Another Place in Time

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Warren took another slow mouthful. “You sound bitter.”

  “Maybe.” Stefan visibly shrugged it off. “Well, that is the past. I’m in America now and hope one day to become American.”

  “You plan to stay, then?” Warren was surprised by a warm flush of pleasure.

  “This is home now.” Stefan emptied the rest of his bottle.

  “You could speed up citizenship by enlisting,” Warren said before he could stop the thought from reaching his tongue. No! Don’t do it! He took a breath and pushed personal considerations back. “I’ve heard that you can get your papers pretty fast if you’re serving in the armed forces.”

  “Ah. Well.” Stefan turned his bottle loosely between his palms, then looked at Warren with a sad smile. “Perhaps it is better that you will know.” He suddenly slid his chair away and knelt at Warren’s side. Warren stilled, watching him, unsure what this was, although his optimistic cock began to tent his trousers at the sight of Stefan on his knees.

  Stefan looked up into his eyes, breath coming faster, but when he reached out, it was for Warren’s free hand. He took it and guided Warren’s fingers to the back of his head. There, under the slightly damp blond strands, was a dent and lump that he hadn’t noticed last time. Stefan guided his fingers along it. “I got that a few years ago,” he said. “I am healed but, once in a while, I have now, um, fits. Seizures. They are brief; I may just shake, or perhaps fall, and not be able to get up, for a moment or two. I might cry out; I do not always know. They are soon over, and there is no cause for alarm. If it happens, you must ignore it. I will quickly be well again.”

  Warren slid his fingers over the shape of Stefan’s skull, the dent almost an obscenity in the perfect roundness of bone. A flash of anger passed through him, hot and thick. “How did it happen? Did someone do this?”

  “It does not matter.” Stefan rolled his head against Warren’s caressing fingers and let his eyelids droop half closed. “Ah, that is nice.”

  “Of course it matters,” Warren persisted, although the deepening voice and sleepy look were turning his own mind to other things. “Was it here? Did someone hit you because they thought you were a Nazi?”

  Stefan’s laugh sounded oddly close to tears. “No. It was not that. Can we stop talking?” He turned his head and nipped at Warren’s thigh through his trousers. “I have other ideas.” He nuzzled in against Warren’s groin.

  “Oh. Sure.” His hold on Stefan’s head developed a whole other purpose. “Yeah, there.” Stefan’s teeth rasped over the fabric along his sensitive length, and he shuddered. “Upstairs?”

  “Yes.” Stefan rose smoothly, with enviable grace, and took Warren’s beer from his slack hand to set it aside. “Come.”

  They climbed the stairs together, but not touching, not hurrying. Somehow it felt like they had all the time in the world. Urgency thrummed through Warren’s body, but his mind was lazily content, almost as if they’d already had one round. The bedroom was now familiar, the curtains already drawn, and one small lamp switched on at the bedside. Warren saw a little bottle standing in its pool of light and took a short breath. He picked it up, swirled it, and watched the oil inside slide over the glass. “Did you have plans?” His voice came out deep and rough.

  “Perhaps. Although we need not do anything you do not wish for.”

  He set the bottle back, caught Stefan around the waist, and hauled him in for a deep, wet kiss. “Oh, I wish. Very definitely.”

  Stefan raised his hands to his own shirt collar, but Warren said, “Let me.” He’d so rarely had this pleasure, of unwrapping a man like a gift to himself. And this was a stunning gift, all smooth skin and lean muscle and lovely jutting angles. He unbuttoned, tugged, lifted, revealing Stefan’s hard chest, with small nipples shell-pink and already tight. He bent his head to get his mouth on them, licking and tugging with careful teeth until Stefan gasped and gripped his hair.

  Warren knelt, familiar moves, bad leg first, and turned his attention to Stefan’s waistband and fly and underwear. Stefan let him do it, looking down with a heated expression, his hands restless on Warren’s head. His cock sprang free, arching out, the head fully exposed and beaded with moisture already. Warren took a small, slow lick, savoring the sweet-salt taste of him.

  Stefan groaned. “No more. Or I will finish much too soon.”

