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A High Country Tale V: Fivespeed

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Cal and Jake settle into the Broadhearst home for the summer, drawing out the members on both sides of the fence regarding their SSM. Getting to know the Broadhearst brotherhood opens Jake's eyes... Luke Cevennes, M.D. He liked the way it sounded even after a decade and a half of wearing the mantle. Jeremy Kell, Ph.D. That rolled over Luke's tongue with more flavor than any name in his world. The sexy Jamaican immigrant actually swept him off his feet nearly two decades before. The two fit each other. Luke and Jeremy's best friends, Jake and Calumet, likewise professional and accomplished, lag in years by a decade but the bond between the four: as deep as the Mariana Trench. Traversing the 21st century as a new age American family, the two interracial couples complement each other in ways the majority of people could only look upon in wishing. Hi-jinks, ribaldry, a touch of activism plus candor and humor, all souffled with a smattering of profundity, gel into a roving epic, from America to Europe to the Caribbean, on the shores of WWII Normandy, to Blue Mountain in Jamaica, up the wuthering heights of the Rockies, and down the alluvial plains of the American deep south as these self-deprecating, refined yet lusty menfolk wend their way, together, while luring the flotsam, jetsam and A-listers of Humanity along, on the sojourn that is their Tree of Life.

Romance / Erotica
Zachariah Jack
Age Rating:


Admonishing silence, Cal held his big hand over my mouth as his bent elbow kept my knee raised and trapped. Impaled by my man’s 10-inch piece, flat on my back, both legs were up and spread. Toes curled. His other hand sexily prodded my ass ring at the point of that big dick’s entry.

His favorite way of getting off, he had always told me. Locked to my eyes, feeling his dick slide in-and-out of my ready hole with his own fingers, climbing that ladder to eruption all in one..manly..motion. Over and over, of course. ’Til it delivered the babies...

Well, who was I to stop that action? My own dick lay hard and squashed between us, rubbed tantalizingly to its own climax just moments before with only morning sweat and now, my own cum, as lube.

Though a mite uneasy, I settled back on the pillow and felt his palm follow as he enforced the order for quiet. “You’ll wake everyone in the damn house, my good bitch.”

Having just loosed my load, I smothered my misgivings and let him have at it. I could always feel the approach of his explosion by the swelling goin’ on in there while it pummeled my channel and by the swelling goin’ on, it was gonna be a fruitful one.

It had been sinfully fruitful for me, watching what was happening now as I lightened up and followed my instructions.

The creak of the floor alerted Cal to another presence; the same presence which had witnessed my own gusher and vocal pleasure moments before. He lifted up enough to turn his head and see Boy, that way too curious nephew, screaming silently and grinning ear-to-ear at the view of his favorite uncle laying pipe with his white boy husband.

By reflex, Cal plopped his uncut meat out in surprise, though quite unable to stop the climax he had just achieved. Cum sprayed over both of us, and like a man confronted by a suddenly bursting faucet, he did the only thing one could do-- he plugged the hole to stop it. All the way back into my now excessively-lubed hole. Throbbing pulsations squeezed his perineal muscles and pushed more sperm to the exit point...up me.

“Boy, what in Hell you doin’ up in here? Shut the damn door, pissant!” Cal never raised his voice--- not ever--- so the boy wiped the grin away and pushed the door shut as Cal turned back to me. Still inside the room...

Unbeknownst to either of us now, he watched as Cal’s cum trickled, squirted and dribbled all over the damn place--- the bed, us, the window behind me and I think in my eye as it began to sting a little. My inner grin matched the thought-to-be-departed Boy’s.

Cal didn’t bother retracting the appendage now safely, and warmly, hidden back in me, assuming the little interloper had scrammed, but looked down with recriminations covering his face as he asked what the hell was I thinking by not telling him we had company at 5 AM on a Sunday morning?

I licked his palm with my tongue in reply and he backed the hand off my mouth in sudden realization... a sheepish smile flooded the big man’s handsome face and we giggled at the look of things.

But that dick didn’t move an inch. Except to continue spasming. It felt good. If anything, it occurred to me, it was more engorged upon his awareness.

Boy, silently incognito, stood stock still, mouth now gaping wide open and eyes as big as saucers, locked on one particular spot. Cal’s thick piece had oozed its slimy way out of my ass and now bounced lightly on and off my junk. What a visual that must make.

With a start, he came to his untainted senses and turned as red as a dark ebony boy possibly could, yanking the door back open. He then raced out, bumping the door hard against the wall in the doing. Typical Boy: sneakup-->spy-->surprise-->shock-->Oh...shit-->Retreat! All one flowing emotion. No telling where he would end up.

