BMOC

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No but since Medicine Show is on a hiatus, Twin Fidelity is ended and Cousin Craig and Tennis Buddies are without updates and the guy who does Raiders Basketball is MIA this is the best story on LPSG right now for me. I really dont read any of the other posts
 
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ConnerM360

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You know, this story is quite literally, an actual story. It's not simply erotic, it has a great storyline. I'm sure most who have read the story would agree that at times when the post is reaching its zenith they are choosing sides, feeling let down or happy at whichever route is chosen. AWESOME.
 

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BMOC Chapter 41



Mrs. Deleon decided to have a visitation and memorial service for Bruce at the local mortuary so that his friends (the few that there) could say their good-byes. The funeral service and burial would take place back home, where most of his family was buried.
His death wasn't a major shock for anyone that had been following the story. How he died was the only question most asked. If the fall from a 7th story window didn't immediately kill him, then what could have? A blood clot in the brain was what the autopsy uncovered. Only God knew that only seconds before the clot wreaked its damage, Chase was prepared to become Bruce’s anonymous undertaker?
Dre certainly didn't. He exhaled when he heard the news of Bruces death. After all that he'd been through, all that he'd lost because of his involvement with Bruce, it was more than relief to know that he would never have to worry about Bruce disrupting his life again. Or anyone else's for that matter.
After much prodding, Dre had convinced Chase that they should go to the service together. An hour before the service began he went and knocked on Chase's door. When Chase answered it, Dre's surprise was reflected on his face.
"What wrong?" Chase asked. "You don't like my outfit?"
It wasn't that Dre didn't like it. The outfit was a blinking neon sign that said, "I'm happy, I'm ready to party," which was not the expected attitude at a memorial service. He could just imagine walking into the mortuary with Chase dressed that way.
"You're not wearing that."
Chase closed the door and replied evenly, "Yes I am."
"Are you insane? Look, I know you had your issues with Bruce --"
"He raped me." Chase adjusted his tie as Dre stood an open-mouthed with shock.."
"He did what?"
"I'm not about to talk about it. What's important is that he's dead, and I'm happy because I didn't even have to kill him."
"Didn't have to kill him? What are you saying?"
Chase related how he stood over Bruce’s bed, placing the needle on his arm, and praying. Before he could go through with it, the machines began to whistle all around him. He grabbed the needle and ran, just as the doctors and nurses arrived and tried to resuscitate Bruce.
Dre sat down at the desk near Chase's bed, and covered his face with his hands.
"I'm not crazy, Dre."
"I know."
"He was full of hate. He deserved death."
"Nobody deserves to die," he said. "Bruce did a lot of crazy shit to a lot of people, but he didn't deserve what happened to him."
Chase's eyes narrowed and frown lines wrinkled his forehead. "The dick must have been good for you to say something that ignorant."
Dre stood. "I'm going to let that slide because you're obviously tripping right now." He walked toward the door. "You should stay here. You may hate Bruce and you got a right to feel that if he actually did what you say he did. But Bruce is dead. You showing up at his funeral like this won't hurt him. It will only hurt the ones he left behind. Like his mom. And she doesn’t deserve that disrespect. Not today."
Chase stared at Dre without comment. He watched him walk out of his room and didn't show any sign that he had heard what Dre said. Fuck Bruce and his mama, he thought. He wasn't about to miss the opportunity to say a special goodbye to Bruce, and no one was about to stop him.


BMOC Chapter 42



Morton & Sons Mortuary was packed with visitors the day of Bruce’s service. Dre arrived early with his parents to support Mrs. McLemore. He alternated between the front of the parlor and the entry-way, careful not to stare too long at the casket.
When he first saw Bruce in his final resting state, his jaw dropped. He hadn't been shocked by Bruce’s death, nor was he shocked to see him in a casket. It was how he looked in the casket that stunned Dre. He was so peaceful. Gone was the smug, sexy grin. Bruce was serene for the first time in Dre's memory. It was a moment of revelation, one that amused and saddened him at the same time. He didn't know whether to smile, scream, or shake his head, so out of respect for Mrs. McLemore, he excused himself to the restroom before his reaction embarrassed he and his parents.
* * * * *​
The memorial service had begun by the time Cherron arrived. It didn't take her long to make her presence known to everyone else, however.
"Bruce?" Her voice wavered, but it was urgent with fear and thus resounded through the parlor
“Bruce?" she repeated.
Everyone turned around in their seats and stared at the confused young woman calling out to a corpse as if expecting a response. "Would you have a seat, please?" An usher whispered in her ear.
She rolled her shoulder pushing away from the usher. "Who are you? You don't even know Bruce! None of you know him like I know him!" She screamed at the rows of eyes staring at her. She ran toward the casket and stopped dramatically just before she reached it. "No! Don't you do this to me, Bruce DeLeon! Not now! You get your ass up! Wake up!" She rushed the casket and began to pull at Bruce’s suit.
"I'm not raising no baby alone, you bastard! Wake up!"
By now, the usher and a few others had recovered from the shock of Cherron's outburst and were restraining her.
But it was it was after Cherron left she returned that the real show began.
Chase strutted into the parlor, smiling. He stopped in the middle of the aisle, took a good, long look at Bruce in his casket and cried out, "Hallelujah!" The preacher's son from Indiana got the Holy Ghost, dancing down the aisle while praising God for what was truly a blessing for him. As with Cherron, those present were stunned into silence and immobility by this display. Dre rushed toward him, tried to pull him away from the casket, but at twice Andre’s size, Chase wasn't about to led anywhere. He shoved Dre off to the side and without breaking his stride, reared back and hurled a glob of phlem directly into the casket.
Mrs. McLemore screamed, and then collapsed.
Chase was restrained and the police summoned and all the attendees were dismissed. Dre wasn't happy at the turn of events. Bruce did horrible things while he was alive, but in death, he didn't deserve what took place at the service. More to the point, his mother didn't deserve it. He was shaking his head in shock and wonder as he walked down the steps when he heard a familiar voice calling out his name.
That voice. That voice, he knew, belonged to only one person.
“Maleek!”
 
