Bennet House Rules

A disclaimer from the author: This story is a work of erotic fiction featuring men having sex with other men. It is intended for a mature audience only. It contains themes that some readers might find uncomfortable to read about, including: intergenerational sex, interracial sex, and themes involving dominance and submission. Please consider your tastes and comfort levels and show discretion before reading or commenting on this work.

This is a standalone story, but left openended for potential expansion. If are interested in seeing this story continued, be sure and let me know.

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I.

At a cursory glance, Bennett House sure wasn't much to write home about. Just an old craftsman-style home, probably from the turn of the 20th century, and judging by the look of things, there had been little in the way of updates since its conception. The paint on the exterior siding, a muddy green color, was sun faded and peeling at the edges. Four large, bulky stone steps, once chalk white, but now chipped away by decades of rain and the labor of human feet led unto a dusty looking wooden porch. But the thing that stuck out the loudest for Roger, probably due to his decades long career slaving away in the landscaping industry, was the overgrown Kentucky Bluegrass wrapped around the perimeter of the property. The homeowners, whomever they might be, looked to have skipped mowing this week and the poor lawn was overdue a good, firm cut, not too dissimilar to some of the boys back at the campus where Roger worked.

The house looked lived in, but not in a good way. It lacked that fundamental sense of order and balance that would make it an attractive addition to the neighborhood. Curbside appeal, some called it, but to Roger it was simply being Houseproud. He turned his attention away from the source of his displeasure and toward his grandson sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

"You really want to live here, Danny?" he asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in his voice. Danny, who had been looking outside the car window with rapt attention pulled his head off the glass and looked back at his grandfather. He nodded, excitement obvious in his young features.

"Yeah, grandpa. I've been thinking about it all summer," he said, grin wide and unashamed as he brushed a stray blonde hair out of his face.

Roger frowned. This was not at all the plan he had imagined for Danny when his grandson graduated high school. He had expected the young man to sign up for classes at the local university where Roger was contracted, taking sensible classes in something like accounting or education (which Danny predictably and dutifully followed). Then, the young man, obviously desiring some freedom from Roger and his wife after 16 years under their roof, could move into one of the dorms or student housing buildings within walking distance of campus. Someplace safe and sensible. A Roger Baxter approved option. That was where Roger's meticulous and levelheaded life planning had hit the first cockup.

Roger blamed Peter Wilson. Peter, or Petey as all of the old folks around the neighborhood had called him for years, had been a close friend of Danny's since they were younguns way back in elementary school. With a dopey mop of chestnut brown hair on his head and boyish good looks to match, Petey was a year older, but perhaps not much wiser than his younger friend. Where Danny was a precious bright spot always following the rules to a tee and the apple in every adult's eye, Petey was...something different.

It wasn't that Peter was a bad kid. That wasn't true at all. There was just some intangible part of the young man that pulled him away from the well-paved and trodden roads of his elders, and toward winding, wooded paths that seemed to have no destination in sight. His choices were riskier for the mind, the reputation, and perhaps most dangerously, the wallet. When Petey graduated from high school over a year ago, he had taken classes (part-time), switching majors more than the sports jerseys he wore on his back, and had gotten a "temporary" job doing warehouse stock at a local hardware store, before committing the worst faux pas of all by moving into the very building that Roger and Daniel Baxter were staring at.

Bennett House, they called it, a pretentious name that made Roger think of a little girl putting on her mother's Sunday best, sipping tea with a raised pinky, and pretending to be a dainty queen. The reality didn't quite live up to the namesake, but that didn't seem to make much of a difference to the young men who called it home. Petey had taken to the independence of young adult life with a gusto that was rare for someone his age, and he had wasted no time regaling Danny with stories of Bennett House and the other young men who lived there. Roger hadn't paid much attention at first, thinking his grandson was just humoring the interests of his long time friend. He had thought Danny far too sensible to fall under the allure of a wannabe, D-grade frat house, but ever since the first stories of late night debauchery trickled into his ear, Danny had been fixated on living there and following in the footsteps of his best friend, eager to stake his own backwards claim on adulthood.

