This story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy which I am sharing with you. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it.
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***** Lake Desolation 1: For Our Sins
By Bear Pup
M/M; plot only
I look around, seeking any sort of escape. When I bought this cabin with the advance on my tenth novel, Maria and I had laughed at the delicious irony of it. A dilapidated near-ruin on Balsam Creek that feeds nearby Lake Desolation in Upstate New York. The irony at the time was threefold.
First, the place was desolate. The area around was wooded but more with the scrubby type of crap that looked like the reject bin in God's celestial plant-design lab. Nothing about the cabin was literally falling down, but it was a close-run thing.
Second, balsam was catch-all term for resins-in-oil, including the thing that brought us together -- the one and only time either of us tried hashish, at a university party way-back-when. In the giggly and hazy evening, we found we had a lot in common (including no real use for hash) and we started dating a week later. The year I graduated we married, and the year following we had out first and only child, a boy we named Jacob, Jr.
Lastly, I was a writer of dark historical fiction (bordering on the dread label, Romance) where at some point the hero or heroine was be desolate at the apparent loss of his/her belovéd (the acute over the 'e' was essential).
Now, I am adding two more layers: It is no longer my characters desolated with loss. Maria was killed six months ago as her car idled at a stoplight, struck by a stray bullet from a gang killing as she came to pick me up after a book-signing in some God-forsaken New Jersey hell hole. Her death is gradually destroying me, starting with my writing. The blank paper of my old typewriter, the blank legal pads under my archaic fountain pen and the screen of my laptop area all equally... desolate.
Today is my seventy-sixth in the cabin. The Miller kids (two boys and a girl who live where the Forest Road crosses Balsam Creek, the nearest that cars can get to my retreat) make weekly trips to bring me supplies and (I suspect) to check if I'm dead yet as a favour to their mother. I bought the family an ATV years ago to carry the heavy stuff like fuel oil and propane, and I pay them well for the service though I expect they'd be happy to do it for free. Especially now. Maria treats... treated them as if she were a doting grandmother. One thing I insisted on: a full month's supply of everything I might need. We've... I've been snowed in for weeks in the past.
I look out the window and check my weather station. Wunderground says that I should expect a sudden drop in temperature (it was currently 40°F) ahead of an unseasonably-early winter storm with a chance of actual accumulation. Some of the trees still have hints of green amongst the reds and golds, so I'm not sure how much I believe them. I fill the hearthside logbox just in case. I have plenty of tinder, I laugh ruefully, looking at the metric tonne of wadded notepaper and typing sheets littering the area around my writing desk.
I am unabashed Anglophile and a lot of my works use an 'awaiting the return of my belovéd sea captain' motif, so I use a lot of nautical ideas. One I have taken as a habit is the daily 'tot of rum', a bit under an ounce plus a jigger (70ml). Lately, I've been alarmed that a tot has become three but I've steadfastly resisted the fourth. I have a feeling that I'll break that tonight, accelerating my spiral. As Maria's face fades and blurs in my mind, her frown of disapproval at overindulgence has less and less force. I'm getting better; this is only the sixth time today I cried.
The cabin is a simple affair. The original structure is a single, long room, roughly 34 by 16 (roughly because it's five inches narrower at one end than the other). We added an ell to give us a kitchen and a bathroom. There are only three doors in the entire cabin: one to the full-length porch in front, one from the kitchen in the back onto the herb garden, and the third between the main room and the bathroom. All the finishes including the ceiling are polished, warm wood except for the floors of the kitchen and bath which are tight-fit stone, as is the shower enclosure. The countertop is a massive, single piece of soapstone from a nearby quarry. It cost us more than the cabin and land did originally, something that Maria laughs... laughed about until... Okay, seven times crying.
About an hour earlier, I'd set of can of Bush's Grillin Beans on the odd feature of the hearth, a wide and thick cast-iron 'shelf' that pulls heat from the fireplace and turns it into a sort of cooktop when we... I don't want to use the kitchen. I grab a couple of the thick and delicious hot dogs from Primal over in Saratoga where I get my meats. Skewering them neatly, I roast them slowly until the tight skins start to crisp and pop, cut them into a bowl and spoon out the beans. Ah, Beanie Weenies, the bachelor's friend.
I eye the bottle of Zaya. A delicate, rich, smoky-sweet, vanilla-caramel flavour and delightful alcohol content. Over the last week, I'd killed about a third of the bottle. Zaya is an expensive indulgence, but I love it now and again. I normally drink Cruzan. I have more money that we'll... I'll ever spend, but why waste it?
I awake to a brutal and unprovoked assault of blinding white light. It pierces even the fucking pillow. I groan, squint and risk a peek. After the screaming agony passes, I see that Wunderground had not only been right, they severely underestimated the storm. At least six inches of blinding-white snow blankets the countryside and the cruel and merciless sun glares off it in a frequency uniquely designed to torture hangover victims. God is a seriously cruel motherfucker.
