Stick Shift: Eagle's Nest

"So, you think that God is a civil engineer, Jake? Really?"

"Not what I said, Sophie." Bemused, I tried again. "It was just the joke I was telling you-- I was saying the contractor told the engineers that." The magic gummy bear may have been a bad idea for this girl, I thought.

The 10 mg THC infusion added to the sugary animal shapes up in Colorado must be made for those of thicker blood than these flatlanders. Aspenites became nice and mellow whereas several down here had acted out a bit strangely.

Two of Cal's brothers had taken three each during the ballgame and disappeared soon after. Without a word. That was three days ago and we had heard nothing from them since...hope they were OK.

"Well, tell me again, then. I didn't get it, boii," Sophie drew me back to reality. She glanced my way from behind the wheel and threw me an easy smile. The trademark effervescent smile of the Georgia Broadhearst family. I'd recognize it anywhere and saw my better half's face etched all over those perfect pearly whites as they flashed my direction.

"OK, then. But keep an eye on the road, Soph," I told her, as we flew down the old farm-to-market road. She was a good driver but got easily distracted by animals, I had noticed. We were passing a herd of red angus on her side and they drew her attention more than the road sign on my side warning us of a curve and another announcing Opelika, Alabama, eight more miles. Puffy clouds pocked the sky as we enjoyed the comfortable harmony between the two of us, out on a day trip together.

"Two engineers and a government contractor went into a bar," I tried it over again. "All three had agreed that God must be an engineer, but they disagreed on what kind he could be. The Electrical Engineer claimed that the electrical genius put into the development of the human body ---why, just look at the intricacy of the nerves and spinal cord and heart and the amazingly complex brain--- made it a given that he had to be an EE Himself; the Mechanical Engineer countered that, no, with the amazing make-up of the muscles and tendons, bones and joints and ligaments, He had to have been an ME to design that."

"Their government contractor buddy came back from the bar with three beers and overheard them. He then insisted, well, no, God HAD to be a civil engineer to design the human body. The other two looked at him like he was crazy and asked why he would think that?"

"Well, he said, anyone could figure that out...who else but a civil engineer would plan a recreational area right through the middle a waste disposal unit?" I grinned inwardly as I remembered Cal's best friend first tell us the joke at the top of Ajax Mountain last Christmas morning. The first run of the morning-- nothing but fresh powder below us. A good day, I reminisced.

Soph looked stymied. "I still don't get it, Boii, break it down for a country girl."

Hoo-Boy, I thought. It was a gay joke, after all, and we were in a deep red southern state. "OK," I said. "Think like a gay man, Sister Souljah. Three gay professionals. Talking about the complexity of the human anatomy over a beer. The cynical government contractor, who spends his days trying to fix the goof-ups by the engineers and construction companies he deals with overhears his engineer buddies talking and immediately links anatomy and how gay men have backdoor sex...recreational area...through a waste disposal unit...get it? "

"Eeeeewww," the pretty woman with richly red-spiked hair gags and puffs out her cheeks. "How gross is that? That is not funny, Jake."

"What, do you mean to tell me your boyfriends have never taken the Hershey Highway, Sophie?" I laughed, because I knew of her sexual proclivities and her history with men was quite splotchy.

This was the woman who swore she wouldn't get pregnant--"fo' sho' that"-- until after getting her degree and buying her own house, away from her brothers. But, she was very nearly as hormone-driven as any of the boys in the family. Can you say, 'hyper-drive'?

Something did not compute, here. But far be it for me to pass judgment, so I just changed the subject as she refused comment about the Hershey Highway-- I knew she got the reference, though.

{It was just last Saturday morning that I had come into the kitchen while Boy was reciting what he had learned at school the day before. Sophie and Vivian were intent on the pancake batter but were listening to the precocious boy at the same time.

"Milk, milk, lemonade, 'round the corner, fudge is made." sing-songing the words while he pointed first to each boob, then to his crotch and then a round-house curve of his arm, finger pointing to his rear-end.

