Stick Shift
The knock sounded again. It was louder and longer— five taps this time--- and Jake fuzzily resigned himself to the fact that the honeymoon was officially ending.
Broderick was nothing if not meticulous in carrying out the responsibilities entrusted to him. This morning, it was his mission to see to the closing of the boys’ Jerome Hotel suite and the send-off of Cal and Jake to the lowlands in their cross-country trek for Cal’s youthful hometown of Rome, Georgia.
The butler had initially endeared himself to the newlyweds upon acquiring the balcony suite in the Jerome four years before when his tactful manner and able judgment had intervened with a boisterous stalker outside the hotel. The ski bum had decided to act the over-zealous, unwanted aspirant toward Jake as he had approached the old hotel on a frigid day in January…
… The youth, who had virtually run me over on the sawtooth halfway down the mountain thirty minutes before, had shown himself again on the street in Aspen town. I was taken aback by the untoward behavior, but even more so by the quasi-malicious undertone to his comments. The accusatory attitude combined with a blatant attempt to hook up had bothered me.
Earlier, up the mountainside, I had stood, awed at the sheer drop down a bumpy, ski-sculpted surface before me. Navigating Devil’s Drop had created an obsession. Until then, the black diamond run had virtually laughed at repeated attempts, thwarting my developing skill. This time, attacking the rim determinedly, I had descended. My skis sliced decisively, arcing around the deep edges marking the icy humps. Suspended seconds passed and I hit the traverse, upright and in control. Supremely exhilarated and totally absorbed by my victory over the challenging mogul pattern, I curled around for a pause to soak in the triumph, oblivious to the surroundings.
A masked snowboarder had whooshed from around an adjoining corner and almost broadsided me as I basked there, catching my blind side without warning of any sort. Not a full-on collision, the clipping of my ski and hip had swept feet out and upwards, twirling me in a 1080 to the snow-packed cross trail. Landing flat on my back with a thud led to several more rotations before plunging into a powdery snowbank. I lay still a minute. Then, sensing no danger, nor even sound, I had extracted myself from the fluffy stuff and arisen to assess what just occurred.
The miscreant had hit-and-run, never even slowing to check for collateral damage left in his wake. The behavior was typical for the discourtesy that traditional slalom skiers associated with the upstart variation introduced late in the last century. Many ski enclaves had banned the newbie addition to the downhill sport for years, but Aspen had finally given in to the pressure to open up their slopes. The burgeoning infatuation with it demanded acceptance. Acute increases in ‘drive-by’ accidents subsequent to the decision had the conventional ski community second-guessing that.
Dusting the snow from my insulated spandex body suit and ribbed parka, then adjusting my bindings, I set out. Scanning the steep backdrop one more time with satisfaction, I lazily slalomed down the expanding concourse serving as meeting point of multiple different ski runs in the descent to bunny slopes and lifts.
Packing my skis, boots and accessories into Cal and my shared locker at mountain base, I donned hiking boots and hoofed it for the hotel. After whisking off my knit stocking hat I shook out crimped curls, finger-combing the tangles. My thick, sun-burnished auburn locks were a source of both pride and wild unruliness. At their present length during my sabbatical from hospital duty, Cal caroused in them. They provided a ready handle for his caveman predilections. The man would no doubt drag me around by them if he thought I would allow it. I lit up a small blunt on the way, mellowing almost immediately.
Cal should be descending soon, himself, after wrapping up the board meeting he had overseen through a working lunch. The mountain peak restaurant was a sought after venue for many business deals, 360 view persuasive by the panoply. The site worked magic convincing uncommitted investors and calming combative board members, Cal had discovered, so it commonly served his purposes. I had grown bored earlier with the monotony of CPA-driven proceedings and stolen away for a loner run down my nemesis, Devil’s Drop. Ha, I gloried: my former nemesis…
The turn on to Main street brought the Hotel Jerome into view. I admired the venerable structure with its old-world architecture, so archetypal to the town in which it flourished. The coziness of the innards had drawn me to its intimacy like a newborn to a teat. Cal had sprung for the exorbitant cost, indulging my yearning. We had discussed the possibility of acquiring another property way up the mountainside but both of us were reticent to forfeit the luxury of the central location in such an establishment. The option was being mulled.
My doctor’s salary would have been totally inadequate to land the three-bedroom suite but in Cal’s successful software company we found the wherewithal to procure its understated refinement. There were more opulent places around the town proper and outlying areas, but the history and magnetism for the jet-set crowd had instilled its ambience with something indescribable. The class and elegance won us both over and we exulted in our abode away from home.
As I drew within a block of it, I thought I heard Cal’s deep voice call to me but on turning, I noted a flaxen haired man approaching, hurrying to catch up. The face was unfamiliar and I was curious.
