Tree Fingers Page 2

  “Yes,” Alan panted.

  Feeling out and finding Alan’s prostate, Graham pressed against it, evoking a few more droplets of seed and a grateful groan. He couldn’t believe how excited he’d become watching his finger disappear into Alan, watching Alan’s ecstatic response to it. His cock bounced with the beat of his heart, leaking as Alan’s had. Graham continued, wanting to touch all the beauty he saw: the tongue wiping the swollen, shapely lips, the black eyes staring at the sky, reflecting the few stray clouds, the twining of the white waist, and the cock darkening to oak-leaf burgundy as it filled with blood. But he contented himself to watch, to provide more pleasure to his love.

  “Now, Graham, please,” Alan said. “There’s lube in my bag. Gods, I need you now!”

  Darting across the lawn, Graham opened the flap of Alan’s messenger bag. Inside he saw another old book, a demon pinching a woman’s breast and something Latin on its cover. He wished Alan would give up his pursuit of this kind of material, but for now he put it out of his mind. Behind him, the swish of skin against skin told him Alan had taken matters into his own hands. The way his cock throbbed, Graham almost did the same while he dug through the mess of gum wrappers, match boxes, broken bits of jewelry, bags of herbs, jars of stones or oil, and crumpled pieces of paper inscribed with strange symbols. Finally he felt the cool corner of a plastic tube.

  Before he even knelt back down, Alan seized Graham’s body, wrapping him in his arms and legs and yanking him onto his chest. “Fuck me,” he panted, over and over, grasping Graham’s cock and positioning it outside his opening. His legs crossed behind Graham’s back and his arms interlaced around Graham’s neck, pinning him. Graham hardly had enough range of motion to open the lube, but he managed. His arm cleaved their sweaty bodies apart just enough to squirt the cinnamon-scented gel between Alan’s cheeks and over his cock.

  Wasting no time, Alan pushed his heels into Graham’s back, coercing him forward. He guided Graham’s cock back to his ass, where the head waited just outside his hole.

  “Graham—,” he pleaded.

  Gingerly Graham thrust forward, feeling resistance from the tight ring. Pressing slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, he waited for Alan’s body to surrender, to soften and open to his advances. When it did, Graham let his cock slide slowly inside his lover. Alan threw his head back, moaning with what Graham knew was a luscious blend of pleasure and pain. Leaning forward, Graham pressed Alan’s thighs closer to his chest, allowing himself greater access. His cock slipped deeper, and Alan moaned again.

  “You’re all right?”

  “Gods, yes. Graham. It’s good.”

  The sensation was incomparable to the hand-jobs Graham had insisted upon receiving until now. The heat and pressure, the embrace of Alan’s muscles, the way his body reacted to Graham’s tiniest movement, were almost enough to make him come. But then Alan grabbed his hips, pulling their bodies together. He did it again and again until Graham took over, moving slowly in and out of the dark-haired man.

  Below him Alan’s handsome face flushed until it looked sunburned. He gulped quick breaths through his opened mouth.

  His hands had left Graham’s hips, and now held his own knees, which bent beside his chest. More liquid had leaked from the slit in his cock, and pooled in his belly button. Graham dipped his pinky in it and lifted it to his mouth.

  “You taste so good,” Graham breathed. “Feel so good. I can’t hold it.”

  “S’okay,” Alan said. “Touch me?”

  Lost in the intoxicating warmth of Alan’s body and his love, feeling drugged, besieged by the other man, Graham had forgotten. He fumbled with the lube again and squirted a dime-sized amount into his palm. Then his hand closed around Alan, working his head with short, quick strokes. To match, his thrusts inside Alan diminished. He drove as deep as he could, and then moved his hips in the smallest of circles, providing constant stimulation to his lover’s gland and a dizzying pleasure to himself. Their subtle dance continued until Alan’s semen splattered against his stomach, running off of his waist and into the leaves. The noises he made were between laughter and sobbing.

