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The contents of this story are fictional.
Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental.
Certain characters engage in sexual acts which may or may not be legal
in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections
to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males who may not
have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state
or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read
Saturday, July 3, 1993
It was already getting chilly by the time we went back inside, the wine glasses long empty. We talked a little about our new "telephone," but not much. I mean, what can you say about something like this? Mostly, we talked about the garden, the clearing and how good it looked all plowed and fresh. We wondered where Mom and Dad might be, but avoided that topic as well.
We started dinner around eight-thirty. I boiled up half the tortellini, draining it and tossing it with a little cream and parsley, while Brad made a salad. We ate the tortellini before we cooked two of the veal chops in butter and sage, and drank a glass of wine with the main course. We didn't "talk" much, for some reason. But I could sense . . . feelings . . . that went through Brad's mind. I kept listening for the sound of Dad's Jeep. But I knew it wasn't coming. I knew.
"They're not coming tonight," Brad said eventually. "Must have been some trouble at the office."
"Come on, Loon," he said, holding me as I dried the last of the pots. "There's nothing to worry about."
"Okay," I said. He nuzzled my neck, and I turned into his arms, just letting him hold me, holding him back. "Let's have a fire." It was chilly again – downright cold, as a matter of fact.
We finished the KP and I poured the last of the wine, while Brad lit the fire. The flames cast a warm glow throughout the big room, and the heat was more than welcome. Brad fished out a book and started reading on the sofa in front of the fire, and I sat at the game table, fiddling with a jigsaw puzzle for a while. But it got lonely, so I went over and sat on the floor in front of him, leaning up against the sofa, my arm around his leg, staring into the fire. Every time he turned a page, I got an extra caress. His left hand stayed on my shoulder at the neck, just keeping in touch.
I could see the words as he read them. I'd already read it. Stephen King's latest.
I started to doze a little, the wine and the warmth of the fire lulling me to dreamland. I started when some bozo fired off a gun on the other side of the lake.
"Early fireworks," Brad murmured in my ear.
I turned my face up to him, and he was leaning down to meet my lips, his book forgotten.
"I love you," I said just as his lips met mine.
"Good thing," he said in my head. "I'm gonna rape you."
"Impossible," I thought back at him. "Can't rape the willing."
And the son of a bitch attacked me! I am super ticklish under my arms, and he just grabbed me, hoisted me up onto his lap, and started in on me! I went bonkers, naturally, peals of laughter bouncing back at us from every corner of the room. I fought back, getting him in his weak spot, the area just over his hips, and we tumbled off the sofa onto the floor, rolling around in paroxysms of laughter, tears streaming.
Suddenly, he grabbed my T-shirt and just ripped it off me, the fabric tearing with a "zipper" sound as he pulled it to shreds. My shorts ended up on the floor next to the fireplace, and his under the sofa. I tried to rip off his T-shirt as well, but he was too quick for me, and shrugged it off before I could do any damage.
We rolled on the floor, laughing hysterically, and then suddenly stopped, breathing like steam engines, as our lips found each other again, and we got down and very, very dirty. We ground our hips together, our dicks jabbing at each other, and suddenly he was on his feet, leaning over, and just picked me up like a small child, cradling me in his arms as he tried to reach my tonsils with his tongue.
I wriggled out of his arms, hollering `rape!' and ran for the bedroom, barely making it around the corner without falling. He was in hot pursuit, and caught me just as I reached the bed. We wrestled on the bed for a minute, neither yet ready to end the game, and I almost pinned him, but got distracted by his erection. He flipped me, got on top of me, and the game ended as he brought his lips to mine in another steamy kiss.
We were both dripping with sweat from the game, and our bodies slithered against each other, our sexes like pistons.
"Take me," I said between gasps. "Take me NOW!" I lifted my legs around his waist and drew him into me, just like that. No preliminaries, no gradual entry, I just impaled myself on him, his dick plunging past my ring.
Big mistake. I yowled with the pain, my muscles cramping around him, and he made to pull out, but I had him pinioned with my legs, and held him, trembling with the effort.
"Loon," he crooned. "Take it easy, love!"
But I wanted him so bad, I needed his loving so much! I pulled him farther into me, the hell with the pain, and he was all the way inside me, his eyes registering love and concern, and we just stayed like that for a minute or two as my insides got accustomed to his dick again. My dick went limp, completely, and I just lay back, catching my breath.
