The Carpenter and the Piano Man

 

Copyrightę 2011 -- Nicholas Hall

 

The audience, sitting quietly in the darkened concert hall, listed raptly as the artist, a pianist, and the symphonic orchestra began the 2nd Movement of Dvorak's Ninth Symphony, "From the New World." This haunting selection, the "Largo" movement, was lonesome, filled with comfort, capable of giving strength to the performer and to the audience, so deep was it in meaning; meaning deeply rooted in the warmth of home, of society, and of life.

The pianist finished each of his concerts in the twelve week tour, as in all of his tours these past five years, with this particular selection. His interpretation, expression and reflections of his rendition, portrayed those feelings of a traveler of going home, seeking rest, solace, in the arms of his lover. Although talented, successful, and a widely traveled concert pianist, home is where he wished to be. His fingers danced lightly, delicately across the keys, each black and white key caressed with love and understanding. Black, neatly coffered, hair, light brown skin accentuated by the black sheen of the performance tuxedo, and dark, twinkling eyes looking at me as he completed the movement, sparkled and telegraphed his love, reminding me how fortunate I was these past ten years. Thirty years of age and a successful concert pianist, my love, my life, my "Piano Man" wouldn't be in my life if I hadn't been out drinking and celebrating.

**

Sighing, trying not to moan, quite disgusted with my own stupidity, I hurt all over, even my balls, if that was possible, but evidently it was since they did. I slowly opened my eyes, fearing any sudden movement would cause my aching head to fall off, leaving me like the "headless horseman" in that story that always scared the living shit out of me. Trying not to move, fearful my balls would join my head or even worse, perhaps they're already off and I was experiencing "phantom" pain! No, I'd open my eyes gently while reaching down with my right hand checking to see if my `nads were still attached. I hadn't felt this bad since I graduated from Madison Area Technical College eight years before when I got thoroughly shit-faced and hung over for two days.

I tried to move my right arm and discovered I couldn't; I was being restrained, probably to keep me from discovering my emasculation. My head hurt, my right shoulder hurt, my right foot felt absolutely numb, immobilized like my right arm. Furthermore, I had no idea if my goolies were still attached. It must've been one hell of a fall or I was drunker than I thought or, perhaps, both. Cranking one eye open cautiously, then the other, I looked about my surroundings, determined my location, finally settled my gaze on John and Linda Rasmussen, dear friends and co-conspirators in last evenings' debacle.

"Well, I say, Old Chap," mused John rising from his chair against the wall, "sleeping beauty has awakened. Ready for another bite of the apple, Cole, Old Bean or continue having a bit of a lay?"

God, why do the English always have to be so damned cheerful and "pip pip" and "old chap" everyone? Couldn't they see I was in agony, concerned about my loss of those precious eggs which had previously been attached to my body? Next he'll say "keep a stiff upper lip, old boy, you'll survive this."

"Bet you have the aches all over, don't you? Well, keep a stiff upper lip, Old Boy, you'll survive this little bit of a dust-up."

I glared at him, responding, "John, if you and Linda weren't my best friends, I'd crawl over there and strangle you, but I don't want to leave Linda a widow and reliant on the state for her welfare."

John and Linda both laughed, evidently pleased at my condition and my secure detention in the hospital bed, rather than in anticipation of my speedy recovery, which I doubted would happen immediately, especially if I had to grow a new set of baby-makers.

John stepped over to my bedside saying seriously, "The doctors say you'll be here most of the week. They stitched up the gash in your head, set the broken collar bone and strapped you tight, and pinned the broken ankle so it'll heal properly. I bet your balls still ache from the encounter with the step railing, don't they? The swelling should go down in them in a day or two. All in all, you're going to be laid up about six weeks."

God, this was all I needed. I had so much to do, but when I recovered, I'd be able to do what I had to do with what I still had; temporarily injured, shoulder, ankle, and testicles, but functional after a brief respite and recovery. My occupation as a carpenter would have to be put on hold until I was able to function again. My sex life would resume as normal as well, which was nil, nada, nothing!

"Next time," piped up Linda, "you'll listen to me and mind your own business and call for help. You know, there are policemen available when one calls "911." You were in no condition to do what you did, so suffer the consequence."

God, how I hate it when someone's right and I'm wrong, but we were having one hell of a good time enjoying the festivities of the "Annual State Street Halloween Party" last evening. It's always a fun time with goblins, hobos, zombies, semi-nudes, and total nudes cavorting about the street and also, many like us, just enjoying the sights and sounds of the evening. It's a time to celebrate before the long winter sets in, a winter which can last up to six months and dump snow ass deep on tall horses.

I arrived in Madison ten years earlier to attend Madison Area Technical College, studying construction and general contracting and never left after graduation. Construction was an occupation I dearly loved since high school when I began working for a general contractor weekends and summers. I earned my Wisconsin licenses and permits upon graduation and began work within a week.

