Chapter 1
Frigid river water enveloping my body shocked the senses more so as my unsubmerged head remained exposed to scorching midday heat of the central Texas Hill Country. A dichotomy of sensations provided welcome respite after the vigorous summer hike over verdant hills juxtaposed around the Sabinal River.
My comrade “hiker-in-crime”, Howard, a consummate city boy but determined good sport, had joined me for a weekend camping trip to my favorite clandestine hideaway in the hills: Lost Maples Natural Area. Last stand of America’s maple tree forests west of Arkansas in the Southwestern states.
Two of us, along with my canine companion, Maximus Primus, had arrived early morning at the park, having vacated the city during wee hours. Relief from tedium of work, responsibility and associated stress had offered incentive. We had soon thereafter set out backpacking into deep reaches of the circuitous trail system providing access to remote areas not commonly traversed by average weekend hiker-types. Of course, being Wednesday made likelihood of meeting other campers or hikers even more improbable. This satisfied our preferences perfectly.
Our packs, equipment, and supplies were visible on a far rock ledge from my spot in the crystal clear pool on the upper Sabinal. Exhilaration at the plunge into icy water made my scrotum shrivel in bewilderment, wondering where my normally fat balls had disappeared. Shivering abounded as I awaited reappearance of How and Primus over a small rise beyond a surrounding copse of trees. Following that path earlier, they had together sought source of inscrutable rustling and snuffling sounds which had peaked their curiosity only a quarter hour before.
I contemplated the camp-staging to be undertaken as I submerged my head to view a curious blue gill peeping at my goose-pimpled self from a few feet away. My eyes flashed on the contrast between paleness of my groin and smooth, but prickled, skin both above and below speedo tan lines that marked deeply tanned torso and legs.
Fish in this pool seemed overly friendly. This had been noted on previous visits to the secluded twenty-by-ten jewel. A pristine, rock floored lagoon edged by sedge, elephant ears, a polyglot of vines and... maple trees. Go figure. Well hidden from sight unless one was either following very difficult terrain hugging the river, or flying over it. Neither of which hardly ever happened due to remote hill-ringed topography.
The far perimeter of park trails and camping areas were separated from our present whereabouts by a challenging miles-long stretch to the southwest. There, more 'improved' parts of the several thousand-acre state set-aside resided. My study on history of the area had revealed a land-grant legacy cattle ranch dating from origins of the republic, last owned by a childless bachelor.
A hill country pioneer, he had deeded the whole kit-and-caboodle to the state under strict conditions requiring only rudimentary development, in perpetuity. The aim had been to maximize enjoyment of the naturalist populace subsequent to the man’s passing a decade before.
Almost no one knew this isolated Elysium existed and I reveled in the fact. Regularly-rotating park rangers once seemed baffled by my reference to the site at central station several years before. I downplayed it as a probable misconception of memory upon figuring that out.
To the north, I could visualize a double-peaked hill ending abruptly at a thirty-foot rocky bluff overlooking the meandering river below. A narrow isthmus of land joined the two peaks, but appeared impassable due to a bramble of thorny bushes, prickly junipers and scrub oaks at point of the neck on the larger side.
The smaller peak, more of a peninsula, looked inaccessible from below or even from the larger hill itself. What was more, being taller than its larger counterpart, the flat summit could not be viewed from anywhere nearby. I loved that feature. Primus had sniffed out an animal track entrance to the isolated peninsula three years before. The big dog and I returned to it regularly.
We had tunneled our way through brambles to a shaded grassy clearing, then sat on edge of the bluff for an inaugural sunset, savoring thoughts of future visits.
This trip was first time to show the spot to any other person and I looked forward to coming days of camaraderie with my friend at this tucked away site.
Of a sudden, a high-pitched yip and whoop presaged my two cohorts’ return from beyond the little rise. I watched them materialize, sporting frantic visages. The duo cleared the crest airborne, in disturbed embodiment of dishevelment. The big Fila Brasiliero wore draping remnants of weedy greenery stickered over his fat head, ears and torso. Howie lost his cap in the jump blazoning their return, shorts awry, muscle shirt ripped. One hiking boot was missing, stocking foot exposed.
They catapulted headlong down the barely marked animal trail leading to my alfresco plash, ker-plunking ingloriously into the water and roiling the surface in their rush.
Seconds later, the reason for their frenzied dash made itself known. Form of a very angry mama skunk materialized at the ridge where they had just emerged. A compact but formidable critter before which chastised hunters had readily given ground for eons.
Looming up on hind legs, very bushy tail arching rigidly behind her, little banshee threatened odoriferous apocalypse. Her snarling demeanor betokened a Tasmanian Devil-like tizzy, bent on teaching a lesson.
Coming down to the pool’s edge, she stopped short, hurling skunkian epithets. My companions chattered in nervous discord as they divulged a quick synopsis of events leading to this scenario, all the time fretfully eyeing the brutish fiend.
