This little ditty is part of the ADF (A Different Forest) Happy Valentine's Day Emmett Challenge
Miss Viola Cornuta planted the seed beneath the soil, and I tamped it down with my boots. She also beta'd these lads and made them more beautiful, solitary, rugged and wicked good.
Disclaimer: Yeah, no.
~~Try not to fall off your seats, bb's. It's a stunning, rough, cold New England winter's night full of unexpectedness and sensuality~~
A born and bred man of salt and sea and coastline, I'd first come to Castine, Maine, wet behind the ears, from my family's canning business.
More than a product of the factory spilling out fish guts, I wanted to build the boats that brought the cold-blooded finned and scaly creatures to harbor, which we cured and packed. At eighteen, I'd set off to the Maine Maritime Academy to learn my trade. Taking in the sleek lines of the smaller sailboats crafted in the open-air workshops, I found a new love. Two in fact. I paired up with an Italian exchange student. He shared his love of gondolas to my more seaworthy ships. More than that, Demetri of the long wavy smooth black hair, the loamy skin and eyes black as the richest olives showed me I was never more masculine, hardy and sensual than when I was with him.
Spending the entire year working through night after night, breaking for hot erotic sex against new sanded boards so the woodsy smell of shaved leavings shuffled under our boot shod feet, curling up scents of forests and open water. I remembered the first time I'd made love to him. Watching the flat muscles of his arms bared beneath the fraying cut-to-shoulder sleeves of the faded flannel I'd lent him round up with each motion of the hand-held plane, I groaned loudly, the sound reverberating throughout the high timber ceiling of the shed.
Wide of eye, Demetri turned to me, dropping the heavy wood and metal tool to the ground, a motion that was most unlike the care and attention he gave the implements of our art. An arch smile curved his wide, Tuscan red sunset lips, and his panther-like stalking met me as I braced myself in a wide stance like a sailor during a storm at sea. My world turned topsy-turvy, sex like the current that fed from the Bermudas to the Cape eddied around us so tight and hard and swirling fast, and hot over cold and what the fuck!
The panther pounced and crashed, licked and mewled and hissed and spit into his palms before working his large calloused Mediterranean sun-worn palms up and down my fucking leaking cock he had brought out in the open by tearing the flap of my jeans nearly in two and shoving them right down to the dusty rough cement floor!
I thought I was trying to pull him away when I grabbed his ponytail. Instead I yanked him closer, clenched my ass against the huge groping hold he had there, and moaned so loudly he laughed around my cock, making me cum in about two minutes fast sucking all down his throat with a thrust-lunge-thrust.
That was just the beginning.
I'd never been with a woman, for fucking sure I'd never been with a man. And now that was the only option! We were insatiable, our need to fuck almost overrode our desire to finish out this final year, complete our catamaran, so we could break waves with her beautifully hand tooled prow, together, at large.
I must have been a naïve motherfucker, because the day after graduation, Demetri left with no more than a goodbye fuck back to his motherland and the boyfriend he'd left a year ago.
He was my first love. My only. By no means my last lay. Suddenly Maine felt too small, isolated, insular.
I took to the seas as I'd planned. Alone. Perhaps it was written in the stars as I navigated south, following my compass. Luckily each port of call found a willing man. My fleshly thirst quenched, I grew accustomed to ignoring my heart.
Not so much had changed in the ten years I'd spent, sailing the world, oftentimes a one-man captain of my own vessel.
Now I was older and much more cautious. Too many capsizings almost made me lose my sea-legs. I still needed to be near the ocean.
None recognized me, though old man Newton still operated the small clapboard post office on his own. And Miss Esme ran the only café in town. From a skinny college kid, I'd become a man. Two day's stubble littered my chin, and I scratched my jaw, enjoying the tingle on my fingertips as I set about my work. While a student I'd had no more than hen's-scratching on my jaw. Working the wheel, hauling the lines, weighing the anchor had made a towering toned rippling bear of my adolescent frame. My hair was longer, no more a cadet's crewcut. The jet black waves littered with the beginnings of silver veins.