The first two years out of school, I worked for a general contractor, banked my wages, and then struck out on my own. The Madison market was a good market for general carpentry and handyman work, with plenty of work for someone particular about doing a good job for the customer and willing to take a little less in payment in order to have the work. Work was slow at first, but once people knew of the quality of my work and availability, business really picked up. I didn't give my services away, but I didn't over charge either, allowing me to make a modest profit.

Well, I did better than that, actually, by watching my expenses, hiring college students when I needed extra help, and living frugally, I was able to purchase the three bedroom home I'd been renting and then, two years later, an older fixer-upper I remodeled into four apartments I rented out to married university students. When the housing market bust came during the "Great Recession", banks sold foreclosed houses for a pittance of their original costs. While other individuals couldn't get loans, the small bank I dealt with loaned me money and I picked up four more. I remodeled two of the purchases into apartments and the other two I rented out to university employees. I was considering purchasing two more foreclosed homes when this damned incident happened. What a load of horseshit!

My thoughts were interrupted by John announcing, "Colton, old chap, we've got to go. We'll try to pip in a day or two from now, but work is quite heavy now, so we don't know if we can make it," and patted me on the shoulder. Linda bussed me on the cheek, and with a "Tah, Tah" out the door they went, leaving me quite alone. Loneliness wasn't a new experience for me. As a gay, closeted high school boy in Northern Wisconsin, like many others in large and small towns, I suffered in silence, hiding my sexual preferences, and trying to act "straight." I made the required prom dates to hold up appearance, averted my eyes in the locker room, hoping I wouldn't pop a woody, and stayed out of peoples' way.

Madison was just the opposite of my home town, liberal, open, and fun! The university and the diversity of the people in the city made it my kind of town. The employment opportunities, educational opportunities, and cultural activities, suited me. I remained celibate, however, fearful of catching some sort of disease, but more fearful of becoming attached to someone and having them break my heart. No, I preferred to stay lonely until the right person came along I wanted to share my life with.

Celebrating Halloween in Madison was always fun and an adventure, never quite certain what apparition might appear in what costume or not, and last night was no exception. John, Linda, and I had ample amounts to eat and drink and, about half-way through the evening, finding the restrooms quite busy, I stepped into an alley to take a leak (yah, I know, it's against the law, but so is spitting on the sidewalk). Entering the darkened passage, fishing out the bologna pony to empty my bladder, I spotted four young men obviously in enjoyment of each other. One had his pants down around his ankles while his partner was sucking on the pink piccolo offered for his enjoyment. Both smiled at me, but continued their liaison. The other couple had their pants down also, but one was bent over with his hands on his knees, while his partner was thrusting in and out of his butt, doggy-fucking him like a bitch in heat. The one getting buggered, looked at me, ogled my cock, wet his lips with his tongue, and, evidently pleased with what he saw, said, "You're next if you want some of me and don't mind sloppy seconds." I declined, smiling, amazed at their lack of inhibitions, and exited the alley.

After we decided we`d partaken enough of drink, food, and people in general, we began our leisurely stroll back to the parking ramp near the Capital, with all intentions of going home. Entering the alley leading to a pedestrian entrance to the ramp, I heard sounds of a struggle coming from a dark alcove of a neighboring building. Stepping forward to investigate, Linda stopped me saying, "Leave it Cole, it's probably more college kids in heat just like that last bunch you encountered."

It didn't sound like noises of passion to me. No, it sounded more desperate, a fight, the sounds of a defense against a stronger foe, so, in a "Sir Lancelot Knight in Shining Armor" role, I disregarded her advice, heading toward the noise. Nearing the source of my concern, I saw two bigger thugs pounding the hell out of a much smaller boy.

I ran toward them, shouting at them, grabbed the nearest, popped him in the nose, dropping him like a sack of spuds, and lunged toward the other, thumping him in the gut and face. I turned to give the first one another jab and tripped over the boy they were mugging, sending me tumbling, rolling, flopping down a series of steps leading to a sub-ground entrance to the building. The next thing I remembered was waking up in the hospital; real pisser, right? Try to do some good and end up being the loser. My own damn clumsiness and alcohol inhibited body caused it, so I'd no one to blame but myself.

I dozed a bit until a nurse entered the room, checked me, but left me all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. It's so boring in the hospital during recovery you look forward to an enema. I didn't need one, but you get the point, so I decided to sleep again.

The next time I awakened, my bladder was about to overflow and I needed to use the bedpan, which meant calling for a nurse. Turning my head toward the call button clipped to my bed, I was confronted by a cute brown face staring at me with dark, black eyes, from a distance of less than two feet. In fact, the face was resting on hands supported by two elbows resting on my bed, for God's sake!

"Whoa," I snorted, "you surprised me!"

The handsome young man leaned back in his chair, affording me a much better view of him. He was Asian, perhaps five foot three inches or four, black eyes that sparkled, well-groomed black hair, glasses, slight to small build, and an overall weight of one hundred pounds or so -- on a good day, and not more than fourteen or fifteen years of age.

He smiled at me, a wide, happy smile, lifted his right hand and shyly wiggled two or three of his fingers cautiously at me, saying quietly, "Hi."

