TIME MASTERS

Chapter 1 from Larry's spectacular new sci-fi novel:

A River Delta, Earth;

The large ship assumed stationary orbit directly above the southern coast of a great inland sea, where a huge, north-flowing river glistened like a streak of silver, bordered on either side by narrow strips of green. Beyond the green lay an endless expanse of drab, gray-brown desert. A relatively large population clustered along the water's edge - relatively, because human population had yet to expand and overwhelm the distant lands to north and west, or even to overcrowd the fertile river valley.

The people aboard ship were fugitives, fleeing persecution at the hands of an unrelenting imperial authority that feared their very existence. As owners of the vessel they had escaped unnoticed and now represented the best hope for the preservation of their science. Adar Larra had been the chief of research in the Imperial Institute for the Study of Life Sciences-his specialty being longevity. He paused now, gazing down at the seemingly placid community of earthmen. The entire point of their flight from Centrelia had been to seek refuge here, on this distant planet. Earth was not well-known to imperial authorities, despite being in the official records and despite being a subject of some serious scientific speculation. Except for Larra's prominence as a researcher there was little reason to fear pursuit. The ravages of revolution had so disrupted the imperial security forces that no one was available to track down a privately owned vessel, or a handful of fleeing scientists.

West Hollywood Sheriff's Station, Friday, February 3, 1995, 7:30 p.m

"I'm not trying to tell you he's crazy, Mitch - the opposite, really - but I think you oughta talk to him before we turn him loose -." Detective Sergeant Arnold Caldwell glanced across at his partner, as he cradled the receiver against his ear. "No, he hasn't done anything violent, and he hasn't committed any crime that we know of. All I can tell you is that he walked in here an hour ago, insisting that he just popped into the wrong decade. He insists that he's been living in 1963. And I think he really believes it -." The sergeant rolled his eyes up in their sockets. "No, he can't be more than twenty-two, twenty-three. He's not some senile old fart having -. No, he doesn't have any I.D. on him. I know he has to be hallucinating, or something, but he's so damned convincing -. Yeah, okay, thanks Mitch. You're the only guy I could think of to send him to, you being in charge of that think-tank and all. I'll have a black-and-white bring him over to you."

"Why did you call that guy?" asked Don Swenson, Caldwell's partner. "He's not a shrink, is he?"

"No, he's some kind of physical scientist, but his specialty is time-space relationships. It's all very complicated, and I didn't understand everything he told me." Caldwell paused, seeing his partner's raised eyebrows. "Happened just before you came on board here," he continued. "They'd had a break-in, and I was one of the investigators on the case, got to talking with the professor while the forensics guys were looking for prints."

"Must have been a big take," Swenson suggested. The lab boys were usually not called for a run of the mill B & E.

"Yeah, they got a big place in the hills, and the professor's traveled the world, has a lot of expensive stuff."

"Wife's furs and jewels?"

"Not exactly. And that's the other reason I called him. Dr. Lewis is gay. Lives with his friend. In this situation, he seemed to offer the best set of credentials."

"You don't believe that hustler, do you?" Swenson's tone reflected his incredulity. Sergeant Caldwell shrugged his powerful shoulders. "Who the hell knows? At least, if he is making it up, Lewis is the best man to tell him so."

Transcript of interview, Luke Parsons, age 22, taken 8:30 p.m., February 3, 1995, at offices of Largo, Inc. Investigator's note: Subject appears to be an exceptionally handsome, well-nourished Caucasian male, approx. six feet in height, 175 pounds, light brown hair, green-hazel eyes. No obvious scars, tattoos or other distinguishing marks. Subject claims to have been a working cowboy-now an aspiring actor/model, although he has thus far been unsuccessful. Perfunctory physical examination by staff physician reveals no significant abnormalities: Pulse slightly accelerated, respiration normal, body temperature normal, some evidence of stress. Subject is obviously anxious, possibly fearful. Referred to Largo by West Hollywood Sheriffs because of his strange obsession that he has been transported through time. Interviewer is Mitchell Lewis, Ph.D., physicist.

