MY FATHER THE CZAR. An extraordinary gay novel.
auth...@ix.netcom.com
Author22 is currently writing a new story, "My Father the Czar". It is a
fiction tale revolving around fourteen year old Alexis Romanov, the son
of the last Czar of Russia. There are elements of "The Prince and Pauper"
in this fantasy.
While the story is fiction, the historical aspects are accurate. World War
One, the assassination of the Imperial family, the extraordinary effect of
Gregori Rasputin all contribute to a time when Stravinsky was the "Nick
Jaggers", and Nijinsky was the "Michael Jackson" of their times.
Further information on "My Father the Czar" is available only by an E-Mail
request to AUTH...@aol.com. The Subject line MUST contain the phrase:
MFC INFO REQUEST
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My Father the Czar
Chapter One-A of A/B
Copyright 1997
by AUTH...@aol.com
Saturday Evening.
I am very cold.
Earlier, the winter sun had been out and I had sought the comfort of a
park bench along the Seine; but the Parisian sky had darkened and the
cold rain began to mist down on me for the glowering sky.
My eyes sought for shelter, but there was none in view.
The "coat" I was wearing was someone else's discarded bathrobe. The
fabric absorbed the cold rain instead of repelling it and its dampness
began to draw away from me what little body heat I had. A chill began
to descend steadily upon me. I had been taught to suppress all signs
of distress. Distress was weakness. Visible weakness made one
vulnerable. I put my arms around my knees, tightening all of my
muscles in an attempt to overcome the shivering which was spreading
throughout my body. Then I forced my mind away from the here-and-now.
It had been nearly two years since I fled from St. Petersburg and
cautiously made my way north. If anyone had recognized me, it would
have meant my death.
I had scurried from field to field, hidden and out of sight. By the
time I had reached the border with Finland I had traded my warm, fur-
lined coat for a cheap cloth one and a loaf of bread. I knew that I
must rid myself of anything that might suggest that I was Russian.
My mind fixed on that loaf of bread. I could taste it. My mouth began
to water. I had no idea how many days had passed since I had last
eaten. I pried my mind away from the bread and willed it back to the
journey that would take me across Finland and finally to Paris.
It was on my first day in Finland that I luckily came across a farmer
whose cartwheel had come loose. After helping him repair the vehicle,
he offered to let me ride with him then offered me a meal, and then a
job.
My blonde hair and steely gray eyes were more Germanic than Russian.
The many hours of tutoring in foreign languages had paid off. Being
fluent in German, French, and English, as well as my own native
tongue, my origins were much less obvious.
The farm was small, and I am certain that my employment was more a
matter of charity than it was a matter of the farmer's need. Six
months had passed since I crossed into Finland. I heard rumors that
the Bolsheviks were surreptitiously crossing the border looking for
any aristocrats who might have escaped the death squads in Russia. So,
again I moved on. I proceeded further west and then to the south.
I had deliberately let my hair grow long and ragged. I had not let it
be cut since I fled Russia. I knew what I looked like. I had seen my
reflection in a window as I had come into this park along the Seine.
It had been weeks since I had bathed. I no longer possessed a brush or
comb. Even though I was only seventeen, the ravages of being on the
road had taken their toll, and I could have passed for twenty-five.
The rain let up, and I uncoiled my body.
A man walked past me. I could feel his eyes on me, but I did not look
up. I knew why he was looking at me. A few minutes later he again came
into view, but this time he paused and held his gaze. I had learned a
trick from my foster mother. If you moved your eyes to look up and to
the side it gave the illusion that you were curious... but innocent.
The stranger responded by walking over to me. Then in French he asked
if he could join me. I hesitated before responding, then nodded "yes,"
but asked whether he spoke English. I felt that the more complicated
language, which was not his mother tongue, would hide my Russian
accent.
A quick glance told me that he was in his mid-thirties. He was not a
man of wealth, but neither was he poor.
He opened a small paper bag, extracted a sweet roll, and offered it to
me.
I do not remember taking it, nor even putting it my mouth; but,
seconds later, the roll was gone. I could taste it on my tongue and my
fingers were sticky from the sugar icing.
"Thank you sir. I didn't realize that I was hungry," I lied.
