The room is warm; the heat from the lit fire in the rustic brick fireplace heats the small intimate room of the hunting lodge. It is a cold North Florida night, on the Apalachicola River, in the backwoods of the Sunshine State on this cool autumn night. Hunting season has arrived with a cold front that moved down from the north, a day before. After several days of heavy downpour, from the unexpected storm that rolled through with the front, it has cleared up, now, but the coolness has remained. Nearby a train, passes, over the trestle bridge, blowing its whistle as it heads east, towards Tallahassee. As it is so close to the cabin, the whistle is a common occurrence. The hooting whistle of the train echoes loudly over the rushing waters of the Apalachicola.

I jump from the unexpected interruption in the wooded quietness.

"Damn, that whistle gets me every time," I say.

"You did jump," he says.

"Okay, Travis," I say, perturbed, "I did."

He smirks at my comment.

There are two of us, here, sitting in the lodge, more were expected but they never showed up. He sits, shirtless and barefoot, in his off-white long johns. Occasionally, he fondles his massive package, as he sweats in his long underwear, in his overstuffed chair, having to adjust himself to feel comfortable in the overbearing heat.

The lodge is a rickety old house, barely habitable, by modern standards, a former sharecropper's tenement moved to the property and converted to a ramshackle hunting lodge, a place to bunk down before the next morning's hunt. There is a large somewhat-spacious front room with a fireplace, a short hallway and a bedroom. It is not very spacious, it is not suppose to be, it is just a place to hang out. There is no bathroom or kitchen.

"The fire might have been a bit premature," he says," I am sweating like the Dickens in here."

"Me too," I say.

I am not in long johns, like him, but in thoroughly worn and stained cotton briefs, I too, am sweating, as the band of my underwear has a visible wet ring around it, on my hairy waist. There is a hole on the right side of my briefs, near the waistband on the top- front, above the fly and a hole in the seat of my briefs. My thick unshaven pubes poke through both of these worn holes in my Fruit-of-the-Looms.

I reach in, through the front worn-through hole and scratch myself, exposing my cock for Travis; the hole grows ever bigger from my manipulations. I reach back and scratch my ass, feeling my bare-ass through the rear-end torn hole.

"So what time do you want to go out and get in the stand?" I ask.

"About 5:30 a.m.," he answers," we should be waiting for them when they start walking about, getting the acorns off the ground."

"Sounds good to me," I answer," you want a beer, to cool off, man?"

"Yeah, sure," he answers, "that would be good."

Travis is a large hulking-framed masculine man. His muscles peek out from under his sleeves, when he wears a shirt, usually so snug that he rips them to shreds when he flexes his hardened muscles. He is also a moderately hairy man, not overly hairy, but a light sheen of hair that follows the curvature of his defined frame, which leads to a dense happy trail that creeps under the waistband of his white long johns. He sports a goatee, raggedy-wavy short hair, which is peppered with dark and white throughout, a real Grizzly Adam's type man except he keeps his facial hair neatly trimmed and man-scaped in a thoroughly modern way.

"Catch Travis," I say as I throw him a can of chilled Budweiser.

Travis sits in his overstuffed chair across from the fireplace. I am in the other chair directly across from him; there is a sofa between us. The beer cooler sits on the floor next to me, I am hoarding the alcohol.

I am stingy with it.

I am an alcoholic, I admit.

He catches the can, having to stretch, to reach it from my failed toss, as my aim, typically, is off. As Travis rose up to catch the beer, the fly of his long john, it opens up, suspiciously, out pops, Travis' cock.

He is not aware of the slip, I do not think, and I do not say anything.

I just admire the scenery, his male spear.

Nothing sexual in my admiration, I swear, I just admire my friend.

He is a man. I am man.

This is not the first time I have seen him, all of him.

His cock, out of the fly, lays on his legs, in full splendor, with hints of pubic hair clearly visible for me to see as they are hanging out the sides of the fly-opening too.

