Is Sammy ever going to figure out who the hillbilly who fed his arse the night before? And if it was just a dream? Remember the televangelist?

This story is fiction; the view of the Appalachians is the only real thing in it. The story is copyrighted to me and cannot appear in any venue without my expressed permission. If you aren't legal, go away or, at least, delete all history of your ever being here.

Please write and let me know what you think of the story. Vichowel@aol

Dave MacMillan




I finally started remembering things a gay guy knows instinctively after Henry and I had showered and were in the car. Unprotected anal intercourse was a sure way to get AIDS, if either guy was already infected. That was why Paul and everyone else I knew in the Atlanta gay community was into condoms in a big way.

I'd fucked Henry bareback.

"It's a little late to bring this up now," I said as we reached the end of the drive, "but I hope to God that you haven't been giving that butt of yours to many guys around here."

I saw a lot of emotions fighting to get a chance to show on Henry's face. I knew that I had not been diplomatic at all.

"I shouldn't have said it that way," I told him, making sure my voice was as friendly as it ever had been. "I'll also admit that I haven't been tested in over a year -- since I started dating the girl I'm seeing now."

"A girl?" he croaked.

"Yeah, I've got a girlfriend back in Atlanta." I glanced over at him and decided I could smile without having my head bitten off. "You were the first guy I've ever done anything with."

"Yeah?" He was studying me when I looked back over at him.

For a moment, I thought I saw doubt in his eyes but decided that I was being paranoid.

I decided that I hadn't shot myself in the foot after all. "Next time, we use a raincoat, Henry. That's the best way for both of us to be safe."

"There's going to be a next time then?"

"If you want."

His face broke into the biggest grin I'd seen recently. "I want."

I grinned back. "Now, where's this family powwow being held?"


There had to be three hundred people at the longhouse. The women were setting out food on the tables that guarded the entrance to the long, one-story log structure. There were enough soccer games going that most of the older children were in them; the younger ones just ran and played. The men had formed two lines from the parking lot to the longhouse and were talking among themselves.

"Who are all these people?" I groaned to Henry as I parked.

"They're the Taylors of Taylor Mountain, Sammy. Your cousins."

The old extended family structure of the Deep South was alive and well on Taylor Mountain.

Each man greeted me, asked how I was, and told me how sorry each he was about my dad. I nodded and thanked each of them. Two weeks of grief resolution had almost been blown away by the time I got through the receiving line. The surprise at how much deference these men were showing me probably helped me hold on to the tattered remnants.

I felt like the son of some mafia kingpin taking up his father's mantel. Jeez! I was only twenty-six years old. These men should be deciding among themselves which one of them would be their leader. Instead, I'd been pre-selected.

I was a salesman. I knew how to be nice to people and give them a good first impression of me. I turned on the charm, almost without thinking about it. After all, this position I held with them -- whatever it was -- ensured their hundred million dollars stayed with Taylor Securities.

I finally reached the bald old man hunched over his cane. He'd been watching me as I made my way through the double line of well-wishers. I'd figured that, if my great-granddaddy was alive, this man was old enough to be him.

"Are you the old Mr. Sam I keep hearing about?" I asked when I reached him.

He stared at me for almost a full minute before the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes spread into a smile. "I ain't that old, boy," he shot back in a sharp mountain twang. "I be Euston Taylor, Mr. Sam's youngest boy."

"I'm sorry, sir. I guess I thought..."

"You're good with people, Sammy boy -- much better than your daddy was. Almost as good as my brother Junior was when he was still alive. God rest his soul."

We chatted for a few more minutes. The others mulled around, respectfully keeping their distance. Euston and I were the two highest ranked Taylors at the family council and the menfolk there respected that.

There were things I wanted to ask Euston -- things about my dad, about why I was being treated with so much deference, about why I even had whatever position I had with these people. And I wanted to know a lot more about the first Samuel Adams Taylor. But this council was not the time.

