Mojave Heat E-Book

anonymous

• Herausgeber: Olympia Press
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Gay life in the post-Vietnam era. Most events take place in The Manor, a Southwestern refuge.

Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Mojave Heat

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

Mojave Heat

Anonymous

This page copyright © 2014 Olympia Press.

http://www.olympiapress.com

ONE

After he crossed the Cambodian border, Blake Sanders Jr. came home on a stretcher. During the next three months, he met and married Marie, started a son, and with two purple hearts, had little difficulty getting the loan he needed to begin a construction business.

He needed a loan because Blake's father had erred. Following the second world war, Blake Sanders Sr. mistook caution for wisdom. Ignoring the potential for California real estate, he had put his savings into a stagnant stock market; after his funeral in 1969, there was no money left to send Blake Jr. through college.

And so, like millions of others, Blake Jr. (now simply Junior) enlisted. The army seemed preferable to his only alternative, the navy, and Junior got shot in the Vietnam war.

Returning to San Cristobel had several advantages. First, as a wounded veteran in a conservative community, Junior qualified as a war hero. Second, everyone had known and trusted his father; when Junior asked for money, banks believed he would repay the money. Third, while Junior had been on his ship, a girl—a far better looking girl than any in Junior's high school—had moved into town; her name was Marie, and Marie was a nurse.

While Junior convalesced, Marie cared for him. By the time he could walk, she cared for him better, marrying Junior within a week of his leaving the hospital.

Blake Sanders III was born ten months later and simply called Blake. After a miscarriage, Marie tried again, becoming pregnant and bearing a second son, this one named Cody.

During all this time, Junior's business, Mojave Custom Family Homes, flourished. He satisfied the needs of his desert community, constructing modest homes for northern retirees and houses more spacious for the upwardly mobile. By 1980, Junior was wealthy.

“Please, give me the football. It's mine,” Cody said.

“Fuck you, brat,” his brother answered. “I'll tell daddy.”

“And the horse you rode in on. Tell him that while you're at it.”

Cody's frustrations continued through grammar school. His bigger stronger brother seemed larger than life. But in high school, Cody grew. He grew as a junior, even more as a senior. Cody stood six-foot four on the day he graduated, two inches taller than Blake—who was now at college—but Cody was no less shy than when he'd been twelve. His classmates called him Bambi.

* * *

Shaded by cottonwoods, Cody watched as a dragonfly dropped to the creek. “Big sucker,” Robby said. “Yep.”

“When's Blake coming home?”

“I'm not sure,” Cody answered. “I got a letter yesterday, not just a post card. He was still in Vienna.”

“Must be nice to have a rich daddy.”

“Must be,” Cody chuckled.

“Why not go to the dance with me and Bette? I could set you up with her sister, Louise?”

“No, thanks,” Cody said. “But wake me up after. We can hike or something tomorrow.”

“Not in this heat.”

“Then we'll swim.”

Unlike Blake, who had been both student body president and valedictorian, Cody had gone through high school with few close friends. Robby Wo, brown haired and lean, the son of the Sanders' cook, was the single exception.

Robby went to his house to dress for the dance; Cody went to The Manor to reread Blake's letter.

The Manor, built by Junior in 1985, was shaped like an A. The top central section contained the living, dining, and family rooms, the kitchen, and the master bedroom suite. The left leg of the A was Blake's—even now that he was away nine months of the year—and the right leg was Cody's. In the crotch of the A sat an Olympic size pool.

Cody sat on his bed as he studied Blake's letter.

Bro.'

I figured this note might get graphic enough you wouldn't want to get it on a post card. No use giving Mr. Lansford a second heart attack.

You're missing a lot by not using your dick. At least, by not using it better than you do. I got laid last night for the first time ever. I mean really laid, not just another blow job.

I performed like a champ. I almost came just sliding into the guy, but I thought about a lot of different things, like Ling Wo's fortune cookies, and I plowed for seven minutes before I finally spooged. The second time anyhow; the first one was quick.

What a monster fucking load. My friend (Stefan. Same as Steven but spelled different) said I felt like a flood. He flooded pretty good himself, all over my sheets. We ended up spending the night on the floor.

Summer in Vienna's hot but nothing like San C. It straddles this big fucking river so it's humid all the time. Perfect for long and hot and sweaty sex.

Stefan's awake so I guess I've got to go. Maybe it's better being neuter like you. I like Stefan a lot. Maybe more than I should.

Listen to me, blonde haired blue eyed stud. I miss you incredibly. The only reason to come home at all is to see you again (and, of course, to get a refill of dollars.) Sweating through another summer of construction work is about as exciting as a two inch prick.

I love you and miss you,

Tell Robby hello.

