Ardennian Boy

Ardennian Boy

William Maltese

Price: $5.99

Ardennian Boy, from coauthors William Maltese and Drewey Wayne Gunn, is historical romance and literary erotica blended into one masterful novel. Maltese's sensuous prose retells the tumultuous love affair between poets Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, while Gunn's lyrical translations of their bawdy gay poems, woven naturally into the fabric of the story, enlighten even as they arouse. Together, the two authors bring this singular love story brilliantly to life.
PUBLISHED BY: ManLove Romance Press
CATEGORIES: ManLove, Historical, Erotica
KEYWORDS: gay erotic romance, slash, M/M, historical



COPYRIGHT William Maltese/
ARTHUR Charleville: 27 August 1871 I'M UNDRESSING when I open my bedroom door and walk on through. Once the door closes behind me, it's only a matter of minutes before I'm completely stripped. I examine my reflection in the time-blackened ancient mirror of the nearby makeshift wardrobe. I'm not as skeletal as when I returned, soldiers' cum dripping down my legs, from my runaway to Paris last spring, but I still can count my ribs; my prominent hipbones are handles. In contrast, my hard (always hard, these days) cock looks exceedingly robust and well-fed. My palm runs along my pale neck, through the faint reddish fuzz on my chest and belly, into the thicker growth of darker bush that sprouts at the roots of my stiff pecker. I pinch the base of my erection between my index- and fuck-finger; a resulting preseminal tear pools within my pisshole. My fingertips dig into the softness of my underbelly and cause the downward shift of my foreskin that breaks the liquid's surface tension and sends its stickiness sliding down the right side of my cockcorona. I'm not the Greco-Roman ideal of young manhood, but I'm pleased that I'm not. I'm bored with stereotypical perfection and prefer too-long-neglected imperfection as the better grist for my poetic mill. I'm tired of poetastery exaltations to the lily (why not the willy?), red-red rose (why not phallic hose?), forest stream (why not spermal cream?), maiden demure (why not hustler's manure?), civility (why not bestiality?), Persian satrap (why not Persian crap-crap?) .... Fuck my detractors who think I'm not a poet, without the right to extol whatever I damned well please, even if they're the present poet-poseurs in Paris (Paul Demeny and Théodore de Banville come to mind) who fear me, even at my young age, as their superior, as their competition - even if one is my own harridan mother who prefers I do just about anything, including filling or emptying chamber pots, rather than attempting a career with ink and pen. I lie naked on my bed and enjoy the roughness of the aphrodisiacally coarse blanket against my bare legs, ass, and back. I scoot toward the bottom of the bed until my feet and ankles extend over. My arms stretch, and my hands anchor to the headboard. My legs bend at their knobby knees and lift toward the ceiling. They keep their momentum until my feet aim toward the wall behind me and then continue until my toes touch down between my extended arms. This provides me with a full view of my overhanging cock; my balls are pendulous chandeliers. I've the additional viewing pleasure of my sphincter-punctuated ass crack with its sweaty reddish-brown hairs. I'm distracted by the latest oozing of pre-cum that pools my pissmouth, this one in defiance of gravity before it converts to the long and sticky string that, when it breaks free of its anchorage, I catch with my open mouth. The sudden basting of my tongue is slightly salty (but not nearly as saline as my cum to come). I wish that I were numbered among those lucky few who can assume the position and suck not just leakage but leaking pecker. I know of only one person who boasts such flexibility (in combination with his admittedly seen-and-identified-by-me bonafide horse's cock); so far, despite all cajoling, he only performs for his own amusement, although I suspect his penchant for exhibitionism will eventually win him over. I fist-milk my dick, where it down-juts, for whatever remaining transparent goo is in it. I feast on the additional self-made repast and, one more time, strip my penile hardness, from its base to head, just to be sure I've eaten all. My ass - skinny, bony, and definitely in need of more fleshy padding - is still more attractive, more sexy, than any woman's. I am an authority on asses, having made them the subject of an extensive study. Nor has my ruling in favor of the male ass been unduly influenced by mine gang-raped in Paris by homophobic soldiers, although I confess to having paid particular attention to my shit-hole after that incident, having been made paranoid by the spermal (often