Page 39 of Monstrous Travels as Wicked as Sin

Joe’s dick was so sensitive, so tender from its thorough use, that a short time later he flinched pleasantly at the gentle hand that found his balls. “Percy, I can’t.”

“I know you can.” And Percy fucked him. And he didn’t stop fucking him until he’d wrung a second, miraculous, celestial, exultant orgasm from Joe, before his hazy, sex-drunk brain could allow him a moment to think. Only then did Percy let go, with the air of a victor, convinced of his permanent place in Joe’s heart and mind—convinced that even God couldn’t fuck Joe half as well as he just had. He indulged fully in his pleasure, anointing Joe’s skin with cum, confident the last boundary between the two of them had been obliterated, as he fell shaking against Joe’s back.

Beautifully spent, he kissed Joe’s cheek, pulled out, slapped Joe’s firm ass, and went to clean up, perfectly satisfied with the way the morning had eventually gone.

Joe, meanwhile, watched his cum drip and thin and evolve into a milky, misty vision of the church. He was assailed by a mingled shock of shame and self-reproach, augmented by the all-too-familiar sensation of not really knowing why he felt that way. His hand went to his wet collar, and in half a second, he had wrenched his trousers back up over his hips. “What did you do?”

“What’s wrong, handsome?” Percy virtually sang from the bathroom.

Joe was in the doorway, eyes aflame, lips tight. “Did you deliberately fuck me in front of the church?”

Percy’s eyes cut from his handsome reflection over to Joe. “Yes. I wanted Him to see.” He skipped past Joe and pickedhis crumpled trousers up from the floor, inspecting the creases regretfully.

“I’m sorry, what? Who?God? You wantedGodto see you fuck me in the window?”

That grin was straight back on his happy face. “Yes.” He threw the trousers down and moved to the wardrobe for a fresh pair.

“You don’t even believe in God!” Joe yelled.

“Technically, no, I don’t,” said Percy, sliding his legs into the immaculately pressed trousers, ripping a new shirt off its hanger. “But just in case, I want to be sure. We’re probably both destined for Hell, but should I end up in purgatory, you’re coming to keep me company. Best He knows now, so He doesn’t get any ideas about keeping you as his fuckboy.” He dropped a swift kiss on Joe’s lips, retaining his grip on Joe’s chin, his eyes loving, authoritative, hypnotic, as he said, “I’m yours and you’re mine. There’s no one else. Ever again. Don’t you agree?”

Joe, heart in his throat, whispered a bewildered, “Yes.”

“Then let’s get ready and go investigate these dead teenagers.” And off he wandered, like a happy, sexy, bouncy golden retriever puppy, to swill brandy and clean windows and do it all, seemingly, without a care in the world.

Joe would have been appalled—more appalled—if not for that last flippantly made comment.

Percy’s heart, deep, deep down, below the layers of possessiveness and thoughtlessness and impulsivity, beat good and true and strong. Joe knew the turmoil that was, and would always be, just beneath the surface.

And Joe loved every ludicrous inch of him.

And Joe, despite what he thought he should feel at having been thus manipulated into renouncing God in favour of Percy Ashdown, was, in fact, all aglow inside.

It was a nasty emotion, jealousy. Yet the taste of Percy’s filled him with a reassurance not quite as good as, but on the way to as good as, that gold band that he had begun to dream of.

What did it matter if Percy needed to know he was Joe’s most loved before he stepped into the waiting horror? If, before he put himself on the line, again, to do the best he could to make the world slightly less shit, he needed Joe completely?

It may have been all manner of wrong, in theory. Yet somehow Percy always found a way, no matter what, to make even the worst things feel exactly right.

And what god wouldn’t understand that?

Not one Joe could ever put his faith in.

PERCY’S SOUPE À L'OIGNON

Dearest Aubriest,

How to begin? I know I haven’t written for a long time, so I’ll start with my apology. Please know I received every one of your letters and please don’t stop writing simply because I’m a terrible correspondent. In truth, Joe and I have been far busier than either of us thought possible, but that’s no excuse.

Speaking of Joe, things are going remarkably well. I’ll read him all the parts of your letters fit for public consumption (which, don’t worry, isn’t much) and he misses you terribly too, though not as much as I do. He’s annoyingly insistent we come and see you all again soon, however, as you will soon see, this letter will be stamped from Lerwick in the Shetland Isles, which makes it rather difficult to get to Endymion College. In fact, even Lerwick is located a considerable distance from where we’re actually staying, but the journey to town is a pleasant one and worth it to bring you your salvation.

Here we come to the point of this letter. I have, as you will no doubt have seen by now, enclosed the document you requested. I told you already, never to do this in spring or summer, only winter or late autumn at a push, but as you sounded desperate, and as I hear it is unseasonably cold there, I will allow it just this once.

I provide one final warning and I hope you will take my words seriously: if you do this on a warm day, you will regret it. Not only will you never forgive yourself, no one else will forgive you. People have longer memories than you think for this sort of thing. Don’t fuck it up.

Now, we’ve discussed stock at length, and I know you’re on the same page here. (I’m sure you appreciate the joke as I am writing at the time.) (That probably didn’t need pointing out, but I’m not getting a fresh sheet of paper now.) Your stock is going to be beef stock, and of course you will be making it yourself. Don’t skimp on this step (I know you won’t).

I will pause briefly here to add one more word on the stock. I notice you didn’t mention who your guests are, and whether this is due to delicacy (and you should know you need not be delicate with me—we’ll have it all out when I get back) or because you know I’m unlikely to care who your friends are, but if you are inviting Evelyn, you may, this time only, use a good vegetarian beef stock. You know, I say ‘good’ and I know what you’re thinking, but it’s Eve and we must make allowances forhis sensitive nature, and these things have come on in leaps and bounds over the years.

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