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 Sixteen

As Max and I lay cozy in bed, I enjoyed the feel of his firm back muscles and the tactile sensation of digging my fingers into his golden fur. "So, Winter told you that she wants to have your children," I said. "That sounds like a serious offer, and since you had to think about it today, I take it you hadn't given her a flat

no

. Would you want children?"

"I've always thought it would be great to have children, but I think she wants quite a few."

"What did she say?"

"She wants to leave how many open-ended and stop when it feels right. She said if I wanted to know her qualifications, to speak with Grey. Apparently, her sister died, his father rejected him, and Grey has lived with her since he was 4 years old. That Grey's an amazing young man is largely due to her influence and the environment in which she raised him.

"Also, she said that, since she no longer has a last name, the children would bear mine, that we could name them together, and that I could have as much or as little involvement in their lives as I wanted. I must admit, if I picked someone to have my children, I would pick her. She's intelligent, kind, openminded, accepting, and gorgeous."

"Not to mention financially sound," I added.

"That too," he said, "I could only imagine how beautiful our children would be."

"I have no doubt that she thinks the same things of you," I said. "So, what's the problem?"

"I want you to have some input. As far as I'm concerned, we're together, and that's how it's going to stay. So, how would you factor into this? Would you be Daddy Millstone? Would you want to be Daddy Millstone?"

"There's no doubt about it, your agreement would change your life, and therefore, it would change mine. So, I understand why you're asking, and while that's thoughtful if you have every intention of our remaining together, I would be happy no matter how the rest turns out. So, make this about you; if you want to take Winter's offer, then do it."

"Would you ever like to have a child?"

"I never used to," I said, "but I would like a couple of sons. I would give them the benefit of having one another (as an only child, that's something I never had), a healthier communal environment (also something I never had), a better education (that's another), and ensure they got all the things that really matter, but I think life handed me a different set of cards to play."

"I will have your babies," he said. "And if we have a problem conceiving, then we would just have to keep trying, day and night." Just the thought of breeding my beautiful Golden Bear day and night excited me. So, when he hugged and kissed me, it hadn't taken long for me to grow erect, leaking a lot of precum, which Max rubbed around the head of my cock. "I need you."

I pressed my forehead to his. "And I will never deny you your needs."

In the indirect light from a nearby streetlamp, I kissed Max, and he positioned himself face down upon the bed, my full weight upon him, blanketing his body. When I lifted myself to enter him, a series of pushing and pulling worked my precum slickened cock deep inside him, seeking our mutual pleasure. In groans and moans, he thanked me, and arching his spine, he urged me to plunder further, filling him, until once again I lay atop his back. I ran my hands beneath his shoulders and gripped them from the front, grinding my pelvis into his granite-like ass. I kissed his neck and whispered into his ear, "Is that better, Honey Bear?"

Cupping my head in his hand, he dug his fingers into my hair, pressing me to him and taking uneven, staccato breaths, he nodded saying, "Yes." He turned his head, kissed me, and gave me the highest compliment that any man could ever hope to receive about his lovemaking. "I love having you inside me. You are an unimaginable experience; there is nothing and no one else like you."

Hearing that, the consequence of living a lifetime of inadequacy brought upon by excess, began fading and faltering to my mind's furthest recesses, replaced for the first time by a sense of normalcy. My father told me that I judged my self-described "biggest and most obvious flaw" far too harshly and prematurely. He said that one day it would enhance someone's love for me, not act as the prime cause or a problem to overlook.

In a push-up position, I used my toes on Max's heels to gain leverage and proceeded to long-stroke Max the way he enjoyed it most. His breath grew more erratic as he writhed and groaned and grunted beneath me as I drove him inexorably toward squeezing my cock with every shot of every load that he buried beneath him. I fucked him and fucked him and fucked him some more until, after his third cum, we had both tired ourselves too much to continue, so I gave him my second and final load of the evening and collapsed atop him. Our sweat-soaked bodies too exhausted to move, we fell asleep. During the night, we ended up in spoon fashion, and I remained deep inside him until we awoke the next morning at five with the sound of the alarm.

