Twisted Creature

By Sue Brown

It's a small one-storey building squeezed between two
huge houses. A boring, little house, in an unremarkable
area and the only interesting thing about it is it appears
to be empty.

Chris cautiously checks out the area. He can't see any
nosy neighbors peering from behind their curtains and
he's so damn tired that he really doesn't care tonight.

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Making his way around the property, he looks for any
points of entry: a broken window or an unlatched door.
He finds an unlocked window by the back door and
crawls in, hissing as he snags his hand on a rough
window frame. Crouched down on the dirty floor
boards, Chris picks out a large splinter and sucks on the
bloody wound.

There's no power. Chris presses the light switch without
any real hope and isn't surprised when there isn't even a
flicker. He slides into his thin sleeping bag, shoving his
duffel under his head, and falls asleep, happy to be out
of the wind and rain for once.

Chris wakes to find the world a dull gray and rain
streaming down the windows. Without raising his head,
he follows the rain drops down the glass, over and over,
until they disappear to an unknown destination.
Eventually the needs to take a piss and eat assert
themselves and he sits up, yawning and scratching his
belly.

He winces as he gets to his feet, the ever-present aches
and pains of a year on the road slowing him down. Chris
hates the fall, knowing that a winter of poking and
probing by the ER doctor follows, listening to his chest
and prescribing asthma medications he can't afford.

Turning on the cold tap, he's pleased to find clean, fresh,
running water gushing out and, hopefully, that means
the toilet will flush. This is the part he hates the most,
the bodily function that reminds him of who he really is:
dysfunctional and deformed -- the twisted creature. It
isn't enough that he can't piss standing up, it's the
inconvenience of trying to avoid the prying, judging

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eyes of those around him.

He readjusts the pack. Thank fuck he doesn't have to put
up with the binding as well anymore. His pants slip
down his hips, weeks of poor eating showing in his
defined hip bones. For once, his hated hips and backside
are starting to look better, he's starting to look more
masculine. Isn't it ironic that it's through malnutrition?

Kneeling by his duffel, Chris roots through it for some
food that isn't Doritos and jerky. He would kill for a hot
coffee and waffles. Doritos and jerky it is, then, washed
down with the last of the flat soda. He chews without
enthusiasm.

The rain doesn't stop all day, a relentless pounding
against the windows, making impossible for Chris to
move on. An exploration of the house provides little
interest beyond some old newspapers.

For a second evening, he finds himself rolled up in his
sleeping bag, but this time he spends a while reading the
yellowing newspapers. Chris looks at the date on the
first one. He realizes it was dated exactly a decade ago.
October 31

st

. Halloween. Chris was in elementary school

then, a different person, a different lifetime. He could
remember Halloween. It was the only time he was
allowed to dress up the way he wanted, the only time he
could show the world how twisted he really was.

He smooths out the paper, reading the headlines.

LOCAL MEN KILLED IN HOME ATTACK

Peter Whiteman and his roommate, James Strauss,

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were found dead at their home in Avenue Road. Both
had been shot and stabbed multiple times.

Chris scans the reports. The first one is bold, focusing
on the horror of the poor cleaning woman finding their
bodies and the sheriff assuring the populace that
everything would be done to find the perpetrator.
Gradually though, the case slides off the front pages and
instead focuses on the lifestyle of the two men, their
'relationship' mentioned in sly comments by the
neighbors. Chris snorts as one man points out that with
their lifestyle they 'got what was coming to them'. There
is no mention of the killers ever being apprehended.

It's not until he takes a look at the pictures of the two
men that he realizes they are standing together -- happy
and laughing -- in front of the house where Chris is
currently squatting. This house. It makes him shiver.
Chris isn't superstitious, but a tragedy took place here.
Looking around, he wonders if anyone has lived here
since the murders.

The light is growing dim now, making it difficult to
read. He falls asleep, his cheek smushed up against one
of the newspapers, the patter of rain following him into
sleep.

The weather isn't much better when he awakes the
second day. Chris knows he should move on. Neighbors
start taking notice when a place is occupied for more
than a couple of days, but Chris needs a shower, hot
food and drink, and some fresh clothes.

The house is on the edges of a small town. Maybe he
could fulfill his bodily needs first, come back for one

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more night, and then move on. He doesn't have enough
money for accommodation, but he could manage the
rest. Tomorrow he will have to start looking for a job or
find a church somewhere.

