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Foundations, Chapter 2

By Kenneth Beltan

Blake, Quentin, and Nieve are all copyrighted and are owned by Nievelion. I have had permission to use them for this story. All other characters are mine.

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Quentin took off his glasses and placed them on the table as he rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He was sitting in a far off, secluded section of the public library in Midtown, doing research and writing his latest paper. It had been very slow and relatively unproductive work. His mind was jumble and had become progressively more so of late. It all started that night that he walked in on his son. It had been so completely unintentional, and Quentin had not expected Blake to be so careless. He could not be cross with the boy, though, as everyone was forgetful once in a while. Quentin had also come home earlier than usual that night, and Blake was typically accustomed to having the place to himself on those nights as Quentin was teaching a night course this year. He had felt guilty about laughing at the situation, but Blake had taken no offense whatever when Quentin apologized at dinner. Instead he had simply apologized for forgetting to close the door, all the while sniggering like it was a big joke. It was just the sort of thing a teenage boy would find funny, especially Blake. If Quentin was a man of perhaps too much propriety in this modern age, his son was just the opposite and delighted in ruffling well-groomed feathers and shocking people's puritanical sensibilities. He was rather like his mother that way -- only much, much more so. Of course, Jennifer was older and more mature and could appreciate limitations in a way adolescents often did not. It was sometimes very aggravating to Quentin, but then one had to have a certain amount of tolerance for teenage behavior. It was part of growing up, and one day Blake would grow out of it and reign in his excesses to become a more subtle man. At least he was not upset at having been discovered in the act. Quentin did not want anything else to create tension between them.

The issue seemed quite resolved with no hard feelings between them -- except the fantasies that kept coursing through Quentin's head. In them, he imagined the feeling of hardness between them was that of their cocks pressing together. He could not get the raw, sexual imagery of his son masturbating over his laundry to vacate his mind. The image turned him on, and it filled Quentin with so many conflicting emotions. He had begun to notice his son that way as he grew older. He used to only think of Blake as a cute, adorable kitten, but then somewhere along the line things had begun to change.

The first time that he could actually recall noticing Blake was about two year when he was fourteen. He had just hit five and a half feet and weighed in around twelve stones. The young Amur had begun a fantastic growth spurt after hitting puberty at age twelve that did not seem to want to stop. He had put on a full foot in the last two years, and his body was filling out like a man's, making him look older than he was. Without a doubt, Blake was going to turn out like his father, and likely be even larger and more massive. Thinking about how his son would mature very much occupied Quentin's fantasies.

Quentin has chastised himself countless times for his thoughts, even though he had entertained similar thoughts about his own father when he was growing up. He had also felt similarly towards one of his brawny uncles, his mother's father and even his brother. There were a lot of good-looking men in his family, and he had fantasized about them all for some time. He had used his more distant relations as a substitute for his father just to lessen his guilt. His own homosexuality had been hard enough for him to accept for a long time, never mind it being joined with incest. They were merely fantasies, though, and were harmless in of themselves. Quentin had enough restraint to keep them in his mind where they would remain private and secret until his dying day. Stopping them was impossible, and he especially hated to admit that about his own son. What sort of father did it make him that he thought of Blake that way? He would have been the loudest critic of the sickly prejudice that all homosexual men were pedophiles, yet his son was making a liar and hypocrite out of him. ...No, not Blake. That was entirely unfair as it was Quentin's own mind that was at fault.

Yet, Blake had inherited some other traits of the family. Quentin had never been especially modest around his son and had never seen the point of it. Quentin wanted no puritanicalness in his home, as that would only lead to unhealthy attitudes about the body and sex, and he wanted his son to be confident in his own physical self. Besides, it was generally unlike cats to be very prudish. It was wrong to conceal perfection all the time. It had never been intended as exhibitionism, but slowly Quentin was beginning to realize that Blake was enjoying it as such all the same. He tried to take comfort in the fact that his fancies were for an adolescent and not a child. Blake was only a few short years from legal adulthood, and he had been capable of full sexuality for at least three or four years now. That did make a difference, in spite of what a majority of society might have thought with the remnants of Victorian morality still clinging on desperately.

When Blake turned thirteen and came out to his father, he had been pretty bold about it, almost nonchalant. Quentin knew his son well enough to know that Blake was actually quite nervous, even though Quentin had since come out to his son several years prior. It was inconceivable that he would object to his own flesh and blood also being gay, though Quentin had indeed been a bit surprised by it. Nevertheless, he wanted to make sure Blake was perfectly comfortable with himself at home if nowhere else. It was around that time, however, that he first began to consider covering up. He had quickly realized that to do so would be out of character for him, and he did not want to change his habits like that. He did not know what sort of message that would send to Blake, and the last thing Quentin wanted to do was over-sexualize nudity the way Americans seemed so insistent on doing. He wanted it to be natural. There was no reason why he had to cover himself up when he got out of the shower and dried, and he saw no reason to hide when he was talking to Blake while changing his clothes after work. When they went swimming together at the local pool, he undressed and showered without flinching. If he wanted to lounge around in just his skivvies when it was hot, he saw no reason not to. He had even laid about naked a few times when it was especially bad. Blake consequently was equally unashamed of being seen by his father. Of course, he had never been hard or dripping cum before in Quentin's sight.