Not awaiting their response he raced off to the other room , leaving the two girls to wince and Viv to point her finger down her throat. But they got it...hence, the Hershey Highway.}

"There is the cut-off coming up, Soph," I said, as we approached the sign for the Auburn University turn-off. We had happily planned this day trip for a week, so we might get away and enjoy a somewhat culturally-oriented day alone together. No brotherly or spousal interference.

Cal, my lover for eight years and new husband , Sophie's older brother and mentor, had concurred with our plan while the other brothers, aunts, uncles, and family 'graciously' backed away from including themselves...go figure, we thought, snickering.


Our trip day had begun rather tumultuously earlier this morning. I was just returning from my morning run, still before dawn, waxed and winded by the heavy humidity down here so close to sea-level when I heard Goldie, the next door neighbor's big boxer ramp up into a fit of barking over in the Brown's garden area behind their house.

Next, I heard old Farmer Brown kick up a cussin' rampage that would have done a nickel-whore-in-church proud. Hearing a familiar bleating sound, I pretty quickly figured what might be occurring so went to jump the split-rail fence separating the two farms.

Coming up behind the elderly farmer, I see Goldie in the setting moonlight backing down the Blackhearst family's pet goat, Aloysius (say: Al-o-Wish-us...). There were asparagus tips hanging out of the Nubian goat's cheeks and even though he was in a defensive posture of head down, front legs spread and ears hard back on his head, horns bristling, he was still munching those tender shoots. Both dog and farmer were having none of it, brandishing teeth and shotgun at the outlaw ungulate.

Aloysius suddenly saw the situation as a losing venture and whirled, leaping the small fence surrounding the backyard garden , lickety-splitting into the burgeoning cornfield behind and towards the pine woods beyond.

Goldie was off like a rocket after the thief and I managed to get my hand up on Mr. Brown's shoulder as he was leveling the shotgun for a a birdshot barrage at the miscreant, forgetting the fact of friendly fire for the boxer.

Pulling back in surprise at my touch the old man swung the gun around on to my belly, calloused black finger close to the trigger. He charged up his epithetical bombardment again, this time at me.

"You nigger-lovin' rascal, what you doin' puttin' that varmint on my Elsie's 'gus patch?" Trying to settle the old fellow proved difficult as he needlessly explained, in detail, how it took three long years to get a good crop of asparagus, and "this damned devil of a goat was damn well gonna pay with his damnable hide this time. If ya'll wasn't gonna keep the damn critter on a damn leash than me and the little missus was just gonna be eatin' us some goddamn goatmeat pretty quick, here."

The barking dog's fading sounds let me know that the two animals were out on a chase like to last awhile but at the same time, out of birdshot range. So I soothed the cantankerous old coot as best I could to get that double-barrel pointed away from my belly-button.

He did settle down after a minute, at least to a decibel range softer than a rock concert and I began helping straighten up the cherished asparagus plants when the 'little missus' stepped out the back door.

"A good morning to you, young Dr. Jake", she greeted me. Her ever-present smile won everyone over, without exception, and even her curmudgeonly husband quieted down in her presence.

My profuse apologies elicited manual and vocal brush-offs of my concern from the tiny titan of a woman, saying that she had so much asparagus picked and pickled by this time of the season that the couple could exist on the delicacy quite awhile, now, thank-you-very-much.

Besides, she said, that goat was a whippersnapper-- she loved her that big old goat.

After making sure all was under control, she warned me against catching cold, which confused me, and extracted a promise to stop by for a coffee-chat soon. Maybe after I was able to dress, she added, which answered my confusion, considering my running outfit.

Then she warned her husband to mind his manners in front of me-- and his tongue, too, if he knew what was good for him. She had apparently overheard what he had called me a bit ago.

No problem on the name-calling, I mused. Old people had very few filters by their age. In their eyes, they had 'graduated' from the societal mores system, feeling no compunction to guard their thoughts as they once had done.

