Eagle's Nest
“So, you think that God is a civil engineer, Jake? Really?”
“Not what I said, Sophie.” Bemused, I tried again. “It was just the joke I was telling you-- I was saying the contractor told the engineers that.” The magic gummy bear may have been a bad idea for this girl, I thought.
The 10 mg THC infusion added to the sugary animal shapes up in Colorado must be made for those of thicker blood than these flatlanders. Aspenites became nice and mellow whereas several down here had acted out a bit strangely.
Two of Cal’s brothers had taken three each during the ballgame and disappeared soon after. Without a word. That was three days ago and we had heard nothing from them since...hopefully they were OK.
“Well, tell me again, then. I didn’t get it, boii,” Sophie drew me back to reality. She glanced my way from behind the wheel and threw me an easy smile. The trademark sparkling smile of the Georgia Blackhearst family. I’d recognize it anywhere and saw my better half’s face etched all over those perfect pearly whites as they flashed my direction.
“OK, then. But keep an eye on the road, Soph,” I told her, as we flew down the old farm-to-market road. She was a good driver but got easily distracted by animals, I had noticed. We were passing a herd of Red Angus on her side and they drew her attention more than the road sign on my side warning us of a curve and another announcing Opelika, Alabama, eight more miles. Puffy clouds pocked the sky as we enjoyed the comfortable harmony between the two of us, out on a day trip together.
“Two engineers and a government contractor went into a bar,” I tried it over again. “All three had agreed that God must be an engineer, but they disagreed on what kind he could be. The Electrical Engineer claimed that the electrical genius behind the design of the human body--- ‘why, just look at the intricacy of the nerves and spinal cord and heart and the amazingly complex brain’--- made it a given that He had to be an EE Himself. The Mechanical Engineer countered that, no, with the amazing functions of the muscles and tendons, bones and joints and ligaments, He had to have been an ME to design that.”
“Their government contractor buddy came back from the bar with three beers and overheard them. He then insisted, well, no, God HAD to be a civil engineer to devise the human body. The other two looked at him like he was crazy and asked why he would think that?”
“Well, he said, anyone could figure that out...who else but a civil engineer would plan a recreational area right through the middle a waste disposal unit?” I grinned inwardly as I remembered Cal’s best friend, Jeremy, first tell us the joke at the top of Ajax Mountain last Christmas morning. The first run of the morning-- nothing but fresh powder below us. A good day, I reminisced.
Soph looked stymied. “I still don’t get it, Boii, break it down for a country girl.”
Hoo-Boy, I thought. It was a gay joke, after all, and we were in a deep red southern state. “OK,” I said. “Think like a gay man, Sister Souljah. Three gay professionals. Talking about the complexity of the human anatomy over a beer. The cynical government contractor, who spends his days trying to fix the goof-ups by the engineers and construction companies he deals with overhears his engineer buddies talking and immediately links anatomy and how gay men like backdoor sex...recreational area...through a waste disposal unit...get it? ”
“Eeeeewww,” the pretty woman with richly red-spiked hair gagged and puffed out her cheeks. “How gross is that? That is not funny, Jake.”
“What, do you mean to tell me your boyfriends have never taken the Hershey Highway, Sophie?” I laughed because I knew of her sexual proclivities. Her history with men was quite splotchy.
This was the woman who swore she wouldn’t get pregnant--“fo’ sho’ that”-- until after getting her degree and buying her own house, away from her brothers. But, she was very nearly as hormone-driven as any of the boys in the family. This woman was in constant ‘hyper-drive’.
Something did not compute, here. But far be it for me to pass judgment, so I just changed the subject as she refused to comment about the Hershey Highway-- I knew she got the reference, though.
It was just last Saturday morning that I had come into the kitchen while Boy was reciting what he had learned at school the day before. Sophie and Vivian were intent on the pancake batter but were listening to the precocious boy at the same time.
“Milk, milk, lemonade, ’round the corner, fudge is made.” sing-songing the words while he pointed first to each boob, then to his crotch and then a round-house curve of his arm, finger pointing to his rear-end.
Not awaiting their response, he raced off to the other room, leaving the two girls to wince and Viv to point her finger down her throat. But they got it...hence, the Hershey Highway.