Roger was more than a little doubtful. Like any good parent, he had done his own research. He wasn't about to send his only grandson into a lion's den where he would get chewed up and spate out like yesterday's leftovers. What he had heard back had been mildly concerning, if unsurprising. It seemed Bennett House had gotten a reputation over the years for its "festivities" one might call it. It was a Good Time place, far enough from campus to avoid the ire of University security, but close enough for students and other youthful hangerons to carpool or take the bus to without too much of a hassle. He had heard the booze was as plentiful as the babes, and it wasn't uncommon for news of stupid frat boy style hijinks to make their way back to the authorities where, by the sheer miracle of living in a Midwest college town, their shenanigans would get handwaved away with an "Aw shucks, boys just being boys" state of mind. When he had expressed his concerns to his wife Mary, Danny's grandmother, she had gently scoffed at him.

"Really, Rog," she said in her well-practiced chiding voice. "Isn't that how those places are? You can't expect Danny to never get up to any mischief." But he could, he told himself. Roger had never gotten into any real trouble as a young man. He hadn't even been given the opportunity to living out on the farm, away from the rest of the boys and under the strict supervision of his ex-military grandfather. So far, Danny had been following his example and been nothing short of a model young man. Mary might have dismissed his concerns, happy to let Danny spread his wings and reduce her domestic load in one fell swoop, but for Roger, they were no laughing matter.

When Danny had come to him several weeks ago asking permission to live in Bennett House, practically begging actually, Roger had begrudgingly agreed if, and only if, he got to check out the house and the men who lived there. It had seemed like a smart compromise at the time, a way for him to remain stern, but seem more openminded compared to his own strict upbringing. He had expected that to be the end of it, since there was no way those hooligans would ever pass muster. Sitting back in his favorite easy chair, paper in one hand, coffee mug steaming on a coaster within reaching distance, he waited for Danny to pout at the unfairness of it all, mope for a few days, and then jump back on Roger's lifeplan. To his surprise, Danny had jumped at this chance, perhaps glad to have any opportunity to live in his dream home no matter how small.

So here they were, sitting inside Roger's old Chevy, waiting to see just what the boys of Bennett House got up to. Well, Roger thought, resisting the urge to sigh at the misfortune of his own making, might as well get this over with.

"C'mon, sport. Let's go say hello," Roger said, using his patented measured Granddad voice. Danny didn't give a response, not in words anyways. He hopped out of the vehicle, completely forgetting to close the door behind him in his haste. Roger cleared his voice, watching Danny slam on the brakes, and realizing his error, do a U-turn. After gently closing the car door with a sheepish grin on his face, he raced toward the front door of the house, bounding up the steps like an excited puppy, Roger following behind him at a slower, more dignified pace.

As Roger climbed the ramshackle steps in his loafers and set foot on the porch, Danny knocked quickly, but politely, the way he had been raised. They stood together for a few moments in silence, waiting to be let in. Roger quickly gave himself a once-over, pleased to see his khakis, belt, and tucked-in plaid button-up were all still in order. Even with his slightly stockier frame, he was still reasonable fit for of man his age, carrying himself with a quiet poise lacking in many of his contemporaries. Noticing a stray wrinkle on Danny's shirt out of the corner of his eye, Roger frowned, and used his hands to straighten it out, making his more trimmed and fit grandson equally presentable.

The door opened and a slim, attractive black man answered. He looked to be in his early, maybe mid 20's, with a few piercings on his ears and a smile that showed off gleaming white teeth. He couldn't see too much of the young man's body under the loose hoodie and sweats he wore, featuring the logo some kind of metal band Roger didn't recognize, but he looked reasonably healthy. He had been awaiting their arrival and held his right hand out to Roger.

"Hi, you must be Mr. Baxter," the man said. He was addressing the older of the two guests first. Smart move to focus on the one who was going to be paying the rent and calling the shots. Besides, Roger suspected this young man was already acquainted with his grandson. He didn't have any proof, but he was pretty sure Danny had snuck over to the Bennett House on more than one occasion. Roger didn't exactly approve, but Danny was technically an adult. He couldn't really stop him from associating with these boys, even if it rankled his feathers to think about his grandson sneaking around behind his back.

