Barrack, Jeanne - The Sweet Flag Page 6

  Our cum ran together on our clothes, and our shouts came together as we climaxed.

  He bent his forehead against my head, gasping, then took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted off my lap.

  He looked down at his crotch and then at mine.

  His words were bitter as he spoke.

  “You are right. Fucking is hard, too. Clean yourself up. Use the downstairs bathroom. Your clothes are dry. You can leave if you wish.”

  He turned and stalked upstairs.

  I sat there and watched him leave, feeling like Matthew must have when deMonde left him.

  Feeling like shit.

  Chapter Five I used the downstairs john to clean up and changed into the clothes I’d worn the night Ron rescued me. They were folded neatly on top of a rattan hamper. When had he washed them? I heard the shower upstairs run briefly and then nothing more. I put on my socks and searched and found my shoes underneath one of the tables by the couch. I expected them to be crusted with dried mud from the cemetery, but they were clean.

  When had he done that?

  I sat on the couch, holding my left shoe in my hand, and my gut clenched.

  What the hell had he done to metomake me want to stay? I sat there, trying to rationalize the decision I had just made. Fascinating as Hardesty and deMonde’s story was, there was nothing of a supernatural or paranormal nature to it. Of course, the more back-story one gathered about paranormal activity, the more credence attached to the events. Obviously something happened after they came to America. I had to learn more. So, that was my reasoning and that’s what I would tell Ron when I went upstairs and told him I wasn’t leaving.

  At ease now, I climbed the stairs two at a time and knocked on the closed bedroom door.

  “What, are you still here? I release you of our bargain. Take your equipment and go.”

  I tried the door -- closed but not locked -- and opened it. Ron had opened the drapes, letting in the moonlight. He lay on his back on the bed, barefoot, shirtless, wearing fresh jeans. One arm was flung across his eyes, the other one lay at his side.

  I smiled, although I knew he couldn’t see me. If he had not wanted me to be there, he would have locked the door. I moved forward and sat next to him, the mattress sagging, and unshielded his eyes. I touched his stubbled jaw and teased him.

  “You really are sucha girl.” “And you really are sucha bastard.” He pressed his hand against my mine, and I felt his teeth clench. He reached up with his other hand, dragging my face close to his. “But I am glad you stayed.”

  He brought my mouth to his, thrusting his tongue and biting my lower lip. Pleasure and pain combined. Our tongues and breath mingled. We devoured each other. My cock pushed against the restriction of my pants, demanding to be released. I pressed against him, frantically dry humping him.

  He grabbed my ass with both hands, slowing my pace, and laughed.

  “Lento, mon ami. Legato. We have time now.” He squeezed my butt and grinned. “ Voila! You are top dog, see?” I nodded and lifted off him. I moved from the bed and stood at its foot. Riveting his gaze, I started to strip. I pulled off my shirt, unzipped my jeans, and slowly pulled them down with my briefs. My penis sprang free.

  He bit his lip.

  I palmed my cock and then stroked my balls.

  He groaned and his fists twisted the sheet. “You are killing me!”

  “Not yet.”

  I strutted over to him and put one knee onto the mattress.

  And he howled with laughter. He sputtered and choked and finally gasped out, “Your socks!”

  I looked down. Green and yellow Argyle socks. Very sexy.

  “My feet are cold, dammit!”

  He hauled me down, laughter still rumbling in his chest. He pinched my backside, rolled me over, and then found the entrance to my body. I was dry, and I clenched my ass.

  “No way. I’m the alpha. Take off your pants.”

  His eyes crinkled as he grinned wider. “ Oui, maestro.” He lifted from me, and I lay on my side, watching as he shimmied out of his pants, kicking them off the bed. He shifted onto his belly, and I laid my cheek against his butt. He twitched.

  He spoke, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Get the lube. We’re dry from all that showering, eh?” The damn lube. That magic lotion that turned me into a fucking rabbit. Laughter jerked from me, but I reached over and got the fragile glass bottle and poured the lotion into my palms. Yeah, they advertised products with a tingling sensation, but this wasn’t the same. How can I describe it? I can’t, not really. I only know that when I smoothed the aromatic substance on our skin, it was like leaving my body behind and becoming a tangled knot of nerve endings that needed to join with his.

