Dude, Are You Serious?
© 2015
by
Jonathan Longhorn
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 that had been seen or was 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.
Chapter 2
Dillon Jamison eased his Ram 1500 Big Horn down the path from the road. He cringed every time a branch or cluster of leaves brushed along the sides of the cab and cargo box, or for that matter—against the roof. But what could he do? It was the only way to get to Trestle Ridge Bridge unless he went in from the other direction. That would easily take another 20 miles and an additional 30 minutes.
He coasted through a large puddle—he was very familiar with the hole the water was sitting in—and threw on his fogs which pierced through the heart of the cavernous hole. There was a shale ledge on either side, 4 feet wide. If you got your tires on there, it was smooth sailing through the water to the other side. Miss the ledge? You were 5 feet deep in the middle of the hole. That was a phone call that he so did not want to make—at ‘any’ time—but especially not this late at night.
Hey, Dad. Um, I ‘sank’ my truck….
Water was still swiftly flowing into the hole. It eddied and swirled before pouring off to the right, down a ravine that fed into the river just beyond a pile of boulders. He shook his head as he considered the storm that had barreled through the area barely an hour earlier. The water flowing past him was still thick with mud and debris. Everything in its path had been swept up with it and was hurtling toward the river bank.
“So much for washing my truck this afternoon,” he groused.
He finally broke through the brush and trees; the deep puddle was now behind him. He maneuvered out onto the embankment and made a quick survey. He saw no signs of life along the long stretch of gravel and shale and the muck of clay that lined the river.
The surface of the river raged and swirled with the increased current—much swifter than usual—evidence of the heavy storm and runoff. There were even white caps where gentle ripples usually lolled lazily downstream.
Dillon squinted into the darkness and watched an enormous object float down the center of the river. A huge elm had cracked and broken down the middle. A good half of the tree was in the water and heading for the concrete pylons of the bridge at Trestle Ridge. That would be a huge clean up next week unless the tree was damaged enough to break apart on impact with the bridge pylons.
As he considered that, the clouds broke for a brief moment and offered a moonlit view of the area.
“Next stop, Trestle Ridge Bridge,” he said mimicking a conductor of an old steam locomotive powered passenger train.
He still couldn’t believe it. Charley Stockton texted him? Why? Was he going to draw him out here and then kill him for what they had discussed? Was Charley the next big thing in the teen stalker and serial killer genre to come out of Hollywood? Was ‘he’ about to be the latest victim? Slashed? Sliced? Diced? Pit fried?
Yeah, right. No—Charley wouldn’t kill him. Probably. Maybe. Okay, well…. Hopefully not, anyway.
So why the cryptic, late night text message?
Did it mean that Charley had decided to go through with it?
Oh man. He hoped so. He ‘really’ wanted to do this.
“Please … please … please, let it be that,” he whispered as he pulled on the steering wheel and gently pressed down on the gas pedal. The Ram eased over uneven sheets of granite and limestone, gravel and sand … splashed through smaller puddles. He carefully guided the truck along the embankment and the mostly natural beach area that had formed over the decades here at a curve in the river. Slowly, he headed toward Trestle Ridge Bridge.
Windows down, Dillon listened to the crunch and slosh of tires rolling over soaked gravel and other things that made up the extended bank; not to mention the occasional beer or soda can … water bottle … wrappers … sometimes even a used condom. He rolled his eyes.
“Pigs.”
He could almost hear his truck snort at that comment—reminding him of the dozen or so empty Dr Pepper cans in the cargo area behind him. He needed to clear them out of there one of these days but no way was he going to just dump them out here and contribute to the trash that ignorant people left behind, oblivious of the dangers they presented to the local wildlife.
Reaching across to the passenger seat, he snatched up his cell phone to read the text again—for what, the 90th time in the last hour? He had to check; maybe he’d read it wrong? Maybe there was more to it but he’d gone into goofus stupidus maximus mode so quickly that he didn’t read it all? Maybe it was all a dream? Maybe someone had killed Charley already and was using his cell to lure all of his contacts one-by-one out into the middle of nowhere so he could slit throats, rip hearts from chests, decapitate bodies … throw them into the river to be washed downstream before the current slowed back down?
