Date: Sat, 20 Sep 1997 22:13:18 -0400 (EDT) From: Matturnerx@aol.com Subject: New Story TITLE: Dislocated Youth AUTHOR: Mary A. Turner E-Mail: matturnerx@aol.com RATING:NC-17 CLASSIFCATION: SA SPOILERS: Mulder/Other SUMMARY: A teenaged Mulder has an encounter with an older woman during the last summer his family spends at their home at Quonochontaug. DISCLAIMER: The characters of the Mulders belong to Chris Carter. No infringement intended. ****************************************************************************** ***************************************** DISLOCATED YOUTH (Part One) Mary A. Turner I fell hopelessly in love with Bobby in 1964 when I was only nine years old and just entering the fourth grade at Eastridge Primary School in Brookline, Massachusetts. That seems like it's awfully young to make such a declaration of affection but, at the time, both my family members and my friends considered me very mature for my age. Anyway, Robert Steven Hamilton was the cutiest thing I'd ever seen in my whole young life and, although other girls my age were fawning over Barbi and Ken dolls or dreaming of long afternoons riding chesnut-colored ponies at the local stables, I was beginning my obsession of Bobby. Oh, I pretended to enjoy the company of my peers and spent hours with my friends but Barbi was my alter-ego and Ken became my beloved Bobby. As dolls, we would take imaginary walks along imaginary beaches under bright, imaginary moons, basking in each others plastic company and totally ignoring the fantasy world established by the other girls. The dolls never progressed beyond the point of casual hand-holding or chaste pecks on the cheek. Hell, I was only nine at the time...what did I know? At any rate, Bobby never knew of my feelings for him until much later in our lives because he was just too busy in his own world, doing all those things boys his age usually do. I began to covertly observe him whenever I could: hiding behind bushes to watch him play shortstop for the a local Little League team, lurking behind my friends at the country club swimming pool, and insisting my family sit further back in church, so I could watch him each Sunday as he sat sedately with his family like a good son. And, even though our families circulated in the same strata of Boston society, Bobby never suspected a thing. He was completely ignorant of my existence. After all, at the ripe old age of twelve, who could expect him to notice a baby like me? The years passed slowly, as they only seem to do when you're young, and I found my tastes beginning to change. No, I never lost my feelings for Bobby, but I began to get rebellious and way too liberal for my ultra-conservative mother and father. Where all good sons and daughters my age were trying to emulate their parents' ideals and views, I was opting for self-expression and freedom. I caused my parents all kinds of grief during stage time and really made our time together at home very miserable. I didn't care: I was young and ready to take on the world. So, at thirteen, when others were going to dancing lessons and attending etiquette classes, I was being driven by the family's chauffer to bi-weekly counselling sessions. In 1969, as I was finally entering high school, I already had garnered a reputation as an oddball and a liberal. With the war in Viet Nam raging and demonstations by protesters and supporters occurring everywhere across the United States, I was feeling trapped and stagnant in the cloaking of my upper-class lifestyle that spoke of nothing but government support. I alienated my friends more by dressing like a hippy and learning about marijuana. Somehow, it just didn't fit in with their designer clothes and alcohol preferences. I was relatively alone as I began my freshman year...by choice. I ran into trouble only three weeks into the school year as I was exiting the art room near a doorway to the boys' gym. I had been attracted to the feel of the painting studio after wandering in after classes one day and had quickly dropped a mundane biology course to feed my sudden need to create. Anyway, with my oil paints and brushes secured in a green tackle box in my right hand and my left arm battling a large canvas I was planning on taking home to work on over the weekend, I never saw the gang of burly football players heading my way around the corner. The impact was spectacular...from my end, at least. The canvas flew gracefully one way, the tackle box with contents spewing the other way, and me landing quite ungracefully on my ass in front of four rather-large boys. There was a brief moment of silence as their conscience kicked in but, when they saw me struggling to sit up, their combined wealth of testostrone overrode any morsel of guilt and they began to laugh. Loudly. Their laughter was deafening in the tile-covered hallway and, as they maneuvered around me to move on toward their original destination, they purposely stomped and kicked at the scattering of art supplies littering the area. I sat stoically at their passing, running calming mantras through my seething mind and waited until the hormone brigade stormed on. Closing my eyes, I released a long, slow breath and let go of my anger and tension. "Fuck 'em," I muttered and turned to survey the damage left in their wake. My first sight was not of paint-splattered floors but of two, strong-looking, masculine legs. They filled my view. *Big* guy. I noticed, first, the wide, easy stance of the loafer-encased feet and the slight curling of the light hairs around the ankles. As my eyes slowly rose, I focused, for some perverse reason, on the thinning area of the material of the jeans around the right knee. * Probably a Catholic,* I remembered thinking. *All that genuflecting takes a toll after awhile.* My eyes continued up across the expanse of the thighs and rested for a bold moment on the crotch, noticing the subtle way the fabric bunched and puckered across the flesh it covered. I knew what was there, had already seen a few in passing, but was, technically, a virgin. Not innocent... but still a virgin. The legs shifted before me, so I continued my appraisal, noticing how the wine-colored belt circling the hips matched the loafers perfectly. What a fashion horse. I was stalling. I knew it and this patiently waiting stranger knew it. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath and ready to ask him what the fuck he was staring at, I was shocked to see Bobby Hamilton smiling sheepishly down at me. The words lodged in my throat and I uttered some strange, strangled sound. Bobby was instantly squatting down before me, concern etched on his face. Boy, what a face it was. "Are you okay?" His voice was deeper than I could have imagined but his eyes, his hair, his mouth were all right out of my dreams. And, when he placed one strong, supporting hand on my shoulder, I knew I would be okay for the rest of my life. We started seeing each other sporadically after the incident in the hall, bumping into each other during the changing of classes or running into each other at the mall. Bobby was always with friends who would hang back at his signal and give us a few moments to exchange greetings privately. I could see that they didn't understand his attraction to me, since he could have just about any girl he wanted, and their unease was apparent. I was actually very pretty but my clothes and my attitude scared them off. Bobby took the time to see past my facade and was attracted to what he found. He was ready for someone different, unique. He was ready for me. I shocked my parents in early November by announcing my intention of accompanying them to the annual country club's Thanksgiving party, instead of holing up in my room to read or sulk like I had been doing for years. Shock was the operative word. I had refused to attend with them since I was nine and, given my penchant for going braless and my bizarre choice of clothing, I could see the shock give way to fear. I laughingly assured themof my intentions not to embarrass them or our honored ancestors and made my mother positively giddy when I suggested I might need her assistance in purchasing appropriate apparel for the evening. To make a long story short, I became the perfect society daughter and my parents were delighted at my metamorphsis, their usually ragged-looking child had magically transformed into a beautiful fairy princess. My father couldn't stop smiling everytime he looked at me, and my mother...well, my mother actually shed real tears. Little did they know at that time of the reason for my complete turnaround: Bobby. The Hamilton family was already seated at their usual table when my parents and I arrived at the country club that chilly November evening. I saw Bobby glance my way as we were being seated at a nearby table and smiled knowingly as he did a quick double-take. His surprised expression turned to delight and he returned my smile with a mischievious grin of his own and slightly raised his water glass to offer in salute to me. And, as the night progressed, and Bobby stepped to our table to ask my father permission to dance with me, I knew I had arrived. By Christmas we were lovers, having spent nearly a month of progressing inevitably to that point,and even though I was still in a virginal state, I was ready for him. There was no shyness, or pain, or fumbling. There was just Bobby and me and the overwhelming need to have him inside me almost as much as I needed to breath. It was heaven. We remained in that celestial state for a long time. Bobby was always careful and protective. Always. He used condoms every time and, except for when I took him into my mouth, he had the ever-ready packet close at hand. Neither one of us wanted an accident to happen. We had plans for our future and, at that moment, the thought of pregnancy was enough to almost slow us down. Almost. Our parents were thrilled by our closeness, though I don't think they wanted to think about how *really* close we'd become. It was the merging of two respected, wealthy families so, ignoring my youth, they allowed me to date Robert Steven Hamilton III. I had what I had always wanted since that first time I'd seen Bobby as a child. I felt whole, complete, at peace with the world. Love was the answer to everything. But life can be so cruel. In the winter of 1973, as Bobby was coming home for a weekend visit from Harvard, a