I awoke to the creak of the bedroom door, the shock of cool air hitting bare skin, and Ben’s dry, amused voice slicing through the fog of sleep. "Morning, Steve."
His tone carried decades of patience as my eyelids fluttered open to find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, taking in the view of our nude bodies entwined like the roots of an old oak, limbs slung carelessly over hips and thighs.
"Morning, Ben, have you woken the boys yet?"
"Not yet," he answered. "They’re next. Why don't you come with me?"
"Okay," I muttered as I carefully rolled out of bed, leaving Paul asleep and followed Ben, my own morning wood a normal event as he opened the guest bedroom door.
"Morning, you two. It's a lovely day outside, and time waits for no man or boy."
The view was magical. Jamie’s face smushed against Callum’s armpit, his fingers twined possessively in Callum's hair, even in sleep. Ben’s gaze lingered longest on the KY Jelly, discarded on the floor, and the drying streaks of cum on skin, plus the way Jamie’s other fingers still curled loosely around Callum’s half-hard cock. "There’s art in the wind today," he added, softer now, as he left the door open.
I moved to stand beside their bed, gazing at the beauty of the sleeping angels that had made enough noise to wake the dead during the night. Ben's abrupt departure left us in a temporary silence. Then Jamie snorted, his voice muffled against Callum’s chest. “Is he always like that?”
Paul stretched lazily as he stood at the door, his morning wood poking forward. “Worse,” he murmured, his hand scrubbing over his face. “Wait till he makes you pose with seaweed tangled in your pubes for texture.”
Callum groaned, but his hand found Jamie’s waist, thumb tracing idle circles. “Fuck. Do we have to get up?”
Outside, the cry of gulls carried on the salt wind, and the scent of coffee crept up the stairs from the kitchen. I twisted to peer out the window where dawn painted the marshes gold. Somewhere out there, Ben would be setting up his easel, sharpening his charcoal and waiting.
Paul now stood behind me, looking at the angels in bed, his fingers sliding down my spine, pausing at the dip above my arse. “Suppose we should feed them before Uncle turns them into art,” he sighed, though his grin was wicked as he added, “or after?”
Jamie sat up abruptly, sheets pooling around his hips. “Wait, seaweed?” as Callum groaned again, louder this time, and yanked the duvet over his head.
I grinned, stretching languidly in response to Paul's touch, and promptly yanking the entire duvet off the bed in one smooth motion. Two erections bobbed into view: Jamie’s flushed pink and straining upward, Callum’s slender but insistently hard where it pressed against Jamie’s thigh. My own cock stood at attention, matching Paul’s in readiness as I turned toward the door. The boys’ wide-eyed stares lingered, not on my erection, but on Paul’s fingers trailing possessively down the small of my back as we moved.
Jamie cleared his throat, fingers flexing against Callum’s knee. "Do you always just...walk around naked?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying his lingering amazement at how unselfconscious we were. "I'm not allowed at home, and neither is Jamie."
"Always, and what's wrong in doing so anyway?” Paul answered. “Ben is used to it and comfortable with our naked form. And, very soon after coffee, you, we, will be naked in front of Ben, on the salt marshes and sand of the Point. We just have to wear clothes for the walk there."
"Besides," Paul added, stretching shamelessly in the doorway, his cock bobbing with the movement, "you'll learn soon enough, Ben prefers the rawness of unwashed skin. Says it captures authenticity better, so don't bother showering. Let's go."
Jamie hesitated, caught between lingering modesty and Paul’s bold nonchalance. Callum tugged him up, already half-hard again, his fingers trailing goosebumps down Jamie's spine. "Guys, we're not…. You know…. this morning," Callum murmured against Jamie's nape.
"Mazal tov," I said, "We figured that after the noise you both made, obliterating that status. Now, get up and follow us downstairs for coffee and breakfast."
The words did their work. Jamie exhaled, squared his shoulders, and fell into step behind us with Callum. All four of us were naked as the day we were all born, with softening cocks caused by the distraction of promised food and refreshment.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and toasted bread, the scents that usually made my mouth water. Jamie’s hunger was for something else, and it involved Callum as the tension coiled between them, becoming almost audible, as Paul and I concentrated on the low hum beneath the gurgle of the coffee machine.
Paul nudged me with his elbow, drawing my attention to Jamie, kneeling in front of Callum, with his mate’s cock fully enveloped in his mouth. Callum leaned back against the table, engaged in the sensations Jamie was generating, his fingers tangled in Jamie's hair, not guiding, just feeling. His hips gave the tiniest, involuntary thrusts, nothing urgent yet just the slow, dazed rhythm of someone discovering how good it could be when the nerves finally melted away.
Just then, Callum’s mobile phone rang, shaking him from his trance and enjoyment. “Oh shit, it's Mum,” he said. “Jamie, you have to stop. I can’t talk to her…. while…. oh fuck.”
Jamie didn't stop sucking Callum's cock, his lips still wrapped around it as Callum answered, his voice cracking slightly higher than normal. “Hi Mum. Yeah, Mum?” Jamie’s cheeks hollowed obscenely, making Callum’s breath hitch. He gripped the edge of the table, toes curling against the tile floor. “No, no, everything’s fine. Just walking toward Blakeney Point. To see the seals. Sorry, what did you ask? Jamie? What’s Jamie doing? Nothing much. Yes, he’s here, walking….oh god…., sorry Mum, almost… tripped.”