“Fly boy, you ought to be more careful,” the man was saying, and I looked back in front to be sure he was addressing me. “Yeah, dude, I mean you…you ’bout caused a ’tastrophe. You new on your skis?”
The person’s long blond hair shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight and bounced around his head as he walked. It hit me that the bad-mannered snowboarder up the mountain must inhabit this body. I decided to ignore him and keep walking on to our place instead of addressing his continuing insolence.
“You always this rude, fly boy? I’m tryin’ to talk to you--- you just gonna walk away?”
OK, I thought, what was up with this guy? “Do I know you, mister,” leaving out the question in my voice, as I had no wish to converse with him.
“Well, I dunno, but ya’ just about wiped me out on Devil’s Drop comin’ off the mogul stretch. That’s a dangerous thing you pulled, man.” This uncouth person spun a yarn better than Bill O’Reilly.
I didn’t stop walking, preferring the haven of the hotel with its buffer of patrons over an open street encounter here with a complete loser. It crossed my mind to wonder if he was packing a gun. His ballsy approach to the truth had my nerves jangling.
“You know, Sir, the ski board has a meeting in a week. If you feel the need, we can review the remote cams up there and set straight what actually occurred. You seem to hold a perverse perspective on reality if you think I’m responsible for your loony-tune antics. I’m late for my evening—take it easy, now.” I tried not to sound overly confrontational. This alpha-male projecting himself was not generating good vibes with me at the moment.
Catching up to me, the almost good-looking man handed my arm, pulling me around to face him. A sneer of a smile jagged across his hard features and he attempted what he apparently felt passed for dialogue. “Fly boy, I’m just trying for friendly here. You should slow down a minute and give me a chance. The evening is just starin’ at us. We could have some fun together if you just let it go a little… the view from this end is booty-licious, dude.”
Having had enough, I shook his hand off my arm, making certain he knew I wasn’t in the mood for anything he might have in mind. “Well, thanks for that back-handed compliment, I guess, but what are you talking about, stranger? I don’t even know you. You act like all this and then try coming on to me…? See the dichotomy, maybe?”
The blond didn’t understand the word and wasn’t chastened in the slightest. Taking the brushed off hand he placed it directly on my left cake. Wow, I figured, this guy has got balls, I’ll give him that. They sure weren’t my type. What’s more, I detested being treated in the manner of his come-on. What a turn-off.
With a strong hand of my own, I turned on the guy, no longer guarded in my own approach. Wristing the uninvited grope, I raised it up to his face level. Directing my most severe doctor visage at him, he was informed, “I have performed amputations on better-looking hands than this...and some were just as functional. Please keep that in mind. I’ve told you that I have plans this evening. If you’ll excuse me, Sir, I am home.” With that, I placed the hand on the side of his face, dropped my own, turned on my heel and stepped up the stairs.
“Oh, so how long you in town for, fly boy? The Jerome’s pretty high-falutin’, so probably not too long, I’m bettin’. You can come crash at my place if you want. I’m real fun, now, I’m tellin’ you. And I like a challenge,” the man persisted.
Good Lord, I was amazed.
Then, it dawned on me. Turning back and looking down on the ski-bum, I tried a different tack, “Did you sideswipe me on purpose up there—Dude?” Borrowing his own vernacular. The snarky smirk told it all, and now my ire was up.
“Fly boy,” he went on, unfazed, “I done seen you up there comin’ out the Sundeck, pulling that sock over those curls and decided we should get to know each other.” He came up the steps in a quick bound, then, like I had somehow made an inviting motion of some sort. Though he was my height, at six foot, the guy outweighed me by probably forty pounds. I didn’t like the forwardness, mostly because of the history on the slope between us. I stepped up, preparing to… well, I’m not sure what I was about to do. Though I knew I should just disappear into the familiar confines of the hotel.
The leer was back. He must not check himself out in the mirror while smiling, I reasoned, or he wouldn’t do it that way. It imparted an undertone of malicious intent and made his otherwise attractive features appear malevolent. The unwelcome hand was reaching out once again and I was about to get definitive with him when another hand extended between us, gently persuading me backward.
I glanced over my shoulder to find Broderick’s benevolent countenance within inches of mine, “Doctor Marshall, it is sooo nice to see you have arrived, sir. Your party is waiting in the library. I have your blazer, here, sir. May I gather your wrap before we retire inside?” He oozed old-world charm and I almost kissed the man. Pulling off my parka, the savior efficiently shrugged me into the proffered sports coat.
Assigned to our suite upon closing the deal with the hotel, the seasoned gentleman took personal care of Cal and me, becoming extended family in the interim. He had obviously discerned my predicament from indoors. The intervention was especially welcome and timely.
