Mighty Diamond Beatdown
Jeremy meticulously tongued the remnants of cum from the slowly subsiding arched, white, big- headed dick still quivering in the afterglow of the morning blow job to which I commonly enjoyed awakening. “I think I’ll hike down to get groceries,” he garbled, “that pasta recipe I mooched from Andre when we were in Aspen has been on my mind and it sounds good for the dinner party tonight. OK by you, BaddDick?” He lightly bit my shaft for punctuation of his query. Both of my heads popped up at the nip and I winked an eye open to signal my agreement, verbalization beyond me what with the wrong head still in control of my mental faculties.
The sex maniac that was my husband smeared the cum from his own piece to his fingers and watched me eye his deliberate action, wiping my smooth stomach with his slippery hand as he sensuously raised it to his lips. A lop-sided grin wordlessly expressed, “Oh, shucks, I couldn’t resist.” Then, he licked them clean, one at a time, for my benefit. His nine-inch party-sized prick was just barely receding into the sexy cowl of foreskin following his own eruption. The taste of cum hitting his taste buds always sent him over the edge. His distended dickhead was still peering familiarly up at me in its cyclopean manner, conceitedly admitting to satisfaction at again succeeding in its preferred mission of pumping out babies...the good news was that I had no uterus.
After a minute I spoke a reply while absentmindedly rubbing his beautiful bald head, “I have to go over into town for a few things so let’s meet for lunch on the deck, if that works,” receiving a nod in response. We basked awhile longer together, enjoying the sunbeams dappling us through Apollo’s dawn appearance. “Oh, J, don’t forget to ask Adolpho if that ’07 Spanish Reserve has come in yet while you are there—y’know how much Sheila enjoys that vintage.”
Rolling out of bed, we donned running gear, roused the pooches and invigorated ourselves by immersion into a chill morning 10K running loop around the lodge. The presence of the grazing elk by the pond next to our home signaled us that the bear residents were elsewhere this morning and the way was safely clear. An hour later, showered and coffee’d, we headed down our mountain trail to the piazza that centered Mountain Village. Jeremy turned and tongued me adios, then headed toward the grocery co-op with the mutt brothers in tow for company. I split off to the public gondola connecting our side of Telluride Mountain to town.
Reaching the gondola station in a few minutes, I hopped on a circling car along with old Mr. and Mrs. Chastain who were heading my direction. We conversed cordially as the glass capsule rose smoothly over the village on the constantly circling chain track. The couple were long-time residents since the ski craze days of Tride’s revival during the mid-latter twentieth century. They had epitomized the Sexual Revolution of the 1970’s, living together in ‘sin’ for sixty-five years before finally surprising the township by a secret trip to the alter one crisp autumn morning several years before.
Claiming high-altitude sickness complicated by senility, the two had confronted their oncoming mortality, deciding to solemnize their love affair for financial security reasons. They now puttered between the two mountain communities as locally celebrated leftovers from the Love Child generation. Everybody cherished the eccentric nonagenarians. The two had latched on to Jeremy and me soon after our settlement on the mountainside six years before. Marveling at our ‘new-gen gay jungle fever status’, the two completely ignored the fact that we had been a couple for more than a decade prior to adopting Telluride town (aka: Tride) for our second home. We loved them the more by the fact.
As we peaked the summit and began the descent to the town proper, the old hippies told me of their intent to stock up at the green cross emporium, the newest marijuana shop in town. I smiled at the thought of the two floating in a dazed geriatric haze back over to their rock home close by ours. Drifting mountain breezes commonly carried evidence of their partaking to the neighbors surrounding them. They serenaded us with the sounds of Bob Dylan, Jefferson Airplane, Arlo Guthrie, Joan Baez, Janis Joplin and other music icons from the era. We thereby grew to value the lost tunes from the heyday of their youth. The indigenous elk and moose populations took particular note of the music, showing themselves commonly during these mountain concerts…but, then, maybe it was just the smoke that drew them.
Landing on the square of Telluride town, we strolled the few blocks together to the sign of the green cross announcing all such stores in the state of Colorado. Leaving the two at the front door of the ‘apothecary’ as they called it, they extracted a promise to stop back by after my errands so they could introduce me to a new addition on the menu in the place. ”We simply love the vibe of it,” old Mr. Bart assured me.
