Chainsaw Sculptor

Cliff helped me at first sheath the thick, long wooden cock; crouching behind me; palming my buttocks; slowly pressing me forward, onto the wooden erection, my channel slowly sheathing the phallus; and then he helped me to set up a rhythm of rocking back and forth on the buried cock, fucking myself. When I had taken over the pumping myself, he moved around beside me, crouching over my lap, stroking my cock with a hand, taking my cock into his mouth. The Roman gladiator did his job. With a cry I had fucked myself to a strong ejaculation, delivered on Cliff's face.

"See, that's how it works," he said.

"Shit. Fuck," I exclaimed. I started to say something else, but he pulled me off the statue and put me on all fours right there on the living room carpet. He pressed a hand between my shoulder blades, forcing my chest and cheek flat on the rug; mounted me from above, crouching over my hips; thrust up inside my passage; and began to pump me hard. He hadn't taken more than a dozen hard strokes when we heard the sound of a car horn from outside, on the mountain road. Cliff pulled out and rolled off me, went to the living room window, and looked out. I remained in position, moaning but whimpering for him to come back to me.

"It's Randy in a car. He's probably looking for you—to give you a ride. Do you want to go out to him?"

"No. I want you to come back and ride me."

"I'll have to go out. What shall I tell him?"

"That you saw me walking down the road, but I didn't stop here," I said.

"He can give you that ride you need down to Ludlow," Cliff said.

"I'd rather you did it . . . unless you don't want to."

"I'm good with that," Cliff said. I could see that he was smiling.

We were both scrambling to get our jeans, at least, back on. Cliff managed it before I did and went out into the sculpture yard and over to the car Randy was driving. I went to the living room window, looking out at the corner, hoping I couldn't be seen. I almost hyperventilated when I saw that my duffel bag was still out there, beside the spool table that Cliff had fucked me on. I held my breath as the two men chatted. At length it was evident they were saying their amicable good-byes. Cliff stepped back from the car, and Randy started up the car and continued driving down the mountain.

When Cliff came back, he came close up to me and put his arms around me. I went up on my toes and we kissed. Coming out of that, I said, "Thanks."

"So, when do you want me to drive you down to Ludlow?" he asked.

"Someday. Maybe someday. Not today or tomorrow. Is that—?"

"That's fine with me," he said. "I was getting tired of cold-cut sandwiches."

I already was unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans—and he was doing the same with mine.

"Take me hard. Make me feel it," I whispered.

"You bet I will," he replied.

My own personal Visigoth. He indeed made me feel it.