The interruption had confused the blond man; his hand backed down. “Well, now… Doc, is it? I’ll be. Cute butt and he has a brain, too. OK, I’ll just be checkin’ in with you in a day or two, Doc, and we can get it goin’,” he didn’t take hints well, I noted. I slipped past Broderick and took note through the cut glass door that the cultured gentleman stayed, addressing the forward jackass. Broderick’s facial features betrayed nothing, but the blonde’s reflected re-enactment of a bad silent movie. It looked to be a sad-sack theme. A black cloud hovered above him as he retreated down the steps.
Deflated, but I was pretty sure not defeated, the snowboarder disappeared down the street. I was indebted to Broderick from then on…
...Laying in the big poster bed, the previous three weeks washed over Jake as he stretched his leg out and down alongside his husband’s, engendering a reactionary flexing of the supple, ebony leg now touching his. In only semi-consciousness, Calumet’s leg lifted over Jake’s and his thickly muscled bicep slid under the mane of ringlets that had sprouted to impressive length over the extended honeymoon here in Aspen, Colorado. Much fuller and longer than when on duty in the ER of Brack, back home in Austin, it now sprayed riotously over the pillow. Cal was totally turned on by the mop of curls, expressing his preference for the state of disarray often and with physical reinforcement. His fingers were constantly fidgeting in it and that was reason enough for Jake to let it grow.
A soft voice spoke in tandem with the next round of persistent knocking. This time, Cal ascended from subliminal depths, rubbing the long leg up and over his husband’s ample endowment which began swelling by the act. Yawning, Cal scooched over the top of the white boy’s torso, dragging ten inches of engorged phatness across a flat white belly in the doing, then plodded through the living area to the door. Upon opening it, Mr. Broderick ensured that more than the ten-inch crotch snake was awakening by jostling the tall man’s shoulder, pushing him gently backward into the foyer.
Cal turned back to the warmth of his lover to awaken more pleasantly. Following inside, the unfazed butler soft-stepped over toward the open kitchen. Checking that the coffeemaker was brewing on its timer, he made his way around the suite, breaking night’s dominion by opening curtains, checking suitcases still partially filled, and perusing closets for upcoming packing-versus-storage requirements. When not in residence, several closets were locked to privatize certain areas. The inquisitiveness of visiting patrons eager to fill the empty periods of the vacated place necessitated such. The couple’s winter wardrobe resided on-premise permanently.
Andre appeared next, heading into the cutting edge kitchen for preparing the final breakfast of the honeymoon sojourn. Soon, the smell of toast, egg soufflé and bacon wafted over morning boners in the en suite, energizing Jake’s dawn function of working up Cal’s piece to full-bloom. His mouth engulfed the limber shaft, slowly inching the thickness to a swollen level of turgidity in mutual craving. Neither awakening newlywed was concerned about the proximity of the silently functioning men carrying out routine duties. Perceiving the action through discreet eyes, both older gents had deduced that their vicarious awareness was aphrodisiacal for the jungle-fever couple. Bashfulness had never been a measured emotion in this suite, at least when the Marshall-Broadhearsts were in residence.
Climax was achieved before long, marked by the deep moan betokening it. Creamy jism overflowed ready taste buds, seeping onto the ebony skin underneath. All of which was assiduously tongue-scoured. Jake was like that… Not much remained and the boys stirred from positions held during the erotic episode, slipping satedly into the shower area where they cleaned up for the coming road trip.
The anticipation of the cross-country drive was bittersweet, for while the couple enjoyed traveling together almost as much as their best men, Jeremy and Luke, loss of the honeymoon intimacy was palpable. On another level, Cal was excited about spending the coming months in his hometown. Contrastingly, Jake was trepidated by the prospect of so many new family members with whom to acquaint. And hopefully befriend.
Breaking fast with Broderick and Andre, conversation dwelt on upcoming plans for all four. The majordomo and chef, extended family to the boys, were always on paid contingency when the couple was not in residence. Private plots were already conceived and hatching.
By half past eight, the boys had been packed up, escorted to the touring Benz in which they traveled and wished well until they should again return to their Roaring Fork River Valley home.
“Cal, it’s down to 30. What do you think?” I was monitoring the console as it continued to portray the four tires’ present condition. The warning picture had flicked on two hours before, alerting us to an aberration in the right rear. Detection of a slow leak had been noted, and since then the pressure had decreased by 5 psi. Enough to worry. I felt that the stop by the side of the road after lunch may have been the onset for the problem. Wanting the guidance system programmed for the trip, I had forgotten it had to be done while the transmission was in park position. GPS coordinates couldn’t be pinpointed in a moving vehicle. Exiting the interstate and pulling to the gravel shoulder, perhaps the tire had picked up a nail or something.
