Home for Christmas
He awoke to a sun-filled room: warm and still. He lay, marvelling that the sun could shine in December since it usually brought nothing but grey and mist. A broad shaft of light illuminated his legs, lighting further the carpet, then the wall, painting a brighter colour wherever it touched. He watched as motes of dust swirled in the air like tiny fish in a bowl.
Stretching, he sat up. Being at home felt both comforting and strange. Comforting since he had been waking in this room most of his life, strange because he felt he was the only one in the entire house, even knowing this wasn't the case. He tried to hear other sounds from downstairs, but the house seemed silent.
A wave of sadness passed over him at all the losses in the last year. His parents, his lover, and, in the background, all the losses around him from the war, and from the flu. It was as if the loss lay over everything. He thought of Marcus with some longing and wondered what he was doing, if he thought of him. He shook his head. This was not the time. He had to play at being a land-owner, head of the house, employer. How was he to do this having never given it a thought and with no one to guide him?
In the breakfast room, he sat at the large table upon which was one place setting. There were heated dishes on the sideboard containing, he knew, eggs and kippers, toast as well as a pot of tea. There was no maid, no butler, no parents. Again, the room was silent and chilly, despite the sun flooding the room.
He sighed. He filled his plate and using a tray left behind to which he added a cup to tea, he made his way to the servants' stairs and down to the kitchen. There he found the new cook (hired by John), John, and the two maids having a cheerful breakfast together.
“Good morning...do you mind...?”
He sat down at an empty chair. There was silence and they just gaped at him as if he had said something rude.
He looked around. “I know...this is...strange. But it's so damned lonely up there. If we can all bear it, I would like to eat down here with you. Think of it as an experiment, or something. Can we try that?”
John cleared his throat and took a gulp of his tea, then said, “This is...well...unexpected. But I see your point. I can imagine it very empty up there with just you too keep you company.” He looked around at the others. “Let's start fresh. Michael, this is Maggie and Susan and our Cook, Mrs Rideout.”
“Hello, everyone. I'm glad to finally meet you. Let's not stand on ceremony. I'm no duke or even a sir, so just call me Michael. We are a small household in a very large house so let's stick together, shall we?”
Maggie smiled. “Well I don't mind saying I feel more at ease now!”
Susan laughed, and said “You're a fine one, Mr McLaren, but I'm not ready to call you Michael, but we'll see how we get on.”
The room relaxed and they ate their breakfast happily. Michael asked John for updates on the state things. At one point he said, feeling awkward, “I feel like I'm pretending to know what I'm doing...I am counting on you to teach me...this is mine now and I suppose I must learn.”
John's face became a little pink, and he looked down at his tea, the up at Michael. “I will be glad of it.”
Mrs Rideout said at last, “Well my two cents then is to ask who will be cleaning all these bleeding rooms now that you'll be using them? These two,” and she pointed at Susan and Maggie, “can't do nought but a few at a time.”
Michael laughed and looked at John. “I suppose we need to have someone in to help?”
“I have already thought of this, Mrs Rideout. There's some boys from the village who will come every week to help.”
“Well, we'll see how they do.”
She seemed unconvinced, but the others smiled, and Michael knew there were undercurrents here he did not yet understand. He sipped his tea, feeling warmer.
He caught up with John as he left the kitchen to go out to the stables.
“John...I wonder...can I follow you about for a time...just so I can see what's what?”
The other man looked at him briefly, then out the door to the lawns. Finally, he said, “I think that would be fine. I'm to walk the fences by the sheep as I hear there's some drystone that needs mending.”
They walked, mostly in silence, enjoying the day. The wind was cool off the North Sea, but the air was bright, the sky impossibly clear. Even the bare trees seemed cheerful in the light. Michael found himself surreptitiously looking at John: at his legs as they confidently moved through the grass, at his strong hands, his tanned neck. He thought: what am I doing? This man works for me!
They walked the fencerow and John showed him how to arrange the stone that had fallen, how to tell if some part of the fence was likely to need mending. They stood, watching the sheep as they grazed on the brown grasses and patches of heather. John seemed to radiate a warmth that was like strong drink: he felt inebriated by it.
