Chapter 4 - Jesden.

'I still can't believe it's HIM! The guy from the park. The one I sketched and was drooling over all afternoon. And now he's in my house. In my shower, actually. Naked. He's in my house and naked and I think I'm going to hyperventilate if I don't stop thinking about him right now!'

"Jesden, Child, please sit down! Pacing like that isn't going to get the boy out here any faster. All it does is annoy me, and you know you don't want an annoyed housekeeper," Martha teases me, with good reason of course. "Instead of wearing a trench through the carpet, why don't you come over here and explain to me exactly what the hell happened to that boy tonight and how you got involved. I gotta tell you, Jes, I wasn't exactly happy when Hector called me and said you two had just 'rescued' some boy from down in Old Town and were bringing him here. What the heck were you thinking, Jes? How do you even know this boy?"

'Yeah, what exactly did happen? And how the fuck do I explain it all to Martha without sounding like I'm due for some serious psychotherapy? I wonder if I can put her off until after Ryan and I have had a chance to come up with some kind of cover story. Looking at her face, I'm going to say that's not going to happen. She's got that 'I'm waiting, son' look. Damn! Well, here goes nothing . . .'

Out of the corner of my eye I see the sketchbook I'd grabbed out of my room before Martha dragged me down here. It gives me an idea. I'll just tell her the truth - or as much of it as possible, at least.

"I met Ryan this afternoon at the park," I tell Martha and hold up the drawing I'd made of him as proof. "I don't really know him that well. But, he, um . . . He called me tonight and asked me to come get him. I think there were some guys hassling him - you know, following him and getting kind of aggressive - and he got a little freaked. So, I just had Hector drive me down there and we brought him back. He was too upset to really tell me everything that went on, but you could see for yourself how worked up he was. We'll just have to wait until he's ready to tell us the rest."

"Hmm. Well, I'm proud of you for helping someone out like that, Jes, even if he is a virtual stranger. You're a good boy. Always have been. But I think I'll reserve judgment about your new friend, Ryan, until we know a little bit more about him. Okay?" Martha cautions with that motherly air she uses on me all the time - the one I pretty much can never resist.

Thankfully, I'm saved from having to reply when our impromptu guest himself finally makes an appearance. Ryan looks much better now that he's showered and isn't wearing soaking wet clothing that make him seem like a drowned rat. In fact, he's looking damn good, if you ask me, even in a pair of sweatpants that are far too small for him and that overtight tee.

'Please, mom, can I keep him!'

"Hey," Ryan says and shrugs with one shoulder as he pads into the kitchen on bare feet. "Thanks for the dry clothes and the shower and all. I really appreciate it, Ma'am," he adds, directing his comments towards Martha.

"I'm sure you're welcome, Son," Martha doesn't correct his apparent misconception that she's the householder - that wouldn't be proper. "Now, pull yourself up one of those stools and you can start in on this soup I've got ready for you. That should warm you up from the inside as much as the shower warmed you on the outside. Hope you like clam chowder. It's always been one of Jes' favorites and I'm sure he'll join you in a bowl if I twist his arm a little."

"Of course I'll have a bowl. You know I can never say 'no' to your homemade chowder, Martha." I'm more than happy to pull up a second stool next to Ryan and take my own bowl from Martha's large brown hands. I take one spoonful and sigh. "It's as delicious as always." I add a handful of oyster crackers to my bowl and then push the serving bowl of crackers towards Ryan. He's already halfway through his own serving, but scoops out a few crackers to add to what's left. "I'm sorry we interrupted your night off, though, Martha. If you want to head back to your apartments now, I think I can handle everything from here."

"I don't mind staying a bit, Jesden," Martha-the-nosy-meddler replies.

"I've got this, Martha. Really. I insist that you go enjoy the rest of your evening." I don't often play the 'boss' card with Martha, but tonight I really don't need her butting in.

"Of course, Mr. Tennyson," Martha counters in her bitchiest servant voice. "Goodnight, Sir."

I just ignore her. I know from experience that Martha will have forgiven me by tomorrow morning. Provided I tell her everything I can find out about Ryan, that is. However, this time I may just have to disappoint her.

"So, um . . . This is your house, I take it?" Ryan asks as he scrapes the last spoonful of chowder out of his bowl.

