A River's Bluff

The frigid river water enveloping my body shocked the senses more so as my unsubmerged head remained exposed to the scorching midday heat of the central Texas Hill Country. The dichotomy of sensations provided welcome respite from the vigorous summer hike over the verdant hills juxtaposed around the Sabinal River.

My comrade "hiker-in-crime", Howard, a consummate city boy but determined good sport, had joined me for the weekend camping trip to my favorite clandestine hideaway in the hills: Lost Maples Natural Area. The last stand of America's maple tree forests west of Arkansas in the Southwestern states.

The two of us along with my canine companion, Maximus Primus, had arrived early morning at the park after vacating the city during the wee hours for relief from the tedium of work, responsibility and the pressures associated... we had soon thereafter set out backpacking into the deep reaches of the circuitous trail system providing fairly close access to remote areas not commonly traversed by the average weekend hiker-types. Of course, being Wednesday made the likelihood of meeting other campers or hikers even more improbable which satisfied all three of our needs perfectly.

Our packs, equipment, and supplies were visible on the far rock ledge from my spot in the crystal clear pool on the upper Sabinal, my exhilaration at the plunge into the icy water causing my scrotum bewilderment as to where my normally fat balls had disappeared. Shriveling and shivering abounded as I awaited the reappearance of the How and Prime Man over the small rise beyond the copse of trees where they had together sought a source for the inscrutable rustling and snuffling sounds which had piqued the duo's curiosity only a quarter hour before.

I contemplated the coming camp-staging to be undertaken as I submerged my head to view a curious perch peeping at my goose-pimpled self from a few feet away. I momentarily flashed on the contrast of the paleness of my groin to the smooth but goose-fleshed skin both above and below speedo tan lines that were my deeply tanned torso and legs. The fish in this pool seemed overly friendly. This had been noted on previous visits to the secluded twenty-by-ten jewel of a pristine, rock floored lagoon edged by sedges, elephant ears and... maple trees, well hidden from sight unless one was either following very difficult terrain hugging the river or flying over it. Neither of which hardly ever happened due to its remoteness and hill-ringed topography.

The far perimeter of the park trails and camping areas diverged from our present whereabouts over a very challenging two mile stretch to the southwest where the more "improved" parts of the several hundred acre state set-aside resided. My studies on the history of the area had revealed a land-grant legacy cattle ranch dating from the origins of the republic, last owned by a childless bachelor hill country pioneer who had deeded the whole kit-and-caboodle to the state under strict conditions of only rudimentary development, in perpetuity, for the enjoyment of the naturalist populace subsequent to the man's passing a decade before.

Almost no one knew this idyllic entity existed and I reveled in the fact. Regularly-rotated park rangers once seemed baffled by my reference to it the time I brought it up at the central ranger station several years before so I downplayed it as a probable misconception of my memory when I figured that out.

To the north I could visualize the hill with the adjoining tiny isthmus of land on a thirty foot high rocky bluff overlooking the meandering river below, separated from the main crown of the hill by a bramble of thorny bushes, prickly junipers and scrub oaks at the point of the neck. It appeared inaccessible from below or on the hill itself and I loved that feature, having found an animal track entrancing the reclusive spot three years before on a solo trip with Prime Man.

We had sniffed and tunneled our way through the brambles to the small shaded clearing and then sat on the edge of the bluff for an inaugural sunset knowing that we would relish future return visits when that discovery had been made. This trip was the first time to show the spot to any other person and I looked forward to the coming days of camaraderie with my friend at this tucked away site.

Of a sudden, a high-pitched yip and whoop presaged my two cohorts' return from beyond the little rise and I grinned to see them materialize, sporting frantic visages, clearing the hill crest airborne as disturbed embodiments of dishevelment. The big Fila brasiliero wore draping remnants of weedy greenery stickered over his fat head, ears and torso while the How lost his cap in the jump blazoning their return, shorts awry, muscle shirt ripped and one hiking boot missing, stocking foot exposed. They catapulted headlong down the barely marked animal trail leading to my alfresco plash, both ker plunking ingloriously into the water and roiling the serene surface in their rush.

