Thursday, May 16, 2019

Mark Wildyr: Lodestar (A Story in Three Parts)

Mark Wildyr: Lodestar (A Story in Three Parts): markwildyr.com, Post #83 Courtesy of Brillo So Jim was not abandoned as he had begun to fear. Lokai returned to his side. Now what...

Lodestar (A Story in Three Parts)


markwildyr.com, Post #83

Courtesy of Brillo
So Jim was not abandoned as he had begun to fear. Lokai returned to his side. Now what? Will the handsome Indian fulfill his big promise, and if he does, how will he react afterward. Read on.

*****

LODESTAR
(Part Three)

Our preparations were almost surreal. We ate. We bathed. Lodai braided his hair while I scraped the sparse bristle from my face. I watched him, not quite able to believe what was going to happen. One thing I knew; he would not fumble around like John and me. This man would be firm in his love-making.
At sundown, Lodai laid a modest fire and spread his blankets. “It is time,” he said, loosening his breechclout. I experienced paralysis for a moment before recovering the use of my limbs. Then we stood naked and examined one another frankly in the twilight.
“You are a handsome man. I am proud that you want me,” Lodai said quietly. The words sounded true.
Strong arms closed about me. His lips touched my face, but I felt them in my stones. Burning with excitement, I slid down his torso, tasting, licking, feeling. His skin was taut satin; his muscles, hard and unyielding.
The aggressiveness of my oral assault and the strength of his reaction seemed to take him by surprise. He lay back on the blankets and pulled me into the crook of his arm. Unwilling to spoil the afterglow, I did nothing, said nothing. His hard, lithe body warm against mine was pleasure enough.
Suddenly, he rolled atop me. “I did not expect the thing to be so powerful. It was a thing to remember,” he mused.
Lodai studied me through the darkness. Then he gave me a proper kiss. I went weak. He forced my legs apart, and I yielded to his renewed passion. Delirious with joy, mad with strange, wonderful sensations, stretched to capacity by this beautiful man, I was lost.
Almost comatose, I lay panting beside him after our fulfillment. I sensed that he was at peace with what we had done. I certainly was. Our lovemaking had surpassed anything I ever experienced, making me fear its absence in the future.
Reluctant to break the silence, yet needing to know, I asked him the meaning of his name.
“Lodestar,” he answered easily.
“Lodestar! Polaris. The guiding star! That’s what you are,” I murmured. “My guiding star. I love you, my Lodestar.”


That was a lunation ago. Since that wonderful night, we moved to an abandoned settler’s cabin high in the hills where we will winter. Lodestar was a bold and imaginative lover. What he had not done was verbally express his feelings.
Today, he returned in a new pair of buckskin leggings. His breechcloth was freshly laundered, and he wore a short deerskin vest across his broad chest. A choker of small animal bones draped his strong neck. His hair, braided and bound by a hairbine, was adorned with two hawk feathers. He held out a vest and a leather hat, both fashioned from deer hide by his own fingers.
“These are my bridal gifts, Jim Tobar,” he intoned solemnly. “I come to take you as my winkte wife. I want you as my mate. Will you have me? For as long as we live?”
Speechless, I nodded, a happy smile breaking across my lips. He stripped off his finery and gave me the thrumming of my life. I do not believe that even he was prepared for the powerful ejaculation that came. My Lodai, my beautiful Lodestar had proclaimed his love the best way he knew how. And he did it magnificently!
THE END
*****

All’s well that ends well, right? Jim wasn’t abandoned; Lokai kept his promise… and how! And Jim helped his companion recover from the loss of his people. What could be better?

Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:


And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Thursday, May 2, 2019

Mark Wildyr: Lodestar (A Story in Three Parts)

Mark Wildyr: Lodestar (A Story in Three Parts): markwildyr.com, Post #83 Courtesy of Brillo Time for the second installment of our story. In case you are confused, Lodai’s name m...

Lodestar (A Story in Three Parts)


markwildyr.com, Post #83

Courtesy of Brillo
Time for the second installment of our story. In case you are confused, Lodai’s name mean Lodestar in English. And lodestar is another name for the North Star. Again, this installment is longer than usual for a blog, but I hope you’ll stick with it.

