It was 3 AM. Brian Jempreth, 22 (almost 23), stood at the vending machine outside the Simpson building; he was indecisive and hungry, but just stared at the machine as though it would tell him what to buy. He was standing with one leg bent, resting slightly on pointed toes as his right held up the rest of his body. It gave him a somewhat feminine posture, and the femininity was not at odds with the rest of him.

He wasn’t a twink, per se - there was nothing too girly, just nothing especially manly either - and it was easy to see he was young, gay, and more than a little slutty: he was thin (but not anorexic), tall (but not too tall), and wearing pretty much what one might expect someone like him to wear on a chilly November evening (or morning?), with a blue gingham button down covered by a lime green polka dotted sweater and a tan scarf keeping his neck warm. The look was completed with tight cherry red pants outlining a small but toned ass, a slightly worn pair of boat shoes, a solid blue tie, and tortoise shell glasses of the type spotted on hipster wannabees and Taylor Swift in the “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” music video.

His outfit was well-fitting, loud, and just a bit abrasive while the bright colors still made it seem cheerful and fun. He was a basic bitch, sure, but it was partly ironic - he reveled in it, subverted it, felt himself smart but trendy.

It was late, though, and he was worn down. The election was two days from tomorrow, and the stress that he had kept hidden for so long was starting to bubble up to the surface: the last polls showed his candidate down by two points which, while not insurmountable, was disheartening to say the least. He still might not have a job in three days, he hadn’t slept well in a month and a half (and hadn’t slept at all in 36-ish hours), and hadn’t eaten anything since his bowl of Rice Chex yesterday at lunch, so his head was throbbing.

“You know, I’ve always been partial to pretzels when I need a quick pick-me-up,” said a voice from the darkness. Brian jumped and looked around; he was not standing in a well-lit area. The voice was soon matched to its body, though, as a tall, lanky man turned around in his chair. He’d been working on his laptop at a nearby table but had been distracted by Brian’s indecision. His voice was mellow and sort-of deep, and he spoke with a tone that suggested everything he said was either sarcastic, tongue-in-cheek, or a little jab. When he saw that he had startled Brian he laughed a little before getting out of his seat.

“Sorry,” he said, “it’s just you’ve been there about five minutes by now.” Five minutes? Brian realized how long it had been since he had slept. Brian returned a little nervous giggle, more perfunctory than anything else.

“Yeah,” he said, “it’s been a long day.” And understatement, to say the least. He’d gotten this job just out of college, when he’d realized that a B.A. in poli sci from the University of Idaho wasn’t going to propel him to the upper echelons of D.C. policy think tanks. He’d hoofed it from Moscow, Idaho, to the big city: Billings, Montana, where the election season was just heating up.

Margaret Heche, the Democratic candidate and his boss, had entered the race as the popular mayor of Bozeman, but lost her 15 point lead over the next few months as she battled corruption charges and tried to recover from various gaffes. If the political cycle had been unkind to her, though, Brian had excelled. He’d gone from intern to full-time paid staffer to policy advisor, thriving on the turnover. However, ninety hour workweeks eventually took their toll; he was coming apart at the seams, and it showed, (though for Brian that mean his hair wasn’t as perfectly coiffed as usual and his ties knots didn’t have dimples).

Maybe this was why, only a few comments about pretzels later, Brian was gabbing away about his day, his job, his life, to the stranger at his table as both snacked absentmindedly. Or maybe it was the way that this man (had he said his name yet? Brian couldn’t remember if they’d even done introductions) looked: he must have been 6’5’’ or 6’6’’, around forty, maybe, fairly muscled in a black button-down, a sweatshirt, and khakis; his strong jawline covered in a moderate layer of scruff, while his eyes were a deep blue-grey. Or maybe it was the breezy confidence he had about him?

Whatever it was, Brian just realized he had said way too much, far too quickly. “Oh God,”  he sighed, exasperated with himself, “please tell me you aren’t some political blogger mentally writing a long post about all the shit a crazed, sleep deprived unnamed source spouted.”

Another confident chuckle from his conversational compadre. “Ha, no.” Cue an audible exhale of relief from Brian before he continued, “I’m actually an associate history professor at UM. I’m just in town for a conference and got a little insomnia before my presentation tomorrow.”

Brian, ever the history nerd, was more than a little intrigued. Over the next half hour they discussed his job, his research into the role of women in the early American West, and frontier history and how it shaped the state’s institutions. It was just as geeky as it sounds, but the conversation was vibrant, fun, and intense, until it was interrupted by Brian’s phone.

