The Mark of the Dragon by Derek Adams

Author:Derek Adams [Adams, Derek]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: GLBT, Gay, Erotic Romance
Publisher: eXtasy Books
Published: 2013-09-15T05:00:00+00:00

“Christ, man, what happened to you?”

I stood in the locker room, shirt in hand. My friend Hal’s eyes hovered at a point just below my navel.

“Nothing.” My hand flew to cover the livid mark on my belly. “I stumbled in the dark last night and ran into my dresser.”

“Looks like the dresser gave you a hickey.” Hal smiled uncertainly.

“Whatever.”

“Is something the matter, Grant? You’ve been acting weird lately.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine at all. My nemesis, man of my dreams, call him what you will, he’d been at me again. I stayed late after school, lobbing countless tennis balls at imagined opponents across the net. I showered solitary, dressed and took a shortcut home through woods that buffered the school from the neighborhood where I lived. He followed me, trailed me, caught me all alone in the green, humid stillness. He dropped to his knees, tugged out my shirttail with his teeth and pressed his forehead against my gut. His soft lips touched my skin and then I felt the gentle steady pressure of his sucking leech’s mouth. My balls tingled, my cock throbbed, my toes curled against the soles of my shoes. I wrapped my fingers against the thick, strong column of his neck, whether to push or pull or hold him there against me I could not say.

I twined my fingers in the silken tail of his hair, looped it around his neck, pulled it tight. His eyelids fluttered, lashes so close they tickled against my skin. And then he looked up at me, his blue eyes glittering in the moonlight. He stood and tucked my shirt in, fingers wedged into my pants, brushing against my rigid prick.

“Remember me.” He touched his lips with his fingers and then touched mine. Afterward, he walked away and left me standing in the dark woods, all alone.

Remember? Yes. That was simple. I only needed to see the expressions in the eyes of those around me. Hands raised to mouths, sly whispers, bits of paper in my locker scrawled with crude words. Remember? Only sporadic praise now accompanied my accomplishments on the playfield and in the classroom. Where admiration had once been the norm I now faced looks of sadness or outright hostility. Remember? When called into my father’s study to face a barrage of probing questions, I chose to answer with a lie that failed to reassure.

And yet, I couldn’t stop. There was no way to resist. I was drawn to him like a poor, demented moth is drawn inexorably to the destruction of the open flame. I knew he knew my haunts, my routes, my pathway through those woods. I knew he waited for me there, once a week at first, then nightly, secure in the gut-born knowledge that I would return.

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