by A. M. Riley
Jim sighed. Brian had been fidgeting and jumping at every sound all afternoon. Now he sat in front of his untouched dinner plate, practically vibrating in place. “Paul is a man, not a train, Brian. He doesn’t run on a schedule.”
“Yes, he does,” said Brian. “He’s never late.”
“Eat your peas.” Jim tried not to smile. The kid had a point. Paul was the most punctilious man he’d ever met. “And if you leave the table again without permission, you’ll be facing a corner when he comes home.”
That subdued Brian, and he picked up a fork and finally began to eat.
* * * *
Okay, where did one begin with how many things weren’t fair about the situation? Brian mashed peas into a pile of goo, saw Jim giving his plate a dark look, and scooped them up and shoveled them into this mouth.
Not fair.
First of all, that Paul had to work in Northern California six months of the year.
Second, that Brian’s school schedule overlapped Paul’s trip north, so they had to spend about four months apart.
And third, that during that time he still had a growly and, in his opinion, overly domesticated top ordering him about and tattling to Paul whenever Brian got just the teensy-eensiest bit out of line.
His bottom still hurt from the paddling last night. Okay, he’d kind of been goading Jim into it. But some part of his brain had hoped that just maybe Paul would come home sooner if he thought it was necessary.
“Stop banging your fork against the plate, Brian,” said Jim. “If you’re finished, you may be excused.”
Brian took his plate to the sink, and that was when he heard the Harley in the driveway. Not the car backfires or lawnmowers that had been making him jump out of his skin all day, but an honest to goodness, turbocharged, four-muffler lowrider.
“He’s home!” Brian did a fair impersonation of Wile E. Coyote, arms and legs spinning, as he ran for the door.
The big oak door opened, and then his Papa Bear was standing there: all six feet four, black leathers, skintight jeans, and calf-high biker boots. He dropped the helmet he swung from one hand to the table when Brian hurtled into his arms.
Nothing smelled like his Papa Bear in leathers. Brian clung like a burr, face buried in the smell of hot leather and man, feeling Paul’s hands firm against his back, fingers in his hair, beard burn on Brian’s cheeks, and the squeak of his leather jacket under Brian’s knees where they wrapped around Paul’s hips.
“Honey…” his Papa moaned, and then there was the taste of his mouth. Brian couldn’t let go, feeling his man’s body moving, aware of those big hands holding him close, of the light changing around him as they moved, and then the sound of a door and the dimness and quiet of their own room.
“Welcome back,” he heard Jim say as they disappeared into their bedroom.
* * * *
Like sliding from the saddle, Brian reluctantly relinquished his hold long enough for Paul to shed the jacket and T-shirt under it, revealing the complex mass of snake tattoos with the D.A.D.D.Y. tattoo rippling over his six-pack.
Brian wanted to weep, his fingers running over the tat possessively. He kissed each snake head, and then his face was in Paul’s hands, and his mouth was being taken.
Then they were looking into each other’s eyes. And so much was said that neither of them could say out loud: about lonely nights and longing, about worry and hope and having faith.
Paul’s fingers were on his cheek, a wondering expression on his face. Then his fingers wandered through the mass of curls. Brian pulled the band free and let them fall so Paul could wrap those arms around him and feel the silky hair against his torso.
“I…I…waited…” Brian didn’t know how to explain, so he led Paul to the bed and let his clothes drop to the floor, then crawled back on the bed and lay down, arms stretched out.
Paul groaned and seemed to have trouble with his boots, finally climbing up and cradling Brian, the look on his face almost of agony. Breathing hard, Brian found Paul’s hand and brought it to where he needed to feel Paul.
Lips on his mouth, his neck, the bald head rubbed under Brian’s chin as those lips brought marks up on Brian’s collarbone, fingers finding the whole map of Brian’s body as if rediscovering it. Those fingers found where Brian had prepared himself, kept himself open for days for his Papa Bear.
With a desperate noise, Paul stretched Brian’s legs and pushed himself inside, long, hard, and smooth, like an oiled piston, and both men cried a high sharp sound of need.
