A River's Bluff
The frigid river water enveloping my body shocked the senses more so as my unsubmerged head remained exposed to the scorching midday heat of the central Texas Hill Country. The dichotomy of sensations provided welcome respite from the vigorous summer hike over the verdant hills juxtaposed around the Sabinal River.
My comrade "hiker-in-crime", Howard, a consummate city boy but determined good sport, had joined me for the weekend camping trip to my favorite clandestine hideaway in the hills: Lost Maples Natural Area. The last stand of America's maple tree forests west of Arkansas in the Southwestern states.
The two of us along with my canine companion, Maximus Primus, had arrived early morning at the park after vacating the city during the wee hours for relief from the tedium of work, responsibility and the pressures associated... we had soon thereafter set out backpacking into the deep reaches of the circuitous trail system providing fairly close access to remote areas not commonly traversed by the average weekend hiker-types. Of course, being Wednesday made the likelihood of meeting other campers or hikers even more improbable which satisfied all three of our needs perfectly.
Our packs, equipment, and supplies were visible on the far rock ledge from my spot in the crystal clear pool on the upper Sabinal, my exhilaration at the plunge into the icy water causing my scrotum bewilderment as to where my normally fat balls had disappeared. Shriveling and shivering abounded as I awaited the reappearance of the How and Prime Man over the small rise beyond the copse of trees where they had together sought a source for the inscrutable rustling and snuffling sounds which had piqued the duo's curiosity only a quarter hour before.
I contemplated the coming camp-staging to be undertaken as I submerged my head to view a curious perch peeping at my goose-pimpled self from a few feet away. I momentarily flashed on the contrast of the paleness of my groin to the smooth but goose-fleshed skin both above and below speedo tan lines that were my deeply tanned torso and legs. The fish in this pool seemed overly friendly. This had been noted on previous visits to the secluded twenty-by-ten jewel of a pristine, rock floored lagoon edged by sedges, elephant ears and... maple trees, well hidden from sight unless one was either following very difficult terrain hugging the river or flying over it. Neither of which hardly ever happened due to its remoteness and hill-ringed topography.
The far perimeter of the park trails and camping areas diverged from our present whereabouts over a very challenging two mile stretch to the southwest where the more "improved" parts of the several hundred acre state set-aside resided. My studies on the history of the area had revealed a land-grant legacy cattle ranch dating from the origins of the republic, last owned by a childless bachelor hill country pioneer who had deeded the whole kit-and-caboodle to the state under strict conditions of only rudimentary development, in perpetuity, for the enjoyment of the naturalist populace subsequent to the man's passing a decade before.
Almost no one knew this idyllic entity existed and I reveled in the fact. Regularly-rotated park rangers once seemed baffled by my reference to it the time I brought it up at the central ranger station several years before so I downplayed it as a probable misconception of my memory when I figured that out.
To the north I could visualize the hill with the adjoining tiny isthmus of land on a thirty foot high rocky bluff overlooking the meandering river below, separated from the main crown of the hill by a bramble of thorny bushes, prickly junipers and scrub oaks at the point of the neck. It appeared inaccessible from below or on the hill itself and I loved that feature, having found an animal track entrancing the reclusive spot three years before on a solo trip with Prime Man.
We had sniffed and tunneled our way through the brambles to the small shaded clearing and then sat on the edge of the bluff for an inaugural sunset knowing that we would relish future return visits when that discovery had been made. This trip was the first time to show the spot to any other person and I looked forward to the coming days of camaraderie with my friend at this tucked away site.
Of a sudden, a high-pitched yip and whoop presaged my two cohorts' return from beyond the little rise and I grinned to see them materialize, sporting frantic visages, clearing the hill crest airborne as disturbed embodiments of dishevelment. The big Fila brasiliero wore draping remnants of weedy greenery stickered over his fat head, ears and torso while the How lost his cap in the jump blazoning their return, shorts awry, muscle shirt ripped and one hiking boot missing, stocking foot exposed. They catapulted headlong down the barely marked animal trail leading to my alfresco plash, both ker plunking ingloriously into the water and roiling the serene surface in their rush.
Seconds later, the reason for their frenzied dash made itself known in the form of a very angry mama skunk who arose from the spot where they had just emerged, looming up on hind legs, her bushy tail rigidly arched behind in threat of odoriferous apocalypse by the disgruntled demeanor. The Tasmanian-devil-like beast was in a total tizzy coming toward the pool's edge where it stopped short, hurling skunkian epithets. My companions prattled excitedly in a human and canine cacophony as they imparted the events leading to this scenario.