I had watched my own elderly father accost a departing restaurant customer, boring in on the man's size 50 waist, expressing hope that the man had left us some... food, I had supposed... as we entered to sit down to our own dinner. Ahem. Would I be the same upon reaching that point in life?

Mr. Brown and my father notwithstanding, the ladies of age tended more to matronly lenience/acceptance than older men and I hoped for my female hormones to pick up the pace in my elder years, as is common for older gentlemen... just not at the expense of my masculinity or testosterone levels, mind you. That was too precious a commodity to do without. Especially in light of my other half.

Cal had about the highest level of libido I had ever experienced and it never ceased to amaze me at his wherewithal to pop a hard-on under almost any circumstance and in any venue. Desired or not...

One of the many things that endeared us to each other eight years into our relationship happened to be that we always tested our sexual limits, and then some. Hell, the man had grabbed me not an hour ago as I tried to sneak from bed to go for my run, insisting on his early morning blowjob before departing.

Not that I am complaining, one should understand. His handsome piece achieved rigidity quicker than any prick his size I had ever watched harden. And it came quicker than any, too, when need called for it.

Then again, when we were not rushed, the stud could last three hours with a towering pipe, quivering in anticipation at three inches past his navel and two inches out from his ripped stomach, curving gently upward and usually throbbing to a beat of its own as it awaited further attention from yours truly.

I loved teasing him. He was extremely careful not to offend people by the tenting effect he proffered the public in every day clothes-- his junk could not be hidden in most any pants or drawers, short of using a dragqueen's truss.

I knew the exact buttons and triggers by touch and by voice which set the beast into motion...a fact of which he was well aware. Therefore, he insisted on ground rules for us when we went to public events. Ha on that, I told myself.

More than once I had seen him tent the front of his pants hugely, much to others' notice and his own exasperation...he suffered embarrassment at the expanded state while I simply reveled in the reminder of my man's prodigious capacity and staying power---just the thought of it made my juices flow. I would need to address that premise in a few minutes knowing his morning wood would not be sated by a single blowjob. I goose-fleshed at the thought.

Farmer Brown made his continued presence known to me again as I fantasized amidst the asparagus's phallic shapes, trying to raise the stalks from their hoof-flattened wilt. The thought crossed my mind that someone should market plant viagra.

"Boy, you musta forgot yo' drawers by the looks o' things," pointing the slightly diverted shotgun barrel in the direction of my crotch.

Indeed. I looked down and realized my Cal-induced semi-boner had not done me any favors here. Nothing but running shorts and running shoes provided me cover, and as hung as I was, very little was being left to the imagination just now. Thank goodness Mrs. Brown had gone.

Attempting adjustment was futile without a jock and the old man chortled at the picture. "So, white boys might can't jump but at least some of them pack a bunch, huh? How d'you get that whonker out'n the way when the time comes? With that Cal-boy of your'n, I mean. Everybody knows what that boy's packin'. Matter o' public record since the state finals wrestlin' match back in high school, a- yup."

With that he straightened up, looking off into the morning darkness with what would seem to be a sentimentally wistful gaze. Wow, I thought, what could that be about?

Making promises for further amends to Farmer Brown I vacated the scene with dick flopping. Although mortified (Not! I live by the mantra, "If you got it, flaunt it") I reached the doorway to our bedroom and melted at the thought of climbing under those covers with my Daddy.

Cal's reproaches had been plentiful enough for me to believe he preferred me sexually in a semi-ripe state of hygiene. After my early runs, that essence did prevail...with the added aura of billygoat gruff at the present.

"If I wanted a woman or a damn ho', then I sure know where to look--don't be comin' on to your man smellin' like a flower, now, you listening whiteboy?" After several years of personal disgruntlement over that particular, I had finally acceded to his desires. Gotta admit that the musk odor certainly whetted his appetite.

As I snuck through the creaky door and just about reached the covers to climb in, he emerged from the still pre-dawn darkness, purposely hiding by the bathroom door.

Rousted earlier by the commotion, he had spied unsuccessfully out the window during the showdown. Only able to discern an approximate truth of what was occurring, along with the 'little missus' feminine voice, Cal decided to hunker down and wait.

