A Long Weekend at Waverton

Marc pulled his suitcase into the parlor of Waverton with his eyes firmly on the Turkish rugs. Unable to manage a glance up at the carved grand staircase he had been thinking about for two months, he shuffled across the carpets towards the front desk. He should've canceled the trip and eaten the five hundred dollar deposit.

"Reservation for Rosini," he grumbled, sliding his credit card across the desk.

"Certainly sir," the attendant said. A tablet was quietly slid back across the desk for Marc to sign, and was soon replaced by a pair of welcome envelops and a brochure, "So I have a reservation for two for the honeymoon sweet, congrat-"

Marc immediately snapped his head up, prepared to give the attendant a withering look. But his scowl died along with the attendant's congratulations. Finally looking forward, Marc found he was not face to face, but had only managed chest-level for the attendant had at least a foot on him. Craning his head up, Marc couldn't help but notice the attendant was built like linebacker. Broad shouldered with massive arms, the man's dark green henley practically strained against his chest. The sleeves were rolled up past thick forearms, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Marc tried not to stare at the patch of fuzz, and went to meet the man eye to eye.

Oh.

The attendant's eyes were a remarkable slate gray, and yet... they were warm. Marc didn't see pity, but sympathy and a little embarrassment. Marc wanted to say something, but every time he tried to pick out the words, they seemed to get fuzzy. Instead, he just stared, until he realized he was staring, they both were.

"Uh-um.. your room is three-uh ten. Up the stairs and down the hall to your right. Breakfast goes from six to ten. Welcome to Waverton." the attendant's voice was quiet as he pulled the second envelop off the desk.

"Thanks."

The suite was magnificent. Of course it was. Everything was carefully crafted and ornate, the perfect example of Gilded-Age splendor. The bedroom had a huge four-poster bed, raised up like an altar. It competed for space with the huge window, and writing desk. Pulling back the curtains, Marc could make out the shimmer of the lake in the evening light, as well as the tulip gardens laid out below.

Marc grabbed a pillow, unsure if he wanted to weep into it, or throw it across the room. He settled for slowly grinding a fist into it.

Fuck. For two months he had planned their three year anniversary weekend, then the week before, Jamie had decided to end it. Now he got to spend four days in a beautiful mansion in absolute misery, because it was too damn late to cancel.

Marc grabbed the remote, and flipped on the television. At least he had HBO.

Marc reclined easily on a grassy hill overlooking the lake. It was dark but the waters caught the moonlight and cast everything in silver. His eyelids heavy, Marc began to drift. Hands moved slowly over his shoulders and across his chest. He could feel their warmth against the cool night air. One hand slid down his stomach and tucked under his belt, tracing little circles on his skin.

Almost involuntarily Marc began to rock his hips,waiting as those fingers slid their way slowly to the buckle and button. Jamie was taking his damn sweet time wasn't he?

God, Marc needed this.

Lips touched him softly on the neck, and Marc sighed as kisses climbed up his cheek.

Eventually their lips met, but they were barely kisses. His lips were hesitant. There was a taught tension there Marc wasn't expecting, so he leaned forward for more. Expecting that tension to give way to hungry kisses. But instead he found only cold air.

It made no sense. Jamie liked to tease, certainly, but he was always so direct. More than a little forceful.

"Jamie?" Marc whispered. Letting his eyes open.

Marc lay sprawled across the massive bed, alone, and hard as a rock. Frowning at his morning wood, Marc reached for his phone and went searching for porn.

An hour later, Marc wandered down the stairs, still fixated on last night's dream. Despite never having had sex by the side of a lake, the whole moment felt familiar, a strange sense of deja vu. The parts fit together too well for it to be a collection of half-remembered moments jammed together. Some dream.

Marc smiled ruefully to himself. Better unconscious than not at all. It had been weeks since he and Jamie had sex, or much else for that matter. Just a few half-hearted pecks on the cheek. Not quite the same slow kisses...

Marc started getting hard again, and decided to go for a run.

Before it was sold in the thirties, Waverton had sprawling grounds that went out in thousands of acres in every direction. The Bed and Breakfast had managed to hold on to a sizeable chunk of land beyond the gardens, with a nice set of woods and walking paths.