Maybe he should stop eating 5-cheese, jalapeño bean nachos after 10:00 PM?
Maybe.
Just maybe.
Maybe it was what it was. Damn—he hoped so. He wanted to do this—with Charley Stockton. He wanted it so bad that it almost hurt. Hell with that; it ‘did’ hurt! It hurt like hell. If nowhere else, then between his legs. His dick was so hard it felt like it would snap off if he so much as touched his crotch.
He glanced at the cell and nearly dropped it when his Ram found a new hole that had formed since his last trip out here. He rolled his eyes, recovered quickly, and pulled up Charley’s text:
CJStockDawg: Meet me Trestle Ridge Bridge. Now
He felt his dick throb and twitch in his jeans. Several times. Each, more painful and wanton than the last. What if it wasn’t what he wanted? What if his hopes got dashed on the rocks along the other bank and went floating down the river with that monstrous chunk of tree trunk and branches? What if Charley reconsidered and was going to beat the shit out of him for even thinking he might ‘ever’ agree to something like this? Well, if that was it, he’d rather Charley just killed him and dumped his body in the murky water. That way he wouldn’t have to face him come Monday morning….
“Dillon Nuggets for the catfish and crawdads.”
Did catfish and crawdads even eat ‘human’? God—he hoped he wasn’t about to find out. Charley was a good guy, but still, with something ‘this’ off the wall? You just never knew how a guy would actually react when things—zippers?—went down. All he could do was hope for the best and try to coax the knots out of his stomach.
He squinted and peered. Peered and squinted.
And, there it was.
Trestle Ridge and the Bridge loomed dead ahead. The Bridge, and—Charley’s metallic black Camaro.
Why was the car so clean? He came the same way that Dillon had just tread. Right? Driving through muck and mire to get here, through that puddle the size of the Atlantic, the car should be as filthy as he knew his truck would be by the time the sun rose.
“Of course, if I’m tonight’s catfish and crawdad nugget buffet, I guess it won’t matter….”
As he drew up beside the Camaro, he double-checked. Yeah—sparkling clean.
How did Charley pull that off on a night like this?
Oh.
Wait.
Charley was the #1 god of the school.
Gods could do anything. Absolutely anything. Hell—Charley could probably pull off an epic levitation from the FM Road up and over the brush, trees, and ledges that led down here to the river where he could ease the car down safely in its current resting place without a scratch or scrape.
Yeah! That’s it! That’s how he did it!
Right?
Wait.
Sparkling clean, yes, but—glistening. The moonlight was bouncing off billions and billions of water droplets. Charley had already been out here before the storm hit. That was the only explanation. Yeah, that had to be it. Another uncomfortable thought crossed Dillon’s mind, notching his simmering level of panic a little higher. Maybe he’d been out here, for a while now, planning just what he was going to do to Dillon and….
Yeah, he definitely had to stop eating those late night 5-cheese, jalapeño bean nachos.
Dillon put the truck in park. He switched off the heads and fogs. Killed the engine. He took several deep breaths; he studied the cell phone again, and then popped open the door.
So far, so good. No demented teen stalker with a machete and a leather case of surgical knives. He gazed over the rapid current of the water.
“No catfish or crawdads waiting hungrily with napkins and forks in whisker or claw….”
Click.
He nearly jumped out of his Nikes. Worse, he nearly pee’d his jeans. Oh. Wait. Duh. It was just the door shutting, he reminded himself. He wasn’t in some 007 or Jason Bourne or even Alex Rider flick. He ran his fingers through his hair as he moved around his truck and approached the Camaro.
Empty.
Sigh.
Maybe this was a drug induced dream sequence brought on by that crazed teen stalker that was out here—somewhere—lurking in the shadows and waiting to attack with a hypodermic and….
“Okay, maybe it ‘could be’ a new Alex Rider flick.”
