I don't know how long it took for me to separate out the buzzing of bombs being dropped from a combat plane in my dreams from someone leaning on my door buzzer in the middle of the night. It didn't help that the buzzing stopped when I was awake enough to think about where it was coming from and that it started again as I dozed off.
When I decided it wasn't in my dream, I groaned and rolled over on my side and willed it to go away. When it started again, I rolled out of bed, looked at the time on my alarm clock—4:00 a.m., both too late to be up and too early to be getting up—shrugged into a robe on top of my sleep pants, and padded down the bedroom hall and then down the staircase into the foyer. Whose idea, I wondered, was it for a single man to live in a sprawling twelve-room house?
Turning on the porch light, I peered through window on one side of the double front doors.
Kyle.
I turned the porch light off again and retreated to the kitchen at the back of the house, reasoning that he wouldn't find me there. I automatically switched the "on" switch on the coffeemaker by habit. That's what I did every morning no matter what time I entered the kitchen. I stood at the sink, peering out of the bay window into the backyard. If I stood real still, I was sure he wouldn't think I was home—not that I was considering that I'd turned the front porch light on and off and that he could see me as well through the window at the side of the door as I'd seen him.
I didn't do sudden wake ups in the middle of the night well. It was not a good time to expect coherence from me.
There was a vehicle on the parking apron at the back of the house. Some sort of blue van. Nondescript. Easily overlooked. It wasn't mine. It must be Kyle's, but that didn't compute either. Kyle was the sports car type, not the nondescript van type. I should know that; I'd bought him a Miata convertible. When I'd done so, he had mentioned being interested in anything but two-seater sports cars.
I hadn't heard any buzzing since I'd come into the kitchen. So, maybe Kyle had left, I thought. The van was still in back. So, maybe the van wasn't his? Whose then?
I padded back to the foyer, turned the porch light on, and looked through the window.
Kyle was sitting on the porch step, looking out into the front yard. This wouldn't do. The neighborhood would start stirring in, what, three hours? I wasn't a morning person. I didn't have any idea, really, when the neighborhood started waking up. I did know that it would be light enough soon for the neighbors to see him sitting out there. And, what? Should I skulk here in the foyer waiting for him to give up and leave?
With a sigh I opened the door. He stood up from stoop—as great looking as ever. The "aw golly gee" mop of blond hair, the "trust me" smile, the mesmerizing blue eyes, the muscular, yet boyish, five-foot-six physique, and the sexy tight T-shirt and scruffy low-rise stone-washed jeans. As he breezed by me, he gave me a brilliant smile and said, "Is that coffee I smell brewing?"
"You can't be here, Kyle," I said to his back, which was retreating toward the kitchen. Kyle knew just where the kitchen was in this house. "This is the last place you should be."
"Which makes it the perfect place to be," he said, as I followed him into the kitchen and watched him take his favorite coffee mug out of the cupboard. "Got any eggs and toast to go with the coffee?"
"I could call the police right now," I said.
"Yes, you could, Dan. I don't see the French vanilla creamer. Ah, here it is." He was rummaging around in the refrigerator. He'd stripped off his T-shirt. He was like a little kid. He'd run around the house naked if he thought the adult in the house—that would be me—would permit it. But it was a tease. He knew the effect his naked torso had on me.
Coming up out of the refrigerator, he turned, smiled at me again, and said, "But you won't, will you?"
"You've got a lot of nerve, Kyle—taking over $60,000 from the company and waltzing off. And where's the Miata I bought you? Is that van in the back yours?"
"I thought it best to park it in back," he said. It didn't escape me that he avoided saying who owned the van.
"And I'm Gus now. Gus McCracken."
"Who the hell names their son Gus McCracken?"
"Yeah, that's kind of a bummer, isn't it?" he said. "I don't see eggs in the frig. You got any donuts to go with the coffee?"
"Just toast or cinnamon buns," I answered, as I moved toward the bread box. But what the hell was I doing? The little bastard who had stolen from me—from my company—flitting in here in the middle of the night, and I was serving him coffee and cinnamon buns.
"You're looking good, Dan. You've kept yourself up real well."
