Life was not a whole lot brighter the next day. But by lunchtime I’d watched Reb and Greg exercise and had a light lunch as Mrs Williams knew I was going out to a special dinner with dad. I showered, shaved and dressed with real care, and I have to say that when I looked at myself in the mirror I was a pretty great looking guy: I seemed to be shining with health, and the expensive linen and silk jacket in deepest navy blue, the luxury designer jeans, the A&F shirt in pale blue, and my Gucci loafers all set the scene perfectly for the shock of the emerald green and yellow silk cravat frothing out at my throat.
I drove into the station, parked, then waited for the New York train, really looking forward to the special dinner with dad and our celebration of my eighteenth – I’d often heard of the restaurant with its three-star chef, but had never been taken there: dad now really knew I was a man.
The train was just pulling in and my phone buzzed, and it was dad calling., I was thrilled – he never usually interrupted his day for stuff like that, and he must be making a real effort as it was such a special occasion for me – I guess he wanted to know if the train was on time.
But as I answered I heard his PA say quite curtly that Mr Masters had had urgent business and couldn’t make the dinner, that I should go home, and he’d fix another time. How could he? There was only one night I’d be eighteen! This was meant to be special. How could dad think that ‘urgent business’ was more important than me on this of all days?
All of a sudden all my black despair and depression at losing Jake came back, and I felt the tears welling up into my eyes again. I slouched back along the platform as the New York train came in then went out, walking so slowly that it must have seemed to any onlookers that there was something physically wrong with me.
I was crossing the booking hall and the train from New York came in, and the next minute someone slapped me on the back with a big cry of “Steve, what are you doing here?”
I turned around, and there was Ray, who must just have got off the train. He changed instantly as he saw my mood. “Hey, Steve – is there a problem?”
“No, not really…”
“I’m a lawyer, Steve! I know that ‘not really’ means ‘yes there is’.”
“No, it’s OK…” But even as I said it, I knew my voice was choking with emotion and giving me away.
“If you were old enough, Steve, I’d suggest we go to a bar and talk about whatever it is that’s troubling you – a couple or three beers, and the whole world would look different. But I can hardly do that – unless we go to the club and you play the slave again, and that would be a pity as then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing just how good you look all dressed up: I rather like looking at you like that, knowing what it all conceals. So come on up to the apartment and we’ll sit down and talk it all out there – it’s only across the road, as you know.”
As he said this he put his arm around my shoulders to kind of shepherd me along, and I had no will to resist – I was too emotionally exhausted. I didn’t even worry that one of the guys from school or someone we knew in the town might see me with a ‘notorious homosexual’ with his arm around my shoulders.
In the elevator as the slave used the peculiar switch, I couldn’t help notice that Ray’s other hand went down and caressed the salve’s butt. So, OK, it was only a slave, but I wished I had the self confidence to be able to do stuff like that, as if it was perfectly normal. As we went in to the apartment Ray let go of me as Stu came out and the two men kissed – not passionately, but affectionately – as they greeted each other. It was then Stu who put his hand on my shoulder and stood there at arm’s length looking at me. “Well you are a handsome boy, aren’t you, Steve? ‘Clothes maketh the man’ as the old saying goes, and you look even more delicious than when we last saw you. But why so glum? A young man like you, in the prime of life, ought to be enjoying himself, not looking so sad…”
“I’m not a boy any longer, Stu. It’s my birthday today, my eighteenth.”
“You should be out celebrating! Surely that dad of yours has arranged a birthday dinner, or you’re going to a party with your buddies?”
Then it all came out. I didn’t want to be disloyal to dad as I knew he worked really hard for me, but I knew Ray and Stu had heard the bitter disappointment in my voice, and it was hard to keep control of myself as I told how dad couldn’t even find the time to make the call to cancel our dinner.
“I think poor Steve deserves a little celebration anyway, don’t you, Ray?” And before Ray could answer Stu clapped his hands and called out “Our best champagne!”
It was amazing how quickly a slave appeared with a bottle and three crystal champagne flutes. At a nod from Ray he opened the bottle in the proper way by twisting it slowly so that there was no vulgar popping noise and flying cork, then expertly filled the glasses slowly so that as many of the bubbles were retained in the golden liquid. We toasted each other, and I sipped mine and there was that explosion of tingling sensation you only get from a really good vintage champagne – they drank Veuve Cliquot, I noticed.
