Date: Mon, 21 Jul 2003 04:33:38 -0700 (PDT)
From: Michael Garrison <mng1114@yahoo.com>
Subject: Two Lives - Two Loves: Chapter 6

This story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  This story also deals with love and
consensual sexual activities between men.  If you are not of
legal age, reside in an area where viewing such material is
illegal, or are offended by such themes, do not read further
and leave this site now.

The author retains all rights to this story.  Reproductions
or links to other sites are not allowed without the
permission of the author.


Two Lives - Two Loves


Chapter 6

I had no idea where I was.  Well, that's not true, exactly;
it looked like Jon's back yard but there was no longer a
patio.  In its place was a beautifully manicured lawn with a
large section cropped as closely as a golf green.

"Croquet," an unseen, whispered voice said.  I'd heard that
voice before.  There was no way to explain it except to say
that it was as though my thoughts were thinking to me but in
a clear, distinct voice that was more than just the usual
mind chatter we all have.  It was happening more frequently
as I got older.

I looked around to get my bearings.  There was the carriage
house right where it should be.  Funny, I don't remember
seeing those lightning rods before.  But, where was the
pool?  For that matter, where was Jon?  I tried calling out
for him but no words would come out.  The harder I tried,
the more resistance I met.  It was then that I noticed that,
like everything else so far, I wasn't exactly myself,
either.

As I had raised my hands to cup around my mouth to call for
Jon, I noticed that I was wearing a long-sleeved garment of
some kind.  Startled, I checked myself out.  The Speedo was
gone.  I was dressed from head to toe in what appeared to be
the habit of monk.  From the feel of the fabric, which was
very coarse, I guessed it was that of a medieval monk.  For
the first time, I noticed the weight of the garb.  It was
much heavier than our modern clothing and was probably good
for inducing itching, although for the moment I felt
nothing.  I felt around my head and, sure enough, there was
a hood.

Oddly, my mind was not racing and was, strangely, accepting
of what I was experiencing.  I looked at the house.  It was
Jon's house but with subtle differences.  The color of the
siding and the trim were slightly different than I
remembered.  The leaded glass of the French doors was of a
different pattern.  The window glass in the corner turret
was actually curved, not flat.

"What was all of this?" I asked myself.

As I sometimes did when I was confused, in this case
seriously confused, I just chilled for a few moments and
took several deep breaths, trying to clear my mind hoping
that an explanation would present itself.  After a moment or
two, I felt a tug, but not as if I'd been physically
grabbed.  I don't quite know how to explain it; it was just
a tug, kind of like when a large wave rushes back to the sea
and wants to drag you along with it.  This particular 'wave'
was pulling me in the direction of the house.

Every window in the house was open, which I thought was a
little odd since it looked like there was a serious storm
moving in.  The curtains on some of them were flapping
outside, driven by drafts moving through the house.  I
stepped through the French doors into what I'd remembered
being the kitchen and found that the kitchen was gone.  In
its place was a sunroom furnished with crisp, white wicker
furniture, of the kind my great-grandparents had had, but it
all looked brand new.  I was a little surprised that I was
not surprised by this.

I turned and went out into the main entry hall; at least it
was still there.  The furnishings were different, though.
All of the furnishings were different, in fact, but somehow
familiar.  I stopped and listened for a moment but didn't
hear anything.  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight
of a small pinpoint of light near a side wall towards the
rear of the hall that I hadn't noticed.  I was positive that
it hadn't been there a moment ago.

My immediate impression was that it was just an odd
reflection but there was nothing I could see that would have
caused a reflection.  More than that, as I looked at this
'reflection', I began to clearly see that it wasn't on the
surface of the wall; it was hovering in front of the wall.
It gradually, smoothly moved towards me as I stood there,
watching the bluish white sphere increase in size until it
was about the size of a grapefruit.  I should have been
terrified but, strangely, I wasn't.  I can only describe my
reaction as being as though this were the most natural thing
in the world, but I can tell you that I'd never seen
anything like this before.  The sphere was quite beautiful
in aspect, having an almost crystalline quality to it, and
was somewhat transparent.  It hovered for a moment, varying
its height between my head and my heart as if studying me,
and then moved quickly towards the front parlor, stopping at
the doorway, beckoning.

