Edited by Mychael Black Table of Contents The Holly and the Oak by GS Wiley - 2 Roy LeRoy and the Longest Day by Kit Zheng - 11 Rude Mechanicals by Syd McGinley - 18
Author Bios - 34
The Holly and the Oak by GS Wiley War was hell on flowers. Alan discovered that the first wartime spring, and it had only been getting worse since. Dutch tulips were the first to disappear, along with Swiss edelweiss. English flowers lasted a little longer, but eventually, even they were in short supply. There were more important things to spend money and land on growing. Alan understood this, but he didn‟t have to like it. By mid-June of 1943, the time of year when, before the war, Alan would have been busy with wedding arrangements, his shop was depressingly bare. Not that it really mattered. The customers had disappeared at the same time as his flowers. Most of the young, unmarried men of the area, who had kept the florists afloat for many years, were gone. The women they‟d left behind had more important things to worry about than flowers and apart from old Mrs. Crawley, the church organist who thought that wartime was no reason not to have fresh posies on the pews, few of them came in anymore. He was rather surprised when he heard the bell ring as he stood in the back, watering his pathetic pots of geraniums. Taking his cane -- the reason he hadn‟t shipped out with the other village men -- Alan limped out to the front to see who was there. Captain Gary Krazowski was at the counter, dinging the bell in an evident panic. That was the one advantage that had come to Alan‟s flower shop since the war began. The aerodrome on Salisbury Plain, mere minutes from the village, was home base to dozens of air force men with nothing to do in their free time except impress the local girls. When they ran out of American nylons and Hershey‟s chocolate, they resorted to flowers. “Hey, Al.” Gary smiled as Alan appeared. “Boy, am I glad you‟re in.” “What is it this time?” Alan smiled fondly. Gary was American, and, as with a lot of the Americans Alan had met, everything about him was big. Big hands, broad shoulders, loud voice. He was not an unattractive man, Alan had to admit, but he had a distinct air of “bull in the china shop” whenever he came into the shop. “I met this real pretty WAAF officer. Evelyn. Told her I‟d go to the dance with her tomorrow night.”
“But…” Alan took a vase from the shelf behind the counter and began to fill it. “But I forgot I already told Janie from the village that I‟d go with her.” “I see.” Alan smiled. “Well, if you want my advice, I‟d stick with Janie.” “Oh, I am,” Gary agreed. “But I need something to keep Evelyn sweet. Just in case things don‟t work out with Janie.” The bouquet was a mere shadow of what he could have done before the war, but Alan was satisfied with it. Gary was, too. He paid gratefully, giving Alan more than was necessary and refusing the change. “I owe you big time,” he said. “If there‟s anything I can do to pay you back…” He hesitated. Alan was about to demur, when Gary went on. “Hey, maybe there is. You like the planes, don‟t you? I see you out there sometimes, watching.” Alan did go out to the Plain on occasion. His doctors had told him exercise was good for him, that if he stopped, his leg might get worse, and the walk to the Plain was manageable. Sometimes, Alan sat outside the fence and watched the airmen and their aeroplanes, wondering if that was where he‟d be now, if not for his leg. Wondering if that‟s where Jim would be now, if he were still alive. “Come by sometime. Tomorrow, maybe,” Gary went on. “I‟ll bring you in, let you see „em up close.” “Is that allowed?” Gary shrugged. “No one will stop me.” He gave Alan another hearty, “Thanks, Al!” and left the shop. Alan tidied up the trimmings, swept them into the bin beside the counter, and went back to his geraniums. *** Alan lived in the house he‟d grown up in. He even slept in the same room he‟d been born in, the bedroom overlooking the back of the house where, in the distance, you could just make out the stones of the Henge. His father had been killed in the Great War, the “war to end all wars,” only it hadn‟t. Alan‟s mother had raised him and his brother Richard in this house, and when she died in 1938, Alan took over the flower shop she‟d started as a widow with two young sons and no money. Richard was gone now, too, off at war like the rest of the men. Alan got occasional letters from him, so heavily marked up with the censor‟s black pen that it hardly seemed worthwhile reading them.
Alan had a quiet life in the village. He enjoyed his work, even though the flowers were in short supply. He had friends, the boys and girls he had gone to school with, who were now married with children of their own. And his injury, the damaged leg that had kept him out of the war, also spared him the village speculation that would usually attach itself to a thirty-year-old bachelor who didn‟t seem to have any interest in women. As if, Alan thought, a bad leg had anything to do with sex. He had his dogs, as well: William and Mary, two aged Springer spaniels who had belonged to his mother. They were just his speed and they loped along beside him as he went on his usual walk after supper, down through the village and then back up across the field toward the Henge. It was the nineteenth of June, and still bright sunshine at half past six in the evening. It reminded Alan of summers past, of watching the sun rise through the stones on the summer solstice, first with his mother and brother, and later, with Jim. He was nearly at the Henge when he saw a group of men coming in the opposite direction, headed for the village. They were in uniform, talking loudly and smoking. William, the more social of the dogs, strained at his lead and, as the men drew closer, Alan recognized Gary Krazowski. “Hey there, Al!” There was a grin on his face, as usual, and he bent to pat William‟s head. William wagged his tail gratefully and Mary, always worried she might miss something, came out from behind Alan‟s legs. “Those flowers worked a treat with Evelyn. I sure owe you one. Come up to the aerodrome tomorrow, like I said, okay? I can‟t wait to show you the planes.” He was gone before Alan could say anything, jogging to catch up with his friends. William huffed a little and bent his head to sniff at the ground, then pulled at his lead, and Alan walked on. *** The aerodrome was larger inside than Alan would have expected. There were easily half a dozen planes in it, the Spitfires and Mosquitoes that Alan had watched flying overhead for months now. More of them left than came back. “This one‟s my baby,” Gary said, waiting for Alan to hobble over to a gleaming silver plane. “Beauty, ain‟t she?” He smiled at it with all the pride of a father looking at his child, and wiped an invisible mark off the fuselage. “Very nice.” He meant it. “She‟s gorgeous.” “Most civilians don‟t appreciate her,” Gary said. “You an air force guy after all?”
Alan shook his head. “No.” He wasn‟t sure why, but he felt he had to add something more, so he said, “I used to be a motorcar „guy.‟” There were similarities. “Oh, yeah?” Gary‟s omnipresent grin grew larger. “What kind?” “I had a 1927 Sunbeam touring car.” But he‟d loved all kinds of cars. He‟d have bought dozens if he‟d had the money, which, of course, he hadn‟t. He had barely been able to afford the old Sunbeam. He‟d scrimped, saved, and borrowed for it, and every day, he wished he hadn‟t. “Still got it?” Alan shook his head again, and glanced down at his leg. He hadn‟t thought of Gary as the subtlest of men, but he seemed to understand that. He put a sympathetic hand on Alan‟s shoulder and, as Alan was about to tell him it was all right, another American in uniform came across to them. “Who in the name of Sam Hill is this?” “Local liaison, sir,” Gary replied, his back straight and his face straighter. “Thought it‟d be a good idea to get in good with the villagers.” The other man stared at Gary like he was mad, then at Alan like he might be a German spy. “Get him out of here,” he finally said. “And get back to work, Krazowski.” Gary saw him out, all the way to the fence that marked the perimeter of the base. “You coming to the dance tonight?” he asked, when Alan turned to say good-bye. Alan looked at him, but since Gary appeared to be serious, he answered, “I‟m not much of a dancer, I‟m afraid.” “Well, maybe we could meet for a drink first or something. Can I come by your house?” It seemed like an odd request. “What about Janie? Don‟t you need to pick her up?” “I‟m meeting her at the hall.” Alan shrugged. Gary was a good customer and he had shown Alan the aerodrome. “Do you know where I live?” “That little cottage with the tea roses at the front.” Alan blinked. “You know about flowers?” Gary shrugged. “You must be rubbing off on me, Al.” Then he was gone, heading back to the aerodrome, and Alan walked back to the village.
