tagGay MaleAppalachian Trail

Appalachian Trail

bysr71plt©

I'm not all that sure how I got roped into going to Ken's daughter's place up on Blue Mountain near Front Royal. It was something about the Appalachian Trail, though, I'm sure. We were sitting at the bar at Scotties, a truck stop bar in Opal where Route 17 breaks off east from Route 29, south of Washington, D.C., to go over to Fredericksburg and the Eastern Shore, and Ken mentioned the Appalachian Trail.

"I've always thought it would be fun to hike a section of that," I'd said. "But I haven't gotten around to it yet. There are the mountains right over there, with the trail running along the top of them, and I haven't found time to hike them yet. October, with the trees changing color would be a great time to be up there."

"Yep, October is the time to be hiking in the mountains," Ike the bartender had said. "You're probably still hitting the books pretty hard at that college you're going to, though. You got no time for hiking."

"Yeah, I guess," I'd answered. "But a guy can waste his time away hitting the books 24/7—and that sometimes just leads to spending all your time working after you're done with college. I've met a lot of guys who have never been up on the Blue Ridge mountains—never having found the time—even though they are right out there where we all can see them."

"Hiking the mountains can be pretty rough," Stan, the guy who owned the gun shop and firing range in Opal said from down the bar. "You look like you could handle it, though. You on the football team over at that college?"

"No," I answered. "We're too small to be in a football league. I wrestle, though—and work out a couple of times a week. And I ride hills with my bike. When I'm exhilarated, I just have to get out on my bike."

"Yeah, you look like you work out a lot," Ken, who had saddled up to the bar next to me, said. "Lookin' real good."

I didn't know if I was supposed to melt to that or not. Ken had been nosing around me for several weeks now. I'd found this guy's bar only recently. A few years ago I'd been going into Washington, D.C., to meet guys—there had been a full-service club on O Street near the southeast Washington waterfront, where the Anacostia flowed into the Potomac. But that was a long way to go, they'd now built a football stadium smack dab on top of where the O Street club had been, and I had no idea where the club had moved. I'd hooked up with a couple of young, good-looking guys here at Scotties, so I'd come here when I didn't have time to go into D.C.

It wasn't really my kind of bar for what I wanted, though. There weren't too many young, in-shape guys coming in here. It was mostly lonely truckers who worked the eastern seaboard and local service worker types who could get pretty rough. And older guys, of course. Those guys were always around gawking and doing their wishful thinking thing. That was Ken—two out of three. He was a trucker, kind of a redneck. Hard muscled, but wiry and older, probably in his mid forties. He was uglier than a fence post, and he didn't seem too bright. About all he could talk about was his truck route and sports—and my body. Not at all the kind of guy for a young college student to hook up with.

Whenever Ken came into the bar when I was here, he tried to saddle up to me and bring the conversation around to complimenting me on my body and getting suggestive about going with him.

"You really want to do some hiking on the Appalachian Trail, you should go up to my daughter's place on Blue Mountain one of these days," Ken was saying. "She's got a house right across the road from where it runs by on its way to the Skyline Drive along the top of the Blue Ridge. You could start with just walking a section of the trail there. There are a couple of entrances to it along the road running up the mountain to her place."

"Yeah, that would be an idea," I'd said. I just said it to be polite, though, and those of us gathered around the bar went on to talk about the rain we'd been having leading into October.

"It'll be a great year for leaf watching," Stan said. "We'll have a lot of tourists coming through as early as the weekend to go up on the drive. The show should be spectacular this year because of the rain we've been getting."

"I'd sure like to see that," I said. On hindsight, I guess that's where I made my mistake—giving Ken his opening.

"I'll be up there, at my daughter's, week after next," Ken said. "I'll be dog sitting. Her and her husband are taking a Caribbean cruise, and I've agreed to house and dog sit for them. I'll be having a gathering up there—doing some hunting and some cookouts for neighbors up there I know. You've got some sort of fall break comin' up from college, don't cha, Dan? You could come up for a couple of days and walk a chunk of the trail. There's plenty of room at the house. I could take you up there when I went."

