by Неизвестный
I shake my head. Kent? "He's not into that," I whisper. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, a ragged scrape like sandpaper. I've never licked Kent before. I'm sure he tastes like beer, though, alcohol seeps from his pores, and he's getting paunchy, doesn't exercise -- firm isn't a word that comes to mind. I'm sure he's nothing like this boy holding me now, nothing at all.
"Are you?" Luke murmurs, his lips on my ear, one hand on my stomach, the other on my cock. I can't breathe with him this close -- if I ever got the courage to take him up on his offer, I don't know how I'd go through with it, I'd die to see him stretched out before me, naked, glorious, mine. But he's persistent, and his tongue licks out to taste me, his lips close over my earlobe, and he asks, "When's the last time he licked you?"
Never, I think. I don't have to admit it, though, Luke already knows -- in the way my hands shake and my lower lip trembles as he kisses me. "You want me to," he sighs. It's not a question.
I don't answer him, because I do.
It takes another three beers to put Kent out. We're in the living room, all three of us, the TV on and Kent in his recliner, his chin drooping to his chest every so often. Luke sits at one end of the couch and I'm at the other, his pillow between us like a line of demarcation neither wants to cross. Not while Kent's still up, more or less. Not while he's sitting right here.
I don't know what we're watching -- I stare at the screen but don't see it. Instead my eyes burn with the images in my mind, Luke on this couch and me above him, both of us naked and hard, my hands and lips making him moan and buck against me. In the vision, Kent's asleep in the recliner and that just fuels the fire inside me, the knowledge that at any moment he'll open his eyes and see me going down on Luke, it's enough to make me hurt with lust, and I have to cross my legs to hide the erection swelling in my pants. I clear my throat, glance around at the others, Luke watching TV and Kent staring into the bottom of his beer mug as if he's thinking he might just have one more before calling it a night, but they don't look at me, they don't know the sordid thoughts swirling through my head.
Thank God. I wonder if Luke's thinking the same things, if he's only pretending to watch TV like I am and he's really seeing the two of us clasped together in throes of passion. Things I shouldn't be thinking. I'm not like this, honest. I'm not one to fuck around on someone, I'm not the type to fall for the first cute guy I see, I'm not. But it's been so long since anyone's looked at me the way Luke does, how did he put it? It's a hard look to deny. No shit. If Kent even thought about speaking to me the way Luke does, I wouldn't dream of running around on him. If he said half the things Luke's told me, if he looked at me with the same desire in his eyes, there would be no need for the boys in the magazine ads beneath my bed. I had almost forgotten that those words, those glances, that much need and desire could exist in another, could be directed towards me. How can I not want that?
A startled snort disrupts my thoughts and I look over at Kent to see him shaking himself awake. Something akin to pity makes me tell him, "Why don't you get on to bed?"
Luke frowns at Kent as he rouses himself. "I'm fine," he mutters, his voice slurred. But when he reaches for his empty mug, he hits it with the back of his hand, sends it tumbling to the floor. "Shit."
"Come on," I say, standing. When Kent pushes the recliner into an upright position, I take his arm and tug gently. "You're tired, babe. Long day. I'll help you to your room."
He's heavy but I get him to his feet and as he leans against me, I stagger beneath his weight. "Marcus," he murmurs, his hands fisting in my shirt, and despite the shower, he still smells of sweat and booze. His breath is like a furnace against my neck. "My cup --"
"I've got it," Luke says, reaching over the arm of the couch for the mug on the floor. "You go on. Night, Kent. Thanks for everything."
Kent mumbles something about the rest of the crop, I can't make out his words, he's already half-asleep, but Luke nods and tells him, "Sure, man. We'll knock that out tomorrow, what do you say? A good night's sleep and we'll hit the fields first thing, you got it."