“There’s the turn-off coming up, Soph,” I said, as we approached the sign for Auburn University. We had happily planned this day trip for a week, so we might get away and enjoy a somewhat culturally-oriented day alone together. No brotherly or spousal interference.
Cal, my lover for eight years and new husband, Sophie’s older brother and mentor, had concurred with our plan while the other brothers, aunts, uncles, and family ‘graciously’ backed away from including themselves. Go figure, we thought, snickering.
Our day trip had begun rather tumultuously earlier in the morning. I had just returned from my morning run, still before dawn. Waxed and winded by the heavy humidity down here so close to sea-level, I heard Goldie, the next door neighbor’s big boxer, ramp up to a fit of barking over in the Brown’s garden area behind their house.
Next, I heard old Farmer Brown kick up a cussin’ rampage that would have done a nickel-whore-in-church proud. Hearing a familiar bleating sound, I pretty quickly figured what might be occurring so went to jump the split-rail fence separating the two farms.
Coming up behind the elderly farmer, I saw Goldie in the setting moonlight backing down the Blackhearst family’s pet goat, Aloysius (say: Al-oo-Wish-us...). There were asparagus tips hanging out of the Nubian goat’s cheeks and even though he was in a defensive posture of head down, front legs spread and ears hard back on his head with horns bristling, he was still munching those tender shoots. Both dog and farmer were having none of it, brandishing teeth and shotgun at the outlaw ungulate.
Aloysius suddenly saw the situation as a losing venture and whirled, leaping the small fence surrounding the backyard garden, lickety-splitting into the spectral cornfield behind and towards the pine woods beyond.
Goldie was off like a rocket after the thief and I managed to get my hand up on Mr. Brown’s shoulder as he was leveling the shotgun for a birdshot barrage at the reprobate goat, forgetting the fact of friendly fire for the boxer.
Pulling back in surprise at my touch the old man swung the gun around on to my belly, calloused black finger close to the trigger. He charged up his epithetical bombardment again, this time at me.
“Ya’ nigga-lovin’ rascal, what ya’ doin’ puttin’ that varmint on my Elsie’s ‘gus patch?” Trying to settle the old fellow proved difficult, as he needlessly explained, in high-volume detail, how it took three long years to get a good crop of asparagus, and “that damned devil of a goat was damn well gonna pay with his damnable hide this time. If ya’ll wasn’t gonna keep the damn critter on a damn leash than me and the little missus was just gonna be eatin’ us some got-damn goat meat pretty quick, here.”
The dog’s fading barks let me know that the two animals were out on a chase like to last awhile but at the same time, out of birdshot range. So I soothed the cantankerous old coot as best I could to get that double-barrel pointed away from my belly-button.
He did settle down after a minute, at least to a decibel range softer than a rock concert. I began helping straighten up the cherished asparagus plants just as the ‘little missus’ stepped out the back door.
“A good morning to you, young Dr. Jake,” she greeted me. Her ever-present smile won everyone over, without exception. Even curmudgeonly husbands quieted down in her calming presence.
Profuse apologies for the goat’s pilfering elicited physical and vocal brush-offs from the tiny titan of a woman. She explained that so much asparagus had been picked and pickled by this time of the season that the couple could exist on the delicacy quite a long time, now, thank-you-very-much. Besides, she added, “that billy is a whippersnapper-- I love that big old goat.”
After making sure all was under control, she warned me against catching cold, which confused me, and extracted a promise to stop by for a coffee-chat soon. Maybe after I was able to shower and dress, she concluded amiably. Which solved my confusion, considering my running outfit. Then she warned her husband to mind his manners in front of me-- and his tongue, too, if he knew what was good for him. She had apparently overheard what he had called me a bit ago. With that advice, the smart lady took leave of us, disappearing inside the screen door once again. Farmer Brown and I went to work attempting to raise the battered crop, each of us meandering silently in our own thoughts for the moment.
There was no problem on the name-calling, I mused. Old people had very few filters by their age. In their mind’s eyes, they had ‘graduated’ from the societal mores system, feeling no compunction to guard their thoughts as they once had done.
Standing helplessly by a few years past when last visiting my folks, I had watched as my own elderly father rudely accosted a departing restaurant diner. Boring in on the man’s size 50 waist, he had expressed hope that the man had left us some... food, I supposed... as we were entering for dinner. All I had been able to offer was a wince and an apology. Would I be the same upon reaching that point in life? My mind wandered further during the old farmer’s temporarily chastened state, continuing the effort at repairing the abused vegetables.