The guy was a cute little shit I had to admit! Hell, he was more than cute, he was beautiful, but jail bait, so thank you very much I don't do kids, not my cup of tea. Besides, I didn't really want to go to jail and be forced to bunk with someone who wanted to be my personal proctologist for twenty years to life.

I smiled back and said, "Hi" in return. We sat staring at each other until he finally said softly, "The nurses' station told me what room you were in, so I came up and have been waiting for you to wake up so I could say thanks for saving me from a real bad thumping last evening and I really wanted you to know how much I appreciated it so I called the officer that took my statement and he told me where they had taken you so I came down here and I didn't know how badly you were hurt until now and I'm really sorry..."

I held up my hand to shush him. Doesn't this boy breathe?

"Just slow down, kid, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. Do your folks know you're here?"

He nodded and before he could open up again with his verbal marathon, I quickly asked, "Now, my handsome young lad, what was a boy your age doing in that dark alley last evening?"

His bottom lip began to quiver, tears welling up in his dark eyes, those slim shoulders began to shake, and he leaned over the bed, placed his head on my good shoulder, clutched at me with both hands, and began to sob. For Christ's sake, what the hell brought this on? Was he somewhere he shouldn't have been, doing something he shouldn't have been doing, or what? Using my good left arm, I wrapped it around his lithe body, pulled him closer, then reached up, ran my fingers through his hair, and asked softly, "Starting with your name and your age, why don't you tell me what happened?" I figured he'd sneaked out of the house and his father found out when he was mugged. I'll bet he caught hell for it the way he was crying.

"My name is Steven Lee Mitchel and I'm not a `boy', I'm nineteen as of last June sixteenth and a sophomore here at the University, majoring in piano performance; it's just because I'm little you think I'm so young because everybody does even in the private school I attended then in the charter high school I went to and everybody picked on me and called me names and pushed me around and I thought it'd quit when I got to college and then last night those two bullies started in on me and I'm so fucking tired of it all."

Slowing down, he took a couple of deep breaths, preparing to start in again so I reached my hand around the back of his head, clasped it over his mouth, and said, "Shhh, Mitch. Just relax; nobody's going to hurt you while you're with me. I may be busted up some, but when I fart, it's deadly -- known to disable man or beast within thirty yards of me."

His head popped up, looked me in the eye, and feeling a grin beginning, I removed my hand, and he exclaimed, "No way!"

"Way!" I responded, causing him to laugh out loud; a nice laugh and full of life.

"Well," he said in a pondering, thoughtful manner, "you'll have to give me adequate notice so I'll not succumb to the noxious emission. One certainly wouldn't want to be gassed while being rescued, and my name is `Steven' not `Mitch'."

"Well, that may be what's on your birth certificate and that may be what your Momma calls you, but I prefer `Mitch', it's not as formal as `Steven' and, since I'm the rescuer and you're the rescued, I'll call you what I wish. Now, Mitch, why don't you tell me about yourself so we can get to know each other a bit better?"

He smiled, asking, "Can I scoot up here on the bed beside you?"

I patted the side of the bed, he ditched his trainers, and stretch out beside me, snuggling in as closely as he could.

"My Mom and Dad teach here at the University. Dad is a Professor of History and Mom is a Professor of Music -- Piano. Both are tenured, older, and I'm their only child. Mom is Chinese-American and Dad says he is `American Traveler'. So me, I'm a product of all of that, but tend to favor my mother in stature, color, height, and ethnicity. I really am nineteen years old and probably average size considering my race and the fact my parents aren't very tall or big. Ever since I can remember, I've loved the piano and began playing when I was four. I practice two to three hours per day and never tire of it. Oh, I'm also pretty good in math and science. How about you?"

I smiled at him, pleased I wouldn't be arrested as a pederast if some hospital employee stepped in my room and found Mitch in bed with me.

"My name is Colton Bernard Randal, `Cole' for short, twenty-eight years old, and ever since I can remember I liked fixing things, building, working with my hands, so after high school I attended MATC, took course work in construction, carpentry, electrical, plumbing, and others. I am self-employed as a `Mr. Fixit', plus, I buy older homes or foreclosed homes, fix them up, and either rent them out or sell them. I have a couple of student housing units, a couple of houses I rent out, and am in the process of completing transactions on a couple more, but that might go on hold due to my current condition."

I held up my hand again saying, "Let's stop a minute, Mitch. I really have to piss, so would you call one of the orderlies to get the urinal from the bathroom for me please? They'll have to help since it is a bit difficult to hold it in place with only one good arm and then still control my pecker."

He rolled off of my bed, stood, and replied, "No problem," then stood a moment, thinking, before continuing, "no need to bother them. I can do it for you." He skipped into the bathroom, returned with the metal urinal, walked straight to my bedside, and before I could say "unhand me you sweet thing," he reached under the sheet, lifted my hospital gown, and gently wrapped one very soft hand around my cock.

"Better watch it there, Mitch; my balls are a bit sore from last night."