The mid-morning bustle of the thriving township always startled me after the quietude of Mountain Village. I weaved a way through tourists and locals on my itinerary for the morning, smiling the whole while as I contemplated the future with my man through the eyes of the older couple I had just left. I hoped to arrive at their place of being in similar devotion to one another. Aging seemed much less a battle if the road was shared with a kindred spirit, as the Chastains certainly proved.
Engrossed in such thoughts, I stopped in Overland to gather the new sheepskin pillows and rug ordered a couple weeks back, hit the pharmacy for items on my list, then made my way up Colorado Avenue toward the old refurbished Opera House to pick up tickets for the Mighty Diamonds reggae concert scheduled for the coming weekend. I had reserved two tickets for Jeremy’s birthday evening. He delighted in the music genre amidst which he had grown up. My plan was to surprise him with them after the dinner I had planned. Turning in at the side door to the box office, I smacked flat out into a tall, Marley-esque dreadheaded man just exiting. The deep-voiced Rastafarian raised two humongous hands in surprise and regret for his miscue while I excused my own self to him for not paying closer attention.
We backed off from one another, each appraising a new entity heretofore unexperienced, and my eyes surveyed the unusual figure before me. The man stood several inches more than six and a half feet tall, with long limbs clad in black, green, yellow and red clothing and a dangling feather earring of sculpted silver. His definitive Dreadlocks hung thickly tangled to his midriff. Though arrayed neck to ankles in the colorful loose-fitting hemp clothing, his litheness showed through in obviously magnificent proportion, especially for an older man.
The baggy, low-hanging drawstring pants were quite plainly the only material covering him from a narrow waist downward to his sandaled feet, as evidenced by the long silhouetted shape of a very fleshy endowment stretching halfway to the level of his knees. His blackness was ebony-personified and the singsong lilt of his sotto voice hypnotized as he excused himself. It did not escape my notice that his deep black eyes also took stock of my person in return.
Jeremy would be absolutely infatuated by this iconic throwback to his childhood, I surmised, and I asked the giant if he might be involved with the band for whom I was presently procuring admission. His immediate wide and easy smile informed me it was so and I expressed my good luck at meeting someone associated with the esteemed group which pre-dated Bob Marley’s Wailers. I had hit a nerve with him. The man beamed at my acknowledgment.
True to Jamaican mannerisms, he reached out that amazingly large hand and placed it square on my chest, letting the outstretched fingers slowly slide down my shirt in recognition of the compliment…my junk lurched at the unexpected familiarity. Again, his eyes noticed. We each promised to look for the other at the concert and I joked that I would try to focus through the smoky haze habitually encountered among reggae audiences. We parted congenially and I hurried inside to secure the tickets as if by delay they might vaporize.
Packing the front row tickets into my wallet, I emerged from the opera house to the brightness of the mountain morning and immediately soaked in the permeating scent of primo pot. Unable to not follow my nose, I turned the back corner of the beautifully restored 19th-century brick building and found the Rasta Man lounging on the park bench in the small public garden meant for intermissions during concerts. He was spread-legged and reclining, the fleshy silhouette unmistakably pressing against the airy cloth. It apparently expected me. His smile broadened in an instant and he beckoned me over.
The bags crinkled under arms and my free-hanging piece smiled in its own right, snaking down one pant leg as I approached. Not sure what could possibly occur in the public spot, I enjoyed the chafing of it against the denim of my jeans. Reaching him, he extended a lanky arm. Long fingers clutched a fat blunt and offered to share. Thankful for Colorado’s liberal laws enacted the year before, I took it and sat down next to him on the bench, inhaling a filling toke of sweetness. No words passed between us for the moment, hormones relieving vocal necessity. I watched as the hemp-covered silhouette spoke volumes. We communed in silence while passing the burning fagot back and forth, both of us grinning in keenness of something beyond consummation at this time and place.
Highlighting our comprehension of the point, a trio of preteens and a mom rounded the corner at that moment. The pretty blond mother cast a disapproving glance at us almost immediately. Lawfulness was one thing, but social acceptance proved quite another. We decided to vacate our bench, quenching the blunt on a wooden slat. Our legs reluctantly closed as we tacitly arose and meandered our semi- hardened selves away from the group toward the street behind us.