drunk driver plowed across two lanes of on-coming traffic and selected to take my love away from me forever. They say he died instantly and never felt a thing, his beautiful body crushed within the cold, metal of his automobile. But I know he had to have felt something. Even if it was instantaneous, there was too much life in Bobby not to recognize its departure. I know he felt it and, in feeling it, did he, prehaps, have time to think of me? I'll never know. I don't remember much of what happened after Bobby's death. I was told I had a breakdown. I think there was more to it than just *breaking*. I think I had decided to die too. At seventeen, I just didn't want to live anymore. My parents would not give up on me and fought with everything they possessed to bring me back into the world of the living. Their love for me was never more open and expressive and I can only now recognize what I meant to them. Their love was unconditional and unwavering and, thankfully supported by their unlimited wealth. I couldn't ignore what they were giving to me, so I forced myself back into living again, even if it was without my heart. I had no desire to return to high school, so I entered art school as soon as I was able, the need to paint thrumming my senses back to life. I tossed aside the advice of the instructors and con- centrated on the recently-awakened emotions bubbling inside. I painted like a person possessed. My canvases became my whole world and all the pain, the anger, the despair I felt was being captured on the fabric with sure strokes. Other students would stand mutely against the walls of the studio as I created for hours, oblivious to everything but the emotions driving me to paint. The teachers began to see the haunted brilliance of my work and began to bring critics and curators to view my finished pieces. I didn't want to talk to them, much less be interrupted from my work, so my father gave me the opportunity to choose my own course in life again. Seeing my need to be away from the prying eyes of others but, still, needing a place to paint, my father and mother decided I should have a studio of my own, far enough away to have privacy but close enough to be reached in an emergency. To hell with art school, they had said. So, in their wisdom, they arranged for workers to modify and modernize our family summer home along the coast of Rhode Island and helped me pack when the structure was ready for habitation. They were my saviors once again. I needed and wanted the solitude and Quonachontaug was the perfect place to have both. I found peace again along the shore and the locals grew to tolerate me and my need for privacy. They didn't travel the miles from town to visit me in my beach house, primarily because I didn't ask them. But I tried to be cordial during my short forays into the small city when I needed art supplies or groceries or just a change of scenery. And, as the years passed, they became some of my most loyal supporters, especially when my paintings began to sell and reporters began to filter in to get information from me or about me. They never gave directions to my home, never offered gossip concerning me, and even succeeded in keeping many away. Sometimes, they even allowed me to take photographs of them as they worked or played. I don't know if they thought I was going to be another Norman Rockwell and that they would eventually be immortalized on one of my canvases, but I appreciated their time and their company. I thrived along the beach, as did my work, and it was reflected in every piece I produced. Maybe it was the ever-changing shoreline that reminded me of how quickly things move from one stage to the next, that nothing ever remains the same. I don't know what it was. All I *do* know is that I grew to be a part of my little section of Quonochontaug and it made me happy. The beach was almost always deserted but I grudgingly learned to share the coastline with families that owned other seasonal homes near the shore. The stores were a bit more crowded during the summer season, which ran from late May to late August, but I was relatively left alone since my nearest neighbors hadn't used their place since 1973. Their house and grounds were fairly close to mine, with just a privacy hedge and a driveway dividing the properties, so I took note of how often a gardener or custodian from town came to maintain the area or structure. I knew a day would come when they would appear and steal away some of my seclusion but I didn't want to dwell on it. That day finally arrived on June 10,1976. I watched, with some trepidation, the unloading of a non-descript black car that afternoon as I sunned myself on the balcony off my loft bedroom. I knew who they were, had seen them many summers ago when I was younger and was still being forced to go on family vacations. I even had done a bit of babysitting for the two children when I was about twelve or thirteen but it only happened once or twice, so my memories are hazy. I think my parents knew the adults somehow, so I was trusted to watch the kids for an hour or so. According to the gossip passed to me from my mother, the family had suffered some strange tragedy and were now quite dysfunctional. And, I noticed, there were only three of them now. Watching the unloading proceedure, I noticed there seemed to be no joy in the movements, none of the usual excitement that goes with vacation activities. The man was tall and stern-looking as he yanked several suitcases and boxes from the car and piled them neatly on the stone walkway leading to the front of the summer home. He was dressed unusually for the beach, like a banker or lawyer, his crisp, white dress shirt in stark contrast to the dark slacks, shoes and tie. He was dressed for a day at the office. Very strange. I refocused my gaze on a striking woman emerging from their front door, her cool blue lightweight dress and white sandals a marked difference to her husband's attire. She paused at the edge of the porch, one hand resting on the rail, and spoke to the man. I couldn't hear her words from this distance but I watched as the man shook his head and turned away. I couldn't miss the stiffening of the woman's posture or the cold look flashing on her face. Interesting. Suddenly, the front door reopened and another figure emerged slowly from the cool shadows of the small home. My breath caught in my throat and I found myself gripping the edge of my deck chair. It couldn't be! It was Bobby! The figure stepped forward into the sunlight and my heart sunk, my eyes filling with tears. What was I thinking? What was wrong with me? I angrily brushed the tears away and pushed those old, unwanted emotions down, not willing to let the anguish take hold of me again. No. I'd be just fine. I didn't need this shit now. I took a deep breath and refocused on the scene, watching as a gangly teenager plodded wearily away from the porch and warily approached the waiting man. His brown hair fell across his forehead and into the downcast eyes, his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his khaki shorts. I noticed how the man shifted his stance at the youth's approach and saw the hands curl into loose fists at his sides. A trickle of dread ran up my spine, causing the fine hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. The boy stopped just out of the man's reach and toed one of the suitcases stacked nearby with a carelessly tied sneaker. He froze when the man suddenly spoke, his young body tensing. I watched the man as he continued to speak and take a small step closer to his son. The boy never looked up, just continued to study the ground around his feet. Quicker than expected by me, and certainly by the boy, one of the man's hands shot out to grab the dropped chin, forcing the boy to raise his face and meet his father's eyes. What I could see from my vantage point made my stomach knot. The boy remained motionless, even as his father's fingers tightened, the older man bruising the young skin carelessly. The woman was suddenly off the porch but remained conspicously away from the two males, her right hand pressed against her chest in a small show of concern. She didn't speak but I could see her reaction hadn't gone unnoticed by her husband. A few silent, strained moments passed before the man finally released his grip and stepped away, moving to the other side of the car, getting in, and driving away. Without so much as a goodbye. I saw the woman turn and retrace her steps into the house, leaving the boy standing just as his father had left him. When the screen door finally closed quietly behind her, the teenager allowed himself to relax and brought a hand up to gingerly touch his face. I watched in fascination as he wiped his fingers across his chin and then down the front of his t-shirt, as if ridding himself of some unseen slime. Turning his gaze wistfully toward the ocean, his ears seemingly attuned to the call of the breaking surf, he took a long, deep breath and raised his face to the clear, blue summer sky. His lips moved for a few moments, as if he was praying or speaking or merely conversing with himself, and then reached down to gather a couple of the suitcases into his grip. He moved up the stone walkway but stopped suddenly a few paces shy of the porch, his body growing tense in its stillness. Unbelievably, he slowly turned his head until he was looking back over his shoulder, his eyes fixing on my house just a stones throw away. I quickly scrunched down into the padding of my lounger, even though I doubted he could actually see me from this distance and angle. I didn't move, hoping that whatever had caught his attention would pass quickly. I peeked out between the slats of the deck and watched him watching my house. It seemed like several minutes passed before he visibly shook himself and turned away, con- tinuing with his original task. As soon as his door shut, I bounded out of my chair, gathered my belongings, and escaped into my loft, letting the sheer drapes close behind me for extra protection. That had been just a little too spooky for me! I flopped down on my bed and gazed at the rough wood ceiling, watching the fan centered on the beams rotate idly in the room, sending small puffs of air back in my general direction. What had just happened? And why had I run and hidden like a chicken? And, more than that, why was my heart pounding