word-of-the-day-1

Subject: Word of the Day, Chapter 1 CHAPTER ONE "Are you lost?" Cameron looked round to identify the source of the captivating boyish voice that cut through the street-bustle. A good-looking youngster of eleven or twelve stood looking up at him with an earnest expression. "How did you know I was English?" Cameron asked. They always seemed to know he was English, somehow. He would never really fit in here, he thought, with something approaching resentment. "You look English," said the boy simply. His accent was pronounced and Parisian, though it didn't make it hard to understand his words. Cameron examined the boy with interest. A mop of tousled, almost-curly chestnut hair sat atop his slightly tanned round face. His eyes were dark brown, and seemed to be permanently over-wide, as if trying not just to observe the world around him but to actually absorb some of it and take it away with him. The young stranger was enchanting, and Cameron felt himself start to tumble into the boy's glittering eyes. He shifted his hand to steady himself on the stone wall. "Allô ?" joked the boy, tilting his head inquiringly. His narrow lips encircled the final syllable even after it had left his mouth. "Not lost," answered Cameron finally. "Just not sure where I'm going." "You are on vacation here?" "No. Studying. At the Conservatoire." Cameron wasn't sure why he felt compelled to tell the stranger this. "Ou-là-là," joked the boy with mock veneration, raising his eyebrows and making his glittering brown eyes open even wider. "You play the piano?" He mimed moving his fingers across an imaginary keyboard. "Yes," Cameron confirmed, the beginnings of a smile coming to his mouth for the first time in what must have been days. He was leaning against the mid-height riverside wall with his back to the silver-grey water of the Seine. Without warning, the young boy hopped deftly up to sit on the wall beside him, reaching out a hand in greeting. "Nice to meet you. My name is Benoît." Cameron shook the bold French boy's hand instinctively and then was startled to find he had done so. A little jolt ran through him as he felt warm skin against his palm, as if he had been dozing off and had just been forced awake. "Cameron," replied the 22-year-old music student, remembering to reluctantly let go of the younger boy's warm hand. "Cameron," repeated Benoît, adjusting his mouth to the unfamiliar shape of the English syllables. "Cameron the piano player." He tilted his head approvingly. The two remained quietly side-by-side for a while, the boy sitting on the wall and the older student leaning beside him. Cameron wondered what the boy wanted. He thought about getting up from the wall and walking away, but found he was stuck there by some sort of magnetic attraction. A gravelly noise of plastic wheels on pavement cut into the Parisian afternoon. A boy and a girl in their late teens sliced into view on rollerblades. "Salut, Benoît !" they called out as they caught sight of the brown-haired kid perched on the river wall. "Salut !" answered the boy, nimbly pulling a phone out of his pocket and holding it up to shoot a video. Seeing the outstretched camera, the roller skaters linked arms and span into a pirouette in the middle of the street, prompting a delighted laugh from Benoît and an angry mutter from a nearby cyclist. Then in unison they kicked out their legs and sped off down the road in parallel, with a cry of "bonne journée !" that faded with their wheels into the distance. Benoît tapped at his phone screen with satisfaction. "Look at this, Cameron," said the boy proudly. He held out the phone and shuffled along the wall, leaning in close to Cameron so both of them could both see the video on the small screen. Cameron was painfully aware of the French stranger's face next to his, so close he could feel the warmth. He forced himself to focus on the phone screen. The video was surprisingly good, he realised. The young boy had framed his subject well and tracked the movement of the skaters, turning the whole into a fluid dance move. Benoît's arm pressed lightly against Cameron's shoulder. "It's good," said Cameron truthfully, turning his head to make eye contact with the boy. His heart jumped high into the air as he was suddenly reminded how close the bewitching boy's eyes were to his own. A strand or two of Benoît's unruly chestnut hair threatened to catch the breeze and jump the gap to touch Cameron's forehead. "You think so?" beamed Benoît, pausing for a moment too long before sitting back upright. He had moved down the wall to share the video and he did not move back again, so his side remained almost in contact with Cameron. He did not seem to mind. There