by Clare London
Scot felt cold shock wash over him. What the hell was going on? As he turned his head, looking to Jerry for support, he found Jerry staring straight ahead, entranced by the erotic show. And, glancing back, Scot saw Vincent staring just as fixedly at Jerry.
The attraction was obviously mutual.
Scot gave the smallest, involuntary sound of protest. He realized he was no longer watching Oliver’s masturbation, but the man behind him: the man who had captured the attention and desire of Scot’s lover. Watching Vincent, tall, silent, and seemingly calm, even as his shoulder rocked gently and rhythmically and his upper arm muscles flexed, Scot knew without a doubt that he was fingering Oliver.
What the fuck?
Oliver was panting softly now, but fast. His eyes were unfocused. He slipped the buttons of his shorts and his hand dove inside, clutching the shape that strained the fabric at the crotch, his fiercely erect cock. Scot could see the shaft of darker flesh slipping through Oliver’s fist, the top of it glistening with drops of slick pre-come. Oliver pumped it roughly, licking his already moist lips. He leaned forward again, allowing Vincent more room behind him. His hips thrust gently in counterpoint to the rocking hand that was now so obviously up his ass and probing for his sweet spot. Scot watched him turn his misted gaze toward Jerry, and smile at him. Looking back at Scot, he opened his soft, lush mouth, as if to speak.
And then a bell rang.
It was a short, sudden sound. Loud; shrill; startling. Like an alarm. Or a buzzer, calling for their attention.
And at the same time, the lights in the ceiling flickered, then flared and stayed on. The hallway was bathed in full light, like a spotlight on the performers there.
It froze them all.
Vincent moved first. There was a rustle of cloth as he removed his hand from inside Oliver’s shorts, and he stepped out from behind the desk. “It’s Maxwell. He needs us elsewhere. I’ll carry the bags down, and then we’ll go and see to him.”
Oliver cleared his throat. His face was a little petulant, but the expression passed quickly. He nodded agreement with Vincent and, tugging and buttoning his shorts back up, he hopped down off the desk. They both glanced expectantly toward the dining room.
Scot followed their look, but there was nothing there that he could see. No one else in sight. Just the tables and chairs, and the cloths looking even shabbier and washed-out in the newly restored electric light. His nose was alert again to the citrus smell, mixed now with a heady, cloying aroma of herbs of some kind. Beside him, Jerry drew in a deep, long sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath for ages.
Scot’s head whirled. Was he the only one who’d seen the shape of Oliver’s lips as he gazed at him—seen the word he was about to say aloud?
“Scot,” Oliver had mouthed.
He couldn’t have meant that! He doesn’t know my name either.
Scot could hear his voice echo in the new atmosphere—hoarse, alien. “Oliver, what did you mean, you’d got our room ready?”
Vincent was already re-opening the door to the outside walkway, his back to the two travelers. Oliver was also distracted, brushing back a stray blond curl from his forehead. “It’s ready now for you to go through.”
“No.” Scot shook his head, impatient with the deliberate misunderstanding. “When we arrived. When you met us in the yard. You said our room. As if it was already designated as ours, as if you knew we were coming. But you didn’t.”
“No,” Oliver replied. His voice was soft but very clear. “Of course not. I think you’re still a little dizzy, Scot. It was just a figure of speech.” He moved swiftly out of their way, and Vincent turned to face them, waiting at the door for them to follow.
“Come on, Scot.” The grimace on Jerry’s face showed that his headache was back too, probably aggravated by the exhibition they’d just witnessed. Scot couldn’t help himself—he glanced down Jerry’s body, and saw the telltale bulge at his crotch. Yeah, I was right. Jerry had been very aroused. Scot was surprisingly undisturbed by the fact, despite his earlier shock. What was that all about? He obviously needed sleep even more urgently than he’d thought.
They followed Vincent out of the lobby, docile like lambs. But Scot was still angry, and a little scared. Oliver had used his name, in the hallway. He knew Scot’s name already.
That was no fucking figure of speech.
Scot couldn’t make sense of it all.
