The Sweet Flag

by Jeanne Barrack

  We reached the car, the wind howling at our backs. The stranger supported me, managing somehow to open the driver’s side, and unlocked the backdoor. He tossed the equipment into the back seat. I was next. He threw me into the car, told me to relax, and took command of the steering wheel. Before I could catch my breath, we were speeding down the rain-slicked streets to an unknown destination.

  “Where are you taking me?” “To my home. It’s near the cemetery, and you can dry off there.” I saw him glance at me through the rearview mirror, his face still shadowed by his hat. I could only judge his thoughts by the sound of his honey-dipped voice. He must have read mine in my eyes. He chuckled. “If I wanted to rob you, I could have done so by now.”

  “You can still steal my car. Dump me out in some dark, dirty, abandoned alley.” He laughed aloud. “And then have my way with you? I think not, mon ami. I prefer all of the creature comforts. And that includes clean sheets and a warm apartment.” He paused and his voice grew even deeper. “Unless dark, dirty alleys suit some exotic fantasy of yours, of course.”

  I gulped. At that moment, I think I would have agreed to a dark alley, as long as it was with him, my unknown savior. I closed my eyes, savoring the richly erotic scenario that engulfed my thoughts.

  “We’re here.” I opened my eyes as he turned the car down a narrow lane between two townhouses. He pulled into a small slot behind one of the two and turned off the car. The wind had died down somewhat, but the moon still hid behind the clouds. He got out and opened the door on the other side of the car, retrieving my equipment, and then opened my side. I swiveled half in and half out of the car, unable to get up, still shaky on my feet.

  With a muttered, impatient curse, he hoisted me up, his arm around my waist. “I hope this does not become a habit with you, mon ami. If you were a female, I would accuse you of playing upon my gentlemanly nature.”

  His taunting words had the expected result, and I pulled away from him.

  A shaft of sickly, yellow light from his neighbor’s window illuminated his lush, mobile mouth as he smiled.

  “ Bon. I hoped my aspersions on your masculinity would steel your resolve to walk on your own. Come. Follow me.” He led me back toward the street. The wind and rain had picked up again, and I kept my head bent, my eyes fixed on the bottom of his soaked jeans. I stumbled up the few slick stone steps to his door. I huddled in my drenched jacket while he paused for a moment before he unlocked the door and ushered me inside. He flicked on the wall switch, and I was dumbstruck.

  Had we stepped back in time?

  A scene from the nineteenth century greeted me. Tiffany-shaded lamps, set on heavy, dark Victorian furniture, gave off soft, golden light. Oil paintings in ornate, gilded frames hung on floral wallpapered walls. A baby grand piano, draped with a paisley shawl, sat in one corner of what could only be called the parlor. Deep, rich burgundy, greens, and golds created a warm, sensual interior.

  The stranger tossed my stuff onto a chair and, continuing farther into the room, directed me to a deep cushioned couch against one wall. I sank down, grateful to get off my feet, and tried to gather my confused thoughts.

  “There’s an afghan you may use to keep yourself warm. I’ll be right out.” He kept moving until he opened the door to a tiled bathroom. A large, framed mirror showed the interior of the room, and I watched him remove his hat and raincoat, hanging them up on the shower curtain rod where they dripped onto the floor.

  He ran his fingers through curly, brown hair. I saw his profile -- strong nose and jaw, and then he turned. His face, reflected in the mirror, made me gasp. Amber-colored eyes and lush, sensual lips -- the face of an angel. He peeled off his t-shirt, revealing a lean, swimmer’s physique.

  Then he unzipped his pants and turned around again, exposing a firm, muscled butt.

  For one brief, tantalizing moment, his cock flashed in the mirror, and I moaned softly. Even at rest, he was big. I pulled the afghan over my lap, concealing my massive hard-on.

  His husky voice called to me from within the bathroom as I watched him pull on a terrycloth robe and belt it.

  “It would make sense for us to know each other’s names, n’est pas? My name is Ron Tayvail. And yours?”

  “Brand. Brandon Keats. Thanks for rescuing me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He paused in the bathroom doorway in his bare feet, casually towel-drying his hair. Then he dropped the towel and leaned against the doorframe, and I started.

