by Van Barrett
***
It was a leisurely ride through the trails, one that both horses had made thousands of times. They could probably do it while wearing blinders—they knew every twist and turn, every incline and downgrade, every stone in the trail and every spot where the ground had begun to erode. While the horses chugged steadily forward, Rust and Clay made small talk.
But when Clay led Bolt off the beaten-path, both his and Leo's ears perked up. A new path! They whinnied with excitement. Clay took the horses through thicker woods, climbing higher.
They came to a down-stream run-off, and that was the point where Rust and Clay dismounted and tied their horses up. Bolt and Leo both drank from the run-off while the two men wandered off.
“We're going up a bit higher.” Clay pointed up the hill.
The two men hiked the rest of the way up the hill. Carefully slipping through thorny hedge branches, and then a row of rose bush's stickers, they emerged at Clay's favorite spot on the farm: an overlook that offered a view of the whole farm. Clay's stone house and red barn were two small, visible dots in the distance.
“Oh, wow,” Rust sighed. “It's beautiful up here.”
“Isn't it?”
Clay put his arm around Rust's shoulder, and the two stood, staring over at the lush green land. There wasn't a cloud in the bright blue sky.
“This is my favorite spot on the whole farm. I used to come out here all the time to clear my mind.”
“I can see why.”
“Yeah. I should come out here more often. I kinda forgot how nice it is, actually.”
Clay opened his satchel and pulled out a folded up picnic blanket. He laid it down and both men dropped to their knees.
“What else you got in that bag, Clay?” Rust asked, finding a comfortable spot and sitting on his butt.
“Dinner.” Clay pulled out a knife and a mini cutting board. “I thought we could have a fancy meat and cheese dinner.” Next he brought out a paper deli package and opened it, revealing thinly-sliced layers of prosciutto.
“Aw, yeah. That looks awesome.” Rust grinned.
Then Clay pulled out three different cheeses—Taleggio, a surly-smelling, but meaty cheese with a fruity finish; Roquefort, a tangy, crumbly blue cheese made of sheep's milk; and an aged yellow cheddar. Lastly, he laid out a mini French baguette.
Rust licked his lips. “Shoot, Clay. This looks great.”
Clay set out two small tumblers and pulled out a bottle of wine. “And wine, of course.” He filled both glasses up with the red wine.
“Hey. Thank you so much for this. Cheers.” Rust held his glass up for a toast. They touched glasses and drank.
“My pleasure.”
Clay and Rust, sitting side by side and with a fantastic view of the land, began to nosh. They sampled the meat and cheeses, comparing notes, flavor profiles, favorites and more. Soon, the prosciutto disappeared, the bread was gone, and only a small slice of each cheese remained.
The two men drank a second glass of wine.
“Oh man, I almost forgot!” Clay fished into his satchel and pulled out his cell phone. He tapped away at the screen and set it down at last. A radio feed came on.
It was a hockey game: Columbus vs. Winnipeg.
Rust cracked a smile, a burgundy stain on his lips. “Just like old times, huh.”
“Yeah, that's kinda what I was going for: sitting at the top of that hill on Sand Beach, listening to the game.”
“Smooth. I like it.”
The two men drank their wine and listened to the hockey game. They polished off their glasses of wine, and split what was left of the wine bottle.
From the timbre of the play-by-play man's voice, things weren't looking so good in Columbus.
“… And the mess continues here in Columbus … this team continues to sorely miss the calming presence of veteran defenseman Rustin Kellar, who is sidelined indefinitely with a concussion …”
Rust stared off into the distance while he listened—not at the land, but somewhere else, somewhere deeper. He rubbed at his mouth with a look of concern.
Clay tugged at his sleeve. “Hey. Rust, buddy.”
Rust snapped out of his trance. “Sup Clay?”
“Would you rather I turn the game off?”
“Yeah, if you don't mind. It's kind of hard for me to listen to it, actually—with the boys struggling and whatnot. Sorry, I know that's lame.”
“No, hey, I get it.” Clay shut the feed off. “My bad.”
“Don't worry about it.”
“Hey. Rust.” Clay paused. “I know you're ready to go back to your team.”
