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Waterbaby [m/m voyr, mast.] By Cobalt Jade
The people in this story are real. I swear it. The hot springs are real too. However, the cooperative that maintains them doesn't want any extra publicity, so the exact location is going to have to stay a secret.
This story is a work of adult fiction. If you are under the age of 21, you have no business reading this, and are breaking the law in some states.
This work is copyrighted 1997 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). Archiving and reposting of this work is permitted provided that no fee is charged for the use of the archival or posting site. Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without this preface or tagline violates my copyright.
As always, if you like it, let me know.
He walked slowly up the mountainside bowed under the heavy pack on his back, sweat plastering his T-shirt tight against his straining flesh. The red-brown clay of the mountain, always damp here in the Pacific Northwest, stuck in clots to his hiking boots. He paused to wipe the sweat off his forehead. It seemed like forever to get to the springs, but then he was out of shape. Sitting at a desk all day in an advertising agency didn't make for the hard, taut bodies of the magazine ads he sold. Neither was it, he admitted, attractive to the hard, taut bodies he was attracted to.
Still, the weekly three nights at the gym were paying off; his wind and stamina had improved since last summer, better to make this mountain trip. Water began to appear at the side of the trail, cutting rivulets that oozed down like blood from a cut capillary. It was slightly warm, a warmth not accounted for by the summer air.
He was passed by at least five younger and more energetic people than himself before he took the trail turnoff that led to the hot springs. Twenty years ago the springs had been a collection of muddy patches on the mountainside, but the cooperative had changed all that. Over the years, those who knew of this place had dragged up timber and pipes, and with the work of picks and shovels, hammers and saws--all hand- operated, no electricity up here--they built a series of terraces in the mountainside with wide, plastic-lined pools to catch the steaming water. No changing rooms, however. It was customary to go nude here, though not required.
He noted the regulars: the cute Japanese girl and her blonde boyfriend, the quiet security guard who worked at the Bremerton shipyards, the air freight pilot who flew out of Las Vegas. The hottest pool, affectionately called "The Lobster Pot," was empty but for the Naked Gourmet frying something over a portable propane stove set at the side of the pool. He stood waist deep in the steaming water, his skinny Puerto Rican frame like a wiry, gnarled root; thin, but in terrific shape from lugging his utensils up and down all the time.
Crowbar was the unofficial bouncer, welcoming committee, and administrator of the springs. He spelled the Naked Gourmet at the stove as the latter took off to find a roll of paper towels. His paunch jiggled as he maneuvered in the water, a jolly Santa Claus bounce. "Hey, Steve, haven't seen you up here in a while."
"Been busy at the office." He took off his pack and then his clothes, folding them neatly to stow inside. No one paid much attention to him. He was slightly tan, slightly fit, but still clearly middle-aged; no one special. The population of the springs was mostly male. Women came either with a husband or boyfriend or with a group of mixed sexes. He didn't mind, because women didn't interest him that much. "What are you cooking today?"
"Potato chips," Crowbar chuckled. "Greasy as hell, too, real fat pills. There'll be plenty to go around today. I think most of the regular folks stayed in Seattle."
"Pissy weather," he said. It was clear this far up in the mountains, though it had been raining down south when he'd left.
"Baby!" Crowbar spread his arms, looking like Poseidon rising from the sea, as his daughter Prybar thumped onto the deck. She squatted by the side of the pool to give him a hug, shrugging off her backpack. "She's taking a year off from college, you know," he beamed. "Going down to party in Guatemala."
"It's a volunteer rainforest conservation project, Dad."
"Whatever."
She made a face but stripped off her clothes as casually as the other hikers. She was all wholesome enthusiasm despite the ring in her navel and the Celtic tattoo around it...tall and slim, but still glisteningly ripe.
She had a tattoo around the thickest part of her shin, too, a banded design like the top of a kneesock, and her bush was trimmed back to a neat line.
He was glad she'd arrived, because it caused a stir among the younger men in their teens and twenties. The rhythm of passing beers and smoking cigarettes did not stop, but quietly, unobtrusively, their dicks got hard, bobbing on top of the steaming water like buoys at harborside. It wasn't considered bad etiquette to have a hard-on at the pool, but it was not something that went without comment, either. The older men remained supremely unaroused, their dicks, both cut and uncut, almost regal beneath the overhanging shelves of their bellies, wreathed in nests of thick, soggy hair. The shriveled cocks had an odd dignity, like ancient warriors whose active duty was over, yet still possessed of years of experience.