“Well, Mr. Driver Maestro, we aren’t in danger of going flat at that rate, so why don’t we shoot for stopping at…skimming the digital console map…here—Atoka, Oklahoma. It’s about 30 miles further. Should be no problem. We’ll stop at a gas station and see if we can get it looked to. You good, baby?”
My man was always conscious of my moods; the concern therefore concerned him as well. He stretched his long legs out, subconsciously rubbing over his package in the doing. I followed his fingers out of the corner of my eye and he picked up on it. “Eyes on the road, Horndog Sally. If you need some of this, there’ll be time for it when we stop,” he grinned at me as I licked my lips. We were both highly libidinous and fed off one another on multiple occasions almost every day. Traveling provided obstacles, but nothing unmanageable. And, there was the novelty factor. I could wait…that is, if he stopped with the rubbing.
Visualizing a nice blowjob in a roadside bathroom, or the like, I put my hand over on top of his to either stop his action or help him out, unsure which.
The smoothness of the ride was not adversely affected by the tire, only the responsiveness. The miles sped by as we maintained attention via NPR and Monster/UltraBlue energy drinks. Twenty minutes later found us passing the billboard announcing, “Welcome to Atoka, Oklahoma”. Below that, a caption boasting ‘Player Piano Capitol of the World’ let us know of the excitement we were in for.
“Jacob, there--- on the right just ahead--- one of those mega truck stops.” I loved when he got all formal with my name. It meant he was horny. “Hmm, ‘Love’s Travel Stops’--- I think I’m liking this place already. Think there’ll be any service?” The hand was back on the crotch.
Snickering at his own incredible wit, we pulled in. Finding a parking spot close to a sign marked for autos, vs eighteen-wheelers, we exited to look around. Several covered bays were lined up far to the side of the main building and we entered an office adjoining them.
The area seemed deserted so we peeked through a side door to the first bay area, nearly knocking into a coveralled figure bent over an open-hooded SUV. The gender was obvious as he wasn’t wearing a shirt under the coveralls and the shapely pectorals extended nicely into lithe arms busily unscrewing something unseen deep inside.
The door barely swiped the slim rear end but the unscrewing halted. The torso raised up from under the hood and a bushy-headed man popped up in reaction. A quick smile assured us we hadn’t pissed him off and Cal introduced us, requesting someone who might service the gradually deflating tire.
“Well, sho‘nuf, folks,” sizing the two of us up, “we can do that. Didn’t LaShondra get you helped out in there?” The man appeared to be late twenties or early thirties, and his friendly manner evinced a convivial personality.
“Nope, no one inside,” Cal responded, “want us to go back in and look again?” I could see he would rather not.
“Oh, it be a’ight, men, she probly’s on break. And everyone else be off today, ‘counta the piani festival. Whatya’ see is whatya’ get, I s’pose… Ain’t no biggie, I kin help ya’ll. Gimme a minute to finish screwin’ this nut and I’ll do ya’ll two,” totally oblivious to his double entendre. Now grinning ourselves, we watched the solidly built man then adjust the free-ranging, sizeable bulge beneath the coveralls. The action caused a second thought about the obliviousness…
We backed off while he turned and leaned back into the engine. Unsure if we should wait there or go inside the office, the voice from under the hood read our minds and instructed, “Just hang there a fas’ minute, gents, I be ’bout ready to service ya’ll. You said it was just that blown tire, now, co-rect?” The air suddenly wreaked of innuendo and we looked at each other in puzzlement, but did as told, checking out the firm globes, covered but imaginable, within feet of us.
Cal pantomimed a lewd hand action over and around the roundness poking up at us, licking lips in lascivious exaggeration. I couldn’t help busting out at his typical over-sexed, demonstrative nature but laughed even louder as the cheeks suddenly backed into the hands, causing contact. The man-of-color arose again, more slowly, not pulling away from Cal’s touch. Cal didn’t break contact either.
Turning once more, he eyed my man in a way that left me wondering whether Cal was about to be clobbered or fondled. Just a fraction of a second provided answer to that as he glanced around the bay, then right back at us. His fingers went up to the clasp on the coveralls, unhooking it. With a fluid motion, the entirety of the mechanic’s wardrobe fell to his ankles. He grinned back as we took in a rapidly rising thick dick, pendulous balls weighing the big thing down as it engorged to almost the size of my husband’s. The man seemed justifiably proud of the organ. His own lip-licking ensued and the more-than-ready auto worker gestured for one of us to feel free to ‘kick the tires’.
Both of us went into action simultaneously. Me to my knees and Cal handling the high round butt of dark-skinned hue similar to his own. My lips clamped hungrily on a fatly swollen head that needed attention. I could tell this by the pearling of pre-cum which smeared my tongue almost immediately. I swallowed the pungently odoriferous whopper all the way to the kinkiness at the base, enjoying the feeling of my throat filling up with guest dick.
