A disclaimer from the author: This story is a work of erotic fiction featuring men having sex with other men. It is intended for a mature audience only. It contains themes that some readers might find uncomfortable to read about, including: intergenerational sex, interracial sex, and themes involving dominance and submission. Please consider your tastes and comfort levels and show discretion before reading or commenting on this work.
This is a standalone story, but left openended for potential expansion. If are interested in seeing this story continued, be sure and let me know.
Positive and/or constructive comments are always appreciated at: [email protected]
I.
At a cursory glance, Bennett House sure wasn’t much to write home about. Just an old craftsman-style home, probably from the turn of the 20th century, and judging by the look of things, there had been little in the way of updates since its conception. The paint on the exterior siding, a muddy green color, was sun faded and peeling at the edges. Four large, bulky stone steps, once chalk white, but now chipped away by decades of rain and the labor of human feet led unto a dusty looking wooden porch. But the thing that stuck out the loudest for Roger, probably due to his decades long career slaving away in the landscaping industry, was the overgrown Kentucky Bluegrass wrapped around the perimeter of the property. The homeowners, whomever they might be, looked to have skipped mowing this week and the poor lawn was overdue a good, firm cut, not too dissimilar to some of the boys back at the campus where Roger worked.
The house looked lived in, but not in a good way. It lacked that fundamental sense of order and balance that would make it an attractive addition to the neighborhood. Curbside appeal, some called it, but to Roger it was simply being Houseproud. He turned his attention away from the source of his displeasure and toward his grandson sitting in the passenger seat beside him.
“You really want to live here, Danny?” he asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in his voice. Danny, who had been looking outside the car window with rapt attention pulled his head off the glass and looked back at his grandfather. He nodded, excitement obvious in his young features.
“Yeah, grandpa. I’ve been thinking about it all summer,” he said, grin wide and unashamed as he brushed a stray blonde hair out of his face.
Roger frowned. This was not at all the plan he had imagined for Danny when his grandson graduated high school. He had expected the young man to sign up for classes at the local university where Roger was contracted, taking sensible classes in something like accounting or education (which Danny predictably and dutifully followed). Then, the young man, obviously desiring some freedom from Roger and his wife after 16 years under their roof, could move into one of the dorms or student housing buildings within walking distance of campus. Someplace safe and sensible. A Roger Baxter approved option. That was where Roger’s meticulous and levelheaded life planning had hit the first cockup.
Roger blamed Peter Wilson. Peter, or Petey as all of the old folks around the neighborhood had called him for years, had been a close friend of Danny’s since they were younguns way back in elementary school. With a dopey mop of chestnut brown hair on his head and boyish good looks to match, Petey was a year older, but perhaps not much wiser than his younger friend. Where Danny was a precious bright spot always following the rules to a tee and the apple in every adult’s eye, Petey was...something different.
It wasn’t that Peter was a bad kid. That wasn’t true at all. There was just some intangible part of the young man that pulled him away from the well-paved and trodden roads of his elders, and toward winding, wooded paths that seemed to have no destination in sight. His choices were riskier for the mind, the reputation, and perhaps most dangerously, the wallet. When Petey graduated from high school over a year ago, he had taken classes (part-time), switching majors more than the sports jerseys he wore on his back, and had gotten a “temporary” job doing warehouse stock at a local hardware store, before committing the worst faux pas of all by moving into the very building that Roger and Daniel Baxter were staring at.
Bennett House, they called it, a pretentious name that made Roger think of a little girl putting on her mother’s Sunday best, sipping tea with a raised pinky, and pretending to be a dainty queen. The reality didn’t quite live up to the namesake, but that didn’t seem to make much of a difference to the young men who called it home. Petey had taken to the independence of young adult life with a gusto that was rare for someone his age, and he had wasted no time regaling Danny with stories of Bennett House and the other young men who lived there. Roger hadn’t paid much attention at first, thinking his grandson was just humoring the interests of his long time friend. He had thought Danny far too sensible to fall under the allure of a wannabe, D-grade frat house, but ever since the first stories of late night debauchery trickled into his ear, Danny had been fixated on living there and following in the footsteps of his best friend, eager to stake his own backwards claim on adulthood.
Roger was more than a little doubtful. Like any good parent, he had done his own research. He wasn’t about to send his only grandson into a lion’s den where he would get chewed up and spate out like yesterday’s leftovers. What he had heard back had been mildly concerning, if unsurprising. It seemed Bennett House had gotten a reputation over the years for its “festivities” one might call it. It was a Good Time place, far enough from campus to avoid the ire of University security, but close enough for students and other youthful hangerons to carpool or take the bus to without too much of a hassle. He had heard the booze was as plentiful as the babes, and it wasn’t uncommon for news of stupid frat boy style hijinks to make their way back to the authorities where, by the sheer miracle of living in a Midwest college town, their shenanigans would get handwaved away with an “Aw shucks, boys just being boys” state of mind. When he had expressed his concerns to his wife Mary, Danny’s grandmother, she had gently scoffed at him.
“Really, Rog,” she said in her well-practiced chiding voice. “Isn’t that how those places are? You can’t expect Danny to never get up to any mischief.” But he could, he told himself. Roger had never gotten into any real trouble as a young man. He hadn’t even been given the opportunity to living out on the farm, away from the rest of the boys and under the strict supervision of his ex-military grandfather. So far, Danny had been following his example and been nothing short of a model young man. Mary might have dismissed his concerns, happy to let Danny spread his wings and reduce her domestic load in one fell swoop, but for Roger, they were no laughing matter.
When Danny had come to him several weeks ago asking permission to live in Bennett House, practically begging actually, Roger had begrudgingly agreed if, and only if, he got to check out the house and the men who lived there. It had seemed like a smart compromise at the time, a way for him to remain stern, but seem more openminded compared to his own strict upbringing. He had expected that to be the end of it, since there was no way those hooligans would ever pass muster. Sitting back in his favorite easy chair, paper in one hand, coffee mug steaming on a coaster within reaching distance, he waited for Danny to pout at the unfairness of it all, mope for a few days, and then jump back on Roger’s lifeplan. To his surprise, Danny had jumped at this chance, perhaps glad to have any opportunity to live in his dream home no matter how small.
So here they were, sitting inside Roger’s old Chevy, waiting to see just what the boys of Bennett House got up to. Well, Roger thought, resisting the urge to sigh at the misfortune of his own making, might as well get this over with.
“C’mon, sport. Let’s go say hello,” Roger said, using his patented measured Granddad voice. Danny didn’t give a response, not in words anyways. He hopped out of the vehicle, completely forgetting to close the door behind him in his haste. Roger cleared his voice, watching Danny slam on the brakes, and realizing his error, do a U-turn. After gently closing the car door with a sheepish grin on his face, he raced toward the front door of the house, bounding up the steps like an excited puppy, Roger following behind him at a slower, more dignified pace.
As Roger climbed the ramshackle steps in his loafers and set foot on the porch, Danny knocked quickly, but politely, the way he had been raised. They stood together for a few moments in silence, waiting to be let in. Roger quickly gave himself a once-over, pleased to see his khakis, belt, and tucked-in plaid button-up were all still in order. Even with his slightly stockier frame, he was still reasonable fit for of man his age, carrying himself with a quiet poise lacking in many of his contemporaries. Noticing a stray wrinkle on Danny’s shirt out of the corner of his eye, Roger frowned, and used his hands to straighten it out, making his more trimmed and fit grandson equally presentable.
The door opened and a slim, attractive black man answered. He looked to be in his early, maybe mid 20’s, with a few piercings on his ears and a smile that showed off gleaming white teeth. He couldn’t see too much of the young man’s body under the loose hoodie and sweats he wore, featuring the logo some kind of metal band Roger didn’t recognize, but he looked reasonably healthy. He had been awaiting their arrival and held his right hand out to Roger.
“Hi, you must be Mr. Baxter,” the man said. He was addressing the older of the two guests first. Smart move to focus on the one who was going to be paying the rent and calling the shots. Besides, Roger suspected this young man was already acquainted with his grandson. He didn’t have any proof, but he was pretty sure Danny had snuck over to the Bennett House on more than one occasion. Roger didn’t exactly approve, but Danny was technically an adult. He couldn’t really stop him from associating with these boys, even if it rankled his feathers to think about his grandson sneaking around behind his back.
