Shy (21 page)

Frank steered me into the shed by the back door.

“What’s this?” I asked, too weary to really care.

“Washhouse,” Frank explained. “This is where we clean up when we’re too dirty to traipse through the house to the bathroom.”

I looked down at myself and understood completely. I wouldn’t have let me into the house either. I was a mess. And Frank wasn’t much better.

The washhouse was nicely laid out, with straw mats on the floor, two showerheads on the wall, and a cabinet packed with towels and soaps and shampoos standing in the corner out of the way. In another corner stood a big electric heater for cooler months than this. Next to the electric heater were a washer and dryer. All three appliances stood on concrete blocks to keep them away from the water.

“Nice,” I said, and meant it.

Frank seemed relieved. “It’s really an old smokehouse, but we converted it to a big shower stall and wash room a few years back since nobody really smokes meat anymore. Don’t worry, Tom. It’s clean.”

“I’m not worried,” I said truthfully. “Not about that anyway.”

“Then what is it? Something’s wrong. I can tell.”

I was already peeling my clothes off and trying not to grunt and groan while I did it. “It’s my foot. Something’s inside my shoe, I think. Something’s moving around.”

“You’re kidding.” Frank already had his own clothes off. Naked, he dropped to his knees in front of me and solicitously untied my shoelaces one at a time. He slipped my sneakers off, threw them in a corner, then peeled off my stinking socks.

“Oh crap,” he said, examining my foot while I unbuckled my pants and slid them down my legs. Frank released my foot long enough to let me kick
those
into a corner, along with my BVDs, then he lifted my foot from the floor and eyed it more closely. “Gee, Tom, I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

“One of what?”

“Leech. It’s on the side of your foot. You must have got it in the garden when we were churning up the dirt.”

I looked down at Frank cradling my naked foot. “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘leech’?”

“Yeah. Leech. A really big one.”

I could feel a scream crawling up my throat like a shot of magma surging up through the middle of a volcano. “Did you say
leech
?”

Frank patted my bare knee. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it right up.” Still naked, he flew through the washhouse door and disappeared.

I looked down and almost keeled over in terror. The leech was fat and black and pulsating. I guess it was pulsating because it was busy sucking away at my circulatory system like a kid with a straw and a bottle of Yoo-Hoo. Oh God. Oh Jesus. I couldn’t really feel the leech now that my shoe was off, but seeing it was more than enough to give me the heebie-jeebies.

“Come on, Frank. Come on, Frank. Come on, Frank.”

And there he was. He had one of those long skinny fireplace lighters in his hand and the first aid kit we had rummaged through earlier after the homicidal chicken mangled my arm.

He dropped to his knees in front of me again, took a firm grip on my foot, and flicked the fire stick to life. Very carefully, he touched the flame to the leech, and it immediately curled up and fell off, leaving behind a smear of blood and a tiny hole in the side of my filthy foot.

Since I wasn’t screaming, or passing out, or losing bowel control, I figured I was handling this latest outrage with considerable aplomb. Frank flung the leech through the doorway. It landed out in the yard, and one of the farm dogs immediately gobbled it up. Guess they weren’t too particular about what they ate.

Frank poured alcohol over my foot, then settled back on his haunches and looked up into my face. “You’re just having one hell of a day, aren’t you?” he asked.

I gave him a feeble shrug. I seemed to be at a loss for words. If one of my eyes hadn’t been swelled shut, I would have been bug-eyed with shock.

“Let’s clean you up,” Frank said.

He turned on both showerheads, aimed them into one powerful stream, and adjusted the water temperature. Side by side we stood there for a couple of minutes letting the water wash away the day. I closed my eyes and soaked up the water like a sponge. Frank lathered up a washcloth and proceeded to lather himself up. Then he did the same for me, gently soaping me down from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. He lingered in a few areas a little more than was truly necessary, but since those were some of our favorite areas, neither of us complained.

