EasyRory
JUB Addict
Sorry I forgot the line-feed break between Tom's scene and Debbie's in the last chapter. It's a little difficult to read. 
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Change at Gallery Place
- Thread starter EasyRory
- Start date
The seque from one into the other, anyway, no biggee.
Lots of fun reading - I think I said something about Lucky's luck changing for the better - I did read Mike's comments on liking the casual, no strings, sex bringing a tear to his eye.
Lots of fun reading - I think I said something about Lucky's luck changing for the better - I did read Mike's comments on liking the casual, no strings, sex bringing a tear to his eye.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You still won't marry me, huh?”
“Rawson ...” Matt smiled, concentrating as much as he could on slicing some tomatoes. “But keep asking, ok?” Matt was making a salad, or trying to; and Rawson had come home in a frisky mood.
“We can use your dick to stir the dressing.” Rawson's wandering hands had produced a predictable result in Matt's pants, a possible kitchen utensil.
“I don't stir. I shake. Maybe we could strap the dressing to my ass while I fuck you.”
Rawson laughed and moved away. “Would you be interested in doing a voice over? Because I know a foundation that wants to do a ...” Matt was in his arms instantly, smelling of olive oil and full of kisses. They returned to the kitchen a half hour later, more subdued, unable to stay very far away from each other.
“Olive oil as a lube? You make me feel very … Mediterranean.” Rawson sighed and pulled Matt into his arms again.
“You know we weren't the first. I bet some Greek boys working in an olive grove a couple millennia ago figured it out first.”
Rawson got serious. “The voice-over would be for a foundation the supports “cost-effective” medical research. There are some political implications.”
“What do you mean by 'cost effective'? Stop! Wash you hands first. I know exactly where they have been.” Matt blocked Rawson's grab for a tomato wedge.
“They only want to fund research that contributes to productive goals.”
“Such as?”
“They think eliminating something like the common cold that hurts productivity by keeping workers at home is more important to society than treating, say, cancer in a ninety-year-old.”
“How far is that from saying don't waste time on AIDS; it mostly affects those nasty homosexuals?”
“Not too far. Their counter argument is they don't want to stop research on things like AIDS, they just want to put productivity first. It's not so different from the World Health Organization saying if means are limited, treat only mothers and children; other people are non-essential to society's survival.”
“The World Health Organization says that? Really?”
“Yep. So think about it. Your voice would be great, but working for a controversial cause might come back to haunt you later in life.”
“Could I do it anonymously?”
“Could you suck Bill Clinton's dick anonymously? People always find out.”
“Well … if he promised not to stick a cigar in me ...”
Rawson hugged Matt. “Don't do it, babe. I'm sorry I mentioned it. You'll find something else.”
“Yes, I will,” Matt resolved. “Do YOU have any cigars? It would be ok if you did it.”
The upshot was some very sweet sex later that night, but Matt was still unemployed.
“I guess I am nervous around you,” Alfred admitted.
“Once I worked for a guy in California who made porn ...” Tom began and Alfred's mouth fell open. He backed up again.
“P-porn? What kind of work?”
“He wanted results and there was no time for 'getting to know you' sessions. His solution was the long hug. Hug me.” Tom waited and then said, “Just do it.”
Alfred gave Tom the briefest hug in the entire history of shy men; there was barely the hint of chest-bump. He backed up again.
Tom pulled him back close and held him. “Now put your arms around me. That's right. The idea is that we hug until you are so embarrassed you want the earth to swallow you up. And we keep hugging until that feeling passes. Until you know my body like your own. Ok?”
The tiniest ok came from Alfred.
“Feel my back, the physical connections of bone and muscle. Think of me as a private anatomy lesson. Explore a little … That's right. Now lower ...”
“Tom, no.” Suddenly Alfred tried to pull away but Tom tightened his grip.
“You have a hardon. I can feel it. So what? Count to three. Has the world ended yet?” Tom whispered to Alfred, “How long is your dick? Tell me right now.”
Alfred groped for words. “In furlongs?”
“Hmmm. Less than one, I have to guess. Do you know another measure?”
“Seventeen – eighteen centimeters.”
“Let's see … at about two and a half to the inch … that would be … not bad at all, Alfred. Why are you embarrassed?”
Alfred gave up on breaking the hug but tried to pull his pelvis away from Tom's. Tom grabbed his ass and pulled him back tight. “Relax. Use your own body to feel mine. It's a nice hardon. it hasn't drawn blood or caused a single injury.”
Gradually Alfred became aware of a similar bulge poking back. He relaxed a little.
“Count my ribs,” Tom asked and then dissolved into giggles as Alfred counted, “One ... Two ...”
“I can never last past two. I'm hopeless,” Tom confessed and they pulled closer together. “Feeling better?” Tom felt Alfred nod his head. “Embarrassed? Nervous?” The head shook no. “Big hug for the finale,” Tom demanded. “A little kiss for the encore?”
The question of actual sex had never come up. It was sort of assumed, wasn't it? Alfred wasn't sure. Maybe Tom's intent was just to break the ice. He never talked about going farther. Alfred backed up a little.
“Alfred, you're still backing up!” Tom took Alfred's face in his hands and kissed him seriously. It was a generous kiss, full on the lips, gentle but firm. It was followed by two brief kisses confirming the first was no accident. They hugged again.
“Do I scare you?”
“No, it's not that,” Alfred said. They kissed some more.
“You're very appealing. I can feel a well of passion somewhere in there. What's wrong?”
“I don't know what to do. I have no experience. Zero. None at all. And you have, I guess, a lot. I'd be a disappointment.”
“Why? How could you disappoint me? Are you a terrible cook?”
Alfred laughed. “Actually I'm a pretty good cook.”
“I'm glad to hear that, because I'm not and there may not be much in the kitchen. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Let's look.”
The larder was in fact bulging more than Alfred's pants. There was everything anybody could want. Alfred decided on a shepherd's pie; it was easy and fast. Tom poured two drinks and proposed one condition to the cooking. “Every time the timer goes off, you have to hug me.”
Tom expanded the first hug to include a kiss and they continued, obeying the timer. The duration of the hugs varied according to what was happening on the stove but the hugs became very familiar.
Tom was pouring more whisky into the glasses when Alfred grabbed him from behind and kissed his neck. Tom laughed. “You didn't say I had to wait for the timer,” Alfred offered.
“Hugs, kisses, and whisky,” Tom toasted before they began eating.
The result of a day on the beach, hugs, kisses, whisky, and a storm sent them to bed at a fairly early hour. “That was a nice day,” Tom said, as he turned out the light.
“A great day,” Alfred said from across the room. They undressed in silence and near darkness.
“Are you staying tomorrow?” Tom asked as he climbed into bed. The sheets seemed icy.
“I don't know,” Alfred said. The other bed creaked as Alfred got into it.
“I hope you do,” Tom answered. The sound of the rain filled their silence although the wind was calmer. “Alfred …? This bed is freezing cold. And I think I heard the kitchen timer.” Alfred was in Tom's bed in a flash.
That night Alfred lost most of his inhibitions and a lot of his inexperience. In the morning he was still unbelieving and wondering about limits.
“Tom, can I kiss you any time I want?”
“Yep.” They kissed.
“And other stuff?”
“Yep.” They kissed again.
“And you're going to fuck me?”
“Too soon for that.”
“But eventually … ?”
“Yep.” They kissed for a long time.
“Tom … I love you.”
“Too soon, but hold that thought. I think it will come in handy.”
The two happiest people in Norfolk wanted the world to stand still; but the world never does. The best mood passes; the best sex fades away; and a couple of minutes can change everything.
“Tom? Alfred? We're back,” Alistair called up the stairs.
“Be right down.” Tom called back. Alfred instantly pulled off Tom's dick with a red face, mostly because he had gagged on the length but partly from embarrassment .
They giggled and kissed and hugged and held each other's cocks and somehow managed to get dressed at the same time. The damp cold in the room expedited things. Unable to stop smiling, they went singly down the narrow stairs.
Alistair beamed. “What did I tell you, Edmund!” It wasn't a question. He looked from Tom to Alfred and back. “You two didn't miss us at all, did you?”
Dimitri was as proud as a new father. “My two special agents,” he congratulated them on their decision to work together.
“There can't be any spying, Dimitri,” Phil reiterated for the third time that night.
“So suspicious, you Americans. You'd think Russians couldn't be trusted.”
“This one can,” Phil smiled at Alex, “But I'm still feeling out the rest of you.”
“That's fair.” Dimitri was conciliatory. “Now, to finish up the training, I want you to learn some country and western songs.”
“Why?” asked Phil.
“Why? Always why! Because I like them. And so does everybody else in Europe … over a certain age.” Dimitri let impatience show, but not annoyance. He shook their hands and dismissed them. “Now go practice. Two weeks, I think, and you must be ready.”
Phil was excited on the walk to his apartment. “Do you think we'll play in Europe? What did he mean, Alex? Are we going somewhere?”
“Don't think about any place good. Think about some ratty border town in Hindustan.”
“India? India? The food is so ...” Phil curled his lip.
“... nourishing,” Alex filled in. “I don't know what we'll be doing, but never expect it to be good.”
“I'm glad, Alex. You know that, right? I'm glad we're doing this together.”
Alex grinned and turned on the radio, spinning the dial randomly. “What's the country station? WMZ-something?”
“No idea. Maybe we could play the Birchmere. They get country acts sometimes.”
“Here … it's around ninety-eight” He found WMZQ, 98.7 on the FM dial. An advertisement for a Mercedes-Benz dealer ended, followed by the patter of a female C&W jock.
“So put the brake on in the Benz, stop, and listen to this one. Ace Elder, new on the scene, wailing 'P.S. I Love You.' I don't get the title, it's got nothing to do with writing letters, but he's one heart-broken cutie, girls. Give a listen.”
Phil recognized the voice at once. Ace had never said anything about singing country, but he did have a sweet voice. He could sign any style he wanted to.
“Oh, man,” Alex said, looking up at Phil. “I don't think we want to sing that one. The audience would go out and kill themselves.”
Ace's song was about a bust-up and sounded experience. Drugs and booze couldn't help him, he sang. Terror could, but terror would lead to death. The song ended with the jarring coda: P.S. I love you.
The jock followed the song with an interview with Ace. “Where did you get the name, Ace?”
“A. C. E. They're my initials ...” Ace responded.
Alex's eyebrows shot up. “That's … !” Phil shushed him and they continued to listen.
“What's the C for?” the jock asked.
“I'm not even gonna tell you what the A is for. The name is Ace.” Phil smiled remembering Ace's dislike of Adrian.
“Tell us about the song. There must be a million women who want to soothe your pain.”
“The pain's already gone. Of course, if anybody wants to comfort me, that would still be ok. It was something I had to write about. Something to get out of my system.”
The light came on for Alex. “P.S. is Philip Scott!” Phil just listened. “He still loves you. Maybe.” Phil put his finger to his lips, asking Alex to be silent.
“There's another song I wrote. It's about playing in a band and avoiding all the beer bottles people wing at you. Ducking in time is a lot of fun. So was writing the song.”
“Thanks, Ace. You can catch him at the Birchmere, this Friday and Saturday. No bottles, please folks. That's Ace Elder. Call for reservations at 703-549-7500. You better hurry. Whew. He's a hottie, girls. And I mean long-legged, tight here, bulging there … Trust me. Go see him yourself. ”
“Phil …?” Alex tried to shake Phil out of thinking about Ace.
“I could have been a lot nicer to him.”
“It sounds like he survived. There are always ways we could have been nicer. Except in my case ...” Phil looked up. “You couldn't be any nicer to me.”
Phil growled, and smiled, and grabbed Alex and rolled on the floor with him. “Crazy, sentimental Russian. The love of my life. All my dreams.” They wrestled in a very familiar way. “You say we have ten years. Let's not waste 'em.”
They wrestled and kissed some more and gradually Alex overpowered Phil, pinning him to the floor unable to move. “I'd love to fuck you, Phil, but we both have our clothes on. No wonder guys used to wrestle naked.”
They did get naked and sat with their instruments, listened to more CW. “Do you think a mandolin fits this kind of music?”
“Everything fits country. Autoharps, banjos, guitars, pianos … Yours won't be the first mandolin anybody's ever heard. I think Steven Foster played the mandolin.”
“The guy who wrote Dixie?” Alex gave Phil's dick a friendly tug and then got rid of his mandolin so he could try some cocksucking. “Let's practice something else.”
Phil had no objection to that idea. He stood his guitar in the corner and saw their old black friend. “Alex? What about the dildo? You want to ...”
“Throw it away. Donate it to an orphanage. Melt it down for the vinyl. Hang it on … Ooof!” Alex's list of suggestions was ended as Phil jumped on him. “Who needs a dildo?”
Phil grinned and kissed his lover. Alex welcomed him to the bed wrapping his legs around Phil's waist and pulling him close. “Alex … do you love me? You have never said much.”
“Do I have to tell you?”
“Well, sooner or later I'm gonna need to know. I think the Russian social security form has a blank about lovers I need to fill in.”
“I love you with all my heart. I will die for you … or with you … You are my life, Phil.”
“Alex, I don't want to die for you. I want to live for you. You Russians get so gloomy, sometimes.”
“You still won't marry me, huh?”
“Rawson ...” Matt smiled, concentrating as much as he could on slicing some tomatoes. “But keep asking, ok?” Matt was making a salad, or trying to; and Rawson had come home in a frisky mood.
“We can use your dick to stir the dressing.” Rawson's wandering hands had produced a predictable result in Matt's pants, a possible kitchen utensil.
“I don't stir. I shake. Maybe we could strap the dressing to my ass while I fuck you.”
Rawson laughed and moved away. “Would you be interested in doing a voice over? Because I know a foundation that wants to do a ...” Matt was in his arms instantly, smelling of olive oil and full of kisses. They returned to the kitchen a half hour later, more subdued, unable to stay very far away from each other.
“Olive oil as a lube? You make me feel very … Mediterranean.” Rawson sighed and pulled Matt into his arms again.
“You know we weren't the first. I bet some Greek boys working in an olive grove a couple millennia ago figured it out first.”
Rawson got serious. “The voice-over would be for a foundation the supports “cost-effective” medical research. There are some political implications.”
“What do you mean by 'cost effective'? Stop! Wash you hands first. I know exactly where they have been.” Matt blocked Rawson's grab for a tomato wedge.
“They only want to fund research that contributes to productive goals.”
“Such as?”
“They think eliminating something like the common cold that hurts productivity by keeping workers at home is more important to society than treating, say, cancer in a ninety-year-old.”
“How far is that from saying don't waste time on AIDS; it mostly affects those nasty homosexuals?”
“Not too far. Their counter argument is they don't want to stop research on things like AIDS, they just want to put productivity first. It's not so different from the World Health Organization saying if means are limited, treat only mothers and children; other people are non-essential to society's survival.”
“The World Health Organization says that? Really?”
“Yep. So think about it. Your voice would be great, but working for a controversial cause might come back to haunt you later in life.”
“Could I do it anonymously?”
“Could you suck Bill Clinton's dick anonymously? People always find out.”
“Well … if he promised not to stick a cigar in me ...”
Rawson hugged Matt. “Don't do it, babe. I'm sorry I mentioned it. You'll find something else.”
“Yes, I will,” Matt resolved. “Do YOU have any cigars? It would be ok if you did it.”
The upshot was some very sweet sex later that night, but Matt was still unemployed.
“I guess I am nervous around you,” Alfred admitted.
“Once I worked for a guy in California who made porn ...” Tom began and Alfred's mouth fell open. He backed up again.
“P-porn? What kind of work?”
“He wanted results and there was no time for 'getting to know you' sessions. His solution was the long hug. Hug me.” Tom waited and then said, “Just do it.”
Alfred gave Tom the briefest hug in the entire history of shy men; there was barely the hint of chest-bump. He backed up again.
Tom pulled him back close and held him. “Now put your arms around me. That's right. The idea is that we hug until you are so embarrassed you want the earth to swallow you up. And we keep hugging until that feeling passes. Until you know my body like your own. Ok?”
The tiniest ok came from Alfred.
“Feel my back, the physical connections of bone and muscle. Think of me as a private anatomy lesson. Explore a little … That's right. Now lower ...”
“Tom, no.” Suddenly Alfred tried to pull away but Tom tightened his grip.
“You have a hardon. I can feel it. So what? Count to three. Has the world ended yet?” Tom whispered to Alfred, “How long is your dick? Tell me right now.”
Alfred groped for words. “In furlongs?”
“Hmmm. Less than one, I have to guess. Do you know another measure?”
“Seventeen – eighteen centimeters.”
“Let's see … at about two and a half to the inch … that would be … not bad at all, Alfred. Why are you embarrassed?”
Alfred gave up on breaking the hug but tried to pull his pelvis away from Tom's. Tom grabbed his ass and pulled him back tight. “Relax. Use your own body to feel mine. It's a nice hardon. it hasn't drawn blood or caused a single injury.”
Gradually Alfred became aware of a similar bulge poking back. He relaxed a little.
“Count my ribs,” Tom asked and then dissolved into giggles as Alfred counted, “One ... Two ...”
“I can never last past two. I'm hopeless,” Tom confessed and they pulled closer together. “Feeling better?” Tom felt Alfred nod his head. “Embarrassed? Nervous?” The head shook no. “Big hug for the finale,” Tom demanded. “A little kiss for the encore?”
The question of actual sex had never come up. It was sort of assumed, wasn't it? Alfred wasn't sure. Maybe Tom's intent was just to break the ice. He never talked about going farther. Alfred backed up a little.
“Alfred, you're still backing up!” Tom took Alfred's face in his hands and kissed him seriously. It was a generous kiss, full on the lips, gentle but firm. It was followed by two brief kisses confirming the first was no accident. They hugged again.
“Do I scare you?”
“No, it's not that,” Alfred said. They kissed some more.
“You're very appealing. I can feel a well of passion somewhere in there. What's wrong?”
“I don't know what to do. I have no experience. Zero. None at all. And you have, I guess, a lot. I'd be a disappointment.”
“Why? How could you disappoint me? Are you a terrible cook?”
Alfred laughed. “Actually I'm a pretty good cook.”
“I'm glad to hear that, because I'm not and there may not be much in the kitchen. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Let's look.”
The larder was in fact bulging more than Alfred's pants. There was everything anybody could want. Alfred decided on a shepherd's pie; it was easy and fast. Tom poured two drinks and proposed one condition to the cooking. “Every time the timer goes off, you have to hug me.”
Tom expanded the first hug to include a kiss and they continued, obeying the timer. The duration of the hugs varied according to what was happening on the stove but the hugs became very familiar.
Tom was pouring more whisky into the glasses when Alfred grabbed him from behind and kissed his neck. Tom laughed. “You didn't say I had to wait for the timer,” Alfred offered.
“Hugs, kisses, and whisky,” Tom toasted before they began eating.
The result of a day on the beach, hugs, kisses, whisky, and a storm sent them to bed at a fairly early hour. “That was a nice day,” Tom said, as he turned out the light.
“A great day,” Alfred said from across the room. They undressed in silence and near darkness.
“Are you staying tomorrow?” Tom asked as he climbed into bed. The sheets seemed icy.
“I don't know,” Alfred said. The other bed creaked as Alfred got into it.
“I hope you do,” Tom answered. The sound of the rain filled their silence although the wind was calmer. “Alfred …? This bed is freezing cold. And I think I heard the kitchen timer.” Alfred was in Tom's bed in a flash.
That night Alfred lost most of his inhibitions and a lot of his inexperience. In the morning he was still unbelieving and wondering about limits.
“Tom, can I kiss you any time I want?”
“Yep.” They kissed.
“And other stuff?”
“Yep.” They kissed again.
“And you're going to fuck me?”
“Too soon for that.”
“But eventually … ?”
“Yep.” They kissed for a long time.
“Tom … I love you.”
“Too soon, but hold that thought. I think it will come in handy.”
The two happiest people in Norfolk wanted the world to stand still; but the world never does. The best mood passes; the best sex fades away; and a couple of minutes can change everything.
“Tom? Alfred? We're back,” Alistair called up the stairs.
“Be right down.” Tom called back. Alfred instantly pulled off Tom's dick with a red face, mostly because he had gagged on the length but partly from embarrassment .
They giggled and kissed and hugged and held each other's cocks and somehow managed to get dressed at the same time. The damp cold in the room expedited things. Unable to stop smiling, they went singly down the narrow stairs.
Alistair beamed. “What did I tell you, Edmund!” It wasn't a question. He looked from Tom to Alfred and back. “You two didn't miss us at all, did you?”
Dimitri was as proud as a new father. “My two special agents,” he congratulated them on their decision to work together.
“There can't be any spying, Dimitri,” Phil reiterated for the third time that night.
“So suspicious, you Americans. You'd think Russians couldn't be trusted.”
“This one can,” Phil smiled at Alex, “But I'm still feeling out the rest of you.”
“That's fair.” Dimitri was conciliatory. “Now, to finish up the training, I want you to learn some country and western songs.”
“Why?” asked Phil.
“Why? Always why! Because I like them. And so does everybody else in Europe … over a certain age.” Dimitri let impatience show, but not annoyance. He shook their hands and dismissed them. “Now go practice. Two weeks, I think, and you must be ready.”
Phil was excited on the walk to his apartment. “Do you think we'll play in Europe? What did he mean, Alex? Are we going somewhere?”
“Don't think about any place good. Think about some ratty border town in Hindustan.”
“India? India? The food is so ...” Phil curled his lip.
“... nourishing,” Alex filled in. “I don't know what we'll be doing, but never expect it to be good.”
“I'm glad, Alex. You know that, right? I'm glad we're doing this together.”
Alex grinned and turned on the radio, spinning the dial randomly. “What's the country station? WMZ-something?”
“No idea. Maybe we could play the Birchmere. They get country acts sometimes.”
“Here … it's around ninety-eight” He found WMZQ, 98.7 on the FM dial. An advertisement for a Mercedes-Benz dealer ended, followed by the patter of a female C&W jock.
“So put the brake on in the Benz, stop, and listen to this one. Ace Elder, new on the scene, wailing 'P.S. I Love You.' I don't get the title, it's got nothing to do with writing letters, but he's one heart-broken cutie, girls. Give a listen.”
Phil recognized the voice at once. Ace had never said anything about singing country, but he did have a sweet voice. He could sign any style he wanted to.
“Oh, man,” Alex said, looking up at Phil. “I don't think we want to sing that one. The audience would go out and kill themselves.”
Ace's song was about a bust-up and sounded experience. Drugs and booze couldn't help him, he sang. Terror could, but terror would lead to death. The song ended with the jarring coda: P.S. I love you.
The jock followed the song with an interview with Ace. “Where did you get the name, Ace?”