He does not seem to mind that I see his manhood.

"Sorry 'bout that," I say, "I never was any good at baseball but you know that."

"Yeah, I remember," Travis says, "sports weren't your thing, man, but you are the best shot with your rifle. Which surprises me?"

We laugh at my lack of athletic skill.

"We should have thrown out some corn for the deer," he says, "It would have increased our chances of getting a buck."

"Yeah, but where is the fun in that," I say, "I thought we were hunting, not enticing deer with treats."

We laugh. The hunting we are doing is not the same that our dad and granddads did back in the olden days. My great granddad had dogs that he ran to stir-up the deer. Nowadays, that does not happen. They even used dogs to run the wild hogs out of the dense woods of North Florida and southern Georgia.

"You think we best get some sleep, we have to be up in a few hours," I say.

"Yeah," he says, "I am going to go back to bedroom, it will be much cooler back there away from the sauna in here."


Travis stands and adjusts his package, his cock still peeks out the fly of his own long johns, he does not seem bothered by his exposure or even attempt to tuck his cock back into the fly.

He seems proud.

"It is time for these things to come off," Travis says as he drops his long johns in front of me in the fireplace-heated living room.

His hair is matted in sweat around his waist where the elastic band of his long johns was snug.

Travis' cock falls, hanging from his hairy legs among the thick dark furry pubes, he is a big man, not just in physique but in his manhood too. He reaches underneath his balls and lifts them, massaging them, tempting me, as he touches himself within my sight. His cock reacts and awakens as he fondles his exposed packaged goods. Beads of sweat rise from the pores across his body, I smell him, as he reacts to the intense heat of this very small room. The musky odors of his masculinity fill the cramped room. He slowly grows an erection from the manipulations in front of me.

"Why'd you take those briefs off," Travis says, "they are so full of holes anyway, it's not like that are holding anything in."

He laughs as he makes his last comment.

I stammer myself, making barely audible mumbles, before I drop my own well-worn underwear.

I drop them and stand bare, as he is; my cock hangs down too, thanks to the force of gravity. The hot air feels good at it stimulates my ball-sac, the flesh rolls as my taunt nuts react to the heat, relaxing, from the fire as it burns warmly in the fireplace.

I feel a drip form deep from inside me as the cum builds-up in my over-heated stimulated balls.

I feel my cock stiffen, too, not into full erection, like his, but into a semi.

Obvious to Travis, obvious to me, too.

I reach down, mimicking Travis in the same fashion as he just did, fondling my masculine package.

I feel no embarrassment, neither does he?

"I am off to bed," Travis says.

He steps out of his long johns, piled at his feet, leaving them cluttered on the floor of the room.

I stand watching him as he walks down the short hallway to the room. His ass sways, provocatively, revealing his rear-end hairs as he walks, his years of exercise and weight-lifting has built himself a firm muscular ass. The soft globes are covered in a matt of hair-carpet, not shaggy but lightly dense fur from his natural maturation into a man.

Once he turns into his room, I come back down from my drunken stupor, not only brought on by my half drank beer but his enticing swaying hypnotic ass, too.

"Hey Jesse, "Travis shouts out from the bedroom.

"Yeah," I say.

"What?" Travis barely audible voice mumbles back from the bedroom.

His voice seems exhausted, as if he were working out.

I walk to the bedroom, seeing the silhouette of Travis lying on top of the sheets of one of the two single beds in the room. His cock, which has risen like the 'leaning tower of Pisa' from his groin, he is unashamed, in his masculine nudity, in the half-light of the room.

I see him on the bed.

"Yeah, Travis, whatcha want?" I ask.

I fondle my own cock as I stand in the doorway; I feel it begin to stiffen, too, at the sight of his.

I reach and gently stroke myself in response to Travis' erection.

"Where are you sleepin'?" Travis asks me, as his cock maintains it steely hardness, with his hand gently stroking it as I watch.

"I figured I'd bed down out here on the sofa," I say, "Why?"

