The mountain

by Also Known As   

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The darkness in the mountains can be absolute. It is sometimes hard on a moonless night to see your own hand before your face, and every noise becomes suspicious and frightening.

The roads are far from treacherous, for the most part, and well kept up, but you can find yourself in trouble if you’re not careful—or if you’re behind the wheel when you shouldn’t be.

You’re tired, but you want to be home. It’s a long drive, hours on the winding passes, around blind curves and over hillocks and valleys, leading through the mountains to the highway where you can more easily maneuver the early morning darkness. You keep your high beams on for almost the entire trip, shining a bright beacon before your car’s windshield, throwing the conifers and hardwoods into deep shadow, hoping the lights keeps you alert as well. You’re flexing your toes inside your shoes to fight fatigue, singing aloud to the songs from your phone. The signal you were so used to was fading in and out though, and you curse yourself for not thinking to download the songs directly.

Now you have nothing coming from your speakers and the manner in which your car manages the ruts and curves means that only a soft hum surrounds your drowsiness.

Arrows, black on yellow, appear on the road signaling that sharp turns are ahead. Slow to 15 mph, they tell you, and take the road with caution. But you are used to driving fast, and relying on your car to know how to maneuver any oncoming challenge.

A shape, large and dark, is suddenly before you, something tall and broad and thick and, half-asleep, you shout into the interior silence in shock and surprise and tug harder against the steering wheel than you should. You feel your car lurch and your stomach lurches with it. The shoulder is soft and you’re spinning, then twisting, then careening out of control and over the edge, your dutiful car exploding air bags in all directions.

You reach up and brace himself against the roof, feeling it bending against your palm as you start slowly to tumble over and over again. Your window is open to allow the cool night air to refresh you. You’re being showered in rocks and dirt, thorned branches reach in to claw at you and you’re dazed, rocked, cast into darkness and then something hits you, something hard against your head, you hear it inside your skull like a rifle.

Fog. Thick, heavy, blinding.
A throbbing pain, like a balloon of fire inflating in your head.
Darkness and light, shadows moving across your hazy, broken vision.
Something, someone, motion in the quiet space.
Fire.
Pain.

“Fuck,” you try to say, with a mouth full of dryness.

You open your eyes and wince, trying to lift your arm to your face but find it tied down, wrapped, braced. More shooting pain, and a heavy groan erupts in your throat.

The sound of another man’s voice. Deep, like an earthquake. “Stay still.”

“Where—?”

“Stay still,” the voice repeated. A pressure now against your chest, a broad hand, strong and warm. A face, then, something covered in hair like a great beast. A bear in the room with you? Looking at you? Dark eyes. Dark fur. “Drink this.” Something, a glass, a jar, pressed to your lips, a warm wetness and you open his mouth. Fire poured inside. Whiskey. Harsh but honeyed.

“Where… what happened?” You aren’t sure if you manage to say the words aloud or merely think them.

“Rest.”

You feel the hand the same hand on your face, on your forehead, warm, dry, then moving downward, a shadow, the smell of wood smoke, pine, the whisky, closing your eyes. Darkness again.

Smoke. A fire. Warmth. The scent of meat cooking. Onions. Garlic. You open your eyes and see the thick pine beams that support the roof overhead. Dancing shadows among the wooden planks. Light and dark shifting in dizzy pirouettes without seeming aim.

You stir uncomfortably and attempt to right yourself, sitting up. Looking to your right, a figure by the fire, blocking out the light, his huge silhouette thrown against the walls and roof of the small space you share with him. You hear the scrape of metal against metal—a spoon and pot? Looking down at yourself, then, at your constriction. You are warmly wrapped up in something soft against your skin.

Bare skin.

You are naked—exposed and vulnerable on an unfamiliar mattress. A heavy fur draped over you. Your arm aches, from the shoulder to the elbow, you move it tentatively and a throbbing pain rewards you, but no shooting shards of sharp agony. Not broken, then. Your head is pounding as if something inside wants out. You would give your painful arm up for a handful of Ibuprofen. Your chest also aches. But you feel otherwise all right.