All three of us sat together on a couch, me in-between the two men, and we drank, and seemingly without being asked a slave appeared with a silver salver of canapes: he knelt there in front of us, naked except for the tiniest of snowy-white loincloths suspended from a thin gold chain around his waist, and bent his body low so that the salver could be balanced on the top of his shoulders and neck. I realised that he was expected to stay like that in front of us, acting as a kind of table, as it was more convenient for us to be able to help ourselves to the delicious savoury morsels than to have the slave constantly moving around and offering them to us – clearly Ray and Stu had their domestic arrangements organised to perfection.
Soon the first slave reappeared and another bottle was opened in front of us and our glasses were refilled for a second time – I suddenly realised that, almost without noticing it, I was on my third glass on an almost empty stomach except for the canapes. I’m not all that used to alcohol, and felt quite light headed and suddenly the room seemed to be oppressively hot and stuffy, and I started to sweat.
“Why don’t you take your jacket off, Steve?”, Stu asked gently. “It would be a shame to spoil that lovely fabric with ugly sweat stains – and I don’t think it will dry clean all that well.” He was right, of course, and the two men helped me slip out of it as we sat there, and a slave took it away to hang up. Stu then undid and took off my cravat, for the same reason, commenting on what good taste I had to buy a Hermes, and after a bit more casual talk and more champagne I saw Ray undoing my shirt. Yes – it’s funny, isn’t it: when you’ve had a few drinks someone can do that to you and you watch it with a curious detachment as if it’s happening to someone else, not to you.
The men removed my shirt of course, then Ray put his arm around my bare shoulders, like he had done at the station, except that now I felt the rub of his own shirt against my bare skin. His other hand reached over and casually brushed my nip – it was done so casually, so smoothly, it could almost have been by accident. I gave a little moan as I’ve got sensitive nips and am not used to guys touching them, and Ray smiled at me.
“I think Steve needs a little birthday present, don’t you, Stu?”
“Yes, Ray. But what can we give a man – a real man, judging by his body – who has everything? Or who could buy it for himself if he doesn’t already have it?”
“A man always wants sex, doesn’t he? And an eighteen year old must want it very much. We could give him that.” Stu leaned close to me now and said casually “So would you like to fuck one of the slaves, Steve, or have one of them suck your dick – we have some real experts here.”
“Yes! No….” I was so confused. Of course I wanted sex, who doesn’t? And the near-naked slave kneeling in front of me had aroused me. But I couldn’t just have sex there and then, could I?
Ray’s hand now casually brushed the crotch of my jeans, then came back and lingered there, his fingers gently stroking and probing. “Yes, Stu. I think Steve would like sex. I think he’s almost bursting for it…”
Stu made a gesture and the kneeling slave deftly retrieved the nearly-empty salver from his back and put it on the floor, then leaned forward towards me and began to undo my belt buckle. I went to protest – feebly – but Stu put a finger on my lips. “Shhh…, Steve. Just sit there and relax and enjoy yourself….”
Somehow that intimate touch and Ray’s arm around my shoulder did prevent me from doing anything, and the slave started to tug at my waistband. Almost as if still in a dream I pushed against the floor so I could raise my pelvis and the slave was able to pull my jeans down. He slipped off my loafers and gently tugged at the hem of my jeans to get them over my feet, and I relaxed down and was sitting there in my A&F briefs – yes, as it was a special day and as I knew Jake wore briefs and I was kind of celebrating being a man, I’d ditched my usual boxer shorts in favour of a pair of the incredibly sexy white briefs with the big red arrows, like I’d bought for Jake.
Both men now put their hands on my crotch, and when I started to make some feeble protest Stu again put a finger to my lips, then pressed his face close to my ear – I got a delicious whiff of his sharp citron-like after shave – and whispered “Those arrows certainly show us the way, don’t they, Steve? Men who wear sexy underwear are usually on the look out for sex, aren’t they?”
I was so confused, so overwhelmed by the experience and nonchalance of the two men, that I didn’t reply. My body did it for me, though, as my erection was now so hard that as Ray’s finger playfully tugged at the waistband of my briefs, my dick head popped out! I suppose I was embarrassed, I suppose I blushed, but I seem to have lost my usual ability to be aware of and in control of my surroundings. Stu’s mouth was at my ear again now, first nibbling at it gently then whispering “So your dick wants to come out to play, Steve! Good! But I think it’s cruel to keep it confined like that, don’t you….?”
As he said this I could feel both men acting in complete unison to tug my briefs down, and it seemed almost natural to raise my hips again so that they could slide them down my thighs and over my knees. I felt them land on the top of my feet.
