“All the more for Esmond and us—it looks fabulous.” It did. Neil had fussed.
Swooping back into the dining room with our bounty, we found our guests engaged in conversation. There was nothing remarkable about their words or their tone, but I found it strange that this was the first direct exchange I’d witnessed between them since their arrival that evening.
Esmond was asking, “And the studio will be ready next week?”
His wife leaned back in her chair. “It should be—assuming everything stays on schedule.”
“That’s a safe assumption,” said Neil, setting down the gravy boat. He took the platter from me and served Gillian a fresh slice of beef. “I’ve never seen a construction project run like clockwork before, but this one has;”
Through twisted lips, Gillian reminded us, “I run a tight ship.”
“So I’ve seen.” I winked at her, sitting.
Neil sat as well, covering a laugh with a cough.
Esmond said, “I’m eager to get into the studio.” His flat, lifeless tone conveyed no eagerness at all. He was too calm, too serene, as if in a trance. In my mind’s eye, he slumped forward, landing his face in the empty bowl of ratatouille.
Blinking away this image, I asked, “Studio? You’re an artist, Esmond?”
“My yoga studio,” he explained.
“Ah.”
Gillian spoke from the side of her mouth, as if confiding to me. “Esmond has been working with swami for ages. Any year now, he may achieve inner peace.”
Esmond bristled, but with great self-control. The squint of his eyes sufficed as an outburst of emotion, well masked. “Really, Gillian,” he said. “I wish you would not refer to Tamra as ‘swami.’ It’s condescending and disrespectful.”
His wife arched her brows innocently. “Why, I always thought ‘swami’ was a term of great respect.”
“It is—when it’s spoken from the heart.”
“Sorry, Esmond. I’ve never been very adept at matters of the heart.” Her tone was more cynical than contrite.
Steering the conversation to safer ground, I told her, “Your new house is the talk of the town, Gillian. I hope you’ll allow the Register to run a story on it. Our features editor, Glee Savage, is dying to have a look inside. In fact, so am I.”
“Well”—she waffled—“I suppose I owe you that much, Mark. Your support of the merger, on both Ashton’s and Quatro’s boards, has smoothed the way with a lot of wary stockholders.”
“The merger seems right for both companies. I’ve been happy to support it.”
“You’re welcome to bring over your editor whenever you like.”
Neil volunteered, “I’d be happy to show everyone around tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” said Gillian. Turning to me, she added, “That was a fine story in this morning’s paper, by the way.”
“On behalf of the paper, thank you.” I hesitated. “But in truth, it was little more than a rehash of the press release.”
“Nonsense.” She flicked a hand, pausing between bites of beef. “It was well written, concise, and told with a real sensitivity to the issues.”
“Yeah.” Neil nodded. “I was pleased to read that the merging boards expressed their concern for the community and the environment.”
“Oh, please.” Gillian’s lips sputtered with wry amusement. “Let’s just say we had the PR department working overtime. I hope it wasn’t too transparent.”
Diplomatically, I told Neil, “I’m sure Gillian is just being glib.”
“I’m sure,” she echoed. Then she asked me, “Who wrote the story? I didn’t recognize the byline—Charles something?”
“Charles Oakland.”
“That’s it. Obviously one of your more seasoned writers.”
Neil burst into laughter.
Both Gillian and Esmond gave a startled blink, confused by Neil’s reaction.
He explained to them, “Charles Oakland is Mark’s pen name at the paper. He wrote that story.”
Gillian looked befuddled. “Oh?”
I recounted, “When I took over the Dumont Daily Register four years ago, my role changed from reporter to publisher. But writing’s in my blood, and occasionally I still like to report stories that interest me. Our readers have come to know my name in conjunction with the paper’s editorials—which are opinion, not fact—so I felt I needed a different persona when reporting. Thus was born Charles Oakland. By now, it’s pretty much an open secret who he really is.”
“Thanks for clueing me.” Underlying Gillian’s good-natured tone was an implied reprimand for having kept her in the dark till then.
Neil swirled some wine remaining in his glass. “The story mentioned an accountant who needs to give the deal a final blessing. What’s that all about?”
“That’s a pain in the ass,” Gillian said sweetly, through a false smile.
“That’s the due diligence,” I explained to Neil. “It’s pretty routine. When companies merge, ‘due diligence’ is performed to verify that everyone’s accounting is on the up and up. By entering into a friendly merger, Quatro and Ashton are, in effect, buying each other, so the two boards agreed upon the services of a single auditor. Tyler Pennell comes highly recommended.”
Gillian sniffed. “He’s a rube. He’s from Green Bay.” She paused before adding, “But I suppose he’s harmless.”
“Doug recommended him.” I was referring to Douglas Pierce, our local sheriff and a close friend. “Tyler is actually a forensic accountant, a specialist in uncovering accounting irregularities relevant to solving crimes. He worked with Doug on a case a few months ago, and Doug was impressed. That’s good enough for me.”
Neil chortled. “I had no idea that accounting could be so cloak-and-dagger.”
“Where large sums of money are involved, there’s always room for mischief.”
Gillian raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
And she drained the last of the wine.
Chapter Two
Purple fire.
The sensual images that tickled my sleeping mind that night centered on the purple fire radiating from the amethyst stud that Neil wore. In reality, he lay next to me in our bed upstairs on Prairie Street. In my dream, however, we were running in a park near the house, a craggy green glen of rocks and pines that had been sculpted by a glacier in some frosty eon of the unknowable past.
Side by side, we trot along a path that circles through the park’s flat valley floor. The sun hangs low in the evening sky, casting pointed blue shadows from ancient spruces that spring from the ravines surrounding us. The speck of stone pinned to Neil’s ear captures the glint of waning daylight, transforms the gentle golden rays to fiercest purple, and wraps us in an aura of pure energy. Our steps are effortless, our breathing easy, as we bound along the familiar course in perfect harmony, our feet barely kissing the ground, crunching the gravel.
Neil wears skimpy, silvery nylon shorts, a pair of well-worn leather running shoes, and no shirt as he pulls ahead of me a pace or two. My running gear is similar, though I generally prefer cotton shorts—these are an old, old favorite, faded yellow, now soft as flannel. Although our workout requires no exertion, we do sweat, and I watch the beads of moisture trickle down Neil’s back, collecting beneath the waistband of his shorts. A gray V spreads down the silver nylon, clinging to the crack between his swaying buttocks.
The sight before me is more than sufficient to bring a tingle of arousal to my groin. Although this would logically seem to impede my running, the effect is quite the opposite in dreamland, where I feel propelled and weightless, as if ready to take flight.
Similar dreams have visited me before, most notably six years ago, in the months leading up to my first coupling with Neil. Those dreams of flight, I now understood, signaled repressed longings and my need to escape, to take flight from turbulent inner issues I was unable to face by day. Now, with those issues long resolved and their attendant gremlins consigned to history, the ethereal ramb
lings of my nights took on an altogether different tone, one of carefree abandon.
What better way to slough off the minor tribulations of waking life than to indulge in such steamy, mindless recreation with Neil? Though aware that he is not physically present in my dream, I sense that he is with me, virtually if not literally. Is he sharing the same dream?
Zipping along behind him, enjoying the sight of him, I chide myself for pondering such inscrutable nonsense—shared dreams, virtual presence, indeed. My mind doesn’t work that way, I remind myself; I have little use for such loosey-goosey notions. Perhaps I’ve been influenced by our dinner conversation regarding Eastern studies, yoga studios, and swami. Did I overindulge in Neil’s pumpkin thing? Were these thoughts the result of errant digestive gases?
Stop it. These nasty ideas are counterproductive. The scenario playing out in my dozing mind was meant to be enjoyed. I’ve taken this excursion with Neil often enough to know where it’s leading, to understand that its climax will be a scorcher. So I silence my inner monologue, conquer my thinking brain, and allow myself to drift witlessly into the scripted events that continue to unravel before me in the park.