  I sank my penis into him as deep as I could and moaned. I started to move in quick thrusts. I was the top, but he directed me like a conductor leading a choir.

  “ Lento,” he whispered. Slowly.

  “ Legato.” Smoothly.

  “Ah! Sforzando!” I attacked, stronger.

  “ Staccato.” Short, sharp jabs.

  “ Accelerando.” I moved faster as he urged me on.

  He flung back his head, the tendons in his neck straining as we moved together. He stopped guiding me, too caught up in his own fight to gain release to worry about mine.

  And when it came, it was incredible.

  * * * * * We lay quietly, our legs entwined, his hairier than mine, but not too furred. I played with the bushy curls around the base of his shaft, idly noting that he was circumcised. Very observant. Right.

  “Are you Jewish?” I asked

  He stiffened. “You just noticed? Does it matter?”

  I shrugged. “Not a bit. My grandmother’s Jewish.” I poked him with my penis. “Didn’t you notice?” Now it was his turn to shrug. “Parents have their children circumcised in the hospital for all sorts of reasons. In America, it’s done more often than not.” He paused. “Your mother’s mother?”

  I pulled away and looked him in the eye. “Yeah. I’m really a Jew. My dad didn’t give a damn about religion and told my mother she could raise me any way she wanted as long as it didn’t interfere with his life, the shmuck.” I continued in a rush. “They divorced when I was five, she died in an accident when I was ten, and my grandmother raised me.” I smiled. “And demanded I was bar mitzvahed when I turned thirteen.” I bowed my head. “She died a couple of years ago. She was my whole family.”

  He hadn’t said a word. Now he drew my head to his chest and sighed. “ Vraiment, we are both orphans.”

  He settled back and relaxed. His heart beat slowly and evenly, lulling me to sleep. Then he spoke and thoughts of sleep left me.

  “So, when Matthew and deMonde landed in New York, they were almost penniless.”

  “What happened on the trip over?” He pinched my earlobe. “Nothing of any importance to the story. The journey was uneventful. Thanks to deMonde’s mother, they shared a cabin. They traveled on one of the American lines that had sprung up during those days and made good time, docking in New York in a shade less than two weeks.” He stroked my hair absentmindedly and continued. “Non, it is what transpired after they landed which is of importance.”

  “They brought few pieces of luggage with them, just one trunk each, deciding to purchase any additional clothing after finding accommodations. Matthew had transferred what was left of the funds from deMonde’s mother into gold currency after they left France and reached London. Though not much, he determined that it might be sufficient to rent some rooms while they searched for employment. And so they hailed a cab and traveled to the only bank with which Matthew had had any dealings -- his father’s Northern bankers. DeMonde remained in the cab with their luggage while Matthew entered the imposing edifice, returning far more quickly than deMonde had expected.”

  “They didn’t want to do business with him?” I asked.

  He pulled my hair. “Will you remain silent while I speak?” He fondled my ass and sighed as though sorely put upon. “You may
ask questions after I am finished.”

  “Which you may or may not choose to answer. I know the drill, and it pisses me off.” He tugged harder on my hair, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes glowed in the moonlit room. Then he blinked, and they were back to normal. That weird tonic was making me see unbelievable things. He spoke softly, his words carrying more weight than when he had hurled them at me earlier.

  “Remember, you can leave at any time. I am not holding you hostage here.” “Son of a bitch, go on with the story,” I ground out.

  Ron nodded and continued. “Matthew returned to the carriage, excited beyond speaking. At first, deMonde thought as you did, that he’d been denied credit. Then, after taking a deep breath, Matthew spoke, setting his worries to rest and offering them the first true ray of hope they’d had in a very long time.

