Owen

Owen

Chapter twenty-six

by Roy Reinikainen

Jonathan Carver looked up at a noise. He shook his head, pressed his hands to his temples, and blinked, not quite sure what he had done to be in jail. He wondered where the noise had come from . . . or even if there had been a noise, and bit his lip. 'I've behaved badly. I must've,' he thought, in a rare moment of clarity. 'Otherwise, I wouldn't be here.' He slouched against the wall of the Evanston town jail, a dismally small building, staffed by dour people, who fed him poor food. If nothing else, he remembered that much. 'Nothin' like Bea's cookin', that's for sure,' he sighed, cursing the empty feeling in his belly. 'Not only is the food bad, there's not nearly enough of it.'

He glanced at the shaft of sunlight penetrating the cell from the high window. "Can't even look outside," he grumbled, the dark cloud hovering around his head, threatening to descend. Jonathan shook his head and knuckled his eyes in an attempt to drive the madness off. 'It is madness,' he thought to himself. I wasn't always like this.' He attempted to recall his youth. 'Was I?' He blinked, attempting to focus on the opposite side of the small cell. 'How long have I been here?' He tried to think, but finally gave up. It was no use. So much was unclear. During the past few years, everything had become so much worse. 'I can't tell anyone what's going on. They'll think I'm crazy.' He huffed a silent snort. 'I wonder when Bea's gonna show up and get me outta here.'

The brief moment of clarity ended quickly. He inhaled, his brows sullen, and the corners of his mouth twisting into a cruel sneer as he surrendered himself to the dark cloud coloring his thoughts and emotions. As the months passed, it had become easier to give in to the hate. He'd grown tired of fighting. He'd just . . . grown tired.

"Lazy woman," he muttered aloud, taking rapid, shallow, breaths and cursing the dust motes suspended in the shaft of light which painted a glowing rectangular pool on the concrete floor. He swiped an angry hand through the light, causing the motes to swirl.

'The woman never was good for much. All she had goin' for her was her looks.' He huffed a disgusted breath. 'But those certainly disappeared.' His face twisted into a triumphant smirk, recalling the woman who'd slid down the dining room wall and lay in a forlorn heap at his feet, both eyes blackened, blood from her bleeding nose smeared across her face and dripping onto her white blouse. She'd shaken her head, then brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and challenged him with a defiant expression. She'd not cowered after the first strike, or the second, or the third. Each time, she'd pulled herself up and faced him, daring him to continue, acting as if she'd . . . won. 'She needs to know who's boss 'round here,' he remembered thinking, incensed at her challenging expression. She'd seemed pleased that he had struck her! 'If I'd had just a little more time, I would have made her respect me . . .' He clenched both fists. 'If that doctor hadn't shown up to stop me.' Jonathan shifted position, scooting to the edge of the small bed, feeling the lumpy surface beneath his fingers.

'What was he doin' interfering with me and my wife?' Jonathan's bloodshot eyes flicked to his left, then quickly to the right, wondering who might be hiding in his cell. Someone was always hiding things from him, judging him, comparing to with those . . . boys. Satisfied there was no one in his cell, his thoughts returned to the doctor. 'I wonder if he was hiding around the outside of the house someplace, just waitin' to pounce on me. Bleedin' ingrate. After all I've done for him.'

Jonathan wiped the spittle away from his chin, then leapt off of the thin mattress and threw it aside. 'I'll bet he's hidin' under the bed, just like Maxine said he and Bea hid their love affair from me.' Finding no one, Jonathan disgustedly threw the mattress back into place and began to prowl the cell, three steps in one direction, three steps back, each time avoiding the precise rectangle of light on the floor. He paused and cocked his head, listening for the telltale scuff of a shoe on the floor, or the shallow breathing of someone hiding. He quickly looked over his shoulder, confident he would catch the person following him; but whoever was watching, was too fast for him.

As suddenly as the dark cloud arrived, it disappeared. He blinked and tried to shake the cobwebs out of his mind, wondering why he was standing in the middle of his jail cell, and not laying on the bed as he had been only minutes earlier. 'It wasn't minutes,' he realized. 'The spot of light has moved.' He shook his head, massaging the back of his neck. 'I wonder where Bea is. Geez, I hope she don't send Jonah to pick me up. I hate havin' him drive the ol' pick up. Or worse yet, the doctor.' Jonathan ground his teeth together until his jaw hurt. 'Good for nothin'. Or Art! I hate Art, after how he and the little woman turned Owen away from wantin' to work on the farm.' The thought of his oldest son caused his vision to waver.

'The lousy good-for-nothin' bastard boy, goin' around actin' better n' he had a right . . . smarter . . . good lookin' . . . confident . . . smilin' all the time. He was friends with everyone, probably telin' 'em all sorts of lies about me. I hate everything he stands for!'

He took a shuddering breath, and blinked, wondering what he'd just been thinking. The moments of unexplained missing time were becoming more frequent. 'I wonder where Bea is. Geez, I hope she don't send Jonah to pick me up.' Jonathan blinked and shook his head as he walked through the shaft of light and sat on the edge of his bed. 'I'm not repeatin' myself . . . am I?'

Lucas set his fork down, leaned back in his chair, and smiled, catching Beatrice's eye, pleased to see her relaxed smile. "I've never had such a delicious meal," he grinned. "Truly." His grin blossomed into a smile as Bea soaked up his compliment, her smile reflecting his, and those of everyone around the table. "No wonder Owen's been aching to get back home," he continued, glancing toward Owen who was watching him in wonder. "He wanted to come home to see you, and have a good home cooked meal." Lucas glanced around the table, feeling playful. "Would anyone mind if I licked the rest of the apple pie from my plate?" During a laughing, many-voiced chorus of, "Ewww," and, "please don't," Bea turned away, trying to hide the quick brush of her napkin over her watery eyes.

