He shot me a dirty look. "It's not inevitable, but in my experience, it's likely. It would speed up the whole trust issue, though. Fast forward it. It might also lead to tree-hugging, animal cuddling, crying about how beautiful flowers are, and rolling naked in grass—among other things."
Ooookay then. "So, it's basically Woodstock in a glass."
"Why do you think Woodstock happened?" Murph almost smiled.
Welp. This might be stupid, but the idea of getting high and potentially naked with this witchy hottie appealed like whoa. My jeans were a little tight in front, just from me thinking about it. "Let's do it."
"Think about it," Murph said, attention on his work again. "Decide after dinner.
"In the meantime, ask me any questions you have—and get me that lavender from the bench outside. You're gonna hang it up to dry. I’ll take you to see the pot still when we’re done here."
***
The night was chilly, but the fire crackled warm in front of us, throwing light and comfort against my skin. So why did I have goosebumps?
Murph passed me a whiskey tumbler full of slightly-green alcohol. It smelled like smoky bourbon, pine, and elderflower. The scents shouldn't have worked together, but my mouth watered.
"Bottoms up?" It wasn't a toast. Murph was asking me if I was sure. For the five-hundredth time.
"Bottoms up." I wasn't even sure I believed it would work. It was probably just some concoction of unaged whiskey and ecstasy, hopefully no more dangerous than the warehouse raves of my misspent youth.
Murph swallowed half his glassful in one gulp, so I did the same. The burn was glorious, like Pappy Van Winkle but deeper and sweeter. Vanilla oak notes, then a hint of smoke, then the elderflower. After a second to appreciate it, I knocked back the rest of it in tandem with Murph.
He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth and smiled without irony, without sarcasm. This was what he looked like when he was happy.
I smiled back. My fingers tingled, but I was probably just anticipating. There was no way I'd feel the effects this quickly. There was no way the misty, golden aura congealing around Murph, making him look like a goth angel in a modern-day Michelangelo, had anything to do with the Hippie Juice he'd fed me. I stared at his glow anyhow, amazed, amorous.
I was in love. "What is that? Around you?"
"Hm?" His smile went lopsided. "Oh, the glowing? It's the protective magic. It's everywhere, but mostly clings to me."
"It's so beautiful." I reached out to touch the golden light around his hand. My fingertips crackled back to life with something like electricity.
He chuckled. "Wow, man. That hit you hard."
"What?" I was too distracted by his light.
"You glow, too." He scooted nearer. We were both seated lotus-style on a rug before the fire, and he rearranged himself so our knees touched. His gilded light bled into my bones. Warmth spread up my legs.
Murph looked into my eyes. "You're ambitious. You'd exploit us if we let you. But… you can be convinced to do the right thing."
I blinked slowly, fascinated by the sensation of the many muscles it took to accomplish this everyday feat. Bodies were so strange and magnificent. I loved mine.
I loved his. It was hard to separate out his parts, what with the glowing, but they were there. Power and heart and soul. There were depths, but the gold swirled through them like butterscotch in soft serve.
Man, I fucking loved butterscotch in soft serve. I really wanted some ice cream.
He touched my face, cupping my cheek with his palm, and I refocused on his crystal blue eyes through the haze. "Can I convince you to do the right thing?"
I nodded because I knew he could. "I want your story. If you give it to me, I can tell it how you want."
He nodded, too, still staring deep into me. Shining a light into places I'd forgotten ages ago, dark, cobwebby corners of my mind where the ugly imp of my ambition dwelled. Not my more angelic motivations, the part that wanted to help, the part that truly believed "Democracy Dies in Darkness". He saw that, sure, but he also saw the charred and grasping twisted thing that wanted the byline, the money, the made-for-tv movie.
"Alex Sanchez," Murph said quietly, still smiling. "You're a complicated man. I don't know if I trust you… but I like you."
"I can hardly get past your power," I admitted, leaning into him. "It's so bright and hot. You're like a star."
"Look closer," he whispered.