He needs to make himself look presentable. A brief look
in the cracked mirror tells him that newspaper print
across his cheek blaring Murder does not help the
situation. Chris washes in the cold water and pulls on
the last of his not-quite-so-grimy clothes, leaving the
house as he found it. He takes everything with him, not
knowing if he will be coming back. There's something
about the house, an atmosphere, which makes him
wonder. The strange thing is, the house felt warm and
friendly rather than reflecting the horror that had taken
place ten years previously.

The town itself is basic but joy, oh joy, it has a
swimming pool. The grouchy attendant gives Chris a
knowing look when he pays for admission, but he
ignores it. A year of pointed comments and skeptical
looks has made him grow a thicker hide. He hesitates on
where to go initially, but eventually enters the men's
changing rooms. He would look out of place in either,
but this is where he belongs. Unusually and in Chris'
case, fortunately, there are some cubicles at the back of
the changing rooms with curtains across them. It is also
a quiet time of day, the morning swimmers having long
since left for work.

He changes quickly, using the shower to wash off the
worst of the grime before plunging into the pool with
enthusiasm. He's a good swimmer, years of enforced
swimming lessons paying off now and he's not afraid to
bare his chest to the world, the scars from surgery hardly

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visible. He swims fifty lengths, only pausing when the
tiredness from the lack of food and long days on the
road kicks in.

Afterward, he showers and washes his hair, smirking
inwardly when he notices an older man giving him the
once-over and not in a hostile way. It's not the only time
he's been checked out, but it's the first time he's been so
exposed.

Clean and tired, Chris completes the rest of his chores.
The weather is closing in again and he returns to the
house, taking a chance on the neighbors. He's full of hot
coffee and an all-day breakfast from the local diner. It
has been too many days since his last hot meal. He
needs to take better care of himself.

The gloom from the outside is enough to make him want
to sleep and he does, a rolled up bundle in the corner of
a derelict room.

***

Chris wakes to a pair of dark gray eyes watching him.
He sits bolt upright, sleep fleeing in the face of fear. It's
not sensible to be caught so unaware.

The man, part Native American judging by his gorgeous
burnished copper skin, holds his hand out in a gesture of
peace. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean to frighten you. I was
just checking that you were all right."

"M'fine," Chris mumbles, and tries to calm his pounding
heart. He's backed up against the corner of the room and
realizes with a sinking heart that his pack with his knife

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is out of reach.

The stranger follows his gaze. "Is this what you want?"
At Chris' nod, he slides the pack over and sits back on
his heels.

Chris doesn't make any overt move to get the knife,
figuring if the dude was gonna hurt him, he would have
done it already. He's just woken up, his brain hasn't
caught up with the other possibilities.

"My name is Peter," the man says in a conversational
tone. He's got nice eyes, Chris thinks, warm and
friendly.

"Chris."

Peter gives him a speculative glance. "Chris. You on the
road?"

"Yeah," Chris is honest. He doesn't exactly look like
someone who’s living the picket fence dream at the
moment. "I'm sorry, I thought this place was empty. I
haven't seen anyone around here for a few days."

"We don't mind you being here," Peter tells him and
Chris frowns. We?

Peter notices the frown. "Me and James. We keep an eye
on the place. It's kinda nice to have someone in the
house again. It's so rare anyone ventures in. The place is
falling to rack and ruin."

"Why don't you sell the place?" Chris asks. Despite its
past history it must have been a nice place once.

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"Ah," Peter gives him an odd smile, "We're a little fussy
about who lives here."

"You'd rather see the place fall down than sell to the
wrong people?"

"Something like that," Peter agrees. "Are you hungry?"

Chris blinks at the changed of subject. "Uh, yeah?"

"Come on then." Peter stands up and holds out his hand,
"James is waiting in the kitchen with breakfast."

"What?" Okay, Chris has just woken up. He can be
forgiven for being slow, but seriously? He's been found
squatting in this dude's house and now the guy wants to
give him breakfast?

"Breakfast," Peter repeats a little impatiently. "James
will gives us shit if we don't get in there."

"Uh, okay," Chris gets up, tripping a little as he
extricates himself from the sleeping bag. He follows
Peter into the kitchen and stops in the doorway. A young
man with a shaggy mop of red hair is standing at the
stove, poking at the contents of a large frying pan. He
looks up as they come in.

"Oh hi, you're here finally. Well, sit down, food's nearly
ready."

Chris watches as James quickly plates the food and
hands two to Peter. Peter. Peter and James. The dead
guys are cooking me breakfast?

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He's stuck in the doorway, unable to move as the two
men stare at him curiously. "What's going on?"

"Breakfast if you shift your ass, otherwise Peter will eat
it all." James says, sitting down at the table.

In the kitchen.

