Chapter 5

"Jesus H. Christ!" Daryl Mason moaned, hearing the telephone ringing.

He burrowed even deeper into the blankets and hoped the phone would quit. It didn't.

"Oh, shit!" he groaned, struggling to throw the covers off until his head came up where his feet should have been. No wonder the Goddamned phone sounded as if it were ringing in another room.

Daryl had a hangover which wasn't all that strange, since -- as of late -- there hadn't been much for anybody to do at the Bear Creek Lodge but drink.

With all of the snow, you would have thought it was winter. It certainly had screwed up a lot of people who had come for the hiking. No one could go hiking in snow up to his ass. This was weather for skiers. Actually, it was too bad even for skiers. Besides, all of the skiers had gone home a long time ago. There was never snow like this at this time of the year, for Christ's sake.

The phone was still ringing when he reached it. Although he had given it plenty of time to stop before he got there. He couldn't figure out which of his friends was sadistic enough to call him on the morning after tying on a drunk. For the life of him, he couldn't believe any of them were in any better condition than he was.

"Mason here," he said from the habit, speaking into the mouthpiece and praying whomever it was on the other end wouldn't speak too loudly.

"Yes, Mr. Mason. This is Kenneth Teller."

Daryl didn't know a Kenneth Teller.

"My friend and I thought we might arrange to get in a little skiing."

"You certainly do have the weather for it," Daryl replied, not really believing this guy was serious. None of the ski lifts was working. Management had let off all the winter help weeks ago.

He opened one eye (he had been operating in the dark up until then) and caught a glimpse of a panorama beyond the window that was pure misery. Hell, even in the skiing season, you didn't have anyone out on the slopes in this kind of shit.

This had to be a joke!

"Actually, we came up for the hiking," Kenneth went on to explain. "But, the weather seems to have stymied us on that front."

"You and several other disappointed people," Daryl said automatically. Actually, his mind was drifting elsewhere, to the kid last night in the can. One of the kids from that youth group who had come up to hike the High Crest Trail, without anything else to do, had sought amusement by sucking cock and getting his young cock sucked off in the basement latrine.

The lodge had been snowed in for three days. The natives were getting restless. Hell, the weather was shitty. They couldn't even get anyone out to look for the people who hadn't made it back down after the storm had hit the mountain.

Surely, this guy had to be kidding with his crap about him and his friend wanting to go skiing.

"We've arranged to pick up a couple pair of skis from Mr. Roberts," Kenneth went on.

Harold Roberts, that would be, proprietor of the sundries shop located on the main floor. Knowing Roberts, Daryl figured he had probably charged a pretty penny for dragging out two pair of skis during the off-season. Most of the stock from the skis shop was in storage. Jerry Myrtle, who ran the shop, was off, enjoying himself in Bermuda or somewhere.

"However, there seems to be a problem of getting up the mountain," Kenneth continued. "None of the lifts are in operation. And there seems to be some question of starting them up again without someone in to check out the mechanism."

Daryl would have found all of this thoroughly amusing if he hadn't had a slight headache. As it was, he wished old Kenneth here would get the point.

"All the skiers have packed up and gone home," Daryl said. "It's spring and summer people you have here now. I wouldn't trust them to run the lifts, Mr. Teller, even if they went so far as to volunteer their services."

"I understand, though, that you have a helicopter," Kenneth said.

This was true. Daryl did indeed run the helicopter service. But Kenneth certainly couldn't have been suggesting what Daryl thought he might be suggesting.

"Have you happened to look out of the window lately, Mr. Teller?" Daryl asked, hoping to cut Kenneth off before the old boy really made a jackass out of himself. "If I could get a helicopter off the ground, I would be flying up the mountain to look for missing people. I certainly wouldn't be hiring out my services to private skiing parties."

"It's the Carlyle Run we're interested in," Kenneth continued, undaunted. "I understand you could get us to the top flying blindfolded."

