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I was invited to come to Finland by my former student Mikko, who promised me an unforgettable day of snowmobiling and stargazing. He was one of those students everyone remembered—copper-haired, bespectacled, with a polite, quiet demeanor and large hands and feet that seemed to belong to someone even larger. We called him The Cube, partly as a joke, partly because he was built like one—broad, solid, immovable. The Cube, however, was not a gram overweight. His frame was pure proportion, gentle muscle layered over a calm spirit. There was something in his stillness that made others slow down and match his rhythm.

In late February that year, I arrived in Ivalo just after dawn. The air outside the terminal was sharp enough to sting my lungs, and the runway lights still glowed faintly against the gray morning. Mikko was waiting for me near his truck, wrapped in a thick wool coat, smiling as if the cold were nothing. We packed my bag into the back, and the tires crunched over the icy road as we headed north. Pines lined both sides, bowed under frost, their branches heavy and silent. The light was thin—the kind that never quite decided to be day.

The road wound through low hills and stretches of white plain. Mikko talked as he drove, his tone measured but his humor warm. He told me about his family’s cabin farther north, about ice fishing weekends with his father, about how spring in Lapland lasted only long enough for one proper picnic. He mentioned, with a wry smile, that the locals could predict the weather better than any satellite, just by the smell of the wind. Every so often he slowed the car and pointed—“That’s where the aurora dances most clearly in April,” or “That’s the old post road; people used to ski there to deliver mail.”

We reached a small timber lodge in Saariselkä for breakfast. Inside, it smelled of coffee and pine resin, and the warmth hit me like a soft punch after the long drive. Mikko ordered rye bread with reindeer salami, a wedge of cheese, and steaming bilberry juice. Skis leaned against the wall beside a stove and soft light filtered through frosted windows. He spoke in that calm, unhurried way of his, as though every plan was already half done simply because he’d decided it would be. Outside, the morning light strengthened a little, thin and metallic, promising a clear day ahead.

For a couple of hours we relaxed in comfortable armchairs in the lobby next to another fireplace, the wood crackling softly and sending long shadows across the walls. Mikko showed me how to stretch to renew my energy after a big meal, guiding me patiently through slow movements, his hands steady and precise. I could feel the tension leaving my shoulders, my back loosening under the warmth of the fire. He leaned back in his chair afterward, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll need all this,” he said quietly, “if you hope to keep up with the snowmobiles later.” Outside the windows, snowflakes drifted lazily from the gray sky, and the lodge felt like a haven of heat and quiet before the vast white wilderness beyond.

When the time came, we stepped outside and found two snowmobiles gleaming under a thin crust of ice. Mikko brushed one clean with his glove. “We’ll share,” he said, already strapping on his goggles. He climbed on behind me, wrapped his arms firmly around my torso, and nodded toward the open trail. His chest pressed lightly against my back, and I could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing even through our thick layers. I gripped the handlebars as he started the engine; it roared to life beneath us, the vibration rising through the seat and into my spine.

We shot forward, the track biting into the snow. The speed was thrilling—wind cutting against my cheeks, snow spraying like glitter from the runners. The forest blurred into streaks of dark and white. Mikko leaned with the machine, moving in perfect balance, his grip tightening briefly when we curved sharply or lifted over small rises. The cold air burned my throat, but there was warmth where he touched me, an odd pulse of heat against the deep chill.

He spoke sometimes over the engine’s hum, his voice low and close to my ear. “See that ridge? Reindeer paths. They cross it every night.” A pause. “Foxes too. You learn who walks here by watching, not asking.” His calm made everything around us seem slower, clearer. We passed frozen rivers, half-buried boulders, lonely clusters of pine that looked sculpted by centuries of wind.

When we reached the waterfall, it was hidden behind a stand of birches, only a faint shimmer visible through the branches. We parked the snowmobile and walked the last few meters, boots crunching over the hard snow. The waterfall was all frozen—an immense sheet of translucent ice clinging to the rock face. At first it looked like any other winter cascade, until the sun shifted and a shaft of light caught the ice at the perfect angle. Inside, tiny bubbles and cracks caught the light like veins of gold and green glass. I stepped closer and realized that every bubble seemed to hold a world of its own—a captured drop, a fragment of air, a frozen insect—like time itself had been layered inside the wall.

Mikko came up beside me, his breath warm against the cold air. “It’s the same every year,” he said softly, “but somehow it’s always new.” His gloved hand brushed the surface, sending a faint vibration through the ice, and the light seemed to ripple inside it. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the soft howl of the wind and the occasional call of a distant bird.

From there, we drove on to a Sami reindeer camp on Kaunispää Hill. The herders greeted us with quiet nods, their faces unreadable but kind. Mikko helped me into a sleigh—a simple wooden frame lined with reindeer hide—and began harnessing the animals. Their breath steamed in the cold sunlight, soft and rhythmic, and the bells on their collars chimed faintly. When everything was ready, he climbed in behind me, gave a light whistle, and the reindeer began to move.

The sleigh glided forward, its runners whispering against the snow. The forest opened into rolling hills blanketed in unbroken white, dotted with low birches and pines powdered in frost. Shadows stretched long and silver under the low sun. The silence was immense—so still it felt as if the world were holding its breath. Only the jingle of the harness and the quiet thud of hooves broke it.

Mikko leaned close, steering gently. He pointed out tracks in the snow—reindeer, hare, and fox—and told me which direction each would have taken, reading the patterns as easily as words on a page. The sleigh curved through narrow trails, past a frozen stream glinting like glass, and into a clearing where smoke rose from a Sami tent. The smell of pine tar and woodfire drifted through the air. The ride was slow, deliberate, the kind that made time stretch and settle.

When we stopped at one of the tents, a herder invited us inside for warm broth. We sat on thick pelts, steam fogging my glasses, and I listened to Mikko speak in Finnish—his voice even lower now, almost tender. There was no hurry in that place, no sense of progress or schedule. Just the rhythm of reindeer bells and the soft weight of the snow outside.

By midafternoon, we were back on the road, heading toward the large sauna complex at the edge of the village. The building looked like a great wooden ark half-buried in snow, windows glowing amber from within. Inside, the heat hit us like a wave. We joined a group of men—locals, broad-shouldered and loud in their laughter—young and old in one big crowd, and soon the air was filled with the hiss of steam and the scent of birch branches. The benches were crowded but comfortable, and Mikko poured ladle after ladle of water onto the hot stones. The hiss filled the room, wrapping everything in mist and sound.

After the sauna, we plunged into a cold pool carved straight into the snow outside, the shock so sharp it made me gasp. Mikko surfaced beside me, his grin wide, water glistening on his hair. “Now you’re alive again,” he said. And somehow, he was right.

The capsule hotel, where we stayed the night, was carved into the hillside, each individual bubble being a curved shell of pale timber and glass, built to face the open sky. The snow outside glowed faintly blue, and through the tall windows the first ribbons of the aurora had already begun to stir. Inside, it was quiet and gently warm, the air carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and resin from the central fireplace that flickered down the hall.

We shook off the cold, unwrapped ourselves from the day’s heavy gear, and left our things in a loose heap by the door. The heat felt like an embrace after hours in the wind.

We changed into a set of new clothes, and went out to dinner to the resort’s own restaurant. It was a timber lodge not far from the capsule hotel, its windows glowing amber against the snow. Inside, logs burned behind a glass screen, and the smell of roasting meat and juniper drifted through the air.

We sat by the fire, absorbing its warmth hungrily, and Mikko ordered without looking at the menu—something in Finnish that sounded like an incantation. The waitress smiled, poured us dark beer from a local brewery, thick as bread, with a head like cream.

 

The feast came in waves: reindeer tenderloin seared over coals, lingonberry sauce sharp enough to wake the tongue, mashed potatoes folded with browned butter, and a side of roasted root vegetables glistening in honey. Between courses, Mikko explained the habits of reindeer herders, how they salt the meat to last through the polar night, how nothing is wasted—not even the antlers.

Then came Arctic char, pink and steaming, with dill and lemon so clean it tasted like river water. I remember thinking that no one ever talks about how much light food can hold—how it can taste like geography.

For dessert, the waitress brought cloudberry tartlets dusted with powdered sugar. Mikko ordered coffee, black and strong enough to hold a spoon upright. I took a small shot of Lapponia liqueur, just to see what the locals bragged about. It burned like pine resin, then softened into warmth.

We didn’t talk much—just the slow, companionable kind of talk that slips between pauses. At one point he said, almost absently, “Some winters here last eight months. But when the lights come back, you remember why you stayed.”

When we stepped outside, the air had gone perfectly still. Snowflakes drifted down, slow as ash. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to the capsule hotel. The night didn’t need words; it had already given us everything.

Preparing for bed, we stripped down to our underwear and stood for a moment near the window, letting the warm air settle around us. Mikko turned the AC to a couple of degrees higher, and the gentle dry heat embraced us like the ante-chambre after a sauna session.

The bed filled most of the room — wide, firm, covered in thick gray blankets that still held a trace of soap and pine. We lay down on our backs, not saying much, just breathing. The ceiling’s glass stretched above us like a window to another world. Outside, the aurora began to move more freely, spilling across the night in slow, silent waves. Green and violet light shimmered down through the glass, glancing off our faces and the smooth wood around us.

Mikko’s breathing steadied beside me, a quiet rhythm against the hush of the room. The sound of the wind rose now and then, brushing against the hillside like a distant tide. We watched as the lights curled and faded, then flared again—ribbons folding over one another, drifting like silk in deep water. It was the kind of sight that stripped thought from language, that made everything human seem small and reverent.

For a long while we said nothing. There was nothing to add to what the sky was already telling us. The warmth from the air conditioner mixed with the cold that radiated through the glass, a perfect balance that kept us awake in a calm, lucid way. I remember thinking how strange it was, to travel so far just to find a silence that felt so exact.

When I finally turned my head toward Mikko, his eyes were half-closed, reflecting the green light that rippled above. He gave a slow, contented exhale and said, almost to himself, “This is what I meant to show you.”

I nodded, though he probably couldn’t see it in the dark. Outside, the aurora burned a little brighter, then slowly thinned, like a curtain being drawn at the end of a long performance. And as it faded, the warm air blew softly around us, the snow outside shifted in the wind, and the whole night seemed to fold in on itself—quiet, complete, and profoundly still…

Lying next to Mikko was electric, and I knew that something was about to start happening because he wasn’t sleeping.  As I lay there, the images of beautiful dicks of our sauna friends came before me one by one…

On the lowest bench there sat Pekka, a twenty-something blond kid, a reindeer herder in the third generation, he told me—maybe twenty or twenty-two—with knees wide, his ample cock lying soft and pale over tight balls, the shaft straight and slim as a birch twig, foreskin puckered just enough to hide the tip; I imagined how it would jump if a single finger brushed that delicate collar and wondered about how he touched it every night over some porn… or perhaps he was a man already and there was a girl waiting for him who he would fuck three times in one night—silent, insistent, grunting…but endlessly sweet afterwards, hugging her, kissing her naked, rubbing his semi-erect cock on her butt…

Above him there was Jari, a thirtyish stocky man with a lumberjack beard and a stubby cut dick, thick as a beer can even flaccid, the head glossy and broad, his sack loose and meaty, resting on the cedar like two worn river stones; my palm itched to feel that weight, to test if the girth grew heavier under touch… I was sure he returned home to fuck his plump wife, with a lot of sweet-sounding slapping of fat bodies and her small whimpers…

Near the stove there was (I think) Eero, a lean runner in his late twenties; his long uncut cock curved gracefully downward, foreskin tapered to a narrow snout, balls small and high, almost elegant; in my mind I pictured his hand with long graceful fingers, sliding back his foreskin to reveal a slick pink crown… He was perhaps alone, and jerked off each morning in the shower after soaping himself up or joined a webcam chat on zoom to jerk off hungrily with 20 other guys, one of them giving rough commands in a coarse voice…

A forty-year-old silver daddy, Juha, sat cross-legged, cock half-hard from the heat, darker skin, veins visible along a lean six inches that bobbed slightly with each heartbeat, his low-hangers swaying gently; I wondered how those veins would throb against my tongue if he weren’t a hopelessly straight once-a-weeker…

Beside him a thirty-some-year-old swimmer, whose name I remembered as Oskari, with a swimmer’s tan line revealing a short, plump cock nestled in dark blond hair, balls drawn tight like walnuts, the whole package compact and perky; I fantasized about cupping that neat handful, feeling the heat gather in my palm… He’d probably say “no, no, no, come on, man…” but in the end thank me for something he hadn’t known he actually loved…

On the top tier a man of maybe twenty-eight, Petri,  leaned back arms crossed, his dick was average but beautifully proportioned, foreskin half-retracted to expose a slick coral head, balls smooth and relaxed, a single bead of sweat rolling down the frenulum; I ached to lick that drop away, to taste salt and cedar and shared steam… I knew he would be a challenge to get hard but when he forgot about me being a man and relaxed, he’d probably shoot a large load straight down my throat…

Finally, there were two teens: on the middle bench a wiry kid who couldn’t have been more than eighteen perched nervously, towel half-open; his cock was slim and straight, maybe four soft inches, the head small and pink under a long foreskin that almost closed like a flower bud, balls tight and hairless against his groin—so delicate I imagined the jump if a fingertip simply hovered over it; he was perhaps still a virgin who had a collection of porn clips on a CD lost in a heap of other CDs, and needed to do something about his erection at least two times a day…

Near the door another guy, a 18 or 19-year old blond sat on his heel, shy gaze down; he had a short, chubby shaft that curved slightly left, the glans peeking from a puckered tip, his tiny sack bunched high and smooth as two pale marbles—just begging to be cupped gently and held in a palm…

And then there was the king of them all, my former student Mikko, whose snake of a dick dangled a good 10 cm down between a sack of loose balls, and with this enormous package he was making a serious speech: introducing me to others, talking about our friendship, telling funny stories about our lectures in a very calm and formal manner, bringing blush to my face in the middle of me thinking with a pain in my balls about how much I would like to suck him off…

And now he lay next to me, not sleeping—at all—at all! 

“Hey, Mikko.”

“Hey, Augie.”’

“Not sleeping?”

“No.”

***

… Mikko’s hand slid to my chest, palm pressing flat against my quickening heartbeat, and he leaned in for a slow, exploratory kiss that deepened with the faint taste of wild berries from our evening meal. I surrendered fully to the insistent press of his lips, my own hands roaming the firm contours of his back, the heavy blanket amplifying every shared breath into humid intimacy.

I answered his kisses without thinking, hands sliding across the hard ridges of muscle beneath. Each exhale fogged the hollow of his collar, only to be swallowed by the next hungry tilt of his mouth. Our noses brushed, adjusted, brushed again; the small friction felt like static, charging every inch of contact until the kisses grew wetter, deeper, tongues curling in slow circles that matched the lazy rock of his hips. Breath turned humid inside the small space between us, the faint scent of pine resin and distant smoke weaving through the shared air until I couldn’t tell where his inhale ended and mine began.

Honestly, I have no memory of peeling off my briefs because next thing I remember was looking for them in the morning and finding them under the bed…

But at that moment a thick shift of weight told me he’d lifted his hips; an instant later something heavy and furnace-hot dropped onto my sack—Mikko’s cock, now fully woken, the broad shaft slid lazily between my balls before he rocked forward and let it fall. The swollen head slapped my stomach with a wet smack, landing square across my own rigid length and pinning it to my skin. Heat bled through the soft underside of his shaft; I felt every vein, every pulse, the fat overhang of foreskin brushing my navel as he gave a slow, experimental roll of hips. The drag was obscene—his weight pressing me down, my crown trapped beneath that thick bar, a single bead of pre-cum smearing between us until the whole length lay plastered along mine, dwarfing it from root to tip.

Mikko’s lips brushed the shell of my ear, voice a humid growl.

 “Turn over, Augie. Let me feel you from behind.”

A violent throb shot through the thick bar pinning my cock to my stomach; I felt every millimetre of it jump, the fat crown nudging my navel as pre-cum beaded and spread in a warm, silken streak. My own dick answered with a helpless jerk, smearing the underside of his shaft until the two heads kissed sticky-wet, foreskins grazing like soft cuffs. Terror clawed my ribs; lust coiled tighter beneath it. My thighs began to quiver, knees knocking together.

 “I— I can’t,” I whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. “You’ll split me open.”

A tremor rattled through me so hard the bedframe creaked. Still, my hips rolled upward, chasing the furnace-heat of him, grinding our lengths together in slick, frantic slides. Mikko answered with a slow, soothing rock, weight settling just enough to pin me safe, not trapped. His crown swept along my shaft, foreskin dragging mine with it, gathering pearls of shared pre-cum that cooled and reheated with every stroke.

 “I’ll go easy,” he murmured, lips brushing my temple. “Only when you want it.”

But the word later hung between us, and I kept whimpering, “Too big… maybe later… just this, just this,” each confession breathless, each thrust of my hips betraying how ravenous I still was for the friction we already had—two cocks slick-wrestling, my terror and hunger fused into one endless, shuddering grind.

Mikko answered with a guttural snarl and drove his hips forward—not a slide, not a stroke, a raw shove that crushed both cocks between our bellies. The blunt head of his monster rammed my shaft flat against my pubic bone; pain flared white-hot, then melted into dizzy pleasure. He did it again, and again, piston-pounding his pelvis into mine, dicks squishing slick-sticky, trapped skin burning with friction.

 “Fuck—” I yelped as a ridge of his vein scraped mine, but the word tore in half when he slammed harder, growl vibrating through my sternum. My body answered on instinct: I bucked up to meet him, hipbones clacking, foreheads knocking with a dull thud.

 “Ouch! Shit—” we both barked, then laughed breathless, never stopping. Chests collided, sweat popped, cocks throbbed wedged between us. Each impact wrung a grunt from him, a whimper from me, the bunk creaking like it might splinter. We found a savage rhythm—push, push, push—animal pants syncing until our breaths were one ragged bellow, bodies beating a bruising tempo that blurred pain into blinding need.

Soon Mikko hooked two fingers under the blanket’s hem, lifted it just enough to free his cock, and let the heavy shaft swing. The first arc landed a dull thud against my rigid length; I felt the heat through both foreskins, a muffled clap beneath wool. He rocked his hips—left, right—each sweep slapping crown to crown, then dragging down to smack my balls or rap my perineum. The blanket deadened the sound but sharpened the sting; I bit my lip, grunting, “More—fuck, yes—ouch, again,” while the quilt trembled over us like a tent in wind, hiding the sweet bruising blows only we knew were happening.

Then the blanket flew back; cold green light painted our skin as Mikko rose, hand planted on my sternum, rolling me flat. He knelt high, torso cutting the aurora into shards, that monster cock now a dark horizon line swaying above me. Then he dropped.  He came down with his full weight, his shaft crushed mine flat to my pubis, our crowns kissing head-on with a wet clap, foreskins folding together like locked shutters.

Then he tilted hips, brought his down-curve hammering along my underside, his slick head ramming my balls upward into my groin, me feeling a bright burst of pain-pleasure. “Ah, Mikko, fucking hell, more, more…”

In response he shifted lower; now his heavy sack swung first, smacking my shaft base, then the rigid bar followed, raking over my tender sac and pinning it between his rod and my pelvis.

“My God, Mikko, one more time and I…”  Hearing these moans, he rose highest, angled slightly left, and crashed down so his corona clipped the side of my crown, sending my dick whipping against my thigh while his balls landed square on mine, two hot weights bouncing off each other in a bruising, breath-stealing drum.

My wave of pleasure started as a low, warm throb right behind my balls, a quiet drumbeat echoing every heavy slap of Mikko’s body. Each downward crash sent a ripple up the underside of my shaft, the skin drawing tighter, the crown swelling until the slit felt stretched open and pulsing. Heat pooled in shallow waves, gathering higher, hotter, then receding just enough to tease—like surf building before the real break. My thighs quivered involuntarily; inner muscles clenched around nothing, hungry for more pressure, more friction, yet desperate to hold the climb. Breath came in short, sharp huffs that fogged in the green glow, every exhale fanning the spark, every slam stoking it brighter, but I clamped down, jaw locked, silently begging: not yet, not yet—let this crest stay poised a moment longer.

Slam!…slam!…slam!…—the metronome knocked the air from my lungs in steady doses. In my life I’d knelt and swallowed, felt crowns nudge my throat open. I’d bent and taken every inch guys could give, hungry for the stretch, the burn, the pulse inside me. I’d squeezed strangers between my thighs, milked them slow, but never this—never a storm of raw body dropping on mine with no target, no care. Mikko crashed down again: his fat shaft whipped across my balls, next slam bent sideways and speared my hip, next crushed my own dick flat to my belly. Pain sparked, flipped to bright pleasure, reignited somewhere new. Grunt, gasp, slap, slick sweat—each blur of skin merged into the next while the aurora froze above us. Seconds stretched elastic; I hung weightless, bottom-boy heart drumming in perfect sync with the savage beat of his body using mine.

His rhythm cracked—voice leaping an octave: “Tulen, tulen, tulen!”—a broken chant as the final three slams slowed to heavy, deliberate drops. On the first he hovered, thighs quivering; on the second his cock head kissed my root and stayed, pulsing; on the third he sank, whole frame juddering like a tree in wind. A haze of warm precum misted my balls, then the first long shudder hit—five slow convulsions that shot long spurts of cum across my sac, each of them landing hot and wet, the last smearing up my shaft. The instant heat vaulted me over: three brutal spurts of my own swept up my chest, stripes stinging my skin, still a bit raw from relentless slapping of body to body.

Mikko collapsed forward, chest smacking mine, and began a lazy grind, sliding sweat and cum into a slick glaze between our bellies. Breath ragged, he murmured soft Finnish—vowels melting into consonants I couldn’t catch—while the itchy, oversensitive slide of his skin on mine kept us twitching long after the last drop cooled.

“More—please, slide,” I panted, voice raw. Mikko eased his weight forward and that half-soft monster slithered along mine, foreskins catching, peeling, re-sheathing in one slick, itchy glide. The rasp sent a white-hot shudder up my spine; my legs kicked out, knees jerking wide then snapping shut around his hips. Each slow drag twisted me like a puppet—hips bucking, heels digging into the mattress, moans tearing loose without filter. Crown against crown, his loose skin grazed my tender slit until the friction boiled over: a final, wordless orgasm ripped through me, dry pulses clenching emptiness, vision sparking while his heavy cock kept slithering, relentless, milking every last spasm until I lay limp, drenched and gasping beneath him…

I stared at the ceiling, chest still heaving beneath his slack weight, and tried to overlay the two images: the red-haired serious guy who’d gunned his snowmobile in risky circles, who’d waved me into the tiny artisan shop with a tour-guide demeanor and translated the potter’s Finnish puns without missing a beat; the serious presentation of the naked me that had echoed off sauna walls while he tossed ladles of water on hot stones. That Mikko had felt harmless, bright as fresh snow.

Now his sweat cooled on my raw skin, his giant frame sprawled boneless, muttering hoarse curses—“perkele, vittu”—into my collar between ragged breaths. The same freckles dusted those broad shoulders, but the shoulders themselves had hammered me a hundred times, each slam a blunt statement of strength I’d never guessed. Gentle, quiet? Maybe. But tonight he’d unfolded into something colossal—tour-guide cool swapped for predator focus, laughter replaced by guttural growls and the relentless slap of flesh on flesh—leaving me dazed, tasting iron and woodsmoke, wondering which version would open his eyes first.

“Yuck,” Mikko said after sliding his hand between us. “Shower, come on!” and his other hand yanked me up, and virtually dragged me into the small shower behind a wooden screen.

Inside he started a hot stream, with steam billowing out like breath from a dragon. He didn’t ask—just grabbed my shoulder, spun me under the spray, and pressed the rough sponge to my chest. “Arms up,” he commanded, voice still gravel-thick from sex. I obeyed, heart skittering as he scrubbed hard, the rough sponge scraping nipples, ribs, the tender hollows under my arms. He kicked my feet apart, nudged me forward until I was bent almost double, hands braced on the wall while he dragged the sponge down my spine, over my burning ass cheeks, between them—where I didn’t let him go—quick,  clinical, but the ownership in it made me shiver.

Each time he pivoted me, that long, cooled cock swung loose and slapped my thigh, my ass, the small of my back—soft flesh, yet weighted enough to feel heavy. I swallowed little sounds of pleasure, my knees went weak from the slaps and the low grunts he gave when I moved too slow. Rinse, turn, bend—his palm planted between my shoulder blades kept me folded while water sluiced off us both.

Then, without ceremony, he stepped back. “Please give me space, wait there.” I walked out from behind the partition damp and dizzy. I toweled half-heartedly, head light, pulse still thrumming in tender places, and staggered to the bed where I collapsed, vaguely horny, wholly stunned, listening to the solitary splash of his own shower behind the wall.

He padded out barefoot, towel knotted low on his hips, the bulge beneath it nothing like the weapon from an hour ago—just a quiet, average swell. Freckles stood out again on a face that had reset to easy-going, eyes crinkling with that earlier warmth. “Sorry I got carried away in there,” he said, voice soft, almost boyish. “Did you… like it?”

I managed a tired grin. “Loved every slam.”

His crooked smile flashed. “You haven’t really felt me yet.”

I laughed. “Those slams were a pretty good dose of medicine—for loneliness, at least.”

He chuckled, ruffled my damp hair, like he were my professor, and not the other way around, and the red-haired tour-guide I’d met at sunrise slipped back into his skin as if the giant had never been…

***

We slept together but behaved like two English gentlemen: “Good night now, Mikko, I set the alarm for 8 a.m.” “Good night, Augie, yaaaaaaaaawn….”  My ribs hurt a little and throughout the night it seemed to me that Mikko was lying on top of me, and the bed was sagging under our combined weight, but no, he wasn’t…

… The local airport was barely more than a warm shed with a runway. You could see the whole layout from the entrance: one café, one security lane, one departure gate leading straight onto the tarmac. Mikko insisted on walking me all the way to the plane—said it was “the Finnish way,” though I suspected he just wasn’t ready to be done.

We stood for a minute at the check-in counter, the woman behind it greeting him by name. He handed over my bag, double-checked the tag, all quiet efficiency. Outside, the wind pushed low drifts of snow across the runway, the world reduced to white and the drone of a single idling propeller.

As we waited for boarding, we found a bench near the glass wall. He sat with his elbows on his knees, looking out, his breath fogging the window. I said, “Hard to believe that was only one day.”

He smiled without turning. “Finland likes to give everything at once.”

When the loudspeaker crackled, it broke whatever spell there was. We stood. He pulled on his hat, and I reached out my hand—but he ignored it and wrapped me in one of those careful, brief hugs that big men give when they don’t want to crush you. His jacket was still cold from outside.

“Thank you, Mikko. For all of it,” I said.

He only nodded. “Text when you get home.”

The door to the runway opened with a hiss of cold air. I walked toward the little plane, boots crunching on packed snow, and turned once more. He was still by the window, one hand lifted in that small, Finnish wave—fingers barely moving, face steady.

When the propellers began to turn, I caught the reflection of the terminal lights trembling in the snow. And in that moment I realized: the day had already become memory, sealed and untouchable, like the northern lights fading behind the morning sky.

… We haven’t seen each other since that one time.  But the dreams of his hot slamming body still come to me when I have a lonely night—with always the same effect, slam me some more, sweet Mikko, ah, ah, ah…

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Laying the Foundation

It was warm enough that by the time we opened our sixth beer, the cum had dried on our bodies.

Scott sat beside me, a lot more relaxed than I’d seen him the entire time we’d been on site.

“Something magical about these small towns at night. The sky and the quiet. Makes you feel alive.”

I looked up, watching the clear sky, seeing stars across that great expanse as I sat naked next to Scott.

His words slurred, but his eyes were steady when they met mine. The night seemed to shrink around us. That quiet intensity pulled the air from my lungs and lit something in my chest.

“Hey, are you hungry?”

I nodded, sipping my beer and realizing I was feeling the effects more and more.

“There’s that pizza place nearby. I bet they’ll deliver here,” he said, leaning back in his chair, the moonlight barely illuminating his hairy chest and his sleeping cock, nestled between thick, hairy legs.

“That sounds good. Let me call them and see,” I said, trying not to stare. But when I reached into my work shorts and pulled out my phone, he leaned towards me and put his hand on my leg.

As I looked into his eyes, I couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“I really like you,” he said candidly.

“It’s the beer,” I said, adding a smile.

He smiled too. “Yeah, definitely the beer,” but then I turned fully towards him and kissed him.

It was only a short kiss, but we both kept our eyes open.

When I leaned back, I saw his cock stirring. I could already feel mine waking up, wondering if it was about to get more action.

I found the number for the pizza place, ordered a large Margherita and gave them the address, also warning them it was a construction site but I’d be out the front.

Twenty minutes later, while Scott went off to get us another beer, I threw my shorts and shirt on and went out to get the pizza.

We ate pizza, drank two more beers, and shared more than either of us had in years.

“I’ve been single for nearly five years. After I found out Jodie had cheated, I lost all trust in women,” Scott revealed, polishing off the last slice of pizza and washing it down with a big gulp of beer.

