This is my second story on Nifty.

In this chapter sex will be more prominent than it has been up to now. It is still a story of love, love that is frowned upon by closed minds. But love will never abide by religion or by law. Love is the ultimate anarchist. The term "sin" is meaningless in love's language, as is the term "underage".

If you disagree with this statement, go find another story to read.

If you should happen to like my story, please tell me. winterboy69@yahoo.com

And please remember:  http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

 

 

 

 

THE SOUND OF HIS FOOTSTEPS

Magnus Winter

 

 

 

CHAPTER 4

Tromsų 1982

 

 

They both knew this couldn't come out. The good thing, the beauty of it, was that the secrecy, the forbidden stolen moments, bonded them even closer together. Even if Sander's inside sparkled and glowed, even if he really yearned to be able to call out his new-found love to the world, at least take Thomas out to eat, to the movies, go dancing, hold his hand running through the streets, it was the exclusion of the world that made their time together so golden, so holy, so totally their own.

He gave Thomas the key to his flat. He came when he was able to, mainly when his mother worked late shifts at the hospital. School and all their daily duties only seemed to amplify the preciousness of their hidden moments. Every word, every touch, every gesture grew heavy with meaning, became treasures that Sander buried in his heart and carried with him out from the house, out in alien country, out among the enemies.

Sander discovered his language lacked words. Making love to Thomas, well, the words didn't cover what he felt. Have sex, too clinical. Fuck, to narrow. Make love, too nice. Passion, to literary. Obsession, too diagnostic. Where was the word that contained all of these? Making love to Thomas, he had to make do with those words, was a chaos of new feelings, new insight. He was entangled in a mix of tenderness, of exaltation, of desperation, of brutal, animal lust. He was a master, and he was a child. And every single minute he was painfully aware of how fragile their love was, how easily it could break, be crushed to dust, wash away like sand.

Face. Skin. Those were always the main turn-ons for Sander. A penis was a penis, never unimportant, sometimes even central, but it was the face and the skin of a man that up until now had tipped the scale of his lust. But with Thomas, there was no way of explaining how unsettlingly bewitched he became with this body part. He had never thought of a penis in terms of beauty, only in terms of function, level of excitement, and well, sometimes size. Thomas had the most beautiful cock he had ever seen. His words failed him again; had he found the right word, he'd have written poems about Thomas' dick, cock, penis, member, whatever. Had he found the right word, he felt he could've cast the spell that would make Thomas stay with him forever. That first time had been a revelation to him: He had carried Thomas to his bed, laid him down, and had rested his head between Thomas' thighs and taken that long magnificent limp cock in between his lips, felt it lazily grow in his mouth, into his throat, fill him as no one had ever filled him. And he had known that this was his place, this was his purpose. This he could never be without.

Thomas' body. That pure and clean skin, so silky and firm, pale olive. The sparse black hair in his armpits and above his cock. The bruises that had turned from purple to yellow, the two birthmarks at the small of his back and one at his collarbone . The slender neck, the bony, wide shoulders, the flat, hairless chest with the big brown nipples, the concave stomach. Those long legs, those coltish knees, that heart-rendering furrow where his thighs met with his groin. Those touchingly beautiful feet. Sander could never get his fill from looking at him, he was so deeply moved, his whole inside went soft, he could weep from the sight of him. And every minute he spent touching, feeling, kissing, and smelling that body, he would ache from wanting to lose himself completely, erase time, disappear into eternity.

Thomas was such a quiet lover. Even when his body shivered and shook, when he jerked and pulsated and shot his sperm like from a gun, the only sounds that escaped him were almost inaudible gasps. Nevertheless, to Sander, making love to him seemed almost deafening. He was so completely unreserved, his pleasure so all-consuming, his love so unrestrained. Making love to him was making love to honesty itself. Making love to him was bottomless, like a jar of honey that never gets completely empty, no matter how much you try to scrape out of it.

