"That was a great meal. Thanks for inviting me. See you on slopes at 11:00 on Wednesday for your next ski lesson? You're coming along nicely." Doug Walker, six-foot-four and 210 pounds of chocolate brown muscle sat the island of the Wintergreen Resort mountain chalet, drinking coffee after a steak dinner.
His host, mixed Asian and white in the best possible combination for looks, Ricky Chang, as much a contrast to his ski instructor as he could be at a lithe five-foot-eight and 145 pounds, was loading the dishwasher.
"You don't have to leave yet, I hope. We were talking about classical guitarists we both like. I was surprised you'd even heard of Wes Montgomery and Charlie Byrd. I've got Charlie Byrd's 'Brazilian Byrd' on the turntable now."
"So, you're a musician?" Doug asked.
"Among other things. I most recently worked on Capitol Hill. I did study voice and dancing in college."
"But you don't work on the hill now?"
"No. You could say I'm between jobs," Ricky said.
"Well, you've got a sweet house here."
"It's not mine. I've just been salted away here."
"Salted away."
"You don't really have to go, do you? I have some great Claret from the Veritas Winery. I thought we could light a fire and listen to Charlie Byrd."
"It's snowing. I really should go."
"You have four-wheel-drive, don't you? And you know how to drive in the snow up here. You're up here all winter, aren't you? What do you do when you're not ski instructing?" Ricky wanted to say Doug could spend the night, but he hoped that Doug could figure out what was on offer himself. It was the dominant one who should be making the moves. Ricky was a submissive.
"I play spring football in the Carolina league," Doug answered. "Everyone who wants to move around up here in the winter has four-wheel-drive. You can't go out much in that small Miata convertible I saw in your garage."
"I'm not supposed to go out much here. I can walk—or trudge in the snow—easily enough to the club house and The Market resort store from here. And I would have guessed you were a football player. You're quite a hunk."
"Thanks." They exchanged looks. This wasn't the first time in the three weeks they'd known each other that they had exchanged looks. Ricky wished that Doug would get around to taking it further. Why did the big lug think he'd been invited to dinner? If Ricky told him why he was salted away up here on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains would the ski instructor get the clue that Ricky could be had?
"Go on into the living room and light the fire," Ricky said. "Flip the switch on the record player. It takes six records. I've got some Wes Montgomery and Chet Atkins on too. I'll finish up getting this stuff in the dishwasher and bring us a couple of glasses of Port."
Doug didn't argue further. He went into the living room and started the fire and the record player. He was standing in front of the fireplace when Ricky appeared with two glasses of wine and set them down on a coffee table between the sofa and the fireplace.
Doug turned, sucked in breath, and said, "Wow."
"I hope I haven't read you wrong," Ricky said, standing up straight from the coffee table and giving the black giant a full-frontal view. Ricky had stripped down to a red satin jock strap. "I think we've been dancing around this long enough," he added.
The black ski instructor was speechless, as Ricky came to him, rose on his toes and pressed his lips against Doug's. He hadn't read Doug wrong. Doug was just antsy about getting it on with a client. He couldn't resist this offer, though. They went into a deep kiss and Doug's hands came around and palmed the smaller man's exposed butt cheeks.
"No, it doesn't seem you've guessed wrong. I've been hard for you since you plopped the steak down in front of me."
"Good," Ricky said. "We don't need this." He pulled Doug's sweater over his head. He had a body-builder's hard-bodied, muscular chest to die for. They stood there, rocking against each other, kissing, as the black man squeezed and separated Ricky's butt cheeks, moving fingers to and inside his hole, pulling the other man up on his tiptoes. Once Doug got turned on, he moved it right into a high gear.
The mixed Chinese-white, willowy Ricky panted and moaned, moving his hands to Doug's belt buckle and then his fly. Doug flinched and grunted as Ricky pulled his massive erection out and stroked it. Doug shrugged Ricky's jock strop off his waist and in slid down to the floor. Ricky, completely naked now, stepped out if it. He let out a little yelp, as Doug's beefy thumbs stretched his hole open and penetrated.
"Fuck me. Screw me," Ricky murmured.
"I thought you'd never ask." Doug's eyes darted around the room. "Sofa? Not sure we can make it to the bedroom. I don't even know where they are."
"No. Here. In front of the fireplace. On the proverbial bearskin rug. Although I don't think that's a bearskin."
Doug laughed.
He went onto his back, stretched out in front of the fireplace, staring into the fire and groaning. His hands encased Ricky's head, with its silky black waves of hair, and helped lift and pull it into his groin, as Ricky lay between his legs, giving him head.
At length, he reached down, grasped the much smaller man in the armpits and lifted him up to saddle on his pelvis. Reaching under, Ricky held the huge, jet-black erection in place, and cried out in pain-passion as he sank down on the cock.
"Shit. Fuck, you're huge!"
"Yes, yes, I am," Doug agreed.
Spreading, stretching, and sinking on the cock, Ricky leaned over, palming Doug's pecs, and stared down into the black man's face, his own showing the pain mixed with ecstasy. Ricky arched his back and his head and howled at the oak beams overhead as Doug grasped his hips and started to raise and lower the smaller man's fully possessed passage on the shaft. For a couple of minutes he was able to match the beat of the rise and fall to that of Charlie Byrd's guitar, but that was soon lost and he was frenetically jacking the smaller body up and down on his shaft—lifting and slamming down, lifting and slamming down. Ricky was flopping around and writhing, crying out, "Yes, yes, YES!"