Suddenly, his lips left mine, and he was licking my chest, nibbling on my nipples, his teeth sending shivers to my toes, until he relented and his lips resumed wandering down my belly. His lips found my dick, his dick still inside me, and he sucked my softness into the warmth of his mouth, rolling the head around with his tongue, quickly bringing me back to full erection. It took no more than a minute, and I was fully hard again.
"Brad, I . . . "
"Shut up," he barked in my head, and he started sucking and fucking at the same time. The feeling was incredible, and I couldn't hold back. I figure it took no more than ten strokes, and I was jetting my seed into his wonderful mouth, my legs doing St. Vitus' dance around his upper body, my body one massive nerve ending.
"Oh, God!" I shouted with joy, and he just kept on sucking me, keeping me hard, not letting me off the hook so easily. He kept fucking me slowly, sucking me, fucking me, hitting my prostate without mercy, and bringing me back to the brink again in no more than two minutes.
I started to feel yet another orgasm approaching, impossibly quickly, and he speeded up with his fucking, rocking the whole bed as his dick sought a way to get even deeper inside me. Then it happened. My eyes were closed, and I could feel . . . his dick in my mouth as I fucked him, my dick impossibly sensitive, incredibly close, if only I can bring him off again just as I come inside him, Oh God, I love him so much, please let him enjoy this as much as me, let him feel my love, let him know how much I love, let him . . . and here I come, and here you come, too my love, your muscles clamping down on my dick just as I go over the edge, your seed spouting into my mouth just as mine is seeking your depths, my balls in your hand feel the loving, Oh my God, it almost hurts, it's so good . . . I love you Loon . . ."
Big time blackness overtook me.
"Loon?" his voice said. "Are you there?"
"You were . . .with me, weren't you?"
"I could feel you . . . me . . . fucking me and sucking me . . . you . . . at the same time."
His mouth found mine.
"I love you, Brad. I love you more than anybody but you can ever know."
"We were both of us, weren't we?"
"I think so."
"shhhh . . . "
"It scares me."
"I know." He maneuvered around so he was next to me, his dick still inside me, my right arm under his shoulders. "I couldn't make out if it was me making love to you or if it was you making love to me. It got all muddled. When we came, I . . . felt you inside me and me inside you, and your seed jetting into my mouth at the same time that I came into your mouth, and I couldn't . . . "
"Don't!" I almost shouted.
"Don't . . . think at me, Brad. Talk to me, Brad. I need your voice, I need to feel it, I need to . . . feel you vibrate when you say things to me . . . I . . . "
"Sorry, Loon," he whispered. He had to take his tongue out of my mouth to say it, but it felt . . . better, some how. "I can't get used to it, it's like . . . I have two mouths, one to make love to you, the other to talk to you, and I . . . can't always tell which one I'm using, sometimes."
"What did you hear when I . . . went under?"
"Nothing . . . just a jumble, like when you're asleep, sort of a static-like noise."
"That's more than I hear, anyway!" I giggled.
"But it doesn't . . . hurt?"
"NO!" I whispered hoarsely. "It's like I sorta run out of . . . gas, or something. I have this amazing . . . climax, and I'm right at the top of the roller coaster, and everything just goes black."
"Yeah, that's kinda what I . . . feel? . . . hear? . . . I'm not sure how to describe it."
"Do you think . . . there's something wrong with me?"
"I think we should talk to Doc Wright about it."
"I . . . I guess not." He stopped caressing me, and I wriggled into him a little more. "It would make . . . he'd get distracted."
"To say the least!" I giggled again.
"I'm going over to my bed, now."
"Why?" I panicked a little. Had I . . . done something?
"If Mom and Dad get here while we're asleep, it would look kinda funny, don'tcha think?"
"Yeah, but . . ." I knew they weren't coming. Not tonight, not tomorrow. But I couldn't say it, didn't dare even think it. "You know Dad doesn't drive at night late like this. They'll stay in a motel."
He gave me a funny look, then just said "Yeah." But he knew. He knew I thought they weren't . . . okay anymore. He stayed, holding me tighter than usual, until I drifted into a dream about flying over a mountaintop.
I woke a couple of times, first when he slipped away from me, then when he had a nightmare and stopped snorzing. I kissed his hand, still around my chest, and he gave me a gentle squeeze and went back under. I wondered what he was dreaming about, but only for a second, as sleep took me over again.