Sara, his coworker: “where the fuck are you???” Quickly, another text: “If you don’t answer in five minutes I’m assuming you’ve been kidnapped.” Sara, ever the worrier, once more: “I’m calling the cops in like 10 seconds.” Brian laughed a bit before seeing that it was 3:47, and he swore softly.

“This has been great and all, but I’ve got to go,” he said, getting out of his chair. His back hurt a little, the metal frame wasn’t comfortable. As he stretched, the stranger responded.

“Understandable, but I don’t see why we can’t pick up the conversation again after the election. Mind giving me your number?”

Brian was nonplussed. He had missed the flirting, had thought nothing of the fact that a handsome man just indulged 45 minutes of conversation in the early morning hours, had not even considered that his compatriot could be gay as well. He was so taken aback that he still wondered if this was just a fast friendship. There was only one way to find out, though. He reeled off his digits. “Your turn now,” he said, trying to be subtly flirty but failing, “what’s your name?”

“Chris.”

“Well Chris, nice to meet you! I’m Brian,” he said, a soft smile at his mouth as he realized he’d talked almost an hour without exchanging names.

“Ha ha,” Chris said, the confident laugh again. “You’ve already told me your name. Maybe it’s time for you to get some sleep.”

Brian, again confused, stared downward and paused a little in disbelief that he was so scatterbrained, before turning around and walking back into the office building.

*************************************************************************************************************

“I mean, it was like my own romantic comedy, meet-cute and everything. I just can’t figure out why he hasn’t texted me yet.”

Brian and Sara were hurtling across the vast Montana landscape in a moving van. The rest of the election had been a blur. Heche won, narrowly, and Brian was content in the knowledge that he had long-term employment, even if it was in Helena. He and Sara were making the move together; they’d become pretty good friends over the race and given how little stuff they had between them, it just made sense to share the cost of the U-Haul.

Despite the busyness of the end of the election and the move that followed it, Brian couldn’t stop thinking of Chris, and was in the midst of talking about him for what must have been the fourth time.

“A romantic comedy?” Sara was incredulous. “You talked about the history of Montana. That’s a movie worse than You’ve Got Mail.”

“Whatever, bitch.”

“Maybe you just need to resign yourself to the fact that it was a one-off, and you’ll probably never see him again.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, you think I don’t know that? It’s just frustrating. Plus, what else am I going to think about before work starts?”

“You do realize we have an entire season of Survivor to catch up on, right?”

As usual, Sara was right. Brian smirked as he stared at the mountains in the distance. There were no houses as far as the eye could see, only fence on both sides. Most of the time he liked living in rural areas, places where he could get snowed in and read quietly with a mug of hot chocolate. Places where you could feel the sky and the wind, and in the dry season hear the bittersweet country tunes, the Tanya Tucker and Loretta Lynn and Neko Case, where his memories and fears intertwined.

But sometimes he just wanted out, to the big cities with jobs and museums and arts and comedy. Where it wouldn’t be so unusual for a gay man to be part normal, part stereotype and not be thought weak or stupid; where there was hope and promise.

All the same, the truck trundled on.

*************************************************************************************************************

It had been a month and a half since he’d met Chris. Sara had just gone home to visit family for Christmas; Brian had no such plans. He hadn’t spoken to his parents in years and he had no intention of breaking the streak, and planned instead on reading, watching 80s TV reruns, and getting ready for his new government position.

By now he’d settled into his house, an older mobile home on about three acres. This being mid-December, there were already eight to twelve inches of snow blanketing the land. It was evening, and Brian was starting a planned 48 Hours Mystery binge (the exact type of thing one ought to not do on a winter night in a house in rural Montana) when his phone screen lit up unexpectedly. Sara had already called earlier that day, he thought she was supposed to be en route to her grandmother’s in Sarasota.

“Hey, it’s Chris. Belated congrats on the win!”

Brian was just a skosh annoyed. Six weeks? For that text? All the same, he was excited to finally have at least a few words with Chris. A few words turned into a few hundred, as Brian lost the thread of the 48 Hours (though he also knew that the husband did it. The husband was always the killer in these things).

Soon tentative plans were being made. Two days later found Brian inching over his icy gravel driveway, ready to finally get that coffee again. It was almost two hours to Missoula, where the University of Montana was and, by extension, where Chris was, but they’d found a diner about halfway between there and Helena. Sure, an hour drive for a meal was maybe a bit much, but Brian might was well, he thought. It’s not as though he’d been having much luck in Helena with the men.

Chris, as Brian learned over an omelette, strawberries, and coffee that was far too strong for Brian’s liking, had been going through a busy professional period as well: he’d recently been made a tenured professor. They talked family briefly, as Chris, too, wasn’t going home for the holidays, and they talked about pretty much everything else. The conversation here was every bit as good as that first night.