puss-like) discharge that drained from my sphincter for days thereafter, with disconcerting accompanying soreness. My fascination with naked male butt began as soon as I saw my first one, other than those of my brother and me. The buttocks in question belonged to a husky blacksmith, on a particularly hot summer's day, who didn't have a clue that I was watching when he stripped down and then tipped a bucket of water over his head for a quick - and hardly sufficient, by my clean-freak mother's high standards - wash, before hurriedly putting back on his breeches and continuing to hammer on a phallic rod of white-hot metal plucked from the orange-glow coals of his forge. The image of him and his fat cock ... of his bare and rock-solid muscular ass ... is indelibly branded upon my mind. Our butts are not like women's. I've been witness To men's exposed behind some hedge often; And in skinny-dipping with other children I observed the form, the impact of our asses. They are firmer, whiter in most cases, With striking planes covered by the screen Of hairs (whereas for women the long silken Tufts flower only in their dainty crevices). With an ingenuity, touchingly marvelous (Such as one sees only on angels on an icon), They resemble the cheek dimpled with happiness. Oh, to be naked now, seeking peace and sunshine, My face basking before a glorious ass And both of us free to murmur and moan! Auguste Bretagne, one of my admirers from the local coterie that keeps me sane in this mainly uncivilized backwater town, told me only recently, as I held regular court at the Café Dutherme, that I should write Paul Verlaine, one of the few contemporary poets in Paris whom I truly admire. I amuse our little group with tales of the debauchery I've seen or experienced (some real, mostly fabricated) during my three trips to Paris and with hints of my ongoing sex with every dog, cat, duck, goat, chicken, pig, cow, and horse within a ten-kilometer radius. They, in turn, provide laughter, good cheer, attentive adoration, access to their libraries, use of their mailing addresses for my personal correspondence, free booze, and encouragement. Occasionally, I allow Auguste the bonus (usually while I relate some sordid tale of sexual perversity in the nation's capital) of resting his hand on and fondling, beneath the table, the hardness of my dick. Auguste, who met Verlaine at the house of a sugar producer, now promises (whispered in my ear as he clandestinely squeezed the hardness of my table-hidden young-boy pecker) to include a note with my letter (and poems?) that will personally recommend me to Paul. Possibly, I'll send Paul my poem describing my rape by Commune soldiers. After all, Auguste hints he's a sodomite. I wish to exert all possible effort to make Paul receptive to my literary flirtations. I'm eager for him to invite me to Paris, whether he recognizes my artistic genius or correctly anticipates easy access to my fine young ass. Each additional second I spend in Charleville makes me more desperate for a sponsor (pederast or otherwise) who will permanently remove me from this place that I've tried three times to escape and each time been sucked back into. My dilemma isn't just how this backwoods morass is so stifling, in its confinement, but how I grow so weary fending off the trolls sequestered here with me (my mother, chief among them); I fear I'll soon have no energy left for nurturing my creative genius. My dual-orbed and lusciously pale young ass still moons my face, as I listen for sounds identifying my mother, sister, and brother. It's always my hope, at times like this, that my mother will open the bedroom door, which I've left unlocked (for her?), and see my winked sphincter an open invitation for her continually wagging tongue to do something besides berate me for idleness and insist I get a job or get out (as if it's easy composing poetry: the silly ignorant bitch!). If she had licked my father's asshole (and cock) more often, maybe he'd be with us today, instead of preferring the male companionships of some distant military post. One hand to each of my buttcheeks, I open my ass wider along its crack. I'll fantasize sex with a big black man. According to Auguste, imagining something is the best way of overcoming any restrictions morality may impose against it. "Imagine something enough times," he told me, "and when the reality happens, it's old hat. Try masturbating while pretending my exploring hand is undoing your trousers fly beneath this very table, my fingers suddenly enfolding your big young dick to pry its hardness and your bull-like balls into the open." It worked. I'll begin this fantasy where my last one, involving a black man, left off: ebon slave-cock having filled my ass and just pulled out, Negro