Return to Lake Manitou

"I think I'll go out on the dance floor," I said, not waiting for an answer. As I stood, Guy's hand fell away from my knee where we'd been leaning into stools at the bar at Davey's Locker roadhouse on North State Route 25, north of the Fulton County airport, which was nearly on the northern bank of Indiana's Lake Manitou.

Guy was a big, muscular black dude, ugly as sin in the face but a body to die for, if that's you came to Davey's Locker to get. I'd come with Juan, the Hispanic operator of the Lake Manitou boat rental company on the north shore of the lake, across East State Road 14 from the airport. We'd hooked up a few days earlier when I'd rented a kayak to explore the lake I had once summered at as a child. That had been more than fifteen years ago, though. Juan had both the great body and the good looks. We'd fucked in the marina office after I brought the kayak back and he'd suggested coming to this roadhouse. He said he'd bring me here, which he did and then, saying he'd hook up with me later, he pursued a young guy out onto the dance floor.

He left me at the bar and this black stud had immediately moved in on me. He seemed too big and mean to me—sexually arousing, but dangerous and aggressive. I was a little guy, somewhat androgynous in looks, some said more pretty and cute than handsome, and I was leery of the big guys, especially the black ones. They seemed to see me as a campaign, with my trim body and narrow hips—a challenge—to mount once to see how it would go and then be gone. Could they get it in? Would I squeal like a pig while they were trying?

This black dude, Guy, hovering over me at the bar, came across as that sort of stud. One hand on the small of my back, the other on a forearm, symbolically already possessing me. Offering to buy me a drink, with both of us knowing that was at least the start to closing a deal. His eyes were giving me that "Can I get it in? Will it be fun trying?" look. His hands were on my hips, stroking the hollows there—moving from hollow to pert buttocks, measuring the distance.

"Thirty-three inches," I said, answering the question he hadn't asked.

"Amazing," he said, and I knew he was subtracting from that in his mind however thick he was. "Listen, Clay, I was thinking we could—"

"I like this song. I want to go out on the dance floor," I said.

He said, "Fine," and I was off the stool and headed for the floor before he could say more.

I was in Rochester, Indiana, for the summer, fixing up and selling, probably, my family's cottage on Long Beach Drive on the shore of Lake Manitou. The lake pushed up against the eastern edge of the city. Rochester had been the town of my paternal grandparents before arthritis hit them and they moved to Tucson, Arizona. They had done that late enough, though, that my family, my dad being a military officer with us living abroad most of the time, had visited four summers in row to use their lake cottage. They were both prominent doctors living in town, but they had this Victorian-era lake cottage with two bedrooms downstairs and a big dormitory room in the attic. My dad had grown up in Rochester and had lots of stories of running with a bunch of kids at the lake and swimming off the dock of the Long Beach Drive cottage.

I was a writer, in graduate school in a creative writing program at the University of Chicago. My aunt, who had kept up with the Manitou Lake cottage and was still living in Rochester had died recently and I found I inherited the lake cottage. There was a writing symposium going at the lake this summer that was supposed to start in the coming week and I was combining taking that in and staying at the cottage to see about fixing it up and putting it on the market.

As much as my family had moved around in my life, I'd always thought of Rochester and Lake Manitou as some sort of "home," and when I came here for my aunt's funeral, stories of my family that people I met here, combined with stories my own memory had dredged up, had resonated in my brain. I hoped to spend time at the cottage pulling these even closer to the surface and writing stories inspired by my family's "Rochester years."

But I also wanted to write stories of the gay life I had been leading in Chicago. I was highly sexed. I wanted to live life to the fullest. Hence the quick hookup with Juan at the boat rental place and letting him bring me to Davey's Locker. Less than a week at the lake and I'd already been covered by a Hispanic hunk and was being rushed by a big black dude.

I wanted the cock of Guy, the black giant, too. He was curious about my thin hips and how well he could split those. I was curious about the same thing. He scared me, but I wouldn't tease him too long before we both satisfied our curiosity if he pursued.