Rust tilted his head, a creeping but uncertain smile on his face. “Yeah …?”
“Mm-hm. I could sense it this morning.”
“Oh. Well. Yeah, you're right. Yesterday I was just so happy to be feeling better, but … today, I just feel guilty about not reporting back to the team immediately.” He gave Clay a sheepish look.
Clay pursed his lips, nodded. “Sure thing, buddy. I understand.”
Rust sighed. “Thanks. I was afraid you'd be mad.”
“Mad? No. Hell no. I totally get it.” Clay put his hand on Rust's forearm and squeezed. “When I made that offer last night, I was—err—a little excited. And getting way too far ahead of things. Not that I didn't mean it, because I do, one hundred percent. But I shouldn't have thrown that wrench in your gears like that.”
Rust made a sympathetic pout.
“Yeah, of course I wish you could stay with me longer. But I also know that I'm just being selfish. Hell, partly I wished you'd retire and stay with me now … but I know that's even crazier.”
Both men chuckled.
Clay continued. “I know it doesn't make sense to go rushing into a relationship just to make up for lost time. And if you gave up your career just to be with me, well, I'd never be able to forgive myself. Remember, that was one of my big problems with 'us' in the first place.”
Rust let that sink in, then gave a nod. “Yeah, I see your point.”
“And hey. I know it's not yet time for—for this.” He swept his hands over the land. “Me and you, and all this. Because you've still got a few years of hockey left in the tank, Rust. And frankly … I think your best years of hockey are still ahead of you.”
Rust looked genuinely surprised. “You think?”
“Oh yeah. Without a doubt.” Clay took Rust's hand into his. “The point is. When you're done, I'll be here, I'll be waiting, and you've got a place to come home to. If that's something you'd even want.”
“Wow, Clay—I don't know what to say.”
“You don't have to say anything. But let me just say this: I'm sorry I couldn't be the teammate, the friend, the lover you needed before, Rust. But I'm going to try my hardest to make it up to you … so I can be that guy you need. If you still want me to—if you'd still let me.”
Clay stared deeply into Rust's soft eyes. Rust still seemed at a loss for words, but instead of trying to find them, he pounced on Clay like a hurricane making landfall.
Clay fell backwards, catching himself on his elbows, as Rust claimed his lips, kissing him heavier, harder, hotter. Rust's hands blindly fumbled with Clay's shirt, yanking at his buttons until they had all popped or broken free.
Rust splayed Clay's shirt open, ran his nails through Clay's thick chest hair. “Fuck, you're sexy, Clay.”
“Rust,” Clay quietly growled as his dick grew under the weight and pressure of Rust's ass.
31
Eruption
– Rust –
Rust was a little drunk on wine—and a lot happy to hear Clay's revised offer.
Because the issue certainly wasn't that he didn't like Clay. Lord knew, he was still crazy for the guy—and once Rust let down his guard a bit, all those feelings he'd once held for Clay came storming back. Hell, maybe that was even part of the reason Rust wanted to get back to Columbus so fast—he was afraid that if he stayed with Clay any longer, he'd only fall for him harder.
>
If he didn't get back to hockey immediately … he might not ever make it back.
And who knows what that would do to their relationship in the long term. Sure, they'd had some deep, soulful talks over the past day. But was it really so wise to go moving in with an old flame after ten years without any communication? Wasn't it a better idea to keep their lives separate, and see if they truly were compatible?
Rust figured they still had a lot more to learn about each other. Better to take things slow than to go rushing into anything, like Clay said. That was a revelation and a relief.
But it was something else, too: a tremendous turn-on.
The image of that modern day cowboy, stoically waiting for the day his hockey playing boyfriend would return to him. Always keeping one hopeful eye trained on that dirt road while he trotted around on horseback under the beat of the Texas Sun.
It was a little sad, and a little beautiful at the same time. Which seemed to be a theme in Clay and Rust's life.
So, brimming with warm feelings for his man and hope for their future, Rust tackled Clay and nearly bowled him over onto that picnic blanket. They tussled on the ground as Rust worked Clay's shirt off first, and then his own. Even through their jeans, Rust could feel Clay's dick growing beneath his ass.