Perceiving their jabber as a challenge triggered intensification of the varmint’s rancorous rant and the two troublemakers quietened, marveling at her redoubled vehemence. In wide-eyed censure, they sank under the water surface. Entertained, I watched as they submerged to hippopotamus sets of barely exposed eyes and nostrils, but upon inhaling first vestiges of the creature’s fearsome defense device, I grimaced, joining them.
The mephitic propensity for bully tactics was profound and this thoroughly riled female, apparently defending her territory, had taken offense. An intrusion by these nosy and noisy rapscallions into a hidden nursery had awakened her anger. Aggressively charging rather than retreating, as the two had expected, set into motion a marathon sprint to safety.
The cowards.
After venting psychopathically and glandularly for several minutes in effort to drive home her point, the veritable “Texas wolverine” begrudgingly screeched and chippered back over the rise, disappearing toward her lair.
Her retreat gradually relieved the miscreants of their terror, yet even so, both remained submerged in watery confines for a good hour. Trembling in unison from a combination of frayed nerves and chilly confines, the pair regaled me with every detail of their misadventure.
Primus’ clownish ‘Scooby-Do’ rendition of garglings and whines caused Howard and me amazement by its wacky doggedness and I laughed harder as the cute man of color completely failed to notice his own unintended mimicry.
The catharsis helped city boy gather challenged wits and How finally arose to shed his drenched clothing. I watched his uninhibited display, enjoying full exposure of a leanly dark swimmer’s body. Spreading it all in the sun next to a lonesome hiking boot on the small upper curve where the river cascaded down into the cup-shaped concavity over stacked boulders, he then returned to the pool, settling in beside me. Good thing I had pushed him to bring extra shoes, I thought.
My scrotal shrinkage had proven contagious and he referenced it in mirthful observations of the phenomenon, along with a half-serious comment on his penile miniaturization process. Not to worry, I assured him, it would grow back. Probably. The chagrined look kept me smiling.
Sir Prime settled down after the comical venting, as well, and we teased each other while he dog-paddled more contentedly around the familiar oasis. I noticed the fat-headed dog’s sensitive nostrils persist in disgustedly snuffling lingering malodor in aftermath of the confrontation.
His focus fastened onto the newly-coy finned denizens of the pond with whom he more commonly shared a relationship of mutual captivation. The recent free-for-all entry to their pool had caused alarm and they were still keeping their distance. MP determined himself to win them back by his now lazier antics. If fish cultivated a sense of humor, I figured it wouldn’t be long, what with the mutt’s funny ways.
A little later, eschewing the front entrance to the pool for obvious reasons, we exited a higher back point by the waterfall, seeking the safer serpentine path to the sheltered peninsula. We were able to make way with our belongings over the next hour as sun reached its zenith.
Brambles and scrub brush junipers proved a frustration in our au naturel state, having donned only shoes to navigate the rocky terrain. A la Jeremiah Johnson…what tough mountain men. But it was a bittersweet trade-off embraced for its liberating effect. Not to mention, Howie looked certifiably edible.
Without any further bedevilment by pissed-off polecats, we managed to set camp by approach of sundown. The four-man pop-up tent sat stolid on deep security stakes underneath mature branches of the summit’s spreading oak tree. A rock-ringed campfire declivity lay safely buttressed and banked.
Damp clothes dried on a strung line. Foodstuffs had been bagged and suspended to avoid attraction of hungry natives-on-the-prowl. Satisfied with our three-day campsite, we cracked open a celebratory bottle of reserve vintage pinot noir to usher in onset of a ‘primitive’ get-away.
Primus scouted the near hillside as sunlight waned, per his wont, while How and I reposed. Knees dangling over the precipice, we toasted the advancing dusk in proper fashion.
I knew of the spectacular night vista to come and desired my friend to experience its grandeur. The firewood, previously gathered, stacked and propped in the fire pit to allow minimal effort come dark, had just been ceremonially lit.
Two marbled ribeyes marinated fragrantly, tinfoil-wrapped baking potatoes and cobbed corn in the husks were all ready for the forming coals...we were pretty much set.
Howard had procured a good-sized aromatic sinsemilla bud for the weekend excursion and spent some time cleaning, then rolling, several reefers for our pleasure. How could life get better?
While we imbibed the tasty red and surveyed surrounds from our eyrie on a spread blanket, I saw the golden-eyed sleekness that was Maximum Prime slink back into our enclave. He sought out his water and kibble bowl spot and then collapsed close by me in pack contentment.
Clambering over to the edge and peeing into the abyss, entertaining himself in watching the cascade, the roller-in-chief returned, pulling a cannon-sized spliff from behind his ear.
He poked a twig into the blaze then turned toward me, proffering both. Crotch at eye level. I had to make a conscious point to light up the doob before contemplating a now noticeably un-shriveled ball sack and waggling manmeat on periphery of my visual field.
