Date: Tue, 3 Oct 2006 12:31:29 -0700 (PDT) From: T. Chase McPhee Subject: Nature Country 26 The story below is a work of fiction, set in the format of reality. Any resemblances to real people, alive or in the hereafter, is entirely coincidental in nature. It is not meant to accurately reflect upon persons, in towns, cities, nor governmental areas, which the story is stages. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male relationships offences you, then you should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most state and countries, you are not allowed to read this story, by law. Check with your local laws regarding such. Sexual safety matters. This is fiction. Use protection, in real life. Nature Country 26 wriTten by T. Chase McPhee % Stepping on shaky ground, Christian walked into Birdy's Cafe. Tagging along, his twenty-year old, overnight companion backed him up. "You look like hell!" He didn't readily see Michael, wiping down a table. "Michael, I'm sorry," Christian left Justin's side. Somehow, his anger wasn't what it should be. All the nasty things Michael conjured up in his mind, as he cooked, served, cleaned, didn't materialize, as he looked over the twenty-three year old and his companion, whom he only had ideas about his identity. "Eh, never mind," under his breath, he mentioned, `not worth it'. "There's a ton of dishes stacked up in the kitchen!" "We'll get on it right away! Thanks!" "We?" "Okay if Justin helps?" Justin introduces himself, with a handshake, "Justin Beanhacker, sir." "Sir?" Michael's next thought was, `I'm only thirty-one years old. Do I `fit' the part of his dad?' He kicked the thought aside, when Justin added something mighty enticing, "I can work for free!" "Yeah, okay, but I don't want any hanky panky going on!" "C'mon, Justin." Michael, just shook his head, swabbing down the circular, wooden table, smiling, saying `kids'! "Hi." Looking over at the door, stood somebody he was glad to see. "Who's minding the store?" "Um, Chad and Matty. They thought I needed some time off." "Oh? Eyes getting blinded by all that loot you're taking in?" "Yeah," Zach gave in. He didn't let on about the crying session he had just been through, taking as much toll on him, as it did John Dellano. "Are you going to invite me in?" Michael walked over to where Zach held the wooden and glass door open, with an invitation. "Coffee?" "Do you have anything stronger?" "Well, we don't serve up the `Irish' variety until later, but I'll see what I can do!" An accordian partition separated the night-time portion of Birdy's Cafe, from the day hours. Making a doorway, he let Zach enter. "Be right back. Help yourself." Meanwhile, Michael paced the floor, into the kitchen. "You're on the counter. It's kind of dead out there." "I can handle it," Christian replied. Michael didn't see it, being enroute to the night-time cafe, but for a sweet kiss, Christian bartered with Justin, to finish the dishes! "Hey, are you okay?" "Yeah. I'm fine." Two seconds later, Zach reports, "Not." "I think you need something stronger. I'll leave out the coffee!" Zach smiled a short-lived grin. "Now, what's this about?" Michael inquired, sitting at the bar, next to Zach. "Oh, nothing much, other than my whole world has just.... caved in." With the response, Zach, leaning with both elbows on the bar, took the slug down in one gulp and dropped his headed, as if guillotined. Being the nice, kind, easy-going person he can be, Michael's hand wasn't inhibited from rubbing Zach on the back. A little lost for words, he states the familiar, "I'm sorry." However, coming from Michael Byrd, the old saying, sometimes taken for granted, had been filled with warmth. With his defenses down, Zach bought into it. Turning to the side, he asked, "Got anymore of this?" Both looked into each other's eyes. Instead of refilling Zach's glass, something he might do for one of his patrons, Michael senses some other need, more intoxicating than the liquer. "I have a feeling you need something much stronger. Hug?" Filling the perplexed look on Zach's face, Michael twirls the bar seat around, til Zach faces him, leans in, his legs traveling to the floor, standing, as he engulfs Zach in his arms. Instead of his chin falling forwards, engaging with Michael's shoulder, in a rest position, Michael's face gets in the way. % Keying