I hoped that if I was friendly he might invite me to eat with him. I
knew what he wanted from me and had no compunctions about letting him
enjoy my companionship. At this point it was a matter of survival. I
just hoped that I was physically capable of fulfilling my part of the
trade.
"My name is Charles," I was expecting him to shake my hand, but
instead, he offered me a second sweet roll.
This time I remember accepting the roll, and eating it in several
bites instead of a single gulp.
His eyes were looking at me in the expectation that I would give him
my name. But what name should I use? I had always been known as
"Alexis"; yet that was not my name.
"Well, no mind," he said. "We can talk later. Would you like to come
home with me for dinner? I live just a few blocks away."
"Oh, Yes!" I replied far too fast. Despite all of my training, I had
given him the advantage. "But I need to wash up first."
"You can bathe at my apartment while I am cooking." His eyes scanned
my rags, then he added, "I think I have some clothes you could wear
that might be more comfortable."
"Thank you. My name is Peter."
We walked south and a little east, exiting the park, and then down a
small residential street. It was a nice, quiet neighborhood that
seemed a bit out of place in the otherwise noisy environs of the Paris
of the early 1920's.
We came to a tall narrow building that was distinguished from its
neighbors only by the color of the paint.
Weakness struck my legs as we started to climb to the second floor. I
paused and steadied myself on the handrail. My host was in front of me
so he didn't see my hesitation.
Once the outer door of his building closed behind us, I could smell
myself. Charles must have been starving from loneliness to have sought
me out in my present condition.
His apartment was the first one on the second landing. He paused
before it while removing a ring of keys from his coat pocket. There
were two locks on the door. The first one resisted opening, but the
second one snapped aside quickly.
He motioned me inside, and then closed the door behind us.
"Would you care for some brandy before bathing?" He opened a door and
ushered me into a small bathroom. He pointed toward a chair. "You can
put your clothes there."
"I think the brandy might put some life into me. Thank you." I removed
my "coat" and hung it on the back of the chair.
Charles had turned on a spigot and water flowed into the tub. He
poured a light pink liquid into the water. It immediately created a
carpet of bubbles. He walked past me, and further down the hall, then
returned with a small glass filled with a brown liquid.
I had removed my clothes and stood before him nude. Surreptitiously,
he examined me as I drew the glass to my lips and inhaled the warming
fumes.
He closed the spigot and motioned me into the tub. I had expected him
to leave, but, instead, he opened a cupboard, withdrew a brush and a
bar of soap. It appeared that he was intent on bathing me. So be it.
It had been years since anyone had attend me in my bath.
I leaned back into the warm water and the bubbles covered me to my
neck.
"Move down and wet your hair." He ordered.
I bent my knees and submerged. He took hold of my hair, gave it
several good rubs, then pulled me up. The soapy water flowed over my
closed eyes and down my face.
"Here, take this." He placed a wash cloth in my hand, and I wiped the
water from my eyes. Then I felt a cool, viscous liquid hit the top of
my head, followed by his fingers, which vigorously worked shampoo into
my scalp.
Charles ordered me to move forward and immediately attacked my back
with soap and scrub brush. He worked his way down to my rump and then
around to my front. His hand began scrubbing my abdomen and my
stomach. I had expected him to wash lower, but was surprised to note
that he was working his way up toward my chest and neck.
"You are a good-looking fellow. You should take better care of
yourself." His comment was unexpected; I didn't have a ready reply. So
I simply smiled. I looked down and saw that the bubbles had thinned
out. The water below them was quite dirty.
"You'd better step out of the tub. I'll wash your hair in the basin,
and draw you a fresh bath." I stood. The water flowed down my body and
almost squirted off of my penis. Charles wiped my upper body with a
towel before helping me out of the tub and into a chair at the basin.
He pushed my head down, and then I felt the cold water from the tap
slosh through my hair as he worked in more shampoo.
At that moment, I felt better than I ever remembered feeling. At that
moment, he could have demanded any price and I would have gladly paid
it.
He rinsed the shampoo from my hair, and then began to brush out the
tangles. My hair dealt with, he motioned me back to the tub and I sank
peacefully into the clean, warm water. He handed me the soap, saying:
"You finish up and I'll start fixing dinner. Do you like fish?"
