Date: Mon, 15 May 2017 20:25:01 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Lake Desolation 10

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against
your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like,
but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

In a complete, nearly-insensate daze, I sense Logan rinse me, dry himself
and my own shattered body and ease us both into the warms of the
bedclothes. He positions himself in front of me this time, locking my arms
tight around his body. His face is turned over his shoulder and his soft
voice mutters unheard words, lulling me to sleep. One last shred of me
succumbs when a ghost whisper tickles the back of my neck, Maria's tender
murmur, 'Sleep, my darling Jacob. Let go., my baby, finally let yourself
go...'

*****

Lake Desolation 10: Return of the L Word

By Bear Pup

*****

Hours later, I wake. I am cuddled into Logan's back; he snores lightly in
my arms. I feel a sudden pang of guilt as I realise that the only other
person I've held like this was Maria, now taken from me, but I can sense
her frown at the thought and smile instead. I have to admit it. I have
never, ever in my life, felt more... right.

I feel something thump wetly against the back of my hand and frown at the
realisation that before he took me to paradise, I'd brought Logan to the
very edge but not to completion. It was not by design, but still unfair. I
inch my hand downward and feel the silky-soft skin over the blazing-hot
iron spike.

I have brought him to climax several times, but I now find myself obsessed
with how different his cock feels than my own in my hand. The loose skin
glides smoothly up and down and I wonder again about my tribe's obsession
with removing it.

Logan whimpers in his sleep and I freeze. It's like I'm a kid afraid of
being caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I smile. It's a pretty sure
bet that Logan wouldn't mind, but I decide to make a game of it. How far
can I take Logan without waking him? He mumbles, perhaps, but is soon back
to a soft rhythmic snore. I begin to stroke gently and freeze whenever his
breathing changes. After one such cycle, perhaps ten into the experiment, I
find my had is near the very tip. I twirl my fingers round and round,
marvelling at how much more-sensitive his covered head is than my own.

A loud and agonized voice intrudes, "Aw, FUCK, Jake! I can't pretend to
sleep any more. GOD, you gotta let me CUM!" I startle then laugh and begin
long, full, hard strokes. Within moments, I feel a groan start deep in his
belly and rise, building, until he lets it loose as a primal, guttural
explosion of need-fulfilled and begins to gush spasm after boiling spasm of
seed across my hand and onto the sheets.

When the last wracking contraction releases his body, Logan squirms around
until he's facing me. He kisses my nose and smiles sleepily into my
eyes. "I love you, Jacob." He's asleep again before I can respond, or even
process what he said. The morning before and throughout the day, I came to
terms with something I'd said, 'I love you, Logan.' It now strikes me that
it is far more profound, far more upsetting and fulfilling, to hear, 'I
love you, Jacob.'

I am frozen, heart racing and unable to breathe. That I love Logan is clear
and satisfying. That he loves me is simply... terrifying. I wondered often
in the last months, and especially in the last days, if I had still
retained the capacity to love. But now I find myself laying here completely
unsure if I have the capacity -- if I EVER HAD the capacity -- to be
loved. I clench my eyes and summon Maria. She is smiling sadly and gently.

"Oh, Jacob. I've wondered for forty years if you would ever figure that
out. You have and had so much love to give, dear, that you never realised
that you don't let anyone love you back. I came closest, and you let me
comfort you and care for you, but letting me love you" It happened, but was
so rare, and so fleeting. Open your eyes and look at Logan and make me a
promise: Try, dearest, try to let him love you?"

As any well-trained spouse, I do what Maria instructs. I open my eyes and
look down at the boy who has utterly upended my world. His sleep-smoothed
face just accentuates his delicacy. Even after a week of good meals and
rest, he's still sallow and sunken-cheeked. So very fragile, so easy to
hurt. I will myself not to cry as I think on how I've hurt this child, and
quake at the thought of how much more vulnerable he is to my own
capriciousness after saying -- and meaning -- 'I love you, Jacob.'

