Title: Next Best Thing

Author: Scribe

Fandom: The Krays

Pairing: Ronnie Kray/Steven Naylor

Status: Complete

Sequel/Series: The Krays

Archive: List archives. Otherwise, ask.

Disclaimer: The Krays were real life gangsters, so no one owns them. This story is, however, based on the movie versions. I derive no profit from this.

Summary: Ronnie Kray will never overcome his incestuous yearnings for his twin, Reggie, but he does form a relationship with a younger lover, Steve.

Warnings: Intimations of male prostitution.

Notes: In this story, Reggie has not long moved out of the family house, and Ron is still living at home. In the movie the Krays were played by real life twins, the Kemps, of Spandau Ballet fame. It was the first big screen role for each, and they did a fantastic job. The Krays were real. The were twins who dominated the London underworld in the 1950s and early 1960s. Convicted of murder and rackiteering, one died in prison, and the other died shortly after his release in the late 90s. The Henry Higgins and Liza Dolittle reference is to 'My Fair Lady', of course.

Terms: bog--bathroom (toilet), telly--television, doss--sleeping place, usually considered very rough, pouf--homosexual, barrister--type of British lawyer (I THINK they handle criminal as opposed to civil law), chips--British french fries (potato chips are called crisps), Brilliat Savarin--(probably misspelled)one of the ultimate sources on French cooking, world class gourmet from a century or two ago. trifle--dessert made with layers of soft custard and lady fingers (or some form of sponge or pound cake), usually with added fruit and sherry or liqueur, possibly candied fruits and ginger, and whipped cream. tuck--food, or meal. pants--the British use this term for underwear rather than for trousers.

Rating: NC-17

Next Best Thing
by Scribe

Terry knocked on the office door. "Boss?"

"Yeah?" It was a duet. He opened the door and entered. Both of the dark haired men sitting at
identical desks looked up, light blue eyes alert.

The underling had worked at the Krays's club long enough to have gotten past a slightly surreal feeling when this happened. He knew that Reggie and Ronnie would decide between themselves who needed to deal with whatever problem was presented. If some miscreant was particularly unlucky they would deal with it together. "I got what looks like a bit of jailbait out on the floor."

They both frowned. Ronnie pushed his glasses a fraction of an inch higher on his nose. That had been the only way Terry could tell the brothers apart at first, but lately he was beginning to notice subtle differences in appearance and manner. "What the hell is she doin' on the floor? How'd she get in in the first place?"

Reggie, with a minutely more stable temper than his brother, said, "Now Ron, you know how it is these days. You put a bird in the right dress with her hair up and make-up on and it's hard to tell, isn't it? Some of those sixteen year olds look like Rita bloody Hayworth when they get tarted up."

"Well, someone's arse is in a sling! We can't have the kiddies hanging about, and you know it. What if some old duffer picks up a baby whore here, then gets caught? Don't need the bad publicity, do we?"

"It's not a girl." Reggie and Ronnie looked at the man sharply, and he explained, "Bill is on the door, and you know he's good, but the boy came with some old pouf who's on the telly, and I guess Bill let the starshine get in his eyes. Anyway, they're already seated, but I caught the waitress before she brought them any drinks. If the kid's of age, the old boot could raise a stink, so I figured it had better be your decision."

Again the brothers exchanged looks. They liked the fact that celebrities frequented their club, but an underage patron was serious business. They were already paying hefty graft to certain licensers and inspectors, and they didn't want to risk having the fees upped. Ronnie pushed out his chair, standing up. "I'll go." He got his jacket off the back of his chair and put it back on. It wouldn't do for a club owner to appear in his shirtsleeves. "How do I look?"

Reggie stood up and went to him. He passed a hand over Ron's hair, smoothing it back. "You've either got to stop rummaging in your hair, or just automatically comb it before you leave a room." He stroked back another strand. "There. Now Mum would claim you."

Reggie gave his brother a faint, fond smile, then followed Terry out into the small warren of halls that ran behind the club proper. As they made their way toward the front he said, "So, who's the telly star?"

"Dunno his real name. He's got a comedy on. He's supposed to be some muckity-muck barrister who has to live on and run a farm for a year to get an inheritance."

Ron nodded. "Oh, yeah. My mum likes that one. Barnyard Barrister or some such. I think he ended up in the pig pen last week, mud from arsehole to eyebrows. I thought my Aunt Rose was going to get a stitch laughing. I'll have to see if I can keep him from getting hauled before a magistrate on a statutory charge, for their sakes."

The club was packed, as always. It stayed full, even on weeknights, and on weekends... Well, if you hadn't made a reservation and you wanted to get in you'd bloody well better be either famous, gorgeous, or well-heeled to bribe the doorman and hostess or maitre'd.

Ron wasn't sure if it was luck or belated good sense on someone's part, but the couple had been seated on the outside edge of the room, back near the hall leading to the restrooms and office area. Terry indicated the table. "All right, go about your business, but keep a sharp eye out. You know the sign?"

"Yeah. You fiddle with your tie, we move in."

"I don't expect any trouble, but you never can tell. If the need arises, I'll want a few of the lads to
hustle them out through the back, nice and quiet." Terry nodded his understanding, and Ron strolled toward the indicated table.