so rapidly? I rolled over and sighed into my pillow, pulling the extra one up and over my head. Forget about the chicken.The image of an ostrich, neck deep in dirt, flashed suddenly in my mind. Wonder why. So began the strange summer I spent with Fox Mulder. Continued in Part Two--------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------- Two days later, as I peddled my bicycle into town for my usual Tuesday morning grocery run, I saw him again. Down below the curve of the road I was leisurely travelling upon, the beach stretched out in all its panoramic splendor. The early morning sun beat warmly upon my head and I paused in my peddling to adjust my baseball cap and enjoy the beauty of this new day. I loved the ocean in the morning: the sun rising up from the vast depths at the horizon line was like watching the face of God appear each morning Amazing. I squinted down the ribbon of coastline, not expecting to see anyoneout this early on the sand, and was surprised to see a figure in the distance, approaching steadily along the shore, long legs easily eating up the yards in rhythmic, graceful strides. I knew from the fluidity of movement that this was a person very familiar with running and the limits of the body. And this body was cat-like: quick, sure-footed, sleek. The figure closed the distance and I saw it was male, his body covered only by a pair of faded green running shorts, white socks, and dingy sneakers. Sweat beads caught the rays of the rising sun and made his chest and arms fairly gleam. The runner was lost in a world of motion and I was captured by the simple beauty of his strides.I raised a hand to my forehead, like a salute, hoping to deflect a bit more of the sunlight from my eyes and see him better. I really needed to see his face now. As if on cue, the runner tossed his hair out of his face and tilted his head slightly toward me. My breath caught again as my eyes sent false images to my brain. It was not Bobby. It was *not* Bobby! But, dear God, it reminded me of him so much. Blinking against a film of tears, I saw who it really was...the boy from next door. Feeling slightly foolish and, quite honestly, very disappointed, I turned away and set my bike back onto the road's edge, pushing off with one foot and easing onto the padded seat. I closed my mind to all thoughts of Bobby and of Fox Mylder and concentrated on my errands, mentally listing all the items I needed to get. Foremost on that list: a life. On Friday evening, the weather began to look a little threatening. Low hanging, dark clouds drifted in from over the ocean, bringing the promise of a late-night storm or, at the very least, a refreshing shower. I stood by the front window and gazed out over the water, enjoying the play of sights and sounds. Nothing ever seemed to be the same, always changing, forever different. It was beautiful. As I gazed out, I caught sight of a set of headlights reflecting off the windowpanes and turned to watch as that same, non-descript black car from last weekend slowly pulled up the drive next door and stop by the walkway. Eventually, after several minutes had passed, the driver got out and traversed the stone pathway leading to the house. As the man entered his home, I heard the ominous rumble of thunder roll from across the ocean. It seemed like an omen. A light shower began several hours later but let up just before ten, so I escaped to wander out to my balcony and enjoy the rain-freshened night air. I hugged my arms tightly around my body and smiled up to watch the clouds move aside to reveal the stars and a quarter moon. The sudden slamming of the screen door of my neighbor's house made me jump and I whirled to watch as the boy literally jumped the front steps of the front porch and all but flew across the small grassy area of their yard, heading straight for the beach path at the end of our dividing hedge. A moment later, a loud, angry male voice boomed from the recently shut doorway and I focused my attention on the man's raging face. "FOX!" He yelled toward his son's escaping back, stepping to the edge of the porch. "God damn you, you worthless little bastard! Come back here now!" My eyes flashed back to the retreating boy. He wasn't even slowing down. Good. My gaze floated back to the seething figure on the porch and wished I had enough spitting power to toss one straight across the expanse dividing our homes and land a big, wet wad right in his face. What an asshole. I continued to watch him fume impotentally for several more minutes before he finally gave up and whirled, slamming the door soundly behind him. Without further thought of what I was really doing, I slipped into my sneakers, grabbed a light-weight sweatshirt and moved to follow the boy. Even with the partial moonlight, I knew my way to the beach without a misstep. And, as I followed, my mind began to remember the past, reopening like a long, lost book. I slowly recalled bits and pieces of my past dealings with the Mulders. I don't remember too much about Fox when he was younger, just brief flashes of him and his now- missing sister playing in the surf a short way down the beach from where I would be sitting on the sand, working on my tan. I think I have a memory of sandcastles and such but I can't really be certain since the children weren't the focus of my attention. And the few times I watched them while our parents socialized must have been pretty mundane because I can just barely recall reading to a cute, dark-haired little girl, while the slightly older, well-tanned boy entertained himself a short distance away. I think the little girl really liked Dr. Suess books and would giggle outrageously at certain passages while the boy would smile shyly at his sister's obvious joy. I never babysat more than a couple of hours at a time, which was fine by me, but I *can* clearly remember, of all things, how the children would huddle together strangely when their parents returned. Why was I able to recall that so clearly, when I was having a devil of a time remembering much else? Pushing away the past and focusing on my new task, I easily located the wayward teenager atop a huge grouping of boulders that spilled out from the shoreline and into the churning sea. He was standing defiantly on the tallest stone, facing the ocean, his arms clenched stiffly at his sides and his face angling toward the sky. I approached slowly, quietly, and kept several yards away from the rocky outcropping to watch and wait. He just stood there, straight and unyeilding, for a very long time and, just when I had made up my mind to climb closer, his posture relaxed and he eased his tall frame downward. He sat on the smooth rock surface, pulled his long legs up, and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees, using the hollow formed between them as a resting place for his forehead. Slowly, he began to rock in some soothing, inner rhythm. This was not good...he was trying to comfort himself. And then, to make matters worse, I saw his shoulders begin to shake and I knew, without a doubt, he was crying. I knew about crying. I knew everything there was to know about crying. Pain and sorrow had been my whole life for a while right after Bobby died. I would not intrude in his world right now. I eased away. Quietly, I turned and made my way back to the familiar surroundings of my property. I stepped up onto the weathered porch and sat on the top riser, leaning my back against the sturdy railing. I was determined to wait, like a silent sentry, until the boy made his own way home. I couldn't give a reason for feeling the need to be awake and watching when he returned...but I was compelled to do so. I tried not to think of how I had mistaken him for Bobby. I tried to ignore the resemblances they shared. But, dear lord, it was so hard. Sometime around midnight I saw a shadowy figure coming silently up the path from the beach. The hands were, once again, shoved deeply into the pockets of his shorts and his head was drooped in dejection. He climbed the three steps of the porch like an old man and slowly reached to open the screen door and turn the knob of the interior entrance. Nothing happened. I saw his head rise sharply and his body go still. He tried the handle again but the door remained closed. He was locked out. Jesus. I watched as he wearily rested his forehead against the smooth wood panel and then turn to slowly make his way to the old porch swing attached to an area away from the entrance. He sat bonelessly on the rickety, thinnly-padded, wooden swing, one hand clutching a chain that ran to the rafters above. His gaze focused on the locked door for a few heartbeats and then lowered. Twisting easily, he pulled his legs around, tucked his body in as tightly as possible, and curled up to sleep outside. I swallowed thickly as I realized it looked like he had done this before. Tearing my eyes away, I tried not to think about it. I didn't want or need to get involved. It was none of my business. I only wanted my nice, simple, peaceful existence restored. Bullshit. Early the next morning I placed a call to my mother, gleening every morsel of gossip and informa- tion she could feed me concerning the Mulder family. She was happy to share but tried to get some sense of why I was so concerned about my neighbors. She knew how I tended to avoid others and how I enjoyed my solitude, so she tried to fanagel a reason from me. Trouble was, I didn't know what to say. I couldn't even explain it to myself. At any rate, she was glad to hear from me and we chatted for almost an hour. Afterwards, there was a cold, empty ache in the pit of my stomach from some of the things she related to me. I remember wandering into my airy studio and sitting blankly before a new canvas, my mind too scrambled to create. I don't know how long I sat there but, when I finally became aware of my surroundings again, the sunlight was streaming full-force through the windows. I abruptly slapped a brush down I hadn't realized I was holding, tore my clothes off, and made my way up and out onto my sunny balcony, determined to put these thoughts to rest. I stretched out on the lounger and arched my back, basking in the warm summer sun, letting the heat soak into my senses. The sun had become my friend, my healer, my lover. I could always come here to worship when I needed to rejuvenate. Now was one of those times. I must have