Baitin' with Mr. Hiscock

The wafting aroma of frying bacon that drifts throughout the modest house. Intermingled among the butchered pig being rendered of its precious fat are the odors of the baking homemade biscuits and scrambling eggs. There are also yellow grits being cooked on the stove, too. He knows. His adoring wife knows what he likes to eat and is more than happy to comply with his wants.

He breathes in these luscious smells mixing in a painting of odors.

“Breakfast!” he exclaims, happily, “It smells wonderful.”

A good southern breakfast is being prepared for him and his pal on this foggy Friday morning.

Today, he and his good buddy and pal, Colby, are taking an overnight fishing excursion, about 100 miles south of his home to his family’s ancestral homestead on a secluded and out-of-the-way naturally formed pond.

Ever the dutiful wife, Beth Ann, is sending him off on this trip in her typical grand manner. She treats him so good. A verse from the ‘Good Book’ comes to mind, “wives be submissive to your husbands,” that is a wonderful verse. He ponders.

“Ahhh,” he sighs, taking in another whiff of the frying hog that filter through the fine hairs of his flared nostrils, “I am famished.”

He stands before the mirror, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.

The morning shower had awoken him from the long-nights slumber at this early hour.

For a 46-year-old man, he looks rather fit, somewhat trim, and robust. Time has been very kind to him, his middle-aged spread has been tamed despite his age. Former high school buds have not fared as well as he. He is happy to know this since the last reunion.

There is still a nest of disheveled wet hair on his head. He has not been plagued with baldness that graces the head of his aging father. There are scattered patches of gray in the dark blackness atop his head. There is an ever-increasing abundance of salt rather than pepper on his noggin. This same pattern is happening on his moderately furry chest and in his equally bushy pubes. The mark of him being a man is apparent to all who see him.

There is a slight paunch, not too bad, as there have been too many beers consumed around the bonfire on those long cool winter nights, while out hunting. They have taken their toll on him, sadly.

It does provide quite a spacious garage for his car.

Below this carport, still parked, is his showcase, in its stall, ready to be ridden in any given instant should the need arise.

His right hand grasps the late model automobile and tugs on it with a forced grip, cranking it as the motor revs to life.

The engine revs and sputters before it eventually comes to life.

He strokes this well-used motor, like any man would do to an ‘ole friend,’ and is rewarded with a momentous prize.

His hard-on is massive. And is quite a specimen to behold.

His cock is an impressive 12-incher and almost as thick. When he is flaccid, it hangs between his legs like a limp elephant’s trunk.

Taking in the full picture, in the full-length mirror, he is proud and puffs out his chest while poking out his groin. His massive sword presented for wonderment and pride.

His endowment has garnered him many a look and stare as he grew into its gracious magnificence over the years. With his hands on his hips, his arms displayed in a most heroic of stances like a superhero on his way to saving the day, he most definitely likes what he beholds.

“Seth, breakfast is ready, honey,” his wife, chimes and chirps in from the kitchen in her usual happy voice.

Her voice brings him out of his ego-fueled stupor, he can drink in his masculinity whenever he wants.

“Be there in a sec, my Dear,” he answers back. He hates to part with his fleshy toy, but it is always handy when he needs it.

His deep baritone voice carries back to her on the other end of the house.

He brings a comb through his disheveled which is still somewhat damp hair as he parts it to its inevitable side.

He wipes his body, one last time, whisking away the last vestiges of moisture from his middle-aged frame.

He throws the towel over the rod of the shower so it can dry.

The soft plushy carpet feels wonderful under the soft pliable soles of his feet.

On the bed, placed before him, is a pair of faded blue-jeaned Wrangler’s, a plaid blue and yellow button-up shirt, western-style, a pair of standard white Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs and some boot socks. He is thankful for such a dutiful wife. She makes sure he looks spiffy and presentable whenever he goes out into the world.

He looks down to the underwear placed lovingly on the bed beside the other clothes and decides today. He will go without. He opens his underwear drawer and places them back among the other socks and other pairs of tightie-whities. He pats them and says, “No, not today. Not today.”

Out of an unspoken need, he fondles his hanging nearly erect cock. His rough and calloused hand feels electric on the softness of his cock. A surge of power courses through him, from the top of his head to the ends of his ten toes.

“Honey, your breakfast is getting cold, you need to get a move on,” his wife, bemoans to him from the distant kitchen, “Colby is waiting on you, too.”

Reality ushers himself back in with the sound of her loving, kind and attentive voice.

“Be there in a minute, Sweetie,” he shouts back, “I am gettin’ dressed.”

He sits down on the bed. His ass sinks deep into mattress, massaging his balls as they are cradled among the cotton sheets. He pats down his now throbbing erection as he slides the size 36 pair of jeans up and over his hairy thighs. His cock fights him in this struggle as he stands, buttons, and zips up the zipper. The bulge is obviously apparent in his faded Wrangler’s with his trouser snake hopelessly jailed under the soft jean material of the jeans.

He squats and twists at the waist, loosening the tight grip on his ‘tenders’.

