Coming Together With Pride

by Alessia Brio, J Buchanan, Lisabet Sarai

  "I don't know.” Raven glared from the bank. “What do you see?"

  Marten pointed to a random spot between the first stepping stone and the one on which he stood. “Can you see it there? It looks shiny, like a ring or something."

  "Show me.” Raven hopped onto the first slick stone. He wobbled slightly and stuck his hands out for balance.

  "See,” Marten insisted, “right there."

  "I don't see."

  "Maybe if you leaned a little farther?"

  Raven craned his head forward and cocked it to the side. “Where?” All his attention centered on the stony bottom of the creek.

  "Right.” Marten lunged, jumping onto the stone next to Raven and hitting Raven's ass with his thigh. “There!"

  Raven twisted, tried to catch himself. Legs tangled in his coat, weight already unbalanced from leaning forward, Raven fell with a splash into the stream. Choking with rage, Raven flailed. “I'm fucking drowning! I can't swim."

  Calmly, Marten bounded to the next boulder and then to far bank. He turned. “Put your feet down.” He barked the order to be heard over Raven's splashing. “It ain't that deep."

  When he stopped struggling Raven sank. Marten counted off the seconds until Raven broke the surface. Water came up to his thigh as he stood in the churning flow. “That was a mean trick."

  "Serves you right."

  "For what?” Raven grumbled as he waded through the water.

  Marten held out his hand. “For making me miss a day of work. Screwing around is for after you've put enough by to last."

  "Shit.” Raven glared for a moment before taking it. Both grunted as Marten helped haul him up the bank. Bastard. Grabbing his coat tails, Raven snapped them out with a crack of wet fabric. He huffed and added, “You work too hard."

  "I work only as hard as I need to so I can get by.” Marten reached out and flicked Raven's wet bangs off the pale forehead. “I can fuck off just as good as any one else once I know that my stomach is fed and I'll have a warm place to sleep."

  "Speaking of warm,” Raven shivered, “it's fucking cold now that I'm wet."

  "Your teeth are chattering.” Marten grabbed Raven's shoulder. He turned them both, using the pressure to steer Raven along a narrow foot path. “Come on. My place is close. We'll dry you off there."

  "Feeling bad because you pushed me?” Raven's voice was sour.

  "No, that was funny, and you deserved it.” With a snort, Marten leered in mock triumph. Then he sobered a bit. “I would feel bad if you actually got sick, though"

  Just ahead, a small narrow house, half buried into the hill behind it, waited. With little ceremony, Marten led Raven inside. He wriggled through the entry and into a living area. Warm, dry and crammed with odd bits of overstuffed furniture, the house rambled around various interconnected rooms. Marten liked the cozy confines of his place.

  "Wow.” Raven's voice broke the stillness. “I've been over here a million times, and I don't think I've ever seen your place."

  Marten chuckled. “You have to come across the stream just right or you won't be able to see it.” Moving from that space into a dining room, Marten shucked his jacket. “Give me your clothes.” Then he reached over and tugged Raven's coat off his shoulders.

  "All of them?” Raven protested but didn't fight.

  "Yeah, unless you want your nuts to shrivel in a cold, wet pair of shorts,” Marten teased. The room after that was the kitchen. Marten made his way even farther back into the pantry. Popping the door on a small under counter dryer, Marten smiled at Raven. “Come on, toss ‘em in.” Then Marten stepped into the bedroom off the pantry and grabbed a thick, tan blanket.

  Listening to the suck of wet clothes coming off Raven's body warmed Marten more than any blanket. I know you want it. Shit, did he ever!

  A narrow, pale frame bent over and offering up a bubble butt confronted Marten as he headed back with the wrap. Stripped of the black plumage, Raven was actually kinda lanky. Lean, ropy muscles laced Raven's bones together. Still, that ass was made to fuck—with either a tongue or prick. Marten would be happy with either.

  Raven stood and turned at the sound of his return. Damn. Two more seconds of bent over and Marten would have dropped his own drawers. Even with the cold and wet, a decent sized package nestled in a thatch of black curls. Like what you see? Marten didn't even bother to hide his stare.

  "What are you looking at?"