We ate, smoozed, and socialized over the covered dish dinner and gallons of sweet iced tea. After the actual meal, I table-hopped -- figuring that was what I was supposed to do. Somehow, I had become something like a feudal lord to these people. I had to show them that I understood my responsibilities to them -- even if I didn't know what they were.

Janet was right as rain, too. This family council was as patriarchial as it could get and still be in the America of 2001. It felt weird for a while until I was able to forget being politically correct. It started to feel good to be waited on by women. I smiled when a few of the younger girls, high school students, kept watching me out of the corner of their eyes. If the Taylors of Taylor Mountain married among themselves, I reckoned that I counted as a prime catch.

We men didn't talk business and I never saw S. A. Taylor. I was actually enjoying myself by the time things broke up around nine o'clock.

Henry stopped by to say goodbye and made sure I saw him rubbing his ass before he rejoined his parents. He wasn't obvious; and none of the men clustered around me saw him acknowledge our earlier sex.

* * *

I pulled into the parking lot and looked up at the house, lit by the full moon.

I already loved this place. I could spend my whole life here and be content. I took a deep breath and just relished the cool taste of good, clean air.

I stepped out of the car and was instantly hit with an overwhelming need to return to the outhouse where I'd been the evening before. I didn't have time to think before my feet had me hoofing it across the clearing toward the side of the house. It was like my body had ceased to be mine and my brain had turned itself off.

At the collapsed outhouse, I looked around expectantly. There was nothing to see, though the full moon was illuminating everything clearly. Just a few boards lying between two trees. I felt disappointed.

|Do you like your family, Sammy?|

I knew that voice. I'd heard it last night. I looked around me, searching for the blond man I'd dreamed about.

"Where are you?" I demanded. "And who are you?"

|All in good time, Sammy Taylor -- all in good time. Did you enjoy Henry this afternoon?|

I felt a tickling inside my head, a little like when my foot itched and scratching did no good, the itch was so deep.

|I see you did.| There was a chuckle inside my head. I didn't actually hear it so much as felt it. |You treat Henry good, Sammy. He's a good boy. You just remember, though, that you're mine -- he can't have you.|

"Where are you?" I demanded.

|Get naked, boy. I want to show you this mountain of ours.| That chuckle touched my brain again. |And have a good time like we did last night.|

I was about to tell whoever it was that he could fuck himself and the horse he'd ridden in on. He showed himself or I stayed clothed.

My body, however, no longer understood the concept of a man owning himself. My shirt and sneakers were already off. I had my belt unhooked and had just unbuttoned my pants before I realized I was betraying myself. I tried to stop my fingers from working my zipper down, but they turned out to have a mind of their own, too.

My hands did too. They sneaked inside the waistband of my boxers and got my pants down to my knees. One leg and then the other bent so my hands could push the cloth over my feet.

I stood beside the collapsed toilet naked, my seven inches jutting straight out in anticipation.

|I do love your butt, Sammy. It's so pretty, and I'll be filling it up for both of us again tonight.| There was that chuckle in my head again. |But I want to see if you want me as much as I want you. Turn around and face me, boy.|

I pivoted to face up toward the house, and there he was. Blond, tall, smooth, slim, and big. He was white as a sheet under the moonlight.

He held out his arms to me and my ass itched -- way up inside, like it knew that dick was going to be slamming into me in a minute. Images cascaded through my mind -- him fucking me while water splashed over us, me riding him, him bending over me and my feet crossed behind his back, him pounding me doggie-style. Hours and hours of that dick buried in my butt. That was all that my mind allowed inside it now that I'd seen him again.

|Come to me, boy.|

I scampered to him, my tail wagging, a puppy expecting a treat.

His hands engulfed me, pulling me against him. His blue eyes gazed into mine as his lips moved to touch mine. His tongue entered my mouth triumphantly. His hands cupped my buttcheeks in full possession. I pressed myself hard against him, wanting him. Needing him. All of him.

His hands lifted me off the ground. My thighs instinctively locked around his waist. I could feel his pecker pressing up into my crack.

|Put it inside you, Sammy. Give yourself to me.|

I reached behind me and found his dick with one hand as I held myself on him with the other around his neck. I shimmied up his belly a couple of inches so that I could bring his knob to me. It wedged easily against my hole and didn't wander.

