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.

Positive and/or constructive comments are always appreciated through my profile.

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I.

Roger only made it about a mile from Bennett House before the full scope of his actions begun to sink in, and with it a rising tide of panic. Gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, Roger focused as much of his attention as he could on the road, taking deep steadying breaths that did little to calm his nerves. What in God's name had he been thinking?

Against his better judgment, his mind floated away from the comfort of his Subaru and back to the den of sin lurking below the floorboards of Bennett House. He had thought the wayward frat house to be little more than a juvenile annoyance that would upset the delicate development of his grandson. It had never crossed his mind that he might be the one in danger of falling off the righteous path. He had been like a fly that had fluttered its way unknowingly into a spider web and Jordan had feasted upon him like the world's most tantalizing black widow.

He replayed the scene again and again in his mind. Walking down those stairs, the sight and sounds of lesbian pornography blaring on the big screen, and worst of all, Jordan lounging on his ramshackle sleepersofa, stroking himself like he had no cares in the world. What happened next was profane by any definition of the word. He had thought himself immune to the base charms of Bennett House, yet he had allowed himself, like some lovesick virginal girl, to be pulled into the trap and had given the boy a blowjob. To completion.

Unconsciously, Roger licked his lips. He could he could still taste it in his mouth, even now, if only barely. That salty, vaguely akaline flavor. He froze, eyes widening in horror. He was driving back home, driving to meet his loving wife for dinner, and his mouth smelled and tasted likecock.Shaking now, he pulled over to the side of the road, feeling his heart beating out of control in his chest.

Fix this, Roger!He heard a voice in his head say, stern and authoritarian. It jolted him out of his panicked stupor and his mind raced through the possibilities before settling on the easiest and least problematic solution. He slowly pulled back on the road, heart still hammering, but at a steady more controlled pace. He had a plan now, he could fix this. No one had to find out.

Within a few minutes, he was pulling into a local brand gas station. He parked behind the building, finding an odd sense of protection from hiding behind the dumpster. Walking around to the entrance, he stepped inside, ignoring the cheery pop song playing over the speakers and beelined straight for the toiletries. For one stress-filled moment, he thought they didn't carry it, but then like a saving grace, he found the mouthwash buried on a bottom shelf.

At the checkout, the lingering paranoia set back in with a vengeance.She can tell,he thought, sweat forming underneath the arms of his shirt.She can smell Jordan on my breath.But if the checkout lady noticed or not, she gave no indication, simply smiled blandly at him and mumbled a "Thank you, See you next time," as he hastily made his exit.

He walked back to his vehicle, trying to look as casual as he possibly could as he sank into the driver's seat. Ripping off the plastic, he unscrewed the cap and took a long swig, careful not to swallow. He had done enough of that already.

After swishing the fluid in his mouth for a couple minutes, he opened the door, spat onto the pavement, then repeated the task again, and once more for good measure. By the time he had emptied his mouth, his oral cavity burned from the antiseptic solution. It made his eyes water, but it also felt good. It felt cleansing.

The drive the rest of the way home was notably calmer for Roger and when he parked and entered the tidy house he called home, his nostrils filled with the scent of Mary's meatloaf in the oven. He found her sitting on her favorite chair in the living room, absorbed in her latest romance novel. She set her glasses down.

"Well there you are," she said. "I was wondering when you would finally drag yourself back home." Roger rubbed the side of his head, embarrassed at his truancy, even without the added complication of Jordan to contend with.

"Sorry, hon, those boys at Bennett House are something else," he said, feeling his cheeks rose up at the words. Mary waved away his concerns, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

"By all means, spend every afternoon over there is you want to," she said lightly, already walking toward the kitchen to check on dinner. She had made no comment on his breath, and Roger allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

Dinner was a simple, cozy affair. They exchanged pleasantries and tidbits of their day, but mostly ate in silence, comfortable with the easy presence that only long decades with an intimate partner can bring you. By the time he brought their dishes into the kitchen and scrapped them clean, Roger was beginning to almost feel like his old self. He could nearly pretend the entire sordid affair had never happened.

