A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 1

A Narrow Escape

I suppose that if I want to tell you how I came to know the Ridges and how that acquaintance almost cost me my family's fortune and very nearly got me enslaved, I'd better begin with a curious incident that happened just before my fifteenth birthday.

After my father's death my mother had to take responsibility for the family fortune. She had inherited quite a bit as the sole heiress of a successful chain of shops. Upon the death of her father she had sold the lot and let the family's attorneys invest the proceeds. My father had kept an eye on the investments and my mother was quite happy to let him. After all, she was the dreamy, impractical type. But when my father died she had to take matters in hand, and who would have guessed that this fragile, poetic soul was also a shrewd investor with a razor sharp financial mind. We had done quite well, thank you very much, and our assets, which were already substantial to begin with, steadily grew from year to year.

When I was almost fifteen my mother decided that it was time I began to learn the basics of the management of our investments and assets.

I will not always be around, you know, she said. But we will ease you gently into this, my dear. To begin with, let's have you simply tag along when I visit Singer & Singer.

Singer & Singer were our attorneys. Harold Singer being the elder, venerable head of the firm and Geoffrey Singer being his son and presumptive successor.

Needless to say those visits to dusty offices in an old but magnificent building were utterly boring to a fourteen year old boy. Neither did I learn much as most of the crucial discussions went on between my mother and Mr. Singer senior, behind closed doors in his private office. I guess my mother simply wanted me to get familiar with the firm and vice versa. Most of the time, I had to wait in Geoffrey Singer's office, bored beyond words.

It must have been on the third or fourth visit that it happened. While I was patiently waiting for my mother to come back, sitting quietly in a club chair for visitors, I studied Geoffrey Singer who was reading some papers at his desk.

Without being downright ugly, he also couldn't be called very attractive. He was in his early twenties, I guessed, and had a slender, wiry body. What most attracted my attention were his big hands with long, bony fingers. His face was sharp and so was his nose, which he, from time to time, nervously rubbed with his left index finger. He wore gold rimmed glasses that made him look older than he actually was. His straight hair was short and sort of salt and pepper colored. All in all, he looked somewhat like a giant mouse. Definitely not my type. Besides the fact that for me, at fourteen years, everybody above twenty seemed positively ancient.

He must have felt me staring at him, because suddenly he looked back at me.

Andrew, would you like something to read? A comic maybe?

Sure, I said. Anything to pass the time.

Well, not anything.

Come with me, he said and he opened a door that led to a room full of racks and shelves. Clearly the archive of Singer & Singer or at least that of Singer junior. The room smelled even dustier than the rest of the office. On the far side stood a little table with a chair and a reading light. Geoffrey reached into a box on one of the shelves and retrieved a few magazines which he put on the table. He opened one of them. I still stood at the entrance of the room.

Come, take a look and see if you find it to your taste, he said while he flicked on the reading light. He turned around and began rummaging in another box. I went to the little table and leaned over to take a closer look.

What the fuck? On the pages before me were several pictures of two naked guys, in the most lurid positions, fucking each other. OK, although I wasn't prepared to admit it at that age, I knew I liked guys. But not these kind of guys, with oversized muscles like wrestlers and at least thirty. Shocked I started to back away from the table, but I bumped into Geoffrey who was suddenly, without me having heard a thing, right behind me.

You like that, don't you, you little pervert? I bet you and your little friends have played dirty games like that many times. His voice sounded deeper than usual and somehow, well, moist I suppose, as if there were too much saliva in his mouth.

It was September but it was still very warm, so I wore only a t-shirt over my jeans. With one sudden movement, his left hand reached under my shirt and, while keeping me firm against his breast, with his thumb, he began to massage my nipple. His right hand opened the top button of my jeans, forced itself in my briefs, wriggling the zipper open, and pulled both down simultaneously. My briefs stuck around my knees but my jeans fell to my ankles. He cupped my balls with his hands, squeezed them slightly which made me bend forward, more from surprise than from pain, and then he grabbed my dick.

Hey, I yelled, cut that out. Let go of me.

Sshht, he hissed in my ear, you know you want this, you little bitch.

Yes, from Sean Denham, my best friend on whom I had a crush maybe. Not from some unsavory guy ten years my senior. I tried to wrestle myself free, but the only effect it had was that he pressed me harder against his now heavily heaving breast. He began stroking my cock and to my horror I — it — responded. I didn't want this and I felt, besides being totally humiliated and violated, betrayed by my own body.