dozed for quite awhile, my body needing to catch up from the restless night before, so I found my back to be a bit tingly and tight as I turned over to face the early afternoon sun. I repositioned the lounger, raising the head to a slight incline, and settled back to toast the front of my body. The air was blissfully light and refreshing, so I parted my legs slightly to let the breeze circulate around my thighs. I sighed deeply, enjoying the sensations of the sun and wind caressing my body. It was so pleasurable. It was... A movement on the beach path interrupted my musings and, from under my half-closed eyes, I watched the boy from next door watching me. He slowly eased off the path and ducked into a shadow- filled area under a small canopy of sea grape trees, his eyes never leaving my body. He leaned languidly against one of the rough-textured trunks and waited. I should have pulled the near-by towel over my body. I should have done something to let him know I didn't appreciate his spying. I should have never continued to sunbathe in the raw once the Mulders had arrived. Should've, could've, would've. Instead, I was spurred on by the boy's voyeurism. I absently brought one hand up to brush lightly over my breasts, letting my fingers swirl lazily around and around the nipples until they were hard and pointy like tender, little pebbles. I let the hand return to the armrest and peered stealthily through my lowered lashes toward the tree. The boy had a hand shoved up under his white t-shirt and was playing with his own nipples, his fingers rubbing the skin trapped below the fabric. His mouth was slightly open and I got a flash of even, white teeth. This was really arousing. Just how far would this kid go? Bringing my left hand back up, I cupped my right breast and squeezed, using my other hand to trace soft patterns across my stomach and thighs. I let my legs angle more, to open wider, and knew I was going to go all the way, whether the boy was there or not. Masterbation was my friend, an old, dear companion, and , right now, I was craving its company. A quick glance back to the trees confirmed the boy's continued presence and warmth spread throughout my limbs. It was time to begin my self- seduction. My hand slipped between my thighs to gently brush across my center and I immediately encountered moisture. Whether it was from the warmth of the sun or the thrill of being watched, I didn't know. And, to be perfectly honest, I didn't care. I raised my fingers to my mouth to taste myself. The boy was frozen by my move, his hands clutching the fabric of his shirt at the middle. I could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest and let my eyes stray lower. He was aroused too. Very aroused. His young body was pushing at the confines of his shorts, tenting the material quite nicely. Spurred on by this sight, I continued. The hand on my breast squeezed harder, pinching the hot, little nipple until it was sore and throbbing. I pulled the fingers of my other hand from my mouth and quickly brought them back to my center, separating the moist folds and exposing the sensitive nub to the hot sun. Oh, God. The rays kissed me there and I eased a finger inside, arching against the feeling of being filled. I was so wet. My eyes found the boy again, half-hidden in the shadows. Oh, my... His shorts were now hanging low on his slim hips, his hands stroking his exposed flesh. I could see the glint of moisture at it's tip and longed to lap it off, to have the taste of a male in my mouth again. As if connected by some invisible source, the boy swiped at the seeping opening with his thumb and brought the drop of fluid to his lips. I saw his head tilt back as the thumb disappeared into his mouth and he sucked gently. Jesus. I rubbed my wet finger up and around the now swollen nub of my clitoris, teasing the flesh until it was almost painful... He gripped himself tightly with one hand and began to massage his testicles with the other... I reinserted the finger, added another, and began to fuck myself... He was standing away from the tree now, still in the shadows, his body focused on the growing ache in his groin. He stroked himself in sync with my plunging fingers, his eyes never straying from my body. I arched up with my lower body to meet each thrust of my hand, pushing my feet against the padded cushion beneath me for leverage... His pelvis rocked back and forth as his strokes increased, the swollen head of his penis looking dark pink and angry... I removed my drenched fingers and began to masterbate in earnest, fingertips sliding across my clit again and again and again, building the needed rhythm and pressure. I couldn't contain a moan that slipped deep from within my chest. I was getting so close. The boy's hand was punishingly rough as he worked himself toward release. The tight, gripping strokes were bringing him right to the edge. I realized I wanted to feel him within me... I knew he longed to be buried within me... So, my fingers became his imaginary flesh and his hand became a replacement for my wetness. Harder, faster...oh...so good... I was coming. I forced my eyes to keep him in sight as the waves of my orgasm built painfully and broke over my throbbing body. I cried out softly but continued to stroke myself, wrenching out the spasms, not wanting the hot sweetness to end. He was on his knees, his head angled so he could continue to watch me, his fist never slowing as he gushed in long, hard spurts across the ground. He must have made some sound because his lips suddenly closed over his teeth, a look of near-agony covering that young face. It was beautiful to watch. I slowed and, eventually, had to stop, the pleasure bordering on pain. I was sweating now but floating in the afterglow of my activity. I rolled my head toward my doorway, trying to catch a brush of breeze, either form the fan inside or from nature, I didn't care. I sighed deeply, dropping my hands from my body and rested in the warmth and security of my surroundings. When I finally managed to roll my head back to covertly observe the boy, he was gone. We continued our joint masterbation sessions for several days after that first long-distance encounter, each waiting patiently for the other's arrival, pretending we really didn't know we were being watched. I found myself craving these strange encounters, my body feeling more alive and desirable since...well, since a long time. I should have known it wouldn't last. The rains started early on a Wednesday, built in intensity on Thursday, and, by Friday, I was almost pacing the floor in frustration. It was so ridiculous, it was frightening. I had started a painting late Tuesday evening, an erotic little piece with lots of promise, but, now, couldn't even force myself to sit before it. It rested dejectedly on the easel in a corner of the studio and seemed to mock me in its incompleteness. Fuck it. Now, late Friday afternoon, the rain continued to beat relentlessly on the oceanside windows, the wind lashing at my house, trying to force me out of my funk. Weather like this use to do me good, putting me in a creative frame of mind. Now, nothing but unrest. The sound was beginning to drive me crazy, so I turned up the volume of my stereo and tried to get into the groove with Mick Jaggar. Seems no one was getting any satisfaction tonight. I almost didn't hear the knocking at the back door. When I did, I lowered the music and crossed barefooted to peek outside, immediately suspicious of any uninvited visitor. Cautiously, I eased the curtain aside. It was him. Pausing a moment to eye him through the slick windowpanes, I watched as he shifted from foot to foot and nervously threw a look back toward his parents' house. I could read the body language easily: he was afraid of getting caught and he was unsure of what he was doing. No kidding. As he raised his fist to knock again, he saw my face inside and froze. His eyes were an interesting shade of green and held a wealth of emotion. It would be easy to lose yourself in those eyes if he ever learned how to use them correctly. I would have to be very careful now. I opened the door and stepped back to give him room to enter, watching as he stayed on the landing a brief moment longer before finally coming in. He stood uncertainly, dripping water onto my kitchen floor, and looking slightly like a rabbit waiting for the wolf to pounce. I quickly shut the door before he could change his mind and escape, motioning for him to remove his navy rain slicker and hang it on a row of hooks just to one side. He did as I instructed and then looked straight at me, his gaze never wavering. Yes, there was fear in those eyes but something else, too. Something primal, something earthy. I turned and walked back to the living area and sat on the edge of the couch, waiting to see what he would do. He followed me a few seconds later and stood to one side, blatantly eyeing the surroundings. I saw his gaze light on the original paintings covering the walls, the ecclectic mixture of expensive furniture that made this place truly my domain, and the modern conveniences my parents had installed to make my life easier. I noticed how he looked longer at my state-of- the-art stereo system and the large television set shoved into one corner. He was such a kid. The perusal didn't last long but it gave me ample time to appraise my guest. Tall, lean, and solidly built, he was actually quite attractive. It was easy to see now how I had confused him for Bobby. My Bobby had carried himself much the same way once, his youth and vitality fairly sizzling under the smooth skin. But this one was much too young. I watched as he moved to sit across from me in a thickly padded arm chair, easing his frame into the cushions. He remained silent, gazing at me with those eyes, and waited. I knew why he was here and was kind of amazed at his bravado. But I had to remember how I had been feeling, the itchy, irritable sensation since the rains started, and had to remind myself that it would be worse for him. He was probably immersed in a time in his life when masterbation was a common occurrance, sometimes several times a day. This was not the small, shy boy who once played quietly with his sister along the shoreline, his bright eyes and gentle smile highlighting an innocent face. Sitting before me now was a maturing, healthy male on the brink of his