Barrack, Jeanne - The Sweet Flag Page 3

  “What are you thinking?” I didn’t want to hear that he had suddenly had second thoughts. Not now. “Do you want to use a condom? I know it may be a bit like” -- he grinned, with a mocking glance in his eye, and said -- “how is it said, locking the barn after the horse? We did exchange ‘bodily fluids.’” He teased, then grimaced and shuddered. “What a horrible phrase that is. But I know you are not ill…I can sense it, and I swear to you, I would never hurt you. But, if you wish, we can use them.”

  I hadn’t even thought of this. You’d think I’d always be careful, and usually I was. Even when Umberto and I had had that little quickie, I asked him to use a sheath. I wanted to tell Ron no. I wanted to trust him, but I wasn’t that nuts. I had bargained my freedom temporarily for the information I needed, but damned if I was going to bargain my life. But maybe I was kidding myself. Maybe I wanted to believe that Ron didn’t seem dangerous, because he was right that, at any time, he could have beaten and raped me and cut me into little pieces. He had given me clothes and hadn’t locked the door. The only thing keeping me here was my own curiosity and the fact that he was the most intriguing person I had ever met. A mass of contradictions. I was as interested in him as I was in finding out more about the vigilant soldier.

  But I wasn’t that foolhardy.

  “Get them, please. I’ve tested negative, but I really don’t know you.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “And do you always fuck strangers? What if I did decide to beat you and take you?”

  I patted the bed next to me.

  “C’mere and find out.”

  And he laughed again. He drew his t-shirt over his head and tossed it on one of the chairs by the window. He smiled. God, I would remember every one of his smiles. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he placed his hands on his hips, unbuttoned the top of his fly, and pulled down the zipper. Then he turned and faced the mirror as he bent over to get out of his jeans. I licked my lips as his tight butt was revealed once more for me. Then I sighed as his cock sprang free: hard, heavy, long, and fully erect.

  “I thought you’d enjoy an encore of my earlier performance.” He stood and turned back to face me, smoothing his hand along his penis. “I know I enjoyed yours. In fact, I give it a standing ovation.”

  I groaned and grabbed one of the down-filled pillows and threw it at him. He caught it easily and tossed it back onto the bed. He grinned, and then his smile faded.

  “The condoms. They’re in the bathroom.” My gaze latched onto his ass as he went to get the protection for which I’d asked. Damn, just watching his butt and thighs as he moved almost made me come. His legs were hairier than mine but not too much. No tattoos anywhere, which I liked. Some guys thought having tattoos automatically made them more macho. Idiots.

  He returned quickly, a small box in one hand and a miniature cut-glass bottle in the other. He was still hard, his penis bobbing as he approached the bed. I smiled.

  He looked down at his cock, bouncing as he moved, and grinned. “We men are ridiculous-looking creatures, aren’t we?”

  I shook my head. “You’re incredible.”

  He smiled. “Wait until we’re through here, and then tell me I’m incredible.” He set the bottle and box on the nightstand and lay down next to me on his side. We stared at each other in silence. Had he changed his mind? He reached out and touched my cheek.

  “You have eyes like sapphires. Like his eyes. Like Matthew’s eyes.”

  I grabbed his hand and kissed the palm, and then a thought struck me.

  “You know the color of his eyes? How?”

  “I know the color of his eyes and hair. They are there in his portrait.” He gestured to the wall behind me. I turned and found the picture. Matthew Hardesty in his twenties. Hand-tinted to display blond hair and the blue eyes of which Ron spoke. The face of a young man who didn’t live to see his thirtieth birthday. I felt Ron’s hand on my shoulder and his warm breath on my neck.

  “You remind me of him, Brandon. A little. Enough.” His hand slid down my arm and around the front to my cock and lingered there, waiting for permission to touch. He kissed me behind my ear and whispered. “Let me touch you.”

  For answer, I pressed my backside against his thick erection, twined my fingers with his, and placed his hand on my penis. His cock nudged between my butt cheeks, and I felt his furred chest against my back. His voice was hoarse as he murmured incoherently against my shoulder, pressing hard kisses, biting me. His fingers were like a vise wrapped in velvet as he worked me. His heart beat erratically as his voice grew louder and his English turned to French.

