And then it was time.
Matt slicked his cock with lube. Eased Adam onto his back. Pushed his legs apart, his feet bicycling upside down, his hairy hole angled up.
“I love you, Adam Maxwell,” Matt said as he pressed his cockhead against the hole.
“I love you, too, Matt Griffith.”
Matt’s cock was an inchworm hunching its way into the tight space, advancing a millimeter at a time, pausing to reassess, scrooching forward again.
Matt watched Adam’s eyes, searching for any hint of pain, saw only love reflected back at him. Love—and desire.
What followed was a collage of images, snapshots for Matt’s memory album: tufts of pit hair shimmering in the moonlight; tangled briar patch hair smoothed flat by leaking lube and pre-cum; downy leg hair brushing against his shoulders as he pushed into the hole, withdrew, and plunged in again.
Perky, pink nipples shining like pearls in the scalloped pecs in which they nested.
Shock on Adam’s face as his cock spurted cum—hands-free. A violent assgasm that left his legs twitching and his monkey toes curled as though he were on the receiving end of electroshock therapy.
Matt, his cock cocooned in the tight vice of Adam’s ass, felt his orgasm squeezed from him like toothpaste from a flattened tube.
They did not shower or clean up.
They spooned in the spoogey, sticky sheets, their hearts pounding, Matt’sarm draped over Adam’s shoulder, pulling him closer, Adam’s ass snuggled against Matt’s shriveling cock.
“Jeremiah Quince.” Matt whispered the name that haunted him.
“Who?”
“The guy I nearly killed. My dark secret.”
Adam tried to roll over.
Matt held him in place. This was scary enough. He didn’t want to see Adam’s face.
Adam lay there quietly for a moment, then pulled Matt’s arm tighter around him. Laced his fingers between Matt’s own.
“Tell me about Jeremiah.”
“He was my youth pastor. He was probably twenty-one, twenty-two years old—not much older than we are now.”
Adam squeezed Matt’s hand reassuringly.
Matt related the story of the rape/not rape with its consent/not consent in the darkened sanctuary of their little church. Skipped ahead to his mother’s figuring out what had happened. Her telling his dad. Matt’s being dragged to the park to witness vigilante justicefCOC-style, a baseball bat in lieu of God’s “terrible swift sword.”
Matt hesitated. He was at the place in the story where his dad had offered him a “Sophie’s Choice:” Take the bat himself and deliver three solid blows and it would end—or stand there like a pussy and let his dad finish the job. Literally, as in kill the bastard who had raped his son.
Adam rolled over and hugged Matt tight, absorbing the hurt like a cold compress.
“You took the bat, right? You didn’t really have a choice.”
“I took the bat,” Matt said, avoiding Adam’s eyes.
“Later, after...” Matt paused. “…Someone found Jeremiah and got him to the hospital, which probably saved his life. He had a ruptured spleen. Broken ribs. Broken teeth. I’m pretty sure the spleen and ribs are on me. That’s where dad told me to aim, the gut.”
Adam gasped. Then he reached up and stroked Matt’s hair. “There were three people in the park that night, two adults and one boy. One of those adults was a rapist. The other a sadist. You were victimized by both men. You get that, right?”
“Maybe so,” Matt said. “That doesn’t change the fact that I was a coward. I let my dad bully me into owning his evil. I’ve felt dirty ever since.”
Those were the last words Matt remembered saying before crying himself to sleep. Adam spoonedhim this time.
