The Rogue and the Runaway

Copyright© 2014 – Nicholas Hall


Chapter Two


"The Rogue"


"May the countryside and the gliding valley streams content me. Lost to fame, let me love river and woodlands." – (Virgil)


My mouth popped open, I was so taken aback by his comment, and thought I should speak to his remarks, but before I could, he quickly moved his chair around the table and snugged it tight to mine before re-taking his seat.

"I just hate talking across a table – don't you? Sort of spoils the intimacy of the conversation and companionship – right?"

How the hell should I know! This man was the most outrageously audacious and forward individual I'd ever encountered. He was but little more than a fucking rogue; an interloper; a pain in the ass to say the least! He's talking intimacy of conversation and companionship when all I wanted originally was a burger and a beer! I didn't even invite him to my table and here he was, God help me please; leaning toward me, pressing his shoulder up against mine, his warmth sending little tingles up and down my spine and across my chest.

He leaned back, took a whiff and said, not critically, I don't think, "You need a shower! Not right away, but before you go to bed tonight. Not to worry though, I can put up with it until we leave – how about you? Or should I bathe you right here, the way a mother cat does her kittens? If I do, I know where I'm going to start!"

This was going to have to stop, I thought. He was rude, forward, insulting, pushy, but damned likeable, so maybe I wouldn't stop it right away, but I should, if I only knew his name, which he hadn't given yet.

I sputtered a moment, trying to force the words out that he should leave me alone, when he put his arm around me and introduced himself.

"Seth Burridge, and you are?"

Turning my head, so I was looking directly into his eyes (not five inches away, almost causing mine to cross), and answered softly, "David Andrew Fleming."

"Ah," he said with faux amazement, "you do have a voice; a voice that bespeaks of education, cultural, and just a little wealth, used to the finer things in life, I should say. College lad, are you?"

I nodded in answer to his question and, again softly, "Just graduated!"

"Off to see the world or just dropped in here to see me?"

Seth was beginning to grow on me; I found him fun, bright, quick witted, and not afraid to speak his mind or make ribald comments. For some reason, he seemed to be drawing the shyness from me, bringing a smile to my face, and a willingness to engage in conversation with him.

"Something like that," I responded with a shy smile, not wanting to reveal my real reasons for traveling.

"Oh, pray tell me," he moaned in mock anguish, "you're not on your way to see a boyfriend, leaving me wanting and rejected, doomed to go through the rest of my life suffering from an unrequited love, a broken-hearted man?" and with a shout out to the bartender and a wave of his hand, ordered two more beers be brought to our table, removed his hand from my shoulder and placed in on my right thigh!

I just about wilted, except for that part of me not four inches from that warm hand now lightly rubbing up and down my thigh, when he did that. This man was a complete and bodacious rogue; bound and determined, I thought, to seek his pleasures with my body, and well he might if I didn't need to keep traveling north.

Fresh beer in front of us, empties removed, Seth finally moved his hand, smiled and winked at me, and ventured, "David, you're not very talkative are you? Of course, I haven't given you a chance, so smitten am I, but I think you're just one of those naturally quiet, thoughtful, but sensual, sincere fellows who'd rather keep their thoughts to themselves. Maybe, after you've gotten to know me better, you'll open up for me."

If I hung around him for very long, you bet I'd open up for him; specifically that spot between my butt cheeks. That's what I'd let him open up, by God!

"So, David, maybe I better tell you a little about myself."

I looked at my watch, the fresh beer, and the grin on his face, now becoming more attractive as the evening wore on, and decided, what the hell, I could spend my time in worse ways. I could always sleep a little later in the morning.

I waited patiently for him to say something, expecting to hear him begin giving me a much enhanced and creative version of his life story or something similar; probably bullshit I thought to myself. More than likely "something for the masses" as my father would say, not caring if it was the truth or a variation of it to suit the occasion or the election currently in progress.

Seth pushed back his chair, I leaned forward in anticipation of the story, and he announced, "I've got to piss! Care to join me?"

I wasn't altogether certain, at that point in the evening, whether he meant "join me" in a piss or really "join me," plugged in deep, shooting rockets through the socket! My bladder was full, so I decided to take a chance and assume "join me" was for the purpose of pissing and followed him to the restrooms. They were labeled "Bucks" and "Does", with pictures of a male and female deer under each sign, so not to confuse the locals who couldn't read, I thought and followed him into the one labeled "Bucks." Inside the small restroom was a toilet stool, a urinal, and a sink, with cotton towel unit on the wall. Seth proceeded to step up to the urinal and I headed to the toilet.