I nodded and he left the room. I slumped deeper into the water 'til it
warmed the bottom of my chin. Remembering the unfinished brandy, I sat
up, found the glass and sipped. It was quite good. The taste was silky
smooth without being thick. The flavor of grape still remained. I had
been given something that should have been reserved for very special
guests. It was a classic. I knew that I had tasted it before, but not
in recent years.
A scene popped into my mind. The "other" Alexis and I had explored the
wine cellar. This time it was his turn to dress as a girl. As two pre-
pubescent boys are likely to do, we sampled, and then consumed the
entire bottle.
Still unfinished, I set the glass down on the chair while I continued
to absorb the warmth from the bath.
Charles stuck his head through the door. "Dinner will be ready in just
a moment, so you'd better get that handsome butt of yours out here as
soon as you can."
My eyes glanced toward the filthy garments I had been wearing. He
intercepted the look, and said: "Just wrap a towel around you, and
we'll see what we can find to fit you."
He returned to the kitchen and I raised myself out of the water. We
had not discussed his interest in me. There was little doubt in my
mind that he was homosexual. His "...get that handsome butt..." phrase
gently reinforced his interest without becoming crude. I hoped that
all he would want to do would be to cuddle and to suck on my cock. I
doubted that I would be up to anything else.
As I wrapped the towel around my waist, I smiled inwardly at my change
in attitude. A half-hour ago I would have paid any price for the
hospitality that he had given me. Now, after the warm bath, I was
beginning to place limits around what we might do. No! That would be
wrong. I had been taught to be a man of my word, and even though it
had been unspoken, I had silently agreed to his interest while I was
cold and wet sitting in the park.
I paused in front of the bathroom mirror and inspected myself. My
hair, which had seemed a dirty light brown, was now its natural bright
blonde.
I took the scrub brush and used it to smooth my hair.
I stepped back from the mirror and smiled. The last half hour had
washed away the road ravages. I looked my age; or maybe even fifteen.
My eyes traveled down my hairless chest. There was not enough meat on
my bones. The starvation had exposed my ribs. Further down I was
surprised at the size of the bulge. I was not erect, but it was
certainly there. Still, the question remained. Could I fulfill the
obligation I had incurred? It had been a long time since I had had any
interest in sex.
-------------------------
Saturday Evening, according to Charles:
My name is Charles McGee. My father is Irish. My mother is French. I
have lived all of my 36 years in France, mostly in Paris. I look a lot
like my father: red hair, a little on the stocky side. Unlike my
father, I am homosexual.
I matriculated through the Paris public school system and graduated
from the Sorbonne, having specialized in journalism. When I left
school, at the age of 26, a major newspaper hired me. At first it was
part-time, but as France became immersed in the Great War, I was given
more and more assignments. I enjoy writing. I seem to have a nose for
unearthing things that others wish to hide and that is my major
talent.
Only one person at the newspaper knows of my sexual interest, not
because we are attracted to each other, but because we are kindred
spirits. He is a senior executive. He was not responsible for my
initial hiring, but I am certain that he is responsible for my
longevity at the newspaper.
After the war, I found myself reassigned to the Sunday edition. That
issue was locked up by Saturday afternoon, so I usually had Sundays
and Mondays free. This last week had been a boring one. There was
practically nothing of interest worthy of the space which needed to be
filled.
I had scoured the "Blotter" at all of the police stations. Nothing
there.
Eventually I wrote two "human interest" stories: one about some of the
foreigners responsible for much of the city's famed cuisine, the other
about the difficulty the authorities were having in enforcing the
licensing of prostitutes. I knew both articles were far too long and
much too eloquent. Needless to say, I was quite surprised to see both
stories printed with not so much as a word changed and a line cut. A
reporter must work much harder when there is nothing to report. Thus,
I had put in a pretty solitary and long week. Once the Sunday edition
had been put to bed, I was a free man ...at least until Tuesday.
The weather Saturday had been unsettled. First it rained. Then the sun
came out and promised a nice day. Within an hour, clouds had moved
back in, and it became one of those days during which one craves
companionship. You know, a pretty boy ...on a polar bear rug ...in
front of a fire.
On the way home, I decided to detour into the park area which
stretches along the banks of the Seine. On a nice day, one usually may
find there quite a selection of youths seeking to earn a few francs.
This Saturday was the exception. There was no one. The earlier rain
seemed to have driven everyone away.
