A Portrait of Emily by J.P. Bowie Page A

“Sweet dreams,” he said as he closed the door.
    Sleep eluded Anthony. He was glad he’d finally talked to his sister, though he had not intended to open up to her like that. He’d held in his grief about losing Mark the whole time he’d been home. Obviously his parents wouldn’t have understood. He should have known Emily would, though. She had always been his supporter, even more so than Paula. The three of them had had their share of fights and squabbles, but Emily and he had always been the first to make up. Paula could pout longer than anyone else he’d ever known when she didn’t get her way.
    He remembered the horror he’d felt when his sisters confided in him with what their father was doing to them. He remembered hoping that somehow his father would die so that his sisters would be saved. He’d even plotted to kill him himself, but he was only nine years old and the intricacies of committing the perfect crime were beyond him. He would lie awake at night dreaming of the several ways he could carry it out, but in each scenario he would be found out. For a time he considered it might be worthwhile being caught if it saved his sisters, but when he mentioned it to them they forbade him to ever try anything that would put him in danger.
    “We couldn’t bear it if they took you away,” Emily had cried, begging him to forget these ideas. He knew she was lying when she added, “It’s not so bad really. It’s only a few minutes.”
    When he told his mother what he knew, she had laughed at him and told him his sisters were just dreaming. “ Just dreaming that’s all , Anthony. Forget all about their naughty dreams .” But he never could forget, even when the abuse stopped. He still wanted to kill his father; and his animosity and dislike unnerved the man to the extent that he’d shipped his son off to military school as soon as he was old enough to be enrolled. Six years of that harsh life changed Anthony, but never dimmed his hatred for his father.
    The only saving grace in all that time was his relationship with Mark. When he closed his eyes he could still see that sunny smile that lit up Mark’s face and warmed the core of Anthony’s heart. He remembered that feeling of overpowering joy the first time Mark had told him how he felt about him. He wasn’t alone anymore. Here was someone who wanted to hold him, kiss him, make love to him, and make him feel like the most special person in the world. It made up for all the mind numbing boredom, the grinding routine and discipline that the Academy inflicted on him. Their time spent together alone gave Anthony hope that his life would be forever joined to Mark’s. He had not foreseen the tragedy that would one day take Mark away from him forever.
    He lay, one hand idly stroking his chest, remembering the sweet sensations of Mark’s soft lips on his, the strong yet tender hands that stroked and caressed him…the murmured words of love. Those words echoed in his mind. He would never forget them, nor the man who had gazed into his eyes and whispered, “I love you, Anthony. I love you…”
    Anthony’s hand slid down his torso to grasp the erection that had sprung so quickly and unbidden between his thighs. He stroked the hard length, all the while picturing Mark’s supple body as it had lain over him the last time they’d made love. That beautiful body would be forever embedded in his memory; sculpted muscles moving gracefully under smooth golden skin.
    Anthony writhed at the memory of Mark’s lips tracing a sensuous pattern over his skin, his mouth parting to take him in, to drink him down. He relived that moment when they had come into one another’s mouths. He moaned, feeling his balls tighten. His breath caught in his chest as the electric charge of his orgasm raced up the length of his cock. Hot semen exploded onto his chest.
    “Mark,” he said when his breathing had once again calmed, “I miss you so much.”

CHAPTER NINE
    Peter was looking