"Well, there is the other bed over there," he says as he points to the bed near the window, while he continues to stroke his cock with his other hand.

"Naw, I'll sleep in there," I say, "That's where the alarm clock is, this house has only one socket and it is in there and the alarm clock is in there."

"Okay, "he says, "Wake me up when you get up."

As he finished his sentence, he continues stroking his hard cock in front of me, unashamed of his spectacle, the same as me.

I turn and walk from the doorway, feeling my cock bounce off my sweat soaked thighs, hitting each side of my groin-area, as I sharply turned from the doorway.

"See you in a few hours," I hear Travis say from his bed as I leave.

I walk back to the sofa, gently stroking my cock, as I go. I am completely hard, now, and leaking much juice as I walk. There is a trail of my DNA on the floor of the lodge; I see it sparkle in the light of the fire as I lay down upon the sofa.

I lay down, feeling the softness of the overstuffed clothed sofa against my bare flesh. I am sweating more now, as the temperature has risen considerably in the room. I let the sweat be used as a natural lubricant along with finger full of spittle I have added to my other expelled masculine juices.

I stroke furiously as I feel myself build near orgasm, traveling up and down the full length of my erection. Once I reach the head of my flesh-missile, I spread the expelled cum-juice over my cocked-crown; these juices further excite me and harden my manhood, even more, lubing up my cock for the next stroke of my hand.

I continue the slow bate of my dick.

Up and down.

Down, then back up, varying my grip as I go.

Squeezing the base and tweaking my cockhead gently.

Then back down the shaft again, feeling the blood rush through the veins on my cock, filling them makes my cock grow, more and more and more into its natural thickness.

I resume my stroking, gripping harder at the fleshy-cut crown and then lightly squeezing the root, at the hilt of my flesh-sword.

My cock is a missile of manhood ready to launch forth its built-up juices stored in its cum-filled ball-like boosters.

I feel the sweat steadily increase between my balls as I near my anticipated explosion.

I erupt, fully covering my chest in my milky white man-batter, feeling and watching my cum seep down through the dark hairy corners and folds of my balls and my legs onto the couch.

I hear the floor creak behind.

Travis must be watching me.

I drift off to sleep, still covered in my own cum.

I am spent, tired and slightly drunk.




The damned alarm goes off, echoing through the cramped and tiny little house. It goes on for minutes, that irritating incessant buzzing.

In my sleep, I do not recognize it; my brain ignores the overbearing sound of the alarm.

"Damn it, Jesse," I hear over my head, an angry voice," cut that fucking alarm clock off. I thought that was why you slept out here. I heard it back in the damned bedroom."


In a haze.

I groggily stir from my short slumber.

A dried patch of cum covers my hairy chest and pubes, they are matted down from my body's own provoked nocturnal emission from hours earlier.

"I gotta take a piss," Travis says, his cock, pointing straightward from his muscular groin amidst his thick pubes.

Travis walks to the door in the front of the house, opens it and is greeted by a dark and cool morning. He steps out, onto the first landing, grabs his own piss-inflated cock and lets the urine stream into an arch from his morning erection.

He stands with his hands on his hips, swaying about, spraying the ground, sprinkling it with the dew from his bladder.

As the pee is expelled, his cock slowly deflates from its hardened state, as the urine is released.

An 'ahh' escapes his weary lips as the sensation travels throughout his sharply awakened body. Once the warm piss makes contact with the cool morning air, a piss-steam cloud drifts from the man-produced yellow water.

I join him, rubbing the caked cum off my chest and pubes, making a man cum-snow-storm as the dried essence is removed from my body hair in the gentle morning breeze.

"So you jacked that cock of yours before you went to sleep, last night, huh?" Travis asks.

"Yeah," I say.

"I would have liked to have seen it," Travis says, as he finishes his piss, shaking his now limp rod and heads back inside the small lodge, where it is warm.

