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DARK CANAL
[A PRIVATE EPISODE FOR THE GALS AT THE DETROIT PAR-TAY]

Somehow, I think it may have been a trick of our detroit ladies, the hot little fiction I wrote them did NOT get saved on my computer! So, unless Roz still has it in soft format and can post it. we're screwed. THe good news is....well, there isn't any good news except the ladies seemed to have a great time! ROZ CAN YOU SAVE ME FROM THE MOB???? Randall
Roz (wearing her superhero outfit) comes to the rescue of our dear Randall.

Written from Brian's POV:

Too many Bellini's at Harry's Bar have made the boy playful. I had to hold onto him as we negotiated the narrow staircase leading down one story from the bar to the street. It's late, and the warmth of the afternoon has faded into a cool, watery breeze. Iron sconces hold amber streetlamps, throwing the scene into a heavenly relief of golden shadows and black water. The boy skips along the cobblestones, perilously close to the Grand Canal where deserted gondolas bang against red and white barber poles crowned in gold. A couple of times he pretends to be losing his balance, frantically trying not to fall in. The first time I rushed to save him and he giggled and collapsed in my arms, kissing me hotly. I didn't fall for it after that.

I want to get back to the hotel and fuck him. I've wanted to fuck him all night. He looks especially beautiful tonight, his sunburn had turned toasty brown, providing a vivid contrast to his pale hair. He wore a white and silky shirt that I found blatantly sexy. We spent the whole evening touching each other in subtle ways. A nudge here. An interlaced finger there. Toe to toe under the table. Hand resting casually against thigh. We couldn't stand it if we didn't have physical contact.

We leave tomorrow. I dread it. I want to remember how I feel right now for the rest of my life. When I'm old and wrinkled and no one will touch me, I want to remember what it was like to be young and in love with a beautiful blond boy who looked at me with eyes that telegraphed his adoration. How it felt to yearn to be alone with someone, simply to seek and find the release of one body in another. How my heart would speed up when he smiled a certain way or touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip. How strange it was to be in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and see only him.

"Justin, quit fucking around. Let's get a water taxi and go back to the hotel," I said with mock frustration. He was veering towards St. Mark's Square, now devoid of its most annoying pests: pigeons and tourists.

"You have to catch me!" He challenged, and like that, he was gone.

"Fuck!" I complained, following in the direction he ran, hoping he stayed far away from the dark closes and unlit canals that were a hazard for a guy as wasted as he was. His white shirt and blond hair made it easy to pick him out of the shadows. As I pursued him, the heat began to rise in me. I felt like a predator. I could smell a blood lust and my prey was not about to escape my hunger. I picked up my pace. He turned off the main streets, behind some pricey shops, where elaborate Carnivale masks mocked me from display windows with fixed smiles and vacant eyes.

"You better hope I don't catch you!" I warned him, surprised by the warren of cobblestone streets that ended in closes, often surrounding a fountain, or on the rim of a dark canal that cut the path like a black silk ribbon. These were the canals used by the residents, small and unpretentious, unlike the more common water routes that carried tourists past grand villas and sidewalk cafes. The water slurped softly against the private boats moored to stone steps leading up from the waterline.

I felt like a wolf set free in a city, every noise made by the humans who inhabited these flats strange to me and invasive. I was feral, wild, on the hunt. My prey suddenly appeared on the lip of the canal. He paused when he saw me. We were both frozen, staring, heaving for breath from our exertion. Our eyes were locked in challenge. And then he broke for cover, running between two buildings. I followed, closing in. When I saw that the narrow alleyway ended in a tall brick wall, I felt the elation of a vampire having cornered his virgin.

He found a place to hide, but his security was hopeless. I proceeded slowly, stealthily, looking from side to side to ensure he didn't get past me. He sprang from the darkness and tried to slip by on my left. He forgot I was a better than average soccer player in my time. I have lateral moves he lacks and the quick response of an athlete. I spin left and trap him with one arm. He struggles gamely, his giggles punctuating the late night silence, but I'm too strong for him.

