Now that pussyhound Sammy Taylor has had some reality pounded in him, it's time for a bit of sex to happen, to cement his new awareness of cock, right?

Taylor Mountain is fiction; it contains depictions of gay male sexual unions between adults. The copyright belongs to me and the story cannot appear elsewhere in any medium without my express permission. If you are not a legal adult in your country, please do not read.

If you like Taylor Mountain, you may find Global Entertainment in Nifty's Incest file a fun read. If you want more hot vampire sex after that, there's my new anthology LOVERS WHO STAY WITH YOU published by Starbooks at your favourite bookstore.

I want to hear from all of you, please write me at vichowel@aol.com. Use the words "Taylor Mountain" in the subject box so that I'll know that you aren't spam.

Dave MacMillan

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CHAPTER THREE

I was more asleep than awake. My eyes were closed, but I sensed that I was in the bedroom I'd picked out earlier, lying on the bed. I sensed the house, even the air around me, warming with the approaching sun. I sensed that I was alone.

I was drained. But I was also sated, more than I could remember ever being after a night of sex.

Sex? I opened my eyes and, through the windows, saw the first streaks of dawn inching across the sky. There wasn't any sex, Sammy -- it was just a dream.

A dream? The blond with broad shoulders, slim waist, and big dick was a dream?

The blond -- big dick? Whoa there, Nellie!

I'd been dreaming about getting it on with a man?

No fucking way!

My dick lurched. I reached down to touch it. And found dried cum spread across my belly.

"Maybe yes way, Sammy boy," I told myself hesitantly. At least, I'd sure had one hell of a wet dream. And the blond seemed to fit into it very tightly.

I figured right then that I'd better remember as much about the dream as I could. I hadn't had a wet dream since I was twelve. I had never fantasized about another guy. I wasn't queer. I'd never once wanted to look at another boy. Or do anything with him. I'd been girl-driven from the beginning. I didn't even look around in the showers back at school.

I couldn't understand why I would start thinking of experimenting fourteen years after I went through puberty. Or fantasizing about it. If I'd been beating off to a guy, I wanted to see a shrink and fast. I was normal and planned on staying that way.

I pictured the blond too easily, however -- my height, short blond hair, blue eyes, full lips, angular face. Tight body, big dick, and uncut.

This was not good.

I saw him sucking my nipple and pounding that dick into my butt while I jerked off under him.

This was even worse.

Very slowly, feeling sillier than shit, I lifted my leg and brought my hand around to check my asshole. I wasn't sure how big my hole was supposed to be, but it felt pretty spread out down there -- and puffy like it was sort of swollen. It was sore to the touch.

My index finger caressed the center of the pucker. My body jerked at the touch; then, before I could think about it, my butt was wiggling itself against that finger.

That felt good!

I applied pressure and my hole seemed just to open up and swallow the finger. My dick was hard, my hips were bucking, and my finger was buried two knuckles deep before I thought to pull it away.

It felt great. That was the only thought my head allowed me to have. My finger sliding in and out of my butt felt good. My butt getting fucked.

This was definitely the worst.

On auto-pilot, I pushed off the bed and padded over to the en-suite bathroom. In a daze, I turned on the water and got it to the right temperature. No matter what craziness was happening in my life, I couldn't go around with dried cum all over me. My skin felt like it was being slowly ripped off my belly every time I moved, an inch at a time, under the stuff. My dick stayed hard, begging for attention.

I scrubbed myself under the shower spray and tried to understand what was going on. I'd either had one hell of a gay wet dream the night before or somebody had shot me full of drugs, hypnotized me, or something -- and had his way with me.

My sore, but hungry butthole lent credence to the second possibility. Only, I couldn't believe that I'd shot as much cum as I was washing off if I'd had a hard dick pounding my asshole.

Taking a pole up the ass was supposed to hurt the first time a guy did it. I'd never gotten hard when I was hurting, that was the way my body operated naturally. There was no way that I could have been hard, much less shooting, while some hillbilly was reaming me a new asshole.

I'd scrubbed my chest and belly. I may have scrubbed off a couple of layers of skin, but my upper torso was clean.

I took my dick in hand and brought the washcloth to its knob. I looked down as it decided to throb in appreciation of the attention. Only, the floor of the shower grabbed my gaze instantly and I wasn't thinking about my dick any more.

There was blood mixed with the water circling the drain. Not much, but enough to be seen. It led back to my feet, and I could see a little line of it leading up the insides of both legs to where my thighs came together. I was bleeding.