The problems started back up when he laid down to go to sleep, wearing a familiar pair of striped pajamas, Mary snoring gently on her side next to him. Sleep did not come easily for the older man and he stared at the ceiling, eyes fixed on the swirling patterns, but seeming to look far beyond. The streetlight poured a dim florescent light into the dark bedroom, and it was partially obscured by the Baxter's Sycamore tree, which dipped to and fro gently in the evening wind, creating strange shadows that bobbed up and down.

The flashing, shadowy light and the continual rising and falling motion brought back memories of the Bennett House basement that Roger didn't want to recall. He watched those shadow bounce and couldn't help but remember his own head doing the same thing only hours earlier. He could feel his mouth begin to water and more horrifyingly, his dick begin to harden in his pajama bottoms.

Don't think about it!He told himself, ordering his body to comply, but it was a long time before his body relaxed enough to slip into slumber. Sleep provided no respite. His dreams were an abstract nightmare of dark brown shapes covering his body, forcing it to feel and experience things a man wasn't meant to desire.

When he woke the next morning, he felt little rested, and worse, his cock was standing tall and at attention, tenting his side of the bed like he was a teenager all over again. He got out of bed as quietly as he could so as not to wake his wife, and jumped into the shower, where after several minutes of ice cold water pummeling his body, his overheated body began to settle down.

Work was a long tedious affair, but a welcome respite from the quiet of the Baxter home. He was too busy to fill his mind with unsavory images of masculine college-aged flesh and the usual daily tasks let him feel like he was taking control of the reins once more. But, on occasion, he would stumble into a situation that would wobble the perilous pedestal he had built his heterosexual identity on. He would notice a particularly attractive black man out of the corner of his eye, a pair of frat bros dapping, the sight of sweat running down a student worker's back as he toiled over the landscaping.

A twisted seed had been planted in that basement. This was worse than being seduced into a homosexual sex act by a 20-something year old. Jordan had awoken something deep and shameful in Roger, a part of himself that he had long thought drowned and laid to rest back at McAfferty's Pond all those years ago. It turned out that part of him wasn't so dead after all. It had crawled out of the muck and latched itself onto Roger, digging it's claws into his back, sucking on his flesh, and making him feel things no man in his position should ever feel.

Roger managed to stay away from Bennett House for a full two weeks. He wasn't afraid to go back, he told himself repeatedly. He was just avoiding being put in an awkward situation again, one that would force a confrontation he was hesitant to address. He might have succeeded in staying away too except for one nagging issue. His grandson now resided in the building, young and impressionable. Easy pickings for the miscreants who lurked and shuffled around the corridors. He had to go back and keep an eye on things. For Danny's sake and his alone, he told himself.

On the day he made the decision, it was early afternoon when he arrived, a time he knew Danny would be in, but he hoped no one else would be around. When he knocked on the door and Jordan Powell answered, clad only in a pair of faded sweats, his heart sank and flopped uselessly in his stomach. The two stared at each other for a moment, neither wanting to say the first word and put complex feelings and emotions into speech.

"Jordan," Roger managed, his voice overly measured. The young man leaned his thin brown frame against the door, cool as a cucumber.

"Mr. Baxter," he said, matching Roger's overly professional tone. More awkward staring before Roger finally spit it out.

"I'm here to see, Danny," Jordan nodded, as if that was the only logical thing someone in Roger's position could say and stepped aside, striding his way toward the kitchen. As he walked away from Roger, the older man couldn't help but sneak a curious peek at Jordan's hairless torso as it moved with a casual grace unfitting the man it belonged to.

As he stepped into the living room, having to stare down all those hideous wall decorations, his grandson finally made an appearance, stepping out of a nearby hallway. Danny looked good, too pure to be a Bennett House boy.

"There you are," he said to Danny, more curt than he had meant to. He frowned, not liking that he was starting to take things out on his grandson. "I just thought I'd come by and check in. See how you are getting along, son," he added, voice gentler this time. Danny grinned at him.

