Lake Nights
The group text lit up on a Wednesday night. Short. Direct. From Logan.
Need to clear my head. Y’all free this weekend? Lake house is open. Just us.
No one asked questions. No one needed to.
Not even five months had passed since their trail ride—since the firelight, the river, and the cabin floor. They weren’t due to meet again until next summer. That was the rule. Once a year. One weekend.
But this was different.
Logan’s father had passed just a few days earlier. Quietly. Heart failure. The kind of loss that stripped something out of a man whether he admitted it or not. The funeral was private—Logan didn’t ask them to come.
But he didn’t need to.
By Friday afternoon, the Carters were on the road.
⸻
Logan arrived first. He always did. The lake house had been in his family for decades—a two-story cabin tucked just far enough from the main roads to disappear. Long wooden dock. Smoky grill on the back porch. Two small fishing boats tied off. No neighbors close enough to hear a thing.
He parked his Dodge under the trees and walked straight to the edge of the dock, not even bothering with his bags. Just stood there in jeans and boots, white tee stretched across his chest, eyes locked on the still water.
Behind him, another truck rolled in—matte black, clean, quiet. Jackson stepped out, 6’4” and solid, black tee stretched tight across his arms. No words. Just a look. The kind only real men shared. A nod that said, I’m here.
They dapped up once—grip firm, shoulders locked—and stood side by side without speaking. Logan handed over the bottle of Booker’s he’d been holding. Jackson took a swig and stared out at the lake with him.
A few minutes later, DeShawn’s Ram pulled up, chrome glinting. He climbed out slow, rocking fitted jeans, boots, and a gray henley that clung to his chest like it knew what was underneath. He had a fresh cut, gold rope chain tucked just under the collar, and that same smooth swagger he always carried.
He walked over with a half-smile. “Damn. Didn’t think we were doin’ this again so soon.”
Logan’s voice was quiet. “Neither did I.”
They pulled him into a quick hug—brief, strong, masculine. No emotion on the surface. But they all felt it.
Last came Wyatt, in a jacked-up F-150, music loud, cigars in the console, and a cooler rattling in the backseat. He jumped out in a tank top, mesh shorts, boots, and that same cocky grin he wore like a brand. Dirty blond curls under his hat, thick thighs straining the fabric, a full bottle of Uncle Nearest in his hand.
“Y’all look like a damn country music funeral,” he said with a grin, but even his usual jokes were a little softer than normal.
Still, when they all stood on that dock—four men, same last name, no blood—something in the air clicked into place.
⸻
Night fell slow.
They grilled out, cracked beers, and smoked cigars as the sun slipped behind the water. Logan barely touched his plate. Jackson stayed close. DeShawn cracked open the whiskey. Wyatt kept the conversation light, tossing out stories from work, throwing shade like he always did.
But it was quiet.
When the fire pit was lit and the night had turned full black, Logan finally spoke.
“My dad used to bring me here,” he said, voice steady, eyes on the flames. “Taught me how to fish right off this dock. Taught me how to hold a bourbon glass without lookin’ soft.”
Nobody interrupted.
“I loved him. But I couldn’t talk to him. Not really. Not about shit that mattered. Couldn’t tell him who I was. What I’ve felt. What I’ve done.”
His hand gripped the glass tighter.
“But I can with y’all.”
Silence.
Then Jackson shifted in his chair, voice low, strong. “You don’t ever gotta explain it to us.”
DeShawn raised his glass. “You home here.”
Wyatt added, “And I still got that clip of you ridin’ dick in your sleep last year—if you ever need a reminder.”
Laughter broke the weight for a moment, but the energy didn’t fade.
Because they all knew.
This wasn’t just a weekend.
Something was about to change.
The lake house had two guest rooms and one master.
Logan gave DeShawn the room near the kitchen. Wyatt took the guest room. Jackson shared the master with Logan—just like last time.
