Second Chance

by Van Barrett

  And soon, even though Rust felt like he should be the one in control, it was obvious that it was actually Clay. Clay pumped and swiveled his hips, working his tightness up and down Rust's manhood. He was like a bucking bronco, and Rust was merely trying to hang on and survive the ride for as long as he could.

  Rust grabbed two handfuls of Clay's ass and stared helplessly, almost entranced by the sight of Clay's plump, wiggling ass.

  But Clay wanted more.

  “C'mon, Rusty! I want you to fuck me, damn it! Fuck me like you always wanted but never got to--”

  Rust cut him off with a deep roar—“Rrrraaarrgh!”—dug his nails into Clay's back, and laid into Clay.

  He wanted to get fucked? Rust could fuck him like he so badly wanted, alright.

  Rust pushed into him hard, his muscular waist crashing into Clay's ass, skewering him with his cock. Clay yelped and howled, laid his face down in the dirt, and took it.

  Rust raked his nails down Clay's back. Long, raised red welts appeared immediately, stinging Clay.

  “Fuck! Yes!” Clay hissed.

  Rust fucked him harder, faster, his strokes going deeper, longer. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow, trickled down his jaw and dripped onto Clay's back. The salt of his sweat mingled in Clay's fresh scratches, and again he let out a deep, wounded yell.

  Fuck yeah, Rust thought, fucking Clay harder still.

  All those feelings … all that anger, and abandonment, and rage, and confusion and bitterness … Rust felt it all rushing out from a deep, cavernous place inside him, and exploding as it reached the surface. All this pain, all this shit—it was finally erupting, like a long over-due volcano that had rattled and tormented the land for years.

  Rust grabbed hold of Clay's shoulders and gave a mighty pull with each thrust into his sweet, tight ass. His sweaty, powerful thighs rhythmically clapped against Clay's. Smack, smack, smack!

  The two men gasped and groaned, fucking each other harder, both screaming and hollering into the sky.

  And then a funny thing happened.

  Rust felt the source of his deep anger begin to sputter and choke—until the last of it had burnt off, and a sense of clarity came to him.

  He didn't want to hurt Clay. He knew that's what Clay wanted—some part of Clay felt bad or guilty. Some part of Clay might never forgive himself for what he'd done ten years ago.

  But Rust forgave him now, totally. He could sense the switch happen inside himself clear as day.

  Rust slowed, a frown on his face. He ran his hands over Clay's slick back, wanting to soothe the wounds he'd just carved into his skin.

  Clay tried to thrust his ass violently against Rust, begging him and demanding him to fuck him harder, but Rust didn't feel the need anymore.

  Instead, he grabbed hold of Clay's ass and kept him in place. No words had to be spoken. Rust's power, his intent, were perfectly clear: I'm in control here, Clay.

  Clay was still manually pleasuring himself. Rust moved his hand away and wrapped his own fist tight around Clay's cock.

  Rust slowly, calmly, moved his hips forward, sinking his weight into Clay's rear. Slowly, gently, he began to tug Clay, timing the speed and depth of his strokes to match his own pace as he burrowed into Clay.

  He should feel what I feel.

  “Oh,” Clay sighed softly, almost as if he was surprised at how nice this had felt—making love instead of fucking.

  Rust pulled out, pushed back in, always controlled, always sweet, always appreciating every inch Clay had to give him.

  “Ooh,” Clay moaned, and he began moving with Rust, just as slow, just as sweet.

  For the first time, the two old friends truly learned to move together—to move as one—the same way that one learns to ride a horse by subtle feel and movement—and not by jerking the reins.

  With his hands tight around Clay's waist, Rust looked to the horizon. The Sun was clipping below the green hills as it set. A nice, silky breeze began to pick up, and cooled the dripping sweat on his skin. The leaves from the trees all around them swished and rustled, and the long stalks of grass whipped about in the windy draft.

  Just above the grass, Rust spotted the first firefly of the night—the little guy's warm amber glow flickered into existence and slowly faded, as he risked everything to seek out a mate.