the front door, Ricardo shoves his rolling luggage in, ahead of himself. `Mighty quiet,' he says to himself, `I guess the boys are out.' Of course, it's that time of the year, when Connor and Jim are doing overnights, either at some campground, or another bud's pad, with graduation right around the corner. "Hello? Maury?" he questions the empty pool, the filter buzzing in the background. Next on his agenda, he grabs a quick orange juice, before proceeding to the sleeping quarters. As he climbs the stairs, his hormones began to kick up. Ricardo reaches down to the flaps of his nurses blue top and tears it up, over his head, his chest expanded, his CORE retracting, showing off the stripe down his abs, to his deep bellyhole. Halfway up the hall, he kicks off his sneakers, to the side, the wall. Almost to their room, he almost trips, stepping out of the pants. `Whew! Good thing it's empty,' he comments, as if talking to his citrus lined glass. >From outside the room, he hears a little snoring action. He smiles. That old familiar sound of `home' has returned to his ears. The door ajar, he opens it. Still pitch dark, the drapes drawn, he finds his way, through the room. He rolls his eyes, though no one can see, as he steps on an article of clothing. He smiles, saying to himself, `Maury, you slob!' Finding the bed, he climbs in, cuddling up to the naked flesh, stretched out. Lifting an arm, he runs his palm over the chest. "Huh?" As the light goes on, eyes flicker open. "What tha?" Instead of stroking his honeybear's chest, his hand has glided over an almost smooth one. Slowly, Maury rolls over on one side, rubbing one eye and yawning. "Oh, your home already?" Out of bed, Ricardo stands there, just looking. "And what if I hadn't? Would you have conveniently gotten rid of the body?" "Shhhhh, you'll wake him up!" Part of Ricardo's plan included that. "You! Up!" He belched forth, slapping the extra man-in-the-bed's arm. "Huh?" "Get up!" "You don't have to be so rough," Maury cautions his lover. In a hazy fog, the outsider states, "On the contrary. The rougher the better!" "What is he talking about?" Ricardo then gets it. It's not the first time that Maury has had a guy over for some rough action. "Ron, this is my lover, Ricardo." Almost fully sitting up, his colleague replies, extending a hand, "Oh, hi. I've heard a lot about you." "Good things, I hope," Ricardo signals to Maury, not sure if he's ready to forgive. "Um, Maury tells me that on occasion, you have had more than two in the bed?" "Well," Ricardo was about to confirm, being forced into the `forgiving' mode by the humiliating statement. But then, Ron Di Piero offers, scooting back, towards Maury, "C'mon. Join us." When entering the room, his intentions had been on spending quality time with his lover, but now, being invited to share, especially with a hot, workout stud, not looking to be a coupla years older than himself, seemed like the right thing to do. The only thing Maury missed, was his welcome home kiss. "Yeah, um.... okay," he settled for, as Ricardo cozied up with Ron. Then it happened. Leaning over, his chest now melding with Ron's, Ricardo antagonizes, "Heeeey, where's my kiss?" % "Oh man, have I eaten `soooooo' much!" Eleven year old Philip, pulls up his tee shirt, exposing his shallow navel, showing off his full belly. "Me too!" Diego, ten, does the same. Aidan and Seth stand there, still polishing off some kind of sticky-bun, white icing already licked off. "Hey guys, guess what?" Diego asks. "You're not full?" "Yeah, I am. But next week is the campout, at church!" "It's not at church," Aidan tells them. "I know," then reassembling his thoughts, Diego reports, "it's at the camp, but it's next week." "Have ya's ever been campin'?" Seth inquires of the group. "We have!" >From the side, the Miller kids show up, eleven year old Tim and his brother, Brad. "Hey guys!" Philip greets them. Aidan asks, "Is your dad letting you go camping with us?" Brad, Aidan's age, twelve, responds, "Nah. His work won't let him." "What's he do?" Diego asks. "He's a politician," Brad's brother, Tim fills them in. "So?" Seth inquires, "How come ya can't do that?" Aidan responds, "Because his dad doesn't like us." "He likes you," Tim says. Wisely, Philip tells them, "He doesn't like us, `cause we're queers!" Brad looked as much down, as his eleven