Making their way back to the house, Michael thanked John, who smiled, and seemed again to blush. Michael walked back upstairs to his room where he sat on his bed, confused. I need to get a hold of myself, he thought. He tried to conure an image of Marcus, his clear blue eyes, his lightly furry chest...but these images became entangled current experience of John's muscular arms...
They took the motorcar into the village the next day, John explaining how the machine worked. They stopped and purchased some hardware and Michael sent some letters to some of his school friends, including Marcus to whom he had written a cheerful note about the dismal life of the landed gentry. But he was tempted to say more suggestive things, but was afraid others may read them. He knew, somehow, that Marcus' family would not be amused. Perhaps no family would.
John suggested he try driving on the return journey. So he sat as John explained the starting procedure which eventually was successful, then how to control the car as they began to make their up along the narrow hedgerows. At one point John placed his hand over his to help him with the brakes, then the steering. It seemed innocent enough, but Michael had the feeling that John's hand was on fire, leaving his skin scorched. He looked over quickly at him when they touched, but John seemed impassive.
He looked down at one point at John's leg which was almost touching his. His mind raced and he thought, What am I doing? He felt like a schoolboy mooning over his teacher.
After a happy, talkative lunch with the staff, he went to his room to read. The sun, having passed over the house, left the room darker and cooler. He slid under the blankets and was soon asleep. He dreamed of wide expanses of heather, and running sheep that had escaped through a broken wall, then him running after them. At that point in the dream, he felt a hand on his shoulder and he whirled around to see someone who looked like Marcus, but also John at the same time and this composite person looked at him with disapproval.
He woke with a start, gasping in fright. He looked to his side at the clock. He had only been asleep for an hour. As always, the house was silent.
The following week, it turned cold and there was a day of snow. He and John walked out to one of the tenants to see to a broken gate. John talked of many things, showing him details of the land he hadn't seen before. How did this man know his own land better than he did?
They crested a hill at the bottom of which was their destination. Michael stood on a little ridge of weathered stone, then as he stepped off it, his feet slipped from under him and he landed heavily a few feet down the other side on his back. John leapt down and crouched beside him. “Are you hurt?”
Michael looked up and was struck by the worried expression on John's face and realized the other man had taken his hand. Flustered, winded, he managed to say, “I'm fine...my breath was taken by the fall...” and he sat up.
Michael looked down at their joined hands and as if in response, John pulled his hand away with a jerk. Michael smiled, and got up. “I need to be more careful in this weather.”
“I think you do,” was all John said, looking away.
He received a letter back from Marcus who told stories of his family and preparations for Christmas, the abysmal weather and didn't mention anything else. Michael realized he had hoped for something more, but what?
The week before Christmas was busy as he told everyone he wanted them to make merry as much as they could. He sent invitations to some of the neighbours and a small party was organized for the Sunday before Christmas.
They decorated the main floor and John cut a large pine tree and brought it into the central hall. Mrs Rideout cooked for a few days with the help of everyone and Michael told them they were to be part of the festivities as much as everyone else. Like the first time, their was an awkward silence.
John said, “Do you think the neighbours would approve?”
Michael felt himself flush. He realized what John was implying might be true.
“Well...perhaps you're right. We'll pretend tonight that I don't eat below stairs, but only tonight...but make sure you make merry down here, and don't be too formal upstairs. I want to set a new tone.”
Mrs Rideout shrugged, not convinced, but they carried on.
The evening was enjoyable for everyone, Michael realized. He was pleased to see his neighbours – wealthy but warm – who he had known his whole life. They were all kind and seemed to be taking care of him, as if now that his parents were gone, they wanted to step in to replace them, which felt lovely.
A few daughters were thrust at him quite overtly and both he and the daughter in question squirmed and rolled their eyes. He had know them his whole life and despite at least one of them being lovely and clearly interested, he knew it was pointless. He was kind and jovial, but he made it clear there were limits.
Several times over the evening Susan or Maggie would pass him, giving him sly smiles. He could tell they were indeed making merry in the kitchen as the two became progressively less steady on their feet. John appeared a few times, as if surveying the scene and came and stood beside him at one point. He murmured in his ear, “This is a fine evening. You have done your parents proud.”
