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The Mandrakes: Volume II

By Zachariah Jack All Rights Reserved ©

Erotica / Romance

One Clear Day


March, 2004

Why do they put these bruised bananas up for sale, Cal groused? Unless a person was going to take the old mushy things home and dump them into a mixing bowl to make banana nut bread, it just didn’t make sense. And only Mammay would do that anyway. He was perturbed at once again trying and failing to procure fresh bananas for his morning smoothies. Whole Foods should be ashamed of themselves. Cal continued his mental tirade, railing at the store, then the parking lot’s lack of bicycle lock spots, the small efficiency apartment’s rusting outdoor steps and the cockroach doorman guarding entrance to the small domicile he inhabited.

Putting down the two sacks of precious groceries--- how could a starving student keep nutritionally fit with the prices the college town grocery store charged for staple items--- he grumbled through the small apartment to the bathroom. The mirror reflected his chagrin in living color. He shouldn’t frown like this, the advice occurred to him. It made him look 30. Damn. He was just pissed.

The mail had delivered the rotten news a couple hours before that now left the tall, lean, ex-Sig Ep member stewing. After waiting patiently for months to hear from the next dot com start-up firm about his umpteenth application--- why did they require snail mail communication anyway--- the rude, one sentence denial note had set Cal off. All the time spent and meticulous preparation undertaken…relegated to a wadded up trashed state in milliseconds. Yes, he was pissed, all right. Enough to skip classes for the Wednesday he now spent, alone, in less than 600 square feet of suddenly prison-like confines.

Stripping disgustedly in front of the cheap wall mirror gave him time to study the familiarly dark outline of ebony-skinned litheness staring back. Dropping the sweat-caked drawers to the floor, the deflated leg lizard even wiggled in vexation. Sexy foreskin covering the eye blocked commiseration between the topside set. Cal bore exasperation towards him, too. They weren’t speaking. Nothing was quite satisfactory in the world now.

By way of blind response, the bugger began swelling in signal complaint for separation anxiety the forlorn thing felt. Cal had tried in vain satisfying the one trick pony--- he only echoed one blatant message--- stroking to rapid-fire completion six and eight times daily for a whole month with hopes to ignore him for the next. To maybe get some relief from the thing. One day he’d topped the baker’s dozen mark.

Did that satisfy the over-sized baby? Hell, to the no. The snake mimicked a heroin addict. More, more, always more. Exactly like an addict, the climactic eruptions were always ecstasy-inducing… for a quick minute. Shucks, Cal thought, he could sink to the depths of that science experiment involving the monkey programmed, Pavlovian fashion, to climax via self-induced electrostimulation with the flick of a hand-held switch. As often as desired. Yet, Cheetah’s craving never waned. The monkey had obsessed to the point of starving itself slowly in repetitious orgasmic ad infinitum.

So, Cal had gone on strike. He was ignoring the ingrate. For three weeks, now, the swelling come-ons and boner states had played Siren to him, lustily begging sweet satisfaction. And for three weeks and one day, he had successfully fought the urge to yield. Damn it.

Fondling the silkiness of smooth cocoa skin, he idly explored creases and crevices in distracted fashion, still carping about the newest rejection letter. The sleek feel assuaged the bitterness a little, but upon refocusing, he found the cobra staring up in arching, eye-peaking entreaty to, ‘Oh… please, please, please do something to help me…’ Cal slapped him instead, stepped into the shower and coldly soaked the sorry sycophant into submission.


Thirty minutes later, still in deep chunter at the eleventieth tech rebuff, the lean jock trekked up hill to The Drag--- Guadalupe Street--- edging UT campus. Destination: old dollar movie theatre. Wallowing in unfamiliar self-pity, Cal had recollected the marquee announcing the playbill of Vincent Minelli’s, ‘On a Clear Day’. Having seen it before, the ditzy panache of early Streisand with appearances by a youthful Nicholson and Newhart, offered an air of inane fancy he somehow needed right now.