So here we go on the morning after Jim Tobar and his two companions capture an injured Indian following the assault of White Hair’s band by the militia.

*****

LODESTAR
(Part Two)

In the morning, the Indian’s calm eyes studied me carefully as I hand-fed him breakfast and a cup of water. After that, we resumed our trek with the prisoner’s ankles tied by a length of rope below his pinto’s belly.
We were headed for some scalawag trader’s camp along the trail, but I had not realized we were so close. Mid-afternoon we approached the post situated in a grove of cottonwoods on a small, fast stream. The paint-starved main building—which leaned drunkenly windward—was flanked by a smaller outhouse and a sagging necessary situated downwind. Our party caused a minor commotion. The trader, a one-eyed, greasy man named Tate, greeted my companions by name, as did the customer at the bar, a jadish character who went by the handle of Hoover.
“Damnation, Auslander,” Trader Tate said, squinting at our captive. “Whut ya doin’ with White Hair’s son?”
“Who?” Hap asked.
“That Injun ya got tussled up. He’s White Hair’s kid. Name’s Lodai.”
“Be damned,” Nettles said. “We come across him on the trail. Figger he pulled it when the troopers hit.”
“Heard ‘bout that. Apt to bring more trouble than profit. Old White Hair was all right.” Tate turned to the captive. “Yer old man make it out, Lodai?”
The Indian made a noise low in his throat. “No.”
Hap turned on him abruptly. “You talk English?”
Tate laughed. “An old papist priest went to live with them years back. Taught the young’uns to talk it. Whut’cha doing with him, anyhow?”
“Commanding officer a that militia commissioned us to kill any stragglers we come across.”
“So how come he ain’t dead?” Hoover asked from the end of the bar.
Auslander didn’t answer the question directly. “You got women close by?”
From the look on the man's face, Hoover caught on immediately. “No closer’n White Hair’s camp, and them won’t do nobody no good.”
Hap turned to Tate. “You got objections?”
“Not ‘less you gonna be hoggish,” the trader said, proving himself a false friend to the dead White Hair.
Auslander laughed, a sound not pleasant to the ear. “Plenty for everbody. Right now, I wanna wet down the idea.”
“Lock him in the outbuilding.” Tate suggested.
Seeking escape, I headed for the necessary, alert for the rattlesnakes Tate had cautioned about. I encountered no cold-blooded reptiles, but if I had, they would have been preferable to the four drinking inside the trading post. I exited the foul one-hole shack as Auslander and Nettles started for the trading post after locking Lodai in the outhouse. When they were safely inside, I eased over to the building, lifted the wooden latch, and slipped inside.
“You all right?” I asked, pulling a hog-tied Lodai to his feet.
“You will help?” His deep voice sent gooseflesh down my back.
“If I can figure a way without getting myself in trouble.”
“You can come with me,” he said, a frown of worry creasing his brow. “My hands are dead, and I will need them to work when the time comes.”
It took overlong to cut the cruel knot without slicing into his flesh. Lodai almost cried aloud as the blood rushed back into his hands.
“I will be back. I want to see what they’re up to,” I whispered, beginning to realize the consequences of my actions.
All conversation died abruptly when I entered the post. The room was unnaturally quiet; evil emanated like a green miasma from the table where the four men huddled. In that instant I determined my better chance lay with the Indian.