Paul muffled a laugh against a fistful of toast, watching Callum’s throat work as Jamie flicked his tongue in a way that made Callum’s hips jerk forward involuntarily. A sharp gasp escaped Callum mid-sentence. “Y-yeah, Mum, I promise. Just…fresh air.” His free hand fisted in Jamie’s hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him deeper. Jamie’s eyes flicked up, gleeful, devious, and he swallowed Callum deeper, making him choke on his next lie.
Callum looked like a man drowning as he climaxed, shooting his cum into Jamie's mouth while telling his mum, “Gotta go, Mum, sorry, signals bad. I can't...Mum...Mum,” and then he ended the call and hurled the phone onto the counter, panting like he’d sprinted a mile. “You’re a ….cocksucker,” he groaned, as his fingers didn’t stop twisting in Jamie’s hair.
Paul slid a mug of coffee toward Callum with a smirk, steaming, black, while Jamie finally pulled off with a wet pop, grinning up at Callum with spit-shiny lips.
"I didn't really say good morning, Callum," Jamie stated, looking at Callum with desire. “Hope you enjoyed that and, yep, I guess I am.”
Callum leaned back against the kitchen table. “Mum’s fine. Just nagging as normal and….Yes, I did and good morning to you, Jamie.” And then he saw the funny side of his phone call as he looked around. All he saw were naked men in a kitchen. “If only she knew the truth,” was all he said.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Jamie responded. “She’d probably go mad if she knew what I was doing to you while you assured her you were behaving.”
“Calm it down, boys, we have a full day ahead of us for fun and games,” I said. “That was nice to watch, but a bit too early for me.”
At that, Callum and Jamie joined us at the table, making quick work of breakfast. Soon, we walked along the path to Blakeney Point. The packed earth and crushed shells of the path, warm underfoot despite the slight chill. Behind us, Jamie and Callum’s feet scuffed rhythmically, their breathing syncing as we wound through sea lavender and cordgrass until we saw Ben in the distance.
He stood beside his easel, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, already smeared with pigment, surveying the landscape with the detached focus of a predator scenting prey. When we reached him, Ben didn’t greet us, just circled once, eyes narrowing as he assessed angles and curves.
"Morning again, boys. Delighted you could make it," his sarcasm obvious. Steve," he said abruptly, pointing to a flat rock worn smooth by the wind. "Lie back, left leg bent, right extended." His fingers twitched sharply toward Paul. "Paul, straddle Steve's outstretched leg, gripping his thighs."
Then, to the boys: "Callum, lie on your back but behind Steve’s head in a t-shape and Jamie, straddle Callum's hips as if you are riding him."
Ben's charcoal scratched across the sketchpad, capturing the way the four of us posed for him. Paul's knuckles whitened around my thighs, as Jamie's breath hitched from sheer arousal, as his cock leaked precum onto Callum's stomach.
Callum exhaled sharply as Jamie's weight shifted, his erection bobbing against Callum's navel. Ben's gaze flicked up. "Callum, arch your back more. Show me the tension."
Ben's pencil paused. "Better," as the sketchpad rustled when Ben turned a page abruptly. "Now hold that."
Jamie's fingers found Callum's hips, guiding him down incrementally without penetration, just the threat of it, the tease of heat against heat. Callum's moan was bitten off, desperate as Ben's pencil snapped mid-stroke.
"Christ," Ben breathed, staring at the four of us like we'd become something more than flesh. "Perfect."
Sexual desire was overtaking Jamie’s patience. “Can I slip on, Callum? We’ve been here for ages, and I’m bored, and I want you.”
Before anyone else could respond, beneath the crying gulls and the scratch of charcoal, the unmistakable slip of skin on skin as Jamie finally lowered himself onto Callum, using his precum as lube. “I’m on,” was all Jamie whispered to Callum, with a huge smile, confirming his new status.
Ben's pencil hesitated mid-stroke, not from noticing, but because Jamie's arched back threw a new shadow across his body. I watched Jamie's cock bounce with each movement he made, riding Callum’s cock, very slowly at first, hoping Ben wouldn’t mind the occasional movement as Callum's fingers dug into Jamie's thighs, leaving marks invisible to the artist capturing the scene.
Ben paused momentarily and then resumed, muttering, "Christ, the boy's a natural, but he just won’t stay still."
Paul's breath warmed my ear. "You're dripping, Jamie’s fucking and Ben is just…. sketching," he murmured, thumb swiping through the mess on my stomach at the end of my cock. “It’s not right….” He said with a snigger.
Paul was also leaking as he sat on my thigh, and I moved my finger to collect the liquid deposit, enjoying the taste on my lips. I arched into his touch, suddenly desperate. "KY Jelly," I demanded against his lips. Paul chuckled darkly, nodding towards the discarded trousers yards away.
"Patience," Paul murmured, his teeth scraping my earlobe as Jamie's rhythm stuttered into something urgent after five minutes of gently riding his boyfriend as Ben continued his sketching.
And then, Jamie's cry pitched high. "Yes," he breathed for all of us to hear as Callum climaxed inside him.
Ben then said, "Got it. Boys, you can now relax and carry on while I capture the light and colours in my notebook."