The sky clouded over as the day wore on, and by evening, it was raining, big drops bouncing off the pavement and the windowpanes. Alan was putting the blackout cloths in the sitting room windows when there was a knock at the door. Gary was dressed to the nines, in full uniform including his coat and hat. He looked good, even better than he usually did, and Alan felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Water was dripping off him and, as Alan stood staring, Gary grinned and said, “Could I come in? It‟s a little damp out here.” Alan stood aside and Gary came into the house, shaking the water off in the entryway. The dogs, even Mary, trotted up to greet him, sniffing at his pant legs as he hung his hat on the rack, beside Alan‟s battered hats and the dogs‟ leads. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Alan asked, belatedly realizing he was meant to be the host. “Got anything stronger?” Gary conscientiously wiped his feet on the mat and went through into the drawing room. “I don‟t really drink,” Alan said. Another souvenir of the accident. “My brother might have left some scotch…” ”Tea‟s fine,” Gary replied. Alan went into the kitchen and started the stove. When he went back to the drawing room, Gary was standing, looking at the photographs on the mantelpiece in the dim light. Alan finished attaching the last black cloth and switched on the nearest lamp. “Your family?” Gary asked. “My parents and my brother.” Alan‟s mother was standing in front of the flower shop in one of the last pictures they had of her. On either side of her, in their matching frames, Alan‟s father and brother looked out in their uniforms. They could have passed for twins, born twenty years apart. “You‟ve got a military family.” Gary sat on the flowered sofa. William jumped up beside him and Gary scratched his ears. “My father died in the last War. I don‟t know where Richard is.” Somewhere in Europe, he thought, but that could have changed by now. “My brother Frank‟s in the Pacific,” Gary replied. “Lucky bastard. Bet he‟s not putting up with rain like this out there.” There was a pause. “You ever regret not joining in?” Alan stiffened. “I don‟t exactly have a lot of choice.”
Gary frowned. “I didn‟t mean that. I just thought…” “I‟d better see to the tea.” Alan knew it would be a while before the kettle boiled, but he went into the kitchen anyway. Mary trailed in behind him, going to her water dish and drinking thirstily. Alan looked out of the window, watching the rain drench the flowers in the back garden, until he heard the door creak open behind him. He turned around. “There‟s nothing wrong with staying home, Al,” Gary said. The kettle whistled, and Alan reached for the old brown teapot. Gary was still standing there as he took the Tetley‟s tin down from the shelf. “What happened to your leg?” “I told you,” Alan said, measuring out the tea leaves. The sooner Gary had his tea, he thought, the sooner he would leave for the dance and this would be over. “I was in a car accident.” He had, in fact, caused a car accident, but he had no intention of going into details with Gary. “A long time ago?” “Long enough. Milk or sugar?” Gary shook his head. Alan filled one of the teacups and passed it to Gary. It was large, heavy local pottery Alan‟s mother had bought in a jumble sale years ago, but it still looked fragile in Gary‟s hands. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Gary reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a brown rectangle. “I brought you a gift.” He handed the Hershey‟s bar to Alan, who wasn‟t quite sure what to do with it. He hadn‟t seen chocolate for a long time, but he knew what it meant to American servicemen like Gary. In this context, it made no sense. He finally decided that, “Thank you,” was an appropriate response, although it sounded uncertain even to him. Gary smiled anyway, that brilliant grin again, and said, “I like you, Al.” He looked at Alan for a long moment. Alan drank his tea too quickly, and winced as it burned down his throat. Gary set his teacup on the countertop, next to the threadbare “Scenes of East Anglia” teatowel, and took a step toward Alan. The hand that landed on Alan‟s shoulder was surprisingly light and gentle, but the look in Gary‟s eyes was suddenly so much like Jim that, in an instant, Alan remembered it all: the road, the brakes, the scream, the crash. The silence.
“Janie will be angry if you‟re late.” Gary chuckled, but his eyes stayed on Alan. “I‟ll make it up to her with some flowers.” “You should go.” He hoped his voice sounded firm. It was firm enough, evidently, for Gary to pause, then to take his hand from Alan‟s shoulder. “Are you sure?” Alan nodded. He thought he saw a look of disappointment on Gary‟s face, but it didn‟t last long. A moment later, the grin was back. “Thanks for the tea, Al.” Still the good host, Alan saw him out, waiting while Gary put on his hat and coat and gave William and Mary a goodbye pat. Then he winked at Alan, as if this was just another scrape he‟d helped avoid, and left. *** Alan didn‟t realize he‟d been asleep until he awoke with a start that knocked Mary off his lap. The wireless had gone off the air and was hissing static at him. He blinked, disoriented, and wondered why he had jolted awake so suddenly. Then he heard the knocking on the door. Alan stood up, stepping over the evidently annoyed Mary and switching off the wireless as he passed it. He couldn‟t hear rain and when he opened the front door, he noticed it had stopped. Gary even looked dry as he stood on the doorstep. “Alan, look…” Alan sighed and rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Where‟s Janie?” “I took her home. It‟s after midnight.” He looked at Alan. “I‟m flying out tomorrow, Al. Over to France. You never have to see me again.” “It‟s not a good idea,” Alan protested, but Gary was American. Alan knew they never listened. Gary took him in his strong, American arms and kissed him. Alan let him, let him push into the house and slam the door behind him without taking his mouth off Alan‟s, but he drew the line at allowing Gary to carry him up the stairs. It had been a long time since Alan had gone to bed with anyone, but Gary was enthusiastic and seemingly unconcerned with the little awkward moments when teeth collided or when an elbow jabbed into a ribcage. Alan‟s leg didn‟t even bother him. Gary
ran a gentle hand down it once, but he soon became preoccupied with other parts of Alan‟s body. It was good. Alan didn‟t want to compare Gary to Jim, so he didn‟t, but Gary was large, in all ways, and he knew what he was doing. He was chivalrous, as well. When he‟d finished, he slid down the bed and took Alan into his mouth, sucking him happily until Alan grew short of breath and exploded, onto the sheets, the bedframe, and Gary himself. Afterwards, they lay together. Gary had a tattoo, an American flag with its stripes and forty-eight pinpoint stars, on his bicep. As Alan lay in his arms, a finger tracing the tattoo, he wanted to do something he‟d never done before: talk. “Jim was my lover.” He knew Gary wasn‟t asleep, but, for once, he was quiet. “We knew each other since we were boys.” Jim had been the first boy Alan had loved, the first man he‟d slept with. The only man, until now. “He wanted to move to London.” But Alan couldn‟t leave the village, couldn‟t leave his widowed mother to her flower shop. They‟d fought about it, many times. On the last occasion, they‟d both been drinking. Jim told Alan he wanted to go to the train station then, that night, and it made no difference to him if Alan came or not. Alan volunteered to drive him, if “volunteered” was the right word, and they‟d stormed out to the car. It was dark, and the road to the train station in Salisbury was narrow and winding. People claimed alcohol didn‟t affect the ability to drive, but Alan would swear until the day he died the reason he couldn‟t keep the Sunbeam on the road was because he was drunk. He might have managed to get there, anyway, dipping into the ditch and running into bushes all the way, but some kind of bird, a plover or a pheasant, appeared out of the bushes. Alan hit the brakes and the car skidded off the road. Alan‟s side was crushed against a tree, and his mangled leg kept him in the car. Jim wasn‟t as lucky. It was morning before someone found them, Mr. and Mrs. Barnsley on their way to Salisbury cathedral for a wedding. Mrs. Barnsley had been wearing a little blue hat with a short veil, Alan remembered that, and she‟d stood beside the car, holding his hand, while her husband looked for Jim. When he came back, he shook his head grimly, and Mrs. Barnsley tightened her grip. She stayed while he went for the doctor. Alan was taken to the hospital, and, when his mother came in the early afternoon, he asked about Jim, even though he knew the answer already. “I‟m sorry, dear,” his mother had said, brushing her hand over his forehead. Alan had never spoken of it again. “He died,” Gary said. “Because of me.”
