El Raval Copyright MCVT 03 July 2021
Entirely fictional tale of males in close relations practicing harsh proclivities and experimenting with exotic intimacies in pairs and otherwise. (Adult content, long read.)
Lyle Social worker, narrator Doug Artist, partner to Lyle
El Raval
Young, invincible, handsome and queer; heady days on campu. Non-stop sex, drugs, rock and roll. Classes repeated high school courses, easy to ace. Spent every Thursday planning the next weekend's pa-r-r-r-tay. That's where Doug and I found each other--I froze the juice boxes for the bucket of sangria, he brought boxes of wine.
First two years eliminated the weaker guys of our queer clique--left a lusty crew of men carrying a heavy load of hedonism as well as our studies.
Fortunately, I was on scholarship; upperclassmen clued me in on the most lenient professors and scheduling. Doug was family-funded and being an art student, he could say he was in a blue mood or a yellow funk if he fell behind. Dark-haired with hazel eyes and light tan skin, Doug was classically handsome in a casual way; charmed men and women alike. Hard to refuse his soft, baritone excuses.
...
Doug moved off campus after his sophomore year, opened an unofficial clubhouse for the freshmen fags. In "the studio." his male models came and left evidence; thongs, lube, and oddly, one day I found a pair of tortoise shell, half-lens glasses, "One of your models leave these?"
He grabbed them, hung them on his easel, " Oh, him--Mr. Concupiscent." He winked.
Despite that, we continued to date, became an unofficial couple. Doug's drug use ramped up, being away from campus though he was producing incredible, frantic canvases that exploded with color.
Propped him up repeatedly during his senior year. He skated through to graduation with a few bucks to the alumni committee, I suspected..
Didn't get to meet his parents at graduation, they said they were "out of town" that weekend. Doug was in poor shape meeting my parents; thin, dark circles under his eyes, looking all the starving artist.
I'd already sent my parents photos of the two of Doug's art that wouldn't disturb them.
Doug painted highly sensual portraits of men, embracing and some clearly engaged intimately. These were his favored subjects. Figures were splashed on the canvas with sharp, black lines. Deep browns and skin tones. He highlighted the black with stingingly vibrant tertiary colors--magenta, turquoise, chartreuse. Overtly virile subjects; the faces were never clear but for their struggling expressions suggesting primal urgency.
Thought he would sell his works through a dealer, they were that good. He sold them through his street contacts for pennies on what they could have garnered. His family continued to fund his living expenses, I figured his art sales went for drugs.
After graduation we moved in together.
Cobbler's children have no shoes; my lover had serious addiction issues and I now held a degree in Social Work. Faced two more years of administration classes with him beside me. I was in love, in lust and we were hornier than a corral of bulls.
...
"Bright futures," everyone commented yet Doug was on shaky ground. Lucid moments--the moments between the drugs wearing off and before he became dope sick that were the best. There was still a creative, funny kid inside him. Sex was incredible during the first few moments the chemicals sneaked into his bloodstream. Made both of us want more of each other; I seldom imbibed with him, I wanted to feel, smell, hear, taste it all..
Parents raised me to be fair, sensitive--always a gentleman. All that changed in our bedroom. I became a master to a man begging to be punished brutally. I was young, my defenses weren't hardened yet I grasped the system, the knots, the restraints, the whip and a dom's disgusting lexicon. Powerful, that's what I felt when he groveled. The smell of his fear oozed along with his sweat; intoxicating, addictive.
Models, friends, fantastic hunks he lured to join our play.
Studying a boring major, and being a pedestrian guy, I never figured I'd sample the extoic extremes we enjoyed.
...
Slipped through my last two years on campus watching him physically decline. Doug looked bad; skin eruptions, dental problems and his thick mane of black hair thinned. Bloodshot eyes, yellowish-gray skin stretched over his bones. He looked thirty years older as he took to the bottle along with his other potions.
I couldn't leave him. Still an inspired painter, he needed me. The tables turned: It was now me begging, wheedling and whining, he refused rehab, medical care.
