Boy Crucified (20 page)

That was my mom and dad. They sold heroin to make a living. When they weren’t shooting up, they were drinking. When they weren’t drinking, they were having sex. If there wasn’t a drug party going on in the house, I was dragged to some other house and left to sleep in a bedroom somewhere while the endless party that was their lives raged on.

“I’d really rather not discuss this,” I said. “Let’s just say that my parents were drug dealers and my dad overdosed when I was young, and I don’t have a lot of happy memories to share about it. I’m not trying to be secretive. It’s just not a very fun thing to talk about.”

“It doesn’t have to be fun,” Daniel said quietly.

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

“Okay, I won’t pry. Just so you know you
can
talk about it, if you want to. I’ll listen. I’m here for you, man. Okay?”

I sighed again. This conversation was having the effect I despised. Daniel felt sorry for me. I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me. I wanted to be left alone.

“So what are you going to do about your mother, then?” he asked.

“She’s staying with me now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

“How long is that going to last?” he asked.

“I don’t know. What do you suggest I do? Kick her out on the street?”

“Doesn’t she have a place of her own?”

“She’s been in jail for six years. She’s got nothing.”

“Well, that’s fucked.”

It certainly was.

“So, she beat you with a frying pan?”

“Among other things,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What other things?”

“You
are
a nosy bastard, aren’t you?”

“I’m just curious, man. Maybe it will help you if you talk about it.”

“That’s not likely.”

“So you don’t want to talk about it?” he said.

No, I did not.

VI

I
DROPPED
Daniel off at his apartment in Westside. I was tempted to ask if I could spend the night with him but didn’t dare. Even though the thought of sleeping in his bed was not altogether unwelcome, I drove home. We were only a mile or so apart, and somehow that information comforted me.

When I pulled into the driveway of my house, the lights inside were off, and it was completely dark. Perhaps my luck had changed, and my mother had decided to leave. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I took off my coat, removed my shoes, waiting all the while for any hint of noise, movement, presence. Nothing.

In the kitchen, I put on a pot of coffee, hoping against hope that I was well and truly alone, that I could drink hot coffee while warming up the kitchen by turning on the oven and leaving the oven door open while I continued to debate whether the heat needed to be switched on yet or not. If I could just have only that to worry about, that would be heaven.

Upstairs, I turned on lights and made a circuit of my room, the bathroom, the guest room. My mother was nowhere to be found.

I changed into pajamas and a thick robe along with a heavy pair of socks and went back downstairs. The smell of the coffee was inviting. I retrieved a coffee cup, then rooted around for some sort of snack.

So. Where had she gone now? And what did it matter, really? It would be like her to leave without saying good-bye, without leaving a note, to come and go without a word of explanation.

Since I had the house to myself, I spread the case file for the “crucified boy thing” on my kitchen table, going through it again, no longer trying to figure it out, but rather looking for confirmation of what I already suspected.

At just before midnight, there was a knock on the door.

VII

I
T
was not my mother hanging on the doorbell; it was Daniel Qo.

“Can I come in?” he asked politely.

“Of course,” I said.

He followed me to the kitchen.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said by way of explanation. “I kept thinking about you. And… you know.”

He was dressed in street clothes now, sweatshirt and pants, a light jacket, high-tops. He stood by the table and did not sit down. The look in those bedroom eyes was unmistakable. From the pocket of his jacket, he produced a tube of K-Y and put it on the table.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” I asked.

“I’m sure you can think of something.”

He slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. Next he removed his sweatshirt and tossed it aside, showing off his lovely brown skin and his pleasing, hungry muscles.

“If you can’t,” he said quietly, “I have a few suggestions.”

“I like a man who knows what he wants,” I offered, my manhood already throbbing with unexpected but delicious need.

“I just like men,” Daniel replied. “Not boys. Men. M-E-N. With big cocks, like yours. I’ve always been naughty that way.”