See, he whispered hoarsely, I knew that you were just a horny little boy.

By now tears came to my eyes, and at the same time I tried, vainly I might add, to suppress a soft, whimpering moan. Nobody had seen me naked, not even my mother, since I was eight or nine and here I stood, with my ass bared and a virtual stranger fondling my most intimate parts. Helpless. This couldn't get any worse, could it? But of course it could. How he did it, I don't know, but in a second he had removed his left hand from my breast, opened his pants, pulled his dick out, and placed his arm and hand back around me to restrain me. It went all so quickly that I hadn't had time to take the opportunity to wrestle myself out of his grasp. I felt him trying to press his cock between my butt cheeks, at the same time bending me toward the table. It was all I could do to push back with my arms against the table to prevent him from bending me over completely. If he succeeded in doing so, my entrance would be wide open. I knew I wouldn't be able to resist for very long. I panicked at the humiliating thought that not only would he make me come, but he would have his dick inside me while doing so.

This can't be happening, I thought feverishly. "This can't be happening, this can't happen, this will not happen."

Out of sheer desperation, and with all the strength I could muster, I stood as upright as I possibly could.

I'll have you enslaved for this, I raged. Take your filthy paws off me, you disgusting animal. Do you know what my mother will do when I tell her you raped me? Can you even begin to imagine how many lawyers she will hire to make sure you get convicted and permanently enslaved? You know the punishment for rape of a minor. Do you realize just how much justice the Ashton fortune can buy?

I was out of breath, but it worked. He let go of my dick and released me of the strangling hold in which he had kept me. I slowly turned around and glared at him with a hate so strong as only the young can emanate. All blood had drained from his face. He had already put his member back in his pants, I noticed.

I'm sorry, he said. Please, don't tell your mother. I really thought you wanted this.

What made you believe I wanted to be raped by a dirty beast? When did I say that I wanted this? How could I have wanted this? Have you looked in a mirror lately? I spat at him.

You're right. Of course, you're right. I don't know what came over me. O, please, please… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, he whimpered.

He knelt before me, and pulled first my briefs, then my jeans up. He tried to pull up the zipper as well, but was far too nervous and had to give up. He stood up, took a step back, looked at me, and began to cry. I must have looked exactly the part of a molested boy. Hair disheveled, jeans rumpled, unzipped and unbuttoned, t-shirt creased, panting, wild eyed. Seeing me, he understood there was not the slightest possibility of him denying anything I would choose to accuse him of. He knew his life as he had known it would be over if a fourteen year old boy should but speak one word. As a man of the law, he knew everything there was to know about Indentured Service, as it was known in official documents, or slavery, as it was known by the people.

I took a few deep breaths and leaned against the table behind me to steady myself. Sure, I was still mad, enraged even, and if I could have crushed him then and there like a bug, I would have. But I also felt other emotions welling up. Triumph was one of them. I had controlled a desperate situation by mere words, just the right words, true, but only words nevertheless, and it was I who had somehow found them. Power was another. I held the fate of a grown man in my fourteen year old hands, a man who stood before me, trembling and crying, waiting what the verdict, my verdict, would be.

Please, button up your jeans, comb your hair, before they, before your mother comes back. I beg you, don't tell. I promise, it will not happen again, but please, please…

Shut up already, I barked, and began to straighten my clothes as good as I could. My comb had fallen out of my back pocket, together with my wallet.

Geoffrey saw me looking for them, and picked them up from the floor. He silently handed them over to me. After I had brought some semblance of order to my hair, I left the room, and sat again in one of the club chairs for visitors.

Geoffrey sank behind his desk. It seemed as if he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. He rearranged some papers without really seeing what he was doing, adjusted his glasses, and rubbed his nose. He took a deep breath, gathered all his courage, and opened his mouth.

Rest assured, I said gruffly, before he could utter a word, I won't tell.

He sighed, sat a little bit straighter and cleared his throat.

Thank you, he said in his normal voice as if I had just handed him a cup of coffee instead of his life. I assure you, you won't regret this.

After what seemed an eternity my mother and Singer senior finally came back, still discussing some finer points of an investment.

You seem a bit ruffled, my dear, she said.

Ah, you know me, mother, I replied noncommittally and smiled at her.

I heard a barely audible sigh of relief from the direction of Geoffrey's desk.