Hap boomed in an overly loud voice. “Thought you fell in.” The other three laughed. The spell was broken, and they resumed talking.
I interrupted, hoping my voice sounded normal. “I’m gonna water the horses. Can I use your stock tank, Mr. Tate?”
“That what it’s for.”
“Want me to water yours, too, Mr. Hoover?”
“Right kind a you, son.”
The hot animals eagerly dipped thirsty muzzles into the big tank. After transferring Lodai’s rifle and bow to his pony, along with some supplies from our packs, I hid our two mounts behind the outbuilding, leaving the others to over-fill their stomachs. It was cruel, but better than hamstringing them.
Lodai stood ready to fight when I slipped through the door. “I’ve got horses and weapons and food to sustain us for a while.”
“Good,” he grunted, starting for the door. I stayed him with a hand on his arm; his firm, silken flesh set my fingers to trembling.
“I need your promise, Lodai.”
He looked me level in the eye. “You have my promise.”
“N-no,” I stuttered, thrilled by the reaffirmation. “I want your promise not to kill them.”
He frowned. Clearly, this was not his wish. Then his expression eased. “This promise I give. We will run away like children.” He started for the door. “Unless they catch us. Then I will kill.”
I dropped the latch on the door, hoping it would be some time before the men in the post discovered we were gone. Lodai eyed the three horses around the water tank.
“Don’t worry, they’re bloated,” I said, tugging him around the corner of the outbuilding. We mounted and headed back down the same trail we had traveled earlier in the day, keeping the outbuilding between the trading post and ourselves. Once over the rise, Lodai slowed his pony to a walk.
“Don’t wind them.”
“Lodai,” I spoke my unease openly, “I’m lost if you betray me.”
“I will not betray you,” he answered. “Give me some of that pack in case we have to run for it.”
Night fell with no sign of pursuers, but Lodai traveled deep into the darkness. We sheltered for a short while in a small wash but were on the move again by dawn. We stayed horseback all day. When the light began to fail, Lodai drew Red Hand, his pony, around and searched the distance behind us.
“They come,” he said, resuming a leisurely pace. “They are far behind. They will keep coming tonight, but not gain much ground. Tomorrow is the time to hurry.”
We traveled the night through. Under a bright hunting moon, Lodai halted in the middle of a broad, shallow stream and instructed me to dismount. Taking only my rifle and blankets, I waded to the northwest, trying to reassure myself he was traveling south—with my Nellie’s reins in his hand—to lay a false trail, not to abandon me on this broad, lonesome prairie. The icy water soon bent my fears into concern for my numbed feet, but I resisted the temptation to walk the bank. Draping the blankets around me helped until I fell headlong into the water.
Slogging along against the current made the journey seem longer, but sometime in mid-morning, I found the pile of big boulders Lodai had described and designated as our meeting place. Climbing into the midst of the stones, I dozed on the sun-drenched rocks like a cold-blooded creature, moving with the sun until I was dry, then seeking the cool shade. Only then did I begin to despair. Had I played the fool by handing over my mare to Lodai?

