Chapter 3: Chapter 3
The climb had been steady, a silent pact between them where the only sounds were their bootfalls on the packed earth and the distant chatter of birds. James’s mind, however, was anything but quiet. It hummed with a single, relentless frequency: the memory of Simon’s hands, the taste of his mouth in the garage, and now, with a dizzying fixation, the shape of him in his hiking shorts. The way the fabric pulled across Simon’s ass with each step forward was a form of torture he hadn’t known existed.
They emerged onto a secluded outcrop of grey rock, the trees falling away to reveal a sweeping view of the valley below, a patchwork of green and gold under the afternoon sun.
“This is probably our turn-around point,” Simon said, shrugging off his small backpack. His voice was casual, but his eyes were watchful. “Let’s take five. Enjoy the vista.”
He pulled out the familiar, worn blanket. As they shook it open, James’s thumb found the stiff, whitish patch from the day before. A jolt, equal parts shame and thrilling ownership, shot through him. They spread it on the flat stone and sat, shoulders almost touching, drinking from their water bottles. The silence stretched, filled only by the wind and the rustle of leaves. Simon was waiting, James realized. Letting him steer.
The pressure built in James’s chest, a confusing mix of desire and terror. He took a swig of water, the plastic crunching in his grip.
“So, uh. The garage,” James started, his voice too loud. “That was… I’ve been thinking.”
“About the junk we still need to sort?” Simon asked mildly, staring straight ahead at the view.
“No. Not about the junk.”
“The radio reception, then? It was pretty shit.”
James huffed a frustrated laugh. “Simon. Come on.”
Simon finally turned his head, his blue eyes clear and patient. “You gotta say it, kid. I’m not gonna guess.”
“I want to do it again,” James blurted, the words tumbling out. “Like on the picnic blanket but... more. I mean, not just… I can’t stop thinking about… you. About being with you. Like that. All the way up here. Especially looking at your… your ass while we walked. I know we said we'd take it slow...”
He felt like an idiot, his face burning.
Simon’s expression softened. He reached over and gave James’s knee a firm, brief squeeze. “Okay. I get it. It’s okay.” Then, with a fluidity that stole James’s breath, Simon twisted onto his knees and then forward, pressing his ass into the air. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and briefs, pulling them down just beneath the curve of his cheeks. Revealed were the stark black straps of a jockstrap, and between them, the clean, pink furl of his hole.
“Good thing I prepared for it then,” Simon said, the cheekiness in his voice muffled by the rock his face was turned toward.
James stared, his mouth dry. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingertips barely grazing the warm skin. Simon shivered.
“What do I…?”
“Just explore,” Simon murmured, his voice lower now. “Use your mouth. Like you did before, but… here. Soft, at first. Just get used to it.”
James bent, the world narrowing to this intimate vista. The scent was clean, musky, uniquely Simon. He tentatively pressed his lips to the skin just beside the center, then, emboldened by Simon’s low groan, let his tongue trace a slow circle. Simon began to talk him through it, his voice a steady, encouraging stream.
“Yeah, just like that. Softer… okay, now a little firmer. Think of it like… like you’re trying to get inside with just the tip. There you go. God, yes.”
It was awkward, then it wasn’t. It was strange, then it was the only thing that made sense. James lost himself in the rhythm, in the taste and the texture, in the way Simon’s body opened and trembled under his ministrations. He was, he realized with a dizzying shock, making out with him there. Simon’s earlier guidance echoed in his head—communicate, listen—and he listened to the hitches in Simon’s breath, the clench and release of muscle under his hands. One of James’s hands snaked around, fingers gently encircling Simon’s cock, which was hard and leaking against the blanket.
Simon’s coherent speech dissolved into a series of sighs and muttered curses. After a while, his hand came back, fumbling in his pack, and emerged with a small bottle. The sound of the cap clicking open was stark in the mountain air.
“Okay,” Simon breathed, his voice thick. “Come up here.”
James did, kneeling, his own erection straining painfully against his shorts. Simon poured cool lube into his palm, then reached back to slick James thoroughly, his touch clinical and devastating all at once. He did the same to himself with a practiced ease that made James’s stomach tighten.
Then Simon presented himself again, arms folded under his head. “Go slow. Just the head at first. Let me adjust.”
James positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against that now-slicked entrance. He pushed, met with tight, breathtaking resistance, then a sudden yielding that made them both gasp.
“Fuck,” James whispered.
“Yeah. Now just… stay there. Breathe.” Simon’s own breaths were shallow. After a moment, he said, “Okay. A little more. An inch. Now pull back. Good. Now again.”
