Cory, Bo, and Doc
by Ashley Hardric ©2005
ahardric@gmail.com

Disclaimers: 
    This is a work of fiction.  That means it is not true.  Didn’t happen.  It’s a figment. No boys were involved or harmed in the writing of this story and no trees were sacrificed.  The author does not condone sex with boys; he just writes fantasies about it.  Further, sex in reality requires caution and protection, but my characters won’t catch any bad bugs unless I write them in.  Be safe and legal in the real world, and enjoy the story only if you are of age and location to do so legally.

    **This story is the property of the author and may not be reproduced elsewhere (i.e. other than Nifty Archive)  without his permission.**

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Chapter Eleven

    I stumbled out of bed and answered the intercom call.  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said into the box.  “Get some clothes on,” I said to the boys as I pulled on pants and a sweat shirt, “just in case.”

    I went outside and walked to the gate.  A very miserable looking black man stood there, shivering in the pre-dawn cold. 

    “Man, am I glad to see you,” he said, his teeth chattering.  “I thought I would freeze to my death out here.  My truck broke down last night, and I started walking, and you’re the first sign of civilization I’ve found.”

    “You better come in and get warm,” I told him, opening the gate.  He entered without hesitation.  I hit the intercom button.  “Boys, we have company.”

    By the time we got back to the house, both boys were adequately attired, Bo in a tee shirt and shorts, Cory in sweats.  The visitor and I entered the kitchen.   The automatic coffeemaker  was done, and I handed the shivering man a steaming cup.  He wrapped his hands around the hot cup and sipped the hot liquid.  Cory put a wool blanket around his shoulders, and I told Bo to turn up the furnace thermostat.

    As he thawed, he told us his story.  It was not all that unusual.  It happened to inexperienced back-roads drivers all the time who don’t know how cold the high desert can get at night.  He had driven across a flooded wash on a Forest Service road late last night, hit a hidden hole, stalled the engine and gotten stuck.  Unable to get the truck out, he had abandoned it and started walking, his feet and lower pants soaking wet.  He was very lucky he had not succumbed to hypothermia.   Had he not kept walking, or found us when he did, he indeed could have frozen to death.

    The coffee helped some, but I knew a hot shower was in order.  “Bo, show him to the shower, please, and get him a towel and a robe.”

    After a long steamy shower, our visitor was vastly improved.

    He emerged from the steam, a short robe wrapped around his dark, well muscled frame.  He appeared to be in his early twenties.  “I cannot tell you how good that felt,” he said in lightly accented English.  “That hot water was better than an orgasm.  But I would not want to do that as often as sex.”

    Breakfast was waiting, and we directed him to the table.  Thoroughly thawed, now he was ravenous.  The poor guy had been through a rough night.  We watched him continue to inhale food after we all had finished.

    Finally he stopped, and thanked us again.  Bo cleared the dishes and the visitor watched his every movement.  And Bo watched him watching him.  Never shy about his sexuality, Bo started working on the man as he cleaned up breakfast.  He leaned across him, stretching to reach things and brushing against him at every opportunity.  As he wiped the glossy top with a damp cloth, he leaned as far across as he could to reach the far side, directly to the man’s right, with both his skimpy shorts and tee shirt riding high.  And when he brought the cloth back to the table’s near side, he casually dropped a hand to the dark thighs to lean on as he cleaned to the man’s left.  The man was speechless.

    The desert warms up fast as soon as the sun clears the mountains, and we moved out to the deck.  “I can hardly believe it was so cold last night, and it’s so delightful now,” our guest said.  We sat and soaked up the warm sun.  We had been so wrapped up in providing food and warmth, we had not even exchanged names yet.

    “Now that the important things are taken care of, let’s take care of introductions,” I said.  “My name’s Richard Watson, but everyone calls me Doc.  That’s my foster son Bo, and this is my nephew Cory.” I turned to send Cory a quick wink as I said “nephew,” and he suppressed a smile.

    “I’m Miguel Lewis,” he responded.  “And I am VERY glad to meet you.”

    Bo had rejoined us from the kitchen, and sat on a bench facing Miguel, legs crossed Indian style.  Wearing his usual underwear (none), he was providing quite a view.  It was not unappreciated.

    “So what took you into the Forest so late at night,” Cory asked.  “Those roads are bad enough in the daylight!”

    “I know, but I promised to meet some friends from my school --”

    “What school?” Cory interrupted.  “I go to Boulder Community College.”

    “I do too,” Miguel said.  “I came here from Haiti last year to study nursing.”

    “Cool,” said Cory.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.  So you were going camping with friends...?”

    “Yes, well, mostly hiking, and sleeping in their camping trailer at a campsite near Infierno Canyon, and I had got a late start from town, and so I didn’t get up to the Forest until after dark.  Then I had a flat tire, which was a real bastard to  change because the tire bolts were frozen.  I had to spend a couple of hours to take care of that, but what else could I do?  So I just kept on going.  Then I got to this wash that had some water in the bottom.  It wasn’t very deep, and I checked out it before I started across.  But I could not see this hole under the surface, and as soon as I slipped into it, the truck motor stopped, and I could not go any more.”