Finding our way to the less traveled residential street in back of the opera house, I broke the silence by asking if he might like to accompany me to the emporium a few blocks distant—remembering the earlier promise to the Chastains. My acquaintance nodded his acquiescence, then grasped my hand in introducing himself, “Ambergai Gee, IV, at your service, Mon.”
I repeated the name, captivated by the poetic musicality of it and responded with my own, “Lucas Cevennes, at yours as well…Mon.” The mimicry elicited a deep chortle of a laugh. He stretched one big hand down, nudging the proud outline, thus defining for me the specific service in mind. Actually, both of our minds. He was not the least embarrassed by the noticeable turgidity. In contrast, I worked to abashedly poke my own responding tumescence to the side and under a sacked pillow.
He didn’t miss my discomfiture and drawled wryly, “If ya’ be gottin’ it…an’ by ma’ lookin’, ya’ do…then ya’ wanna be flauntin’ it, not hidin’ it, now, Lucas Mon.” For the first time.
Not quite there yet, I again acknowledged his laid back state of mind, yet still hoped for a bit of diminishment before arrival at the sign of the green cross. My Islander roots were only an in-law thing, Jeremy being the one manifesting a similar comfort in his sexuality. While charmed by the candidness, I was unable to proclaim it. Mr. Ambergai Gee acceded to my modesty in gentlemanly fashion and kept pace with me as I guided us to our destination over the next minutes.
Entering the lamp-lit coziness of the emporium, I spied the mature couple in the far corner by a window, lounging next to the fireplace in a couple of easy chairs. They, the other patrons and especially the staff, perked up at our appearance, all clearly beguiled by my companion’s persona. The Islander stooped under the doorway upon entering, metaphorically budding into his fullness of character, dreadlocks swaying to the reggae song playing in the background.
Old Bartholomew Chastain motioned us to adjoining armchairs and accepted my introduction of Ambergai Gee with practiced aplomb, elegantly introducing themselves in an old-world fashion that impressed the Jamaican. My friends and new acquaintance took immediate liking to one another, Annalise Chastain fairly purring at him in her San Franciscan Haight-Ashbury accent as she rubbed her hands up and down his sinewy arm. Her long, manicured, lavender nails owned him by the action, like a cat owning a new couch with its claws. The ‘good vibe’ alluded to by the duo earlier turned out to be a subtly refined hashish bud and the delivery by a smokeless contraption referred to as a ‘Volcano’ augmented the comfortable progression of our conversation.
Ambergai melded effortlessly into it and we mused on the upcoming concert. The Chastains decided they simply must get their own tickets and after a half hour of congenial repartee, excused themselves to do just that, vowing to have the lanky Rastafarian to dinner while he was in the area. Mr. Gee graciously accepted, saying he was actually due to traverse the well-known gondola mode of village transport to ‘conduct some business’ and also look up an old friend he knew to be in residence on the far side of the mountain. We stood as the bohemian couple took leave of us and then settled back in for a bit more relaxation via the left-over bud.
By this point, I felt a comradeship with the tall man. It almost seemed as if we had known each other from a previous time or place. We visited the sales bar on the far side of the room and purchased some goodies for further recreation later, thereby concluding my to-do list for the morning. After sharing one more house bong bowl, Ambergai decided to travel with me over the mountain. I thought to introduce him to Jeremy if time and circumstances permitted. My man would be as taken with the mysterious songster as I and the Chastains had been.
At the gondola station, the loading staff ogled at the otherworldliness of my travel companion, watching with fascination as the man folded himself fluidly in through the sliding glass doors of the car. A family of visiting tourists tritely backed off entering the communal glass enclosure with us, barely concealing their distaste for the unusual characters exuding the odor of herbal essence as he and I did. We were both relieved at their action and settled on opposing bench seats as the doors slid closed. The rolling ascension up the mountain whisked us higher. Ambergai’s long legs necessarily were bent and spread in facing me, knees way higher in the air than my own. His face expressed an unspoken approval of our moving picture that was the mountain and, I hoped, our aloneness.
