Chapter 1 – The Kiss
George's stomach grumbled – he wills it to stop so he doesn't have to go home and face his father – but it continues and eventually he relents. The sun is beginning to set in the cold western moors, casting a dull, jaundiced orange over everything. As he walks along the river bank to his father's respectable cottage by the Pemberley rose gardens, a sharp sound of running water drifts from the trees on the other side of the river.
Here stands Carter, son of the head gardener, 17 years old and brutishly good-looking. Thick dark hair worn long and broad shouldered, he stands confident and unashamed as he urinates on the hapless shrubs at his feet. George stands and watches, politely waiting for him to finish his business. They have met each other before – George has often helped the gardeners when his father wanted to get rid of him.
As Carter buttons up his breeches, he turns and calmly looks at George as though he knew he'd had an audience. The right corner of his mouth lifts to form a lazy, appraising smirk. George feels Carter's eyes move up and down his body in lustful assessment of new goods delivered. There gazes then meet and both see the other's eyes glint in appreciation.
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They shared their first kiss 20 yards from George's home in broad daylight. Though similar in height, Carter was the stronger and so naturally initiated the embrace – but as George began to respond almost ferociously, fingers delving into hair and tongues sliding like frantic snakes, Carter let out a sudden groan of painful pleasure. This startling sound awoke George from his semi-conscious state, and he began to take note of things.
When he stroked the back of Carter's neck, the response was a quiet rumble of the voice box. Rubbing his hands down to Carter's buttocks produced a clenching of the fists and a more vigorous swirling of the tongue. Of course, George felt lust weakening him to, but through this haze of desire he realised that he could control Carter.
George, who ever since he was aware of the inferiority of his birth had longed to gain social status, suddenly felt like a king. This burly youth 3 years his senior was like wet clay in his hands, at least for a short while. Soon George's tenuous hold of the situation was dashed when Carter suddenly pushed him up against a tree to begin attacking his neck. The slightly tighter grip of his hands on Carter's shoulders was the only evidence of his irritation at having lost control. But our George is good at hiding his emotions, and as far as he was concerned, he was successfully sweeping George off his feet.