"The Study," I heard the whispered voice again.  And again,
I felt that tug of energy, pulling me in that direction.  I
could have ignored it but my curiosity had the better of me.
I had to find out what this was all about.  I didn't
remember a Study in the house, however.  I just assumed it
was another one of those little differences.

I started to slowly make my way into the parlor, following
the sphere.  It moved quickly ahead of me, now that it
realized I was in tow, and stopped next to an oversized wood
paneled door.  A long moment passed.  "Okay, I'm here...now
what?" I thought to myself.  Then, ever so gradually, the
sphere...I don't know how to describe it... melted...through the
door.  After it had completely dissolved, the door slowly
opened, revealing another room beyond.  With more than a
little trepidation, I began to approach it cautiously.

I didn't remember this wall or door.  I remembered a large
cased opening adorned with carved wood.  Jon's uncle must
have taken the wall out to make a single large space for
entertaining.  The room I now entered had the dark wood
paneling typical of the era for spaces of some importance.
One wall was lined with books from floor to ceiling, leather
bound by the looks of them.  Paintings of hunting scenes
adorned the remaining walls, each carefully centered within
its own wood panel.  To the rear was the bay window, that
much I did remember, looking out to an informal garden.  But
it was the desk that commanded the space and my attention.
It was huge, made of the same oak as the paneling and
bookshelves.  It, too, was paneled, matching the walls with
some carving around the edge of the top, which had three
inset green leather blotters.  Two green-shaded bankers
lamps anchored the front corners of the desk and I was
interested to see three vintage candlestick telephones to
one side.  Gadgets, of any era, fascinated me.  Then my eyes
settled on the man sitting quietly behind the desk in a
large leather chair.

He was the most despondent man I'd ever seen.  He seemed
familiar but I just couldn't seem to place him.  He was
neatly dressed in what I assumed to be the casual manner of
his time:  White linen shirt with banded collar, and cream-
colored trousers with a matching vest.  He was slumped in
the chair staring at a corner of the room.  He didn't blink,
he didn't move.  I might as well have been a floor lamp for
all he cared.  With what looked like a tremendous effort, he
pushed himself out of the chair, not seeming to notice me,
and turned to look out the bay window at the garden, his
hands clasped behind his back.  He stood there for a few
moments and then turned around, facing me.

He looked to be in his mid to late thirties, fit enough,
dark hair combed straight back and there seemed to be the
scent of limes in the air as he moved around.  His otherwise
handsome face, however, looked racked by stress.  Dark,
bagged circles surrounded his red, sunken eyes; his cheeks
were high and drawn.  I sensed that he'd been crying but was
trying to put up a good front.

When he finally acknowledged that I was there he smiled
wanly and came from behind the desk.  He patted my arms on
each side in that stiff, old-fashioned way that men then had
for showing affection or pride as if in a child or other
younger person.  I tried asking him what this was all about
but, again, no sound came out.  I decided it best to just go
with the flow for now.

He turned and went back to his desk to retrieve a small,
leather bound book, which he held out for me.  His mouth
moved as he handed it to me but I heard no words.  I tried
to move my arm to accept it but couldn't, my muscles just
would not respond.  The man spoke again and again I heard no
words.  Looking confused, wondering why I didn't take the
book, he poked it gently at me again and, again, my arm
would not move.  It was clear that he was becoming
frustrated and agitated.  I was becoming very uneasy myself,
since I had no idea what this person would do when he was
upset and, at the moment, I was unable to move.

After several more failed attempts by him to give me the
book, he became enraged.  No, that's not the right word; it
was more like he was venting some serious frustration but
without the anger that accompanies true rage.  He tossed it
back down onto his desk in frustrated resignation and began
screaming at me; actually, it felt more like he was pleading
with me, but I still could not hear a word he was saying.
Finally, he threw up his hands in apparent aggravation and
stormed out of the Study, stopping, turning back only once
to try pleading with me one more time.  It was no use; I
couldn't hear a thing he said and I still could not move.
He waited, as if for a response.  I could give no response
and I saw his shoulders, his entire body, slowly sag in
despair.  He shuffled towards the door and I heard it weakly
being pulled open and then closed a few moments later.

