The Sweet Flag Page 7

  “I’ll open the tuna, and you can have some with bread. I’ll put the kettle on for the coffee. I’m sorry I have no milk. The last of it turned sour, and I dumped it.” He went over to the antique Victrola and unlocked the cabinet, chose a recording, and placed it on the turntable. “While I prepare the food, why don’t you sit back and enjoy some music.” He stood there for a moment, his eyes shut, listening in delight, then opened his eyes and walked without another word into the kitchen.

  The tinny sound couldn’t completely disguise the quality of the baritone voice issuing from the speaker. I recognized the song -- Jerome Kern’s “Old Man River” from Showboat. A former lover had been a dinner theater waiter. Three months of heartburn and four operettas and musicals, but I did develop an interest in classic American shows. The period of history in which Showboatwas set was fascinating, and the story was a cut above anything before it.

  I recognized incredible singing when I heard it. The performance was done as a solo with piano and included an introduction and arrangement I’d never heard before. The recording came to an end, and I went over and lifted the needle from the record while the disk continued to revolve silently.

  “Did you enjoy the song?” Ron’s voice drifted back to me. I heard the kettle whistle, and then he came into the room, carrying a tray with the tuna fish artfully arranged on a bed of lettuce on a china plate, a chunk of bread, some butter, the carafe of amber liquid and a glass. The copper kettle sat on a trivet with a jar of instant coffee and a single mug. He set the tray down on the hassock and gestured for me to join him. He poured a glass of tonic for himself and sipped it before speaking again.

  “You didn’t answer me. Did you like the performance?”

  “The guy has a great voice. Who’s the singer? There was no label on the record. I’ve only heard modern recordings of the show.”

  “DeMonde.”

  “Yeah, right. Do you think I’m an idiot? Showboatwas written in the nineteen twenties, assuming deMonde was still alive, he would have been in his nineties!” Ron laughed. “Of course he would have been in his nineties. I just wanted to tease you. Eat.” He leered and twirled an imaginary handlebar mustache. “You’ll need the strength when I have my wicked way with you.”

  “Join me, m’dear,” I retorted in my best imitation of Snidely Whiplash. “We’ll both need all our strength.” But he didn’t join me. He watched me eat and urged me to share his drink with him, holding the glass to my mouth and doling out the liquid between the two of us. And when the glass was empty, he set it aside, leaned back against the arm of the couch, and watched me expectantly as my eyes traveled the length of his body.

  The dark swirl of hair on his chest arrowed to his waistband, and I knew exactly where it led. He narrowed his gaze while I reached out and unbuttoned the jeans’ brass fastener and pulled down his fly. His penis nestled in the dark curls, thick and heavy and already semierect.

  “What are you waiting for? I can smell your arousal.” His voice was calm.

  It pissed me off until I dragged my eyes from his erection and looked up at his face. His nostrils flared, and his mouth was a slash in his face.

  I smiled.

  “I can’t smell yours. I’ll have to get closer.”

  I lowered my face until my breath moved the fine curls of his bush. Taking my time, I licked him from base to tip.

  He groaned. I spread his pants open wider, and he lifted up as I pulled the denim down below his buttocks, leaving his legs restrained. His dick was hard; a drop of precum glistened on the crown. My mouth still hovered by his groin as I breathed in his scent. He’d moved his legs until they were half off the couch, his knees nudging mine, and I could feel them trembling -- my knees and his.

  “What are you waiting for? Merde, what are you waiting for?” There was desperation and need in his voice.

  Just what I was waiting for. I took his cock in my mouth as deep as I could, whirled my tongue around him, and sucked hard. I waited for him to tell me to slow down. To play me as if I were merely an instrument for his pleasure.

  But he didn’t.

  He jerked, and his gasps grew louder. He forked his fingers in my hair, pulling it, tugging my head up.

  I slid my lips off his cock and looked at him. His eyes blazed, and then he shuttered them. When he opened them again, his expression had changed from hunger to need. A difference. You can hunger for something and not need it.

  Ron needed it. Needed me.

  “ Baise-moi.”

