Footsteps on the stairs—the steady thump of Shane carrying bags. I opened the mudroom door loudly, deliberately. Gretchen and Mrs. Smith went silent. I didn’t even glance toward the kitchen as I entered. Not yet.
I needed Shane beside me, and I needed a plan. Because the house wasn’t mine yet. The trust held the deed, and until I turned twenty-one, I was just a name on paper.
But the lawyer held the keys. And if I could make him see that this house should not be run by hater, if I could just… Shane stood next to me; his face a mixture of confusion and concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Just opening the door for you.”
He smiled, but an eyebrow went up. He knew that something was up. He simply nodded. I closed the door behind him and followed him as we made our way back up to the room.
I didn’t mention Gretchen’s words while we finished unpacking. Didn’t mention them over dinner either, though my appetite had vanished the second I’d heard her voice in the kitchen. I forced myself through it, waiting until we were back upstairs, alone for the night with the door locked behind us.
Shane had kicked back on the bed, arms folded behind his head, still flushed from the day in the sun. I sat down beside him, my back stiff. He noticed immediately.
“Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?”
I looked at him, at the man who had kissed me under the sunrise, who had wrapped me up like I was worth everything. And then I let the words spill.
“I heard Gretchen and Mrs. Smith talking.”
His brow furrowed. “Heard them what?”
“In the kitchen. When I came in tonight. They don’t just dislike us, Shane. They hate us. Called us faggots, cocksuckers. Gretchen said she wished we’d stayed home.” My voice grew tighter. “She said she and Roger will figure out a way to keep me from having this house. That once we’re gone, she’s going to burn the sheets, bleach the sinks, throw out dishes. Like we’re diseased.”
Shane sat up, his eyes blazing. “She said that?”
I nodded. “She said it. And Smith agreed with her all the way. I want them gone. Now. But I know that’s not possible.”
“Damn her. Damn them both.”
“I know.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “And believe me, I wanted to walk in there and tell her to go to hell. But I didn’t. Because we need something more than anger.”
Shane tilted his head, watching me carefully. “What do you mean?”
“This house.” I gestured toward the walls around us. “It’s not just mine yet. It belongs to the trust until I’m twenty-one. Which means I can’t just throw Gretchen out. Not legally. Not without making waves that could backfire.”
Shane opened his mouth to argue, but I pressed on.
“But here’s what I realized while I stood there listening to them—what this house could be. Not just a house for us. Not just a bed and breakfast that caters to gay people, or straight people, or anyone in particular. But a house that welcomes everyone—everyone willing to live without hate. A place where people can sit at the same table even if they don’t agree, where they can talk, argue, laugh, and not be afraid of being who they are.”
Shane’s anger softened into curiosity. “It starts with the house. The house matters, full of people, all kinds of people. Gay, straight, black, white, conservative, liberal. Maybe even moderates?” He smiled slightly with that one. “Couples who disagreed about politics but still held hands under the table. Travelers who could sit in the parlor and argue about faith or policy without venom, because the one rule of the house was no hatred allowed.”
Shane continued, “A haven for humans. That’s your dream. Not a gay inn, not a straight inn, not a “whites only” inn, not a “for us, not them” inn. A welcome house. Civil discourse inside its walls, kindness at its hearth. The opposite of Gretchen and Roger’s vision.”
I leaned closer. “You do see what I mean. A place where the rule is simple: hate doesn’t live here. Civil discourse, acceptance, humanity; that’s what lives here. No sides. No walls. Just people. That’s my dream for this house. Even if we don’t live here; and we can keep it in a trust so it will go on forever like that. Sure it would be nice to live in a house as grand as this and have it help support us, but we don’t know where we’ll end up. And this is important. I’m tired of the hate.”
For a moment, Shane said nothing. His hand came up, brushing over mine, his thumb stroking the back of my knuckles. His eyes glistened in the dim light.
“That,” he said slowly, “is bigger than we are.”
“Yes.” My throat ached with the truth of it. “And that’s why Gretchen and Roger can’t touch it. Because if they do, they’ll twist it into something ugly. Something small.”
“The world deserves more than that.”