It was a halting, instructional dance. Simon’s voice was a ragged guide. “You’re looking for… a rhythm. Don’t just piston. Find an angle… oh, fuck, right there. That’s it. That’s the spot. Right there, James.”
James found it, a place inside Simon that made his whole body shudder. He set a pace, driven by a raw, hungry need, his hands gripping Simon’s hips. Simon’s encouragement broke apart into wordless, punched-out sounds, his fingers scrabbling against the rock. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath.
It was over fast. A coiled, electric tension snapped in James’s gut, and he drove in deep with a choked cry, spilling into the condom Simon had somehow managed to put on him without him even noticing. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his hands, panting against Simon’s back.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing syncing with the wind.
“Sorry,” James mumbled into Simon’s shirt. “That was… quick.”
Simon laughed, a weak, happy sound. He carefully eased himself out from under James and rolled onto his back, wincing slightly. “Don’t be. This isn’t exactly the place for a marathon session. We can do that when we get home.” He grinned up at the canopy. “If you’ve got more juice to squeeze, that is.”
“I don’t think I ever run out,” James said, the boldness of his post-orgasm haze surprising him.
Simon turned his head, a challenging glint in his eye. “I’ll test you on that tomorrow.”
As they cleaned up with damp wipes from Simon’s endlessly practical pack, a nagging worry cut through James’s bliss. Simon hadn’t come. He’d been hard, leaking, but…
“You didn’t… I didn’t make you…” James couldn’t finish the sentence.
Simon zipped his shorts, a slow, satisfied smile spreading under his moustache. “Are you kidding? I had two. You just didn’t see them happen.”
James blinked. “Two?”
As they gathered the blanket and began the walk back down the path, Simon slung an arm around his shoulders. “Prostate orgasms, my man. Different animal. Whole-body shakes, no ejaculation necessary. You rattled my spine back there.” He explained it simply, without embarrassment, talking about nerves and pressure waves.
James listened, fascinated, his own body thrumming with a new, curious awareness. The idea of feeling that himself, of that kind of surrender… it wasn’t frightening. It was a new page in a book he’d only just begun to read.
“So,” he said, as the car came into view through the trees, “it feels good? Getting… fucked?”
Simon squeezed his shoulder, his smile warm and knowing. “With the right teacher? It’s a goddamn revelation.”
They reached the car at the trailhead, the only vehicle in the small, dusty clearing. The quiet felt heavy, charged. Simon popped the boot, tossing the blanket and their water inside.
James moved to put his backpack in, but Simon’s hand caught his wrist, firm and sure.
“C’mere,” Simon murmured, his voice rough. He pulled James in, his kiss not gentle but hungry, a direct continuation of the conversation they’d just had. James melted into it, the taste of sweat and pine and Simon overwhelming his senses. Simon hoisted himself to sit on the boot’s edge, his legs dangling, and pulled James between them, their mouths never parting.
A low moan escaped James, his hands gripping Simon’s thighs. Through the worn fabric of his own shorts, he felt his erection, insistent and painful. Simon broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes dark.
“I can feel that,” Simon said, a smirk playing on his wet lips. He glanced around the vacant lot. “Quick.”
With a surprising agility, Simon brought one foot up, then the other, planting them on the lip of the boot on either side of his hips. He shimmied his shorts and briefs down just past the curve of his ass, tilting his pelvis forward on the edge. The exposure was stark, vulnerable. James stared, a dark, possessive hunger tightening his gut.
Simon spat into his own palm, reached for James’s waistband, and freed him. The cool air was a shock, then the warm, slick grip of Simon’s hand as he stroked, mixing spit with the residual slickness still clinging to him from earlier. “Still wet for you,” Simon breathed, guiding him.
James slid into him with one smooth, deep push. The tight, yielding heat was familiar now, a homecoming. Simon let out a shattered gasp, his head falling back.
“Don’t wait,” Simon urged, his voice strained as he braced his hands behind him. “Come on, James. Hard and fast. Someone could come any minute.”
James set a brutal, driving rhythm, the car rocking slightly on its suspension. He buried his face in Simon’s neck, the scent of him everywhere. A reckless, wild thing uncoiled in James’s chest.
“Maybe I want them to see us,” James panted directly into Simon’s ear, the words coming from some primal, newly unlocked place. “Maybe I want them to join in. Another daddy out for a hike. Watching him fuck your hole that I made sloppy.”
The effect was instant. Simon’s body seized, a ragged cry tearing from his throat as his cock pulsed between them, stripes of white shooting up over his crumpled t-shirt and spattering his blonde moustache. The violent clenching around James was too much. He drove in deep and stilled, his own release wracking him with silent, intense tremors.