“I dated a guy after Susan, but I don’t know if we were too alike… or maybe not enough. But that was two years ago, and since then I’ve just focused on my business. Traveling from town to town, taking gigs like this one that pay well, but which force me to spend more time by myself,” I told him, folding up the pizza box and walking it over to the big dumpster.

“Never dated a guy,” Scott said as I walked back and sat down.

“Would you ever consider it?” I asked him, hiding my anticipation by swigging more beer.

He shrugged. “I don’t think so. I want kids, white picket fence, a small house in the countryside. Sleep out under the stars with animals around me. I prefer their company,” he said.

I tried to hide that feeling in my chest of disappointment, though I wasn’t sure why I felt that way. We’d only just met. This was a one-off, and we both knew it.

“You’re far from that dream in Miami,” I told him.

He simply nodded. “But that’s fine until I pay off my mortgage, find a girl I like with similar dreams, then start thinking about it. I’m a long way off from that.”

I let his words swim around in my head while we sat, enjoying the tranquility of the quiet area.

“But… you have been with a guy, right? I mean, you don’t strike me as someone who hasn’t done…”

He grinned, but didn’t look at me. He fidgeted with his beer, pulled the tab off the can and threw it into the bush somewhere.

“Yeah. Just a couple of times in college. Again last year with a guy I met off an app. Deleted it right after.”

I knew I’d stew over that in coming days, so I forced myself to ask.

“Why did you delete it straight away? Did you feel weird?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead he continued to fidget, then sipped more beer. Eventually, “Not sure. Guess I was feeling curious and after we did it, I decided that it was enough.”

“Can I ask if you fucked each other?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Was good, I liked the guy, which is why I went there. But it was enough for me. I didn’t need to do it again.”

About nine beers in, we agreed we were too drunk to drive, so shared a cab back to our hotel, carrying the rest of the beers in plastic bags.

We stumbled, laughed like teenagers, got a stern look from the concierge, then got the lift up to our rooms.

“I’m on the fourth floor, how about you?” Scott asked me, blue eyes appearing more like tiny flames in that brightly lit elevator.

“Fifth,” I said.

He stumbled into me and I crashed into the mirror. We kissed, smiling, then laughing.

“How about we shower, then meet in my room after,” Scott suggested, his gaze boring through me.

“Sounds good,” I said, feeling that excitement in my chest, “that’s assuming you don’t fall asleep.”

A serious look replaced the smile. “I definitely won’t fall asleep! Not without you in my bed!”

He gave me his room number, then turned when the elevator opened and pushed his arms out to hold the lift doors open.

“You’re definitely coming?” he asked, looking serious, like he wouldn’t breathe if I didn’t.

I stepped forward and grabbed his bulge, and kissed him. “If I’m not there in twenty minutes, you have my permission to come banging on my door,” and I gave him my room number.

He stepped back in a way that made me laugh, folding his arms, looking at his watch, then tapping it.

As the elevator doors closed, he stepped to the center so I could still see him.

“Twenty minutes,” he said, tapping his watch.

I raced into my room, threw my dusty clothes off, got in the shower and let the hot water wash away the cum, the dust, and whatever the hell was now churning in my chest and keeping my heart racing.

Twenty-two minutes later, I stood at his door for a few extra seconds, before I raised my hands to knock.

The door opened just as I was about to.

Scott stood there in white gym shorts, shirtless, clean, smiling and looking marginally less drunk.

He said nothing, but stepped forward, grabbed my t-shirt and pulled me inside, then pushed me against the wall, forcing himself against me.

“You’re late,” he slurred, with a grin that warned me that this guy was a short-term fantasy.

I needed to keep myself in check, even as the door closed and his lips were on mine, his body pressing me into the wall and his hands finding mine.

He linked his fingers with mine, squeezing my hands, his already erect cock pressing into my hips and grinding against my own cock.

You’re not gonna cum too quick again, are you?” he grinned.

I laughed. “Ouch.”

“Just kidding,” he said, pressing his lips against mine again and slipping his tongue into my mouth.

He tasted and smelled cleaner than earlier, with a hint of beer and mouthwash and his body was hot to the touch from the shower.

I felt him maneuver me around and walk me backwards, strong arms around me, navigating me toward the bed.

When I felt the back of the bed behind me, he held me and kept his lips on mine and our tongues continued.

Then Scott lifted my t-shirt off, and stepped back, unbuttoning his shorts, watching me as he did it.

“You’re very hot. Very fit. I like looking at you,” he said, a glint in his eye that revealed more about his thoughts than his words did.

“You’re pretty hot yourself, Scott,” I said, unbuttoning my shorts and yanking them down. I also pulled my underwear down. We’d already seen each other naked.

In the dim light thrown by the lamp, I got a better look at his cock when it sprang out and he was fully undressed. Uncut, very thick, long enough to hurt.

We stood for a few seconds, admiring each other’s bodies.

“You said before that you were thinking about this today. If you’d looked around at any point the past few weeks, you would have noticed I was watching you. With a hard dick.”

I smiled, not sure how much of that was true.

As if sensing my doubt, he stepped toward me again and said, “Last week, one of your middle buttons was undone and I got glimpses of your belly. Made me hard.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “This week you’ve worn those tight shorts three days, and every time you bend over, I’m looking at your butt crack.”

I smiled, though felt my face flush. “Why didn’t you come and say hello?”

He didn’t answer, but shrugged, then put his arms around me and began lightly stroking my body. His blue eyes were alight, already fucking me.

“I told you, I like you. And I’m about to show you how much.”

PAYWALL

I’d love to give you the whole thing for free, but my landlord won’t accept blowjobs as payment. I’ve also discovered that passion and lube don’t cover my bills either.  If you’ve been enjoying this story or any others by me, support me by upgrading to a paid subscription. It keeps me writing, and keeps the good stuff coming.
This story continues for paid subscribers, because I need to eat. And ideally? Write full-time. Thanks for understanding.

I sat back on the bed, and pushed back, feeling the bed’s soft cover sliding under my skin.

Scott never took his eyes off mine, as he crawled onto the bed and aligned his body with mine. He lay on top of me, grinding our cocks together and continuing to kiss me.

He shifted lower, kissing down my neck, then along my collarbone. I felt his cock grind along mine again, harder this time, his hips rolling like he was lining us up. I could feel his hot breath against my skin, giving me goosebumps, his mouth trailing slowly down my chest as his fingers gripped my wrists. He was stronger than I expected, and when he pinned my arms above my head, I stopped pretending I didn’t want him to take control.

When he licked my nipples, there was a hesitance to it, like he was navigating a different type of body, and when he moved down, kissing me and licking me, I knew exactly why.

This was the shift I’d had going from women to men. Navigating a body that’s different.

Scott moved down, burying his face in my pubes, and then going straight to my cock.

He put it in his mouth, using both hands, like someone fascinated by how these things worked.

And when his mouth wrapped around my cock, he went halfway without buildup, and with more teeth than I needed.

I reached down and grabbed his head, pulling him up.

His eyes searched my face, and his eyebrows asked the question.

But I simply smiled and slid him to one side, angling myself alongside him, pushing our bodies together and kissing him while my hands explored the contours of his body.

After a few minutes, I moved on top, putting just the right amount of weight on him as I continued to kiss him, press my chest against his and our cocks together.

He moaned.

I kissed and licked around his neck, into his ears, which made him squirm, and down to his chest. I licked his nipples, gently biting both, licking around the definition of his pecs, then back to circling his nipples with my tongue, feeling him writhe under me as he continued to moan.

I traveled along his navel, licked around it, stroked his abs, then along his legs as I moved my tongue down to his inner thighs. I felt him tense, watched goosebumps appear on his skin as my tongue dipped down to under his balls. I moved his legs up, and pushed my mouth under his balls and heard him suck in breath as I sucked the skin under there.

He was smooth, had shaved it all, which made it easier to lick around his balls, then put them in my mouth. With time, I licked around his shaft, moving one hand to gently stroke it.

Up close, it was throbbing, leaking cum and thick in my hand. I sucked his shaft, moved my mouth to the tip and licked at his foreskin, putting my tongue inside and tasting the precum.

He moaned out loud, moving his hands to grab my head as if to control it.

I wrapped my mouth around his cock, pushing the foreskin down with my lips, using my tongue to lick around the head, suck on the tip, while my hand jerked him slowly.

Scott sucked in air and gasped when I put all of his cock in my mouth and sucked it gently, reaching down to grab one of my hands and hold it.

I sucked him gently, then with more pressure, with one hand caressing around his balls, rolling them in my hand while his hand squeezed my other one.

I came up, licking as I went, watching his face when I came up and pressed myself on him, our chests, our cocks and our skin. His eyes, so blue and so tender as he looked at me.

In his eyes I saw so much, wanting to want me, but also conflicted, hesitant, and unsure how this should be.

I pushed his legs up with my knees, brought his legs alongside me as we kissed passionately, tongues deep into each other’s mouths.

When I pressed my cock against his hole, he stared, a look of apprehension on his face. But I gently put pressure there, but didn’t push and leaned down and kissed him, forcing his legs up as I did.

“You first,” I said, with a grin as I kissed him.

“I’m starting to regret my drunken decisions!” he said, not smiling.

“We don’t have to,” I said, continuing to kiss him, while applying pressure there, “but I’d really like to.”

He laughed, a steady gaze while he considered my words.

Then he shook his head. “No, I want to. You just have to go slow. I’ve only been fucked once.”

I believed him.

I’d brought lube, assuming he wouldn’t have any, so retrieved it from my shorts and put it on the bed next to me. I immediately turned him over, and made him lay flat face-down.

I took his ass in, so fit, so firm, hairy and waiting for me, so I spread his legs, brought my lips to his crack and gently pushed my tongue in.

He tensed immediately, which I felt on my cheeks, but relaxed as I licked, so I was able to push through and get my tongue to his center, and gently apply pressure.

I came out, and asked him, “Have you ever been rimmed?”

He shook his head, and gripped the pillow.

I returned to his ass, pushing my tongue through the initial resistance, feeling his muscles relax and open to me. My tongue had to work harder than I remember having to the last time I’d rimmed someone, but I forced his cheeks open and used my tongue and spit to loosen him up.

Eventually, after pushing my tongue inside him, over and over, I felt him relax. I could feel my cock leaking at the thought of fucking him.

He was practically straight, and almost had a virgin ass. I had the sense that if he’d been fucked, it would have been brief.

Scott began to open up to me, relaxing completely as my tongue darted in and out, licking his insides. My hands massaged and squeezed his butt cheeks while my face buried into him.

A while later, I stopped, and turned him over. He had a calm, glazed expression like he was enjoying it.

“I think I should get it in there while you’re still a bit drunk,” I said.

He smiled. “Smart idea.”

I was very generous with the amount of lube I put on my hand and then his ass, and just as much on my cock.

A look of fear crossed his face.

“Don’t think about it. Relax. Just force yourself to relax. I’ll go slow, and easy. Really slow,” I said it with a soft voice, as I lifted his legs and pushed into him.

He gasped as the tip went in. I waited, watching him, the top of his teeth biting onto his lower lip. Then he closed his eyes, relaxed and I felt a shift.

Scott nodded, and I pushed it in slightly further, watching his face, stroking his legs and gently pushing my cock into his butt, very slowly.

At some point he must have given up all resistance, because I felt him completely open up to me. I pushed in further, realizing I’d almost got it most of the way.

“We’re nearly all the way,” I said, “Still good?”

He nodded, still biting on his lower lip, but no longer looking fearful.

When I leaned on top, pushing myself in the rest of the way into him, he sucked in a big breath, and I brought myself down and our lips touched.

His arms slid around me to pull me in, and he kissed me, tasting himself on my lips. As my cock reached deep inside him, I pushed his legs all the way open and fell into a very deep part of Scott that I’m sure had never experienced.

Gently, with slow and careful thrusts, I fucked him, as we kissed.

Feeling my cock slide in and out of his hairy ass as our tongues danced together.

We could have been fucking for hours, because I lost all sense of time. There was just me, Scott and our bodies pressed together as I fucked him, slowly building rhythm, watching his face begin to experience pleasure that comes from letting go, and allowing the pleasure to come.

I built momentum, thrusting in and out, watching his face, then reaching in and kissing him, then thrusting again, feeling his cock pressed between us and the wonderful sensation of being between Scott’s legs as I felt myself build up.

“I’m close,” he said, before I had a chance to say anything.

I looked at him, surprised. “Hands free? Great!”

With a smile, I built that last bit up, beginning to lengthen the thrusts, watching his face contort with real ecstasy as our bodies worked together and we both were ready.

“Oh! Jesus!” He said loudly in the quiet room.

“Oh, fuck!” I said breathlessly, as we both began to shoot our loads. I felt his between us, just like back on site, and mine shoot through his asshole and into him.

“Oh!” he moaned, as streams of his cum spread between our stomachs.

“Fuck!” I said, as mine flooded his insides.

We came for a few seconds, still pushing, still reaching the depths that he allowed as the last of it spilled out of us both.

I lay on top of him, kissing his neck, feeling exhaustion from the fucking, the beer and a very long day.

“Fuck!” he whispered into my ear.

“Don’t shut me out in the morning,” I said into his ear, feeling a wave of exhaustion come over me.  I’d been down this road before, and I didn’t want this to end like this.

“I have no intention to. As soon as your eyes are open, I’m paying you back.” He said.

I laughed against his neck, too tired to get off him, even as sleep dragged me under. 

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If this got you hard, wait till you see what’s next. Full stories and updates on my Substack. Fox 😈x

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2 am. It’s dark out with the street lights on. Not a soul in site. An occasional dog bark. I come back to bed after a bathroom visit. I’m laying there naked and feeling myself get erect as I think of the day before’s visit with Dan. It was so erotic. He loved me being fem for him, acting like a girl, how I dressed. I could just be my fem self and it turned him on. He knew he was going to top me. We both knew it and that’s how it ended with a note to meet tomorrow. That left us all day alone to fantasize about each other and somehow get stuff done. I wondered what to wear this time. Maybe a summer dress? Thong panties underneath. I was getting hot and bothered trying to fall asleep when the phone rang.

It was Dan. O my.

“Hi Baby,” I said.

“Hi Sandy. Can I tell you something?

“Sure baby.”

“I really need you now. I’m laying here thinking of our last time together. It was so amazing. I need more I think.

“Right now?”

“Yes, Sandy. Is that ok? I’m so aroused now. I need your softness. Your kisses. Our kisses. Making love. Being inside you. I need you Sandy, please come over. Can you?”

“Sure baby. I’ll be right over. Give me a few minutes.”

Without hesitation I got ready to go over. Cleaned myself, smooth in all the right places, silky bare down there each side. Put on thigh highs, g-string panties, a short skirt, my top nightie. Put on my long raincoat and walked over to his house. The door was open and I walked in. There he was sitting on the couch in his robe.

“Hi baby,” I said and took off my coat.

“Oh wow Sandy. You look so hot.”

“Thank you baby.”

I sat down next to him. We held hands and chatted a bit, softening to each other.

“I liked how we were last time,” he said.

“Mmhm. It was very erotic.”

“I want that again Sandy.”

“Yes darling.”

He pulled me close to him. We snuggled on the couch and he held me in his arms. He put on some tranny porn and we watched a lovely trans girl and boy making love. He kissed my neck back and forth. On the screen the couple were making out. We looked at each other and then came closer. No words were needed. We kissed. Softly. Gently. Then more, feeling intense excitement as two men kiss. 

“I need your love” I whispered in his ear.

“I’m going to give you all my love baby.”

We continued watching and kissing. And then the trans girl was ready to be taken. She got on her back and slid a pillow under her butt and raised her hips and spread her cheeks. She had a pink glistening hole and soon his hardness pushed against it and it was arousing to watch her open to him as he slowly pushed through with his cockhead.

“OOO” I moaned. “That’s so hot.”

“Mmhmm, yes it is baby.”

We resumed makining out and he reached up my skirt and could feel my erection.

“You’re so hard baby.”

“I got horny when you called me.”

Then I got up and started slow dancing. He loved that. There was slow sensual jazz in the middle of the night. I danced and it became a tease. Sometimes I’d life my skirt to flash him, front and back. He’d opened his robe to show me his 7” hard cock. Without touching it he was throbbing. 

And then I stopped. I got on bed and lifted my skirt to show him my hard clit.

“O Sandy,” he moaned. “O Sandy you’re so hot.”

I laid down next to him and we watched the couple in full intercourse. She moaned as he pumped her and they were in tight embrace, competely at one.

“You want me to make love to you like that?

“Please Dan. Take me to bed.”

Hand in hand we walked to his bedroom. He slipped off his robe and took off my nightie. I slipped off my skirt and panties. We went to bed, quickly embracing, kissing intensely, moaning. We were in synch just like last time though now it was more intense because we wanted more from each other, more sensuality to explore together.

I licked his balls for like forever. I loved licking them. And then I’d lick up his shaft, taste his precum. If he wanted to cum in my mouth that would have been ok.

“Stand up baby.”

He stood up. I knelt before him and licked his balls and opened my mouth for his shaft, taking it in. Moving up and down his shaft was so erotic. He moaned and moaned.

“O Sandy, you know how to suck.

That turned me on more and I worshipped his cock with my mouth. I looked up at him and our eyes met and lingered while my mouth wrapped his thickness. He could see I adored his cock. And then he pulled out and I looked up at him.

“What do you want, baby?”

“You know what I want Sandy.

I laid down on my back and he straddled my face. My tongue reached up to his balls and licked them again. Then he turned around and took my cock in his mouth. I gave me wonderful oral which only made me more aroused. I was becoming more open to everything. And then leaned back some so that his ass was in front of me. I knew what he wanted. He grabbed my balls and squeezed them really hard.

“O my God,” I moaned. He squeezed again. “OOOO”

I kissed his cheeks. I licked them and then I parted his cheeks and exposed his hidden hole to me. I kissed him there. Lightly. He moaned. Then a gentle lick to see what he tasted like. Another lick. I wanted more. And then I licked him up and down.

“OOOOO Sandy” he moaned. “O baby I love that.”

I loved rimming him. I could do it all night. I had lovers before who liked rimming me but I never did it with any of them. It changed with Dan. Our lovemaking felt special. He rimmed me a few times. Naturally it felt good. But then that one time we were in a hottub. We made out and fondled each other, getting ready for love making. Then he got out. I got on my knees and kissed his balls. I licked them and was so horny. And I licked behind his balls. He moaned right away. 

It was so hot rimming him. It only made me hornier.

I wanted more and pushed harder against his hole with my tongue. I held his hips and pushed.

“Relax for me baby,” I moaned. “I want you right there.”

And he relaxed his anal muscles and I pushed again. I pushed harder. And harder.

“O you’re right there Sandy. You’re right there.”

And then I slipped through. O my. I gentely pushed more. He tasted clean and intimate. I pushed and pulled and spread his cheeks more.

“OOOO Sandy,” he moaned. “O baby you’re so hot.”

And I slipped in more, pushing harder, maybe half an inch. Then he leaned backwards on my face, sitting on my face gently. Quickly my tongue slipped in more, an inch or more. I was so aroused.

He reached down and squeezed my balls again. We relished these sensations together. So taboo. But so intimate. Then I pulled out. I kissed his ass all over. Then licked his hole again.

“O Dan” I moaned. “I need you.”

He turned around and knelt there. Omigod his cock was throbbing hard.

“You’re so hard Dan.”

“Just for you Sandy. I want to be at one with you.”

This was it. Our impending union. I wanted it so much and he did too.

“I’ve been so ready for you baby.”

I leaned back and lifted my legs. He got a pillow and stuffed it under my hips.

He slid his cock up and down my slit. More intense foreplay. We kissed and frenched for like forever.

Then I held him close and whispered in his ear “Make me your girl baby.” I laid back and lifted my legs and offered my hole to him.  He got a syringe and injected me with lube and smeared some around my hole to make me wet.  Then he lubed himself and brought his glistening thickness to my small hole. I was going into ecstasy with anticipation. Just like last time it was going to be magical, him penetrating me, stretching me. He pushed against my hole and I relaxed.

Our eyes locked on each other. I was breathing hard, welcoming him in. He kept pushing and pushing and then all of a sudden his cockhead pierced me.

“OOOOO”

Gently he pushed more and spread me. He stung again but I welcomed him. Gently and slowly he pushed in, testing how much I could take. He was a third in when he pulled it out and then slid it over my hole again.

“That’s so hot Dan. I love that.”

“I know you do baby.”

I reached behind and spread my ass cheeks for him. Again he came to me, pushed against my hole and quickly he slipped in again.

“OOOOO Dan.”

He slowly made his way to about a third. Then he tested me. Pushed a little more.

“O yes,” I moaned. “Drive it in baby.” And he did. He was strong and firm and pushed in even more.

“OOOOOOO Dan,” I moaned. “OOOOOO baby, push it in.”

He moaned with me as he entered me more. I took more of him in until he was almost all the way in. He stopped here.

“You’re so tight Sandy.”

“Just for you darling. O my sweetheart. I want you in my me. Pls.”

And then another deep thrust.

‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

He was all the way, pushing in as deep as he could.

“OOOOOO Dan. I love you in me.

We stayed there in that position for quite a while. Just enjoying the closeness, my legs wrapped around his waist, him deep in me and we’re frenching slowly. Kissing. Cooing. Moaning together, enjoying our union.

And then he first light pull and push.

“MMM” I went.

Again he was gentle and testing me to see how much I could take and started slowly pumping me. I held him tight and eased into the next sensations. He was going to take me as he needed. His thrusts started getting more intense.

“O baby,” I moaned.

“O Sandy,” he moaned back. “I want to give you my seed.”

“Yes baby,” I cooed. “Do me.”

And soon he was thrusting harder and faster.

“OOOOOOOOOOO”

We moaned together, in deep union.

“You’re so tight Sandy. So tight.”

“Pump me with cum,” I moaned. “O Dan pls cum in me.”

And then he thrust deeply and quickly and jerked and spasmed into orgasm, pumping his cum into me.

“OOOO yes Dan. Right there. Give me your cum.”

He pumped a number of more times and then slowly relaxed on top of me. We kissed again. He massaged my cock.

“I can feel you oozing out.”

He pulled back and I lifted my legs to show my hole. More of him oozed out, sliding down my crack.

“O God that’s so hot Sandy.”

I reached down and let some run over my finger which I lifted to my mouth and shot my tongue out to taste him. I loved tasting him. Little did I know how much him cumming in my mouth would be much of our sex play.

He massaged my cock more. I could feel it coming. I held him tight as me brought me into more arousal again.

“O Dan, O Dan.”

He squeezed my balls hard again.

“OOOOOOOO”

And then I came and shot multiple loads over my stomach and chest. We got showered and then went to bed together. It was a nice sound sleep.

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The story continues of Rahul .

Rahul has conveyed to master ANSH that he is irked by the idea of cd and wants to try read what happens and how the story unfolds.

The key turned in the lock, its metallic click echoing through the silent apartment like a starting pistol. Rahul’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the delicate silk encasing his chest. He stood frozen in the center of the living room, every nerve ending screaming. The black lace of the baby doll chemise felt shockingly light against his skin, a whisper where he was used to weight. The matching panties, a flimsy scrap of satin and lace, hugged his hips, the unfamiliar constriction a constant, thrilling reminder of his audacity.

He heard the familiar thud of Ansh’s leather bag hitting the floor, the rustle of his jacket. Footsteps, firm and assured, moved from the foyer toward the kitchen. Rahul held his breath. This was it. The point of no return.

The footsteps stopped. A beat of silence, heavier than any sound. Then, they resumed, slower this time, deliberate, coming straight for the arched doorway of the living room.

Ansh appeared in the frame, his tall, commanding form silhouetted against the hallway light. His sharp eyes, usually so focused and analytical, scanned the room and landed on Rahul. They widened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock, before his expression smoothed into an unreadable mask. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He simply… assessed.

Rahul felt his face burn. He wanted to cover himself, to run, to dissolve into the floorboards. But he forced himself to stand still, his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug.

Ansh took three slow steps into the room, the sound of his leather shoes on the hardwood measured and calm. He stopped an arm’s length away. The air crackled with tension. Rahul could smell his cologne, something dark and woody, and it made his head feel light.

“Well,” Ansh’s voice was a low, controlled baritone that vibrated right through Rahul. “This is a development.”

Rahul swallowed, his throat dry. “Master Ansh, I…”

“Look at me when you address me, Rahul.”

The command was soft but absolute. Rahul’s eyes snapped up, meeting Ansh’s dark, penetrating gaze. He saw curiosity there, and something else… a glint of intense, predatory interest.

“I see you’ve been exploring the contents of my bedroom,” Ansh said, his eyes trailing down Rahul’s body with a searing heat that felt more intimate than any touch. “This is one of my favorites. The lace is Belgian. It looks… different on you.”

“I… I wanted…” Rahul stammered, his courage fracturing under the intensity of that look.

“Use your words. Clearly. What did you want?”

Rahul took a shaky breath, the lace on his chest straining. “I wanted you to see me. Not… not like I usually am. I want to be… pretty. For you. I want to be your sissy.”

The word hung in the air between them, shocking in its stark vulnerability. Ansh’s expression remained impassive, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.

“A sissy,” he repeated, letting the term settle. “That’s a significant desire. It requires more than just wearing pretty underwear. It requires complete submission. An erasure of the ego you’ve known your whole life. Are you prepared for that?”

“Yes, Master,” Rahul whispered, the title feeling more natural than his own name in this moment.

“We’ll see.” A slow, knowing smile finally touched Ansh’s lips. “Your first test. A simple one. Turn around. Slowly. Let me see all of you.”

A fresh wave of heat flooded Rahul’s body. This was it. The moment of total exposure. He obeyed, turning on the spot, his movements stiff with a mixture of terror and raw excitement. The chemise fluttered around his thighs. He felt the cool air of the room on the backs of his legs, on the swell of his ass barely covered by the satin panties. He could feel Ansh’s eyes on him, roving over every inch, cataloging his form, his submission.

“Good,” Ansh murmured, the sound right behind him now. Rahul hadn’t even heard him move. A gasp escaped his lips as Ansh’s fingers, strong and sure, traced the line of lace that ran over his hip bone. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that made his knees weak. Oh god.

“Such sensitive skin,” Ansh observed, his voice a husky whisper near Rahul’s ear. His other hand came up, not to touch, but to hover just over Rahul’s chest, the heat from his palm radiating through the thin silk. “You’re trembling. Are you frightened?”

“N-no, Master,” Rahul lied, his voice breathy.

“Liar.” Ansh’s chuckle was a dark, delicious sound. “But that’s alright. Fear and desire are old friends.” His hovering hand finally made contact, his palm flattening against Rahul’s sternum, feeling the frantic rabbit-beat of his heart. “They dance together so well.”

His other hand slid from the hip, smoothing down over the curve of Rahul’s ass, palming it through the satin. Rahul moaned, a soft, involuntary sound he didn’t recognize as his own. His cock, which had been half-hard with nervous anticipation, swelled to full, aching life, straining violently against the confining lace of the panties.

“And what do we have here?” Ansh purred, his hand cupping Rahul’s erection, applying the faintest, most torturous pressure. “This doesn’t seem very sissy-like. This seems… demanding.”

“I… I can’t help it,” Rahul breathed, pushing his hips back against that glorious hand.

“You will learn to,” Ansh said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He increased the pressure, a firm, possessive squeeze that made stars burst behind Rahul’s eyelids. “Your pleasure belongs to me now. It is mine to give, and mine to deny. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Rahul groaned, his head falling back against Ansh’s broad shoulder. He was melting, every ounce of resistance dissolving under the mastery of Ansh’s touch.

“On your knees.”

The command was a shock of cold water and a wave of heat all at once. Rahul sank to the floor, the rough texture of the rug a stark contrast to the smooth silk on his skin. He looked up at Ansh, who loomed over him, his expression a mixture of absolute authority and dark desire.

Ansh unbuckled his belt, the slick sound of leather sliding through loops deafening in the quiet room. He unzipped his trousers, and the musky, masculine scent of him washed over Rahul, intoxicating and primal. His cock sprang free, thick and impressively hard, and he fisted it slowly, his eyes locked on Rahul’s.

“Your second test,” Ansh said, his voice thick with want. “Show me how much you want this. Show me how pretty you can be.”

Rahul didn’t need to be told twice. A deep, submissive need surged up from within him, overwhelming every last shred of hesitation. He leaned forward, his lips parting, his tongue darting out to wet them. He looked up through his lashes, aiming for pretty, aiming for perfect.

He took the head of Ansh’s cock into his mouth. The taste was salty, uniquely male, and it sent a thrill of absolute rightness through him. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive tip, earning a sharp, hissing intake of breath from above.

“Yes… just like that,” Ansh growled, his hand coming to rest on the back of Rahul’s head, not pushing, just guiding. “Use that pretty mouth. Show me your dedication.”

Rahul obeyed, sinking deeper, taking more of him, learning the shape and weight of him. He focused on the sensations—the smooth velvety skin, the pulsing heat, the way Ansh’s thigh muscles tensed under his hands. He lost himself in the rhythm, in the act of service, the lace of his chemise rubbing against his own aching hardness with every bob of his head. The world narrowed to this: the taste, the scent, the sound of Ansh’s ragged breathing, and the overwhelming feeling of belonging.