  I came far too quickly, my cum spilling onto his fingers. As it coated his skin, he gasped and pulled his hand and his body away from mine. I thought at first he was pissed at me. Then, he rolled me over roughly to face him and held his sticky hand to my lips.

  “Taste.” I took his fingers, one at a time, between my lips. No one had ever asked me to do this. I held his hand as I sucked each finger, licked and swiped with my tongue until he was shuddering in my hand. I had him. He was mine.

  He tore his hand away and ripped open the box of condoms. His fingers trembled as he tore the package and placed the condom in my palm.

  “Put it on me. Do it now.”

  I fumbled a bit. Ron grabbed it from me, impatient. His movements quick, sure, he covered his penis, shielding it from me. I thought for sure that he’d flip me over on my face and just shove his cock in me.

  I was wrong.

  He took a deep breath. “Forgive me. I want -- too much.” He swung his legs over and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, his head in his hands. In control, this man seemed so far to be always in control and now, suddenly…

  I got another condom from the box, reached around him, took hold of his hand, and shoved the packet into it.

  “Here, put it on me. Please.” I leaned my head on his shoulder. “I want too much, too.” I stretched out on the bed on my back, waiting for him to join me, hoping he’d do what I asked. Then he shifted so that he was half-sitting on the bed facing me, a slight smile on his face, and he ripped open the small, square envelope.

  His hands stayed on my penis after he put on the condom, stroking me, fondling my balls. I clenched my eyes, arching against his fingers. Loving the feel of his hands through the thin latex. Wanting more. Wanting to feel his hands and hair and mouth again on the rest of me. The sandpaper of his jaw against my belly.

  “Turn over.”

  I flipped over, offering him my backside, squeezing my buttocks in anticipation.

  Several sensations hit me at the same time.

  A scent that was strangely familiar. Firm fingers kneading my backside, slipping between the cleft between my butt, coating my skin with a silky lotion that tingled even as it lubricated, finding access inside me. I gasped.

  “What the hell is that stuff?” I heard his chuckle even as he slid a second finger deeper within. “Also an old family recipe. Some of the calamus root mixed with this and that.” He smacked my ass with one hand. “It’s said to increase the sensitivity and one’s energy.” He managed to slide in another finger, moving them, easing me open even more. His voice took on a crooning note, sinking to that rich baritone as he coaxed one shudder after another from me. “How do you feel, mon

  cher ami? Are you more sensitive? Are you ready for more?” He withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving me aching for him to fill me with something thicker, harder, longer. I felt his warm breath as he blew across my butt, heating the lotion. His lips touched me, kissing me. His mouth opened, and his tongue lapped the unguent from my flesh, swirling along my cheeks. His tongue dipped deeper along the cleft, pricking the small, heated entrance to my body. I grabbed the headboard and curled my knees beneath me, my actions a silent response to his question.

  I heard that fruity chuckle once more.

  “ Oui. You are ready for more.”

  Chapter Three Whatever the hell that lube was made
from, it did exactly as Ron said it would. He slid his penis into me slow and easy. I was usually resistant at first, but not with him. The agonizing friction as he penetrated was only agonizing because he took his time when all I wanted was for him to grab my ass and fuck me senseless. I rocked against him, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

  He just laughed.

  “Nice and easy does it, cher, as in the song.”

  What the hell song?

  I squeezed my inner muscles, and he groaned. What the hell was he waiting for? Fuck you, Ron

  Then he laughed again. And grabbed my hair. “Who is on top right now?”

  “You, fuck you.”

  He tugged my hair. “Not yet, mon ami. Your turn to be top dog will come…perhaps, but since you insist…” And he picked up speed, grabbing the headboard for better balance, twining his fingers with mine, driving into me until the bed rocked, and I came, every part of me tightening, then spilling into the condom, waiting for Ron to climax. He wasn’t far behind, his shout as he ejaculated ringing in my ears.

  He pried our hands from the headboard, rolling with me to the side, and bringing our hands together in front of me. He withdrew from my body slowly, our skin slick with sweat, smelling of sex and the family lubricant.