"It smells like you had fun last night," said Trouble, commenting as the five of us entered our quarters for breakfast.

After our workout, we invited Wade, Trouble, and Tucker for breakfast and told them they shouldn't bother dressing after our shower. We hadn't had the chance to clean up from the previous evening and made only a cursory attempt before meeting the fellas for our morning workout, so the heady scent of sweat and sex lingered.

"We had a good time," said Max. "I hope it's not offensive." Max and I began making breakfast while our guests seated themselves at the table.

"It smells like men," said Wade, "and that's never offensive to me."

"Hey Trouble," I said, "how was the extra-special white-glove service last night?"

"I liked Kurt, he had good table manners, and he knew how to have a conversation, but he had no stamina to accompany that gorgeous body and nice cock he had."

"Was he a two-pump chump?" asked Tucker.

"Oh no, not that bad, we went for about twenty minutes, and he could have held off for longer if he hadn't exhausted himself physically."

"Have you ever had anyone who could keep up with you?" asked Max.

"A few," he said, "one of them's right there." He pointed to Wade, who gave a little smile.

"Men should swim more," he said. "So, when shall we meet this afternoon?"

"Millstone, Tucker, and I have plans for ten o'clock at the barbershop that Trouble recommended," said Max, "and we have an appointment to pick up our suits from the tailor at noon, but we're open after that."

"The preparations for the party happened yesterday afternoon," said Wade, "catering will arrive at 4:30 today. Guests are to begin arriving between 6 and 7 o'clock."

"The invitation encourages people to come in cabs to minimize parking issues," said Max, "and Winter asked me to be there at 5:30."

"That settles it then," said Wade. "We'll swap vehicles one more time. Trouble and I will coordinate the electronics, and we'll meet at the mansion at 5:30." He turned to Albert. "Do you have your tux ready?"

"It's always ready," he said.

"How many of us will there be?" Tucker asked Wade.

"It's just the four of us," he said. "I couldn't load the place up with officers; it wouldn't look like an environment to take the chance on getting the ring from you. We wouldn't want to scare this guy off. Max and Millstone received an invitation. You already had one because you worked on the mansion for Alliance. Winter hand-delivered mine yesterday, and Trouble will go as my plus one. She said we could expect about 200 guests or so."

Max and I brought the food to the table, and I asked Tucker, "Are you worried?"

"No. I just want to get it over with and move on with my life."

"Hey, Max," said Trouble, "when you get to the barbershop, tell Johann that I want another long ride on his riesenschwänz."

"Riesenschwänz...is that some kind of German motorcycle?" asked Max.

"It's a sort of giant German crotch rocket, yeah."

"Those things are dangerous, Al," said Max.

"Oh, don't I know it," Albert couldn't help but smile, "but please tell him that anyway."

During the youth of my previous life in New York, my father would take me to the barbershop on 39th Street for what he called a 1952 haircut. That shop no longer exists as the old man retired, but my father, who eschewed the growing trend of men visiting a hair salon, told me that men go to a barbershop. Sure, it's a stereotypical response from a man set in his ways, but a man's visit to a barbershop has a similarity to a woman going to the beauty salon. Contrary to popular belief, men like to get pampered as much as women do. They just have different ideas about what that means. It seems that for many men today being pampered is having a great haircut fast and with little expense. Without realizing it, they've lost something by such meager expectations.

Women may spend more time at a beauty salon, depending on what they want done and how far they want the pampering to go, but there's something about a visit to a good barbershop. Walking in without an appointment, you wait your turn reading the latest newspaper or some twenty-year-old Reader's Digest. You step up to sit in that fancy barber chair, you tell him what you specifically want, and he does just that. In our modern world, with the invention of safety razors with a dozen blades, we could easily shave at home, but there's something pampering about feeling that hot towel in preparation for the closest shave you'll ever experience with a single-bladed straight razor in the hands of a professional. For a man to rely on his barber to keep him looking attractive represents a time-honored tradition as barbershops have existed, in one form or another, for thousands of years.