Chapter 3
Vincent showed them out of the lobby and down a flagstone pathway. On one side was a shoulder-high wall made of uneven stones and old bricks. Scot couldn’t see what was beyond that, though at one point they passed a locked gate that looked like a way through. The other side of the pathway opened out onto a yard, leading back around to the front parking lot. Over their heads was a roof made of corrugated panels propped up on mixed wooden and steel posts. It created a slightly eerie, dimly lit tunnel for their progress, with nothing to guide them except for the gray evening light now bathing the yard. Vincent had no trouble finding his way, but Scot lagged behind and Jerry stumbled a little. Maybe, like Scot, he didn’t want to admit how spooked he was by the ragged shadows thrown from irregular holes in the roof.
The pathway ended at the low building they saw from the car. A line of closed doors led presumably to the motel bedrooms. There were no lamps over each doorway, nor any lighting inside the rooms. No noises, either, nor any parked cars. It looked totally deserted. Their steps echoed dully on the stones as they walked to the furthest room in the row. No one spoke.
They all paused at the door while Vincent unlocked it.
“Are you okay?” Jerry whispered to Scot.
“I’m fine, don’t fuss for God’s sake. Just tired.”
Jerry looked unconvinced. “You’ve been weird since supper. Tell me what’s up.”
Scot shook his head. Leave me alone. “Nothing.”
“Don’t you trust me?” Jerry’s concern was shifting quickly to anger. “That silent treatment gets too old, too quick, you know. If you’re pissed with me, you need to say—”
“Here you are.” Vincent broke into their argument, though he gave no sign of having been listening. It was marked with a bold ‘6’ on the door, though Scot saw no sense to the numbering of the rooms: they’d already passed numbers ‘4’ and ‘12’, with nothing in between. Vincent carried their bags into the room, then left. Scot’s final view of him had been the man’s dark eyes glittering at him in the semi-darkness.
They were alone again.
Jerry threw himself back on the bed as if settling for sleep. Scot watched him for a few moments, slightly startled when Jerry started snoring softly. But at least he had no intention of taking their argument further. Scot took a slow breath of relief and climbed gingerly on top of the covers beside Jerry. The bed was surprisingly soft and the pillow looked clean and thick.
He only meant to rest, but his eyes felt heavy the minute he lay down. A combination of the tiring journey, the heavy, rich meal after days of eating hardly anything, and the strange events in the lobby…
Everything had taken its toll on him.
***
Scot woke suddenly, his head whirling. He couldn’t remember where he was for a few, panicked seconds, then it came back to him. They’d run away but they’d got lost: he and Jerry were at the motel. In those first moments of waking, it all felt like a thousand years ago.
He stirred, realizing at once he was alone on the bed. How long did I sleep? The moonlight through the window seemed stronger than before, seeping through bare patches in the worn drapes. He could make out the silhouette of the walkway roof outside, and the dim shadow of the motel reception building in the distance. There was a square of light in a couple of its windows now.
He was momentarily confused. Of course: the lights had come on just before they came through to their room. On a chair beside the bed, he found a small lamp. He flipped its switch but nothing happened. Maybe the bulb had broken, or maybe Jerry had turned it off at the wall t
o let Scot sleep. He wondered just how late it was, but had no way of finding out: his phone had run out of charge a long time ago, and he’d never owned a watch.
With a groan, he propped himself up on his arm. The room was warm and so was he. He remembered walking in the evening air on the way to the room, its caress still hot despite the cooling night. And the room itself was very claustrophobic. It was barely larger than the double bed he lay on, though he’d slept well on it, with nothing under him but a sheet and a thin coverlet.
More carefully, he looked around. Very little to see, just the chair and a dresser pushed up against the far wall. The space between the dresser and the bed was only the width of a man’s body. Both items of furniture were made of wood well marked with age. On the dresser were two candle holders with half-melted candles and, beside them, a pile of towels. Overhead, a fan was set into the ceiling, hiccupping lazily around after a day’s hard work. The blades were reflected in the old, spotted mirror tiles at its base, whirring unevenly, looping the barest of breezes around the room. The hem of the drapes lifted, then settled limply. Everything was very basic. A typical, run-down motel.
