By Ruthless copyright 2017 M/M
DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of gay erotic fiction. If you are underage
or if you are offended by stories of this nature, please do not read it. As
always, the author welcomes your comments, questions, flames, criticism,
complaints, and requests for stories at Ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca
Blond hair brown with rust, bowed over his knees, sitting real still down by the wall. All the cold wind outside gotten into my eyes, all the yellow leaves flying, gotten into my eyes, winter gotten into my bones. I found him. Two days, maybe three days I've been looking. I don't even know why I was looking. The cabin is small and squat and brown, wet wood and wet bark and a chimney made of mud, everything the colour of dirt. Nobody could tell me where he was. I couldn't ask anyone. I just kept walking around, stopping everywhere visiting everyone.
The cabin stinks of smoke, of mildew, of dirt, of man, of something that isn’t quite sane. Dim with only the light from the half-open door and what comes down the chimney. Enough light to see smoke stains and water on the walls. Dirt floor, no straw, gleams of broken glass like ice, heaps of wood, logs with the bark on them ready to burn; six guys standing and just one man sitting on earth, sitting real still, shirt stiff with old blood and blond hair brown with rust. He doesn't look up.
A jostle blunder of legs, of hips, of shoulders, as they make room for me. No fire, it’s only as warm as seven bodies in a room can make it. Never mind the yellow leaves flying outside, inside my eyes, what about the man with yellow hair? But don’t look at him. Three guys jostle, “Fuck, hey, you know anyone got any gin? Fuck, know anyone got beer even…?”
They don't sit because the ground is cold hard, near frozen. “Maybe you can score some grain, oatmeal… Fuck, I wish I had a beer.” The fireplace is black. There was a fire in it recently.
“Yeah, a beer.” Nod. Don’t look at the man, sitting on the dirt, a gleam, fresh red, in the thick brown scabs, dried blood clotting the hair.
“Wanna go fishing? We could go fishing, might be trout, soon as it’s getting dark…” a man speaks up, un-enthusiastically.
At his words, in my head I'm in that cold, the blue-black water, the wind, the reeds shuddering cold, gelid water, the wind, the dark, the open water, shivering ripples, plop and darkness.
“Nah, fuck. It’s too fucking cold t’go fishing.”
“Wish we had beer. Wanna get drunk.”
“Too long since I got drunk.”
“Man, I’m cold can we shut the fucking door?”
“Not going to be any warmer with the door closed. Just going to be darker…”
“Better get a fire? Where we gonna get the fire…? Wanna walk down, Horsefield way, borrow a brand, come back in the dark…”
Speaking up now, the yellow leaves in my eyes, voice level. “I got fire.”
Jostle of the brown legs, bump, the faces turning, “Yeah, fire?”
“C’mon, light it.”
“Shit the kindling’s damp!”
Suddenly they are alert, moving, not shambling. The dirty head down at thigh level doesn’t turn. He stays bowing, hunching. I’m not looking at him. A little flame wavers, a orange trickle, flick and flick, waver, pop, a hush sound of wet wood sighing as the flame nibbles cautiously. Fire. Pale gold light shivering like the reeds outside on the darkening pond.
A sigh like content. “Man, if we had something to eat!”
“Can’t help you there.” I get out a smile. I can only hold it for an instant.
“Yeah, this is better. Yeah.” Crossed arms, looking at the red gold sputter hiss, seethe of smoke, red flame rise up. Don’t look back, don’t look at him. Men in a half circle, eyes on the fire.
Thumb. “What’s with him?”
Silence. A shrug. “Him, yeah, last fight we had, you know.”
“I wish I had a beer, fuck...” One of the guys begins the same automatic complaint. I think it's going to derail but it doesn't derail.
“He’s one of those guys came up from Springfield, supposed to work on the farms, no fucking use. You know. Crawled in here to stay dry. As long as he doesn't go back to puking... He can stay here. It’s no problem, see?”
Winter is in my eyes, my throat, winter is rattling hollow in my chest. Fuck, who hurt him? Big elaborate shrug.
“If I had some gin, Man, I’d curl up and sleep, I’d be so warm.”
“Maybe he’ll live or maybe he’ll die. Don’t fucking care, right?”
“Gin warms you up inside.”
“Fight was about some liquor?”
“Fucking assholes didn’t have any liquor! They said…”
I don't hear what they said. Winter is in my throat and winter is in my chest, and the pond is cold, could walk into water, ice dark and gasp the shock of it, easy to go deep deep ‘til the shuddering chills you, can’t breathe, dark as ice, slosh and the reeds quiver, shudder too hard to breathe, down, water under over mouth nose, down, drown me, drown me, drown me, die, me of the cold. Drown me, into the cold and escape the cold, belly in the water, oh my belly is empty.
