UNCLE, GRUNGE & LOVE: Chapter Seventeen
Time passed. I think more things happened. Maybe they didn't. I have no conception of the next hour.
I do remember him telling me to get up.
I do remember him telling me to clean up.
I do remember following his lead – I didn't know how to clean up our epic mess, but I did put empty bottles into the cooler, folded rotten drop clothes in loose piles and watched his amazing ass as he gripped the rope, bent over, and flung up the door to the space. It was a gesture of freedom. He cared not who or what was on the other side of that door and neither did I.
But of course, we were alone.
Only the hacked security cameras witnessed our debased demeanor.
The light blinded me. I blinked and swayed.
I was filthy.
Then he was gone, striding around the corner. He gunned the truck, pulling up next to the open door. The window opened. He looked bestial – feral. I was far dirtier than he was, but his body was harshly streaked with shit stains. The outside air gave me the briefest understanding of the stank that permeated the space, and I wondered if all of what we stored there would carry that stench beyond their storage. But it vaguely cleared my head, which helped, because he was barking orders:
"Drop cloths, cooler, clothes in the back."
I complied. When I was done I returned to the cab. He held out a padlock. "Close the door and lock it. Then, get in."
He'd put down a towel for me and sat on his own. I completely forgot I was naked (but for the boots) in broad daylight. I no longer had agency – didn't want it.
I didn't want it.
I was happy. And free.
With the door closed and locked, I became aware of the late afternoon sun, the surprising Late Indian Summer heat, and the depth of our depravity. We were going to drive out of here naked and shit-covered, and that was, of course, the right thing to do.
Because that was what HE wanted. That was what HE directed.
I looked around, making sure the space was secure, handed him a new bottle of water, which he took with appreciation, clutched my own and got in the cab, carefully sitting on the towel, able to smell my stench more clearly.
We drove away from the scene of our crime and I said nothing. There was nothing for me to say. I glanced briefly at him, as he stared out at the open road. There was a seriousness to his demeanor that I found threatening, and I began to wonder if he was having doubts or regrets about our actions.
Then he said this: "You're thinking too much again. Stop it. Let me think for you."
Properly abraded – he was right, my own worry had crept into our grace – I stared forward. Where I expected him to turn to get back home, he veered in the opposite direction, gunning it on the highway and heading out of town. Barreling. The Truck was such an extension of him: big, brawny, broad and powerful. He drove it like another cock and I rode it like one, too. I sprang hard again and I saw his lips curl in pleasure.
Wherever he had been, he returned, and said: "How does it feel, Stewart, to be so full of me?"
The question, obvious, once I had heard it, surprised me nonetheless. I checked in with myself. I didn't have the words and so that's what I replied: "It's indescribable."
He nodded, looking forward.
I thought I should ask where we were going but again stopped myself. His decision, not mine. He would share if he wanted to.
He reached down, rearranging this thick junk, then scratched his pit, then shoved his fingers under his nose, smelling himself, and growling with bestial pleasure.
My eyes had locked on his crotch, though, as they often did, and a thought that had been triggered as I contemplated death by cock-choking, came back to me.
It was bigger. I knew it was. I knew it when he rammed it down my throat this morning and learned it again when he nearly killed me with it in the afternoon. Like any other muscle, perhaps it simply needed exercise. He had spent so many years begging for sex, cajoling cunts to copulate, that the ONE muscle in his body that needed exercise the most, had suffered the most from lack of use.
But, now that he was back in the `gym' – back in me, whenever and wherever he wanted – the goddamn thing had increased in size and heft. It was thicker, I swear it was, and it reached deeper.
I swear it did.
I know - you dismiss this claim because it comes from a twisted, perverted pig-boy, but remember, of all things I understand dimension best. My knack for building has its foundation in my ability to see size and dimension.
And then, rather than argue with myself about the impossibility, I stated the truth in the truck.
"Your cock is getting bigger," I said.
"Yeah. I know." There was no pause – no hitch – no objection. He looked down, looking at it, speed accelerating.
