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High Country Ch. 03 Pt. 02

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Mighty Tungsten Tuberosity, Part 2

Hallowe’en morning. All Hallows’ Eve. All Saint’s Eve. The beginning day of AllHallowTide, the Western Christian Feast days signaling the liturgical dedication to remembering the dead. At least, that is, the saints, the martyrs and all the faithful: those who existed in Purgatory until the Day of Reckoning or, modernly, the Rapture.

All those not waiting there were already partying in Hell. I had sometimes wondered to myself how exactly those in Purgatory spent their time. Hmmmm. Maybe I would review Mr. Milton’s take on it. Paradise Lost. Published in winter, 1667, it came out within a year of the Great London Fire…plenty of pre-burnt and freeze-dried souls to contemplate.

So, anyway, different strokes for different folks, I deduced, by the variance in ways for observing the date. My mind dwelled on the ancient days’ rites, before and after being hijacked by religiosity, as I lay watching out the undraped bay window, head on my lover’s smooth, muscled pectoral. His nipple, always erect, plugged my ear. My dick got hard as that nipple wobbled, inviting me with each deep, regular breath. My phattening white shaft climbed involuntarily up the smoothness of his thigh.

Brushing softly downward over Jeremy’s luscious skin, I lightly fingered the black prick lying there in wait, turgid as usual. He didn’t even stir, also per usual, but that dick sure did. The thing sprang up at my touch. I could stroke the beautiful thing while that nipple continued harassing me and he would likely only awaken to the flood of emissions at the ending, if then.

I was certain his dreams entertained a ribald world where continuous rapture and climax held dominion. What else, I reasoned, could Heaven be about if not that? Could true religious believers fail to understand that their Lord, in all His infinite wisdom, hadn’t made orgasm so sweet just to prove it a curse? The doings of the Devil Incarnate? Any extant Creator was surely getting a good laugh at the stupidity of that illogic. This basic non-sequitur really bothered me.

With that thought, I slicked up that pretty ebony dick and climbed on for a classic holiday ride. My hard dick bounced on and off the taut belly beneath it as I contemplated the concept. Rapturously. Climax accompanied the epiphany that any caring Creator had, indeed, meant orgasm to be a gift. Never a curse.

That curse thing had to have originated as part of the nightmares of sterile old, balding, impotent men who forced all priests and monks to dress alike, tonsure themselves, and act the same. Calling it “Holy”, so they wouldn’t suffer alone in their misery…

I opened my eyes to find Jeremy’s hand swiping up my load from his chest, smiling up at me as his own piece flooded my guts, “what the Hell were you thinking about inside that curly head, Luke?” We pulsed pleasurably together in our personal religious observance exercise… call it gay communion.

Yup, the geezers were just pissed because they didn’t have Cialis back then.

We sure would, when the time came that we needed it…

A soothing communal shower later, we two descended wrapped in towels to find our adorable pair of guests cuddling together on the fireplace hearth, apparently comparing tongues. Lip-locked as they were, it was a bit difficult to tell. The two freshly showered and combed boys looked up as we entered with our coffee cups, shy at the interruption. Hard dicks poked unshyly from the fronts of their towels and told another tale, for sure.

Adolpho appeared much more at ease now—multiple orgasmic experiences tended to do that to a person—and his pinkly cherubic cheeks attested to the fact of successful address of the gay question regarding he and Bryce… entwined bodies would seem to bear the fact out.

Yup, I confirmed, he had just needed some good ass.

Limerence would appear to be in ascendance, if body language was any indication…Jeremy and I exchanged smug glances at the overnight change. The two were absolutely beautiful together.

Let the bitter, rancorous, oath-keeping, sanctimonious side of the spectrum marinate themselves as they liked. Just leave the rest of us enlightened ones the hell alone, I philosophized… These two had melded under our roof and considering our own distant beginnings along with a solid two-decade relationship, naysayers may happily go fuck themselves. With my blessing.

While meandering through a congenial breakfast of granola, yogurt, berries, honey and buttered toast, we four compared notes for our hopes in the coming evening, should the Mash Bash materialize. Jeremy laid out his da Vinci-of-a-costume and I described my own makeshift personification of a cubic zirconium, at which all three chuckled in the visualization.

The boys went off to their now-shared bedroom to pow-wow over their own. We gave them free rein over the abundance of extra clothing, or other packed-away downstairs closet contents, should it be of help. I teased my man that Bryce, especially, may need something to wear, what with the bahis firmaları interesting decorating design of the spare bedroom yesterday. He just looked at me, innocent.