DR. LEWIS: Now, Luke, I think you can see that this really is 1995. So, somehow, you aren't really where you think you are-at least not in regards to time.

SUBJECT: I can see that, Doctor Lewis, but just a few hours ago it was 1963! It really was, Doc.

L: Suppose you tell me what led up to this, er, shift in time.

S: I don't know if I can do that, Doc. I mean, I was - you know, uh, things were tough and I was staying in a flea-bag hotel just offa Hollywood Boulevard, and they were ready to throw me out 'cause I didn't have the rent, so - you know - I was tryin' to pick up a little bread.

L: You were hustling.

S: Yeah.

L: Well, that's cool. I can understand that. Tell me what happened. And believe me, you aren't going to shock me. I've heard just about everything, at one time or another.

S: (grinning) Oh, I dunno, Doc, you're not all that old.

L: Old enough, Luke. Now come on; tell me exactly what happened from, say, the moment you encountered whoever it was you met. I'm assuming you did meet someone.

S: Oh yeah, I met someone all right! Okay, here's how it happened. I'd seen that a lot of servicemen would come out of the USO on the corner of Argyle and Hollywood, and they'd wander up the street to Yucca Avenue, where it was dark and not much traffic. They'd hang around there, and guys would come in their cars to pick them up. A 'course, I'm not queer, so I wouldn't a done this if I hadn't . . . like I said . . . if I hadn't needed the bread.

L: Exactly when was this?

S: It was last night-well, last Saturday night, about 10:30. Only in 1963.

L: Okay. Go on.

S: This guy in a hot-looking red T-bird convertible pulls up-good looking guy, maybe thirty, but probably younger. Dark hair, kinda tumbled from the wind, high cheek bones, bright gray eyes, about my size. Anyway, he stops next to me and he asks me if I'm "working," and I tell him I am, and he motions me into the car. He heads out toward a residential section-the Valley, I think they call it. See, I'm from Idaho and I haven't been here very long, so I don't know my way around too good. So, he drives out to this little house on a kinda dark side street, and on the way we settle for twenty bucks. He pulls into the garage, and the door comes down automatically, and we go through the back into the house. He gets us a couple beers and we sit down in the living room, and we exchange names. He tells me he's Richie. Then he's kinda like feeling me out, as to what I'm willing to do.

L: Feeling you out . . . touching you, you mean?

S: No, just talks to me, and I make it pretty clear I'm not into anything more than having my cock sucked. Now, I'm not sure about this guy, 'cause he's big and looks real strong.

L: Not sure, in what way? Did he threaten you?

S: No.

L: Did you think you might, uh, get into a physical contest with him? Were you going to roll him?

S: No, well, the thought did cross my mind. Twenty wasn't really going to do it, ya see, and we were a long way from Hollywood. I probably wasn't going to get onto another john to make up the difference, so I thought - maybe, if I was stronger than him. . . . Anyway, I talk him into an arm-wrestling contest and he takes me. And now he's acting like he's not real cracked on me, probably 'cause I won't do anything and I'm afraid I'm going to lose the twenty. So, I go take a piss, and instead ‘a coming back into the living room, I go into the bedroom. The door's open, and you could see the bed-just a box spring and mattress on the floor-you could see it from the living room. So, I drop my pants and I lay down on the bed with my legs hanging over the bottom edge, and I start to jack off.

L: Why'd you do this?

S: Well, see, I got a nice big dick, and I got a foreskin, and these Hollywood fags, they really go for it and I figured this would maybe get him started, and he'd suck me off, and then he'd take me back to the boulevard and I could pick up another few bucks. Or maybe he'd raise the ante when he saw what I had to offer. Anyway, at first he doesn't do anything, so I call to him and after a couple minutes, he comes in. He stands there, looking down at my dick, and it's up real good and hard, and after a minute he's down on his knees, leaning across my legs, sucking my cock. And man, does he ever know what he's doing! He runs his tongue around under the foreskin; then he deep-throats it, and he sucks my balls. And somewhere through all this, he gets me to "scrunch up" more on the bed, so I'm really all the way onto the mattress, kinda over to one side. And he pulls off my boots and jeans, and now he's telling me to slip off my shirt.