They didn’t say much when they set down their bags. Jackson peeled off his shirt, tossing it across the back of a chair. Logan kicked off his boots and sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling through his nose like something heavy had finally landed.
Jackson leaned in the doorway. Arms thick. Chest broad. Jeans still on. “You alright?”
Logan nodded. “Just feels… quiet in my head for the first time all week.”
Jackson stepped closer. “That why you called us?”
Logan looked up. “I called y’all ‘cause I didn’t want to be alone. And because…”
He stopped.
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Because?”
There was a pause—then Logan stood. “Because I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about you. Even back at the cabin… I wanted you. Just never got the chance.”
Jackson’s jaw flexed.
“I ain’t the type to talk about shit like this,” Logan said, his voice low, his body a few inches away now. “But that night… I gave it, but I never got it. And I been thinkin’ about what it’d feel like—you. Takin’ me.”
The space between them evaporated.
Jackson didn’t touch him. Not yet. But he looked down into Logan’s eyes and said, “You want that now?”
Logan nodded once. “Yeah.”
Jackson reached for the waistband of his jeans. “Take ‘em off.”
Logan obeyed.
Boots off. Pants down. Shirt tossed. Logan stood in nothing but briefs—cock already rising, thick and stretching the fabric. Jackson took his time. Pulled his tee off slow, letting his abs and chest catch the moonlight from the window. His jeans came next. No underwear. That heavy, dark, veiny cock dropped free and ready.
Logan’s mouth opened slightly.
Jackson stepped closer. “You ever let a man touch you like that one-on-one?”
Logan swallowed. “Not like this. But I want it.”
Jackson reached out and grabbed Logan by the throat—not hard, just enough to make him stand still. He leaned in, their foreheads touching, breath mixing.
“Ain’t no shame here.”
Then he dropped to his knees.
Logan gasped as Jackson pulled his briefs down, letting that thick white cock bounce out—curved and leaking. Jackson licked up the underside before taking it deep, slow, with full eye contact. Logan’s knees almost buckled. His hands landed on Jackson’s shoulders as that warm mouth swallowed him inch by inch.
“Shit… Jack…”
Jackson sucked with precision—no softness, just hunger. Spit ran down his beard. Logan’s abs tightened as his hips rolled forward. He tried not to moan too loud, biting his knuckle, but Jackson pulled it away.
“Let me hear that shit.”
He sucked harder. Faster. Logan cursed, grabbing the back of Jackson’s head as his cock throbbed against his tongue.
Then Jackson pulled off. Stood up. Turned Logan around.
“Get on the bed.”
Logan did.
Knees down. Ass up. Face in the sheets. He looked back once—but Jackson was already behind him, rubbing the head of his cock along that tight, virgin hole.
“You sure?” he asked.
Logan nodded. “Don’t stop.”
Jackson spat once. Rubbed it in with his thumb. Then lined up and pushed forward—slow, thick, unrelenting.
Logan’s fingers gripped the sheets. “Fuuuuck…”
Jackson didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, inch by inch, until he was buried to the base. His hips stilled, body flush against Logan’s back, and he growled in his ear:
“You takin’ this shit like a man.”
Logan’s only answer was a loud, needy moan.
Jackson started to move.
Deep strokes. Slow grind. Thick cock sliding in and out, wet and raw. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. Sweat gathered. Logan’s voice turned into broken whimpers—low, guttural sounds he didn’t even know he could make.
Jackson grabbed his hips and fucked harder. Faster. Still no kissing. Just rough, masculine domination.
“You needed this, didn’t you?” Jackson growled.
Logan nodded into the sheets. “Yeah… fuck yeah…”
“I can feel it… your hole squeezin’ me… like you been waitin’ for this since the damn fire pit.”
Logan’s body shook. His cock leaked onto the bed untouched.
Then Jackson grabbed him by the waist, pulled him up onto all fours, and slammed deep—fast, loud, relentless. Logan’s body bucked as his cock erupted across the bedspread, untouched. Ropes of cum splattered the sheets as his back arched and his voice broke into a deep moan.