Ron studied the older man as he approached. He was in his sixties, tall and skinny, with a thick head of lush, white hair. *Looks like a Q-Tip. Dressed nice, though.* Ron appreciated good tailoring. That was one of the philosophies the Krays espoused--people judge you on what they see, first off. If you're important, look it. Take pride in your appearance. That wasn't an off-the-rack job the duffer was wearing. You'd find an upscale tailor's name on the label sewn inside
that jacket. But good taste in clothes didn't necessarily mean good sense.

His companion was almost in the corner, half shaded by a nearby potted palm. *All right. He's a bit more discreet than I thought at first. Point in his favor for not flaunting himself.*

The old boy looked up as Ron arrived. "Where are our drinks? I ordered a quarter hour ago. I must say, the service here leaves something to be desired."

Ron smiled. Anyone who knew him would have taken the hint and become very cautious. "I'm sorry you find the service slow, but there's a reason. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Ronald Kray, and this is my club. May I join you?" Without waiting for an answer he pulled out a chair and seated himself beside the customer, across from his companion.

The man seemed taken aback. "Oh, I AM sorry. I thought you were a waiter."

"No, our waiters wear tuxedos. I have one, but unless it's a special occasion I prefer a suit. Now,
Mister..." He frowned. "I know you have a show on the telly, but I'll confess that I'm not sure of the name."

"Preen, Walter Preen." The man sounded the tiniest bit offended.

Ronald ignored the hint of displeasure. "Would you introduce me to your young friend, sir?" He looked across at the boy. He was a handsome youth, actually pretty. He had blonde hair that had won the battle with his pomade, curling riotously. His enormous eyes were chocolate brown, fringed by thick lashes. He looked barely old enough to have scraped away his first growth of whiskers. "Your very young friend."

The boy was running his finger around the rim of his water glass. "I'm Steven."

"Steven. One of my employees told me you looked a bit young to be here, and I have to agree." He looked at Preen. "The legal age for consumption of alcohol is twenty-one, Mister Preen, and having someone underage on my premises could get me in a pot of trouble, unless he was a dishwasher or something like that. I don't have any excuse for him being here as a patron."

"He hasn't drunk anything," protested Preen.

"But you ordered for both of you, right?" The customer was silent. Ron waved a finger at him slowly. "Naughty, naughty."

The boy dropped his forehead in his hand, sighing, "Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Watch your language, boy!" said Ron sharply. "There are ladies within hearing." The boy's full lips twisted sardonically, and there was a very mature cynicism in his eyes when he returned Ron's look. "Did the doorman see your ID?" Steven shrugged. "Right, he's sacked." He held out his hand. "Let's have it."

By now Preen was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Steven shrugged again and pulled out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to Ron. Ron studied it, then smiled. "Where'd you get this--a novelty shop?" Steven stared down sullenly, picking at the tablecloth. "No, really. I won't turn it or you over to the coppers, but how much did you pay? I'm curious."

"Five pounds."

Ron laughed. "Oh, sweetheart, he saw you coming! Five for this rubbish?" He tossed it on the table, and Steven quickly retrieved it. "Live and learn. You get what you pay for, right? A good fake ID is going to START at fifteen pounds. Hell, you should have come to me. I could have gotten you one that would fool the drone who issues them."

"Mister Kray, I don't want any trouble. Isn't there a rule that a minor can accompany a guardian without incurring penalty?" Preen said hopefully.

Ron tossed him a look. He'd almost forgotten about the other man. He'd been absorbed in the boy. "I've heard of such, yeah." He grinned nastily. "You going to tell me that this is your kid?"

"N-o, not exactly."

"Do you even know his last name?"

"It's Naylor," said Steven.

Ron didn't look at him, keeping his gaze fastened on Preen. "Nice little boys don't speak till they're spoken to, Steven."

Steven's voice was acid. "Well, that's the whole point, innit? I'm NOT a 'nice' boy."

"Shut your trap till I ask you a question, laddie. Now, Preen. Do you have papers saying he belongs to you?" Ron cocked his head. "Foster child? Charity case? Preen was silent. Ron looked back at Steven. "How about it, darling? Is he your daddy?"

A bright pink flush swept up Steven's cheeks. "So the rumors are true--you ARE a right bastard."

Ron bared his teeth in a not-quite smile. "Smart mouth."

Steven scowled. "You have no idea."

Ron had known he was homosexual practically since he knew what sex was. He'd been discreet but unashamed of his sexual preference. His one, great passion was his brother--Reggie. He knew that most of the world would view what they had been to each other with horror, but it was RIGHT, Ron KNEW that. They loved each other so much. How could it be wrong? They were
so close that they could almost speak each other's thoughts.

Years ago Reggie had called a halt to their physical relationship without ever really mentioning it--he'd simply stopped welcoming Ron into his bed, and had begun courting girls. It had hurt as badly as if Reg had plunged his saber into Ron's heart, and twisted. But Ron hadn't given up. They were family, and there would come a time when Reg would be all his again. Till then he found release with others.

Up till now they had all been about his own age--mid-twenties. He'd never been interested in the
young stuff, and firmly believed that the chicken hawks should have their balls cut off. But Steven... He looked closer. Yes, he was young, but there was something old in his eyes. He was also fucking gorgeous. Ron felt a stir of interest.

