The Lord of Twink's Bottom (a very British gay romance) by Danni Keane

Author:Danni Keane [Keane, Danni]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-10-25T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The Enormous Turnip

Cobblestones and bare feet are a killer combination. If Tracy's tear-streaked cheeks hadn't been caused by the ache of shame in his gut, they could just have easily been caused by the burning pain shooting up his calves from the unforgiving surface. A moment of panic set in, as—gasping for air—Tracy stopped his sprint to frantically pat his pocket, feeling for his key. If he had left it at Twink's Bottom Manor, along with his trainers, he might as well just curl up on the spot and die. Taking his life into his hands by shimmying up Tiny Cottage's rickety drainpipe, to squeeze through the bathroom window, was preferable to going back there. The image of Rory's face crumpled with dismay filled Tracy's mind, bringing a fizz of bile to his throat.

He shoved his hand deep into his pocket, relief flooding through him at the reassuring chink of metal there. He started his dash again, head down, eyes focussed on the ground, for fear that one of the other residents might see his guilt stained face. His fears were unfounded. The high street was as deserted as usual. After struggling to manoeuvre the key into the lock with his shaky hands, he finally pushed through the door, and slammed it behind him. He paused for a moment, breathing in the musty smell, just as he had on his first time there. This time, however, it brought no solace. The only place that could provide him any measure of comfort was that well-known sanctuary from fear, hurt, ghostly beings, and axe-wielding intruders—the bed covers.

Tracy burst through the kitchen, thudded up the stairs, and launched himself onto the bed. It took all the energy he had left to drag the crumpled quilt over his body, and right up over his sweaty head. He lay face down, snot and salty tears seeping steadily into the mattress, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited for the oblivion of sleep to take him.

* * * *

From the top of the phallus, the whole of Twink's Bottom was spread like a picnic blanket below Tracy. He held an enormous bar of soap in his hands, which he used to carefully lather across the phallus' head. Again and again, his hands passed over it. He watched the soap's silky suds spill over the sides, pooling around the bollocks, at least twenty storeys below. At first, Tracy thought he was floating, but when he looked down he saw the reason for his elevated position. The wedge heels of his Converse were so high, he stood like the Colossus of Rhodes, a bridge across the privet hedge, forming an impressive gateway to Twink's Bottom Manor.

He was clad as he had been every year in the Movement Group. The sun shone brightly, a mirror-ball of light reflecting off his sequinned leotard. Glittery waves shimmered over everything below, including the strange array of mismatched creatures that formed a long line, starting at the base of the hill, just where Twink's Bottom Manor ended and the village began.

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