Pete, the trainee barman, is warned about “something queer” down in the cellar, and finds out just how accurate that description is!

***

“There’s something queer down in that there cellar, Pete,” so Terry says.

That’s my new boss, the old duffer who runs the Kings Arms and who obviously has no idea of what the word “queer” means these days. This morning I’ve been introduced to the “queer” cash register that keeps ringing up the wrong amounts, the “queer” twenty pound note one of the staff mistakenly accepted the previous evening, and the “queer” corner of the back bar. That last one made me sit up and pay attention, but then I realised my mistake and forced all thoughts of Ben Sawyer and the confusing way he made me feel out of my head. Well, I tried to anyway, but as this is his local and that’s one of the main reasons I went for the job here, it was hard to forget. I keep getting little flashes of the way he used to smile at me when we were at school together – all intimate and knowing, like. Never dared do sweet FA about it, mind. This latest “queer” thing, though, which Terry hasn’t even bothered to explain, is the reason he’s buggered off and left me down in this musty old cellar with a list of bottles to bring up.

I lounge against the cool stone wall, fingers itching to light up a sly ciggie, but warned off by the smoke detector overhead. I reckon the sooner I get this stocking up done, the sooner I can get my nicotine fix, so I stroll over to the boxes of bottled beers and mixers, kneeling down to prise open a crate of Hobgoblin ale.

That’s when I feel it.

It begins with a tingling, running up and down my spine and making the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. I could swear that someone’s looking at me, and my head snaps round to check. I scan the shadows, but there’s nothing there. Nothing to explain the icy wave that passes through my body. Well, nothing but the ice machine over on the opposite wall, but as it’s switched off and over fifteen feet away, I reckon it’s not likely to be the cause. Must be a draught from somewhere. That’s gotta be it; all these old buildings have mysterious draughts, don’t they?

It’s when the cold arms wrap around me from behind that I start to lose it. I give myself a right royal pain in the neck trying to look around behind me; I can’t see anything there, but I can bloody well feel it. My arms are pinned to my sides and it feels like I’m being hugged by a snowman or something. I’m sure snowmen don’t usually have the carrots sticking out of their crotches, though.

You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?

The voice sounds in my head rather than my ear; a whisper that buzzes around inside my skull and makes me go all faint and trembly. I’m practically shitting myself, but at the same time as my heart’s pounding and my stomach lurches, I start getting a stiffie. This is really not a good time, I try to tell my misbehaving cock, but as usual, it doesn’t want to listen. Stupid thing has a mind of it’s own sometimes, which is the only reason I ever shagged Tracy Jones, I swear.

But what did it say? Pretty? I’m not fucking pretty, all right! I’ve just got one of those pointy faces and a mop of dirty blond hair that the girls go crazy over. I’m about to tell this snowman thing to sod off, but then there’s this cool touch against my neck that feels an awful lot like a pair of lips.

“W-who are you?” I’m pretty proud of the way I manage to get the words out in the right order. I’m less proud of the whimper that follows them when one of those arms moves down, and cold fingers reach straight through my jeans to wrap themselves around my aching prick. How the hell did it do that? Mind you, at least it seems to be warming up a bit – whatever it is. Think my balls would want to go into hiding if it had stayed all icy.

I’m hungry.

That’s really not a good answer, and a small part of my mind is screaming at me to run away, but it’s getting overruled by the way those cool hands are seducing me, one stroking my balls while the other plays with a nipple. I may as well be naked, for all the protection my clothing seems to be giving me.

“What are you hungry for?” Oh, I had to fucking well ask, didn’t I? Couldn’t leave well enough alone and just enjoy it while it lasted.

I’m hungry for your seed.

Okay, that’s a bit better. Well, a lot better. On a list of things he might be hungry for, my seed definitely gets my vote. It’s way ahead of, say, my brains, or a limb or two, or even my blood. You know, all those things I’d really rather not have to do without.

The press of that firm body against my back makes me shiver, but it’s in a good way. I’ve always fancied blokes as well as girls, but never had the guts to try it on with anyone I know who’s, well, queer. Especially not Ben Sawyer – he of the pert arse and sinful lips. Looks like I might be about to find out what it’s like to get a damn good shafting, though, because whatever this thing is – and I think it’s probably safe to say it’s not human – it’s definitely male. And right now the proof of its manhood is pushing through my jeans as if they weren’t even there.

“If you want to eat my seed, then wouldn’t you be better off giving me a blow job?”

This way is better, but I could if you prefer.

Oh god – do I have to make a choice? A blow would be great, but I’ve had plenty of them in my time. This would be something else. Eventually, my brain shuts down and my body takes over, shuddering and arching back against him.

“Go on then. This way,” I gasp.

When the blunt tip of his cock nudges my cheeks aside and presses against my hole, I give the most embarrassing yelp, and if I were standing I swear my knees would give way. As it is, I slump forwards onto the crates, rubbing my face against the smooth cardboard in an effort to distract myself from the fact that my ring is being stretched so much it hurts, though the cold quickly numbs any pain. I feel like I’m being impaled on a bloody enormous icicle, but it’s good. That cold, hard presence filling me is like something I’ve never known I needed, but now it’s here I realise that I’ve always been waiting for just this. I push back, hungry for more of him inside me, wanting to melt him with the heat of my need.

His first thrust makes me gasp, finding a place inside me that shoots spasms of pleasure through my body, and he times it with a pump of his hand on my cock which sends me to the stars and back. I’m not going to last long, and I try to tell him to slow down, but then I can’t think any more because he’s fucking me so hard and fast that my vision blacks out and my orgasm crashes through me, leaving me panting and shuddering as I feel one last thrust explode through my body, carrying me on a second wave of ecstasy.

I come to, my face stuck to the box with a combination of drool and sweat. I feel a pair of chill lips brush against my neck.

That is all.

The presence just evaporates into thin air. One moment I’m kneeling there, my arse full of an ice cold prick; the next I’m on my own, staring at the list I dropped on the floor when the ghost first made his move on me.

Ghost. Now that he’s gone my mind supplies the word I didn’t want it to while he was around. I start to shiver in earnest, hugging myself and looking around the room for anything out of the ordinary.

It looks like the same cellar as when we came down. Nothing more sinister than a few cobwebs in the corners, and the low hum of the chiller units. Surely I must look different in some way? But my clothes are all good as new, and somehow my jizz seems to have disappeared. I mean, I should have seriously sticky boxers by now, but they’re dry as a bone. Is that what he took from me? Asides from my cherry, of course.

I start to smile, and I grab the bottles on the list, savouring the slight tenderness in my arse that seems to be the only evidence of what has happened. I’m feeling pretty proud of myself as I climb the cellar stairs. First day at work, and not only have I stocked up the fridges and charmed the landlord, but I’ve kept the resident ghost happy. Who knows what wonders I’ll achieve later in my shift when the customers start arriving? Maybe I’ll feel brave enough to flirt with Ben if he comes in.

I push open the door and head on round to the bar, smiling at Terry who looks up from polishing the drip trays.

“Jesus Christ, Pete, are you all right? You look white as a sheet! Are you feeling a bit queer?”

And he must think I’m an absolute bloody nutcase as I laugh so hard I double over.

“Oh my dear boy, we must get some spirits into you.”

“Thanks Terry, but I think I’ve had enough spirits in me today already.”

He gives me a funny look at that, leaving me to finish stocking up the fridges. Every time I touch a cold bottle it gives me goosebumps and a delicious thrill runs right through me. I wonder if the ghost will be there next time I have to stock up? I bloody well hope so.

 

Originally published in Filament magazine (issue six)