Chapter 1

~Fitting In~

 

 

Friday night traffic out of the city was killer.

The weekend weather report predicted gorgeous temperatures, sunny and unseasonably warm for mid-April. Naturally, every family from Belleville to Burlington decided this was the perfect time to escape into the luxurious wilds of cottage country.

Callie turned up the volume on the radio, but static was taking over already. That was a good sign, she reasoned—if she was out of signal tower range, she was getting closer to the lakeside summer house. Still, she wished this damn car had come with a CD player. It had some sort of iPod connection, but she didn’t own an iPod, despite her son’s insistence she buy one, so that was pretty useless.

Even out here in Frontenac county, traffic was as thick. The evening air choked her with highway exhaust fumes. If only the moral high road was an actual street I could drive on, Callie kept thinking. She was taking the moral high road, wasn’t she? By leaving the house and avoiding the temptation of destroying every precious objet d’art therein?

Yeah, this was the moral high road, all right. She couldn’t be tempted to Hulk Smash the summerhouse. She simply loved it too much. It was a haven for relaxation, always had been. After a nice, quiet weekend by the lake, she was sure to return to the city having gained a great deal of perspective on the current turd pile that was her life.

When she pulled onto the heavily treed lane under cover of darkness, she’d already switched off the car stereo. Over the satisfying crunch of gravel beneath her tires, she heard voices. Her first instinct was “burglars!” until she realized the voices weren’t whispering, but chatting, laughing. The neighbours must be up and throwing a party.

Callie drove up the slim grass path into their lot. When she spotted the cottage, she realized her instinct was only partially correct.

The summerhouse was lit up like an Amsterdam storefront, that red-scarf-over-the-lamp effect, and there were other cars in the drive—a mix of ancient station wagons and gleaming little high efficiency vehicles. The drivers and passengers of those vehicles were, she assumed, the people scattered across the deck and milling about her getaway home.

A growl burbled up in her throat like acid reflux, burning as it reached the back of her tongue. “Dante!” she spat as she switched off the ignition.

Callie flowed like a ghost past the young people on her summer home’s deck. Nobody noticed her until she entered the cottage. Strange how she felt the anomaly here, when she owned the damn place.

“Where is my son?” she asked the three kids indoors.

Two girls—one pretty blonde thing, the other a plump Asian girl with short spiked hair—looked up from their knitting.

Honest-to-God knitting!

Callie couldn’t believe her eyes. These kids were at a party, entirely without adult supervision—not that they were children by any means—and they were sitting quietly on the sofa, huddled together like a pair of kittens, listening to rather euphonious music…and knitting! It was impossible to tell what they were making, but each was adding to the opposite end of it. A collective effort. Very cute.

“Who’s your son?” the Asian girl asked.

The answer seemed obvious to Callie, but she couldn’t be cruel to the sweet young knitters. “Dante,” she told them.

They nodded in unison, then exchanged glances.

“Maybe on the deck?” the blonde suggested.

“Not on the deck,” said the young man in the kitchen. “On the dock.”

Turning away from the knitters, Callie took a good look at the tall white kid arranging crudité on her good silver platter. His hair was frizzy and seemed five times the size of his face, most of which was concealed by a thick beard.

Callie felt like she’d fallen down a rabbit hole. Girls knitting? Boys eating vegetables? Not a keg in sight? This party was hardly what she would call a party, and she couldn’t conceal her amusement.

She told the young people, “When I was at university, we’d be smoking pot and pigging out on potato chips by now.”

The girls gave her a pitiful smile, as if to say, ‘You poor thing!’

The boy shook his head. “How would you like to be lit on fire for someone else’s amusement? Or boiled in oil! Imagine the agony!”

“Geoff is a raw food vegan,” the Asian girl explained.

Not that Callie had any idea what that meant. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because the blonde explained, “He doesn’t eat meat or anything else that comes from animals, and he won’t eat fruits or vegetables that have been cooked.”

Callie had never conceived of such a diet—and she thought she’d heard them all! “Why won’t you eat cooked vegetables?”

His jaw dropped, like he was shocked or even offended by the question. “Can you imagine what it feels like to be dropped in a pot of boiling water?”