  His casual, elegant stance mimicked Aaron deMonde’s pose.

  Had I become so enamored of my vision of deMonde that I wanted to believe that Ron was my vigilant soldier?

  Chapter Two “Are you all right, Brandon? You turned white.” Ron moved toward me and knelt at my feet. He grabbed my hands and rubbed them. “Your hands are like ice.” He let them go and then pushed my damp hair back from my forehead, shaking his head. “I am an idiot. Wait. I’ll get some dry clothes for you.”

  I obeyed without a word. What could I do or say? Where could I go? He had my keys, the rain still beat against the windows, and my clothes were sopping wet. And how could I leave my vigilant soldier when I had just found him?

  I closed my eyes and waited.

  “Here. They should fit.” I hadn’t heard him come back. I opened my eyes and looked up at Ron standing in front of me. He had brushed his hair, tied it back from his face, and had put on a burgundy tshirt that hugged his body. He’d pushed the long sleeves above his elbows, and I could see the fine hairs that dusted his arms. Low-slung black jeans embraced his lean hips, but his feet were still bare.

  I wanted every part of him to be bare, too.

  He thrust the clothes he held in his hands into my face. “Well, take them. I’m sure they will fit. Go into the bathroom and change. Leave the door open, and we can talk. You can tell me why you were at the cemetery in the dead of night.” He helped me to my feet and pushed me toward the bathroom, seating himself in the same spot where I had just been, ignoring the damp cushions.

  I took the clothes and went into the john and stripped off my sodden shirt, unbuttoning the buttons slowly as crazy thoughts jumbled through my mind.

  Did he know he could see into the bathroom from this position on the couch?

  What was hedoing at the cemetery so late at night?

  Why was he so strong?

  Who the hell was he?

  Did he have a lover?

  “Well, did you turn mute? I would think you owe me the courtesy of a response since I saved you from pneumonia.” I shrugged and let the shirt drop to the floor since Ron had neglected to give me any hangers. “I’m a parapsychologist. I’m doing research on a local legend called “The Vigilant Soldier”. They say one of Hardesty’s comrades appears every twenty years or so. I planned on recording any unusual paranormal activity tonight.”

  I toed off my sneakers without unlacing them, pulled off my socks, and stuck them in my pockets, unzipped my jeans and pulled them down with my briefs. I stood there, buck naked, holding my clothes in my hands, and then tossed them on top of the closed toilet seat.

  I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Not too bad. I took good care of my body. When I wasn’t leafing through aged, crumbling books and surfing the Internet, I enjoyed hiking and biking. I had nothing to hide. If he wanted a peep show, I was more than happy to oblige.

  I hoped he enjoyed himself.

  “And have you found much information?” he called to me again. “Not much. That’s why I decided to see for myself if there was any truth to the stories.” I took a breath and decided to tell him the primary reason I was interested in Hardesty’s grave. “I heard that Hardesty was gay. There’s not much in the literature about gay paranormal activity. If a specter manifested, I was going to attempt to question it and confirm this theory.” No response from Ron. I’d thought this would elicit some comment. Maybe he’d react later.

  I unfolded the garments he’d given me: long-sleeved, navy blue t-shirt, blue jeans,
and soft, thick socks. No briefs. Had he forgotten or did he not care? “I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

  “Well, get out here. Let me see if the clothes fit you.”

  So, he wanted to pretend he hadn’t scoped me out in the mirror. “I’m almost ready. They fit okay.” I grabbed a towel and strolled back into the room, vigorously drying my hair. I raised my arms, knowing that the movement showed off my body. Two could play at seduction. I might not have that French accent or those pouting lips, but I wasn’t chopped liver, as my grandmother would have said. I heard his muffled voice as I dried my face.

  “Bon. They fit well. I’ll make us something hot to drink. Stay in the parlor.” Once again, I obeyed him without resisting while he left the room to go to the kitchen. It made sense not to leave while rain pummeled the window. And he still had my damn keys.

  I prepared a list of questions while I waited for him, but they all boiled down to one. Who the hell was he?

  I leaned back to wait for his return, sinking deeper into the cushioned comfort of the sofa.