was a pause in the conversation as the budding director dragged his finger along the screen examining each moment of his work. "It needs to be edited," he lamented. "The stupid cyclist is in it." "Maybe it adds character?" suggested Cameron. He had enjoyed the casual Frenchness of the scene, and felt a sort of jealousy at the spontaneity of it all. "It is not how I wanted it," shrugged the Parisian boy lightly. "But I don't have a computer, so I cannot edit it properly." Cameron contemplated the boy and the boy contemplated the video. "You can use mine," offered Cameron finally, not sure what had possessed him. He was intoxicated by the proximity of the boy, who was still sitting only inches away from him on the stone wall. "Vraiment ?" asked Benoît excitedly, turning his whole upper body to face his leaning companion. The question mark glittered persuasively in his enthusiastic eyes. "Vraiment," Cameron confirmed, embarrassed by his awkward French accent. "You have it?" Benoît asked, casting his eyes around to see if Cameron had a laptop bag with him. "No," acknowledged Cameron, feeling his heart rate increase. Benoît looked at him curiously. The boy's attention was no longer on the video, and he looked as if little gears had started turning in his mind. "I can walk to my apartment and get it," offered Cameron lamely. "It's not too far." "Where do you live?" asked the French boy. Cameron tried to decipher the glint in his expression. "The nineteenth," answered the English piano player, not wanting to embarrass himself by trying to speak French again. "Ah oui, le dix-neuvième," nodded the boy, feigning seriousness. "You know it?" "Of course," Benoît laughed. He paused, thinking. "That is too far. We will take the Métro." His sparkling eyes challenged Cameron to say no. Cameron thought about saying something, but realised that none of the things he could think of were true. "Really, you should have a proper Parisian bodyguard in the dix-neuvième," went on Benoît, justifying himself, although he didn't need to. Then, "c'est par ici," he grinned, hopping down from the wall and setting off down the Parisian street without turning to check whether Cameron was following. Cameron stood upright and started walking without consciously deciding to, as if attached to the boy like a dog on a leash. He felt a slight ache in his legs. Didim Escort How long had he been leaning against the wall? The boy navigated the Parisian bustle expertly. He might almost have disappeared into the gaps in the crowd, but Cameron's eyes were fixed on him like a cat tracking the bright pinprick light of a laser pointer flashing across a room. "Coming?" Benoît paused, leaning momentarily on the rail at the head of the Métro steps, waiting for his charge to catch up. Then he was gone again, darting down the stairs and into the station dark. Cameron saw the small figure leap deftly through a slim gap beside the ticket barrier doors. He raised his eyebrows with exasperated affection. Fishing around in his pocket he was glad to find he still had a couple of the small ticket cards, habitually carried but rarely used. Quickly he fed one into the metal slot. The twin doors popped open with a clack. "Allez !" called Benoît's youthful voice, somehow knowing exactly where his companion was behind him. The boy was practically on the train already, and gesturing urgently. Cameron had no idea whether it was the right train or not, but he made a dash for the carriage doors anyway, jumping aboard just as they began to close. Benoît looked up at him with a grin, and Cameron, slightly out of breath, felt himself break into a smile in response. With a powerful jolt, the train began to move away from the station. It gathered speed fast, rushing into the tunnel with a rattle of metal. The Parisian boy took his hand off the metal handrail that was supporting him and planted his feet firmly apart, facing the door they had entered through. He swayed slightly as Cameron felt the train's gravity hurtle into a corner at speed. "I am surfing," Benoît explained with a twinkle. He stuck out both arms, dropping his hips with a bend of his knees as a bump rippled down the train. "Try it. It's fun!" Cameron cast around for an excuse, clutching the reassuring hand hold that hung from the ceiling above him. His eyes landed on Benoît's behind, which stuck out slightly as the young boy gleefully surfed the rails. Cameron felt a jolt as the train started to slow, and he smiled inwardly as he noticed the boy's slim yet shapely buttocks jump slightly in reaction. A male voice blared something loud and indistinguishable over the tinny speakers as the train pulled into a station. The doors clacked open, letting