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BMOC Chapter 43



Maleek stood on the top step outside Morton & Sons Mortuary, straight-backed and wide-legged, arms folded against his chest in pose full of ownership. A passerby not knowing better might assume that he was Morton or one of the sons working at the family business. Draped in black wool and a conservative gray tie, Maleek certainly fit the profile.
"Maleek," he said again, making sure the preceding melodramatic minutes weren’t causing him to hallucinate.
Maleek replied with a wide smile that made Dre wonder how he'd survived these past 10 months without him.
"Wha.. what are you doing here?"
Maleek shrugged. "Same thing as you, I guess." He descended the steps to stand opposite Dre. "Can't say I knew him as well as you, but I thought I'd pay my respects, anyway. Didn't expect a show." He shook his head, remembering the fiasco that had been Bruce’s memorial.
"Bruce didn't have a lot of friends."
"People that get thrown out of windows usually don't," Maleek replied. "He must have done some low shit for that brotha to go off the wall like he did."
"You wouldn't want to know half the low shit Bruce was responsible for, here and back home."
"Oh, I know," Maleek said. "You know I know."
Dre dropped his eyes, wishing Maleek hadn't taken this short-lived reunion back to the source of the break-up. He wanted to say he was sorry that he'd been fucking around with Bruce and never told Maleek, but what good would it do now? Maleek hadn't wanted to hear it last year when it mattered.
"I don't get a hug?" Maleek asked, breaking the moment of reflective silence.
Dre was so surprised that it took him a few seconds to comply. He eased into his ex-lover's embrace with hesitation, but easily relaxed in Maleek's arms, delighting in the scent of his skin. Maleek held him longer than normal, as Dre hoped he would. He rocked with him, squeezed him even tighter. Made him remember how deep and hard he'd once loved Maleek.
"Did you miss me?" Maleek asked as he ended the embrace.
Dre wanted to scream "Yes!", but knew better than to expose the depth of his true feelings to Maleek. He'd loved and hurt Maleek, and Maleek had loved, hurt and left him. He couldn't forget that. "Well, it's kind of natural to miss somebody you don't see for a year," he said.
"Ten months," Maleek corrected.
Had Maleek really been counting as Dre had? Dre tried to calm the excitement building inside his heart. Getting through the past ten months had been a daily struggle. Dre was only now beginning to feel like he might be happy without Maleek in his life. He didn't want to raise his hopes only to be devastated again.
"I missed you, too." Maleek ran one thumb gently down Dre's chin.
"Why didn't you call? Return my letter? I mean, I know what I did was wrong --"
Maleek placed his index finger over Dre's lips. "It's in the past. Leave it there. Let's start with today, okay?"
Dre nodded. That was a safe place to start. "So ... you drove up from St. Louis?"
"Naw, I live about 20 minutes from here."
"Are you in school?" Dre asked.
Maleek shook his head. "Nope, working. Real steady gigs, good pay. Perfect location. I couldn't find this much work in St. Louis. At least I don't think I could, but I'm definitely picking up skills I can put to use no matter where I go."
"It is kind of nice," Dre said. "The area, I mean. I don't know about the job market."
"So what about you? You decided to come to school up this way?"
Dre hadn't even considered U of I, but with Maleek nearby, he began to see the town and the campus in a more attractive light. "I haven't made any decisions," he lied. He'd been accepted to Purdue and was making all kinds of plans to relocate in the fall.
"You know, I heard about your brother," Maleek said. "How's he doing?"
Dre tensed at the mention of Jay, but before he could reply, Maleek pulled him close again. "Hey, don't sweat it. Your bro is a survivor. He's going to come out of it, you'll see."
Dre heard these words, words he'd heard again and again in the weeks since Jay's attack, but coming from Maleek's lips, they sounded more comforting, and Tracey felt more assured. He hugged Maleek tighter.
Maleek's phone rang, suddenly disrupting the embrace. Maleek pulled the phone off his waist, checked the number and began to walk down the steps. "I gotta run," he said, "but if you ain't busy, let's get together later tonight."
Get together? Dre didn't know how to process that one. "I don't have your number," he said to Maleek's fast-moving back.
Maleek unlocked the driver's door of a late model, black Ford Navigator parked half a block down and across the street from the mortuary. "I got your number." He flashed his trademark smile, hopped in his vehicle and drove off.
* * * * *
The white man in Room 406 of the local Ramada Inn was nervous with expectation. He was in town for the next few days to witness his only child's college graduation, but wasn't about to waste an opportunity to make good use of his hotel room and being away from the prying eyes of those who knew him. Not when he was horny, had petty travel cash to spare and was in a town home to several highly recommended “entertainers”.
He'd had no trouble picking one. The description was tailored to his particular taste: "Young black stud here, ready to make your freaky fantasy a reality -- tonight! 5'10, 170#, killer smile, brn hair/ brn eyes, smooth swimmer's build -- yes, I stay on top of my game. Want more? Just ask.... you WILL receive." Black. Freak. A hint of dominance, he thought. A true fantasy, one that he had always wanted to fulfill, but never did. He was about to get his chance.
The stud, Ty, sounded very masculine and extremely pleasant on the phone; from the conversation, he learned Ty liked gin with juice and had a cold one waiting when he heard the first knock on his door. Ty was no false advertiser. All the stats checked out, but the smile was definitely more than killer. The man struggled to keep control of himself as the stud hugged him and walked into the room, filling the room with the cologne.
The man sat on the bed and his rent boy sat opposite him in a chair. They discussed the basics -- jobs, aspirations, hobbies, interests, and travels -- while sipping their drinks. The man was certainly pleased Ty could hold a conversation so well.
Ty drained his tumbler with a large gulp, and then licked his lips. The man, nervous from the site of Ty's pink tongue, rushed to the liquor tray provided by the hotel and began to make Ty a refill. He was shoveling ice into a clean tumbler when he felt him -- and it -- pressed against the small of his back.
"I want something alright, but it ain't gin," Ty whispered in his ear. "Question is, what do you want?"
The man dropped the ice scooper into the bucket while gripping the edge of the liquor tray, reveling in the feel of Ty's warm breath against his ear and along his neck. He turned around and tilted his head toward Ty, bringing their lips kissably close. Ty pecked the man's lips once, then again with the tip of his tongue providing a wet, warm thrill. When their lips met again, tongues swirled and twirled deeply. Heat spread down the man's torso, igniting his erection in a matter of seconds.
This kiss was just a kiss for Ty. The man's tongue could have been a tasteless slab of meat for all the effect it had on him. He closed his eyes, pulled the man closer and envisioned his first love, the feel of him, the taste of him, the sight of him only hours before. As always, it was the only way the escort of fucking this older, pale white man whom he had no sexual interest in, and never would. He grabbed the man's hand and placed it over the steel-hard erection, offering a promise of the pleasure to come. He knew that with fresh images of his first love, Dre, in his thoughts, he'd more than deliver tonight.
 

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BMOC Chapter 44
Later, Maleek called Dre as promised and they made plans to share the evening together. Since Dre was unfamiliar with the area, Maleek was the designated escort -- a job that, unknown to Dre, he had lots of experience with. Dre was too filled with hope over what he saw as their reunion to have cared much, anyway.
The evening started with dinner. Dre was expecting McDonald's or Taco Bell -- something quick and convenient so that they could roll out to what he was hoping would be the main event. Late as it was, Dre never figured Maleek would pull into the lot of Gian's, a Ristorante D'Italiano featuring over 35 pasta entrees, seafood, steaks, and a seating time of over 15 minutes. Money didn't seem to be a concern of the new Maleek. It was apparent in the car he drove, and his attire for the evening: black silk shirt and slacks, Italian shoes, and so much gold on his wrist and neck, they seemed to weigh him down. A man on this level didn't take his date to McDonald's. Nagging questions bubbled behind Dre's excitement. What kind of job pays a high school grad with limited skills and experience enough to afford all this, he wondered. He didn't dwell on it, fearing it would ruin their dinner. The ex-lovers stared across the table without speaking. Their eyes communicated the ways they planned to conclude the evening. The waiter came to take their order. They both ordered light meals, anticipating a more filling course later. For a while, the dinner conversation was light as well.
"From the looks of things, you're doing well up here," Dre said.
"I'm happy." Maleek smiled through his lie. He wasn't miserable, but happy didn't describe his condition, either.
"Are you?"
Maleek picked up on the undercurrent tone in Dre’s words.
"Let's just say I'm comfortable."
"I can tell. So come out with it. What line of work keeps you this comfortable?"
Maleek stared at Dre, knowing full well that he couldn't tell Dre how he earned his money tonight, but that eventually, he'd have to. Dre, being the romantic idealist that he'd been a year ago, believed so firmly in a right and wrong, a black and white. He hadn't been kicked in the ass the way Maleek had. He hadn't yet had to evaluate himself, his qualifications and the job market. For Maleek, it was either sink in the grease pond of fast food or find an uncharted island to make his way to. He'd choose the latter and hadn't looked back. What he'd chose, he couldn't exactly share over peppery-chicken alfredo.
"If I tell you, I'll have to kill you." Maleek said with a smile.
"With all the cash you flashing, I believe it." Tracey said.
"You'll find out where I work. Soon," Maleek said.
"Good."
Maleek flashed his devastating smile, but underneath his facade of cool, worry lurked. Would Dre understand the career choice he'd made?
The Big Show was a dance club ten miles outside the Champaign city limits and a Mecca for the gay locals looking for the company of like-minded boys and girls. Located in an old warehouse, there were over 90,000 square feet of dance floor, separate billiard and dart rooms and a humongous, L-shaped bar in the center of the club featuring $1 shots and $3 drafts. Cigarette smoke, stale perfumes and colognes and sweat gave the air a thickness that draped Dre like a comfortable old sweater. The club goers were for the most part white men, but a few brothers and sisters let their eyes roam as Maleek led Dre onto the crowded dance floor. Their bodies easily found the same rhythm. Their movements were slow, synchronized. The beat they followed was their own. Like a lot of others on the floor, they used dance as intricate foreplay. Dre advertised his goods by backing his ass up. Maleek replied with smooth, athletic thrusts and swivels of his hips. Dre smiled with pleasure. This new Maleek's confidence was definitely having a desirable effect on him. After working up a decent sweat, Maleek and Dre took a coke break at the bar. Dre observed that Maleek seemed to know quite a few club goers, who had no problem approaching him, kissing his cheeks or touching him. Dre swallowed his irritation, reminding himself that he and Maleek hadn't been together in almost a year. Who was he to act possessive on their first night back together?
"This is a VERY friendly club." He couldn't hold back at least one comment, though. Maleek sipped his coke, crunching on an ice cube while he thought of a response.
"I'm a regular," he said.
"A regular what? The way some of these dudes were digging their hands into your chest, you'd think you were a regular john or something."
Maleek choked on his coke, then laughed nervously after regaining his composure. "What if I was?"
Dre looked at him and laughed. "Then I'd have to be your pimp. And you better believe, I'd be your ONLY john."
"I could live with that," Maleek said. Neither of them resisted the urge that followed. Maleek reached out, gently pulling Dre's face toward his. Their lips trembled upon contact. Dre wrapped both arms around Maleek's neck to pull him even closer. The moistness of their melding mouths caused Dre's stomach to quiver, fueling a desire that had been building all evening.
"That kiss was definitely saying something."
"Uh-huh. Were you listening?"
"You know it."
They stared at each other, sheepish grins on their faces.
"You about ready to go?"
"Where we going?" Dre asked.
Maleek pecked Dre on the lips.
"You know the answer to that."
Dre pecked him back, and then sauntered away, looking over his shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd. Maleek gulped down the last of his coke and followed, not caring if anyone noticed the bulge in his pants. It was, after all, his best form of advertising.