"No need to do that, Lucas. There's more pie," she offered, in an unsteady voice as she disappeared into the kitchen, dabbing at her eyes. Lucas was the only person at the dining table able to see her lean against the kitchen counter and bow her head, her shoulders still hunched with the weight of emotional pain she was carrying.

'That woman has hurt for so long, she's forgotten what it's like not to be abused at every turn.' He compressed his lips and slid his chair back. "I'll help!" he told everyone at the table, as he quickly walked into the kitchen and rested an arm over Bea's shoulders. She flinched slightly, then sagged against him, with an uncertain smile.

"It'll be okay, Bea," Lucas murmured, for her ears alone. "You've been through more than anyone should have to bear." He patted her back as she tried to control her breathing. "All of us will do our best to make sure you don't have to endure any more."

Bea backed up, accepting the handkerchief he offered, dabbing at her bruised eyes. "Thank you, Lucas," she murmured. "For bringin' Owen home . . . and for coming with him. I can understand why Owen loves you as he does." She quickly kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand before turning to the counter.

Lucas decided now was not the time to analyze her comments. 'Owen loves me?' he thought. 'How . . . when did she hear that?' The rattle of plates being removed from the cabinet, and another burst of laughter from the dining room, reined in his speculation. "How many orders do we have for a second helping of pie?" he asked, sticking his head into the dining room, providing Bea a moment longer to compose herself. He would have to ask her about her comment at another time.

"I'll have some," Owen called. He looked over his shoulder and saw his mother wiping her face with a wet cloth. "If there's enough," he added, in a worried voice, glancing at Lucas, unsure if he should go to his mother. Throughout dinner she'd been happier than he had ever seen her, laughing at Lucas' stories and looking upon each of her children with maternal pride. To see her in obvious distress caused his earlier concern to resurface. Lucas' quick shake of his head told Owen everything was under control and to stay where he was.

"Me too," Jonah and Sam added, on the tail of Owen's request for another helping of dessert, unaware of Owen's sudden disquiet, or Lucas' silent instructions.

"Hey guys," Lucas interrupted, as Abigail and Opie added their orders. "I asked first." He looked over his shoulder and saw Bea arranging pieces of pie on a row of plates. "Make mine a big one, Bea! Since I asked first, the other guys can get a real smaaall piece."

"There's enough to go around," she laughed, once more in control of herself. "Now, if you scoop out the ice cream, Lucas, we'll be all set." She smiled her thanks as Lucas accepted the heavy spoon she handed him and began placing a large scoop of vanilla ice cream on each plate.

She patted Owen's shoulder as she took her seat next to him, answering his unspoken question with her smile. She was pleased when Owen scooted his chair closer to hers and laid his hand on top of hers, squeezing it in a show of understanding and support. "That's all there is, everyone," Bea smiled, pleased to see everyone attacking their second helping of dessert, as if it were their first. "If you want some more you'll have to wait until tomorrow. You all have eaten two whole pies, you know, plus dinner!" She laughed in amazement. "I'd forgotten what appetites a room full of young people would have." She turned to her oldest son, patting his hand, where it still rested on top of hers. "Eat up, Owen. Your ice cream's going to melt." She followed her own advice, finding it difficult to believe that only a few days earlier she'd lain on the floor of this very room, surrounded by shards of glass, bloodied and beaten." She smiled to herself. "But not defeated!"

'Never again,' she vowed. 'It's sweet of Lucas to tell me the boys would protect me, but I've learned I can protect myself. I'll never be physically as strong as . . . a man, nevertheless, I will never allow myself to get into a position where I'll be treated badly again! I made excuses for Jonathan, and allowed him to continue his hateful behavior, always telling myself I wanted to make peace . . . for the children, hoping against hope he'd change. That's what I told myself I was thinking. All the while, I was really being a coward.' She compressed her lips. 'Never again!'

'Being here with Owen and his family is all so wonderful,' Lucas thought. 'If Bea weren't hurting so badly, things would be close to perfect. Even Sam and Jonah had finally relaxed, and had joined in the laughter, though Sam tended to be quieter than Lucas remembered him being.

'I feel as if I've become part of a large family,' Lucas mused, amazed at how quickly he'd been accepted by everyone . . . especially Opie.' Lucas grinned. Only moments earlier, the young girl had leaned close and had thanked him for being nice to her.

Her simple comment had brought him close to tears. 'Bea's not the only person in the family who's in pain,' he thought.

'Tonight's the first time in my life I've been able to be Lucas Horton, and not Lucas Horton, Neil Horton's son.' Many times, especially as he'd gotten older, he'd wanted to shout, 'I am my own person. I am not one of my father's accomplishments!' Riverton, and Owen's family, was giving him an opportunity to be himself. They liked him because he was a good person, not because they saw in him a means to further their own ambitions by getting closer to his father. It was as wonderful for him to not feel the weight of his father's presence, no matter how benign it was, as it was for the Carver family not to be in the presence of Jonathan Carver. Those absences created a mood of celebration.

Owen set his second dessert plate on top of his first and tried to stifle both a yawn and grin; at the same time he cast an apologetic look at his mother. "Sorry, Mama, but we've been up since . . . forever, it seems, traveling from one end of the country to the other just to get here, and all the excitement's finally catching up with me. I'm gonna have to get to bed or I'm gonna drop."

"I understand; eating as much as you did also tends to make a person sleepy," Abigail grinned, turning from Owen's surprised expression to wink at Opie, who had covered her mouth as she tried to hide her laugh. "It's so good to have my big brother sitting across from me again; as far as I'm concerned, you can eat all you want." Opie nodded agreement, sitting back in her chair and decisively crossing her arms.

"As long as you don't eat my food," she amended her earlier claim, surprised at everyone's laughter.