Clay dug his heels into the ground and pushed up, rocking his pelvis forward. Rust shifted his weight backward, the same way Clay had taught him how to ride that horse earlier, and moved against Clay.
One cock went up, one went down. Their long, log-like bulges mashed and rubbed together, igniting a series of gruff grunts and pleasured groans.
“Oh, God damn, Rusty,” Clay growled.
Rust had noticed how that old nickname had started to slip in more and more often. Rusty. Truth was, he didn't mind it so much anymore. To the boys back in Columbus, and everybody else in the world, he'd still be Rust, of course—that'd never change.
But when Clay used that nickname, it was almost like he had cast some sort of magic spell. One that took Rust hurtling back through time. To a time and a place when both were younger, crazier—dumber too, can't forget that one, Rust thought—and had no idea what to make of the confusing feelings they had for each other.
And no idea what to do with their raging hormones, either.
It was nice to be Rusty again, while they kissed passionately and rubbed their hard, growing dicks against each other. It made him feel like there was a piece of himself that would always belong to Clay, and a piece of Clay that would always belong to him. It made him feel like things had turned out the way they were supposed to be. That everything was right with the world.
Rust yanked Clay's jeans off his legs. His boxer-briefs had a wet spot sitting at the end of his bulge.
“Oh! Pre-cum already?” Rust grinned and licked his lips as he excitedly worked the elastic over Clay's big, throbbing dick.
“Damn, buddy,” Clay whispered.
Rust knelt between Clay's legs and got to work, dragging his moist tongue slowly up the sides of his old friend's rock-hard dick. His tongue-work quickly made the glistening bead of pre-cum that rested atop his cock bigger and dewier—until at last it grew too heavy and trickled over, rolled down his head.
Clay craned his neck to watch the tease, his brow creased with an equal mix of ecstasy and agony, whispering sweet but dirty nothings about how goddamn hard he was and how much he needed Rust's mouth.
Rust didn't waste much time. They were short on it, for one; but more pressingly, he couldn't wait to taste Clay's pre-cum. Rust held Clay's penis steady and licked up the trail of pre-cum, as if it were a trickle of melting ice cream that ran down a waffle cone on a hot day.
Clay's sweet, sticky pre-cum tingled on the tip of his tongue.
“Mm. You taste so good, Clay.”
Rust couldn't wait any longer. He wrapped his plump lips and pushed down the rest of Clay's length.
Clay let out a long groan. His head fell back, hit the dirt, and he surrendered himself to Rust.
Rust loved the rush of power he got from sucking dick. It was a thing of beauty to see Clay stare up at the darkening sky, his mouth hanging open in awe, his eyes open but not seeing. His mind was clearly somewhere else completely—he was lost at sea, riding the waves of bliss that Rust gifted to him.
It was a thrill. All these years later, and he actually liked sucking Clay off more than he remembered.
But soon, Clay felt he had an obligation to repay, and he managed to pull himself off the ground. He wrestled Rust to the ground to suck his dick. But Rust couldn't let go—so an unspoken bargain was struck instead.
They'd lie on their sides, head-to-toe, and suck each other off at the same time.
Both men wrapped their arms around each other's waists and began to move together—thrusting their hips and bobbing their heads, hot red lips plunging up and down erect, vein-pounding cocks. Like an Ouroboros—the mythical serpent that eats its tail—they formed an endless cycle of masculine lust and pleasure. A see-saw of wet, sloppy slurps, followed by deep, ball-aching moans.
Rust thought that they could probably keep pumping for a few minutes longer, just like this, and both men would time their climaxes together in an orgasmic crescendo, like the grand finale of a fireworks show, and all would be fine.
A perfectly reasonable way to seal their bond and end their time together—at least for now.
But Clay had another idea.
He pulled himself away, wiggled free from Rust's mouth, and put himself on all fours, facing away from Rust. Clay arched his back, stuck his naked rear high in the air, and looked over his shoulder with a seductive pout.
Rust admired the sight, and his dick throbbed with one hearty pulse after another. Hell, his cock seemed to grow in the direction of Clay's ass. But Rust wasn't quite sure what to do with such an offering—besides spank, slap and squeeze at Clay's round, muscled cheeks.