Mr. Brown and my father notwithstanding, ladies of advanced age tended more to matronly lenient acceptance than older men. With that in mind, I hoped for my female hormones to pick up the pace in my elder years, as is common for the male gender. Just not at the expense of my masculinity or testosterone levels, mind you. That was too precious a commodity to do without. Especially in light of my other half’s sex-drive.
Cal had about the highest level of libido I had ever experienced. It never ceased to amaze me at his wherewithal to pop a hard-on under almost any circumstance and in any venue. Desired or not. Not that I was complaining. His handsome piece achieved rigidity quicker than any prick his size that I had watched harden. And it came quicker than any, too, when need called for it. Hell, the man had grabbed me just an hour ago as I tried to sneak from bed to go for my run, insisting on his early morning blowjob before departing.
Then again, when we were not rushed, the stud could last three hours with a towering pipe, quivering in anticipation at three inches past his navel and two inches out from his ripped stomach, curving gently upward and usually throbbing to a beat of its own as it awaited further attention from yours truly.
I loved teasing him. He was extremely careful not to offend people by the tenting effect he proffered the public in everyday clothes--- his junk could not be hidden in most any pants or drawers, short of using a drag queen’s truss. I knew the exact buttons and triggers which set the beast into motion...a fact of which he was well aware. Therefore, he insisted on ground rules for us when we went to public events. Ha, on that, I laughed to myself.
More than once I had seen him tent the front of his pants hugely, much to others’ notice and his own exasperation. He suffered embarrassment at the expanded state, while I simply reveled in the reminder of my man’s prodigious capacity and staying power. Just the thought of it made my juices flow. I would need to address that premise in a few minutes, knowing his morning wood would not be sated by a single blowjob. My junk lurched a little and I fantasized amidst the asparagus’s phallic shapes. Still trying to raise the stalks from their hoof-flattened wilt, the thought crossed my mind that someone should market plant Viagra.
At that mental profundity, Farmer Brown ended the brief reverie, making his presence known to me again. “Boy, you musta forgot yo’ drawers by the looks o’ things,” pointing the now elbow-cruxed shotgun barrel in the direction of my crotch.
Indeed. I looked down and realized my Cal-induced semi-boner had not done me any favors here. Nothing but running shorts and running shoes provided me cover, and as hung as I was, very little was being left to the imagination just now. Thank goodness Mrs. Brown had gone inside.
Attempting adjustment was futile without a jock and the old man cackled at the picture. “So, white boys might can’t jump but at least some of them pack a bunch, huh? How d’ya’ get that whonker out’n the way when the time comes? With that Cal-boy of your’n, I mean. Must get a mite crowded ‘tween the two o’ y’alls’ belly-up matches. Everybody know what that boy’s a’packin’. Matter o’ public record since the state finals wrestlin’ match back in his high school days, a- yup.” At that recollection he straightened up, staring off into the morning darkness with what would seem to be a sentimentally wistful gaze. Wow, I speculated, what could that be about?
Making promises for further amends to Farmer Brown, I decided it best to vacate the scene. Dick flopping. A little abashed, I reached the doorway to our bedroom in a couple minutes, still well-heated, and warming more so to the thought of climbing under those covers with my Daddy.
The fleeting idea of showering was quickly squelched. I had been well-conditioned over our years together to the assurances of my man’s preference for me in the semi-ripe state such as existed following physical exertion. Even emanating the faint odor of ‘eau de billy goat gruff’, I knew Cal’s reasoning: “If I wanted a woman or a damn ho’, then I sure know where to look--don’t be comin’ on to your man smellin’ like a flower, now. You listening, white boy?” After several years of personal disgruntlement over that particular, I had finally acceded to his appeals. At least on occasion. I had to admit that musky male aroma certainly whetted his appetite.
I snuck through the creaky door and just about reached the covers to climb in when a wide awake Cal emerged from the still pre-dawn shadows where he had been purposely waiting. Rousted earlier by the commotion and on the verge of barging outside to save my ass, he had listened and detected little real danger. When the ‘little missus’ voice had entered the conversation, he had decided to wait, considering the boner state at his abrupt awakening.
