Date: Tue, 19 Sep 2017 19:44:39 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Irmas Boys Chapter 1 (Adult-Friends)

This story as well as all characters, settings and events are pure fiction
that exist nowhere but these 'pages' and the imagination of the author. If
any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky
fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author
with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable (contact the author at
orson.cadell@gmail.com). Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty
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This involves sex or sexual situations between males above the age of
consent; if that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, fuck
off. Go watch TV (where far worse happens in every episode, but that's just
rapes, tortures and mass murders, nothing as terrible as, you know,
guy-sex). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs
are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use
protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual death.

Feedback is important to me, but if you get off on flaming people, please
know that you will HATE the results. I will read your missive and weave you
and your comments into my next story to the point that you cry like a
little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

*****

Irma's Boys 1: Meeting Mr Wizard

In case you don't know, Irma was a complete fucking bitch. She roared into
Florida like an unwanted aunt with halitosis, flatulence and a rabid
chihuahua. Even though she only spent a couple days at the house, her
impact was still making me fucking insane.

Irma dropped about a foot of rain, blew shingles off the roof, shredded the
shrubberies, and made a fucking hell of a lot of noise. But the thing that
was most-maddening wasn't *entirely* her fault. You see, I live in a place
called Dade City, served by an electric company that shall remain
useless. To avoid annoying them, I'll call them LEAKO. This is a company
that can't keep their power grid up with a truckload of Viagra. We lost
power when the winds were still a light breeze late on Sunday
afternoon. The last of her winds and rain tapered off late Monday, and this
morning, Tuesday, there was still no electricity.

"Why would anyone bitch about three *days* without power? Some winters in
[insert northern state here] we go for WEEKS without power." Yeah; sure; I
get it. The difference is that you can build a fire or use a gas heater or
put on more clothes. Hurricane season is the height of summer... in
Florida. So, over ninety (Fahrenheit, so low- to mid-thirties Celsius) in a
place that has standing water everywhere, so 99% humidity and a
lifetime-supply of mosquitoes? See the problem? I was already sitting
around nekkid; compared to heaters, there are no gas "coolers"; and unlike
fires, I've never found a way to build an "ice". Open too many windows or
doors that don't have screens and West Nile Virus, Zika and mosquito-borne
encephalitis have to fight over which got to kill you. I was sweating my
balls off.

Speaking of sweaty balls, my girlfriend had bugged out to her mom's house
in North Carolina, so the aforementioned, low-hanging appendages had not
been drained for over a week. You've heard about hot, hung and horny? That
is not sexy (or fun) when the first adjective is *literal*. And then... the
phone died.

Now I got the Sungsam Lagaxy phone because, among other features like
waterproofing and a great camera, it had this magic super-saver mode. You
could text and call but nothing else so battery life went on for, like,
days. Sadly, I'd switched to SuperSaver "like" days ago. I mourned the last
beep of my phone as much as I would the last heartbeat of a close friend.

I waved to the younger of the old guys next door who was also trying to
effect minor repairs. As it happened, we were each other's only neighbor
right now. To the other side of their very large home (and behind us both)
was a nature preserve and on the other side of my very small one was a
house that should have fallen down years ago and refused to do so. Even
more important, the rest of the cul de sac ran for the hills, often
literally in vacation homes nestled in the mountains of the Carolinas and
Tennessee.

There were two guys living next door. When my parents and I first bought
the house -- okay, let me explain that. My parents are what is called
"comfortable". Not rich, per se, just well off. Dad had built an automotive
parts company that fed two of the major American auto manufacturers, then
sold it just before the global fit hit the shan. They fronted me the money
to buy this home because it was near my school (St Leo) and they knew it
would make a great winter retreat when the weather was bad in both Bodega
Bay, California (main home), and Asheville, North Carolina (vacation
home). Since a nun would win the PowerBall lottery before both had bad
weather, I effectively owned the ultimate bachelor pad.

The 'Rents had planned to come to my 19th birthday party on a particular
Tuesday and I was seriously bummed when they cancelled. "Will, honey, you
know there's a hurricane coming, right?" Hurricane? Huh? I mean, sure, I
listen to podcasts that have, like, news. Concerts. Antifa Protests. Dump
Trump events. Important stuff. Anyways, hurricanes happened on coasts; I'm,
like, thirty miles from water, right?

