The Rape of St. Peter
By G.A. Hauser
THE RAPE OF ST PETER
Copyright © G.A. Hauser, 2009
Cover art by Stephanie Vaughan
ISBN Trade paperback:
The G.A. Hauser Collection
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons,
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WARNING
This book contains material that maybe offensive to some:
graphic language, homosexual relations, adult situations.
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First G.A. Hauser publication: August 2009
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Book One
‘When virtue is destroyed by passion, it is truly better to never have loved.’ ga hauser
Prologue
It is in times of great stress that we learn what we are made of.
Surviving becomes more than just the notion of waking up every day. The very idea of life can become so repulsive that there’s a driving force seeking to end it. Peter John Barnes did not ask for this nightmare. He was simply born to live it.
Peter’s parents, Louise and Richard’s marriage and recent divorce were a history of violent rage that had left Peter and his siblings scarred for life.
Keith, Peter’s brother and the oldest of the three children, became the most deviant. At nineteen Keith found relief in a deepening world of drugs and debauchery. Keith turned his learned destructive behavior inward and outward, using his fists to intimidate others and achieving a constant drug induced high to cope.
Peter, the middle born, was nearly eighteen, and wandered like a blind man through life, forcing himself to go to school and pretending he cared for anything or anyone he was involved with.
The youngest offspring, Jacqueline at thirteen, seemed to be the only one in that broken home to act with normalcy. But Jackie had never been beaten by Richard Barnes.
The split had left the boys sliced up, yet they were to behave as if they were whole. Richard Barnes became cast as the villain by his ex-wife, Louise, and was indeed guilty of punishing the family physically when he lived among them.
It took a night in jail for Richard to come to his senses. He had finally gone too far, nearly putting his sons in the hospital. The judge warned Richard to avoid using his fists as a method of communication or end up back in jail for a decade. Richard was assigned mandatory anger-management classes, and given a year’s probation which included a restraining order.
An educated man, Richard considered himself cultured and refined on the outside; a wild man on the inside. His days were spent in the dense cement-covered city of Manhattan Island’s diamond district, where he worked as an importer of fine gemstones.
Inside Richard Barnes lived an unhealthy violent twin. Though he’d had several affairs while he was married to Louise, they were the least of his sins. Rage simmered in Richard and would rear its ugly head if provoked. Beaten as a child by his own father, Richard was passed the genes of the abuser. Both his sons had felt the pounding of his very powerful fists. But, the boys were no longer under his thumb, or his domain. Louise was now responsible for their upbringing and nothing angered Richard more than losing control, even when he had none to boast of in his own life.
Peter, the quiet one, the introvert, made no friends. He spoke to no one. His studies kept him occupied. Peter wall tall, athletic, and good looking, yet totally alienated and crushed inside. As he stared in the mirror Peter knew his anguish showed in his light green eyes. Peter never smiled. The world had cheated him as far as he was concerned. When he had stood up to it, he had been punched back down with a vengeance. Finished. Peter was through trying to make his life matter. He was a robot of himself, biding time. The depth of his unhappiness was only known to him. In his silence he kept it hidden, like a vault in the center of a pyramid.
Peter missed his dad. The love/hate he felt for his father Peter couldn’t understand. Peter loved him? Even after the beatings and the humiliation? Yes.
Every once in a while tenderness would emerge from his father, or remorse, and begging for forgiveness. It was at those times Peter was the most confused. He wanted to love his father and in reality, Peter needed him. With his mother overwhelmed and frail chronically, Peter thought she was useless.
Keith was beyond Peter’s comprehension or his reach, and his sister, Jackie, was a mere child. Who was there for Peter to offer advice and counsel? Who would show him the way into manhood? He wouldn’t dare make a friend at school, for he knew in his heart if they thought he was a freak, a loner, or a leper it would devastate him.
