Owen
Chapter Eight
by Roy Reinikainen
Sam slowed the car as he approached the gravel driveway leading to his home, called out Jonah's name, and waved at the young man who was slowly walking along the dirt road. It bothered Sam to see his friend trudging along with a bowed head, scuffing his shoes, stirring up little puffs of powdery dirt which hung in the still air before slowly settling. The sagging shoulders made it appear as if Jonah were carrying the weight of the world.
Jonah looked up at his name, his solemn expression blossoming into a bright smile as he jogged up the drive to where Sam had parked the car.
"Hi'ya, Sam!" He shouted in greeting, and then surprised both himself and Sam by giving his friend a brief hug. They walked side by side to the home's porch and then both sank into cushioned chairs, sitting side-by-side. Jonah chose the rocking chair, and sighed softly as he relaxed, leaning back as he stretched his legs out crossing them at the ankles. In only a matter of moments the cloud which had been hanging over him seemed to have lifted, leaving a radiant smile and sparkling eyes.
"I'm glad to see you," Sam grinned, studying Jonah, who had begun to slowly rock the chair. The faded denim of his tight jeans clung to his calves and thighs, the muscles beneath the worn fabric flexing with each movement of the chair, cupping the prominent mound of his groin. The blue and white striped shirt was open at the neck, revealing a smooth, lightly tanned chest, while the remainder of the shirt clung to his flat belly. The sleeves were rolled half-way up his muscular forearms, so at odds with the little boy appearance of his face. One strong hand absently toyed with the shoulder strap of his book bag which lay in a lumpy heap at his feet.
The thought of those hands roaming over his naked body was the stuff of Sam's fantasies. 'Strange,' he thought to himself. 'I never even noticed Jonah while Owen was around.' He blinked, feeling a sudden rush of guilt. It was as if he were betraying Owen in his mind.
Jonah was slightly taller than his brother, but had the same lean, naturally muscular build. When he caught Sam studying him, he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in shy amusement at the same time a soft blush colored his cheeks and the corners of his lips turned up into a pleased smile. It was almost as if he knew what Sam had been thinking.
"You doing okay?" Sam asked, feeling a fluttery sensation in his stomach as well as the unmistakable swelling of his cock. He frowned, wondering where these feelings were coming from. Jonah was his lover's brother!
'I've been alone for too long,' he thought to himself. 'But, who wouldn't be excited by Jonah, Owen's brother or not.'
The movements of the rocking chair slowed. "Yeah, sure," Jonah sighed. "Things never change. I'm okay," he said without much conviction. Jonah glanced up when Sam spoke.
"I worry about how you're doing, Jonah. I consider you a good friend, y'know? I like to know that my good friends are doin' good." Jonah's eyes brightened. His hunger for affection was almost too painful to watch. "I hardly ever see you," Sam continued. "Your father keepin' you busy?"
At the mention of his father, Jonah's eyes clouded. He sighed, gazing unseeing out to the trees and fields beyond. As the evening approached, everything seemed to have taken on a golden glow, with shafts of sunlight slanting through the trees, casting long shadows across the yard.
"Yeah, he's pretty much treatin' me okay. The only thing is that I have so much work to do that I have to do my homework after I'm supposed to be asleep. I have to make sure that no light escapes from beneath the door, or out my window for him to see." He ran the long fingers of one hand through his hair. "It's rough, always having to be on guard." Jonah seemed to slump further into the chair's cushion. "He doesn't put much stock in school, so I'm not allowed any time to myself, other than when I'm supposed to be sleeping." Jonah traced an invisible pattern with a forefinger on the arm of the chair, his expressive hands seemingly unable to remain quiet.
'Beautiful hands,' Sam thought to himself. 'Strong, yet sensitive, just like Jonah.'
"Pops and Owen were always at odds over the subject of school," Jonah continued. "Now, I'm the one on the receiving end of . . . of . . . everything." He gave Sam a lopsided smile. "Sorry to be so depressing. I'm just not lookin' forward to goin' home." He paused and seemed to almost choke on his next words.
"Sam . . . I'm so tired, I feel like I'm gonna drop. I really don't know how much longer I can go on like this. I work before breakfast. I work when I come home from school, and then after dinner until the sun goes down.
"Y'know, I fell asleep after finishing a test at school today. When the teacher rested her hand on my shoulder I woke up with a start." He looked embarrassed. "Some of the other kids were snickering." He pinched the bridge of his nose and shifted position, throwing one leg over the arm of the chair, idling swinging his foot as he continued to rock the chair.
"Geez," he said, suddenly looking up. "I wonder if I was snoring, or somethin'." He made a face. "Owen says I snore," he admitted with a sheepish look. "I silently apologized to the teacher, but I think she knows what's goin' on. I've heard the other teacher at school talking to her about Pops. They stopped talkin' when they noticed me standin' nearby. I just tried to smile and not pay attention." He heaved a sigh. "I mean; what good would complainin' to them do?"
"You know," Sam broke the silence. "You're always welcome to come over to my place and visit. You don't have to have an excuse. I enjoy your company. If you can manage to get away, come on over . . . or bring your books. We can do homework together. Or, if you can figure out a way to be gone for enough time, you can take a nap and no one will bother you." Sam held up a finger in warning. "But, don't do something to antagonize your father. I'd hate for him to lay down the law and order you not to stop by."
"You're serious 'bout me being welcome? I'm invited? Anytime?" The smile blossomed, showing his perfect teeth. "Wonderful! I don't want to interrupt your studyin' or anything, but I'd like to see you. You treat me nice." He bowed his head and blushed. "I never really knew what it felt like . . . being treated nice by someone other than Mama and the girls . . . until I got to know you, some." He hesitated. "Oh, Owen always was nice, but in a brotherly sorta way. It's different from you. I feel all good inside whenever I'm around you." He bowed his head as he spoke, unable to meet Sam's eyes. "I like you, a lot." His blush deepened before he suddenly looked up wearing a worried expression.
"I hope it was okay to say that." He heaved himself out of the chair, seemingly startled by his forwardness. "Geez . . . uh . . ." His attempt at a smile faltered. He bowed his head, and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "I'm sorry, Sam. I . . . geez . . . I'm mixed up." He turned away and leaned on the porch railing, speaking as if to himself.
"I don't know what I'm wantin'. I've never much thought about sex . . . or stuff." He scuffed the toe of his boot against one of the porch's columns. "But, after you hugged me th'other day, that's about all I do think about. That and wishin' that someone really cared about me." Another scuff against the aging wood of the porch floor. "I liked you holdin' me, Sam. You were strong." He blushed. "I like that."
"I like you a lot too, Jonah." Sam stood and enfolded the unresisting man in a lingering hug. At first, Jonah seemed at a loss as to what he should do, but after a moment he snaked his arms around Sam's waist and pulled him closer.
"I . . . I'd better stop this," he murmured, close to Sam's ear. "I'm lovin' it too much . . . It's . . . It's just too much to handle all at once." He loosened his embrace, the look in his eyes screaming that that was the last thing he wanted to do.
His eyes widened when Sam gently kissed his cheek.
"I hope you don't mind me doing that," he said as Jonah backed away after taking a sharp indrawn breath of surprise. "It seemed like the right thing to do. It tears at my heart to see you treated like you are. You're a good guy, Jonah. You need to remember that. Okay?" Sam asked, refusing to relinquish Jonah's hand. "Also, you gotta remember that I'm available . . . anytime, to give you a hug, or to listen, or . . . whatever."
Jonah placed the fingertips of one hand over the spot where Sam had kissed him, the startled look slowly fading to a look of shy satisfaction.
"I'm findin' that I'm missing bein' held too," Sam finished. "It's sorta lonely, being here by myself all the time. I'd really welcome your company. If you can get away, that is . . . and not get into any trouble. I'm not askin' because I'm missin' Owen," he hastened to add. "I'm asking because I like you . . . and would like to see more of you."