Roger met the young man’s hand with his own, his grip firm, pleased by the way the kid matched him, the warm palm feeling right at home in his slightly larger one.
“That’s right, I’m Roger Baxter, Danny’s grandfather,” he waited for the expected followup, and not receiving it, added, “...and you are?” The boy looked embarrassed for a moment, playfully smacking the side of his head with his free hand, before a dopey grin crossed his face.
“Oh. Sorry about that. That was rude of me. I’m Jordan. Jordan Powell. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baxter,” Jordan might have been young, but he knew how to make a recovery. He gave the black man another once over. Jordan’s appearance might not have inspired much confidence, but despite himself, Roger could feel the beginnings of a reluctant interest forming in his mind.
“Please, call me Roger,” he said, normally averse to the idea of such casual familiarity, but finding himself feeling generous in the moment. Roger believed in hierarchy and the order it brought, so this young man was being given quite a gift, he thought. If Justin noticed Roger’s wary bearing, he didn’t seem to care, or more likely was willing to ignore it for Roger’s sake. Another good sign. Justin gestured the pair off the leaf strewn porch and into the house.
When Roger stepped inside Bennett House, he felt as if he had walked into a hand-me-down family home that had fought valiantly to maintain its pride before finally succumbing to a slow decline into Bachelor Padism. He wrinkled his nose at the smell in the air, a faint, yet peculiar mixture of male musk, stale brewskies, microwaved proteins, and Febreze. Once this might have been a respectable, cozy house, a place to bring your sweetheart to after a movie and a cherry coke, but those days had long since passed.
The downgrade was a disappointment but he wasn’t surprised. Actually, if anything, he was expecting more trash and clutter. Empty pizza boxes on counter tops, crushed beer cans scattered on the floor, that sort of thing. Single men weren’t often known for their cleanliness, especially in a frat setting, but glancing downward he noticed that there were several notable vacuum tracks wedged into the thinning carpet and a distinct lack of dust on the flat wooden surfaces. The house wasn’t spic-and-span, by any definition of the word, but it had definitely been tidied up. He wondered if Jordan was responsible for the quick-fix. He knew guests were coming over so he tried to make the house more hospitable. For the first time since he began his drive over with Danny, Roger felt a tiny curl of a smile on his lips.
Jordan invited the Baxters to take a seat wherever was comfortable for them in what was likely once a simple family room connected to a modest dining room but had now settled into the kind of multipurpose space one would see in a frat house, with furniture shoved to the side to make space for a frankly ratty-looking pool table. Roger preferred to remain standing and he watched as Danny sat down into an old La-Z-Boy recliner, sinking like a stone into the scratched up leather. Danny pulled on the handle on the side several times, gaining nothing for his efforts but a mechanical scraping sound from inside the chair.
While Jordan was rummaging around in the kitchenette fetching meager refreshments, another wise move on his part, Roger took a moment to examine the walls in more detail. There wasn’t too much of import to be found, just a random, mismatched spattering of wall art: dorm room posters of busty babes in bikinis and barrel-chested ballers going long, sloppy digital art prints of “broish” young men, likely old or current tenants, and a couple of Bob Ross-inspired dime store paintings that must have come with the building. Several places on the wall were distinctly bare, as if the photos that once lay there had looked around at the new neighbors and absconded in the night.
He did notice two conspicuous pieces sitting on a mantle, crowning the broken fireplace. The first was a collage of photos all featuring the same red-haired man. He looked to be in his early 20’s in most of them and Roger would have considered him handsome if he wasn’t constantly sporting the red-rimmed eyes of a committed stoner. Most of the shots were of parties of varying kinds. In one he was wearing some kind of costume, probably for a Halloween party. He looked to have been aiming for Beetlejuice and managed only to awkwardly land in the vicinity of the Hamburglar. Beneath the pictures was a name written in scratchy handwriting: Jimmy Bennett, Founder. So this was the person who had “founded” this house of ne’er-do-wells. Not a very encouraging start was it?
Next to the poster board was something even more peculiar. It was a plaque of sorts on a wooden base, something Roger would have associated with a sports frat. On the fake gold plating he could make out words chiseled in bold BENNETT HOUSE RULES. And then below only one line: NEVER LEAVE YOUR BRO HANGING. Roger blinked, trying to decipher this bizarre message when Jordan returned with two glasses of water in mixed-matched plastic cups.
Roger took the cup gratefully. He was actually feeling quite parched. His doctors, and worse Mary, liked to get on his case about staying hydrated, especially in his old age. That last part rankled more than he wanted to admit. He was only 61, gosh darnit, not some old geezer about to keel over into an early grave. In his book, he was still a bit of a looker too and had managed to keep most of the weight of a sedentary suburban life off his waist. Still, despite his complaining, he decided he should find a place to sit for appearances sake.
Surveying the limited options available, he settled on an oversized, flower-printed sofa, liking the idea of having all that room to himself. He was surprised then when Jordan sat down on the cushion next to him instead of the more expected choice of the wooden rocking chair at the other end of the room. Roger felt the urge to bunch himself inwards, but forced his legs and arms into a relaxed position. He gestured with his glass to the collage and plaque.
“So that is the illustrious Mr. Bennett?” he said, eager for a distraction from this young man’s physical proximity. At his question, Jordan smirked.
“Yeah, you could say that,” he said, tipping his own cup for a sip of something that smelled suspiciously like a cold brew, before continuing, “Word was he got gifted this house when his grandparents passed away. Turned it into housing for students before moving on.”
“Moving on? To where?”
“Not sure really. Somewhere in Utah, I think. Apparently he ran off to be with some Yoga Chick from California he met online. Started driving cross country to be with her. Heard they broke up before he even made it into the state,” he shrugged his shoulders at this, as if Jimmy Bennett’s disappearance was some great mystery that would never be solved. “He’s still around somewhere. Cashes the checks I put in the bank each month, anyways.” Now Roger raised his own grey eyebrow.
“So, you run this place?” he must have been making quite the face, because Jordan burst into laughter.
“I wouldn’t go that far! I just collect the rent, make sure the utilities get paid...” he frowned, considering his words, as if for the first time. “Damn, I guess that does kind of put me in charge, doesn’t it?”
“Who else lives here beside you and Peter Wilson?” Roger asked, getting straight to the point.
“Just Beef,” Jordan said, as if that alone was a sufficient answer.
“Beef?” Jordan chuckled at Roger’s response, and the older man could hear Danny doing the same to his side.
“Beef is one of the guys. His actual name is Ken, but he hates it so everyone just calls him by his nickname instead, because he’s, well…” Jordan made a bodybuilder pose, face scrunched like he was overtaken with Hulkamania.
“Sounds like quite a character,” Roger said, finding that was all he could manage at the moment. From the chair, Danny chimed in.
“Is Pete in, Jord?” his grandson asked. Jord? Jordan shook his chocolate colored head.
“Nope, had to fill in for someone at work today. Sorry.” Danny frowned and sat back in his seat, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Beside him, Jordan’s leg accidentally bumped against his and Roger instinctively moved it away as if stung.
“So tell me, Jordan,” his voice cooling. “What do you get up to when you aren’t trying to pry my hard earned cash out of my hands?” He heard Danny groan in the chair next to him, but Jordan seemed not to mind the jab, a small smile sitting relaxingly on his face.
“Oh, this and that. I work as a Part-Time Manager at Steak N Shake, but that’s not really my long term goal.” That caught Roger’s interest. It was the first time he had heard anything like a goal or long term plan coming from anything associated with this house.
“My real passion is photography,” he said, peaking Roger’s attention further. Art was something that had always felt foreign to the more sensible minded man, but the clarity and focus of a good photo appealed to his clean cut sensibilities.
“Really? What kind of photos do you like to take? Landscapes?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Nudes, mostly.” Roger almost spat his water across the room. He took a deep steadying breath, glad to be holding the cup in front of his face to hide the blush beginning to form.
“I see...how very Bohemian of you,” he managed, and Jordan just smirked, his foot touching Roger’s making the older man’s blush that more prominent.
“They aren’t anything special. But I like my work,” Jordan said, his eyes never leaving Roger. “Maybe I can show you some pictures sometime.”
Roger swallowed, feeling as if the room was slowly closing around him. A sudden, absurd image entered his head. His grandson Danny lounging naked on a chaise lounge, while Jordan, an artist’s beret cocked on his buzzed head, snapped picture after picture of his grandson’s lithe body, egging his grandson on in a leering voice, “That’s it baby. Show it all off.”