Oh, God! I had been raped then. And I was bleeding internally. I tried to remember how far it was to Seneca which was the first place I figured I'd find a hospital.

I'd bleed to death before I got there.

I stepped out of the spray and sat down on the narrow bench built into the shower. I knew that I hadn't scrubbed myself so hard I'd rubbed whole layers of skin off. More importantly, the washcloth had only gotten past my waist; I'd only just started on my dick when I saw the blood. I'd never touched my legs.

I was still trying to convince myself that I probably wasn't going to die by the time I spread my legs wide to take a look-see.

Sitting down with legs spread wide, I leaned over to get a closer look. My dick was all right, there wasn't a scrape in sight. I worked my fingertips over my ball sack and was real careful about checking the backside. My dick throbbed and jerked. I tried to ignore it as my fingers worked along the perineum toward my hole. I was wet down there, but only from the shower.

Very gingerly, I bent over and circled my hole with a fingertip. I breathed a sigh of relief when I didn't find any blood on my finger. But my finger returned to my ass of its own volition and I started fingering myself.

My dick jerked and precum oozed out of my piss-slit.

"Jesus!" I groaned. I'd never been this sex-crazed; it was as if everything meant sex to my body.

My mouth was only about an inch from the head of my seven incher. Before I could begin to pull back like a normal person would do, I wondered if I could get my lips on it. I was daring myself to try sucking it before I knew it.

I studied the head of my own dick up close. It didn't look anything like it did when I was taking a piss. The wide helmet was almost purple -- almost like it was angry. Precum glistened in the slit. Tentatively, I stuck my tongue out and moved my head closer.

I knew it wasn't normal for a twenty-six year old man to taste his own precum or, even, to suck his own dick. But whatever had happened last night wasn't normal, either.

My butthole was staying so hungry for attention, I had to have shoved my fingers in it and fucked myself silly during my dream about the blond guy -- or there really had been some hillbilly fucking my ass good. Either way, at that moment, sucking my own dick seemed a lot more normal than it usually would. I told myself that, really, it wouldn't be much different than jacking off -- and that was normal.

My tongue touched the tip of my dick and I shuddered at how good it felt. My dick started jumping around like a happy puppy. The precum wasn't bad -- sort of like a thick broth, but with no real taste. It was just a little salty.

I bent over more, hunching my back and moving my head down to get a better angle. My hands held the back of my legs at the knees, pulling them toward me. My tongue slipped down the longest and widest part of my knob, my lips touching the tip.

It felt good! I knew right then that I'd never turn down a blow job if it was ever offered.

A little more and my tongue was spread across the whole head. I stretched my lips and got down almost to the corona. I made a vacuum in my mouth and bobbed up and down on the inch that I'd got into my mouth. My dick throbbed in appreciation and my balls started climbing up on my shaft. The whole head got past my lips then, and, soon, I was bobbing up and down on the first four inches.

I was sucking dick. My dick.

If this was feeling so fucking good, I knew what would feel even better. I might as well go all the way queer while I still could, because come Monday morning I was finding myself a shrink. By next weekend, my little experiment with gayness was going to be over with.

I slid one hand down my thigh while two more fingers from the other hand joined the one in my hole. They dug into my hole like a heat-seeking missile.

Oh! God!! Yes!!!

I had the head and three full inches of my dick in my mouth, sucking hungrily. I looked down the length of my shaft and saw my balls riding either side of my pole hard. My hand was pumping three fingers in and out of my open hole. My eyes glazed. I was close. Oh, so close.

My balls began to unload. I could feel the jizz rushing along the cumtube of my dick. I sucked in hard and got the tip of my hard pecker snuggled up against my tonsils.

I erupted. Three fingers pistoning in and out of my ass. My dick throbbing and jerking against my tongue and lips holding it. Somehow, I held my butt in place. Rope after rope of jizz shot straight down my throat.

I wasn't sure about anything by the time I'd plopped my wet bod on the bed.

I mean ... Jesus! I had no explanation for what I'd just done.

I'd sucked dick -- my own dick. I'd swallowed cum. I'd shoved three fingers as far up my ass as they'd go. I'd gotten off on it, too. My dick was half hard and wanting more attention. I didn't know which was the sadder part.

Added to that was a fucking dream of getting porked by a donkey dick and loving it to death. The dry jizz on my belly and chest and my sore, swollen asshole still had me wondering if maybe it wasn't a dream.

