The Eighteen Twelve

When Malcolm Reed was four years old he received a wonderful gift from his grandparents, a recording of the 1812 Overture; it would influence the rest of his life. (Warning, this is an M rated fiction, specifically when Malcolm is an adult, involving Male/Male intercourse – please do not read if this bothers you.) Maddy is approximately a year and a half younger in this story.

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T/R R AU

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Malcolm Reed regarded the view afforded him as he shook the small bottle and palmed some of the contents into his hand and fingers. The object of his attention, 'Commander Tucker', was stretched across his own bed, lying on his stomach, positioned 'athwart' a pillow so as to allow better access to the portal stationed between the two glorious mounds of delicious flesh presented to his eyes. 'As always', mused the armory officer, 'I am fixated on a target – and such a lovely, outstanding target it is!'

He moved quickly, efficiently, to array his own body in the best possible manner to 'acquire' said entrance, placing one hand on the right buttock of his love, pushing/pulling the globe in question just a bit to the side, allowing his fingers to stroke and coat the rim – 'Oh hell' Malcolm thought, and quickly leaned down nipping the left buttock, which caused the man 'attached' to said buttocks to yelp loudly – "Mal!"

Any further protestation was immediately squashed by the entrance of not just one, but two lubed coated appendages thrust deep into, and touching a well-loved organ deep within Trip Tucker, who moaned, a heartfelt "God!", and pushed in response to the pressure. The Brit, deep in his own emotion, managed a ragged "Patience!" and concentrated on placing his most insistent cock in the proper position to replace his fingers. Grasping both buttocks, he aligned his most personal ordinance in the proper trajectory to pierce any resistance, and was soon rewarded with an all-encompassing warmth – an action that had been in his body, mind, and soul for a very long time . . .

OOOOO

It was the summer before his fourth birthday, that Malcolm Reed realized that he was different from either his mother or his sister. A very satisfying feeling as he currently understood it - as his mother was presently panicked in their house since two-year old Maddy had 'run off' and was nowhere to be found. Mum kept calling her name, as if the word would make her appear out of thin air. Malcolm Reed already knew that nothing ever just came by just wishing it – else his Da' would have shown up a long time ago – and not left to 'sail on his ship', an action that the young boy found disturbing for some vague reason. (He had not understood his aversion to large bodies of water – that would come later.)

Instead, he actually walked outside and looked in the yard, which was surrounded by a neat picket fence. 'If Maddy is not inside,' he thought logically, 'then she must be outside.' The dark-haired child regarded the property and sighed – she must have gone outside the gate – totally against the 'rules' that Mum had set down. He understood why there were rules – if you went against rules – then sometimes bad things happened – like getting hit by a car or being lost like Maddy. Maddy was making him very irritated – he decided that his sister was not terribly bright. Nor his Mum because she still hadn't gone outside to see if Maddy had gone out, but was still inside . . . He was so glad that he wasn't like either his Mum or Maddy. (They found Maddy next door – she'd gone 'to visit smif' – Mrs. Smith, the neighbor lady.)

That Christmas, his parents (Da' had come home for the holidays) were over at his grandmother's house – an odd way to phrase it, Malcolm decided years later, as grandfather, the old admiral was still alive. (He thought perhaps it was because 'like with his father and mother', the house really 'belonged' to his grandmother as the old gentleman was mostly away in his younger life in the Royal Navy.) Malcolm was polite as he was told to behave properly – Maddy on the other hand 'tore around' and had to be told many times to be quiet – even the usual threat 'that the man told her to be good' didn't work. That was a made-up story that Malcolm's mother used to keep Maddy 'in line' whilst they were in a restaurant eating. (Malcolm knew to be on his best behavior because after all, this was a place where many people ate and one could see whether you were a good child or not, and he wanted to be seen as good. Whether he actually 'was' good – that was another matter – he seemed to never match up to his parents' expectations.)

It was Christmas after all, and his uncles and aunts and cousins were there, with strange food that normally his mum didn't make, but would make him take a little bit of everything – even the hated pickled beans. (It worked both ways – if he really liked something – he would also only be allowed a little. Restraint in all things was their motto. At least for him . . .) The other children were allowed to play, but he was expected to sit and be quiet; as a result he would listen to the conversation of the adults – never allowed to speak directly as an equal but not granted the freedom of a subordinate.