Roger felt a sudden, almost violent shift in his belly, like something was coiling away in his gut. He needed to put some distance between himself and this boy, pronto.
“So you have a room free for us to look at?” he asked, abruptly standing. Jordan frowned for a moment, clearly displeased by the sudden shift in temperature, but gave no other indication that he was bothered by Roger’s cagey behavior.
“Yeah...let me show you,” Jordan said, and led the pair down a hallway harshly lit by a bare bulb. When they reached the end, Jordan pushed on the door, having to give it a little shove (“it sticks sometimes”), before ushering them inside.
It was about what Roger expected. The floor was hardwood, but in need of some serious TLC. There was nothing of note within the room itself except for a wooden bedframe with a bare twin-sized mattress laying at an awkward angle on top, and not far a single, battered looking dresser, with three drawers, all partially opened to varying degrees.
“Not much to look at,” Roger said, checking out the closet and moving a stray wire hanger aside. Jordan stood in the doorway, leaning casually on the doorframe, a sentinel watching over his dominion.
“It’s got everything he needs to get started,” he said, and Roger stopped his examinations for a moment, not expecting the comment. He re-accessed Jordan, looking for any hints of arrogance or deceit, and finding only a steady, unassuming confidence that seemed to poke at his well formed objections and protestations.
On the other side of the bed, Danny was far too excited about the bare bones room.
“Grandpa it’ll be perfect. You’ll see,” he said, and Roger watched as Danny and Jordan exchanged a meaningful glance, the secrecy of which Roger didn’t understand or appreciate.
“I don’t know, Danny,” Roger said, apprehension in his voice. “I don’t see how this is any better than a dorm room.”
“Danny would have more freedom here than in the dorms,” Jordan said, staring directly into Roger’s eyes. Roger paused a beat, before he recovered.
“Maybe I’m worried about that freedom.” Roger said, far softer than he had imagined in his head. “Lots of boys lose their way without some structure.”
“A boy needs his space so he can become a man, Mr. Baxter,” something in the way he said his name, made a tiny shiver run up Roger’s spine. “Besides…”
Now Jordan stepped close, far closer than necessary and said softly to Roger. “We both know you will be looking out for him every step of the way.” The nature of the words mixed with the proximity of this boy who seemed to have an uncanny ability to put him on his toes left Roger momentarily speechless. Jordan stepped back into the door, all ease, and Roger could breath again.
“How about this, sir,” Jordan said, his voice all business now. “Let’s put Danny on Probation.” Roger grimaced.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Jordan said, a sly grin spreading across his face. “That we can do a test run. How about Danny stays here over the rest of the summer?” At the suggestion, Danny looked like he was about to jump out of his skin.
“I don’t know if that is such a good idea,” Roger said, lowly, battling the odd feeling that he was losing control of this situation. Jordan seemed to have an answer for that too.
“You’d be welcome to come by and check on things any time, Mr. Baxter.” His gaze deepened. “I was already counting on it,” Now he grinned in a way that made Roger feel as if Jordan had won some kind of unknown battle he hadn’t been aware he was a part of.
“Why don’t you go home and think about it, sir.” Again that word. “I’m sure you and your wife need to have a good long talk about Danny’s future. In fact,” he reached into his sweatpants pocket and tossed a key to Roger. “Why don’t you come by sometime later this week and we can get to know each other a little better. You can see what a friendly lot we all are.” Something about that made Roger’s stomach flip in knots, but he sure as heck wasn’t going to let Jordan see that. Collecting himself, he turned his attention to his grandson who had been watching this exchange with bated, hopeful breath.
“Danny, I think that’s enough for now,” he said curtly. He saw his grandson begin to protest, and he held a hand up, halting all further conversation. “We’re going.” As he moved to the doorway, Jordan remained in his position, lingering for a second, before moving aside just enough for Roger to be able to get through. As Roger squeezed by, his thick chest butted up against Jordan’s lankier form, and he felt Jordan’s palm graze his waist. The black youth’s eyes never left his face.
Ignoring the strange sensation in his chest, Roger moved quickly down the hall and straight out the door, Danny trailed behind him. He didn’t look back as he headed to his car, but he distinctly heard the words, “Be seeing you soon, Mr. Baxter.”
On the drive home, Danny was a bundle of nervous energy, eagerly pitching his case, until Roger, his agitated fingers gripping the wheel like he was trying to strangle it, finally got fed up and told him to be quiet. He needed the silence to quiet his mind, but once the noise ceased instead of gaining the peace he had expected, he found a troubling sense of unease and inevitability moving in to fill the space. By the time the pair arrived back at the Ranch-style home he and Mary had owned most of their adult, married lives, he had already felt the needling feeling that he was going to be back at Bennett House, and sooner rather than later.
---
II.
Roger managed to wait a full 4 days before going back to Bennett House. It was a Thursday, and he left work early hoping he could talk to Jordan alone so they could clean up this mess before it got any more out of hand.
Once again standing on the Bennett House, he wiped his feet on the mat that said “Go Away”, knocking on the door at the same time, a rougher echo of that earlier Sunday with his grandson. There was no response, so he knocked again, harder this time, feeling the rap of hard wood on his aging knuckles. He was about to give up, figuring that maybe everyone was already out for the day, when he heard the sounds of shuffling beyond the door and a muffled voice on the other side call out, “Who is it!?”
“It’s Mr. Baxter. Daniel’s grandfather.” There was a short pause, followed by the sound of rummaging, before the door swung open and he caught a last minute flash of a smooth brown stomach as Jordan hastily put on a t-shirt. Other than a slim pair of shorts, sleeping wear by the looks of it, Jordan was practically naked. Roger groaned inwardly, already feeling the awkwardness begin to settle in.
“Is this a bad time?” he murmured, the old, suburban habits of politeness dying hard. Jordan yawned, and seemingly unaware of the source of Roger’s discomfort at first, until he noticed how Roger was staring at his half naked body and realized what the older man was referring too.
“No, sir,” he said, breaking out into a smile that made Roger’s stomach hitch. “Just had to make myself a little more presentable.” If this was what counted as presentable, Roger shuddered to think about what might have been waiting for him on the other side of the door beforehand. Jordan fully opened the door, and gestured for Roger to come inside. Roger stepped inside, closing the door behind him as he did so. He watched, with some consternation as the young man began to walk away from him, bare feet muffled by the aging carpet, and toward the kitchen.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Baxter,” Jordan said over his shoulder and disappearing out of sight into the kitchen. Standing awkwardly in the entryway, Roger could just faintly make out the sound of a refrigerator door opening and closing. When Jordan reappeared carrying a beer bottle in each hand, Roger frowned.
“That isn’t necessary, young man,” he said, not liking the idea of drinking at the best of times, and even less so here alone with Jordan, a boy only about 1/3 his age. Jordan was undettered by Roger’s complaints.
“I insist,” Jordan said, holding out a bottle out, which Roger warily took, politeness dooming him once more. He held the bottle steady in his hand while Jordan used a bottle opener on the cap, misjudging the pressure and causing the cap to fly in a majestic arc. Both men instinctively reached for it, Roger getting to it first, and in the scuffle their hands clasped together around the small metal object. Jordan held onto Roger’s paler palm, an impish smile on his face, before releasing Roger’s thicker hand and holding his palm out.
“Nice catch, sir,” Jordan said, playfulness dancing in his tired voice.
Roger dropped the bottle cap onto Jordan’s hand and quickly turned away, feeling as if the black man was peeling away the skin on his head and peering into his brain with a magnifying glass. As he did so, his eyes caught a glimpse of the weird plaque out of the corner of his eye and he honed in on the opportunity to distract himself.
“Tell me, Jordan,” he said, walking toward the mantle. He tapped the wood with the back of one knuckle. “What’s this all about?” Jordan followed, realized what Roger was referring to, and shook his head, a small bemused expression on his face as he prepared to tell the tale.
“Ah, that.” he smirked. “Bennett had this idea that rules were the death of true freedom and individuality.” He scratched at an armpit as he continued. “He would go on sometimes about how all you needed was a bro to watch your back and you were set for life.” He shrugged, with a “don’t ask me, I didn’t come up with it” expression on his face. Roger huffed.
“So young Mr. Bennett thought of himself as a philosopher, did he?” he stated, dismissal oozing in his tone. Jordan’s smirk widened.