Ansh’s fingers tightened in his hair. “You’re a natural, my beautiful sissy. But now… I want to feel you properly.” He gently pulled Rahul off his cock, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment. “On the couch. On your hands and knees. I’m going to claim what’s mine.”

“The path to paradise begins in hell.”
― Dante Alighieri

---

Public School Tyranny

John Henry heard the commotion before he could see it. Other students were huddled around something going on in the corridor and he knew without seeing what it would be, for it was always the same. Someone was getting bullied by someone, probably Neil and his two shadows, Alex and Flynn.

“Come on, pussy, get up.”

It was Neil, for he would recognize the nasal voice anywhere. He tried to push to the front of the crowd, but four guys on the football team, broad shouldered and thirty pounds or more than his one hundred fifty, blocked his way. But between them he saw Bobby McCullough on the floor looking up. The eyes looked where Neil and his goon squad stood, then circled around looking at those standing by doing nothing until the eyes seemed to be looking at him.

“Fuck,” John Henry uttered, for he saw the desperation for someone, anyone, to step in and put a stop to this cruelty.

John Henry knew it could be him that was the target of Neil, Alex, and Flynn. It could be him that was called faggot, queer, and cocksucker. It could be him on the floor looking around for help. He didn’t know if Bobby was gay or not, but he was, and he kept it a secret. To do otherwise in their school, the rural county school isolated from anything remotely progressive, was an invitation for a beating. Then a visit to the principles office trying to explain why you were the target and didn’t do anything to justify it, knowing the evangelical principle thought you deserved it. It was why Neil, Alex, and Flynn got away with it every time. The adults in the room didn’t give a shit if the target looked or acted gay.

Alex approached Bobby, grabbed a shoulder strap of his backpack and tried to snatch it away. John Henry had enough. What could the school do to him with only two weeks left in their senior year. Not let him walk in the ceremony. He was fine with that. He slipped his hands between the two guys in front of him and started to push his way through when he saw Ms. Rivera, the girls P.E. teacher and coach of the softball team, pushing through the students on the opposite side.

“What is going on? Alex! I should have known. Over there,” said Ms. Rivera, pointing at the wall. “You too Alex and Flynn,” she added, then looked around, her expression full of disgust. “Is it entertaining to watch one of your classmates get bullied?” She said it with such corrosive contempt no one dared reply. “Get to class, all of you.”

No one moved immediately.

“NOW!” yelled Ms. Rivera.

Everyone rushed away, heading to their next class, all except John Henry who stood staring down at Bobby.

“John Henry, that includes you,” said Ms. Rivera but her tone was softer. It was as if she knew what he was thinking, could see it in his expression.

John Henry looked at Bobby, then at Ms. Rivera, nodding his head, and he moved past them, heading to his class. As he moved away, he heard her tell Bobby to get to his feet.

 

John Henry thought about how fucking unfair life had been. He was a teenager, still in school for at least two more weeks, but he didn’t get to enjoy himself like so many of his classmates. He worked four or five days a week after school, four until midnight. Luckily the old convenience store where he worked had enough slow times he could do most of his assignments to give him passing grades. His mother was gone, and no, not run off somewhere, but passed. The whole year of cancer treatments, mostly just to control pain, then the night she just didn’t wake up. His father immediately turned to the bottle.

But it was nowhere near as bad as it was for Bobby. His mother left when he was young, leaving him in the care of a father that was the local drug dealer, in and out of jail so often John Henry wasn’t sure if he was out of prison or back in. He thought about Mr. McCullough, with his long stringy hair and rotten teeth from using meth and always with a wild crazy look in the eyes. John Henry wondered how much Mr. McCullough had to sell, because he seemed to use so much of it. Bobby had to feel like life was hopeless. John Henry was surprised Bobby didn’t use to let himself forget, but he always arrived at school with his assignments done. But everyone could see what kind of life Bobby had for his attire spoke of it, as did his long hair that when cut was badly done, then there were the bruises, some in places Bobby couldn’t hide with a long sleeve shirt.

Drawing near to his classroom, John Henry thought of his father being unemployed again, losing another job for not showing up for work, too drunk to get up. But never too drunk not to take out his misery on John Henry. The scar over the right eye, where he hit the edge of the coffee table after getting slapped. The bruises along his right arm, hidden by the long sleeve shirt, where he was grabbed last night for trying slip in without giving over his paycheck.

What the drunk bastard didn’t know was John Henry had Mr. Worthington hold back some of his pay each week to keep his father from getting it. But finding his father passed out in his bedroom in lieu of the sofa, he thought he could slip in and hide more of his pay. He was saving as much as he could, for he had a plan to escape this place.

 

Big Sky Country

Dallas parked his old Tahoe next to Samuel’s F250 along the back of the site around the two barns and staging areas. He climbed out seeing only two of the guys at the rigs with combines and headers loaded up ready to pull out. He knew most would be in the ranch house used as an office, sitting in the dining room drinking coffee and two of them smoking cigarettes as they waited on everyone to show up.

Dallas was twenty-four, one of the youngest combine operators, but his uncle ran the business and knew he had been operating a combine since he was thirteen. If not for two older brothers, he might still be on his family’s farm, but the income wasn’t what it used to be, and Benjamin, the oldest would be the one to take over, Daniel, the brother between them having left after he finished high school for a career in the military. So, instead of operating a combine for his father, he operated one for his uncle. He enjoyed it, the days isolated in the cab, watching the header cut and pull the crop into the machine, monitoring the controls, and seeing a large field get cut away by the five machines they operated, making quick work of even the largest fields.

And there was another reason he was working for his uncle, one that no one wanted to discuss, least of all his mom and dad.

They were just outside Lamesa and within the hour would pull out heading to Brownfield, their first stop on their yearly trek up the Midwest. They would go from Big Sky Country to the buttes of the Dakotas, going from late spring to fall.

Dallas saw Theo drive up in his old Chevy truck followed by Waylon in his CJ-7. The two men were in their early thirties and attractive in a way no city boy could match. He knew if given chance, he would climb in bed with either of them. But after four years on his uncle’s crew, there had never been any indication any of them had an interest. The men on the crew were straight to a fault, the single guys picking up women in the towns they stayed in all the way up to the Dakotas. It left him sneaking away from the group late at night after everyone had too many beers or had retired with some new woman wanting a good time. He used sites online finding guys wanting to hook up, always amazed how easy it was to find someone. The problem was getting away or being in a place with a decent size town. The other problem was he had been doing it for four years and was feeling restless about it. There had to be more to life than casual hookups that never lasted more than a few days.

Looking at the combines loaded up, he wondered if there was something else out there, he could do with his life that could give him an opportunity for a relationship. A real relationship, where they shared meals, a home, the bed within it every night being able to wake up in the mornings next to each other. It seemed like a fairy tale, something only read about in books, not something some Texan who operated a combine could ever hope to obtain.

 

Dallas saw an old Camaro pull in. It was loud with his performance exhaust, and it bounced over the rough gravel drive, kicking up dust as the driver punched the accelerator making it slide or spin the rear wheels.

“Maverick, you asshole,” said Dallas smiling as he watched him pull in next to his Tahoe.

Maverick was fifty but acted like some sixteen-year-old who just got his license. Three times divorced and always looking for a good time, Dallas considered Maverick entertaining, but not in a million years would he get in bed with him, even if the opportunity arose.

“Are you ready to start another year traveling up the plains?” said Maverick as he slammed the driver’s door.

“Yep. You?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They started toward the ranch house, Dallas knowing Maverick never had enough coffee. They walked casually through the early morning light, the sun barely above the eastern horizon, and Dallas once again got a sense of his physical being. Maverick was five foot eight and he was two inches taller, barely noticeable with their caps and work boots on. But Maverick had the body of a man who didn’t work out. A stomach that overhung his belt and shoulders shirts hung loose over. For Dallas he hoped he never got to where he didn’t care about his appearance. He worked out when he could, rode a bicycle when he was able, the bike secured to the trailer with the combine he would be operating. He could ride it after a rainstorm or at some stop where the field wasn’t at correct moisture and they had a day or two to kill.

They were halfway across the gravel lot when an old Dodge truck pulled in and pulled in next to Maverick’s Camaro.

“Who is that?” said Dallas.

“I don’t know. It could be the new guy,” said Maverick.

“New guy?”

“You haven’t heard? Rusty’s wife made him quit and move her back to Georgia where her family lives.”

“No shit. I hadn’t heard. When did this happen?”

“About a month ago…I think.”

“Uncle Thomas must have been furious to have him quit so close to season.”

“That is an understatement. But someone he knows up in Kansas said he knew someone looking for a job. Some guy whose family was losing their farm.”

“A bankruptcy?”

“Yep. Another one. I swear they happen far too often, and those greedy corporate fucks will soon own everything.”

“And they don’t know jack shit about how to farm this land.”

“Tell me about it.”

They looked back and saw the guy climb out of the Dodge, adjust his ball cap, and head their way. Dallas sized him up as best he could with the distance. Lean build, nice arms revealed by the sleeveless shirt and appeared to be rather tall.

“Do you know his name,” said Dallas forcing himself to turn around and catch up with Maverick.

“Ethan…I think. No that’s not right. We’ll find out when we get inside.”

Dallas felt a certain excitement because the guy appeared to be about his age. It would probably mean nothing, but in the meantime, it would give him something to fantasize about.

 

 

Dallas watched his Uncle Thomas come into the room, look around at the guys, and smile.

“Okay, everyone is here. We know our route and note, this year we picked up two farms, one in Kansas and one in Nebraska, so it is going to be a busy season. Are we ready to pull out?”

“Yes, sir,” someone exclaimed in a manner that made everyone laugh.

“You guys know the routine, if you don’t want to drive your trucks, then ride with one of the other guys. Dallas, since you still have that old Tahoe, you’ll be hauling some of Howard’s supplies (Howard being the one who prepared lunch and dinner when they were in some remote place).”

“Yes, sir,” said Dallas. Howard gave him a slight nod toward the door letting him know to pull up after the meeting to get the supplies loaded.

“Tom, who is this?” said Theo pointing to the side of the room at the new guy.

Yes, Uncle Thomas, who is that! Dallas thought. He had already sized up the guy as soon as he entered the house, grabbed a cup of coffee, then stood off to one side just listening to the other’s banter.

The guy was tall, taller than everyone else, and Dallas figured he had to be six feet two, maybe taller. Then there were the physical characteristics so different from his own. Dirty blonde in lieu of black hair, vivid blue eyes in lieu of dark brown, a light tanned skin tone in lieu of his dark skin tone, and the added cuteness of freckles across the cheeks and perfect teeth and dimples when he smiled. It seemed the year could be a long one, especially if this new guy turned out to be an asshole. Dallas could handle him being straight and unobtainable, but not some cocky bastard.

“Oh yeah, this is Elijah Barnett,” said Thomas.

“Just call me Eli.”

The guys introduced themselves, made some comments welcoming him to the group and Eli responded to each of them until looking at Dallas.

“Hey, I’m Dallas Cooper.”

“You’re the nephew.”

“Our own little nepotism!” joked Maverick, causing Dallas to elbow him.

 

A Hankering

John Henry finished stocking the reach-in merchandiser for the cheapest beer they sold, and the only beer they sold in some quantity. He collapsed the boxes from the restocking of candy and cookies and carried all the trash to the small stockroom in back. He came out telling himself he should clean but looking at the tired worn interior he wondered why he should bother. Mr. Worthington had long stopped doing a good cleaning of the convenience store and John Henry knew it was because of the bad knees and just the fact that Mr. Worthington seemed to be at an age where he just didn’t care anymore. He wondered when the old man would close or sell out, if the latter was even feasible.

He went behind the counter and pulled out his world history book to read the last assignment prior to taking the final exam early next week. He struggled with the dates and names, far too many to keep up with to his way of thinking, wondering when in future he would need to know why Russia finally pulled out of Afghanistan or the details of the Gulf War. That seemed far away, in time and place, and did nothing to help him.

The bell rang and he looked up to see Mr. McCullough stagger in making him frown. Bobby came in behind his father and saw him, how he frowned. John Henry wanted to say it wasn’t directed at him, that he knew Bobby wasn’t like his father and was just trapped in a bad situation. But to say something like that in front of Mr. McCullough would be going too far. It would no doubt set the old man off, make him start one of his tirades. He had seen it before, the last time at the fish fry for the volunteer fire department, when demanding more than he paid for. John Henry found it embarrassing that a grown adult could act like that.

As Mr. McCullough went from the chips to the beer reach-ins, Bobby strolled across the front of the store to the small freezer for ice creams snacks. The ice cream sandwiches, the small cup servings that were nearly as much as a pint, drumsticks, and dessert bars dipped in chocolate, John Henry’s favorites. He looked at his classmate, someone who had been one of his friends when they were in elementary school, but by fourth grade Bobby began to pull away from everyone, become even more shy. In the seventh grade the bullying started. Neil, Alex, and Flynn had aimed some of it at him until the day Flynn tried to bully him after school when he was alone. He busted Flynn’s lip and twisted an arm until he thought for sure he broke it, relieved when he realized he hadn’t done so. It caused the gang of three to leave him alone for the most part. They turned their sights on Curtis, Ryan, and Bobby, the latter the one who never fought back, not once, and thus the one they targeted the most.

Faggot. Queer. Cocksucker.

John Henry could hear Neil taunt Bobby with each word. In less than two weeks they would graduate, and they would be free of that place, and he knew the one person who was probably looking forward to it the most was standing before him looking into the ice cream freezer, not daring to reach into it for one.

Bobby was a bit shorter than his five feet, ten inches, probably about five feet eight inches or so with a lean build, and unruly light brown hair and green eyes that at times looked grey. John Henry wondered what Bobby looked like beneath the clothes, having not seen him in P.E. since nineth grade and then never without his boxers on. But he knew Bobby would be cute if he cleaned up and had a proper haircut.

Mr. Cullough set a case of PBR on the counter and two bags of chips. John Henry turned to him and looked into the eyes that were darting back and forth, unable to focus. He’s fucked up, he thought. “Is this all?”

“It’s what I-I-I put down, ain’t it.”

“Yes, sir,” John Henry replied in his nicest tone. He rang up the items, placing the chips in a plastic bag. “That’ll be $29.93.”

“What the fuck. You trying to cheat me?”

“The beer is $19.99, and the chips are $3.99 each and—”

“I know that, but they don’t add up to that much.”

“Tax is $1.96 and—”

“Goddamn thief,” Mr. McCullough uttered as he reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills.

 John Henry looked over at Bobby seeing him look away, then moved around his father going to the door and easing out. He turned back to Mr. McCullough and picked up the bills tossed onto the countertop. A ten, three fives and five ones. He put the bills in the register and took out seven cents. “Your change.”

Mr. McCullough took it and put it in his pocket, picked up the case, then the plastic bag and pushed his way out of the door in a rough manner.

“Damn, I hate that fucker,” said John Henry as he watched them get back into their old Malibu. It took three tries to get the car started, and he worried it wouldn’t, because Mr. McCullough would have to come back into the store. As it drove away, he thought of Bobby again, wondering if he could be gay. It would explain his introverted nature. Then he wondered if he just wanted someone else to be like him. But what would it matter. They were no longer friends. Bobby didn’t even pretend otherwise. John Henry felt that place inside him, the one where regret resided, wishing things were different between them.

 

Wheat Fields

Dallas looked in front of him at the three combines moving across the wheat field, cutting wide swaths from it and spewing out the chaff and straw back onto the stubble. He was fourth in line; behind him Eli was bringing up the rear.

Maverick was in front in the new Fendt 9T, a black and dark grey machine that was such a contrast to the four John Deere combines, all green with yellow trim. Waylon was behind Maverick in the X9 1100. Behind Waylon was Samuel in the S780, then he and Eli in the oldest combines, a couple of S770s. Maverick and Waylon were running fifty-foot headers and the rest of them were using forty-two-foot headers. Each swath was a cut of two hundred twenty-six feet. They could make short work of a field and with the contracts they had in hand, it was imperative they did so. They could always count on some bad weather to disrupt their schedule, no matter how much they planned for rainy days.

 

 

A glance in the mirror, Dallas saw Eli was keeping pace, and he pictured what it must look like to his uncle who would use a drone to check on their progress and make sure they were all running properly. Five big combines moving across the large flat field, headers rotating in some imagined rhythm. It had to be impressive.

Another check of the monitors, then he turned back to the header watching it cut and pull the wheat stalks into the machine. As he watched the movement, the rotation, his mind drifted to men. He replayed the porn he had watched the night before, then the last time he hooked up, some college guy traveling across Texas on his way to Phoenix. A glance in the mirror, and he imagined Eli being willing, someone who would fuck around. It would be too convenient, to have a guy who was gay too on the crew. Too fucking convenient, and he was resolved to the fact he would be doing as in year’s past, going online and arranging hookups when he could get away for an hour or so at night. He wondered if Justin in Lubbock would want to mess around again, doubting it for last year the guy rushed off as soon as he got off, nervous as an unbroken horse. Then there was Garcia in Amarillo. A hot Latin fuck but someone who was on some construction crew that traveled job site to job site and had no doubt moved on to some new project.

The gay bars in Oklahoma City were always accommodating of a guy in need, and he smiled at the memory of last year, hooking up with those two guys from the university, spending the night between them.

But each encounter was short lived, nothing lasting, and he glanced in the mirror again, wondering if Eli could give him something more fulfilling, at least during their time together.

 

They cut until after dark, stopped when the rigs with their large grain trailers were filled for an early morning delivery. The machines lined up at the edge of the field, Howard and Theo picked them up and carried them to the motel to get cleaned up so they could go for a late dinner, supper by this time, at one of the places in town. Howard was the one who prepared meals, a quick breakfast in the mornings, a sandwich for lunch, and usually something to snack on in the afternoon, knowing dinner would be late. They avoided eating out all the time, but there were a couple of good places in Brownfield, and they considered it a treat before the long harvest season and the roughing it for most meals.

At the motel on the east side of town, the guys stood in the parking lot with Thomas handing out the keys to the rooms rented for the next few days.

“Maverick, you’re in 202; Waylon you’re in 206; Samuel and Howard, you’re in 112; Theo, you’re in 104, and Dallas, you and Eli will be in 120,” said Thomas handing each of them a key.

“Why do some get a room to themselves?” whispered Eli to Dallas.

“Seniority. They have been with Uncle Thomas for a long time. Here’s your key,” said Dallas.

Dallas followed Eli down the walk to their room, one near the end of the first building, feeling excited and anxious to be sharing a room with him. He had hoped his uncle would put them together, always treating Dallas as if he had the least seniority even though he had started before Samuel. He knew it was his uncle’s attempt not to show any favoritism toward him. It made Maverick laugh whenever Thomas treated Dallas more harshly than the others.

“Do you snore or anything,” said Eli as he pushed the door open.

“No, not that anyone has told me,” Dallas replied, smiling back at Eli.

“Very funny,” said Eli going into the room. “I want to make a phone call so go ahead and take a shower first.”

 

Dallas came out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, to find Maverick in the small armchair by the front window staring out of the window.

“Eli, can you close the curtain. I want to get dressed,” said Dallas.

Eli looked around and the eyes widened for a second, then he turned back to the window and closed the curtain. Dallas liked the response, one that seemed surprised to see what he looked like nearly naked. He wondered if Eli would look when he pulled the towel away. He hoped so.

“The restaurant is a small place, but has good burgers and sandwiches,” said Dallas, getting Eli’s attention. As soon as Eli was looking his way, he pulled the towel away, standing naked. He wanted to tug on his cock and see if that Kansas farm boy would respond. There was a look, the eyes looking him up and down quickly, then a turn away pretending to look at something on his cellphone. Dallas knew he was pushing it, with it being their first night of a long harvest season. He put on his boxers, jeans, and a white T-shirt, one that was loose-fitting and soft to the skin.

“Eli, go on and get showered. We’re to be there at ten.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Eli, grabbing up his clean clothes and small toiletry case.

There would be no reciprocal ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ on this night. Dallas just smiled and shook his head as the door of the bathroom closed, knowing it was probably locked too.

 

Graduation

John Henry, with barely passing grades, strolled across the stage as proudly as Sally, their valedictorian, shaking the principle’s hand and taking his diploma. He flipped the tassel across and headed to the steps to go back to his seat. Mr. Worthington and his father were in the bleachers, his father sobered up enough to come. There was a part of John Henry that knew he would have been okay if they had not attended, for it was difficult for Mr. Worthington to navigate the bleachers, but to see him smiling across the gym at him made him smile back, glad he was there.

When he got to his seat, the last person was coming from the stage. Soon they would toss their caps in the air and head for the doors. He looked ahead of him, where Bobby should have been sitting and wondered why he had not attended. Bobby probably ditched the ceremony, seeing no need to attend it. John Henry hoped something hadn’t happened to prevent Bobby from graduating, but knew Bobby had better grades than him, better than most if he had to guess.

The class stood, and John Henry tossed his cap in celebration with the rest of his class. Outside, he found Mr. Worthington and his father.

“I’m so proud of you,” said Mr. Worthington.

“I barely passed,” said John Henry, smiling at him.

“But you did pass and now have your diploma.”

John Henry knew what he meant by it, for his dad had dropped out.

“I wish I didn’t have to get back to the store. We could have gone for dinner in town,” said Mr. Worthington.

He knew it was tough on him, his father being unreliable to provide the most basic things, lucky to have a roof over their heads.

“I’ll see you on Sunday,” said John Henry, referring to his next shift.

“Whatever happened to that McCullough boy you used to hang out with?”

It brought Dallas up short for him to remember Bobby. He shook his head.

“I don’t know. He should have been here.”

 

On the way to the convenience store, John Henry made a detour by the McCullough’s place, a mobile home in the back of the Evergreen Estates. He drove down the potholed lane until circling the back and saw the old green and beige mobile home with its sagging porch and the old Malibu in front and Bobby’s bicycle locked to a porch post. The place looked deserted, every window dark. The old curtains or towels used as curtains were pulled to one side or hanging crooked. He wanted to knock and ask about Bobby, but then what would he say. He was sorry for how everyone treated him. That he wanted to be friends again. He knew he couldn’t do it, not after the way Bobby had looked at him from the floor of the corridor after being knocked down.

He drove onward, not seeing a face come to a window then pulled back into the darkness.

At the store, Mr. Worthington and Teresa Graham were waiting for him. He wondered what was up, hoping Teresa wasn’t wanting him to cover one of her shifts. He already had forty hours scheduled, then realized he had nothing better to do and would do it if she needed him to.

“Hey, John Henry, did you graduate?” said Teresa.

“Yep. I’m done with that school,” John Henry replied, making Teresa and Mr. Worthington chuckle. “What’s up?”

“Well, we have a proposition for you. You’ve been doing nothing but closing shifts during the week and Teresa was wondering if you wanted to change up your schedule,” said Mr. Worthington.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I want Saturdays off,” said Teresa. “I was wondering if you would take Saturday and maybe my Sunday morning shift and I would take two of your shifts during the week.”

“What is your shift on Saturday?” said John Henry.

“Opening.”

“But I close on Friday and—”

“John Henry, I would get some one to take that shift, maybe get you to do a longer shift some other day or something and not work on Friday night,” said Mr. Worthington.

“That would work. What days during the week would you work?” said John Henry, turning to Teresa.

“Monday and Tuesday, giving you from Sunday at noon until Wednesday at four off.”

“Okay. I’ll do it,” said John Henry, wondering if he really had a say in the matter, but also knew the weekend shifts could go longer than scheduled by an hour or so, enough to pick up some overtime.

 

Suddenly John Henry had Saturday night free, and he would go into town and hang out with one of his friends or find himself at the park watching others cruise by, everyone looking for something, most not sure what. But John Henry knew what he wanted, but feared it wasn’t to be found in the town. Over the coming weeks, he came out less, spent more time at home, or if his father was on one of his tirades, he would spend the evening at a friend’s place watching television or playing video games.

He rode his old bicycle around the community, sometimes just to be riding. He bought Shirley Wilson’s old Caprice and had it towed to his home where he could work on it, buying parts as he could afford them.

And he thought of Bobby McCullough, for he had seemed to be one person who might understand, some shared commonality of being from the wrong family, not good enough in the eyes of most people. And he thought of Bobby in other ways, late at night, jacking off with images of guys coming to mind and the things they could do to pleasure each other, and eventually, right at the point of release, he pictured Bobby McCullough.

Summer would give way to fall, and John Henry was in the routine of a life he didn’t want but could find no other way around it. His big accomplishment in the summer was the old blue Caprice was running, affording him the ability to get to work without having to worry about rain or riding his bike on dark streets after one of his closing shifts.

 

A Rowdy Good Time

For weeks Dallas and Eli circled each other in one motel room after the next. Dallas kept exposing himself, telling Eli he didn’t care if another guy saw him when asked about it once. But to Dallas’ disappointment Eli never changed in front of him, always doing so in the bathroom. There were times Eli would be wearing boxers, but never going without them. Even so, Dallas saw how the round ass filled the seat and the cock pushed at the front, enticingly, making him want it even more.

After a few weeks, Dallas began to think there was no way Eli was gay or bisexual, and willing. There had been nothing to indicate otherwise. He gradually backed off on making a point of changing clothes in front of him. He would just need to find opportunities to go out alone in one of the cities or large towns that had gay bars or guys looking for a hook up.

They moved north slowly, from Texas to Oklahoma to Kansas. It was wheat they cut mostly, but north of Kansas they would cut some soybeans and corn, the latter requiring different heads on the combines. There were long days, cutting until ten o’clock, then there were days just sitting in motel rooms or some bar waiting for a farmer’s field to get to the right moisture or a storm system to blow on through the region. Dallas found opportunities to slip away, meet guys in motel rooms or at their homes, but sharing a room with Eli made him more conscious of how he had to lie about it and take precautions that aggravated him. By the time they got to Kansas, he was looking online less despite Eli showing no interest in him.

To have someone as attractive as Eli, someone about his own age, so close every day, was maddening. It drove him insane, masturbating in the shower, touching himself in the combine in a manner that wasn’t obvious, getting his cock so hard he ached for release, then he would look in the mirror at Eli. In motel rooms, in the fields, or around a table in some restaurant or bar, Eli was right there. In arms reach but Eli might as well be a hundred miles away. It was a crying shame.

 

When they got to Nebraska, they could feel a change in the air, fall just around the corner. Most fields in Nebraska were corn, but they were set up to harvest soybeans for the next few days. There were changes in the screens, but they hooked up to the headers they had been using for wheat crops, the crew glad for it, for corn headers were so much more complex they could have more mechanical issues.

On a Saturday night they maneuvered the combines to the edge of the field and shut down the engines and turned off their lights. Dallas climbed down and walked by the combine Eli was climbing down from.

“Hey, it’s going to rain tomorrow, so we don’t have to get up early. You want to go grab a beer somewhere?” said Dallas.

“What are you going to do for something to eat?”

“Are you sick of sandwiches too?”

“Yes,” Eli exclaimed.

“Maverick said there’s a tavern open until 1 A.M.; we could go there and eat and drink at the bar.”

“Let’s do that.”

 

 

After Theo dropped them back at the motel, Dallas and Eli showered and dressed in clean clothes, Eli in jeans and a western shirt with snaps and Dallas in jeans and a black T-shirt. In the parking lot, they climbed in the old Tahoe and headed to the tavern.

The parking lot was surprisingly crowded with trucks and SUVs, but once inside saw most were in the bar area watching a baseball game on the west coast or just hanging out on a Saturday night. The crew took two tables in the middle of the dining area, Eli sitting with Maverick and Howard leaving Dallas to sit with Theo, Waylon, and Samuel. Thomas came in behind them and sat next to Eli.

They ordered a round of drinks, most of them beer, then much needed food. As they waited on their food, then while eating they talked about the harvest season so far, the luck with the combines having only a few breakdowns. There were some personal moments, Howard talking about his wife’s cancer scare, Waylon moving his mother in with them, and some hesitant talk from Eli about his family losing their farm, eliciting supportive comments from the crew.

Dallas noticed when Eli was talking, there was something being left out. The why for Eli to leave and take the position with the crew. Surely there were jobs closer to his hometown, jobs that let him live closer to home and not be traveling for months out of the year.

When they had paid their waitress, most of them moved to the bar side, sliding in with the locals and truckers just passing through. Waylon and Howard left with Thomas, calling it a night. Theo, Samuel, and Maverick huddled up, talking about the game, leaving Eli standing next to Dallas at the side of the room.

There were some comments about the game, some of the people in the room, those that reminded them of someone from their homes. In between long silences. Dallas couldn’t stand it, had to make some conversation with Eli.

“You know, I loved doing this when I first started. The moving up the country operating a combine all day, just me and that big ass machine,” said Dallas without looking at Eli.

“Not anymore?” said Eli.

“It’s okay but being on the move for so much of the year, I feel like life is just passing me by.”

“What made you do it in the first place?”

The question Dallas wanted to ask Eli, and he knew to get Eli to tell him he had to give a reason for him being on the crew. But not the real reason, but one with a bit of a lie to it.