With a shrug, Callie said, “Probably not as painful as being eaten alive.”

The boy, Geoff, looked disgusted by her suggestion, and swept his crudité right by her without offering so much as a carrot stick. When he got outside, she could hear him telling other people what she’d implied. Those kids out there on the deck sounded as mortified as Geoff had, but the girls on the couch only giggled.

Out of the corner of her eye, Callie saw the Asian girl kiss the blonde behind her multiply-pierced ear. For a moment, she felt scandalized. The nice knitters are lesbians? Her fingers felt numb and her breath hitched, but she told herself she was being silly and closed-minded. She shook out her hands until the feeling came back, turned toward the girls, and smiled.

“So, what are you drinking?” Callie asked, spotting a pair of brandy snifters on the low table by the sofa. Raiding the liquor cabinet, eh? Maybe these kids weren’t so strange after all.

“Armagnac,” the blonde replied, nodding to the bottle on the kitchen counter. “Please, help yourself. Oh, we’re so rude, coming into your summer home like this and not even offering you a drink!”

Callie felt rabbit-holed again. Twenty-year-old girls drinking Armagnac? And definitely not her Armagnac—nothing in their liquor cabinet was half as posh.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

But, of course, that was far from the truth.

A big part of Callie had hoped these kids would be smoking and drinking. Then she could join in, be part of the group, escape from her wretched existence for just a little while. She wanted to disappear right now. She wanted to numb the pain.

When the knitting girls turned their attentions—and affections—to each other, Callie tiptoed to the liquor cabinet. She felt like she was stealing even though everything in there was rightfully hers. Grabbing the big brown bottle of Kahlua, she snuck toward the staircase.

When she was halfway to the second floor, she murmured, “I just have to pee. Long drive.”

Why was she making excuses to Dante’s little friends? Better yet, why wasn’t she tracking down her son this very second and dunking his Smart Aleck head in the lake for throwing this party? She knew the answer to that question, and the answer was silly: she didn’t want to face all those kids on the deck who thought she was a monster for daring to bake a potato or sauté an onion. Dante’s friends were weird, but she was still embarrassed that thought ill of her.

Life was full of silly, silly things, and sometimes Callie found herself acting like a silly, silly woman. Like now, twisting the lid off a bottle of Kahlua in the dark, searching the bathroom for a plastic cup to drink from. This was excruciatingly silly, and yet…

Callie pressed the door to the master suite open with her hip, and froze in her tracks. She wasn’t alone. The lights were off, but the moon and its twin in the lake illuminated the space well enough for her to make out two bodies writhing in her bed.

Hers and Winston’s bed.

Well, not anymore.

She very nearly turned tail before realizing this was her bedroom, not theirs, and she’d likely had a crappier day than they’d had, so she deserved it more. And then she thought, well, what was she going to use it for? Drinking alone until she passed out?

At least they were having fun. They were young! Let them enjoy life.

Callie didn’t move. She wasn’t really sure where to go, now. There were two girls making out on the couch downstairs, and up here…were these girls, too? Whoever they were, they were too into each other to notice her presence.

She waited for her eyes to adjust to the moonlight, and when they did she nearly dropped her Kahlua.

They were boys—both of them!

At first she wasn’t sure. She tried to convince herself the white guy underneath the brown guy was actually female, but both were buck naked and there was no mistaking balls.

Both guys were skinny. Thin arms, thin frames, thin legs—skinny. Callie had a much better view of the brown guy—Indian, maybe? South Asian, at any rate. He was fucking the white guy doggie style (did gay boys call it that? Callie didn’t know) with the covers and sheets pushed down to the foot of the bed.

Although she felt like a complete pervert for doing it, Callie crept further into the bedroom. She concealed herself in the dark corner by the door, gulping down her second bathroom cup of Kahlua, then pouring herself a third.

If she was going to act like an utter reprobate, she should at least have an excuse. Drunkenness was a fine justification for any misbehaviour.

The Indian boy had a hand in the white boy’s sandy hair. Callie could just make out the clutch and pull as he forced his lips against the boy’s ear. “You like that, don’t you? You like my cock in your ass.”

The white boy moaned, but that obviously wasn’t good enough.