So, now, capitalizing on my appearance, a strapping bicep suddenly materialized between my salty thighs. From behind and underneath, the smooth forearm flexed up onto my stomach. In the doing, my half-mast cock was pincered between us. Feeling my anticipatory swelling, he growled pleasurably at our mutual need, whamming me down onto the mattress in one fluid movement. Trapped by familiar ebony musculature, I succumbed easily to the ‘foreplay’, such as it was.
His full lips locked onto mine, the beautiful arm slid snakelike up my stomach and crotch. The attached hand matched its mate on either side of my head and he buried his long, talented tongue far into my mouth. It still stole my breath away at the intensity with which he took control when ready. I had long ago linked his aggressive sexual nature to the legendary lust of Attila the Hun after success in battle. Taking the spoils of war. The analogy aided my understanding of the origin of the term, “booty”.
Before my liaison began with Cal, through the post-pubescent era of my youth, I had styled myself a total top man. Being well-hung in the whiteness of the WASP world, I had no problem taking the dominant role and playing it to the hilt, though my experiences were sparsely numbered before I was ‘schooled’ by Cal. I liked being in control. As a strong alpha personality, it fit my persona. All through undergrad school, I practiced what I felt was my natural predilection.
Upon introduction to Cal Broadhearst nine years back at a frat party, no less, I became acquainted with his world of sex. That year between grad school and med school, our paths had fatefully crossed. I was borderline frightened by the man. The divergence in our thought processes then were a challenge for me on several levels.
Cal was most definitely straightforward in his designs with relation to us. At the same time, pursuit of a medical degree was not something from which I allowed myself much distraction. Luckily, my man had intuited these sources for my wariness in regard to himself. Deliberately altering his archetypal method of conquest, he had suspended the demonstrative bravado so commonly successful to that juncture in his life. Instead, patience took precedence in approach to the goal he had set.
Within the year, he was in my pants, in my bedroom, and in my Life. To the present day, the only challenges to Cal’s anal virginity had been my tongue and his proctologist. He had never been topped.
Sure, my tongue had tested his virginity through the years. He melted to putty upon my lingual ministrations. I could’ve probably pushed the envelope and gotten into his ass had I tried at those times. The desire to do so had been strong in the beginning. My own personality had demanded such, in fact. But, thankfully, I had apprehended the folly of that path. Having tasted of his sexual prowess, I discerned that the quickest way to relegate ‘us’ to irrelevancy was to take that role with him. The lustre of his masculinity would be irredeemably diminished.
He was a total man: the man who wanted me. And, yes, other men on occasion. But, others were solely sexual sorties. It was a fact with which I was confident enough to be comfortable. Always and forever would Calumet be My True Top. And I, His Bottom. Any way he preferred.
While we both effectuated sex with some select others, by mutual and non-jealous consent, my heart was ever with this man. Never could I have pictured that for myself, but the puzzle fit together. We were united. Our first and last rule was honesty. Nothing else made sense. Or mattered.
On the subject of lingual ministrations. Millions of women would keep their men happy for a lifetime with that single maneuver. If they could only do so. But it is a male thing: passively aggressive yet non-threatening. Women have serious blocks at even giving good head and ho’s hired for fellatio wear thin very quickly: too ghetto. Too unfulfilling. On the other hand, almost any top man would choose good tongue-to-ass action over, yes, even fellatio. Because a major G-spot exists there.
Take it from me, the way to a man’s heart is not through their stomach-- it is by the lingual backdoor entrance. The Hershey Highway. Just practice good hygiene…Hershey is only euphemistic. Hopefully, the fairer sex will never find enjoyment in this act. The entire gay world might be dealt a serious setback. Fo’ sho’. Shhhh, don’t tell.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Cal wended his smooth, sinewy legs in between my own. Gradually inching mine apart, per his wont, the sexy mouth never left my lips. Rock hardness ruled as our dicks entwined and tongues dueled. He bit my lips, tantalizingly, one at a time and repeatedly.
Finally getting our legs separated from their mates far enough, his man muscle spongily probed for that opening. I always kept some Palmer’s cocoa butter within arm’s reach on the nightstand and found it while he continued the teasing. The butter coated both him and me and I shivered at the impression of the giant piece posturing to take me once again.