*****
Has Jim Tobar been abandoned by, Lodai? Tricked into handing over his pony and left to fend for himself afoot on the prairie? The next installment will tell all.

Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:


And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Thursday, April 18, 2019

Lodestar (A Story in Three Parts)


markwildyr.com, Post #82

  
Courtesy of Brillo
Let’s go for a short story this time. Not a short, short story, but one that will take us three installments to finish. I first wrote Lodestar years ago and sold it to the editor of an anthology. I came across it again and decided I’d like to shorten it and see if it flies today. So here’s the first part of the story It’s far longer than usual for a blog, but I hope you’ll stick with it.

*****

LODESTAR
( Part One)


A penetrating chill pulled me from my sleep as the distant rumble of thunder and ghostly flashes broke the half-light of dawn. I abandoned the bedroll to find my two companions scanning the Little Humps, a line of low hills to the west.
“Rain?” I asked, scratching my bum where a rock had rendered it sore.
“Ain’t thunder,” Hap Auslander replied. “Somebody gittin’ the crap stomped outa ‘em.”
“Military guns. Big ones,” Henry Nettles added. “They’s a Injun town over yonder.”
Hap tied his bedroll on Speckles, the Appaloosa he rode. “Best be moving. Keep a sharp eye out. Stragglers is apt to be tetchy.”
We took the trail in single file with me bringing up the rear. Half a day on the trail passed before Nettles hauled up and pointed west.
“By, God, it’s the troopers that done it!” Hap shouted as horsemen appeared on the horizon. We waited silently while the blue column approached. As the riders passed, a man broke ranks and rode over to us. Two others fell in behind him. The fella in front, a runty man with gold all over his hat and on his shoulders pulled up and gave us the once over.
“Major Elijah Raintree, commander of the Southfork Militia at your service. Who might you be?”
“Hap Auslander of St. Jo. This here’s Henry Nettles outa Independence. The young’un’s Jim Tobar, a eastern man. We be bound for Ft. Johnson. You fellers wallop ‘em good?”
“Old White Hair’s outfit won’t give no more problems.”
“White Hair?” Nettles asked in surprise. “White Hair was under paint?”
The major’s eyes went flat. “They’re all under paint, far’s we’re concerned.”
The major favored us with a personal account of his heroic attack on the red heathens while his column of two hundred or so blue-clad soldiers and four wheel-mounted guns passed, leaving a broad trail on the prairie flats. His parting words sent a chill through my heart and left me wondering what this popinjay did for a living when he wasn’t murdering human beings.
“Should you encounter any survivors, you have my authority to dispatch them forthwith. I want no living heathens left between the Bent Fork and Elk River.”
After the major and his aides were out of earshot, Nettles turned to us. “Hell, White Hair wasn’t no war chief. That’s why them bluebellies had such a easy time.”
“A Injun’s a Injun, Nettles. Wouldn’t go ‘round takin’ the red man’s side, I was you,” Auslander cautioned. “Let’s be on our way.”
As we crossed the trampled earth marking the column’s passing, Henry Nettles’s head wobbled on his thin, wrinkled neck. Auslander, a thick, squat man of grizzled hair and beard, gave me the nasty eye, making me wonder once again why I was in the company of these men. I had never contemplated the frontier until events conspired to place me here.


Too young to fight in the War Between the States, I watched helplessly as that bloody conflict destroyed my family. It killed my brother outright and maimed my father into a grave two long years coming. My Aunt Bella, a well-settled widow, took me in when the fever carried off Ma’am. Perversely, life grew easier, but Providence has a fine set of scales and knows how to balance them.
I would likely have married Mistress Penelope Greenstem, to my eternal regret, had not her brother John pursued me into the hayloft where we learned that males can pleasure one another without benefit of the opposite gender. In time, we were discovered, and I was loudly proclaimed a pederast—one of Satan’s foulest demons. Aunt Bella hastily sent me on my way with a small packet of coins, the law and the rector of the Puritan Church dusting my heels. That was near onto a twelve-month past.
The fabled Santa Fe Trail beckoned until a chance encounter with skinny-shanked, pot-bellied Henry Nettles inclined me toward accompanying him to Ft. Johnson where opportunities abounded for industrious young men. Twice my twenty years, Nettles was not totally disagreeable, although his manners and morals required a smidgen of understanding. But who was I to complain about morals? It is not clear why he craved my company since my obvious assets were limited to a few silver and copper discs, an excellent repeating rifle, and Nellie, my good mare.
A week out of Independence, Hap Auslander, an old associate of Nettles’s joined us on the trail. I neither liked nor trusted the grum ruffian. To make matters worse, Nettles coarsened under Auslander’s influence. The deeper we penetrated the plains, the more uneasy I became, especially when the galoot cast an ugly, speculating glance my way, leaving me to wonder if I trailed the stench of sodomy in my wake.