smiling. "Does my pale white-boy master want seconds?" My mouth works my spit to a froth that I transfer, by fingertips, to the dime-size pucker of my butt. Reminiscent of the long-lasting anal leakage I endured as the aftermath of my multiple violations in Paris, this wet is just as easily imagined to be my slave's spent cum suctioned from my butt by his withdrawing black penis. "Yes, fuck me ... again ... slave!" I command my phantom lover. "Make it a long, hard fuck this time. Maybe even provide a slap-warm of my ass by way of lead-in." I whack my ass with an open palm. The sound resounds loudly, and I want my mother to come - "What perversion has your idle hands gotten you up to now?" I slap my ass again ... then again ... to make her hurry. Except, she doesn't come. Where is the bitch - thin and stiff as any scarecrow's dick? If I didn't want her, she'd be here screaming ... screaming ... screaming ... at me to get a job or get out. How about I get my rocks off, instead? Fuck her (something it's rumored her father did more than once; she should have capitalized on having played at being his second wife and not let it turn her so bitter). "Hit me again, stud!" I tell my personal African slave, summoned by me in order to get me ready for the real thing ... someday. Because, I will have black cock up my ass. I'll have it down my throat. I'll have it creaming in my armpits and shooting off between the squeeze of my thighs. I'll have its golden piss drown me in yellow spray. I'll have its pre-cum basting me like butter on a Christmas goose. I'll have its heavy cream frost me, inside and out, and have the black man's tongue, like that of an eager child's, lick me clean. I'll tongue-fuck black ass and enjoy its funky, musky smells and its funky, musky tastes. I'll have the black man sit on my face. I'll play with his cum-laden balls and jack his monster dick to eruption while he strains mightily to shit great piles of his brown and steaming turds all over me. "Mmmmmmmm." My finger fucks slowly and easily and deeply into my butt. It twists - left, then right. It crooks to locate and prod that tender little bump as sensitive to stimulation as a female clit. My cock, pleased as I am, weeps in pure unadulterated joy. My mouth is there to claim the clear, thick and gooey pre-cum waterfall. I mentally dissolve the Negro and replace him and his dick with Paul Verlaine and the poet's hard boy-loving erection. "I told you there isn't a sodomite alive who can resist my experienced tight adolescent ass," I tell him. I want to be the plaything and muse of this great poet and simultaneously wow him with my sexual gymnastics and my pure creative genius. If only my poems can seduce him enough to arouse sufficient curiosity for him to say: "I am calling to you, I am waiting for you." For him to say: "I'm sending money; take the train to Paris." After which, I'll have him bagged, tagged, and only mine in no time. I'll keep him mine by pulling out my whole repertoire of perversions (already imagined). I grab my dick and squeeze. The resulting preseminal syrup misses my mouth, paints my face, and stings my right eye. My scrotum contracts to speed-hoist my netted cum-big testicles almost to virtual disappearance at the thick base of my boner. I finger-fuck my ass ... harder, deeper. I pump my cock ... up, down, up .... The unnatural curvature of my body becomes more pronounced, as my back and shoulders and head bounce the bed beneath them in coordinated accompaniment to the drumbeat of ecstasy rat-tat-tatting faster and faster inside me. If only I can raise my head from the bed ... if only my pale ass can descend a bit more toward my face ... if only my tongue can extend to doggy-lick my cockhead ... if only my lips can oval the bulbous head of my dick and suck .... "We are poetry in motion," I tell my phantom rider. "Ours are the fetid rhymes of cock-stuck ass, ass-fucking dick, stirred shit, gurgled spit, animalistic growls and grunts and moans and groans and ... oh, God ... your fucking dick ... up my fucked ass ... oh, oh ... Jesus, oh ... I'm ... going ... to .... My dick douses my passion-grimaced face with hot and sticky boy-cream. My mouth catches some of it but misses most of it. My still-pumping hand webs with it and smears it along my spasming dick from cockhead to cockbase. I hear the outside door, my mother outdoors no longer. I scramble to pull myself together, my finger out of my ass with a wet pop, my sticky fist unfurled. My body's swift unwind makes me light-headedly dizzy. My spine dully aches from a return to normal posture too quickly. My face, neck, chest, belly, fingers, and dick slough cum like a salted slug starting to puddle its own essence.

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