Dude, Are You Serious?
Copyright © 2015 by Jonathan Longhorn (jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com). All rights reserved. Except for the use of less than two pages in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means is forbidden without the express written permission of the author. Express permission is granted to The Nifty Erotic Stories Archive for storage, indexing, retrieval, and display of this work.
Disclaimer: The material in this work is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content and language. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. All of the characters in this work are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In the real world having sex without using a condom can be very dangerous to your health. Don’t ruin your life or your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.
Note: There are some references in this story and others, to things mentioned in another of my stories, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge, which you can find here: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html. The story itself is about the movie being watched by characters in several of my stories - in which an alien warlord bent on revenge, ‘has his way’ with an Earth Forces Brigade hero. While I hope that you would enjoy reading that story, it may be a bit brutal for some readers and you do not need to read that story first in order to understand or to enjoy this story.
All trademarks used in this work are the sole property of their owners and have been used without permission or endorsement.
Charley Stockton gazed out the windshield of his Camaro and watched as Dillon guided his Ram 1500 toward the ledge that had been totally submerged only a few short hours earlier. Now, the raging torrent had subsided to a mere trickle. He looked back to his cell phone and the one word text glowing up at him. A text waiting to be sent/saved/deleted. His eyes floated upward—back to the windshield, to that 4-wheel drive pickup.
Back to Dillon.
And, back down to the cell phone.
“What the hell am I doing?”
His thumb gently slid along the outer edge of the phone.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
A throb. Another throb.
Was that his still raging dick or was that the lips of his pucker?
His free hand slid between his powerful, muscle thick thighs and groped the piece of rebar aching within its denim prison.
Yeah—both. His cock was still throbbing. His butt pucker was still twitching.
What … the … hell?
He half-swallowed a groan and he sighed long and low.
His thumb landed on ‘send’, and—
Dillon Jamison concentrated on the two slabs of granite that formed the ledge that cars, trucks, cycles, bikes, and hikers had used for years as it came into view. It sparkled and glistened under the piercing beam of the truck’s heads and fogs revealing only soft trickles, now the only evidence here of the storm, but—offering safe passage … now. He paused to glance in his rearview mirror and noted that Charley was still sitting in his car—neither moving. No lights. No stereo. Just … sitting. What was with that?
He nearly jumped through the custom sun roof of his pickup when the dedicated ringtone—a crescendo of canon and bells from 1812 Overture—erupted from his cell phone.
Dillon’s foot hit the brake and he reached for the phone.
Only one word.
But, it was a text message that burned into his eyes.
Charley looked at his thumb for several moments—as though it really wasn’t ‘his thumb’ but more likely … some alien life form. A life form that had just taken over his body, his thought process … his movements…. A life form that had just called his friend back to him. He turned his hand over and back several times. What had that thumb just done? What was that thumb thinking? What … the … fuck?
He finally decided that there was no explanation. No ‘reasonable’ or ‘rational’ explanation anyway for what had just taken place. Thinking back over the last several hours, though—to hell with reason and rationale. He released this alien being disguised as a teenage boy’s thumb and he looked up. He stared back out into the darkness, and waited.
A couple of seconds after his thumb hit the ‘Send’ button, the taillights on Dillon’s pickup blinked once, twice, and then glowed steady as his foot steadied on the brake pedal.
Long … mind-maddening … seconds.
The brake lights were suddenly replaced by backups. The truck cautiously backed over the granite ledge out onto the gravel along the river bank. Once clear of branches, ledges, a 30-foot by 43-foot obelisk of granite that rose like a guardian above the area and any visitors, or the lurking hordes of marauding alien crawdads … gravel flew from beneath the tires of the truck.
Charley snickered along with an eye roll.
“Dude, are you serious right now?”
He was glad that he said ‘Wait’ and not ‘Help’. His buddy would probably have punched a hidden button in the console that turned the truck into a fully loaded stealth fighter jet, or—something. One of those Q’atonian battle cruisers?
One hundred yards later, the Ram 1500 slid to a stop abreast Charlie’s Camaro and the driver’s door flew open. Charley barely had time to open his own door before Dillon’s hands were tightly gripping his left bicep and shoulder. A look of intense concern masked his boy-next-door cuteness. Masked? Maybe enhanced was more like it.
“Charley?” His voice was strong, controlled, protective … joined by the slightest tremor of panic. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Hospital? ER? Is the car okay? Stuck in the mud, er … muck, er … gravel slushee goop, er … on this rock solid granite sheet that nothing could penetrate, or…?
Charley’s eyes twinkled with a touch of amusement and a whole lot of ‘touched’ at his friend’s concern. He felt a lump in his throat and a gut knot. Dillon really was a genuine friend. An honest-to-gosh-wollies … genuine friend.
“Chill, dude,” Charley said softly as he was hauled—literally—from behind the steering wheel of his car. “S’okay, man.”
Dillon stepped back to study Charley Stockton from head-to-toe and toe-to-head. No blood. No signs of outer body trauma. Breathing seemed normal. No ax impaled in the crown of his head. No Bowie knife dripping in blood and throat residue.
“Sorry. I just thought…. I mean, I was worried that…. I mean….” He sucked in a huge amount of air and steeled himself. “I mean, ‘sup?”
Charley suppressed a chuckle and grin—somehow. Maybe Chels didn’t have ‘all’ of the Drama Queen morsels swallowed up.
Okay. A genuine friend with maybe a maniacal case of hyperoverreactionosity….
“Are you sure that…?”
The runaway rail car in Dillon’s head wobbled but stayed true to the tracks.
“You’re okay? The car is okay? No battery trouble, or…?”
“Everything is…. What’s going…?”
The wobble became a bounce.
Okay—rail car teetering on the edge, here.
