"Christ, you're holding it like you're trying to strangle a chicken," the man called from the opposite bank, his voice carrying easily over the burble of the stream. I blinked, loosened my death grip on the rod, and immediately fumbled the cast, the line flopping into the water with all the grace of a dropped wet towel.
The man laughed, not cruelly, but in that easy, infectious way that made you want to laugh too, even at your own expense. He waded toward me, barefoot on the slippery rocks, his movements surefooted despite the current swirling around his calves. He was wearing what looked like multicoloured swimming trunks, a perfect choice for his frame, making him look sporty and stylish. What also grabbed my attention was the view of his manhood, nice and relaxed and tucked to the left, the outline suggesting he was well-endowed as the sun caught the water droplets on his tanned shoulders, and for a second, I forgot to feel embarrassed about my fishing technique being a disaster.
"You ever think maybe this isn't your sport?” as he teased, plucking my failed cast from the water with a flick of his wrist.
"I did realise fishing requires surgical precision, I'm just a starter at the moment," I shot back, grinning as I wiped my damp hands on my shorts. The riverbank smelled like wet stone and sun-warmed pine needles. The man stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, a thin white line cutting through his tan.
"You're overthinking it,” he said, handing me back the failed cast with the fly on the end. His fingers brushed mine, lingering just a second longer than necessary. "It's not about force. It's about rhythm," as he demonstrated with a slow, exaggerated motion, his arm arcing through the air like a conductor leading an orchestra, the fly landing perfectly, kissing the surface of the water with a whisper.
I tried to mimic him, but my wrist jerked at the last second, sending the line spiralling off course. "Okay, new plan,” he announced, stepping behind me. Before I could react, his hands were on my shoulders, guiding my stance. "Loosen up. You're stiff as a board," his breath tickling the back of my neck, warm and faintly minty.
The lesson quickly devolved into something else entirely, as his hands slid down my arms, adjusting my grip with a casual intimacy that made my pulse jump. "Like this,” as he murmured, his chest pressed against my back as he guided my cast. The line sailed out, smooth this time, landing with a quiet plink near the opposite bank.
"Thanks," I said, my voice cracking slightly as his hands lingered on mine, warm and rough from years of handling fishing lines. "I'm Steve. It might be nice to know yours since we appear to be quite intimate."
The man laughed, low and rich, stepping back just enough to give me space but not so much that the heat of his chest against my back vanished entirely. "Mike,” as he said, nodding toward the opposite bank where I'd first seen him. "And for the record, this is the most fun I've had 'teaching' someone in years," a flicker in his gaze that was something playful, almost daring, that made my stomach flip.
"You don't look old enough to be that experienced," I said, watching Mike's hands as he deftly reeled in his line, the motion effortless. "You must be what, mid-thirties?"
Mike grinned, the scar above his eyebrow catching the sunlight as he tilted his head. "Flattering,” as he said, "but I've been fishing since I was six or seven, grew up near a river like this one," as his fingers paused on the reel, his expression softening into something quieter. "Though these days, it's pretty much all I do."
There was a beat of silence, the kind that settles when someone mentions something heavier than they intended, the river gurgling between us, indifferent to our conversation.
"Couldn't help noticing your swimming trunks," I said, nodding toward Mike's hips where the multicoloured fabric clung to his damp skin. "Nice design. Bold choice."
Mike glanced down as if he'd forgotten what he was wearing, then grinned, running a hand along the waistband. "HOM. I liked the colours and find them very comfortable,” as he said, kicking lightly at the water. The movement made the fabric shift, and for a split second, the outline of him became unmistakable, thick and heavy, even soft, the kind of thing that made your throat go dry if you stared too long.
"You must be a favourite with the ladies," I said before realising what I’d just blurted out. The words hung between us, my face instantly burning hotter than the afternoon sun. Mike paused mid-reel, eyebrows lifting in amused surprise, and I scrambled to backtrack. "I mean, because of the fishing. Patience, skill, all that."
Mike's grin widened, slow and knowing, as he tapped the rod against his shoulder, the river light catching the stubble along his jaw. "Ladies, huh?” as he mused, and I could swear his gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second. "Not really my scene."
The way he said it, casual, unhurried, leaving room for interpretation, and suddenly the current around my ankles felt ten degrees colder.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to...," I muttered, focusing intently on untangling a knot in my line that didn't actually exist as the water swirled around my knees, suddenly fascinating.