“Baby…” wailed Paul, pumping hard almost immediately, the movement rocking Brian against the headboard over and over. Grabbing Paul’s shoulder with one hand, keeping the leverage against the headboard with the other, Brian arched and tried to work his body into his daddy’s thrusts, twisting and begging, then demanding, as Paul cried out with every shove. Finally, toes digging into the mattress, thigh muscles trembling, Paul froze against Brian, gripping him with both hands, and cried out against Brian’s shoulder.
Shuddering and with the heat of Paul’s release filling him, an orgasm snaked around Brian’s spine and shattered his brain.
Even the stars in the heavens didn’t blink for a long, long moment.
“You okay?” Paul’s nose nuzzled beneath Brian’s ear.
“I am now, Daddy,” said Brian, petting at the bald head softly, his eyes already blinky and his body dozy and limp for the first time in weeks.
“God, I missed you,” breathed Paul. His words were muzzy and sleepy too. Brian patted his daddy in a vaguely comforting manner, the world still rocking beneath them from the shattering sex as they fell asleep wrapped around each other.
* * * *
It was silly to feel sorry for himself, but that was what Jim was feeling. He punched the numbers of the cell phone in again and frowned when Scott didn’t pick up.
Ah well, the dishes needed washing. The rhythmic thumping had finally ceased by the time Jim had folded his dish towel and hung it back up. He smiled to himself. Waffles with strawberries for breakfast, he was thinking.
Paul and he still needed to have a talk about this arrangement. But that could wait.
Chapter Three
Scott was making good time and feeling mighty fine until around Albuquerque. That was when the twitchy feelings started in his muscles. He could see the purple clouds swelling the southern horizon, and his radio reported, among a ton of static, that a big storm was coming up from the Texas Panhandle.
Having driven across the terrain many times in the past decade, Scott had an eye and a nose for weather, and later he’d admit to himself that this storm was no more than a few raindrops and a heckuva lotta noise. But the twitchy feeling in his muscles was turning into a crawly feeling all over his skin and a grouchy, disagreeable disposition in his brain.
Seven hours out of California, just a hop, skip, and jump to home, really, and for no reason Scott could explain, he found himself deciding to sit the storm out instead of driving through, pulling his rig into the big parking lot of a little trucker bar where he’d been known to tie a few on in his day.
“Well, will you look what the storm blew in,” said Old Charlie. He slapped at his gleaming bar with a rag and sauntered over to where Scott had bellied up.
“Whatchya havin’, stranger?” Old Charlie grinned and winked. Because Charlie could pull a draft for you or point you in the direction of some available pussy, depending on your mood.
“Bud,” said Scott. “For starters.”
Charlie drew a draft. “Starting a tab?”
Scott placed his plastic on the counter. “Looks like.”
It took about half an hour for the thunderclouds to release themselves, but that jumpy feeling in Scott’s gut was just getting worse, and it seemed that, instead of making him mellow, each successive beer was making him just a little bit more aggravated.
“Hey, dude, could ya, like, try playin’ some other song?” said a big hairy man with a tiny baseball cap squeezed down ove
r his head, sitting at the end of the bar.
Scott looked down at the number 17 button on the jukebox he’d been about to push again. Then back up at “dude.” The guy was about twice Scott’s height, tufts of hair pushing out of a red flannel shirt pulled tight over a barrel chest that was probably 50 percent beer belly and the other 50 percent painfully hard muscle.
“And what’s wrong with ‘Wichita Lineman’?” asked Scott, all that roiling and boiling energy he’d been riding sort of rolling up his spine, down his arms, and ending up balled into two fists.
If the man had known him at all, he’d have guessed what the look in his eyes meant. But he didn’t know Scott, did he? And wasn’t that sort of the point?
So, Big, Dumb, and Hairy put down his beer and pushed back that tiny little baseball cap and said, “Mebbee you could find somethin’ from this century is all I’m sayin’.”