"Yeah, that would be nice," I said. I wasn't really thinking on what he was saying, though. I was giving the eye to a young hunk who had just come into the bar. I was pretty sure I'd seen him at the Sheetz gas station. He was some sort of shift manager there, I thought. He was a real good looker and strutted around like he had something special. And maybe he did. I was surprised to see him in here. Sheetz was nearby, up at the intersection where 17 broke off from 29, so he must know what sort of bar this was.

He was looking right back at me. Showing interest. So, I wasn't paying all that much attention to what Ken was saying.

"I could pick you up at the college next Friday afternoon and take you up there for a couple of days. Four o'clock in the afternoon suit you?"

"Yeah, sure, that would be nice. Thanks," I said, not fully listening to him. My eyes were on the Sheetz guy, who had sat—or, rather, slouched—at a table, with his chair turned sideways, pointed at the bar, his tight-jeans-clad legs spread and his hand on his crotch. He was still staring directly at me and giving a little smile.

When I went over to his table, he said he had a new Camaro I might like to see. And then he asked me if I'd ever been fucked in a Camaro.

After all of Ken's beating around the bush, I found this guy's direct proposition refreshing. "Not until abut fifteen minutes from now, if you've got the time and the dick for it."

He drove me into the car wash building over behind the Sheetz that was supposed to be closed this time of night and shut the line down so we were alone. After he'd sucked me off, he moved over into the passenger seat and I sat on his cock and concentrated on not letting my head bounce off the ceiling of the low-slung sports car.

This had been worth all that time of putting up with Ken trying to zero in on me.

* * * *

"Uh, I'm tired, Ken—and I've had too much beer. If we're going to walk the Appalachian Trail tomorrow afternoon, I need some shut eye. OK?"

"Yeah, sure, we can go on upstairs."

"You probably need to clean up down here first, though. Didn't you say there'd be some families arrive tomorrow morning for a cookout before we hiked?"

"Yeah, maybe, although they may not come before Sunday. They didn't commit to a specific day. We could leave this and clean it up in the—"

"Sure, if it's there in the morning, I'll help you with it. Goodnight." I didn't let him finish his sentence and my feet were already on the stairs to the second floor. I went straight to the bedroom at the end of the hall he'd said I could use and shut and locked the door, thanking the heavens that the bedroom had its own bathroom. I wouldn't unlock the door until morning.

I could see what he was doing—what he wanted. He kept saying without really saying it that there would be families up here with us. But we'd gotten to his daughter's house after he'd taken me to dinner at the Apple House at the foot of the mountain, and his daughter and her family were already gone. There were just two hound dogs here, which seemed happy to see Ken.

I guess he thought that if he bought me dinner, I'd let him fuck me all night up here.

The time that any other people—any families—were coming up here was conveniently receding into later days than he'd suggested. If I'd known he was going to get me up here without others around, I wouldn't have come.

He was old, and rednecky, and ugly—and not the sharpest knife in the drawer. There was nothing he had that I wanted. I was into younger, good-looking guys.

He'd tried his best to carry on a conversation with me in the evening, but he finally gave up and found a college football game on ESPN. Neither one of us gave a crap for either of the teams playing, but we were both more comfortable with that to focus on than fumbling at cross-purposes with each other. The beer had been flowing, but I didn't want to get drunk with him. He was one of those bottomless pits who never seemed to get drunk no matter how much he'd had. I'd noticed that down at Scotties.

He must have thought I was getting drunk, though, because he came over and sat close to me on the couch while we watched the game. He had an arm in back of me on top of the couch back. When I felt the touch of his fingertips on my shoulder, I made like I had to go to the can. And when I came back, I made a point of sitting in one of the armchairs rather than back on the couch—and as soon as I could feign some yawns and remark on what an exhausting week I'd had at school, I escaped to my bedroom and locked the door.

Ken wasn't there the next morning when I got up. He left me a note about having to go down into Front Royal for some groceries and had left some breakfast for me.

When he came back he was all smiles and good humor, saying that we could pick up the Appalachian Trail up here near the house and walk a couple of miles back toward the foot of the mountain and then turn and come back and that this would be a good introduction to the trail to me.

He seemed to have decided I wasn't going to let him fuck me and was making the best of the situation.