Even though the day was barely started, it was going to be a hot one. After only a few minutes, Marc was wiping sweat through his dark curly hair. Even if it was difficult to pack weight on his slight build, he still felt painfully out of shape. As he huffed up the next hill, he promised himself that once he was over, and into the clearing he would stop and catch his breath.

Marc came to a dead stop at the hilltop.

"The fuck?" Marc stared out in disbelief. The hill gave way to a clearing, and that small lake he had seen from his window.

The same lake from his dream.

Marc stumbled down the hill, still breathing heavily. The tree and brushline looked a little different, but the shape of the landscape, the slow gentle curve of the water. It was uncanny. With little hesitation, Marc managed to find the exact spot from his dream, a little rise over to the left with a nice view of the water under the shade of an oak tree.

Collapsing into the soft grass, Marc stared out over the water, watching a heron make ripples reflect in the morning light. He must have seen the spot in the website or something. God knows, he spent enough time staring at the pictures dreaming of the long weekend with Jamie.

Though he never actually bought the ring, Marc had toyed with the idea of proposing this weekend. In retrospect, he was grateful for whatever subconscious urge told him not to waste money on a ring.

What a waste, the last three years. They had met through a mutual friend, started dating soon after, and moved in together after a year. They were planning to buy a dog. They had planned to buy a house. They had planned to get married. So many damn plans.

"No more plans." Marc grumbled, fingers digging in among the grass. For a brief moment as he crumpled grass in his fist, Marc felt that same misty memory at the edge of his mind. He had been here before. A wave of melancholy took him for a moment. Loss. His eyes started to feel wet.

"No." it was good to speak into the morning silence. Marc levered himself back up, and made his way back to Waverton, ignoring the little paths that went elsewhere and on to a quiet solitary evening.

It was dark. He could see flickering lights in the distance. Marc grasped a wood column as a hand gently grasped his hip. Another hand was on his cock, moving slowly. Marc bent forward, letting his hips push back. Before he shut his eyes, he saw the lights begin to dim. The air smelled of gasoline.

He could feel Jamie's erection against his ass, pressing in slowly. When reached back to guide it in, it felt different, thinner. But it was slick, and Marc was ready, so he positioned his hips and began to push further back. That familiar feeling of warmth and fullness. Marc's ass twitched, as Jamie slid in another inch. Marc exhaled, and as he pushed down, he felt Jamie's hand holding firm on cock. Still moving slowly. Every movement sending waves of pleasure through his body.

Jamie began to thrust. Slow at first. Achingly slow. Marc couldn't help but eagerly push back to meet him. He tried to widen his stance, but almost tore the pants around his ankles. Instead he gripped both hands on the square wood column, straining to find purchase.

It was faster now. The soft slapping sound as their bodies met grew louder. Every time they met, Marc's toes curled in ecstacy. Jamie sank to the hilt with each thrust and Marc could only moan softly. As he grew closer and closer to orgasm, his pleas to be fucked harder grew loud.

The hand on his dick leapt up and covered his mouth. Marc's eyes snapped open. Pale slender fingers rubbed against his lips. He could see a gold signet ring. There was a figure on the ring but it was hard to make out. But it wasn't Jamie's hand...

"Shhh." the man behind him whispered. Marc could hear the smile in his voice. Hand still over Marc's mouth, the man began to thrust harder and faster. Marc's erection began to slap against his stomach. He bit down on fingers. It was all too much.

Marc thrashed in the sheets as he came. He was awake, sweaty and covered in cum, ass still clenched. He looked around awkwardly. The bedroom was empty. He was alone. He could hear the sounds of people taking breakfast below. "Oh, shit. How loud was I?" Marc whispered, still breathing hard. Painfully aware of the thin walls, Marc flipped on the TV. It was a welcome distraction. He needed something. He still didn't want to think about Jamie, and focusing on that dream... No, he needed distraction.

Despite his almost clock-work need to check his phone every ten minutes, through a monumental act of will, he had managed to avoid social media. He hadn't told anyone about the break up, and wasn't looking forward to the whole thing.

He considered looking at porn again, but after waking up to a fairly epic orgasm, he didn't have the heart to go again just yet.

It was strange. He remembered having wet dreams as a teenager, but it was never so... vivid. It all felt so real. He could swear his ass still felt a little tender. The way he used to feel after one of those marathon morning sex sessions that took him to lunch.