Just like that, Scott was a ball of rock-hard angry right up in the man’s face. “Fuck you,” said Scott, grinning just big as all fuck.
And then they were a combined ball of fists and flying caps and fur.
Okay, now this was what he’d been looking for, thought Scott, just before doom fell from the sky in the form of a giant fist. And the lights went out.
* * * *
“He wanted you to find it?” Paul and Jim sat in the living area, the bondage magazine on the coffee table between them.
“Definitely. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d painted I’M CONFUSED AND FRIGHTENED ABOUT MY RELATIONSHIP in block letters on the wall, Paul. I…don’t know if I handled it well. I may have scared him.”
“Sounds to me like he scared you.”
“When it comes to pushing boundaries, Brian is a creative genius,” said Jim. “I’m worn out.”
“I’ve been thinking about the situation, since our phone call.” Paul slapped his knees and stood. “I have some ideas.”
* * * *
The world was a different place when he knew Paul was home and waiting for him. After his last class, Brian ran home and came through the front door like a force of nature, feet flying, backpack and jacket flung in the general direction of where they were supposed to go. “I’m home!” The door he had flung open slammed hard into the wall.
“Brian!” said two big tops simultaneously in their Stern Voices.
And now wasn’t that something to take the happy out of a guy’s feet.
“Yes, Sir? Sirs?” squeaked Brian, stumbling to a halt and looking from one big, serious man to the other.
He’d only been home for two seconds. What could he have done already?
Paul came up and gave him a hug, though. His Paul, the one with the inked skin and worn blue jeans and big smile. Paul hugged him hard enough to lift him off the floor for a second and then gently set Brian down. “Hang up your jacket.”
“Sure.” Brian jetted over to the flung jacket, picked it up.
“And your backpack.”
Grinning madly, Brian grabbed the backpack too.
“Good. Now take them into our room. And get ready. We need to talk.”
Brian hesitated, his engine still running but his feet suddenly stuck to the floor. “Talk?”
Paul wasn’t grinning anymore. His face was as stern as Brian had ever seen it. “Yes, Brian. Jim and I have been having a long conversation. You and I need to talk.”
* * * *
Brian had to admit there’d been a certain amount of trepidation mixed with his anticipation of Paul’s return. He’d been pushing Mama pretty hard, especially this last month. He’d been aware of it, but almost unable to stop himself, like watching himself fall off a ladder.
But he’d kind of hoped Paul would understand.
Taking the long-unused harness from the back of the closet and Paul’s explicit instruction to get ready brought things home very quickly. He hadn’t used the harness, of course, since Paul had left. The buckles and straps felt foreign in his hands. There had been a time when wearing this had made him feel safe and steady. Something reliable at the end of his day. It was like an anchor.
Now, it felt weird.
And instead of the joy he’d thought he would feel at Paul’s return, there was a sense of unreality. It was like some stranger was out there in the living room waiting for him to prepare himself. Brian set down the harness and, still clad in his towel, sat on the bed, the churning emotion in his chest and belly settling into a kind of resentment. It wasn’t fair.
There was a soft knock on the door. Brian called in a sullen voice, “Come in.”
Paul came in, treading softly for such a big man. The door clicked shut, and Brian’s heart rate about doubled.
“Brian?”
He couldn’t look at Paul. It was as if his head was frozen, his tongue stuck at the back of his throat. He felt Paul sit down on the bed next to him.
“You want to tell me what’s wrong, Brian?”
The words weren’t there. Even if he’d known what exactly he was feeling, Brian wouldn’t have been able to express it. He shook his head.
“Brian.” It was said in Paul’s stern, gentle voice. “Young man, look at me.”
It was harder than anything, but Brian raised his chin. He could feel his head shaking a little, his teeth clenched and defiant, his eyes burning. “What?” he said.
Paul’s eyes narrowed. But then, instead of whatever Brian had tremulously been expecting him to do, his daddy’s big arm circled him, pulling Brian against his chest. Brian fought it, but he was pressed against the familiar inked snakes, Paul’s lips in his hair, hand against his nape, firmly in the center of his back.