noise and people flood into the enclosed space. Cameron gripped the hand hold on the ceiling, his arm stretched out above him to steady him against the oncoming tide of Parisian life. He felt his young travel companion pressed into the space in front of him and looked down in surprise. Benoît's small warm body was held tight against the 22-year-old, contacting him at almost every point. The boy tilted his head back to look directly up at Cameron, still grinning. His face was close to the underarm of Cameron's upward stretch. Cameron tried to remember whether he had put on deodorant today. The train lurched into motion again, pressing the multi-bodied mass of Paris against itself. With mortification Cameron felt the unmistakable sensation of his dick starting to grow hard against Benoît's insistent boy-pressure. He resisted the urge to try and move or adjust his clothing, knowing that would only make it worse. Another lurch of the carriage, and Cameron froze every muscle in his body, trying not to let the movement travel through him. Benoît continued looking up at him, grinning. The rail-noise filled every corner of the space, ruling out any attempt at communication. The metal train wheels screamed round a corner. Pleasure screamed beneath Cameron's embarrassment, desperate to break free and extend itself against Benoît's firm little figure. Cameron suppressed it, breaking eye contact and looking awkwardly up at the ceiling. At one point he felt Benoît turn slightly against him, sending a shiver through his body. Unable to resist he looked down again to see the boy's wide and innocent eyes still steadfastly fixing his own. He looked back up at the ceiling and swallowed. The train speaker buzzed into life again, barely audible this time over the metal shouts. It felt as if the pressure squeezing the train-bodies together eased as the vehicle decelerated. "Allez !" urged Benoît again, disappearing into a gap that didn't exist as Cameron sensed the familiar sound of the train doors flicking open. The 22-year-old tried to follow. "Excusez-moi," he ventured at first, too quietly for anyone to hear. Then he gave up and just pushed, tumbling onto a familiar platform with a surge of relief. "You made it," joked Benoît approvingly. The platform was quiet and strange after the crush of humanity in the packed train car. Even the light felt different, like it wasn't used to having so much space to play in and couldn't quite manage to fill it. Cameron was relieved to find that his underpants seemed to have abated. "How did you know which station?" he asked, puzzled. "The Conservatoire," shrugged Benoît. "Et enfin, this is the most easy to arrive to." "It's not too far, I don't think." Cameron was pleased to find he recognized their location. "Bon, you can do your walking now," laughed Benoît. "It's your turn to lead the way." The boy seemed somehow more real as they emerged into the quieter streets of the nineteenth arrondissement. His big brown eyes darted around instinctively, taking in every detail of his city. "This way," said Cameron, starting down a street with more confidence than he felt. He realised he could feel his heartbeat, and wondered if it was normally this fast. He was relieved when the familiar buildings of home assembled themselves at the end of the road. But the relief was soon replaced by anxiety again as he found his keys in his pocket and held open the door to the building. In all his time so far in the city, nobody but himself had ever set foot in his small studio apartment. He led the way across the inner courtyard and opened the apartment door, feeling a mixture of trepidation and nervous excitement. The door opened into a miniature kitchen, followed by the single main room that held all of Cameron's small Parisian life. An upright piano opposite the doorway filled more of the space than anything else. To the right was the double bed, and to the left the small dining table that doubled as Cameron's desk. His laptop sat open upon it, and Benoît gravitated there immediately, still focused intently on his task. Cameron's nervousness subsided as he realised his young guest had no interest in examining his lifestyle or judging his belongings. In fact he started to feel a curious and unfamiliar sense of acceptance as he saw the boy jump into the chair, clearly just as at home here as he was anywhere else in his native city. Evidently the young filmmaker was going to do his editing right here and now, and Cameron realised he didn't mind that at all. "The password is 'piano'," Cameron informed the little visitor. "Pi - a - no" spelled out Benoît jauntily, Didim Escort Bayan then stopped with a puzzled look. "The 'a' is not in the right