  Warren was tempted, with the flavor on his tongue, the firm roundness under his lips. But that oil had promise, and he remembered his vow to show Stefan just what a pleasure being the man underneath should be. Seize the day. Or the night. One never knew what tomorrow would bring. “Get on the bed, on your side.”

  Stefan did as he was bidden, lying facing Warren, watching as he stripped. Warren didn’t have the patience to draw it out as a tease for long, and in any case, his almost 30-year-old desk-job body wasn’t that much of a treat. But he didn’t hurry either, removing one article at a time and laying the clothes neatly on a chair. Then he folded Stefan’s, turning away so his own back and the good side of his ass were toward the bed.

  Stefan chuckled softly. “You are cruel, so far away.”

  “Anticipation makes things sweeter.” He set the last item on the pile and turned back. Holy Christ, Stefan was a sight, stretched out there on his sheets, rampant and hard, his eyes shining. “So, which way round do you want us?”

  Stefan looked startled. “You would, um, bend for me?”

  “Sure. Love to. Or I can show you what it should be like to accept a man, without hurting.”

  “I . . .” Stefan swallowed. “Yes. That.”

  “Roll over, then.”

  Stefan turned, face down on the bed. Warren got in beside him and tugged at him, easing Stefan onto his side instead, his back to Warren, one knee flexed and raised.

  “Like this?” Stefan sounded doubtful.

  “Yeah. Lots of control, and I can reach you.” Warren stroked over the fine bone of Stefan’s hip and down in front to grip his shaft with a smooth, firm pull.

  Stefan gasped and bucked back, his ass thumping against Warren. “Oh! I never . . . He never . . .”

  Warren added “didn’t bother to pleasure his partner” to the list of sins of the guy who took lovely, eighteen-year-old Stefan his first time. But he kept his grip gentle and slow, stroking as he thrust in small motions against smooth skin, his cock sliding along Stefan’s lower back. When he had Stefan panting and pumping into his hand for more speed, he let go. Stefan made a little disappointed sound. Warren kissed the back of his neck, then nipped his shoulder. “Trust me.” He reached for the oil.

  In the lamplight, the stream of golden liquid onto his fingers ramped his arousal. He moved his slick fingers down the cleft of Stefan’s ass, over the near-invisible blond hairs there, and pressed against his opening. Stefan took a silent breath and tensed all over, tight as wire. Warren kissed his neck again and deepened his voice. “Trust me.”

  “I do.” Stefan raised his knee further. Warren stroked tiny circles with his finger, just the lightest of pressure, until he felt Stefan’s buttocks unclench. The he slid his fingertip inside. Stefan was tight, but not impossible. Warren stroked, rubbing his rim, pleased not to feel any scarring there. Once, he’d known a man . . . He set that memory aside. This was for Stefan now. He slipped his finger deeper.

  For years, he’d not known about the prostate; he’d been with men on top, on bottom, knowing that occasionally bottoming became electric pleasure, but not why. He knew now though, thanks to Andre. Thank you, mon ami. And Stefan was going to get the benefit. He eased deeper, sliding his finger, feeling Stefan lose resistance and begin to push back, whining under his breath, seeking. Then Warren crooked his fingertip and found that rounded spot deep inside. Stefan swore and jerked violently. “What?”

  “Shh.” Warren shifted around so he could grip Stefan’s shoulder with his other hand. “That’s the pleasure spot. Your prostate. Let me introduce you.” He couldn’t help a little laugh. The next ten minutes were joy and torture—st
roking, pressing, holding Stefan back while Warren moved that finger deep inside—as Stefan shuddered and writhed and cursed in more than one language. Warren was so hard he felt like he might come just from this. He ached to drive his way in and fuck this beautiful body now! But the one advantage to getting older was more control. He added a second finger and kept working until Stefan was begging, “Please, please, please,” in a one-syllable litany of need.

  Warren grabbed the oil, gave his own shaft one fast, dripping stroke, and lined up. “Now, push out while I push inside you,” he said, his breath tight and catching on the words. “I’ll go slow. Press against it and ease the way.”

  It was still a tight fit. Stefan whimpered once and stilled as Warren sank in that first inch. But then Stefan whispered, “It does not hurt. Holy God, that feels good. You stretch, yes, but no pain.”

