The ruffled white kitchen curtains were immaculate. The counters and floors gleamed. The bearded, hairy man standing with his furred arms buried elbow deep in sink suds, a cell phone propped between ear and shoulder, lifted a dish from the water and into the drainer.
“Ten days now,” he said into the phone. “If you don’t count showers, because, according to our Brian, ‘soap will jinx it.’”
He nodded as his caller spoke, reaching across to part the curtains and peer into the backyard. “I know. Well, I wanted to talk to you first, seeing as you’ll be back soon.” He nodded agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, you too, Paul.”
He disconnected the phone, wiped his hands on the dishtowel with Mother’s Kitchen
embroidered across its hem, removed his apron, and walked to the back door. “Brian!” he called. “Will you come here please?”
* * * *
“No,” said Brian. “I won’t take it off.” He stood in the middle of the backyard, arms crossed, chin up, and a saucy smile on his face. He seemed quite pleased with himself. The it
in question was an oversize official NFL football jersey. The number emblazoned on it was 56, and a signature in black Sharpie scrawled the name Taylor
across the back. Apparently Brian had owned the thing since he was fourteen.
Jim could believe the jersey was almost a decade old. It was a grass-and-bloodstained, torn nightmare.
“I’m not taking this off until the Giants win the Super Bowl,” said Brian.
“I just got off the phone with Paul,” said Jim.
Brian’s eyes glinted. With what, Jim couldn’t be sure. Paul had been out of town for several weeks now, and the past ten days had been increasingly frustrating for both Jim and Brian. Jim just couldn’t seem to strike the right disciplinary tone with him.
Making matters worse, Scott had been on an extended road trip for the past two weeks, and Jim was feeling a little needy himself.
“He said he wants you to go inside, take off that jersey, and call him.”
“Can’t.” Brian turned his back to pick up a football that he had let drop to the ground. “I’m not taking this off until the Giants win the Super Bo-o--oh!”
“Don’t you can’t
me, Brian,” growled Jim, a wad of the aforementioned jersey and the waist of Brian’s jeans in either hand. And he carried Brian into the house.
* * * *
“If the Giants lose, it’ll be on your head,” Brian shouted from the bedroom.
Jim shook his head, adding a scoop of deodorizing cleaner to the washing machine and crumpling the garment in there.
He walked back into the bedroom where Brian sat, wrists bound to spindles in the headboard, wearing nothing but his boxers. Brian looked outraged.
“I’ll call Paul,” said Jim.
“I’m not talking to him!” he heard Brian shout as he went looking for the cell phone.
The change in Brian’s demeanor when Jim finally held the phone up to Brian’s ear and Paul’s voice could be heard at the other end was remarkable.
Brian’s body went limp. “Hi, Daddy,” he whispered.
He listened, eyes going bright as he blinked rapidly. “Yes. Yes, Sir.” He glanced up, quickly and tearily, at Jim. “Yes, Sir. I-I understand, Daddy. I love you.”
Jim took the phone away from Brian’s ear and left the room before he spoke into it. “Yes, I will. But, Paul. This isn’t working. You understand that, right? We have to do something about it. Yes.” He sighed. Through the door Jim could see Brian looking up at him, expression pleading.
“Ask him when he’s coming home?” said Brian, and his mouth twisted a little as he held back whatever he was feeling.
Jim tsked. “I mean it, Paul. As soon as you get home. Okay. Bye.” He disconnected and looked at Brian.
“You know what I have to do now, don’t you?”
“You don’t have to,” whispered Brian.
Jim took the buckled bindings off Brian’s wrists and helped him to stand and slide down his boxers. Then Jim sat down and patted one leg. “C’mon here.”
Now that it had come down to it, Brian felt apprehensive. “I’m sorry, Mama Bear.”
“I know.” Jim patted his leg again. “Let’s get this over with.”
“You going to use your hand?”
Jim shook his head, expression grim. “Paul said the paddle.”
“No-o...” whined Brian, already twisting and covering his ass.
Brian laid himself down across Jim’s lap. Said lap was big and firm and warm. It was oddly comforting, despite the awkward position, and Jim’s hand was gentle as he rubbed Brian’s exposed bottom.
Brian bowed his head and clutched at the edge of the coverlet and Jim’s shoe.
The first swat stung exactly as it always did. The second hit the other cheek with the same power. Three more smart smacks, and the feel of the swats began to seem continuous. Brian felt his legs twitching uncontrollably as the paddle continued to paint fire across his bottom.
He was sobbing against Jim’s leg when Jim finally stopped.
“Brian.” Jim’s hand gently rubbed his back and Brian catapulted himself off Jim’s legs and into his arms, sobbing harshly.
Jim murmured and stroked Brian’s head and let him sob into Jim’s beard.
“I miss him,” sobbed Brian over and over. “I miss him so much.”
After a very long while, Jim lifted Brian onto the waterbed, laying him on his side, so that his sore bottom didn’t touch anything. Jim kissed Brian’s forehead, his nose, his lips. His head moved down. Brian clung to him, stroking Jim’s hair and face like he would a security blanket as Jim moved down Brian’s body, nuzzling and kissing, until he found Brian’s penis and sucked it carefully into his mouth. Jim concentrated, keeping his mouth gentle, with constant suction, until Brian became fully erect and started to breathe harder.
A few more minutes and Brian came, hard and with a quivering belly, his hands tightening on Jim’s shoulders.
Jim sat up and stroked Brian’s hair out of his swollen eyes. He drew the covers up over Brian again and kissed him, once more on the forehead. “Good night, Goldilocks,” he said. He switched off the light.
“Don’t go,” said Brian.
“I’ll be back,” said Jim. “I need to do something.”
* * * *
Scott was literally whistling “Dixie,” bouncing up and down in the seat, and occasionally grinning at himself in the rearview mirror. He was way ahead of schedule and going strong. He’d be back at least twenty-four hours before he’d thought, and he could not wait to get himself some Mother Bear.
His cell phone trilled, and he hit the Bluetooth button. “Yo!” he shouted cheerily.
“Baby.” Jim’s voice was thick with emotion. “God, Scott, I miss you.”
“Hold on.” Scott checked all his mirrors, downshifting carefully. He slid the rig gradually onto the asphalt shoulder and waited until he was completely stopped, parking lights flashing, before he picked up the phone.
“No.” Jim sounded totally depressed.
“I’ll be back by the end of the week,” said Scott.
He could hear Jim sigh.
“Brian,” said Jim.
“That little squirrel?” said Scott happily. “I’m gonna kick his ass when I get back.”
He heard Jim chuckle tiredly.
Just the sound of his man’s voice was making Scott hard. “Hey, baby, you want some now?”
“Scott, where are you?”
“Sittin’ in my rig. Parked safely on the shoulder.”
God, thought Scott, he could almost hear his man torn between what Scott was suggesting and concern. “What if someone sees you?” said Jim finally.
Scott chuckled, undoing his belt. “I’ll wave,” he said. “I’ve got a hands-free. You ready?”
A sound came through the receiver: sort of a growl with a little whine at the end. Yeah, he got how Jim was feeling. He’d had an ache in his balls for twelve hundred miles now. The kind he got when he needed more than one of the dildos he kept stashed in his suitcase.