GENRE: Gay Historical Erotic Romance
LENGTH: 23,007 words
RATING:

Laurence and Eduardo have been lovers for ten wonderful years, but in the past few months Eduardo has become distant. Still madly in love with his Brazilian hunk, Laurence tries everything he can think of to win Eduardo back. When he catches Eduardo being unfaithful with one of the young servants, Laurence’s world is turned upside down. An argument ensues and Eduardo disappears during the night.

On his own for the first time in his life, Laurence decides to escape his memories of Eduardo by visiting Paris indefinitely. He stays at the new, opulent Hotel Regina where he meets Brenton, a fellow Brit. They visit the Moulin Rouge and afterwards, Brenton takes him to a club in the backstreets of Montmatre. Le Cul Noir is a men’s club where Laurence discovers he hasn’t been as outrageous as he previously thought.

He grows to care for Brenton, but he’s surprised to find himself thinking more and more about Eduardo. He knows he can’t have them both, but does he try to forget all about the love of his life and stay in Paris? Or does he have to find the courage to say goodbye to Brenton and go in search of Eduardo -- a man who may be lost to him forever?

EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

It’s only a short journey from Pigalle to Montmartre and soon we’re back pounding the cobblestones.

“This is the place,” he tells me. “You can find anything you want here.”

I don’t exactly know what he means, but the street is alive with the sound of music and laughter. People are spilling out of cafes and clubs, singing and talking to each other in loud voices. We walk along the footpath and I wonder which of these wonderful places he’s taking me. We turn down a small side street, a petite rue latérale. It’s not as well lit here. There are street lamps, but none of the café lights and such.

He approaches a non-descript door, indistinguishable from any other door, and knocks three times quickly and then a fourth time. A small window opens and a pair of dark eyes appear. They look us up and down then disappear. Without a word the door opens and a large muscular man wearing a leather mask and very little else bids us, “Bienvenue.”

I nod and smile and follow Brenton through a small foyer into a room about the size of a drawing room, where there are men in various stages of undress, smoking and drinking. A skinny youth walks by holding a bottle of what I know to be absinthe. The fattest part of him is the erection he’s sporting. His lips are red as are his cheeks and a ghastly shade of blue colours his eyelids. While Brenton scours the room, I watch the boy deliver the bottle to a group of three men, one of whom gooses the boy as he bends to fill their glasses. The boy laughs and pushes back against the digit. I can tell by the grimace on his face it has penetrated him.

My cock is rigid inside my trousers. When I glance down I notice a small spot of pre-cum on them. I clasp my hands over the damp patch and look to Brenton.

Brenton walks me through a maze of couches and small tables laden with glasses, alcohol, drug paraphernalia and ashtrays with smoking cigarettes. The atmosphere is dim. The décor is red and gold, opulent and reminiscent of the Orient. There are potted palms, which appear lush and verdant despite the fact they can’t see much daylight. There’s also a macaw perched on a stand beside one such palm. As I walk by it squawks in my ear, nearly bringing on a heart attack.

He leads me through a beaded curtain into narrow corridor painted black. It’s even more airless and smoky and I feel the need to clear my throat several times before we reach the end.

We come out into a small cloak room with black and red walls, and red carpets. There’s a naked man behind the counter. He looks as though he spends all his spare time lifting weights. His chest is enormous and has a light covering of dark hair. When he smiles, his beard and moustache accentuate his perfect teeth.

“Juste vous deux?” he asks.

I look to Brendon to deal with this.

He nods, hands the man some money then turns to me.

“Okay, my friend. Off with your clothes.”

My heart’s beating a tattoo, but as Brenton already has his jacket and shirt off, I’m not about to be left behind. I have no idea what we’re doing here. I’m too nervous to ask. More importantly, I want to come across as man of the world. Back home, at Hilldare Manor, that’s exactly what I considered myself to be. My trip to Paris has proved otherwise.

When we’re both naked, the man behind the counter speaks to us in French while putting our clothes on a hangar. He pins a number to the hangar, one to our shoes then picks up a stick of chalk.

“Votre nom?”

“Charlesworth and ...” he turned to me. “Surname?”

“Harrison.”

The man writes our names on a blackboard and puts the number 31 beside Brenton’s name and the number 32 beside my name.

“Entrez, s'il vous plait,” says the man with a grand sweeping gesture.

We push through a door into a room even more dimply lit. Immediately, Brenton pushes me up against the wall and starts kissing me. His kisses are full of passion. His breath smells of champagne and his tongue is in my mouth, sliding over and around mine. He thrusts his pelvis forwards against mine so our cocks are pressed together. While he kisses me, he grinds his cock against me.

“I’ve waited all day to do this,” he whispers breathily.