But the pillow was pleasantly thick, and the covers smelled freshly laundered. The pile of towels on the dresser looked soft and plump. The contrast of sparseness and luxury confused Scot’s awakening senses. The air in the room licked around his body, his skin tingling with the groggy softness that comes after a sleep. He ran a hand down his chest and liked the sensation. He stroked himself again. Still good….
He’d been dreaming, he was sure he had, though he couldn’t recall it clearly. It had been a suffocating, disorientating dream: he could still feel the shudder in his limbs, the throb of his heart. A wet dream?
=you were happy. You were laughing=
The details were slipping away from him like smoke, even as his mind cleared. But he remembered a tall stranger leaning over him with a hypnotizing smile, and an expression of delight. Someone welcoming, with hands on him, soothing him, caressing him. A comforting, sensual presence beside him, within him, talking to him….
=I’ve been waiting for you=
Scot shook his head to clear such nonsense. A presence? What the hell kind of weird word is that? He and Jerry had been to plenty of movies about vampires, succubi and other monsters, though they’d spent most of the time making out in the darkened back seats of the theater. Was one of those special effect creatures teasing his dreams now? But he hadn’t watched a movie like that for a long time. They didn’t scare him like they were meant to, and besides, he knew all too well the difference between movies and reality.
He stretched, his movements languid. The tangible feeling persisted. It felt soft and thick, flowing like viscous liquid, stroking like feathers, full of warmth and color and a really delicious smell.
=talking to you=
It wanted him. It slid inside his clothes, between his legs, seeking an entrance to his body.
=want you=
Startled, Scot sat bolt upright. His heart was beating far more quickly than usual. For the first time, he acknowledged he was in nothing but his boxers, with no memory of undressing. And he had a throbbing erection. It tented the fabric, causing a damp patch at its tip. This was fiercer than his normal waking reaction, and it showed no signs of dying down.
Shit. He’d never had such a strange, erotic dream before, not even about Jerry!
He shifted on the bed, unsettled and horny, the sheet creased beneath him. Had Jerry undressed him? Surely it wouldn’t have been anyone else. The erection nagged at him, persistent and demanding. He toyed with the idea of running his hand a little lower, and giving it what it needed—
Then a door at the back of the room opened, bringing a waft of scented, wet air from what was obviously the bathroom.
“Scot? You’re awake then.” It was Jerry, his voice soft and sleepy too. The hard edge of their last conversation had gone, replaced by the caressing tone Jerry often used when they were making out.
“Where have you been?” Scot grumbled. “Come closer.”
Jerry walked over to the bed, toweling at his hair. He was naked, except for another towel twisted around his slim waist. A fuzzy patch of moonlight bathed his bare chest, highlighting a single, erect nipple.
Scot ached somewhere deep inside, wondering at the emotions that stirred him so strongly. He lusted after Jerry, of course he did, but this ache was something else. Damned dreams. “How late is it? Have you had a shower? I thought the lights were working now.”
“They are.” Jerry’s smile was more relaxed. “But I liked the candlelight in the dining room, so I thought we could have the same in here. It’s only ten p.m. or so. My headache was easing off so I left you sleeping and took a shower. It’s a very small bathroom so we’ll have to take a turn.” His gaze flickered over Scot’s stretched limbs, the shape of his swollen cock under the sheet. “I thought you needed the sleep.”
“Thanks.” Scot sighed and wriggled his hips on the bed. “But now I need something else.”
Jerry laughed and turned to the dresser, lighting a candle in one of the holders there. When he turned back to Scot, the chiaroscuro effect made him look alternately sensual and sinister. The faint smell of sulfur from the match trailed in the still air.
Scot sighed contentedly, and fell back on to the bed. “Didn’t I say to come closer?”
A strange expression flitted over Jerry’s face, but he grinned easily enough and climbed onto the bed beside Scot. “Yes, boss.”
Scot chuckled, then caught his breath. Jerry’s body beside him was so different from his dream. It was real. “It’s just us now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, thank God. This is our new beginning. For us, Scot—together. They won’t chase us any more, there’s no one to keep us apart. To tell us who we can and can’t see.”
It sounded rather melodramatic to Scot, but no less the truth. “To swear and spit at us?”