  I said nothing, did nothing.

  He clenched his eyes.

  “Fuck me.” He took a deep breath. “Please.” I nodded and moved so he could take off his jeans. He stood, naked, fully aroused. He picked up the carafe and walked toward the stairs. He paused at the foot and looked over his shoulder.

  “Come with me.” He paused and held out his free hand. “I need you.”

  And he waited until I moved ahead of him and led him up the steps.

  Chapter Six The climb to the second floor was the longest in my life. If I could have, I would have carried him just to get us there faster. I dropped his hand, and we raced up the steps, me, half-dressed, Ron nude, playing an insane game of “last one on the bed is a rotten egg”. I won, but wound up losing by default because I got off the bed to strip. When I did, Ron claimed the victory since he was the first one naked on the bed.

  “Who said it only counted if you were naked?”

  “My house, my rules. And it’s my rules in everything.”

  “Oh?” I picked up my jeans from the floor and tossed them on the chair. “And if I don’t want to play by your rules? What are you going to do about it?” He hesitated, then rose to his knees. His penis jutting toward his belly, so firm, so erect I ached just looking at it. Ached and hardened. There we were, two naked men, both wanting each other so much and neither ready to give in.

  “What am I going to do about it? This.” Ron’s whisper echoed in the silence. He lay back and stretched out on the bed. He closed his eyes and smiled. His fingers circled his shaft’s crown and gradually slid down the length, then back up. I stared, hypnotized by the steady, slow rhythm as he moved his hand up and down, over and over again, until a drop of precum pearled.

  “Bastard.”

  “My rules.” His fingers tightened and moved faster. He bit his lower lip.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He smiled, eyes still shuttered. “Come play with me, Brandon.”

  “Fucking bastard!”

  He grinned. “Not yet, mon ami…but soon.” I took the two steps to the mattress and threw my body next to his, pushing his fingers off his cock and replacing them with mine. I fisted him, milking him, making him jerk and twitch. I positioned my mouth so that it was near his root and licked his sac. He bucked off the bed. I remembered how much it turned me on and figured it would do the same for him. It did. I took his balls deep in my mouth and sucked hard. He arched his back in the air and called out.

  “Merde! Jesus, Brandon!”

  My hand took the place of my mouth and twisted just slightly.

  He groaned so loudly I eased the tension immediately.

  “Non, non,” he gasped. “Do it! Do it! I like it when you play rough. No one has ever dared to do so with me. Suck me off. Don’t make me wait. Do what I tell you.” I didn’t need any further encouragement. I licked him. Sucked him. Bit him just a shade too hard. Fondled his balls and had him writhing on the bed, rolling and hitching, until he shot his seed in my mouth.

  And faintly, in the back of my mind, I wondered what he meant when he said no one had dared to handle him harshly.

  * * * * * We lay together, our arms and legs tangled, our lips making forays to whatever part of our bodies we could reach. Ron had stripped and remade the bed. The fresh sheets smelled of the shampoo and soap we used. In the shower, I’d lathered him gently, trying to make up for how rough I’d been after I nearly castrated him. He moaned and arched in my hands, threading his fingers throug
h my hair and massaging my scalp, forgiving me with his actions.

  We stepped from the shower into the steam-filled room, and Ron grabbed the plush, heated towels and threw me one. They scraped our sensitive skin as we dried each other, the friction shooting straight to our dicks.

  We couldn’t get enough of touching.

  When we got back into bed, we cuddled. Christ, tenderness had seldom been part of my love life. Self-indulgence, a quick fuck, the occasional one-night stand that sometimes lasted a couple of months. While Ron complained that his lovers hadn’t been forceful, I had the memory of several of mine who hadn’t given a good goddamn about how rough they’d been.

  I liked the cuddling. I liked the touching. I liked the fact that it didn’t have to lead to sex. He shifted away from me, and I heard the clink of two glass objects striking against each other. The all-too-familiar aroma of the tonic conquered the sheets’ clean scent. He’d placed the tonic-filled carafe on the nightstand by his side of the bed, and now, he brought a glass to my lips.