I landed a position with the county and signed him onto my benefits, Kept hounding him; he stubbornly refused help and my second month on the job I got the call. Yeah, the call.
One of his models had to narcaine my lover back to life in the studio. Model left after he called the ambulance and rifled through our things.
Met Doug at the hospital, presenting the paperwork. An intern convinced Doug to stay for a few days, promising him he'd get eased through the withdrawals with more drugs.
Not sure if Doug knew it was an insult, the intern also told him he wasn't so creative if he needed the drugs to produce artwork. Those words stung me and that intern was right. It spurred Doug to try the thirty day program.
...
The next several years were a repeat of that incident. My drug of choice was holding complete authority over him at least twice a week in the bedroom. I enjoyed watching him squirm, grunt through his gag and his eyes plead with me to let him cum. Seeing him suffer gave me revenge-like satisfaction.
I began lengthening the time before I let him cum, to the point of torture. Tears are the price he paid for all my worry he flippantly ignored. I was hooked on control yet held none over his drug use.
...
Physically a wreck, and mentally, he was eroding. Painting ceased, staring at the window with the headphones on obsessed him. He was given medications from the clinic, I believe he traded or augmented them while I worked.
I was upset when sex stopped, got a taste of his withdrawls.
Don't know what the jail or state mental hospital rooms looked like; our home was kept to the bare minimum. Doug's friends came over, didn't eat anything, but left a mess and took what they thought they could fence. Couldn't hire a maid; needles, pipes were strewn about. Came to hate coming home to a drughouse, then seeing Doug sick, wearing urine-stained jeans, unbathed and in a half-stupor.
I hit the wall--fed up with it. Need for security, stability outweighed the high of domination. Wanting more than stinking, shifting tides to live in, "Long term program or leave. I can't take this anymore." I had enabled him, he enabled me to hold to those words with an iron fist.
...
No force involved; Doug got caught with his dealer. Judge was experienced with addicts, and gave Doug a choice: three years in county or into the mental institution for a full work-up and treatment.
Doug had to think about it while I reminded him he was in no shape to defend himself physically in a jail setting.
Cops took him to the mental institute. No phone, no razor allowed, nothing pointed or sharp. Doug trembled at intake, dope sick and frightened. I left as a nurse induced a dream state.
As bad as it was at home, being alone was worse. Doubt and loneliness overwhelmed me--having no resistance, no one else around, left me undefined, at loose ends.
...
Saturday and Sunday afternoon visits for two hours only. We sat in a common area furnished in plastic chairs. Slowly, Doug began looking better. As his beard lengthened, his smile appeared occasionally.
When the weather was warm, we were allowed to walk the grounds. That's when we had enough privacy for me to tell Doug I missed him, still loved him, "We'll start over."
Can't be sure if he meant it, and he said that's what he wanted, "Won't be the same, and I'll try.". He told me something I didn't question, and couldn't fully understand. Doug said he used drugs to make calluses on his spirit. "Drugs made a tough skin that protected me."
While Doug had built up defense against past pain reemerging; I'd built myself an irrational coping mechanism. Domination made me feel like I was in control. For a few hours, I was the god constraining the source of my pain.
All foolish, irrational thoughts, perverse salves for where our lives had led us.
...
We were allowed to celebrate our fifth year together. Not our usual kind of party, everything in the hospital was soft, ivory-colored and spongy. None of the edginess of real life.
Eight month mark, Doug and I attended family counseling in a group setting. No surprise that everyone in the room was dealing with a similar issue, though with Doug, he had a chance to return to a full life, to painting again.
...
Spiritual calluses scraped off, Doug came home. We stopped for art supplies; he planned to audit classes, get back to his work. I kept my fingers crossed. Gags, ropes, cock cage packed away, I admitted to Doug the sensations they brought, and I didn't want that kind of relationship, even in play. It was addictive for me, made me mean. "Got to stop."
Thinking he would explain his past trauma, I waited for his response. "There's other things to do...." He whispered. Made me leery, but I could live with that.
Regularly attended our support group meetings in town. Occasionally brought a few friends home for dinner; we tread a slower path alongside each other. The empty space of unknowns and unspoken was palpable between us.
