Marine Vet

Marine Vet Ch 03

The Table Turns

This story is fiction. But unfortunately, the premises on which it is built have been repeated over and over. And it seems that even the small amount we do to help those who have fought for us is being cut back. Veterans, thank you for your service. Everyone in the story is over 18. I wish to emphasize that all of the places described are fictional--including Eden (not the Eden which coincidentally is an actual small town in Northern Indiana) and SICC. ©Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

Brief introduction for those who haven't read the first two chapters:

Ollie Strauss and Tory Aikman have been friends forever. They've lived near each other in Eden, Indiana, played various sports together and co-captained the high school football team. Both are fitness freaks, in terrific shape and handsome young specimens of manhood.

Ollie is a confident and accomplished young man, with an MFA and a Psych license, an open gay, with a part-time Veterans Administration position in therapy (art therapy) which grew out of a two year unpaid internship. He's also an instructor in art at Southern Indiana Community College where he also coaches intramural sports. Late in the summer, his first official one person art show at the Shower Gallery in Indianapolis was successful and a sell-out. He's already booked for another show. He's not in the big leagues yet, but his paintings do sell in the low thousands.

Being an artist, Ollie always dresses in black--black tees, black jeans, and black hi-tops. But the color he chooses to wear does not reflect his personality. He's sunny and upbeat. A genuine friend to have.

Tory, after a community college stint in business administration, spent almost four years in the Middle East, mostly in a war zone, as a Marine, specializing in electronics and communication. Toward the end of his tour, after a terrible accident where several of his closest friends were killed and he was injured, physically and mentally, he was treated, discharged with military honors--and the dubious benefit of being able to attempt to access mental health services at the closest VA Hospital--which was about 50 miles from his home in Indianapolis. He went home and for weeks wallowed in his depression.

Ollie took the initiative, came to the rescue and pulled Tory back from the brink. Given his "therapeutic" relationship, Ollie was careful not to seduce Tory, although he was incredibly attracted to his friend. After weeks, Tory admitted his experiments with guys in the desert and his attraction to men. One thing led to another, and they are now a couple, beginning the search for a place to live in Indianapolis.

The story continues in Ollie's voice...

It's early November and SICC has mid-terms. However, since I teach art (painting and sculpture), there are no mid-terms--only projects to be turned in for critical analysis by the entire class. So I am not required to labor over essays, trying to determine which are original and which are derived from an AI program, before I even begin to think about the quality and content. Thankfully, AI has not yet reached the state of producing original art--except art which is obviously derivative. My students wouldn't dare.

Last weekend, Tory and I began the search for a place to live. We saw six places in two days. Three were overpriced and too expensive for us. One already had three offers outstanding. Two others were fixer-uppers, but in our price range. The first of those was a huge 30s mansion and a total wreck--originally six bedrooms with one bath! The roof was shot; the foundation was risky. It had incredible potential--if we were developers or buying to flip. But, we weren't ready for the task of taking on such a huge project, despite the potential. The last, seen on Sunday afternoon, was not in a good neighborhood, and it would be years before the block gentrified. So we had nothing. The agent told us to cool it. We were just starting. Something would happen.

Then Tory got really busy at Kipling and was working crazy overtime. So we skipped a few weeks of hunting. Apparently our looking process was going to be long and slow.

One Monday, just before Thanksgiving, the service manager called him in at the end of the day. His three month "probationary" period was over. Tory got a great review and a promotion. Given his background in communications and electronics in the Marines, he wanted Tory to specialize in auto electronics and head a new team that would specialize in the newer forms of "repair"--assisted by computers which analyzed the situation and prescribed the cure using on board computers "married" to one in the dealership. It would require three weeks of school in Indianapolis, but the dealership would pay him full salary during the weeks and pay for a hotel and per diem. Tory had little choice really. In fact, deep down, he was very pleased at the praise and to be moving into a growing area of expertise. So he accepted.

