Witchy Boys: The Complete Collection

by Katey Hawthorne

  "Want you to hold me down," I said, voice practically a growl. I fucked into his mouth again, again, still holding his hair, and he moaned in response, like it felt good. "You can tie me there, if you want. Just fuckin' take me."

  He moaned again, and this time I let him up for air. He didn't stop, though, just dove on my cock again, fingers now crawling backward for my asshole. Up and down, up and down, alternating his movements with my throat fucking, until we found the perfect rhythm to whip me into that blissful frenzy. Then his finger found my hole and started playing, and I was lost.

  "Fuck me 'til I can't think. 'Til I'm out of control. Fuck me so hard I can't see. Fuck me, fuck me, ffffuckkkkkkkkkkk--"

  I don't know if blacked out a little or if I was just sex time traveling, but I lost a few seconds to my nut. The next thing I remember, I was dizzy, but lucid, and Matt was on top of me, naked. His dick was pretty, long and dark with blood, a little bit wet at the tip. I still couldn't breathe, but I pulled him down and kissed him wetly, tasting myself on him, rubbing my half-swollen, spit-drenched cock against the inside of his thigh.

  He bit at my bottom lip, chuckled, and said, "You liked it, huh?"

  I still couldn't speak, so I nodded.

  "You big fuckin' gorgeous hero of a man. When's the last time you had anything in your ass?"

  "I—I have a plug."

  "Okay. Okay this shouldn't be too bad, then." He sat up and leaned back, straddling me, then took his own dick in hand. Stroked it long and slow, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes. "You need a minute? Because I can do this allllll night."

  "How about all month?" I asked. Post-orgasm honest brain, I guessed.

  "Or all year. Or forever." But Matt just smiled. "Depends, though. You gonna tell me your first name?"

  If he'd asked me before I'd come, maybe. Luckily, he hadn't. "We can negotiate terms later," I said.

  "Deal."

  Bourbon Barrel Blues

  A creek gurgled, a naked tree rustled, October's leftover leaves crunched under my feet. No amount of internal arguing could convince me that I didn't hate nature with a fiery passion not seen since Vesuvius swallowed Pompeii. Piled on top of the compost heap of creepiness I'd been through to pry this location out of various drunks in Louisville, I half expected one of the trees to wake and throttle me. Here, in the middle of the Kentucky wilderness.

  I wanted to go home to the land of asphalt and awnings, to expel all this fresh air out of my lungs. Instead, I took the last few steps into the clearing.

  The promised cabin rose from the ground like an ancient lopsided boulder, festooned in ivy and hemp twine shapes. Pentagrams, astrological symbols, chemical indicators. The place might as well have been made of gingerbread.

  I was short hundreds of dollars from buying shots of Pappy Van Winkle for hobos. I'd better make it worth my while. I crunched toward the front door and raised my fist. Thok, thok, thok.

  Sweet silence for a split second, then military-booted footfalls. It could've been worse. It could've been the shuffle of Birkenstocks. The door creaked open, and there, framed in the eerie candleglow from the interior, heralded by a strong scent of herbs and bourbon and Applewood smoke…

  Stood the witch. He narrowed his kohl-lined, bright blue eyes and asked, "Who are you?"

  "Hello." I'd done this a million times, knocked on someone's door, called them cold, gotten the story. Just because this guy lived alone in a creepy fairy tale hut didn't mean I wouldn't score here, too. "I'm Alex Sanchez, with the Washington Post. I'm doing a story—"

  The witch tried to shut the door on me.

  I held up a hand and stopped the door. "Wait. Wait, just hear me out, Mr. Murphy."

  "Murph." His voice was quiet and sharp as a fall breeze.

  "Sorry?"

  "Call me Murph." He opened the door slightly again so he could peek out. "How did you find me?"

  "There are a lot of crazies on the street in Louisville, did you ever notice that? I mean a lot, and I grew up in Brooklyn before it was uber gentrified, so I know what I'm talking about. For a shot of Pappy, you can get almost anything."

  "Yeah, because buying them a meal and a warm coat would've made too much sense," he grumbled.