I almost wished the blond with the wide shoulders and big dick had been real. I'd have an excuse for the jizz and tender asshole then. Only, where had he come from? Worse, how come I was so hot to blow myself in the shower? None of the reports I'd ever read had rape victims going back out looking for another porking.

It was enough to make a grown man cry.

I remembered the blood in the shower then. I jumped on it. Bleeding was something I could do something about. At least, I could have concrete worries about it. It wasn't a psychological condition, after all.

My dick throbbed in anticipation; I ignored it. In the shower, I'd found out that my pole and balls were okay as was my asshole -- before I got into sucking my own pecker.

What else was left?

I lay back on the bed and lifted my legs up in the air, spreading them wide. My balls spread over the bottom half of my hard dick. The head glistened wetly, beckoning to me.

I almost let myself get lured into another blowjob. I was that close. It was remembering the blood that kept my head from lifting a little more and working my lips down over my dick again.

I spotted the slightly discolored swelling on my right thigh, right below the crease between my leg and my perineum just past the back of my ball sack. It looked like an insect bite, small and hardly even there. A spider could have done it. I felt the raised skin and touched around it -- and found another little puckered mound about an inch and a half back toward my butt.

The outhouse! My crazy but overwhelming urge to beat off inside, like some kid fifty years ago. I hadn't seen any spider webs. Still, one of those nasty little things had got me -- twice.

I lowered my legs and lay across the bed. Beyond the windows, the rising sun was lighting up the mountain across me. I forgot about the bites on my inner thigh as I was pulled into the beauty of the sunrise.

Gold, yellow, and red erupted as trees on the mountain across from me were lit up. No painting I'd ever seen even came close to matching the beauty that existed naturally and free all around me on Taylor Mountain.

I needed coffee. My stomach growled; and I corrected myself. I needed breakfast. But I hadn't stopped for groceries on the drive up.

The bed felt so good and I was still tired. My stomach growled again. I remembered passing a diner in Mountain Hollow.

Willing myself to get up, I pushed myself off the bed and found my clothes from last night neatly folded on the chair beside the nearest window.

* * *

As I drove down the mountain, I suspected that I was going to have to re-think the way I viewed people who didn't live in Atlanta. I'd already stopped thinking that city living was the only way to be civilized. But I wanted to spend a lot of time on Taylor Mountain, and that sure was one real about-face.

The food was good at the Mountain Hollow Diner. The woman in the kitchen could do ham, eggs, and grits with the best of Atlanta. Breakfast would have been perfect if the diner had just thought to use real butter instead of honey-flavored vegetable shortening.

Admittedly, I overheard more about hog and corn prices than I did about how the new gay center was coming along, even more than what America was going to do to that crazy Arab in Afghanistan when the army caught him. This was rural Georgiam and its reality didn't include guessing about far-off places.

More than one table had someone asking grace over it. But nobody had wanted to reach over to me and hold hands for a general prayer meeting. I'd been left alone, just like a customer at any restaurant in Atlanta. The folks around me were just friendlier with each other than I'd seen in the city, and I got the feeling that friendliness would have been extended to me.

The men and women here in the Georgia mountains were coming across as good folks. Except for one certain blond, broad-shouldered, good-looking one with a big dick -- if he even existed. And I couldn't make up my mind about him.

I really hoped he was just a figment of my imagination. If he was, then nobody knew about me. There wouldn't be rumors flying around -- and that hundred million would stay in my hands without a quibble. I didn't want to think about what would happen if he turned out to be real.

I did, but I didn't. So, he was going to stay just a figment of my imagination.

And what a figment he was. Jesus! My dick started spreading down the leg of my boxers.

I was trying to understand this new side of me when I turned onto Taylor Access Road on my return to the mountain.

I mean, nobody I'd ever known went around dreaming up some big-horned bozo stuffing his ass all night long. They didn't go around sucking their own dick, either. At least, they sure as hell weren't admitting to it. Not even Paul Estes and his nude cleaning boys talked about what they did with their partners.

This shit was new to me. I wanted to understand it so I could put it where it belonged -- in the trash can. It was something I wanted to get rid of before Brenda got around to deciding to come back to my bed.

I wasn't queer. I couldn't be. Ever since I'd learned the thing between my legs was good for more than just pissing, I'd dreamed of girls and I'd porked girls. Until last night, my butt had had one purpose only.

I guessed that maybe I'd thought about it before. Not for me, though! When I started in at Taylor Securities and was building my own client list -- when I started working the gay community for clients.