Luxury of nudity was ours in this high haven and augmentation of the natural panorama by his ample and uncut dark-skinned endowment caused my own piece to take notice.
We shared several tokes, absorbing both smoke and ambiance, watching the Milky Way blossom into a diamond-studded panoply.
I surreptitiously studied chocolate silkiness as he stretched, cat-like, extending arms and neck to take in the entirety of a living planetarium. Clearly as stunned by the magnificence as I had been the first time. A gurgling river below amplified the sensate setting.
Upon passing back the roach, I felt my friend’s handsome dick innocently brush my bicep as he turned...or maybe not. Innocently, that is.
Soothing sensation of inhaled weed imbued both of us with erotic flare and next I knew, he was squatting over my lap spread-legged, feeding my mouth with his tongue. The brute of a dog simply lolled to the side away from us, sighing deeply, abjuring our collective twitter by his nonchalance.
Electricity surged through us and my fat dick rose to his hovering ass crevice as he had probably intended. Fingering a glob of saliva, Howie massaged my eight-and-a-half-inch mushroom-headed cut cock. Attending primarily to an ultra-sensitive corona, he then maneuvered it directly under the rosebud of his asshole.
We both exhaled as he settled onto it. Bumping my pubic curls, he squeezed those muscular little brown gluteals and locked his fingers around my neck. This action caused his own big dick to rasp upwards over my abs until springing loose to slap his own.
Golf ball sized nuts constricted in his tight sack and pressured my pubes erogenously, making my own hard-on spasm inside of him. We began a rhythmic gyration, frictioning up the escalation scale toward a much too quick overwhelming climax, sharing release amidst deep sensual tonguing of each other’s lips and mouths.
Zoning through a pleasurable pause we finally turned as one, bending necks upward to take in the orgasmic diorama. Given the setting, the effect was transcending. Night sounds enveloped us, cuddled in tandem with a snoring behemoth sharing our blanket.
We awakened a catnap later to our still conjoined state. As senses gathered, so did hormones. Unslaked craving raised two greedy mandicks: his between our taut stomachs and mine still pronged inside him. We felt them both as they lengthened sensuously.
I rolled the virile Howard over, positioning him underneath me. He raised those supple legs up and out, offering me two finely-boned ankles. Congealing cum lubricated us both and I lay down on him chest-to-chest to smear thickening juices onto my torso. Foreheads and noses touching, eyes locked.
Rising again for a better fireflicker view of him, I set to, in slow deep strokes. He twisted my nipples to our undulating cadence, writhing into my thrusts by animalistic pulses. Thrill of the fuck bested us in scant minutes and we flooded over, re-loading his inner spaces and again coating that rippled chocolate stomach by his own outburst.
Separation by pulling out caused us paroxysmal reverberations and we had to sit awhile to regain strength before grilling the marinated steaks. Toking another blunt in the doing, conspiratorial banter bonded us.
After a sumptuous meal fit for men, we settled right back onto the blanket, still contentedly coated in caked cum. Amidst ponderings of a billion stars, we drifted off to sleep with the Primus.
Like a pile of exhausted pups.
Howard loves cum. Yours, mine, ours, his own. On him, in him, around him, airborne and on others. That became evident through the progression of the night. While I was comfortable with allowing encrustations of lust to lull us, I discovered his nocturnal hijinks during those entangled hours. They proved erotically elucidative.
I would drowsily rouse from subconsciousness to the lickings of my body as he made known his appreciation for the stuff. At first, thinking my fatheaded furred friend was the licker, I almost admonished cessation. But the evidence busted my smooth sleeping companion as perpetrator. I stirred to it.
Unfortunately--or maybe fortunately now that I consider facts-- he engendered my own satyristic response each time he attempted sampling leftovers. My priapic arousals managed to hook into him every time he began.
Though we did sleep some during the night, we also banged, lights-out, over and over. Each ejaculative release refreshed his and my juices somewhere on or in the two of us and I eventually deduced a twinge of premeditation.
We had most definitely familiarized with one another in a biblical sense come dawn.
At faintest lightening of a starlit cobalt sky, we donned boots and trekked down from our roost to a crystal-lidded pool. Rude awakening by coldness provoked playfulness in the course of cleaning remains missed during his moonlit snacks. In throes of thoroughness, our actions bloomed into further enjoyment of one another. Fish were feted with a variety show of fervid antics. Primus remained unimpressed.
Orgasms later, we emerged, ascending once again to our smoldering campfire. Stoking enduring embers, we were able to brew morning coffee, matching my notable preference in men. Strong and black. The sun arose over the hillock guarding the east while we considered a day ahead.
Max Primus harbored his own ideas for frivolity during the morning, demanding our participation in exploration of the area surrounding the riverside hideaway.