In the house that suddenly looks like any other house,
down to the pile of paperwork on the dresser.

Fuck.

"You're dead," Chris accuses, feeling somewhat rude at
being so blunt.

Peter looks a little pained. "Well, yes, but don't let it
stop you eating the food." He pushes the plate
encouragingly toward the empty space at the table.

Chris doesn't move. He catches the look James gives
Peter.

"I told you this was a bad idea." James mutters and he
doesn't look at Chris.

Peter just sighs and runs a hand through his black hair.
"Look, we're not gonna force you to eat with us. It's just
nice to have some company, that's all. Come on, Chris,
you must be hungry."

He opens his mouth to deny it but is forestalled by a
loud rumbling from his stomach.

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"Sit the fuck down and eat the food," James growls.
"Then you can move on. We're not gonna hurt you."

It's the anger more than the kindness that convinces him
and the food… that smells so good. He eats quickly,
eggs, bacon, and toast disappearing. James watches him
for a minute and then gets up and cooks some more.
Chris doesn't like to think how a ghost is cooking. Is he
eating ghost food?

"Don't think about it. It'll break your brain," advises
Peter. Evidently Chris has a shit-for-poker face.

The second round of food goes the way of the first. He'll
have to be careful. He's eaten more in the last two days
than he's eaten in the last two weeks. He doesn't want to
end up vomiting it all back. Chris sits back with a
contented belch, flushing as he does.

"Feeling better?" James gives him a knowing smirk.

Chris nods, the blush of embarrassment subsiding.
James seems a little more prickly than Peter, but he's
friendly enough now. "Much better. I can't remember
the last time someone cooked me a meal."

"Go easy, okay? You don't want to puke." Peter gets up
and ruffles his hair, before removing the plates from the
table. Chris tries hard not to flinch from the casual
caress. It isn't the fact that Peter is… well, undead; it's
just that he hates/needs/craves touch.

"Coffee?"

The offer breaks into his musing. Chris looks up and

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sees Peter waving the coffee pot at him.

"Yes, please."

His stomach is full for the second time in two days and
he's drinking fresh coffee served by two hot gay men.
Chris thinks he's died and gone to heaven because this--
this shit does not happen to him. His world is full of
confusion and depression, cold and despair.

He's just finished his second cup of coffee when there's
a loud bang and Peter flinches. The movement draws his
attention as does the pale look on James' face.

"It's time, babe." James' hand closes over Peter's and he
moves around the table to take him into his arms.

"Oh God, oh God," Peter moans, burying his face his
lover's hair.

"Shh," James soothes him, "It'll be all over soon. I'll be
waiting for you."

The easy atmosphere of seconds ago has vanished and
Chris is confused by the sudden change in mood.

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?" He gets up
from the table.

Peter looks up and Chris is shocked at the change in his
face. "Chris, I'm really sorry."

"For what?" Chris stands up as well. He wants to hug
them, but he doesn't know what for.

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Peter pulls away from James and catches Chris by the
arm. The touch goes through Chris like lightening,
thrilling and scaring him in equal measures, but the look
on Peter's face is anything but thrilling.

"Chris, you have to stay in here. You don't want to see
what's about to happen."

"Tell me," Chris insists and this time he looks at James.

"Every year, on the anniversary of our deaths, we have
to relive how we died. It's our price for staying here," he
waves a hand to encompass the house, "in this house
together."

Horrified, Chris says, "You mean…?"

They both nod and Chris sees their hands fumble for
each other. Despite the bizarre situation, he envies them
this, their obvious love for each other.

"What's going to happen?" he asks. He's in a house with
dead people who are about to relive their last moments.
Why isn't he running for his life? "Can they hurt me?"

"They won't even see you. It's between us and them and
it will all be over in a matter of an hour."

The implication strikes Chris like a bolt. "They took an
hour to kill you?"

Peter nods, a sad twist marring his soft mouth. "They
wanted to hurt us."

"But are they dead as well?"

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"I wish they were," James growls, "then this would stop.
But for them it's just an annual nightmare; a small price
for what they did."

"They get to enjoy hacking you to death and you get all
the pain and fear?" Chris asks incredulously.

"Not exactly. Each year, it becomes more horrific for
them. They see us as dead people now. Every year, we
look a little worse," Peter explains.

Chris frowns. "But you look fine."

"Don't put your head around the door in about five
minutes," James says, "and ignore the screaming."

"It still hurts?" Was staying together worth this barbaric
ritual?

His poker face obviously lets him down again because
Peter gives him a wan smile. "Every bullet wound, every
cut of the knife is worth my life with James."