Sam had to admit that it was nice to see the Carver family reunited, laughing and teasing one another, behaving almost as if nothing was wrong. 'Deep down, even they realize they're only postponing dealing with the problems which lay ahead.' He sensed Jonah turn to him. Over the past few months, he and Jonah had become . . . almost . . . as close as he was with Owen. He returned Jonah's shy grin, hoping the anxiety he was feeling wasn't reflected in his eyes. Even though Jonah was smiling, his eyes told a different story.

'He's worried,' Sam told himself. 'He's feeling the same things I am, and is no more prepared to deal with those feelings than I. Since learning that Owen would be coming home, they'd stayed up late, sitting up in bed, holding hands, discussing their relationship and their fears of what would come of it.

Jonah tended to hold his emotions inside, even more than his brother. 'For fear of bein' ridiculed,' he'd told Sam. 'None of us kids were encouraged by Pops to think for ourselves. He wanted to do all the thinking." Jonah's lips had slowly curved into a rueful grin. 'I'm finding that it's rough to tell you . . . or anyone . . . what I'm thinkin'."

Unlike his brother, Owen had always smiled at anything, and everyone. 'He makes people want to know him for no other reason than his smile,' Sam thought, watching Owen throw back his head and laugh at another of Lucas' stories. 'The two brothers are so different, yet, beneath the surface they are very much alike.'

Jonah passed him his dessert, their hands touching. The brief touch was almost electric in its intensity. He wanted to take Jonah and run away to someplace where they could be alone. 'No,' he told himself, a moment later. 'It's Owen I'm thinking of. It's Owen I love.' He automatically began to eat, examining his emotions, not tasting the food, which sat on his stomach like a lump.

'I hate this!' he shouted to himself. 'I hate how mixed up my feelings are. I hate the belief that love is an either or proposition. I don't want to hurt anyone; yet I don't see how I can keep that from happening. And, if I hurt someone, I'll be hurt.' He compressed his lips. 'I know what I want . . . Owen . . . yet, at the same time, I want to be with Jonah.

'Admit it, Sam,' he told himself. 'You're feeling guilty. When this all started, all you wanted to do was to help Jonah. He seemed so forlorn, so . . . lost, without his brother to keep him company.' Sam pressed his lips together thoughtfully. 'Jonah wasn't the only person who was lonely because of Owen's absence,' he admitted, looking at the other end of the table, where Owen was telling his mother about the time he and Lucas wrestled in the snow. 'I warned him against developing feelings for me. I never . . . really . . . thought I might develop any sort of attachment to him.

Why would I? I was already in love. But,' Sam sighed, 'even though my feelings about Owen have not changed, I've found that I love Jonah too.' Sam sighed again. 'All I wanted to do was help, but, against all reason, you've let yourself fall in love with the brother of the man you have always loved. That you still love,' Sam finished, looking down at his half-eaten slice of pie, sitting in a puddle of melting ice cream. 'How did all of my good intentions end up in this . . . tangle?'

He answered Jonah's concerned expression with a grin, that he hoped would keep Jonah from worrying.

'Jonah's got enough on his mind, dealing with his own feelings. I don't need to add my concerns to his. I should be happy. Owen's home!' Sam paused. 'I am happy that Owen's home. I want, so bad, to be held by him . . . to feel his weight on top of me . . . to taste his mouth, and,' Sam grinned, feeling guilty, 'his sperm.'

Sam watched Owen move, as he ate his dessert. 'He's changed since he's been away; yet so much of him is still the same.' Sam smiled. 'He uses his hands so much to express himself that if someone were to tie his hands behind his back, he wouldn't be able to talk.' Sam recalled the pleasure those hands had always given him. Owen's touch was so gentle, so warm and caring.' The thought of that touch sent erotic chills down his spine, directly to his cock. 'My skin remembers his touch,' Sam told himself, 'just as my ears recall his voice and laughter, even when he's thousands of miles away. The sound of Jonah's breathing, during the darkest nights is Owen's, as is the beat of Jonah's heart as he lies on top of me.

'My dick's telling me something,' Sam told himself, as he felt it begin to swell. 'Since Owen's been home, I've had a tough time stayin' soft!' Owen caught Sam's eye and winked, the small, public intimacy caused Sam's breath to catch. He shifted position in an effort to ease the discomfort his erection was causing, and ignored the troubled look Bea cast in his direction. 'I can't handle this!' he groaned. 'I just . . . can't!

'What I believe I'd like most, would be to have Owen lying at my side, feeling his breath on my neck, and forget about everything else. It would be wonderful to have everything back the way it was before Owen left for school.' Sam changed his wish almost before he'd completed the thought.

'What am I thinking? Since Owen's left, I've grown. I'm not the same person who cried, asking never to be forgotten. I'm no longer the person who would always defer to Owen's wishes, no matter how much he hated me doing it. I feel as if I've begun to grow into myself. I'm becoming my own man. No, I don't want to go back to what I was. I like the person I'm becoming too much to wish to go back.' He sighed. 'It was sorta nice to have things so simple though. Before Owen left, I knew what love was. There was no doubt in my mind that I was capable of loving only one person. Now . . .'

Another burst of laughter tore him away from his thoughts.

'Owen moves with such ease. He's so self-assured.' Sam smiled as he watched Owen describe his first snowstorm, his hands playing a large role in the telling.

'Owen and I have shared so much. We grew up together, we learned about sex together. We learned of love . . . together. We've shared one another's hurts, joys, and dreams. There's our meadow, the smell of all the growing things . . . the deep blue sky . . . the yellow flowers smellin' of honey, and the fireflies dancing around us on summer evenings. I'll always love Owen.' Sam bit his lower lip. 'If I'll always love Owen, where does that leave Jonah?'

"Earth to Sam," Owen teased, from the far side of the table, the snowstorm story having wound to its conclusion. "Earth to Sam," Owen chuckled. "Come in, Sam!"