Safely (they hoped) out of reach of the varmint they sunk low in the water, both barely exposing their nostrils and mouths as they and I inhaled the first vestiges of the creature's fearsome defense mechanism to which eons of chastised hunters had given ground before that mephitic propensity for bully tactics. The thoroughly riled female, apparently defending her territory, had taken offense to these rapscallions' intrusion into her domicile, targeting her anger at the nosy and noisy misfits by aggressively charging them rather than retreating, as apparently the two had expected, thus setting the marathon sprint to safety in motion. The cowards.
Finally, after venting both psychopathically and glandularly for a good five minutes in the effort to drive her point home the veritable "Texas wolverine" screeched and chippered away, back toward her lair, thereby relieving the miscreants of their terror. Even so, both refused to emerge from the watery confines for a good hour, trembling in unison as they confided each detail of their adventure.
After gathering his wits, How shed his drenched clothing, exposing a leanly dark swimmer's body, spreading it next to his lonesome hiking boot on the small beach-like upper curve where the river cascaded down into the cup-shaped concavity over stacked boulders, thence slouching in chilled discrete distinction to the heated maelstrom recently manifested through the close encounter. Good thing I had pushed him to bring extra shoes, I thought.
My scrotal shrinkage proved contagious and he accustomed to it in mirthful observations of the phenomenon. Sir Prime dog-paddled contentedly around the familiar oasis, disgustedly snifting the malodorous aftermath of the confrontation, his focus on the now coy finned denizens of the pond with whom he more commonly shared a relationship of mutual captivation. They enthralled him. Likewise the obverse but not at the moment.
Eschewing the frontal entry to the pool for obvious reasons, we exited the higher back point by the waterfall seeking the alternate serpentine path to my secret isthmus for setting of our three day campsite. We were able to make our way with all belongings over the next hour or so as the sun was beginning to peak for the day. The brambles and scrub brush junipers proved a frustration in our au naturel state, having shunned clothes for only shoes to locomote over the rocky terrain. A la Jeremiah Johnson. What tough mountain men...but it was a bittersweet trade-off we embraced for its liberating effect.
Without any further bedevilment by pissed-off polecats we managed to set camp by close to sundown, four-man pop-up tent stolid on its security stakes underneath the short but spreading oak tree, rock-rimmed campfire declivity safely buttressed and banked. Wet clothes drying on a strung line. Foodstuffs had been bagged and then suspended to avoid the attraction of hungry natives-on-the-prowl so we cracked open a celebratory bottle of a reserve vintage pinot noir to usher in the onset of the "primitive" get-away.
The Primus scouted the near hillside as the sunlight waned, per his wont, while How and I reposed, knees dangling over the bluff edge that we might toast the dusk in proper fashion. I knew of the spectacular vista to come and desired he experience its grandeur. The firewood previously gathered, stacked and propped in place to allow minimal effort come dark had just been ceremonially lit. Two marbled ribeyes marinated fragrantly, tinfoil-wrapped baking potatoes and cobbed corn all ready for coal-cooking-- we were pretty much set.
Howard had procured an aromatic bud of sinsemilla ganja for the weekend excursion and spent some time cleaning then rolling several reefers for our pleasure. How could life get better? While we imbibed the tasty red and surveyed the surround from our eyrie on a spread blanket I watched the golden-eyed sleekness that was Primus slink into our enclave, search out his water and kibble bowl site and then collapse close by me in "pack contentment".
I was proffered a cannon-sized spliff and a lit ember by my bud, Mr. How. He stood next to me, crotch at eye level. I made a conscious decision to light up the doob before contemplating the now noticeably un-shriveled waggling manmeat on the periphery of my visual field. The luxury of nudity was ours in this high haven and the augmentation of the natural panorama by anatomical accentuations such as his ample and uncut dark-skinned endowment caused my own piece to take notice.
We shared several tokes absorbing both smoke and ambiance, watching the Milky Way blossom into a diamond-studded panoply. I surreptitiously studied his chocolate silkiness as he stretched, cat-like, extending his neck to take in the living planetarium, as stunned by the magnificence as I had been the first time. The gurgling river below amplified the sensate setting.