I leaned in. On my next breath, the herbal scent of him filled my senses. Past the gold, into the green, the Appalachian foothills and generations of folk magic that pounded in his veins. He couldn't have escaped it if he'd wanted to, and if he had ever wanted to, there was no trace of reluctance now.
Murph gave himself to his magic, and it gave him purpose. Murph didn't half-ass anything in his life, and he never would. That much, I could see.
"I'll do right by you," I promised. "Shit, will I remember I said that? Because I mean it."
"You'll remember everything," he said.
His lips were pink, like they'd been stained with strawberries. I watched them as he spoke, my stomach tight, my tongue wet with anticipation.
"We're gonna fuck, aren't we?" I asked. I'd never wanted to be close to someone so badly, to feel them all over me, around me, wearing me, one with me. I'd never felt so empty and desperate to be full.
"Told you," he said with another smile. And then he kissed me. "And tomorrow, I'll tell you about Dreamtime."
"I don't care about Dreamtime," I said.
He laughed and pulled me into his lap. I climbed on like a monkey in a tree, feeling, seeing that he knew exactly what to do. There was confidence in his glow, but nothing pushy—He knew he could take care of a partner. He kissed me again and I tasted it, the way he wanted me, wanted to make me come undone and then put me back together.
I didn't care that probably meant he could feel how ready I was to give him whatever he asked. Confidence is my sexual kryptonite—real confidence, the kind that doesn't have to cock-swing. A man with that under his belt can have me on my knees so fucking fast. I wanted to show him how good I could be.
"I love the taste of you," he mumbled into my mouth. "You taste so sweet. So much sweeter than you looked before…"
"Before the Hippie Juice?"
"Mmm-hmm. This is another you." He kissed my neck and ran a hand through my hair.
I scooted my butt forward in his lap, until I rubbed against his cock, already hard and struggling against his jeans. His answering moan reverberated through me, lighting me up so a thrill shot straight into my balls. I huffed. "You like it." Not a question. I could feel it, almost like some kind of feedback loop, just being surrounded by him, all over him, understanding him. It was no more difficult than inhaling the scent of his skin, all lavender and salt, and letting it fill my senses.
We kissed a little more, his tongue exploring my mouth, my hands exploring his chest for long moments. All sense of time had flown, so it could’ve been hours or minutes. Eventually, when my lips felt bruised and my mouth dry, we stopped and looked each other in the eye.
He knew.
He peeled off my clothes and guided me onto my hands and knees gently, kissing at my neck, my shoulder blades, the small of my back. His hands were hot, like the firelight on our side. My cock was so hard it hurt, and I wanted it to hurt more. "Put me where you want me."
"On your belly," he said quietly.
I lowered myself, trapping my throbbing dick between the faux-bearskin and my stomach. The sensation sent me into raptures, but it didn't seem heightened like it would've on ecstasy. His fingers on my back sent my nerves dancing, but that was standard for me, especially in this position.
Whatever we'd taken wasn't ex. It really did make me feel like I understood him, like some strange bond of sympathy existed between us, translated by our senses into colors and clouds.
He angled himself over me, straddling one of my thighs so his hard cock dragged it. "Lift your ass
, please."
I did, groaning at the friction on my cock. He reached between my legs, thumb just brushing my cheek. He took my dick in hand, then pulled it downward so it stuck out between my thighs. My balls pushed into my crack.
He said, "Legs farther apart. I want to see your cock drip."
As I complied, I rocked into the rug, goosebumps breaking out all over me. I didn't even have to look at him to feel his intention, his meaning, his desire to make me come undone and then hold me until I found myself again. He pushed my ass cheeks apart and buried his face between them, tongue sliding down my crack until it found my hole. My balls tightened, my cock hardened with my pulse, and I gave a long, low moan.
It was hard to say how he was doing it, with my face buried in fake fur. All I knew was his tongue was strong and slick and working my hole expertly, circling and caressing. He pushed just the tip inside, teasing as if he'd open me up, before sliding back out to start all over again. I humped that rug shamelessly, my cock desperate for more attention, my balls full and hot, dying to shoot. Spit dripped onto my sac, and he detoured south to lick and suck at it. I rocked my ass against his face. My moans turned to melting, desperate whines.