So, back to the neighbors. I originally thought they were a son with a
father who'd sired him young (like around 16). They were both old, of
course. The younger of the two was easily, like, mid-thirties and the older
had to be in his late forties. The more I watched, the more it became clear
that they were a gay couple. I didn't mind; fags as neighbors worked
great. They were quiet as mice, didn't have screaming kids, kept a
beautiful home and had a couple little wiener dogs that never made
trouble. And they never bitched when I had the... occasional long-running
and raucous party, never called CSI when a girl was screaming her lungs out
as I gave her everything I had, and didn't complain about the smell of
"certain beneficial herbs" that might be smoked now and then.

When you're an 18-year-old partier, those are incredibly-important
qualifications in a next-house couple. Many things that might otherwise
have been... worrisome, well, they didn't matter as much. The fact that the
blinds on this side of their house were always closed *except* when I mowed
the lawn shirtless, for instance, or when I returned from a run and one or
the other was walking the nearly-legless dogs and his nostrils flared when
he got near enough to smell me. What might have been creepy became, well,
the price of freedom.

Then Irma the Ultimate Bitch came calling. What the rest of nature had
failed to accomplish -- the final demise of the dilapidated shack next
door, Irma finished in a matter of minutes. Sadly, all those little bits
then became shrapnel as the wind got them.

It was pretty unbelievable that a piece of wood could actually be driven
through the shingles and even plywood of the roof just from wind! I had a
caulk gun loaded with something called Loctite Concrete Sealant. Being the
'experienced' handyman that I was, I had no fucking clue if it would help,
but figured it couldn't hurt and slathered a big ole glob of the goo around
the holes before I nailed on a wood scrap. I mean, the phone's dead, right?
Who do I ask. The queers? Yeah, right! If they'd been lesbians, sure...

I was in the house fishing the last lukewarm Corona out of the tub of what
that had started out as a cooler full of ice and beer and sighed. I mean,
once I checked local news, I did plan ahead for the storm.  Straight to the
Beverage Castle drive-thru to buy a few cases of Corona and the rest of the
ice they had along with some of the other necessities: Cheetos, Slim Jims,
Doritos and bean dip, rolling papers. You know, the essentials. It's not my
fault I didn't have money left to top off the tank on the Jeep! You gotta
have priorities, man.

And the heat? Fuuuuuuuck. The hurricane had dropped the temps into the low
seventies. Bliss. But now the sun was back with a vengeance. I stripped to
the skin at first, but knew I had to get some repairs done. I rummaged
through my pile of clothes -- why have a dresser when a pile is so much
easier? -- until I found what should have been in the trash a year ago. It
was a pair of Nike Hypercool compression shorts that, due to an unfortunate
accident involving a psycho ex-girlfriend, had the side-seams shredded. I'd
just cut off the legs from below the crotch to the bottom of the hip.

Sure, they looked like somebody had painted an 80's pair of high-leg
running shorts onto my skin, but they were actually a little cooler than
nekkid and covered (well, if I didn't move much) the parts that cops would
object to. As for the move-too-much thing? I'm not horse-hung, but I've got
a respectable eight inches in the joystick. The big (and I mean 'large' as
well as 'major') problem was my nuts. I had a really loose sack and big ole
balls that loved to work their way out of leg holes. With the mutilated
Hypercools, they snuck out constantly and only a nice breeze would alert me
to the escape attempt.

I was sipping the long-neck when something tickled the back of my -- no,
gutter-mind, not my bull-balls -- my mind. The queer had been nailing up
his repairs with a.... with a nail gun! They had POWER! I looked over
excitedly and frowned. The lamppost out front and the lights over the
garage were dark, and they were always on. 'What gives?" I thought.

I snagged a (warm) six of Corona and tucked a fatty into the corner, not
knowing which vice would work best for gays. When they smoke a spliff, do
they hold their pinkie finger up? And do gay guys even drink beer? I
wouldn't know how to make a grasshopper or a lime daiquiri anyway, so it
was beer, weed or nothing.