Two hours down the trail Nettles hauled his horse to a stop. The hair on my neck bristled. Even to my tenderfoot eyes, the pony grazing on the trail ahead was an Indian horse. Small, spotted, and haltered with buffalo hide, it had a bright blanket tied across its back and a vivid red hand painted on one rump. Rifle in hand, Nettles reined to the right as Auslander continued up the trail, leaving the left to me. My mouth went dry as we crept through belly-high grass. My heart tumbled into my bowels when Nellie broke the pinto’s trail. Something lay on the ground. I dismounted and crept forward. An Indian lay face down, his head obscured by long, black hair. I judged him to be tall and slender, yet well-built. Suddenly, someone shoved me roughly aside. I struggled to bring my rifle to bear.
“Hold it!” Hap snarled, kneeling beside the body. “I ain’t no red devil.”
“Damn, Hap!” I gasped, indulging in a rare vulgarity. “Give a body some warning.”
“A man gives warning in this country, he’s apt to meet his maker.” He turned the body over, drawing a gasp from both of us. “This heathen’s still breathin’.”
The Indian was young and comely. I would have thought him a beautiful woman, but his manhood was scarcely concealed by a loincloth. The only other articles of clothing were short, deerskin moccasins. A bloody bruise marred the right side of his broad forehead.
“Hellfire and damnation!” Nettles exclaimed as he joined us. “He alive?”
“Yep,” Auslander replied, his piggish eyes sweeping the inert form. My examination was little better. I was seized by the same emotion as when John first exposed himself to me.
“Lordy! He’s purty as a woman!” Nettles chortled.
Auslander’s stubby fingers prodded the youth’s breast. One finger rested on a dark brown aureole. “Help me get him on that pinto.”
“Ain’t ya gonna scalp him?” Nettles asked as they bound the unconscious Indian and slung him belly down on his pony. Auslander made no reply.
We traveled perhaps another hour before a grove of trees in the distance signaled water. Hap led the pinto to a shallow pool and shoved the Indian over the side. He hit the water on his back and sat up without uttering a sound.
“Playin’ possum, you miserable whoreson! I oughta take your scalp right now!”
The bronzed youth sitting in a foot of water held his tongue.
“He don’t talk American, Hap,” Nettles opined.
Auslander waded into the water and grabbed a handful of the Indian’s hair, placing his knife to the scalp. “Ya unnerstand this?”
The young man sat absolutely motionless. Overcoming his blood lust, Hap hauled his prisoner onto the bank. The bound Indian fell against a tree, opening the bruised cut on his forehead. I rushed forward and pulled him upright, feeling the strength in the muscles beneath my hands as I worked to staunch the flow of blood.
“How come we ain’t killing him?” The longer Henry Nettles was around Hap Auslander, the more offensive he became. Only a few hours back, he was concerned by the attack on White Hair’s camp. Now he seemed anxious to kill one of the chief’s people.
“I aim to take his crown, Henry. And I’m gonna make a traveling bag outa that pretty hide. But I got plans for him first. Like you said, he’s looks womanly.”
“That I did,” Nettles said. “A pretty woman was what I said. We gonna leap him, Hap?”
“I reckon that’s the idea in my head. But I ain’t in no hurry.”
I looked down at my patient. My hand still held a tattered rag against his forehead. My leg touched his shoulder. “I gotta get that head wound to stop bleeding.”
“That you do. I don’t want him bleeding all over me.”
Nettles stepped in before things deteriorated further, declaring he wasn’t having a cold cap tonight, Indians or no Indians. He wanted hot food even if it was the death of him. The fire he laid cooked victuals but provided scant protection from the elements.
I spread my blankets on the far side of a little rise in the glen to put distance between me and a probable rape. Wrapped in my blankets, I peered over the hillock and recoiled. Auslander had laid the Indian directly on the other side; I stared into his alert black eyes from a distance of less than two feet. Unsettled, I lay back on my blankets. I don’t know how long I slept before a persistent hiss woke me. Cautiously, I lifted my head. A stray shaft of moonlight reflected in the Indian’s eyes.
“Help me, and I will lie with you,” he whispered
My mouth was open in shock when Auslander’s voice called out. “Whut’s goin’ on?” The Indian immediately uttered something in his own tongue.
“He’s a prayin’,” Nettles ventured.
Auslander moved on his prisoner. There was the sound of a struggle, harsh blows on naked flesh. The Indian began to chant.
“Miserable bastard,” Hap cursed. “What’s he doing that for?”
Nettles cackled. “That’s his death song, Hap. He’s telling you you’ll have ta kill him ‘fore you can fuck him.”
The Indian’s chant faltered as Auslander struck him repeatedly. Without thinking, I rose and rushed through the darkness, butting into the bully with a loud grunt. Nettles intervened before the enraged man assaulted me.
“Damnation, Hap. The kid was coming to help and tripped. Didn’t mean no harm. Let’s get some sleep. You can cover the Injun later. Better in the daylight anyways.”
The danger past for the moment, I covered our prisoner’s nearly naked body with one of my own blankets and lay back on my bedding. The Indian had spoken in English! He understood what was in store for him. That made him dangerous. I should have told my companions but did not. This was different from John and me. This was evil! Nonetheless, the handsome heathen’s words rattled around in my head. Help me, and I will lie with you.


