Date: Thu, 9 Mar 2017 08:00:04 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Off the Magic Carpet 3

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/off-the-magic-carpet/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between young-adult and adult men. Go away if any of that is against your
local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but
flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

Special note for this story: This is a completely fictional story with a
physical setting as accurate as I can make it. There *is no actual farm*
where I set this and, as far as I know, never has been. If you live or
lived on the lands discussed, or know anyone who did, it is absolutely not
about you or them.

*****

I dragged him into a fierce hug, tears again threatening, but I managed to
control them. "I have missed you more than you can know, JoJo. I missed you
every day. I, I cried knowing that I couldn't be here for you. I am so, so
sorry, JoJo." I felt more than heard his own choked sob, which shattered
the wall of my reserve and my tears began to soak his chestnut hair. I
promised, swore, vowed before God that I would make up for the lost five
years. I would find a way to make it up to this precious, perfect,
wonderful man-child.

*****

Off the Magic Carpet 3: The Who and the Whom

By Bear Pup

M/M; foreplay

I pulled myself together when JoJo made it clear that he would kinda like
to breathe eventually. I tried to wipe the tears away with losing my grip
on the pillow that was hiding my massive morning hard. JoJo told me that
breakfast was nearly ready and I told him I'd be down sharp.

I pissed away my hardon and (thank you Army) didn't have enough head-hair
to worry about a shower. I dressed in my new, stiff jeans, shirt and
boots. I made it to the table just as everyone was settling in, and joined
the blessing. One reason that Milt and Mrs Milt's families had migrated was
that both were German Catholics, something that had very much *not* been in
favour across the German of the mid-1800s. It was therefore simple to join
the prayers, first in German then in English, that those formulae
prescribed.

After the feast last night, I'd sworn I'd never eat again. Then, this
morning, I was confronted with -- the German American Breakfast. Pancakes
dripping with butter and (treasured) maple syrup all the way from Maine;
several hundred eggs cooked to sunny-side-up perfection; at least a dozen
unsuspecting pigs turned into ham-steaks, bacon and breakfast sausage; and
the final straw, cloud-fluffy biscuits with butter and homemade blackberry
preserves.

I moaned and praised my way through as Mrs Milt beamed in pride. JoJo ate
like what he was, a young and growing ranch-hand. Beth, though, picked at
her food, something I only realised as we wound down. She helped her mother
package up the leftovers for a church Free Feed the next morning (even in
the incredible economic resurgence of post-war America, there were still
many families in abject need). She moved... carefully, hesitantly, stopping
and leaning on a door jamb or counter occasionly.

I pulled Milt aside and he told me to come with him to the shop
downstairs. As we set about the rituals of opening a dry-goods store. When
he could delay no further I literally cornered him behind the counter.

"Milt, what is happening with Beth?"

The fact that he refused to look at me told me half of what I needed. The
rest came haltingly. Beth had started having 'female problems' a year
earlier, specifically cramps. Since they weren't limited to 'that time of
the month', the doctors got worried about six months ago. Since, she'd been
in near-constant pain, unable to eat and, frankly, living just to welcome
me home.

I left at speed and found Beth, drawing her out to the porch in back and
the porch-swing there. I cradled her in my arms the way I had when we were
courting, nothing remotely sexual, just tenderness. She turned to look at
me, just as she had 17 years ago, gazing into my soul with a knowing and
tender smile.

She then curled into me and simply cried. It was then that everything fell
into place. Why Beth had sent JoJo to meet me, not come herself. Why she
was at the background throughout the party. Why she looked like my hug had
both fulfilled and hurt her. Why she was awake when I fell asleep and out
of the bed hours before dawn. I pulled her into me and we both cried. Words
were not necessary; in fact, they would have cheapened what we shared.

Part of Milt's gift to us was the very jalopy in which he'd picked me
up. He had the jalopy loaded by lunch, including all of the things that
Beth and 'Sammy' had accumulated as well as my meagre kit. After a midday
meal of burgers from the grill and luscious, rich, hot potato salad from
Mrs Milt, I tenderly got Beth into the passenger side and JoJo assumed his
grin-inducing, please-don't-rack-my-nuts position in the middle and we were
off.

