The Elder Man

by Katherine Wyvern

“Yuck,” said Armin. “But you don’t need a t-shirt at all, man. Come here.” Armin started undressing there and then and pulling at Van’s clothes.

  “Um, can I brush my teeth at least?” asked Van, laughing.

  “Nope.”

  Van found himself dragged bodily toward the bedroom. He was still wearing his jeans, which were unbuttoned and sliding down to his knees. He couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Okay, okay, I’m right here,” he said between kisses. He tried to either shed his trousers or hold them up so as not to fall flat on his face on the hard stone steps, but he didn’t manage to do either because Armin was all over him like an octopus.

  They finally stumbled up the corridor and through the bedroom door and into the bed, and Van found himself pinned down with his ankles tangled in his jeans and Armin’s hand in his crotch, inside his boxers, and his head lodged awkwardly between two pillows.

  “Look, honey,” he said, “I’m all yours. But I need to … let me…” He writhed about under Armin’s panting body and finally managed to kick off those damn trousers and then get rid of his underwear.

  “Shit, things were easier when we wore nothing but a loincloth and a bit of paint.”

  Armin sank his face into his neck, laughing.

  “You say these stupid things all the time. Like you are twenty thousand years old or something.”

  “Um, well, give or take…”

  “Shut up,” said Armin, kissing him deep and long, rubbing the front of his body on Van’s. Armin was buck naked and already hard and ready.

  Goodness me, what have I done to this young man? he thought.

  Van had a passing recollection of the day Armin had arrived, so downcast and subdued and almost paralyzed with shyness. He smiled in the dark and arched to meet Armin’s body, feel his cock on his own.

  Van knew that if he got another rough ride like yesterday, he’d need painkillers to get through the next day.

  He was on fire to love Armin again, to share everything, every ounce of flesh, to the bone, and if it had not been a workshop week, he’d have let himself be fucked blind again and spend the day in bed tomorrow, come hell or high water.

  But with the last day of the workshop looming, he thought this eager young buck needed to be steered in a different direction.

  Hell, am I really growing old? he thought. He didn’t feel old, least of all with Armin’s quick young body in his arms, but perhaps he was not quite as supple as he used to be. That’s the trouble with a middle-aged human body. Damn this mortal flesh.

  “Would—you—let me…” he whispered in brief bursts between hungry kisses, and he ran a finger deep in the crack of Armin’s butt. The young man arched into his arms, his back quivering.

  “Yes,” he said, half word, half breath, before pushing his tongue into Van’s ear, as if words were not enough to express his longing.

  “You can suit yourself if you like,” Van whispered, lying down flat on his back, inviting Armin to straddle his body.

  “Oh, I like, I like a lot,” whispered the young man, smiling and palming Van’s cock to gauge his erection.

  ****

  Armin

  He was quite happy to fuck or be fucked, but he had never done both with the same man. He was amazed and enchanted and almost a little humbled. Jonas had been an absolute bottom, and it was at least two years since Armin had had anything in his ass not made of steel or silicon.

  He fumbled around, switched on a bedside light, and opened that little surprising drawer again. He rolled a condom down Van’s cock and slathered it with lube.

  Armin kissed him and stroked Van hard again and lowered himself by degrees onto his lap, moaning softly as that warm, slippery living glans parted his ring by degrees and then slithered inside his body, such an intimate intrusion that he almost wept with emotion. It was so easy to fuck and be fucked that one could easily forget what an incredible disclosure of love and trust it could be. He took a long breath, and another, pleasure and pain and emotion clashing for an almost unbearable minute. Then the pleasure washed over him in mounting waves at every careful, deepening thrust as he filled himself with Van’s length and his own cock grew stiffer and bounced softly on Van’s stomach. After the crazy hurry and urgency of just a few minutes earlier, he had to pace himself, give his ass time to adjust around the girth of Van’s cock, and move slowly, with infinite tenderness, for himself, and for Van. It was really, really difficult.

  Van seemed quite happy though.

  “Oh, honey,” he said, dreamily. He lay quite flat, his arms over his head and a lazy smile on his lips.

