Date: Wed, 18 Feb 2009 22:15:41 -0800
From: Oregon Bear <oregonbear9@gmail.com>
Subject: The Men of the Mountain Inn, Part 1

This story contains graphic descriptions of adult gay male to male sex.  If
you are offended by this content, or it is illegal for you to read this,
please leave this site.

		    The Men of the Mountain Inn, Part 1

	The Inn up the Salmon River canyon was almost in sight.  I'd driven
up the canyon for a good twenty miles, looking forward to several days of
relaxing, working on my collection of essays and doing some painting.  The
last few months had been hectic, what with the holidays, and getting my
nephew settled in at college.  He'd been living with me the last two years,
after his dad had died, and now he had finally flown the nest.  For the
first time in a long, long time, I didn't have any family responsibilities,
and was able to devote myself full time to my writing and my art.  Besides,
I need to be in the mountains, for some well deserved peace and quiet.
	It was near the end of February, and we'd had usual series of heavy
fall rains and blustery winter snow storms.  The week before, there had
been a warm day, a brief hint of spring.  But, today, another storm was
brewing and I was hoping to make it to the little inn by the river.
Getting snowed in for a while was a distinct possibility, but also a
welcome excuse for some real "me time".
	As I pulled up to the inn, only a few cars were in the parking lot,
and the sky was dark, a few snowflakes already flying, white against the
tall mountains firs around the inn.  The dining room and bar had a
panoramic view of the valley, with one of the region's famous snow-covered
volcanoes rising high at the end of the valley.  A large stone fireplace
always had a cheery fire, and I was looking forward to a great dinner and a
few hours of nursing several glasses of wine, with my tablet of paper by my
side.  There weren't any nearby ski runs, and in the winter, the quaint old
inn was mainly a spot for honeymooners, and people looking for a quiet, out
of the way place to relax and enjoy great food.
	 Hank, the bartender, checked me in.  The front desk was also the
bar, and, as I was filling out the paperwork, he set down a large glass of
merlot.
	"Your usual, right?" he asked, ignoring my surprise at his memory
of my favorite wine.
       "I reserved your favorite room at the end of the hall," Hank said.
"The one with the king sized bed and the view of the waterfall."
	"I noticed, Hank.  Lots of special memories in that place," I
replied, giving him a big wink.  "It's great to be back in familiar
territory."
	Hank turned to answer the phone while I took my first sip of the
wine, admiring the handsome, muscular man, his white shirt open a few
buttons.  A large thatch of curly black chest hair spilled out, his nipples
pushing softly against the cloth, his pecs clearly defined underneath the
tight cloth that threatened to rip apart at the seams around his well-built
shoulders when he reached up to fetch the wine glass off of the rack of
stemware.  A hint of the darkness of his chest and armpit hair was barely
visible through the shirt, and I remembered what lay underneath, once his
shirt was stripped off.  My cock remembered more, swelling a bit as I
recalled the good times of my last visit.
       I took my glass of wine and sat down next to the fireplace, settling
in to a large leather chair, my feet soon up on an ottoman, and kicked
back, looking out at the now blizzarding weather, as the storm moved in.
Large gusts of wind rattled the shutters and whipped the snowflakes in
large circles of white.  The fire crackled and popped, sending out an
occasional wisp of smoke.  I didn't want to move, not for a long time,
well, except to wander over to the dining room for what I knew would be
gourmet meals.  Hank would be sure to keep my wine glass filled.  Life was
good, beyond good.
	The bar was just ours to enjoy for a while, and Hank came over to
tell me a few of his jokes and to give me a heads up on the chef's
specialties for dinner.  We talked a bit about Hank's writing, and how he
was coming on his collection of short stories about life at the Inn and the
people of the Salmon River canyon.  We had kept in touch a bit since my
last visit, occasionally sending each other a story we were working on.
       As I drained the last drops from my glass, another man wandered in.