James' hand slips around Peter's waist and pulls him
closer. Chris watches as James runs his fingers along the
dark skin of Peter's jaw and bends his head to kiss his
lover. The kiss is tender and loving; a kiss that Chris is
never going to receive in his lifetime. He tries not to be
envious, but it’s so hard.

The banging outside gets louder and Peter pulls away
from his lover's arms. He looks over at Chris.

"Stay here. Do not come out. And if you're sensible,

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you'll cover your ears. We'll be back with you as soon as
it's over."

Chris nods and sits down. He looks up to see the two
men standing in front of him, hands gripped tightly
together. Only it's not Peter and James; it's what they
must be now. His stomach roils at the sight of the two
corpses, little more than bones really, where the men
were standing. He blinks and they’re gone.

He hears breaking glass and then Peter and James'
confused shouts.

A strange voice starts yelling. "You said they wouldn't
be here. Brock. You said the fags were always out on
Fridays."

"Shut the fuck up! They usually are." Someone,
presumably Brock, growls and there's more banging and
crashing.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Peter sounds angry

and frightened.

"Shut up! Get over there!"

"We can't leave them alive. They know who we are."

"I know that, stupid."

Chris hears Peter trying to reason with them and the
angry hysterical voices of Brock and his companion.

The first scream belongs to James.

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He wants to puke. Chris cradles his head in his arms
while the screams get louder. He tries not to listen, but
it's hard not to when James starts pleading for Peter's
life.

It goes on for an eternity. At the end, Peter and James
have gone beyond pleading to calling out to each other,
words of love that seem to enrage their attackers. The
news reports were misleading. It hadn't been a hate
crime initially. How had it gone so dreadfully wrong?
Why had the men felt the need to hurt them so
horrifically?

Then there’s silence. Blessed silence. He doesn't move.

"It's all over, Chris."

He looks up to see Peter and James in the doorway,
whole again, their tear-stained faces belying the smiles
on their faces.

Without thinking about his actions, Chris rushes over to
them and kisses them on the lips, Peter first and then
James. They don't seem shocked and they don't step
back. Instead he's folded in their arms, his head resting
on James' shoulder. Peter strokes his hair and murmurs
soothingly.

"It's finished for another year, we're fine now."

Chris gives a shaky sob and his fingers curl in James'
shirt. "But you've relived this for ten years."

"I know, baby, but we're fine. One hour a year to be with
each other forever. It's a small price to pay." Peter's hand

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slides down to trace circles on Chris' back.

"The screaming… the screaming…" Chris' voice trails
off.

James presses a kiss to the top of his head and then leans
over to kiss Peter. "You'll move on tomorrow, you'll
forget."

Chris shudders. "I don't think I'll ever forget."

"You will, baby, I promise."

He thinks he should stand back, but the feel of these
men, pressed up close to him, is something he'll never
forget. It goes beyond comfort to something deep and
visceral and, God, he never wants this moment to end
because what follows for Chris is loneliness, the
emptiness of an imperfect mind and body. He leaves
behind warmth and love even in death.

Peter bends down and nuzzles his ear. Chris shivers at
the contact. Up to now, the touch has been comfort, but
this is deliberate, sexual.

"We normally go to bed after they kill us. Sort of
reconnecting." Peter looks a bit embarrassed, but James
just gives his lover a needy, hungry look.

Chris does draw back at that. "I'll go, I'll… uh." So he'll
sit in the kitchen while the two hot dead guys fuck in the
bedroom. He'll try and close his ears to that as well.

James stays his withdrawal with a hand on his butt.
"Stay, please?"

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All of his muscles tense, the need to run, the desire to
stay, warring in Chris' mind.

"I'm not, you can't want me, why…?" Why the fuck
can't he get a simple sentence out?

The two men crowd him, James tucked up against his
back, Peter a warm comforting presence at his front,
hard muscle and even harder cock pressing against his
belly.

"Come to bed, Chris." James' warm breath blows across
his ear. He presses into Chris and, yeah, there's another
hard dick rubbing in the crack of his ass.

"I'm not…" he tries again and Peter nods.

"We know." His hands are sitting loosely on Chris' hips,
just waiting, not forcing.

Chris knows the next move is his. He could say no and
they wouldn't try to stop him. Or he could swallow
down his issues for one brief moment and go to bed with
two gay guys offering him what he thought he could
never have.

It's the best offer he's ever had, even if the guys are ten
years dead, he thinks rather hysterically, and throws
caution to the wind. He leans forward and kisses Peter in
silent answer, his hands reaching back to pull James in
closer.