You struggle to sit up, depending on your good arm. Your movement makes the bed creak and complain, drawing the attention of your companion who turns, locking eyes with you.

You remember that face—rather, you remember the lack of face on his face, and the dark eyes peering through the thick fur of a large, full beard and mustache. His brows are equally dark and heavy, and he has a long mane of black hair tied behind his wide back into a tail that drops down to the crack of his ass.

He pivots and stands from his crouch, a mountain rising from the earth into the image of a tree or building of tremendous size that blots out the fire. His shadow is thrown across your sight and you can make out some of his features, now.

He seems to be wearing a dark coat made of fur, but your eyes widen as you come to realize he wears nothing at all, either above or below the waist. The taper of his upper body is absurd, so pronounced that you think he must be wearing a costume or some odd contrivance mimicking that silhouette to create such a distinctive V from shoulder to waist, but no, it is the man himself.

He puts his hands against his hips and looks down at you, giving the impression of a giant. His head, does it reach the overhead beams? Does he stoop to fit inside his own home? “Awake,” he says, and his voice pierces the crackle of the fire like a rolling boulder.

You open your mouth to speak, but your brain is curiously empty, even as your dick betrays the feelings you’re experiencing about the size and power of the man'the naked man—standing before you. He seems to radiate some essential masculine or animal power, perhaps both. Though you cannot clearly see him, you can—feel him.

You blink to clear your vision. A dream, perhaps? Some illusion? A trick of the light and your broken, throbbing head?

He steps towards you and it is obvious that this is no dream, and that is no illusion, and now his features and dimensions take shape, defying belief.

He is made of muscle and fur, with a great, thick beard and masses of dark curls all over his body. A pendulous and remarkable length of thick cock meat juts forward towards you, inches long and unmoving with its heaviness. You stare at it because you cannot help yourself, marveling both at its tremendous size and the simple fact that it is there, exposed and naked like the rest of him.

He drops to a crouch again before you—does his cock literally drag the ground, you wonder?—and places a large hand against your forehead. It is very warm, with rough skin against yours. That scent of him again, woodsmoke, pine, but now also thick sweat, leather or animal, the unmistakable sweet tang of sweaty groin. Your cock pulses of its own volition at the clear recognition. Your nose buried there, your tongue licking taint to hole. His hairy balls in your face, wet with your own spit. Sweet muskiness.

There is a rawness to him that you cannot deny, it spreads from him like heat and power, and your eyes move across the wide expanse of his tremendous pectoral mounds—the two fat nipples like chocolate kisses erupting up through his fur—and the mounded muscles of his shoulder and arm and look into his eyes.

He has dark irises, like cobalt or chips of obsidian. The whites are clear and his lashes thick and long. His lips, full and soft, seem pursed in contemplation of you as your eyes meet, and he offers a smile that twists up the long hairs of his mustache and creates creases beneath his heavy beard. “Who—” you say.

He replies before you finish. “You’ve a fever,” he rumbles. “Drink.”

He reaches towards a table near you and lifts a jar to your lips, you feel the raised screwtop where the lid marries. Cool water meets your tongue and you are suddenly very thirsty, drinking as fast as he pours the liquid silver inside your mouth. His actions are careful and precise, which seems to defy the tremendous size and obvious power of the man. You finish the glass and he stands

you watch his dick come back into view, rising up before your hungry eyes, a massive shank of sex that you doubt you could encompass in your grip—you notice now its dangling, mushroom helmet covered in a thick collar of foreskin with a heavy vein that seems to throb in time to your own heart, the small mouth of his cock like a pout you wish to kiss—and feel your own cock once again pulse with the sudden desire you feel inside—his balls, large as hen’s eggs, hang low in a full pelt, pushing his prick towards you like an invitation