My weight carried my body downward, settling against his flared head. My muscle opened to admit more and more of him. I pulled his face closer to mine, forcing our kiss to take my mind off what was happening in my ass. I groaned my relief into his mouth as the widest part of his knob popped into me.

He held me, my tongue finding and then exploring the elongated canine teeth in his mouth as my butt slid down his pole. There was no pain -- just as there had been none last night. There was fullness. There was growing pleasure. There was completeness and contentment. And there was the closest thing to rapture that I would ever know.

As his pubic bush scratched under my balls, I broke our kiss and, arching my head back, cried out my abject surrender to the moon. My ass belonged to the blond of my dream, and he had taken full possession of it. My hard dick rode his abs as his hands on my buttcheeks lifted and lowered me.

Time passed but it had ceased to have meaning. His pecker moving through my asshole was my universe, as it had been last night.

A small part of me accepted that I was in another dream, that this wasn't really happening. That small part of me was anchored in reality but stayed dormant, allowing the rest of me to submerge myself in the wet dream that held me.

I came, covering the blond's smooth chest and belly with jizz. He stayed hard inside me and held me to him. He carried me that way through the woods until we reached a natural pool fed by a small waterfall. He started moving inside me again as he carried me into the cool water.

Water lapped at my buttocks as his hands raised and lowered me on his dick. I held onto him, burying my face in his neck, as he fucked me into another orgasm.

We laughed and played grab-ass in the pool as I washed the sweat off of me and the jizz off him. Both of us stayed hard. Neither of us spoke. There was no need for words. We both knew that I belonged to him and that he would take me again. And that I would ride the clouds when he did -- every time he did.

I knew where I was when I made out the darkened longhouse.

Under the waterfall, I knelt before the blond and worshipped his manhood anew. His skin bunched behind the knob. He was wider than Henry or I; the head of his dick spread my lips tight. But it was his dick, the tangible symbol of his possession of me.

I managed to get the head of it all the way into my mouth. And bathe all of that cool, hard, smooth surface with my tongue. I wondered how it'd ever gotten into my butt without splitting me in two.

He lifted me to my feet and turned me around so that I was looking back at the longhouse over the moonlit pool as he maneuvered the tip of his dick along the valley of my crack. I leaned forward as it found my hole and he began to push gently into me. I arched my back, jutting my buttcheeks back toward him, as his hands went under my arms and onto my shoulders, pulling me back against him. I was complete again and ground my bottom against him when his pubic bush began to scratch them.

I was again in that other universe that consisted of his pecker and my butt. Cool mountain water cascaded over us as I turned my head and his lips found mine. I shuddered as our tongues met and his pace inside me quickened. I shut my eyes and gave myself up to the ride he was giving me.

I opened them to find myself lying in my bed in the house, still wet from the water. My legs splayed on his shoulders as he nibbled behind my balls.

"Suck me!" I groaned.

I felt a pinprick where my perineum and thigh met and felt his tongue licking away the sting. I came as his tongue continued to lap at my leg.

I sucked his nipple as his dick again possessed my ass. |Bite me hard, Sammy,| he told me as I clamped my teeth down on the smooth pec beneath his tit. |Harder,| he demanded. |Draw blood, boy. I want you to taste me.|


When I awoke Sunday morning, sunlight was streaming into my bedroom, warming everything with its glow. I stretched like a cat, relishing the movement of the sheets against my naked body.

My pole stood straight up, a periscope searching for more fun and games. My nipples were tender and looked puffy. My butt was sore with a pleasurable ache that I accepted came from being well used. I was covered in dried cum. And there was the faintest hint of a coppery taste left in my mouth, like I'd bitten the inside of my cheek in the night.

I felt great. Completely and totally great. And so alive.

I stretched again, working the kinks out. I didn't have to feel my butthole this morning. I knew it'd be swollen. Whatever it was about Taylor Mountain, it sure had brought out the gay part of myself.

