A Boy Who Came In from the Cold Ch. 16



© Sadie Rose Bermingham 2006

“Another weekend, another chapter. There is a double warning on this one; it’s a very, very sad chapter, although no one actually dies… I’m the not the porn version of J K Rowling just yet! Also there is some non-consensual activity at the heart of this segment. I’ve tried my bestest to make it un-gratuitous but it’s there and it happens so anyone who isn’t into that maybe ought to skim over that part. I will apologise that there actually isn’t a great deal of SEX in Ch 16… because I don’t want to waste the time of anyone just looking for a wank. This ain’t a wank chapter, sorry guys and gals. I will try my hardest to make up for that in the next one which, very, very possibly, will be the last proper chapter before the Epilogue. I can hear you sighing with relief even now. I know I am!! LOL

“So without further ado… I give unto you…”


(PS – the usual terms and conditions apply regarding the copyright. I will rip off/out the genital parts of anyone who violates my statutory rights as Author of this nonsense! xx.Sadie)


I swear to God that when I get back to England I’ve had it with boys!”

Terry exchanged a long look with Isolde as they reclined on the day bed watching Anthony Wright pace up and down the bleached and polished boards of the inner decking. The younger man ran both hands through his dishevelled hair, shaking his head slowly as he stopped stalking back and forth for a moment and caught his breath. They had been listening patiently as he vented his spleen for the past few minutes and now Isolde leaned forward and purred; “Sit down Antoine, you are overwrought. Everything will be all right, if you only deal with this calmly.”

“I’ve screwed everything up!” Ant protested, turning to stare at her with haunted eyes. “I only ever wanted him to… to be happy with me. And now he hates my guts!”

“You should never interfere in someone else’s life, Anthony. You know that.” Daniel lit a cigarette in a long, ebony holder and sat back in his sculpted, leather swing-seat with a little frown, exhaling a stream of smoke.

“Like you couldn’t help yourself interfering in mine?” Ant asked him sarcastically, turning to face the old man with another shake of his head.

“You first came to me willingly, as I recall,” Daniel responded, unruffled by this hostility. “You needed my money and you needed my guidance more. I offered both freely. I do not regret doing so.”

“You think I abducted him?” Ant almost yelped. “You think I got everything I deserved, don’t you?”

Terry nodded vigorously in the background but Leland just treated him to a patient smile.

“I don’t think that, Anthony. I know you better than that. But I think maybe that you were a little too hungry for his gratitude. Boys like Rayne are rarely grateful for anything, and when they are it never lasts for long.” The old man took another long pull on his cigarette holder.

“You don’t know anything about him,” Ant argued.

“Nor do you,” Leland retorted at once. “You forget, he worked for me before. And he was a stroppy little bitch on an older man’s leash back then as well. Neither you nor Barrington LeVey could keep a tight enough rein on the child.”

Ant stopped pacing finally and say down on the edge of the day bed. Isolde rested a hand on the back of his neck and massaged him steadily there as he cradled his forehead in his hands.

“What happened to this LeVey bloke?” he asked wearily.

Leland blew a little huff of smoke through his nostrils and sighed deeply.

“He was found dead by the Police at a friend’s house. Wilde was with him at the time.”

Ant looked up at once, the shock very clear in his pale eyes.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying nothing,” Leland responded coolly. “The coroner’s report said it was a massive heart attack, but there was an extraordinary amount of alcohol and cocaine in his system and the boy was coked up to the eyeballs!”

Ant turned to look at Terry, but the big, burly Londoner just nodded his head in accordance with what the boss had said.

“How long ago was this?” Ant wanted to know.

Terry shrugged vaguely.

“‘Bout three… four years, maybe more.”

“Jesus Christ!” Ant breathed, looking to Leland for confirmation. “You think that Rayne gave this bloke the cocaine?”

“I have no earthly idea, Anthony,” the old man sighed again. “I just see that he does not appear to be good for the life-expectancy of those who try to adopt him. The track marks on his arms seem to indicate that he has not lost his appetite for self-destructive behaviour. His short temper supports this theory. I know all about junkies, Anthony. I know what they are like and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“If he wants to go with PJ then perhaps it will be for the best to let him go,” Isolde murmured, still stroking his back and his neck soothingly. “You still have your bahis firmaları little blond doll to play with, do not forget.”