"Sam here," he responded, automatically, smiling at Owen's choice of words. It was a phrase Owen often used, when trying to gain his attention; yet another tie to the man whom he told he'd always love. He pushed his melancholy thoughts aside to be considered later.

"I've just been sittin' here, being amazed at how much you can eat." At the same time as his smile broadened, he felt a pang of guilt. Jonah was less than two feet away, silently watching, hurting inside. "Are we finished, or are you gonna ask for more dessert?" Sam teased. "I've been meaning to talk to you about those extra pounds you're carrying around."

"Hey!" Owen patted his belly, his fingers splayed over the tight white polo shirt. "I get plenty of exercise," he added, casting a slightly guilty glance in Lucas' direction.

Jonah pointedly cleared his throat as his brother blushed, while everyone looked to Lucas, who suddenly looked like a deer caught in a car's headlights, not knowing where to jump."

"Well!" Bea interrupted, pushing her chair away from the table, and coming to the rescue. "I don't think there's any reason for Owen to go into a lengthy description of his exercise regimen." She patted her oldest son's shoulder, and smiled at his sigh of relief. "It's time for me to do the dishes, then put Opie to bed. She's had so much excitement, she's about ready to nod-off."

"Am not," Opie murmured, around a yawn.

"We're not leaving yet!" Lucas raised his voice to be heard as everyone stood. As one, they all turned to him. "Bea not only has saved us from hearing about Owen's . . ." he lowered his voice, "exercises . . . she has also worked hard to provide us a delicious meal. It's our turn to show our appreciation, and clean up." Bea's open-mouth look of incredulity confirmed his suspicion. No one had ever volunteered to help her do the dishes or clean up the kitchen. No one had ever been allowed to offer. Lucas held up a hand to stop her protest.

"Allow us, Bea," he said, taking her hand. "Please." She swallowed convulsively, and nodded.

"But you all better not break anything," she added, in mock severity. "By any chance," she continued, a few minutes later, as she watched the four men clear the dinner table and prepare to do the dishes. "Do you do windows, Lucas?"

He smiled, looked over his shoulder, and nodded, accepting, with good grace, Owen's playful attempt to tie an apron around his waist. "For you, Madam," Lucas grinned. "And, for the promise of another meal such as the one we've just finished, I would do anything."

"Madam?" Opie's voice rose in the background. "What's that?"

Jonathan had watched the bright rectangle of light cross the floor of his cell, then climb the wall, until, as evening arrived, it slowly faded. 'I'm losing my grip! I'm hurting everyone.' He knuckled his eyes, leaning against the wall in the quiet jail. 'I don't want to hurt people, I just . . .' He rolled onto his side, curling into a fetal position. 'I don't know what I want.'

Jonathan thought of his family. 'Even . . .' He took a steadying breath. 'Even Owen.' The thought of his oldest son's name gave him pause. He bit his lip, attempting to keep the darkness at bay. 'I don't hate Owen . . . not really. He can't help what he is, not bein' cut out t'be a farmer n'all. ' Jonathan made a fist with one hand and bit down hard on his knuckles.

'I have to think straight, at least for a bit longer.' He felt a tear roll down his cheek, recalling all of the beatings, the yelling, and the days spent in a seething rage, demanding his son give him something that was impossible. 'I was askin' things of him,' Jonathan groaned, 'but I never gave him the one thing he wanted. I never gave anyone what I should have. Now, it's probably too late. He's gone . . . and, I'm . . . here."

A small scurrying sound caught his attention. He scrambled to kneel at the bed's edge. "Who's there?" Jonathan hissed, for some reason, afraid to raise his voice above a whisper. This time, the sound came from the foot of the bed, only a couple feet from where he was kneeling. In response, Jonathan retreated to the farthest wall, hiding his face in a pillow.

"No," he wailed, answering the voice in his head. "Noooooo!"

Bailey pushed the reluctant door of the apartment door closed, with a decisive movement, accompanied by a hint of a frown. 'We should move,' he thought, visions of a building with a doorman, a carpeted lobby and a balcony . . . with a view, making a brief appearance in his mind, before he cast them aside, and he amended his thought. 'We should get the door fixed.'

"The handsome man's home," Corey smiled, twisting his head to watch Bailey's approach. "How'd things go?"

Bailey set his books on the dining table, then leaned over the back of the sofa and nuzzled Corey's neck, wrapping Corey in a loose embrace. "I'm living with the sexiest man in the whole world," Bailey murmured.

"True," Corey teased, reaching back and running his fingers through Bailey's short hair. "But, that doesn't explain why you're all smiles."

"I was part of a discussion group in class today, and people actually listened to me when I spoke. No one suggested I be thrown out. No one rolled their eyes, or made snide comments about how I speak or what clothes I was wearing. And, I chose the clothes all by myself!" he concluded, in a proud voice, before he threw himself down the length of the sofa and buried his face in the denim fabric covering Corey's crotch, and wiggled his head from side to side, making animal sounds. "Now, all I need to make this a perfect day is for us to strip down and roll around on top of one another until we get the bed all messy with sperm. That is, of course," Bailey nibbled on the denim fabric, "you can think of something else we can do with the load I've been saving."

"No one laughing at you makes you frisky, does it?" Corey teased, pressing Bailey's face against his groin with a hand to the back of Bailey's head.

"Nope," Bailey laughed, turning his head and looking up. He made a slight face; then picked a stray thread from his mouth. "Don't say it!" He frowned, in warning. "I do not still have some of your crotch hair stuck between my teeth. Your trousers are shedding, that's all. I mean your pants are shedding," he concluded, wearing a sheepish expression.