Roger met the young man's hand with his own, his grip firm, pleased by the way the kid matched him, the warm palm feeling right at home in his slightly larger one.

"That's right, I'm Roger Baxter, Danny's grandfather," he waited for the expected followup, and not receiving it, added, "...and you are?" The boy looked embarrassed for a moment, playfully smacking the side of his head with his free hand, before a dopey grin crossed his face.

"Oh. Sorry about that. That was rude of me. I'm Jordan. Jordan Powell. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baxter," Jordan might have been young, but he knew how to make a recovery. He gave the black man another once over. Jordan's appearance might not have inspired much confidence, but despite himself, Roger could feel the beginnings of a reluctant interest forming in his mind.

"Please, call me Roger," he said, normally averse to the idea of such casual familiarity, but finding himself feeling generous in the moment. Roger believed in hierarchy and the order it brought, so this young man was being given quite a gift, he thought. If Justin noticed Roger's wary bearing, he didn't seem to care, or more likely was willing to ignore it for Roger's sake. Another good sign. Justin gestured the pair off the leaf strewn porch and into the house.

When Roger stepped inside Bennett House, he felt as if he had walked into a hand-me-down family home that had fought valiantly to maintain its pride before finally succumbing to a slow decline into Bachelor Padism. He wrinkled his nose at the smell in the air, a faint, yet peculiar mixture of male musk, stale brewskies, microwaved proteins, and Febreze. Once this might have been a respectable, cozy house, a place to bring your sweetheart to after a movie and a cherry coke, but those days had long since passed.

The downgrade was a disappointment but he wasn't surprised. Actually, if anything, he was expecting more trash and clutter. Empty pizza boxes on counter tops, crushed beer cans scattered on the floor, that sort of thing. Single men weren't often known for their cleanliness, especially in a frat setting, but glancing downward he noticed that there were several notable vacuum tracks wedged into the thinning carpet and a distinct lack of dust on the flat wooden surfaces. The house wasn't spic-and-span, by any definition of the word, but it had definitely been tidied up. He wondered if Jordan was responsible for the quick-fix. He knew guests were coming over so he tried to make the house more hospitable. For the first time since he began his drive over with Danny, Roger felt a tiny curl of a smile on his lips.

Jordan invited the Baxters to take a seat wherever was comfortable for them in what was likely once a simple family room connected to a modest dining room but had now settled into the kind of multipurpose space one would see in a frat house, with furniture shoved to the side to make space for a frankly ratty-looking pool table. Roger preferred to remain standing and he watched as Danny sat down into an old La-Z-Boy recliner, sinking like a stone into the scratched up leather. Danny pulled on the handle on the side several times, gaining nothing for his efforts but a mechanical scraping sound from inside the chair.

While Jordan was rummaging around in the kitchenette fetching meager refreshments, another wise move on his part, Roger took a moment to examine the walls in more detail. There wasn't too much of import to be found, just a random, mismatched spattering of wall art: dorm room posters of busty babes in bikinis and barrel-chested ballers going long, sloppy digital art prints of "broish" young men, likely old or current tenants, and a couple of Bob Ross-inspired dime store paintings that must have come with the building. Several places on the wall were distinctly bare, as if the photos that once lay there had looked around at the new neighbors and absconded in the night.

He did notice two conspicuous pieces sitting on a mantle, crowning the broken fireplace. The first was a collage of photos all featuring the same red-haired man. He looked to be in his early 20's in most of them and Roger would have considered him handsome if he wasn't constantly sporting the red-rimmed eyes of a committed stoner. Most of the shots were of parties of varying kinds. In one he was wearing some kind of costume, probably for a Halloween party. He looked to have been aiming for Beetlejuice and managed only to awkwardly land in the vicinity of the Hamburglar. Beneath the pictures was a name written in scratchy handwriting: Jimmy Bennett, Founder. So this was the person who had "founded" this house of ne'er-do-wells. Not a very encouraging start was it?