He nodded knowingly, stating, "I'll bet it's from colliding with the stair railing," and using the other hand, separately cupped, massaged, and rolled between his fingers, first one and then the other of my family jewels.

"I don't think they're damaged beyond repair," he stated with a bit of a smirk. "You're a lot bigger than me, you know that?"

Trying to take my mind off of my dick in order to slow the pace of my growing erection, I said, "Yah, probably sixty pounds heavier and eight or ten inches taller."

"No," he pondered, "here," as he waggled my cock back and forth before he began to gently stroke it up and down, pulling the foreskin back and then sliding it up to cover the crown, fascinated by it.

"Mitch, you better stop jerkin' my gherkin or I'm going to spatter matter all over this bed," I moaned, barely able to control the sensations pulsing through my dick.

He blushed, smiling up at me, and responded, "Well, we wouldn't want that to happen right now, would we?" Stuffing my penis into the spout of the urinal was impetus enough for me to begin a very much needed release of pressure, but he didn't let go. No, he kept a soft, firm grip around the root of my stem with his very slender fingers.

After I finished, he slipped me back out, gave it a couple of slicks up and down, then took the urinal to the restroom, announcing on his way, "I'm not going to empty this since I'm certain the nurse will want to measure urine output to make certain everything is operating correctly." Even without measuring urine output, I was one hundred percent certain everything was operating properly, perhaps too well. As he returned to the chair by my bed, I saw him adjust his own crotch, so he must have sent a flare up also.

After a moment or two, I asked, "So, Mitch, when did the bullying begin?"

Mitch nodded thoughtfully, sorted his thoughts out, and decided he really did want to talk to me about it. "Well, about sixth grade or so, I think. Not really `bullying, you know like you hear of on television where kids beat on another, but more teasing -- calling me `sissy boy', `short ass', `peanut dick', and once in a while a push in the hall. In seventh and eighth grade it got a bit more physical. Some of the bigger boys would shove my books out of my hands, hold doors shut so I couldn't get in or out, name calling, and once, after physical education, they shoved me out into the hall in my undies. God, I could have died. My piano was my only real friend and was my relief and escape."

"Mom and Dad sent me to a charter school here in town rather than a regular high school. It was ok until eleventh grade when it really got bad."

Mitch paused, swallowed hard, blinked a couple of times trying to hold back his tears, and put his head down. I waited a moment, and quietly inquired, lifting his head by the chin, "What happened, Mitch, that was so bad?"

"I am not very good in sports, so no one really wants me on their team, except swimming, which we had once a week. The other two days we were in the gym or outside, depending on the weather. I hated those two days because we were expected to shower after class. I dreaded that and either ducked in first and got wet and dashed out or waited until last when no one else was in there."

"One day, I wasn't so lucky. It was spring and we'd been outside running. I was hanging back waiting for the showers to empty when the teacher came through the locker room. He's one of those macho, no-neck, redneck types and shouted at me to get my ass in the shower or he'd toss me in. I had no choice but to strip and get in to the shower room. There were probably six or eight big guys in there, so it was a bit crowded, but I tried to stay away from them, but that wouldn't happen. One of them began wagging his penis at me saying `want some of my hard salami sissy-boy?' and they all began shaking their dicks at me, laughing, stroking them, and I got a fucking hardon!"

"From then on I was called `fag,' `homo,' -- you name it- they called it. Boys pushed me down in the hallways, wrote shit on my locker, and vandalized my car -- that kind of crap."

I held up my hand (Mitch now knew this was the signal to shut up for a minute) asking him quietly, "Mitch, did you report this to the school and tell your parents?" I was really becoming concerned something tragic occurred.

"Yes and the school made a big effort in trying to shield me, punishing a couple of guys, so it let up some, but not entirely. They just made certain no one saw them and they didn't get caught. Mom and Dad were great, as always, and offered to transfer me to another school, but I told them no. One good thing, it gave me an opportunity to come out to my parents and discovered it was no surprise to them. They assured me it made no difference to them as long as I was happy with myself. When I graduated from high school, I enrolled here at the University and then this happened."

I held up my hand, he looked at me, waiting for me to speak. "Has the bullying continued while you've been enrolled at the University?"

Mitch's eyes widened with sudden realization. "No, it hasn't. Last night was the first time anyone laid a hand on me since high school."

"Did the two thugs make any sexist remarks or threats against you?"

Mitch thought some more before, furling his eyes brows, and answered, "No, but one kept trying to feel my ass while the other one pummeled me."

"Did either one of them fondle your genitals or attempt to pull your pants off?"

Again, he thought and replied, "No. The one who kept playing with my butt said a couple of times to the other one `he doesn't even have one'. I thought he was referring to the size of my dick. It's not as big as yours you know," and waggled his eyebrows.

Ignoring his last remark, I continued to press him with questions, "Mitch, do you ordinarily carry a billfold in your rear pocket?"

"Yes."

"Did you have it with you last night?"

"No, my driver's license and cash were in my front pocket in case I got ...," then, it hit him, harder than a Mack truck slamming into a brick wall, "Cole," he continued with amazement, "it was just a mugging! It had nothing to do with me being gay, but small. They thought I'd be an easy target."

Mitch smiled, giggled, then laughed aloud, reached over giving me a big hug, and kissed me on the lips. He drew back suddenly, red faced, a look of dismay on his face, and apologetically sighed, "I'm sorry Cole, I shouldn't have done that," and started to tear up again.

I smiled at him, waved him back closer to me, and said, "Nothing to be embarrassed about. I'm happy you like me enough to do that. Come here and I'll give you one back."

Mitch leaned over again, close to me, bringing his face close to mine, as I clasped my arm around him, securing him to me, and kissed him gently on the forehead. He closed his eyes, loosed a deep, longing, relaxed sigh, and rested his face against mine. He smelled of cologne, after shave, a slight musk or male smell, but with the freshness of a young man. It was a delightful odor, one that was his alone, a fragrance I could come to look forward to if I wasn't careful. I'd fall ass over tea cart in love with him if given half a chance, but there's the difference in age and cultural background to consider.

As he stepped back from the bed, a nurse entered the room and said kindly, "You'll have to leave while I check on our hero and give him some pain medication -- not orally either," and laughed.

"Hero, who's a hero?" I asked, incredulous she'd be referring to me.

"Why, you are, big boy," she exclaimed. "It's all over the news and in the paper how the knight in shining armor galloped to the rescue of a mugging victim in some back alley, saving a gifted musician from possible harm. The cops caught them, one with a broken nose and the other with a broken jaw, after they showed up in our emergency room downstairs. Not very bright boys, those two."

Turning toward Mitch, she smiled and said, "You're either a boyfriend, a brother, or the victim and I'm going to bet you're not a brother, right?"

Mitch blushed, put his head down, nodding the correctness of her assertions. God, he was so shy around others, I just couldn't believe it since he certainly hadn't been around me when he helped me with the urinal. He was so damned cute when he blushed and smiled.

"Did they give the victim's name?" I asked, concerned that it would draw undo attention to Mitch.

"No," she responded, "only yours. Said you were a self-employed carpenter, running a business named `The Fixerupper' with a byline of `Big or little, we do it all.' Kind of corny, but whatever floats your boat, I suppose."

Mitch giggled when he heard that, wiggled his eyebrows at me, and eyed my crotch.

Turning to him, the nurse ordered, "Shoo with you; you can come back in when I'm done, although he won't be awake very long, he needs his rest; not making google eyes at you all afternoon."

He left the room and the nurse plunged a hypodermic needle into my left arm. I informed her of the urinal in the bathroom, she checked it, made some notes, smiled, and left the room. Mitch immediately trotted back in and sat next to me. I grew drowsy and finally, hardly able to keep my eyes open, told him he'd best leave since I was going to sleep. As I slipped into darkness, I felt his soft warm hand lightly brush the hair back from the plaster patch covering the stitches on my head and his delicate lips softly kiss mine. His touch and kiss was comforting, soothing to the troubled mind, and reassuring.

I awakened, briefly, and found a note taped to my sleeve from Mitch telling me he had to practice and get ready for classes, but would see me tomorrow. I slept soundly throughout the rest of the night, the pain from my shoulder and ankle diminished by rest and pain killers. When I awakened in the morning, I desperately needed to use the urinal again and was reaching for the call button, when a smiling, giggling brown face peeked around the corner of the door saying, "Good, you're awake," and popped into my room with a half-dozen bouncy, happy steps.

Having him step up to my bed with that smile of his was better medicine than any the doctors could give me. The room, and my world, was illuminated with his sparkle, more than a sunrise ever could.

"I thought you had class?" I questioned, not disappointed he was here, but concerned he might be cutting just to see me.

"I do, but my first class is at nine, so I have time to give you a shave, a bit of a wash, and feed you your breakfast."

"And, what Nurse Mitch, makes you think I can't do all of that myself?"

Mitch snickered back at me. "You're right handed, so until you learn to become left-handed, which I doubt you will, you may as well sit back and enjoy my attention. Besides any guy that can't hold his own cock while pissing definitely needs some help, or just enjoys the attention."

He wasn't wrong on either count. He retrieved the urinal and, like the day before, put a firm grip around my growing pipe, slid back my foreskin, and stuffed my cock into the urinal. "God," he exclaimed, encircling me with his small hand, "you're ginormous; I can barely reach around," then jacked his hand up and down a couple of times. I think he really enjoys fondling me. I know I'm not going to object. "Just how big is it, anyway?"

I thought a moment, answering, "Oh, I suppose it's a little bigger than average is all."

"Yeah," he snorted, "for a pony farm or the land of giants."

I finished, he emptied the urinal, shaved me, and gave me a sponge bath- an allover type sponge bath. When he started scrubbing the princely prod, I had to coach him through the process since he hadn't washed an uncircumcised cock before. Once understood, he carefully slipped the foreskin back and gently washed all around the shaft and my crown, cleaning the smegma which formed. By the time he was done, I could've driven nails through two by fours without a hammer. When he dried me off, he wanked it a couple of times, smiled at me, and kissed me on the lips again. As he was combing my hair, an orderly walked in, smiled, and said, "Getting your boyfriend ready for the day?"