Shane leaned forward and kissed me, fierce, hungry, but steady, like he was taking my words into himself. When he pulled back, he whispered, “Then we will make it happen. Together.”
I breathed him in, relief flooding me. “Together.”
Shane pulled me to him and kissed me, deeply, passionately. “I love you so much. You. The person you are inside.”
I studied his eyes as he spoke. They glistened in the dim light of the room. His breathing was slow and deep. He was studying me as well. I wanted to capture this moment, his handsome face, his look of love, concern, caring.
“Make love to me, Tay. I want you to bury yourself inside me.”
His words caused the blood coursing through me to move more quickly; it rushed into my penis as his hand freed me from my clothing. Shane stripped quickly and pulled the small bottle from under the pillow. I bent over him and kissed his nipples as he pulled the head against him. In an instant, I was inside him. He gasped and grunted simultaneously as he stretched open to accommodate my girth.
He took two deep breaths as I waited. I had only penetrated half-way, but I could sense when he was ready for the rest of me. There was no verbal signal; instead, a change in the way his body gripped me told me I was welcome to enter more deeply. There was always a slight higher pitched chirp-like sound that he gave as I reached the maximum point. We were made for one another, and I began the slow, rhythmic piston motions that cause his cock to jerk up and slap against my lower abdomen.
Shane’s hands moved down to pull his legs farther apart. “Oh, Tay, you know exactly what I want. What I need.” His hips pivoted slightly up, and his head moved forward to run his tongue across my lips. His hand moved to cup my ass cheeks, and he pulled me to him as I thrust forward to bury myself as deeply into him as possible.
I wanted time to stand still; I wanted to do this forever.
Shane’s jaw clenched. “No. I don’t want to come yet,” he muttered. “Not yet.”
Pressing my lips to his, I increased the frequency of my thrusts.
“I want you to come in me, Tay. I want to feel you fill me.”
His words were like a flame. His muscles tightened around my shaft. His body began to spasm as he tried to hold back, but it was no use. His release sprayed onto both of us. “Fuck me harder,” he said. “Pound my ass. It’s yours. Fill it up. Fill my pussy, Tay.”
I was amazed by the amount of cum I emptied into him. Even as I pulled back, my body continued to spasm and release more into him until I was drained. I collapsed onto him. Sperm from his release moistened his chest hairs. We would have to shower before snuggling for sleep, but at that moment, I wanted nothing but to feel his breathing. “I love you, Shane.” Even my dreams for the house were insignificant next to that.
The law office smelled faintly of leather and old books, the kind of place where words had weight and time seemed to move slower. I sat across from Mr. Anderson—gray hair, pressed suit, rimless glasses perched low on his nose. He was a man who had read more contracts than I would ever read novels, and I could feel the years of authority in the way he folded his hands on the desk.
He began before I could speak.
“Taylor, I reviewed the quarterly reports before you arrived. The bed and breakfast has had two consecutive years of profit growth. Reservations are steady. Reviews are consistently positive—most guests mention the warm atmosphere, good food, and attentive hosts. Roger and Gretchen have also submitted plans for a small guest cabin at the back of the property. They’ve already met with an architect about keeping it in line with the historic character of the home.” He paused, adjusting his glasses. “On paper, they’re doing an excellent job.”
I swallowed, my fingers tightening on the armrest. “I don’t deny that, sir. I’ve read the same reviews. Guests enjoy their stay. But numbers don’t always tell the whole story.”
Mr. Anderson’s brows drew together slightly. “Perhaps. But as trustee, my role is to maintain the financial stability of the estate until your twenty-first birthday. That’s a legal obligation, not a personal judgment. Gretchen and Roger have proven themselves capable managers. Why fix what isn’t broken?”
The office became deathly quiet, as if even the air was listening. Mr. Anderson sat straight-backed behind his desk. He folded his hands. “The trust requires me to preserve and grow assets until your majority. Change, especially change of caretakers, introduces risk. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” My palms pressed damp circles into the armrests. “But stability isn’t the same as stewardship. Roger and Gretchen may be keeping things profitable, but that doesn’t mean they’re the right people for this house.”