"No sense in wasting water," he advised. "They're on their own well and septic so both of us can use the urinal at the same time," and scooted over a bit so I could stand, precariously, I might add since our bodies were tight up against each other, alongside of him.

There were two things I noticed immediately; the bottom of the urinal was filled with ice and in a horse race, Seth would definitely beat me by not a head, but by a full length or more if cocks were horses (and tops could ride and melons were cum filled, I'd be fucked till I died) I thought, parodying an old rhyme I'd heard one time or another.

I looked up, blushing from my forwardness and my very erotic thoughts, and noticed he was looking at mine own pinkie twinkie shooting out its stream.

"Nice cut cock," he commented approvingly and wiggled his own uncut, fleshy scepter to clear it of any stray drops, but didn't tuck it away. Instead, he stood, holding it with one hand, smiling at me, watching me loose my stream.

In attempt to make small talk, change the subject, anything to keep my own cock from swelling, I asked lamely, "Why the ice?"

"In the urinal?"

Well, duh, what else? I merely nodded.

"Saves water so guys don't have to flush; it melts as they piss on it doing the same job. Besides, it helps keep the smell down. Some guys piss really stinks after they've had a few beers and some pickled fish or eggs."

I could only imagine, having never tantalized my palette with either one. I'd bet when they farted it was a treat also! Once I'd finished and tucked Rover back in the doghouse, waiting a moment for Seth to do the same (as much as I wanted to help him, I refrained), we walked back to our table.

Seated again, Seth ventured, "You already know my name, so I don't have to re-hash that. I'm twenty-three years old and have lived in the area all my life. My folks are farmers, now retired, and I have two older brothers and an older sister. They all farm in the area also."

He paused, "I'm not..., well, let's put it this way; I grew up on the farm, worked it and still do, but farming is not something I wanted to do full-time the rest of my life. Mom and Dad think I'm kind of a maverick or odd ball for not wanting to do so, but they understand."

Maverick; now that's an understatement if there ever was one. Perhaps rapscallion would better describe him; although a delightfully delicious one, I thought as I nursed my beer. Seth Burridge tended to grow on you, at least he did me. I was realizing, as I sat there, drinking beer and listening to him talk, that I hadn't had this much fun in years.

"All I ever really wanted to do was to live here, hunting, fishing, and trapping just like my Uncle Will, Dad's brother, did for years. He was happy so I figure I can be too. He was the man who really got me interested, or should I say, unleashed my interests, in the outdoor world and the beauties of this river valley and of the Mississippi. He taught me all he knew and more. I guess I'm just a free spirit like he was. God, I just love it here and what I do for a living. I couldn't ask for much more in life, unless it was to have someone to share it with."

Before I could comment on that last part of his remarks, he moved on. While in high school Seth trapped and fished alongside his uncle, learning as he did, and discovered the rivers and surrounding woodlands provided a cash bounty when their resources were harvested. The cash he earned from the sale of fish and furs began to build up and provide him with a nice little nest egg.

After high school he attended the local community college for two years, earning an Associates Degree in Accounting. He acknowledged it came in quite handy in helping him determine his profits and losses by tracking his income and expenditures.

"Good books means good business, which means profit to the business owner," he said matter-of-factly.

I couldn't agree or disagree since I certainly never had to worry about money before or keep track of my expenditures, until I started saving for my escape. The only books I ever worried about were my text books while at college and then really very little.

"Spring, summer, and fall," he continued, "when not fishing, I help out on the farms when my brothers and sister need me. It's a family farm operation, organized as a limited liability company so they jointly farm the land and are partners in it. My mom and dad retain some ownership through the company as well."

"How about you?" I asked rather boldly.

"Oh, I receive some income from the operation, but it's prorated on how much work I put in during the year."

"Seth, if you fish in the summer and work on the farm during the summer, what do you do in the winter?" I asked, assuming he probably sat around on his very nicely formed and somewhat muscular buttocks.

Seth looked at me strangely, almost incredulous that I should ask such a question.

"Why I hunt, trap, and fish!"

"How you do you fish in the winter? Aren't the rivers and streams all frozen over?"

Again, the strange look!

"Through the ice; usually with gill nets or a seine haul for sheepshead," he answered.

"A what?" I sputtered. Visions of fish with wooly skins and sheep-like heads were dancing about in my head. In everything I'd ever read or studied, I'd not run across such an oddity before.