Upon passing back the roach I felt my friend's handsome dick innocently brush my bicep as he turned...or maybe not. Innocently, that is. The soothing sensation of the inhaled weed imbued both of us with erotic flare and next I knew he was squatting over my lap spread-legged, feeding my mouth with his tongue. The brute of a dog simply lolled to the side away from us, sighing deeply, conjuring our collective twitter by his nonchalance.
Electricity surged through us and my fat dick rose to his ass crevice as he had probably intended. Fingering a glob of saliva, Howie massaged my eight and a half inch mushroom-headed cut cock into slimy rigidity attending primarily to the ultra-sensitive corona then maneuvering it directly under his rosebud asshole.
We both exhaled as he settled onto it and upon bumping my pubic curls he squeezed those muscular little brown gluteals and locked his fingers around my neck causing his own big dick to rasp upwards over my abs until springing loose to slap his own. Golf ball sized nuts constricted in his tight sack and pressured my pubes erogenously, making my own hard-on spasm inside of him and we began a rhythmic gyrating motion allowing both our dicks to friction their way up the escalation scale toward a much too quick overwhelming climax amidst deep sensual tonguing of each other's lips and mouths.
The effect was transcending and we came back to reality after a zoned hiatus, once again taking heed of the wondrous diorama. Night sounds enveloped us and we reclined in tandem to cuddle with the snoring behemoth sharing our blanket.
We awakened just a short time later to our still conjoined state and as our senses gathered so did our hormones, raising greedy mandicks: his between our taut stomachs and mine still pronged inside him. We felt them both as they lengthened sensuously and I rolled the very manly Howard over positioning him underneath me and raising those supple legs up and out, grasping them by finely-boned ankles. My cum lubricated us both and I lay down on him chest-to-chest for a moment to smear his thickening juices onto my torso. Rising again for a better fireflicker view of him I set to slowly, deeply stroking as he twisted my nipples to our undulating cadence, writhing into my thrusts in animalistic pulses until the thrill of the fuck bested us and we flooded over, filling his remaining empty inner spaces and coating that rippled stomach.
Our separation by my pulling out caused us paroxysmal reverberations and we had to sit awhile to regain strength for the grilling of those marinated steaks. After a sumptuous meal fit for men we settled right back on the blanket, caked cum still encoating us, pondered billions of stars and fell asleep with the Primus like a pile of exhausted pups.
Howard loves cum. Yours, mine, ours, his own. On him, in him, around him, airborne and on others. That became evident through the progress of our dreamland sojourn. While I was fine with allowing the encrustations of lust lull us to sleep I discovered his nocturnal hijinks during those entangled hours; they proved erotically elucidative. I would drowsily rouse to lickings of my body at various points as he made known his appreciation for the stuff, at first thinking my fatheaded furred friend was the licker and almost admonishing cessation, whenst the evidence betold of my smoother sleeping companion actively cleaning me via lingual exertions.
Unfortunately--or maybe fortunately now that I cogitate the act-- he engendered my own satyristic response each time he attempted lability of our leftovers, my priapic arousal hooking into him every time he began. Though we did get rest during the night we also fucked lights-out multiple times. Since each ejaculative release refreshed his and my juices somewhere on/in the two of us I deduced a twinge of premeditation. Either way, we had most definitely familiarized with one another in the biblical sense come dawn...double entendre intended.
Upon the faintest lightening of the cobalt sky we donned our sneakers and trekked down from our roost to the crystal-lidded pool, invigorating our beings with playful antics while cleaning the crustiness missed during his moonlight snackings. In helping each other avoid missing any spots, of course, the actions led to a watery consummation of our yet blooming enjoyment of one another. The fish were feted with a variety show of fervid innovation by our activities. Primus remained unimpressed.
Two cums later, each, we emerged and ascended once again to our smoldering campfire. Stoking some enduring embers we were able to make strong black coffee (for which I have a notable predilection-- kinda like my men) and as the sun arose over the hillock guarding the east we contemplated the day ahead.
Max Primus harbored his own ideas for frivolity, demanding our participation in exploring and tracking the area surrounding our riverside hideaway all morning. We thankfully did not roust the skunk from the previous day but did espy a whitetail doe with her speckled fawns, a couple of humorous young raccoons out washing pecans in the water, black squirrels peculiar to the area chasing up and down the maples and several cranky armadillos who all responded to the big dog's curious nudgings by launching several feet vertically into the air as registration of their complaints at interruption, clicking loudly and lumbering away in insulted angst.