He mightily grips his crotch, trying to loosen the fierce hold on his equipment.

Putting on his shirt and buttoning it up, realizing that his cock is providing quite a spectacle in his Wranglers.

He likes what he sees.

“Honey!”

His wife yells again from the kitchen.

“Be there in a sec!” he shouts.

He finishes getting dressed and trudges off to the kitchen.

“I am here,” he says as he looks to the table in the kitchen nook seeing his travelling companion and co-worker seated at the table.

The man is 29 years old; a dusting of sandy blonde beard covers his still youthful face with a pair of bright effervescent blues eyes spotlighting his obvious Irish ancestral good looks.

He nods his head to the young man, while a similar nod is returned.

“Is it good?” he asks his pal.

“What?” the lad responds.

Colby throws up his hands, unsure of what his boss is asking.

“Is it good?” Seth asks, “Is this a wonderful breakfast, my darling wife cooked, is it good?”

“It is great!” the younger man says, gleefully, “You have quite a wife, there, Seth. She is one hell of a great cook.”

“Uhhmmm,” Seth says. His eyes divert to the younger man.

“Excuse me, Miss Elizabeth,” the young man says, “I meant no disrespect. Please, forgive me.”

“It is okay, Colby,” she says, “In this house, such foul talk is forbidden, as we are Bible-believing folks.”

“Amen!” Seth chimes in. As if it is instinctive. “Amen! Amen!”

“I’m sorry,” Colby says. “Forgive me.”

He slinks his head down in shame.

“So, is everything, packed, Seth?” the young man asks as he looks into the eyes of his older friend while his eyes drift lower, ever lower, over the entire body of his mentor.

“Yep, the truck is all loaded except for my bag.”

He slams the bag in his hand onto the blue pattern squared linoleum floor.

“With all the rods and reels and even a cane pole, thrown in for good measure,” Seth laments, happily, “…just for old times’ sake. Oh, and the bait. Gotta have the bait.”

“All are goin’, a baitin’ with Mr. Seth Hiscock.” Colby mumbles under his breath.

Seth unconsciously brings his hand to his cock, adjusting his swell. His wife does not see this gesture. But Colby does. And the men exchange smiles.

“Eat! Eat!” Beth Ann says, happily, as she places a plate, loaded down with eggs, bacon, grits and a biscuit on the place mat in front of her seated husband at the table, “You guys are gonna be late.”

“Are you shushing us out of your hair, my dear sweet Beth Ann?” Seth asks his dutiful wife.

She looks to him, smiles, and nods.

“I am. Now, eat. Eat! Eat!”

Both men erupt in roaring rambunctious laughter.

Seth slaps his hands on the table, his orange juice shaking wildly in the glass on the table, drops of juice spot on the table from the banter between the three.

The strikingly tall 6’ 1’ dual pair of men is woofing down the hearty stick-to-your-ribs Southern breakfast, which will last them until lunch, Elizabeth figures, and hopes.

He kisses his loving wife on her flushed cheek as he lugs his overnight bag over his shoulder as the fishing trip finally begins for the pair of men.

“See you Saturday night. Late, I suspect, honey. So, we can get to church on Sunday morning,” he says as he slams the door to the garage behind him as the automatic door goes up.

The hazy fog filters through on this diluted morning sunshine on this fresh new day.

***

“It’s been a while since we have been on a fishing trip,” Colby says, as he rolls down the passenger side window once they get onto the asphalt blacktop.

The morning wind whips him strong in the face, massaging the beard on his face.

Colby does a wide mouth yawn, as the wind created by this open window.

“I need to wake up!” he says, “I had one hell of a restless night, last night.”

“Did your company leave you, early this morning?” Seth asks his hunky-traveling companion. Seth does not correct the foul word. As he had in the presence of his wife.

“Yep!” Colby answers, “I had to get to your house at the crack-ass break of dawn. You claimed we were going to be gone by 7:30 a.m. What time is it now?”

“7:45,” Seth answers matter-a-fact-like.

Colby unbuttons his shirt, down three buttons, sending a shiver through his body, letting the coolness wash over him on this foggy morn. The air feels good on his otter-like hairy chest.

“It must have been a quite a night,” Seth says, “You look worn out. It must have been one hell of a hole that needed some attention.”

“All good things come with a price,” Colby says, “I am paying the piper, now, I guess.”

“Maybe this weekend will be just as fruitful with hauling in the catfish and the trout,” Seth says, “Maybe it will even be better.”

“Maybe it will,” Colby says, flatly.

***

“Wake up, sleepy-head!” Seth says, as he honks on the horn and pulls up to the long heavy wire that hangs tight between the two thick fence post.

Colby groggily comes too.

“Did I fall asleep?”

“Yep,” Seth says, “Now, open the damned gate.”

“What time is it?”

“11:15.”

As Colby slides up in his seat, the outline of his dick is quite pronounced in his jeans.

“I gotta take a piss, first,” he exclaims.

Colby bolts from his seat, opening the door and stepping out, while at the same time, unzipping his jeans, and unbuttoning.

