markwildyr.com, Post #117
|Courtesy of pexels.com|
We’ll give Curt Huntinghawk a rest for a while. Did he ever get together with Grove Whitedeer, I wonder? Maybe we’ll find out one of these days.
But this week, I’d like to return to some flash fiction, and I’ve chosen to repost a piece I put up on January 1, 2014. That was the first piece of short-short fiction I’d published on this blog, although there have been many others since that time. But I like this piece, and decided to bring it to life again.
Let me know how you like it.
The gently rising slope, relatively smooth and easy to maneuver, led to a secluded patch of sand nestled against the ocean side cliffs. I’d discovered it a few months back and favored the spot for its privacy and protection from the sometimes chilly sea breezes. Today, as I approached my solitary haven, I halted as a pair of feet came into view. Nice feet, shapely. But they meant my spot was already occupied. Swallowing my disappointment, I started to turn away when the toes arched down and then pulled back toward the heavens. Then the heels ground into the sand and began a little dance, jerking in an uncertain rhythm.
I moved forward a bit. Bronzed calves lightly sprinkled with fine, dark hair. Soft grunts. Fascinated now, I inched forward again. Nice, tensed thighs. Now the legs moved to a steadier rhythm. Another twelve inches forward, and I caught my breath. Full scrotum, hard, thick cock wrapped in an eager fist.
I couldn’t help myself. Drawn by a deep need, I came into full view. The handsome young man lying naked on a beach towel froze for an instant before attempting to cover his genitals with his hands. Impossible. He was too big.
I met his frightened brown eyes and smiled. Flushed, he gave a tentative, embarrassed grin. Wordlessly, I lifted my chin. He paused a moment and then slowly removed his hands. His straight, hard cock pulsed to the throb of his excited heartbeat. I nodded approvingly and took a look at the whole man.
Youth, really. A college boy or an enlisted recruit from the nearby army base. Dark brown hair, generous mouth … now drawn into an uncertain frown … really great arched brows and eyes. My gaze took inventory as he lay naked and vulnerable before me. Wide shoulders, some brawn to the arms and upper chest, but not the gym-rat kind. These muscles came from work or sports. Narrow waist. A faint six-pack. Hairless torso, but a thick brown bush around that intriguing tool.
I smiled again and nodded. He took my meaning and grasped himself, starting with an uncertain jerk, but he soon found a rhythm, a beat. His eyes spoke, saying he took pleasure from my observation. He liked me watching him. Gave him an added charge.
He increased his tempo. His toes began that up and down dance again. His facial muscles tightened. The tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth. He blinked rapidly. His fist increased the length of its strokes. His left hand caressed his chest, brushed large, erect nipples. A groan followed a strangled gasp. His eyes never left mine. His body convulsed, and the tool in his hand swelled with the load of semen blasting out of its slit. A gob hung in the air a moment before splashing against his tanned chest. A second … a third … a fourth followed as he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the contractions. He was still pumping his hand and oozing seed when I nodded in admiration and turned to make my way back to the beach.
All the way down that incline, my mind imagined the ticklish tingle of his nipples, the electrical charge building behind his sac, the tipping of the muscles over the edge. The delicious, nothing-else-like-it rush of jism through his vitals. There had been a time when I would have fallen atop him and discharged myself on his hard, flat belly.
But that was before Afghanistan. Before the patrol. Before the IED. Before this fucking wheelchair.
During this time of self-isolation, perhaps I should have chosen to give you a more uplifting story, but on sober reflection, this is uplifting in its own way. A young man chose to go to a foreign land to defend what some call his country’s interests and is almost killed. But when we meet this nameless hero, he’s recovered his health, if not the use of his legs, and is maneuvering through life on his own terms. A part of what he once treasured is denied him… but the ability to breathe free air and roam the beach are not.
Please consider ordering Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns from Dreamspinner Press. I’d like to convince them to publish the rest of the Cut Hand Series, including the unpublished manuscript Wastelakapi… Beloved, It’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b
And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursday of each month.