"I . . . I . . . Thank you, Sam. You have no idea what your friendship means to me," he choked. "You really don't."
"You're not upset about the kiss? I mean, I can do that with Owen, but . . . you?"
Jonah tightened his fingers around Sam's. "Uh . . . no, I don't . . . mind. That is. Thanks. I'll try'n find a way to get over here more often." He smiled broadly. "Maybe I can collect a few more hugs . . . or somethin'." A pink flush colored his fair cheeks. "I'm bein' selfish, but whenever I leave here, I'm always feeling really good." He gathered up his book bag and slung it over his shoulder. "I'd better be goin'. They're gonna be wondering where I've been." He patted Sam on the shoulder as he turned and began walking home, standing straight and no longer dragging his feet.
Sam watched as Jonah walked down the shaded lane, twice reaching up to touch his cheek.
Bailey's voice grated on Owen's nerves. It had been a week since he and Lucas had spent the night together, and telephone calls from Bailey had become a common occurrence.
"I don't understand why you don't have time to go out to dinner with me." Bailey's pout was detectable, even on the telephone. "I mean, you have to eat, sometime. Besides, you have enough spare time to hang around with Lucas." He paused. "I saw you going into that Italian restaurant near his apartment, you know."
He softly snorted. Even on the telephone, Owen could imagine Bailey drawing himself up and with a disdainful sniff, dismissing anything and everyone's opinion, but his own. "I guess that shows me where I stand in your estimation."
Owen was losing patience. "Excuse me Bailey, but Lucas and I are good friends. I can spend my time however I choose, and I don't see him very often. Besides, what have you been doing . . . spying on me . . . again? I would think that you would realize that this type of behavior is not the way to make friends. It's some more of the same peeping-tom stuff, isn't it? I thought I had made it clear to you exactly what I think of that sort of behavior. In fact, someone, less generous than I am, would call what you're doing, stalking. I don't like it, Bailey, so stop."
"Does that mean you'll go out with me? I'd like to get to know you better. I'm heading down to warmer climes soon; maybe you could join me for some sun and fun."
Owen shook his head, unable to believe Bailey could be so . . . clueless. 'One thing you've got to give him credit for,' he thought to himself. 'He certainly is persistent.'
"Bailey, I come from warmer climes, and I don't want to go back." He knew as he said it that the claim wasn't entirely true. Even though it had hardly begun, he already realized that he was not a fan of cold weather. "I've also got school. Don't you too? I thought you were a student." He could hear Bailey hesitate.
"Yeah, well. I'm not too fond of school, besides, I don't really need it. My position in the company is already assured . . . so, school makes no sense."
"Hmm. I disagree. It seems to me that school always makes sense." He felt himself being drawn into an argument . . . something he didn't want to happen. "Besides, I don't have an assured position, so I have to go to school."
Bailey seemed to think that was a hint. "I could get you a position wherever you like. Then you could have some fun rather than doing all that boring work."
"I like all that boring work. I want to earn whatever position I eventually have."
Bailey chuckled . . . a disgusting sort of noise. "Believe me, you'd earn it. I'd make sure of that." His laugh felt greasy, leaving behind a dirty film over everything he touched. Owen couldn't help himself. He shuddered at the thought of being pawed by Bailey.
"Not cool, Bailey. Now, I've got to study."
"With Lucas, I bet."
"No, by myself. So, thanks for calling. And, wherever you're headed, I hope you enjoy the warm weather. Bye."
"But . . ."
"Bye, Bailey."
Owen hung up the phone and shuddered. "Why do I want to take a shower after every time I talk to him?" He grimaced, absently wiping his hands on his jeans. "Ugh," he shuddered, and then walked across the living room and out into an early autumn afternoon for a breath of crisp air and to check his mail.
The trees stood bare and the clouds seemed to hang low, obscuring the upper stories of the buildings he could see in the distance. He shivered and jogged to the mailbox, silently cursing cold weather. 'It's still warm back home,' he thought to himself as he heard a crow call out from the top of a nearby fence. Even the sound of the bird seemed to portend cold weather. 'I'll bet there aren't any crows back home.' He glared at the large bird and was pleased when it turned and flew off without another sound.
