Phalen

Phalen - Reputation and Honor

Chapter Four

By Roy Reinikainen

Eric carefully set his gym bag and shoes on the floor at the side of the wooden bench, and sat, straight-backed, hands on his thighs, facing the raked gravel of the Zen garden, only feet away. Even though it was only the lobby of the Nakai Saburo Dojo, his karate school, he showed the behavior and respect the surroundings deserved. He slowly calmed himself, reviewing the just-completed class, and was pleased.

He sensed someone at his side, and stood, bowing to the senior instructor. "Ohayo gozaimasu, Sensei," he murmured, wishing his instructor a respectful good morning, then waited patiently.

The head instructor solemnly returned his bow and greeting. "You progress well, Mister Mori."

Eric bowed once more. "Arigato gozaimasu, Sensei," he murmured his thanks.

The serenity of the moment was lost with the ringing of a cellphone and a nasal squeal of a high-heeled, simpering woman who walked past, oblivious to her surroundings, a cellphone pressed to her ear with one hand while holding the hand of one of Eric's fellow students with the other. The student hurried his protesting girlfriend out of the building, his smile faltering when he saw that he had an audience. The fact that neither the instructor nor Eric were paying attention to him and his lady-friend, only made the situation worse.

Eric and the instructor exchanged another ritual bow, before the instructor turned and glided away in silence, allowing Eric to resume his contemplation. The peace of only minutes earlier, however, had been broken. The precisely raked gravel of the Zen garden occupying the school's courtyard failed to calm him.

'Ho' man!! Talk about no class!!' he couldn't help but think of the woman and his fellow student.' He allows her to prevent him from showing respect for our instructor and our surroundings. She should not be here if she cannot behave.'

Eric slowed his breathing and returned his attention to the raked gravel pattern of the garden surrounding a tortured lump of rock. As always, recently, Brad's brother was at the edge of his thoughts. He smiled as he recalled teasing Marty when they met.

'I don't think he's accustomed to being teased,' Eric thought. 'Of course, he doesn't have four older sisters who took great pleasure in tormenting their little brother. That's why I started taking karate lessons, all those years ago . . . to protect myself from people such as my sisters. Of course, we're all friends now, but there were times . . . And,' Eric finished his thought, the peacefulness of the surroundings slowly returning. 'I am rewarded with a sense of self, which no amount of teasing or sisterly torment can remove.'

Eric closed his eyes and envisioned Marty's mischievous smile, much like Brad's, yet somehow more . . . playful. 'That, and his eyes,' Eric sighed. 'Of course, those two things are attached to a perfect package. He not only doesn't tower over me, he carries himself with confidence, and the same sense of peace I experience here. There's a playfulness about him which I love, but there's a seriousness . . . a strength . . . which I admire. This man's not going to let anyone push him around.'

The subdued sounds of the dojo school lobby barely intruded on his thoughts. He smiled. 'I joked with Brad that Marty was a man I could love. I did not know how true those words would prove to be.'

Larry toyed with Greg's thick hair, as his lover snuggled close. Their lovemaking had been less than satisfying. Both men continued to be troubled by the sad story of Randy Shaw.

Randy had spent three days and nights at their house. He had responded to questions about how he felt, or if he was hungry, but would otherwise remain silent, revealing nothing about his tormentor. "I'll handle it," was all he would say, leaving both Larry and Greg disturbed. Randy had snorted an unamused laugh when Larry had asked him point-blank if he intended violence against the person.

"No," he responded. "I don't want to hurt him, physically. I just want to see him hurt. The type of hurt he'll feel most is a loss of control. That's what he gets off on. If he loses that, he's nothing. That's what I want to see. He thinks he is . . . untouchable, that only other people make mistakes, such as when I decided to go to bed with him. He'll learn that he is neither untouchable, nor infallible."

Greg had personally gone to Ed Bowen, the head baseball coach, and had told him that Randy was experiencing some serious family problems, and would be away from the team. It was easy to tell that the coach was deeply troubled by the news of Randy's problems. "I hate to see one of my boys suffering a problem bad enough to take them away from the team," he'd said. "Will he be okay?" Coach Bowen had asked. "I'm not asking as his coach, but as his friend."

Greg had assured him that Randy would be fine . . . with time.

"This is more than just a family problem, isn't it, Doctor?" he'd asked. "Is Randy ill?"

"No, he's not ill, though he is suffering." He shook his head as the coach appeared about to ask another question. "I'm sorry, Coach, but I've reached the limit of what I am able to say. When Randy is more . . . able, I promise that I'll have him call you." Coach Bowen nodded reluctant acknowledgment of the doctor's position, and accepted the forms requesting an absence be granted from the team. He read and signed them, handing them back to the doctor.