  He was not so much fucking him as letting Armin take his own pleasure out of him, offering himself to Armin’s need. Armin wondered if he was always so … not submissive exactly, but giving.

  He went a little crazy inside as he worked his ass in waves and tight circles on Van’s hard cock, rooted onto his body, spread wide and full inside and hard in front, all at the same time. It was so much pleasure all at once, almost too much, and yet still not enough. He wanted to say something absurd like, Take me hard, please yourself, fuck me like a whore, but he had never gotten the hang of delivering dirty talk with any panache, and the mere thought made him laugh a little. Van stirred and smiled tenderly, caressing his thighs and gently digging his thumbs at the base of his cock, kneading, so that Armin’s erection stiffened and rose a little higher.

  “What’s funny?” he asked softly.

  “Nothing,” said Armin, but he was still smiling, delirious with happiness. When Van took hold of his cock and began stroking it very slowly, he thought he might go crazy. He put his hand around Van’s hand and held it and stroked harder and faster, leading Van into the rhythm he wanted and needed.

  “Ah,” said Van, with a grimace that was almost a laugh, “youngsters. Always so damn hasty.”

  “Shut up,” said Armin, “oh, please, shut up and just do it.”

  And Van smiled and did it, quickly and expertly—damn, that man could give a hand-job—and Armin came hard, with a groaning cry, splattering semen all over Van’s chest and all the way up to his beard. He sat astride Van’s body for a minute or two, panting hard, in a stupor, before he could talk again

  “Argh, sorry,” he muttered, wiping Van’s beard more or less clean, but Van was laughing softly.

  “Eh, I was aiming, wasn’t I?”

  He put his hands on Armin’s hips and said, “Shut up, then, young hasty, and just do it.”

  Armin grinned and fucked himself hard on Van’s cock until Van arched under him with a hard, gasping moan and pulled Armin’s ass down on his pelvis, hard, hard, and cried out briefly, pressing his head back in the pillows.

  Armin arched backward to take him in even deeper and held him tight inside until Van subsided, heaving hard deep breaths and then a spent purring sigh.

  “Oh, boy,” he gasped after a minute. “I’m too old for this. You will be the death of me. Not complaining, mind. There must be worse ways to go.”

  He pulled Armin down on his chest and hugged him, and they lay together, panting. Slowly, after some minutes, Van pushed him off his chest, gently. Armin cuddled up against his side with his face on his shoulder, and Van’s hand came to rest in his hair, mussing it gently. He turned and kissed Armin’s forehead. The beard on his chin was still wet. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “I love you,” Armin said and then grimaced. What sort of confounded mooncalf says something like that to a man he has known for less than a week and had sex with three times? But he meant it, and it was terrifying. Van hugged him, held him close, and kissed his forehead over and over and over. But he didn’t answer, and Armin was both elated—perhaps he had not heard him—and mortified—perhaps he had heard and chosen to ignore it.

  ****

  Van

  I love you, Armin had said.

  And so do I. But what am I going to do about it if you go back to your skyscrapers in Frankfurt?

  He did not like spending time on the int
ernet. He was not romantic enough to conduct a love affair by letters. He hated phones.

  He didn’t think he was really cut out for a long-distant relationship. He was a man who lived with real things, things he could touch and smell and taste and shape, things made from real stuff, wood and stone, earth and water. What could he do with pixels on a screen or a voice in the phone?

  He held the young man a bit closer, stumped for words, until the silence stretched too long and any answer would be too awkward.

  I’ll think about it tomorrow.

  But tomorrow was the last day of the workshop. One more day of teaching, clay plaster, sculpting, and the last dinner, a bit of a celebration, and then it’d be morning again and everybody would leave. Would Armin leave too?

  Very quietly Van stroked Armin’s neck, where that love bite still glowed a plummy purple, to everyone’s quiet amusement and puzzlement.

  Van’s own mark. He stroked it again and felt the young man start in his arms, like he’d been stung or prodded, and then relax as a wave of pleasure soothed him.

  “Does it bother you?” he asked softly.