“It was an accident, Al.” That was what the police and the village had decided. It hadn‟t made Alan feel any better then, either. He expected Gary to head back to the barracks, but Gary said, “I‟ll show up on time for my flight in the morning. That‟s all they care about.” So they stayed together. He wasn‟t used to having someone in his bed, and Gary snored like an ox. Alan slept fitfully, and when he noticed the dawn beginning to streak the sky, he got up and went to the bedroom window. It wasn‟t the best angle for viewing the Henge, but Alan‟s memory could fill in what he was missing. It was the solstice, so the sun would be rising through the stones, dazzlingly brilliant and perfect. The Henge had been designed for it, thousands of years ago by people long forgotten, and it was still an awesome sight. Alan remembered a story his mother had told them as children, about the two celestial kings the ancient people of the area had believed in, around the time the Henge was built. The Holly King and the Oak King were twins who fought for dominance twice a year, on the summer and winter solstices. On the summer solstice, the Holly King, the darker twin, won and ruled the earth until the winter solstice, when the light-bringing Oak King supplanted him until the next summer‟s solstice. It was about rebirth, about darkness giving way to light and vice versa, in a perpetual cycle that had been going on since long before the Henge was built. As children, he and Richard had thought the story fascinating. As adolescents, they‟d thought it ridiculous, mythical twice-yearly fights that always had the same winner. Alan hadn‟t thought of the story for years. Gary came up behind him and said, “You seem thoughtful.” Alan shrugged and replied, “Not really.” He turned to face Gary. He was a handsome man, Alan thought, not for the first time, but he was also good-natured and he meant well. “Be careful. Don‟t do anything stupid.” Stay alive. Gary shrugged. “I‟ll do my best.” He bent his head and kissed him. Alan slid his hands up Gary‟s arms, over the tattoo, and rested them on his shoulders. “Thanks, Al,” Gary said, when he pulled away. “I didn‟t want to leave without doing that.” Alan put on his dressing gown and saw Gary to the door. Gary waved until he was at the end of the path, then turned and walked away, past the Henge to the aerodrome on Salisbury Plain.
Alan had his tea and toast, trying not to notice the Hershey bar still on the kitchen counter. He fed the dogs and went down to the shop, thinking of a new arrangement he might try. He‟d never thought about putting holly or oak leaves into a bouquet before, but flowers were in short supply. He needed all the greenery he could get.
Roy LeRoy and the Longest Day by Kit Zheng Now, everybody knows that the summer solstice is the longest day of the year, but there was one year when it was longer than most in the dusty town of Whistler's Gulch. The sun just refused to go down, and it was up to the hardworking sheriff, Roy LeRoy, to get it moving again. Ah, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. You'll see how he did it soon enough. The day started out as it always did, with all the regular chirping and feeding and planting and hollering that always goes on in the gulch at sunrise. Roy LeRoy woke at the crack of dawn like always, and he took his usual walk up and down Main Street, saying howdy to Eli Lords and Molly Princeton and all the other good folk of Whistler's Gulch. He'd just recently wrestled down the Black Bull and subdued the singing Dust Devils from Yarrow Canyon, so they were all feeling particularly fond of the sheriff. Nearly every household invited Roy in to have a bite of breakfast. So it was that by the time Roy LeRoy finished eating, it was well past supper-time, and that was when he first began to notice that something just wasn't right. See, the sun had climbed all the way up to its noon position, but since then it hadn't budged. It was still shining as bright and baking everything as fever-hot as it had at noon, which was no good at all. Standing in front of Molly Princeton's place, Roy shaded his eyes with one hand and squinted up at the sun. Jake Duke was walking him down the drive and Roy said to him, "What time is it?" Jake had a fancy new pocket watch from Mipote Creek City, and damned if Jake didn't look at his watch and think it was broke. "Musta stopped this morning," Jake said, cursing and shaking it. "Second hand's moving just fine, if you ask me," Roy pointed out. "Can't be seven p.m.," Jake insisted. "Look at the sun, ain't barely past noon." "Maybe that's what the sun says," Roy said slowly, "but that ain't what my gut says."
"He's right," Molly Princeton said, poking her head out from next door. "My daddy's clock ain't never wrong. It's quarter after seven." "I'll be damned," Jake said. "What's goin' on, Sheriff?" Roy pushed his hat back and mopped the sweat off his forehead. "S'pose the sun must be stuck." "I ain't never heard of such a thing," Jake said, shaking his head. "What'll we do now?" Roy squinted up at the sun and puzzled for a while. Then he said, "Well, when you got a stray from the herd stuck in a bush, what's a man do?" "Go back and get it out, I suppose." "S'pose that's what I'll do with the sun, then." "And how you gonna manage that, Roy LeRoy?" "Well, who's got the highest jumpin' horse?" Roy asked, scratching his head. "S'pose that'd be Doc Earl," Molly said, and Jake agreed. "But I don't think even Sweet Sherry can jump high as the sun. Maybe she could clear Mount Irvine, but the sun is askin' too much." Roy puzzled some more. "Wasn't there some talk of a man down the way who had a cow that could clear the moon?" "That's just stories," Molly Princeton said. "Yeah, they say Sucking Cyclone Steve Darling's got one of them," Jake said. "Special breed. Eli tried to beg him to mate her to his prize bull, but got turned down. Steve challenges anyone who wants to see her to a contest, and I guess Eli didn't pass muster." "What sorta contest?" asked Roy, but Jake just shook his head. "Eli never told." Roy nodded. "How do I go about finding Steve Darling?" "Three hours walk down the creek path, a little house behind a row of trees, hardly more'n dried up sticks," Molly volunteered. "But maybe the sun'll come unstuck by then?" "Maybe so," Roy agreed. "Still, I'd best start walking."
So our boy Roy made his way down to the creek path and set to walking. Those three hours seemed endless, with the sun beating down at full heat and no change in the light to tell him how much time had passed. He was beginning to think he'd never make it when he came around a little bend to a stand of scraggly pine trees, ten of them, all in a row. Just beyond was a squat little cabin with a man standing on the porch, scratching his head and squinting up at the sun. "Why, howdy there," the man said, seeing Roy approach. "How do you do?" Roy nodded and touched the brim of his hat. "Must say this is the longest longest-day-of-the-year I've ever seen. Woulda thought it were 10 p.m., wouldn't you?" "Think she's stuck. The sun, I mean." "I'd say that's a fair assessment." The man was lanky, and he had hair the color of dirty straw, eyes blue as the sky, and a wide mouth that was too pretty by half for his long, skinny face. Still, he wasn't bad to look at; a lot of people might even say handsome. His hair was long and worn down his back in a tight braid. "Might you be Sucking Cyclone Steve Darling?" The man grinned with more than a bit of pride. "That'd be me, yep." "Jake Duke said you got a cow that can jump clean past the moon." Steve Darling hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked on his heels. "That I do." "Perhaps you might let me borrow her in order to see if I can't get the sun unstuck out of the sky. I'm afraid if she stays up there, crops'll go down and come winter we'll be in a poor way." Steve sucked on his teeth and looked thoughtful. "Well, I'd be glad to lend her, but she's a mite bit picky about who sees her. I come up with a contest to see if people are worth her time. She's a fancy breed, y'see. I had to do a mighty tough bargain with the dark-eyed wizard folks to get her." "That sounds fair enough. Fact is, I was warned it might be so." "Good, good." Steve gestured for Roy to come up on the porch, offered him a chair and a flask of moonshine he said was made from the tears of seven weeping willows. "Some men find a drink helps them with the contest," he said, kindly. "Might I ask what the contest is?"
"Well," Steve said, "It may sound forward to you, but it's what I had to do before I could even begin to barter for her, so I figger fair is fair." Roy nodded. "Seems right to me." "You might wonder how I got my name," Steve said, "but it was from that particular contest, I think. After I won it, them wizards started calling me that." "Is that so?" "See, the game is, well, first you gotta lie down, we gotta lie next to each other, and then, well... Maybe it's better if I show you." "Out here?"