Returning to the lighthouse whose green gold sloping fields in spring had been the second place I'd fucked Demetri, the setting had not lost its lure. There was still a certain romance to the job; the autonomy, the seclusion, the peace broken only by the cresting surge of squalling waves beating timelessly against the jagged coast, eroding the roots of pines that were far taller than houses and bent more and more each year, inclining towards the Atlantic, as my heart always did.
The foghorn was a heavy deep bass that set right down in my chest, stomach and groin. It had been three months since I'd known the sinew and ligature, ropey muscle like sailor's knots and lunging dicks like yardarm thrusts.
My erection stood at full mast. All because of a warning bellow from within the old growling depths of my keep.
Dyce Head Lighthouse sat above the ocean like a proud guardian. Unlike my boats and the sea, this structure was manly. Pretty much fucking phallic and straight up as my dick. Put into operation in 1828 of stone under brick, the tower had girth and height. We sat at the mouth of Penobscot Bay, formerly guiding lumber to port and northwest to Bangor.
Now I just made certain no one ran ashore. Not even the pompous assholes from the yacht club.
I fucking loved the ocean and her vista in every way she came. Grey and hazy, frozen and foggy, black with troubling racing clouds and bright silver lightning streaks over white-tipped breakers, sparkling and calm on a morning of full sunshine. This scarcely inhabited peninsula would be home for a very long time.
Not a thinker, but a doer, this occupation suited me.
This was one of the oldest working lighthouses in the United States. I spent my days, perpetually monastic in the trappings of mechanic, construction worker, photographer of seas, seer for mariners, weatherman, sailor, repairman, groundskeeper.
The house at the side had been built in 1870 as captain's quarters. Well maintained, it was far too large for me, and I rented it out, preferring the small living quarters at the base of the obelisk where I felt much more at home, the near claustrophobic low-roofed space like the cabin of the many sailboats I'd built.
Daily I kept a log of the lighthouse's workings, my preservation of him, and a journal that was little more than my daily doings and observations.
Delving too deeply into my psyche only made for heartbreak.
It was fucking cold as hell, but the wharf was rotten and the boards festering with damp, so I put on my waders and installed a new landing. Went to the marina and sailed back my baby.The Rosalie, Siren of the Sea, to dry-dock her for the winter.
While I was getting out of my damn near lilliputian claw footed bath after a cold morning in the water, tying everything up nice and neat, a tour group descended.
I dinted my toe against the tin tub, clambering all six-foot-three wide-shouldered me of out it; I didn't even think the fucking thing had a right to call itself a bath!
Swearing and wrapping a threadbare pale blue towel over my hips, I opened the door and aimed for half-naked hospitality, instead of incensed wet nude pissed-off lighthouse keeper.
The fucking frigid December air puckered my nipples right up bright, made my short and curlies fearful against hypothermia as I ushered the troupe inside with a curt welcome and sodden chagrined, "I'll just get dressed."
A hushed mumble crawled like the melting drips of an icicle to my red wet ear, "I rather like you this way."
My skin goose-bumped with more than the chill air, as I wheeled about and tried to place that low hot sassy voice to its owner.
He eyed me up like he wanted to eat me for dinner.
This was a first. I was usually the pursuer, after Demetri.
He stood head and shoulders above the rest of the milieu who were quaking off the tundra-cold and peeling away the hundreds of layers of wool and leather that shielded them.
In a dark blue down vest over a plaid shirt upon indigo jeans, which sat worn and soft in all the right places like his firm ass and his obviously well-endowed cock and his scuffed suede boots, he stared me straight in the eye, and then licked his pale pink long lips as if tasting my cum there.
My towel drooped lower, I probably pretty much fucking drooled.
The docent cleared her throat as my terrycloth covering revealed not only the cliff-like V of my abs but also the growing trail of treasure hair that wound down to my rigid dick.
Embarrassed and called to action, I sped to my room. Pulled on yesterday's clothes, and met the throng in my postage stamp sized parlor.
Parched and extremeIy aware of the tall whiskey-haired man strolling around and inspecting my scant belongings, the bits and pieces I'd collected on my travels, with a coital smile lounging on his mouth, I offered drinks because I couldn't very well imbibe alone when I was supposed to be showing around the amassed Massholes.