He looked at me, suppressed a grin, pursed his lips, and asked, "City boy- right?"

I nodded.

"Ever been fishing?"

"Once," I replied rather sheepishly.

"Catch anything?"


Now he grinned, saying with enthusiasm, "Man, you've got a lot to learn and I'm just the guy to teach you."

Perhaps, I thought, from what I'd read and seen on the internet, since my experiences were limited to the brief foray with the gardener's grandson, I knew plenty already, but I certainly was open to new ideas or techniques in a hand's on learning environment. At any rate, the longer I was around him, the more amenable I was to being his willing pupil, for anything he was willing to instruct me on or stuff me with.

"A sheepshead or the freshwater drum, is a rough fish found abundantly in the Mississippi and some of its tributaries. It's used for many purposes, including fresh fish for human consumption and if taken at the right time of the year and processed properly, is quite tasty. I eat it on occasion myself and enjoy it. I catch them in nets in the spring and summer and in the winter I join a bunch of other guys in doing a several seine hauls through the ice."

I listened with fascination as Seth explained how the large net was slipped under the ice, looped back toward shore, and slowly pulled toward a large hole the fishermen cut through the ice near the shore. As the long net was pulled, it forms a large pocket, trapping all the fish within until, at the shore, the net is emptied, taking the rough fish, or in this case the sheepshead, and releasing the game fish. The rough fish are loaded in a truck, hauled to a market for processing, and the crew splits the profits since they owned the seine jointly and work together in the haul. During the summer, they get together every now and again and do a haul, sans ice, harvesting carp, buffalo (not the furry, four-legged critters I first thought until told otherwise), and sheepshead.

"We really don't do too bad at it," he noted, "if the prices are right."

He stopped momentarily to finish his beer and ordered two more for us. I fumbled in my pocket in a vain attempt to pay for them (my stash of cash was locked in the truck and I only had twenty bucks on me), but he waved me off.

"Keep your money," he advised, "I've got some money behind the bar."

I raised my eyebrows in question; I had no idea what he was talking about and he knew it.

"It means I gave the bartender some money for my drinks when I came in and he runs a tab on how much I spend from it. If I don't spend it all, he gives me the balance; if I overspend, I pay him more. Okay? Geez, David, you're really wet behind the ears."

We sipped our beers, both quiet, but he was right, I was "wet behind the ears" and had much to learn.

"Ever hunt?" he asked.


"Ever been on a boat?"

Now that I could answer and proceeded to tell him of the cruises we'd taken on various cruise ships, including one to Cancun, which he could have cared less about, but was polite. When I finished, I could see that wasn't the type of boat he was referring to.

"David, that's the most I've heard you say all evening," he commented, "but I was referring to a fishing boat, perhaps a sixteen footer or a flat boat used for commercial fishing."

"Nope, never been on either one," I confessed.

"Ever been on a farm?"

"Nope, but I've seen pictures of farms."

"Oh boy, not even close, David my man, but we're going to get you educated if I can convince you to stick around for a little while."

With that the bartender hollered, "Last call, Seth!

Seth looked at his watch, raised his eyebrows, and answered, "It's only nine-thirty; that's early isn't it?"

"Yeah, but Julie has a dental appointment in the morning and its slow tonight, so I'm closing early."

"That's his youngest daughter," Seth confided in me, and asked the bartender, "How much do I owe you?"

"Four bucks!"

Seth walked to the bar, paid his tab, and gave me a wave. "Follow me," he instructed and walked out the door of the bar.

Outside, I asked, mystified, "This may sound ridiculous or perhaps even naïve, but pray tell where am I following you to?"

"My place; you're going to spend the night."

Seth noticed my uncertainty and hesitation and quickly added, "Don't worry; it's not far, only three or four miles."

I took a chance and remarked, "I bet you invite all the men you meet in the bar to spend the night at your place, right?"

"Nope, this is the first time- ever!"

To be continued:


Thank you for reading The Rogue and the Runaway – Chapter Two – The Rogue -"May the countryside and the gliding valley streams content me. Lost to fame, let me love river and woodlands." – (Virgil)

If you enjoy my stories and the many others found on this free site, please consider a donation to Nifty.  It is your donations which make all of our stories free and available for you to read and enjoy.  Other stories of mine may be found under "Nifty Very Prolific Authors." Thank you. 

Nick Hall


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.


The Literary works of Nicholas Hall are protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and are the property of the author.

Positive comments are welcome and appreciated at: