Misdial

markwildyr.com, Post #126

Courtesy of needpix.com

Last week, I was trying to provoke old memories. This week’s story never happened to me, but let’s see if it strikes a chord with any of you.

* * * * *

MISDIAL

I sprawled on the bed Saturday morning, half asleep, half-awake, and half tumescent when the phone rang. I slung my arm over to pick up the cordless receiver and grunted.

           “Dammit, wake up, Chuck!” demanded an unfamiliar voice. “We had a date. Get your pretty ass over here right now!”

           “D-date?” I asked. “Who is this?”

          Dead silence for a second. “Chuck? That you? You playing tricks on me again?”

          “I’m not Chuck, and I’m not playing games. Go take your—”

          “Hold on! Don’t hang up. This really isn’t Chuck?”

          The voice was gravelly, conveying the image of a husky athlete. “No, my name’s not Chuck. It’s Dane.” Crap. Probably shouldn’t have volunteered that.

          “Hi, Dane. My name’s Harley. You sound interesting. How old are you?”

          “Nineteen. You?”

          “Twenty-one. You go to the college?”

          “How’d you know?”

          “Assuming I didn’t misdial the prefix, it’s the one around the school. You’re nineteen, so it’s a good guess. What are you wearing?”

          “None of your business, but not a damned thing! I’m still in bed.”

          “Oh, jeez! I’d like to see that. Describe yourself.”

          “Fuck man, what you wanta know? I’m five ten, hundred and sixty. What else is there?”

          “Hair? Eyes?”

          “Yeah, I’ve got those.” Why in the hell didn’t I just hang up?

          He laughed appreciatively. “Color, smart-ass?”

          “Blond hair, blue eyes.”

          “What color is the hair on your chest?”

          “Don’t have any. And that’s getting kinda personal.”

          He ignored me. “What color are your pubes. Gold or red?”

          “Neither. Sorta light brown,” I snapped. Why did I answer that?

          “How big are you? Cut or uncut? Rocket ship or spade?” He spoke rapidly into my stunned silence.  “Just describe it to me.”

          “Why should I?”

          “Because you want to,” he said simply.

          “Big enough to do the job.”

          “Fantastic! Man, tell me where you live, and I’ll be over there to help you out so fast you won’t believe it.”

           “Fast is good, huh?”

          “Go on, describe it to me."

          So I did and answered his questions about a couple of details, still not understanding why I was going along with this guy. “What the hell’s going on?” That question was meant for me, but he answered.

          “Phone sex. Good old phone sex. You spread out on the bed holding it in your hand?”

          “Maybe,” I admitted, giving him his answer.

          “How’s that feel”

          “Oh, man,” I moaned.

          “It’d feel better if I was there. You ever had a blow?”

          “N…no,” I said jerkily. My heavy breathing probably told the joker what I was doing as clearly as if I’d said it aloud.

          He laughed. “Ain’t it a blast?”

          “Oh, man,” I repeated, reduced to primal grunts and single syllable exclamations.

          “Pump it, man. You’re getting close! I can hear you panting, you good-looking fucker!”

          “Feels…gr…great!

          “Go for it, Dane! Go for it!”

          “Oh, shit! Gotta stop this or….”

          “Don’t stop, Dane,” the voice dripped with authority.

          My legs spasmed, and I groaned my way through the keen edge of an orgasm, whimpering as it slowly died away.

          “Man, that must have been something,” came the voice from the telephone. “Wish I’d been there to make it even better.”

          “Couldn’t,” I gasped. “Best ever!”

          “Go back to sleep, Dane, and I’ll call you next Saturday. Unless, you want me to come over in person.”

          “Think about it,” I groaned, halfway into slumber.

          “Great! Until Saturday.”

          I drifted toward sleep and then snapped wide awake. Saturday? He was going to call again Saturday? How could he if he had misdialed?

           Son of a bitch! It wasn’t any misdial; it was somebody I knew! And I had until Saturday to figure out who’d gotten into my pants. Over the telephone, for crying out loud!

* * * * *

Anyone remember anything like this happening to them? Anything similar? Let me know.

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:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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 the month.

Secluded Sand (A Repost)

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.

*****

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:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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.

JIMMY

markwildyr.com, Post #97

Courtesy of Pinterest

I don’t generally like to reveal too much, but it’s possible that the following story is based upon something that happened in my youth. Not claimin’ it… just sayin’.

*****

JIMMY

          Jimmy Halverson. The best-looking boy in town. Smart. Popular. Good athlete… with the body to go with it. And my wet dream.

          Yeah, right. Scrawny me, built like a matchstick—a burnt one, at that—and introverted to the nth degree. But a guy can always dream, can’t he?