Mitch, grinned and responded, "Yeah, isn't he just gorgeous?"

The orderly grinned back saying, "He certainly is; you're a very lucky guy."

Mitch stayed until he helped me with my breakfast and then was off to class. The routine was the same for the next two days. On Thursday, the doctors told me I could go home on Friday, if the x-rays looked good. They'd put a walking cast on my ankle, but had to leave the shoulder strapped. I might need some help around the house, but I doubted it. I'd call John and Linda to have them pick me up and take me home. When I told Mitch about it, he announced, "Not to worry, I don't have classes on Friday, so I'll take you home. Any idea what time?"

I wagged my head from side to side, looking at the young man, my self-appointed guardian, the one who was stealing my heart, and I was unable or unwilling to prevent it. Previous to his mugging and my subsequent hospital stay, my life consisted of doing carpentry work, remodeling my properties, and handling my rentals. I had no one else to be responsible for, just me, and I thought I was doing very well, thank you very much.

Now, along comes Mitch; smart, extremely talented, caring, devoted, loving, and fucking cute besides. He was a mature cute for someone only nineteen years old, eight years younger than me. What could I offer him his parents couldn't? What would his future be with me, a carpenter? Hell, I could barely play the radio! Mitch was much smaller than me so I wondered if I would I hurt him if we ended up -- you know? There was so much to think about, I was in a quandary. There's no doubt where he was coming from; I could see it every time he looked at me. Mitch adored me, would sacrifice his life for me, but I would mine for his too. I couldn't have him give up his degree work or from achieving his goal. No, I'd come to love him too much for that to happen. I'd never had a boyfriend and Mitch appeared to be in the same boat. I had a lot to think about.

Mitch interrupted my thoughts, announcing, "I'll be here in the morning to get you ready, then we can leave once the docs discharge you," and bounded out the door. It was going to be a long night. Come morning, I might have to cut him loose and tell him to find someone else. The differences in age, educational background, and cultural levels were just too great. We had nothing in common, except, I loved him, more than life itself, if that were at all possible.

The next morning, Mitch arrived, bathed me, fed me breakfast, and informed me he brought some old sweat pants he thought would fit over my ankle cast. He swung my feet and legs around, slipped the pants over my legs, and scooted me forward, until his nose was almost jabbing into my prick, placed my hands on his shoulders, and eased the sweats up over my legs and ass. My resolve weakened at that point and decided to approach him with my problem another time. It's a good thing, since, once dressed, and sitting in a chair waiting for the doctors to release me, Mitch announced he was moving in with me while I recovered. Damn, this boy is organized and determined.

After picking up prescriptions, Mitch trundled me on home, unloaded my carcass, seated me in my favorite chair, and hustled about doing dishes, and making up the extra bed in my spare bedroom, while doing the laundry besides. Finally, when the house was organized the way he desired, he fixed us a light lunch. After lunch, I napped while he went home to practice and pack some clothes. He returned with supper for us, using the oven at home while he practiced. It was a delicious beef and pork stew awash with vegetables, spices, and thick, rich sauce. We watched a bit of television until I grew so tired it was difficult for me to stay awake. Mitch put me to bed and stayed up to do a few more things around the house. He was one busy lad!

During the dark of the night, when all is still, when your mind begins those strange journeys without your conscience will to prevent its course, when the unimaginable becomes imaginable, I was transported back to the alley watching the two thugs attacking Mitch. Except this time they weren't beating him; no, this time one held him down on the concrete pad and Mitch's pants were down around his ankles. His firm, brown ass was poking up, a target for one thug to fuck him while the other held him down. I shouted at them to stop, that he was mine and no one else's. I tried running to him but my casts hindered me, held me captive, while I heard him call my name time and time again, seeking rescue from this abomination.

I still heard him calling my name as I awakened with Mitch standing by my beside, shaking me, saying my name, trying to wake me. I panicked, seeing him in the half-light of my bedroom, fearful he'd been taken away from me and what was before me was only a dream.

"Cole," he said quietly, "wake up, you've been dreaming," while he gently wiped my hair from my forehead. "Bad, was it?"

"Yeah, we were back in the alley again."

"Cole, that's over now, all behind us," he said as he slid into bed with me, tucking his head under my left arm, resting on my shoulder, the nakedness of both of our bodies warm, touching against each other. Laying his left hand on my stomach just above my bush, twirling some of the few hairs on my stomach about his finger, he questioned, "Want to tell me about it?"

So, I did, concluding with, "Mitch, the guy was fucking you stupid and you were crying for me to help you and I couldn't stop him."

Mitch smiled, kissed me on the lips, patted me on the stomach, and snuggled in closer. "Cole, the only person who's ever going to fuck me stupid is you, and then not until you've recovered so you can give me a proper rogering."