Kent stumbles for the hall, dragging me along behind him. Luke's good at this, isn't he? Saying all the right things, nodding in the right places -- he's had practice, what with his dad like this, he knows how it is. Anything to get through the drunken times and see the sober man beneath the alcohol again. In the darkened hall, I smooth my hands along Kent's hot back and whisper, "Look at yourself." Kent gurgles, a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Suddenly he seems older than he is, he seems ancient and weary and sad, so damn sad. I do this to him, I think, holding the door to his room open as he shuffles to the bed. He's this way because of me. I'm not as good as I can be, I'm not as good as he says I am, if only I was so much more, he wouldn't have to drink himself stupid every single night --
You're not the reason he does what he does, a voice whispers in my mind, and it's Luke. I push his words away as my fingers fumble over Kent's belt in the darkness. I try not to think of that boy in the other room as I unzip my lover's jeans and pull them down legs that are pale in the moonlight seeping through the slit in the curtains. At the foot of the bed, I tug off Kent's boots, toss them aside, then pull off his jeans completely, flip the covers up over his naked legs. "Get some sleep, hon," I murmur, kissing his forehead, but he's already out, the first ragged snores rumbling through him. His hat I hang on the bedpost, near his head so he can find it in the morning, and I prop his boots up in front of the door before I pull it shut -- I'll hear him trip over them if he gets up later. Just in case, I tell myself. The last thing I want is him in the hall, heading for the bathroom, while Luke and I are on the couch ...
I won't even think about what it is we might do, I shouldn't think it, I should just close Kent's door and head into my own room, jerk off in my bed if I have to, anything to keep me from returning to the living room and the boy there who I know is waiting for me. I have a lover, passed out in a drunken stupor. I shouldn't need anyone else --
But I do.
Quietly I close the door on Kent's snores and tiptoe down the hall, as if afraid of waking him. I just need kisses, that's all I'm thinking of as I hurry to the living room, Luke's mouth on mine, his soft lips, his insistent tongue and maybe his hands beneath my clothing, that'll be enough for me. Something Kent doesn't give me, is that asking too much? As long as it's not sex, it's not really cheating, right?
Luke's already stretched out along the couch, the TV off, the pillow moved to one end beneath his head. His shirt's unbuttoned, exposing his smooth chest, hairless, muscular. At his waist, his jeans are unzipped, his boxers open, his balls and cock hanging through the gapping fabric like a promise. He's already hard, and for the first time I get a good look at him, he's a healthy size, seven inches, maybe eight, and red and thick and beautiful. Not much hair, either, he must shave it off, it makes him look impossibly young and stirs me more than I'd like to admit -- Kent's dark hair stains his skin like ink, it makes him look whiter than he really is, but Luke has a downy fuzz that catches the light and winks golden when I move closer, like spider webs or gossamer thread. One hand props his head up as he watches me with hooded eyes, and the other rubs along the length of his shaft, stroking lightly. "He asleep?" he wants to know.
I don't trust myself to speak so I simply nod, yes, asleep. Reaching out, Luke takes my hand, guides me to the side of the couch, pokes at my crotch. "You wanna play a little bit?" he asks, a coy smile on his lips. Before I can answer, he's already working my zipper down, picking at me through the thin material of my boxers. "He won't be getting up any time soon, will he?"
Kent. He's talking about Kent, my lover, but I can't seem to care about that now, not with his hand in my pants, his fingers on me. "He usually sleeps through the night," I say as Luke cradles my balls. I gasp as he extracts them from my shorts, my hard length pointing at him, I have to lean over and grip the back of the couch at the sensation. Kent's hands aren't this tender, this loving, ever.
"Lie down,
" Luke tells me, patting the couch beside him, and I do as I'm told, on my side like he is and facing him. His lips touch mine in a sweet kiss while his arm wraps around my waist, pulls me to him, crushes our erections together with an eagerness I haven't felt in years. I'm reminded of when I was thirteen and so in love with the boy next door, Pete Buckler, older than me, who knew I had the worst crush on him, he'd prance around in his swim trunks and let me watch him swim laps around his family's pool. Luke makes me feel the same way Pete did, heady and young and alive. Once Pete even called me over, asked if I wanted to swim with him, and he worked me into the deep end, up against the side of the pool. The water was cold around my legs and I was scared, terrified because I couldn't touch the bottom. Then Pete pulled down his trunks, pulled down mine, and pressed his naked body against me. For the first time I felt another boy's skin against mine, I felt a hard dick and soft balls and I held the sides of the pool in a death grip while Pete whispered that it was okay, it's alright, his hand beneath the water stroking us both until I came. He kept against me, trying to get off, moaning into my face, until his mother yelled out the window, Get off that boy, Pete, 'fore you drown him! She thought we were horsing around is all, boys being boys, but Pete kissed me clumsily before he ripped my shorts away completely, a quick peck on the corner of my lips, my first kiss. Then he tossed my shorts out of the pool and laughed as I scrambled out naked to get them.