Something clicked in my brain. Through the fog of the alcohol vapour it was as if I was looking at myself sitting there naked between the two older guys – my brain was
remembering though how I’d sat with Jake and looked at the young slave Kenny sitting just like this on this very same couch. Did Ray and Stu think of me as a slave, I wondered.
I wanted to get up, but Ray’s gentle insistent pressure on my shoulders somehow prevented it. And as both men closed a hand around my dick and began to jerk me off, I knew I couldn’t move. And it’s very sensual to have two hands jerking your dick, isn’t it? Especially when they shape their fingers and squeeze gently so that you dick head thinks it’s forcing its way through a guy’s hole.
My eyes were closed and my head was thrown back against Ray’s arm and I could feel myself thrusting myself upwards against their hands as if I needed to play a more active part in being jerked off. I sensed Stu and Ray were fumbling around at something, but their skilful and erotic massage of my dick never faltered. And then of course I shot my load – I assume there was a huge ejection of cum from me as I was so aroused, and for a moment I worried about their expensive piled carpet – stupid, isn’t it, to have thoughts like that at a time like that? But you do.
We all sat there then, quite still except for my chest which was in and out as I sucked in air to recover from the intense experience. Both men in turn leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips – a tongue went in, but there was no passionate roaming around as there was with Jake: they were calm, loving, gentle.
Ray’s arm moved on my shoulders, and I realised he was guiding my head down. I looked and sort of regained focus – the fumbling had been Ray and Stu getting their dicks out, and both were now standing up rigidly on either side of me. He carried on with his insistent pressure moving me towards his dick, and suddenly I pushed back and sat upright. “No…”
Stu was at once at my ear again. “Come on, Steve! You’ve had your fun. You’re not going to deny Ray and me a bit of pleasure, are you?” I shook my head feebly, as if to say no. “Steve, is that the way a man behaves? It’s only kids who get treats and don’t expect to pay, isn’t it? A man, a real man, treats other men as they treat him….”
I was so confused still. Stu seemed somehow so insistent, so right…. I allowed myself to be guided downwards until Ray’s dick was pushing t my lips – I could smell his scent, feel the heat of his dick, and it was faintly moist, slightly salty as my tongue timidly touched it.
Actually, it’s no big deal to suck another guy’s dick, I suppose – well, not just to have the head in your mouth and lick at it and tease his piss slit with your tongue… It can be tough I subsequently learned if a guy wants to ram his dick right down your throat, but this wasn’t like that: Ray seemed very happy to have me almost caressing his dick head and was moaning and moving as I worked at it.
Ray and Stu clearly shared everything, though, as a few moments later Ray guided me over on to Stu’s dick, and now I found it easier to do the same to him.
As I moved from side to side I realised that behind my bent back Ray and Stu were kissing each other – kissing passionately, as Jake and I had done. It somehow seemed to be ‘right’, and I felt secure and comfortable and ‘wanted’ in a way I hadn’t felt before.
As you might expect this couldn’t go on for ever – I mean Ray and Stu, although I’ve described them as ‘old’ weren’t that old! They were in their early forties, I guess, and guys that age are still powerfully able to have sex. And it’s not as if I hadn’t tasted cum before, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that as I was sucking Stu, Ray was jerking at his own dick, and vice versa – and soon my mouth was filled with the salty taste of their pre-cum, and then the real thing: each man put a hand on my head to hold me down on to his dick as he shot his load: of course I could have thrown myself upwards and overcome it easily, but that firm, insistent pressure kind of ‘told me’ that I needed to be there, needed to stay to suck them dry.
All three of us sat back finally, and Ray and Stu both had big grins on their faces. Each in turn now kissed me – deeply, this time, their tongues probing as if on a desperate search for their partner’s cum from my mouth. And I couldn’t help but feel happy – no, joyous, almost – at this scene of so much pleasure.
It seemed almost natural for me to stay naked then – it’s not as if I’ve got anything to be ashamed of, after all, and it seemed to cause Ray and Stu a lot of pleasure. I couldn’t help feeling a tiny tingle of excitement as I saw them keeping glancing at my body as we tucked into a light supper of crayfish in cream sauce with pilau rice, washed down with more champagne. Why was it more exciting to see me rather than one of the slaves, I wondered, and finally I asked Stu. “Because you wanted to do it, Steve. We didn’t have to order a slave to do it. You want to strut around in front of us flaunting your body – it’s exciting for us, as it’s exciting for you.”