  Dropping the blanket on Raven's head, Marten lied. “Nothing, obviously.” He grabbed Raven's boots and coat as he moved through the kitchen. A few snaps of the electronic starter and the oven burner flared to life. Martin tugged the laces from the eyes and pulled the tongues out of the boots before opening the oven and setting the boots on the extended door.

  "This should dry them out a little faster,” he called back to Raven who slammed the dryer shut and cranked it on. Smiling in response to the glower, Marten pulled a chair over to the stove and draped the coat over the back. “There. It'll be a while though."

  "Great. I'm still fucking freezing."

  Marten bounded over, grabbed Raven by the shoulders, and steered him toward the bedroom. He could feel the bony knobs under the thick nap of the blanket. “Come on. I'll crank up the space heater. We can probably find a game or something on TV.” Marten's den already felt warmer than the rest of the house. He liked it that way: a warm, safe, cubby hole.

  "You got me buck naked so we could watch TV?"

  "No, I got you buck naked so we could fuck,” Marten laughed. “TV's for after."

  Raven turned, grumbling, “You didn't need to push me in the stream for that.” With a grunt, he fell backward on the bed. Jumbles of mismatched covers pillowed around him, and Raven let the blanket fall away from his body. All lean and pale, he leered up at Marten. At least one part of his anatomy had recovered from the dunking. Dark, red and needy, Raven's prick pulsed against his thigh.

  "I know.” Marten's mouth watered. He stripped his own shirt and toed out of his boots in record time. Falling onto the bed next to Raven, Marten fought with his fly. “That was just because it was fun."

  "Asshole.” Instead of helping, Raven watched him struggle.

  A bit more writhing and Marten kicked his jeans to the floor. Already near bursting with need, his prick reared up and begged for contact. Nice. Marten twisted it in his fist. “So you can give it, but you can't take it?"

  Raven's fingers wandered through the soft fur on Marten's belly and fanned out across his pecs. “Depends on what you want me to take.” If that leer wasn't an invitation, he didn't know what would qualify.

  "Everything!” Marten growled as he hauled Raven to the edge of the mattress. Semi-prone on his left side, Raven bent one knee, hooking his foot on the bed. The other leg he let dangle to the floor. Marten covered him with his lean, sinewy body. Starting at Raven's chin, Marten licked his throat, down the back of his neck and across one sharp shoulder. Lifting Raven's arm, he buried his tongue in Raven's armpit.

  Raven moaned, reaching back to run his hand through the thick shock of brown hair on Marten's head. He tasted like warm sky and dark earth. Marten nuzzled in the heat of it while his hand rooted in the mess of stuff by his bed. Finally, he found what he needed. Still lost in Raven's essence, he popped the cap, squeezed out a glob and slicked his cock down.

  Without leaving his feast, Marten lifted Raven's leg and pulled it back over his own thigh. The position spread the pale man wide—an invitation Marten wasn't about to refuse. He pressed his head against the puckered hole. So tight, Raven's ass teased him with a promise but no give.

  Raven shuddered, his hands fluttering over Marten's arm and neck. Then all resistance broke, and he slid into hot velvet. In one deft stroke, he impaled Raven. His cry cut through Marten's senses.

  Moaning, Raven reached between his legs to pull at his prick. That dark head rolled back on the bed. Marten twisted and looked up the line of a lanky body. Lust-fogged black eyes returned his stare. He hooked his own heel on the
edge of the bed. Pulling Raven's back against his furry chest, Marten nipped at his skin. Quick thrusts centered him. He hissed as his cock kissed the walls of Raven's body.

  With a grunt, Marten began to pound in earnest. Each thrust burned through his nerves. Raven's warm balls bounced against his skin, and his body tormented him with heat and pressure. Clawing, biting at Raven's skin, Marten gave up to the animal within and pounded his own senses to shreds. With a hollowed rush of air, Marten came. He shuddered as wet heat filled Raven and swelled over his sensitive prick.

  Raven laughed. The sound vibrated through Marten, coating his bones in more chills. Another hiss welled up inside as Marten slid from Raven's body. It took a moment for him to reconnect with his muscles before he pushed back. Wriggling to the edge of the bed, Marten took a blanket with him as he slid onto to the floor. He tugged Raven's leg until the dark man rolled onto his belly.