“I have two older brothers, and the farm isn’t doing as well as it had in the past, so Benjamin, my oldest brother is going in with dad and Daniel joined the military, wanting it to be a career.”

“And you ended up with your uncle.”

“Something like that,” said Dallas, debating on whether, or not to tell Eli the rest. How his mom caught him with the Phillip’s boy, and all hell broke loose. How he was accused of being the instigator and had lured Tommy into doing it with him. No one took his side of things, not least his own parents. Tommy Phillips was a deacon’s son from his mom’s church, a good boy in everyone’s eyes, so it had to be Dallas who started it.

But it was Tommy who started it, told Dallas he would do anything he wanted. And when they got caught, it was Tommy who betrayed him.

“Yeah, I understand. When the bank came out to foreclose on us it was…”

Dallas waited, wondering what it must have been like.

“Dad’s brother took my folks in, and dad got a job at the tractor dealership working in the shop. He is good at repairing anything he gets his hands on.”

“But it made things so tough, you thought you had to leave.”

“I had to leave,” said Eli, pushing off the wall. “I’m going for another beer; you want one?”

“I’m good.”

 

The bar had called last call, and the lights were turned on to make the few remaining to get up and leave. Maverick had left with someone, and Samuel and Theo had left for the motel an hour earlier, leaving Dallas and Eli sitting at a table at the back of the bar. They climbed to their feet and Dallas saw Eli stumble, just a small misstep, but he could see in the face. He also knew Eli had had more to drink than any time before.

“Hey, let’s get out of here and back to the motel,” said Dallas, leading Eli to the front door and out into the parking lot.

“Dallas,” said Eli coming to a stop behind him before they got to his Tahoe.

“Yes, Eli, what is it?”

Eli stared at him, started to say something, then moved to the truck. “Nothing,” he uttered as he passed Dallas.

 

Dallas unlocked the door and entered their motel room, Eli behind him. He tossed his keys and wallet on the table next to the television, then set his cellphone next to them. He turned to see Eli just standing in the room just past the toilet room. He looked rattled, staring straight ahead.

“Eli?”

Eli looked at Dallas. “I can’t do it. I tried…I tried…”

“What is it? What is it you can’t do?”

“Dallas, do you…” Eli stammered, then he moved closer to him, a couple of feet between them. “When we first set out, you seemed to want…you seemed to feel…to understand…”

“What did I understand?”

“Dallas, I promised I wouldn’t do it anymore. I promised, but…

“I can’t do it, Dallas. It’s all I think about. Whenever I’m around you, I think of it,” said Eli, reaching out and touching Dallas on the chest with the back of his fingers.

“Do you like me?” said Dallas.

Eli nodded.

“You promised your parents you wouldn’t do anything with a guy.”

Eli nodded.

“But you can’t change who you are.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to sleep with me?” said Dallas, thinking it would just be him holding Eli, comforting him since he seemed so distraught.

Eli looked into Dallas’ eyes, then he moved, surprisingly quick. A hand to the back of the neck, pulling Dallas into a kiss. Rough, passionate, desperate. Eli kissed him then was tugging the T-shirt upward.

Dallas was shocked at the sudden change in Eli. How his T-shirt was tossed to the floor and hands were tugging on his jeans.

“Get them off,” Eli exclaimed.

Dallas didn’t have time to respond, for Eli had them going down his legs. Shoes were tugged off, socks, then the jeans worked down each leg and tossed to the floor. Eli straightened up on his knees and manipulated Dallas’ cock, manhandled it roughly, making it respond. He buried his face in the crotch, mouthed the growing cock, then sucked on the head through the thin fabric.

“Jesus! Eli!”

Eli pulled the boxers down and Dallas stepped out of them as Eli guided him to turn and sit on the bed. He spread his legs, offering himself to Eli, who moved between them, took his cock in hand and stroked it as if he intended to get him off as soon as possible.

“Eli! Slow down. We have all night.”

Eli seemed to realize what he was doing and looked up at Dallas. “Can I?”

“Yeah, Eli, whatever you want.”

Eli leaned forward and took Dallas in his mouth. He pushed down until he had all of it, every inch, and he turned red in the face before pulling his mouth back up the cock. He gasped for breath, tongued the head of the cock, then sank it back into his mouth and he sucked.

Dallas went from concern for Eli to wanting him sexually. His cock became rock hard and flexed in the mouth manipulating it. He wanted to hold back, make this first time last longer, but he was soon pumping his hips upward. Hands slid under his ass and helped him work his hips while Eli kept his mouth on the cock.

“Fuck. Eli. I’m close.”

Eli worked his mouth frantically, twisting his head back and forth as he worked his mouth up and down Dallas’ cock. He buried the cock into his mouth, sucked on the head of it, then stroked the shaft as he intensified his efforts on the head.

“Fuck! Eli, I’m going to cum.”

Dallas shivered with his arousal, pushed upward into the suctioning mouth, then jerked and shuddered as his cock exploded in the mouth then filled it with his load.

Eli took his load, every wad, then milked his cock for the last drop of it, licking if off the head of his cock. Then he sat back on his heels, chin shiny with drool and looked up at Dallas.

Dallas sat up on his elbows and looked down at him. “So, you’re gay.”

Eli smiled, nodding his head.

“And your parents sent you away.”

“More like disowned me and sent me packing.”

“That’s a shitty thing to do.”

“What about you?”

Dallas chuckled. “The same. Dad sent me here to have Uncle Thomas straighten me out. Mom doesn’t want me to come back until I make things right with her god.”

“It is a shitty thing to do,” Eli uttered, then he rose on his knees and moved back between Dallas’ legs. He toyed with the still hard cock, tugged on the nuts as they finally loosened in their sac, then he kissed the hip, the stomach, the cock head, and back to the stomach. He cut his eyes up at Dallas who was watching him. “Can I fuck you? Will you let me?”

“I’d like that.”

 

Dallas had watched Eli strip, every garment removed and tossed on the floor, until standing naked. He looked at the familiar body, the muscular torso, then down to the cock, until then hidden from him and he saw it was thick and long, longer than his seven inches. He watched Eli stroke it slowly until it stuck straight out when released.

Dallas moved up on the bed as Eli knee-walked along with him. He spread his legs letting Eli get between them. Propped up on his elbows, he watched Eli take his cock and pump his own alongside it. He saw the differences in them, how Eli was thicker and longer. He wasn’t jealous, he was desirous. He wanted that cock and knew he would have it soon. He had given Eli permission; told him he wanted it.

Dallas moaned as Eli work their cocks together, then pulled back. Hands took Dallas’ legs behind the knees and pushed them back and apart spreading the legs wide. He watched Eli shift closer and felt the cock touch him. Rake across his ass, then up and down it. He felt the cock center on his opening, rub it until slick with precum.

“Eli; do it. Put it in me.”

As cock breached his tightness, Dallas threw his head back and moaned with the feel of it, Eli’s cock penetrating him, then sinking into his ass. He clutched at the bed at the fullness of it, how it felt twice as big. As Eli pushed into his depths, it seemed the cock would push into the center of his being and his own cock flexed and drooled on his stomach.

“Dallas. Dallas. Take me,” Eli uttered, and it sounded like a pleading, but the physical nature of Eli’s fuck, hips swinging faster and faster, were anything but timid. The bed rocked and squeaked as Eli built up a brutal pace. A frantic, desperate pace. Eli pulled Dallas’ knees closer together then pushed them down against his chest. His ass angled up for Eli’s fuck who began again to fuck hard, fast, until hips were smacking down on his ass.

“Fuck me. Fuck me. Don’t stop,” exclaimed Dallas.

Eli didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. He fucked until sweat trickled down his face and torso. He fucked until gasping for breath. Then he pushed down on the legs hovering over Dallas, and fucked with full swings of his hips, pulling every inch from Dallas’ ass then slamming it back in, smacking down against it. Then hammered his cock inside Dallas, the sound like an echo, repetitive; smack, smack, smack, hips against ass, as Eli slammed cock into Dallas’ depths.

Dallas rubbed the sweaty torso along its sides feeling the movement of it as Eli fucked him. His own cock drooled on his stomach and ached for release. He felt feverish, burning up, and he was gasping for breath nearly as hard as Eli.

“Goddamn it!” Eli exclaimed, then buried his cock in Dallas and shuddered with release.

Dallas had barely realized Eli was finished pumping a load into his ass when Eli was manhandling him, roughly flipping him to his stomach.

“Let me. Let me do it again,” uttered Eli as he moved over Dallas, dragged his hard cock up the right leg, over the ass, then put it between the cheeks and buried it inside him.

Dallas moaned and shuddered and clutched at the bed with a death grip as nine inches of cock bore into his ass again and began to fuck. He pushed up as Eli shoved into him, ass smacking against hips. They moved with a fluid rhythm, Eli not as desperate, not as frantic, but more sensual and intimate. There were kisses to the back of the neck, across the right shoulder. A tug of the earlobe, and utterances of want, need, and desire, pleading with Dallas to take him, take all of him.

Dallas didn’t know if Eli was referencing just his cock or his whole being, and as he pushed his ass upward to take every fucking inch of Eli’s cock, he knew he would take all of him. All Eli had to offer.

The bed rocked with the rhythm of their fuck, and Dallas held his head up and grabbed at the covers as cock bore into him. Eli slipped an arm around his neck and kissed the side of his face, and he turned to him so they could kiss as best they could while Eli continued to fuck him. Steadily, without slowing, Eli fucked and fucked and fucked, until Dallas thought he would come from the constant press down against the bed.

“I’m going to cum,” uttered Eli breathlessly, and he pushed into Dallas all the way and came.

 

Dallas thought Eli was a top. A guy who would only be on top and never on the proverbial bottom. But he lay on his back pleasantly surprised as his cock was being rubbed by Eli moving ass back and forth over it. Eli rose on knees, took his cock, then eased down on it.

“I want you inside me,” uttered Eli.

“Yes. Do it. Take my cock,” said Dallas, then he shuddered at the tightness sliding over the head of it, then down the shaft.

Eli eased down over halfway on Dallas, held still for a few seconds, then moved his ass upward until Dallas nearly slipped free. He moved down, then up, over and over, working his ass on Dallas until moving at a steady pace, fucking his ass on the cock. He leaned back resting on hands, and worked his ass faster, rougher, slamming down on Dallas’ hips. He fucked himself on the cock and took his own in hand, stroking it back to full hardness.

Dallas saw Eli’s body respond. The muscles so clearly defined beneath the glistening skin. The pecs with the hard nipples, the abs of the stomach, and the flexing thighs, as the ass moved up and down at a relentless pace.

It was too much. Dallas was too aroused before Eli sat on his cock, but the way that farm boy fucked, not holding back, was pushing him to the brink. He watched the ass move on his cock while feeling his imminent release.

“I’m going to cum!” Dallas exclaimed.

“Do it. Do it. Fuck that shit in me!” Eli exclaimed as he kept up his pace.

Dallas felt his whole body tighten, felt his cock swell thicker and become so sensitive he shuddered with the feel of the ass slamming down on it, then he shoved upward and came.

 

Dallas lay spooned against Eli, listening to him breathe softly in his sleep. He wanted to talk about what brought Eli to the crew. He wanted to know about this Eli he had just discovered. The one that wanted an intimacy with him, something far more than mere sex. He snuggled against him feeling his leg rub along Eli’s. Eli held his right hand close to the chest keeping him close. Eli, who was so exhausted, barely got through showering together, drifted off as soon as they lay on the bed. Maybe Eli had been struggling to sleep, being in the room with him for the last few months and having made that ridiculous promise. But Eli slept soundly now.

He smiled at how that promise was truly broken, then settled down, closed his eyes, and soon drifted off to sleep.

 

Almost

John locked the front door of the convenience store and moved around the front to the side where his Caprice sat. It was a 1996 model with faded blue paint, black steel wheels missing the hubcaps, and an interior that smelled like a dog had lived in it, but it was his and it ran well. He climbed behind the wheel and started it up. One of those old bands from back in the eighties came on and he turned the volume up because it was a song he liked. Car put in gear, he drove out of the parking lot heading home. It was 11:20 P.M. on a Wednesday night.

As he drove down highway 36, it began to sprinkle. He thanked the gods once again for the ability to get the car, for it would have been miserable riding a bike home. The rain began in earnest, and he flipped the wipers on realizing he needed wiper blades for the old ones streaked and squeaked across the windshield.

Turning on Harrison Road he eased back up to speed. He maneuvered along the curving road, past the Methodist church, the old Harrison place, now owned by Buddy Graham, who farmed all the land, including what had once been pasture for dairy cows. John Henry knew the dairy barns at the back of the property were so dilapidated the roofs were falling in.

He swung around the curve at the fire tower for the Forest Service, thinking of the night he dared to climb up to the observation room at the top, finding the hatch locked. His lights swept over something along the edge of the road, and he slowed, leaning forward as if it would help with visibility. Then he saw someone step off the pavement onto the overgrown shoulder. They were wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, and in the split second the headlights gave him a good look, John Henry first realized they were soaking wet and next, that it was Bobby McCullough. He hit the brakes as hard as he dared, bringing the big Caprice to a stop some distance down the road. He looked back but the red taillights didn’t light up the area behind him enough to see Bobby.

The car in reverse, John Henry eased back, pulling to the other lane so Bobby didn’t have to stand on the shoulder. He went back until he saw Bobby standing in the road and eased to a stop next to him. The power window didn’t work in the passenger door, so he lowered the rear door window.

“Bobby, what are you doing out in this rain?”

Bobby didn’t move at first, then came up to the open window, and bent down to look across the car at John Henry. “I’m just walking around.”

“Jesus,” John Henry uttered in a low whispered voice to prevent Bobby from hearing him. He exhaled, then dared to ask. “Is your old man busting your balls?”

“Yeah.”

“Get in.”

“What?”

“Get in. I’ll take you home, or wherever you want to go. You’ll get pneumonia it you stay out in this.”

Bobby moved to the front door and climbed in as John Henry raised the rear window, hoping it would close properly. Bobby put on his seat belt and sat staring ahead.

“Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Back home not a good option?”

“Not really.”

“Well, my old man should be passed out by now. You want to go to my place and crash? We can slip out in the morning, and I’ll take you home.”

“Really?”

“Yes. My place it is.” John Henry put the car in gear and motored away, wondering why life had to be so fucking unfair. Bobby and he were eighteen, graduates of high school, and yet they had to sneak around like boys, worried what their fathers would say, or worse, do if they did something to provoke them.

John Henry pulled into the drive of his home, one that had fallen in disrepair since his mom passed away. The paint was peeling and two of the shutters were trying to come off the wall. The flower beds were grown up and the place just looked tired. He glanced over at Bobby wondering how he saw it, for despite its appearance, it was still a damn sight better looking than that old mobile home Bobby had to live in.

“The living room light is on,” said Bobby.

“It’s always on. The bastard passes out with it and the television on,” said John Henry. “When we get inside don’t say anything until we get to my room and leave the light on in the living room. It could wake him to turn it off.”

“I know; it’s the same at home.”

 

 

Bobby followed John Henry into the house, one he had not been in for a long time, and it shocked him the way everything looked. John Henry’s mother had been alive when he was there last, and he saw the results of her passing.

A tug on his shirt sleeve, and Bobby turned to see John Henry motioning him to follow. Over to the small hall, with a bedroom door each side of it and the bathroom door straight ahead. John Henry motioned toward the bathroom, and he shook his head, then followed him into his room.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” said John Henry as he went to his chest of drawers and pulled out boxers, a T-shirt, and gym shorts, tossing them on the bed. “Let me get you a towel and you can change while I use the bathroom,” whispered John Henry.

“Okay,” Bobby replied, keeping his voice just as low.

 

While John Henry was in the bathroom, Bobby slipped off his wet clothes and draped them over the footboard of the bed; jeans, T-shirt, and boxers, seeing how transparent being wet made them. He was glad John Henry wasn’t in the room. He dried off quickly and put on the dry clothes, then sat on the bed near the foot of it. He felt anxious, like he was in a trap ready to snap shut on him. He thought of John Henry, how there were times he looked at the lean muscular body, one a couple of inches taller than his five feet eight inches, wondering if John Henry would ever dare look at him in the same way. Then he remembered seeing John Henry standing behind the guys from the football team, watching, just watching, not doing shit to stop Neil, Alex, and Flynn from bullying him. It made him want to leave, but as rain drummed the windows, he knew it would be foolish to do so. Besides, John Henry didn’t have to stop and help him, and maybe he had read the situation wrong, maybe John Henry didn’t help him back in school for a reason, maybe he was just as afraid as he to get involved with Neil, Alex, and Flynn. He knew he had ignored the times the guys were bullying someone else, slipping past hurriedly, hoping they didn’t see him and included him in their bullying.

The door opened and John Henry came in wearing just his boxers, and Bobby surveyed the lean body, looked at it while feeling those desires, he tried so hard to control.

“Do you feel better?” said John Henry.

“Yes; thanks,” said Bobby.

“Let’s get some sleep. I’m beat after being in the store all afternoon.”

Bobby looked back at the bed, the narrow single bed, and wondered if he should ask for a blanket so he could just sleep on the rug by the bed.

“Yes, it is just a single bed, but don’t worry, I’m not going to mess with you,” said John Henry, trying to make it sound like a joke, but it didn’t sound like one, and the look on Bobby’s face showed he didn’t think it a joke either.

Bobby stood and let John Henry pull back the blanket and sheet and crawl into bed first, moving over against the wall. He eased down next to him and faced the room, not worried about John Henry messing with him. He was worried about hugging John Henry in his sleep. He worried that he would be the one to try something.

 

John Henry lay there staring at the silhouette of Bobby. He felt every place they touched the bed too narrow for the two of them, and he felt frustrated, because he wanted more from Bobby. He wanted things from Bobby he could not put into words. To do so would make it real. Only when he was most alone, in his room, or in the store when no one else was around, or roaming the neighborhood aimlessly did he dare utter the words, and even then, so low, no one could possibly hear them. I’m gay.

What would Bobby say if he told him? What would he do? John Henry pictured Bobby storming out of his house, out into the rainy night, afraid to be near him. He wanted to reach out, touch Bobby, maybe hug him, for if anyone needed a hug, it was Bobby McCullough. But the way Bobby lay right at the edge of the bed facing away from him told him to keep his hands to himself.

He would lay there a long time before falling asleep, at times thinking Bobby was still awake too.

 

Bobby woke with light coming through the blinds. He opened his eyes to John Henry’s face. It was right in front of him, and he realized he was hugging him. Then he realized John Henry had arms around him. They were hugging each other. He eased back, gently moving John Henry’s arm from around his waist and placing it between them. He rolled to his back and exhaled, then sat up, listening for any sound in the house. It was silent.

Easing out of bed, he found his clothes were still damp, but dry enough he could wear them home, and he picked them up and slipped out of the room to go to the bathroom.

In the bathroom, he looked in the mirror, not surprised to see his hair sticking out in every direction. It would have to wait until he got home. He changed clothes, folding the clothes John Henry gave him, then went back to the bedroom.

“John Henry,” Bobby whispered, as he leaned over close to him. “John Henry, wake up. You said you’d take me home.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll take you,” mumbled John Henry sounding half asleep.

“I can walk home if you want to sleep,” said Bobby, standing straight and turning to leave. A hand grabbed him by the arm.

“I’ll take you, Bobby. Just let me hit the bathroom and get dressed.”

 

The living room was empty, the overhead light and television turned off.

“He must have woke up and went to bed,” said John Henry, going into the kitchen for a toaster pastry, not bothering to toast it, just opening it and handing one to Bobby. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“Thanks,” said Bobby, taking it and biting into it.

“Let’s go.”

John Henry eased out of the drive, then motored away, heading toward the Evergreen Estates, the mobile home park. He drove unhurried, knowing that Bobby’s father was worse than his old man, and was probably comatose at this hour of the morning. They drove past the Hardees, and he wished he had a few bucks on him to get them a biscuit. He cut through the Manor Oaks neighborhood to avoid driving through downtown, and was soon driving into the mobile home park, easing along slowly for the asphalt lane was so potholed there wasn’t a level section to it.

He came to Bobby’s home, seeing the Malibu was gone. John Henry imagined the bastard in a jell cell or better yet, run out of town. It would be tough on Bobby, but not as tough as living with the man.

“Your dad is not here,” said John Henry.

“Yes, he is. He wrecked the car last night,” said Bobby opening the door before John Henry had come to a complete stop. He hopped out and looked back into the car before closing the door. “Thanks, John Henry…for letting me crash at your place and bringing me home.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes; I’ll be fine,” said Bobby, and he closed the door and walked up to the door and eased inside. John Henry sat for a minute, expecting Bobby to come running back outside wanting him to take him away. But the door stayed closed, the mobile home quiet.

“Fuck,” John Henry uttered, then he backed into the lane and drove away, heading back home. He was frustrated, mad at himself for not being able to do more. It felt like he just abandoned Bobby.

 

Bliss…while it last

The crew moved into South Dakota, setting up in the small town of Gregory, because it had a motel and a grain elevator. Gregory County had the most land in cultivation, and they had contracts to cut for two farmers. They began as soon as the headers were on the machines, quickly making their way across the field.

That night, Dallas lay on his back taking Eli’s fuck.

In Grey House Motel outside Gregory, Eli had him folded up beneath him, head tucked under, thighs tight to the chest with his lower legs sticking straight up over Eli’s shoulders as Eli fucked his ass. It was an intimate fuck, one where they touched and kissed and whispered to each other. Where Eli fucked slowly, making it last a long time, until Dallas was begging him to come.

In the hot shower, Dallas held his head against the fake tile wall and rocked in rhythm with Eli’s fuck. Arms were looped underneath his own and up, holding his shoulders as hips smacked his ass and cock bore into his depths.

Back in bed, Dallas was on his knees holding the waist, fucking the ass, as Eli begged him to fuck harder. He slid a hand up the muscular back and grabbed Eli by the hair and pulled him up until on knees, and he took Eli’s cock and stroked it as he pushed his own into him. Dallas fucked to the point of exhaustion and his body sweaty, burning up with his exertions, then filled the ass with his load.

During the night, Dallas lay on his stomach as Eli moved over him. Cock bore into his depths then fucked him until his own ached for release. When Eli pulled out, he rolled to his back, knowing what Eli would do. He didn’t wait long in the dark when he felt hands slide over his stomach around his cock, then hold it for the mouth to slip down on it.

 

In Murdo, the nearest town to Mellette County with a motel and grain elevator, they set up for the next harvesting contracts. They ate at the drive-in and The Covered Wagon Café, and just to the west of town, the Bison Restaurant and Bar. When the crew headed to the bar at the Bison or went to the Tap House on the north side, Dallas and Eli went back to their motel room.

After three long days, going until late in the night, getting back to the motel room too tired to fuck, they tore at each other clothes, desperate to get the other naked. Eli shoved Dallas on the bed, crawled up between the legs and sucked until Dallas came. Then he dragged Dallas toward him, until the ass hung over the side of the bed, and he penetrated him, worked his cock into the depths of Dallas’ ass then held still waiting from him to beg for it. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Fuck Eli; fuck me!” Dallas exclaimed.

And Eli fucked. Fucked hard. He held the legs to his chest and thrust into Dallas until the room echoed the sound of flesh smacking flesh and Dallas was crying out, moaning, grunting, and begging Eli to fuck him.

Eli pumped Dallas’ ass full of cum, then climbed on top of him and worked his ass down on Dallas’ cock. He rode it, roughly, rocking the bed, making it squeak. He worked his ass up and down with such intensity his own cock slapped down on Dallas’ abdomen until it was erect and dripping.

They fucked in shower, back on the bed, then in the armchair, Eli sitting in it and Dallas sitting on his cock.

 

They moved to Ipswich, in Edmunds County, one of the few places with a motel and a selection of restaurants. They ate at two restaurants most often for the bar each had, allowing them to enjoy a drink or two after a late dinner, something important to the crew after a long day.

And Dallas pulled Eli into their room and kissed him, jerked the western shirt open and pushed it off the shoulders, then went to his knees. He tugged the jeans open, took the cock out and sucked. He worked his lips and tongue over every inch of the cock. He licked and tugged on the nuts. He took the cock in his mouth until he could barely breathe and sucked until cum blasted the back of his throat. Eli pulled him to his feet and playfully dragged him to the nearest bed, pushing him on it. The jeans and boxers were tugged off then Eli dragged Dallas to the edge of bed, making the T-shirt ride up until gathered under the arms, and he penetrated the ass, eased his cock into it all the way. He fucked Dallas, fucked until Dallas uttered obscenities and stroked his own cock.

Eli dragged Dallas to his knees and guided him to move to the head of the bed. With hands braced on the wall, Dallas knee walked back a step, angling his ass out, and Eli pushed into it, all the way, and fucked. It was a physical fuck, one that made Dallas’ cock swing heavily between his thighs until precum hung from the slit. And Eli kept on fucking him, smacking against the ass, rocking the bed, rocking Dallas, until pumping a load into his ass.

For the days while in Ipswich, they fucked to the point of exhaustion. They fucked for their desire for the other, wanted them in ways that neither could admit. They fucked to ease some frustration with the job. Eli’s combine broke down for nearly a whole day with him standing in the field waiting on the repair to be done. Dallas felt his uncle was pushing him harder than the others over the last few days.

What neither knew, was one night the curtain had not been closed all the way and Waylon saw them, Eli fucking Dallas. Before morning, the whole crew knew.

 

For the next two weeks they were in North Dakota, staying just outside Fargo, most of their contracts just to the south. They worked tirelessly, long days, just to get finished, so they could head home.

Dallas noticed the crew were acting strange but considered it just the fatigue of another long season. But it troubled him how even Maverick seemed to be avoiding him, and his uncle was gruff, addressing him with short instructions.

Eli swore the crew found out they were messing around. It was the only explanation. He had seen it before and knew the signs.

“I don’t think so,” said Dallas, but not sounding sure himself.

“What would your uncle do if he found out?”

“Probably fire me and send me packing,” said Dallas, then he looked at Eli, all serious and sick of the judgment. “But I’m not going back home. I’ll take off and go…go…west.”

For the first time in days, Eli laughed.

“And you’ll come with me…right?” said Dallas, suddenly not sounding so sure of himself.

Eli hadn’t dare think of it, but with Dallas asking, he knew he wanted nothing more to go where Dallas went. “Yes. Of course I’ll go with you.”

 

They were down to the last contract, one just to their west and just east of Lisbon, when Thomas called Dallas and Eli to his motel room after dinner.

As Dallas and Eli followed Thomas across the parking lot, they noticed the others couldn’t look at them. Dallas realized Eli had to be right and they were about to face the repercussions of being found out.

“Close the door,” said Thomas in a gruff manner, taking a seat in the desk chair and swiveling to face them. He laid two envelopes on the edge of the desk, their names writing across them.

“You’re firing us,” said Dallas, suddenly feeling emboldened.

“Yes.”

“You want to tell us why?”

“You know why.”

“Say it.”

“The two of you are fucking around like…like…faggots.”

Dallas started to step toward his uncle, unsure what he was going to do, but Eli grabbed his arm and held him in place.

“Are you really that small minded?” said Dallas.

“Don’t get cocky with me, boy. I’ve called your parents, and they said—”

“I don’t care what they have to say,” Dallas interrupted.

“Are we to finish the last field?” said Eli.

“No. We don’t need either of you,” said Thomas. “I’ll cover the room for tonight, but in the morning you’re on your own.”

Dallas scoffed, shook his head, then picked up the envelope. He opened it, looked inside, surprised his uncle paid him in full. It looked like a large sum until one considers it is for months of work.

“We’ll be gone in the morning,” said Dallas, taking Eli by the hand and leading him to the door. Before going out, he turned to his uncle. “Don’t ever call me a faggot again.” Once through the door, he slammed it shut.

Crossing the parking lot to the other wing of the motel, Dallas saw the only person still outside of the crew was Maverick. He was going to ignore him but saw how Maverick was coming toward them.

“Maverick.”

“Dallas.”

“You got something to say?”

“Why did you guys let Waylon see you?”

“Why is it so wrong for us to be together? Is it that much worse that picking up women from town to town?”

Maverick frowned. “I don’t know, but your uncle is pissed.”

“Well, he fired us, but you knew that, and now he never has to lay eyes on me again.”

“Where will you go? What will you do? This life—”

“Combining for months on end and not getting to…” Dallas stammered to a stop, looked toward the busy highway, then back at Maverick. “This is no life, not for me, or Eli if we have to hide and sneak around and pretend to be something we’re not.”

“Where will you go?” Maverick repeated.

“West, we’re going west,” said Eli.

Maverick looked surprised, then he smiled and nodded. “Sound like a good idea. You’ll be able to live the way you want on the west coast.”

“We need to turn in so we can hit the road early. Take care of yourself, Maverick,” said Dallas.

“You guys do the same.”

 

Escape

John Henry wiped the blood from his lip again, as he drove toward the convenience store. His father had jumped him when he least expected it. Grabbed him when he was in the kitchen getting something to drink, spun him around, and hit him. He tried to protect his face, but the fists came too fast, hitting him on the cheek, the mouth, then the side of the head as he went down to protect himself hearing fragments of his father’s rants.

