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An outtake from "First Contact,"
by Ruth Devero
[Everything you see in the story isn't necessarily everything I wrote for
it: sometimes a scene gets dropped because it doesn't set the right tone, or
because it simply slows down the action. This is one of the latter. Paris
was supposed to think back on Roger Ives' "Iliad," and how it inspired him
as a teenager to slip into bed with his best friend during a sleepover.
"Iliad" is supposed to be an (incredibly long) holo-movie, a mishmash of
lust and art and lust and violence and lust, with detailed scenes of -- well
-- "over-eager" sex of all varieties; the kind of film Paris's parents would
very definitely not want him watching. Ives did two versions of "Iliad": a
toned-down version suitable for family viewing, and this legendary
"boot-leg" version, difficult to get copies of. Paris finds one, of course,
and watches it instead of actually reading the "Iliad," expecting to enjoy
the scenes of heterosexual sex, but mesmerized by the homosexual scenes.
(Actually, it's more that he falls into infatuation with Achilles.) With a
name like "Paris," how could I resist introducing the "Iliad" and the
ancient Greeks? The scene probably would have gone in between two
paragraphs in the scene where Paris has wakened and is beginning to think
about Chakotay in terms of sex; this is how it reads now:
Paris caught his breath. Well, actually, Paris had
instigated that. Both of them teenagers and full of hormones, Ned
honest about his homosexuality, and Paris curious, especially
after watching Roger Ives' "Iliad" in all its unexpurgated glory:
Achilles, beautiful and fierce, bedding an eager Patroclus in
luscious detail; and Paris's mouth had dried with lust.
So, Ned, sleeping over, on a mattress beside the bed,
awakened to find Paris nervously slipping in beside him. And
shyly reached out.
The scene would have slowed things down considerably, though; and while
it would have opened up some very interesting psychological complexities,
they really didn't belong in "First Contact." Besides, I'm not really sure
the scene would have worked in Ives' movie. But, hey -- it's my website!
So here it is, in its rather unedited glory.]
[Probably I would have added something at the beginning about why Paris
was watching the movie, and his first reactions to the beautiful,
lust-inspiring Achilles. When Patroclus goes to persuade Achilles to come
out of his tent (and, yes, I know it's not much of a scene in the original;
I suspect that Ives did some reworking of the story!), Paris is intrigued by
Patroclus' method of persuasion and completely helpless with lust.]
"Do you not remember our boyhood," Patroclus said, unpinning, untying,
releasing. Clothing fell to his feet like drifts of wave-foam. "When we
learned to be men with men together." Slender and straight he stood before
Achilles; and Paris's mouth went suddenly dry.
"Boy on boy," Patroclus said, turning, bending to annoint his hands
with olive oil; and Paris's knees shook at the light in Achilles' eyes as he
watched the round ass, "becoming man on man." Slow turn of head, to gaze
over his shoulder at Achilles; glistening hand sliding slowly down the cleft
of his ass; and Paris's hands groped helplessly for his own swollen cock.
"Do you not remember, my lord prince." Patroclus's voice was barely
louder than the crackling torches. "My master." His fingers had found the
passage; at the sight of Achilles' swelling cock, Paris's trembling
fingers released his own trousers, cradled his own hot cock. "When I was
friend--" --the fingers moving in and out-- "--was boy--" --in and out--
"--was all you need desire--" And then both hands behind him to slick that
huge, red cock poised to fuckhimfuckhim,oh,fuckhim, Patroclus crying out
when the thick cock slid home; Paris thrusting, thrusting into one fist, the
other hand finding his own tight passage to fuck himself with a finger.
He didn't last as long as Achilles did; Paris exploded exquisitely
and dropped to his knees, still helpless at the sight of the sweat-glistening
body slamming into Patroclus, arched ecstatically in those muscular arms.
What would that be like, to be so completely taken by one so beautiful and
strong? Paris's fingers slicked themselves with his own slipperiness before
working their way back up his ass, heart hammering at the sight of Achilles'
thick thighs working, his powerful ass clenching, his hard face beautiful
with triumph and lust; Paris's fingers plumbed himself as if they were that
hard, red cock that made Patroclus tremble and scream and come in Achilles'
arms. Achilles' own orgasm seemed to last forever; and Paris's body
shuddered with the power of it.
He had trembled, breathless, ass raw, through the rest of that elegy
to power and violence, lust and passionate death; and when Troy fell, and
the young Trojan princes were bedded, one by one, by their Greek captors,
Paris's knees spread helplessly and his fingers recaptured his yearning ass,
while his cock slid into his hand. He was a Trojan boy, captured by
Achilles, captured by--bedded by--by Achilles--by--fucking him--fucking
him--fucking--
He'd managed the next day to finesse his own copy of the disk. And,
two days after that, Ned had stayed the night. Ned was no Achilles, but at
the time, Paris was in no mood to compare.
Now, in that cold bed on Verka, Paris smiled wistfully at the memory
of heat and exploration, of floating in the cool green quarry pool with
Ned's cock plundering him, of hearing grasshoppers singing all around in the
hot golden grasses with Ned fucking him and fucking him; bent over the edge
of Ned's bed after school, bent over the edge of his own bed in a break from
study; on his knees in a closet with his parents downstairs, on his knees in
an alley outside a party they shouldn't have gone to--learning, discovering,
ass perpetually fucked raw, cock almost always sucked dry. The most
satisfied guys he knew.
[That's all there is!]
"First Contact"
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