I did figure what those guys were doing in their beds when I was hustling them for their investment business. What they'd like to do to and with me as well. Only, I didn't really imagine any of it. It was just sort of a general awareness that they were gay and what that meant. And how happy they'd be if they'd been getting my seven inches sliding into their butts.

Maybe the preachers were right. It was a sin and, if you got close enough to it for any length of time, it rubbed off on you. I'd been trawling the gay crowd for three years. I treated gays like I did anybody else. Maybe it was rubbing off on me.

The idea had a ring to it, if I didn't think about it. The biggest hole I saw in it was that "rubbing off on" didn't mean the same thing as "getting slam-dunked by". If gayness was rubbing off on me, it should have opened me up to the idea of maybe taking Paul up on his standing offer to service more than my condo -- especially this last week when Brenda was acting like she was on the rag. Thinking about it and sort of opening up to it.

But not getting totally submerged in it like one of those Baptists getting nearly drowned for Jesus.

Not like what I'd dreamed last night. Jesus! Kissing and licking. And fucking! Taking it over and over.

And why had I been so aware of the blond being uncut?

I knew about circumcision -- guys had it done to them at the hospital when they were born. The guys I'd grown up with were cut, just like I was. It was just a given. It was just generic knowledge for me, though -- it went with the territory of being male and having a pecker. I'd never been into dick before last night, and I sure as hell had never been more than aware in passing that a pole did or didn't have skin on its knob.

Only, the blond in my dream pounding his meat into my butt -- I sure seemed to know every inch of his pole this morning. Like every single one of them had been burnt into my memory.

And this morning! Jesus!

I'd contorted my body into all sorts of strange ways to get my own dick into my mouth. And did I ever more suck it! God, I even swallowed the stuff!

I'd been finger-fucking my butt while I was sucking too. Three fingers!

I'd gone whole-hog into being gay in less than a day!

That didn't sound like gayness rubbing off on me. It sounded more like I swished as much as Paul and his nude cleaning boys did -- from the get-go.

Maybe I was bi and was just realizing it now. That would mean there was no religious shit involved, no abomination slipping up on me and leading me away from fucking pussy like a jackrabbit. Just my body waking up to one of the things it liked and diving in -- and making up for lost time.

A tractor pulled onto the access road ahead of me. I slowed down and didn't even fume that I was going to have to put up with trailing after it. I was still trying to come to terms with my being bi.

I did jumpstart my brain into reality, however, when I finally understood that the bastard wasn't moving. The tractor was just sitting there, straddling the access road, its plows hoisted and its driver studying me. He was young.

I pulled to a stop and waited, realizing the field beside me belonged to the farm I'd stopped at last night. I bit back the anger that'd started to grow.

"Hey!" I yelled from the window, "want to move that thing so I can get on up to the house?"

He jumped down and started toward me, pulling off his cap. The kid looked a lot like the blond of my dreams. Same height, same broad shoulders, same good-looking angular face, same tight body. His hair, however, was a dark brown, almost black. As he leaned on my open window, I saw that his eyes were brown, like mine.

He looked in at me and smiled. "You Sammy Taylor?"

I nodded and a part of me recognized that his gaze had moved down to take in my legs and crotch before moving up my chest again to meet mine. In my peripheral vision, I saw his bulge got larger. The fucking kid was checking me out!

"I'm your cousin Henry." His hand shot through the window. "Henry Taylor."

"Cousin?"

"Yeah. Three or four times removed." He laughed. "We're still kissing cousins at that range, though -- so, you better watch out." He turned serious then. "Daddy said I should invite you to dinner today," he said, his smile widening. "We're having fried chicken and mashed potatoes, butterbeans too. And Mom's biscuits melt in your mouth. You'll come, won't you, Cousin Sammy?"

I'd heard enough come-ons in Atlanta to know what Henry Taylor's little comment about kissing cousins meant, even if I hadn't seen him checking me out. I ought to tell him I was straight as an arrow. Something inside me decided to wait, however, until he became more overt.

"I've got a meeting this evening," I told him. "What time?"

He laughed. "Not supper, Cousin Sammy -- dinner. We'll be sitting down around twelve -- twelve thirty this afternoon. I sure hope you'll be able to join us."

I grinned. Full as I was, the meal he'd described sounded too good to pass up. "I'll be there."

He nodded. "Now that's taken care of, I reckon I'd better move this old tractor so you can get past."