Walter Preen was sweating. "Steven," he whispered, "please. Mr. Kray, this was obviously a mistake. We'll go." He stood.

Steven started to rise also, but Ron said, "Not you, Cinderella. The bleeding law would probably hold me responsible for whatever happened to you if I let you go off with him." He tilted his head toward the exit. "You can go, Mister Preen."

Preen hesitated, obviously tempted to flee. Steven said plaintively, "Walter, you can't leave me here! You're my ride."

"Of course I'll give you carfare." Preen pulled out his wallet.

Ron could tell by the sour look on Steven's face that more than carfare had been expected. He said quietly, "If you hand him money in my place, in front of witnesses, I'll turn your arse over to the coppers myself."

Preen turned white, hastily stuffing the money back in his wallet. "How is the boy supposed to get home?"

"Don't worry, Dad." Ron gave Steven a lingering glance. "I'll take care of Sonnyboy."

Preen muttered, "Sorry, Steven. Some other time, eh?" and hurried out.

Ron stood up. "C'mon. I want a talk with you, but it's not going to happen out here."

Steven glared at him. "I need to go now if I want to walk back to me doss anytime before sunrise."

Ron leaned down, palms flat on the table, almost over Steven so that the boy had to look up at him. "Do you WANT to walk back to your doss?"

"Do I LOOK stupid?"

"Then come on."

After another second Steven got up. Ron rested a hand on his shoulder and steered him around the edge of the room. Steven grumbled, "You lost me dinner and a room. I could have talked him into setting me up in decent hotel for at least a week."

"What about your doss?"

"It's on a friend's sofa, an' his mate ain't too happy about havin' me there."

"Isn't--he ISN'T too happy about having you there."

"I said that, dint I?"

"Work on your grammar and maybe you can attract a higher class of clientele."

Steven flared, "Who are you, me bloody pimp? I've never had a fuckin' 'manager', and I never will, not even if me kneecaps get broken." He tried to pull away. "So just leave off me right now if that's what you had in mind."

Ron clamped down, causing the boy to wince. *But he isn't yelling or asking me to stop. Little Steven's got some grit.* Ron kept his voice low, "You don't want to make a scene, Stevie lad, really you don't. Settle down." Steven stopped struggling. He noticed a few people at a nearby table who had stopped talking and were watching them. He smiled at Steven, patting his back. "Make nice. We have an audience." Steven stared at him, then smiled slowly. It was dazzling.
The onlookers went back to their conversation. "Good boy. First off, I'm not a pimp. Have you ever heard that about me?"

"No," Steven admitted.

"Right. I don't earn my bread by putting women on their backs or lads on their knees. I wouldn't count myself a man if I did. Second, I don't break kneecaps. I use my fists, my boots, or my saber." Steven turned pale, and Ronnie smiled. "Don't worry, love. You'd have to do something drastic for me to slash that pretty face. I'm going to give you a pass this time because you don't know me. Do you?"

"No, not really," Steven agreed. "I just know what I've heard."

"Gossip. Deadly stuff, young Steven. Should be ignored by smart lads." He urged Steven through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

The room was bustling. The Krays had been determined that their club would be a class operation all the way, so they had invested in a classically trained French chef. Maurice had been very grateful for the Krays's help in smoothing over a few irregularities that would have prevented him from working in England. He was so grateful that he was working for three years at a salary not all that much higher than that of the men and women who scrubbed the vegetables for him.

Right now Maurice was taking a golden souffle out of the oven. Ron waited till it was deposited on a serving tray, ready to be whisked out to a soon to be thrilled diner. Then he led Steven to the plump, perspiring Frenchman. "Maurice."

"Ah, Monsieur Reggie..."

"Ronnie, Maurice."

"Yes, of course." He smiled at Steven. "You have brought someone for a tour of the kitchen?"

"Not exactly. This is my mate, Steven. He's my guest tonight. I want you to fix him up with whatever he wants. Tell him what you fancy, Steve."

The boy stared at Ronnie in surprise. He'd been expecting to be chucked out the back door, without a thrashing if he was lucky. He rubbed the back of his neck, sniffing hungrily at the delicious aromas that wafted from the cooking area. Finally he said, "Fish and chips?"

Maurice got a pained look on his face, but Ron laughed. "You heard the boy, Maurice. Fish and chips for two. There's a table here in the back." Steven sat at the table, watching the kitchen staff with great interest. So many people were flying every which way at once. How did they keep from crashing into one another?

Ron took off his jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair. "Just like a ballet, isn't it? Organized chaos." There was a crate of beer sitting on the floor. Ron snagged two bottles. He fished a keychain out of his pocket and snapped off the caps with a chrome plated opener. "I know how to take them off against the table edge, but Mum would skin me if she found out." He handed a bottle to Steve, sat down, and took a deep swallow.

Steve tapped the side of the bottle. "What happened to 'no booze, you're underage'?"

"Different circumstances. Out there you were a customer, here you're my guest. I'm not selling it to you, I'm offering hospitality. Besides, this is considered a private section, and there are no
witnesses."

Steve snorted, waving at the kitchen staff. "What are they, then?"

"Tom," Ronnie waved down a busboy who was humping a load of dishes to the sink. "What's my friend drinking?"