You're awfully quiet, dear my mother said in the car on the way home.

Oh, I'm just a little bit tired, that's all, I answered.

In fact, I was mulling over the events of that afternoon. Why hadn't I told on Geoffrey? What had tipped the scales? Well, I was not too sure. I truly pitied the guy. It couldn't be easy being him, what with his looks, and his craving for young boys. And like my mother always said: Nobody deserves to be made a slave. I don't care what they're supposed to have done. It not only degrades the victim, it also degrades us as a society. I tended to agree with her. If you think that was noble of me, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. There was also a considerable measure of self preservation involved. I would have had to recount the whole sordid affair in embarrassingly intimate details to the police and almost certainly repeat it again publicly in court. The story would have been all over the papers. Who needed this kind of notoriety? School was hard enough without being known as the boy who almost got fucked in the ass. No, thank you very much, it was enough that Geoffrey had believed I was prepared to involve the authorities.

Thoughts of an altogether different nature raged also through my mind. Until today I had paid little attention to my looks. It had come as a surprise to me that my appearance could drive somebody as far as to lose control and throw all caution to the wind. As distasteful as the whole episode had been, it was also kind of flattering in a weird, twisted way. Maybe, I thought, I can make Sean Denham see what Geoffrey Singer had seen.

Sean would meet with far less resistance. None, in fact.

Chapter 2

An Act of Kindness

Sean and Timmy were my two best friends. We had known each other since kindergarten. All three of us came from what you would call a privileged background, but while our peers were usually sent to exclusive private institutions, a freak democratic streak in our parents made them send us to a public school.

Early on I learned that I'd better call myself simply Andrew Ashton and most emphatically not Andrew Nathaniel Ashton VII. Beating up the rich kid was the favorite pastime of every bully of the schoolyard. Sean and Timmy had similar experiences and we soon found out that there was indeed safety in numbers. As a result we tended to stick together as much of the time as possible. Even so we were mostly in the corner where the blows fell, but never without dealing one or two of our own. It's true what they say: being in battle together creates a special bond. Gradually they left us to our own devices and that was perfectly fine by us. None of us excelled in sports, nor did we belong to the computer nerd or video game crowd. In our own way we were kind of dorky, I suppose. Usually we spent our free time at the tennis club of which we were members, practically from birth, just like our parents. Democracy went only so far, you see. There was a special section for the young ones where we could hang out, get soft drinks and generally enjoy a bully-free environment. We even played tennis occasionally. Very occasionally. We stank at it big time. As we grew older we liked to discuss current events and politics, especially Sean and me. Timmy was just happy to hear us talk and only once in a while took part. Strangely enough, he never seemed bored. Have I mentioned we were kind of dorks?

Timmy was Timothy Strathway, as in Strathway Constructions. He was rather small and compactly built, with a round face surrounded by unruly brown curls, which he tried to tame, in vain, by sporting some kind of headgear. Usually a cap, but Sean and I still remembered with slight distaste the spring his choice fell on a beret. He couldn't sit still for five minutes and everything in life was a source of great wonder to him. Certainly not stupid, but far from an intellectual giant, Timmy was fiercely loyal and someone you wanted by your side if there was trouble. He would have gone through a fire for you and come out grinning at the other side. Sean helped Timmy with his Science and Mathematics classes, I helped him with Literature and History.

Sean Denham was the greenest branch on the vast tree of the Denham political dynasty which had given the country Congressmen, Senators, Governors, a Secretary of State and a host of lesser office holders. His father, Senator Frank Denham, resided most of the time in the capital. This didn't seem to bother Sean much. Nothing did. Sean was gifted with one of those by nature sunny dispositions. He had half long, dark brown hair with eyes of almost the same color and a friendly face. He was handsome, but more cute than handsome, if that makes any sense. When he saw you, his face lit up with a big smile that seemed to say that he had waited the whole day just for you to arrive. He effortlessly managed to make you feel special, exceptional. He was kind but strong at the same time, strangely dignified yet unaffected. He had an easy gracefulness about him and his charm could melt rocks. God, even his sweat smelt nice. He was my best friend and I was deeply, hopelessly and totally in love with him.