Mike just chuckled, the sound deep enough to ripple through me like the current tugging at our legs. "Relax, Steve. You'd be surprised how often guys ask me that," as he flicked his wrist, sending his line dancing upstream. "Why don't you wade across to my section, and we can chat more while I try to teach you more about fly fishing."
The current tugged at my calves as I hesitated, my toes curling against the slick riverbed. Mike watched me, patient, his rod balanced loosely in one hand while the other hooked into the waistband of those multicoloured trunks, the ones that hugged his hips just right, drawing attention where attention absolutely shouldn't linger during a fishing lesson.
"Scared?” as he teased, shifting his stance so the water sloshed around his thighs, sunlight catching the droplets clinging to his stomach.
"Of drowning? No. Of making an ass of myself again? Absolutely," I admitted, but stepped forward anyway, the rocks slippery beneath my bare feet. Halfway across, my foot skidded, arms pinwheeling, until Mike's fingers closed around my wrist, hauling me upright with a laugh that vibrated through his chest.
"See? Surgical precision,” as he deadpanned, thumb brushing my pulse point before letting go.
His side of the bank was smoother, shaded by overhanging branches. Mike gestured to a flat rock. "Park it. We'll start with the basics, like not strangling your rod,” as he said, flicking my ear as I sat.
The rhythm came easier after that, the flick of the wrist, the pause before the follow-through, until the line stopped feeling like a disobedient snake and more like an extension of my arm. Mike’s patience was endless, correcting my stance with a nudge of his knee or adjusting my grip with fingers that lingered just long enough to make my breath catch. By the time the sun got to midday, I’d managed three decent casts in a row, the fly landing near a cluster of reeds where Mike swore the trout liked to hide. "See? Told you it’s about rhythm,” as he murmured, close enough that his lips almost brushed my ear.
Between lessons, we traded stories, his about growing up knee-deep in river mud, mine about city life and how I’d never touched a fishing rod before this summer. The conversation flowed as easily as the water around us, until Mike leaned back against a sun-warmed boulder, stretching his legs out in front of him. The movement made his trunks ride up just enough to reveal a strip of tanned thigh, and I busied myself with retying my fly, suddenly fascinated by the knot.
"You’re getting better," Mike said, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers. "But you’re still thinking too much," as he flicked the grass into the current and watched it swirl away before turning to me with a grin that felt like a challenge. "So, Steve. What’s your preference?"
I blinked. "For flies? I dunno, whatever works… I guess."
Mike laughed, shaking his head. "Not flies. Personal grooming," as he gestured vaguely toward his own hips, where the multicoloured fabric clung damply. "Natural, trimmed, or bare?"
"Geez, I've never been asked that before," I blurted out, nearly dropping the fly I'd been pretending to tie. "Pretty random and personal if you ask me."
Mike laughed, low and easy, kicking a ripple of water toward me with his bare foot. "More personal than commenting on my length earlier?"
The way he said it, like he'd been waiting all afternoon to toss that back at me, made my ears burn.
I opened my mouth, then closed it, the knot in my hands forgotten. The river murmured between us, carrying the scent of wet stone and sunbaked earth. Mike just grinned, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his trunks ride even higher.
"Natural," I admitted finally, because lying seemed worse somehow. "But it’s not like I’ve got a spreadsheet or anything."
Mike’s grin widened. "Good to know,” he said, plucking another blade of grass and rolling it between his fingers. "For the record, I trim. Easier for swimming,” as he flicked the grass into the current and watched it swirl away before adding, "And other things."
The grass Mike had flicked into the current swirled in a lazy eddy before disappearing downstream. I stared after it, buying time to process what had just happened, what I’d just admitted, before clearing my throat. "Yeah, well. I’ve never actually gone bare. Trimmed a few times, but..." I shrugged, pretending to adjust the fly on my line while my pulse hammered in my throat.
Mike stretched his arms higher behind his head, the motion pulling his trunks taut across his thighs. Sunlight dappled through the leaves overhead, painting his skin in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. "Used to be bare myself,” as he said conversationally, as if discussing weather patterns. "Shaved clean for years. Then last winter I got lazy, let it grow, and realised I kinda liked it," as he dropped his arms, fingertips skimming the waistband of his trunks. "So now I just keep it neat. You ever tried shaving?"
The question landed between us like a cast line, impossible to ignore, glinting with implication. My fingers fumbled the knot I’d been pretending to tie. "Once," I admitted. "In college. My roommate dared me. Felt like I’d sat on a cactus for a week."