  “Drink, mon coeur. It will boost your strength.” I twisted around so I could see his face. A smile clung to his lips, but determination glinted in his eyes. His fingers dug into my shoulder as he raised his arm, supporting my back and assisting me into an upright position. If I drank, would it have that effect on me? Would it flip the switch and turn me into the Energizer fucking rabbit? Was that what generated this intense response he gave me?

  I couldn’t believe that. What would happen if I didn’t drink?

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t want it. I don’t need it. You drink.”

  He opened his mouth as if to protest, then nodded. “Bon. I won’t drink it either.” He tipped the glass, and it splashed down my chest, pooling at my crotch. I yelped and jumped, but he held me down easily. He tsked and then chuckled. “I will have to change the linens again. Thank God I have plenty of sheets.”

  It seemed I didn’t have to drink the stuff for it to effect me. It seeped through my pores and set off my erection like a rocket. By the time he’d licked his way down my rib cage, I was stiff and begging for him to fuck me senseless.

  He did, draining me of every bit of energy the tonic had restored.

  I showered first while he stripped the bed and remade it. Too weak to respond to his tight butt as he passed me to take his turn in the shower, I stumbled into bed.

  * * * * * Ron lay on his side facing me, not touching. I looked back at him, unwilling to hear the next phase of Hardesty and deMonde’s story. The closer we’d come to the end of their lives together, the sooner I’d have to leave. He’d have nothing more I’d need to know. I’d have no excuse to stay with him.

  I wanted an excuse. I needed one. He wouldn’t believe that I was falling in love with him. I could hardly believe it myself. It hadto be the fault of the tonic.

  Didn’t it?

  He curled his fingers as though trying not to reach out to me, looked down at the mattress, and then spoke.

  “He did it for deMonde.” “What?”

  “Joined the army, joined the fight for freedom. He feared if the South won, there wouldn’t be even the slightest possibility of their relationship, their love, continuing. If it ever became known that deMonde was of mixed blood, a Jew anda Negro, they’d find the tallest tree and string him up. It was dangerous to pass yourself off as white, and Jews were often stigmatized. Matthew’s close association with deMonde could restrict or bar him from polite society, but Matthew believed fervently that the freedom the North touted would truly mean freedom for all.” Ron blew out his breath. “They fought bitterly, DeMonde so much wiser in the way he viewed the fervor that swept the young country. It came to a crux the day Matthew stormed from the house and didn’t return until late that evening.

  “DeMonde spent the hours convincing himself that Matthew just needed time alone. That he’d come to his senses. He paced his bedroom hoping that he was right. He had no stomach for food or drink and found himself praying to whatever God would listen that Matthew wouldn’t throw his life away.”

  Ron raised his eyes, a sheen of tears clinging to them. Even if I hadn’t known the outcome, it would have been easy to guess. I wanted to hold him, but I wasn’t sure if he’d push me away or if my touch would send him over the edge.

  “DeMonde knew as soon as Matthew entered his room that his fears had been realized. He merely asked him, ‘When?’

  “Matthew’s response was to the point, ‘Soon.’ “Time enough to give their housekeeper her congèfor a few weeks without the worry of keeping their guard up. Time enough to indulge in making love in every room of their home and in every way possible. Time enough to exhaust deMonde’s efforts to sway his lover from his foolishness. Time enough for deMonde to convince the military that, as a Frenchman, he wished to join his American brethren in their fight for liberté,egalité, et

  fraternitéand, greasing the right palms, join Matthew as a junior officer.” Ron paused and took a breath. “Thankfully, things were not so by the book as they are these days, yes?” I nodded. Military regulations were far more chaotic back then. Entire towns, counties, groups joined up as volunteers and elected their own officers. This laissez-faire attitude would have made deMonde and Hardesty’s situation a little easier.

  “They had vowed they would never be apart, and despite the war, they kept that vow.” He paused. “At least, they did their best to keep that vow.”

