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Elk Camp, Part 1
We'd spent all day butchering, quartering and packing out Mark's bull elk. It was a nice four point, and he'd shot it right after dawn, up on the ridge, about a quarter mile from camp. He'd had a clean shot, and we'd brought the liver and the heart down the ridge, too, so we'd have some great camp meat this week.
It was the third day of the second elk season, and we'd both taken two weeks off to come up here in the mountains, set up camp and hunt to our hearts' content. And, hunting always meant more than getting up two hours before dawn, and hiking up to the top of the ridge, freezing our butts, waiting for a bull to wander by.
It was much more than that. It was the conversations around the wood stove, the whiskey sipping in the evening, as we cooked dinner and told stories, in falling asleep listening to the wind in the mountain spruce trees, the full moon silvery against the fresh snow on the forest floor, the camp coffee heating on the stove as we stumbled into our hunting clothes, the smell of frying bacon in the crisp mountain air.
I'd gotten my bull elk on opening day, and we'd spent most of that day butchering and packing out my elk, a little three point bull. The quarters were hanging up in the trees on the upper side of our camp, now joined by the carcass of Mark's elk.
We'd never filled our tags this early in the season, and we had another ten days to go before we had to go back to work. I wondered what we'd do with all that time on our hands.
The weather was cold and it frosted every night, so the meat would be just fine until we broke camp at the end of the season. It would hang there and age in the cold mountain air, improving its flavor so that when the butcher shop cut it into roasts and steaks, and ground the rest of it into hamburger and elk sausage, we'd be able to fill our freezers with almost a year of meat.
Butchering and hauling two elk carcasses down the mountain over three days had left up pretty tired. We thought we'd gotten in pretty good shape during deer season, but all the packing out had worn us out.
Mark was the last one in, hauling the last hindquarter. We tied a rope around it and hauled it up into the tree, joining all the other quarters. We had rolled up the hide up on the ridge, and I had packed it out on my last trip. We'd take it to one of our buddies, who knew how to tan it in the old way, and he'd turn it into soft leather, the color of caramel.
Both of us were a mess, sweaty and our hands and clothes pretty well covered in elk blood and a bit of the offal that comes from gutting out two elk over three days. And, butchering and packing out two elk carcasses left us a lot riper than the normal hunting trip.
The creek that ran by the side of camp hadn't frozen over yet, though there was a growing edge of ice along the bank, next to the several inches of snow that had fallen in the last couple of days. Part of the creek swirled in a slow eddy against a big log, forming a small pool.
Like any hunters' camp in elk season, we didn't set up a place to shower. It was just too darn cold this time of year. Still, we were filthy enough that we really needed to at least rinse ourselves off and our hunting clothes could definitely stand a wash. The wind had picked up a bit, blowing down the ravine, and the ice on the edge of the creek promised a darn chilly bath.
Still, we had the camp stove fired up in the big wall tent we had set up, and we had some nice clean clothes and a bottle of whiskey waiting for us after our plunge.
"Time to take the plunge, I guess," Mark said, stripping off his hunting jacket and shirt. He slid off his boots and camo jeans, and then unbuttoned his union suit long johns. They were bright red, and he always wore them on our hunting trips. He liked to say he really was a 19th century kind of guy and liked to wear the clothes his great grandfather used to wear.
As he unbuttoned his union suit, the thick tufts of his red chest hair pushed out of the wool, and soon, he stood bare assed naked, his cock flopping around above his nice set of balls, amidst the thick bush of hair that splayed across his groin. A thick blanket of fur marched up his firm stomach into the thatch of hair across his muscular chest, and his large reddish nipples.
I always liked going hunting with Mark. He got a little wild and crazy on these trips, and he said he liked to be a mountain man once in a while, and let his hair down. And, he'd always given me a good show of his nice ass and his thick cock on our trips, not something I'd get to see back at the office, where we both spent our days pushing paper and going to meetings.
"Last one in gets to be the cook," he chuckled, shooting a big grin at me through his four day old beard.
That's another thing I liked about Mark on these trips. He got into the spirit of being away from civilization and let everything get wild and crazy, like the red union suit, and dancing around the fire in the snow, or plunging bare assed naked into an icy stream.
I'd always tried to be like Mark on these trips, to let myself go, to get in touch with my wild side. After all, we were away from the routines of work, and the demands of home life, the constraints of "civilization". Still, in years past, I'd shave every couple of days, afraid, I guess of actually growing a beard.