  "Fair," I agreed. "But it wasn't what they wanted. Plus at least two of them had nicer coats than me."

  "So you need a better payday." He didn't have as much of a drawl as I'd expected, living out here in the middle of nowhere.

  "But I could find a story anywhere. What I want is yours."

  "It's not that interesting. Look, it's kind of late—"

  "Yeah, don't suppose there's a bed and breakfast around here?" My flippancy was disingenuous as fuck. I'd barely survived in the light, so when twilight passed, there was no way. If he shut me out, I was screwed. Sideways. In the ear. I'd probably be eaten by possums. Or rednecks.

  "Fuckin' city people." He opened the door and gestured for me to come in.

  I didn't have the luxury of hesitation. I checked him out thoroughly as I stepped over his threshold: ripped skinny jeans, chain-link belt over his hip, pentagram pendant, white tank stained with something green near the navel. Fit, stylish, like he belonged in a club full of UK students, not a dingy, fire-lit cabin in the woods.

  "Don't touch anything," Murph said as he closed the door behind us. "Come here. Is that all you brought?"

  I followed him through the entryway and into the living room and dropped my bag. If there was electricity in the cabin, he wasn't using it. No TV, no light bulbs, no mod cons to speak of. A cast iron cauldron hung on a spit in the fire and herbs dangled in bunches over the brick mantel.

  So, this guy was for real. Or thought he was, anyhow. Good to know.

  Murph gestured to a table that looked like it came off the set of Coal Miner's Daughter, the bit before Sissy Spacek left the mining camp. He slid a big, stone mortar and pestle out of the way, and I sat and settled my elbows where it had been.

  "You can stay here, in the guest room. Wash room is in the back—yes, I have running water." Murph took an iPhone out of his back pocket and sat.

  "How do you charge that?" I asked.

  "Generator."

  "Is that a gas lamp?"

  "Yes. Don't smoke in here."

  I glanced back toward the living room. "You've got a huge fire right—"

  He glared. "I know what I'm doing."

  "I don't smoke anyhow."

  "Then shut up."

  We stared at each other for a few seconds, him throwing down a challenge without a word, just that belligerent look in his crystal blue eyes. I shut up as requested and tried not to squirm.

  Jesus, I wanted to be back in Washington. What the fuck had I been thinking, coming to—

  "What do you want?" Murph asked suddenly.

  "I want to know about Dreamtime," I said.

  He was quiet for another second. "Look, I don't really care if you make me out to be some redneck crackpot in your stupid fucking paper. But I have a responsibility to the people hereabouts, and if you print the wrong thing, it could put them in danger."

  "Like how?"

  "Tea?"

  I frowned, confused. Then realized it was an offer. "Uh, yeah. Thanks."

  He stood with all the lank and grace of a bobcat and disappeared into the kitchen. I followed, mostly just to get a look at it. Wood stove, copper kettle, hanging pots and pans, more herbs drying over the windowsill. No fridge, no dishwasher, just a pantry box and a trap door to what I assumed was a root cellar.

  "No matter how much bullshit you claim I’m trying to sell, people will try to find me. That’s dangerous. All magic is dangerous in uneducated hands, and this shit is usable by everyone. "

  Yep, he actually believed in magic. I cocked an eyebrow.

  "Did I mention that I don't care if you think I'm full of it?" He turned on the tap. It sputtered to life, spitting water into his kettle. "I don't care if you think I'm full of it."

  "I'm open to the concept of magic. I just have
no experience," I admitted.

  "Uh-huh." His indifference burned like bad bourbon.

  I flushed. Less talking about me, more talking about him. "You let me in. Part of you must want to talk to me."

  He considered his kettle seriously. "Folk magic isn't what it used to be. On the one hand, I could be busted for distilling without a license to sell or something super mundane like that, if I talk. On the other hand, people who thought the old ways were dead would know they're not. We need a renaissance. Twenty years ago."

  "Okay, so that's how I can frame it." Not what I had in mind originally, but I've never been one to waste a good opening. "You're keeping an ancient art alive, all by yourself in the backwoods of Kentucky."