With his mother’s constant nagging to do something social, Peter joined the football team. Though his coach had appointing him as the team’s quarterback and leader, it was against Peter’s nature to rise to it and make them proud. His classmates were insulted he never socialized with them, never sat with them for lunch, and never spoke to a soul unless it was regarding school or football. Peter tried to act normal. ‘Pretending’ was what Peter did best.
But lately Peter was pretending to be alive.
Chapter 1
Fair Lawn, New Jersey, 1978
On a wet November day, Peter stood in his padded shoulders and mud-stained football uniform to give out the next play to his teammates in a practice scrimmage. His eyes made contact with each boy. “Got it?”
“Got it.” They nodded and broke the huddle.
Peter checked the offensive line. “Hut one, hut two....hut! Hut!” The ball slipped into his hand, Peter found his receiver, hitting him in the numbers, then got slammed to the ground spitefully by the defensive line made up of his own teammates. A flag hit the sloppy dirt as Peter caught his breath, his chest aching from the impact.
“You all right?” Coach Jones asked.
“Yeah.”
The coach helped Peter sit upright. Peter tried to breathe normally. One thing Peter prided himself in was being tough. Surely he was able to handle every type of punishment they could dish out.
The coach asked him once more, “You sure you’re all right?”
With his lip tightened in anger, Peter nodded as he stood, adjusting his helmet. The boys huddled around him after the penalty of the personal foul on Peter tacked on another fifteen yards.
Peter knew the older boys resented him because he had benched their peer. A junior hadn’t led the team to the finals in over a decade. Peter knew damn well his own offensive line was allowing the opposing attackers through deliberately. With more determination than before, Peter hoped they would finally relent.
Back on the line Peter called the plays, managing to get the ball off as quickly as he could. His receiver scored, yet Peter was again slammed to the frozen ground by another late hit. The bruising to his ribs was causing Peter so much pain he could no longer inhale deeply.
“All right.” Coach Jones was furious. “Just wait ‘til I get you morons in the locker room. You think losing your best quarterback will win you games?”
“Sorry, Coach,” a few of the boys mumbled as they stood around Peter.
The coach reached out his hand and helped Peter to sit upright again. Peter held his aching chest as the coach removed Peter’s helmet for him. All of Peter’s long brown hair spilled down the back of his red and white jersey. With sweat dripping down his face, his damp mane sticking to his cheek and neck, Peter raised his gaze to the boys who stood around him to stare at him in curiosity. No one really knew him. Were they jealous of his talent? Did they hate him for it, or were drawn to him simply because he shunned them?
“You all right?” Coach Jones asked, like a myna bird it seemed he had one memorized line.
With a silent nod, Peter managed to crawl back up to his feet. In agony, Peter was assisted off the field and sat on the bench. Through ringing ears and aching ribs, Peter rubbed his sweaty face and inhaled a deep breath, trying to decide if a rib may have broken from the tackle. He did his best to pretend he was whole, not damaged, and get back into the game. For some reason he wanted to be pounded, beaten. It was what he knew best; punishment and making believe he was okay.
Peter spun around to look at the stands behind him to see if there were any die-hard fans out on that freezing cold, damp New Jersey day. A small crowd of people huddled together for warmth. A delicate blonde girl waved at Peter. He didn’t wave back, humiliated to be on the bench. He wanted to be left alone.
In pain and growing angry, Peter watched his replacement throw an interception. Peter hopped up, swearing under his breath. “Coach, put me back in.”
“No, Peter, take a rest. It’s just practice and you’re up by three touchdowns. You just relax now.” He patted Peter’s shoulder.
Peter walked back to the bench, almost in tears.
That thin blonde from history class was staring at him. The one that would always answer the questions correctly when called on, but never raise her hand. Lithe, petite, her straight blonde hair came to her mid-back and blew in the breeze. Her face was plain and simple. None of the heavy make-up the other girls applied like they were in a school drama production and each class was their stage. Her patched blue jeans were faded to that soft fuzzy powder blue that you work for years to achieve. Her sweatshirt was hooded and gray, pulled over her head as if she were a monk. She smiled.
