by K. Z. Snow
Crossing the dirt road, I headed into the green cathedral.
It wasn’t a Christmas tree farm, although there were plenty of those in the area, too. The plantation was one colonnade after another of 40-to 50-foot red pines, their lowest branches at least ten feet off the ground. Filtered sunlight patched their trunks.
Cool shade and the mentholated tang of resin greeted me. I paused on the brown-needle carpet and looked around. Every other row of trees had been harvested, leaving squat stumps. Here and there, spindly oaks had sprouted, looking like undernourished dwarves among towering giants. The space was quiet, majestic, and enchanting. At dusk, which was fast approaching, it had a brooding quality. At night, it looked downright spooky.
I walked in farther. Picked up a scaly cone and sniffed it. The sticky residue it left on my fingers was pleasantly fresh and piquant. I was about to sink to the ground and sit there for a while, listening to birdsong and sampling the perfume of pine sap, when I heard a car come down the road. Pivoting, I glimpsed it between the trees.
A silver subcompact, the same one I’d seen yesterday. It pulled into Booker’s yard and stopped in front of his small garage. A man got out. I couldn’t discern much of anything about him, except that he seemed conservatively dressed and had neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper hair. As he strode up to Booker’s screen door—wood, painted dark green, the kind I’d imagined it to be—the open storm door behind it slammed shut. Virtually in his face. The visitor’s insistent knocks echoed down the pine rows.
I heard him say something in a raised voice. He wasn’t shouting, exactly, but speaking loudly enough to get the attention of the person within. His words were unclear. I thought I heard “hose” or “hoser.” But that couldn’t be. Mature men didn’t use words like hoser.
The little drama transfixed me. I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going on between this repeat visitor and my neighbor. They obviously didn’t get along too well. Maybe the guy was Booker’s father or uncle or older brother, and they’d had some sort of falling-out. Maybe Booker didn’t have permission to stay in the cottage. He didn’t seem like the squatter type, though.
The visitor’s knocking became pounding until, abruptly, the inner door swung open. I couldn’t see who stood there. Words were exchanged in tight, low voices. Then I did see Booker. He stepped onto the stoop and closed the door behind him. I heard his words quite distinctly, since he was facing in my direction.
“You’re not coming in, Karl. Now leave. Please. I’m sick of talking about it. Can’t you find—”
Booker’s words were apparently cut off by the other man, who grabbed Booker’s arm and seemed to speak in a hurried way.
“No!” Booker barked, simultaneously yanking his arm away. He spun around and went back into the cottage, closing the door with a conclusive thud. I heard the click of its lock.
The other man rapped on the storm door like a frenzied woodpecker as he repeated a string of imploring words. His ruckus elicited no response. Apparently conceding defeat, he turned away and let the screen door, which he’d held ajar with his body, slap back into place. Right after stepping off the small concrete stoop, he whipped around and jabbed a forefinger toward the sealed cottage.
“This isn’t over, my friend!” he shouted.
I stared, frowning in bewilderment. None of this was any of my business, of course, but I liked Booker. The man named Karl went back to his car and just sat there for a few minutes. I was afraid he wouldn’t leave, that he’d camp out in Booker’s driveway until some really nasty confrontation ensued. But that wasn’t his intention. Instead, he got out, went back to the cottage, and seemed to place something between both doors. Then he simply returned to his vehicle and drove away.
There was nothing more to see. I resumed my ramble. My mind drifted.
I soon heard soft, crunching footsteps some distance behind me. They accelerated into a jog. The strange goings-on at my neighbor’s place had made me edgy enough to turn and see who was coming.
“Booker,” I said, more or less relieved.
“Hi.” He slowed to a stroll as he approached me.
“I took your advice,” I said. “Did you know I was out here?”
He shook his head. “No. No, I just felt like taking a walk. Then I saw you.” His eyes were lowered. He seemed troubled, distracted.