L: Was he fully dressed?

S: Naw, he's shucked his shirt, and man, did he ever have a good build! Every muscle showed against his skin . . . not much hair . . . real good tan even though it wasn't summer. You could see he worked out. Then, while I'm wiggling out of my shirt, he gets his jeans off.

L: So you're both completely naked?

S: Yeah, 'cept I still got my socks on, I think. So anyways, this guy is real smart, see, 'cause he keeps tellin' me what a great bod I have, and he's stroking me and he finally gets me to turn onto my stomach and he's rubbing my back, and-oh!-it feels so fuckin' good, but I'm worried about the extra bread, so I say something - don't remember just what - and he tells me not to worry, he'll make it worth my time. And I'm layin' there, wondering why a guy as good-looking as him has to pay for it and, well, I gotta admit it's a hot scene even if he is another guy, 'cause my dick's up and ready, and I know he's gonna go down on me eventually. So, I don't even think about it when he pulls my hands together behind my back, and then, man, click-click, and he's got cuffs on my wrists. I don't even know where he had ‘em, but once he has ‘em on me, he just keeps rubbing my back, telling me not to worry, it's just a game, and after a while I stop struggling, ‘cause it's not doing me any good and, anyway, I all of a sudden feel real good, comfortable, ya, know?

L: Did he force you to do anything - sexual, I mean?

S: Yeah, well, no, not yet. What he does, is he gets me all relaxed again, talking to me, and then he lays down full on top'a me, and I can feel his hard dick pressing down between my cheeks. That scares me, and I start to struggle a little bit, telling him I don't want to get cornholed. He kinda laughs and tells me not to worry, and I can feel him fumbling under the mattress above my head, and then he has a chain around my neck, and man, I really started to fight him then, but it was too late. He held me down, locked the chain with a padlock. Then, with me still going into fits, he sits up, so he's on my thighs, with his legs wrapped around mine, and I feel him leaning backward, and I know what's coming, but I can't do a fuckin' thing. In two seconds he's got leg irons clamped around my ankles.

L: And you were protesting. You told him to let you go?

S: Hell yes, but he just stands up beside the bed and laughs at me. And fuck, I can't even turn over. I'm layin' there on my belly, buck ass naked in this queer's bed, with my hands cuffed behind my back, chained down by my neck and ankles. I'm tellin' you, man, I was pissed; but I was scared, too. I never figured I'd get taken so easy.

L: So, everything that happened from this point on was non-consensual - forced?

S: Yeah, you better believe it! I told him I was gonna kill him when I got loose, but he laughed again and asked me if I was sure I was gonna get loose. And that really scared me, and I sorta froze. He turns me over, being careful to shove a small pillow between my back and the handcuffs. That makes me feel a little better about what he might end up doin' to me. Then he goes down on me again, tellin' me how I liked gettin' sucked, asking me where my big cowboy boner'd gone, 'cause for the moment I wasn't hard at all. But he keeps workin' on me, and even though I don't want to, I spring another big hard-on. He's doin' like he done before, and he's got me gaspin' again, and shovin' up with my hips. And all of a sudden, he stops. He sits astride my belly, playin' with his own cock. It's big, too-almost as big as mine, but he's cut. Then he's up, sittin' on my chest, rubbin' his dick across my face, big hairy balls flopping against my mouth. I know what he's up to, and I try to turn away. Finally, he says: "I showed you how to do it, so now it's your turn-if you want to leave here with, let's say-fifty bucks in your pocket. And I better not feel any teeth."