"I got a bed. It's small, but it don't creak too bad. Or the floor, ain't too soft, but it's clean." "It's a nice day," Roy said cheerfully, "even if it ought to be nighttime. And that grass looks soft enough to have a roll in. Or a contest, as it were." Roy might not have been a dark-eyed wizard with wild skills in the arts of pleasure, but he knew some things about what men did in bed together, and he wasn't stupid. Steve Darling had the decency to blush from head to foot, and gestured for Roy to lead the way. There was a square patch of grass just in front of the porch, and Roy found them a spot clear of rocks. He sat down on it and Steve Darling did the same. "All right, then," Roy said. "Now why don't you show me what I got to do for this contest of yours." "Well, first you got your choice: you can just open up your fly, or you can take your pants off, as you like." Now, once upon a time and not so long ago, Roy might have blushed up a storm and just undone his pants, but he'd come a long way in less than a year, and so he just shucked off his pants and threw them down next to him. Steve, he saw, did the same, though he folded his jeans up just as neat as can be and put them on the edge of the porch. "Then what?" "Then you gotta lie on your side," Steve said. Roy set his hat on top of his pants and did just as Steve told him. Lying there Roy felt how late it must be, though the sun was still stopped up in the noon position. His eyes got
heavy so he pinched himself, knowing he had to win the contest or they'd all be doomed to sleep in the summer sunshine for possibly forever. "Next, I'll lie down next to you, so don't get all jumpy on me." Steve lay down beside Roy and rolled on his side, so that his face was in front of Roy's considerable complement. "You look mighty fine," Steve said, and maybe he was a bit intimidated by the look of Roy, because his voice had a bit of a tremor. Roy could guess what was coming up next, and he could feel that his body could too: his balls were getting tight and heavy, his dick coming up to attention and peeking out of his foreskin. Steve musta still been nervous. His cock dangled toward the grass, soft and docile. "Then what?" Roy asked, already feeling his mouth water. He could smell Steve, mingled in with the grass, with the heat and the sun. "Then, you gotta suck. You gotta suck the juice right outta me and I'll try to do the same. Whoever manages to do it first, he'll be the winner. If it's you, then you get to see Betty Lou. Make sense?" "Sure does," Roy said. "You ready?" "I am," Steve said. "Go!" Roy slid forward and he nuzzled Steve's soft cock like a horse searching for an apple. He found his two apples in their sac between Steve's softly hairy legs. He gave them a nibble and a lick, and he felt Steve's cock getting harder against his cheek, and it made him smile. With inquisitive lips, he worked his way from heavy sac to the underside of that slowly rising cock, followed the big vein up the crown, and watched it rise towards Steve's belly. Now, curiously, the infamous Sucking Cyclone was slow to start with his own end of the contest. But Roy soon realized it was all concentration and study: that was what had kept him soft, not any kind of nervousness. Like a man approaching a fine meal, first Steve took in the measure of Roy's dick and then he massaged his big balls, rolled them under his fingers, appreciating the color, the weight. He inhaled like a fancy-pants wine drinker, and then it was onto the main course. He slipped Roy's cock between his lips and he showed Roy just why he was known far and wide as Sucking Cyclone Steve Darling. Roy moaned and he bucked and he groaned under Steve's lips, and he wondered how he might manage to win this contest after all. He might not be half bad, but Steve was amazing. Still, he had to do his best, and in between groans, he managed to get Steve back into his mouth. He could feel the hard flesh still swelling between his lips, and he
opened up his throat to let Steve in all the way even as Steve did the same for him. Roy almost choked on the pleasure of that sensation, a cock stretching his lips and throat and his own buried into the tightest, wettest, most intense mouth he'd ever been in. He wanted to just lose himself, let Steve win, let Steve suck every drop of everything he had to give out of him; but he just knew he couldn't, so he fought himself, dug his nails into his palms, and thought of some of the most unpleasant things he'd seen. Even that wasn't enough to hold off the expert things that Steve was doing to him with lips and tongue and the amazing power of vacuum. And then it hit Roy: if he wanted to win, he had to be like Steve. He had to think of nothing but the task at hand, and a beautiful task it was. Fully hard as a flag pole now, Steve's good eight inches was a proud and mighty cock, leaning just a little to the right and crowned with a lovely wet jewel of pre-come. Roy traced every rise and curve, followed the little lip of his helmet-shaped head, flicked his tongue over the tip, and then let Steve bury into him until the tip of his nose pressed against the rough skin of his sac, little hairs on Steve's thighs tickling his cheeks and chin. He let his hands wander and explore, caressed the hard, lean columns of Steve's legs, stroked his inner thighs with his thumbs. He sucked and bobbed and swallowed. The match became feverish then. Roy rolled them over so that he was over Steve, pumping his head up and down, making his mouth a tight ring until his cheeks ached. He could feel Steve doing marvelous things with his tongue, lips clutching him in a hold that was rightly legend, but by thinking of nothing but his task, he kept the pleasure at bay, so that it was like he was only watching Steve's amazing talent at work on someone else. That was almost too much as it was. Sucking Cyclone Steve Darling's reputation was deserved. They dueled that way for the whole night, and then late into the next day, though they couldn't tell by the unmoving sun. They sucked till their lips were raw and their cocks twitched with the need to boil over. Lesser men would have passed out in half the time, but this was a match of marvels. There was never a contest like this since Jebediah and Hammond, and it's unlikely there'll ever be another. But as true noon approached, Roy felt a tremble go through Steve, and he felt a little thrill of victory. That little thrill was dangerous. It made Roy get worked up, pushed him right to the edge himself. And then just when he was sure he was about to win, Steve pulled out all the stops. He used his last and best trick, the Triple Cyclone Twist, and not even a man as determined as Roy LeRoy could resist it. Roy gave a loud shout and a groan that was half-despair and half the sweetest pleasure, and he came like a geyser, and Steve drank up every last drop of him, greedy for it. When he was completely empty, Roy sank back into the grass with a shudder, and he felt immeasurably good and incredibly bad all at once. He'd lost all hope of reaching the sun, sure as he'd lost his self-control. Then Steve Darling spoke. "That was some contest."
"It was indeed," Roy agreed, still catching his breath. "Don't think I've ever had as close a contest." "That's kind of you to say so, but I don't think I really had much chance of winning." Roy reached for his hat, but Steve stopped him. Steve licked his lips and said, "If you finish me off, you can see Betty Lou even though you didn't win." Roy grinned from ear to ear, so grateful he was. He dropped down onto his knees and he threw himself into the task. He gave Steve the best he could, and you ought to believe that was mighty fine. Steve must have agreed, because he was shouting and shooting in no time. He grabbed Roy and filled up his mouth, and Roy didn't let a single bit go to waste. The two men fell back onto the grass, exhausted, but Roy knew he couldn't waste any more time, much as he might want to. And Steve, he understood. After all, he didn't fancy the thought of the sunburn he was sure to be having on his backside after their little contest. He led Roy back into the pasture behind his house and there she was, Betty Lou, the amazing cow who didn't think nothing of leaping to the stars. "If you do what you set out to do," Steve said, a bit wistfully, "Maybe we might have another contest when you bring her back." "That sounds mighty pleasant to me," Roy said agreeably. They shook hands on it. Betty Lou, being a cow, didn't have a saddle, but she had a rope tied round her head and Steve held onto this to steady her as Roy climbed onto her back. Roy was always a good hand with animals, even ones as clever as Betty Lou. He leaned down and told her as he patted her rump, "Now, darling, maybe you'll be such a sweetheart as to bring us up to have a chat with the sun, would you?" Betty Lou looked at him with her big cow eyes, and she might have even winked. Roy couldn't say for sure. Maybe she wasn't so pleased with the sun herself and thought to have a chat with it. However it was, with a little run to bring her up to speed, Betty Lou leapt into the sky. She hopped off the top of Mount Irvine and bounced clear past the clouds. Her cloven feet might have brushed the moon, but only for a second, and then they were up, up, up next to the sun, where Roy LeRoy could see it had snagged up on a star. He freed the sun gentle as he might untangle a sheep from a thorn bush, and watched as it went on its way, speeding down toward the horizon.
"I think we did good, Betty Lou," Roy said, petting her great head, and she lowed in agreement. Then she kicked herself off of Mercury and dropped them gently back down to Earth, landing square and on all four feet back in Steve Darling's yard. Roy and Steve celebrated the end of the longest day in fine style that evening, and several more evenings besides. But that's a tale for another day.
