This is close to how I picture a young Lucien, maybe around 17? – skinny/fit, a bit malnourished from childhood, boyish, unaware of how beautiful he is, and clad in tiny shorts without any underwear on underneath them.
For reference, Lucien stores are here.
I walk back into the room and set the tea tray on the table.
“You’re still wearing the corset! And nothing else, you cheeky man, what has gotten into you?”
“It makes me feel sexy,” he explains.
“Haven’t you had any fun with your misbehavior?” I tease, the corner of my mouth lifting.
“Oh yes, indeed,” he grins over his shoulder. “I can still see Mistress Douvet’s face.”
We both began to chuckle.
“I cannot believe you had the sheer audacity to show up at her ball dressed like that. It will be the talk of the entire town tomorrow. I will hear of it in the drawing club, at the grocers, in the hallways of Oxford, how Lord Byron’s son showed up at Mistress Douvet’s fete dressed as her daughter! Scandalous!”
He wiggles his butt. “I made for a dashing woman, did I not? The stockings make my legs look oh so shapely. Plus, it was not entirely for jest. It was for a noble mission was it not? The younger Miss Douvet couldn’t bear the thought of another stuffy ball, and we relieved her so she may have a night out on the town instead.”
“Mmm we can only hope she had a jolly night of debauchery too.”
“Does that mean I get to keep the corset?”
“God I hope so,” I groan. I put a cookie into my mouth and begin to unbutton my vest.
He rolls over. “Well either way, I doubt I’ll ever be invited again, and if that is the only thing I accomplish-”
I moan.
“Why are you moaning, love?”
“I cannot help but fix my gaze on your lovely soft penis between your legs and I want it very much. Did you shave it? It’s so bare and helpless…” I lick the crumbs off my fingers and crawl onto the bed.
“I did excise the hair, because I wanted to feel smooth like a lady.”
“Gods, look at it, just a little tube of flesh protruding from your body…and where is your low pouch? Mmm there is is.” I reach between his legs and wrap my fingers around his cock – just touching it, not squeezing it. I lift and drop his cock several times, obsessed with its flaccid state. I jostle his balls and continue to stroke him. “God you are just so perfect. Look at you, in that untied corset like a strumpet, so shamelessly naked-…. Rolf, were you naked under that dress the entire time?”
He smirks. “Yes. I could not find a proper pair of women’s undergarments to contain myself.”
I bite back a cry and shudder and my undergarments become wet. I dip my head and kiss before, before moving down to take him into my mouth. I suck, and he sighs and arches his back, his thighs pressed against my head.
“I love when you are horny. You care not about the sin of homosexuality, just the mere act of nursing from my cock. You are a wonderful creature, Issac. Oh, keep doing that, Isaac, and I will become so uncomfortably hard!”
I push my lips to the base of his cock, delighting in the lack of hair to get stuck between my teeth. I suck until he’s keening and squirming. His toes curl and he empties into my throat. I ravish him with my tongue and lips until he is spent and twitching.
“Enough Isaac, please!”
I smirk at him and withdraw, licking the shrinking appendage like a kitten as my victim hisses and turns.
“I love your penis,” I say. “It satisfies me like nothing else.”
“I love when you’re randy and you fawn all over me like I am the most precious thing.”
“But you are!” I insist. “Your bravery, your audacity, your frankness, it is so exciting. No one else would even dream of waltzing into that ball dressed as you were! It would have been social and political suicide. For you, it just increases your legendary status as the most daring man in London.”
“Oh come off it, I don’t think I’d go so far.”
“I do think highly of you Rolf, I want you to understand.”
“I do, but it confuses me. I am just a rapscallion with rich parents.”
“But you’re my rapscallion,” I insist, nipping at his thigh with my teeth.
“Oh Isaac, you are going to drive me mad. Take off your breeches already. I’ve bared myself for you, don’t deprive me of the same.”