He picked up the K-Y, offered a smile, and headed for the stairs leading up to the bedroom.

Of course I followed.

Inside the bedroom, he removed his sweatpants and underwear and stood there nude with a shy grin on his face. I went to him. He took me into his arms, kissing me passionately, as if afraid he’d never kiss anyone ever again.

Having a beautiful naked man in my arms made me feel rather giddy. My cock was as hard as a rock, ready to rock and roll and release.

“Let me,” he said, pushing the fabric of the bathrobe off my shoulders. It fell on the floor at our feet. We stood together naked, eying each other. He let a hand traipse its way down my back to my buttocks, which he gripped firmly.

We kissed again. It reminded me of the way I used to kiss Billy—the intensity and need of it, the urgency, the delight, the sweetness and completeness. His mouth was warm, hungry, his tongue probing my mouth, promising delights of its own.

He sat on the bed and pulled me down with him. We lay, side by side, kissing, touching, feeling each other up.

It was good to have a man in my bed again. Damned good. Why had it been so long?

Daniel Qo disentangled himself, retrieved the K-Y, squirted a good dose on my dick and massaged it, forcing me onto my back while he did so. Then he straddled me, allowing his plump member to flop in front of my face before easing his hips back to take me on.

He was beautiful. He was everything I liked about men: strong, confident, assertive, flirty, a little slutty, but sweet. Reaching behind himself, he grabbed my cock and guided it as he sat backward, letting it impale his backside. He took in about an inch of it, then paused. He groaned and closed his eyes. His body tensed with the pain of it. He seemed to shudder a bit before easing himself backward another inch. Again he paused, not looking at me, intent on taking my dick up his ass.

Although I had been cursed in many ways, having a small cock was not one of those curses. My mother had always marveled at what a “big boy” I was. So too the men at the bathhouse, and other men, like Billy, who had pleasured and pleased that cock and suffered it to be shoved up their asses.

That cock was eager now. It found itself inside a tight, warm, pulsing spot and wanted to be buried deeper. I put my hands on Daniel’s hips, urging him to take more of it. He did, sighing as he did so. After a minute, he sat down on it completely, taking it all the way inside and shuddering. His tongue flicked out, licking his lower lip. He took my hands, pushed them backward onto the bed, and leaned over me, smiling.

“All right,” he said, “it’s fuck time. Fuck me like you mean it, soldier.”

I needed no further prompting. I immediately twisted my hips, removing myself and then pushing back inside.

“Yeah,” he said, rocking his hips, establishing a rhythm. “Give it to me, boss.”

I gave it to him.

He kept me pinned to the mattress, always looming over me, smiling, gasping, moaning, trembling. He was good at fucking—I had to give him that. Then he put his head on my chest, biting at my nipples, letting our bodies fold together. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close. He put his arms around me, hugging me tightly, gently weaving his hips to meet each of my thrusts.

I rolled him over onto his back. I was ready for business now, ready for serious cock play. Holding up his legs with the crooks of my elbows, I let loose with a series of thrusts, driving my cock as deep inside him as I could. He seemed to relish this. He closed his eyes as his head rolled from side to side. He moaned. He clutched at me tightly with his fists. I slammed myself against his backside, no longer caring to be subtle. I wanted him. I wanted to come inside him. I wanted to fuck him like he belonged to me.

I was gripped with urgency, with pure animal need, with raw passion. As my many inches of meat swam in and out of his ass, that urgency grew overwhelming. I rejoiced with the athleticism of it, the wild expenditure of energy and emotion that left me breathless and trembling. After driving myself deeply into that mysterious flesh, I pulled back slowly, relishing the pleasure that rippled over my cock as I withdrew. Then I plunged again—madly, heedlessly, desperately, driving my hips forward with a quick thrust, desperate to go deeper and deeper.

The tingling that gathered in my balls told me it was time to go for broke. I was oblivious to all else, completely unaware of myself, of what I was doing. There was only this beautiful man and his ass and my need to fuck that ass for all I was worth.