“A. C. E. They're my initials ...” Ace responded.
Alex's eyebrows shot up. “That's … !” Phil shushed him and they continued to listen.
“What's the C for?” the jock asked.
“I'm not even gonna tell you what the A is for. The name is Ace.” Phil smiled remembering Ace's dislike of Adrian.
“Tell us about the song. There must be a million women who want to soothe your pain.”
“The pain's already gone. Of course, if anybody wants to comfort me, that would still be ok. It was something I had to write about. Something to get out of my system.”
The light came on for Alex. “P.S. is Philip Scott!” Phil just listened. “He still loves you. Maybe.” Phil put his finger to his lips, asking Alex to be silent.
“There's another song I wrote. It's about playing in a band and avoiding all the beer bottles people wing at you. Ducking in time is a lot of fun. So was writing the song.”
“Thanks, Ace. You can catch him at the Birchmere, this Friday and Saturday. No bottles, please folks. That's Ace Elder. Call for reservations at 703-549-7500. You better hurry. Whew. He's a hottie, girls. And I mean long-legged, tight here, bulging there … Trust me. Go see him yourself. ”
“Phil …?” Alex tried to shake Phil out of thinking about Ace.
“I could have been a lot nicer to him.”
“It sounds like he survived. There are always ways we could have been nicer. Except in my case ...” Phil looked up. “You couldn't be any nicer to me.”
Phil growled, and smiled, and grabbed Alex and rolled on the floor with him. “Crazy, sentimental Russian. The love of my life. All my dreams.” They wrestled in a very familiar way. “You say we have ten years. Let's not waste 'em.”
They wrestled and kissed some more and gradually Alex overpowered Phil, pinning him to the floor unable to move. “I'd love to fuck you, Phil, but we both have our clothes on. No wonder guys used to wrestle naked.”
They did get naked and sat with their instruments, listened to more CW. “Do you think a mandolin fits this kind of music?”
“Everything fits country. Autoharps, banjos, guitars, pianos … Yours won't be the first mandolin anybody's ever heard. I think Steven Foster played the mandolin.”
“The guy who wrote Dixie?” Alex gave Phil's dick a friendly tug and then got rid of his mandolin so he could try some cocksucking. “Let's practice something else.”
Phil had no objection to that idea. He stood his guitar in the corner and saw their old black friend. “Alex? What about the dildo? You want to ...”
“Throw it away. Donate it to an orphanage. Melt it down for the vinyl. Hang it on … Ooof!” Alex's list of suggestions was ended as Phil jumped on him. “Who needs a dildo?”
Phil grinned and kissed his lover. Alex welcomed him to the bed wrapping his legs around Phil's waist and pulling him close. “Alex … do you love me? You have never said much.”
“Do I have to tell you?”
“Well, sooner or later I'm gonna need to know. I think the Russian social security form has a blank about lovers I need to fill in.”
“I love you with all my heart. I will die for you … or with you … You are my life, Phil.”
“Alex, I don't want to die for you. I want to live for you. You Russians get so gloomy, sometimes.”
Rory,
A great installment.
Things are warmng up nicely for Tom in the UK. I think Alfred is most happy at the circumstances.
Phil and Alex - with a voice from the past - ACE.
They love each other, but there is some regret on Phil's part.
Matt and Rawson. Will Matt ever say Yes? There is strong affection there, too.
A quieter installment, but still full of action and emotion.
A great installment.
Things are warmng up nicely for Tom in the UK. I think Alfred is most happy at the circumstances.
Phil and Alex - with a voice from the past - ACE.
They love each other, but there is some regret on Phil's part.
Matt and Rawson. Will Matt ever say Yes? There is strong affection there, too.
A quieter installment, but still full of action and emotion.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I'm glad you can stay, Alfred; and I wish I were a better host. I know you two won't mind if I take a nap.”
Tom and Alfred urged Alistair to rest and told him they would find something to do. It wasn't the tone of their voices that said sex was on tap, it was much more the way they looked at each other.
“Have you seen the garden? It's just a little one, but Edmund is so pleased with it this year. It's made for sitting and reading. Take advantage of the weather.”
With that hint of advice, Alistair went into his bedroom and closed the door.
“Want to?” Alfred inquired.
He led and Tom followed into what Tom thought was a huge side yard. It was practically a park compared to tiny California plots. As soon as they stepped into some dappled shade, Alfred stopped and turned. “I'm glad you didn't bring a book, because I don't think I could let you read.” He was shy for a second or two and then he couldn't let go of Tom. They were in each other's arms. Any restraint was gone.
“I know you said it was too soon, but I love you, Tom. I know it. No possible mistake.” Alfred hugged Tom with a ferocity that tried to merge their bodies.
Tom broke their embrace and took a step back, still holding Alfred's hands. “You have that look,” he teased.
“It's hereditary. My father proposed on his first date with my mum. And they're together … twenty how long? … I don't know … forever.”
“Did she say yes on the first date?”
“No, but she says she knew she would eventually. Like stuff we're going to do 'eventually', am I right? It's inevitable.” They kissed again and considered inevitabilities. “Tom … that lounge looks comfortable, doesn't it?”
“Very comfortable for one. Do you think there's room for both of ...”
Alfred lay back pulled him closer. “Lots of room, see? And our erections … like a force of nature ...”
“Sex is a force of nature ...” Tom took a breath as Alfred opened first his shirt and then his pants. “We're just going to do it right here?”
“Nobody's around. Can you think of a better place? Give me some help here ...”
Tom lifted his midsection off the lounge while Alfred yanked his pants down. “There's my lunch,” he said. “Bigger than I thought last night. Mmmm. Not too big though.” Alfred began sucking on Tom's dick and soon paused for a question. “Am I doing it right?”
Tom nodded breathlessly. “Are you sure we should be doing it right here?”
“Now who's the shy one?”
Inside the house Alistair wanted another pillow and on his way to a linen cupboard saw Tom and Alfred. The initial shock of nudity right outside his window quickly wore off when he realized the who, what, and why. He averted his eyes and got the pillow. Of course he had to take another look. And then he went for his drawing pens. “They're beautiful together,” he sighed to himself.
“I'm the shy one, huh?” Tom stood and stripped. “No, you just lie there. I want to do this myself.” Tom made love to each part of Alfred as it was revealed by the disappearing clothes. “You are the handsomest … sexiest … God, your legs are … I don't know what to say.“ Tom said no more and began kissing Alfred's thighs, working his way toward the good parts.
Alfred couldn't restrain his body. There were visible tremors in his legs as Tom caressed and stroked. He couldn't trust himself to say anything, he was afraid his voice would shake. Tom's hand on his cock was causing unbelievalbe, uncontrollable feelings. His foreskin seemed tight or maybe his cock swelled bigger than ever when Tom skinned him back. He sighed with every shallow pant of breath. Tom teased him with licks and kisses on his exposed glans and then with a couple of bobs of his head began sucking. He consumed Alfred completely. The deep-throating, tongue-swirling action brought Alfred to a swift climax. His hips rose off the cushions as he thrust into Tom's mouth, pumping and spurting. His enjoyment ended when he saw Tom red-faced and swallowing hard. “God! Did I hurt you?”
Tom shook his head no and then said it aloud when he could. “No, I'm fine. I haven't done that in a while. Need more practice, I guess.” He managed a smile.
Alfred kissed the tears off his cheeks and gradually relaxed. “That's not a small dick you have.”
“Now I'm paying you back,” Alfred said. He sucked Tom off with equal enthusiasm but less technical skill than Tom had displayed. He gagged and choked a few times, but his determination paid off. He had swallowed most of Tom's load but needed air and pulled off a couple of spurts too soon. He was left with cum om his face to show for it. Their kisses smeared the result all over both faces.
“I couldn't get you all the way in my mouth. Is there some trick to doing that?”
“You got enough in. You'll figure it out,” Tom assured Alfred.
“I'm going to figure it all out. You're going to teach me everything. Ok?' Alfred purred at Tom's yes and pulled Tom close against his body. “What? Didn't I do it at all right? You're still hard!”
“Remember I told you they used to call me 'Engine'? Now you know why.”
“You can go twice?”
“More on a good day … Any day with you would probably be a good day.” Tom kissed Alfred gently letting Alfred verify his continued engorgement by touch. “We don't have to do anything about it. It will go down eventually.”
Eventually. That word again. Alfred decided that in their case 'eventually' should mean right now. He straddled Tom's thighs and lay their cocks alongside each other, holding them in both his hands. “You would let me do anything?”
Tom smiled and nodded. “Anything.”
They kissed again and Alfred told Tom to close his eyes and relax. He stroked their cocks some more and found his own coming back to life faster than usual, but his own pleasure wasn't the goal. Using a combination of left over semen and spit, he lubed himself as best he could. Tom was as hard as a rock – with his cock pointing straight up. Alfred decided this was going to be easy. I'll just move forward a little, position his dick, and …
Tom's eye's opened. “No! Don't!”
“Yes, do!” Alfred sat down on Tom's cock faster than he intended. Her took it for a three-count and then screamed. “Jesus! AAAHH!” He looked like a failed moon launch, rising straight up a bit and then collapsing forward onto Tom gasping in pain.
“I told you! I told you!” Tom tried to comfort him. “Do you hurt bad? Are you bleeding?”
Alistair came running. “Is everything alright?”
Alfred wiped some tears of pain out of his eyes and said, “Caught in flagrante ...”
“In pain, I think,” Alistair soothed.
“I'm fine. I just miscalculated … This is so embarrassing.” He turned to Tom and asked, “Is it alright to be embarrassed now?”
“Permission granted. I'm a little embarrassed, too. Alistair … I'm sorry … I'm ...”
“You're naked and beautiful and making love.” Alistair turned away from the tangled lovers before him. “There's nothing to be sorry about,” he called over his shoulder as he walked back to the house.
Tom turned back to Alfred. “You're ok? You sure? Check for blood ...”
I'm fine. No harm. I had no idea that could be so painful.”
They dressed and went to their upstairs bedroom. Tom insisted that Alfred check again for blood. The toilet flushed and Alfred emerged looking sheepish. They lay on the bed holding each other.
“Ok, now I just feel stupid. The next time you fuck me, I'm going to ...”
“Don't even think about a next time. We don't have to. I can get off just kissing you and knowing you're hard for me.”
“You're kissing me and I'm hard right now. And I don't see you getting off. I want you to love me every way we can think of and that includes fucking.”
“It's something to work up to. Don't measure my pleasure by whether I'm fucking your ass.”
An ocean away Lucky was just waking up on a peaceful Sunday morning. He ached so pleasantly and knew that with no distractions he would feel the residual heat of Mike's cock in his ass all day. The previous night had been another athletic demonstration of just how easily Mike could move Lucky around. I liked it best when he pinned me against the wall, Lucky remembered, and entered me sooo slowly, sooo powerfully. His cock is like ...
Mike breezed into the bedroom with a glass of orange juice. “You are the hottest fuck I've ever known, Lucky. Do you like it when you wake up, too?”
Lucky's eyes widened but the juice tasted so good going down he just kept drinking.
“Don't worry. I think I'm still wiped out from last night,” Mike said sitting on the bed, resting his hand on the bulge in the sheets where Lucky's cock lay.
“Ahhhh,” was Lucky's satisfied reaction to the orange juice.
Mike began a little monologue. “Why don't you move in with me? For the duration of the project, I mean. You want to? It would save commuting time … We could fuck a lot … The work would go faster too … And we could fuck a lot … Did I say we could fuck a lot? I like fucking you a lot.” Mike took the glass from Lucky's hand and kissed him before he could say no. He pulled the sheet down, exposing Lucky's erection. Mike stood up and looked down at Lucky. “No,” he said, “Don't cover up. Let me enjoy the view.” Mike was quickly out of his clothes and straddling Lucky. “Your turn, I think.” He sheathed and lubed Lucky's cock and then successfully completed series of the maneuvers that caused Alfred so much grief. When it was over, Mike followed up, “See? You wouldn't always be the bottom, in case you were wondering, Luck. You want to move in with me?”
“With me?” Lucky questioned. He could have easily said no to “You want to move in?” But the with me made it so personal, not quite intimate, but very close.
Mike smiled. “With me. Tom always says that. He'll say something innocent like 'You want to go to the store with me' and it sounds like he's asking for a fuck. Which I kind of am here. You want to move in with me?”
Lucky came up with a string of what-about's, which Mike explained away one by one. It would probably be just for a couple months. No rent. Mike's rent had in fact been reduced until the garage was rebuilt without Apartment C. Neither one of them snored. It would be fun. Mike finally said, “We could fuck every night. I get so horny watching everybody else I know have sex all the time.” That was the clincher.
“I thought I was the one with that problem,” Lucky stated.
“How horny have you been since you started staying with me?”
Lucky went over it in his mind. “I want to, Mike. I really want to … I've fooled around enough. With people at work even … and Brent doesn't like that. He puts up with it, but he doesn't like it.”
“No pressure, Luck. Do what you want.” Mike pretended indifference the way a guy does when he's turned down for a date.
“Wait. I want to do it. To hell with convenience and not being horny. I want to do it because of you. I'd love to spend every night with you. That's what we've been doing, isn't it? I've already been living here, spending the night with you. Every night. For … how long? A week?”
Mike smiled. “Want another orange juice? What about now? Are you going to …?
“YES I'm staying tonight. I'm nuts about you. Can't you tell?”
“I was going to ask if you're working on Apartment C today. I know you like me.”
“I'm going to ask Brent about moving in. Ok? Mike? Just to make sure he … Oh, fuck it! I'm moving in, OK? As of right now.”
“You told me you loved me last night. Is that true?”
“I did?”
“In the middle of the night you hugged me and said I love you.”
“I must have been talking in my sleep. Now don't get all frowny. That doesn't mean it isn't true. Just means I hadn't planned to tell you.”
“Why wouldn't you tell me?”
“Because you don't love me and I don't want to be a pest.”
“That's true. I don't love you, but everything else is good. I could try. We can work on it. If you want ...”
“Let's go work on Apartment C instead. We'll get back to this later. If I don't get out of bed soon, the day will be over.”
They removed sections of molding checking on construction techniques. This one was a false wall, this one was a bearing wall; this one contained plumbing. It was hot, hard work. In one place the plaster cracked ominously, threatening an entire mural.
“It's an old crack,” Mike confirmed. “We didn't cause it. We just made it a little wider.” He measured with a micrometer. “Not quite two centimeters. Do harm done.”
“Thank God. I thought we were going to lose this scene … some view of purgatory, I guess … in a pile of plaster powder.”
It was dry and dusty work. The carpet layers contributed lunch in the form of a couple bottles of beer and Al stopped in to admire the work. Mike had his shirt off and was sweaty. Al couldn't take her eyes off him. He had no sexual appeal for her, but she had to admire his body, a product of sports and hard work. Her own biceps were evident in a feminine way, but obviously a gym-product. She had to force herself to address the project.
“Maybe a tight net would protect the plaster in the event of catastrophe. It would leave you with larger hunks if it came off the lathe. Might be better than letting it hit the floor and break up more.”
Al's suggestion was accepted and Mike and Lucky quit for the day. They had another beer on the porch with the carpet layers and then ate bigger dinner by themselves. They went to bed tired with the sweet ache of honest labor.
“It's my first night officially being your roommate, and we're not going to have sex,” Lucky observed.
“We can, if you want ...”
“I'll love you in my dreams,” Lucky said. He hugged Mike and kissed a naked shoulder and slept like a log.
It turned out that being an Internet porn queen wasn't the life of luxury that Shelly had hoped for. Her mother, for one thing, had become a huge pain in the ass and elsewhere. She kept recruiting guys with huge dicks for the live scenes.
“Ma! No more donkeys I told you. I used to douche with this dainty little kit, now I need a fire hose after that last guy! Tin Man had a nice dick, average-sized ...”
“What you need is a bigger apartment. If your father wasn't such a karger ...”
“I used to like this apartment,” Shelly whined. It was a nice place on upper Massachusetts Avenue, near American U. It wasn't the lap of luxury, but it seemed good enough to a student.
“You have to have a different outlook now. Now that you're a professional woman,don't you know? Like your nails. Shirley, I tell you over and ...”
“It's Shelly, Ma, not Shirley.”
“Not to me, it isn't. Mata Hari was a nice girl until she changed her name.” Ma's brain switched gears. “You know, Shirley … Washington and all … you could be another Mata Hari.”
“Look what that got Monica Lewinsky! Another nice girl.”
“A little obsessed, maybe. But she did have a pretty smile. Which reminds me, is the dry cleaning back yet?”
“Not unless you went and got it.”
Do I have to do everything?”
“Have's the deal, Ma. You fuck the donkeys and I'll get the laundry.”
“You don't have to be crude about it … How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have ...”
“I'm grateful, Ma. I'm just not having a good time. No more donkey dick's, ok?” She reached for the phone and knocked it onto the floor. It hurt to pick it up. “Hello?” she groaned, watching her mother leave for the dry cleaners. “Tin Doll! Hello! How's life as an instructor?”
“Pretty good, actually. I have more time to work and I've sold some things thanks to the publicity. Shelly … the reason I called … would you like to do some modeling? I'm thinking a nude … something sensual and fairly realistic. Your body keeps coming to mind.”
“Really? How much would I make?”
“Standard hourly, plus five percent of the sale price.”
“Seven percent. I have expenses.”
“No.”
“I'll do it. When?” Shelly put the phone down and began looking for Tyndall's favorite dildo Her current toys were all much bigger. She hummed “The Face of an Angel” to herself as she looked through a drawer of dildos.
Rory and a company lawyer were inspecting their rooms at the Mad Hatter. Rory smiled, remembering the first apartment he had lived in in Alameda. Except for the lack of a bay view, the Mad Hatter seemed to be a British version of the Tiki. Remembering more about the Tiki made Rory check the windows for an adequate fire escape. Rory decided that Tom had overeconomized on their rooms, but the MH would do for the few days they expected to be in London. The lawyer was less sanguine about the lack of creature comforts, but deferred to Rory's judgement.
“Tom?” Rory yelled, displaying the American distrust of foreign telephones. “I'm at your hotel with John Sherman from legal. Do you have time to talk? Where are you anyway? In Norfolk with the customer? John's shaking his head no. I guess he doesn't think you should be socializing with the customer. Ok … ok … Sunday, that's tomorrow, right? Fine, but tired. California seems a million miles away.”
Rory closed the phone. “He's at a shore cottage with the customer and a couple of friends.”
“He has friends here? I thought he was from El Cerrito.” John had a disapproving look. “He shouldn't be compromising himself with the customer. And these rooms suck.”
“Pretend you're in Timbuktu and it's the best they can offer,” Rory consoled. A porter arrived with a tea service so large it barely fit in the room.
“They have no sense of proportion,” John groused. “My room is even smaller. The tea pot alone would take up my entire table.”
“Have tea and a bite, John. Then I want a nap. If the bed is uncomfortable, we can move. Tom said he'll be here in the late morning.”
“Late morning. That's something to set your watch by,” the precise lawyerly mind complained again.
The tea was good and the little sandwiches perfectly filling. The beds were not torture racks and they slept the night through.
I'm glad you can stay, Alfred; and I wish I were a better host. I know you two won't mind if I take a nap.”
Tom and Alfred urged Alistair to rest and told him they would find something to do. It wasn't the tone of their voices that said sex was on tap, it was much more the way they looked at each other.
“Have you seen the garden? It's just a little one, but Edmund is so pleased with it this year. It's made for sitting and reading. Take advantage of the weather.”
With that hint of advice, Alistair went into his bedroom and closed the door.
“Want to?” Alfred inquired.
He led and Tom followed into what Tom thought was a huge side yard. It was practically a park compared to tiny California plots. As soon as they stepped into some dappled shade, Alfred stopped and turned. “I'm glad you didn't bring a book, because I don't think I could let you read.” He was shy for a second or two and then he couldn't let go of Tom. They were in each other's arms. Any restraint was gone.
“I know you said it was too soon, but I love you, Tom. I know it. No possible mistake.” Alfred hugged Tom with a ferocity that tried to merge their bodies.
Tom broke their embrace and took a step back, still holding Alfred's hands. “You have that look,” he teased.
“It's hereditary. My father proposed on his first date with my mum. And they're together … twenty how long? … I don't know … forever.”
“Did she say yes on the first date?”
“No, but she says she knew she would eventually. Like stuff we're going to do 'eventually', am I right? It's inevitable.” They kissed again and considered inevitabilities. “Tom … that lounge looks comfortable, doesn't it?”
“Very comfortable for one. Do you think there's room for both of ...”
Alfred lay back pulled him closer. “Lots of room, see? And our erections … like a force of nature ...”
“Sex is a force of nature ...” Tom took a breath as Alfred opened first his shirt and then his pants. “We're just going to do it right here?”
“Nobody's around. Can you think of a better place? Give me some help here ...”
Tom lifted his midsection off the lounge while Alfred yanked his pants down. “There's my lunch,” he said. “Bigger than I thought last night. Mmmm. Not too big though.” Alfred began sucking on Tom's dick and soon paused for a question. “Am I doing it right?”
Tom nodded breathlessly. “Are you sure we should be doing it right here?”
“Now who's the shy one?”
Inside the house Alistair wanted another pillow and on his way to a linen cupboard saw Tom and Alfred. The initial shock of nudity right outside his window quickly wore off when he realized the who, what, and why. He averted his eyes and got the pillow. Of course he had to take another look. And then he went for his drawing pens. “They're beautiful together,” he sighed to himself.
“I'm the shy one, huh?” Tom stood and stripped. “No, you just lie there. I want to do this myself.” Tom made love to each part of Alfred as it was revealed by the disappearing clothes. “You are the handsomest … sexiest … God, your legs are … I don't know what to say.“ Tom said no more and began kissing Alfred's thighs, working his way toward the good parts.
Alfred couldn't restrain his body. There were visible tremors in his legs as Tom caressed and stroked. He couldn't trust himself to say anything, he was afraid his voice would shake. Tom's hand on his cock was causing unbelievalbe, uncontrollable feelings. His foreskin seemed tight or maybe his cock swelled bigger than ever when Tom skinned him back. He sighed with every shallow pant of breath. Tom teased him with licks and kisses on his exposed glans and then with a couple of bobs of his head began sucking. He consumed Alfred completely. The deep-throating, tongue-swirling action brought Alfred to a swift climax. His hips rose off the cushions as he thrust into Tom's mouth, pumping and spurting. His enjoyment ended when he saw Tom red-faced and swallowing hard. “God! Did I hurt you?”
Tom shook his head no and then said it aloud when he could. “No, I'm fine. I haven't done that in a while. Need more practice, I guess.” He managed a smile.
