Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 2

Li’l Honey Bunny (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #257

Image Courtesyof Dreamstime:

 

Can you believe it? Here we are wellinto 2024, and I was just getting accustomed to writing 2023. Such is life.

 

Hope you enjoyed the story of the Armybrat and the white park bench. This week, we’ll start another story, maybepluck some different heartstrings.

Let’s get right to it. Here’s Part 1.

 

 

* * * *

LI’LHONEY BUNNY

I remember the day Greg Parkswas born in the house right beside ours on Mason Street. Or at least I recallstories about the event… my mom rushing over to help the doctor, excitedwhispers, a baby crying. They’re vivid in my mind, although I was only four atthe time. But it seemed that my mother coming back home and loudly pronouncingthat the new baby was a real “Little Honey Bunny” was my recollection, notsomeone else’s told so many times it gets mixed up with my own.

So that’s what I called him fromthe time I first laid eyes on the red-faced, squalling bundle of energy moreformally named Gregory Robert Parks. The label worked okay until he reachedMiddle School, and then he began to rebel, taking it as a smack-down. Wasn’tintended that way, but his reaction tickled my fancy, so I kept it up. By thattime, of course, it had simply been reduced to “Bunny,” but I’d use the full appellationon occasion to watch his face turn red. Needless to say, our childhoodfriendship was no longer so close.

I returned home after beingaway at college for four years and moved back into the Mason Street house.Didn’t see much of Bunny upon my return as the Parks had long ago moved toanother part of town. Nonetheless the sight of the white house to the east ofours kicked off memories… including those of Li’l Honey Bunny.

In answer to my questions, Momlet me know Greg had graduated high school and was prepared to leave forcollege at State this fall. Hard to believe the gangly fourteen-year-old I’dlast cast eyes on would soon be a college man. No doubt I’d see for myself, asI was about to start working in my dad’s drug store. The idea of working for ayear at the drug store where I’d started shelving merchandise in short pants beforestarting pharmacy school was long ago implanted in my brain. Dad wanted me tolearn the business end of the store more deeply than what I’d already absorbedby osmosis. He he planned for me to one day replace him as pharmacist… andultimately as manager. That was okay with me. I’d found his puttering andmuttering while mixing this and parsing that fascinating, and I probablyalready knew more about that end of the business than most pre-pharm students.

One day as I looked through asheaf of credit card charges while searching for a specific one, an unfamiliarvoice called my name.

“Clifton? Is that you, Cliff?”

I turned to regard an oddly familiarstranger. A handsome, hunky, totally desirable stranger. My mouth dropped asrecognition dawned.

“Greg?”

The beautiful young manlaughed, his generous green eyes crinkling merrily. “It’s okay, I’m still Bunny.”

“You sure are,” I blurted andgrasped the strong hand he thrust at me. “Damn, guy, you’ve grown.”

“Wee bit. But you look thesame. Guess chasing sorority gals around campus has kept you lean and healthy.”

I gave him a return laugh. “It’sonly when you catch them that it can become unhealthy.”

“I’ll take you word for it.How long you home for?”

I reclaimed my hand, althoughI was enjoying the contact. “Gonna work for a year before going back toPharmacy School. So I’ll be around awhile.”

“Not me,” the dreamboat infront of me said. “Heading out to State this fall.”

“Try not to tear up campus toomuch.”

“Might need some guidance onthat. Maybe you can give me some pointers.”

“Happy to… anytime.”

He started to move away, buthesitated. “I’m working at my dad’s lumberyard for the summer… like every othersummer I can remember. Get off around six. If you’re not doing anything, maybeyou can give me some of those pointers.”

A chill ran down my back. “Yeah,sure. What you wanna do?”

“You still bowl?”

“Some. Probably still beatyour ass.”

“This isn’t a league night, sowhy don’t you meet me at the Fiesta Bowl at eight, and I’ll make you eat thosewords.”

“You’re on.”

I couldn’t help but watch ashe moved down the aisle toward the prescription counter where my father wasworking. The kid had to be a jock. Way he moved, graceful, self-assured… sexy.

Thankfully, the cashier’scounter shielded me as Mrs. Mooseburn walked up, otherwise it would have been obscenelyobvious how intrigued I was by that Li’l Honey Bunny.

*.*.*.*.

Wonder if Cliffhad explored his own sexuality before Bunny caught his fancy… unexpectedly, itseems. He has to be… what 22 or 23 to have graduated from college, so surely hehas. But who knows.

 

At any rate, nowthat he knows, what will he do about it? Assuming, of course, Bunny will permithim to experiment. What do you think?

 

I now have thecover for the upcoming Huntinghawk, but JMS won’t let me give anyone apeek yet. I like it, and hopefully, so will you.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

X: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’tcopyright it. His bad.)

 

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00a.m., US Mountain time.

An Army Brat and a White-Vined Park Bench (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #256

 

Image Courtesyof Amazon:

 

Hope Christmas went well foreveryone. Now we have to get past New Year’s… especially New Year’s Eve. Staysane, everyone.

 

The last post saw Layton Dunelton, anarmy brat, going through his usual bout of loneliness when his father istransferred to a different base. A piece of graffiti on the school bathroomstall set him looking for a particular bench in a nearby park where he observeda casual pickup.

This story picks up a week later when he returns to the parkbench and spots one of the college kids involved in last week’s tryst. The kidboldly approaches Layton, introduces himself as Ken, and asks what Layton thoughtabout what he saw the previous Monday.

 

* * * *

ANARMY BRAT AND A WHITE-VINED PARK BENCH

“Uh, like what?”

“Well, what did you think ofmy bare butt, for one thing?”

“Tried not to think of it atall.” There, that was better. No stuttering that time.

“Tried not to? That means youdid. Care to give it a rating?”

“Uh….” Damn, stuttering again.Maybe not stuttering, but pissing around before answering the question. Samething. “Not that experienced at rating guy’s asses.”

“Don’t give me that. Good-looking,built guy like you? I can tell you’re an athlete. Athletes shower with guys. Soyou’ve seen plenty of bare, male butts.”

“Guess so.”

“Know so,” he said, clampingonto my thigh above the knee in a macho, goodwill sorta way. But he left hishand there, and it burned like his hip against mine did. I dunno why, but Ididn’t push it away. Didn’t do anything.

Ken turned his head to look atme. “Make you curious about anything else?”

“No… uh… I dunno.”

He flashed a smile, making himhandsomer than any movie star I’d ever seen… sexier, at any rate. That thoughtrattled me some, I can tell you.

“Dunno means you’re not closedto the suggestion. But first, maybe you’d like a feel?”

“Feel? W-wha’da ya mean?”