Peter moans against Chris' mouth and he responds. He
can feel the heavy weight of two hard dicks against him,

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and hands roving over his chest, slipping under his T-
shirt. He has the taste of Peter in his mouth. He stiffens
as the hands find his nipples, waiting for them to stop,
withdraw, tell him he's a freak.

Instead he hears James saying, "You're so hot, Chris," as
he rolls the hardening nubs between his fingers.

Peter pulls back and leans over to kiss James. They don't
let him go, squashing him between them as they kiss, all
wet tongue and teeth. Excitement grows low in Chris'
belly as he watches.

He finds himself in their bedroom. Where he was
sleeping, he thinks, yet there is no sign of his sleeping
bag in the corner, or his bag, come to that. James pushes
him down onto the bed and he lies back, propped up on
his elbows. They look at him and then each other and
then Chris nearly swallows his tongue as they begin to
undress each other. Holy shit!

James' hands are under Peter's T-shirt, pulling it up over
his head and there’s a moaning sound -- that's definitely
Chris -- as the dark, sinewy torso is exposed. James
leans forward to suck up a hickey above Peter's heart.
Peter is pulling out James' shirt and as more skin is
exposed, Chris can see the fine dusting of auburn hair
across his chest and the trail leading down to disappear
under his jeans. There's not much difference in their
height, but James is broader and stockier than Peter,
thickly muscled, and Chris has to bite his lip from
uttering another moan.

They kiss again, soft and tender this time. Chris notices
the way they hold each other; the need for connection is

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greater than the need for sex. Peter's hands are splayed
across James' back and Chris really likes the contrast in
their skin tone. James' hands are resting lightly on
Peter's waist.

"Chris?" James is looking at him. "Help me get Peter's
pants off." He turns Peter around and offers him up, his
arousal clear in the bulge of his jeans.

"Fuck," Chris whispers, falling on his knees in front of
the two men. His hands come up to undo the button of
the jeans. His knuckles brush Peter's abdomen and Chris
sees the muscles flutter under his touch.

He slowly pulls down the zipper, expecting at any
moment for this all to go south. Chris does not get this
lucky -- ever. Nothing happens and within seconds he's
sliding the denim over Peter's thighs and pulling them
off his feet. There's a damp spot at the front of Peter's
blue boxers briefs. Chris wants to lean forward and suck
at it, just like he's seen in a hundred porn movies.

"Do it," Peter whispers.

Wide-eyed, he looks up at them. "I've not done this
before."

"We know."

"No, I mean with anyone. I've never had sex with
anyone -- ever." Both men look shocked. Chris feels like
an idiot. He's on his knees in front of two hot guys and
he's confessing his dirty secret. But it seems his mouth's
on overdrive because he says, "I spend so much time
hating my body, I've never let anyone touch it. I've got

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no idea what I'm doing."

Peter slides his fingers along the slight stubble of Chris'
jaw. "Just go slow and don't do anything that makes you
feel uncomfortable."

Chris nods and leans in, sticking his tongue out to touch
the dampness. Peter's dick twitches under the clinging
fabric. Chris gets bolder and sucks briefly. It feels odd,
tonguing through the material, but it's saturated with the
taste of Peter and he wants more of that taste. He presses
his cheek into the hard length, sucking on it, needing to
see Peter's reaction. He looks up to see Peter's head
flung back against James, eyes rolling back as he moans.
James is pinching Peter's nipples between his thumb and
forefinger.

Suddenly impatient, Chris pulls down the briefs,
drawing them down Peter's long legs. Tossing them
away, he turns his attention back to Peter's dick, curved
and darkly flushed against Peter’s stomach. The head
glistens and he swipes his tongue over it, tasting the
bittersweet flavor. He revels in the loud moan from
above.

"Suck his balls," James suggests. "It makes his knees go
all weak."

He does as he's told, paying lots of attention to Peter's
shaved balls, sucking in one and then the other, making
them good and wet. The trembling of muscle in Peter's
thighs tells him he must be doing something right.

There's movement and he finds James kneeling beside
him, drawing him in for a kiss. He shares the taste of

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Peter with James, tangling their tongues in slow, lazy
circles. Nothing is harsh or scary. Chris realizes this is
deliberate, for him. They want him to get pleasure from
this experience.

James pulls away from the kiss to lick a wet stripe up
Peter's cock, encouraging Chris to do the same. Above
them, Peter chokes out a cry and his hands flail for a
moment before settling, one atop each head, his fingers
tangling in their hair.