Dre saw the outside of Maleek's townhouse, but not much of the interior. He and Maleek were joined at the mouth before Maleek even opened the front door, and they undressed in the dark as Maleek led him upstairs to the bedroom. The months that had passed between them might as well be minutes for everything was familiar and nothing was awkward. Every kiss was exact, executed to elicit the most pleasure. Each touch left skin hot with desire. They spent over 20 minutes smothering each other in the heat of their mouths and bodies, wanting very much to prolong the inevitable pleasure, to make it last forever. Maleek rose from the bed and flicked on the lamp next to his bed. The sudden flood of light illuminated the decor of the bedroom. Dre noticed for the first time that he was lying on a round bed draped in leopard-print sheets. A round mirror tiled the ceiling above the bed. Across the room Maleek stood in front of a four-tier utility cart, the glow of the lamplight catching the curves of his brown sugar ass. Dre gasped when he turned around. He suspected Maleek had been working out, and the cut of his new muscular torso confirmed some serious gym time. More striking was the shadow his impressive endowment cast against the wall behind him. It loomed like a super exclamation point and Dre noticed that it was so hard; it barely swayed as Maleek approached the bed.
"Turn over," he instructed Dre. Dre's obedience got him a sensual massage that began with the soles of his feet, meandered lovingly over the arch of his calves and deep into the muscles of his thighs, his ass and the small of his back. By the time Maleek's powerful hands ground into the tense cords of his shoulders, Dre found himself slipping into a state of semi-consciousness. Maleek bent down and licked his ear.
"Don't fall asleep on me, baby," he said.
"This feels too good," Dre moaned. "Where did you learn to give a massage?"
"I taught myself," he said, neglecting to add that the generous feedback of his clients had sharpened his skills, too.
"I can't believe we're together again," Dre said. He rose from his reclined position so he could look into Maleek's eyes. "I have really missed you, Maleek. I -- I'm sorry for hurting you. I never wanted to do nothing to cause you pain. I never wanted to be away from you." Maleek stared at Dre without comment. It was almost laughable how indignant he'd become over Dre's dalliance with Bruce a year ago. What did it really matter? Dre had told him even then how much he loved him, how worthless the tryst and Bruce had been. Maleek's perspective was quite different now, and he knew he'd been wrong to run away from the love he saw still burning in Dre's obsidian eyes.
"Can you forgive me?" Maleek asked.
"Forgive YOU? For what?" Dre asked.
"For being a punk and running away. I should've stayed and dealt with my feelings. You hurt me, so I hurt you. But two wrongs never made a right, Dre. I was wrong. I still love you."
"And I still love you."
Their lips met in a soul kiss, not deep but intense, wet and slow. Maleek flicked off the light as he fell on top of Dre, a position he stayed in all night.
Although exhausted, Dre woke early the next morning. He stared at Maleek sleeping soundly next to him and smiled. The reunion had been all that and then some. Maleek's lovemaking skills had definitely improved and shocked Dre. He had penetrated Dre painstakingly slow, allowing him to feel the texture and thickness of every inch sliding inside his ass. He kept it up until Dre felt like he would lose sanity, choosing that moment to plunge deep and fast. He would change up at the exact moment Dre longed for something different -- almost as if reading his mind. Not surprisingly, Dre came several times before Maleek reached his first climax. Many others followed, as evidenced by the used condom wrappers littering the nightstand and floor next to the bed. Dre sat up and stretched. Trying to be useful, he began picking up the condom wrappers. The few unopened condoms that were on the nightstand he gathered and prepared to put in the night stand drawer where Maleek kept his condoms. Dre's smile froze on his face when he saw the contents of the drawer.
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BMOC Chapter 45
The inside of Maleek's drawer looked like a display rack at a sex novelty store - packages upon packages of condoms, regular and flavored; two or three cock rings; an economy-size bottle of lube and what really threw Dre for a loop: a double-headed black dildo. He rifled through the contents, his heart pounding inside his chest. The boxes that contained the regular condoms were part of a pre-wrapped 20 pack set. According to Dre's quick calculations, only 11 boxes remained. Each box held 12 condoms. He didn't need to do too much math to know that Maleek hadn't been hurting for companionship lately. With all the unopened boxes of condoms and a treasure chest of sexual aids, it was clear that Maleek didn't plan to be alone anytime soon, either.
Dre sat up in the bed. He glanced at Maleek, who was sleeping peacefully. The face was familiar, but the man who Dre had spent the past hours with was not the same man he'd known in St. Louis. The Maleek of old would be embarrassed by the thought of a dildo. The new Maleek stored a dildo in his nightstand like a pair of socks. The changes permeated every aspect of Maleek -his clothing, his attitude, his lovemaking - to the point that Dre had to wonder. Could one man be enough to satisfy Maleek's voracious new appetite?
The question, or rather the uncertainty of its answer, made so anxious that he decided to get up and shower. The water was extra warm the way he liked and the pressure of the water against his skin was almost as good as a massage. He contemplated the past few days. Two amazing things had happened in his life that he had no way of anticipating - Brucedeath and Maleek's return. Brucedeath had brought he and Maleek back together. With Bruce no longer around to cause trouble, Dre assumed he and Maleek would sail smoothly into their reunion. That was the problem with assumptions; they rarely reflected the reality of a situation. Dre didn't consider how a 10-month separation could change not only appearances and feelings but also personalities and values. He had changed. More importantly, Maleek had changed and if Dre wanted back the intimacy they'd shared before, he'd have to understand the passions that motivated the new Maleek.
The shower door slid open, and drafts of cold air to hit Dre's nude body. Maleek stood in the opening, looking refreshed and absolutely delicious to Dre in his birthday suit. "Need some extra hands?" Maleek asked.
The promise of pleasure twinkling in Maleek's puppy brown eyes was irresistible.
"Why should I settle for hands if I can have the whole package?"