"It's been awesome, Grandad," he exclaimed. "They've been showing me so much," he added, and Roger nodded, unsure of how to take that comment when his thoughts were further interrupted by the reappearance of Jordan from the kitchen. He carried a beer can in one hand and two bottles of water in the other. Tossing one to Danny, who caught it with a grin on his face, he stepped forward into Roger's personal space, firmly putting the spare into Roger's hand, and whispered into his ear,

"I've be downstairs if you want to talk," then turning around, no preamble at all, he waltzed out of the room as if he hadn't just dropped a brick on poor Roger Baxter's besotted brain. Danny, seemingly oblivious to all of this went on and on about all the cool things he and his new roommates were getting up to. Roger tried to listen, truly he did, but after Jordan's words and the promise in them, anything Danny said just went into one ear and dripped out of the other thick and syrupy, like sap from a maple tree spigot. He was secretly grateful when his grandson made an excuse to leave, giving the grandfather his most sheepish and apologetic look.

"It's alright, Danny," Roger said, surprising even himself at how true the words felt. "I came by unannounced so I shouldn't be shocked you got other things going on." It was true, in a sense, and despite his earliest misgivings, it wasn't his grandson he was afraid of or for. He chanced a glance over at the basement door. Closed, for now, but sitting there, tempting. He rose to his feet and Danny followed.

He pulled his grandson into his arms, liking the paternal reassurance the act gave him. "Don't have too much fun, young man," he said, managing a grin which Danny gratefully returned. After a few more last minute pleasantries, Danny was out the door and took the surface level Roger's excuse for being in Bennett House with him. He smiled in a way that carried no joy or warmth. Danny was doing just fine, more than fine, just like Mary had always said he would. This was about him now, not his grandson.

He stood in front of the door, hanging on the edge of a precipice. Nothing good would happen if he went down into that basement. He began to reach for the handle, hand hovering in sudden fear, uncertain.What are you doing? Turn around and go home, Roger.

He was shaken out of his stupor by the sound of the kitchen screen door opening and then slamming closed with an ugly snapping sound. A pair of young male voices were arguing from the other room and getting louder with each step they took toward Roger. He was still standing awkwardly by the basement door when they crashed into the room like a pair of sniveling hyenas. One was Petey, dressed in his warehouse uniform, which Roger noticed was sticking to his body. He swallowed hard and turned his attention to the newcomer.

He was, in a word, huge. Pete, who was no shrimp, looked tiny compared to the hulking mass of gym-built muscle standing next to him. Everything about him was large and dense, his shoulders, his back, his...No, don't think about that.

He was so engrossed in his staring that he almost missed the question that Peter shot in his general direction. "Hey Mr. Baxter, sort this out for us. Which is the superior team: the Packers or the Bears?" Roger blinked, his brain not initially computing the question, but he realized from the intense stares the boys were giving him that this was being treated like a matter of life and death. An answer came to him, and he smiled faintly.

"Ah, well, Petey, I've always been more of a soccer kind of guy myself," his voice dripping in manufactured apology, "Have you ever seen Arsenal F.C. play before? They're something else."

He watched, hiding the amusement he felt inside as the two gaped at him dumbfounded for a moment and turned to look at each other, the sameCan you believe this guy!? expression on their faces. They both gave him a look of utter disdain and disappointment before shouldering past him and down the hall, argument completely forgotten.

Once they were out of earshot, Roger allowed himself a brief snicker, and a metaphorical pat on the shoulder. Feeling emboldened by his minor victory over the young ones, opened the door to the basement with no problems whatsoever. He stepped onto the stairs, descending once again, one foot in front of the other. He was expecting another trap designed to throw Roger off his guard, but was pleasantly surprised to find Jordan lying on the couch, fully clothed, lights all on, and the TV off.

At the sight of Roger coming down the stairs, Jordan sat up, making room for the older man next to him. Roger joined him on the couch, putting more distance between the pair than he had the last time he was in this room.