  “Damned right,” Warren growled against his back. He pumped his hips slowly, circling, claiming Stefan a fraction of an inch at a time. As soon as he could, he reached over again. Stefan’s cock had softened, but as Warren tugged it, in time with the flex of his hips, it hardened fully in his fingers. He thrust and pulled, building depth and rhythm. It was a little awkward to reach and flex, but it was pure pleasure having Stefan so hard in his fingers, that sweet prick leaking precum, sweat-damp skin sticking and sliding, both of them short-breathed and grunting together.

  He paused to roll Stefan just a little, pushing his knee up, reaching under rather than over. On his next stroke, Stefan jolted and gasped, “Ah!”

  There you are. He kept the angle, kept the rhythm, driving into Stefan’s tight heat to the sound of his high, gasping whimpers.

  “Oh. Oh! Oh!” Stefan wrapped his fingers over Warren’s on his prick, moving them together on that tight length, jerking himself with Warren’s willing hand, faster, harder, as his wordless babbling lost its rhythm. “Ah. Now!”

  Warren thrust into Stefan’s ass hard and deep, and Stefan spilled seed in slippery, thick pulses between their joined fingers. Warren clenched his teeth and kept moving. His own climax was building, the pressure wave cresting in his balls and cock, but he held off, held off, keeping his fucking smooth and controlled as Stefan shook and shuddered. Then he felt Stefan begin to soften, starting to come down. Warren let go of Stefan’s cock, gripped his raised thigh instead, pulled himself back almost all the way and drove home in one long exquisitely satisfying slide that had him spilling, deep inside, in a breath-stealing explosion of climax.

  Warren tensed, staying buried, impossibly gripped, impossibly hot, his face pressed into the sweaty nape of Stefan’s neck. He shook, each spasm gradually becoming shorter, slower, stealing his breath less, until at last he could pay attention to something other than his prick still clasped in that silken depth. His chest was plastered against Stefan’s back, his fingers cramped on the meaty thigh he was clinging to. They were both puffing like steam engines, rocking together in little waves that faded as the storm passed. Finally, eventually, he unclamped his fingers, eased himself out, and guided Stefan’s leg down to the bed.

  With gentle fingers, he rubbed at Stefan’s tender place, soothing, feeling the stickiness of drying oil and seed mingled. Stefan let out a long, long sigh that shook his whole body. “Ah. Now I know.”

  “Know what?” Even he could hear the soft fondness in his voice, and he cleared his throat to school it.

  “Know why some men choose that, to be underneath.”

  “You liked it?”

  Stefan rolled away from him and turned over to bring their faces close on the pillow. “You have ruined me for any other man.”

  “I hope not,” Warren said, despite a warm glow at that thought. “I hope I showed you how good it can be.”

  “Yes. That.” Stefan reached up a hand and tentatively touched Warren’s lips, rough fingertips snagging where his mouth was dry and chapped. “The way you touch me, well, even if another man could be as skilled, I cannot imagine him taking such time, such care.”

  “Well, he should,” Warren said tartly, because that little touch already made him want more. He captured Stefan’s hand in his own. “You’ve only been with one man?” It was a guess, but he thought it likely.

  “Yes.”

  “So, there’s all kinds of sex. There’s rough and using, where the guy doesn’t much care about you as long as he takes his own pleasure. I think that’s what you’ve had.” He paused and felt more than saw the little shrug Stefan gave. “But even with a stranger, it can be good. Some men enjoy giving as much as taking. Some will touch everyone with careful, skilled hands. And then there’s sex with friends, which can be warm and kind and fun. Like we just had. Or the sex of lovers . . .” He hesitated, because he’d not yet had a man he would call more than a friend. “Which should be even better. You’ll have time to find out.”

  Stefan rolled away from him and sat up with his back turned. “Ouch. Yes, I suppose it is possible.”

  Warren reached a hand to touch his back. “Are you sore?”

  “No. Well, my leg. Your fingers are strong.”

  Warren saw a faint outline of finger-shaped red marks on the white skin of Stefan’s thigh. “God, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. It was good.” Stefan hesitated a moment, then turned to face him, smiling pleasantly. “Right now, I’m well satisfied, and hopeful that we might do this again. As friends, as you say. Yes?”