Alfred kissed the tears off his cheeks and gradually relaxed. “That's not a small dick you have.”
“Now I'm paying you back,” Alfred said. He sucked Tom off with equal enthusiasm but less technical skill than Tom had displayed. He gagged and choked a few times, but his determination paid off. He had swallowed most of Tom's load but needed air and pulled off a couple of spurts too soon. He was left with cum om his face to show for it. Their kisses smeared the result all over both faces.
“I couldn't get you all the way in my mouth. Is there some trick to doing that?”
“You got enough in. You'll figure it out,” Tom assured Alfred.
“I'm going to figure it all out. You're going to teach me everything. Ok?' Alfred purred at Tom's yes and pulled Tom close against his body. “What? Didn't I do it at all right? You're still hard!”
“Remember I told you they used to call me 'Engine'? Now you know why.”
“You can go twice?”
“More on a good day … Any day with you would probably be a good day.” Tom kissed Alfred gently letting Alfred verify his continued engorgement by touch. “We don't have to do anything about it. It will go down eventually.”
Eventually. That word again. Alfred decided that in their case 'eventually' should mean right now. He straddled Tom's thighs and lay their cocks alongside each other, holding them in both his hands. “You would let me do anything?”
Tom smiled and nodded. “Anything.”
They kissed again and Alfred told Tom to close his eyes and relax. He stroked their cocks some more and found his own coming back to life faster than usual, but his own pleasure wasn't the goal. Using a combination of left over semen and spit, he lubed himself as best he could. Tom was as hard as a rock – with his cock pointing straight up. Alfred decided this was going to be easy. I'll just move forward a little, position his dick, and …
Tom's eye's opened. “No! Don't!”
“Yes, do!” Alfred sat down on Tom's cock faster than he intended. Her took it for a three-count and then screamed. “Jesus! AAAHH!” He looked like a failed moon launch, rising straight up a bit and then collapsing forward onto Tom gasping in pain.
“I told you! I told you!” Tom tried to comfort him. “Do you hurt bad? Are you bleeding?”
Alistair came running. “Is everything alright?”
Alfred wiped some tears of pain out of his eyes and said, “Caught in flagrante ...”
“In pain, I think,” Alistair soothed.
“I'm fine. I just miscalculated … This is so embarrassing.” He turned to Tom and asked, “Is it alright to be embarrassed now?”
“Permission granted. I'm a little embarrassed, too. Alistair … I'm sorry … I'm ...”
“You're naked and beautiful and making love.” Alistair turned away from the tangled lovers before him. “There's nothing to be sorry about,” he called over his shoulder as he walked back to the house.
Tom turned back to Alfred. “You're ok? You sure? Check for blood ...”
I'm fine. No harm. I had no idea that could be so painful.”
They dressed and went to their upstairs bedroom. Tom insisted that Alfred check again for blood. The toilet flushed and Alfred emerged looking sheepish. They lay on the bed holding each other.
“Ok, now I just feel stupid. The next time you fuck me, I'm going to ...”
“Don't even think about a next time. We don't have to. I can get off just kissing you and knowing you're hard for me.”
“You're kissing me and I'm hard right now. And I don't see you getting off. I want you to love me every way we can think of and that includes fucking.”
“It's something to work up to. Don't measure my pleasure by whether I'm fucking your ass.”
An ocean away Lucky was just waking up on a peaceful Sunday morning. He ached so pleasantly and knew that with no distractions he would feel the residual heat of Mike's cock in his ass all day. The previous night had been another athletic demonstration of just how easily Mike could move Lucky around. I liked it best when he pinned me against the wall, Lucky remembered, and entered me sooo slowly, sooo powerfully. His cock is like ...
Mike breezed into the bedroom with a glass of orange juice. “You are the hottest fuck I've ever known, Lucky. Do you like it when you wake up, too?”
Lucky's eyes widened but the juice tasted so good going down he just kept drinking.
“Don't worry. I think I'm still wiped out from last night,” Mike said sitting on the bed, resting his hand on the bulge in the sheets where Lucky's cock lay.
“Ahhhh,” was Lucky's satisfied reaction to the orange juice.
Mike began a little monologue. “Why don't you move in with me? For the duration of the project, I mean. You want to? It would save commuting time … We could fuck a lot … The work would go faster too … And we could fuck a lot … Did I say we could fuck a lot? I like fucking you a lot.” Mike took the glass from Lucky's hand and kissed him before he could say no. He pulled the sheet down, exposing Lucky's erection. Mike stood up and looked down at Lucky. “No,” he said, “Don't cover up. Let me enjoy the view.” Mike was quickly out of his clothes and straddling Lucky. “Your turn, I think.” He sheathed and lubed Lucky's cock and then successfully completed series of the maneuvers that caused Alfred so much grief. When it was over, Mike followed up, “See? You wouldn't always be the bottom, in case you were wondering, Luck. You want to move in with me?”
“With me?” Lucky questioned. He could have easily said no to “You want to move in?” But the with me made it so personal, not quite intimate, but very close.
Mike smiled. “With me. Tom always says that. He'll say something innocent like 'You want to go to the store with me' and it sounds like he's asking for a fuck. Which I kind of am here. You want to move in with me?”
Lucky came up with a string of what-about's, which Mike explained away one by one. It would probably be just for a couple months. No rent. Mike's rent had in fact been reduced until the garage was rebuilt without Apartment C. Neither one of them snored. It would be fun. Mike finally said, “We could fuck every night. I get so horny watching everybody else I know have sex all the time.” That was the clincher.
“I thought I was the one with that problem,” Lucky stated.
“How horny have you been since you started staying with me?”
Lucky went over it in his mind. “I want to, Mike. I really want to … I've fooled around enough. With people at work even … and Brent doesn't like that. He puts up with it, but he doesn't like it.”
“No pressure, Luck. Do what you want.” Mike pretended indifference the way a guy does when he's turned down for a date.
“Wait. I want to do it. To hell with convenience and not being horny. I want to do it because of you. I'd love to spend every night with you. That's what we've been doing, isn't it? I've already been living here, spending the night with you. Every night. For … how long? A week?”
Mike smiled. “Want another orange juice? What about now? Are you going to …?
“YES I'm staying tonight. I'm nuts about you. Can't you tell?”
“I was going to ask if you're working on Apartment C today. I know you like me.”
“I'm going to ask Brent about moving in. Ok? Mike? Just to make sure he … Oh, fuck it! I'm moving in, OK? As of right now.”
“You told me you loved me last night. Is that true?”
“I did?”
“In the middle of the night you hugged me and said I love you.”
“I must have been talking in my sleep. Now don't get all frowny. That doesn't mean it isn't true. Just means I hadn't planned to tell you.”
“Why wouldn't you tell me?”
“Because you don't love me and I don't want to be a pest.”
“That's true. I don't love you, but everything else is good. I could try. We can work on it. If you want ...”
“Let's go work on Apartment C instead. We'll get back to this later. If I don't get out of bed soon, the day will be over.”
They removed sections of molding checking on construction techniques. This one was a false wall, this one was a bearing wall; this one contained plumbing. It was hot, hard work. In one place the plaster cracked ominously, threatening an entire mural.
“It's an old crack,” Mike confirmed. “We didn't cause it. We just made it a little wider.” He measured with a micrometer. “Not quite two centimeters. Do harm done.”
“Thank God. I thought we were going to lose this scene … some view of purgatory, I guess … in a pile of plaster powder.”
It was dry and dusty work. The carpet layers contributed lunch in the form of a couple bottles of beer and Al stopped in to admire the work. Mike had his shirt off and was sweaty. Al couldn't take her eyes off him. He had no sexual appeal for her, but she had to admire his body, a product of sports and hard work. Her own biceps were evident in a feminine way, but obviously a gym-product. She had to force herself to address the project.
“Maybe a tight net would protect the plaster in the event of catastrophe. It would leave you with larger hunks if it came off the lathe. Might be better than letting it hit the floor and break up more.”
Al's suggestion was accepted and Mike and Lucky quit for the day. They had another beer on the porch with the carpet layers and then ate bigger dinner by themselves. They went to bed tired with the sweet ache of honest labor.
“It's my first night officially being your roommate, and we're not going to have sex,” Lucky observed.
“We can, if you want ...”
“I'll love you in my dreams,” Lucky said. He hugged Mike and kissed a naked shoulder and slept like a log.
It turned out that being an Internet porn queen wasn't the life of luxury that Shelly had hoped for. Her mother, for one thing, had become a huge pain in the ass and elsewhere. She kept recruiting guys with huge dicks for the live scenes.
“Ma! No more donkeys I told you. I used to douche with this dainty little kit, now I need a fire hose after that last guy! Tin Man had a nice dick, average-sized ...”
“What you need is a bigger apartment. If your father wasn't such a karger ...”
“I used to like this apartment,” Shelly whined. It was a nice place on upper Massachusetts Avenue, near American U. It wasn't the lap of luxury, but it seemed good enough to a student.
“You have to have a different outlook now. Now that you're a professional woman,don't you know? Like your nails. Shirley, I tell you over and ...”
“It's Shelly, Ma, not Shirley.”
“Not to me, it isn't. Mata Hari was a nice girl until she changed her name.” Ma's brain switched gears. “You know, Shirley … Washington and all … you could be another Mata Hari.”
“Look what that got Monica Lewinsky! Another nice girl.”
“A little obsessed, maybe. But she did have a pretty smile. Which reminds me, is the dry cleaning back yet?”
“Not unless you went and got it.”
Do I have to do everything?”
“Have's the deal, Ma. You fuck the donkeys and I'll get the laundry.”
“You don't have to be crude about it … How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have ...”
“I'm grateful, Ma. I'm just not having a good time. No more donkey dick's, ok?” She reached for the phone and knocked it onto the floor. It hurt to pick it up. “Hello?” she groaned, watching her mother leave for the dry cleaners. “Tin Doll! Hello! How's life as an instructor?”
“Pretty good, actually. I have more time to work and I've sold some things thanks to the publicity. Shelly … the reason I called … would you like to do some modeling? I'm thinking a nude … something sensual and fairly realistic. Your body keeps coming to mind.”
“Really? How much would I make?”
“Standard hourly, plus five percent of the sale price.”
“Seven percent. I have expenses.”
“No.”
“I'll do it. When?” Shelly put the phone down and began looking for Tyndall's favorite dildo Her current toys were all much bigger. She hummed “The Face of an Angel” to herself as she looked through a drawer of dildos.
Rory and a company lawyer were inspecting their rooms at the Mad Hatter. Rory smiled, remembering the first apartment he had lived in in Alameda. Except for the lack of a bay view, the Mad Hatter seemed to be a British version of the Tiki. Remembering more about the Tiki made Rory check the windows for an adequate fire escape. Rory decided that Tom had overeconomized on their rooms, but the MH would do for the few days they expected to be in London. The lawyer was less sanguine about the lack of creature comforts, but deferred to Rory's judgement.
“Tom?” Rory yelled, displaying the American distrust of foreign telephones. “I'm at your hotel with John Sherman from legal. Do you have time to talk? Where are you anyway? In Norfolk with the customer? John's shaking his head no. I guess he doesn't think you should be socializing with the customer. Ok … ok … Sunday, that's tomorrow, right? Fine, but tired. California seems a million miles away.”
Rory closed the phone. “He's at a shore cottage with the customer and a couple of friends.”
“He has friends here? I thought he was from El Cerrito.” John had a disapproving look. “He shouldn't be compromising himself with the customer. And these rooms suck.”
“Pretend you're in Timbuktu and it's the best they can offer,” Rory consoled. A porter arrived with a tea service so large it barely fit in the room.
“They have no sense of proportion,” John groused. “My room is even smaller. The tea pot alone would take up my entire table.”
“Have tea and a bite, John. Then I want a nap. If the bed is uncomfortable, we can move. Tom said he'll be here in the late morning.”
“Late morning. That's something to set your watch by,” the precise lawyerly mind complained again.
The tea was good and the little sandwiches perfectly filling. The beds were not torture racks and they slept the night through.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
I'm on the road again this week. This may be the last chapter for a bit - unless there's nothing to do at night where I'm going - a very small town. That's a possibility.
Rory,
Another fun chapter.
Tom and Alfred are definitely a nice pairing.
Alistair appears to agree.
The excitement of inexperienced youth can bear
painful awakenings. OUCH!
Lucky and Mike - Mike knows how Lefty feels, and isn't letting it impede their relationship - he's even amenable to the idea of trying to get there, himself. A strange and wonderful relationship - will be very interesting to see the continuing developments.
With the room deconstruction project, too.
Enjoy your Road Trip - I hope it doesn't take you to any of the disaster areas.
Another fun chapter.
Tom and Alfred are definitely a nice pairing.
Alistair appears to agree.
The excitement of inexperienced youth can bear
painful awakenings. OUCH!
Lucky and Mike - Mike knows how Lefty feels, and isn't letting it impede their relationship - he's even amenable to the idea of trying to get there, himself. A strange and wonderful relationship - will be very interesting to see the continuing developments.
With the room deconstruction project, too.
Enjoy your Road Trip - I hope it doesn't take you to any of the disaster areas.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirty
“You have been busy while I was out!” Edmund looked over the Alistair's sketches of Alfred and Tom. Some of them were very hard core, with no invisible ink hiding anything. All of them were breathtaking.
“Yes, but something unfortunate happened.” Alistair explained the outcome of Alfred's impetuous attempt at anal sex. “We don't want him to go through all that agony you went through in the beginning. I think you should talk to Alfred and I'll give a bit of coaching to Tom.”
“I'm still afraid of your cock,” Edmund said with a perfectly straight face.
“No reason to be. We haven't had sex since I got sick. How long is it now?” Alistair sounded disgusted with himself.
Their respective talks to Tom and Alfred involved lots of mentions of love, gentleness, going slow, paying attention to each other, and not being disappointed if they couldn't get everything perfect the first time. Specific advice included suggesting Alfred try it in a prone position first, to minimize the penetration and that Tom not aim for reaching China on the first attempt.
They all met up in the kitchen. Alfred had a silly grin on his face. “Did you get your sex talk, Tom?” he asked.
“Thank God. Now I know why my dick has been getting hard,” Tom answered.
“We meant well. It's because we like you both so much,” Alistair said. “And I have a confession to make. You know I like to sketch ...”
“I want to see … right now!” Alfred was excited.
Edmund stayed in the kitchen and the three others went to the dining table. Alistair spread out the drawings to cover the table. “I hope you don't mind. You looked so … extraordinary together, I had to do it. If you have any objection, I'll destroy them.”
“I sure look happy,” Tom said. He put his arm around Alfred's waist. “You're why, of course,” he said to Alfred. “You are just as hot as you look in these drawings.”
They continued to look at the drawings as Alistair quietly left the room. “We're going out for a walk,” he called as he pulled Edmund out the kitchen door after him.
“How long do you think we should stay away?” Alistair asked.
“It's a reasonable day. I'm in no hurry to get back,” Edmund said. “Let's walk to the shore. You can draw me naked on a rock being attacked by a Dragon named Alistair.”
Alistair laughed. “I wondered if I was the only one who saw the symbolism in that.”
After a forty minute walk they got to a secluded part of the shoreline; Edmund proceeded to make good on his offer to pose. “Edmund,” Alistair admonished, “You'll freeze.”
“Not if you keep me warm. Come here. I want to be teased by a Dragon.” Edmund was careful to use a verb whose action Alistair could perform. He could have used kissed or sucked by a dragon; they both turned out to be appropriate as well. Alistair's resulting erection might have permitted more, but a large party of hikers coming down the rocky beach interrupted their session.
“Al fresco sex … the perfect thing for today,” Edmund concluded as he finished dressing. They walked slowly back to their house. “I couldn't imagine a better life than I've had with you, Alistair.”
“We could be a bit richer, I suppose,” Alistair suggested.
“We could be, But, why? What are we missing?” Edmund's tone suggested the answer was nothing.
“A sound roof on the garden shed, for one thing.” Alistair changed the subject. “The garden looks wonderful this year. I'm going to draw in some of its detail in those sketches of our visitors.”
“Alistair, what did they think of the sketches? They are unambiguously pornographic – in a very artistic way, of course.”
“I have no idea. They didn't say. They were still looking at them when we left for the shore.”
“Hello! We're back!” Alistair called out but got no response. He went to his room to change shoes, followed by Edmund. “What are you … “ Alistair watched Edmund strip and climb into their bed.
“A little nap? … Or something?” Edmund invited.
It began slowly and uncertainly. Alistair lacked confidence in his ability. Edmund didn't press and let Alistair set the pace. He gasped when at last Alistair entered him. “I think I'm still a little afraid of your cock,” he said. “Getting fucked by a Dragon will always be a challenge, Alistair.”
When it was over, Alistair's success was celebrated by both of them. “Champagne, I think,” Edmund said and got dressed. “I'll go chill some.” Alistair decided he would try for a brief nap.
Edmund quietly closed the door and walked toward the kitchen. He came upon Tom and Alfred who were on the sofa, fully clothed and being affectionate with each other in a very relaxed way. They smiled at Edmund. “We tried to be quiet coming downstairs. We didn't want to disturb you,” Alfred whispered.
“Did you … ?” Edmund wasn't sure how to ask. “... um, follow our advice?”
“Slow and easy, prone position, super gentle, very careful, tons of lube, yes,” Tom said. “We compared what you told us and tried to follow it exactly.”
Alfred's eyes sparkled. “That was the first time. The second time he really nailed me.”
Edmund held his forehead in his hand, laughing on his way to the kitchen.
Lucky was the provider of the OJ in this particular morning. “Usually on Sunday's I like to sleep in, but I slept so well ...”
“Thanks,” Mike said, accepting the juice. “You want to join me in the bed?”
“And make up for what we missed last night?”
“No, and listen to what I've been thinking about Apartment C.”
“Ok,” Lucky made to get under the covers.
“I think better if you're naked,” Mike frowned. “There that's better.”
“How do my clothes affect your thinking?” Lucky asked.
“They don't really, but this way ...” Mike pulled Lucky's naked body against his own, “ … I won't be distracted wondering why you're wearing them.”
They got comfortable and Mike began telling Lucky in some detail what he thought were alternative ways to extract the art from Apartment C. “So what do you think?”
“I'm wondering about how you can calmly discuss all this when were both hard as rocks.”
“You didn't listen to any of it?”
“Of course I did. I like your intact room idea. It poses the least risk, I think, even if it costs a bit more. I also like the way your cock feels lying across my thigh. The way it gets harder when your talking about your favorite approach.”
“Lucky, if we fuck each other to exhaustion every day, we'll never get anything done.”
“Do I exhaust you? Really?” Lucky was flattered that he could wear Mike out.
“Yes, you do. And then I don't see things so clearly. I just want to sleep and then do it again.”
“I'd say we're making a lot of progress, Mike.”
“I'd say so, too! Wow! Hot, you guys!”
Mike and Lucky jumped in their skin. “Matt … What? What's going on?”
“Rawson threw my ass out.” Mike was shocked by his brother's news. “Not really. Just until noon. He says we spend all our time fucking and he can't work in the mornings.”
“Your brother just told me the same thing,” Lucky laughed.
“See, Lucky? I told you,” Matt said.
“Told him what?”
“That you were more into this than he thought.” Matt looked pleased with his powers of deduction; his previous predictions of Mike's behavior had never been very good. “So, can I just watch you two fuck or are we going to do something interesting?”
“Like what?”
“Get me a job. There are tryouts for an old Peter Shaffer thing 'The Royal Hunt of the Sun' at the Cathedral; I'm going for Atahualpa.”
“The Inca emperor? Is that another nude role?” Mike was already skeptical.
“No nudity at all!” Matt was outraged. “Fully costumed. Some kind of pre-Columbian jock strap and a lot of feathers, I think.”
“Sounds like a Vegas show, if you ask me. A jock strap, feathers, and a good suntan.” Mike was definitely disapproving. “Who is the director? Does Rawson know about this?”
“The director is Reynaldo Redoblo, ok? Rey's honest-to-God Peruvian or something.” Matt felt that mentioning his enlistment of another person might cement his case. “Al wants to go along to the tryouts. She's going to volunteer. She wants learn how to work with feathers.”
“Feather heads, maybe.” Mike shook his head foreseeing another scandalous disaster.
“Do you think they would need a skinny guy?” Lucky asked. “Maybe I could play a human sacrifice or something.”
Matt winked and Mike knew he was outnumbered.
As the four of them walked to the Cathedral, Matt explained the layout. “There's a natural amphitheatre on a hillside south of the church building. Everybody can sit on the grass, bring a picnic basket, listen to some music, and watch a politically-correct spectacle. The plot is minimal. European evil corrupts noble native empire. There's a lot of yelling in Quecha – the Incan language. Nobody but a few Peruvians would ever know if you blow your lines. That kind of thing. But it's arty and the Cathedral stuff always draws an interesting crowd. Lots of good exposure.”
Mike sighed, “I see lots of exposure. I don't know about the good part.”
“It's a church, Mike. Not some pole-dancing strip club.” Matt was trying to be patient.
“Pole dancing?” Lucky tried to lighten the mood. “I'm not up on the latest music.”
“You won't need to be for pole dancing.” Al laughed. She patted Lucky's back.
The two of them had formed an odd little friendship. Lucky liked Al because she gave him opinions that were always honest and occasionally insightful about Apartment C, keeping his feet on the ground; and Al liked Lucky because he eliminated any possible threat that Mike posed to her relationship with Debbie. In addition, they just plain hit it off with each other. Neither one had anything to gain or lose; there was no jockeying for position. A few shared beers and a few laughs have always been a good foundation for a friendship. Then, too, Lucky had paid Al an utterly sincere compliment. “You have gorgeous eyes.” That never hurts.
There was a large line for try-outs; it turned out to be two lines, on closer examination. “You two in this line, please,” someone trying to be efficient said. Matt and Lucky said good-bye to Al and Mike, who went exploring the Cathedral grounds; they waited patiently for their turn.
“Matt, the lines … do you notice anything?”
“Yeah, ours isn't moving.” Matt shifted impatiently on the slightly soggy turf.
“No … I mean about the people in them. Like this line seems to be all guys around my age or younger and the other one is … everybody else.”
“How old are you, Lucky? You mind?”
“Thirty-four.”
“See, that's perfect for Mike. I've never seen him so happy.”
“Happy? He's giving you tons of shit about this try-out.”
“But before you, he'd have handcuffed me to the bed. He's comparatively supportive this time ... for Mike, I mean.”
Their line suddenly moved forward by about ten people. Someone was going through the line and eliminating most of the hopefuls.
“No … no … no … maybe … no … yes … yes ...” He had said yes to Lucky and stopped abruptly upon seeing Matt.