prime. The same boyish face was still there but, now, it held an edge of something else. Something was lurking just beneath the surface. I remembered my mother's rendition of the Mulder family tragedy and realized his childhood had all but been ripped away before he could understand and enjoy what he had. He must have sensed some of my thoughts or just grew tired of my silent scrutiny, because he shifted restlessly and let his eyes dart quickly back to his hanging rain slicker and the door. Was he contemplating an escape? I had to regain his attention. My fingers rose to the buttons of my sleeveless blouse and began to slowly undo the small, pearl-colored disks. His eyes were immediately on my hands, closely observing my every move. "How old are you?" I whispered, my voice low and calm. I watched him swallow nervously before answering. "Fifteen. Sixteen in October." Fifteen. Jesus fucking christ. What could I have possibly been thinking? Here I was, twenty years old (twenty-one in January) and on the verge of beginning a summer fling with a boy I use to babysit. Holy shit. I hesitated for a moment, then eased back against the cushions of the couch, letting my body settle into a comfortable slouch. The movement caused my just-unbuttoned blouse to fall slightly open and his eyes widened to see I was braless. It was a bit late to be modest with this kid now. Following my lead, I saw him move back in the chair to mimic my position and saw the bulge in the front of his khaki shorts. Now I remembered exactly what I had been thinking about earlier. I opened my blouse further and watched as his breath caught in his chest, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. His hands tightened on the armrests and his penis jumped within the confines of his shorts. The sight of my naked breasts had just the right effect to get us moving in the proper direction. I slowly eased out of my shorts and panties, coyly leaving my blouse draped about my shoulders. My hands casually covered my groin area, enough that he couldn't really see what he wanted but enough to make him begin to sweat. His head was resting against the back of the chair and his eyes began to glaze with need. He looked so ripe, so perfect. I pushed on. I spread my legs, a little at a time, until I was wide open to his gaze. Following the familiar path with my fingers, I raised them up so I could toy lazily with my nipples, making them hard and aching. My eyes held his as I rubbed and pinched and flicked, bringing the warm need to my groin. I kept one hand moving on my breasts but let the fingers of my other hand trail downward until I encountered the wetness between my legs, softly testing my readiness. I was quickly getting there. And watching him sitting across from me was intoxicating. I rubbed my fingers around the sensitive folds, spreading them slightly as I eased a fraction of one finger inside. I left it there and brought my other hand down to swirl it lightly around my sensitive nub. His eyes were glittering now as his fingers clutched at the fabric of the chair. There was a quarter-sized wet spot on the front of his shorts just at the tip of that wonderful bulge and I knew he wouldn't last long. And, even though we'd been doing this in tandem for days, this new closeness was a bit disconcerting and unbelievably exciting. I inserted the finger fully and began a slow fucking motion, easing further back on the couch so I could spread myself wider. This was much better. I quickened the pace and, then, slowed, varying the angle of entry and amount of friction as I needed it. I could go on like this for quite awhile but, as I gazed at the boy's face , I could see the haze of raw desire in their depths. His hands had slipped from the arms of the chair and were now grasping the cushion by his knees. He wanted to touch himself, I could tell, but was holding back and focusing totally on me. I let a low moan escape. It felt so good. When I pushed a second finger inside, his fists moved to the cuffs of his shorts, bunching and squeezing the area until I thought he was going to rip the fabric. His nails were slightly scratching the skin of his thighs, leaving pale, red tracks, but he seemed oblivious to anything but the movement of my fingers, lost in the world of lust. "Do it," I urged him softly, my fingers picking up speed. Unbelievably, he shook his head, a bright flash of pain appearing quickly in those smokey eyes. His hands spasmed on his thighs. "I...I want to watch you come," he forced out, a bloom of embarrassment appearing on his cheeks. His eyes dropped away for a moment and then quickly resettled on my face, his expression anxious and a bit fearful. I processed this information rapidly. He wanted to watch. I nodded my acceptance and let my fingers begin the magic in earnest. I easily slipped into the zone, stroking, probbing, delving into my body, hitting the right spot until I was almost in a fine frenzy. I pushed my feet down flat on the floor and arched my pelvis, tipping my uterus into the position to recieve a man's seed, knowing nothing would flow in today but needing the natural placement to slip into orgasm. My breath was coming in short, erratic gasps as I neared. Almost there...almost there... I slipped over and dimly heard my keening cry of ecstasy, my fingers continuing to stroke as my inner walls clenched and contorted and spasmed. It felt so good and I never wanted it to end. I registered a frantic motion on the chair across from me and forced myself to refocus my attention, watching as he fumbled with his zipper and freed his erection. It seemed as though he barely had it clear of the fabric before he was erupting, cupping his hands over himself to capture the shooting semen. His body shook hard with each convulsion, a low, rough groan edging its way up from his throat. His eyes remained locked to mine in this unison of release until, finally, they close in sublime rapture. Several heartbeats later, he casually wiped his handfull on the front of his t-shirt and stumbled to his feet, where he stood a bit unsteadily for a moment. He got his bearings and walked slowly back toward the door, reaching to don his still-wet slicker and step back out into the rain. Opening the door, he turned to gaze back in my direction, his eyes unreadable and lazy-looking in the gray light. Nodding once, he stepped out and was gone. Continued in Part Three------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- The weather cleared that same evening but we remained apart because of the weekend arrival of his father. I knew the Mulder males were at odds with each other but I also knew that I didn't want to be a factor in any of the family unrest. I didn't know where Mrs. Mulder stood in the conflict but, from what I recalled seeing the day they arrived, I didn't think she had much influence in the situation. I actually hadn't seen the woman since that first day and had heard, through town gossip, that the boy was making frequent trips into town to purchase necessities and groceries for himeslf and his mother. Old Mr. Phillips, the owner of the only grocery store in the city, had made the comment one day that a growing boy like that needed more than milk and peanut butter sandwiches to flourish. My stomach tightened painfully when I thought of him possibly going hungry and, quite probably, unloved. So, when Monday dawned brightly and that hideous black car left, it was only a matter of moments before a familiar knock sounded on my back door. He smiled shyly as I let him in but frowned when I stopped him from going into the living room I silently gestured toward the kitchen table and moved to take my usual seat facing the door. I didn't wait for him to sit but proceeded to place a tall stack of hot pancakes and several strips of crisp bacon on an exrta plate and drop it on the placemat where I wanted him to sit. A tall glass of milk and a smaller tumbler of fresh-squeezed orange juice waited in chilled splendor. I then constructed my own plate and began to eat. He hesitantly moved to the chair and slipped gracefully into the padded seat. For such a gangly boy, he moved like a cat most of the time: fluid and easily. It didn't take him long to ease into eating and, even though he tried not to show it, it appeared he'd gone quite awhile without something homecooked. His pancakes magically diappeared from his plate and I slipped him my bacon when he'd gotten up to refill our juice glasses. Shit, he needed the calories more than me anyway. When finished, he automatically went to the sink and began to prepare to wash the dishes. I watched for just a moment as he ran hot water and added just the right amount of detergent, obviously use to doing the task. Well, if he wanted to wash them, who was I to complain? I padded into my studio area, as he continued to work in the kitchen, and began to prepare my pallet of paints. I felt like creating. Something was urging me to begin and, visitor or not, I had to follow the commands of my muse. I ignored the half-finished erotic canvas and reached for a new, larger one, wanting a fresh start. In no time, I was oblivious to everything but the colors, the strokes, the textures. I was in the zone. Later, I finally became aware of another presence in the room and turned to face the intruder. The boy was sprawled out on my couch, a tangle of arms and legs, his dark head propped up on one arm rest, and sleeping soundly. He must have wandered in and, unsure of his position in my home, chose to sit and watch me paint. The movement of brush on canvas can be hypnotizing so, I suppose, I must have lulled him to sleep. The sun poured through the window above the couch and caused an interesting pattern to fall across the dozing figure. He was awash in light. His dark hair made a lovely contrast to the warm, yellow fabric of my sofa and I couldn't help but be attracted to the innocent beauty of the scene. Quickly, I grabbed my camera from a side chest and moved to capture the moment, to have a lasting record of this unbelievable image. I worked swiftly, not wanting to disturb his rest and, honestly, not knowing how he would react if he caught me taking photographs. I shot several pictures, from several angles, enjoying the subtle play of light and dark against his smooth skin. Capturing one last shot, I smiled at his sweet face and went to slip out of my paint- splattered jeans and blue work shirt and into and old, but pretty, softly flowered sundress. I hesitated only a moment before removing my panties. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on the small coffee table directly in front of the couch and watched as he slowly woke. He stretched languidly, again very feline-like, and his eyes fluttered open. It took him a moment to remember where he was and another one to realize he was being watched. I smiled down at him. He had enough decency to look embarrassed and started to speak but I silenced him by pressing a finger to his lips. "Sh-h-h-h," I urged softly, realizing this was the first time I had actually touched him. When I saw agreement in his eyes, I let my finger trail over that mouth, skimming the full lower lip with a nail. Such a beautiful mouth, made just for kissing. No. I halted that train of thought. I wasn't going to kiss this boy's mouth no matter what we did sexually. Kissing was sacred. It was a way to taste a person's heart and soul. I remembered Bobby's taste clearly and I never wanted to taint that with another's. Never. My fingers stroked the still-smooth skin of his cheek and chin, then travelled downward to his neck. It was warm there, very warm, and I laid my palm flat against the skin and let his heat soak into my flesh. I could feel his pulse, strongly beating, the rhythm ancient and arousing. His old t-shirt was clean but thin and I could easily see the hardening nubs of his nipples under the fabric. I traced slowly to one of those peaks and circled it lightly, fascinated when it caused him to roll his head from side to side. "Feel good?" I asked rhetorically. I already knew the answer but I wanted to hear it from him. "Yes..." It sounded softly like a prayer. I smiled and continued my easy strokes across his chest, playing lightly from nipple to nipple and slowly worked the cotton shirt upward, exposing more and more of his skin with each passing. Suddenly, and very unexpectedly, he knocked my hands away and sat up, yanking the shirt down...but not before I'd seen the painful-looking marks and bruises. I forcably but gently held him in place and refused to let him shake off my hands. "Don't!" He all but yelled and then, just as quickly, the fight went out of him and he slumped back. His next words were too quiet, too unemotional. "Don't...please." I ignored his plea, reached for the hem of his shirt and briefly played a weak game of tug of war before he relented. He averted his face as I eased the shirt up. "My God!" I hissed angrily. That he'd been beaten was obvious; how bad his injuries were, I couldn't tell. I didn't have to ask how he'd gotten these marks because I could see and recognize the belt-like impressions easily. "Why?" I asked softly. He gave me a small, one-shouldered shrug but continued to keep his face turned away, refusing to meet my eyes. I gently reached to place my hand to the side of his face and carefully coaxed his head to turn forward. I eased my fingers up and brushed his hair back, letting the soothing motion convey my desire to help. I repeated the movement again. Finally, he looked up and met my gaze. "It..." he struggled for a moment to collect his emotions and thoughts. "It doesn't matter." His eyes...those, oh, so expressive eyes...silently pleaded with me to let this conversation pass. I didn't want to. I was livid with rage for his hurt. But, watching his eyes cloud, I yielded. I brought my hands to his knees and pushed them slightly apart, feeling him tense a bit in surprise. I gently rubbed my hands back and forth over his skin, until I could feel him beginning to relax again. I wanted him to be at ease with me, I wanted him to feel he could tell me or show me anything, and know, really know, I would listen and not judge. "Slouch down a bit," I instructed and waited while he complied. I slid smoothly off the table and kneeled between his legs, letting one hand move up slowly until it rested over his crotch. I could feel the first stirrings of his awakening erection. With my other hand, I continued to hold up the hem of his shirt and carefully brought my mouth to one of those bruising marks. Softly, I kissed the skin and felt him tremble, the gentleness of the gesture more arousing than expected. I raised my head and looked directly into his glazed eyes. "I'm going to take you in my mouth," I informed him quietly and saw the glint of anticipation appear in his eyes. "Have you done that before?" He gave a brief nod and swallowed thickly. "Once." "Did you like it?" Again, another small nod and a flush of embarrassment. "Yes." I could read the message clearly: he *loved* it. I smiled slyly and placed another quick kiss on the skin just above his navel and moved my attention to the zipper, noticing how he bulged with arousal under his cotton running shorts. I raised an eyebrow and shot him a grin, cupping his erection and hearing him moan. "Is this for me?" I teased gently, wanting to see how he would respond to a little playfulness. "I...I think I'm in big trouble if it's not," he mumbled dryly and I had to chuckle. Things quickly sobered as I eased his shorts and briefs down and off and rested back on my heels to see what I could see. Very nice. He shifted self-consciously under my perusal but I soothed him with my eyes and hands, letting him know I accepted him and was pleased. I combed my fingers through the soft sprinkling of hairs at the base of his penis and watched as he arched uncontrollably at the sensation. When I brushed my knuckles down his length, he shuddered and bit his bottom lip. I pulled back and eyed him with some speculation. He tried to calm his breathing but I could see he was terribly excited. He looked at me with a mixture of regret and desire. "I...I'm not..very..." he swallowed somewhat dryly, "experienced." I rebent to put my mouth on his skin and proceeded to lick from his navel straight up to his neck, stopping to bite urgently at the hollow of his throat. He convulsed. "You will be when I'm finished," I promised softly against his flesh, running my tongue in swirls over the pulse-point. "You will be." He not only loved the oral sex but proved he was an apt student when it came to learning how to reciprocate, correctly and creatively. But I held back from instigating intercourse, even though I knew he wanted it badly, and showed him how much pleasure could be obtained through other means. He didn't understand why I wouldn't kiss his mouth, especially when I licked and sucked just about every other part of his body, but he acquisened without displaying too much hurt. There was something in his eyes when I turned away from his descending mouth that final time that almost made me yield but I held firm. He would have to play by my rules or not play at all. We didn't spend all our time indoors or in each other's company but we became, naturally, close. He listened carefully as I explained some of my more abstract paintings and asked several insightful questions, I laughed uncontrollably at his humorous interpretation of the moron's attending his high school, and we argued as equals about the commercialism invading the beaches in our area. Ironically, our most private thoughts and feelings were never discussed: he never spoke of his strained family relations and I never mentioned Bobby. The weeks passed quickly and we were very careful about when and where we met. More times than not, we'd steal some time away from anyone who might see by using my home. He still ran errands for his mother and stayed cooped inside each weekend when his father came for his much-dreaded visits, but we were never really far from of each other's thoughts. I knew I was becoming too important to him and, much to my surprise, I found myself thinking less and less of Bobby each day. This strange, slightly-damaged boy had captured a piece of my heart. We sat on the beach one day after spending the afternoon swimming in the churning surf, enjoying the kiss of the sun's warmth on our drying skins and suits. He'd gotten unusually quiet as the time passed and I caught him, several times, gazing out over the breaking waves with a terrible sense of longing. His mind would be with me one moment and, the next, he'd be in his own world, away from me and the ocean. It was at times like these that I could sense the loniless and solitude that marked his life. I hated to think he'd be alone for the rest of his life. As I rose from my place on our shared blanket, he reached out with one hand and stopped me, his fingers touching my wrist almost reverently. I looked down into his upturned eyes, waiting patiently. When he didn't speak, I became concerned and squatted back so we were again on eye level. "What?" I questioned, letting a hand rest on his thigh for balance. He looked deeply into my eyes, searching for something I couldn't name. One of his hands rose to stroke the side of my face and, then, dropped slowly away. He lowered his eyes and swallowed. *Here it comes.