Peter wondered why she had singled him out that way. He wanted no one, nothing from anyone.
Someone patted Peter’s back. He reacted to the touch but the teammate who had connected to him had vanished into the rest of the helmet-covered anonymous gladiators.
When the game was nothing more than a painful memory, Peter showered in the locker room, completely absorbed in his own mind. A group of the guys in the shower were singing ‘Bye, Bye Miss American Pie’ off key.
The walk home was four miles, but it usually didn’t bother him. After being hit hard on the playing field, Peter began to dread the distance. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and tugged his collar higher around his neck. His long hair was still damp from the shower and made him feel very cold, not to mention, he was famished.
A lone female figure stood by one of the columns outside the main entrance of the high-school.
Peter glanced sideways as he passed, noticing her blonde hair. He thought he heard her say, “Nice game, Peter,” and stopped walking. It stunned him that not only did she know his name, she was being nice. “You think so? I thought it sucked.”
“Only when you weren’t in it.” She smiled shyly.
The pause in conversation grew awkward. Peter cleared his throat, wishing he knew her name, and asked, “Are you waiting for a ride?”
“Yes, my mother is picking me up. You need a lift?”
The fatigue in Peter had caught up to him making him shiver. “I wouldn’t mind one. If it’s okay.”
With a grin akin to the Cheshire cat, she rocked back and forth, giggling.
They stood in silence, trying to withstand the wind by hiding behind the white columns.
A moment later a green 1977 Buick Electra pulled up in. The blonde girl leaned into the window. “Can we give Peter a ride home, Mom?”
Peter climbed into the big back seat while the blonde sat next to her mother in the front. Peter felt reluctant to talk, but he had to direct the woman to his home.
Though both the little blonde and her mother attempted to get Peter to tell them something about himself, Peter clammed up and gazed out of the window. He tried not to appear rude, but kept swearing to himself that he would never allow this situation to reoccur. If he wasn’t so tired and hungry, he would have walked. Should have walked. Their questions, though meant with kindness, were nothing but badgering to him.
A few minutes later, the car stopped in front of his house.
“Thanks.”
“Bye, Peter!” The blonde waved enthusiastically.
Peter tried to smile but ended up turning away and searching his pocket for his house keys.
When he came through the door, Peter was hit with obnoxious noise. Keith had the stereo blasting as he played air guitar in front of it. He shoved Peter playfully as Peter walked by him.
Their mother, Louise, poked her head into the living room, trying to be heard over the music. “Peter, wash up. Dinner is ready.”
Peter nodded, tossed his pack down on the floor and then stared at his brother.
Keith watched himself in the reflection of the front windows as he jammed. He was a sophomore at the local community college studying liberal arts, for lack of a better idea.
Peter knew Keith wasn’t ambitious and only attended college to put off working a few more years. Keith was taller than Peter and more muscular. His hair was lighter brown and full. They both liked growing their hair long simply because it irked their father.
Peter connected to Keith’s coffee brown eyes. The angry glare of Keith’s revealed a hard, dark soul. Even so, Peter thought Keith was handsome, clever, and on a continual high. Keith was sexually appealing to the opposite sex and knew it damn well.
“Keith! Please, shut that damn thing off,” Louise called into the room. “Sit down and eat. Jackie? Get off the phone! Dinner’s ready.” Louise made a move to the source of the racket and flipped the switch on the stereo.
“Hey! Christ! That’s my new D.L. record. You’ll fucking ruin it.”
“Watch your mouth and sit down and eat.”
“Yeah, yeah...” Keith grumbled and headed to the dinner table. “You fuck it up, you pay for it.”
“I did pay for it,” she sneered, “And I said don’t use profanity in the house.”
Keith rolled his eyes in irritation behind his mother’s back. Peter didn’t flinch as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. It was a normal day in the Barnes’ household.
While they handed plates of food around the table, Louise asked, “How was your game, Peter?”
