Date: Wed, 18 Nov 2020 13:56:40 -0500
From: MC VT
Subject: Esoteric Homage

Esoteric Homage
©MCVT2017  12 November 2020

Handmade honor as touchstone.

You can honor Nifty with a generous donation:  http://donate.nifty.org/

100% fiction, adult content:  Mt, inc, rural.
=====================================================================

`Bout a hundred yards off the road, I trudged into the woods with my bag,
hand-drawn map in hand.  The old family cemetery was over-grown, tangled in
kudzu.  Had to get in and out in a hurry, before the mosquitos made me
their breakfast.  Mist still hung in the pines as the first rays of sun
penetrated the forest.  Smelled fresh, clean; sweet earth and exhale from
the grasses.

Spiked iron gate stood open.  Toe of my boot hit something, a broken
concrete rim of a grave, covered with cloud-shaped greenish-gray moss.
Stepped over it, searching the through bluestem for the tallest headstone.
Family graveyard on the homestead we once owned, parcels sold-off through
generations, the graveyard stayed, marked by rusting iron posts now.

Standing next to it, I looked to the sun; due east.  Now, I had to find Coy
Herzle's grave.

Granddad sent me out to get a rubbing on a white handkerchief. Coy was his
hero, raised him during the Great Depression.  Told me a million tales of
him and his grandfather.  Rift in the family left my grandfather with his
grandparents--he never spoke the reason for them buttin' heads.

...

Found the tallest headstone, looked at the map.  Two graves north was
Abagail's gravestone.  One to the west with only a small grave marker.
That's where Coy was buried.  Took a while to find the small square of
marble with a brass plaque now covered with leaves, pale lichens.

Plunked down my bag, got the trowel out and began with a whisk broom first.
Grabbed a fistful of bristles and scrubbed the straw over the brass.
Oxidation flew away, the letters began to show though tarnish, only a ghost
of his name.  Still damp with dew, I pulled the weeds sensing a crushed
pine box holding the bones of Coy deep under the space I knelt on.  They
said he was a big man; rows of calcium and piles of minerals sneaking back
into earth now.  Did these grasses carry molecules of Coy?

My mind wandered through the tales of my family as I cleared the grave.
Pulled the weeds offering some respect despite whatever happened causing
the family split.  Maybe it was politics or my great uncle who went to jail
for bootleggin'.  Deep in thought in a mostly silent forest, I heard a
tone, low, then rippling, smooth sound.  I kept digging and pulled the
fabric and dark crayon from my bag.  Oh yea, I needed that those hoops too.

Sound got louder, a saxophone.  Someone practicing in the woods, probably
chased out of the house for making a racket.

Grandfather had sent me out with an embroidery hoop and kerchief.  Fabric
had to be stretched inside it tautly, placed over the plaque and I could
make a rubbing, transferring the lettering from the plaque to very center
of the kerchief.  Had to be quick, the day was heating and the brass would
heat and blur the wax.  Fumbling, I couldn't get it to stay inside the hoop
before the outer ring popped off.  In a rush to finish, "Dammit!"

Heard footsteps nearing through the woods, looked up to see Jer Thompkins.
Didn't know him well, only saw him at the livestock auctions.

"Watcha doin'?  Sewing yourself some widder's weeds?"  He stepped closer.
"Ah, at ol' Coy Herzle's grave.  Hmph."

He squatted down beside me, took the hoop.  "Trying to stretch this?"  He
grabbed the hoop, "You hold it over--this outer rim has a spring."

We got the fabric stretched and I lay it over the brass.  "Thanks."  My
fingers felt through the fabric for the letters, "Zat you playing the sax?"

"Yeah.  Neighbors run me off."  He watched me closely.

"You in a band?"  I carefully centered the hoop over Coy's name.  Thompkins
held it steady.

"Nah, I like the way it feels on my lips, in my ears.  Sounds kinda like a
voice telling me things I need to know.  Music's like that."

Carefully I began rubbing; great grandfather's name appeared as gnats began
buzzing.

"They say Coy caused quite the ruckus." Jer continued.

"Too long ago for me to know anything about it."  I kept rubbing, the
letters became clearer on the fabric.  I slapped at a mosquito.