He didn't want to barge out to save my ass what with his morning stiff in attendance and her presence sealed that I was instead waylaid only a short distance from my goal.

Muscular bicep suddenly materialized between my salty thighs from behind and underneath, forearm already flexing up to my stomach. In the doing, my half-mast cock was pincered between myself and his arm.

Feeling my anticipatory swelling he groaned with pleasure at our mutual need, whamming me down onto the mattress in one fluid movement. Trapped by ebony musculature imminently familiar to me, I succumbed easily to the 'foreplay' ,such as it was.

His full lips locked onto mine, his beautiful arm slid snakelike from on my stomach and crotch. That arm's attached hand matched its mate on either side of my head and he buried his long, talented tongue far into my mouth.

It always sucks my breath away at the intensity with which he undertakes the conquest of his custom booty. I often used the lust of Atilla the Hun after success in battle as comparison. Taking the spoils of war.

The analogy aids in the understanding of the origin of "booty".


{Before my liason began with Cal and for the post-pubescent era of my youth I had styled myself a total top man. Being well-hung in the lily white world, I had no problem taking the dominant role and playing it to the hilt.

I liked being in control and as a strong alpha personality, it befit my persona. All through undergrad schooling I practiced what I felt was my natural predilection.

Upon my introduction to Cal Broadhearst nine years back at a frat party, no less, I was introduced to his world of sex. In between grad school and med school, I was afraid of the man then. Concentration on my medical degree was not to be trifled with. Within the year he was in my pants, in my bedroom and in my Life. And he has never been fucked. To the present day.

Sure, my tongue had tested his virginity through the years and he melts to putty upon my ministrations-- I could've probably pushed the envelope and gotten into his ass had I tried at those times. But the last thing I wanted, once having tasted of his sexual prowess, was to perform that on him. The lustre would diminish and fade...

He was a total man who wanted me, and, yes, other men on occasion, too--about which I was confident enough to be good with. Always and forever would he be My top. And I His bottom: any way he wanted.

While we both consummated sex with some others by mutual and non-jealous consent, my heart was ever with this man. Never could I have pictured that for myself, but the puzzle fit together and we were one by the fact. Our first and last rule was honesty. Nothing else makes sense.

Millions of women would keep their men happy for a lifetime with that single tongue-to-ass maneuver if they could only do so. But it is a male thing-- this use of tongue in ass. Women have serious blocks at even giving good head, and ho's hired for the purpose wear thin very quickly: too trailer park. And too dangerous.

Regardless, almost any top man would choose good tongue-to-ass action over even fellatio. A major G-spot is there.

So take it from me, the way to a man's heart is not through their stomach-- it is by the lingual backdoor entrance. The Hershey Highway. Just remember your

Hopefully the fairer sex will never find enjoyment in this act as the entire gay world might be dealt a serious setback. Fo' sho'. Shhhh, don't tell.}


Anyway, Cal wended his smooth, sinewy legs in between my own, gradually inching mine apart, per his wont, never removing his mouth from my lips. Rock hardness ruled as our dicks entwined and our tongues fought one another. He gently bit my lips one at a time in the doing.

Finally getting our legs separated from their mates far enough, his homunculus spongily probed for that opening. I always kept some Palmer's cocoa butter on the nightstand by the big bed within arm's reach and found it while he continued the teasing. The butter coated both him and me and I shivered at the feel of the giant piece about to take me, once again.

His ebony arms hooked my knees as his dick entered my sphincter. Our animal grunts along with his stacatto instructions and pleadings took over as his prick slowly, incessantly slid up into the nether regions of my channel. Upon 'bottoming out' we ceased rhythm and held close for what seemed forever as my ass accomodated its master yet again. His tongue in my mouth played the perfect decoy.

Cal knew the ecstasy of delayed satisfaction well, as he found my desire upped by a power of ten when he took the time like this to master me. Once there, he was aware he could proceed in any way he preferred from there on.