He puts his cockhead against my lips, and he tells me to kiss it. I'm afraid not to. Then he tells me to lick it, and when I don't, he reaches under the mattress and he pulls out a cattle prod. And man, I know what those things can do, so I lick his cock; but I'm not gonna suck it! I tell him that when he tries to shove it into me, and he lifts up a little and he zaps me on the hip with that cattle prod, just a quick jolt, but it's enough. I open my mouth, and that big hard piece'a meat slides into me. Now, honest to God, man, I never done this before. I mean, I been blow'd a few times, but this was the first cock I ever had in my mouth. But I did the best I could, 'cause I didn't want that cattle prod again, and besides, I thought maybe he'd let me go if I cooperated with him. Before I know it, I'm taking him all the way, choking on it, drool and spit all over the place, and him telling me how good it feels to slide in and out, on all that phlegm. And all I can think about is, I don't want him to cum in me, and I'm praying he won't, when all of a sudden he tenses up, grabs my head in both hands, and he shoots a huge load into my mouth. And I try not to swallow it, but he won't let me go. I'm coughing and sputtering, and his cum is everywhere-my mouth, my throat, backed up into my nose. (Long pause)

L: And that was the end of it?

S: Oh, fuck no, man. This guy never seems ta run dry. Next I know, he's flipped me over on my belly, again, and I'm tryin' to tell him I don't wanta get fucked in the ass, and he just laughs again, and says he'll have to warm me up, first. So he takes a wide, black belt - heavy leather - and he starts to whip my ass. He starts off easy, but no one's ever beat my butt before, and I start to yell and call him names, and he tells me to go ahead, scream all I want, 'cause he likes to hear it, and besides the room's sound-proofed. Then he starts to really belt the shit outta me, and I'm really gettin' riled and calling him every name in the book. He don't say anything, just stops without warning, shoves a fingerful of grease up my ass, and pokes his dick against my asshole. My butt felt like it was on fire, like the skin was red and dry, and ready ta crack apart. And I'm beggin' him not to do it, sure it's gonna hurt like hell, and he just slowly slips it into me, shovin' down, pullin' back, going in a little, coming back, doin' that several times before he shoves himself all the way inside, and even though he was takin' it easy, man, it hurt! Then he rides me, man, like my fuckin' ass is somebody's cunt, and after a while it don't hurt so bad any more, and I can feel my own cock getting hard again, and I expect he's gonna cum again, except he doesn't. All of a sudden, he pulls outta me, and flips me onto my back again.

L: Does he put the pillow between the cuffs and your back like he did before?

S: Yeah, he does. Then he sits astride my thighs and he plays with both my cock and his, like he's holdin'em both together in one hand, jackin' us both off. Only he stops after three or four minutes; he lifts up, takes hold'a my joint to position it against his asshole, and he sits down on it! I mean, I feel my cock slidin' up his asshole into this incredible heat, and now this guy who's got me tied down so I can hardly move is gettin' butt-fucked by me! It was so fuckin' crazy, I couldn't help myself. I'm raisin' up, tryin' to shove myself deeper and deeper into him, while he's jackin' himself off, groaning, twisting around like he's impaled and can't get away. Then, without warning he leans down and kisses me, grabs my head and shoves his tongue into my mouth-real strange feeling, getting kissed by a man, feeling the stubble of his whiskers. At first I tried to stop him, but he just held tighter to my head and my hair and he orders me to kiss him, then to "kiss him like I meant it," and my own tongue is up pushing into him while my cock is still thumping into his asshole. And then I'm shooting my load, and he's letting go a hot flood across my belly. I hate to admit it, man, but it was hot!

L: So, you left on good terms.