We went out on the trail after lunch, and now I was glad I'd come up here. The forest was a riot of autumn colors. And it was so quiet and everything was so lush and dreamy and mysterious that I was almost having a religious experience out here.

As we approached the intersection of the trail with a pathway that Ken said went back to the road and to a parking lot next to the communications towers that were at the very top of Blue Mountain, we heard muffled voices of men. Right where the other trail came in, there were two young men hikers, sort of sitting on large rocks beside the trail.

"We're foreign students taking a year off and hiking the whole way up from Georgia to Maine," one of the guys said when we approached them and struck up a conversation. They both looked like they were fully capable of doing so. Both were muscular and good looking. They were wearing tight T-shirts, with back packs; cargo shorts; and hiking boots, and they seemed oblivious to the chill in the air.

The blond, clean-cut one said his name was Hans, that he was from Amsterdam, and that he was studying to be a doctor. He was the heavier and taller of the two, but was solid rather than fat. The darker-haired one, with a profusion of curly body hair and a heavy five-o'clock shadow was named Alain; he said he was just studying to study. I thought their English was exceptionally good for foreigners. I also thought they were both so sexy looking that I had trouble keeping my eyes off them.

They and Ken took to each other immediately. They told me they were resting from coming off the Skyline Drive portion of the parkway and were looking for someplace to change into warmer clothes as it was getting chilly.

"Hikers usually follow the warmer weather by hiking down from Maine in the fall," Ken said.

"We know that now," Hans said, with a laugh. He was the more jovial and outgoing of the two. He also seemed to be the "take charge" one and the one ready to make an instant decision and get on with it.

"We're from a house just up the trail there," Ken said. "And we're turning back from here anyway. If you want, you could stop at our house and change your clothes there. Maybe take a break from the hike."

"You live together in that house?" Hans asked. He turned to me and gave me a penetrating look.

"We're there, yes," Ken said.

I wanted to correct the impression Ken was giving, but I didn't have a chance.

"Ja, sounds good to me," Hans said.

The three of them turned immediately and headed back down the trail, toward Ken's daughter's house. I followed along behind.

Not far from the cutoff back to the house, though, I tripped on a tree root in the trail and went down hard, twisting my ankle.

The three men in front of me heard my pained grunt when I went down and stopped and turned.

"You OK, Dan?" Ken called back.

"It's my ankle. I may have sprained it."

"Here, let me see," Hans said, and he crouched down beside me and started unlacing my hiking boot.

"We're not far from the house," Ken said. "You think you can make it?"

"I don't know," I answered.

"You could go on ahead," Hans said. "I'll look at this. I have bandages in my pack I can wrap it in and we'll be along shortly."

With no more than that, I was alone in the forest with Hans on the Appalachian Trail. He had gotten my boot off and was gently massaging my foot, feeling for strained tendons. He attentions were both painful and sensual. I grimaced. But I also was trembling under his touch. He was a hunk and was overpowering as he leaned over me. He was exactly what I melted to—when I could get it.

"You live with the older man? You go with men?"

"No. I mean, yes," I answered, flustered. His hands on my foot and ankle and massaging up onto my calf was disconcerting. "No, I don't live with Ken," I said.

"But yes you go with men? I saw the looks you gave me and Alain. In Amsterdam we know what those looks mean."

I paused without answering a bit too long. He gave me a knowing smile and moved in closer between my spread legs and let his hand move up onto my thigh.

"Perhaps you go with younger men then Ken?"

"Yes, I go with younger men—when I like them," I answered in a small voice.

"Perhaps you like me, Ja? I am, what you say, hard for you," he said in a low voice. "You go with me? You let me fuck?"

"Here? Now?" I asked, shocked, but also melting to him. His knowing forwardness was disarming.

"Yes, of course. Off the path, of course, but where is more beautiful for making love than here in the forest? I give you good fuck."

He raised my bare foot to his lips, licked up the sole, and took my big toe inside his mouth. After he had sucked for a moment, he let it free and moved his hands to my crotch. "Let us see what we have here," he murmured.

"You said off the path," I responded in a strangled voice. "Here, anyone could . . . Oh, god!"

