On the Beach Ch. 17

I really don't know how to categorize this chapter. There is no incest. There is a bit of female-male rimming. Most of the action, but not all is between Owen and Bill. For that reason, I decide to put it in the "Gay Male" category. For those of you who have followed the story I hope that doesn't stop you. For those new readers, who may be exclusively gay, there's not much straight sex in this chapter. Maybe try imaging Jim is getting rimmed by a dude?

By the by, anyone else wish there was a Bi category?

Thanks to LarryInSeattle.

Enjoy and helpful comments are always welcome.

Turbidus

==========

Bill wakes with a hard cock pressed into the small of his back. The cock is almost as hard as the small circle of steel that adorns it. The dark room is already warm and the halo of bright light around the window shade triggers a powerful sense of déjà vu. This time it's different. This time his brother's bed is empty. This time he's not alone. Owen's cock, the arm draped over his waist, the warm breath against the back of his shoulder, all these things tell him that he's not alone.

Sadness laps at the edge of his contentment. He wishes, perhaps he always will, that it was Jim pressed to his back. He pictures this exact scene happening down the hall, except in that version, it is Jill lying in Jim's arms, lying where he wishes to be.

As is his habit, Bill turns away from the sadness. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash and turns back. He looks, really looks, at the wave he fears will engulf him. As he does, it subsides. He's not facing a tsunami. It's no longer even a wave; it's a pool. A dark pool whose surface undulates as if caressed by the softest of breezes. He scans the surface for the flash that caught his eye.

It's a welder's torch. He recognizes the moment. It's the end of their first week of classroom work. They're finally in the shop. Each of them has a pair of welder's glasses resting atop their heads. Jim has just lit his torch. That was the flash. He's grinning at Bill and Bill is grinning back. Bill's eyes dart over the surface of the pool; it begins to lighten. The surface is no longer a smear of solid black. It's a patchwork of bright light and shiny black and mingled greys like the bright sun on choppy water. He peers closer. He sees Jill smiling at Jim; sees the look on Jim's face when he's watching Jill and thinks no one is looking. He and Jim touching beer bottles to celebrate a Panther's touchdown, especially one scored against the reviled Redskins. He sees his mom, his father, Mark, Muriel, and his best friend in grade school who died in sixth grade from a brain tumor. They're all there.

He reflects on the difference between despair and sadness. This is a quiet place where sadness mingles with memory, laughter, and tears. The surface coalesces into a chiaroscuro of Jim's face. The face smiles, winks, and then collapses back into the no-longer-solidly-dark surface.

Bill sighs as the vision fades. He smiles, a faint half smile, a smile as full of wistful memories as his vision. Behind him, Owen shifts. Bill drifts back into a dream he'll never quite remember, though the moment itself never fades, as he reaches for the hand resting on his waist.

***

Owen dreams of a gallery opening. Beautiful young men float above the floor, offering sparkling flutes of champagne and tidbits of food he cannot name. Marilyn Monroe is telling him how much she loves his work. Behind her, Cher is making faces. He glances over his shoulder. The world freezes. His paintings, his creations, pieces of his soul, fall, one by one, and shatter as if made of glass. His mother strides across the room, guests parting before her like the Red Sea before Moses. She's barefooted. She stamps on the shards of glass and they're pulverized into sand. She leaves bloody footprints on the floor. Her Bible, her ubiquitous Bible, is held in front of her, more a weapon than shield. She's naked. The blood she leaves on the floor isn't from her feet. It pulses from her vagina, a thick stream, waxing and waning like cold syrup from the mouth of a bottle on a frozen morning. She's naked. Two vipers, fangs embedded deep in her flesh hang from her nipples. He looks down at his chest and the steel bars begin to twist and squirm. They bite. The pain is immediate and immense. The pain is as far beyond that of his piercing, as the sun is beyond a birthday candle. He screams but no sound escapes his throat. His throat is stretched by an undulating mass. It's a snake. He can see its tail, protruding from his mouth, whipping to and fro. It's not trying to get out; it's trying to get in. He can't breathe. His mother reaches for him with her free hand. Her mouth opens and keeps opening, stretching and contorting. Her face, then her head, disappear behind a gaping maw lined with snakes that strike and snap, anxious to sink their teeth into his face. She will swallow him whole. Deep, far down the gullet, at the back of her maw, he sees a glow. The fiery lake awaits.

Someone squeezes his hand. He turns his head. The creature in his throat disappears. The room is light again. His paintings hang as before. There is no glass, no demon mother, no guest. Just the two of them and his paintings, most of which have yet to be put on canvas. Bill smiles at him, tips him a wink.

