tagGay MaleIf You Choose Not to Decide Ch. 02

If You Choose Not to Decide Ch. 02

bySlickTony©

There really was a Lac du Miel in Lac du Miel. Once it had been wild and scenic and outside the city limits, but over the last couple of decades, what with the whole state sinking and the town expanding, town and lake had met and your view and access to it were obscured by a development called Honey Lake Estates. Houses started in the $120s and went up to McMansions.

This was not where Terry was heading. He skirted the subdivision and took the road that led southward out of the town limits and ran parallel to the bayou. At this point it stopped being a blacktop road and was paved with pebble and shell. On the right side of the road were the houses, casual-looking buildings made of cinder block below and wood above. Apparently, people lived above and stored things below. The houses were close enough to the water so that you could sit on your deck and cast into the bayou. Bayou Row looked like an idyllic place for a water rat to live, but the unstated cost of living out here was expressed in the form of water marks—some marked, with dates, in paint—on the sides of some of the buildings.

Terry was itching and sweating with nervous excitement and was a little sorry he hadn't stopped at home to take another shower, but he'd wanted to get away as soon as possible. He told Victoria that Brent had invited him to supper and if they got into drinking during the evening he wouldn't try to drive home. Victoria looked at him obliquely and told him to have fun, and try to see his dad sometime during the next day, if he could. Terry said he would.

On the way out of town he stopped at the liquor store and bought a mid-price bottle of Petite Syrah, which just about cleaned them out of that commodity. In his kit he had a tube of lube. He was very glad he'd bought it in New Orleans along with the probe; in Lac du Miel, if he was seen buying lube they'd figure out what he was up to at once and might work out the who-with part before the day was over.

He'd dropped out of Boy Scouts before he got beyond Cub, but had never forgotten the Scout motto.

The sun was backlighting a big bank of cumulonimbus clouds with a glowing, translucent edge, shooting rays out from behind them that were so intense that the sky between them looked like dark rays. Terry hoped that he was getting the right signals from Brent; that he'd be there the night and that Brent wasn't the kind who expected his friends to go home afterwards. He did not look forward to making his way out of Brent's neighborhood in the dark, if it was going to storm.

Brent's house was the last one on the road. Terry could tell it was his because one of his trucks was parked in front of it. To his surprise, the grounds were attractively landscaped—the old saw about the shoemaker's children going barefoot did not apply here. Brent seemed to be into containers when it came to his house. Maybe they were easier to maintain when it was flooding all the time. The upper part of the house was made of cypress, already weathered silvery though the houses didn't look old. Terry didn't remember this area being built on before he left Lac du Miel.

He parked behind Brent's truck and got out. There was a staircase leading to the door. Terry walked up it and knocked.

"Hey, Terry! You made it." Brent was dressed much like he had been the previous afternoon, except he was wearing a snug gray t-shirt with his cutoffs and he was barefoot. Westering light filtered through the windows of his house and attractive odors filled the air. "What you got there?" Terry was holding, rather awkwardly, both his kit and the bottle of wine in his left hand, needing one hand to knock on the door. Brent smiled as he relieved Terry of the Petite Syrah. Terry shook the other man's proffered hand. If Brent had been a girl, he'd have felt it natural to greet him with an embrace and a kiss, in light of what they'd done the previous day, but here he didn't know what the rules were. "Thanks for the wine. You want to drink it with dinner?"

"Sure. We can do that."

Brent put the bottle of wine on the dining table, and the two men stood there looking at each other for what seemed to Terry like forever. Brent stepped up close to him. "Terry, Terry," he said, "It's me, remember? The one you were doing soixante-neuf with yesterday afternoon? I won't bite..." He waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. "...unless I am carried away by passion—or you want me to."

Once again they were in a full-press embrace, kissing voraciously. Terry grabbed Brent's ass and pulled him close. Their cocks sawed and rubbed against each other through their clothes. Terry's had hardened immediately, and he was so aroused it hurt.

"Do we have to bother with dinner?"

Brent disengaged himself. "We sure as hell do, young'un. You think I bought these shrimp to burn? I need my strength even if you don't." He turned away and stepped back to the stove, where he had been sautéing the shrimp in some butter and garlic. He had just put them in the pan when Terry arrived.

