Remembering Miles

As we emerged from the woods, we saw his mother, Frieda, standing on the porch, looking very concerned. And the curtains in the parlor window were shaking enough for me to know that there were several sets of eyes lurking just beyond them. I almost laughed out loud.

Sensing the attention as well, Miles leaned away from me. But I locked my arm in his and pulled him closer as we walked back to civilization.

* * * *

Miles lay there on his back on the bed in his motel room, moaning and looking up into my face with an expression of wonder, arousal, and, slightly of concern, as if he just couldn't believe that I was crouched over him, my fists buried in the mattress at either side of his shoulders, gazing intently down into his eyes, and slowly riding his cock.

He was longer and thicker than I had imagined he'd be—certainly bigger than Sam Strickler had been—and I felt totally liberated in being able to do what I knew I'd wanted to do with Miles for decades.

There had been no problem being absent from the B&B this evening; Barbara was spending the night with the kids in the tent. And if she'd asked, I already had an excuse ready of not being in the mood to be with the family for supper and having gone to a local diner. It had been harder to wheedle the list of accommodations out of Susan without revealing I wanted to know the motel and room number where I could find Miles—but I managed.

After a quick meal at the diner, I was at Miles's motel room door. He dropped his jaw when he answered the door. He already was in his sleeping bottoms, and his body was still in good condition despite how gaunt his wasting disease had made him. He stood there, momentarily, not knowing what to do or say.

"Hadn't we better go in?" I said. "I think some other members of the family are staying here too."

That set him in motion. He drew me into the room and then, in shock, I think, let me lead him to the bed and push him down on his back. He moaned and started to cry softly as I knelt over him on the bed and took his cock in my mouth.

I stayed the night and we fucked over and over again, with him eventually taking charge and huddling over me, embracing me into his body, and plowing me hard and deep.

* * * *

Eight months after the reunion, the news shot around the family that Miles had died of a heart attack. I mourned him, but having had that one night with him had released guilt and tensions within me. He had wanted to apologize, thinking he had seduced me, but I assured him that we had just taken care of what was unfinished business for both of us. We resumed our letter exchanges—by e-mail now—for the remainder of the time we had, although we never reached for the level of passion in them that we had attained in fact. They were very cousinly exchanges. But I can only hope that they meant as much to him as they did to me.

My biggest regret was that I had no one to send condolences to when he died, because Aunt Frieda had died the month before Miles did. I'm sure, though, that she died happy that she went before Miles did. I had talked to her the last day of the reunion, and I was heartened to know that, in her last months, she loved her son as much as she ever had. I think Miles was comforted when I assured him in my next e-mail to him that she did so. I'm not sure she ever felt comfortable enough to tell him that directly herself, though.