In the low candle light, I offer him a cookie and a teacup while I undress. He watches, transfixed. When we have both wet our lips, we set our cups down and I lie on top of him. His softness is under mine and I am uncontrollably aroused. Even half hard, I am wet and dripping and I rub my groin against his to mix our scents.
Rolf runs his fingers through my longish hair, dislodging the ribbon, and mussing the rest with his digits. Only then does he capture my mouth and plunder it, our lips dueling and dodging until they’re near numb from the collisions. I undulate on top, as Rolf does under me, and I am blissfully dizzy from our intense frottage. I affix my hands over his pectorals and dig the pads of my fingers into him like claws.
For a moment, there is no forward or backwards, the arousal is so interest and wonderful. I peer into his dark eyes, he gazes into my blue ones; we watch each-other’s flushed faces and wonder how the world could criminalize pleasure so divine. I feel closer to God during a good frot than any second spent in church. I lick my lips as I push my glans against Rolf’s crotch, humping at him like a dog in need. Rolf’s eyes roll back into his head and he spurts against me. My breath hitches and I push against him, rubbing madly as I climax just after him. We’re making a tremendous amount of noise, and I am glad I sent the house servants to bed already.
“Oh Isaac,” he sighs. I rest against him and kiss his jaw.
After a period of recovery, we find ourselves ravenous and consume the rest of the cookies and the ham croissants and the entire carafe of tea. Full, we splay out on the bed and talk and giggle.
My fingers soon find their way to his stockings. I sit up and move down to his feet. I massage his solid soles and long toes and nibble on his big toe through the fabric, making him giggle.
“Rolf?”
“hm?”
“Have you ever done anything…you know, more lustful?”
His eyes sparkle. “What do you mean?”
“Have you ever taken anything up your bottom?”
Rolf gawks at me. “You’ve heard of that too?”
“I heard it from James. He said it’s delightful, that he ejaculates enormous amounts.”
“Well, I must confess. I have played with my fingers after a bath, but I am not sure how to enjoy it without using vegetables.”
“If I can find you a proper wooden stretching dildo, would you let me penetrate you?” I ask, hopeful.
“Isaac, I cannot imagine how sex with you can get any better, but I rather love the image of you taking me like a woman. It would be the ultimate thumb to our puritanical society.”
I grin. “I shall go about procuring such a device first thing tomorrow.”
Rolf groans and lets his knees fall away. “God, to be fucked like a woman! with your fat prick up inside of me.” He runs his hands over his thighs and his cock stirs. “Oh the trouble us men get in to!”
“Are you aroused again?” I gawk.
“Immensely.”
I grin and run my hands over his thighs too. “Why don’t we take a bath and I’ll push my fingers inside of you? Pretend it’s my prick.”
“Isaac, you are going to the death of me. They will find me naked and covered in semen and dead tomorrow morning.”
I smirk. “It’ll be my greatest life accomplishment.”
Rolf gives me a fond look, and I can see it in his pretty eyes – he is in clearly and deeply love with me. I will let no one else have him ever again.
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Text is fictional. This is Italian Giulio Berrut in the movie Goltzius and the Pelican Company. This caption is not based upon the movie or intended to be a depiction of its characters or the actors’ personalities or sexualities.
I checked my phone for the fiftieth time, already knowing that the room number was 1403. I was nervous as I crossed the hotel lobby, butterflies roiling in my stomach. The concierge smiled at me but, thankfully, didn’t ask me any questions.
I pressed up on the elevator, fixing my hair in the mirror one final time, giving my lips a final swipe with my cherry chapstick, hoping that I’d live up to his expectations. That I wasn’t about to get turned away at the door.
I saw the room number on my first pass, but I kept walking deliberately down the silent, carpeted hallway, trying to pluck up my courage to knock. Standing in front of the door, I took a deep breath and knocked timidly. There was a pause that felt like forever, that made me want to turn around and speed back down the elevator.
Then I heard footsteps and before I could run the door opened. Bald and muscly, just like his pictures. He was wearing black slacks and a white tanktop that hugged his pecs. “Hi,” I murmured breathlessly.