He was a bit older than me, his hair gray, wearing a distinguished looking
goatee and moustache, a green flannel plaid shirt and jeans.  Tanned and
muscular, without an ounce of fat on his tall frame, he filled out the
shirt nicely with what looked like a well defined chest, and a narrow
waist, and a nice package at the front of his faded jeans.  The jeans
weren't any fancy brand, just well worn Wranglers, and they looked like
they'd been well used on a ranch.
	Hank took his order, a dry Spanish red wine, a specialty of the
northern vineyards of Spain.  He took the glass from Hank and wandered over
to the window, to gaze at the blizzard and the last glimpses of the valley
below, before the storm moved in for the night, and surrounded us with
white.  I admired his muscular butt through the cloth of his jeans, and the
way his shoulders filled his shirt.  Several of the top buttons were open,
and he had a nice thatch of curly salt and pepper hair rising up almost to
his neck.
	My cock twitched at the sight of what I was starting to imagine was
a ranch foreman or even the boss, off on a business trip from the ranch at
the end of winter, just before calving time, and Well, and that long
weekend with Hank, the last time I was up here.  But that was almost in a
different category.  what it would be like to have this cowboy in my
corral, wondering if I could be the buck for this buckaroo.  After my
nephew moved in with me, I'd only had a few one night stands with a couple
of guys.  Well, except for that long weekend with Hank, the last time I was
up here.  But that was almost in a different category.  Getting some sack
time with a handsome stud was at the top of my New Year's resolutions this
year.
	I invited the cowboy over to the fire, offering a nearby chair.  He
nodded his thanks and was soon easing back into another large leather
chair, his boot-clad feet soon taking over the other ottoman.  We
introduced ourselves with just our first names, and soon found ourselves
discussing the merits of a variety of red wines, the upcoming blizzard, and
the architectural traits of the inn.
	Jake, as I came to learn, had been coming to the inn for years,
just like me, to find some solitude, to work on his collection of cowboy
poems and stories of his area, and to simply get away.  We fell into a deep
discussion of writing, only to be interrupted by Hank gently reminding us
that dinner was served and we should bring our glasses to the dining room.
	The rest of the inn was empty, the storm apparently driving away
another other potential guests, as darkness fell, the storm growing in
strength.  Several gusts rattled the windows and the last glimpse of
daylight saw the snow starting to pile up on the road and in the parking
lot, turning our rigs into white mounds.
	"I'd be honored if you joined me for dinner," Jake said, as we
moved into the dining room.  "I'd be delighted to have your company, and to
continue our conversation."
	I murmured my agreement and thanks, and we soon found ourselves at
a large table, covered with a white linen tablecloth.  Hank soon brought us
our menus, and we teased Hank about having so many jobs at the inn.
	"It's been slow for the last week, and, what with the storm coming,
the chef and I are the only ones here tonight," he said.  "So, I'm
delighted to be your waiter and your wine steward for your dining
pleasure."
	We feasted well on a five course meal, enjoying a superb salad, a
thick, hearty wild mushroom soup, fresh salmon, hot apple pie, and an
amazing fruit and cheese plate.  Hank had suggested a special wine and,
then, finally a wonderful dessert wine and French press coffee.
       We both ate with gusto, and resumed our conversation about writing
and art and the contributions of cowboys to American art and literature.  I
found Jake to be a well educated man, a holder of several college degrees
and the author of one of the finest collections of cowboy poetry.  In turn,
he had read several of my collections of essays and had seen several of my
paintings on exhibit several years ago at a university where he had been a
guest lecturer.
       When Hank brought us our coffee and dessert, we persuaded him to
join us.  He agreed, noting that the storm was really settling in for the
night, and the cook was anxious to clean up and head back to his cabin in
the village a couple of miles away.  He went back into the kitchen to tell
the chef to take the rest of the night off and head for home.
        Hank brought our pie, as well as the large plate of cheese and
fruit, and a large pot of his special coffee.  He pulled up a chair and
joined us in savoring the desserts and the rich, dark coffee, with thick
cream.