Tom looked at Steve, looked at the beer, then looked back at Ron and said blandly, "Ginger ale." He set the plates gently in the sink and began to run water.

Steven drank, watching Ron Kray over the bottle. This was confusing. There was a lot of talk out about the Krays. Everyone knew that you'd better hold on to your balls if you crossed them. The slash up that had preceded them taking over this place had already become something of a legend. The way Ronnie had pinned the former 'protector's' hand to the billiard table with his saber, demanding that he say 'thank you' for being allowed the privilege of giving up the building to the Krays, and then had TWISTED the blade was the stuff of nightmares.

Out in the club proper he had started off very smooth, very polite. Then an edge of nastiness had been allowed to peek through. Now he was acting like a good old mate. Steve didn't know what to think, but he found the older man fascinating.

Ron Kray was a good looking man, even with the heavy rimmed glasses. The eyes looking out through the lenses were pale, chilly blue, and sharp. Steve wasn't sure if it was intelligence or just cunning he saw in Ron's eyes, but he knew for damn sure that Ron wasn't someone to be taken lightly. His features were strong, with a slightly pointed chin. The arched eyebrows and dark hair sweeping back from a widow's peak gave a slightly satanic flare to his handsomeness.

"Any way," said Ron. "The whole thing is a load of crap. They can call you up for national service when you're eighteen. They can give you a gun and tell you to kill or die for your country, but they won't let you have a pint before you go into battle because you're too young, and they have to save you from the evils of intemperance. How old are you?"

Steve lowered the bottle. "Twenty-one."

Ron shook a finger at him. "Mum used to spank me when I lied. I didn't do it much."

Steven tried to brazen it out, but finally he muttered. "Nineteen." Ron looked at him skeptically.
"Soon, all right?"

"Fine. I was a bit worried. You could look about fifteen in a dim light."

"Yeah, well, that's a major selling point."

Maurice brought two plates over and set them on the table. "Voila. Fish and chips."

Steven examined the mound of crunchy chips and the several slices of golden fish on his plate. "There's hardly any crust on these. That's the best part."

Maurice groaned. "May Brilliat Savarin forgive me."

Ron passed Steven the vinegar shaker. "Don't worry, you'll love it."

Both Steven and Maurice muttered darkly, but the chef went back to work, and Steven sprinkled the pungent vinegar liberally over his fish and potatoes. He took a bite of fish, chewed thoughtfully, then mumbled, "It's good."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Yes, Dad."

Ron looked at Steven sharply. Steven didn't return the look, smirking down at his plate. "Very smart mouth." They ate. He watched, amused, as the boy quickly polished off his plate and used a piece of bread to wipe up the scant traces of grease, vinegar, and salt. "Hell, and a bottomless pit, and all."

Steven shrugged, eyeing Ron's plate. He pointed. "You gonna finish those chips?" Ron pushed the plate over. "Ta." Steve had just finished the last potato when Maurice came over and placed a large portion of trifle in front of him. Steven didn't pause, immediately beginning to snap down large spoonfuls of the gooey dessert.

"Damn, lad, slow down!" Ron said, amused. "No one's going to be taking it away. They'd likely lose a finger if they tried."

Steven finally sat back, leaving nothing but smears on his plate. He sighed, replete. "That was the best tuck I've had in years."

"Messy sod. You have a smear." Steven reached for a napkin, but Ron caught his wrist. He reached over and scraped a blob of whipped cream off Steven's upper lip. Keeping eye contact, he licked the cream off his finger, studying Steven's reaction. *No shock, no distaste, no laughter. Interest. Very, very good.* "Are you done? Don't want coffee or an after dinner mint?"

"No thanks. Don't like mint, an' coffee might stunt me growth."

"Sauce box." Ron looked up as Terry came in.

Terry came over. "I was wondering where you disappeared to. We'll be shutting down in a minute or two. They're just gently shooing the stragglers out." He eyed the young man sitting beside Ron, but said nothing. No comment was usually the safest bet with Ron.

"That late, is it? Is Reg still here?"

"Yeah, just. He was making up the bank drop when I left him."

Ron stood up. "Come on, Steve. I want you to meet my brother."

Reggie was putting on his coat when they got to the office. He examined Steven curiously as Ron
introduced him. "Reg, this is Steven Naylor. Steve, this is my brother, Reginald."

Reg shook hand. "Call me Reg. Nice to meet you, Steve."

Ron hung his jacket on the coat tree. "I'm thinking about taking Steve on to help out here, maybe with some of our other business."

Reggie noticed that Steven looked surprised. "Yeah? He looks like a good lad. I'm sure you know what you're about, Ron." He patted Steve's arm. "We'd be happy to have you, Steven." He looked back at Reggie. "I'm going by Mum's. Shall I tell her you'll be late?"

Ron looked at Steven. Steve took a seat, crossing his arms. "Yeah. Tell her not to wait up--I have my key."

"Right. Steven, good to meet you. Hope to be seeing more of you in the future." Reggie left. Out in the hall he smiled fondly. It looked like Ronnie might have chosen a new playmate. That was good. Reggie sometimes worried about his brother. He had no problem with Ron's chosen lifestyle, but he thought that a man needed to settle on one person to be happy. Ever since they'd moved beyond their childish involvement Ron had moved from partner to partner. Maybe this would be the one to make him stay.