S: Well, I should of. I know that. But he did something I didn't like. He picked up my jeans while I was still tied up, and he goes through my wallet, so he knows my name and he sees I've only got one buck. So, stupid me, I get in a argument with him. And then, too, once I'd cum and got control of my mind again, I was pissed that I'd done everything the way I done it, so I called him names again, and this time he wasn't as nice about it as he'd been before. Finally, when I'd been screamin' at him to let me go, he back-handed me across the mouth. Then he unlocked the irons from my ankles and took the chain off my neck. Instead'a taking me into the bathroom, he takes me out into the back yard and makes me kneel down. He tells me to piss, if I have to, and then he pisses all over me. When I start to yell at him, he pulls out a piece'a cloth and shoves it into my mouth to gag me, and he pulls me up so I'm standin' there facing him. Then he did something real strange, and I think somehow this is where all the time mix-up started. He'd carried my clothes out with us, and I saw him put a fifty-dollar bill into my jeans pocket. But I guess he didn't put back the wallet with my driver's license and all. I'm standing there, still naked, gagged, with my hands still cuffed behind my back. He ties a bandanna over my eyes, and he uses rope to tie my hands, above where the cuffs are. When he's got this in place, he takes off the cuffs. Then he leads me onto the grassy area behind the house, and I can hear him using some kind of electric control. Then I hear like a buzzing sound, and I feel something on my skin-sorta like static electricity. And I can smell that funny odor like from an electric motor. He pushes me forward, and I feel something solid under my feet instead of the grass. Only there hadn't been anything except grass there when he blindfolded me. And I feel him cutting one of the ropes on my wrist. He says something about how I can free myself in a few minutes. Then he's gone. The buzzing stops, and I'm completely alone.

L: So, he left you by yourself in the back yard.

S: No, that's the thing. I got my hands loose in just a couple'a minutes, and I pulled off the bandanna. I was out in the boonies, standing naked along the side of a dirt road. My clothes were tossed on the ground beside me. I put them on and I started walking.

L: Where did it turn out he'd left you?

S: I was on a windey road, above a place called Woodland Hills. But much worse than this, I wasn't in 1963 any more. I was in 1995, and I don't know how I got here!

Mitchell Lewis leaned back in his swivel chair. "Let's go off the record," he said evenly, reaching across and turning off the tape recorder. "Is there anything else you want to tell me that you were afraid to say ‘on the record,' so to speak?"

The sandy-haired young man seated across the desk stretched his muscular arms out in front of him, interlacing the long, thick fingers until he produced a satisfying ‘crack.' "I don't really think so, Doc," he replied thoughtfully. "Once I walked down from the top of those hills, I knew I was in deep shit. All the cars looked like something out of Science Fiction Comics, and the teenagers hanging out in front of the 7-Eleven Store were wearing baggy clothes like no one I ever knew would wear to a dog fight. I went inside to buy a soda, and the guy wouldn't sell it to me, because they don't take anything bigger than a twenty after dark, and all I had was that fifty the john gave me."

"So you went away thirsty," Lewis suggested.

"No, funny, the guy behind me, waiting to buy some stuff, he said: ‘Hey, that looks like a silver certificate' - Whatever that meant. But he pulls out two twenties and a ten and gives 'em to me for my fifty."

Mitchell Lewis watched silently as the handsome young cowboy continued telling his story. The scientist found it difficult to doubt the other's sincerity, and if the intricately detailed story had not been so preposterous he would not have doubted it-in fact would have welcomed it as evidence that his own theories on time-space relationships were valid.

"So anyways, I hitched a ride into Hollywood, and that was my biggest surprise. The hotel was gone! It had been right there on Hollywood Boulevard, just past Western Avenue. And I mean, it had been there not more than four or five hours ago, and now there was a big vacant lot with a hurricane fence around it and weeds growing up out of the rubble. And I walked down the boulevard, and there was a bank where the USO should have been. The big Broadway department store on the corner of Hollywood and Vine had been made into an office building, and the diner where I'd eaten lunch was a hock shop." He gestured helplessly with his hands. "That's the way it was, honest, Doctor Lewis," he added pleadingly. "I'm really not nuts, you know. This is just the way it happened."

"So, what'd you do?" Lewis urged.

"I walked down to Selma - you know, the next street down from Hollywood, thinking I might run into someone I knew. It was a big hustling area, or used to be." He looked at Mitch Lewis with an expression that fairly begged for belief.

Interesting. I'm convinced he's telling the truth, as best he knows it, on every other score; but he can't admit that he'd been hustling regularly. Scared to admit he's gay. "Did you find anyone?"

