Millstone - Novel 01

Hanging the Chimney Hook

All Rights Reserved © 2020, Rick Haydn Horst

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER FOUR

The problem with the bathroom wasn't a small one (or rather, that was its problem). Our bathroom was so small you had to step outside it to change your mind. (Ba-dum-bump, as the comedy drum goes), and the

diminutive nature

of the apartment had expressed itself there at its worst. It contained a single pedestal sink, squeezed next to a round seated toilet, and the size of our corner shower wouldn't allow us to bend over without bumping our head. So, if anything would make us move relatively soon, the bathroom was it.

When evening came, Max prepared for bed last. As he tried to shower, he struck up a conversation with me about a gym. "How do you feel about weight training together? I found a gym on the net we might like, and they have a beautiful, full-service locker room with a dry sauna and an enormous shower."

I laughed. "That sounds like heaven right now, doesn't it? I would love to work out together; perhaps I'll pick up some pointers from you. So, where might we find this enormous shower?"

"We passed it earlier today on the other side of town," he said.

"Naturally. This side of town has just enough luck to have the market, the gas station, and the greasy spoon."

"That's probably why they consider this the low rent district. You know, I think I figured out why Sawyer picked this apartment."

"Why?"

"He wanted to incentivize you to do well."

"...so I could move out as quickly as possible," I said. "How clever of him."

Once we had cozied ourselves into bed, Max had me fluff our pillows behind me, so I could lean against the wall. He climbed under the covers and locked lips with his lengthy friend downstairs, and with that kind of attention, it hadn't taken long for it to stand-to. He swirled his tongue around the head and stroked it delicately along the sensitive underside, feeling the soft skin move over the wood-like interior. He knew what I liked, and he pulled out all the stops.

I started noticing that, while Max may have had his hands and mouth on my cock as usual, causing me sensations that I hadn't felt before, his goal in doing it was turning from drinking my man juice to pleasing me. No one had ever bothered before. In the past, anyone having an experience with someone my size, gulping down a few mouthfuls of my essence, and having a good story to tell their friends, seemed enough for the others. Afterward, they would move on. For the first time, I found myself on the other end of the dick, and

I

was the one having the amazing experience. Except, rather than moving on from Max, it made me want to hold him even closer.

Max had half my cock stuck deep in his gullet, where we both liked it, bringing my load to a boil as he gave his throat a good cleaning. He wanted to hold it so deep I shot my whole load directly into his stomach, just to find out what it felt like. He could throat me fully, but he told me that it felt uncomfortable, and he couldn't stay there for long. So, the limitations of his anatomy and the necessity of breathing would prevent that dream from coming true. He throated my cock from the head to half-way over and over. My breath grew heavy as waves of pleasure radiated over me. The uncontrollable undulating of my head started as he pushed me near the edge--close...close. I could feel it...so close. A short sharp breath and...release. Again, and again, and again. The winking-out of consciousness, riding the pleasure as Max drank and drank from me, slaking his thirst as I rewarded him with a job well done. My head thudded against the wall, and the coiled spring of my body relaxed, both exhausted and contented.

I felt him moving under the covers, and then he growled several times. "Are you jacking off?"

"Uh-huh," he said. "Into my hand, of course." He flipped back the comforter and showed me.

"What will you do with it?"

"I don't usually eat my own unless it's happening in the moment."

I took his wrist. "Let me see." I brought his hand to my face. "I've been thinking, if it's going to be you and me together, I want to learn to please you in whatever way I can."--I looked at the pool of cum in his palm--"You've kissed me after having blown me before, so I have an idea of what to expect now. And while I've never tried this full strength, I want it, just because it's yours." I licked his hand, savoring the most intimate and personal thing that Max could ever give me. Not long ago, I would have expected to retch, but the flavor hadn't tasted nearly as bad as I used to expect, and I swallowed it down.

"Why would you do that?" he asked.

My head tipped as I looked him in the eye. It seemed hard to explain except to say, "Because I wanted a part of you inside of me."

With an expression that I could only interpret as amazement, love, and passion, he rushed forward to kiss me, holding his lips to mine, the remnants of one another shared between us, as we made one more step toward an intimacy neither of us had ever felt with anyone else.