He picked me up and carried me downhill from the trail. Within a few yards we were invisible from the trail in the lush foliage. He found a mossy area and lowered me on the ground on my back, stripped off my jeans and briefs, and moved his knees between my legs. He bent over and took my cock in his mouth, and I moaned for him, and, in short order, was begging for the cock—which he was all too willing to provide.

His fucking was straightforward, no-holding-back plowing, as if we were doing the most natural thing that two healthy young people did in the forest. I was completely taken with the matter-of-fact sensuality of it. Just two young, attractive men getting their rocks off on a pleasant afternoon. I rolled my hips up and lifted my legs over his shoulders, both of us taking care with my ankle, even though I now could feel that it had been just a twinge and didn't hurt anymore, and we locked eyes on each others, enjoying the reflection back and forth of the pleasure we both were having.

After Hans fucked me, we stayed in that position, panting, slowly regaining our breath. I wanted him again, almost immediately. His virility was obvious in how rapidly he was hard again.

He rose to his feet, and extended his hands down to me. "Here, I carry."

"It's OK," I said. "The ankle doesn't even hurt now. I just rolled it, and it's already OK. I can walk on it."

"No, I show you what I like to do with small men like you. You be my baby." He then reached down and pulled me up. He crouched a bit, bending his legs, while he pulled my ass into his crotch and my channel onto his cock again. I wrapped my legs around his waist and nuzzled my face into the hollow of his neck. His hand cupped and spread my buttocks and, while he stood there in the forest with me drapped on his hips, he used the strength of his cupped hands on my buttocks to rise and lower me on his cock until both of us had come again.

Then, with me still whimpering my surrender, and following my directions to the side trail that went to Ken's daughter's place, he carried me to the house.

When we entered the house, we found Ken and Alain sitting in the living room, drinking a beer. They both looked at us bug eyed when they realized I was impaled on Hans's cock.

"We were wondering where you were," Ken said. "Is Dan's ankle—?"

"Where is his bed?" Hans asked.

"Upstairs, last room on the left down the hall. Do you?—"

"Come with me, Alain," Hans interjected. "We have need of you too."

In my bedroom, Hans laid me on my back on the bed and then he and Alain whispered to each other as both started to undress. I assumed they were changing their clothes.

I assumed wrong.

When I'd been stripped as well, I was turned and raised to my knees on the bed by Alain, who stood on the floor behind me, his arm wrapped around my belly, holding me up, as he entered my well-lubricated channel strongly with his engorged cock and began to stroke me deep. Hans came around the other side of the twin bed and fed his cock between my lips.

I had two sexy, young hunks going down on me at once. I'd never done this before, but it was highly arousing and I had absolutely nothing to complain about.

Alain was pulling out of me, but then I was being skewered again. He was thicker and was reaching deeper with his cock this time. And now he was playing me, not just fucking me. He'd pull his cock back and punish my prostate with his bulb, and when I was moaning deeply, he'd thrust deep. He'd stroke until I thought we were in a rhythm. And then he'd change the rhythm, keeping me off guard, making me gasp, not knowing what was coming next—except that it would take me to newer heights of satisfaction.

I don't know when I realized it wasn't Alain fucking me anymore. It might have been the stronger grip on my hips—or the bigger hands. But I looked back and saw that it was Ken fucking me, not Alain.

I no longer cared. Ken was a master of the fuck, and he was playing me like I was an instrument made exclusively for his attention. I suddenly realized the advantage older men had. Ken had the experience of knowing exactly what pleased a bottom and brought the most intense pleasure out of them.

He was still fucking me when the two young hikers were gone. He no longer was ugly to me. I wanted to be fucked on my back now, so that I could watch the tight muscles of his chest contract and expand with his stroking and I could reach out and feel the sinews of his lean, but well-defined muscles and the veins sticking out on his arms because they had no fat to travel through.

"You what?" he exclaimed when he'd brought both of us to climax. "You want to do what? You didn't like it? And your ankle—"

"I loved it," I said. "I just have to get on my bike and pump up hills when I'm this excited and exhilarated. And my ankle will be fine; I need to keep it loose. I'll come right back. I want it again—when you get it up again."

"I can get it up for you right now," Ken said, reaching for me again.

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