Daryl could only wonder where Mr. Kenneth Teller had picked up that particular piece of information.

"I really find this too early in the morning for practical jokes," Daryl said.

Then, while Kenneth was in the process of undoubtedly trying to explain away how none of this was a joke, Daryl gently replaced the receiver and cut him off.

Daryl immediately rang the front desk.

"Karen, that you?"

"Not so loud, please," Karen Henley begged from the other end of the line. "God only knows why, but I seem to have this horrible headache this morning."

"God isn't the only one who knows why," Daryl said, feeling a bit better. Obviously, his improvement had something to do with misery enjoying company. "You were really having one hell of a good time in the bar by the time I got around to stopping in there last night."

"That's good," Karen said. "I would certainly hate to think I got to feeling this way without having a good time somewhere along the way. Now, what can I do for you this fine...?" She must have checked the time. "My God, but what are you doing up so early, anyway? Or aren't you suffering?"

"You passed a call through the switchboard. Remember?"

"Oh, yes, one from room two-ten. That would be Mr. Kenneth Teller, right? Or, was it his attractive male friend?"

"Male friend?"

"Don't tell me you've missed all the scuttlebutt about Mr. Teller and his friend," Karen said as if she found that a little hard to believe. "If you have, you're probably the only one around who has."

"I've been out trying to keep roads free of snow. It was only last night all of our efforts proved hopeless. Remember? Or have you been plowed out of your mind since all of this white stuff began to fall?"

"Don't I wish," Karen said. And she meant it. "You can't believe the shit I've had to go through around here since over a hundred people who wanted to be outside hiking have become trapped in this seemingly small building."

"Back to Mr. Teller and his friend. Okay?"

"So, why don't you tell me? He certainly doesn't call me at this time of the morning."

"All I got out of him was that he wanted to go skiing."

"Still has that bee in his bonnet, does he?" Karen asked. "I guess the honeymoon is over, huh?"

"Honeymoon?"

"His friend," Karen said. "Surely, I don't have to go into any details in that regard with you, do I?"

It was pretty much common knowledge around the lodge that Daryl was gay.

He certainly had never broadcast the fact. But he had never gone out of his way to keep it a secret, either. All in all, it had never given him any particular problems. During the summers, college kids made up the bulk of the employment force at the lodge. College kids were pretty much geared to a live-and-let-live attitude. And since bisexuality was something of a big thing on many college campuses, a lot of the guys were only too willing to climb into bed with someone as good-looking and as hunky as the inresidence copter pilot. Daryl's main problem, as a matter of fact, was always the girls. During the course of every season, there would be one to get a crush on him. He had a difficult time trying to explain how he was gay and not bi. He simply couldn't get it up for women.

"Well, if he should try to get me again, please tell him I'm out of the building -- without bothering to ring through, will you?"

"Trying to make him raise the ante?"

"What, ante?"

"I hear he ended up paying Roberts over five hundred bucks for those skis. Used ones, too, the way I heard it. A few pair Roberts had had stuffed off in an old closet for years. God knows how much Teller is going to end up offering you to get him to a spot where he can put those skis of his to some use."

"I'm not going anywhere but to sleep," Daryl said. "You will help me get my beauty rest, won't you?"

"I suppose it wouldn't kill me, would it?"

"I'll owe you."

"Yea, you sure will," she told him and then broke the connection.

He surprised himself by falling immediately to sleep and staying that way for six hours. When woke up, he actually didn't feel half-bad. He knew, because he was hungry. If a hangover was going to be a real bastard, he would usually find he could go for a whole day with even the slightest thoughts of food making him feel queasy.

He threw back the blankets and got out of bed. Since someone had finally gotten the clunky furnace back to work (it, like everything else, had been turned off weeks ago) the room was at least warm. Which it hadn't been the first night the wind and the snow had socked in the mountain.