"No, no one I knew, and there wasn't much action. 'Course by now it was almost daybreak. Then a big car comes along, and this older guy lets the window down. ‘Need a place to crash?' he asks, and I almost said ‘no.' But I didn't have any place else to go, so I went with him."

"Did you tell him anything about the time shift?"

"Nah, I was real tired. I just did what he wanted so I could get some sleep. He started sucking me off, then begged me to fuck him. I really didn't want to. He was old and kinda fat, but I figured if I did it he'd leave me alone and let me sleep. Funny thing, though; he insisted I use a rubber. First time that's ever happened."

"So you slept there last night?"

"Yeah, well, more like I slept there today. The guy was some kinda insurance broker, or something. He worked outta his house, and he didn't care if I slept after he got up. He had an office next to the bedroom, and I guess he kept checking up on me.

Anyhow, it was the middle of the afternoon when I got up. He gave me something to eat, slipped me forty bucks, and dropped me off in West Hollywood. And, man, had that place ever changed! Anyhow, I hung out in a place called Rage for a couple hours . . . music like I'd never heard, wild! Then I walked across the street to the Sheriff station, and you know it from there."

Interested, curious, but still wondering now this delusion had come about, Lewis wanted to hear more of his story. But it was getting late. He could hear Arthur, his lover, in the other room. He had come by Mitch's office to join him for dinner. "Have you eaten since that guy gave you lunch?" he asked.

The young cowboy shook his head. "Why don't you join us, then? My friend and I are going to get a bite at a local restaurant." He led the way into the reception room, where he did the introductions.

"Luke, this is Arthur, my significant other." Art was tall and lean, a red-head with pale skin and handsome, even features.

Luke shook hands rather stiffly, but his eyes made contact with Arthur's, with the result that he held the other's hand a moment longer than strict propriety would have required. "What in the hell is a significant other?" he asked at length.

"Lover," said Arthur, laughing, gently extracting his fingers from the other's grip. The little interplay had not been lost on Mitchell Lewis, but both he and his friend were attractive enough to produce looks of interest more often than not. He forced a soft laugh and told Arthur that he had invited Luke to join them for dinner. Mitch was blond with curly hair, wearing heavy black-rimmed glasses that gave him a somewhat owlish appearance, and he now surveyed his two companions with his best "academic stare."

Luke glanced about with an almost guilty expression, and Mitch laughed again, tempted to make some remark about Luke's self-defined sexual orientation. No. Leave it to him to say whatever he wants, he thought. Ambivalent, anyway. Aloud, he simply urged his companions out the door.

The three men were seated in a corner booth, where they were generally out of ear-shot from the other diners. "Hope you like fish, Luke," Arthur said. "It's their specialty, here. Good for the waist-line, you know."

"You guys look pretty trim to me," Luke returned, reaching for a piece of bread. He buttered it carefully, trying not to appear as ravenous as he suddenly felt. The waiter arrived and took their order, after which the two lovers spoke quietly together about some household problem while Luke continued to work on the basket of warm French bread- hard crust and deliciously soft interior.

When the salads arrived all three ate in silence for several more minutes. Mitch had not told his friend the reason for Luke's being referred to him, but the fact that he had accommodated him after regular office hours implied a certain urgency. Arthur had called the office to arrange their dinner appointment, and Mitch had told him that he had to see a guy who had been referred by one of their friends at the Sheriff station. But beyond this, the younger lover knew nothing. Naturally he was curious, but he knew better than to pry - a habit acquired during a four-year relationship, each man involved in his own area of government-imposed secrecy.

It was Lewis who finally opened the door. "Do you care if I tell Arthur what happened to you?" he asked Luke.

The young man hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "No reason not to, except that he'll probably think I'm cracked." He glanced around the room, noting that most of the other tables were occupied by male couples. His own forays into the world of gay hustling would probably not shock this attractive other man. In fact, there was a vague sense of pride-almost a feeling of superiority-that his status of hustler bestowed upon him, as if it permitted a guy to enter the world of gay men without being an irrevocable part of it.