year old brother. "I wish we could go. I don't care if any of you are queers." "We know," Aidan replies. "What's gonna stop ya's?" Seth comes through. "Our dad. We have to have a permission slip. He won't sign it." "I'll sign it!" They whole group of boys look at Seth, a big grin adorning his face. Tim says, "You can't sign it." "Why not?" "You're not our dad!" "Don't you want to go?" "Of course we do," Brad helps his brother out. Tim nods, `yes'. "Then I'll sign it with your dad's name. It's not like I haven't done somethin' like that." "When?" Philip asks. "When Luke and I'was on the road. Once we find this check, that's what he calls it, on the ground. He says we can use it, `cause it's made up to be `cash'." "So, you took it to the store and bought something with it?" Tim asks. "Nope. We have to go to the bank first. He says he's too nervous to sign it. So, I do it." "I don't get it," Diego says, shrugging his shoulders, when the older guys look at him. "It's easy. Luke `xplains it to me. I sign the check, like it says on the front. It takes me a long time to write it over and over til it's perfect. Then I ingorse it and we cashed it." Aidan asks, "How much did you get?" "Eighty-six bucks." "Whooooooooa!" Several boys are heard gloating, at the enormous amount. "Whadja do with all that?" "Buy some food. Luke sees some old man, so he gave him some." "Old man?" "Yeah. He was like us, but he looked worse." "Worse?" "Yeah. His clothes are like stunk and ripped so bad they got big and small holes in them." "I'm glad I have this," Tim says, his hands smoothing out his tee shirt. Aidan refers, "Yeah, you guys have money." Of course, it meant that Tim and Brad MIller, sons of the local politician, didn't have to beg for anything. One thing Aidan would attest to, even though the brothers had been born `with a silver spoon in their mouths', they acted nice, friendly, not spoiled like some of the resident children in the area, who boasted of a smidgeon less. They also harbored a secret, only know to Tim's and Brad's closest colleagues. "You tell your dad yet?" "No way!" Brad tells them. Tim adds, "He'd kill us if he knew!" Diego naively asks, "Your own daddy would kill you for being queer?" Aidan barks, "Shut up Diego. It's supposed to be a secret, remember?" Not letting his emotions feel hurt, Diego accepts Aidan's scolding. "Oh yeah! Sorry `bout that guys!" Seth, a newbie to the group, asks, "How come you don't tell him?" "Don't you get it?" Brad asks Seth. "Nope!" Seth replies, shrugging his shoulders, his hands slapping to his sides. Philip says, "Explain it to him Ai." "Why me?" "Because you're the oldest." True. Even though Brad and Aidan are both twelve, Aidan leads the pack, by a coupla months, over Brad. "Oh. Okay," Aidan lets them talk him into it. "Y'see, Brad's and Tim's dad, like I said before, doesn't like us queers. I've heard our dads," meaning his and Philip, "talk about their dad wanting to do away with us, saying we're sick and we can get cured of being gay." Philip cuts in, "Yeah and his dad wants to make it, so guys like Chad and Matty can't get married." Adding his own opinion, Brad corrects Philip, "Not only them, but anybody who's gay." Seth asks, "He allowed to go `round saying stuff like that?" Getting a bit clammy, even though it's part of the `big man's world', Tim tells them, "I know our dad doesn't know we know..." Tim gets a little squeamish about the next subject, so stops mid sentence. "Tell'em Brad." "Some people don't like my dad." Philip observes, "A lot of people don't like a lot of people. I don't like Billy Meacham." "That's different," Brad says, "Do you don't like Billy enough to kill him?" Diego shows the most downtrodden, face, the others near close, mostly the two brothers. "You mean somebody hates your dad so they want to kill him?" Aidan replies, "That sucks!" "I know," Brad manages out. Philip places a hand on Tim's shoulder, saying, "I hope nothing happens to you." Neither Philip nor Aidan would admit that the message, between their dads, included the word `family'. "Hi guys." "Hey, Caleb," Aidan greeted the eleven year old. Not afraid to show their affection, the two hug. Brad, who looks around, says, "Wow, I would never do that around other people!" Too late, the group hears, "Brad? Tim?" The two answer, almost simultaneously, "Yes, father?" "Come