Date: Fri, 17 Jul 2020 05:52:41 +0000
From: Mario Wallace <MarioWallace69@outlook.com>
Subject: Step-Pa's Attic

As an avid Nifty reader, I am excited to bring my first story to the
site. This is a work of fiction. Feel free to send feedback to
MarioWallace69(@)Outlook(dot)com

Chapter One: Pictures of War

I'm Billy, and I've always had a 'way' about me; that's what the adults
said throughout my childhood. They were talking about my flamboyant
attitude, my love for dance, and my high-pitched voice that never
deepened into a manly register. I came out of the closet when I was
sixteen and not a single person was surprised. My parents told me that I
was courageous, but to keep an open mind, 'because labeling yourself one
thing at such an early age might make someone feel trapped.' They
obviously didn't know how claustrophobic the world feels for a gay person
pretending to be straight.

We're not a close knit family. I hadn't seen my uncle David in over three
years, and besides him, I hadn't seen any of my family since my
Grandmother's funeral. I was surprised when Brandon, who I call Step-pa,
called and asked if I could stop by to help him clear out the attic. It
had been five years since my grandmother died and I hadn't gone to visit
her husband once, so, even though I had better things to do, I agreed do
the heavy lifting needed to empty his attic.

I woke up earlier than usual after having a wet dream; it involved a man
whose face I couldn't see penetrating me from behind. I tugged on my dick
until I came, which was faster than usual since I already woke up rock
hard, and showed up to Step-pa's earlier than expected. I wore gray
sweat-shorts I made out of sweatpants, a plain black tee-shirt, and my
skater sneakers. I figured that since we'd be doing a lot of work, I
should be comfortable, but, most importantly, because it was nearly a
hundred degrees on this mid-august afternoon, I wanted to be as cool as
possible. I walked through the waist-high metal gate entrance and before
I could ring the bell on Grandma's light-yellow house, the front door
swung open.

"Look at you!" Step-pa said, examining me from head-to-toe with a
beaming smile, "You've grown five-feet since I saw you last."
"No," I blushed, always awkward when adults who hadn't seen me in a
while poked fun at my height, "only a foot-and-a-half."
"That's a lot of inches!"
"Yeah, I guess, I hate math."

"Are you too tall to give your Step-pa a hug?"

In the past few years, I had sprouted from a five-foot-short boy to a
six-foot-six grown man. Brandon was roughly six feet, so our hug, a warm
hello-embrace, put his head just under my chin. His dark-gray hair
tickled my smooth chin a little, and his hands wrapped around my skinny
body, nestling together just above my butt. The hug only lasted for a
moment; I followed him to the attic and we began working straight away. I
brought a few boxes downstairs to the basement, a few to the trash bins,
and loaded three in my car. We cleared an entire corner in less then an
hour, ahead of the projected time, and I was ready to take a rest.
"Who's this?" I asked, picking up an old black-and-white photograph
from inside an open box.
"That's me, in Vietnam."
"...and him?"
"Oh, he's... I don't remember his name."
Step-pa pointed himself out; the taller of the two men pictured. He was
wearing camouflage gear, sans helmet, and had his left arm swung around
the guy next to him. This was a picture of war, but I couldn't believe
that Step-pa didn't know the man's name in the photo. They looked
friendly, real friendly. I began wondering if he was hiding something.
"You guys didn't stay in touch?"

"No. He was just someone in the area who needed a picture to send
home."
"What'cha mean?"
"We'd take these pictures, all smiles, and send them home... hoping our
loved ones would buy the lies."
"All lies? You guys didn't have any fun?"
"It was war; we did things to make ourselves smile, but no one liked
killing... no one liked the fear of being killed."
"Did this guy make it?"

"Him?" he paused. "I don't really remember him."

I turned the picture around and read the scribble on the back. It was
dated August twelfth... the same date I was looking at it. It seemed a
little ironic, I thought, that I'd uncover the picture on the exact day
it was taken, forty-something-years later. I flipped the picture back
over and gazed into the eyes of the man at Brandon's side. He was a
little shorter than step-pa was, had thick eyebrows arching over his
squinting eyes, a shit-eating grin on his face, and shinny white teeth.
"Should we take another," said a voice on my left side.

"Nah, we got a good one," I replied, without hesitation.

I wasn't in Step-pa's attic anymore. I didn't know how I got to where I
was, but it smelled like wet grass roasting in the sun. I looked around;
I was in a lush green environment with a sweaty set of shoulders under my
left arm, a man dressed in camouflage gear in front of me with a camera,
and a thousand bugs whizzing around my head.

