Part Twelve
Home Front

Dear Clive,

Bonjour, and all that. Sorry I haven't written before. Actually, I did write before, but it sounded so stupid and sappy that I tore up the first three letters. I'm letting this one slip through, cause I don't want you to think that I didn't care enough to write. Eh, and I just sounded sappy anyway, didn't I? Oh, well. Don't tell Mom, but I'm kind of homesick.

I'm practicing my swimming regularly, and I think I'm getting faster. Olympics, here I come!

Things are going good. Classes are easier than I expected. So much for how our school system is all inferior. Of course, Anatole says that's just because I'm particularly smart.

Oh, yeah, Anatole. He's the son of my hosts. He's twenty, and going to college, but he comes home on the weekends. He's an artist, and he's really good. I'm sending you and Mom some sketches that he made of me. I guess I don't have to tell you not to show Mom yours. Maybe you can guess by the picture that I'm not quite the same as I was when I left.

Mom told me she wanted me to go to Paris because I would have experiences I would never forget. Well, she's right. You told me about getting experience, too, right? Well, both you and Mom should be happy. That's all I'm gonna say about that. (BIG grin)

Next weekend I'm going to stay with Anatole at his apartment, and he'll show me around and introduce me to some of his friends at school. I'm looking forward to it. He says there'll be some sort of party Saturday. I know, I know. I won't drink anything. Even though some LITTLE kids drink wine over here. Did you know that you could make me behave even transatlantic? (big, wide, EVIL grin!)

Gotta go now. Anatole wants to take me shopping for a new shirt for the party.

Miss you,

Trenton

Clive looked at the letter fondly. "Miss you, too, baby boy," he murmured. He was back in his office, with his feet up. It had been a hectic day, as usual. Some silly twat had insisted on trying to go from deep brunette to platinum blonde, and had taken offense when Clive flatly refused to allow it.

"Why not, dear lady? Because your hair is already the texture of broom straw, and the poor shit might just give up and fall out in handfuls, and I am not going to be responsible for the mistake that finally sends you screaming to a personal injury suit lawyer, that's why not. With plenty of hot oil therapy and a regime of the right conditioners, I might be able to bring it from broom straw to wire haired terrier coat, but I doubt it." She'd done the best imitation he'd ever seen of a landed carp, eyes bugging and mouth flapping, then left.

It was getting harder and harder to suffer the fools in this world. He sighed, looking at the letter again. People like Trenton made it a little easier to bear. He really did miss the boy. Not just for the lovely, maddening sexual tension that hummed between them, either.

He regarded the cardboard mailing tube that arrived with the letter, and found himself smiling. Big grin, huh? "Trenton, what have you been up to?"

Clive unsealed the tube and extracted two sheets of sketch paper, rolled up together. He unrolled them, and the inner page was blank, a buffer to keep the drawing from smudging, he supposed. He stretched the pages to uncurl them, then removed the cover sheet...

And caught his breath.

His feet hit the floor.

"Oh, dear God."

It was a nude charcoal sketch of Trenton, lying at his ease on a sofa, propped against its arm. The point of view was from the foot of the sofa, looking up the length of his sprawled body, one leg dangling casually to the floor. His hands were folded peacefully across his flat belly, and his face, adult features just emerging from the blur of childhood, held an expression of lazy sensuality. He was erect, his cock arching proudly against his hip.

Clive stared, his mouth going dry. He'd known Trenton was beautiful, but this... His hand trembled slightly, and he whispered, "And I sent that out among millions of horny Frenchmen? What the fuck was I thinking of?"

He studied it more closely, picking out details. The shadow of his navel, the emphatic points of his nipples. He felt himself begin to grow hard, and quickly rolled the picture back up. "I will not beat off looking at that picture." A pause. "Not here, anyway."

He carefully slipped the picture back into its shipping tube. This was going to be framed, and hung in his bedroom. And Lynette Vittelli was most assuredly not going to see it.

Clive put on his jacket and made his way to the front of the salon, letting himself out. As he walked, he reflected. He'd done the right thing, of course. Trenton had needed a little distance to put things in perspective, to be sure that he really wanted what Clive had to offer him.

Clive had needed perspective, too. This separation was showing him just exactly how badly he wanted the boy. As Clive had told Trenton, he wasn't exclusive, but he did tend to have favorites, and Trenton was definitely one of those.

The boy hadn't even been gone two months yet. He wouldn't be back till the end of May, and it was only November. Trenton couldn't afford to fly home for Christmas or New Years. Clive indulged in a bit of self pity, imagining what he could have done with a little mistletoe.

Once home, Clive stretched the paper out, and weighted it down to uncurl it. He set a pot of coffee to drip, and went into the bathroom. He'd managed to buy the building a couple of years ago, and had treated himself to this extravaganza to celebrate: lots of mirrors, lots of marble counters, and a shower and bathtub, both big enough for two. Good, clean fun.

Clive stripped and examined himself critically in the mirror. Still good, still taut. He'd been blessed with good material to start with, and had developed and maintained it. He did it for himself, but as long as there were men around like Trenton Vittelli there was an added incentive.

Clive turned the shower spray on to lukewarm, and stepped in. He scrubbed quickly and efficiently, then washed his hair using his favorite shampoo. He allowed himself a little scent in this one, natural herbs.

Unsurprisingly Clive took a good bit longer to wash his hair than he did the rest of his body. He savored the rich, soft lather, working his scalp strongly, then rinsed, and conditioned. While he let the conditioner work its magic he squirted a generous glob of the creamy stuff into his palm, and began to slick it on his cock. Few things in the world were a better lubricant for jerking off in the shower.

He didn't have to do this--companionship was just a phone call away. Clive wasn't overly vain, but he had a sense of his self worth, and he never lacked playmates, but tonight, he only wanted Trenton. Since Trenton wasn't there, he'd have to have him like this.

Clive closed his eyes and stroked himself firmly. First he thought of Trenton as he'd already seen him: the awkwardly graceful teenager shifting before his counter and staring at him with those extraordinary green eyes. Watching the long muscles in his thighs flex below the hem of his ragged shorts as he squatted to sweep hair cuttings into the dustpan. The look on the boy's face reflected in the mirror as he'd sat there, hair damp, saying, "Teach me." Clive started to get hard.

Then he moved on to fantasies, to what might be. Would be, if he had any say in it. Slowly stripping the boy, gradually baring that long, lean body. Watching him sink to his knees, looking up into Clive's face with that look of perfect acceptance and submission. He'd been so close to just taking him that night they'd talked about France. Trenton would never know how close.

Clive let his fingers glide smoothly, pausing to squeeze every now and then. In his mind, Trenton lowered his head, then bent forward and lapped softly at his cock head, pink tongue swirling over the darker pink knob. Then he parted his sweet lips and took Clive into his mouth.

The man moaned, head back, hand moving quickly. He dragged his nails, imagining the more intimate rasp of teeth, bordering on pain, and came, gasping the boy's name. He watched the viscous strands of sperm swirl down the drain, and rinsed the conditioner out of his hair, feeling marvelously relaxed. Actual sex would have been better, of course, but this would serve till Trent's homecoming. Clive grinned. Homecoming. What an appropriate term.