and turns

his ass is a thing of beauty, a man’s buttocks gifted with powerful globes filled with muscle—two round masses that rise and fall, perfectly formed meaty wonders both thick and hard—you ache to see him bend and present his tight, hairy, sweat-lacquered pucker for your inspection and admiration, you imagine diving forward and pushing your tongue deeply inside him, to taste him and feel him squirm and hear him moan, begging for more—then that mighty taper again, the bulging masses of brawn pressing against his slick skin, and more of his curling forest of man-fur arching across the acreage of his shoulders, and the length of the thick horse’s tail of hair hangs all the way down to kiss the upper crack of his marvelous butt

and he walks from you towards the opposite corner, lifting a pitcher and pouring more water into your glass. He looks at you

his face a series of acute angles, a square jaw, a broad nose, a regal brow, and all that hair, erupting from his chin and cheeks and neck like a cascade of darkness, the thick lines over his dark eyes, those eyes like shards of glass, like darkly mirrored chips in the creases of his handsome face, and you think you have never before seen anyone so masculine, so strongly male

and one heavy eyebrow arches.

You lick your lips before you realize you are doing it. Does he mistake your desire for thirst? Aren’t they, after all, the same thing?

He approaches again. My God, you think, he really does need to tilt his head to avoid hitting it against the pine beams! Then he is lowering his mountainous frame again and is pressing the glass to your lips, pouring water down your throat. “Slowly,” he advises. He practically growls the word, like the animal he appears to be.

You nod and cannot look away from him. Close now, it is more difficult to tell if he has a handsome face with so much hair covering his features. But there is no doubting that the man’s body is absurdly beautiful and incredibly powerful. His smell hits you again as if you had buried your nose into the deep, dank pit beneath one of his brawny arms and inhaled with deep satisfaction.

After pouring the second glass of cool water down your throat (you feel it branch inside your body, cooling everything but your now heavily-throbbing dick and pleasantly tingling balls) he sets the glass aside and remains crouched next to you, his large head at eye-level. “How do you feel?”

You say the first word that comes to mind. “Confused.”

The giant smiles and nods. “An unsurprising answer.” He places the back of his hand to your head. “You are still feverish, and your arm will need some time. Your shoulder became dislocated.”

“You put it back?”

“Obviously,” he says. He takes his hand from your head and starts to rise again. Your heart flips in your chest at the anticipation of seeing him fully naked before you. His massive chest coated in a forest of fur. The cobblestones lining his belly. The eruption of a trail of curls from his winking navel that travels south and spreads like a dark crown over the majesty of his massive manhood. The low, heavy balls filled up with cum. The wedges of hard muscle pushing against the dark skin of his long legs, and every inch coated in his heavy pelt scented of his heady perfume.

Then he stands—towers—over you. “Hungry?”

You glance down at his cock and want to attempt to swallow him whole. “Yes,” you answer.

He laughs. It is a rich, warm sound from that wide, deep chest. Then he turns around and you watch his butt again'the dark crevasse between his globes lined with musky fur and sweat—as he returns to the fire and a bubbling pot. He reaches in without donning gloves to pull it from the fire. “We will eat when it cools,” he says, then he looks at you and asks (or states), “You eat meat.(?)”

You nod, thinking of the meat you’d like to be eating. Your cock is pushing insistently against the heavy fur covering your own naked form.

“I don’t trust a man who doesn’t eat meat,” he says, but you wonder whether he ended his proclamation with ‘meat’ or ‘me.’ Wonder or wish. These thoughts get crossed, things are disconnected and indistinct.

He moves to a third corner of the small room and sits down in a large chair, splaying his legs wide, moving his hips forward so that inches of his heavy meat push off the edge and point towards you. “I am Bronn,” he says. You tell him your name, and he nods in greeting. He reaches down and scratches an itch in the deep forest of his pubic crown making his heavy prick bob. You watch it with keen interest. The size and shape of the head. The thick, lengthy stalk. “Where were you headed?”

“Home,” you tell him.

“And where is home?” he asks.

You tell him the city and watch for a reaction, but none comes. “I live here,” he says, motioning with his hand in a general way. You watch the bulging muscles of his biceps jump. You watch the lobe of power climbing over his shoulder swell. He rests his muscular arm on the simpler arm of the chair, balling his hand into a fist and setting his cheek against it. “You might have died.”