He rolled off the sofa and stood, extending a hand to help Corey to his feet. "If we're going to play, let's do it in the bedroom." He pulled Corey into a tight embrace, followed by a deep and lengthy kiss. "You look much sexier when you're laying on those white sheets, with your legs spread." Bailey pressed himself against Corey, feeling both his and Corey's cocks respond. "I love seeing your white buttocks, thinking about all the things you've taught me to do with that hole of yours."

Corey laughed, as he grasped Bailey's hand and led him to the bedroom. "Tonight, my handsome lover, no matter how talented my asshole is, I'm going to fuck you." Bailey stopped, a smile playing about his lips.

"So, we're celebrating my good day, by you getting to fuck me? Is that right?"

"Does being the bottom bother you?" Corey asked, already knowing the answer. Giving away control had been one of the most difficult things Bailey had learned, in his journey toward recreating himself. 'And,' Corey thought, 'one of the most valuable lessons. Bailey learned that there were rewards for not being in control at all times. Today, for instance,' Corey thought, pleased more than he could say, at Bailey's good experience before his class. 'The old Bailey would never have allowed someone other than himself to lead the discussion, alienating everyone around him. The old Bailey would never have considered letting someone penetrate him.' Corey grinned. 'The old Bailey was not nearly as much fun as the new.'

Bailey shook his head, answering Corey's question. "Not at all." He stepped out of his slacks and underwear, allowing his penis to stand out straight from his blond pubes as he neatly laid his slacks over the back of a bedside chair.

Bailey was not a large man. That was one of the things which attracted Corey to him. When dressed, Bailey seemed like any other well-groomed college student, albeit a bit more well-groomed than most. However, when he tossed his clothing aside and stood before Corey, naked, he was an entirely different man. Bailey's body was perfectly proportioned. He was . . . firm . . . not overly muscled, nor soft, as one who knew his past might have expected. His shoulders were broad, his arms well muscled, without appearing that he lifted weights . . . which he didn't. His hands were broad, his fingers long, and able to send chills of excitement throughout Corey's body with their warm touch.

Bailey's nipples were light brown and firm. A light spread of hair covered his chest, tapering to a thin line as it passed his navel, only to spread into a pubic mat, which, like his chest hair, Bailey kept trimmed short.

His penis stuck out straight from his groin, thick enough to be difficult to sit on, but not so thick as to take away any of the pleasure provided by having Bailey inside him. Bailey's scrotum was almost hairless, his testicles large, and able to produce prodigious amounts of pre-cum and sweet-tasting sperm.

His buttocks were round and firm, and, like his chest, were lightly covered with blond hair, while his hole was completely hairless, and puckered. Corey loved Bailey's hole, whether he was teasing it with his fingers, licking it, or sliding his cock into it.

"Come on, Cor," Bailey urged, recalling Corey from his daydreams and making hurry-up motions with one hand while cupping his own ball sac with his other. "I want to see you bare-ass naked. I need to be fucked in the worst way." As he finished speaking, Bailey crossed the room, climbed onto the bed on hands and knees, then leaned forward, and cradled his head on his crossed arms. His ass cheeks spread wide, revealing his light brown pucker, his balls and throbbing erection hanging down with its own weight. He reached back and slapped his own ass, leaving a light pink imprint of his hand.

"Come and get it," Bailey laughed. "You know, I enjoy being admired but, tonight, I want to be fucked long and hard by my favorite man."

Corey toed off his shoes and skinned out of his t-shirt as Bailey moved back and forth, his ass cheeks parting and offering tempting views of his hole. "Are you the same man I met only a few months ago?" Corey laughed, finding it difficult to imagine how much Bailey had changed.

"The same," Bailey teased. "I'm liking the difference; aren't you?" he asked, reaching back and spreading his cheeks wide. "Now that you see your target, get busy!" His words became a groan as Corey licked over Bailey's perineum before forcing his tongue past the tight sphincter.

"Holy . . ." Both Bailey's voice and body shivered. Corey pulled Bailey's erection back between his legs and licked its length, concentrating on the place he knew made Bailey crazy. He slapped the pale-skinned ass. Bailey jumped, still not totally comfortable with someone striking him.

The first time Corey had playfully slapped his naked ass, Bailey had rolled over, his eyes and mouth wide. "You struck me!" he'd said. "No one has ever hit me!"

Corey had climbed onto the surprised man, pushing him onto his back. "Believe me, Bail," he teased, as he nuzzled Bailey's ear. "If I were to strike you, you'd know it." He thrust himself against Bailey, feeling the response he'd hoped for. In the early days of their relationship, they'd sometimes both acted as if they were walking on thin ice, unsure what to do, for fear of taking the wrong step. They'd gradually worked past that stage, as evidenced by Bailey's behavior.

"C'mon, Cor!" Bailey's voice was husky. "Quit teasing me with your tongue and get serious. I need you in me."

Corey did as Bailey asked. He mashed his face between Bailey's spread cheeks, working his tongue into the smooth hole, preparing it for what was to come. At the same time, he wrapped a hand around Bailey's dick and began masturbating him.

Not content with Corey's slow teasing of his cock, Bailey began to thrust, sliding his cock through Corey's hand, pumping as if he was fucking someone. "Oh," he groaned, taking faster, shorter strokes. "That . . . feels . . . so . . . gooood."

A tremor ran through his body, as Corey removed his tongue and sank a finger into the spit-slick butt hole, searching for the prostate; at the same time he cupped his other hand in front of Bailey's cock, hoping to catch as much cum as possible. 'He wants to be fucked,' Corey thought, as the first blast of sperm splashed against the palm of his hand. 'I've never used his own cum as a lube before.'

Bailey's body trembled, once . . . twice . . . three times. Each time, his hole would contract around Corey's finger. Finally, Bailey sighed, Corey removed his finger, and spread the large load over his own penis. When Bailey looked back over his shoulder, Corey slapped a butt cheek.