Only then was I able to move again.  I'd never been
paralyzed like that, ever.  It wasn't from fright, the man
was not that threatening of a figure to me.  I felt almost
sympathetic, in fact.  I just could not move.  I shook my
head in disbelief at what had just happened and opened the
door to the Parlor.  Going back into the Entry Hall, I again
saw the sphere of light, hovering there as before, waiting,
almost studying.

The whispered voice emanating from inside of me, yet all
around me, spoke again, "You have to listen to hear," it
said with some solemnity.  What was that supposed to mean?
I'd been trying my damnedest to hear what that man was
saying but it was no use.  I'd also been trying very hard to
move but couldn't, and that freaked me out more than a
little.

Then the sphere glided silently towards the front door,
again melting through it and I felt that tugging again, that
energy pulling at me subtly but steadily, urging me to
follow.  Not having the ability to melt through doors
myself, I had to do it the traditional way, opening it
cautiously and stepping out onto the veranda.  I was stunned
to see a hearse in the circular drive at the foot of the
steps.  The sphere stopped in front of it as if to draw my
attention, making sure I saw whatever it was it wanted me to
see.  Black silk curtains prevented me from seeing into the
bed of the hearse.  Darkened windows would not allow me to
see the driver, either.  To be honest, as I squinted, I
would have sworn that there was no driver.  I was again
surprised at my reaction that this did not seem at all out
of the ordinary. The hearse began driving slowly away at a
funerary pace, the sphere of light in tow, and as it did I
fell to my knees, overcome by a torrential flood of sorrow
like I've never experienced but which, oddly, did not feel
like my own.  I wept uncontrollably, my shoulders heaving as
I sobbed.  I watched through tear clouded eyes as the hearse
slowly disappeared down the long drive and as it
disappeared, the sphere, still following, grew smaller and
smaller until it was just a pinpoint of intense white light
which then went out as if an unseen hand had thrown a
switch.

I rested there, on my knees, unmoving for a few minutes
trying to understand what had just happened and trying to
catch my breath.  The emotional torrent subsided, my heart
was returning to a normal beat and I wiped the remnants of a
small flood from my own eyes.  A thousand questions created
a logjam in my brain.  I turned to look at the house, which
now had a macabre aspect to it even though it was the same
as before.  It felt empty, deserted, intensely cold.
Curtains fluttered from every window driven by drafts of an
increasing wind that was beginning to find its own voice.
It was not the voice of the wind rushing through the fresh
spring leaves of a newly blossomed tree.  It was a
disgruntled yet empty voice of the kind you'd normally
associate with a cemetery at midnight.

Was that it?  Was I dead?  Is this how it ends?  My eyes
darted around and I felt my heart begin pumping again, a
gnawing feeling returning to the pit of my stomach.  I heard
no one.  I saw no one.  I was totally alone and felt a
welling fear in me.  I sat there, frozen.  I had no idea of
what to do and I felt the first droplets of panic begin to
hit me, joining with the fear to create a horrible, gnawing
potion.  Then, I felt the first droplets of rain hit me on
the head. First one, then two, a few more, the cold moisture
accumulating sufficiently to slide down into my eyes.

I then felt a light touch on my shoulder, hearing a voice as
if from far away.

"...ginning to rain...Brad?"

                         *  *  *  *

I heard it again and jumped with a start, yelling as if
someone had poured cold water on me.

"Whoa, easy dude," I heard Jon yell.  He had jumped back
away from me, not expecting my reaction, his hands up in
submission.

"Wha...what happened?"  I said, only just realizing where I
was.

"I dunno, dude, you tell me," he said.  "You were asleep.  I
think you were having a nightmare."

"You're not kidding," I said.  I was still a little
disoriented and was trying to catch my breath; my heart had
not quite finished pounding.  My head, however, was a
different story.  I had awakened with one of those nagging,
low grade headaches that I got from time to time.

"Man, you were out like a light.  It took me a while to wake
you up," Jon said.  "C'mon, we've gotta get inside; it's
starting to rain."

At that moment, rain never felt so damned good.  "C'mere," I
said as I pulled him into a crushing bear hug.  As I glanced
around, I was glad to see that everything was right where it
was supposed to be.