...
Through the months, Doug's old paintings began showing up. Doug's works were large; half to three-quarters life size. Our garage held over twenty canvases at the end of the year. Vivid colors on his work reflected the craziness of his life on drugs, he said the tense, accentuating hues were the pain under his spiritual callouses.
He was buying them back and reselling them to private buyers through an agent. This time the money didn't go to drugs, he said he'd opened a bank account online.
Would his verve return and bring the cockrings, and whips with it? It didn't.
Doug was careful; his goal was to become internationally known and he was sketching from photos constantly. Doug's art took on pastel shades, fewer dynamic, diagonal compositions. Relaxed, and unimaginative, his subjects had no passion or vitality holding them to the canvas. Colors were the same as facial tissue boxes and he medicated correctly to sleep deeply every night..
My work with elementary school children was tedious, home life was almost as spongy as the institute.
Pale, thin and quiet, Doug escorted me toward middle age placidly. He referred to our past as a test of survival.
...
"Zing?"
The ad promised to put zing back in life. Package vacation in El Raval Barcelona was guaranteed to reinvigorate a bland sex life. Sounded like what I needed, what we needed. I; signed up for two weeks and made a plan.
"Big party, invite all the support group, our families. Then, fly to Barcelona for two weeks. We can rent a flat, let our hair down, and go to the beach every day."
Lukewarm acknowledgement from Doug.
As it goes in the progression of life, I was tired of uncertainty, I wanted more of a commitment to calm my anxiousness about a man I loved--I saw us growing old together. Married, I would have the power to commit him if the drugs reappeared. It was the best thing for him. So, I campaigned, bribed and begged.
I kept at it, with every approach I could create, being super-sweet, overbearing and again with the whining. Finally told him he owed me for keeping him out of jail. He nodded but refused verbal approval of our union.
We set a date. Begrudgingly Doug invited his family. His mother and sisters offered to bring the wedding cake;. "Doug's father is out of town."
My family was always up for a party and offered to bring the champagne. They were glad I was settling down though they didn't appreciate what they found out about Doug's past.
A few friends from our support group and several of my coworkers responded. A week ahead of our nuptials, I called a maid and a caterer to handle the details. Life was finally going to become the rich, full experience of a healthy, queer couple.
To the world, we'd be the ideal.
...
The closer the date came, the more Doug appeared jumpy. Came home Thursday before the event to find him in his studio. Headphones on and no music playing, staring out the window.
Sketch pad and easel were on the floor, pastels and charcoals were scattered. Streak of yellow chalk arced the floor by the window. Other chalks were crushed and broken . Backdrop lay on the floor, half unrolled and torn. Knotted, used condom and greasy smears on the platform. His linseed oil?
My stomach tensed, "What happened? Are you alright?" That's when I saw his dick covered with grease and clotted with broken black charcoal over his bright red penis; under his foreskin. He couldn't have jerked off to rub himself raw with the chunks of pigment.
"I can't get married." Nasal monotone.
"We'll have a ceremony, promise to stay together, help each other--nothing religious or legal; a public declaration of our love." Pulled him to his feet and pressed him to me. Saw he had a knot on his head and his lip was swollen. "Were you raped? Did one of your models do this?"
He didn't answer.
Took him to the shower, "Who did this?"
No answer.
Took him to the shower, cleaned him up in silence.
Gave him his meds, lay beside him, showed him pictures of El Raval, the small apartment I rented for our honeymoon. The people, the beach, the sites, colorful markets and cafes, "We'll rent bikes and tour the area--sound like fun?
No response.
...
Took an extra day off, had to get Doug to the clinic for additional meds. They took a week to build in his blood; I doubled them up to speed the process. Wedding was fifteen hours away.
Doug's affect was flat, he was unresponsive and lethargic, almost in a zombie state. In one of the most desperate acts of my life, I called my dad, "You gotta help me with Doug. Come early, say you're helping set up. Stay with him, he's... he's not angry or crazy, but he's feeling really off. Until his meds start working, you gotta help me get him through the ceremony."