I couldn’t help but notice that he, too, had showered and changed clothes. My gaze tripped along one of his bare arms, from the smooth knoll of his shoulder to the arch of his biceps to the silky flow of dark hair that thinned toward the prominent bones of his wrist.
“You all right?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Hands shoved in his pockets, he twisted at the waist and cast a quick look at his yard.
I glanced at it too. Empty, thank God. “I’m not trying to pry, but … who’s that guy who keeps showing up at your place?”
His eyes flickered up to my face—lucid gray-green irises rimmed in black. Instantly, they took my breath away.
“Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “It’s just that, you know, there seems to be some … contention there. I hope he’s not harassing you or anything.”
One corner of his mouth jerked into a smile. “I’m a big boy, Charlie. I can take care of it. Don’t worry; no shit’s going to splash your way.”
I felt a blush rise beneath my freckles. “No, that’s not what I… No.”
Booker’s one-sided smile shrank, but it didn’t entirely disappear. He held my gaze. I don’t know how long we stood there looking at each other—five seconds, maybe, which felt like five minutes—before one of us spoke.
“Do you have some kind of phobia about water?” Booker asked.
“Yes,” I answered without bothering to think.
He nodded. “I had a feeling.” His tongue crept out to moisten his lips. “Maybe I could help. I love the water. Practically grew up on it.”
This budding friendship was increasingly perplexing. More and more Booker seemed like a standup guy, a bit reserved but good-hearted. I’d never had a straight male friend to whom I was strongly attracted, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it. A small voice at the back of my mind nagged at me to come clean with him; another said my sexuality was none of his damned business, because I wasn’t some out-of-control sex maniac who was going to jump him on the beach. Ergo, if I kept my mouth shut, he’d never be any the wiser.
Then there was the faint echo of a third voice, my ex-wife’s voice, saying, “Jesus, Charlie, why do you have to overanalyze everything?”
“That friend of yours,” Booker said, interrupting my thoughts. “Ken?”
A worm uncoiled in my belly. “What about him?”
“I saw the two of you standing beside your deck yesterday.”
My pulse began a rapid tapping at the skin of my throat. “And?”
“Are you … in a relationship?”
No answer came out at first. For one thing, I was afraid my voice would crack. For another, I didn’t know why he’d brought it up.
After a hard swallow, I said, “Yes.”
Looking down, Booker nodded thoughtfully. After a moment he turned up those mirror-bright eyes without lifting his head. “Committed?”
I didn’t feel like the same man I was ten minutes ago. I felt reduced to a pair of stuck-open eyelids perched on a thudding heart. “No,” I whispered.
Signed.
Booker took two steps forward, backing me against one of the red pines. His gaze never left my face. Maybe, I thought, he is a mesmerist. Or maybe he’s some redneck who hates “fags,” and he’s fixing to pound me to a pulp. Then I stopped thinking. His arms rose on either side of my head, making a loose vise. I heard a dry crackle of bark as his hands flattened on the trunk above me.
Deepening shadows seemed to enfold us.
“I’m really attracted to you,” Booker said.
His nearness weighted my limbs and filled my head with air. Damp heat scented with bath s
oap radiated from his body and lapped against mine. Had we been breathing more deeply, our chests would’ve touched. But our respiration was shallow, a rapid counterpoint of intake and outflow between slack, parted lips.
Booker wasn’t trying to intimidate me; he was letting me gauge the depth of my desire for him. The openness of his invitation stunned me. I accepted it, exploring him with my senses.
Close up, he was both more feminine and more masculine than at a distance. I noticed the intricate facets of his irises, like a luminous ivory and jade mosaic; the sweep and thickness of his jet-black lashes; the pale blush and delicate texture of his lips. But I also saw the lightning line of a scar through one eyebrow, a chipped tooth, a few bristles of nose hair. Beneath the soap he smelled thoroughly masculine, too, and the tight stretch of coarse-grained skin over chiseled bone was worthy of a superhero.
“Do you want this?” he asked without a hint of pressure. Even his balmy breath felt tentative as it touched my mouth. But his voice, barely above a whisper, was roughened.