Guy followed me out onto the dance floor, which was crowded, everyone dancing with everyone else. It suited my purpose. I got separated from Guy and was glad for it. He attracted me but he also scared me more than a bit. He obviously wanted to leave with me. I wasn't sure if I wanted that. I'd come with Juan and assumed I'd leave with him. We'd fucked on the desk in his office, but I wanted something more conventional, slower than that and I'd left the cottage prepared for a night of it. I'd expected him to take me back there and we'd do it on the bed of my grandparent's cottage—maybe for hours.

In his office, he'd been like any of the other built studs I'd been with—all aflutter on how easily he'd be able to get it into a small guy with narrow hips like me, and then celebrating when he found he could.

But I didn't see him on the dance floor or anywhere else in the bar.

"Are you trying to get away from Guy? You afraid he's too big for you?"

I turned my head in surprise. I was dancing in front of a dude a few years older than me—maybe thirty. He was tall and slim, but hard-bodied, his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel to show a hard, bronzed chest. I almost thought I recognized him, but I had no idea where from. I didn't want to recognize him from anywhere, so I just shoved that out of my mind. What I was after tonight was a casual lay—no commitments or attachments. He was dressed casual expensive, not nearly as suggestive as my red-mesh athletic T-shirt and silky shorts. He had a really good face and a healthy head of black hair. He had a purposely groomed five-o'clock-shadow beard and mustache and the black hair curled around his pecs as well. He had leaned in to my side and whispered what he had in my ear.

"I'm Trent. I see that Guy is putting the rush on you," he said. "You don't look sure."

"I'm not. I'm not unsure either, just undecided," I answered.

"You might rethink that. He's a thick nine-incher and you are so slim hipped."

"Yeah, I'm not sure about Guy. He's pressing rather close."

"But you'd be good leaving with a man?"

"No, I wouldn't have any trouble with that. I came with Juan."

"Juan's already gone. He asked me if I'd give you a ride home. You're a really cute guy. You want me to give you a ride?"

"A ride?" I looked him over real well, and he knew what I was doing that.

"I give a good ride," he said, with a grin. "My name is Trent," he repeated. He gave me a close look before continuing, but apparently decided "What the hell," and said it. "I've got nearly eight inches. Not as thick as Guy, but we'll have a good time."

* * * *

Trent's car was a black Mustang. He was parked in a back corner of the Davey's Locker parking lot. The Mustang had reclining seats and we stayed parked for a while.

As soon as we'd settled in the car, Trent turned to me, cupped the back of my head, brought my face to his, and we kissed. In nearly the next maneuver, he'd pulled my T over my head and taken his shirt off. He wasn't overbuilt, but he was hard and bronzed and had a great torso, which he pulled me into for a deeper kiss. His free hand dipped under the waistband of my shorts and the red-silk jock I was wearing and he took possession of my cock. I was already half hard. I reached over and unzipped him. finding him to be in full erection. He hadn't lied about having nearly eight inches. He stripped my shorts and jock off and immediately began to work my butt cheeks, measuring my hip girth with his hands, and spreading my hole with his thumbs.

"Like the feel of that, little guy?" he asked, coming out of a kiss.

"Umm, umm," I responded, knowing what was coming next.

"You're such a little guy. Such narrow hips. Hope we won't have any problem . . ." My seat started to decline. He must have had controls over the seat over on his side of the car.

And there it was. He didn't complete that sentence. He didn't have to. It was the attraction that big dudes like him had to small guys like me. And I knew that he was hoping he'd have trouble getting it in—that that was much of the attraction of bringing small guys like me into confined spaces like this.

He worked my ass and hole with his fingers while he was turned to me in the seats and we were kissing.

"You open well enough," he murmured. I took that as a complement.

His mouth came off my lips and traveled down my throat to my nipples while his fingers were penetrating me and working me open. I was panting and moaning and giving him every indication of acceptance with my murmurs of "Yes, yes. You're so big," as I slow jacked him with my hand.

I was naked save for the sneakers on my feet. His trousers were off too, and he moved over on top of me in the passenger seat. I was trapped under him in the confines of a sports car, panting and moaning, all of my senses going to the nearly eight inches poking at my stomach—and dragging lower. His hands went to my buttocks, grasping them, squeezing them, separating them, lifting them.

I spread and raised my legs, digging the pad of my right foot into the top front window frame and of my left foot into the edge of the sunroof frame.

