Pinned Hard in the Ozark Boathouse

The gravel spat under my tires and quit at a cedar cabin as the light went copper over Table Rock Lake. My buddy had texted from the Kansas City airport that his connection was dead, so the weekend was mine and whoever else rolled in. I was thirty-one, dusted with drywall from a week in Little Rock, and all I wanted was cold water on my back.

Cole was on the dock with a beer sweating in his fist. I knew him from one gym photo my buddy had sent: lineman for the co-op, twenty-seven, built like the poles he climbed. Up close he was bigger. Sun had cooked his shoulders the color of brick. A white scar split his left eyebrow. Board shorts sat low on his hips, and I could see the deep groove beside his hip bone and the dark trail under his navel. He looked me over the same way, slow, from my chest to my thighs, and didn't pretend it was polite.

We talked like men who already knew where the night was headed and were in no hurry to name it. The cabin shower was dead. He jerked his chin at the boathouse.
- You Drew?
- Yeah. You the one who was supposed to bring the steaks?
- Steaks are in the cooler. Shower pump is screaming and the water comes out rust.
- Hose on the boathouse looked live.
- Then we use that.

I dropped my bag on a plastic chair and followed him down the hot steps. We hit the lake without more talk. The cold punched the breath out of me and then turned perfect against sunburned skin. Cole swam in long pulls. When he stood in the shallows the water sheeted off his stomach and caught in the hair there, running into his shorts. I looked. He stood still and let me, thumb hooked just under his waistband.

Back in the boathouse the corners had gone dark. It smelled like wet rope, cedar, and old iron. Cole cranked the hose. He stepped under it, head tipped back, shorts plastered so tight I could see the heavy curve of his cock, half lifted, the head printing the cloth. My own answered so fast it hurt. I didn't cover it.
- You gonna stand there?
- Not if you tell me to come over.
- I'm telling you.

He shoved the shorts down. They hit the boards with a wet slap. His cock swung out thick and cut, the head flushed dark, a vein on the underside, his balls hanging heavy once the room's heat got to him. I stripped and stepped in. Our chests met under the spray. His nipples dragged hard against mine. His cock slid hot across my lower belly while the hose ran cold down my spine, and the contrast made me grunt.

He killed the hose with a twist of his wrist. Water ticked off the boards. His hand closed on the back of my neck, broad and callused, and he walked me backward until my shoulders hit a wall of coiled line. His mouth found mine. He tasted like lake and beer, and he kissed like he meant to leave a mark, tongue deep, stubble scraping my lip. I got both hands on his ass. It was dense and round, and it flexed hard when I squeezed. He rutted against me, cock sliding along mine, slick with water and the first hot leak of precum between our stomachs.

He dropped to his knees on the wet boards. One hand pinned my hip. The other wrapped my shaft and stroked once, slow, thumb smearing what was already leaking. Then his mouth took me, hot and done with waiting. He went down until his nose pressed my stomach and the head of my cock pushed into his throat. He held, throat working, a low sound buzzing up my shaft, then pulled off and did it again, faster. Spit ran over my balls. His free hand rolled them and pressed behind until my thighs shook. I fucked his mouth in short thrusts, fingers in his damp hair. He took every one, eyes up. His own cock hung hard between his thighs, dripping on the boards, untouched.

He pulled off when I got close and turned me, hands sure on my hips. My chest hit a stack of faded life vests. His cock pressed between my cheeks, heavy and hot. He spit into his palm and worked it over both of us. Two fingers pushed in, then a third, the stretch burning open until I pushed back on his hand and bit the canvas. He lined up and sank in, inch by inch, until his hips sat flush and I was full enough to lose my breath. He stayed there, chest to my back, one arm barred across my pecs, pulse hammering where we were joined.

Then he moved. Long strokes first, the head tugging my rim, driving back until his balls slapped mine. The wet sound filled the boathouse and the pace climbed. Rope bit my shoulder. His breath went harsh at my ear in grunts he never turned into words. His hand worked my cock in time, rough and tight, thumb on the head. I came hard, ass clenching around him, shooting across the canvas and his fingers, a raw sound bouncing off the cedar. He drove in deep and stayed, cock throbbing as he came inside me, heat flooding, and that dragged one more weak pulse out of me.

He softened and slipped free. Warmth ran down the inside of my thigh. The lake knocked the pilings. He turned me and kissed me slower, and I tasted myself on his tongue with the beer and the water. A boat went by far off. Neither of us covered up. I kept a hand on the small of his back and felt him come down, the boathouse still holding our heat.