The cloudless day insinuated densely packed, dark, low-hanging billows of misty fog by his present mood. Maybe this momentary escape would allow assuagement? Paying the old-fashioned ticket window matron, Cal followed a darkened aisle to a midway seat three deep to the end. Maybe two others were inside on such a sunny weekday.

Considering the title of the movie and his gloomy temper, it struck a chord of irony. A smile surprised him. See, he told himself, it was already helpful. Screw the missed argumentation lecture. He was certainly in no mood for that branch of learning. Presuming more chance for implementing fists over Cicero in the present mindset, another morose grin surfaced.

A throw-back pre-show cartoon, a ’la the old days, featuring Chip deluging Dale with acorns bolstered his escape decision. Who the hell needed a stupid MBA anyway? Maybe he would just take up abode here in the third seat, order take-in and pay rent for a couple months. The fantasy world sounded better and better by the moment. He scrunched down further in the seat as the movie started, intending to memorize lines for old times’ sake in memory of another viewing of the cavorting Babs when he and Jenny had slipped away to the Rome Adelphi Theatre a rainy day forever ago.

The bygone friend would like this, he reflected. He missed the pretty blonde lesbian. She and he had entered UT together under guise of a dating couple back in 2000, anteing up rhetoric of jabber-wenches throughout Rome by their ‘elopement’. While Mammay and Dad knew the story, Mel and Aliea, Aunt Maizie and others had all been convinced of the affair that wasn’t… so much the better, Cal thought.

The two had snickered conspiratorially over the clever ruse, comfortable that the distance would keep their secret. Friendship had grown strong. For more than two years the two were bosom-buddies, confidants, roommates and pseudo-lovers for all to see. An exotic duo of flavor which, even on the progressive campus of UT, tended to draw attention. Both drew strength from an agreeable arrangement and for those years, even they almost bought into the fakery.

Then, Celeste Devereux had happened on their scene. A buxom Coco Chanel La Boheme, she had figuratively knocked Jenny Sampras’ socks off. Jenny and Celeste were soulmates before a month had passed. The duo became a trio, many deducing Calumet Broadhearst had begun a twenty-first century harem for himself. The svelte figures of two raving beauties on his arm elevated the enigmatic relationship to near legend status for the better part of a year. Men ogled the sight of the three inseparables in their Toulouse-Lautrec chic. Celeste evinced the height of French suavity, bending both Jenny and Cal to the polished style she portrayed. The campus adored their élan.

Until duty had called. Celeste’s Father, back in the Loire Valley chateaux, called with news of her Mother’s contracting of a rare cancer. By abrupt dénouement of the agreeable pact, the idyllic period ended. As the saddened French girl had packed for an immediate return to her home country, she had packed not only her belongings but Jenny as well. The two were besotted. Cal was devastated. Jenny’s sobbing adieu still caused him to tear up.

No longer feeling the little shared bungalow or the Greek social life--- his Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity brothers had been kicked to the curb--- Cal hid away in the little studio efficiency off Lamar Avenue between Pease Park and Town Lake. Tucked behind a grocery store, for God’s sake.

The hermit’s life now justified him, in direct contrast to the previous bon vivant bravura. School ascended to prime focus, an MBA the goal. His astute penchant for computer programming and technology invention accorded the twenty-year-old an aside to the mundanity of business school. It had proven a boon.

Broadening a distinct perspicacity for the cyberworld, Cal had delved an embryonic talent only skirted as a hobby until that point. Other interests and Jenny, then Celeste, had previously headlined him. The nascent tech science field, introduced by Coach Costner, was implemented with vigor.

Inventing more than one uniquely useful hardware innovation during this veiled existence, he had forged a reputation, albeit small in scope. Another failed quest to bowl over Silicon Valley as informed via this day’s mail brought him back to earth. With a reverberative thud. Cal was still convinced that his freshly devised method of down-sizing pc chassis size and revolutionizing the co-adaptation of the server to encompass power, cooling, storage and connectivity, thereby mobilizing the journeyman’s pc reach, was sound.

