Lyric's Tale 02: A Maple Ferry Story

Hi everyone!

As with all my stories, all characters involved in sexual situations are 18 or older, all are creations of mine and any resemblance to any people living or dead is purely coincidental.

This one comes with a gentle trigger warning due to some inferred non-consent. If this isn't your jam, now you know, and you can move along.

Thanks for coming back to Maple Ferry and checking in on Lyric.

--

On arrival at home, Lyric first checked to make sure that his parents were in for the night.

The rhythmic snoring from their room told him that his dad was home and in bed, the absence of light from the lounge and the empty wine bottle on the kitchen counter suggested that his mother was also down for the count.

He slipped his boots off at the top of the basement stairs and carried them down to his room, walking on his toes to minimize the creakiness as he descended to his room.

Once Lyric had stepped into his small space, he relaxed, heels descending to the carpeted concrete floor, and left hand idly locking the door behind him.

Boots were dropped by the door and two quick flicks of switches later had white LED lights illuminating his room from the ceiling, and a circular daylight lamp projecting light on Lyric's drawing table.

It only took moments before Lyric's hand began working back and forth over the sketchpad with a fury, wielding charcoal like a short sword stabbing new life onto the blank page.

Surging, he strove to capture that last look on Evelyn's face, the sweat and the shaking, the damp hair hanging over shoulders and face like vines hiding those piercing blue eyes.

Frustration. Resentment. Resignation.

What was it that those too bright eyes were saying under the brow furrows and heavy breaths?

The charcoal swirled making a vortex around Evelyn, forcing white to the negative spaces between her hands and hair and face.

Ear pods in, Lyric listened to his music at deafening levels voiding anything that might distract him from releasing the image within him.

It was undeniable, and uncontrollable; Lyric's need to take to his pencils.

There were dozens of sketchbooks and finished pieces strewn across walls and stuffed into bookshelves in Lyric's small basement apartment. Remnants from previous nights out.

Captures from previous viewing sessions.

Viewing sessions.

That's what they were.

He wasnt a peeping Tom. In his mind, Lyric saw himself as a collector.

Lyric never masturbated while watching, and he never, ever, recorded a session; both activities feeling vulgar and reductive in comparison to the free expression that he reveled in while sketching the mental snapshots he took from the people he watched.

He took those moments. He stole them.

Lyric knew this.

His release, how he got off, was in the theft of a private moment and then his own translation of that most personal experience into his art.

So unlike the forced stillness and silence that Lyric endured while watching someone, Lyric's creation process was anything but serene.

Pencils broke and tore pages.

Charcoal dust coated his drawing table and fingers, and clothes, and carpet under the stool on which he sat.

Sketches ripped from books filled his waste bin and filing cabinet and hung from years' old blue tack nodules stuck to walls, shelves, and any surface close to hand.

While there were dozens of sketches, there were only a handful of subjects.

In one drawing a Rubenesque woman sat forward with long wavy hair completely obstructing her head and face, only her feet, shins, knees, flowing hair, shoulders and gracious curves sweeping down to buttocks

were visible as the sketch framed her from the front.

There was no doubt she was crying, though no eyes were visible.

Another sketch another subject, a limber and willowy woman, skinny but not malnourished, captured in a laugh of pure joy, gut binding, hands clenching, out-loud laughing, as captured in her eyes, her wide-open mouth, smile lines radiating to ears.

Lyric did not take his subjects for granted, he knew he was stealing from them; stealing them.

He knew that there would be repercussions if he was ever discovered.

So he put pencil to paper, and drew, until he dropped.

-

Sun crept into Lyric's apartment around the blackout curtains pulled haphazardly across the small windows, barely large enough for him to fit through in case of a fire.

The room smelled of sweat and wet cedar.

Without thinking, Lyric rubbed the sleep from his eyes only to note, too late, his heavily dusted fingers laden with charcoal and graphite.

He'd be looking like a raccoon now.

Barely functioning, he forced himself up and stripped off the jeans and work shirt from the night before moving into the tiny washroom which filled one corner of the one bedroom apartment plus bath that he had built into his parents' basement.

In the shower now, with blazing heat and skin removing water pressure, Lyric began to feel the pain and the fear he had buried the night

before rise to the surface.

The texts from Darcy.

His banishment from The Sugarshack.

The certainty that his loss of income meant a delayed enrollment in Community College and even longer sentence stuck in this town.