“Rex?” Matt questioned. “Rex Rybold?” There was no question about it. It was the director of “The Big O” back from the dead flaunting a mustache and a Latin accent.
“I am Reynaldo Redoblo. You have mistaken me, I think.” Rex's eyes pleaded with Matt to go along with the new identity. “Can you speak Spanish? I think we may have something for you.” If pleading doesn't work, try bribery, Rex decided.
“Uh … yeah ... perdón, Señor Redoblo. Si, hablo un poquito.”
“Excellente. Carson, this man ...” Rex spoke to his efficient-looking assistant.
“And my friend,” Matt pointed to Lucky.
“... and his friend … to tent three please.”
“Cotton is down to ten cents a pound and I'm busted,” sang Phil and Alex in tight harmony. Their country songs proved to be a hit at the small gathering sponsored by the Ukraine Embassy. Equally popular were the old German volkslieder, which surprised Phil.
“Basically, they're good songs,” explained Alex, “and Germany is … or was a defeated nation with great music. If we would sing Slavic folk songs, we would get the Ukrainians pissed if it was Russian, the Poles pissed if it was Czech, the Bulgarians pissed … Actually the Bulgarians wouldn't get pissed unless it was Turkish. But anyway, German songs are less controversial. These days the Austrian Empire is looking like a pretty good deal to a lot of people. And we're not singing any that were notoriously Nazi.”
“You give me a hard on when you get all serious and cute like that,” Phil teased.
They sang “Dirty Old Egg-Suckin' Dog” and “Madl'n San Wia Erdbeereis” for encores and then followed some kind of a butler to a basement room of the large house off Foxhall Road.
Somehow Phil wasn't surprised to find Dimitri seated at a desk in a room with no windows, waiting for them. “Girls are like strawberry ice cream.” Dimitri stated the title of their last song with satisfaction; he was finishing a bowl of what looked like chocolate ice cream and smiling. “You're going to be yodeling next.”
Alex was bouncing on his feet in time to some music only he heard, full of his usual post-performance energy and unconcerned for about whatever might follow. Phil, who could never judge Dimitri's mood, stood waiting for his execution order.
“You are convincingly good.” Dimitri stated.
“We are very good,” Alex corrected.
“And so you are. We want you to work on a ship as cook's assistants and passenger entertainment. The cookery won't be demanding work. The combination will allow you to meet both passengers and crew. Can you think of any reason why you cannot perform these duties for the next few months?”
Phil was stunned into silence but had no objection. Alex asked, “How soon? Can you tell us?”
“I expect to have details for you mid-week. Without tipping off your plans, make necessary arrangements to leave then. We will pay to maintain your apartment while you are away, Mr. Scott. Would it be alright if we made use of it now and then?”
“Yes,” Phil said in a weak voice. He coughed and restated, “Yes, of course,” in more confident tones.
An hour later they were in bed in the Russian Embassy's newest apartment, discussing possibilities, some practical, some less so. “Would you get my name tattooed on your cock?” Alex asked as he played with the object of interest. “Tattoos might be more fun if the ink were a slow-release drug.” He sucked on Phil's cock like an all-day sucker.
“I'm not getting any tattoos,” Phil said.
“I'm going to do it,” Alex decided.. It will say Property of Philip Scott, Washington, D.C.”
“Your cock isn't that long.”
“Tiny letters. You will have to get very close to read it. And maybe while you're so close, you could … Ahhh, yes … you're so good at that, Phil. Yes, slow and deep … We need to have all the sex possible between now and … mid-week.”
“Why?” Phil stopped sucking. “Are Russian spies celibate? You sure weren't on your last case.” Phil was concerned with this new requirement.
“We do what we need to. I'm guessing Dimitri won't want us to appear to be lovers. It's best to expect the worst. So far, he hasn't mentioned Hindustan.”
“What do you have against India?”
“I don't think you wouldn't like it.”
“I liked 'Slumdog Millionaire'. I like eating naan.”
“That isn't India. And you eat naan with a hamburger in the middle.”
“Back to this celibate business … I figured we'd be roommates on the ship.”
“We probably will be. And we'll probably have a couple other guys in the room with us, too.”
“So that means ...”
“That means we gotta get busy between now and then.” Alex got busy and released his nervous energy onto and into Phil.
Alex went into the bathroom and left Phil gasping, filled with total bliss. He didn't know how he could live with Alex and not give away their relationship. “How am I going to do that, Alex,” he asked when Alex returned to bed. “I can't keep my hands off you now.”
“Make love to me when we sing. You can let your love show then. I'll know. The audience won't.”
“What if I kiss you at the end?”
“No. Not a good idea. Something more comradely, I think. A hand on my shoulder maybe … That's where the tattoo would come in handy. A written record. Indelible. It could be very stylized, so only you and I would know what it said. And every time I saw you naked ... ”
“No tattoos. And you're not supposed to be checking out the naked sailors on this ship. Especially not me, because you give me a hard on every time I see you looking at me.”
“That's why the our pay is so good. Mother Russia wants us to have compensation for what we give up.”
“The pay is good? I didn't know that. They just said to sign some forms.”
“I was kidding. The pay sucks. But we can keep anything that comes our way in the course of … whatever we're going to be doing. The ship's wages … tips ...”
“A ship, Alex … sounds kind of romantic, doesn't it? What if I see you on deck? … you're alone by the rail ... it's a moonlit night … somewhere in the tropics … it's warm and you have your shirt off … I stand next to you … can't help but run my hand down your chest … I can't stop myself … I feel the bulge in your pants … squeeze a little ...”
“And I scream 'Stop, I just had my dick tattooed. It hurts!' “
“No fucking tattoos, Alex.”
“You have been busy while I was out!” Edmund looked over the Alistair's sketches of Alfred and Tom. Some of them were very hard core, with no invisible ink hiding anything. All of them were breathtaking.
“Yes, but something unfortunate happened.” Alistair explained the outcome of Alfred's impetuous attempt at anal sex. “We don't want him to go through all that agony you went through in the beginning. I think you should talk to Alfred and I'll give a bit of coaching to Tom.”
“I'm still afraid of your cock,” Edmund said with a perfectly straight face.
“No reason to be. We haven't had sex since I got sick. How long is it now?” Alistair sounded disgusted with himself.
Their respective talks to Tom and Alfred involved lots of mentions of love, gentleness, going slow, paying attention to each other, and not being disappointed if they couldn't get everything perfect the first time. Specific advice included suggesting Alfred try it in a prone position first, to minimize the penetration and that Tom not aim for reaching China on the first attempt.
They all met up in the kitchen. Alfred had a silly grin on his face. “Did you get your sex talk, Tom?” he asked.
“Thank God. Now I know why my dick has been getting hard,” Tom answered.
“We meant well. It's because we like you both so much,” Alistair said. “And I have a confession to make. You know I like to sketch ...”
“I want to see … right now!” Alfred was excited.
Edmund stayed in the kitchen and the three others went to the dining table. Alistair spread out the drawings to cover the table. “I hope you don't mind. You looked so … extraordinary together, I had to do it. If you have any objection, I'll destroy them.”
“I sure look happy,” Tom said. He put his arm around Alfred's waist. “You're why, of course,” he said to Alfred. “You are just as hot as you look in these drawings.”
They continued to look at the drawings as Alistair quietly left the room. “We're going out for a walk,” he called as he pulled Edmund out the kitchen door after him.
“How long do you think we should stay away?” Alistair asked.
“It's a reasonable day. I'm in no hurry to get back,” Edmund said. “Let's walk to the shore. You can draw me naked on a rock being attacked by a Dragon named Alistair.”
Alistair laughed. “I wondered if I was the only one who saw the symbolism in that.”
After a forty minute walk they got to a secluded part of the shoreline; Edmund proceeded to make good on his offer to pose. “Edmund,” Alistair admonished, “You'll freeze.”
“Not if you keep me warm. Come here. I want to be teased by a Dragon.” Edmund was careful to use a verb whose action Alistair could perform. He could have used kissed or sucked by a dragon; they both turned out to be appropriate as well. Alistair's resulting erection might have permitted more, but a large party of hikers coming down the rocky beach interrupted their session.
“Al fresco sex … the perfect thing for today,” Edmund concluded as he finished dressing. They walked slowly back to their house. “I couldn't imagine a better life than I've had with you, Alistair.”
“We could be a bit richer, I suppose,” Alistair suggested.
“We could be, But, why? What are we missing?” Edmund's tone suggested the answer was nothing.
“A sound roof on the garden shed, for one thing.” Alistair changed the subject. “The garden looks wonderful this year. I'm going to draw in some of its detail in those sketches of our visitors.”
“Alistair, what did they think of the sketches? They are unambiguously pornographic – in a very artistic way, of course.”
“I have no idea. They didn't say. They were still looking at them when we left for the shore.”
“Hello! We're back!” Alistair called out but got no response. He went to his room to change shoes, followed by Edmund. “What are you … “ Alistair watched Edmund strip and climb into their bed.
“A little nap? … Or something?” Edmund invited.
It began slowly and uncertainly. Alistair lacked confidence in his ability. Edmund didn't press and let Alistair set the pace. He gasped when at last Alistair entered him. “I think I'm still a little afraid of your cock,” he said. “Getting fucked by a Dragon will always be a challenge, Alistair.”
When it was over, Alistair's success was celebrated by both of them. “Champagne, I think,” Edmund said and got dressed. “I'll go chill some.” Alistair decided he would try for a brief nap.
Edmund quietly closed the door and walked toward the kitchen. He came upon Tom and Alfred who were on the sofa, fully clothed and being affectionate with each other in a very relaxed way. They smiled at Edmund. “We tried to be quiet coming downstairs. We didn't want to disturb you,” Alfred whispered.
“Did you … ?” Edmund wasn't sure how to ask. “... um, follow our advice?”
“Slow and easy, prone position, super gentle, very careful, tons of lube, yes,” Tom said. “We compared what you told us and tried to follow it exactly.”
Alfred's eyes sparkled. “That was the first time. The second time he really nailed me.”
Edmund held his forehead in his hand, laughing on his way to the kitchen.
Lucky was the provider of the OJ in this particular morning. “Usually on Sunday's I like to sleep in, but I slept so well ...”
“Thanks,” Mike said, accepting the juice. “You want to join me in the bed?”
“And make up for what we missed last night?”
“No, and listen to what I've been thinking about Apartment C.”
“Ok,” Lucky made to get under the covers.
“I think better if you're naked,” Mike frowned. “There that's better.”
“How do my clothes affect your thinking?” Lucky asked.
“They don't really, but this way ...” Mike pulled Lucky's naked body against his own, “ … I won't be distracted wondering why you're wearing them.”
They got comfortable and Mike began telling Lucky in some detail what he thought were alternative ways to extract the art from Apartment C. “So what do you think?”
“I'm wondering about how you can calmly discuss all this when were both hard as rocks.”
“You didn't listen to any of it?”
“Of course I did. I like your intact room idea. It poses the least risk, I think, even if it costs a bit more. I also like the way your cock feels lying across my thigh. The way it gets harder when your talking about your favorite approach.”
“Lucky, if we fuck each other to exhaustion every day, we'll never get anything done.”
“Do I exhaust you? Really?” Lucky was flattered that he could wear Mike out.
“Yes, you do. And then I don't see things so clearly. I just want to sleep and then do it again.”
“I'd say we're making a lot of progress, Mike.”
“I'd say so, too! Wow! Hot, you guys!”
Mike and Lucky jumped in their skin. “Matt … What? What's going on?”
“Rawson threw my ass out.” Mike was shocked by his brother's news. “Not really. Just until noon. He says we spend all our time fucking and he can't work in the mornings.”
“Your brother just told me the same thing,” Lucky laughed.
“See, Lucky? I told you,” Matt said.
“Told him what?”
“That you were more into this than he thought.” Matt looked pleased with his powers of deduction; his previous predictions of Mike's behavior had never been very good. “So, can I just watch you two fuck or are we going to do something interesting?”
“Like what?”
“Get me a job. There are tryouts for an old Peter Shaffer thing 'The Royal Hunt of the Sun' at the Cathedral; I'm going for Atahualpa.”
“The Inca emperor? Is that another nude role?” Mike was already skeptical.
“No nudity at all!” Matt was outraged. “Fully costumed. Some kind of pre-Columbian jock strap and a lot of feathers, I think.”
“Sounds like a Vegas show, if you ask me. A jock strap, feathers, and a good suntan.” Mike was definitely disapproving. “Who is the director? Does Rawson know about this?”
“The director is Reynaldo Redoblo, ok? Rey's honest-to-God Peruvian or something.” Matt felt that mentioning his enlistment of another person might cement his case. “Al wants to go along to the tryouts. She's going to volunteer. She wants learn how to work with feathers.”
“Feather heads, maybe.” Mike shook his head foreseeing another scandalous disaster.
“Do you think they would need a skinny guy?” Lucky asked. “Maybe I could play a human sacrifice or something.”
Matt winked and Mike knew he was outnumbered.
As the four of them walked to the Cathedral, Matt explained the layout. “There's a natural amphitheatre on a hillside south of the church building. Everybody can sit on the grass, bring a picnic basket, listen to some music, and watch a politically-correct spectacle. The plot is minimal. European evil corrupts noble native empire. There's a lot of yelling in Quecha – the Incan language. Nobody but a few Peruvians would ever know if you blow your lines. That kind of thing. But it's arty and the Cathedral stuff always draws an interesting crowd. Lots of good exposure.”
Mike sighed, “I see lots of exposure. I don't know about the good part.”
“It's a church, Mike. Not some pole-dancing strip club.” Matt was trying to be patient.
“Pole dancing?” Lucky tried to lighten the mood. “I'm not up on the latest music.”
“You won't need to be for pole dancing.” Al laughed. She patted Lucky's back.
The two of them had formed an odd little friendship. Lucky liked Al because she gave him opinions that were always honest and occasionally insightful about Apartment C, keeping his feet on the ground; and Al liked Lucky because he eliminated any possible threat that Mike posed to her relationship with Debbie. In addition, they just plain hit it off with each other. Neither one had anything to gain or lose; there was no jockeying for position. A few shared beers and a few laughs have always been a good foundation for a friendship. Then, too, Lucky had paid Al an utterly sincere compliment. “You have gorgeous eyes.” That never hurts.
There was a large line for try-outs; it turned out to be two lines, on closer examination. “You two in this line, please,” someone trying to be efficient said. Matt and Lucky said good-bye to Al and Mike, who went exploring the Cathedral grounds; they waited patiently for their turn.
“Matt, the lines … do you notice anything?”
“Yeah, ours isn't moving.” Matt shifted impatiently on the slightly soggy turf.
“No … I mean about the people in them. Like this line seems to be all guys around my age or younger and the other one is … everybody else.”
“How old are you, Lucky? You mind?”
“Thirty-four.”
“See, that's perfect for Mike. I've never seen him so happy.”
“Happy? He's giving you tons of shit about this try-out.”
“But before you, he'd have handcuffed me to the bed. He's comparatively supportive this time ... for Mike, I mean.”
Their line suddenly moved forward by about ten people. Someone was going through the line and eliminating most of the hopefuls.
“No … no … no … maybe … no … yes … yes ...” He had said yes to Lucky and stopped abruptly upon seeing Matt.
“Rex?” Matt questioned. “Rex Rybold?” There was no question about it. It was the director of “The Big O” back from the dead flaunting a mustache and a Latin accent.
“I am Reynaldo Redoblo. You have mistaken me, I think.” Rex's eyes pleaded with Matt to go along with the new identity. “Can you speak Spanish? I think we may have something for you.” If pleading doesn't work, try bribery, Rex decided.
“Uh … yeah ... perdón, Señor Redoblo. Si, hablo un poquito.”
“Excellente. Carson, this man ...” Rex spoke to his efficient-looking assistant.
“And my friend,” Matt pointed to Lucky.
“... and his friend … to tent three please.”
“Cotton is down to ten cents a pound and I'm busted,” sang Phil and Alex in tight harmony. Their country songs proved to be a hit at the small gathering sponsored by the Ukraine Embassy. Equally popular were the old German volkslieder, which surprised Phil.
“Basically, they're good songs,” explained Alex, “and Germany is … or was a defeated nation with great music. If we would sing Slavic folk songs, we would get the Ukrainians pissed if it was Russian, the Poles pissed if it was Czech, the Bulgarians pissed … Actually the Bulgarians wouldn't get pissed unless it was Turkish. But anyway, German songs are less controversial. These days the Austrian Empire is looking like a pretty good deal to a lot of people. And we're not singing any that were notoriously Nazi.”
“You give me a hard on when you get all serious and cute like that,” Phil teased.
They sang “Dirty Old Egg-Suckin' Dog” and “Madl'n San Wia Erdbeereis” for encores and then followed some kind of a butler to a basement room of the large house off Foxhall Road.
Somehow Phil wasn't surprised to find Dimitri seated at a desk in a room with no windows, waiting for them. “Girls are like strawberry ice cream.” Dimitri stated the title of their last song with satisfaction; he was finishing a bowl of what looked like chocolate ice cream and smiling. “You're going to be yodeling next.”
Alex was bouncing on his feet in time to some music only he heard, full of his usual post-performance energy and unconcerned for about whatever might follow. Phil, who could never judge Dimitri's mood, stood waiting for his execution order.
“You are convincingly good.” Dimitri stated.
“We are very good,” Alex corrected.
“And so you are. We want you to work on a ship as cook's assistants and passenger entertainment. The cookery won't be demanding work. The combination will allow you to meet both passengers and crew. Can you think of any reason why you cannot perform these duties for the next few months?”
Phil was stunned into silence but had no objection. Alex asked, “How soon? Can you tell us?”
“I expect to have details for you mid-week. Without tipping off your plans, make necessary arrangements to leave then. We will pay to maintain your apartment while you are away, Mr. Scott. Would it be alright if we made use of it now and then?”
“Yes,” Phil said in a weak voice. He coughed and restated, “Yes, of course,” in more confident tones.
An hour later they were in bed in the Russian Embassy's newest apartment, discussing possibilities, some practical, some less so. “Would you get my name tattooed on your cock?” Alex asked as he played with the object of interest. “Tattoos might be more fun if the ink were a slow-release drug.” He sucked on Phil's cock like an all-day sucker.
“I'm not getting any tattoos,” Phil said.
“I'm going to do it,” Alex decided.. It will say Property of Philip Scott, Washington, D.C.”
“Your cock isn't that long.”
“Tiny letters. You will have to get very close to read it. And maybe while you're so close, you could … Ahhh, yes … you're so good at that, Phil. Yes, slow and deep … We need to have all the sex possible between now and … mid-week.”
“Why?” Phil stopped sucking. “Are Russian spies celibate? You sure weren't on your last case.” Phil was concerned with this new requirement.
“We do what we need to. I'm guessing Dimitri won't want us to appear to be lovers. It's best to expect the worst. So far, he hasn't mentioned Hindustan.”
“What do you have against India?”
“I don't think you wouldn't like it.”
“I liked 'Slumdog Millionaire'. I like eating naan.”
“That isn't India. And you eat naan with a hamburger in the middle.”
“Back to this celibate business … I figured we'd be roommates on the ship.”
“We probably will be. And we'll probably have a couple other guys in the room with us, too.”
“So that means ...”
“That means we gotta get busy between now and then.” Alex got busy and released his nervous energy onto and into Phil.
Alex went into the bathroom and left Phil gasping, filled with total bliss. He didn't know how he could live with Alex and not give away their relationship. “How am I going to do that, Alex,” he asked when Alex returned to bed. “I can't keep my hands off you now.”
“Make love to me when we sing. You can let your love show then. I'll know. The audience won't.”
“What if I kiss you at the end?”
“No. Not a good idea. Something more comradely, I think. A hand on my shoulder maybe … That's where the tattoo would come in handy. A written record. Indelible. It could be very stylized, so only you and I would know what it said. And every time I saw you naked ... ”
“No tattoos. And you're not supposed to be checking out the naked sailors on this ship. Especially not me, because you give me a hard on every time I see you looking at me.”
“That's why the our pay is so good. Mother Russia wants us to have compensation for what we give up.”
“The pay is good? I didn't know that. They just said to sign some forms.”
“I was kidding. The pay sucks. But we can keep anything that comes our way in the course of … whatever we're going to be doing. The ship's wages … tips ...”
“A ship, Alex … sounds kind of romantic, doesn't it? What if I see you on deck? … you're alone by the rail ... it's a moonlit night … somewhere in the tropics … it's warm and you have your shirt off … I stand next to you … can't help but run my hand down your chest … I can't stop myself … I feel the bulge in your pants … squeeze a little ...”
“And I scream 'Stop, I just had my dick tattooed. It hurts!' “
“No fucking tattoos, Alex.”
Rory,
A fun chapter.
Alfred and Tom getting "the talk" from the senior set - you'd think Tom had never gotten intimate with a virgin before.
And, then there's the explicitly erotic art of our hosts.
Meanwhile, back in DC . . . Lucky and Mike seem to be getting along quite well - and along came the other sex maniac, brother Matt, lol.
And our "authentic" Peruvian Director, from down the streets last naked extraveganza of excrement!
Got the juices flowing and the chuckles rumbling.
A fun chapter.
Alfred and Tom getting "the talk" from the senior set - you'd think Tom had never gotten intimate with a virgin before.
And, then there's the explicitly erotic art of our hosts.
Meanwhile, back in DC . . . Lucky and Mike seem to be getting along quite well - and along came the other sex maniac, brother Matt, lol.
And our "authentic" Peruvian Director, from down the streets last naked extraveganza of excrement!
Got the juices flowing and the chuckles rumbling.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirty-One
“I KNEW we should have gone to the Methodist bake sale,” the woman in the large sun hat muttered as she scooped up her amazed child. “Don't point, Stratton,” she admonished much more harshly than the child deserved.
“Ooophf,” Stratton complained as his mother's arm tightened around his stomach. “What did I do?” came the eternal question of a mystified child who has been reprimanded for demonstrating his powers of observation. All he had done was ask a different question, one the mother should have been prepared for.
“Is daddy's pee-pee as big as that one?”
Unfortunately the question had rung out during the horrified silence that first greeted Lucky's emergence from the wreckage of audition tent. First there were titters, then laughs, and then comments. “Not half likely.” “Maybe … if Daddy's a horse.” “It's all in the genes, kid!”
“But he's not wearing jeans,” commented the fascinated innocent.
“Stratton! That will be enough!” Mom headed for the parking lot at a brisk pace with a wiggling Stratton under her arm.
It began with Matt and Lucky entering tent three, which had been used that morning for a flower judging competition. The contest for who had the biggest dahlia acquired a different judging criterion under Rex Rybold's audition standard. The tent was curtained into six distinct areas with display tables.