Jackson grunted, slammed in one final time, and held.
His cock exploded inside Logan, pumping heat deep into him. His grip stayed tight, jaw clenched as he emptied himself—raw, wet, full.
They stayed like that for a moment—bodies tangled, breathing hard.
Then Jackson pulled out slow, cum dripping from Logan’s hole, thick and wet between his cheeks.
No words.
Jackson wiped himself off, laid back on the bed, chest rising and falling. Logan joined him, still face down, ass still leaking, too exhausted to move.
They didn’t speak.
But they didn’t move apart either.
And when Logan finally sat up, he looked over and said:
“You stayin’ in this room tonight?”
Jackson smirked.
“Damn right.”
The morning came slow.
Sunlight stretched across the lake like honey, still and golden. Birds called lazily through the trees, and a soft breeze rippled the water. Inside, it was quiet.
Logan was still asleep in the master, lying on his stomach, the sheets barely covering the mess Jackson left in him. Jackson sat at the edge of the bed, bare-chested, boots back on, sipping from a coffee mug like nothing had happened—because in Carter Country, nothing had… and everything had.
DeShawn was already outside.
He stood at the end of the dock in nothing but black mesh shorts and unlaced Timberlands, cigar in one hand, coffee in the other. His chest was bare, chain resting against his skin, muscles carved up by the morning sun. He hadn’t asked questions when Jackson came out alone. He just passed him the lighter and nodded once.
“You good?” he said, not looking away from the lake.
Jackson took a long drag and exhaled slow. “Yeah.”
That was all that needed to be said.
Inside, Wyatt groaned as he stretched on the guest room bed, shirtless and half-hard under the sheets. His thighs rubbed together. His cock twitched. He could still hear moaning from the master the night before—not clear, but loud enough to know somebody got wrecked.
He smirked to himself. “Knew Logan was holdin’ back,” he mumbled, reaching down to squeeze himself through his shorts.
He showered quick, threw on some board shorts, no drawers, and came out with a bag of jerky and a bottle of water like he hadn’t heard a thing.
⸻
By mid-afternoon, all four men were outside—grilling, throwing lines in the lake, laughing about old high school stories. Logan walked a little slower than usual, but no one said a word. That’s what brotherhood looked like. Silence that understood things words couldn’t carry.
But DeShawn was watching Wyatt.
And Wyatt was making it hard not to.
He bent over too low when reaching for firewood. He walked around in soaking wet shorts that clung to his thick ass. He “accidentally” rubbed against DeShawn twice while carrying a cooler. It wasn’t subtle. But it was playful. Just like him.
By sunset, the energy shifted again.
Jackson and Logan were back on the dock, quietly talking and sipping their bourbon. DeShawn stayed behind, leaning on the railing of the porch with a cigar in his mouth and a slow smile on his face as Wyatt walked up barefoot, shirtless, toweling off.
“I see you lookin’,” Wyatt said, smirking.
DeShawn didn’t flinch. “You want me to stop?”
Wyatt stepped closer. “I ain’t say that.”
Their eyes locked.
“Last time,” DeShawn said slowly, “you let everybody touch you but me.”
“I was savin’ the best for later,” Wyatt grinned, chewing a piece of jerky. “Guess later showed up.”
DeShawn dropped his cigar into a beer can and stood up tall. “Come with me.”
⸻
Inside the house, they didn’t waste time.
DeShawn kicked the door shut behind them and shoved Wyatt against the wall.
“You like teasin’, huh?”
Wyatt grinned. “I like gettin’ what I want.”
DeShawn pressed into him, chest to chest. “What’s that?”
“That fat dick you been swingin’ around all weekend,” Wyatt growled, already reaching between them. “I seen how Logan looked this mornin’. I want that. I want it rough.”
DeShawn grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed his throat—just enough to make Wyatt shiver.