Jerry nodded. He stretched out a hand and slid it around Scot’s neck. “I know how bad it was—”
“No, you don’t.” Scot tried to keep the pain and anger out of his voice, but sometimes he wondered if he ever would. He’d struggled with life for as long as he could remember, first of all trying to keep beneath the radar of his miserable home situation, then to hide the true nature of his friendship with Jerry. He’d once told Jerry that he lied so much to his family and colleagues, he couldn’t always remember what was the truth and what was his cover story. He’d been forced to do it all because he’d been drawn to a man: they’d wanted each other.
Was that so wrong? He didn’t know which caused him the more pain—the persecution and abuse he’d suffered, or the cowardly way he’d tried to cope with it all.
“Hey, it’s okay. There’ll be no more of that crap,” Jerry whispered. He rolled across the bed, nudging against Scot’s body. “You’re so damned hot.” He winced as he shifted his cock under the towel. “You make me so fucking horny.”
Scot smiled and pressed his mouth to Jerry’s shoulder. His heart was beating fast again, but for a very different reason. “No more sneaking around, doing it in corners. In cars and alleyways.”
Jerry grinned. “Not always so bad, though? Sometimes the danger adds to the excitement.”
Scot hid his shiver. “But we have a choice, now, Jerry. A choice of when and where. Not just snatched half hours at lunch, or after dark, or while my parents are getting wasted at some bar or other.”
Jerry nodded. “Sure, whatever.” His hands ran gently down Scot’s chest, cupping his belly.
Scot’s muscles tightened. So maybe he’d found their secret life much more distressing than Jerry had. And it had been exciting, in its own way. Jerry in particular had seemed to enjoy the risk. Their groping sessions had been desperate and awkward, but Jerry had never hesitated to take any opportunity to fuck. Scot had been carried away with the desire too, but he regretted the fact they’d never had much time together to explore each other’s bodies. Everythin
g had been rushed, the feelings anguished, the lovemaking awkward. Scot felt he had years of frustration and repression still to set free.
“Jerry….”
“Hmm?”
“My choice is now, Jerry. I want you here—and now.”
“Sure.” Jerry smiled at him. He didn’t seem to be listening that carefully, his eyes unfocused and his breathing shallow. Scot could feel Jerry’s cock thickening under the towel. He reached down, jerked the cloth away, and took firm hold of it.
“Fuck!” Jerry’s cry was half moan, half gasp.
When they first met, Jerry told Scot he’d had plenty of sex, though Scot wasn’t sure he believed him. And Jerry admitted he’d never actually fucked another man’s ass. But it was all moot because Scot had been a complete virgin. He’d never wanted girls at all, even when they came on to him at school, and it had been easy to shake them off, especially when they saw where he lived or got chased off by his drunken Mom. And he’d never dared approach guys: didn’t even think it was an option.
He and Jerry met at the corner store where Jerry did some casual hours, and Scot used to call in on his way home from work to buy his dad’s beer. That grew into spending time together at local ball games and occasional movies—Jerry usually paying for them both—and going fishing. They were friends, but Scot knew he wanted Jerry as something more, even as he guiltily jerked off to the secret thought at night.
Then, one cold day when a sudden rainstorm caught them out on a fishing trip, they’d taken refuge in an old boathouse. It had been locked when they first arrived, Scot was sure, but when they rushed to its door in the soaking rain, they found the lock opened to the slightest shove. They tumbled inside, laughing and shivering and peeling off their wet clothes together. Scot couldn’t take his eyes off Jerry’s torso. Jerry, trying to get his boots off, stumbled suddenly and grasped Scot’s bare shoulder to steady himself. Moments later, they were kissing, clumsily but greedily, their hands on each other’s body. They dropped to their knees on the rough wooden floor to touch, to caress. Jerry tugged at Scot’s jeans, trying to get them off, and Scot slipped a daring hand inside Jerry’s briefs, reaching for the hot, thick flesh. Their desperate, mutual hand job was rushed and rough, but Scot would remember for ever the hoarse cry from both of them as they climaxed. The satisfaction had been incredible, astonishing—and addictive.