“Tell me you like it,” the Indian guy insisted. “Tell me you like my fat fucking dick in your tight little asshole.”

“I like it,” the white boy cried. It was the first time Callie heard his voice, and it was higher in pitch than she’d anticipated. “Give me your big dick, Vish. Fuck me hard.”

It seemed to Callie that this boy, Vish, was already fucking him hard, but apparently Vish could go harder. “You sure you can handle more?”

“I can take everything you’ve got.”

Vish released his grip on the white boy’s hair, and they somehow managed to contort themselves into a kiss.

For a couple scrawny boys, their kiss looked fierce, and Callie poured herself yet another cup of Kahlua while she watched. Her legs were feeling rather wobbly now. She leaned against the dresser for support. It really was an invasion of their privacy, what Callie was doing: drinking in the corner, watching these guys go at each other.

Then again, this was her bedroom.

When the Indian guy, Vish, kneeled a little more upright behind the skinny white boy, Callie suddenly realized the extent of her arousal. The crotch of her panties had become quite slick—she could feel the slippery stuff against her clit, which was so engorged it crept eagerly out from between her lower lips.

She watched the muscles of Vish’s tight brown ass writhe with the rhythm of his thrusts, and her knees went even weaker. The smooth, warm sweetness of her Kahlua paled in comparison to that boy’s behind. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to lick it.

God, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this turned on.

Vish’s ass clenched every time he jerked forward, thrusting into the white boy’s hole. Each time he pulled out, pulled back, those tight muscles slackened a touch. He got into a rhythm of back and forth, in and out, grunting while the white boy moaned.

The slap of the Indian guy’s pelvis against the white boy’s ass pumped Callie’s arousal to unknown heights. Her pussy was throbbing now, so hot and wet she wanted to hike up her skirt and play with herself. She knew she’d come in a matter of seconds if she let herself do it, but if she had an orgasm now it would be damn loud and she didn’t want to draw the boys’ focus away from one another.

Anyway, self-imposed restraint was even sweeter than her fifth cup of Kahlua.

“Fuck me,” the white boy chanted. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…” They were hardly two separate words, but a string of syllables that bled continuously into one another. “Fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme…”

“Yeah, I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll feel it for a month.”

Vish rammed the boy, his heavy, hairy balls swinging at the apex of his thighs. They drew Callie’s gaze down to the white boy’s balls, which were either shaved or simply had very little hair, and the semi-erect dick that swung with every thrust.

She’d always wondered how that worked with gay men—did the bottom one’s cock get hard while the top one fucked his ass? She’d wondered if they came together or not, or if the bottom guy ever got to come.

There was so much she didn’t know.

Vish was panting now, wheezing and gasping with effort. “I’m going to pump you so full of cum…”

“Yeah?”

The white guy bucked back against that hard cock the way Callie knew she would if it were her in that position.

How long since Callie had been in that position?

“I’m gonna make you my cum dumpster, you little slut.”

So dirty!

God, Callie might come just listening to their back and forth. She grasped her Kahlua bottle and her cup tight to keep her hands busy, otherwise they’d certainly have found their way under her skirt.

Holding the white boy’s slim hips, Vish thrust hard, trembling all over. He let out a canine yelp and held perfectly still, his back straight as an arrow, his head cast up toward the ceiling. The white boy fell flat against the mattress, and Vish soon followed suit, collapsing right down on his back. To Callie’s surprise, through their gasps for breath, they both started laughing. They barely moved a muscle, but they laughed and laughed.

“That was amazing,” the white boy said, his voice muffled by pillows—Callie’s pillows.

“Evan, Evan, Evan…”

So the white boy’s name was Evan?

“…you are one hell of a good fuck.”

Evan’s voice sounded dainty and self-satisfied when he said, “I know.”

Maybe it was the Kahlua—in fact, it was definitely the Kahlua—that made Callie so emotional (and so legless) that she slipped… in more ways than one. The boys’ ultimate tenderness after a hot fuck session warmed her heart, and she found herself mumbling, “Aww, that’s so sweet!”

When the boys’ bodies tensed and Vish started to turn, Callie lost her bearings. She’d been leaning against the tall dresser, but her shoulder slipped and she went down…

All the way down…