Blake

Fucking Blake. What would dad do if he knew? Or maybe he did know and didn't care. As long as Blake got good grades and slaved through the summer, Junior let Blake do whatever he wanted, unlike Cody who had to be home by ten and in bed by eleven, even on weekends.

Robby had asked why Cody didn't date. Shit, Cody thought, imagine a high school graduate having to tell a girl at nine thirty that he had to take her home. Besides, girls made Cody nervous. Maybe he was neuter like Blake suggested. Cody wasn't neuter mechanically; his cock worked properly, often. Blake had referred to emotional sex.

Thinking about sex, Cody noticed the familiar crawling in his lap. But rather than satisfy his urge so soon, he preferred to wait until after dinner when everyone had gone. For a tormented hour, Cody read Sporting Daily, trying to concentrate on basketball and to forget about his prick.

Cody ate dinner with his parents at six forty five. At eight, Marie and Junior left for a dance at the lodge. At eight fifteen, he heard Ling Wo.

“Good night, Cody,” the cook said.

“Night, Ling. Robby's coming over later. He'll probably spend the night.”

“All right. I will see you in the morning.”

“Sure thing. I'll lock up before I go to bed.”

“Thank you, Cody. Good night.”

When Cody heard the gate shut, he smiled to himself. He went to his room, locked the door, stood in front of the mirror.

His brother had the first part right; Cody was blonde haired, blue eyed, with a skin too pale for the desert sun. He swam mostly at night, envying people like Robby who could tan forever without turning red.

Cody slipped out of the T-shirt his brother had sent him, a white cotton shirt with the legend: Ich Liebe Dich in script on the front. Bare to the waist, he studied his chest, concerned that not only wasn't there any hair—few boys his age had chest hair— but that there seemed no signs of impending growth. Robby had sprinkles of fuzz sprouting everywhere on his chestplate, and Robby was pure blood Chinese, a race not noted for exceptional hair.

Cody lifted his arm for reassurance. Wispy curls nestled in his armpit. He might not be over-blessed in the way of glands, but they weren't totally lacking, and for further proof, he pulled off his shorts.

Cody grinned at his cock, and his sex organ twitched. With a will of its own, it lengthened, stretching itself out, further and further as Cody watched. Almost as if it realized what Cody had in mind, his cockknob turned red, his slit opened wide, and the vein on the left began to pulse.

When his dick was totally hard, Cody turned out the light and went to the pool. By now, Cody had thought about cumming for several hours; he was totally aroused. One of his favorite ways to begin masturbation, by swimming naked, was possible only when everyone was out; Cody had planned his evening for the next fifteen minutes.

He climbed to the diving board. Bouncing, he felt tremors in his prick. He dove, and when he hit the pool the friction of the water was so great he almost came.

Several laps later, Cody needed release. The pool brought him closer and closer but it couldn't get him off. He flipped on his back, needing to catch his breath before the final strokes, which he hoped would be a blissful ten seconds resulting in jism.

Cody was lying on his back, prick pointing toward the stars, when the front gate opened and Robby Wo asked, “What the fuck?”

Cody dove for the bottom, willing himself to go soft, but when his breath ran out, he surfaced, hoping that his cock was hidden by the water.

“How come you're here?” Cody asked.

“You invited me.”

“Sure. But after the dance.”

“It's after the dance right now,” Robby said. “Bette felt sick. I took her home early.”

“Why don't you grab us a couple of beers?”

But the ploy didn't work.

“Come with me,” Robby said.

Cody shrugged; he climbed out of the pool, aware that Robby was staring at his crotch.

“Your dick's pretty long,” Robby said.

“I guess. It's more than six inches.”

“Mine's exactly six. I measured it once.”

Denied its release, Cody's cock rebelled by maintaining its stiffness, while they got their beer while they turned on the stereo, even when they went to Cody's room and took their customary positions, Cody on his bed, Robby in a chair.

“How come your dick's still hard?” Robby asked.

Confused, Cody rolled onto his stomach, hoping that hidden he might become soft. Instead, the friction of the bedspread forced goo from his slot.

Robby said, “I know how you feel. I thought tonight I might get laid. Instead I got fucked.”

“What do you mean?”

“Figure it yourself. I buy her and me dinner, flowers, and I pay for the dance. Then she wants to go home at nine?”

“It's the shits,” Cody agreed.

“Roll over,” Robby said. “I want to check something.”

“I'm all right.”

“Come on.”

When Cody didn't move, Robby went to the bed and jerked Cody's arm. Defenseless, Cody rolled.

“Your dicks a gooey mess,” Robby said. “Did you cum?”

“No.”

“Looks like it.”

“Does not,” Cody said. “When I cum I shoot a whole lot more than that little drip. What are you looking at?”

“Your cocktip. See how pointy it is?”

“So?”