	Hank joined us in our discussion of literature, sharing his views
of several books and collections on cowboys and mountain life.  He was a
well read man, and I had always appreciated his discerning views on the
subject.  He had offered me several well-thought critiques of some of my
writings, and I always found his opinions very helpful in my work.  Jake
agreed, noting that Hank had given him the same kind of thoughtful analysis
of his own works.
	Jake stifled a yawn and announced that he was retiring for the
evening, leaving Hank and me to finish the coffee and the dessert wine.
	"We have the next few days to continue our conversations, and it
seems the storm will give us a lot of time to get to know each other a lot
more.  It's been a long day and I'm ready for that feather bed that Hank
always arranges for me," Jake said.  "Good night, gentlemen."
	I admired his tight ass cheeks as he strolled from the room, noting
his confidence, his self assurance in his walk.  He certainly was someone I
wanted to get to know better, in many ways.  My cock stirred a bit, knowing
that Jake and I were going to both be here for a number of days.  I'd seen
him admiring Hank's tight ass and hard chest several times at dinner, when
Hank leaned over to serve our plates or fill our wine glasses.  Jake was
definitely a man who appreciated the finer traits of a healthy, strong man,
and I wondered if he had ever known the pleasures of manly love.
	Hank, too, gazed admiringly at Jake's ass as he left the room.  I
saw his eyes twinkle, and a bit of a grin appear on his moustached lips.
	"That would be a nice dessert, all by itself," he said.  "I
wouldn't mind testing out his feather bed tonight."
	"I bet you would, you old horn dog, you," I replied.  "That is, if
he takes an interest in your idea of a good romp in the hay."
	"Oh, he does.  I can assure you of that," Hank said, nodding and
grinning again.  "He knows a thing or two about being a real cowboy in the
saddle.  And, he wouldn't mind having more than one man to enjoy on a
snowy, cold evening.  I'm sure you'd find the experience interesting."
	"Well, a personal endorsement, I see," I said.  "I hope I at least
get you all by myself tonight, bartender.  It's been a while since we've
rendezvoused."
	"That it has, partner.  And, you're right.  I'm making sure tonight
you're a satisfied guest of the inn.  Still...".
	He looked towards the bar, watching Jake's ass cheeks flex as he
climbed the stairs.  "Still, there's more you and I can both enjoy this
week, and I just don't mean conversation."
	Hank reached over, and took my hand in his large, meaty paw.  "It
has been a long drought around here without you, and we've got some time to
make up.  How about we finish this wine while we check on your room."
	We doused the lights, and Hank locked the main door of the lodge.
I carried the rest of the bottle of the refreshing white dessert wine, as
Hank followed me up the stairs.  We turned to the left and headed down to
the end, to my favorite room in the inn.
	"Jake's room is at the other end of the hall.  We won't be
disturbing him tonight," Hank said, as I opened the door to my room.  I set
the wine down on the small table by the fireplace, while Hank struck a
match and lit the already laid fire.  He lit the large candle on the table,
and doused the lights, leaving the soft glow of the candle and the
crackling fire.
	"Might as well get comfortable," he said, as he reached over to my
green chamois shirt, tugging on the thick cloth, drawing me close to him,
until his moustache tangled into my own 'stach and beard, until his big,
hard lips tasted my own lips.  He held me close, his breath soft against my
cheek, the warmth of his chest heating my own chest.  Whiffs of his manly
smell drifted into my nostrils, a bit of the dessert wine, a hint of the
fish we had for dinner, and the spicy aroma of his manly pits after a day
of work.  A bit of the smoke from the fire drifted through the room, and
memories of our last night together filled my brain and stiffened my cock.