“Then get on the fuckin’ floor.”
Wyatt dropped to his knees and yanked DeShawn’s shorts down in one move. That thick, dark cock slapped against his cheek—long, heavy, leaking at the tip.
“Damn…” Wyatt muttered. “Shit’s mean.”
“You wanted it,” DeShawn said. “Open up.”
Wyatt did.
DeShawn didn’t ease in. He grabbed the back of Wyatt’s head and slid in deep, making him gag and spit before adjusting. Wyatt’s eyes rolled back as his throat stretched around the girth. He choked once, twice—but never stopped.
He loved it.
DeShawn groaned, hips moving in tight strokes, fucking his mouth while Wyatt stroked his own cock fast.
“Yeah… you like this nasty shit,” DeShawn muttered.
Wyatt pulled off just long enough to say, “Been thinkin’ about it since the woods, man.”
DeShawn reached down, yanked him to his feet, spun him around, and bent him over the couch.
“No more thinkin’.”
He spit, lined up, and slid in—slow, steady, unforgiving.
Wyatt arched his back. “Fuuuuuck!”
That ass took it like it had been waiting all year.
DeShawn grunted as he buried himself deep, holding tight to Wyatt’s hips as he started to thrust—hard, deep, rhythmic strokes that made the couch legs creak against the floor.
“Yeah… that’s what I needed…” Wyatt moaned, cheek pressed into the cushion.
“Say that shit louder.”
“That’s what I fucking needed!”
DeShawn fucked him harder.
The room filled with sound—wet slaps, heavy breathing, moans that turned to curses. DeShawn pulled out, spit again, and slammed back in.
“You like this, don’t you? Bein’ used by one of your boys.”
Wyatt nodded fast, stroking himself. “Hell yeah I do. Don’t stop. Fill me up.”
DeShawn bent over, whispered in his ear, “You gon’ ride me next time.”
“I’ll ride you right fuckin’ now.”
DeShawn backed out slow, letting his thick cock slap wet against Wyatt’s cheeks. He sat back on the couch, legs spread, cock glistening.
“You said you’d ride it?” he asked, voice deep.
Wyatt turned, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. “Bet.”
He straddled DeShawn with no hesitation, guiding that slick, heavy cock back to his hole and sinking down inch by inch, biting his lip the whole way. His hands gripped DeShawn’s shoulders, thighs flexing as he took all of it.
“Shit… You thick as hell,” he groaned, settling in deep.
DeShawn grunted, grabbing his waist. “Bounce on it, then.”
Wyatt moved—slow at first, grinding, rotating his hips. His boots stayed on. His shorts still around one ankle. Sweat rolled down his back as he picked up speed, riding DeShawn like he had something to prove.
“Fuck yeah…” Wyatt gasped. “You hittin’ every spot.”
DeShawn watched him, hands gripping tight, letting him take control—until he couldn’t anymore.
He stood, holding Wyatt up, cock still buried deep, and walked them over to the wall. Pinned him there. Started pounding from underneath.
“Damn!” Wyatt shouted. “Don’t stop!”
DeShawn’s body slammed into him over and over, fucking up into that thick ass, their grunts echoing off the walls. Wyatt’s head hit the wood paneling. He didn’t care. His cock sprayed across his stomach—thick ropes dripping down his abs.
DeShawn held him tight and groaned loud, pushing deep one final time as his cock exploded inside—hot, full, and raw.
They didn’t move right away.
Wyatt was still against the wall, cock twitching, ass dripping. DeShawn let him slide down slowly, both of them breathless.
“Goddamn,” Wyatt muttered. “That was worth the wait.”
DeShawn grinned, sweat dripping from his chest. “Told you not to save me for last.”
The sky was navy when the four of them ended up back on the dock.
No music. No fire. Just bourbon bottles half-empty and the sound of water gently lapping at the edges.