"Please give Randy my personal best, Doctor," he asked. "If there is anything . . . anything . . . I can do to help him out, please let me know." Greg had assured the coach that he would relay the message, but secretly wondered how much anyone, other than Randy himself, could do to 'help out.'

"He's a broken man," Greg told Larry, the day after he brought Randy home to be treated for his injuries. "He used to be a little too cocky for his own good. Now, he'll barely speak. Whoever did this to him should be locked away, or better yet, subjected to the same sort of treatment he inflicted on Randy. I believe, and Randy agrees with me, that he surely must not be the first to suffer at the hands of this guy."

"He still won't tell you who did this to him?" Larry asked. He could feel Greg heave a sigh, as they lay next to one another.

"No, he won't. It must be someone both he and I know. Otherwise, why all the promises of secrecy. If the person was a stranger to me, there'd be no reason to ask. He also wouldn't have been reluctant to openly come to the clinic." Greg shifted position, throwing a leg over Larry's, as well as an arm over Larry's chest. "He was all set to tell me who it was, then suddenly changed his mind. He told me he'd, just then, made a decision about how to handle . . . this person.

"Hmmmm," Larry made a disapproving noise, deep in his throat. "I wonder."

"Me, too," Greg sighed. "My job, though, is not to serve as a private investigator. I'm around only to treat my patient, and offer what meager counseling I can, or that he will accept, though I have asked him if he thinks it wise to allow this person to remain loose, possibly forcing himself on someone else.

"I've referred him to the same psychiatrist who worked with Jeff, so I'm hopeful that his emotional troubles will be dealt with before they become any worse. I've also told him that he has to eat. He's lost over fifty pounds since everything with this guy has started. Now that he's taken some control of the situation, he might be able to keep something down.

Greg sighed. "I've also spoken with my supervisor and laid out to her what happened, and how I handled things. She frowned, but I think coming clean immediately has prevented me from getting in trouble for treating an athlete in a locale other than the clinic or at a game. Once she understood the situation, she agreed that I had done what was in the best interests of the patient."

Marty turned away from the bank of shelves, carrying an armload of fresh towels, and ran into someone blocking his path.

"Umph!" He struggled not to drop any of the towels, and frowned, prepared to ask what was going on. When he looked up, he was facing Assistant Coach Jackson Cline, and thought better of saying anything he might regret later. Of course, he knew who the coach was, but they'd never spoken. The coach, whenever he had to deal with the trainers at all, preferred to work with the head trainer. It was strange to have him intentionally blocking the door to Marty's small office.

"Sorry, sir. What can I do for you?" He set the towels down, and prepared himself to carry out whatever task was required of him, wondering if whatever the coach asked of him might interfere with his date to get a burger with Eric. 'I don't like the looks of this man,' he told himself, as Coach Cline studied him as if he were an insect under a microscope. 'He may be handsome, but he's the type who knows he is.'

"Mr. Kelly, is it?" Coach Cline asked, in a wonderfully mellow voice at odds with Marty's initial assessment. His sunglasses were pushed high on his forehead, revealing dark green eyes. Unlike Jeff's though, this man's eyes didn't sparkle. His skin was perfectly tanned; his wavy black hair was held in precise disarray by who knows how much gel. If his appearance hadn't been quite so . . . calculated, he could very easily be considered stunningly handsome. Even though he smiled . . . those flat-green eyes, though, reduced him merely to one of those whose looks were best appreciated at a distance. His grey t-shirt hugged his chest like a second skin, and his cargo pants, which would appear bulky on other people, snugly curved over his round butt and cupped a formidable bulge at his groin.

Marty cleared his throat, involuntarily trying to step back and remove himself further from the strength of the man's personality. "Yes. My first name's Marty," he said, looking away from the emotionless eyes, to tend to the pile of towels he'd nearly dropped.

"Mine's Jackson." Both the face and voice were emotionless, though one corner of his mouth did twitch, revealing the presence of a dimple.

'How am I supposed to respond to that?' Marty asked himself, deciding it would be better to not respond than to say the wrong thing.

"I understand you want to be on the team," the coach almost . . . purred.

'Who'd you hear that from?' Marty wanted to ask. 'Surely not Phalen, or Brad. I'm sure neither Eric or Dani know this guy. Who else could have told him what I've always wanted?'

"Um, yeah. It was a dream of mine since I was a small kid, but I'm not good enough. I hoped to get a scholarship, but," he shrugged. "I'm happy working with the team. I like what I'm doing. Besides, I was given an academic scholarship."