He moved his hand up my leg. “Oh,like this, for example.”

I clamped my legs together,trapping his hand.

“Relax,” he said in a soothingvoice.

I did, and his hand went towork. I’ve heard of blind people “seeing with their hands,” and while thosechocolate brown eyes weren’t blind, that hand’s examination was so thorough it musthave known exactly what I looked like beneath my trousers.

He spread his legs, whichpushed his left one hard against my right. “Your turn.”

Like it had a mind of its own,my hand reached out and came to rest on the inside of his thigh. Then it wentdumb.

“Go on,” he said. “Take a goodfeel.”

So after a good look around tomake sure nobody was nearby, I did. One touch, and that monster beneath his sweatpantsstarted growing. Before I knew it, I was holding onto a throbbing tube of fleshyearning to be free.

I was gonna let go, but hereached for me again, his arm trapping mine where it was. So help me, thistime, I reacted the same way he had. Junior grew and got muscular fast.

“Impressive,” Ken said, givingthat loopy grin that made him handsomer than all get out.

“Y-yours too,” I heard my ownvoice say. Damn, first my hand acted on its own, and now my voice box went independent.

Taking me by surprise, heremoved his hand and yanked down his sweatpants, exposing an excited monster.It bobbed around like that blind eye at the tip was hunting for a home.

“Somebody’ll see!” Iwhispered.

“Nobody around. Take hold ofit.”

My hand became animated againand obeyed. Man, talk about hot. It was physically warm. My hand, actingindependently again, pumped it a couple of times.

“Feels good, Layton. Feelsgood. Now yours.”

I’d lost the ability toresist, so I just lay back against the bench and let him do what he wanted. Mytrousers had a belt, but it didn’t take him any time at all to overcome thatobstacle. And just like his, mine bobbed and weaved like it was looking for afight. His hand around it about sent me out of my senses, especially when thathand started moving up and down. He sighed as I did the same.

“You one good-looking stud,”Ken said, a sigh in his voice.

“Y-you are too. Reallyhandsome. Bet you could have any girl you wanted. Why’d you want me?”

He leaned his shoulder againstmine while both our hands worked like crazy. “You’re prettier than any girl Iknow, Layton. You’re sexier than that guy I met here last week, and he was areal looker, I can tell you.”

“I’m… uh… ah… oh… not.”

Ken stretched his legs. “Oh,but you are. And you’ve got a great touch. Uh-oh. Getting serious here.”

“You… you do too. Serious… over…here too.” My legs spasmed. My belly contracted, and Junior let loose with a gushof hot sperm.

“Atta boy!” he breathed. “Spewedlike a volcano! Ungh, oh my. Here… I… come!”

And come he did. For a longtime. Forever, it seemed like.

Finally, we both lolled backagainst the bench breathing heavily. After a minute or so, Ken took out a cleanwhite handkerchief and cleaned me off before tending to himself. I’ll swearthat scrap of cloth was sopping wet by the time he finished. As we restored ourclothing, he glanced over at me.

“Well, how was it?”

“Great.”

“Your first time… with anotherguy, I mean?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“How do I feel? Worn out.”

“No regrets? No recriminations?”

“Why would I?”

He shrugged, and although Iwas sexually sated, I experienced a brief pang of lust. “Some guys feel like it’swrong, and they’re mortified afterward. Me, I just enjoy the afterglow.”

“Afterglow?” I asked. “Yeah,that’s it. Afterglow.”

“I like you, Layton.”

“Me too. I mean, I like you,Ken.”

“Wanna meet again? Lots ofthings I can teach you.”

“Better than… you know, whatwe just did?”

That devastating grin again. “Lotsbetter.”

*.*.*.*.

Seems like thecollege boy was looking for more than just telling Layton to keep his mouthshut. As a matter of fact…. Well, I won’t say more, because we’ll likely seemore of Layton and Ken later.

 

As I said in thelast post, JMSBooks is bringing out another short story anthology titled Huntinghawk,An Anthology for publication in February of next year. I’ll keep youposted.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

X: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’tcopyright it. His bad.)

 

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

An Army Brat and a White-Vined Park Bench (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #255

Image Courtesyof Amazon:

 

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah toone and all. Please enjoy the holiday season but be careful, there are a lot ofcrazies out there.

 

During this busy time of year, I’dintended to publish a repost for this week. But Layton and the white-vined parkbench he’d stumbled onto in last post prompted so many memories from yore, Icouldn’t let it go. Hope you enjoy the second story.

 

* * * *

ANARMY BRAT AND A WHITE-VINED PARK BENCH

My name’s Layton Dunelton, andI’m one confused son of a gun. An army brat, I had traveled blamed near allover the world by the time I reached age eighteen. But I’d never seen anythinglike what I saw when I arrived at Harthbrow Academy for my senior year in highschool. It started off last Monday after school was over for the day. I’m ahiker—and a loner, by the way—and went to this park near my house after I’dseen some graffiti in the boy’s room about a white park bench.

Don’t know if I was lookingfor that bench or not, but I spotted it in a little secluded glen screened fromthe rest of the park by some trees. All the message said was, “Meet you at thewhite vine tonight at eight.” Anyway, my curiosity got the better of me, and Isat at another bench not far away. Dunno why, wasn’t anywhere close to eighto’clock. Heck, it was the middle of the afternoon. And I didn’t even know whenthe note was put on the wall.

But I figured things out rightfast when a guy sat down on the white bench and got picked up by another guy. Lookedlike college students. They moved back in the trees and started making out. Guessthey were too involved in what they were doing to notice me, but I sure got aneyeful when one dropped his britches. They left before things got too heatedup, heading for somewhere more private, I guess. But as they left, one of them,a really handsome guy with dark, curly hair noticed me and gave me a grin and athumbs-up behind his buddy’s back.

What was even stranger was I’dnever even thought about fooling around with guys, but what I’d seen about setme on fire. I even went back at eight that night to see if anyone answered thenote, but nobody showed, and I felt creepy sitting in the dark watching thatempty, white-vined park bench.

I tried not to give the parkmuch thought the rest of the week, but the following Monday afternoon, I wentto the head and saw that graffiti again. Somebody’d added the word “Wow!” belowit. That’s all it took to start my imagination racing again, so I left schoolafter last class and headed straight for the park.

Once I got there, I wondered whatthe hell I was doing. There were some kids playing a ball game way down thegreen, but nobody was at the path running in front of the white bench. Or onthe other bench farther back in the trees where I’d watched last Monday.

On impulse, I sat down on thewhite bench and spread my legs like I’d seen the guy do the other day. But as soonas I saw someone approaching, I closed them like I needed to protect my manhoodor something.