  "I'm not the only one, but no one else will talk to you. Leave them out of this."

  I nodded. "I can do that." Why not?

  "I have some ideas." He set the kettle on the stove.

  "Ideas?"

  "I been thinking about writing a book, myself. To this end."

  And it all became clear. "That's why you let me in."

  "You do the article, it sets me up with an expanded audience when I write my book." Then he narrowed his eyes. "Maybe. I gotta know I can trust you, first."

  "Okay. What do I have to do?"

  He considered. "Let's talk about it tomorrow. Tonight, I'll show you the rackhouse."

  "Can I take pictures?"

  "No. Not until I trust you. And even then, I gotta vet everything you take with you."

  For now, I thought it best to agree. "Fair enough."

  A creaky Coleman lantern lit our way through the twilight, leaves scrunching between our feet and the dirt path into the woods. "Are you sure this is safe? Aren't there bobcats or whatever?"

  "It's cool." Murph led the way like a Roman general at the head of a legion. "I have wards."

  "Wards?"

  "Magical things. I knew you were coming a half hour before you knocked."

  "Like an alarm system?" Surely he was talking about ADT.

  "Sort of, but more personal. It's all about the connection to the earth."

  I sighed. "That's not an explanation."

  "You don't get those yet, remember?"

  I remembered, so instead of asking more questions that would frustrate me further, I busied myself watching his ass in those tight jeans. Better than acknowledging the thickening wood and underbrush scraping at the path. Felt like nature was trying to reclaim the tiny dirt track right out from under us, and it made my skin crawl.

  Besides, it was a fine ass. And as long as he wasn't looking, there was no harm in checking out an informant. I was keeping it professional—I just hadn't expected the infamous Bourbon Barrel Witch to be young and hot and working an ass like two perfect little bubbles clinging to each other for life.

  I smelled the rackhouse before I saw it, the sickly sweet mash scent of fermenting corn alcohol. Murph stopped in the middle of the path and reached up into a seemingly random tree, then pulled some hempen twine off a branch.

  The world shifted, trees in front of us shimmering like a mirage before a thirsty camel—I even felt dehydrated, like I'd pass out. I shook my head and leaned against the nearest tree, desperate to stay upright. When I could look up again, the trees were gone and a large barn had replaced then. It was clean, neat, well kept. And utterly out of place in the middle of the fucking forest. "What the actual fuck…" was all I could say.

  "Sorry. Shoulda warned you. Tricky ward." Murph still held the piece of hempen twine. His long, pale fingers flashed in the lantern light as he re-tied it elaborately around some branches.

  "How—?"

  He cut me off sharply: "Not yet. Trust."

  I snapped my mouth shut, swallowing bile. A long, deep breath of detestable fresh air set me almost right again. At least it was good for something.

  Murph picked up his lantern, opened the barn door and led me inside. The mash smell smacked me in the face now, but there was something delicate about it, too. Herbs and charred wood and sweet water. The lantern cast our shadows long against the hallway of full barrel racks. Murph led me into the center of the barn, where I could see down the middle. Row after row of metal skeletons held barrel after fat barrel of… what?

  "Smell that?" Murph asked. His voice had gone church-quiet.

  "The angel's share." That was what it was called, the Bourbon in the air.

  "The fairies' share."

  I frowned, still too overwhelmed by the gargantuan racks disappearing into the deep darkness overhead.

  "It's an offering," he whispered. "So they'll protect the rackhouse and keep the magic in safe hands. Neglect them and they'll bring chaos."

  "Now this, I have more trouble believing."

  "These things don't require your belief to be as they are, so doubt away, slick." Murph started down the center aisle, then turned down one of them. The barrels were stamped with a shamrock. "Leprechaun Sweat."

  "What?"

  "That's what this is called, in these barrels. It's not literal. It's for luck, though. It's what I leave out for them every night. I have a tapped keg at the end of the rackhouse for it. I put this brew in used barrels to age—this one came from a bourbon distillery."

  I recognized the cooper’s mark on it from a nearby, upscale distillery. "Like brandy."

  "I'm almost impressed."

  "I took the Copper & Kings tour earlier in the week."