Sleep is a foreign land to me at this point. For a man my age, it tends to
be after waking in the night. Using four decades of skill at not waking
Maria, I insinuate myself from my embrace of Logan and slip from the bed,
tucking the blankets tighter around my... lover.

I slip into a long-sleeved tee and a sweatshirt as well as some downy
sweatpants so I won't have to stoke the fire as much, and slip into my
sheepskin half-booties. I silently add two more logs to the hearth and boot
my laptop in silent mode. The routine is almost habit, the process of years
of sleepless but fruitful nights. I stare at the copy I'd written a few
days before. It's good. Tight. The overall work is about 30% done now, but
I can't seem to 'call' the characters tonight. This happens to me and I
know better than to force it.

I stare at my Who's Whom file in Access, a log of characters I've created
over the years. It's quite lengthy. I hit my random button a few times and
stumble on a very old name, Virginia Cheshire. She was one of my early
successes from a time when I mostly made up the pertinent facts instead of
researching a location and a time. She was an aristocrat's daughter who,
for reasons I never explained (or bothered to imagine), accompanied the
retinue of Roger Elliott as he took governorship of Gibraltar.

I check my notes. Ah, yes. Poor Ginny. Ravished in the Great Siege Tunnels
(which did not actually exist at the time) by The False Count, a Spanish
cad, in 'Virtue Under Siege'. Then 'Gates of Hercules' found her ravished
on Europa Point at midnight by the possibly-a-ghost Abu Assan. I got hate
mail from that one since Moors are, obviously, non-white -- if Virginia had
been any whiter she'd be invisible in a snowstorm. That was, let's see,
maybe 1977?

Lastly, she was ravished by a villainous sea captain that later turned out
to be her long-lost love, John the Viscount Westguard. He was struck by
amnesia and took to the life of a pirate until Ginny's kiss brought it all
back in 'Taken by the Barbary Ape' (his nom-du-piracy). I got sued for that
one over copyright infringement by the author of a work that was far more
famous after it became a movie. He and I still laugh at conventions and
gatherings about the foibles of publishing-house lawyers; he didn't even
know about the suit until my publisher had 381 books delivered to his
office, each with substantially the same plot going back to one probably
written by Noah.

Virginia was my first really captivating character. She is an insane mix of
blithe innocence and subtle strength of will, perpetually (if
unconsciously) capturing the hearts of the worst possible men, then trying
to escape their 'unwanted' advances. She is remarkably adept at thwarting
them repeatedly before finding herself with no place left to turn,
inevitably reaching the ravishing point just as the hero (usually a
nameless watchman) saves her ultimate virtue at the last second. I begin to
type.

I am in the midst of chapter 3 when Logan finally stirs. By the clock on my
laptop, I've been writing non-stop for six hours. I stand and stretch,
joints crackling like old leaves underfoot, and move to add logs to the
hearth. Logan emerges from the bathroom and we move past one another, each
trying to give the other a peck on the cheek that turns into a chaste but
passionate kiss. I come out of the bathroom to find Logan sitting at the
laptop, reading.

I flush. I never, ever let anyone read unfinished copy. Even Maria didn't
do that. But the flash evaporates when that angelic face turns to me and
smiles. "Ginny? Virginia Cheshire? Isn't she happily-ever-aftering with
Lord Whatshisname?"

"Viscount Westguard, and I killed him off in the intr... Wait a minute. How
do you know that?"

He blushes adorably again. "Mom reads, well, she read historical rom--"

"Don't use that word!"

"Okay, um, novels? She read them constantly. Woodiwiss, Rosemary Rogers,
and, well, a guy named Stettler McKay." He sees a cloud of doubt cross my
features. "I swear to god I didn't know it was you until you showed me your
bookcase. You don't look like the guy on the back of the paperbacks, Jake!
I didn't lie to you, Jake, ever. Honest."