  As he came, Graham lifted Alan’s head by the back of his neck, driving his tongue into his mouth as he drove his cock as far into his ass as he could. Alan’s arms and legs wrapped around him again; his shoulders lifted from the ground as he clung to Graham. Wave after wave of pleasure passed through Graham like electrical current. Alan’s body reacted, his tight anus squeezing Graham’s cock each time it convulsed. It felt like he’d never be empty of seed. Each time Alan’s body contracted, more shot out. Even when he thought he’d been drained, a bicuspid pricking his lower lip drew forth a few drops. By the time he’d finished, Graham could do nothing but fall forward, cradled by Alan’s body and the growing pile of leaves.

  As they lay whispering love words, a trio of crows pranced brazenly across the garden, scratching in the pumpkin patch and flapping their onyx wings at the withered tripods of departed tomato plants.

  ***

  The next evening, Alan and Graham returned from dinner just as the sky was deepening from sunset cranberry to pie-filling blueberry. As soon as he turned off his black Jeep, Alan heard the whine of the saw. He slammed the door and hurried to the back yard just in time to hear old Mr. Cook saying, “That’ll do for today, boys. Getting dark earlier and earlier. We’ll finish ‘er off in the morning.”

  Limbs littered the small patch of lawn, some as big around as a human thigh. It smelled of wood sap and gasoline. Realizing where they’d come from, Alan tried desperately to think of a way to shield Graham from the sight. Before he could conceive of any way to spare his lover, Graham came running into the yard, parting the thick blanket of leaves with his feet. Both of them burst through the gate.

  The walnut tree, a limbless, amputated stump, looked as horrific, Alan knew, to Graham as a person who’d suffered the same treatment.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, the faded British coming back strong with his anger.

  “What the hell does it look like?” Cook said, taking a cigarette from the pocket of his plaid shirt and firing up.

  “But, why?”

  “Tree’s dead,” Cook said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Graham responded incredulously, less offended at being treated like a fool than Alan would have been.

  “There’re leaves, and—”

  “Tree’s on my property.” Behind the old man, a crescent moon ascended into the indigo sky. Porch lights and jack-o-lanterns sprung to glowing life, dotting the darkening landscape with orange.

  Pacing, Graham said, “I could buy this bit of land from you. Just leave the tree, and we’ll work out the details.”

  “Bull shit,” Cook chuckled. The two heavy set men in dirty tshirts who’d been working with the saws joined in the joke, pissing Alan off. They laughed harder and harder, until a loose branch fell unexpectedly, its pointed end lodging in the ground a foot in front of them.

  “Wow,” Alan said, feigning surprise. “How about that?”

  All three of the grime and sawdust encrusted men looked up into the branches, as if they might attack. Then, in unison, they took a few steps back, looking choreographed and comical. Alan smirked.

  Nervously, Cook said, “It ain’t none of your business. It’s my tree.”

  “Please,” Graham said, changing his tactic. “You don’t know how much that tree means to me.”

  “Not as much as it’s gonna mean to me when one of them limbs falls on your roof and you sue my ass.”

  “I’ll sign a waiver,” Graham offered.

  “Go home,” Cook said and, taking his own advice, turned and walked toward his ranch-style dwelling.

  Graham stood staring at the severed limbs littering Cook’s yard. Alan hurried over and put his arm around the other man, heedless of the comments made by the two lumberjacks. At their feet, a branch poking up from the leaves bore an uncanny resemblance to a human arm lying with the knuckles down
and the fingers stretched out. Kneeling to touch it, Graham looked up at Alan. His eyes sparkled, reflecting the orange of the Halloween decorations scattered about the neighborhood.

  “Would you help me do something, Alan?”

  “Yeah, of course. Anything.”

  “I have to keep at least a piece of it. Am I being silly? “No, Graham. It’s right that you should have it.”

  They worked into the night, by the light of the moon, the pumpkins, and the lantern on the back porch. By the time they finished, the button-down shirts they’d worn to dinner were soaked with sweat, despite the chill of the night. Hand in hand, they backed away from what they’d constructed, admiring their effort and its result.

