Stick Shift: Eagle’s Nest


“So, you think that God is a civil engineer, Jake? Really?”

“Not what I said, Sophie.” Bemused, I tried again. “It was just the joke I was telling you– I was saying the contractor told the engineers that.” The magic gummy bear may have been a bad idea for this girl, I thought.

The 10 mg THC infusion added to the sugary animal shapes up in Colorado must be made for those of thicker blood than these flatlanders. Aspenites became nice and mellow whereas several down here had acted out a bit strangely.

Two of Cal’s brothers had taken three each during the ballgame and disappeared soon after. Without a word. That was three days ago and we had heard nothing from them since…hope they were OK.

“Well, tell me again, then. I didn’t get it, boii,” Sophie drew me back to reality. She glanced my way from behind the wheel and threw me an easy smile. The trademark effervescent smile of the Georgia Broadhearst family. I’d recognize it anywhere and saw my better half’s face etched all over those perfect pearly whites as they flashed my direction. “OK, then. But keep an eye on the road, Soph,” I told her, as we flew down the old farm-to-market road. She was a good driver but got easily distracted by animals, I had noticed. We were passing a herd of red angus on her side and they drew her attention more than the road sign on my side warning us of a curve and another announcing Opelika, Alabama, eight more miles. Puffy clouds pocked the sky as we enjoyed the comfortable harmony between the two of us, out on a day trip together.

“Two engineers and a government contractor went into a bar,” I tried it over again. “All three had agreed that God must be an engineer, but they disagreed on what kind he could be. The Electrical Engineer claimed that the electrical genius put into the development of the human body —why, just look at the intricacy of the nerves and spinal cord and heart and the amazingly complex brain— made it a given that he had to be an EE Himself; the Mechanical Engineer countered that, no, with the amazing make-up of the muscles and tendons, bones and joints and ligaments, He had to have been an ME to design that.”

“Their government contractor buddy came back from the bar with three beers and overheard them. He then insisted, well, no, God HAD to be a civil engineer to design the human body. The other two looked at him like he was crazy and asked why he would think that?”

“Well, he said, anyone could figure that out…who else but a civil engineer would plan a recreational area right through the middle a waste disposal unit?” I grinned inwardly as I remembered Cal’s best friend first tell us the joke at the top of Ajax Mountain last Christmas morning. The first run of the morning– nothing but fresh powder below us. A good day, I reminisced.

Soph looked stymied. “I still don’t get it, Boii, break it down for a country girl.” Hoo-Boy, I thought. It was a gay joke, after all, and we were in a deep red southern state. “OK,” I said. “Think like a gay man, Sister Souljah. Three gay professionals. Talking about the complexity of the human anatomy over a beer. The cynical government contractor, who spends his days trying to fix the goof-ups by the engineers and construction companies he deals with overhears his engineer buddies talking and immediately links anatomy and how gay men have backdoor sex…recreational area…through a waste disposal unit…get it? “

“Eeeeewww,” the pretty woman with richly red-spiked hair gags and puffs out her cheeks. “How gross is that? That is not funny, Jake.”

“What, do you mean to tell me your boyfriends have never taken the Hershey Highway, Sophie?” I laughed, because I knew of her sexual proclivities and her history with men was quite splotchy. This was the woman who swore she wouldn’t get pregnant–“fo’ sho’ that”– until after getting her degree and buying her own house, away from her brothers. But, she was very nearly as hormone-driven as any of the boys in the family. Can you say, ‘hyper-drive’?

Something did not compute, here. But far be it for me to pass judgment, so I just changed the subject as she refused comment about the Hershey Highway– I knew she got the reference, though.

{It was just last Saturday morning that I had come into the kitchen while Boy was reciting what he had learned at school the day before. Sophie and Vivian were intent on the pancake batter but were listening to the precocious boy at the same time. “Milk, milk, lemonade, ’round the corner, fudge is made.” sing-songing the words while he pointed first to each boob, then to his crotch and then a round-house curve of his arm, finger pointing to his rear-end.

Not awaiting their response he raced off to the other room , leaving the two girls to wince and Viv to point her finger down her throat. But they got it…hence, the Hershey Highway.}

“There is the cut-off coming up, Soph,” I said, as we approached the sign for the Auburn University turn-off. We had happily planned this day trip for a week, so we might get away and enjoy a somewhat xslot giriş culturally-oriented day alone together. No brotherly or spousal interference.