  “Here. I’ll join you on the couch. You look so relaxed there, you needn’t get up.” Again, I didn’t hear him come in. The man moved like a damn ghost. He hooked his foot around a hassock and dragged it over in front of the sofa, and then set a tray with a teapot and fine china cups on top. An unfamiliar aroma assailed my nostrils. Not unpleasant, just strange. Ron poured us each a cupful of the brew, then shook his head and rose from his seat.

  “I forgot the most important part of the tonic.” He went over to a side table displaying rows of liquor bottles and selected one. “Brandy, from a private source I have.”

  He sat next to me on the couch, our thighs nearly touching, splashed a healthy dollop of the amber liquid into the fragile china, and declared the drink fit for consumption. “I hope you enjoy the flavor. It’s an old family recipe made from the calamus root and other ingredients. It’s a family favorite.” He chuckled. “Perhaps it is the brandy that has made it so popular.”

  I sipped it cautiously, after waiting for him to take a drop before I did so. He didn’t miss my hesitation. “So, you think I am going to drug you and have my way with you?” He sighed. “If I wished to make you my slave, I have other methods of doing so.” He smiled, and his voice deepened. “But perhaps you enjoy being submissive, yes?”

  Once more, his words goaded me to assert myself. I placed my cup carefully on the tray, enunciating each word as I spoke.

  “I’d enjoy knowing what the hell youwere doing at the cemetery so late, who the hell you really are, and what the hell you want with me!” He set his cup next to mine just as carefully and then grabbed my face, crushing his mouth against mine. I didn’t push him away. God, there was no way in hell I wanted to push him away. I hung onto his shoulders and opened my lips, letting him invade my mouth. He tasted of brandy and the concoction we had both drunk. The sweetness of the liquor and the astringency of the tonic boosted my energy and escalated my passion. I didn’t want to stop kissing him. His teeth nipped my tongue, sending little sparks of pleasure and pain through me. His beard-roughened skin abraded mine. I cupped his head, pulling off the tie that bound his hair, and sifted my fingers through the loosened, silky strands. Our tongues battled together until finally he dragged his mouth from mine. He grasped my arms and panted for breath, staring into my eyes.

  “You are right. This iswhat I want from you. I was at the cemetery because I am always informed if anyone shows an interest in Hardesty’s grave. My family has had a long term, close connection to Hardesty. I am the caretaker of his grave. That is who I am.” He dropped my arms and rose, pacing back and forth while I took in what he had told me and tried to come to grips with the overwhelming desire that I felt. “Well?”

  He stopped, waiting for my response. I tried to focus on the most important piece of information he had offered me. His family had a long term, close connection with Matthew Hardesty. I shot off a barrage of questions. “What do you know about Hardesty? Do you know about his relationship with Aaron deMonde? What do you know about the legend of the Vigilant Soldier? What can you tell me?”

  He looked down at me as I sat glued to the couch. My legs were still weak from the power of his kisses, and I held my breath, waiting for him to answer me. He nodded slowly, as if making a decision, and then knelt at my feet, just as he had done earlier. This time, he grasped my knees while he spoke, his voice more warm and melodic than before.

  “Everything. I know everything about the legend. I know every detail about the relationship between the two men. I know everything about Matthew Hardesty and deMonde.” He took a moment and then rose a bit to lean in closer to me. His hands crept up my legs to my thighs and converged at my crotch, hovering above my zipper. “I will tell you the true story about them if you will do one thing. Let me show you what I want.”

  He pulled down my zipper and thrust his hand inside, pulling out my dick and fondling it. I groaned and closed my eyes, throwing my head back against the couch. He handled me more gently than I expected, even as I waited to hear him say precisely what he wanted.

  I felt his warm breath on my flesh just before he kissed the tip of my cock. As if he were putting a piece of fragile crystal back on a shelf, he tucked me into my pants and slid the zipper closed.

  “Open your eyes, Brandon. Look at me while I speak to you. I want you to know that I am not trying to trick you. Here is my bargain. Stay with me for a week, in my bed, as my lover, and I will tell you all I know.” He paused, and a smile slowly formed on his lips. “And I assure you -- I know everything.”

  I clung to that devastating smile on those lips that I had just kissed, and I nodded. His smile broadened. “You know what you are agreeing to, yes? No backing out. You cannot leave before then if you want to know…everything.” He frowned. “Tell me you understand.”

  I cleared my throat, trying to speak.

  “I understand, and I agree.” He smiled and then broke into a grin, the dimple in his cheek deepening and his eyes crinkling at the corners. He lifted me to my feet with one hand. He drew me into his arms and cupped my jaw.

  “Then let us celebrate our agreement.”

  And he led me up the stairs to his bedroom.

  * * * * * I don’t know exactly what I expected, certainly not the ultramodern room in cool tones of blue and gray. The bed was over-sized, a contemporary version of a four-poster with pale gray drapery. Two sleek armoires, one on each side, flanked a long, narrow window. Old houses seldom had any built in closets, so I should have been prepared for their absence, judging by Ron’s masterful recreation downstairs. A large mirror hung opposite the bed, placed over a low, wide chest of drawers in a dark wood and positioned so it would reflect the occupants. To the right, another door led to an opulent master bathroom, far more modern than the rest of the house. So, the bathroom downstairs was a guest bathroom. I should have realized that this man wouldn’t be satisfied with having to leave the comfort of his bedroom to bathe.

  He flicked a switch on the wall, turning on the lamps set upon the nightstands by both sides of the bed. These fit the rest of what I had seen of the house. Two beautifully matched Tiffany lamps, their shades made of blue and gray stained glass, cast a cool glow in the room. He dropped my hand and entered the room to stand at the foot of the bed.

  “Come, what are you waiting for?” He grinned. “Time to celebrate, yes? Like the song.” He held out his hand and I took the few steps to reach it. Then he pulled me into his arms. For a moment, he just held me, his hands gripping my ass, pressing me against his crotch. Then I bucked, wanting to see what he’d do when he felt my bulging cock bump against him.

  He went nuts. His hands surged up and pulled my t-shirt over my head. He tossed it on the floor, bent to take one flat nipple into his mouth, and suckled. I don’t have too much hair on my chest. Some guys mind; some guys don’t. He didn’t seem to give a crap, just sucked hard on one nipple while his fingers played with the other, pulling and pinching, twi
sting what I had. He bit me lightly, then licked the pain away. Then he did the same with the other begging brother. The cool air on my damp skin made me shiver a little, but he was instantly aware of it. He pulled away, his eyes seeming to glow, and stood up. I realized he was just a bit shorter than my five-eleven. Somehow, downstairs, I’d thought he was taller. It didn’t really matter. He was so much fucking stronger than me.

  He pushed me down to sit at the foot of the bed and, kneeling before me, picked up my discarded t-shirt, offering it to me. “You’re cold? Do you want to put this back on?” He smiled when I shook my head and then threw the shirt back on the floor. “No matter. I’ll soon get us warm. Lean back. Relax. Let me do the work for now.”

  I rested on my elbows on the bed, watching his reflection in the mirror. He pulled off my socks and sucked my toes. Christ, I never knew my feet had a direct connection to my dick. None of the other men I’d been with had taken the time or interest to do anything that felt as good as this. Usually, it was just “slam, bam, thank you, man,” and it was over. Ron took his time, making me squirm, making me ache. I bucked again, almost kicking him in the face.

  He dropped my foot, sat back, and laughed.

  “Enough foreplay, I think. Lift up, mon ami, and undo your zipper. I’ll pull down your jeans for you.”

  I was so eager, my hands shaking so hard, I almost caught my cock in the zipper’s teeth. I winced. “Easy, easy. We have time.” He tugged hard, and the denim slid down my legs to pool at my feet. My cock sprang straight up, and my balls tightened. I scooted up the mattress until I was leaning against the padded headboard. I could see my reflection in the mirror since Ron still was kneeling at the foot of the bed. He rose and stared at me, a strange expression on his face as if he were lost in thought. He shook his head briskly and sighed.

  “What are you thinking?” I didn’t want to hear that he had suddenly had second thoughts. Not now. “Do you want to use a condom? I know it may be a bit like” -- he grinned, with a mocking glance in his eye, and said -- “how is it said, locking the barn after the horse? We did exchange ‘bodily fluids.’” He teased, then grimaced and shuddered. “What a horrible phrase that is. But I know you are not ill…I can sense it, and I swear to you, I would never hurt you. But, if you wish, we can use them.”