 

 

 

Tromsų 1982

 

Thomas sat crouching in his corner. In the next room his mother was ranting and raving about his refusal to attend the evening service, even though he was supposed to sing with the choir. He had claimed a sore throat, which was a lie, he just couldn't face the congregation, couldn't face God. He was torn to pieces between his love, his lust, and the paralyzing suspicion that he was on the road to hell. Listening to the irate voice pouring insults through his door, his head felt like exploding. Like a shot he got up, ran into the hall where his mother was putting on her coat, ready to go as she scolded him, and shouted at her:

"Stop yelling at me! Why can't you for once just try to understand? Why do you always have to be such a bitch?"

His mother stopped abruptly. Stepped forward and slapped his face. Hard. Her voice sounded disgusted, but also like she'd given up.

"Go to your room."

He bolted back to his room, threw himself on his bed and listened for the door to slam. Then his sobs started, and soon his whole body shook with rage, with fear, with pain. He screamed into his pillow.

His crying subsided. He felt hollow and lost. He started to pray. Prayed that God would take away his anger and his confusion, prayed that God would change him, take away his sinful feelings, free him from this anguish, prayed that God would give him a sign if his love was as wrong as they told him, prayed that God would give him some peace.

He got his little black book out.

 

WHAT HAVE I DONE?? If it's so wrong, why then God can't you cure me when I ask you to? Why do you make me suffer always, always ,always, my whole life?

AM I DOOMED?

I want to be with him. I want more, more, more. Help me Jesus.

WHY DOES IT HAVE TO HURT SO MUCH?

I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM

 

________________________________________________________________

 

 

Sander → → Diary 2018

I do not know the reason. I do not know the means. I do know the outcome. Could be someone put a spell on me. Could be bad karma. What's the difference, I ask. I just know every single thing I touch breaks, burns, disappears. Where is my guardian angel?

Did someone forget to recharge my patron saint?

 

________________________________________________________________

 

 

Tromsų 1982

 

Oh, those leisurely hours. Those moments that stretched out in sedate contentment. Sander had thought their time together would be marked by hurry and impatience, but it wasn't so. The winter darkness that steadily grew and enveloped them, snow that fell gently outside the window, the lights from the city through the open curtains casting a glow over Thomas' body, painting the details in relief. Sitting halfway up in bed, naked, Thomas between Sander's legs, Sander's arms around him.

"What's the first thing you remember?"

Thomas closed his eyes and contemplated the question.

"It's a bit like a snapshot. Sun pouring down on the asphalt street and on black, peeling metal. The back rack on my dad's bike. I'm eating a tomato. Mum said it was an apple, but she wasn't there, and I know it was a tomato. And then ploff! a blinding flash. I don't remember any sound, or pain. I just know I fell off the bike and my head hit the street. And then there was a smell of soap and beer and dirty clothes. The smell of dad. But that could be from later. I was always a little afraid of that smell. It's why I have this scar. I was 2 when it happened."

He took Sander' hand and put it to the back of his head. A long groove and a ridge ran from the crown and halfway down to his neck.

"What's yours?

Sander needed no time to think.

"I believe I was three, we were out building snowmen. I wanted mine to have legs, so I took off my oil skin trousers and made a lot of little snowballs that I stuffed into the legs. I couldn't understand why my snowman kept falling over. I tried several times, and I remember I got so frustrated, so furious, and I felt like I had failed. No one have told me about this, so I know this is my memory, and mine only. And I have often thought that this is symptomatical for me. When I really want something, it usually goes to hell."

 

"Please don't say that!"

Thomas spun round, hugged Sander tight and hard. But suddenly they both sat staring into an open, dark and dangerous abyss.

 

Another afternoon: Thomas rested his head against Sander's shoulder, his thigh slung over Sander's. Sander bent his head and kissed his forehead. Thomas' index finger slid along Sander's nose.

"Sveen, Sir!"

Sander had to laugh. "That's a bit formal. I do have a first name."

"I know. But in my head, you're Sveen. In my fantasies, too."

 

"In my head, you're the boy in the hallway. And every day I sit here listening, waiting to hear your footsteps up the stairs."

Thomas unexpectedly started to sing:

"I will listen for the sound of his footsteps,

The hour of redemption is near ..."