  "Good absinthe."

  I grunted in agreement and followed him through the rest of the rackhouse in silence. The small hand-made hemp symbols hung from the racks here and there, casting their spells. I eyed them with suspicion, wondering if there'd been something in my tea that'd made me hallucinate the illusory forest in place of this gigantic barn.

  When we emerged from the other side into the cool fall air, I finally asked, "What's the point of aging the stuff? And how many more kinds of of—"

  "Alex, buddy. I admit that I brought you here just to make you hungry for more. But I'm only gonna say this one more time before I assume you're too goddamn stupid to write this article:

  "Trust."

  I sighed.

  "Come on," he said. "Lemme lock up and I'll show you your room. We'll talk more tomorrow."

  I followed him back to the cabin in silence, watching his ass all the while.

  ***

  I woke the next morning confused about where the hell I was. It took a few moments, but then I remembered the quilt—Murph had said his grandmother made it—and the wooden rafters overhead. I barely had time to sit up before Murph poked his head into the doorway. His eyeliner was precise and perfect, in spite of the pinpoint, pale light spilling through the window that told me it was God O'Clock in the morning.

  I groaned.

  "All we drank was tea. Hate to see you after actual bourbon." Murph snorted. "Come on. We got work to do."

  I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom for my morning ablutions. By the time I finished, the smell of coffee pervaded the living area. I followed it toward the kitchen.

  Murph liked it strong and dark but had sugar and fresh cream on the table. He came out bearing a fresh pan of banana bread—and I discovered that the Bourbon Barrel Witch was a vegetarian.

  I could live with that, if he knew how to bake like this.

  When we finished, I washed the dishes, and he headed outside. He didn't remind me not to snoop or touch anything or keep my filthy journalism to myself, just told me to meet him in the shed when I was done.

  So I did. And the shed was… something. Stuffed and sweetened with herbs, littered with vials and tubes and pots and jars, glassware, stoneware, pottery, all manner of mysterious containers. In the center of it stood Murph, working a mortar and pestle. He paused to gesture for me to enter.

  I sneezed once—goddamn fresh air—and then stepped inside, letting the rickety door shut behind me.

  "You take over here. I need this ground to a paste. Think like you're making pesto."

 
I had never made pesto, but I’d eaten it, which seemed near enough to get the point. I got to work while he sorted herbs, then divested them of their leaves. I watched his back muscles play beneath the tight tank top. The table unfortunately blocked my view of the bubble butt.

  My forearm started to hurt. My fingers went a little numb. "You could just use a food processor," I pointed out.

  "I couldn't," Murph didn't even look up from his work. His tri flexed, rippling and hard.

  At least the view was good, if he was going to use me as unpaid labor.

  "The magic loses its potency if it's not done by hand," he elaborated. " And this stuff is for Dreamtime."

  "What's in it?" I asked.

  "Even if I do decide to trust you, I'll never tell you that," he said. "Nice try, though."

  "Can't blame a guy for trying."

  He snorted out a laugh that might've been genuine or might've been ironic.

  A few minutes later, I thought my arm might fall off. "I think it's done."

  He came to look, then bumped me aside with his hip and took over. "Close."

  "How does this help you trust me?"

  "Do you like men?"

  My eyebrows went up and my mouth shut. Yes, I'd been ogling him since I arrived, but clandestinely. He had no way of knowing… Whatever, not like I was in the closet. I nodded.

  "Then it might not work." He frowned into his mortar, working it. "I was thinking we could take Hippie Juice."

  "What, exactly, does it do?" And why exactly, does it matter if I like men?

  "It connects you to your surroundings, including people," he said. "You get an instant sense of intention and extreme empathy."

  "So are you gonna tell me…?"

  "If there's attraction between the people involved and they're allosexual, they usually end up fucking," he didn't even look up.

  "Uh," I said. "Are you… attracted…?"

  "Yes," he said.

  "Could've fooled me."

  "I wasn't planning on fucking you," Murph said pointedly. "But if you're remotely attracted to me—"

  "There's nothing remote about it," I admitted. This… was sounding better and better.