After a few uncomfortableminutes, I decided sitting on this hookup bench and spreading my legs to bait atrap wasn’t for me. I stood to leave, but froze when I saw that samedark-headed college kid striding this way on long, athletic legs. Panicked, Ididn’t know whether to sit down or run away. And I had to do one or the otherbecause my knees went weak.

When I saw him turn his headto look at two girls walking down the path on the other side of the green, Iwhipped around the bench and took refuge on the other seat deeper in the trees.Maybe he wouldn’t notice me. Like last time.

I sat still as a marble statueas he approached the white bench. Was he going to sit down? Was he meeting hisfriend again? Would I see them move deeper in the trees and drop their trousers?Would….

Upon reaching the white bench,he stretched languidly, hiking his short shirt up and giving me a flash ofbrown midriff. Wow, he was built. Athletic, I mean. Not like a wrestler; morelike a runner or a swimmer. Long, hard muscles.

I saw the instant he spottedme. He paused, flashed a smile… and headed my way. My insides shriveled. God!Would he recognize me as the peeping Tom kid? Before I had time to react, hestood in front of me.

“Hello. Wondered if I’d seeyou again.”

Oh, crap! He recognized me.

“I came back a couple of timeslast week hoping I’d see you,” he went on.

He wanted to see me?

He indicated the bench. “Mindif I join you?”

“Y-yeah, sure.” Crap, I probablysounded like a ten-year-old.

He sat beside me on the smallbench with our thighs touching… scorching my flesh.

He offered a hand. “My name’sKen.”

“Uh….” I verbally stumbled asI accepted his firm grip. Seemed like there was heat in that touch too. “Layton.”

“Good to meet you, Layton.”

“W-why did you want to see me?”Gee, he must think I stuttered.

“Wanted to get your take onwhat you saw Monday.”

 

*.*.*.*.

Uh-oh, is thecollege guy fishing around to see what Layton saw a week ago? Should Laytonconfess he’d gotten an eyeful or play dumb? Would Ken be pissed if he’d seentoo much? College boy had been dogged about finding Layton again. What did hewant? To make sure the kid kept his mouth shut? Or maybe something else. Let’ssee next post.

 

JMSBooks hascontracted with me for another short story anthology for publication inFebruary of next year. This one is a series of related stories about CurtHuntinghawk and his running buddy Grover Whitedeer. It’s called Huntinghawk,An Anthology. Let you know when I get a firm publication date.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

X: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’tcopyright it. His bad.)

 

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Red and White (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #253

 

Image Courtesyof Craiyon:

 

Hope everyone had a good ThanksgivingDay. No one overate, I’m sure.

 

Last week, we observed Charlie andRed Leg breech two different cultures to initiate a growing friendship. Charlie’sma took on the task of teaching Red Leg and his sister, but it’s beginning tolook as if Red Leg’s gonna turn out to be Charlie’s instructor. Let’s see.

 

* * * *

REDAND WHITE

I saw a lot more of Red Legand Little Fawn than expected because their mother decided they should join Sissyand me in Ma’s daily schooling sessions. That brightened those long hours forme. While I didn’t exactly not like learning, it got awfully tedious attimes. Little Fawn, like Sissy, took to it right away. Red Leg was more likeme, except he sopped up knowledge a little faster than I did. His English, forexample, improved rapidly, although I’m sure he’d have trouble telling what wasa noun and what was a verb.

After Ma’s class and my farmchores were done, I got my real education. Once let loose, I’d search out RedLeg, who became my new instructor in real life events. He taught me how to huntwith a bow and arrow, how to dress a deer carcass, and what plants were edibleor harmful. Hey, I was learning how to become self-sufficient! That’s a realeducation.

And I got educated in anotherway too when we went skinny-dipping in the creek one hot summer day. He dyedthat right leg with something that washed off. He went in the water red-legged,and came out bronze-legged.

I noticed something else too.A thick black bush and an impressive set of equipment. Looked more like a man’sthan a lanky, eighteen-year-old kid. Course, out here on the frontier, everyoneconsidered a seventeen-year-old as a man. I’d just left seventeen behind me,and I didn’t feel near like a man. Just a big kid.

Anyhow, that day, as we lay inthe grass after horseplay in the stream, my eye kept straying to his privateparts, which made me feel strange. And I do mean strange. I got allgoose-pimply and felt weak in the knees. Then I noticed he was looking at metoo. He might not look a guy in the eye, but he didn’t mind laying an orbdirectly on guy’s private parts. But I’d already noticed he was a lot moredirect in his speech and actions than I was. Which, in a way, made him lesssneaky than me.

So I stopped being sneaky, satup on my elbow, and took a good look. Immediately, I grew intimidated. That wasa man lying naked in the grass beside me. His mind and heart might be the kid Iknew as Red Leg, but that body was definitely a full-grown man’s. And a whopperof a man at that.

First thing I knew, my handwas on his leg, the one that’d been painted before we went swimming. I thoughtit was just a reaction to that missing paint, but as soon as I felt his silkentouch, I knew I was wrong. Flustered, I lay back down.

Red Leg came up on his elbowand took a look at my privates. Watching his big, black eyes—couldn’t tellwhere the iris ended and the pupil began— study me, I felt myself grow.Mortified, I covered myself with my hands.

Red Leg grunted and brushedthem away. I got hard as a rock under that piercing stare, starting when he ranhis fingers through my pubic hair.

He touched his own bush. “Notblack like mine.”

“N-no. Brown.”

“Like on head.”

“Y-yeh.”

He flipped his long hair.“Black.”

“Uh, yeah. Real black.”

He flicked my throbbingmember. “Work like mine?”

My mind stuttered over boththe touch and the question. “Uh-huh. Least ways, I guess so.”

He lay back down, our hipspressed against one another. “We find out.”

My heart nearly failed when hethrew a leg over mind, grasped himself, and set up a rhythm, but I wasn’t farbehind him. As we worked, I got a little extra tingle when I looked at himpumping himself. What did that mean? I didn’t know, but I liked it. I even gotso bold as to slide my free hand onto his muscled chest. He didn’t seem tomind.

Before long—way before Iwanted it to—things started getting serious. I got that special feeling in mybelly and groin, and even somewhere in my backside that let me know I was gonnapop the cork… and good!

Then he let out a groan andstarted spewing like that Mount Vesuvius I’d read about. Hot, steaming lava,and lots of it. He kinda turned halfway into me to finish, and I had aneruption of my own. A long, satisfying one.

I don’t know how long we layhalf entangled in one another, but eventually, he sat up and started cleaninghimself with grass. When he finished, he grabbed another clump and set toscrubbing me. I almost fainted at the unexpected gesture. Before I wanted himto, he rose and extended an arm, hauling me to my feet and pushing me towardthe stream. We splashed and played until the awkwardness I’d felt melted in theglow of friendship.

When we came out of the creek,he got behind me and started rubbing water from my back with his hands. Thatdone, he leaned into me and brushed my chest free of droplets. He felt good,pressed against me like that.

When he spoke, his lips at myear, I was startled.

“Charlie my friend, now.”

“Uh, thought I already was.”

“You my special friend.” Hegrasped my member and pressed himself against my backside. “That mine now. Youdon’t do that with nobody else. Just Red Leg.”

I smiled at the thought.Wasn’t anybody else around to do it with. Nonetheless, I agreed. “Okay. Are wegonna do it again… sometime?”

His clutch became an embrace.“Gonna do it. Lotsa times. Gonna do more too.”

The warmth of his groin on my bunsgave me a hint of his meaning. Suddenly, I was filled with both dread andanticipation. Dreadful anticipation!

 

*.*.*.*.

Well, to befair, there aren’t many other young people Charlie’s age in the area. So youtake it where you can get it, don’t you. But is he getting too fond of thehandsome, young Indian? From the inset above, do you blame him?

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’tcopyright it. His bad.)

 

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

The White-Vined Park Bench

 Markwildyr.com,Post #254

Image Courtesyof Pinterest:

 

Well, how did you like meetingCharlie and Red Leg over the last two weeks. Think you might get some interestup if you met those two?

 

Let’s try some flash fiction thisweek. Read on and meet a shy, high school senior Army brat and see if you canshare any of his feelings.

 

* * * *

THE WHITE-VINED PARK BENCH

“Hi, my name’s Layton Dunelton,and I’m an army brat who gets transferred around a lot.”

That brought a rumble oflaughter from my new senior class at Harthbrow Academy. I mean to say the classwas new to me, not that the class was new. My dad’s an Army major, and you’dthink I’d grow accustomed to switching schools, but the truth is I’m shy ashell and have a hard time meeting new people. Sometimes I hate my dad’sprofession, although it’s been good to us. You know, great medical benefits andrespect and all. But it’s hard on the kids, I can tell you.

Anyway, this was my first dayin class at a new school, always the hardest. I could readily spot people I’dlike to get to know but didn’t always make the connection. Guess that’s anawfully shallow way of picking friends—by the way they look—but nobody’s ever accusedme of being deep.

I made it through the day andstarted for home, by foot since we lived no more than four blocks from theAcademy. Before leaving campus, I stopped off in the boy’s room to drain thepipe for a more comfortable walk. Like lots of places I’d attended, Harthbrowwas not immune from graffiti. I casually read and dismissed them, but onecaught my eye. Obviously old, the ink was faded, it simply read, “Meet you atthe white vine tonight at eight.” I guess it snagged my attention because Iwondered if there was a teen joint in town I hadn’t heard about.

I got my chores and homework doneearly, there wasn’t anything else to do. Boredom drove me away from the boobtube and out looking for something to occupy my time. Not far from the house, Ifound a nice city park. At first, I thought it was just a small thing, but as Iwandered around, I found it went on for blocks. The broad swath of green wasfringed by trees as thick as a wild forest and interspaced with heavy, ironbenches with backs fashioned like interwoven vines. A perfect place forwalking. This’d be my hiking spot. I did a lot of hiking, my form of physicalexercise. As I explored, I found little sheltered nooks. A little green spacewould open unexpectedly through the trees, and as a dedicated loner, I gravitatedtoward sheltered places.

A little after passing theobligatory His and Her restroom hut, I came upon a really attractive place.This little park was almost totally screened from view by trees. Pulled by asense of serenity, I entered the little place. No more than twenty-five yardswide in any direction, the glen felt like another world. Spotting one of thoseremote cast iron benches even deeper in the trees, I walked over and sat down.Surprisingly comfortable, although it probably wouldn’t wear on the butt well.I sighed and decided to claim the place for my own.

A few minutes later, a manwalked past the screen of trees, or at least, I thought he was going to.Instead, he claimed a bench I’d not noticed no more than ten yards in front ofme. One not so deep in this little glen, but still somewhat isolated from thebigger expanse of green beyond. His back was to me, but he looked a littleolder than my eighteen years. Like a junior or senior at the college in town.

At any rate, he had a sort of—Idon’t know—expectant air about him. There wasn’t much traffic in the park atthis time of day, but there was some. As I observed—a loner’s often a greatobserver of life around him—I noticed something. If a woman or girl walked by,he nodded courteously, but if a man—especially a young man—approached, hespread his legs and watched the guy approach. Like a hunter watching his prey waswhat came to mind. But what was his bait?

After about ten minutes, a guywho looked like he was another student walked up and stopped in front of thebench. I could hear voices but not words. Didn’t need them. The second guy satdown beside the first and took a long look either way before moving his hand.Although their backs were to me, I would have sworn he was groping the otherone.

They got up and moved deeperinto the trees. If they hadn’t been so intent on one another, they would haveseen me, but I remained as still as a stone. When they were well screened fromthe public portion of the park—but easily within my sight—one of them, a curly,dark-headed guy, leaned against the bole of a tree while the other pressed againsthim. I could swear they were kissing. They were! Moans reached me. Then theblond-headed one dropped his britches, baring his butt to me. It looked likethe other one’s trousers drooped, as well. More moans and groans as theymassaged one another.

Damn, if this wasn’t beginningto get to me.

They halted their activity andstarted discussing something. I couldn’t hear plainly but enough to realizethey were compatible—whatever that meant. Then I heard, plain as day. “Myroommate’s gone for the night.” They restored their clothing and started backto the public area. One looked startled when he spotted me, but grinned andflashed a thumbs-up behind his partner’s back.

Damned, if that didn’t sendsomething crawling around inside me.

When they were gone, I got upand walked to that bench. Sitting—and spreading my legs, I have to admit—I kindaexperimented with the feeling. Then I noticed something I hadn’t before. Thepark benches were all painted different colors. This one was white. A white-vined park bench. Could that be what the note on the toilet wall meant?Yeah. This was a pick-up spot. A meeting place for those people. Those people?

Damn, I had a raging boner.Did that mean anything? Naw. Well, maybe.

Anyway, I was sure as hell gonnacome back tonight and see what developed. Hell, maybe I’d sit down and spreadmy legs now that I knew what the bait was.

 

*.*.*.*.

My, my, what doyou suppose he’s figured out the bait was? Will it work? Will it be okay withhim if it does, or will it be a case of the dog catching the car? Figure it outfor yourself. Or… I might write a second story, we’ll see.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’tcopyright it. His bad.)

See you later.