Monday is my only complete day off--the day I cook seriously and work on my art, today mostly preparing canvasses for the paint--stretching, priming and doing a bit of sketching. I was ready when he got home--the whole nine yards: candlelight, wine, simple meal--and Tory for dessert. Tory related all of his good news to me over dinner. I was pleased to say the least. He was going to be housed at one of the suite hotels with a small kitchen--and he wanted me to join him. It would give us time to test out Indianapolis life and do some serious real estate shopping. A vacation, but with a purpose.

The following week we "moved" to the motel. And over the first few nights, we visited a number of gay bars and even a club to see what the gay scene offered. It turns out that Tory was a very talented dancer--and much sought after "new meat" in the crowded club. I was sure pleased he was coming home with me. The stimulation of the club, the dance--and maybe the other male flesh on display for hours turned us both into ravenous sexual beasts. We arrived home sweaty and hard, ready to make love. Tory was as big and hard as I'd ever felt him. He pounded my prostate into a frenzy and then me into the mattress until I screamed my orgasm. And a few minutes later, I had him in a jack-knife doing the same to him as a stared into his fiery eyes. The sex was athletic and terrific. Obviously, being exposed to others whose lifestyle paralleled our own--out partying in public, not afraid to show a little sex appeal or skin--was a real turn on. Social life in Indianapolis was going to be great. We couldn't wait to relocate.

We also looked at a few more houses and one condo. Nothing panned out. Not much was going on as Thanksgiving and Christmas approached.

Near the end of the second week in Indianapolis, we met another gay couple, Glen and Steve, at the Purple Pelican, a classy unisex club near the Museum. They were just a little older, and excitedly awaiting the arrival of their first foster child--actually two, two brothers, five and seven. They couldn't stop gushing over the prospect of children. The boys were arriving in just a week, and they were celebrating "without kids" for one of the last times for months. We talked and seemed to hit it off. I described our search.

Glen lit up immediately, "We live less than a mile from here. There's a place next door to ours. Let me see what I can find out about it. Come by tomorrow. You can see our place and at least you can see it from the street."

"It's going on the market next week, we hear. It was bought by a young couple a little over a year ago. They've been working on it. They've done a lot I'm told, but it's definitely still a fixer upper. Unfortunately their marriage isn't making it. They've separated. Neither of them can handle the place alone. So I've heard that it will go up for sale in a few days. I think you might like it. Come by tomorrow to our place for drinks--early before it's dark."

The next night we did get a look--Glen even had obtained a key. It was on a narrow lot; the house itself was only about 20 feet wide, but on the corner with an alley behind. The house had three rooms all lined up on the first floor, "shotgun" style from front to back--a living room, a dining room and a kitchen. Behind this was a small unfinished room, probably an office-to-be or even a small bedroom, an entrance to the back yard and a small, un-remodeled bath. There was a yard, fenced on two sides, with the third side being the back wall of a detached two car garage, which opened to the alley. The garage was being converted to a rental unit--so the doors had been removed and glass sliders installed. The sliders now faced a fenced enclosure, previously the driveway. It had a loft. And some work had been done--new windows, insulation, electric, and raw plumbing. But, no drywall or kitchen--but a utility sink remained in the back corner. Perfect for a studio.

The house itself had been stripped down to the hardwood floors and the walls and woodwork had been refinished--except for the kitchen. It was old, with an ancient soapstone sink, a two burner hotplate and a micro. A fridge rattled noisily in the corner, obviously on its last legs.

Upstairs they had converted one small bedroom to a large modern bath--the jewel of the place. There was a larger room--the master, and a smaller--perhaps an office or even a closet. Clearly the bedroom and bath had been the first priority of the young couple, followed by the rental unit.

And it was priced well below our budget. But, we couldn't do a VA loan--fixer uppers don't qualify for that kind of financing. We liked it and decided immediately.

We signed and a month later, just before Christmas, we moved in--with Tory's Dad's assistance and co-signature. We planned to do the remodeling ourselves. We moved a few pieces from my apartment and bought a new memory foam king playpen. It was perfect! We had our first place. In the city. And with promising neighbors.

