High Country Ch. 02

Jeremy meticulously tongued the remnants of cum from the slowly subsiding arched, white, big-headed dick still quivering in the afterglow of the morning blow job to which I commonly enjoyed awakening. "I think I'll hike down to get groceries," he garbled, "that pasta recipe I mooched from Andre last week has been on my mind and it sounds good for the dinner party tonight. OK by you, BaddDick?" He lightly bit my shaft for punctuation of his query. Both of my heads popped up at the nip and I winked an eye open to signal my agreement, verbalization beyond me what with the wrong head still in control of my mental faculties.

The sex maniac that was my man smeared the cum from his own piece to his fingers and watched me eye his deliberate action, wiping my smooth stomach with his slippery hand as he sensuously raised it to his lips. A lop-sided grin wordlessly expressed, "Oh, shucks, I couldn't resist." Then, he licked them clean, one at a time, for my benefit. His nine inch party-sized prick was just barely receding into the sexy cowl of foreskin following his own eruption. The taste of cum hitting his taste buds always sent him over the edge. His distended dickhead was still peering familiarly up at me in its cyclopean manner, smugly admitting to satisfaction at again succeeding in its preferred mission of pumping out babies...the good news was that I had no uterus.

After a minute I spoke a reply while absentmindedly rubbing his beautiful bald head, "I have to go over into town for a few things so let's meet for lunch on the deck, if that works," receiving a nod in response. We basked awhile longer together, enjoying the sunbeams dappling us through Apollo's post-dawn appearance. "Oh, J, don't forget to ask Adolpho if that '07 Spanish Reserve has come in yet while you are there—y'know how much Sheila enjoys that vintage."

Rolling out of bed, we donned running gear, roused the pooches and invigorated ourselves by immersion into a chill morning running loop around the lodge. The presence of the grazing elk by the pond next to our home signaled us that the bear residents were elsewhere this morning and our way was safely clear. An hour later, showered and coffee'd, we headed down our mountain trail to the piazza that centered Mountain Village. Jeremy turned toward the grocery co-op with the mutt brothers in tow for company and I split off to the public gondola connecting our side of Telluride Mountain to town.

Reaching the gondola station in a few minutes, I hopped on a circling car along with old Mr. and Mrs. Chastain who were heading my direction and we conversed cordially as the glass capsule rose smoothly over the village on the constantly circling chain track. The couple were long-time residents since the ski craze days of Tride's revival during the late twentieth century. They had epitomized the Sexual Revolution of the 1970's, living together in 'sin' for thirty years before finally surprising the township by a secret trip to the alter one crisp autumn morning several years before.

Claiming high-altitude sickness and senility, the two had confronted their oncoming mortality, deciding to solemnize their love affair for financial security reasons. They now puttered between the two mountain communities as locally celebrated leftovers from the Love Child generation. Everybody cherished the eccentric nonagenarians. The two had latched on to Jeremy and me soon after our settlement on the mountainside six years before, marveling at our 'new-gen gay jungle fever status', completely ignoring the fact that we had been a couple for more than a decade prior to adopting Telluride town (aka: Tride) for our second home.

As we peaked the summit and began the descent to the town proper, the old hippies told me of their intent to stock up at the green cross emporium, the newest marijuana shop in town. I smiled at the thought of the two floating in a dazed geriatric haze back over to their rock home close by ours. Drifting mountain breezes commonly carried evidence of their frequent partaking to we neighbors surrounding them. They serenaded us with the sounds of Bob Dylan, Jefferson Airplane, Heart, Janis Joplin and other music icons from the era. We thereby grew to value the lost tunes from the heyday of their youth. The indigenous black bear population took particular note of the music, showing themselves commonly during these mountain concerts...

Landing on the square of Telluride town, we strolled the few blocks together to the sign of the green cross announcing all such stores in the state of Colorado. Leaving the two at the front door of the 'apothecary' as they called it, they extracted my promise to stop back by after my errands so they could introduce me to a new addition on the menu in the place... "we simply love the vibe of it", old Mr. Bart had assured me.

