Hands
By Jeff King
From The Name of the Game, Published by TOY Magazine
His shoulders were flush with the rough pine boards, hips thrust
seductivly forward, one leg drawn up with the heavy heel of his
boot pressed against the wall. Pale amber light cut down across
him, causing the visor of his leather motorcycle cap to cast his
languid green eyes into deep shadow, highlighting his cheeks and
close-cropped beard.
The man drew open his black leather jacket, hooking a thumb over
his wide silver-studded belt. The light played off the mat of
dark glossy hair curling thickly over his hard pectorals and his
tapering, muscle rippled stomach.
He casually tugged at the waist of his jeans, low enough to expose
the forest of his pubic hair. His flesh, already tan, was made
duskier in the warm glow of amber light. In his other hand the
man held an open bottle of beer, resting it against the swollen
bulge of his crotch. His fingers played a rythmical tattoo against
the cool sweating can, absently following the beat of the music
flowing down from overhead speakers. Slowly he moved the base
of the damp bottle along his denim encased crotch, darkening the
material until the shaft was clearly visible as it grew, snaking
across his hard thigh. The bulbous head of his cock strained the
faded jeans with its outline.
It was Friday, and it was deep July. A night so terribly hot that
the man was reluctant to give up the cool, semi-darkened confines
of the bar for the steamy streets. He had been there for more
than two hours, but still did not see exactly what he was looking
for. His eyes scanned the crowd of denim and leather constantly
shifting in and out of the pools of light. He looked at all of
the faces that passed by, immediately dropping his eyes to check
the hands and arms of those who pleased him.
He looked at men his height and taller with scant interest, seeking
out those much shorter, with firm compact bodies, men who looked
like the knew that hands and arms could be used for more than
lifting weights or wanking off their cocks. He watched to see
on which side these short men wore their keys and if there was
a slash of red bandanna in a back pocket - although these became
unreliable messages.
When bottles of beer were raised to lips the man ran his eyes
over fingernails, immediately glancing away from those cut close
but jagged and those not quite short enough, no matter if their
right or left hips displayed a menagerie of keys, cock-rings,
and multi-colored bandannas. But whatever the condition of any
hand he saw, a shimmering jet of excitement tinged at his sphincter,
shooting full force up through him.
He stayed positioned against the wall through three more songs,
until he had nearly finished his beer, his fifth of the night,
and had decided to take to the streets after all when a few feet
away from him a small knot of men parted and he met the eyes of
a short, slender man with wavy ash-blond hair and a full darker-blond
moustache. The short man was shirtless with low-cut beltless jeans
hugging his tight waist. His body was smooth and laden with muscle.
His bicep bulged erotically each time he took a drink.
They stared at each other until the blond touched one hand to
his other, encircling it with his fingers and running it slowly
up his arm, over his elbow and on up to the shoulder. He released
his arm and slid the hand over his pecs and down his stomach.
A smile breathed across his mouth. Without hesitation he stepped
into the perimeter of the amber spotlight and looked up at the
taller man.
"You want to get out of here as bad as I do," the blond said.
The taller man swallowed the last of his beer and tossed it into
a nearby trash can. "You gotta name?" he asked.
"Mike, you got one?"
The man nodded, "I got one." He reached over to grip Mike's shoulder
and caress his bicep. He nodded again and they smiled knowingly
at each other. "I wouldn't mind taking a ride on that arm."
Mike's smile broadened. "And it wouldn't mind giving you a lift
-- the further the better."
The man dropped his foot away from the wall. He cupped Mike's
jaw in one hand before leaning down and kissing him hard, probing
his tongue wetly over the shorter man's teeth and lapping at his
tongue. He pulled back slightly. "I'm in no mood for a bed tonight,"
he said in a low hot whisper, "but I know a place."
The man stepped away and Mike followed toward the door.
Outside, the heat of the night enveloped them. A light mist had
begun to move solidly in, softening the garish neon signs along
the block. They passed many men cruising, appearing suddenly out
of the mist only to disappear again just as quickly. Music from
the various bars filtered out onto the street all about them and
finally became hauntingly distant until it faded altogether as
the darkly handsome man and the blond moved into a quieter and
more deserted part of the city. At an all-night erotic bookshop
the man purchased a container of lubricant. They moved on, further
toward the edge of the city.