I sigh, "I know that, son. I'm still so jumpy about everything." I move
beside and reach down to touch his cheek. "My world has changed so much
since I found you, since we found each other. I'm sorry, but it's going to
take me a long time to, to be comfortable no matter how... right everything
feels." He turns in my palm like a cat petting himself with my hand and
kisses my fingers.

"I'm okay with that, Jake." He turns back the laptop. "Who does your
editing, Jake? Someone at the publisher?"

"Well, there's editing and Editing. I use a proof-reader and an editing
partner, then there is the Editor-capital-E who basically runs things for
all my work at the publishing house. He has the final say, and often really
makes a huge difference. He turned a couple of, well, less than great works
into strong sellers."

"So who does the proofreading? Like, before the editing people?"

"Actually, at first it was Maria. She did my first three books." I smile at
the memory though it really upset me at the time. "Then she started
laughing as she read the stories," Logan smiles at the image, "and I did
one with someone assigned by [___] House. Oh, man, that was hell. I didn't
know whether to kill him or myself by the end of it. Then the Editor got it
and had a hissy-fit.

"By then, another author offered to swap, each of us proofreading the
other. That lasted for one novel as well, since we kept forgetting whose
characters was in which story. We shared a note or two along the lines of
'Carol would never say that' to get a note back that said, 'Carol isn't in
this book.' The next, oh, six or so were proofed by fans who volunteered. I
sent a chapter and checked them against each other and picked three who I
liked.

"That worked perfect until one of them sold the manuscript of 'Vale of
Innocence' to another fan, who started writing letters to the whole Club
(yes, this was when fan clubs were things held together by mail with stamps
on) with excerpts. The publisher went fucking insane, so that ended
that. Then I got a letter from a woman who flat out said she didn't like
what I wrote, but liked how I wrote it and offered to proof it -- and
charge me! I was outraged.

"Maria, though, talked me into trying it with the next novel, 'Enter the
Sun', and it was like heaven. If she laughed, I couldn't hear it, but she
never commented on plot, only consistency and grammar and such. She died
two years ago. Froom cancer. She was 88. Maria and I went to her
funeral. She was family by the end." I stop and think, and Logan... well,
he let me. I don't know why, but that makes my heart nearly burst with
affection for him.

"Anyway, the last five were back to [___] House people. Either they're
better or I'm less twitchy. It's not great, but it works. Then Maria, well,
you know, and I haven't written since."

Logan's voice is quiet and I can tell he wants to avoid breaking the mood
that let me tell him so much, more than I've said, probably, since we
met. "But you wrote this."

That snaps me back. I kneel next to his chair and look him in the
eyes. "Yes, Logan, I wrote that. You, I don't know, have a key to a lock I
didn't know was there. It's like it was twenty, thirty years ago. It all
just works again."

"Jake, I know this is risky... for both of us. But can you print out a copy
and see if you like how I proofread? I just," he swallows convulsively a
half-dozen times and his eyes well up, "I just want to give you something
back?"

I can no more say no than I could kick a puppy. "Of course you can. I, um,
I, well, I can't promise it will, you know..."

He smiles, "I know it probably won't work, Jake. But can I try? Please? I
really do expect I won't be any good and won't be upset, promise, but I'd
like it if you let me try?"

I hip-nudge him out of the chair, making him laugh. The printer is hidden
in the end-table next to the sofa and we both hear it whir to life. Logan
goes first to the second drawer on the end of the counter and extracts two
pens, red and blue. I shake my head. How could he know? Am I *that*
predictable that he'd just know where stuff was? I know he didn't snoop! He
sees my reaction and grins.

"The top drawer will be the stuff that's useful all the time, and the
second will be the stuff you can't fit in the top. That's gonna be pencils,
pins, post-its, and all the notes you wanted to remember but cleaned off of
something when someone was coming over? Am I close."

I scowl, but happily. "No, smartass. All the notes I forgot about are in
the third drawer with the cards I never got around to answering. Instead,
there are scissors, staplers, staple removers and tax crap I haven't filed
yet. Go proofread!"

"No, first I'm making you breakfast." I frown. Breakfast for me is
cardboard paste and his is Cream of Wheat.