The mid-morning bustle of the thriving township always startled me after the quietude of Mountain Village and I weaved my way through tourists and locals on my itinerary for the morning, smiling the whole while as I contemplated the future with my man through the eyes of the older couple I had just left. I hoped to arrive at their place of being in similar devotion to one another. Aging seemed much less a battle if the road was shared with a kindred spirit, as the Chastains certainly proved.

Engrossed in my thoughts, I stopped in to gather the new sheepskin pillows and rug ordered a couple weeks back, then stopped at the pharmacy for items on my list and made my way up Pacific Street toward the old refurbished Opera House to pick up tickets for the Mighty Diamonds reggae concert scheduled for the coming weekend. I had reserved two tickets for Jeremy's birthday evening as he delighted in the music genre amidst which he had grown up. My plan was to surprise him with them after the dinner I had planned. Turning in at the side door to the will call window, I smacked flat out into a tall, Marley-esque Dread headed man just exiting. The deep-voiced Rastafarian raised two humongous hands in surprise and regret for his miscue while I excused my own self to him for not paying closer attention.

We backed off from one another, each apprising a new entity heretofore unexperienced, and my eyes surveyed the unusual figure before me. The man stood several inches more than six and a half feet tall, with long limbs clad in black, green, yellow and red clothing and a dangling feather earring of sculpted silver. His definitive Dread-locks hung thickly tangled to his midriff. Though clad neck to ankles in the colorful loose-fitting hemp clothing, his litheness showed through in obviously magnificent proportion, especially for an older man.

The baggy, low-hanging draw-string pants were quite plainly the only material covering him from a narrow waist downward to his sandaled feet as evidenced by the long silhouetted shape of a very fleshy endowment ending halfway to the level of his knees. His blackness was ebony personified and the singsong lilt of his sotto voice hypnotized as he excused himself. Even so, it did not negate my notice that his deep black eyes took of my person in return.

Jeremy would be absolutely infatuated by this iconic throwback to his childhood, I surmised, and I asked the giant if he might be involved with the band for whom I was presently procuring admission. His immediate wide and easy smile informed me it was so and I expressed my good luck at meeting someone associated with the esteemed group which pre-dated Bob Marley's Wailers. I had hit a nerve with him and he beamed at my acknowledgement.

True to Jamaican mannerisms, he reached out that amazingly large hand and placed it square on my chest, letting the outstretched fingers slowly slide down my shirt in recognition of the compliment...my junk lurched at the unexpected familiarity. His eyes noticed the effect. We each promised to look for the other at the concert and I joked that I would try to focus through the smoky haze habitually encountered among reggae audiences... we parted congenially and I hurried inside to secure the tickets as if by delay they might vaporize.

Upon packing the front row seat tix into my wallet, I emerged from the opera house to the brightness of the mountain morning and immediately soaked in the permeating scent of primo pot. Unable to not follow my nose, I turned the far back corner of the beautifully restored 19th century brick building and found the Rasta Man lounging back on the park bench in the small public garden meant for intermissions during concerts. He was spread-legged and reclining, the fleshy silhouette unmistakably pressing against the airy cloth. He apparently expected me as his smile broadened in an instant and he beckoned me over.

My bags crinkled under my arms and my free-hanging piece smiled in its own right, snaking down my pant leg as I approached. Not sure what could possibly occur in the public venue, I reveled in the rasping of it against the denim of my jeans. Upon reaching him, he extended his lanky arm, fingers clutching a fat blunt, offering to share. Thankful for Colorado's liberal laws enacted the year before, I took it and sat down next to him on the bench, inhaling a filling toke of sweetness. No words passed between us for the moment, hormones negating vocal necessity and I watched as the hemp-covered silhouette spoke volumes. We communed in silence while passing the burning fagot back and forth, both of us grinning in anticipation of something totally unable to be consummated at this time and place.

Accentuating our comprehension of this, a trio of preteens and a mom rounded the corner at that moment, the pretty blond mother casting a disapproving glance at us almost immediately. Lawfulness was one thing, but social acceptance proved quite another and we decided to vacate our bench, quenching the blunt on a wooden slat. Our legs reluctantly closed as we tacitly arose and meandered our semi-hardened selves away from the group toward the street behind us.

