Homeward Bound Ch. 04

However, in one other respect, he was similar to Samuel. He had a jet-black dick that could fill me and stay hard and vigorous through two of my ejaculations. This I found out the day I asked him if I could see his system for arranging milk cans in the back of his truck—one of the first motorized vehicles I'd ever seen on the streets of Asheville, and then I'd cajoled him to take me on a ride to a deserted lane on the edge of the city, following which I'd convinced him he wanted to fuck me in the back of his father's truck.

* * * *

"Yes, sir, it is a fine day."

"How am I going to get you to stop calling me sir," I responded jovially, while lifting the empty milk bottles out of the milk box on the back porch and handing them to Abe Jackson as he jumped out of the cab of his truck with six heavy milk bottles in his grip. I thought he looked just fine as he came out of the truck—and I admired the strength and dexterity he had to manage six full bottles at once. I was having trouble with the four empties I was dragging out of the milk box.

"Don't want to be familiar where it might not be wanted," he answered. "Here let me lift those empties out of the box. That's what I get paid for."

I didn't put the empties back in the box, but I did put them down on the top step of the porch where it would be easy for him to get them on his way back to the truck. And as for wanting or not wanting familiarity, I wanted a lot more than that from Abe Jackson.

"Here, let me hold the kitchen door for you, Abe," I said, "And then I'll get the icebox door open for you and you can put them right in."

"Much obliged, sir . . . Mr. Bairr. I'll owe you one for your help."

"Well, you could pay me back by giving me a ride in that contraption of a vehicle you have out there. You promised you'd do that someday. And I'm not Mr. Bairr to you, either. I'm just Charlie."

"Thanks . . . Charlie"—this presumably for holding open the doors for him. "If you're free, I could give you that ride now. I'm late in my delivery here, I know. But this is the last one on my route today. I could certainly take the long way back to the dairy if you'd like a ride."

The long way to the dairy went out of town toward one of the lakes and then off on a dirt road that dead ended at the lake edge. Abe stopped near the end of the road just as another road branched off. The truck was facing the lake and had branches of trees almost touching it on two sides, but he wouldn't have too much difficulty backing it into the other road for the turnaround for home.

"Gee, that's certainly a smooth ride, Abe—and fast too. Thanks. And I didn't think we'd make it down this dirt road. Sure is isolated here."

"Yes, yes, it is," Abe said, and the quiet, almost strangled way he said it made me turn in the seat and look at his face real closely. I held my breath, not being able to do much more than hope that what I thought I saw in his expression is what I saw.

"I'll have to admit I saved the stop at your boarding house for last today—and hoped that you would be free to take this ride with me, Charlie."

"That was good of you, Abe. I've been wanting to take this ride." I looked down in his lap and saw that his trousers were tented—quite pronouncedly so too. I wondered if either one of us would make a first move—if we were both wondering if the other wasn't interested in what we thought he was. Not sure whether I, at least, could risk it. If I was wrong, he could break me in two out here—and leave me for dead and no one was likely ever to know what happened to me.

But I ached for him now. He had a body that was worth the risk.

"You know, in exchange for this nice ride, I could give you a nice ride," I said. The possibility of getting out of this if I'd guessed wrong was pretty lame—offering him a ride in Mrs. Childress's two-horse buggy.

Abe lowered his head and didn't speak for a moment, but I saw that he was fiddling around in his trouser pocket, digging for something. And I gasped—and almost laughed, in relief as much as amusement—when I saw what he came up with. It was eleven quarters.

"I hate to be so forward," he whispered, "But word gets around. I heard that you'd do it for a man for two bucks seventy-five. If you don't mind that I'm a—"

"Shush, now, Abe," I said, moving the fingers of my hand to his lips, "Don't say it. I don't need your money. I'd pay you to do me if you wanted."

He started to speak again—despite my fingers on his mouth—but then I stopped him more effectively by moving my lips to his and pushing his mouth open with my lips and slipping my tongue inside. That freed my hand to move down his now-heaving chest and to unbutton his trousers and pull a rock-hard cock out—an ebony cock as black as Samuel's but, if anything, bigger. There may have been a fight among the genes throughout the rest of his body on what was white and what was black—in a breathtakingly handsome mixture—but his cock was unquestionably, powerfully black.

"Oh, Abe," I said with a gasp. "I most definitely would pay you for the use of this."

He moaned and cupped the back of my head with a huge palm as I began to slow pump his cock in my fist.

He was groaning and moaning even deeper as I moved my mouth down to envelop and suck on his cock, my fingers going to his equally black and heavy ball sac. The cock was so big and long that I couldn't get it all into my throat despite the experience I had gained in this.

I didn't let him come, though. When I had him worked up real well and felt sufficiently opened myself by the fingers of the hand he had snaked under my waistband in back and into my crack as I hunched across the seat on top of his lap, I lifted my mouth off his cock and turned my face to his. "Is there any room there in the back of the truck, or should we move down to the river bank?"

"I'll make room."

He fucked me first from behind as I was bent over a waist-high stack of milk bottle empties—which made a pleasant tinkling sound with the rhythm of the fuck. And then, when we'd both come and he'd recovered quickly, I told him I wanted to watch his eyes and his face—and the undulation of his massive pectorals as he fucked me again. Then I hopped up and sat on the stack of empties, my back rubbing against the side of the truck wall as I spread my legs for him and he stood between my knees and fed his cock in, in, in, as I arched my back and cried out at how deep and filling he was and how I wanted him to mine me forever as I writhed under him and kneaded and prodding his muscles and tongued and teethed his nipples.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" I asked with a gasp when he'd ejaculated deep inside me a second time.