“You’re even cuter in person,” he said with a smile. “Why don’t you come inside?” He beckoned me in to the spacious hotel room, seating himself on one of the two armchairs. I moved to take the other one, but he shook his head, patting his lap instead.
“So, you said you’re a virgin?” he said as I nestled myself, somewhat awkwardly, on his lap, not looking at him. I nodded, blushing. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he laughed. He wrapped an arm around my waist.
“Ever kissed anyone before?"
I shook my head, and he chuckled, wrapping his fingers through my hair, steering me to his mouth. It was warm. His lips slid over mine, engulfing them. I moaned softly. He broke off. “You’re a good kisser,” he smirked.
I nodded, averting my eyes once more. He felt him frown, running his hand through my hair. “You okay?” he asked in his deep voice.
"I… I’m not sure. I – I just, I never thought it would be like this.”
He looked at me sympathetically, tilting my chin up so that our eyes met. “If you want to go, that’s okay. Look, I don’t know you, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to.” He hugged me tight. “How about this: I’ll pour us some wine and I’ll let you pick a movie to watch. Then we can take a shower together so that you can explore. And then, if you want, I’ll carry you back to the bed, naked, and I’ll take your virgin pussy.”
I shivered and then slowly nodded.
“Yes, I’m masturbating. If you were considerate enough to knock before you barged in here bitching about your girl problems, I would have told you I was masturbating and to fuck off. So, fuck off unless you plan on helping.” He watches his roommate Jack screw up his face, then slam the door. He sighs and goes back to jerking off to the fantasy of Jack naked on a lounge chair. Why was his roommate so hot and so painfully straight? It made him cranky.
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Text is fictional. This is Jamie Dornan for Interview Magazine.
Our boss dislikes me because I’m black and he dislikes Sean because he’s not “for the cause”. If he found out Sean was “queer” and not “doing his part” by making more blue-eyed American babies, he would likely combust into a million pieces and fire us on the spot. Yet, he tolerates us because we stay late and help out at the business. Little did he know that when we “stay late”, Sean and I go into the maintenance room and commit sodomy.
I was shocked to learn what a horny bottom Sean was. He loved getting attention from another man. When his clothes came off, he couldn’t keep his hands off of me. I had no idea a white man could have a booty like he did. A big full, bouncing buttwith full jiggle power. It was a shame he hid it in khakis cause it was a thing of beauty. I forced Sean into all sorts of positions and fucked him raw. I took him on all fours, pulling his hips up to mine while I buried my cock deep into his gut. I took him on his back like a female whore, and watched him struggle to focus on stroking his adorable pink cock while his brain melted from sex. That boy just loved taking it up the ass.
I took him standing up, sitting down. I made him suck me off, which he did with great fervor. He loved the taste of my cum. By the end of each session, he’d be putty in my hands. I would feel an odd calm settle over me, that I had claimed him and put things right in the world. I would stroke his red head and ejaculate on his face – an unmistakable sign that I was superior to him. Sean loved it.
Shame our boss rarely got laid, cause if he did, he would recognize the “nagging smell” in the maintenance room was in fact, Astroglide.
__________________
Text is fictional.
“God that was off the hook!” Josh exclaimed for the sixtieth time that night.
“I’m so glad we got tickets,” Morgan agreed.
“Nice of you to come out with us, Morg, we don’t see you much anymore.”
“Sorry dudes, I’m just so busy with my job ‘n school ‘n all. I’ll try and make an effort to get out more.”
“I think we’re gonna try and scrap together a beach volleyball game if you want in on that,” Rob notes.
“Sounds great, sure,”
“Hey,” Rob speaks up again, “Why do you keep rubbing your neck? Did you get new ink or something?”
Morgan is glad no one can see him blush in the dark car. “Oh um, my boyfriend got me this silver necklace that I’ve been wearing a lot and it feels weird to not have it on. I didn’t want to lose it at the show.”
Rob makes a ‘huh’ noise.