The mugs of Tom Collins shook a bit in my huge hands; this was a most unlikely predicament, an impromptu cocktail party. The steward started to decline my offering, but thought better of it when I looked at her pleadingly with my big blinking ice-blue eyes and only one dimple tugging at my cheek.
Didn't take much to turn a head.
Mr. Fucking Big Blond Beautiful shook his head with a very low, rough refusal, "I prefer to drink alone." His raw sex appeal was compounded by the vice of his voice that tightened in my abs and my nads.
A couple drinks later, all around, almost, the group departed, leaving me popping up to the window to watch Lusty Eyes and Ass lope away. The calf-deep snow hardly deterred the grace of his walk, the tight clenching of his thighs and buttocks was branded in my mind.
In the galley-sized kitchenette, I made another batch of drinks and lay down at the fireside.
I was so fucking hard my cock made a permanent stretching in the material of my corduroys. In my haste to dress earlier, I'd left off underwear and now the copper zipper ratcheted against my shaft, making me ache for the touch of another man to take away the sting, to add a more arousing one. Shucking off my boots, hands behind my head, I let the wash of warm creamy alcohol and blazing heat push their fiery waves over me until my bones melted into slumber, and my erection glared at me like a one-eyed snake.
That motherfucker hadn't seen action in way too long.
I could have sworn the bastard in my pants hissed at me, but it was just a log settling down to charcoal and sizzling out a burst of blue oxygen.
I wasn't in the mood to jerk-off. I wanted to suck and be fucked. I wanted to rip off the clothes of that walking god and push myself so far up into him, into that deep ridged inferno, he wouldn't be able to walk straight or talk for days.
Holy fuck! His wanton hungry look had been unmistakable. But I could have been wrong. I'd suffered from the dementia caused by solitude before, and really it was far more likely I was the sole homosexual in a thirty-mile radius than to come across the most insatiably gorgeous man in my lighthouse, famished for all his looks and few words for me.
He was probably just another sightseer, already bound back down Route 1 to whatever hellhole he'd crawled out of. Yeah, Massatwoshits, no doubt.
He hadn't seemed like a tourist, though. His questions were precise, smart, learned. He leaned into the floor like a man who had intimately known the swallow of waves beneath foot. Walking up the steep narrow spiral staircase to the lens proper, he had attached himself to one of the older ladies, taking her elbow and murmuring stories of other New England lighthouses to keep her mind off an obvious fear of heights.
By the fifth night I'd had enough of hibernation.
The Ruffled Grouse
Whistling, kicking at the drifts to make fluffs of sand-soft snow billow out white cumulus against the sky, which was already midnight at five thirty in the evening, I hopped over the waist high picket fence surrounding my property, my way lit by the slow spinning three-ton pineapple shaped prisms of my personal lantern one hundred and thirty-four feet in the air. Calling my fellow seamen safely ashore.
Left my truck in the drive. I hadn't put chains on her yet, and hell, I could get from one end of Castine to the other in ten minutes flat by foot.
Cold crisp frozen fog, the crunch of deep snow compacted to sleety glaciers.
Walking down Main Street I took it all in with hungry eyes. The grungy-hippie clothiers Coyote Moon, the Morning Stop Café, Seafarers Restaurant, Leah's Cards and Penobscot Gifts, Castine Harbor Antiques. The populace was a mix of tried and true Mainers and generational families: fishermen, farmers, storekeepers, as well as undergrads from MMA and moneyed yuppies who commuted from Bangor International Airport, what a joke, to the wider world.
Lining the residential streets, all four of them, restored heritage farmhouses were ablaze with Douglas Fir Christmas trees decorated old-style with handmade ornaments, too much tinsel, popcorn and cranberry streamers.
The town was festooned in an odd mix of gaudy and twee.
Come summer I knew the road heading in and out of town would be lined with ply board stands piled with corn on the cob and homegrown tomatoes. My stomach already growled at the thought of the ripe produce.
Dressed to keep out the cold, I had added more mass to my already enormous build; woolen cap, gloves, jeans that were flannel lined, LL Bean boots.