He went to the window. He could see there had been little change over the last few hours. It was still snowing. It was still blowing. And the fog was the kind always portrayed in horror films.

It looked like it was going to be another day of weather too bad to go looking for survivors. Which was a shame. While most everyone had miraculously managed to come struggling in, there were at least three other people somewhere up on that mountain.

Goddamn, but Daryl would sure as hell have hated being in their shoes. Just thinking about being stuck out in that mess gave him gooseflesh.

He headed for the bathroom. If he hurried, he could shower and shave and still get to the dining room before the kitchen quit serving lunch.

He peeled off his T-shirt: that and his jockey shorts were what he always wore in lieu of pajamas.

The small mirror in the small bathroom didn't throw back much by way of a total reflection of Daryl's superb body, but Daryl didn't need to see his physique to know it was a good one.

High-school sports had gotten his body firmed up to begin with. Two years in Nam as a copter pilot had drained off all excess fat. After Nam, he had liked the body he had and had gone out of his way to keep it in top shape.

What with the exceptional body, and the handsome face that went with it, Daryl had never had the least problem getting together with guys who were as interested in gay sex as he was. None of his relationships had been long-lasting, but that was probably Daryl's fault. He figured he was simply too independent to settle down. Although he occasionally ran across someone who made him reconsider -- for a moment.

He knew he was going to make it through the rest of the day without, suffering any after-effects from his drunk of the previous night when he managed to stay steady enough throughout his whole shave not to cut himself.

He rinsed off the excess soap. Dried his face. Splattered on some after-shave that stung while smelling pleasantly of lime.

He then took a good look at his, face in the mirror.

He wasn't really checking for wrinkles. He kept telling himself he wasn't someone who got paranoid about approaching old age. Worrying about the wrinkles was only going to make a person look even more harried. Besides, lines gave a man's face character.

He did, however, give an audible sigh of relief when he saw no obvious indications of having suffered physically from his recent debauchery. Except, of course, for the whites of his eyes having gone more than a little bloodshot. That, he hoped, could be cleared up by a few drops of Murine.

His irises were gray. They were shielded by thick lashes and well-defined brows.

He had hair that changed color according to the seasons, going from very light brown in the winter to an attractive blond when the summer sun had a chance to get at it. It was more blond than brown now, but that was because -- although no one would have ever guessed -- there had been several days of genuinely scorching heat since winter had officially ended at the lodge.

His hair was tousled now because he had just gotten out of bed. However, it was usually just as attractively mussed during any part of any given day. As he kept his hair comparatively short (he had become accustomed to wearing it short in Nam and was only now letting it grow out) its uncombed state usually added, rather than detracted, from his exceptional good looks.

Satisfied his face was holding up, he ran his hands along his hips, over his tight belly, and back along his ass, searching for signs of fat. He didn't find any.

He went to the shower, adjusted the spray, dropped his underpants, stepped into the water.

The spray felt good. There were few things he had ever found comparable to the sensual pleasure to be derived from a long, hot shower. There was simply something about the caress of warm water along his flesh that was almost -- almost, but not quite -- as good as sex.

He soaped down, rinsed, and soaped himself again. His cock started to swell when he made sure to peel back his thick foreskin to wash the pulpy corona beneath it. He was more than a little tempted to jack off. However, he didn't want to waste the time. He was hungry, and the dining room officially closed at two. Of course, since he was a regular around, the lodge, he had access to the kitchen, even after closing. If he were really starving, he could always find a cook who would take pity on him and let him raid, the pantry. Problem was, he was almost sure Tina Wilson, a little coed from some midwestern school who worked in, the kitchen until supper, was sweet on him. That he had told her he was gay hadn't seemed to make too much of a difference. It actually made some women even more excited, as a matter of fact.

Christ, but he hoped Tina wasn't one of those well-meaning cunts who thought she was all Daryl needed to get himself back on the straight and narrow.