The mailbox held only one letter. He grinned, immediately identifying Sam's distinctive, carefully-formed letters. He held it to his nose, fancying that he could still smell the fragrance of new-mown hay and the yellow flowers of his and Sam's meadow. 'What's wrong with Jonah and the girls?' He wondered as he slowly walked back into the house and closed the door behind him. 'Why don't they answer any of my letters?'
"Mama," Opie said, as she and her mother finished putting away the dinner dishes. "Why hasn't Owen sent a letter to me so I can learn where to send him the picture I've drawn for him? Has he forgotten me?" The young girl seemed at a loss, a corner of the dish towel she held in her hand, dragging the floor as she looked up, hoping for an answer.
Opie's mother, Beatrice, glanced up to see if her husband might be nearby, and then knelt at her youngest daughter's side, holding Opie close as she sniffed.
"Opie," Beatrice reminded her daughter. "You have to remember not to talk about Owen where your father might hear you. He's still angry with your brother for leaving the farm. He'll settle down with time."
"But, what about Owen? He's been gone forever," Opie moaned, wiping her eyes. "I love Owen, Mama. I miss him. I wrote him a letter, all by myself, and drew him a picture too, and I want to send it to him. I want to know if he's okay. Why hasn't he written? I've asked Jonah and Abigail, and they haven't heard from him either." Opie sniffed, and rubbed her eyes. "I miss him."
Beatrice drew her daughter into a gentle embrace. "I miss him too, sweetheart. I don't know why he hasn't written to you. Maybe, he's really busy with school and all the things he's having to learn." Opie rested her head on her mother's shoulder as Beatrice spoke in a low voice. "I'm sure he'd be real proud of you for writing something all by yourself. When you're able to send your letter and picture to him, I'd bet he'll show it to all his friends and tell them what a special sister he's got."
"You think so, Mama?" Opie looked hopeful.
"I'm sure of it, dear. Now, run along, and wash your face with a cold wash cloth. We don't want Pops to see that you've been crying." She kissed her daughter's forehead and then watched as Opie ran out of the kitchen.
"I'm gonna draw another picture, Mama," she shouted as she ran out of the kitchen.
Beatrice leaned against the kitchen counter and stared out of the window to the fields where she could see Jonah doing his after-dinner chores.
'Oh, Owen,' she thought to herself, unable to bring herself to say his name aloud. 'I'm missin' you too. Do you hate us so much that you won't write? Or . . .' Another possibility crossed her mind, one she was loath to consider. She sighed, and brushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead as she glanced out of the kitchen window to the vegetable garden where Jonah was now squatting, picking weeds. "I've spent eighteen years tryin' to be a good wife and mother. I'm afraid I've done a poor job of both.'
Beatrice steeled herself for a confrontation. She dried her hands on the kitchen hand towel, scanned the kitchen to make sure everything was in its place, and then pushed open the old screen door and walked to the shed where she could hear the steady rasping sound her husband sharpening tools. The old wooden shed with its worn floor boards smelled of machine oil mixed with the earthy smells of a farm. Jonathan, her husband, looked up from where he was hunched over a workbench, and then silently returned to his job.
"Jonathan . . ." She crossed her arms, standing out of her husband's reach. She hated herself for pausing, but she had to take a breath before continuing. "Jonathan," she repeated, trying to add some strength to her voice. She hated to admit that she was frightened of her husband. "Have there been any letters from Owen?"
The rasping sound of file against metal tool abruptly stopped. "Who?" He asked, not turning to face her.
Beatrice could feel her anger beginning to build. "Your son!" She spat, glancing around and holding out a hand to encompass the surroundings. "Has the smell of the kerosene and machine oil addled your brain? Whether you choose to admit it or not, you have a son who I am sure has written us, yet we haven't seen any letters. Have you been intercepting them and destroying them?"