This morning, he preferred chest-to-chest rubbing while his fingers wrapped through the spaces between my toes, extending my legs and his arms out to the sides. He knew toe spaces to be my #1 g-spot, and he growled deep into my mouth, suffusing us both with a vibrating buzz.

The rhythmic motion of our coupled state enfolded and held us captive by its power. Not a thin dime could have been fit between our bodies and with my legs and his arms out and away from our torsos, Cal took us to the place we knew as our own. Nobody and nothing could rival this consummation. Over the years our experimentations had perfected the various methods employed for mutual bliss.

My fat dickhead pumped cum from its eye without warning upon one particularly long, throbbing, masterful stroke. I felt him pulsate inside me in release of the tension when my constricting prostate signaled him of my climax. His vibrating growl extended into a long sigh of total release, both of us sagging together as juices flowed.

After long minutes our still interlocked tongues messaged each other of continued viability and we groaningly retracted from one another's bodies. His mischievous smile pervaded my vision by nose-closeness.

Cal abruptly licked my face from chin to mouth to nose to forehead and sprang up off of me, shower intentions obvious. Dragging me along we disappeared into the steam for purification rites not noticing the small figure stealthily scootch out from under our bed and quiet-as-a-mouse, unlike a previous time, slink out to his own bedroom with the smuggest of smug looks across his face...

Things that make you go, "hmmmm."

A very laid back breakfast later, Cal revved up his tablet for the webinar he had scheduled for mid-morning with his board-of-directors and a group of new potential investors. He was business-like in his intent on the set-up and as I shouldered my backpack to depart he perfunctorily patted my butt and pecked my cheek on the way by him to the door.

In contrast, Boy bounded up to both Sophie and me, demanding lift-up hugs and little boy nuzzlings which hadn't been a part of his new, grown-up image for the past 6 months, as I was later informed. His aunt was tickled by his reversion and when he nuzzled my neck goodbye he whispered he "loved me my Uncle Jake", totally blowing me away.

The imp hadn't granted such a title for me up to then and my heart grew three sizes as my sis-in-law and I loaded into the Range Rover to head out. She was likewise surprised and heartwarmed by her eldest nephew's vocal acceptence of me into the family and we chatted amicably over the first half hour of the drive...


"Well, if he is , he is going to have a long hot wait," said Sophie as she bit into the panini sandwich over lunch at the Museum of Art cafe.

The young man had been waiting on the rock bench on the adjoining patio since she and I had sat down for lunch half an hour before. I had commented again on the very noticeable mohawked guy to Sophie upon our running into him for the fourth time in as many hours during our campus visit.

At the Raptor center he had been locked-in and absorbed throughout the lecture on birds-of-prey which both Sophie and I had put first on our list to hear. Seated two rows in front of us in the small outdoor ampitheatre, his caramel skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat in the hot mid-morning sun. The deep red mohawk kind of stood out in the group of 20 as we listened to the ornithological expert discuss with us the raptor species in general and the Auburn War Eagle in specific.

As the talk ended Sophie made note of the man as if he were a woman wearing her same dress at a cocktail party. "That color doesn't do much for him and the green and yellow tie-dye pants make him look like a Kwanzaa banner," she noted sourly.

The hair color almost matched her hair tip color so I failed to see her point. I took in her waist-tie, full length draped caftan, the zig-zag pattern of yellow, black and green very attractive on the exquisite young woman I called Sis-in-law. It was startlingly similar to the outfit the young man wore. His muscle shirt was a black-ribbed, dressier type and the two could have been members of the Cirque cast travelling the southeast US who we had seen as a family in Atlanta a week and a half before.

{Cal was a big follower of the Cirque du Soleil shows. We had spent a week in Vegas the previous fall just to see the four resident Cirque shows on the Strip. Zumanity had given us both raging hard-ons what with its emphasis on a sensual theme. The steel-barred set of the soft-core prison sex scene had burned him a boner that took me hours to put out after the performance.