    “We’ll go up in my truck later and pull you out,” I said.  “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

    “Thank you.  Thank you very much. Anyway, I got out of the truck, which meant I must walk in the water, and then I started walking.  It was pretty cold by then, and I was thinking maybe I could walk downhill enough to find a warmer place.  But I was afraid also to leave the road.  So I started walking back along the way I had come, since I didn’t know how many more miles it would be to the camp.  After a couple of hours, I saw some car lights far away, on the highway, so I kept on walking towards those lights, and finally I came to your gate.”  His eyes had not left Bo while he talked, and the short robe Bo had given him was not sufficient to conceal his developing erection.

    Bo changed the scenery, pulling his knees up and hugging them to his chest.  He was enjoying himself immensely.  Then he jumped up and said he was getting more coffee.  His shorts were well tented now, and since he had to squeeze around Miguel’s chair, he made sure that he brushed the hard-on against his arm on the way past.  He reappeared quickly, with coffee pot and mugs in hand.  He set them on the low table in front of Miguel, and poured for everyone.  He did another major number on Miguel, brushing his stiff prick against Miguel at every opportunity, or bending over with his ass in front of the man’s face.  He reached across the man’s lap for sugar and then for cream, and then returned them, each time brushing his hand and arm across Miguel’s now obvious erection.   Once he “lost his balance” and leaned heavily on the man’s bulging crotch.  Cory and I enjoyed the show, and put up tents of our own.

    Then Bo got even bolder.  Wanting still more cream (for his coffee!), he again stretched across Miguel’s lap.  This time, however, he leaned his whole body across, coffee in one hand, leaning his elbow on Miguel’s thigh.  He added more cream to his coffee, making it mostly cream, and as he straightened back up, slipped a little and spilled it all over Miguel’s robe.  “Oh, gosh, look what I’ve done,” he said, trying to sound abashed and not doing very well.  “Here, I’ll clean it up.”  He grabbed a napkin and started wiping at the wet robe.  “No good.  I’ll have to put it in the washer.”  And with that he untied the sash and exposed Miguel’s ebony body.  He wiped some more coffee, and then said, “Oh dear, I’ve spilled some down here, too.”  He moved his napkin to Miguel’s impressive hard-on and wiped it some, then dispensed with the napkin and used his wet hand.  Precum was oozing steadily by now, gleaming on the deep brown head, and I knew that I needed to intervene.

    “Bo, slow down a little,” I said.  I stepped inside and grabbed a condom from the closest box.  I came back out and gave it to Bo.  “Put it on him before you go any farther.  What any one of us does, puts all of us at risk.  You understand, I’m sure,” I added to Miguel.  He nodded, and Bo opened the package.  He took the slippery rubber and placed it expertly on Miguel’s penis, massaging the huge head as he began to unroll it, smoothing and rubbing and unrolling until the latex stretched evenly down half the thick black rod.  Miguel was pretty well stimulated by now, and had started into fucking Bo’s fist. 

    Cory and I just watched the performance from a bench, him on my lap, our hands where they needed to be.

    Bo had more ideas than just jerking him off, and climbed onto Miguel’s lap, one knee on  the man’s groin, his own crotch in front of Miguel’s face.  Bo pushed his knee hard onto the man’s erection while he slid his own shorts down and pushed his stiff prick forward.  Miguel took Bo into his mouth and sucked, while Bo continued to maintain pressure on Miguel’s groin.  Bo was becoming nearly convulsive, thrusting in and out of the wet mouth, his thin chest heaving, his golden skin shiny with sweat.  With a major grunt, he pulled out and sprayed his thin boy cum over Miguel’s face, his ear, and his hair.  He sank back onto his haunches, and took Miguel’s frustrated prick in his hands once again.  Taking some of his own cum for more lubricant, he again started jerking him off.  This time he did not stop, but increased his pace, and used his other hand to explore more of Miguel’s chiseled chest and stomach.  It was Miguel’s turn to pant and sweat and groan, until with a cry of his own, he erupted into the condom, and slumped back into his chair.

    “Do you treat all the guests like this, or am I just lucky?” Miguel asked.

    “Actually, you’re the first we’ve had.  We haven’t been together very long,” I said.

    “But,” Cory put in, “We’re very good hosts.  If a lovely lady in distress happened to need our help, we’d certainly...”

    “...Let her use the phone!”  Bo interrupted.  We all laughed.

    “It’s hard enough to... no, no, I didn’t mean that, Bo!  It’s hard enough to find any gay men around here, and here you are three in the same house in the middle of the desert.”

    “I know what you mean,” I agreed. 

    “Yeah,” Cory added, “It’s like some kind of fantasy that you’d read on an Internet story board.”

NB:  The ritual preparation of Bo’s uncle for burial is adapted from the short story “The Man To Send Rain Clouds,” by Leslie Marmon Silko.

Now, Dear Reader, I would appreciate some advice.  The story can end here, and we may assume that They All Lived Happily Ever After.

Or, it can continue, with Miguel and his friends joining our three heroes.

What say you?

--  Ash
ahardric@gmail.com