"I don't have a son named Owen," Jonathan responded in a gruff voice. "I did once, but no longer." He turned to his wife. "No one challenges me, Bea. No one . . . not you, and least of all one of my children. Maybe the others'll learn. They don't need to know what's goin' on in that ingrate's life. He don't care 'bout us, why should we care 'bout him? No son of mine'll ever talk back to me. I shoulda put my foot down early-on, but those good-for-nothing do-gooders in town cultivated the boy's dreams." He huffed. "Dreams!" The word was almost a curse, when coming from her husband's lips.
'What did I ever see in him?' Beatrice thought, as she studied the man she had once loved. 'I did love him,' she told herself. 'Didn't I?'
"So, there have been letters?" She asked, aloud.
Jonathan returned to his tool sharpening. "I didn't say that, and I don't want to hear that person's name mentioned in this household again, by you or anyone else." He turned his head and glared at her. "Is that clear?"
"Yes, Jonathan . . . perfectly clear. I've been blind, but now I realize many things are becoming clear."
"What's that supposed to mean?" He brought the heavy file up as if to threaten her. "Don't start on me, woman. I've had my fill of whining around here." She was proud of herself for not flinching. Jonathan had never hit her, but she could see it in his eyes sometimes, how much he wanted to.
'It's a sad commentary about a marriage when the only thing good I can say about my husband is that he has never hit me.'
Beatrice turned and walked to the shed's entrance before turning back. "Jonathan," she said in a firm voice. The rasping sound of the file halted, though her husband refused to face her. "You may not realize it, but you're not the only person 'round here to have had their fill of things. You've pushed your oldest son to the point where he had no other option but to leave. Now, you've started in on Jonah and the girls . . . and me. You'd better start treating all of us different than you are now, or there won't be anyone left for you to scream at and boss around." Her voice rose. "We'll all have done what . . . Owen . . . did. We will have left. Then where will you be? You answer me that!" She crossed the distance to the house, her hands clasped into angry fists at her sides. She didn't see Jonah stand wearing a look of concern on his face as she slammed the kitchen's screen door behind her.
Bailey fidgeted in the uncomfortable library chair, holding an open book in front of himself, leaving only his eyes to follow Owen's movements through the glass separating the library reading room from the offices where Owen worked.
He had to admit it; Owen had become an obsession. No one had ever led him on such a merry chase, pretending to not be interested. 'How can he not be interested?' Bailey asked himself. 'If the boy wasn't so stunning,' he went on, in silence, 'I'd have abandoned him to Lucas weeks ago. But, if Lucas has had him, so shall I. I only want to sample him a couple times; after that, I'll tire of him and send him on his way. Lucas can have him back, with no harm done.
'The two of us would never be right for one another. After all, we come from different circles. He'd never fit into society.'
Owen laughed at something someone said. It was a carefree sort of laugh, nothing like Bailey was accustomed to seeing from his friends. He had to admit, it was refreshing . . . almost as appealing as the way Owen's dark yellow shirt stretched across his shoulders and then tapered to his narrow waist before disappearing into the light tan jeans.
'Really,' Bailey huffed as Owen left the office and walked past. 'Wearing tennis shoes at school!' He shook his head. "Goes to show the sort of background from which he came. Still . . . he does have a handsome smile, and the way his trousers embrace his buttocks is . . . stimulating.' He carefully rearranged his thickening cock, imagining how Owen would soon be begging to be impaled on the impressive organ. 'Lucas liked it,' Bailey thought with a smug expression. 'Owen will as well.'
Bailey cast a distasteful look at the book he'd been holding, and then dropped it onto the table with an attention-grabbing thud. He reached into his rear pocket and withdrew an immaculately pressed white handkerchief and wiped his hands, cleaning off any dust which might have lingered from the book.
'I simply must have him. I simply must.' He stood and quickly examined himself to make sure he hadn't picked up any stray piece of lint on his clothing, and that the creases of his navy blue trousers remained crisp before he walked across the room, unsure where the entry to the library might be.
'After I've had him, perhaps Lucas and I can confer and discuss the boy's merits.'