Dre gripped Maleek around the neck, pulling him into a wet kiss. Some of Dre's earlier fears dissolved with each feverish slide of Maleek's tongue on top of his own. Dre brought one leg slowly up to rest against Maleek's thigh. Maleek ran his right hand from Dre's calf to his thigh and in his left, he cupped as much of Dre's behind as his hand could hold. Now that he felt Dre's skin against his fingertips again, he didn't want to let go. He gripped Dre even tighter, and Dre responded, grinding against Maleek until both were standing erect. All the months they had been apart, Maleek feared being with Dre again as much as he longed for it. Knowing that his first love, his only love, had lied to him hit Maleek in a place so private, so vulnerable that he doubted he could be intimate with Dre without thinking about the betrayal. But here he was holding Dre and touching him like he never had, with more passion than he'd ever possessed, and Bruce DeLeon was the last thing on his mind. Dre was now and had been the lone star burning in his waking thoughts and his dreams. Despite the hurt that Dre's lie had caused him, Maleek had not stopped loving him.
He felt Dre's tongue caressing the rim of his outer ear and he shivered, not a three-second tremor along one arm, but a slow quake that radiated from the hairs on his toes to the hair on his head. He moaned so loudly, Dre almost thought he was faking. But he was not fronting; for the first time in almost a year, he was feeling. If only Dre had known of the lion's dens Maleek had put himself in the past few months, of all the nights he played the role of a high-priced, late night sexual snack, always fulfilling someone else's appetite but never his own. Love wasn't a factor in his escorting, money was. He saw only lust in the eyes of his tricks, never what he saw in Dre's eyes on the stoop of the mortuary, and what he'd seen in them every minute since. He held Dre a little tighter. He knew that the climax of his new day was about to happen in his shower and he was going to take his time. He was going to spend more time loving Dre, and to prove it, he dropped to his knees and worshipped Dre's brick-stiff dick first with his eyes, his gentle-as-a-feather breaths and when Dre could not withstand the torturous foreplay a second longer, Maleek opened his lips and sealed them around the cap of Dre's glistening head. His tongue swabbed the tip expertly. To Dre, it felt like three tongues in three different places. He gripped the showerhead and threw his head back, mouth dropped in awe. Yes, he thought between moans of pleasure, this is love. This is what it feels like to make love. And Maleek thought the same thing as he extended his jaw, steaming the rest of Dre's erection in his warm mouth. Their love was a strong bond. He didn't doubt this fact. But he wasn't naïve enough to believe that his escorting wouldn't affect their relationship. He also wasn't foolish enough to think that he'd keep this secret of his on the DL forever, nor did he intend to keep it secret. This is why he was determined to love Dre hard and love him strong, harder and stronger than before. He pushed himself to the point of lockjaw-sucking Dre's piece and pushed beyond, hurting himself to pleasure Dre. Knowing Dre was close to the edge, he allowed one finger and then another to penetrate Dre's ass, pressing his fingers like pressure points against his Dre's prostate to heighten the flood of his release. Anything to bring Dre pleasure. For despite his belief in their love, Maleek feared that when the bomb dropped as he knew it would, love alone would not save the day.
* * * * *
The best nurses tend to know which of their patients are going to recover, and like the 5th floor nurse at Champaign's Pavillion Memorial, they don't rely on a charts or doctor's opinions to form their own. Lana Murray, R.N. had spent nearly 20 years directing the recovery of the sick and diseased at Pavillion and elsewhere, and rare was the time that her intuition about patients had been wrong. And she had an intuition about Jay King. As she noted Jay's progress (or lack of, as the case was) on this, the 12th night of his coma, he didn't exhibit the worry that was typical with such a case. Even those outside the medical profession knew that a coma was a serious condition. Nurse Murphy knew what many of them did not. Being in a coma is like being in a fire - the longer you stay in, the worse the effects. The outcomes for patients who remained comatose longer than a week followed two paths: Either they never regained consciousness or they came out changed forever, physically as well as mentally. Nurse Murphy's sixth sense told him that Jay was fighting his way from down under and for good reason. Love was waiting for him in the form of a buxom young woman who visited Jay's room each day and stayed until the close of visiting hours.
Nurse Murray didn't know the young woman's name, but as one who practiced dedication, he recognized it in others. The young woman was dedicated to Jay. She held his hand, talked to him and adjusted his pillow when the urge hit her. To Nurse Murray, it looked like love.
Cherron knew different. She did not love Jay. She thought of him as a friend, not an especially close one, but a friend nonetheless. He had been kind to her. She had felt comfortable with him. Now that she thought of it, their budding friendship reminded her of the early days with Lonnell. She fought thoughts of Lonnell now. She tried to focus on Jay and pray for his recovery, to pray for one life to be spared in the tragedy that marred her present and left her future uncertain. Just sitting at Jay's bedside, stroking his hand and saying a silent prayer for his recovery made her feel better. It assuaged her guilt. She was guilty of nothing but felt the weight of everything on her shoulders. If only she'd not taunted Lonnell about his condition. If only she'd insisted Jay stay with her at her dorm for awhile . If only she hadn't allowed Bruce to seduce her . If only. She burned most of each day's energy beating herself up, and with it, the light of life within her dimmed more. She needed just a spark of hope, a small sign that the wrongs could be somehow righted.
Jay gave her that sign.
"The hell it is," Nurse Murray would later say to those who proclaimed its a miracle when Jay opened his eyes on the thirteenth (and last day) of his coma. She had known Jay would recover all along. The only question once Jay stabilized was how his deep sleep had affected him.
 

