Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

He is on a roof high over a city he doesn’t recognize. Instead of the freezing English winter the temperature is balmy, the view below a bustling hornets’ nest of lights, cars, sirens blasting, waves of music, exotic, thudding, floating up like translucent bubbles. Behind him he hears the sound of the door closing and the panting of the boy as he catches his breath.

He closes his eyes. Waiting. That dangerous, accelerating eternity before the first caress. Heart pounding like a frenzied drummer. Cock bursting. Skin a thousand sensors bursting with expectant desire. He could come right now, without a single touch. The boy’s breath is warm on the skin of his cheek as one hand pushes over his flat stomach, reaching down for his cock, which is like hard steel, and begging for freedom.

The kid bites the back of his neck—pleasure bordering on pain as, in the same instant, his fingers unzip Clive’s fly and pull out his prick. Hands grip him firmly, encircling the tip, stroking him, pressing himself into Clive’s back, his own penis pushing against Clive’s buttocks. Clive—always the Top—struggles for a second, aware of the power of those muscled arms that are thicker than his own yet holding back their full strength. He twists in the youth’s embrace and, opening his eyes, takes that mouth into his own, hungrily kissing the fruit of his lips, his tongue probing, wanting all of him, now and forever. Hungrily the boy responds, hands everywhere, frantic under his shirt, around his arse, squeezing him, probing him. Clive, sucking at his tongue, wonders at the impossible sweetness of him. Am I dreaming? I am dreaming…so I am dreaming…let this be real, he thinks. Curling his fingers through the thick black hair, he jerks the youth’s head back suddenly, enjoying the surge of power, the fight. He pushes the boy down to his knees. The youth plays along, taking Clive’s cock with both hands, paying homage, running the tip across his cheeks, slowly over his mouth, over those lips (pleasure pounding dimly at the back of Clive’s sleeping mind), teasing, tonguing the eye, his hands encircling Clive’s arse, playing him as if he’s fucking him.

Unable to bear any more Clive grabs the back of his head, pushing him hard toward his groin—the boy takes all of Clive’s prick d

eep into his throat without gagging. His tongue circling around and around, his rhythm increasing faster and faster, stopping only to suck Clive’s balls, then run his tongue down the length of his shaft before those lips eat their aching way over him again.

Clive watches the beauty of the boy, his swollen mouth riding him. His orgasm sharpens and mounts suddenly, shooting from somewhere deep inside his body, and he comes with a profundity that shakes deep within him, the boy swallowing all.

They stay there for a moment, the city noise swelling in the silence. The boy, after wiping his mouth, grins and stands, towering over Clive. He kisses him briefly on the mouth, then, taking hold of his hips, turns him around roughly, pushing one knee between his legs, forcing him to widen his stance. For a moment Clive wrestles with him, trying to twist away, but the youth overpowers him. Twisting one arm up behind his back, he forces Clive to bend over. It is strangely exciting, this moment before surrender—the boy’s cock a thickness blindly pushing against his buttocks. Clive shivers. He’s never been taken by a man and yet this time he wants it. He wants the feel of him inside, to be split like a peach. To be filled, rammed, to feel his shuddering violence. The youth spits into his hand, moistens Clive, then enters with a sharp thrust. Clive freezes, trembling with the novel sensation of being possessed, yet still in control. In control of his own pleasure and that of this youth’s. Feeling him tighten the boy pauses, then reaching around starts to caress him again. Clive hardens and slowly the boy begins again, this time pushing gently then becoming faster; he presses Clive’s buttocks wide apart, squeezing his flesh, now thrusting deeply. Clive gasps as the pain and pleasure fuse into one ecstatic understanding of being taken. This is abandonment, he thinks, this is how it is to be taken and to be the taker. The youth’s panting mixes with the cries of the city below, the screech of a night bird and Clive’s own cry of ecstasy as the thundering of the boy’s orgasm releases his own—more intense than ever before.

“What is your name?” The young stranger’s voice is more mature than Clive had imagined. He waits for a moment before answering.

“Clive,” he says softly. “Clive.”

He woke.

“Scarsgard, look sharp!” his commanding officer barked in his ear. For a second he lay there trying to remember where he was and who he was. The dream came flooding back, and, terrified that he might have a telltale semen stain down his trousers, he sat up. The CO pressed his rifle into his hand. “Get the fuck up. We attack in ten.”