The Amur grit his teeth in irritation. That image, which remained as rich and potent as always, one that Quentin was not so sure had not become slightly embellished with time, always returned to him so damned easily. Quentin vaguely could remember his son looking surprised and a bit guilty at being caught. What he remembered more clearly was the eventual shift in Blake's gaze to his father's trousers. Quentin had been feeling horny when he got home and had planned a quickie before supper, and he had been entertaining erotic fantasies about himself and Nieve on the train home, his coat and briefcase keeping him well-concealed. He had managed to deflate enough before letting himself into their home, but one look at Blake was all it took to get Quentin's cock growing rapidly. Then he had started giggling and making light of the situation, feeling so out of character, trying hard to play up the silliness of it so as to not make Blake feel bad. It was so embarrassing, but lust pushed all those thoughts to the side until Quentin had taken two loads down his gullet. Since then, so many replays had hinged on the notion of his son's approval of that growing mound in those pressed slacks. Did it mean that Blake entertained incestuous fantasies just as Quentin had done so fiercely as an adolescent? Did it mean that Blake wanted a piece of his father? Why did Quentin so ardently want all this to be true? Was he that desperate to get laid or for companionship? No. That somehow did not add up, and here he was once more, having circumambulated the roundabout and gotten nowhere.

He started suddenly when a substantial and heavy paw settled on his shoulder. "Quentin?" spoke a familiar, warm bass.

The Amur's fur stood on end for a moment, and his paws immediately went to discreetly cover his lap where he was throbbing hard and creating a mound like Mt. Kilimanjaro. "Oh, Nieve, it's you. Thank God!" He uncovered his groin and cupped his brow in relief.

The towering, blocky lion chuckled softly as he enjoyed the sight. "Don't worry, my good man. Only someone of comparable perfection could have come upon you unawares as I just did now." He was quite right, of course. Quentin would have otherwise heard someone coming, and any other felines would have perhaps gone elsewhere quietly or made a slight noise to alert another cat that they were about to intrude into their solitude. Someone like Nieve would use his stealthiness to come upon his friend to give him both comfort and appreciation of some of the Amur's finest qualities.

Quentin laid a paw on the lion's and smiled up at him. "Thank you, my dear Nieve."

"What troubles you, man?"

Quentin shook his head. "You are uncanny. You always know when to show up and what to say."

"You'd be amazed how often I hear that," Nieve responded with a grin.

A flash of lightning illuminated the dim, secluded section of the library in which Quentin had been trying to work, and he looked out the window to find the clouds thick, colored slightly purple and obviously very pregnant with rain. He had forgotten that there were supposed to be some unseasonably late thunderstorms tonight and for the next two days from a great Nor'easter and a front from the Midwest colliding. It suddenly made the tiger aware that it was late. He looked at his watch. "My goodness, you've been closed for fifteen minutes!" he cried.

"Quentin, Quentin, I keep telling you not to worry about staying late. I don't mind select people staying past. As head of this institution, I have quite a bit of discretion. Besides, I think whatever is on your mind must be quite private. I would like you to feel more comfortable if you choose to bend my ear. You know you can trust me, my dear friend."

That wonderful paw gently patted Quentin's tense shoulder, and his friendly manner and warm tones were soothing as well. Right now, the strained tiger wanted nothing more than to open up to someone about these dark secrets of his. Nieve was the only person with whom Quentin had ever felt absolutely secure and trustful.

"I don't think you're going to be able to concentrate properly tonight, Quentin," the Barbary lion continued. "You've incorrectly or incompletely sited a few sources, and these Latin translations are not up to your usual snuff."

Quentin was taken aback and quickly scanned where Nieve had been pointing and found the critiques absolutely right. He groaned and just let his head thump onto the desk. He felt dejected as well as incompetent. This was an important research project, and any mistakes like these could jeopardize his chances at tenure and thus a secure future for himself and for his son. Oh, Blake. Quentin felt like strangling him and crying into his shoulder all at once right now.

Nieve gently rubbed Quentin's back and took pity on him. He leaned down and simply put his arms around the tiger's enormous frame and nuzzled him gently. "I'll help you, my friend. You know that I will. But talk to me first."

Quentin looked up over his arms where he had been resting his head. "Confession is the greatest balm to a tormented soul. I'm sure someone must have said that, damn it," he grumbled. He friend made no answer but simply smiled and purred gently, lending his warmth, his affection, and his compassion. "All right, Nieve. Let us talk."

"I have a hot pizza waiting in my office and some freshly made lemonade and ginger ale. There are cheesy garlic breadsticks, spicy marinara, and some rich peanut butter and chocolate mousse with special chiles, cinnamon and vanilla form Mexico," the librarian tallied as he helped his friend to put his papers in order so his briefcase could be loaded in an organized way.

Quentin stopped for a moment, looking at Nieve, and then went back to his task. "By now, I really shouldn't be surprised by this. You aren't truly human but something else entirely. I can't say whether you possess telepathy, but you are certainly empathic, and you have an uncanny sense of timing and of knowing when you're needed and what people need. You are a Fey."

Nieve laughed joyously. "Yes, indeed, I am, my friend! I'm so glad you realize that."

Quentin thought his friend's response was a bit too joyous over a joke, but he was too distracted at the moment to realize that he had indeed spoken the very truth about his friend. Nieve realized that Quentin was joking, but he also understood that the tiger also knew or was coming to know deep inside that what he spoke was truth. It was only a matter of time before Quentin accepted it. He very much hoped he would seriously ask him to confirm those suspicions one day. He would be keeping an extra close eye on this Particular from here on out, though. It had almost been enough to contact an Elder about.