When we were both sparkly clean and pink from the hot water and smelling of Ivory soap, we ducked under the spray and rinsed off. Then Frank once again dropped to his knees in front of me on the pretense of examining my foot, which he did, but only for a second. As the water ran down my body, Frank forgot about the foot and slid his hands across my stomach, caressing me here, stroking me there. He massaged my thighs, and while he was doing that, he pressed his face into my groin, nuzzling my dripping pubic hair, sliding his tongue along my lengthening cock. When my dick was standing straight out from my body and begging for attention in no uncertain terms, Frank gently peeled back the foreskin and encircled the engorged tip with his soft lips. Slowly, he drew me in as deep as he could.

I clutched his head and closed my eyes. God, his mouth felt wonderful. Everything else hurt, but my dick was in heaven. Slowly, I slid myself in and out of Frank’s hot mouth. In and out. In and out. Frank continued to stroke my stomach as the water poured over us. He looked up at my face as he worked away at me, obviously relishing every moment. Every taste. He smiled around me when I groaned in pleasure. He grinned when I said ouch, but didn’t bother asking what hurt. He knew it wasn’t my dick. That part of my body was doing just fine and dandy, thank you very much, and Frank knew it perfectly well.

He let me slide from his mouth, and when I did, he pressed his lips to my balls. I could see him inhaling the clean soapy scent of me as he slowly slid his lathered hand along the length of my rigid cock. It was so filled with blood by now it was damn near blue. I shuddered at the sensation of Frank’s hand around me, and once again Frank peered up across the expanse of my heaving chest to see the look of pleasure on my face. He smiled and continued to pump my cock with his soapy fist, occasionally stopping long enough to take his lips from my balls and press them to the underside of my dick, just to let it know it hadn’t been forgotten, drawing the foreskin back when he did, tasting me, enjoying the heat of my cock against his face.

Frank and I both cried out when the semen came surging out of me, filling his hand. He continued to stroke me until the last drop was extracted and my knees started to buckle. He grinned, watching me tremble.

“Ouch,” I said, and he laughed.

Pulling himself to his feet, he pressed his lips to mine and once again aimed the showerheads in our direction. Never once taking his mouth off mine, he soaped us down once again.

When I moved to bend down and press my lips to his throat, he gently pushed me away.

“You’re not up to it,” he said. “You just stand here and let me do it myself.”

Frank was right. If I got down on my knees I would probably never get back up. And I was man enough to admit it. So I did what he said. Happily.

Once again, Frank pressed his lips to mine, and while we kissed, he stroked his cock. Slowly, at first. Then more rapidly. He pulled his hand away and laid his cock against my soapy stomach. On tiptoe, he pressed himself to me, creating friction in the soap suds, his strong, hairy legs hard against my own, his hands caressing my back. His tongue found mine and with a tiny shudder, I felt his hot come shoot across my stomach. We stood like that for perhaps a minute, while Frank continued to drag his cock back and forth across my belly, squeezing out every last trace of semen.

When he pulled his lips from mine, his eyes were still closed and his cheeks were flushed. After a moment, those fabulous green eyes opened wide and he smiled at me.

“You okay?” he asked. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I couldn’t speak. I was too drained. In every respect. I merely shook my head and Frank grinned. “I love you so much,” he said, pulling me into his arms as the water continued to sluice over us, washing away his come, gradually becoming cooler as it sprayed against our bodies. We seemed to have drained the water heater.

I held him close. I still couldn’t speak. Too weary. Too many emotions thundering through me. All I could do was nod, but that seemed to be enough. Frank understood.

“Hungry?” he gently asked. “It’s time for supper, you know.”

And I nodded yet again.

Arm in arm, we dripped our way into the house, toweled each other off, and dressed in shorts and T-shirts. Frank’s dad was just waking up.

F
OR
dinner I tossed a gigantic salad with the veggies we had picked from the garden. Then I boiled sweet corn on the cob and fried up some pork chops for the main course. While I worked in the kitchen and tried not to whimper, I was so damned tired and sore, Frank spent time with his dad, helping him bathe and getting him dressed in a clean pair of pajamas. I could hear Joe grumbling now and then about all the attention and the pampering, but I heard them laughing too, so I knew things were okay. When Joe was cleaned up to Frank’s satisfaction, Frank led his dad into the kitchen and together we got Joe situated at the table. He seemed a little stronger than he had that morning. This time we didn’t need to prop him up with pillows to keep him sitting upright. But still, there was a weariness in Joe’s eyes that was troubling. He looked to me like a man who was giving up. I guess pain can do that to anyone. Not the fleeting kind of pain I was dealing with at the moment, but the kind of pain there is no hope of getting away from. The kind of pain that gets into the bones and just won’t leave. The terminal kind of pain.