I come out of it. Standing in the close smoky shack, draft pulling the smoke, dirt caked on the walls, put on a smile, don’t think about drowning. “I’ll buy him.”
“You’ll fucking what?”
Price? Nothing? Bought for a promise.
What’s a promise? Nothing. I get some flour, gi’ you a sack. I get some beer, I'll share it. Guys do. That's what drinkers do. They always share. Maybe I’ll kill a deer, could kill a moose! Hey yeah, bears they get stupid, hibernating, you know, come on a bear it’s sleeping I could kill it. Like fuck you could. Yeah? Hey, fuck you… Promises, forgotten.
He looks at me, milk skin, dirt and two eyes, too dark to see eyes in the dim of the room. Wind sighing apologies, winter will kill you, sorry, wind sighing in the door. Not a word. Long hand, finger comes up under the nose, snort and long wipe across under the nose, but words, guarded kept, not said, remembered.
Got him standing. Lean on my shoulder. Eyes flicker at me judging, weighs on me, standing, steadying. Smell of him, dirty old sweat, cold skin. Earth.
The guys are laughing, “I tell you man, you couldn’t kill no bear!”
“You fucking so smart, you think.”
“Ooh man, thinks he could kill a bear, gonna club it to death.”
Nothing behind us, only “Fuck, I’d sell my grandmother for a bottle of gin.”
Easy. Walk, lurch and hiss, wind going up and down! Loud sough. Wutherwind, all the trees groan soft, and the whirl leaves flicker brown to black, whistle rustle sailing, rattle and scrabble catch and fly. Shivering trees and the man holding my shoulder, steady, letting me help him along.
“You came?” Quiet. Indifferent maybe.
“Heard about you.” A grunt. Winter, winter, get out of my eyes, if I close my eyes, get out, I’ll squeeze you out, winter. “Yeah, Heard it couple of days ago. Came down right away.”
“Is it far?”
Dark is a smell, like water in your nose, like cold inside you. Dark is the trees, naked, dying, stiff. Rattle soft are the leaves, flying forever and ever unseen, touch and fly and run, running away from winter. And the walk is long, dirt under, feeling the root edges, the path. He never said anything, so… It’s not even in my head, the cold never, It’s not in my head, just the steady walk.
Walk. But what if he’s not strong enough, what if he’s dying? What if… He’s walking steady. He’s walking. He’s holding on steady, grip firm on my jacket sleeve, icy knuckles, grip steady. Yes. He’s walking. No if. He’s walking. Nothing now but get him there.
Long time walking.
Night fair gone, Milky Way wheeling, a million merciless stars, ice glitter, making the dark colder. My breath invisible ice dust on my cheeks. But it’s here, this fence, this path, this grass, this wall. Clapboards, this door. And now more dark, sky gone and we're inside. Finally.
I know where there’s a bed. I put him down there. I know where there’s kindling. Kneel, knees on stone and feet on boards, kindling dry, paper bark tickling my palms. The scritch-hiss of light, yellow halo, crisp snickle, curl black and the small flame racing. Ssss? Tissue bark and crunchy bark and stick and curl of twig and punky frayed end and fire. Yellow fire.
I am in here and I am not in the winter. My eyes on the fire, one minute longer than necessary so as to not look at him.
His eyes are closed. Candle. His eyes flicker open. Small smile, awkward, closed again.
Soon it will be warm. Warm is coming. Light is here, light is yellow standing, gleaming tiny sun, another tiny sun, candles. And blanket. Wool. Thick, soft, strong. Blankets, stiff, soft blankets, on top of him over him. Wait, his shoes, start with his shoes.
Easing them: Moist feet, faint smell, dirt caked shoe, cold toes and sock, drop one, the other…
“You going to fuck me, Carl?”
Steady! “Yes, if you’ll let me.” Words gentle.
“Can’t stop you,” His voice not as strong.
“You can say no,” I said.
He doesn’t say anything, just that faint smile again. Yes or no? Do I get to? Is he dying? Is he…Doesn’t think I’ll do it, doesn’t think I’ll prod, stiff, hot swaying cock, wrinkle skinned bulge head, prod into his skin, seeking crevice… Does he think I will?
Blankets over his feet, feet on the bed. Another short length of split birch on the fire, placed right, tilted, the yellow flames glow over it, hot crackle. My breath pale, room getting a little warmer. Him, down under the blanket, not sleeping, eyes sealed smiling. What does it mean, that smile? I hate you?