  “Mmm? What, the hickey?” asked Armin, muffled with sleepiness. “No. It just … tingles. It’s funny. No, not funny. I mean weird.”

  “Mmm,” said Van and smiled in the dark. “How interesting.”

  He stretched himself more comfortably between the blankets and just held Armin closer, heaving a deep sigh.

  “I could sleep for a week,” he whispered.

  “Mmm. Still getting up at 6 tomorrow?” asked Armin, rousing himself somewhat.

  “See anyone volunteering to do the chores?” muttered Van.

  “I’ll do it. You get your sleep. I saw how it’s done. All the morning things. I’ll do it. You sleep.” He paused to kiss Van’s sleepy mouth. “Let me grab my phone. I’ll set the alarm and do the morning stuff for you. You need some rest, man.”

  Van gave a small snort of laughter as Armin got out of bed to rummage around the floor for his shed jeans, looking for his phone.

  “You need not laugh, sir. I may be more of a night owl than an early worm or bird or whatever it is, but I’m used to sleeping short hours. I’ll do it. You need a good sleep, after all this entertaining.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sunday

  Van

  The next morning Van woke up, not to birdsong but to an intrusive, unnatural, appalling electronic jingle. He opened his eyes in shock, took in the familiar gray glow of dawn, and shot up, sitting in the bed. Armin’s iPhone was tittering senselessly on the bedside table. Armin was spread out flat on the bed on his belly, oblivious. Van grabbed the phone, fumbled at the screen for a second, and gave up in despair.

  Gah! How does one stop this devil spawn from ringing?

  Finally he jumped out of bed, carrying the phone in his outstretched hand like a potentially explosive object, crossed the whole length of the house at a run, opened a trunk full of blankets, dropped the thing in it, still blaring louder than ever, and shut the lid down on it. Blessed silence descended on the house again. Van padded quietly back to the bedroom, massaging the back of his neck and his eyeballs. I’ll set the alarm, he thought, with an inward sigh.

  He peeked into the bedroom. Armin was still fast asleep. Van shook his head, grinned fondly, and went off to wash and start his morning routine in his usual silent solitude.

  ****

  Armin

  The sun was high and shone into the window like liquid gold in a deafening chorus of bird song when Armin was awoken by someone pinching both his sides hard, which was a little painful and a lot more ticklish. He started up, writhing and yelping, and finally gasped out, “Argh! Argh, stop! Please stop!”

  Van relented and bent over him, nuzzling his beard into the back of Armin’s neck.

  “Rise and shine, morning owl,” he said, obviously suppressing a snort of laughter.

  “Oh my God,” yelped Armin. “Oh my God. Oh my God! What’s the time?”

  “It’s a quarter to nine, and breakfast is almost ready. Paul is making crepes. Try not to be late, or we’ll eat them all.”

  He made to leave, just like that, and Armin jumped out of the bed, fumbling for clothes.

  “Did I … did you… I mean what about the morning chores? The ducks and … the outhouses and…”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Van said, pulling him close to kiss and bite his neck, face, shoulders, roughly and urgently. He gave a low growling moan as he tore himself away from Armin’s skin. “But, hey, listen, give yourself a wash, okay? Try not to wander in late to breakfast positively reeking of sex? It’s full of little old ladies, children, and blushing virgins down there. And I am in enough trouble with Allie half the time as it is.”

  He grinned rascally, winked, and disappeared down the corridor.

  Armin did wash himself and looked at his face in Van’s small mirror. He smoothed back his damp hair and made to don his glasses, but then he hesitated and put them down by the basin.

  In truth he didn’t need glasses, unless he spent long hours in front of a computer screen. But he always wore them, if only to cultivate his nerdy look, which had always been a bit of an armor behind which he could hide from the world. But it was a little ridiculous here, at Le Sureau Noir. His glasses were constantly splashed with mud to begin with. He was intelligent enough and honest enough to admit that the glasses, these glasses, were an affectation.

  Down at the kitchen he found Paul dishing out crepes as quickly as they were cooked, while Edith slathered them with different toppings, salted butter and caramel, sweet butter and lemon curd, apple jelly, banana and sliced kumquats, strawberries and rhubarb, Nutella for the children.