I finish my own morning ritual and join him as he now sits on the sofa, directly in front of the cooled embers in the fireplace.

"I heard the floor creak," I say.

There are patches of dried cum still in the hair of my pubes and chest.

His hands rest in-between his V-shaped spread legs, his is not touching his tool but he is using his hands to drawn my attention to it.

"Its cold like a mother-fucker out there," he says.

I find a place, near him on the sofa and sit.

We both sit with our legs spread, wide, as most men do, to accommodate the tool that dangles betwixt our open legs, whether it is big or small, we spread our legs wider, to take up as much room as we can and to give the illusion of possessing much bigger equipment than we actually are blessed to behold.

"You want some coffee?" he asks me, as he gently fondles his limp cock between his legs.

A drop of dew escapes from the slit on his crowned cut member.

I am not sure if is more piss or pre-cum.

"Yeah," I say, "I need to warm these ole tired sleepy bones."

"You already warmed one 'bone' last night," he says, "you fired off quite a load, last night, before you dosed off to dreamland."

"You watched?" I ask him, "I thought so."

He nods.

Smiling widely.


"Did it feel good?" he asks.

"Yeah," I answer, not sure what I should say at his statement.

"It felt really good," he says," I imagine."

"It did," I answer, "it felt damn good."

"You still want that coffee?" he asks.

"Of course, yeah," I say.

He hands me the coffee pot percolator.

"Get some water from the gallons we brought with us," he says.

He leans up to stoke the fire, from his seated position, the still somewhat hot embers in the fireplace.

"They are still hot enough to boil water for instant coffee," he says, "you got the water?"

"Yeah, "I answer him as I hand the percolator filled with cool water in his direction.

He places the pot near the outer fringes of the hot embers; we wait for it to boil.

As he rises from his kneeled position, I see his balls hang and cock droop as he stands. As he turns, his equipment dangles close to my face as I have once again returned to my seat on the couch.

He stands motionless in front of me.

His cock, in the direct sights of my face, I can smell him, his morning masculine scent from his sleep just minutes before.

He does not move, towering over me in his masculine presence.

"You gonna sit there," he says, somewhat angrily, "or are you going to get dressed to go out."

I rise from my seated stance, brushing up against him. Our body hair, tickling each other because of such close proximity to one another, we are that close. Our cocks do tap each other, a brief accidental sword fight, when I touch him. He does not attempt to step back so I can get up from my seat unobstructed, it is as if he wants to be this close to me.

"Be careful with that, "he says, "I could go off. I did not stroke my cock as you did last night. I have a hearty load still in my balls; I guess I am going to have to shoot it later."

I say nothing at his suggestion.

"We best get ourselves dressed and out to our spot," he says, "We are burning up daylight, 'hem-hawing' around here."

"Yeah, we need to quit diddling around, the deer ain't gonna be out, forever," I say.

Travis goes to the bedroom to get his camo gear and rifle and then walks back out to the 'living room' of the wee little hunting lodge.

Travis pulls up his camouflaged pants, minus the long johns he had on last night, stopping short of buttoning and zipping up his pants, letting his furry cock and balls hang through the zippered-portion of his pants, as he pulls a white cotton t-shirt over his head and a camouflage button-down shirt over the t-shirt.

He shoves, stuffs, his furry package into his pants, tucks in his shirts and loops his belt through the camouflaged pants, it is 'invisible' too against the backdrop of his green, black and white patterned pants.

"What ya, standing there for," he says, "get your ass dressed, man."

I had been caught leering at him as he dressed, completely entranced by his magnificence.

I dress identical to him, a twin in similar attire. I am minus my own torn and tattered briefs, choosing to 'go commando' too, the same as him.

The hot water boils as we place our camo hunting caps onto our heads and don our matching neon orange hunting vests.

We pour water, over the instant coffee crystals, in our cups, drinking it black and letting it awaken us by its warmth and caffeine.

We are ready to go out, be a southern man and bag a buck, hopefully on this first day of hunting season.



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