"No, that's a job for your mother."
Mom would send him to the institute again. "Please. You gotta help me out--I'm doing everything I can to get our lives back on track."
Took me almost half an hour to get him to agree.
...
Morning of our wedding, three hours to go. Dad showed up early. "Doug, Dad's going to stay with you while I get things ready." I left them in the studio.
Caterer, guests arrived, everything in place, music played, people spoke softly. Doug's mother kept asking for him, she was proud, showing everyone pictures of him as a child. My mom began singing along with Kelly from the support group who brought his keyboard and speakers; they stalled for time.
Ran upstairs, found Dad and Doug. Dad was shaky on his feet, eyes wide, sweating. Doug stood behind him, hanging his head.
Didn't have time to question them; shoved them in the bath to straighten up while I dressed. Grabbed my jacket with our airplane tickets in the pocket and our suitcase. Doug's shrink gave me two tranquilizers, our flight was over nine hours long from Miami to Barcelona. Checked I had all his meds, lugged the suitcase downstairs..
Now, get through the ceremony and to the airport and find out what the hell happened three days ago in the studio, then with my dad.
Exchange of vows: Kept it brief, Doug was able to tell me he loved me, but glanced at my dad and almost smiled. Dad left the room. I waxed poetic for twenty-seven words and the celebration began. Cake, champagne, music and as soon as the blue van pulled in the drive, I grabbed our bag and Doug's arm.
On the way out the door, Dad pulled me aside, "Don't hate me.."
"I won't" Wasn't sure what that was about and Dad was an upright guy.
...
Gave Doug his tranquilizer before takeoff and the drink cart cruised the aisle. Strapped in, "What did you and my father do in the studio?" Whispered.
"Your Dad--he's inspiring." Then he said he loved my dad.
Not chunky, yet never svelte, my father was okay, not impressive. "What's going on? Tell me what happened, he told me not to hate him.."
"Don't put any money on that...." Doug's head leaned back and his eyes closed, off to dreamland.
...
Landed smoothly at El Prat. Got an expresso for Doug, and his mood was brighter. He enjoyed the sounds and colors of Barcelona. The men were gorgeous, and the people super friendly.
Maybe this trip would turn our lives to a better place; we windowshopped through El Raval, looking for our flat. Seemed to be a number of cops parked here and there--made me feel this would be a perfect, hassle-free honeymoon--peaceful.
...
Wide, landscaped boulevards and narrow alleys and walkways, we stopped several times to ask directions. Smelled old, hints of mold and yet everything was clean, inviting.
Colourful rugs hung over patio railings reflecting the patchwork of humanity in El Raval. Music wafted from the open windows and the smells of dinners welcomed us to one narrow door painted a deep mulberry with lilac trim. Rest of the facade was soft beige sprinkled with red and black graffiti.
A elderly woman in the first apartment gave us a key and told us to watch out for pickpockets, I guessed; my Spanish wasn't great.
Up a very narrow set of dark stairs to the second floor, inside were only two rooms painted in pale lime green behind potted palms, a simple bed, table and chairs. Tiny kitchen and small bath to the side. This had to have been built almost two-hundred years ago yet itt was spotless, spruced up and enough for us.
Took Doug to the tall, shuttered windows with the map in hand. "Beach is that way, and the gay bars are over there...."
He was staring at the street as I described the markets and told him I wanted to go to the galleries, hoping to increase his enthusiasm, his former electric style of painting.
Doug watched the street below, not hearing me. I looked down to see a drug transaction in progress.
...
Dined at several places that night, shopped for the smallest swimwear possible, danced til the sun came up and left for the sunrise at the surf. Under an umbrella on chaise loungers, we enjoyed tapas and fell asleep as almost nude male bodies paraded past.
Since Doug didn't take his sleeping pill last night, I figured I better get him to bed for a long nap. I'd wake him with strawberries and suck his nipples while he ate; no more rough sex.
...
Left him on the bed to sleep while I went to the market for pastries, juices. Headed downstairs, out to the alleyway when my phone rang.
"Lyle, where are you staying?"