He looked at John, struck and moved. “Thank you, John.” He realized he had put his hand on John's back feeling his warm strength. John looked at him a moment then smiled.
When the guests had finally left, they all helped to collect glasses and dishes, put the furniture back to its usual arrangement. They found themselves in the kitchen again, sharing whiskey and stories of things they had heard, who was doing what. Michael felt a contentment had hadn't felt since before his parents died. The others went to bed and he and John were left to finish their drinks.
Michael turned to look at John. “I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you for all your work.”
“It was my pleasure.”
The words hung in the air, ambiguous.
Michael, feeling flustered, emptied his glass and stood to go. John just gazed up at his him. He put his hand on John's shoulder for a moment, and squeezed. He liked the feel of his strong frame. Then he turned and made his way up to his room, where he flung his clothes off and crawled into bed.
He awoke at dawn, his head feeling heavy, his mouth dry. He pulled himself from the bed and walked over to the jug of water that sat on a little table. He drank a few glasses. His skin was cold. He crawled back under the blankets wishing for a fire in the cold fireplace.
He started when he realized his bedroom door was opening. John appeared in the half light and he stood in the doorway a moment. He was wearing dark blue bedclothes and his hair was tangled on his head.
“What is it, John? Is everything...”
He stopped because he knew. It was a look he had seen before and a look he knew he had had himself. John moved into the room and quietly shut the door. His voice was low.
“I have been thinking about you all night...well, since the day I met you. I can't get you out of my head.”
He pulled off his clothes and stood naked by the bed. Michael looked up at him, startled, excited, frightened. He tried to make sense of this. As with Marcus, this was wholly unexpected, despite part of him wishing it might happen.
John had dark hair on his chest that thinned out toward his belly, then getting thicker around his cock which was half hard. He slowly got on the bed, sitting on his heels beside Michael. His cock was growing with each beat of his heart until it stood, thick and long. Michael reached a hand and grasped it, feeling the warmth, the veiny surface. He pulled it toward him, and John lifted one leg over Michael's toro so he was facing him, then he sat down on Michael's belly, his long cock pointing up.
Michael began to slide his fist on it, measuring its length lightly, exploring the head, the cleft, running a finger down to the base. He felt John shiver as his finger slid over the end, smearing the clear liquid around. He squeezed the shaft again and John gasped, then leaned down and held himself above Michael's face on his hands, just looking at him.
Michael smiled at him and pushed his hips up so his own cock ran up between John's buttocks. John smiled back him and lowered further until their mouths came in contact, their lips parting, their tongues immediately meeting each other.
John extended his legs out behind him and their bodies met, the thickness of them rubbing together, slippery and hot. Michael found himself saying hoarsely in John's ear, “I want you inside me.”
John raised himself up and just looked at him for a moment. “Yes,” was all he said.
With that he sat up, gripping his penis almost uncertainly. Michael raised himself and leaned over, taking the length of him in his mouth, bathing rather than suckling on his rigidity. He cradled John's sac in his hand. He was amazed at the weight, the hair that furred his groin to the base of his cock which he was now pushing further in his mouth. John started a low moan that didn't quite stop as he pushed Michael further down on himself.
Suddenly, the sound stopped and he pulled Michael off him and moved over between his legs, spreading them to the side and lifting his hips up. He bent forward and licked at him, in the centre of him, spitting and tonguing until Michael felt wet. Hiking Michael's knees under over his arms he pushed him back, while sliding himself into him. He felt pain then intensity as John slide all the way into him, until he felt John's furred balls rest on his flesh.
John bent his legs back,until his waist was in the air and he was looking down at him, his eyes now never leaving his. They stayed like this for a moment, just breathing as Michael felt himself melting into him, as if his body was becoming John's body. John began to push slightly, then pull back, and push again, over and over, little movements that seemed to enflame him. John moved a little more and more again, his hips starting to work: pushing him backward, pushing himself along the inner sense of himself that he only discovered in that moment. With each thrust, John moved he face closer to his until their lips met, but didn't move, sharing their breath between them. John pushed a little further, raising Michael's hips even higher, still thrusting, his cock measuring each time its length, massaging a part of his inner life he didn't realize wanted this for each time he felt a blaze of pleasure.