Students in thick-cabled woolen sweaters milled around beneath the streetlamps, wondering which of the two bars to patronize.
This quaint village was nothing more than a crossroads off the beaten path of Route 1, which ran from north to south, shuttling tourists up and down the Eastern seaboard.
At the door of The Ruffled Grouse, my student haunt, I looked back to my lighthouse, an isolated beacon in the drowning night, picturing the ocean's edge, the granite cliffs for which Maine was known, the eddies and currents and rocky outcroppings enclosing hidden whirlpools and salty caves of shimmery dripping stalagmites and stalactites.
Bracing myself, I entered the heavy door whose small windows were sketched with feathers of ice on the outside. I needed human company.
Stomped the sticky snow from my boots, and blew my nose into a clean white hanky. My cheeks were red; I could feel the frost melting from my day's growth of stubble. Using the tail of my shirt to clear the lenses of my fogged glasses, I shuttered and opened my eyes, blinked icicles from my long eyelashes, tried to wipe the blurriness from my vision.
Putting my spectacles back on, I focused on the orange-yellow flaming heat roaring out of the open brazier to the right of the door.
Then followed the shatter of a glass behind the bar.
Holy fucking shit! I'd thought he was a vacationer!
The pale malt-whiskey-haired man who had featured in all of my fantasies most recently looked up with scotch eyes from cleaning up the crisp thick fragments of a tumbler crusting the bartop.
My heart sped from its thud-thud-thud of cold.
My cheeks flared more.
I grinned loosely.
I kind of felt like puking.
Singularly gorgeous and formerly possessing majestic presence, he looked nervous.
Sweeping shards into a damp towel, he straightened as I made my way to the bar and shouldered myself to the forefront.
Amidst the clangor of talk, the whisper of the radio, the banking of pool balls and the clinking of glasses, his voice stood out and dripped like fiery alcohol down my throat to the roiling of my stomach, "What can I get you?" Recovered, he smiled that man-eating curve, sank his teeth into his bottom lip, and eyed me up and down.
Burly, broad, built, I quivered and held onto the lip of the bar to answer, "Whiskey sour, please." At least my baritone voice held firm.
Laughter gleamed in his tiger-eyes, "Had you pegged right, then."
What the hell did that mean? Sure, I was gay and fucking happy with that, but I certainly wasn't a sissy, and damn near half the native female populace, probably more, had already swooned with just one look and be-dimpled smile from me.
I frowned and drummed my fingertips on the polished oak surface, anxiety resurging like a tsunami up my abdomen to the sit in my pounding heart, my choking throat, my bursting cock.
With his back turned, I surveyed the seascape he presented.
He was slim, tall, well-muscled, hair swept back messily from his forehead with a slight curl over his ears, like a fall apple, a glossy skinned Macintosh fresh from the orchard; the color was nearly strawberry blond dipped into softening caramel and left to glaze. Shiny.
Setting my glass down, with more than a fair share of whiskey, he quirked his head to the side and looked up and down the bar to the other patrons, gauging orders, taking note, regaling locals, talking up the town's politics.
All the while he stood before me, pretending to ignore me. A sidelong seditious look, a lopsided smile, and I knew he was paying attention to me. Waiting.
Taking a deep swig of my drink, I welcomed the harsh swill and asked, "You were at Dyce Head?" I knew it was he, but the fucking grinning bastard made me all kinds of nervous and sweaty; it was the only opening I could think of.
Focusing on me completely so I sank back to my stool in order not to reach across the freshly cleaned bar to guide his mouth right down over mine, he licked those goddamn fantastic lips, which spoke of all the dirty deeds he wanted to do to my body, "Yeah, I wanted to check out the promontory," the slick gorgeous devil winked at me! My cock knew what he was saying, but my brain had a hard time catching up.
Ice chinked in my glass. My lips pursed and opened to release a gasp of air, and my word vomit knew no filter, "Cold as a witch's tit out there tonight."
He laughed, placed a long hand over my own, wrapping us both around my tumbler just as I had imagined our clenching fists combining and running up and down my throbbing sinking thrusting wet cock. Lowly so his voice was nothing but a rumble in his chest as if he was thinking the same thing, he served a near orgasm to me, "I've known colder."