Two hours later, Chris walked Brian back to his car. A hug and a chaste peck later, and Brian was on the road back to Helena. Why hadn’t they been more physical? Six months ago in college, Brian practically walked around with his legs splayed apart, why wait now? But something felt right about it, as though he were building something more than a quick hookup.

The texting was near non-stop; they met four more times in the next two weeks. Finally, Brian concocted an excuse to be in Missoula for the weekend; he said he was going on a hike nearby. It wasn’t a lie, because Brian liked to hike. There was just no real reason why it had to be done in a ton of snow, right now. But at least it gave him an excuse to see Chris on his terms, something like that. He didn’t know what might happen, but he was prepared for every possibility.

He and Chris had previously talked about how Brian wanted to take things a bit slower, to re-enter dating a little at a time. Maybe, though, tonight was the night to start getting a little handsy. They were at a bar, they had just spent the afternoon walking through the town, in and out of the little shops talking all the way. They nestled into a booth together and ordered, and Brian reached his hand to pat Chris’s knee. It lingered, feeling the hard bone through the strong denim.

Chris got the signal. “Where are you staying tonight, again?” he asked, knowing full well that they’d been through this already.

“Ummmm… Econolodge room 147,” Brian said, as he feigned looking at his phone for the information. They kept at their game of charades, Brian’s hand still planted on Chris’s knee, as Chris stretched his arms up and smoothly brought his left hand, past Brian’s shoulder, down his back, until it was placed firmly on his ass. Chris grabbed a handful and smiled.

Brian giggled as the waitress came by to give them their food. She gave them a look of faint disapproval, which sent Brian into another fit of giggles. By the time they paid their ticket it like they were checking each other for ticks hands everywhere. They got to the parking lot where not even the frigid air could keep curb their moods, holding hands until they got to Chris’ car, a beat-up ‘97 Corolla.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Chris said, “professor’s salary and all.”

“As long as it has working heating I’m good,” Brian replied.

No sooner was Brian in the passenger’s seat and Chris in the driver’s seat than they started kissing, passionately and with gusto. Chris’s stubbly mouth brushed up abrasively against Brian’s smooth chin, Chris sucked on Brian’s neck softly as Brian let out a slight moan. Brian’s hand squeezed Chris’s crotch, felt through the pants just as Chris’s hand massaged Brian’s sculpted little butt.

“Let’s get you home,” Chris said, a little commandingly.

“The sooner the better,” Brian panted.

They were off, but Brian couldn’t help himself. As Chris drove, Brian leaned over, placing his mouth on the outside of Chris’s jeans. He felt the fabric underneath rustle as Chris hardened.

“Oh, fuck,” Chris moaned. Brian went to work on buttons, opening them a bit clumsily until he revealed Chris’s underwear. Again, he felt Chris’s cock through his shorts with his mouth as it continued growing. It had to be seven and a half or eight inches long, and very wide. Brian had never been great with the bigger dicks; slut though he was, he just seemed to do better with a more manageable size.

Nonetheless, he dug his hand into Chris’s shorts, feeling the cut head, hearing more of Chris’s moans as he worked the shorts down his muscular thighs until the cock sprung free. He started running his tongue up and down the shaft, taking the head in his mouth at regular intervals, tugging on his balls, until Chris couldn’t take it, and pulled over.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he said, louder than before, as Brian swallowed more and more of the cock into his mouth, determined to take it all. He moved his head up and down in a slightly circular fashion, at first slowly and then faster, as his hands continued feeling Chris’s balls, pulling them gently, stopping every once and a while to lick them, suck on them.

Chris placed his right hand on Brian’s head, softly pushing it further onto his dick, until he’d soon taken almost all of it. Finally, just as Brian was able to take it all, was moving his head quickly up and down the shaft, Chris couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck!” he shouted, pushing Brian’s head down until he was gagging, his cock throbbed until he finally shot his load, straight to the back of Brian’s mouth.

After Chris had been completely drained and Brian greedily licked the rest of the cum anywhere he could find it, Brian looked up into Chris’s blue grey eyes, filled with lust and power. Chris started the car again, turned to Brian, and said, “that’s a good start for tonight, I suppose,” as Brian whimpered softly in delight. For the rest of the trip Chris had his right hand on Brian’s ass, feeling it up.

As horny as they were, though, when Brian got to Chris’s house, he momentarily lost all interest in sex. It was a beautiful two story Queen Anne home, ornate and colorful with a wrap-around porch and small parapet. “How do you afford this on a professor’s salary?” Brian asked in disbelief.