They walked past dark warehouses on empty streets. After passing
across a field of high yellow grass they came to a river bank
beneath the arch of a disused railroad trestle. The ground sloped
evenly down, leveled to where a set of railroad tracks snaked
past, and then continued down to the edge of the gently lapping
river.
The tracks themselves, Mike noticed, were rusted, grass grown
up between the ties. The mist was denser here, making the leaves
of the nearby maples and elms shiny.
The man led Mike down to the river bank, stepped over one of the
rails and stood squarely on one of the ties. He let the jar of
lubricant slip out of his hand and peeled off his jacket, tossing
it to the side. Mike stood before him, his pecs expanding and
contracting as his breath increased with desire. Twining his fingers
into the thick chest hair Mike leaned forward and caught one of
the nipples between his teeth, flicking at it with the tip of
his tongue until it was erect. He yanked the man's belt buckle
open, undid the snap and thrust his hand down into the jeans,
drawing out the cock.
Mike released the nipple from his mouth, trailing his tongue wetly
down the chest and stomach until he was on his knees. He held
the cock out before his face. His fist could barely close around
the wide, thick fleshiness. He weighed the lob in both hands,
tightening his grip as blood rushed in to engorge it and expand
it straight out from the thatch of pubic hair.
Mike looked up, locked eyes with the tall man and slid the cock
into his mouth, closing his lips over the mushroom head, lapping
the shaft as he drove it into the damp tightness of his throat,
nuzzling his nose and cheeks into the hair, feeling the man's
balls slap against his chin. The man let out a gutteral moan,
wrapped his hands tightly about Mike's head and held him fast,
pumping his cock into the mouth as deep as he could.
"Your teeth," the man grunted, "let me feel your teeth." He grunted
again, louder, as Mike gnawed along the shaft, saliva spilling
over his lips, chewing and biting at the head. The man mouth fucked
Mike furiously until their labored breathing mingled and filled
the night.
The man pulled back, finally, and motioned Mike to his feet. He
pulled open the snap of Mike's jeans. "I want to look at you,"
he said. As Mike pulled off his jeans the man removed a small
bottle of amyl from a back pocket.
The tall man pulled of his boots and jeans, kicking them into
the damp, tall grass. His cock was throbbingly erect, thick and
curved upward. When Mike reached to grasp it the man nudged his
hand away, took the bottle of poppers, spinning off the cap. They
both inhaled from the bottle. The man became electrified with
excitement. He stepped around to one side of Mike, stroking and
kneading his own cock. "Nice," he breathed huskily, "very nice."
He slapped his open hand hard against Mike's pecs and they flinched
to hardness. His palm, fingers splayed, again slapped the mounds
of muscle, then the stomach. He moved around Mike, his hand rising
and falling against the back, the arms, and the ass, each time
applying more pressure.
Mike said nothing as the snapping sound of flesh against flesh
crackled through the misty night. He brought his arms up and went
smoothly into pose, expanding his chest, biceps flexed into moulded
rocks, stomach waved into platted muscle.
The man continued to circle him, one hand continually running
over the curves and valleys of Mike's body. The other hand slapped
again at the domed ass, palm alternating with backhand. Mike went
into another pose, arms down in front of him making fists: veins
strained across his breast, up the trunk of his neck. The man
came back around in front of him and lowered himself to stretch
out on the rough ties between the tracks. Propped up on one elbow,
he massaged his prick and did not take his eyes from Mike.
Mist waved about the blonde's naked body, dark skin glistening
with sweat as he performed one pose after another, proudly displaying
his powerful back, thighs, chest and stomach. His cock bobbed
gently, the low slung sac of his balls slapping against the insides
of his legs. For all of his bulkiness, Mike moved with a graceful,
practised precision.
Beneath Mike the man's hand moved rapidly up and down in his crotch;
his breath came faster. Then, in one swift motion, Mike leaned
forward, flipped the lid off the container of lubricant, scooped
out a generous amount and stood up again, working the grease over
his fingers and palm, across the back of his hand, around the
wrist, thickly up his forearm, past the hollow of his elbow. With
his foot he nudged the container into the hairy crevice between
the man's thighs. The legs parted immediately.