“Ah,” says Josh, “Was wondering that too. Well, we’re here.”
“Awesome. Thanks for driving, Josh.”
“No problem. Bye Morgan, see you ‘around.”
Morgan exchanged farewells and fistbumps with his friends and then got out of the car. He looked fondly at the house in front of him, with its neat lawn and well kept gardens, then turned and waved the car off.
Morgan went inside and shut the door quietly. He turned on the overhead light and sat down on the landing to take off his shoes. As he worked the laces, Morgan noticed that the kitchen light was on. He smiled. Out of the humid summer air and into the cool place, Morgan was suddenly aware of how sweaty and gross his shirt was and so he peeled it off with great relief. The clicking of toenails announced their little French bulldog waddling into the room.
“Hey Porridge. Aw, you’re a sweet girl. Hello, did you miss me?” He gave the dog a few pets, amused at her excited snuffling.
After removing his shoes, Morgan stuffed his socks into his balled up shirt and left it on the landing. He stood up and reached for his collar on the table by the door. When his fingers touched the cool metal accents on the leather, he felt the nagging sense of loss he had carried all night melt away. It was satisfying to hold it in his hands again, to know he was close to returning to his proper place.
“Boy, are you home?” said the voice from the kitchen. Morgan felt an additional sense of peace at the low, velvety voice. He knew that the kitchen light had not been left on by accident.
“Yes Sir, I’m home.”
“Did you put your collar on yet?”
“No, Sir.”
“Bring it here, after you take off your shoes.”
“Yes sir.”
Morgan clutched it with both hands and strolled into the kitchen. He could see the scene before he even stepped foot in the dimly lit kitchen – his Master in his old, worn blue bathrobe, hunched over the kitchen table drinking tea out of a mug emblazoned with fading letters spelling out “Oingo Boingo”. He’d had that mug since he was a teenager, and Morgan lived in mild fear of dropping it.
In one swift motion, Morgan knelt at his Master’s feet and offered his collar with both hands up above his bowed head. Internally, he was begging for his Master to hurry up and just put it back on him already so he could feel right again. He heard the sound of the mug being set down on the table and the swish of the bathrobe fabric as Master Buford turned in his chair.
“Did you enjoy the concert?”
“Yes Master, thank you very much. I cannot …I cannot even put into words how incredible it was. The production, the sound, their stage presence! So much energy. Franz Ferdinand’s bass player is very talented.”
“I’m pleased to hear you enjoyed your reward.” Master Buford said, without a hint of displeasure. He yawned. Morgan tried hard not to smile at that yawn.
He knew if he ever brought this up, he’d likely be spanked for it, but it didn’t make it any less true. The blogs and industry mags called Master Buford ‘the Bull of BDSM’ for his broad figure and gruff nature, but the fierce exterior hid a deeply sentimental man who hated to sleep alone. Buford loved to cuddle and hold his boy close in his thick arms as he slept. Bucroft scoffed at the old-fashioned idea of having your slave or sub sleep on a cot in a disused part of the house. God, did he love waking up horny and being able to have Morgan in arms length.
It wasn’t just a preference, it was engineering at this point. There’d be no sleep for Master Buford without his slave in his rightful place. Morgan loved knowing his Master had been waiting all night for his safe return.
The boy realized he’d been waiting for the familiar sensation of the soft leather and metal band to be strapped around the neck, but nothing happened. Instead a hand caressed his check. “Stand up. Go sit in the chair across from me. Get yourself a mug.”
The boy was confused and slightly alarmed. My collar! he thought. Still, he rose and found himself a less important mug and joined his Master at the table. It felt odd to be sitting across from him as an equal. To offset this, Morgan refilled his Master’s mug from the teapot before his own. He sipped at the hot liquid filling half his mug.
“Look at me, boy.”
Morgan raised his head. “Sir?” He didn’t understand the expression on Buford’s face. He seemed a tad perplexed, lost in thought.
“God, how bizarre,” Buford said after a long moment of reflection.