* "I want to make love to you." Well, there it was. "I know you do," I said simply. How could I not know? Each time I took him in my mouth or watched as he made me come with his tongue or when we used our hands to stimulate at the same time, I could see it burning behind his eyes. "When?" My question took him by surprise. His eyes flew to mine and he sputtered, unable to form the words he wanted. His mouth worked like a beached fish, his eyes wide with wonder. Suddenly, he was all energy and movement, pulling me to my feet as he stood, reaching down to grab an end of the blanket. "Now!" He said intensely. "We can go back to your place and..." "Whoa! Whoa, buster!" I laughed at his exuberance, watching as he shook the sand from the blanket. "We've been swimming for hours and roasting in the sun and you want to go now?" "Uh-huh," he nodded, his body fairly trembling with anticipation. I stopped his frantic activity by snatching the blanket from his hands, throwing it back to the sand, and grabbing a handful of his hair. I tugged playfully until I got his full attention. "Ow!" He pouted, batting my hands away. "Hush, you big baby," I laughed gently. "I'm not a baby," he stuck out his lower lip, enjoying our play. "No, you're not," I agreed and then tilted my head to look at him seriously. He caught my look and settled, waiting. "And, because of that, we have to be careful. I don't want to get pregnant and I seriously doubt your mom packed any condoms with the family first-aid kit, did she?" He blushed quickly. "No. I guess I didn't think." "It's okay," I pulled him gently toward the water's edge, "but it's something you need to think about from now on, since you're going to be buying them." "Me!?" He was actually shocked by the idea. "I...I've never...how will I know what to get? Everyone will be looking at me." "Looking at you?" I stopped him when we were ankle deep. "Fox, you're a young, good- looking, teenage boy. The only person who will give you any regard will be the druggist and he will help you if you have questions. Besides, this will be the start of a long and happy friendship between you and latex. You've got to start sometime." He nodded his understanding but still looked a bit uncomfortable. I reached out to run a hand up his arm. "What is it?" "Uh, I kind of don't have any money," he was deeply embarrassed. " My mom only gives me some when she..." "I have money." I didn't want him to have to explain his fucking family to me. He looked like he was going to refuse my offer but his sharp mind quickly took stock of his other options. He nodded his assent gracefully. "Come on," I tugged, "I need to rinse the sand from my suit." We waded into the surf and swam out far enough where we could float in calmer water, drifting lazily around each other , comfortable in each other's company. The late afternoon sun was fearfully hot but the water was a cooling balm to our skin. It was like a slice of heaven. Hell came for a visit that night. His father unexpectedly arrived shortly after we had made our way back from our swim and I could see a strange emotion appear in his eyes. He turned to me wordlessly, unable to give voice to his thoughts, and was out the back door, running a loop around his house to appear he had just approached from the opposite direction. I watched, through the curtains of my loft, as he walked lazily up the beach path, hesitating only when his father suddenly appeared on the front porch. He never looked toward my house but I could only hope he could feel my silent support. I found it to be an exceptionally long night. I caught myself darting quick glances out the windows at all hours, not sure what I was expecting to see. I listened to each soft noise, wandering to the back door several times when I imagined a muted knock. I forced myself to sit at my easle, even though it was quite useless. I was a mess of nerves. Mr. Mulder stayed for two days. When he finally left, I expected my visitor immediately. But, as the hours passed and I was still alone, I got steadily more nervous. I couldn't shake the image of those hideous bruises I'd seen several weeks ago and could only imagine the worse. I fought the urge to rush over to the Mulder house and demand to see him. Instead, I took a long walk to town and back. When I returned, several hours later, I made a sweep down to the ocean and found him, perched high upon his rocky outcropping, sitting peacefully and gazing at the sea. I approached cautiously and carefully, not wanting to take a tumble from this heigth but, more importantly, not wanting to startle the percher. I made it to his side and saw, by the slight stiffening of his posture, that he was aware of my presence. He remained quiet and still. So, I sat down beside him and began my wait. After a while, he shifted so our arms brushed lightly and I knew he'd be okay. He allowed me to rest my head on his shoulder and, after a few more minutes of silence, he spoke. "I never understood how he could hate me so much," his voice sounded small and wounded. "I've tried to be a good son, to do well in school, to play the sports he likes, but it just doesn't seem to make any difference. None." I was afraid to ask but knew I had to. "Did he hurt you?" "He always hurts me. But not like you mean. He's good at using his words now...they don't show any marks." He gave a mirthless laugh. "I think...I think I'd rather get another black eye than hear him yell at me again." "What about your mother?" "What about her?" He sounded a little bitter. "Won't she help you? Doesn't she take up for you, protect you?" "She can barely help herself anymore," he sighed wearily. I draped an arm across his shoulders. I couldn't offer any words to him now, only my constant, silent support. So, we sat and watched the water and let the rest of the day pass. Around five o'clock, I pulled him relunctantly to his feet and guided him back to my home, making him sit at the kitchen table and cut vegetables for a salad while I started some pasta and sauce. He worked quietly, subdued, and only answered my questions with short, monosyllable answers. I couldn't even coax a smile, no matter what I said. He just sat, lost in thought, slicing cucumbers and carrots, tomatoes and celery. Just like a fucking robot. When the pasta was bubbling happily and the sauce was simmering on a back burner, I left him alone and climbed up to my loft. I wasn't gone long and, when I returned, the constructed salad was covered and chilling in the refridgerator, and he was sitting again at the table, his dark head resting upon his folded hands. The sight made my throat tighten. He wasn't sleeping...I wasn't sure what he was doing. Quietly, I sat in the chair across from him and placed a small paper bag by his head. "Hey," I whispered. His head immediately came up but his eyes wouldn't meet mine. I tapped the sack lightly and pushed it a bit closer to him. He focused on the bag and frowned. "What's this?" "Open it." Was my only reply. He sighed, but reached to open the package and up-ended the bag, dumping a small, cardboard box onto the table's surface. He blinked several times and carefully touched the box with one slim finger, turning it so he could read the label better. He raised his eyes and, unexpectedly, they filled with tears, pooling wetly until he blinked. Twin streams ran down the planes of his face and dropped to the table, forming small puddles. "I knew you didn't have time to go," I offered gently, "so, I picked them up myself when I went to town earlier." I rose and switched off the burners, knowing I could reheat everything later. I turned and found him watching me carefully, his eyelashes spiked by the recent moisture. I offered my hand, waited until he took it, and pulled him to his feet. I led him from the kitchen, into the living area, and over to the steps leading up to the loft. I stopped and turned to him. "Go up and wait for me," I instructed, my voice soft and calming. "I'll be up in a few minutes." He eyed me strangely and then turned, slowly climbing the steps, never asking the question I could see lurking in those haunted depths. I watched him disappear up the shadowed steps before I turned away, moving to lock the doors, pull the shades, and retrieve the new box of condoms from the kitchen table. I held the box to my chest, said a small, quick prayer, and turned to join him. He was resting, face down, on the old handmade quilt covering my bed, one of my soft feather pillows under his head. His feet dangled over the edge, so I bent and slowly removed both of his sneakers, letting them fall with two resounding thuds. He had such big feet to grow into. I rolled him over easily and saw him watching from under half-closed lids, his eyes glittering in the dimness. I stripped him of his shirt and eased his shorts over those slim hips before turning to slip my own clothes from my body. I traced soothing patterns over his naked flesh and smiled when he snuggled closer, his arms reaching to hold me tightly. But, as I moved my hand down between our bodies, he stopped me. I drew back, slightly confused, and watched him shake his head. "Don't you want to?" He shook his head again, a terrible sadness cloaking his whole demeanor. I'd never seen him like this and it frightened me. "Please. Just hold me," he whispered. Jesus. I drew him close, our legs entwining, and tried to convey my acceptance. I could feel his mouth at the hollow of my neck, his sweet lips pressing warm, little kisses to my skin. I snuggled him closer, rocking slightly, feeling his lips travel slowly upward to settle around my ear, his breath moist and delightful. His young body was stirring mine enticingly. I rolled my hips a bit but his hand was there to still my movements and I could tell he wasn't going to get aroused. This was not what he wanted or needed right now. But his gentle, little kisses were disconcerting and I began to feel uncomfortable when his lips began to slowly approach my cheek and, then, the corner of my mouth. What was he doing? He knew how I felt about this! I tried to gently resist his approach but couldn't help tensing as he got too close. He felt my movement and froze...and then pulled out of my embrace, rolling until he was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to me. Head down, shoulders slumped, he was the poster child for dejection. I sat up and kneeled behind him, wrapping my arms protectively about his shoulders, urging him to lean back into my embrace. But he resisted and wouldn't even turn to look at me. I let him be and moved to rest against the brass headboard, waiting patiently for him to come to terms with his demons. I didn't have to wait long. "I don't understand," his eyes seemed unusually wide when he finally faced me. "You're... you're willing to let me...let me make love to you but...I'm not allowed to kiss you on the mouth. It's like," he released a sigh and shook his head,"like I'm just a *thing* to you...not a person, not a human being, not...not even..." He let his voice trail off and rose from the bed, moving slowly to look out the balcony sliding doors, his eyes gazing at his parents' house. I don't know what he was really seeing when he looked over there but I don't think it was that rustic building. I heard him sigh again in defeat. "It's alright. I guess I really do understand," he whispered. "I'm nothing to them either. I use to be...when I was little. Before..." he swallowed and took a deep breath before he could continue his slow dissertation. "I can remember smiles and hugs and kisses...even a time when one of them would tuck me in at bedtime. I can remember laughing and talking...they use to ask me about school and stuff. We even went on vacations and saw places..." his voice broke but I resisted the urge to go to him. His fingers gripped