“Not easily impressed, are you, sir?” Now it was Roger’s turn to smirk.
“I just don’t buy into halfbaked notions is all,” he said lightly, a hint of smug superiority in his tone. He was surprised when Jordan met his comment with a corny jab of his own.
“You’re wrong about that, Mr. Baxter. Bennett’s ideas were always fully baked.” Roger gawked at Jordan for moment trying to keep his composure, before Jordan’s serious expression crumbled and he burst into a childish giggling fit, which Roger, despite himself, joined in on. The mood in the air lifted instantly and Roger felt suddenly as if he was joking around with an old friend and not a potential corrupter of his grandson. Putting his hands into his pockets, Jordan’s expression turned thoughtful and he continued,
“It’s a nice idea though. Having a man in your corner through thick and thin. Right?” Roger frowned, he hadn’t considered it from that perspective, only too eager to dismiss the juvenile sounding message from his mind.
“Maybe,” he allowed, acknowledging the core value in the message if not the idiotic package it came in.
They chit-chatted for a while more, exchange small, inconsequential pleasantries. Both seemed unwilling to broach the subject of why Roger was here, at least directly, and as the minutes passed on, Roger began to feel his guard slip, just a little.
It helped that Jordan, through thoughtfulness or blind luck avoided the usual pitfalls strangers fell into. He made no comment about Roger’s age or asked questions about retirement. Work was a sore subject for the elder Baxter man, who felt as if he was in a constant cold war with the university over his ongoing employment. Roger loved his job, supervising and beautifying the campus property, and they would have to pry it out of his cold dead hands before he would ever retire. After all, a man was nothing without his work.
Jordan didn’t say a peep about Danny’s parents either. Most people were shocked, even dismayed to learn that he and Mary had raised little Danny from near infancy. For Roger, his ability to foster Danny to adulthood was a source of immense pride and satisfaction in a world looking to dump disappointments on you at every opportunity. If anyone ever asked about Danny’s father, Roger’s son, he answered with one word, and one word only. Deceased. It was an old wound, and he had no interest in picking at the scab.
Roger was just beginning to settle into something that felt suspiciously like comfort with this young man’s presence when Jordan, who had topped off his beer and set the empty bottle aside on the mantle, brought up the idea of going downstairs.
“I live down there,” he said at Roger’s confused expression. “We can have a nice private conversation,” he said. He was already heading toward a door situated near the entrance to the hallway, before Roger could respond. Roger stood stock still, holding his beer in one hand, barely sipped. He had a sinking sensation in his gut, as if he was walking into some kind of ill-defined trap.
That’s ridiculous, he thought, chastising himself. What kind of trouble could I possibly get into with this kid? Setting aside his irrational concerns, Roger followed behind Jordan as the younger man began to descend the staircase.
The strong sounds of footsteps on creaky stairs echoed throughout the small basement as they descended into the lower level. The air felt damp with its concrete walls and the only natural light came from the small window wells along the east wall. There was a minimal amount of furniture which gave the room a surprisingly spacious feeling that was at odds with the barren aesthetics. It felt paradoxically empty and lived in. The only truly notable piece of furniture was a jawdroppingly large flatscreen TV, anchored to the wall. Roger was no expert on modern television sets, but it looked to be something around the size of 120” and was the focal point of the entire basement due to sheer size alone.
Facing toward the big screened monstrosity was the only other piece of note, and then only noteworthy because of its sad appearance. It was a large fold-out sofabed, with outdated criss-cross stitching patterns that immediately made Roger think of a dead grandmother’s couch that the in-laws had dumped at Goodwill. Roger realized then that Jordan didn’t own a bed, not a proper one anyways, and he imagined Jordan pulling out the sleeper each night (or morning in today’s case) and crawling onto the thin, uncomfortable mattress. He felt an unexpected pang of paternal concern underscored with a nagging touch of pity, something typically reserved only for his grandson or perhaps the rare, newbie groundskeeping employee he had taken a shine to.
Jordan sat down on one side of the couch with a well-practiced motion and patted the seat next to him. Roger saw no other place to sit, and so having no other choice, hesitantly sat down a cushion’s distance away from Jordan, feeling a metallic sounding protest from the old girl beneath him. He took another sip of his beer, self-consciousness raring its ugly head once again. It must have been the damp, but he felt a strange prickly feeling on his skin, something almost electric that he couldn’t define. In his mind, he rehearsed his well-choreographed arguments to Jordan, hearing the words of polite dismissal and the imagining the younger black man nodding along to his superior knowledge and life experience.
He had just opened his mouth, wetting his dry mouth and lips with saliva, and ready to put his thoughts into speech, but the words never left his mouth when Jordan reached into a tin next to the sofabed and pulled out what looked to be a sizable joint. Jordan held it up for a second, looking around for a light, when he suddenly remembered the conservative nature of the man sitting next to him.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked casually, clearly not feeling any serious way about his obvious drug usage. For a second, Roger felt a surge of indignation blossom within him, something judgmental and thoroughly unpleasant. He pushed it down though, deciding to be charitable. This was a different man, in a different home, from a different culture and different generation. He certainly didn’t approve, but he knew he should try and meet him halfway.
“It’s a free country,” Roger said, surprising even himself with how laissez-faire he sounded. Almost as if he hung around with men getting stoned all the time. No big deal.
Jordan finally found his lighter, a cheapie orange Bic, and after a few halted flicks, the flame connected to tightly rolled paper, and a cloud of skunky smelling smoke begin to drift into the air. Jordan brought the joint to his lips, took a few short intakes of breath, allowing the smoke to slide pleasingly down his throat, before holding the joint out to Roger in a gesture of friendship. Roger shook his head, biting his tongue at the pungent odor. He might be trying to be open minded, but that was still a bridge too far.
Jordan seem nonplussed with Roger’s dismissal and took another long hit before setting the joint down in a nearby ashtray. The younger man stretched, almost catlike, seemingly relaxed even more than usual by the artificial influence. Roger felt a tiny nagging sense of envy at that. He watched as Jordan lay back on the sofa, half sitting, half sprawled across the soda surface, a lean arm rubbing along his side. There was a peculiar expression on Jordan’s face Roger couldn’t identify and was afraid to name. Something raw and animal-like. He shook his head, trying to focus back on the task at hand. He hadn’t come here to play nice and hang out with a boy barely older than a teenager. He was here to set the record straight.
“Jordan…” he started, watching the droopy expression on the black youth’s face and hoping he wouldn’t fall asleep on him. “I appreciate the…” he tried to find the right word. “Welcome Wagon that you’ve set out for me and Danny, but-”
“Danny’s great you know,” Jordan said, cutting the older man off. His voice had taken on a slightly dreamy tone that it had lacked before the beer and marijuana. “We all love him here.” Roger stopped at that, a dark frown crossing his features.
“I’m not going to ask how you and Danny got so cozy, Jordan,” he said, his tone measured, controlled. “I have a different aim for my grandson. I want better for him than…” he stopped himself again, not wanting to say the dreaded word this and offend his host. “I just...this isn’t going to work out, son. I’m sorry.”
He leaned forward and sat his beer, still ¾ full on the counter at the opposite end of the ashtray. He was ready to get to his feet and get out of this mess, back into the comforting grasp of civilized society, when Jordan said something that threw him for a loop.
“You don’t have to do that, you know.” Roger frowned, unsure of what to make of that statement.
“Excuse me?”
Jordan sat up, his eyes, previously cloudy with the drug, now cleared enough to stare at Roger’s own with intention.
“Act all...” Jordan struggled to find the words and instead wrapped his arms around himself and began to writhe and shake, like a man in a straightjacket. Roger’s face turned beat red, and he felt a surge of consternation at the audacity of this kid lecturing him about his behavior.
“I don’t know what you are trying to imply and I don’t like the sound of it,” he snapped, the old, easy dismissal back in his voice. He was ready to leave now. To get out of this basement and away from this boy and the confused feelings he brewed inside him. As he turned to leave, Jordan broke from his metaphorical restraints and gripped Roger’s left wrist like a handcuff. Rogers breath hitched, and he stopped in his tracks, never expecting to actually be manhandled by the boy. He felt almost burnt by Jordan’s touch, and began to pull his hand way until the younger man spoke to him,
“Hey, don’t do that. C’mon, sit down,” then almost pleadingly “Please.” It was the please that broke Roger. The gentle pleading in the boy’s voice. He could never back away from something like that. Shaking his head, not knowing why he was even listening anymore, he sat back down, gingerly now, more on guard. He hadn’t expected this...fight wasn’t the right word, but it was definitely a conflict that felt unlike anything he had experienced before.