The muffled sound of the alarm clock, stuffed between the mattress and the wall, woke me at 6 o'clock. Max lay on his back semi-awake. I ran my hand down his chest and stomach, feeling his man-fur, to discover he had morning wood that protruded up to his navel. I had awoken to a new day, a day of discovery, of closeness, and a greater appreciation of the circumstance that brought Max and me together. I ducked under the cover, laid my head on his belly, and carefully took him into my mouth. I had never sucked a dick in my life, but if I ever sucked one, it would be that of my Golden Bear. He deserved as much pleasure from me as he had--without fail--given to me daily, and I wanted to do it. I'd had enough blow jobs over the years to know how, and his dick tasted fine; the flavor of his runny sap was light and barely noticeable. The wetness helped to keep the glide of my mouth smooth and pleasurable for him. I took note to watch the teeth as I gave him the best blow my inexperience could provide. He let me know he enjoyed it when he placed his hand on my head, and I worked his cock over with my tongue and lips, gradually understanding why Max found sucking me so much fun. The ability to make him squirm while sucking him felt empowering in such a positive way that, near the end, I had embraced the idea that sucking his dick was a thing I could do, and I felt okay with that. As he came in my mouth, I realized, as others had expressed in the past, cum tastes better when body temperature and straight from the tap. He pressed his hand onto my head, growling with every spurt of cum. I came up for air and kissed him.

"I can't believe you did that."

"Only for you, my beautiful Golden Bear, only for you."

He smiled. "Am I your Golden Bear?"

"That's okay, isn't it?"

He flipped me on my back and straddled me, kissing me deeply for many minutes when we heard a knock. We stopped and listened for a moment, and the knock happened again.

"What the hell?" I asked. "This is early."

"Answer the door naked," he said, "I learned in New York, if it's the Jehovah's Witnesses, they'll run."

I laughed and kissed him again, thinking we would just ignore it, but the knock sounded again.

"I guess we better see who has such bad timing," I said, "it could be important."

Max let me up, and I hadn't bothered to dress or don a robe.

"I joked about answering the door like that!" he said.

"This is Franklin. People walk the street naked; should I care who sees me? At this time of the morning, they deserve what they get."

Max joined me as I gazed out the peephole. I saw a young man, and he looked harmless enough, so I opened the door. The handsome 20-year-old wore a slim-fit gray suit. Even with his hair trimmed to the scalp, I could tell he was biracial. I envied his skin tone; I never could get an even tan on Coney Island.

"May I help you?" I asked.

"Wow!" He smiled, looking us up and down. "Good morning. Are you detectives, Misters Millstone and Roche?"

The cordial manner with which he spoke in his clean-sounding accent told me he had some education. He stood with his head held high and shoulders back.

"Yes. We haven't acquired our business license yet, but that's on an ever-shortening list. What can we do for you?"

"My Auntie Winter sent me, and now I see why she wants to meet you."

"Winter wants to meet us?" asked Max.

I gestured the young man into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

"She apologizes for the short notice," he said, "but she has invited you to an impromptu breakfast this morning. We hope you've not eaten. She also has a job offer for you...of a sort...if you want it."

"Who are you?"

"My apologies, I am Grey," he said, holding out his hand, and we shook it.

"I'm Howard Millstone. Most people seem to call me Millstone, so that's acceptable. This is my associate and partner, Max Roche. Is Grey your given name?"

He smiled. "No, like Auntie Winter, it's the name I chose."

"Nice," I said. "When would she like to meet?"

"Now. If it's not too inconvenient."

"We have no transportation," said Max.

"She knows; that's why she sent me."

"Quite thoughtful of her," said Max as he turned to me. "Shall we go?"

"Let's get dressed. Please, make yourself comfortable, Grey. We won't be long."

Max and I brushed our teeth in a hurry; cum-breath wouldn't exactly provide the best first impression for a potential client. We had yet to obtain any suits, so we dressed in our best casual clothing, and within minutes we stood ready to leave. When we reached the street, in front of the building sat a beautiful silver Mercedes roadster, hardtop convertible.

"Hey," said Max, "I admired one of these on the showroom floor yesterday."