“I'm Roderigo. Just take your clothes off down to your underwear and stand on the table. Reynaldo will be here in a minute,” the young man said. His efficient manner had become officious. He pretended that the line up of six gorgeous guys was an everyday burden of his employment.
“I'm not wearing underwear,” a blond guy said.
“Didn't your mother warn you about that?” giggled a jarringly effeminate muscle builder who was watching the unveiling closely. “Blond pubes. Nice!” he commented.
Reynaldo's assistant sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. He stood guard where the tent flaps opened but lost his diffidence when he saw just how attractive the blond was.
The third cubicle was occupied by a young-ish fellow who strained a table designed to hold potted plants with his considerable weight. The table groaned and made cracking sounds but held as he hoisted himself onto it.
The fourth partition curtained off Misha Medoff and a familiar-looking companion. Misha was wearing tiny see-through underwear and his friend appeared to be uneasy in the surroundings.
“Mattie!” Misha called. “Here we go again, huh? You remember Dave … the fireman who got 'Reynaldo' out of the chair the last time?” Dave nodded hello.
“Hey, Misha. This is my friend Lucky. He's trying out, too.”
Lucky said hello and followed that with “I don't know what I'm doing. I just came with Matt for laughs.”
“Me, too,” said Dave. “Misha thinks it would be cool to work together on this.”
“It will be, sweetie,” Misha confirmed, the leader of their two-man parade.
“Here, you take this section,” Matt said to Lucky. “And I'll go last.”
“Or first,” Lucky said. “Here we go.” He folded his clothes as he took them off. “I should have worn sexier underwear than these baggy boxers.”
Rex entered the tent and professionally walked to the first partition. His professionalism ended at the first sight of the blond. “Yes … report tomorrow at three.”
The assistant was annoyed by Rex's selection. “But there weren't any blond Incas, Rex … er, Rey.”
“He's flexible about that, aren't you?” Rex asked the blond.
“I'll bend any way you want, Mr. Director,” the blond promised as he dressed and left.
“Ok, Muscle Mary, repeat after me: Seventeen sex shop sales slips slithered slowly southward,“ Rex requested. Candidate two generated more hissing than the snake house at the zoo. “The chorus, maybe,” Rex promised tugging at Mary's waistband and peering inside.
“Whoa!” Rex spotted the third candidate. “A man of size! Yell 'Atahualpa' for me.” The resulting shout was deafening. “If only your dick were that big,” Rex sighed. “Would you mind playing a statue? You would have some lines in final act. Good. Come at four tomorrow and don't leave yet. I want to see something.”
“Misha ...” Rex acknowledged. “There's always something for you. And who's your overdressed friend?”
“I'm not really here to try out. Do you have to do that to Misha?” Dave was complaining about a bit of overfamiliarity on Rex's part.
“Take your clothes off; I'll be back,” Rex ordered and assumed Dave's compliance as he moved to Lucky's space.
“Hmmm … a little older … but nice … very nice … turn please. Yes, very nice. Could I just … “
Rex was up to his old tricks, handling Lucky's cock. “This is just to judge skin tones,” he explained as he stroked. “Roderigo? Bring the light meter, please.” Lucky was trying his best not to show any arousal. He was not successful.
“Matt,” Rex gave Matt the same greeting that Misha had received. Rex was no longer attempting to hide his past. “You're hired, of course.” He backed to the center of the tent and admired Dave's mostly undraped body. “Misha, you rascal,” he commented, eying the appealing young fireman.
“Do you blame me?” Misha answered.
“Ok, those who are left, gather round,” Rex ordered.
“You doing ok?” Matt asked, seeing what Lucky's boxers couldn't hide. Lucky just shrugged and grinned, willing to go along with the farce of an audition.
“Our big friend here will play the sun, literally. He will need to embrace Atahualpa and Pizarro. So … You ...” Rex pointed to Lucky, “Try it.”
Lucky allowed himself to be embraced by the sun, who complained, “He's got a hardon!”
“Of course he does,” Rex said as if any idiot should know that.
Lucky got off the table and stood by Matt's side next to the tent pole. Matt patted his ass and whispered, “Good sport. I see why Mike likes you.”
Now you two, Misha and … what? Dave? … try it.”
The table groaned loudly as two more men climbed up on it.
“Ok, sun … devour Misha,” Rex directed and the man of size essentially enveloped the much smaller Misha. “Get close, you two. Try a kiss.”
The man of size was reluctant but Misha threw himself into the role. “What the fuck?” was Dave's reaction. “Get your hands off him!”
The man of size lost his balance. The table lost a leg. And Dave nearly lost a boyfriend, as the sun fell forward with Misha under him. On his way down he grabbed and effortlessly took out the tent pole. It snapped in half and the tent slowly sagged and collapsed as air rushed out the central hole in the roof. The tent came down around Lucky, who emerged from the hole much like Venus's sexy brother rising from the sea. As the tent sagged to the ground, Lucky appeared in all his attention-getting glory. By any accurate measurement of time, Lucky pulled up his boxers very quickly, but nudity registers indelibly on the brain in nanoseconds.
It was a memorable afternoon in many minds. Although the Post didn't report it, the scene became an Internet favorite. Little Stratton, thinking this had been an incredibly great afternoon, tolerated his mother's fussing as she fastened the straps. He settled contentedly into the child seat in the back of the Volvo and for the first, but not the last time in his life he wondered if size somehow mattered.
“I'll come back when we're done in London.”
“When will that be?” Alfred asked.
“I … I'm not sure. You could come with me … to London. Yes?”
Tom and Alfred had slept another night in each other's arms; and neither one of them wanted to get out of bed. They could barely stop kissing long enough to talk.
“No,” Alfred sounded resolute. “I've got to start my job. They're not that easy to find.” Alfred decided to be the realist. “Tom, these have been the best two days of my life ...”
“And they're not over,” Tom answered.
“Come on, you two,” Edmund called from downstairs. “There's a train to catch. Who knows? It might be on time.”
They reluctantly watched the splendor of their bodies being covered with pointless, obstructing cloth. Putting on shoes finally broke the spell. Breakfast was fast, full of food and chat with Edmund and Alistair. Alfred stayed at the table while Tom packed his back pack. At last they all assembled at the front doorway.
“I'm going to say goodbye here, because I'd just kidnap you I tried at the station,” Tom told Alfred. Alistair and Edmund left the two alone and walked to the car.
“Well, Cupid ...” Edmund began; he planned to tease Alistair until he noticed tears in his lover's eyes. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing at all; nothing at all, my dear lovely man,” Alistair answered. “I just see us twenty years ago, kissing in a doorway, not knowing if we'd ever see each other again. I don't think any two could have the beautiful life we have had, but I hope they come close. Very close.”
“They'll have to work hard, because our life isn't over – as you so perfectly demonstrated last night,” Edmund tried to sound offhand and cheery, but Alistair was in a wistful mood and would not be lured out to play.
The ride to Norwich was fast and quiet. Tom and Alfred had been discretely holding hands in the back seat. When the stopped at the station, Tom quickly gave Alfred's hand a kiss and said, “Next week, one way or another.”
“Alfred, where can we drop you?” Edmund asked. He had just left the rail station turned on to Prince of Wales Road.
“Near the Castle, please.”
“We'll go right there.”
“No, it would be better if you took Tombland north, I think. I can walk fifty meters.”
“Fifty meters? I hope you can walk that far. Was the sex with Tom difficult?” Alistair asked.
“No, not at all.” Alfred had never expected to be discussing this sort of intimacy with people he hardly knew; but at the same time they knew so much about him, almost all of it exceedingly intimate. On Thursday, he would not have believed his life could change so drastically in forty-eight hours.
After a warm goodbye, he walked the Castle grounds. It was a small park with the twin charms of being both familiar and almost deserted on a Sunday morning. In the assuring comfort of his native Norwich it was easier to think. The sights of the town were old friends, not distractions. His first thought was I'll never see him again. I'll go through my life living on the memories of one fabulous weekend. I still feel his cock in me. Will I ever forget it? No, he decided. But maybe I'm not giving Tom … he paused at the name. Thomas. Tom. My Tommy. He makes accounting jokes. So American. He awarded me part ownership rights to his bum. My beautiful Tommy.
But I'm not giving him enough credit. He said he'll be back and he will. Once, at least. I'm going to have another weekend at least. Another hot forty-eight hours and then my heart will be crushed again. He'll be in London, Washington, who knows where … an I'll be a bumpkin in Norwich, doing sums, …
He sat near the Regimental Museum and took out his sketch pad. I won't forget his face, Alfred thought as he looked at his drawings. He carefully drew in some more detail. He didn't have Tom's face right. His eyes are livelier than I've made them and his smile I don't think I could ever get right. He smiles when he isn't smiling; it just shines out of him. My Tommy … Alfred drew a larger cock on Tom's image in the dragon picture. At least I've got that part right, he concluded.
Two hours had flown before Alfred packed up his pad again. He walked northeast to his mother's house. He decided to walk through Mousehold Heath and was passing Barrack Street when he noticed a fellow student walking toward him on Spitalfield Lane.
Walking was one description. Weaving was another. “Alfred! Am I caught? Am I found out? Thank God. At last.”
“Dylan, what are you talking about?”
“I stagger out of the most notorious gay establishment in Norwich right into the arms of my old friend Alfred. And he has to ask what I'm talking about? I suppose if I were wearing a dress … a sweet little frock ...”
“Gay what?”
“The Castle, my naïve friend, where I have been imbibing this fine afternoon. So now you know my little story. Are you shocked? Appalled? Horrified?”
Alfred calculated what he had to lose and decided nothing. It was liberating. “I just spent two days getting me bum fucked by this amazing American and you ask if I'm shocked?”
“Noooo. Really? Amazing and American would be alright, I expect, but anyone would do in my case. Come with me … and tell all, astonishing Alfred.”
“Here are your tickets,” Dimitri said. “Good luck. If there is trouble, call this number.” The card read Andrej Janko, Slovenian Consulate, 55 Public Square, Cleveland; there was a phone number with a 216 area code.
“We're really doing this,” Phil stated pointlessly, still not completely believing his new employer.
“If you don't feel ...” Dimitri began.
“No, I'm fine. It's a good cause and it's legal.” Phil added “I think” again drawing a look from Dimitri. Alex pulled him out of the room before Dimitri could react.
“Who ever thought Cleveland was a hotbed of international crime?” Phil asked Alex.
“Who ever knew it has train service?” Alex responded.
“Tomorrow afternoon at 4PM, if the train is on time, I become a foreign spy,” Phil savored the words.
“Customs investigator,” Alex insisted.
“Spoil sport. It's not the Capitol Limited. It's zee Orient Express. Dark-haired women with flashing eyes. Shady men flashing their cocks. Unimaginable acts being committed in closed compartments.” Phil got serious. “Are we getting a compartment?”
“It says a bedroom on the tickets,” Alex replied.
“A bedroom … Dimitri's not such a bad guy ...”
“No, he isn't. He likes you for some reason.”
“Well, you like me.”
“Yes, but Dimitri's not fucking you. I am … every chance I get ...” Even though they were walking on Wisconsin Avenue in the middle of the afternoon, Alex squeezed Phil's butt.
“How are we gonna do the no-sex part, Alex? How?”
“We're not. Not for a day and a half. Then … we'll manage.”
They got back to Phil's apartment and went immediately to bed. “What the hell are you doing?” Alex laughed. Phil was on top with both of them teetering on the edge of the bed. Phil wasn't deterred by the question and proceeded to get Alex's legs up around his waist. His left knee, however, slipped off the bed and they fell on the floor.
“I guess the bed in the train will be narrow, I just wanted to see what we could do in a confined space,” Phil explained.
“The floor of the train will be a lot like this floor. Unlimited freedom to maneuver.” Alex pulled Phil's mouth to his own and they proceeded.
When they were done, Phil was again in awe of Alex. “I still can't believe you. You're so much better than anybody I've ...”
“Skip the sordid details of your past, Phil,” Alex joked.
“Smart. Practical. Handsome. Very. And yet you have this goofy streak. I never know what you're going to ...”
Alex silenced him in their usual way. It's hard to be a chatterbox with a dick in your mouth. “Is it ok if I fuck you? I know after you've come, you don't always ...”
“Now who's talking too much?” Phil chided. “You don't need to ask.” In fact Phil didn't like getting fucked if he came first, but that hardly mattered at the start of a foreign intrigue. “Show me how spies fuck, Alex.”
Brent drove up the winding entrance road to the garage. Apartment C was open so he walked in. “Lucky? You here?”
“No. He's getting some fresh air on the porch. It's stuffy in here. I'm Mike Mitchell from Apartment A.”
“What are you doing here?” Brent asked after identifying himself.
“Lucky wants somebody here if the apartment's open. I'm the guard, I guess, and enjoying the paintings while I wait. Go on out on the porch. Lucky's out there.”
Brent blinked in surprise on the porch. “How did you get out here so fast?”
“Brent, meet Matt, Mike's brother. And Rawson Smith, who also lives here. We've been to an audition.” Lucky chuckled at the memory.
“I think Lucky got a part,” Matt suggested. “Probably any part he wants.”
Something clicked and Brent asked, “Rawson, are you with the Common Sense magazine?”
“Just appointed to the editorial board. I didn't know anybody had heard.”
“Oh, congratulations. I had heard of you as an author.”
“Congratulations? How come I don't know?” Matt sounded hurt.
“Lucky, can we talk a minute?” Brent asked before getting drawn into Matt's question and answer.
“Sure.” They went inside for a bit of privacy.
“Am I off duty now?” Mike asked. Lucky nodded and kissed him appreciatively. “Keep your clothes on,” Mike said as he went out onto the porch.
Lucky explained the reference to his audition experience. Brent was cautious. “Lucky, the Museum is tolerant of almost anything that stays out of the news, but ...”
“Is that what you're worried about, Brent? My accidental exposure?”
“Mike … is ...”
“I'm living with him, Brent.”
“Oh … Are you sure …?“
“Of what? That I'm happier than I've ever been? That he's the only honest man in Washington? This is not any kind of ultimatum, I hope. I'm not giving him up.” Lucky shrugged. “He may give ME up, but ...” He left the sentence unfinished.
“You know, Lucky, I always hoped that somehow ...”
“We could have gotten back together, if only you'd asked. But you criticized. I knew you didn't approve of anybody I went with. All you had to do was ask me; but you never did. And then I decided women would make our separation permanent.”
“I'm sorry.” Brent had nothing else to offer.
“You don't need to be. I'm fine, lately, anyway. Mike is like an elixir.”
“Maybe I'm just feeling a little sorry for myself. Getting older and all. Alone.”
“Have you noticed you're not actually alone? Charles is living with you, I believe.” Lucky's tone was gentle, not critical.
“But Charles … I'm old enough to be his ...”
“... his lover, if you'd pay attention this time.”
“I KNEW we should have gone to the Methodist bake sale,” the woman in the large sun hat muttered as she scooped up her amazed child. “Don't point, Stratton,” she admonished much more harshly than the child deserved.
“Ooophf,” Stratton complained as his mother's arm tightened around his stomach. “What did I do?” came the eternal question of a mystified child who has been reprimanded for demonstrating his powers of observation. All he had done was ask a different question, one the mother should have been prepared for.
“Is daddy's pee-pee as big as that one?”
Unfortunately the question had rung out during the horrified silence that first greeted Lucky's emergence from the wreckage of audition tent. First there were titters, then laughs, and then comments. “Not half likely.” “Maybe … if Daddy's a horse.” “It's all in the genes, kid!”
“But he's not wearing jeans,” commented the fascinated innocent.
“Stratton! That will be enough!” Mom headed for the parking lot at a brisk pace with a wiggling Stratton under her arm.
It began with Matt and Lucky entering tent three, which had been used that morning for a flower judging competition. The contest for who had the biggest dahlia acquired a different judging criterion under Rex Rybold's audition standard. The tent was curtained into six distinct areas with display tables.
“I'm Roderigo. Just take your clothes off down to your underwear and stand on the table. Reynaldo will be here in a minute,” the young man said. His efficient manner had become officious. He pretended that the line up of six gorgeous guys was an everyday burden of his employment.
“I'm not wearing underwear,” a blond guy said.
“Didn't your mother warn you about that?” giggled a jarringly effeminate muscle builder who was watching the unveiling closely. “Blond pubes. Nice!” he commented.
Reynaldo's assistant sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. He stood guard where the tent flaps opened but lost his diffidence when he saw just how attractive the blond was.
The third cubicle was occupied by a young-ish fellow who strained a table designed to hold potted plants with his considerable weight. The table groaned and made cracking sounds but held as he hoisted himself onto it.
The fourth partition curtained off Misha Medoff and a familiar-looking companion. Misha was wearing tiny see-through underwear and his friend appeared to be uneasy in the surroundings.
“Mattie!” Misha called. “Here we go again, huh? You remember Dave … the fireman who got 'Reynaldo' out of the chair the last time?” Dave nodded hello.
“Hey, Misha. This is my friend Lucky. He's trying out, too.”
Lucky said hello and followed that with “I don't know what I'm doing. I just came with Matt for laughs.”
“Me, too,” said Dave. “Misha thinks it would be cool to work together on this.”
“It will be, sweetie,” Misha confirmed, the leader of their two-man parade.
“Here, you take this section,” Matt said to Lucky. “And I'll go last.”
“Or first,” Lucky said. “Here we go.” He folded his clothes as he took them off. “I should have worn sexier underwear than these baggy boxers.”
Rex entered the tent and professionally walked to the first partition. His professionalism ended at the first sight of the blond. “Yes … report tomorrow at three.”
The assistant was annoyed by Rex's selection. “But there weren't any blond Incas, Rex … er, Rey.”
“He's flexible about that, aren't you?” Rex asked the blond.
“I'll bend any way you want, Mr. Director,” the blond promised as he dressed and left.
“Ok, Muscle Mary, repeat after me: Seventeen sex shop sales slips slithered slowly southward,“ Rex requested. Candidate two generated more hissing than the snake house at the zoo. “The chorus, maybe,” Rex promised tugging at Mary's waistband and peering inside.
“Whoa!” Rex spotted the third candidate. “A man of size! Yell 'Atahualpa' for me.” The resulting shout was deafening. “If only your dick were that big,” Rex sighed. “Would you mind playing a statue? You would have some lines in final act. Good. Come at four tomorrow and don't leave yet. I want to see something.”
“Misha ...” Rex acknowledged. “There's always something for you. And who's your overdressed friend?”
“I'm not really here to try out. Do you have to do that to Misha?” Dave was complaining about a bit of overfamiliarity on Rex's part.
“Take your clothes off; I'll be back,” Rex ordered and assumed Dave's compliance as he moved to Lucky's space.
“Hmmm … a little older … but nice … very nice … turn please. Yes, very nice. Could I just … “
Rex was up to his old tricks, handling Lucky's cock. “This is just to judge skin tones,” he explained as he stroked. “Roderigo? Bring the light meter, please.” Lucky was trying his best not to show any arousal. He was not successful.
“Matt,” Rex gave Matt the same greeting that Misha had received. Rex was no longer attempting to hide his past. “You're hired, of course.” He backed to the center of the tent and admired Dave's mostly undraped body. “Misha, you rascal,” he commented, eying the appealing young fireman.
“Do you blame me?” Misha answered.
“Ok, those who are left, gather round,” Rex ordered.
“You doing ok?” Matt asked, seeing what Lucky's boxers couldn't hide. Lucky just shrugged and grinned, willing to go along with the farce of an audition.
“Our big friend here will play the sun, literally. He will need to embrace Atahualpa and Pizarro. So … You ...” Rex pointed to Lucky, “Try it.”
Lucky allowed himself to be embraced by the sun, who complained, “He's got a hardon!”
“Of course he does,” Rex said as if any idiot should know that.
Lucky got off the table and stood by Matt's side next to the tent pole. Matt patted his ass and whispered, “Good sport. I see why Mike likes you.”
Now you two, Misha and … what? Dave? … try it.”
The table groaned loudly as two more men climbed up on it.
“Ok, sun … devour Misha,” Rex directed and the man of size essentially enveloped the much smaller Misha. “Get close, you two. Try a kiss.”
The man of size was reluctant but Misha threw himself into the role. “What the fuck?” was Dave's reaction. “Get your hands off him!”
The man of size lost his balance. The table lost a leg. And Dave nearly lost a boyfriend, as the sun fell forward with Misha under him. On his way down he grabbed and effortlessly took out the tent pole. It snapped in half and the tent slowly sagged and collapsed as air rushed out the central hole in the roof. The tent came down around Lucky, who emerged from the hole much like Venus's sexy brother rising from the sea. As the tent sagged to the ground, Lucky appeared in all his attention-getting glory. By any accurate measurement of time, Lucky pulled up his boxers very quickly, but nudity registers indelibly on the brain in nanoseconds.
It was a memorable afternoon in many minds. Although the Post didn't report it, the scene became an Internet favorite. Little Stratton, thinking this had been an incredibly great afternoon, tolerated his mother's fussing as she fastened the straps. He settled contentedly into the child seat in the back of the Volvo and for the first, but not the last time in his life he wondered if size somehow mattered.
“I'll come back when we're done in London.”
“When will that be?” Alfred asked.
“I … I'm not sure. You could come with me … to London. Yes?”
Tom and Alfred had slept another night in each other's arms; and neither one of them wanted to get out of bed. They could barely stop kissing long enough to talk.
“No,” Alfred sounded resolute. “I've got to start my job. They're not that easy to find.” Alfred decided to be the realist. “Tom, these have been the best two days of my life ...”
“And they're not over,” Tom answered.
“Come on, you two,” Edmund called from downstairs. “There's a train to catch. Who knows? It might be on time.”
They reluctantly watched the splendor of their bodies being covered with pointless, obstructing cloth. Putting on shoes finally broke the spell. Breakfast was fast, full of food and chat with Edmund and Alistair. Alfred stayed at the table while Tom packed his back pack. At last they all assembled at the front doorway.
“I'm going to say goodbye here, because I'd just kidnap you I tried at the station,” Tom told Alfred. Alistair and Edmund left the two alone and walked to the car.
“Well, Cupid ...” Edmund began; he planned to tease Alistair until he noticed tears in his lover's eyes. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing at all; nothing at all, my dear lovely man,” Alistair answered. “I just see us twenty years ago, kissing in a doorway, not knowing if we'd ever see each other again. I don't think any two could have the beautiful life we have had, but I hope they come close. Very close.”
“They'll have to work hard, because our life isn't over – as you so perfectly demonstrated last night,” Edmund tried to sound offhand and cheery, but Alistair was in a wistful mood and would not be lured out to play.