At the touch of Bill's hand, Owen's dream falls away, a dead empty snake skin crumbles under his unheeding heal as he walks toward the surf, hand in hand, with Bill. In his dream the ocean is warm and the waves laugh along with him.

***

"Can I come in?"

"Of course, Muriel. Don't be silly," Meg assures her.

Muriel is wearing a threadbare house coat that serves to accentuate more than hide her naked form. Meg has an apron on. It makes her bare ass and the sides of her breast look more delectable than usual. Ben is perched on one of the bar stools, bare ass on the towel as good manners require.

"Morning, Muriel. Sleep well? That son of mine still snoozing?"

"Mornin'." Muriel pulls out a stool and sits. She grimaces slightly. "I slept the sleep of the innocent, or the damned, not sure which." She pays Meg for the cup of coffee set before her with a rueful smile.

"How's your tush, Meg?"

"From the look on your face when you sat down just now, 'bout the same as yours."

"Any blood, sweet one?"

"No, nothing like that. Just a little achy. Strange but I kind of like it," she confesses with a smile. "It's the same sort of ache I used to have after the first few times Ben rogered the hell out of me."

Her husband nearly chokes on his coffee. The women chuckle. Everyone quiets. They drink their coffee.

"That was it, wasn't it?" Ben asks, looking at the two over the top of his coffee cup. The rising steam lends his serious face a hint of mystery. "We're finished with all this?"

He surprised when Meg shrugs. "I'm not sure to be honest. I've never seen someone have an orgasm like the one Muriel had last night. I want to try that, at least once. Who would be better to ask than Jim? Jill's made it clear she doesn't mind." A frown crosses her face. "Although, I don't think I'm ready to try to take Jim up my ass. I think that should be you." She looks at her friend and lover. "You don't mean we're giving up what we had with Muriel do you? I don't think I could bear that.

"Meg, love, that will be up to Muriel...and Mark," Ben tells her after taking a sip of his coffee.

"What's up to me?"

Mark stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning light. He walks into the room, long cock swinging from side to side, an upside down metronome.

"Whether Muriel continues to be your mother's and my lover," Ben answers. "Of course, Muriel has a lot to say about that as well."

Mark nods as he comes to a stop behind Muriel. He kisses the top of her shoulder. He rubs one hand through his hair. "I wondered if that was what you were talking about?" He looks at Muriel. "Do you want to talk to my parents alone? Is that why you didn't wake me?"

Muriel smiles at him and shakes her head. "No, Mark. You looked so adorable lying there, all tangled up in the sheet, I didn't have the heart to wake you. I've nothing to say to your parents I'm not happy to have you hear."

"I'd understand if you did, honest." Mark looks at his parents. "Why are you wearing this?" He asks Muriel, plucking at the sleeve of her housecoat.

"I like it. Besides, you'd get tired of only seeing me naked."

"I doubt it," Mark replies, letting the matter drop. His mother hands him a cup of coffee. He blows on it, takes a sip and grimaces.

"Too strong? Want cream? Sugar?"

"No thanks, mom. It's just hot, that's all." He reaches between Muriel and his father, carefully, and sits the mug down on the counter. "I'm not totally sure how I feel about this but my first thought, which is pretty surprising to me, is that I don't mind. It seems so bizarre a thing to say. That's why I hesitated." He looks at the three of them in turn. "I mean, I don't want us all to move in together and spend our lives together or anything, I'm not sure how much I'd want to be involved, as far as, you know, doing stuff with you guys," he nods towards his parents, "but beyond that, I don't know for sure, but I think I would be okay with it."

When he's finished, he looks to Muriel not his parents, but it's Ben who speaks first. "I'm pretty sure I can speak for your mother on this one. We don't want you moving back in forever, with or without Muriel, either." There's a chuckle in his voice but he watches his son carefully.

"Although," Meg begins, head tilted toward her right shoulder, index finger pressed to her chin, the very model of thoughtfulness. "We could get rid of the wall between our bedroom and Jill's. We'd leave the boys' room for guests but we could make quiet a large room with a couple of California king mattresses, some mirrors, really go all out."

"Meg, darlin' how is it you've managed to hide the fact you're a total slut from your poor sweet innocent husband?" Muriel purrs.

"Same way he was able to hide his fondness for sucking dick I suppose," Meg retorts. Her hand flies to her mouth.

Mark stares, open-mouthed, at his mother. Muriel frowns, then looks sad. Meg looks at her husband. He looks like she's kicked him in the balls, which she supposes, she has.