"I fucking love it," he said, and in those words were a subtle `Thank you' that he knew I got.
"You're gonna make me bigger," I said, blatantly, "And I'm going to make your cock bigger."
He looked at me. "Fair exchange," is all he said.
"I think I'm getting the better end of that bargain, Dad."
"I'll figure out ways to make you pay, babe," he replied, again without a hitch.
Then it rose again and I bent over, taking it in my mouth. This was another fantasy long buried: sucking off a Hot Top in his big, Hot Truck.
He placed his hand on the back of my head, pushed down, and said: "Exercise," non-ironically. "It's amazing what a little exercise will do." Then he flexed in my mouth and once again in my throat, and I gave him a long, languorous blow-job on the highway, up on the seat, ass in the air, making love to his urgent need.
It was fellatio meant to produce feels, not eruption, and he let me love him in the best way I knew how in that moment. Fuck words. There was so much to say, but our bodies expressed a deeper and more profound love.
Then I felt the truck exit the highway and we came to a stop.
"Get up," he said, pulling me off of him. I showed mock, pouty disappointment, and he just smiled at me. "It's gonna get bumpy. I don't want you to bite off my cock."
The imagery was startling. More startling was the fact that I would love to feed on his cock, just as I loved to feed on his crap. But I let that pass, and sat back in the seat, making sure the towel protected the sacred cab.
He turned right. I wanted to ask but refused to do so – I could tell he was waiting to see if I would speak or not, so I held my council. We drove another ten minutes or so, drinking our respective waters, taking twists and turns in the late afternoon sun. Then we drove into a State Park entrance, but it was gated, with large signs stipulating "CLOSED FOR THE SEASON."
Uncle Jay ignored those, drove around the gates, through a parking lot, then off the lot on a barely trodden two-track path and slipped it into low gear as we made our way over a ridge and then down a steep decline. He'd been here before. It felt like a secret place. A quiet place. Then he turned into the woods in an opening that was barely discernible, but the two-track remained, even as it was strewn with some larger fallen branches that the huge truck ground to dust. He drove with deliberate speed – muscles and reflexes on high alert. His arms flexed and bulged and my erection returned, joining his wet girth that I'd brought back to life on the highway.
And then light shown at the end of this dark forest tunnel and we emerged in a low-lying clearing. On the other side, shaded by large willows, was a small lake – mostly a pond, really, but with a slight sandy outreach that lay at the end of this path. He drove slowly through the weeds of the clearing and then stopped.
"I've never brought anyone here, Stew," he said to me, beautiful blue-grey eyes blazing with emotion. "No one. This is my quiet place – my alone place."
I smiled.
"It's beautiful, Jayson," I said, feeling beatific, and projecting that beneath my shit-shorn skin.
He just nodded, then leaned over and gave me the most gentle and tender kiss – so tender that I nearly burst into fucking tears.
Then he pushed me back against the door.
"You are SUCH a fucking faggot sometimes, Stewart," he laughed, jumping out of the truck.
"FUCKER!" I yelled, getting out on the other side. "Takes one to know one."
"Grab the cooler," he said, and I did. Then he grabbed the drop clothes, throwing them in the water, climbed back into the truck, turned it around, and backed right up to the shore. He hopped out, came around, flopped down the tailgate and jumped up, sitting. In his hand was a small leather pouch, and out of that pouch he produced a perfectly rolled joint and a light.
"Beer," he said. It was a request and a demand, all rolled into one. I yanked the cooler between us, then tried to pull out a bottle, but he thumped down the lid of the thing hard, nearly catching my fingers with the lid.
"Dude – sit next to me, Stewart. Don't put this between us."
I stopped – pulled up short.
He looked at me with the seriousness of a lover and I knew, in that moment, that this was real. I KNEW what I felt. I KNEW what he had said. But this simple action told the truth to me. I bowed my head, gracefully, full on blushing and flushing, then pulled the cooler around and scooted right next to my Man. Our legs touched. He torched the joint, I opened two beers, handed him his, then he passed me the blunt and put his arm around me.
