by A. M. Riley
Jim smiled and stroked Scott’s shoulders, hands running down Scott’s chest and playing for a moment there. Scott rumbled and twisted, trying to get the attention he wanted without letting his sore butt touch the mattress.
Jim’s hand wrapped around Scott’s cock and pulled. Scott twisted and moaned.
“Hold on,” Jim rolled off the bed and then was back in a minute with lube.
Scott grinned and grabbed handfuls of hairy man.
Jim squirted liberal amounts in both their hands, and they smooched and moaned into each other’s mouths, twisting and groaning as they jerked each other off.
Jim came first, a shuddering moan, and his cock swelled in Scott’s hand.
“Oh, babe, that’s beautiful,” whispered Scott, panting, watching Jim’s thick cock spurting all over his fingers. “Can’t wait to get that fat cock inside me.”
Jim groaned and tightened his fingers, unable to do much more while Scott fucked his fist. “Missed you, baby. Missed you…” Scott said against Jim’s mouth as he came.
Chapter Six
“Halftime!” yelled Brian and Scott simultaneously, and they both leaped off the leather sofa, Brian catapulting over the armrest to catch up to Scott at the back door. They fell in a tumble out the door, yelling about coin tosses.
“But you’ll miss all the good commercials,” Jim protested. He had a bowl of popcorn in his lap, a beer in his hand, and his feet up on the coffee table where a half dozen varieties of his special hors d’oeuvres were laid out on party platters.
“Leave ’em,” said Paul. He was slouched down in his big chair, arms and legs spread out and head resting against the back rest. Half awake, really. The optimum football viewing position, in his opinion. “They have their own game during halftime.”
Jim put the popcorn bowl down on the coffee table. “Scott’s cut could open up again,” he fretted.
Paul’s half-lidded eyes slid over to regard his friend. “Didn’t you two get that taken care of?”
Jim knew that Paul meant the issue not the cut. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Sighing, Paul sat up and picked up a mushroom puff, popped it in his mouth. “Maybe we need to call a meeting.”
“Maybe.”
A high squealing scream of delight was followed by a protest and then, remarkably, the rumble of the water running through walls as somebody outside turned on the garden hose.
Paul and Jim exchanged glances, and both rose to their feet.
“I’ll show you offensive strategy!” That was definitely Brian.
More screaming.
Paul and Jim bumped shoulders at the door until they finally jostled through and stood watching two wet, muddy men rolling in a grassy mud puddle in the middle of the yard.
A slick, mud-covered football popped straight out of the knot of man bodies, did a slow arcing twist in the air, and fell with a plop into a puddle.
“Mine!” yelled Scott, and his mud-covered torso leaped from the twist of bodies. Scott was small but compact, and his body hit the puddle like a large rock. Water and mud splattered everywhere.
Jim looked down at his shirt, and his eyes narrowed.
Scrabbling and slipping and spraying mud everywhere, Scott came up from the ground, mud ball tucked under his arm, and started zigging and zagging across the yard, a muddy Brian, long dripping jersey and all, running, yelling behind him.
“And score!” shouted Scott, doing a victory dance.
It was quite a dance. Scott was soaking wet, his clothes stuck to him like he’d been sprayed with brown paint. That compact, well-endowed body did a little shaky butt dance, and Brian stopped running and stood gaping instead.
He whistled.
Scott turned, mud on his face, those eyes glowing beneath it. He tossed the football to the ground and spread his arms, giving the whole wet, muddy package a little shake and roll.
“You want some, Goldilocks?”
Brian whooped and leaped on him.
Jim made some noise of protest.
Paul glanced at him. “Okay!” he yelled, clapping his hands. When Brian, who was now on top of Scott and groping sort of randomly, didn’t respond, Paul put his fingers into his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle.
Both men stopped moving.
Scott chuckled, grinning up at Brian. “Personal foul?”
“Not in my book,” said Brian. He’d found a perfect place for his pelvis, and he twisted a little there.