  What sort of a family has a one-of-a-kind lube?

  “Let me clean us up,” he offered. He got rid of the used condoms and came back from the bathroom with a soft, warm, damp towel. He wiped me down, every part of me, soothing me with his touch. Then he took the towel and held it to his face, inhaling the scent of sex that lingered on it. Christ, I almost came again just watching him. The man gave new meaning to the word sensual.

  He wiped his own body off more briskly, tossed the towel on top of his t-shirt on the chair, turned off the lamps by the bed, pulled me into his arms, and sighed.

  “I suppose you want to know about Hardesty and deMonde, now, yes?”

  I had almost forgotten, but I couldn’t let him know that. “We have a deal.” “Oui, we have a deal. Listen. Aaron Maurice deMonde was born September 20, 1830 to a member of minor French nobility, and his mistress, Marie Renee Rochambeau, a Haitian -- so she claimed -- of mixed parentage. Her mother was a French Jewess whose family raised sugarcane. Her father was one of the field hands trained as a carpenter. A love affair began when Moses, the carpenter, carved bedroom furniture for Malka Rachel, the youngest daughter of the house. She was cast out when she became pregnant, and Moses was sold to another plantation owner. The family reclaimed the infant when the daughter died in childbirth. The child, a female who passed as white, was brought up as a part of the family and named after her mother. After a fire, in which the entire family died, destroyed her grandparents’ plantation, she discovered that the Rochambeaus’ financial manager had embezzled all their funds. Destitute after selling the last of the jewelry left to her by her mother to enable her to leave the country, she traveled to France, became one of the

  demimondaine , you know, a prostitute, and met Aaron’s father. Although discarded by her lover once he knew her mixed heritage, he continued to provide for Aaron’s support and musical training.

  “DeMonde and Hardesty met at a private party --”

  “I knew it!” He pinched my thigh. “ Tais-toi, who is telling this? To continue, they met at a private party where deMonde was performing. It was for a select group of people from the bourgeoisie, invited back for a more intimate gathering after a sumptuous debut for the eldest daughter of a prosperous businessman who had delusions of grandeur.”

  “I thought only upper class and nobility had debuts for their daugh -- Shit! That hurt.” “I told you, the man had delusions of grandeur. Besides, he was fishing for a husband for the girl. Along with the wealthiest, most prominent families, any unattached males between the ages of twenty and forty with money or a title -- better yet, with money anda title -- were invited back to the villa for fancy desserts, drinks, cigars, and music. The few with titles came because they owed the man money for unpaid bills and loans. The man had promised concessions to anyone who would attend the soirees. The others came to criticize everything about the event, from the food to the entertainment.

  “DeMonde was to sing, offering a selection of lieder and chanson, presumably to encourage a relaxed, and perhaps romantic mood, in the guests. Unfortunately, the eldest daughter decided that deMonde was to be her quarry for the evening.” Ron took a breath. I felt him shrug. “Perhaps it was the novelty of capturing a male from a lower class and an entertainer as well. Who knows? But she followed after him until he lost her within the immaculately manicured grounds. The evening was cloudy, the grass was damp, and deMonde relied upon her lack of desire to get her shoes muddy to aid in his escape. He found his way to a charming gazebo equipped with its own miniature chandelier, the lit candles providing enough light to see that it was already occupied.

  “A young man lounged carelessly on the cushioned bench, a thin cigar between his sensual lips. Smoke swirled from its tip, and the heady aroma wafted toward deMonde. DeMonde turned to go, but the young man called out to him to join him.”

  I halted Ron’s story. “Hardesty.”

  “Who else?” This time, he didn’t pinch me. “The closer he came to the gazebo, the clearer the man’s feature’s became. He was so…blond, so young, perhaps five years younger than deMonde. He looked like an angel to deMonde.”

  I started. To me, Ron looked like an angel. A fallen angel, true, and one with a magnificent dick. If I remembered correctly, though, angels had no sex organs.

  “Are you paying attention? I thought you wanted to know how they met?”

  I collected my thoughts and focused on his words. “Go on.” He shifted until his cock was wedged in the cleft between my buttocks, nipped me on the shoulder, and growled in my ear. “If you are not attentive, I will not continue, and I will leave this bed. Comprendre?”