The MC had been an amazingly well-put-together drag queen in hip boots and fluorescent sequined leather two-piece outfit who had wielded fluorescent whips which shot phosphorescent sparks into the air each time she had disciplined the next-to-naked Chippendale quality male prison performers...clad only in leather thongs and straddling sets closely resembling sex slings. It was extraordinary and left both of us horny for days. We saw it three times...}

This exotic boy had an uncommon air and flair about him. As we got up to leave the raptor talk he turned and smiled, half-bowing in Sophie's direction. She was aloof to the gesture, having taken affront to his outfit and I noted a strain of jealousy over the happenstance. Hmmm, surprising.

When we visited the Arboretum next, there he was again, very convincingly absorbed in the flora and fauna of the exceptional garden, only acknowledging us with a quick nod as we walked out the exit later on our way to the Smith Art Museum.

Now, as we sat at lunch after touring the good quality 'Great Masters Exhibit' (where the handsome mulatto had passed us several times while contemplating the art) and discussed the man's sultry presence on the sunny outdoor veranda just outside the plate glass divider, sipping an iced Starbucks drink, Sophie was a bit more than put out.

Not only did she feel that the young man had copied her look, stealing her thunder in some way, but he had made a point to shadow her at each stop on our day's excursion. As we finished up our light lunch we contemplated the odd situation.

While he wasn't threatening in any fashion and the venues we had visited were public, the fact that he had seemingly mimicked our schedule did seem somewhat weird. As she collected her things she wryly referred to the copycat-dresser outside. "If he shows up at the vet college I am going to call in the law," she declared.

Sophie was alluding to her appointment with the dean's office at the Veterinary Sciences college, the underlying impetus for our planned trip today-- she wasn't ready to announce her intent to enter veterinary medical school to her family yet, but I was honored that she had confided in me and requested accompaniment to her interview. My background in medicine and marine biology had been right for advising her in a course of action.

Asking if I would be OK for the couple hours while she was busy I assured her I would have a great time wandering the campus and exploring the Ecology Park before meeting her at Heritage Park by the university entrance for our sojourn back home to Rome. I was quite comfortable on college campuses, my natural niche as I had discovered early on in life.

Sophie left me at the Auburn U main entrance in the Rover and warned me to be on the lookout for the interloper, as she had now dubbed him, promising to be careful herself.

On my own for a bit, I felt enlightened, taking the scenic route through the storied tree-lined campus of the old East Alabama Male College, as Auburn had been titled at its pre-civil war inception. The history was intriguing for me and I stopped frequently to study the many markers and historic sites as I made my way to the Ecology Park.

On entering the Park I looked around only perfunctorily for the Kwanzaa man. I would expect to never run across him again. After all, it was Sophie who need be on guard. Checking my phone, I was relieved to see no message from her. Then I delved into the well-planned ecology park sequestered here on the old southern campus.

As it was in between summer sessions, the park was almost deserted . I enjoyed the solitude and removed my button down shirt in the afternoon heat, letting the warm breeze caress my skin.

The well-known eagle's nest was where I was headed. The teaching replica had been specially designed and placed here for public enjoyment. It was huge. Five adults could act the part of eaglets and hide down in the deepness of the inner cup. The old oak trees overhanging the site shaded the nest. I had to climb in and check it out.

Its inner surface was lined with something like feather down, providing a super-soft surface for kids to experience a real-life eagle's nest. Very interesting. I settled back in leisurely repose and luxuriated in the softness, stretching and gazing up through the tree branches.

The hot, still day and intermittent dazzle of sunlight through the overarching branches soothingly beguiled me with mental images of huge eagles landing on the edge, offering freshly caught eaglet delicacies for my culinary delight. Dappled sunlight sprinkled me with sunbeams...

Some of the downy lining floated loose and tickled my lips and I brushed it away in sleepy grogginess. I should check my phone for messages, I thought, in case the Soph or Cal had called. Fluttering my eyes open, I beheld a dark figure hovering above me, blocking the sun, and abruptly shook the drowsiness away.