  And Rust and Clay grunted, groaned, pushing and pulling together, like the ocean waves that crash on the shore and get sucked back out to sea.

  “I think I'm gonna cum,” Clay suddenly said, matter-of-factly.

  Rust gasped with surprise. Come to think of it, Clay's cock was awfully hard in his hands—like he was holding a chiseled, heavy piece of marble instead of human flesh.

  Rust jerked him harder. Faster. And when Clay's pelvis began to rumble like an earthquake, Rust knew he was finished.

  “I'm cumming!” Clay hollered. “Oh God I'm cumming!”

  Rust could feel that cock in his hands swell larger and larger, bloating with pressure as it raced towards the inevitable and then!—pump, pump pump pump, Clay spilled his seed, shooting one streak after another, painting his own abs with his white load.

  Rust milked him for every last drop—then looked at his hand. Clay's creamy cum trickled down his fingers, ran between his knuckles.

  “Damn, that's hot,” Rust groaned, feeling his own orgasm creeping up on him in a hurry. “Oh—oh Clay! I'm close, real close!”

  Clay goaded him on. “I want you to cum, buddy, cum inside me.”

  “Oh my God—oh my God!”

  “Yeah, buddy!”

  It was good—too good. Rust grabbed Clay's hips and didn't move as the rising pressure surged higher through his shaft, buried deep in Clay's ass. And then,

  “Ooooooooooooh yeah!”

  Rust came, filling his condom with shot after shot of cum.

  32

  Last Night Together

  – Clay –

  Clay had hoped Rust would give it to him hard.

  Yeah, it hurt. But Clay figured that was his punishment—he'd hurt Rust all those years ago, after all. And he could rationalize it any way he wanted … but he knew that the reasons he'd hurt him couldn't change the fact that he had hurt him.

  So Clay wanted it hard. He hoped Rust would dig deep and take out every last frustration on him.

  It began as a wild, anger-fueled animalistic fuck that hit all the right notes for Clay. But surprisingly, it turned into something deeper, something more meaningful. A bond between the two men, a soul connection—like they'd found a path together.

  And man, that finish. Clay gave everything he had, in every possible sense. Drained. Weakened, Clay went down, falling to the blanket on his cum-covered stomach.

  Rust went with him, staying buried in his ass, and the two men hit the ground together.

  Rust's weight felt so nice on top of him. It was a little harder for Clay to breathe, but in a way that was nice too—the small struggle for each breath.

  It was funny that Rust was now the bigger of the two. When they last saw each other, Clay was the bigger guy by a good twenty pounds. Today? … Not so much. Clay had lost some muscle mass while Rust had gained it.

  Eventually, Rust pulled out, rolled off him and laid on his back instead.

  “Oh, man,” Rust sighed, staring up and quietly laughing.

  “Hm?”

  “Look! There's tons of fireflies.”

  Clay flipped over onto his back, his shoulder against Rust's bigger, rounder shoulder.

  Rust was right. Hundreds, no, thousands of fireflies were all around them—in the grass, in the cover of the trees, in the open air—illuminating the dark purple sky with their brilliant yellow glow.

  “Pretty, ain't it?” Clay said.

  “Yeah, man!”

  “I always loved those things as a kid.”

  “Me too.” Rust nodded. “Pretty wild way to find a mate though, eh? Think about it. Your ass glows. And whoever's ass glows the brightest gets laid.”

  B
oth men shared a laugh.

  Then Clay put his hand into Rust's; their fingers inter-locked.

  “I'm glad I found you again,” Clay said softly.

  “Aw. You're sweet.”

  “Yeah, and I didn't even have to make my ass glow or anything.”

  Rust smacked his forehead with his free hand. “And you said I was cheesy …”

  Clay made a sneaky grin, rolled onto his side and kissed Rust. They shared a long, soulful kiss, their tongues gracefully weaving and dancing together.

  They pulled apart.

  “So … do you want me to drive you back to Dallas tonight?” Clay asked.

  Rust made a mousy face. “I was hoping I could stay one more night. Leave first thing in the morning?”

  Clay smiled. “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks. It's just that it's already late, and we're both so tired … and …” Rust trailed off before adding, “I want to be with you a little while longer.”