"Stay right where you are," he'd ordered. "You wanted to be fucked. You're gonna get fucked." He wiped the hand, which had caught the sperm, over Bailey's gaping hole. "I'm using your own jiz as a lube, Bail."

Beneath him, Bailey groaned, and reached back, spreading his own cheeks wide. "Do it, Cor," he husked, rocking back in an attempt to impale himself on Corey's cock.

"Now damn it, Corey. Fuck me!" he shouted.

"Uuuu, what will the neighbors think?" Corey murmured, loving the change in Bailey, as he rubbed the head of his erection over Bailey's anus, then pressed until the head was partially in.

"All the way!" Bailey shouted. "You're either going to do it, or you aren't. What's it to be?"

Someone in the apartment next door pounded on the wall. "We listen to you all the time. Now it's your turn!" Bailey shouted, even louder than before, "so, shut up!" There was a one-rap reply, and, at the same time, Corey slid his full length into Bailey, pressing his dark pubes against the spread cheeks.

Daniel grumbled as his sweat pants slipped out of his hand and fell to the bedroom floor. "I've just about had it!" He glared at the puddle of grey fabric, as if accusing it of fighting him. "I'm in no mood to have my life made more difficult!" He huffed a laugh and shook his head, wondering when he had begun talking to his clothing. Perhaps it had begun when Bea's sister had deposited him at his apartment's door, and he had had to undress.

He'd let himself into his apartment, wanting nothing more than to eat something and shower. Somehow, he'd managed to undress, though it had taken much of the morning. 'The pain killers they gave me when I left the hospital were responsible,' he thought, after kicking the discarded clothes into a corner, to be picked up at some future date. He'd been wearing them during his fight with Jonathan, then, to the hospital, and finally back home.

'I never realized how difficult it would be to do the simplest things with one arm strapped to my chest, not to mention the pain of simply moving! I'd like to think ol' Jonathan ended up in worse shape than I, but," the doctor shook his head, "that wouldn't be true. I should have hit him with something . . . other than myself,' he thought, studying the assorted, large, multi-colored bruises covering his chest and one . . . visible . . . arm.' He turned his back to the dresser's mirror and looked over his shoulder. 'At least the back view is better than the front! If I hadn't fallen over that cursed chair and hit the edge of the coffee table, I wouldn't have that bruise on my back. Still,' he thought, 'Bea is in worse shape than I am, and she's not broken anything!'

Now that he was naked, the thought of getting dressed was too much to handle. Daniel snorted. "I'm feeling about as useful as a trap door on a canoe!"

He kicked at the troublesome sweatpants in frustration, and winced at the sudden movement, deciding to dispense with getting dressed. 'It's dark outside,' he told himself. 'If I'm wearing those sweatpants, I'll just have to get out of 'em to go to sleep, or whatever. Besides,' he thought, feeling slightly daring. 'I've always sorta liked being naked.' He fondled his flaccid penis, feeling like a schoolboy doing something naughty. He grinned, as he left the bedroom and walked into the small living room, checking to see that the blinds were drawn.

"I've got to remember to never make a flying tackle if I'm going to fight someone. I need to do things in a civilized manner . . . just walk up to the person and punch them in the face." He snorted, amused at the ludicrous idea. 'Then, run!' He couldn't help but smile, imagining the scene. 'I may look all macho, but I'm just a regular guy whose idea of conflict is to give a person a stern look.

'Well, I did more'n that when I tackled ol' Jonathan; may he rot in the Evanston jail! Too bad dungeons have gone out of fashion.' Daniel grinned. 'Cold, wet dungeons,' he added, his imagination painting a vivid scene, 'with big spiders, and various assorted instruments of torture scattered about the room, their presence made worse by the ululating screams coming from nearby chambers. Oh, and there has to be bats.' He smiled, enjoying the scene he envisioned for Bea's husband. 'Big bats. Better yet, vampire bats!' The vision banished his bad mood and caused him to laugh.

'I should at least try and get into a pair of underwear, or a robe, or something,' Daniel thought, rejecting each item of clothing as being too difficult to manage. 'Maybe underwear . . . later. Too bad I don't own a pair of loose boxers.' He thought for a moment, made a face, and decided that being naked was much preferable to hanging loose within a pair of baggy boxers.

He huffed an amused breath, standing in front of the open refrigerator, contemplating what he could make for dinner using only one hand. After abandoning two different dinner plans, he gave up on the idea of dinner and settled for an apple, which he bit into and held between his teeth as he lit a fire in the already-prepared fireplace. 'I'm gonna have to figure something out,' he thought, as he gingerly sat down in the nearby armchair and stretched his legs out, propping his feet on an ottoman. 'I have to eat . . . sometime.' Daniel wiggled his toes, luxuriating in the feeling of the warm fire and the freedom being naked gave him.

'No one better need my services,' he thought, as he idly scratched his pubes. 'They'd have to accept being examined by a nekkid, one-armed doctor.' The thought made him pause. 'Oh please,' he intoned, looking toward the heavens, 'don't let Maxine know I can't get dressed! Fighting Jonathan was bad enough. I don't think I'd manage to fend off a perpetually-horny woman!' He shivered. "She's all angles and sharp edges, with eyes like flint, and hair which looks as if a deranged cat spent the evening licking into unlikely swirls and peaks. Daniel shuddered, sinking into the cushions.

"Ugh! Maxine. I'd hire her to haunt a house."

Lucas kept his eyes on the narrow road, sensing when Owen turned to him. "You gonna be okay?" Owen asked in a low voice, accompanied by a hesitant touch. Lucas nodded, sparing Owen a brief glance.

"Yeah, I'll be fine . . . really," he added, as reassurance. "Your mother is as wonderful as you always said, and little Opie!" Lucas grinned. "I feel as if I have a little sister."

He nodded, following Owen's hand motion to turn down a road darker than the one they were on.