The dick conspicuously agreed, swelling even more. I heard the two men above me intimately discussing the work I was doing, a few expletives lacing very imaginative descriptions of my method. Interlaced with sucking sounds that complemented the words, I knew the two were tongue-tying it up there and my own piece wiggled its way out the front of my shorts. I lubed up with the excess saliva sliming the thick shaft. Cal’s honker dick bounced off my head a couple times forcing me to alternate my mouth action. I never liked disappointing available black dick meat.
Next thing I knew Cal’s big hands grasped my buttcheeks, prodding them upward. The intent was for double-dipping. Damn, I thought, this rest stop was better by the minute. Dropping my shorts and spreading my legs for easier access, my man slicked the tens and slid up me with practiced ease, hilting me to the delectable eggs underpinning the snake. All this time, both men remained lip-locked and I set into a rhythmic pattern swallowing the new friend with whom I was familiarizing.
The low-hangers took to caroming off my chin with each opposing thrust and the three of us made some music right there in the light o’ day… dead center of Atoka, Oklahoma’s Love Stop. I don’t think any of the three of us came up for air once during the next minutes. Right up to when the un-named service-center worker grumbled out a throaty message signaling the eruption that hit my tonsils. That sent both Cal and me over and three loads emptied close together--- two unseen and my own splotching the cement floor. We came down gradually, savoring some male-on-male togetherness. Then the two studs backed out their dripping pieces from me, checking the handiwork as they did so.
“Umm, umm, Ummmm, umm, umm…” was about the whole of the intellectual banter voiced between us as we looked again at reality. The working man was audible in his illustrative acknowledgment of a job well done. He grabbed a hand towel from the floored coveralls, using it to thoughtfully wipe my mouth of excess sperminess and followed by efficiently cleaning the rest of our soiled selves. This dude was proficient, I noted.
As if to punctuate the scene, he slapped my just-poled butt and spoke. “Now, men, did I hear there was somethin’ deflatin’ around here somewheres?” Cal had pulled himself back into clothing by now. He then reached down to the floored shoulder-strap of the big-dicked male and pulled the coveralls up in a clean motion that put him back in business, just like that. The two watched me dress more slowly, enjoying the ravished anatomy.
“Be just a short’n, travelers, and we’ll have you back to rollin’,” the friendly man absent-mindedly informed us. Cal tousled my head and we made our way over to the restaurant across the parking lot for a snack. I could feel dark eyes boring my backside as we walked and enjoyed the unstated compliment. But wondered if the escaping baby-juice was staining my pants.
Sure enough, a half hour was all it took before we were back in the office to settle the bill and get on the road. LaShondra was still nowhere to be seen and the mechanic conspiratorially confided to us she was shacked up in an eighteen-wheeler over across the way in the truck bays.
“No doubt two-steppin’ dat boot”, he said, in his inventive mid-western vernacular. I asked to reconcile with him on the repair work and the bush of hair topping his head jostled back and forth as he laughed that he was surprised I wasn’t charging him. The work balanced out, he told us. So after a bit more butt-slapping and well-wishing, we parted, leaving the man to his own devices.
In the car, Cal stared over at me, “Damn, Jake, what the hell just happened, my curly man?” We laughed through the rehashing of the unexpected scene in the ‘Player Piano Capitol of the World’. Click and Clack waxed eloquent on NPR, entertainingly advising how to fix callers’ cars, and their lives, via radio…we could have advised the brothers on a few things.
Over three leisurely days we wandered our way eastward toward Cal’s childhood home. Dinner in Edmond, Oklahoma, with friends; brunch in Eureka Springs with others. Finally, detouring to purposely cross the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, we found ourselves on the homestretch toward Rome, Georgia. Staying the last night in Tuskegee National Forest to regroup so as to knock on Cal’s family homestead before the next noon, we visited Booker T’s and George Washington Carver’s gravesites, then toured the famous Airmen citadel. The day concluded by our settling in for dinner at the hotel restaurant found there.
The old Tuskegee Institute campus diminished in our rearview mirror by dawn the following morning. Cal filled me in on some family history and detail, coloring it all with a few interesting stories, in preparation for truly meeting the family into which I was now officially married. On their turf, that is. Having met several members already, though in other cities or when they had visited us in Austin, this would be a test for us both. We wanted to make a good impression in our newly wedded state-of-being.
NPR’s World News Round-up announced eleven in the morning at the time the big S-550 touring sedan edged into the ancient oak-lined, pebbled entry lane leading up to the old antebellum country home on the Coosa River. Cal’s quiet intake of breath let me know of his gratification for the view as we rolled toward the well-maintained home place, memories no doubt flooding his mind.