the soft fabric of the sheer drapes, crushing the material with his grasp. "But now...now I'm the invisible son most of the time...the one they'd just as soon as not have around. Now, they don't care about smiles or hugs or...kisses. There's only angry words and slaps and..." He got quiet, trying to bundle in his emotions. It wasn't working. "My mom just stays in her room. She misses my... " his voice caught and he struggled for a moment. "She just looks past me or through me now, like I'm not even there. And if she has to speak to me, she never says my name anymore. Never. " His eyes sought mine in the dimness. "My dad...my dad hates me...and I don't know why. No. That's not true. I know why he hates me but I don't...I mean, I tried." He failed miserably at communicating his thought and tried a different path. "I try to stay out of his way now and, when I have to be around him, I try to just keep my mouth shut. But, sometimes, it's so hard to just sit there and listen to him tell me how much of a disappointment I am to him and mom, how useless I am to the family, how I should have been the one who..." he was crying again, "And he won't say my name anymore either. I've learned quickly to answer to 'you little bastard' or 'you worthless piece of shit'. I don't think I could stand to hear them call me Fox anymore...it would be like they're talking to that little kid who use to be loved by them. But I'm not that kid anymore. He died in their eyes the night he lost his sister and they've never forgiven him...and never will." He was crying hard now and, I found, there were tears on my face too. This was too much to know about him and his family. He'd done something horrible in their eyes and fallen out of grace with them, dislocating his youth. It was a break he'd probably never recover from. This was bringing back all those old, terrible feeling I had years ago, the ones I'd promised myself I'd never let rule me again. But how was I to ignore this tragic, beautiful boy's pain after all we'd shared together. Suddenly, he was on his knees, by the edge of the bed, his hands clenched together as in prayer. "I know you don't love me," he cried quietly, trying to maintain some dignity, "I...I don't ever expect to be loved again. I just...I just want..." "Come here." I opened my arms and he all but jumped into them. I gently kissed his wet face, my lips tasting his salty tears, and held him tightly, rocking him in my embrace. I could feel his mouth on my cheek, my chin, my forehead, and knew he wouldn't search for my mouth until I allowed him. So, I took him quickly, my lips finding his easily, kissing him softly and tenderly, trying to ease some of his pain. He moaned gratefully into my mouth and I could only wonder how long it had been since someone, anyone, had kissed him. We shared slow, chaste kisses, savoring the simple newness of the act but quickly heated to deeper, open-mouthed searching. I ran my tongue over that wonderful, full lower lip and felt him shudder, his own tongue darting out to duel with mine. I don't think he'd ever been kissed this deeply, this fully, this intimately, and he was literally drinking it all in. We rolled across the bed, never straying far from each other's mouths, kissing until our lips were bruised-feeling and sore. This communion of mouths ignited a simmering desire and completely obliterated the recent pain he'd felt. I could feel him growing harder against my thigh and slowly coaxed him to his back, knowing he'd soon be too far gone to keep a level head. One of us had to retain some sense. I left his mouth, hearing his soft whimper of protest, and quickly soothed him by moving my lips to his ear. "Easy...I'm not going anywhere." I stretched my body fully atop his, covering him like a blanket, and lazily rotated my hips over his growing erection. His hands flew to my waist as he felt the undulation and he recaptured my mouth, using his tongue to let me know what he wanted to be doing. His hardness slid against my stomach as his tongue slid across my lips, the rhythm slow and seductive. I let him make love to my mouth and, then, blew his mind by closing my lips around his wet tongue and sucking on it like I had done to his penis during oral sex. He bucked and thrust against me in wild abondon, his mouth proving to be just as sensitive as the rest of him. I released his tongue and raised my face, looking down into those beautiful, soulful eyes. "Oh, I want you..." he breathed, somewhat dazed. "I know," I rose until I was sitting back on his thighs and reached for the box on the nightstand. My movement caught his attention and his dazed expression rapidly changed to one of expectation. I opened the box, removed one, small, foil package and held it in front of his face. "This can keep you safe and protect your partner. Promise me you'll always use one, no matter how tempting it is to do without it. Promise me." "I promise," he breathed, watching as I carefully opened the sealed foil and removed the latex disk. He pulled the pillow back under his head so he could watch better, his eyes mesmerized by my small, sure movements. He saw me pinch the tip of the condom before carefully placing it at the head of his erection and jerked at the contact. I waited until he settled a bit before easing it over the swelled flesh. "Oh!" He convulsed and gripped the sheets, his upper body rising up off the mattress. He stayed angled, his elbows propping him up, and continued to watch, panting at the sensation. "It...it feels so good." I nodded but watched his face as I slowly began to unroll the latex downward, stroke by small stroke. He was breathing hard, his eyelids drooping seductively, and I realized the newness of these feelings could cause an overload. I quickly removed my hand and watched as he throbbed within the sheath, wondering how long it would be before I'd be reaching for a new one. It didn't matter. We had a whole box and this night was just for him. It made no difference to me if I had to wait for my own satisfaction. I wanted him to remember this first time with affection, not embarrassment. "You ready?" I asked when I could see a small calming of his desire. He could only nod and watched as I raised myself so I could position him at my opening. I rubbed the tip across my wetness, getting the feel of his latex-encased hardness. He pushed up slightly, wanting more, but I stopped him swiftly. "No," I instructed, "just lie still. Lie still and watch as I take you inside." I eased down slowly and then back up, ignoring the whimper and the fist-clenched sheets. Down again, a bit more this time, and then back up. His eyes were glued on our joined bodies, fascinated by the sight, the sound, the smell. I smiled as I studied him covertly, realising he would probably always enjoy watching for the rest of his life. Lessons are learned so young. "Please!" He hissed and dropped back with frustration. "Do it! Please, just do it!" I went down, more again, and quickly back up. Down and back. Down and back. *God, he felt so good!* I pumped down and held still when he was completely inside and squeezed him with my inner muscles. "Oh, God!" He yelled and became frantic, rolling his hips and clutching at my waist. "Please! Please don't stop!" That's all it took. I began anew, not with a slow, easy pace that lovers use when they are well-tuned to each other's limitations, but with hard, consuming thrusts that would send him over the edge within moments. I felt him move under me and leaned forward, letting my hips rise just enough so he could control the pace. Control? What a laugh! There was no control nor did I honestly expect any. He thrust wildly, lost to everything but the magic of my body...and then he was coming. I felt him stiffen, go completely rigid, and I resumed control. I continued to slowly ride him as he orgasmed, feeling the pulses, hearing the low, almost-painful groans, seeing his face contort in the beautiful agony that was triggered by release. I continued my movement, careful to be gentle, not wanting to hurt but to show him how to prolong the sensations. Finally, I detected his need for stillness and watched as he lay, eyes closed, panting under me. I leaned over, still joined, and kissed his mouth softly, licking and nibbling, until he finally responded by opening his eyes and gazing up at me. His smile was tender, happy, grateful. This was good. I roused him long enough to show him how to correctly remove and dispose of the condom, laughing as his face scrunched into disgust, and then settled back down to rest. We held each other and laughed as he snuck kisses, his eyes glowing at his sucess. I wasn't sure but I think he might have enjoyed the kisses just as much as the love-making. He spent the night, wrapped in my arms, and we ended up using every condom in that little cardboard box. The energy of youth was astounding. The weeks past quickly. We knew it would end, as everything eventually does, but we tried not to focus on it. One day, that dreaded black car arrived for the last time and I sat on my sun- deck, watching the Mulder's pack their belongings. When his parents were making one last check of the house, he gazed mournfully up toward my balcony, those wonderful hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his pants, and just stared. I don't know what he was thinking but I'd like to think he was making a permanant memory, forcing his eyes to capture every little detail of my home and put it among his place of special remembrances. I know I will never forget the image of him getting into that car and leaving. It was like a death all over again. I never saw Fox Mulder again after that summer. But, as my muse continued to hammer at me for the next months, I painted with a fury. Small, delicate still-lifes, bold, exciting seascapes, and rugged, primative landscapes. They all sold in galleries here and in New York and I was bombarded with people requesting personal works. But I kept my pride and joy all for myself, gazing on it lovingly each night before going to sleep. There, above the antique dresser my mother purchased years ago, hung my painting of a sleeping boy, his dark hair and smooth skin awash in warm sunlight. He's still with me, exactly like he was that wonderful summer day, and no one or nothing would be able to touch the innocence I saw. In my painting, he would be perfect and young forever.