The man's dimples were wonderful as he smiled, casually leaning against the office door frame. Jackson . . . Coach Cline, crossed his arms, his biceps flexing. "I heard someone say that you should have been given a scholarship . . . that it was a shame you weren't . . . that it might still be possible . . ." Jackson's voice trailed off with tantalizing visions of a different future than Marty was currently living. "I've been thinking that maybe . . . if you're willing to play along . . . that I might be able to help you out."

"Oh?" Marty asked, trying to still his racing heart. "Play along?" 'Is it possible that someone has rethought things?' He didn't see how such a thing was possible. 'Why is this man leading me on like this,' he asked himself. 'No matter how hard I wish, I'm not destined to be on the university team.' The season was already in full swing, the team had a full roster, and he was sure no one would be leaving, which might create an opening to be filled. Still . . . it was a tantalizing thought. 'How can it hurt to listen?'

The coach grinned, flashing his dimples, and acting as if he could read Marty's deepest desires . . . as if Marty, by his reactions, had just passed some sort of test. He maintained his studied pose of ease, continuing to block the door. "How badly do you want on the team . . . Marty?" The tone sent icy chills up his spine. What sort of danger did that . . . purr . . . conceal?

'Why am I being so cynical?' Marty asked. 'Might it be possible?'

"Um, I don't understand. Are you offering your help?" Jackson grinned, and slowly nodded, casually glancing around, as if checking for someone who might overhear him. Seeing that oh-so-casual glance caused Marty's doubts to double.

"Smart . . . boy." The coach almost . . . oozed into the small office, the presence of his personality alone pushing Marty against the back wall, as far away as possible. On the surface, the words were as smooth as a lover's caress. Beneath the surface, they were patronizing and insulting.

Marty cleared his throat, taking one step around the edge of the room . . . one step closer to the door. "And would I have to do something to get this help, or are you offering to put in a good word for me at no cost?"

Jackson's chuckle was as dry and dead as his eyes. "No, no, no, my friend. Nothing in this life comes free of charge. I'm willing to help you get what you want, but, of course, there's a price attached. I do believe, though, that perhaps you might find what I ask . . . pleasurable."

Chills coursed up and down Marty's spine. He blinked, tearing his attention away from the hypnotic presence, and casually moved one small step closer to the office door, desperately wishing he could reach something to defend himself, should it become necessary. He wasn't confident a shout for help would be heard in the empty locker room. "I'm sorry, sir, but there isn't anything I know of that I could do to change anyone's mind about decisions that were made months ago."

"Nothing you could do, true . . . but I . . ."

"And . . . what would I have to do?"

There was a long pause, as Coach Cline examined him with a hint of a crooked smile. He flicked another glance past the office's surrounding windows, to check for anyone who might be lurking nearby. "I understand you like to go to bed with men . . . Marty," Jackson murmured, barely loud enough to be heard. Marty frowned, quickly checking the escape path. He felt dirty . . . as if someone had thrown a pail of slime over him.

"You seem to hear quite a few things about me," he managed to say in a steady voice. "I'm sure many of those things are wrong, and even if I do like to associate with men, what concern is it of yours who I am attracted to?" He paused. "Is that the price to get me onto the team?" he asked, jokingly. The moment he asked the question, he knew he'd made a mistake.

Jackson silently nodded, his eyes taking on a steely glint, as he slowly lowered one of his hands and cupped his crotch. As he squeezed, his arm muscles flexed and his nipples hardened. When he removed his hand, it was impossible to miss the prominent length of his stiffening penis, which strained against his slacks. Marty managed to tear his eyes away, cursing himself for even contemplating giving in to this man's demands.

"Then," he cleared his throat, "I'm sorry, Coach. I have to thank you for thinking of me, but I am not interested. I am perfectly happy doing what I'm doing. I'm not interested in having sex with you, no matter how well you pose, or," he nodded toward the man's groin, "how large you are."

"Are you a virgin, Mister Kelly?" The words stung like the stroke of a whip. "Are you?" Jackson's voice snapped, demanding an answer. The power of his personality filled the small room. Marty found he could barely breathe. He decided to abandon the towels, and for the first time in his life was thankful for not being a big hulking guy. He scooted past the coach, escaping into the locker room before the surprised man could react.

He backed away, raising his voice, hoping there might still be someone close enough to hear his words. 'Where were Phalen and Jeff when you need them?' he asked himself. "Coach Cline, that is an inappropriate thing to ask anyone!"

In a drill sergeant's voice, which no one had ever been able to resist, the coach shouted. "Show some respect, Mister!" With the distance now separating Marty from the coach's bulk, the words somehow didn't sting nearly quite as much as they would have if Marty were still in his small office.