The panic started in his belly, feeling almost like a hiccup, his stomach seized into a painful knot and Lyric doubled over both hands grabbing at his guts, his moan turning into a sob as he began to release that

fear.

Shoulders shaking, tears fleeing, snot dripping from his nose, Lyric hunched over in the bottom of the shower stall, knees and shins on the tile, arms cradling his abdomen, head bowed forward under the stream

of steam and heat and stabbing water.

Lyric bawled. His sobbing lasted; seconds, minutes, a score more minutes, before he had no more tears, no more sobs.

His fingers left white imprints on his triceps from holding himself so close, so carefully. Lyric reached his left hand out to steady himself and stood, blood rushing through calves to feet that had been cut-off

for too long and sending pins and needles from toes to brain.

Lyric washed, he scrubbed, he wore out his washing cloth only to flay himself further with the loofa he kept for special occasions.

Stepping, eventually, scoured from the shower; free of the pain, but not the fear, free of the stain but not the doubt. Lyric moved back into his room to pull on clean black jeans and t-shirt.

-

Down the river and across town, The Sugarshack was well into its Sunday morning rush, baristas banging out cappuccino and hot chocolates to families out for the morning in town.

Chelsea looked around, confused, from behind the bar. She wasn't used to working the espresso machine during a rush. This was Lyric's territory.

"Where's Lyric today?" Chelsea asked Tariq, her co-barista.

"I dunno. He was on the schedule, but Darcy called me first thing this morning asking me to come in and cover Lyric's shift." Tariq answered back, as he paused between greeting customers in line.

"Yeah, we closed last night. He seemed totally fine!" Chelsea responded.

One nice thing about morning rushes was that they made the shift fly by. Chelsea and Lyric hadn't been scheduled to open, they were supposed to be working the 10-3 shift which bridged the busiest parts of a Sunday.

The two of them really were a dream team for a cafe. Lyric's barista expertise and Chelsea's bubbly out-going nature meant that customers got great service, and great drinks, and they left killer tips.

To say Chelsea was out-of-sorts with today's shift was an understatement. "Fucking Lyric. Calling in sick. He knows I hate working bar on a Sunday." Chelsea muttered under her breath.

But she only had time to mutter, the cafe was too busy for anything else, and before she knew it, Chelsea hit her scheduled break at

12pm.

After being replaced on bar by Rodrigo, God bless the afternoon shift, Chelsea headed back to the stockroom which doubled as the employee dressing and break room, pulling her sandwich and apple from the fridge she sat down to doom-scroll Insta on her phone and eat lunch.

As Chelsea quickly scanned her text messages she noted a thread between herself and Darcy with the last message being sent at 11:15 last night.

Chelsea couldn't remember chatting with Darcy yesterday.

Curiousity led to her clicking on the last message and opening the text thread.

The first thing she noted were the photos sent from her phone to Darcy.

Scrolling back up the dozens of messages Chelsea saw three images.

"Oh my fucking God!" She couldn't help but blurt out loud.

The first, sent at 11:10 was a picture taken looking down on Chelsea from above, clearly displayed in the photo was a wet and glistening, fully erect cock and Chelsea, with her head at the same level, looking angrily up at the camera.

The second photo was even more graphic. Taken from the same angle, this image showed Chelsea choking on that same cock.

The picture captured tears forming in Chelsea's eyes, pooling, a thick red flush

in her cheeks, and her tongue sticking out lewdly her throat distended.

The last photo showed Chelsea mid choke, or cough, with a cum-splattered face, eyes looking down at the ground. Her makeup

running in rivulets down her face, her hair sweaty and disheveled, one arm held up towards the camera in a half-hearted attempt to block the picture.

The text thread was direct.

Chelsea 11:09 - Darcy, can't work with him anymore. Lyric pushed too

far tonight.

Darcy 11:09 - Sorry. Chelsea? What's going on?

Chelsea 11:09 - Something happened with Lyric tonight, out of the blue. He got angry, he forced me to do something I didn't want.

Darcy 11:09 - Really concerned now, are you safe? Are you okay?

Chelsea 11:10 - Yes, I am safe. He is gone. Okay? I am sad and don't want to see him again.

Darcy 11:10 - What happened?

Chelsea 11:10 - Image 1

Chelsea 11:10 - Image 2

Chelsea 11:10 - Image 3

Darcy 11:11 - Oh my God! Please tell me that this was you guys playing after work.