There, directly above me, only a few feet away was the Kwanzaa boy. Curiously studying me as I lay asleep in the nest. Creepiness crept over me and I gawked at the mohawked male, my disturbance contrasting his curiosity.

"What the fuck are you doing, dude?" I demanded. He half-smiled without showing teeth then placed his now bare foot on the lump in the front of my shorts. I backed up on the upward curve of the lined declivity and pushed his foot off. "Dawg, you need to chill. Really, what is up?"

There was no answer at all from him. He cocked his head to the side and reached forward, touching my curly dark hair, mussed and feather-flocked. The red-topped man raised up erect again, now bracing himself by only his well-developed arms on the sides of the nest, like a gymnast descending on the still rings apparatus we see in competition.

Clearly athletically-honed to a peak of physical condition he poised in arm-horizontal position, supporting his body in performing a feat by which true Olympians could have been satisfied. He pointed his toes down targeting my slightly askew bare legs, aiming for the gap between them.

My disturbed feeling ebbed as I observed this amazing demonstration of bodily control, detecting no danger signals emanating from him. His feet reached my legs and he lightly nudged them further apart in a very seductive move. I allowed it.

Noting my altered body language the silent gymnast remained suspended over me, a full smile slowly forming on his lips. Beautifully even white teeth flashed at me. Sensing an opening, he let go his arms to the sides of the nest and reached down again, unclasping and unzipping my shorts.

Taking hold of the lower hems he swept them off in one smooth motion, pulling my legs to vertical in the action. My briefs went next and my dozy endowment began swelling at the sensuous turn of events.

Loosing my legs, he guided them to either side of his widely planted bronzed feet. Picking a few feathers out of my hair he stared down at me, naked now. That smile of his grew and so did my dick.

His foot came up onto my crotch again, this time bare skin contacting bare skin. It wasn't his foot that was engorging, though. Finally, the Kwanzaaonian pulled his black ribbed muscle shirt off and untied the yellow and green loose-flowing britches. They floated down to his ankles and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside.

His perfect caramel-skinned elegance was now proudly on display, posing over me. On his chest and stomach was enblazoned a naked black angel, wings and arms fully spread and covering those amazing pecs, wingtips disappearing into his deep armpits. The black angel's feet tip-toed on the root of his cock as if just alighting there... Green, red and yellow ink perfused the body art. I was both stunned and mesmerized.

No hair covered his skin even in his groin and pubic area. His tool phattened before my eyes and while not the size I was used to in Cal, the thickness was that of a beer can; the balls were tightly drawn and plump. It kept on levitating shamelessly.

And, the man definitely liked that I liked his angel...if you got it, flaunt it...

Mohawk Man's smile burst into a full-fledged grin and he raised hs head to survey the surroundings. It was mid-afternoon and though no one was around, who was to say that would persist? His perusal reflected that thought but he looked back down, arched his eyebrows upward and lewdly licked his lips. Then, he just about fell on top of me.

My guess was his concerns for interruption were allayed.

Wide, flaring nostrils snorted in a breath of air and the aroused man raised my tanned legs widely up and over my head, burying his tongue in my ass. It made me gasp.

Kwanzaa stud didn't waste any time, spitting on my rectal sphincter and swabbing it in readiness for the coors-can prick I was now fixed on. How did we get to here, I thought?

Oh hell, who cares...the man was totally hot , slightly sweaty, and though not exactly handsome he exuded an animal magnetism that had me wanting all of him. Right here.

Like I had a choice in the matter.

His big dick suspended itself at my ass pucker, prodding it in warning. Unlike my calm, careful Calumet, this wild Indian with the red mohawk mane blasted into my inner sanctum, brooking no dissent.

Of course, I didn't raise any, but the shock of the painful entry made me shudder and I groaned out loud. He hesitated momentarily to allow my accustoming to the huge intruder. Even through the sex-infused wantonness in his black eyes, the man/boy managed to show me he wasn't trying to hurt me, he just liked it this way. He wound up and delivered me a pile-driver fuck, rocketing the massive thing in and out of my ass while pushing my heels up, toes touching the down-lining over my head.