Mike’s laugh rolled through the clearing, rich and warm. "Yeah, the regrowth’s brutal,” as he shifted on the rock, leaning forward to pluck another blade of grass. This close, I could see the water droplets clinging to the hollow of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. "Worth it though. For the smoothness," his gaze flicking up, holding mine for a beat too long. "Among other things."
The river gurgled past our feet, cool against my ankles, but my face burned. I opened my mouth to say what, I wasn’t sure, when Mike’s hand suddenly closed over mine, stilling my fidgeting fingers. "You’re gonna ruin that fly,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the inside of my wrist. His palm was rough, warm, the calluses from years of handling fishing lines rasping against my skin in a way that made my breath catch.
"What's the fascination with hair anyway?" I asked, pulling my wrist back just enough to retie the fly properly, if only to distract from how Mike's touch had sent a jolt up my arm.
Mike laughed, leaning back on his elbows, the muscles in his abdomen flexing as he stretched. "I'm a personal groomer,” as he said, grinning at my raised eyebrows. "Got a whole host of clients I regularly tend to, manicuring toenails, waxing backs, the works. Can't beat being well-groomed."
I blinked. "Wait, you're serious?"
"Certainly am," Mike replied. "Been doing it ten years now. Male grooming offers significant benefits, Steve, including enhanced self-confidence, better personal hygiene, improved skin health, and a more professional, positive first impression. Consistent routines reduce skin issues, manage body temperature, and offer mental health benefits through confidence and body awareness."
The fly slipped from my fingers, plopping into the water between us. Mike chuckled as I scrambled to retrieve it, my face hotter than the afternoon sun. "A personal groomer?" I repeated, shaking water off the fly. "Like, professionally?"
Mike stretched lazily, his HOM trunks riding up another inch. "Yep. Own a little studio downtown. Only guys, athletes, businessmen, even a few politicians,” as he winked. "Confidentiality clauses and all that."
I snorted, imagining senators getting their backs waxed. "Bet that pays for your fishing?"
"Sure does," Mike confirmed. "And I enjoy it, and my average client is aged between 16 and 34, although some are older. I especially like looking after younger guys who understand the importance of first impressions."
The fly slipped from my fingers again, sinking into a swirl of bubbles near Mike’s ankle. He chuckled, hooking it effortlessly with the tip of his rod before handing it back. “You’re distracted,” as he observed, his thumb brushing mine as he passed me the dripping lure.
“Hard not to be when you’re talking about waxing politicians,” I admitted, pretending to examine the fly’s feathers while my pulse thudded in my ears. The early afternoon heat had settled into my skin, but it was Mike’s proximity, the way his knee bumped mine as he shifted on the rock, that made my throat dry.
Mike stretched, arching his back like a cat sunning itself. “You ever think about grooming professionally?” as he asked, casual as if asking about the weather. “You’ve got the hands for it.”
"No mate, quite happy being an accountant," I said, flicking the fly toward the shallows where the water ran clear over polished stones.
"Accountant, hey?" Mike declared. "I know a few things about accountants. From a personality perspective, accountants are highly predictable in their preference for structure, precision, and adherence to rules. Research suggests they are among the most conscientious of any profession, often scoring in the top percentile for being organised, reliable, and methodical.”
“What else do you know about accountants?” I asked, sort of interested in his knowledge.
“Based on trends regarding office attire and from my experience, accountants wear comfortable, practical underwear that fit well under business casual or formal clothes, such as cotton boxer briefs, briefs, or seamless panties. I... I bet you’re a briefs guy and that your preference is for Hanes or Fruit of the Loom."
"Fruit of the Loom?" I choked out, nearly dropping my rod for the third time that afternoon. "What kind of psychic groomer are you?"
Mike smirked, rolling onto his stomach now, propped up on his elbows so close I could count the water droplets sliding down his sternum. "Educated guess,” he said, tapping his temple. "Accountants love their bulk packs. Classic beige or white, am I right?"
I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut when his grin widened. The bastard was right. My dresser drawer back home was practically a Fruit of the Loom showroom with pristine white and some coloured pairs for when I feel like taking a risk.
The silence stretched between us, thick as the humidity clinging to our skin. Mike's smirk softened into something warmer, more genuine, as he traced a finger along the rock between us, leaving a damp trail. "Nothing wrong with reliable,” he murmured. "Though I'd bet my favourite pair of clippers you've never tried anything silkier than a hotel pillowcase."