He had dubbed it a ‘blade server’. IBM and Intel had not been impressed. Desktops were the future, they felt. Who needed to carry a tiny, awkwardly manipulated keyboard on a mobile computer with them, they shortsightedly insisted? Cal mightily disagreed. Maybe he would just take the idea to Mr. Dell or Mr. Jobs instead. The two were much more forward-thinking. And one’s headquarters were but 30 miles distant.

Kicking himself for the oversight now, he attempted concentrating on Babs wafting her silly self through a flower garden… the split personality character was seeing the clearness of the day he had utterly missed. He spread his legs and scrunched further, pulling his baseball cap further down on his head.

As the girl warbled her way through the title song, Cal noted a late arrival out of the corner of his eye. Movement indicated approach of a person who came within two seats of his before plopping down. A glance identified a small younger guy who nodded toward him congenially. Odd. With all these seats empty, he apparently liked the one only two from himself. The other two moviegoers were ten rows behind him and twenty rows over. Out of each other’s spheres.

Over the next half hour, Cal was distracted more than once by the little guy’s fidgeting. Not wanting to look, he could nevertheless feel eyes checking him out. A fully-haired Bob Newhart awkwardly staged his career brand of stammering innocence as the shuffling persisted. Finally hazarding a sidelong look toward the wiggler, Cal was astounded to see the diminutive Hispanic boy with his pants dropped to the floor. Legs were spread and stiff prick was slowly being stroked up, then down, in deliberate display.

Seeing Cal’s eyes on him, the jerker grinned lewdly, turning a slight bit to allow a better view of the proceedings. Not shy in the slightest. Cal tried focusing back to the screen and Babs, but rhythmic undulation to the songs, slowly steady, kept pulling him back. The boy signaled something after the third glance--- now close to a stare--- and Cal jerked back forward to block the visual, not wanting acknowledgement of contact.

The next thing Cal knew, the boy had slunk down out of his seat and crawled over two chair widths on the cement floor. The kid’s hard piece rubbed enticingly on Cal’s bare calf as he slid past. His hand tentatively hovered over Cal’s abruptly expanding pant snake, the tenting going on inside quite unmistakable. Cal sat up quickly to escape the touch he knew was coming, turning nervously around to see the person behind and the only other on the opposite side apparently absorbed and oblivious. The small hand’s heat suddenly scorched the snake through pants and drawers both. What the hell, Cal realized. This pint-sized fiend was going to get freaky if he let him. Right here.

As the offer sank in, the little person settled deftly between Cal’s legs, further scorching his bare legs by contact with olive-skinned arms and shoulders. The hand called to its mate and as Cal watched, enthralled, the paired team expertly unzipped, spread, gripped and then pulled both shorts and drawers down in a concerted effort to expose what he was plainly seeking.

Cal couldn’t believe himself when his own slim hips elevated in absence of any brainwaves. Just a fraction of an inch aided the shorts to slide free. The anaconda was on the prowl. Snapping loose of the elastic band sliding past, it slapped up and off Cal’s exposed belly. The six pack which the whopping thing smacked against felt the heat. Every rippling abdominal muscle tensed under the feel and sound. The sharp report must surely have alerted the theatre and surrounding neighborhood but he forgot that concern the second those sizzling hands reasserted themselves.

Sliding sensuously up his smooth thighs, erotically slipping past the big balls tightly retracting against the long phallus they abutted, the fingers didn’t miss anything. Their talent began a slow dance, testing different parts of exposed anatomy. Two black eyes peering up from between widely spread legs twinkled in mischievous resolve.

He would have noted the smile accompanying them but for the shadows. As he observed, wide-eyed, the lips parted and gradually raised up to the tip of the cowled corona topping a huge shaft. A crooked forefinger enwrapped the base of it and pulled toward the lips. All ten inches were on red-alert. Completely forgetting about the hands more commonly caressing this part of him. After all, Cal reflected, those two--- his own--- had been neglectful in their duty of late. Fuck them, the cobra informed the higher head.

And then, the enormous black dick sighed in exaggerated liberation upon linking the sight of the approaching lips with tactile sensation.