Along with numerous beauty parlors, hair salons, and quick cuts, the city had 18 barbershops, and naturally, as we lived in Franklin, the one suggested by Albert functioned differently from the one of my youth, but it had many similarities. We found

The Strop Tonsorium

a block from The Village on Peppercorn Drive in an area called Leatherton, home to most of the leather community. Its proximity to the tailor made a welcome convenience.

Two shoeshine stands stood beneath the covered entryway, flanking the plate glass window out front, manned by shirtless young bootblacks, with cropped hair, jeans, and a harness, shining the boots of a couple of handsome leather men reading the paper. Beside the door hung a non-traditional barber's pole in black and white, housed in chrome with a mirror-like finish.

The interior looked as one might expect of a barbershop, except classy. They made the ebony stained flooring and back bar for each station of reclaimed mahogany, and all other aspects of the decor they kept in black, white, and polished chrome, everything from the black ceiling to the black and white walls stenciled in an octagonal pattern to the black leather and polished chrome traditional barber's chairs.

No one else waited when we walked in, and two of the three shirtless and muscular barbers there were busy. They had plaques at their stations, each read Johann, Mitch, Tony, and Andre, who, with his absence, presumably had the day off. After their names were the letters M.B. for Master Barber. The instant we walked through the door, Johann, a handsome thirty-year-old with medium-toned brown hair and enormous hairless pecs, said in his German accent, "Dibs on the red, and I'm almost done here."

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Mitch, the barber with the empty chair. He had the sexiest Apollo's belt I had ever seen. It dipped from the sides of his lower abdomen down into a pair of low waisted jeans that showed he wore nothing beneath. "What can we do for you?"

"We've never been here before," said Max, "so we're curious about the place, and Albert Sawyer asked me to tell Johann that he would like another long ride on your riesenschwänz."

"Oh, he's missing me, ja?" asked Johann, who smiled to himself. "I would like that. Thanks for letting me know."

"Well," said Mitch, "since this is your first time, I probably should tell you, when it comes to hair here, we cut it, trim it, shave it, or rip it out by the roots through various means, both fast and slow, whichever you or your master prefers (if you have one). From the crown of your head to the knuckles of your toes, if it has to do with hair, we accommodate every need. We also have a manicurist for anyone who needs it, especially those masters who enjoy a bit of fist play. Most of those things are through that door to the back. So, what might we do for you three gentlemen?"

As Max explained our situation, Johann finished with the man in his chair, dusted him off, and removed the all-enveloping cape. He paid his barber with his cellphone, thanked him, and left. After prepping his station for another customer, he got Tucker's attention, tapped his chair, and Tucker took him up on it. Max sat in Mitch's chair, and I took a nearby seat next to a table stacked with copies of vintage Christopher Street and Drummer Magazines hardbound in sets of ten, each page laminated and protected with care for the ages to come.

Max required less cutting than Tucker or me, but Tucker needed the most work as he tended not to keep himself clipped or shaved very often. I had tried, at least, but I had only received one non-professional haircut in the last nine weeks.

"You are the sort of client that I enjoy most," said Johann with his Germanic accent. "For some time, you've done little to yourself. May I take some before and after shots? If you give me your number, I will text them."

"I think you just want my phone number," said Tucker.

"Of this, I am guilty."

Tucker smiled and laughed to himself. "You can keep the photos, but my number is...." And he gave him his number.

That satisfied Johann, who took a few headshots. "So, you attend the Winter housewarming, and you dress nice this evening, yes?"

"Not a tuxedo. Something a bit less formal and cooler, or so he told me. It's made by... What's that tailor's name again?"

"Wilson," said Max. "Taylor the tailor."

"Ah!" said Johann. "In that case, we go with stylish, cool, but more devil-may-care. I clean you up, make it easy for you to maintain, and you leave looking like a million dollars, ja? I mean, yes?"

"What do you think, Max?" Tucker asked.

"Sounds perfect," said Max. "Go for it."

"Alright," he said, "let's do this." Once Johann wet his hair, he got started.

Tony had finished with his client, and after he got paid and reset his station, I sat in his chair. He asked me what I wanted, I told him somewhere between dapper and devil-may-care.