“I’m so sorry, Brian.”
“You are?” Sorry was a word Brian usually found himself saying. “What are you sorry for?”
Instead of answering, Paul stood, taking Brian with him, and walked them both to the harness. “Let me help you with this.”
Brian stood in a kind of trance as Paul performed the ritual, adjusting every buckle and strap as if the thing were new, his hands caressing Brian, owning him.
“Lie down on the bed, Brian.”
Brian crawled onto the mattress and rolled over so he could watch Paul. Paul went to the closet, rummaged, and brought out a number of objects. Brian, his heart starting to hammer again, thought he might have never seen any of them before.
“W-w-what?”
But Paul didn’t answer. Paul deposited the items on the nightstand, and then he removed his jeans. His daddy’s pretty cock was half-erect, the ink on his thighs moving as he climbed up next to Brian and lay down.
“Try to relax, hon.” Brian hadn’t even realized he was tense until Paul spoke the words. Then those big hands traveled over him. Warm, gentle, but sure, knowing fingers painted sensation and care on every inch of Brian’s body. He murmured, a wordless sound, and Paul’s mouth was on his.
Gentle, lips only, and Paul’s hand still caressed him like Brian’s body was velvet. Brian shivered and looped an arm around Paul’s neck, opened his mouth, and welcomed Paul’s tongue. Deep kisses, they went on forever until Brian was moaning into Paul’s mouth, pressing his body toward that touch.
“Roll over, Brian.”
Simple. Slow. Paul’s fingers were at his opening, working in something slick and warm. When he felt the thickness of a dildo pressing there, Brian almost whimpered.
“Slow down there, sweetheart.” Paul held him still as Brian attempted to impale himself.
Forcing himself to wait, he heard his own voice now begging as the thing slowly entered him.
Brian felt Paul fasten the dildo into the harness, holding it snug against him. Then Paul lay on top of him, his weight and warmth completely covering him, and whispered against Brian’s ear. “I love you.”
“Please.” Brian heard his own voice, full of tears. “Please, Daddy, I need…”
“I know, hon. But first, I want you to know how much I love you.”
Brian heard his own voice, pleading, lips against the matt
ress, begging.
Paul’s hand was on his backside, the other hand checking the straps and the fittings to be sure nothing scratched or scraped Brian. Protecting him. Making him safe.
There was the sound of something on the nightstand and then the soft whisper of suede across Brian’s lower back, across his legs, finally just resting, still, across his backside.
Brian moaned.
“Ready, hon?” Paul asked, the question more a warning than an inquiry. He heard the quick swish of the flogger in the air and then felt the sharp, familiar yet not, sting.
Brian cried out.
It went quickly, Paul really applying each stroke for maximum effect, so they fell on top of each other. Brian gripped the mattress with both hands and jumped at each stroke. His toes curled, his teeth clenched, involuntary cries devolving into sobs and then weeping, gulping breaths as Paul stopped.
Paul’s hand landed on his back, stroking, and then on his head.
“Brian.” Paul’s big hands, sure and strong arms around Brian, gathered him against that warm solid chest. He clung to Paul.
* * * *
“How is he?” Jim and Paul sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Brian was rolled in a ball in the bedroom, sleeping as if drugged.
“It’s going to take time,” said Paul. “We haven’t even begun to discuss the issue.”
Jim stirred his coffee, holding back comment.
“He’s upset with me,” said Paul.
Jim nodded.
“You have a right to be upset with me too,” said Paul.
“Oh. I am,” said Jim, but when he raised his eyes, their expression was merry.
“Oh-oh, and I take it you’ve already decided on my punishment?”
“Oh. Yes, I have,” said Jim. He sipped coffee. “Have you seen the new AGA stoves?”
“I take it that’s the brand name of some top-of-the-line multiburner cookware.”
“Yes it is.” Jim nodded, just smiling away.
“That costs a small fortune?”
“A small one, maybe.”
Paul groaned. “Well, I’d better be there when he wakes,” he said, rising.