“Fine.” Peter never met anyone’s eye, sipped his juice and reached for the platter of vegetables.
“Pass your sister the carrots. Fine? Just fine?”
Peter handed Jackie the dish. “Yeah, just fine.”
“Keith, slow down. Why are you eating so fast?”
“Gotta date.” Keith gulped his juice.
“With whom? Do I know her?” Louise pushed her hair limp brown back from her forehead.
“Nope.”
“Well, bring them around once in a while. I’d like to know who you’re associating with.”
“Chill out, Mom. Don’t worry, she’s pretty and has great...” Keith held his hands out in front of his chest in an obvious gesture.
“You’re gross!” Jackie said, “Mom, do we have to listen to this while we eat?”
“Keith, you’re impossible.” Louise sighed.
“When are you going to bring home a date, little brother?” Keith made kissing noises at Peter.
“Get lost.” Peter shoved Keith, using his hand on Keith’s shoulder.
“Want me to set you up? ‘Bout time you had a little.”
“Keith…” Louise grew angry. “Enough. Peter’s too young.”
“Mom.” Peter blushed in embarrassment.
Keith grinned at him slyly. “Yeah, I’ll bet you are.”
Peter scowled at him. “Shut up. Will everyone just shut the fuck up?”
They stared at Peter in surprise.
About to burst into tears, Peter slammed down his fork and stormed up the stairs to his room. He heard Keith chuckle like it was a joke.
Peter flopped down on his bed and crushed his face into his pillows. It was no joke. No. It wasn’t funny at all.
Chapter 2
The next day in fifth period, history class, Peter sat down at his assigned desk and stared out of the window to daydream. The dead brown leaves quaked on the trees as fall raced by, giving way to the long dark nights of winter. Peter was early and flipped the pages of his book idly. Someone brushed by his elbow as they passed. Peter found the thin blonde girl walking to her seat. He turned to watch her settle into her desk behind him.
She smiled sweetly at him. “Hi.”
Peter didn’t answer. His lips opened, he wanted to say hello, but nothing came out. They stared into each other’s eyes for a minute.
Head cheerleader, Rose Wilson, stood in front of Peter, completely blocking his view of the blonde. Rose said, “There’s a party at my house after school. The whole team will be there. I want you to come.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Of course you can. All the guys on the team will be there. But— you need to come alone. You got that?” Rose glanced over her shoulder quickly to give off her warning radar. Rose wrote directions to her house on a scrap piece of paper as she popped her bubblegum noisily. When she finished Rose handed Peter the paper and whispered into his ear, “I want you to be there with me. Get it?” Rose sauntered to her desk giving Peter her sexiest smile.
Peter folded the piece of paper, shoving it into his pocket just as the teacher called them to attention.
*
During the walk to Rose’s house Peter was preoccupied. Though he was headed there, he was still deciding on whether to actually go inside or not. It was only idle curiosity that drew him. That feeling of seeing how the other half lived. The half that seemed to be enjoying this life and not drowning in eternal misery.
Rose’s home couldn’t be mistaken from any other. The sheer volume of noise and cars surrounding it appeared like manic chaos. Peter hesitated on the sidewalk out front and stared at the silhouettes moving in eerie patterns behind the curtains. This was out of his comfort zone, and definitely out of his league. Just as he was making the plan to leave, a car pulled up behind him and a group of boys climbed out carrying cases of beer. One of the occupants noticed Peter and asked, “You goin’ in or just standing guard?”
“Is that you, Peter?” His teammate, Mike, squinted in the dimness to see him. It was only three-thirty but a thick layer of clouds made it feel later.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Trapped. Now he was trapped. If Peter could gnaw off his own limb to run free he would.
“You coming?” Mike tilted his head to the front door.
Like a condemned man walks to his own execution, Peter scuffed behind them slowly. The moment the door opened Peter was blasted with the Rolling Stones’ Gimme Shelter and a cloud of cigarette reek.