For a few heartbeats, they simply existed in the hum of the aftermath, tangled and spent. Simon, still perched, laughed breathlessly. “Christ. Your cock.”
James, still inside him, leaned forward and slowly licked a stripe through the cum on Simon’s moustache. Simon’s whole body shuddered, his oversensitive hole fluttering weakly around James’s softening length.
They moved quickly, a practiced, wordless team now. They tucked themselves away, used a spare water bottle to clean up as best they could, and fell into the car. For several minutes, they just sat in the front seats, kissing slowly, languidly, a gentle counterpoint to the frantic coupling minutes before. The sharp crunch of gravel under tires made them jump apart. A sedan pulled into the far end of the lot.
“Home,” Simon said, turning the key.
The drive was quiet, but their hands found each other. Simon’s thumb traced circles on James’s knee, a constant, warm point of contact.
Inside the house, Simon led him by the hand up the stairs, not to James’s room or his own, but to the main bathroom. He turned on the large, rainfall showerhead, steam quickly fogging the mirrors. They undressed each other slowly, this time without desperation.
Under the hot spray, they simply held each other, the water sluicing dirt and sweat and the evidence of the woods and the car park down the drain. Simon lathered soap in his hands and washed James’s back, his chest, his arms. James reciprocated, learning the landscape of Simon’s hairy torso, the solid muscle of his shoulders. They kissed under the water, soft, exploring kisses that felt more intimate than anything before. Their erections were present, persistent, but secondary to the closeness.
“I’m starving,” James said later, wrapped in a towel, his hair dripping.
“Takeout,” Simon agreed, ruffling his own short hair with another towel. “Absolutely. But a ground rule: if we’re ordering garbage, I like to get high first. Enhances the experience.”
James leaned against the sink. “I’ve never tried it.”
Simon’s eyebrows rose. “Never?”
“The meds I was on,” James shrugged. “It was a whole thing. Never seemed like an option.”
Simon considered him, a slow smile spreading. “Might be time to try it. If you want.”
James nodded, a flutter of nervous excitement in his stomach. “Yeah. I want.”
They padded to Simon’s bedroom. Simon dug through a drawer, tossing James a pair of black briefs that were frankly obscene, a sheer, silky mesh that left nothing to the imagination. James put them on, his body humming with a new kind of awareness. Simon opted for a tight, grey pair that showcased the thick outline of him, the fabric straining.
“Okay, apprentice,” Simon said, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a small wooden box. He produced a packet of papers and a pinch of fragrant, green buds. “Watch and learn.”
James watched, mesmerized by the quick, precise movements of Simon’s fingers as he crushed, sprinkled, rolled, and licked the paper. It was a tiny, elegant ritual. Simon lit the end, took a small pull, and handed it to James.
“Don’t inhale like you’re sucking a milkshake through a straw,” Simon instructed softly. “Sip it. Draw the smoke into your mouth, then take a little breath of air to pull it down. Gently.”
James obeyed. The smoke hit his throat, warm and vaguely herbal. He exhaled a thin, wobbly stream, feeling a slight burn, but no cough. He took another, deeper this time.
“Good,” Simon nodded, taking the joint back. “Now we wait.”
They passed it back and forth in comfortable silence. James felt it first as a lightness behind his eyes, a softening of the edges of the room. Then a slow, warm wave rolled from his scalp down to his toes. The texture of the duvet under his hand became fascinating. The sound of Simon breathing was a symphony.
“How’s it landing?” Simon asked, his voice seeming to arrive from a warm, close distance.
James turned his head, a movement that felt fluid and slow. “The garage door needs painting,” he said, utterly serious.
Simon burst out laughing, a rich, happy sound that seemed to vibrate in the air. “Noted. But how do you feel?”
“I feel… quiet. Inside my head. It’s nice. Really nice.” He looked at Simon, at the laugh lines around his eyes, the blonde hairs on his chest. “You’re beautiful.”
Simon’s smile softened. He put the joint out in a small glass tray and shuffled closer. “Come here.”
They kissed, and it was different. Every sensation was amplified, slowed, profound. The taste of Simon was complex and infinite. The feel of his stubble against James’s chin was a universe of texture. They sank into the pillows, a tangle of limbs and gentle mouths, exploring without destination.
A buzzing from Simon’s phone on the nightstand eventually pierced the haze. “Food,” Simon murmured against James’s lips.
James, floating and half-hard in the sheer briefs, padded to the door. He was halfway down the stairs before he registered his state of undress. He shrugged, the thought distant and unimportant.