Do you want this? Do you want me? Holy Mother of Unexpected Blessings.
I knew he’d back off and apologize if I said no. I knew that as surely as I knew my name. But I knew something else far more important.
I’d sealed up many a font of need throughout my life, and especially throughout my four-year marriage. I’d stitched each gaping mouth as it appeared and made its raw interior invisible to the world. When I finally gave up the marriage, I thought I was giving up this desperate exercise along with it. But I wasn’t. I was still drawing taut those meticulous loops while I was with Kenneth, or any time I merely settled for something or somebody, because I figured settling was the best I could do.
It was the settling that put needle and thread in my hand, not the pretense of straightness.
“Yes, I do. Very much.”
Booker closed the small space between us. The press of his mouth was slow and sure and exquisite.
Sealed.
At the first touch of his chest, the first perfect molding of his lips to mine, the sutures split and heat rolled through me. Our mouths opened in mutual invitation. Ardor sent our breath sawing through the air. I let my hands get lost in Booker’s hair, clutching it, holding his face close against my face as he leaned into me. His mouth was a small, humid cavern, delicately sweet. I wondered vaguely what he’d eaten to put that sugar there. Our tongues slid over and around each other more boldly; our lips flexed, finding new touch points. The light rasp of whiskers skated beneath my nose, across my chin.
“More?” He exhaled the question against my cheek.
“Much more. Please.”
Booker didn’t tease me with his hard-on. Unabashedly, he told me what he wanted. It pushed and slid against my rigid cock. No misinterpreting that message. His hands lowered to cradle my face as we continued to kiss, his fingers stroking down my temples, my sideburns, caressing my ears.
“Maybe we should take this inside,” I said, my voice nearly anaerobic.
I kissed him again. Didn’t want to stop kissing him. But that ridge in his jeans was long and solid and made a persuasive argument for doing something else with my mouth.
Delivered.
Chapter Five
We charged back to my place and tumbled, already half undressed, onto the bed. Clothing flew around the room. I could’ve come as soon as our bodies locked together. At the first crush of Booker’s hard-muscled heat, I held on tight and poked my cock against any part of him it would reach.
We groped and rolled, bunching the sheets—me on top, him on top, flipping back and forth. I kept clutching Booker’s ass, the delectable hunk of candy that had been tormenting me. Our kisses swung between tender and wild. We were sweating and panting and murmuring things without censoring ourselves. No matter how outrageous the praise or how raunchy the promise, they were momentarily sincere.
Finally, I knelt over Booker on all fours as he lay on his back. He lazily stroked his dick and looked at me from beneath lowered eyelids. I sat back on his legs and started touching his cock as his hand slid over it, my fingers moving over his fingers to feel him feel himself.
I’d always loved the unique satin of erection skin. I loved making it slide over its heartwood, loved feeling the soft resilience of its pale blue veins. I fingered the head of Booker’s cock and gently pinched it now and then, just to hear the low, gritty moan that came from his throat.
He had a beautiful cock, tall and straight and flushed. My mind spun at the possibilities it presented. Just as I curled forward to draw that pole into my mouth, Booker stopped me.
“No, Charlie, I’ll come. I don’t want to come yet.” He curled a callused hand around my wrist. “Bring yourself back up here.”
A little reluctantly, I leaned forward again, caging his body, gazing down at him.
His hands swept over my chest, thumbs nudging the nipples.
My back bowed to his touch.
“You like that?”
All I could manage was, “Mmm.” After being with Kenneth, I wasn’t used to a man touching me there.
His thumbnails scraped from areoles to peaks. He rolled and pulled them. My dick jumped as a radiant tingle splintered through my groin.
Reaching down between us, Booker swiped a forefinger over the hole of my cock. I felt light moisture; my body must’ve freed a drop. He lifted his finger to his mouth and languidly cleaned it with his lips and tongue.