Cal, my lover for eight years and new husband , Sophie’s older brother and mentor, had concurred with our plan while the other brothers, aunts, uncles, and family ‘graciously’ backed away from including themselves…go figure, we thought, snickering.


Our trip day had begun rather tumultuously earlier this morning. I was just returning from my morning run, still before dawn, waxed and winded by the heavy humidity down here so close to sea-level when I heard Goldie, the next door neighbor’s big boxer ramp up into a fit of barking over in the Brown’s garden area behind their house.

Next, I heard old Farmer Brown kick up a cussin’ rampage that would have done a nickel-whore-in-church proud. Hearing a familiar bleating sound, I pretty quickly figured what might be occurring so went to jump the split-rail fence separating the two farms.

Coming up behind the elderly farmer, I see Goldie in the setting moonlight backing down the Blackhearst family’s pet goat, Aloysius (say: Al-o-Wish-us…). There were asparagus tips hanging out of the Nubian goat’s cheeks and even though he was in a defensive posture of head down, front legs spread and ears hard back on his head, horns bristling, he was still munching those tender shoots. Both dog and farmer were having none of it, brandishing teeth and shotgun at the outlaw ungulate.

Aloysius suddenly saw the situation as a losing venture and whirled, leaping the small fence surrounding the backyard garden , lickety-splitting into the burgeoning cornfield behind and towards the pine woods beyond.

Goldie was off like a rocket after the thief and I managed to get my hand up on Mr. Brown’s shoulder as he was leveling the shotgun for a a birdshot barrage at the miscreant, forgetting the fact of friendly fire for the boxer.

Pulling back in surprise at my touch the old man swung the gun around on to my belly, calloused black finger close to the trigger. He charged up his epithetical bombardment again, this time at me.

“You nigger-lovin’ rascal, what you doin’ puttin’ that varmint on my Elsie’s ‘gus patch?” Trying to settle the old fellow proved difficult as he needlessly explained, in detail, how it took three long years to get a good crop of asparagus, and “this damned devil of a goat was damn well gonna pay with his damnable hide this time. If ya’ll wasn’t gonna keep the damn critter on a damn leash than me and the little missus was just gonna be eatin’ us some goddamn goatmeat pretty quick, here.”

The barking dog’s fading sounds let me know that the two animals were out on a chase like to last awhile but at the same time, out of birdshot range. So I soothed the cantankerous old coot as best I could to get that double-barrel pointed away from my belly-button.

He did settle down after a minute, at least to a decibel range softer than a rock concert and I began helping straighten up the cherished asparagus plants when the ‘little missus’ stepped out the back door.

“A good morning to you, young Dr. Jake”, she greeted me. Her ever-present smile won everyone over, without exception, and even her curmudgeonly husband quieted down in her presence. My profuse apologies elicited manual and vocal brush-offs of my concern from the tiny titan of a woman, saying that she had so much asparagus picked and pickled by this time of the season that the couple could exist on the delicacy quite awhile, now, thank-you-very-much. Besides, she said, that goat was a whippersnapper– she loved her that big old goat.

After making sure all was under control, she warned me against catching cold, which confused me, and extracted a promise to stop by for a coffee-chat soon. Maybe after I was able to dress, she added, which answered my confusion, considering my running outfit.

Then she warned her husband to mind his manners in front of me– and his tongue, too, if he knew what was good for him. She had apparently overheard what he had called me a bit ago.

No problem on the name-calling, I mused. Old people had very few filters by their age. In their eyes, they had ‘graduated’ from the societal mores system, feeling no compunction to guard their thoughts as they once had done.

I had watched my own elderly father accost a departing restaurant customer, boring in on the man’s size 50 waist, expressing hope that the man had left us some… food, I had supposed… as we entered to sit down to our own dinner. Ahem. Would I be the same upon reaching that point in life?

Mr. Brown and my father notwithstanding, the ladies of age tended more to matronly lenience/acceptance than older men and I hoped for my female hormones to pick up the pace in my elder years, as is common for older gentlemen… just not at the expense of my masculinity or testosterone levels, mind you. That was too precious a commodity to do without. Especially in light of my other xslot half.