 

"What was that?"

 

"It's a song from church. We sing it a lot."

He softly sang the whole chorus, pitch perfect, his voice had a hauntingly beautiful timbre. Sander hadn't heard him sing before, he felt a door open, he felt he was taken even deeper into Thomas.

"Boy in the hallway", he whispered and let his tongue touch the corner of Thomas' mouth.

 

"Sveen, Sir."

 

______________________________________________________________

 

Tromsų 1982

 

Thomas sat in the school library, hidden behind his satchel, writing a poem in his little black book:

 

He waits for me

He listens to me

He sees me

Sees me

 

I see him with eyes closed

I see him with eyes open

 

If he wants me he can have me

My body

My heart

My life

For eternity

But I can't tell him, he suddenly thought, and his mind opened up to another aspect of the fear that seemed always to live in him. He thinks I'm 16. If I tell him I'm only 15, he'll shun me. Abandon me. He picks up his pen again.

 

They call me a fruit. All right, so I`ll be an orange. Thick, thick peel to protect and hold the inside that is so soft and both sweet and sour, and very, very good for you.

 

________________________________________________________________

 

Tromsų 1982

 

Sander steadily discovered new sides to Thomas. He was such an odd medley of well-founded observations and reflections, and pure childish nonsense. So complex: Full of warmth and affection that he poured over Sander like syrup, penetrating into Sander's mouth and ears, putting a blanket over his brain until his body and his mind became weak-willed and languorous. Then cold anguish and self-contempt, confusion and fear that congealed his caresses and turned his words into porridge, like there were pebbles in his mouth, and the words were to heavy to get out. And Sander's blood would freeze in his veins.

And unpredictable leaps of thought with no smooth transitions:

Moan. "Oh, I love it when you touch me there." Stretching like a cat in the sun. " I think people are being unfair to the Pharisees."

Sander must have gaped, because he suddenly had three of Thomas' fingers in his mouth. He bit.

"Ouch! Don't!"

Sander's fingers continued their caressing strokes from Thomas' armpit down to his nipple. "Why the Pharisees?"

"Just because yesterday at choir practice ... The leader always gives a talk, you know. So he went on and on about how we should take care not to become like the Pharisees. You know, haughty and self-righteous and all that."

Sander teased his nipple, causing Thomas to purr and squirm, but he wouldn't leave his musings.

"And I had to laugh, because if there's someone who's like a Pharisee, it's him. Oh, they're almost all of them like that. The congregation, I mean. Holier than thou."

Sander's hand moved south, stroked his flat stomach, tickled his navel.

"But what if the Pharisees just tried to be the way they thought God wanted them to be? To do everything by the book and stuff, because they loved God?"

Sander moved further down, softly pulling at his soft pubic hairs, circling the base of his half hard, lovely cock.

"Why do we always need to put the black on others? Just to feel more righteous, more holy? And kill each other because we don't like the way other people think? We should be like bonobos!"

Sander laughed. Tickled Thomas' balls, closed his hand around them and watched his cock grow and rise up along his belly, like it wanted to enter his navel.

"Bet you'd like that, you hormone bomb! Don't you think they have conflicts?"

Thomas arched his back. "Sure. But they have a better way of solving them."

Suddenly he jumped out of bed, hauled Sander up with him and started a sword fight with their erections. Then lifted his arms above his head and called out:

"I won! Mine's the longest!"

He threw him self back on the bed, tittering and laughing. Sander crawled slowly over and laid down, halfway covering him. Thomas turned his head and kissed Sander's cheek.

"All problems solved by sex?" Sander murmured. "Think world politics!"

Thomas sniggered. Then got serious again.

"What if people could stop this stupid need to define everything. You and me, for instance. Really, we're just you and me, but the world has to put a label on us and put us in a drawer, Evaluate us. Or judge us. Age. Dominance. Man slash boy, not human being slash human being. Don't look so thunderstruck, I didn't think this out by myself. It's something I read."

"You are a remarkable and wondrous creature, Thomas, did you know that?"