Morgan looked down at himself.
“What’s wrong Sir?”
Buford kept talking as if Morgan hadn’t said a thing. “It’s amazing to me how different you look without your collar. It frightens me a little to see you like this, to see you looking so …normal. I know we signed a little contract together, and you live here, but when I see you sitting there like a normal person, in your shorts and all, it scares me a great deal, because you could just be any normal person. You could decide you never want to put the collar back on again and walk away, and there isn’t a damn thing I could do. I would never again lay eyes on your tattooed form in all its naked beauty.”
Morgan stared at his beloved Master wide-eyed, feeling deeply privileged to be hearing his inner thoughts. “I would never–!”
“But you could,” he interrupted. “I mean, when I gave you permission to go to this concert tonight, you were just a normal guy hanging out with your friends. You went not as my boy, my sub, but as Morgan, a normal young man who has a job and a boyfriend like any other person. It’s bizarre to think there’s almost two of you.”
“I don’t – I don’t understand Sir, I’m …I’m just me.”
“Yes, you are you,” Master Buford agreed, sipping tea. “It’s like a magic spell. Don’t you agree there’s some magic in your collar? Like it’s enchanted or something?”
Morgan leaned over the table and put his hand on it. “Yes. I absolutely feel that. I miss it when it is apart from me. I feel that it connects me to you when you’re not here.”
“And if we broke the spell, then what? You’d be gone from me forever,” Master Buford said mournfully.
Morgan felt a bit caught off guard. Plus, the adrenaline from the concert had crashed, leaving him tired and blurry headed. “Sir, what inspired this? I am not leaving. I couldn’t wait to get back here and put the collar back on. Rob mentioned, in the car, why I kept rubbing my neck.”
“That…pleases me, a great deal actually. But I don’t understand why a boy of your age would choose this life over his friends.”
Morgan suppressed a yawn and took a big sip of tea. “I can have both, in proper doses. I like winning your attention and approval. The discipline and patience I’ve learned here has helped me so much in life. You’ve taught me how to respect other men, older men, and it’s improved my relationships with my teachers, bosses, even my father.”
Master Buford eyed Morgan over his cup. “Really? I did all of that?”
“Yes,” Morgan insisted, wondering if he’d fallen asleep and was dreaming this. “And you have more to teach me, I just know it.”
Master Buford was quiet. He then yawned so hard his eyes watered. “You flatter this old man. I think it’s time for bed.”
“You’re not o- …Yes sir,” Morgan replied, quickly drinking the rest of his tea. “I’m exhausted. I need a shower too.”
“Take one in the morning after I’ve fucked you.”
“Mnn yes Sir.”
Buford stood up, holding his boy’s collar. Morgan fixed his eyes on it as his Master walked toward him, polishing it on the hem of his bathrobe sleeve. He abated behind Morgan and strapped the collar around his boy’s thick neck. Morgan exhaled in relief. “I missed this so much.”
Buford cupped Morgan’s chin, then ran his hand down his boy’s neck, over the collar.
“Yes. It belongs here. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Good boy. Come on, it’s bed time. You can tell me more about the concert tomorrow and what reward you want to work toward next.”
Morgan nodded. He rinsed the empty pot and cups, carefully handling his Master’s mug with two hands until it was safe in the drainage rack. He then dried his hands on a towel. He detoured to the entryway to pick up his damp shirt bundle, then followed his Master upstairs, turning off the lights as he went. Porridge trailed behind, and the family of three went to bed.
_________________________________
Text is fictional.
We nuzzle, intoxicated by the warmth of eachother’s cheeks. We kiss. We’re on a public street, a little sidewalk cafe, but it feels like we’re the only ones in Paris, like the world revolves around us. My fingers are so intertwined with his own that I cannot even pull my hand away to pick up my glass. So I keep grasping, and kiss him again.