Rounding a curve in the path, Neil looks over his shoulder at me; the amethyst in his ear is momentarily blinding. He asks, “Had enough?”
“I could use a breather.” Though my words sound winded, I am not.
Slowing to a trot, Neil breaks from the gravel path and begins crossing the turf toward a fanciful pavilion that fronts a small lake, a mirror-placid pond. A duck obligingly completes the scene, waddling out of the water to rest on a tiny island just big enough to support a single willow, its slender leaves already brushed yellow by the October nights.
Following Neil’s lead, I join him crossing the grass. As our pace slows to a walk, I pull up beside him and drape an arm over his shoulders. I mention, “Beautiful day.”
With a sidelong glance, he asks, “Small talk? The weather?”
“Okay, you’re beautiful. Better?”
“Considerably.”
An embankment leads up to a porch that stretches the length of the pavilion. Neil and I trudge up to the porch, where a few park benches are positioned to look out over the pond toward the steep wooded hills. We often rest here, enjoying the scenery, deciding whether our return home will be at a walk or a run.
I approach the middle bench, which has the best view, symmetrically framed by the gingerbread and gewgaws that decorate a colonnade supporting the roof. I deliberately sit at the bench’s middle, not only to take full advantage of the view, but to force Neil to sit near my side. It’s a familiar routine, a well-rehearsed enactment of innocent flirtation.
As always, Neil slides onto the bench next to me, barely touching. We lean back, relax, and sigh in appreciation of the sylvan slopes beyond. One of us casually shifts his weight, and our calves brush. We’ve shared far greater intimacies more often than I can count, but this moment of first contact never fails to thrill me, as if an electric spark has arced across the microdistance separating the hair follicles on our legs. Neil nudges his ankle next to mine; our leather shoes squeak as they meet. Then I slide closer to him on the bench, nestling my cotton shorts against his nylon-clad thigh.
It never occurs to us that this public park is not ours alone. With no hesitation—let alone shame—we turn to each other and indulge in a long, openmouthed kiss, the sort of kiss that affirms we can never get enough of each other, the sort of kiss that mimics hunger sated by gluttony. Invariably, my hands find their way to Neil’s shorts, and I knead the warm bulge trapped by the silver nylon.
Neil’s lips part from mine so he can laugh. “Hold on,” he says, catching his breath, “I’d better take care of something,” meaning, he needs to pee.
With a be-my-guest gesture, I excuse him. He rises, adjusting the lump in his shorts, then walks the length of the porch, his treaded soles making gummy noises on the bright green enamel. At the end of the porch, he descends a short flight of stairs and disappears around the side of the building.
Stretching my arms along the back of the bench, I splay my legs and enjoy the evening breeze wafting over my body. Out on the little island, the duck appears from under the willow’s wispy branches, moves to the shore, and decides to take a swim. I watch for long moments as he circles the island with a lazy lack of purpose, then drifts out of view.
Two hands cover my eyes from behind. “Penny for your thoughts.”
I hadn’t even noticed Neil’s return. “Why, I was thinking of you, of course.”
“I didn’t realize the thought of me was so relaxing.”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“I think you need some excitement. Some stimulation. Close your eyes.” His hands slide away from my face.
Is this dreamy, or what? With eyes closed, I hear him move to the front of the bench; then I feel him crouch between my legs.
Both hands grab the waistband of my shorts. “Up,” he commands.
I lift my butt an inch or two off the bench as he yanks the shorts past my hips. Instantly, my penis bobs to life in the open air. He moves out of the way for a moment, working the shorts down to my shoes and, finally, free. Resuming his position between my legs, he hunkers before me, resting both elbows on my knees.
I have not yet opened my eyes, the better to fantasize his movements and anticipate his intentions. While I cannot predict his exact ministrations, the object of his attention requires no speculation, and moments later, I feel his warm hand take hold of me. Stiffening to the verge of exquisite pain, I gasp.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you.”
With eyes still closed, I assure him, “Didn’t hurt a bit.”