  He stopped abruptly, shook his head, and then tried to speak. He wrenched out each word as though it tore out his heart. “They went through two years of campaigning. Two years of battles and skirmishes. DeMonde always at Matthew’s back. They found that if they were discreet, they could be together in every way. They shared a tent and made love quietly. It helped that both were without fear on the battlefield, and Matthew’s men admired his bravery. Often around the campfires, deMonde would sing for the men, everything from popular parlor songs of the day to operatic arias. They applauded them all, stamping their feet and whistling. The sound of his voice comforted the soldiers on both sides of the fray. Memories of home grew brighter listening to him, and often he’d sing requests from the wounded men, whether hymns or love songs. They proved their worth, these two men, and no one cared if they were more than Damon and Pythias to each other.”

  He poured a glass of the tonic and sipped it, offering some to me that I turned down. I wanted to focus on his words and not on his voice. “The Gettysburg Campaign began on a hellish day in June and continued far past the third of July. Everyone saw the irony of fighting on the day that marked America’s freedom from England. The men were dispirited. They had lost so many battles. The Union Army had had so many commanders, and each one seemed worse than the previous ones. Meade took over that month with little hope of changing the course of the War. And now they faced Robert E. Lee, the greatest Confederate general. You know how bloody the battle was, but miraculously, Matthew and deMonde came through with only minor wounds.” Ron gulped and cleared his throat before he spoke again.

  “Keeping up the advantage, Meade followed Lee as the Confederates retreated into Virginia. They fought at Williamsport and Boonsboro in Maryland, regrouping; the Union troops always close on the heels of the Southerners. The men were eager to pursue them, their spirits high from the victory.”

  Ron’s voice grew more hoarse as he spoke, emotion ripped through him as he struggled to get the next words out. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to see how much it cost him to continue.

  “The battle of Wapping Heights was a footnote in the War. It began at dawn on the twenty-third of July as the Union soldiers attempted to cut off the Confederates at Front Royal, Virginia, by guiding them to Manassas Gap, an opening too narrow for a speedy retreat. The day was hot and dusty; the wool uniforms clung to the men and scratched the tender skin of the young flag bearer that deMonde had taken under his wing. The youth loved music and often played the harmonica as accompaniment to deMonde’s more frivolous songs. He gave the boy his handkerchi
ef to cover the uniform’s stiff collar and reminded him that he’d want it back after the battle.”

  Ron gasped out a laugh and flung himself on his back, clutching his stomach as if he’d taken a knife to his gut. Laughter changed to anguish, and I reached out to comfort him. He seized my hand and hauled me into his arms. He gripped my hair and ground his lips against mine, bruising my mouth and abrading my skin against his five o’clock shadow. He wrenched his face away and whispered fiercely, “No more. Not now. I cannot. Later. Please. Later.”

  I rocked him in my arms and didn’t give a damn if he never told me what happened next.

  * * * * * We slept through the night, or at least we tried to. Ron thrashed and moaned, often calling out Matthew’s name. He whispered “Non, non,” and tears rolled down his face. I drifted off once, waking to find his fingers gripping my throat and had to pry them off since he couldn’t or wouldn’t wake up. At last he slept, exhausted by his struggle with his unknown demons. I followed suit, drifting off into darkness again.

  I awoke to find him sitting cross-legged on the bed, already dressed and staring at me intently. He handed me my watch. One o’clock. It was the earliest I’d awoken since we’d made our bargain. He held his gaze a moment longer then broke it, looking down at the rumpled sheets.

  “I woke up earlier, but I let you sleep. I know I was restless last night. I always am whenever I --” He stood. “Get dressed. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I fixed some lunch.”

  He turned without a further word at the door he shut behind him. I fully expected him not to join me, but he did eat, though not much. He’d melted the cheese on the bread, sliced some tomato, and sprinkled some basil on top, grilling it briefly under the broiler. Simple but delicious, and when I saw that he wasn’t going to finish his, I snagged it. He offered me both the heated tonic and the instant coffee. I poured a deep draught of the family brew, infusing it with some honey. He smiled at my choice.

  “You’re developing a taste for it, I see, even though you turned me down last night.”