A short hour after that, the door banged at us in announcement of visitors and the dog boys went racing to it, yipping their proclamation. Upon opening up, we found two grim-faced law enforcers, aka keepers of the peace, in the forms of none other than ‘Deputy Fife’ (we didn’t really care to know the man’s name) and his boss, Sheriff Hamlin Delmar. Rod thin and irascible, Jeremy and I had always found it hard to believe this progressive community had actually elected the cantankerous old codger to office. Nonetheless, it would seem to be so. Here he stood.

The two scrutinized us both from head to feet there on the porch. From our perspective, a whole lot longer was spent seeing the skin parts then the towel parts…just sayin’. The transparent projection of their disdain for the minimally clothed, biracial homosexual duo with whom they apparently had business to discuss was evident.

Ever the raconteur, my studly man pulled me closer to him, draping his long, muscular arm over my shoulders, making damn certain that his ring finger showed. He looked from the wizened little deputy to his stern-faced boss, all the while smiling cordially so as to clarify things. His body language spoke volumes. Out loud, he looked down on the uniformed face of the law from his six-foot-three frame and innocently inquired, “What may my husband and I do for you, Sir?” The ironic sarcasm fairly dripped out of his mouth.

Deputy Fife visibly chafed at the actions and words, but in an attempt to keep things professional, Sheriff Delmar ignored the blatantly benign provocation. He cleared his throat and tipped his cowboy-style hat, “Well, Mr. Kell, we are trying to locate a gentleman who has been reported to be staying at this address: a Mr. Amber…Ambergay…errr, Amberger Gee, IV. We have an interest in speaking to Mr. Gee and are hoping to do so now, that is if you might be of help.”

With resolute calm, I butted in, “We would be glad to, Sheriff, but for the fact that we have been, ourselves, perplexed by his disappearance three days ago. We haven’t heard a word from him, and we’re both quite concerned.” In my most professional voice, I asked, “May we ask to what the matter might pertain?” Ignoring the query, the law man obtusely deflected by asking if we would call and let him know should things change and we did hear from him. “Of course, Sheriff, and we would likewise appreciate the same courtesy should either of you. The man is a dear family friend.”

Jeremy was enjoying pushing the little deputy’s buttons, now upping the ante by smoothing his free hand over his stomach, thence deliberately rubbing himself upwards from bellybutton to both pecs, then on up and around his thick neck and head…the armpit was delectably, visibly deep. The nonchalance of this action was punctuated by never taking his eyes from the deputy’s, who couldn’t look away. The motions rattled the man, but evidently on a short-leash this visit, he was unable to bring the power of his badge to bear here in the presence of his overseer.

My memory of the deputy’s demeanor in this same spot the previous day had left me with the impression of a pugnacious pug, shrilly barking his power at my man. Today, the man was more the picture of a submissive cocker spaniel after being caught peeing on the new carpet. I had to control my smile.

The short conversation apparently had come to a conclusion and the law men curtly backed down the steps, turning to re-enter the waiting cruiser, then disappearing down and around the bend as we stood watching. Jeremy reached down now, spanked me on the butt and deadpanned, “Well, now, that went swell, don’t you think?”

I let go the laugh I had been holding and we went back inside, wondering what, indeed, that encounter had been about? The landline we kept in case of lost power was ringing in the kitchen and upon answering, I heard elderly Mrs. Chastain’s voice on the other end. She had seen the police cruiser pass three times on the way to our place the last three days and she couldn’t hold her curiosity any longer, she told me.

Had we heard anything from Gai, she asked worriedly, rightly surmising that the official visits might be related. When I let her know what had happened, she and Mr. Chastain, who was also on the line, regaled me with their own news: there had been another bear attack the previous afternoon but they had just heard from Lady Carlotta that the three bears allegedly involved had been tranquilized and corralled at a wildlife preserve on the next mountain over, just this morning. The good news was that the bash was a go, they added, and were we still attending? I assured them that we wouldn’t miss it, but asked the old couple to back up a bit. Had they said there was another death-by-bear?

“Oh, no, Luke, there was an attack—another outsider again—but it hadn’t killed the man, only maimed him. He is at the San Miguel County kaçak iddaa hospital now, comatose in the ICU. An arm and his…thing…had been ripped off. Poor soul.” she added. We ended with mutual hopes for any news regarding our missing mutual dread-headed friend. Funny, she had spoken pretty much the whole time and had never gotten around to asking more about the law officers.