This man was testosterone overload!
Answering a call, he cracked the cap off a bottle effortlessly, and I could have sworn it wasn't even a twist-off. Blowing across the mist, which clouded out the opening with pursed lips that would look just fucking right and hot all over the head of my cock, he sat the bottle to the bar-top and slid it down to another customer all the while holding me like a willing prisoner in his gaze that was surely as golden bright as my Fresnel lens, "Cabin fever?"
"Something like that," I accepted another drink.
"Maybe you shouldn't be alone down there in that lighthouse, eh?" I blushed. I fucking blushed! Maybe it was the fire, maybe I had too many layers on. Perhaps I'd had too much to drink, but I felt like I was being propositioned.
"Ayuh, you might be right," I grinned through my forgotten Downeast accent at this man who pulled at my gut and bit through my loneliness.
Called to duty as the night heated up, the bartender showed his true colors at work. He really was the quintessential barman, a touch rough around the edges, with a wide welcoming smile that never looked so luscious as when it was turned on me while he served and cleaned and replaced kegs with the ease of Hercules. His biceps stretched then bunched beneath the black t-shirt he wore, his veins sat still, like rivers frozen over and falling in glaciers to the Hudson.
At one point, my fourth drink in, he strode around the back of house to the fireplace, and I swiveled on my stool to keep him in my sights. Telescoping in on his ass as he went to his knees to throw a couple more logs on the fire, I imagined him in that position, with my cock in his mouth. His shirt rose up, and I saw his waist and the dipping of his jeans hinted at the slice of butt hidden within.
A compass pulling me to his high seas.
South to my north.
Gregariously, he held the attention of all patrons. Not that I was exactly shy myself, but being the new guy in town put a different spin on things.
While he was deep in talk with a group at the far end of the bar. I took my leave.
Shaking my head to rid myself of the dreamy vision-like man invading my being, I trudged to Dyce Head, wrapped in wanton wondering and excitation that he was here!
I held off as long as I could, kept my log and my journal, tidied, maintained the lighthouse and the keeper's house, took care of all the little troubles of two dwellings in the dead of a snappy Maine winter.
All of my thoughts flew back to the barkeeper.
Three more days was all I was good for.
Course I went back to the Grouse. There weren't very many other options. Fuck's sake, there were none!
He remembered my drink of choice, had it waiting at the bar the moment I entered. All I had to do was walk up and sit my ass down. I still fucking sweated it; this thing, which was not a thing, with a man who I thought was into men, specifically me.
Clearly I spent too much fucking time on my own.
While I sipped, he swiped, right beneath my hands. Until I reached out and pushed those working muscles down hard to the wood, flat beneath my own, his knuckles eating into my calloused palm.
Grinning, sucking that fucking bottom lip under his perfect white teeth, he shook with soundless chuckles, but the look in his gold-bright eyes, which met mine like liquid splashing into a seaglass colored tumbler, was dark and sexy and filled with images of us naked, rolling, fucking, plunging and sucking.
I held my breath over the tonic that rollicked on my tongue.
"Strong." Just one word as he turned his palm and stroked long ivory fingers between mine.
I gulped and fought down hiccups, "I've always worked with my hands."
"I have no doubt," the telltale lift of the corner of his mouth told me he was definitely flirting with me.
I was floored.
His own hands were not quite smooth, but still felt like glass within my large clasp.
Linking fingers, aching to cross the wooden boundary that held his form away from me, his hips and ass and chest and back and throat and hair, I gulped furiously and took another drink and pushed my hand to his wrist and then his forearm of steel covered sinew.
Looking to Miss Jane, the minute haloed young woman in the corner, he mentioned, "You have a lot of admirers."
He needed to know what I was about. My chest expanded, "I'm a man's man, if you know what I mean."
He mimicked me perfectly, teasingly, so that my dick bloomed to a hard hot mushrooming head, "Ayuh, I definitely had you pegged."
Throughout the night, he made my libations into a libidinous thing.
Too much thinking, too little talking, cabin fever, and no fucking were not a very good combination for me.
