markwildyr.com,
Post #117
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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.
*****
SECLUDED SAND
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
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 Thursday of each month.
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