Some time during the early morning hours, I felt his erection between my cheeks again, probing gently, drooling. He wasn't awake, just snuggling in his sleep. I opened up and let him in, backing into him gently as he pushed forward, getting maybe half of him into me, and just lay there for a while listening to his breathing, the sounds of the night forest in the background, his dick still hard as iron, moving gradually deeper into me until I had it almost completely.
He roused a little from his dreams, and
mumbled "I love you, Loon," inside my head. I tried to think it
back to him, but I doubt he heard, as he drifted back into his dream almost
Sunday, July 4, 1993
The sun wasn't up yet when I heard a Jeep coming up the road towards the clearing. Brad was still inside me, half hard, and I pulled away from him with a gentle movement. I didn't fart, at least. The stretching of his dick woke him up.
"Where you going?" he whispered, reaching for me.
"A Jeep," I said as I pulled away. "Quick, do your bed!"
I grabbed at the pillows and threw a few onto his bed, as he came awake in a trice, jumped out of "our" bed onto the one that was "his" and pulled it apart. It wouldn't have fooled anybody who was really suspicious, of course, but Mom and Dad wouldn't have any idea . . .
I tried to put the bed back together a little. It looked like a rugby team had played a match on it.
"Wait!" I almost shouted.
"It's not them!"
"It's . . . " I saw a white Suburban, not a Jeep, in my head, coming up the road, not yet at the clearing, but near it. It had a bar of lights across the top. Flashing. A star on the door. "It's the cops!"
I looked at Brad and my heart sank. Something was seriously wrong. It wasn't Harry Turner coming up the road. I know the sound of his old rattletrap. It was the car I'd seen reflected in the window at Ed's yesterday. There were two guys in it.
"Oh, no!" I grabbed a pair of shorts.
"What, Loon?" he stopped and looked at me. "WHAT?"
I ran towards the porch, not quite getting them on, hobbling a little dance as I got my feet into them just inside the screened door. Shit! They were Brad's – too big to stay on. I had to hold them up with one hand as I pushed out the door.
The Suburban rocked over the ruts in the drive, moving too fast, the lights flashing. I watched in dread as it raced up the hill, screeching to a stop at the bottom of the path to the porch. Brad was right behind me. I felt the screen door open, and he ran out, a towel around his waist since I'd stolen his shorts. He thinks quick.
"Loon, is it . . .?" He stood next to me. I could feel his arm rub against mine.
"Wait! Don't say anthing!" was all I could say. I couldn't tell him. Mom and Dad were . . . gone. The cops didn't have to tell me.
Two big guys in tan uniforms got out of the wagon at the same time, looking every bit their part. Sunglasses, short hair, holsters with guns in them, top shape.
"You the Weston boys?" said the cop that had been driving, still only half way up the path. He had his hand on his belt, just above the gun, like he thought he might need it or something.
"Yeah!" said Brad, a little too quickly. "What's up?" "They know about the wine," he thought. "Something's happened to Mom and Dad? No. Speeding on the Freeway?" He didn't get it. Not yet.
The cop or sheriff didn't answer the question.
"I'm Officer Dave Arguelas," he said, "This is Officer Jerry White. We got here as soon as we could – left at six."
"Something wrong?" Brad asked nervously.
"How long you been out here?" The other cop pulled out a notebook and pen.
"All night," Brad said. I was content to let him do the talking.
"When you come up from Sacramento?"
"Tuesday," Brad said.
"Any way to verify that?"
"You can talk to our folks," Brad said. He didn't know.
"I'm afraid that isn't possible," the mouth under the silvered glasses spit out.
"I . . . " Brad started, but then it hit him, what was coming.
"There's no other way to say this, Son," he started. "Your parents were found last night at Barryessa near their vehicle. They were murdered."
I lost it. I just lost it. I leaned back a little and put my arms around my shoulders, and got this cold, numb feeling in my chest. Like after you run cross-country in a race. My – Brad's – shorts fell to my ankles. Fuck it, let `em laugh.
Brad put his arms around me, and I turned into his embrace, no tears spouting, but god, the heaving in my chest hurt.
"You knew, didn't you?" he asked as we trembled together.
"Yeah, I think so."
"We'll get through this together, Loon. I promise."
"Why Mom and Dad?" I cried silently. "They never hurt nobody. Never."
"We'll find that out, Loon. I promise."
The dams burst.