  “Sure. Absolutely.” Warren sat up too, wiping his hand absently on the sheet. “I’d like that. Sharing sex with a next-door friend will be a great bonus to staying with my mother.”

  “Hm.” Stefan rubbed his fingers beside Warren’s, looking down at the smears on the worn cotton.

  “Sorry about the sheet,” Warren offered.

  “Tomorrow I shall do laundry. I have no complaint.” Stefan stood and turned toward the pile of clothes on the chair.

  Warren could feel a tension in the room. But it didn’t seem quite like the fuck-and-get-out tension he knew from strangers’ apartments and hotel rooms. Stefan passed him his own clothing in silence, but with a simple matter-of-factness that held no impatience. When they had each put on underclothes, Stefan led the way to the bathroom, and they shared the sink to wash their hands. Then Stefan ushered him out of the washroom, went back in, and closed the door, presumably for more intimate cleaning.

  Warren hesitated, his clothes in hand. He could dress and go. He’d walked home a time or two far more sticky and unkempt than he felt now. But it seemed like the wrong thing to do. While he was still debating, Stefan opened the bathroom door and held it for him. “Your turn. And, before you go, would you like another beer?”

  Unexpected relief shot though Warren. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  They spent another hour in that small, clean kitchen, slowly finishing two beers apiece. They didn’t touch and didn’t talk about sex, but Warren had a humming awareness of Stefan, of where his knees were under the table, of every motion of his hands. Stefan’s lips around the beer bottle almost roused his need again, although he’d climaxed as hard as he ever could remember, just an hour before.

  The talk was good too, though. Easy, intelligent, far reaching. Stefan had a keen eye for both American life, with its wry incongruities, and for international politics. Although Stefan was a pessimist. Warren said, “We’ve got Hitler on the run, finally. We’re into Belgium, we’ve liberated Brussels, Antwerp. France has its new government. The dominoes are toppling back the other way now.”

  Stefan shook his head. “You cannot underestimate how difficult it will be. Yes, the Allies have taken back some ground, but once the fight gets close to German soil . . .” He frowned, looking down at the bottle in his hands. “Even though Germany must turn the lion’s share of resources to the Eastern Front, against the onslaught of the Red Army, still the soldiers your Allies face are hardened in war and determined to protect the Fatherland.”

  “We have the upper hand now,” Warren countered. “I’ve heard it said, by those in the know
, that the war might end by Christmas.”

  “No. I think not. They cannot lose, you see, the politicians, the leaders of the Third Reich. They promised the German nation that the humiliating defeat, the subjugation and poverty from the Great War, would be erased. They will spend the army to the last man to achieve that. And their army has been at the business of war for five years already, long before America took the field.”

  “So they’re tired, I bet. Ready to go home.”

  “Those boys we see here in America, in their uniforms, heading out to battle? They claim to be a match for any German, but they are wrong. They will take down a German veteran only as a group of children could take down a man with a gun, by piling on the bodies until he falls beneath their weight. It will be a slow, bloody business. And at the border of the true Germany . . .” He shook his head again.

  Warren deliberately gulped a loud swallow and changed the subject. “Well, I got a job today. In support, so every little bit helps.”

  “In your uncle’s factory, you said?”

  “Yes. Although more out from under Uncle Sebastien’s nose than with his help.” He described the interview process, taking the remembered sting out of his uncle’s attitude by making it funny.

  Stefan chuckled, but when Warren was done with a couple of extra anecdotes about excruciating visits to his uncle and aunt’s mausoleum of a house in his youth, Stefan said, “Do you think he suspects? About you?”

  “That I prefer men?” Warren shook his head. “He wouldn’t let me cross the doorstep. No, he’s just been a starched shirt from day one. Probably born with a bowtie around his neck and a stick up his ass.”

  Stefan laughed more warmly, then stood and picked up their dead soldiers, holding the necks between his fingers. “Well, I hate to say it, but I must retire. The truck picks me up for work at six thirty in the morning.”

  “That’s too bad. Puts a limit on our evenings.”