Seconds later, the reason for their frenzied dash made itself known in the form of a very angry mama skunk who arose from the spot where they had just emerged, looming up on hind legs, her bushy tail rigidly arched behind in threat of odoriferous apocalypse by the disgruntled demeanor. The Tasmanian-devil-like beast was in a total tizzy coming toward the pool's edge where it stopped short, hurling skunkian epithets. My companions prattled excitedly in a human and canine cacophony as they imparted the events leading to this scenario.

Safely (they hoped) out of reach of the varmint they sunk low in the water, both barely exposing their nostrils and mouths as they and I inhaled the first vestiges of the creature's fearsome defense mechanism to which eons of chastised hunters had given ground before that mephitic propensity for bully tactics. The thoroughly riled female, apparently defending her territory, had taken offense to these rapscallions' intrusion into her domicile, targeting her anger at the nosy and noisy misfits by aggressively charging them rather than retreating, as apparently the two had expected, thus setting the marathon sprint to safety in motion. The cowards.

Finally, after venting both psychopathically and glandularly for a good five minutes in the effort to drive her point home the veritable "Texas wolverine" screeched and chippered away, back toward her lair, thereby relieving the miscreants of their terror. Even so, both refused to emerge from the watery confines for a good hour, trembling in unison as they confided each detail of their adventure.

After gathering his wits, How shed his drenched clothing, exposing a leanly dark swimmer's body, spreading it next to his lonesome hiking boot on the small beach-like upper curve where the river cascaded down into the cup-shaped concavity over stacked boulders, thence slouching in chilled discrete distinction to the heated maelstrom recently manifested through the close encounter. Good thing I had pushed him to bring extra shoes, I thought.

My scrotal shrinkage proved contagious and he accustomed to it in mirthful observations of the phenomenon. Sir Prime dog-paddled contentedly around the familiar oasis, disgustedly snifting the malodorous aftermath of the confrontation, his focus on the now coy finned denizens of the pond with whom he more commonly shared a relationship of mutual captivation. They enthralled him. Likewise the obverse but not at the moment.

Eschewing the frontal entry to the pool for obvious reasons, we exited the higher back point by the waterfall seeking the alternate serpentine path to my secret isthmus for setting of our three day campsite. We were able to make our way with all belongings over the next hour or so as the sun was beginning to peak for the day. The brambles and scrub brush junipers proved a frustration in our au naturel state, having shunned clothes for only shoes to locomote over the rocky terrain. A la Jeremiah Johnson. What tough mountain men...but it was a bittersweet trade-off we embraced for its liberating effect.

Without any further bedevilment by pissed-off polecats we managed to set camp by close to sundown, four-man pop-up tent stolid on its security stakes underneath the short but spreading oak tree, rock-rimmed campfire declivity safely buttressed and banked. Wet clothes drying on a strung line. Foodstuffs had been bagged and then suspended to avoid the attraction of hungry natives-on-the-prowl so we cracked open a celebratory bottle of a reserve vintage pinot noir to usher in the onset of the "primitive" get-away.

The Primus scouted the near hillside as the sunlight waned, per his wont, while How and I reposed, knees dangling over the bluff edge that we might toast the dusk in proper fashion. I knew of the spectacular vista to come and desired he experience its grandeur. The firewood previously gathered, stacked and propped in place to allow minimal effort come dark had just been ceremonially lit. Two marbled ribeyes marinated fragrantly, tinfoil-wrapped baking potatoes and cobbed corn all ready for coal-cooking-- we were pretty much set.

Howard had procured an aromatic bud of sinsemilla ganja for the weekend excursion and spent some time cleaning then rolling several reefers for our pleasure. How could life get better? While we imbibed the tasty red and surveyed the surround from our eyrie on a spread blanket I watched the golden-eyed sleekness that was Primus slink into our enclave, search out his water and kibble bowl site and then collapse close by me in "pack contentment". I was proffered a cannon-sized spliff and a lit ember by my bud, Mr. How. He stood next to me, crotch at eye level. I made a conscious decision to light up the doob before contemplating the now noticeably un-shriveled waggling manmeat on the periphery of my visual field. The luxury of nudity was ours in this high haven and the augmentation of the natural panorama by anatomical accentuations such as his ample and uncut dark-skinned endowment caused my own piece to take notice.