Then his lips surround me, gobbling the whole length. His probing fingers tickle and toy. As my hips begin to rock gently, I realize from his garbled moans that he’s enjoying this workout as much as I am.
With my head lolling back, my eyelids part, and I see the rows of precise, white slats that form the porch’s ceiling. He continues to gurgle and slurp, and my rapture intensifies as I draw my chin to my chest, looking down at him; he bobs with abandon, loving his task. Lifting my hands from the back of the bench, I run my fingers through his sandy hair. At my touch, he swallows deeper still.
I wonder, Where’s he putting it? Recalling some lame joke about a hollow leg, I begin to laugh, but the noise spilling out of me sounds deep and jerky, like spasmodic suffocation. I’m getting plenty of air, but I do feel light-headed, as if the air lacks oxygen. The sensation isn’t frightening; in fact, it’s a rush. My hands grope his head all the tighter, feeling the clumps of his now damp hair, the sides of his face, his ears.
Just as the euphoric haze is beginning to block my senses, I hear a familiar sound—the gummy squeak of Neil’s shoes drawing near from the side of the porch.
Huh? Fingering the ears of the man who kneels before me, I realize that neither lobe is sporting a stud, amethyst or otherwise. Turning my head toward the approaching footsteps, I confirm that Neil is indeed there, not here, and although I feel suddenly guilty—caught in the act—I also feel perversely clever, as if to say, Hey, Neil, look what I found!
I assume that Neil will feel affronted by his discovery of me with whomever, but my momentary fear is quickly quelled by the look on his face. Far from appearing shocked or angry, Neil absorbs the scene before him with a catlike grin. He pauses just long enough to peel off his shorts, then steps behind the guy who has not yet looked up. Neil slides his penis, which is now plenty hard, into the other guy’s mop of hair, enjoying the silky feel and rhythmic motion.
Watching this hot scene unfold before me, I am not only titillated—and how—but intrigued. Neil and the unknown visitor look very much alike, at least as far as I can tell. I have not seen the other guy’s face, but he has Neil’s build, and they share the same sandy hair.
Here’s where it gets really good:
Now that Neil is as aroused as he can get (at least without risking an aneurism
), he steps up onto the bench, straddling my hips with his running shoes. The shoes themselves have always been a mild, harmless fetish of mine, so they’re the icing on this torrid cake. He crouches slightly, lowering his groin till it’s level with my face. Like a Pavlovian pup, I get busy.
It doesn’t take long. Working in unison, like some well-oiled machine, we three are pumping and groaning. Neil’s shoes are squeaking on the slick bench as he shifts his weight from side to side, as if marching further down my throat. Then he catches his breath, freezes for a moment, and with a heaving shout, delivers his orgasm. It races down me, through me, and finding the logical outlet, pulses into the guy on the floor, whose explosion is best described as spontaneous combustion—replete with pyrotechnics, angelic fanfares, a spray of confetti, and one last blinding flash of purple fire.
And then, of course, I wake up.
Not generally one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I could not help wondering what, if anything, my dream had “meant.” Though it was fun, to say the least, it was also troubling.
The idea of adding a third sex partner to my relationship with Neil, even if only in the slippery context of slumber, was a tempting prospect that I had previously weighed and dismissed. I’m not sure why the notion of a menage tugged at my libido from time to time—perhaps it was because Neil had been my first same-sex partner and I had never played the field, while he, in his younger years, had. Did I feel cheated of the experimentation that more curious and less inhibited men took for granted in exploring their emerging sexuality?
I had never broached this topic with Neil forthright. There was no need to ask him about it because he was so convincingly content with me and me alone. Though I felt immeasurable gratitude for his love and commitment—and reciprocated with the same—there was still that nagging wonder. What would it be like? Would he freak if I suggested it? If he were open to the idea, would I later regret it?
The safer course, I knew, was to let well enough alone. Thankful for what I already had, I had come to understand that it would be foolish to threaten my happiness, our happiness, with vague longings for quick, intrusive thrills.
Bitch Slap Page 2