But Luke's kisses aren't clumsy or inexpert. His hands know what they're doing, caressing my back and ass, slipping between us to squeeze at our erections, thumbing over my chest and stomach. His legs move along mine, his knee rising between my thighs to push against me. His mouth is hungry, his lips tender, his moans soft and almost indistinct as we rub together. If Kent came out now, he'd see us, and even if I heard him trip over his boots, I wouldn't stop this, I couldn't, I want it too much, need it, need Luke. I don't want this moment to end.
It's over too quick. Luke moves against me, humping back against the couch, arching into me, his hand working between us, and I can feel him shudder in release as he kisses me, my name on his lips. A hot dampness coats my erection and I rise up on my elbow, thrust into his cum-slicked hand, gasp his name into the hollow of his throat as I get off. "Jesus," I sigh into him, thrusting slowly, I like the feel of him on me.
"He had nothing to do with it," Luke jokes. He smears my lower belly with our juices, kisses my chin when I laugh. And when I snuggle against him, I think that this is what I'm missing with Kent, right here, these arms around me, this voice whispering silly things in my ear.
I wake to Luke's flower staring down at me from the glass on my bedside table. A ray of bright sun catches one petal, turning the red into a brilliant hue, the color of a heart in full bloom. I love him, I think suddenly, and because it's so unexpected, I know it's true. I love that boy asleep on the couch in the living room, love him completely, and I'll never be the same again. I won't let him leave me. I wouldn't be able to live without him.
Stretching languidly, I feel the covers move over my naked skin and remember the few stolen moments we shared last night, after Kent went to bed. I remember kisses, Luke's mouth on mine, his hand encircling me. I remember his soft words, breathless giggles, kisses, touches, love. Last night was something more than all the sex I've ever had with Kent, it was something deeper, something meaningful, and penetration wasn't even a part of that. The two of us on the couch, holding each other tight? That was making love, those half-whispered sighs, those tender kisses. That was something I've never felt with Kent, and it was so wonderful and amazing that I don't think anything else can ever compare to the way I felt in Luke's embrace.
With a contented sigh, I stretch my arms above my head and smile at his flower. I can almost picture him stirring on the couch, maybe his blankets falling to the floor, a slight chill creeping in around his legs and arms. I imagine he's cold, and Kent's outside at the market already, watering the plants he cares for more than me. Half-asleep, an ache like the heel of a foot pressing into his bladder, Luke would tumble from the couch, down the hall, stand in the darkness of the bathroom with closed eyes as he relieves himself. Then, on the way back, he'd notice my door ajar. Push it open just enough to peek inside and see me lying here like an invitation. Slip into my room, close the door behind him, pad barefoot to my bed and crawl beneath my covers, cuddling up to me in the early morning light. I'd hold him as he fell back asleep ...
"Marcus!"
Kent's voice shatters my daydream and stuns me awake. I hear the clomp clomp of his heavy boots on the hardwood floor, and then he calls out again, closer this time, from the end of the hall. "You getting up sometime today?" he wants to know.
Fuck. Those boots down the hall, heading towards me, he stops in front of my door and knocks, like I could've possibly slept through his hollering. "Marcus," he starts.
"I'm up." I throw the covers off me as I stumble to my feet. My jeans are on the floor -- I tug them on over my boxers and say it again when Kent jiggles the door knob. I don't want him coming in and seeing the flower. "I'm up, babe."