Jonah watched from the porch as his parents and sisters drove off. For the past few days his parents had remained strangely silent around one another. Each time his mother had begun to say something, his father had looked away. When he or his sisters looked toward their mother for an explanation, she'd give them a wan smile and brush a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. 'She's looking awful,' Jonah thought to himself. 'There are dark circles under her eyes, and her shoulders seemed to . . . sag, as if beneath a heavy weight.'
His sisters had tried to help out around the house, but had been told by their father that they shouldn't take time away from their chores to help their mother. "She has her own chores to do," he'd groused. "Leave her alone so she can get 'em done." Both girls had grudgingly gone back to their assigned duties, warily looking over their shoulder from time to time.
Jonah found his mother, alone one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter staring unseeing at something, the fingers of one hand covering her lips. He'd silently embraced her and had given her a gentle kiss on the cheek, trying to ignore her suddenly-watery eyes. She had tenderly run the fingertips of one hand over his cheek, conveying her silent thanks, and had then moved away, lest her husband see her and Jonah together, hating herself as she stepped aside, blinking away tears.
"Mama?" His murmured question had been answered by a quick shake of her head. He had briefly embraced her, and then left the room.
Today, they were all gone. For the time being, he felt free. He was alone in the house, and would be for the entire day. It would take at least that long for his parents and sisters to drive to his mother's sister's house, visit, and return. He inhaled. 'It's as if I can even breathe freely,' he thought to himself as he stripped naked in the living room, feeling daring.
As he'd told Sam, he'd never considered himself very sexual. Masturbation had been nothing more than a necessary release. Sure, it felt good, and it was fun whenever he and Owen would sit on the bed at one another's side, naked, beating-off. But, when Owen wasn't there, it wasn't nearly as much fun.
When Sam had first hugged him, he'd felt wonderful, yet he'd been troubled by how untroubled he was being intimate with another male. 'Could it be that I'm gay?' He asked himself on that day, as he walked home. 'Or, maybe it's just that I'm feeling these things 'cause Sam's been nice to me.'
Since that first embrace, Sam had even kissed him . . . on the cheek, but he had kissed him. In the space of a few days his fantasies had matured. He was no longer concerned that he might be gay. All he thought of now, was imagining what sex with Sam would be like. He wasn't interested in other men. He was interested in only one man . . . Sam.
He inhaled deeply and then puffed out his cheeks, exhaling slowly. 'Hell, I don't even know for sure what two men do . . . together . . . in bed. I'm sure I'd make a mess of it. Sam'd probably laugh or somethin'.
He gathered up his dropped clothing and padded through the house in his bare feet, his penis thickening as he walked, until by the time he had reached his and Owen's bedroom, he was fully erect, his cock standing straight out from his curly brown pubic hair.
He dropped his clothes on top the wooden chest at the end of his bed and then turned so he could see his image in the mirror over the dresser. He turned from one side to the other and then looked over his shoulder to see the reflection of his butt, evaluating himself in light of his new-found desires.
'Would another guy like what he'd see?' He spread his legs, bending his knees slightly and cupped his testicles as he thrust his hips forward, wondering at his newfound daring. 'Pale skin,' he thought to himself. 'Like Owen, a smattering of pale freckles across my nose. Light brown hair,' he thought, kept slightly longer than either his mother or father approved of. His hair always seemed to be in disarray, but he liked it . . . as a subtle form of rebellion.
Abigail called his lips, "pouty." She said she thought they were sexy. He wasn't sure if being called sexy by one's sister was such a good thing. 'Now, if Sam . . .' He quashed that idea, feeling guilty. After all, Sam and Owen were close. He wouldn't do anything to intrude on that relationship, no matter how horny he might be.
He ran his fingers over his smooth chest, pausing at his firm nipples, the roughened skin of his fingertips sending a tingle throughout his body. 'Funny,' he thought, as he lightly pinched one nipple, and then the other. 'I've never thought of my nips as sensual.' Now, each pinch caused his erection to jump and a tingle to course through his body.