  “Thanks buddy.” Clay squeezed him tight. “We should get going, though. Don't want Leo and Bolt to get anxious.”

  The two men stood, dressed, packed everything away, and made their way back through the foliage and through the woods, towards the horses that were still patiently waiting.

  “Good boys! Good boys,” Clay praised them.

  The two men saddled up and rode back to the farm, with the glowing fireflies all around them.

  ***

  Both men were dead tired. Last night's, er, activities, had kept them up far too late. And a long, hard day of work on the farm had nearly drained them of the rest of their energy.

  But having sex at the look-out point?

  That had drained them of everything they had left. Especially Clay, who didn't have the luxury of sleeping in like Rust had.

  Riding Bolt was almost a struggle for Clay—he was so tired, his sense of balance was off; his movements seemed to lag one step behind Bolt's. Not that the horse was concerned. He continued on, slow and steady, back to the house.

  When Rust and Clay made it back to the house, they went straight to Clay's bedroom. Clay stripped naked, like he always did, and burrowed under the covers. Rust followed in after him and held him tight.

  This time, they wouldn't stay up late. Within minutes, both men were fast asleep.

  Their last night together.

  33

  Sweet Goodbye

  – Rust –

  “Pst. Hey Rust.”

  Rust opened one eye. “Mm?”

  “It's six AM.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Rust sat up, blinked his tired eyes.

  “How do you feel today?”

  “Great.”

  “Good man, good. I'm so happy for you.” Clay smiled. “I'll be out in the kitchen. I already made breakfast.”

  “Thanks. I'll be out there in a sec.”

  Rust took a few more moments to wake. Then he climbed out of bed, did a few morning stretches, looked at the sunrise through Clay's bedroom window, and headed out to the kitchen.

  Clay had made scrambled eggs, sausage and hash-browns. They sat down to eat together.

  Rust took his first bite, and choked back his laughter.

  “What? What?” Clay needled.

  “Oh my God, your cooking!” he said at last.

  Clay suddenly looked worried. “Is it bad?”

  “No! Not at all. It's just—it tastes almost exactly the same as I remember. I wouldn't have remembered, actually, but as soon as I took that first bite—yeah. It's like we're back in that apartment in Hershey, Clay.”

  “Oh.” Clay smiled proudly. “Good.”

  It was funny how some things changed, and some things stayed the same.

  Over breakfast, they talked about how their lives were about to fork off in different directions again. But this time, it wasn't nearly the somber affair it had been that day back in Hershey when Rust got his first NHL call-up—and Clay was silently mourning the death of his NHL career.

  After being in such rotten shape for two straight months, Rust felt like he'd been reborn a new man. He was beyond excited to get back to Columbus. His mission was simple: to get back on the ice as soon as possible and drag his team back into the playoffs.

  Yeah, returning to play meant he'd have to pass his medical eval. And the team doctors would certainly be skeptical of his claims that he'd made a miracle recovery—especially after the stunt he'd pulled two months ago. But at the end of the day, as long as he felt fine and could exercise with no ill effects, they couldn't keep him off the ice for long.

  As for Clay, his plans were more or less the same. Slow and steady in the short term. He was moving the ball forward on a few adoptions, always scouting out more horses he could help, planning funding drives, so on and so forth. In the long term, Clay wanted to expand his farm, which wasn't exactly a secret.

  When Rust gathered up his dirty clothes, his checkbook tumbled out of his jeans—and he remembered there was one more thing he wanted to do before he left.

  “Hey Clay. Lemme write you a check. How much do you need? I'm seriously asking—this isn't a trap. I want to help.”

  “What?” Clay guffawed. “No, dude. I appreciate the offer, but I can't accept it.”

  “C'mon. Don't be crazy. I told you I've made more money than I know what to do with, and there's horses out there suffering. We both know that. So my money can go towards something good.” Rust held a pen over the check pad, waiting. “So you tell me: what's a good figure? Half a million? One mil, two? How much do you really need, Clay? You obviously do a good job out here and I want to help.”