“Mine isn't. Mine's rounded,” Robby said. “I'm glad for you and your cocktip both.”

“You were getting ready for a jack off, weren't you?”

“What makes you think so?” Cody asked. “Your boner.”

“I don't jack off every time I'm hard. If I did, I wouldn't have time for anything else.”

Robby said, “But you're leaking like shit. Just like I get when I'm ready to stroke.”

“So what? You do it plenty yourself. Even when we're in the same bed together.”

“I didn't say there was anything wrong with it. I just made a comment.”

“This is strange,” Cody said. “I'm getting some shorts.”

While Cody pulled up his shorts, Robby read Blake's letter, which Cody had left on top of the desk.

“Your brother's really going for it big time,” Robby said. “Shoving his dick in this Stefan guy's shitter.”

“He said it felt good.”

“He says he came lots. Christ! Look at you, Cody. You're leaking through your shorts.”

Cody didn't need to look; he could feel himself ooze. If Robby had only been five minutes later...

“This is goofy, Robby,” Cody said. “I'm going in the bathroom. Be right back.”

“Don't.”

'Why not?”

Robby said, “When I've heard you beating off, I've wondered what you looked like, but it's always been dark. Let me watch.”

“You sound like my brother.”

“Come on.”

“You too then,” Cody said. “No way.”

“Fine. Then I won't either.”

“Why not?” Robby asked. “You were going to do it anyway. Oh, fuck. Why not?”

Cody took off his shorts and tossed them in the laundry, hoping his mother would bypass the stain. Robby undressed and came over to the bed; he sat beside Cody, on Cody's right, and Robby put his arm around his friend's shoulder.

“We look day and night,” Robby said. “I'm so dark and you're so pale.”

“Except for our cocks. They're both of them red.”

“Let's make both of them wet,” Robby said.

“Get yourself as close as I am. The way I feel, it'll only take seconds.”

As Cody watched, with his hand on Robby's thigh and his head on Robby's shoulder, Robby pulled on his prick. Just like Cody, Robby's slit opened wide and his knob oozed goo.

“So fucking hot,” Cody said.

“Me too.”

“Let's pop.”

“Would you mind trying something? For a change?” Robby asked.

“All right. What?”

“Let's shoot on each other.”

Without answering, Cody twisted sideways; he pointed his prick at Robby's face. Robby nodded as he pointed his own. He gasped, “Tell me when.”

“Now!” Cody said. *

Both cocks erupted simultaneously, jism spraying everywhere. Cody's first wad found its target, hitting Robby on the nose, while Robby's cock was blasting Cody's forehead and chest. They pumped themselves through their climax until both of them went dry.

“That was hot,” Cody said. “Total.”

“I shot the most.”

“You didn't. I did.”

“No fucking way.”

* * *

Two hundred miles west, Christopher “Kit” Carson, argued with his father.

“How do you expect me to surf if I'm working in the desert?”

“I don't care if you surf. You need to learn to build.”

“Teach me then. Everyone says you're the best there is. I don't want to go away.”

Kit's father said, “Junior Sanders is better, believe me. When we were in the army together...”

Kit tuned his father out. He'd heard about Junior Sanders since the time he was five, had even met him three years before, Junior Sanders and his two different sons.

Blake had been strange; Kit wasn't sure what was different about Blake, but there was definitely something. Cody, on the other hand, had been friendly. He had treated Kit as an equal, and every Christmas, Cody sent Kit a card. Working with Cody was the only hope for a hot hopeless summer.

“When do I leave?” Kit asked. “Tomorrow?”

“Right. I'll take you to the bus at eight. Junior or one of the boys will pick you up when you get to Blythe.”

“All right. Night, dad.”

“Night, son. Sleep tight.”

Fat chance, Kit thought.

Unknown to his father, Kit had reached a crossroads. He had come to the age of bonding, when a teenager's friends take precedence over everything. Last year's surfing trips had been fun; this years would have been an exercise in social development. But by going to San Cristobel and leaving his buddies, Kit would either find new friends or would wither in the sun.

Also unknown to his father, and only vaguely understood by Kit, raging hormones were at work in Kit's body. Dormant for years, Kit's genetic clock had finally ticked, releasing a surge of testosterone that was driving Kit wild.

Kit shook his head on the way to the bathroom. He had the build of a swimmer, not a carpenter, not some big burly male sprouting biceps like trees. Kit didn't even like construction—he would have much have preferred building surfboards at the beach—but Kit's father thought surfboards were toys for the idle.

In the bathroom, Kit pissed. When he shook his dick he hardened; he stayed stiff brushing his teeth; even stiffer hiding a hand lotion tube in his blue jeans' pocket.

Down the hall in his room, Kit locked the door. At exactly the same minute as Cody in the desert, Kit pulled down his pants and examined his cock.