"Where the hell have you been the last eight months?" I asked, pulling a plate out of the cupboard to put two buns on and going to the refrigerator for butter. Kyle liked to butter his buns. He always said that when he'd given me a massage—and it had always made us laugh.
The question was a mistake. He started pattering on about Jamaica and the Cayman Islands and about black bulls until I was just too worn out to keep focused on the problem of him being here. In my defense, it was now 4:30 in the morning, and I hadn't gotten to bed until after 1:00.
"You can't be here, Kyle," I finally broke in to repeat. "I'll give you a half-hour head start before I call the police to say you were here."
"And to tell them you served me coffee and cinnamon buns before waiting a half hour to call them?" He laughed and warm, endearing laugh of us. I could see his point.
"I want to go upstairs with you," he said. "Come here."
I stayed on my side of the kitchen. The knife stand was right next to me. But would I be using one to fend him off or to slit my own wrists? The jury was not just out on that. It was over the hill and half way to Cleveland.
"You are not staying the night, Kyle."
"It's Gus. And we're pretty much past night. It's probably about time for the paperboy or milkman to be coming by to see me leaving your house if I left now."
"There haven't been men delivering milk to the house since the fifties, Kyle. Forty years before you were born."
"Take me upstairs and fuck me, Dan. I've missed your cock."
"That's not going to happen. You can take the guest room at the top of the stairs for a couple of hours of shuteye. But when I get up at eight, I want you gone. If you are, we'll forget you ever were here. If not—"
"I'm not wearing any underwear under these jeans, Dan. I haven't been fucked as well as you can do it in months. Take me upstairs and fuck the shit out of me."
"Don't bother to turn off the light when you go up to the guestroom," I said, trying to keep my voice stern, yet dignified—hiding my trembling hands behind my back. "The cup and plate can go in the sink. I'll put them in the dishwasher tomorrow—like I always did. That guestroom has its own bath. Towels are in there already. The bed's made. Lock your door, as I sure as hell will be locking mine."
Gathering my robe about me, I put my nose in the air and stomped up the stairs.
I didn't, however, lock my bedroom door.
I was barely asleep when I felt Kyle's body stretch out beside mine on the bed. I was enough asleep to mold my body to his before realizing that it was eight tumultuous months since I last did that. I made some effort to push him away, throwing in a, "No, Kyle, we can't be doing this," but the effort was half-hearted and he knew it was.
"You didn't lock your door," he said simply. We both knew he didn't have to say anything more than that. He kissed me on the lips while gliding his hand under the waistband of my sleep pants—he, of course, was fully naked—and grasping my cock. I resisted the kiss for perhaps half a nanosecond before we were playing sucky face. And then I just lay back, sighing and groaning, as he worked his mouth down my torso, opened his lips over my erect cock, and let his tongue glide down the full length of my shaft. He'd always given divine blow jobs. He hadn't forgotten how.
I had my legs bent, feet flat on the surface of the bed for leverage, and my pelvis raised to his buttocks, thrusting hard up inside his passage as he rode my cock to bucking cowboy-perfect position mutual ejaculations.
I don't know how truthful he'd been about the black bulls he'd found in Jamaica and the Cayman Islands, but I'd be in a state of abstemious grief for eight months and was as healthy as they come in cum production. So, not longer than ten minutes after completion in cowboy style, I had Kyle on all fours under me, was fully mounted, and was fucking him again doggy style. He held steady as a statue on the outside while he was all undulating muscles rippling across my thrusting cock on the inside. He talked dirty to me in low, growling tones and I just closed my eyes and pumped and pumped and pumped.
Falling at the side of him afterward, I embraced him, and, with a sigh, drifted off to sleep.
When my alarm went off at 8:00, he was gone. The guestroom hadn't been used—indeed, there had been little time for him to use it as he was in my bed, riding my cock, almost since I'd flounced upstairs. His cup and plate weren't in the sink or the dishwasher.
I was left wondering if he'd really been there at all, or if my lack of him—and of any sex for months—had let my dreams take over reality. One thing was for sure. I'd regretted that, probably in my dreams, I'd told the ghost of Kyle to be gone in the morning before I got up.