 

Mark

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Red and White (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #252

 

Image Courtesyof Craiyon:

 

Well, the tale of Shamus LazrusShuttleford is behind us now. Hope you enjoyed it… and it kicked off somememories of days gone by.

Today, we start the story of twoyoung me, one in an environment totally foreign to him. I’ve elected to call itRed and White. Here goes.

 

* * * *

REDAND WHITE

Pa shaded his eyes as he watched horses approaching acrossthe meadow that ran down to the creek.

“Red Injuns,” he said.

His words sent Ma into a panic, Sissy running for her momma’sskirts, and a bolt of something right through me. Fear, probably.

“No call to worry,” my father added. “Looks like WalkingDog’s bringing his brood to say howdy.”

Walking Dog, I knew from Pa’s telling, was a Sioux Pa’d metwhen he first came to the Dakota Territory to set up our new homestead nearly atwelve-month ago. Ma, my sister, and I’d only arrived a few weeks back. Aboutthe last words anybody said to us before we left St. Louis was to “watch outfor Red Indians.”

I wasn’t clear on how they’d met, but apparently theIndian had been a big help to Pa in getting acclimated to the area. If Iunderstood it right, Walking Dog’s wife had made the buckskin window coveringsfor the house.

“What do I do?” Ma asked, her hands fiddling with herapron like she did when she was nervous.

“What you always do when company comes calling. Coffee hot?”

“Fresh brewed. But what do I say to them?”

“Not much. Walking Dog speaks a little American, but don’tknow about the rest of them.”

We watched silently as the four horses drew near. WalkingDog—leastways, I figured it was the warrior—was a swamping man. Big. Big in theshoulders and chest, but lean elsewhere. Dunno where the idea came from, but “wouldn’twanna get in a mix-up with him,” was what raced through my head. What held thetwo eagle feathers in place at the back of his head without a headband, was mysecond. He lifted his right arm and held it aloft, palm to us.

“Showing us he’s got no weapon in his hand. Their way ofa friendly howdy,” Pa said before lifting his own hand. Of course, his Henryrifle leaned against the cabin wall right behind him in case of need. On theother hand, Walking Dog’s bow and quiver of arrows was at hand, as well.

A woman, a youth, and a girl drew up in front of theporch with him. Seemed like our families were a match. I noticed Ma’s eyes onthe other woman and Sissy’s on the girl, before I regarded the youth Iconsidered a mite older’n my age—probably nineteen or so—and saw lots of his pain him. What amazed me was how handsome he was. Never given it an ounce ofthought, but I didn’t equate Red Indians being either handsome or ugly. Theyjust were.

But this whole family made an attractive bunch. Didn’tsee coarseness or savagery in a single one. Course, don’t exactly know whatsavagery looks like. Oh yeah, like Leroy Pearton, the kid that used to bully mewhen I was going to school. He definitely looked savage.

“Howdy, John Clanston,” Walking Dog said in a voice thatseemed to come deep down from inside him. Basso, my ma’d called that voice whenwe went to a Christmas sing-along one year and heard this famous opera singercaroling.

“Howdy, Walking Dog. Set yourself down and come up on theporch for a visit.”

The adults talked among themselves as our guestsdismounted and stepped to the porch. Unlike a lot of the cabins you saw outhere in the wilderness, Pa’d insisted on a proper porch. While others steppedout into the dirt, we exited onto wooden boards with a protective overhang.

Our two families spent a quarter of an hour getting introduced.The adults settled into the homemade chairs we dragged out onto the porch whilewe kids settled on the stoop, silent as stones as we listened to our eldersmake halted conversation. Walking Dog introduced his wife Willow, My daddutifully identified my mom as Jenny Clanston. It was quickly apparent WalkingDog had a better command of our language than his wife, but Ma, who’d been aschoolteacher until we came to the Dakota Territory was good at nonverbalcommunication and soon had something going.

When Walking Dog indicated his son was Red Leg and hisdaughter, Little Fawn, Pa reciprocated with Charley and Sissy. That freed us tohave a go at it with our peers.

“Red Leg?” I asked, indicating his right leg which wasdyed red from hip to where it disappeared into his moccasin. At least, Iassumed it was dyed because the other one was bronze like his bare chest. He worea a loose, black shirt without sleeves or collar, but vestments were otherwise confined to aleather apron some called a breechclout and ankle-high moccasins.  His visiting duds, I surmised, makingme wonder about that red leg. Was the dye permanent or just applied when hewent visiting?

He nodded and spoke in a voice that almost matched hissire’s, “Just so. Red Leg. Charlie?”

“It’s really Charles, but everyone calls me Charlie.”

Up close, he was, indeed, strikingly handsome. I’d neverseen eyes quite that shade of brown on a man—well, youth—before. While Istudied him frankly, he never quite looked right at me. That’s not exactly whatI meant. He looked at me okay, but at my left ear or the right. At my chin orforehead. Never in the eyes. But Pa’d warned us that wasn’t shiftiness. They consideredmeeting a man’s eyes as a challenge or something. That made me wonder if I’dalready challenged Red Leg to a fight or something.

I sure hoped not. His shoulders were way broader thanmine, and his arms had muscles mine only pined for. We talked back and forth,doing a lot of arm waving and pointing, but he had enough English for us to getby. Of course, I had no Sioux… or Lakota, as I came to understand it, at all.

Then, as I stared at him while he watched our sistersstruggle to converse, a strange thought popped into my head.

How would girls back home react to my impressive newfriend? And the answer came back: they’d eat him up.

I sat stunned as some sort of emotion wracked me. Whatwas that all about?

 

*.*.*.*.

New situationsare stressful enough, but total new environments are even more difficult. What’sgoing on in young Charlie’s mind? We’ll find out next time.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’t copyrightit. His bad.)

 

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Shamus Lazrus Shuttleford (Part 2 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #251

 

Image Courtesyof Masterfile (Royalty-Free Div)

 

This week, we’ll finish the briefsaga of Shamus Lazrus Shuttleford, an ordinary guy living an ordinary life…until he sees the neighborhood kid in the back yard engaged in unnaturalactivities with another boy. So let’s see what he does about it.

 

* * * *

            SHAMUS LAZRUS SHUTTLEFORD

The opportunity to confrontyoung Timothy about his improprieties didn’t arise until the weekend. Shamushad just finished mowing the back lawn when Timothy appeared at his fence.

“Want me to edge it for you,Mr. S?” he asked in a pleasant baritone.

“I wouldn’t mind if you do,Timothy. I’ll fix some lemonade we can enjoy afterward.”

A wide grin split the youth’shandsome features. “Deal.”

