Through Man a Mighty River Flows

He shakes his head and the long night-colored hair flops forward into his eyes. "You're wild. Wild. Run you through the woods. Fuck you in the pine straw. Shove boulders up your ass." He pauses. "Get naked."

I finish undoing my fly and get to work on the rest of it.

He picks up an empty beer bottle on the table, one of the many he's consumed. He puts it on the end of his cock. He pees. Most of it starts to flood the bottle, making a hollow whirling bathroom sound. But his piss slit is too big for the neck of the bottle and it sprays out, a yellowish rainbow forming in the gray curls of stale smoke.

When I'm done I go back into my squat. My cock juts from between my thighs like a rhinoceros horn. I'm wet as if I'd just swam from Cuba to Miami. Runes of lust are written in the patterns the long dark hairs make on my thighs.

"Hands and knees," he says, eyeing the pee in the beer bottle like a chemist checking an Erlenmeyer flask. "Keep your ass low." As he walks toward me his boots on the swimming floor boom like distant cannon.

He goes behind me. Kneels. I whimper.

He touches my ass. One finger on the left cheek just where it starts to merge into my leg. He moves toward my centerline, toward my asshole posed just inches above the hot flood he spread across the bar floor.

He touches the pucker, light as a chaste kiss. The rough fingertip circles it, spiraling in and out. The slow motion of his finger causes me to roll my shoulders and hips.

I feel his heat on my back. He breathes in my ear, "Wide as a highway."

Whore at the heart of my nature, it's true. And secret no longer.

The corkscrew on the end of the beer bottle he inserts with ease because my asshole is opened like a rose. The cool neck goes next, entering me and feeling as relaxing as a fall breeze. I moaning because I'm a bitch in heat.

My body is a gong and I resonate with his frequency.

The fat body of the bottle -- hotter than the neck -- bumps up against my ass. He twists it, clockwise then counterclockwise. He puts a hand on my hips to steady me. Then he pushes. The pressure on my hole builds. I've taken far bigger than this -- I work on a ranch -- but I've never had to deal with the bluntness of this shape. It wasn't designed for penetration.

I can tell, by his motions, by the twists, by the gentle crooning noises he makes in my ear, that I'll be penetrated and filled. He strokes my flanks. The pressure grows. And my sphincter collapses as surely as the French Army.

I shriek as I stretch. He slaps me lightly as the bottle hot with his essence slides into me. The pressure is incredible. It does obscene things to my prostate. My cock spits to show its pleasure. The thickness as it penetrates makes my kidneys explode with pain. On and on he drives it, relentless, and I'm sure he has every intention of shoving the whole fucking bottle up me.

But he stops, leaving me panting in time with my heart. Some of the bottle is still outside of me -- my anus is stretched as if it'd been opened by a proctologist intent on burrowing his way to China.

"Brace yourself," he says.

His fingers close on the underside of my straining thighs, and now I know what he's going to do. He tugs once, evaluating my weight.

I lock my elbows. Committed now, there's no way out.

He tugs once, then lifts, and I rotate forward. I tuck my chin in, roll forward until the crown of my skull goes cool with the touch of his piss. He has me standing on my head.

The glurping in my bowels sounds like water gushing through bad plumbing. Each spillage of piss from the bottle burns along my colon. My guts spasm and I jerk in response, bobbing dangerously, almost careening over onto my back. But he's there to stop me.

"Feel it going in?"

"Shit ... " I moan.

"I'll make it go faster." He puts my legs on his shoulders, resting my weight against his lithe body. That cock brushes my wet belly so gently and yet I could feel the power inherent in that mass of flesh.

A finger slips into my stretched hole, and I moaned.

Air slurps out of my rectum. The bottle vibrates and shakes, spitting up pee, a thick dildo vibrating with the rhythm of his piss. The bottle vomits up its load -- a good bladder's worth from most guys, just a trickle from this dude. The liquid rush falls like a mad river into the labyrinthine night. I kick frantically as it pours in.

He pulls it out of me, slowly, the agony of distended sphincter joining in with the symphony of cramping colon. When it leaves me I feel him staring down the moist hole, towards innards now swimming with his piss, seeing the red vein-rich walls of my ass pulse, soaked with his piss.

He lets loose the gusher again. The stream slices over my chest like lava gushing down a volcano. I feel it roll up my neck, a hot liquid scarf. It crests the line of my jaw. I open my mouth and I drink. And drink. Because the gates have opened, the clouds have burst, the dam has collapsed. I rise on a sea of frothy yellow foam.

He flicks a finger on the underside of my balls. Just once. I scream. I rattle the fucking windows. I explode. Sperm shoots in a silver gout from my cockhead, lands in his flood, on my chest. I buck with my hips, shooting, screaming.

Maybe I taste my own stuff. Maybe I don't. I just hang upside down, held in his tattooed arms, drinking his piss, breathing his stink, lusting for his flesh, fertilizing the air.

He lets me down gently, then pees in a gentle mist down my body. His eyes roam over me.

He puts his cock back into his pants before I can recover. And he's halfway across the bar, parting a sea of astounded faces, his tight ass rolling in those jeans.

I scuttle after him like a crab.

This long-haired tanned buck with the jeans, with the refreshing arrogance of a stud, who stalks the world out of his unwashed primitive past when giants were in the Earth, who exploded the TV with burning guitars and long wagging tongues as he pranced on the concert stage, who packed jeans with an excess of male organs, whose eyes went wide when he howled at the moon, who ruled with more assurance, power, and compassion than Arthur enthroned, than Charlemagne paladin-thronged, than Coeur-de-Lion crusader and master of the sword -- this is Man.

He's on his bike. He's kicked it into life. He draws tight leather gloves over his fingers. A black helmet rises from between his thighs.

Breathless, I wheeze, "What's your name?"

He laughs. Loud, long. You could hear it at the other end of the state. "My name. It always comes down to that. I don't have a name. Never had one, don't need it. I'm known."

I kneel. Naked on the ground, headlights of passing cars providing illumination by stroboscope. "Please."

"I told you. I'm known, and you've known me."

Blue exhaust fills the air. Hot pee trickles from my ass. I have a quest.