The next morning, upon awakening, Mitch's left leg was draped across my groin, his left hand secured about my waist, and his head rested lightly on my shoulder. Making soft, little snoring sounds as he slept, he had a peaceful, satisfied look on his face, and, evidently dreaming just a bit since his stiff rod was slowly prodding my side with up and down motions. Hearing him breathe, holding him in my arm, smelling his special scent brought an end to my indecision; whatever it took to make him happy, protect him, and secure his future, I'd do. I could no more be separated from this man than I could an arm or leg. Mitch was mine and I was his for as long as he'd have me.

Thanksgiving at his parents was immensely enjoyable. Mitch entertained us after dinner with about an hour recital of classical and traditional holiday music on his mother's grand piano. He could coax every nuance, expression, every note from it as he caressed the keys with his nimble, fast, and oh so thin fingers. He was good and the apple of my eye. It must've been very evident to his folks, since his mother leaned over to me and said, "You're deeply in love with our son, aren't you?"

I could only nod in agreement. After the recital, while Mitch and his Dad were in the kitchen fixing drinks for us, his mother cast a furtive glance in that direction, asking, "When does he find out?"

"Next weekend," was my reply, quickly changing the subject when Mitch and his Dad returned to the living room.

Saturday morning, a week later, when the doorbell rang, Mitch trotted out to answer it. Hearing him shout, "Oh, my God! Cole, look what they're delivering," I smiled to myself. John and Linda enjoyed the conspiracy that Mitch's mother and I hatched, hauling me to the piano store while Mitch was at class one day. The piano dealer was delivering a baby grand piano today. The store employees maneuvered it into our living room and waited for the piano tuner to tune it properly, but once they left, Mitch headed for the piano to play. It was a relief for me, not that I really cared, but all he could do from the time they unloaded it until the time he sat down at the keyboard was to hug me and kiss me and thank me.

He played until I thought his fingers would wear out, but they didn't. Mitch's artistic rendering of each composition was a joy to hear, playing with deep passion and expression, with affinity for the composers desires as he rendered his interpretation to each piece. Each evening after that Sunday, I'd sit in my chair after supper and revel in the sounds Mitch could coax from that piano. I was almost convinced it was as much of a gift for me as for him. After listening for the better part of two hours, we'd retire to our bed, Mitch would snuggle up against me, toss his left leg over mine, kiss me gently on the lips, and we would say our `good nights.'

One morning when I awoke, instead of finding Mitch's head resting on my shoulder, I felt a warm, wet sensation on my cock, held in a firm grip by a hand, as a soft pair of lips nursed on it and a very active tongue danced around the head, teasing my slit while the other hand gently caressed and fondled my goolies. Laying my hand on his head, I groaned, "Mitch, I'm about to spill the custard, so you better pull back." I could feel him smile as he continued to wank me with one hand while suctioning me with his mouth. My balls tightened up, my cock started to swell, the head engorged, and I shot my wad, right down his willing throat. Mitch swallowed, surprising me since this was the first time we'd really become intimate. You couldn't become much more intimate than swallowing another guy's load.

He rose up, smiling, scooted to my face, planted his sweet lips on mine, thrust his tongue into my willing mouth and shared some of my own spunk with me. Our tongues wrestled, not for dominance but for the intense pleasure it gave each of us. Man, could he kiss and, I have to add now, suck cock.

"I've wanted to do that ever since I first picked that delicious sausage up in the hospital, but I was concerned you weren't well enough to stand the stress. Sorry I couldn't get it all in, but I did manage about half. You're big!"

"You did just fine," I replied, "now scoot up here a bit higher and let me give that horn of yours a bit of an `ah toot' and see if I can't make you sing as well as play."

He slid up my body, leveling his erect cock toward my waiting lips, sighed as I took him to the root, and began my melody of love on his skin flute. Rolling my tongue across his glans, pulling back to suckle each of his balls, lavishing them with my lips, returning to his shaft, causing him to moan and murmur in ecstasy, in anticipation of the jolt his nuts would deliver to his cock. As he began to thrust his hips, I quickly moistened the middle finger on my left hand and slowly, gently inserted it into his rosebud, sinking it to the last knuckle, and began to carefully, purposely massage his prostate. His hips began to quiver, his breathing became faster, balls tucked up tight into his crotch, his anal ring tightening around my finger, cockhead swelling as he whimpered softly, erotically, and spewed his sweet essence into my mouth, shoving forward until my nose nuzzled the soft bush about his root. I could feel his rod twitch, pulse, and throb as he looked down at me and exclaimed, "Awesome, just plain fucking awesome."

The day my casts and straps were removed was a great day for me, in more ways than one. The doctor said I might need some physical therapy in order to restore some lost function to the shoulder and the ankle, but the only physical therapy I was looking forward to involved a not injured but very stiff appendage on my body. My greatest fear was for Mitch, that I might somehow bring great pain to him. I wasn't certain if I'd fit where I wanted to fit and where he desired me to implant myself.