Terry laughed and came up behind Brent as he stood in front of the stove. As if given the go-ahead by the kiss, he started doing his best to distract him, nuzzling the back of his neck, pulling at the neck of his shirt so he could nip and suck on the skin over his beautiful hard deltoid muscles, bringing his hands around to flick Brent's nipples into little hard points through the cloth, then down to caress the slight convexity of his belly, rubbing the bulge in his pants against Brent's denim-covered ass.

Brent turned off the burner under the shrimp. When he bent to get a pot out of a lower cabinet, Terry slid his fingers up the leg of his cutoffs and tickled everything he could find; Brent was commando under them. "For God's sake, Terry, stop a minute so I can fill this up," Brent said, laughing. He filled the pot up with water and put it on the stove to heat. "What am I gon' do with you anyway? I can see I won't get anything done with you acting like this..." Using Terry's erection to steer him by, he backed Terry a couple of steps to the dinette table. "Lean on that," he said, and brought a chair around to sit on himself. He quickly undid Terry's belt and unzipped his trousers. "Boxers and briefs?" he queried, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were that conservative."

The old Terry, who had burned with embarrassment and nerves while the eyes of a Texas artist raked over all his particulars, woke to life briefly. He felt a blush pass over his face like fire. "You know I had to be at work," he said. "I couldn't stop thinking about...yesterday afternoon. When Mom was there, it didn't...it wasn't a problem, but when she wasn't...I couldn't go to the bathroom to jack off, but sometimes I had to come out from behind the counter!"

"Mon pauvre p'tit, Brent murmured. "Let me fix that for you. Up—" He hauled down Terry's trousers and underwear and Terry's cock sprang up, hard, its head shining with precum. Terry closed his eyes and gripped the edges of the table as he felt Brent's mouth cover him. When he opened his eyes, Brent, grinning, was holding his cock and flicking his tongue around its head. He closed his mouth firmly around it and stroked down—once, twice, a half dozen times, and then Terry lost it. He heard his breath rasping in and out of his lungs with each spasm that sent his seed boiling and spurting out of him.

"Sweet. That was a fine protein snack," Brent said, swallowing and licking his lips. "I could go on the Atkins diet." As he stood up, Terry noticed that the end of his stiff cock extended below his cutoffs, secreting a short dribble of precum, but he seemed unself-conscious about it. "I'll bet you're feeling a lot better now. Why don't you help me get dinner set up so we can eat and have fun afterward? Or you can go look at the radio and pick us out some music."

Half the wall on one side of Brent's open-plan house was taken up with an étagère containing an entertainment system that looked as if it cost as much as the house. Terry, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping them up, wandered over to it. Once he had switched on the power button, he began twirling the dial without bothering to listen to what was initially coming out of the radio. "None of that Top 40 crap," Brent added. Terry found a station that played the kind of classic rock that he and Sidonie had sometimes listened to in the warehouse, and Brent seemed happy with it. At least he said nothing about it. He appeared to be preparing salads. Terry drifted around the room. On a low square table next to the futon was a photograph of a child: a girl with curly dark hair and green eyes. She did not appear to be old enough to be in kindergarten, but she already projected an air of catlike, potentially fatal loveliness.

"Who's the kid?"

"My daughter," Brent answered from the kitchen area.

"You've got a daughter? Get out! I didn't know you had any kids!"

"How would you know, when you've been away for so long? Yeah, I have a daughter. Her mama lives in town, and if you stay around for long enough, you're bound to meet her sometime."

Terry didn't doubt that. Nobody didn't buy hardware. He wandered around the front part of the house, somehow shy about looking into the bedroom, although he fully anticipated being there later, and had to pass through it to get to the bathroom. A couple of built-in bookcases flanked the windows. The books were a wild and uncommunicative mix, Analog next to botany and practical horticulture texts from college next to Jorge Luis Borges next to Flesh and the Word next to, of all things, Nora Roberts writing as J.D. Robb. He wondered if the child's mother came here.

"Dinner is served," Brent announced. "Come and get it or I'll throw it to the gators."

At that point, a gust of rain-smelling air rattled the window shades and a clap of thunder shook the house. Brent lit the two candles in the center of the table. "I'm not trying to be romantic and shit," he explained, "but the power will probably crap out before the evening is over."

