Date: Wed, 24 Jan 2007 13:07:36 -0800 (PST) From: T. Chase McPhee <survivalgame@yahoo.com> Subject: For The Love Of Michael 09 The story below is a work of fiction, set in the format of reality. Any resemblances to real people, alive or in the hereafter, is entirely coincidental in nature. It is not meant to accurately reflect upon persons, in towns, cities, countries, nor governmental areas, which the story is staged. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male relationships offends you, then you should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most state and countries, you are not allowed to read this story, by law. Check with your local laws regarding such. % Sexual safety matters. Remember guys, this is fiction. In real life, use protection. % "For The Love Of Michael" 09 wriTten by T. Chase McPhee % One week later, Dean had paid his fifth visit to Michael's house. It began as alternating between the Savage's and Malcovich's homes, but the other Savage siblings became too pesky, to the point of downright annoying. `House' is hardly what Dean called the Malkovich household, but by Friday of the same week, the `mansion' mellowed out to a `home'. First item on the list of interest, was the Malkovich's butler, Raj Subramanian. This was going back to Friday afternoon, same day in which Michael helped Jim Hart `keep the beat', in band class. "I'm really nervous," Dean said, walking down a country lane, headed away from school. Michael lived about a forty minute walk, stepping lively, from the Coronado Beach High School. Being it a beach community, much of the grounds had been dotted with palm trees and sand, typical geology. The two sixteen year olds picked on the most normal subject to chat about, being on foot. "Don't be. Dammit!" "Haa ha ha ha ha haa," Dean laughed himself silly, then asked, so sweetly, "Are you okay, Michael?" "Yeah. I'm Okay. Someday somebody will think of some better way to spend taxes, like cleaning sand off of the roadway." The sand Michael's sneaker skated on. "Or just maybe," Dean spelled it out, "a sign saying," he squared it off, midair, "'no kicking stones'?" "Yeah, real funny. I could have sprained something and you're making jokes!" Extending a hand, bending over, Dean says, "Here, let me help you up. See if you sprained any ass muscles!" Even though Michael always followed Raj's joke, about reaching eighteen and taking the fucking of his life, deep down inside, he always thought of himself as a top. However, now he questioned himself, thinking about Dean's comment. He decided to see how far this would take him. "My ass, huh?" "Not that I meant anything by it." One thing he didn't want, wasn't eager to do, is jump into the sexual part of a relationship. Unlike some teens his age, he hasn't `been there', nor has `done that'! "I didn't think so." Michael rolled his eyes, even though Dean didn't see it. In reality, he didn't want to make it too obvious. He could wait til another opportunity to beat the subject to death, or lead to something else. "I'm cool with that." On the same wavelengths, Dean sensed the same. If the conversation went to the left, it went to the left. If it bent towards the right, he'd let it run it's course. Instead, the bottom dropped right out of the whole thing. Change of subject. "So, you never said how your `rents made all their dough." "You didn't ask." "Well, now I'm asking." "Marble." "Little round things you knock around?" "No. The big slab of things cemetary statues are made of." "Really?" "Yup and other stuff." "Like what?" "Floors and stuff like that." "Like what?" "When my dad contracted for a job it wasn't only marble. Sometimes somebody would want a swimming pool constructed of something else." "Interesting," even though Dean was lukewarm on the subject. "Interesting?" "Well sure. To think about it, a guy has to know an humongous amount of science, like geology, to do stuff like him." "Mainly he designed the layout. He has a bunch of guys working for him that do the details." "So he's the brains behind everything." "Yup." "The guy with the brains, is the guy who makes the big bucks." "You're getting the hang of it." "So, are you going to follow in daddy's footsteps?" "I'm not sure. Nah." "What makes you think that?" "It has it's pros and cons." "How so?" "Sometimes a client wants something special; some special type of stone and my dad has to find it, then bring a sample along to show the client." "Not so bad." "Well yeah, until the sample weighs two tons!" "Owch!" "But then there's the reward aspect." "The finished job." "We think alike." Right now Dean wondered about the same thing, only not quite on target of the subject matter. As they walked home on that Friday, the sun was a blaze in the afternoon sky. Almost without exception, Michael wore a polo shirt. Today he had on a blue one. Around the armpit pockets and mid chest, the areas sported big patches of sweat. He put another idea together and wondered how hot Michael could be in bed. "Yo, Dean?" "I'm here." "I know you're here, but what are you thinking here?" "Nothing." Dean wouldn't have gotten away with it, except a black limo happened by. "Hey," came the call from the rolled down window, "anybody care for a nice, cool ride?" "Good timing, Raj." As they jumped in the back, Raj shouted, "Just watch the sweat?" "Oh yeah. I hate to ask you," Michael said, pulling his shirt off over his head, "but do you mind stripping the shirt? The `rents hate it when I...." >From his own experiences, Dean's hair is mussed, as he pulls his tee shirt up and over his head. "No problem. My mom's the same with the livingroom furniture." As Michael was about to ask another `favor', he saw Dean sitting on the edge of the seat. "Do me first?" In hand, Dean had his shirt, arm extended, asking Michael to dab off his back. Michael was more than willing, but instead, used his own shirt. "Feels good." "I can do a mean massage, without the shirt!" Michael can't believe he said it! "Oh? And whom has benefitted from one of your massages?" Raj was there to help out. "Last summer," Raj said, after eavesdropping, "I got the worst sunburn. Yeah, if it wasn't for Mikey's magical, healing fingers...." "Mikey?" "Thanks Raj!" It's obvious Michael minded very much of the nickname, not to be spoken. "Oops. A thousand pardons." "Mikey, eh?" "Forget you heard it or I'll make you forget!" Michael threatened, nicely! "Sound a bit touchy." "Oh, he is," Raj filled Dean in real quick. "First time I mentioned `Mikey', I got a tongue-lashing. Second time was at the pool. There, I got a towel-whipping!" "Sounds like fun. Mikey, eh?" "I said forget it. The name's Michael, Deanie!" "Oooooh," Raj said, as he drove in through the gate, "get out the towels!" "I don't believe you could be that mean, Michael." "Mean you say?" Raj asks, stopping at the front door. The limo, coming to a stop, made all parties stop mud slinging names. "Here," Michael said, tossing his bookbag to Raj, as he exited the limo. To Dean, Raj asks, "May I take your bookbag, Master Dean?" "Yeah," Michael says, "get used to the `master'. If my father gets wind of Raj slacking off it'll be the ax." "You can't be serious. That's like how people were treated in merry old England." "Welcome to the castle of horrors!" Raj shouts, opening the door, ending with, "Pool is down to the left, first right. Can't miss it!" "Coolest! You've got a pool?" "Yeah. C'mon. Let's cool off first." "But I don't have a swimsuit." "Raj'll take care of anything. Right Raj?" "As you wish, Master Michael," the twenty-six year old butler/limo driver replied, kindly. Dean took up the rear, following not one, but two `really hot looking' guys! % Copyright 2007 T. Chase McPhee This story may not be sold, nor made part of any collection, without prior consent from the author.