I wasn’t sure about this- I mean I wouldn’t have stripped off it they hadn’t kind of ‘encouraged’ me, but I didn’t pursue this. It was getting late then and I realised I’d need to go home, and as I dressed I fumbled for my car keys. Ray gently but firmly took them off me, saying that the temptation to drive would be too strong, and he ordered one of the slaves to call for a taxi for me. “And”, he added “You need to come back and see us again now – or shall I give the keys to your father at the station tomorrow?” Oh shit – was that a threat, or simply a kind gesture?
I felt a lot more drunk as the open taxi sped me home, and I really couldn’t focus on the pony – who was anyway clad in a padded winter jerkin because of the cold, so only his bare legs and feet were visible, which was a lot less interesting. And I know I stumbled several
times going up the big staircase, terrified that I might wake dad, and I suppose I undressed, but I really don’t remember it.
Dad shook me awake! “Come on, get up!”, he barked. “We‘ve barely got enough time as it is – it’s not like you to forget to get up!”
I lay there with dad pacing up and down, then realised I couldn’t get up as I’d gone to bed naked and I had my morning hard-on. Dad got more and more angry as I lay there, then reached out and dragged the sheets off me. I lay there in front of him, naked, and frantically tried to scrabble my hands together to cover myself – if dad did see my erection he didn’t comment on it as he was by now almost beside himself with rage, calling me lazy and no good, and an idle fucker who preferred to lie in bed when his father had a train to catch! I managed to pull some clothes on and get downstairs, but then realised my problem: the car keys were with Ray and Stu.
“I’m sorry, dad…. You’re going to have to take a taxi…. I’ve left the car keys at a buddy’s…”
“You imbecile! Why didn’t you order a taxi last night? Get on the phone now….”
I dialled and ordered it, then to my dread heard that it would be at least thirty minutes because of the morning rush, and that even as an old and valued customer there was nothing they could do.
“I’ve already missed one train and now I’ll miss two more”, dad raged. “Your thoughtlessness is causing me enormous problems, as I have an urgent client meeting. You’re a disgrace, Steve, you don’t deserve to be my son!”
I ran out of the house, half in anger, half in tears at dad’s cruel harsh words. In the gym I shook Reb and Greg awake and ordered Greg to get in harness and appear at the front door immediately, then stood there impatiently tapping my foot as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes then put on the belly strap and attached himself to the trap. I ran back through the house and told dad the trap was coming, and he immediately asked where from. So I told him that a buddy and me had bought Greg for onward sale at a profit. Dad snorted, saying that he wished I’d pay more attention to making sure the things I needed to do were done properly, instead of fiddling around making a few inconsequential new dollars, which I didn’t need.
He leapt into the seat, took the carriage whip, snapped at me that he hoped the pony was in good shape as he’d need to go at full speed to make the train, and set off down the drive, constantly and viciously hitting at Greg’s butt with the whip.
Reb was standing there watching, then ran back into the house and I followed him up stairs where he rummaged around in the drawer I’d allocated for his clothes and pulled on a pair of the brief running shorts and the athletic vest. As he stood there tying his running shoes in that desperate haste that means it actually takes longer, I asked him what the fuck he was doing.
“Your father will beat Greg all the way to the station, and Greg will have to run flat out. And it’s three miles! He’ll be exhausted…”
“A fancy is meant to be able to do that distance. If you’d trained him properly…”
“…He’s meant to be able to do that distance at a gentle trot, not by being flogged for maximum speed. I hope Greg’s not damaged…”
“So what are you doing?”
“He’ll need to rest before the return journey. And you probably didn’t notice, but it’s freezing cold out there. Greg was shivering when he left – do you want him to collapse outside the station in the cold, unable to even limp back here?”
I hazily remembered the pony last night in his padded jerkin, so I could see that was a potential problem.
“So I’m going to take a blanket for the poor kid, he can wrap up warm, then when he’s recovered we’ll come back at a proper pace….”
“Wait!”, I commanded. And as Reb watched I threw off my clothes and pulled on tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt top – it was cold, after all – and pulled on my own running shoes.
It was tough. My head was aching from the alcohol the night before (it’s evidently not true that drinking champagne doesn’t produce a hangover!) and from the tension from all the shouting and rebuke from dad. And Reb was clearly in a hurry – this was no gentle jog as he pointed out that we needed to get there soon, as soon after Greg as we could, as his sweat would be pouring off him and making him even colder. So Reb ran flat out, and I at first struggled to keep up with him, and was only able to do so as he as carrying a horse blanket that he’d found from somewhere out back. But then as I warmed up and my slighter body was more fitted for a long fast run than Reb’s heavier one, I began to draw ahead – and Reb, competitive as he is, then pushed himself even harder to keep up.