"El Raval. Dad? Where are you?" Heard Spanish in the background.
"El Prat, just arrived. I need to apologize to you and talk to Doug. This El Rival, it's a hotel?"
"It's Raval, an old neighborhood. What do you want to apologize about?"
"Won't discuss it from the airport."
Gave him directions and went to the store. Met him on the stoop when I returned, "What's to apologize for?"
"I need to speak to Doug." He grabbed his bag and followed me upstairs.
Halfway up the stairs, I remembered, "Don't put any money on it...." Got a queasy feeling as I opened the door to our flat.
...
Doug had showered and lay on the bed watching the news when we came in. He jumped up seeing Dad, embraced him. They whispered a few things, then kissed--Dad kissed Doug the way he kissed Mom. Doug kissed Dad the way he used to kiss me.
"How long has this been going on?" I pulled them apart.
Dad pulled out his tortoise shell reading glasses, opened his phone. Swiping through his calendar rapidly... "Since your junior year at uni... around that time." He looked up at me, "Went to your studio and met Doug. Needed you to sign the title to the old Toyota I sold--remember?"
That was when Doug had opened his studio to models, freshmen... Doug turned away when I glared at him.
"He inspires me." That was Doug's mumbled response, and those were our days of more than casual sex. Could I hold it against my lover? Yeah. He knew he was fucking my dad; shoulda told me.
Turned to the kitchen sink, began rinsing tumblers, thinking. Heard Dad unzipping his suitcase behind me. Dad was planning on staying?
...
Hurt, confused and half-angry, I needed more explanation on why this was happening now: "Dad, when did you find out you were bisexual? Why did you have to pick Doug? Don't you realize that this is probably as close as I'll ever come to a wedding and honeymoon? You've destroyed my life."
Dad canted his head, "Look at my life--queer all those years as a husband and father. Never honest with myself or anyone else. I'm sorry I hurt the boy I love, and I have to be true to myself now that you're grown. You'll find another man, you're handsome, have a good job."
He grabbed the juice, glasses and took them to the couch, where he'd sat a bottle of something from the duty-free store at the airport--Dos Maderas Rum.
"Finally my days of hiding are over. Won't waste the rest of my life in the suburbs, grilling and mowing the yard and trying to satisfy your mother when I could only satisfy myself with Doug."
"What about Mom?"
"Divorce is in the works now. She'll be fine, we've got a social worker in the family to patch things up." He shook his head and lifted his glass, "No easy way to fix a lie that's lasted this long--let's celebrate the truth. I'm as queer as you are."
Doug saw the bottle, leaned forward and spiked his juice, Dad's and looked at me. He offered the open bottle, smiling softly.
I shook my head; emotional shock was setting in and my addiction radar was blipping rapidly as I watched Doug drinking again. This was going to crash soon--he had seen the dealing in the street, carried his own scripts.
Killing me inside, the fear and pain increased as the feeling spread through me. I was out, cut off and I couldn't force either of them to give the other up. No more begging Doug to stop....
"If I would have known this was more your honeymoon than mine, I would have booked a suite in Paris or London." I spat at them.
"How did you know?" Doug tossed the rest of his drink back, "We're leaving for Paris tomorrow. The apartment's yours, the gay bars are right over there." He pointed out the window, mocking me.
I felt the biggest fool in the world watching Doug pack and leave with Dad.
...
Called Mom, she was fine with the divorce. Seems she suspected and tried to play along all those years, "Take a rest, Lyle, come back and we'll celebrate all of us being liberated from your Dad's cowardice. You can meet my boyfriend Abel--he's a real sweetheart...."
Spent the rest of my vacation visiting the museums, and found a nurse from Athens to dine with, stroll along the beach. Couldn't bring myself to do much more, but I began writing down all the questions I had for my father.
I'd always suspected antipathy from Doug's father, but couldn't confirm it. Where did his streak of evil come from? Was Dad using drugs?
...
Tanned, relaxed, I returned home, back to work. Still feeling rocky; nothing I could do about it but push through the changes.