Dread began invading him along with the sense of retreat. Too many people had spotted him. Peter didn’t know where to go. He wondered which corner would be the best to hide in. When Rose shoved her girlfriends and pointed him out, Peter wanted to die.
Wearing a white peasant blouse, bell-bottoms and platform leather boots, Rose ran to meet him. “Peter, I’m so glad you showed up.” She hugged him tight.
“Where are your folks?” Peter didn’t return the enthusiastic embrace. With his hands still in his pockets, he looked around at the destruction.
“Gone for the night. Isn’t it the greatest?” Her painted fingernails dug into the fabric of Peter’s leather jacket. She had obvious laid claim to him for all to see.
“Shit.” Peter shuddered at the mess he’d gotten himself into.
Rose dragged Peter to the kitchen, handing him a beer, then she asked Peter for his coat. He took it off with some reluctance and handed it to her. Like a flash, Rose ran off with it.
In Rose’s absence a few other girls were trying to move in on him. Peter clammed up and sucked on the neck of his beer bottle.
The minute Rose returned, she shoved by the competition in irritation. Rose grabbed Peter’s hand in an iron grip and said, “Come with me.”
Peter stumbled over someone else’s feet as he was brought to another room. Jesus, this is insane! Never before had Peter been to a party like this. Hang on, clarifying that comment in his mind, amending it, Peter didn’t remember the last party he’d gone to. It was rare that he was either, invited or felt comfortable enough to go. He didn’t enjoy drinking or smoking, and was too shy to initiate conversation. What the hell am I doing here? I am so stupid.
The hard screaming of Mick Jagger had morphed into Cat Steven’s Oh Very Young.
A small crowd of people were passing a joint. With a tight-lipped shake of his head, Peter declined the offer and sipped his beer. He checked his watch, wondering how long he should put up with this agony, and started inventing reasons to leave.
A few of the seniors were rough-housing, knocking over lamps, oblivious to whom or what they smashed in the process. Peter turned to Rose for her reaction. Her total disregard for the house amazed him. Peter knew he would care a great deal if they were at his house. She hardly glancing up from the joint she was inhaling, still clasped to Peter’s hand tightly.
Her mood ring pinched his skin. He felt Rose staring at his profile, and peeked at her. The grin was plastered to her lips as the smoke leaked out.
After a few tokes, Rose started tugging Peter off again, making the rounds of the house as if to ensure all her friends witnessed them marching around as a pair.
The final destination of her tour was a dark room stinking of sandalwood incense. Peter knew other people were in it before his eyes adjusted. When they did he found a few couples kissing passionately. Rose led Peter to an open spot on the floor. She removed one of the cushions from the rust colored couch to soften their seat.
Peter cleared his throat awkwardly, trying not to watch all the necking that was going on around him. Rose cuddled close, her heavy soled boots clunked on the wood floor under the shag rug.
Was Rose hoping he’d get the hint? Peter sat in silence, wondering what she expected of him. The room was paneled with a dark brown veneered wood. It contained a large console television and a matching rust-colored sofa and loveseat set filled the tight space.
“You can kiss me, if you like, Peter,” she whispered and leaned closer, touching his face.
Peter thought Rose was pretty, with the exception of too much make-up caking her face and the odor of pot on her breath. Feeling obligated, Peter kissed her lightly on the cheek.
Suddenly Keith’s verbal teasing began emerging in Peter’s mind. Peter knew damn well Keith was humping everything with a human form. Peter had never touched another person sexually in his life. Maybe it was time he had.
“Do you know how to French kiss?” Rose asked as she ran her hand up Peter’s denim-covered thigh.
“Of course I do.” He lied, growing defensive. Peter felt as if he were battling Keith once more. ‘When are you going to bring home a date, little brother? ‘Bout time you had a little.’ Shut up! I hate you, Keith!
“Good. Then show me,” Rose said as a dare.