“Not the right people,” he repeated, as though testing the phrase for weakness. “What do you mean by that? Because from a fiduciary standpoint, they’ve exceeded expectations.”
I hesitated. Words had to be precise here; one wrong phrase, and I’d sound like a stubborn child. “I believe the bed and breakfast should be more than a business. It should be a haven. A place that welcomes people as human beings, not as categories or stereotypes. That spirit matters as much as the ledger.”
His lips curved, faintly, almost pitying. “An admirable ideal. But ideals do not pay property tax or insurance premiums. Nor do they keep guests returning. Guests are not philosophers, Taylor, they want good beds and a hearty breakfast. Nothing more.”
The dismissal stung, but I steadied myself. “With respect, sir, that isn’t true. Guests feel when a place is authentic, when they’re wanted. Hospitality isn’t just a clean sheet. It’s the spirit behind it. And that spirit is poisoned if it’s laced with contempt.”
Mr. Anderson’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “You are suggesting Roger and Gretchen are contemptuous of your guests?”
My throat tightened. “I’m suggesting they’re contemptuous of me… and people like me.”
That got his attention. His posture stiffened, though his voice remained controlled. “Explain.”
I glanced at Shane, who gave the slightest nod. I drew in a breath. “The evening after Shane and I went to the beach, I came in through the mudroom and overheard Gretchen speaking with Mrs. Smith. They called us homosexuals, as if the word were a stain. Mrs. Smith repeated an old slur about disease. Gretchen laughed. She said she’d burn the sheets after we left as well as bleach the sinks. She even boasted she’d convince me to sell them the house.”
Anderson leaned back slowly, his hands clasped tighter than before. His face remained unreadable. “That is… troubling, if accurate. But words, Taylor, words spoken in private, are not the same as mismanagement. My responsibility is financial health, not moral censure. Do you see the difference?”
I felt the floor slipping away. He was right, technically, but it felt like the truth was being boxed in by rules. Shane shifted beside me, his voice firmer than mine had been.
“Maybe you’d feel differently if you knew what Roger calls us.” Shane’s eyes were dark, steady. “Not just faggots. Not just diseased. He calls us ‘fudge packers.’ Like it’s a joke. Like our love is just filth to him.”
Something broke in the lawyer’s face. His jaw clenched, his eyes flickered, not anger at us, but something older, deeper. He removed his glasses, setting them carefully on the desk as if his hands needed to do something steady.
“My brother,” he said finally, his voice lower than before, “is gay. He has lived with those words, faggot, fudge packer, spat at him more times than I can count. I watched him lose a teaching job over nothing more than innuendo. Watched our church turn its back on him. Watched my parents nearly disown him. He still carries those scars.”
Silence fell heavy between us. I swallowed against the lump in my throat.
“Then you understand,” I said quietly. “You understand why I can’t let this house, this dream, fall into the hands of people who carry that same hate in their bones. The reviews, the cabin, the money, it’s just surface. Underneath, it’s rotten. And this house deserves better. This town deserves better.”
Mr. Anderson’s gaze lingered on me, unreadable again but softer around the edges. “You are asking me to weigh more than numbers, Taylor. That is not something I do lightly. But perhaps… perhaps stewardship requires it. I will need to review the stipulations of the trust. While ownership of the house will undoubtedly turn to you when you are of age, I need to be clear about the business portion of this. I’ll need to study the contract with the Petersons. This may be a slow process, but I will do what I can. We will need to find a replacement for the Petersons should I be able to non-renew for cause or to terminate the contract. I will let you know. In the meantime, do you want to find a suitable replacement or do you wish to take over the management?”
“I don’t have the skill to do that. Plus, I’m still in school. I’d appreciate your taking care of that. I know that I’ve been receiving a monthly stipend since I turned eighteen that has been held to the side for me. I’ll be using part of that to pay for school, but I want you to have access to any of those funds that you might need for this.”
“No. Those are yours. I’m paid by the trust to look after its interests, and I consider this to be part of that. Anything beyond that, I am doing pro bono, in honor of my brother.”
