Ancestral

Visions

He wore an open vest and a narrow tie over his white collarless shirt, as well as a newsie’s cap and suspenders. He was slim, clean shaven, and had short dark hair. I had never seen his face before, and despite the obvious physical differences, I recognized him as Ben. I was waiting for him behind some wooden crates in a back ally. He looked all around before darting behind the crates to offer me a long and passionate kiss. He then turned me, so my back was against his front and thrust his hand down the front of my pants, while holding me against him with his other arm. I could feel his dick growing harder in his pants as he rubbed it against my ass. I leaned against him, reveling in his touch. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold out long, but I wanted it to last forever. As I threw my head back in ecstasy, he placed his free hand over my mouth to muffle my cries of pleasure. He continued to stroke my dick until every drop had emptied out of my balls into my pants.

When my eyes rolled back down out of my head, and I opened them, I was in my bed. Ben was wrapped around me with his hand in my sticky wet shorts. His hard dick, which was also still in his shorts, was pressed firmly against my ass. He continued to rub and thrust it against me, and almost as soon as my orgasm ended, his began. He was indeed strong, nearly squeezing all the air out of me as his whole body contracted in spasm after spasm. Once it was over, and he breathed a slow contented sigh, I chuckled, “Best wake-up call I’ve had in a long time.”

At Breakfast Mr. Phipps made a point of reminding everyone that, “Sammy and JoJo will be back in time for dinner.” The two theater majors had joined some of their classmates on a trip to the city to see a couple of performances and get a peek at what went on behind the scenes of a real working stage. They were best friends since childhood, growing up in the same small rural town, and deliberately going to the same school so they could stay together. I imagined there was more than simple friendship there, but they mostly kept to themselves, and because of the unusual schedule required for their major, they were often absent from the communal table.

Once I had taken care of my dishes and was getting ready to leave, Heather came barreling down the stairs. She seemed to have overslept and was clearly in a hurry. I still managed to stop her for a moment and asked, “Heather, quick question, do you have a job for the summer yet?”

“Umm…no, why?’

“Do you want one?”

“I don’t know about want, but I need one, yes.” She was clearly distracted, trying to grab something to eat before running off to her first class of the day.

“Ok, no promises, yet, but I may have something that might interest you. Can we talk tonight?”

She perked up. I had clearly caught her attention. “That’d be great,” she smiled. “Tonight.” With that she ran to the kitchen, and I headed off to work.

During the day I discovered that I did indeed have the authority to hire an intern for the summer and that they would be paid through a work/study program of the university. They would be able to get fieldwork credits as long as I did the appropriate paperwork.

I also looked up the boarding house in the display of captains’ houses along that part of the shoreline. It seemed it was built by a Captain Foster in the late 1850’s. In 1893, after his death, his only surviving daughter transformed it into a respectable inn and ran a small restaurant out of the building as well. Her entrepreneurial venture failed after only five years, however, and the house was seized by the state for failure to pay back taxes. Within two years a developer bought it and divided it into six small apartments aimed at housing students from the university. The building changed hands a few times over the years and the final landlord failed to do the necessary upkeep, causing the building into a swift decline during the 1970’s and ‘80’s. In 1984 it was condemned and abandoned, subsequently sitting empty for twelve years until Mr. Phipps fell in love with it in 1996. The restoration took two years, and he was able to open the refurbished building as an old-fashioned boarding house in the fall of 1998, just in time for the beginning of the school year.

There was no mention of deaths on the property, although Captain foster must have lost his wife there and there may have been other children as well. That was the kind of thing Heather could look into if she decided to accept my offer of an internship. I made a quick call to the head of the history department to see how they felt about bringing her on as an intern. When I asked the departmental secretary about Heather, she said, “Heather is not a straight A student, but she is reliable and conscientious. She’s a bit unfocused, but maybe something like this will help her find her focus.”.

When I asked the departmental head about her, she also approved of the idea. “We used to have interns working there all year long, but budgets being what they are today, well…There isn’t a lot, but going through the work/study program will definitely make it doable. I’ll e-mail you the forms. Just call me if you have any questions.”