On Saturdays we used to go into the city. Sometimes we went to see a movie. We also loved rummaging through bookshops and later showed each other our newly acquired treasures. That is, Sean and I did. Timmy followed us and usually bought just the one book. We'd often seen the bookcase in his room, full of brand new, unread books on the most diverse subjects, filling the shelves in the exact order he had bought them. It gave the room cachet, Timmy used to say. Dorks, we were such dorks.

We met, weather permitting, in the park in the center of the city, always on the same bench. It was late in the summer and the sun was shining. A beautiful day. I arrived first and had just sat down when I got a text message from Timmy: not feeling too well can't make it sorry. Oh well, that meant I would be alone with Sean the whole afternoon, and that was a pleasant enough prospect. OK. Get well soon, I messaged back.

Although I was deeply in love with Sean, I hadn't done anything about it. I didn't want to take any risks of losing him as a friend. He didn't even know I was gay and that I had a crush on him, and I had no idea at all how to make him see that without scaring him away for ever.

A quarter of an hour later my cell rang. Sean.

Hey Andrew, I'm sorry but the old man has come home unexpectedly with a few important guests in tow, and he has decided that he needs his firstborn and the apple of his eye to be around. I've got a text from Timmy. You too I suppose. Seems you're on your own, my friend. Bummer.

Yeah, bummer is the word. Don't sweat it though. See you tomorrow at the club?

No problem, the political circus is leaving this evening. Hey, don't do anything I wouldn't do and don't have fun without us.

I solemnly swear, I said lightly, but of course I was disappointed.

So, I had a whole afternoon to kill on my own. I was still trying to figure out what I could do to entertain myself and had half decided to go see a movie when I saw a man looking at me. It was Geoffrey. I hadn't recognized him at first because he wasn't wearing a dark gray suit as usual, but some light summer outfit. He saw I had recognized him, hesitated a while, then came towards me.

Andrew, he said and nodded, can I sit down?

Hey, it's a free country and I don't own the bench, I replied neutrally.

Ah, right, he said and sat down as far away from me as possible. I wanted to thank you properly for not telling on me, you know, and the, ah, incident, he added after a short, uncomfortable silence.

You say incident, I say attempted rape, I answered.

I am truly and deeply sorry about that, he said earnestly. I really don't know what came over me. I am usually a very cautious person, but when I saw you sitting there, the sun playing in your hair, I… His voice trailed of.

I turned to him and I saw a whole other person. Instead of the office mouse, there sat a young man who looked his age, not handsome in a classical way, but certainly not ugly or repulsive. He looked very unhappy.

Listen, let's forget it. You didn't scar me for life, and all in all no real harm was done. Not for lack of trying, though, I smiled.

That's… very nice of you, he said surprised.

So, you like little boys?

No, no, he said horrified, it's not like that. Not little boys. I like them young, true. Younger than the law permits, anyhow. But I like them to be in complete control. And willing. It was a freak accident, a mistake. He looked very unhappy again. You threatened me and you were completely justified to do so. Every time I try to make, ah, contact, I run the risk that someone will act on such threats. Even those who offer themselves for money could ruin me. I, I mostly go without, ah, gratification, but the frustration builds up. Sorry, I am boring you. Or worse.

It can't be easy for you, I said. I felt sorry for the guy, and I knew a little bit about frustration myself. Then I surprised myself. I still don't know what came over me. Was I bored, frustrated myself, or did I pity the guy that much? Were the raging hormones of a fifteen year old boy taking over my brain?

Listen, I heard myself say, if you've got some discrete place to go to I'll let you feel me up a bit.

Me and my big mouth. The moment I had said it I regretted it. Geoffrey looked nervously around as if fearing a trap.

You're joking, he said, hoping I was not.

No, not at all, you don't even have to pay me, I said with much more confidence than I felt. "There are conditions though. You can look. You can feel me up where I say you can. When I say stop, you stop. Immediately. I don't reciprocate. You can, let's say, take care of yourself, but I won't touch you.

There will be no fucking. And, most importantly, this is a one off deal. You will not try to contact me or in any way seek a repetition of the occasion. Do we have a deal?"

I promise, he said, licking his lips nervously.

His car was just outside the park. He drove us to the outskirts of the city. I had expected to be taken to a seedy, cheap hotel, but it turned out we stopped in a rather ordinary neighborhood. The Imperial Hotel was not as grand as it's name implied, but it seemed clean enough.

My little brother and I are in town for a funeral and we'd like a room to rest a bit and clean up a little, he said to the man behind the counter. Yeah, right.

We