Ant rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead, feeling the beginning of a headache. Thierry was sleeping soundly in his bed now, as a result of the lengthy and very energetic anal sex he and Ant had shared this afternoon. Thierry was certainly persistent in his efforts to cheer Ant up and ultimately the older man had stopped resisting him and allowed the blond to suck and then straddle him on the bed. Initially he had believed Thierry to be nothing more than a submissive plaything for any dominant male who wanted him, but the boy certainly knew what he wanted from a lover and was not too shy to demand it either. The memory of watching and enjoying the French lad as Thierry rode his cock and rubbed himself eagerly to his first climax made Ant hard again.

He was being an idiot, he decided ruefully. Whenever he had come out to the Cap before, the holiday had always been about the chance to fuck lots of beautiful young lads. Dan’s boat was heaving with them at the moment. You could not throw a cocktail stick without hitting a sexy, teenage boy and there were even more out there in the clubs, all ripe and waiting to be plucked. Ant felt unbearably horny once more but he also felt defeated. He knew in his heart that Isolde was probably right. Thierry would do anything for him, and not give him grief about it either. So why did he still wish that it was Rayne curled up well-fucked and exhausted under his duvet?

“I guess,” he muttered with a shrug of his shoulders.

Daniel Leland smiled and blew a smoke ring.

“Good boy,” the old man declared in a satisfied tone.


“He ‘is’ coming back, isn’t he?” Mikkal asked seriously as Aldo skulked in the kitchen, watching the handsome Finn fix a round of mint daiquiris. “PJ wants him at the party this afternoon. If you’ve upset him again then you can go look for him and sort it out right now!”

“He’ll come back,” Aldo said, with more confidence than he felt. “He’s just cooling off. He said something about picking up the rest of his gear from the other boat.”

Mikka looked relieved. He turned with a tray of drinks balanced on one hand like some kind of elegant nude sommelier and pointed to the plates of nibbles laid out on the counter.

“Good. I am glad to hear it. Now give me a hand taking those up then go and have a shower, you are filthy.”

Aldo sniffed himself critically and had to agree. He had stripped out of his dusty clothes as soon as he got back to the yacht but his body was still sticky with sweat and dry cum. Mikka at least had the good grace not to comment on that!

Patrick McNamara was stretched out on the sun deck, perfecting his all over tan, as if it needed any more perfection, when his second in command came back up with the drinks. Clay was playing a card game with young Robin, using condoms as counters. He appeared to be winning although from the look on Robin’s face the boy was not too disappointed by that. Mikkal suspected that they were playing for Robin’s ass again. Later in the afternoon, Leland and his friends and a few members of the film crew were to join them for a little booze cruise and some naughty fun and games. Arturo had promised to bring a few of the boys and PJ was already chilling out.

The big Irishman sat up as Aldo set down the plates and prepared to make himself scarce. He narrowed his eyes at the Italian porn actor for just a moment though.

“Where’s Rayne?”

“Gone to get his stuff,” Aldo said quickly, without meeting his gaze. “He’s probably stuck talking to his ex. You know how it goes!”

“Yeah,” PJ said, sounding unconvinced by this excuse.

“I’m gonna get cleaned up.” Aldo announced with a sigh.

“Yeah… it’s a dirty business, shopping!”

Just for a moment, steely blue grey eyes met Latin dark ones. Aldo’s cheeks turned a shade pinker and then he was gone, back down the steps and into the safety of the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, Rayne stormed off Leland’s yacht like a small thundercloud caught in a high wind, armed with a bag and his guitar case. He marched straight up the jetty and off across the road without a backward glance at the marina. PJ was on his feet at once and Mikkal’s eyes followed him up as he snapped; “I knew it! I frickin’ knew it! What is it now?”

The Finn turned from the waist, just in time to see Rayne vanish into the arcade of shops beneath the Port Ambonne apartment complex. He dropped the straw from his daiquiri and asked innocently; “You want me to go after him?”

McNamara threw up his hands and turned away, shaking his head in despair. His two closest friends exchanged a knowing glance whilst Robin just looked puzzled.

“Leave it,” the Irishman exhaled at last. “I’m through messing about with him. Let ‘him’ decide what the fuck he wants!”