We thankfully did not roust the skunk from the previous day but did espy a whitetail doe with her speckled fawns and a couple of entertaining young raccoons out scrubbing pecans in river eddies.
Black squirrels peculiar to the vicinity chased up and down maple trunks and Max Primus zeroed in on several cranky armadillos noisily tramping the riparian habitat. The armored cranks all registered complaints to a big dog’s curious nudging by launching several feet vertically into the air at each interruption, clicking loudly and lumbering away in offended disgust.
We recorded a few videos of these nature episodes and even set the camera tilted on a rock to catch a long sensuous blowjob of the How’s ever ready ebony piece. My meticulous work was saved in detailed streaming memory of an orally-induced eruption. A grinning show-off sagged against a boulder afterwards, his drooling dick contentedly drained, again sopping up what jism I overlooked in the after fact.
Another hour was spent fishing a small deep pool upstream from our base. Snagging two good-sized catfish and hiking to our camp, we revived cooking coals after cleaning and prepping the fat things. Sweet flakiness of fish cooked over an open fire is a taste unmatchable in city restaurants. Along with fresh carrots, apples, nuts and cheese, our gastric ravenings were quelled.
Pool-chilled Negro Modelo culminated a long morning’s activities and we settled in shade of our hidden sanctuary to wait out hot mid-afternoon sun beating down around our secluded haven.
We siesta’d our way toward a second evening in haze of Bob Marley’s smoky legacy, languorous interlude redolent by its lingering wisps. Leaving the big mastiff as a sphinx-like guardian on the bluff, surveying his domain, we fed each other’s lustful hankerings. Exotically handsome, the man called Howard proved insatiable. Our appetites were well-matched. We fucked.
Wakening quite lazily refreshed later on and exiting the shade of the tent following hedonic respite, hot afternoon air buzzed busily with sounds of bees and dragonflies at work.
Over distant horizon of a northern hill we were surprised by presence of two massive thunderheads gathering height. Sitting on the bluff, we partook of an afternoon blunt, curiously observing showy intensification and darkening of the weather pocket. Intermittent illumination by masked lightning strikes followed by rolling thunder, seconds after, held our attention.
Counting a measured cadence to one-thousand and thirty attested the system to be an acceptable distance away. We were enjoying the spectacle. But after an hour, the count was down to one-thousand ten. Two miles distant and without much doubt, heading our direction.
Now calculating its path would bring it over us, some precautions were undertaken. Battening down loose items, re-packing packs and storing provisions inside the tent, we sat back down for a bit, fascinated by the ongoing build-up.
It was when Max Prime began taking note of ozone scent in the air that I was alerted to eminent arrival of the squall. Sure enough, in a sudden gust, vanguard winds descended, whipping branches around us and blowing loose debris helter-skelter.
The three of us headed into our tree-protected bastion, hunkering down inside a nested shelter. For first minutes of it, we left just the screen cover fastened shut, watching the storm envelop our peak in shadow.
Huge raindrops pocked a waterproof tent as dusk fell and we redefined supper as rainstorm sex-- reputedly the best sex to be had. Rain storms improved the boner factor, for some odd reason. Maybe the ozone.
Indeed, we proved the concept in trading delicious blowjobs as an increasing downpour battered the ceiling. Zipping the solid covering down, we drifted to sleep, dry inside the protective cocoon.
What seemed hours later, rain continued unabated. Wind sheers blustered around us and we began to worry if the tent could withstand such a growing tempest. Thank goodness we had set camp so high over the riverbed.
Texas Hill Country flash-floods can be notoriously deadly. Walls of water arise in short minutes, destroying everything before it without mercy. Rock and clay topography of the region deny excess rain absorption, leaving water nowhere to soak in.
Earlier this spring the winding Blanco River, sixty miles to the east, had risen 50 feet in a single hour, sweeping hundred-year-old trees and scores of homes downstream. Dozens of people were lost or drowned while simply waiting out the storm in the ‘safety’ of their homes.
A beloved family Labrador Retriever had been spotted the following day, clinging to high branches of an untoppled tree. Suspended precariously almost 50 feet above ground, she was saved by a rescue team...her family hadn’t been so lucky. This wasn’t that severe and we felt pretty secure from such a catastrophe.
Still naked, we hazarded a peek out to view surroundings. Pointing a flashlight over edge of the bluff, we were taken aback to find the river had risen a good 10-12 feet since sunset. With no campfire possible, goosebumps ensued so we retreated again into our tent, dried off and dressed to warm up. Between the available three bodies and clothing layering us, we warmed quickly enough, settling into edgy drowsiness to wait it out.
I awoke with a start to a distant crack of thunder. My two intimates were affected likewise. While wind gusts had ebbed over preceding hours, rain persisted in true Texas gully-washer fashion. We unzipped a few inches of the tent opening and peeped through, visualizing a soggy campfire pit and very little else by merit of a rainy curtain enshrouding us.