I'd grown one my sophomore year in college. All the guys did, but I shaved it off after about a week, afraid of what my folks would say, and more afraid, I guess, of not "fitting in" and being the clean cut college boy I'd aspired to be. Being neat and tidy, and perfect in all ways was my goal. After all, I'm the guy who has to have his sock drawer all in order, and I still iron all my dress shirts for work.
I haven't even sported a moustache, not wanting to look the least bit "wild".
This year, though, Mark had dared me to leave my razor at home. He bet me a fifth of my favorite whiskey that I'd not shave for the full two weeks we camped in the mountains. And, I'd also have to "go commando" and not wear any shorts. It was a crazy enough bet that I took him up on it.
It wasn't the only thing I'd be doing differently this year. My girlfriend of the last five years had left me last month, and I'd been figuring out how to live by myself in my apartment. Cindy had apparently had enough of me, and left one morning, after we got into an awful fight about my obsessiveness over the laundry.
She wanted someone a little wilder in bed, too, she said.
"You're too vanilla for me, you know," she said, crying that morning. "I have needs, and you just don't excite me any more. You're too predictable."
I suppose she's right. The missionary position works fine for me, and I thought she'd always appreciate our schedule of lovemaking. Wednesday night and Saturday morning. Just like clockwork. Still, after five years, I could sort of see her point. Maybe I was too predictable, too vanilla.
I watched Mark grab a bar of soap from the camp table, and plunge into the icy stream, his naked self slipping under the water. He emerged sputtering and gave a shout.
"Damn, that's cold!"
I laughed at him, naked in a freezing creek in the middle of November, up here in the middle of nowhere.
An icy thick snowball splattered against my chest, its sharp edges poking through my shirt, icy water splashing across my face and neck.
"Get in here, Jake. If I'm freezing, you might as well freeze, too," Mark shouted, breaking into a fit of laughter as I sputtered through the remnants of the snowball in my face, and dripping into my shirt and onto my chest.
"All right, all right," I said, beginning to strip off my shirt and jeans, and unlacing my hunting boots enough so that I could slip them off and leave my jeans by the bank of the creek.
Mark had seen me naked before, at the golf club sometimes, and once last year, when we took a quick dip in the creek on one of those rare days when it turned really warm and the sun actually felt warm. Still, I was a modest guy and it was hard for me to accept Mark's ease with his body, and getting naked. He slept in the nude when we were in camp, and would jump out of his sleeping bag in the middle of the night and take a leak right outside the tent flap.
I tried to wade slowly into the creek, one inch at a time. I was finally in enough that the water was halfway up my thighs. I had my hands over my crotch, and I guess I was trying to protect my balls and cock from the icy water, or maybe Mark's gaze, until he threw another snowball, splattering ice and snow across my chest. My hands flew up, leaving my crotch exposed, and Mark quickly pitched another iceball right at my groin.
SPLAT!
My groin was plunged into a deep freeze, the snow and ice enmeshed into the thick black hair covering my balls and hiding the root of my cock. Startled by the attack, I slipped on the gravelly creek bottom, and fell, ass first, into the deepest part of the pool, my mouth taking in a cup or two of nearly frozen mountain water.
I struggled to stand up, and Mark grasped my upraised hand, pulling me to my feet, and against his strong chest. His other arm curled around my back, drawing me closer to him, until our bristly faces were just an inch apart.
"Steady, there, partner," Mark whispered to me.
My chest was heaving, and icy water was dripping down, my balls tight against my groin, my skin reddening with the sudden chill.
"Here, let me clean you up so we can get you out of here and into the tent," he said.
His thick fingers quickly rubbed the bar of soap through my hair, into my whiskery face, and through the fur that grew across my chest. His hands soon raised a lather of suds across my chest, under my arms, and down into my groin. Expertly, his fingers, soaped and cleaned my cock, and balls, with one hand soaping under my sac and around my hole and butt cheeks.
More fingers soaped my cock again, and slid my foreskin down my cock head a bit, washing around my cock head, the sensations mixing with the stinging iciness of the water, my face reddening from his close touch.
His hands turned me halfway around, and he held me steady against the rush of the snow water until I regained my balance, my bare toes gripping the gravel creek bottom. His strong hands worked their way over my shoulders and down my back, with more soap suds, until he reached my butt. Practiced finders slid down my crack, soaping me completely and cleaning my around my hole.
One finger slipped inside, slick with the soap and the water, until it was one, then two knuckles deep, other fingers sliding against the back of my ball sac, gentle, and slow.
I gasped again, the cold and the intimacy all mixed into one blur of sensation. The icy mountain air stung my lungs, my eyes tearing up at the chill that was soaking into every cell of my body. Yet, the heat and the softness of his touch lit a fire inside of me, a fire of excitement, even desire.
