Lower Than the Heart

Trent cried out and sobbed and fired off curses mixed with encouragement and exclamations of a glorious fuck, all jumbled together, and Buster fucked him until both had come.

Trent felt the releasing of the bonds, but he was too exhausted and overcome to do anything but lie there, alone, on the bedroom floor for the rest of the night, by which time Buster was long gone.

* * * *

Trent spent the next morning wandering around in a daze, confused about what to do about anything. He was losing all control. One minute he was determined to cut and run—even if he had to leave behind his father's tackle box, a concept that stopped him in his tracks and made him laugh. Under this influence, he had taken his suitcases from under the bed and placed each, open, on two straight chairs in the bedroom. Before going any farther, he admitted that, to be honest, he knew he would be driving back to Buster's that afternoon and that he wouldn't have any underwear on when he did it.

He tried working on the new play concept, but that was too close to the Buster reality and he knew if he started on that, he'd probably go to Buster's in high heat before the afternoon and invariably would be embarrassed to find Buster fucking someone else.

He started to look at his work on the current play again, but he quickly realized that anything he did to that in his current state would probably ruin rather than help the work he'd already done.

He dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and a jacket, because at last February weather was returning to the Eastern Shore, and walked the beach, walking first a mile and a half north and then a mile and a half south. It was still too early for lunch when he returned to the cottage, so he stripped, ran a bath and laid his head back in the steamy water and masturbated to the image of Buster entering the tub and fucking him right here.

At 1:00 pm, after having wolfed down a tin of something he took no interest in identifying, he conducted a "make-do work" food inventory on the chance that he wasn't leaving—when he knew down deep that he wasn't leaving. Not as long as Buster had inventive ways to fuck him and wanted to do so, he probably wasn't leaving. But there was that "probably." He just didn't know which way this was going to go. Distressingly, he was thinking that Buster would have to tell him where it was going—that Buster held sway over his life now. What was that he'd said? Two types of men in a man-on-man relationship? The victor and the vanquished. The dick and the hole. No question which he was. Buster had told him which one he was. The strangest part of this was that Buster made him want the role Buster assigned to him.

At 1:16 he was rushing out of the door and into his car. While he drove over to Seaoats Road, he was thinking of nothing else but where he'd be fucked when he entered Buster's house. When he got there, he was shocked to see the sheriff's patrol car sitting out in front of the house. He had no idea what that was about, but he decided he'd go into town—maybe fill the car with gas for this mythical trip he was planning to take back to Washington today—and come back here later.

When he came back, the sheriff's car was gone, but he couldn't see Buster's Jeep Wrangler, either. He got out of the car and looked around at the back. Still no jeep. As he'd done the previous day, he performed a close inspection of the shed, finding nothing, including his tackle box. The box wasn't on the front porch anymore, though. Unlike the previous day, on this day he boldly opened the front door to the house and walked in after his knocking on the door produced no response.

No Buster at home. No Buster anywhere.

Dejected, he got in the car and drove back to the cottage. He spotted the sheriff's car again, though, as he was driving up the dirt road along the beach. It was parked by the half-eaten, abandoned cottage up the beach from his cousin's cottage. He didn't tarry there, but drove on to the cottage.

He entered the front door of the cottage and stopped in the living room long enough to shed his jacket and also the T-shirt under it. It was cold enough that he'd put on a sweat shirt when he got upstairs. The weather had already begun to break. He walked into the foyer and put a foot on the first tread of the staircase. His eyes went to the stairs he was going to walk up, and he stopped dead still, sucking breath in shock.

Three-quarters of the way up the stairs stood the sheriff, Amos Stallings. He was naked and his dark-haired, mature body-builder, hirsute body was beautiful. Tall and powerfully built, everything was proportional, with the exception of a larger-than-average cock, and worked together to take Trent's breath away and to feel his own cock going hard.

Amos spoke first, in a low, hoarse voice. "It's time for you to leave—to go back to Washington."

"I was planning . . . what are you doing here? . . . and like that?"