“You saved me?”

He nods. Then he shrugs. “It was partially my fault.”

You want to ask him why he is naked. You want to ask him how he has come to be so big, so muscular, so powerful. Your eyes keep darting towards his cock, offered so openly and proudly to you. He moves his other hand down his body, over the rippled contours of his furry abdominals, and rests it exactly where your eyes are focused. You note how much larger his cock is than his hand, how thick it is compared to his fingers. He begins to move his hand along the inches of his impressive girth, and you raise your eyes to his to see what expression is on his face.

He is smiling at you. It is a different smile than the one he had before when he offered you water. “I was in the road,” he says. “I didn’t think anyone else would be out here. No one comes here.”

“I was trying to get home.”

“So was I,” he answers. He looks down at his cock, cupping the shaft in his loose grip, rubbing the lips with the rough pad of his thumb, pulling back the elastic skin to uncover the moist plum of the helmet. His cock stretches and plumps from his open manipulations, and he squeezes himself hard. “Why don’t you ask your question?” His voice is a gruff rumble. It pushes against your chest like his strong hand. He raises his gaze to look at you, but his hand does not stop its manipulations of his swelling monster.

“What question?”

He looks down again. He rubs a drop of precum from the mouth of his prick. “Why am I naked?” He looks down at his growing erection as he pleasures himself. “Why do I do this?” He raises his thumb to his supple lips and sucks his essence off.

You shrug, attempting nonchalance. “It’s your—cabin. You can do what you like—dress how you like.”

“Or undress,” he says. He pushes out his long, wet tongue and licks a wet slick of spit into his palm.

“Or undress.” Your gaze flows south and you watch his slow strokes. His strokes are accompanied by a slick, wet sound. His cock is arching upwards, growing enormous. “Does it bother you?”

You wonder at your answer. Should you be honest? Should you lie? After all, he’s the naked one, and also the one completely in charge. He’s jerking off with obvious relish right there for your benefit as much as his own. You realize you’re also naked. Your own dick’s constant throbbing is a witness to that fact. He tilts his head, the room silent other than the slick sucking noise his hand makes against his prick and the pop and snap of the fire, awaiting your reply, and you finally say, “Not in the least.”

He smiles. He looks down at his dick again. His strokes are slow, leisurely, worshipful. He twists his grip around backwards and runs his hand the length of his meat. The lips of the head are glazed with pre, it oozes from him like honey.

“Beauty never bothers me.”

An eyebrow arches. His gaze rises again. “You find me beautiful?” You nod, and lick your lips.

He moves his hand off his cock and pushes against the arms of the chair, standing on the other side of the room. The firelight throws the contours, bulges, clefts and prominences of his huge frame into relief. The fur that springs from every inch seems to shine like glassy filaments. One pectoral globe casts a shadow across its brother. His nipples like small caps against the bands of raw, hard brawn. Your eyes can make out in fine detail the definition of every muscle, every broad wedge and ball of thick power that presses against his naked flesh. He is, indeed, very beautiful. “What do you find beautiful?”

“E—everything.”

“Tell me,” he says. He reapplies his hand to his cock. It juts forward like a handle. You can see his balls lift and move. He is also moving his hips, slipping his cock through his grip, its length growing to unbelievable extents.

You lift your gaze upwards. “Your face. Your lips. Your eyes. The way your neck leads into your shoulders. The the way I can see your muscles flex when you move, when you breath. Your—your smile. Your—cock.”

“Beautiful?”

“Yes,” you answer, and your eyes fall towards it. It is rising and pulsing, throbbing towards erection, revealing its true extents and majesty before you. “You’re beautiful.”

“What is beautiful about my cock?” He lifts his hand away, standing now before you, a display of perfect male beauty. His dick glistens with spit as it slowly continues its rise. The shaft is growing glassy. Thick veins traverse beneath the skin, dark against pale, and his ample foreskin peels back from the flaring ridge of his helmet.