  Clay folded his arms. Stubborn as a mule, he refused. “I can't take your money.”

  “Seriously?”

  “If you really want to help, I can give you a list of other horse rescue operations or charities that I think are doing a good job. You can donate to them if you feel like it.”

  Rust stared at him, speechless.

  “You really won't take a check from me?”

  “No, I won't.” Clay whipped out a mini-pad and wrote down a list of rescues and charities. “Here. You can give to one of these organizations if you really want.”

  “Okay, I will.” Rust folded the paper up and slid it into his wallet. Then he gave Clay a stare. “But why won't you take my money?”

  “I told you. I appreciate it, but I don't want anything to do with your money. I want you, Rust, and I don't want money getting between us in any way.”

  Rust thought it over. He wished he could help—but he also understood where Clay was coming from. “Okay, Clay.”

  “Thanks anyway, Rusty.” Clay neared and hugged him. “I really do appreciate the offer.”

  “Yeah, man, you bet. Wish I could help you out, but … I understand.”

  With breakfast over, it was time to go. Clay and Rust went outside and climbed into the truck.

  ***

  Rust took frequent peeks at his phone as they traveled east out of the country. He was waiting for his cell phone to get a signal—and excited to make the phone call that would put his career back on the rails.

  He wasn't excited to say bye to Clay. That would be hard, and hell, he might even get a little misty-eyed if they dragged it out. But really, it shouldn't be a sad occasion. Rust trusted that Clay was serious: that, even though they couldn't be together right now, they still had tons of time together. Actually, for all intents and purposes, they were together.

  Because Clay made it clear he was going to wait for Rust. And Rust, well, he didn't care for anyone else. So long as they kept in touch, a couple more years of being apart wasn't the end of the world. They'd still get to see each other here and again—Rust could easily fly out to Texas anytime he had a break.

  After thirty minutes of driving, it finally happened—a signal 'bar' appeared on his cell phone. Rust's eyes lit up and he quickly made a call to Dr. Davis, his concussion specialist at Parkland Hospital.

  “Hey Doc! It's me Rust.”

  “Rust! How have y
ou been? I couldn't get a hold of you these past two days.”

  “Yeah, sorry, I haven't had any coverage the past couple days.”

  “So how are you?”

  “Well actually, I'm doing pretty great now. I spent some some time out in the country, got to hang around a bunch of horses and--” Rust shot Clay a sneaky smile, “--and even some cowboys, too.”

  With his eyes on the road, Clay grinned and gave a shake of his head.

  “Did you say horses and cowboys?” Doc asked, sounding a tad confused.

  “Yeah, Doc, it's a pretty wild story. Anyway, point is, I'm feeling 100%.”

  “You said—how much? A hundred?”

  “Yeah, 100%.”

  “A hundred percent,” he repeated, disbelieving. “You really think so?”

  “Yeah, I'm positive. Anyway, I'm on my way back to Dallas right now. Think we can meet in a few hours? The sooner you can get me on my way to Columbus, the better.”

  “Well—uh—” Doc stammered. “Of course, but we'll have to run some tests—”

  “I know, and I'm up for it. Alright Doc, I'll call you as soon as I'm in the city.”

  Rust hung up the phone.

  “How'd that go?” Clay asked.

  “He seems doubtful. Can't blame him, really.”

  “You'll be fine.”

  “I know it, Clay.” Rust folded up the arm-rest that sat between them on the truck's bench seat. He unbuckled his seat belt and scooted closer to Clay, until the two came thigh-to-thigh. “Thanks to you.”

  Rust set his hand gently on Clay's leg. Making small, sensual circles, Rust rubbed his palm lightly against Clay's muscular thighs.

  “What, ah—” Clay cleared his throat, taking troubled peeks out of the corner of his eye. “What're you doing there, Rusty?”

  Clay was already getting hard! His fat cock visibly thickened, rising in the leg of his jeans like a submarine breaching water.

  “I'm saying 'thank you', obviously,” Rust snickered.

  He traipsed his hand over Clay's bulge, lightly wrapped his fingers around him, and started tugging—cock, denim and all.