The ride to Norwich was fast and quiet. Tom and Alfred had been discretely holding hands in the back seat. When the stopped at the station, Tom quickly gave Alfred's hand a kiss and said, “Next week, one way or another.”
“Alfred, where can we drop you?” Edmund asked. He had just left the rail station turned on to Prince of Wales Road.
“Near the Castle, please.”
“We'll go right there.”
“No, it would be better if you took Tombland north, I think. I can walk fifty meters.”
“Fifty meters? I hope you can walk that far. Was the sex with Tom difficult?” Alistair asked.
“No, not at all.” Alfred had never expected to be discussing this sort of intimacy with people he hardly knew; but at the same time they knew so much about him, almost all of it exceedingly intimate. On Thursday, he would not have believed his life could change so drastically in forty-eight hours.
After a warm goodbye, he walked the Castle grounds. It was a small park with the twin charms of being both familiar and almost deserted on a Sunday morning. In the assuring comfort of his native Norwich it was easier to think. The sights of the town were old friends, not distractions. His first thought was I'll never see him again. I'll go through my life living on the memories of one fabulous weekend. I still feel his cock in me. Will I ever forget it? No, he decided. But maybe I'm not giving Tom … he paused at the name. Thomas. Tom. My Tommy. He makes accounting jokes. So American. He awarded me part ownership rights to his bum. My beautiful Tommy.
But I'm not giving him enough credit. He said he'll be back and he will. Once, at least. I'm going to have another weekend at least. Another hot forty-eight hours and then my heart will be crushed again. He'll be in London, Washington, who knows where … an I'll be a bumpkin in Norwich, doing sums, …
He sat near the Regimental Museum and took out his sketch pad. I won't forget his face, Alfred thought as he looked at his drawings. He carefully drew in some more detail. He didn't have Tom's face right. His eyes are livelier than I've made them and his smile I don't think I could ever get right. He smiles when he isn't smiling; it just shines out of him. My Tommy … Alfred drew a larger cock on Tom's image in the dragon picture. At least I've got that part right, he concluded.
Two hours had flown before Alfred packed up his pad again. He walked northeast to his mother's house. He decided to walk through Mousehold Heath and was passing Barrack Street when he noticed a fellow student walking toward him on Spitalfield Lane.
Walking was one description. Weaving was another. “Alfred! Am I caught? Am I found out? Thank God. At last.”
“Dylan, what are you talking about?”
“I stagger out of the most notorious gay establishment in Norwich right into the arms of my old friend Alfred. And he has to ask what I'm talking about? I suppose if I were wearing a dress … a sweet little frock ...”
“Gay what?”
“The Castle, my naïve friend, where I have been imbibing this fine afternoon. So now you know my little story. Are you shocked? Appalled? Horrified?”
Alfred calculated what he had to lose and decided nothing. It was liberating. “I just spent two days getting me bum fucked by this amazing American and you ask if I'm shocked?”
“Noooo. Really? Amazing and American would be alright, I expect, but anyone would do in my case. Come with me … and tell all, astonishing Alfred.”
“Here are your tickets,” Dimitri said. “Good luck. If there is trouble, call this number.” The card read Andrej Janko, Slovenian Consulate, 55 Public Square, Cleveland; there was a phone number with a 216 area code.
“We're really doing this,” Phil stated pointlessly, still not completely believing his new employer.
“If you don't feel ...” Dimitri began.
“No, I'm fine. It's a good cause and it's legal.” Phil added “I think” again drawing a look from Dimitri. Alex pulled him out of the room before Dimitri could react.
“Who ever thought Cleveland was a hotbed of international crime?” Phil asked Alex.
“Who ever knew it has train service?” Alex responded.
“Tomorrow afternoon at 4PM, if the train is on time, I become a foreign spy,” Phil savored the words.
“Customs investigator,” Alex insisted.
“Spoil sport. It's not the Capitol Limited. It's zee Orient Express. Dark-haired women with flashing eyes. Shady men flashing their cocks. Unimaginable acts being committed in closed compartments.” Phil got serious. “Are we getting a compartment?”
“It says a bedroom on the tickets,” Alex replied.
“A bedroom … Dimitri's not such a bad guy ...”
“No, he isn't. He likes you for some reason.”
“Well, you like me.”
“Yes, but Dimitri's not fucking you. I am … every chance I get ...” Even though they were walking on Wisconsin Avenue in the middle of the afternoon, Alex squeezed Phil's butt.
“How are we gonna do the no-sex part, Alex? How?”
“We're not. Not for a day and a half. Then … we'll manage.”
They got back to Phil's apartment and went immediately to bed. “What the hell are you doing?” Alex laughed. Phil was on top with both of them teetering on the edge of the bed. Phil wasn't deterred by the question and proceeded to get Alex's legs up around his waist. His left knee, however, slipped off the bed and they fell on the floor.
“I guess the bed in the train will be narrow, I just wanted to see what we could do in a confined space,” Phil explained.
“The floor of the train will be a lot like this floor. Unlimited freedom to maneuver.” Alex pulled Phil's mouth to his own and they proceeded.
When they were done, Phil was again in awe of Alex. “I still can't believe you. You're so much better than anybody I've ...”
“Skip the sordid details of your past, Phil,” Alex joked.
“Smart. Practical. Handsome. Very. And yet you have this goofy streak. I never know what you're going to ...”
Alex silenced him in their usual way. It's hard to be a chatterbox with a dick in your mouth. “Is it ok if I fuck you? I know after you've come, you don't always ...”
“Now who's talking too much?” Phil chided. “You don't need to ask.” In fact Phil didn't like getting fucked if he came first, but that hardly mattered at the start of a foreign intrigue. “Show me how spies fuck, Alex.”
Brent drove up the winding entrance road to the garage. Apartment C was open so he walked in. “Lucky? You here?”
“No. He's getting some fresh air on the porch. It's stuffy in here. I'm Mike Mitchell from Apartment A.”
“What are you doing here?” Brent asked after identifying himself.
“Lucky wants somebody here if the apartment's open. I'm the guard, I guess, and enjoying the paintings while I wait. Go on out on the porch. Lucky's out there.”
Brent blinked in surprise on the porch. “How did you get out here so fast?”
“Brent, meet Matt, Mike's brother. And Rawson Smith, who also lives here. We've been to an audition.” Lucky chuckled at the memory.
“I think Lucky got a part,” Matt suggested. “Probably any part he wants.”
Something clicked and Brent asked, “Rawson, are you with the Common Sense magazine?”
“Just appointed to the editorial board. I didn't know anybody had heard.”
“Oh, congratulations. I had heard of you as an author.”
“Congratulations? How come I don't know?” Matt sounded hurt.
“Lucky, can we talk a minute?” Brent asked before getting drawn into Matt's question and answer.
“Sure.” They went inside for a bit of privacy.
“Am I off duty now?” Mike asked. Lucky nodded and kissed him appreciatively. “Keep your clothes on,” Mike said as he went out onto the porch.
Lucky explained the reference to his audition experience. Brent was cautious. “Lucky, the Museum is tolerant of almost anything that stays out of the news, but ...”
“Is that what you're worried about, Brent? My accidental exposure?”
“Mike … is ...”
“I'm living with him, Brent.”
“Oh … Are you sure …?“
“Of what? That I'm happier than I've ever been? That he's the only honest man in Washington? This is not any kind of ultimatum, I hope. I'm not giving him up.” Lucky shrugged. “He may give ME up, but ...” He left the sentence unfinished.
“You know, Lucky, I always hoped that somehow ...”
“We could have gotten back together, if only you'd asked. But you criticized. I knew you didn't approve of anybody I went with. All you had to do was ask me; but you never did. And then I decided women would make our separation permanent.”
“I'm sorry.” Brent had nothing else to offer.
“You don't need to be. I'm fine, lately, anyway. Mike is like an elixir.”
“Maybe I'm just feeling a little sorry for myself. Getting older and all. Alone.”
“Have you noticed you're not actually alone? Charles is living with you, I believe.” Lucky's tone was gentle, not critical.
“But Charles … I'm old enough to be his ...”
“... his lover, if you'd pay attention this time.”
Yeah, that, too!
Hi, Rocabar.
Hi, Rocabar.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
I've actually attended a production of Royal Hunt of the Sun on the grounds of the National Cathedral, where the people playing the Inca roles wore jockstraps, feathers, and gold paint.
I'm not making *all* this stuff up.
AUTOLYCUS Could you change the eighth last paragraph from:
“You know, Brent, I always hoped that somehow ...”
to:
"You know, Lucky, etc.
Thanks.
I'm not making *all* this stuff up.
AUTOLYCUS Could you change the eighth last paragraph from:
“You know, Brent, I always hoped that somehow ...”
to:
"You know, Lucky, etc.
Thanks.
Have made the change - 'How Brent got Lucky' could be another story! lol!
I never expected to read about Tombland in Norwich in a gay story
Rory,
As Mr. Ripley is wont to remind us - Fact is stranger than Fiction!
That's an interesting place for a pagan play - or maybe all the more appropriate in this country of religious tolerance and freedom.
I did see that flip flop, did a double take, but forgot to send you a note.
As Mr. Ripley is wont to remind us - Fact is stranger than Fiction!
That's an interesting place for a pagan play - or maybe all the more appropriate in this country of religious tolerance and freedom.
I did see that flip flop, did a double take, but forgot to send you a note.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirty-Two
After receiving their final instructions from Dimitri at quiet table at the Yenching Palace, Phil and Alex left for the train station. Another man entered and took a place at the table. “Are you sure about them, Dimitri?”
“I am not sure of their success; but I am sure they will do their best. Try the tea; I don't recommend the food,” Dimitri advised. The Yenching had been serving its own version of Hunan cuisine for decades. No one could say why.
The other man poured something tepid into a handle-less cup. “Panther piss,” he sneered after a sip.
“All they have to do is watch and report. Your men will do the rest. And they will be perfectly placed to watch.” Dimitri pulled the slip of paper from his cookie and read. “Happy is the man who eats at the Yenching Palace. What kind of fortune is that?”
“Outrageous,” the other man laughed.
Phil and Alex walked the block from the restaurant to the Metro stop. The trip seemed unnecessarily complex to Phil. “I don't get why we're leaving from Rockville. Union Station is much closer. And why does the ticket say Elyria, Ohio, if we're going to Cleveland?”
“Less possibility of tracking.”
Alex had become a different person, all business; he suddenly looked older to Phil. The Metro was crowded and they had to stand as far as Friendship Heights. After that the car became progressively emptier as they proceeded north. Alex tapped his cheek with his index finger and Phil smiled at the floor, not daring to look up. It was their signal. “I love you,” Alex had said without words.
Twenty minutes later they left the suburban Metro stop walked the short distance to the platform for the Capitol Limited. The sleek looking train arrived and departed almost on time. Its powerful and efficient appearance failed to predict its painfully slow progress up the course of the Potomac River.
Once they were in their bedroom, Alex relaxed. “We have ten and a half hours, Phil. What can we possibly do for that long?”
After three hours of making love, they came up for air as the train left Cumberland. The meal was a basic hamburger and french fries, but it tasted great. They returned to their room and found the beds had been made up. The lower bunk would in fact accommodate both of them and they actually got some sleep before Alex's watch woke them twenty minutes before their scheduled arrival. They dressed and were ready when the arrival time came and went. Alex checked with the conductor and learned the train was currently running forty-five minutes late.
“Want to spend forty minutes kissing me?” Alex asked when he got back to the room.
“I want to spend my life kissing you,” Phil answered. “Am I allowed to take my shoes off?” Alex didn't laugh or even smile. “Are you going gloomy Russian on me?” Phil asked
“Fuck me. One more time,” Alex sounded desperate.
Phil was happy to comply and it didn't take forty minutes. “I've never seen you like this.”
“I've never had anything to lose before. I'm worried about you, Phil. If anything happens ...”
“Nothing's going to happen. We just follow Dimitri's orders; all we have to do is watch for somebody acting out of the ordinary. Acting furtive. Making inappropriate contacts. Somebody interested in art. Somebody with an icon or two stuffed up his ass. Probably a crew member. Watch and report.” Phil thought it sounded easy enough. “And sing,” he added. “And try to get a room together.” He hugged Alex as the conductor passed their door announcing Cleveland.
They left the train in the darkness of the early morning hour and walked west. It wasn't clear where they were going, but a thousand feet west, when they had passed the bulk of a huge football stadium, they saw their future home. The MV Isadora lay floodlit and waiting for them at Dock 28. Despite the early hour, cranes were at work unloading coils of steel. Another thousand feet brought them to the accommodation ladder. They boarded the ship and reported to a man at the top of the ladder, who told them to wait.
Phil overheard a remark from one of the deck hands and asked Alex, “What does something like 'Smazlivaya zhopa ' mean?”
“Who said that?” Alex demanded.
“One of the crew.” Phil pointed toward the hold opening. “The one in the checkered shirt.”
“Huh!” Alex said. “It means 'cute ass'.”
A smile spread across Phil's face, but he said nothing more about it.
A man in a cook's toque approached and said, “Come,” or more likely “Komm.”
The crew's quarters were basic but adequate. Three-man rooms with three bunks and three built-in dresser-desks, shared down-the-passageway toilet facilities, and a small lounge with a television. Alex counted ten rooms. The cook held up one finger and pointed to a room. “Take it,” Alex told Phil. The cook went down a ladder and took Alex to another room.
“Polskii?” he asked.
“Russkii,” Alex answered. Their conversation would not be sophisticated but they could communicate at a elementary level. They stopped back to find Phil and proceeded to the galley.
Alex translated for Phil as the man gave directions. “He cooks; we serve. The crew eats first; then the passengers. There are never many passengers. We clean their staterooms and the crew quarters.”
It sounded like slave labor to Phil, who had never been much concerned with cleanliness other than personal; but it gave them access to most of the ship. Work began immediately. That afternoon when Phil got his first break he walked out onto the main deck.
The Isadora was a freighter, not at all glamorous; it was a combination break-bulk and container carrier that plied a route from the Baltic to the Great Lakes via ports in western Europe and eastern Canada. The exact route depended on the cargo. Its shallow draft allowed for using smaller ports.
Phil was surprised to see the steel coils that had just been offloaded when he and Alex arrived being loaded back aboard. “What the fuck?” he asked Alex. “Didn't they just take that stuff off?”
A deck officer with slightly accented, excellent English said, “We delivered ordinary carbon steel from Poland; we load special alloys from Cleveland. They look the same, but one is hamburger and the other steak.”
“Thank you,” Phil said, not knowing how familiar he should be.
“You are the singers?” the officer asked. Alex couldn't place his accent. It wasn't Slavic.
“Any requests?” Alex asked.
“Jeg Elsker Havet.”
“Sorry. We don't know it, but maybe we can learn.”
It means 'I Love the Ocean.' An old Danish song.” The officer went down into the hold.
“Talk,” Dylan ordered as he sat down with two pints.
The Castle on Spitalfield, as opposed to the Castle in the center of town, was an establishment that attracted cross-dressers, although at 1 PM on a Sunday none was present in full finery and only a few drinkers showed traces of makeup from the night before. The residue gave them very hollow appearing eyes; they looked tired and perhaps were.
“What about?” Alfred asked. He noticed that a fifty-year-old wearing the clothes of a much younger man was eying him.
“What do you think?” Dylan asked but got no reply. The man watching Alfred was making him nervous. “Ok, I'll talk. You always knew I was gay, didn't you?”
“Um, you have some traits that would seem to ...”
“Queer as a nine bob note, me anguished dad used to say. And he was right. I lost my virginity to a Pinocchio toy in the cradle and never looked back. But you … I wouldn't have guessed. Explain.”
Alfred shrugged. “There's nothing to explain. I never got interested in girls beyond a couple of basic experiments and I always knew I was attracted to men. I just never did anything about it.”
“Until two days ago? And then you exploded all over East Anglia and parts of Kent?”
“I met somebody and I knew he was the one I wanted to … to do everything with.” Alfred noted the man at the bar was still watching him.
“Get your phone out. I want to see him.” Dylan pretended to be drooling.
“I don't have one of those phones. Here ...” Alfred pulled out his sketch pad. He showed Dylan the first drawing. Dylan snatched it from his hand and flipped through the pages, coming at last to the dragon scene.
“Coo! You started with the right man, Alfie. Where is he now?”
“He left for London this morning.”
“Why are you still in Norwich?” Dylan asked without hesitation.
Alfred explained his job circumstances and then whispered to Dylan, “That one over there … in the white trainers … he's looking at me.”
“Everybody is looking at you. You're a new face. Doesn't happen that often in Norwich. See anyone you fancy? Take your pick.”
“I think I want to get out of here.” Alfred was already picking up his belongings.
“I'll walk with you,” Dylan said.
“Dylan,” Alfred's voice had a warning in it. “I don't want to have sex with you.”
“Don't feel singled out. Nobody wants to have sex with me.”
They walked a bit and then Alfred said, “Dylan, I didn't mean to say you're ...”
“No worries. I'm used to rejection.” He didn't seem at all troubled.
“But haven't you ever been in love?”
“Constantly, I think every man I meet is The One; but it never works out. See that bloke coming this way? I was madly in love with him … let's see ...” Dylan checked his watch. “... seventeen days ago. Things were perfect until he spoke.”
“What did he say?”
“He said 'Piss off!' and then he made a fist.” As they passed the man said hello to Dylan in a very friendly way and nodded genially to Alfred.
“He seemed friendly.”
“That's because he's interested in you.”
“You're a true visionary, Dylan. You see things that aren't there.”
They sipped pints in the lounge of the Mad Hatter. “Our strategy should be to get the same kind of contract we have with the Smithsonian,” the lawyer suggested, as if it would be that easy.
“Can we do that without a British or EU subsidiary?” Rory asked.
“Fred … the Baroness Frederika ... Lady Tangent … I'm not sure what her proper title is … said we could use a company she owns - the British Foreign Legion, it's called - if we needed to,” Tom said.
“Have you been hanging out with baronesses all weekend?” Rory asked. His grin reflected amusement but also pride in Tom's accomplishment.
“No, I was with artists, sort of … Alistair said baroness isn't a great title. Countess is one step up, but it's a big step.“
“And ...” Rory invited further explanation.
“I don't know any countesses,” Tom ended the discussion of titles.
They were silent while John vetted the BFL as best he could using a Sunday morning Internet connection. “It's a government contractor that does an estimated twenty million ...pounds, I guess … annual volume. Privately owned, no public data. Managing director and principal owner is 'The Right Honourable the Baroness Tangent'.” He looked at Tom. “Fred you call her?”
“That's what she said to call her. We had dinner last week.”
“We're a long way from Bette's Ocean View Diner,” Rory said, mentioning a basic but good restaurant they all knew in Berkeley.
“Mandy and I used to love that place,” John said. “My wife, we're separated,” he explained for Tom's benefit.
“Sorry,” Tom said.
“We tried. Not hard enough, I guess.”
“John,” Rory asked, changing the subject, “How big a contract would we need to make setting up a foreign subsidiary worth it?”
“A couple million … dollars, pounds, whatever. Substantially more than we're contemplating here.”
“So a BFL connection might be worth considering?”
“Definitely. It sounds tailor-made - what with Tom's friend Fred already onboard and all.”
“Ok, we'll see what tomorrow brings. Want to walk around? Then I'm going to bed early,” Rory was already on his feet.
Rory and John had apparently read the same guide to London. They pointed out landmarks to each other on the long loop across the Blackfriars Bridge, along the Embankment, diverting to St. James's Park, and circling back across the Waterloo Bridge.
“Should we take a look at the Palace. It's right over there,” Rory suggested, pointing through some trees.
“Nay,” John voted. “The queen's not there. That magazine in the plane said she's in Kentucky.”
Tom was quiet, in constant wonder at how many people looked just like Alfred until he got up close enough to be disappointed. Should I go back to Norwich when we're done? Maybe he could come to London, Tom thought. That guy looks just like Alfred, except he's shorter and has a different face and his coloring is all wrong. Was it only two days? I can remember every minute. I miss him. A lot.
Lucky walked Brent to his car and watched him drive away. He wanted to brag to Mike about how he had risked everything over him, almost daring Brent to object, but he couldn't figure out how to say it. Brent had been impressed, no doubt about that, Lucky thought; but how do I tell Mike without sounding stupid? I didn't really risk that much at all. It's not like I faced bullets. Brent can't even fire me over hurt feelings, over a whim.
He locked the door to Apartment C and went onto the porch. What a handsome trio Rawson and the twins made. He walked closer and watched Mike's face light up.
“Done for the day, Lucky?” Mike asked. “Let me get you a beer.”
Maybe I don't need to tell him anything, Lucky thought. “No, I'll get you a beer,” Lucky said as he walked to the cooler the carpet layers had put out. He bent forward reaching into the icy waters and grabbed two Beck's. He felt Mike's hand rest on his waist. He stood up and Mike's hand stayed put while he popped the cans open.
Brent drove home in the fading light of the Sunday afternoon. There was very little traffic; the streets were nearly as deserted as they used to be on game days when the Redskins were hot.
“Have I been neglecting you?” he asked Charles.
Charles thought Brent was joking and he answered in the same spirit. “You mean aside from getting me a job, cooking my meals, giving me a place to live, and keeping me sexually exhausted? Other than that? No, I don't think so.”
“Well, I think I have. Would you go out to dinner with me?” Brent asked as he fished a phone out of his pocket. After getting Charles' assent, he called a contemporary of his, a gallery manager. “Gene, would you and your friend like to join me and my most excellent friend at La Chaumiere? Yes, tonight. Right now, in fact.”
The four of them, two men in their forties and two men in their twenties, ate a leisurely meal at a French-but-not-fancy restaurant on M Street. They had many things in common, but Gene and his friend, who started out sharing sex and other advantages, now were together sharing love. Brent hoped he wasn't too old to learn. It didn't hurt that Gene and his friend seemed very taken with Charles. When did Charles become such a charming conversationalist, Brent asked himself.
After receiving their final instructions from Dimitri at quiet table at the Yenching Palace, Phil and Alex left for the train station. Another man entered and took a place at the table. “Are you sure about them, Dimitri?”
“I am not sure of their success; but I am sure they will do their best. Try the tea; I don't recommend the food,” Dimitri advised. The Yenching had been serving its own version of Hunan cuisine for decades. No one could say why.
The other man poured something tepid into a handle-less cup. “Panther piss,” he sneered after a sip.
“All they have to do is watch and report. Your men will do the rest. And they will be perfectly placed to watch.” Dimitri pulled the slip of paper from his cookie and read. “Happy is the man who eats at the Yenching Palace. What kind of fortune is that?”
“Outrageous,” the other man laughed.