along. Time to go." The two boys surrender to their father's company. Their dad, says to the group of squirts, "Boys," then ducks away. Out of earshot, they talk up a storm. "Wow! Could you feel it?" "Feel what, Philip?" Diego asks. "His eyes." "How can you get to feelin' somebody's eyes?" Seth inquisitiveness provokes. "A feeling." "Yeah. I felt it too," Aidan agrees. "He wasn't friendly. He didn't pay no mind to us guys." Seth refers to Diego and himself. Diego asks, "I wonder how come?" "Because he hates us," Aidan tells them. "How can a guy hate children like us?" Aidan, the oldest, resented Diego's statement, wanting to be older than a `child', but let it slide. It wasn't that important to make a big deal over. Besides, Diego was part of the `inner group', a close friend. His subconsious knew it wasn't a demeaning comment, meant to provoke. As usual, when the dad's approached, Diego stood out from the group, running towards them, yelling, "Dad!" Smiling, Alonzo took it for granted that his son would always address him as `daddy', but he could see his son growing by leaps and bounds, his namesake replaced by the company his son kept, as not being `cool'. Yet, the hug helped remind himself of how much he loved his son. "What about my hug?" Diego switched off dads, to Callan. Barry, approaching the lot, with Steve and the other two dads, suggested, looking towards Aidan and Philip, "I don't think you boys have met Mr. Johnson?" Caleb, placing his arms around the stranger's hips, announces, "These are my dads!" Attached to Mr. Johnson's hand, another man stood, Caleb unlocking his hold, one hand around the left side of one man's torso, the right hand around a right waist. Aidan mentions to Philip, "Wow! I didn't know Caleb had two dads!" "Me neither. Cool, huh?" They all get a chuckle, youngsters and adults, when Seth asks, hands on hips, looking up at the average six-footers, "You got anymore kids?" Not Mr. Johnson, but Caleb's other dad, Greg Atkins, replies, "Not yet, but maybe someday!" Then Barry introduces a `Mr. Atkins' to the group. Like nice gentleman, Diego leads the pack in shaking both mens hands, offering his own introduction. Seth again provokes laugter, saying to Mr. Atkins, "Ya know, you're real good lookin'!" None could see or hear, as Steve flutters his eyebrows at his lover, saying softly, "The boy's got a taste for beauty!" Barry shushes Steve, knowing he feels no different! % "Thanks for the drink. I've got to get back to the store." As soon as Zach stood up, his ass gliding off the bar stool, he almost fell on his face. If not for Michael Byrd, with a quick reflex, throwing his arms around his waist, he would have. "I doubt you are in any condition to work, let alone walk, my friend!" Head moving dopey, from side to side, Zach says, "I... straa-ange... I never had coffee affect me.. like this!" Michael smiled, rolling his eyes. It was Zach that insisted something more be added to the Irish Coffee! For now, he parked Zach's bod back in the rounded back chair, at one of the wooden tables that dotted the layout of the partioned off room. He dialed a number on his cellphone. "I can hardly hear you, Chad... what? Oh yeah, my call..." Not ably to hear too well, with the banging of carts, little kids yelling, scanner blips and other assorted noises, Michael tried to explain Zach's nonfit ability to finish his day at work. "What's that? Oh he did... oh really? Yeah, pretty much what he related to me." By the time Michael hung up the phone, he knew more about the `bad hair day' Zach was having. "C'mon. Time to put you to bed!" "Bed?" Zach, hardly alert, communicated back, sounding off a royal burp. "Oh noooooooo.... not here, you don't!" Hustling Zach up the back stairs, Michael made a corporate decision not to ferry back to his own dwelling. If Zach lost his stomach now, it would mean cleaning up the floor. No way was he going to jeopardize having his car smell like that for weeks on end. "Come on... just a few more steps," the thirty-one year old complained, as he hefted Zach up two more steps. With the twenty-two year olds arm slung over his shoulder, both bods ascended the wooden, carpeted staircase. "One more, buddy.... yeah!" Michael cheered, as if reaching the top of Mt. Everest. He lay Zach on his bed for a moment. Then, scratching his chin, he wondered something. Zach, pretty much out of it, after three Irish Coffees, more Irish, than coffee, went on, babbling, "I'm such a loser", then turning right around, contradicting himself, as gibberish, "I wish I had a friend like you!" As Michael stood there, fully alert, having only had the coffee, without the `Irish', pondered whether to let him stay, or hike Zach on down the stairs and take him home. He did his best to disregard the notion. "He's so cute." Then, in an opposite emotion, tried to talk himself out of it. "But he's so young." Occuring, a natural reaction, when a guy start's to feel sweet on a guy, his zipper area started to feel crowded. "Oh what the hell!" Unlike when he helped Christian, Michael set about being the Good Samaritan, unbuttoning the passed out lad's shirt. "I'll probably live to regret this." However, when he had Zach's shirt fully disengaged from his body, the whole picture presented a different angle. He could've been accused of fondling, but that wasn't his intention, as his hand glided down Zach's midchest of golden brown hair. As Michael did this, the hand becoming his index finger, following the trail that separated Zach's stomach, he sensed the stirring in his loins. "No... This is wrong." This is not how Michael wanted it to go. Yet, he stopped in his tracks, questioning his own actions, "What tha fuck is going on with me?" He stare at Zach, lying there on `his' bed, shirt stripped, arms lay out in an eagle-spread fashion. Michael couldn't explain his feelings to himself, as he took in the view, as if the New York City skyline, from New Jersey, on a clear day. Slapping himself on the cheek, he ordered, "Michael, pull yourself together, man!" The self-abuse didn't phase him. Sure, for a second, he tried instilling some sense, but it wasn't working. For the second time, he excused himself, "I know I'm going to regret this!" First it was peeling Zach's shirt off, now Michael went for the belt buckle. Soon, Zach lay under the covers, stripped down to his briefs. Sitting at his side, his `Good Sam', brushed the hair from his eyes. "Sleep good. See you later!" With a smile, Michael closed the door to his room. Descending the stairs, he stopped three times, in deep thought. Each time, he answered the questions his mind asked, "Nah!" % In the car home, Tim Miller inquired, well-knowing what the outcome would entail, "Dad, can we go on the church camp trip?" "Tim, how many times do I have to tell you?" Brad, the older, sitting on his dad's right side, in the back seat of the limo, back's up his bro, "But they're nice guys." "I'll not have two sons of mine in the company of boys like that." "There's nothing wrong with them, father. Those kids are not any different than Tim and me." "I'll not have you take that tone of voice with me, Bradley!" Tim gulped, admitting to himself Brad had a lot of guts to go up against their dad. Another thing occured to Tim. Did Brad just try to `out' them? "I don't see anything wrong with them." Councilman Miller slapped Brad's thigh with his hand. "Owwwwch!" "They are heathens! Vexations to the soul! Why, if God had meant men to walk beside men, He would have made it that way!" Brad sunk back into the cool mode. As he and his brother had discussed many a time, in private, there was no way of changing a man set in his ways. However, he decided to take one more dig. "Mom would have never minded!" That sent their dad over the deep edge. "You'll regret saying that, young man!" The rest of the trip home, to their mansion was silent. Brad knew he was in deep shit, but as his own father has taught the two, when you believe in something so strong, you've got to stand up for your rights. Knowing what lay ahead, when his father got him home, seemed important enough to stand up for. After walking in the front door, the eleven and twelve year olds took off their jackets. Still in the foyer, their father announces, "To the basement, Bradley." Brad had hoped his father had forgotten their little `disagreement' in the car. He looked to Tim, whom shared the bewildered look. "Move it young man." "Yes, sir." "You too." "Me?" Tim pointed to his own chest. "Yes. I think it's important you both learn how to conduct yourselves." It wouldn't be the first time the three had followed the dusty staircase to the wine cellar, only this is the first time it had been both boys, accompanied by their father. Not that they counted the instances, but Tim could recall only twice. He knew Brad has been down here as many times. Maybe more. For instance, like right now, he knows the B minus on his report card, for history, played a role in him dropping his pants, lining himself up, over the dusty table, ready to receive his disciplining. "I don't deserve this!" Tim feared for his brother, leaning over the table, clutching the other side, as both his pants and briefs lay down, around his ankle. "I'll be the judge of that!" Their father, taking off his jacket, loosened his necktie and placed both over a hook, really an old nail, pounded into the side of one of the floor to ceiling wine racks, for whatever purpose. Tim watched, as Brad's vulnerable ass glistened under the single light bulb, his shirt hiked up, showing the small of his back. His attention then drew back to his father, unbuckling his belt, pulling it through the loops of his pants. He felt so bad for his brother. "Somebody's gotta teach you boys how to tote the line!" Some of Brad's shirt showed signs of sweating, around his armpits. "Akkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!" The sound of the belt, swooshing through the air, then the crack against his brother's ass, the ensuing screech of Brad's voice, made Tim cover his ears. Recovering, he realized something. Brad wasn't even crying, even though an angry, red welt stretched across the pre-teen's ass. He wondered why. If it was him, he'd be balling his eyes out, with tears. "Akkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!" Brad screamed louder than the first time. This time, their father said, "I hope you're learning something from this, boy!" Brad just mumbled, audibly enough, between the shots of pain, rippling through his body, "There's nothing wrong with those boys." "Is that so?" He watched his father reposition himself, recoil the belt buckle around his hand, his emotions soar with resentment, anger. Tim got scared. "Well, let's see if we can remedy this problem. Eh, Bradley?" Tim backed up, tried blotting out the sound of Brad's screams, as his father whipped away at Brad, his ass receiving no less than four or five lashes. The sounds of his brother finally made something break inside of him. He ran over to his father, grabbing the arm that held the punishing weapon. "Stop! Stop! You'll kill him!" It's then that Tim realized that he, himself, could be in big trouble. First, he was pushed away, falling on his hands and knees. Then, over his back, came the belt. "Oh, I get it. So it's two against one, is it?" Tim never felt so much pain in his whole life. The eleven year old tried crawling away, yelling, "Stop! Stop! You're hurting me," in between his wails of pain, as the belt cracked over his shirt. Meanwhile, Brad began feeling his senses return, plus provoked by his young brother's cries of pain. He knew Tim wasn't feeling anything less than what he himself endured. Standing, he swayed some. All he thought about now, was doing something... anything, to keep his father from whipping his brother. He spotted a wine bottle, lying on it's side, in the rack. Picking it up, he walked as best he could, a little unsteady on his feet. He wasn't sure if he tripped over something, which could have been his own pants or what, but he went flying forwards. The bottle swung up, breaking against something. Tim, a mess, wailed from the punishing attack. Twice, he tried pushing his beaten body up from the cement floor. Twice he plunged back down. It piqued his curiosity of why the belt ceased to rein down on him, plus the fact, except for his own whimpers, the cellar remained calm, quiet-like. "Brad?" He called out. Seemingly affixed in a position of looking to his left, the wine cellar wall, Tim pressed his body round, so that he could look to his other side. It wasn't a pretty sight. First, he realized half his body sat in a puddle of sticky, red wine. At least that's all he thought it was, at the moment. "Brad?" He hazily asked. "Brad, are you alright?" Tim tried moving, but it hurt too much. He didn't remember `falling asleep' in the mass of spilled wine. % 2B continued... Copyright 2006 T. Chase McPhee This story may not be sold, nor made part of any collection without prior written permission, by the author.