"That's not what I mean," Owen said, sounding both tired and exasperated, as he leaned his head back against the seat's headrest.

"I know what you meant, Owen, and I'll be fine. So will Jonah, right?" Lucas asked, looking into the rearview mirror.

"Sure we will." Jonah reached over the front seat and squeezed his brother's shoulder. "It's good to have you home, Owen. You'n Sam have a good time, and don't worry 'bout Lucas and me. We'll do okay."

Lucas murmured agreement, as he stopped the car and turned off the lights.

"I . . ." Sam began, as the four men crossed the gravel drive toward the house, visible in the moonlight. Jonah stopped, giving both his brother and Sam an irritated look, barely visible in the faint light.

"Don't go torturing yourself about something you have no control over, guys! If you insist on feelin' bad, it's not Lucas' or my fault. We told you, we'll be fine!"

"Yessir," Owen teased, laying an arm over his brother's shoulder. They'd taken a couple steps, when Owen stopped. "When'd you get to be so tall?" he asked. "You're gonna be taller 'n me."

"Everyone's taller than you," Lucas teased, playfully poking Owen in the ribs as he walked past.

"Hey!"

"As long as you know who's boss around here," Jonah quipped, passing Owen, on the opposite side.

"Hey, I thought I was the boss!" Sam added, opening the front door, leading to the living room.

Jonah entered the house, with Owen one step behind, and Lucas following up at the rear. "Nope," Jonah responded, to Sam's comment. "You're the top, I'm the boss. They're different roles, entirely."

"The top?" Owen asked, as he gave his brother and Lucas an abbreviated salute, steering Sam toward the home's bathroom, and the shower Owen had been looking forward to since their arrival.

"Sometimes," Sam chuckled, as the door closed.

Jonah's eyes followed the two men, wearing an expression of sadness mixed with a determination not to let his feelings show. "I'm full of brave words,' he murmured, turning back to Lucas and catching a fleeting glimpse of how deeply he was bothered by having Sam and Owen with one another.

"It's rough . . . on both of us, I'm feelin.'"

Lucas' lips twisted into a wry grin, as he ran his fingers through his hair, then massaged the back of his neck. The person who faced Jonah was not the same man who had been the laughing, bright-eyed center of attention throughout dinner. The smile had disappeared, to be replaced by a look of someone who was trying to keep his emotions in check.

"Neither of us like things as they are, but we'll manage, won't we?" Lucas asked, as he sank into one of the room's overstuffed armchairs, with an exhausted sigh. Jonah had hitched one hip onto the sofa's arms, one leg idly swinging. "You doing okay?" Lucas asked him. "I mean, really."

It was Jonah's turn to sigh. "When Sam'n I got together, almost the first thing he told me was not to develop feelings for him, 'cause he would not forsake Owen." One corner of Jonah's lips twisted upward as he bowed his head, shaking it slowly. "It's so easy to say, 'don't develop feelings,' but not so easy to keep from doing it." Jonah shifted position. "I told myself I was prepared to see Sam in Owen's arms . . . but, I wasn't."

"We paint a pretty picture, don't we?" Lucas asked, thinking how closely Jonah's thoughts mirrored his own.

Jonah softly snorted. "I'm not feelin' very pretty right now. As much as I love Owen, I find myself wishin' . . ." His voice trailed off, and, finally, he shook his head, unwilling to go on."

"Me too," Lucas added. The room lapsed into silence punctuated only by the faint sound of the shower and voices.

"Geez!" Jonah broke the silence, standing up.

"What!" Lucas automatically turned toward the open door to the house, instinctively thinking someone was intruding. 'The Big City strikes again,' he could almost hear Owen say, laughing.

"I'm not thinking!" Jonah continued, tapping his forehead with his fingertips. "No one's planned for where you're supposed to sleep!" His embarrassment had overcome his mood of only moments earlier. "I should have made plans." He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, trying to ignore the distant sounds of the two men in the shower.

"The sofa's fine with me," Lucas laughed, shifting position, extending his legs in front of him, beneath the coffee table. "I'm so tired, I don't care where I'm sleeping." He stretched, extending his arms to his sides and yawned. "This chair's so comfortable I think I could sleep right where I am."

"Maybe, but I hate that Sam'n I have neglected your needs. Here you are, a visitor, having to sleep on the sofa. Tell you what! I'll take the sofa and you can have the bed."

Lucas held up a hand, motioning for Jonah not to worry. "No, the sofa's okay . . . really. Besides, didn't I hear you mention something about homework, during dinner? And I snore," Lucas grinned. "I don't want to keep you from getting your assignment's done."

"Snore? Truly?"

Lucas shrugged. "So I'm told. I wouldn't know, for certain. I'm asleep when it happens." He smiled, pleased to see Jonah's tentative smile.

'I didn't know he had dimples!' Lucas grinned to himself.

"Okay then. If you're sure."

Lucas made a shooing motion. "Now, get busy on that homework. I intend to stretch out and enjoy the peace and quiet. When the guys are finished with their shower, I'll get one; then go to sleep. With all the excitement, I probably don't realize how sleepy I actually am."

"Oh, okay. If you're sure," Jonah repeated. Lucas nodded, making another shooing motion, pleased when Jonah smiled. "See you tomorrow, then." Jonah turned and headed down the hallway.

A few moments later, Lucas looked up as Jonah came back, carrying a bundle. "You'll be needin' some sheets n'stuff." Before Lucas could thank him, Jonah continued, looking at him with a curious twinkle in his eyes. "Does m'brother really sleep naked . . . like you said at dinner?"

Lucas grinned at the question, and Jonah's transformation. "Yes, why?"

Jonah shook his head. "No reason, really. He just never did when he was sleepin' with me."

"I don't think sleeping with me has much to do with it," Lucas laughed. "I think it's just another way for him to express his freedom being away from home. What about you? Do you sleep naked, when you're with Sam?"