nubnlrd

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BMOC Chapter 46

Jay would later say it was like waking up and seeing his world with new eyes - perhaps the way a newborn might. When his eyelids first parted, the rush of light into his pupils nearly blinded him. He closed his eyes then slowly opened them again. It took several minutes for his vision to focus; it didn't help that doctors were shining more lights into his already traumatized eyes. His hearing - or rather, his listening skills - sharpened gradually, as if he were emerging from the deep. All around him were faces, all unfamiliar, crowding his bed as their mouths moved, making sounds but not communicating anything - at least to Jay. It took minutes before his dormant brain began to process his environs and the people around him.
"My name is Dr. Atkins, Dr. Yale Atkins. You're at Pavillion Memorial Hospital. Can you tell me your name?"
Jay stared at the bespectacled older gentleman in the long white coat. "Hospital?" His voice was non-existent. He repeated himself. "Hospital? Wha? What happened?"
Dr. Atkins asked again for Jay's name.
"Jay Byron King," he said.
"Good," Dr. Atkins said. "Why don't you tell me what you remember about what happened."
Jay searched for the memory, but got nothing but a headache for his effort. "I don't . I can't remember," he said.
Dr. Atkins pulled up a chair and stared his patient, who was rubbing one of his temples and wrinkling his face in discomfort. The doctor began a routine of evaluations that began by pulling back the sheets and running an implement along Jay's right leg. "Can you feel that?" he asked.
Jay nodded.
Dr. Atkins repeated the action on Jay's left leg. He moved to Jay's hands and found that Jay was able to respond to stimuli as well as grip and manipulate objects with all his fingers. Still, the doctor could not in good practice say that the coma had left no effects on Jay. The fact that Jay could not remember the accident that caused his coma was not particularly alarming; most if not all head trauma victims lacked memory of the hours directly preceding the trauma. The doctor knew what had to come next. He asked a question and the answer gave him a clear idea of the extent of damage left by the coma.
******
Dre proofread his essay one last time, making sure all sentences were complete and that the document was organized coherently. He'd written enough of these essays to be an expert on crafting them, yet he still felt a twinge of uncertainty as the line in front of him shortened, bringing him one step closer to the admissions clerk. He'd already made plans to study fashion merchandising at Syracuse University in the fall, but Maleek's reappearance and their subsequent reunion made him rethink his plans. He couldn't leave his baby after getting a chance to prove himself worthy of Maleek's love and trust.
University of Illinois hadn't even made it to the bottom of his list of potential colleges for two good reasons. First, he refused to be on the same campus with a predator like Bruce DeLeon. The thought of being in his big brother Jay's shadow for another four years also made him wary of applying to UI. The way things stood now, neither Bruce nor his brother could be used as excuses to stop his application. Although he hadn't discussed his decision with his parents, he felt they would support him because as a U I student, he could continue to keep an eye on Jay's condition for them. Even if they didn't agree, Dre knew that nothing - not even rejection by the university - would stop him from staying in the area. He wanted, no, had to be where Maleek was.
He presented his application to the admissions clerk, who processed them but instructed him to take his supporting materials, including the essay, to the school or department to which he was applying. After she gave him thorough directions, he set off across the campus. The picturesque quad was straight out of a typical college brochure, with stately brick buildings supported by white granite columns, verdant green lawns clipped to perfection and dissected by sidewalks populated by members of Generation Next in all their diversity. It was a beautiful May day, the week after the end of the spring semester and the university appeared to be almost fully recovered from the tragedy that had rocked the campus and community almost two weeks before. Dre could see himself walking the quad, enjoying college with new friends. By the time he arrived in the Department of Art & Design, he was pumped about the prospect of becoming a student in the fall.
The office was small and attended by one clerk, who was on the phone with his back turned when Dre entered. Dre could tell from the size of the clerk's broad shoulders and overly developed biceps that he was a muscle head, but he wasn't prepared for the entire package of muscles and masculinity that greeted him when the clerk hung up the phone and stood to attend to him. He stood at least two inches taller than Dre's 6 feet and wore a see-through black silk shirt with short sleeves. His pecs were deeply defined, capped by fleshy nipples, one of which was pierced, and his stomach hard-grooved, a true six-pack plus two. He had the body of a man and the face of a boy. No facial hair, no razor bumps, no sign that he'd ever grown hair on his face at all. His smile was eager in a child-like way and his black eyes sparkled with the fresh amazement of a newborn.