We envisioned a buxom and beautifully lean woman with short, spiked hair standing on the spacious, honeysuckle vine shrouded terrace. Sophie, Cal’s little sister, called over her shoulder as she waved to us. As we pulled closer, several more people exited the door to stand with her in a welcoming familial gesture. It warmed our hearts. The reception informed us of at least a modicum of acceptance. As a same-sex interracial couple in a state known for its poor track record at acceptance of non-conformity, it spoke volumes.
The sleek automobile purred to a halt before the waving, smiling group, growing in numbers as we got out. No sentiment of distaste hit us as Cal came around to my side. He grasped my waist and pulled me close in presentation to the throng. I was supremely embarrassed to color over in full blush as the introductions were made. Unintentionally, I had set in motion a ‘family memory’ for the future by the involuntary flushing effect. The brothers and sisters latched on to the quaintly Anglo-oriented proclivity, identifying me as a non-threatening innocent by the reaction. In a family filled with nicknames, I was branded ‘Red Hot’ on the spot.
Their answers to unspoken questions as to what sort of person I was had been put to rest without much doubt. The physiological weakness proved endearing to the very people I hoped to win over like nothing I could have ever voiced. As the realization struck and Cal leaned into me, arm around my shoulder, we all entered the big old front entry chitchatting easily--- this was much better than I could have ever hoped.
Sophie, Cal’s only blood sister, who had initially awaited us on the veranda, buddied up to me in a sisterly manner, nonchalantly filling me in on the day’s planned events now that the eldest brother and prodigal son had arrived home. With his husband. Her easy personality and ready smile took me under her wing as she drew me toward the kitchen, proceeding to find out about me and my story without any inkling of the ‘interrogation’ I had feared. Nephews and nieces, brothers and cousins wandered in and out while two sisters-in-law included me in conversation over preparations for the soul food feast obviously in the making.
Even so, I was overwhelmed at the hubbub. Way too many new names and personas deluged my senses. It all left me in need of Cal’s familiarity but my man was somewhere else in the big old home, himself inundated by the sheer volume of attention.
Sophie and a precocious five-year-old niece sat me down in the kitchen nook, continuing a comfortable banter meant to include. I was disarmed by the effort and gladly accepted a glass of mint iced tea. Sitting back to a wall, I gathered my wits. The activity hummed around me. Grasping the inclusion attempt by a number of family members, I gradually loosened up a bit, settling in to more listening than talking. Very beholden to them for a reprieve on the curious questions, nice though they were. Absorbing the cacophonous camaraderie pervading the homey kitchen, I quietly dissembled while sipping my tea. What a beautiful family. I was ready, I told myself, for whatever came along now.
Within seconds of hearing the latch lock into place on the plywood door, the mound jumbling the inside of the sweatpants nonchalantly positioned itself within eyesight of the 6-inch oblong cutout joining my stall to the next one. Darkly veined hands fingered the rope tie at the waist and with faked patience untied the loose knot, allowing them to drop silently to the floor over the worn, sockless and laceless cross-trainers. No clothing was visible on the darkly smooth stomach above the sexy bellybutton.
A frayed jock only partially tamed the s-shaped black snake within. Rid of pants, the long meat willed its way tentatively toward the hole, the same fingers further liberating the leg lizard from its frazzled confines into a supple, growing organ. Curlicues of pubic cover and smooth low-hangers of hefty size filled the view through the hole in the wall as I considered my dilemma.
I silently grinned in contemplation of the problem ‘unfolding’ before me. Here I was, on my knees, padded by shorts and drawers. My limber white dick dangled at half-mast between my thighs, popper bottle within hand’s reach. A fat black dick swung free through the cutout hole, inching higher in progressive engorgement, evidently eager for some good head. And yet, I hesitated tapping the over-sized uncut cobra barely four inches from my lips…
…The same lips that had partaken of the fragrant herb so frowned upon by much of society only an hour before when a new brother-in-law had tempted me while out collecting my wits from the familial onslaught occurring inside the house. I was claiming a short respite on the back veranda when Coy had appeared, sauntering toward me out of the wooded depths of the shaded backyard bordering the riverside. He was sucking lazily on a fat blunt.
The dark-skinned beefcake eyeballed me smugly and asked if I were just a little bit freaked by the token white boy status I presently held amongst the gathering family. That made me laugh, but he persisted, letting me know that maybe I could understand the feeling black folk commonly dealt with in the lily-white world they navigated. Food for thought, for sure. Then, he proposed to increase my paranoia level by offering me a hit.
Really, now, what’s a man gonna do? I took the blunt and inhaled deeply of the smooth creeper weed, of course. We chatted amiably, sharing several tokes as my nerves calmed over the ensuing minutes. Coy’s laid back manner indicated prior achievement of his desired mental state: basically blitzed.