"Auntie Winter bought it yesterday," said Grey. "When I saw it, I thought it a bit odd. I've never known her to make this sort of purchase."

"We have two seats," I said. "Max can't drive. How about I drive, and you sit in Max's lap?"

We climbed in as best we could, given the circumstances, and the seat belt fit over both Max and Grey together. As I drove the roadster in the direction Grey instructed, I couldn't help but love the vehicle, but between the sound of the engine and the power it had, I knew it drank more gas than a cop drinks coffee.

Grey sat confident and calm in Max's lap, and given my Golden Bear's musculature, Max probably barely noticed him. While stuck at a traffic light, I chatted Grey up.

"So, what do you do?" I asked.

"You're the detective," he said, "you tell me."

"Alright." I looked him up and down. He dressed well and wore nice shoes; he demonstrated a quiet confidence for someone of his age; he had both intelligence and a polite manner. He could do anything for all I knew. "You're a gigolo."

He and Max both laughed. "How could you possibly have guessed?" Grey asked.

I shrugged. "It's a gift."

"I go to Franklin College," he said, "and I started my apprenticeship with Auntie Winter, but to be honest, I would rather do something else."

"Well, if the gigolo racket slacks-off, you should consider having something else to fall back on. Where are we going?"

"The Thornbrier Estate, which will soon be redubbed the Winter Estate."

As I soon discovered, Leopold Thornbrier's old estate once loomed above the pointless, unincorporated community of Thornbrier. It sat on the distant outskirts of the city of Franklin. The gothic mansion was once alive and bustling with activity, but after the murder of Lady Thornbrier in 1899, abandonment and ruin had turned it into a source of gossip, rumor, or revulsion for everyone except the Goths. For the Goths--some who desired it for themselves--it held a fascination, especially for Winter.

Unfortunately, the remaining Thornbrier family left the estate to rot, but when the last of the family died, it went up for auction, providing an opportunity for the house to live again. Whoever purchased it would either need the boatloads of money required to restore it or else have it torn down. Winter's was the highest bid among the three people who wanted it, and she stole the place at less than four hundred thousand dollars. Having already had the house's underlying condition researched by a professional, she immediately began to implement her plan to have it moved--the second move of the home's lifetime. The Thornbriers moved the estate piece by piece from France when the Du Pont family sold it in 1889, relocating it to the United States. It took Winter's crew three years to move the home to its new location and restore it.

The estate resided, as the locals say, "on the other side of the bay," misleading a newbie like me with their colloquial expression. They hadn't referred to the body of water on which a third of Franklin sat. They meant Bay Boulevard, which divided the city economically. The community there, where the ancient and nouveau-riche lived, conducted their affairs more separated from everyone else. At first, I disliked the sound of it, and I found its existence both typical and somewhat nauseating, but I hadn't known the whole story.

As I indicated before, Franklin had money...a lot of money. Several sprawling neighborhoods, with homes of the well-to-do, sat on the other side of Bay Boulevard. They consisted of a series of relatively modest estates that one could never call McMansions; the city would not allow those in Franklin. However, we found the erstwhile "Thornbrier Estate" located along Blueberry Lane. The enormous, castle-like gothic mansion, made of a blackish stone block, towered over the landscape, seemingly hundreds of years old, but the neighborhood along that lane looked new. It had proper sidewalks on both sides of the street, underground utilities, and a hydrant near the drive of every home. The estate seemed to fit among the other massive homes, each on ten-acre lots; they had them gated, landscaped, and tended with care.

Oddly, after we parked in the pea gravel drive, Grey led us to the back entrance, which--at first--seemed a tad demeaning, as the designers would have utilized it originally as the servants' entrance. However, the stunning inlaid door led to a beautiful, well-appointed, and modern eat-in kitchen. The space, lit by several windows high on the outer wall, had ten-foot ceilings, and they had plastered the walls, rather than leaving them stone. Winter, with her platinum blonde hair and creamy skin, had worn a pure white, flared, knee-length dress with lace across her shoulders and down her sleeves. She had busied herself setting dishes onto a large round dining table with four place settings. I saw no sign of any servants.

"Mr. Roche, Mr. Millstone," she said with her hand out, "what a pleasure it is to meet you."