His belly was flat, his pubic hair thick, brown, and curly; his balls firm and round, rather than hanging, as Owen's did. He cupped them and then encircled them with a thumb and forefinger and tugged slightly, thrusting his hips forward as he watched a clear strand of pre-cum ooze out of the tip of his cock.
'Ohhh, to have someone's warm mouth surrounding my cock,' he thought, as he began to slowly masturbate himself, spreading his legs further, continuing to watch himself in the mirror. 'To feel someone's tongue working it, or their throat closing around it as I pump in and out. He reached around and clutched one of his buttocks, squeezing hard as his hand motions increased in speed. He had now produced enough pre-cum that his erection was coated and he was making squishy sounds with each stroke of his hand.
He licked his lips, wondering what it would be like to suck someone . . . Sam? Would he be able to do to Sam what he wanted done to him? Would he be able to swallow once Sam had flooded his mouth with sperm? He gathered up a dangling strand of his own clear juices and licked his finger clean, imagining it was Sam who had produced the slightly salty tasting liquid. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, savoring the subtle taste. 'I could swallow stuff that tasted like that,' he thought, vowing to sample his own sperm. After all, maybe sperm was different, and he didn't want to be taken by surprise, should he and Sam ever . . . He shook his head, driving away the thought.
And then . . . to . . . kiss. Jonah took a shaky breath, imagining being wrapped in Sam's embrace, tenderly kissing, their tongues intertwining as they rubbed their erections against one another's. He imagined inhaling deeply; the scent of Sam was intoxicating, the taste and feel of his tongue more exciting than he could imagine. He could almost feel Sam's strong arms surrounding him, pulling him close.
They were both naked, and were breathing almost as heavily as he was now, standing before the mirror in his bedroom, stroking his slippery cock and gently tugging on his testicles.
"Ohhhh, Sam," he moaned, aloud, feeling his orgasm begin to build. "I wanna kiss you so bad." He licked his lips. "I want you to fill my mouth with your sperm. I wanna hold it in my mouth and have it coat my tongue, as you suck me off." Hearing the words was driving him close.
He was almost there. His balls had drawn up enough where he could no longer tug on them, so he reached for one of his nipples and began to pinch, imagining the taste of Sam's thick sperm, and Sam's mouth surrounding his cock. It would only be a moment more . . . and he would shoot. He squeezed harder. Only one moment more. He slowed his hand motion, feeling his erection throb beneath his fingers, slippery from his pre-cum. He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes.
The head of his penis swelled; he bent his trembling knees even more as the first strand of sperm shot out of his cock and splattered over the top of the wooden dresser. Through half-closed eyes, he saw the first thick spray emerge, then a shorter second shot which landed on the room's wooden floor, followed by a third, which coated the knuckles of his right hand.
He leaned forward and braced himself against the dresser at the same time he brought his sperm-covered hand to his mouth and licked it clean.
'I could swallow Sam, if he tasted like this,' Jonah thought. 'I would welcome the chance.' He leaned forward and licked the dresser-top, slurping up the rest of his own cum, savoring its taste, and then ran his bare toes through the slippery, thick white globs on the floor, feeling his cock twitch once in the pure sexiness of the action.
'Oh yes,' he laughed to himself, as he fell backward onto his bed, his knees bent over the edge, his feet flat on the floor, and his arms stretched wide. "Oh Sam. I could learn to love the taste, almost as much as I'm finding that I care for you."
He closed his eyes and his contented smile faded. Owen had spent practically his entire life being Sam's special friend. 'Just 'cause Owen's not here, doesn't mean I'm free to go chasin' after his boyfriend.'
He threw an arm over his face, blocking out the sunlight. 'But, oh, I'd sure like to.'
~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.
My other stories on Nifty include: Phalen (located in the Gay College Section) Phalen - Finding Happiness (Gay College Section) Chris (Gay College Section) Leith (Gay College Section) (Not yet finished) Owen (Gay College Section Wesley (Adult Relationships Section) Jess (Gay Incest Section)
I hope you enjoy them all.
Roy Reinikainen