The Farmer & Dale Ch. 02

He held him firmly, rocking slightly. He pulled back, cupping Dale's cheeks in the palms of his hands, kissing him. Slowly, lovingly, softly, sweetly. His arms again brought him close, their bodies melded from chest to thigh as he nibbled gently at Dale's lips, sliding his tongue in, finding Dale's, engaging it, enticing it to dance. Dale whimpered at the exquisite sensuality of Rick's actions. His seduction was like hot melted chocolate, rich, decadent, irresistible.

Again Rick pulled away. He looked deeply into to Dale's eyes, his own, open, vulnerable, hopeful. "I don't know about you," he confessed quietly, but I'm in love."

Dale closed his eyes, tears squeezing from the corners. Incredulous joy raced through him. He opened his eyes to find Rick waiting, his expression lost, resigned. Dale reached out, gently stroking his fingers over Rick's cheek.

He smiled. A brilliant, watery smile, "I love you too, angel."

Rick's own eyes filled with tears, he squeezed Dale lightly, "God, babe, you scared me for a minute there."

Contrite, Dale kissed Rick, his hands gently rubbing his back, consoling, reassuring. He slowly ended the kiss, "I'm sorry baby, you surprised the hell out of me. I was hoping, but I never really believed, you'd say those words. Guess I didn't realize just how intelligent you are."

Rick's brow rose, "You know, city boy, casting aspersions on the intelligence of the man you just accepted as your partner, doesn't exactly speak too well of your own judgement."

Dale nodded sagely, "You're right. I take it back. I have excellent judgement and superior manipulative skills. I skillfully steered your monumental intellect into realizing your love for me."

Rick snorted, laughing, "Care to repeat that?"

"Not really." Dale replied as he gazed fondly at his partner. He felt giddy with joy. "Are you staying the night?"

"You bet, unless you want me to go home." Rick offered with a teasing twinkle in his eyes.

"Fuck no! Come on, stud, I need a shower." Dale exited the kitchen and made for the stairs. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and winked, "You can wash my back, and anything else that strikes your fancy."

Rick grinned and followed, "Yee haw, hurry up, babe, somehow you got real dirty."

Dale took off, Rick chasing him up the stairs.

* * *

Dale stirred, stretching, his limbs sliding against the cool cotton sheets. He smiled a sleepy and satisfied smile. Reaching for Rick, his eyes opened to find the other side of the bed empty. He lay back, unconcerned. Rick must be in the bathroom or possible downstairs already. Lord knows he wasn't ready for another session yet, but some cuddling would have been nice.

Last night they'd showered together. He'd sucked Rick off, Rick reciprocated, his skill making Dale's knees weak. Hitting the bed, they snuggled together, warm and naked, talking quietly until they drifted off. Dale woke sometime in the night to find Rick between his legs. Rick had found the lube and condoms Dale kept in the night stand. He had gently prepared him, making love to him at an excruciatingly slow pace. Every move had been so tender, so filled with love, Dale had been rocked to his very core.

Much as he reveled in Rick's care, he reached a point where he hovered on the edge of release. Rick had made him beg. He trapped Dale's arms over his head, making sure he couldn't touch himself. Holding him imprisoned, Rick whispered hotly in his ear, ordering Dale to tell him what he wanted, what he needed, how badly he wanted to come, until desperately he begged, groaning with relief as Rick increased the pace, pounding his clasping chute, his aching cock sliding between their sweat drenched bellies, until he unloaded, practically screaming with relief.

After resting for a few moments, cooling semen gelling between them, Rick rose and returned from the bathroom with a warm damp washcloth and a dry towel. He gently cleansed Dale's sticky skin, from his belly to his well used pucker, then toweled him dry. With a tender smile on his face, he slid his fingers through Dale's hair, brushing it softly back from his face, leaning in for a kiss. Rick returned to bathroom, taking care of his own cleanup. He came back and climbed in bed, pulling Dale into his arms. They drifted immediately to sleep.

Dale sighed and rolled out of bed. He entered the bathroom. A niggle of disquiet quivered in his belly. He made use of the toilet, picked up the jeans he'd discarded on the floor the night before and pulled them on. His bare feet made no sound as he walked downstairs. He glanced into the living room, then entered the kitchen. No Rick. No note. No nothing. Stomach clenching in dread, he looked out the kitchen window. Rick's truck was gone. * * *

Dale spent the day, first wandering aimlessly, then sitting, lost in a fog of misery. At first he convinced himself that Rick had left to go get some clothes or something and that he'd be back. After several hours, he convinced himself there would be a phone call. By dusk he realized Rick wasn't coming back.

He agonized over the idea of calling Rick's parents, but finally vetoed the idea. What could he say? Aside from the fact that Rick didn't live with them, they might not have heard from him today in any case. He had Rick's number, but refused to use it. If Rick was breaking things off, he wasn't going to chase him. And yet he worried, what if something had happened to him?

Finally in a fit of panic, he called Rick's parents. His mother answered the phone. Dale casually inquired if she knew when Rick was coming to take the backhoe back to their farm. Rick's mother innocently answered that she wasn't sure, but told Dale she'd ask Rick when he came in from the barn. He ended the conversation with a polite affirmative of having enjoyed the untouched lemon meringue pie. So Rick was unhurt. Dale's worst fears were confirmed.