Ben’s announcement was well timed as Callum gasped into Jamie's neck as their bodies remained locked together, Jamie's thighs trembling where they bracketed Callum's hips. His fingers flexed against Jamie's ribs, half-push, half-pull, as if unsure whether to detach or cling tighter. The salt wind carried Jamie's shaky exhale toward the shingle and sand as Paul finally rolled off me to retrieve the KY from his discarded jeans, muttering, "I can’t wait any longer, especially after watching them two."
"Good, move it," I growled, watching Paul stride back, his cock swaying with each step. The sun glinted off the slick tip where arousal still beaded. He smirked, popping the cap one-handed, that infuriating, deliberate slowness, to the urgency I felt.
The KY Jelly was cold when he smeared it along my length, but the shock of it vanished the moment he straddled me, his weight settling in one fluid roll of his hips. My breath punched out as he took me in one smooth slide, his body opening around me like a tide receding, inevitable, relentless. Behind him, Jamie and Callum had twisted toward us, their limbs still tangled, but their eyes wide, riveted.
Paul's thighs flexed as he rose, then sank again, his rhythm torturously controlled. Every drag of his body along my cock sent sparks up my spine, but it was the way he watched the boys watching him that made me throb, their fascination mirrored in the hitch of his breath, the way his fingers dug into my chest for balance.
Callum's hand crept up Jamie's thigh, his fingers brushing Jamie's half-hard cock absently as they stared. Jamie exhaled sharply, his hips jerking into the touch. Paul's rhythm stuttered, watching them watching us, and I seized his hips, driving up into him with a groan. The sound seemed to snap something in Jamie; he rolled suddenly, pinning Callum beneath him with a desperation that mirrored ours.
Ben's notetaking continued, seeming to be oblivious to the sexual activity taking place right in front of him as Paul's back arched as I thrust up harder, his cry mingling with Jamie's bitten-off moan as the boys began grinding together with clumsy urgency, again.
The wind carried the scent of salt and sweat and sex as Paul's rhythm fractured, his body clamping around me in erratic pulses. "Fuck, going to...." he managed, before his voice broke entirely, his release bursting free to splatter my chest and stomach as I climaxed into him with a force that left us both shuddering. Across from us, Jamie's gasp was muffled against Callum's shoulder as they reached their own messy climax, again, their bodies pressed tight as if trying to merge.
Ben's pencil stilled. "Enough," he murmured, more to himself than to us. "More than enough. I have a painting to start."
I lay with Paul on top of me, feeling him still inside me. Jamie and Callum had finished for the second time, sprawled bonelessly a few feet away. Oh, the benefit of youth, I reminded myself, watching Jamie's fingers trace idle patterns in the hollow of Callum's throat. My own limbs felt heavy, pleasantly wrecked, but the boys were already stirring back to awareness, their energy barely dimmed by the efforts.
Ben left us to our own devices, vanishing up the path toward his cottage. His shadow stretched long behind him as he walked, the late afternoon sun turning his retreating figure into something fleeting, an artist chasing light before it could escape him. Soon, the four of us sat on the sand in quiet contemplation, the incoming tide kissing our toes intermittently.
"Who wants to swim?" I finally asked. The suggestion was like fresh air, a sudden shift from post-coital languor, and before the words had fully dissolved into the breeze, Paul was dragging me to my feet, Jamie and Callum scrambling after us with the eagerness of pups. The water was just waist-high but enough to enjoy, cool silk against overheated skin. Paul ducked me under without warning, surfacing with a laugh as I came up spluttering. Jamie tackled Callum in retaliation, their laughter cresting with the waves.
With dripping water cascading from our bodies, laughter mixed with tender moments, we walked out of the channel, and lazily, we walked along the water's edge towards the seals, enjoying the freedom and liberty of the moment, four nude men, salt-crusted and sun-warmed, utterly unashamed.
I smiled, a private smile, wondering what the random guy from the day before would be thinking if he had seen us, as the shadows grew longer as the sun pursued its rest in the west. Jamie announced they had to go home, reluctantly pulling Callum toward the bank where their clothes lay tangled. Paul and I reminded them that it would take some time before Ben finished his masterpiece. "Days, probably," Paul added, flicking water from his hair.
Jamie turned to Paul and me while holding Callum's hand. "Guys, thanks for....Well, you know what."
"Anytime, boys, Paul responded. "Anytime, and if you need some private time, you can use the room if you phone me or Ben. He will certainly understand your needs if I'm not around. It's not always safe out here if you get my meaning, so having a safe place is something I never had, so I'm offering you a sanctuary."
"Thank you so much," Callum responded. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever offered us," Callum declared as Jamie nodded his agreement.
"Don't mention it, and remember, we are here for both of you, and we are available to help if you require it. You don't have to be alone on your chosen path." I assured them.
We watched them walk away, their fingers entwined like the roots of marsh grass, their bare shoulders pinked by the sun. Paul exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh, before flopping onto his back beside me, his elbow brushing mine. The tide whispered over the sand, moving, always moving, but leaving something of itself behind each time. Like Jamie's hesitant smile when Callum had kissed his wrist. Like the way Paul's fingers kept finding my hipbone, as if checking I hadn't vanished while he blinked.
We talked for hours, proper hours, with the kind of ease that only comes after skin and secrets have been shared. Paul traced idle patterns on my thigh while debating whether Ben's painting would scandalise or enthral the local art society. I countered that Ben didn't give a toss either way, which made Paul grin against my shoulder.