I snorted, flicking water at him with the tip of my rod. "What, you moonlight as a lingerie critic too?"
Mike caught the droplets on his forearm, licking them off with exaggerated relish. "Nah. Just know my fabrics,” as he rolled onto his back, the movement making his trunks ride dangerously high enough that I had to focus very hard on the knot I was tying. "Speaking of,” as he continued, voice lazy with amusement, "do you fancy a shave? It might be good for you."
"What, here? Now?" I replied.
"My my, you didn't say no,” he responded. "Your questions suggest you might be game on."
“What questions?” I countered.
“What, where and now,” suggests you’re tempted but worried about the location more than the act,” Mike declared
The fly line went slack in my hands as I blinked at Mike, his grin widening with each passing second of my stunned silence. The river’s murmur filled the space between us, sunlight dappling his bare shoulders where droplets from our earlier splashing still glistened. His question hung in the air like the dragonflies skimming the water’s surface, impossible to ignore, shimmering with intent.
“Besides, I like you, you seem relaxed and confident and worthy of a freebee,” Mike offered.
"A bit unconventional for a first date, isn’t it?" I managed, immediately regretting the word ‘date’ as it left my mouth. But Mike only laughed, sitting on the sun-warmed rock he occupied.
"Who said anything about a date?” as he plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers before tucking it behind my ear. The gesture was absurd, intimate, his knuckles brushing my cheekbone. "Just offering my professional services. Though if you’re keeping score..." his voice dropping, low enough that the river nearly drowned it out. "I wouldn’t say no to dinner after."
"What do you like to eat?" I enquired, happy with the change of subject.
Mike's grin turned sharp, the kind that made the hairs on my arms stand up, not in fear, but something far more electric. He didn't answer my question. Instead, he hooked a finger into the waistband of my shorts, tugging me forward until our knees bumped. "You don’t get it, Steve,” as he murmured, his breath warm against my temple. "I don’t want to eat food..." as his thumb pressed into my hipbone, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “…I want to eat you.”
The river rushed past, indifferent to the way my pulse had migrated south. I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the fishing rod like it was the only thing keeping me upright. "That’s..."
"Unprofessional?" Mike supplied, laughing when I nodded dumbly, as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Good thing I clocked out an hour ago."
His hands, rough from years of handling fishing lines and wax strips, slid under the hem of my shirt, calluses scraping against my waist in a way that made my breath hitch, as he started to unbuckle my belt.
The button popped open with a soft snick, and suddenly my shorts were pooling around my ankles, leaving me standing there in nothing but my damp Fruit of the Loom briefs, white, of course, they were, and the unmistakable outline of my cock straining against the cotton.
Mike exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze dragging over me like a physical touch. "Christ,” he muttered, thumb hooking into the waistband. "You weren't kidding about the bulk packs of economy briefs."
I should've been mortified. I should've crossed my arms over my chest like some blushing virgin, but the way Mike was looking at me, like I was something to be savoured and enjoyed, not mocked, left my skin humming as his fingers traced the elastic, slow, deliberate, before pausing just above the tented fabric. "Still natural?” he asked, his voice rough with anticipation.
“My my,” Mike exhaled, the words whistling through his teeth as he hooked both thumbs under the waistband of my briefs. His knuckles brushed the trail of hair leading south, sending a shiver up my spine that had nothing to do with the river’s chill.
“Christ,” he muttered again, peeling the fabric down just enough to reveal the thick thatch of curls beneath. “That’s bush is going to tickle the hell out of my nose.”
I barked out a laugh, half-strangled, as his fingers skimmed lower, the calluses catching on wiry strands. “Not my fault. Told you I like the natural look,” I managed to say, though my voice cracked when Mike’s nose bumped my hipbone, his breath hot against exposed skin.
"Just as well I have a pair of scissors in my fishing tackle bag," Mike murmured, rummaging one-handed through the worn canvas while his other hand kept my briefs stretched taut against my hips.
The metal gleamed in the dappled sunlight when he produced them, professional grooming shears with curved blades that looked surgical against the backdrop of river rocks and sun-bleached driftwood.
"Let the dog see the rabbit,” he added with a grin that made my stomach flip, and before I could process the idiom, the cool metal slid between fabric and skin. The snick of blades parting cotton was obscenely loud over the river's murmur. My breath hitched as he cut my briefs at each hip, the material peeling away to fall from my body, landing with the discarded shorts, leaving me fully exposed to the afternoon air and Mike's appreciative stare.