He’s wearing this cologne – just a dab – made of flowers grown specifically in France. He’s so French, so painfully French, and so fashionable in turquoise and leather slippers. I feel worthless and uninteresting in a grey suit, another American businessman bumbling through Paris trying to make a name for himself. I know I only have value to my company because no one else wanted to get on that plane for this three week assignment.
Yet, I am not angry that I got pushed into this trip. It’s been the best three weeks of my life. My head is still full of images and scenes from yesterday when I spent the night.
“Please don’t go back,” he begs, his voice full of so much hope and pain. I was so shocked that he would say those words to me. What does a Parisian boy need with an American lover? Aren’t we on a lower rung, in the ladder of accomplishment? Isn’t it usually the other way around, the boring American pining for a romantic European heartthrob? We kissed more, our ice melting in our glasses.
When I dodn’t answer, his voice grows tight with need. “Please…stay here. I cannot put you on that plane to Washington DC. I cannot, now that I know you exist.”
“Jean Luc…” I breath, weakened by his accent which was heavy during his confession. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” he whimpers, looking oh-so vulnerable. “You would crash with me. We’ll get some place bigger. Some place with a better view. Your French is getting better every day. You said your company wants to extend your visit right? Offering you a job here right? For gods sake, please, take it, or my heart is going to break.”
I think for a moment about what this all means. It is not a deep, philosophical event. I had already weighed these options in the shower this morning, because I suspected I would reach that state of lunacy by lunch. I had been right. It would mean packing everything up in my apartment and sending it overseas. It meant not seeing my family as often, but they would likely visit. It meant starting over. New cafes. New barber. New doctor, new optometrist. It meant breakfasts with fresh pastries and tiny coffees. It meant learning all the dirty French words first. It meant holidays around Europe and trips to the country-side where we would spend most of our time screwing in lavender fields, no doubt. It meant a life with Jean-Luc. I had known him for three weeks. He rescued me after I got lost after taking the wrong train, and he’d been by my side ever sense.
“Oui,” I say with a smile. “Yes.”
Jean-Luc gasps. “You really mean it?”
“Well, I have to talk to my office and tell them I accept their offer to extend my temporary assignment into a permanent post. Then, there’s visa issues to work out.”
He kisses me hard and squeezes my hand so hard I fear it might break. “We’ll work them out!”
“Jean Luc, just remember – I’ll have to go back to DC to pack. I have to give 30 days at my apartment. What if you fall out of love with me then? What if, after a week of not having me here, that you come back to reality and our chemistry is gone?”
“That will not happen.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I am going to come back to DC with you.”
Now it is my turn to gasp. “Can you?”
“I have time off work, and I can telecommute for a bit. I want to see your American life before I steal you away.”
I gawk at him, my heart throbbing. It is true, what people say about the French being romantics.
“Yes,” I repeat. “A million times, yes.”
I am a lunatic. Maybe that is the American way, to confuse passion with irrationality. Maybe so, but right now, I am so happy I can’t even speak for fear of crying. Because it is the right answer. I am moving to Paris. I will be his.
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Text is fictional. From photographer Braden Summers’ All Love is Equal Project.
An AllBecauseoftheBoys caption on /r/WritingPrompts
I just wrote this on Reddit, figured you’d like to read it 🙂
John got a text on his phone: “Get over here right now, Markie is about to work out.”
I jumped on my bike and pedaled half a mile like an idiot through the streets of Boston to get to John’s house. I walked in like it was no big deal, red in the face. John pressed a beer into my hand and guided me to the sofa. The TV was on. I plopped down and watched Markie do push ups. He was wearing this tiny pair of red shorts – my favorite color – that barely covered his muscular ass. The V-shape lead my gaze down between his legs to were his balls bulged. The cropped shorts also provided a peek of the pure white straps of his jockstrap which gave me a stupid boner almost immediately. I sighed again in contentment and adjusted myself, then crossed my legs.
Markie paused and looked over his shoulder at the sound two people sitting on the sofa. “Am I bothering you guys? I can do this later if you want to watch TV.”
“No, it’s fine. We can see the TV fine,” John said smoothly. I nodded and sipped.