"Oh, Ben, I'm so sorry. I was trying to make a joke."

He shakes his head. "No, you weren't. That's okay. Don't pretend it wasn't anger. Anger I get. Even if you've forgiven the deception, even if you understand, truly, understand that I can love you and yet still be drawn to men, I still lied to you all those years. You should be angry. I'd rather you let it out than have it fester."

"Still, Ben, I'm so sorry. In front of...in front of our son and..." Her words die inside of swallowed sobs.

Ben gets up and walks around the counter. Meg lets him pull her to his chest. He rocks her and whispers into her hair.

Mark appropriates his father's stool, and his folded up towel. He retrieves his coffee. He drinks. His mother stills and finally steps away, wiping her eyes.

"You know, mom," he says over the top of the mug. "Dad's right. You should be more pissed." His father stares at him. "You're letting him off the hook too easily." He returns his father's stare. "I wouldn't be surprised if dad doesn't feel as if he deserves to be punished."

"Punished? How? I'm not leaving your father."

"Spank him."

"What?!"

Muriel nods in agreement. "Yep or maybe lock his dick up in a cock cage and make him watch you masturbate." She grins. "Or make him watch Jim fuck you, maybe even in the ass."

"You can't be serious? What is wrong with you two?!"

"Nothing," Ben answers for them. "It would be an interesting way for you to release some of your justified anger at me. It'd also be a way for me to feel I've atoned in a fashion. Plus, we can fuck like satyrs on meth afterward. We'd need to make sure the anger doesn't gain the upper hand, I'm not into real pain, not that I know of anyway, but it's an interesting idea."

It's Meg's turn to stare open-mouthed. Below them, from the lower level, the shower rattles to life.

***

"Come on sleepyhead, take a shower with me."

"Girl, I'm half dead. Let me sleep."

"Sorry, lover. You've created a monster. I'll never have enough of your big black cock. I'm insatiable."

"That white folk talk for you're a pain in the ass?"

Jill jumps into Jim's arms as he gets up, nearly causing them both to fall back into the bed. "I am a pain in the ass but you've always known that. You love me anyway, right?"

"Yeah," Jim sighs. "I love you anyway."

"I have an idea."

"Oh, sweet Jesus. I'm going back to bed."

"Uh-uh, now that I got you vertical the only way you're going horizontal again is to boff my brains out." She giggles and Jim wonders at what point he'll grow tired of that giggle. He hopes never. Her face grows serious. "Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

"Huh? What the fuck, girl? Yeah, I need to take a leak. I just got up."

"No," she starts and wonder of wonders, Jill blushes. "I mean do you need to, uh, go number two?"

Jim gapes at her. "You want to know if I need to take a crap? Seriously? Why? Do you?" I got to tell you, baby. I'm drawing the line at any sort of doo-doo play."

"What? Eck, gross. No." Jill replies making a face and punching him lightly on the arm. "I did already, while you were sleeping. No." The blush lights up her face again. "I was thinking maybe we could fool around, like mom and Muriel, and well, Mark did, last night but I don't want it to be dirty. We could get super super cleaned up and, well, I don't know, fool around, back there, a little, maybe."

"Baby girl, your little white pussy barely managed to deal with my dick. I ain't about to try to stick it in your ass."

"No, of course not, not right away anyway. But, could I maybe kiss you there? Like Bill did to Mark and Owen? Or maybe a finger?"

"You talked about me sticking a finger up your ass or you sticking a finger up mine?"

"Both actually," Jill replies with a smile. "And, who knows, you said I looked sexy with a strapon. What did you think I was going to do with it?"

"Fuck another little bitty white chick to be totally honest," Jim snorts. "You asking me if you can stick that rubber dick up my ass? Baby, I may not show it but I am a Proud Black Man."

"Well, duh. Of course you are. I'm just as proud. You think Mark or Bill, or hell my father, aren't proud men?"

"None of their ancestors were slaves," Jim replies with a scowl.

Jill sits down on the bed with a plop. "Oh my God, Jim." She looks at him with wide eyes. "I didn't mean it like domination or anything. Oh, babe, I don't want you to even imagine that, ever. Forget it. I'm so sorry."

Jim sits beside her and rests a hand on her leg. "No. Don't be sorry. I'm not apologizing for having those feelings, don't get me wrong. I am apologizing for even considering you might have something like that in mind." Jim squeezes her leg. "While we're on the subject. I'm not interested in any kinda frightened-white-girl-bein'-raped-by-a-big-black-buck scenarios either."