Up in the dunes, Rayne’s eyes widened with shock as he recognised the kaçak iddaa voice behind him before his head could turn far enough to visually confirm Christophe’s identity. At once he struggled free, hearing Phil whimper with sudden desperation as he withdrew. Rayne ignored him and stumbled clear of the men in the hollow.

“Don’t touch me,” he warned now, shaking his head determinedly. “I’ve got witnesses. If you even ‘try’ to touch me again I’ll make you sorry!”

Christophe shrugged his shoulders slightly as if this was a disappointing reply but not entirely unexpected. His face was still visibly marked by his encounter with Rayne’s friends; a broken nose, split lips and two black eyes marred his icy good looks somewhat but did not seem to have affected his tongue. He was flanked loosely by the bald man and a couple of younger fellows who looked like naked body builders. Rayne began to back away at once, calling Phil to stay close.

“Get the blond,” Christophe said in a deadpan tone and the bald headed man grabbed Phil’s arms and pulled him back as he tried to scramble after Rayne.

“Let go of him!” Rayne ran at them both, blinded to the potential danger by his concern for Phil. He slapped at the hairless fellow, then clawed at his hands as Phil struggled and kicked in his powerful grasp.

“Put my English bitch on the floor where they can’t hear him whining from the beach and spread him,” Christophe instructed the two muscle boys impassively. “Make his little boyfriend watch. Let him see what happens to stupid wilful sluts who try to make a fool of me.”

“NOOOOO!” Rayne screamed at him as the two crop-headed hunks of muscle pried him off Phil and his captor, carrying him after the Frenchman. Christophe had already turned to walk deeper into the dunes, away from the shushing of the sea. The scrub grew taller and thicker back here and soon the sound of crickets drowned out the whispering of the waves. Heat rolled over them like a shimmering blanket as the two slabs of muscle dragged Rayne physically down into the heart of the Nature Reserve beyond the dunes. In a quiet, sunbaked hollow, shrouded by withered olive trees Christophe stopped and pointed at the ground. In unison the heavy lads dropped to their knees and slammed Rayne down into the dust. He struggled onto his belly at once, trying to get up and crawl away but they were either side of him immediately, pinning him down and wrestling him onto his back. Rayne bucked frantically as they held his wrists down on the harder ground and gripped his ankles, pulling his knees back to his shoulders, leaving him splayed and dangerously vulnerable. “PLEASE!” he sobbed desperately. “DON’T!”

“Not so sharp-tongued now, are we?” Christophe remarked, coming to stand over him as he thrashed helplessly in the shallow basin beyond the sand dunes. The Frenchman lifted his head and glanced around at those who had drifted after them from the rise. Many of the voyeurs had slunk away when things began to get violent, not wishing to be implicated in any of this, but a few remained, perversely keen to watch the pretty, tight-arsed English boy get what was coming to him. “Who wants to fuck him first?” he called out, scanning the nervous watchers coolly. “Don’t worry, my boys will keep the whore still for you until everyone who wants some has given him a good fucking.”

“You can’t do this! You CAN’T do this!” Rayne keened at him, breathlessly.

A little way from him he could hear Phil crying, a sound muffled by the bald man’s hand over his mouth. Rayne’s heart was slamming against his ribs by now, every muscle and sinew of his body straining uselessly against the hands that held him down. He threw his head back and screamed for all he was worth.

“That’s it,” Christophe said with an evil little smile as the first man scrambled down eagerly from the brow and knelt between Rayne’s wide-spread thighs. “Shout all you like, my little bitch. No one can hear you out here.”

They made no attempt to gag him. Rayne alternately swore at them and pleaded with them frantically as one after another the furtive spies slunk down into the blasted grove and buggered him without mercy. He kept struggling, long after the realisation had sunk in that his resistance was utterly futile. His abductors did not beat him or even make any threat of violence; they simply turned deaf ears to his heartfelt pleas as he was mounted, penetrated and raped over and over. It was like a production line of horny strangers. As the word spread out on the gay beach more and more men came into the bush to part his legs and probe him, or just to watch and wank as others satisfied themselves with him. The heat of mid afternoon dissipated and the inferno shifted into the longer, cooler shadows of early evening as stranger after stranger was lured deeper into the scrub by his breathless, helpless cries. Some of his attackers were fast and rough with him, but more than a few men took their time over the deed, spending as long as possible between his legs; groping him lewdly and passing comment in kaçak bahis their own tongues with those who still waited their turn. His voice became hoarse and the yelps of resistance as he was entered and fucked were weaker now, but no less insistent. When a couple of men grew impatient of waiting their turn and began to rape Phil as well, he broke and wept, furious and disconsolate in equal measures. Throughout all of this, Christophe stood over him and watched impassively, his arms folded across his chest and his cock standing upright, crowned in pearls of cold, satisfied pleasure.