“I bought it in pretty bad condition and restore it myself on nights and weekends and in the summer. Most of the period details I’ve gotten from garage sales.”

Brian couldn’t help but be stunned by the gorgeous house as they walked inside, until the light fell upon Chris again, and he forgot the house.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Chris said as they came through the front door, “but I like to take things a little rough.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t handle,” said Brian, as he stared at the way Chris filled out his flannel shirt with his broad chest, hairs peeking out from over the top button. He stared, too, at the sharp cheekbones, the strong jawline; stared at his massive thighs and, finally, Chris’s reappearing bulge.

Chris noticed him staring, before growling, “you want it? Come on and get it.”

Brian did as he was told, got on his knees before Chris’s manhood and started stripping off his jeans, his underwear until Brian saw his very hair naked thighs, until again there was a huge eight inch cock in front of him. Brian reached out for it, grabbed hold of it, and brought it to his mouth before Chris commanded gruffly, “hands off.”

Chris then took his hands and quickly placed them behind Brian’s head; Brian had little time to prepare for what came next as Chris pushed forward with his hips and back with his hands, impaling Brian’s head with his massive dick until Brian gagged. He relaxed his hold, pulling his penis out just long enough for Brian to sputter and take a quick breath, before thrusting it back in harder than before.

“TAKE IT, BITCH” he yelled as he continued to face fuck Brian. “TAKE IT, FUCKING FAGGOT.” Brian could do little more than attempt to breathe through his nose. After several minutes Chris stopped as Brian caught his breath. “Take your clothes off, faggot,” Chris spat, and as Brian hastily unbuttoned his shirt and pants, Chris took off his shirt, revealing a powerful, strong chest, big arms, and a flat stomach with a trace of abs, all covered in a thick layer of fur, a contrast to Brian’s skinny near-hairlessness.

Chris spoke again: “get on the couch, slut; on all fours, ass in the air.” Brian did as he was told. Chris came up behind him, put his hands on Brian’s butt and spread it, stuck his nose in between Brian’s ass cheeks, and firmly inhaled. He started licking Brian’s hole, then aggressively sticking his tongue in it. Brian moaned uncontrollably; his cock was immediately hard, but he still felt slight pain from Chris’s stubble.

“Open your mouth,” Chris said during a break in the rimjob. He shoved three fingers in Brian’s mouth, swirled them around roughly, and took them out again. He began inserting two of the fingers in Brian’s ass; before he’d had a chance to fully adjust Chris thrust a third in, making Brian cry out briefly in pain.

The fingerfucking didn’t last long. Chris pulled them from Brian’s ass and spit, a giant gob of saliva, into the hole. “This is going to hurt,” he said, “but you’re going to take it like the little faggot you are.” He stood up on his knees on the couch, his giant cock waiting to burst through Brian’s hole, then thrust.

Brian’s pain was unbelievable. His eyes watered, he cried out in shock and hurt, but Chris put his hand over Brian’s mouth so he couldn’t make too much noise, before shouting “WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT TAKING IT? FAGGOTS LIKE YOU WERE BORN FOR THIS! TAKE IT AND LOVE IT”

With that, Chris thrust in and out, in and out - a spastic, fast rhythm that caused more tears to fall down Brian’s face. Brian could feel Chris’s balls slapping his ass, could feel his massive dick hitting his prostate, over and over again, and the pain gave way to pleasure like he had never felt before. The pain was still there, and it made the waves of pleasure that much more powerful. Before Brian knew it he had come.

Chris thrust back and forth harder. “DID I SAY YOU COULD CUM, FAGGOT? HOW DARE YOU” he yelled, and after the orgasm Brian felt the pain more acutely than before. One hand still covering Brian’s mouth, Chris took his other hand and smacked violently Brian’s ass, causing another whimper of pain. “YOU TAKE WHAT I GIVE YOU, BITCH”

Chris was speeding up, faster and faster, deeper and deeper, until rope after rope of semen flowed into Brian’s ass. Chris took his hand off Brian’s head, took his dick out, and commanded Brian to lick the cum off his penis. “Yes, Sir,” Brian responded, before moving his tongue up and down Chris’s shaft, over his balls, until he had eaten all the cum he could see.

“That’s a good boy,” growled Chris appreciatively. “You’re starting to get the hang of it.”

TO BE CONTINUED…


Hey! Thanks for reading the first chapter of my first story; I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it! Let me know what you thought, what could be improved, if you do want me to actually continue the story, etc. etc. in the comments.

 

UMmer18

[email protected]

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