We recorded videos of as many of these nature episodes as able and even set the camera tilted on a rock during a long sensuous blowjob of the How's ever ready ebony endowment, recording my meticulous work in saving a streaming memory of one eruption induced by my excellent tongue abilities...he seemed contentedly drained, yet again sopping up what jism I overlooked in the after fact.
We spent an hour at another small deep pool upstream from our base in the snagging of two good-sized catfish and descended to our camp to revive the cooking embers after cleaning and prepping the fat fish. The sweet flakiness of fish cooked over an open fire is a taste unmatchable in city restaurants and our appetites were sated by it along with fresh carrots, apples and nuts.
Bottled Negro Modelo, pool-cooled, culminated our long morning's activities and we settled in the shade of our tree-hidden sanctuary to wait out the hot afternoon sun beating down around our secluded den, feeding each other's lustful hankerings with dessertful delights, leaving the big mastiff as a sphinxlike guardian outside on the bluff, surveying his domain.
The man called How was both exotically handsome and insatiable-- but then, our appetites seemed well-matched and we siesta'd our way toward a second evening in the haze of Bob Marley's ghost and legacy, augmenting our languorous interludes by the redolence of it's hovering wisps. Rainbows had landed on earth and we most assuredly were not in Kansas anymore...
Arising and stretching from a 'somnolent' respite, the air busy with the buzzing of bees hard at work, we emerged from our iniquitous den quite lazily refreshed and took note of two massive cumulonimbus thunderheads gathering height over the horizon of the northern hill. As we partook of an afternoon blunt we observed that their darkness intensified, intermittently illuminated by masked lightning strikes followed by rolling thunder seconds after.
Counting cadence to one-thousand and thirty proved an acceptable distance away but after an hour of this weather show the count was down to one-thousand ten. Two miles away. We knew then we were in for a storm so took precautions by preparing for it. Gathering items into the tent, the three of us hunkered down as vanguard winds whipped branches around us and blew loose debris helter-skelter. Huge raindrops pocked the waterproof tent as dusk descended and we redefined supper as rainstorm sex-- reputedly the best sex ever to be had. Indeed, we proved the concept and fell asleep as the now steady rain battered us, staying dry (from rain wetness, anyway) in our protective cocoon.
Seemingly hours later the rain continued unabated. Wind gusts blustered around us and we began worrying if the tent could withstand the growing tempest. Thank goodness we had set camp so high over the river. Texas Hill Country flashfloods are notoriously deadly. Walls of water arise in short minutes and destroy everything before them without mercy. The geological rock and clay surfaces deny absorption leaving the water nowhere to soak in.
Earlier this spring the winding Blanco River had risen 50 feet in a single hour sweeping hundred year old trees and scores of homes downstream with dozens of people lost or drowned while simply waiting out the storm in the "safety" of their homes. A beloved family Labrador was rescued clinging to high branches of an untoppled tree, suspended precariously almost 50 feet above the ground the following day by a rescue team...its family wasn't so lucky. This wasn't that severe and we felt pretty safe from such a catastrophe.
Still naked, we hazarded a peek out to view the surroundings and were astounded to find the river below had risen a good 10-12 feet since sunset. With no campfire possible the scrotal-shrivel syndrome ensued so we retired into our tent and dressed to warm up. Between the three bodies available we warmed quickly enough and settled into an edgy doze-mode to wait it out.
I awoke with a start to a distant crack of thunder. My two intimates were affected likewise. While the wind gusts had ebbed over the preceding hours, the rain had persisted in true Texas gully-washer fashion. We unzipped a few inches of the tent opening and peeked through visualizing a soggy campfire pit and very little else by merit of the rainy curtain enveloping us. The lightning seemed more distant now as the flashes were less intense and the interval between them and the thunder claps longer. A good thing.
A low repetitive roll of thunder arose to our south and we listened as it grew in intensity rather than dissipating, finally distinguishing it as not a sound of Nature but the beating of helicopter props. Hmmm. Odd. Air traffic was rare here but at such a time totally unexpected, especially a prop craft...we began suspecting strange goings-on.
