I really don't know how to categorize this chapter. There is no incest. There is a bit of female-male rimming. Most of the action, but not all is between Owen and Bill. For that reason, I decide to put it in the "Gay Male" category. For those of you who have followed the story I hope that doesn't stop you. For those new readers, who may be exclusively gay, there's not much straight sex in this chapter. Maybe try imaging Jim is getting rimmed by a dude?
By the by, anyone else wish there was a Bi category?
Thanks to LarryInSeattle.
Enjoy and helpful comments are always welcome.
Turbidus
==========
Bill wakes with a hard cock pressed into the small of his back. The cock is almost as hard as the small circle of steel that adorns it. The dark room is already warm and the halo of bright light around the window shade triggers a powerful sense of déjà vu. This time it's different. This time his brother's bed is empty. This time he's not alone. Owen's cock, the arm draped over his waist, the warm breath against the back of his shoulder, all these things tell him that he's not alone.
Sadness laps at the edge of his contentment. He wishes, perhaps he always will, that it was Jim pressed to his back. He pictures this exact scene happening down the hall, except in that version, it is Jill lying in Jim's arms, lying where he wishes to be.
As is his habit, Bill turns away from the sadness. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash and turns back. He looks, really looks, at the wave he fears will engulf him. As he does, it subsides. He's not facing a tsunami. It's no longer even a wave; it's a pool. A dark pool whose surface undulates as if caressed by the softest of breezes. He scans the surface for the flash that caught his eye.
It's a welder's torch. He recognizes the moment. It's the end of their first week of classroom work. They're finally in the shop. Each of them has a pair of welder's glasses resting atop their heads. Jim has just lit his torch. That was the flash. He's grinning at Bill and Bill is grinning back. Bill's eyes dart over the surface of the pool; it begins to lighten. The surface is no longer a smear of solid black. It's a patchwork of bright light and shiny black and mingled greys like the bright sun on choppy water. He peers closer. He sees Jill smiling at Jim; sees the look on Jim's face when he's watching Jill and thinks no one is looking. He and Jim touching beer bottles to celebrate a Panther's touchdown, especially one scored against the reviled Redskins. He sees his mom, his father, Mark, Muriel, and his best friend in grade school who died in sixth grade from a brain tumor. They're all there.
He reflects on the difference between despair and sadness. This is a quiet place where sadness mingles with memory, laughter, and tears. The surface coalesces into a chiaroscuro of Jim's face. The face smiles, winks, and then collapses back into the no-longer-solidly-dark surface.
Bill sighs as the vision fades. He smiles, a faint half smile, a smile as full of wistful memories as his vision. Behind him, Owen shifts. Bill drifts back into a dream he'll never quite remember, though the moment itself never fades, as he reaches for the hand resting on his waist.
***
Owen dreams of a gallery opening. Beautiful young men float above the floor, offering sparkling flutes of champagne and tidbits of food he cannot name. Marilyn Monroe is telling him how much she loves his work. Behind her, Cher is making faces. He glances over his shoulder. The world freezes. His paintings, his creations, pieces of his soul, fall, one by one, and shatter as if made of glass. His mother strides across the room, guests parting before her like the Red Sea before Moses. She's barefooted. She stamps on the shards of glass and they're pulverized into sand. She leaves bloody footprints on the floor. Her Bible, her ubiquitous Bible, is held in front of her, more a weapon than shield. She's naked. The blood she leaves on the floor isn't from her feet. It pulses from her vagina, a thick stream, waxing and waning like cold syrup from the mouth of a bottle on a frozen morning. She's naked. Two vipers, fangs embedded deep in her flesh hang from her nipples. He looks down at his chest and the steel bars begin to twist and squirm. They bite. The pain is immediate and immense. The pain is as far beyond that of his piercing, as the sun is beyond a birthday candle. He screams but no sound escapes his throat. His throat is stretched by an undulating mass. It's a snake. He can see its tail, protruding from his mouth, whipping to and fro. It's not trying to get out; it's trying to get in. He can't breathe. His mother reaches for him with her free hand. Her mouth opens and keeps opening, stretching and contorting. Her face, then her head, disappear behind a gaping maw lined with snakes that strike and snap, anxious to sink their teeth into his face. She will swallow him whole. Deep, far down the gullet, at the back of her maw, he sees a glow. The fiery lake awaits.
Someone squeezes his hand. He turns his head. The creature in his throat disappears. The room is light again. His paintings hang as before. There is no glass, no demon mother, no guest. Just the two of them and his paintings, most of which have yet to be put on canvas. Bill smiles at him, tips him a wink.
At the touch of Bill's hand, Owen's dream falls away, a dead empty snake skin crumbles under his unheeding heal as he walks toward the surf, hand in hand, with Bill. In his dream the ocean is warm and the waves laugh along with him.