"May I help you?"
"Yeah, I . I'm applying to the department and uh, the - the clerk from admissions told me to bring this here." He extended the manila folder that held his essay.
The clerk took the folder and rather than set it aside, he flipped it open and skimmed the essay.
Dre's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "I didn't know reading applications was part of the clerk's job," he said.
"I'm actually a graduate assistant in the department. I'm filling in for the clerk this week. And no, reading applications isn't part of the job. But I always get a little curious when I see shorties admiring the package." He ran his hand across his torso for emphasis. "So you liking the view?"
Dre's lips parted in shock. He wasn't expecting to run into a flirt, especially one so damn fine, and didn't know how to respond. He rubbed the back of his neck as he searched for words. He settled on, "It's all good."
The clerk came from behind the desk. "Well if you like what you see, you'll love what you can't see."
The combination of the sexy accent, the innuendo, the body and the clerk’s close proximity made Dre's head a little light. "Where you from?" Dre asked, hoping to move the conversation in a different direction.
"D.R. Dominican Republic, baby," The name’s Leon Lopez. Let me get your number."
"No," Dre said. "But I'll take your number."
"Bet." Leon grabbed a pen and took Dre's hand in his. He wrote the number on his palm. "I'm chilling with my boys at the gym tonight, so don't call tonight. But you better call me soon, playboy."
The phone rang and Leon rushed to answer it. Dre took that as his cue to leave. In the hallway, he stared at the seven numbers written on his hand and shook his head, smiling. He had to admit he was tempted to take Leon up on his offer, but he knew better. Maleek was, as Whitney would say, all the man Dre needed. He found the nearest restroom and washed the ink off his hand. That accomplished, he left the campus headed for Maleek's place, anxious to share news of his college decision with Maleek.
* * * * *
Eppi paced the hall outside Jay's hospital room, alternately biting her fingernails and rubbing the back of her neck. When Jay's eyes began to open, she had been there in the room, not bedside but staring out the window, lost in her own guilt, remorse and feelings of helplessness as the machines began to beep. She rushed to Jay's side and watched in disbelief as his eyes fluttered open then closed. She thought something was wrong, that perhaps his brain was seizing. She cried out for help. The doctors and nurses that soon rushed into the room quickly ushered her out so that they could attend to their patient. They gave no indication of what was happening to Jay, and even now, agonizing minutes later, she feared the worst.
However indirect her part in Jay's accident, she felt completely responsible. His death would be her responsibility, too, she thought. Imagining Jay dead made her light headed and her breaths short. She stumbled down to the waiting room at the end of the hall and collapsed in a chair tucked into an alcove. She was on the verge of hyperventilating at this point. She folded her head between her legs, breathing as deeply as she could. In between breaths, she wondered how different things would be had she gotten away from Lonnell or at the very least, gotten professional help for him when his violent tendencies first appeared. She began to pray more furiously than before, asking God to keep and hold Jay and not make him pay for her mistakes. She called on the man down under, too, promising her soul in exchange for Jay's life. Minutes she spent praying and promising things that were hers and things that were not. As her panic subsided, she rose from her seat, wiped her tears and made the long trek down the hallway to Jay's room. She knew she wasn't ready to hear the news, but she had to face reality. She was standing across from the door when Dr. Atkins and his crew exited. Timidly, she listened to their conversation.
"Call the parents," Dr. Atkins instructed one of the nurses.
"Yes, doctor. They'll be pleased," the nurse replied.
"I knew he'd come around. Didn't I tell you all that young man would make a recovery?" Nurse Murphy said.
Eppi didn't wait for the staff to finish their discussion. She rushed into Jay's room. He was sitting up in bed, staring across the room in the direction of the window.
"Jay?"
Slowly, as if on a ten-second delay, he turned his head in her direction. He stared at her without response. She ran over to his bed and hugged him as tears streamed down her face. "Thank God!" She kept saying as she squeezed him harder. She released him after nearly squeezing him to death and found him staring at her.
"How are you?" She asked.
"I'm okay," he replied. "Tired."
She stroked his cheek. "I am so glad to see you awake. You scared me so much, Jay."
"Do I know you?" Jay asked.
Eppi laughed. "I see you still have your sense of humor," she said.
His expression hadn't changed. And as Eppi stared into his eyes, the reality of the situation began to reveal itself to her. She rose off the bed, slow with disbelief.
"Oh, no. You - you don't remember me, do you?"
 