"I can assure you, you aren't ‘cracked,'" replied Mitch unexpectedly. "I don't understand what's happened to you, but it isn't a mental breakdown." He glanced across the table at Arthur. "In fact, I was thinking we might get Peter Murchison to come by and talk to Luke." Then to their guest, he added: "Peter's an older gentleman, long time friend of ours-but a guy who liked the Hollywood hustler scene back during the Vietnam War . . . ."

"Jesus, the war!" said Luke, suddenly. "Is it really over?"

"For about twenty years," Arthur replied. "Were you . . . involved?"

"Naw, but the fuckin' draft board - back in Boise - they were on my ass. One reason I came to L.A. But it's really over!" He looked at the others, trying to interpret their expressions. "You guys must really think I'm nuts," he added.

"The fact that you question your own sanity - " Arthur began, then looking at Mitch: "I mean, isn't that the first sign that a person is really not nuts, when he's willing to admit he might be?"

Mitch Lewis nodded slightly. "I think it's considered a hopeful sign," he admitted. He looked down at his plate, which the waiter had substituted for the salad bowl. "Ah, the sacrifices we make for health and glamor," he remarked, poking the poached fillet with his fork.

Luke hardly noticed. To him, even the fish tasted good. And the others' conversation distracted him. He was thinking about the ease with which these obviously gay men were exchanging levities. His own experiences with queers had always been quickly consummated sexual contacts-at most a one-night stand like the last one. He had seldom been exposed to the humanity of every day gay existence.

"Do you really believe that Luke has somehow been transported through time? Arthur asked incredulously.

"I don't know what to believe," Mitch told him, "but something very strange has happened to this guy, and I'm going to find out what it was. I hope Peter can get us started."

----------------

A few miles away, in a Century City high-rise, two men sat in the living room of a tastefully appointed apartment, gazing out an enormous window at the expanse of lights below and stretching into the far distance. One man was young, darkly handsome, big and well-built. The other - while probably much older - seemed somehow to surpass the other's youthful vitality and generally well-defined bodily configuration. Not only could the two men have been age-mates, the near-classic beauty of Julian, the "older" man, made any estimate of his age superfluous - inconsequential. He continued to gaze out the window, seemingly lost in thought. Then the unspoken words formed in his companion's mind: That wasn't your smartest move, Richie.

The rebuke caused the other a momentary discomfort, but he had long since lost his fear. I didn't have any choice, he returned, then added aloud "I could feel his vibes from the minute he'd shot his load, and I was afraid he'd screw up the works by maybe going to the cops. At the very least, he was going to come back and hassle me. I was sure!"

"Cops!" growled the senior disparagingly. "What could he say to them? His john paid him fifty bucks and made him suck cock? All he'd do would be to get himself in trouble."

"What if he brought them by the house?" Richie insisted. "We still have use for it."

"There's nothing for them to find. That's not what I'm concerned about. If you'd turned him loose in his own bailiwick, there wouldn't be anything he could do. Here, he's bound to be frightened and confused enough that he might go to . . . someone, maybe the wrong person, for help."

"If he opens his mouth, the best it'll get him is a quick trip to the booby-hatch. You're just miffed because you screwed up the controls and missed all the action." The muscular young man grinned - an incredible display of white, perfect teeth surrounded by even features in a well-tanned face. "He was just the kind of big stud punk you like."

Julian turned, then, gazing benignly at his youthful companion. There was just the trace of a grin on his lips, his perfect features unruffled by the dissenting thought. "I like; you like; we all like," he said glibly. "Let's get to the portal and see where they've tracked that gang of human insects. Oh, I should never have taught you mindspeak.

Richie moved up to embrace him, but Julian's senses foresaw the move and he backed away enough that a small space remained between them. The Earthman felt a gentle familiar pressure on his shoulders, the subtle command to drop onto his knees. But Julian's arms had remained at his sides, his contact command transmitted by silent projection.

You fucking alien! Richie's fingers fumbled for the fasteners as his lips caressed the black denim of his companion's jeans.

Fucking alien, Sir!

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