"Work it open for me," Mike commanded.
The man's fingers slid into the grease, then up and down between
the cheeks of his ass. He probed the hole with one finger. Pulling
himself up a little further, he closed his fingers together, folded
the thumb into them and drove his knuckles deep within himself.
Mike raised one leg and brought the ball of his foot down on top
of the hand until the knuckles and the back of the hand disappeared
into the man's ass and the wrist was swallowed.
Mike knelt between the man's spread thighs, "I want you ass like
a furnace when I get in there."
The man closed his eyes, threw his head back, and began to fist
himself, groaning and thrusting his hips up each time he shoved
his greased hand inside. He could feel Mike's eyes riveted to
his hand, could feel the waves shooting off the man, enveloping
him. He felt Mike roughly grip the insides of his legs, raising
them higher and as far as he could manage.
"I said," Mike barked, "fuck that ass!"
The man clenched his eyes tighter, straining to sled his arm further
up, further, deeper.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. He opened his eyes and looked about.
Mike was no longer kneeling between his legs, was nowhere to be
seen along the foggy tracks. The man eased his hand out of his
ass, but as he was about to lower his legs he caught a wavering
movement in the sheeting mist ahead of him on the tracks. He kept
his legs up and waited. The movement gradually took form as it
drew closer and closer until Mike appeared. Involuntarily the
man groaned as he watched.
Mike held his arm up, showing it to the man. He came forward,
walking determinedly between the rusted tracks, the high yellow
grass switching against his legs. He stopped again only when he
was again between the man's legs. The man rested his head and
back against the ties as Mike went to his knees.
Mike played with the man's sphincter, making it twitch about his
fingers. He talked to the man in a low even voice, urging him
to feel the knuckles and hand as they entered, to go with the
the taper and swell of his forearm. "Push out," Mike said. "Easy...
just push out." The man obeyed and the sphincter yawned wide open
to take in the width of the elbow. Mike held steady, unmoving.
"Now come up," he said, "like you were going to sit down." The
man obeyed again. As he did, Mike slid down beneath him, arm extended
straight up, buried into his ass, elbow deep.
The man took a breath. He squatted, groaning loud as he drove
the elbow deeper. Sweat beaded on his face, trickled down his
sides, through the hair on his chest, and streamed into his pubic
hair. He felt the beginning of the bicep. His still stiff cock
jumped as he began to piss, a high, strong stream. Grasping his
lob he aimed the piss down, showering Mike, aiming it into the
open mouth, squeezing out the last drops. Mike's bicep was completely
within the hungry sheath of his ass. Neither said anything. Neither
moved. Mist wafted about them. Gradually the man raised himself
and lowered even further. The hair of Mike's armpit pressed damply
against the gaping asshole. Mike drew a sharp breath as the man
pulled all the way up to the wrist only to come all the way back
down to the armpit in one motion. The man repeated it a dozen
times, riding the arm with complete abandon until his legs grew
tired with the effort. He rested, heart racing, breath pounding
against his chest. He went to his hands and knees.
"Dog fuck me!" the man gasped, and Mike drove into him full force,
sometimes deep and sometimes not. He stopped, only his wrist inside.
The man's husky voice begged him for more.
The night fog thickened about them and then began to lighten as
morning came on through a shimmering cobalt haze.
Finally, reluctantly, Mike withdrew his hand with a wetly smacking
sound. Mike slid his arms about the man and drew him back against
his chest. The man lolled his head back against Mike's shoulder
and their mouths met eagerly. Shadows dropped away about them.
A light breeze rustled the damp leaves and grass.
"We should go," Mike whispered.
"My place or yours?" the man said, a satisfied smile tugging at
his mouth.
Mike hesitated. The man reached around to touch Mike's ungreased
arm. "You've got another arm that needs measuring."
Mike stared at the man a moment and then smiled broadly before
he said, "Why go anywhere?" He reached for the grease.
The man went again to his hands an knees, lowered his shoulders
to the railroad ties, and closed his eyes.
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