I left the safety and dryness of the tent to see what might be developing and as I emerged from under the oak canopy a low-flying copter swooshed past scaring the bejeebers out of me. The craft couldn't have been 50 or 60 feet above us and as it banked and turned I knew the fliers had spied us. It returned, propellers beating the raindrops and creating a vortex of wind current suffused by smarting spray as it slowed and hovered, making it difficult to see, but I discerned a figure leaning out of it who seemed to be signaling me to move to the adjoining hillock. The craft apparently meant to descend and land there. The occupants were clearly more concerned than we for our welfare and out on a search mission amidst the sudden weather episode.
Rousting my companions we gathered previously packed backpacks. Hurriedly abandoning our mini Eden-turned-Noah scenario, Max Primus proved nervously unsure of our abrupt actions, reticently accompanying as we skittered through the bushy barrier to the relative spaciousness of the flatter hilltop. As the helicopter descended almost upon us it became necessary to physically restrain the now anxious mastiff to stop him fearfully bolting from under the monstrous apparition invading our previously serene setting, current weather conditions notwithstanding. He recognized only a threat by its approach and did not like it one bit.
Upon setting down, a rain-garbed figure emerged from the slide door and waved us toward him, projecting a state of trepidation by his body language. We coaxed the Prime against his better instincts and between the two of us managed to reach the aperture. We were all three rather demeaningly jumbled up and into the craft by two additional raingear-obscured team members. As the door rolled closed and all were buckled into seats with the big dog clinging close to me, the copter lifted off.
The effect increased the gravitational pull momentarily, imparting a strange ephemeral feeling of heaviness furthering my big dog's fraught state. The team members removed their head gear, shaking heads in the doing and we were taken aback by four visages reflecting angry consternation all remonstrating with us at the exhibition of apparent stupidity for setting our camp so far from the beaten paths more commonly settled. It would seem by their perspective that access to bathroom and shower facilities were of paramount import in the site-choosing decision...our aberrancy evidently broke some unwritten rule of conduct.
The view of the river below astounded How and me as we absorbed their beratement. The previously burbling, meandering ribbon of emerald hue was now a twenty foot high raging brown torrent. We were amazed by the transformation and dismayed by the growing danger closing on our high, remote isthmus. Ten more feet and we would surely have been engulfed.
Maybe it was a stupid move to have absented ourselves from civilization so. I was rendered contrite. We endured the remaining flight through turbulent skies, flummoxed by the tumultuous turn of events and suitably chastened for our (my) transgression.
Disembarking at the central ranger station to the safety and amenities it provided, the four man team and pilot having finally exhausted their tirade, I settled the brute-of-a-wimp canine buddy of mine into a kennel run attached to the complex used for tracking dogs when the need arose. Empty now, we two spent a quiet half hour reassuring each other that all was OK and we were not actually crossing the fabled River Styx to the morbid demise surmised.
He gradually relaxed, head on my thigh, in the quiet peace of the secluded spot. Howard had disappeared with one of the team to be shown to a hot shower and clean-up in the locker room somewhere distant to my present locale. I gradually descended from the state of misgiving for my responsibility in the jeopardous predicament. Rationalization through hindsight concluded, "it could have happened to anyone and all's well that ends well".
As the two of us gathered our wits in the peaceful quietude I sensed and then heard the pad of bare footfalls as a person approached. Expecting the How man, I was surprised by the spectre of Zip, one of the rebuking saviors, actualizing at the door to the run. Expressing newly gentle concern for my and the Prime's state of mind I slackened with relief by the knowledge that I would not face yet more platitudinous judgments for which I was heartily fed up. I rightly deduced that sudden central Texas downpours and flashfloods such as that which we had been subjected were by definition flash occurrences: unpredictable in the best of circumstances.
In actuality, I had cleverly chosen the safest site at the hilly enclave as could have been done. The newly showered first responder admitted as much as he entered our dog run, squatting across from us as he towel-dried his curly dark brown hair. Wrapped in only a large white towel he exuded a sense of benevolence now, belying the heretofore gruff and ticked off manner that the emergent situation had demanded.
It was history, thankfully, and we listened to the ruckus of the rainstorm as we mused over the recent transpirations. During our air evacuation the park had been deserted by nervous campers, all departing for homes and higher ground. I inquired as to my friend's whereabouts and Zip informed me rather cryptically that he was in good hands, his present needs being addressed. That was good news as I wondered at his wryness.