Phil and Alex walked the block from the restaurant to the Metro stop. The trip seemed unnecessarily complex to Phil. “I don't get why we're leaving from Rockville. Union Station is much closer. And why does the ticket say Elyria, Ohio, if we're going to Cleveland?”
“Less possibility of tracking.”
Alex had become a different person, all business; he suddenly looked older to Phil. The Metro was crowded and they had to stand as far as Friendship Heights. After that the car became progressively emptier as they proceeded north. Alex tapped his cheek with his index finger and Phil smiled at the floor, not daring to look up. It was their signal. “I love you,” Alex had said without words.
Twenty minutes later they left the suburban Metro stop walked the short distance to the platform for the Capitol Limited. The sleek looking train arrived and departed almost on time. Its powerful and efficient appearance failed to predict its painfully slow progress up the course of the Potomac River.
Once they were in their bedroom, Alex relaxed. “We have ten and a half hours, Phil. What can we possibly do for that long?”
After three hours of making love, they came up for air as the train left Cumberland. The meal was a basic hamburger and french fries, but it tasted great. They returned to their room and found the beds had been made up. The lower bunk would in fact accommodate both of them and they actually got some sleep before Alex's watch woke them twenty minutes before their scheduled arrival. They dressed and were ready when the arrival time came and went. Alex checked with the conductor and learned the train was currently running forty-five minutes late.
“Want to spend forty minutes kissing me?” Alex asked when he got back to the room.
“I want to spend my life kissing you,” Phil answered. “Am I allowed to take my shoes off?” Alex didn't laugh or even smile. “Are you going gloomy Russian on me?” Phil asked
“Fuck me. One more time,” Alex sounded desperate.
Phil was happy to comply and it didn't take forty minutes. “I've never seen you like this.”
“I've never had anything to lose before. I'm worried about you, Phil. If anything happens ...”
“Nothing's going to happen. We just follow Dimitri's orders; all we have to do is watch for somebody acting out of the ordinary. Acting furtive. Making inappropriate contacts. Somebody interested in art. Somebody with an icon or two stuffed up his ass. Probably a crew member. Watch and report.” Phil thought it sounded easy enough. “And sing,” he added. “And try to get a room together.” He hugged Alex as the conductor passed their door announcing Cleveland.
They left the train in the darkness of the early morning hour and walked west. It wasn't clear where they were going, but a thousand feet west, when they had passed the bulk of a huge football stadium, they saw their future home. The MV Isadora lay floodlit and waiting for them at Dock 28. Despite the early hour, cranes were at work unloading coils of steel. Another thousand feet brought them to the accommodation ladder. They boarded the ship and reported to a man at the top of the ladder, who told them to wait.
Phil overheard a remark from one of the deck hands and asked Alex, “What does something like 'Smazlivaya zhopa ' mean?”
“Who said that?” Alex demanded.
“One of the crew.” Phil pointed toward the hold opening. “The one in the checkered shirt.”
“Huh!” Alex said. “It means 'cute ass'.”
A smile spread across Phil's face, but he said nothing more about it.
A man in a cook's toque approached and said, “Come,” or more likely “Komm.”
The crew's quarters were basic but adequate. Three-man rooms with three bunks and three built-in dresser-desks, shared down-the-passageway toilet facilities, and a small lounge with a television. Alex counted ten rooms. The cook held up one finger and pointed to a room. “Take it,” Alex told Phil. The cook went down a ladder and took Alex to another room.
“Polskii?” he asked.
“Russkii,” Alex answered. Their conversation would not be sophisticated but they could communicate at a elementary level. They stopped back to find Phil and proceeded to the galley.
Alex translated for Phil as the man gave directions. “He cooks; we serve. The crew eats first; then the passengers. There are never many passengers. We clean their staterooms and the crew quarters.”
It sounded like slave labor to Phil, who had never been much concerned with cleanliness other than personal; but it gave them access to most of the ship. Work began immediately. That afternoon when Phil got his first break he walked out onto the main deck.
The Isadora was a freighter, not at all glamorous; it was a combination break-bulk and container carrier that plied a route from the Baltic to the Great Lakes via ports in western Europe and eastern Canada. The exact route depended on the cargo. Its shallow draft allowed for using smaller ports.
Phil was surprised to see the steel coils that had just been offloaded when he and Alex arrived being loaded back aboard. “What the fuck?” he asked Alex. “Didn't they just take that stuff off?”
A deck officer with slightly accented, excellent English said, “We delivered ordinary carbon steel from Poland; we load special alloys from Cleveland. They look the same, but one is hamburger and the other steak.”
“Thank you,” Phil said, not knowing how familiar he should be.
“You are the singers?” the officer asked. Alex couldn't place his accent. It wasn't Slavic.
“Any requests?” Alex asked.
“Jeg Elsker Havet.”
“Sorry. We don't know it, but maybe we can learn.”
It means 'I Love the Ocean.' An old Danish song.” The officer went down into the hold.
“Talk,” Dylan ordered as he sat down with two pints.
The Castle on Spitalfield, as opposed to the Castle in the center of town, was an establishment that attracted cross-dressers, although at 1 PM on a Sunday none was present in full finery and only a few drinkers showed traces of makeup from the night before. The residue gave them very hollow appearing eyes; they looked tired and perhaps were.
“What about?” Alfred asked. He noticed that a fifty-year-old wearing the clothes of a much younger man was eying him.
“What do you think?” Dylan asked but got no reply. The man watching Alfred was making him nervous. “Ok, I'll talk. You always knew I was gay, didn't you?”
“Um, you have some traits that would seem to ...”
“Queer as a nine bob note, me anguished dad used to say. And he was right. I lost my virginity to a Pinocchio toy in the cradle and never looked back. But you … I wouldn't have guessed. Explain.”
Alfred shrugged. “There's nothing to explain. I never got interested in girls beyond a couple of basic experiments and I always knew I was attracted to men. I just never did anything about it.”
“Until two days ago? And then you exploded all over East Anglia and parts of Kent?”
“I met somebody and I knew he was the one I wanted to … to do everything with.” Alfred noted the man at the bar was still watching him.
“Get your phone out. I want to see him.” Dylan pretended to be drooling.
“I don't have one of those phones. Here ...” Alfred pulled out his sketch pad. He showed Dylan the first drawing. Dylan snatched it from his hand and flipped through the pages, coming at last to the dragon scene.
“Coo! You started with the right man, Alfie. Where is he now?”
“He left for London this morning.”
“Why are you still in Norwich?” Dylan asked without hesitation.
Alfred explained his job circumstances and then whispered to Dylan, “That one over there … in the white trainers … he's looking at me.”
“Everybody is looking at you. You're a new face. Doesn't happen that often in Norwich. See anyone you fancy? Take your pick.”
“I think I want to get out of here.” Alfred was already picking up his belongings.
“I'll walk with you,” Dylan said.
“Dylan,” Alfred's voice had a warning in it. “I don't want to have sex with you.”
“Don't feel singled out. Nobody wants to have sex with me.”
They walked a bit and then Alfred said, “Dylan, I didn't mean to say you're ...”
“No worries. I'm used to rejection.” He didn't seem at all troubled.
“But haven't you ever been in love?”
“Constantly, I think every man I meet is The One; but it never works out. See that bloke coming this way? I was madly in love with him … let's see ...” Dylan checked his watch. “... seventeen days ago. Things were perfect until he spoke.”
“What did he say?”
“He said 'Piss off!' and then he made a fist.” As they passed the man said hello to Dylan in a very friendly way and nodded genially to Alfred.
“He seemed friendly.”
“That's because he's interested in you.”
“You're a true visionary, Dylan. You see things that aren't there.”
They sipped pints in the lounge of the Mad Hatter. “Our strategy should be to get the same kind of contract we have with the Smithsonian,” the lawyer suggested, as if it would be that easy.
“Can we do that without a British or EU subsidiary?” Rory asked.
“Fred … the Baroness Frederika ... Lady Tangent … I'm not sure what her proper title is … said we could use a company she owns - the British Foreign Legion, it's called - if we needed to,” Tom said.
“Have you been hanging out with baronesses all weekend?” Rory asked. His grin reflected amusement but also pride in Tom's accomplishment.
“No, I was with artists, sort of … Alistair said baroness isn't a great title. Countess is one step up, but it's a big step.“
“And ...” Rory invited further explanation.
“I don't know any countesses,” Tom ended the discussion of titles.
They were silent while John vetted the BFL as best he could using a Sunday morning Internet connection. “It's a government contractor that does an estimated twenty million ...pounds, I guess … annual volume. Privately owned, no public data. Managing director and principal owner is 'The Right Honourable the Baroness Tangent'.” He looked at Tom. “Fred you call her?”
“That's what she said to call her. We had dinner last week.”
“We're a long way from Bette's Ocean View Diner,” Rory said, mentioning a basic but good restaurant they all knew in Berkeley.
“Mandy and I used to love that place,” John said. “My wife, we're separated,” he explained for Tom's benefit.
“Sorry,” Tom said.
“We tried. Not hard enough, I guess.”
“John,” Rory asked, changing the subject, “How big a contract would we need to make setting up a foreign subsidiary worth it?”
“A couple million … dollars, pounds, whatever. Substantially more than we're contemplating here.”
“So a BFL connection might be worth considering?”
“Definitely. It sounds tailor-made - what with Tom's friend Fred already onboard and all.”
“Ok, we'll see what tomorrow brings. Want to walk around? Then I'm going to bed early,” Rory was already on his feet.
Rory and John had apparently read the same guide to London. They pointed out landmarks to each other on the long loop across the Blackfriars Bridge, along the Embankment, diverting to St. James's Park, and circling back across the Waterloo Bridge.
“Should we take a look at the Palace. It's right over there,” Rory suggested, pointing through some trees.
“Nay,” John voted. “The queen's not there. That magazine in the plane said she's in Kentucky.”
Tom was quiet, in constant wonder at how many people looked just like Alfred until he got up close enough to be disappointed. Should I go back to Norwich when we're done? Maybe he could come to London, Tom thought. That guy looks just like Alfred, except he's shorter and has a different face and his coloring is all wrong. Was it only two days? I can remember every minute. I miss him. A lot.
Lucky walked Brent to his car and watched him drive away. He wanted to brag to Mike about how he had risked everything over him, almost daring Brent to object, but he couldn't figure out how to say it. Brent had been impressed, no doubt about that, Lucky thought; but how do I tell Mike without sounding stupid? I didn't really risk that much at all. It's not like I faced bullets. Brent can't even fire me over hurt feelings, over a whim.
He locked the door to Apartment C and went onto the porch. What a handsome trio Rawson and the twins made. He walked closer and watched Mike's face light up.
“Done for the day, Lucky?” Mike asked. “Let me get you a beer.”
Maybe I don't need to tell him anything, Lucky thought. “No, I'll get you a beer,” Lucky said as he walked to the cooler the carpet layers had put out. He bent forward reaching into the icy waters and grabbed two Beck's. He felt Mike's hand rest on his waist. He stood up and Mike's hand stayed put while he popped the cans open.
Brent drove home in the fading light of the Sunday afternoon. There was very little traffic; the streets were nearly as deserted as they used to be on game days when the Redskins were hot.
“Have I been neglecting you?” he asked Charles.
Charles thought Brent was joking and he answered in the same spirit. “You mean aside from getting me a job, cooking my meals, giving me a place to live, and keeping me sexually exhausted? Other than that? No, I don't think so.”
“Well, I think I have. Would you go out to dinner with me?” Brent asked as he fished a phone out of his pocket. After getting Charles' assent, he called a contemporary of his, a gallery manager. “Gene, would you and your friend like to join me and my most excellent friend at La Chaumiere? Yes, tonight. Right now, in fact.”
The four of them, two men in their forties and two men in their twenties, ate a leisurely meal at a French-but-not-fancy restaurant on M Street. They had many things in common, but Gene and his friend, who started out sharing sex and other advantages, now were together sharing love. Brent hoped he wasn't too old to learn. It didn't hurt that Gene and his friend seemed very taken with Charles. When did Charles become such a charming conversationalist, Brent asked himself.
Rory,
And the beat goes on.
The British connection - Alfred and his classmate discussing their lives and self-discoveries, Tom, Rory, and the lawyer discussing what Tom has been up to all weekend, and possibilities for their business venture.
Lucky and Mike and what is really going on, Brent, waking up to what he REALLY has, and starting to appreciate it.
Thanks.
And the beat goes on.
The British connection - Alfred and his classmate discussing their lives and self-discoveries, Tom, Rory, and the lawyer discussing what Tom has been up to all weekend, and possibilities for their business venture.
Lucky and Mike and what is really going on, Brent, waking up to what he REALLY has, and starting to appreciate it.
Thanks.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirty-Three
'Alfred Booth, ACA' Wouldn't that look good on a door, Alfred thought. He mother had fussed over his appearance, ironing his shirt a second time after she detected a wrinkle that was invisible to Alfred. When at last she was satisfied, he left the home fire and caught a bus to his new office. It would take at least two years of work before he could take his Associate Chartered Accountant exam, but that wasn't so very long, he felt.
What a weekend! The amazing Tom had filled most of it and the almost as amazing Dylan wrapped up Sunday. He looked at the world with a new set of eyes. On this bright Monday morning it was a prettier place than he remembered. The baskets of hanging flowers on the road to town looked cheery and the day promised to be sunny in the afternoon.
The bus was full when he boarded, but standing for the brief ride wouldn't be any difficulty. As people continued to board, the crush increased and the temperature rose a bit, not enough to make him sweat, but just enough to wilt his starched appearance. And then ... what! Who did that? He looked at the nearest passengers, all elaborately minding their own business, looking into space or out the windows. No one was looking at Alfred, but someone had unmistakably touched him up, as the British say. It wasn't any accidental brush by; it was a full five-fingered handling of the goods. He felt the tingling of the earliest stages of arousal, the prickly feel when your balls tense a bit, when the veins in your cock constrict a bit, the growing heaviness that came whenever he thought of Tom.
There was a pleasant memory to relive, Sunday morning (was it only yesterday?) when they couldn't bring themselves to dress, when they stayed naked. He could see Tom, standing by the window. What beautiful legs he has, Alfred dreamed. All because his home town was hilly, Tom had said. Alfred tried to picture a hiilly place called El Cerrito where everybody had great legs and tight asses. No municipal vision came to mind, only Tom's ass.
God damn! It happened again. Alfred's mystery groper had gotten a good handful of almost hard cock this time. Alfred decided it had been the middle-aged mouse of a man standing slightly to his left, but how could it have been him, with one hand on a stanchion and the other holding a newspaper. On his other side was a woman talking quietly to another passenger. What about the guy sitting, the one with the inane smile on his face? Was he close enough to have done it?
Alfred was rattled and got off the bus ahead of his proper stop. The walk served to get his mind back on business. Then suddenly he got a wink from a somewhat swishy young man. Was it a wink? Really? Or something in his eye?
The worst happened at work. He was conducted to the office of the partner who had hired him for a courtesy hello and welcome. Alfred declined the offer of tea from Mr. Alwyn Huxley, FCA, his benefactor and mentor, and rose to leave. As the meeting ended Mr. Huxley's eyes were not on Alfred's. He is staring at my trouser front, thought Alfred.
He walked back to the reception area and met George Glover, who shook his hand and looked him in the eye. George had been hired six months previously and had enough familiarity with the routine to show Alfred around the office.
“Huxley hired you, too? George asked.
“Yes, I don't know him or anything. He interviewed prospects at school.”
George gave Alfred a bit of a challenging look. When Alfred said nothing, they resumed the tour of copy machines, tea pots, and supply cupboards. At last they arrived at the cubicle they would share.
“Settle in. We're doing dog work today,” George advised. “Verifying collateral at the Permanent Building Society.”
So began Alfred's career as many careers begin, with a beautifully ironed shirt and a magic touch here and there.
Carpenters and a crane arrived on Macomb Street. Mike's preferred solution to extracting Apartment C was to take the roof off and lift the walls straight upward. The roof section could be rested on an adjacent lawn area while the work progressed. Once the roof came off, it would be difficult to manage the humidity, temperature, and light levels; so the work would have be completed as quickly as possible once it was begun.
The first day Lucky spent in the apartment watching for damage as the carpenters began making preliminary cuts to free the roof. Despite the earlier efforts at cleaning the place, the work raised a dust storm that periodically drove Lucky out onto the porch. Mike, meanwhile, was in the crawl space above the apartment with the carpenters watching their work and looking for signs of stress in the rest of the garage's structure. It was a long day, combining the heat and humidity of Washington in June with the dust, dirt, and din of the carpenters' tools.
At the end of the day, Lucky couldn't wait for a shower; neither could Mike. So after preliminary hesitation, they took it together. Washing each other led to kissing each other which led to fucking each other.
“Do you want to come first?” Mike asked. He was leaning against the wall of the shower stall with Lucky slowly pumping his ass.
“I don't care if I ever come. I'm loving just the slow and easy … whatever this is were doing. Being part of you being part of me. Do you want to come? We can switch again, if you want.”
“No hurry,” Mike sighed. He lay his hands and cheek against the cool tile and felt the hot water splash over him.
“You sure, Mike? Because you love to fuck and I love it when you ...”
“Lucky! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Fuck me!” Mike's sudden orgasm came with out warning. He shook and Lucky had to hold him up. As soon as Mike could stand on his own, Lucky cleaned him off and then dried him after they got out of the shower. “Wow!” was all Mike said.
They went to the bedroom and lay on their sides with Lucky spooning Mike. “Wow,” Mike said again; then he turned and kissed Lucky. He broke the kiss and Lucky wrapped him in his arms again. “Wow, wow, wow. I've never done that before. You sure punched the right buttons that time.”
“Glad you liked it. Uh, what did I do exactly?”
“I don't know. I was so relaxed, feeling you slowly fuck me and then wham! I was coming. No warning. It came on so fast. And it felt different … not like … I don't know. I can't explain.” Mike turned around and kissed Lucky deeply. “Lucky, you haven't come, though. Do you want to ...”
“Shh … I came - sort of. It was like a brain fuck. I came without coming. Just being with you was all I needed.” Lucky paused and stroked Mike's face. “It's all I ever need, really.”
“I know. At first … when you said you loved me, I was afraid you'd get all clingy and needy and smothering. But having you here is liberating. It's like having somebody to babysit the cat. I'm not tied down at all.”
“I don't get you. You don't have a cat.”
“But if I did, you'd still babysit it, wouldn't you? And I could be free to love you and stuff. Not burdened. And we'd fuck a lot ... 'Course, we do that now.”
“I have no idea what you're saying.”
“I'm saying I like having you here. No regrets about you moving in. You get better every day. Do you still love me, Lucky?”
“We said we weren't going to talk about that ...”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I'm glad. I wish we had a swimming pool.” Mike relaxed in Lucky's arms and soon fell asleep.
Lucky eased himself out of the bed and wondered what the hell to make for dinner. He knew Mike wouldn't sleep for long and he was always hungry after post-sex naps. He's glad I love him. What the hell does that mean? And I do love him.
The meeting at the British Museum was over quickly. The inventory effort would be managed by the BFL Group with Tom advising. Rory's company would license their technology and software to the BFL Group, something they had never done before. In addition, they would be on retainer with BFL for future software development.
Alistair, Persephone, Rory, and Tom went for a celebration luncheon while John Sherman went to BFL's offices to iron out a few details in the draft contract.
“The timing is a little unclear, but we'll leave it to John and the BFL guys to work that out,” Rory said.
“As far as I'm concerned, the sooner the better,” Alistair contributed.
“Yes, indeed. Will we be seeing more of you, Rory?” Persephone asked.
“Persephone likes having decorative objects around the place and you're nothing if not decorative, Rory. Like a talking Gainsborough.”
“Alistair! That's insulting. He thinks efficiently and clearly. He's a pleasure to work with.”
“And just a little decorative, would you say?” Alistair teased.
Rory diplomatically said he would be present when the contract extension needed signing.
“So, Tom, you will just stay on, I expect?” Alistair continued.
“I need to wrap up a job in Washington. It should only take a few days and then I'll be back.”
“We need to find you a place to live. Persephone, are those post-doctoral student apartments still available?”
“I don't think one of them would be suitable. They're very basic.”
“But if they're close by …?” Tom proposed. “I'm guessing one of them would be affordable.”
After eating, Alistair took the American pair on a private tour of the Museum which included some astounding pornographic materials not on public view. They examined a fantastic version of well-padded monkey bars. “That's what's good about having a noble class,” Alistair theorized. “You need to have some few people with enough time on their hands to invent new perversions. They work the kinks out and the rest of us then wallow in the mass-produced follow-ons.” Alistair tilted his head far to the side, mimicking Tom's position. Neither of them could figure out how some features of the monkey bars could be either comfortable or arousing.
“Tin Doll … Sweetie ...” Shelly posed both her body and a nascent idea for the man once again her employer. “I'd forgotten what sexy hands you have. You are working that clay just the way you used to work my body.” She caught his eye and licked her lips. Tyndall caught the hint but backed away.
“Shelly, it's probably a good idea for us to keep this professional. You model; I sculpt; and we live happily ever after, more or less.” Tyndall thought he was being the picture of rectitude after their last disaster.
“I know, honey, but … can't I admire your hands? I can't help it if they're turning me on. I remember so much about you.” Like your starter-sized dick, Shelly thought to herself. She gave a little sigh and squeezed her legs together, calculating her effect on her one-time lover.
Tyndall felt the quickening in his cock. Damn, she can still do that to me, he acknowledged, remembering the feel of her warm body under his searching hands. But she can be such a bitch; she player me eight different ways; and I know she's cooking up something now. He looked across the room at Shelly who was whispering into her cell.
“Ma, set up the cameras for auto-record and go somewhere until ten,” she hissed. Louder, she explained to Tyndall, “I'm telling my roommate to get lost, in case we … you know ...”
“I know what?”
“In case you want to come over for a while. Have something to eat? I can cook, as you know.”
“You can operate a microwave.” I'm not doing it, Tyndall told himself. Absolutely not going. She's not going to fish me in again.
Shelly came closer and in a breathy voice said, “I do cook better in the bedroom, don't I? Can't I cook you a little something?” She traced the outline of his cock through his jeans. “It's your fault, you know. These sexy hands ...” She placed his left hand on her right thigh; he felt the taut muscle so carefully firmed by three-times-a-week Pilates. “I always liked your hands all over me.”
Fifteen minutes later they parked in the basement of her apartment. She teased him with little touches, squeezes, and pressures all the way up in the elevator. Once inside, Tyndall was surprised by the cheesy, Vegas-look of her bedroom. “Your tastes have changed,” he commented.