place!" Cameron followed the boy's gaze to his confused fingers on the laptop keyboard and back. "That's where the 'a' key always goes." "Not in France," shrugged Benoît, before returning to his task unfazed. "T'as un câble USB ?" Cameron took a moment to translate the unfamiliar pronunciation of the initialism, so that Benoît continued before he had a chance to reply. "Oh, I found it." Cameron was unsure how to occupy himself while his guest worked. He walked slowly over to his habitual seat at the piano stool. "Why do you need a password, Cameron?" asked the boy at the table cheekily. "Do you have porno on here?" Cameron felt his heart rate quicken again. He was pretty sure there wasn't any actual porn on his laptop, but there were certainly one or two saved stories and pictures that he hoped the boy didn't find. Or maybe he did want him to find them, put in his subconscious. "How old are you?" he reproached, evading the question. "Twelve," Benoît answered straight away, with the pride of a boy who has recently had a birthday. He looked up earnestly. "Is that too young?" "No," said Cameron before he had time to think about it. The twelve-year-old boy paused for a moment too long before clarifying. "To look at porno, I mean." Cameron nodded. "Yeah." He wondered what kind of porn the confident little film director liked. "I mean, no. Not too young. I don't think." He felt flustered and backpedalled slightly. "I mean. That's up to you, I suppose." Benoît was looking at him closely, the gears turning in his mind again. Cameron felt exposed under the boy's stare. He looked away quickly, and then regretted it. "Don't worry," Benoît reassured him, seeming to realise he had made the older student uncomfortable, and deciding to wait a while before pursuing that particular line of conversation any further. "I will not look in your secret folders." Cameron didn't reply, but leafed absently through Debussy's Clair de Lune on the piano desk in front of him. Instead of playing he contented himself with reviewing his fingering notes on the sheet music, laying his fingers occasionally on the keys to sketch out the shape of a silent chord. His notes were fine, of course, having been rehearsed a hundred times, but Cameron wasn't really concentrating on them anyway. His eyes might have been on the stave, but his entire attention was focused on the enthralling brown-haired boy sitting at his dining table. "Finished!" proclaimed Benoît, sooner than Cameron was expecting. "Can I show you?" Cameron willingly sat down at the table beside the boy to examine his work on the laptop screen. Immediately his thoughts were drawn back with a skip of his heartbeat to when the pair had first reviewed the video side-by-side on Benoît's phone. They were not quite so close now, but the moment still felt intimate. The video clip played on a loop. The two roller skaters swung into frame, pirouetted on the spot with a laugh, and then skated off into the distance. Cameron liked the little jump cuts, and wondered if Benoît had made them deliberately. The cyclist was nowhere to be seen, expertly excised by a judicious crop and a few frames removed here and there. The young cinematographer had altered the colour too, Cameron guessed, doing something to make the brightly dressed teens pop out from the drab riverside street surface. "That's really good!" said Cameron admiringly. It was good. Not the same scene he had witnessed earlier that day, and not exactly better or worse, but different, and unique. He was seeing the scene the way Benoît had seen it, he realised, and he felt the honour of being shown it. "You really like it?" "I really do." Benoît relaxed in his chair, seeming to notice the room for the first time now that his task was complete. "I like your piano," he said, looking around. "Will you play it for me?" Cameron felt nervous all over again. "Maybe... maybe another time," he dodged awkwardly. "OK," said Benoît simply. His boyish French accent wrapped the two syllables with an unfamiliar and pleasing liveliness. "Your English is very good," said Cameron with something between admiration and jealousy. "Incredibly good." "Thank you," beamed the boy beside him. "I like English. And I like learning things." "I wish I was that good at French," said Cameron sorrowfully. "I've lived here for what feels like ages, but I just don't seem to pick it up." "I will teach you," said Benoît decisively. He had clearly decided that he and Cameron were going to be friends. He paused for a thoughtful moment. "But it is important to start little," he said. His eyes lit up. "Today we will learn the words for editing films." "Okay," said Cameron, unsure but willing to let the boy