When Reggie was gone Steven commented, "Good lookin' bloke."

"Yeah."

"Seems to run in the family."

"Let's be clear about one thing," Ron came back and stood over Steven. "I don't need people kissin' my arse, okay? Anyone who judges people by how well they flatter him is stupid, and I'm not stupid. Don't ever think I am."

"I wouldn't. I don't."

"Good." There was a knock on the door. Ron didn't move, just turned his head to look toward the door. "It's open."

Terry peeked in. "We're done, boss. Shall I lock up?"

"Do that. I can let myself out the back."

"Right." Terry took in the scene--the pretty boy sitting in the chair, Ron standing close in front of
him. "Yeah. Well, see you tomorrow, then."

"Lock the office door, eh, Terry? Save me a trip."

Terry set the knob lock, and he heard it click into place as he shut the door. He checked each outside door before he left through the front, thinking to himself, *Well, there's one boyo who's landed in the jam pot, if he's sensible.*

After Terry had left, Steven looked up at Ron and said sardonically, "Time to sing for my supper?" He was surprised when Ron walked over and turned on a radio sitting on one of the desks.

He found a light jazz station, then sat behind the desk. Leaning back comfortably, Ron said, "I told you--you're my guest. If you really want to pay for the meal, I could think of something."

*Ah, here it comes. I don't mind, though. He IS a good looking bloke. And he's tough, and a bit scary. I like that.* "What d'ya have in mind?"

"Tell me about yourself." Steven stared at him in astonishment. "And tell me the truth. Don't go
making up sob stories or fairy tales to impress me. I've taken an interest in you, Stevie, and I want to know more about you."

Steven sat back. He wasn't used to this. From the time he'd been a kid no one had been interested in anything but did he have money, or would he put out. No one had ever cared about what made him HIM. Ron Kray's interest was fascinating, and it made him a little nervous. He reacted with the defensiveness he'd developed to survive. "Well, ya know the basic, don'tcha? I'm a rent boy."

Ron shook his head. "Yeah, I got that. But that's just a small part of you, Steve. Tell me more."

Now Steve was confused. That statement usually ended discussions, unless the other person wanted to know the sordid details. How much for what, who had he done, where had they done it--things like that. Slowly he said, "I was born here in London. Me mum had me in the charity ward, an' left me there. The nurse brought me 'round for my first feed an' her bed was empty. They tried contactin' her, but the address she gave was phoney, so they figure the name was, too.
Still, they kept the last name."

"What about the first?"

"Nurses had a pool. Steven is what they pulled out. I like it well enough. I was sick when I was a baby, an' by the time I got well I was too old to appeal to all the nice middle-class couples lookin' to adopt, so I stayed in the system." He drew in a deep breath, then blew it out, making a buzzing sound. "System did well enough by me, I suppose. I never went hungry, always had clothes, even if they were for shite. They pounded enough learning into me for me to get by. Too damn many rules in the boy's home, though. Told ya when to eat, when to sleep, when to play, when to shite..."

Ron snorted. "Sounds like the army. Reg and I couldn't stomach that."

"What did you do?"

Ron grinned. "We punched out our sergeant and spend a bit of time in the jug, then they turned us out without any argument, and that finished that."

"Huh. Lot of trouble to get loose. I just packed me kit an' walked out when I was fifteen. They didn't try too hard to find me. I started livin' with friends I made at school, an' on the street. Wasn't but one copper ever caught on that I wasn't where I should've been, an' he was persuaded to forget it... for a consideration."

"So you've been on your own for three years now? Sounds like a hard life."

Steven shrugged. "There's them that has it worse. I been lucky." He smiled. "I'm a pretty boy. People like me."

"You won't stay pretty much longer if you keep on turning tricks."

"Oh, lord! You ain't gonna try to reform me, are you? Rescue me from me life of sin and degradation, an' all that other rubbish?"

Ron folded his hands. "No one can rescue a whore, Steve. That's a fallacy. You can offer a hand up, but they have to 'rescue' themselves."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. I've had me share of 'rescuers'. All wanted to find me a 'decent' job. They figured I'd be better off scrubbin' bogs or breakin' me back loadin' boxes for a few bob a week."

"They'll never learn that they have to offer something better than what you already have. If you're still kipping down on a mate's sofa instead of in your own place, I'm going to think that you haven't been doing as well as you might. I meant what I told Reg, Steven. I'd like you to come work for me."

"Yeah?" Steven gave him a shrewd look. It was almost every rent boy's dream to find a rich sugar daddy to keep them. But Ron didn't strike him as that type. For one thing, he was young enough, handsome enough, and powerful enough to get as much ass as he liked. "Doin' what?"

"A little of everything. You'd be sort of my aide, my right hand. Errands and chores. Don't think it would be all ease and glamour. I might have you pick up my laundry or wash my car, or I might have you carry orders, or deliver packages. Just whatever needed to be done. The pay will be at least as good as what you're making now, and I can offer you other things. I can help you improve yourself. If you better your speech and learn to dress right, it could take you far."

"Huh. You'd be Henry Higgins, and I'd be Liza Dolittle, eh?"

Ron smiled. "Despite what some people may think, I'm pretty sure the professor didn't really want to fuck Liza."