Thomas quieted down, rolled over on his stomach. Sander stroked his back, slowly and softly, relishing the landscape of his body.

"Sander?"

Sander held his hand still. "Mmm?"

"Why have you never tried to ... asked to fuck me?"

Sander was astounded. He had never thought this would be an issue for Thomas. Again he felt he had underestimated him.

"Maybe because it can hurt a lot, and I don't ever want to hurt you, if I can help it. I don't have all that much experience with it either, it was never important to me. Any particular reason why you ask?"

"No, not really. Just the myth of what two guys do together, I guess. What everybody seems to imagine we do. But thanks for never trying to push me into anything."

His lips closed over Sander's, his tongue sought entrance. A flash of white panic shot through Sander's brain. Oh God, don't take this away from me! Let this last forever, remove me from the time line! Let this be the only existing thing in the universe!

 

Tromsų, August 1989

 

Sander calls their old school from the airport, he's put through to the headmaster's office. Fred's staccato voice says hi and hello. Sander feels himself go tense from anticipation.

"I got a flight this morning. I'm leaving in 20 minutes. Did you find anything for me? Please say you did!"

 

" I sure did. Got a pen?"

Sander fumbles through his pockets. "Yeah, I got one. So?"

"The father's name is Jan Ola Braathen, double a's. No address, but try the Hamar phone book if you can get at one. And good luck, you may need it.

 

"Oh hell, Fred, I don't know how to thank you. I really love you."

 

"No, you don't", Fred laughs. "Nice try, though. Take care, Sander."

Sander goes through the gate, feeling strangely awake, almost exhilarated. He will find him! He feels purposeful, strong, ready to win. Almost 7 years, he thinks, is not really that much. He can't have forgotten, can he? He can't!

 

Tromsų 1982

 

Sander entered the kitchen, and there was Thomas squatting, picking up shards of glass. He looked up, terrified. His words gushed from him, like a storm, like a fever.

"I didn't mean to! Please don't be mad! It was an accident, it wasn't on purpose! Please!"

Sander, who had been to the bathroom, hadn't even heard the glass smash against the floor. He was taken aback by Thomas' reaction. What kind of trauma was stuck inside him, what kind of childhood lay under this anxiety, this fear, so out of proportion to the mishap?

"Thomas, man, it's just a glass! There are several more of them in the cupboard, it's not a disaster!"

There was still terror in Thomas' eyes, his voice was at breaking point.

"I didn't mean to! I'll pay for it!"

Sander went to him, bent down and lifted his chin, signaled for him to get up. Wrapped him in his arms, held him hard, wanting to stay the tremors in his body. Murmured in his ear: "Thomas, please. Forget it."

Thomas hid his face against Sander's shirt, and started to cry. His whole body seemed to shake uncontrollably, his sobs resounded in the room. What the fuck, Sander thought, hasn't anybody ever been nice to this boy? Have they never just loved him? He rocked Thomas in his arms. Have they all just wanted to destroy him?

 

They were in bed, drowsy and spent, sticky from their fluids. Sander licked Thomas belly clean, lifted his cock up to his lips, and asked Thomas if he was on a diet of roses. Thomas didn't get it.

"Your cum. It tastes different. Softer. Less salty, more flowers than Camembert."

Thomas got a bothered and embarrassed air about him.

"I haven't tasted other people's cum. Only yours. And I don't like it."

Sander had to laugh at his discomfort.

"That's fine, Thomas, don't worry. Do you think it's gross that I like yours?

Pause for thought.

"Shouldn't God have killed us now? Like Onan? For spilling our seed to the ground?" He sat up in bed, fingering his scar.

 

"If we were Jews, maybe. But isn't that the whole Christian point of Jesus? That the old Mosaic laws were sort of laid dead?"

Something pensive and slightly ominous came over his face, a worried frown appeared on his brow. His words came out thick and slow at first, then sped up and became sharper, like the soundtrack building up to a peak in the plot of a movie.

"When I'm here with you ... everything is just ... good. The best. I don't feel like I'm doing anything wrong. Not even when ... when we're through ... you know, when the regrets and the ... well, sorrow is supposed to come? Post something, you know?"