continue. "First is 'tourner'. That is like... turning the pellicule, when you first make the film." He held up his hands and mimed turning the handle of an old-fashioned film camera as if they were playing a game of charades. Cameron nodded, skimming over the unfamiliar word 'pellicule', so enraptured was he by his charming teacher. "Then 'monter'. That is the editing," Benoît continued, gesturing towards the laptop that was still open in front of him. "Like removing the man on the bicycle," he added as an afterthought, with slight contempt. Another nod from Cameron. "'Tourner' and 'monter'," he made himself repeat, feeling only just confident enough to pronounce the words. He felt awkward wrapping his voice clumsily around the French 'r'. Benoît gave him an encouraging grin that eased his nerves sent warmth spreading across his chest. "And then the finition... ou bien... 'retoucher'," Benoît decided. "For changing the colours and... adjusting." "Retoucher," repeated Cameron, only just managing to avoid the initial letter of the word getting stuck like a lump in his throat. "Not bad," smiled Benoît. He looked thoughtful again. "'Retoucher'... because it comes after 'toucher', I suppose." A pause. He looked Cameron directly in the eye, and now there was no mistaking the glinting little gears turning behind his gaze. "'Toucher', do you know that one?" "I think so..." Cameron felt his mouth go dry, unsure if he knew exactly what the boy meant. He waited, but Benoît did not say anything else. Cameron continued desperately. "Maybe you should...," he managed to force out before his desiccated words tailed off completely. "Show you?" Benoît sparkled without missing a beat. Cameron nodded mutely, no longer in control of his actions. There was a pause that lasted for a tiny eternity. Then the boy's fingertips alighted gently on his inner thigh, making tiny movements that scattered sparks across Cameron's skin. Cameron found himself looking down, and then back up into Benoît's earnest brown eyes. He realised with a silent and involuntary intake of breath that this was everything he had ever wanted. Again he felt himself falling head first into the French boy's Escort Didim glittering stare, and this time he didn't stop himself. "Voilà. 'Toucher'," said Benoît cautiously, softly withdrawing his hand. Cameron swallowed. The two looked at each other in silence. "You must do it also," said Benoît with a glint in his eye. "To make sure you have learned it properly." There was no point hesitating now, Cameron thought. He forced himself to overcome his nervousness and placed his hand determinedly on Benoît's leg. His fingers spread themselves slowly but instinctively to increase the contact area. "Très bien," said the boy smilingly, continuing to play at the role of teacher. Then the pretence dropped from his eyes, replaced by something more urgent. He placed his hand on top of Cameron's and guided it up his thigh, bringing it to rest pressed firmly against his crotch. Even through Benoît's layers of clothing, Cameron's fingers could not mistake the boy's insistent hard-on. He wished he dared to move his fingers and take the hard little shape in his hand. He looked up to see the now familiar grin. Then Benoît's fingers went to work. Determinedly he freed the zip of Cameron's waistband and tugged the material downward. Cameron instinctively lifted his body from the chair to allow his clothes to move freely. As he did so his weight shifted, causing his hand to shift against Benoît's trapped erection with renewed pressure. Benoît squirmed, his composure momentarily drowned by a wave of ineluctable pleasure. The French boy's hand grabbed Cameron's cock and scooped it from the elastic of his boxers in a single movement. Warm skin and cold air created a temperature shock that caught Cameron off guard. He was a little surprised and embarrassed to find he wasn't quite hard, even as the touch of unfamiliar fingers ricocheted around his body. He looked apologetically at his new friend. "You are nervous?" Benoît asked. Cameron nodded. "Don't worry." It was the words as much as the gentle stroking of Benoît's hand that made Cameron's dick grow gratefully to its full six-inch hardness. "It's big," said the boy, his full brown eyes perhaps a little wider than usual. Cameron said nothing, but looked down in wonder at the twelve-year-old's hand wrapped around his young adult cock. "Oui, ça va mieux," Benoît said approvingly. With one hand he continued his stroking motion while his other hand went to his own waist. Cameron's hand still rested there, hesitantly motionless. Benoît gave it a squeeze that was equal parts reassuring and arousing. "Is it OK?" Benoît questioned. Cameron