Next to the poster board was something even more peculiar. It was a plaque of sorts on a wooden base, something Roger would have associated with a sports frat. On the fake gold plating he could make out words chiseled in bold BENNETT HOUSE RULES. And then below only one line: NEVER LEAVE YOUR BRO HANGING. Roger blinked, trying to decipher this bizarre message when Jordan returned with two glasses of water in mixed-matched plastic cups.

Roger took the cup gratefully. He was actually feeling quite parched. His doctors, and worse Mary, liked to get on his case about staying hydrated, especially in his old age. That last part rankled more than he wanted to admit. He was only 61, gosh darnit, not some old geezer about to keel over into an early grave. In his book, he was still a bit of a looker too and had managed to keep most of the weight of a sedentary suburban life off his waist. Still, despite his complaining, he decided he should find a place to sit for appearances sake.

Surveying the limited options available, he settled on an oversized, flower-printed sofa, liking the idea of having all that room to himself. He was surprised then when Jordan sat down on the cushion next to him instead of the more expected choice of the wooden rocking chair at the other end of the room. Roger felt the urge to bunch himself inwards, but forced his legs and arms into a relaxed position. He gestured with his glass to the collage and plaque.

"So that is the illustrious Mr. Bennett?" he said, eager for a distraction from this young man's physical proximity. At his question, Jordan smirked.

"Yeah, you could say that," he said, tipping his own cup for a sip of something that smelled suspiciously like a cold brew, before continuing, "Word was he got gifted this house when his grandparents passed away. Turned it into housing for students before moving on."

"Moving on? To where?"

"Not sure really. Somewhere in Utah, I think. Apparently he ran off to be with some Yoga Chick from California he met online. Started driving cross country to be with her. Heard they broke up before he even made it into the state," he shrugged his shoulders at this, as if Jimmy Bennett's disappearance was some great mystery that would never be solved. "He's still around somewhere. Cashes the checks I put in the bank each month, anyways." Now Roger raised his own grey eyebrow.

"So, you run this place?" he must have been making quite the face, because Jordan burst into laughter.

"I wouldn't go that far! I just collect the rent, make sure the utilities get paid..." he frowned, considering his words, as if for the first time. "Damn, I guess that does kind of put me in charge, doesn't it?"

"Who else lives here beside you and Peter Wilson?" Roger asked, getting straight to the point.

"Just Beef," Jordan said, as if that alone was a sufficient answer.

"Beef?" Jordan chuckled at Roger's response, and the older man could hear Danny doing the same to his side.

"Beef is one of the guys. His actual name is Ken, but he hates it so everyone just calls him by his nickname instead, because he's, well..." Jordan made a bodybuilder pose, face scrunched like he was overtaken with Hulkamania.

"Sounds like quite a character," Roger said, finding that was all he could manage at the moment. From the chair, Danny chimed in.

"Is Pete in, Jord?" his grandson asked. Jord? Jordan shook his chocolate colored head.

"Nope, had to fill in for someone at work today. Sorry." Danny frowned and sat back in his seat, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Beside him, Jordan's leg accidentally bumped against his and Roger instinctively moved it away as if stung.

"So tell me, Jordan," his voice cooling. "What do you get up to when you aren't trying to pry my hard earned cash out of my hands?" He heard Danny groan in the chair next to him, but Jordan seemed not to mind the jab, a small smile sitting relaxingly on his face.

"Oh, this and that. I work as a Part-Time Manager at Steak N Shake, but that's not really my long term goal." That caught Roger's interest. It was the first time he had heard anything like a goal or long term plan coming from anything associated with this house.

"My real passion is photography," he said, peaking Roger's attention further. Art was something that had always felt foreign to the more sensible minded man, but the clarity and focus of a good photo appealed to his clean cut sensibilities.

"Really? What kind of photos do you like to take? Landscapes?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Nudes, mostly." Roger almost spat his water across the room. He took a deep steadying breath, glad to be holding the cup in front of his face to hide the blush beginning to form.

"I see...how very Bohemian of you," he managed, and Jordan just smirked, his foot touching Roger's making the older man's blush that more prominent.