I urged him to get on his hands and knees. He obliged. Kneeling behind him, I forced open his ass cheeks and began my assault afresh. He groaned when every inch of my maleness was driven into him like a pile driver. I grabbed his hips, holding him fast, not allowing him to escape the fury of my blows. I slammed my hips against his ass, pulling him closer to make sure he felt the full force of it.

His ass was hot, tight, wonderful. It seemed hungry for my cock, squeezing itself to give me extra pleasure, squeezing then releasing me as I withdrew and prepared to dive again.

The come suddenly began to lurch from my body like a torrent. It was quick, unexpected, the sort of orgasm you have when you’re so horny you can’t possibly be sensible and make it last. I drove myself deep into him and held my cock there, trembling all the while, sweating, breathing heavily.

His body tensed in unison with mine.

I held him, not willing to let go, my arms wrapped around his belly, my head on his back. I trembled, breathing him in, rubbing my face against the skin on his back.

At last I pulled away and lay back on the bed, panting, out of breath. He lay next to me.

After I recovered, he grabbed the K-Y, propped himself on an elbow.

“My turn,” he said with a grin.

I wanted to say I needed a moment to catch my breath, but he was too fast. He rolled me over, rubbed K-Y between my ass cheeks, and immediately went to work.

I was surprised at the initial pain of it. I’d forgotten about it. Yet it felt right, somehow—it was a hint of the pleasures to come. He eased himself slowly into me. His cock, while not as big as mine, was generous and filling.

I squirmed. I couldn’t help it. I squirmed because of the pain, because of my own anticipation and need.

Need. That was it. I needed this, needed to be fucked, needed to be reminded that the past was the past and the present was all that mattered—and the present was good. Really good. The present was just fine. Extraordinary, in fact.

As the pain eased back, he went to work, thrusting himself gently but insistently. At first, he lay on top of me, kissing the side of my face, grasping my hands, clinging to them, squeezing them. His weight was welcome, comforting, like a blanket. Like a gymnast, he eased his body up and down, using his toes to propel himself, sliding up and sliding down, letting his cock glide in and out of my ass. Each thrust was more insistent and needy than the previous.

He sat up, straddling me, his cock in my ass, his hands on my back, massaging it, rubbing small circles, pinching my skin. He rocked his hips to a steady rhythm, letting his cock slide in and out. He seemed to greatly enjoy this position, me flat on my stomach, him straddling me, in complete control.

He bent forward to kiss my back. He took my skin between his teeth, biting it playfully. His hands slid beneath my chest, his fingers grasping my nipples, pinching them. All the while, his hips rocked back and forth, over and over, the urgency building.

“Oh Jesus,” he whispered into my ear.

It was a long time before he came.

CHAPTER SIX
The way of the cross

I

T
HE
next morning I woke to find Daniel Qo’s arm around me. For a long time, I lay there, relishing the weight of that arm over me. It made me feel safe, loved, completed, needed, wanted, lucky.

But….

“Let’s go,” I said, waking him.

It was perfectly clear to me who our killer was and what we needed to do to flush him out.

“Good morning,” he said sleepily.

“You’re driving,” I said. “We leave in ten minutes.”

“Do we have time to… you know?”

“No,” I said. “But if I’m right, there will be plenty of time later, so get your exceedingly lovely ass out of bed. We’ve got a killer to catch.”

II

I
N
the Chillicothe countryside, Mrs. Hopewell answered the door to the Hopewell farm.

“Is Charlie here?” I asked.

“He’s in the barn,” she said. “Why?”

“He didn’t go to school today?”

She shook her head.

I hurried down the stairs and out to the barn with Daniel on my heels. If my suspicions were correct—they had to be; they were the only logical conclusion—then Charlie was the key to the puzzle.

We reached the barn and went inside.

Charlie, a blond-haired boy of about fifteen, was breaking apart a bale of hay and spreading it around inside the cow pen.