Water, the slosh and slop, drip cold, over the fire. Food: bread first. No smile now, eyes round like mouths stuck open, hard eyes like he’d sell himself for a bite of brown gritty bread. I poke a morsel into his mouth. His lips go tight, the eyes still looking, chew swallow.
“I can feed myself.”
He probably could, but he doesn’t move much. We both put fingers of bread into his mouth, slow chewing, quick swallowing. I have broth and water hung over the fire. And both are hot at nearly the same time. The grunt he gives, UHHhH rips something in my insides as I tug him back up into a full sitting position. I get him up propped by the wall, against the headboard. Now for the blood.
Brown crumbles, red slimy water dribbling down my wrist, red slime, flakes of it, gluey and the drip, drip, drip, one long pale water trail down his forehead and then another down his cheek before I can catch it.
“Sorry.” I mop it away.
His eyes flicker on the red slime.
“Yeah?” It must hurt, the long gash, seam swollen, black brown lumps of hard blood. Hair and blood, matted and glued, dissolving into red slime with the water.
“Why what?” It’s hard for him to talk. Must be important. What? Trying to say what?
“Why’d you come?”
“Come and get you? Bring you here, you mean?” Pause, wipe gingerly, don’t start it oozing, been oozing two days, don’t start the red crisp crumbly blood leaking seeping, no way to put stitches in.
“'Cause you got hurt.”
“Lotta guys got hurt. Why me?”
“I know you, Geoff.”
“'Cause you wanna fuck me.”
“Yeah. Right.” I stare. Want to drive my cock, puncture poke your asshole, grip you, drive it, drive it, suck your neck. God, tight into you, into you, heat and skin and…
Chuckle. “Too bloody gross now.” After all that he can laugh.
“Anytime you say yes.”
“Anytime you want, Carl. Any.”
Fuck me. He won’t say no. Tender. Oh, more tender, fuck don’t hurt him, yes, get that blood off. And get that dirty scurf off his neck, crumbly. Under the blanket, shirt buttons, stiff shirt, poor bastard, my bastard, I get to fuck him. Fuck him! I’ll get to poke it, ram it, ride him, ride him deep, bottom out, fuck, oh fuck, take it tender, fuck him, stroke him, slide the shirt off his shoulders, don’t twist him, don’t hurt him. Shirt off, more water, blot, blot keep that blanket on him. One nipple darker on the pale skin, cover him.
His teeth rattle.
Hot broth in a cup, bits of duck, of onion and rice, soft tiny shreds of meat, hot, holding the cup up, watching him take it in, blond, stupid looking beard, overgrown stubble. Another clicketing of teeth, eyes closed. He feels like shit, collapsing on me. Sick probably.
His eyes open up again. “Only one bed here.”
“Right…” Shrug. “We’ll share.”
“Sorry…” It's sudden. More shudders, head sagging. He huddles, eyes sealed, silent, mouth sealed against sound, no whinging here. “Hope I’m a good fuck, worth th’trouble.”
“You will be.”
His eyes open again.
Words come out of me, “You don’t have to say yes.”
“Carl? I’m still cold. Get in the bed with me.”
Boots off. I get in, clothed under the blankets. Nose to nose. My jacket and shirt against his chest, his pants against my pants, He’s not so cold, warm skin, not hot skin but shivering. Arms around him. Arm back, ease out of jacket, arm around him again. Holding him. And his arms, limp slack but wrapped around me, over my ribs.
Now I kiss his throat. It’s clean, I washed it. No salt to the skin. Now I touch his face, hold the side of his face, letting my nose bend against the side of his jaw, close, lips warm on his warm skin, bristles of beard, kiss. My cock is bulging, balls swelling like bullfrogs, cock poke thrusting seeking, climbing, taut cloth in my pants, pushing up towards him. I smell salt and dirty man and sweet, salt, edible man, man to bite and suck and kiss and probe.
His arm comes up, slow, effort in that lazy lifting arm. He wraps it around my neck, lets it hang heavy, lets it drape, as much of a hug as exhaustion will let him, pulling in close. I want to moan.
There is no winter. I kiss his throat. I kiss his mouth, two lips murmur into a smile against my mouth, roughness of the beard catching in mine, bristles running against bristles. I feel his ribs, bones in my fingertips, heat of the muscle. I slide my hand down, poke my cock bulge into his thigh, touch seeking for lumpy, swelling, slack soft flesh, rubbery lump and wrinkling skin. I find him half hard, the lump a prow, the slack sensitivity of his testicles making him rock. I wet my fingers and rub his limpness, prick a prize in my fingers.