He washed his hair, rinsed it, stood for more minutes under the soothing flush of water before finally turning it off.

He came out of the shower, reaching for a large Turkish towel. He dried his hair first, knowing its shortness would have it pretty much in a presentable condition by the time he finished with the rest of his body. Which it was.

He dressed in long underwear, wool pants, wool shirt and knit sweater. Goddamn, but he would have never guessed winter was over. Although there was the furnace back in operation, the main rooms of the lodge, the dining room included, could still manage to get a bit drafty.

He took one more look through the window, seeing no change whatsoever from what he had seen when awakened by Mr. Teller's phone call earlier that morning.

The guy had to be crazy as holy slit to even want to go skiing out in that mess. Hell, if he had someone with him so good looking that even Karen had commented on it in passing, he should have taken his stud into his room, locked the door, and sucked and fucked until the weather or his cock broke. That, sure as hell, was what Daryl would have done if he had had a nice warm body available to him for the taking.

Get your mind off your cock and back on your poor empty belly, he told himself, stepping out into the hallway and locking the door to his room.

Inside his pants, his cock was stirring to an even more distinct stiffness. Wearing wool pants always seemed to give him a hard-on. It didn't make any difference there was underwear separating his tender skin from the scratching wool material.

He checked to make sure he was alone in the corridor, and then used his right hand to adjust his swelling cock to a far more comfortable position.

"Oh, Mr. Mason!" Karen called as Daryl was on his way past the reception desk.

He veered in her direction and leaned over the counter. She was sitting behind the switchboard.

"I'm supposed to ask you to get in touch with Mr. Teller at the first opportune moment."

"Jesus!" Daryl said. "Not the ski freak!"

"He does seem determined to make it up that mountain."

"He has got to be crazy. Even if he did get up there, how in the hell is he planning to get down?"

"He'll put on his skis and aim them in a downhill direction," Karen said. "And you know what? On the Carlyle Run, that is pretty much all he'll need to do."

"Until he reached the bottom and comes skiing in through the picture windows lining the dining room," Daryl said.

Karen laughed.

"Do me a big favor and tell Mr. Teller you've been unable to reach me, will you?" Daryl asked, pushing away from the counter.

"He's in there, now, you know," Karen called out, using her sweetest voice.

Daryl did an about-face and came back to the counter.

"Who is in where?" be wanted to know.

"Mr. Teller is in the dining room," Karen said, smiling. She had a dimple at the lower left corner of her mouth. She was cute -- for a girl. She had tried her luck with Daryl two years ago. She had been a good loser. Actually, she was a good friend.

"Oh, Christ!" Daryl moaned. "And wouldn't you know I'm starving to death."

"You don't look as if you're wasting away yet."

"Well, that just goes to show what you know." He stood for a moment, contemplating a plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes.

"How's he going to know who I am, huh?" he asked finally, afraid Karen might find a flaw in that particular line of reasoning. Which she promptly proceeded to do.

"He's already checked out the pictures in our gallery of local stats," Karen informed. Her smile was growing even wider.

Her reference had been in regard to a display case that sat off to one end of the main lounge area. Still holding photographs taken during that year's official skiing season, it contained one picture (distinctly labeled) which showed Daryl after he had flown two injured skiers down the mountain. One of the skiers had been so severely injured in a fall, it had been impossible to bring him down by anything but a helicopter.

"I tell you, I'm starving," Daryl insisted, hoping Karen would come up with something.

"Aren't you sweet on some cute thing on the kitchen staff?" Karen asked. "Or is she sweet on you?"

"Don't be bitchy!" Daryl chided. "You're way too pretty to be bitchy!"

"Anyway, how do you know that you and Mr. Teller won't hit it off together? He's not all that bad. Besides, I think he and his other half have had a lover's quarrel or something."

"Goddamn, from bitch to matchmaker in a two second interval."