Ebony arms hooked tanned knees as the head popped my sphincter. Our animal grunts along with his staccato instructions and pleadings took over as his prick slowly, persistently, slid up into the hinter regions of my channel. Upon ‘bottoming out’ we ceased rhythm and held close for what seemed forever as my ass accommodated its guru yet again. His tongue in my mouth played the perfect decoy.
Cal knew the ecstasy of delayed satisfaction well. He found my desire upped by a power of ten when taking time like this to own me. Once established, he was aware he could proceed in any way he preferred from there on. At this time, on this morning, he preferred chest-to-chest rubbing while his fingers wrapped through the spaces between my toes, extending my legs and his arms out to the sides. He knew toe spaces to be my #1 g-spot. Growling deep into my mouth, he suffused us both with a vibrating buzz.
The rhythmic motion of our coupled state enfolded and held us captive by its power. Not a thin dime could have been fit between our bodies. With my legs and his arms out and away from our torsos, Cal took us to the place we knew as our own. Nobody and nothing could rival this link. Over the years our experimentations had perfected various methods for mutual bliss. Even so, this man still surprised me.
My fat dickhead pumped cum from its eye without warning following one particularly long, throbbing, stroke. I felt his climax pulsate inside me when my constricting prostate signaled him. The vibration shifted into a long sigh of total release, both of us sagging together as juices flowed.
After long minutes, our still interlocked tongues messaged each other of continued viability and we groaningly retracted from one another’s bodies. A mischievous smile pervaded my vision by nose-closeness.
Cal abruptly licked my face from chin to mouth to nose to forehead and sprang up off of me, shower intentions obvious. Dragging me along, we disappeared into the steam for purification rites, not noticing the stealthy figure skootch out from under our bed and, quiet-as-a-mouse, slink away evincing the smuggest of smug looks...
Things that make you go, “hmmmm.”
Following a very laid back breakfast, Cal revved up his tablet while we cleared the table. He had scheduled a webinar for mid-morning with his board-of-directors and a group of potential new investors. Business-like and detached in his preoccupation, I shouldered my backpack to depart. A perfunctory butt pat and cheek peck sent me and my sis-in-law to the door.
In contrast, Boy bounded up to both Sophie and me, demanding lift-up hugs and little boy cuddles. This hadn’t been a part of his new, grown-up image for the past 6 months, as I was later informed. His aunt was tickled by his reversion and when he nuzzled my neck goodbye he whispered in my ear, “I love me my Uncle Jake”, totally blowing me away.
The imp hadn’t granted such a title for me up to then and my heart grew three sizes as we two loaded into the Range Rover to head out. She was likewise surprised, and heart warmed, by her eldest nephew’s vocal acceptance of me into the family. We considered the lovable innocence of the scamp while chatting amicably over the first hour of the drive...
“Well, if he is, he is going to have one long, hot wait,” said Sophie, biting into the warm panini sandwich over lunch at the Museum of Art Cafe.
The young man had been nonchalantly lounging on the rock bench in the adjoining patio since she and I had sat down for lunch half an hour before. I had commented again on the very conspicuous mohawked guy to Sophie upon our running into him for the fourth time in as many hours during our campus visit.
At the Raptor center, he had been locked-in and absorbed throughout the lecture on birds-of-prey which both Sophie and I had put first on our list to hear. Seated two rows in front of us in the small outdoor amphitheater, his caramel skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat in the hot mid-morning sun. The deep red mohawk kind of stood out in the group of 20 as we listened to the ornithological expert discuss with us the raptor species in general and the Auburn War Eagle in specific.
After the talk ended, Sophie made note of the man as if he were a woman wearing her same dress at a cocktail party. “That color doesn’t do much for him and the green and yellow tie-dye pants make him look like a Kwanzaa banner,” she noted tartly.
The hair color almost matched her own hair tip color, so I failed to see her point. I took in her waist-tie, full length draped caftan, the zig-zag pattern of yellow, black and green very attractive on the exquisite young woman I called Sister. It was startlingly similar to the outfit the young man wore. His muscle shirt was a black-ribbed, dressier type. The two could have been cast members of the Cirque show traveling the southeast US who we had seen as a family in Atlanta the previous week.
Cal and I were big followers of the Cirque du Soleil shows. We had spent a week in Vegas the previous fall just to see the four resident Cirque shows on the Strip. ‘Zumanity’ had given us both raging hard-ons, what with its emphasis on the sensual. The steel-barred set of the soft-core prison sex scene had burned him a boner that took me hours to put out after the performance.
