Lusty Mr Harold

 

 

Prologue SFW version. Find the NSFW version at https://reamstories.com/krestonbach

The first time Phillip Harold saw Tom Bolden, he noticed the size of him before anything else. He wasn’t just tall, the man was enormous. 

Tom seemed to rival any of the statues to fallen heroes around the park where the basement of the community center held the Thursday night Sexaholics Anonymous meeting. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead and the folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle. Most of the men there kept their eyes low, hands folded, voices quiet. Tom looked like he belonged somewhere else entirely. Seven feet of muscle wrapped in a dark wool coat, shoulders broad enough to block the hallway behind him.

Phillip watched him from across the room while stirring a paper cup of day old coffee. The giant hesitated for a moment, scanning the room with sharp, guarded eyes before taking an empty chair. When he sat down the metal legs of the chair creaked in protest.

When it was Phillip’s turn to speak he did what he always did. He was quick, witty, just self-deprecating enough to keep the room relaxed. The group liked him. People tended to like Phillip Harold once he started talking.

But the big man across the circle was not smiling. He was observing. It seemed as if Mr Phillip Harold had raised his interest. Maybe it was the way he was self-assured despite his height or the apparent confident smile, but he was different.

After the meeting ended the men drifted out in small groups. Phillip was stuffing his hands into his coat pockets when the giant appeared beside him.

“You talk a lot,” Tom said.

His voice was rough, gravelly, the kind of voice that sounded like it had spent years shouting across football fields. Mr Harold turned around, looked up, and up. 

“I’m a lawyer,” he replied lightly. “We get paid by the word, you know.”

For a second the big man studied him like he was trying to decide something. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. Phillip could tell Tom wanted to ask him something, but couldn’t bring himself to say it, so he decided to say it for him. 

“Beer?” Phillip asked.

Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise and relief. “Sure, if you’re buying.”

They ended up at a dim sports bar a few blocks away off of the financial district. The place smelled like moisture and old wood. Tom stopped bothering with pouring from the  pitcher to the beer glass after the second one. He drank from the pitcher as if it was a mug. 

Mr Harold on the other hand talked lively while sipping on his martini. Tom listened to him like he was a puzzle difficult to solve. Slowly the big man began to open up.

Tom had played professional football once. A career cut short by injury and bad decisions. Women, alcohol, a life that spun too fast and too loud. Now he was trying to put something new together. Phillip told him just enough about himself to keep the conversation moving. 

“I am married and have a son. He’s nine.” he shared. 

His career was going well enough to keep him and his small family living comfortably in a suburban track home. The cookie cutter house made him feel like he was blending in and keeping up appearances.

“What about you?” Mr Harold asked. 

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about that.”

“Well, you came to the meeting for a reason. What’s your poison? Chronic masturbator, too many women, too many men?” Mr Harold laughed. 

“Mostly women,” the big man said, avoiding looking him in the eyes. 

“I see. Mostly. Why mostly?”

Tom turned and stared at the short blond man. From his expression, Phillip deduced he was going to have a hard time sharing. He figured he would try sharing first. Maybe that would make him feel more comfortable. 

“I discovered after two years of marriage that as much as I enjoyed women, sex with men was better. Now unfortunately I can’t stop myself. I crave it constantly,” Phillip shared which seemed to work because Tom started sharing too. 

“When I was playing ball in college, I had it all. I couldn’t go anywhere without them throwing themselves at me. I became insatiable, even fooled around with some of the cuckold husbands.” Tom said. 
“Ah, so you have tried sex with a man. How did you like it?”

The hours passed without either of them noticing.

When they left the bar headed for their cars, they stumbled into the quiet lobby of a nearby hotel. The city had gone dark. Phillip laughed at something Tom said and felt the strange electricity of standing next to someone who made him feel so small and vulnerable for the first time in his life.

They didn’t say it but soon, Phillip had paid for a room and they took the elevator upstairs.

What happened behind the hotel room door stayed there, wrapped in gin, beer, curiosity and the kind of reckless honesty that only comes from strangers who know they will never have to see each other again.

Mr Harold walked to the mini-bar, took a little vodka bottle for himself, then lifted a bottle of beer in the air. Tom put up his hand as a sign of approval. Phillip tossed it and the bottle was caught by the man’s hand. With the push of a button, Mr Harold ignited the flat screen and found a music channel. 

Days later he was standing in his living room adjusting his tie while his wife Vivian moved around the kitchen.

“Phillip,” she called. “My friend from the club is coming for dinner tonight. Her husband too. Be polite.”

“I’m always polite,” he said.

The doorbell rang.

Phillip walked over and opened the door.

The world seemed to tilt. Standing on the porch was Tom Bolden in a dark tailored suit, towering exactly as Phillip remembered. Next to him stood a smiling woman holding a bottle of wine.

Tom’s eyes widened just slightly as recognition landed. Behind Phillip, Vivian called from the kitchen. 

“Phillip, are they here?”

Tom Bolden stepped inside the house like a man walking into a surprise he did not yet understand.

 

Portrait of Coach Hunt

 

Coach Hunt is the central character of Big Man Goes Down novel by Kreston Bach. 