Cal had about the highest level of libido I had ever experienced and it never ceased to amaze me at his wherewithal to pop a hard-on under almost any circumstance and in any venue. Desired or not…

One of the many things that endeared us to each other eight years into our relationship happened to be that we always tested our sexual limits, and then some. Hell, the man had grabbed me not an hour ago as I tried to sneak from bed to go for my run, insisting on his early morning blowjob before departing.

Not that I am complaining, one should understand. His handsome piece achieved rigidity quicker than any prick his size I had ever watched harden. And it came quicker than any, too, when need called for it.

Then again, when we were not rushed, the stud could last three hours with a towering pipe, quivering in anticipation at three inches past his navel and two inches out from his ripped stomach, curving gently upward and usually throbbing to a beat of its own as it awaited further attention from yours truly.

I loved teasing him. He was extremely careful not to offend people by the tenting effect he proffered the public in every day clothes– his junk could not be hidden in most any pants or drawers, short of using a dragqueen’s truss.

I knew the exact buttons and triggers by touch and by voice which set the beast into motion…a fact of which he was well aware. Therefore, he insisted on ground rules for us when we went to public events. Ha on that, I told myself.

More than once I had seen him tent the front of his pants hugely, much to others’ notice and his own exasperation…he suffered embarrassment at the expanded state while I simply reveled in the reminder of my man’s prodigious capacity and staying power—just the thought of it made my juices flow. I would need to address that premise in a few minutes knowing his morning wood would not be sated by a single blowjob. I goose-fleshed at the thought.

Farmer Brown made his continued presence known to me again as I fantasized amidst the asparagus’s phallic shapes, trying to raise the stalks from their hoof-flattened wilt. The thought crossed my mind that someone should market plant viagra.

“Boy, you musta forgot yo’ drawers by the looks o’ things,” pointing the slightly diverted shotgun barrel in the direction of my crotch.

Indeed. I looked down and realized my Cal-induced semi-boner had not done me any favors here. Nothing but running shorts and running shoes provided me cover, and as hung as I was, very little was being left to the imagination just now. Thank goodness Mrs. Brown had gone.

Attempting adjustment was futile without a jock and the old man chortled at the picture. “So, white boys might can’t jump but at least some of them pack a bunch, huh? How d’you get that whonker out’n the way when the time comes? With that Cal-boy of your’n, I mean. Everybody knows what that boy’s packin’. Matter o’ public record since the state finals wrestlin’ match back in high school, a- yup.”

With that he straightened up, looking off into the morning darkness with what would seem to be a sentimentally wistful gaze. Wow, I thought, what could that be about?

Making promises for further amends to Farmer Brown I vacated the scene with dick flopping. Although mortified (Not! I live by the mantra, “If you got it, flaunt it”) I reached the doorway to our bedroom and melted at the thought of climbing under those covers with my Daddy.

Cal’s reproaches had been plentiful enough for me to believe he preferred me sexually in a semi-ripe state of hygiene. After my early runs, that essence did prevail…with the added aura of billygoat gruff at the present.

“If I wanted a woman or a damn ho’, then I sure know where to look–don’t be comin’ on to your man smellin’ like a flower, now, you listening whiteboy?” After several years of personal disgruntlement over that particular, I had finally acceded to his desires. Gotta admit that the musk odor certainly whetted his appetite.

As I snuck through the creaky door and just about reached the covers to climb in, he emerged from the still pre-dawn darkness, purposely hiding by the bathroom door.

Rousted earlier by the commotion, he had spied unsuccessfully out the window during the showdown. Only able to discern an approximate truth of what was occurring, along with the ‘little missus’ feminine voice, Cal decided to hunker down and wait.

He didn’t want to barge out to save my ass what with his morning stiff in attendance and her presence sealed that decision…so I was instead waylaid only a short distance from my goal.

Muscular bicep suddenly materialized between my salty thighs from behind and underneath, forearm already flexing up to my stomach. In the doing, my half-mast cock was pincered between myself and his arm.

Feeling my anticipatory swelling he groaned with pleasure at our mutual need, whamming me down onto the mattress in one fluid movement. Trapped by ebony musculature imminently familiar to me, I succumbed easily to the ‘foreplay’ ,such as it was.