I knocked and heard some muttering in the key of 'who the fuck could that
be?' One interesting side effect of a world suddenly without power is that
people get used to windows being closed and forget how well sound travels
when they're not. "Terry! Fuck! Where the fuck are my pants? You dressed?
Shit! No, no, I got it." ZZZZZZIP. "Fuck! Ouch! Ow-ow-ow."

The door opened and the guy I'd mentally dubbed Queer Number 1 was there
(slightly crouched in dick-zipped pain) wearing a pair of board shorts and
nothing else. The first thing that popped to mind was, "My god, I live next
to a hobbit with glasses." He was, well, I guess the polite term would be
"pleasantly plump". He was shorter than me, perhaps five-eight or
less. Dark, curly hair and lots of it, all over, including a goatee-thing
from the nineties -- no mustache or sideburns but six inches of
not-quite-redneck "beard" (of lack of a better term) from the chin
down. What struck me, though, were the very soft, kind, gold-green hazel
eyes. Nice-guy eyes.

He opened the screen door and gestured me inside. "Come on in. You'll get
eaten alive..." His voice trailed off on the last two words as his eyes
scanned down my body. "...um, by mosquitoes, I mean! Of course. They're
ferocious after a storm." I couldn't help but smile at the utterly-failed
save.

"I'm Orson. I don't think we've ever actually met. I did meet your parents
when you first moved in, though, Betty and Jack, right?" He stuck out his
hand and I shook it. Nice grip. I don't know why I was expecting a limp,
cold, slimy-fish handshake... I guess I was more prejudiced than I'd
thought.

"Damn, you've got a great memory! *Beth* and Jack, though. I'm Will. Will
Johnson." Just then, a very large guy, maybe six-one but certainly close to
three hundred pound (about split between muscle and padding) walked in. He
had a thick, almost-fluffy mustache and fly-away hair, along with a load of
silky fur, all in... hmm. How to describe the color? The best image I came
up with was pizzeria pepper flakes. A deep brownish-red with a liberal
sprinkling of faded, reddish-grey. I guess it would be salt-and-red-pepper?

He was in floppy exercise shorts and backless crocs. A very long, gold
chain around his neck held a small coin nestled in the fur of his chest and
a massive gold diving-style watch was on his wrist. "Hon, who was..." He
pulled up short and blinked, trying and failing to keep his eyes on mine
but unable to resist a quick up-down scope. I smiled more at that.

"Terry, meet Will Johnson. Will, this is my husband, Terrance Marchand;
please call him Terry. Good to meet you. How did you make out with Irma?"

"No power, but no real damage. Some of the shrapnel from the old place did
a number on the roof and I lost shingles, but nothing major. How about you?
Would you like a beer or maybe, um, do you guys smoke?"

The big red bear glowered a little but the little one grinned
crookedly. "Terry doesn't very often, but I've been known to partake. Why?
You holding?"

I back-translated the last part from "old people" to real English. "I have
a joint left. You wanna?"

"Not right yet, no. But thanks for the offer. Uh, would you maybe prefer a
COLD beer, Will?"

"Oh, God! You got cold ANYTHING I'm down, man! Thanks!"

Terry vanished and reappeared with a bottle the likes of which I'd never
seen. Brown-black, squat and thick with a label reading "Dirty Bastard" in
script. Terry handed me one and Orson another, keeping one for himself and
crossing his arms as he stood there. He was a wee bit intimidating, let me
tell ya. I held the frosty bottle to my forehead and moaned. I pulled it
back with a jerk when I heard the little guy chuckle. I took a long swallow
to hide the embarrassment. "S'okay, Will. It's hot as hell today. Hey,
would you like to take a dip in the pool? Great way to cool off!"

My voice was flat, but suffused with longing. "You have a pool?"

Terry snorted a laugh but Orson answered, "Yeah. You can't see it from your
place. Actually, no one can see it from any place, to be honest. It's why
we built the house the way we did. Come look." He moved past the bulk of
Terry who clearly was not impressed with his husband's nonchalance about a
stranger in the house.