He still has a great ass, Rust thought. All muscle. A real hockey player's ass, even if he doesn't play anymore.
Clay bit his lip. “There's something else in my bag, Rusty. Reach in there.”
Rust's throat immediately ratcheted tight. “Oh …?”
He reached a blind hand into the satchel, grabbed the first thing he felt, and pulled it out.
A bottle of lube.
Rust's dick lunged, growing impossibly harder.
“Clay--”
“There's a condom in there too, buddy.”
“Shit,” Rust muttered. Damn, just the suggestion, the idea of what they were about to do, made him so hard, it nearly hurt.
Rust reached into the satchel again and found the condom. He tore the package open, and unfurled the condom down his length.
He had to fuck Clay.
But …
“So—I'm kinda new at this?” Rust stammered, his voice rising a note.
Clay chuckled. “Me too.”
They were both exploring uncharted territory together—which was always a little sweet, a little awkward, and endearing as hell, too.
Clay cleared his throat. “Lube. That's what I hear. Lots of lube.” Then he swayed his ass from side to side to entice Rust all over again.
“Oh, god damn,” Rust croaked.
With one hand, Rust grabbed hold of Clay's ass cheek and pulled, stretching him open. With the other hand, he turned the bottle upside down and squeezed, letting the clear liquid ooze out and drizzle down Clay's squeezed-shut ring.
Which, by the way, was so goddamn cute with its innocent, peachy-pink, pristine tightness. Rust rubbed the tip of his thumb round and round, circling Clay's pucker.
“How's that feel?” Rust asked, growing more confident.
“So good,” Clay gasped, sounding a little surprised at that fact.
Rust teased Clay's ass until his rear began to loosen just a touch … and relax … and open for him. Gently, Rust pushed the tip of his finger in.
“Aoooh,” Clay growled, and his ring gripped Rust's finger with a searing tightness.<
br />
Whoa. With his interest suddenly piqued, Rust's cock excitedly pulsed upward, before its heft came swinging back down again.
“Your ass is so goddamn tight,” Rust snarled.
“Don't stop, buddy. Finger me.”
Rust pushed his finger in deeper; then slowly eased it back out. Clay groaned, begged for more, and pushed back against Rust's finger. Slowly, surely, Rust worked his finger deeper, until he was knuckle deep—and still Clay was demanding more.
“C'mon, c'mon,” he panted. “Harder!”
Rust added a second finger. Clay yowled, his head rearing back, as Rust worked his two thick fingers in.
“Fuck yeah!” Clay yelled, thrusting his rear hard against Rust's fingers—always demanding more, taking more.
Soon, Rust found Clay's prostate. He rubbed it, curled his fingers against it, hammered it with his finger-tips until Clay was thrashing his fists and feet into the Earth and screaming with pleasure.
And then Clay wanted the real thing.
“Gimme your big dick, buddy.”
Rust gulped. “Yeah?”
“C'mon, Rusty, I want your big dick inside me.”
“Oh, fuck …”
Rust squirted a puddle of lube into his palm and stroked it up and down his condom-sheathed cock. Clay snuck one hand between his legs, his fist wrapped around his member and working it in a blur.
“Damn, that's hot.” Rust stopped to stare and watch Clay jack himself.
“C'mon. I'm ready for you. Don't make me beg for it.”
Rust neared. His quads touched Clay's hamstrings—he felt so warm. Rust angled his dick, set his tip at Clay's perfect little hole, and pushed.
“Hnnngh,” Clay growled.
“Oh, fuck Clay, that's a tight ass.” Rust pulled out carefully, and pushed himself back in just as gently.
“Harder, buddy, I can take it. I want it all.”
“O-okay.” Rust leaned his weight forward, gave Clay more of his inches.
Clay pounded his fist into the blanket, hollering loudly with a mix of pain and pleasure.
“More! Give me everything you've got!”
Rust gulped. Clay was wild—always demanding more. Rust had no choice but to obey, pushing in further and deeper, giving it to him harder when he asked for it.