  Edith’s French was as experimental as Armin’s, but Paul and she were conversing with great gusto while cooking together.

  “Marshmallow puff. Tu le connais?” said Edith. “Marshmallow puff? It’s an American thing, je pense. On fait du sandwich called fluffernutters, avec ça et du peanuts butter, et des choses that are called whoopee pies…Oh, hello, handsome,” she said with a double take and then a wide-eyed stare. Armin, who was approaching timidly with a dish, gave a quick look behind his shoulder, wondering whom she’d been talking to, but there was nobody else there.

  “Eh?” he said, nonplussed.

  “Handsome, I said.”

  “Who? Me?”

  “You. Why, you didn’t know you were?”

  He made a confused pffft-fuh-ff noise, and Edith laughed. “What topping?”

  “Eh? Er, whatever’s easier.”

  “Just choose, young man,” she commanded, wagging a spoon at him.

  “All right, all right… strawberries, then.”

  He repaired to the table in a hurry, feeling a little disoriented.

  When they left the breakfast table, Van dashed the girls’ hopes by saying that it made no sense plastering the new building yet.

  “The wall is barely two-thirds done. It needs a lot of trimming. I’d have to scrape all the plaster off tomorrow, and you could never get a nice finish on it anyway. Too lumpy. That’d be twice the work and a waste of both time and clay.”

  “But, but…” they started, and he relented and smiled.

  “Come on. Let’s grab buckets, shovels, a couple of tarps, and the finest orange clay we can dig. We’ll re-plaster one of the outhouses, and you can sculpt on it to your heart’s content.”

  That got them all grinning and working briskly.

  They dug some fresh new clay from the bottom of a deep dig. It was a brighter orange than anything they had used before, and finer. They loaded a couple wheelbarrows with it and trundled it down to the chosen outhouse. Van appeared with a large sack full of some light flaky golden stuff, which turned out, to everyone’s astonishment, to be horse manure.

  “If it dries very quickly in hot summer sun, it becomes like this, especially if the horses walk on it and crush it. Then you can bag it and use it for any bit of quick plastering. If you use fresh ma
nure, you have to let it ferment with the clay to break it up. It makes the best plaster, but you’ll stink of the stuff for three days afterwards. It’s worth it, mind.”

  Still, they were very happy to use the dry stuff, which was astonishingly odorless and clean and pleasant on the hand, like soft sawdust.

  Preparing the clay was messy, yet incredibly satisfying. It was a process so simple that it verged on child’s play, and yet it sublimated the clay from hard, crumbly dirt to something altogether different. It was drenched in water, rubbed through a sieve, and it turned into what Van called slip, creamy liquidized clay with no lumps or stones. It reminded Armin irresistibly of the ochre body paint he had shared with Van on their first unforgettable night together. It was not screened that fine, but it had the same quality. He could barely bring himself to look at Van for fear he would blush.

  Once the clay slip and the flaky manure were mixed, a process not unlike making cake batter, they formed a plastic, pliable mass that could be shaped into balls and sausages or, if wet enough, spread over the wall almost like paint.

  “This,” said Van, “is the best plaster for cob. Nothing sticks to mud as well as mud. The wall must be wet. That is important. Mud to mud. You must never, ever plaster a cob building with cement stucco.”

  “Why? Wouldn’t that be stronger?” asked Monica.

  “No. Cob must breathe. Like a living thing. Humidity accumulating into it behind a waterproof cement finish can make it so wet over time that it collapses. Many beautiful old clay buildings have been destroyed that way. Any stucco or paint you use must let vapor travel freely, in and out of the wall. Earth plaster is best. Lime plaster is second best. Treat your wall as you’d treat your skin, and you’ll be okay.”

  “I never smeared horseshit on my skin,” said Monica.

  “Believe me, it’d be much preferable to cement.”

  They played around with plastering the wall by hand and with various tools, experimenting with different textures and patterns, and then everyone picked their own spot of wall and began to do their sculpting.