The mouth took it all in by a slow, deep slide crotchward. Only stopping when the oral anatomy had been stretched past normal capacity. Little Cal acquainted with the boy’s Adam’s apple, from the inside, as it gently massaged the phatted head. Perception was excruciatingly hot and honeyed. Not ninety seconds and several dozen cavernous strokes passed before Cal felt upsurge of three weeks….and one day… worth of baby juice pulse in an ejaculatory explosion of almost unrivaled scale.

Surprise arrested the blow job aficionado swallowing him whole. The widened eyes darted up to connect with his own. As the four stared back and forth, Cal could see the peripheral image of a gallon of creamy jism seep out around the cute boy’s full lips, be-smudging the three-day stubble. It struck Cal that at least this dickboy wasn’t jail bait.

The little digits came up, greedily scooping ambrosial goo into cupped palms. But, he never elevated from the fixed position as he rhythmically massaged the spewing eye and spasming head by deepthroat golluming. Tremors shooting around Cal’s body infected the dark boy. A blackly sleek head mop fluffed poofily about his face as Cal sensed an answering eruption. Day-umm. Cal disseminated in a stupefaction of sensate heaven.

Unaccountable lost moments spent themselves in regaining sense of surround. Finally, the boy slowly and deliberately ascended from his planted spot. The lips plopped free of the thickness; he licked to save the prize. Next, the boy raised the hands still cradling escaped spillage. All through the slurping, the pequeño whizz took time to survey Cal’s reaction to the picnicking going on between his rangy legs.

An impish smile blossomed in vague evanescence. He whisper-garbled, “Quiero este otra vez, por favor, Señor Gigante?” Cal got the gist of it. Patting the boy’s silky head, he motioned that it was time for him to go. The boy slumped his disappointment--- he had apparently meant doing it again right this minute. Fuzz of the episode was still numbing Cal’s senses but he knew he needed to leave. Dr. Chabot would simply have to court Daisy…or Melinda… without his help. The girl’s clairvoyance surely ascertained the same ending as before.

As the tall sexy brother began to rise, a still kneeling boy braced sticky hands on Cal’s legs, “No, senor, por mucho favor… el gusto es mio.” And pulled a moist cloth from a hidden pocket. Cleverly prepared. The explorer boy scout carefully, lovingly, caressed the famous johnson --- in Rome, Georgia, anyway--- detailing a cleansing of both it and associated parts like a race car driver polishing fenders. He didn’t overlook the muscled thighs or calves. Leading to another unavoidable boner. But Cal firmly refused, smiling. Resisting one more plaintive request.

Tucking the swollen junk back inside raised shorts, and lowering his t-shirt, the sated stud did finally arise and take leave. Jack Nicholson was preparing an incestuous proposal to his ex-step-sister--- was that even a thing, it struck Cal--- as he turned away.

Walking carefully up the dim aisle, Cal caught glimpse of the person seated ten rows back. Tears flowed freely down a profoundly absorbed youthful face. Light emanating from the screen illuminated a classic cherubic mien of Raphaelian loveliness.

Framed by a riotous mass of dark golden curls, striking wide eyes watched the movie in tunnel-visioned focus. Thickly sensuous, pouting lips under an exquisite pug nose, itself sprouting from between the most beautiful large doe eyes of indeterminate hue, all water-colored into a descript being amongst Cal’s brain cells. Long-lashed eyelids blinked in hypnotized erogeneity… and sheer innocence.

For a second time inside the darkened confines of the seedy old vaudeville-era theatre, Cal felt broadsided. First by hormonally-induced volcanic rapture. In this fleeting stitch of time, however, he was overcome by marvel of prickly déjà vu. Regarding this beguiling, vulnerable young man of inordinate familiarity. Somewhere from deep within, a mental mime reached up, seeking. Yet lacking words.

In forcing himself to not stop or make address, awareness surfaced of something profound about this person which would haunt Cal’s Id for time to come. In augur for an event of momentous impact. He was staggered by the power from the vibe. Cal barely managed to exit ornate old doors without making a fool of himself.

A move soon to be branded as pure blunder.


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