But it was the middle aged men, the family ones, who had the most interesting reactions. They tried to act self-effacedly fraternal towards the girl, yet there was an extra intensity there, a show of trying very hard to be nonchalant that was revealed as a show by hard they were trying. Their cocks, though unerect, seemed on the verge of inflating; a tension existed there that was amusing to watch.
He rinsed off his feet and settled himself into the third-tier pool, the water enveloping him like a womb. The innocent show was definitely arousing, though he was not on the brink of erection just yet. If he did become hard, he could blame on relaxation and the temperature of the water like most of the other men did. He flipped over on his stomach just in case, accepting a friendly Red Hook pale ale from the UPS pilot. He couldn't help smiling at the gesture, in the cool way a former lover told him was like "liquid ice on hot chrome." The young man would be very surprised if he knew another man was imagining his lips wrapped around a cock instead of the mouth of a beer bottle.
He lay there for a while, letting himself dream, soaking away the petty tensions of a week in the business world. The pilot had a rough trade charm about him, and there was an exquisite pale boy in the pool below, half-Japanese he thought, with the warm dark eyes of a gazelle. Just the barest fuzz on his shaved scalp, a dusting of velvet nap on ivory. He made small talk about the weather, the stadium issue, Paul Allen's latest business deal.
He glanced up as a slim woman in her twenties picked her way down the slippery steps leading a four-year-old child by the hand. She wore loose cotton clothing in muted earth-and-berry colors and carried a pack on her back. Nothing unusual in that. But behind her...
He sat up in the pool, walking his ass up the side for a better view. Shit. Doublefuck. The spitting image of Dart Bishop, the gay porn star of the late eighties. A patrician face young enough to be vulnerable but old enough to speak of experience, an aquiline nose, blonde hair in a ponytail that reached to mid-back. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, with the clunky oversized hiking boots an R. Crumb cartoon character might wear. Buff, fit, tanned, or as tan as one could be in the soggy Northwest. He wore a heavy pack. He surveyed the pools like Thor, the Norse god of war, then descended the wooden steps.
Fantasies exploded in his mind as Thor came nearer. Scandinavian for sure...he had that up-and-down spareness, the clean lines of the finest Swedish design. Would he talk to Thor, maybe offer him a beer? Would they exchange numbers? He ran the possibilities over in his mind, then saw what Thor carried in the pack on his back.
It was a baby. Solemn, accepting, with the peculiar blank dignity only healthy babies could have. The woman holding the toddler's hand turned back to ask Thor something, the gleam of a wedding ring visible through the pudgy little fingers. God damn it!
Life was so unfair. Why did a man built like that have to be straight?
The couple staked a spot for themselves on the terrace, putting their packs and children in order. Wifey took off her clothes while her husband minded the children. She was about 28, but young looking for her age; her breasts were small and drooped only slightly after two children. As she undressed the baby Thor took off his shirt and shorts. He was built all right, a perfect "V" shape from behind, broad shoulders narrowing down to a trim but proportional waist. His muscles rippled as stepped out of his briefs. More delightful yet, he was three-toned...a tanned bronze above his waist; an ass as creamy as grade A butter; and a lighter bronze, almost gold, on his legs, which were fuzzed with fine, pale hair. His buttocks were perfectly molded, with a dimpled indentation above that mouth-watered crack, and another perfect scoop of indented muscles at the sides below his hips. He turned around, his long blonde hair swinging like a mane, and...Hammer of the Gods.
His cock was cut, nicely oversized, but as clean and architectural as the other lines of his body. A healthy set of balls dangled beneath, the pale lilac-mauve-pink color of well-toned blonde flesh. Nobs, they called them in Denmark. The whole moved slightly as he walked, with unselfconscious grace, toward the third-tier pool.
He held his breath as the Thor stepped in, blithely ignorant he was being watched. "Excuse me," he murmured, and the others moved aside to give him room. A whiff of sweat and maleness, the momentary heat of a passing body. Thor settled himself in against the pool edge closest to the deck, scooping palmfuls of water over his arms, his magnificent chest. Soggy strands of hair escaped from the ponytail and plastered themselves to his face.
Wifey came up, nude and inconsequential, baby on her hip, the toddler following, beating out a tattoo on his plastic pail. She dipped her legs in the pool and handed the baby to her husband.
Carefully, as if in a ritual, Thor took the baby in both hands, supporting it by the neck and back as lowered it into the pool.
"Well look at that!" "I've never seen such a thing." The baby laughed, jerking its arms and legs, its somber mien replaced by a grin.