          Jimmy led a pack of about a half-dozen of us who hung around together in our free time. Everyone  worked after school, me at the picture show and Jimmy at his dad’s car dealership, and the others at wherever. Still, we had lots of free time, although Jimmy dating just about every girl in high school cut into his time with us. Word around town was that he “got” a lot of them, and he soon had the rep as the biggest cocksman around… and they weren’t just talking about the number of girls he was supposed to have seduced, either. They said he had the biggest “thing” in school, although I don’t know how anyone knew that. Maybe in the football team’s locker room, but in school? Anyway, he was a confirmed man, a raging heterosexual guy on the hunt. Me? I didn’t really know. I hadn’t “got” anybody.

          All this raises the question of sexual orientation, and so far as I knew, everybody was oriented the way they were supposed to be in this little bible-belt town. Well, there was one possible exception. This guy named Brownie, who was a couple of years ahead of us was supposed to be the town queer. I wouldn’t know, but word went around that Jimmy said the guy gave him a blow job. Jimmy never said that to me or in my hearing, but the anonymous “they” told it around. And it’s true that Brownie left town right after graduating, although that could have been to go to college. Who knows?

          One summer day, Jimmy about knocked me out of my socks. He invited me to spend the night and go quail hunting with him. When I found out I was the only one of the gang he’d invited, I was flattered. We’d spend some good buddy time together without the rest of the gang around.

          The Halversons lived right outside of town in a big rock house situated on a couple of hundred acres. Prime hunting terrain. Now I didn’t hunt much, didn’t like it, and abhorred the thought of killing a living thing. But I sure couldn’t let Jimmy know that. Around here, hunting and fishing were manly pursuits. You had to be peculiar not to like them. Okay, so I was peculiar.

          Jimmy's parents made me welcome at the evening meal, and Jimmy and I played chess and rummy afterward until it was time to go to bed. My heart fluttered when I found I was sharing his bed that night. And wow! He slept in his shorts just like I did. Man-o-man, he had a hunky body. I’d never have broad shoulders and flaring ribs and a narrow waist like that.

          Once in bed, we talked about the hunt planned for tomorrow. He was lending me his twenty-gauge shotgun and planned to tote his father’s sixteen-gauge. Anything bigger, he said, would tear up the bird too much.

          After we stopped talking and things got quiet, he sort of snuggled up to me, making me think all sorts of weird things. I kept waiting—hoping—for him to reach out and touch me, but he didn’t. It took a long time to get to sleep that night, but I finally managed it.

          The next morning, we ate breakfast and then took off across a big pasture toward some trees. We flushed a couple of coveys, but I didn’t hit a single quail. Come to think of it, neither did Jimmy. The only exciting thing about the hunt was that I stepped on a snake hidden in the grass. I jumped away and wasn’t bitten, but when Jimmy declared it was a water moccasin, I got so shaken, he had to shoot the thing.

          Although we returned to the house empty-handed, Jimmy didn’t seem disappointed in our lack of success. He immediately took off for the barn where we climbed into the hayloft to talk. It didn’t take long to get down to manly things, like wasn’t this girl sexy or that girl busty… you know, that kind of talk. Then he surprised me.

          “Man, I’m getting horny.”

          I gulped.

          “How about you?”

          “Y-yeah.”

          Before I knew what was happening, Jimmy unzipped, pulled down his britches, and exposed himself. He’ was right. He was horny.

          So was I… but I was also paralyzed. All I could do was watch while he manipulated himself, making little grunts and moans as he did so. I’m sure he saw my fly was fuller than usual, but when I failed to join him, he got embarrassed.

          Oh, how I wanted to reach out and put my hands on him. I longed to expose myself and feel his hands on me. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Why? I don’t know. Self-preservation, maybe. I remembered how they’d said Jimmy tattled on Brownie who came to his aid in a situation like this. Or maybe I was too shocked to find the release button that would let me take advantage of what he was offering. Or maybe I was just chicken. Whatever it was, he soon abandoned his efforts and covered himself up.

          Fighting intense feelings of regret, I followed him out of the barn while he chatted like nothing of consequence had just happened. We tossed horseshoes and played chess until time came for me to leave.

          Jimmy never mentioned the incident, nor did he treat me any differently than he had before. He was still the handsome, amiable buddy I’d known before that hunting trip. I kept hoping for another opportunity, but it never presented itself. But I did learn one thing on that overnight. At least one of the rumors about Jimmy Halverson was true.

          His “thing” was huge.

*****

Ah, bittersweet memories… or imaginings, as the case may be. Perhaps this reminded you of something from your own youth. I hope so.

Sorry, but I have to make a pathetic plug for my own work. 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:

DSP Publications: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/cut-hand-by-mark-wildyr-420-b

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Cut-Hand-Mark-Wildyr-ebook/dp/B073D86RWV

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/book/cut-hand/id1256084273

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/cut-hand-2

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 the month.