They sat down to the small table and ate the salad and shrimp fettuccine Brent had prepared, and had a glass each of the wine. They talked about the sort of thing new friends talked about, although Terry felt that he was telling Brent a lot more about his life than Brent was sharing about his. Terry supposed this was due to the difference in their ages. He felt excited and nervous, looking across the table at Brent, watching him eat. It began to storm. Brent got up and closed all the windows on the west side of the house to a crack, and in the middle of dinner, the electric went out, just as he had predicted. "They probably have a special folder for me at LP&L," he said. "I'm all the time complaining about it. This never happens to me in town."

Terry couldn't stop looking at Brent, thinking that he'd never thought of a man as beautiful before; thinking at the same time that most people looked good by candlelight and wondering if the other man saw him the same way. He watched the end of a piece of pasta flick between Brent's lips and disappear, and wished he was sitting next to him so he could lean over and lick or bite them. The meal tasted as good as it had smelled in the preparation; Terry found he was hungrier than he'd thought he was. The single glass of wine was relaxing whatever residual inhibitions he might have had. He surreptitiously kicked off his shoes and socks and caressed Brent's feet and legs with his toes. As his toes were so long as to be almost prehensile, this was something he considered himself to be good at. Brent looked at him in astonishment, and began to laugh immoderately.

"Jesus, Brent, are you that ticklish?"

"Almost," Brent managed, "but that's not the only reason I'm laughing. It reminds me of a story involving my cousin. I'll tell you about it one day."

"Do you want me to quit?"

"No." Brent relaxed in his chair. However, once Terry got past his knee, he bumped his own knee smartly against the bottom of the table, due to the length of his legs.

"I knew there was some reason this wasn't going to work," he said.

"That's all right. C'mon, let's clear the table." They got up. They cleared the few dishes away and put them in the sink to soak.

"Is there anything for dessert?"

Brent picked the bottle and the two glasses up from the table. "I think you know the answer to that, cher, he said.



The power was still out, so they carried the lights from the table with them. Brent padded sure-footedly across his own living room, carrying a candle in one hand and the bottle and glasses in the other, and Terry followed, hoping he would not bump into anything.

The bed was of the size misleadingly called a "full" bed; a single man's bed if ever there was one, Terry had one like it at home. No bigger bed would have fit in the small bedroom. It was flanked by a pair of distressed bedside cabinets. Each little table held a perilous-looking arrangement of candles and reading material. Brent lit all the candles and the room became filled with soft attractive light.

Terry began to laugh. "What's so funny?" Brent asked, putting the wine and glasses down.

"This setup," Terry said as he plopped down on the bed. "Wine. Candlelight. Rain. I don't think I had this much picture-book romance shit when I was with a girl. Where are the roses?"

"Damn! I knew I forgot something. And I can get them at wholesale, too." He sat down beside Terry on the bed and wrapping an arm around his neck, bore him back until they were both lying down, still laughing. Brent rolled on top of him, holding him down and kissing him. He tasted of wine. Terry gripped and kneaded the other man's back and tasted his lips and tongue as if they were life itself. They mashed until they were squirming and humping, in danger of going off in their clothes. Brent rose off him to avoid this happening. "You're wearing too much, boo," he commented. Terry, still lying on his back, pulled his shirt off and let it drop off the edge of the bed. Brent was straddling him, close enough so Terry could reach up and undo his cutoffs without bothering to sit up. Then he rose up enough to winkle Brent's swollen cock out and wrap his mouth around the end of it. He felt it twitch and leap. "Hold on a minute," Brent said, and hastily took off the rest of his clothes. "You're still wearing too much," he said, and pulled Terry's trousers and underwear off, licking his way down the sparse trail of hair that started just below Terry's navel as he did so. Terry shivered with delight at the hot tongue sliding on his skin.

Terry sat up. "Did you mean what you said yesterday, that you'd like me to fuck you...?"

"What can I say? I do. I've wanted that long dick of yours inside me ever since I first laid eyes on it...since I first laid my hand on it, for that matter."

"I haven't done this much before...the backdoor thing, I mean."

"Not even with a woman?"

"A few times, but not many of them have wanted me to. Truth is, I thought it was a lot of trouble to go to, with a perfectly good opening right there."

