Talker's Graduation Read Free Page B

efforts, and that side of
    his body was noticeably smaller than the other side.
    His ribs weren‟t in their natural place. There were lumps on
    them from healing and one of them had been dislocated—it had
    been popped back, but it was still not at a normal angle in his
    ribcage. There were three scars on his stomach, where they‟d had
    to go in and repair his internal organs and take out his spleen. His
    nose had been broken too, and there were a couple of fading
    surgical scars on his forehead, his cheek, above his eyebrow, and
    on his temple.
    And in spite of this—oh, God, in spite of everything—he was
    still the most beautiful boy Talker had ever seen. The scars didn‟t
    matter—they didn‟t even register. The asymmetry of his once-fit,
    perfect body was not even a thing. Talker kissed down his neck,
    down to his shoulder, and kissed every scar on the front, while
    moving his hand to the back and rubbing those scars with his
    thumb. He extended his tongue and dragged it down, down, down
    to Brian‟s nipple, suckling gently, while Brian “hmmd” and groaned
    and gasped above him. He kept kissing, down to the soft skin of
    Brian‟s stomach, touching those scars with his lips. Brian was
    wearing sweats, and Talker dragged those down too, finding that
    familiar, impressive erection waiting for him.
    It was beautiful, too—thick, long, curving ever-so-slightly
    toward Brian‟s belly button as it flexed there on Brian‟s stomach.
    Tate knew that Brian hadn‟t spent his boyhood dreaming about a
    man‟s body—he hadn‟t spent it dreaming about a woman‟s either—
    but Brian‟s lack of awareness had no effect on his body. Tate had
    seen enough photos to know that Brian‟s equipment was… lush. A
    bounty of riches. More manhood than any one boy should have. As
    he stroked his crippled hand over it, Talker thought about the last
    time he and Brian had made love, before the beating. (He could say
    those words now. Brian had been beaten. Talker had been raped.
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    They weren‟t powerful anymore. Talker was stronger than those
    words.) Brian had given himself—allowed himself to be penetrated,
    because Tate was all freaked out over not having „the big A‟. His
    fears, his complete denial over his trauma, all of it had made him
    afraid, terrified of having his body invaded, hurt, discarded.
    Talker had seen real fear since then, had lived his own
    memories thrown back into his face like iced acid and watched as
    Brian‟s life had hung ever so precariously, and he had prayed. His
    prayers had nothing to do with “Let me not be raped again,” and
    everything to do with “Let Brian live.”
    God, he wanted Brian to live, and live well, and have every
    good thing in the world.
    Talker dropped his head, lowering his lips to pull that
    magnificent, tender, hard, velvet flesh into his mouth and pull in his
    cheeks with suction. Brian stroked the side of his face, the one with
    the tattoos and the hair that wouldn‟t grow in, and Talker sucked
    him in again. He pulled up and released with a little pop, and smiled
    shyly into Brian‟s blue eyes.
    “Do you, uhm… want to… you know… orificially, uhm… do
    me?”
    Brian blinked and started to giggle. “Now?” he strangled.
    “You‟re asking me now? ”
    Tate tried not to laugh back, and gave another stroke-and-
    slurp, just to make sure the distraction hadn‟t ruined the moment.
    “Maybe later,” he murmured, thinking about later, and he lowered
    his head again, taking Brian into his mouth and pleasuring him
    again and again and again, until Brian grunted softly, arched his
    back, dug his hands into the covers, and came without inhibition,
    spurting solidly into the back of Talker‟s throat, knowing that Talker
    would swallow, and that what he couldn‟t swallow he would let slide
    into the covers, and they‟d do the laundry together.
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    When he was done, Tate pulled himself