Gunny and the crew were pulling bags and boxes out before the jalopy was
even fully stopped. In a matter of minutes, I had Beth installed in an
armchair and JoJo was sorting the clothes and possessions of his mother and
himself.

One of the reasons that Gunny had kept Stu was simple: He was a fucking
amazing cook. We feasted that night on things straight from our own farms
and fields; a salad right with radishes and carrots, a magnificent
tenderloin roast (what I'd learned to call Chateaubriand) alongside
roasted-corn salad, 'swedes' (a Britishism for mashed and seasoned turnips)
and soft cloverleaf rolls with the succulent butter that had been
impossible to obtain in Europe but that apparently washed over the
landscape of my Kansas home.

Beth smiled, obviously delighted that I was home, but also drained of
active energy. JoJo, though, was a dynamo, bouncing from task to chore and
joking with each of the hired hands. Ray in particular seemed close. It
made sense; they were only a half-dozen years apart in age. They horsed
around and joked, leaving me smiling and content to watch my son gambol
about like I had at his age.

The old farmhouse was designed and built by people who had a perfect
understanding of kids. Our room was across from the central stairs with two
kids' rooms to either side (closets and now bathrooms insulating our
marital bed from the 'impressionable' kids). Beth was exhausted, but I was
awake to hear the creaking floorboard (perhaps intentionally placed by a
former parent?) as JoJo snuck out.

I gave him three minutes, donned soft clothes and moccasins and followed. I
was in the shadows of the porch when JoJo looked around before ducking into
the barn. I darted quickly across the yard. I'd been a teen on this very
farm with a hawk-eyed mother and vindictive ranch foreman, so I knew every
trick. I was over the paddock rails and up the barn-side to the loft before
you could say 'snooping parent'.

I watched as JoJo lit a low lamp and threw a horse blanket over a haybale,
then settled down to wait. He moved to one side, near the stall of one of
the horses, and lit a cigarette. I nearly came out of the shadows and beat
the fuck out of the kid for smoking at his age, but was precluded from
doing so by the rasp of the barn door.

Ray came into the space and stopped, staring at JoJo. My son stamped out
his smoke and stood appraising the young man, then launched himself at the
ranch hand, claiming his mouth and perhaps his soul in a deep and
penetrating kiss. I watched as Ray, seven years his senior, melted into
JoJo like wax into a flame.

To say that I was shocked would be like saying Hitler was naughty. That
they didn't hear my gasp could only be attributed to their locked focus on
each other.

My mind flashed to the dream from which JoJo had woken me, where it was my
11-year-old son in place of Jannik, getting taken by several burly men. My
blood began to boil, even though this lanky young hunk of a farmboy bore
little resemblance to the innocent child I'd left behind. I was still
enraged that this 20-something man was taking advantage, no, *molesting* my
son. Ray would be off the ranch by lunchtime, I swore.

You can't even imagine how my jaw dropped, though, when JoJo ripped open
Ray's shirt. Ray's head went back in a lock-jawed, keening moan when my
innocent, precious son dove onto Ray's left tit, sucking and gnawing and
driving the older man wild. Ray's big belt-buckle was next, then jeans and
drawers in a single motion. JoJo remained fully clothed, and fully in
control, as Ray stood naked and hard, hobbled by the jeans tangled around
his boot-tops and cuffed by the sleeves of his shirt gathered behind him.

One of JoJo's hands locked itself around the ranch hand's nuts as he
swapped nipples. Even from the loft I could see the steady stream of lube
leaking from Ray's cock as my son's hand massage of his nuts pumped his
excitement higher and higher. With a strength that I never imagined my
(still to my mind) little boy could have, JoJo flipped Ray onto his stomach
on the horse-blanket-draped bale.

JoJo reached down and I saw his pull up a tin of Huberd's*. Ray pulled his
knees as far apart as the jeans would allow and started to beg 'Sammy' to
'give him what he'd needed all week' and 'stop teasing and get to it'.

[Huberd's is a brand of neatsfoot oil used to treat tack and 'plain'
saddles that didn't warrant the more-expensive waxes. It is crazy-slick but
also slightly tacky. Perfect for something that my cherubic baby boy would
certainly have no concept of...]

JoJo's hand, dripping with the oily goo was only inches from Ray's backside
when I shifted to get a better view, bumping a hayfork that scraped across
the loft's raw wood. JoJo froze and Ray's whines went up a notch in
desperation. JoJo used his ungreased hand to pinch Ray's ass cheek, getting
a yelp but quieting him.