He held me close as we smoked, languidly, getting higher than we already were, enjoying the cool beers and sitting in silence.
Finally, he spoke: "Never done anything like that," he said.
"Neither have I."
A pause.
Then: "I want to do more."
"So do I," I said.
We smoked more, then I put it out, laying it gently on the flatbed. I put my head on his shoulder, my hand on his thigh, and sighed.
"This is intense, isn't it?" he said.
"Yeah. It is. Very."
He just nodded.
Then he spread his legs and stretched out his arms.
"We're gonna talk later. Now ... it's time to clean."
"It's gonna be fucking cold," I whined, and the whine elicited just the response I wanted.
"You fucking pussy," he spat out, grabbing me and yanking me off the truck. I faux-fought him, giggling with joy, and then he threw us both in the water, making a huge splash on the quiet, remote lake.
It WAS cold and I whooped and cried out, but he was in full-on `boys-will-be-boys' mode and came at me again, pushing into my chest and thrusting me off my feet, diving deep into the murky depths. Now it was on and I was fighting in earnest but his size was too much – his muscles too trained, and the fight left my body as his erection attempted entry one last time – but he stopped himself, nuzzling my cheek.
"Maybe, one day, if you work hard enough, you'll be able to beat my ass."
"Why would I want to do that, Dad?" I asked.
"All sons come for their fathers eventually."
The seriousness of that statement threatened and surprised us both, but I fought harder now, breaking free from his grip unexpectedly, then turned and lunged into him, my mouth finding his, harshly, as I said, "Never," and kissed him with a passion that seemed to fire the cool water around us. He held me tightly, and whatever doubt had crept into our coupling with his wise words, splashed away.
He began to scrub my skin with his hands. There was no soap – I didn't want any – but our grime and filth rinsed off. I scrubbed his ass with my cold hands – he scrubbed mine – we each scrubbed our cock, pubes and balls - and in time, with several dives, we came clean...ish.
Then we attacked the drop clothes. It was cold in the damn lake and the light was fading. This beautiful spot would soon be too chilled for our naked frames. We did what we could, rinsing the cloths of their most grievous grunge, then twisted them in unison, tossing them damp on the flat bed.
"You hungry, kid?" he asked, pulling the towels out of the cab, tossing one to me.
"Yes and no," I said.
"What the fuck does that mean?" he said, grounging into the cooler and pulling out one of the massive sandwiches. I don't even know when he made them – his looked delicious.
"Jayson," I said, stopping him. "I want to keep you inside me for as long as possible. I don't want to add anything to that. It would feel ... wrong."
He looked at me with eagle eyes.
"But ...?"
"There's no `but' – I should be hungry. I know I should. But I'm not. You ..." I looked down at my feet, blushing. "You filled me up, Dad."
His cock rose as he tore into the sandwich, chewing it like it was a piece of me. Clearly, I had said the right thing, even though it was simply my truth.
"More for me then," he said, feeding his frame. "But listen to me, son," he said, `Coach Voice' coming out of him: "You need to hydrate, at least, and keep me posted. That was a lot of exertion back there. If you feel lightheaded or hungry, speak up. That's a fucking order."
How naturally he spun into dominance was alluring.
"I'm full of you, Dad. It's all I need."
He nodded, took another bite, grabbed the second sandwich and spoke with his mouth full as he slammed the tail gate.
"Get in the cab. It's getting cold. Don't want you catching something."
I followed instructions and then we were both sitting in the truck. He powered up the engine and then turned on the heat. Soon enough it was toasty. I put my boots back on, then helped him with his, sandwiches in both hands. It was awkward and funny and stupid and so much fucking fun. Then, as he finished his feed I lay across the seat, putting my head on his naked, muscular thigh. Our skin, somewhat cleaned, still held the deep stank of male-musk and mud, but it was lightened now, by the lake and autumn air, by our levity, and by our love.
He drove us home. ((((())))) Donate to Nifty.
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