Hanging up the old-fashioned solid state rotary desk telephone I looked at Jeremy in disbelief. “Wassup, Luke? You look like you just talked to a dead person,” he asked with concern. “J, there was another attack—over on the far side—yesterday afternoon. I think I saw it—or, at least, the after part.”

I recounted the sighting of the three bears while on the gondola yesterday and the pink trail I was unsure about in the snow. As I filled him in on the other details and the tele call, the first things in our minds were: why hadn’t the sheriff said anything about it? And, where was Gai? He was, indeed an ‘outsider’ as Mrs. Chastain had called the victim, and she hadn’t known more about the person. We were now officially freaked.

The next two hours saw the two of us scurrying over the mountain to the county hospital, burning up our iphones calling everyone we could think of in search of details and answers. Getting us admitted into the ICU proved tricky, as we could not prove relation to an unknown comatose patient. I finally prevailed on the nursing staff that even without privileges at this hospital, I may be able to offer help or advisement due to my current status in several Austin and Texas hospitals. That worked.

Upon first viewing the close-cropped person-of-color lying almost full-body bandaged, right arm obviously missing at the shoulder, blood seepage evident around the midsection and every orifice plugged by supportive devices, my relief at the lack of dreadlocks was mitigated by the poor stats exhibiting. Conferring with the clinicians on duty, I offered some natural remedy interventions familiar to me and we all agreed that the prognosis was fairly grim for the un-identified patient due to the loss of blood and severe hypothermia the man had suffered before being found.

I promised to keep in touch on the case if they would like and returned in a half hour to the waiting area to find Jeremy uncharacteristically fidgety and very jumpy. I surprised him in his worried thoughtfulness and he nearly bolted from his seat, “Damn, Luke, you scared me—how is he?” He had convinced himself that his older mentor was the victim and tears rolled when I let him know it wasn’t so. He blubbered a little into my shoulder, then we thanked the nurses and left a number should they need it.

Leaving the amazingly quiet confines of the small mountain hospital ER, we made our way quietly back to the station. Sheila E and her spouse, Cat G, were awaiting a car as we walked up to the gondola and we joined them on the trip back over the mountain. The svelte, cutting edge couple were relieved, like us, to hear that, at the least, no bad news had been heard about the lead singer for the Mighty Diamonds. The present mutual concern stifled our normal upbeat tone when sharing time with these special ladies. The two were partiers. Sheila was glad the bash was still on, as she and Cat were scheduled to perform, they told us.

We hadn’t known, as the surprise was not to be unveiled until they were introduced last-second by the imported Frisco DJ. They swore us to secrecy by spilling it that a close friend or two were flying in later in the afternoon to join them, and we both zipped our lips in mimicry of losing the tattle key. Little could we know…

The music was going to be unbelievable this evening, Jeremy whispered to me when Cat also let it out that the theme was ‘Music of the Night’. The knowledge raised spectres of The Phantom of the Opera, and it seemed appropriate. I was happy to see a smile perfuse my man’s face.

We parted from the couple on our different ways up the ‘hill’, their chalet in a secluded glen a mile from us, trading promises to meet later during the celebration. In trudging homeward, we attempted levity to boost each other by teasing about the coming hijinks sure to occur at the Monster Mash Bash and comparing guesses as to the refurbished venue in the old Pandora Mine from the nineteenth century mining period. Just about nobody was privy to the upgrades undertaken there and not a hint had slipped out. We could not figure how the hundreds of attendees would ever fit into a mine, refurbished or not.

While absorbed with each other, we missed the quiet approach of a sleek gray automobile from behind and both nearly died of fright when the short tap of the horn signaled its presence just feet from us. We twirled around in midair to see the capped visage of Paecup Andropov grinning by his surprise materialization. We dropped back as the chauffer lowered his window and razzed us unmercifully as ‘pussy-boys’ for our apparently comical shrieks at the shock.

“I’m guessin’ that Lady Carlotta isn’t in the back considering your kaçak bahis low-rent thug talk, Paecup,” Jeremy teased back, regaining a semblance of manly dignity. “How’s it hangin’, bra? You gonna be seeing us up at the mine tonight?” He obviously liked the Russian man and we had agreed to try to get more acquainted after our previous get together at our place. “Ya. The Lady has invited me to accompany her ladyship this evening and I have been forced to acquire appropriate attire for the affair. My first Amer-ee-kan par-tay,” he informed us. “She is quite the lady, and the be-est employer I have ever had—will you two be dressed, as well?”