He reached for his own cock which was almost painful it was so hard and he slowly began to pump it. He realized it was almost pointing down and he could watch the head get wetter, then a stream came from the end and started dripping down. He craned his neck and caught it as it fell, tasting the sweetness.
John was watching him and they kissed again more awkwardly, then he pulled back to concentrate on his driving hips. Michael watched his face as he fisted his own cock faster and faster. John began to moan again, the volume rising as his mouth opened more and more, his movements speeding up.
John began to gasp suddenly and he trembled and Michael felt himself translating the vibrations into a small explosion in his balls, in his cock, his fist, and his life and white cum starting pouring out of him into his face and his chest, in his mouth, on his neck. He began to laugh for the sheer abandonment of it all, tasting himself, seeing John's eruption of sheer pleasure in this bed, in this house, where he felt nothing like it had ever before happened.
Sliding out of Michael, collapsing backward onto the bed, John lay gasping, a sheen of sweat all over his body, light reflecting off the moist dark hair of his chest and his groin by the sunlight that had started to bathe the bed in a morning glow. Michael lay where he was, his head turned, watching the other man breathe. One of John's feel was in contact with his leg and he felt him rub his toes over his shin.
Michael still felt like laughing, but he more seriously said, “You've been wanting this since we met?”
“I have. And I will want it again.”
“You certainly know what you want. I mean, sorry, I'm being serious. I'm glad. That you want me. I never would have expected it.”
“I feared I was being too obvious.”
Michael thought a moment, then said, “I suppose if I look back there were a couple of moments. When he grabbed my hand in the motor...well, that certainly got my attention.”
He heard John laugh, then watched him sit up then lie down beside him on his side with one leg draped over his, his soft, damp cock resting on Michael's thigh. He nestled his chin into Michael's neck and sighed. They lay for some time, dozing in the light.
When the sun was fully bathing them, burnishing their skin, John slowly pulled himself up and, with a brief caress of Michael's face, tracing his jaw, he got out of bed and, finding his clothes, walked quietly out of the room.
Michael came down to the kitchen to cheerful conversation. Maggie and Mrs Rideout were having a friendly argument about how to roast a goose for Christmas, the cook being slightly outraged that someone was questioning her expertise.
Michael realized as he sipped his tea, that he was avoiding looking at John, who was eating studiously. Finally he glanced over at him and their eyes met for a moment, and John's face seemed to relax, as if he had been afraid of what he might see in Michael's face. Michael said,
“What more do we need to to do before Wednesday?”
Mrs. Rideout cut in before John could say anything. “There's a table to be laid, there's a dinner to cook and wine to select, the dining room to scrub, punch to be made. Do you think that is enough for you, or do you need more to keep you occupied?” Her tone was playful but stern.
John raised an eyebrow and Michael burst out laughing. He finally said, “You needn't worry, Mrs R, all is well in hand.”
“Mrs R? Where on earth do you learn such ways of addressing your elders?” But she was smiling.
Michael, swallowing the last of his tea, rose and said to John, “I'm going to the village for a few errands...do you want to come?”
He tried to make his face casual, impassive, but he could feel his cheeks blazing. John nodded as if it were nothing and they both left the room.
In the car, they were silent as Michael navigated the narrow lanes, stopping very quickly to avoid some sheep that were scattered around a curve. When they finally passed the animals, Michael said, “Last night...I want to say...er...was very nice, indeed.” He tried not to feel like a child, but failed. He looked at John for a moment whose face was warm and he was clearly trying not to smile.
They didn't speak again of it until they had returned to the house. Michael turned from the car but stopped when John said, “Does your bedroom have a lock?”
Michael looked at him, confused, but then realization washed over him, a thrill of excitement. “Why yes it does. Perhaps I will go and make sure it is working. Perhaps you could join me in, say, a few minutes? I mean to verify that all is in order.”
Michael turned and went into the house.
He stood in his room next to the door, waiting. He knew that Maggie had been in since the bed was made. He wondered if she had noticed anything...but what would she notice? He heard footsteps coming closer and then John came into the room and shut the door. He saw Michael standing, leaning against the wall. Michael said, “Let's make sure the lock actually works. I haven't used it in years.” He handed him a key.