"Fuck,” he breathed, letting the shears dangle from one finger as his gaze travelled downward, his thumb tracing the arch of my hipbone, rough skin catching on wiry curls. "Even better than I imagined,” he said, in a low, reverent voice that made my cock twitch against my stomach.
Mike's fingers tangled in the thicket of curls, pulling gently to assess the full scope of his task. "Jesus, Steve,” he chuckled, shaking his head. "You weren't kidding about the au naturel approach," as the shears gleamed as he lifted them, the afternoon sun catching the polished steel. "This is going to take some serious landscaping."
The first snip sent a shower of dark strands tumbling down my thighs. Mike worked with surprising efficiency, his free hand guiding the shears with practised precision, sculpting the unruly growth into something more manageable. The cool metal skimmed dangerously close to sensitive skin, making my breath hitch every time the blades whispered past flushed flesh.
"Hold still," Mike murmured, his breath warm against my stomach as he leaned in closer. "Unless you want me to slip," his grin wicked when I glanced down, catching the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips mid-cut. The rhythmic snick-snick of the shears filled the space between us, each clip sending another curl spiralling to the rocks below.
By the time he sat back to admire his work, my thighs were dusted with trimmings, and my skin prickled with anticipation. Mike blew a stray hair off my hipbone, the puff of air raising goosebumps in its wake. "Better,” he declared, running a palm over the shortened thatch. "But still too wild for what I have in mind, but it'll have to do for now," as his fingers dipped lower, tracing the outline of my cock where it strained against my stomach. "Circumcised as well. Did you know that seventy per cent of men are circumcised in this country?"
I shook my head as his mouth enveloped my cock with the same effortless precision he’d used to cast a fly line, smooth, practised with no wasted motion. The contrast of his calloused fingers gripping my hips and the soft heat of his tongue dragging up the underside nearly short-circuited my brain. I gasped, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sun-warmed rock in front of me as I leaned into his touch, the rough texture grounding me as Mike hummed appreciatively, between my outstretched arms.
He didn’t rush. That was the thing that unravelled me most, the way he took his time, like this was another lesson to be savoured. His tongue traced every ridge, every vein, as if memorising the shape of me, pausing only to glance up through his lashes, watching my reactions with a smug satisfaction that made my face burn hotter than the afternoon sun. When he finally took me deeper, his nose pressing into the trimmed curls at my base, my hips jerked involuntarily as Mike’s hands tightened, holding me steady as he pulled back just enough to murmur, "Easy, bookkeeper," he said, his breath ghosting over my wet skin. "It's all about rhythm, remember?"
The bastard was laughing at me. I could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his lips curved against my shaft before he dipped his head again, swallowing me down with a slow, deliberate slide that had my thighs trembling. The river’s burble faded to a distant hum, the world narrowing to the slick heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my inner thigh, the occasional scrape of teeth that made my breath hitch. He varied the pressure just enough to keep me teetering on the edge, pulling back whenever my hips twitched forward, denying me the friction I desperately craved.
"Mike..." I managed, the word cracking halfway through as he swirled his tongue around the head, his fingers holding my hips as he chuckled, the sound vibrating through me, and finally, mercifully, picking up the pace, his movements growing urgent as my breath came in ragged gasps.
One of his hands slid around to grip my ass, tilting me forward just enough to take me deeper, and that was all it took, the sudden, overwhelming pressure of his throat contracting around me as I spilt into him with a strangled groan.
For a heartbeat, he held me there, his mouth still wrapped around me as I shuddered through the aftershocks of my climax, pumping cum in spurts with so much pressure, I imagined him drowning in thick creamy liquid.
When he finally pulled away, the last dribbles dropped from the tip; his grin was downright predatory. "See?” as he said, rocking back on his heels, sunlight glinting off the water. "Told you it’s all about rhythm."
My knees wobbled as Mike stood, his palms sliding down to cup my ass with a grip that sent sparks up my spine. The river roared in my ears, or maybe that was my pulse, I couldn’t tell anymore. His trunks were still damp from the water, the multicoloured fabric clinging stubbornly to his hips until I hooked my thumbs under the waistband and peeled them down in one rough tug.
"Fuck me," I demanded, the words raw and ragged, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his thighs. "Please..."