He was doing everything right. I knew with a certainty I'd rarely experienced—and even then only with longtime partners—that he'd only get better. He was feeling out my body and seeing my reactions to his every touch, lick, suck. I wanted that undone feeling, and knowing he wanted to give it to me… "More," I said.
"Can I fuck you?" he asked in a rough baritone gone breathless.
He knew—he had to know—that was what I needed. And even with the certainty afforded by his weird, witchy potion, he was still asking. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, blood like a rushing rocky brook.
He was perfect.
"Please," I managed.
"One sec." He stood and left me panting on the rug, my legs spread-eagled, my cock leaking, my body writhing. It felt like an eternity but was probably barely a minute before he returned with a condom and lube.
I watched over my shoulder as he peeled off his skin-tight jeans and set his dick free. It stood, curving just slightly upward—God, I love a cock with a little curve, makes it look so eager. He was uncut but hard enough that his dickhead peeked out, pink and wet. Nimble-fingered, he unwrapped and donned the condom, then squirted lube onto his fingers as he settled in behind me again. "I’m not gonna touch your dick," he said. "I’ll do it from the inside."
"That’s never worked for me before," I said.
"But you want it. You want me to fill you up and work the cum out of you."
I whimpered and rocked against the rug.
He smacked my ass gently with his dry hand, then used the other to rub lube around my hole. With two fingers, he pushed inside slowly. I hissed at the pinch-and-burn, but then rocked into it, wanting more.
"Easy, now, Alex," he whispered, sending shivers up my spine. "I got this. You just relax and enjoy the ride."
I hummed with the purest happiness I could remember knowing—at least, while naked—and obeyed. He pressed into me, then back out. Then he re-situated, straddling the backs of my thighs, and aimed his cock at my hole. He kept his dry hand on the small of my back, a comforting pressure to anchor me, to remind me to let go.
Slowly, his dick opened me up, fat head followed by more and more, until I was so full I almost couldn’t breathe. It didn’t burn anymore, it just felt like we were melding together, no beginning or end. I had to stop trying to watch him and press my forehead into the rug—needed to catch my breath and settle. His fingers spread wide against my back, stroking, soothing. "We’re gonna get there. We’re gonna get there, Alex. Lemme start slow. You’ll see."
I believed him. I took a deep breath and relaxed, pushing into him as he rolled his hips. He pulled out and re-angled, then filled me up again. I moaned and turned my head sideways, letting another long breath go. "Fuckkkkkk, yeah."
"I know. I know, baby." He started working me with his dick in earnest, hips moving slow and circular. With each slow thrust, he shifted slightly, finding where he felt best in me—where I felt best around him. Now that I could breathe, I caught his intention and moved with it, until we were like water from two glasses poured into one.
I moaned as the right angle sparked something inside me. I didn’t have to tell him that was it, right there—I could feel that he felt it, that he was sinking into the position now, nailing it down, working it hard. The roll of his hips quickened, and I rocked with him instinctively. Faster. Faster. Harder. No one said a word, just moans and harsh breaths and I was so close, he was so close, we were gonna get there, get there together, ahhhhh…
"Shit!" He shouted. Our rhythm broke. My whole body burned for release. My balls were going to fucking explode with or without his help.
"Don’t stop!" I couldn’t catch him now, the feeling of him; that sixth sense that'd laid his motives and objectives bare to me before was now sideways and muddy. But that goal, that release was so tantalizingly close I could’ve cried.
He re-focused and shifted so he could fuck me even harder and faster. As quickly as I’d been pulled out of the moment, I fell back in. I cried out just before it happened, then shook and moaned all the way through a body-wracking orgasm. Cum drenched my thighs and the rug as my cock spurted again and again, more with each thrust of his own spasming cock deep into me. He moaned right back, now using both hands to prop himself up, hammering into me as he shot into the condom.
I gasped for air, trying to recover quickly, but I was wrecked.
He pulled out suddenly. "Sorry. Shit, sorry, but we have company."