"I'm only trying to be helpful," Karen said. "Our Mr. Teller is obviously rolling in money. He has the waiters and waitresses scrambling in their rush to wait on his table to pick up the big tips he's been dropping lately."

"Do I look like I'm ready to add myself to the scramble?" Daryl asked.

"All I know is that I'm just waiting for someone to drop by and pick up my tab," Karen said. "So why are all the good-looking and rich ones gay?"

"Hmmmmmm," Daryl hummed noncommittally as he checked his watch.

He really wasn't up to trying to explain to Kenneth Teller just why it was impossible, and certainly too risky, to take a helicopter up in such heavy and gusting winds.

"You keep watch, will you?" Daryl asked. "I've still got twenty minutes before they officially shut the doors. I'll be back in fifteen, hoping to hear that Mr. Teller has left, having scattered his big tips behind him."

"If not, I'm sure we can drum you up a stale sandwich somewhere."

"You are all heart," Daryl told her, blowing a swishy kiss.

He really had all intentions of finding a convenient corner and hiding there for fifteen minutes, but he happened to catch a glimpse of a familiar face heading for a familiar place. Anyway, the kid looked something like the one whose cock Daryl had sucked off in the can the night before. Of course, Daryl couldn't be certain. Last night he had been so potted, he hadn't been able to get an erection of his own, even though he did vaguely remember the kid asking more than once if he could suck on Daryl's big prick.

The can in question was the one in the basement of the lodge, probably popular with the gay set because it was admittedly a little out of the way.

The kid who Daryl had been following was definitely heading in that direction. Daryl shadowed. However, once through the door, the kid seemed to disappear. It didn't take too many smarts, though, to figure out he was in one of the stalls.

There were four stalls in all. Three of them were full at the moment. All Daryl could see were feet.

Two pair of tennis shoes (one pair white Nike, one pair blue Adidas) one pair expensive biking boots. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what kind of shoes the kid had been wearing. Not that it made a hell of a lot of difference. There was, after all, only the one stall available -- the end one -- located next to the stall displaying the feet of Mr. Hiking Boots.

Daryl checked his watch, doubting he really had time for sex and lunch. Still, it was suddenly very tempting to stay. The end stall, he knew from past experience, had a glory hole that would give him a good view of the hiker. If he didn't like what he saw, he could still make it to the dining room in time. If he did like what he saw, well, he'd have a snack here and then risk seduction from Tina in the kitchen where he'd go for a sandwich.

When he stepped into the stall, though, he immediately realized there was an eye already glued to the available hole. So he couldn't very well bend down right then and there and meet his eyeball to the other one.

This meant he would at least have to go through the motions of taking a piss. Although it would be apparent the minute he pulled out his cock -- if it wasn't already apparent -- that his cock was as stiff as a steel spike and hardly fit for pissing.

Still, if Hiker was straight, he had no business checking out Daryl's stall, anyway. So, he couldn't very well complain if he got a look at something more than he was expecting.

Daryl unzipped his pants, fished in through the breach for his thick cock, and hooked its stiff neck with his fingers. He gave a tug that pulled his hard prick out of his trousers. A scooping of his hand brought his scrotum tumbling out over the open zipper.

He turned to give Hiker a side view and then a full view of cock and balls.

Hiker apparently saw soon enough that Daryl's cock would make a good-sized meal. Because he scratched on the partition with a fingernail and invited Daryl's cock to come closer by flicking a pink tongue through the hole.

Daryl would have preferred seeing who in the hell he was going to stuff his cock into. But he could hardly refuse to feed his cock through the hole until he was sure the face on the other side was a handsome one.

The invitation was simply too inviting to turn down. What Daryl would do was stick his cock through the aperture and pretend the mouth on the other side belonged to the kid he had been following.

"Feed me your cock, stud," a voice whispered. The tongue flicked through once again. "Come on, stick that big cock of yours into my hungry mouth and throat."