*And there it is, out in the open.* "I'll think about it." They were quiet for a moment, then Steven said, "Nice music." Ron nodded. "Want to dance?"

Ron stared at him. There were a few bars and clubs in London that catered to a homosexual clientele, where you didn't have to be quite so guarded, but DANCING was still a rarity. In this age heterosexual men didn't dance together except as a joke, so dancing with another man was considered a blatant admission of sexual preference. Ron had never danced with another man. "Yeah, I'd like that." They stood up. Steven, smiling, plucked his glasses off and set them beside
the radio.

Ron had been expecting awkwardness. He'd been prepared for a bit of fumbling over who put which hand where. Waist or shoulder? Left or right? Steven solved that. He simply stepped up to Ron and clasped both his hands behind the older man's neck, pressing against him. Before he realized what he was doing Ron had slipped his arms around Steven's waist, and they began to shuffle to the music, Steven meekly allowing Ron to take the lead.

Ron had danced with girls plenty of times. There'd even been a few times like this, where the dancing was little more than a full body press, and it had never done anything for him. The girls were always a little too soft, their perfume almost choking him with its flowery scent. Steven was solid against him, his body slender but sturdy. Instead of gardenias or roses he smelled of spice.

Steve smiled up at Ron, then laid his head down on the older man's shoulder. The dancing had slowed to nothing more than swaying. Steve kneaded the back of Ron's neck. Ron must have had his hair trimmed that morning, because Steve found the slight roughness of stubble where the clippers had cleaned up his neckline, and he rubbed it, murmuring, "You're tickley here."

Steven felt Ron's hands slide down to rub the small of his back, then drop lower and cup his ass. Ron pulled and squeezed, relishing the firm swell of the boy's buttocks. Steven murmured, "What do you want, Ron?"

Ronnie's voice was a little hoarse. "Whatever you want to give me, Stevie. All you want to give me. But I won't pay for it."

Steve dragged his hands back to Ron's shoulders, scratching lightly at the fabric of his shirt. "Did I ask? I'm a rent boy, but I'm not a fucking vending machine, Ron. Sometimes I do it for fun." His hands slid down to Ron's chest, and he rubbed. "Sometimes I do it because I like a bloke. Whores can have boyfriends, can't they?"

He tilted his head till his chin rested on Ron's chest and gazed up at him, moving his hands lower. "I like you--a lot." His hands settled on Ron's waistband. "I want to be nice to you. Let me." Ron caught his breath as the boy began to unbuckle his belt. "Let me make you feel good."

Steven didn't falter as he undid the belt, then worked the button and lowered the zipper. He laid his palm flat against Ron's belly, above the open fly. "So neat," he whispered. "Got your shirt tucked in so lovely, but it's in the way, innit?"

They'd stopped dancing. Ron stood still as Steven slowly tugged his shirt up, then slid his hand down into his trousers, letting it come to rest over the mound of his half-hard cock. "Mmm." Steven gave a soft, stroking squeeze. "Got something nice for me?" He stroked again, feeling the flesh firm under his palm. "Oh, yeah."

This time he slipped his hand under the waistband of Ron's underwear and gripped bare flesh. He tugged gently, lifting and straightening Ron's prick till the flushed head peeked over the elastic band, which held it close against his body. Steven pressed his palm against the glans, making little circles. He gasped in surprise when Ron grabbed his hair in back, pulling him away so he could look into his eyes. Kray's expression was intent. "You're not teasing me, are you, Stevie? That would make me angry."

Steve's answer was to strain forward and kiss him. Startled, Ron let go. As at ease with his own desires as he was, there hadn't been much kissing in his life. There were a lot of men who thought that an occasional mutual wank didn't mean you were queer, but KISSING... Steven took a firmer grip and began masturbating him. "Teasing can be good, as long as it's carried through. I don't back out, Ron--not when it's come this far." He took Ron's hand and pressed it to his fly, molding it over his own erection. "Not when I want it as much as you do."

He kept pumping Ron slowly as the other man opened his trousers. He closed his eyes and sighed when he felt long, smooth fingers slide around his dick and begin to jerk him slowly. "I like that, Ronnie," he whispered. "I like what you're doing to me."

They continued for a long moment, then Steven stopped and pushed Ron's hand away, taking a half step back. When he saw Ron's expression tightened he said quietly. "I told you, I'm not a tease. I just want more." He sank slowly to his knees, dragging Ron's pants and underwear down to his ankles. Ron kicked out of his clothes and lifted each foot in turn for Steve to remove his shoes and socks.

Steven sat back on his heels, gazing up the length of Ron's body. He reached out and skimmed his fingertips delicately down the length of the bigger man's legs. When he went up he moved till his fingers were running along the inside of Ron's thighs. Ron shifted, spreading his legs slightly. Smiling, Steve continued on his path till he came to Ron's crotch.

Ron's cock jutted from his groin, lifting above the heavy sack of his balls. Steven gripped his hip
with his right hand and cradled Ron's hard-on in his left. "I want to taste you," he whispered. "But I want you to tell me to. Tell me what you want me to do, Ron."