The air was muggy, humid, I could barely breathe.
"You guys got ten minutes," the man with the camera said.

My body moved, reacting on its own, and followed the man to my left. It
felt like I was in a dream. I didn't have any control over what was
happening, yet, oddly, it felt like I was experiencing it in real time. I
could hear buzzing, smell the forest around me, feel the sun heating up
the heavy gear on my body, and taste the alcohol on my own breath.
"This is good, Travers," I said, stopping behind a thick tree.

"Fuck," he walked real close to me, tugging on my waist, "I've been
thinking about this all day."
"Me too."
We jumped apart and unfastened our belts, unbuttoned our pants, and
unzipped our flies. Travers stepped closer to me and looked directly into
my eyes, his head tilted upwards. It was the man from the picture; I was
inside of the picture. He kissed me. His lips were soft, plump, and his
tongue aggressively massaged the inside of my mouth. My dick got hard.
Really hard. It was pressing through my tight underwear in a raging
manner it hadn't done before. I reached down to squeeze it and felt the
full mast of a long, thick, penis, bending uncomfortably in the
restricting underwear.

It was much bigger than mine, by two inches at least, and the moment my
lips locked with Travers', it got so hard that it ached. Travers grabbed
it whole-handedly and crushed it in his palm, alleviating the pain. He
dropped to his knees to pull the boner out of my underwear; the muggy air
was welcomed by my suffocated hard-on.

"Fuck, Furio!"

He said Furio; it was Brandon's last name. I was in his body; it was the
only thing that made sense in this bizarre world. Somehow, by looking at
the picture in the attic, my consciousness teleported into the memory
attached to the photo. I looked down at the flesh cock protruding off of
my body; a nine-and-something-inch long penis with a wide shaft, oozing
precum from its pink mushroom head. Its was Step-pa's dick, and it was
incredible. I reached down to grab it but Travers batted my hand away,
widened his jaw totally, and let the head of my penis rub against the top
of his tongue. He hugged half of my staff with his mouth.

I moaned, groaned, and sighed once-or-twice, causing him to take it out
of his mouth and shush me. I bite my lower lip while he began licking my
nut sack. His hand hugged half of my dick while his wet fingers fiddled
with my penis head.

"We gotta be quick," he said, turning around and exposing his pasty
white, hairless, butt. I could see his pretty pink hole loosening the
closer my dick got, and without any struggle, he pressed himself all the
way onto it. I felt his hole loosen totally the moment Brandon's dickhead
touched it, and I began losing my mind the more it slipped inside. It
tickled in my toes, I don't know how that's possible, but it did. I felt
like I was cumming for the entire three minutes that Brandon pounded
Travers' hole. I kept thinking, this must be what sex is like.

Step-pa was like a stallion in his youth (roughly my age, nineteen). He
pushed in, pulled out to the tip, rushed all the way in again, and again,
and again, until he squirted a copious amount of sperm deep into his
buddy's butt. It oozed out with a silent groan, and once I pulled my dick
out of his ass, shook it off and put it away, Travers kissed me again. It
was a meaningful kiss, slow, passionate; worthy. It wasn't to get me
hard, or to express lust, it was a delicate kiss that only comes about
when you have a genuine connection with someone. He gazed deep into my
eyes, and it really felt like his crystal blue eyes were staring into my
spirit, not Brandon's, and I wondered: How could Step-pa forget such a
beautiful man?

"Same time to-" his words were outmatched by a loud BANG. It happened
so fast that I reacted without even understanding what was going on.
Blood squirt out of Travers' left temple, I fell to the ground, and
crawled behind the largest tree trunk opposite the gunfire. Travers was
dead and the gunfire got louder. I didn't want to be in Vietnam anymore
so I closed my eyes and began to pray. I opened them and looked at the
black-and-white photograph in my hands. Brandon walked towards a box on
the far right of attic. The room was quiet. I must have been lost in a
fantasy, that was the only explanation I could come up with.

I examined the photograph a little more, and just before I put it back, I
saw a name printed on the camouflaged jacket on the man next to Step-pa:
D. Travers. It was written in small dark letters, which is probably why I
had missed it before, but it was clear once I knew what I was looking for
that it read the name Travers. It wasn't a dream, fantasy, or delusion; I
had teleported into step-pa's memory of the moment in time when the
picture was taken, and that meant Travers is dead and Step-Pa... was
bisexual.