancy, as Danny discovered from the Register of Deaths. But public bodies and employers, while they often ask you for proof of your birth in the UK, do not usually request a death certificate. So Danny ordered a few certified copies of this person's birth certificate and set about creating a new identity for himself. In due course he lost his South African accent; acquired a UK passport; a driving licence; a National Insurance number; some training and a job as an instructor, graduating to personal trainer, in a posh gay gym. He soon rose to be a manager under his new name. He convinced some investors to help him and struck out on his own. The sex shop above our heads is one of his ventures: and the rest is history.
"But what has all this got to do with you, me and Gary?" I asked.
"A lot: show him, Gary!"
Gary stood up and walked over to me. He touched a switch; the hoist smoothly raised me off the ground so that my face was level with, or slightly above, Gary's. He looked at me with contempt.
"Kiss my ass," said Gary.
He then lowered me, so that my face was once again a few feet off the ground. Gary shrugged off his bath-robe and showed himself naked apart from black wrestling boots, a black leather harness on his upper torso and a black leather jock-strap with a zip down the bulging front pouch. The normal kit of a BDSM Dom, as I now recognised. His ass was, of course, bare and exposed. He walked towards me, got close, turned round, bent over and thrust his ass in my face. His ass-cheeks were perfectly symmetrical, muscular, hard, and waxed smooth. His ass-crack was innocent of any hair. Gary must have had a bodybuilding competition coming up, or had recently been in one. Two winking eyes stared roguishly back at me; one on each cheek. They were Danny's tattoos.
"Recognise those?" asked Gary sarcastically.
"I recognise them," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "but tattoos can be copied. There could be several hundred people with that design. Why should I accept that you are Danny? You don't look remotely like him."
"One moment," said Gary. He disappeared into the changing room, and then came back again quickly. He crouched down and glared into my face from a few inches away. His brilliant blue eyes had gone. They had been an illusion created by tinted contact lenses. I was staring into the brown, hurt and troubled eyes of Danny Shipton.
"You fucking Pommy," he said, and spat in my face. For the first time I caught a trace of his originally harsh South African accent. "Yes, it really is me or, as I have now become, Gary Driscoll. That's who I am now."
"How did I do it?" he asked in reply to my unspoken question. "It was easy. You liked my Dumbo ears: I never did. So as soon as I could afford to, I had them surgically pinned back. I always fancied being blond, so now I always am. I get re-touched every two weeks. I don't like wearing glasses either, so I use contact lenses. You can choose any colour you like, so I go for vivid blue, which goes with being blond. Being a bodybuilder is the best disguise in the world. Even naked, you look quite different from what you were before. I am not naturally this bulked. I have cheated a bit by using steroids. But, even if the Home Office were still looking for Danny Shipton, no-one would now recognise me as the tall, slender, dark haired youth who first came to the UK. Once you have bulked up and are working out daily, your body changes; your walk changes - it has to, because your thighs are so massive; your face changes; even your voice changes."
So I was right about one thing. Gary was on steroids and his "roid rages" were probably genuine. He paused and swigged from Bill's bottle of mineral water. He continued, changing the subject:
"You didn't kiss my ass: no doubt too interested in the tattoos. Now do it! Rim me good!"
Once more the muscular, marmoreal buttocks were thrust at my face. Gary bent over. His hands came round and pulled his ass-cheeks apart. His ass-pucker was vividly rosy. Knowing what I now knew about Gary and his steroids, what I did next seems suicidal. But I was getting angry myself. Instead of rimming Gary, I sank my teeth into his left buttock and did not let go.
His bellow of pain and fury was tremendous. He became even more furious when Bill started laughing.
"I'll fucking kill you!" he shouted.
He then grabbed me by the throat and proceeded to try to do just that. He might have succeeded had not Bill jumped up and dragged him off me. He wrestled Gary to the ground.
"I said I'll be doing the punishment!" said Bill. "You get carried away too easily, and we know what happens then. I'm open to suggestions, but I'll decide what is done to this boy."
Even at this moment of danger I saw the funny side of Gary's next action. He stumped over to his chair, sat on it, and pulled his black leather peaked cap, which he now produced from somewhere, over his eyes. The cap looked to be of Nazi inspiration. He was the picture of sulky dissent. He scowled at us both. He folded his arms, but kept his knees wide apart. He looked exactly like a scowling Tom of Finland character.
(To be continued.)