So much for a quiet, down-low Sunday morning “fuck and re-fuck”. What we labeled the early service. I eased loose, rose, and brought a warm wet wash rag to service my man as we laughed about the present innocent peccadillo and re-hashed my previous afternoon’s less-innocent grocery run with Cal’s twin, Coy.

As I had known would happen, when I relived the scenario with Cal last night in bed he responded with a massive boner, not jealousy. Neither of us embraced that useless emotion. Three successive orgasms filled me as I related the story of how I had encountered Coy’s pretty piece at the old video store while he slowly, methodically pumped my bones... and listened.

Cal loved my voice and said he could get hard listening to me recite Bible verses. A whole new meaning for getting religion, I guessed, as I conjured the image of Coy…spent and smirking down at me through the glory-hole the day before. Waiting for my reaction to the fact of his own bodily attachment to the dick just ‘anonymously’ sucked in the smut shop behind the grocery store. He had thought I was unaware. How little he knew me. So I had enlightened him.

Reality had foggily descended as we later made our grocery-laden and cum-bestained way back to the house in the country. Blitzed, but much better acquainted. Desiring to cover our conduct upon arriving back with the cooking list needs, Coy and I had acted just that--coy-- about anything out of the ordinary during our trip.

The womenfolk were chattily bustling when we entered the house. They noticed only the arrival of the necessities. Remarkable how often people see what they want, I reflected. When I declined reimbursement for the goods, wanting to help and belong, they were touched. Saved by the bill...

Over a delectable soul-food dinner, Cal and I had filled everyone in on our lives and doings, absorbing the life experiences of the family in return. We were well aware that our ‘elopement’ a month before had probably topped anything more possibly jarring to the family’s sensibilities following that news. The old downhill slope looked pretty good to us by that yardstick.

Though we had already ‘come out’ years before, the effect of a new SSM couple in the country haven where Cal had grown up had proven startling to the oldsters, to say the least. Our decision to visit over the summer months had sent the emotional gamut ranging amongst them from chinwag to complacency, yet we felt relieved at coming.

Family members were accustoming themselves to the news at various paces. Coy and Boy in the lead of the acceptance faction, the rest resolving their stances on the matter as they could. Or would. Cal’s other brothers had proven variously OK, mute, smart-assed or, in Doy’s case, derisive, regarding our nuptials. It had been noticed, however, that the married members: cousins, nephews, nieces, sisters and brothers were, to a person, accepting of the newest couple in the large family group.

A few of the older generation and the single men were a little less so; the kids could care less. The younger generation was very simply electrified to have the presence of their idol, Calumet Alfrederic Blackhearst II, or Uncle Cal, for the present time. Their own local celebrity amongst friends and schoolmates had been secured by the actualized personification.

The family had been gratified and mollified as Big Bro Cal, the gregarious, athletic, successful ‘elder’ of the younger Blackhearst generation had established himself in the bigger world. Presently controlling a software company encompassing multiple and expanding major metropolitan areas around the country, all had been beneficiaries of his largesse over the recent years.

Now, to have him back amongst them even for a few months made for a more direct coming-to-grips with the ‘elephant in the room’ issue: his new marriage. By merit of both Cal’s and my self-confidence and self-acceptance, tinged by some ingratiating self-deprecation, we made it plain that we were good. What could, or should, anyone say?

What with my unaccepting family (“He is a man, gay... and black?“) and the then-unknown reaction from his, we had decided to wed and honeymoon at our high-country hideaway, close to our best men and far from any negativism.

Aspen had welcomed us. The rest of the world could put up or shut up.

“Are you and Uncle Cal gonna make oreos?” Five-year-old Vivian wanted to know. She had been informed by Boy of our liaison that morning and now couldn’t quite figure things out.

“No, honey,” I told her, “we are not going to make oreos. I am much too young to be a mother.”

Not solving her puzzle in the slightest, the little cutie went on, “If you do, will they be my family, or someone else’s?”

“Viv, don’t you have enough cousins to keep up with already?”

“Well”, she replied sagely, “I just want to be ready in case I have to watch out for them when they come visit.”

“Do you think you will have to watch out for them if that happened?”

“Well, Daddy told Mommy that if it happened a long time ago, they woulda been drowned in the creek.”

Perplexed, I didn’t really have a reply for that, on several different levels, so assured the tyke that should Cal and I have any children they would more than likely be orphans. Who didn’t have a home. That was the way people like her uncle and me ofttimes made families, I explained, affording loving homes to unfortunates and strays, thereby fulfilling one of our natural, age-old, village-community roles in helping the world address a societal conundrum.