Add in five whiskey sours and closing time, and I leaned forward to his ear, whispering a second away from touching it with my lips, "Come to Dyce Head tomorrow night."
I felt like I'd been at sea for a fucking year I was so wobbly. I glared at my single bed and tried to make it shipshape.
His last words rang in my ears, "Don't make me anything to eat, I prefer to dine alone."
The remembered succulent grit of his voice stood me up like a sail. His words made me ponder.
Looking in the misty ten by ten inches of mirror that enclosed the medicine cabinet, I squinted at my face. Wide, still youthful but with laugh and life lines making tracks, I scratched my dark stubble. I'd leave it. I wanted to see razor burn blooming on his chin.
My balls were groomed clean, my pubes tight and short; I'd expect nothing less.
Glowering at my fire engine red tall man's unionsuit, I swore, "Fuck no."Not tonight. Shoving it down into the far recesses of my overflowing hamper I opted to go commando instead.
Pulling on a crewneck, I ran deodorant over my pits, sniffed a few times to make sure I was presentable.
Checking my watch, I had another hour until he arrived.
I wanted to fuck him now.
Hyped up and horny, I took the stairs three at a time. Music was inside my head, he was a muse inside my body.
Turned on, nervy, and aroused, I concentrated on the task at hand.
Polishing the Fresnel lens, cleaning the windows and lantern, buffing the surrounding brass banister, I tried not to conjure up what this night would bring.
There was a subtle knock at the door and the creak of the hinges -- I needed to get out the W-D 40.
Looking down the open porthole of the upward spiraling structure, I called him to me.
Quelled the frantic clipper of my heart.
His approach on the twisting stairs was silent. I watched his every move. The squat square structure of Dyce Head still housed a curved staircase, a timberframe coiled structure that made this lighthouse a trademark property on the National Register of Historic Places. No more than peg and hole held it together in its sturdy sexy curvature.
Leaning against the round metal banister, I observed his stroll over the circumference of my keep.
He converged with me again. Reclining against the window opposite me, with the vastness of the blackened out night ocean at his back, he curled his hands around the galleon-like railing.
Composite, gleaming, proud and wide open, he smiled and shook his head like a master at a school-boy, "There are some things you need to know."
I nodded and took closer, my hands making their discoverer's way into the waistband of his jeans so I felt the tremble and sucking in of his flat-hilled muscles.
Working from one hip to the other, touching the tips of bone and pressing under cloth to dip into the crevasses of gorges, I remained a step away though I wanted nothing more than to shove my clothed cock against his.
Cold, he felt cold; he looked hard. I wanted to warm him up. His skin glassy like the lens of the gigantic lamp behind me, but throwing out vapors of frigidity instead of orange-yellow heat, I asked, "Hot toddy?"
The laugh that left him boomed around us in this hollowed catwalk, "I've never heard it called that before!"
Settling down to a deep dark ragged chuckle with my hands still working further into his pants, he grappled with the nape of my bullish neck and the back of my shoreman's shoulders, "I'm not really of the human race."
Rather than being repulsed, I clutched closer, bruising fabric in my fists, wanting to slash it apart to see the gorgeous dick I knew was beneath! "What are you then?" My eyes lowered from the harsh oil-light of his look, to my hands, to his crotch, to his thighs.
He put on his lecturer's voice, low of timbre, throaty and full, making my cock so fucking hard I nearly burst out of the gray flat front flannel trousers I'd worn just for him.
"I'm a vampire."
There. Straight up. Flat out.
My mind blundered, but…did I really give a fuck?
I'd believed in sirens, serpents, Medusa, the Bermuda Triangle, and mermaids.
Here was my very own merman.
They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the LORD, and his wonders are deep.
He tried to stand away, but I wrapped my muscled arms around his back and gathered him to me. No fucking way he was going to escape me!
"That's why The Grouse and this little dollop of heaven on earth suit me. The sun rarely shines; when it does I'm behind the bar, those leaded glass panes let in very little light….are you frightened?"
"Are you going to kill me? Because I'm probably not really that tasty," I lapped his throat, noting the lack of pulse and uninhibited by it.
