Bent Over the Cedar Dock at Dusk

The lake went flat and copper at dusk, and the cedar dock still held the day's heat under my bare feet. I had hauled the Jon boat up and rinsed the minnow bucket, shoulders burning in that good, used way. Brett came up the path from the cabin with two beers sweating in his fists, shirtless, board shorts slung low. He was thirty-one, thick through the chest, a dark line of hair running down a stomach you could bounce a quarter off. I was twenty-eight. We had spent the summer framing decks together up near Traverse City, and we both looked like the work had carved us.

He stopped close enough that I smelled sunscreen and lake water on his skin. A mosquito whined and gave up. The cove was empty except for us.

- You gonna stand there dripping, or you gonna let me look.

- Look all you want. I ain't shy.

- I know you ain't. Turn around.

I turned. His palm landed between my shoulder blades, heavy and warm, and slid down to the waistband of my wet trunks. The boards creaked under his weight. A loon called once across the water and went quiet.

- Been watching your back all afternoon. Those lats. Christ.

- Then quit watching.

He laughed once, low in his throat, and hooked a finger under the elastic. I nodded, pulse kicking hard in my neck. That was the last thing either of us said.

He shoved the trunks down my thighs. Evening air hit my ass, cool after the swim, and I stepped out of the wet cloth. My cock was already thick, swinging heavy when I faced him. Brett's eyes dropped and stayed. He set the beers on a piling without looking and pushed his own shorts off. His dick came up hard against his belly, cut, flushed dark, a vein standing along the shaft. His quads were ridiculous, cut from years of squats and job-site ladders, and his balls hung full and tight in the warm air.

He dropped to his knees on the cedar. I put a hand in his short hair and he opened his mouth and took me in, slow at first, tongue flat and hot under the head, then deeper, lips sealed tight, spit slicking me to the root. The wet heat of him made my knees go loose. I braced on the piling and fed him another inch. He groaned around me, the sound buzzing straight into my gut, and cupped my balls, rolling them, thumb pressing that tender spot behind until my thighs jumped. He sucked like he meant to pull the whole day out of me. His cheeks hollowed. His nose brushed my stomach on the deep strokes. One big hand clamped my hip so I could not drift, fingers digging into muscle.

I pulled him off before I lost it. A string of spit stretched from his lower lip to my cock and broke across his chin. I hauled him up by the arms. His pecs mashed into mine, nipples hard, sweat and lake water smearing where our stomachs slid. I kissed him hard and tasted myself on his tongue, salt and skin, and he bit my lip just enough to sting. His cock dragged hot and heavy against mine. I reached down and wrapped both of us in one fist, stroking slow, then faster, the friction rough and perfect where his precome made the slide slick. He rocked into my grip, teeth on my jaw, breath blasting hot against my ear.

He turned me toward the railing. I bent over it, forearms on warm cedar, ass tipped out over the dark water. Brett spit into his palm and worked it over himself, then pressed two wet fingers against me and pushed. I bore down and took them. He opened me with a slow twist, knuckles working, the stretch bright and deep, and I dropped my head between my arms and breathed until the burn went sweet and wide. When he lined up, the blunt head of his cock nudged me and held, thicker than his fingers, insistent. I pushed back. He sank in inch by inch, and I felt every ridge, the way he spread me, until his hips met my ass and his balls rested heavy against mine.

He stayed buried a second, both of us shaking, his hands locked on my waist. Then he started to fuck. Long strokes first, pulling almost out so the head tugged at my rim, then driving back in until his stomach clapped my ass. The slap of skin got louder, faster, and the smell of us rose off the boards, salt and cedar and sex. I reached under and stroked myself in time with him, cock leaking onto the cedar, fist tight and slick. He shifted his stance and the angle changed, and he hit that spot inside me that turned the edges of my vision white. My thighs trembled. I shoved back to meet every thrust, greedy for the full length of him, for the way his heavy balls swung and smacked me when he buried it deep.

Brett folded over my back. His chest was slick on my shoulders, his mouth on my neck, biting the salt off my skin. One thick arm wrapped my chest and pinned me there while he pounded shorter and harder, grinding in, hips snapping. The pressure coiled low and mean. I came first, hard enough that my vision pulsed, striping the railing and my own fingers, clenching around him in rhythmic pulls I could not control. He grunted into my shoulder and lost his pace. He drove in and stayed, cock throbbing, heat flooding me in thick spurts I felt deep, his whole body locked and shaking against my back.

We hung there while the lake licked the pilings. Brett eased out, a warm trickle running down my thigh. He turned me and pressed his forehead to mine. Our cocks brushed and we both flinched. He put a cold beer in my hand. We drank naked while the light left the pines, his arm heavy across my shoulders, shorts forgotten on the boards.