The conversation meandered to Paul's budding photography portfolio and then to my career. Could Paul and I achieve fame and respect as a couple and as photographers? I had already done so, but perhaps Paul could centre on nude imagery in outdoor settings while escorting me on my projects around the world. The possibilities were enormous, we knew, but we had to start somewhere.
We talked about whether we could convince Ben to let us convert his boathouse into a photographic studio and bedroom. The future unfurled between us, tentative but bright as the gulls wheeling overhead, as Paul and I bounced ideas off each other.
Alas, when the light began to bleed into evening, we gathered our discarded clothes along with the long-dry KY jelly tube and started the trek back. Paul paused halfway, turning to face the sea. "Tomorrow," he said abruptly, "Is a new day." His voice dropped. "Beforehand, though, we have photographs to review. Especially, the ones where you looked at me like...."
The wind carried his promise, or was it a threat? "And afterwards, we can make love again," I said as I squeezed his hand tightly, as I looked out to sea, following his gaze.
North, I looked over the grey sea as the sun started to set in the west. Should I look east or south for directions and inspiration? I didn't know, as I was caught in the moment at Blakeney Point, as the horizon blurred where sky met water. Just a slow bleed of colours that felt like possibilities merging.
That's what we were now, Paul and I. Men with no boundaries left between us, just this open stretch of whatever came next. My skin still tingled where his fingers had traced idle promises earlier, and I knew with bone-deep certainty that Jamie and Callum were feeling that same dizzying rush somewhere down the coast, their footsteps probably faltering every few yards when the memory of today hit them afresh.
For now, I was surrounded by beauty, love and endless possibilities with a man I had fallen in love with.
The following week was lovely. Paul had work to do as an inshore fisherman; crabs, lobsters, and mussels were his bread and butter, which he supplied to the local restaurants. I went inland to Holt daily and concentrated on my photography. Occasionally, I would meet Paul for a bite to eat at The George, where he'd arrive smelling of brine and diesel, fingers still faintly salty when he'd hook them around my thigh under the table. His life was dictated by the tides, but mine was dictated by the light, the golden hour.
Ben spent his days cloistered in the studio, the scent of turpentine clinging to his clothes when he emerged for supper. He never spoke of the painting, but twice I caught him staring at me over breakfast with an artist's clinical detachment, as if memorising the way my stubble caught the light. Meanwhile, Jamie and Callum, we assumed, attended school, though once, passing the village green, I glimpsed them tangled in the shade of an old oak, Jamie's hand working furtively beneath Callum's uniform. They froze when they saw me, but I winked and kept walking.
Paul was late returning one evening, the sky already bruised purple when his boat finally scraped against the jetty. He smelled of engine oil and exhaustion, but his grip on my wrist was urgent as he pulled me into the boathouse. "Tell me," he demanded, pressing me against a stack of crab pots, his thigh slotting between mine. "Tell me what you're thinking when you watch me work the nets or pots," as his teeth grazed my earlobe. "I see you sometimes, through the lens, watching."
The pots creaked beneath me as I confessed, "I love how your forearms flex when you haul in the crab pots. I love how seawater gleams on your collarbones. I groan in approval when I see you topless. Sometimes, I even undress you in my mind, my sexual desire, seeking your physical comfort and the fact that I love you and can't say no to constantly fancying you."
Paul's hands were already tugging at my belt. "What, like now?" he demanded. "Does that mean I can take you whenever I want?"
"You already do," I gasped as his fingers were wrenching my jeans down around my thighs. The crab pots dug into my back as Paul dropped to his knees, his mouth hot and wet against my cock, swallowing me whole with none of his usual teasing. My hands fisted in his hair, still stiff with salt, as he worked me over with rough, eager strokes, his tongue pressing hard along the underside.
"Oh, Paul, oh, you are... incorrigible, sometimes."
"Sometimes?" He pulled off with a filthy pop, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The dim light from the boathouse window caught the sweat at his temples, the wildness in his eyes. "Try, always." Then his hands were under my thighs, hoisting me onto the wobbling stack of crab pots as if I weighed nothing. The rough wood bit into my arse cheeks, but the sting vanished when Paul yanked my hips forward, his tongue lapping at the head of my cock before swallowing me again, deeper this time, his nose pressed into my pubes.
Outside, the tide slapped against the jetty posts in rhythm with Paul's movements. I gripped the edge of the pots, knuckles white, as he worked me with a desperation that felt new, less about seduction, more about possession. He groaned around me, the vibration travelling straight to my balls, and I knew he could taste it when I got close, could feel the way my thighs trembled against his shoulders.
When I came, it was with a shout that startled the gulls into flight from the boathouse's roof. Paul swallowed every drop, then leaned back on his haunches, wiping his mouth with that infuriating smirk. "There," he panted. "Now you're properly marked for the evening."
He stood, hauling me off the crab pots like I was another catch of the day, his hands lingering at my hips as I swayed. The boathouse smelled of fish, of rope and salt and us. "Take them off, Steve."
I knew better than to argue with Paul and my own desire. I pushed my jeans down to the floor with a clatter of belt buckle on concrete. Not taking my shoes off, I pulled my legs out of the jeans, turning them inside out as I kicked them away. My Y-Fronts followed, and Paul kicked them aside, crowding me back against the stacked pots as he urgently did his jeans and briefs, pushing them down his legs.