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BMOC Chapter 47:



Jay shook his head. "No. I guess I don't remember you," he said. That had to be true, he thought. The sista standing next to his bed was the type you didn't easily forget. It was clear from her sweatshirt, ponytail and unmade face that she wasn't at her best, so he could only imagine how fly she looked when she put in some effort. Jay smiled at her. "I wish I did remember you."
Eppi sat back down on the edge of his bed.
"Maybe it's good that you don't remember me. I'm the reason you're sitting up here anyway."
"You? What could you do to me - besides making me smile?"
Eppi smiled in spite of herself. She had traveled some emotional highs and lows lately, but being in Jay's company, even if he didn't remember her, was still a great comfort. She embraced him, thankful that the ordeal hadn't taken the real essence of Jay's character. She followed the embrace with a kiss on his cheek.
"OK. I must be a good boy to deserve all this love," he said.
"You are. You really are."
Jay saw tears at the edges of Eppi's eyelids. He reached out and swiped one away before it could fall.
"So, tell me how I do know you?" Jay said.
Eppi turned away from him. Explaining that to Jay would require her to mention both Bruce and Lonnell, and she didn't know that either of them was ready to deal with that yet.
"Jay, do you remember what happened to you? How you ended up here?"
He shook his head. The doctor had already asked this question for which Jay had no answer. Now that it was being asked again, Jay felt a pang of anxiety in his stomach. He'd never had a problem with memory before, but now he could not remember. The doctor told him that it was normal to forget some of the events immediately leading up to the brain injury, but he had a feeling that his memory loss was more extensive than that. He remembered something the doctor had said earlier.
"Pavillion. Pavillion Memorial," he said aloud. "That's not in St. Louis."
"No. You're in Champaign."
"Where the university is?"
Eppi nodded.
"Why am I in Champaign? What is today?" He asked.
"Wednesday," Eppi replied without much thought.
"No, I'm talking about the date."
"May 15."
Jay propped himself up. "And the year?"
Eppi stared at him, puzzled. "2011."
"2011?!"
His shoulders slumped. No wonder the doctor had asked the question. Jay shook his head. His most recent memory was his 17th birthday - two years earlier. He gripped his head at his temples.
"What the hell is going on? Why don't I remember anything?"
* * * * *
The Factory, Champaign's ultra-modern health club, bustled with the usual weekday crowd - a mix of gym rats, fat-conscious female professors and housewives and a few faithful crotch watchers who passed time salivating over the well-packed outlines of the male forms on constant display. As usual, brothers were the minority, so when Leon Lopez strutted in with two of his boys, they turned heads at least once and even twice, especially when they changed into their muscle shirts and started pumping, pressing and sweating. Leon, more than his comrades, was used to being the centerpiece, the object of attraction. Half African American, half Puerto Rican, Leon definitely got the best of both worlds. The Factory provided him a stage on which to advertise his goods and the means to keep those goods in mint condition. He loved the wall-length mirrors in the club. As he worked out, he could observe each of his admirers and tailor his performance for effect. If he saw tongues wagging, he knew to push himself - within limits - to really make his muscles jump.
"You oughta quit, playa," Leon's friend said. "You might mess around and send one of these queens to the hospital with a heart attack."
"No better way to go," Leon said, pressing weight off his chest. He stopped, stood up, muscles straining everywhere and fondled his dick, which was already half-erect. "Except getting laid with this pipe." He smiled.
"And the winner for Most Conceited in a gym full of muscle queens is Leon King!" His other friend said.
"Hey don't knock it 'til you try it," Leon said.
"Shiiiit. The only thing we could do is have a dick fight. In case your slow ass can't read, the sign on my ass says "One Way: Do Not Enter," friend #2 replied.
The fellas laughed. "So who's the lucky trick tonight?" Friend #1 asked Leon.
"I might pass a business card out," Leon said. "But that's about it. I'm expecting a call from this shorty that cruised me in the office today."
"Yeah, so?" Friend #2 asked.
"So what?"
"You gon' pass up an opportunity to make that paper and get some ass? This one must be something."
Leon chuckled. "You can say that."
"So now wait a minute - he's calling you? You gave him your number?" friend #1 asked.
"Yep. He wouldn't give me his."
The two friends exchanged a surprised look. "You mean to say this boy took a look at you and wasn't falling all over himself volunteering the digits?" Friend #2 said with fake shock.
Leon rolled his eyes. "I ain't gonna say all that. He was feeling me, believe that."
Friend #2 smiled. "And what if he don't call?"
Leon didn't hesitate. "He will."
"How can you be sure?" Friend #1 asked.
"Because I know, alright? When I saw him walk in the office, I knew he wanted to sample the pipe, just like I knew I was gonna have to hit that shit hard enough to make dude bowlegged."
Friend #1 mopped his neck with his towel and stood. "Just don't get your feelings hurt when he don't call."
"Won't happen," Leon said.
Friend #1 shrugged. "Whatever, Lee. You'd probably be better off finding a trick for tonight. Not like I give a fuck, since I got my baby at home waiting for me."
"I still don't believe this shit," Leon said. "After running your mouth about how this dude played you, you let this cat back in like nothing happened. What the fuck is up with that?"
"That's my bizness," Friend #1 said.
"Oh, I know punk. Yo ass is in luv," Leon said.
"No you didn't go there," Friend #2 said.
"No, I didn't go there. Playa over here did," Leon said. "Look at him. He all starry-eyed and shit."
"Suck my dick," Friend #1 said, mock serious.
"But on the real. When do we get to meet your boy?" Friend #2 asked.
Friend #1 shrugged.
"How long you think you can lie to him about your job?" Leon asked.
"I'm not lying about my job," Friend #1 said.
"OK. How long you think you can keep your boy from finding out you a professional hoe?" Leon asked.
Friend #1 wrapped his towel around his neck and contemplated. He answered, "For as long as I can."
"What? You ashamed of what you doing?" Friend #2 asked.
"It ain't that," Friend #1 said. "I just know he would be 'shamed and I don't want no more drama."
"A'ight, Mary J.," Leon said, alluding to the Mary J. Blige song by the same title.
Friend #1 backed away from his friends, smirking with his middle finger extended.
"Fuck me? You wish. Save that finger for yo boy," Leon joked.
"Catch you later Maleek," Friend #2 said to Maleek’s back.
Friend #1, better known as Maleek, waved but didn't turn around. He walked off, shaking his head and laughing. Leon was a trip, he thought, but what did he know about love? Leon knew all about self-love; the brother could write the authoritative guide on the subject. Maleek couldn't just come out and tell Dre that he was a male escort, anymore than he could introduce him to a firecracker like Leon. He shuddered at the thought of his baby anywhere near Leon Lopez.
He and Leon were cool, but their sensibilities were totally different. Maleek knew that Leon was a firm believer in Malcolm X's principle of getting what he wanted by "any means necessary." And for a confirmed dog like Leon, "any means" included sexing the lovers of his so-called friends. Maleek knew better than to consider Leon a friend. They were associates by nature of their profession. They both escorted for "ILL Mocha Men," a Chicago-based service with down-low satellite sites in most of the state's big college towns. Maleek hung out with Leon and a few other boys in the DL crew, working out and working the clubs for tricks on occasion, but he didn't go out of his way to stay in Leon's face.
He regretted sharing the news of him and Dre's reunion with Leon. It opened a door that Maleek had built between his professional and romantic lives. Leon and the crew wanted to meet Dre, but Maleek refused to allow that. He hoped to ditch his down-low work in the next couple of months and didn't see a purpose in exposing Dre to it. And he definitely saw no point in exposing Dre to Leon Lopez - ever.