I stroked and fondled my own dick and tipped his angel with my fingers as I focused on his whole figure, arms stretched out securing my legs, sculpted torso taut by exertion, over-developed dark nipples crowning the killer pecs, massive dark shoulders and neck muscles on magnificent display.

The stud was supremely proud of his physique and his control of it all enhanced the effect.

Ultimately, Mr. Mohawk pummeled me to the point of no return and making one final wind-up of a plunge, he exploded into my chute, delivering a copious load I could feel both sliming me and spilling out. My prick pulsed cum by response.

Collapsing on me, dick deeply implanted, he panted in the heat of the afternoon and I experienced the feel of his hard body heaving on me in sweaty euphoria. That prickly mohawk tickled my nose.

How. fucking. hot.

When he finally gathered himself and his breathing evened out to long, deep, cavernous intakes and outflows, he hoisted up off my stomach and chest, leaving our bodies enmeshed from pubes on down. Not even allowing that still-rigid cock of his to retract from my ass.

Rather, he reached over for his pants, pulled his iphone from the pocket and raised it up behind his head. Pointing it down on the both of us in our present state with just the thick root of his piece showing from its point of ass entry. How kinky , I thought. A new take on the selfie...

When he'd clicked several different-angle shots, careful to leave our faces out but unable or undesiring to avoid his trademark red mohawk, he settled back on to my torso, enjoying communal satiation while leisurely finger-painting in the cum pooled on my flat, tanned belly. His mouth, near to my ear, sublimely purred into me.

Raising up again, the mysterious male teasingly flicked my nipples. He then handed me his phone, still grinning, and purposely began rhythmically tensing his dick in my ass to prove his continued control over me and just to watch me squirm at the feeling. I was captivated. The moves this guy had...

As I wiggled under the spasmic onslaught, the boy pointed to the phone in my hand and mouthed the words,"your numbers" at me, intending for me to enter them to his device. Hesitating for only a moment, I acquiesced. Then, on second thought, I snapped the pic of his angel as it appeared to be coming to rest on both of us at the moment. The smeared cum imbued an impressionist painting effect... He sniggled his delight.

Reluctantly, the sexy mulatto at last began gradually inching that girthful piece out of my hole, in direct opposition to his blast-like entry. A sensual pop announced our separation (as if I needed that to know it), inducing a great big grin of triumph from the suddenly very boyish fucker.

With that, Bam pummeled my hard stomach with half a dozen play punches, looked me directly in the eye, pointed to his chest and mouthed,"Me, Bam." He touched my chest with his fingertip, evincing a 'pssst' sound through his teeth at the moment of contact, mouthing, "You, Sizzle."

Bam sat back, gathered his clothes and phone , stood, nakedly waggled his dripping dick over my stomach to dribble a little bit more sperm on me, and rubbed his fingers through my sticky spunk, smirkingly licking it off.

He cocked hand to head, thumb at his ear and pinky at the corner of his mouth, grinned and lip-synced Carly Rae Jepsen's title, "Call me maybe", then lightly vaulted the side of the nest.


A minute later, I heard a cacophany of elementary age voices and jumped from my reverie to don my clothes, picturing a mental image of a caramel-colored, red-mohawked, angel be-jeweled naked Indian flashing through the wooded environs of the Ecology Park, junk bouncing all the way...those kids would never forget it.

I knew I wouldn't.

Cal would totally cream over it.


When Sophie pulled up to the curb at the entry gates of Auburn University an hour afterwards I was greeted with a girly shriek and mouth-covering gestures, informing me of her successful interview at the dean's office. She would be notified for sure in a week or two but things looked good. We shared the giddiness as she exuded happiness, explaining the details.

On the road awhile later, Sophie suddenly spoke up, "Oh, Jake, I never saw or heard from that strange Kwanzaa boy again. I forgot to tell you. Did you ever hear from the weirdo?"

My phone vibrated and chimed at that moment, signaling me of an incoming text with photo attachment..."Not a single word," I opined.





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