"Yeah. Well, technically it's my parents house, I guess, but they're not here very often so . . ."

"Hector and Martha work for you, then. Like, you're their boss?" He clarifies.

"Yeah. But, they're my friends too. Martha's been more of a mother to me than my real mom. Like I said, my parents aren't around much. Most nights it's just me and Martha." Boy, does that make me sound like a colossal loser or what?  

Time to change the subject.

"So . . . You wanna talk about what happened to you tonight? I didn't really understand much of what you were projecting when you first called to me," Ryan didn't look all that happy to start with but he looks even more spooked when I make that reference to all the strange mental stuff. "I mean, who were those guys that were looking for you? Can you go home now or would it still be dangerous? I might be able to help if you feel like you can tell me more."

"Yeah, whatever . . ." Ryan looks at me strangely and then sags on the barstool where he's still sitting. He rubs his face with one hand then pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "You know what, Kid, I really appreciate the way you pulled my ass out of the fire tonight and all, but you don't know me and you really DON'T want to know about all my shit. So, thanks again for the shower, the dinner and everything else, but I think I'll just grab my clothes and go. Okay?"

To be honest, I don't want him to go. Not this soon at any rate. But what the hell am I gonna do? Hold him hostage? Keep him here by force? If he wants to leave, I can't stop him.

"Fine. But why don't you just keep the sweats since your clothes are still wet. I'll call Hector and get him to bring the car around so he can take you home," I offer, trying not to let my disappointment show in my voice.

"Hahaha. Don't bother. Let Hector sleep. I can walk," Ryan seems highly amused by my offer to give him a ride for some reason.

"It's no bother. Besides, it's still raining out and you don't even have a proper jacket. Of course I wouldn’t let you walk home," I insist, confused by the almost angry look on Ryan's face as I repeat my offer.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Ryan huffs at me derisively. "I don't HAVE a home, Cornpop. I don't need a ride anywhere ‘cause I got no place to go other than back to the park where hopefully I can find a dry spot under some bush. Not everyone lives in a fucking palace, Kid. Fuck this! I'm outta here."

For a moment or two I'm too shocked to respond. I just really didn't see that coming. I mean, yeah, Ryan looked a little bedraggled and dirty, but I just assumed it was because of what happened to him tonight. When I was watching him earlier in the day at the park he didn't strike me as someone who was homeless. When I think of the term 'homeless' I picture some old grey-haired guy with rotting teeth and matted hair wearing a garbage bag and towing around a shopping cart full of junk. I never would have guessed this hot boy wearing normal clothes was homeless.

By the time I've wrapped my head around this new revelation, Ryan's already coming back down the stairs with his wet clothes balled up under one arm. His mouth is set in a straight line, giving away nothing of what he's feeling inside. Even his eyes look dead. He doesn't even look at me as he sidles past heading for the front door.

*Ryan . . . Don't . . . Don't go. Please stay.*

I didn't even think about it before the words appeared in my mind. It was like some basic instinct. I just thought the words and I knew he'd hear them. His body pulls up short and he sort of gasps as I send the thoughts towards him.

"You don't have to go," I see him hesitate then shake his head as if he's still going to say no. I press my case. "You've got nowhere else and It's still raining out. Besides, we've got like five empty guest rooms - I'm pretty sure any one of them is more comfortable than the ground under a bush in the park. Please, just stay."

"I really should . . ." He starts to protest yet again.

*You really should STAY. It's okay. At least for tonight. Please, Ryan.* I'm practically begging now, but it's okay because nobody but him can hear me, right? *Stay.*

As I watch, the invisible mask of indifference he was wearing melts just a little. It's just enough that I can clearly see his eyes. I get the barest glimpse of fear and longing hiding behind the jade green flecks that illuminate the hazel brown irises. My heart melts a bit in response and I silently vow to do whatever it takes to ease that pain so that I never have to see it again.

"Come on. You can have the room next to mine," I reach out and seize his larger hand and, before he can change his mind again, I lead him back towards the stairs.

•••••••••••

It's after one am. Ryan is safely tucked away for the night in the guest room next door and presumably asleep. I however am still too wired to sleep. I also can't stop thinking about the beautiful boy lying in the next room. Wishing he was here in MY bed. My mind busily coming up with all sorts of dirty things I could do to him if he were in my bed. Maybe even some dirty things he could do to me. Gaaaaahhhh!