Once he was back in place on the sofa, Jordan relaxed again, releasing Roger’s wrist, and a bit of the mellowness of a few moments before seeped back into his youthful body.
“I’m not trying to be a dick man, it’s just…” Jordan said, as he watched Roger rub at his wrist absentmindedly, “Mr. Baxter, can I level with you?”
“You haven’t seemed to have any problems speaking your mind yet, so why stop now,” Roger said, his tone coming out more bitchy than he intended. Jordan shrugged off the passive-aggressive insult, like water off a duck’s back.
“Mr. Baxter, I...” he took a deep breath and continued, “I don’t think what you want for Danny and what Danny wants are the same thing.”
“Danny doesn’t know what he wants,” Roger said, then stopped, shook his head, and corrected himself. “Danny doesn’t know what’s best for himself.” He had expected a biting comeback or quippy remark from the younger man, but instead Jordan looked at him with eyes filled with something that felt unmistakably like pity. He turned away from those eyes, a lighter brown than Jordan’s skin, feeling a new emotion that was completely unexpected: shame.
“Roger,” Jordan said, drawing the grandfather’s face back toward his own. No one in this house had ever said his first name before and the foreignness of it startled him. “I think Danny’s lucky to have you,” he sounded sincere, but punctured the bubble when he added, “But maybe it’s time for you to step back some and let Danny make his own mistakes...sir.” he added at the end.
There was a moment as his words sunk in. Roger had to give the kid some credit. He had a point, and he hated it more than he had hated anything in a long time. Danny had taken to the idea of living in Bennett House with a single minded determination that felt completely alien to his grandfather. He couldn’t understand it at all. His grandson was growing into a man who he didn’t recognize and he was being left behind.
The thought made him sad, and the sadness must have shown on his face, because Jordan sobered up again and scooched closer to the older man. They were touching now, leg to leg, but unlike last time Roger didn’t want to leave or run. Jordan presence...it felt calming.
“Some grandfather I am,” Roger huffed, a hint of bitterness in his words. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Jordan’s hand came to rest on his knee. His eyes widened as the young man responded to him.
“Roger, I think maybe you spend too much time thinking from here,” he pointed at Roger’s closely trimmed head, “and not enough time thinking from here.” Roger sucked in a breath as Jordan’s hand moved off his knee and came to rest on the grandfather’s stomach, the fingers curled underneath the shirt, fingertips sliding between buttons. Even with his undershirt creating a barrier, he could still feel the heat of young life seeping off those long digits.
There was a long moment of silence, a new tension in the air now distinct from what had come before. For once, Jordan was able to feel it too, and his eyes widened. He retracted his hand from Roger’s body, the spell breaking and leaving a coldness where once their had been warmth.
“Ah, sorry about that…” Jordan started, sitting up a little straighter. “Sometimes when I smoke I get a little,” he searched for the right word before even settling on, “Touchy-Feely.” Roger shook his head, a kind, but tight smile on his lips.
“No harm done, son.” The words feeling true, but also like a lie at the same time. Then before he could stop himself. “You’re more caring then I expected.” Jordan visibly relaxed, and smiled in a new way, something unashamed and uncomplicated, which made Roger’s heart skip a beat.
“It’s probably why they made me the boss around here,” Jordan said, letting the joke that was not a joke buffer them. Then, as if he couldn’t help it. “I’m right though, Mr. Baxter.”
Roger laughed lowly, and finally sighed, defeated.
“Why couldn’t you just be like all the other dumb boys?” Roger muttered, but there was a hint of good-natured humor under the insult. Jordan brightened, seemingly enjoying the jab.
“I guess you and I are just built from sturdier stock,” the young man said, his physical presence powerful. Roger considered that for a moment and shook his head.
“You and I have very little in common, young man,” he said, the smile remaining on his face under the serious tone. Jordan shook his head.
“I’m not so sure about that, sir,” now he leaned forward and looked meaningfully at Roger. “I can think of at least one thing I think you and I have in common. Roger felt a bubble of heat rise from his stomach. He couldn’t mean…
Before he could scrutinize Jordan’s comment further, the young man rose, stretching and yawning at the same time, he clutched Roger’s discarded beer, took a long swig and tossed the rest into a hefty trash can where the bottle landed with a sharp clatter. Roger felt his body relax, but also…
“I hate to have to kick you out, Mr. Baxter, but I’m starting to crash,” he plopped back down on the sofa, his eyes closing and Roger suddenly got a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a boy. Most of the serious playfulness was absent from the younger man’s face. Roger couldn’t help but feel a sliver of disappointment.
“Alright then, I get the hint,” Roger rose, but was once again stopped by Jordan’s hand closing over his. The grip was firm and warm, but not harsh. He stopped and listened to Jordan’s words as the young man lazily ran his thumb over Roger’s palm.
“You’re coming back, right?” Roger shook his head, saw a look of hurt flash across Jordan’s face, realized the confusion.
“Yes, son. I’ll be back.” He pulled himself from Jordan’s grasp, the electric connection breaking apart once more. He started up the steps, feeling the weight of them underneath his heavy feet. He stopped a few steps up.
“I’ll be back this weekend to help Danny move in.” He then hurried the rest of the way, face tight, imagining the wide grin of victory that must be on Jordan’s sleepy face.
On the way home, he tried to take stock of Bennett House and the boys who called it home. Not counting his grandson, who he positively did not consider one of them, there were only three men to grapple with.
Pete was easy. He had known the boy almost from the womb and he was an old, if prickly subject in Roger’s mind. There was little new to consider about Petey other than a change in locale.
There was the one ludicrously called Beef. He had no real thoughts about him, because he had no information to drawn a comparison to. Still, what little he did know didn’t exactly set the world on fire. It was hard to feel much hope in a man who self-identified with a meat product.
Then there was Jordan…
What could he even say about the boy? No, not a boy. An infuriating man still trapped in the body of a boy. He wasn’t any kind of man that Roger knew how to deal with. His usual tools did little to disarm Jordan, or worse, made Jordan pay more attention to him. He couldn’t believe he was even thinking it, but Jordan seemed to be interested in him in a way that felt distinctly inappropriate. Common sense said he should get as far away from the young black man as he could, and yet, as if haven fallen under a witch’s spell, he had acquiesced to every suggestion Jordan had made and then some.
This was happening, he realized, gritting his teeth. Danny was moving into Bennett House, and whether he liked it or not, Bennett House was about to become a permanent fixture in the lives of the Baxter family.
---
III.
Of course, Danny lost his mind when Roger delivered the news.
“Seriously, Grandpa!? Oh my fucking god!” he exclaimed.
“Hey, language!” Roger said, more from instinct than offense. For the first time since the Bennett House fiasco started, he felt something almost akin to happiness at the idea of Danny moving there. That didn’t mean he was actually happy about it, he told himself in a self-serious tone. Just that if it made Danny happy, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit of that joy too.
For the rest of the week Danny was like an angel. A little boy doing his damnedest to stay on Santa’s Nice List and get the top notch presents. Roger found the act a little exhausting, but Mary seemed tickled by her grandson’s antics.
“You know,” she said, in her teasing voice. “I sure wouldn’t mind if someone chipped in and cleaned the spare bathroom for me.” As Danny jumped at the opportunity, grabbing the cleaning kit from the hall closer, Roger just shook his head at his wife, watching Mary help herself to a second slice of pie.
“Mary Baxter, you are a proper menace.”
When Saturday arrived, Danny was waiting for him by the front door. Bags, suitcases, and various other random mentionables neatly stacked. Danny was practically quivering with excitement. Roger resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He loved his grandson, but the precociousness was starting to get a little tiring even for him.
The drive seemed to take an eternity, Danny a bundle of nervous, bouncing energy next to him, and Roger feeling nervous for an entirely different reason. His head was swimming with thoughts of his last encounter with Jordan in that basement. Something very odd was happening between them, and it felt perilous, almost forbidden. So why couldn’t he seem to stop himself from going to Bennett House? Why couldn’t he get thoughts of Jordan and those thin, yet strong hands out of his mind?
When they arrived at Bennett House, Roger parked the Chevy on the street and opened the trunk to grab the luggage. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of a figure at the front door and his heart stopped for a moment. But then the figure stepped forward and it was not the cocoa-colored Jordan, but the more familiar, paler tones of Peter Wilson. It looked like Petey had been waiting for his best bud to show up for a while now.
Danny ignored Roger, and darted up the steps to his friend. There was the quiet excited chatter of his grandson saying something to Pete that Roger couldn’t make out, followed by Peter’s more even, but equally happy tones. He noticed the way Peter whispered something into his grandson’s ear, and how Danny’s body seemed to tense for a moment, before he smacked his older friend playfully on the arm.
“If you two have a moment, perhaps you can help bring these things inside,” he suggested with a raised eyebrow. “After all, it’s not like I’m the one moving in.” Taking the hint, Roger watched the pair ramble back down the steps and meet him by the trunk.
“Sorry, Grandpa.” “Yeah, sorry, Mr. Baxter.”
“No harm done, boys,” he said, all business. “Besides…” he slammed the trunk lid closed. “After today, I won’t have to worry too much about taking care of things like this, will I?” He watched with some satisfaction as Danny and Pete exchanged a slightly worried look between them.
With the trio working together, they made short work of the move-in process. Roger had been slightly concerned that the other tenants might have been around and they might be slowed down by dorm room style antics. Instead, the house was empty, feeling almost barren. He tried not to think too much about why that might be (it was a Saturday after all), but in the end curiosity got the better of him and he asked Pete about his missing roommates.
“Oh, them?” Peter replied, nonchalantly, lugging a box full of old books onto a table. “Beef is out of town with some kind of wrestling meet thing, and Jordan…” he paused while he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his baggy sports jersey. “I think he’s still at work, for a little while anyways.” he suddenly stpped, remembering. “That’s right! He told me he wanted to talk with you later if you were free.” Roger felt his temperature rise a degree or two, but kept his face and tone stoic.
“I see. Well, I’ll see if he’s around later then.”
They began unpacking boxes, Roger focusing on the practical items, while the boys, as expected, went straight for the electronics. Roger stifled a small smile, as he hung up shirts in the closet, while Petey and Danny argued over which cord for the TV and Nintendo Switch plugged into which socket.
Afterwards, peace brokered between friends with a friendly game of Mario Kart, which Roger patiently sat through, the boys sprung the news on the grandfather.
“So, there’s this party we’ve been invited to…” Peter began, keeping his tone casual. He chanced a glance over at Danny, who nodded go on, go on.
“If you don’t mind...I’d like to take Danny out,” he said in his most responsible sounding voice. “Let him meet some of the guys from school.”
Roger’s first instinct was to shut it down, lock the door, and throw away the key. But then something funny happened. Jordan’s voice popped into his head, youthful but wise beyond his years. Maybe its time for you to step back and let Danny make his own mistakes.
“Ok, that sounds fine to me,” he said, feeling as if he were speaking a foreign language. Pete and Danny stared at him for a moment, disbelief plain on their features, and then he saw the telltale quiver of excitement in Danny’s frame telling him his grandson was about to lunge for a hug. He quickly held up a halting hand, shaking his head at the boy. No mushy stuff.
“Alright, Danny. Get out of here before I change my mind,” Roger said, hearing himself laugh and liking the way it sounded. The boys wasted little time, moving at a breakneck pace to clean up, get dressed, grab their things, and so on and so forth. Roger watched the commotion with a detached amusement that he didn’t expect to find within himself.
When the boys finally finished their preparation, and as Roger watched them take off out the front door and down the street, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding inside.
“Don’t make me regret this, boys…” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He turned around, surveying the empty room. This house seemed awful lonely without those kids around. I think it’s about time to get back to your own home, don’t you, Roger? He rummaged through his pockets for a moment, diligently doublechecking that he had everything he needed before heading out, and as he reached for his hat hanging on a hook near the entrance to the house, he finally noticed it.
Off to the side, the door to the basement was now open, cracked just enough to feel like an invitation. Roger didn’t think it had been open when he first arrived. No, he knew it had been closed, which meant...Jordan was back home. He paused and considered, walking over to the door, his hand reaching out, grabbing the knob, letting go, reaching out again, before finally he mustered up the courage to throw caution to the wind and swung the door open enough to step through.
The landing was dark, but at the bottom of the steps he can just make out a flickering light that ebbed and flowed with inconsistent timing. Jordan must have the lights in the basement off, Roger realized, but the TV was still be playing. He remembered the size of the monster and the brightness of the screen against the dusky room, and a silly thought popped into his head. He really shouldn’t leave it running like that. It’s terrible for the eyes. He wavered for moment, unsure if he should continue on his path and bother the young man who was likely exhausted after work, but decided the best order would be to find out before leaving. He could always sneak down quietly, being careful to avoid the loudest parts of the stairs, peek into the basement, and depending on what he saw he could stay or go.
With his mind made up, Roger began his journey downward, walking step by step, inch by inch, as careful as he could, still making far more noise than he wanted to with the haphazard stairs that remained new to him, but if he had bothered Jordan during his descent, no indication came from the man in the room. He finally reached the bottom and turned his head toward the screen, ready to say his hellos or make a hasty retreat.
He froze. On the screen was not the moving image of a true crime or reality TV show like he had been expecting. Instead, he saw the super-sized forms of two naked women, one blonde, one brunette, both busty, grinding together, hips and genitals touching, on what looked like a cheap motel bed. He was so shocked by the display that it took him a few moments to notice Jordan sitting on the couch.
Jordan was naked this time, or at least naked from the waist down. He technically was wearing a shirt, if you could call the holey, sleeveless article draped upon his slim frame a shirt. He was sitting up, leaning back comfortably on his sofa, legs spread wide on his throne with a hand around his penis, leisurely stroking.
Roger stood there, gawking, totally unprepared for the sight happening right in front of him. It was only when Jordan happened to turn his head enough to the side and he noticed the grandfather staring that Roger was shook out of his paralysis.
“I’m sorry!” he stammered, panic rising in his chest. “I didn’t mean to disturb you-!” he started to turn, to make a hasty retreat, bolt up the steps, and mentally scrub this sinful vision from his mind, when he was halted in his tracks with a single word.
“Wait.” Roger stopped, as if entranced by magic, and slowly turned his head back toward Jordan on the couch.
Jordan was still sitting there, facing him now, the young man’s undivided attention on Roger Baxter. It was difficult to make out the distinct features from the television’s light, and the high-pitched moans from the television were awfully distracting, but the soft light gave Jordan an almost ethereal gleam that made Roger catch his breath.
“It’s ok, sir,” Jordan said quietly, almost speaking to a scared child. He nodded his head, gesturing toward the seat cushion next to him on the sofa. He wants me to join him, Roger realized. He hesitated, understanding on some level that he was on the verge of crossing a threshold that there would be no coming back from. He took the first step, over the line.
Crossing the room as if in a dream, Roger sat, zombie-like, next to Jordan, his frame straight, stiff, ramrod in tension. He tried not to look directly at Jordan, but didn’t want to watch the pornography playing on the screen either, so turned his head back toward the staircase, an awkward 90 degree angle that made his neck protest. Beside him, Jordan said nothing at first. On the screen, the heated moans continued, unaware of the drama playing out in front of them.
A hand on his knee startled him, and his head swerved to look at the offender. He saw Jordan watching him, something between amusement and concern dancing in his eyes over the flicking light. The hand rubbed slowly, soothingly, confidently.
“I’m glad you came down, Roger,” Jordan said, and Roger just shook his head, battling a war of confusion. He could deny what was occurring last night. Now, not so much.
“I don’t understand what this is,” he said, sounding far less lost than he felt. A low, sympathetic chuckle rose from Jordan’s mouth and he turned back to the TV.
“It seems pretty clear to me,” Roger turned fully to Jordan and glared at the younger man.
“What are you doing? What do you want?” he demanded. Jordan took his hand off Roger’s thigh, and the grandfather was instantly conflicted. How could he want that hand and hate it at the same time?
“Relax…” Jordan said, soothingly. He gestured to the TV. “Enjoy the show…”
Roger tried to, he really did. He had seen pornography before. He was a man, not an innocent. But never anything like this. Never such a debauched display of sexuality designed for a man’s baser pleasures.
“I don’t want to see this…” he said, voice coming out almost childlike.
“Than look at me,” Jordan said, so Roger did.
He had seen Jordan’s body enough times now that the sight wasn’t a total surprise, but he had never seen him like this. Jordan was sprawled out, lanky body on blatant display for Roger’s viewing pleasure. Of course, Roger had heard all the tales about the size of the African-American man’s penis. He had always recognized the feelings of awe, envy, or fear dressed up in the disarming package of a crude joke for what they were. Now, looking at Jordan’s body from a new place of confused arousal, he realized the joke was on him.
Jordan lived up to the stereotype. His cock was hard, a rigid staff, darker than the rest of his body, but looking even darker still in the hazy illumination. He didn’t know exactly how long Jordan’s cock was, he didn’t carry a ruler with him, but it was a handful and a half for sure. Roger watched, mouth suddenly dry as Jordan smooth hand moved slowly up and down the obsidian-colored pillar. The young man wasn’t watching the porn, he was staring directly at Roger.
“Jordan, I’m not gay…” Roger said, the weak protest coming out as a whisper.
“Never said you were,” Jordan replied, still stroking. Up, down, up, down.
They continued like this for a short time, Jordan working himself at a leisurely pace, Roger watching with a hypnotic fascination and desperately trying to ignore the tightening in his pants. All the while, the movie played in the background, ignored by the men it was designed to entertain.
On the latest stroke, a tiny bead of moisture rose to the surface of Jordan cock, faintly glimmering in the dim light. Roger stared, mouth lightly agape, as Jordan rubbed a thumb over that head, smearing the fluid onto the thumb and brought it to his mouth, gently sucking it clean. As he released the digit from his mouth, he asked Roger,
“Ever tried yours before, Mr. Baxter?” Roger shook his head, long and slow.
“I can’t say I have,” he admitted, the idea twisting his stomach in knots. He had thought that would be the end of it and the conversation would move onto a new, possibly more humiliating topic. Jordan surprised him again, by rubbing that thumb back across his cockhead, making it dewy with his slick, but instead of bringing it back to his mouth, the hand beelining in Roger’s direction.
Roger opened his mouth to shout out a warning, only to realize too late that he had created an opening for Jordan’s digit. The brown-skinned thumb pushed past his pink lips, and Roger’s eyes widened in horror as the taste of precum hit his vulnerable tastebuds.
The flavor was...not unpleasant. It was salty, with a musky undercurrent and a texture almost like a thin gravy. The comparison in his mind shoved him back to reality and he pulled his head back, feeling Jordan’s thumb slide out of his mouth.
“Why did you do that!?” he barked, wiping his mouth with the back of his own hand, but the taste lingered and as it settled Roger found he didn’t mind it so much. In fact, something about the flavor felt oddly familiar…
Jordan watched this all play out on Roger’s face, his own visage noncommittal. Roger’s eyes, as if of their own accord, drifted back down to the brownish-pink head of Jordan’s cock, seeing what other decadent jewels might manifest themselves.
“More?” Jordan asked, the word sounding like a thunderclap in Roger’s head.
Roger didn’t respond, his brain seemed to have lost its ability to function, to sift through the mess of the situation and separate Right from Wrong. In the end, Jordan made the decision for him. He watched, mind blank, as the young black boy squeezed his length milking a marble sized orb of pre-ejaculate onto his thumb once more. The thumb flew across the air again, carrying its intrusive cargo. This time Roger had plenty of warning, recognized the movement for what it was, and yet, when that thumb approached he opened his mouth again, and wider this time.
Jordan’s digit slid back in place, easier this time, and as if on instinct, Roger’s lips closed around it, locking the flesh in his wet mouth. The flavor of Jordan’s pre hit harder this time, and with the extra potency, a memory, fragmented and long forgotten arose from the depths of Roger’s mind.
He was young, a teenager, still living on the farm and figuring himself out, body and otherwise. It was a particularly hot August day, and his friend Will had suggested they shunt off from their chores and hit McAfferty’s Pond a few miles off the main country road. At the time, Will was Roger’s best friend in the world and he followed him through thick and thin, so today was no exception.
When they arrived at the pond, both boys realized they had completely forgotten to bring their swimsuits with them, and they had a good laugh about it. Normally, that would have been the end of it, but the day was stifling warm and that combined with a newfound bravado unique to teenage boys made Will suggest they skinnydip. Roger, not wanting to disappoint his friend and seem like a wussy baby, had readily assented. The pair frolicked in the wet hole, the cool water feeling great on their nude, overheated skin, and soon enough the pair were flinging water at each other, then wrestling the way rowdy country boys do when they got too much time on their hands.
Gradually, the wrestling shifted, the touching becoming less aggressive more exploratory, until with a sense of wonder and shock, Roger and Will found themselves erect, both having never experienced such a thing with another human being before. Nature took its course, and touches turned passionate, groping, until eventually the pair began to taste each other’s flesh, salty, summer-infused skin opening new avenues of pleasure that neither had considered before. Soon both boys were blowing their teenage loads on each other’s ripe bodies. It was the one and only time that they ever did such a thing. It was never discussed, never mentioned, never thought of. Until today...
Back in the present, Roger sat stunned, face slack, eyes wet, as emotions he wasn’t prepared for flooded this body. He barely registered Jordan’s thumb pulling from his mouth, and then the feel of that same hand, thumb still wet from Roger’s mouth, grasp the back of his neck, warm and firm. The touch wasn’t commanding so much as present, the fingers gently digging into the muscles connecting head to shoulders, kneading the tension, giving the emotionality a place to seep into.
As the tension begin to slip from his body and his mind cleared, Roger’s hand clasped Jordan’s, not to move it, but to squeeze it gratefully. Roger opened his eyes, and the confusion was still there, but beneath it, burning bright was a fiery lust, the kind the older man had not experienced in a very long time. His eyes darted downward, seeing Jordan’s cock still hard, still wet, still dripping. His mouth began to water. He knew what he needed now.
He looked up at Jordan’s face, finding the young man watching him with rapt attention. He stared at Jordan with a naked want, still too overcome with feeling to give voice to his desires. Gratefully, Jordan gave him a small, steady nod. All the consent Roger needed.
As he began to bend forward, no concerns but the desire to taste this young man on his mind, Jordan’s hand remained on his neck, a firm guiding pressure. Roger wrapped his lips around the bulbous head of Jordan’s cock, inhaling the meaty scent of the boy, and he groaned deeply. Above him, Jordan pressed on the remote and the movie stopped in place, sounds abruptly gone, but the light still there for Roger to work with. They didn’t need or want an audience.
He bobbed his head, taking more of that beautiful dick in his mouth, each inch going in easier with every slide of his mouth. If he had the wherewithal to contemplate his situation, he would have been shocked at just how right felt. Instead, he continued to suck, eyes fixated on the tower of blackness flooding his vision while his mind went back to easier, carefree, summer days. The taste of warm musk was in his mouth. He was sucking Jordan and yet also sucking Will, and he had never felt more content in his life.
Jordan’s hand, which had patiently sat on top of his head, neither pushing nor guiding and allowing Roger to blow at his own pace, now tightened on his scalp, the fingers pulling on the short cut grey hair, almost on the edge of stinging. Roger should have been appalled, should have looked up at Jordan with anger burning in his eyes. Instead, when his eyes met Jordan’s all he could muster was a look of profound gratitude.
Jordan’s expression, like the man it belonged to, was friendly, but somehow enigmatic at the same time. There was warmth though, and a softness that felt tender but solid as steel underneath.
“Keep going, Roger,” Jordan said, his voice sounding tighter than Roger had ever heard it, so Roger did, plunging his head down as far as he could, eating cock like a slut from one of the movies Jordan and the other boys in this house must have loved to watch. His nose connected with the wiry pubic hairs on Jordan’s crotch, and he instinctively inhaled the ripe smell of Jordan’s body after a long hard day at work. But, his body had limits that his mind refused to acknowledge, and soon he found himself choking on the thick prong in his mouth, eyes watering in a way that did not come from pleasure or fond memories. Jordan pulled him off his cock, and Roger sucked harsh breaths into his lungs between coughs.
When the fit passed, Roger peered up at Jordan, a look of faint guilt on his face, but Jordan seemed unconcerned with Roger self-recriminations. He grabbed Roger by the shoulders, maneuvering the taller and older man onto his side and then his back. His cock hung above Roger’s face, dangling tantalizingly close to his lips, and before he could help himself, Roger’s tongue darted out, searching for more of that savory flavor he had come to crave.
Jordan grabbed onto the side of Roger’s face with one hand, holding it firmly in place, while the free hand stroked his cock at a breakneck speed. Finesse was flying out the window and Roger could tell by the distinct widening of Jordan’s eyes and the flaring of his nostrils that he was rapidly approaching the point of no return. Eager now, he opened his mouth wide, creating the best possible target he could in the situation and as Jordan hissed out a “Close your eyes,” he saw the black man shoot.
Roger had seen another man orgasm before, but not like this or from this vantage point. The first shot streaked across his face, splattering him from one cheek to the next, as Jordan’s warning registered. He barely managed to get his eyes closed, before the second shot went wild, smattering across his forehead and dripping down the bridge of his nose. At this point, Jordan seemed to have pulled himself together enough to properly aim his dong and he finally got the tasting he so desperately craved. As his mouth filled with college age semen, Roger felt Jordan’s cockhead push into his mouth and he reflexively closed around the spongy head, sucking as the last dribbles of cum pouring from Jordan’s cock.
They remained in this position, both men breathing heavily, Roger through his nose and Jordan from his mouth, before Roger heard Jordan say hotly, “Fuck, you are so hot.” Jordan bent forward, sticky cock spilling from Roger’s grasping maw, and Roger, afraid to open his eyes else he get an unpleasant protein-filled eyedrop, didn’t realize what was happening until Jordan’s lips smashed into his, the young man’s tongue darting inside Roger’s mouth, swirling around the cavernous space. Roger moaned in surprise, not expected his first male-on-male kiss to occur this way, and sank into Jordan’s grip while the two made out, sharing Jordan’s seed and their mixed saliva.
Roger almost yanked himself from Jordan’s grasp when he felt a lanky arm unbuckle his belt and slide into his pants to grasp his throbbing cock. A scream, muffled by Jordan’s mouth spilled out of his aged body as Jordan fondled him, and after only a few strokes, Roger was spilling his seed onto Jordan’s hand and into his soaked boxer briefs. He lay in Jordan’s grasp, trembling at the intensity of his orgasm and the experience he had just shared, but when the tremors subsided, he sank fully onto Jordan’s lap with a kind of satisfied weariness he hadn’t experienced in years.
“My god,” he said, “That was...that was...Wow.” And above him, Jordan chuckled, a low delighted ramble that Roger was beginning to become fond of.
With a bit of wrangling, Jordan was able to reach around Roger’s prone form, fumbling around the floor until he found a pair of discarded boxer shorts. He slowly rubbed the thin material across Roger’s face, his groin, and then, drawing a groan from the sensitive man, the inside of Roger’s pants. By the time he was done, the cotton material was soaked in a potent mixture of their most intimate fluids.
“I can’t believe I just did that…” Roger murmured to himself, his eyes still closed, as if to ward away the image of the man who had so easily undone him. Jordan rubbed a thumb affectionately across Roger’s smooth chin, the appendage mapping out the contours as it inched back and forth.
“I’ve never done anything like that before,” Roger lied, feeling it drape over him like an uncomfortable jacket.
“I know you haven’t,” Jordan said, matching Roger’s lie with one of his own. He bent forward, tongue flicking at Roger’s ear. “I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” Now Roger opened his eyes, face incredulous.
“For god’s sake, why? I’m old enough to be your father,” he stopped, corrected. “No. I’m old enough to be your father’s father.” Jordan simply shrugged, as if pondering such matters were above his pay grade. Roger frowned, leery confusion on his face. How was he even supposed to respond to a man who didn’t follow the basic tenants of life as he knew it?
Any further contemplation on his part was cut short when he and Jordan heard the sound of the front door slamming from the ceiling upstairs. Roger froze in terror for one stricken moment, before the survival instinct kicked in and he jumped to his feet in a near panic. They both heard a voice muffled by the sound of a wooden door come down from upstairs.
“Bro, you down here?” They heard the sound of the door opening...
Roger and Jordan, in near harmony with each other sprang into action. Roger scrambled for the remote control, hitting random buttons, causing the girls on screen to gyrate backwards through time, until he got lucky and managed to turn the TV off completely, but accidentally throwing them into near darkness. In the dim shadows, he could just make out Jordan fumbling with what looked like a pair of gym shorts from an overfilled hamper in the corner.
“Hey man, why are you hanging out in the dark?” the voice said, louder now, in the room with them, and suddenly the world filled with light from the bulb hanging overhead. He blinked, squinting his eyes at the harshness, and heard the sound of footsteps walking down the stairs sounding like an approaching drumbeat. He had only a moment to hastily fix his belt before coming face-to-face with Peter Wilson, a complete deer caught in the headlights look on his face.
“M-Mr. Baxter!? What are you doing down here?” Petey stammered. Roger pulled his ample body to its full height, doing his darnedest to hold himself up proud.
“I could ask you the same thing young man, couldn’t I?” he retorted, a tension in his spine that wasn’t present in his words. He smiled inwardly at the flatfooted expression on Petey’s face. He added sealing to the crack. “You told me, Jordan wanted to chat with me, remember?” Pete’s expression told him that, nope, he sure didn’t remember, or at least was too shocked by the sight of his elderly neighbor, looking disheveled in his roommates basement to pull his senses together. Then, something occurred to him. “Why are you down here and not out with Danny?”
Jordan stepped forward now, as dressed as he was going to be, brushing past Roger as he did so, and holding a small baggie in his hand with a distinct, earthy smell coming from it. He tossed it to Peter, who caught the bag one handed. The boy had always been good at baseball. Peter held the bag of green herb in his hand for a moment, a quietly panicked expression on his face, before hastily stuffing it in his pocket. Ah, so that was it. Little Petey came back for his good time grass. He gave Peter his sternest, most paternal glare.
“I hope I can trust you to be smart out there, Petey,” he said, feeling immense satisfaction at the look of childish guilt that crossed over the young man’s face. Pete nodded, and looked like he would rather crawl under a rock and die before continuing this conversation. He began to turn to leave, hand on the rail, when he stopped and looked back at the pair of men standing next to each by the sofa.
“What exactly did you two have to talk about…” he said, a hint of suspicion in his voice that felt like ice water being poured on Roger’s spine. Jordan jumped in to save the day.
“I was explaining the house rules to Mr. Baxter.” Pete frowned, confusion only growing on his face. Jordan stepped forward a hand coming to rest on Roger’s shoulder and as he spoke, he let the hand slip down, using the force to gravity until it settled discreetly on the gentle curve of Roger’s ass.
“What house rules?” Roger knew the answer and responded as easily as if he had been saying The Lord’s Prayer.
“Never Leave Your Bro Hanging.”
Pete stared at the pair for a moment, a look of mild incredulity on his face. He looked as if he wanted to say something sharp, respond to some unspoken intuition, before finally rolling his eyes and responding,
“Oh. That.”
As Peter climbed back up the stairs, carrying his trove with him and eager to get out of Roger Baxter’s supervising thumb, Roger took a moment to appreciate the irony that his butt had just been saved by the very rule he had openly mocked just like Pete. As they heard the sound of the front door slam, Roger felt himself begin to slump, a feeling of overwhelming relief settling into his body. Jordan’s hand, now free to express itself without restraint, slinked into the back pocket of Roger’s pants, fingertips caressing the firm globes through the high quality denim. He leaned forward, and kissed the side of Roger’s face now, less passionate, more tender. He eyes gleamed with self-satisfaction.
“That was fun, sir,” He said, giving Roger’s butt one last squeeze, as he reluctantly removed his hand from Roger’s pants. “We should do it again sometime.” Then, following his roommate’s path, he set up the stairs. He always felt thirsty after some good sex.
Alone in the basement, Roger stood, his big body leaning against the wall. He absentmindedly rubbed a hand where Jordan’s own palm had recently been, and was surprised to feel dampness. It was the boxers Jordan had cleaned them with. A final parting gift for grandpa. Pulling at the fabric in his pocket, he held the object in his hands, bit his lip, then brought the underwear to his nostrils, taking a deep, satisfying whiff.
“You boys are going to be the death of me,” he muttered, stuffing the underwear back into his pocket, and then steeling himself, started his own journey up the stairs and hopefully back to the life of stability and sanity that he knew so well.
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