***
"Can I come in?"
"Of course, Muriel. Don't be silly," Meg assures her.
Muriel is wearing a threadbare house coat that serves to accentuate more than hide her naked form. Meg has an apron on. It makes her bare ass and the sides of her breast look more delectable than usual. Ben is perched on one of the bar stools, bare ass on the towel as good manners require.
"Morning, Muriel. Sleep well? That son of mine still snoozing?"
"Mornin'." Muriel pulls out a stool and sits. She grimaces slightly. "I slept the sleep of the innocent, or the damned, not sure which." She pays Meg for the cup of coffee set before her with a rueful smile.
"How's your tush, Meg?"
"From the look on your face when you sat down just now, 'bout the same as yours."
"Any blood, sweet one?"
"No, nothing like that. Just a little achy. Strange but I kind of like it," she confesses with a smile. "It's the same sort of ache I used to have after the first few times Ben rogered the hell out of me."
Her husband nearly chokes on his coffee. The women chuckle. Everyone quiets. They drink their coffee.
"That was it, wasn't it?" Ben asks, looking at the two over the top of his coffee cup. The rising steam lends his serious face a hint of mystery. "We're finished with all this?"
He surprised when Meg shrugs. "I'm not sure to be honest. I've never seen someone have an orgasm like the one Muriel had last night. I want to try that, at least once. Who would be better to ask than Jim? Jill's made it clear she doesn't mind." A frown crosses her face. "Although, I don't think I'm ready to try to take Jim up my ass. I think that should be you." She looks at her friend and lover. "You don't mean we're giving up what we had with Muriel do you? I don't think I could bear that.
"Meg, love, that will be up to Muriel...and Mark," Ben tells her after taking a sip of his coffee.
"What's up to me?"
Mark stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning light. He walks into the room, long cock swinging from side to side, an upside down metronome.
"Whether Muriel continues to be your mother's and my lover," Ben answers. "Of course, Muriel has a lot to say about that as well."
Mark nods as he comes to a stop behind Muriel. He kisses the top of her shoulder. He rubs one hand through his hair. "I wondered if that was what you were talking about?" He looks at Muriel. "Do you want to talk to my parents alone? Is that why you didn't wake me?"
Muriel smiles at him and shakes her head. "No, Mark. You looked so adorable lying there, all tangled up in the sheet, I didn't have the heart to wake you. I've nothing to say to your parents I'm not happy to have you hear."
"I'd understand if you did, honest." Mark looks at his parents. "Why are you wearing this?" He asks Muriel, plucking at the sleeve of her housecoat.
"I like it. Besides, you'd get tired of only seeing me naked."
"I doubt it," Mark replies, letting the matter drop. His mother hands him a cup of coffee. He blows on it, takes a sip and grimaces.
"Too strong? Want cream? Sugar?"
"No thanks, mom. It's just hot, that's all." He reaches between Muriel and his father, carefully, and sits the mug down on the counter. "I'm not totally sure how I feel about this but my first thought, which is pretty surprising to me, is that I don't mind. It seems so bizarre a thing to say. That's why I hesitated." He looks at the three of them in turn. "I mean, I don't want us all to move in together and spend our lives together or anything, I'm not sure how much I'd want to be involved, as far as, you know, doing stuff with you guys," he nods towards his parents, "but beyond that, I don't know for sure, but I think I would be okay with it."
When he's finished, he looks to Muriel not his parents, but it's Ben who speaks first. "I'm pretty sure I can speak for your mother on this one. We don't want you moving back in forever, with or without Muriel, either." There's a chuckle in his voice but he watches his son carefully.
"Although," Meg begins, head tilted toward her right shoulder, index finger pressed to her chin, the very model of thoughtfulness. "We could get rid of the wall between our bedroom and Jill's. We'd leave the boys' room for guests but we could make quiet a large room with a couple of California king mattresses, some mirrors, really go all out."
"Meg, darlin' how is it you've managed to hide the fact you're a total slut from your poor sweet innocent husband?" Muriel purrs.
"Same way he was able to hide his fondness for sucking dick I suppose," Meg retorts. Her hand flies to her mouth.
Mark stares, open-mouthed, at his mother. Muriel frowns, then looks sad. Meg looks at her husband. He looks like she's kicked him in the balls, which she supposes, she has.
"Oh, Ben, I'm so sorry. I was trying to make a joke."
He shakes his head. "No, you weren't. That's okay. Don't pretend it wasn't anger. Anger I get. Even if you've forgiven the deception, even if you understand, truly, understand that I can love you and yet still be drawn to men, I still lied to you all those years. You should be angry. I'd rather you let it out than have it fester."