Lightning seemed more distant now as flashes were less intense and interval between them and the thunder claps had grown longer. A good thing. Dawn was faint, held captive by the storm. Very little could be distinguished.
A low roll of thunder arose to our south. Listening to the disparate tenor in comparison to previous reverberations, it grew into a repetitive drumbeat rather than dissipating. The constancy of it finally registered as not a sound of nature but a staccato thudding. Hmmm, I thought, almost like a propeller sound. Odd. Air traffic was rare here but at such a time it was totally unexpected; especially that sound… a prop craft...we deduced unusual goings-on.
Leaving safety and dryness of the tent to see what might be developing, I emerged from under the oak canopy just as a low-flying copter swooshed past, scaring the bejeebers out of me. The craft couldn’t have been 30 or 40 feet above the summit.
It abruptly banked, turning, and I knew the fliers had spied our camp. Upon nearing, a spreading vortex of a probe light and wind currents from the propellers lashed me in a stinging rainspray. Though difficult to see through it, I watched as the vessel slowed and hovered.
Leaning out a side door, a backlit figure could be starkly perceived. It signaled me to move to the larger adjoining hillock. Apparently, it meant to land there.
The occupants were clearly more concerned than we were for our welfare as it dawned on me a search mission had evidently been mounted during a lull in the severe weather.
Rousting my companions, we gathered previously stuffed backpacks. Hurriedly abandoning our mini Eden-turned-Noah venue, Max Primus proved skittishly unsure of our abrupt actions, very reticently accompanying as we skittered through the bushy barrier to relative spaciousness of the wider hilltop.
The helicopter descended, now almost upon us, and it became necessary to physically restrain the anxious mastiff to stop his bolting from a monstrous apparition invading the once serene setting. He recognized only threat by its approach and did not like the thing one bit.
Upon landing, a rain-garbed figure emerged from a slide door and waved us forward, projecting a state of consternation by frenetic body language. It took firm coaxing to convince Max Prime of the need, and only against his better instincts did the 110-pound dog begrudgingly allow guidance to the aircraft.
Once there, we were all three rather ingloriously jumbled inside by additional raingear-obscured team members. As the door rolled closed, all were buckled into seats. With the big dog clinging close, the copter lifted off.
The effect increased gravitational pull momentarily, imparting a transient effect of excess mass, furthering Primus’ fraught state. The big dog hugged into me, whining.
Team members removed their head gear, shaking wet heads in so doing. We were bowled over by four angry visages now heaping disdain. A sound berating for stupidity exhibited in setting a campsite so far from beaten paths assaulted us.
It would seem, by their perspective, that access to bathroom and shower facilities were of paramount import in any site-choosing decision. Our nonconformity evidently broke some unwritten rule of a non-existent camping code.
In absorbing their rebuke, we ducked our heads toward the windows and were flabbergasted by view of the river below. A previously meandering emerald ribbon had grown into a twenty-five-foot-high raging brown torrent.
We were amazed by its transformation and dismayed by a growing danger closing on our high, remote peninsula. Five more feet and we would surely have been engulfed. Maybe it was a stupid move to have absented ourselves from civilization so. I was rendered contrite.
We endured the remaining flight through turbulent skies, flummoxed at the tumultuous turn of events and suitably chastened by the transgression.
Disembarking at the central ranger station to the safety and amenities it provided, our rescue squad finally exhausted their tirade. I settled my distressed canine buddy into a kennel run attached to the complex used for tracking dogs when need arose.
Empty at the moment, we two spent a quiet half hour reassuring each other that all was good. The brute took some convincing that we were not verging on eminent demise after the harrowing helicopter ride.
He gradually relaxed, head on my thigh, in stillness of the secluded spot. Howard had disappeared with one of the team for a hot shower and clean-up somewhere. I gradually hashed out my misgivings for alleged responsibility in the jeopardous predicament.
Thinking things through, rationalization by hindsight ultimately concluded innocence: it could have happened to anyone. All’s well that ends well.
As the two of us gathered our wits in peaceful quietude, I sensed, then heard, pad of bare footfalls as a person approached. Expecting to see Howard, I was surprised by the figure materializing at the door to the run. It was Zip, the rescue team leader and one of our reproving saviors.
Exhibiting a different mien, he now exuded newly gentle concern for my and the Prime’s state of mind. I slackened with relief by the knowledge that I would not face more recriminations, being heartily fed up.
Logic dictated that sudden central Texas downpours and flash-floods such as that to which we had been subjected were, by definition, flash occurrences. Unpredictable under best of circumstances.
In actuality, that peninsula was about the most secure site in the entire natural area. And, a calculated move from the outset. I simply hadn’t known of the coming storm justifying my choice.