* * * *
The day was nearly spent when I came home that evening. Twilight was settling in and the front of the house was bathed in the pastel reflections of sunset. I wasn't thinking about much except the previous night. The thoughts were mixed. I'd had my chance to get Kyle arrested and maybe to have recovered some of the $60,000 he'd walked off with—or, rather, had driven away with in the Miata convertible I'd paid for and with all the clothes and jewelry I'd hung on him—so, make that $100,000 he'd taken from me. Conversely, I hadn't had a night in the sack with a man like that since he'd left me.
I also couldn't believe that Kyle still had any part of what he'd stolen. I wanted to think that he'd come back just to see—and sleep with—me, but I knew better. He already was out of money again.
Was Kyle worth the loss of $100,000? In many ways he was. But keeping him hadn't been an option. He obviously had been on the lam even when he was living with me, and the police were still actively seeking him. I hadn't been the only one he'd stolen from while he was here—or before I first laid eyes on his beautiful nude body. The police made that perfectly clear to me, as if they had discerned what my relationship with him had been and didn't trust me to give him up. Not that this wasn't justified. He'd been here last night and I hadn't given him up—didn't even call the cops this morning after he'd left.
I poured myself a scotch from the bar in the living room and walked into the kitchen, ready to fix myself some dinner. I looked out of the bay window above the sink. The blue van was parked in back of the house.
Had it been there this morning after Kyle had gone? Had I even looked? I was sure—or sort of sure I had. Of course I wasn't fully sure that last night had happened at all.
I put the glass of scotch down on the counter, turned, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. Kyle was lying on his back in the center of my bed, naked, legs spread and bent, pillow elevating his buttocks, and his hand holding a dildo half-buried in his passageway.
"I didn't think you'd ever come home," he said as I walked into the room.
"How did you get into the house, Kyle?"
"I have a key."
"The key was taken away from you when you were arrested."
"I'd made duplicates before that."
"What is it that you want here, Kyle? If you think I'm going to bankroll you to be able to stay on the loose, you're sadly—"
"You know what I came here for. Come over here."
I had no intention to come under his spell again. I just forgot to tell my feet that. He scooted to the foot of the bed, on his belly, and reached up and unbuckled my belt and unzipped my trousers as I came up to him. He sucked my cock, as I unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it off my back, and then dropped my trousers and briefs. When I had stripped, he turned on his back and let his head drop over the end of the bed, giving me a straight passage for a deep-throated face fuck that had me moaning in remembrance of how good Kyle was at this.
Then I sat on the foot of the bed, as he—much smaller than I was and quite limber—sat in my lap, his channel sheathing my cock, facing me and, using the leverage of his feet planted on either side of my hips, rising and falling on my cock. His passage was tight, which surprised me, as I was sure he slutted around, and he had a thing he did with the muscles of his passage walls that made love to my cock and milked it as no one else had ever done.
"What do you want to drink while I'm fixing supper?" I asked him later when we went downstairs. He was sitting in the living room, facing the fireplace.
"I'll have a Bloody Mary."
"I forgot you liked those. I'm afraid I don't have any mix for that—haven't had it since you were gone."
"I'll have whatever you're drinking then. Who have you had in your bed since I left, Dan?" he called to me where I was puttering around in the kitchen, pulling another steak out of the refrigerator and dumping it in the marinate sauce where I'd put what was to be my steak before I'd gone upstairs.
"Nobody, Kyle. There's been no one since you," I answered as I entered the living room and handed him a glass of scotch.
I expected him to say something about that—something about owning and controlling me—but he didn't say that, and he didn't really need to say that. He'd proved just now, upstairs, that he owned and controlled me. Instead, he jumped the discussion.
"The print over the fireplace. That's new, isn't it? A Chagall?"
"Yes, it's a Chagall. And, yes, it's new. Why is it, though, Kyle, that you won't talk to me about the money you stole from me?"
"You seem to have done all right since I was here. The Chagall, for instance, what did that set you back? $18,000? You're probably worth 25 percent more now than you were when I left."
Yes, the Chagall had cost almost exactly $18,000, and, yes, my worth had gone up significantly in the last eight months. He'd always been good with figures and estimates, but not that good. He'd been alone in the house for who knew how long? Had he been snooping in my papers?