  A little trail of cum dripped from his ass to tangle in the dark curls. Raven scooted onto his knees. His balls swung heavy between his thighs. Marten leaned in and ran his tongue against the tender flesh. His own flavor mingled with that of Raven, spicy and sensual. Nothing ever tasted so wonderful.

  Marten buried his face between Raven's cheeks to lick and taste everything. As he teased his own cum from Raven's hole, he reached between Raven's legs. Wrapping his hand around Raven's cock, he stroked.

  That long, hot prick slid in his grip. He twisted its head in his palm. A moan, followed by Raven bucking back into his kiss, rewarded him. His ass opened to Martin's searching tongue, and he reveled in the taste of his spunk mixed with the essence of Raven. Salty, sweet, musky, and rich flavor flooded Marten's senses.

  Raven's breath hitched, and he shuddered. The prick in Marten's hand swelled. Marten wanted everything. He pulled Raven's slender dick back through his legs. Quickly dropping lower, Marten turned his head a bit and swallowed him. Not the easiest position, but Marten was more agile than most.

  Sucking for all he was worth, Marten worked the hot prick in his mouth. Luckily, Raven was damn near gone. He croaked Marten's name. Balling his fists into the covers, Raven let go.

  Cum filled Marten's mouth. More bitter, but just as good, Marten savored Raven's spunk. A few more draws on that slim prick pulled out the last heady drops. Panting, Raven crumpled onto the bed. Still overcome, his eyes fluttered and his jaw trembled.

  Marten wrangled the blanket from under his knees and pulled it over his back then crawled up and covered them both. Burrowing as deep as he could into the pile of covers, he found Raven's lips by feel alone.

  Slowly, Marten slipped his tongue into Raven's mouth. Raven joined him, pushing and pulling mingled cum between their lips. As they shared, their hands explored. The touches drew heat and hinted at another, less frantic fuck in the near future. Finally, Marten pulled back. He nipped Raven's cheek and mumbled with satisfaction, “You taste like me."

  "Or you taste like me?” Raven ran his hands over Marten's arms. “Which do you think?"

  The feather light touch soothed Marten. “It doesn't matter. We're one and the same, you and I.” He pressed his forehead to Raven's pale brow. I know what you're thinking. His little inside voice sounded somewhere between Marten's purr and Raven's raucous laugh.

  "Really?” Raven teased, his voice muffled by the layers of blankets. “So what am I thinking now?” What are you thinking?

  Marten drifted in the warmth of Raven's mind for a bit. Some of the thoughts might have been his own. They mingled together so much, it was hard to tell. A lot of staying in bed, a lot of fucking until they dropped, all of it sounded wonderful. Then Marten snorted.

  "I'm good with most of it.” Pulling Raven closer still, Marten nuzzled in the soft down at the nape of his neck. “But, don't go messing with Avie, man.” Avie straddled everything, the here and the there and kept it all in order. She could see Marten's house without crossing the stream. “Mousy woman will kick your butt."

  "Why not?” The tock of Raven's tongue against the roof of his mouth sounded loud in the small space. “She needs a little chaos in her life. I stir things up. It's what I do, what you do, remember?"

  Marten hissed a laugh of his own. “Okay,” he conceded the point, “but only a little trouble."

  * * * *

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  Nuit Blanche

  © Giselle Renarde

  In the five years and two weeks leading up to Nuit Blanche, Lawrence and I hadn't spent even one full night together. That's how it goes when you fall in love with a married man. You take the time he can give you. Generally, I got a couple hours with him every Sunday morning, and an afternoon here or there if I was lucky.

  We had sleep-over plans a couple times, but my Lawrence was the king of self-sabotage. The first time he was scheduled to spend the night at my place, he took a nose-dive down the stairs and ended up spending the night in the emergency room instead of my bedroom. Recently, he'd planned to stay with me for an entire weekend while Ruth was away. “Quand le chat est parti, les souris dansent,” as my mother used to say. Then Ruth bailed on her conference. Is there an expression for that in English? Maybe, “When the wife stays home, the husband can't roam?"

  Or can he?

  As we rested in a sweet embrace one Sunday morning, my head nestled against his warm chest, Lawrence proposed we attend Nuit Blanche together.

