Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"Milo's been a real help to me since your father died, Clay."

I'll just bet he has, I thought.

"He's always asking about you too."

I'll just be he does, I thought.

We were standing in the foyer where I could clearly see out onto the porch through the windows running up the side of the door. My mother had come across to let Milo Decatur in the house. It was turning gloomy outside. If I didn't know better, I would have said those were snow clouds forming up there. I had just stood there, knowing who it was, while my mother walked past me, turned on the porch light, and then let him in.

Milo was from one of the First Families of the town—of the state, really. The family's origin was from the French who settled New Orleans and then migrated north from there. He was a man of tall stature and broad shoulders. He'd been quite handsome when young, with sultry dark looks and wavy black hair. He still was good-looking, although the hair had gone salt and pepper and he had thickened a bit around the middle, but no one would accuse him of having gone to fat. He was just more substantial, looking more one of the town's most prominent bankers which, indeed, he was. He lived in the more imposing house next door and had done so since before I was born. He was of the same generation as my father, if a bit younger.

He didn't go to my father's church; he was a Catholic. I knew him primarily from mowing his grass and doing odd jobs around his house—even into my college years when I was home. He knew me intimately.

He had never married, even though most of the daughters of the wealthy class in town had set their caps for him to strike a marriage—and most of the young women from across the tracks had made themselves available to him. The scuttlebutt was that he enjoyed the latter too much to be shackled by the former. I knew otherwise.

"Do come in, Milo," my mother was saying. "Milo asks about you so, often, Clay, that I invited him to come over and visit while you were here. We just about have the tree trimmed. You could sit and visit with us. I have eggnog, and I could spike it with the poison of your choice. Clay, look on the bar in your father's study and see what we have in the way of—"

"I thought that perhaps, since I'm still bundled up—it's turning cold and it smells like snow in the air, although it would be a miracle for us to get that here—that Clay could come over first and see what I've done inside the house in all those years he's been gone." Milo's smile was all for my mother. He didn't have the balls to look at me.

"I don't think . . . I'll go check on the liquor supply," I mumbled.

"Oh, that's a great idea," my mother said, beaming. "You should see the inside of that house, Clay. You wouldn't believe the changes Milo has made. Not that you saw much of the inside of the house, since you spent most of the time over there behind a mower."

I saw plenty of the inside of the house, I thought. And spent a whole lot of time in there.

"Let me take Clay over to my place first; then I'll come back for the eggnog and a visit."

"That sounds like a plan," my mother answered.

Yes, that's sounds just great, I thought. But then, I guessed it was inevitable and my body was working from memory and indicating approval. So, why the hell not. I'd come at least partly to exorcise the demons.

"Really opened up the downstairs and have me a gourmet kitchen," Milo said breezily, as we entered his house. The downstairs tour seemed to conclude then, though, with just a sweep of his arm. Still a well-muscled arm, I thought. He may be a banker who spent his working hours behind a desk, but he still kept himself in remarkable shape for a man his age. The kind of man I gravitated to earlier in my life.

"What I really want you to see is upstairs," he said, pulling me toward the massive staircase going up both sides of his wide foyer.

I'll just bet you do, I thought.

Two things came back almost immediately to my mind in his master bedroom upstairs. The first was the sound of the heavy, towering mahogany headboard as it rhythmically bumped against the wall behind it with the rolling movement of the old, creaking bed frame. The other was another sense of massive—the massiveness of Milo's hard cock.

Milo was flat on his back in the middle of the bed, his arms raised above his head, his fists gripping a rail of the headboard. Looking intensely at me with those black, brooding eyes under the bushy eyebrows almost meeting in one streak of curly hair across his face. His expression was one of heavy concentration behind a half smile of victory and remembrance as he arched his back, centering all power at his slightly raised pelvis, and worked to get his monstrous cock as far up into me as possible.

Knees bent, with my folded legs on either side of his hips, I straddled his pelvis, my buttocks raised just a bit to let him control the thrusts, as I remembered he liked to do. My torso was arched back, my hands cupping his knees behind me. My attention was concentrated on two spots—his impossibly thick and long cock working inside me and a water spot in the shadows of the corner of his bedroom ceiling that somehow hadn't been included in all of the renovation work he'd done in the ten years I'd been gone.

I moaned involuntarily at the working of this magnificent cock. I couldn't deny I had dreamed about it frequently over the last decade. He revolved his pelvis, screwing himself ever deeper inside me.

He laughed. "This is what you came back for, isn't it?"

I murmured something that he could take either way. I had thought that I'd come back because my mother had cancer and it wasn't fair to leave her hanging when she asked to see me. But was it really this cock I had come back for? My first cock? The man who had seduced me and used me, who had put my life on the road it was on?