"Coach, I am showing respect. I could be, and maybe should be, running outta here to report what you're suggesting, but I'm not . . . yet. You demand respect of me, yet you are unwilling to show me the same thing you demand. I am telling you for the last time. I am pleased to continue working as the team's assistant trainer. At one time, yes, I wanted nothing more than to be on the team. That's no longer true. You have nothing I want, sir; not your offer to be on the team, nor your body."

The drill sergeant's voice became a venomous hiss, as Coach Cline pointed a finger at Marty's chest. "I can have you removed as trainer, little man. I can have you thrown out of school. All it takes is one word and," the coach snapped his fingers, "you'll be out on the street. You cannot begin to . . . contemplate . . . what I am capable of."

Marty swallowed, not doubting the coach's words one bit. "Nevertheless, I do not want to go to bed with you, sir. I do not want to be on the team enough to . . . do what you ask, and if my continuing existence as a student is dependent on allowing you to take advantage of me sexually, then I find the street to be a much more inviting place to be than being on a team where I will always be at your mercy. Now, please leave me alone. I have given you my answer, and in case you didn't understand, it is no."

"No one says no to me, boy," the coach hissed, doing his best to intimidate Marty by his looming presence. He was pleased, and secretly thrilled, when Marty refused either to break eye contact, or to back down. 'This little man is a person worthy of having me pound his hole. He's a virgin. I know it!' Jackson laughed to himself, imagining the sight of his cock head stretching Marty wide, demanding admittance. 'I'll bet he'll be hard the entire time I'm working him over. It's only a matter of time, and he'll be begging.'

"I'm sorry sir, but I just did say 'no' to you." Marty turned on his heels and left the locker room, praying that his trembling was not visible.

"How dare the man assume that I would even consider having sex with him!" He pushed through the swinging doors leading to the indoor practice facility, cursing the fact that he couldn't take out his anger by slamming one of the doors shut.

"Hey, Marty!" Phalen smiled at his friend, who had burst out of the locker room like a runaway train.

"Out of my way!" Marty seethed, not even bothering to see who had greeted him. He strode away, his fists clenched at his sides, unsure whether he was mad at the coach for making sex the price of the thing he wanted most in life, or was mad at himself, for even considering what the coach had demanded.

'The man knows my innermost desires,' Marty thought, as he left the building. 'The question is, how badly do I want to play ball? Could it be so bad a thing to have sex with this man, just once?'

Kerin shook his head, in an attempt to bring the people surrounding him into focus. His brother, Thian, knelt to his right, while the gymnastics coach was at his left. "Ahhh," Kerin sighed, making an effort to grin, "the center of attention, at last."

"He's okay," one of Kerin's teammates laughed. "He could break an arm and he'd still have a joke to tell." The rest of the team laughed, as they returned to their interrupted practice, helped along by the coach's signal for them to leave.

"I hurt myself, T," Kerin murmured, grasping his brother's hand, as the coach shouted instructions.

"Where?" the coach asked, holding a hand over Kerin's chest in a silent order not to move. "Your joking doesn't fool me, Mister Johnston."

"M'arm n'wrist. They don't feel too good." Kerin attempted to raise his head, but one look at his brother's ashen face told him that he'd better do as the coach asked. This wasn't something to be joked about. He winced. "They're starting to hurt . . . pretty bad . . . actually."

"Thian," the coach's voice broke into Thian's worry. "Run down to the clinic and get one of the docs up here. I'm not letting your brother move until a professional ok's it." When Thian hesitated. "He's not going to die, Thian. The sooner you get your tail down there and get us a doctor, the faster Kerin'll be fixed." The coach lowered his voice. "I'll take good care of him. Now, move."

Kerin reached for his brother's hand and squeezed, adding his permission to the coach's orders. Only with that permission, did Thian stand and head toward the gym's doors. "Thian?" a couple of their team mates's voices carried to him.

"Gonna get a doctor," Thian shouted, as he ran out the door.

By the time Doctor Layson, the head sports doctor arrived, trotting alongside Thian, Kerin was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. He didn't complain, but the way he clinched his fist and bit his lower lip told the coach exactly how much pain the young man was suffering.

Thian knelt at his brother's side, and took his hand as the doctor knelt opposite. "Hey, Doc," Kerin managed, "I didn't think you guys made house calls any . . . more."

"For you, my friend," Doctor Layson grinned, conducting an exam as he spoke. "For you, I make house calls. Your brother and the coach think you're something special. I can't have you giving them reason to worry, now, can we?" He grinned at the man he'd met only a few times, during one of Phalen and Jeff's parties. The man laying before him bore little resemblance to the man who was always joking and laughing.

"Do you think you can walk?" the doctor asked, as he joined Thian, helping the injured gymnast sit up.