After dinner, Mitch serenaded me with some very soft, loving Chopin on the piano, readying me for the rest of the evening. Retiring to our bedroom, I stripped, crawled into bed, and watched Mitch disrobe. Naked, he was an Adonis to me, richly brown, smooth, soft, and fucking adorable. He was the most beautiful creature ever placed on this earth and I wanted him; wanted to seed him, anchor myself deeply into him, mate with him, and proclaim our union to the world.

Crawling into bed, stretching himself lengthwise over my body, resting his lips on mine, settling his balls on my bush, planted solidly with my rigid cock slipping up between his legs into his ass crack, he wiggled about, insuring he would slip no further down, anchored securely by human steel. His tongue, soft, sweet, moist, pushed into my mouth, dancing a cotillion around my tongue, while he swept across my ivories, tantalizing them as he would the white keys of the piano.

Releasing my mouth, he began to nuzzle my neck, caressing it with his mouth and nose, as I whispered softly, "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

"Every day," he murmured in reply.

Sliding my hands down his back, cupping the globes of his butt, I parted his cheeks, seeking access to the portal of my desire. Finding that tiny opening, I stroked it, felt it twitch in anticipation and pleasure, and looked into his eyes seeking his permission.

"Please," he giggled.

Reaching over to our night stand, Mitch produced a tube of lubricant, massaged my throbbing cock with a generous amount, and then himself, slipping as much into his anal passage as possible.

"I want to be on my back," he requested, "so I can see your face while we make love."

Gently, I rolled him over, opened and raised his legs, eyed my destination, slick with lube, twitching, small, as I said sadly, "Mitch, I don't think it's going to work- you're so small and I'm so big!"

"Don't worry, my love," he assured me, "take it slow and all will be well. Just stop when I ask you to so I can adjust to you being inside me."

I was still hesitant, fearful of hurting him, but his eyes pleaded with me, focused on mine, giving me his trust and strength. I slid back my foreskin, positioned the head of my cock at his entrance, and slowly began to push. The uncovered cock head popped past the guardian gate and I hesitated, fearful of pushing forward and injuring my beloved. He looked at me, eyes big, smiled, took a deep breath, and said, "Give me a second and then continue."

He nodded, giving his approval to proceed, and I began a long, slow, sensuous journey into the heart of my hearts. Mitch didn't stop me as my cock threaded into his bowels. He was so tight, warm, and soft; I could feel him contract and massage me, kneading me, tickling him, as we became one with the other. I felt my balls resting at the base of his stretched rosebud, realizing I was now fully sheathed, warm and throbbing inside him.

Looking at him, there was no sign he was in pain, in fact his eyes were closed and a smile decorated his lovely face. Tightening his ring around my inserted girth, he reached up, grasped me about my head, pulled my face to his, sighed deeply, lovingly, saying, "Cole, make love to me," and secured my face to his with his fragrant lips, steeling my hardness within him.

Pushing against me, I responded with slow, probing thrusts, pushing the head of my aroused cock over his prostate with each stroke, causing him to make soft little whimpers of pleasure, mewing his delight into my mouth, a special vocalization of the pleasure and his surrender to our passion. My life was complete in the arms of my petite lover, taking him and me to heights of passion that ended all too soon as I pumped back and forth. I felt my balls tighten, the pressure build, that journey of little soldiers beginning, as the head of my cock expanded, and I began spewing in strong spurts, semen into him, coating his bowels as he exploded his load onto our stomachs. With each pulse, each throb; we moaned the pleasure of our joint orgasm, clutching each other in an embrace cemented with the product of our love.

Remaining planted, hard within him, I rolled over onto my back, resting him on me, while we gently kissed and savored each other. Holding him to my chest, I quietly asked, "Didn't I hurt you? How could you take all of me without cries of pain?"

Mitch smiled at me, tickled my chin with a finger, and said, "I've been practicing."

Raising my head, scowling, I asked, "With whom?"

"Not, who, -it - silly!" he snickered.

"It?"

"Well," he continued, smiling slyly, "knowing what you wanted, knowing how small I am and what girth you have, I went to the adult book store and bought me one of those rubber dickie things -- about your size and length. Ta da - when you were all healed and ready, I was too and it was great. I can't wait until we do it again."

Neither could I, but before I could raise the flag again with any vigor, Mitch pulled himself off, gave me a quick kiss, went to the bathroom, and returned with a damp washcloth and cleaned us both up. "But," he said as he carefully washed me, "you need some rest and we have our entire lives to enjoy each other."

Mitch was right, and before he returned from the bathroom, I was sound asleep. Waking the next morning, spooning my body against his, cuddling his naked form closer with both of my arms about him, listening to his soft breaths of restful comfort, rubbing my face over his soft, dark hair, intoxicating myself with his scent, luxuriating in his smooth, lithe, delicate body, I was overwhelmed with my good fortune and how desperately I needed and loved him. This was the way I wished to wake each morning of my life.

**

Returning home, the concert tour over, Mitch resumed teaching at the University and I set about the task of remodeling a house we'd purchased for resale. Life was good, rich, and perfect for a carpenter and the piano man he loved.

***