Hardly had the glass capsule departed but I noted his long fingers slowly kneading the protuberance inhabiting his roomy trousers. I couldn’t be sure if it was purposeful or simply absent-minded activity yet the growing tent-like effect left no doubt as to the pleasure it provided him. He became engrossed in the beautiful panorama unfolding around us as we heightened. My captivation matched his but from a totally different perspective. I couldn’t yank my eyes from the swelling crotch within a couple feet of me and my plane of mellowness only served to focus my infatuation. Softly questioning me on the surroundings as we rolled along, the Rastafarian at some point noted my attention to his nether region. I suddenly glanced up to his grinning face and piercing black eyes, realizing my totally overt fascination. Busted, I thought.
Reviving the scene aborted earlier behind the opera house, the limber legs gradually inched further apart and the ebony fingers wrapped around the covered pole now arising in stimulation to my almost drooling interest. Next thing I knew, he had pulled loose the binding tie of the hemp slacks, raised his slim hips and in a practiced move, lowered them in a descending swoop all the way to his sexy ankles. The effect was immediate. His humongous black cock bounced out as they slid past his knees and arose like a dragon unfurling its wings, slapping his belly and then settling to hover before me in quavering expectation.
The excessive length of his foreskin rolled back steadily as the full engorgement of the behemoth progressed and a beautiful dark rose-colored dick head fastened on my eyes, demanding what it wanted. Craving was apparent on my face and my piece had again snaked down one jean leg leaving very little to the imagination. Ambergai’s free hand reached over and fingered the swelling, never taking his eyes from mine as he instructed, “Lucas ma’Mon, now would be a vera good moment ta’ be doin’ some flauntin’, mi a guessin’,” his smile and singsong lilt softening the firm order. In a short second, I unbuttoned, unzipped and removed the binding pants obstructing both legs and other stuff, tossing them to the side along with my shoes. For good measure, I pulled my turtleneck sweater over my head to complete my bare-ass state and then relocked to his magic eyes as they twinkled with intent.
Caring little if the cars swinging a couple hundred yards in front and behind us could visualize inside ours, I kneed the floor and commenced what I might have done in the small courtyard earlier: licking the enlarged and waiting monster bouncing before me. I took my time slathering the fat shaft with saliva, working my way up then down from corona to scrotum, swirling my tongue around the hugely fat balls as I worked. My face got slimed in the doing as the turgid prick repeatedly caromed off it and I rose to engulf the head in a slow swallowing of as much as I could fit down to my waiting tonsils. He obviously got off on my rotating action while impaled on the thing, jabbering quietly in an amazingly sensual aboriginal dialect of some sort.
His sandaled foot rubbed against my boinging dick and the friction raised my ante way too quickly. Not typically a pre-ejaculator, I nevertheless popped out a quick load all over that attractive black-toed foot. He peered down at the production, “Ya’don’t now be a-thinkin’ that you’re bein’ done, now, ma’ friend...mi a-sayin’, right?” The consternation on his face dissipated when I informed him that I was simply warming up and he settled back to allow my ministrations to proceed.
So softly he could be thinking out loud, he rejoined me with the added instruction that should my excellent work cause a load of his own to flood my mouth, I shouldn’t be concerned and by no means should I pull off the dick—he enjoyed slow deep-throating action right through to the second spewing— his words, not mine. So I took him at his word.
Sure enough, after a couple of minutes of rhythmic bliss, he exhaled roughly with a rumble and, indeed, flooded my oral cavity to overflowing with hot, sweet Jamaican jism. I never changed tempo. The second load scorched my throat minutes after that, causing my trigger to snap by the taste and I thought of Jeremy’s similar trait, wondering if there was an infectious factor spreading to me. Then, I swallowed the whole of it as my own load oozed over my hand to the floor. Climax during a pot high is exquisitely heightened--- anyone that doubts it need but try it. The two of us knew the truth of it. First hand.
Ambergai tapped my curly head like he would a bongo as he intoned, “Ya’ better be a-getting’ ya’self a mite more presentable ma’good suckin’ Mon, Lucas, else there be a few more a-knowin’ about how ya’be a-doin’ mi so good, now…” punctuating the final word with a light pop to my noggin in alerting me to the proximity of the summit station approach. I whipped my clothes back on just in time to see the large opening into the station pass by me.