The words flow easily, honestly, you wonder where your honeyed tongue has come from. You have never spoken works like these aloud to anyone else. “Its length. Its width. Its—heaviness. Its power. The perfection of its head. The teardrop of precum drooling from its mouth. The thick throbs of hot blood feeding its size and hunger. The way that it continues to rise, lifting itself, the muscle that pushes it up higher and higher, the blood that pumps it larger and larger.”

“You would worship my cock?”

“Yes.”

“How?” He steps forward. “How would you worship my cock?”

“With my eyes. With my hands. With my mouth. With my ass.”

“Tell me how,” he demands, stepping still closer to you. “How would you worship me with your eyes?”

You feel compelled to tell him, released from any feelings of embarrassment or fear about your desires for him. His power pulses in the room with thick throbs. You practically feel his skin pressing against yours. “I would kneel before you and look up, into your dark eyes, and then follow the line of your body down, over your broad and muscular chest, down your strong belly.” You speak your words slowly, deliberately, and with emotion. Your heart pounds in your chest. You feel him watching you. “I would lean forward, pressing my nose into your fur, to smell your body, smell your sweat, lick it from your skin, and feel your cock rise because I worship you fully.”

“Tell me about my cock.” He looks down at his mammoth appendage. It is a foot high, at least. It throbs in the firelight and weeps with honey. You watch his belly grow and receded, his chest rise and fall as his lust and desire grows within him.

You look down at it now. “I would look on you for hours. Endlessly. Staring at the perfection, the power, the—majesty of your manhood.” At the last word—manhood—his mammoth appendage swells and jerks. “I would burn its beauty into my brain, each hot vein of blood, the colors of your flesh, the thickness of your foreskin, the diameter of the swollen helmet as it bloomed larger and larger. The tender lips at the tip of your cock, the long, thick, firm stalk from its connection to your muscular body to its apex where you release the essence of your power and beauty.”

“With your hands?”

“I would hold you in both my hands, because you are so large, so magnificent, feel the hardness of you, the thickness and the length, the size of you. Feel your heart beating through your cock, into your cock, pushing blood inside it like a secondary heart, beating in my hands. But this heart is your power, your muscle, your sex. and I would run my hands along you with slow, ecstatic strokes, feeling your heat growing as I did so. I would stroke you as you grew, teasing you to fullness, squeezing you and feeling you pushing back against my grip with the strength of your cock. I would rub the head with gentle caresses, drop it into my palm and feel its heft, wait until you gifted me with a drop of your godlike honey and then lick it off, replacing my spit-soaked palm to your shaft to continue to stroke you in long, slow, firm movement, as your heat and hardness grow stronger and stronger. You would rise higher, grow harder, swell larger than you ever have before.”

“And your mouth?” He takes another step, now halfway across the room.

“I would lean forward as I looked up into your handsome, your beautiful face, lean forward to reverently kiss your cock. Then again. Then again. Kissing its length, pressing my warm wet lips against you and you would close your eyes and feel each kiss as I left it on your skin. You would feel the warmth of my breath on your cock, then the moist, wet pressure of my tongue as I lick it from root to head, head to root, bathing you in my spit and watching your cock grow shiny and slick and powerful. I would move my mouth up your inches and suckle against the head, pushing my tongue into the tender separation at the base of your helmet, peeling back the wealth of your foreskin and breathing in your musk before plunging my mouth fully over the head of your beautiful cock, feeling you surge with sudden growth, nudging the back of my throat, drooling sweet, salty honey for me to swallow as I suck for more, my lips wound around your cock, your cock inside my mouth, and you grasp my head in your powerful hands, piston your hips and shove yourself deeper and deeper inside me. I attempt to swallow you, but your size, your strength, the power of your cock overwhelms me and I gag, and then moan, when our bodies meet and become one, your cock in my mouth, down my throat, fucking my face.”

His cock is monstrously huge and throbbing with steady beats. He clasps and unclasps his hands at his sides. His chest rises and falls and his open mouth is gulping air to cool his overheated body. Sweat travels along his skin, making him gleam in the firelight, making him look as if he is constructed of metal until you see the striations of muscle twitch and flex, the vein along his neck bulge and throb, the whole of his furry body is inflated with power—like his cock.