"Have you been snooping in my financial papers, Kyle?"
"You know what I'd like you to do to me after dinner, Dan?" was his response. And then he told me in graphic terms what he wanted me to do to him.
I barely was able to make it through preparing and serving dinner when we were upstairs, on the bed, Kyle flat on his back, with his arms raised and tethered to the two corners at the headboard and his legs spread and bent, as I hunched over him and fucked him missionary style. Then I was under him, holding his waist in my hands, my dick up inside him and punching, as he counterpunched, using his feet planted on either side of my thighs for leverage.
We fucked in various positions throughout most of the night. When I woke the next morning, once again he was gone. He'd cleaned up the dishes from supper the previous night. He still hadn't occupied the guestroom I'd told him he could use the first night.
After breakfast, I called the office to tell them I wouldn't be in that day. I went to the men's store and bought him a new wardrobe of clothes in styles I knew he'd like. Then I went to the grocery store and stocked up on foods I knew were his favorites. I also picked up the mix for the Bloody Marys he drank.
I spent most of the afternoon fixing his favorite dishes, having to go back to the grocery store for ingredients I'd forgotten to get earlier. Then I spent most of the night sitting and watching them molder on the kitchen cabinet top. He didn't show that evening, or that night. I lay in bed going over all of the sex positions we'd used the previous night and the ones he'd whispered in my ear were yet to come.
Eventually, I went to sleep. There were no dreams and there was no Kyle coming into my bed late in the night.
* * * *
I fairly ran to the door from the kitchen the next morning, where I was eating breakfast, when I heard the buzzing of the door. It wasn't the leaning on the buzzer style of Kyle, but I maintained my hopes until I got to the door, threw it open—and found that it wasn't Kyle.
"Detective Taylor," I said, "Please come in. Has there been a development in the case? I haven't seen you in more than a month."
My heart was racing. They'd apprehended Kyle. And not only did they have him back in custody now but he'd somehow also implicated me in everything. The police were here to arrest me for aiding and abetting. Was not turning him in aiding and abetting? And fucking him while I harbored him? The angel on my shoulder was throwing the word "probably" back at me.
"I came to warn you," the detective said as he came into the foyer and I directed him to the living room.
Shit, here it comes, I thought. A lecture and a warning for aiding and abetting.
"Warn me?"
"Yes. The guy who embezzled from your business is in the area. A tourist down in the Virgin Islands was robbed by him and identified him. The guy's name was Gus McCracken. His charge cards were taken and they're being used in this area. So, we think that Kyle Anderson is back in the area. Not too many Gus McCrackens floating around."
That's what Kyle and I thought too was what I almost said. But I didn't. And the Virgin Islands? Kyle hadn't mentioned that. I'd have to check on where they were in relationship to Jamaica and the Cayman Islands. Had Kyle been giving me fake information on that too?
". . . make sure you haven't heard from him—and will tell us if you do."
I only realized then that the detective had continued to talk. And he obviously was still suspicious about the aiding and abetting thing. He was firing a shot across my bow. I was in trouble if I got caught harboring Kyle. But then I looked up as we sat in the living room, and I knew that wasn't an issue. I knew that Kyle wouldn't be back—at least not in the near future.
"Yes, of course, Detective Taylor. I'll let you know immediately if I even get a hint that he's coming around here. Perhaps too you should have some sort of periodic surveillance of this house to see if he does try to come here."
"That's a good idea," Taylor said, sounding a bit surprised. He looked more relaxed, like it wasn't quite as suspicious anymore. Maybe I'd passed some sort of suspicion test by suggesting the stepped-up surveillance.
I felt comfortable doing so, as I was positive that Kyle had gotten what he wanted here and was on the lam, somewhere away from here now. I had looked up, over the fireplace, and had just seen now that the new Chagall was missing. I'd have to check, but I was confident that all of the new clothes I'd bought him were gone too. He'd come and gone during my return visit to the grocery store. There was no question who had taken the Chagall and who wouldn't be back until the money from that had run out.