He was devastated, stunned. Last night had been incredible, perfect. How could Rick just leave? Was the whole thing a lie? Had he done something wrong? Nothing made sense, all was darkness and confusion. Dale found himself on the floor, crying and rocking in misery. It was Tony all over again, only this time a hundred, a thousand times worse. Dale was shattered. He curled up on the floor and tried to make himself disappear as darkness filled the house, and night descended.

* * *

Dale woke at 4 a.m. shivering, his muscles cramping. He pulled himself to the sofa, his mind blank as he rested, extending his limbs, easing the ache until he was able to stand. He walked slowly upstairs and entered his bedroom. Seeing the mussed sheets on the bed, he stilled the twinge that threatened to awaken the emotions he locked away.

He pulled the sheets free, leaving the bed unmade. Entering the bathroom he threw the sheets in the hamper. He avoiding making eye contact with the mirror. He wanted to see no one, least of all himself. Back in the bedroom, he donned jock, shorts, socks and tee shirt. Downstairs he added running shoes. He let himself out of the house, the cool air making him shiver as he warmed up, stretching.

Ready, Dale ran. He ran at a slow steady pace, mind blank, body on automatic. He ran until his legs cramped, protesting, and then he walked. Walked down road after road, sweat running from his exhausted body. He walked until his legs quivered with the strain, and then he stopped, breathing hard, lost. For the first time he took a look around. The territory was totally unfamiliar.

He wanted nothing more than to lay down in the grass beside the road. Finished. Done. Over.

An old red pick up truck chose that moment to come over the hill, a grizzled old man at the wheel. He stopped by Dale.

"You ok, young man?" he asked.

Dale swallowed, his throat parched, "I'm looking for Wallings Road. Do you know where it is?"

"Son, that's about 25 miles north of here. You hoofin' it?"

Dale nodded, despair threatening to break through the carefully constructed mental fence he used to pen his emotions.

"Get in," the old man ordered.

Even if he'd wanted to, Dale was too tired to protest. He wobbled to the passenger door and crawled in. His hip, thigh and calf muscles burned as he silently settled back, buckling his seat belt.

The old man stepped on the gas. His radio was tuned to some station that played old country hits. The music was low and the old man talked. He rambled on and on, over each passing mile. Dale let the soothing sound of his voice wash over him, not really paying attention to the words. He seemed to need no replies or encouragements to continue his conversation, happy to have a captive audience.

Forty minutes later, they pulled into Dale's driveway. Dale offered to give the man, Henry, some gas money.

"Not necessary, Dale. I enjoyed the company." Dale opened the door, about to make his exit, when Henry stopped him. "Take my advice, son, whoever she is, forget about her. It ain't worth killing yourself over. You hear?"

Dale felt his throat close. He nodded, choked out his thanks and stumbled to the back door. In the kitchen, he got a glass of water and drank it slowly, cautious about making himself sick by taking too much too soon. He opened the refrigerator door and came face to face with all the barbeque left overs. Squashing the surge of emotion that threatened, he pulled the large garbage can from the mud room and began throwing everything in, containers and all. Finishing with the lemon meringue pie, he scooped it out with his hands, throwing the pie in the trash and placing the dish in the sink.

He cleaned up his hands, Mrs. Hunter's pie plate, and dragged the trash container to the end of the driveway. Tomorrow was pick up day. Dale returned to the house and heated himself a cup of broth, sitting at the table, sipping it slowly, along with another glass of water. He felt nothing. He was numb. A vast and bottom-less weariness settled over him. He rose and swayed, steadied himself and climbed the stairs. Taking a blanket from the closet, he lay on the bed and rolled up in it, pretending strong arms held him, keeping him safe and warm.

Dale spent the next three days punishing himself, hiding from the overwhelming emotions that threatened to bury him. He learned his lesson from the day before, and paid attention to where he walked. Now he only walked. His tired, abused body was on the verge of collapse. He walked for miles and fed it nothing but broth and water. Pounds were melting away and Dale hadn't needed to lose weight.

He didn't bathe. He didn't shave. He didn't change his clothes. By the fourth day his appearance was totally disreputable, his smell even worse. After staggering home at the end of that fourth day, Dale sat at the kitchen table sipping his broth. His nose wrinkled and he peered at it suspiciously, the thought running through his head that it must be rotten. He checked the date on the can and found it acceptable. Taking another sip, he nearly gagged. He took the cup to the sink and dumped the contents.

Again he settled at the table and drank his water. The smell poured over him. The miasma was rank, borderline putrid. Suddenly he realized what it was. It was him. He stank. An unexpected snort of amusement broke from him. A chuckle became a small laugh, until he was laughing uncontrollably. He swayed, sliding from his chair to the floor, laughing hysterically, until tears ran from his eyes. Tears of mirth that became tears of misery. Laughter turned to gut wrenching sobs that tore through Dale's weakened body leaving him shaking uncontrollably, his body cramping and quivering with the effort.

Finally he quieted. He lay on the floor staring at the legs of the chairs and table as his mind slowly came awake. Still down, slow, silent tears streamed down his face as he opened the gate and let reality return. Dale had reached and experienced his catharsis. The tears he now cried brought healing, the acknowledgment of an end. He was ready to let go, to resume his life.

Feeling a new calm, a soothing peace, he levered himself up and stripped, dropping his clothes into the trash. Naked, he slowly made his way upstairs for a bath, a baptism as it were, signaling his new beginning.

To be continued....