"It's not that much trouble. Look in that drawer there—I got some stuff we can use."

"I brought some—"

"That's all right." Brent reached back into the bedside cabinet nearest him and brought out his lube. He handed it to Terry and lay back with one leg up so that he was accessible. It was too dark in the room to see his hole, but Terry felt through the thick growth of hair in his crack until he found it. Terry lubed up his fingers and inserted one. Brent gripped it tightly. "Oh. Oh God that feels...I like those nice long fingers, too. Now gimme two. Oh. That's so good I can hardly stand it...no! Don't quit." Brent had his head pressed back into the pillow and he was clutching handfuls of the sheets. His cock was as big and hard as Terry had ever seen it, jumping with every movement of Terry's fingers. "Gimme three, I think that's gonna do it...oh, yeah, stroke it, that's...no, don't touch that spot. Just stop for a minute and don't do anything." Terry stopped. "Ok, take 'em out." Terry did so, glancing surreptitiously at his fingers. Brent saw this and grinned. "Don't worry; I cleaned house before you got here." He reached down and spread himself with his hands. "C'mon, cher," he said. "Put it right there."

Terry leaned forward, over Brent, and aimed his cock at Brent's opening, there in the semi-dark. Yeah, I'm really doing this, he thought.

One inch. He felt the other man push to open for him. Two. Another thrust. Another.

He was in.

It was the tightest place he had ever been in, and it felt so good it frightened him. Brent's strong legs wrapped around his body. He groped around in the bed with one hand.

"What're you looking for?" Terry asked.

"The stuff."

"Here it is," Terry said, handing it to him. Brent flicked up the cap and poured a large dollop of it into his hand, which he wrapped around his cock. Terry backed out a few inches and thrust. Brent gasped and grimaced. "Are you OK?"

"Never better," Brent said. His other hand came up to grasp Terry's arm. "Ok, man. Do it. Show me what you've got." Terry began to move within the hot tight ring of Brent's grip and they got into a nice rhythm. Brent's eyes, dark in the soft minimal light of the candles, now looked up into his, and occasionally, down at the action of his hand on his cock. "Ah, that's good. A little harder, a little deeper..." Terry felt him tense, tighten his legs around his body, heard the quickening of his breath. "Oh, man, I'm getting there, I'm getting there—oh, oh—" His teeth gleamed in the candlelight. Terry felt a strong constriction around his cock. Looking down, he saw the first pearl-and-moonstone scatter of cum fanning out onto Brent's stomach and chest. That and the look on the other man's face and the rhythmic pressure from Brent's contracting ass ring sent him over the edge. He thrust down strongly, letting the feeling take over, following it, following it in a frenzy of motion, and then it exploded inside of him and he slammed into Brent with a shout. He sagged down onto Brent's body and they rolled to one side and came apart. He smelled candle wax, fresh sweat and semen. Shadows and light wavered on the ceiling.

Brent, lying beside him, raised himself on one elbow and looked down at him. "That was as good as I thought it would be," he said, lightly running a finger down the center of Terry's chest.

"Thanks," Terry said. They lay there for a few more minutes, not saying anything. The rain was still falling fast and thick outside. Presently Terry got up, went to the bathroom and washed his dick. The few girls he had back-doored had placed such emphasis on the importance of doing this, it did not occur to him not to. He looked up to see Brent leaning in the doorway, smiling at him.

"I can see you've been trained," he said. Terry shrugged and moved to the john. After they'd both used it, they went back into Brent's room and lay down on the bed. "C'mere," Brent said. "I feel like cuddling." Terry lay down next to him with his head resting on Brent's solid, muscular arm. It was cozy in the small room. Brent's body was warm against his right side. "You doing OK, boo?"

"Mm," Terry murmured, rubbing his nose against Brent's cheek. It was softly scratchy. The two of them talked, desultorily. Brent was mildly curious about Houston, having been in no big city other than New Orleans, and Terry told him what he could. It came out that Brent's cousin Russ whose coming had led to the Primeaux family breaking apart lived in Galveston; or Brent thought he did; he knew better than to expect that Terry would ever have met up with him. Terry was curious about the events of that summer, but wasn't going to ask if Brent didn't feel like bringing it up.

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