It weeps a stream of precum down its inches, painting a glistening trail in the firelight. Thicker now, and taller, than any cock you have ever seen, or even imagined. Bigger than your imagination was able to conceive, throbbing visibly.

“Your ass,” he says.

“Yes,” you answer.

“Your ass would worship me,” he says.

“Yes,” you answer. “I would scream in pain as you entered me. So huge that I might fear being ripped apart by your size and power. And then you would be inside me, and I would crest the wave of pain and cross into absolute bliss. I would feel every inch of your thickness as you moved inside me, slowly, gifting me with the power of of you, the intimate poetry of your fuck, and you would fuck me, slowly at first, illustrating your size and fullness as you moved into my guts, filling me up as nothing and no one has ever done. And then I would beg and cry and plead for more. For more of your power, your strength, your passion. I would cry out for you to fuck me harder, deeper, truer, to fuck me as your lover and your brother and your worshipping supplicant. Your cock would gift me with the ultimate pleasure, a pleasure so fulfilling and perfect that I will feel as though I have died, utterly, and passed through the gates of heaven.”

“You would worship me?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“And then you would explode.”

Halfway across the room, his head against the roof, his cock at its largest extents, he pivots suddenly towards the fire, bends his knees, pulls his arms back, thrusts his chest towards the ceiling and lets out a feral shout, a deep animal growl, a sound so earnest and masculine in its power that you nearly cum the load that had been building in your own balls.

Your heart is beating very quickly. You feel your entire body heat up. Your skin prickles and your balls sizzle. Your cock grows uncomfortably hard.

You can see him releasing heavy ropes of sticky cum. Thick streams that arch high and long and land in the fire where they sizzle loudly like lava. A trick of the light makes these eruptions of sex look red, like blood. Or gold. Or silver. He thrusts his hips, his hands balled into fists, the two muscular globes of his ass pressed together and creating a mind-blowing indent that tells you he has an ass built for fucking, a power-ass you can almost feel in your hands like two smooth, hard melons as you pull him deeper inside you, and he explodes with long, thick, full streams of heavy golden blood-colored cream that perfumes the room strongly with his musk. Sweat is streaming from his naked body as he empties himself into the fire, yards from where he stands. A dozen times or more, shooting his cannon and groaning in absolute pleasure until you see him breathing hard and he stands again, unbending his knees and rising to his full height.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asks, his wide, tapered back to you. His voice is quiet, but still loud in the now-silent room. It is almost as if you can hear his feral shouts of ecstasy fading still.

“Fate?” Your eyes wide, your heart beating in your chest, you are amazed you can form words from your astonished mouth.

He nods, not looking towards you. “Do you?”

You consider the odd question for a moment and then answer, “I don’t know.”

“I do,” he says. “I believe in fate. I must.” His voice lowers, grows faint to your ears. “Some things are destined to happen. Some things are supposed to happen.”

“What things?”

You hear him pulling in a long breath. He is looking into the fire and reaching down. You can see the triceps on his arm swell and flex. He is stroking himself, perhaps squeezing out the remnants of his load, because he lifts his hand to his mouth. Does he pull in his scent, that heady masculine perfume that permeates the room and lives here like the fire’s heat, or does he lick his essence from his strong fingers? His hand drops to his side, and he bends slightly to pull his shaggy head from the beams overhead. “Rest,” he tells you.

“What about—?”

He turns. Again, he is in silhouette and you can barely make out his features. He looks darker, still, now. He looks menacing, and sexy, and frightening, and powerful. You can see his dark eyes like glints of glass. His teeth like ivory shards inside a cave’s mouth. “Morning is coming,” he says. “Rest, now.”

He walks toward the room’s single door. My God, you think again, that ass! You can see in profile that his dick has calmed itself and now hangs forward semi-firmly, glistening like metal. You have burned its likeness into your brain, but it looks larger even than you remember. He reaches for the handle and opens the door. “Rest, while there is darkness, and time.”

He glances back towards you again before leaving the space.

You recognize the look of hunger in his eyes.

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