As he watched Timothy, cladonly in shorts made from cut-off Levis and canvas slippers, Shamus was struckby how controlled this young man was. More than most eighteen-year-olds, hewagered. With that realization, came the understanding that Timothy hadn’t beenseduced the other day, he’d willingly collaborated in his debauchery. Thatthought was succeeded by another: did those shorts have a zipper or buttons?Shamus’ cheeks burned with that question. Why had it even crossed his mind?

Keeping an eye on Timothy’sprogress, he appeared on the back porch with a pitcher of freshly squeezedlemonade the moment the boy put the edger back into the shed. He’d long agolearned his offer of monetary payment would be spurned, so lemonade was thesubstitute.

The boy rinsed his hands inthe tap at the side of shed and dried them on the seat of his jeans beforetaking the lounger beside Shamus and accepting a tall, sweating glass of ade.

“Thanks, Mr. S. This’ll godown easy on a day like this. Hot for May, isn’t it?”

“Unseasonably.”

The boy chatted easily aboutschool and the Leopards, the high school football team he played for. But hewasn’t a selfish talker, he laced his description of his days with questionsabout Shamus’ family and work at the bookkeeping firm. Pleasant company, Shamusacknowledged for the ten-thousandth time. Had been since he was in elementaryschool. Shamus supposed they’d bonded so well because he was a fair mechanicand over the years had helped Timothy keep a parade of clunkers running. Likelywhy the boy was reluctant to accept payment for his help in the yard.

Eventually, the news of theweek was exhausted, and conversation languished. Now was the proper time toadmonish the lad over his behavior the other day. Even so, Shamus was reluctantto spoil the pleasant mood.

After a short silence, the boyspeared him with a look. “Anything you want to say to me, Mr. S”

“Beg pardon?”

“I know you saw me in the backyard the other day. Saw the blinds on your kitchen window close.”

“I… well….”

“I’ve known for a long timeyou could see our hidey spot in the back yard. But I thought you’d be at workthat day.”

“I took that afternoon off.”

“My bad luck, I guess.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll say nothingto your parents. But you should refrain from such actions. It’s… it’sunnatural.”

“Not according to the researchI’ve read. Lotsa guys do it. Don’t get me wrong. I just let this buddy have hisway every once in a while. Some researchers say masturbation’s healthy.”

Shamus felt his eyes widen.“That was not masturbation.”

Timothy grinned at him. “No,it was better. But I don’t let it get out of control. Bert would blow me everyday if I’d let him, but I only let him in every month or so.”

“Timothy, I’m not sure suchconversation is appropriate.”

“Why not? You saw me, so whoelse would I talk about it with? Sorry if it offended you.”

“Well… no. Disturbed, maybe.But offended?” Shamus licked his lips. “I don’t know. My concern was for you.”

“Thanks, Mr S.”

A small silence grew beforeTimothy spoke again.

“How about you? What do youdo… you know, for relief? Never see a woman over here. And you don’t go outmuch.”

Shamus was certain his earswere a bright red. He should have been in control of this conversation, butthis teen was taking it where he wanted.

“That is definitely not anappropriate question.”

“Why not?” Timothy asked. “We’refriends, aren’t we? Why can’t friends discuss things like that? You know,intimate things.”

“You should go to your fatherfor such advice.”

“I’m not asking for advice.I’m asking how you take care of your need. I know Mom and Dad still go at it,and you’re no older than they are.”

“Timothy!”

“Sorry. But don’t get mewrong, Mr. S. I like girls.” A grin grew on the youth’s lips. “A lot. Have somehot times, you know, enough to get to aching. But never scored. Not yet. Soon,I hope. And in the meantime, gotta do something to keep the lid on.”

As the boy fell silent, Shamusgrew aware of a heat building in his loins. He lifted a leg to hide a growingcondition.

“Too late,” Timothy said, alaugh hiding in his voice. “I already saw it.” He indicated the large bulge athis own groin. “Got to me too. See. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Shamus didn’t know what washappening to him. Maybe the boy’s voice was hypnotic, his powerful personalpresence too much for Shamus to handle. But whatever it was, he allowed the boyto talk on. Then he was aware of the boy’s hand touching him. Little Timothy’shand—but now, he was big Timothy, a strapping six-footer with wide shoulders,narrow waist, trim hips and long legs lightly covered in hair.

As he moved his hand to theyouth’s groin, a long-repressed memory emerged from his fogged brain. Thememory of a golden-haired youth with emerald eyes from his youth. Jimmy. Ah,the things they’d done. The pleasure they’d shared.

Shamus grunted as Timothy’sfingers attacked his fly.

 

*.*.*.*.

Sometimesconversations go awry. I wonder how Shamus will regard this one in the space ofa day or two later. Not certain, but I’m sure of one thing. He’ll remember itfor a long, long time.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Shamus Lazrus Shuttleford (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com,Post #250

 

Image Courtesyof Masterfile (Royalty-Free Div)

 

First, I have toapologize for being late with this post. I missed my 5:00 a.m. posting time by severalhours. That hasn’t happened often in my ten years or so of hosting this site. Noexcuse… just an apology.

Hope you enjoyed last post’s DilFarmer and Thew Miller, a little piece of flash fiction.

This week, we’ll try a little flashfiction. Enjoy.

 

* * * *

            SHAMUS LAZRUS SHUTTLEFORD

Shamus Lazrus Shuttleford wasa dignified man. Not much else was notable about him, but he was proud andprotective of his propriety, including the lettering of his middle name, whichsome considered as misspelled out of ignorance. Shamas was not what many wouldcount as successful, although he would dispute that. He owned his home andautomobile, had few debts, and had cared adequately for his children until theygrew up and grew away. They were still respectful and kept in touchappropriately on holidays and birthdays and the like, but they certainlycouldn’t be called clingy offspring.

He'd been close to his wifebefore she passed a year ago in her sleep—hopefully without pain. They’d beenclose but not demonstrative as some of the other couples they knew. When Violetleft, he had some difficulty coping, but eventually found his way again.

But the world was changing,and very frankly, threatened to leave him behind. He’d managed to bridge thegap between pen and paper to the typewriter, and finally to those electronicmonsters they called computers. In fact, he was adept at typing on the beasts,finding them infinitely easier to correct errors than either pen or typewriter.That was the only thing he liked about the forced conversion.

But of more concern was thedeportment of others these days. Especially, the young ones, and especiallyabout… well, sex, to be frank. That was a subject that did not claim a greatdeal of his attention, but increasingly he found himself facing the subjectwhichever way he turned and wherever he went… even in the grocery store, forcrying out loud. They had those magazines in racks right by the cashiers—wherethey couldn’t be avoided—literally screaming that short, pungent word.