Rude Mechanicals by Syd McGinley A few months after A Short Leash. Open road and a big engine between my thighs. I‟m a happy man. I‟ve spent a week in the mountains with my cousin Tom and his boy, Billy, and I‟m taking my time getting to my next stop: my old friend Mike. Ben cajoled me into taking a vacation, although I wasn‟t pleased that he called my probation officer to arrange travel permissions without asking me. He‟s confused this attorney thing with being my guardian. Still, I‟ve not had a vacation since high school -- and those were always just trips to Mom‟s cabin. Mom‟s family bought the cabin because they missed their childhood home -- the one Tom now lives in. The remote location suited me just fine, and I envy Tom his mountain life. My saddlebags are crammed with notes about self-sufficient living, and I‟m wondering whether to get some chickens. Between his vegetable patch, his hens, goat, solar panel, and his boy‟s labor, Tom hardly pays for anything but flour. He even brews his own beer. I sigh. Baby steps, John. Get this vegetable-growing thing sorted first. Then livestock. And that includes a boy. It‟s been a long afternoon of riding, but it‟s a perfect day. Not too hot, blue skies, some breeze, and hardly any traffic on the routes I‟ve chosen. I‟m clear of the mountains, and now I‟m riding through wooded countryside as the sun drops. I don‟t mind riding after dark, but I‟m pleasantly tired and hungry, and I‟ve made good time so I may as well look for a sleeping spot. Billy packed me a supper and I have a bedroll behind my saddle. I slept out every night on the way to Tom‟s, and, but for the gas, this has been an all but free road trip for me. For a change, I‟m not broke -- I worked construction all Spring -but my frugal habits are engrained. I think Tom wanted me gone today so he can celebrate Solstice tonight with his boy. I‟d not mock his beliefs -- I respect anything sincerely held even if I have little patience for fads -- but he‟s a private guy. He follows his grandma‟s mountain woman ways a fair bit. However, I don‟t have to be at Mike‟s place until tomorrow evening and he‟s under eight
hours away. I‟m not quite ready for him, or more accurately, for Chris yet. I‟ve not seen Chris for seven years, although Mike and I have met up a few times without his boy. Tonight, I‟ll prepare for the meeting, and all the memories it‟s bound to dredge up. Chris and Rob were inseparable. I steer my Fat Boy off the blacktop and cruise down a dirt track into the woods until I reach a clearing. It‟s not an official campground, but someone has left a ring of stones and a wire rack from a grill there. Billy packed me cold fried chicken and potato salad in a small cooler so I don‟t bother with a fire. I prowl around until I find a creek. I take off my boots and dangle my feet while I let the beer I bought an hour ago re-chill. I take a quick freshen-up dip in the chilly water, get dressed again, and head back to drink some beer and eat. Damn, it tastes good. I saw Tom kill the bird just yesterday. Perhaps I will get a hen run. I yawn. If twink were here, he‟d make some smart-mouth crack about my age and impending thirtieth birthday. I‟ve sidestepped a surprise party from the brat (as if twink could keep a secret) by agreeing to host the guys at a summer camp-out next week on condition no one fusses over my birthday. After all those dinners, I owe them some hospitality. Mike and Chris will be traveling back with me, and Mike‟ll do some bodymods and BDSM tutorials while he‟s there. Right now, twink and Ben are staying at the cabin. Twink is watering my vegetables and giving the place a thorough cleaning before my guests arrive, and Ben is supposedly relaxing. I wheel my bike into the shadows at the edge of the clearing and spread my bedroll out. It‟s a warm night so I lie on top of my bedroll and star gaze. I‟m still far enough from towns and in high enough country that they‟re overwhelmingly close and brilliant. I get why people used to be religious, and for a moment, I envy Tom and his celebration of Solstice. I shrug, and, since I‟m horny after a week around Tom and his unavailable-tome boy, I decide to jerk off, but as I reach to unzip I hear: “You are the worst bottom ever.” I turn my head, and see figures entering the clearing. I‟m disinclined to advertise my presence, so I stay still and quiet. I hope they‟ll just keep walking, but they‟ve stopped in the clearing. Damn. It‟s hardly late enough for me to yell at them to be quiet. Six young men all bickering about something. Their flashlights bob around, and I hear some sharp remarks about not having thought this plan through enough, but then they manage to get a fire going in the stone ring and they all settle down around it. So long as they don‟t sing "kum ba fucking yah," I‟ll be all right. It‟s almost worse. Hearing a stilted rendition of the rude mechanicals‟ role call scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream is like fingernails on a chalkboard. While I prefer Shakespeare‟s tragedies, I do have a soft spot for the troupe of rude mechanicals. They remind me of untrained, but willing boys doing their best to please and messing up everything. Alas, these kids are misinterpreting the scene. They have the wrong words
stressed and clearly don‟t understand what they are saying at all. Even grad school didn‟t destroy Shakespeare for me. My dissertation was on Spenser, but Marlowe and Shakespeare are my true loves. I‟d been warned to be careful about over-studying my true passion, and it was good advice. I can bang out an article on Spenser if I have to, but I still have Shakespeare by my bedside. I‟ve even resurrected my dream of a boy earning the right to recite my favorite sonnet as he agrees to be mine. I bite my knuckle at the wooden delivery of the boy playing Quince. And then I understand the “worst bottom ever” comment -- the boy playing Bottom is awful. I give in when Snug misses his cue and I roar out his line: “Have you the lion‟s part written?” There‟s consternation around the fire, and I consider just lying back down behind my bike, but I get up and stamp over. “When are you performing this?” The boys babble, and I point at the one holding the script. “You, when are you performing?” “The twenty-fourth,” he mutters. I roll my eyes. How obvious. A bloody Midsummer‟s Night performance. And that‟s only four days away. “You‟re screwed,” I say, and turn away. “So go away and let me get some sleep.” “Hey! That‟s not fair!” “Nothing to do with me, kid.” I continue walking. I hear one of them running after me. “Hey, you know the play! Help us.” I pause and let him catch up. I will help, but only if they actually want my help. “Why should I, and how do you know I can help?” It‟s the kid with the script. He scowls. “Because we need you to. I can‟t get this right. I‟m the assistant director and I‟m meant to have the scenes with the rude mechanicals in good shape. And you knew that line right off. Obviously you know the play.” “Knowing the play and directing are very different.” “Don‟t I know it,” says the boy ruefully. “I hate doing this. I just wanted to have some fun during summer school, and it‟s a fucking nightmare.” He shudders. “I hate it. I hate actors and I hate bloody Shakespeare and I hate performing.” There‟s some real distress under his petulant tone. “You have a part, too? Which one?”
“Bottom,” he says, and looks away. “I suck.” I can‟t argue with that based on what I overheard, but he‟s quite despondent enough so I just ask, “What are you doing out here?” He actually blushes. “It was a stupid idea. I thought…” He twists the manuscript in his hands. “Oh, forget it. It was a dumb idea.” “If you don‟t want help -- ” “I thought meeting in the woods to rehearse like the rude mechanicals did in the play would help.” He bites his lip. “But it‟s all getting silly. I hate having to play the damn donkey.” I grin. Poor kid. It is a good idea, but not for this amateur bunch. Actors are not the easiest bunch to control, and if he‟s assistant director as well as Bottom, he has a lot to manage. I imagine twink making a topping from below joke, and smother a chuckle. “They call me the Ass. Director,” says the kid sadly, “and they laugh because I can‟t get my own lines right.” “How did you get the part?” He shrugs. “There‟s only just enough of us to fill the cast, and usually I‟m kinda clowny, so they thought I‟d be good. And my -- um -- my best friend is the director so they thought we‟d work well together as a team. But -- ” He actually looks tearful. I take a gamble. “Did working on the production split your relationship up?” He gasps, and whispers, “Yes.” “Out to them?” I jerk my head at the group of boys bickering around the fire. He laughs. He looks a lot better with a smile on his face. “Yes, we‟re all gay. It was our plan to avoid going home for the summer. We all signed up for summer school and talked the school into giving us an independent study for putting on a benefit performance.” “The whole cast or just the rude mechanicals?” “Just about all of us. We told the school it would be period authentic with an all-male cast.” He grins. “Actually, the guys playing Titania and Puck are straight, but they‟re Carl‟s cousins, and wanted to stay away from the farm for summer.” “Carl?”