*****
What happens when a young man’s sense of decency and fair play collides with his carnal desires? And how did the young prisoner know what bait to cast? Let’s see what happens next time.

Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:


And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.

Mark


New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.

Thursday, April 4, 2019

And Yet Again (A Requested Repost)


markwildyr.com, Post #81

Courtesy of Pixabay
Before talking about this week’s offer, I'd like to suggest you listen to my  buddy Don Travis's interview on  Radio Station KSJE in Farmington about his novel The Bisti Business. 

He also wants to give a shout out to Traci HalesVass, Professor Emerita of English and host of the program Writers on 4 Corners on KSJE 90.9 FM

 The station’s interest was sparked by one of the key settings, the Bisti-De-Na Zin Wilderness, which is located in their neck of the woods. You can hear the interview by clicking on the following link:



*****
Strange things happen on occasion. This past week, two of my readers asked about a post I did back in November of 2017. At their request, I agreed to post it a second time. So here we go yet again. (Appropriate, don’t you think?)
*****

AND YET AGAIN

          You open your eyes to the soft light of early morning, fearing last night was a magnificent dream and hoping it was not. You turn your head… and there he is, lying on his belly, naked torso half turned to you, eyes closed in slumber.
          Good Lord! Have you bedded a minor? The smooth curve of his jaw is unblurred by the shadow of a beard. The closed lids with long sable lashes might be a girl’s. The sideburns curl a little at the end, lending belief this is but a beautiful child.
          But you recall where you met him last evening… at a bar. You discerned the figure of a man beneath the cable knit sweater and dockers. And although the brown penny loafers gave him an adolescent air, his performance was that of a man… a confident, competent man.
          You want to touch him but resist, reluctant to disturb his tranquil sleep. It pulls you back to your own youth full of innocence, yet fumbling your way toward the worldly, the carnal. You do not recall his name, so you dub him Bud in your mind. An equally innocent, unformed name. It seems fitting.
          You shiver in the grip of a sudden fear this is but a brief, passing thing. How can you bind him to you? Make yourself important to him. To his future. Tension flows out of you as you realize you cannot. This will be what it will be. In the meantime, drink your fill of his boyish charm, his relaxed pouty lips, his delicate nose, his strong chin.
          He startles you with a stretch as he turns on his back, taking the sheet down with churning legs. You fear he’s awake, but he releases a long slow breath, and then his amazingly deep chest rises and falls in a circadian rhythm. His brown nipples centered in dark aureoles stir you, but you manage to keep your hands and lips off them as you complete your inventory. Ribs lightly edged with muscle. Must be a swimmer. Torso hairless until just below a fetching navel where a thin trail of pubes—much lighter than the dark, curly mane on his head—disappear beneath the thin sheet covering his package. You are rocked by this picture of innocence packed with potential danger.
          You cannot help yourself. You reach out and touch him. He rises instantly, strong and proud and throbbing. His eyes snap open. He looks blank for a moment before he turns his head to you. In an instant, he morphs from a beautiful angel into a handsome satyr as he gives a slow, sardonic smile and comes for you… yet again.

*****

When I originally posted this piece, I said that it was an unusual story… at least for me. Not necessarily the content, but from the fact that it is told in the second person and the present tense. Something that I very seldom do. From the post hits and these requests, the story seems to have struck a chord with some of the readers.

Don’t forget to listen to Don Travis’s interview on KSJE. (See the link above.)

Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:


And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.


Thursday, March 21, 2019

Dev – Part 3 of 3 Parts


markwildyr.com, Post #80

Courtesy of Pixabay
In the last post, I said I thought Patrick was losing ground because Dev only asked two things… to see it and touch it. By the time we left them, Dev was 1 for 0. But Patrick’s still putting up a strong fight. Let’s see how this ends.