"Post-coital tristesse."

 

"Yeah. It doesn't hit me when I'm with you. But then ... when I'm on my way home something bad starts inside me ... I get really frightened. That I've done something unforgiveable, something fatal. And it gets stronger the closer I get to home. Sometimes I'm in panic when I arrive, I have to go to the bathroom and throw up to calm myself. And I go to my room and pray to God to change me, to ... make me well, cure me, I pray and I pray and I pray. And then when mum comes home, I can't even look at her, because I'm sure she can tell what I've done, and my panic gets worse. And I hide under my duvet and cry myself to sleep."

He exhaled like he was getting rid of the image of himself.

"And the next day everything changes, and I start longing for you, longing for mum to be on a late shift so I can see you again, and then I can't stop thinking about you ... you fill up my head completely. And sometimes I even think that God isn't so harsh and strict after all, maybe he allows me to feel the way I do. But I suppose that's just self-consolation, or a way to justify that all I want is to be with you and make love with you."

 

"Oh, Thomas. I wish I had a magic wand." Sander swung two fingers over Thomas' head. "Ding! All bad thoughts gone!"

Sander could see from his face that he didn't feel like joking. That he wanted to be taken seriously.

"But listen, I don't think it's God that gives you this anguish, these difficult feelings, it's people. Narrowminded, judgmental and stupid people. God can't be that petty, that malicious, what kind of a god would that be?"

 

"But you don't believe in God, so how can you know what he's like?"

 

"Well, there's a myriad of different religions and denominations, and they all disagree, and why should this Pentecostal pack of blockheads, I'm sorry, Thomas, but why should they be the only ones who know God?"

Thomas didn't look at all happy.

"But ... It's all I know! It's the only thing I ever belonged to! I can't let go of it just like that. Then I have nothing!"

 

"Thomas, please. I don't want to take your faith away." Sander grabbed him by his neck and pulled him to his chest. "I just don't want you to think that God sees you and what you feel as something that's wrong, something that needs mending. And there are lots of Christian people who think differently than they do in your congregation. Just think about this: You said you pray and pray to God to take away your lust, change the way you feel. Well, have your feelings changed?"

 

"No. They haven't."

 

"If I remember rightly, there is a passage in the Bible, in John, I think, that says that whatever you ask in his name shall be given to you? No ifs and buts about it, it's unconditional, right?"

 

"I think so."

 

" Doesn't that sort of give you two options? On one side: My feelings stay the same. Then this is a lie, and I can't trust this book. On the other side: My feelings stay the same. That's because they are just as they should be in the eyes of God. Now, I have gone with the first option. Maybe you should go with the second?"

Thomas crawled even closer, wriggled himself into Sander's arms, rubbed his nose against Sander's.

"I want to be with you", he whispered. "I want to be with you."

 

 

So much of Thomas' frame of reference was tied to religion in one way or another, and sooner or later God crept into any topic of conversation between the two of them. Like one afternoon, in the small kitchen, Sander frying eggs and Thomas buttering slices of bread. Thomas lifted his head:

"What's your family like?"

 

"If you mean the closest family, pretty small. An older brother and my mother. My father died when I was eight. Why?"

 

"I mean, are they nice? Do they like you? Do you get to be ... who you are with them?"

 

"You mean, do they accept that I'm gay, right? My mother is fine with it. My brother sort of avoids it, I don't think he's all at ease with it. We used to be very close when we were kids. How about your family? You being Christians and all?"

Thomas dropped the butter knife he had been waving around.

"It's just mum and me. Dad sort of vanished when I was five. I think mum threw him out. I remember him being drunk a lot. Probably the only way he could stand being with mum. I only saw him a couple of times after he left."

 

"Is she hard on you, your mother?"

Something dark and unsettling crept across Thomas' face. He took a few steps off, out of Sander's reach.

"She'll kill me if she finds out about us. Maybe because then the others will see that she has a son who's not as he should be. And that would scar her reputation, or something. Make her appear less perfect."

Sander wanted him in his arms, wanted to wipe away that sinister face, blow away the darkness.