Ron gripped his shoulders. "Do it." Steven tipped a coy look up at him, and he swore softly. "Do it! Lick me!" Steven bent forward and pressed a soft, moist kiss to the very tip of Ron's cock. Then his tongue lashed out. The wet, velvet rasp took Ron by surprise. "Oh, bloody hell!" he groaned.

"Nah, not hell," Steven said. "Heaven." He began to lap at Ron's prick, bathing it from base to crown while he carefully massaged his balls, rolling the testes in their furry sack. Then he took the cock head between his lips and sucked strongly.

"Christ!" Ron exclaimed. Without thinking he grabbed Steven's hair. His hips jerked forward, driving his cock deep into the wet heat. He thrust several times before he got control of himself, mainly because Steven was making choking noises. He pulled out, and Steven swayed, gasping. Ron let go of his hair, concerned. "Stevie, you all right?"

Steven stared up at him, eyes glazed. Then he lunged forward, throwing his arms around Ron's hips, and plunged back down on his cock. The pleasure was so intense that Ron's knees started to buckle, and he stumbled back till his ass hit the edge of the desk.

Steven followed him, trying to keep his grip, but he wasn't fast enough. He slipped and fell, Ron's
hard-on popping free to waver, spit-slick and achingly hard. The boy rolled on his back, as if too weak to stand. He kicked and thrashed frantically, managing to get his own trousers and pants down. He gripped his own hardened prick with both hands, rubbing quickly. His voice was thick. "Fuck me!"

Ron stared down at the flushed, panting boy. He had been looking forward to having it off with the pretty boy who'd come in with the old pouf, but this exceeded his wildest hopes. Steven was not only young and beautiful, he was knowledgeable, and just as eager as Ron.

"Don't worry--I'm clean. I never let anyone mount up without a skin. Here." He dug in his trouser pocket, then tossed a tiny, bright object at Ron. Ron caught it. It was a foil wrapped condom.

Steven was frustrated by Ron's hesitation. "Don't you want to fuck me?" He rolled onto his belly, then got up on his elbows and knees, spreading his legs. "Come on." As Ron smoothed the condom on, Steve continued, "It's lubricated, that's all I'll need."

Ron stared. The bright office lights gave the scene an odd look--realer than real, like some porn he'd seen. Steven's pale, rounded buttocks peeked out from under his shirt tail. At the apex of the upright vee of his legs, Ron could see the velvet pillow of his balls, and dangling beyond them, his hard, eager dick. As he watched Steven straightened his arms to brace one hand on the floor, then reached back with the other to stroke himself. "PLEASE, Ron! Take me, take me hard!"

Now Ron understood. Steven wanted a forceful lover, at least tonight. He wasn't looking for tenderness right now. "Get up and lean over the desk," he ordered. When Steve peeked back over his shoulder at him he said tersely, "I don't need come stains on the bleedin' carpet, if I can help it." The boy scrambled to his feet and moved toward one of the desks, but Ron stopped him. "Not that one. Mine's over here. It wouldn't be polite to fuck you on my brother's desk without asking first, would it?"

Steven quickly took up a position, bending over the end of Ron's desk, arms braced. Ron pulled a clean, neatly ironed handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and dropped it on the desk beside Steven's hand. "If you feel yourself about to come, use that."

He moved up behind Steve, grabbing his hips. With his thumbs he pried apart the firm ass cheeks, exposing the tight, pink pucker of his asshole. He might be a whore, but he didn't look used. Ron scraped a fingertip over the crinkle, watching it flex at the stimulation. "How much do you need?" He sucked his finger, then rubbed it around the hole, feeling the tight, springy ring of muscle, imagining how it would grip him and getting harder by the second.

"Roses and candlelight are nice, but I can make do with a little spit an' a quick fingerfuck before you go in," Steve assured him. "Thanks for asking."

Ron spat on his fingers and massaged the warm liquid around Steve's back passage. "You don't get too much consideration on this?"

Steve shrugged. "Let's say me johns ain't too concerned about me comfort."

Ron rubbed strongly, feeling the taut muscle softening. He slid one finger in shallowly. When
Steve didn't protest he pushed deeper till he was deeply settled, then began to move it in and out.
After a moment he added a second finger and pushed deep, crooking. He found the little nub of Steven's prostate and rubbed firmly.

The burst of heat took Steven by surprise. There'd been the occasional pass when a john fucked him, but no one had ever sought out and concentrated on his prostate, and the pleasure was shocking. He kept his legs straight, but collapsed his upper body on the desk, moaning. "Oh, CHRIST, Ron!"

Ron felt the tremors that ran through the younger man's body, and he smiled. Up till now Steven had been cocky and in control, but now the boy was vulnerable. It gave him a delicious sense of power to have this beautiful kid reacting so strongly to his touch. "You like that, Stevie?"

"Please, Ron."

"Please what?"

He groaned. "An' you told ME not to tease." Ron probed again, rubbing the sweet spot, and Steven almost sobbed. "PLEASE! I need more."

"Yeah, sweetheart, yeah." He pulled his fingers free and moved up behind Steve. Gripping his hard-on he pressed his cock head to Steve's anus. It spread slightly as he moved up into position, and Steve immediately pushed back at him. Ron, grabbed his hips and hissed, "No! Don't move till I get in. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Steven obeyed, holding himself still, save for the trembling. Ron took a breath, then pushed in slowly. His head dropped back as he sank into the tight heat. Finally he could go no more. His groin press against Steven's smooth butt cheeks, and his scrotum gently tapped against the boy's testicles. He paused, feeling the solid snugness cradling him. Steven was making a high pitched whine in the back of his throat, and Ron rubbed his back. "Okay?"