They sat shirtless, worn out, still sweaty from the day. Logan wore that same focused look from the night before—calm, but haunted. Jackson leaned against the post, cigar in hand, dark eyes heavy. DeShawn stretched his legs out, wide and satisfied. Wyatt had that cocky glow that only came from being well-fucked.
No one mentioned what happened inside.
They didn’t have to.
But the silence between them wasn’t empty.
It was charged.
“You remember when we said this was just once a year?” Logan asked quietly, sipping from his glass.
Wyatt chuckled. “Yeah. We liars as hell.”
DeShawn shrugged. “Some shit don’t stick when it’s real.”
Jackson stared out at the lake. “I ain’t tryin’ to lie to myself no more.”
No one moved.
Then Logan stood.
“Come on.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Just walked back toward the house, steps slow, heavy. The other three followed—like they always did.
Inside, no one turned on the lights. The air was warm. Moonlight poured through the windows. They didn’t speak. Just started undressing like a ritual.
Boots thudded against the floor. Zippers dropped. Skin met air.
They stood there for a moment—four strong, quiet, successful southern men, bodies carved from labor and legacy.
Logan walked up to Jackson first.
Didn’t kiss. Just pressed his chest against his and looked him in the eye.
“I ain’t done with you.”
Jackson nodded, reached down, and stroked Logan slowly.
Behind them, Wyatt was already on his knees—pulling DeShawn’s cock back into his mouth like it was where he belonged.
DeShawn groaned, grabbing the back of Wyatt’s head and feeding it to him deep. “That’s right. You know what to do.”
Logan bent over the couch and arched his back. “Come take it again.”
Jackson didn’t hesitate.
He lined up, spit once, and pushed in. Logan grunted. Hard. Loud. But didn’t stop him.
Jackson started slow, but the heat built fast. His strokes got heavier, deeper, hands gripping Logan’s hips like he owned him.
Wyatt was gagging, drooling all over himself as DeShawn fucked his mouth. Then DeShawn pulled him up and spun him around, bending him over the dining table.
“Ass still open?” he growled.
Wyatt smirked over his shoulder. “Find out.”
DeShawn shoved in.
Both men moaned at the same time—Logan and Wyatt, bent over side by side, each getting wrecked by the one they’d wanted most.
Jackson slammed into Logan harder, the sound echoing in the cabin.
“You takin’ it even better tonight,” he grunted.
Logan looked back, sweat dripping off his nose. “That’s ‘cause I need it tonight.”
Behind them, Wyatt’s voice cracked as DeShawn pounded into him without mercy.
“Fuck me… yeah… that’s it… deeper—”
DeShawn grabbed his throat from behind and whispered, “You gon’ cum with my nut still inside you.”
Wyatt gasped. “Please.”
The heat was insane.
Four men. Two bent over. Two dominating. Skin to skin, raw and reckless.
And then they switched.
DeShawn slid into Logan while Jackson pulled Wyatt close and took him on the floor—face down, ass up, moaning into the rug.
Their movements synced, sounds overlapping—moans, grunts, wet slaps, the creak of the furniture, the slap of boots on wood.
Sweat dripped. Cum spilled.
Wyatt came first, untouched, body shaking, legs trembling.
Jackson held him tight and fucked through it.
Logan followed, releasing with a long growl, shooting across the couch cushion as DeShawn flooded him with thick warmth.
DeShawn pulled out slow, breathing hard, as Jackson slammed in one last time and emptied himself deep into Wyatt’s still-clenching hole.
They all collapsed in different directions—on the couch, the floor, the table, the rug.
Breathing.
Sweating.
Wrecked.
⸻
No one cleaned up right away.
No one needed to speak.
Until Logan sat up, voice low, raw, and honest:
“I don’t want this to be once a year no more.”
DeShawn lit a cigar with shaky fingers. “Same.”
Jackson nodded, rubbing his jaw. “Then it won’t be.”
Wyatt grinned through the sweat and mess. “Guess we’ll need a new name for it.”
They all laughed—quiet, deep, and real.
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