Jill leans against his chest. "I hate our bodies sometimes. I love the way they can feel but they keep us so far apart. I can love you from now until we're a hundred and thirty, and I'll still never know, not wholly, what it is like to be you."

"Yeah, well I'll never know what it's like to be you, neither. You'll never convince me, not that I expect you'd ever try, that the average white person doesn't have an easier time in this world than the average black person. That don't mean they have it easy. We all got our own burdens, our own scars, our own regrets, so while you're fretting about not knowing me, fret a little over the fact I'm in the same boat. I'll never totally know you. But we can have a helluva lot of fun trying, can't we?"

"Yes. Yes, we can." Jill smiles at him. She pushes against his shoulder. "Now, go take care of business and when I hear the shower start, I'll join you."

Jim looks uncertain. "But what if..."

"It stinks a bit? Baby, trust me. I grew up with two brothers in a house with one bathroom. Cheezits. Hershey's chocolate. Raw cabbage. They scoured the playground and gutters of Norfolk for any hint, any suggestion as to what they could eat that would cause the rankest farts. Mom threatened to send them to boarding school. Do your worst big guy; I'm a battle-hardened bathroom vet."

***

Owen is sprawled on his back. He's kicked the sheets off. The stainless steel PA is not heavy enough to keep his erection from jutting out over his belly. Bill props himself up on one hand and takes the time to look at his new...what? Lover? Sure. Friend? He hopes so. Isn't it way too soon to hope for more? Probably? Maybe? Why?

The hair, still mostly tucked into a top-knot, is much lighter than the hair in his armpits. Does he bleach his hair? Just the sun? Each nipple is surrounded by a picket line of short dark hairs. He looks closer at the piercings, notices how the skin grows darker, then lighter, where the bar exits the nipple. He sees the bar doesn't actually pierce the nipple, rather it's deeper behind the nipple through the areola. He wonders again how much it hurt. In the center of his chest, a copse of longer hairs sprouts from the pale skin.

His eyes travel down Owen's body. He's trim but not ripped. A few hairs reappear just above his belly button, coalesce below it and then race to the thicker patch above his cock.

He sits up and leans over Owen's cock. He'd not paid much attention to the PA last night. It exits in the 'V' on the underside of the crown. He attempts to discern if it is the ball that secures the ring together. He leans forward on his arm. The head of Owen's cock bobs just an inch or so from his nose. He can see now that one end of the circle of steel ends is close to, but not connected to, the ball. He can see the other side of the ball without moving Owen's cock. He assumes the ball must screw into the other end of the circle.

He extends a fingertip, touches the ball as gently as he can, and pushes softly. The ring slides easily enough. He leans, closer still, and confirms that the ball is screwed into the end of the ring, or vice versa. He lets his finger glide over the cold metal, until it touches the warm skin on the underside of Owen's shaft. He trails his finger down the thin ribbon of skin that thickens as it nears the scrotum. His scrotum tightens. His sack retracts, his balls roll sinuously beneath the rough skin. Unlike Mark, Owen is not completely shaved. His balls are shaved but there is a nice patch of crisp dark curls at the base of his cock.

Bill returns to the top of the bed, resting his head once more on the palm of his left hand, pillow bunched under his armpit. His own cock is hard and he needs to piss like a mother fucker but he's not ready to abandon his bed yet. He extends his index finger to touch the bar piercing Owen's right nipple. It's not as cold as the PA, probably because it rests in, and atop, Owen's nipple. He tries to roll it, sees the nipple begin to distort and stops. It's too tight. Or maybe it just needs a little lubrication.

He wets his finger rubs it over the nipple and bar. Repeats the action. This time he doesn't try to roll it. He pushes on it. Releases. Pushes, trying to work some of his spit into the tunnel of flesh. He tries to roll the bar. No good. He leans over and take the nipple and bar into his mouth. He tongues both sides of the hole. He pushes on either end of the bar with his tongue. He pulls back slightly. This time his finger is able to rotate the steel bar within the flesh of Owen's body.

He decides to try and do the same thing with his tongue. He can't be sure the bar is moving but realized he really doesn't give a fuck at this point. He moves closer, pressing his cock against the side of Owen's leg, and stretches over his chest to mouth and tongue the other nipple. His right hand rubs over the head of Owen's cock. It's wet. He rotates the PA back and forth. Up until the ball touches the piss slit; down until it touches the underside of the crown. He turns his head to look at Owen's cock, brings his hand to his mouth and licks the inside of his thumb and finger and returns his hand to the steel-girded cock. He strokes it.