Chelsea 11:11 - Walking home together, he forced me to suck him in the car park.

Darcy 11:11 - I am calling the police.

Chelsea 11:12 - Please don't! The whole town will know!

Darcy 11:12 - Chelsea, if he assaulted you, we have to report it.

Chelsea 11:13 - It didn't happen at work. You have no right to report it. Just make sure I don't have to work with him again.

Darcy 11:14 - Chelsea, this doesn't feel right. You really need help. You need to report this.

Chelsea 11:14 - It's not the first time I have sucked someone off I didn't want to... Just don't make me work with him again.

Darcy 11:14 - I promise that you'll never work a shift with him again. Can I find someone to take your shift tomorrow?

Chelsea 11:15 - No. I'll be okay. I need to know the Shack is a safe place. I'll be there.

Darcy 11:15 - Really? Are you sure...?

Chelsea 11:15 - 10am tomorrow. I'll be there.

Darcy 11:15 - Lyric won't be.

Chelsea 11:15 - Good.

That was the last text in the thread.

Chelsea was mortified. She knew exactly what had happened, and was becoming very, very angry.

-

Last night after close, Chelsea and Eric had planned to drive up the valley into farm country to sky-watch for meteors from the air

mattress and sleeping bag in the back of Eric's pickup.

Eric had shown up at the Shack to collect Chelsea and was left locked-out on the

street by Lyric while he finished cashing out the tills.

Eric had been pissed at not being allowed into the cafe.

"Fucking dweeb wouldn't let me in! It's fucking freezing tonight!" Eric rattled off as Chelsea had exited the Shack.

"Serves you right wearing a t-shirt and shorts. It's almost Fall, and you knew we were going to lay out under the stars tonight!" Chelsea

chirped back at him, more than a little irritated that Eric hadn't done anything to make himself look presentable for date-night.

Sure, Eric was already farm-boy pretty.

He was over six feet tall, with wide shoulders, broad chest and big arms, sturdy legs, and the strength and square jaw that came with working the family dairy farm every moment that he wasn't playing football or at school or, on rare instances, out with his girlfriend.

Handsome? Yes.

Fit? Yes.

Willing to put in effort to look good for his girl? Apparently not.

Eric wasn't a genius, but he wasn't an idiot either. Chelsea was happy to hold onto him for as long as she was living in Maple Ferry. But it was unlikely that they were going to stay together for much longer, as Chelsea was heading out of state for college in a few short weeks.

Chelsea wondered if his lack of effort, and quick temper tonight were the result of the impending end of summer, and her departure.

On hearing the disdain and disapproval in Chelsea's voice Eric abruptly stopped walking back to his truck, since he had been holding hands with Chelsea, she was jerked to a sudden halt too.

They stood for a moment, in-between street lamps, in the dark glaring at each other.

He, still pissed at Lyric, was now beginning to be pissed at her. She was already angry that Eric was wasting so much of his energy on being a dick about Lyric and for his lack of effort and forethought about what she might want or need from him tonight.

After holding their angry stares for seconds that felt like minutes they grabbed each other in a rough embrace and kissed each other hungrily.

There wasn't much romance in this kiss, just an energetic devouring.

Mouths moving and lips crushing, tongues wrapping one around the other in a dominance game, and the ever challenging avoidance of teeth.

They pulled apart with a gasp and ragged breathing, before Eric, taking advantage of Chelsea's shorter stature, gave her a swift push on the shoulders dropping her to her knees.

Chelsea looked around, quickly, before she looked up.

They were far enough off the sidewalk and down the side-street towards the car park that the likelihood of being seen was small.

She looked back up at Eric with a small smile forming before she noticed he had her phone out, she lost the smile immediately and glared at him.

"What the fuck Eric!?!"

"What the fuck what? You know you like it. This isn't the first time."

Eric fished his cock out of his shorts and started stroking himself to hardness with his right hand, while his left hand tapped Chelsea's security code.

"Yeah. But we planned those times." Chelsea stared back up at him, this time focusing on the phone's camera.

Truth be told, he was right, she liked her little 'saves' folder on her phone filled with pics and snaps and vids of her escapades.

He knew her phone's access code for precisely this reason, although tonight's

memories might be one of the last featuring Eric.

Chelsea couldn't tell if he was taking video, or shooting images, because she kept the sounds turned down on her phone.