  I nodded, the threat of his leaving finally regaining my concentration. “To go on. Matthew offered deMonde one of the cheroots he had in his case. After brief introductions were exchanged, they fell silent, then burst simultaneously into speech, and then into sweet, shared laughter.

  “Matthew said to deMonde, ‘I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing. I’ve never been much for this type of music -- my sister, Susan, calls me a barbarian -- but, when I heard your voice…’ He hesitated and deMonde encouraged him to share his thoughts.

  “The American blushed, enchanting deMonde with his shyness, then took a deep breath and spoke.

  “He told deMonde, ‘When I heard you sing, I thought that this was how Orpheus sounded when he tried to regain Eurydice from Hades.’

  “DeMonde’s heart stopped beating, and he fell in love.”

  I interrupted him again. “How can you know this much? How could you know such intimate details?”

  I felt Ron’s lips form a smile against my back as he shifted to press his mouth against me. “I have deMonde’s diary…and Matthew’s.”

  I pulled away from him, turning to face him. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not lying.”

  “I am not lying.”

  “Where are they? What condition are they in? How did you wind up with them? When can I read them?”

  He laughed. “They are here in the house, in excellent condition, they were left in my care, and you cannot read them.”

  “Why the fuck not?” He shuttered his eyes, and his hand touched my penis and stroked it like it was his pet, like he owned it. Then his fingers gripped my cock like a vise, getting tighter and tighter. He opened his eyes, and in the darkened room, they seemed to glow. I blinked, and they were back to normal. His voice froze my blood.

  “We have a deal, remember? If you were to read the diaries, what need would you have of me? You would take them and try to leave.” He ground out the next words. “And I would not let you. I would have to prevent you.” He relaxed his grip, then stroked me once more. “I don’t want to hurt you, Brandon. I swore to you I
wouldn’t. Please, let me tell you their story in my own words.”

  I took his hand and brought it to my mouth and kissed his palm. He understood the gesture then remarked, absentmindedly, “Your fingertips are calloused, and for one so blond, your beard is rough.”

  I smiled against his skin then dropped his hand. “You don’t know everything about me. I have my own secrets. Nobody else knows, but I play bluegrass guitar. My beard always grows in coarse and darker than my hair, a family inheritance. At least that’s what my grandmother told me.”

  I could see him better now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light in the room. He nodded. “Now I know one of your secrets.”

  I shook my head. “And I know none of yours.”

  “You went to the cemetery to learn Hardesty’s secrets, not mine. If you will keep quiet, perhaps you will learn them.”

  “Yeah, right, just keep talking!” He laughed mockingly. “I thought you’d never ask. They spoke for several hours, lost in their own private world, but deMonde had enough sense to insist they return separately to the house. There was also an old-fashioned maze on the grounds, and they concocted a tale for Matthew that he had lost his way in it, until finally stumbling upon the exit. They each had their own carriage and, with Matthew’s calling card in deMonde’s pocket, they planned to meet at Matthew’s rented townhouse.

  “First, deMonde had to get rid of a little problem of his own.”

  “The bourgeois’s daughter?” “No, his lover.” He leaned in and kissed me. “You are worse than a female.” He gripped my jaw and lightly smacked me. “The sooner I finish this bit of business, the sooner I can fuck you. Now, be quiet!”

  He leveled his gaze and went on.

  “Now, deMonde had not had that many lovers. He had only discovered the pleasures of being with a man a few years before. Clermont, a veteran singer in the Paris Opera, had invited him for some private coaching, and the naive youth had succumbed to the man’s seduction. To be fair to the older man, he had observed signs that deMonde’s interests lay more toward the tenors and basses in the troupe than the sopranos and contraltos. One particular up-and-coming favorite of the public, noted for his soaring tenor, seemed to have captivated deMonde’s attention. Clermont knew that this younger man, Boulanger, had male lovers and, with youth and beauty on his side, it was only a matter of time before deMonde fell prey to his blandishments. First come, first served, was Clermont’s motto, and so he introduced deMonde to the joys found cock to cock.