******

Earlier in the month the Presidential elections had been held. A "professional" outsider had won, promising big changes. He claimed a "massive mandate to change everything" despite the fact that he didn't even get a majority of the votes. Most of us didn't know what that even meant, although conservative pundits insisted that he wouldn't do anything too drastic. And things would definitely be better. Somehow we didn't think that "better" did not mean us--he seemed to be disdainful of military vets--even calling them "suckers"--and was openly hostile to gays. But, we had pretty much ignored it all. We were into each other and our plans. We hadn't even voted. For us, all politicians were bad news, and we were young, enjoying life and into ourselves. Just leave us alone. Unfortunately that was not to be.

Christmas was "different"--split between two sets of parents, our first holiday as a couple. We were accepted, although some relatives invariably asked embarrassing questions. But, both mothers showered us with linens, cookware, utensils and plates--all the things needed to make a home. And it was wonderful to eat good food cooked in a real kitchen. (And to take home many packages of leftovers.) And the next day, their generosity overwhelmed us--the appliance store delivered a fridge, a range and a dish washer! We had a kitchen!

January started really cold with lots of snow, including a blizzard early in the month. Our commutes became longer and less predictable. But we had each other--and a wood burning fireplace, which we hardly needed with all the heat we were generating, as we learned every square inch of our partner's body.

We spent most nights entwined together under an old family heirloom quilt, making love, trying out erogenous zones and positions, while pretending to watch movies.

I still remember those nights so vividly. Nothing frantic. Just slow stimulation of a partner, caressing every inch, necking, holding each other so tightly that we felt me might meld into one. Creating that slow burn of arousal. Sometimes I was in his lap; other times he was in mine.

We were getting really comfortable relaxing in each other's arms, naked under the quilt, taking turns with intimate massage until the pressure had built so much that we flipped into a straddle, bouncing on rock hard dicks, or retired to bed where there was ample room for the athletic, frantic sex that we both loved, typically followed a half hour later by a flip of slow, sloppy romantic sex.

It never gets old--every time the swollen tip of his hard pole pushes through the ring and begins to brush my love nut, it sends shivers up my spine. He was slowly stretching me to exactly his size. My chute learned to wrap his shaft like a nice tight wetsuit, keeping pressure on and stroking my most sensitive spot. And every hot blast inside is met with my equal explosion. It's funny how initial brief pain yields to pleasure and then briefly back to pain as we feel each other's deepest fears and inadequacies--and take them home. All before the release that glues us together yet again. Makes us whole. The way we were meant to be. Sex does heal. I'm convinced.

I proved to be a pretty good cook--balancing some prepared stuff with things I could cook in a micro or using the new range. Tory, however, with his famous "fix-anything" hands turned out to be a disaster at home remodeling (and cooking). He was absolutely an accident waiting to happen every time he lifted a hammer or approached the range. But, I think I'll keep him anyway. There is one tool that he uses with admirable effectiveness. We were happy and falling into a routine.

At Kipling, Tory slipped easily into the management of the electronics team and loved his work. The guys loved him. He was a good teacher, patient--and they could tell he really cared about them and their welfare. And he had an intuitive ability to scope out problems. He got another raise, and all the OT that he wanted. Tom Kipling, who had lost a son in VietNam adopted Tory as his own, showered him with praise and treated him like the hero he truly was.

Meanwhile we (I) dry-walled the studio and used an epoxy on the floor. We got an electric heater to take off the chill. I had a studio where I didn't need to port all my stuff every time I had time to paint. And I had completed half of the canvasses needed for the April show. The light was perfect and the size of the garage was the largest space in which I had ever worked.

During one of our evenings in front of the fire (I had just deposited my daily loan into his sweek little ass), Tory noted that it had been weeks since he had had a nightmare, and the only daytime panic episodes had been triggered by a series of auto backfires while he was working. He was healing. I knew I was part of it.

Then disaster (of sorts) hit.