We both arrived at the station utterly exhausted: I could feel the sweat trickling down inside my sweatshirt, and Reb’s brief silky shorts and vest were completely sodden, so much so that they were translucent verging on the transparent! Steam was rising from him in the
freezing morning air, and he rushed over to Greg who looked a pathetic sight: he was all hunched up, his arms wrapped around his body in a futile attempt to conserve heat, and was sort of half collapsed as you could see his lungs heaving to try to recover. Worst of all was his butt – they say a carriage whip is only designed to ‘sting’, but I guess if it’s used enough it will actually finally break the skin. His butt was bright red, and there were tiny trickles of red running down his thighs.
Reb threw the blanket over him, then he joined Greg under it and I could see Reb’s hands frantically rubbing up and down all over Greg’s body in an attempt to get some warmth and life into him. I stood there and began to feel cold myself after the run, and was really envious of the two slaves being able to warm each other like that.
Some officious looking person approached and I heard him tell Reb that they’d have to move, as ponies weren’t allowed to wait in the station forecourt – I guess Dad had just abandoned Greg and had raced for the train. I could see Reb’s anger rising and before there was a major incident I hurried over. “These are my slaves!”, I snapped, and then realised that in spite of the official look the guy was a slave himself. “If there are any problems you address them to me, boy, and not to my animals.”
“Many apologies, sir. But your slaves are not allowed to halt here, not allowed to wait on the forecourt.”
“Nonsense! I frequently drive in here and wait for passengers from New York.”
“But then you are accompanying them, sir….”
“…as I am now.” I saw the slave looking at my old tracksuit and sweat shirt, and he had evidently decided I didn’t look like a wealthy owner.
“They need to move…”
“How dare you! Fuck off, slave! I will decide when my animals are moved. It will be when it suits me, and not when some miserable animal like you decides. How dare you order a free man – who is your owner? I need to report your insolence – if my slaves behaved like you they’d receive a harsh whipping, and I hope your owner does the same…”
It was sufficient, but I saw Reb looking at me angrily. “So what else do you suggest, Reb? Actually moving Greg until he’s ready?” I said to him, not expecting an answer to what was obviously a rhetorical question.
After about half an hour it was fairly obvious that Greg was not recovering as well as he should – is muscles were in periodic spasm and he still looked very chill – there was no way
he could possibly run home, or even walk. “Take off the belly strap, Reb, and put it on and get between the shafts – Greg can ride, and you can pull him.”
“I’m not a pony….”
“That’s quite evident, Reb! Ponies obey, would be glad to be in harness. Now do as I fucking well tell you – unless you’ve got a better plan?”
Reluctantly and still glaring at me he did as he was told, and I helped Greg up in to the seat. “Take your shirt off, Reb”, I commanded. “You may need to be encouraged with the whip on the way back.”
“No way…”
I stood by him and stared at him. “Listen, Reb, and understand. Either you obey me, or I go into the slave supplies store over there and buy a pair of manacles and fasten you between the shafts. Then when you’re secured in place, you’ll not only lose your shirt but I will remove those shorts, too. You didn’t like it yesterday when I threatened to humiliate you by making you run as a naked pony, so how is it different today – there seem to be quite a lot of people around here….”
“You wouldn’t dare…”
“Want to try it, Reb? Don’t goad me into proving I mean what I say. Now, off with the shirt.”
Greg reluctantly did as he was told, then I had another idea. I got up into the seat beside Greg and wrapped the horse blanket around both of us – his flesh was cold against mine, but the way he instinctively clung to me felt really great. “You can pull both of us, Reb – you’re a lot stronger than Greg so should easily be able to pull the two of us, and I can keep Greg warm and stop him falling out of the seat.” Reb started off, and I flicked the whip at his shoulder blades to indicate that I wanted a higher speed. He looked around and shouted some obscenity at me, and I in turn called out and told him that perhaps he’s better drop his shorts after all, as whipping his butt would be far more of a pleasure for me than his shoulders. And that shut him up.
Reb’s pride wouldn’t let him not run fast on the way home, but I nevertheless flicked his shoulders with the carriage whip a few times just to indicate to him that I meant business – and anyway it’s kind of interesting to exert that type of control over another man. The thin running shorts were so soaked in sweat that they clung to his butt, too, and so I varied my control a little by flicking at them, too.