His cock head was positioned at my hole, moving around the rim, seeking entry.

"No, wait a minute. Give me time . . . oh, shit. OH FUCK! You're so BIG!"

I panted hard, groaned, and give little jerks as he worked his way in. It was hard going, but probably not as hard as he had thought it would be. He was inside me, stretching me, filling me. I had writhed under him within the confines of the seat until he was well saddled. Then we both settled down as he established the rhythm of the fuck. I reached between us, grasping my cock, and stroking myself. His lips went to mine.

He fucked me and fucked me. I dug my fingernails into his biceps and rode with him as he pumped me. As the fuck increased in intensity and vigor, my hands moved to his waist, and, finally to clutching his butt cheeks and holding him close into me as he thrust hard and deep. All the time I egged him on. "Yes, like that. There, yes, there. You're huge. Screw me hard." After an interminable time, he called out, "Shit, I'm coming." And then tensing and jerking, tensing and jerking, he did. I already had.

We lay there, impossibly entwined in the Mustang passenger seat, both breathing heavily.

He looked into my eyes and I held his gaze.

"Where is it you want me to drive you?" he asked.

"I thought you just did," I answered.

He laughed.

He stopped the Mustang on the gravel outside my cottage front door, and he got out of the car as I did so and followed me to the door.

"Is this a date where you kiss me at the door and tell me you had a good time?" I asked.

"No, this is a date where I follow you in and screw you again," Trent answered.

I can't say I wasn't pleased by his response. If he was surprised that I had the house all set up for this, he didn't remark on it until we got to the bedroom. I had the place set with soft lighting and West Montgomery and Charlie Byrd soft guitar music on constant repeat in the background. There was beer in the frig and snacks on the kitchen island counter along with a box of donuts and coffee ready to go in the maker if something went into the morning. I even had a porn film in the DVD player and logs in the fireplace with a soft rug in front of this, in case they were needed.

It was meant for Juan, but there always would be Juan. I knew where to find him. It was Trent who was here now and I knew nothing about him other than he was big and sexy—that he had nearly eight inches and knew how to use them in a confined space.

He laughed and made his first comment went we entered the master bedroom. "Is that . . ."

"Yes, a Saint Andrew's cross," I said, pointing to an X-frame I'd assembled earlier in the day and installed in the bedroom. Juan had mentioned them. I wanted to explore with Juan.

"Do you?"

"Sometimes. I like variety," I answered.

"Well, aren't you the little slut?" he asked.

"I can be—and you seem already to know that I can be."

We didn't use it. We stuck with convention. He fucked me on the bed, putting me on my knees, my cheek to the bedspread, the heel of his left front foot pressing down on my neck. I had my arm stretched out in a sacrificial form toward the edges of the bed, bunching up the bedspread, my fingers flexing to the rhythm of the fuck, as he was mounted high above and behind me, using his nearly eight inches to dig as deep as he could and piston as hard as he could to another shared release.

Afterward, we lay in each others arms and slept. I drifted off thinking of the hulky black stud, Guy, I'd met and almost gone with at Davey's Locker. Would he have done me this well? Was I really scared of the blackness and bulk of him, or did I regret passing him up?

I woke in the morning to the sound of rapping on the front door. I was the only one in the bed. Guy was the one rapping on the door.

* * * *

Well over eight inches—and thick as a tree trunk. I cried out—nearly screamed—and he laughed, holding my hips between his hands, jutting my ass back from the X-frame, where my arms were lashed to the crossbar as he worked extra hard to penetrate with his jet-black monster cock and gave me a good fucking. I cried out as he snapped me on the back and the legs with his belt. He laughed. It was hard for him to get it all in when I was hanging on the X-frame—which he enjoyed immensely, muttering, "So nice. Such narrow hips. So tight," as he filled and stretched me, but it was easier this time than it had been the first two times he'd forced it in me.

I suffered. I suffered gloriously.

When I had answered the door, there stood the black stud from Davey's Locker the previous night, Guy. He was dressed in dark blue service coveralls. He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. I looked beyond him to find that the black Mustang was gone. Trent had taken what he wanted and left.