“The one playing Quince.” “Are any of you actors?” “Jim is. My -- ” he stumbles. “ My ex. He‟s playing Oberon. And so is Seth -- he‟s Demetrius. They‟re in the theatre program.” Fuck. Just having the conversation seems to have been taken as consent to help, and we‟ve walked back to the fire as we talked. Since I‟m awake and have lost my privacy, I may as well help. The boys stop their chattering and stare at me. They must be desperate. Based on my knowing one line, they‟re willing to hand over their part of the production. I decide to introduce myself. “Dr. John Fell, Renaissance Specialist.” “It‟s a miracle,” hoots one skinny lad. I‟ve pegged him as Flute since I‟m sure these guys have decided it would be funny to have the chubby boy be Starveling. I‟m right. Well, okay, I can‟t second-guess Jim -- he‟s got the whole production, I assume, planned out, but I can make sure these kids say their lines right. I have them run through again, and realize that they all, except Bottom, do know their lines, but they miss their cues because they don‟t understand each other. I walk them through the scene, helping them understand what they mean. They barely even understood why they were meant to be funny. I have the sneaking suspicion that until a week ago, this was all just a ruse to stay away from home, and only the dread of an impending performance has got them this far. They‟re desperate enough to obey me -- I don‟t even need to crank up the Dom. I get a few giggles from them once they try the scenes again actually understanding their lines. Flute flushes with pleasure when he gets a laugh for putting an adolescent squeak in his voice to declaim, “Let me not play a woman: I have a beard coming.” Bottom is still terrible. Even when his line is right, he says it as if it must be wrong. He gets laughs, but his crew is clearly laughing at him when he says, “I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard -- ” and he breaks off to look at me. “That‟s correct -- carry on.” He chokes out the rest of the line, then Quince, who I am starting to heartily dislike, overacts his way through his speech, and Bottom, for a wonder, says his line on cue and correctly. However, he says it flat and dull, “And there we may rehearse most obscenely -” He stops before Quince can answer. “That has to be wrong! It‟s a stupid line.” “You‟re the stupid one, you great ass. It‟s Shakespeare!”
“Shut up, Quince!” I snap. “You all rehearse act four scene two where you wonder where Bottom is. Bottom, I need to talk to you alone.” Bottom follows me without a murmur, but the other boys bicker. “Better be perfect when I get back,” I yell, and the arguing stops. I sit on a fallen log and motion Bottom down next to me. “Okay, kid, let‟s get the rude mechanical scenes done, and I‟ll work on your other scenes with you later, okay?” He sighs. “Yeah, thanks. I just don‟t understand the lines. The words are all wrong. Or else I get them wrong. I‟m so dumb.” I stare at him. Has the idiot director not explained to the poor kid that part of the joke is that Bottom misuses words? By his look of suppressed anger when I explain, I guess not. “Jim knows,” he mutters angrily. “He knows how hard --” He won‟t say more, and since I can hardly spank a stranger, I let him get away with his silence. “Listen, you are wrong sometimes on word choices, kid, but so is Bottom. So say them confidently as he would.” “Bottom‟s confident?” I have my profound doubts about how their production is going to turn out if their director is such a clod with everyone, but perhaps he‟s just giving Bottom the silent treatment after their breakup. “Yes, Bottom is the most important character in the play.” The boy gives me a look, and retorts, “He is not!” I grin. “Be that sure on stage! And, no, Bottom isn‟t the most important, but he thinks he is! Remember that.” He sighs. “I get it, but as soon as I get with the guys…” “What‟s the point of the scene they‟re rehearsing right now?” “That Bottom is missing?” “And?”
He smiles shyly. “The mechanicals are panicking because they think their best member is missing.” “Right! Let‟s go and practice with them, and we‟ll work on your other scenes later.” I hate myself for feeling a burst of pride. The boy is cute, yes, and I hate to see a kid being bullied, but I‟ve had a moment of feeling invested in this performance. Stupid, John. You‟re not a teacher anymore, and you‟re not a Shakespeare professor. Get over yourself. The other mechanicals show me their scene and it‟s adequate, so we go back to the beginning and walk through their opening scenes. It‟s still terrible, but they all make their lines and no one is mean to anyone else. Good enough. They all grab their flashlights as soon as they are done and prepare to leave. Quince gives me an ungracious, “Thanks, man,” and Flute flutters his lashes to no purpose as he thanks me. Bottom looks panicked. “Guys, we didn‟t do my scenes yet.” “Up to you, dude. We want to get back for the pizza Jim said he‟d order for us after the rehearsal.” “But…” “You can walk back if you wanna stay with the doc,” says Quince. Bottom looks ready to cry or punch Quince. I don‟t often take pity, but I say, “I‟ll get you back, kid, when we‟re done.” I point to the bike. Just as well -- the other boys are off down the track. Bottom looks after them nervously. “I don‟t bite. Come on, kid. Let‟s look at those scenes. I can play Titania for you.” As I hoped, the boy giggles, and we get to work. We‟ve kept the script so he can mark it up as we work. I manage to keep him cheerful by stressing any double entendres and he positively roars when I refer to Puck squeezing love juice into his eyes. I‟m trying to keep him a little distracted as I‟m carefully watching how he makes notes. I‟m not a great tutor, as I‟ve found recently. My court-mandated tutoring has been torture for all concerned, but I did like the literacy training course I was sent on. Watching Bottom make notes, I know what it is that Jim knows, and just how much of a shit he‟s been to this boy by not telling him about Bottom‟s word choices. I‟m ready to hit Jim. Or Quince, who I‟m sure was in on the joke. I send him to pace around the clearing to rehearse a speech because I need a moment or five alone. As I‟d listened to the boy stumble over reading his lines, I had a blinding moment. Just like this boy, Rob was dyslexic. Shit, fuck, piss, and damn. My boy. Rob
didn‟t know he was dyslexic. He was sure he was just stupid. I knew he wasn‟t, but, as obedient as he was, he‟d never believe me about that one thing. Oh, hell, I feel cruddy as I realize how much harder I made Rob‟s GED studies by not knowing his limitation. I never told Rob that my inability to teach him made me worry about being a teacher. He wasn‟t stupid, and I could train him to tolerate all sorts of pain, but I couldn‟t get him to understand a simple short story. As much as I longed for him to be able to recite my favorite sonnet, he couldn‟t get his tongue or memory around it. It had to be that I couldn‟t teach English. I still don‟t like formal teaching, but I love training boys. I grumble about the boys the Doms send me, but what‟s better than helping a boy realize his true nature? I have to shake it off; the boy is striding back, looking proud. He storms through a speech -- he gets it all right. It‟s not good acting, but he‟s much improved. I ham it up and applaud him wildly, and then stiffen as he throws his arms around me and smooches me. I shove at him, but he‟s clinging on. “Please, I know you‟re gay, too. I could tell because we didn‟t bother you at all.” “No, boy.” He freezes for a moment at the “boy” and then slides his hand down onto my ass. “Sir,” he whispers. He‟s snuggling against me, and I‟m hard. Painfully. Tom doesn‟t share his boy, and we were in a one-room cabin. I‟m as horny as hell. “Do you know what saying sir means? Because frankly, I doubt your Jim qualified.” He squirms. “I think so. And no. Jim, hell, he can‟t even direct an amateur play. And you -- you just -” I shrug even as he moves a hand onto my crotch. “I‟m a professional, boy.” He gasps. He knows I don‟t mean I‟m a director. “Take your hands off me, boy. You don‟t touch me without permission.” He‟s a little slow, but puts his hands behind his back. I take that as his consent. “Well, okay then.” I consider asking his name, but decide against it. He‟s a boy, a bottom, a one-night stand. But that doesn‟t mean I don‟t want respect from him. Or that I don‟t respect his choice to obey me.
“If I drop you off at your dorm tomorrow, will that be a problem?” He pauses to think and I‟m pleased he doesn‟t just give a snap answer. “May I leave a message?” I nod, and stroll over to get the last beer I‟d stashed in Billy‟s cooler. I pop the bottle and sip while the boy uses his phone. I guess someone actually answers as he argues for a bit and then flips his phone shut violently. He takes a deep breath and comes back over to me. “I need to be home by ten tomorrow.” “Good enough. I want to be on the road by then.” I look him up and down. “You‟re overdressed for such a nice warm night.” He doesn‟t need more prompting and gets undressed. He‟s a little bashful -- or rather, he‟s jumpy about us being outdoors. He looks around nervously as if expecting his friends to leap out and laugh. “Are you over twenty-one?” “Yes, sir, I‟m twenty-two.” He grimaces. “I‟m a fourth-year junior.” “Never mind. Just means you can have a swallow.” I offer him the beer bottle. He takes it gratefully, and chugs some. He passes it back still half full. “Good boy. Now, on your knees.” He‟s cautious since the ground has pine needles, but he‟s in position. I‟ve been ignoring his appearance until now. He‟s a cute kid. A bit preppy. Would look right at home on a tennis court. His dick is twitching a little, but he‟s not aroused yet. I cup his head in my palm and tousle his hair. “It‟s okay, boy. Nothing bad will happen. Give me your safe word.” “I don‟t have one, sir.” “Then you‟d better think of one fast.” “Donkey,” he blurts out when he sees my hand reach for his nipple.