"Just write, Jake. I'll shake you when it's ready." I watch for a minute
but the blinking cursor calls to me. Perhaps 40 minutes pass before I hear
Logan use the 'significant cough' noise. He pulls the laptop to the middle
of the table and replaces it with a plate. On it is a big soup-mug filled
with, aw fuck, that goddamned gruel. But next to it is a steaming half-moon
of daisy-yellow something.

I take a bite and literally groan in delight. "{whasthz}?" There is a
fluffy, biscuity bottom with a hard, crisp crust below a succulent
egg/ham/cheese/herb thing. It's sitting in a pool of melted
butter-stuff. And it's amazing! I swallow, "My, god, son, what is this?"

Logan smiles widely. "It's a Poor Man's Quiche. Biscuit on the bottom then,
when that's almost done, eggs, cream, veggies, ham and cheese poured on top
and baked again. It's not too done on the bottom, is it?"

'Are you fucking nuts' came out as "{Ryafukints?}" as I devoured it.

"Don't skip the oatmeal, Jake!"

I scowl at him and then the gruel but take a spoonful. Wait a minute. This
doesn't suck! "How did you make oatmeal that doesn't suck?!?"

"I'll tell you when we're both old, Jake. Right now, just eat it."

I do, alternating the wondrous gruel with the heavenly whateveritis. This
is, literally, the best breakfast I've had in a decade. I check the
guilt-o-meter, but apparently this passes muster.

I finish and sit back, utterly satisfied, watching my... I still have
trouble with the word. My lover? No, better: my Logan. Watching my Logan
finish his own, complete with the detested Cream of Wheat. He finishes and
I insist on the almost non-existent cleaning. Pots for the sludge and the
gruel, and a small cast-iron skillet for the whateveritwas.

I turn and Logan has collected the roughly forty pages spaced for editing
from the printer. He sits across from me, pencils in hand, and I sink back
into my writing trance and lose track of time completely. I 'come to' from
the silence of Logan looking at me. All the scratching and scritching of
his pens ceased a minute ago, and the change brought me out of my writing
world. He's smiling shyly.

"What?"

"This is really good, Jake. It's like," he gets a dreamy, faraway look in
his eyes, "like you suddenly are talking about love, Jake, not, well,
rom--"

"I HATE THAT WORD"

He laughs aloud, "I know you do, Mr Stettler McKay, but it still is
true. There is a difference between--" I scowl fiercely, "THAT word and
love and sex. They're none of them the same thing. You have done wonders
with, um, *that word*, and sometimes even with the sex, but you're talking
about love now, Jake, and it's, well," he blushes looks at the floor, "it's
beautiful."

I stare, nonplussed. No one, not even Maria, not even my obsessed fans,
called my work 'beautiful'. There were always hundreds of adjectives --
inspired, exciting, enticing, enthralling, real, captivating, sensual --
but 'beautiful'? Like a sun rising over a mountain, I understand both what
he means and what THIS means. "It's because, Logan, I think I've *found*
beauty. In you. In loving you. I don't, I, I don't know what it means,
Logan, but you're, you've made me a better person just by letting me love
you?"

He cocks his head to the side and looks at me, then shakes his head in
denial. "No, Mr Stettler McKay. It's not that you started loving me. If it
was that, your love for Maria would have done this. It's more. It's not me
loving you, Jake, but you letting yourself love someone else," his voice is
a prayer, quiet, fervent, needful, "letting yourself... love... me?"

<eof>

I always ask at the end of the tenth chapter: Is this worth continuing?
Remember that reader input and feedback is all I have to judge what I'm
doing well or poorly, and how I can improve as an author. Please let me
know what you like and don't at orson.cadell@gmail.com

*****

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 24 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 16 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 17 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 11 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 10 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/
Brother Bear: 2 chapter .../incest/brother-bear/
Shark Reef: 3 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/

Special collaboration with Brad Borris: In God's Love .../incest/in-gods-love/