His hands were everywhere, gripping my waist, palming my arse, kneading my thighs, as if he needed to relearn my body by touch. When his fingers slipped between my cheeks, probing without preamble, I bit his shoulder to muffle my groan. "Christ, you're impatient tonight."
"I can't get enough of you. I need you," Paul said. "And, guess what I keep here just in case?"
He flashed a small tube of lube from his pocket before pressing me harder against the crab pots.
"Take me, you beast, take me," I joked. "I'm all yours, you brute."
"Steve, really? You beast, you brute. That sounds like a script from a B movie."
"It is, and it sounds appropriate, and for fucks sake, don’t fucking stop and fuck me, you brute. I need you too," I declared.
Paul lifted me and lay me backwards onto the wooden slats as he slicked his cock while I lay waiting for him. The first thrust inside burned, not enough prep, never enough with Paul, but the stretch quickly melted into that familiar, aching pleasure. His breath hitched against my neck as he scissored me open, his other hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. Outside, waves slapped the jetty in time with his fingers, each thrust deeper, more insistent.
"Fuck, you're tight," Paul gasped, twisting his fingers just right, forcing me to arch off the wood, swearing. He chuckled darkly. "Yeah, that's it. Take it." His fingers vanished, replaced by the blunt press of his cock, the stretch sharper this time. I dug my nails into his shoulders as he worked himself in inch by inch, the rough drag sparking white behind my eyelids.
Then he was fully seated, our bodies flush, his sweat dripping onto my chest. He stilled, catching my gaze, his pupils blown black, lips parted, before rolling his hips experimentally. The groan tore from my throat, loud enough to echo off the boathouse walls. Paul smirked, gripping my thighs and folding me nearly in half. "Louder," he demanded, pistoning into me with a force that sent the crab pots shuddering.
The wood bit into my back with each thrust, but the pain barely registered, not with Paul hitting that spot inside me relentlessly, his rhythm brutal, unyielding. My cock slapped against my stomach, leaking with each snap of his hips. "Close," I managed, my voice wrecked.
Paul's hand wrapped around me, stroking in time with his thrusts. "Come for me," he growled, his thumb swiping over the head, and I did, spilling over his fist with a shout. Paul followed moments later, his groan muffled against my shoulder as he spilt inside me, his hips stuttering erratically.
We stayed like that, panting, the boathouse filled with the scent of sex and salt. Paul finally pulled out, collapsing beside me on the rough planks. His fingers traced lazy circles on my stomach. "Alright?" he murmured as his jeans and underwear pooled at his feet.
I turned my head, catching his smug grin. "Brute," I muttered, but my fingers tangled with his anyway. "Shall I wait for you to finish unloading the boat?" I asked him.
Paul pulled his briefs and jeans up, but left them undone, still trailing around his thighs. "If you stay like that," he said, voice rough with exertion, "you can help. Seriously," as his fingers brushed my thigh meaningfully.
"Like this?" I arched slightly, letting my legs fall open wider.
"Yeah, like that," he replied, his gaze darkening. "I like the view, and it might save time if I decide I want you again before dinner."
"Very well then, you brute," I said, stretching my arms above my head, knowing full well what it did to my torso, how it made my ribs stand out. "What do you want me to do?"
Paul didn’t answer with words. Instead, he hooked a finger under my knee and tugged, pulling me off-balance just enough that I had to brace myself against the stacked crab pots again. His other hand slid up my inner thigh, calloused fingertips dragging against oversensitive skin, before circling my spent cock with possessive familiarity.
Outside, the tide groaned against the jetty, the sound echoing the groan building in my chest as Paul’s grip tightened. He worked me slowly at first, too slowly, his strokes deliberate, teasing, his free hand pinning my hip to the wood when.....the moment was shattered by a simple...."Hi guys."
"What the fuck," Paul declared, turning to see Jamie and Callum in the doorway. "Fucking hell, boys, don't you ever knock?"
"Sorry," they said in unison. "We didn't think....well, we didn't expect you guys to be busy," Jamie said as Callum looked at my partial nudity resting against the crab pots.
"Hope you had a lovely time," Callum asked me or perhaps both of us.
"Well, what do you think?" I asked him back.
Jamie's ears went pink, but Callum's gaze flickered between my sprawled legs and Paul's undone jeans with a curiosity that wasn't entirely innocent. Paul sighed, rolling his shoulders before reaching down to haul me upright, his hands lingering at my waist longer than strictly necessary. "Out with it then," he said, grabbing a spare shirt from a hook and tossing it to me. "What's so urgent it couldn't wait until we were decent and on a school night?"
Callum kicked a loose pebble with his bare toe; they'd clearly come straight from home. "It's Friday," he said, as if that explained everything. Jamie nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You said, well, Ben said, the painting'd be done by tonight. We thought..." His voice trailed off as Paul's shirt lay on my thighs, covering the worst of the evidence but not all of it.
"Paul, you finish up here, and I will take the boys back home and wait for you. Then we can all ask Ben if he's finished," I suggested.
"Home?" Callum asked. "We've just come from home. We're not going back."
"Christ," Paul muttered, buttoning his jeans with one hand while the other still braced against my hip. "Home?" he echoed, glancing at me. "They don't know."
"Know what?" Jamie asked.