Peter held his breath, his heart pounding under his bruised ribs. He kissed her. When Rose’s tongue slid out of her own mouth and touch his it shocked him. Peter resisted the urge to back away to think about what the heck he was doing. Instead, Peter opened his mouth, allowing Rose to explore.
An unexpected rush of fire washed over Peter’s crotch. A whimpering sound escape his lips and he grew hard in his pants. “Oh my God.”
Rose pushed Peter down, flat on the floor, lying on top of him. Peter didn’t know why he decided to let go and behave the way he did. It was as if someone else possessed him. Peter wrapped his arms around Rose’s back and closed his eyes tightly, kissing her like she was sweet honey and he was starving. In reality, she stunk like pot and tasted like an ashtray.
Rose parted for a deep breath and stared at Peter. A tiny ray of shimmering light came into the dark room from the hallway, the only illumination in the room. Rose took Peter’s hand in hers and placed it on her breast.
Peter’s eyes sprang open and he swallowed down a dry throat. The touch sent his dick throbbing and yearning for release.
Peter urged Rose back down on top of him and started kissing her passionately, rubbing his hips up into hers with a sense of urgency he had never felt before in his entire life.
Rose sat back with a loud admonishing grunt. “Peter! We’re not alone.”
He asked meekly, “Can we get alone?”
As if that was the magic phrase, Rose smiled in triumph, peering around at the half a dozen couples who shared that tight dark room. Rose stood and reached out her hand to him. Peter got to his feet and followed her, spying back nervously at the eyes that watched them leave.
To Peter’s dismay the stairs to the upper floor where in the living room. Led Zeppelin’s Trampled Under Foot was now the selection on the turntable.
Rose made a little sign to her friends who watched their ascent. Peter wondered if he was the object of a bet. Was Rose about to conquer what they had thought was unconquerable? With a sick feeling in his stomach, similar to seeing a pubic hair on the pages of a borrowed text book, Peter tried to avoid the looks from his teammates as they snickered and commented on their exit. It was simply too late to back out.
The noise level dropped noticeably as Rose closed the door behind them. She reached to the nightstand and switched on a lamp which emitted a soft glow, then kicked off her platform boots and sat on the bed.
Peter peered around the room nervously. This was her parents’ bedroom, no mistake. The scent of sweet Chanel No. 5, his own mother’s favorite perfume wafted in the air. Family portraits adorned the walls, expensive silver jewelry boxes stood like a row of huts on the dresser.
In mortal terror, Peter wondered if it appeared obvious this was his first time. He dreaded making a mistake.
Think of Keith. Think of Keith. Mr. Cool.
Peter sat next to Rose on the bed and took off his Frye Boots, lowering his head, trying to find courage and some willpower.
Rose unbuttoned Peter’s shirt with deft, long, bright red fingernails. “Take this off.” She tugged on the denim material.
“You take yours off too.” He slid his Levi shirt down his arms slowly.
“Not yet.” Rose grinned wickedly while she helped Peter off with his, urging Peter to lie next to her. Rose caressed Peter’s skin making him dizzy from all the new sensations. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on her touch. A hand other than his own was caressing his body.
The yearning for human contact, though Peter shunned it continually, was like a physical ache. It was killing him to be without it, yet he knew with touch came pain, then bruising, then blood and scars.
“Peter?”
“Hmm?”
“You know you’re the cutest boy in the school, don’t you?”
Oh, God. He grimaced, shaking his head in denial. No, not me…not the freak.
“You are. Everyone says so.” Rose ran her fingers through his hair sending a chill up his spine.
Peter was beyond the point of no return. He had allowed someone to come beyond his barbed wire and now he felt powerless. The yearning in Peter to be loved, be accepted, or simply to be touched, was winning over his need to run away and hide.
Rose scooted closer and parted her lips.
Peter opened his mouth for more kissing. After a few minutes, Rose leaned back again and gazed dreamily into his eyes. “I’ll let you. You know. If we go steady,” she said.