 

 Coach Hunt woke slowly, not to the sound of an alarm or sunlight creeping across the room, but to the distant rush of the shower running.

For a moment he lay still, staring up at the high plaster ceiling of the bedroom. The mansion’s master suite was cavernous, designed in another century and for people who had believed space itself was a display of wealth. Tall windows framed by velvet drapes let in the pale gray of early morning. Somewhere outside, birds had begun their lively conversations in the hedges.

He turned his head slightly as if to test how much it ached. On the nightstand beside him sat a glass of whiskey, half full and forgotten. He frowned faintly because it explained the heaviness behind his eyes.

One of his powerful hands rubbed across his face and he exhaled. His thick dark mustache shifted under his palm as he yawned. Even half-awake, his presence seemed to fill the entire bed. At nearly seven feet tall, Hunt was used to furniture feeling small beneath him.

Memories of the night before drifted back in fragments. He remembered there was music and even laughter. It started coming back to him when the shower stopped.

The man sighed quietly as the bathroom door opened and a man stepped out, steam following him like a ghost. He was handsome, about his own age, athletic, still toweling his hair dry. Strawberry blond curls clung to his forehead, and his smile was easy and hopeful.

“Morning,” he said.

Hunt raised an eyebrow slightly but gave a polite nod. “Morning, Lance.”

Lance moved casually around the room, comfortable in the way people often were after spending the night in someone else’s bed. He had wrapped a towel around his waist but didn’t seem particularly concerned with modesty.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said. “I had to take a hot shower.”

Hunt pushed himself up slightly against the headboard. His massive shoulders shifted beneath the sheets.

“No,” he said calmly and lied. “I was about to get up.”

Lance grinned. “Good. I know you’re not a morning person.”

Hunt didn’t answer. His eyes flicked briefly toward the whiskey glass again. Lance sat at the edge of the bed, looking pleased with himself.

“You know, I actually called in sick to work this morning,” he said.

That caught Hunt’s attention.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” the redhead said with bright enthusiasm. “Figured… why rush off? We could spend the day together, since you said you don’t have practice today.”

Hunt’s expression barely changed, but the silence that followed was long enough to become uncomfortable. Lance’s smile faded slightly.

Hunt swung his legs out of the bed and stood. Even without trying, he was an imposing figure. Tall, broad, heavily muscled. Dark hair ran across his chest and down his torso in thick natural patterns. When he stretched his shoulders, the movement looked almost effortless, like a lion waking from sleep.

He walked toward the window, pulling the curtains open just enough to let pale sunlight spill into the room.

“That wasn’t a good idea,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?”

Hunt glanced over his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t miss work.”

“It’s just one day,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I thought…”

“There’s really no reason for you to stay. I got stuff to do.”

The words weren’t polite. They cut like daggers and Lance’s face fell before responding.

“Oh.”

Coach Hunt walked toward the dresser, picking up his watch and turning it slowly in his hands as if making sure of the time.

Lance stood slowly from the bed, hurt feelings flickering across his face. “I thought last night meant something.”

Hunt’s voice remained even, almost cold. “It meant we had a pleasant evening.”

“That’s it?”

Hunt didn’t respond immediately but finally he said, “I was clear since I met you that this was casual.”

The towel slipped slightly as Lance shifted his weight, but he didn’t bother adjusting it.

“Do you know what you are?” he said suddenly. “You’re impossible,” he said. “Everyone wants you. Everyone talks about you like you’re some kind of legend.”

Hunt leaned against the dresser.

“And yet,” he said lightly, “you seem unimpressed.”

“I’m not unimpressed,” Lance snapped. “I’m angry.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t let anyone get close.”

“That’s not your concern.” Hunt’s expression hardened slightly.

“It is when you invite someone into your bed.”

“I invited you for the night,” Hunt corrected.

The man shook his head.

“You really don’t get it.” He took a breath, gathering the courage to say something he clearly believed. “You’re going to end up alone. Not because people don’t want you, but because you refuse to put in the work.”

Hunt said nothing while he crossed his arms, rolling his eyes while he allowed Lance to continue. After all, it wasn’t the first time he would hear the same lecture he had heard so many times before. 

“You act like relationships are disposable,” Lance went on. “Like people are temporary.”

Lance grabbed his clothes from the chair.

“You’ll never find love if you keep doing this,” he said quietly. He dressed quickly with sharp movements and a wounded pride. He paused at the door. For a moment it looked like he might say something else, but instead he just shook his head and left.

The heavy door closed with a slam. Coach Hunt stood still in the silent room. Outside, the birds continued their morning chorus which annoyed him more.

After a moment, another knock came at the door before Sterling stepped inside.

The old butler moved with careful dignity, dressed in a perfectly pressed dark suit that might have been fashionable in the nineteenth century. His bald head gleamed faintly in the morning light.

“Good morning, sir,” he said warmly.

“Morning, Sterling.”

Sterling glanced briefly toward the hallway, clearly aware someone had just left. He had been expecting it to happen. 

“I trust your evening was agreeable,” he said while fixing the pillows and the sheets. Hunt gave a faint smile.

“It was what it was. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of him anymore.”

Sterling nodded knowingly but did not pry. “Breakfast will be served by the pool in ten minutes, sir.”