“But you haven't.” Shelly pressed her body against him. “You've spent two hours looking at me. Now it's my turn.” The unveiling of Tyndall was a little clumsy, but that's what the viewers liked about Shelly's scenes. There was an authenticity to them. She had trouble with his cuff buttons and she suppressed a smile seeing his underwear. Somebody in his forties wearing boxers that featured Superhero cartoons was a giggle, but her viewers probably wore the same thing. Tyndall was soon lying on the bed with his modest endowment rampant.
Shelly slowly stripped for him. She was good at it but confused Tyndall by playing to the cameras, not him; but no matter, the fuck went well enough and ended quickly. Tyndall was already feeling remorse for falling into her web again and made ready to leave.
“What's your hurry, Tin Doll?” she teased. “I thought maybe I could get your help with a little matter.” Here it comes, Tyndall thought. “I was wondering if maybe you could … tidy up my bush for me. You're the artist and I'm here in your hands.“
“Wh-what?”
“I was thinking I'd like a runway. You know … get trimmed a little down there … so I can tickle your cock. And you have the skill … the sense of proportion … so maybe you'd like to … oh, don't make me beg, sweetie ...” She handed him some lotion and a pink razor and lay back on the bed. He couldn't resist the invitation and never noticed as she positioned him out of the way of the camera shots.
He got completely sucking into the extended touching session, Shelly's writhings, and her obvious excitement. He barely needed the shaving gel, her flowing juices would have been enough. The shaving was both challenging and exciting. Tyndall was rigid and dripping himself as he finished the job.
By the time he was done, Shelly was left with a narrow patch of whispy pubic hair above the darker skin of her opening. She positioned herself over him and proceeded with motions of her pelvis to tickle his cock with her remaining bits of bush. And then she ground into him a bit. And then he came … without penetrating her. According to later emails, so did several dozens of her viewers.
“Wow, that was fun,” Shelly cooed. “You're as hot as ever, Tin Doll.” She winked at a camera.
“Who are you winking at?”
“What would you think if we let somebody watch? Would that bother you to have somebody watch this big boy in action?” She held his already shriveled cock up to the camera's view.
“Well, if having somebody watch makes you this hot, I'd have a hard time complaining. But who? Do you have somebody in mind?”
“Oh, a few of my friends. Very special friends.” She licked her lips and winked again at the camera.
“Shelly ...” Tyndall was suddenly apprehensive, but her renewed attentions to his body silenced any complaint.
“Would that be ok, Tin Doll? Some of your art is pornographic. This is just a different kind of art.” She offered her body and he began eating her out with relish while stroking himself and trying to coax some life back into his limp dick.
“Anything you want, Shelly.”
He's a dream, Brent thought. He's just about perfect. So willing. So hot. Smarter than I thought. There's just the one problem. Or maybe two. Or maybe a hundred. But so hot! “Oh, baby! I'm gonna come!” Not very original, but that's middle-aged sex, Brent thought; I do what works.
Charles was on all fours and sighed as Brent withdrew his rapidly sagging cock. He slowly sank to the bed and asked, “Just lie with me? Just for a minute, Brent?”
“Can't. I have a meeting in an hour.” Brent was already on his way to the bathroom to clean up. He finished shaving and then climbed into the shower.
The problem is I don't love him and it's not going to happen, either; not ever. Not if he's the last guy who ever lands in my bed. Not if he devotes the next twenty years to me. I'm never going to love him. And he's so cute. It's a pity but a fact. Brent shut the water off and let himself drip-dry for a minute before using the towel. I have to tell him, he decided.
He returned to the bedroom and the sight of Charles, lying naked and still half-hard, was arresting. Brent felt a twinge of guilt knowing Charles hadn't come. “You take my breath away, Charles. I can't imagine a sexier vision than you, right now, on that bed.”
“But …?” Charles inserted.
“No but. Just admiration and a hope that you're pleased with our arrangement.”
“Try the 'but' part again,” Charles said while smiling.
“I hope you're pleased … satisfied … happy … because it's all I can offer you. My job makes demands; my age makes demands; even gravity makes demands; and you have entitlements. I'm afraid … I'm afraid I'm not giving you what you deserve … all you deserve.”
“We'll talk about it tonight,” Charles said. “Get dressed and dominate your meeting. I'll be here tonight.”
Brent was glad to avoid drama early in the day. Morning sex was invigorating, but morning drama was icky and generally disastrous. Charles seemed to get the idea of what tonight's conversation would entail. He's a good young man. Deserves more, Brent felt. And so he deliver more. He took a few minutes to gave Charles a very nice blow job and then finished dressing.
When he got back that night, the first things he saw were Charles' suitcase and backpack at the door. Then Charles came downstairs with a few more items. “You've been great, Brent. Every minute was fun. I'm sorry I wasn't more what you wanted. Could you give me a ride to Nebraska Avenue? Or I can get a cab if you're busy. I'm moving in with Gantry, temporarily.”
The end was quick, quicker that Brent had expected but not as easy. Charles looked freshly scrubbed, very appealing, and very sexy, with a touch of new maturity and depth. Brent wondered if he was making a colossal mistake.
“It doesn't have to be this fast, Charles. You can take your time, find a place. No hurry, really.”
Charles gave him a very sweet kiss and took the first armful of stuff to Brent's car. There was no further discussion.
The cell phone, with thin, scratchy fidelity, gave out the Whittington chime peal. Alfred wasn't sure if he liked the new ring tone he had installed; it seemed portentous, if not pretentious, as if every call should shatter the order of his life. “Alfred Booth,” he said professionally.
“Friday afternoon. Me in Norwich or you in London?”
“Tom!”
“Norwich or London?”
“Tom, you called ...” Alfred said in wonder.
“Ok, Norwich it is. I'm leaving the Liverpool station at three.”
“Tom, it's so good to talk to you.”
“You're a fund of agreement and detail, Alfred. I'll get a room near the train station.”
“No, I'll figure something out.”
“Ok, I'll call if anything changes.”
“Call anyway?”
“Why? I'm much better in person.”
“Yes. Ok.”
“Friday; three o'clock train,” Tom confirmed. “Alfred … don't plan anything on arrival, ok? Let's just spend some time together. Am I being bossy?”
Masterful should have been the answer, but Alfred felt no sense of being dominated. He stared at his now silent phone looking at the pulsing time signal.
Immediately the clock slowed to some infinite, interdimensional measure of time. Alfred was sure that Friday would never come.
'Alfred Booth, ACA' Wouldn't that look good on a door, Alfred thought. He mother had fussed over his appearance, ironing his shirt a second time after she detected a wrinkle that was invisible to Alfred. When at last she was satisfied, he left the home fire and caught a bus to his new office. It would take at least two years of work before he could take his Associate Chartered Accountant exam, but that wasn't so very long, he felt.
What a weekend! The amazing Tom had filled most of it and the almost as amazing Dylan wrapped up Sunday. He looked at the world with a new set of eyes. On this bright Monday morning it was a prettier place than he remembered. The baskets of hanging flowers on the road to town looked cheery and the day promised to be sunny in the afternoon.
The bus was full when he boarded, but standing for the brief ride wouldn't be any difficulty. As people continued to board, the crush increased and the temperature rose a bit, not enough to make him sweat, but just enough to wilt his starched appearance. And then ... what! Who did that? He looked at the nearest passengers, all elaborately minding their own business, looking into space or out the windows. No one was looking at Alfred, but someone had unmistakably touched him up, as the British say. It wasn't any accidental brush by; it was a full five-fingered handling of the goods. He felt the tingling of the earliest stages of arousal, the prickly feel when your balls tense a bit, when the veins in your cock constrict a bit, the growing heaviness that came whenever he thought of Tom.
There was a pleasant memory to relive, Sunday morning (was it only yesterday?) when they couldn't bring themselves to dress, when they stayed naked. He could see Tom, standing by the window. What beautiful legs he has, Alfred dreamed. All because his home town was hilly, Tom had said. Alfred tried to picture a hiilly place called El Cerrito where everybody had great legs and tight asses. No municipal vision came to mind, only Tom's ass.
God damn! It happened again. Alfred's mystery groper had gotten a good handful of almost hard cock this time. Alfred decided it had been the middle-aged mouse of a man standing slightly to his left, but how could it have been him, with one hand on a stanchion and the other holding a newspaper. On his other side was a woman talking quietly to another passenger. What about the guy sitting, the one with the inane smile on his face? Was he close enough to have done it?
Alfred was rattled and got off the bus ahead of his proper stop. The walk served to get his mind back on business. Then suddenly he got a wink from a somewhat swishy young man. Was it a wink? Really? Or something in his eye?
The worst happened at work. He was conducted to the office of the partner who had hired him for a courtesy hello and welcome. Alfred declined the offer of tea from Mr. Alwyn Huxley, FCA, his benefactor and mentor, and rose to leave. As the meeting ended Mr. Huxley's eyes were not on Alfred's. He is staring at my trouser front, thought Alfred.
He walked back to the reception area and met George Glover, who shook his hand and looked him in the eye. George had been hired six months previously and had enough familiarity with the routine to show Alfred around the office.
“Huxley hired you, too? George asked.
“Yes, I don't know him or anything. He interviewed prospects at school.”
George gave Alfred a bit of a challenging look. When Alfred said nothing, they resumed the tour of copy machines, tea pots, and supply cupboards. At last they arrived at the cubicle they would share.
“Settle in. We're doing dog work today,” George advised. “Verifying collateral at the Permanent Building Society.”
So began Alfred's career as many careers begin, with a beautifully ironed shirt and a magic touch here and there.
Carpenters and a crane arrived on Macomb Street. Mike's preferred solution to extracting Apartment C was to take the roof off and lift the walls straight upward. The roof section could be rested on an adjacent lawn area while the work progressed. Once the roof came off, it would be difficult to manage the humidity, temperature, and light levels; so the work would have be completed as quickly as possible once it was begun.
The first day Lucky spent in the apartment watching for damage as the carpenters began making preliminary cuts to free the roof. Despite the earlier efforts at cleaning the place, the work raised a dust storm that periodically drove Lucky out onto the porch. Mike, meanwhile, was in the crawl space above the apartment with the carpenters watching their work and looking for signs of stress in the rest of the garage's structure. It was a long day, combining the heat and humidity of Washington in June with the dust, dirt, and din of the carpenters' tools.
At the end of the day, Lucky couldn't wait for a shower; neither could Mike. So after preliminary hesitation, they took it together. Washing each other led to kissing each other which led to fucking each other.
“Do you want to come first?” Mike asked. He was leaning against the wall of the shower stall with Lucky slowly pumping his ass.
“I don't care if I ever come. I'm loving just the slow and easy … whatever this is were doing. Being part of you being part of me. Do you want to come? We can switch again, if you want.”
“No hurry,” Mike sighed. He lay his hands and cheek against the cool tile and felt the hot water splash over him.
“You sure, Mike? Because you love to fuck and I love it when you ...”
“Lucky! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Fuck me!” Mike's sudden orgasm came with out warning. He shook and Lucky had to hold him up. As soon as Mike could stand on his own, Lucky cleaned him off and then dried him after they got out of the shower. “Wow!” was all Mike said.
They went to the bedroom and lay on their sides with Lucky spooning Mike. “Wow,” Mike said again; then he turned and kissed Lucky. He broke the kiss and Lucky wrapped him in his arms again. “Wow, wow, wow. I've never done that before. You sure punched the right buttons that time.”
“Glad you liked it. Uh, what did I do exactly?”
“I don't know. I was so relaxed, feeling you slowly fuck me and then wham! I was coming. No warning. It came on so fast. And it felt different … not like … I don't know. I can't explain.” Mike turned around and kissed Lucky deeply. “Lucky, you haven't come, though. Do you want to ...”
“Shh … I came - sort of. It was like a brain fuck. I came without coming. Just being with you was all I needed.” Lucky paused and stroked Mike's face. “It's all I ever need, really.”
“I know. At first … when you said you loved me, I was afraid you'd get all clingy and needy and smothering. But having you here is liberating. It's like having somebody to babysit the cat. I'm not tied down at all.”
“I don't get you. You don't have a cat.”
“But if I did, you'd still babysit it, wouldn't you? And I could be free to love you and stuff. Not burdened. And we'd fuck a lot ... 'Course, we do that now.”
“I have no idea what you're saying.”
“I'm saying I like having you here. No regrets about you moving in. You get better every day. Do you still love me, Lucky?”
“We said we weren't going to talk about that ...”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I'm glad. I wish we had a swimming pool.” Mike relaxed in Lucky's arms and soon fell asleep.
Lucky eased himself out of the bed and wondered what the hell to make for dinner. He knew Mike wouldn't sleep for long and he was always hungry after post-sex naps. He's glad I love him. What the hell does that mean? And I do love him.
The meeting at the British Museum was over quickly. The inventory effort would be managed by the BFL Group with Tom advising. Rory's company would license their technology and software to the BFL Group, something they had never done before. In addition, they would be on retainer with BFL for future software development.
Alistair, Persephone, Rory, and Tom went for a celebration luncheon while John Sherman went to BFL's offices to iron out a few details in the draft contract.
“The timing is a little unclear, but we'll leave it to John and the BFL guys to work that out,” Rory said.
“As far as I'm concerned, the sooner the better,” Alistair contributed.
“Yes, indeed. Will we be seeing more of you, Rory?” Persephone asked.
“Persephone likes having decorative objects around the place and you're nothing if not decorative, Rory. Like a talking Gainsborough.”
“Alistair! That's insulting. He thinks efficiently and clearly. He's a pleasure to work with.”
“And just a little decorative, would you say?” Alistair teased.
Rory diplomatically said he would be present when the contract extension needed signing.
“So, Tom, you will just stay on, I expect?” Alistair continued.
“I need to wrap up a job in Washington. It should only take a few days and then I'll be back.”
“We need to find you a place to live. Persephone, are those post-doctoral student apartments still available?”
“I don't think one of them would be suitable. They're very basic.”
“But if they're close by …?” Tom proposed. “I'm guessing one of them would be affordable.”
After eating, Alistair took the American pair on a private tour of the Museum which included some astounding pornographic materials not on public view. They examined a fantastic version of well-padded monkey bars. “That's what's good about having a noble class,” Alistair theorized. “You need to have some few people with enough time on their hands to invent new perversions. They work the kinks out and the rest of us then wallow in the mass-produced follow-ons.” Alistair tilted his head far to the side, mimicking Tom's position. Neither of them could figure out how some features of the monkey bars could be either comfortable or arousing.
“Tin Doll … Sweetie ...” Shelly posed both her body and a nascent idea for the man once again her employer. “I'd forgotten what sexy hands you have. You are working that clay just the way you used to work my body.” She caught his eye and licked her lips. Tyndall caught the hint but backed away.
“Shelly, it's probably a good idea for us to keep this professional. You model; I sculpt; and we live happily ever after, more or less.” Tyndall thought he was being the picture of rectitude after their last disaster.
“I know, honey, but … can't I admire your hands? I can't help it if they're turning me on. I remember so much about you.” Like your starter-sized dick, Shelly thought to herself. She gave a little sigh and squeezed her legs together, calculating her effect on her one-time lover.
Tyndall felt the quickening in his cock. Damn, she can still do that to me, he acknowledged, remembering the feel of her warm body under his searching hands. But she can be such a bitch; she player me eight different ways; and I know she's cooking up something now. He looked across the room at Shelly who was whispering into her cell.
“Ma, set up the cameras for auto-record and go somewhere until ten,” she hissed. Louder, she explained to Tyndall, “I'm telling my roommate to get lost, in case we … you know ...”
“I know what?”
“In case you want to come over for a while. Have something to eat? I can cook, as you know.”
“You can operate a microwave.” I'm not doing it, Tyndall told himself. Absolutely not going. She's not going to fish me in again.
Shelly came closer and in a breathy voice said, “I do cook better in the bedroom, don't I? Can't I cook you a little something?” She traced the outline of his cock through his jeans. “It's your fault, you know. These sexy hands ...” She placed his left hand on her right thigh; he felt the taut muscle so carefully firmed by three-times-a-week Pilates. “I always liked your hands all over me.”
Fifteen minutes later they parked in the basement of her apartment. She teased him with little touches, squeezes, and pressures all the way up in the elevator. Once inside, Tyndall was surprised by the cheesy, Vegas-look of her bedroom. “Your tastes have changed,” he commented.
“But you haven't.” Shelly pressed her body against him. “You've spent two hours looking at me. Now it's my turn.” The unveiling of Tyndall was a little clumsy, but that's what the viewers liked about Shelly's scenes. There was an authenticity to them. She had trouble with his cuff buttons and she suppressed a smile seeing his underwear. Somebody in his forties wearing boxers that featured Superhero cartoons was a giggle, but her viewers probably wore the same thing. Tyndall was soon lying on the bed with his modest endowment rampant.
Shelly slowly stripped for him. She was good at it but confused Tyndall by playing to the cameras, not him; but no matter, the fuck went well enough and ended quickly. Tyndall was already feeling remorse for falling into her web again and made ready to leave.
“What's your hurry, Tin Doll?” she teased. “I thought maybe I could get your help with a little matter.” Here it comes, Tyndall thought. “I was wondering if maybe you could … tidy up my bush for me. You're the artist and I'm here in your hands.“
“Wh-what?”
“I was thinking I'd like a runway. You know … get trimmed a little down there … so I can tickle your cock. And you have the skill … the sense of proportion … so maybe you'd like to … oh, don't make me beg, sweetie ...” She handed him some lotion and a pink razor and lay back on the bed. He couldn't resist the invitation and never noticed as she positioned him out of the way of the camera shots.
He got completely sucking into the extended touching session, Shelly's writhings, and her obvious excitement. He barely needed the shaving gel, her flowing juices would have been enough. The shaving was both challenging and exciting. Tyndall was rigid and dripping himself as he finished the job.
By the time he was done, Shelly was left with a narrow patch of whispy pubic hair above the darker skin of her opening. She positioned herself over him and proceeded with motions of her pelvis to tickle his cock with her remaining bits of bush. And then she ground into him a bit. And then he came … without penetrating her. According to later emails, so did several dozens of her viewers.
“Wow, that was fun,” Shelly cooed. “You're as hot as ever, Tin Doll.” She winked at a camera.
“Who are you winking at?”
“What would you think if we let somebody watch? Would that bother you to have somebody watch this big boy in action?” She held his already shriveled cock up to the camera's view.
“Well, if having somebody watch makes you this hot, I'd have a hard time complaining. But who? Do you have somebody in mind?”
“Oh, a few of my friends. Very special friends.” She licked her lips and winked again at the camera.
“Shelly ...” Tyndall was suddenly apprehensive, but her renewed attentions to his body silenced any complaint.
“Would that be ok, Tin Doll? Some of your art is pornographic. This is just a different kind of art.” She offered her body and he began eating her out with relish while stroking himself and trying to coax some life back into his limp dick.
“Anything you want, Shelly.”
He's a dream, Brent thought. He's just about perfect. So willing. So hot. Smarter than I thought. There's just the one problem. Or maybe two. Or maybe a hundred. But so hot! “Oh, baby! I'm gonna come!” Not very original, but that's middle-aged sex, Brent thought; I do what works.
Charles was on all fours and sighed as Brent withdrew his rapidly sagging cock. He slowly sank to the bed and asked, “Just lie with me? Just for a minute, Brent?”
“Can't. I have a meeting in an hour.” Brent was already on his way to the bathroom to clean up. He finished shaving and then climbed into the shower.
The problem is I don't love him and it's not going to happen, either; not ever. Not if he's the last guy who ever lands in my bed. Not if he devotes the next twenty years to me. I'm never going to love him. And he's so cute. It's a pity but a fact. Brent shut the water off and let himself drip-dry for a minute before using the towel. I have to tell him, he decided.
He returned to the bedroom and the sight of Charles, lying naked and still half-hard, was arresting. Brent felt a twinge of guilt knowing Charles hadn't come. “You take my breath away, Charles. I can't imagine a sexier vision than you, right now, on that bed.”
“But …?” Charles inserted.
“No but. Just admiration and a hope that you're pleased with our arrangement.”
“Try the 'but' part again,” Charles said while smiling.
“I hope you're pleased … satisfied … happy … because it's all I can offer you. My job makes demands; my age makes demands; even gravity makes demands; and you have entitlements. I'm afraid … I'm afraid I'm not giving you what you deserve … all you deserve.”
“We'll talk about it tonight,” Charles said. “Get dressed and dominate your meeting. I'll be here tonight.”
Brent was glad to avoid drama early in the day. Morning sex was invigorating, but morning drama was icky and generally disastrous. Charles seemed to get the idea of what tonight's conversation would entail. He's a good young man. Deserves more, Brent felt. And so he deliver more. He took a few minutes to gave Charles a very nice blow job and then finished dressing.
When he got back that night, the first things he saw were Charles' suitcase and backpack at the door. Then Charles came downstairs with a few more items. “You've been great, Brent. Every minute was fun. I'm sorry I wasn't more what you wanted. Could you give me a ride to Nebraska Avenue? Or I can get a cab if you're busy. I'm moving in with Gantry, temporarily.”
The end was quick, quicker that Brent had expected but not as easy. Charles looked freshly scrubbed, very appealing, and very sexy, with a touch of new maturity and depth. Brent wondered if he was making a colossal mistake.
“It doesn't have to be this fast, Charles. You can take your time, find a place. No hurry, really.”
Charles gave him a very sweet kiss and took the first armful of stuff to Brent's car. There was no further discussion.
The cell phone, with thin, scratchy fidelity, gave out the Whittington chime peal. Alfred wasn't sure if he liked the new ring tone he had installed; it seemed portentous, if not pretentious, as if every call should shatter the order of his life. “Alfred Booth,” he said professionally.
“Friday afternoon. Me in Norwich or you in London?”
“Tom!”
“Norwich or London?”
“Tom, you called ...” Alfred said in wonder.
“Ok, Norwich it is. I'm leaving the Liverpool station at three.”
“Tom, it's so good to talk to you.”
“You're a fund of agreement and detail, Alfred. I'll get a room near the train station.”
“No, I'll figure something out.”
“Ok, I'll call if anything changes.”
“Call anyway?”
“Why? I'm much better in person.”
“Yes. Ok.”
“Friday; three o'clock train,” Tom confirmed. “Alfred … don't plan anything on arrival, ok? Let's just spend some time together. Am I being bossy?”
Masterful should have been the answer, but Alfred felt no sense of being dominated. He stared at his now silent phone looking at the pulsing time signal.
Immediately the clock slowed to some infinite, interdimensional measure of time. Alfred was sure that Friday would never come.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Readers' query:
Should Phil and Alex sail away happily down the St. Lawrence or do you want to hear more about them? I could go either way.
Should Phil and Alex sail away happily down the St. Lawrence or do you want to hear more about them? I could go either way.