John turned and put the key in the lock and turned it with some difficulty, but it seemed to work. He handed the key back to Michael who put it on the little table by the door. Then he took a step toward John tentatively, almost shyly. John reached his hand to Michael's waist and pulled him in and wrapped his arms around his torso, pulling Michael's face to him. Their lips met and their mouths opened and Michael felt as if they had never stopped being together since the night before. He felt the same fizz of excitement, the same rich, warm smell of John's flesh, the same firm insistent pressure in his groin as John's pressed forward. They moved as if by silent agreement, awkwardly across the room to the bed.
Michael sat on the edge and pulled John by the waist so he could better unfasten his trousers and pull them down. John's drawers were tented out by his hardness and Michael rubbed his face against the cloth-encased cock. He reached around and pulled the fabric down, sucking John in, who made a low sound, gripping a clump of Michael's hair.
He pushed Michael back, his cock still deep in Michael's mouth and began to drive himself in deeper, almost choking him. He pulled out and turned, watching Michael pull his own trousers off and he leaned down over Michael, then engulfing him in his mouth at the same time as sliding himself back into the other man's mouth. John began to make more low sounds and he fell to the bed so they were both on their sides, both busy with their tongues on each other, both tasting each other's juices.
Michael slid his hands around to John's strong buttocks and pulled him deeper until John's length was pushing against his throat. He felt John begin to thrust into his throat and move more quickly on his own cock, but soon John seemed to become distracted and began to almost hum into his cock, the vibrations sending electric flashes through him. He felt John's body seem to become rigid and his thrusts into his mouth faster, then stop suddenly as a gush of thick, pungent liquid spurted into his throat, on his tongue and he swallowed almost desperately.
When he felt the last drizzle on his tongue, he pulled himself off John and sat up. John looked up at him for a moment and without a word, lay backward on the bed drawing his legs up and apart, revealed himself. With a smooth motion, Micheal leaned forward and slid his cock along the cleft of his ass. He reached down and rubbed his hardness back and forth with increasing pressure until the end of his cock caught and he pressed forward. His cock was wet and producing more wetness which eased his way in as John caught his breath and closed his eyes, seeming to be concentrating on being impaled.
Michale spread John's legs wider so he could lean on his hands above him and began to thrust. At first more shallow, then deeper and harder. John's eyes remained closed, the deep sounds vibrating his throat like a song, and Micheal bent forward and kissed his chin, then lower and licked his neck, still fucking himself forward. He looked down and watched himself disappear into John's body, watched John's half hard length slowly drool more liquid onto his belly. He found John's mouth and their tongues seem to be having a conversation: entwining and duelling. John tasted like tea and he found himself sucking John's tongue as if it was his cock.
Michael felt himself becoming almost desperate and he leaned back, unable to focus on anything but the molten pleasure building, radiating from the tip of himself deep inside John's insides, blazing energy that was fanned by their shared breathing, and like a storm, the energy grew and winds of more pleasure began to wash over him in blinding sheets and he thrust and thrust, feeling himself explode into the other man and he squeezed his eyes shut, making strangled noises until it seemed to subside almost as fast as it came.
He collapsed onto John, still deep inside him, feeling warmly held. They kissed more lazily until Michael lifted himself up and looked into John's face, whose eyes were still, face damp, mouth partly open. He looked further down and saw that John and ejaculated again, a great sticky pool now on both their stomachs. He reached down and smeared his hand across the puddle and brought it to his lips with a sigh. He fell to his side and pulled John to him, their bodies seeming to intertwine easily so they were groin to groin, chest to chest, their faces almost touching, sharing their breath and they both fell asleep.
Michael awoke and saw that it was tea time, and that John was no longer there. He went to his washbasin and wiped himself off as best he could and dressed, not thinking about very much of anything. He descended to the kitchen and, as if the morning had never stopped, since he found the same scene as earlier. He sat, drank some tea and joined the idle conversations. He looked more easily at John, smiled, winked and felt at ease, felt almost serene in that moment, and with the prospect of the next few festive days. He looked out the window and saw that the sun was shining again, a warm beam of light catching his hand as it lay on the table. He felt John's foot softly stoke his ankle and he had to smile.