When I finally managed to push myself up enough to look over my shoulder, he was stumbling to his feet and tying off the condom. He tripped over my ankle and dropped the condom onto an end table. I asked, "What?" He’d gone all muddy again, his intention flickering and confused. Maybe this Hippie Juice took some getting used to.
"Get some pants on. I’ll get the antidote." He hopped unsteadily toward the kitchen, trying to get one leg into his jeans.
"I don’t under—"
"You don’t have to! Put your pants on, please!"
That, at least, I could feel was sincere. Something was very wrong—I just couldn’t tell what, that’s what the muddiness was. I struggled to my knees, thighs shaking and sticky, trying to avoid the puddle of cum between them. Oh God, my ass hurt so good—
"Pants!" He shouted.
I pulled them on as fast as I could, ignoring the underwear, and had just enough sense in me at the moment to make sure I didn’t zip my tender, half-hard cock into them. On quivering legs, I entered the kitchen.
Murph, bright with violent and immediate purpose, held out a glass to me.
I drank without questioning, understanding at once that this was something I needed. It tasted like murky water and basil, but with each gulp the glow faded from around Murph. The magic bled out of him, of us, of our connection…
And I realized how fucking weird that had just been. I handed the glass back.
"Sorry, we can discuss later, but someone’s at the rackhouse." He tossed the glass into the sink where it landed with a crash, then he grabbed my arm and pulled me outside.
"My shoes!"
"You’ll be fine," he said.
And sure enough, he led me swiftly and safely over the wooded path we’d taken last night to the rackhouse. Which… was visible. I was sure he’d replaced the wards last night. That shouldn’t be visible, right?
"Shit!" He said again, this time louder. That answered my question. "Who the fuck are you? Come out!"
"Are you crazy?" I asked, head still spinning. In the last two minutes I’d been fantastically fucked, suddenly sobered, and gone in barefoot pursuit of I had no idea what.
"No. Whoever they are, they’re crazy." He threw open the door and charged in, in the dark.
I followed, swearing, but it wasn’t a total blackout inside. Whoever had come in had found a switch, so a
faint glow emanated from the back. "What do you keep over there?"
"Dreamtime," he replied.
We ran to the other end of the rackhouse. Sure enough, there were two people, oddly familiar, flopped at the foot of a tapped barrel. Something faintly blue spilled from it, soaking their clothes and the wooden floor. It pooled on the planks rather than dripping between them, twinkling and swirling in the low light.
My first look at Dreamtime wasn’t what I’d been expecting.
"Fuck! Plug that hole—there’s plugs in the basket at the end of the row." Murph grabbed the nearest guy by the arms and pulled him away from the leaking barrel, leaving a wet trail behind him.
I scrambled for the plugs, ass pinching when I forgot what I’d just been doing. "Ow, goddamn, this is the worst post-coital activity."
"You’re telling me." Murph’s voice was utterly panicked. "Shit. These fucking idiots! Come on, man…" He dropped the first guy and grabbed the second—who was a woman, actually, wrapped in a giant flannel coat.
That flannel coat was nicer than mine. I’d seen it before, in Louisville. I’d bought it a shot of Pappy.
No time to think that through, however, as I had a job to do. I managed to ignore the protests of my abused asshole and the sticky-gross sensation up my crack and down my legs for long enough to plug the hole in the barrel.
"Did it get on you?" Murph asked, dragging the woman away from the puddles. How a wiry guy like him managed all that dead weight, I had no idea, but I made a mental note to be impressed once I knew what the hell was going on.
"A little," I said.
"Wipe it on your jeans. Don’t lick it."
I considered my finger for a moment. "Will it make me see the future?"
"Yes," he replied. "It’ll also make you pass the fuck out instantly, and I need you right now, so wipe it the fuck off before it soaks through."
I wiped it on my jeans. "It can work like that?"
"You heard of Rip Van Winkle?"
"You’re fucking kidding me." I stood there, in the middle of a puddle of a magical brew that was supposed to grant the drinker clairvoyant dreams, staring at a half-naked guy who’d just fucked me stupid on a fake bear rug.
Witchy Boys: The Complete Collection Page 8