There was no answer save the boy's harsh breathing. Looking up Steve's body, Ron saw his hands draw into fists. Then the boy squeezed, bearing down with his internal muscles, making them ripple along the length of his lover's buried prick. "Fuck!" gasped Ron. He jerked back, almost slipping out, then slammed forward again.

Steven threw his head back, eyes shut, mouth dropping open, and gave a wordless cry, then shook his head violently and thrust back, spitting himself even more firmly on Ron's cock. After that, neither was in control. Ron slammed into Steven's welcoming flesh over and over. Steven met each stroke, taking Ron into his body as if it meant his very life and salvation. Ron reached down, managed to catch hold of Steven's flopping prick, and began to jerk him off almost savagely.

This coupling had truly begun the moment that their eyes had met, and it couldn't last much longer. Ron wrapped his free arm around Steven's chest and pulled him upright, off the safe support of the desk, continuing to pump him. The smaller boy was lifted onto his toes with each hard plunge into his ass. He couldn't grab Ron, couldn't guide or affect what was happening. All he could do was ride it out--experience it. Ron's cock head scraped over his prostate with each thrust.

Steven tried to struggle forward, and Ron held him even tighter till he heard the boy gasping, "Cloth! Gonna come, Ron!" Ron stumbled a half step forward, and Steven managed to pluck the handkerchief off the desk. He brought it over his cock just as the first jet of sperm jetted out. Ron went still, Steven still impaled, and felt his young lover's orgasm. He felt the warm liquid trickle down over his still slowly stroking hand, then felt the moist flesh that incased him grip and release several times, milking at him.

When Steven's climax was over Ron found his own pleasure with a few more short, sharp, stabbing thrusts. Each one wrung a grunting, cooing sound from Steven. Ron emptied his seed into the condom, burying his face against the younger man's throat. He bit Steven, a firm pinch that wouldn't bruise, but would leave a rim of indentations in the skin that would take several minutes to fade. Steven purred, wiggling against him.

Finally Ron pulled out. Steven swayed, then turned to lean his hip against the desk. His face was sweaty, his curls tumbled, and his pupils were so dilated his brown eyes looked black. They regarded each other silently for a moment. Then Steven reached out hesitantly. Ron didn't pull back, and Steven stroked a fingertip gently down his cheek. *This is the dangerous time,* he thought. *Now they can beat your arse, or just zip up and walk away without a word. At least there's no bed to be kicked out of.* Ron put his hand on the back of Steven's neck and drew him
closer, and Steven tried not to stiffen up in dread.

Then Ron kissed him. It was almost chaste. If his ass hadn't still been aching pleasantly, Steven would have thought it was brotherly. He said quietly, "That was lovely." He took a handful of tissues from the box on the desk, removed the gummy condom, wrapped it, then threw it in the trash. Then he got more tissues and wiped Ron clean, all done in silence.

They both put their clothes back on. Ron donned his jacket, then picked up his coat. Finally he spoke, "Where's your coat?"

"Don't have one."

Ron frowned. "It's near snowing outside, and you've got not coat?"

"I have a sweater, but it didn't go with the suit."

"You're getting a coat tomorrow. You won't do me a lick of good if you come down with pneumonia."

"I can't afford one."

Ron held up his coat. "Put this on."

"But Ron..."

Ron picked up his glasses and put them back on. His eyes were cool. "You going to start out by arguing with me?"

"No." Steven slipped into the coat, which hung loosely. Ron buttoned it up. "Huh. You look like
you're wearing your dad's clothes. Maybe I didn't phrase it right before, Steven. I'M getting you a
coat tomorrow. You'll come home with me." Steven looked up questioningly. "It won't be the first time I've brought a mate home. You'll stay in my brother Charlie's room for the time being. He moved out awhile back, and Reg. Mum will like having another boy around."

He snapped off the light and they made their way through the silent, dimly lit corridors toward the
back exit. "There's a lot you can do here, if you're not too proud to work. We always need good men."

They stepped into the alley, and Ron locked up, then led Steven to a sleek black car. Steven knew it was worth more than most people he knew earned in a year or more. In the car Ron turned on the engine, then the heater, and let the car idle while it warmed up.

Steven studied Ron's pale profile in the light that filtered through the windows from the street lamp. *What am I getting myself into? I don't know this man, and I'm agreeing to move in with him--to give myself to him. I don't know anything about him, except that he fancies me, and he makes my bones melt. Hell, I never thought I was going to have hearts and flowers, cottage with a picket fence and ivy on the walls. But where is this going to go?* Finally he said, "Ron, are you sure this is what you really want?"

Ron thought about Reggie. He thought about his twin's strong body, and his perhaps less strong will. Ron closed his eyes for a moment and imagined Reggie clasped in his arms, his body swallowing Ron, crying out with pleasure. *Someday.*

Ron opened his eyes and looked at Steven. "No, it isn't, but it's the next best thing till I can get
what I want."

=====
end