We shared several tokes absorbing both smoke and ambiance, watching the Milky Way blossom into a diamond-studded panoply. I surreptitiously studied his chocolate silkiness as he stretched, cat-like, extending his neck to take in the living planetarium, as stunned by the magnificence as I had been the first time. The gurgling river below amplified the sensate setting.

Upon passing back the roach I felt my friend's handsome dick innocently brush my bicep as he turned...or maybe not. Innocently, that is. The soothing sensation of the inhaled weed imbued both of us with erotic flare and next I knew he was squatting over my lap spread-legged, feeding my mouth with his tongue. The brute of a dog simply lolled to the side away from us, sighing deeply, conjuring our collective twitter by his nonchalance.

Electricity surged through us and my fat dick rose to his ass crevice as he had probably intended. Fingering a glob of saliva, Howie massaged my eight and a half inch mushroom-headed cut cock into slimy rigidity attending primarily to the ultra-sensitive corona then maneuvering it directly under his rosebud asshole. We both exhaled as he settled onto it and upon bumping my pubic curls he squeezed those muscular little brown gluteals and locked his fingers around my neck causing his own big dick to rasp upwards over my abs until springing loose to slap his own. Golf ball sized nuts constricted in his tight sack and pressured my pubes erogenously, making my own hard-on spasm inside of him and we began a rhythmic gyrating motion allowing both our dicks to friction their way up the escalation scale toward a much too quick overwhelming climax amidst deep sensual tonguing of each other's lips and mouths.

The effect was transcending and we came back to reality after a zoned hiatus, once again taking heed of the wondrous diorama. Night sounds enveloped us and we reclined in tandem to cuddle with the snoring behemoth sharing our blanket.

We awakened just a short time later to our still conjoined state and as our senses gathered so did our hormones, raising greedy mandicks: his between our taut stomachs and mine still pronged inside him. We felt them both as they lengthened sensuously and I rolled the very manly Howard over positioning him underneath me and raising those supple legs up and out, grasping them by finely-boned ankles. My cum lubricated us both and I lay down on him chest-to-chest for a moment to smear his thickening juices onto my torso.

Rising again for a better fireflicker view of him I set to slowly, deeply stroking as he twisted my nipples to our undulating cadence, writhing into my thrusts in animalistic pulses until the thrill of the fuck bested us and we flooded over, filling his remaining empty inner spaces and coating that rippled stomach.

Our separation by my pulling out caused us paroxysmal reverberations and we had to sit awhile to regain strength for the grilling of those marinated steaks. After a sumptuous meal fit for men we settled right back on the blanket, caked cum still encoating us, pondered billions of stars and fell asleep with the Primus like a pile of exhausted pups.

Howard loves cum. Yours, mine, ours, his own. On him, in him, around him, airborne and on others. That became evident through the progress of our dreamland sojourn. While I was fine with allowing the encrustations of lust lull us to sleep I discovered his nocturnal hijinks during those entangled hours; they proved erotically elucidative. I would drowsily rouse to lickings of my body at various points as he made known his appreciation for the stuff, at first thinking my fatheaded furred friend was the licker and almost admonishing cessation, whenst the evidence betold of my smoother sleeping companion actively cleaning me via lingual exertions.

Unfortunately--or maybe fortunately now that I cogitate the act-- he engendered my own satyristic response each time he attempted lability of our leftovers, my priapic arousal hooking into him every time he began. Though we did get rest during the night we also fucked lights-out multiple times. Since each ejaculative release refreshed his and my juices somewhere on/in the two of us I deduced a twinge of premeditation. Either way, we had most definitely familiarized with one another in the biblical sense come dawn...double entendre intended.

Upon the faintest lightening of the cobalt sky we donned our sneakers and trekked down from our roost to the crystal-lidded pool, invigorating our beings with playful antics while cleaning the crustiness missed during his moonlight snackings. In helping each other avoid missing any spots, of course, the actions led to a watery consummation of our yet blooming enjoyment of one another. The fish were feted with a variety show of fervid innovation by our activities. Primus remained unimpressed.

Two cums later, each, we emerged and ascended once again to our smoldering campfire. Stoking some enduring embers we were able to make strong black coffee (for which I have a notable predilection-- kinda like my men) and as the sun arose over the hillock guarding the east we contemplated the day ahead.