nodded. It was more than okay. He had no idea what to do next, but he didn't want it to stop. "OK," said the French boy with his playful accent, taking it as a sign to continue. Skilfully he dropped his own zipper and underwear one-handed, his fingers almost interlocking with Cameron's as he did so. Benoît's dick was as confident as the boy himself, and sprang up smartly like a young student eager to learn. Cameron's fingers were just barely out of its reach. "Allez !" Benoît whispered. "Touch." Nervously the piano player let first one finger, then another, come to rest on the hard little boy cock. It protruded up past the hem of Benoît's shirt so that a fold of material gathered behind it. The sight and the touch sent an involuntary shiver shooting through Cameron's body. With satisfaction he felt the spasm travel up the base of his own hard cock and into Benoît's hand, which continued its firm insistent motion. He hoped the boy had felt it. Even if he had no idea what to do or say, he was glad to show his young guest how much he was enjoying him. Cameron looked down, returning his attention to Benoît's smaller dick. He wanted to do the same for Benoît as the young visitor was doing for him, but he hadn't encountered an uncircumcised cock before, and he realised that he wasn't sure exactly what to do. Cautiously he stroked at it, enjoying its stiff heat beneath his fingers. He shot little glances, not wanting to stare, as if it was a sought-after trophy behind shop-window glass. With alarm, Cameron realised that the light contact of the boy's eager dick against his fingers was bringing him perilously close to climax. He felt a rope that looped around his stomach and the base of his rock-hard cock and started to tighten into a knot at his navel. He turned to Benoît with a desperate look on his face. If the boy understood the expression he did not react, but carried on the vital movement of his hand, pulling the knot tighter. Cameron swallowed, knowing what must come next. The tension it created in his throat never released, but spread throughout his body, solidifying his muscles like hardening clay. Instinctively he closed his eyes as he felt his orgasm overtake him. He suppressed a silent squirm as the first jet of cum squirted from the boy-fist wrapped around his dick. With surprise he felt it wetly on his neck. The second pulse started from the small of his back and shot sideways onto his arm. As the third wave crashed over him Cameron felt compelled to open his eyes again. Benoît was looking sparklingly straight back at him. Cameron let out the soundless tension in his chest with an exhalation of breath, beginning to relax even as his body continued to expand and contract with each beat of his heart. The room was quiet for a minute. Cameron's hand lay at his side, its brief journey into boyland forgotten, but Benoît didn't seem to mind too much. "Our word of the day," Benoît decided. "Toucher." "Definitely," agreed Cameron, his eyebrows still hovering one notch above their usual position with incredulity over what had just happened. "Word of the day." A pause. "You need a kleenex," laughed Benoît, sending a chocolate half-curl tumbling slightly across his forehead. He zipped his still half-hard dick back into its confinement. Cameron looked down at his cum-splattered chest and arm. "Yup," he agreed, any embarrassment for now lost beneath the post-orgasmic contentment that was washing over him. Benoît picked up his phone, which still sat plugged into the laptop in front of him. Cameron's eyes were fixed in disbelief on a tiny drop of his own cum that had settled unnoticed on the side of the twelve-year-old's finger. The shining liquid threatened to alight on the phone, but then seemed to disappear as the angle of the light lost it. "I have to go," said the visitor, seeing the time and unplugging the cable. "Okay," said Cameron, suddenly sad. "Um..." He tried to think of how to tell the boy he wanted to see him again. To see him always, if only he could. "May I come again sometimes?" asked Benoît, reading his mind. "To use the computer. You know, if I need to... retoucher?" He held up the phone containing his video, as if to clarify his meaning. "Of course," burst out Cameron, relieved. "Bien sûr," he repeated quickly in French, with sudden confidence. "Good." Benoît smiled. "Au revoir, Cameron." *** What do you think? Send me your feedback at ail. Every comment is appreciated, and will help me with the rest of the story. *** Next time: Cameron is struggling to feel like he fits in in the great French metropolis. He needs a friend, but can he let Benoît in? *** While you're fty//gay/young-friends/backseat-passenger *** Your friend, Neo.