*****
DEV

Friday and Saturday nights did not go as planned. I got snockered—really, really snockered—with a couple of buddies at a roadhouse on the highway that winked at the law and let kids in. Sara Sue and I didn’t really have a date Friday, but she’d expected to at least hear from me, and I didn’t even think of it until I was sitting on the milking stool Saturday morning all sick and hung over. I think dad knew what ailed me, but he held his tongue. Mom was damned suspicious.
As you can imagine, Saturday night was nothing to shout about. I took Sara Sue to the movies, but all I got out of it was the pleasure of spending twenty dollars on her and enduring a five-minute lecture and a three-hour frost. Shit! I’d of had more fun with Devon Hartshorn! Where the hell did that thought come from?


As soon as Dev slammed the truck door behind him Monday morning, he turned to me eagerly. “Are we going swimming today, Patrick?”
Damnation! Had he spent the whole weekend thinking about my cock? “Probably.”
Dev pitched in as though noon would come around quicker if he worked harder. When we drove to the little grove sheltering the pool, he only ate half of his lunch and then sat staring at me until I gave up.
“Okay, let’s go,” I said. By the time I was stripped, he was buck naked and dancing from one foot to the other in excitement.
“Can I now? Can I? Please, Patrick?”
“Go ahead,” I said, opening my stance and planting my fists on my hips.
Timidly, he put a finger to the head of my dick. When I didn’t react, he grew bolder, placing his palm flat against me. Damned if my pecker didn’t stir a little. Then he grasped it in his fingers and fiddled for a minute. I was about to brush his hand away when he spoke.
“How come the hair on your head’s yellow, but the hair down there’s kinda brown?”
“That’s the way blonds are, I guess.”
“Blonds. Is that what you are, Patrick?” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “It’s a nice one. I like it. I like it a lot, but I don’t know how to do it!”
That stumped me. “Do what?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I just pull mine back and push it up again. You don’t have nothing to push and pull.”
Realizing he was speaking of my lack of a foreskin, I brushed his hand aside. “I said you could touch it, Dev. I didn’t say you could do anything else.”
“But can you do it? Can you make it spit up? You know, like when it feels so good that the stuff comes out … not pee-pee, but the white stuff.”
“I know what you mean,” I answered, turning away and marching into the water before he saw I was getting hard. “And yes, it can spit up. It can spit up real good!”
“I’ll bet it can. Can I see?”
“No!”
“Please! I don’t see how it can since you don’t have—“
“It can!” I snapped and sank to the gravel bottom of the brook. He splashed in and sat beside me.
“Patrick, are you mad at me? Please don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m… not,” I said, realizing I had a full-blown erection. Shit! I hoped he couldn’t see it through the water.
Angry at myself for reacting, mad at Sara Sue for acting shitty just because I got drunk and ignored her, and frustrated at dealing with this simple, good-looking fucker, I lay back in the water. Unfortunately, I didn’t take into account its buoyancy, and my middle floated to the top. I didn’t intend for that to happen… I don’t think.
“Patrick!” I heard his excited yelp. “It’s big. It’s hard and sticking up like you want to feel good. Can I make you feel good?”
Without answering, I stood and followed my erection back up the embankment. Dev trailed along behind me. I sopped away the water with one of the towels I’d brought and tossed the other one to him. Dev was too excited to dry himself, he just stood in front of me, wide eyes fastened to my hard cock, his own beginning to swell impressively.
We stood examining one another for a long minute, before I sprawled on the blanket we’d used for a picnic cloth. He sat beside me, pressing me flat on my back with a broad hand on my chest. I knew what would happen next but was helpless to prevent it.
Dev’s work-hardened hand clasped me in a gentle grip. “Oh, Patrick! It’s beautiful!”
The thought of a cock as beautiful wouldn’t scan, but it sure did feel beautiful when he ran his fist up and down it. His other hand gently cupped my balls. I closed my eyes and surrendered.
Before long, he gave a snort of frustration. “I can’t do it right, Patrick, ‘cause it don’t have a skin to slide up and down. Oh, I know!”
My verbal assurance that he was doing just fine died in my throat as his lips closed over me. I lost what little power of resistance that remained. I remember wondering who was taking advantage of whom before I was lost in mental blast of a bottle rockets and firecrackers and sparklers.

*****
I thought so. Dev’s hit a home run and left Patrick gasping in the dust.

Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but 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
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr

The following are buy links for CUT HAND:


And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

Until next time.

Mark

New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.