"I don't think you were planning to leave. I think Buster has gotten you in his clutches. I think you need to be brought back into balance and that you need to leave . . . to save yourself. I have packed your bags. And I have picked up your tackle box—Buster fixed that—and after we're done here, I'll escort you out to the county line and you can be on your way back to where you belong."

"Done here? I don't understand. And why are you . . .?"

"I am going to fuck you—rather, make love to you—if you'll have me. I think you know I want to. And I think you need to be cleansed of Buster and his way of thinking about sex between men."

"Fuck me? You can't. You're married."

"Being married doesn't stop me from fucking men when I want to. And we'd be safe here. I want to give you a taste—or remind you—that sex between men, in its best, most equal form, isn't just the fleeting ejaculation or one man dominating another one. I'm sure that's what he's told you—and brought you to believe. He's a very persuasive man, and we've had several instances with Buster of just what I'm sure he's doing with you. I want to show you that it can be a give and take of pleasure and one of regard of one man for another. Something equal. Did you and Buster come together when he fucked you?"

Trent froze. No they hadn't. But . . .

"I'll bet he didn't care when you came. That it was all about his ejaculation. When I fuck you, I'm going to work to see that we come together. That's what caring for your needs as well as mine is about. That's the equality of men fucking each other. You've told me of the lover you lost and how difficult it is for you to commit to a new one, even though that's the sort of relationship you indicate you want and need to have. I think Buster has convinced you that what you want is his sort of one-sided taking. I think he may have brainwashed you into thinking that being callously used by another man is enough for you—what you were made for. Just a vessel for another man's cum, a channel for his ejaculation. I think if I permit it to be left at that, then you will be miserable for the rest of your life. I want you to leave here with an alternative experience to balance what Buster is telling you."

"Buster told me a lot of things—including to overcome my objections and fears of the relationship I wasn't sure of entering and to go ahead and do it."

"Yes, there are basic truths in just about everything Buster has to say about men fucking men. But if he really wanted you to go into this new relationship, he wouldn't be trying to hold you to him."

"Buster says that, with men, it's not a heart thing—that it's lower, the cock and the channel. The simple joy of getting your rocks off."

"At the base, with men I think there's truth in that—and that it's different from a man and a woman—but I think that the heart—and wanting to please the other man as much as you are pleasing yourself—plays in it even for men. I think you had this love element with your dead lover and that you must have that with any serious future lover to be fully satisfied. And I think that the love and the regard for another can be included in the sex act. That's what I want you to have as you leave here—the alternative to what Buster has painted for you—I would like to give that to you . . . if you'll have me. If you don't find me repugnant, come upstairs with me. Let me try to show you—to remind you—that there is more to full satisfaction than being totally and impersonally plowed."

He was holding his hand out.

"I don't know. I'm scared. What if we . . .?"

"We won't become entangled. As you said, I'm married—and don't want to endanger that. And you are leaving right afterward and won't, I'm sure, ever come back here. I want to do it; I've wanted to fuck you since I first saw you. And I think I can be good to you. Let me show you what more loving fucking can be. I know you've had it before—and probably can have it with the man you return to Washington to—but Buster's ways have possessed you. Let me fuck Buster out of you."

Trent stood there, trembling, not knowing what to say, what to do.

"Do you not want me? Am I not desirable to you? Too old? Too ugly?"

"Oh, god, no, you have everything I could possibly want," Trent answered in a choked voice.

"Come, ride my cock then. I think I can do everything for you that Buster does, only I can show you how well we can do it together, not just use you for my pleasure."

Trent slowly walked up the stairs. When he was three treads below Amos, he reached out and took Amos's cock in both of his hands and stroked it as he had tried to do with Buster's cock and hadn't been permitted to. Amos groaned and the cock immediately began to expand. Trent opened his mouth over the bulb and lightly sucked.

Amos shuddered and put his hands on the back of Trent's head. "Oh, baby, that feels so good," Amos muttered. "I'm going to be so good to you. Yes, just like that. Oh, baby, yeah. Oh, fuck yeah." He groaned as Trent's mouth opened wider and his lips moved down the shaft.