The MC had been an amazingly well-put-together transgender in hip boots and a fluorescent, sequined, two-piece leather outfit who had wielded fluorescent whips which shot phosphorescent sparks into the air each time she had disciplined the next-to-naked Chippendale quality male ‘prison’ performers. Clad only in leather thongs they gamboled over props closely resembling sex slings. It was extraordinary and left both of us horny for days. We saw it three times...
This exotic boy had an uncommon air and flair about him. As we got up to leave the raptor talk he turned and smiled, half-bowing in Sophie’s direction. She was aloof to the gesture, having taken affront to his outfit. I noted a strain of jealousy over the happenstance. Hmmm, surprising.
When we visited the Arboretum next, there he was again. Very convincingly engrossed in the flora and fauna of the exceptional garden, he only acknowledged us with a quick nod as we walked out the exit later on our way to the Smith Art Museum.
Now, as we sat at lunch after touring the good quality ‘Great Masters Exhibit’, we again acknowledged the man’s sultry presence on the sunny outdoor veranda just outside the plate glass divider. Sipping an iced Starbucks drink, Sophie was a bit more than put out: the striking man had passed us several times while ostensibly contemplating the stellar art.
Not only did she feel that the youth had copied her look, stealing her thunder in some way, but he had made a point to shadow her at each stop on our day’s excursion. As we finished up our light lunch we weighed the odd situation.
While he wasn’t threatening toward us, and the venues we had visited were public, the fact that he had seemingly copied our schedule did seem somewhat weird. As she collected her things, she again referred to the copycat-dresser outside. “If he shows up at the Vet College I am going to call in the law,” she declared. A bit draconian, I reflected.
Sophie was alluding to her appointment with the dean’s selection committee at the Veterinary Sciences College, the underlying impetus for our planned trip today. Not yet ready to announce her intent to enter veterinary medical school to her family, I was honored at being confided in. She had requested accompaniment to her interview. My background in medicine and marine biology had been right for advising her in a course of action.
Asking if I would be OK for the couple hours while she was busy, I assured her I would have a great time wandering the campus and exploring the Ecology Park. We planned to meet later at Heritage Park by the university entrance for our return trip to Rome. I was quite comfortable on college campuses. They were my natural niche, as I had discovered early on in life.
Sophie left me at the Auburn University main entrance. Before driving away in the Rover, she warned me to be on the lookout for the interloper, as she had now dubbed him, promising to be careful herself.
On my own for a bit, I felt liberated. Wandering the scenic route through the storied tree-lined campus of the old East Alabama Male College, as Auburn had been titled at its pre-civil war inception, I studied the landmarks. The history was intriguing for me and I stopped frequently in making my way toward the Ecology Park.
Entering the Park, I looked around only perfunctorily for the Kwanzaa man, expecting to never run across him again. After all, it was Sophie who need be on guard. Checking my phone, I was relieved to see no messages from her. I delved into the well-planned ecology park so cleverly sequestered on the old southern campus.
The university being in between summer sessions, the place was almost deserted. I enjoyed the solitude and removed my button down shirt in the afternoon heat, letting the warm breeze caress my skin. The well-known eagle’s nest was where I headed. A teaching replica, it had been specially designed and placed on the site for public enjoyment. It was huge. Five adults could act the part of eaglets and hide down in the deepness of the inner cup. The old oak trees overhanging the site shaded the nest. I had to climb in and check it out.
Its inner surface was lined with something akin to feather down, providing a super-soft surface for kids to experience a real-life eagle’s nest. Very interesting. I settled back in leisurely repose and luxuriated in the softness, stretching and gazing up through the tree branches.
The hot, still day and intermittent dazzle of sunlight through the overarching branches soothingly beguiled me with mental images of huge eagles landing on the edge, offering freshly caught eaglet delicacies for my culinary delight. Dappled sunlight sprinkled me with sunbeams...
Some of the downy lining floated loose, tickling my lips and I brushed it away in drowsy lassitude. Then, thinking to check my phone for messages in case Sophie or Cal had attempted contact, I roused an arm into movement toward the device. Upon fluttering my eyelids open, I started at beholding a dark figure hovering above me. The effect both blocked the sun and banished my grogginess.