…holding back…

…not giving me what I deserve…

…ungrateful…

Turning left and accelerating back to speed, he replayed those final moments. His father finally stopped, and he rose up quickly and swung back. Landing a punch to the chin. His father went down, slamming into the counter then rolling to the floor.

I’m out of here, John Henry had exclaimed.

He had rushed to his room, packing clothes, toiletries, and his personal documents, stuffing them in his backpack and a duffel bag. He went to his chest of drawers, pulling out the middle one, pulling the envelope taped to the bottom of it off and stuffing it in his pocket. It was a few dollars he had managed to hide from his father. Most of the money he had was being kept for him by Mr. Worthington.

It was too soon, he wasn’t ready to leave, but he couldn’t take it, not another minute of it. He was going to get his money and head west. West for as far as he could go. As far from this place as he could get.

 

The convenience store came into view, a welcomed sight for John Henry realized he was shaking. Everything happening was more than he could process. He was going to leave and it scared him, making him realize he would be living day to day, not knowing what the next one would bring. He pulled into the parking lot, almost pulling the side where he normally parked, but realized he would not be here long, so he parked in a space in front.

He came into the store to find Mr. Worthington behind the counter.

“John Henry, what brings you—”

The voice trailed off and he saw the frown, then a heavy sigh.

“Did your father do that?” said Mr. Worthington.

John Henry nodded.

“Dammit,” Mr. Worthington uttered. He looked out at the old Caprice parked in front, then back at John Henry. “You’re taking off and come for your money.”

It was stated as fact, not a question.

“Yes, sir,” John Henry replied. He had no idea how much he had been able to save, just that some weeks it was fifty dollars but some weeks he stashed seventy-five dollars and at Christmas, all the two hundred fifty dollars he got as a Christmas bonus. He hoped it was enough to get him west and somewhere he could find a job and a place to live.

“I put your money in a savings account to earn a bit of interest. It won’t be a lot of interest, but it’s something.”

“I have to go to the bank to get it?”

“Yes, but I’ll call ahead and have them expecting you. I’ll just write a check from my account, and you can cash it and be on your way. Now, let’s see what I need to make a check out for,” said Mr. Worthington, typing with two fingers on the laptop hidden behind the lottery display. “I owe you four thousand six hundred and five dollars.”

“That much?” said John Henry, shocked about the amount he had managed to save up.

“That much. You put a bit away each week and over time it adds up,” said Mr. Worthington, pulling out his check book. He filled out a check, gently tore it out, and slid it across the counter. “I rounded up a bit to help you some. It is so unfair how you’ve been treated.”

John Henry picked up the check, looking at the amount. Five thousand and five hundred dollars made out to him, John Henry Stevens. “This is too much, it’s—”

“John Henry,” said Mr. Worthington. “I’m just helping someone who needs it, someone I care about, and trust me, it’s not much. I wish I could do more.”

The check shook in John Henry’s hand and he looked up not knowing what to say.

“Grab something to drink and go. I’ll call the bank and let them know to expect you.”

“Thanks Mr. Worthington,” said John Henry, and he backed a step then turned. He swung the door open and started out.

“John Henry.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t come back here. Go find your place in the world and never come back here.”

John Henry nodded, then stepped out of the store.

 

He drove into downtown and parked in front of the First National Bank, the newest and largest structure in town, even larger than the courthouse across from it. He had not been inside it since about a year after his mom’s passing.

It hadn’t changed much, the tellers still on the right, and offices along the left and down the middle two seating arrangements. A man approached, one he had met before but did not remember the name.

“You’re John Stevens,” said the man. “I’m Brad Shaw. Sam called and said to expect you. Come with me and we’ll get your money.”

John Henry expected Mr. Shaw to lead him to a teller but instead led him to the first office. It was large, with a desk on one side and a seating area on the other. Mr. Shaw sat in an armchair and John Henry sat on the leather sofa. Mr. Shaw looked at him and grimaced.

“Sam told me what happened.”

“Yeah, well it’s not happening again.”

“That’s good. You have the check?”

“Yes, sir,” John replied, taking it out of his pocket and holding it out to Mr. Shaw.

“I just need you to endorse it on the back,” said Mr. Shaw, taking a pen from an inside coat pocket.

Check endorsed, John Henry handed it over and saw Mr. Shaw smile. “Sam,” he uttered, smiling. He brought out his cellphone and brought up a number and hit send. “Cheryl, I’ve got a check that needs to be cashed. Can you come to my office and take care of it. Thanks.” The cellphone slipped back into a jacket pocket, Mr. Shaw sat back. “She’ll be here in a second. What are you going to do, if I may ask?”

“Going west.”

Mr. Shaw smiled. “West,” he said in a low voice. “Well, good luck young man.”

Cheryl came in, took the check and started out.

“Cheryl, nothing larger than a twenty to make it easier on him.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied and slipped out of the office.

They sat silent for a minute, John Henry wondering if there was something he should say. Ask about the bank, small talk about the man’s family or the weather, like so many others would do, but he didn’t feel like the others who came to the bank, so he fidgeted and looked around the room.

Cheryl came in with two large, banded packages of bills and several smaller ones.

“These are twenties, each band one hundred bills for two thousand dollars in each. These smaller bands are tens in a count of twenty-five bills for another one thousand five hundred dollars.”

John Henry looked at the stack of money, then over to Cheryl and Mr. Shaw. He watched Cheryl put the money in a blue bag and zip it close. He took it feeling the weight of it.

“I appreciate it,” said John Henry as Mr. Shaw and he came to their feet.

“Good luck, John Stevens,” said Mr. Shaw, reaching out to shake his hand.

 

 

John Henry pulled out of the parking space and drove up main street. He was going in the wrong direction to leave town and head west, but he had one more place he wanted to go. He thought it was a waste of time. A detour he didn’t have time to make, if he was going to get any distance from this place before dark. But he had to drive by and see.

He drove along familiar roads, past places he took for granted, until turning into the Evergreen Estates. He eased along the road until turning at the back of the mobile home park. He looked ahead and stopped. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Bobby stood in the yard out near the lane and scattered across the yard from his feet back to the house was clothing. The door swung open, and Mr. McCullough came out and threw a backpack and some books into the yard and yelled something.

“Son of a bitch,” John Henry exclaimed, accelerating as fast as he dared. He skidded to a stop behind Bobby and jumped out. Bobby turned to him looking shocked and scared. “Bobby, get in the car.”

Bobby just stared at John Henry.

“Bobby,” said John Henry in the calmest voice he could muster, “get in the car.”

Bobby came to the car and climbed in as John Henry went to the door. Mr. Cullough came to it, ready to throw bedding from Bobby’s bed out.

“What the fuck do you want?” yelled Mr. McCullough.

“Something to put Bobby’s things into.”

“Get the fuck out of my yard.” Mr. McCullough tried to pull the door closed but John Henry grabbed it, jerking it out his hands.

“I’m getting something to put his things in,” said John Henry pushing past him. He went into the kitchen and looked under the sink, finding a box of large black trash bags and he pulled two out of it. He glanced across the counter seeing small plastic bags and a small box. Inside he saw the drugs Mr. McCullough was preparing to distribute.

When he stood, Mr. McCullough was standing in the living room still holding the bedding, swaying on his feet. John Henry went to the door, not looking at him. “Son of a bitch,” he uttered as he went out.

John Henry gathered up the clothes stuffing them in one bag, for everything fit in it. Then he picked up the backpack and started to go to the car, but he stopped and picked up the books, knowing they may mean something to Bobby. He put them in the backpack, zipped it up, and headed to his car where Bobby was waiting, looking down, not able to watch. He put everything in the back seat, climbed behind the wheel, and drove off.

“Are you okay? He didn’t hit you or anything,” said John Henry.

“No, not really,” said Bobby.

They looked at each other. John Henry saw the red cheek where Bobby had been slapped and the wide-eyed expression.

“Your dad hit you?” said Bobby.

“Yes, but the bastard won’t do it again.”

John pulled out and headed to the used car dealership just up the road. He didn’t think he would have this opportunity. He assumed he would drive by Bobby’s place, tell him he was leaving, then…then what. He knew he was going to ask Bobby to come with him, to leave this place for good. But now, it seemed wrong, like he might be taking advantage of the situation, ask Bobby to do something he wasn’t ready to do.

John Henry pulled into the used car lot.

“Why are we stopping here?” said Bobby.

“I need a phone to call the police. Your father is going to rot in prison if I have anything to do with it,” John Henry replied, climbing out of his car. Bobby didn’t try to stop him, which spoke volumes about how Bobby had had enough too.

 

John Henry returned to find Bobby leaning against the front fender. He strolled up to him, looked up into the blue sky and sighed. Where to start he wondered.

“You’re leaving,” said Bobby.

“Yes, and I want you to come with me. We need to get out of here or our fathers will be the end of us,” said John Henry. “We’ll end up no better than them.”

“NO! No, I won’t,” exclaimed Bobby.

“Then come with me.”

“To where? John Henry, I don’t have any money. Nothing, except what you put in that garage bag.”

“I know but I’ve got enough to get us somewhere. We can get jobs and rent some cheap place to live and…live. By god, we can live.”

“You’ll take me with you?”

“Yes.” There was so much John Henry wasn’t saying. I like you Bobby McCullough, being the one thing he could not say, not like this, after everything that had happened.

Bobby began to cry, and John Henry went up to him and hugged the lean body against his own, letting him cry.

 

John Henry wasn’t sure what the best way was to go, but by the old map he found at a service station, Interstate 20 looked the most promising, at least to Texas. He had driven northwest making his way along unfamiliar roads. After a while, they came to the Mississippi state line with signs for Meridan.

“The interstate goes through Meridan,” said Bobby, refolding the map.

Bobby had not said much, and every time John Henry looked over it appeared Bobby was working out something, and he assumed he was just as conflicted as he was and everything ahead of them being an unknown was a bit scary.

They got on the interstate on the east of the town and drove along the four-lane highway as it swung below Meridan and continued westward. John Henry sped up to keep up with traffic worried if the old Caprice could handle it. He would watch for a warning light, one that would tell him if the engine was overheating.

The sky grew dark, and the interstate was nothing but woods and fields on either side of it for miles. John Henry began to feel tired. He yawned and stretched as best he could while keeping the car in his lane. He looked at the clock and saw it was nearly seven thirty. They had made it past Jackson, Mississippi and were approaching Louisianna. He wondered if he could make it before having to stop.

“I could use a bathroom,” said Bobby.

John Henry nodded, for he had reason to stop and not fight it any longer. “Let’s look for a place to stop for the night.”

They passed a sign informing them Edwards was the next exit. John Henry took the exit not knowing if there was a motel or not. At the stop sign he looked right and saw nothing. To his left a motel was visible, and he headed back over the interstate.

The motel was a plain two-story building facing away from the interstate. There were only about ten rooms on a floor, and the office was just beyond it in a mobile home. It looked run down, but more importantly, cheap.

 

John Henry came out of the office, key in hand. He climbed into the car and pulled it into a parking space near the stairs.

“We’re in the room at the top of the stairs,” said John Henry.

“Okay,” said Bobby, then he looked around. “Where will we get something to eat?”

“That second convenience store has food, or we can go into the town to some bar-be-cue place the owner mentioned.”

“The place over there is fine,” said Bobby. “I just want to get a shower and into bed.”

They took everything up to the room, used the bathroom, then drove to the convenience store where they got a burger and fries. They sat opposite each other in a small booth. When they were half finished, John Henry leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Do you?”

“Not really,” John Henry replied, then he smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“You should have seen my old man on the floor after I clocked the bastard. He was shocked I had fought back.”

“Dad would have killed me if I had done that.”

“Your dad was fucked up on that shit he sells.”

“You think the police arrested him?”

“I hope so.”

“He deserves it,” Bobby whispered.

John Henry paid, and they went back to the motel. John Henry unzipped his duffel bag for clean clothes. He took out a shirt and reached in for a pair of boxers, when he looked over at Bobby just staring at the garbage bag and backpack.

“Bobby, go get a shower. I’ll dig out some clean clothes for you and bring them to you.”

Bobby nodded, then went into the bathroom, pulling the door closed. It squeaked back open about an inch. John Henry moved to the garbage bag, putting it on the bed so he could rummage through it. He took out a T-shirt and a pair of boxers. He neatly folded them and headed to the bathroom to give them to Bobby.

He opened the door and stepped into the small room and froze. He looked through the clear shower curtain at Bobby. Naked, the back and round ass right before him. Bobby was under the spray of the shower, face tilted up into it, and John Henry watched the water cascade down the back and over the ass. How it moved between the cheeks or around the side of each, then down the legs.

Bobby turned to him and for what seemed an eternity they stared at each other. Bobby turned facing him, and he looked at the flat chest and stomach, then the cock hanging over the nuts. He just stared, then looked up to see Bobby staring back.

Bobby reached out and pulled the shower curtain back. “Will you get in with me?”

“Yes,” John Henry replied. He continued to stare at Bobby, unsure it was real, this moment when Bobby revealed himself to him.

“John Henry,” Bobby whispered, and it broke the spell John Henry seemed to be in.

The clothes were put on the back of the toilet and John Henry stripped while Bobby watched him. His shirt, shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers, everything dropped on the floor, and he stepped into the shower and up to Bobby.

“Do you like me?” whispered Bobby.

“Yes,” said John Henry, and he gently held the chin and kissed him.

John Henry couldn’t think of it. Bobby willing. Bobby asking him to get in the shower with him. He moved closer until their bodies touched and hands came to his waist, tentative, barely touching him. He moved his hands around the narrow waist, rubbing the back as he kissed him, on the lips, along the smooth jaw, down the neck and back to the lips. He rubbed the ass cheeks, then held each pulling Bobby against him. His cock flexed with the feel of Bobby rubbing up against his chest, stomach, and cock.

He pulled back, gasping for breath. “You don’t know how much I wanted this,” he uttered, then squat in front of Bobby. He took the hardening cock, stroked it, then took it in his mouth hearing Bobby moan. He sucked, his first cock. Bobby’s cock. He felt it elongate in his mouth until he struggled to take it, and he worked his mouth on it. He worked his lips along the full length of it, then focused on the head, twisting his mouth on it, tonguing it, then sinking it to the back of his mouth. Hands braced on his shoulders, the fingers digging into the flesh, and he moaned again.

With eyes closed, John Henry focused everything on Bobby’s cock. On the pleasure he could give Bobby. The pleasure he could give himself, taking a man’s cock, sucking it, working to bring it off.

“John Henry!” Bobby exclaimed.

The cock swelled thick, flexed against the roof of his mouth, then blasted the back of his throat with cum. He took it, every wad, then nursed the cock for the last of it, making Bobby shiver and eventually push him off it.

John Henry sat back, lying against the end of the tub looking up at Bobby. He smiled and Bobby smiled back. He took his cock in hand and slowly stroked it as Bobby watched. He didn’t know if Bobby was ready to go further and he wasn’t going to push it. They had time, all the time in the world.

“John Henry,” said Bobby, holding out a hand to help him stand. “Get up.”

John Henry stood, and Bobby squatted before him and did as he had done. He watched as Bobby took his cock, held it out and sank the head and half of it into the mouth. Bobby moved on his cock, toyed and manipulated the head until he shivered. Tongued the shaft, licked over the head, and sank nearly every inch back into the mouth. He moaned and struggled not to push forward. He ran his hands over the head, fingers combing through the wet hair, feeling its movement, within his hands and on his cock.

It was too much. It pushed his arousal. He was with Bobby. Bobby was sucking his cock. He moaned and shuddered, feeling the manipulation, the suck to bring him off.

“Bobby…I’m going to cum,” John Henry uttered breathlessly.

The mouth took every inch, and he came. Shuddered with each ejaculation as he felt Bobby swallow around his cock.

 

On the bed, barely dried, John Henry moved over Bobby, feeling the legs wrap around his waist. He looked down into the green eyes seeing the longing and desire.

“You can put it in me,” uttered Bobby.

John Henry moved over Bobby, touched and rubbed and kissed him. He fingered the tight ass, working his fingers into it until he felt it push back. He put his cock to it and penetrated Bobby. He pushed through the tightness shivering with the feel over the head of his cock, then along the shaft as he sank inch after inch into him. He felt Bobby shiver and heard the moan and grunt. He felt the hands move along his sides, across his chest, then to the back of his neck pulling him down to kiss. As they kissed, John Henry began to fuck.

Slowly, gently, John Henry worked his cock in Bobby. Pushing and tugging through the tightness until it loosened to his penetration. He worked his hips faster, pushing inward deeper and deeper until pressing against the ass. He built up his pace, fucking faster, until he had to have room to move with greater freedom. He rose on hands hovering over the prone body and he fucked harder, faster, thrusting into Bobby with a stamina and strength he didn’t think he possessed.

“Fuck me. Fuck me, John Henry.”

The pleading, begging to be fuck, spurred John Henry not to slow. To keep going. To keep fucking. He fucked until sweating and breathing hard, then he fell still, leaning down to kiss Bobby. He wanted to feel the lips, to increase this connection between them. Then he shifted positions, slipped his arms under Bobby’s legs and swung them up and over, the thighs against his chest, and he moved over Bobby until the ass rose up for his fuck, and he sank back into it, all the way, and fucked. Fucked with full swings of the hips, at times high enough to slip free of the ass, then he pushed back in, all the way and kept fucking.

Hips smacked against ass. The bed rocked and squeaked beneath them. John Henry felt sweat run down his face, and he was burning up. The thighs against his chest moved slickly against his sweaty skin with his movements. Movements of hips pumping cock into Bobby’s depths.

“Fuck Bobby, I’m going to cum,” John Henry exclaimed, and he slammed down into the ass and jerked and shuddered with his release.

 

Bobby was rock hard and dripping. Precum pooled on the stomach, and he looked flush after their fuck. John Henry looked at him, wanting their sex to continue. He wanted more from Bobby, and he straddled the waist seeing the eyebrows arch up in surprise. He smiled at him and rocked his ass over the hard cock. Back and forth until he felt it flex against him.

“Lay still and let me, okay?” said John Henry.

Bobby nodded and watched how John Henry rose on knees, took his cock, and lowered the ass down to it. He shuddered when the ass squeezed over the head of his cock and he moaned and grabbed the thighs as it slid down its length.

“Fuck. That feels good,” uttered John Henry, and he moved on Bobby’s cock. Up, down; working his ass on the cock. He moved down until his cock smacked the stomach and he would grind his ass down on Bobby’s cock. He moved upward, nearly letting the cock slip free, feeling the emptiness, then he plunged down on it, renewing the fullness felt from the penetration.

How could this be wrong, John Henry thought as he sped up, worked his ass on the cock. Fingers dug into his thighs and Bobby was pushing upward.

“Do it. Do it, Bobby. Come for me,” John Henry exclaimed.

Bobby sat up, grabbed John Henry in a bear hug and pulled him down until his cock was buried in the ass, and cried out as his cock erupted.

 

One bed remained made up with the two boys in the other. They made out, had sex again, then spooned their bodies together, John Henry holding Bobby, and drifted off to sleep.

 

South Before West

Dallas pulled off Interstate 135 on the south side of Salina, Kansas making his way to one of the cheap hotels the crew had stayed in before. They had been on the road for ten hours. Interstate 29 from Fargo all the way down to Omaha, Nebraska, then Interstate 80 to Lincoln where he got off the interstate and headed south along secondary roads, passing through Beatrice, Fairbury, to Chester where he turned heading due south again, straight down to Salina.

They climbed out of his Tahoe and stretched.

“Goddamn that is a long drive,” said Eli.

“Yep,” said Dallas. “I’ll get us a room, and we can hit the bathroom and go get something to eat.”

“Good, I’m just as hungry as I am tired. What do you feel like eating?”

“Mexican. Haven’t had it since we got up in northern Nebraska.”

“Sounds good.”

 

Dallas drove north, passing chain restaurants and few independent locations, some of them Mexican fare. He drove for blocks, then turned into a shopping center, one small, just an L-shaped building with an Asian place on the end facing the road, and at the back at the other end of the building, a Mexican restaurant.

Seated at the front window, they ordered food and beer and relaxed for the first time all day.

“Jesus, I’m tired,” said Eli.

“You and me, both.”

The waiter brought their beer, and a few minutes later, their food. They ate in tired silence, paid, and headed back to the motel.

Eli followed Dallas to the elevator, entering it with a couple of Latino guys who were obvious in construction. They got on the second floor, the two Latino guys going right and Dallas and Eli going left. Inside their room, Eli fell back on one of the beds as Dallas stripped off his clothes.

“Come shower with me,” said Dallas.

Eli grinned, got to his feet, and began to strip.

Dallas had the shower as hot as he could stand it and the two of them sighed in relief at the feel of the hot water on their shoulders and back as they took turns moving under it. Eli leaned against the side wall and Dallas took each hand and held them to it over the head and kissed him.

Dallas kissed along the jaw, feeling the stubble coming in. He kissed the area below the ear, tugged on the lobe, then kissed down the neck, while pushing his body against him. Despite their fatigue, both became erect. Dallas turned to the wall, bracing his hands on it.

“Come on Eli, fuck me. Fuck me.”

Eli moved to Dallas, resting his forehead on the right shoulder. He rubbed his cock up and down the ass then centered it on Dallas’ opening.

“Do it. Put it in me,” said Dallas.

Eli pushed into Dallas, slowly, feeling the squeeze on his cock. He moaned and pushed deeper. He pushed until his hips pressed against the ass and he kissed the back of the neck rubbing Dallas’ sides.

Eli began to fuck, to work his cock through the tightness making the two of them moan and grunt. Dallas began to push back and he stood straight, held the waist, and increased the pace of his fuck. He drove into the depths of the ass, over and over, until hips smacked against it.

“Don’t stop,” uttered Dallas.

Eli fucked. Fucked until he was gasping for breath, and he pushed Dallas against the wall, buried his cock inside him, cried out with his release, and pumped the ass full of cum.

Dallas turned, cock angled upward, and Eli squat before him and took it in his mouth.

“Yeah…suck it,” Dallas uttered as he watched Eli move on his cock. The head moved back and forth until he had to come, and he fell back against the wall, pushing his hips out, and filled the mouth with cum.

After their shower, they lay on the bed, naked and still aroused. They kissed and fondled cocks, they caressed skin and moved against each other. Eli rolled to his back and Dallas straddled his waist. Dallas moved on Eli, rocked hips back and forth, rubbing the Eli’s cock until it flexed against the ass.

Dallas held Eli’s cock and eased down on it, then moved with a slow fuck. Eli sat up and held Dallas loosely around the waist giving him the freedom to move. Up, down, working ass on cock. Dallas’ cock rubbed against Eli, up and down the stomach.

Dallas kept up his slow pace, pushing his endurance and desire to fuck faster on the cock. He shivered with how the cock bore into him and tugged at his opening. He leaned forward and kissed Eli, then tilted his head back as he continued to move up and down.

It became too much for Eli. The stimulation pushing him to the edge but never to the point of release. He needed to cum, and he hugged Dallas in a tight embrace and rolled him to his back. He got his arms behind the knees and kept Dallas folded up beneath him, and he fucked with an urgency, smacking hips down on the upturned ass. He fucked until gasping for breath and muscles burned. It built his arousal, brought him to the point of release, and he shoved into Dallas and shuddered and jerked with it, cock flexing with each ejaculation until spent.

It exhausted them, and they lay next to each other, legs intertwined, Eli holding Dallas, as they quickly fell into a deep sleep.

 

Dallas woke at seven, feeling refreshed for the first time in a long time. He looked at Eli snuggled against him and saw the eyes open.

“Good morning,” said Dallas.

“What time is it? It seems late.”

A little after seven.”

Eli chuckled, then rolled to his back. “Damn, I’m so used to getting up before daylight I can’t sleep in.”

“Me neither.”

“Should we get up and hit the road?”

“We’ll get there in time to get our stuff pulled together and take care of things so we can hit the road sometime the next day.”

“Okay, let’s get dressed, something to eat, and hit the road.”

 

Dallas sped up then merged into traffic heading south on Interstate 35. He moved left, falling in with the faster traffic as Eli searched for a radio station. Four hours later, they pulled off in Oklahoma City for lunch and fuel. When they were back on the road, Eli was behind the wheel, looping around the city and getting on Interstate 44. Five hours later after one more fuel stop, they were pulling into the parking lot at the old farm place. Dallas went into the ranch house for his personal belongings he had kept there while Eli checked his truck. Thirty minutes later, they were pulling out heading to Dallas’ place. It was a small single-story house with a small porch over the front door and one window either side of it. The yard was dry exposed dirt, and a chain link fence ran halfway across the front and down one side, the other side a wood fence put up by the neighbor.

Dallas pulled alongside the house far enough to let Eli park behind him. They went in to find the house stuffy and Dallas turned on the two window units to cool it down.

“It’s not much but it was home for a while.”

“What do we need to do to be able to leave tomorrow?”

“I’ll pack the stuff I really need and maybe we throw the television in the back of the Tahoe. I just bought it last Christmas.”

“I can do that. What about the furniture?”

“It came with the house, so we don’t have to deal with it.”

“And the stuff in the kitchen?”

“Fuck it, the landlord can do something with it. Knowing him, he’ll leave it for the next person. You need to find a place to sell that Dodge,” said Dallas referring to Eli’s truck.

“Any suggestions?”

“There used to be a place on Fourth and…North Bryan, I think.”

Eli scrolled through his phone then frowned. “That place is closed. You only have new car dealerships in this town.”

“What about over in Synder or Seminole?”

Dallas went back to his bedroom to get his personal papers, birth certificate, title to his Tahoe, and check book. He pulled out some personal effects, stuffing everything into a backpack.

“Dallas?”

“Yes?”

“Seminole has a couple of places.”

“Then we go there early in the morning. See what time they open. It’ll take about forty-five minutes to drive over.”

“It says they open at ten.”

“By the time we finish at the bank, that will be about the time we’ll get there.”

“We have a plan. What about dinner? I’m starving.”

“There’s a bunch of chain places on 87, and…there’s a steak house on Fourth. Let’s go there.”

“Sounds good.”

 

By the time Dallas and Eli got back to Dallas’ place, they were exhausted and fell into bed and quickly drifted off to sleep.

 

Toward the Setting Sun

John Henry woke at first light. He sat up confused as to where he was at first, then he saw Bobby and smiled. He looked at the time and saw it was 6:45 A.M. He was hungry and ready to hit the road.

“Bobby?”

“Yeah,” Bobby mumbled in his sleep.

“Get up so we can hit the road. You can sleep in the car.”

“Okay.”

They got dressed, packed up, and headed west. John Henry drove them to Vicksburg, stopping for gas and a biscuit at a fast-food restaurant, which they ate in the car so they could be on their way. Crossing the Mississippi River they entered Louisiana. Four hours later, they pulled off for gas and lunch. When they got back into the car, John Henry drove with determination to get as far west as he could. Bobby fell asleep before they got to Dallas, where John Henry stayed on Interstate 20. Once clear of Dallas and Fort Worth, he settled behind the wheel and let his mind drift from what had happened to what their future could be. He imagined a small place somewhere on the west coast, inland of course, because they would never be able to afford to live on the beach, but they could be close enough they could go when they felt like it. He imagined them in simple jobs, waiting tables or mowing lawns or working in a home improvement store selling plants and power tools.

He imagined what their place could be like, a little one-bedroom apartment, maybe one over a garage in someone’s backyard. He would get home before Bobby and cook dinner for him, everything laid out on a small table like a proper meal.

John Henry smiled at the thought of it, something he wanted to make real.

 

A little after seven o’clock, the sun had already set, John Henry pulled off the interstate in Big Spring, Texas, desperate to get out of the car. They were on the north side of town and at the interchange there was a motel, a cheap place where they could get a room.

Checked in, John Henry took them over the interstate to the other side where they found a small Mexican restaurant that looked inexpensive. Once back to their room, it was obvious John Henry was exhausted, and Bobby got in the shower with him and bathed him, then led him to the bed where they settled intertwined and drifted off to sleep. They would sleep in the next morning, grab an early lunch from a fast-food restaurant and get back on the interstate, continuing their journey west.

 

The Best-Laid Plans

They woke early the next morning, loaded up the Tahoe and had breakfast at a diner a few blocks away. As soon as the bank opened, Eli was following Dallas inside. Dallas was going to deposit his last check and take out some cash for their trip. Eli opened an account so he could deposit his check, taking some cash out same as Dallas. Once they were settled somewhere, they would transfer the funds and close the accounts.

“Now we can go by my landlord’s place to drop off the keys, then go get your truck and head over to Seminole.”

 

By the time they got the truck sold, it was after noon. They drove down Main Street heading south toward the interstate, swinging through a drive-thru on the way.  Dallas drove with the fastest traffic along the four-lane highway that cut through the wide plains. Only the small town of Andrews lay between them and Odessa where they would pick up Interstate 20 to head west.

Looping around Odessa industrial properties lined the eastern side of 338 and on the western side mostly open plains with oil wells and power lines. At two o’clock, Dallas was merging with Interstate 20. He sped up and fell in behind a couple of white trucks. They drove past an exit for a small development that seemed anchored around oil company operations, following the trucks along the flat interstate with its big blue sky overhead.