I reached back to grasp Paul's fingers where they still rested against my skin. "That I've moved out of The George," I said, watching the boys' faces. "The cottage, well, Paul's room upstairs is home now."
Jamie's mouth formed a perfect O, but Callum was already grinning, nudging his friend with an elbow. "Told you, he would," he whispered triumphantly. There was something unbearably tender about how their eyes darted between us, not just understanding, but appreciating the shift, like they'd been rooting for us all along.
I led the boys into the kitchen just as the kettle's whistle cut through the quiet. "You make the tea, and I will go and get my clothes from upstairs."
"But you left them in the boathouse," Callum pointed out.
"Paul will bring them in when he finishes. I need some fresh ones now," as I walked upstairs, the boys enjoyed the view of my partial nudity as I walked.
The cottage stairs creaked underfoot as I walked down, each step a familiar protest to find the boys had taken their mugs of tea outside. Through the open kitchen window, I heard Jamie's voice, bright with curiosity: "Do you think Ben's painted us like... You know... together?" I didn't catch Callum's reply, but the sudden scrape of chairs suggested they'd heard me return and in they came with Paul following.
Paul came into the kitchen to find me only one wearing Y-fronts and a clean t-shirt. Everyone else was dressed, and strangely, I felt marginally awkward for a moment, but it didn't matter to Paul as he spoke. "Let's find out from Ben if he's finished."
Paul poked his head into the studio and asked Ben. "Have you finished the painting yet?"
He had, came the answer. "Come in, you lot and see."
We all shuffled in, and as Ben stood back to one side, there it was.
Callum lying down behind my head, Jamie seated on his hips. Paul seated on my thigh as my other leg was bent at the knee. It captured the moment, and it was definitely, as Ben said it would be, it was a masterpiece that captured the essence of Henry Tuke but in Ben’s school of art.
Jamie's cock was flaccid but clearly painted. Paul was semi-erect and caught in the moment that Henry Tuke had never managed to capture. It was another Dutch School masterpiece that looked so real it could almost be a photograph.
The boys' reactions were immediate. Callum's breath hitched, fingers twitching at his sides as he took in the way Ben had rendered the light across his own shoulder blades. Jamie made a small, bitten-off sound, staring at where his own likeness rested against Callum's thighs. Paul said nothing, but his hand found the small of my back, thumb pressing into the dip of my spine like he needed the anchor.
Ben cleared his throat. "It's not just about the bodies," he said, gesturing to the canvas with a paint-stained hand. "It's the way you all fit. The trust," as his gaze flicked to Paul and me. "And the love." The word hung there, heavy as the scent of linseed oil.
"It's stunning. It's beautiful. It's amazing," we all said, and Ben just stood looking at us, captured on canvas. "Yeah, it's not bad," he finally agreed, and the five of us remained, fixed on a masterpiece that a week ago had just been a vision.
"I'm going to exhibit them all," Ben said. "All seven paintings. I found a gallery in Norwich which is happy to hold an exhibition, and someone in the local pride community is sponsoring the event. They did suggest that perhaps another four or five paintings might be better for the event, but I’m not sure."
Jamie stepped closer, tilting his head. "You made me look... older," he murmured, tracing the air above the painted version of himself.
Ben chuckled. "No, lad. I made you look like you are when you're not thinking about how you look."
Callum exhaled sharply. "Fuck."
Paul's fingers tightened on my hip. "Yeah," he agreed under his breath.
The painting wasn't erotic, not exactly. It was something deeper, the way Ben had caught Jamie mid-laugh, Callum's relaxed sprawl, Paul's possessive slant toward me. And me? I looked peaceful. Owned.
Ben wiped his hands on a rag. "Well? What do you think about the exhibition?"
Silence. Then Jamie, uncharacteristically bold, reached out and brushed Callum's elbow. "Can we... attend?”
"Of course you can and.... I had an idea, boys. Perhaps pluck up your courage and invite your parents. It will be a way to perhaps... come out to them, if they see the beauty of your friendship captured on canvas."
Jamie's mug hit the floor with a clatter, tea soaking into the worn floorboards. Callum made a noise like a deflating balloon. Ben chuckled, nudging the broken china with his toe. "Well, that answers that. Too much to ponder, I guess?"
Paul exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening where they rested against my hip. His thumb traced idle circles through the thin cotton of my Y-fronts. "Nice idea, Ben, but perhaps they're not quite ready yet."
"Fair enough," Ben responded. "Perhaps you're right. Now, where's my tea?"
With Ben demanding his tea, we all went back into the kitchen, and as Ben made himself a cuppa, the boys were restless and seemingly distracted. "What's wrong, boys?" Ben demanded.
Callum looked at Ben and, receiving a nudge in his ribs from Jamie, plucked up the courage to ask. "Ben, can we go upstairs for a while?"
With a smile on all our faces, Ben answered, "Of course you can, but don't forget that the stew will be ready in an hour. That should give you ample time to celebrate," his wink sending Jamie practically tripping over his own feet as they bolted for the stairs, their footsteps thundering like startled deer. Paul snorted into his tea, shaking his head. "Christ, they're worse than we are."
"Let them," Ben answered. "It's new to them, and it's safe here. We can even pop out for a beer at the pub whilst they do...."
"Great idea," I said, “I will just put some shorts on, and we can go.”