"It's good to meet you too, and please, call me Max."

"Yes, pleased to meet you," I said as I shook her hand. "And just call me Millstone. We don't need the formalities."

"Thank you, I will."

"That's a nice jalopy you've got out there," I said.

"Oh, that old thing," she said, feigning a level of flippancy. "It's last year's model. The dealer practically paid me to take it off his hands."

I noticed that she gave Max an approving appraisal, but her vivacious personality and charm had Max and me smiling despite my initial misgivings.

Max seemed less star-struck than when we first saw her. She seemed like the lady who lives next door, rather than the glamorous runway-model we saw in the showroom. Max said to her, "I take it Terrance, the car dealer, told you what you wanted to know about us."

She turned her head a bit and pursed her lips like a naughty girl who gets away with everything. "I hope you don't mind."

"I kind of feel we owe him one," I said.

Max just smiled, utterly charmed by her, and I admit she was nothing like I expected. She invited us to sit and chat while having breakfast with her and Grey. As we ate our omelets and oatmeal and waffles with fruit, they both gave us a lively conversation, and I learned a lot about Franklin that most people who live elsewhere never discover. She and Grey lived in the renovated servant's area downstairs; she referred to it as a bijou apartment; it had only two bedrooms. On the way to the bathroom, I had an opportunity to see some of it. It seemed lovely but a far cry from the enormous mansion above them.

Apparently, none of the wealthy people who lived in the mansions along Blueberry Lane lived in the main portion of the mansion; that portion was open to the public. They were all like Winter and Grey. They all agreed to assist with a municipal investment to purchase the mansions--chosen by the patron--for the City of Franklin as an asset. After the city paid the price for the purchase, the wealthy patron, in this case, Winter, would donate the price of the purchase and restoration to the city's non-profit foundations, which helped maintain many benefits the city's citizens enjoyed. Once the patron made the donations, they deducted the amount from their federal taxes. As a thank you, the buyer, or their younger adult children (which was often the case), opted to live in the apartment rent-free.

When breakfast ended, we relaxed, drinking our coffee, and I took the opportunity to inquire about her offer. "Grey tells us that you have a job for us, of a sort. What sort-of job is it?"

"I would like you both to come to the housewarming," she said.

I asked. "Is this where the 'sort-of' comes in?"

She turned to Max. "If you will agree, I would like you to escort me to the party." She gazed upon us both and seemed apprehensive. "I believe I may have invited a murderer."

"Do you know who it is?" I asked.

"Yes, it's a young man named James Malor. He might know that I've inquired about him. He may not present a danger to me, Max, but I would feel safe if I stayed near you."

"If you know this person has murdered someone," said Max, "why haven't you gone to the police?"

"I did yesterday morning. I left unsatisfied with what they told me. I next went to the car dealer to see about my vehicle, and there you were." She gazed at Max. "You know what happened then." She smiled. "Afterward, I spoke with Terrance, and when he told me you were both detectives, I took it as a sign."

Suddenly it clicked. "Tommy Two-Weeks," I said.

"Yes! I suppose you heard about Tommy from Officer Sawyer. I saw you with him."

"No, we first heard about Tommy at the airport from his roommate Glenn," I said. "He was telling the sisters who had returned from Rome about Tommy's date. I presume you're telling me it was this James Malor."

She nodded. "Humph...sisters," said Winter, "it's always the sisters."

"What's with the sisters?" I asked. "This seems an unlikely place for them. I can't imagine that the Catholic Church sanctions what they do here. I would have thought they'd view Franklin as the epitome of Sodom and Gomorrah?"

"It certainly is for the evangelicals," she said. "How dare we live as we see fit, flaunting our unauthorized happiness!" She rolled her eyes. "Sister Foustina influenced Tommy a great deal. I'm sure he needed her emotional support, but she wasn't the only one who helped him. Many of us did. The Winter Foundation paid a tutor to help him get his general education diploma. He got it too."

"Is that what you do?" asked Max. "Help troubled kids on the street."

"I help in many ways, but Franklin doesn't get the typical homeless. We have no homeless adults; ours are teenage runaways. The Winter Foundation has the resources to help them, and we do. We give them a leg up and help them to help themselves."