Doug uttered his own ultimate exclamation, "Oh, FUCK!" as he shot his load.
Ricky had brought out a couple of packets of condoms and a tube of lube with the wine and they were laying there, on the coffee table, unused. In the heat of the moment they had been forgotten. They had barebacked.
In the middle of the night, Ricky woke in the bedroom feeling Doug's cock stirring at the small of his back. They were lying on their sides, both naked, Ricky's butt nestled into Doug's groin. They had fucked again, athletically, on the bed and dozed off, both exhausted. Ricky moved a hand back to grasp Doug's cock, and Doug woke up enough to snake a hand around, take Ricky's shaft, and stroke him off. They came more awake as they relentlessly beat each other off.
Ricky came first, with a little cry. Doug took that as a signal to roll the smaller man over onto his belly and to mount him from above. He penetrated and moved up, up, up inside Ricky's passage, spreading, stretching, punishing.
Panting hard and groaning, Ricky reached up and grasped the brass grilling running up to the headboard. Well saddled now, Doug leaned over the smaller, slim body stretched out under him, pressed the palms of his hands into Ricky's shoulder blades, and moved into rocking his hips in long, powerful thrusting.
"Oh, Fuck, you're killing me!"
"You can take it, whore. I read the papers."
The headboard beat a rat-tat-tat against the bedroom wall, as Doug's thrusts increased in speed, intensity, and depth.
"Oh, holy F-U-C-K!" Ricky cried out.
* * * *
He woke up to the sound of metal scraping on gravel. Turning, he found that he was alone in bed. He could see the master bedroom bathroom door from here. It was open. No one was inside. Still the sound of the scraping. He rolled out of bed and padded over to the closet. He'd been naked in bed—so had Doug, the black bull hunk from the night before, his ski instructor. Shit, that was a monster cock, Ricky thought. And jet black. How in the hell did he manage that? Would he ever again be fucked that well—and by a cock that big and black? He certainly hoped there would be more rounds with Doug.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ricky thought that something disturbing had been said, here in the bed, while Doug was riding his ass and fucking him. The kamikaze attack in the middle of the night. He could quite grasp what that was. And Doug wasn't here to ask about it. Ricky concentrated on whether he could hear any sounds from downstairs, but he couldn't. Apparently, Doug hadn't stuck around.
There was that metallic scraping sound on gravel again, though. At the closet, he pulled a silk robe off a hanger and then went to the bureau for sleeping shorts. The scraping sound was coming from the front of the house. The bedrooms were in back, the master bedroom and a second one above, over a bedroom and the kitchen, with two-stories of living and dining area at the front. He padded down the stairs, turning to look into the kitchen and the downstairs bedroom. No Doug. His red satin jock strap was on the floor in front of the fireplace, but Doug's clothes were gone.
Ricky laughed when he saw that the two glasses of Veritas Claret were still on the coffee table, as were the condom packets and the tube of lube. It was just as well that they hadn't tried to use the condoms. They were regulars and Doug quite clearly needed an XXL Magnum.
Good thing Ricky was well used or Doug would have killed him. That made Ricky almost remember what had been said last night that was "off," but it didn't come to him.
He looked out of one of the front windows. It had snowed. They knew it was snowing last night. That had come up when Doug was talking about leaving before fucking Ricky. But the short driveway to the garage under the elevated house had been cleared. The sound he heard now was more like the stomping of boots to get the snow off. It was coming from the front porch.
Rick went to the front door and opened it. A man, bundled up, was standing on the steep front steps going down into the yard and, indeed, was stomping snow off his boots. He had a snow shovel in his hands.
He looked up. "Oh, you're here. Your Jeep is gone. I was shoveling my drive out—I live next door, just over there—and overshot the shoveling. Before I knew it, I'd shoveled your drive too. Hi, I'm your next-door neighbor, Jay. You don't look like one of the Bradley's though."
"I'm not. I'm a friend of Senator Bradley's. He's letting me use his Wintergreen house."
"Well, you'll freeze just in that, with the door open. I'm freezing and I'm all wrapped up. You need to go back into the house."
"But you're freezing because you've been doing work I should have done," Ricky said. "There should be something I can do to repay you."
"I wouldn't say no to a hot cup of coffee so I can warm up enough to get back into my house over there."
"Sorry, of course. Come in and I'll put the coffee on."
Jay came into the foyer area and started unraveling himself, while Ricky went through the living area to the kitchen alcove and put the coffee on.
"The Jeep that was out there until this morning, that's not yours, is it?" Jay said, having peeled down to a heavy sweater and canvas trousers, which looked wet. His gaze extended to the living room. He saw the red satin jock strap on the floor and the two untouched glasses of wine. He saw the condom packets and lube as well.
"Uh, no, it isn't mine."
"No, I didn't think so. That was Doug Walker's Jeep, the ski instructor."
"I'm taking ski instructions from him," Ricky called back.
"And cock too, apparently. The jeep was there overnight. Does he fuck well? I hear he's got the biggest dick on the mountain."