Max Primus harbored his own ideas for frivolity, demanding our participation in exploring and tracking the area surrounding our riverside hideaway all morning. We thankfully did not roust the skunk from the previous day but did espy a whitetail doe with her speckled fawns, a couple of humorous young raccoons out washing pecans in the water, black squirrels peculiar to the area chasing up and down the maples and several cranky armadillos who all responded to the big dog's curious nudgings by launching several feet vertically into the air as registration of their complaints at interruption, clicking loudly and lumbering away in insulted angst.

We recorded videos of as many of these nature episodes as able and even set the camera tilted on a rock during a long sensuous blowjob of the How's ever ready ebony endowment, recording my meticulous work in saving a streaming memory of one eruption induced by my excellent tongue abilities...he seemed contentedly drained, yet again sopping up what jism I overlooked in the after fact.

We spent an hour at another small deep pool upstream from our base in the snagging of two good-sized catfish and descended to our camp to revive the cooking embers after cleaning and prepping the fat fish. The sweet flakiness of fish cooked over an open fire is a taste unmatchable in city restaurants and our appetites were sated by it along with fresh carrots, apples and nuts. Bottled Negro Modelo, pool-cooled, culminated our long morning's activities and we settled in the shade of our tree-hidden sanctuary to wait out the hot afternoon sun beating down around our secluded den, feeding each other's lustful hankerings with dessertful delights, leaving the big mastiff as a sphinxlike guardian outside on the bluff, surveying his domain.

The man called How was both exotically handsome and insatiable-- but then, our appetites seemed well-matched and we siesta'd our way toward a second evening in the haze of Bob Marley's ghost and legacy, augmenting our languorous interludes by the redolence of it's hovering wisps. Rainbows had landed on earth and we most assuredly were not in Kansas anymore...

Arising and stretching from a 'somnolent' respite, the air busy with the buzzing of bees hard at work, we emerged from our iniquitous den quite lazily refreshed and took note of two massive cumulonimbus thunderheads gathering height over the horizon of the northern hill. As we partook of an afternoon blunt we observed that their darkness intensified, intermittently illuminated by masked lightning strikes followed by rolling thunder seconds after. Counting cadence to one-thousand and thirty proved an acceptable distance away but after an hour of this weather show the count was down to one-thousand ten. Two miles away. We knew then we were in for a storm so took precautions by preparing for it. Gathering items into the tent, the three of us hunkered down as vanguard winds whipped branches around us and blew loose debris helter-skelter. Huge raindrops pocked the waterproof tent as dusk descended and we redefined supper as rainstorm sex-- reputedly the best sex ever to be had. Indeed, we proved the concept and fell asleep as the now steady rain battered us, staying dry (from rain wetness, anyway) in our protective cocoon.

Seemingly hours later the rain continued unabated. Wind gusts blustered around us and we began worrying if the tent could withstand the growing tempest. Thank goodness we had set camp so high over the river. Texas Hill Country flashfloods are notoriously deadly. Walls of water arise in short minutes and destroy everything before them without mercy. The geological rock and clay surfaces deny absorption leaving the water nowhere to soak in.

Earlier this spring the winding Blanco River had risen 50 feet in a single hour sweeping hundred year old trees and scores of homes downstream with dozens of people lost or drowned while simply waiting out the storm in the "safety" of their homes. A beloved family Labrador was rescued clinging to high branches of an untoppled tree, suspended precariously almost 50 feet above the ground the following day by a rescue team...its family wasn't so lucky. This wasn't that severe and we felt pretty safe from such a catastrophe.

Still naked, we hazarded a peek out to view the surroundings and were astounded to find the river below had risen a good 10-12 feet since sunset. With no campfire possible the scrotal-shrivel syndrome ensued so we retired into our tent and dressed to warm up. Between the three bodies available we warmed quickly enough and settled into an edgy doze-mode to wait it out.

I awoke with a start to a distant crack of thunder. My two intimates were affected likewise. While the wind gusts had ebbed over the preceding hours, the rain had persisted in true Texas gully-washer fashion. We unzipped a few inches of the tent opening and peeked through visualizing a soggy campfire pit and very little else by merit of the rainy curtain enveloping us. The lightning seemed more distant now as the flashes were less intense and the interval between them and the thunder claps longer. A good thing.