But even with everything going against him, Joe managed to wear his sense of humor like a suit of armor: against the pain; against his embarrassment at being so helpless; against the fate he must have known was waiting for him. Joe was no fool. He had to realize there would be no escape from the illness that was wearing him down. He knew he couldn’t laugh his way out of this one. I imagined that Joe’s sense of humor had shielded him from a lot of miseries over the years, but it would not be able to shield him this time around. Not from the treachery of his own failing body. That is a misery that cannot be remedied. And Joe knew it. I could see the acceptance of the fact in his pain-wearied eyes.

Those eyes did manage to light up considerably, however, when they settled themselves on me as I stood at the stove, barefoot, limping and grunting, trailing bandages like a mummy in one of those old fifties horror flicks. Of course, for sheer ugliness, I had the mummy beat by a long shot, what with my black eye and swollen ear and sundry scrapes and contusions. For some reason, Joe seemed to find my injuries a matter of considerable glee.

“My God, Tom. You’re a sight to behold, you truly are. I gotta tell you, I spent three years in Vietnam when I was a young man about your age, and I saw guys stumble out of the jungle after three months that looked better than you do right now. And you’ve only been here one day. Hell, son, you look worse than I do and I’m about as wrung out and beat to death as a man can get.”

“Thanks,” I grumped, trying to drag up a smile, just to be polite.

Frank laughed. “He’s had quite a day, Pop. So don’t rag on him too much. He did an honest day’s work, though. He surely did.”

“So I see, son. So I see. Looks like it just about killed him too.” Joe held his hand out to me and I took it. He gave it a vigorous shake. “We thank you, Tom. Your help is truly appreciated. I dare say we’ll make a farmer out of you yet.”

I wished he would let go of my hand. The blisters I had acquired from wielding that damned hoe were just about killing me. “Maybe if I live,” I said, only half joking.

Joe seemed to find that pretty amusing. He pointed to my eye. It was still swollen shut and black as the ace of spades. “What happened there?”

“Kicked by a pig.”

Joe nodded as if he understood. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I know what that’s like. And there?” He pointed to my ear, which was still roughly the size of a catcher’s mitt and burning like a forest fire.

“Bumblebee,” I replied. “Mean one.”

“Uh-huh. Nasty things, bumblebees. Had one sting me on my tallywacker once when I was peeing in the bushes. Don’t think
that
didn’t hurt.” He looked down at my bare foot. It was bright red since Frank had decided to slather it with Mercurochrome to ward off infection from the fucking leech. “And that?”

“Fucking leech.”

Joe nodded. “I see. They have to fuck some time or other, I suppose.” Which wasn’t exactly what I meant.

Lastly he pointed to the yards of fresh bandage Frank had rewrapped around my forearm after our little interlude in the shower had washed away the other one. “And what the hell happened
there
, Tom? Did somebody shoot you?”

My face turned bright red. I know it did. I could feel it. “Chicken,” I mumbled softly.

Joe leaned in closer. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘chicken’?”

I straightened my back and cleared my throat, trying not to look at Frank. If he was bent over laughing with snot dangling out of his nose, I didn’t want to know it. “Yes, sir. Chicken.”

Joe’s eyes glittered. He was having a wonderful time. “Must have been a real nasty one.”

“It was. Mangled me pretty good.”

“Big was it? I mean, for a chicken?”

“Big as an ostrich.”

“And you say it was just one? Just one chicken? Not a whole flock? Just one?”

“Yes sir,” I said, getting redder by the minute. “Just one. But she was upset. Didn’t like me trying to rob her nest. I think it pissed her off. Either that or she had some psychological problems to deal with and took them out on me.”

“Well,” Joe commiserated, “insane people sometimes acquire supernatural strength. Maybe it’s the same with insane chickens.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Did you get the egg?” Joe asked, nodding, looking sympathetic. His shoulders were starting to quiver.