"Let it go, Loon. Let it go." Brad soothed in my head, even as tears came from his eyes in streams, falling on my shoulders as mine flowed down his chest. We said nothing out loud.
It must have taken five minutes for me to come round a little. I think it was the cold air on my ass. I thought of the cops standing there staring at my butt, and got embarrassed before I could think straight. I wiped my nose on my arm and wheeled down to grab Brad's shorts, holding them in front of me like I was a toreador waving a flag at a bull. My dick was a traitor – it was half-hard from being in Brad's arms. The cops had seen it, knew that I was . . . aroused from being in my brother's arms. Screw it.
"You, ah." Said the hispanic one, Arguelas. "You want to go in and put something on?"
"Damn right! A holster and gun, to blow away the guy that did it!" I half-hollered, half-blubbered. "Who did it?"
"I don't have that information," said Arguelas. He still had his sunglasses on, so I couldn't tell if he was being serious, mocking my nakedness, or bored. Funny, how you need to see a person's eyes to tell that.
I stumbled around Brad, into the Cabin to fetch a pair of shorts. I was operating on autopilot, mostly. I know I came out a minute later, but I can't remember the space of time between when I opened the screen and when I came back out. I couldn't see good for the tears.
" . . . and we've been here ever since." Brad was saying to the other cop, White or whatever. The cop was busy writing in his little notebook. Brad was red in the nose, his voice shaky. He wasn't . . .open to me.
"You may have to be able to show that's true," said Arguelas. "Just in case."
"In case what?" Brad said. "Assholes," he said at me.
"Family members are always the first people the detectives want to interview," the Cop said. "Best to have as much proof as you can the first time around. Sort of avoids problems later on."
"We've got all the receipts for the ice and the groceries and stuff," I piped in, unbidden.
The cop looked at me quickly, his gaze dropping to my neck for some reason.
I felt there – it was the neckband of my T-shirt, where Brad had ripped it off me.
"Sweatband," I improvised, pulling it up to the top of my head.
"Mmmm." He said by way of response. I knew he didn't believe that for a moment. He radiated disbelief, like an X-ray star.
"You boys need to get back home, pronto," said the cop taking notes. "You got transportation?"
"My car's in the barn," said Brad.
"Yessir," Brad said. I got a mental picture of him saluting like they do in the Army, and almost giggled. Christ, he could talk to me and send pictures?
"You send me a picture of a salute?"
"I got this picture in my head of you standing at attention in a uniform of some kind, saluting."
"Nah!" he beamed back. "You made that up."
"Didn't either!" I smiled back at him, through the tears. They were still flowing..
"You boys okay?" asked the First Cop, a funny expression on his face.
"Uh . . . yeah." Brad said, startled by the question. He'd forgotten that we were "talking" in our heads. The cops must have thought we were a bit loopy.
"Going to be all right to drive?" said Cop Two.
"Yeah, sure." Brad was a little testy.
"Just take it easy, son," said One. "You can't do anything by getting there twenty minutes faster, and I don't want to hear later you got busted on I-5 for speeding."
"Uh . . . right." Brad wasn't testy any more.
"Here's my card," said the hispanic one. "You have any problem getting home, or need any help I can give, you call that number, hear?"
"Sure," Brad said, leaning down to take it from the cop's outstretched hand. He hadn't even come up the steps.
"Okay." He said, and made to turn a little towards his partner, then turned back to us, looking right into my eyes. "You close up shop here and hightail it back home. I'll get Harry to check on the cabin later on to make sure it's buttoned up tight. Just go. Turn off the gas and water, lock the front door and leave the key over the doorsill." He looked back at Brad.
"Yessir," it was my turn to respond.
Then the cop turned for real, and said something like "let's hit it, Jer," to his sidekick, and they strutted back to the big Suburban, got in and turned round in the clearing, headed down the drive, and disappeared around the bend in a second or two. The whole thing took no more than twenty minutes.
I sidled into Brad's embrace as they went, not caring a whit if they watched through their mirrors.
"True?" Brad said softly. "They gone?" He was talking about Mom and Dad, not the cops.
"Yeah," I answered out loud.
"How long have you . . . known?" He was crying softly, just like me.
"I didn't know, really. But I . . . I knew they weren't coming last night. I . . . I saw the Suburban yesterday reflected in the mirror at Ed's, and I knew it wasn't really there. I got a . . . picture of some sort of the Jeep over on its side, at the bottom of a little grass hill, like I showed you." I blurted out. "But I didn't . . . know. Not `til now. Honest!"