“But will they be orphan oreos?” Vivian had to know.

“Well, honey, they could be oreos, I guess, but whether they were or not wouldn’t make any difference. We wouldn’t make a family on that basis. On purpose, anyway.”

“So they might be oreos but for sure they will be orphans, right?” The little girl was persistent. Seeing my confused look, “I just need to know what is gonna happen here.”

She sounded so adult I couldn’t help sniggering.

“Help me out here, Uncle Jake, how ’bout?” Vivian was obviously very serious about this concept but I was just as seriously not the person who was going to discuss birds and bees with this five-year-old girl. My mental picture of her earlier Boy-translated mental picture was already disturbing enough…

“Skunks,” I said finally.


“Yes”, I explained, “we are going to have skunks. They are beautiful, snooty and nobody ever messes with them.”

I remained utterly intrigued by Cal’s family’s male names. We were all sitting in the family room one Monday evening watching baseball, the brothers all here enjoying the Braves stink up the national television airwaves. Thank goodness for beer and Bob (Marley’s ghost). Cal and I were the popular ones, having come stocked from Aspen, where the green cross thrives.

Coy, Doy, Roy, Loy and Voy. All junior to their big bro (Coy was younger by two minutes), two married and three not. All could be mistaken for each other. They were all chips-off-their-Dad’s block, the patriarchal head of the family, deceased these past six years.

The senior Cal, or Professor, as he had been more commonly known, and his wife Cassandra, had wanted a distinct but connectible link for their five sons following Cal II, and knew they would have the chance as the family tree was over-populated by males and twins. Very few daughters.

Their solution had been simple enough. It was one they borrowed from Francis Ford Coppola’s majordomo. The iconically prolific overseer for Coppola’s Belize Maya Mountain retreat for more than three decades. Cassandra and Calumet, Sr., had been close friends over the years.

The man was iconic throughout Belize for the fame of his marijuana production operation. Mr. Marley, himself, had been a common visitor to the estate over the years, among others. Snoop Lion, Sting, Prince, Seal and Heidi, Iggy and Lenny had all frequented the palapa-themed compound. It was even reputed that Anna Madrigal had once stolen fertile seeds during a stay.

He was prolific because he had fathered seventeen children by two wives over twenty years. Both wives had co-existed amicably, happy to share the child-bearing burdens and wifely duties. Through the passage of time, the old chief steward had kept the whole family united.

Every child was named Fred or Frederica, as were both wives. No roman numerals; no added letters. Just the name. Oh, and for good measure, so were his five Rottweilers. The local jaguar, coney and tree iguana populations detested them.

Even his weed lines were Fred-derivatives: ‘Fredling Fly’, ‘Fred A-stare’, ‘Fred Flintstoned’, ‘Alfred Ganja Khan’, ‘Fred Jiggleitalittleitllopen’, ‘Fred-Lb rightover’. And more.

Somehow it worked. Majordomo Frederick Mansard Lansing bragged that he never feared being ignored, nor losing his mind. One name was all he need remember. If he ever lost memory of his own name, he figured, well, it was just that time... To top it all off, he was willing to wager at least somebody of the troupe would carry on the name.

Cassie and Cal had employed their own peculiar twist on the theme by middle-naming all five successive sons Alfrederic, just like Calumet, Junior. Therefore, Coy-Al, Voy-Al, Roy-Al, Loy-Al and Doy-Al.

Their only sister, Sophie, had the effrontery to be born into the world with indoor plumbing and paid for this by a lifetime of signing official papers as Sophonsiba Rill Blackhearst.

As a child, she had called all of her brothers Al. In contrast to the Belizean, she deduced that any sibling she might call would mix it up with one of the others and thereby, thankfully, ignore her. Worked to a T.

At the seventh inning stretch, all six brothers deserted the cutting-edge 72-inch Samsung curved-screen to the starry night out back for their own game-update report. They did a better job than the pundits, and with their looks and scant wardrobes as impetus, I opted to join them.

Personally, I still missed marching bands at halftime. Oh, wrong season...scratch that.

Women-folk had long since departed the house for the safety of a baseball-sparse venue so a fraternity-like mood ruled now. Spitting, farting, burping, scratching, and the like, prevailed in this atmosphere and we were bonding the more as a result. Peeing on the grass was acceptable, as well, and I heartily joined this exercise in one-upmanship from as close proximity as possible without being splashed. The view was worth the risk, I posited, even if I didn’t quite measure up.