I stumble and hear the skittering-glittering of a bottle before it hits the edge of the kitchen floor and explodes in shards. I am inventing new cuss words as I find and don my boots and begin my clean-up, ripping down shades on each window I pass. I get the last of the obvious shards swept up and the last of the fucking portals-to-agony covered before taking care of my morning needs. I actually howl in pain when I open the bathroom door. The wall of windows over the tub and into the shower funnels light to the giant mirrors, which bounce it off every glass and porcelain surface. I serious consider pissing in the kitchen sink.
Emptied, cleaned and stuffed full of a handful of orange M&Ms (aka generic Ibuprofen), I rekindle the fire to a nice roaring blaze. I set the kettle to boil for my obligatory oatmeal. I realise my tragic mistake just as the fucking evil kettle begins its whistling attack on my eardrums. It's like fingernails scratching down the blackboard of my very soul. I silence it and pour the water over my breakfast and set about finding things with which to top and disguise the gruel.
The doctors could never convince me to eat the crap, regardless of dire warnings of colorectal horrors that would surely befall me. Then the evil fucking conniving bastards appealed to a higher power: Maria. I had meekly eaten the cardboard-paste every morning since. I find slightly-brown apple slices and some raisins, pour a glass of milk and set to, masticating the grey spackle until I can force myself to swallow.
Gradually, the world ceases to be a purgatorial nightmare and resolves into... a different purgatorial nightmare. I allocate twenty minutes to mourning, but find that I no longer need to cry, at least not until something might trigger it. This is a revelatory change; the first day I started with grief but not weeping.
With this boost in confidence, I sit at my computer and... well, let's check Facebook first. And BBC. And Times of India. And Sydney Morning Herald (I never read American media unless I want news about politics in other countries). I put off mail until last. My editor has recently moved past subtle hints and suggestions to being serious worried about my unprecedented lack of productivity. I am... had been treasured by my publishing house for three reasons: My books sell, my books are not formulaic, and I deliver an average of a book every month, using three pseudonyms to keep from flooding my 'fans'.
I sigh, the letter today is actually considerate. He asks how I am doing and if he can do anything to ease my 'situation'. I consider replying, 'yes, Clive, bring Maria back from the..." Okay, that's one on the day. I dry my eyes and move to Gmail. Unbeknownst to Clive and [bleep] House Publishing, I also write surreptitiously on Nifty. I know, intellectually, that if the press finds out that the famed Stettler McKay is also Mr.Kink.Daddy.1950, I'll be ruined. Then again, we... I can never spend what I have already, so fuck it. And the mail it generated is the highlight of my day. Marie doesn't... didn't care; she even enjoyed the mail I got back.
I get fan mail by the truckload for my vapid, uninspired prose. Sad and needy housewives across the English-speaking world gush over my heroes and heroines. The genuine and thankful words I get from men (and the occasional woman) who read my lust-drenched fuck-fests are what gets me through the tedious fan-mag interviews, though. Maria and I frequently laugh... laughed at the irony.
For reasons I can't and don't understand, I am suddenly interested in the window over the sink. The shade has never really covered it right, one of a dozen things that I had never bothered to fix. I raise the shade gradually, letting the evil fucking light in bit by bit. I find that the M&Ms are kicking in and I can actually tolerate the light. I ponder what might have drawn my attention. A hawk hunting? A strange shadow?
Then I see it. It is not smoke, but a plume of distortion. Heat-ripples from a summer roadbed incongruously overlaid upon a not-quite-winter sky. Intensely curious, I don my cold-weather gear and boots, grab my shotgun (yes, there are bears in upstate New York, and not always the furry-big-guy type), a compass and a canteen - fifty years later, my scoutmaster's deep voice screaming, "Never, ever hike without water" echoes still. I take a sighting on the nearly-invisible plume and another on a distant hill and scribble the info on a notepad. It was around 20°F, cold but not near dangerous.
It takes me an hour to work my way carefully to the pond at the edge between my own property and some state-owned land held for water-rights. I slowly realise where I'm headed. There is an old hunting-shed next to the seasonal pond (in spring and early summer a wide, lush bed of catnip and reed; the rest of the year a meadow with a deep pool). I approach with extraordinary caution. No one should be here. No one should even know it exists. I check the safety on my 310 over/under.
I spot the fire and award the unknown stranger. I give him/her 9 for 10 on fire-building skills. He or She had used bone-dry wood producing no smoke at all and built a nice if rude stone circle to contain it. I then see movement. A short, broad-shouldered but painfully-thin man stands beside the pool. The 'lake-bed' is basically a funnel, a wide, shallow bowl with a deep, sudden spot in the middle. Below was a spring feeding it. In spring and summer, enough runoff could not only fill the 'lake' but actually activate a dry creek-bed to drain into the Balsam. He stands there, arms out as if praying, but not moving.
I move close and see that he is not just shivering, but quaking, head to toe. 20° is cold, but not that cold. He has a coat and boots. His shoulders move in a different rhythm, as if he is wracked with sobs. I move within a dozen yards before speaking.
"Who are you?"