The Frenchman took him last of all and Rayne Wilde spat in his face as he hunkered down on one knee and pushed his erect member violently up the younger man’s arse. He did not bother to have the boy restrained, gripping Rayne’s slim thighs and using them for leverage as he hammered his way deeper into his exhausted victim. Rayne had closed his eyes during some of the assaults but he kept them open now, glaring at the rapist furiously as the man’s cock raked him internally. Christophe looked up into that blazing stare again and again, smiling coolly like a snake each time he met and held Rayne’s eyes. His steely stare would flicker back down then, watching the way his rod pulsed like a piston in and out of the young Englishman’s raw, sore, cum filled arsehole and the smile grew more feral as it moved back to his flushed, angry, beautiful face.

“You want to kill me, don’t you?” he huffed as he neared his climax, banging Rayne harder.

The boy ground his teeth as little grunts and moans were driven from his throat by each thrust. It was agony to remain silent but he would not give Christophe the pleasure of hearing him beg now. Instead he turned his head and gazed into the gathering gloom where he could hear Phil sobbing and hiccuping quietly. He was grateful that they had stopped hurting the blond lad but at the same time he was so angry with them that he thought his blood would boil up out of his eyes at any moment.

The thought of ripping Christophe apart inch by inch was all that kept him sane. His jaws clenched and he concentrated on the visceral image of his clawed hands digging deeper into soft flesh, tearing muscles and breaking bones. The tension must have tightened him inside as his assailant uttered a low groaning cry of pleasure and pushed himself deep, holding his twitching cock inside Rayne until the boy’s tight arse milked the last drop of liquid heat from his balls.

Rayne looked at him again as he finally knelt back and slowly pulled his wilting manhood out, slick with cum. He rose to his feet, letting the boy sprawl awkwardly beneath him, too weak and sore to even move.

“I enjoyed that,” he said, his voice still slightly tremulous from the climax. “I enjoyed watching them wear you down. The pain in your voice and in your eyes, especially when they began to use your little boyfriend, almost made me lose control. But I am glad that I was able to withold my orgasm until the end. It was so worth it!”

“Damn you to hell, you lousy fucker!” Rayne croaked, his throat so sore that he could barely get the words out. He managed to pull himself away from Christophe’s feet and struggle to his knees. Even that took an almighty effort. His muscles and joints screamed a protest as he tried to bring his legs back together and get them under him. “I hope you die slowly,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “In a jail! Preferably one where they know what a dirty, fuckin’ rapist pervert you are!”

“Such a fire, you have in your heart,” Christophe chuckled, turning to walk away as if nothing had happened. “I pray I will get another chance to break your spirit before I return to Lyon.”

Rayne glared at his retreating back, too breathless to retaliate, until he was sure that the Frenchman had gone. Then he sank forward on his hands and knees and vomited until his stomach hurt and he could barely breathe for retching. Phil crawled over to him at one point and put both arms around him, still crying bitterly and whimpering; “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Rayne swallowed bile, then retched again, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“It’s not your fault,” he croaked weakly.

“I made you come here,” Phil sobbed. “Oh god!”

“Shhhh…” Rayne exhaled, too weak to argue. He was still trembling violently and did not think that he would be able to walk any time soon. Although the daylight had not yet gone the sun was below the visible horizon now and it would start to get dark before long. Surely someone had missed him by now? “Can you get up?”

“I think so,” Phil sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes with his knuckles.

“Good.” Rayne let the rational part of his brain take charge. If he let himself act on his emotional thoughts there was no telling what he might do. “Go back to Ambonne and find Paddy, or Ant. Tell them…” He stopped, suddenly painfully conscious that he did not want either man to know what had just happened to him. He could not bear to tell them. The sheer embarrassment of having to admit what he had been unable to prevent was like a heavy weight around his neck. Ant would probably tell Phil he had deserved it. PJ McNamara would hunt Christophe down and kill him… and probably go to jail for it.

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