FALCONER’S RIDGE

Another story from back in the Land of Nostalgia. Does this remind you of something from your days of yore?

*****

FALCONER’S RIDGE

          No one can remember why it’s called Falconer’s Ridge, but it’s been there forever, a bluff right at the edge of the city park. The climb isn’t too steep or dangerous, although over the years there have been a few broken arms and dislocated elbows.

          It’s a great place to watch the activity on the baseball field below. I grew up thinking I couldn’t play sports because of a childhood illness I eventually overcame, but I like to watch. Not the games so much, but the budding athletes cavorting on the field. PeeWee sports don’t do anything for me, but the high school games rev up my interest.

          There’s a clear spot about ten feet below the ridge’s crest that’s a good place to sit and watch. And I do a lot of it. But my secret place is about ten yards to the west where some bushes screen a comfortable niche perfect for watching what goes on below without anyone knowing. Sometimes I use one spot, and sometimes I use the other, depending upon my mood.

          Whenever Das Brumfield pitches or Kerry Jones catches, I use the hidden spot. They are both so… so… sexy I guess you’d say that I hide out there where no one can see my hard-on. And I always get one when I watch them play with such manly grace. I wish I could move like that, look like that. But I look exactly like what I am. A library freak.

          A week after I graduated, I hunkered down in my open spot and took in an impromptu game. For some reason, I was sorta down. Probably because in a few weeks, most of those players and I would be heading off in all different directions to college. It wasn’t an exciting prospect. I had trouble enough getting along with guys I’d known all my life. What would happen when I got shipped off to a placed where I didn’t know anyone?

          As I concentrated on the game, I noticed Das wasn’t pitching. He had been a few minutes ago. Where had he gone? To the head maybe? I shivered just thinking about him standing exposed before the urinal. I was taken so much by that mental image that I almost didn’t spot him climbing the ridge.

          Entranced, I watched the muscles play in his long back as he slowly scaled the bluff. Handsome, deeply tanned, he was as close to an Adonis as anyone I’d ever known. I liked and admired him unreasonably even though he’d never said a word to me except in passing. Not that he was stuck up or anything. I just didn’t register.

          As he neared the top, he took me by surprise by edging along the ledge toward my spot. A moment later when it was clear he was heading straight for me, my underarms broke out in a sweat. My right foot jerked involuntarily.

          “Hi, Rafe,” he called. My name was Rafferty, but the kids made Rafe out of it.

          “Das.” The word came out weak because my throat had gone dry.

          “You like to perch up here, huh? See you a lot.” He turned his handsome visage on me and blinded my eyes with a smile. “I watched you once through the glasses. You know, binoculars. Curious about what you were doing.”

          “Just watching. Good place for it.”

          “Yeah, it is. But there’s something odd about it, too. If you wanted, you could come sit beside the field and see everything up close. Hell, you could even come and play.”

          I felt my ears go red.

          “When I saw you get up and go over there—“ he nodded west. “—I got it. That’s your jerk off hideout, isn’t it?

          My cheeks joined my ears. In fact, I felt the flush start in my neck and move upward.

          “I was real curious, so I watched through the glasses. Couldn’t see too clearly, but I saw enough movement through those bushes to figure out what you were doing. You want to show to me?”

          I swallowed hard. “S-show you what?”

          “Your private jack off place. What else did you think I meant?”

          He stood and scooted around me on the ledge, his fly brushing my nose as he did so. Then he made his way to my private spot. After a moment, I followed along behind him.

          “Ah, a nice comfortable place,” he said, nodding his approval. He plopped down where I usually sat and peered through the protective bushes. “Tell me, who do you watch when you do the dirty deed? Kerry?” He grinned. “Or me?”

          I struggled just to get a word out. “Y-you.”

          He spread his denim-clad legs. “Well, here I am. You’ll never get a better chance to get a closer look.”

          It took me all of a second to accept his invitation.

*****

Ah, what happened next? But Rafe and Das want a little privacy, so we can only put our imaginations to work. Let me know what you think happened at  markwildyr@aol.com.

Thanks for being a reader.

Mark

The next blog on the first day of the succeeding month at 6:00 a.m.

Secluded Sand

I’ve noticed that Albuquerque author Don Travis, with whom I have crossed swords during so-called interviews on this site, has started posting what he calls “flash fiction” on his blog. Well, what he can do, I can do better. (Actually, he’s not a bad guy, but he’s such a twerp it hard to stop tweaking his nose.) At any rate, what follows in my first effort in this genre. Let me know what you think.

###

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 rubbed my engorged cock in his cum to fuck his flat, hard belly.

But that was before Afghanistan. Before the patrol. Before the IED. Before this blessed wheelchair.

###

Note: New posts are published around the first of every month.

Comments are welcome, not only on this post, but also about any relevant subject the reader wishes to discuss.