I also noticed the slowly deliberate fashion by which my companion’s big piece was covered in hemp once again, almost as if he preferred to allow inspection of his jewels as a tease. One of the blond boy station handlers got a nice strobe shot of the root and pubic curls in our passing, his teenage eyes widening by the view of it. Ambergai smirked at me, “Let it be said again that for those who’ve got the goods, they oughtta be flauntin’ it, now, and it’s all a-been done before this, ma’Mon.” He didn’t bother tying the rope belt.
In a few moments, we had passed through the station filled with bikers and hikers, among other mountain enthusiasts, and begun our descent toward Mountain Village and home. I straightened myself further and watched as the tall older stud lowered his pants again, letting me know of his need for further plying. In the lowering, he extracted a finely rolled joint and lit up, handing it to me after sucking on it and pointing to the rising stickiness of his Rastafarian prick as encouragement to get going. I gladly slurped that re-hardened thing as he enjoyed the scenery, toking on the joint throughout. Passing commentary and encouragement continued while I kept myself occupied. We landed at the base station in a happy state of highness, mine including another throat full of Caribbean cum, sweet stuff that it was…
Parting at the town piazza, me with my bags and he with his proud piece jouncing satedly in those baggy trousers, we promised to meet up at my place after he had taken care of his business. Jeremy would be enthralled by my morning. I was hoping his had been half as productive.
Upon banging open the heavy wood door with hands full, I waltzed giddily into the chef’s kitchen we had updated several years before to find Jeremy pressing out fresh angel hair spinach pasta. Dancing, nude, to the tune Dreamboat Annie, a bottle of Guinness Stout sat close by, half empty. He smiled lasciviously upon my entry and snickered as I emptied my treasures on to the marble island top, paying particular note of the THC-laden gummy bears and similar lollipops procured just a short time earlier.
He grasped my buttcheek and pulled me to him as he ‘welcomed me to his lair’. Tonguing me hungrily, he crinkled his nose upon recognizing familiar flavors. “I smell the cum of an Englishman, honey,” he teased. I was looking at the wine rack as he did so and immediately honed in on the unchanged state of it, begging the question of where might be the evening’s vintage he had been tasked with picking up while at the co-op…? “Ummm, well, the delivery hadn’t arrived by the time, umm, I was leaving, and Adolpho--- you know how he is--- just said come back later to get it,” he adorably prevaricated.
Knowing of his penchant for purloining sperm from the Latin man’s impressive package, I translated that salvo into the fact that it had fled his mind after slipping into the ‘receiving area’ in the back of the co-op building. ‘Receiving’, no doubt, actuating the double entendre: Jeremy had given the straight young Italian another mind-blowing head job.
Cheshire cat grin later, he confessed, and pocketing my wallet I headed for the door. Determined to have the particular Spanish red wine for our guests at the upcoming meal in a few hours, I promised to fill him in on my ‘mouthwash’ story upon returning. Dashing out, I intended to catch the sommelier before he disappeared: a proven post-cum pattern of the free-spirited youth. I had learned the hard way by previous similar experiences. Yet, far from perturbed, I looked forward to chatting the cute boy up while fulfilling my promise to Sheila for the coming evening.
Indeed, my fears were proven justified upon nearing the co-op’s rear exit fifteen minutes later, spying Adolpho sneaking out to an early afternoon highland hike, per his habit. I often teased him that he had occupied the body of “Heidi, Girl of the Alps” in a previous life due to the common communing with high mountain meadows. He admitted his weakness with ready good humour.
“Adolpho—wait up,” I hollered to the unassuming Adonis. The boy halted, turning to confront the person hindering his escape and hang-dogged at me when he recognized my approach.
“I wondered if you were gonna get by before I split, Luke,” he guiltily excused himself. I forgave his transparency as any doting parent does a spoiled kid caught in the act.
“You should’ve sent it with JK, you brat,” I scolded, grinning. He colored immediately, guessing Jeremy had surely told me of the earlier liaison between the two.