Between their tongues, James teaches and encourages
Chris to drive Peter insane. How to tongue at the small
knot of nerves beneath the head, how to bite gently up
the shaft, How to Give a Blowjob 101 with two people
who clearly know every single trigger the other has.

"Watch," James orders and sucks in Peter's cock until
his nose is resting in the dark pubes.

"No way, dude." Chris shakes his head. He has a gag
reflex. A painful experience with a large dildo taught
him that much.

"Take in what you can," encourages Peter. "Want your
mouth round me."

Chris swallows hard. James leans over and kisses him,
then grazes his mouth down the slight stubble covering
Chris's jaw. It makes Chris shudder.

He slowly sucks in the head, relaxing his jaw as much as
possible. He can't go down as far as James, but from the
noise Peter is making, it doesn't seem to matter. He bobs
up and down, feeling Peter’s cock get even harder.

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Peter's legs are shaking and Chris wonders if it's from
trying not to thrust into his mouth.

"Fuck, gonna come." Peter tugs on Chris' hair and he
pulls off, not yet ready for a mouthful of come. Peter
doesn't seem to mind, though, as his back arches and he
pulses in Chris' hand, striping Chris' face with sticky
come. James' eyes darken and he's quickly licking it off.
Chris isn't sure whether to be repulsed at the come or the
licking.

Peter sinks to the floor, knees giving way at last. James
kisses him, brief bursts of kisses peppering his face.
Chris can feel James' hard cock pressed against his leg
as he reaches up to kiss Peter and he wants to see it. His
hands land on the waistband of James' jeans with a
questioning sound. He's a little amazed at his own
boldness, but James doesn't seem to mind, giving him
permission with a nod. James lies back against Peter as
Chris strips him of his jeans and boxers. Peter nuzzles at
James' ear and neck as Chris takes his time to look at
James, appreciating the contrast between the two lovers.
His cock is thick and red, lying against auburn curls, his
muscled thighs open to show his ball sac, heavy and full.
Chris laughs inwardly at himself for waxing poetic, but
it doesn't stop him dragging one finger down the shaft
and cupping the sac in his hand. James squirms under
his touch.

"Sorry, too much?" Chris asks, worrying he's going too
fast.

"Not enough," James gasps out. "Don't tease."

Peter shushes the man in his arms. "What do you want to

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do, Chris?"

"I want him to fuck you." Chris says honestly, and sees
the answering flare in both men's eyes.

"Only if he lies on you as we do it. Wanna have you feel
it, baby," Peter purrs. "You're gonna hold him and I'm
gonna ride him."

"You're gonna take your T-shirt off," James says.
"Nothing else, just your T-shirt," he amends hastily as
he no doubt sees the panic in Chris' eyes, "and then you
can help me make my boy ready."

Chris hesitates and then pulls it off over his head, both
men appraising him frankly. He's poised to flee,
uncomfortable with all the attention, when James
speaks.

"They did a good job." His finger traces around Chris'
nipples, following the fading line of the scar. Peter is
nodding and Chris exhales, trying not to make his relief
too obvious.

"Fuck me," Peter murmurs to James and he wriggles
hopefully.

James stands up and pulls them both after him. Once
more Chris finds himself on the bed, sitting up against
the pillows with James between his splayed legs. Chris
closes his eyes as James' solid torso settles against his
naked chest. James tilts his head to press a kiss to the
underside of Chris' jaw.

Peter is kneeling at the end of the bed, holding lube.

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Chris briefly wonders why a ghost needs lube. Peter
smiles at him as if guessing his thoughts. He shuffles up
to straddle James' legs. Chris spreads his wider to give
Peter more room.

Holding out his hand to Peter, James waits for the slick,
then tangles his sticky fingers in Chris'. He guides Chris'
hand past Peter's balls. Peter shivers under the feel of
both hands. James has got one hand on Peter's hardening
dick and the other entangled with Chris. Chris' finger is
pressed against Peter’s hole, feeling it give under the
pressure. His eyes widen as he feels his finger squeezed
by the tight muscle.

Peter is watching Chris’ expression, his own strained as
he is penetrated. "Feel good?"

"Uh-huh, you feel amazing."

James' digit joins his and Peter's eyes roll back in their
sockets. Chris adds a second finger, watching as Peter's
back arches.

"Fuck! Please, please. You gotta take me now," Peter
chants as he bears down on their joined fingers.

Chris pulls his fingers out with some regret. James takes
Chris' hand and wraps it around his own cock. Peter
sinks down on the swollen shaft as Chris holds it, a
single smooth movement that provokes hisses from both
men.