Sitting there, as the chair occasionally swiveled while Tony worked his magic, I could see Tucker at the next station. From our first meeting, I would never have guessed that I would find myself in any circumstance like the one I had with him. And my conversation with Max the previous evening made me realize what was happening.

Tucker was 28 years old, but he seemed younger, so I was twelve years older than him according to my original birthdate, but as a child, I could ejaculate semen at the age of ten, so physiologically speaking--and as weird as it sounded even to me, I was old enough to be his father. Obviously, I wasn't his father, but I felt some kind of fatherly connection to him, and I wondered if his avuncular lawyer had sensed that too, but just couldn't allow himself to get that close, settling to act as a slightly more distant uncle-like figure instead. In two aspects, I hadn't thought it much of a problem since Tucker needed a mentor, and he needed people in his life that cared. I would willingly do that, but I would have to remind myself daily that he was not my son until he fit into my life where he belonged, especially since he had wanted to play with Max and me. Otherwise, that could complicate matters.

Mitch had finished with Max, and he looked only slightly neater than the day I met him in the hospital, at the beginning of my stay there. His blonde hair, swept forward and off to the side a bit, suited him perfectly, and recalling that day, I think I loved him from the moment I saw him. I knew I was romanticizing it, but I allowed myself to indulge in it anyway. In every way, he was so beautiful to me.

Tony finished with me a few minutes before Johann finished Tucker. Tony did a great job with mine, but the difference seemed minor compared to the incredible change in Tucker. Johann had given him a slickened side-part, with a bit of hair over his forehead in a sexy, carefree fashion. It had a gradual fade into a well-shaped clipped beard. When he turned Tucker to face the mirror so he could finally see himself, he just stared in disbelief. Johann took a few headshots, and Tucker gave him a broad smile.

"You are ready for a red carpet in Hollywood, I think, ja?" asked Johann.

Tucker nodded. "Ja."

When Tucker stood from the chair, I could tell he felt confident in his appearance, standing just a little taller and straighter. He followed his first impulse and put his arm around Johann, hugging him a little.

Max paid for their haircuts, along with some styling gel Johann recommended for Tucker. But when I pulled my credit card out to pay for mine with Tony, the first thing he said was, "I noticed you've had some work done." And rather than thinking of a quick comeback, my mind went blank, so, inside, I must have panicked.

No one else had ever said anything, but that someone would was inevitable. Few people would notice since I was working on the minor scars, and they looked good. However, when someone cuts my hair, they would get close enough to notice them. As innocent as the question might seem, it felt a tad unprofessional for Tony to even mention them, but he said it, the others heard, including Tucker, and I drew a blank as to what to say.

Max, my savior, stepped up. "Yeah, that's a sensitive topic," he said. "He doesn't like to talk about his heroism during the war."

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Tony, giving me the receipt to sign.

Max put his arm around me. "Yeah, Millstone's my hero."

"Millstone...," said Mitch, pondering the name. "Of Millstone & Roche mentioned in the gossip column? I thought I recognized your name."

At that point, I stood on firmer ground. "Yes, that's us." And that's when I noticed all eyes staring at my crotch.

"Is the gossip true?" asked Tony.

I figured, "what the hell..." So, I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, and whipped it out.

It elicited a couple of the typical reactions, usually "holy shit," some phrase that includes the word "horse," and "May I jam that down my throat?" those sorts of things. Before we left, they said they hoped we would return to maintain our hair with their establishment, and I rather liked the place, so we most likely would. Tucker told them he would return to get his body waxed. He never had much body hair anyway, and he apparently preferred to just eliminate what little he had.

I had no idea where Max had gotten that heroistic hogwash about me in a war. In my previous life, they never sent me to war. When we left the barbershop, Max whispered one word to me, which explained everything, and I felt like a negligent fool. He said, "Essay." I kept meaning to read that essay given to me by Thomas Sawyer, but I never got around to it. Apparently, within it, it gave me an excuse for the scars should anyone notice them, and like an idiot, I hadn't read it.