The moving shadows of the other men fell across the canvas as Clive checked his clothes. He had come. He cleaned himself up with a tissue, thanking God that the standard-issue parka was a dark wool, then stepped out into the chilly dawn.

Juan woke up with a crick in his neck and cramped limbs. He’d been curled against the wall. How long he’d been asleep he wasn’t sure. But he had had the strangest dream. A dream of desire. A phantasm, a warning that he must stop the hypocrisy of his existence or else he wouldn’t survive. Not whole. Not as a complete man. The dream had been so vivid he could almost taste the semen at the back of his throat.

After checking his comrades weren’t looking he cautiously ran a hand down the front of his pants. He was wet. He had come. Jesus, in the middle of a war, in the middle of a battlefield, he thought, wondering whether to do such a thing was disrespectful to the dead. He crossed himself just in case, then realized his bladder was bursting.

“Look who’s risen from the grave,” joked Gustavo.

“Anything happening out there?” Juan gazed bleakly at the stretch of scrubland; beyond, the sea was a dull gray streak on the horizon.

“Nothing, not even a vulture. Hopefully they’ve all run home to their queen.”

Juan stretched, then, hoisting his rifle over his shoulder, walked to the back of the trench, to the wall facing away from the front line.

“Where are you going?”

“To piss. Think you can hold the fort without me?”

“No problem! Watch out for snakes.”

Juan stepped out of the dugout and, after glancing around, cautiously walked a few steps away and, his back to the trench, began to urinate.

Clive dropped to a crouching position, the other three soldiers fanning out beside him. All of them had sighted the gun post at the same moment—an ordinary-looking bank of mud almost indistinguishable from the surrounding scrubland, except for the tiny black ring of a machine-gun nozzle staring straight out from a small hole in the mound. The dawn light painted the whole terrain with a rose wash as pink rays began to creep up into the sky. Sunrise just like any other day in any other part of the world, Clive thought, aware that his back teeth had begun to rattle. Excitement? Fear? He peered back at the gun post. He knew that beyond the facade the wall would be open at the top. It was a vulnerability, one he could exploit. Gesturing to the others, he crawled forward on his belly, conscious of the eye of the gun barrel staring out blindly.

He moved another five feet, the barrel didn’t move. Praying there was no one behind it, he reached down to his belt and unclipped a locked hand grenade. Holding it between his knees, he pulled at the pin with both hands; after several hard tugs it came out. Using his best bowling style he lobbed it into the gun post.

Juan was just shaking himself dry when the explosion knocked him to the ground. He lay there for a moment as the panorama tilted on its edge then swayed back to horizontal. Then he hauled himself up, dimly aware of a throbbing in his left side. Through a film of blood he saw smoke streaming out of the gun post and heard an eerie screaming coming from within. His comrades. Juan ran, legs pounding against the scrubland, and dived into the flames and smoke.

One half of the gun post was a smoldering mass of twisted metal fused with human flesh: two of the soldiers were dead. Juan recognized Dario’s torso from the heavy gold chain around his neck, normally hidden under his army vest—the blast had stripped him naked. The screaming came from Gustavo. His body had been thrown against the far wall; he was missing an arm and a leg. He was still clutching his rifle. As Juan approached, the screaming stopped. Juan stared down at his dead friend.

Clive saw the outline of the man’s head before the man spotted him. He dropped out of sight then, crouching, made his way over the broken wall of the smoldering dugout. The soldier was standing over a corpse; there was something about him that Clive recognized—his stance, the width of his shoulders. Bizarrely he had taken his helmet off, his long black hair fell to his shoulders. Clive could tell that he was handsome, and perhaps it was this and the vulnerability of his naked head that made the paratrooper falter for a second before lifting his rifle to his shoulder. One swift bullet in the back of the head, that’s all, he thought as he peered through the sight then squeezed the trigger. It jammed. Knowing he had no time, Clive jumped on the youth, pushing him down to the ground. Locked together they wrestled in the smoke and burning embers.

Clive fought against the boy’s weight to raise his bayonet to kill him. The youth twisted around, throwing him onto his back, struggling to reach the long dagger attached to his belt. As he did, the two men finally saw each other’s face.

Clive recognized him instantly: the full mouth, the scar running from cheek to lip.

“Clive,” Juan whispered before running his dagger deep within the Englishman’s body. In the same moment Clive’s bayonet came plunging down into Juan’s chest.