Not sure where to put his hands, Chris puts one on
Peter's hip and the other on James' chest, his fingertips
rubbing over the nipple.

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Peter sets the pace, a slow rocking of his body that
pushes James against Chris. Each thrust pushes James
back against him and Chris is aware he's getting turned
on by the pressure. Peter changes position, forcing
himself down harder on the two men. James is moaning
louder, squashed between him and Peter.

James grounds his feet on the bed and thrusts up hard.
Chris is biting down on James’ neck as he pinches the
pale nipples dusted with red hair. Every thrust
downward is rubbing against Chris' clit. Yeah, he
doesn't bother with different names for the deformed
parts of his body because right at this moment he's too
busy getting off.

Peter wraps his hand around his cock. Chris pushes him
away and jacks him off as they push and thrust against
each other. The pace is erratic and in the middle, James
is loud and encouraging as the two men work against
him.

Chris tries not to make a noise as he approaches orgasm.
He bites down hard on his lips as one last thrust from
Peter sends him over the edge. Peter's cock hardens in
his hand, pulsing over his fingers as Peter comes. James
joins them with a loud shout as his hips snap hard into
Peter's body.

Panting, they slump together for a moment, a sweaty,
sticky pile of limbs. Peter moves, James' softening cock
sliding out of him, and comes to rest against Chris's side.
James turns in Chris' arms, kisses him hard and does the
same thing as Peter, sliding one leg over Chris and
reaching over him to hold Peter's arm. Chris finds

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himself the filling in a sandwich of naked guys
obviously settling down for a nap. He's just not used to
this much touching and it makes him very
uncomfortable.

Once again, Peter seems to sense his feelings because he
kisses Chris' cheek, murmuring, "Do you want to get
up?"

He does, but he also doesn't want to leave their comfort
behind, knowing that tomorrow he'll be on his own
again. Shaking his head, Chris takes a deep breath and
tries to relax. James strokes his face and hair. Chris
leans into the caress and closes his eyes. He is tired and
tomorrow will come soon enough.

Chris expects to wake up in the derelict house. It would
make sense. The anniversary of their deaths has passed
and the strong connection with the men has gone.
Instead he awakes to the smell of waffles and coffee.

He is alone in the bed, still dressed in his jeans, and
uncomfortably aware of just how much he needs a
shower. Chris lies in the bed, listening to the muted
sounds of the two men filter through from the kitchen.
The room smells of sex and unwashed men, vaguely
gross but also very satisfying. He inhales deeply. There
is something nagging him at the back of mind, but he
can't put his finger on it.

He finds his T-shirt is on the floor among a pile of
clothes that aren't his. Shoving it over his head, Chris
wanders down to the bathroom, needing to piss and
freshen up before he faces Peter and James. He's got one
hand on the doorknob when Peter comes out.

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His dark hair is slightly damp and he's wearing shorts
that hang low on his hips. Chris stares, he can't help it.
The man is gorgeous, his shoulders dappled with drops
of water. Peter smiles as he catches sight of Chris and
his gray eyes light up.

"Hey, baby." Peter walks up to him and kisses him,
ignoring the fact that Chris is unwashed and must have
serious morning breath. "Did you sleep well?"

Chris tries hard not to take a step back. "Yeah, thanks. Is
there enough hot water for a shower?"

"Sure, help yourself," Peter nods, taking the step back
that Chris needs. His eyes seems less bright and the
smile a little dimmer. It makes Chris feel bad and he
catches Peter by the wrist.

"Thanks for last night," he says.

Peter smiles again, and gently pushes him towards the
bathroom, one hand cupping his ass. "You don't have to
thank me for that," he says. "You were amazing. Now
go and get cleaned up. See you in the kitchen for
breakfast."

The shower is as hot as he can stand, pounding down on
his head. It clears the confusion that he's felt since he
woke up. He feels curiously disparate; he's here but
knows he shouldn't be. The anniversary has passed for
the two men. He should be back in the derelict house,
getting ready to move on. That's how James described it
-- moving on. Chris finally cottons on to what they've
been tiptoeing around trying to tell him.

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He enters the kitchen to discover the two men kissing.
Peter is sitting on a counter, James standing between his
legs, both of them totally involved in their kiss. The stab
of jealousy makes Chris feel small, but he can't help it.
He's never had their relationship, never felt able to have
it.

They sense his presence and look up, their faces flushed
and lips swollen. James smiles at Chris.

"Hey, baby. Come over here."

He holds out his hand and Chris finds himself walking
over to be folded into the middle of their embrace. Peter
nuzzles his neck as James gives him a good morning
kiss.