He knew me better than to think I would be pissed. My ambivalence to the concept of monogamy was well known. His own penchant for screwing with the fairer sex, who more commonly demanded ‘higher standards’ and fewer wild hares made him fall into the traditional mien of the ‘busted’ trademark. Blushing deeply, he unlocked the door and ushered me back inside to the coolness of the bodega where he stored his stocks. The bustle of the fronting groceria hummed beyond the quietness here and Adolpho gave me an endearing hug in thanks for not badgering the subject. Gathering up the six bottles of the gran reserva, as ordered, I patted his bulging crotch conspiratorially, “I know; I know…who can ever resist his mouth?”
At which he colored over a third time and sheepishly admitted, “I think I’d be gay in a second if he wasn’t hooked up already…ain’t nobody that good anywhere.” His wistfulness made me smile again, knowing of my good fortune. I shooed him off with a hand wave to the peaks above, dismissing any need for further discussion. He and I could chat another time. The hills were calling him.
I stopped by the bookstore next door afterward for a paper then meandered my way up the trail to our place, perusing the news. The dogs, Suture and Elvee, were camped out on the front porch as I approached. Their tails furiously cleaned the smooth wood surface, having sensed my person from a distance. That was curious, I thought, as Jeremy seldom let the boys out without his attendance, enjoying their company as much as me. Entering the door with them, I caught the lyrics to The Cure’s Wish CD, from our oldies collection, rhapsodizing through the log house.
The fresh pasta sat heaped and draining in the colander inside the big copper sink, newly prepared pesto mixing aromatically beside it. Fresh snow peas, baby white mushrooms, onions and a trifecta of colorful bell peppers sat draining next them, all neatly cleaned or diced and ready for roasting. Lamb chops and mint leaves for six marinated in the fridge. My man was a chef extraordinaire and I watered at the thought of the dinner to come. Ditching the wine on the rack, I shed clothing piecemeal on my way up the cut log staircase to the upstairs master en-suite, wondering where Jeremy had gotten off to and ready for a nice soaking shower.
I lit a fat blunt from a few nights previous on the way up, still reading an op-ed article. The enjoyable effect of the herb added to my persistent state of highness. At the middle landing, I discerned the presence of two voices from the bedroom above, over the music. It slowed my ascent. A distinct and newly familiar sotto rhythm traded sentences with the individual sexiness of Jeremy’s. As my eyes assessed the view at the top of the stairs, my dick began a perceptible stirring at the sight of a delectable pair of butt globes arched in front of and accepting the silky, bare Caribbean dick that I had recently practiced on in the gondola.
Of course, I reasoned. Jeremy must be the ‘old friend’ Ambergai Gee had alluded to at the emporium and he had arrived while I was collecting the vino…oooh, how hot. My eyeballs were scorching; even the wild curls on my head were standing rigidly transfixed. The pair had no idea I was voyeuring and I stripped my drawers off to free my straining, phattening, and fixedly interested cock. Spitting into my palm for slickness, I enjoyed stroking while seeing Jeremy’s rarely fucked beautiful asshole suck in the huge thing now ramming him steadily and deeply.
It appeared as if the Jamaican dick had cum once already from the froth surrounding the stretched hole which I could view periodically when the black log showed itself. Had it indeed cum, Ambergai intended to multiply his pleasure if his continued efforts were any indication. The angle couldn’t be better and my visual allowed for every single stroke.
With the passing moments, the reggae artist became more vocal. By the comments, he let me in on a chapter which had occurred between the two on the island of their past, expressing nasty descriptions to which I had heretofore not been privy. My man had apparently taken this dread dick regularly and to climax back in his youth. It filled in a history I would never have guessed.
I watched as the two rotated together, ending with Jeremy’s back hitting the mattress. Those large dark hands stretched wide the pretty chocolate thighs and calves I knew so well. Ambergai’s huge dick never vacated the seldom-used tight asshole in that motion. My topman was certainly enjoying the ably pumping piece judging by the mewling coming from his throat. His pleadings not to stop put me past the point of return and I stroked sperm on the hardwood beneath me. I continued fondling myself as I remembered the blunt, raising it to my lips and inhaling as the action continued.