  “Matthew smiled and then showed deMonde a letter written in a feminine hand. DeMonde read, with growing amazement, a missive from Matthew’s sister. She wrote, %%Matthew, I am going against our Father’s direct orders because of the Love I bore you when we were children in responding to your plea for Compassion. Before our Grandmother Buchanan went to her Eternal Rest, she established a trust fund for each of us which should have been made available when you reached the age of twenty-one. Our Father never informed you of this, for he doubted your ability to prove your Worth. In his eyes, your latest Actions have indeed proved his Lack of Faith. However, he has not touched the Money, nor can he. It is yours to do with as you wish and with the interest accrued, should prove sufficient for your needs. Please do not attempt to Communicate with me any further. I wish you well and hope that you will come to your senses and return to a Godly Life.%%”

  I listened in increasing wonder as Ron repeated the words in Hardesty’s sister’s letter as if he had read it and committed it to memory. And maybe he had. Maybe among the diaries were letters and other correspondences from the 1850’s. What an incredible find. Perhaps he had a collection of letters between Hardesty and deMonde?

  “What? No comment? Have you finally learned prudence?” “I’m just tired of getting black and blue! So, they had money, and Hardesty didn’t have to soil his hands -- dammit!” I rubbed my ass as I lay on the floor where Ron had shoved me. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  Ron leaned over the edge of the bed and spat out his words. “You have no idea how difficult it was to find work in those days. If you had family connections or money, you could support yourself. But if you had to work with no capital to fall back upon, things might not be so good. Remember, they would not part from each other. To maintain their desired proximity with each other, deMonde acted as Hardesty’s valet. Even with their own establishment of a household in a Brooklyn brownstone, they maintained the appearance of servant and master. DeMonde had his own room in which he seldom slept, but the woman who cooked and kept house for them never knew this. Their subterfuge was perfect, and once more they settled into a quiet routine.”

  He reached down and offered me his hand, pulling me up easily from the floor as if I didn’t weigh over a hundred and eighty pounds. I got back on the bed, and he drew the sheet up to our waists. He grabbed my hand and slid it under the cover to his belly, Ron knowing full well where it would eventually land.

  “I forgive you because of your ignorance, but I am growing tired of your attitude toward Matthew.” He paused. “Perhaps you are jealous of him? He was the embodiment of the heroic ideal of that time. In fact -- listen. One day, Matthew became the object of adoration of…well, I would not wish to bandy about his name.” He smiled slyly, knowing I’d take the bait.

  “Don’t fucking pinch me, but you know damned well I want to know who you’re talking about.”

  “Since it cannot be proved one way or the other, I’ll tell you what I know. Matthew caught the eye of the great Walt Whitman.”

  “No shit?” The light slowly dawned. “Wait a minute. You’re not going to tell me that Matthew was the mysterious ‘M’ he wrote about?” “So, you have heard of him? You know then that Whitman trolled for boys and young men. Usually, lower class types, but one day he spied Matthew as Matthew was leaving a neighborhood eatery and was struck by Matthew’s manliness. Whitman found out where Matthew lived and deluged him with gifts. Cuban cigars, liquors, fine linen handkerchiefs, cravats, and walking sticks all arrived at his door with impassioned notes of undying love. Whitman created a non-existent love affair. He hounded Matthew to the point that he could not leave the house for fear of running into him. At last, deMonde had had enough. He arranged to meet Whitman at a café in Manhattan in a part of town where neither man was known. He knew Whitman would be there, for he had signed the letter with Matthew’s initial and intimated that he had finally succumbed to Whitman’s ‘courtship.’

  “Whitman arrived early, expecting Matthew’s arrival. Instead, deMonde sat down at the secluded table for two and introduced himself as Matthew’s lover. At first, Whitman was disbelieving. It wasn’t until deMonde described Matthew’s body in loving, intimate detail that he conceded defeat. DeMonde’s delineation could only come from one who had seen Matthew naked. His portrayal of Matthew’s physique exceeded the brief look Whitman glimpsed one morning from the sidewalk as he gazed up at Matthew’s bedroom window. That wasn’t good enough for deMonde. He demanded and received Whitman’s assurance in writing that he would never reveal the name of his fixation. When, the next year, a volume of Whitman’s poetry was published, they knew at once that Whitman had adhered to the agreement, but only marginally.”

