Caden&Nicolas - Part 2 - Conquering Fear - Sex Stories

Caden&Nicolas - Part 2 - Conquering Fear

- Caden Ray Smith – What. The fuck. Happened? And how the hell did it happen? Was I dreaming, half asleep and reeling in some sort of conscienceless state where I was blinded by feelings I’ve never had before, my heart and head and hands overrun by some sort of beast that told me everything between us was right when now, looking over at this boy wrapped tightly on my bed in nothing but his own skin, this aching in the pit of my stomach warns me we might have been wrong this whole time. Was what had happened brought on by fear of death? Did we cling to one another simply because we were the only ones in that crash? I find myself doubting everything now that I’m staring at his bare back lying slender and smooth against my sheets, and his raven hair a twisted mess against my pillows, with a sober mind, no longer drunk in his love and fallen hard from the high. Soon after we finished last night, we showered. And beneath the warm spray of water we clung to each other in death’s grip, soapy suds slippery between our skins. He washed my hair, and I did his, and then we washed each other’s backs, and asses, and cocks. Cleaning his body felt like I had done it my entire life, something that was familiar as the back of my hand. Then we got out in silence, wrapped in each other on the bed until we fell into distant dreams and memories. I feel selfish for the way I am now, my eyes still staring at his bare shoulder, the shoulder I had the night before assaulted with my intense ...

... ejaculation. A flame ignites between my legs, but I push it down, lick my thumb and extinguish it before it can grow. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed it didn’t take long to pull on a pair of sweats and cover his body with my covers. I turn the dial down on the thermostat so he doesn’t sweat and head downstairs. “Mornin’, bud,” my father says cheerfully outside the kitchen, a warm cup of coffee in his hand. I look out the window, and it occurs to me then that I hadn’t bothered checking the time. The sun is just beginning to peak over the eastern horizon, light fighting against the trees. Dad’s in his usual attire, a pair of black slacks, a white shirt with KONTRY KITCHEN (Kontry because that’s what the founders of the joint decided to call it) and several white towels thrown over his shoulder. He’s head chef, and running late. “I’ve got to go, man,” he says and heads for the door. “Breakfast crew will be there shortly.” “Bye, Dad,” I call after him and watch him leave. From the kitchen I can hear my mother’s shower running upstairs, can hear my little brother tucked away in his room watching cartoons and playing with his video game. I think about cooking me something to eat, but then my stomach churns and all I fix for myself is a tall glass of water. Heading out onto the back patio I flop down in this wicker chair I’ve always loved and stare out at the quiet shadows of early morning. Birds and wildlife are beginning to awaken, and I can hear the soft melodies that is the ...