“It seems like it goes on forever,” uttered Eli looking from the side window around to in front of them, then to the left.

“For far too long,” Dallas replied.

After a few miles they saw a car on the shoulder with its hood up. Because of traffic passing in the left lane, Dallas slowed because he couldn’t get over in the next lane. It was an old Caprice and as they came alongside it, saw a guy was looking under the hood and another was sitting in the dirt among the short brown grass, arms wrapped around the raised knees and head down. As they drove by him, he looked up. They saw the unkempt hair, the face with dirt smeared on it where it looked like guy had been crying, and the clothing that was worn and frayed.

“No,” Dallas exclaimed and he hit the brakes, slowing down enough to pull onto the emergency lane.

“We’re going to help them?” said Eli.

“Did you see…” Dallas stammered as he brought the Tahoe to a stop. “Yes, we’re going to help,” he added. He couldn’t tell Eli why, but there was something in the guy’s look that spoke to him. He glanced at Eli, realizing there was no opposition instead a slight nod, and he backed up along the emergency lane.

When Dallas stopped the one that had been looking under the hood was watching them and the other was still sitting on the side of the road. Dallas had to wait for a few vehicles to pass, then he jumped out and joined Eli at the front of car.

“He thinks the head gasket is blown. There’s oil on top of engine,” said Eli as Dallas came up next to him.

“Can we help?” said Dallas.

“Maybe call us a tow truck,” the guy said.

“You don’t have a cellphone?” said Eli.

“No.”

Dallas realized it was something they probably couldn’t afford, and repairing the car would no doubt be too. “If a tow truck gets you to a shop, can you fix it?” It was obvious what he meant. Could they afford it?

“No. We’ll just junk it and try to get a bus ticket or something,” said the guy.

“Is there still a bus service?” said Eli.

“Doesn’t matter. We’re probably stuck here.” It was the guy who had been sitting on the side of the road who now stood near them.

Dallas looked at him, then the one at the front of car. They were young, and obviously poor and desperate from the look of them.

“Where are you heading?” said Eli.

Dallas looked up to see what the guys would say, glad Eli thought to ask.

“West,” said the guy on the shoulder of the road.

“West? You don’t have a particular place in mind?” said Eli.

“As far away from back east as we can get,” the guy at the front of car said.

It was then Dallas realized it wasn’t dirt on the face, but a bruise and the lip looked like it had been busted recently. It was then; he sensed it. The guys were running away from a bad situation back east.

“Where are you from?” said Dallas.

“Oakboro, Alabama,” said the guy on the shoulder.

“Alabama!” Eli replied. “You came all the way from Alabama.”

“Yes,” said the guy in front of car.

“I’m Eli, and this is Dallas.”

“I’m John Henry, and that is Bobby.”

“Who gave you that busted lip and bruise?” said Dallas.

“My old man,” John Henry replied without hesitation.

“Shit,” said Dallas, and he turned to Eli. “I can’t—”

Eli nodded, knowing what he meant.

“We’re heading west too,” said Eli.

“Where to out west?” said John Henry.

“Right now, just west. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“Are you trying to get away from something too,” said Bobby.

“OH yeah,” Dallas replied, chuckling without humor. “Maybe we could give you guys a lift.”

“How much?” said John Henry. “We don’t have much on us.”

“Maybe some gas along the way.”

“Really, you’d help us?” said Bobby, stepping closer.

“Yes, we’ll help,” said Eli, speaking before Dallas had a chance. He looked at Dallas, and they smiled and nodded at each other.

“What about the car?” said John Henry.

“You got the title to it?” said Dallas.

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest we find someone who’ll come get it for parts and leave the title in the glove box.”

“You got room for our stuff?” said Bobby.

“It might get a bit crowded, but if you don’t have too much luggage, we should be able to manage.”

 

Eli stood at the trunk of the car, shocked to see a black garbage bag with just two backpacks and one duffel bag. He tried to put on a stoic face, not give away what he was thinking.

“We don’t have much, and we didn’t have time to prepare,” said John Henry, standing next to him.

“You guys had it rough?” said Eli.

“Shit,” John Henry drawled, then he reached in for the suitcase. “I had a drunk for a father who obviously used his fist from time to time, but…” John Henry looked around the raised trunk lid to make sure Bobby was still the front of the car with Dallas. “But I didn’t have it near as bad as Bobby. The garbage bag is all his clothes that I picked up out of his yard after his bastard of a father threw him out.”

“His dad threw him out?”

“Yep. After I got Bobby away from there, I called the cops. The bastard was a drug dealer and a user too. Hopefully his goddamn ass is sitting in a jail cell,” said John Henry, grabbing the garbage bag. “Can you get the backpacks?”

“Yes,” said Eli, pulling each one out the trunk.

 

Dallas found a guy in Odessa who had a parts yard where customers pulled their own parts who would come tow the Caprice away. He gave the mile marker and hung up. “All set. Just leave the keys and title in the glove box, and we can be on our way.”

“Thanks Dallas,” said Bobby.

“This is their stuff,” said Eli, following John Henry to the Tahoe. He traded a look with Dallas, then set the backpacks on the back seat as John Henry stuffed the garbage bag in the middle of the back seat footwell. The rear was packed with suitcases, boxes, and a flat screen television, but there was room for the duffel bag to lay over the top of everything.

“Let’s load up and get going,” said Dallas going to the driver’s door.

As Dallas drove, he and Eli told of their harvest season, of traveling up the Midwest all the way to North Dakota then getting fired by his uncle. They skipped over the reason; Dallas was not sure he could tell that yet. He sensed he could do so, that maybe Bobby and John Henry were together in more ways than just friends. But he wasn’t sure of it and Eli had even shrugged when he made a vague comment about it.

Then John Henry told them about their lives back in Oakboro, having just graduated from high school and struggling too just live. John Henry told of Mr. Worthington and his convenience store where he had gotten his first real job, before doing odd jobs for little pay.

As they got to know each other, the miles passed beneath the Tahoe. They passed Van Horn and realized the terrain was finally beginning to change. A terrain that was alien to Bobby and John Henry.

Eli searched for a radio station, skipping one after the next before landing on one he deemed acceptable. He sat back and rested his arm on the wide arm rest on the console. Dallas didn’t think and just did what they had done since leaving North Dakota. He slipped his hand into Eli’s. Eli relished the intimacy of the gesture; the simple connection it gave them.

“You guys are a couple,” said John Henry, who started laughing.

“John Henry!” Bobby chastised him.

Eli and Dallas realized what they were doing and quickly let go of each other’s hand. Dallas looked in the mirror and saw John Henry smiling at him. He angled his head so he could see Bobby and found he too was smiling.

“Shit,” said Dallas, and Eli began to laugh. Dallas looked over and shook his head.

“How long have you been together?” said John Henry.

“Since the beginning of fall,” said Eli.

“And this is why you got shit canned from your jobs?”

“Yep,” said Dallas. He turned to look at John Henry quickly, “do you have a problem with it?”

“No, no, I’m good. What about you Bobby, do you have a problem with Dallas and Eli being boyfriends?”

“John Henry,” Bobby once again chastised him.

“Well, Bobby, do you?” asked Eli, looking back.

Bobby smiled, then laughed. “No, not at all.”

“It’s because the two of you are gay too,” said Dallas.

“Yes,” said John Henry, “if we’re all being open about it.”

“We are,” said Dallas. “Bobby, this is why you got thrown out?”

“Not exactly, but he suspected I was.”

Dallas drove and the others fell silent. After a few miles passed, Dallas playfully slapped the steering wheel. “Well, fuck me.”

John Henry laughed, then Eli and Bobby, and it was infectious, and Dallas was soon laughing too.

 

Sleeping Arrangements

“We need gas,” said Dallas.

“And I need a bathroom,” said John Henry.

“Me too,” said Bobby.

“As I,” said Eli.

“That settles it. We’re stopping,” said Dallas jokingly.

They were approaching El Paso, and it was already dark. Dallas spotted one of the large convenience stores and gas stations, one that called itself a travel center, and he eased over on the offramp.

“Looks like there is a motel here,” said Eli. “Should we call it a day and crash.”

Dallas cut back over the interstate and pulled into the service station. As he eased across the parking lot to the pumps, he looked further up the road. “There’s a Best Western.”

“Bobby and I will go to the motel across the street. It looks cheaper,” John Henry exclaimed.

“Cheaper is good,” said Eli getting Dallas to nod. He turned around in the seat and looked at John Henry. “You guys want to split a room. It’ll save each of us some money.”

“I’m good with it,” said John Henry and Bobby nodded.

“There’s a restaurant in front of the motel that looks like it’ll be inexpensive,” said Bobby.

Eli looked around, noticing the restaurant that was behind the convenience store was boarded up. “And probably the only one around. Not much here.”

 

Eli went into the office and got a room, coming back with two keys, handing one to John Henry. Dallas pulled down to the lower building, finding their room to be the one on the left end of it and he parked by a minivan from Arizona.

John Henry opened the door and entered with Dallas and Eli right behind him. There was a small table with two chairs at the front, two queen-sized beds with a nightstand on the left side of the first one and one in between them. A low chest of drawers, a mirror, and a small flat screen television rounded out the furnishings of the room.

“It’s not bad,” said Eli.

“Better than home,” said John Henry sarcastically. “Let’s get our stuff inside,” turning to go back to the Tahoe.

“Hey John Henry,” said Dallas, “once we get our luggage inside, why don’t Eli and I go eat and let you guys have some alone time and—”

“And when you get back, we go get dinner and give you guys some alone time?” interrupted John Henry. “Deal. Say an hour and half for dinner?”

“Yes, that should be long enough,” said Eli, smirking at what they weren’t saying. He saw Bobby blush and look away, but not before he saw him smile.

 

As soon as Eli and Dallas were through the door, John Henry put the chain on the door, knowing Bobby would fret if he didn’t. He turned to him and saw him smile and start walking backwards away from him.

“Where are you going?” John Henry said playfully, and he rushed Bobby, bringing him down on the second bed. They kissed, and John Henry immediately began pulling and tugging on Bobby’s clothes. “Get out of these clothes. Get naked,” he exclaimed as he tugged the T-shirt up and off then leaned to the chest kissing and tonguing the nipples. He moved upward along the neck until he was pressing his lips against Bobby’s. He tugged on the jeans, feeling the button slip free. He pulled the zipper down and slipped his hand down inside the boxers, manipulating the cock, fingers working over the head and along the shaft making it become erect. Frustrated with how the jeans and boxers were in his way, he sat up, moved to the foot of the bed and tugged them down, working each foot free. He moved up between the spread legs, kissing one then the other. As he drew near the crotch, he dragged his tongue along the thigh, over to the nuts, working them around in their loose sac, then up the hardening cock. He captured the head in his mouth and moved down on it.

Bobby moaned, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled his mouth down all the way. He sucked and moved his tongue against the cock. Bobby relaxed the grip on his head, and he moved his mouth on the cock. Upward until he could manipulate the head, then down all the way. He tugged on the nuts and fingered the ass as he sucked.

“Fuck. John Henry!” Bobby cried out.

Cum hit the back of his throat and he swallowed as the cock spurt wad after wad, until Bobby was spent and pushing his mouth off it.

John Henry climbed off the bed and stripped as Bobby watched him. He looked at the familiar body as he removed each garment until he too was naked. He climbed on the bed on his knees and took the legs that Bobby held up. Holding them behind the knees, he held them up and spread apart while shifting up to the ass. A slow gentle penetration and John Henry held still relishing the feel of his cock having slipped into the tight ass.

“Fuck me, John Henry,” whispered Bobby.

John Henry worked his hips, tugged his cock outward, then pushed it back into Bobby. He built up his pace, moving with greater urgency and pushing inward deeper and deeper until bumping the ass with each push. He fucked until he felt close, and he pulled out.

“Roll over,” uttered John Henry.

Bobby got on his hands and knees, head tilted down, and John Henry knew Bobby was looking down his stomach watching him knee walk up the spread ass. He playfully slapped it with his cock then penetrated it once again. He pushed in slowly, all the way, shivering with the feel of it. He leaned over the back and kissed the smooth skin, nipped at it as he worked his hips slowly, tugging out then pushing back in. He undulated against the back as he worked his cock inside him. He rose up straight, took a hold of the waist, and increased his pace, fucked with an urgency, hips smacking against the ass.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck me,” exclaimed Bobby. “Fuck me.”

John Henry fucked. Fucked as hard as he could, hips banging against the ass. The sound of it echoed in the room. He saw Bobby clutch at the bed, rocking with the physicality of their fuck.

“Jesus…I’m going to cum,” John Henry exclaimed, and he shoved into Bobby’s depths and shuddered with release.

 

John Henry stood at the foot of bed watching Bobby peek out the window.

“They should be gone for a while longer, right?” said Bobby.

“Yes, I think so,” said John Henry.

Bobby turned, cock angled up fully erect. He smiled at John Henry.

“You want to fuck me, now?” said John Henry with a playful tone.

“Yes,” said Bobby.

John Henry walked to him, meeting him halfway. He heard the tone and knew despite the natural introverted personality, that when aroused Bobby could be playful, a bit physical himself, and he relished the thought of being manhandled by him.

“You want to fuck my ass. Bury that cock in it,” John Henry taunted as they came to together.

“Yes,” said Bobby, taking John Henry by the upper arms and turning him to the small table, pushing him down on it on his back. His head and legs hung off it, but Bobby quickly had his legs held up, thighs against the chest and lower legs draped over the shoulders. He tilted his head back and waited for the penetration.

Cock touched his ass, raked across it, then pressed against his tightness.

“Do it. Put it in me. Fuck me, Bobby, fuck me,” John Henry exclaimed as he held the edge of the table to keep from sliding off it.

Cock bore into his ass, Bobby pushing halfway into him, then hands held his legs tightly against the chest and Bobby fucked. Fucked him slowly, pushing deeper and deeper until hips pressed against his ass, then Bobby fucked faster, rougher, rocking him on the table.

Bobby fucked until breathless, and John Henry could hear him gasping for breath but never slowing. Cock hammered his inside until his own cock stirred with his arousal. He tightened his hold on the tabletop and held on for dear life as Bobby kept up a brutal pace.

“Fuck!” exclaimed John Henry.

“John Henry!” Bobby exclaimed, shoving into his depths and shuddering with release.

John Henry expected Bobby to let him up, the two of them taking a new position, but Bobby continue to hold his legs, and he felt the cock moving inside him again. Slowly working through his loosened opening.

“John Henry…let me…again,” Bobby stammered.

“Do it, Bobby. Fuck me,” said John Henry.

Bobby’s pace increased. Fucked John Henry’s ass until the first load pumped out and trickled down it. Fucked him until he felt the heat and sweat of Bobby’s chest against his legs and heard the way Bobby sucked in air, like a bull on a rampage, and he held tight to the table, taking it, taking every shove into his depths. Bobby pushed his legs down until tight to his chest and kept fucking. The table felt as if it could topple over, but it remained upright as Bobby slammed against his ass.

John Henry wondered how Bobby could keep going, just keep fucking his ass. Then he felt the break in rhythm, how Bobby would slam hard into his ass, then he felt the final shove inward and Bobby shuddering with another release.

 

They got in the shower and Bobby was soon turned to the wall, arms braced on it, head resting on them. Feet back, ass angled out. John Henry moved to him, sank his cock into him and fucked with a slow gentle rhythm. He hugged their bodies together and fucked until unable to hold back, and he pushed into Bobby’s depths and shivered and moaned with release.

 

Eli and Dallas came into the room to find Bobby dressed and sitting on one bed and John Henry coming from the mirror pulling a T-shirt down. They carried small containers of pie with a fork between their fingers.

“Are you guys ready to go eat dinner,” said Dallas.

“Yes!” Bobby exclaimed.

“Yes, I’m starving,” John Henry added.

“Worked up an appetite?” said Dallas, smiling at Bobby then John Henry.

“You know it,” John Henry replied, walking past them. “Come on Bobby, let’s go eat so Eli can fuck the shit out of Dallas.”

At the door, Bobby had already passed through it, John Henry looked back to see Eli going to the table. “You may want to wipe that off first.”

“Seriously,” exclaimed Eli as Dallas laughed.

The door closed, Eli and Dallas set the pies down next to the television. “Do you think they really fucked on that small table,” said Eli.

“I bet John Henry was on it, letting that shy Bobby just fuck the shit out of him.”

“Do you want me fucking the shit out of you,” said Eli with a mischievous tone.

Dallas began to strip while smiling at Eli. Eli followed suit, pulling his clothes off too. Once naked, Eli moved to Dallas and pulled him down on a bed. They kissed. They caressed each other. They manipulated cocks until hard. Eli rolled Dallas to his back.

“Are you going to let me fuck this ass?” said Eli.

“You know it,” Dallas replied, leaning up and kissing him.

Soon Eli was inside Dallas, slowly fucking him. With legs wrapped around his waist, he moved within them, pumping his cock into the ass. He kissed Dallas, worked his lips along the jaw feeling the stubble, then down the neck. He nipped the flesh at the base of neck, then he slipped his hands into Dallas’ and held him down as he increased his pace. Fucking with greater urgency, driving into the ass all the way.

Eli slipped his arms behind the knees and folded Dallas beneath him, and he held tight to the body as he drove cock into it. The bed squeaked and rocked beneath them and Dallas began to grunt and moan.

Eli rolled to his back bring Dallas on top sitting on his cock.

“Move that ass,” Eli playfully exclaimed.

Dallas leaned forward, hands on Eli’s chest, and moved upward, then down, working his ass on the cock. He built up a steady pace, eventually sitting up and moving so fast, his own cock smacked Eli’s abdomen. He fucked his ass on the cock until he was sweating and breathing hard. He leaned back, Eli holding tight to his ankles, and worked his ass up and down rapidly, smacking down on the hips. He took his own cock in hand stroking it with the same urgency. He wanted to get off while fucking his ass on the cock.

“Eli,” Dallas uttered breathlessly, then he slammed his ass down on the cock as his own erupted, shooting a wad of cum up his chest. Then he worked his ass up and down as his cock pumped out wad after wad.

“Jesus, you fuck!” exclaimed Eli, sitting up and taking Dallas’ thighs and pushing the ass down on his cock as it shot its first wad. He shuddered and moaned as his cock pumped wad after wad into Dallas.

Dallas hugged him, letting his dripping cock rub the chest. He moved on the still hard cock, up and down, slowly at first. He felt the first load slick up the cock and he began to move on it faster.

“Fuck me again,” said Dallas.

Eli rolled Dallas to his back and came to his knees between the legs. He buried his cock in the ass and fucked. Dallas held his legs, pulled back and spread, taking it, every shove into his depths. Eli fucked for a long time, until sweating and breathing hard. Fucked as Dallas stroked his own cock. Fucked with such force the bed squeaked beneath them. Then he buried his cock in Dallas and shuddered with another release.

“Damn, that was nice,” Dallas uttered, smearing the cum on his stomach where he came again as Eli came in his ass.

 

They showered, got dressed in shorts and tank tops and lay back on one of the beds, searching for something on the television to watch while they waited on John Henry and Bobby to return. Eli had just found a baseball game out of Los Angeles when the door swung open. Bobby entered first followed by John Henry, who smiled mischievously at them.

“You guys have fun while we were gone,” said John Henry.

“Yep,” said Dallas smiling back.

Bobby and John Henry got on the other bed thinking they were just going to watch television. Eli sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and facing them.

“We should talk about our plans.”

“Our plans? You’re not going to drop us off somewhere? But…it would be nice to stick together.” said John Henry.

“We talked at dinner. It would be easier on all of us if we were to stick together. You do realize we can’t rent an apartment without at least a couple of us having jobs.”

“No, I hadn’t considered that. I know we need to get jobs as fast as possible.”

“We looked at places in San Diego, and it looks like we might be able to find something for about twelve hundred a month—”

“Twelve hundred?!” Bobby exclaimed.

“Yes, and that is cheap. Most are around two thousand a month, or more.”

Eli saw he had their attention. They hadn’t realized how expensive an apartment was going to be. “Is San Deigo okay with you guys?”

“Yes, of course,” said John Henry. “We can see the ocean from there.”

“As far west as you can go, right?” said Dallas.

“Damn straight,” said John Henry.

“We looked at a map and think we should get to El Centro, California tomorrow. It’s about a nine and half hour drive which will put us within two hours of San Diego. We get there early in the morning, and scope out a place we might find an apartment then look for jobs nearby. You guys need to be within walking distance or if needed, on a bus route. If we can find any kind of job, even if it is minimum pay, then we can get into an apartment. Once we get settled then we can look for better jobs,” said Dallas.

“I found something that looks pretty good in El Cajon area. It a bit of a drive to San Diego, but it looks inexpensive. There was also a couple of places in the city, but they seemed to be in a large residential area with nothing close by for employment,” said Eli.

“And you think we can make it work with a minimum wage job?” said Bobby.

“Take home pay would be over five hundred a week—”

“Five hundred! A week?” said John Henry.

“The minimum wage is sixteen and half dollars an hour. Honestly, we probably won’t get full-time hours, but if just two of us can quickly get a job, we should bring in enough to be able to sign a lease. But remember, living expenses are higher too, so if three or all four of us can get a job, then we should some breathing room.”

“Maybe I can get some wheels pretty quick,” said John Henry.

“It shouldn’t be a problem to do that,” said Eli.

“Let’s get to sleep and hit the road early, and on the way, we can talk more and do some job searches,” said Dallas.

 

The room was dark and silent, just the occasional shift of someone in bed. Bobby lay wide awake, thinking of everything they talked about. It seemed far-fetched, something that should be out of reach for someone like him and John Henry. But Eli and Dallas were obviously two people who knew how to plan ahead. Maybe they could make it work.

“Bobby,” whispered John Henry, “it’ll be okay. We’re going to be fine.”

Bobby snuggled back against John Henry and smiled. Everything would work out. Everyone was sure of it, so he had to be sure of it too. They just needed some job, any ole job, to get on their feet.

 

The End of the Road

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

 

Eli eased off Interstate 8 down to the traffic signal controlling traffic. When it was clear, he turned right, then right again, circling the gas station to get to the parking lot of the motel just behind it. Across the street from the gas station was a fast-food restaurant. Everything they needed to crash for one more night before getting into San Diego.

They were too wound up, had too many things to plan, jobs to search for, the dozens they found while driving never seeming to be something they could get, and they grabbed dinner together and retired in their room, three of them sitting on one bed, with Eli sitting in the desk chair adjacent to it.

By eight o’clock, they were mentally exhausted, if not physically from riding all day. Dallas found a movie none of them had seen and they lay quiet, rarely making a comment and watched to the end. With lights out, they settled into bed, John Henry holding Bobby and Eli holding Dallas.

“We’re really going to get there tomorrow morning,” whispered Bobby.

“Yes,” came three whispered replies.

 

Dallas woke to a dark room. He looked at his watch and frowned. It was five twenty in the morning. He lay there knowing he would not go back to sleep. The fast-food restaurant opened at six, and the service station probably did too, so there was no need to get up so early, therefore he lay there.

He wondered if they really could find jobs quickly, thinking about the ‘We’re Hiring’ signs he had seen in his traveling for the harvest season. Maybe it would be the same in San Diego, jobs not listed online. If all four of them could get jobs, then Eli and he wouldn’t dig into their accounts so much.

He looked over at Eli, noticing he was lying too still.

“Are you awake?” Dallas whispered.

“Yes.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

“Should we just get up and packed,” whispered John Henry from the next bed.

“I have to hit the bathroom, then I can pack up,” said Bobby, sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor. He stood, stretched, then headed to the bathroom.

“I guess we’re getting up,” said Dallas.

Across a wide arid expanse, Dallas drove with the traffic. Soon they were rising in elevation, getting into low rocking mountains. Eventually the mountains began to have vegetation growing on them. Development became more frequent, and Dallas could feel the road dropping in elevation.

“We’re getting close,” said Eli, looking at a map on his phone.

“What exit do we want?” said Dallas.

“Magnolia Avenue in El Cajon.”

Suddenly they were on the edge of the city, with shopping centers, car dealerships, and other businesses backing up to the interstate. The interstate curved to a due west orientation.

“We want the third exit.”

“We’ve made it,” said Bobby.

Eli looked back to see John Henry take Bobby’s hand. “Yeah, we’re hear. Now for the fun part.”

“I think we should go ahead and get a room at that motel we saw on Magnolia, then head out,” said Dallas.

 

Dallas and Eli came into the motel room to find John Henry and Bobby already there. They had dropped them off four blocks to the south on Main Street to check out the places that had posted were hiring, then they had taken off to the list of places Eli had compiled.

“So, any luck,” said Eli.

Bobby smiled then John Henry.

“Is that a, yes?” said Dallas.

“We got hired by the same restaurant. Bobby will be a bus boy and I’m going to be a cook,” said John Henry.

“A cook? You?” said Dallas.

“It a bar and grill, so how hard can it be to cook French fries and grill burgers.”

“What kind of hours?” said Eli.

“He promised us 20 to 25 a week, maybe more.”

“Not bad.”

“What about you? Did you find something?” said John Henry.

“Maybe?” said Dallas, smiling.

“What’s that mean.”

“We talked to someone at this lawn service who is looking for people to get one or two new crews going.”

“We’re to go back in the morning and talk to the owner. But his wife, who’s the administrator for their company, said with our knowledge of farm equipment, the job would be a piece of cake. Besides, I’ve operated the mowers they use,” said Eli.

“When do you start at the restaurant?” said Dallas.

“We start the day after tomorrow,” said John Henry.

“How far away is it?”

“Walking distance,” said Bobby.

“We figured out a short cut by the police station and city hall,” said John Henry.

“John Henry, you guys should get some decent clothes to wear sometime tomorrow,” said Eli. “There’s a mall on the other side of the interstate.”

“We talked about it already. Show me where that mall is exactly so I can see the best way to walk there,” said John Henry.

 

Dallas and Eli started a week later and by the end of the month they had signed a lease to a small two-bedroom apartment nearby. They fell into a routine, working at their jobs, Bobby shocking Eli and Dallas getting a wait staff position, working the bar area with one of the regulars, and making tips that increased his income. The shortage of staff caused the owner to take a chance on him, and the locals loved to hear the southern accent and the blush when it was commented on.

Two months later the apartment had more than just beds and a side table. A sofa, an armchair, then a small round dining table that sat four.

The next month, John Henry bought an old Ford Focus, one nearly twenty years old, but it was inexpensive, fuel efficient, and easy to park. Eli bought a Wrangler, the vehicle the four of them used most when going out to dinner or just cruising around the area or going to the beach.

There was never any suggestion of them separating, of John Henry and Bobby getting their own place. Instead, they began to look for better apartments for the four of them, planning on moving into something nicer when their lease was up.

 

One afternoon, some months later, Eli drove them down to Imperial Beach where they sat on the beach watching the waves crash on shore and other people strolling along it. They sat in silence, just watching the scenes along the beach, then they looked out over the water. Dallas took Eli’s hand. Bobby leaned against John Henry resting his head on the shoulder. For the longest time they just enjoyed the breeze off the water, the sound of the waves crashing on shore, and being together.

“This is nice,” said Dallas.

“It’s paradise,” said Bobby.

---

To get in touch with the author, send them an email.

---

My face burns as jets of scalding hot water blast into it. The water pressure is surprisingly strong for a cruise ship. 

Which is good. 

I need it. 

I need it to burn. I need it to blast. 

I need to sear away the images that have been etched into my mind.

I woke today determined to wilfully ignore and expunge last night’s memories of milky skin and soft lips. 

And I wasn’t doing too terribly at it. Occasionally the image of Davey’s warm, wet tongue on my nipple would intrude on my thoughts but I would quickly banish it. 

It was all going okay. 

Until we went snorkeling. 

At which point a whole new series of impossible images bought up neighbouring blocks of high value real estate in my mind.  

First, the image of Davey emerging from the changeroom in a wetsuit. The material hugged his body, clinging to the dips and curves, and accentuating his unfathomably tight, round ass. A seam rode up so deliciously into his crack that it felt like the wetsuit had been specifically designed to punish me. 

Next was the image of Davey swimming up next to me, well within view of his parents, and surreptitiously allowing his hand to trail across various sensitive parts of my anatomy. Him grinning through his snorkel’s mouthpiece, playing it all off as casual, unavoidable snorkeling related proximity. 

And then… the image of Davey taking off his wetsuit. 

I had watched as he’d slowly unwrapped himself from within the neoprene, slowly exposing the creamy skin beneath like he was peeling a banana. 

He knew I was watching. Of course he knew. His movements were unhurried, deliberate. Teasing. His dad had left the change room by this point and it was just the two of us. We locked eyes just as he drew the wet fabric down over his ass, intentionally collecting his speedo to reveal his perky buttocks. My resolve faltered as I stared at his bare body. 

No. 

I’d quickly finished changing and grabbed my things. Somehow I made it through the rest of the day until we reembarked and I fled straight back to our state room. 

Which brings us to this moment. Me pressing my face closer to the shower head, willing the streams of water to scorch my skin, repeating the word over and over in my head. 