Two nights running, I'd dreamed of a handsome blond man with the staying power of something inhuman. I'd beat my meat until it was nearly black and blue. And I'd fucked myself with probably four fingers while I was going to town on my pole.

Yesterday, I'd sucked myself off before I took Henry down my throat. I'd fucked my first guy when I humped Henry yesterday afternoon. I'd hadn't even had a sexual thought at the family council looking at all those Taylor girls there, though some of them had been nice looking.

I'd been playing the gay part to a tee since I arrived on the mountain Friday evening. While a small part of me hoped that it hadn't become a permanent addition, most of me just didn't care any more. I was too busy enjoying how good I felt after two days of being home.

I sprang out of bed and headed for the shower, lazily guessing that it was the clean air that was making me feel so good.

My feet were again firmly planted in reality when I'd dried myself off and started rummaging through my bag for something to wear. I was going to be driving back to Atlanta later. I wasn't that big on leaving the mountain but my chin wasn't dragging the floor. I already knew I'd be back come next Friday.

In my boxers, I took the steps two at a time and entered the kitchen. I made a quick inventory of what food Dad had left me. It was mostly zilch -- the refrigerator had been cleaned out and left spotless, the freezer was just as empty. There were a couple of cans of crème of mushroom soup in the larder and a package of rice. I started a list of what I was going to need to bring up next week.

I explored through the house, adding things to my list. The linen closet and bathroom told me there wasn't much -- one towel, one wash clothe, a pair of sheets, a sliver of soap, and a roll of toilet paper.

I'd seen the living room before during the two days I'd been here. But I instantly knew that I'd never really noticed it. The room covered almost the whole first floor -- only the kitchen, bathroom, and the entrance foyer existed separately from it. The outer wall had a row of French doors to a deck facing out over the same valley and mountain that were the view from my bedroom.

The inside wall was a bookcase. I stepped up to the closest section and starting reading titles. At eye level and above, the books seemed to be by or about some of the big names of spiritualism and magic. I spotted a couple of books by Alex Crowley and one by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There were several about the Marquis de Sade and his exploration of blood magic.

I stopped when I saw one entitled The Complete Kabbalah. That one stood out -- I could see one of my forebears getting caught up in all the crazy stuff on magic and spirits. But I didn't remember any Jews being in the family line. And that was what the Kabbalah was, the mysticism developed by Eastern European Jews during the middle ages. All I remembered was that it had a lot to do with numbers and secret names.

On the far wall was the fireplace and framed photographs on the mantle. I crossed the living room to look at them, smiling when I saw Dad's serious face looking expressionless back at me.

Next to dad's photo was one of my grandfather. I recognized him from pictures around the house when I was growing up. They both stood in the clearing in front of the log house. I blinked when I turned to look at the third photograph.

My heart raced. Blood pounded in my temples. I was looking at the blond of my dreams.

He was unsmiling and stiff as a board in a World War I uniform. The photograph was gritty and old. But that was my blond standing there looking out over nearly a hundred years at me. My dick found the slit in my boxers and jumped to full hardness as I looked into the man's eyes looking into mine.

I set the photograph back on the mantle and stepped back. This was too fucking unreal. The other two pictures had been of dad and granddad; so, this one had to be of my great-grandfather. It'd obviously been taken just before or just after 1918. He was a young man, probably younger than I was now, when it was taken.

The men at the council meeting last evening had all acted like Samuel Adams Taylor was still alive, but not one of them had admitted to ever seeing him -- except his youngest son Euston.

Even if old Mr. Sam was still alive, he'd be a hundred or older. There was no way that he could look today like he had when he was nineteen or twenty. Even if great-granddaddy was alive and liked boy butt, there was no way he had been the one doing the honors on my ass the last two nights. The blond of my dreams was as young as me or younger and had staying power that no old man could ever have.

I should have been reassured by that line of reasoning. I wasn't.