"Yes . . . is that a problem? Does that make it less—?"

"No. That makes it perfect. But you don't mind that I'm—"

"You are an angel. It makes it glorious that you know how . . . so well. You've given me pleasure that no one . . . I have a confession to make here. I've known about you for some time and tried hard to think of a way to approach you. I couldn't very well just walk up to the boarding house's front door money in hand, could I?"

That didn't really demand an answer. We both knew what would happen for a black man to walk up to a white establishment in Asheville and ask for what he wanted from me.

"You heard about me? Am I that famous in Asheville."

"Well, you deserve to be. But you see, Samuel is my cousin. He told me that you gave pleasure better than any other man he'd had . . . and I didn't have to take on the milk route. I did it because I thought it was the only way I could get into the house and to you."

"And what Samuel said . . . was it—?"

"Yep, the best fuck I've ever had."

"Then would you mind doing it again?"

The third time we did it on the riverbank as twilight stole in. The first two fuckings had been frenzied affairs, as if we couldn't get enough of each other and there was a limited time to get satisfaction. This third time was as long-time lovers—slow, and deep, and him answering every suggestion that I had to make the experience the ultimate for both of us.

"Was it—?"

"Yes, of course it was. Couldn't you feel that in my response to you? I do have one question, though?"

"Yes?"

I could feel the sudden tension in his voice. And I knew that apprehension about our different races—and what that meant in a southern town like Asheville—had stolen in to his mind.

"Yes. Just the one question—beyond can we do this often—and that is, are we familiar enough with each other now that you'll never call me 'sir' again?"

He laughed at that, and I knew everything was all right. "Yes . . . sir," he answered, and then, both laughing now, we stood and returned to the truck cab to retrieve our clothes and return to the real world.

I often wondered what he thought when he was driving away from the boarding house after leaving me off that evening and found three dollar bills lying in the passenger seat of the truck where I had been. He never said anything about it, but whenever I told him I needed what he could give me—a master cocking by my own choice—he gave it gladly and completely.

* * * *

After that encounter in the back of the milk truck, I set up a place Abe and I could meet when the days weren't too cold and Abe's milk route wasn't too demanding in the loft of the small barn behind the boarding house, where I showed Abe the new techniques Dane was teaching to me and Abe showed that, although not nearly as long and thick as Dane, he was younger, more vigorous and could flood my insides in three quick successions in less than an hour—a feat Dane never attempted, being satisfied in sending me off after his own first ejaculation—whether I'd had one or not.

It was there, in the barn, me probably being too vocal in the fucking, that a curious Dane found Abe and me in the throes of passion within a week of the dropping of the last curtain on Bound for Home. Dane immediately stopped receiving his breakfast tray in his room and said not another word to me before, bowing to the applause of his adoring audience as he boarded the train for Baltimore, he had left Asheville for the larger world.

Two weeks after that Abe returned to his studies at faraway Howard University. And, although he said he would write me, I never received a letter from him. It was some time later that I discovered that Mrs. Childress intercepted his letters and burned them unopened—by me at least—until he just stopped sending them.

It might seem that my world had ended at this point—that it had already gotten as good as it was going to get and the rest of my time on earth would be spent dreaming about moving between the giant cocks of my histrionic master and my black lover. But that wasn't the case.

Life at Mrs. Childress's house returned to almost normal—but not quite, and in a good way. I was growing older and more assured, and my popularity in the underseam of Asheville life increasing gave me the upper hand with her. When Dane left, I, on my own, moved into the room he had vacated. Mrs. Childress threw a fit over this, of course, but I simply said that if she was going to charge more for my services and the men were leaving even more happy than ever before—and, most important, bringing other men into the house, then my work space was becoming a more important aspect of her business.

I added that if she didn't like it, I would open my own boarding house. I wouldn't, of course, because I didn't want the burden of all of the mundane work that went with running such an establishment—not to mention the risk of the underbelly of the city turning as puritanical as its public face. This shut her up, although she tried in every way she could to hold me in thrall to her.

I didn't return to do any more of the boarding house housekeeping duties than I had been doing during the run of Bound for Home. Instead, I wrote more. The connection Dane had given me to the new live arts theater in the city—both in terms of acting and script writing—survived Dane's departure, and, in fact, when I had been permitted to come out from underneath his cloak, the fair citizens of Asheville were dazzled to find that I was an "instant" playwright. Suddenly, two of my own plays appeared on the bill for the coming theater season—and I was to be the star actor in one of the plays I hadn't written.

The irony was that the theater patrons in Asheville reacted as if I had suddenly blossomed from nowhere. They were oblivious to how much of Dane's play they had seen was really mine—except for the ending they loved and I hated. This invisibility in the dazzling light of Stanford Dane was to follow—and irritate—me for years.

Other theater people of the region traveling through Asheville began to use the Swannanoa Boarding House both because Dane had lived here and because, when they asked me, I recommended it. This helped keep Mrs. Childress at bay as much as anything.

I had grown so confident in my writing that I even finished my long-suffering novel, The Boarding House, taking the writer Alec Cotton's suggestion that I center it on one central character maturing and developing skill and confidence in the face of small-city adversity and the determination to overcome it and escape. I dug out the address he had given me, and I sent a laboriously typed copy of the much-revised novel off to him.

And then I forgot about it, as the rehearsals for the first of my plays in the Asheville Playhouse began to scream at me for every-waking-moment scrap of attention I could give it.