It certainly wasn't inconceivable that a teenager would say something like that. Anyway, that's what Daryl told himself as he walked his cock up closer to the glory hole. He tried to remember just how the kid had asked to suck his cock the night before.

He used his right hand to pry his stiff cock down, aiming its head to the hole. He moved in closer. He felt the sudden wash of the tongue flicking through to sample preseminal juices before Daryl's cock had penetrated as far as the mouth and throat beyond.

Daryl fed his stiff cock through the opening and into the warmth. A snug feeling of wetness crawled slowly from the head of his cock, along the neck of his cock, all of the way to the hairs of his cock. Firm lips gummed to hold Daryl's cock securely while a tongue whipped and teased.

Daryl's flat belly was mashed against the partition. His cock was lodged deeply into someone's throat. An experienced throat it was too! And, the tongue was experienced! And, the lips were experienced!

That still didn't mean it couldn't be a kid on the other end of this hole. Experience at cock-sucking, at least in the present enlightened day and age, had nothing whatsoever to do with age. Daryl had had his cock sucked by young kids who were more pro than some forty-year-old men. He had had some forty-year-old men who couldn't suck cock for shit.

Well, whoever this guy was, he had swung on plenty of other cocks in his lifetime. Maybe in high-school locker rooms.

Hell, even if this wasn't the teenager, he couldn't be too bad. Few fat, out-of-shape men were wearing hiking boots these days. Nor did they show up at a lodge famous for it's surrounding hiking trails.

Hiker rode his hot mouth up along the neck of Daryl's cock, watching the wet expanse slipping free of his lips. He lingered lovingly over the pulpy cock-head, sucking to draw whatever liquid he could from the pouted eye punctuating the corona. He dropped back over the cock until his nose and chin were pressing into the partition.

On the other side, Daryl reached his hands upward. His fingers folded over the top of the partition for support. The feeling of the stretched muscles only added to his pleasure. He pressed his right cheek to the wall, sure his ear was picking up the slobbery sounds of Hiker's face over hard cock.

Hiker's mouth had taken up a series of forward and back, up and down movements. He would suck up all the cock, pause, then ride back in a gliding of taut lips that pushed loose flesh before it.

Daryl's nuts, unable to squeeze through a hole that was hardly large enough to hold the circumference of the cock then fuck through it, hung along the partition. His scrotum moved, hair shifting, his balls becoming fuller and fuller with cum that would eventually go splashing to the depths of an unseen and sucking face.

Daryl widened the position of his feet. His hips began a series of small fucking swings to coincide with the skillful cock. Daryl's muscular asscheeks dimpled inside of his pants each time his lower belly slapped against the partition.

Hiker continued to swallow, continued to chew. His cheeks concaved with his sucking and then began an erotic fluttering. His spit flooded the entire length of the captive hard cock. His lips tightened. His tongue whipped.

Daryl's hips took up a more pronounced fucking rhythm. He bucked back and forth, adding a revolution that twisted his cock in the hole and into the mouth and throat beyond.

Each forward swallowing of the cock continued to mash Hiker's face against the partition.

Each exit of the cock saw the hard tubing leak new oozings of preseminal juices.

Up to the wall, Hiker gobbled. Back to the cockhead, Hiker glided. Up... back... up... back. Again... again... again.

Daryl decided this was, indeed, a hell of a lot better than any confrontations with Kenneth Teller in the dining room. Hell, a guy could always get a sandwich, but he couldn't always get his cock swung on like Daryl was now getting his healthy prick eaten.

"Eat me... eat me," Daryl whispered, unconcerned his voice would undoubtedly carry to others besides the kid in the next stall. He figured he was safe. If anyone had really wanted to just shit or piss, he would have surely found a more convenient can than this out-of-the-way one.

The way Daryl had it figured, everyone here was here for what Daryl was now getting. They were probably turned on as all hell to hear one of their number being eaten to the verge of rupturing his nuts down one skillful cock-sucker's throat.