Once home I knew Reb was desperately tired and Greg was still cold and bleeding. I told them they need not clean the trap (it’s a rule that most owners follow to insist that the trap is always cleaned properly at the end of the day, however tired the pony, in case it is needed urgently unexpectedly early the following day) and that they should go into the whirlpool spa bath. I went and joined them as I needed to relax, and it was good to half sit, half float opposite them and play with their dicks and balls with my feet. I left them after a time, though, wrapped a towel around me and made my way up to my room. I was still desperate to see Jake and thought about trying to phone him – but then I reasoned that as my phone was rejecting his calls he might be doing the same. I thrilled therefore when I logged on to the network to find a message from Jake.
I was actually trembling as I opened it – was he apologising, was he wanting to meet? Or would it be another dreadful rejection of me? The note was coldly formal. He needed to talk to me about our shared ownership of the pony and trap and proposed calling around at three. That time was after his shift but before the return of my father, he noted, and therefore ‘I would be spared the embarrassment I clearly felt at making him known to Mr Masters’. Well, it wasn’t an apology, it wasn’t a request to talk about ‘us’, but it was a start. I dressed carefully and casually – avoiding any great display of wealth – and sat there waiting impatiently.
Jake came up the drive, walking, his coat collar turned up against the cold, promptly just before three, and rang the front doorbell. I rushed down and opened it and went to kiss him, but he wouldn’t even shake my hand in greeting. “We’d better talk business, Steve, as, who knows, your father might come home.”
“I’m sure that would be all right…”
“Have you told him about us? Have you even mentioned us?”
“Well, no… You see….” I was going to tell Jake about how busy dad was and that he’d even had to cancel my birthday dinner, but he gave a short of shrug, and immediately said “Well I’d like to inspect Greg anyway. I assume he’s recovering.”
“Yes… He’s doing fine…. Are we going to sell him?”
“I don’t want to. I want to get him into a co-op, as I told you.”
“But you need the money, Jake. You even had to walk here today and not take a taxi….”
“Mind your own business, Steve. Maybe I like walking. Now, let me see Greg, will you, and stop wasting time.”
Coldly and without exchanging another word we went around to the gym, and Jake seem surprised that Reb and Greg were not exercising. They were in their ‘stable’ room, and as I opened the door Greg slowly and painfully got to his feet. Jake rushed over, turned Greg around and saw the huge mass of new wounds and scarring on his butt.
He rounded on me. “Steve, you bastard! You’ve been whipping Greg. He’s a fancy, you know that – you only use a light carriage whip on him, and he’s been thrashed…”
“It was only a light carriage whip, but….”
“Stop making excuses, as usual. Why did you do this to Greg?”
I was in a terrible dilemma now, as I didn’t want to be disloyal to dad and tell Jake that it was my father who’d beaten Greg so savagely. I muttered “Well I didn’t, not exactly…”
“Steve, you can’t even lie convincingly now. If you didn’t do it, who did? Not Reb, I assume?”
“No…”
“I hoped we’d be able to at least talk as friends this afternoon. I might have been hasty in the parking lot – perhaps I misjudged you and your values. But now I see this… No wonder you want him sold – you can’t be trusted not to injure him the moment I leave him in your care… Fuck you, Steve!”
He turned to Reb and snapped “Has Greg got any stuff, any clothes?”
“No, Jake. When we were coming back from town earlier he was so cold that we had to wrap him in a horse blanket….”
“You bastard, Steve!”, Jake shouted at me again. Then to Reb he snapped “Give me the fucking blanket then!”
He wrapped Greg in the blanket tenderly, put his arm around Greg, and looked at me. “We still have a deal, in that I agreed we’d split the proceeds of Greg and the trap. But you can’t be trusted with him, Steve, so I’m taking him back to my place until he recovers properly and can be sold – who knows, perhaps I’ll be able to find a placement at a free co-op and might even have a bit of money to give you. But at least he’ll be spared any more savagery…”
“No, Jake, it isn’t like that…”, I wailed. “And you don’t have any space in that tiny place of yours…”
“Stop lying! I can see what it’s like. The evidence is here in front of me.” He brushed me aside, shouting “Get out of my fucking way! And mind your own business – my place may be small, but at least it’s mine. I’m not dependent on my dad!”, and led Greg out towards the drive.
Reb stood there, then shrugged. “You didn’t handle that one very well, did you?”
If the whip had been close at hand I’d have slashed at him as I was so upset.
To be continued …