In February, things went south quickly. The new guy in the White House didn't believe in mental health--or at least in society's responsibility to help certain people achieve it (including veterans). He sliced VA funding to the bone, and they in turn cut out virtually all mental health services for all vets, except those actually confined to hospitals. So much for respect for our veterans. Or any sense of duty for their sacrifice! All so he could deliver a bigger tax cut for the fat cats who supported him.

All "probationary" hires at the VA and some other government agencies (that includes me) were summarily fired. And the way it was done, I didn't seem that I would even be eligible for unemployment compensation benefits. So I was out of my therapy work. It was over just as it was beginning. Obviously, I was disappointed and depressed. Fortunately, I had kept the few classes at SICC--which unfortunately didn't pay all that well. And now living with a mortgage. Intramural coaching didn't start for another two months--and we had used all of our savings to buy the house and get the studio ready for work. The art show, an iffy possibility for income at any rate, was two months away.

So Tory became the principal breadwinner. My "patient" had become my lifeline. We halted the reno to take stock. And we headed to bed for therapy sessions. I'm not sure who was the therapist. But both of us were making enough love potion to go around. And around. And around. Repeatedly, Tory reminded me as we climaxed again together that this is all we really needed. Being discharged from a new position was not the end of the world. We were together. We had each other--and accepting and loving folks.

I considered looking for work in the city as a psychologist, but realized I would need a doctorate for most positions. I began to consider doing more graduate work to get the PhD that I'd need if I really wanted to have a psych practice. It seemed very far off and impossible.

I then realized he was absolutely right in his repeated assurances. Next to his trauma, my recent experience was just a minor setback. More university opportunities (to teach art) would open up; maybe some other therapy jobs would appear. And the show would be a success.

One particular evening stands out. Months before, I had proposed using Tory as a live model and had proposed that we photograph a few staged coupling scenes--which I would then paint. He had accepted then, but we hadn't really had the time to make it work. It was Sunday and an unusually bright and warm day for late February. So I set up and draped a stand. Tory stripped and spent the better part of two hours holding various poses as I sketched and photographed. (and drooled.) I like to paint in silence--so he plugged into an MP3. I could tell what he was listening too by the motion of his feet, and even the occasional erection of his dick. (I'd have to find out what those songs were!) He was cold. So I repeatedly warmed him with my own body surrounding his. And I did provide him with a long and sensuous blowjob after the first hour as a reward.

Then I rearranged the posing stand to resemble a bed--a rather small and hard one. I set up the I-phone camera on a tripod to take photos, and we posed--did what came naturally. The hard surface of the "bed" was challenged by the rigid stiffness of our love wands. In the end, I was filled with his spunk and my camera had a few dozen spectacular pictures of two amorous young men in various positions.

Incidentally, I don't do explicit sexual imagery in my paintings. I've got nothing against it, but "serious" artists produce something more creative.

I am a semi-abstract painter. My technique is simple--I sketch a scene, drawn from life or photos that I take, typically involving persons, preferably nude. Then I apply washes of color suggesting emotion--obscuring identities, but certainly leaving demonstrably sensuous impressions. I had perfected the notion of color and abstraction conveying emotions and images--loneliness, despair, romance, sexual energy, strength, beauty. Complex, yes. Potentially erotic and pornographic, yes--if that is what you are looking for. But, strangely enticing, seducing. The first show had been a success, and I decided to do at least one more developmental set of paintings in the same genre. I needed this show to be a success.

With all of the sexual tension of the studio of the afternoon, that evening was destined to be terrific. We had a few drinks, and I warmed up some stew that I had made earlier in the week. As we sat across from each other at dinner, our eyes said it all. I think Tory could tell that I was still upset that I had hurt our financial plans. And so he distracted me in the way only he could--he orchestrated a long and sensuous seduction. His knee played with my inner thigh and occasionally brushed my erection throughout the meal. We were hungry for much more than the savory soup in front of us. Every bite was a seductive act. My creative juices had been stimulated throughout the afternoon as I sketched--and posed with Tory. But, his were still building. I was in for one of his attacks, I assumed...and really hoped.