The stream of piss breaks through the silence of the backwoods country road.

“C’mon, man, open the fucking gate,” there is obvious irritation in Seth’s voice.

“Okay. Okay,” Colby says as he bolts to the gate with his jeans still unbuttoned and zipper open from the waist down revealing the glaringly white tightie-whitie’s underneath with his dick wagging over the elastic waistband in his waddle-like walk. His balls are straddled under the elastic, slinging the last droplets of his piss into a shower of golden in his path.

Seth pulls the truck through the gate, stopping at Colby.

“It doesn’t look like its worse for the wear,” he says, “It is always a pleasure to give a cock a good workout.”

“Damn skippy, it does!” the younger man boasts.

Seth stops the truck once he passes over the wire, waiting for Colby to get back in, once the wire is reattached to the hook, opposite the nailed-in side and locked.

“Put that thing, away, you could scare small children with that little wormy bait,” Seth says jovially.

“Worm! Worm!” Colby says, “This is a damned boa constrictor, my man.”

Colby squeezes his compressed package, cupping his balls with a fierce determination.

They both laugh.

Colby does not tuck his cock back in his jeans. He lets his cock breathe.

Seth does not appear to be offended by his buddy’s penile display. He tugs on his own cock in his Wrangler’s, making sure his own manhood is not questioned.

The truck makes it way down the winding rutted road. The white sand of the road is highlighted against the bright green of the grass and heavily wooded sides of the roads.

“I do like it here,” Colby says as they proceed slowly to their eventual destination.

Colby is busily fondling his cock, still in full view of Randy, who seems undeterred by the open play. Seth’s own hand is busily adjusting his own swelled package in his pants, never leaving his crotch.

“He’s here,” Seth says.

“Yep, there is his truck,” Colby says, “Now, where is he?”

“There,” Colby says as he releases his grip on his now hard cock and points to the placid pond next to the little house.

Out on the pond, on the far side, a man is swimming from side to side, stirring up quite a wake on his strokes across the still waters.

“Yep,” Seth answers, “There he is.”

The lap swimming man stops, his actions across the pond cease as he begins making his way to the shoreline once he has caught sight of them.

Seth and Colby get out of the truck. Colby nearly falls on his face as his jeans fall to his ankles.

“DAMN!” the younger man says loudly.

Seth lets out one of his nervous giggles at the clumsiness of his fellow passenger.

Colby leans on the hood of the truck and kicks off his boots, letting them fall lopsided in the grass on top of one another.

He yanks down his briefs and jeans in one fell swoop, his cock rebounds and stands proud like a pointer between his muscled legs. The blonde furry patch of his pubes peeks from underneath his hanging button-down shirt, which he is swiftly unbuttoning what few remaining fasteners are still closed.

The shirt opens, revealing his nakedness and hard-on.

Seth’s eyes are fixated on the lad in the pond, who has now reached the shelf on the outer edge of the pond. The man stands up, the crest of the water, making a visible line just below his navel.

Seth does a hearty tug on his strained trouser snake. He is noticeably uncomfortable in the stretched Wranglers.

The now revealed man is much younger than Seth. And younger than Colby, too.

As the man walks up the slick clay-like bank of the pond, he emerges.

He was skinny-dipping.

“About time, you guys got here,” he says, “Nice to see you, Mr. Hiscock.”

The water streams off the naked man’s torso. His cock limp from the soft massage of the water but the more he walks, the monster revives as the wetness evaporates off him.

“Cut out the shit, Mike, you just saw me at work, yesterday,” Randy says, “I am not your foreman when we are here. Come here.”

The wiry lad walks towards the older fully clothed man. The contrast between the two is apparent.

The whisk of a man is barely crossing over the threshold of 18 years-of-age, slim, barely a rise of muscles, on his chest. His age of maturity was breached nearly 2 months ago. He looks frail but he is far stronger than he looks. Some would describe him as ‘twinkish.’ The bamboo pole-shaped lad resembles the fishing poles hanging out of the side of the bed of Seth’s Dodge Ram pick-up truck.

Seth grabs the balls of the spry lad. The twinky boy does not flinch but spreads his legs, wider, as his boss plucks his round gonads betwixt his fingers tweaking them.

The lad is a recent hire on his road crew at the State Road Department. He is a one of the many common laborers, who will eventual work his way up to become an Equipment Operator.

“WHOO-WHEEE,” a yipping hollering yell comes from the other side of the parked truck.

The voice is growing louder.

Colby comes barreling from around the truck in full galloping trot and dives headfirst into the pond. His hard cock is flapping about from side-to-side like a flag sauntering in the wind in full naked regalia.

“Watcha waitin’ for boss, “Mike says, “Git your damned hot ass, naked.”

“C’mon, guys, this is what we’ve cum for,” Colby says, as his flails in the water like some sprite, “I wanna see yawl’s man-bait.”

To be continued in Part 2

**Note**

Hiscock is an actual surname, not a fictional construct imagined for a story’s literary purpose.