Newly showered, the first-responder admitted as much as he entered our dog run, squatting across from us as he towel-dried his close-cropped curls. Wrapped in only a large white towel, he evinced a sense of benevolence now, belying the heretofore gruff and ticked-off manner that the emergent situation had prompted.
It was history, thankfully, and we listened to the revitalizing rainstorm as we mused over the recent transpirings. During our air evacuation, the park had been deserted by worried campers. Almost all had departed for home and higher ground.
I inquired as to my friend’s whereabouts and Zip informed me rather cryptically that he was in good hands, present needs being addressed. That was good news, yet I wondered at the wryness.
Continuing the squat pose he had assumed across from me, we carried on our dialog. Comparing notes on Sir Prime, our shared camping and hiking proclivities, his status as a state first responder and such, we achieved comfortable accord for which I was grateful. Without the frenzy of direness, I was easily beguiled by youthful wit and exuberance.
He alluded repeatedly to Howard’s and my small haven, garnering details about the ‘secret’ spot. My depiction of the site disabused him of a disturbing picture he had formed of the upriver locale.
Expressing curiosity in our doings during that period, I described our idyllic couple of days prior to the turbulence. To better portray it, I pulled out my iPhone and let him view the nature videos recorded the day before. To my supreme mortification, How’s streaming blowjob popped up for a few seconds until I managed to stop it but he was respectfully tacit about the miscue, allowing me to gloss over it. Ahem.
Disarmed, I now found myself transfixed by his masculine aura. He had to outweigh me by twenty pounds easily but was two or three inches shorter. In his late twenties, I was ahead of him by 12-15 years.
His fuzz-covered skin reeked sensuality. Fleetingly, I mulled the workout he must put his girlfriend through in the sack... Packed with muscle, he was crowned by dark ringlets cropped for ease of care over a ruggedly handsome face. The quick smile, quite disarming and vivacious. His tight body was seemingly covered shoulders-to-ankles in a light peach fuzz which included the visible mid-thigh region discernible up to the edge of a damp towel.
My transparent interest in what was lurking just inches away must not have bothered him too much. He leaned back on the smooth ceramic block wall as we spoke, widening a spread-legged squat and leaving yet less to imagination.
Having followed my furred friend to these quiet confines before attending to any hygienic relief, my bedraggled state persisted in stark contrast to his soap-enhanced muskiness. The rankness must be visually and olfactorally repulsive to the stud lounging across the dog run.
When I referred to the disparity, he offered to sit with Max Prime should I desire to wash up. Interestingly, Zip added that he was commonly in the company of sweaty, over-ripe maleness and did not find it offensive.
Then is when he spread those fuzz-covered thighs to the point of allowing a visual that took my breath clean away. There, nestled between two of the largest goose-egg sized nuts I had ever beheld, lay a foot-long sausage of an uncut prick that was far from full mast. I was dumbfounded.
Zip made grinning note of my attention. Telling me that he was used to such response from both men and women, straight and otherwise, he deadpanned that it had taken him this long to grow it and enjoyed flaunting it. So false modesty was not an option. My wide-eyed look must have evoked his next utterance which inveighed willingness to allow further examination should I desire.
Holy shit. How could anyone ignore that offer?
I reached out and cupped the resting megadong. My fingers just barely encircled its girth. It jumped at my contact and I realized then that my fingertips would not probably meet again in this grip, seeing tumescence already distending the thing. I wasn’t sure whether to be in awe or fearful but his natural ease quickly cured my hesitancy. I explored its magnificence as it rose to the occasion.
Inching its way upward and away from a fuzzy ballsack, it reminded me of a construction crane in the act of unloading a crate. Indeed, a pearl of pre-cum appeared at the tip, dripping viscously downward, mimicking an uncoiling chain. I wanted to take delivery… My fingers swirled the huge head peaking from under the sexy foreskin, loving both the sponginess and slipperiness at once.
The polishing provoked him. Standing fluidly erect for better accessibility, the towel dropped away. Wowed by developments, I decided the better part of valor would be to use my mouth in a way other than voicing inanities. Gently teething on the cocksure monster was definitely a right decision.
His voice rasped huskily as I proceeded to pleasure my mouth. Proving again to be charmingly immodest, his throaty declarations took lead role with instructive suggestions for heightening his enjoyment.
Assuming my own squatting position in front of him, I lightly massaged tree trunk thighs and melon-sized calves, even kneading smooth triple-D feet which elicited more positive comments.
He placed tanned hands on my head, helpfully guiding his pole into recesses beyond my squashed tonsils. It slid way past the point for any expressions of dismay at the depth his dick plunged into my gullet. So I just held my breath and let him have at it.
Managing to avoid gagging was a true triumph. Appreciation for this feat was not lost on the mouth poker, vocally encouraging me to keep it up. Else he would have to use the asshole. Hmmm… not an option, I thought. Versatility can be enjoyable; this thing would be homicidal. He could just take it up with my hiking companion if he wanted ass.