"Oh, you beautiful... beautiful... stud... bastard!" Daryl grunted in a low voice. "Strip this hard cock of mine for the load of sticky, hot cream even now on the verge squirting free of my hairy balls."

Hiker had all intentions of doing just that. He wanted the taste of Daryl's cum. He had wanted it from the first moment be had seen the magnificence of the cock and balls in the stall next to his. After a couple of days of feeling as if he were in a high-school can, Hiker had been overjoyed to finally see a real man. He had taken little time in letting that man know his desires. Luckily, this man had been just as needful of getting his cock sucked off as Hiker was needful of delivering the suck.

Oh, there was certainly nothing wrong with a teenager's cock. In fact, there were actually people who preferred that special brand of hardness that is possible only in a young man. Hiker, though, had always preferred the cock of a man to the cock of a boy. The cock he was now sucking proved to him once again that there was nothing quite so tasty as the stiff hardness jutting from the hairy mess of a real man's muscled groin.

"Ohhhhhhh, my God... suck me!" Daryl hissed. His belly came forward with a force that actually, vibrated the woodwork of all four stalls... "You... cock-sucking bastard... eat me... eat me... Jesus... eat my cock!"

Hiker knew cum was on its way. He had sucked enough cock in his time to know all the signs of an ejaculation, not least of which was the pulsing of the cock inside his mouth and throat.

"I'm commmmming, you bastaaaaaard!" Daryl grunted. "Oh, Jesus... Jesus... Jesus... am I... commmmming!"

Hiker's lips swooped down the shaft of the cock, holding to each and every inch of the climaxing cock as it jammed through the glory hole.

Hot wads of creamy male spunk were blasted from the mouth of Daryl's prick, splattering the back of Hiker's throat. More wads flooded, converging to form an oozing ocean of cum that was quickly swallowed away within the sucking and gag reflexes.

"Shit... shit... Jesus, shit!" Daryl moaned.

While the orgasm had lasted, he had found it almost too pleasurable to endure. However, now that it was finished, he could only wish for the return of the blazing ecstasy.

Hiker's mouth lingered. His tongue lapped. His right hand milked the stalk of the cock to make sure the last of the delicious sperm had drooled to his licking tongue.

Finally, though, Hiker surrendered his mouthful.

Daryl reluctantly retrieved his cock, finding it returned to him washed clean of any signs of his recent spermal discharge. He sealed it up behind the zipper of his trousers.

He knew what Hiker was probably thinking now. Hiker was thinking Daryl had come there to get his cock sucked, and having gotten it sucked would now leave.

Well, that wasn't quite right. The temptation had suddenly become simply too great for Daryl to bend his head down and take a good look at just whom had been so expertly swinging on his cock. It seemed highly unlikely the mouth or eye had lingered once Daryl's cock had been sufficiently hidden away behind his closed zipper.

Daryl sat down on the toilet, leaning forward to put his eye to the vacated bole.

Hiker wasn't the teenager Daryl had followed. Actually, he was even better, if not quite as young.

Somewhere in his early twenties, Hiker had blond hair, blue eyes, the kind of boy-next-door good looks one often heard about but very seldom saw.

However, it just wasn't the stud's attractive face, or his obviously nice torso behind a powder-blue sweater which was what caught Daryl's avid attention.

The young man had a beautiful, circumcised cock that was lean and long, capped with a mushroomed head that looked just made for sucking. Daryl scratched at the partition with a fingernail.

He fed his flicking tongue through the glory hole in invitation.

A few seconds later Daryl felt the head of the Hiker's cock touching its preseminal leakage to Daryl's hungry tongue.

A few seconds after that, Daryl's mouth was feeling the sensuous passage of inch after powerful inch of Hiker's long, silky cock-neck slipping to give its rubbery corona a snug haven within Daryl's hugging throat.