"If that's what it takes to get something done about this, I damn well better be able to," Kerin grumbled. "As long as I can lean on someone, I can make it to the clinic."

"Doctor?" Thian asked, worriedly, as Kerin finally stood.

"Get back to practice Thian," the coach instructed. "No apparatus work for the rest of the day, though. Focus on floor exercise. Doctor Layson'll see that he's taken care of. You can visit him after practice."

"Yeah, T," Kerin murmured, "we don't want to make the guys think . . . we're both slackers. Just tell 'em that I'll do anything to get in a little nap-time." Thian squeezed his brother's shoulder, then turned back to his teammates, many of whom were waiting for word about Kerin's condition.

"Gotta watch him, Doctor," Kerin said, wincing. "He'll be hanging about worrying more than necessary. He's the type."

"And what type are you?" the doctor asked, of the man who was wincing with each step.

"When it comes to Thian, the same type, I guess. Just don't let him know I said that. I've got a reputation to uphold."

"I wouldn't think of it."

Eric gestured toward a broad set of steps at the water's edge. It was a pleasant spring evening, not yet so hot to keep everyone indoors. In the distance, clouds gathered, hinting at a possible thunderstorm, the low rumbles barely distinguishable from the sound of traffic over the Salt River bridge. The patio diners in the restaurants spaced along the promenade sprinkled the calm air with laughter which, when combined with the twinkling lights in the trees, created a festive atmosphere. Earlier in the day, Eric had invited Marty to dinner and to see a movie. Now, they settled themselves side-by-side on the broad flight of steps at the water's edge, all set to enjoy a heaping cup of ice cream. "Hmm," Marty grinned, after the first bite. "Chocolate, my favorite."

Eric stared into the distance, his vanilla ice cream ignored for the moment. "I miss shave ice," he said, speaking in an almost reverent tone, "like we have at home," he added. He turned to Marty and grinned. "There are so many more types of food in Hawaii than here on the Mainland. I miss that." He made a face. "I don't miss the bugs, though." His eyes widened as he warmed to his story. "They've got cockroaches that fly, and take a bite out of you as they pass." He swerved a hand in the air, mimicking the flight of a flying cockroach. "Zzzzzzzz," he buzzed, as he approached Marty's bare arm, which he lightly pinched in passing. "We call 'em B-52s, after the big military bomber. At least you can hear 'em coming, so you have a chance to get out of the way."

Marty couldn't help himself from looking at the surrounding brick walkway, wondering if he'd see a cockroach. "You're making that up," he accused, gently massaging his arm and ignoring Eric's satisfied smile.

Eric laughed and shook his head. "No lie, de fo' real! Fo' shua," he added, when Marty shook his head in disbelief. "So, brah," he said, licking the spoon he'd used to eat his ice cream, and eyeing the cup as he considered doing the same to it. "Why you pissed dat lolo buggah give you da stinkeye?" He turned to Marty and grinned, raising his brows in invitation, setting aside the empty cup, with a sigh of regret.

Marty couldn't help himself. He burst out laughing. "What is it you just asked me? I feel like I'm sitting here talking to a space alien or something. Earth to Eric," he intoned. "Earth to Eric. Speak English, please." He playfully nudged Eric's shoulder.

Eric eyed Marty's softening ice cream. "Why are you pissed that that scumbag in the restaurant looked at you like he'd just found out the names you'd been calling his mother were true?" He grinned, and returned the nudge. "Not that you actually were calling his mother names, but you get the idea."

"That's not what you asked."

Eric shrugged. "Close enough. Besides, I got you to laugh, didn't I? Last couple days you've been dragging round carrying a storm cloud with you. I hear the rumbling and am waiting for the lightning." Eric scooted around to face Marty. "Otherwise, what's eating you? I'm guessing it's not me, otherwise you'd not be sitting here eating ice cream with me, looking sexier n'hell. I thought you were cute when you were wearing your baseball cap, but you're even cuter without it . . . like right now. By the way," he added. "If you're not going to finish your ice cream, I will." His hopeful expression was dashed when Marty quickly moved the cup out of reach.

"Mine," he grinned, then realized what Eric had said. "You think I'm sexy?" He looked down at himself, as if checking to see what Eric might be referring to, while at the same time he felt the heat of a blush color his cheeks. He was learning, little-by-little, that there was so much more to being gay than sex. He'd been out to dinner with, "the guys," before, but never with a potential sex partner. There was an underlying tension in everything that was said or done. "Stinkeye?" he asked.

Eric nodded, the corners of his lips twitching. "So, my sexy friend, what's bothering you?"

"That buggah guy . . ."

Eric nodded encouragingly.