Mike chuckled, low and dark, as he kicked the trunks aside. "Demanding, aren't you?" as his cock brushed my stomach, thick and heavy against my skin, already slick at the tip. "You ever done this outdoors before, bookkeeper?"
I shook my head, gasping when his teeth grazed my earlobe.
The rock was sun-warmed beneath my palms as I bent over it, the rough texture biting into my skin, not painfully, but enough to remind me this was real, not some fevered fantasy. Mike’s fingers, slick with lube from his tackle bag, traced circles lower, teasing before pressing in with a slow, deliberate curl that made my knees buckle.
"Christ," I hissed, forehead pressing against the stone as he worked me open with the same patient precision he’d used to teach me casting.
His other hand braced against my hip, callused thumb digging into the dimple above my ass as he added a second finger, scissoring gently. "You’re tight,” as he murmured, breath hot against my spine. "Relax,” he commanded; the stretch burning, but the way his knuckles brushed my prostate with every thrust had me pushing back against his hand, greedy for more.
Mike chuckled, the sound vibrating through me as he leaned over, his chest pressing against my back. "Easy,” as he murmured, lips brushing my shoulder blade. "We’ve got all afternoon," as his fingers twisted, crooked just right, and my vision whited out for a second, a strangled moan tearing from my throat.
When he pulled his fingers free, the sudden emptiness was unbearable. I turned my head just enough to catch a glimpse of his cock, thick, flushed, and glistening with lube, before he lined up and pushed in with one smooth thrust. The stretch was exquisite, stealing my breath as he bottomed out, his hips flush against my ass.
"Fuck," Mike groaned, his fingers tightening on my hips. "You feel..."
He didn’t finish what he was saying, too busy rolling his hips in a slow, grinding circle that had me seeing stars. The rhythm was maddening, each withdrawal followed by a thrust just deep enough to make my toes curl against the rock.
Mike’s rhythm faltered when my hips bucked backwards to meet his thrusts, a choked laugh escaping him as his grip tightened. “Impatient,” he murmured, the word breaking on a gasp as I clenched around him deliberately. His answering groan vibrated through my back where his chest pressed against me, sweat-slick and hot despite the river’s cool mist.
The rock beneath my palms had gone from pleasantly warm to nearly scalding, or maybe that was just the blood roaring in my ears as Mike’s pace quickened, his thrusts losing their measured precision. His teeth scraped the knob of my spine, one hand sliding around to grip my cock, rough and sure. “Come on, bookkeeper,” he panted, thumb swiping over the leaking tip. “Show me that spreadsheet focus.”
The joke shouldn’t have unravelled me, but the way his voice cracked mid-thrust, the way his fingers trembled where they gripped my hip, did. I came with a shout that sent birds scattering from the trees, my new and unexpected release striping the sun-bleached rock as Mike fucked me through it, his own climax hitting seconds later, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep with a groan that sounded almost pained.
For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the river’s endless murmur. Mike’s forehead dropped between my shoulder blades, his breath hot against my sweat-damp skin.
“Christ,” I muttered, my voice sounding wrecked. “That’s one way to end a fishing lesson.”
He laughed, shaky and breathless, as he pulled out, the sudden emptiness making me wince. Mike’s hand lingered on the small of my back, callused fingers tracing idle patterns as we both caught our breath. Sunlight dappled through the leaves overhead, painting his shoulders in shifting gold as he straightened, stretching with a satisfied groan.
Mike sat down on the grass next to me as I tried to normalise my breathing. "What's the longest cock you ever taken?” he asked.
The question landed like a cast line snapping taut, impossible to ignore, glinting with implication. I blinked at Mike, where he sprawled on the sun-warmed grass.
His question hit like a stray cast, unexpected, sharp, and impossible to ignore. I blinked at him, watching sunlight catch the sweat drying on his chest. "Jesus," I wheezed, plucking a blade of grass to fiddle with. "That's your post-coital small talk?"
Mike grinned like a kid pulling a frog from his pocket, his fishing bag rustling as he rummaged deeper. "You'd be surprised what a professional groomer packs for emergencies,” he said, producing the silicone monstrosity with a flourish. The dildo glistened in the sunlight, thick, veined, and absurdly long.
"Christ," I breathed, my spent cock twitching in protest. "What else do you have in there? A defibrillator?"
Mike's laugh rolled through the clearing as he adjusted the harness straps. "Only if you need one," as he tossed me the bottle of lube, now half-empty. "Prep me? I like being fucked too, with this."