Enough! Rather than lying in bed and driving myself crazy with lewd thoughts, I opt to get up and paint. At least if I have to be awake I'll be doing something semi-productive. Besides, I can keep on with the lewd thoughts even while I paint and then they'll become 'Art' instead of just wishful thinking.

Rolling out of bed, I pull on a pair of paint splattered old sweats and a grungy t-shirt. I throw open the French doors to my studio - well, what I like to call my studio, although it's really just an alcove off my room where I've set up an easel and a few other supplies. There's already a prepared canvas on the easel just waiting for me to find some inspiration. It's been there, staring blankly at me for days, but you never really know when inspiration will strike. That's why I almost always keep at least one canvas on hand at all times. It's just good to be ready for when the mood strikes. Like tonight, when my inspiration, in the person of a charming dark-haired boy with soulful eyes, just turns up out of nowhere, crying out to me from the darkness. Now that's what I call inspiring!

With my palette loaded up with several shades of greens, golds and browns, and my favorite sable-haired brush in my hand, I literally attack the blank canvas. When I get like this I usually lose track of everything around me. I have no attention to spare for anything besides my art. Time means nothing. All I see are the swirls of paint that are coalescing in front of my eyes.

And I probably would have been there all night if it weren't for the fact that now I have this weird new connection to the subject of my painting. It feels like there's some invisible tether tying me to the boy sleeping in the room on the other side of the wall. I can feel his presence. I can sense him there, feel him breathing, almost see the images flitting through his dreams. Even amid my usual artistic trance, I feel like I need to keep track of him now that we're connected like we are. So, even while I'm painting, I keep peeking into his mind every so often, just checking to make sure . . . Of what, I've got no idea, but I'm still compelled by something . . .

Which is why I feel it almost immediately when his dreams turn darker. The amorphous images start to get more defined. The shadow shapes become more threatening. I sense his growing fear. He's remembering humiliation, pain and loss. Without actually being able to hear him through the solidly built walls, I know he's crying out in his sleep.

I toss aside my brush without a moment's hesitation. A few quick strides take me to the guest room door. I open it a crack. It's enough so that I can now hear Ryan whimpering in his sleep. And, before I know it, I'm crawling into bed with him, wrapping my arms protectively around his broad shoulders and 'sshhhing' away his nightmares.

*Sssh. You're okay. You're safe here, Ryan. I'll keep you safe. Hush.* I propel the most reassuring thoughts I can towards him and breath easier as soon as I feel his body relaxing against mine.

'Shit! This thing - this new mental ability - seems to get easier and easier. And when I'm touching him the way I am now, it feels so right that it's almost easier than talking aloud. It's like it's become pure instinct. I barely have to think about it before I send out whatever message I want to convey. What the hell is this? This has GOT to be the most bizarre experience ever! Even if it does feel so damn right.'

Ryan's dreams have calmed now. I sense he's moved back into a deeper sleep state. I really should go back to my painting. Or at least back to my own bed . . . I really should . . . Really . . .

If only it didn't feel so fucking good lying here next to him! I'm sort of curled around Ryan's back right now. His head is lying propped up on my arm. If I bend my neck just a bit I can bury my nose in his hair. He smells so good - warm, sleepy, musky male with a hint of my favorite ‘Axe’ body wash.

The more I breathe him in, the less I'm inclined to leave. In fact, I want even more. I can't help it - Ryan is the embodiment of every single sexual fantasy I've ever had. I really can't stop myself from sliding down under the covers even more until I feel the length of his back touching me along every centimeter of my chest and stomach.

At this point, to make matters worse - or better, depending on your perspective - Ryan shifts in his sleep and wriggles back so that he's even more closely snuggled up against my chest. His hand grasps my forearm and our legs become twined together. His ass presses tight into my groin. I'm thankful that he's so deeply asleep that my resulting groan doesn't wake him.

I'm now trapped and don't have the option to leave anymore, which is just fine with me. I'm perfectly happy lying here with the instant boner I'm now sporting pressed into the hard muscles of Ryan's glutes. Figuring that I might as well make myself comfortable, I drape my left arm over Ryan's torso. Every possible part of me is now touching a part of him. It's like fucking nirvana!