At that moment, tears filled my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. Shane reached forward and put his hand on my arm. “Hey, we’re on the journey, and we’re not alone.” He turned toward Mr. Anderson. “Thank you, sir. Let us know if you need anything. I think we’re going to head back home tomorrow, and we’re not saying anything to the Petersons.”
“Agreed. I have your contact information. I will let you know how I plan to proceed.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I think I’d like to name the house. From what I could tell, it doesn’t have a name.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Let’s call it ‘Welcome House.’”
Mr. Anderson smiled for the first time during our meeting, and we left with a warm feeling in my heart.
Back at the apartment, the rhythm of real life folded around us again, heavy with its own kind of comfort. Shane disappeared down to the athletic complex most afternoons, working out with the baseball team and meeting the new recruits. I sat by the living room window with a tall glass of iced tea, condensation sliding lazily down the sides, and thought about how different the stillness felt here compared to the heavy air in Anderson’s office.
Mr. Anderson had written once since our meeting, a thick envelope that included a clean summary of the trust’s current position. He’d underlined the clause about Roger and Gretchen’s contract. It did not auto-renew. At twenty-one, the control passed directly to me. A two-month notice period would be legally required, but nothing more. It was both simpler and more complicated than I’d imagined. Simple, because the end was already written into the document. Complicated, because I’d need a successor ready before notice went out. That’s where his brother came in, quietly helping, so no whispers would reach the Petersons too soon.
I read and reread the letter, then tucked it under the socks in my dresser.
Our housing section changed attitude as the summer sessions ended. Shane and I were the only residents who stayed. Neighbors whom I thought of as friends simply disappeared, and it seemed that the new ones were too busy to do more than nod. Aloof was the word of the month, and I wondered whether that would change. It didn’t.
French was the class I’d wanted since spring, finally, my chance to get beyond the tourist phrases. Bonjour. Comment ça va. Ça va bien. The professor was a wiry man with silver hair and a restless energy, stalking between rows of desks as if every sentence might change our lives. I wasn’t sure yet if I loved it or dreaded it, but I liked the way the new words stretched my brain.
So many of the words looked just like English words, and when a student in class commented on it, the professor, or le professeur, said that English was just badly pronounced French with some Anglo-Saxon words thrown in. I wondered how true that was. One thing was for certain, French had as many silent letters as English did. And, so many words were pronounced the same and spelled differently. We were taught a tongue twister where the words si, six, scie, scies, and scient were pronounced like the word see. Any time that someone bitched about the spelling system or homophones of French, I’d remind them of the various pronunciations of -ough. Every language has its quirks.
The rest of my schedule filled quickly: accounting, business law, statistics, and a required history elective. Declaring as an accounting major made my adviser beam with relief. “A practical head on your shoulders,” she’d said. It felt solid, responsible, like laying stones in a foundation.
Shane’s schedule was lighter, by necessity. Athletic practices ate up his hours. He teased me about the stack of textbooks I kept on the kitchen table, but he never once complained when I hogged the desk lamp for late-night review sessions.
Most days blurred together: class, cafeteria food for lunch, studying, babysitting shifts for the couple down the hall with twin girls. The girls liked it when I read to them, same picture books over and over. They’d crawl onto my lap and giggle at the same silly voices I put on each time. I didn’t mind. The repetition was soothing in its own way.
Shane would come home sweaty from practice, tossing his gear into a pile and pulling me off the couch into an unshowered hug. “We killed it today. The freshmen can actually hit.” His enthusiasm never waned, no matter how small the victory.
Their first set of practice games was in mid-October. I sat in the bleachers, hands shoved deep into my hoodie pocket against the bite of the wind, watching Shane jog out onto the field. He was never cocky about his game, but I could see the way his shoulders squared just a little more when he stepped up to bat. And when the team won the game, Shane lifted his cap in my direction before the whole dugout mobbed him.
That night, we celebrated. Not with champagne or fancy dinners; although with my stipend, we could have swung one of those, but with an intimate meal of peanut butter and blackberry ham sandwiches on split-top wheat bread. After, we cleaned any jam residue left on our lips with deep, loving kisses. A mischievous grin grew on Shane’s face after the kiss.
“I think you should help me study my human anatomy,” he said.