"Big deal back then.  Not now.  Your great grandad was a sod--you know, a
fag.  Married, wife left him, then the war came, took all the healthy men;
but not Coy."

"Yeah?"

"Diddled your grandpa, they say."

"Diddled?  You mean like sex?"

"Yep, trained the boy up like that.  They say that's where your grandpa got
to be the way he is."

"They always saying something.  Talk's cheap."

When I had a fine, crisp rubbing, I pulled the hoop away, tossed my
equipment into my bag, "You get back to your practice.  Thanks for the
help."

"Too late to practice now.  How about some coffee at the Dairy Quick?"  My
Grandad opened that café, sold it to my dad before the divorce.

Thompkins was a fine lookin' man, trim and tall, still had his hair, dark
moustache, long, delicate fingers for a guy.  I thought about going, but
I'd just be pumped for the family dirt.

"Thanks.  Not today."

...

Met Grandad on the back porch, stack of old papers and the iron plugged in.
He pressed the wax from the kerchief.  "You're old enough."  Took the
kerchief to the sink, washed it, hung it over the faucet to dry.

We went to the shower--always good kissing in the warm water, soapy rub,
our bodies were similar but for my always-rigid cock.  Not as tall, not as
big, but our pale colors were the same.

...

Took me to bed.  I lay waiting for him in the bright sun coming through the
side window; I loved this bed, this house, everything inside it.  It
smelled like Grandad, fried bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, his body, his
sweat on the furniture, the linens.  Naphthalene whiffs lurked in the dark
corners like secrets.  Sharp smell of Barbasol in the bath.

He brought the handkerchief with Coy's name.  "The taste of your cum is
stronger."

Lay the handkerchief on the bed, told me to keep it under my groin.  Had to
get it in the perfect place before he did anything.

With the utmost care, he lay beside me, stroking my back while his erection
hardened.  His hand went to my cleft; thumb made circles at my hole, "I
love you."

I smiled, "I want your cock."  He chuckled and rolled himself over me.
We'd done this several times before, better every time.

His face on my back, one knee folded underneath him, he kissed me while he
rubbed his juice, readying me.  My guts shook I wanted the first moments of
stretch and burn, then to be joined closely.

Slow, he was unhurried.  Made me anxious for the first push.

"Nnng."  In, pushed till he was half way. I stopped breathing, heart
pounding through my head.  Couldn't calm myself.  I squeezed my ass shut
around his shaft.  He always liked that, our bodies talking without words.

Slowly in, back out, my small tunnel tugged at him, my grunts forced out of
my chest when he shoved.  Soon, his sweat, moist skin on my back.  Pressed
hard into the bed, hard to breath.  It made me heady as my organs moved
ahead of his thrusts.  Felt like he touched everything inside me with his
dick.

My cock strained beneath me, juicing the handkerchief.  Lifted my hips
toward his movements.

"That's my boy."  He began the long, deep thrusts, "Cum for me."

Good pushes started, making me close my eyes and focus on the end of his
cock probing around inside.  Made me harder when he hit my spot.  Made me
whimper; lust and need.  Pushed hard, then harder.  More sweat.  Didn't
feel it coming, didn't feel it happen.  My johnson couldn't stop leaking.
I felt gushes of my slipperiness surge several times spreading the wetness
beneath me.

Shifted his weight, I felt him opening me deeper, further and he began
twitching and moaning.  Hot inside me, his jizz the same temperature.
Couldn't feel it until he made a few moves and the liquid squeezed out
around his rod.  Filled with him dripping down between my legs to my balls.

Trembled underneath his weight, more hot rushes from my slit.

...

The Coy kerchief took a lot of loads that summer from two men.  Grandad's
way of loving Coy; my way of thanking a man I'd never known but through the
touches of his grandson.

The day I left to go back home, to school, my family's routines, Grandad
handed me the kerchief.  Washed, faded, just a little of Coy's name left
now.  "Why are you giving me this?"

"There'll come times... times you'll feel like you don't have a place.
Feels like floating with nothing tying you to earth, to life, to everything
going on around you.  Ya' might think it's because your different.  It's
not.  It's about growing up, being human.  Remember Coy, remember me; we
tie you here."


Homage