"There, you're clean," Mark whispered, his voice just barely audible over the burbling of the creek. "Now, wash me up."
He handed me the soap bar, and gave me a big grin.
"Come on, Jake. I'm starting to feel a bit of the chill here," Mark chuckled, obviously enjoying watch me rise to the challenge.
I gingerly starting lathering his hair, and then his stubbly beard and moustache. Slowly, at first, my fingers touched him, feeling his skin, and the texture of his hair, and then the course wiry stubble that covered the bottom of his face. My fingers shampooed him, the lather slipping off his sprouting moustache and chin, and dripped down into the thick fur of his hard chest.
The wind died down a bit, and a few skiffs of snow began to dance downward from the darkening sky. A few flakes caught in his hair, and in his beard, the white stark and pure against the red fur of this wild man.
The soap bar worked across his chest, and under his arms, my fingers feeling the heat of his armpits, and the stiff nubs of his nipples, and the hard curves of his pecs and stomach. I could smell the pure mountain creek water, a bit of the elk blood, and the last of the sweat and musty stench of this mountain man, now thinned by the clean smell of the soap. I'd never touched a man before, not in this way, not this intimate.
I paused, looking into Mark's eyes, asking him, silently, if I was done.
"Keep going, Jake," Mark whispered. "Wash me everywhere. Please."
I hesitated, the soap bar cold in my hands, the icy water now completely numbing my feet, and my legs. My heart beat loudly, and it was hard to breathe. Not just from the cold, I realized. It was something else, something new.
"Looks like you're enjoying this," Mark said, his voice awakening me from my thoughts.
I followed his eyes, and looked down, seeing my cock hard, full, and pointing upward, right at Mark. I hadn't felt myself getting hard, hadn't realized Mark had turned me on, aroused me.
I blushed, looking away, my face reddening, sweat starting to form in my arm pits.
"Oh, God," I stuttered.
The forest, the creek, the world stood still, silent. All that moved, all that was important, was my cock, hard and ready for sex, turned on my lust, my desire for my friend, for a man!
"You wear it well, my friend," Mark whispered. "That hard cock looks good on you. Enjoy it."
He took my hand, still gripping the slippery bar of soap, and guided me down, down his hard, furry stomach, into the thick bush of hair surrounding his cock, and his balls.
"Wash me, Jake, nice and slow," Mark said. "It feels so good when you touch me."
I forgot we were butt naked, standing thigh deep in an icy mountain creek, my hands touching my best friend, soaping up his cock, his balls, even, with Mark's gentle help, his butt crack and his hole. He held my hands firm, asking me to keep washing him, to work up a lather, to push my finger into the warmth of his hole.
He turned a bit, taking me back to his cock, now hardening a bit from our slippery strokings, and guided me to run a finger under his foreskin, to feel the ridge of his cock head, rubbing the soap's lather across his cock head, and around his cock, and through the thick, wiry curls of his fur.
He took one of my hands and helped me cup his balls, holding them softly, slowly rubbing the lather around them, and through the hairs of his sac, showing me how to feel their weight, how they moved under the thin skin, and the texture of their sac.
Mark leaned closer to me, pulling me closer to him, pulling our furry chests close, until the wet curls touched, until I felt the stiff points of his nipples poke into me, until I could feel the fur of his stomach and groin surround my hard, aching cock. His lips touched mine, and he held me in a kiss, his hand against my cock.
We pulled away, just a bit, his hand now sliding up and down my cock. We stood still, the water flowing around our thighs, the rumbling of the creek loud in our ears, as he kept sliding his wet, soapy fingers up and down my manhood. Again, and again, slowly, then a bit faster, keeping pace with my quickening breath, and my heartbeats.
I breathed deep, not feeling the cold air rushing deep down my throat and into my lungs, as he pumped me, faster and faster, my hips now joining in to his dance with me, matching his thrusts, beat for beat.
Nothing else mattered now. There was no creek, no mountain, no snow. There was only the pistoning, back and forth, of the slippery, warm hand, along my shaft, and gently touching my hot and needy cock head, and my seed, rising high in my balls, aching to be released.
Again and again, he slid and moved back and forth and I moved forward and back, faster and faster, until I could take no more, until my seed hurled through my shaft, spurting in thick globs against his fingers, against his thick fur, against his cock, thick and slippery on his skin, and mine.
Releasing their load, my balls dropped a bit, their sac now slippery with my newly released seed, hot in his tender hand.
Mark kissed me again, holding my now trembling body tight in his arms.
"Let's take this show inside," he whispered. "It's starting to snow."