“Ha”, I replied, “will we ever.” We assured him it was so. The man then offered Lady Carlotta’s official greeting and enquired if we might acquiesce to joining the two in the travel to and from the bash, seeing as the gondola would be no doubt stretched to capacity by revelers. She had sent him on this errand to personally invite us. We were delighted with the offer as the idea of Jeremy’s cumbersome get-up was presenting a daunting challenge for traversing the mountain, and our Benz was not nearly large enough. So, we merrily accepted and climbed in, allowing the Russian to escort us the rest of the way to the log home. We were already getting near the time to begin Jeremy’s assemblage. The afternoon was getting away from us.

Inside, the cabin of the auto dazzled in its aristocratic appointments and Paecup pushed buttons which caused the drop of a small marble serving table and the appearance of a compact refrigerator below it. Another button rendered a partial rotation by two of the six facing Italian leather seats toward each other, the feet supports arising to push us into a position we had not experienced in a car—except maybe a remotely similar contrivance in the new Benz Maybach S600 Pullman, test-driven back in Austin. I facetiously asked if the Geisha girls would enter from the rear boot, to which Paecup seriously replied, “the girls would travel in the front seat to avoid contact with the passengers until the proper time…” Jeremy snorted at that.

The efficient chauffer then asked if we would prefer refreshment before unloading and Jeremy’s cynicism evidenced itself by his wry comment, “Why yes, good man, I do believe I will have a couple of small bumps and a highball before we deplane.” We were feeling mirthful at the unexpected ride and opulent ‘accoutrements’.

That is, until Mr. Andropov clicked three successive switches which ejected three tiny silver spoons resting in small exotic wood ‘canoes’ from the facing seatback, each heaped with pure white powder, a bit floating extravagantly down to the marble surface. “Would the Sirs prefer Columbian, Bolivian, or perhaps the absinthe—that on the right?” We exchanged shocked looks and Paecup chuckled in the rearview mirror at us, “We keep the traveling sedan well-stocked, monsieur’s, per the Lady’s instructions.

Jeremy almost choked in his attempt to respond but I finally managed a haute retort, “but Paecup, for whom might the third spoon be, exactly?” My provocative tone brought another unexpected quip, “Uh, boii, that would be for moi, but only should the two gents desire a short interlude before our parting…”

That did it. Jeremy unhooked the small spoon on the left, raised it to his flared nostril and inhaled it in a sharp intake, rubbing the sides together while raising his head, like he knew what he was doing. My turn to be astonished.

He turned to me, checked to make sure Paecup was watching, then brazenly licked my face from chin to forehead, “Honey, we shouldn’t act like thankless guests—get the middle one.” His grin as usual, disarmed and reassured me. He grasped the middle spoon himself, held it up high, affirming with the driver, “the Bolivian?”

Then he wedged shut one of my nostrils, raised the engraved (of course) spoon to my other and directed me to, “Inhale…Honey.” I replicated J’s technique and caught sight of the Russian man ejecting his own private dispenser next to the steering wheel. He raised the chauffer’s private copper spoon there and did the same with a cheery Russian exclamation meaning, “Salud”.

We all sat stock still for a few minutes to ‘absorb’ our party favor and then, upon pulling into our pebbled drive, floatingly unloaded from the vehicle, skipped up the steps and entered our abode. The Russian man was stripping as he crossed the threshold—jacket, tie, cap all disappeared over the couch; his shirt, undershirt, pants, boxer briefs, socks and shoes in next quick succession, ending in a spread-legged stance like a true Cossack, proudly naked and boning up in split seconds. The rising member was very ethnically Slavic: big, long, thick and uncut.

Jeremy whistled his appreciation, “you move fast Paecup. What else are you good at?” Not awaiting a reply, I continued getting myself undressed, enjoying the view as Paecup reached out and thumbed my man’s pants down to the floor. In the doing, his face contacted and followed the contour of the strongly built ebony body from the thick neck downward between the meeting point of the mounded pectorals, over each ripple of the six-pack as he lowered them, slowly and with intent, so as to feel as much of the beautiful visual as possible. Facially.

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