Simon followed down and got drinks and paper towels from the kitchen. James returned to the living room with the pizza box, placing it on the coffee. “I think the delivery guy got an eyeful,” James said, a giggle bubbling up. “I forgot what I was wearing.”
Simon’s eyes glittered with mischief. “You should’ve invited him in. A spit roast is as filling as pizza.”
The absurd, crude image hit James with full force. He collapsed into howls of laughter, falling onto Simon, who was also shaking with silent giggles. They rolled on the couch, holding each other, tears streaming from their eyes, the sheer joy of it as intoxicating as the weed.
James groaned, swatting Simon’s arm. “You’re disgusting. I love it.”
He leaned in to kiss him again, but a simultaneous, loud growl echoed from both their stomachs. Simon patted James’s bare hip.
“Food first,” he said.
“Food first,” James agreed, already reaching for the box lid.
The first slice of pizza was a revelation. The cheese stretched into impossible, gleaming strings that James watched with profound focus before they snapped. The tang of the sauce, the salty burst of pepperoni, the gritty give of the crust—each sensation unfolded in his mouth like a separate, magnificent event. “Oh my god,” he mumbled around a too-hot mouthful, eyes wide. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”
Simon chuckled, taking a slower bite of his own. “Told you. Enhances the experience.”
They ate in a contented silence broken only by the rustle of cardboard and soft groans of pleasure from James. Simon queued up a series of absurd, vintage music videos on YouTube, the garish colors and bizarre choreography sending James into helpless, giggling fits that made him worry he’d choke. He felt untethered from his own anxieties, floating in a warm, sensory pool where the only anchors were the taste of pizza and the solid warmth of Simon’s thigh against his.
“Wait until I suck your cock,” Simon said teasingly during a lull, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through James’s side.
James moaned, a soft, involuntary sound, and realized the truth of it. The thought, combined with the constant, low hum of pleasure from the weed, had him half-hard already, the sensitive head rubbing against the soft, punishing mesh of the briefs. “This thing is never going down again,” he sighed, shifting his hips.
Simon’s hand settled on James’s bare thigh, his thumb stroking the dense muscle there. “Not to worry,” he said, his tone shifting from teasing to something solemn, a vow. “I will work as hard as I can to keep it drained.”
James forgot the last slice of pizza. His world narrowed to the heat between his legs and the fascinating texture of the fabric under his fingertips. He let his hand drift, cupping himself through the mesh, the faint friction a delicious torment. Every nerve ending there felt newly minted, raw and alive.
Simon noticed. Without a word, he slid off the couch and onto the floor, settling on his knees between James’s legs. His eyes, hooded and dark, held James’s as he leaned forward and mouthed him through the underwear. The damp heat of his breath, the press of his lips, the faint scrape of his moustache—it was almost too much. James’s head fell back against the couch with a thump.
Simon hooked his fingers into the waistband and peeled the briefs down, freeing him. He didn’t dive in. He studied him, leaning close, his breath ghosting over the flushed skin before he pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the tip. James jerked, a strangled gasp escaping him.
Then Simon took him in, and the world dissolved.
It wasn’t hungry or frantic like in the car. This was a slow, deep worship. Simon’s mouth was a slick, perfect heat, his tongue mapping every ridge and vein with a languid precision that made James’s toes curl into the rug. His hands cradled James’s balls, rolling them gently, a counterpoint rhythm that had James trembling. Simon’s own skills, rusty from disuse, were waking up muscle by muscle; the daily, secret practice with his toy had kept his throat supple and open, and he used that now, taking James deeper with each slow descent until the head nudged the back of his throat and stayed.
The sound was obscene—wet, rhythmic, greedy. Simon moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight up James’s spine. James’s hands fisted in his own hair, then in the couch cushions, grasping for purchase in a reality that was rapidly slipping away. He was babbling, a stream of “ohgod” and “fuck” and “Simon” that meant nothing and everything.
Simon’s pace never hurried. He worked him with a devastating expertise, pulling back to swirl his tongue over the leaking slit, then sinking down again until his nose was buried in the coarse hair at the base. His free hand slid up James’s stomach, finding a nipple and pinching it gently, then rolling it between his fingers. The dual sensations, the exquisite focus on every erogenous zone, stripped James of thought. He was pure sensation, a live wire thrashing on the leather.
When James came, it wasn’t a sharp peak but a deep, rolling quake that seemed to pull from his very core. He cried out, back arching off the couch as he spilled into Simon’s waiting throat. Simon stayed with him, swallowing gently, keeping him enclosed in that warm, pulsing wetness until the last tremor passed. He didn’t pull away. He rested his forehead against James’s thigh, James’s softening length still in his mouth, and let out a contented, humming sigh.