Not that I'd tell Detective Taylor to add $18,000 to the damage Kyle had done—not to mention whatever else I'd find missing later today.
And, God, I missed Kyle already.
When I decided it wasn't in my dream, I groaned and rolled over on my side and willed it to go away. When it started again, I rolled out of bed, looked at the time on my alarm clock—4:00 a.m., both too late to be up and too early to be getting up—shrugged into a robe on top of my sleep pants, and padded down the bedroom hall and then down the staircase into the foyer. Whose idea, I wondered, was it for a single man to live in a sprawling twelve-room house?
Turning on the porch light, I peered through window on one side of the double front doors.
Kyle.
I turned the porch light off again and retreated to the kitchen at the back of the house, reasoning that he wouldn't find me there. I automatically switched the "on" switch on the coffeemaker by habit. That's what I did every morning no matter what time I entered the kitchen. I stood at the sink, peering out of the bay window into the backyard. If I stood real still, I was sure he wouldn't think I was home—not that I was considering that I'd turned the front porch light on and off and that he could see me as well through the window at the side of the door as I'd seen him.
I didn't do sudden wake ups in the middle of the night well. It was not a good time to expect coherence from me.
There was a vehicle on the parking apron at the back of the house. Some sort of blue van. Nondescript. Easily overlooked. It wasn't mine. It must be Kyle's, but that didn't compute either. Kyle was the sports car type, not the nondescript van type. I should know that; I'd bought him a Miata convertible. When I'd done so, he had mentioned being interested in anything but two-seater sports cars.
I hadn't heard any buzzing since I'd come into the kitchen. So, maybe Kyle had left, I thought. The van was still in back. So, maybe the van wasn't his? Whose then?
I padded back to the foyer, turned the porch light on, and looked through the window.
Kyle was sitting on the porch step, looking out into the front yard. This wouldn't do. The neighborhood would start stirring in, what, three hours? I wasn't a morning person. I didn't have any idea, really, when the neighborhood started waking up. I did know that it would be light enough soon for the neighbors to see him sitting out there. And, what? Should I skulk here in the foyer waiting for him to give up and leave?
With a sigh I opened the door. He stood up from stoop—as great looking as ever. The "aw golly gee" mop of blond hair, the "trust me" smile, the mesmerizing blue eyes, the muscular, yet boyish, five-foot-six physique, and the sexy tight T-shirt and scruffy low-rise stone-washed jeans. As he breezed by me, he gave me a brilliant smile and said, "Is that coffee I smell brewing?"
"You can't be here, Kyle," I said to his back, which was retreating toward the kitchen. Kyle knew just where the kitchen was in this house. "This is the last place you should be."
"Which makes it the perfect place to be," he said, as I followed him into the kitchen and watched him take his favorite coffee mug out of the cupboard. "Got any eggs and toast to go with the coffee?"
"I could call the police right now," I said.
"Yes, you could, Dan. I don't see the French vanilla creamer. Ah, here it is." He was rummaging around in the refrigerator. He'd stripped off his T-shirt. He was like a little kid. He'd run around the house naked if he thought the adult in the house—that would be me—would permit it. But it was a tease. He knew the effect his naked torso had on me.
Coming up out of the refrigerator, he turned, smiled at me again, and said, "But you won't, will you?"
"You've got a lot of nerve, Kyle—taking over $60,000 from the company and waltzing off. And where's the Miata I bought you? Is that van in the back yours?"
"I thought it best to park it in back," he said. It didn't escape me that he avoided saying who owned the van.
"And I'm Gus now. Gus McCracken."
"Who the hell names their son Gus McCracken?"
"Yeah, that's kind of a bummer, isn't it?" he said. "I don't see eggs in the frig. You got any donuts to go with the coffee?"
"Just toast or cinnamon buns," I answered, as I moved toward the bread box. But what the hell was I doing? The little bastard who had stolen from me—from my company—flitting in here in the middle of the night, and I was serving him coffee and cinnamon buns.
"You're looking good, Dan. You've kept yourself up real well."
"Where the hell have you been the last eight months?" I asked, pulling a plate out of the cupboard to put two buns on and going to the refrigerator for butter. Kyle liked to butter his buns. He always said that when he'd given me a massage—and it had always made us laugh.