Something in me wasn't about to let go of the good times my butt had both times I dreamed of the blue-eyed, blond young man in the picture on the mantle fucking it. Whatever that something was, it was raising enough doubt in my head that I didn't know what I believed or what I knew. I struggled to wrest control of my mind from the growing shock that threatened to shut it down.

It was logical that, if this photograph of great-granddad existed, there would be others. Dad probably had one in his office and maybe one at home. I'd have seen it, even if I didn't remember doing so. It wasn't any less logical to assume that, somehow, I'd sublimated the image of the man. And, when, the gay side of me kicked in after I got to the mountain, I'd brought him out of whatever hiding hole in my head that I'd put him in.

There I had it -- I'd been seeing my great-grandfather ever since I was a child, I'd stored up that image because he was good looking, and when I was ready to open up the gay part of me, I'd pulled his image up -- and made him my dream lover.

I didn't need Sigmund Freud to psychoanalyze me to come up with the where and how of it. I could do that much myself.

What I was having problems with was how real he'd felt. And how hungry my ass was for this dream lover.

* * *

Sunday evening, the big Lincoln moved through the interchange from I-95 onto I-20 in Savannah at seventy-five miles per hour. Rastus Reed hummed Amazing Grace along with the CD as he sped toward Atlanta and his Monday morning session with Paul Estes. He'd always liked that song because it captured his life so well. Thirty years ago, he had been a wretch. A lost, poor boy with no prospects.

He'd been his family's favorite pincushion back in high school -- his two brothers' and his cousins'. He'd been their queer. They'd kept their mouths closed at school and his liking dick hadn't gotten around. In return, he serviced them whenever one of them was horny.

He'd been a loner in high school, unhappy at the nothing life he saw stretching out before him. When he was seventeen, though, his parents got religion and he was even more unhappy getting up on Sundays to go to Sunday School and church.

Rastus had watched the preacher come to Sunday dinner at his house and witnessed respect for the first time. The preacher had been given both chicken breasts, the Reeds ate what was left. He'd known right then that he wanted what the preacher had, that aura of respect God gave him.

He'd almost walked on air when he learned that he didn't have to have to go to college to become a preacher. Rastus Reed could have respect and he could have it right then.

He'd spent the next six months going to every church he could find nearby, even the black churches out in the country. He'd learned how to preach, learning the most from the black preachers. He'd honed their style, making it his own.

His mother had bought him his first new Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. The first time he'd preached he wore nothing that was hand-me-down. He looked like a young Jerry Lee Lewis and had the power of Little Richard. He'd managed to scare the hell out of both of his brothers with that sermon. They'd had him baptized them that same day, his first conquests for God.

He'd scared the rest of his family with that sermon as well. He was no longer just their son or, in the case of his brothers, their queer. He was a preacher man. He had their respect. Inside of the month, he'd won his cousins to the Gospel as well.

Rastus had never forgotten what the immediate threat of eternal hellfire and damnation did to a man. That threat became the central focus of his ministry. He'd made that threat the central point of his ministry.

Only, he'd still needed dick. Even after he was married. Even after his little girl was born. Hard dick always conquered him.

Rastus knew his need was a sin; he preached that it was abomination in the sight of the Lord. But he needed it. Even after he'd learned to hide that need.

It had taken him years to come to terms with that need. It was reading the Bible that had saved him. The boy David had known Prince Jonathan as a man did a woman; and the penalty for that was stoning. Yet, God had anointed that boy to lead all of Israel. Even after he'd become King, David had still whored and murdered and robbed. Yet, God had still forgiven him.

Rastus accepted that he was like David. Because God could use him to teach His word, he had become special to God. God overlooked his sins, as he'd done with David's. His usefulness to God was greater than his sins. And, like David, Rastus was made immune to the penalty for his sins.

He needed Troy. Even if he had to pay him.

Rastus needed Paul Estes more, though. He'd sinned with Troy, and Paul would going to punish him for it. Punishment under Paul's whip was how Rastus made up for his sins. God overlooked his abomination because He had nobody as good as Rastus was at preaching the Word, but Rastus needed physical punishment to feel cleansed.