He doesn't answer, just turns and stomps away, and when I open the door, the hall is empty. I hear Luke's voice from the kitchen, he asks if I'm awake, and Kent's reply is an unintelligible grunt. What time is it? Still early, if he's not outside. Waiting for his coffee then, or something to eat. I hope he doesn't expect me --
The heavenly smell of frying bacon fills my senses as I step into the living room. "What's cooking?" I ask, coming into the kitchen. Luke stands at the stove, dressed in my clothes and scrambling eggs while Kent sits in his chair, no shirt on, his hat cocked back. Walking around behind him, I pluck the hat off his head and set it on the table.
When he looks up at me, I plant a quick kiss on his forehead. He rolls his eyes and says, "You sleep too damn much, Marcus."
"Morning to you, too," I grumble. I'd like to sidle up behind Luke now, ease an arm around his waist, kiss him, but I settle for a secretive brush of my hand against the small of his back as I pour myself a cup of coffee. Lowering my voice, I murmur, "Hey."
Luke laughs and bumps my hip with his. "Hey, lazybones. Sleep well?"
Blowing on the hot java, I look at him over the top of the mug. "Like a baby," I tell him, keeping my voice quiet. At the table, Kent's shaking out the daily newspaper, ignoring us, and I feel brazen enough to wink at Luke. "What about you?" He laughs again. "What?" I ask, grinning slowly.
Leaning close, he whispers, "Did you dream of me?"
I glance at Kent, nose buried in the paper -- can he hear us? Does he care? With a quick gulp of scalding coffee, I admit, "Some." His eyes light up, an amazing shade of lavender that I swear I've seen in Kent's garden as the sun sets, and before he can ask for details, I nudge him with my hip to keep him quiet, then take my seat. Not with Kent right here. Damn.
The milk is on the table -- I pour as much as I can into my coffee, until the cup threatens to overflow. Kent doesn't look at me, doesn't say a word, so I stare into the muddy drink and stir it slowly with my spoon, waiting for something to break the silence. Is this how it is between us now? After two years together, we have nothing to say? Just a frantic fuck in the shower, a few curt words over dinner, that's it?
Luke sets a plate in front of me, eggs and bacon and toast. "Thanks," I murmur into the food -- I don't look at him, don't want Kent to see the lust in my eyes or hear the desire in my voice, so I dive into the eggs and pretend the boy standing so close does nothing to me. I can ignore the ache in my groin, the heat in my blood. I have to.
But he makes it so hard when he leans against me to set a plate down before Kent, and his hip presses into my arm, a slight erection poking my elbow. And he does it again, leaning into me to set out his own plate across the table. I feel him staring at me, willing me to look up and see his smile, his eyes, but I don't. I concentrate on the heat that rises from my eggs and coffee, instead.
We eat in the silence that envelops us like summer sun, searing our s
kin and draining our energy, until I feel exhausted and worn down from simply sitting between these two men. Luke keeps glancing at me but I don't meet his eyes, and when I look at Kent, he doesn't look up from his plate. There's a part of me that wants to cry out in frustration, scream, shout, anything to break through this meniscus of mediocrity that threatens to smother us all. I want some kind of reaction -- tell Kent how I feel for Luke, what would he say? Would he get angry, get mad? Or would he just shrug in that way he has that makes me think he's not even hearing what I say? What would Luke do or say if I mentioned the dreams I had last night, him in my arms and me in him? Would he want to hear more, maybe live out the scenes in my mind? Or would he nod at Kent as if to tell me not here, not now? Am I the only one who feels this pressure building around us? Am I the only one here who feels like he's going to explode?
Just as I'm about to say something -- mention the flower, maybe that'll get a rise from them -- Kent mumbles into his eggs. "Want you in the barn today," he says, and I glance across the table at Luke, staring back at me. Which one of us is he talking to?
When he gets no response, Kent looks up at me. "You hear me?" he asks.
"Me?" I want to know. "The barn? What for?"
Kent turns back to his food. "Needs cleaning out," he tells me. He knows I hate that barn. "Hay all over the damn place. Shouldn't take long --"
But why me? "I'm on the register," I remind him. "Kent, you know how I feel about --"