His dear grandmother, he could tell, was very fond of him – and allowed him to look at the old pictures that were stored in the cabinet in the side room, though not at Christmas – too many people were about. This Christmas, as usual, Father Christmas would come to distribute gifts to both children and adults, and Malcolm assumed (quite rightly) that the anticipated visit was causing some of the commotion. (The previous year he had noted that while his cousins had received 'toys', he and his sister had gotten 'practical' sleepware, something that made him conclude that his parents could 'talk' to the gift-giving magical being.) This year however, he had decided that Father Christmas was a fiction, something that 'adults' made up – not that it was usually bad as most children still got toys – though not himself or Maddy. And so it was with a jaundiced eye that he saw the entrance of the magical being, still traditionally clothed in red and carrying a red-cloth bag. (Years later, he got to 'play' the role – as he was the only Reed 'boy' who was old enough and of a size to fit into the 'old admiral's' costume.)

He noted the lack of his grandfather at the event, and concluded rightly that Father Christmas was really his Admiral Grandda' in a white beard – a normally gruff man who could peel brain cells with a few chosen words – the mildest being 'son of a gun' . . . he handed Malcolm and Maddy their usual sleepware, then said, "Well, I'll be – there's something down at the bottom – a bit extra!", and handed Maddy a dolly and Malcolm a small box containing several recordings. Malcolm's parents seemed surprised – the young boy noted – Maddy squealed – and he nodded his head as was proper, and said quietly, "Thank you, sir." It turned out to be one of his most favorite memories of Christmastide.

One of the recordings – he admitted years later, was a favorite of his grandparents, hardly that of a four-year old, but the other two – 'Child's Introduction to Symphony Music' and 'The 1812 Overture' were so wonderful, that he always remembered his grandparents' kindness, with deep love. He kept the small stick containing the 1812 long after the device had 'worn out' – and had purchased several other versions of that famous work by the Russian composer . . .

He noted that there was a great difference in the performances of the 1812 – some productions used obvious 'recordings' of cannon fire, whilst other more favored renditions seemed to use almost actual cannon fire – there were a few 'odd' recordings that only used drums – not his preference, but as with favorite authors even minor works could be appreciated, (of course this could be regarded as a 'different edition' . . .) As a young teenager he tried to explain to a fellow scout – really a playmate that his mother had arranged for him to 'hang with' – about his love for classical music . . . the other teen whose own mother had 'volunteered' his appearance was totally clueless and had no knowledge of classical music at all. Not a very auspicious event.

A couple of years later he found himself in the locker room of the Academy, a private school where the sons (mostly) of industry (and a few public service types, such as himself) attended and were expected to acquire the manners and knowledge appropriate to their 'station' in life. His locker mate by virtue of the alphabet was a well-formed athletic teenager, half-Swedish and half-French, (and burdened with the name 'Francois' who was called 'Frank' by his friends) apparently had no idea that Malcolm Reed, scrawny, and ill-favored of body, was attracted to his splendid personage.

Accordingly, it was after physical education class and the two were dressing to get back to their regular academic studies – when Lawrence, another classmate of much higher social status, entered the locker room. And immediately dominated the conversation that Frank and Malcolm were having – with not even as much as an 'excuse me'. As Lawrence only had to 'extend his hand' and 'riches were placed there', Malcolm felt keenly at a loss when he was totally ignored by the new arrival, and Frank was drawn away out of the room. He decided to get some 'relief' and headed into the lavatory part of the area.

Malcolm entered a stall and sat on one of the toilets; never having masturbated at school before – the very thought of being 'caught' sent unpleasant chills direct to his 'gut', and he paused, caught between desperate need, and an iron-clad resolve not to offend. But as the old saying said – it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission, and he began to stoke his member in remembered time to the cannonade of the 1812 overture. The young man had almost attained completion when he heard Lawrence enter the lavatory and call out his name. Malcolm would always remember the titanic struggle it took to control 'the moment', but control it he did, and managed to casually call out, "I'm in the loo. What do you want?" ('Would the 'bastard' never leave me alone?!')

It was at the Academy that another aspect of the 1812 fell into focus – a discussion regarding Russian history, had in a very off-hand way mentioned the relationship between cannon and bells – both of course being 'made of iron, and cast' – as many old church bells had been melted down to be made into weapons of war . . . And Malcolm had a distinct vision of the cannon of war being recast into the bells of peace – the joyous bells of peace . . .

It was then that Malcolm decided that he liked the celebratory pealing of the bells just as much as the cannonade of the 1812, and could be instrumental in attaining that goal.

However, at the present time, the pattern of the cannonade was foremost in Malcolm Reed's 'primitive' brain, and he gloried in the rhythm, both in the engulfment of his member, and the stroking of his partner's cock. At that precise moment, he was alive, so wondrously alive, as was his love, and nothing that they would ever face could take that moment away – and his body, mind, and soul exploded . . . And Trip reversed his comments, "God, Mal!". And Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of Starfleet felt good, so very, very good . . .

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