Breaking our quiet reverie, the door opened suddenly and we were busted by Sophie who burst out on us calling her brother’s name, in search. Startled, we exhaled the guilty evidence directly at her, my discomfort on distinct display by another abrupt flushing.
She surveyed the scene, asking, “Well, now, what you two cute stuffs doin’ out here?” Kindly opting to defray my visible angst, she smiled knowingly as my cheeks burned. Then she further endeared herself to me, signaling to pass her the doobie. By taking a hit with us, she let me off the hook. It worked. This woman was smart, sassy and obviously intuitive.
My new favorite lady reminded Coy of the need for a run to the grocery store in town before the soul food barbeque later in the evening, instructing him to, “take this here boy along, too, so your stoned selves both make it back home OK.” Sealing my gratitude, she winked at me, flirtatiously stuffing a paper into my shirt pocket, adding, “Here’s the list.” And with that, she disappeared back into the house.
Finding ourselves on the road into town a little later, Coy told me he had to stop in the bank for a few minutes, could I get the list? No problem, that. I stonedly floated from the car toward the grocery store as he turned in the other direction. Breaking the age-old rule of ‘no grocery shopping while high’, I wandered every single aisle of the store gathering the items listed, plus some... twice.
In high focus, I collected the filled bags to the trunk and settled inside the car to await Coy’s return from his bank errand. And waited... and waited... and waited for the no-show Coy. After half an hour, my mind was wandering. I picked up on a darkly shaded alley to the side of the store not noticed up to then. Had I been in the city, I never would have done so but here in the sticks my sozzled curiosity bested me and I stepped out of the car.
Following through it to the back corner, I turned at the rear alleyway and spied an untamed bush-shrouded door with the sign above it weakly blinking the announcement, “VIDEO ARCADE”. Wow, I thought, Mecca for the horndog world invades Smalltown, USA. A few not-quite-guilt-tinged minutes later found myself unsealing the fresh popper bottle and choosing a skin-flick video in the small cubicle locked by a slide latch. The scene was now set for the previous ‘problem’ sexily rising before me...
...The underground hip-hop music fixed a sexual pulse throughout the seedy arcade as I kneeled before the glory hole, nasty lyrics suggesting my next move. I debated my instinct to do what I wanted to do: suck the pretty dick through the hole. Slurping sounds close by alerted me to the fact that the dick sucker in the booth on my other side was tripping on a fat piece which had no doubt locked itself into the adjoining cubicle for just such a purpose…damn.
I could hear the raspy, falsetto voice of the tranny two stalls down as she begged the long, hard, corn-holing cock to, “Nooo... please, Daddy, oh noo, please, Daddy, don’t do that, it’s too big... oh, please Daddy, Daddy, oh, please, please don’t--- I can’t take all that big dick, Daddy…ohhh, please Daddy, please...ohhh...ohhh... …ooohhhhh…Yesss, Daddy, fuck that pussy, Daddy...give me that big cock...Slam me with that, Daddy, ooooh go, Daddy,” in the worn refrain performed one more time…double damn.
What the hell, I thought? Where was I, anyway? And what was this pretty piece doin’ here in front of me? It sure seemed to be under no illusions as the beckoning head reached an arching fullness, teasing me. This encounter must be preordained, I rationalized. By that fully twisted logic, I succumbed to the subliminal aura of the sex-infused atmosphere, greedily sliding that big, fat pre-cumming brother-in-law dick all the way past my tonsils. And there I sat, skewered and motionless, absorbing my big, fat indulgence for as long as I could.
Finally needing to breathe, I backed off the handsome prick, exhaling as the thing cleared out of my throat until just the delicious spongy head remained between my lips. Looking down my nose at the long black shaft, I took the time to uncap the popper bottle and inhaled to boost my efforts. I teethed a bit on the head of this hot man’s straight out 9-1/2 inches of uncut dick as the rush enveloped me, then curved it back down my ready throat as Coy pressed from the opposite side. Hearing him audibly hit on his own jungle juice bottle, I spit the big thing with saliva and settled into a long, deep, in-and-out motion, sliding to the rhythm of the nasty music. Damn good dick.
I have always loved how my tongue feels when smoothly enwrapping the elastic swelling on the underside of hard dicks. Repeatedly following this one’s swollen undertube all the way down the length from the helmet head to the kinky pubic pad and smooth balls, I gradually worked the foreskin back with each stroke, liberating the pliant, rubbery softness of the curves on that extremely suckable crown.
Freed from the overhanging skin and ten times more sensitive, I squeezed it hard between my lips and he shuddered. With each smooth swallowing stroke, I kept pulsing that squeeze. His knees buckled, nearly giving out. Boy, I got off on that feeling. Talk about the driver’s seat…my mouth was the stick shift.