I throw him against the brick wall of an old palazzo that has been cut into flats. My action is rough enough to cause the air to leave his lungs in a gush. As he gasps sharply, I cover his mouth with mine, using my weight to flatten him to the bricks while I slip my hands inside his shirt. He has broken out in a light sweat, his silken skin moist against my palms, his nipples so hard they feel like metal ball bearings as I spread my hands on his pec's.

His tongue pokes against mine, like a blind animal seeking a way out. I devour that tongue and I feel my erection throb against his pelvis with an urgency that won't wait for a trip to our hotel. He has hooked one leg behind mine, pulling me in closer, and his hand is on the back of my neck, anchoring me to him with a responsive need as acute as my own.

We pause for one moment, our eyes meeting in a darkness penetrated only by the stars and a sliver of moon. There is one clear chance for one of us to retreat, and restore normalcy. We silently decide otherwise.

"Fuck me," he whispers, and the outcome is determined.

I moan and kiss him hotly, probing the cavern of his mouth as I intend to probe the dark canal of his body. Hard, insistent, deep, urgent. I feel his hand on my fly, opening the buttons of my jeans, slipping inside, seeking the hardness. When his fingertips brush the pulsing head of my dick, I break the kiss and cry out softly, the feeling is so exquisite. He traces the bell-shaped tip, smoothing pre- cum over the delicate skin like a painter covering a bare wall. My balls contract, the desire to ejaculate building up with the heat and unexpressed power of a missile silo.

I kiss him again, and then turn him towards the wall, reaching around him to open his belt and loosen his pants. I slide them just low enough to reveal the firm white globes of his ass. I press against him, my penis insinuating itself in the crack, stroking him there as I kiss and nibble the back of his neck. I reach around again and enclose his erection in my palm, masturbating him as I use my other hand to position my cock for penetration. The entry is so swift, so powerful that it lifts him to his toes, and he groans at the touch of pain that precedes pleasure.

For me, there is only pleasure. Pleasure in the pressure of his snug sphincter releasing enough to let me pass. Pleasure in the close, smooth walls of his anus enclosing me. Pleasure in the resistance of his tissues against the turgid flesh of my dick, grabbing me like a tight fist. I rip open my shirt and pull his up so I can press my chest to his flesh. Skin against skin, I want to feel his heat seep into my pores.

I fuck him, I stroke him, I fuck him. My feet are firmly planted on the cobblestones, supporting much of his weight with each upward thrust. I am drenched with sweat from the effort and from the excitement. I feel his orgasm approaching, my hand slick from his seepage. I don't rush my own. Coming at the same time is not as big a thrill as coming at the right time. He blows a wad against the wall, shuddering and trembling against me, bracing himself as my thrusts become more frequent and intense.

"Take it, take it, TAKE IT!" I hear my own voice and it sounds unrecognizable to me, gutteral and thick with desire. It's building to an inevitable conclusion and I bite into the tender skin of his shoulder, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to pinch. The wolf is ravenous. I feel my groin muscles contract and tense. I feel my testicles bulge and throb. And then I feel it begin. I shot my load in three separate expulsions of fluid, each accompanied by a rolling wave of pleasure that racks me from head to toe. I am keening into his ear, moaning with relief, suddenly weakened and left slack. I lighten my grip on him and withdraw my dripping cock. We have nothing to clean up with, sealing the mess and scent of sex into our clothes.

I notice I've lost two buttons on my shirt, but I don't bother looking for them. My shirt gaps low on my chest that gleams with sweat. I kiss him deeply as he is rearranging his clothes. He loops an arm around my neck while we kiss. It's a sweeter caress, less urgent and demanding.

"I love you, Bri," he whispers into the night and I hug him close, inhaling the scent of his golden hair as I respond,

"I love you, too."

We hold each other in that enclosure, trapped by a wall on one end, a dark canal opposite it, and memorize this moment we shared, before heading back to the hotel.

When I'm old and gray, I'll pull this memory up and recall this fact:

Once, when I was young, I loved a boy in Venice.

This one truth will validate my romantic yearnings for the rest of my life.

End

Disclaimer: The television show Queer As Folk and its characters are the property of Showtime and CowLip Productions. No money is being made. Stories and discussion are intended purely for the entertainment of fans of Queer as Folk, the Brian and Justin characters, and Randall's writings.
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Beginning
July 25, 2004