  A scarecrow rose twelve feet into the air. Graham had covered one of the portrait heads he’d sculpted in art school with burlap. For eyes he’d attached two buttons: one from Alan’s shirt, small, black, and opalescent, and one from Luke’s sweater, which was round, wooden, and red. Smeared charcoal made the sockets look sunken. The mouth was made from black yarn, sewn in a string of Xs. They’d constructed the cross-shaped frame entirely from fragments of the walnut tree, carefully choosing branches that resembled skeletal hands. Then they’d draped the creature’s shoulders with an old black bed sheet that Alan had in the back of his car, and cut the edges into jagged fringe. A hood of the same material covered the burlap head, revealing only the weirdly proportioned, ghastly face.

  Alan knew, even if his lover didn’t, how much magic their creation contained. All of the elements had been expertly chosen: bits of the tree Graham had imbued with such spirit, pieces of his current and dead lover, something he’d called into being with the skill of his hands. All the time they’d sawed, screwed, nailed and drilled, they’d been conjuring, weaving a spell. Graham had barely spoken while they worked, and now it seemed some of his demons had been exorcized, though he appeared exhausted.

  “Wait until old man Cook wakes up and sees that,” he said, leaning against Alan.

  “We could do more than startle him,” Alan suggested.

  “There’s a spirit in that book I’m reading called Woldengeist, the Phantom of the Forest Shadows. He’s receptive to summoning, vengeful, and very protective of Nature. I bet—”

  Graham turned to face him. “Just stop it, Alan. You know I don’t like it when you talk like that. I don’t believe any of that nonsense, any way.”

  “It isn’t nonsense to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Alan. I didn’t mean to get cross with you. I’m just tired.”

  “I know. Let’s go inside. I’ll build a fire.”

  Graham fixed hot cider and cheese and crackers while Alan stacked the kindling. Soon they were cuddled on the sofa in front of the little blaze, drinking and snacking under a soft, blue blanket. The cozy scent of burning pine filled the room. Looking down at the food on his paper plate, Alan felt suddenly drowned in kindness. Upset as he’d been, Graham had taken the time to fix this fare, thought about Alan’s comfort, that he might be hungry. Looking back, Alan realized that Graham did those things all the time. Whenever he came to the house, he never waited long for a bite to eat or a glass of wine. When he spent the night, his clothes were washed by morning. How had he taken it for granted for so long?

  “Graham,” he whispered. “I wish I could do more for you. Do better for you.”

  Taking Alan in his arms, Graham said, “Don’t be silly. Look how you’ve helped me tonight. Look how you put up with all my foolishness.”

  Since he could think of no verbal response, no adequate words to express his love, Alan set his food aside and pulled Graham’s face down into a kiss. As their tongues twined together, he unfastened the buttons of Graham’s white shirt. His hands slipped between the tight undershirt and Graham’s skin.

  Almost automatically, Graham’s hands removed Alan’s belt and unbuttoned his trousers, bunching them down. They then slid up Alan’s leg, grazing his balls, and kneaded his ass cheek. Alan’s knees rose, fettered by his pants and impossible to spread, up to rest on Graham’s chest. He could feel the other man’s growing swell against his thigh.

  Graham’s fingers traced the puckered circle of Alan’s ass as he kissed him urgently. Then, with a slurp, he removed his mouth, stood, and jerked Alan’s dress pants off over his shoes.

  Alan splayed his legs, propping each heel on the edge of the couch. As Graham’s eyes devoured him, he traced the seam of his scrotum, heading lower. Then, stroking himself with one hand, he let his other fingertip slip inside himself.

  “Alan!” Graham whispered.

  “What? Why don’t you take your clothes off and come give me a hand?”

  Graham stripped so quickly that his shirt still fluttered toward the floor as he dove on Alan, wrenching his legs up, squashing them between their chests. His cock ground against Alan’s opening, slicking it with pre-come.

  “Gods, do it,” Alan pleaded.

  “All right.” He seized Alan’s small waist and flipped him so that his elbows rested on the back of the couch, his knees on the cushions. Then he stood up and spread Alan’s cheeks, teasing his crack with the hard line of his erection. Before he could request it, Graham yanked Alan’s hips back, making their skin slap together.

  “Graham, yes,” Alan murmured.

  “No,” Graham said. “This time I want you to fuck me. But take off your shoes first. You look absurd.”