Continuing the squat position he had assumed we continued our dialog, comparing notes on Sir Prime, our shared camping and hiking proclivities, his status as a state first responder and such, achieving a comfortable harmony for which I was verily grateful. Without the frenzy of direness under which we were thrown together, I was easily beguiled by his youthful exuberance and jocular wit.
He alluded repeatedly to Howard's and my small haven, garnering details about the 'secret' spot. My depiction of the site disabused him of the harrowing picture he had formed of the upriver locale. When I described our idyllic couple of days prior to the turbulence he again expressed curiosity as to our doings during that period. To better portray it I pulled out my iPhone and let him view the nature videos recorded the day before. I was supremely flustered to have How's blowjob pop up for a few seconds until I stopped it but he was respectfully tacit about the miscue, allowing me to gloss over it. Ahem.
As we conversed, I found myself transfixed by his masculine aura. He had to outweigh me by thirty pounds easily but was two or three inches shorter. Probably late twenties, I was ahead of him by 12-15 years and his fuzz-covered skin reeked of sensuality. Fleetingly I mulled the workout he must put his girlfriend through in the sack... Packed with muscle he was crowned by dark ringlets haloing a cherubic face, quick smile disarming and vivacious. His tight body was covered seemingly shoulders-to-ankles in a light peach fuzz which included the visible mid-thigh region discernible up to the edge of the damp towel.
My appetite for knowing what was lurking just inches further up that covering must have not bothered him for he leaned back on the smooth ceramic block wall as we spoke, lending to a more spread-legged squat which left yet less to the imagination. My bedraggled state persisted in stark contrast to his soap-enhanced muskiness as I had followed my furred bud to these quiet confines before attending to any hygienic relief. My rankness must be visually and olfactorally repulsive to the stud lounging across from me. I referred to the disparity at which he offered to sit with my boy if I desired to clean up but interestingly added the comment that he was commonly in the company of sweaty, over-ripe maleness and did not find it offensive.
Then is when he spread those fuzz-covered thighs a bit more and allowed a visual that took my breath clean away. There, nestled between two of the largest goose-egg sized nuts I had ever beheld lay a foot-long sausage of an uncut prick that was obviously far from full mast. I was astonished and Zip made grinning note of my attention. Telling me that he was used to such response from both men and women, straight and otherwise, he deadpanned that it had taken him this long to grow it and enjoyed flaunting it. So false modesty was not an option. My wide-eyed look must have evoked his next utterance which inveighed his willingness to allow further examination should I desire. Holy shit. How could anyone ignore that offer?
I reached out and cupped the resting megadong. My fingers just barely encircled its girth. It jumped at my contact and I realized then that my fingertips would not probably meet again in this grip for the near future seeing the tumescence already distending the thing. I wasn't sure whether to be in awe or fearful but his natural ease quickly cured my hesitancy and I explored its magnificence as it rose to the occasion. Inching its way upwards and away from the fuzzy ballsack it reminded me of a construction crane in the act of lifting a crate. Indeed, the pre-cum viscously exuding from the eye of it lazily dripped down mimicking the chain I was picturing for that imagined crane. My fingers swirled the prepuced head with it as I felt the sponginess and slipperiness both at once.
The polishing provoked him and he smoothly stood erect for better accessibility, dropping the towel. I was wowed by the 'developments' and decided the better part of valor would be to use my mouth in a way other than voicing inanities, so instead gently teethed on the monster presented so cockily.
His voice scratched huskily as I proceeded to pleasure my mouth, proving again to be charmingly immodest by his now throaty declarations and taking the lead role by instructive suggestions for the heightening of his enjoyment. Assuming my own squatting position in front of him I lightly massaged the tree trunk thighs and melon-sized calves, even kneading the smooth triple-D wide feet which elicited positive comments from above me. He placed his tanned hands on my head guiding his pole into the recesses beyond my squashed tonsils and way past the point of expressing dismay at the depth of his dick into my gullet. So I just held my breath and let him have at it.
Managing to avoid gagging was a true triumph and appreciation for this feat was not lost on the mouth poker, vocally encouraging me to keep it up else he would have to use the asshole. Hmmm, not an option, I thought...versatility can be enjoyable; this thing would be homicidal. He could just take it up with my hiking companion if he wanted ass.