“All right, you two. There’s just enough time to clean you off before the second half begins,” said Paul, picking Brian up by one arm like he was just a stuffed doll. He placed Brian firmly on both feet and pointed at the house. “Shower,” he said.
“But…”
“Now,” said Paul.
“Why shower when we can just hose off out here?” said Scott from behind them, and Paul turned to see what Brian was grinning at. Scott had stripped his shorts and shirt off and stood in his muddy sneakers, arms and legs muddy but torso relatively clean.
“Where’s that hose?” Scott said.
“Between your legs!” screamed Brian. “Oh, man, look at you.”
Scott’s equipment was not in proportion to the rest of his compact body. He shook it and then turned his back and gave everyone another little show as he leaned over to pick up the hose. It was a pretty, if muddy, sight. Scott straightened, obviously fully intending to do a little backyard impromptu Flashdance with the hose and nothing else, but Jim was there and had hold of his arm. “I don’t think so.”
“Wha—”
Half lifting, half dragging, Jim pulled Scott across the yard and into the house.
Paul and Brian could still hear Scott’s protests after the screen door had slammed shut.
“What did he do?” said Brian. He turned on Paul and stamped his foot.
Paul gave him a discerning look. “I think you know, Brian. But go take a shower. We’ll talk after the game.”
Brian’s lower lip protruded a bit, and he may have stamped once in a puddle as he went across the yard, but he didn’t want to risk missing the second half of the game, so he went.
* * * *
Brats on crack.
Jim looked grimly down at the two wet-headed wrestling men at his feet and thought that was exactly what he and Paul were having to deal with.
For about the fiftieth time, Scott pinched Brian. Or Brian elbowed Scott, and shoving and wrestling and kicking occurred. When Paul snapped, “That’s enough,” both voices claimed, “He started it,” and then they had a few minutes of peace.
Then Brian elbowed Scott. Or Scott pinched Brian.
The game ended, Brian jumped up and down, hooting. Scott jumped up and down and stuck an elbow in Brian, and they were wrestling again, only this time somebody kicked the coffee table, and beer bottles toppled.
“That’s it!” snapped Jim. And he jumped to his feet.
A few minutes later, with Brian and Scott facing separate corners and the television off, Jim, mopping up the mess, said quietly to Paul, “Let’s talk.”
* * * *
The Giants had won the Super Bowl. It was a miracle, was what it was. And it was unfair on a superhumongous level that anybody in their right mind, even a top without a proper appreciation for football, would expect a guy to be all sedate and “good game, Sir,” and shaking hands or something after that.
Brian moved restlessly and his eyes slid sideways to look at Scott standing there. Jim had placed Scott’s hands on his head. He always did that to Scott. Brian didn’t know why, but he thought it might be because, if Scott’s hands didn’t rest on his head, then they moved everywhere, rubbing his wrists, his neck, his stomach.
Brian thought about rubbing and then about Scott out in the yard doing his naked dance, and he rocked from foot to foot.
“You got ants in yer pants, Goldilocks?” he heard Scott hiss from the other corner, giving him a wicked golden glance from those eyes.
“Quiet! Eyes forward!” yelled
Jim.
God gave tops superhuman hearing. It was just another one of those unfair things.
“Are you sure?” said Paul. He and Jim were leaning against the counter, and Jim had that intractable look he could get: big arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed so they almost met in the center of his nose.
“Scott and I need a vacation. Just him and me together.”
“It seems like the whole problem is instability, so how would your taking off somewhere help that?”
“How would staying here help?” argued Jim. “Brian may be happy now, but you know he knows you’ll be leaving again, and it will be eating at him. And then there’s the other thing.”
“Ah, yes, the other thing.”
“Scott isn’t going to like it.”
“I’d suggest keeping it from him,” said Paul drily, “but I can’t imagine Brian being able to do that. Even if you and I could. But what do you think will happen if you two come back from your trip and Brian tells him then? He’ll think you tricked him.”
Jim blinked. For the first time since they’d entered the kitchen, he looked a little unsure. “He would. You’re right.”
“I don’t see any way to do this but head on, buddy. I really don’t.”