Several minutes later, his knees wobbly, Amos had to sit down on the stairs. As he did so, he lifted Trent's body up to him and took the young man's mouth in a long, lingering kiss. One hand was palming the small of Trent's back and the other was undoing Trent's belt buckle, unzipping his jeans and then, with both hands, he pushed the jeans down to Trent's calves. Trent stepped out of them. Then Amos, showing the strength of a heavily muscled man nearly twice Trent's size and weight, moved his hands up the side of Trent's torso and began dipping Trent back over the descending stairs as he worked his mouth down the young man's throat, dwelling for a couple of minutes on his nipples and then down, down, down, until he, first, licked and then swallowed Trent's balls and gave those close attention and then began a prolonged cock sucking session, with Trent sighing and moaning, and not ending until Trent had begged and begged for relief, pleaded that he was going to come if Amos didn't stop, and then did come.

Only then did Amos bring forth the bottle of lube that had been on the stair tread next to him and a condom packet and prepared both his cock and Trent's hole.

The start of the fuck was there on the stairs, with Trent sitting on Amos's cock in his lap, facing Amos and arched back at the varying distances Amos provided with his hands supporting Trent's back. They kissed and peered into each other's eyes—Amos saying he wanted to watch the effect of the stroking in Trent's eyes—and Amos gave attention to Trent's nipples with his mouth while Amos lifted and dropped Trent on his cock. It took and eternity for Trent's channel to descend all the way. If anything, Amos was bigger and longer than Buster was.

The fuck was slow and deliberate. Amos varied the depth and the rhythm of the stroking, with Trent gasping with pleasure at each change in pattern. This was even more expert cocking than Kevin had ever provided him. And attentive to Trent's needs and wants. When Trent's body reacted particularly well to one pattern and Trent confirmed that he had liked that, Amos repeated the pattern or cycle until Trent was purring. When Trent exclaimed that he was about to come again, Amos raised his pelvis to his mouth, worked Trent's cock, and took the ejaculate when Trent came.

And then he lowered Trent's channel on his own cock again and resumed the slow rhythm of the deep fuck.

Trent couldn't help but compare this fuck on this staircase to that of Buster on his staircase the previous day and there was no comparison on which one was more attentive. Both had been pleasurable but in very different ways. And nothing . . . nothing compared with the satisfaction Amos was giving.

Before Amos ejaculated, he suspended the stair play, picked Trent up in his arms, and carried him to the bed in the bedroom Trent had been using. He sat Trent on the end of the bed, hooked the young man's knees on his hips, slowly reentered him, and started a slow, rhythmic stroking. He leaned his long, muscled torso over Trent's and they had their foreheads plastered firmly together, again, maintaining direct eye contact so that Amos could observe what Trent enjoyed more than something else and then adjust to it. Amos was embracing Trent, holding his torso up off the bed and sometimes bringing their chests together so each could feel the muscles, sweat, and heat of each other. Trent was taken with the curly haired swirling patterns on Amos's chest, and spent some time feeling it out with his fingers and licking it with his tongue when he could reach it.

"I think I'm going to come again," Trent murmured in a lust-choked voice.

"Can you hold for a bit?" Amos said, immediately stopping the slow plowing and holding Trent very still in his arms. "I want you to feel the two of us coming together. I'm not far off either, but just not yet."

After a couple of minutes, Trent whispered, "I think the urge has passed now," and Amos resumed the stroking. The stroking increased in speed and depth and both Trent and Amos were crying out and babbling. This no longer was a gentle stroking. Amos was pounding, hard and deep. Pistoning his cock in primeval high fuck, Trent writhed under him, crying out his passion of never ever having had it like this. The difference between this and what Buster had been doing was that Amos's preparation had fully opened Trent to the high-frenzied fuck, had taken him up to paradise, was making him—both of them—soar higher and higher.