With that thought, I settled on my knees, using his towel for a buffer against the hard floor. Deliberate, deep rhythmic pumping of this homunculus met my greedy need.
It didn’t take but a few minutes before he growled a low rumbling. The intensity grew with swelling of that majestic pole; the beauty reached an extraordinary girth. It finally erupted, filling my throat and mouth, then overflowing those bounds to puddle down my chest to the towel.
I kept that huge dick contentedly embedded in my strictured throat, relishing his convulsive bursts. With time, the spasms ran their course. I swallowed as much spunk as possible, disbelieving the volume. Preening over his proclamation of, “best head ever”, I nearly melted. I knew I was that damn good.
Only then did we, either one, do anything but writhe in that fellatious bond together. Regretfully, by tacit agreement, we finally sundered connection. Taking stock of rolling thunder rebuilding outside, the notion arose to seek our comrades across the compound.
Before reapplying his towel, Zip let me clean both of us with the spare. I was sorry to lose tactile familiarity with the truly amazing phallus. Reassuring Primus of a hasty return, I left my hiking boots with him as surety of the promise. We set off to find a hot shower, bantering, a bit sheepishly, about the excellent episode just enjoined.
Zip enlightened me on layout of the central station, informing me of the midweek lull resultant to the storms on our way through the complex. It answered for scarcity of rangers and lack of campers. Three skeleton crew rangers present were females of the team who enjoyed a separate locker area for privacy.
We traversed the compound in a short time and Zip pointed out the clean towels next to the men’s common shower area. He needed to check on his team and took his leave with a buttslap and a wink.
I suffused my body inside and out with steamy hot wall jets and rain heads extending downward from the ceiling, basking in modern amenities after days away from the like. During my ‘gluttony-by-shower’ it recurred to me to seek out the How-man who had been MIA the past hour. Not that he had crossed my mind recently, what with attention focused as it had been.
Hoping he was as comfortable as me and ready to seek a good meal, I set out with a towel for cover, rubbing my own curly head with another. Smiling to myself, I flashed on the similarity to Zip’s adorned advent into the dog run just a brief while before.
The place proved as deserted as Zip had alluded. I wondered at where everyone had disappeared. Hearing what must be laundry room machinery resonations above an ever-present din of thunder outside, I headed for it, intending to leave the towels then continue search for my friend.
Imagine my surprise upon opening the door and barging in on an array of naked and sexually absorbed first responders busily disciplining Howie.
The sexy man was facing away from me and so were three of the team plus the copter pilot. Totally engrossed with spanking and corn-holing the immediately recognizable cocoa-colored buns. I should know, having been well-familiarized with the spread pair as I had over past days.
He was kneeling on a padded chair with maximal glute exposure, little globes arching upwards. Like a sinner seeking atonement. Noticeably aroused and engorged cocks, greased for action, were slapping, stroking and pumping the pretty asshole.
Well, what the hell, I thought? I had been unknowingly breaking the tight little whorehole in for them over the days before they arrived to save our sorry asses. Howard’s attempts at expiation for imagined sins were obviously in high gear. The ‘dissed’ responders were clearly measuring forgiveness in their big old... hearts.
Enthralled by How’s unexpected ‘guilt trip’ and wondering how much had been missed, I now comprehended Zip’s earlier wry comment. Silently stretching out in a chair opposite the show to survey the action seemed an appropriate tack, I surmised. Boundless levitation buoyed the dickmeat in the room. Surprisingly including my own. I stroked the revived boner reflectively, enjoying the view.
Previously professional emergency servicemen caroused in sybaritic decadence. All of them in peak of physical conditioning. Close to three feet of engorged equipment presently used that arched ass. All so absorbed with my hiking partner, the team hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care, that I was there. Perfect.
Sated as I was, considering multiple orgasmic experiences over the recent past, I found myself content to act a voyeur. One by one these built athletes deposited robust loads into my buddy’s begging hole. A final ejaculation sprayed those round cakes with copious pearlescent goo. To obvious satisfaction of the crew. Penance complete.
Should my religious fervor for redemption ever approach Howard’s, I reasoned, let my Hail Mary’s rival this.
Just then, the door creaked open and in strutted Zip. Sexy Howie was in the act of turning over to attempt sitting. The compact little slut just gaped at the three-legged man in disbelief. His dick jumped involuntarily as the Zip and his ‘little man’ registered.
How momentarily glanced my direction and flitted a ‘busted’ grin my way but the massive dick affected him similarly to the way it had me. There, however, similarity ceased. Whereas I had salivated over prospects for sucking the stunning manmeat attached to an irresistible hunk, Howard obviously had a variant goal. I could feel the cogs in his brain measuring and quantifying, anticipating a final offering of anal amends.
Redemption could be so damned elusive.