His full lips locked onto mine, his beautiful arm slid snakelike from on my stomach and crotch. That arm’s attached hand matched its mate on either side of my head and he buried his long, talented tongue far into my mouth.

It always sucks my breath away at the intensity with which he undertakes the conquest of his custom booty. I often used the lust of Atilla the Hun after success in battle as comparison. Taking the spoils of war.

The analogy aids in the understanding of the origin of “booty”.

{Before my liason began with Cal and for the post-pubescent era of my youth I had styled myself a total top man. Being well-hung in the lily white world, I had no problem taking the dominant role and playing it to the hilt.

I liked being in control and as a strong alpha personality, it befit my persona. All through undergrad schooling I practiced what I felt was my natural predilection.

Upon my introduction to Cal Broadhearst nine years back at a frat party, no less, I was introduced to his world of sex. In between grad school and med school, I was afraid of the man then. Concentration on my medical degree was not to be trifled with. Within the year he was in my pants, in my bedroom and in my Life. And he has never been fucked. To the present day.

Sure, my tongue had tested his virginity through the years and he melts to putty upon my ministrations– I could’ve probably pushed the envelope and gotten into his ass had I tried at those times. But the last thing I wanted, once having tasted of his sexual prowess, was to perform that on him. The lustre would diminish and fade…

He was a total man who wanted me, and, yes, other men on occasion, too–about which I was confident enough to be good with. Always and forever would he be My top. And I His bottom: any way he wanted.

While we both consummated sex with some others by mutual and non-jealous consent, my heart was ever with this man. Never could I have pictured that for myself, but the puzzle fit together and we were one by the fact. Our first and last rule was honesty. Nothing else makes sense. Millions of women would keep their men happy for a lifetime with that single tongue-to-ass maneuver if they could only do so. But it is a male thing– this use of tongue in ass. Women have serious blocks at even giving good head, and ho’s hired for the purpose wear thin very quickly: too trailer park. And too dangerous. Regardless, almost any top man would choose good tongue-to-ass action over even fellatio. A major G-spot hides there.

So take it from me, the way to a man’s heart is not through their stomach– it is by the lingual backdoor entrance. The Hershey Highway. Just remember your hygiene…smile.

Hopefully the fairer sex will never find enjoyment in this act as the entire gay world might be dealt a serious setback. Fo’ sho’. Shhhh, don’t tell.}

Anyway, Cal wended his smooth, sinewy legs in between my own, gradually inching mine apart, per his wont, never removing his mouth from my lips. Rock hardness ruled as our dicks entwined and our tongues fought one another. He gently bit my lips one at a time in the doing. Finally getting our legs separated from their mates far enough, his homunculus spongily probed for that opening. I always kept some Palmer’s cocoa butter on the nightstand by the big bed within arm’s reach and found it while he continued the teasing. The butter coated both him and me and I shivered at the feel of the giant piece about to take me, once again. His ebony arms hooked my knees as his dick entered my sphincter. Our animal grunts along with his stacatto instructions and pleadings took over as his prick slowly, incessantly slid up into the nether regions of my channel.

Upon ‘bottoming out’ we ceased rhythm and held close for what seemed forever as my ass accomodated its master yet again. His tongue in my mouth played the perfect decoy.

Cal knew the ecstasy of delayed satisfaction well, as he found my desire upped by a power of ten when he took the time like this to master me. Once there, he was aware he could proceed in any way he preferred from there on. This morning, he preferred chest-to-chest rubbing while his fingers wrapped through the spaces between my toes, extending my legs and his arms out to the sides. He knew toe spaces to be my

g-spot, and he growled deep into my mouth, suffusing us both with a vibrating buzz.

The rhythmic motion of our coupled state enfolded and held us captive by its power. Not a thin dime could have been fit between our bodies and with my legs and his arms out and away from our torsos, Cal took us to the place we knew as our own. Nobody and nothing could rival this consummation. Over the years our experimentations had perfected the various methods employed for mutual bliss.

My fat dickhead pumped cum from its eye without warning upon one particularly long, throbbing, masterful stroke. I felt him pulsate inside me in release of the tension when my constricting prostate signaled him of my climax. His vibrating growl extended into a long sigh of total release, both of us sagging together as juices flowed.

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