They finished with Amos on his knees on the bed and an arm planted by Trent's shoulder, with Trent suspended under him, his legs criss-crossed on the small of Amos's back for traction, Amos holding him off the surface with a strong arm under his waist, and Trent moving his hips and pumping his crossed legs while Amos held still. Trent rowing his legs like a jockey on a galloping race horse. Trent fucking himself on the cock, taking long, deep strokes. Amos big, throbbing, and hard as a rock. Holding still as Trent fucked himself on the long, thick staff. Their foreheads were plastered together, their concentration total, Trent having said he wanted to do the pumping to express how moved he was by what Amos was doing with him, for him, to him, deep inside him. The man of power and muscle being rock solid hard for Trent. Their eyes flashed in recognition of what they were bringing out in each other. Amos started to move his hips, the two moving against each other, with each other, faster, deeper. Both breathing heavily, Trent's had flopping to the side, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, gasping for breath and groaning. Hips moving faster and faster. Amos increasing the power of his thrusts, pulling his hips back and thrusting. Back and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

"Now! Right Now!" Amos screamed. And then, with a primeval scream from Trent and loud grunt from Amos, they both erupted—simultaneously.

Amos collapsed off to the side onto his back, panting hard, and Trent lay back as well. "That was something else," Amos murmured. "I've never had . . . do you work the muscles of your channel walls like that on purpose? . . . and once breached, your channel pulled the cock right in. Do you have any idea how special that is?"

"I've . . . heard . . . something . . . of the sort," Trent managed to answer through his panting.

"How long did you say you went without sex? A year? You can't do that to men. You should be cloned and packaged and sold in the Viagra aisle."

"I've . . . heard that too . . . but it's special to hear it from you."

Amos turned to him. "And if you've heard that, it's time for you to live again and that if you like this man who wants to be with you at all well, that you both deserve to be fucking each other. You've said he is having scares with cancer. That's no reason for you two not to enjoy each other come what may, though. You're both miserable now, aren't you? You were meant to be fucked. I suggest you give it a chance."

"I've heard all of that too," Trent whispered.

"Enough that you'll consider it?"

"Yes, enough for that. And . . . Amos . . ."

"What?"

"Thanks for the great fuck. I understand what you were trying to show with that. That it isn't a choice between heart and the cocking friction—that it's greatest as a combination of the two."

"Can we do it again? When I've had a little rest? I'd like to show you something else. I didn't think we'd do it but just the once, but you are something special. I must have you again."

"If it doesn't bring us too close, yes. You said no entanglements. And I'm afraid I could easily fall for you."

"And I'm afraid I could easily fuck you for weeks. But, yes, no entanglements. I'll be strong."

"There is no question that you're strong," Trent said, running his hands over the sheriff's bulging biceps.

The "something else" that Amos had to show Trent was that the sex could be even wilder than they had achieved before and still be loving and equal. The difference, once again, between this vigorous fuck and those that Buster performed was the attention and regard Trent got. Even while pounding his channel hard and fast, Amos was continually asking, "Does that hurt too much?" "Should I go slower?" "Too deep for you?" "Is that good for you, baby?" and "How can I give you more pleasure with this?" questions to ensure Trent was getting the most pleasure he could get. He started by fucking Trent on all fours doggy style on the bed while reaching under and milking Trent's cock and giving attention to his balls—until Trent shuddered and grunted his surrender and ejaculated. Then Amos carried him into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and fucked him standing with Trent's back against the wall and his knees on Amos's hips. Throughout Amos maintained a fast, deep stroke that brought Buster to mind but did so with a lot of lip work and encouraging and flattering words that Buster had not employed.

Amos managed once again to bring them to a shared ejaculation, his strong and Trent's only symbolic, as he had already been milked so often. Trent didn't care. He appreciated the care taken to come together.

As they lay, panting on towels on the bathroom floor, recovering from this fuck, Trent asked about Buster.

"He came to me last night. What if . . .?"

"You'll be gone tonight. Much as I now would like to keep you for myself a couple of days, when we're done here, I'm driving behind you to the county line. And he won't be here any sooner, either."

"How can you be sure?"

"Buster is in my jail. He's not getting out until I let him out. That cowboy we saw with Buster in the café the day before last? He can't show proof he's at least eighteen. I know he's twenty, but I pulled his ID when he wasn't looking and he can't show proof of being of age. So, I've got Buster locked up at least until you're out of here. A charge probably wouldn't stick anyway. This county isn't too persnickety about a couple of months in age. But Buster's safely tucked away for now. Although from what I hear about his magic, maybe he's fucking my deputy as we lay here."