Jonah laughed, a bubbling sound, surprising, considering his normally quiet manner. "Yeah, I guess." A bright pink flush colored his pale skin. "Though I'm findin' that since leaving home, I get much less sleep than I once did." His smile blossomed, joining Lucas', as he handed Lucas the bed linens, then turned and headed for the hallway, with a raised hand of farewell, and a, "g'night."

Lucas sank back into the embrace of the armchair, and tilted his head back, resting it on the chair's upholstery. After a moment, he toed off his shoes and stretched out his legs, resting his stocking-clad feet on the coffee table. He heaved a sigh, dimly aware of the sound of the shower and Owen's voice.

'Stop it!' he told himself. 'The guys are exactly where they should be . . . with one another. You've told them you can live with it, so . . . live with it!' A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his lips. 'Yes, Mother,' he responded, hearing his mother's words, telling him to follow his own advice, and truly accept Owen and Sam's reunion.

So far, his visit to Riverton had produced not much more than a collage of images, each awaiting an opportunity for closer examination. The beautiful countryside and expansive sky took center stage, followed by myriad images of Jonah, Bea, the two girls, Sam, and, of course, Owen's reaction to each of them.

'I shouldn't have told Bea we would protect her,' Lucas thought, pressing his lips together at the thought. That was an insult. She doesn't need anyone's protection, all she needs is everyone's support, and a few kind words. Then, she'll begin to believe in her capacity to overcome anything. She has the strength to endure. Bea knows more about surviving than all of us put together. The love problems of four guys pale by comparison to what she's gone through.'

Jonah, on the other hand, had much yet to learn. 'As if I don't!' Lucas sighed, grinning as he closed his eyes and thought of Owen's brother. Of all us guys, Jonah's probably the most . . . fragile.' Lucas made a face, not liking the word, but unable to think of another, more appropriate. 'Sam, Owen, and I, have other experiences to draw upon, admittedly not many, but some. Poor Jonah has nothing. It's as if he lived in an emotional vacuum until meeting Sam. Now, he's thrust back into the place he's only just begun to emerge from. 'The butterfly being stuffed back into the cocoon, to use Owen's analogy.' He's confused, and hurt, and has no one to turn to.'

'Then, there's Sam . . . quiet Sam . . . behaving so differently from how he did during his Christmas visit, when he'd brimmed with laughter. Now, his affections seem torn between the two brothers, just as Owen's are divided between Sam, and me.' Lucas shifted position.

'Owen's right. He is the spider at the center of its web, and each of us is caught in the web's strands, wondering what the spider's going to do.' Lucas' mother's voice seemed to intrude on his thoughts, telling him to tend to his needs before worrying about someone else's. He shook his head. "Easy for you to say, Mother."

He was awakened by the sound of Sam's bedroom door closing. "Have fun, gentlemen," he murmured, as he heaved himself out of the chair and rummaged in the bag Owen had hurriedly stuffed with some clothes. Lucas pulled out a pair of baggy shorts and headed toward the shower. 'I hope there's an available towel,' he thought, as he stepped into the still-steamy room. 'And, some hot water!' Owen was a person who favored long showers. It appeared Sam was too. "Well, I'll be quick about it. I've got to leave some hot water for Jonah. He'll probably want a shower when I'm finished.'

Jonah eased the bedroom door closed, determined to not pay attention to the voices of his brother and Sam in the shower. He turned on the desk lamp and flopped backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. 'I should be happy,' he told himself. 'Owen's back home! At the same time, Owen's being home is the reason I'm feelin' like I am.'

Jonah touched his cheek. 'He kissed me! Owen kissed me, and told me he loves me!' Jonah continued to stare at the ceiling.

'Poor Owen, always searching for love . . . always givin' so much of himself it's a wonder there's anything left for him. He helps people,' Jonah thought. 'He gives of himself without reservation, never asking for anything in return, but always afraid he's not given enough, done enough, been supportive enough.' Jonah closed his eyes. 'And here I am, wanting him to leave Sam alone.

'Now, he's got it into his head that he might . . . somehow . . . end up acting like Pops. No, Owen,' Jonah thought. 'You shouldn't worry 'bout ending up like Pops. You don't have that sort of anger inside you. You can barely give a person an angry glance. You're certainly not able to sustain a red rage for days on end, like Pops.

'Instead of fearing that you're gonna be like him, you should be worried that your need to be loved will end up hurting you. You can't help everyone, big brother,' Jonah thought, laying a forearm over his eyes to shield them from the light from the desk lamp. 'Pops doesn't want your help . . . or your love. It's nothing personal though. Pops doesn't want anyone's love.'

Jonah rolled onto his stomach, cradling his head in his folded arms. 'Lucas seems like a nice guy. The way he looks at Owen speaks volumes. I'm not even sure he knows what his eyes are saying. Mama saw it, and Abigail. So did I. I wonder if Owen realizes what Lucas feels.

'And, there he is . . . stuck in the living room, left to sleep on the sofa, ignored, like so much extra baggage. And, he does it without a word of complaint.' Jonah softly snorted. 'Owen could tell that man to jump off a cliff, and Lucas would probably ask him, when.

'He's as much a prisoner of his feelings as I am.' Jonah tilted his head up and glanced at the bedroom door. 'I shouldn't be in here, pretending to do homework. I should be out there, in the living room, with Lucas . . . havin' a beer, or something.' Jonah grinned. 'Listen to me, acting like I'm Lucas' self-appointed savior.' The thought gave him pause. 'Maybe I'm more like Owen than I thought. Neither of us can handle conflict, or feelin' the pain of others. Lucas is feelin' as much pain as I am. I wonder how he handles it so quietly.'

~ to be continued ~

Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I always welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send you a pic of the character(s), please ask.

Roy Reinikainen roynm@mac.com