"Ready for breakfast?" James asks when he pulls back.
Chris notices his eyes for the first time, deep brown with
a green ring around the iris.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" Huh, he meant to say yes to
breakfast.

Peter lifts his head and James' hands tighten on his
waist. Chris watches as James swallows hard, his
Adam's apple bobbing up and down. The two men
exchange a look over his shoulder and then James nods.

"I'm sorry, Chris. Yes, you are."

Chris leans his head back against Peter's chest. Peter's
arms come around him and a kiss is pressed to the top of
his head.

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"When did I die?"

James strokes his face. "After your trip to the town. You
cut your wrist on the glass climbing back into the house
and bled out."

"Has anyone discovered my body yet?"

"No, people don't come in here very often," Peter tells
him apologetically.

"My mom and dad won't ever find out what happened to
me, then." He feels sad about that. His relationship with
his parents may have been strained but he loved them.

"Not unless someone else comes in." Both men are
pressing close to give him comfort.

Chris is freaked now. He's dead, what the fuck happens
next? He asks as much.

James eyes him warily. "It's up to you now. You can
move on or..." He leaves it hanging.

"Or what?" Chris snaps. He's always hated the cloak and
dagger shit. "Where am I going, up or down?"

Peter turns him around in his embrace. "It's not like that.
You can move onto the next place or you can stay on
Earth, somewhere you want to be."

Chris thinks about it. Where the hell would he want to
stay? He's never been happy anywhere, trapped in this
twisted body of his. The only place he's found any

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happiness, any acceptance, is here with these two dead
men. He looks up and they are both watching him
closely.

"You're asking me to stay here with you?"

Peter nods. "If you want to, baby. Me and James have
never found anyone we would want to share our world
with -- until now."

"Why on earth would you want me to stay with you?"
asks Chris bluntly. "I'm... wrong."

It's James' turn to turn him around. "That's how you see
yourself. Not how we see you. Peter and I want you here
with us, but only if you want to. And you have to know,
there's a price for staying."

A price? To stay with two men who want to keep and
love him? Typical he couldn't be that lucky. "What's
that?" he asks, frowning.

Peter's fingers are warm at Chris' back as James says,
"You have to remember your death every year, just as
we have to."

Chris swallows, dry-mouthed. "But I wasn't murdered. It
wasn't a horrible death."

James' eyes are sorrowful as he says, "Wasn't it?
Bleeding out alone in an empty house, knowing you'd
never see anyone you loved again, that your parents
would never know what happened to their child."

Knees suddenly weak, Chris sags in their arms. James

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gathers him up against his shoulder and rocks him, Peter
sliding off the counter to put his arms around them both.

"If you move on, then you need never remember any of
this. You will be a free spirit, whole and happy," Peter
whispers against his ear.

"And if I stay?" Chris needs to know if the price is
worth staying. The two men are so sure it is worth their
price together. Is it worth his?

"We could so easily love you, Chris." Peter sounds so
confident and James is nodding in agreement.

Chris raises his head, kissing James, their tongues
tangling briefly, and then twisting his head to kiss Peter.
He knows what his answer is and now he just has to tell
them.

It seems it's unnecessary. Peter gives him one last kiss.
"You have to go briefly, but when it's over we'll be here
and waiting for you."

"I have to die alone?" Chris remembers the two men as
they suffered, calling to each other.

"We were there, baby. You just couldn't see us." James
sounds fainter now.

Chris is alone on the floor of the abandoned house,
blood pumping from where a sliver of glass had sliced
into his wrist. He knows he needs to get pressure onto it
but he can't seem to apply it.

Dragging himself over to his sleeping bag, he crawls in,

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suddenly cold and frightened. His blood is pumping out
between his fingers and he has to face the realization he
will die here, alone and unable to call for help. His cell
is dead and there is no power to put it on charge. All the
times he's thought about death, he never once pictured it
like this.

Chris can hear the rain starting again as his vision
recedes. He's so tired now, it's easier to let go than fight
it. His breathing is shallow, and he turns inward, waiting
for the inevitable, whatever it might be.

"Hey, baby, ready for breakfast now?"

End.

If you liked this book, you might like: Mine, Toy Box:
Make-Up

A Torquere Press Halloween Sip - 32

Twisted Creature

Copyright © 2010 by Sue Brown

All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used
or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in case of brief quotations embodied
in critical articles or reviews. For information address
Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX
78680

Printed in the United States of America.

Torquere Press, Inc.: Sips electronic edition / October
2010

Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press,
Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

A Torquere Press Halloween Sip - 33