It was what I wanted at the time. Now, though, maybe I was ready to want something more dangerous. I had been thinking of the black hulking Guy when I went to sleep. And here he was.

"I'm from Clover Home Maintenance. You have a service contract with them. I was sent to ream out your chimney."

"Ream out my chimney?" I said. I laughed. He gave me a funny look and then he laughed.

"I can ream you out real well. I wanted to do that last night, but you left."

The chimney had to wait. Guy reamed me out on the rug in front of the fireplace, which we dare not light until he'd gotten around to doing the job that Clover Home Maintenance had sent him to do. He covered me there in the missionary position, his meaty thighs run under mine and one of his arms encircling my waist, holding me, pelvis turned up for deep access, and me reclining back, fists buried in the rug for support, as I warbled his belabored effort to spike me. The porn movie was running on the DVD where we could see it. He had a godawful time getting it in me, but that's what he had expressed interest in doing to begin with and he seemed to love barking commands at me to open to him and take it.

I opened to him and took it.

The second time, bent over the bed, the sash of my robe restraining my arms over my head, the leather end of his belt snapping against my back, thighs, and butt, while he mounting me from on top and behind, was an easier spike for him, but still tight enough for me to writhe and scream and for him to huff and puff and master me.

And then, him laughing when he saw the Saint Andrew's cross, with me hanging on the X-frame and him having reamed my chimney to his specification and celebrating his victory with a gigantic orgasm.

He left me in a puddle at the base of the X-frame, burbling and purring.

The actual chimney job would have to be rescheduled for later. He would just have to report that no one was home this time.

I lay there for some time, legs spread and bent, unable to close them, my chimney gloriously reamed, until, with a contented sigh, I dragged myself out, went out to the kitchen, turned on the coffee, and perched at a stool at the kitchen bar, flipping open the donut box.

Story plots were floating through my brain—ones both of the family stories of living in Rochester and vacationing at the lake and of the sexual experiences I'd had in the week I'd been here. The symposium creative writing classes were starting in two days. I was supposed to come to the symposium with stories to share for critique.

I went to the patio table on the porch in back overlooking the lake and began to write. I didn't know how open these writers were to storylines. I wrote both about my family here in Rochester and about awakening to glorious, totally taking male sex. We'd see which stories I would share in the symposium.

* * * *

That I decided to occupy and work on fixing up my family's cottage on Lake Manitou this summer was determined more by finding out about the creative writing symposium being held here. I had originally planned to just let the home maintenance company do any repairs and to put the cottage on the market. And it wasn't just that there was going to be a symposium here that attracted me. It was that it was being held in a guest house on Barrett Road on the lake front that my grandparents had once owned and used as a sanatorium for their medical patients who were recovering from treatment. It was a large Victorian building with ten guestrooms. It had once been the family home before my grandparents moved into Rochester to be near the hospital there.

When I arrived for the first session, bearing two separate short story portfolios—one on when the family lived on the lake and one of gay male experiences—I found that there were seven other attendees, most of them older than I was. I was the only one not in residence at the guesthouse. The others had arrived the night before and were already familiar with each other.

That said, they were welcoming to me, especially a fiftyish Jordanian man named Sayeed, who was dark and handsome for his age and who had piercing dark eyes that turned on me frequently, looking directly inside me, undressing me and using me. He sat beside me—quite closely beside me.

The surprise was that when the symposium leader arrived, we were getting a substitute for the advertised leader.

"Hello, I'm Ross Trenton," he said when he came into the room. "I hope you don't mind the switch in leaders. Ms. Singleton was taken ill and couldn't be here."

"Aren't you the author of . . .?" a woman almost breathlessly said, naming off nearly half a dozen novels, three of which I'd read and enjoyed. When confirmed that, she made sure we all knew that our substitute was a better-selling author than the nonappearing Ms. Singleton was. I barely followed any of this, because I was in shock from the moment he came into the room. It was my Trent from the Mustang coverage session. Now it occurred to me what I'd seen him before. I'd seen a photo of him on the dustjackets of novels I'd read.

He took my being there in stride, giving me a welcoming smile. I think that perhaps he'd been given résumés of the attendees, with their photos. I think he'd had time to realize I'd be there.