The home was built like a large J, wrapping around two and a half sides of
a screen enclosure that faced the preserve. I was surprised and impressed
that the pool cage was only a little tattered from the storm. Long sliders
opened the house into the protected area so they got breezes that my
cottage kept at bay. It was, as Orson had hinted,
undeniably-private. Anyone who wanted to snoop on them would need to be on
excellent terms with the gators and snakes that jointly "owned" the
wetlands. The water looked... like God's own heaven. It was a huge pool,
easily the same footprint as my little bungalow. I sighed long and deep.

I licked my lips. "Um, so, like, you think I could swim, you know, if I got
my trunks?"

"No." Terry's voice was a bit of a growl and the surprise showed in my
face.

"What my rather-grouchy hubby means is that we, uh, don't allow suits in
the pool. The only things that get in the water are people and pets, and we
even take the collars off the dogs."

"Gotta keep the filters clean." Papa Bear gruffed in an accent I couldn't
place. Definitely deep south. Orson shot him a warning look; yep, these two
were long-married.

"Ignore his tone, Will. Mr Grumpy does not do well in the heat. The
generator can either work the refrigerators and freezer *or* the Master
bedroom AC unit, not both."

"G-G-G-Generator?"

"Let me guess. Cell phone died?" Terry intoned. The accent was lovely, a
blend of deep south, French and smoky bourbon.

I blushed, "Yeah. I have a backup charger but it, well, it's dead. I swore
I charged it, but nothing. So, um, you think I could...?"

Orson smiled. "Sure, kid. Go grab it." He stopped me as I started to
turn. "Tell you what, you want to join us for dinner?"

"Actually, I've got a freezer full of steaks that will go bad by this time
tomorrow. I'll bring them if that's okay?"

Orson smiled. "Excellent. And for your trouble, I'll introduce you to Mr
Wizard." The blank look on my face penetrated, "Sorry, Will. Really old
reference. Older than Terry even." Serious scowl from Papa Bear. "Think,
uh, Bill Nye the Science Guy, but from the fifties. Never mind. You'll like
it. I promise."

With that weirdness echoing, I made a beeline for the house, completely
forgetting to drop the beers. Then again, the rock-hard powerhouse "Dirty
Bastard" they'd given me made my Coronas look a little pathetic. I opened
the freezer and found that most of the beef was actually still frozen. I
dumped the water from the cooler and packed the still-frozen stuff plus
three huge bone-in ribeyes that were mostly thawed into it and I waddled
back over. Dad had taught me to buy meat in bulk, hence the well-stocked
freezer. Why wasn't I eating them? I had a really nice gas grill but, well,
hadn't really thought about the whole "propane" thing until it was too
late. Sigh.

I didn't knock so much as knee the door and Terry grunted me inside. I
followed him into what could only be called an industrial kitchen. His eyes
popped as I took the lid off the cooler. I had two very nice, four-bone
prime ribs, a dozen bacon-wrapped filets, an equal number of well-marbled
Delmonicos, some thick, heritage pork chops and four porterhouses so thick
they would make a Texan proud -- all still frozen solid and vacuum-packed
-- in addition to the three, massive bone-in ribeyes. Terry got everything
but the steaks for the night's dinner into the freezer without, like,
apparently opening it at all. I mean, I barely felt a cool breeze before
Papa Bear had the door closed again.

Orson walked in and whistled. "Damn, Will, that's some serious meat you got
there!" I caught a quickly-stifled snort from Terry and wondered at
it. Orson passed me another Dirty Bastard beer and said, "Come on. Let's
introduce you to Mr Wizard while the grill heats up." The grill, as it
turned out, was part of an outdoor kitchen next to the pool. Sitting on the
patio dining table was... well...

I'm gonna flub this; I know that. Think of a movie-mad-scientist lab. Okay,
now think of two fishbowl-beakers, upside down on a slab
of... something. One was half-filled with water with two glass tubes
sticking above the waterline, one J-shaped and diving back below the
surface. Inside the other beaker was a bong-bowl on a long copper stalk
with a similar copper pipe next to it. With me so far?

Okay, so Orson took the bong-bowl part off and packed a half-bud in the
cup. Fuck. I could see hairs as red as his husband's striping through it
and sparkling crystals of resin sharding the thing. He tucked it in
reverently and used a pair of tweezers to put a round metal disk on top,
then used the same tool to lay a piece of glowing charcoal on that,
replacing the fishbowl quickly. Suddenly, everything clicked. This was a
high-tech hookah!