"So..." he began, and then abruptly stopped, unsure for once on how to keep going. What did he even want to say? Jordan seemed unperturbed by Roger's hesitancy. In fact, he was so calm, Roger couldn't help but wonder if the younger man was getting something out of it. That thought pushed the grandfather out of his stasis and he decided to confront the elephant in the room head on.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, and then added, even though the words felt oily in his mouth, "Seduce me." Jordan frowned, his lip curled in an expression of minor annoyance.

"I liked you and wanted to have sex with you," he answered. It was such a simple, straightforward answer that Roger didn't even have a comeback to it. He readjusted his strategy.

"But...I'm old," he said, the word stinging a bit. Now Jordan's frown deepened, clearly not liking the way the man sitting next to him was reacting.

"You're notthat old,"he said, in a tone that did little to boost Roger's confidence. "Besides, why does that even matter?" It was Roger's turn to frown now. How could Jordan even say something like that. Age gap relationships were inappropriate, everyone knew that, and besides...

"I'm married, Jordan," he said, the final nail in the coffin. Jordan nodded, acknowledging the truth of the statement and then shrugged.

"I think that's between you and your wife, sir," he said, and leaned in just a little. "You liked it, didn't you, Roger?"

Roger didn't say anything at first, a sudden fear threatening to grip him. Eventually, he managed a slow, small nod, the closest thing to an affirmation that Jordan was going to get. It was enough. Abandoning his attempts at modesty, Jordan slid closer to Roger, thighs and hips touching the other man's. One hand, so slender looking yet undeniably strong, came to rest on his knee, rubbing along the spherical shape of the bone in motions that felt far too practiced for a man of Jordan's age.

Roger's breath was beginning to quicken. Just a little, enough to make thinking, and more importantly protesting, that extra bit harder. He didn't try and stop Jordan though. It was like the young man, so different from him in every way, had taken control of his body and was calling the shots.

Jordan's free hand came up to Roger's shirt, a smart looking v-neck, and skillfully plucked at each piece of round plastic, unsnapping the garment, one button at a time. Roger made no move to stop Jordan, or to help either. He simply lay back and let it happen. When the final button was finished, both of Jordan's hands grasped the shirt opening it wide and exposing Roger's chest, covered in nothing but a thin undershirt, rapidly becoming sweaty in the stifling heat of the basement.

Jordan softly pushed Roger down on his back and said, "Lift your arms." Roger followed the command, arms standing perpendicular to his sloped torso before he could even think about what he was doing. The undershirt came off next, peeling off of Roger's back and chest like Jordan was taking off a layer of skin, the part that carried all of Roger's pride. As his head squeezed through the neck of the shirt and then dropped with a solid thumb onto the couch cushion, Roger Baxter was more exposed to this young, brown-skinned boy that he had ever been for another man in more than 40 years.

Jordan stared down at him, face inscrutable, surveying the lay of Roger's land. Roger Baxter was not an overly hairy man, mostly a sprinkling of graying hair here and there, but it was most prominent on his ample chest. This was also one of the areas that was most white as well, giving the scattering of chest hairs the look of powered sugar sprinkled on top of one of Mary's famous bundt cakes. Jordan grabbed onto that chest, squeezing the thick flesh and hair in his curved hands.

"You've got nice tits, Mr. Baxter," he said, the ghost of a smile on his face.

"Don't call them...that," Roger spat out, face sour. That didn't stop Jordan's smile or Jordan's hands, which kneaded his chest more intently, drawing a low groan from the older man. Suddenly, taking Roger by surprise, Jordan's hands moved away from his breasts and onto his shoulders as the younger man held him in place.

Roger watched, wide eyed and mute, as Jordan straddled his chest, the young man's lanky brown legs of each side of his frame and his small, almost bony rear end planted firmly on Roger's lower ribs. He was, for all intents and purposes, secured in place. That mystery smile, again promising something sinful and delightful, never left Jordan's face while he fished his cock out with one hand.