"He's wanting to go to bed with me, and won't take 'no' for an answer. He's everywhere, Eric. Every time I turn around, there he is."

"He's stalking you!" Eric lowered his voice, glancing around to see if the athletic man with the wonderfully bulging muscles, wavy hair, and sunglasses was within sight. "I've read of this sorta thing happening, but I never knew anyone it was happening to. What have you done? I mean, you can go tell dat bastard dat dis pupuli Hawaiian said fo' him go bungee jump off short cliff wit' too long rope."

Marty threw his head back and laughed in carefree abandon. Being with Eric did that to him.

"Walk you home?" Eric asked. "You've got a game tomorrow, don't you?"

Marty accepted a hand to stand, realizing that Eric often sought out a reason to touch him. "Nah, not a game," he said, as they dropped their empty ice cream cups in a nearby trash container, then turned toward the nearby campus, and their apartments on the far edge. "I'm practicing with the guys."

"Have you told anyone else about that guy?" Eric asked, as they crossed Stadium Drive and headed into the heart of the university campus' park-like surroundings. "If you haven't, you should. Tell Brad for me, would you? If things get worse, go higher. Tell the police. Don't be a victim, Marty. I wouldn't want anything to happen to my favorite man." He tenderly ran a hand over Marty's back. "After all, I've never had a chance to kiss you, yet." The playfulness in Eric's voice caused Marty to smile. He found he smiled a lot whenever Eric was around.

As they stepped into the deeper shadows, Marty stopped and reached for Eric's hand. "I'm not sure how good I'll be at this kissing-thing," he murmured, as he drew Eric closer to him. "I've only been kissed . . . twice, barely. But, he continued, as Eric moved close enough to feel his breath, "I can't think of a person I'd rather have teach me than you."

"I've been hoping you'd say that, my friend," Eric murmured, first nuzzling Marty's ear as he wrapped his arms around Marty's waist and pulled him into a tight embrace. The two men's lips met, first, in a brief touch; then, a moment later, a longer one. When Marty made a slight helpless whimpering sound in his throat, their lips met one another's in an open-mouthed kiss, allowing their tongues to caress.

"Ahhh, sweet," Marty's sigh was half-laugh, half-amazed, as Eric slowly relaxed his embrace and leaned back. He could barely see Eric in the dim light, but somehow he knew his friend had enjoyed what had just happened, as much as he had. "By any chance," he murmured, next to Eric's ear. "Could we do that again . . . like a couple hundred times . . . for starts?"

"Fo' shua. As often and for as long as you want," Eric murmured, as he kissed and licked across Marty's throat and jaw. "I'm thinking, though, that I'd like for both of us to be stripped bare when we get really serious, so making out in the middle of campus, as exciting as it is, might not be the best place. Besides," he murmured, pulling Marty closer, "I'm liking the idea of being with you skin-to-skin, sorta naked, n'stuff."

"N'stuff?" Marty was pleased that Eric appeared to be as nervous as he was. "You could . . ." Marty hesitated, as Eric took his hand, and led him through the widely spaced pools of light along the palm-lined walkway. "I mean, um, would you like . . . to . . ."

"Kiss some more?" Eric supplied, when it appeared Marty had run into a roadblock to finishing his sentence.

"Yes. And . . ."

"I'm hoping that you're asking if I'd like to spend the night with you, my sexy boyfriend. Is that what you're trying to say?" Eric chuckled, snaking an arm around Marty's waist. "Or, am I putting words in your mouth?"

"I like the thought of that skin-to-skin stuff you mentioned," Marty chuckled, melting against the person who held him in a way no one ever had. "If you'd like to, that is. I mean, I've never done . . . I've never been with a guy, you know . . . sexually, or anything. So, if that freaks you . . . or . . . something, I'd understand. Though I hope you're not freaked. By me, I mean. Or . . ." he shrugged in helplessness. "It's just that everyone I've ever known has wanted to hop in the sack after barely saying hello. You're different. You waited, letting us get to know one another some, first. I . . . I like that. It's important to me. Y'know?"

Eric tightened his arm around Marty's waist. "I understand. It's important to me, too. And 'no', I'm definitely not freaked, as you call it, by your inexperience. I don't like rushing anything. I don't talk fast, eat fast, or," his voice grinned, as he murmured in Marty's ear, "make love fast."

A strangled sound, barely audible, even in the still of the late evening, escaped Marty.

"For real? I mean, you're not wanting to kiss a couple times, get our rocks off, then you're out the door and on your way home, all in an hour or so. You want more than that? I mean . . . I do; I just didn't know if . . . you know . . . you . . . would . . . did . . ."