I had the forms all filled out before the end of the day, only needing to call the financial aid office once in the process. They sent me the appropriate forms for heather to fill out, so I printed them up and brought them home with me. All my ducks were in a row and I was pretty pleased with myself.

Rather than going directly home, I decided to walk through the small center of town and start paying attention to some of the other older buildings, especially the buildings along the waterfront. Most of them were late Victorian or the early twentieth century, but a few were from the early to mid-nineteenth century. These were the ones that interested me most. I began thinking that a way to justify Heather’s work on researching the history of the boarding house would be to update and expand the fairly small display that featured these houses. Perhaps we could highlight one house a month, offering deeper insights into the early history of and subsequent changes to the property.

I went down to the wharf to look up the gentle slope of the town and get an overall view of these structures in context. It was very picturesque, and I could understand why the wealthy summer people chose to own a second home here. After a moment, I turned my attention to the coastline and the vast sea beyond. I let everything melt away and allowed my mind to drift along with the gentle waves as they sparkled in the slowly sinking sun. The tide was out, and large expanses of the shore were exposing their rocky foundations decorated with shells, sea glass, and patches of glistening brown seaweed waiting for the water to return.

I could actually see three wharves along this stretch of coastline. Two were active, but the third was a little too far inland and rarely found itself in the surf these days. It was clearly old and unused, and I spent a moment wondering what stories it could tell. Perhaps this might be something for Heather as well. I decided to walk over to it and take a quick look before heading home. I took a few tentative steps onto the wooden deck, unsure of just how sound it was, but it held firm, so I continued out toward the end. As I lightly leaned on the railing, I heard a few pebbles scatter and thought I caught a glimpse of movement in the stony shadows beneath the pier. This startled me because the pier was a solitary structure, quite exposed and open, though it sat amidst the ruined foundations of buildings that suggested a time when this area was quite built up. As I approached, I could see that the pier and its surroundings were quite empty.

“Hello? Anybody there?” Nothing. After a moment I once again heard the sound of moving stones, and this time it was accompanied with a small laugh. A laugh that sounded suspiciously like the ones I had heard in the basement. I made my way off the pier and cautiously peeked around to see if I could see anything underneath it. Again, nothing, just sea- rounded stones and dried seaweed. I thought one of these stones would make a good memento of the day and stepped into the shadow of the pier to pick one up.

The sky suddenly went dark and the temperature dropped by at least fifteen degrees. The ruined foundations that surrounded the pier were no longer ruins, and I could hear the sounds of horse-drawn carriages clattering on cobblestones not far away. I was surrounded by the sounds of life, shouting, laughter, music, dogs barking. Even the sea was more active, with small waves breaking only a few yards from the end of the pier.

The real shocker, though, was the young man sitting under the pier. “I thought you’d never get here.” He said, grabbing my hand and drawing me to his side. It was the man from my dream this morning. Instantly his hands were all over me and I was lost in my desire for him. No more words were spoken as he bared my torso, pulling at the clothes that I didn’t recognize but were somehow on my body. When he finally got my pants open, I looked down at an unfamiliar dick. It was smaller than mine and uncut. That wasn’t mine. Mine was circumcised. But when he put his mouth on it, I realized it was mine. I felt the warm wetness moving up and down along the shaft, pausing only to lick my balls or give me a quick kiss on the lips. For some reason, I knew we had to hurry. I kept watch and listened to make sure none of the voices came too close, but soon I was so enraptured in the work his tongue was doing I just didn’t care anymore. As I shot my joy juice into his hungry throat, he once again placed a hand over my mouth to muffle my cries. Swallowing every drop, he leaned forward and kissed me, giving me a taste of my own cum. He smiled and picked himself up. “Better get back to work,” he said as he rushed away. “Don’t want to get fired.”

As he disappeared out the other side of the pier, I was suddenly standing in warm sunshine again, alone and in my own skin. The only thing that had changed was the dark wet spot on the front of my trousers. I didn’t even have to look. I could feel the warm sticky wetness in my shorts. For a brief moment I worried about how I was going to make it home with such an obvious indicator of my recent activity front and center, but I quickly remembered I was wearing a suit jacket and could just carry it as a form of camouflage. I breathed a sigh of relief and headed home.