Or had I come back primarily to exorcise this particular demon. I knew my mother wanted me to come home to make peace with my father. But did I really come home to cut Milo Decatur out of my system?

He moved his hands, gripping my waist between them. Raising and lowering me on his cock—ever more rapidly. Impossibly, going even deeper with each pull onto the cock.

Tired of thinking what I was doing here—here in Holly Springs; here in this man's bed again—I blanked out my mind from anything but concentrating on that monster cock that was sending me up the ladder into heaven—as he fucked and fucked and fucked me.

He laughed when I came in long strings up his belly and allowed himself to come inside me soon thereafter. He pulled me down, close, onto his torso with his arms wrapped around me, as his hips and cock jerked and the cum spurted once, twice, three times deep up into my channel. I moaned as he withdrew but then, still holding me fast to him, slowly moved up inside me again and remained hard for more minutes of thrusts before he relaxed under me and started going flaccid.

"You've kept it open," he murmured in my ear. "Remember how long it took you to be able to accommodate me?"

I took that just as bragging that didn't require an answer. But, yes, I indeed did remember. It seemed to have taken that whole summer to totally erase my innocence. A summer of glorious exploration for me after that first erasing of my virginity to men.

Later, he was still lying on his back in the center of the bed, smiling a satisfied smile and smoking a cigarette. I was sitting on the side of the bed, facing away from him, only knowing he was smiling because I remembered the little self-congratulatory smile he always smiled after fucking me and because I heard it in his voice.

"You home for good?" he asked. "I can get you a job."

"I have a job—in Philadelphia. I don't think there are any theaters around here that could afford me." I spoke to the wall across the room, the wall with the door leading into the master bath, not wanting to look at him directly. I trembled at the thought of that bathroom—the times Milo had fucked me against the shower wall, the water running down our steaming bodies, my knees hooked on his hips, my back sliding up and down the slick tiled wall to the rhythm of his upward thrusts. I was getting hard again—in spite of myself.

Could I do it? Could I break with this man? I'd have to. My eyes went to the floor by the door into the bathroom. A small pair of navy-blue bikini briefs.

"Yours?" I asked to the wall.

"My what?"

"Your briefs on the floor by the bathroom door." The room otherwise was as neat as a pin.

He snorted. "Do I look like I wear skimpy blue briefs like that?"

"So, you have no trouble getting young men?" I was working at giving him up—helping him to realize that, at twenty-nine, I no longer was one of the young men he liked to spike.

"I don't have any trouble, no. But none have been you. Remember that first time? Popped your cherry, I did. And you didn't even know you wanted it. But I knew you did, yes I did. And you discovered it fast. Did you quickly. Came down off the porch after watching you mow shirtless. Just pulled you into the bushes, slapped your legs apart, and did you hard right there. Fucked you like a dog with your arm pulled up high on your back and you whimpering until what was done was done and then you were pushing back on me and asking for more of it. Learned fast enough, though. You asked for it again. Surprised me, you did. I figured when you went away to Ole Miss for that first year before that summer, you would have found your natural calling—what with all those big, randy bruisers they had roaming around that campus. But, no, you had saved yourself for me. Won't ever forget you giving your cherry to me."

Yes, I remembered. Quite a revelation, although "take" was more the way to describe that first time than "give." It had explained a lot; I had, indeed, been in agony that first year of college, increasingly knowing what I wanted but too timid to seek it out—or to accept the offers I did get. And knowing that Milo had already offered it to me, even telling me that he knew I wanted it and would come to him one day for it. The wild fuck in the bushes by a big-cocked older man simplified a lot. But it made other things more complicated.

"God, the thought of popping your cherry makes me horny again," he growled in a low, hoarse voice.

It did me too. But this would be the last time.

He sat up on the bed, his legs encasing mine, his hard cock pressing at the small of my back. I didn't fight him. He threw a beefy arm around my waist and lifted my body, tilting my buttocks toward his crotch. I bent my torso over and grabbed my ankles with my hands.

He settled my channel on his cock, using his free hand to position the staff at my hole. I groaned and moaned as he pushed his cock up into me and pulled my channel down on him with the arm wrapped around my waist. His free hand went to my cock, and he began to stroke me off.

I didn't fight him. I helped with the pumping action by leveraging off my feet while he thrust his cock upward.

It was over too soon—but in the greater context not soon enough.

"It was good for you," he said in that self-satisfied voice of his, after I'd pulled off his cock, stood, and turned.

"Yes, it was good for me," I said, as I bunched a fist, drew it way back, and popped him one hard right to the mouth. He fell back onto the bed, both hands, one slathered with my cum. going to his face in surprise. His eyes were wide—questioning and hurt.

"It was good for me, but it's the last time you are even to lay a hand on me."