Zip was remarkably aroused, even so soon after my climactic blowjob. And small wonder, as he sized up a curvaceous chocolate booty in close sights. His heavy member buoyed itself at just above the horizontal. So much sequestered blood was required to inflate it entirely that the sheer mass inhibited a higher angle of arch. A slight upward arc at the cowled crown twitched in expectancy.
No one in the room spoke. All appeared fairly nonplussed by the inordinate size, so I reckoned they must have sighted it before. It was a reasonable wager that none of his team had ever seen it fully erect, let alone in action, up to now, however. By his expression, it was certain that Howard had not.
Zip-man acknowledged my presence, cocking me a lop-sided twinkle of a smile. The hunky closer bore in on the boy in the chair. Howard was now totally mesmerized by the oncoming gargantuan cock. And balls. Previously greased by yours truly and now ready for a freshly despoiled orifice.
It occurred to me to wonder where the team leader had secreted himself while the gang-banging came to a head. Nonetheless, he was here now, by a very timely entrance.
Without a word, How slowly rotated back to his knees for presentation of the sacrificial hole. In an exhibition of self-control, probably tinged by thoughts of self-preservation, he gathered all of the intermingled baby juice available into his palm.
Instead of licking it, as I know he would have liked, he used it to lube that used pucker. For a capstone fuck. Neither I nor Zip’s teammates could restrain ourselves, drawing together to get a bird’s eye view of the impending carnality.
From somewhere, Howie produced a bottle of Jungle Juice for moral support and busied himself with audibly inhaling the brew to assuage coming subjugation. Reinvigorated members bounced in anticipation.
Gallons of blood must lay trapped within the collective of re-engorged dongs. Self-stroking or aid from a partner provided a damn hot visual field. I slicked up a particularly phat 9-1/2 inch uncut piece throbbing beside me, now working two-fisted, what with my own in the other.
Using no hands, Zip sidled up to my friend’s cute buttcheeks and teased that adorably rucked up and ready rectum. Slimed as it was with multiple loads of cum, the stud almost daintily slapped it with a head three times the little chute’s circumference. Howard was so buzzed by the rush he couldn’t handle the situation. He precipitously backed up on the thing, taking the entire head. Then went motionless.
Dickstrokers surrounded the two and Howie lasciviously turned to view them getting off on him. He then looked up at Zip, wordlessly importuning him to be gentle.
Zip gradually inched that massive thing all the way inside that delectable jigglebutt until fuzzy pubes tickled smooth little cheeks. Zip thoughtfully allowed the boy time to get used to it. How-man bolstered himself with another deep hit of poppers.
We all lustfully absorbed the ensuing episode, viewing the hottest live porn any had witnessed. Testosterone-laden musk permeated the microcosm. Uncounted minutes were spent pumping methodically into and out of How’s hole.
The thing would exit completely, giving us a 3-D visual before homing right back into it, never once using any hands.
When Zip finally did take hold of both cakes, it was a matter of mere moments before we all vicariously experienced the mega-breeding of Howard.
Through seismic thrusts, the stout man delivered a never-to-be-seen load up into Howie’s stretched and deepened asshole. Hot spurts pushed a diminutive Lothario over the edge. We watched pretty boy’s own rigid black dick spurt gobs of white jizz, propelled by gratifying feel of the sizzling load dominantly implanting him.
Zip totally o-w-n-e-d the boii.
Multiple teammate loads burst forth in an orgasmic queue, setting How’s proteinaceous ‘table’ for supper. Square meal be damned...or at least postponed. He pigged out, and then was still looking. As I said--- insatiable.
Howard and I recharged together a bit later under steamy showerheads again. Finally alone, we giggled together through comparative renditions of experiences since our ‘rescue’. Irony abounded as we considered just what that word--rescue--actually encompassed. Our friendship solidified in those moments.
Next, going to ‘rescue’ Maximus Primus, we found him snoring over meticulously chewed hiking boots. The reunion was complete.
Stormy weather slowly dispersed over the following day and female rangers remained sublimely unaware. The Zipman’s team ultimately departed, amicably recompensed, via helicopter.
How and myself--- and, of course, Maximum Primus--- collected our own selves*, making way back to the big city after an unpredictably... volatile... weekend.
Primitive camping had won over yet another zealous disciple.
* Regrettably, we were forced to abandon our 4-man tent until the next memorable trek to our eyrie across the isthmus. It was still pitched and intact, albeit pervaded by a noxious odor we dubbed ‘parfum de skunklette’. The lost hiking boot lay inside. Thereby adding further enigmatic facets to a growing conundrum regarding true meaning for ‘rescue’. We kept our eyes widely peeled for both the Zipman and she-devils the whole time...no damn doubt. Fantasies and nightmares thrive.
P.S. Addendum to all would-be judgmental Puritans: No animals were hurt during the writing of this fantasy and God forbid anything more than the four major food groups were actually ingested. Just sayin’.
Poof.