Went through the phases of guilt, sorrow, anger, depression and finally acceptance. That came the day I moved out of our old place and found a condo near Mom's house. We met weekly; Abel was a sweetheart--unsophisticated and slow on the uptake, but he filled his slacks well, and Mom was a healthy woman.
...
How long did Doug and Dad last? Three years.
Kept tabs through searching the European art scene. They were the talk of galleries now and then. Photos in the society pages showed Dad in a leather vest, sporting a tattoo under his bush of white chest hair; wore a Muir cap. Doug wore something like a silk chemise; half feminine with his hair poofed into a lacquered, swirling style, wearing heavy makeup.
On Dad's birthday, that year, I texted him, "Happy B'day. Hope all's going well. Love, Lyle."
No response, and I didn't expect any.
Took several more courses and became a family counselor. Started picking up work in the evenings dealing with families who had addiction issues. I'm sure most of my advice was ignored, but they fulfilled their court-ordered requirements to stay together. Separating the problem members would probably have worked better, it did for me. Doug's predictable manipulations paraded in front of me again and again in different words, from different faces. Addicts have reliable patterns; enablers, too. Those patterns ceased with no one to enable..
My life was quiet, peaceful and I could finally earn a sense of professional satisfaction.
...
Next New Year's Eve, I got a call from Dad. He was coming to town, wanted to get together. "Smooth things out."
"Will you be alone?" I knew I couldn't handle triangular dynamics well.
"I only want to see you for a few hours if you're willing to forgive me for that long."
Sounded like we'd be alone, I offered to meet him at the airport. No, didn't want him in my home, or to know where I lived. I had a feeling this visit would become sticky, especially if Doug was taking a later flight.
...
No hugs; handshakes and I took Dad to the beach cafe. He ordered wine, lunch. I only had a tall iced tea, noticed he looked slightly different; his skin was smooth over his cheeks and neck.. "Where's your Muir? Saw you got yourself a little kink on in France. Good for you."
"He said you were better than I'd ever be... can't bring myself to hurt him, degrade him, and I can't take a dump just anywhere." He looked toward the surf, "I refuse to pierce my dick."
"He's back on the drugs?"
"Met a German who bought most of his newer work, and wanted more; part of the payment was pharmaceutical. The buyer turned him on to a man with a dungeon. Almost suicidal the way he chases pain."
"What happened before our wedding? Did he ever tell you who tore up his studio...."
"His father came when he heard Doug was going to make a commitment to you. Things got nasty and worse--Doug was beaten and fucked hard. Not sure if he asked for it." He stopped. "Said he loved his father, always wanted him, but only got abuse. That came to be his father's love.. Before the ceremony, we were in the studio, he was talking nonsense about me being his father."
...
"Wait here." I went to the front of the restaurant, grabbed a So-Fla Gay News and brought it to Dad. "Find yourself a nice guy, you're nice looking, well-situated. You'll get over it."
He opened the paper, looked through a few listings, "Could you drop me off further south where I can get a room till I've got my bearings?"
Dad had been good to me through my childhood, always accepting and supportive about my being queer; I took him home with me. Only one bag filled with wads of unwashed clothing unsuitable for Miami's tropical persona.
"You want me to call Mom? She's engaged now; doing well."
"I'll take care of that myself." He mumbled, and continued sorting laundry. "Isn't there a Jensen's down the street?"
"After everything with Doug--no more in the house. Can't stand the smell of it, and don't want to deal with the side effects. Alcohol's a depressant."
He nodded and lay down on the couch trying to regulate his body to the EST time zone.
...
Life was quiet, Dad held his liaisons elsewhere, gone every Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. Occasionally I had a friend stay over. First Saturday in February, he asked me to go with him to the Keys. "Looking for a place You'll never find the man of your dreams with me hanging around your neck."
"Wait till after a hurricane, see who won't take the floods anymore." I thought for a moment, "You can afford a house in the Keys?" Dad did well in insurance, but houses in the Keys were expensive.
"Going to rent a slip, live aboard. Find a small boat and get a Greek sailor's cap."
"You can't swim."