Jim shook his head. “Paul, you don’t know Scott like I do. He’s insecure. And when he’s insecure, he’s fractious. And when he’s fractious, there’s no end to the trouble he’ll cause.”
Right on cue, they heard a whisper from the living room. “Quiet!” yelled Jim. “Eyes forward!” There was a sudden and marked stillness.
Paul couldn’t help but chuckle.
Jim plaited his beard, fitfully. “He can go too far. He was in jail, Paul.”
“He has a good survival instinct.”
Jim continued plaiting his beard, his eyes worried. Jim had lost a partner to drugs many years ago and had blamed himself for quite some time. He knew Scott was a different sort of man, but he also thought that Paul had the optimism of someone who had never seen self-destruction up close and personal—how fast it could escalate, how it could utterly destroy a life.
“I hope so.”
“We’ll talk it over. Every step of the way.”
Jim heaved a sigh.
“Right now, I’m going to let Brian stand in that corner for a little while, and then I’m sending him to bed.”
Jim nodded. “Sounds about right. I might take Scott for a ride before bed.”
Paul clapped him on the shoulder. “Now that sounds romantic.”
Chapter Seven
“Been riding for weeks,” Scott had groused at first. “Don’t see what’s so great about driving somewhere else.”
Jim fitted an extra bottle of water into the picnic basket and said, “You’ll see.” He reached over and caressed Scott’s head briefly, letting his fingers slide over the short hairs at the back of Scott’s neck, feeling Scott pressing a little into the caress, though his face still wore a scowl.
Every inch of Scott’s body was broadcasting that Jim wasn’t going to get off easy.
So Jim packed supplies and a couple of blankets in the back and was now steering the big white van up and over one of the many mountain passes that led to the Pacific Ocean.
Scott sat on the passenger side, mulling whatever it was that had him still in a knot, only responding when the glowing doobie was passed to him. “Thanks.”
He passed it back, smoke escaping through his teeth as he said, “You gonna tell me where we’re goin’?”
“Nope.”
Jim could feel Scott studying him, but he kept his eyes on the twisting roads. Then he heard Scott make some dissatisfied noise and adjust his position on the seat with a little hmph of annoyance.
“Bossy Bessy,” Scott grumbled.
A few miles later Jim slowed and turned off the main road, creeping under the trailing branches of an old eucalyptus, then trundling with much bumping and swaying down a steep, rutted dirt road to a small clearing.
He stopped the engine and opened his door.
“This is it?” said Scott, not moving. “Looks like a place folks dump trash.”
Jim was really not going to get off easy.
“It’s a short hike from here,” Jim said calmly. “Help me carry the supplies.”
He loaded them both up and then led the truculent, but silent, Scott down a root- and rock-defined path to a small sandy area that seemed almost scooped out of the surrounding cliffs by a gigantic sand shovel.
Scott dropped his pack and looked up and around. Dusk was settling quickly around them, and in the tiny bowl they had entered, it was almost completely dark, the stars clean white dots almost filling the sky above them.
“We won’t have a fire,” said Jim, opening the tarp he’d been carrying. “Besides being against the law, it’d attract attention. But unless someone comes down that path, no one’ll see us.”
A wave chose that moment to heave itself against a strand of rocks some hundred yards out. Scott jumped a little as the deafening crash echoed off all the walls.
Jim grinned. “Not conducive to lengthy conversation, I guess. But we didn’t come here to talk.”
“No?” Scott eyed the things that Jim was busily laying out in the sand. “What’d we come here to do?”
The last had been said a little nervously. Jim strung the tarp from one stake to another and said, “Make love,” drawling the vowels out like some kind of Elvis Presley impersonator.
“What?” sputtered Scott, his face going deep red. He turned away, hands flying out expressively. “Christ, you sound like some kinda Oprah special, man.”
Jim just finished assembling the tent. He brought out the blankets. “Help me with these.”
Looking troubled and thoughtful, Scott did as he was asked. Very quickly, they had a snug tent erected. Thick warm blankets from one edge to the other, the canvas billowing around them, a small sterno Sterno stove casting a glow, and the incoming tide now a deafening roar of wind and waves.