Shamus believed, all thingsconsidered, he had adjusted to the new “normal,” until yesterday. What he sawout his kitchen window sent him bustling for the telephone to call his next-doorneighbor until he decided what he’d witnessed was none of his business.

He’d known for years theneighbor kids thought there was a completely private nook in their back yard.They’d gotten into mischief since they were toddlers in that private cornerscreened from their parents’ prying eyes. But Shamus could see into that bower,although it probably appeared his lattice of Violet’s climbing roses obscured theview. No such thing. He saw the spot clearly. And what he saw yesterday rockedhis world.

The older three Gideonchildren were away at school or at a job in some remote place, but Timothy wasstill in residence. He was a strapping, good-looking lad with honey hair likehis mother and a firm jaw like his father. Always cheerful. Forever playingsports… first this one and then that one. Respectful as all get out. Andhelpful too. Always offering to help when Shamus was in the yard tending tochores. Downright likeable.

But what he’d seen yesterdayafternoon after school shook Shamus’ faith in his judgment of others. He had toswipe his eyes and look again to believe what he was seeing.

Timothy was spread out on amakeshift pallet of some sort in the corner of the yard, his pants bunched athis ankles, and someone’s head was bobbing up and down in his middle. Shamusgasped aloud and reached for the kitchen wall telephone when he finally madehimself believe that other head—the one working so hard—actually belonged toanother boy. He couldn’t believe it. Timothy was allowing himself to be abusedby a boy.

Shamus couldn’t believe thathe actually stood there gaping, the phone in his hand, for several minutesbefore he came to his senses and slammed the blind on the window closed. Thenhe made the conscious decision that what he’d observed was none of his affairand hung up the telephone. But the image wasn’t that easy to forget, and hefound it disturbing his sleep that evening. Usually, he dropped off when hewent to bed, but the night after he’d witnessed that disgusting scene, he’d witnessed.He had trouble reconciling it with the pleasant youngster he’d known for years.But he finally managed to clear his mind and fall asleep after deciding he’dbrace young Timothy and admonish the lad for his lapse in proper behavior.

 

*.*.*.*.

Sometimeskitchen windows see things that ought not be seen. But see, Shamus did. Does heowe Timothy’s parents a call, or is he decision the proper one?

 

We’ll see next time,and I’ll try to be prompt.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

The Farmer and The Miller

Markwildyr.com,Post #249

 ImageCourtesy of Depositphotos

 

Last week’s look at Echoes of theFlute got a slew of hits but little comment.

 

This week, we’ll try a little flashfiction. Enjoy.

 

* * * *

            THE FARMER AND THE MILLER

I don’t remember a day in mylife without Dillyn. I’m sure there were some, you know, vacations, illnesses,and the like, but my mom has pictures of us crawling around in the same playpen and sleeping in one another’s arms.

Our families were next-doorneighbors—still are, by the way—when both our mothers gave birth in the samemonth, almost on the same day. I was a day older than Dillyn… or Dil as I’vecalled him for years. He calls me Thew… a habit he hasn’t broken since earlychildhood when he couldn’t pronounce Matthew. His last name’s Farmer, andmine’s Miller. Nowadays, our friends referred to us as the Farmer and theMiller and claimed you rarely see one without the other. Dynamic Duo, they calledus, although no one’s sure who’s Batman and who’s Robin.

Those roles changed over theyears. Mom said in our playpen days, I was dominant. That remained truethroughout grade school but began to change in our middle school years. Dil startedmaking decisions formerly left to me. By the time we hit our freshman year, tomy mind he was the boss, although our peers sometimes felt otherwise.

Don’t get the wrong idea. Wewere buddies, but not to the exclusion of others. We both had a wide set offriends, mostly overlapping, not always. For example, I got along with a kidcalled Bud, who was universally considered the school sissy. Dil didn’t. Hefraternized with a football bully named Zack, while I couldn’t stand the guy. Butwhen push came to shove, it was still the Farmer and the Miller.

Our junior year, Dil got a lotmore interested in girls than I did, although I dated and enjoyed femalecompanionship. To be honest, that was likely because after dates—usually butnot always double dates—I got a kick out of discussing them with Dil in the darknessof the car parked somewhere quiet. There were lots of near “moments,” but wealways kept our hands away from where they wanted to wander. Dil got as big akick out of these late-night talks as I did. I’m sure of that because after awhile, neither of us tried to hide our erections. Of course, we didn’t takecare of them either. Not until each was alone in his own bedroom later… or atleast that’s the way I handled things.

After a while, I noticedsomething kind of odd. At the moment I reached orgasm, it wasn’t the date ofthe night I envisioned, it was an image of Dil suffering a boner in the carearlier that night. Whoa. What was going on?

It took until my senior yearto figure that out. I’m a slow learner, sometimes. Book smart, but life butlife dumb. It finally dawned on me I wanted to do something with Dil. Somethingpersonal, intimate. Something I’d never dream of doing with anyone else. Iwasn’t exactly sure of what that was, but it had something to do with ussitting in a dark car with dongs trying to bust through our trousers.

Okay, problem identified, buthow did I want to satisfy that urge… no, that need? Did I want us to simplywatch one another masturbate? Uh-uh. That wasn’t enough. Did I want to takecare of his erection? Well, yeah, if he’d take care of mine. How? Jerking offwas the obvious answer. But I knew from teen talk there were other ways ofsatisfying a guy. But I was afraid of those because of what he might think ofme afterward. But if he reciprocated, wouldn’t we be in the same boat? Thiswould take some thought. Some planning.

And thought, I did. Not muchplanning, but lots of hot, frustrated thinking. And those thoughts and mentalimages brought some of the most satisfying orgasms I’d had to date. Those couldbe laid squarely at Dil’s door. He was the one claiming my carnal thoughts anddesires. So what could I do about it?

Our after-date discussions ina dark car parked in private places started to become torture for me. A hundredtimes—an exaggeration, I’m sure—I started to touch him. And I did, in fact. I’dreach for his groin, lose my nerve, and end up gripping his shoulder and sayingsomething stupid like “hang in there, Dil” or a more bold “I’m here for you,guy.” I was usually in pain by the time we went home.

One night when we met after ourrespective dates, I crawled in Dil’s Dad’s pickup, and figured he had tales totell. If he’d borrowed the pickup, which had a camper on the back, that meant hewas pretty sure he’d score. As soon as I settled in the seat, I knew it hadn’thappened.

“Man, I almost got theretonight,” he groaned. “I was this close! When she put her hand on me, I knew itwas gonna happen.”

“But it didn’t.” I hoped myelation didn’t show.

“Everything but! Man, I hurt.I need to poke something.”