"I'll wear a life vest. You need your privacy and a husband."
...
One marina to the next, slip fees were high but the lifestyle was appealing. Manager of Big Cedar told us a man named Chester wanted to sell his boat, move back to the mainland. Called Chester, he told us to get the key from the manager, he'd meet us later.
Located the right pier, the right slip and found an older wooden boat rocking gently; coastal cruiser that slept four in the nineteen forties; slept two these days. Glossy wood and brass trim and had everything a person would need in miniature but for the bed.
Dad checked out the galley. Toward the bow, I found the bed, the berth covered with a deep magenta spread, bright blue blanket and a photo of a boy on the nightstand. PIcked it up; the boy looked around twelve, jumping onto the stern with a big smile.
"Looks like you." Dad stood behind me, took the photo. "That's about how old you were when you told me you were queer. Almost cried, I felt so lucky."
"Lucky?" Dad's arms encircled me.
"I never expected I'd have a son, and never one who would be so much like me. I wanted to love you more deeply than other men love their sons."
Warmth of the closed cabin, soft light from the sun through the portholes, Dad embraced and turned me. "More intimate than other men. Ultimate intimacy."
Pulled me hard against him, kissed me deeply. The smell of him; like me. The feel of him; like me, the erection rubbing mine--felt larger then Doug's, larger than mine.
Our clothes fell around our ankles a few moments later; he stood back and looked at me naked. "Gorgeous."
French words were tattooed on his shaved groin. Dad's tanned skin with a heavy V-shaped swath of white, bushy hair. His arms grabbed my soldiers and he faced me. With one foot, he went behind my ankle and pulled it forward; I fell back on the bed. He pulled my hips over the side of the bed, placing my ankles on his shoulders. "Look at me."
My mind coursed back through the years to the time when I was a boy, looking to him for comfort; direction; I needed him and wanted his conducting me to ultimate intimacy. Years of ethics training and practice vaporized--this was wrong and it was more than right.
He aimed his leaking rod at my hole, just barely touching; my cheeks held it in place. His hands rubbed along my sides to my pecs; fingers pinched my nipples. I gasped. "Keep your eyes on me."
I did. Listened as he explained how he'd loved me as a baby, a toddler; how he'd watched me grow, teaching me how to shower, how to dress for school. Softly whispered words redefined the gentle touches I remembered. Combing my hair, kisses as he strapped me in the car... . All his adoration, aa his heart repressed his thoughts--he worshipped me from a distant place behind his heterosexuality. "You were always mine."
His wide hands gripped my waist, he looked down once. Took a deep breath, looked into my eyes, "I need you."
Hard shove through his pre. In. Stop. "Look at me."
We were where we both wanted to be. Frantic, deceptive years, the arcs we'd ridden alongside Doug, all the misunderstandings dropped away as his rod began finding deeper places to stroke, to caress inside me, "I've waited so long...." He began pumping harder, faster, keeping his eyes on mine. "You'll never have any idea how much I love you."
His tears fell on my straining dick. I grabbed my shaft, aroused to the point I was out of my own body, mixing his tears and my pre on my shaft.
Faster.
"Look at me." His body trembled, keeping a frantic pace that jolted everything through my torso. He was ready; I tensed my ass around his slippery piston.
He growled.
"Daddy." Balls tightened, suddenly expelling seed, up my shaft, out--chest, face, Kept my eyes on his, and his expression changed to wonder as his hands gripped me harder, keeping my hole pressed hard against his skin. His hips moved to the sides a little, then I felt it. Heard the squishing, squelching, hot fluids dripped to my tailbone.
Pulled his weakening rod out and stuck both his thumbs inside me, stretching me wider. Felt his fingers entering my ass to fist.....
"No, not now." Small cabin was hot, we were sweating, dripping, air was heavy with our sex.
He leaned over on me, and we caught our breaths until we heard footsteps on the stern; the boat swayed. Chester came to the door of the cabin, an older man with the boy from the photo.
He stopped, looked at us, "We'll meet you in the cafe."
As they left the boy asked Chester who the men were.
"Lovers, like us."
End
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