Dazedly finding our way to the less traveled road behind the opera house, I broke the silence by asking him if he might like to accompany me to the emporium a few blocks distant—remembering my earlier promise to the Chastains. My acquaintance grasped my hand, introducing himself to me as, "Ambergai Gee, at your service, Mon." The grin never diminished as I repeated the name, mesmerized by the poetic musicality of it, then delivering my own back to him, "Lucas Cevennes, at yours...Mon." This elicited a deep chortle of a laugh. He stretched one big hand down, nudging the proud silhouette and thus informing me of a desired service in his mind. Actually, both of our minds. He was not the least embarrassed by the noticeable turgidity. In contrast, I worked to abashedly poke my own responding tumescence to the side and under a sacked pillow. He didn't miss my discomfiture and drawled wryly, "If you be gottin' it, Mon...an' ya' do...then y'wanna be flauntin' it, not hidin' it, now, Lucas Mon."

Not quite there yet, I chuckled at his Jamaican state of mind and hoped for a bit of diminishment before arrival at the sign of the green cross. My Islander roots were only an in-law thing, Jeremy being the one of us two manifesting a similar comfort in their sexuality. While endeared by the openness, I was unable to proclaim it. Mr. Ambergai Gee succumbed to my modesty in gentlemanly fashion and kept pace with me as I guided us to our destination over the next minutes.

Upon entering the lamp-lit coziness of the emporium, I spied my mature couple of neighbors in the far corner by a window, lounging next to the fireplace in a couple of easy chairs. They, the other patrons and especially the staff, perked up upon our appearance, all present clearly beguiled by my companion. The Islander stooped under the doorway upon entering, metaphorically budding into his fullness of character, Dread locks swaying. My friends and new acquaintance took immediate liking to one another, Annalise Chastain fairly purring at him in her San Franciscan Haight-Ashbury accent as she rubbed her hands up and down his sinewy arm. Her long, manicured, lavender nails owned him by the action, like a cat owning a new couch with its claws.

Old Bartholomew Chastain motioned us to adjoining armchairs and accepted my introduction of Ambergai Gee with practiced aplomb, elegantly introducing themselves in an old-world fashion that impressed the Jamaican. The 'good vibe' alluded to by the duo earlier turned out to be a subtly refined hashish bud and the delivery by a smokeless contraption referred to as a 'Volcano' augmented the comfortable progression of our conversation.

Ambergais melded seamlessly into it and we mused on the upcoming concert. The Chastains decided they simply must get their own tickets and after a half hour of congenial banter excused themselves to do just that, vowing to have the lanky Rastafarian to dinner while he was in the area. Mr. Gee graciously accepted, saying he was actually due to traverse the well-known gondola mode of transport to "conduct some business," as he stated, and also look up an old friend he knew to be in residence on the far side of the mountain. We stood as the bohemian couple took leave of us and then settled back in for a bit more relaxation via the left-over bud.

By this point, I felt a camaraderie with the tall man. We visited the sales bar on the far side of the room and purchased some goodies for further recreation later, thereby finishing my to-do list for the morning. It seemed as if we had known each other forever, and after sharing one more house bong bowl, decided to travel together over the mountain. I thought to introduce him to Jeremy, if time and circumstances permitted. My man would be as taken with the mysterious songster as I and the Chastains had been.

At the gondola station, the loading staff ogled at the otherworldliness of my travel companion, watching with fascination as the man folded himself fluidly in through the sliding glass doors of the car. A family of visiting tourists tritely backed off entering the communal glass enclosure with us, barely concealing their distaste for the unusual characters exuding the odor of herbal essence as he and I did. We were both relieved at their action and settled on opposing bench seats as the doors slid closed. The rolling ascension up the mountain whisked us higher. Ambergai's long legs necessarily were bent and spread in facing me, knees way higher in the air than my own. His face expressed an unspoken approval of our moving picture that was the mountain and, I hoped, our aloneness.

Hardly had the glass capsule departed but I noted his long fingers slowly rubbing over the pronounced protuberance inhabiting his roomy trousers. I couldn't be sure if it was purposeful or simply absent-minded activity yet the growing tent-like affect left no doubt as to the pleasure it provided him. He became engrossed in the beautiful panorama unfolding around us as we heightened. My captivation matched his but from a totally different perspective. I couldn't yank my eyes from the swelling crotch within a couple feet of me and my plane of mellowness only served to focus my infatuation. Softly questioning me on the surroundings as we rolled along, the Rastafarian at some point noted my attention to his nether region and I suddenly glanced up to his grinning face and piercing black eyes, realizing my totally overt fascination. Busted, I thought.