The lube bottle hit my chest with a soft plop, still warm from the afternoon sun. I fumbled it, nearly dropping it into the river before catching it against my stomach. Mike watched, sprawled on his back with one arm behind his head, the other hand lazily stroking himself back to fullness.
"You're joking," I said, turning the bottle over in my hands. The label peeling at the edges, well-used. "You just...and now you want..."
Mike's grin widened. "Multitasking,” he said, rolling onto his knees with fluid ease. "Come on, bookkeeper. Time to balance my books."
The harness straps dug into my hips as I adjusted them, the unfamiliar weight of the silicone cock bobbing obscenely with each movement. Mike watched over his shoulder, his grin sharpening when my fingers fumbled with the buckle for the third time. "Never done this before, huh?” he teased, arching his back deliberately to emphasise the curve of his ass.
I swallowed hard, pushing my slightly lubed half-hard cock into the harness's silicone sleeve, hotter and tighter than expected, before securing the final strap with a muttered curse. The dildo jutted out at an absurd angle, twelve inches of veined plastic that looked comically disproportionate against my frame. Mike's low whistle made my ears burn. "Jesus," I muttered, smearing lube down its length with trembling fingers. "This thing's a fucking canoe."
Mike laughed, bracing his forearms against the sun-warmed rock, his shoulders flexing as he pushed his hips back in invitation. "Quit stalling, bookkeeper," his voice having gone rough at the edges, the same tone he'd used earlier when correcting my casting form.
I lined up behind him, the lube-slick tip catching on his rim before popping in with a wet sound that sent heat arcing down my spine. Mike groaned, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the rock as I pushed forward, the harness straps biting into my thighs with each inch gained. "Fuck," I gasped, my hips stuttering when the toy bottomed out, my pelvis pressed flush against his ass. The sensation was surreal: the resistance of his body, the give of the silicone, the way the harness tugged at my own cock with every shallow thrust.
Mike turned his head, catching my gaze over his shoulder, sunlight catching the sweat beading along his hairline. "Told you,” as he panted, rocking back to take me deeper, "it's all about rhythm."
His smirk faltered when I pulled out halfway and snapped my hips forward, the slap of skin echoing off the riverbank. The harness shifted, the base of the dildo rubbing against me in a way that had me seeing stars.
Mike's answering moans drowned out the pleasure I was feeling, as he arched his back impossibly further, fingers clawing at the rock as I drove into him with increasing abandon. The silicone toy dragged against my own cock through the harness, the friction maddening, not enough to tip me over the edge again, so soon, but enough to keep me achingly hard.
"Harder," Mike growled, his voice ragged. His knees slid apart on the slick stone, forcing me deeper. The obscene squelch of lube filled the air between our panting breaths.
I gripped his hips, nails biting into tanned skin as I fucked him in earnest now, the dildo plunging deep with every snap of my hips. Mike's head dropped between his shoulders, a string of curses dripping from his lips with each impact.
Mike's scream shattered the river's lazy murmur, raw and ragged as my hips snapped forward again, driving the silicone impossibly deeper. His knees skidded on sun-warmed stone, fingers scrambling for purchase as the toy battered his prostate with surgical precision. I'd never heard a man make sounds like that, half-sob, half-laugh, his voice cracking on a particularly deep thrust that made his thighs quake as he screamed.
"F-fuck... there... Christ..." his words disintegrating into guttural moans as I angled the toy just right, watching in awe as his cock jerked violently, dripping steadily onto the rock beneath us. The harness straps dug into my hips with each punishing thrust, the dual sensation of his body clenching around the toy and the silicone base grinding against my own erection short-circuiting rational thought.
Mike came like a dam breaking, sudden, violent, as his back arched so sharply I feared he might snap as ropes of cum painted the stone in thick stripes. His climax seemed endless, his body seizing around the toy in rhythmic pulses that dragged a broken shout from his throat with each contraction.
I'd never seen anything like it, a man coming and wrecked beyond speech, his fingers clawing at nothing as his hips stuttered through the aftershocks.
"Again,” he gasped, his voice wrecked, before I'd even stopped moving as his hand fumbled behind him, gripping my thigh with surprising strength. "Don't stop...fuck me through it..."
The harness creaked as I obeyed, sheathing the toy to the hilt with a wet snap of skin. Mike's whole body convulsed, his oversensitive cock twitching pathetically as another weak spurt dribbled from the tip.