I had walked about a quarter of a mile when I noticed a most odd
apparition. The first thing that demanded my attention was the coat he
was wearing. It had been pink. It was one of those bathrobes one wears
directly out of the bath. The fabric was chosen to absorb water not
repel it. The trousers that extended below the robe were filthy and
looked like they had been discarded by an overweight veteran of the
Great War. They were baggy, and the legs were so long that the cuffs
had been rolled up numerous times. There was little difference in
color between his hair and his face; both looked a grimy gray.
As I walked by, he curled himself into a ball, stressing his muscles.
Then he looked up at me, but avoided my gaze.
I walked on past him 'til he was out of my view, then crossed the
street to buy a couple of sweet rolls for tomorrow's breakfast.
There was something about the man that bothered me. I certainly was
not attracted to him. But his obvious distress brought out my motherly
instincts. I returned to the park. Again, I looked carefully at him.
It was then that he looked at me, and his expression could be best
described as that of a lost puppy. On closer inspection I realized he
was much younger than I had thought.
I removed one of the sweet rolls from the bag and offered it to him.
His hand moved lightning-fast, grabbing the roll, stuffing the entire
thing into his mouth in a single motion. It was gone in one gulp. I
offered him the other roll. This time he politely accepted it and
consumed it in several bites.
He surprised me when I spoke to him. His reply was in English. I would
have expected it to be German, if not French. He had that Germanic,
blonde-haired, blue-eyed look. His English was remarkably good. He had
an accent, but I was not certain of its origin. My compassion
overruled my good sense and I invited the young man to come home with
me. The least I could do was give him the opportunity to bathe, and
then feed him.
His strong body odor almost reversed my decision once we had entered
my building. But, again, my concern for his welfare was the driving
force.
It was when I saw him without clothes that I knew I had won a prize.
He was adorable. I would guess him to be somewhat less than six feet
in height. His body was lean and firm. His cock was handsome. And his
buttocks would have converted even a womanizer.
But it was his eyes that were the crowning jewel. They were a light
blue-gray, sometimes devoid of expression, other times absolutely
smoldering. The only thing that bothered me was his ability to take
total control of his emotions. The incident with the sweet roll was
the only time I had seen him express an emotion that was not
intentional ... almost calculated.
I was standing next to the stove when he returned from the bathroom
with that white towel wrapped around his waist. I almost swooned. He
smiled at me and gave me that lost-puppy-dog look. His hair hung below
his shoulders.
"Would you prefer to eat now and dress later?"
He nodded "Yes." I motioned him into a chair.
I had placed bottles of both white and red wine on the table. I
gestured for him to help himself while I brought the dinner plates. I
had made a lemon white sauce for the fish. While I was serving that,
Peter consumed two glasses of white wine. It was with great restraint
that he forced himself to eat dinner without gulping it down.
Of course, I was interested in who he was and where he came from, but
he seemed reluctant to confide in me.
Quite suddenly, he stood and walked into the bedroom, where he
stretched out on my bed, face up, with a gentle smile on his lips. I
moved toward him with the intention of asking him if he would like a
back massage. Before I could say a word I noticed his breathing had
changed. He was asleep.
I returned to the kitchen and washed the dishes.
After bathing, I came back into the bedroom. Peter's towel had come
loose and lay open, exposing his extraordinary body.
Quietly, I removed my clothing, turned out the light and lay next to
him. Sometime, much later, I felt him move. His head came to rest on
my shoulder. His cool body contrasted sharply with the heat radiating
from mine. He moved even closer and his skin began to draw from my
abundant warmth. It was a perfect match.
Sunday morning, I woke with the knowledge that I was being observed. I
opened my eyes. Peter was still laying as he had before, with his head
on my shoulder.
"Good morning, Charles. I am sorry that I fell asleep on you. Would
you like for me to leave?"
"Not unless you want to. Do you have anything planned?"
He shook his head "No," then added, "but I have not fulfilled my
obligation ... If you still want me, I will try to oblige."
"I have both today and tomorrow free, so there is no rush and I enjoy
your company." Deep down inside, I was hoping that Peter might become
my lover, someone that I could care for and look after.
"Thank you. I would like to stay." He moved his hand to his penis and
began to fondle himself. It was obvious that he was simply trying to
please me.