With that I settled on my knees using his towel for a buffer to the hard floor and went to deliberate, deep rhythmic pumping of this homunculus with greedy need. It didn't take but a few minutes before he growled a low rumbling, the intensity of which grew with the swelling of that majestic priapic pole to an extraordinary girth. It finally erupted filling my throat and mouth, then overflowing those bounds to puddle down my chest to the towel.
I kept that huge dick contentedly embedded in my stricturing throat, causing him convulsive bursts. With time, these spasms ran their course as I swallowed as much of the spunk as possible, disbelieving the volume. Preening over his proclamation of, "best head ever", I nearly melted. I knew I was that good.
Only then did we either one do anything but writhe in that fellatious bond together, subconsciously taking stock of the rolling thunder continuing outside. Regretfully, by tacit agreement we finally sundered that ethereal connection, thinking to seek our comrades across the compound.
Before reapplying his towel, Zip let me clean the both of us with the other. I was sorry to lose tactile familiarity with this truly amazing phallus. I reassured Primus of a hasty return, my hiking boots left with him as surety of the promise. We went off to find a hot shower for me, sheepishly bantering about the excellent episode just enjoined.
Zip enlightened me on the layout of the central station, informing me of the midweek lull enhanced by the storms with the resultant scarcity of rangers and utter lack of campers. The three skeleton crew rangers present were the females of the team and they enjoyed a separate locker area for privacy.
We traversed the complex in just a short time and Zip pointed me toward the clean towels and men's common shower/wet area. He needed to check on his team and took his leave with a buttslap and a wink.
I suffused my body inside and out with steamy hot multi-jets from the walls and rainheads extending downward from the ceiling, basking in the modern amenities after three days away from such. During my 'gluttony-by-shower' it recurred to me to seek out the How-man who had been "missing" the past hour. Not that he had crossed my mind recently what with my attention focused as it had been. Hoping he was as comfortable as me and ready to seek a good meal I set out with a towel for cover, rubbing my own curly head with another and smiling as I flashed on the similarity to Zip's adorned advent into the dog run just a brief while before.
The place proved, indeed, deserted as Zip had alluded and I wondered at where everyone had disappeared. Finally hearing what sounded like laundry room resonations above the ever-present din of thunder outside I headed for it intending to leave the towels, thence continue the search for my friend.
Imagine my surprise upon opening the door and barging in on an array of naked, and sexually absorbed first responders busily disciplining Howie. The sexy man was facing away from me and so were three of the team, totally engrossed with spanking and corn-holing the cocoa-colored buns immediately recognizable as the How-- I should know, having been familiarized with the inseparable pair of them as I had over the past days.
He was kneeling on a chair with maximal glute exposure, little globes arching upwards in offered atonement to noticeably aroused and engorged cocks greased for action, slapping, stroking and pumping the pretty asshole I had been unknowingly breaking in for them before they arrived to save our sorry asses. Attempts at expiation were obviously in high gear. And the 'dissed' responders were measuring the forgiveness in their big..... hearts.
Entranced by How's unexpected "guilt trip", wondering at how much I had missed and now comprehending Zip's earlier wry comment I silently stretched out opposite the show and surveyed the action. Boundless levitation buoyed the dickmeat in the room, surprisingly including my own. I stroked my dick pensively as I enjoyed the view.
Previously professional emergency servicemen reveling in sybaritic decadence. All of them in the peak of physical conditioning, close to thirty inches of engorged equipment using that arched ass. And so absorbed with my hiking partner just across the room they hadn't noticed or didn't care that I was there.
Sated as I was and considering the multiple orgasmic experiences over the recent past I found myself content to act the voyeur. One by one these built athletes deposited robust loads into my buddy's begging hole, the final ejaculation spraying those beauteous cakes with copious pearlescent goo to the satisfaction of the crew. Penance complete. Should my religious fervor for redemption ever approach Howard's, I thought, let my Hail Mary's rival this.
Just then, the door creaked open and in strutted Zip. Sexy Howie was turning over to attempt sitting and just gaped at the three-legged man in disbelief. His dick jumped involuntarily as the Zip and his 'little man' registered. He had momentarily glanced my direction and flitted a 'busted' grin my way but the massive dick effected him similarly to the way it had me. There, however, the similarity ceased. Whereas I had drooled over the stunning manmeat attached to the irresistible hunk, How obviously had a variant goal. I could feel the cogs in his brain measuring and quantifying as he anticipated his final offering of anal amends. Redemption could be so elusive.
