Hot Valley (7 page)

“Shut up and fuck me.”

And he did. He bucked his hips, tossing me up in the air, landing me back down, burying himself inside me. My own cock, still as hard as could be, slapped against my belly and oozed over his.

“I never knew it could be done,” Pete said, mopping his brow on a rag. “He took that big old thing right up his ass. Fuck, don't it hurt, Jack?”

“No, man,” I said, “it's the best…uh!…feeling…uh!…in the world.”

“Oh, shut him up for me, Pete. I'm sick of hearing his voice.”

Pete planted a foot on either side of Benny's waist and brought my head down on his cock.

“Now we got you nice and full,” he said.

We might have stayed like that quite happily, but Benny had other ideas. I suspect that the pleasure of rubbing his dick against Pete's in my mouth had given him a taste for cock that he could only satisfy with difficulty.

“Join me up here, Pete. Come on. There's plenty of room, ain't there, Jack?”

In answer I relinquished Pete's cock from my mouth and leaned forward till I was almost resting on Benny's chest.

“There you go,” Benny said. “Reckon you can find a way in?” Benny lifted his hips off the ground, and me with them; Pete was quick to slide his knees underneath and aim his dick against the target. It was not the most comfortable position, nor particularly effective, but it did allow both their dicks to fill my ass, at least for a few thrusts.

“Damn it, Jack, we keep falling out of you,” Benny said, after the third or fourth mishap.

“So, do something about it.”

We disengaged.

“Down on your knees in the mud.”

This way they could take turns fucking me from behind, and I noticed that Benny took every opportunity to guide Pete's prick into me. They were becoming less guarded in their handling of me, of each other.

Benny came first, slamming into me with great hammering thrusts, spewing his load deep into my guts. Then he pulled out and Pete took his place—fucking me more gently at first, but building in pace and vigor as his orgasm approached. When I sensed that he'd reached the point of no return, I was astonished to feel a hand slipping around my waist and seeking out my own cock. He grasped it and stroked it, and rested his hot forehead against my sweating back as he came, shuddering and sighing as he did so.

“You really like that?” he said, squeezing my still hard cock. “I mean, you really like it?”

“Sure he does. He's like a woman.”

“He ain't like no woman I ever went with,” Pete said, still holding on to my cock.

“You never been with another fellow before, Pete?” Benny said, picking up my torn shirt from the floor and cleaning himself up with it. It was soon covered in mud, sweat, oil, and sperm.

“Never. Never knew of such things.”

“Well now you know. You see, Jack here, he likes it so much it don't even hurt him when you stick it up his ass.”

I was still kneeling as Pete pulled out of me. My ass felt raw and bruised, and I was desperate to come. I staggered to my feet, my legs cramping and spasming beneath me, and almost fell. Pete grabbed my arm.

“That was good,” Pete said. “A good fuck.”

“Yes…” I said.

“You going to…you know? Play with it?”

“Want to watch, Pete?” This was Benny, sneering again now that it was over.

“Sure, why not?”

“You ain't turning queer on me are you?”

However interesting this conversation was becoming, I was intent only on getting off, getting out, and getting cleaned up before anybody saw the state I was in. I leaned into Pete's arms and started to jack off. He held me tight; his arms were strong.

“Look at that, man,” Pete said. “He's gonna shoot.”

Benny was staring at us, frowning, undecided. I noticed his dick, still enlarged, was stirring again.

“Oh, what the hell,” he said, and joined us, one arm around Pete's shoulders, the other caressing my leg. When I came, much of it went over Benny's hairy forearm and wrist.

 

I slipped through the back entrance to the baths, bundled up my clothes behind a cupboard where I could retrieve them later, and headed straight for the showers. Fortunately for me, there were no customers around, and I managed to wash myself clean of mud, oil, and sperm without attracting too much attention. I persuaded one of the attendants to lend me a clean shirt (some far-fetched story about a pen leaking in my pocket) and then, with a little careful dabbing with a wet cloth, removed the worst of the filth from my pants and jacket. They wouldn't pass close inspection, but at least I didn't look to all the world as if I'd just been double-fucked on the boiler house floor.

Aaron Johnson was waiting for me in the office, going through some figures with Mr. Windridge. He looked up at me with pain in his eyes—perhaps he'd guessed where I had gone after our last conversation, and what I had done. I tossed my head, avoided his gaze, and composed myself to do a pretense of work.

Eventually, my attention was drawn by the tenor of their conversation.

“Mr. Edgerton has been very generous,” Windridge was saying, “and has agreed to hold your post open for you.”

“So I understand, but—”

“In which case, Mr. Johnson, I can hardly give you more than a month's salary in hand.”

“In which case, Mr. Windridge, that will have to be sufficient for my needs.”

“I will draw a check for that amount.”

“I would prefer cash.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

Johnson walked out of the room, leaving the door open; I could tell that he was fighting an inclination to slam it.

“Is Mr. Johnson leaving us?” I inquired.

“Yes. And so soon after he arrived.”

“That will be a great loss.”

“To me, Mr. Edgerton? Or to you?”

“To the establishment, I meant.”

“Ah,” Windridge said, pressing the tips of his pale, bony fingers together. “Undoubtedly he will be greatly missed.”

“And why is he leaving all of a sudden?”

“He feels he must look after his family.”

“His family? But—” I remembered, just in time, that Johnson had recounted his personal history to our intimate circle, and it was not for public consumption. “Well, that's very admirable,” I concluded.