She was sure he was doing one or the other, as he kept her phone pointed down at her while he finished getting his dick hard.

Leaning forward, eyes still on the phone, she kissed the tip of his erection and then gave a long slow lick of his glans from opening

down to frenulum.

Eric groaned, and kept taking pictures.

Moving her lips over his cockhead and onto his shaft, Chelsea began to coat his cock with her saliva, getting it good and ready for what she knew was coming.

Pulling off of him she leaned back to admire her work, smiling when she saw the first glistening signs of precum begin to collect at the tip of his dick.

Eric loved to throat fuck Chelsea.

Chelsea didn't mind because Eric's cock while reasonably thick, wasn't long and she was able to take him easily into the top of her throat with little to no irritation.

Which she began to do now, sliding her warm and wet mouth over his cock applying light suction to provide a soft touch as she moved to take him all in.

Sure, she'd gasp, and cough, and sputter, but that was more for him than it was because of him.

Knowing better, Chelsea kept both hands down at her side, waiting for Eric to take the cue.

Sure enough, as her nose began to nestle into his pubes, Eric reached down with his right hand to grab a fist full of Chelsea's hair and held her against his groin, cock now well and truly lodged in her throat opening. He kept her there for seconds, until she reached up and tapped his thighs with both hands pushing back slightly.

He relinquished his hold on her head, and Chelsea popped off, looking up as she took a deep breath.

"Fuuuuuck, that's so good babe." Eric sighed as he watched a long spit-bridge stretch from his cock head to her mouth before breaking

and slapping back against Chelsea's throat.

Chelsea just grunted, and then leaning forward she grabbed Eric's ass-cheeks by the shorts and throated him again.

This time, she used her grip on his ass to piston Eric's cock in and out of her throat, again and again, cheeks hollowing as she sucked on the out stroke with tongue tickling the underside of his shaft as she pushed forward to root him again.

Slurping and choking sounds were replaced by the glurk glurk glurk of Eric's cock moving in and out of Chelsea's throat.

Her makeup now clumping from tears and sweat, his hand holding onto her hair by the fist as he tried to slow her down.

It was inevitable, Eric began moaning, asking and pleading for Chelsea to slow down, but she was having none of it as she greedily sped him to conclusion; popping off his prick at the last minute to stare up at Eric and jack

his cock with her right hand while she held him in place with her left.

Shuddering, Eric let loose with a, "FUCK!" as streams of cum squirted from his glistening wet dick to land on Chelsea's forehead, nose and cheek before mixing with the tears and sweat.

Chelsea released her grip on his ass and put both hands on her knees, still looking up at the phone, one eye nearly cemented shut with cum, she looked wistful and sad.

She liked Eric, and she enjoyed sex with him. They had done well by each other, but each knew that this relationship was ending.

The trip to watch the meteors and, if they were being honest, fuck under the stars in his pickup was likely to be one of their last romps.

Reaching into her bag, Chelsea pulled out a packet of tissues and began to clean her face. "Wet wipes would be better," she said out loud.

"I have some in the truck," Eric replied distractedly.

Looking up Chelsea saw that he was typing something into her phone.

"Hey, whatcha doing?" She asked.

"Oh, just captioning a couple of these pics. They're awesome! Can I send a couple to myself?" Eric replied.

"They're just for you?"

"Yep, of course, babe."

"Then, go ahead."

Eric finished what he was doing and handed Chelsea her phone when she stood up, her hair now back in a pony tail and face refreshingly free of dripping cum.

-

"Oh God!" Chelsea exclaimed again, before beginning to fire off text after text in rapid succession, restarting the thread with Darcy.

-

Even without a $14,000.00 espresso machine Lyric was still accomplished at making coffee; even in his parents' kitchen.

Having removed his favourite Ethiopian Guji beans from the freezer, then weighing them on the kitchen scale and letting them rest while he prepared a goose-neck kettle of water and set it to heating, Lyric pulled his hand-mill from the cupboard.

Rituals were important to Lyric, and led to some of his greatest feelings of accomplishment.

Coffee beans now in the mill, he held the grinder exactly perpendicular to the counter and spun the handle on the grinder for the requisite number of rotations at what he deemed to be the appropriate speed.

Then, setting the grinder aside, he pre-wet and rinsed the paper filter he was going to use to make his coffee, sliding it into the