He whirls and has a reaction I never expected. "God, Thank you! Shoot me! Please, shoot me! God, PLEASE! I hate cold water!" Without preliminary or warning, he crumples in a heap. I move forward with rather exaggerated caution. He is unarmed as far as I can see. I move to the shed and kick open the door; the lock is broken. There is nothing, nothing inside. Anything this guy has is on his body.
I kick sand over the fire to smother it, then move to the still but quivering form of the man. On closer inspection, I'd call him a boy. Perhaps 20? 22? He is insensate, almost as if the shaking is a seizure. I decide that he'll die if I leave him, and the risk that he is an axe murderer is lower than the risk that I'd be murdering him to leave him like this. I use a couple of zip-ties to secure his wrists, certain that I would need to drape them soround my neck to get him to the cabin.
I lift him and he weighs... nothing. It's as if he was the pile of clothes and nothing else. I use a fireman's carry. Even at my age (66) and moderate strength, it's like carrying a case of soda. He is quaking like an epileptic, and I wonder if that's the problem. We reach the cabin in a quarter-hour. I pull the thick, mountain-goat rug in front of the hearth, cover it with sheets and towels, and set the boy down. I revise my esitimate; he can't be more than 18-19 (the age we lost Jacob Jr) with delicate bone structure and troubled, quivering features. He twitches as I pull a couple other towels then quilts around him.
I cut away the bonds and replace them with a pair of leather cuffs that Maria... never mind. They are soft and comfortable and quite secure. I lock them together with several cable-ties and do the same with his feet. He locks himself in a foetal position whenever I release his limbs. Unlike Maria, I am not enough of a softie to put me and mine at risk for a 'lost lamb'.
The man-child loses control of his bowels and I strip him of his clothes, deciding quickly to throw them outside the cabin; they reek of much more than what he just let loose. It is the smell of sweat and fear and boy-musk.
He loses control, front or back, several more times and I clean him up as if he were a baby, no better and no worse. He regains his senses to some extent three times that day, at each point I force both water and soft food into him. Our son, before we lost him, had several bouts of violent illness so this is nothing more nor less than a learned response. The kid seems to settle around midnight and I go to sleep as well. As Morpheus takes me, I realise that I did not cry a single time since morning, and had felt no need for my nightly tot (or five). I am asleep before I finished the thought.
I wake to a loud noise. The boy is struggling frantically as if possessed. I move to him and smell the fact that he's soiled the towels in the night. I grab his feverish face and make him look at me. "You will be okay, son. You will be fine. Breathe, son, breathe." It takes several tries but he quiets and falls back to a fitful and restless sleep. I clean him again and decide that, since it is 4:00, there is no reason to return to sleep.
I rekindle the hearth and make myself the vile breakfast inflicted upon me by the medical profession. I decide on a quick (as it turns out, abortive) trip to the woodpile; contrary to Wunderground, we've gotten another foot at least of snow during the hours of darkness. I'll have to break out the skis or snowshoes to move around. As I come back into the cabin, I hear a loud groan and smell that my guest has again lost control of his bowels. I clean him again, this time bathing every part of his quaking, seizing, pain-wracked and quite filthy body. I replace the water in the pail three times and the sponge once. He twists and moans and writhes, and I dutifully ignore it all. Is certainly and emphatically male, and no mistake!
I am readying a noontide meal when I hear a gasp, a sob, a shuddering breath. I look and, for the first time, see my charge's eyes outside of the rolled-back or feverish orbs that had flashed at me occasionally. They are a rich, soft brown and I can somehow see a life of torment within them.
As chance would have it, I am heating chicken and noodles on the hearth-iron. I add a can of broth to thin it. "Do you know where you are?"
Panic rushes to his face.
"Never mind that. What is your name?"
The level of fear and terror in his face confuses me. I saved him from hypothermia, perhaps death, and he fears me?
"Screw it. I don't care if you tell me your name. Just give me something to call you."
His voice is harsh, rusty, unused. "L-Logan."
"Hi, Logan. I'm Jacob." I shock myself. I have not told a person my original name for, perhaps, forty years. I've been Stettler McKay since I was 22, when I submitted my first novel. Maria is... was the only person who called me Jacob or Jake. I turn back and find the boy staring at me, confused and terrified. I grab a bowl and pour soup (mainly broth) into it, then sit cross-legged in front of 'Logan'. He looks at the bowl with revulsion, but I prop him up and spoon it into him, bit by bit. The act of eating exhausts him, and I watch as he sleeps, finally peaceful. Tremors wrack him occasionally, but I think the worst is past. The question remains, though: Who or what have I brought into my otherwise-hermetic world?
Like the setup? Think it's worth exploring? Let me know at orson.cadell@gmail.com
Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Karl & Greg: 18 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/ Canvas Hell: 16 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 9 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 8 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Mud Lark Holler: 7 chapters .../rural/mud-lark-holler/ Babe in the Woods: 2 chapters .../rural/babe-in-the-woods/ Off the Magic Carpet: 2 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/