A Different Path

But Cal had been so sweet, his channel so satisfying, his kisses even better than Susan’s. John could try to salvage what he could by heading west, but he couldn’t forget Cal—lying under him once the war was past them, John finding confidence and greater mastery, Cal on all fours under him, with John mounted on his hips, penetrating the blond beauty deep, and pounding, pounding, pounding.

John woke up in a sweat, despite the chill in the air. The fire was burning low in the grate. The covers were off him in the bed, and his hand was under the hem of his nightshirt, gripping his engorged cock and squeezing and stroking it, as he done for himself so many nights since Susan had died. The evidence of what he was doing was covered by the material of his long nightshirt, but he was on his back, legs spread and bent, and the movement of the material at his crotch left little doubt that he had been masturbating himself in his sleep—in his dream of being with Cal.

He looked over toward the fire, spying Matthew stretched out on the pallet between him and the grate, covered with a blanket, but turned toward John, watching him. Matthew’s hand was under the blanket and from the rustle of that there was little doubt that Matthew was masturbating himself and he lay there, eyes open, watching John on the bed.

With a groan, John turned over onto his side, facing the wall, facing away from Matthew and the glow of the fire in the grate, picking up the golden highlights in Matthew’s mop of hair, giving his head a halo.