The Rastafarian somehow sensed my presence and turned his head toward me, “Oooh, ma’ J-boy, the plot do seem to have a-thickened here and now, ma’true baby bitch boy— here is the other Mon-half we were a-speakin’ about, and mi a-guessin’ he is now a’thinkin’ ya’ are familiar with this here dagger daincin’ down in the purty hole it’s a’fillin’ again afta’ so long. Da’ vera hole getting a’ cabin-stabbin da’way it knows this big Dad likes to be havin’ it.” He reached for the blunt in my fingers after that rant.
My husband peered up and around the slim waist sprouting the dick he was accepting and literally beamed at me. “Oh man, Luke, this here is happenin’…oooh…. by your own fault. Oooh… This fat- dicked ole’ Rasta is hittin’ this ass, now… oooh—you shouldn’t have oughtta got it goin’…oooh… on its way here—this Jamaican Daddy can…oooh…go for hours doin’ just like this. Oooh… I am knowin’ all this, baby…oooh, fuck me, big man.”
Ambergai reached another audibly dubbed eruption at that moment. He pulled the spitting head out for a split second, verifying to me what he was doing to my stud. I didn’t take insult. The two had no doubt determined my response beforehand, as evidenced by their picking of the big rough cedar bed we shared to do this deed. I left for a second to retrieve a pre-rolled doobie from our morning’s visit to the ‘apothecary’.
Upon returning, I found the two men separated, Jeremy’s familiar fat piece resting languorously on that ripped belly which sported creamy gobs in proof of his enjoyment. His strapping legs were now bending down over the bed’s edge. The RastaMon was leering my direction and signaled with his besotted eyes that I was next.
His on-point rigidity never wavered, the perfectly proportioned thick and straight dick still suspended like an expanded cobra waiting to strike. By the time we had shared a deep hit each, the two studs had positioned me like we were on a mission and the missionaries were ready to do penance—or maybe I was…I get confused on that. Regardless, two gorgeous black men spent the next hour putting it to me, unloading on and in me until they and I had ‘got enough’. Let me just say, it was more than plenty.
Afterward, our multi-person Rainhead equipped shower saw me practice scrupulously detailed hygiene on the satisfied bodies sharing the marbled enclosure. The luxury was all mine as I rigorously detailed each beautiful mature man’s body, methodically scouring, buffing and polishing every muscle, organ and crevice. Jeremy filled me in on the past adolescent and youthful years living on Blue Mountain as he had discovered himself. I learned of him becoming the man who loved me and to whom I was devoted.
Mr. Gee offered contrast, nuance and levity to the descriptive tale. Finally, we toweled off, collectively groomed stray dreadlocks, oiled down glistening bodies and descended to the low beamed great room that centered our log home. I cracked the wine open and picked music for the evening. ’Gai, as Jeremy called him, had agreed to stay for dinner. He readied, then lit the big rock fireplace, and Jeremy worked his magic in the open style adjoining kitchen, watching his mentor across the room.
As Apollo descended and waned, we three sat comfortably on the front porch sharing wine and tokes of our various smokables. The three neighbors and friends joining us for dinner strolled up to our perch. They were welcomed by the sentinel canine denizens and each accepted a first glass of the full bodied red of the evening. Both women and the older gentleman joined our discussion of the Island life, Blue Mountain, Kingston, Jamaica, and reggae in general. We all got to know the most interesting dreadhead be-tangled personage to darken our door and shower in the entire time on this mountain. Jeremy’s dinner merited scrumptious delight.
Afterward, we sat out back around the fire pit watching the full moon rise over the craggy guardian peaks. Three musically-inclined guests pulled out their drums, guitar and jazz flute, and the majestic embodiment of the original Mighty Diamonds added his vocal wares to the welcoming of the autumnal equinox.
Amidst the amazing private performance, Cat G pulled me aside and let me know that her lady, the Ms. Sheila Escovedo, was entirely taken by her fellow Creole-Jamaican’s surprise appearance. And, I was assured the gran reserva fulfilled her evening.
Jeremy and I basked in our happiness and luck as the Milky Way blossomed all around us. Suture raised his fat-headed snout to the moon, adding his howling two cents to the overture.
Leaving us in stitches.