“Cool,” Markie replied, then went back to his work out.
I looked over at John; I mouthed ‘you are the best straight friend ever’ and we shared a fistbump. God, I had such a crush on Markie. I liked to think he was keeping his body primed for me, you know, for when I actually got the courage to go after him. No one knew if Markie was gay or straight. I would get to the bottom of that eventually, but for now, I was perfectly content with the view. I had even long-ago forgiven him for being a Cubs fan in Boston.
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Text is fictional.
I yawn, ruffling my hair as I amble into the kitchen. I pause in the doorway, slightly startled to see a slightly older man cooking in the buff. His focus is on a pot on the stove. I tilt my head and rub my eyes. I didn’t think anyone else was home. George didn’t mention he had a houseboy. Well, some men don’t think to, they get so used to having them around.
“Morning, how about some coffee?” I say, sounding sluggish.
He glances in my direction, but doesn’t say anything back. I shrug it off, figuring he’s a silent type, then go about pouring some cereal into a bowl. I add the milk and sit down to read the paper. Halfway through on article on an all male ballet revue, I realize I still don’t smell coffee.
“Hey, do you mind making some c-” I tilt the paper back. The houseboy isn’t there. I look left and look right. I began to feel odd and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. The stove is clear; the towel is hanging on the oven.
I put the paper down and glance out of the window toward the driveway; not a soul. I wander around the house, hoping to find him there or in the backyard. Feeling slightly frightened, I launched myself up the stairs to George’s room and find him safe and shaving in the bathroom.
“Hey um, George?” I pant.
“Hey is everything alright?” he asks, mid stroke.
“I …I don’t know. I ran into your houseboy downstairs and now he’s vanished. I was wondering if maybe I was wrong in thinking he’s your houseboy and someone broke in the house and….George why are you looking at me that way?”
He swallows hard. “I don’t have a houseboy.”
“….What?”
George’s eyes are wide. “Well, I mean…I did, but he…he passed away a couple years ago.”
“Christ,” I gasp and lean against the door-frame. “I swear, there was a guy I saw downstairs. He was cooking something on the stove.”
George finishes shaving as quickly as he can. He washes his face off and we scramble downstairs to the kitchen. The towel is on the floor when we get there.
George kneels and picks it up. “Ivan always used to wear this over his shoulder when cooking. I used to chide him when it fell off, which was often…” his voice catches in his throat.
“Jesus, George.”
George walks to the living room, clutching the towel, and gestures to a photo on the mantel. “That was us.”
My skin breaks out in small bumps. “That’s him!” I squeak, “That was him. He looked at me!”
“His name is Ivan,” George says, sniffling. “Oh god, why is this happening. Ivan passed away two years ago. He had cancer, it got into his brain. Why did he show himself to you and not me?”
Suddenly, George is crying and I’m embracing him, trying to comfort my new boyfriend. I’m soothing him and stroking the back of his head as he mourns when I smell it.
I sniff the air. George holds his breath and sniffs too.
“Do you smell that?” he asks, hesitant.
“Yeah I do,” I reply, swallowing my fear in my throat again. “It’s the smell of fresh coffee.”
We both look at each other and bolt to the kitchen. The scent is fading. There aren’t any full cups on the counter. No steam comes from the pot. However…the cupboard revealing the cups is open.
George and I are speechless.
“I …I think he wants me to make coffee,” I volunteer.
“Why would he want you to do that?”
I think. “Maybe he wants me to take care of you.”
George face lights up. “You think so? You think it’s his way of approving of you?”
“Perhaps so,” I say with a smile. I go about making coffee and a nice breakfast, looking over my shoulder the entire time.
George and I were on edge all morning, but there were no other traces of Ivan on that day or any other day. I kept dating George and eventually moved into his house. I mostly assumed Ivan had moved on. Although, once in a while, I would come into the kitchen to make dinner and find the towel on the floor, and I would wonder…
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Text is fictional. Happy Halloween. Be nice to have a source for this.