His moan dissolved into something suspiciously like a whimper when I curled forward, biting the sweat-slick junction of his shoulder as my pace turned relentless.
The riverbank smelled of damp earth and crushed grass, the kind of scent that lingers on skin long after the act is done. Mike's breathing had slowed to ragged gasps, his forearms pressed flat against the rock where he'd collapsed forward, the muscles in his back twitching under a sheen of sweat. The harness straps had done their job as I pulled out with a wet pop.
"Christ,” he slurred, his forehead resting on his folded arms. "You're a quick learner, bookkeeper."
I fumbled with the harness buckles, my fingers slick with river water and sweat. The silicone cock hung limp now, glistening under the late afternoon sun as I dropped it onto the grass, my cock ridiculously hard from the friction of the sleeve.
Mike turned his head just enough to watch me struggle, his grin lazy and satisfied. "Need help with that?"
Before I could answer, his hand closed over my cock, massaging it along the whole length until he forced my own release, my cum shooting through the air to land on his chest as he jerked me through my orgasm.
"I think the books are balanced now," Mike chuckled. "Keep that up…” he murmured, stretching like a well-fed cat, "… and we'll become firm friends. That was brilliant. Thank you."
The river murmured past us, indifferent to the way my pulse still hammered in my throat. Mike's skin was golden where the sunlight filtered through the trees. He rolled onto his back with a groan, arms flung wide, his spent cock lying heavy against his thigh. I'd never seen anyone look so thoroughly ruined, so perfectly sated, so fucked... as he just smiled.
The air carried the scent of river water and the faint musk of our sweat as I collapsed beside Mike on the grass, my limbs heavy and spent. Fireflies blinked lazily in the gathering dusk, their glow catching the sweat still drying on Mike's chest. He turned his head toward me, his grin slow and satisfied, one arm pillowing his head while the other traced idle circles on his stomach, smearing the remnants of my release into his skin like some primal claim.
"I still think accountants wear boring underpants,” he teased, his voice rough with exhaustion and something darker, something that curled low in my belly.
I laughed, though it came out more like a wheeze. "Fuck you," I said without heat, swatting at his hand when it wandered too close to my oversensitive cock. "I should charge you for the ruined pair."
He caught my wrist effortlessly, his thumb pressing into my pulse point like he was memorising the rhythm. "Send me an invoice," I murmured as he sat up suddenly, wincing as he stretched his shoulders, the movement pulling his stomach taut. "Hungry?” he asked, as if we hadn't just spent the last hour wrecking each other on a riverbank.
I blinked up at him, my brain still sluggish. "You're joking."
Mike arched an eyebrow, his fingers still loosely curled around my wrist. "Do I look like I joke about food?" as he released my arm with a playful flick against my inner wrist that sent an unexpected jolt down my spine. "There's a diner upstream. Burgers thick as your fist," his grin turning wicked. "And I know for a fact the booths are wide enough for two."
The mention of food made my stomach growl audibly. I glanced at my discarded clothes, now strewn across the rocks like evidence at a crime scene. My briefs lay in tatters, the sheared edges fluttering in the river's breeze. "You expect me to go commando after that?"
Mike stretched, his biceps flexing as he laced his hands behind his head. "Relax, bookkeeper," as he nodded toward his fishing bag. "Emergency spare trunks. Navy blue. Cotton-poly blend," as his tongue darted out to catch a droplet of sweat sliding down his lip. "They'll ride up on you, though."
I snorted, reaching for the bag. The trunks were still folded, creased from storage, smelling faintly of detergent and something indefinably like Mike. I stepped into them gingerly, the fabric whispering over my sensitised skin. "Christ," I muttered as the waistband settled snugly against my hips. "These're tighter than your discretion."
Mike's laugh rolled through the clearing as he fastened his own trunks, the multicoloured fabric clinging to his thighs. "You complaining?" as he tossed me my wrinkled t-shirt and cargo shorts.
The waistband of Mike's borrowed trunks dug into my hips as I hobbled after him along the riverbank, each step sending a fresh reminder of what we'd just done. Ahead, Mike moved with the grace of a man hiding he’d just been fucked senseless, his HOM trunks riding scandalously low.
"Keep staring like that, and I'll charge you admission," Mike called over his shoulder, sunlight catching the sweat still drying at the small of his back.
I chucked in response. "In that case, you'd better send me an invoice, and don’t forget I can offset it in the special activities ledger."
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