I wanted to laugh. He was enrolled in a one-hour class that was required of all the athletes that was called ‘Health and Hygiene of the Professional Athlete.’ “OK, what exactly are we studying?”
“The male genitalia.” Shane grinned.
I knew that look so I took the opportunity for a jab. “Based on the last blowjob I received, you definitely need a refresher course.”
“Whoa! You cut me to the quick!”
“Pull your pants down so I can make sure you’re not missing any parts before we proceed.”
“Remember that a sharp tongue can slit your own throat.” Shane’s expression changed to smugness.
“Shut up and show me your dick.”
With the index finger and thumb of his right hand, he lifted the head of his flaccid penis. “I don’t have a rifle, but this is my gun. A rifle’s for hunting; my gun is for fun.”
“You are in a good mood, aren’t you?”
“We won. And I have a feeling that you’re about to win.” He moved his eyebrows quickly up and down.
“Show me your balls.”
Shane reached his left hand down and lifted a testicle with each hand. “I’ve got two.”
“I know,” I replied. “I’ve had each one in my mouth.”
“Always a pleasurable experience, sir.”
“Now, show me your pussy.”
“I ain’t got no… Oh.” Shane hesitated.
I smiled.
“That’s not a scientific term,” Shane countered.
“No? What’s your preference then?” I turned my bare ass toward him. “If I said stick your dick in my cunt, you’d know exactly what I’m talking about, right?”
“Yeah, but you’d never say that.”
“I just did,” I said. “But, too late.” I turned back around. “Now, since I’m here to help you study, and you took too long to answer the question,” I said as I reached for the lube, “I’m going to have to show you.” I put lube on my fingers, pushed Shane’s ass up and wedged my knee under it. His ass pucker was in plain sight. I pushed my fingers into his hole. “This, study partner, is your pussy. Also known as your cunt, your manhole, sometimes just your hole.”
“What about asshole?” asked Shane.
“I only use that word when I’m talking about you.” I tried to chuckle, but it came out as a giggle. What followed was a clear example of my underestimating Shane’s quick reflexes. He had me on my back before I had a chance to react.
“That’s my dick, and when it’s hard like that, it’s called an erection. Right now, it is pushing against your asshole, Asshole.”
I inhaled a gulp of air in utter disbelief of his quick movements.
“And,” Shane continued, “when I do this, it’s called anal intercourse.” He pushed into me. I gasped again, not from pain but from surprise. It actually felt really good. “It’s also called fucking.”
“Don’t stop now,” I blurted out. “You’ve got an A; it’s time for some bonus points.”
“You’re suck a dick,” Shane laughed.
“Just fuck me,” I told him. “Fuck me hard.”
He did, and after he came, he gave me a soft, gentle blowjob. I cuddled up next to him and had one of the best night’s sleep that I’d ever had. I didn’t deserve to be this happy, but I was.
The weeks that followed slid back into their rhythm: classes, practices, babysitting, late-night studying. We cooked an occasional pasta meal; we argued about who’d left socks in the living room (even though the socks in question were always Shane’s athletic socks). Normal. Happy. Maybe even boring, but I treasured it, because boring with Shane was still exciting.
Anderson wrote again in early November. The search was discreet, he said. His brother had reached out to one or two potential candidates in confidence, people with experience in hospitality, people who might fit the vision I’d described. No promises yet, but progress. The Petersons remained unaware.
By the time Thanksgiving break approached, my French had improved enough for me to understand parts of a movie; although, I did need the subtitles to get through it. Shane had earned a starter’s spot for the spring season. We packed bags for a trip to Dallas to meet up with his sister for some turkey. I never had the feeling that his sister liked me, and now I’d be spending three days with her.
Welcome House loomed in my mind again. We had plans to stay there over Christmas. I wondered how Gretchen and Roger would react to such a long stay. But Thanksgiving was the priority, and I promised Shane that I would focus on that.
Just before we left, we found out that Logan had received a five year sentence with the possibility of parole after 3 years. Who knows what the future held for Gretchen and Roger. The wheels of justice were turning. Slow, steady, deliberate. And for now, that was enough.
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