"I heard something, Ray."

"No, Sammy, it, it, um, it was a horse shifting."

"No, Ray, it wasn't."

Ray near cried when JoJo blew out the low lamp and I could hear him scurry
to the barn door and slip out. There was just enough light seeping in that
I could see an incredibly frustrated and disgruntled ranch-hand reassemble
his clothes and slip out himself after checking to be sure the coast was
clear.

I laid there in the loft for nearly an hour pondering what I'd seen. I
thought back to my own teen years. Setting my rage aside, I was married
when I was JoJo's age, and only slightly older when my son was born! And,
sure, I'd messed around with buddies in the hayloft and down by the
creek. And I blushed as I recalled one memorable session at 14 with an
'old' ranch-hand (perhaps 25) when I found him bathing in a horse
trough. His was the first (not last) cock I sucked, and the first ass I
fucked.

But that was DIFFERENT! It, it... fuck, okay, it was exactly the same. But
I hadn't been MY precious, innocent, beautiful son! I had just been
*me*. That made all the difference, and I renewed my resolve to find out
what-all Ray had 'done to' JoJo and get him sent off before he could take
further advantage of his innocence.

It is amazing how powerful such frankly-insane rationalisations can
be. JoJo's obviously-aggressive approach, his masterful tit work getting
the cowboy primed to the point of desperation, his hand dripping with
Huberd's as he moved to lube up the ass spread in front of
him... Nope. Never happened. Ray was older, ergo was the aggressor, the
molester, the one who needed to be dealt with. JoJo was the pure and
naïve victim. I felt much better with this realignment of the universe
and was back in bed and asleep quickly.

I watched the interactions the next morning over breakfast. Ray was nervous
and jumpy, but JoJo was in his element. He asked after various projects and
volunteered to take on tasks well-suited to his slim and trim frame. Gunny
never deferred to him, but it was clear that he respected the boy's
input. Stu was, as he'd been when I on the ranch, quiet to the point you
wondered if he were mute (an idea set to rest if you ever heard him
tongue-lash a recalcitrant calf; he could have taught sailors how to
cuss). Baxter had an interesting, sly and knowing smile as he watched Ray
and glanced occasionally at JoJo. It dawned on me that he knew perfectly
well what had transpired -- or failed to -- the night before and he
relished his younger brother's discomfiture.

Gunny asked what my plans were. I told him that I'd pitch in starting in a
few days. For now, I needed to teach myself to ride a horse again, getting
me a round of laughter and teasing from the hands and even JoJo. I
explained that I planned to ride the ranch in the mornings and get things
settled in the house in the afternoons. Evenings would be for nothing but
family. Since all of the hands had been ripped from their own families by
military service at some point, I got knowing and compassionate looks from
all of them.

One thing that did set me to wondering, though, was how deftly JoJo ensured
that Ray's attempts to work near to or with him were foiled. Baxter was
flat loving it and Gunny seemed happy to help JoJo thwart Ray's rather
transparent attempts. Interesting. Stu was the only one who showed no sign
of interest, but then again Stu would show no overt interest in a looming
tornado even as he corralled the cattle and battened down the ranch.

I had a lot to think of as I rode that day around the perimeter and leaving
the rest for later days. My rationalisations had weakened overnight and I
was reminded of a Russian-American I'd served with and his statement that
what really mattered was not what or when or why, but 'who and whom'.

In any situation, the key question is, "Who did what to whom?" The
essential matter for any real man, in the Russian's hyper-masculine view,
was to make damned sure to be the who, never the whom. The one doing, never
the one done to. No matter how I twisted the events I'd seen in the barn, I
could not rationalise away the simple fact that at no point was JoJo
anything but the 'who'...

<eof>

As always, let me know your thoughts, please. Also, I have started a mail
list to let folks know when new stories or chapters drop. Let me know if
you want on it at orson.cadell@gmail.com

*****

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Karl & Greg: 18 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/
Canvas Hell: 16 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 9 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 8 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Mud Lark Holler: 7 chapters .../rural/mud-lark-holler/
Babe in the Woods: 2 chapters .../rural/babe-in-the-woods/
Off the Magic Carpet: 3 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/