Peter was so painfully shy, he knew Rose could dominate him if she was given the opportunity. It was no secret Rose was extremely assertive sexually. The girls in the school called her ‘The Bossy Bitch’. At least that was the lunchroom gossip. Head Cheerleader Rose Wilson was also the talk of the boys’ locker room.
“My friends would die of jealousy,” she said.
Peter never thought he would have another opportunity like this. His dick was so hard, he was in pain. Rose had won, there was no saying no. Without a smile or even eye contact, Peter said, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Peter nodded, studying the pattern of the bedspread, waiting for her to change her mind, to get revolted by him, or to slap him for his insolence.
On the contrary, Rose squealed with excitement and kissed him, practically shoving her tongue down Peter’s throat. He was so stunned that he started yanking on Rose’s clothing before she could back out. Though he struggled, Peter couldn’t seem to get anywhere with her gauze peasant blouse or tight bellbottoms.
Rose didn’t seem to be having the same problem with his clothing as she unzipped his jeans. She reached inside them and touched the skin of his cock. Peter thought he may pass out.
“Oh, Peter.” She exposed him from his briefs, staring down at him.
Oh God! Peter blushed brightly, thankful of the dim light. He had no idea if that was a groan of disgust or pleasure. “Help me with these,” he begged, tugging on her clothing.
Rose rolled off the bed and undressed as he watched. Peter wanted release so badly it was giving him a headache. Peter kicked his legs awkwardly and managed to take off his blue jeans.
Rose lay by Peter’s side and crushed herself against him. At the sensation of her naked flesh on his, Peter felt a shiver of craving wash over his body of so much euphoria he almost cried as he squeezed her tight.
“Peter?” she whispered in his ear, “You’ll pull out, won’t you?”
“Huh? Pull out?” Peter was trying to concentrate on all the new sensations at once in an attempt at getting it right, and it wasn’t working.
“Yes, Peter.” Rose raised her hips off of him. “You know, before you...”
Trying to think was nearly impossible. Peter could barely deal with this out of control urgency he was feeling. All he could think about was getting in, not getting out. “Come on, Rose...please don’t tease me.” Peter kissed her neck and rolled on top of her.
“Uh uh, Peter. Not until you promise.” She lay still stubbornly, her thighs becoming impenetrable.
Peter agreed, hoping he would do everything right and not make an utter fool of himself. Rose gave in finally, smiled, and opened her legs.
Holy fuck! When Peter felt penetration into a woman for the first time it was all he could do to restrain the urge to explode spontaneously. Wet, hot, tightness surrounding the head of his dick making him clench his teeth. The climax came up on him like a volcano. “Oh, Jesus!” he gasped as he pulled his hips away quickly, covering Rose’s stomach with cum. Peter’s arms trembled from holding himself up, his long hair hung in his face as he shivered. Mother-fucker! That’s it? One second inside is all I get? Just shoot me. He stared at the creamy spatter, humiliated at the mess.
“It’s okay, Peter.” Rose pushed him off rather callously, as she headed to the bathroom to clean up.
Though Peter had a sexual orgasm and was no longer considered a ‘virgin’, he lay back feeling horribly unsatisfied. He wanted Rose to return so he could hold her close and savor the feeling. Even the stickiness on his dick felt kind of nice. My first time. I did it. Fuck you, Keith.
When Rose returned she started putting on her clothes.
“Do you have to dress so soon?” he asked, trying to convey that he needed something more from her. Closeness. She had been the first person he had allowed to get near him.
Peter wanted so much to say how much the simple act of embracing her, lightly touching her hair and face would be so satisfying to him.
“We’ve been gone too long as it is.” Rose finished up quickly, hardly meeting his eyes.
Peter heard someone giggled from a dark place in the room. It made him bolt upright and scan around the area in suspicion.
Rose peeked at Peter nervously and bit her lip. “I’ll see you downstairs.” With little regard for his feelings, she hurried out, leaving the door ajar.