Orson smiled at me. "Say hello to Mr Wizard!" He picked up a pipe-stem tube
and attached to the farthest glass nipple and sucked in
repeatedly. Suddenly, the water-side began to burble and smoke-filled
bubbles flowed through the water and broke the surface. Orson sucked one
more time until the air-portion of that bowl was heavy with smoke and
handed me the hookah stem.

I pulled slowly, expecting that powerful burn of new smoke and
felt... nothing! It was like pulling on an e-cig only without any warmth at
all. I filled my lungs with the cool, mellow smoke and handed the
mouthpiece back. Orson took a huge hit and handed it to Papa Bear -- his
name, Terry, had just slowly dissolved; he was such the perfect Papa Bear
that nothing else fit. I giggled, trying to decide whether that made Orson
Goldilocks, then choked and exhaled quickly. Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby
Bear lived in the house; Goldilocks was the stranger, ergo... me! Scary
thought, that.

I took a long pull on the cold and very, very strong beer, ending the can
entirely. The red mountain of a man took a short hit, snorted and exhaled,
following it with a swig of a cocktail I hadn't notice him bring out. He
passed me the hookah-stem and I took another long, luxurious hit and passed
it to Orson who just held it. I felt myself start to "swim" a little and
drank heavily from the icy beer in my hand before exhaling. Wait. I just
finished the beer? Where had the fresh one come from? Orson passed me the
pipe and I killed the rest of the bowl, relishing the sparks and pops I
could see as the last of the crystals flared.

He took the stem back and I watched as he sucked out the remaining smoke
from the water-bowl. I felt myself expanding and watched from the wetlands
edge as I grew to the size of Papa Bear, who sat smirking, both of us
dwarfing Orson who just smiled languidly. I stood behind myself as Orson
asked, "Will, you wanna get the steaks?" It took me a few minutes to
decipher that extremely complex question, but I floated up and moon-bounced
slowly into the kitchen. It's a right bitch to walk when gravity isn't
cooperating. Did you know that?

I slit the FoodSaver bags and dried the steaks with a paper towel. Terry
was there (which is weird since I could see him sitting at the table
watching) to point out the garlic-keeper, the pepper-grinder and the
salt-cellar with the kosher salt. I rubbed the steaks with the garlic and
got the right amount of pepper (not much) and salt (plenty) and carried the
sheet pan (sheet pan? Where d-d-did-d-d...? Fuck it; it's here now... here?
There? Whatever. It was someplace and I was, well, nearby I think) to the
grill where I found three ears of corn already roasting and charring,
coated with some luscious buttery goodness.

A big, deep voice -- God, perhaps? -- asked, "Medium rare?" I spoke very
well considering the slur, "Of courshhh!" I teleported to a chair where I
swayed and grinned at Orson (he was really cute in a Hundred Acre Wood
kinda way, ya know?) for a long, long, long time before, automagically, a
steak and an ear of wondrous Mexican street corn appeared before me. There
was also a tapato wrapped in tinfoil. Um, no, dat'sh not it. Tomato? No,
um, potapo? The white fluffy thing that's not rice? POTATO! With, like
butter and cheese and stuff. The three of us ate, all smiling (me stupidly,
Orson delightedly, Terry mysteriously) as we devoured the meal.

When I saw that all the dishes were -- POOF -- magically gone and a new
yum-yum-yummy Bastard Beer was in front of me, I suddenly noticed a side
effect of the p-p-p-p, um... Pat? No, platte? Plot? Port? 'Po' -something?
Um, posh? POT! Of the pot. A side effect of the POT. I was really, really
horny. I looked down and saw that both nuts had escaped from the mangled
Hypercools, each to its own side, and the pink head of My Favorite Friend
was peeking out of the waistband. "Will?" I heard for a long, long way
away. "You feel like a swim after dinner?"

<eof>

THANK YOU to the folks who helped me fix my screw-ups in this story. Stars
for this chapter were Daniel (wonderful as always), Zach (whose sense of
humour outshines even my own) the indispensable Jack (who'll be appearing
in another story soon).

Now on Tumblr: Bear Pup -- Beyond Nifty https://orsonbearpup.tumblr.com/ -
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
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