Then I thought of the kitchen picture that had come into my head, and tried to think it at Brad. I don't know what I did, but it worked.
"Yeah, I see it. When is this?"
"I don't know."
"Let's go," he said. "Let's get cleaned up and go." He said it out loud, which I like better most of the time.
This sounds crazy, but we showered, dressed, made the beds – even washed up the kitchen a little – before closing up the cabin like Arguelas had said. I don't think either of us really wanted to go home. As if we could stay at the cabin and everything would somehow come out all right, Mom and Dad would get there, we could complain about losing our "independence," secretly glad that Mom's cooking would replace our own, Dad's organization and gardening brilliance relegate us to farm hand status.
I blubbered half the time. Brad did, too. The worst of it -- the worst, and I hate to say this -- I half-cried not for them, but for me, for Brad, for the fear of being alone, for not having the fresh bread, for not having Mom tell me to get my homework done before dinner, for not having Dad to cheer me at the baseball games and my swim meets, for not getting my hug at night, for the car Dad promised to help me buy and restore like Brad had, for . . . all the things that they did to make my life real. I felt . . . cheap, selfish, but that's what I felt, and it was awful.
It was worse -- Brad wouldn't look at me, wouldn't open up to me, just went and did the stuff we had to do, his face twisted in pain, alone. I wanted him to hold me, tell me everything would be all right, that we'd get through it together, but he just marched around doing things, like that was all that was important, and I went into a spiral of self-pity.
Brad was the first to come out of it. I was putting the dishes away in the cupboard, not really paying attention, and he came over to me and said "that's not where they go." He took the plates off the glasses shelf and moved them to the plate shelf. "We gotta do this . . . right."
"What the fuck do you mean! Right? Mom and Dad are dead, and you want me to fucking do it right? What the fuck's wrong with you?"
He just spun me around into him, and held me, and I felt him . . . inside me, cuddling me, wrapping me up in a blanket of love, and I just cried and cried, and told him how selfish I was, how awful I was, and my chest hurt, I cried so hard, and . . . I told him everything, how bad a person I was, how I never told Mom and Dad how much I really loved them, and now all I could think about was me, and I felt so fucking shitty for thinking about me and not them . . .
He didn't recoil, he didn't hate me, he didn't accuse. He just stayed there, solid, dependable love flowing around me, through me.
"It's all right, Loon. It's going to be all right. We'll always be together, don't worry. I'm here for you, just like you're here for me."
I knew it was true, and the hurt got . . . duller. "I love you, Brad. But I'm . . . scared, Brad. I'm so scared."
He just held me and told me he loved me, and I could feel the same things in him that I felt in me, and his fear, just as strong, but under control, and I told him the same things I wanted to hear from him, and we both floated back up to the surface sort of.
All this happened in a lot less time than it takes to tell. We went back into 'close-the-cabin' mode, feeling not good, but a lot better, and soon were out the door. But we were far from okay. I think we were operating on remote, batteries half-full. But we kept coming back to tell each other we would be alright, together.
I put the key over the doorjamb like the cop had meant when he said "sill," and we got into the `Maro with just our backpacks and the Cash Fund. It occurred to me that the key would do Harry no good - he didn't have the combination for the locks. We'd have to call him from Sacramento.
"Gotta eat something." I mumbled.
"Stop at gas station," Brad said as we pulled down the drive. I looked back through more tears at the Cabin, dressed for the homecoming that was now never going to take place, and wondered if I'd see it again.
"Of course we'll be back," he said in my head.
I shut him out and brooded until we got to the gas station down in Burney. He used his credit card in the pump to top the `Maro up, and I went in and bought some cello-wrapped imitation bearclaws and two cartons of milk for breakfast. He only need ten gallons, so he was ready to roll when I came out of the shop.
We gulped the milk before we got to I-5. I ate part of the pastry, but it was too much like eating soggy cardboard, so mine went back into the bag. Brad ate all of his. Pig. My hand was drawn to his leg, where it rested for the rest of the trip. Fuck the trucks and buses, the pickups and SUVs. I didn't want to be alone on the right side of the car. I needed . . . connection, but physical.
We didn't say a word the whole way, except when Brad told me he loved me a few times in my head, and I said it back to him, too. I don't think we even played the radio.