Eric nuzzled Marty's neck, ignoring the fact that they were in the middle of Palm Walk, one of the most visible places on the campus. "You're not gonna get rid of me that easily. I would like to do much more than to kiss a couple times, then get my rocks off and leave. I intend to make you breakfast tomorrow." He turned to Marty. "Do you happen to have any Spam and rice?" When Marty shook his head, Eric made a dismissive gesture. "I'll save that treat for the next morning, then. After breakfast, if you like, I'd like to watch you practice with your friends. Then, I'd like to shower with you and make love all night long." Eric ran a hand over Marty's back, then moved to his chest, where he paused a moment to tease Marty's nipples through the fabric of his t-shirt. "I'm thinking that there's a lot more to you than a wonderful tasting tongue."

"You were tasting chocolate ice cream," Marty teased, almost hyperventilating with the thrill of what was happening to him. 'This is what being with another man should be like.'

Marty drowsily smiled into the pillow, as Eric . . . the incredibly sexy Eric . . . the insatiable Eric . . . the laughing Eric, the tender, the . . . most wonderful man he'd ever known . . . knelt at his side kissing and licking down his back. He squirmed with pleasure as his butt cheeks were kissed. He moaned when they were kneaded, and he jumped with surprise and an inhaled breath of excitement when Eric's tongue first touched his hole.

"Uhhhhh fuuuuuck," he moaned, gripping the pillow and pushing his hips back to meet the invading tongue.

"You like?" Eric chuckled, as he ran a fingertip around the perimeter of the pucker, then pressed firmly against Marty's prominent perineum, sending another surge of excitement directly from Marty's groin to his brain. He mutely nodded and took a steadying breath. Eric was a slow, attentive lover, just as he'd claimed, one whose fingers and tongue were capable of magic. When they'd arrived at the apartment, Marty was almost shaking, both with anxiety about what was going to happen, and with excitement, for the same reason.

'At least I haven't lost my hard-on,' he told himself. They closed the apartment door, as the rainstorm which had been threatening all afternoon, finally made good on its threats. Flashes of lightning, rumbles of thunder, and a gentle rain announced the storm's arrival.

Eric stood close in the dimly lit apartment, looking into Marty's eyes, with a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his full lips. As always, his thick black hair was arranged in artful disarray. "You good?" he asked, as he tenderly trailed the fingers of both hands down the sides of Marty's face, over his ears, his jaws, lightly touching his slightly parted lips, before moving to his chest and rubbing the nipples between thumbs and forefingers. Marty hissed an indrawn breath when Eric cupped his straining erection through his pants. Eric had done the same thing, back on campus, but somehow, this meant more. On campus, the touch had been not much more than a tease. Now, the tease had matured to a promise.

"Gotta warn you." Marty took two steadying breaths. "I'm so sexed-up, just having you touch me like that is gonna make me pop." He grinned embarrassingly.

"You wanna shoot in my mouth?" Eric asked.

Marty responded, tenderly running his fingertips through Eric's hair. "As long as you cum in mine. I love sucking my own stuff off my fingers. I've always wondered what someone else's . . . yours . . . would taste like. You like eating your own sperm?"

Eric shook his head, wearing a crooked grin. "I think I'd rather have you eat it. After I shoot, I find I'm not that interested in tasting my own stuff." He pulled Marty close and rubbed the mounds of their groins over one another's, pressing hard. "I'm thinking, though, that I'd like to shoot a load on my chest and stomach, then spread it all over so you can lick it off." He backed up slightly and took Marty's hand, guiding it to the places on his body as he spoke of them. He first guided the hand over his chest. "First, you're gonna lick my sperm off my chest," he said, in a low voice. "Then my belly would need your attention." He shifted Marty's hand to his lower belly, then to the mound of his erection beneath his shorts. "You'll have to spend a looooong time," he dragged out the word, as he thrust himself against Marty's hand, "on my dick and nuts." Marty whimpered, and tried to slow his breathing.

Eric turned sideways, not releasing Marty's hand, which he now pressed to his buttocks. "You wouldn't want to miss any jiz which may have found its way to my butt cheeks," he murmured in a low voice. "Or," he continued, leaning forward and spreading his legs slightly. "Or, between my nuts and my . . . ass . . . hole." By now, Marty was beginning to tremble.

"Make me naked, Marty," Eric whispered, close to Marty's ear, before they paused to taste tongues. "I'm thinking that it's not gonna take me long to . . . pop . . . either. I won't, though," he added quickly, "at least not until we're both bare-ass-naked, and we've had a chance to squirm around on top of each other."

He unbuttoned his crisply pressed white shirt, inviting Marty to remove it. "That's it, my handsome lover," he murmured encouragement, as Marty removed the shirt and carefully draped it over the back of a chair. When he turned back, Eric had unfastened his belt, and zipper. He licked over Marty's jaw, then paused for another deep kiss, before he straightened up, with his arms stretched out to his sides. "Now, my shorts and underwear," he instructed.