"I'm glad to see you, too," Jon groaned just before I
hungrily pulled his mouth onto mine.

It was just so great to feel him, all of him, again.

"Wow," he whispered. "Help me get the stuff inside, then I
think you need to tell me about this dream.  It definitely
feels like it's upped your sperm count!"

"I want to get a shower first," I said.  "I need to chill
for a bit, then I'll need a heavy infusion of beer."

"Good idea," Jon said.  "Mind if I join you?  To...uh...conserve
water...you know," he winked.

Right then, that sounded like the most excellent idea I'd
ever heard.  We finished getting our stuff inside and then
headed upstairs.

                         *  *  *  *

Jon's uncle was no miser when it came to personal luxuries,
and his Master Bathroom was a case in point.  It was a study
in contrast with the antiques and period furnishings
elsewhere in the house.  The entire composition was of
modern design but still had an ageless feel to it. The room
was large; I was sure that some people could set up
housekeeping in it.  Everything that could be marble was
marble, composed into beautiful but simple patterns on the
floors and walls.  He'd allowed the natural veining of the
stone to become as much a part of the d‚cor as the patterns
themselves, which had an ancient sort of three-dimensional
effect that I'd seen in photographs of Roman excavations.
You'd get dizzy if you stared at it for too long.

The two white pedestal sinks and the oversized whirlpool tub
didn't just have faucets; they had a sort of waterfall where
the water came out in a sheet from a wide but thin aperture.
Adjacent to the sink was a column of towels, one of two that
flanked the shower, that formed as much a part of the design
as the bronze fittings he'd used all through the bathroom.
This guy new how to pamper himself.

I was amused to see a very expensive looking bidet next to
the very expensive looking toilet.  Bidets had always
puzzled me.  Upscale houses always seemed to have them but
no American I'd ever met would admit to using one even if
they knew how.  Just money down the drain...so to say.

Then there was the shower...the object of my search.  It was
oversized, like the one in my bathroom, and clad in marble
tiles.  This was no mere shower, oh, no, no, no.  This was a
very elaborate water manipulation system that would deluge
you with water from every angle.  It could mimic everything
from a gentle rainforest mist to the pounding of a massage
therapist and be set to provide a range of everything in
between in any sequence you liked.  In my opinion, any
shower that could be programmed had to be respected.
Fortunately, Jon knew how it worked.  That coffeemaker had
taxed my powers of deductive reasoning enough.

Jon set the shower for a tropical rain, which was really a
standard spray that you'd expect from every shower but it
came from all angles.  I helped spread some towels around so
we wouldn't get water all over the place when we were
finished.  After a few moments, the water had warmed up
nicely.  A perfect little fog of steam was filling the stall
and Jon tested the water.  It was ready and Jon and I
stripped off our trunks and stepped in.

Oh, that water felt good.  I leaned my back into a series of
the sprays and just let the heat soak into my aching, tense
body.  That dream experience had been more draining and
stressful than I first thought and the hot water was a very
welcome relief.  Jon was going to play his part in my
destressing, as well.

I have to say that for someone who makes absolutely no claim
to being psychic, I was finding that Jon could be the most
amazingly empathic person I knew.  I knew what was in his
mind and, like our first night together when I made him the
focus of my attentions, Jon was going to now make me his
focus.  There was a great need in him to help relieve the
pain that he unknowingly sensed in others.  It was a trait
of his that I found to be very endearing and it's definitely
not the sort of stereotypical behavior one expects from a
jock.  But then, Jon is a very uncommon person.

I opened my drooping eyelids and saw that he was holding a
large natural sponge onto which he was squeezing a scented
bodywash from a tube.

"Turn around," he said.  "Up against the wall, Williams; you
know the position," he laughed.

It was one of his quirky little jokes but I did as ordered,
placing my palms against the now warm marble and spreading
my legs.  He started with my shoulders, slowly moving the
sponge around and releasing the wonderfully fragrant scent
of the bodywash into the steamy air swirling around us.  The
scratchy texture of the sponge felt wonderful and I moaned
as Jon worked his way down the expanse of my back, stopping
only to add more wash to the sponge.  He reached around to
my front and washed my pecs in sensuously slow circles.  I
reached down to take his hand.