Shaking his head so the muss atop ran wilder than usual, he growled like a fucking lion into my ear, "I'm a vegetarian, but don't worry, I still like my meat."
My heart crested, my cock started to spill frothy ocean foam.
That was enough!
He may have been immortal, but I was still bigger.
Bending my knees, I wrapped his legs around my waist and washed the panes with his back pressed against them, lapping his neck and tearing at his lips, moaning as I ripped his shirt apart.
Fucking pants, they had to go!
Setting him on his feet, I grappled with buttons, zippers, fashioned my mouth to his long thick dick before it was even free of cloth.
So fucking starving.
I sucked him in and yanked his boots, socks and pants off with one hand. My other was occupied with his balls and that little hot hard tight bridge of skin from his base to his ass.
I wet him, up and down. Lathered with kisses, sank my teeth as much as I could into the meat displayed before me.
"Fuck's sake!" he howled.
His thighs mashed to my cheeks, and I bit and kissed and supped the skin there too.
"MMmmm," I hummed a long lingering line of my open lips along his dick, leaning back to watch it unfolding, weeping from the head, thick fluid like yellow sea foam salting down the raised veiny velvety flesh that stood inches from his groin and centimeters from my mouth.
Ingesting the cum as it came out in drabbles, I took all of him in only half noting the crack of glass that was his head meeting the window and fracturing it into fine skeletal threads.
Reaching into my hair, he pulled me up.
My clothes were shorn so quickly I spun like the shutter that threaded us in the pulse-glow of amber light.
"Jesus, fuck! You are so fucking beautiful!" His words seared my brain and made my cock stand right up true and proud to his!
Stern of lip, he held back moans and reaction as our erections touched, reacted, fell back and then ground hard!
I cried out hard, "Oh jesusfuckingchrist!"
Damp and wet and cold and hot and fucking hell we were so turgid our dicks slapped and rasped up and down, our lips ripped flesh, tongues knew no teasing but for pure sucks, breath left.
Plastering me around so my palms were braced against the frame of the racing light of the Fresnel, he spread my ass, handled my balls.
Chrome and brass and blasting and brash!
I widened my stance, grabbed the bolts of the telescoping device.
My cock hung low between my legs and he took that wide shaft as well as my scrotum in one hand, pulsing to mid-mast.
Skin so tight I screamed and ground my forehead to lustrous dome.
Pulling up so much cum I was near to orgasm with those coarse strokes, he streaked his fingers over the liquid, glazed it to my ass, pumped inside of me until I was open and quaking and waiting, ever widening my legs and pushing my bottom to his touch.
I knew I'd have to polish the light-piece again in the morning, our handprints were all over it.
He touched the tip of his erection to my hole, opening the puckered lips, and I turned my head, the illumination had nothing on the robust refraction of his naked skin. So fucking sexy!
He was so well-built…how could he be anything but supernatural? Compact, broad shoulders, slim hips that made the most amazing frame for his cock as it lifted up into me until I stood on my tiptoes, to sink back down onto him, my heels to floor.
Grabbing his neck I kissed him so fucking tight my tongue wanted to make a new home in his mouth, much like his shaft was making a new den inside my ass.
Light revolving, rotating, phosphorescent and sensually breaking through the fog with a groan-horn, sending up stars reflecting on the wall-to-wall windows from his spectacular skin. Revealing what he'd said was true!
Rearing back, I grabbed his ass, flesh that didn't give beneath my powerful clasp.
In my ear, he moaned shakily, "I fucking love your dimples, your arms, Christ that cap you wore to the Grouse!"
I moaned and braced harder into him, my head hung low, my cock ripping up to my stomach, legs shaking, arms stretched and trembling when he reached around with one hand to caress me up and down, up and down.
His other hand stayed my hips. I bit through my lip, arched my back, and all of my muscles tensed when his foraying hand left my dick to dip down to my sac.
Voices raining curses!
My eyes slammed shut to the flash glow kerosene of the lantern.
Heat broiled, obscene, my sinews clenched, from cheeks to jaw to throat.
His treasure trail wore a path up the base of my spine.
I fucking wept!