There, directly over and only a few feet from me, was the Kwanzaa boy. Curiously studying me as I lay dozing in the nest. A feeling of creepiness skulked in, gooseflesh arising. I gawked at the mohawked male, my fluster contrasting his curiosity.
“What the fuck are you up to, dude?” I demanded. He half-smiled, without showing teeth. Provocatively, Mr. Mohawk placed his now bare foot on the lump fronting my shorts. I backed up on the curve of the lined declivity and pushed his foot off. “Dawg, you need to chill. Really, what is up?”
No answer, at all. He cocked his head to the side and reached forward, fingering my wild, curly auburn hair, mussed and feather-flocked. The red-topped man raised up erect again, now bracing himself by well-developed arms on either side of the nest. Like a gymnast descending on the still rings apparatus during competition.
Clearly athletically-honed to a peak of physical condition, he posed in arm-horizontal position, supporting his body in a feat by which true Olympians could have been satisfied. He pointed his toes downward, targeting my slightly askew bare legs, aiming for the gap between them.
My disturbed feeling ebbed as I observed this amazing demonstration of bodily discipline, detecting no danger signals emanating from him. His feet reached my legs and lightly nudged them further apart in a very seductive move. I allowed it.
Noting my altered body language, the mute gymnast remained suspended over me. Those toe tips continuing to prod my inner thighs. A full smile slowly shaped his full lips. Beautifully even white teeth gleamed at me. Sensing an opening, he let go his arms to the sides of the nest and reached down again, unclasping and unzipping my shorts.
Taking hold of the lower hems he swept them off in one smooth motion, pulling my legs to vertical in the action. My briefs went next and my woozy endowment began swelling at the sensuous turn of events.
He loosened the hold on my legs, guiding them to either side of his widely planted bronzed feet. Picking a few feathers out of my hair he ogled down at my now naked self. That smile of his grew and so did my dick.
His foot came up onto my crotch again, this time bare skin contacting bare skin. It wasn’t the foot that was engorging, though. In a fluid motion, the Kwanzaaonian pulled his black ribbed muscle shirt off and untied the yellow and green loose-flowing britches. They floated down to his ankles and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside.
His perfect caramel-skinned elegance was now proudly on display, poised over me. On his chest and stomach was emblazoned a naked black angel, wings and arms fully unfurled. Covering a set of astonishingly handsome pectorals, the wingtips disappeared into his deep armpits. The black angel’s feet tiptoed on the root of his cock as if just alighting there... Green, red and yellow ink perfused the body art. I was both stunned and riveted.
No hair covered his skin even in his groin and pubic area. His tool phattened before my eyes and while not the size I was used to in Cal, the thickness was more than that of a beer can; the balls were tightly drawn and plump. It kept on levitating. Shamelessly.
And, the man definitely liked that I liked his angel...if you got it, brandish it...
Mohawk Man’s smile burst into a full-fledged grin and he raised his head to survey the surroundings. It was mid-afternoon and though no one was around, who was to say that would persist? His perusal reflected that thought but he looked back down, arched his eyebrows upward and lewdly licked his lips. Then he just about fell on top of me.
My guess was that his concerns for interruption were now allayed.
Wide, flaring nostrils snorted in a breath of air and the aroused man raised my tanned legs widely up and over my head, burying his tongue in my ass. It made me gasp.
Kwanzaa stud didn’t waste any time, spitting on my rectal sphincter and swabbing it in readiness for the Coors-can prick I was now fixed on. How did we get to here, I thought?
Oh hell, who cared...the man was totally hot and shimmering in sweat. Though not exactly handsome, he exuded an animal magnetism that had me wanting all of him. Right here. Like I had a choice in the matter.
His big dick suspended itself at my ass pucker, prodding it in slimy warning. In contrast to my caretaking Calumet, this wild Indian with the red mohawk mane blasted into my inner sanctum, brooking no dissent. Of course, I didn’t raise any, but the shock of the painful entry made me shudder. I groaned out loud. He hesitated momentarily, allowing my adaptation to the thick intruder.
Even through the sex-infused wantonness in his black eyes, the man/boy managed to show me he wasn’t trying to hurt me. He just liked it this way. He wound up and delivered me a pile-driver fuck, rocketing the massive thing in and out of my ass while pushing my heels up, toes touching the down-lining over my head.