	He released me, a bit, and began to slowly unbutton my shirt, the
large, thick buttons sliding through the buttonholes, pushed by his strong,
calloused fingers.  I felt his hand touch the hairs on my chest, as my
shirt began to open, until my shirt was fully opened, his hand caressing
the warm skin of my chest and my belly, hair stroked and pulled a bit.  He
reached up to the cloth again and pulled my shirt slowly off of my
shoulders and down my arms, exposing my armpits and my nipples, the cooler
air of the room and the sexual tension in the air stiffening my nipples, as
I ached for his touch on my skin.
	The thick cloth of the shirttail tugged at my jeans, as Hank pulled
my shirt out of my pants, until I stood before him and the fire, naked to
the waist, my skin on fire with hunger for his hands, his fingers, his
mouth.
	Moving close to him, I stroked his whiskery cheek and ran my finger
along the length of his handlebar moustache, then down through his stubbly
chin and down into the forest of his chest hair, to where the third button
of his shirt still barely kept his shirt together.  The heat from his
muscles felt warm and familiar to my hands, as I began to slowly open his
shirt, touching and moving the buttons like they were the hot nubs of his
tits, or the hardness of his balls, moving under the soft, wrinkly skin of
his ball sack, heavy in the palm of my hand.
	Once his thin shirt was out of the way, my tongue followed my
fingers, as I kissed and sucked the fur of his chest, and the nubs of his
tits, feeling them stiffen, hot and wet in my mouth.  My tongue ran through
his furry armpit, tasting his thick hair, feeling the dew of his sweat
across my moustache and my beard, smelling his thick, spicy stink from his
work day, and his rising lust.
	Soon, our fingers tore at our belts and the buttons and then the
zippers of our jeans, and then our shorts, until pant legs and shorts,
shoes and socks, lay in a tangled pile by the side of the bed.  In a
minute, we were both stripped bare, tight in each other's arms, chest to
chest, arm around arm, cock to cock.
	As the fire crackled softly, and the storm rattled the shutters,
with large swirls of snow slapping against the glass, we tasted and fondled
and stroked every inch of our naked, hungry bodies, in a frenzy of lust,
until we were sprawled across the bed, dancing and wrestling in our
passion, as eager tongues and wet lips found hard cocks and hairy balls,
and strong shoulders were wrapped around thrusting butt cheeks and sweaty
crotches and clumps of sweaty hair and thrusting asses.
	We sucked and moaned and slurped and thrust, two men not waiting
for each other, not waiting for ourselves. as we both stuffed ourselves
with a lusty full course meal of horny cocks and full balls and too many
weeks and months of unsatisfied lust, and memories of our last fuck with
each other on this very bed too many long lonely months ago.
	In the midst of my own poundings, my own thrustings, I looked down
along his now sweaty, writhing belly and chest, past his hard, thick cock
impaled in my wet, drooling mouth, seeing the sweat on his chest wet his
thick hair, sliding across my furry belly, as I glimpsed my own cock
surrounded by his furry lip and sweet lips.  White electricity shot through
my head as I climbed higher, my balls rising higher, as I began to reach my
point of no return.
       We rocked hard into the bed, rolling and thrashing from side to
side, until, all too quickly, the cum in my balls rose hard and fast into
my cock, and burst forth in a torrent, and then a fire hose of spurts and
geysers of cum, spraying hard and fast into Hank's mouth, and out his lips,
dripping into his moustache and across his stubbled jaw and cascading into
the thick hair of my groin, soon smashing and squishing into the fur of his
chest.
       Hank held on for barely another few seconds until he too spurted and
convulsed, sending his own seed deep down my throat, filling my mouth, and
squeezing out of my lips, until we both were coated, head to chest to
crotch, with our jism, and the lusty sweat that drenched our pits and our
chests and our balls.
	Deep pants and gasps filled the room, beating a counter beat to the
howling percussion of the wind and the snow outside, and the softening
cracklings and snaps of the fire, as the firelight shined wet across our
sweat and cum-soaked bodies.
	"The room service here is amazing."
	"Service is our business."

Copyright 2009.  Oregon Bear