"Ah, ah," he said, playfully smacking my hand away.  "Back
on the wall or I'll slap the cuffs on you."

"The cuffs, huh?" I replied.  "We'll have to remember that
one," I smirked.

Jon didn't respond to my little quip but I sensed the idea
had been properly filed for future reference.  He continued
his attentions, working the lather around over my abs but
stopping short of my full, aching flesh.  He withdrew his
hand and slowly began washing my lower back.

"Uh, aren't you forgetting something?" I asked.

"Sssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh," he whispered.  "Soon."

I kept quiet and had no trouble enjoying the rest of my
shower as he worked the sponge around my butt and then deep
into the crack.  I gasped and shook just a bit as he worked
it slightly into my opening.  He continued, washing each of
my legs in turn and driving me crazy as he ran the sponge up
into my thighs.  Jon had to remind me again to stay still.
I don't know how he knew to do all this but he was excellent
at it and was turning me into a quivering mass.  Then I saw
him put the sponge up in the little caddy in the corner of
the shower.  That experience had felt so awesome.  Why did
it have to end?

"Turn around," I heard him whisper.

I did and propped myself against the wall.  Jon adjusted the
shower spray to a mist so fine that it was almost like the
steam itself.  He moved in closely to me, between my spread
legs.  His beautiful eyes locked with mine for a long
moment, neither of us blinking.  Neither of us wanted to
take our eyes off the other even for that split second it
took for our eyelids to close and then open again.  At that
moment, neither of us wanted to endure that brief but
interminable instant of darkness that would separate us one
from the other, then he pulled me down to his mouth and our
hunger took hold.

The steam swirled around us luxuriantly as we deeply and
unhurriedly savored the taste of each other, minute after
blissful minute.  Jon then nestled his forehead into the
base of my throat, my chin finding its place atop his head.
I sighed in satisfaction as he pulled into me a little
closer and gripped our tense steel with his soapy hand.  A
wonderfully cold shiver went up my spine as he did and I
gasped as he began to slowly stroke us.  The heat, the warm
moisture roiling around us, the tension of the slowly
building flood within me was driving me insane but Jon
continued to take his time.  Slowly, he worked us together,
up and down, occasionally circling his palm firmly over our
joined heads, sending electrical shock waves through us
both.

Jon was getting close.  I knew some of his signs now.  I
could feel his free hand around my waist begin to tighten,
pulling me ever so slightly closer, that increasingly
forceful nasal breathing of his that I found so strangely
alluring.  I knew I was getting close and I tightened my own
hold around his solid shoulders, my head falling back
against the sweaty marble wall as I repeatedly, reverently
whispered his name.

We tightened.  Our bodies began to lock.  Jon released his
grip and quickly threw his arms around me, pulling us firmly
together with all of his considerable strength.  I
immediately, involuntarily, did the same, crushing us
together, our bodies desperately trying to become one and we
cried out within seconds of each other as we exploded, as we
felt our bodies madly pumping our essence to mingle as one
in the razor thin space between us.  I was beginning to feel
lightheaded from the steam and the dizzying torrent of
sensations enveloping me, the incredibly warm flood of
emotions washing through me as Jon pulled us tighter and
tighter.  The smell of his wet hair was indescribably
intoxicating.  The feel of his tight, hot body firmly in my
grasp, the incredibly satisfying feel of our surging
release, of our mingling, was totally, inexorably
enthralling.

The pulsing began to subside.  We slowly began to relax and
our chests heaved, taking long gasps for air.  We rested for
a moment, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking as
the warm water washed over us.  I couldn't remember ever
feeling as good in my life as I felt right at that moment.
I touched the side of Jon's face, caressing it gently with
my fingertips, and he looked up into my eyes.

"I love you, Jon," I whispered.

I don't know whether it was just the beaded sweat running
down his face or whether it was actually a tear I saw coming
from the corner of his eye.

"I love you too, Brad," he whispered back.  "Don't ever
leave me," he said as he rested his head on my chest.

"Never," I said.  "Never."

                         *  *  *  *

(To Be Continued)

                         *  *  *  *