Reviving the scene aborted earlier behind the opera house, the limber legs gradually inched further apart and the ebony fingers wrapped around the covered pole now arising in stimulation to my almost drooling interest. Next thing I knew, he had pulled loose the binding tie of the hemp slacks, raised his slim hips and in a practiced move, lowered them in a descending swoop all the way to his sexy ankles. The effect was immediate. His humongous black cock bounced out as they slid past his knees and arose like a dragon unfurling its wings, slapping his belly and then settling to a hover before me in quavering expectation.

The excessive length of his foreskin rolled back steadily as the full engorgement of the behemoth progressed and a beautiful dark rose-colored dick head fastened on my eyes, demanding what it wanted. Craving was apparent on my face and my piece had again snaked down one jean leg leaving very little to the imagination. Ambergai's free hand reached over and fingered the swelling, never taking his eyes from mine as he instructed, " Lucas ma'Mon, now would be a vera good moment ta' be doin' some flauntin', I'm a guessin'," his smile and singsong lilt softening the firm order. In a short second, I unbuttoned, unzipped and removed the binding pants obstructing both legs and other stuff, and I tossed them to the side along with my shoes. Just for good measure, I pulled my turtleneck sweater over my head to complete my bare-ass state and then relocked to his magic eyes as they twinkled with intent.

Caring little if the cars swinging a couple hundred yards in front and behind us could visualize inside ours, I kneed the floor and commenced what I might have done in the small courtyard earlier: licking the enlarged and waiting monster bouncing before me. I took my time slavering the fat shaft with saliva, working my way up then down from corona to scrotum, swirling my tongue around the hugely fat balls as I worked. My face got slimed in the doing as the turgid prick repeatedly caromed off it and I rose to engulf the head in a slow swallowing of as much as I could fit down to my waiting tonsils. He obviously got off on my rotating action while impaled on the thing, jabbering quietly in an amazingly sensual aboriginal dialect of some sort.

His sandaled foot rubbed against my boinging dick and the friction raised my ante way too quickly. Not typically being a pre-ejaculator, I nevertheless popped out a load of sperm all over that attractive black-toed foot and he peered down at the production. "Ya'don't now be a-thinkin' that you're bein' done, now, ma'friend... I'm sayin', right?" The consternation on his face dissipated when I informed him that I was simply warming up and he settled back to allow my ministrations to proceed.

So softly he could be thinking out loud, he rejoined me with the added instruction that should my excellent work cause a load of his own to flood my mouth, I shouldn't be concerned and by no means should I pull off the dick—he enjoyed slow deep-throating action right through to the second spewing- his words, not mine. So I took him at his word.

Sure enough, after a couple of minutes of rhythmic bliss he exhaled roughly with a rumble and, indeed, flooded my oral cavity to overflowing with hot, sweet Jamaican jism... I never changed tempo. The second load scorched my throat minutes after that causing my trigger to snap by the taste and I thought of Jeremy's similar trait, wondering if there was a contagious factor spreading to me. Then, I swallowed the whole of it as my own load oozed over my hand to the floor. Climax during a pot high is pretty much unequalled- anyone that doubts it need but try it. The two of us knew the truth of it. First hand.

Ambergai tapped my curly head like he would a bongo as he intoned, "You better be a-getting' ya'self a mite more presentable ma'good suckin' Mon, Lucas, else there be a few more a-knowin' about how ya'be a-doin' me so good, now..." punctuating the final word with a light pop to my noggin in alerting

me to the proximity of the summit station approach. I whipped my clothes back on just in time to see the large opening into the station pass by me. I also noticed the slowly deliberate fashion by which my companion's big dick was covered in hemp once again, almost as if he preferred to allow inspection of his jewels as a tease. One of the blond boy station handlers got a nice strobe shot of the root and pubic curls in our passing, his teenage eyes widening by the view of it. Ambergai smirked at me, "Let it be said that for those who've got the goods, they oughtta be flauntin' it, now, and it's all a-been done before this, ma'Mon." He didn't bother tying the rope belt.