Eventually the TV grew stale and the room a tad stifling. He was running out of options here, he had even missed breakfast. While he still had the option of going into town to shop or having an early lunch, Marc decided to go running again.

Jogging past the tulip garden, he broke into a full stride once he was back in the shade of the wooded paths. He half-remembered something about twenty miles of trails and paths on the website, so where he had turned left for the lake, he went right instead.

He fared a bit better this time. He was still a sweaty mess, but wasn't winded so easily. After a few miles, he even managed a smile. Soon he heard the distant tinny sounds of music up ahead, he must've forgotten his headphones in the room.

On a whim he jogged toward the sound, making his way back towards the road that ran beside the property. The path ran by a house tucked back into the woods. It was a dilapidated affair, in the same Gilded-Age style as Waverton, but an order of magnitude less ornate. A pickup was parked out front. Marc could see a ladder up the front and...

Oh.

The attendant was in the process of painting the windows frames and shutters. In the warm morning sun, he had removed his shirt. His muscles glistened. His skin, though tanned, had just a hint of pink at the shoulders. Just as Marc had imagined, his arms and chest were sculpted perfection. He hadn't pictured the generous spread of hair across the attendant's chest, or that his abs looked like something off a magazine cover. The attendant wore a pair of tattered paint-splattered jeans, pulled low from the tools on his belt. He hadn't seen a V-cut like that since his club days. Marc's breath caught.

"Anything I can help you with?" the attendant shouted down to him.

Shit. Marc had stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring.

"Mr. uh... Rosini?"

"Oh! Uh no... I was just enjoying the..." the music blaring on the radio had a distinctive guitar riff, "Rage against the Machine?"

The attendant grinned and began climbing down the ladder. He had bits of gray paint in his chest hair. Marc was staring again.

"Yeah... phone reception out here is pretty terrible, can't really stream anything... " he gestured at the boombox plugged. The track switched from 'Bulls on Parade' to 'Vietnow.'

"Big Rage fan?"

The attendant chuckled, "I was when I was seventeen. Found some old CDs from when I spent summers here as a kid."

"Oh, so Waverton's a family estate? I thought the Esterfields sold the place back in the thirties."

"They did. My great aunt Clara bought it sometime before I was born, fixed it up. She's been running it ever since."

Marc dimly remembered images of a smiling older woman on the website. She had the same gray eyes as the attendant. "She's done a wonderful job. The place is beautiful."

"It is, but she hasn't exactly spent the same amount of effort on the caretaker's house," he gestured up at the house, which sported new windows, shutters, and new front door, "Or herself," his expression turned glum.

"Oh? Is she OK?"

"She took a tumble in May. Broke her femur. Wasn't taking her meds."

"Damn. I'm sorry. Sounds like you're close."

"She's basically my grandmother. She's staying back with my folks in Boston. I'm here for the summer taking care of things."

"That's very sweet of you. Looks like you're pretty handy too."

He shrugged, "I manage a general contractor business back in Boston. The office is probably happy to have me not fussing over every little detail for a while."

Marc blinked, the man in front of him looked barely twenty four.

The attendant gave a whistle, "Shit! I must be dehydrated, going on like that. I'm Ryan by the way." He held out a hand. It had some paint on it, but Marc took it eagerly.

"No, it's nice to talk to someone. I'm Marc, but I guess you probably knew that already."

"Yeah. But it's nice to meet you anyway. You enjoying the honeymoon suite?"

"Yeah... its nice," suddenly Marc felt a familiar weight in his stomach.

Marc's expression must have looked awful, because Ryan winced in response, "Hey, looks like you were out for a run. Want some water? I'm boiling." Marc smiled a little at Ryan's awkward attempt to change the subject. He nodded, and Ryan walked down the gravel drive around the house. Marc followed, admiring the work Ryan must have done in the last month or so. He also admired Ryan's ass, well framed even in those sagging jeans.

"So I have water here in the garage, beer too if you're interested. Marc?"

Marc was speechless. The garage was a wide open affair, practically a stable. Its three bays were supported by squared wood columns, freshly painted in white.

"Marc?"

"Mmm w-water's fine." He could almost smell the gasoline again. His body clenched. First the lake and now this. This wasn't on the website. Couldn't be.

Marc almost dropped the water bottle.

"Seriously, are you ok man? You're pale as a sheet."