“So take care of it.” I thinka dare hid in my voice.

“Right now?”

“Why not? I’ve seen you nakedin the boy’s locker lots of times.”

He glanced down at himself.“Not like this.”

I laughed. “Dil, how manynights have we sat in a car like this eyeballing one another’s hard-ons? Slideyour jeans down and take care of it.”

“Not… not unless you do too.”

I reached for my belt. “Not aproblem.”

“Not here,” he said. “Inback.”

When I followed him into thecamper, I knew how confident he’d been about getting in his date’s pants. Anair mattress and blankets cushioned the hard steel bed. He even had pillows. Istarted to make a smart-ass remark, but Dil was already spread out and shovinghis britches down around his ankles. His impressive manhood reached for the skyand pulsed, announcing it was ready for action.

Now that my moment had arrived,I didn’t know what to do.

“Come on,” Dil said,impatience evident.

I made sure the door waslatched and scooted over beside him to do what I’d always wanted, I took him inhand.

“Man, that feels good,” hesaid. He pushed me away to kick out of his trousers and shuck his shirt. “Youtoo. You promised.”

“Yeah, sure.” In a moment, Iwas as naked as he was, my need as evident as his.

“Good boner, bro,” he said,grasping me.

I almost fainted from suddenelation. “Oohhh.” I think that came from me. I grabbed him and started flailingaway. After a few moments, he said up.

“That’s not… what I wanted.”

“What do you want?”

“What does Bud do for you?”

“Bud? What do you mean, whatdoes he do for me. He doesn’t do anything for me. We’re casual friends, that’sall.”

“I always figured he… youknow, took care of you.”

“Never.”

“Well, jerking off’s not whatI need.” With that announcement, he crawled on top of me and started hunchingmy belly. Felt sort of good… in an odd way.

“Better,” he said, his cheekon mine, his lips at my ear. “But not quite right. Turn over and let me spoonagainst you.”

“Dil, I don’t wanna—”

“I know,” he panted. “I won’t,but just wanna see how it feels.”

Obediently, I turned on myside, and I had to admit his hard, buff body spooned against me felt good.Better than anything ever had. He began moving, and that felt good as well. Hereached around and took me in hand, and that felt even better. After a fewminutes of pure heaven, he paused to move a way a bit, and then a hot pokerrammed my insides.

“Oh!” I yelled, struggling tomove away. But he held me tight and continued to move against me.

“Oh, yeah!” he said withfeeling.

After a minute, the painsubsided and I echoed his feelings.

Ohhh, yeahhh!”

 

*.*.*.*.

Does this remindanyone of some incident in his/her life? Bring back memories of days gone by? Ican think of one such moment in my life… well, it was similar, at any rate. Enoughso that I’ll relive it tonight.

 

Until next time,

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time. 

Prologue of the Novel, Echoes of the Flute

 Markwildyr.com,Post #248

 

Image: BookCover

 

The Singaporeans are still withus. So far they’ve checked out the site 3,300 times in the first half of thismonth alone. Keep it up, guys. \

 

This week, I want to return to my CutHand series novels, and selected the prologue to my third novel in the series,Echoes of the Flute. I find it a powerful tool to set up the tone of the novel.In this third novel, John Strobaw, who becomes better known later as MedicineHair, was the grandson of Cut Hand, last chief of the Yanube tiospaye,although oral family history has him the grandson of Billy Strobaw, Cut Hand’s lover.

 

At any rate, here’s the offering forthis time.

 

* * * *

“Be civilized and prosper.”

Yet fortune never smiles. Only wretched pain.

Warriors, forced into trousers and called by alien names.

Drums remind of yesteryear.

Flutes lament what was.

 

Stanza from thepoem “Echoes of the Flute” by Mark Wildyr

 

PROLOGUE

Dakota Territory, June 1878

A mob surged across the wooden bridge like a primordial organism insearch of food. Torchlight punched flickering holes in the black night as peoplewith the look of farmers and merchants and housewives and mothers churned restlesslyin front of a cabin on the north bank of the crick. Moments later, a white-stockingedblue roan pulled a buckboard into their midst.

A hook-nosed man, clad in black, bellowed from the driver’s bench, “Comeout, sinners. Atone to these good people and the Lord God Almighty!” Despite athin frame, his voice was deep and sonorous.

The cabin door opened, flooding the porch with lantern glow.A tall man with thumbs hooked into his braces walked out to face the group.“What’s going on here? Why’re you tromping around in my yard this time ofnight? You there, get out of that flower bed.”

“You are abominations in the sight of God!” the man in thebuckboard thundered. “The judgment of Leviticus 20:13 shall be upon you thisnight.”

“I have sinned against no one, Preacher. Your words arefarts in the wind.”

“Did you hear? Profanity! Yes, you have sinned, brother.Grievously. ‘Mankind shall not lie with mankind as he lieth with womankind,’”the Preacher intoned. “Confess and beg forgiveness lest the Almighty rain fireand brimstone upon us all.”

“Stop acting the fool and get out of here. Go home andleave me in peace.” He turned and started back into the cabin.

“He’s goin’ for a gun!” someone yelled.

As the man turned to protest, a bullet caught him in the chest.He stumbled against the doorjamb. A second slug broke his shoulder and propelledhim through the cabin’s threshold. He managed to close the door and drop thebar to barricade it behind him before collapsing onto the floor.

When demands to fire the building rose, the black-frocked preacherflicked his reins and turned the rig around, scattering members of his flock. Torcheshurled against the cabin walls had little effect, but brands landing on theroof kindled a hungry fire.

A pinto charged out of the tree line into the pack, the rideryelling and firing his rifle into the air. After a shocked silence, the mobrushed the newcomer. Hands snatched him from the saddle before he could bringhis weapon to bear.

By the time the maddened horde hoisted a rope over acottonwood branch and left the horseman kicking and gasping his life away, the buckboardraced for Yanube City.

 

*.*.*.*.

This mindlessmob action, promoted by the bitter preacher in black, ignites events that willtest the Strobaw family’s ability to survive and prosper and results in youngJohn Strobaw taking the road that will eventually earn him the names of NightSky Hair and Medicine Hair. Ultimately, he is awarded the name of AmericanKiller by one Lakota chieftain.

 

I hope this willincentivize some of you to read the series of five historical books: Cut Hand,River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, Medicine Hair, and Wastelakapi… Beloved. The sixth (and probably last), Ides, is slowly taking shape.

 

I also havethree contemporary books: The Victor and the Vanquished, Johnny Two-Guns, and CharlieBlackbear. In addition, there are three anthologies: Wildyr Tales, More WildyrTales, and Gabacho and Other Wilder Tales.

 

Until next time,

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.