Harder than hell, he sank into me and pulled out, I locked the pout of his mouth to mine though I could hardly breathe.
My nostrils flared.
His shaft was an anchor winching in and out. Faster, chains pulling, winding, reeling.
I grabbed his ass and smashed him into me when I came, biting through saliva, venom, cum, pulses, beating, flashes, "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
The growls when he came were like the deep muted throb of a marching band, beatings like innumerable Bahamian steel drums entirely filled with howling base need.
Jetting cold spume into my ass, he caged my torso and fisted out the bottom of my spine so I was like a sail at sea with full wind behind me.
Lowering me to the floor, he spun me round and embraced me close.
His gusts were as hard fought as my own.
Gales of breath, cool and warm, warred against my perspiring skin.
The skirmish was over.
I looked balefully at all the steep stairs that held us away from me bed.
Our nipples lifted, the planes of our chests touched, cum stuck between us, and I wanted to taste it all. More than anything, I needed to wrap myself up in him.
The amber flash glow of his oil-lit eyes looked sated. Peaceful. A thumb to my jaw and then my lip made a perfect query.
"Let me take you downstairs." I stated against his shoulder that bore me up.
He smiled sleepily. Linking our fingers, of both our hands, which was pretty fucking foolhardy on these narrow steep steps, I led him to my quarters.
Down below, into the lighthouse's hold, we ducked under wooden beams and lintels to my ascetic bedroom where the ceiling met my head almost. At the foot of the tiny bed, my man stooped low.
I tucked him to me and kissed the satisfied smile on his lips. My chest to his back and my thighs wrapped around and within his, I nestled to slumber with Carlisle. Waking just once, to feel him stroking my back, kneading my worked muscles, shushing me further under the fabric of old quilts and time, "I'll not leave you."
The muffled report of another foghorn across the bay sank through sleep. The bouncing back of flashing light off the pre-dawn gray-rose fluff and blush clouds didn't interrupt my snuggling back down into arms and torso and chest that cooled and curled my overheated body.
Sunlight creased my eyelids, and a different sparkle interrupted my dreams. The din of fishermen taking trawlers to sea upbraided the air. Through the unshuttered window of my bedroom, glare snow riveted and pressed soft diamonds into the skin of a muscled pectoral underneath my cheek. As if the gems laid inside of him…a lumiere. Rolling over into arms and legs and chest and ass, welcoming plucking lips and nuzzles of flesh, I cracked open one eye.
Thank you, Neptune.
It hadn't been a dream.
Linking limbs and meshing mouths and musing hair in hands and twisting nipples, tugging cocks, hips winding in and out and against, I rasped tenorously, "Good morning, gorgeous."
He wasn't smooth, he wasn't cold or glassy. Rough jagged, hard, soft; a fucking storm at sea! A hurricane of flavor and fucking, and so real; not a creature or beast or monster. Not at all!
Sitting just slightly back, I watched the warring cannons of an armada stamp his weary face, "I'm not sure I know how to be."
How well I knew that sentiment. I sat above him, pushed him down, brought my chest to his and spoke clearly, "So you're a loner too."
"But I don't want to be alone anymore, Emmett." And there he was…not flirting, his sexiness and sensuality and need and loneliness bare, apparent, naked, nude and named.
Greedily I kissed him, took his face between my hands so I held him from sharp jaw to flawless forehead, driving my tongue into his mouth and licking his delicious taste and sucking his lips and moaning against his teeth, "Oh fuck, Carlisle, me either."
~Who wants a lighthouse keeper or New England bartender for their very own? And how long did it take you to guess Carlisle?~
Uh, I took certain liberties with the lighthouse.
Thank you Viola, again and again, but specifically for the scripture, Psalm 107:23.
To ms_ambrosia for the unbelievable banner! Link on my profile -- honestly, you'll want to look at it, for hours; and you can still catch me and my gang of glorious girls at the Dead Confed thread on Twi, AU.
Fun things in the fandom!!!
Golden Lemon Awards! How brills is that? Choose your lemon, hosted by gorgeous kassiah and a slew of others. Go get your squee on:
And the Indies noms are open for another week, link on my profile, so nom your fave stories that have fewer reviews.