I found no better luck telling them apart by this method, however. They were all hung like Cal and Coy: huge, thick and uncut. On the bright side, as drunk as they were getting, no one would likely fall down...third leg and all. Tripods are notoriously stable on their legs.

Yup, good ole’ filial bonding. One of Cal’s and my primary intentions in descending to the flatlands for the summer. Sophie was already won over to my side. She had always wanted a sister-in-arms. Ahem.

Cal reminded us of the 10 mg THC gummy bears and lollipops. He led the sweet-lovers inside to test them. I had become absorbed studying constellations heavenward, a favorite pastime in the mountains. Loy and Roy both preferred the professionally rolled joint to chewables and I saw them light up from my vantage of the porch swing. Their flame distracted my stargazing.

The younger twins not only looked alike, they also spoke alike, cussed alike, walked alike, thought alike and finished the other’s sentences. When they were younger they had developed a ‘language’ of their own, as twins do, and were commonly observed conversing quietly or heatedly together. Nobody the wiser about the content.

Very curious words and body-language soon captivated my attention as I experienced the artful display firsthand. I watched, infatuated, as they discussed something of apparent import together. Both were clad in only cutoff jeans. My salivary functions could not keep from evaluating the handsome shadows they cast in the waxing gibbous moonlight.

After a peculiarly gesticulative exchange, the duo suddenly signaled in my direction. Then they turned and approached, offering to share the old-fashioned method of partying, as they called it: two-toking. Loy turned to Roy and demonstrated their unique take on the old shotgun toke. The innate sensuality exuding from the two during it made the tent in my running shorts rise a bit. What total unassuming studs.

I arose and stepped down toward them in the yard, happy for the attention. With the ‘demo’ toke consummated, they sidled to me in tandem. Loy put the lit blunt inward between his lips and leaned at me inquiringly. Roy came up behind as we partook and parked his crotch between my asscheeks. Large hands brazenly wandered in hormone-driven search over my butt and groin.

Pretty hard to miss that offer, I mused. Being a suck-up for muscled black dudes, brother-in-law status notwithstanding, I bent slightly into the sausage fattening back there and took a deeper hit from Loy as he braced my head with his other hand, kind of pushing the issue.

My shorts lasted above my hips like two seconds past that. Loy did his best to keep me from noticing the ploy by perpetuating the shared lip-lock, but Roy didn’t just lower them. He ripped them off by brute force. One yank and I was butt naked between the two. Their cutoffs slid to ankle height and the nice southerly breeze wafted northward over a lot of exposed skin.

Loy took out the blunt but continued the lip-lock, joint-unaided. His tongue took over, stabbing my inner cheeks and throat in foreshadow to what more was coming. Roy hawked my bare ass with a glob of saliva, using his fingers to spread it up inside my chute.

The next move proved debilitating as he weaseled that big-ass ebony dick, recently evaluated under moonlight as it had pissed, right smack up into my white ass. I pushed back invitingly, arching the globes.

Loy’s tongue still enforced distraction and I moaned as the Mandingo pair set into a mutual gyrating dance very obviously practiced before this interlude. Hmmmm. My mental strings were picturing the two conjoined by dick as they practiced perfection in another time and place...who knew, I fantasized, what went on between them? These boys spoke a common private dialect. Why not fuck a common private dialect, too? The unmarried state suddenly suited them.

They audibly purred while they pumped, in a resonating hum, so similar in sound that I really couldn’t tell one from the other, ending up in ‘sense-surround’ mode through their susurrations.

The men were absolute animals in the taking of the forbidden fruit (smile) out there on the moon-drenched lawn. As they shifted from one position to the other I lost track who was doing what to whom. I take that back. I was the one getting plowed. And watched, though unbeknownst to me at that moment.

I felt like I came each time they bred me, sensing the swelling releases fill me again and again, but it wasn’t so. My cock stayed rock hard, bouncing off my abs the whole while. The two were ravenously insatiable. The number of loads was simply in plural… the twin action only settled down when we heard Cal call to us from his and Coy’s soundlessly assumed seats on the porch swing.

We had over-stayed the seventh-inning stretch, he joked... The top of the eighth was on… “What the Hell are you bitches and ho’s doing, anyway?” My man voiced all this as he and his twin stroked to our beat.

Experiencing the boys’ private vernacular repertoire, I felt I had just solved the sexual Rosetta Stone. Damn, the twins spoke that sensual jargon well... Was I ever lovin’ me some new family.

Seeing stars was just frosting on the cakes.

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