"As I said, there is no rush. There is a nice sidewalk cafe just
around the corner where I often go for Sunday breakfast. Are you
hungry?"
-------------------------
From Peter's perspective:
I felt foolish lying there naked. Knowing that he looked upon me in
sexual terms added to my discomfort.
"Yes, I am hungry, but I can't wear my clothes unless I wash them, and
even then they would not be suitable," I responded.
Charles was turning out to be much more than I had hoped for. However,
there is one point that I must make clear to him. I am not homosexual.
We could become good friends and I will let him suck my penis as much
as he likes, but that must be the limit of it. Yet, I must admit that
I found great pleasure in sleeping with him last night. It was not a
sexual pleasure. It was the pleasure that comes from close
companionship. There had been far too little of that in my life,
except for those years with the other "Alexis" which ended two years
ago.
Charles' next words broke in upon my reflection. "I sometimes get the
cart before the horse. We should have attended to the matter of
clothing last night, but you fell asleep before I had the chance."
"I was very tired. Last night was the first good sleep that I have had
in -- I have no idea how long."
"You are taller than I realized, and thinner. All of my clothes would
be too short and too wide." Charles walked over to a chest of drawers
and began rummaging. "I may have a pair of trousers that a friend left
here a couple of years ago. They are not particularly stylish, but
they might do for the moment."
Triumphantly, he yanked a pair free and tossed them to me. "Try these
on," he said.
I slid the smooth cotton cloth over my legs and hips. If I pulled them
down for a proper position of the cuffs, then the crotch hung far too
low. Further up, in the correct position, the cuffs were a good two
inches above my ankles. When I buttoned the top button, the waist
pulled across my hip bones and the crotch pushed up into my groin. The
feeling caused by this tight fit was almost sexual and my penis began
to inflate.
For the first time, Charles did something that I should have expected.
He reached into a drawer, withdrew a measuring tape, then knelt before
me. "I should take your measurements so that I can find you clothes
which will fit correctly." He seated one end of the tape firmly in my
crotch and the other at my ankle. My penis went fully hard and popped
out of the unbuttoned fly. He pretended to ignore it, concentrating on
the ankle end of the tape, but his hot breath hit the head of my penis
like a sudden desert wind.
He tilted his head up to look into my eyes. What he saw was not
passion, but rather embarrassment. "You had better tuck that thing
away until later. If I took care of that now you would get no
breakfast."
Without being rude, he had again reinforced the condition of his
kindness. This time the statement was more positive. I was being
forced to either accept or reject the terms of this tentative
relationship. He had no way of knowing that those terms had been
accepted when I had left the park with him.
I put my hand on the top of his head and patted it much like I would a
small child. He seemed to soak up the offered token. "You have no idea
how much your kindness has done for me and it is much appreciated. But
it is only fair that I tell you that I am not homosexual."
The momentary smile on his lips faded. In dismay, I hurriedly
continued, "This morning I was surprised when I woke with my head on
your shoulder. I felt neither shame nor remorse. It was more like --
that was where I belonged, where I was wanted and was appreciated. As
for your sexual interest in me, I cannot deny the obvious." I pointed
towards my now raging erection.
"As long as we are together and no one is aware of it, you may suck on
it as often as you like. But, be careful. Do not fall in love with me.
I cannot become your lover. As I said, I am not homosexual. The most
we could become is good friends." To an observer it would appear that
I had taken a great deal for granted. In effect, I had subtly taken
control and invited myself into his life as a semi-permanent guest.
We remained in that position for a long moment, my hand on his head,
his eyes locked to mine. He moved his head toward my waist and
suddenly engulfed me. His tongue had encircled the head of my penis
only twice when I erupted. In less than five seconds it was over. In
less than five seconds the bargain had been sealed. In less than five
seconds both of our lives became unalterably and permanently entwined.
Charles suddenly seemed embarrassed. He stood and fumbled with a piece
of paper, then jotted down the inseam measurement. Now, with great
circumspection, he measured my waist, arm length, and chest
dimensions.
He handed me a shirt and left the room in search of a pair of canvas
boating shoes which he said might fit me.
Ten minutes later we were seated at a sidewalk table, ordering
breakfast.
-------------------------
----END MFC01A.TXT of A/B My Father the Czar----
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