  Stunned, Alan slid out of his wing-tips with the skulls over the heels. He balled his black socks and tossed them beside his pants. Then he stood and embraced Graham, relishing the contact of their skin on his legs.

  “You’re sure you want this?” he asked.

  “Positive,” Graham said. “Please, Alan. The time’s right. You’re right. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Graham. And I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready now,” Graham said, unbuttoning Alan’s black shirt with the utmost tenderness and relish. It fell open, and Graham caressed Alan’s chest. “I want you.”

  “Let’s go up to the bedroom,” Alan said.

  They staggered up the steps kissing, groping each other, trying to cover every inch of each other’s anticipation-warmed skin with their eager fingers and mouths. Alan flung the old oak door open with the back of his elbow, not releasing Graham’s face from his hands. He wondered if he could light the hurricane lamps with magic, if his lover might not mind in his hyper-aroused state. Certainly he could call the little fire spirits to waltz along the wicks with a thought. In the end he decided not to chance ruining the ideal moment and steered Graham’s body to the edge of the four poster bed. After Graham had sprawled out, Alan found the matches in the nightstand drawer. Soon the room glowed softly with the light from the antique fixtures arranged around it.

  Alan had always loved that about Graham, his appreciation for old, hand-crafted things. He loved his lean, compact frame and the way his light brown hair hung in front of his eyes, always looking long overdue for a trim. Tonight he looked positively enchanting, lying languidly across his patchwork quilt, his head propped on a pillow. The erect cock that Alan had always found perfect, neither too big nor small, reached up toward his navel.

  On all fours, Alan perched above Graham’s body. He pinned his hair behind his ears so his view wouldn’t be obstructed. He’d waited months for this moment, and his cock filled in anticipation. But Graham looked so vulnerable, biting his lower lip. He’d lost so much.

  “You’re sure?” Alan asked again.

  In response, Graham tugged gently on Alan’s waist. Their bodies met. Breathing into Alan’s hair, warming his cheek and jaw, Graham said, “Yes.”

  They kissed passionately but softly, tongues twisting together slowly. With one hand Alan brushed the dampening fringe from Graham’s forehead. With the other he reached between their bodies for Graham’s cock, swirling the fluids seeping from it around the head with his thumb. Graham opened his legs, and Alan sunk between them.

  After a few more minu
tes of kissing and fondling, Alan knit his fingers with Graham’s, sat up, and guided the other man over onto his belly. His hands shifted so that his palms lay over Graham’s knuckles. He blew gently, cooling the back of Graham’s reddened neck. Graham shivered pleasantly.

  Dipping his head down, Alan spoke into Graham’s ear. “How long has it been for you?”

  “Since Luke.”

  “Two years? Gods, Graham. You’re sure you want me to be the one?”

  “Never been more sure. Alan, please.” He looked over his shoulder, certainty cementing his delicate features into hard lines.

  No longer able to resist, Alan coaxed Graham’s hips up, nudging his legs wider by pressing against his inner thighs. He caressed Graham’s crevice, feeling like the recipient of a priceless gift.

  “Lube?” he asked.

  “Night table.”

  Alan found the bottle and squeezed a generous amount into his hand, letting it warm before spreading it between Graham’s cheeks. He kissed up and down the long muscles of Graham’s back as his fingers delved inside. Already Graham’s breath became jagged, his body tense. He felt so snug against Alan’s fingers that Alan didn’t think there was any way Graham would be able to take his cock.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t yet. I’ll just use my hand.”

  “No, Alan. I want to.”

  “If I hurt you—”

  “You won’t.”

  “Okay.” Rising up on his knees, Alan positioned himself and pressed tentatively. The head of his cock slid inside Graham’s wrinkled opening, and the other man grunted and clutched handfuls of blanket.

  Not moving, allowing a moment for Graham to relax, Alan asked, “You’re all right?”

  “Yes,” Graham hissed. “Alan—”

  “Okay.” Slowly, a hair’s width at a time, Alan plunged deeper. Each movement elicited a groan from Graham, an expression of both bliss and delightful ache. As Alan began to draw himself in and out in shallow increments, the pain disappeared from Graham’s voice, and he moaned with utter delight.