Boneless and utterly spent, James floated in the aftermath. He reached down, his fingers clumsy but gentle, stroking Simon’s sweat-damp hair, tracing the shell of his ear, thumbing the line of his jaw where it stretched around him. Simon nuzzled into the touch, making a soft noise of pleasure as he began to nurse, gentle sucks and laps that held no urgency, only a profound, stated happiness. I am happy here, each motion said.
Before James’s mind could even form a coherent thought, he felt the familiar, thick throb of arousal beginning again, an impossible resurgence fueled by the cannabis and Simon’s utter dedication. Simon felt it too, the flesh thickening against his tongue. He moaned, a deep, resonant sound of approval, and began again.
This time was wetter, messier. Simon’s saliva flowed freely, a thick, slick coating that dripped from James’s cock and balls, soaking the thatch of hair and pooling on the dark leather of the couch beneath him. Simon worshipped him with a single-minded devotion, his hands roaming—squeezing James’s thighs, plucking at his nipples, cradling his balls. James’s body was a frantic pendulum, slumping into liquefied bliss one second and bowstring-tight the next, every nerve alight. His sounds were animalistic, broken groans mixed with the slick, rhythmic noise of Simon’s mouth and his own ragged pants.
Simon drew the second orgasm from him with the patience of a master, a slow, relentless build that crashed over James like a wave, leaving him shuddering and gasping for air. Simon swallowed again, cleaning him with tender swipes of his tongue before finally sitting back on his heels, his own face glistening, his lips kiss-swollen.
He let James breathe, his own chest rising and falling rapidly. He reached for his supplies on the coffee table and, still kneeling on the floor, began to roll another joint with practiced, steady fingers.
James watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, the world hazy at the edges. After a few minutes, a weak, fond affection stirred in his chest. He pushed himself up, his limbs feeling like overcooked noodles, and slid off the couch. He wrapped himself around Simon from behind, resting his chin on Simon’s shoulder, his front pressed to Simon’s back. He smelled of sweat and sex and Simon.
“You’re ruining my rolling technique,” Simon murmured, but he leaned back into the embrace.
“Don’t care,” James mumbled into his neck.
They smoked the second joint like that, James draped over Simon, passing it back and forth over Simon’s shoulder. The high deepened, softening the world further, blurring the lines between their bodies. When it was done, Simon stubbed it out and turned his head, catching James’s mouth in a deep, smoky kiss.
Then Simon shifted, moving with a liquid grace, pulled James back onto the couch and straddled his lap, Simon's hands framing James’s face. He kissed him again, deeper, grinding his hips down in a slow circle. Through the thin fabric of Simon’s briefs, James felt the hard heat of him, and, impossibly, felt his own body answer for a third time.
“You’re unstoppable,” Simon whispered against his lips, breathless and amused.
“So are you,” James muttered back, the words slurred, his consciousness barely tethered to the room.
Simon reached between them, freeing James again, his own thickness pressing alongside. “Spit,” Simon instructed, his voice raw. “Use your hand. Get me ready.”
James obeyed happily, gathering saliva in his mouth and spitting into his own palm before reaching between Simon’s cheeks. Simon guided his fingers, his eyes locked on James’s, his breath hitching as James worked him open with a clumsy, eager reverence. It didn’t take long. Simon rose up on his knees, positioned himself, and sank down in one slow, breathtaking glide.
He rode James with a steady, rolling rhythm, his head thrown back, his hands braced on James’s shoulders. James could only hold his hips and watch, utterly transfixed, as Simon took his own pleasure, his body clenching and releasing around him. It was a quiet, intense culmination. Simon’s orgasm was a silent, full-body shudder, his mouth open in a soundless cry, his hips stuttering before he collapsed forward, pressing his face into James’s neck.
They stayed like that for long minutes, until Simon carefully lifted himself off. He pulled James up from the couch, guiding his unsteady steps toward the stairs. “Come on, kid. You’re done.”
He led James to his own bedroom, not the guest room, and guided him under the covers. James was already half-asleep, his body a grateful, hollowed-out shell. Simon pulled the duvet up to his chin and turned to leave.
“No,” James slurred, his hand shooting out from under the covers, finding Simon’s wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. “Stay.”
Simon paused, then let out a soft, surrendering breath. He kicked off his briefs and slid into bed beside him. James immediately turned, pressing his back against Simon’s chest, sighing as Simon’s arm came around him. In the dark, with Simon’s steady breath warming the back of his neck, James fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.