We sat in the pub garden, Ben nursing his pint, Paul leaning against me, the late afternoon sun warming our shoulders. "Funny how fate takes a hand," Ben mused, swirling his beer. "Never completely planned any of this when I first asked Steve to model. I just had a vision."
I snorted, lacing my fingers together with Paul on the table. "Destiny's got shit taste if it involves crab pot splinters in my arse."
The joke died halfway when Callum's mother came into the beer garden. Her floral dress was askew, sure, her face was flushed, not from the sun, but she appeared pretty relaxed. "Benjamin Jacobs! My son told me where you were," she said in a low tone. "What in God's name is hanging in your studio?"
Paul's grip tightened on my thigh under the table. Ben sighed, setting his glass down with deliberate calm. "Art, Mary. It's called Art based upon the Dutch School but inspired by Henry Tuke."
"I know what it's called!" as she thrust a trembling finger toward the cottage. "That's my son! Naked! With… with Jamie, and you two," her gaze flickered to Paul and me, her voice remaining low so other drinkers would not hear the conversation.
Ben stood slowly, hands raised. "Mary, come and sit and tell me what happened.
She smoothed her dress and sat down, glancing at our faces before speaking. "Yes, I knocked, but there was no answer, and I knew the door was unlocked, so I went in, thinking the boys would be in the kitchen or the studio, perhaps doing more art lessons." Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress. "They weren’t, and I was alone when I saw the painting, that large canvas with them all...arranged like…. I couldn't look away."
Her voice dropped. "It was like one of those... paintings, but it was Callum, Jamie, you, Paul and you, I don't know your name" Her eyes flicked to Paul and me.
"Steve," I prompted her.
"Steve, very well," she said. "I was still standing there when Callum came in, without a worry in the world, it would seem."
Mary's cheeks coloured deeper. "He was...he wasn't wearing anything. He just walked right up to the painting and said, 'It's beautiful, isn't it, Mum?' Like it was perfectly normal." She swallowed hard. "Then he turned and asked me what I thought."
Paul snorted into his pint, earning a sharp look from Mary. Ben rubbed his forehead. "Well, did you tell him?"
"I said..." Mary hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "I said, Christ, I haven’t seen you like this since, God, I don’t know Callum. But seeing you now and then like that in the painting, I will tell you, it’s, it’s, very lifelike," recounting the incident as she glared at Ben.
Mary continued. “To make matters even more…, Jamie joined Callum and me, and like my son, Jamie was naked. Left me standing there with my mouth open as I continued to look at the painting and then the boys together."
"And?" Ben demanded.
"Callum was naked. Jamie was naked, holding Callum’s hand, and I immediately knew my son had a boyfriend."
"And," Paul demanded.
They showed me the painting, explaining the brushstrokes and the beauty, and then Callum said, "Jamie's my boyfriend, Mum, and we love how Ben captured us on canvas, and we love each other, Mum, and before you ask, we’re…. Gay."
"Wow," I murmured as I heard a fuck, coming from Paul.
Ben just whistled slowly. "And, what do you think of the painting and.....well, your son and his boyfriend."
Mary's silence stretched like drying paint before she reached for Ben's unfinished pint, draining it in one go. "It's breathtaking," she admitted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "The way you've captured them, not just their bodies, but how Callum leans into Jamie even when they're not touching." Her fingers traced a phantom curve in the air. "Like they're sharing the same gravity."
Paul exhaled sharply through his nose, half laugh, half disbelief, while I watched Mary's hands tremble around the empty glass. She wasn't recoiling. She was vibrating.
“I still haven’t recovered from the shock yet, as you can imagine,” Mary declared. “And then, Jamie declared, it appears our secret is out to Callum. I'd better tell my Dad before he hears it from anyone else.”
Now it was my turn to ask. “And?”
Mary smiled briefly at the memory unfolding in her mind. “Jamie asked if I could take a photograph of them together in front of the painting, and, would you believe it, I agreed, and so, the boys posed for a photo and with simple words, Jamie Whatsapped his father.”
She took a breath before continuing. “It must have been only a minute since Jamie pressed send when I got a call from Jamie’s father, telling me that Jamie sent a photo to him. He also asked, what the fuck’s going on, and then, he asked if I knew that Jamie and Callum were more than best mates.”
“I told him everything, including the art bit, the gay bit, the naked bit. Oh my god, I told him every bit, including where to find you, Ben. After some silence, Robert replied, saying he’ll be on his way once he’s composed himself.”
With almost perfect timing, the beer garden gate swung open, cutting through the tension. Jamie's father stood silhouetted against the sunlight, his work boots crusted with mud from the marshes. "Found you," he announced to Mary, then zeroed in on Ben. "So, you're the bastard who turned my Jamie into art."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "Problem, Robert?"
Robert scrubbed a hand over his stubble before tossing his phone onto the table. Jamie's flushed face grinned, his bare shoulder pressed to Callum's in front of the painting. "Jamie sent a photograph via WhatsApp saying, The secret's out, but I love you, Dad."
His thumb rasped over the edge of the phone. "Took me twenty damn minutes to stop crying before I could drive here, having spoken with Mary beforehand."
Mary made a wet sound, reaching for the phone. Robert let her take it but kept talking, his voice gruff. "Never seen him look like that. Happy, I mean. Really happy. Not since his mother passed away."