"He's a water baby," Thor volunteered, a smile on his face. "He was Lamaze all the way. They dipped him in tub of warm water before they cut the cord."
Water baby. He knew who they were now: earth-firsters, modern hippies. They lived on an organic farm near Snohomish and sold their free-range chicken shit as fertilizer. Natural childbirth and wheat berries and hand-weaving on a wooden loom, as if he hadn't seen enough of that in the early seventies, thank you very much. But the younger generation had discovered them anew, put their own twists on them.
Thor placed the baby on his stomach, still supporting him. The baby started to swim, a coordinated doggy paddle. "We take him swimming whenever we can," he explained. "It's good exercise. It just comes natural to them. It reminds them of when they're in the womb."
He started to squirm. He hadn't had any fulfilling sex since the spring. Being at the hot springs today, seeing all this flesh..he hadn't felt this exposed and horny since his college athletic days, when it he'd often had to run out of the locker room and whack off in the bushes. He'd always had a healthy libido, but that carried with it an unhealthy level of frustration. Even the baby seemed to taunt him, his baby-whiz half-erect like a leering putti in a Renaissance painting...all those plump, pink little asses floating up to heaven. God help him, what kind of pervert was he, getting turn on by a young father playing with his baby in the pool!
He had to get out of here. He HAD to.
He murmured excuse-mes to the other soaking bodies and stumbled to where he'd left his towel. Had anyone seen him, saw what made him crouch? He wrapped the towel around his waist and trotted quickly up the stairs. The forest was pretty thick above the pools; he'd have no trouble finding a private spot. He felt an odd mix of pleasure and censure. He couldn't help the censure. He wasn't as self-assured about his sexuality as the younger faggots were. They'd grown up with a measure of acceptance; he hadn't.
Distance didn't matter, as long as he was hidden. He was going to do himself good this time: a long, hard, extremely satisfying hand job. He felt light and daring, almost as if he was nineteen again, under the forbidden yet delicious spell of his own sexuality. He kept Thor's body spotlit in his mind, keeping himself hard with loving strokes beneath the towel, until he found the place...behind a stump and hidden from the trail by brush, but with a view of the valley below. He could masturbate all he wanted with no one the wiser.
He parted the branches and parked his back against the tree. He parted the folds of the towel and started to rub.
A lifetime of jerkoffs had perfected his technique, and he responded more quickly than usual. It must have been the mixture of relaxation and sexual tension. He rubbed his shaft up and down, his hand in a fist loosely tight or tightly loose, his left hand circling the head of his cock, stroking it delicately. He grew larger by the second. My god. He didn't know it was going to be this good. Was it going to get any better? A few more...and...ah! that was it. He felt the sensation of a fishing line reeled tight into his testicles, building up to the release of tension. He felt his veins throb all the way down his shaft, aching as they hadn't since he was in his twenties. This one was going to be really good! He increased his rate of stroking, hands pumping up and down. The sight of his cock and fingers made him get even harder, though in his head he was still seeing Thor, long blonde hair unbound as took his cock and balls completely in his mouth, nose buried in his public hair, the muscles of his back dancing in perfect time as he sucked like a Hoover on steroids.
Something made him open his eyes and turn around. A face peered at him out of the brush about thirty inches off the ground. Stared briefly, then the branches swished into the place where they were. "Daddy!"
Oh shit, what if the kid thought he was some pervert hiding in the bushes? There'd been a lot of stories on the news about child molesters lately. His ass could be in a sling. He readjusted his towel and burst out of
the brush to make an explanation.
Thor stood in the path, naked but for a pair of river rafting sandals and a roll of toilet paper: magnificent in spite of the banality of the situation, or perhaps because of it.
"There he is Daddy" the four-year-old said with squeaky solemnity. "That man had his thingy in his hand."
He tried to grin sheepishly, feeling his hard-won erection deflate.
"He was just trying to find a place to go potty, Trevor. Just like you." Thor
took up the boy's hand. "Sorry," he murmured. "Kids."
"No Daddy. He was making noises...."
Oh god. Thor rolled his eyes, apparently as awkward as he was. Strange considering he and Wifey probably shared all the household shores; he must be used to kid shit by now. "Come on Trevor. Let's leave him alone." He began to walk his son down the trail. "Sorry about this," he said in passing.
"It's all right." His words sounded as limp as his cock.
The god and his offspring brushed past him on his way to the toilet, with the lingering aroma of calm male rationality, not aroused, not violent, not tired.
And most of all, not aware.
END
8/14/97
Comments to: Cobaltjade@aol.com
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