  "Nuit Blanche? In Montreal?” I gasped. Why did Lawrence want to take me back to Quebec? No way he was going to reunite me with my parents! I knew he valued family above all, but there was no point in trying. If maman and papa couldn't accept the way I chose to live, as a mistress and not a wife, then I had nothing to say to them.

  "No, not in Montreal,” Lawrence interrupted my bitter reverie. Groping for the jeans strewn across my reading chair, he pulled out a flyer. Squinting in the early morning light, he grabbed his foldable specs from my night table. Glasses perched on nose, Lawrence at last read me the flyer: “Nuit Blanche, a free all-night contemporary art thing. The streets of downtown Toronto are taken over by massive art installations and the outdoor celebration last from 7:03pm until sunrise."

  My heart jumped at the prospect of finally spending a whole night with my man. Well, not mine. With Lawrence, at any rate. “You want us to go together?"

  "You don't want to?” I could tell he was bracing himself for disappointment.

  "No, of course I want to go! Sounds great. It's just ... what about...” I tried to say Ruth, but her name stuck like a fish bone in my throat.

  Fortunately, Lawrence always knew what I meant when I hesitated like that. Never could say that woman's name aloud. “She needs her beauty sleep,” he told me.

  "What a mean thing to say!” I teased, giving his cheek a playful smack, repairing the damage with a kiss. Lawrence kissed me back, kissed my lips. Oh, the warmth of his mouth, precious and precarious like a tropical rainforest. He kissed me intently, powerfully, pressing my back, squeezing my waist, making me forget what we'd been talking about.

  "So, you'll come with me?"

  "Come where?” I asked, hovering close to his mouth, aching for a long, lingering embrace.

  "To Nuit Blanche,” Lawrence laughed, tapping on my head to see if anyone was home.

  "But what about..."

  "She doesn't want to come. I already asked,” he interrupted. Lawrence could read me like a large-print detective mystery. Giving me a peck on the lips, he went on, “Audrey, she's not going to change her mind this time. Someone who goes to bed at 8:30 most nights isn't apt to attend an all-night art thing."

  He leaned in close, nibbling my earlobe. My skin was all goosebumps. I ran my fingers across the short hairs at the back of his head. “Of course I'll come with you. Mille fois oui, mon chauve-souris."

  Lawrence glanced queerly in my direction, the way he always looks when he's trying to access his rusty French. “A thousand times yes, my ... hot ... mouse?"

  I had to laugh.
“Close. A chauve-souris is a bat. I just said it because it rhymed, but actually “chauve” means “bald.” So, the direct translation would be ‘my bald mouse.’”

  "How a propos...” Lawrence rubbed the top of his head, where no hair dared to grow. “...for a follically-challenged librarian."

  Cuddling into his arms, I giggled, repeating those non-sense words, “mon chauve-souris."

  At that precise moment, I got my hopes up. Always a mistake with Lawrence.

  * * * *

  When he arrived at my doorstep on September 29th, Lawrence looked gaunt. His cheeks were drawn and dark circles surrounded his eyes.

  "What the hell happened to you?” I asked.

  "I have shingles."

  "You have what?"

  "Shingles. It's when the chicken pox virus reactivates in your system and you get this rash..."

  "I know what it is,” I snapped, irritated by his condescension. “Why do you have it?"

  Shingles was an old-people disease, and Lawrence wasn't old. He was just barely over fifty. That wasn't old. I couldn't stand to think of him being ill. It led to thoughts of him dying, of how I would find out, of crying day and night, of whether I would attend his funeral, of how his wife and two grown kids would react, of being left out of his Will, of how I would cope, of life with no Lawrence.

  "I don't know why I have it, but it's going to alter our plans a smidge,” he said. “I don't want to make you sick, so we probably shouldn't, you know, exchange bodily fluids. We can still enjoy a pleasant evening at Nuit Blanche, but sleeping together might not be the best idea."

  Yes, I know I should have been sympathetic, but Lawrence always somehow managed to ruin our plans. Every single time! All the self-sabotage drove me nuts! I know it sounds terrible, but I was actually angry with him for being sick. Seething, in fact. Plus—I mean seriously!—I was barely twenty-eight years old; what were the chances of me catching shingles, even if we screwed our little brains out into the night? Shingles wasn't even a communicable disease, was it?