"One tends to think that parents are less understanding than they really are. Most parents want their children to be happy, when it comes down to it. Even though it sometimes may take time before they come to terms with what that can mean."

 

"You don't know my mother! She's hard as nails! She makes everyone feel small and worthless. She lets everyone know when they fail to come up to her standard, according to some Bible verse or other. And it's all so negative, it's all about what you can't do, what you do wrong."

His cheeks were flushed, his hands eager and restless. Sander slid the eggs from the pan onto the bread while he went on.

"Sounds like I don't like her much, doesn't it? But she's the only one I've got, and in a way I'm fond of her. I just wish she could be more happy, more pleased. Pleased with me. The way I am. But they're like her, a lot of the people in church. Always looking for someone to look down on, so they feel they're better than others. Never much talk of love thy neighbor. If there's any talk of love, it's the abstract kind of love from Jesus or God, or equally abstract love between married people. They've made up their minds what love should look like. Maybe I'm talking bullshit."

Sander removed the distance between them, sniffed in the fragrance of Thomas' hair, then his neck. This is the way love smells, he thought.

"No, you're not. Listen, this is a little bit trite and hackneyed, but if there's a god, and I don't believe there is one, but if, and he or she has made me, then I'm the way I am because I was meant to be that way. Gods don't make mistakes."

 

"Yeah, I've heard that before. But that's not what they teach."

He suddenly looks up, a smile clears his face.

"I'm pretty sure God was in a good mood when he made you. I think he said to himself: "Now I'm going to make the most handsome man in the world."

He blushed a dark red from his admittance. Sander hugged him even tighter.

"I think he said: "Okay, nice try. But now for perfection." And then he made you. Now let's eat, or I'll eat you."

 

 

They were in the bathroom, just finished showering before Thomas had to leave. Stood close together, embracing. Thomas licked droplets of water off Sander's shoulder, softly and teasingly. Sander could feel Thomas' long cock grow against his thigh, he wriggled and moved until Thomas' cock was fully hard and trapped between their stomachs. Then he felt something warm and wet ooze out against his skin. God, he thought, did he come again? But the warm fluid kept pouring, he looked down and saw Thomas pee all over them. Thomas' face showed humiliation and despair, his voice shook:

"I couldn't help it! It just came out, I wasn't able to stop it! I'm so sorry! Please don't be mad!"

Sander held his face between his hands, kissed all he could find there.

"Thomas, everything about you is beautiful. Everything you do is beautiful."

He kneeled down and took Thomas' cock in his mouth.

"No! It's dirty!"

 

"It's not dirty. It's you."

He sucked it in as far as it would go, almost its full length, his tongue played along the underside. Thomas drew his breath in between his teeth, steadied himself on Sander's shoulders. Sander moved his lips back and forth, steadily sucking and tonguing, deep in, then slowly out. He felt Thomas clutch his shoulders, his fingers digging into his skin. He kept the head in his mouth as Thomas' knees buckled and his cock shot jolts of sperm against the roof of his mouth. He didn't let go until Thomas pulled out, raised him up and sighed against his chest.

And then Thomas was on his knees. Sander felt those beautiful lips lightly graze the length of his cock, then his tongue circled the girth. Thomas closed his lips around the tip and slowly pulled down, foreskin rolled back, and all the time he stared up into Sander's eyes. Sander wanted to close his eyes, to shut out all other impressions than those lips on his cock, but he couldn't make himself stop looking at Thomas' beautiful face and the way his cock disappeared into it. The tingle in his groin spread dangerously out through his entire body.

"Thomas, let go! I'm going to come!"

Thomas kept gazing into his eyes, sliding his cock all the way in and held it there as he sucked as tightly as he could, and Sander came with a small cry, and with a force he couldn't remember he had ever experienced.

"Thank you", he moaned. "Thank you!" He pulled his cock out. "You can spit it out", he whispered.

Thomas rose, his lips closed. Then he put his mouth to Sanders, opened up and let the cum float in and out of them as their tongues danced and they both swallowed.

 

(to be continued)