He attempted to keep the entire length deeply seated, grinding his pubes as far through the separating wall hole as possible. I lightly bit down on the root while flattening the corona against the back of my throat at the same time, answering his pushes. My hard dick sproinged up and down in unison. Both of us tremored to the pleasure of this action and I lost track of everything but the ongoing connection between us. He could feel how much I was lovin’ the dick and began reminding me of it... “ya’ cocksucking bitch.”
The filthy synthesized music playing in the background kept the action on beat as we zoned with it. His pelvic gyrations matched my sucking. Encouraging mouth-only contact with his cock, the boy demanded me to reach through to finger the asshole. Good idea, I agreed.
My slippery fingertips stroked and probed and slid from the wavy pucker of that manly asshole over the elastic swelling between it and the stud’s scrotum in time with my mouth motions. I fondled private contours and G-spots as I cupped those pendulous nuts, rolling them between my thumb and fingers. The added attention all over the area enhanced the thrill. His low moans couldn’t lie.
Uncounted minutes took us both slowly up that stairway to the breath-holding moment when dicks ooze that first glob of creamy cum and then rocket out four or five jets of sizzling, gooey jism. We both did that.
I swallowed most of his, the rest overflowed down my chest; mine splattered the wall. The downhill edge of ecstasy extended ‘for-fucking-ever’ as we lingered over slow, teasing strokes punctuated by jolts of bolting energy in that joined state, neither desiring it to stop.
Letting him finally pull back and loose, I peered upward through the good-sized hole, catching the streaming picture of his sculpted cocoa body from that sperm-dripping, quivering cock up to the ribbed stomach, on up over those firmly nippled pecs to the hangdog smile smirking down at me. Eye-to-eye.
At that moment, it dawned on me this boy just knew he had me cornered. After all, from his viewpoint, how could I possibly have known who was attached to the succulent dick I had just made cum? Like a low-down cheatin’ slut...sucking anonymous dick.
What a stonehenge. Did he think I hadn’t seen his sweatpants?
Coy embodied the personification of a horny devil. Tall, athletic and adorable-- a sensual satyr. The mischievous stance with fingers coated by sticky webbings of his own leftover cum in need of wiping, the brother projected cocky certainty of his new control over me.
The over-confidence persisted as he commented lewdly on my oral and lingual skills. Mistakenly, he as much as admitted premeditation of our present scenario. From the sharing of the joint to the opportune reminder from his sis of the store run, to his ‘bank errand’ and no-show appearance at the car. The objective had been clear. To him, at least. Little did this country boy know that he was out of his league.
He next affected a remorseful visage, informing me in no uncertain terms that he, “wouldn’t be able to lie to Cal about what had just happened...unless...,” and here he hedged his bet: he seemed to be mentally tallying my indebtedness, calculating what he might be able to extract from me. A complete crock, I reflected.
My wholehearted and immediate agreement about not lying left him totally flummoxed. “Just not sure when to tell him,” I assured this Lothario. Reminding him that he may not be aware of the fact that though I may have felt some ambivalence for our unusual hook up, I certainly harbored no guilt over the job well done. On the contrary, I had enjoyed it immensely. As, I added, had he…
This unusual tack monkey-wrenched his whole plan. It was not a strategy heretofore encountered. Coy’s modus operandi had always been successful domination over his five brothers’ extracurricular sex partners by first luring the unsuspecting prey then threatening to ‘out’ them. Pretty cheesy, the tactic would not do in this instance. As he was now realizing. The boy just wasn’t yet familiar enough with either his twin or me.
Before tying the knot, Cal and I had been lovers for more than eight years. We’d been ‘out of our closet’ for all that time, and open to side thrills from the outset. By mutual agreement. No, that just would not do here...Coy was on a learning curve.
I let Coy down gently by telling him that while I was uncertain which of us had experienced more pleasure by this bookstore blowjob, we could probably agree that rarely had bonding between new brothers-in-law begun better… I would be glad to provide him with more good head whenever he might choose. And, Cal would get off on watching. Win-win.
On the ride back to the house we were bombarded by the heavy scent of cum and poppers saturating us and our clothes. We blithely deluded ourselves that the problem would be improved upon by lighting another skiff. Not really, but we enjoyed smoking it anyway. Opening paper towels and some Febreze, I attempted to at least reduce the odors. Confidence in my man’s even-tempered reaction was one thing but I certainly didn’t want anyone else guessing our lascivious deeds.
Be warned, Febreze does not substitute well for Handiwipes or disinfectant. Or good old soap and water. Nevertheless, upon darkening the farmhouse door, the two of us managed to pull off a studied innocence worthy of Pope Frank himself.
I told Cal all of the hot details after the inaugural family dinner over sex-in-the-dark. He came three times, while Coy whacked his big piece, listening from the next room.
Meeting the family, indeed…