Kerplunk.
Dillon nearly jumped over the Camaro at the sound of something breaking the surface of the river. One of those catfish? A crawdad scout jumping off that tree to inform the others that ‘dinner’ had arrived? A rock? Yeah, go with the rock. Go with the rock.
Snort.
“Like a crawdad could climb a tree,” he groused softly. “Get a grip, Jamison.”
He made two full circles before he found his ‘kerplunker’. A silhouette—up there. Up on Trestle Ridge Bridge. The old bridge. The one that was now out of service but stood tall and proud in its glory of years gone by—before the new steel and concrete 4-track bridge had been commissioned into service.
Squint.
Like that would help in the forever changing light and darkness, the murky shrouds of mist, light … the moon was in cahoots with those catfish and crawdads, or—that lurking teen stalker that was just waiting for the right….
“Ch-Charley?”
Way to go, Jamison. Like that didn’t come out totally tense, nervous, or ‘stalker expectant’? Get …a … grip, dude!
Kerplunk.
Damn his heart! It needed to really stop jumping up into his throat like this.
“Up here, man,” Charley Stockton said as he let sail another rock. Rock? More like a Herculean bowling ball by the sound that broke the stillness of the night.
Kerphloosh!
“You know where the stone stairs are, right?”
Nod.
Duh.
Nearly pitch black and I’m answering his question with nods and hand gestures. He is sooo not gonna be able to see that.
“I know where it is,” Dillon said as he started toward the rock steps.
“I can just come down if you want.”
Head shake.
Duh.
Yeah, right. There you go again, Jamison. If he can’t read a nod in the dark he sure won’t pick out a head shake, either.
“No. No, I’ll…. I’ll come up.”
“M’kay.” Pause. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s….”
Kerplunk.
“There’s some cold ones in the trunk. I’ll pop the lid. Grab a couple or four for us, k?”
Dillon altered course and swung back towards the rear of the Camaro, glad Charley couldn’t see the expression on his face just then. Neither one of them drank. Ever. Not unlike some of their classmates, friends, teammates … teachers.
As he reached for the trunk his hand froze.
Chirp.
Chirp.
Chirp.
This was it. This was where the teen stalker was hiding. As soon as he lifted the lid the guy would come sailing out of the depths of the car slashing and hacking and whistling for the catfish and crawdads to ‘come ‘n get it’, and….
On the other hand, as keyed up as he was right now, maybe a Dr Pepper and Stoli on the rocks might be worth a….
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t freak on it, dude, but—grab me some of the Big Red. You know I don’t usually drink the hard stuff…. There’s Dr Peppers, too. It’s all on ice.”
Dillon laughed softly; Charley lived on Dr Pepper. It was one of the basic food groups in his book. Wow, he wanted Big Red tonight? What was up with that? Dr Pepper and Charley were side-by-side in the dictionary. Dr Pepper at breakfast. Dr Pepper at lunch. Dr Pepper at dinner. Dr Pepper at … well … whenever. Sure, there was a bottled water or a glass of milk or OJ in there somewhere, too, but Dr Pepper was Charley’s drink of choice. He should buy stock in both of those companies; he had no doubt that it would prove a lucrative return on his investment.
Dillon grabbed two bottles of Dr Pepper and two Big Red. He stared at the bottles for several seconds and realized they were both probably addicted—he grabbed another two of each.
Oh well, if you had to be addicted to something….
Hell—if only they could figure ways to carry it in their uniforms during practice and games….
“Dillon?”
Trunk slam.
“Yeah?”
“Careful coming up the stairs. Don’t trip and smash the bottles.”
Snicker.
Dillon snorted. He shook his head slowly. He took to the stone steps, climbing his way up to whatever fate awaited him. He grinned grudgingly. Okay—he probably would have put the drinks’ safety first, too. If anything, he only wished that he was the one that came up with the comment first.
“Thanks for the concern.”
“Dillon?”
“Yeah, man?”
Kerplunk.
“Thanks for coming.”
END of Chapter 2
To be continued . . .
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