Stiffness grows. His mouth open against my neck, breath damp, beard prickling. Hips rock. Trusting, his cock nuzzles up, poking my palm. Gasp in his breath. I work his pants down his thighs. You matter more than all the world. One fuck. Even just one fuck. Knuckles in my own belly, hand trapped, prick sliding under his balls, pouchy softness, working his cock. Cock gets stiffer and stiff, jutting tall.
He struggles. I struggle. His arm comes up, strong, hooks around my neck pulling me in close. Heart is thudding. Thrusting rhythm, push, push, push, push, push, going up into my hand. Heart going, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat. More.
I lick my palm, taste salt, soot, dirt, spit sloppy wet, bring it down, unseen under blanket, knees braced against my knees, push it in, wet his little head, slicking it, swirling it. Push, push, push, gasp, push. He keeps pushing.
Now I let go. He shudders. I’m turning him. He’s hard to turn. Another shudder, a slowing of the thrust, and then he flips, back to me. Two chill round ass cheeks imprint cold on my flanks. I find his cock again. The blanket gapes, a draft. I tug impatiently down. Find his cock, clutch it, hold it, slide, it work it. Cock. Grip it.
Now his ass moves, in out, in, push. Push into my hand, push back against aching stiff cock. Crotch hair crushes flat, ass cheeks flatten, pull back, push into my hand. Move it fast and slick, pump his prick.
Another heavy sigh from him. “Keep… working me.”
I want my hands on his cock forever, keep sliding on the thick hard tube, keeping caressing that swollen head. My prick wants into his ass, an animal nosing into the earth. A tunnel. Pry his cheeks open, drop his cock, more spit, squirming it, fingers heat shock on my own prick. Wet. He shudders more. Pry open, tilts his butt back for me.
I find the hard round hole. It crowns my prick, a single spot of yielding under a bony spine and dense tissue. I push. Oh. Sensation. Oh. It gives. I slide in peeled back. I’ve stopped breathing. I push in, keep my hand flapping frantically, tightly gripping. He’s getting sensation both ends, pushing back and out, word stuck in his throat, pushing. My prick in flesh nirvana, squeezing taut.
Stroke easy, pull my ass back, shove my cock in slow, steady. He quivers again. Push and pump and push. A grunt. Push and pull back. Another grunt, air bursting from lungs. Fused. Push and pump, My cock up in his ass, deep, silk walls firm, ring squeezing. His cock fucking my fingers. I’m fucking his ass. He’s fucking my hand.
Nirvana, God. God. Electrifying, sensation. I feel it all the way up to my chin. Push and pull.
“Jesus!” He claws my hands. For one bad instant I think he means stop but then he clutches, fouls my rhythm, clutches my hand in tight. Two more strokes and the breath comes out of him, the muscle gripping my prick clamps hard on me. Exhalation, ejaculation. Everything he has tensed up on that point. He holds it, perfect tension and then the dribble starts, the body heat pulse, my knuckles are suddenly slick, dripping. I keep pumping, slower now on him, but steady from behind, steady boring into his ass.
He stays open, beating heart, skin damp against my chest, still moving his ass, back and forth, slowly now. I saw. I saw steadily, into him. He’s mine, into him, he’s mine, in, mine, in. mine. Mine. Mine. I own him and he lets me fuck his ass. Driving. Oh, Driving. And now I’m getting close, Geoff, Fuck! Oh, mine, You’re mine. It’s… now.
Oh, the release. A rush. Flood through me, every tendon pulled taut, done. Now the perfect tight hole has done me. I’ve pierced it and I’m flooding it. My cum jets and spurts. I feel that swift passage of fluid in my prick. In him. Oh. Oh. Softer, I’m going slack, still jetting.
I lie still. The opening is moist, his heart is still beating hard enough I feel it through his back but not as hard as mine. My cheek is on the side of his throat, the corner of his jaw. His neck is stretched trustingly. I hold him. My heart thuds slower, languid. All is well. I lie, still stiff into his depths, hips stopped motionless at the depth of my stroke. I close my eyes, feeling the weight of my lashes. I smell Geoff and I smell cum.
I don’t move.
It’s warm. Safe.
His breathing is going deep. He takes one long slow deep breath. He’s asleep with my arm over him and my cock in his ass. My cock is now a wet shriveled thing, but still inside that ring and he’s asleep.
I don’t move. It feels too good to move.