Date: Sat, 8 Apr 2006 01:29:44 -0400 From: Chris Creamer Subject: "Tyler" Series 9 Note: Well it appears the last installment got cut off. Crap. I'll do what I can to work a document recovery miracle; keep your eyes peeled. And in the meantime, here's part 9. Enjoy:) =-=================================================== It's eight o'clock at night--and still light out. I'm sitting naked at Tyler's kitchen table, working on a bowl of Lucky Charms. After we fucked, I got hungry. He said he wanted a shower. Across the kitchen, I see twin trails of clothes; Tyler's and mine. We didn't waste any time. Tyler's upstairs in the shower or something. Don't really care. Through the bay window, the first hints of night are marble streaks across the sky. The sun is an amber half-circle on the horizon. Mom and Dad are probably worrying 90,000 miles away--or however the hell far it is--and we still feel the heat. I look through the bay window and see kids playing kickball in the street. The one at bat nails it sends the ball flying down the street. How old are those kids, I wonder. Five, six? I count them quickly. Four. Wonder if any of `em will turn out gay. And they probably have no idea what the world has in store for them. The up. The downs. Hell, even the sideways. Sometimes the sideways are the ones that feel best. I feel a hand run across my shoulders. Turn around to see a naked and dripping-wet Tyler behind me. "Get all squeaky clean?" I jest. "Oh yeah," he whispers and kisses my neck. "Just for you." He lifts the chair, and I stand up for fear of falling on my ass. When I turn around to face him, he gives me a quick and deep kiss, plunging his tongue into my mouth. We collapse onto the table a second later, and he straddles me. "Now," he says. "My turn." So while he holds me at the wrists, his cock--wet, either from water or precum--slides towards my ass. And there, on his kitchen table, just beyond sight from those kickballers in the street...Tyler and I play kickball of our own. And it's beautiful. The wood creaks, and Tyler moans. He's a saint, he's Mother Teresa, he's Elvis. He's God. The Adonis riding my cock screams and howls and asks for more. And I give it to him. The Adonis straddling me is shouting and laughing with the pure lust for the pure joy of a fuck. And so am I. The fire, my friend. It'll burn us both. There's no place in this world for our kind of fire. Tyler...my warrior--my hot-ass little beautiful-ass creation. Handed down from the gods themselves. Sent to be mine and only mine. Tyler. You'll always be mine. Always. He pulls out, and rests over top of me. His breathing matches mine, and I kiss his forehead. Run my hands down his sweating back and let them stop on my ass. Like every other part of him, it too is beautiful. A work of art. The wrestlers would never know good art. "I wanted to give you something," he says and one his hands reaches across the table. When it comes back, he's holding a single rose. He sits up in the straddling pose again and lays it on my chest. "So this is a symbolic thing?" I ask. "Or pillow talk." He smiles and touches a devilish finger to a corner of his mouth. I chuckle. "You're spoiling it." He leans over me and kisses me again. "Sorry," I say. "Thank you. For the rose and the sentiment." "Not a problem, lover." It sounds like a throwaway line, but then...I don't throw much away these days. "So we're lovers now?" "For all the se and the blowjobs?" he asks rhetorically. "I hope so." His breath is hot and sweet on my face. "...Then what are we?" I kiss him back and slide my hands around to cop a feel. "You're right." "I know," he winks. "I love you." "I love you too, John."