"ADVENTURE (noun): an unusual and exciting, often hazardous, experience or activity." The New Oxford Dictionary of English
Welcome to the second story in my new "Adventure" series. (The first is "Devil With A Blue Dress On" in the transgendered section.) My two previous stories "The Arrangement" and "Breaking The Arrangement" were autobiographical. Everything in them is based on what actually happened to me as I was growing up.
The Adventure series has no such restrictions. While some of the stories may have a kernel of truth at their heart, for the most part they are pure fiction, a chance to stretch my wings as an author and go where my lust and imagination takes me.
It was a good day for hunting. The early fall had brought a refreshing crispness to the weather and turned the canopies of the trees into a harlequin's umbrella of chartreuse, ocher, butterscotch and copper. The rainstorm from a couple of days before had left the earth comfortably soft but not overly wet, perfect for hunkering down once the prey was ensnared. Best of all, the quarry was plentiful.
As I walked up the trail I could see my potential targets scattered along its borders, their uncertain eyes tracking me as I moved toward them, trying to determine my purpose. Some, the shyer ones, moved deeper into the trees while others less wary than their counterparts stood their ground, one or two even moving toward the path I was walking.
After several minutes of surveillance I spotted my prey resting against the trunk of a small oak tree. Young but clearly mature. A little smaller than average build with a delicate body and longish limbs, the legs firm and muscular. As I drew slowly closer I could see a pair of grey eyes stealthily peeking out from under half lowered eyelids. The eyes were rather near together above an irregularly shaped nose which emphasized the leanness of the face. A fringe of tousled flaxen hair fell over the ridge of the ears. A good selection, I thought to myself, not a trophy specimen but still very nice. The trick now would be to finish my approach without spooking him further into the woods.
When we were about two feet apart his eyes snapped open, all pretense of disinterest gone; his gaze locking with mine as each of us appraised the other. Straightening up to step away from the tree he gave a short, inquisitive tilt of his head, wordlessly asking my intentions, intentions I made clear by running the tip of my tongue across my semi-parted lips. With a crooked smile and a short nod of his head he accepted my offer. I had snagged my prey.
Still not speaking we walked deeper into the woods, the back of my hand occasionally brushing against his denim covered crotch. Our destination was one of the "Cocksuckers' Coves," a series of a dozen or so secluded grottos which dotted the most remote corner of this county park.
Accessed by the means of twisty paths which sometimes doubled back on themselves, each cove was literally carved out of the bushes and underbrush in the shape of an "L" lying on its side. You entered though a narrow passageway which mimicked the vertical line of the L and, about five feet later, made a second turn to enter the actual cove, usually a 4 x 5 foot clearing edged by brush and vines about seven feet tall. The ground in each cove was cleared of plants and covered with wood chips. Every cove contained a log lying on its side as well as a three to four foot stump setting upright. Some even had small garbage cans.
The intricate and artificial nature of these coves had spawned a number of rumors about their origins, one wag insisting the "other fairies" were responsible. The most common theory was horny park employees had created and maintained these little slices of heaven so they could get their balls drained on a regular basis. Although no one had ever seen a park employee in one of the coves, it was an well accepted rule that anyone wearing the brown park work uniform who entered a cove would be treated like royalty with everyone falling to their knees in homage. Regardless of who or what created these sanctuaries, for several years they had served as a well-known spots where gay men could enjoy each other without fear of harassment.
My prey turned out to be as delicious as he looked. His dick was pale white, longer than average but thin nestled in a clump of golden down which also lightly covered his scrotum. His balls were equally compact, rounded like marbles instead of the usual egg shape.
He had no hesitation about using me for his pleasure, demanding I lie on my back while he squatted just above me slowly lowering his sac into my gaping mouth. I treated his balls as though they were the finest chocolate cream eggs, desiring the syrup they held inside. My tongue felt the weight of each one as they licked back and forth, occasionally pausing while I sucked the full scrotum as deeply inside me as I could, his precum dripping on my forehead and running into my hair.
When he couldn't stand another lick, he stood up, pulling me to my knees at the same time. There was no gentleness about him as he quickly shoved his cock as far down my throat as he could, causing me to choke. Without giving me a chance to recover he began to quiver, his manjuice pouring out of him like water from a garden hose. Pulling back slightly, I reveled in its salty taste, its slimy texture.
Even after his orgasm we continued our sex play. I cleaned him with my tongue and fingers paying special attention to his balls. Despite one of my better efforts he remained semi-flaccid but urged me to lie back down again to suck his nuts. Finally, after about fifteen minutes had passed, he stopped me and said he had to go, he had another appointment to keep and just couldn't be late. I was surprised by his goodbye, an open-mouthed kiss with some tongue. Most men I suck off just want to leave afterwards. Only my special lovers kiss me. I hoped I would see him again.
Nowhere near reaching my bag limit for the day, I was following my conquest out of the cove to begin the search for another dick to nurse on when it happened. Just as we left the cove and turned to begin walking down the little trail toward the main path, a hand extending from the end of a light tan sleeve thumped down on my shoulder stopping me in my tracks. Any illusion I had that this was the mythical park worker vanished as I heard the words "That's far enough faggot. You're under arrest." The light brown uniform belonged to a county employee all right, it belonged to a deputy sheriff.
After dismissing my companion, "You're free to go. We're only after the cocksuckers like this one here. But spread the word, the fairy circles are closed," the deputy turned his attention to me.
"Put your hands behind your back." I complied and felt the cold circles of metal against my wrists like sandpaper soaked in salt. The metallic click of the cuffs as they locked caused my fear to rise up as thick as any cum that had ever coated my throat.
As the deputy read me my rights "You have the right to remain silent...," I began to tremble, the words of the warning adding an air of horrifying finality to what was happening. This wasn't a bad dream I would wake up from. I was being arrested. I was going to jail. I would lose my job, my apartment, be placed on the list of registered sex offenders. To this day I don't know how I managed to stay upright and not melt like a wicked witch doused with water.
When he had finished Mirandizing me, the deputy again grabbed my shoulder this time turning me around to face in the opposite direction. And there stood the sheriff.