I stroked and fondled my own dick and tipped his angel with my fingers as I focused on his whole figure. The cut arms stretched out securing my legs, sculpted torso taut by exertion, over-developed dark nipples crowning the killer pecs, massive brown shoulders and neck muscles on magnificent display. This stud was supremely proud of his physique and in full command of it all, enhancing the damned effect.
Ultimately, Mr. Mohawk pummeled me to the point of no return. Making one final wind-up of a plunge, he exploded into my chute, delivering a copious load I could feel both saturating me and spilling out. My own prick pulsed cum by involuntary response.
Collapsing on me, dick deeply implanted, he panted in the heat of the afternoon. I experienced the feel of his hard body heaving on me, dripping euphoria. That prickly mohawk tickled my nose.
How. Fucking. Hot.
His breathing evened out to long, deep, cavernous intakes and outflows as he gradually gathered himself. Hoisting up off just my stomach and chest, leaving our bodies enmeshed from pubes on down, the boy was not yet allowing that still rigid cock of his to retract from my ass.
Rather, he reached over for his pants, pulling an iphone from the pocket. Raising it up behind his head, the stud pointed it down on the both of us in our present state. The thick root of his piece showed about three inches of its bulky stalk protruding from the point of entry, our torsos providing backdrop. How kinky, I thought. A new take on the selfie...
When he’d clicked several different angle shots, careful to leave our faces out but unable or undesiring to avoid his trademark red mohawk, he settled back on to my torso. Enjoying our communal satiation, Kwanzaa Boy leisurely finger-painted in the cum congealing on my flat, tanned belly. His mouth, near to my ear, sublimely purred at me. How feline.
Raising up again, the mysterious male teasingly flicked my nipples. He then handed me his phone. Grinning again, the youth purposely began tensing his dick in my ass to prove his continued influence over me, or maybe just to watch me squirm at the feeling. I was captivated. The moves this being had...
As I wiggled under the spasmic onslaught, the boy pointed to the phone in my hand and tonelessly mouthed the words, “your numbers” at me, intending for me to enter them to his device. Hesitating for only a moment, I acquiesced. Then, on second thought, I snapped the pic of his angel. From my vantage point, the amazing figure art appeared to be coming to rest on both of us at the moment. The smeared cum imbued an impressionist painting effect... He sniggled his delight.
Reluctantly, the sexy mulatto at last began gradually inching that girthful piece out of my hole, in direct dissimilarity to his blast-like entry. A sensual pop announced our separation, as if I needed that to know it, educing a ‘great bigger’ grin of triumph from the suddenly very boyish fucker.
With that, the stud pummeled my hard stomach with half a dozen play punches. Looking me directly in the eye, he pointed to his chest and pantomimed, “Me, Bam.” Then touched my chest with his fingertip, evincing a ‘pssst’ sound through his teeth at the moment of contact, mouthing, “You, Sizzle.”
Bam sat back, gathering his clothes and iphone. He then stood, nakedly waggled his dripping dick over my stomach to dribble a little bit more sperm on me and rubbed his fingers through my sticky spunk. Smirking, he licked it off.
He cocked hand to head, thumb at his ear, pinky touching the corner of his mouth, and lip-synced Carly Rae Jepsen’s title, “Call me maybe”. Then, he lightly vaulted the side of the nest.
Gone.
A minute later, I heard a cacophony of elementary age voices and jumped from my reverie to don my clothes, mentally imaging a caramel-colored, red-mohawked, angel be-jeweled naked Indian flashing through the wooded environs of the Ecology Park, junk bouncing all the way...those kids would never forget it. I knew I wouldn’t.
Cal would totally cream over it.
When Sophie pulled up to the curb at the entry gates of Auburn University an hour after that, I was greeted with a girly shriek and mouth-covering gestures, informing me of her successful interview at the Dean’s office. She would be notified for sure in a week or two but things looked good. We shared the giddiness as she exuded happiness, explaining to me all the details.
On the road awhile later, Sophie suddenly spoke up, “Oh, Jake, I never saw or heard from that strange Kwanzaa boy again. I forgot to tell you. Did you ever hear from the weirdo?”
My phone vibrated and chimed at that very moment, signaling me of an incoming text with photo attachment.
“Not a single word,” I opined.