“Indeed,” Windridge said, his voice laden with insinuation. “But what a sudden announcement! Why, only this morning he was speaking of his plans for the winter, his economies in the heating department. He was very busy down at the boiler house, I believe.”

“I saw something of the kind.” Why was Windridge smiling? How much did he know?

“And then, not half an hour ago, he asks your father if
he can take an indefinite leave of absence. Just like that. I wonder if he'd had some bad news,” Windridge said, rolling his eyes.

“Perhaps,” I said. “I will go and ask him.”

“You won't find him here. He's gone back to his rooms to pack up.”

“Then I shall find him there. Good afternoon, Mr. Windridge.”

He didn't even bother to maintain a facade of polite-ness, but laughed openly at me as I walked out the door, my cheeks flaming. Had it come to this? Mocked by my father's employees, fucked and doubtless despised by the engineers, the laughingstock of all, a fool, a freak whom even his own father disowned. Perhaps the time had come for me, too, to leave town, and I had a sudden vision of Aaron and me on the road together, heading west, perhaps, living in log cabins, comrades and lovers with no one to judge us but God and nature.

Oh! This idea was seductive. By the time I was out the gates I was whistling a merry walking song, imagining the pack on my back, the clank of a coffee pot and the thud of a water bottle, the sting of cold spring water as we bathed together after a night under the stars, the heat of his kisses as we sprawled in sunlit meadows…

“Where do you think you're going?”

My father's voice.

“I'm going to remonstrate with Mr. Johnson. He has some crazy idea of leaving us.”

“You will do no such thing. You may be my son, but you are also my employee. You will return to your post and try, at least, to justify the money I give you.”

“But Father, surely you don't want Mr. Johnson to leave us?”

“Whatever Mr. Johnson's reasons, I'm sure they are honorable and right.”

“That's ridiculous—”

“Get back in there before I horsewhip you!”

 

At five o'clock, as soon as the spa was closing, I dropped my pen, grabbed my jacket (the mud was dry and flaking off), and ran out the door. Johnson's lodgings were in the center of town, a 15-minute walk away; I made it in five. I arrived, out of breath and uncomfortably hot, and hammered at the door.

The landlady opened up. “Young Mr. Edgerton!”

I sometimes forgot that, as the son of one of Bishopstown's leading citizens, I was well known to complete strangers. Perhaps Aaron was right; perhaps my every move was watched and noted. Perhaps I was in danger.

“Ah, good evening, Missus…”

“You'll be looking for your friend.”

I accepted without surprise the fact that she knew who I was, what I wanted, and the relationship in which I stood to her lodger.

“Johnson. Is he here?”

“Bless you, Master Edgerton, he's been gone two hours. His poor mother, sick on her bed of pain she is, and he rushes to her side like the dutiful son he is. What a comfort to a mother to have a son like that.”

“Yes…” Considering that Johnson had told us, at some length, of the distressing aftermath of his mother's death some years ago, I thought this haste to be at her sickbed had come a little late.

“When you hear something like that, from a nice fellow like Mr. Johnson, you can really believe what the abolitionists say, that they've got souls just the same as us, praise the Lord.”

“Indeed.” I stepped inside the house. “So he's left.”

“Like I told you, sir.” She stood aside.

“Has he left anything behind?”

“A trunk, sir, that I'll store in the cellar.”

“Nothing besides?”

“Well, sir, he did say something about the eventuality of you calling.”

The wheedling tone of her voice told me what to do. I withdrew my wallet and counted off a substantial sum. “I see.”

She rummaged in her pinafore and drew out a letter.

“I'll take that. Good day.” I practically threw the money at her and ran downtown to the White Horse. There, at least, I could read my letter in peace.

The front door was boarded shut. One of the boards was crudely daubed with the words CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE in white paint. The shutters were locked, the signs advertising imported wines, Kentucky sour mash, and clean rooms hastily concealed by burlap sacks.

The world was changing faster than I liked.

I continued out of town, to where the Connecticut River divided us from New Hampshire, spanned by what townspeople still called the “new” bridge. The last time I'd crossed it had been with Mick, on one of our adventures in the hills and forests…

He too was gone now.

I stood midway across the bridge and opened Aaron's letter.

Dear Jack
, it began. I thanked God it was not going to be one of his formal, “Mr. Edgerton” announcements. I read on.

I held the letter out over the wide rushing river, my eyes blind with tears. The wind caught it, tore it from my grasp, and blew it away to God knows where.

I LEFT HOME A MONTH AFTER AARON.

I wish I could say that I packed a bag the very night Aaron left, setting off in hot pursuit of the man I loved, and who I believed loved me. I packed the bag, all right, with books that I thought I could not do without, with paper and a supply of writing materials, with clothes and food and a few personal items that I could not bring myself to leave behind. There was too much, of course, so I unpacked it all and started again. Still I could not carry it. By the fourth attempt, I had worn myself out, and I gave up, hoping that the morning would bring fresh courage.

It did not.

The morning brought only breakfast with the family, dark looks from my father, nervous chitchat from my mother, and, afterward, a rain of questions from my sisters. Where had Mr. Johnson gone? Why was Father in such a temper? Had I done something to annoy him? Why was Mother crying in the night, why were her eyes red and her face pale this morning? Why were they, as “mere girls,” shielded from the Great Matters of the Day? (This came from Margaret, whose every pronouncement seemed to have capital letters.)