  I stared at Ron, convinced yet still somewhat incredulous. “The ‘Calamus’ poems.”

  He nodded.

  “You mean Hardesty was the guy who nearly pushed Whitman over the deep end?” “If you mean Whitman’s melodramatic response to the ending of his imaginary relationship, then yes. Did you know that the calamus plant was often called “the sweet flag” and named after the river god Calamus who mourned for the drowning of his young male lover? Whitman did. Poor Walt always vacillated over his own nature. Why do you think he left the identity of “M” a mystery? It is ironic that he and deMonde met again in quite different circumstances several years later. But that is a story for another time.” He shifted so that we faced each other. “I would rather not speak any further.” He rubbed his cock against mine and smiled. “I would rather use my mouth in a far more enjoyable manner.” He stopped rubbing, holding still while we both hardened in anticipation. He cocked his head. “Silent, again, eh? You are an apt student and deserve a reward. What shall it be?”

  I grabbed his hand and curved his fingers around my dick, gripping his shoulder with my other hand. “You know damn fucking well what I want. The same damn thing as you! Fuck me!”

  And he chuckled softly. “Good answer. And I will not spare the rod for fear of spoiling the student.”

  He crushed his fingers around me and squeezed.

  And there was no more talking.

  * * * * * I awoke early the next day, at least compared with the past two nights. Ron lay on his belly, his face turned to the side. Sometime during the night, he must have gotten up and drawn the curtains, for the room still lay in darkness. I knew it was earlier though. There was a sense of heat leading me to believe that the temperature outside had climbed, and twilight hadn’t arrived just yet. I shifted off the mattress, taking care not to disturb him, but he didn’t twitch. He didn’t even respond to the loud rumbling of my stomach.

  Damn, I was starving!

  I pulled on my jeans and moved quietly down the stairs. There had to be something in the kitchen I could grab. This time, I’d prepare some food for both of us. The kitchen had cost big bucks to fit in with the style of the townhouse and yet fulfill all the requirements of a modern chef. Butcher-block worktable, marble counter tops, builtin fridge concealed behind a front that blended in with the cabinets. And everything immaculate as if they had seldom been used.

  The contents of a refrigerator can tell a lot about a person. Ron’s
told me little because there was little inside. Some salad greens from an earlier meal. A loaf of half-finished French bread; an open, foil-wrapped stick of butter. A small wedge of cheese with one shallow gouge cut from it. A clear decanter half-filled with amber liquid. The remnants of the meal from the other night.

  And nothing else. Two condiment cruets sat on the counter, one containing olive oil, the other, vinegar. I knew because I had tasted a drop from each the other day. No coffee, no tea. There was a jar of honey on the small worktable in the center of the room. I opened the oven door of the retro-styled gas range. Clean.

  What the fuck?

  Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry. My appetite had left me, and my curiosity had returned with a vengeance. I reentered the parlor and went over to the roll top desk. Locked, of course. I attempted to jimmy it open without any success. I tried a door leading, I presumed, to a basement. Also locked. I felt above the doorframe, trying to find a key to unlock it.

  “Don’t strain yourself, mon ami. The key is not there. If you’re looking for a way out, try the front door.”

  Shit, that bastard moved like a ghost I turned around and faced him. Like myself, he was barefoot and shirtless. His jeans were still unbuttoned, and the fly partially zipped. He shook his head, zipped up his fly, and buttoned his jeans while I stammered like a choirboy caught sucking the choirmaster’s cock.

  “I was looking for some food. There’s bloody nothing to eat in the fridge.”

  He laughed without mirth.

  “And so you thought to find something in the desk or the basement?”

  He’d seen me from the minute I’d gone back into the parlor.

  Why the hell hadn’t I seen him? “Silent?” He shook his head and tsked. “If you had checked the cupboards more carefully, you would have found tuna fish and instant coffee. In the freezer are some steaks.” He sighed. “I haven’t had a chance to shop for a while.”

  I didn’t buy his explanation -- who could resist cooking in a kitchen like that? -- but I couldn’t think of a better one. I wondered if tuna, coffee, and steak would be the only things I’d find if I looked.