I couldn’t just kneel there. I had to touch him, had to explore his chest with my mouth. His nipples were stiff and just as tantalizing as his ass. I slowly licked each one, aroused even further by the feel of those hard, rosy nubs against my tongue. Booker squirmed and whimpered beneath me. I began sucking and biting. He writhed, hips arching, and made more desperate sounds.
“Fuck me, Charlie. Christ, I need you to fuck me.” Forcing my lowered head up and forward, he kissed me, his lips full and hot and hungry.
I sure as hell wasn’t going to argue. “Kneel,” I told him. “Brace yourself against the wall.” I wanted to see the inverted triangle of his back and the beckoning globes of his ass while he was upright. I wanted to see his arm muscles strain, and see the dark fans of his underarm hair. I wanted to caress his torso and pump his cock while I fucked him.
Lube, condoms, wipes, and hand towels were all tucked in my nightstand drawer, along with some other sex-related things. I hastily pulled them out.
“Roll a skin onto me, too,” Booker said as I tore open a packet. “I don’t want to mess up—”
“Forget it,” I said. “You’re going to come on my hand.”
At first I sat cross-legged behind him. Getting the condom on wasn’t easy; I was trembling with excitement. Once it was securely in place, I lubed my fingers and eased apart his cheeks. They were so smooth, smooth as the skin of my inner arms. I kissed them, over and over, and poked my tongue at his hole, skated my tongue around it. I poked again and gave it a tender suck. Booker’s breath came out in low, shuddering vowels.
Then I ran my thumbs over the rim, making small semicircles, probing gently. Booker’s head hung between his shoulders, the dark hair falling in a ragged veil around his face. Inch by inch I began fingering the inside of him, that hot, snug burrow. Dainty spasms made his muscles grip my fingers.
“Now the real thing,” he said on a breath.
I gave my stiff dick a few desultory tugs, readying it, before I boosted myself onto my knees. This wasn’t going to last long.
As soon as my cockhead slipped between those cheeks, I was ready to shoot. I pressed in farther, past that divine ring of muscle. My cock relentlessly swelled. I paused, trying to muster some control, then pushed in farther. As I stroked back and forth, I made small adjustments in the angle. Booker stiffened and quivered.
“That’s it,” he whispered … and hitched in a breath as I again swiped over his prostate.
Reaching around Booker’s loin, I grabbed his cock and pumped it in concert with my own pumping. I put m
y other hand on his back, fingers digging into a tough plane of muscle. My balls jigged slightly as I thrust. Booker uttered a weak, wavering grunt, and his cock began to throb in my hand. Cum drizzled down my knuckles.
That was it, the pulling of the trigger. There was no more holding out. At the first shimmying hint of my release, I pulled my cock back to Booker’s sphincter and let it tighten beneath the head. And the pulsing started, that uncurling of the fist that held the most incomparable pleasure in the world. It spilled all through me and kept spilling—the deepest, longest orgasm I’d ever had. Or so it seemed.
Booker collapsed forward, doubling over. After I peeled off and dropped my condom in the wastebasket, I fell like a boiled noodle onto the mattress.
“I’ll be right back,” Booker said, rising sluggishly from the bed. “Bathroom break.”
I sent him a wolf whistle as I watched him leave the room. “Nice ass.”
Shit, nice everything. Booker teasingly rubbed a cheek as he disappeared out the door. The smile that spread across my face felt silly and lopsided. Yeah, I was crushing on him. Bad.
I used wet wipes to clean my hand, sorry that I hadn’t had the presence of mind to lick off his cum before it had begun to dry, then freshened up some other parts of my body. When Booker returned to the bedroom, he crawled in beside me. We pulled the blanket over ourselves and lay facing each other. Booker traced my features and stroked my hair. I rested a hand on his chest and fingered its hair. I was unaccountably happy.
It was obvious we were both ready to crash. This long, strange day was winding down, and we’d been drugged by the narcotic called sex. I studied Booker’s face, intrigued by its blending of youth and maturity. He was a rough kind of handsome, and anything but ordinary.
