Young Writers Society

“I don’t think that’s any business of yours, sir,” Maxwell said as he tucked his shirt back in and tightened up his belt. An odd thought came to Winslow’s mind as the other party guest attempted to pull himself back together - why would this child try to claim to know about sex when he didn’t even know how to put his clothes back on in a hurry? That was a skill that Winslow was well acquainted with from his days of sleeping with theater folk and men from dancing troupes. It was something that a minor should have never known, but it was something Winslow had known too well as a young teenager.

“It is most certainly my business. And do you know why, Maxwell?”

“Well I suppose you’re going to tell me whether I ask you or not. And I know it’s not going to be a lesson that ends with me over your knee.”

The young man tried to reach for Winslow’s glass but the spy pulled it away before the kid ever had a chance. He wasn’t a fan of this line of conversation. In a slight mocking motion, Winslow took a drink of the whiskey while deciding on his answer. Amid choking on his most recent sip, he coughed and explained, “If you’re asking whether or not I’m a pedophile, Maxwell, I’ll only tell you one more time - I’m not.”

“I know you’ve said that you’re not interested in someone like me,” Maxwell said as he slid his hand down his hip. He went a step further to unbutton his collar and then reached for Winslow’s own shirt. “But a lot of men that have told me that they’re not interested in me have ended up with their cock in my mouth.”

Winslow could only sigh as he pushed the child off of him and guided them both out onto the balcony. He left the kid at the door for just a second to cobble together a few chairs and a table. The spy pointed directly at the child and brought his vision down upon the chair Maxwell reluctantly sat down on the offered chair, looking up to Winslow with varied expressions of confusion.

The soldier walked away from the sad scene to step back inside in search of some sort of whiskey that originated in the United States. This scenario didn’t allow him to be too picky but he would have most certainly would have killed any of these party guests for a bottle of Jack. He thought of this slight plan of murder while searching through different low lying cabinets in the ball room. As he did finally manage to find something American made, there came a slight tap on his shoulder and a light voice asking, “Is there anything I can assist you with sir?”

Winslow felt the cabinet slam into his forehead and the blood dripping down his face long before he managed to turn around to see someone wearing a mini skirt version of a kilt. It was so tight that the soldier could see the muscles of the thighs of the person who was basically straddling him. He stood up slowly, ignoring the offered hand and the blood dripping down his face. Once the soldier made his way to his feet he attempted to smoothly say, “No assistance is necessary for this task but thank you for the offer.”

“Are you sure that you don’t need a little help with your forehead, love?”

The skirt asked as they pressed a handkerchief up against Winslow’s temple. It took too long for his vision to focus but Winslow knew that there was a variety of factors going into that. From the dehydration to his drunkenness to the overall domino effect of the calamities surrounding them…

Well Winslow was getting a little bit tired of this evening. He thought he had been to worse parties before he came to this one.

There was still a slight hesitance in his voice as he calmly answered, “I am quite alright.”

He pulled the hand holding the handkerchief down from his forehead, examining the sharp, red nails clenched around the light material. When he finally looked up to the powdered face that had been watching over him, he saw that his rescuer was looking elsewhere. Out to the patio and the ever struggling Maxwell. It took a few moments to study the beautiful figure before him for Winslow to realize that he needed to get back onto the balcony before Maxwell decided to go to any of the nearby cottages that he had spotted on the way in.

“Perhaps it’s your friend out on the patio that needs some help then, though they do look a bit young for you,” the mini kilt commented as they turned back with the bloody tissue in their hand. Their other fingers were running through Winslow’s hair as they asked, “So I guess that you’re trying to stop that boy from getting his little ass taken by one of the true perverts in this joint?”

The sharp cheekbones of the painted face were pointed directly at Winslow. In his head he wanted to remark that those cheekbones were so sharp that he could probably cut his finger on them. And in another dark corner of his mind, he was tempted to test out the theory. He allowed the temptation to run a few of his finger’s down the beauty’s face as he remarked, “Are you one of the true perverts or are you one of the protectors like me?”

“I’d gauge from my interest in having you do dark things to me that I’m some sort of pervert, Mr. Smith, but I’m not the kind of monster that would go after a child.”

They pulled Winslow’s fingers away from their cheek, kissing his fingertips gently and guiding him out onto the patio. The two of them walked gently with Winslow’s forehead still dripping a bit of blood and the bottle of liquor nearly slipping from his loose hand. It seemed like time had magically stopped until Maxwell broke the silence with a loud sigh and an accusation of, “What the hell are you doing, Roger?”

The light and fair voice of the painted face didn’t miss a beat as it answered, “I told you that my name is Rosemary when we’re at parties and what I’m trying to do is help this nice man take care of you.”