I laugh. Silly, but appropriate. In more ways than one. I look down -- the kid is a grower. A very impressive grower. I‟m ready to start the scene, but I want one last boost to his acting confidence. “Listen, boy: Puck thinks you‟re an ass and puts the donkey head on you, but think: you‟re a donkey.” He scowls. “I know -- I‟m an ass.” “No, boy, think about other qualities of a donkey -- be proud!” I reach out and grasp his cock. He gives me an anxious look as if expecting me to announce it‟s a joke. I work his cock so it strains in my grasp. “You‟re hung! Walk with some pride. Swagger!” His giggle is lost in a moan as I change my grip from stroke to squeeze, then to ball rolling. “Hands and knees, boy, once around the clearing. Let me see that donkey dick swinging.” I let his balls go and wait. After a moment, he leans forward and pauses on his hands and knees. I plan on a mild scene. He‟s clearly inexperienced, but he does need to obey better. I roll the play script up tight and tap it against my thigh. He gets moving. I watch him as he crawls around the perimeter. I don‟t want him injured so I keep a close eye on whether his knees are getting sore, but I admit his prick is quite a distraction. He‟s rigid now and very impressive. He‟s crawling faster and faster as he gets closer to me and his cock bobs around. Damn, I could almost wish twink were here, so I could see him on the receiving end of that prick. The boy arrives panting by my feet and rests his head on my boots. “Bray for me.” “What?” “Bray. You‟re Bottom and hung like a donkey. Let me hear you bray.” He‟s silent. He liked having to crawl, but he‟s clearly at his limit with this little bit of humiliation. I don‟t want to be cruel like his friends. I want him to embrace his role -onstage and with me -- and if he can step over this line… “Hee-haw,” he says quietly. I laugh. “Oh, dear, I‟m going to have to help you find your inner donkey. Follow me.”
He doesn‟t balk, but crawls after me as I walk to the fallen log and sit down. I pat my thighs and try not to laugh as he scrambles over them with enthusiasm. I still have the rolled up script and I stroke the back of his thigh with it. “I‟ll stop when I get a proper bray. No coming.” He squirms already, and I‟ve never seen a boy so lacking in trepidation at being over my knees. It‟s odd to be without my Dr. Fell reputation. Well, I am on vacation and I decide to indulge myself. The boy squeals as I give a first swat, and he wriggles and squeaks as I work up and down his thighs and over his ass. His butt is aglow by the time I toss the script aside and switch to my hand. He‟s gasping now and trying not to wriggle free as I pause and caress and then spank again. His cock is grinding against my thighs and my own prick is getting uncomfortable in my jeans. I flip him over so his tender ass is in my crotch and stroke his drooling cock. “You like your ass spanked far too much. I think we need a tenderer spot.” His eyes widen and he tries to move his hands down to protect himself. I slap his wrists away, and jerk him off for a cruel thirty seconds, then I spread his knees and spank his inner thighs. The tender skin is red almost right away, and he‟s weeping. “Oh, sir, oh, sir…” He‟s distraught and almost bucking free of me. But he‟s neither cried out donkey nor brayed, so I keep going. I slap his balls and he wails. My strokes are carefully calibrated, and I add in a few smacks to his cockhead, and then back down to his balls and the inner thighs again. He‟s sensitized now so that a light strike makes him moan. His eyes are unfocused and his breathing has settled into a survival pant. He‟s going to come soon if I keep touching him. He‟s not been trained to hold off and I want that magnificent cock to stay hard a while longer. “Bray!” I twist his nipple hard and he hollers. I‟ve ignored his tits so far. I tweak the other one and he yells out a fine hee-haw. I hold him still on my lap while he shivers and sobs, but his balls are still full, and his cock‟s still rigid. I stand up and carry him closer to the fire. I want to be able to see him properly, and he is getting chilly as his sweat dries. I put him down so he‟s kneeling by the fire, and then I unzip. “Don‟t let me come yet either, boy, but show me what you can do.”
I stay standing for a bit, admiring the boy‟s bobbing head as he sucks frantically at my prick. He‟s more enthusiastic than expert, but watching him work in the firelight and seeing his cock still standing straight out compensates for any fumbling. And he‟s not so very terrible -- I‟m going to shoot. I pull out and step back. “Not yet, boy. Wait there.” I get my bedroll, as well as the condoms and lube that I‟d optimistically stashed in my saddlebag. I arrange the bedroll by the fire and beckon the boy onto it. I have him kneel with his ass up and head on his forearms. The pre-come on his cock glistens in the firelight. All the hairs on his cock base are spot-lit by the flames. A spark flies out as a branch pops, and he doesn‟t move. “Good boy.” He quivers with pride. I kneel beside him and take my time finger-fucking his ass to get him lubed. He‟s really tight. I pull at his nipples, cock, and balls in turn as if I‟m milking him and he sobs. “Want to get fucked, boy?” “Yes, sir. Please, sir.” “Tell me your safe word. I need to know you remember it.” “Donkey,” he says and moans as I take my fingers out. He stays there motionless as I get the rubber on and line myself up with his hole. I push lightly. “You back onto me, boy.” I am being mean. I want him to have to do the work, but I‟m also not sure this boy fucks often. I don‟t want to really hurt him. His whimper as his hole opens for my knob lets me know I‟m right. He‟s panting and sobbing, but his hole is relaxing a little as, inch by inch, he takes me in. “Oh, God,” he moans and drops his head forward. My balls brush his thighs. I stay still so we can both appreciate the depth and sensation, and then I start a long, slow screw. I don‟t want to overload him, so I keep my hands on his hips and just fuck. He keeps his hands on the ground and his hips are up high so his prick just waves in the warm, smoky air.
He looks magnificent in the firelight. The shadows enhance his muscles and his physique counterpoints his submission deliciously. I give in and start thrusting more vigorously and he sobs louder and louder. He‟s begging me to come. I laugh. He‟s not begging for himself to come. I tense and pulse out into the condom, and he yells at my deep thrust. He tries not to pump his ass as I withdraw carefully. I flip him over onto his back and have him put his hands behind his head. He gives me a look filled with fury, but obeys. “So, boy. Have your lines stayed in your brain?” He whimpers. I stroke his thighs, and avoid his balls and cock. “Finish the line and you can come.” He looks as if he‟s about to burst into tears, but he listens carefully when I say, “you‟re with Titania and the fairies. And you say: „I am such a tender ass…‟ Finish the line.” His hips are jerking and I tickle his balls. He says in one fast burst, “If my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.” “Good boy.” I reach forward and give his prick a couple of firm pumps. His eyes roll back in his head as his back arches and his ass leaves the ground. A jet of come spurts over the flames, glistening in the air like a firework, and then there‟s a sizzle as it rains down. “Oh, oh, oh…” The boy is suffering through aftershocks as I massage his wet cockhead. I like the feel of slick, softening cock in my palm. To his credit, he doesn‟t resist. “Listen, boy -- you remembered your line on the brink of orgasm. Nothing is going to shake you on stage, now is it?” I give his cock an emphatic squeeze. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.” “Now put some clothes on. You‟ll get cold and sore sleeping on the ground naked.” “Can‟t I share -- ” I frown at him. “No. This is my bed roll. We can share the fire, but no snuggling.” He looks like a kicked puppy, but wriggles into his jeans and T-shirt and then uses the script as a pillow. He‟s fast asleep in no time. I smoke a cigar as I look at the stars and enjoy the fire. To my amazement, I‟m not as worried about seeing Chris tomorrow.