He jerked his chin at Ben. "And apparently, there's an exhibition. Christ man. Anything else happened, I don’t know about?"
The table erupted in....acceptance and silent shock, overlapped with surprise. Mary gasped, Paul choked on his beer, and Ben, bloody unflappable Ben, just smirked and signalled the barmaid for another round.
Robert ignored us all, pulling out a chair with a screech of wrought iron. "Well? Are you inviting the parents or not?"
I caught Paul's eye across the table; his pupils were blown wide, lips parted in that particular way they did when life outran his expectations. He mouthed one silent, exhilarated word at me: fuck.
The barmaid clattered another tray of pints down between us, foam slopping over onto Robert's calloused hands. He didn't seem to notice, too busy tracing the water rings on the wood with one thick finger. "Always knew our Jamie liked lads," he confessed abruptly. "Found his internet history when he was twelve or thirteen, but finding out all this in a WhatsApp message was a little bit too much to take in."
Mary choked on her gin, remembering her own unexpected experience.
"Full of rugby player types, that was his internet history along with other dubious sites," Robert finished, grinning when Paul barked out a laugh. “It’s not funny, it’s serious, Paul.”
“Sorry,” Paul said as Ben leaned forward, forearms braced on the sticky table.
"And Callum?"
Mary lifted her chin. "His father will take some convincing," she admitted, then surprised me by reaching across to clasp Robert's wrist. "But he'll come around like Robert, here. Especially when he sees the painting and the boys, it's probably the most beautiful painting I have ever seen."
I detected there was steel beneath the floral dress, the same unflinching acceptance that had kept her sitting here instead of storming off.
Paul's fingers found mine under the table, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "They really don't care," he muttered, almost to himself.
Robert overheard, his weathered face crinkling. "Course we care, lad," he corrected gruffly. "Just not the way you're thinking."
He jerked his thumb at the cottage across the lane. "My boy, our boys, are up there right now, happier than I've ever seen 'em. That's what matters."
Mary nodded, her eyes suspiciously bright. "And your painting...."
"Ben's painting," Paul interjected.
"Showed me what I'd been too stubborn to see," Mary finished. She glanced at her watch, then groaned. "Lord, I've left the shepherd's pie in the oven." Robert snorted into his pint as she stood, brushing invisible crumbs from her skirt.
"Benjamin Jacobs, you will invite us properly to this exhibition. With tickets. And wine," Mary declared.
Ben saluted with his beer. "Black tie optional."
Mary hesitated, then shocked us all by leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Ben's paint-flecked head. "Thank you," she whispered, too low for anyone but our table to hear. "For seeing them and offering them a way to…well, you know, come out, I think they call it."
Then she was striding away, muttering something about telling her husband, as Robert promised his support if needed, chasing after her. The pub garden gate swung shut behind them, leaving our table steeped in golden evening light and the ringing absence of disaster. Paul's thumb swept over my knuckles. "Well," he said eventually. "That was most unexpected, but....it's better for the boys that the secret is now out."
Ben leaned back, stretching his legs out with a satisfied groan. "Henry Tuke used to say his models became lifelong friends," he mused, watching a seagull swoop low over the pub roof. "Said the intimacy of painting forged bonds no one could break," as his gaze slid to me, then Paul, warm with knowing. "Seems he was right."
I thought of the canvas waiting in the studio. Jamie's sprawl, Callum's trusting tilt toward him, Paul's possessive slant against my thigh. Not just bodies captured in oil, but the invisible threads between us, painted so clearly, they hummed with life. Henry Tuke's ghosts whispered through Ben's brushstrokes, binding us tighter than any vow.
Paul nudged my knee under the table. "What?" I asked.
"You're smiling," he pointed out.
"Am I?"
"Yeah, like a fucking idiot or a Cheshire Cat," he confirmed, but his own mouth curled at the corners.
Ben drained his pint and stood. "Right. We should retrieve the boys before they shag the plaster off my walls."
Paul snorted. "Too late, probably."
The cottage was quiet when we returned, the only sound the creak of floorboards overhead. Ben hesitated at the foot of the stairs, then smiled. "Best get them down, so we can eat."
I followed, pausing to study the sketches pinned above the sink in the studio. Ben's quick, sure lines captured Jamie mid-laugh, Callum biting his lip, and Paul's profile sharp against a window. Already, they felt like relics of a distant past, though it had only been days.
"Ben," I started, as he came downstairs. “Are they, you know, okay now it’s all out?”
"They were cuddling and giggling when I poked my head round the door, so I figure they’re fine," he said as he walked into the kitchen.
Paul's hand settled at the small of my back, steering me toward the stairs. "Told you," he murmured against my ear. "Destiny can be weird and without certainty, but sometimes we get lucky when we don’t resist Lady Destiny."
I took Paul’s hand. “Ben, how long before they come down?”
“Probably, fifteen minutes, why?” Ben asked.
“I just want to take Paul upstairs, if you don’t mind?” as we started up the stairs.
“Oh….in that case, I will turn the stew down. Will half an hour be enough?” Ben suggested.
“Yep, that will be fine,” I responded, “And we will bring the boys down with us,” I stated, knowing tomorrow would be another day with lives changed forever and still undetermined.
The only constant was, there were destinies to fulfil, but for the next half an hour, our destiny, Paul and I, was to share our love while hopefully, the boys kept the noise down next door.
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