"Yeah," Marc took a swig from the water, it was a welcome distraction, "h-has this garage always been part of the caretaker's house?"

"I think so. Mr. Esterfield was supposedly wild about cars. Owned quite a few."

"Huh. Interesting." None of this made sense. How could he dream of a place he'd never been before? Who was he dreaming about, who-

Ryan had a hand on Marc's shoulder. It was warm. Marc blinked, his train of thought derailed. Marc gazed up at Ryan's worried expression. Ryan stepped in closer. Marc could smell fresh paint and salty sweat on Ryan's skin. Marc shivered, and briefly considered running a hand against Ryan's stubbly cheek.

"Listen," Ryan's voice was a quiet rumble, "I know this weekend wasn't exactly what you had in mind. But it's gonna be OK."

"No it's not that... well I mean, it's that too. I just haven't slept well the last few nights."

Ryan frowned, began to lean in further before jolting ramrod straight,, "Fuck. Listen Mr. Rosi-Marc, that was waaaay out of left field. Your business is your business."

Marc chuckled quietly, "I booked the honeymoon suite for two, and showed up alone. I might as well have been wearing a sign that said dumped across my chest."

Ryan shrugged, "Wasn't my place to ask. Aunt Clara would lay me out if she found out I was talking to a guest this way."

"Yeah, but how often do guests come by this way?" Ryan could only shake his head in response, "Listen, it was nice meeting you Ryan. I should let you get back to painting."

"You too. I hope you have a good weekend Marc, and put whatever-his-name-is out of your mind while you're here."

"I'll try." Marc said, grinning but not sure why.

Marc had finished his run and was coming back from lunch before he realized that Ryan had basically mentioned that he knew Marc was gay. He was grinning again, despite himself. He didn't think he dressed particularly gay. He had been wearing running shorts and tshirt this morning. Most people saw him as a nerd far before they saw gay. A masters degree in data-science and years spent behind a computer had earned that well enough. Maybe Ryan had seen him ogling his shirtless hairy chest.

Or maybe...? No. Even if that chiseled slab of man was gay, there was no way he would have eyes for Marc. Marc wasn't even looking. He had just broken up... No, he had been dumped. Still... No. He was probably taken. Although... he certainly wasn't wearing a ring...

A ring.

The memory of last night's dream came roaring back. It didn't make any sense. Maybe he was going crazy. Seeing patterns that weren't there. Still...

Marc sat down at the table in the dining room. Despite his interest in Waverton, he had barely spent any time outside of his room. So now, sitting in the grandest room in a grand old house, he took the time to study his surroundings.

Delicately crafted wood panel ceilings, Flemish tapestries on the wall, and an ornate marble fireplace. Waverton had been built with expense and care. Clara had clearly kept the place up with great care, a mountain of money, and a love of the period and the Esterfield family. Winston and Edith Esterfield sat larger than life in the oil portrait above the fireplace. The man with his bushy brown mustaches seemed to sit in judgement, a dead man overlooking an empire long collapsed. He was dressed in the same somber black suit almost every man wore from that era, with a signet ring on his right hand.

Marc drew closer. Each step bringing the ring into greater detail. It was a simple gold circle with the image of a sphinx and the letter E caught with delicate detail by the brush of a master painter.

Even in the dining room with its tapestries, even in the summer, Marc shivered. It was unmistakably the same ring from his dream. Unable to look any longer, Marc fled back to his room.

He had tried to go to sleep early that night with little success. Whether it was the thought of dreaming again, or what those dreams meant, he just couldn't. Hours passed and he just lay staring at the ceiling. His phone buzzed. It was midnight when he rolled over, grateful for the distraction. It was a text from Jamie.

Can we talk?

He immediately regretted checking his phone. He had no idea what to do. He could respond. What could he say? 'Hey, Jamie. I'm glad you texted. I've been sort of going crazy without you. Well not sort of... I keep dreaming about getting fucked by a lumber-baron dead for more than 80 years...'

Are you OK?

Marc turned his phone to silent. Got out of bed and, still in his PJs, made his way downstairs.

The B&B kept a nice coffee, tea, and baked-goods station in Waverton's massive solarium. It was open 24-7, and at midnight, it was sure to be empty. Maybe there was some chamomile or something to slow his pulse.

Marc found Ryan camped beside the tea-station, frowning at spreadsheets at a laptop, a steaming mug beside him.