Marty knelt and slowly pulled Eric's shorts and underwear over the erection and the swell of his buttocks. Eric's chest and belly were hairless, but his pubic hair was . . . wonderful. Even though it was trimmed, it was . . . glorious, as it slowly appeared over the waistband of the underwear. Marty paused a moment and toyed with the length of the erection through his shorts, secretly pleased that he and Eric were about the same size. He joked with Phalen and Jeff that size didn't matter, but . . . deep down . . . he hoped to find a lover who was of a similar size.

"Bare-naked," Eric urged, running his fingers through Marty's hair. "I'm thinking how great it's gonna be to have you laying on top of me . . ." He thrust his hips forward . . . "skin to skin."

Eric's erection was finally freed, as he stepped free of the shorts and kicked them aside. Marty knelt spellbound by the sight in front of him. "May I?" he began, then swallowed. "May I touch it?"

"It's all yours," Eric chuckled, making his erection jump, then inhaled sharply at the tender caress of the hand as it encircled his cock. Marty slowly stroked the penis' length, pausing at the head to watch a bead of pre-cum form. He flicked a glance to Eric's face, then slowly extended his tongue and lapped across the piss slit, gathering up the clear droplet, pleased with Eric's full body tremor, as he slipped the cock's head into his mouth.

"You'd better stop that," he warned. "Just being naked and hard in front of you is about more than I can handle. You suckin' on me will surely push me over the edge. Here," he said, helping Marty stand, "let's get you naked, too."

He stripped off Marty's tight t-shirt, then playfully cupped his groin, as they kissed. When they separated, Eric shook his head. "One hella good kisser, you are, Marty. Da best."

It was Eric's turn to kneel. Instead of thick pubes, though, he was met with smooth skin, which caused him to look up and smile. "Cool to da max," he grinned, a moment before he licked over the smooth skin. "Wanna shoot same time?" he asked, as he followed Marty to the waiting bed. The drapes, which would normally cover the large bedroom window, were open, as were the windows, letting in both the soft sounds of the rainstorm, the cool air, and the distant rumble of thunder.

He climbed onto the high bed. "Try, shut da light," he pointed to the light switch, as Marty was about to climb onto the vast expanse of white bed linens. Marty paused, not sure what to do. Eric grinned, and flicked his fingers in the direction of the light switch. "Don't forget to turn off the light." Marty nodded, trotted across the room, and turned off the already-dim light, then almost jumped onto the bed, crawling over Eric, until their mouths met and their erections teased one another's, as they throbbed.

"I've just gotta do this," Marty murmured, rolling off Eric and onto his side. Eric watched as Marty knelt at his side and inspected his cock and tightly smooth scrotum. He glanced to where Eric was watching him, propped on his elbows, and grinned, the full mischievousness of his personality showing itself. He first licked across the end of Eric's erection, gathering up the glistening pre-cum, then surrounded the thick cock with his mouth. Instead of sucking on it, as Eric had expected, Marty held the erection in his mouth, teasing the underside with his tongue.

Eric hissed an indrawn breath, and collapsed backward onto the bed's pillows. 'I've never been sucked-off like that,' he thought, as a shiver coursed through his body. "You're friggin' awesome." Marty grinned, his eyes twinkling in the light provided by the nearby streetlight.

'If that's not a hint,' Eric thought, deciding to mimic Marty's moves. He shifted position and grabbed a handful of butt muscle, encircling Marty's straight erection with his lips, and began massaging the sensitive underside with his tongue. It wasn't going to take either of them but moments to reach orgasm. They were too worked up, too excited by being with one another for the first time. They were both ready for release.

Marty shot first. He pulled Eric's cock deeper inside his mouth, jerked once, then let loose with a load of epic proportions. It was as if he'd been saving it up his entire life, just for tonight. Eric swallowed once . . . twice, and on the third time, reached his own orgasm. He heard Marty gag slightly, as his mouth filled, but he swallowed.

They remained in that position, their penis buried in one another's mouth, until they both had drained as much . . . afterglow . . . as possible. Then Marty rolled onto his back and began laughing, in as much of a release as his orgasm had been. Eric rubbed his own belly, and winked. "Ono," he smiled, as he turned on the bed to lay half on top of Marty. "Means, fuckin' delicious sperm you got, dude. I could make a steady diet of that stuff. Fo' shua!" He propped himself up on an elbow and leaned closer. "Your stuff tastes as good as your tongue," he said, as he lowered himself onto Marty and they kissed.

~ to be continued ~

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