“Um…. ‘Do it’, what ‘it’ do … um … it?”
Charley finally managed to find enough room between himself, the car, and Dillon to push the driver’s door shut with a soft click. He gazed along the surface of the river as far as possible in both directions—still littered with storm debris floating downstream.
He knew there was a chain and rope contraption hanging over the deep pool that had formed over centuries there along the bend just north of where they stood. He couldn’t see it in the dark of night but he knew it was there. It had always been there. Well, as long as he could remember anyway.
He recalled his first time on that contraption.
He approached it cautiously but with a determined resolve. It was up to him—only him—as he stood facing it. His nemesis of the moment. His friends were back behind him. Waiting. None of them had gone there—yet. They all held their breath. They all felt that extra pump-a-pump of blood coursing through their veins. Would Charley do it? Could Charley do it? Was he the hero that would vanquish this … this … villain? Swallows and gulps could be heard between them all as he climbed out on the rocks. As he scaled the tree. As he shimmied out onto that imposing limb and reached for his partner in this joust about to happen.
The rope creaked and stretched … the chain popped and groaned … the deep pool of water loomed below … the ghostly fingers of some submerged being that were waiting to claw and grasp and grab at his body as he plummeted into the depths. He willed his heart back out of his throat. He breathed deeply. Again. And, again. He glanced toward the river bank opposite where he was located—up high and he nodded. He lunged out. He did his best—or was it his worst—Tarzan with a twang—and his hands fell free from the thick knot, and—air.
Nothing … but … air.
And then, he plunged.
Water enveloped him. Bubbles boiled around him. Down. Down. Deeper. He kicked his feet. His arms sliced through the water and pulled him upward. Up. Up. Up. And then he broke surface and sucked in air and heard the whoops and cheers from his friends.
What a rush.
What a friggin’ rush.
How many times had he done that plunge since? He had no idea but he knew there would be many more.
Yeah, he knew that chain and rope were there, hovering over the bend in the river and that deep pool—waiting for their next swoosh.
He smiled softly.
Then, he shifted his focus—he took in the shadowy, ghost-like presence of the structure that was Trestle Ridge Bridge just to the south. The structure that they had scaled and occupied minutes before. The structure where he just had Dillon’s dick in his mouth. Where he had given Dillon a blow job. Where … he … had … swallowed.
Had he really just blow jobbed Dillon?
The lingering taste in his mouth said yes, he had. The slight rawness of his freshly fucked throat said yes, he had. The hovering scent of his friend’s essence that still coated his body and infiltrated his nostrils said, fuck yes. He sure as hell had.
He—Charles John Stockton IV—had, in fact, just blow jobbed Dillon. And, he had swallowed.
How could that old bridge, creaking occasionally in the changes of temp and who knew—maybe barometric pressure–be both ominous and inviting … intimidating and comforting … unfeeling and yet soothing and secret keeping all at the same time? It had been standing there for a long, long time. He could only imagine the secrets it held. The things that it had seen. The….
He shook his head. Where the hell was all this coming from and why the hell didn’t it show up in Writing Class?
He shivered ever slightly at a blast furnace of breeze that smacked him with the oppressive humidity that was dancing within the folds of blackness of the night.
It was, after all, well after midnight, now.
He turned back to gaze over Dillon’s shoulder for a brief moment. He looked at … nothing, really. He just gazed for a few moments.
He wondered if that massive granite obelisk and the old bridge talked to each other. Compared notes. Laughed at the silly antics that they undoubtedly witnessed on a daily basis from ‘those’ humans….
Finally, he took in his friend’s cute face—still swept with concern and now bewilderment at his words. Maybe cute-as-shit, boy-next-door should be left in the past. Dillon was maturing into one hell of a handsome guy. Yeah. Handsome. He had to admit it. He was okay admitting it. He hoped they were still friends at 25, 30 … 902. He bet Dillon would take the ‘Most Handsome’ cover on one of those mags eventually. Okay, he might have competition for that award. Ryan and Bennett were getting hotter by the day. Charley wondered if he should be worried. Nah. That would take the eyes and the pressure off him. Right?
Charley’s hazel eyes were swept into Dillon’s gun metal gray.
Dillon reached out. His hand hovered so close to Charley’s chest that he could feel the heat from within mixing with the sky high temperature of the night, even this late and even post-storm. He wanted to touch that silken, muscled, god standing before him. He wanted to take those lips with his own. He wondered if he kissed him and managed to snake his tongue between those puffy, pouty lips … would he taste himself in there? He sure as hell unloaded gallons into that mouth….
Damn—he wanted to kiss Charley.
Yeah. He … wanted to take those lips with his own. He … wanted … to … push Charley back against the car and … just … kiss … the … bejeebers out of those lips.
Charley sucked in more air. He sucked it deep. A lung stretching, nearly lung bursting suck of air.
What the hell am I…?
END of Chapter 16
To be continued . . .
Author’s Note: Please show your appreciation for this wonderful service and help Nifty continue to exist by sending a donation using the Nifty donations page at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html.
This is just the start of a story which may or may not be continued. If there is enough interest, there MAY be additional chapters. The interest shown in it will be a determining factor in continuing the story.
Please send your comments, thoughts, and ideas to Jonathan Longhorn using jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com. Please start the “Subject” line with the name of the story so I don’t toss your email as spam.
Thank you to those of you who have taken the time out of your day to write me about my stories. The thoughts, comments, and feedback are VERY much appreciated.
My other stories on Nifty can be found using the Nifty Prolific Authors page: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#jonathanlonghorn
Follow the Nifty Erotic Stories Archive on Twitter: @niftyarchive
Follow Jonathan Longhorn on Twitter: @JonathnLonghorn