'So, this is what it's like sleeping with another man? Well, of course, I'm not actually sleeping. I'm too fucking turned on to sleep. It feels pretty fantastic though. I love the feel of his skin touching mine. I love his smell. I love his ass pressed against me. I love having my dick pressed against his ass. Shit, I think I could just about cum from simply lying here like this. Now what the fuck do I do?'

While my brain is busy mulling over what I SHOULD do, my body has already started doing what it wants. Completely of their own volition, I find my hips are now gently rocking so that my cock keeps bumping lightly against my sleeping companion's backside. My idle left hand - the one draped over Ryan's body - has begun tracing little patterns across his smooth bare chest. I even catch my lips pressed up against the skin on the back of his neck, and without explicit permission they're doling out tiny, barely-there kisses amidst the silky hair at his nape.

Apparently self-control isn't really one of my stronger traits. Of course self-control, and even self-respect, are highly over rated. Which probably explains why I continue frotting against the unconscious form of my guest despite the indignity of it all. Let's face it, I'm a horny seventeen year old gay boy - what do I know about dignity? If it involves my dick and feels good, dignity be damned!

I'm so into my shameful pleasures by this time that I don't even notice when the unwitting object of my lustful advances begins to stir. It isn't until Ryan rolls away out of my arms and looks back at me with an insolent smirk that I realize he's awake. Damn! I'm blushing so hard that my cheeks feel like they're on fire. Is there a word stronger than 'embarrassment', ‘cause that's what I'm feeling right about now.

Strangely enough, though, Ryan doesn't seem all that put off by my unsolicited amorousness. He's actually smiling at me and moving closer again. Before I know it, Ryan's got his arms wrapped around me and he's pressing his hips forward into mine. The sensation of our two dicks grinding together, even through the material of our clothing, is exquisite. I moan. He moans. And behind that very vocal sound of his approval, I hear a mental echo of a moan. I'm not sure he even realizes that he's doing it, but I'm definitely hearing his thoughts again.

*Mmmmm. Feels good. So, I wonder if this is a private affair or can anyone join in?*

I feel the humor in the thoughts directed at me even through the lust-filled haze with which they're delivered. This connection we have is already so strong that I can feel not only his words but also his emotions. They're so powerful that they're virtually contagious. As if I wasn't already as horny as a Rhino, now I'm overcome by the lust he's projecting as well. I'm probably projecting the same thing back at him, too. Together we're just one big roiling ball of uncontrollable desire ready to explode.

The paint spattered clothing I was wearing seems to disappear - probably burned off by the heat of our mutual lust. Ryan's hand wraps itself around both our dicks and starts to glide up and down. I reach down and join my hand to his. Together, our hands coated with the pre-cum that's copiously dripping from both of us, we stroke and squeeze as our cocks rub together.

At the same time, I lean forward and find his sweet mouth. He seems to have the exact same idea I had, as his lips instantly crash into mine. The kiss is passionate and hard. Our teeth click together, his tongue is thrust deep into me and I can't pull away even to breathe.

That's when something extraordinary happens. Something inside my brain clicks. Some synapse makes a new connection. Blood starts flowing to a group of neurons that up till now have sat idle. Inactive regions of my brain light up. And the tentative new connection between Ryan and I suddenly explodes wide open, flooding my senses.

Whereas before we were exchanging isolated thoughts, words, ideas, even a few feelings, now I feel everything. I can feel HIS pleasure as our joined hands glide across the sensitive skin at the tip of his dick. The tingle in his gut as his climax starts to build is mirrored in my own. I'm tasting what he's tasting as we kiss. I can feel how much he enjoys the way my hand drifts across the taut skin of his nipples. It's like our minds are joined and every ounce of pleasure he feels is now my pleasure too. Our kiss is broken and I hear him gasp loudly. Looking into his eyes, I know he's feeling all of it too.

Our orgasms hit at the same time. It's absolutely sublime; my pleasure and his pleasure combined and reflecting back at each of us. Never before has a lowly mutual hand job felt like THIS. I'm gasping, desperate for breath, on the verge of passing out. I feel the blood pulsing through my very veins. And the only thing keeping me still anchored to the Earth is the weight of Ryan's hand resting on my hip.

*Fuck, Cornpop! What the hell have you done to me?*