The kid is shy again in the morning. He disappears behind a tree to pee, but he‟s sweetly respectful. I don‟t want to over-do the pep talks, but I make a few notes in his script for him and give his ass a squeeze when I drop him off at his dorm. He hesitates. “Sir, could I have your number?” I smile, but I shake my head. “No, kid. Count it as a Solstice adventure. I won‟t be passing this way for some time. You‟ll find a good partner if you steer clear of acting students.” He manages a smile at that, but he watches me wistfully as I ride away. He was a good interlude, and he got me through a potentially rough night, but I can‟t look back. June is a bad month. It has Rob‟s death anniversary and my birthday in it. I can‟t add anymore complications to it. The ride to Mike‟s place is pleasant until I hit the city limits, but I keep my good humor intact until I arrive. I‟ve not been to this house before -- they‟ve moved since we all lived in the same town. I almost crumble when Chris opens the door. He‟s very well-trained, but he throws his arms around me and clings on. I‟m weak. I put my arms round him and cling back. We stay there in the doorway until Mike asks his boy if he‟s ever going to invite his guest in. “Sorry, sir,” says Chris, and I see him wipe his eyes fast before he faces his owner. I‟m pretending like I have road grit in my face. Mike gives me a manly hug, too, and soon we‟re settled in his den and Chris is bustling in the kitchen. And damn, it is a den. Mike‟s become more and more bearish each time I see him, and now he‟s got a belly, beard, and a cave of a sitting room. It‟s spotless because of Chris, but Mike‟s got projects scattered around. He uses his den as a work room. I remove a partly-braided whip from the side table and admire it. It‟s intricate and finely crafted. I had no doubts about recommending Mike to the guys as the body-mod visitor for the summer retreat, but this confirms it. Mike‟s a much quieter man now. Owning Chris for a decade has mellowed him. He doesn‟t fuss over Chris‟s chores like he used to. I know Chris and Rob used to call him Micro-Manage-Mike when they thought no sir was listening. As I watch Mike and Chris, I wonder how Rob and I would be now. Would I be working through my first year of trying to gain tenure? With Rob shyly staying at home? I‟d have been proud to introduce him as my partner, but he was always freaked around my college friends. He was so sure he was dumb. He‟d opened up around Ben a little since we all lived together, but he‟d just disappear to the kitchen or bedroom if others came by. A direct order to participate would have him loiter miserably and fuss with drinks and snacks, so in the end I‟d always let him be a hermit when friends came over.
He was so unhappy with book talk, and would be sure I couldn‟t really love him because he was so dumb. Those were our only arguments. But he never wanted me to not read or study. He adored my career plans even though they‟d doom him to either finally having to talk to academics or lurking in the kitchen. I never wanted that. Oh, sure, at a Doms‟ party these days, having the boys be the wait staff is the deal, and my boys do serve me, but I never wanted Rob to exclude himself from my non-D/s friends or colleagues. He was my lover, and I wanted my non-D/s peers to acknowledge him. Chris is very confident these days. Being Mike‟s has given him the grounding to move through the world. He works full time as a graphic designer for a packaging company and is happy as can be. He even gets some freelance work. He proudly shows me his portfolio. I wish Rob had -Fuck. Rob loved his car wash job. He loved cleaning things. He wanted to be a detailer and he thought maybe one day he could learn to do custom paint jobs. I‟d been planning to have Mike and Chris teach him some art after he didn‟t pass his GED and my community college plans for him were screwed. I smile at Chris to try and shake off the memory, but Mike has left me and Chris alone. He knows Chris has some stuff to say about Rob. The last time I saw Chris was the day of Rob‟s funeral. Not that we were at the funeral. Ben, Mike, and Chris babysat me as I got blind-drunk. Earlier this month was the seventh anniversary of Rob‟s death. Of course, I worried at the scar on my heart until I throbbed, but much of my sorrow came from how old the pain was. Rob‟s a constant background absence now and it takes something extraordinary -- like Jamie this past winter -- to really make me grieve. And that feels like a worse betrayal of my boy. As usual, Ben had kept me company on the anniversary and we reminisced. It was a strangely happy night. I enjoyed the excuse to talk about my boy and realized that I was healing after the winter had ripped my scab off. Slowly. But healing. But being with Chris is rough. He‟s talking through memories of Rob and telling me how much Rob adored me. He‟s urging me to find a new boy. He says he knows Rob would be hurt to think I had no boy after seven years. I listen because I know Chris needs to say it. He‟s reached the last page of his portfolio and is pulling out a drawing from between sheets. I catch my breath. I‟ve not seen that funny artist‟s signature in a long time. A bold little R with a five point star after it. Rob. I swallow. I‟ve never seen this one before. Sneaky little brat must have drawn me as I studied. It‟s a pencil sketch of me by my boy. And Chris is giving it to me. Crap. He‟s smartly not saying a word, but getting up to get me and Mike a bedtime drink.
I put the drawing carefully inside my book -- I‟ve been traveling with Shakespeare‟s sonnets -- and I smile when the book falls open to the well-worn pages of sonnets fiftyseven -- classic D/s sonnet -- and fifty-eight, my personal favorite. Alone, I appreciate being in a bed with proper sheets. I‟ve slept in or on my bedroll since I left home over a week ago. I read through the sonnets and look at Rob‟s drawing. I chide myself for being sentimental, but I have a pang every time I look at his name. Chris and Mike let me sleep in. Over breakfast, Mike talks through the plans for the retreat, and shows me the various tattoo designs he has to offer the guys, as well as some other body modifications he thinks they may like. He says he‟ll offer a Japanese rope bondage course while he‟s there, as well. I‟ll be damned if I let the guys just slob along being casual Doms thinking that having trophy boys is real ownership. They‟ll get some D/s primers if it kills me. Tomorrow we‟ll put my Fat Boy in the bed of Mike‟s Dodge Ram and head to my cabin together. I flip through Mike‟s book of flash art and admire his designs. Mike is sketching something as we talk and he slides it over to me when he‟s done. A thin black curlicue underlines the dates 4/12/79 - 6/5/01 -- Rob‟s lifespan. I shove it back at him and scowl. “Very small, very elegant, very private,” says Mike and pushes it back. “You need to move on. Maybe honoring him this way will help.” I grunt. Chris gives his owner a hard look, and I suspect they‟ve argued about this before. Chris says, in a light tone, “Now, sir, you know Dr. Fell believes tats are for possessions.” Mike growls at his boy. There‟s not much space on Mike‟s arms that is free of ink, but Chris pours him another cup of coffee and moves out of reach. The paper is still by my coffee cup. Face it John, those dates are burned in your heart already. “All right,” I say before I can change my mind. “But I want this over the dates.” I show Mike Rob‟s R and star. Chris turns from the sink to stare at me. “I‟m not changing my stance, boy. Rob owns me. I‟d better let that be marked. Any boy who comes after him will have to accept it.”
Chris has his wet, soapy hands on my cheeks as he kisses me and then squeals as Mike swats him hard. “Prep my work area, boy!” I regret agreeing already, but I‟m not going to back down, so I pull off my shirt and lie back on Mike‟s tattoo bed. “Over your heart, sir?” whispers Chris as if worried I‟ll back off if he seems too sentimental. I hesitate. It‟s accurate, but what of any future boy? “Caveat emptor,” mutters Mike as he prepares his inks. Although the whole thing was his idea, he seems disconcerted now I‟ve agreed. I give Mike the stink eye and say, “No, my left bicep.” I expect the tattoo to hurt -- and it does some -- but mostly I get a Zen-like euphoria as Mike works. I drift and think of my boy drawing me as I studied. He‟s been gone seven years. He was only twenty-two when he died. Just a kid. I miss the man he‟d have become, but I know I‟m going to find another boy and when I do, I‟ll know how to teach him sonnet fifty-eight.
Author Bios GS Wiley I live in Canada with my husband, where I teach and spend time researching historical romances. I can be reached at
[email protected]. Kit Zheng enjoys basking in the warm light of the computer screen and affecting a look which suggests the planning of artistic masterpieces, great literature, or at the very least, a world takeover. Sadly, regardless of whatever deadlines might be looming, the real truth is that Kit is merely contemplating what to have for dinner. Syd McGinley is English, but has lived in the USA since 1989. Syd teaches college in a red state, stays sane writing dirty stories, and under-appreciates beloved Joe far too often. Current projects include a regency novel and a contemporary D/s novel, as well the Dr. Fell series and the Another Fine Mess anthology. Visit Syd at www.sydmcginley.com. Taste Test: Summer Solstice Edited by M. Black The Holly and the Oak © 2008 by GS Wiley
Roy LeRoy and the Longest Day © 2008 by Kit Zheng Rude Mechanicals © 2008 by Syd McGinley All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680. Printed in the United States of America. ISBN-13: 978-1-60370-407-6 ISBN-10: 1-60370-407-8 Torquere Press, Inc.: Toy Chest electronic edition / June 2008 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680