No.

No, no, no.

No.

That’s enough. No more. 

It is a prayer as much as it is a promise. 

I lather my body up with the cheap, complimentary soap and I am hit with the realisation that it is the soap Davey used last night. My mind is cast straight back to his body on top of mine, my nose pressed into his neck, his ass grinding against my cock, the concluding spray of cum that glued us together. 

NO! 

For fuck’s sake. 

I turn the faucet even hotter and ram my face back into the spray.  

And then… I hear something. 

It is the slow, creaking sound of a door being prised gently open. 

No..

My eyes are closed, pulsing beneath the constant stream of water, but I can sense the presence of another person just outside the shower screen. 

No… 

I feel a gentle gust of cool air as the shower door is slowly swung back. 

Nooo… 

I keep my eyes shut tight, willing the water to somehow magically put a stop to this, begging it to transport me to a parallel universe where this particular set of circumstances is not unfolding. 

I feel the odd clammy sensation of a dry, naked body leaning against my soaking skin. A soft cheek presses into my shoulder blade, a pectoral meets my spine, and a bony hip juts into my ass. 

If I keep my eyes closed it isn’t real. 

If I keep my eyes closed it could be anybody. 

I feel the slippery sensation of two hands gliding up my thighs, smooth like they’re barefoot waterskiing. They make their way around my front and come to rest in the curvature of my groin, framing my privates, the fingertips tickling the edge of my ballsack. 

My cock can’t resist any longer. 

I feel the blood start to churn, flooding my dick, hardening it. 

One of the hands reaches down and cups my balls, gently playing with them as they dangle deep. 

Oh, fuck. 

The pace of my cock-stiffening doubles as my balls are softly massaged. Soft fingers toy with my nuts, tickling and fiddling, rolling them around. 

Soon my dick is fully hard, jutting out in front of me like the hefty arm of a mechanical crane. 

I feel the other hand slide down and wrap itself around my shaft, gripping the foreskin tucked snugly around my cock head. I let out a deep, guttural moan as my turtleneck is slowly pulled back, exposing the large mushroom head of my cock. 

Fuuuuuck. 

The hand draws back up, and then back down, slowly, gently starting to jerk me off. 

I let out a whimper, my eyes still jammed shut beneath the shower stream, as the hand calmly pumps my cock back and forth. 

I feel the other hand abandon my balls to instead slide up across my stomach, surfing the gentle curves of my abs. It arrives at my nipple and starts to play with it, pinching and tickling, waking it up. 

FUCK! 

My nipple goes immediately hard. I’m so sensitive there that my cock gives a warning lurch, telling me that if I don’t slow things down, it won’t be far from erupting. 

I reach out and place my palms on top of each of the hands tantalising my body, halting them. 

We stand still for a moment, my hands on top of his as I take a few steadying breaths.

Slowly I turn around, my face cooling in relief from finally being out of the scalding waterfall. I keep my eyes closed as I reach out and touch the body in front of me. 

I run my hands up the lean torso, feeling the tight, supple muscles wrapped around the slight frame. I trail my hands across the narrow throat, slide my fingers up around the ears and cup the sweet, small face in my giant palms. 

I open my eyes. 

Davey stares back at me, his baby blue irises glinting in the bathroom light. He has the tiniest, almost hopeful smile on his face. His lips are so full and so soft looking. It is both innocent and knowing at the same time. 

I sigh as a surreal, unearthly sensation swirls in my stomach, something I’ve never felt before. It’s a combination of deep, visceral arousal and lust mixed with a fierce protectiveness. I want to hold him as close as humanly possible, merge our bodies, fold him into me so that I can prevent anything bad from ever happening to him. 

“You will be the end of me,” I whisper. 

“Perhaps,” he agrees, before slowly lowering himself to his knees. 

I take a deep breath as he inches closer to me. 

Soon his little face is peeking out from underneath my desperate cock, droplets of secondary spray splashing him as the shower pounds into my back. He moves so that the full extent of my dick is resting prone across his face and it is almost as long as his entire tiny head. He grips the base of me in his hand to keep it steady and I watch as he brings his sweet little lips up to the pulsing tip of my cock head. 

He kisses the slit. 

Just once. 

A tiny greeting before he opens his mouth and slides me inside him. 

And I know that this is it. This is the end. This is how I will die. 

I watch as my cock disappears deeper and deeper into Davey’s open, willing mouth. I feel the glorious friction of his moist lips as they suction against the sides of my dick. He pauses when I’m about three quarters of the way inside and starts to move his tongue around, licking me all over as though he is trying to clean my cock. 

FUCK. 

I shudder at the sensation. 

He grips the last quarter of my dick with his hand and slowly starts to move his head back and forth. I moan as the combination of tight lips and gripping fingers causes my foreskin to rub over and across the sensitive tip of my cock. Davey draws me all the way out and then purses his lips, forming the shape of a tiny asshole with his mouth, before plunging my dick back in, breaking the seal of his lip-sphincter. 

This goes on for a few minutes, Davey riding my cock with his mouth until I begin to pant, jamming my eyes shut in pleasure. 

Davey slips my dick out of his mouth and moves his body a little closer to mine. He positions my cock in front of him and slides it back in. 

Only this time, he doesn’t stop. 

I watch in magnificent astonishment as I disappear deeper and deeper into Davey’s open mouth. I can feel his throat muscles pressing around my cock, adjusting, making room as I descend further and further down. I watch as we sail right past the three quarter mark until my dick pushes against the very back of his throat and Davey’s nose is buried in my wet pubic hair.

I am entirely inside his face.  

“Holy fuck,” I gasp and I feel Davey’s throat ripple with laughter. 

He reaches up and grabs each of my hands, guiding them to the back of his head. He then reaches around and grips my muscular ass cheeks, pulling me roughly into him so that my dick punches hard into his throat.  

I glance down, catching his eye to confirm that I’ve understood correctly what he wants, and I see Davey’s lips pull back ever so slightly. 

He’s grinning. 

Well, at least as much as he can with my cock stuffed fully into his mouth. 

He’s given his blessing. 

And I let go. 

I grip the back of his head in my hands and shove my cock hard into his throat. 

I hear him gag immediately but I glance down and see he is still grinning, so I draw my cock back out and then thrust deep into him again. I beat my cock against his throat again and again like I’m trying to break it down with a battering ram. 

I groan with pleasure as I fuck his little face. 

Davey’s a pro, drawing his teeth back to create a meaty, muscular slip-n-slide for my dick. I can feel the bumpy rivulets of tastebuds vibrating against my cock as I fuck his tongue. 

I pound myself into him, gripping the back of his head to keep him in place as my cock drives over and over into his mouth. Spools of stringy saliva collect around his lips, lubricating my thrusts. His throat makes gluggy sounds of pleasure as I fuck the moisture back into him. 

Every now and then I drive myself completely inside his face, pushing all the way down into the depths of his throat and he gags a little, coughing on my cock. I try to give him breaks when I sense he needs them, but he just pushes his head back down and gags himself again. 

He reaches back up and clutches my muscular ass for leverage. I can feel him pulling me deep into him, desperately willing me to fuck his mouth even harder. 

I stare down at him and he looks up into my eyes… 

And I go hard. 

I drill him. I fuck his lips ruthlessly and watch as my cock destroys his angelic little face. His throat flushes red with heat and veins start popping at his temple. He sputters as my cock hammers into his throat. 

I grab hold of his fringe and tilt his head up so he has to look me in the eye while I fuck the shit out of his face. Tears pool in the corners of his eyes, but his smile doesn’t falter. My stomach churns in a visceral way that tells me I’m not going to last much longer. 

“Davey…” I moan, increasing the pace of my thrusts. 

He matches my moan, the rumbling in his throat tickling my dick as it pushes down into his larynx. 

“Davey, I’m gonna cum…” 

He moans again and continues to grin his mouth-stuffed-grin. 

His lips are suctioned against my shaft, holding tight as I bury myself in the moist oasis of his mouth. 

Fuck. 

I tighten my grip on his hair. My nails dig into his cheek, as I hold his face still so I can ruin it with my unyielding cock. 

This is it. 

Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! 

I ram my dick again and again between his sweet lips until I can’t take it anymore. 

“FUUUUUCK, DAVEY!” I shout as I rip my cock out of his mouth and annihilate his face with cum.

I roar and moan as I shoot load after monstrous load of hot, sticky jizz all over him. 

He opens his mouth and I lower my dick, groaning as I pump a few generous shots inside before squirting three long, thick, ropey blasts of cum into his eyes, eyebrows and hair.  

He purrs appreciatively beneath me as I heave deep breaths, my cock pulsing. I am still gripping Davey’s hair in my hand as eventually my tension eases, and there is nothing but a small dribble of cum leaking from my dick. 

I watch as Davey’s lips split into a euphoric grin. There’s a stray string of jizz dangling from the inside of his nostril as he leans in and licks up the residual cum from my cock.

I shudder. 

Fuck me. 

What the actual fuck. 

Davey gets to his feet and presses his body into mine. I wrap my arms around him and pull him in tight to me. 

I kiss him on his cum stained lips and my insides writhe as I taste myself on his tongue. 

Together we wash his face clean, rinsing away the blanket of jizz. 

Once his face is clear, Davey leans in and whispers something into my ear. 

“I can’t wait for tomorrow,” he says. 

I pull back and look at him in confusion. 

“What’s tomorrow?” I ask. 

He looks at me, his trickster eyes full of dark mischief. 

“It’s your birthday.”

---

To get in touch with the author, send them an email.

---

When I visit my local gay sauna/bathhouse I usually get up to things in the steamroom. I get turned on by the heat, the swirl of the steam and the sweat running down bodies engaged in fucking and sucking.

 My most recent visit was disappointing to begin with. Sat in the steamroom with my asshole all lubed up, stroking my cock and tweaking my nipples hoping someone would join in but alas most of the guys came in and merely watched or passed through.

So i sat in the jacuzzi and chilled out and decided to wander around and try the steamroom again. I wandered into the cinema room, bascially a nice dark room with a very large screen showing porn with glory hole booths at the back and large widely padded benches at the front, and this is where the action was. At least a dozen guys were there and engaged in sucking and fucking and wanking. Three guys were kneeling face down on the benches getting their assholes fucked and sucking off other guys at the same time. Other guys standing around were getting wanked off by others.It was a large group sex orgy. I watched for a moment and shed my towel and started to wank at the sight before me. One guy looked over and ssaw me and reached out for my cock and pulled me into the orgy by my cock. He started wanking me and i saw he was being sucked off by another guy so i started tweaking and playing with his nipples. He leaned over to me and we started kissing, serious tongue action was going on. The guy who was sucking him off was also getting fucked as well. The guy wanking me off went down on me, knelt in front of me he took my cock in his mouth and gave me a deep blowjob and started fingering my asshole as he did this, i was glad i had relubed my ass before coming into the room…nothing worse than dry fingers up yer hole, and i was moaning like crazy. As one guy finished fucking the other guy my guy decided heuld fuck this guy and i stuck my cock into the vacant mouth and together we spit roasted him. Around us this was going on with other men and the moans, and ‘yes’s’ were filling the air. As my cock was going in and out i felt fingers in my asshole again. The rhythm was perfect and as sweat dripped down my body the other guy doing the fucking asked me to fuck him. I stepped behind him and slid my cock up his hole and we started pumping away. Behind me a guy stepped in and put his cock against my asshole and as it went back and forth so his dick went in more and more. Within minutes a chain had formed of about fiver guys pumping away. The guy fucking me pulled out and i felt the splash of his spunk splatting onto my ass cheeks and this purred me on and seconds later i shot my jizz over the guy’s arsehole and back.

I was spent from this orgy of fucking and sat in the showwer and let the water wash over me and gurgle away down the drain taking the sweat and spunk with it.

If anyone had filmed that room it would be the amateur porn that gets viewed a lot….for me it’s a happy wank bank moment.

The roar of the crowd was a drug, and I was fucking high on it. The final whistle blew, sealing our victory, and I ripped my helmet off, sweat plastering my dark hair to my forehead. The sea of screaming faces in the bleachers was a blur, except for one. Lena. My girl. She was on her feet, her cheerleading skirt bouncing, her smile so bright it could have powered the stadium lights. She blew me a kiss, and I caught it, pressing it to my chest right over the number on my jersey. Fuck, yeah. This was my life. Perfect.

The locker room was a haze of steam, cheap body spray, and loud, dumbass banter. Slaps on the back, chants of my name—”Diogo! Diogo!”—it all washed over me, a familiar and comfortable noise. I was the king of this concrete castle. I shrugged off my pads, the adrenaline still buzzing in my veins, a live wire looking for a place to ground itself.

My phone buzzed on the bench. A text from Mom. So proud of you, my champion! I watched the stream! Love you! A warmth spread through my chest, something genuine amidst all the performative bullshit. I was a mama’s boy, as they say, boys are always more attached to their mothers. They are their little princes.

Then another buzz. Not a text. A call. The screen flashed DAD.

The buzz in my veins turned into a different kind of current. A dark, angry one. The noise of the locker room faded into a dull hum. I just stared at the screen until it went to voiceless. He could wait. He could fucking wait forever for all I cared.

The image flashed in my mind, unwanted and sharp. Yesterday. The raised voice behind their bedroom door. The sound of something shattering. Me, throwing the door open to see my mom pressed against the wall, my dad’s finger an inch from her face, his expression twisted into something I didn’t recognize. Too aggressive, she’d said later, her voice trembling as she packed her suitcase and went to her sister. That was a polite word for it. The pure, undiluted hate I felt for him in that moment was a new thing, a beast born full-grown and ravenous.

“Yo, Diogo! Hell of a game!” Mikey, our linebacker, grinned, snapping me back to the present. “Party at Justin’s later. You in?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, my voice tighter than I meant it to be. I forced a grin. “Gotta go see Lena first.”

He gave me a knowing, lewd smirk. “Yeah, I bet you do. Don’t wear her out before the party, man.”

I shoved my street clothes into my bag, my movements suddenly jerky. The high from the game was gone, completely evaporated, replaced by the thick, heavy sludge of my home life. I needed an outlet. I needed to hit something. Or someone.

I found Lena waiting for me by my car, leaning against the passenger door. The setting sun turned her blonde hair into a golden halo. She was fucking perfection, from her long legs to the swell of her tits under her tight top. She was my prize, the proof that my life was still on top.

“Hey, superstar,” she purred as I walked up.

I didn’t say a word. I just dropped my bag, wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, and kissed her. Hard. It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It was possessive. Needy. A claiming. I poured all my frustration, my anger, my fucking confusion into it. She melted against me for a second, a little gasp escaping her lips before she kissed me back just as fiercely.

When I finally pulled away, we were both breathing heavily. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyes wide and a little dazed.

“Whoa,” she breathed, a playful smile touching her lips. “What was that for?”

“Just missed you,” I muttered, resting my forehead against hers, my eyes closed. I could still smell the grass of the field on me, mingling with her sweet perfume.

She ran her hands up my chest, her fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle. “Well, I missed you too. Your dad here?” she asked casually, trying to peer around me toward the parking lot.

The question was like a bucket of ice water. I stiffened, pulling back. “No.”

“Oh. I just thought since your mom’s…”

“He’s not here,” I snapped, the words coming out harsher than I intended. I saw her flinch, just a little, and instantly felt like an asshole. Fuck. I dragged a hand through my hair. “Sorry. Yes he is here… I just… I don’t want to talk about him.”

She studied my face, her head tilted. She knew things were bad, but she didn’t know the details. Nobody did. That was family shit. Private shit. Humiliating shit.

“Okay,” she said softly, her voice dripping with fake sympathy that made my skin crawl. She pressed her body against mine, a deliberate, calculated move. I could feel every curve through our clothes. “We don’t have to talk at all.”

She slid her hand down my stomach, her fingers brushing against the top of my jeans, right where the tension was coiling tightest. Teasing. My breath hitched. My cock stirred, responding to her touch despite the storm in my head. This was what I needed. To forget. To lose myself in her. To fuck everything else away.

But the image of my mom’s terrified face flickered behind my eyes again. The sound of my dad’s shouting echoed in my ears. The two feelings—raging anger and raw want—crashed together inside me, a confusing, turbulent mess.

I grabbed her wrist, stopping her hand from going any further. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Not here,” I said, my voice a low, rough grumble.

The air in my truck was thick with the smell of her perfume and my own furious confusion. Lena’s hand was on my thigh, her nails pressing just hard enough to leave little half-moon marks, but my mind was a million miles away, back in that kitchen listening to my mother’s muffled sobs.

“I can’t, Lena. Not tonight,” I said, my voice tight. I stared straight ahead at the road, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Her hand instantly retreated, folding into a tight, angry little ball in her lap. “What do you mean you can’t? You’re always up for it. We just won. I was going to give you the real victory celebration baby.”

“It’s not about that.” I couldn’t even look at her. The image of my dad’s smug face, the sound of his voice on the phone—it was all crowding out any other thought. The anger was a live wire, sparking under my skin.

“Then what is it about, babe? You’ve been off all night. Is it your dad again?” she asked, her tone shifting from petulant to probing. She loved drama, but only when it was about other people.

“I have to go see him.”

She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “See him? Are you insane? You told me what he did to your mom. You told me you never wanted to speak to him again.”

“I have to,” I repeated, the words grinding out of me. “I have to look him in the eye. I have to make him understand what he’s done.”

“Understand? Men like him don’t understand, Diogo. They just take.” She crossed her arms, turning to stare out her window, the streetlights flashing across her pouting profile. “This is stupid. And you’re ruining our night.”

I didn’t answer. I just made the turn onto my street, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. The house was dark except for the flickering blue glow of the living room TV. He was home.

I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The silence was heavier than the engine noise had been.

“So that’s it?” Lena whispered, her voice small now. “You’re just going to go in there and… what? Get in a fight?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my hand already on the door handle.

“Don’t go.” Her voice cracked just a little, and for a second, I saw the vulnerable girl beneath the popular cheerleader persona. She reached for me, her fingers brushing my jaw, trying to turn my face to hers. “Stay with me. Let me make you forget about him. Please, babe.”

Her lips found mine, soft and insistent. She tasted like cherry gloss and desperation. She kissed me like she was trying to win a war, her tongue sliding against mine, one hand tangling in my hair, the other roaming down my chest, over the hard planes of my abs, heading lower—

I tore my mouth away, gasping. “I can’t.”

The rejection flashed in her eyes, hardening them into blue ice. “Fine. Go get your ass kicked, then.”

I didn’t watch her leave. I just got out and slammed the truck door, the sound echoing in the quiet suburban night. I walked into the house without knocking.

He was slumped in his recliner, a beer in his hand, watching some old game. He didn’t even look at me. “You’re home late.”

The casualness of it, the utter lack of remorse, was the final spark. “We need to talk.”

“About what? Your game? Saw the score. You overthrew Johnson twice in the third quarter. Sloppy.”

My hands clenched into fists at my sides. “We’re not talking about the game. We’re talking about Mom. We’re talking about you putting your hands on her.”

Finally, he turned. His eyes, the same dark, intense ones I saw in the mirror every morning, were cold and dismissive. “That’s between me and your mother. It’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business when you made her cry! When you made her leave!” My voice was rising, filling the stagnant room.

He set his beer down with a deliberate thud and stood up. He was still a big man, solid, though the muscle was softening into fat. “You watch your tone with me, boy. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you’re a bastard. I know you hurt her.”

He took a step forward, entering my space. The air crackled with a violence I knew all too well. “You think you’re a big man now? A football star? You’re still a little mama’s boy, crying because his parents are fighting.”

The words were a physical blow. I shoved him. Hard. “Don’t you fucking call me that!”

He stumbled back into his recliner, shock then pure rage contorting his features. He was on me in a second, his hands grabbing the collar of my letterman jacket. “You want to fight me, you little shit? You wanna be a man?”

We crashed into the coffee table, sending beer bottles and remote controls scattering. It was a ugly, clumsy brawl of slapping palms and grunted curses, more wrestling than boxing. We were a tangle of hatred and shared DNA, rolling on the floor.

“You selfish son of a bitch!” I growled, trying to pin his arms.

“You think you’re better than me?” he spat back, his breath hot and beery in my face. “You’re just like me! All that anger… you got it from me!”

He was stronger than I remembered. He got an arm free and his hand shot up, not to hit me, but to grab a handful of my shirt and pec muscle through it, his fingers digging in painfully. I cried out, and in that split second of shock, he dipped his head.

His teeth sank into the hard muscle of my pectoral, right through the fabric.

I yelled, a strangled sound of pain and utter disbelief. He didn’t let go, his bite a sharp, shocking pressure that was more intimate than any punch. I could feel the heat of his mouth, the hard clench of his jaw. He ground his teeth against me, and a bolt of white-hot, confusing sensation—pain, it’s just pain—shot straight down to my groin.

We scrambled apart, both breathing ragged, both staring at each other like wounded animals. I clutched my chest where a dull ache was already spreading. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm.

And then I felt it.

A thick, traitorous heat was pooling in my stomach. A familiar tightening in my jeans. A hard, insistent throbbing that had no business being there. Not now. Not with him.

My eyes snapped to his. The anger was still there, a fire in his gaze, but beneath it… something else flickered. A recognition. A dark, knowing look that made my skin crawl and my blood burn.

No.

No, it’s not possible.

First, I hate him.

And second…

I am not a fag !!

The thought wouldn’t leave me. It festered, a hot coal in the pit of my stomach, burning through every time having sex with Lena, every play on the field. I am not a fag. I am not a fag. The mantra was useless. All I could see was the raw, savage look in my father’s eyes when he’d bitten me, the shocking, white-hot pain that had twisted into something else entirely in the secret, fucked-up parts of my brain.

I was the typical homophobic quarterback who had all the girls running after him but I can’t deny that the fight I had with my dad was very hot and sexy. Oh my god I began to express desire for my own dad.

Unable to resist it anymore, I decided to realize this depraved fantasy by provoking him.

I found him in the living room, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, the TV blaring some shitty game show. The air was thick with his presence, a mixture of cheap cologne and aggression.

“You’re a fucking coward,” I spat, my voice low and tight.

He didn’t even look at me. “Go to your room, Diogo !”

“What, you gonna make me? Like you made Mom leave?” I stepped closer, my fists clenched. “You’re nothing. You’re a weak, pathetic piece of shit who can only hit women.”

That got him. He stood up, his frame towering, mirroring my own. “You watch your fucking mouth, boy.”

“Or what?” I shoved his chest. “You’ll bite me again?”

His eyes darkened, and a slow, terrifying grin spread across his face. He knew. Fuck, he knew exactly what he’d done to me. “You liked that, didn’t you? My little mama’s boy liked getting a taste of real pain.”

“Fuck you,” I growled, but it was weak, and my body was already thrumming with a sick anticipation.

He moved fast, grabbing the collar of my shirt and slamming me against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but the pressure of his body against mine sent a jolt straight to my fucking cock.

“You came down here for a reason,” he grunted, his whiskey-laced breath hot on my face. “You want another lesson?”

I struggled, a pathetic show of resistance, grinding my hips against his thigh. His free hand came up and roughly squeezed my pec through my shirt, his thumb finding my nipple and pinching hard. A gasp tore from my throat, part pain, part pure, unadulterated lust.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice a rough command. “That’s it.”

Our fight became a desperate, clumsy dance. We tore at each other’s clothes, buttons flying, fabric ripping. His hands were everywhere, groping my muscles, slapping my ass, claiming my body.

“Yeahhh ! What a sexy ass you have my baby boy” he growled.

“Owww yesss daddy slap my ass harder please” I yelled unable to control myself

I did the same, my own hands roving over the coarse hair on his chest, the solid strength of his shoulders. He sank his teeth into the fleshy part of my pectoral, right over the nipple, and I cried out, my head falling back as a wave of blinding pleasure-pain seized me. I reciprocated, biting down on his own thick tit, tasting salt and sweat and man, and he moaned, a deep, ragged sound that vibrated through my entire fucking soul.

“Ooooo son come on mhhhh lick daddy’s tits . Yeahhh like that mohhh” he moaned.

“Mhhh daddy your tits are so huge mmpfff” he didn’t let me continue what I was saying as he was forcing my head on his chest.

We were naked on the floor, a tangle of limbs and heaving chests. His cock, thick and heavy, rubbing against mine. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. Not even with my girlfriend. He grabbed my face, his grip brutal, and crushed his mouth to mine

It wasn’t like kissing Lena. This was all teeth and tongue and possession. It was sloppy, wet, and so fucking intimate it felt like my brain was short-circuiting. I am kissing my own father. I am kissing my own dad. The thought should have revolted me. Instead, my cock leaked pre-cum onto my stomach. I kissed him back with a fury, sucking on his tongue, letting him dominate my mouth completely.

“On your back,” he ordered, breaking the kiss, a string of saliva connecting our lips.

I obeyed without thought. He positioned himself above me, his cock hovering over my face, and I understood. I opened my mouth, and he fed his dick into it, not slowly, but in one brutal, claiming thrust that made me gag instantly. Tears sprung to my eyes as he fucked my throat, his hips pistoning, his hands holding my head in place.

“That’s it, you fucking cocksucker,” he grunted, his voice thick with lust. “Choke on your old man’s dick. Gag on it.”

I could barely breathe, each thrust hitting the back of my throat, triggering a deep, suffocating reflex. The humiliation was a fire in my veins. I was his. His slave. His toy. I looked up at him, his face a mask of primal dominance, and the submission felt better than any victory on the football field ever had.

He pulled out, gasping, and moved down my body. “My turn.”

He took my aching cock into his mouth, and the heat was unimaginable. His technique was rough, all suction and no finesse, and it was the greatest fucking thing I’d ever felt. He deep-throated me with an ease that shocked me, his nose buried in my pubes, and I bucked my hips, fucking his face just as roughly as he’d fucked mine.

“Mmmmm daaaaad yeahhh mmmm you suck better than Lena ! Oh my god YEAH” I shouted as loud as I could so that all the neighbors could hear about our sexy incestuous moment between father and son.

We shifted into a feverish 69, our bodies scissored together. The scent of our sweat and musk was overwhelming. I worshiped his cock with my mouth as he devoured mine, the room filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of our mutual sucking and moanings. I was lost in a world of sensation, of taste and smell and the incredible feeling of his thick dick sliding over my tongue.

I don’t know what happened to me. I moved again, sliding down further. I grabbed his foot, my callused fingers digging into his arch, and brought his big toe to my mouth. I sucked it in, my tongue swirling around the tip, licking between each toe with a filthy, dedicated reverence. A broken moan escaped us. It was the most depraved, most erotic thing I had ever experienced. I was worshipping his feet while he lay there, our cocks dripping, completely under our control.

“Hummm what a naughty son that I have. Having an incestuous foot fetish for his own dad mhhhhh,” he murmured sensually bitting his lips while I was literally eating his foot. before moving back up my body. He’d been edging me the entire time, and I was a trembling mess, desperate to come.

He positioned himself over me again, his cock leaking precum . “Turn around.”

I did. He started to fuck me roughly, his strokes fast and urgent. “You’re gonna take my load, Mhhh let’s make a baby together son . You’re gonna hold it in your ass and then I’m gonna lick your asshole and you’re gonna kiss it back to me. You understand? You’re gonna share your father’s cum. The one I ejaculated in your mother’s pussy 20 years ago to bring you into the world”

“OHHHH PLEASE DADDY FUCK ME HARDER. I WILL BE YOUR DADDY’S BOY” I screamed.

“Mhhhhmmm you want your daddy to fuck you hun, What would think your buddies of the football team if they learned that the straight captain womanizer was getting fucked by his own father ?” He said teasing me

After an hour of intense fucking. We both cum screaming like animals. “YEAAAAHHH MY BABY BOY DADDY’S GONNA CUM ! HE’S GONNA GET YOU PREGNANT” “OHHH DAAAAADDD OH MY GOOOD I’VE NEVER FELT SO GOOOD OH DAAAAAD”.

I was trying to come to my senses because of this orgasm when I suddenly felt something wet in my ass. It was my dad tongue- fucking and licking my asshole to collect all of his cum.

“Owwww daddyyy yesss lick my asshole mhhhhh” i was passing out.

“Now,” he panted, his eyes burning into mine. “Come here and kiss me.”

I surged up, capturing his mouth with mine, and pushed my tongue past his lips, sharing his own cum with him in a deep, filthy, cum-sharing kiss. It was the most taboo, most connected I had ever felt to another human being. As our tongues tangled in the warm, shared slickness of his spend, a second orgasm ripped through me, splashing against both of our stomachs in helpless, pulsing spurts.

My phone rang. It was mom. I didn’t answer. I was in heaven my dad now.

I collapsed against him, spent, broken, and utterly, completely his. He held my face, his thumb stroking my cheek.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “Daddy’s boy.”

Beyond Part I: The Wandering

Arthur had not passed so much as drifted. His death was quiet, like a curtain drawn in a room no one noticed. No thunderclap, no final gasp. Just a soft exhale, a fading into the folds of twilight. He had been young—tender-hearted, slight of frame, and full of unspoken desires. Not the kind that clamour for attention, but the kind that live in the fingertips, in the hush between breaths.