Mortal terror gripped Peter. “Hey! You could at least wait for me to get dressed.” It was useless. She was gone.
Peter grumbled at the sense betrayal. He stood off the bed on his way to the bathroom, only to stop suddenly at another door. Thinking it was a closet, Peter reached for the handle and swung it open. Three girls fell all over themselves to get away. The door adjoined another bedroom. Peter watched in horror as they scrambled to get out of sight.
Peter closed that door and went to shut the one connecting the hall. A few more girls leered in hungrily as they passed.
Peter slammed it on their laughter. I knew it. I fucking knew it. He stood still rubbing his face tiredly, reprimanding himself for trusting anyone. Never should I allow someone to come near me. Why haven’t I learned? Pain. It was all they lived for. To see me in pain.
A dark reminder flashed over his naked skin. There was another option. Oh yes. He didn’t need to keep putting up with this agony.
Chapter 3
Keith sat across from his brother on a nearly empty commuter train to Manhattan. They were headed to meet with their father for lunch. Richard had a two day layover in New York before he had to fly out on a diamond buying trip to Israel and insisted on seeing his sons.
Keith watched dully as the Bergen County Line made its way to Hoboken station. He peeked at Peter whose eyes were glued to the window.
Keith stared at his little brother, noticing the similarities between their looks. He wished his eyes were green like Peter’s. It actually pissed him off his were brown.
Keith kicked Peter with his black leather boot to get his attention. When Peter glared at him, Keith gave Peter a wicked grin.
Peter asked, “What?”
“Are you a virgin?”
“Fuck off.” Peter gazed out of the window again.
Keith tried to guess the thoughts in his brother’s head. “You are, aren’t you? Pussy.”
“Leave me the fuck alone.”
The train terminated at the Hoboken station. Keith stood at the doors waiting for them to open, blocking Peter with his shoulder. The minute the sliding doors pulled back, Keith leapt out onto the platform and ran to the underground connection.
Keith shoved coins into the turnstile and crashed through it to the PATH train that was idling, awaiting departure. When Keith looked back over his shoulder, Peter was frantically trying to keep up and not be left behind.
Keith flew inside the gap of the carriage door and raced in for a seat before every last padded bench was occupied. He skid in and planting his ass on a seat, like a game of musical chairs when the music has stopped.
Peter dropped down in the tiny space between Keith and a metal wall, catching his breath, just as the subway train hissed and the doors slapped shut.
A garbled male voice babbled over the public announcement system, “Christopher Street, first stop, Christopher Street.”
“Almost missed it, little brother.” Keith pushed his shoulder against Peter to annoy him as a heavy set woman sat on Keith’s free side.
Peter nudged Keith to get away, but Keith didn’t budge. “This sucks. Why the fuck doesn’t Dad come in to see us?” Keith couldn’t even imagine brushing up against the woman next to him. He squashed Peter against the metal wall both to piss Peter off and to keep away from the stranger.
Peter was packed in so tightly he couldn’t even shrug. “Who cares?”
Keith lean his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “Why ‘you such a butt head?”
“Why ‘you always high?” Without success, Peter tried to avoid the constricting contact. “You’re the butt head.”
“And you’re stuck with me, little bother,” Keith whispered seductively.
Peter rolled his eyes in annoyance and tried not to make eye contact with anyone.
Everyone seemed to be staring at them. Keith liked it. He kept his head on Peter’s shoulder, enjoying the scent of his leather bomber jacket. Keith gazed around at all the admiring eyes. A young woman was looking at him. Keith winked at her and smiled. She blushed and turned away.
The subway rails squealed into Christopher Street station like nails on a blackboard. Keith sat upright when the heavyset woman got off and someone else was next to him. With unmatched intensity Keith stared at Peter’s profile.
Peter felt it and frowned. He met Keith’s eyes. “Why don’t you leave me the fuck alone?”
“What the fuck am I doing?” Keith blinked at him innocently.
“Stop staring at me.”