Scott sat in the far corner of the ten-by-ten space, watching Jim. He was wearing cutoffs, and his arms, covered with curling golden hair, were wrapped around his legs.
“C’mere,” said Jim, but the waves crashing drowned out his words. He reached toward Scott instead, making a beckoning gesture.
Scott gave him the most distrustful look imaginable, but Jim just kept gazing at him, hand outstretched, and finally Scott came.
Jim wrapped his arms around Scott and pressed him down into the blankets. Jim physically engulfed Scott, holding his wrists to the blanket, albeit gently, and kissed his face, his chin, his throat.
Scott made some mewling sound of both protest and pleasure, and Jim fastened his lips to Scott’s mouth.
Scott’s clothes disappeared rapidly, his body stroked and explored, kissed and sucked. The scratchy wool blanket, the cool ocean air around them, Jim’s soft warm curling chest and beard hair, his mouth wet and tasting of pot and Jim’s own taste: Scott was so overwhelmed he could think of nothing but the sensations that enveloped him.
Jim whispered at his ear now, his hand busy between Scott’s legs. Scott couldn’t even distinguish what Jim was saying; it was the nature of his voice. Needy, sexy, demanding. His breath warm and wet. His body urgent, heavy, and moving against Scott’s.
Jim’s cock was a weight on Scott’s stomach. Cool moisture rubbed into Scott’s belly. Jim’s finger stroked and circled and slowly penetrated his hole, rubbing something cool and slick there, pushing in and out, penetrating farther and farther. Muttering something mildly obscene against his lips, Jim kissed Scott deeply, tongue taking possession of Scott’s mouth, and pressed his prostate persistently and firmly.
Scott’s entire body thrust up against the warm weight that held him down, his mind full of ocean and need.
Jim slid his finger out and looked down into Scott’s eyes. Then he lifted his body just enough for Scott to roll over. Scott’s mouth inhaled the wooly smell of the blankets that also smelled vaguely of pop
corn and charcoal and Jim, his body sweaty despite the cool air around them. He could feel Jim’s mouth and hands on his back, his neck, at his crack, and then the heaviness of Jim’s thick cock pushing slowly and inexorably into him until he was arching, head straining back, Jim’s kisses on his neck, his cheek. Scott turned his head back so he could find Jim’s mouth, kissing him even as Jim’s hips undulated and shoved again and again at that spot.
Waves crashed, and like he was exploding inside and out, Scott crashed, held in Jim’s arms. Safe under Jim’s body, he lit up.
Then he lay there for a long time. After a while, Jim rose, drawing a soft cool down comforter over Scott’s supine body and rummaging in the picnic basket.
Scott looked up and saw a bottle of water and a chocolate cupcake inches from his nose. He grinned. “Chocolate.”
In the lull of the waves’ crashing, Jim said, “I brought fudge too.”
He crawled in under the comforter with Scott and wrapped himself around Scott again. Kissed his nose. Scott reached for the cupcake, and Jim fed it to him a bite at a time, taking kisses between bites. Their mouths were chocolatey, and crumbles fell in Jim’s beard.
A hissing sound accompanied the waves crashing, and the surf’s noise seemed to be abating somewhat.
“We above the tide line?” asked Scott.
Jim petted him, put another dollop of frosting on his finger, and fed it to Scot, who suckled it from Jim just like a puppy. “Mmmhmm. Tide’ll start going out now. In the daytime, people can come around the point at waterline.”
The hiss and dull whoosh of water was all they heard, the canvas of their tent still flapping sporadically. Scott felt his ears were still numb though his body almost floating, and the men still whispered to each other. “You’ve been here a lot.”
Jim petted him. “I have.”
“Guess you’ve been with a lot of guys. No big deal. So’ve I.” Scott snuggled closer to Jim, head tucked under the man’s chin so he could use his beard as a kind of pillow.
Jim let his fingers play over Scott’s golden crew cut, slide down to stroke the tip of an ear. “Not like this,” he said definitely.