In life, Arthur had loved socks. Not as fashion, not as fetish, but as feeling. The ribbed texture of a well-worn pair, the scent of warmth held close, the quiet intimacy of cloth against skin. Socks were sanctuaries. They held the memory of movement, the echo of touch. He would sit for hours, folding them with care, pairing them not by colour but by energy. A threadbare heel told a story. A stretched cuff held a secret. It was never about spectacle. It was about presence.

But Arthur had never found the courage to share this longing. Not fully. Not ceremonially. He had hinted once or twice, in the safety of candlelight or the softness of a shared bed, but the world had not known how to receive him. His yearning was met with laughter, or silence, or the kind of discomfort that makes a soul retreat. And so, when his body gave way—quietly, gently, without drama—the longing remained. It clung to him like mist, shaping his ghostly form into something delicate and unfinished.

He wandered.

Not in torment, but in search. Through cities and villages, through attics and basements, through the quiet corners of queer lives. He lingered near laundries and sock drawers, hoping someone might feel him. Might hear the whisper of his longing. But most did not.

Some sensed a chill. A sudden stillness in the air. A sock gone missing, only to reappear folded with care. Some felt a flicker of melancholy, a soft ache in the chest when touching wool. A few mediums caught glimpses—a pale figure folding socks with reverence, a soft sigh in the steam of a washroom. But none stayed. None opened.

Arthur learned to wait.

He began to notice patterns. The ones who wore mismatched socks were more open. The ones who folded with care, not haste, held a kind of tenderness he recognised. He followed these signs like breadcrumbs, moving slowly, reverently, from one soul to the next.

In Brighton, he lingered near a man who kept a drawer of striped socks, each pair labelled with the date of first wear. The man spoke to them as he folded, thanking them for their service. Arthur hovered for weeks, but the man was too guarded, too wrapped in grief to receive him.

In Manchester, he found a laundrette where a young poet washed socks by hand, whispering verses into the rinse water. Arthur tried to reach him, brushing against his wrist, but the poet mistook the touch for memory and turned away.

In a village near the fells, he watched an old gardener hang socks on a line with wooden pegs, humming hymns to the wind. Arthur stayed through the seasons, hoping the man might feel him in the rhythm of the cloth. But the gardener passed quietly one morning, and Arthur was left with only the echo of his song.

He began to understand that longing alone was not enough. He needed someone who could hold him—not in arms, but in spirit. Someone who could feel the sacredness of his yearning and offer a vessel for it. Not a séance. Not a spectacle. A partnership.

And so he wandered still, slower now, more discerning. He watched for signs. A sock folded with reverence. A drawer arranged like an altar. A man who paused before putting on a pair, as if asking permission.

In time, Arthur came to a town nestled between moor and mist. The air was thick with cedar and silence. The houses were old, their windows fogged with candle smoke. And in one such house, he felt something shift.There lived a man named Martin.

He was large, not just in body, but in presence. His frame filled doorways, yes, but it was the way he moved that lingered. Each step was measured, as though he were walking through sacred space. He did not rush. He did not stumble. He carried himself like a man who knew the weight of silence and the dignity of stillness.

Martin lived alone in a house that seemed to breathe. It was nestled at the edge of a moor, where the wind spoke in low tones and the mist curled like memory. The house was old, with wooden floors that creaked in conversation and windows that caught the light like stained glass. Inside, the air was thick with cedar and candle smoke. Bowls of salt sat in corners like quiet sentinels. Books lined the walls, some dog-eared, some pristine, all chosen with care. There were jars of dried herbs, bundles of lavender, and a small altar near the hearth where stones and feathers lay in deliberate arrangement.

And socks. Socks were everywhere.

Folded in baskets. Draped over chairs. Hung to dry above the stove. Martin wore them mismatched, always. One striped, one plain. One thick, one thin. It was not a fashion statement. It was a kind of listening. He said once, to no one in particular, that matching socks made him feel too symmetrical, too closed. Mismatched pairs kept him open to the unexpected.

He spoke to the air often. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just softly, as if the room itself might reply. “That’ll do,” he murmured while stirring tea. “You’re welcome,” he said while folding laundry. “I see you,” he whispered once, to the empty hallway.

Arthur noticed.

He had been drifting for years, through homes and hearts, seeking someone who could feel him. Not fear him. Not dismiss him. Just feel. He had lingered near mediums before, some trained, some intuitive, but none had opened. Not truly. Not with reverence.

But Martin was different.

Arthur first arrived on a wind-stirred evening, drawn by the scent of cedar and the quiet hum that pulsed through the walls. It was not sound, not exactly. It was invitation. A kind of resonance that called to the unfinished parts of him. He hovered near the window, watching Martin move through his evening rituals, lighting candles, folding socks, speaking to the air with gentle authority.

Arthur lingered for days.

He did not rush in. He had been disappointed before. He had reached for connection only to be met with fear, or confusion, or the cold silence of disbelief. So he waited. He watched. He brushed lightly against the edges of Martin’s awareness, like a fingertip trailing through water.

Martin did not flinch.

He did not shiver or startle. He did not reach for sage or salt or incantation. He simply paused one evening, mid-step, looked down at the space where Arthur hovered, and said softly, “Well then. Hello.”

Arthur stilled.

It was not a grand moment. No thunder. No flickering lights. Just a man acknowledging presence. And for Arthur, it was everything.

He stayed close, but not too close. He let Martin feel him slowly, like a hand learning the shape of water. He moved with care, never imposing, never demanding. He folded into the rhythm of Martin’s days, the brewing of tea, the lighting of candles, the folding of socks with deliberate grace.

Martin began to speak aloud more often. Not to banish. To welcome.

“I don’t know what you want,” he said one night, folding socks with care. “But you’re welcome to stay.”

Arthur stayed.

He watched Martin’s hands as they moved over fabric, reverent and unhurried. He felt the warmth of the hearth, the pulse of the house, the quiet companionship of a man who did not need to understand in order to honour.

It was not yet communion. Not yet embodiment. But it was the beginning.

A slow burn.

Arthur stayed.

Not as a shadow, not as a whisper, but as a presence. He lingered in the corners of Martin’s home, folding himself into the rhythm of its days. He did not haunt. He harmonised. The house, already attuned to quiet things, welcomed him without resistance. The bowls of salt seemed to glow a little brighter. The candles burned with steadier flame. The socks, folded with care, held a warmth that lingered longer than fire.

Martin noticed.

He did not speak of ghosts. He did not reach for ritual or rite. He simply began to listen more deeply. He paused before entering rooms, as if waiting for permission. He stirred his tea clockwise, then anticlockwise, murmuring, “Balance.” He began to leave a single sock on the windowsill each morning, not for drying, but for offering.

Arthur responded.

He began to show himself, not in form, but in feeling. A soft pressure on Martin’s shoulder as he folded laundry. A flicker of scent, lavender and wool, when he lit the evening candle. A gentle tug at the hem of his trouser leg when he reached for a mismatched pair. Martin did not startle. He smiled.

“You’re learning to speak,” he said one night, placing a striped sock beside a plain one. “And I’m learning to hear.”

Martin’s gifts had always been quiet. He was not a medium in the theatrical sense. He did not channel voices or host séances. His talents were woven into the fabric of his being. Clairvoyance came to him as images in steam, in the patterns of sock threads, in the way shadows moved across the floor. Clairaudience whispered through kettle whistles, through the creak of floorboards, through the hush between pages turned.

Clairsentience was his strongest gift. He felt things. Not just emotions, but atmospheres. He could walk into a room and know what had been said, even if no words lingered. He could touch a sock and feel the story of the foot that wore it. He could sense Arthur’s longing, not as burden, but as invitation.

And then there was claircognisance. The knowing. The sudden clarity that arrived without explanation. Martin would wake with a sentence in his mind, or a memory that was not his own. He began to write them down in a leather-bound journal, each entry dated and titled with care.

“Arthur,” he wrote one morning, “is not here to be seen. He is here to be felt.”

Arthur read the words over his shoulder, a soft breeze stirring the page. He felt something shift within him. A recognition. A welcome.

Their days became a quiet duet.

Martin would brew tea, and Arthur would nudge the spoon toward honey. Martin would fold socks, and Arthur would guide his hands to pair those that resonated. Martin would sit by the hearth, journal in lap, and Arthur would settle beside him, a hush in the air like held breath.

One evening, Martin lit three candles, one for body, one for breath, one for longing. He placed a single sock beneath each flame and sat cross-legged on the floor.

“I don’t know your story,” he said aloud. “But I know your rhythm.”

Arthur moved closer.

He brushed against Martin’s chest, a soft pulse of warmth. He let himself be felt more fully, not as chill or shadow, but as presence. Martin closed his eyes. He did not speak. He did not move. He simply breathed, and Arthur breathed with him.

In that moment, something opened.

Not a portal. Not a possession. A threshold.

Martin saw a boy, slight and tender, folding socks with reverence. He heard a voice, not spoken, but felt, a longing for touch, for ceremony, for being known. He felt the ache of years spent wandering, the joy of being welcomed, the sacredness of being named.

Arthur, in turn, saw Martin’s heart. Not as muscle, but as sanctuary. He saw the threads of his gifts, woven through years of quiet listening. He saw the boy Martin had been, sitting alone in a sock-strewn room, whispering to the air and hoping it might whisper back.

They did not speak of it the next day. They did not need to.

Martin placed a new bowl of salt near the hearth. Arthur folded a pair of socks and left them on the altar. Their communion had begun, not loud, not sudden, but slow. Sacred. A burn that warmed rather than scorched.

And so they continued.

Two men, one living, one lingering, building a language of touch and silence, of fabric and flame. A relationship not bound by flesh, but by feeling. Not defined by form, but by presence.

Arthur had found his medium.

And Martin had found his mirror.

Arthur had never expected to be seen.

He had grown accustomed to being felt, to being sensed in the hush between moments, in the warmth of folded cloth, in the flicker of candlelight. But one morning, as Martin sat by the hearth with his journal open and the kettle murmuring on the stove, he looked up and said, quite plainly, “You’re here.”

Arthur stilled.

Martin’s eyes did not search the room. They settled on a space just beside the window, where the light fell in soft ribbons. “I don’t mean just felt,” he continued. “I mean seen. You’re slender. Pale. You smell like lavender and old wool. You fold socks like they’re sacred texts.”

Arthur, moved by the clarity, let himself shimmer. Not fully formed, not ghostly in the traditional sense, but present. A soft outline. A suggestion of limbs and longing. Martin did not flinch. He smiled.

“I thought so,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to speak.”

Arthur hesitated. His voice had not been used in years. It came slowly, like breath through silk. “I didn’t know I could.”

Martin nodded. “You can. Here, you can.”

And so they began to talk.

Not constantly. Not loudly. Their conversations unfolded like petals, one at a time. Arthur spoke of his life, brief and tender, of the socks he had loved, of the longing that had never found a home. Martin listened with the kind of attention that sanctifies. He did not interrupt. He did not analyse. He received.

Martin, in turn, shared his own story. He spoke of growing up with gifts he did not understand, of hearing voices in the wind, of knowing things he could not explain. He spoke of being called strange, of hiding his talents, of slowly learning to honour them. Arthur listened, his presence warm and steady.

One evening, as the fire crackled and the mist curled against the windows, Arthur said, “You could help others.”

Martin looked up from his journal. “How do you mean?”

Arthur moved closer. “You could go on stage. Not for spectacle. For service. Speak to those who have lost someone. Parents. Partners. Friends. But only for those who have lost queer souls. LGBTQ+ lives. The ones who were misunderstood. The ones who were never fully seen.”

Martin was quiet for a long time.

“I’ve never thought of that,” he said. “I’ve always kept my gifts private.”

Arthur placed a hand, light as breath, on Martin’s shoulder. “You could be a bridge. You already are.”

Martin began to consider it. He wrote notes in his journal, drafted ideas for gatherings, imagined rooms filled with candles and photographs, with people holding questions they had never dared to ask. He saw himself on stage, not performing, but translating. Not entertaining, but honouring.

Arthur helped. He whispered names. He guided Martin’s hand as he wrote. He offered stories, fragments of lives that lingered in the folds of memory. Together, they shaped a vision. A ceremony of remembrance. A sanctuary for grief and love.

Their relationship deepened.

Martin began to trust Arthur more fully. He spoke to him aloud, even in daylight. He left offerings on the altar, not just socks, but small stones, feathers, handwritten notes. Arthur responded with warmth, with presence, with the quiet joy of being known.

One night, as Martin sat on the edge of his bed, removing his socks with care, Arthur hovered nearby. He did not speak. He simply watched. Martin looked at him and smiled.

“Would you like to?” he asked.

Arthur nodded.

Martin held out the socks, still warm from wear. Arthur moved closer, inhaling gently. It was not lust. It was reverence. The scent held story, held rhythm, held the echo of Martin’s day. Arthur closed his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him.

Martin did not speak. He simply placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and let the moment be.

It was not strange. It was sacred.

A gesture of trust. A gift of presence. A quiet affirmation that longing, when honoured, becomes communion.

And so they continued.

Two men, one living, one lingering, building a relationship rooted in tenderness, in ritual, in the slow unfolding of truth. They spoke. They listened. They created. They healed.

Arthur had found his voice.And Martin had found his calling.Arthur had never imagined he would be seen in full. Not just felt, not just sensed, but truly seen. He had grown used to being a shimmer, a suggestion, a hush in the corner of a room. But the house had changed. Martin had changed. And the space between them had become something more than threshold. It had become invitation.

One morning, as the mist curled against the windows and the kettle began its low hum, Arthur stepped forward. Not as a flicker. Not as a breeze. As himself.

He stood in the centre of the room, slim and luminous, six foot two in stature. His hair was blonde and wavy, falling just past his ears in soft, deliberate curls. One eye was green, the other blue, and both held the quiet ache of someone who had waited a very long time to be recognised. His limbs were long and gentle, his posture both shy and dignified. He wore a simple white shirt and soft grey trousers, barefoot, his presence woven with light.

Martin looked up from his journal and did not speak. He simply rose, walked to Arthur, and placed a hand over his heart.

“You are beautiful,” he said.

Arthur closed his eyes. He had not heard those words in years. Not spoken with reverence. Not received without fear.

From that day forward, Arthur remained visible. Not always to others, but always to Martin. Their conversations deepened. They spoke of longing, of lineage, of the quiet grief carried by those who had never been fully known. Arthur shared stories of queer souls he had met in the liminal, those who lingered not in torment, but in yearning. Martin listened, his gifts sharpening with each exchange.

Martin began to change.

He had always been large, broad-shouldered and soft-bellied, a presence that filled rooms. But as his connection with Arthur grew, something within him shifted. He moved more. He ate with intention. He walked the moors each morning, speaking aloud to the wind. Slowly, his body began to reshape itself. Not through force, but through rhythm. Through alignment.

Arthur watched with quiet joy. Martin’s frame grew leaner, his posture more fluid. His shoulders softened, his waist narrowed. By spring, they stood side by side in the mirror, and Martin was nearly the same size as Arthur. It was not mimicry. It was resonance.

“You’re becoming,” Arthur said one evening, as they folded socks together by candlelight.

“I’m remembering,” Martin replied.

They began to prepare for the stage.

Not a theatre. A sanctuary. A place where grief could be held and longing could be named. Arthur would be Martin’s spirit guide, not just in silence, but in presence. He would stand beside him, visible to those who could see, felt by those who could not. He would be the beacon, the signal, the gentle call that drew LGBTQ+ souls forward to speak through Martin.

They rehearsed with care.

Martin would sit in a circle of candles, each flame representing a life. Arthur would walk the perimeter, whispering names, guiding energies, opening space. Martin would speak aloud, translating messages with clarity and grace. Parents would hear from sons they had never understood. Partners would receive words they had longed for. Friends would be reminded that love does not end with breath.

Arthur held the space.

He was not a performer. He was a witness. A guardian. A guide.

At home, their rituals grew more tender. Arthur would wait by the front door each afternoon, watching the path that led from the gate to the porch. Martin would return from errands or walks, his boots damp with moor mist or his trainers dusted with earth. Arthur would greet him with a smile, then kneel gently, inhaling the scent of the day held in fabric and sole.

It was not fetish. It was reverence.

Martin understood. He would place his shoes carefully on the mat, then sit beside Arthur, letting the moment unfold. They did not speak. They did not rush. Arthur would close his eyes, breathing in the story of Martin’s steps, the rhythm of his journey, the echo of his presence in the world.

Martin would place a hand on Arthur’s back, steady and warm.

“You are home,” he would say.

And Arthur was.

Their days became a tapestry of quiet joy and sacred purpose. They cooked together, read aloud to one another, wrote letters to souls who had passed. They prepared for ceremonies, refined scripts, chose socks with care for each gathering. Arthur would select pairs that matched the energy of the soul to be honoured. Martin would wear them with pride.

Their love was not loud. It was not named in conventional terms. It was a communion. A shared breath. A sacred unfolding.

Arthur had found his voice, his form, his purpose.Martin had found his rhythm, his calling, his companion.And together, they became a beacon.Not just for each other.For all those who had waited to be seen

They began to travel.

Not as performers. Not as prophets. As companions in service. Martin, now lean and luminous, carried his gifts with quiet dignity. Arthur, visible to those who could see and felt by those who could not, walked beside him. They moved from town to town, village to village, answering invitations not from institutions, but from hearts.

Each gathering was different.

In a chapel by the sea, they sat in a circle of driftwood and salt. A mother wept as Martin spoke her son’s name, a boy who had never dared to come out in life but who now stood beside Arthur, radiant and free. In a community hall in Yorkshire, a man clutched a photograph of his partner and heard, through Martin’s voice, the words he had longed for: “I never stopped loving you.”

Arthur held the space.

He was the beacon. The guide. The one who called the souls forward, who whispered their names into Martin’s ear, who steadied the room with his presence. He did not speak aloud, but his energy shaped the ceremony. He chose the socks Martin wore for each event, matching colour and texture to the soul being honoured. Striped for joy. Woollen for grief. Silk for longing.

Martin trusted him completely.

They travelled by train, by car, sometimes on foot. They stayed in cottages, in guest rooms, in quiet inns where the owners sensed something sacred and did not ask too many questions. Arthur would wait by the door each evening, watching for Martin’s return. When he saw him walking up the path, boots damp from rain or trainers dusted with earth, he would smile and open the door with a warmth that made the house feel like sanctuary.

Martin would remove his shoes slowly, placing them on the mat with care. Arthur would kneel beside them, inhaling gently, letting the scent of the day wash over him. It was not about possession. It was about presence. The smell of socked feet held story, held rhythm, held the echo of Martin’s steps through the world.

One evening, after a particularly tender ceremony in Bristol, Martin sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Arthur with quiet resolve.

“I want you to feel it,” he said. “Not just through scent. Through skin. Through breath.”

Arthur tilted his head, unsure.

Martin placed a hand over his heart. “Come in. Just for a moment. Let me be your vessel.”

Arthur hesitated. He had never entered another’s body. He had always remained beside, never within. But Martin’s invitation was clear. It was not about control. It was about communion.

Arthur stepped forward.

He closed his eyes and let himself merge, gently, reverently, into Martin’s form. It was not possession. It was partnership. Martin remained present, guiding the breath, holding the space. Arthur moved within him, feeling the weight of limbs, the pulse of blood, the warmth of skin.

Martin lay back, socks still on, and began to massage his own feet. Arthur felt every touch. The pressure. The texture. The sacred intimacy of contact. He inhaled through Martin’s nose, and the scent of worn cotton and skin filled him with joy. It was not erotic. It was ceremonial. A new way of being. A new way of knowing.

They remained like that for a long time.

Breathing together. Feeling together. Sharing a moment that transcended flesh and spirit. When Arthur stepped back, Martin opened his eyes and smiled.

“You are welcome,” he said.

Arthur bowed his head.

From that night forward, they continued their journey with deeper resonance. Their ceremonies grew more refined. Their bond more luminous. They became known not for spectacle, but for healing. For honouring. For creating spaces where love could speak and longing could be named.

Arthur had found embodiment.Martin had found devotion.And together, they became a living ritual A slow burn.A sacred unfolding.

End of Part 1

I couldn’t believe that it would be so hard… The guy in the video had zero problems showing and explaining: put the 1st ball through the ring, then the 2nd one, squeeze your flaccid dick at last, and put it directly in the chastity cage.

I looked at the clock and almost screamed in terror – it was less than 3 hours before my flight. I was looking forward to my long vacation in Italy for months, and I couldn’t ruin it because of a stupid idea to lock myself in for the first time in my life before the trip.

Why have I decided exactly this moment to be my first? I have no idea. Vacations in Europe always give me a thought about something open-minded, mind-blowing, a little bit crazy, and whole a lot of nasty. Putting myself in chastity had exactly the same vibe, so I carefully measured myself and ordered one in advance, only to receive it this morning with 0 ability to try it on first. Oh, well… I guess it wouldn’t have been that exciting if I knew what I was doing.

Ok, 5 more minutes passed in my thoughts, still no progress. I looked down at my lonely ball in the ring and decided to move swiftly, sharply, and precisely. Just like a guy in a video. 2nd ball in the ring. Now dick. Now the cage.

Success!

The lock clicked in the silence of my bathroom, and I proudly looked at myself in the mirror. What a good boy! Damn, I look so hot in this. Maybe I should consider it as part of my experience even after vacation? But let’s not rush with decisions, better call an Uber and rush to the airport.

Before leaving my apartment, I made a quick glance at the keys. Is it wise to leave one key at home and take the second one with me? I hesitated for a second but threw both of them in the back of my suitcase. No worries, let’s take two just in case…

I arrived at the airport just in time. Thankfully, no need to stand in line for the registration – I could take my luggage as carry-on, so without waiting, I rushed to the security check.

I’m a frequent flyer, so the procedure is a routine for me. Empty pockets, take off my belt, put everything on a tray, and wait for the sign to pass through the body scanner. And that’s when it clicked.

The scanner…

I couldn’t believe I was so stupid.

There were not so many people today, honestly speaking, only one woman in front of me. The officer showed her a sign to move on: she made a step further, raised her hands, and turned sideways. The scanner rotated around her body, and after several seconds, the green light appeared on the top.

It happened in nearly 15 seconds, but for me it must have been an eternity.

What do I do?? There is no way I can explain to the TSA officer that lovely thing on my dick; I would die from embarrassment. Run away? They will think I’m a criminal or something…

The officer made a sign for me to move. Time froze. I walked like in a dream towards the scanner and raised my hands in surrender…

Another lady officer approached and started to have a loud argument with ours. I couldn’t hear a word; the horror was fully in control of my body. The scanner rotated around me and stopped. I raised my eyes to the light at the top. Nothing was happening… Second after second dragged on and then… Beep. Green light. I turned my head to the officer, but he wasn’t even looking at me, being in the middle of some important conversation. I stood for a couple of extra seconds, while he waved me to move farther, still paying zero attention to my existence.

I couldn’t believe my luck! Just quickly grabbed my belongings and stormed out of security control.

My heart was pumping! Face is all red, hands are shaking, and my bladder is several seconds from a total collapse.

While I was running to the bathroom, one thought wouldn’t leave my head: “What if I had a bomb down there? Well, I guess in such a case the light wouldn’t go green, but these people should pay more attention to their work.” 

The bathroom had only 3 stalls, the left and right ones were showing red signs, so I flew into the middle one. I quickly realized my new reality: the cage was still in place and restricting my movements down there, including in the bathroom. It was my first time peeing with a cage on, so I decided to sit down: not because it’s more humiliating (I don’t believe in such thing), but just to avoid the splatters.  

I pulled my jockstaps down to my ankles and used my hand to direct the cage. My bladder almost exploded, and a strong stream of pee notified the entire bathroom about my situation with a loud gurgling sound. Ok, now that was embarrassing…

I left my stall exactly at the same moment as my neighbor from the left. I took a look at the gorgeous guy walking next to me: very tall, with a pitch-dark bushy beard. To my surprise, he was staring back at me, with some weird glance in his eyes. I washed my hands and left the bathroom to find a comfy seat before the flight.

Reflexively, I opened Grindr to check the guys nearby, but immediately stopped myself. Nope. No guys until I am comfortable with my new situation. Plus, I had plans to mentally relax in Italy, without throwing myself into endless horny adventures; therefore, my cage was the only crazy thing I agreed with myself to do that time. Looking back at my vacation today, boy, I was naive…

Bzzz. Vibrating noise from my phone returned me back to reality. One new message on Grindr.

“Hi,” it was the guy with the beard.

“Hey”. Wow, that’s a bit awkward.

“Long time no see. We were bathroom neighbors just a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I noticed that too. What a strange place for the first meeting.”

“Oh, don’t tell me it’s your first time meeting someone next to the bathroom stall. I know it’s not the first time for me for sure :)”

“Well, you know how they say, things that happen in the bathroom stall stay in the bathroom stall…”

“Haha, true. May I ask you a personal question?”

“Well, you can always try.” God damn it, I just promised myself to stay away from such situations, yet sucking that guy’s dick would be impossible to resist.

“I couldn’t help overhearing the sounds from your stall. You know, I’m not implying anything, but judging from what I heard and the fact that it’s Locktober…”

“What the hell is Locktober? I never heard of it.” Where the hell is this guy leading to?

“Oh, it’s just a tradition when some horny guys wear chastity for the entire month to show their devotion to the kinky lifestyle. Sorry, I just accidentally thought you were one of them. It was stupid on my side.”

“No, I’m not one of those, and I don’t think that’s the only reason why guys can pee sitting down. I don’t think I need a reason at all… But yeah, it might be somewhat accidentally true that one of the guys in the bathroom was wearing a cage today, not for the month, but just like to try a first time…”

“And I totally agree on a man’s right to pee anyway he sees fit. So… first time? Who’s the lucky keyholder? :)”

“Nobody, I was just doing this for myself…”

“That’s not as much fun! Common – lock your dick away – give you keys – see how your true self unveils. That’s how it works!”

“Well, I don’t know anyone who’s in that kink as well, so I’m just my own keyholder.”

“I have a better idea. Nothing serious, just to spice things a little bit… Where are you flying?”

“To Rome. It’s just 3h flight, we will board very soon…”

“What a lucky coincidence! How about that: let me be your keyholder just for these 3 hours. No stress, no obligations, just pure fun and the possibility to see if you like it. I promise I won’t run away in the flying plane, the worst case scenario, you will ambush me by the baggage claim…”

My heart raised its beat once again. I couldn’t believe the shit this guy was proposing. My dick has immediately tried to get hard, only to end like a bird, desperately beating against the walls of the cage.

“How would I even do it? I’m not passing you the keys in front of everyone.”

“Walk back into the stall you’ve already been in and leave them on the toilet cistern. I will follow right behind you.”

“And then how do we exchange back after the flight?”

“Dude, it’s not a nuclear missile. I will give it back in the plain, once everyone leaves. Now go, I’m following. And yeah, I do know that keys come in pairs, so make sure to leave BOTH of them in there.”

My brain wasn’t thinking, my eyes weren’t seeing anything, but my legs were already carrying me to the stall. Luckily, the bathroom was almost empty, so I walked in, took the keys out of my backpack, and silently put them next to the flush button. I froze just for a few seconds before leaving and quickly walked to the sink.

My Grindr friend wasn’t lying – the moment I left the stall he quickly lurked in, grabbed the keys, and 3 seconds later was washing his hands right next to me.

-See you later, alligator…

I just stood and watched in the mirror as he walked away. My immediate urge was to go back in the stall and have an aggressive jerk off, but that would have been impossible in my current situation.

 

So I decided to take my mind off and explore duty-free for the remaining 20 minutes before boarding.

The airport was huge, so I quickly got lost in the clouds of expensive perfume aromas, elegant bottles of liquor, and endless boxes of Lego up to the ceiling. I was able to fully relax, only to hear the voice from the speakers:

“…I repeat, the boarding for flight 570 to Rome is closing NOW!”

Fuck, there is no way on Earth I could miss that flight!

I grabbed my suitcase and ran through the crowd like crazy. My gate was not so far away, so I put all my strength into this short sprint… Yes, here it is! The lonely woman was looking very angry at me, yet said nothing while scanning my boarding ticket and let me through. Fuck yes!

By the time I reached the plane, everyone was already seated. I took a look at my ticket and saw number 31F. Damn it, it’s all the way in the back! Now I have to have a walk of shame through the entire passenger cabin, but at least I can have a final glance at my new Grindr keyholder.

Row 7, 8… 12, 13… 25, 26… 31. I walked all over the plane until I reached my seat. 31F. Second row to the last. My heart stopped.

The guy wasn’t on the plane. There was no way I’d miss this fluffy beard. Maybe he was also late the same way I was?

I took my seat and quickly grabbed my phone in the hope of a last-minute Internet connection.

I opened Grindr with my shaking hands and typed:

“Man, where are you?? We’ve already boarded, the plane is taking off!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, there’s no rush. My flight to Amsterdam doesn’t start in the next hour.”

“What?? I thought you were heading to Rome on the plane with me!”

I still remember the last message I was able to see before the signal cut off.

“I hope you have a safe flight… and a metal cage.”

After that, my vacation took very unexpected point of no return.

But that’s a whole other story…

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