Zip was noticeably aroused even so soon after my climactic blowjob. And small wonder as he sized up the curvaceous chocolate booty in his sights. His heavy member buoyed itself at just above the horizontal but so much blood must needs be sequestered there to inflate it entirely that the sheer mass inhibited a higher angle of arch. The slight upward arc at the distal cowled corona twitched. No one in the room spoke. All seemed nonplussed by the inordinate size so must have sighted it before but I had a feeling none of his team had ever seen it fully erect or in action up to now. it was certain that Howard had not.
Zip man acknowledged my presence, cocking me a lop-sided twinkle of a smile but bore in on my boy in the chair who was now totally mesmerized by the oncoming gargantuan dick. And balls. Previously greased by yours truly and ready for a freshly despoiled orifice. Who knew where he had secreted himself while the gang-banging came to a head but he was here now.
Without a word, How slowly rotated back to his knees for presentation of the sacrificial hole, gathering all of the intermingled baby juice available into his palm. Instead of licking it as I know he would have liked he used it to lube that used pucker for the capstone fuck. Neither I nor Zip's teammates could control ourselves, gathering for a closer view of the impending carnality.
From somewhere How produced a bottle of Jungle Juice as moral support and busied himself with audibly inhaling the brew in prep for the coming subjugation. Every reinvigorated gorged member in the laundry room bounced in anticipation. A lot of blood was trapped within the collective of englutted dongs, all being self-stroked or aided by a neighbor. I slicked up a particularly phat 9 1/2 inch uncut one throbbing beside me, now working two-fisted, with my own in the other.
Using no hands Zip sidled up to my friend's cute buttcheeks and teased that adorably ready round rectum slimed with multiple loads of cum by almost daintily slapping it with a head three times its circumference. Howard was so buzzed by the rush he couldn't handle it and precipitously backed up on the thing taking the entire head, then went motionless.
Studly dick strokers surrounded the two and Howie lasciviously turned to view them getting off on him then looked up at Zip, importuning him to be gentle. Zip gradually inched that massive manmeat all the way inside the delectable jigglebutt until flatly fuzzy pubes tickled smooth little cheeks and allowed the boy to get used to it with another bolstering by poppers.
We all lustfully absorbed the ensuing time viewing the hottest live porn any had witnessed, testosterone-laden musk permeating our microcosm. When Zip took hold of both cakes it was a matter of moments before we all vicariously experienced the mega-breeding of Howard through seismic thrusts delivering an occult load up into the How-man's deepened asshole. This pushed the diminutive Lothario over the edge. We watched the pretty boy's own dick spurt gobs of white jizz, propelled by the gratifying feel of the sizzling load dominantly implanting him.
Zip o-w-n-e-d the boii. Multiple teammate loads erupted in an orgasmic queue, setting How's proteinaceous "table" for supper. Square meal be damned...or at least postponed. He pigged out and afterwards was still looking. As I said-- insatiable.
Howard and I revived together a bit later under the steamy showerheads again, finally alone, and giggled together through our comparative renditions of experiences since our 'rescue'. Irony abounded as we considered just what that word--rescue--actually encompassed...our friendship was cemented.
When we next went to 'rescue' Maximus Primus we found him snoring over my meticulously chewed hiking boots...our reunion was complete.
The stormy weather slowly dispersed over the following day, the female rangers remained in sublime ignorance and Zipman's team--finally-- departed, amicably recompensed, via helicopter. How and myself (and, of course, Maximum Prime) collected our own selves*, making our way back to the big city after an unexpectedly... volatile... weekend.
Primitive camping had won over yet another zealous disciple.
* (We were regrettably forced to abandon our 4-man tent until the next memorable trek to our eyrie on the isthmus where we found it still pitched and intact, albeit pervaded by a noxious odor we dubbed ' parfum de skunklette', the lost hiking boot inside. Thereby adding further enigmatic facets to the growing conundrum regarding the true meaning for "rescue". We both kept our eyes widely peeled for both the Zipman as well as she-devils the whole time...no damn doubt. Fantasies and nightmares thrive.)
Ear-to-ear, cum-dripping grin. I am out.
P.S. Just an addendum to all would be Puritans and Judgmentalists: No animals were hurt during the writing of this Fantasy and God forbid anything more than the four major food groups were actually ingested...just sayin''''''''. Ba-Da-Boom, with a finger spread.