The question was a mistake. He started pattering on about Jamaica and the Cayman Islands and about black bulls until I was just too worn out to keep focused on the problem of him being here. In my defense, it was now 4:30 in the morning, and I hadn't gotten to bed until after 1:00.
"You can't be here, Kyle," I finally broke in to repeat. "I'll give you a half-hour head start before I call the police to say you were here."
"And to tell them you served me coffee and cinnamon buns before waiting a half hour to call them?" He laughed and warm, endearing laugh of us. I could see his point.
"I want to go upstairs with you," he said. "Come here."
I stayed on my side of the kitchen. The knife stand was right next to me. But would I be using one to fend him off or to slit my own wrists? The jury was not just out on that. It was over the hill and half way to Cleveland.
"You are not staying the night, Kyle."
"It's Gus. And we're pretty much past night. It's probably about time for the paperboy or milkman to be coming by to see me leaving your house if I left now."
"There haven't been men delivering milk to the house since the fifties, Kyle. Forty years before you were born."
"Take me upstairs and fuck me, Dan. I've missed your cock."
"That's not going to happen. You can take the guest room at the top of the stairs for a couple of hours of shuteye. But when I get up at eight, I want you gone. If you are, we'll forget you ever were here. If not—"
"I'm not wearing any underwear under these jeans, Dan. I haven't been fucked as well as you can do it in months. Take me upstairs and fuck the shit out of me."
"Don't bother to turn off the light when you go up to the guestroom," I said, trying to keep my voice stern, yet dignified—hiding my trembling hands behind my back. "The cup and plate can go in the sink. I'll put them in the dishwasher tomorrow—like I always did. That guestroom has its own bath. Towels are in there already. The bed's made. Lock your door, as I sure as hell will be locking mine."
Gathering my robe about me, I put my nose in the air and stomped up the stairs.
I didn't, however, lock my bedroom door.
I was barely asleep when I felt Kyle's body stretch out beside mine on the bed. I was enough asleep to mold my body to his before realizing that it was eight tumultuous months since I last did that. I made some effort to push him away, throwing in a, "No, Kyle, we can't be doing this," but the effort was half-hearted and he knew it was.
"You didn't lock your door," he said simply. We both knew he didn't have to say anything more than that. He kissed me on the lips while gliding his hand under the waistband of my sleep pants—he, of course, was fully naked—and grasping my cock. I resisted the kiss for perhaps half a nanosecond before we were playing sucky face. And then I just lay back, sighing and groaning, as he worked his mouth down my torso, opened his lips over my erect cock, and let his tongue glide down the full length of my shaft. He'd always given divine blow jobs. He hadn't forgotten how.
I had my legs bent, feet flat on the surface of the bed for leverage, and my pelvis raised to his buttocks, thrusting hard up inside his passage as he rode my cock to bucking cowboy-perfect position mutual ejaculations.
I don't know how truthful he'd been about the black bulls he'd found in Jamaica and the Cayman Islands, but I'd be in a state of abstemious grief for eight months and was as healthy as they come in cum production. So, not longer than ten minutes after completion in cowboy style, I had Kyle on all fours under me, was fully mounted, and was fucking him again doggy style. He held steady as a statue on the outside while he was all undulating muscles rippling across my thrusting cock on the inside. He talked dirty to me in low, growling tones and I just closed my eyes and pumped and pumped and pumped.
Falling at the side of him afterward, I embraced him, and, with a sigh, drifted off to sleep.
When my alarm went off at 8:00, he was gone. The guestroom hadn't been used—indeed, there had been little time for him to use it as he was in my bed, riding my cock, almost since I'd flounced upstairs. His cup and plate weren't in the sink or the dishwasher.
I was left wondering if he'd really been there at all, or if my lack of him—and of any sex for months—had let my dreams take over reality. One thing was for sure. I'd regretted that, probably in my dreams, I'd told the ghost of Kyle to be gone in the morning before I got up.
* * * *
The day was nearly spent when I came home that evening. Twilight was settling in and the front of the house was bathed in the pastel reflections of sunset. I wasn't thinking about much except the previous night. The thoughts were mixed. I'd had my chance to get Kyle arrested and maybe to have recovered some of the $60,000 he'd walked off with—or, rather, had driven away with in the Miata convertible I'd paid for and with all the clothes and jewelry I'd hung on him—so, make that $100,000 he'd taken from me. Conversely, I hadn't had a night in the sack with a man like that since he'd left me.
I also couldn't believe that Kyle still had any part of what he'd stolen. I wanted to think that he'd come back just to see—and sleep with—me, but I knew better. He already was out of money again.
Was Kyle worth the loss of $100,000? In many ways he was. But keeping him hadn't been an option. He obviously had been on the lam even when he was living with me, and the police were still actively seeking him. I hadn't been the only one he'd stolen from while he was here—or before I first laid eyes on his beautiful nude body. The police made that perfectly clear to me, as if they had discerned what my relationship with him had been and didn't trust me to give him up. Not that this wasn't justified. He'd been here last night and I hadn't given him up—didn't even call the cops this morning after he'd left.
I poured myself a scotch from the bar in the living room and walked into the kitchen, ready to fix myself some dinner. I looked out of the bay window above the sink. The blue van was parked in back of the house.
Had it been there this morning after Kyle had gone? Had I even looked? I was sure—or sort of sure I had. Of course I wasn't fully sure that last night had happened at all.
I put the glass of scotch down on the counter, turned, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. Kyle was lying on his back in the center of my bed, naked, legs spread and bent, pillow elevating his buttocks, and his hand holding a dildo half-buried in his passageway.
"I didn't think you'd ever come home," he said as I walked into the room.
"How did you get into the house, Kyle?"
"I have a key."
"The key was taken away from you when you were arrested."
"I'd made duplicates before that."
"What is it that you want here, Kyle? If you think I'm going to bankroll you to be able to stay on the loose, you're sadly—"
"You know what I came here for. Come over here."
I had no intention to come under his spell again. I just forgot to tell my feet that. He scooted to the foot of the bed, on his belly, and reached up and unbuckled my belt and unzipped my trousers as I came up to him. He sucked my cock, as I unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it off my back, and then dropped my trousers and briefs. When I had stripped, he turned on his back and let his head drop over the end of the bed, giving me a straight passage for a deep-throated face fuck that had me moaning in remembrance of how good Kyle was at this.
Then I sat on the foot of the bed, as he—much smaller than I was and quite limber—sat in my lap, his channel sheathing my cock, facing me and, using the leverage of his feet planted on either side of my hips, rising and falling on my cock. His passage was tight, which surprised me, as I was sure he slutted around, and he had a thing he did with the muscles of his passage walls that made love to my cock and milked it as no one else had ever done.
"What do you want to drink while I'm fixing supper?" I asked him later when we went downstairs. He was sitting in the living room, facing the fireplace.
"I'll have a Bloody Mary."
"I forgot you liked those. I'm afraid I don't have any mix for that—haven't had it since you were gone."
"I'll have whatever you're drinking then. Who have you had in your bed since I left, Dan?" he called to me where I was puttering around in the kitchen, pulling another steak out of the refrigerator and dumping it in the marinate sauce where I'd put what was to be my steak before I'd gone upstairs.
"Nobody, Kyle. There's been no one since you," I answered as I entered the living room and handed him a glass of scotch.
I expected him to say something about that—something about owning and controlling me—but he didn't say that, and he didn't really need to say that. He'd proved just now, upstairs, that he owned and controlled me. Instead, he jumped the discussion.
"The print over the fireplace. That's new, isn't it? A Chagall?"
"Yes, it's a Chagall. And, yes, it's new. Why is it, though, Kyle, that you won't talk to me about the money you stole from me?"
"You seem to have done all right since I was here. The Chagall, for instance, what did that set you back? $18,000? You're probably worth 25 percent more now than you were when I left."
Yes, the Chagall had cost almost exactly $18,000, and, yes, my worth had gone up significantly in the last eight months. He'd always been good with figures and estimates, but not that good. He'd been alone in the house for who knew how long? Had he been snooping in my papers?
"Have you been snooping in my financial papers, Kyle?"
"You know what I'd like you to do to me after dinner, Dan?" was his response. And then he told me in graphic terms what he wanted me to do to him.
I barely was able to make it through preparing and serving dinner when we were upstairs, on the bed, Kyle flat on his back, with his arms raised and tethered to the two corners at the headboard and his legs spread and bent, as I hunched over him and fucked him missionary style. Then I was under him, holding his waist in my hands, my dick up inside him and punching, as he counterpunched, using his feet planted on either side of my thighs for leverage.
We fucked in various positions throughout most of the night. When I woke the next morning, once again he was gone. He'd cleaned up the dishes from supper the previous night. He still hadn't occupied the guestroom I'd told him he could use the first night.
After breakfast, I called the office to tell them I wouldn't be in that day. I went to the men's store and bought him a new wardrobe of clothes in styles I knew he'd like. Then I went to the grocery store and stocked up on foods I knew were his favorites. I also picked up the mix for the Bloody Marys he drank.
I spent most of the afternoon fixing his favorite dishes, having to go back to the grocery store for ingredients I'd forgotten to get earlier. Then I spent most of the night sitting and watching them molder on the kitchen cabinet top. He didn't show that evening, or that night. I lay in bed going over all of the sex positions we'd used the previous night and the ones he'd whispered in my ear were yet to come.
Eventually, I went to sleep. There were no dreams and there was no Kyle coming into my bed late in the night.
* * * *
I fairly ran to the door from the kitchen the next morning, where I was eating breakfast, when I heard the buzzing of the door. It wasn't the leaning on the buzzer style of Kyle, but I maintained my hopes until I got to the door, threw it open—and found that it wasn't Kyle.
"Detective Taylor," I said, "Please come in. Has there been a development in the case? I haven't seen you in more than a month."
My heart was racing. They'd apprehended Kyle. And not only did they have him back in custody now but he'd somehow also implicated me in everything. The police were here to arrest me for aiding and abetting. Was not turning him in aiding and abetting? And fucking him while I harbored him? The angel on my shoulder was throwing the word "probably" back at me.
"I came to warn you," the detective said as he came into the foyer and I directed him to the living room.
Shit, here it comes, I thought. A lecture and a warning for aiding and abetting.
"Warn me?"
"Yes. The guy who embezzled from your business is in the area. A tourist down in the Virgin Islands was robbed by him and identified him. The guy's name was Gus McCracken. His charge cards were taken and they're being used in this area. So, we think that Kyle Anderson is back in the area. Not too many Gus McCrackens floating around."
That's what Kyle and I thought too was what I almost said. But I didn't. And the Virgin Islands? Kyle hadn't mentioned that. I'd have to check on where they were in relationship to Jamaica and the Cayman Islands. Had Kyle been giving me fake information on that too?
". . . make sure you haven't heard from him—and will tell us if you do."
I only realized then that the detective had continued to talk. And he obviously was still suspicious about the aiding and abetting thing. He was firing a shot across my bow. I was in trouble if I got caught harboring Kyle. But then I looked up as we sat in the living room, and I knew that wasn't an issue. I knew that Kyle wouldn't be back—at least not in the near future.
"Yes, of course, Detective Taylor. I'll let you know immediately if I even get a hint that he's coming around here. Perhaps too you should have some sort of periodic surveillance of this house to see if he does try to come here."
"That's a good idea," Taylor said, sounding a bit surprised. He looked more relaxed, like it wasn't quite as suspicious anymore. Maybe I'd passed some sort of suspicion test by suggesting the stepped-up surveillance.
I felt comfortable doing so, as I was positive that Kyle had gotten what he wanted here and was on the lam, somewhere away from here now. I had looked up, over the fireplace, and had just seen now that the new Chagall was missing. I'd have to check, but I was confident that all of the new clothes I'd bought him were gone too. He'd come and gone during my return visit to the grocery store. There was no question who had taken the Chagall and who wouldn't be back until the money from that had run out.
Not that I'd tell Detective Taylor to add $18,000 to the damage Kyle had done—not to mention whatever else I'd find missing later today.
And, God, I missed Kyle already.
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