Date: Wed, 19 Dec 2012 20:28:02 -0500
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Wayward Island 7

Wayward Island (Part 7)
How Jake and Red Feather Made New Friends after the Hunt
By Jake Preston


      Reader restrictions: no minors, no readers who are offended by explicit
descriptions of gay sexuality. The story as a whole is a psychological study of gay
athletic hunks who love nerds, and the nerds who love them in return. The story
also deals with the problems faced by gay guys who live in rural areas. If these
themes don't interest you, there are many other great "nifty" stories to choose
from. Send comments and suggestions to jemtling@gmail.com. Jake will respond
to all sincere correspondents.

      *   *   *   *   *  *  *

      I have a work-shop near the lakeshore. Half of it is an ice house. That's
right, an enclosed shack with a pit filled with sawdust, used to preserve large
chunks of ice from the lake. The other half is a space for cleaning fish and rabbits,
and breaking deer. It has a sawdust floor, ideal for duties required hunting or
fishing. I store meat there in a large freezer-box, kept cold in the summer by ice
from the ice house. Red Feather and I prepared the space. We brought cutting
knives and a saw, and butcher-paper.

      Sam Black Bear and Roger Johnson showed up around five. Daylight
faded into dusk. Breaking the deer took more than two hours. Sam and Roger did
most of the work. When we were finished, we had venison steaks cut and
wrapped, and hunks of meat to take to the butcher for grinding. Sam
recommended that we take the meat to a butcher in Crane Lake. "He'll give you a
better price." When it looked like the project was more than half way finished, I
went back to the cabin. Red Feather stayed with Sam and Roger.

      Sam took the opportunity to ask Red Feather about his background. He
told them about his life in Crane Lake, and his piano-playing at the Mission
Church. "Jake's been talking about sending me to college, to develop my music,"
he said. Red Feather talked about me with high praise. It didn't take Sam and
Roger long to figure out that we were more than friends. Naturally they assumed
that I was fucking Red Feather. They asked him how long he had lived in the
cabin. He said he still lived as a boarder with a family in Crane Lake, but he
stayed here sometimes, too. "I also spend time at the Wayward Island Resort.
Uncle Tom has a piano in the lounge." He told them about our plans for a
Christmas concert, to raise money for the Mission Church.

      A tour of the cabin told the story. There was just the one bedroom, with a
queen-sized bed. Red Feather had private space in the loft, but no bed. There was
no need for me to volunteer information about our sleeping arrangements. Sam
and Roger said nothing, but exchanged knowing looks.

      Red Feather and I served dinner at the kitchen table. After that, we served
drinks by the fireplace. Sam preferred whisky, but Roger wanted to sample the
brandy. I assigned Red Feather the task of firing the sauna. Sam went with him.
He was interested in how the sauna was constructed, and impressed by Red
Feather's knowledge of it. He was surprised to find out that part of the job was
cutting balsam boughs - and intrigued to learn what they were used for. "Jake
built the sauna by himself," Red Feather bragged. "I'm sure he would help you, if
you wanted to build one on your place in Crane Lake. Everyone on the lake builds
their own saunas. It's a local custom."

      "Always in the nude?" Sam asked.

      "Well, you don't build them in the nude, but you don't take a bath with
your clothes on," Red Feather replied.

      Sam laughed. "White man's ways are fascinating. Are you and Jake an
item?" It seemed futile to deny it. "I can tell by the way you guys communicate,"
he said. "Nothin' wrong with that."

      "Don't worry, Sam. We won't embarrass you by fooling around in the
sauna," Red Feather said. "Unless you want to, you and Roger."

      "Why don't we wait and see what happens in the sauna," Sam said. "A
little horseplay never hurt anyone."

      "What happens in the sauna stays in the sauna. House rule," Red Feather
said.

      "Jake is quite a prize, but I guess you know that," Sam said.

      "Jake is the kindest, most generous man I've ever known," Red Feather
said. "He's kind to everyone, and honest."

      "I meant physically, Jake is quite a prize, an athletic hunk, fit as a
lumberjack," Sam said. "I'll bet he packs a wallop. If we get into horseplay, will
he let us play with him?"

      "He would be crushed if you didn't want to," Red Feather said. "You
don't have to be gay to play, though it helps."

      While this conversation was taking place in the sauna, Roger and I sipped
brandy by the fire. Roger took a trip to the bathroom. On the toilet tank, he saw
the medallions that we had used earlier: "ORAL SLAVE" and "ORAL
MASTER." He asked me about our humorous metal valentines. "Just part of a
game we play sometimes," I said.

      Roger freaked out. He said it was time for him to go. He was Sam's ride
back to Crane Lake, so Sam had to leave, too. Red Feather and I were stunned.
We gave Roger and Sam a generous supply of our venison, and sent them on their
way. We took an abbreviated sauna, and crept into bed. "I suppose everyone in
Crane Lake know about us by now," Red Feather said, glumly.

      It was a crisp, cold winter night, silent and windless. Two hours went by.
We heard a crunch of snow, and the sound of a car door. Red Feather put on his
sweatpants and went to the door. It was Sam Black Bear. "I guess it's too late for
that sauna you promised me," he said. "Sorry about my buddy. You guys are all
right, in my book." Red Feather motioned for him to come in. They sat by the
hearth, drinking whisky straight from the bottle. I listened to them from the
bedroom, then put on bikini shorts, and came out to put wood on the fire. Sam
made no complaints about mw parading around the room in a bikini.

      I offered to wash Sam's clothes, if he wanted to take a shower. He
shucked off his clothes, and returned from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. We
passed the whisky bottle around. We lay in front of the fire, with Sam in the
middle. We listened to music on my computer. Sam told us about his life as a
lumberjack, working for my cousin Dave.

      "I suppose the Saturday hunt is off now, with Roger out of the picture," I
said.

      "He might not be out of the picture," Sam said. "You guys were moving
too fast for him, that's all. Roger's a single guy. Maybe he's more like us than he
knows. I'll talk to him about Saturday."

      Sam peered out the window. "By the way," he continued, "when I was
coming up your drive, I thought I saw someone duck into the woods. At first I
thought it was a deer, but now I'm thinking it was a man. Did someone call on
you earlier?" When we said no, Sam added, "I think that maybe you should get a
dog. From what I've heard, not all your neighbors are friendly."

      Sam was ruggedly handsome, a stocky, sturdy built guy, about forty, with
high cheek bones and a prominent nose, like many Chippewa men. He was soft-
spoken, and laid back. His arms and thighs were muscular and strong. "It's from
working in the woods," he said. He liked our company. He started feeling high,
and ran his hands over Red Feather's torso. "Smooth as silk," he commented. Red
Feather's basket showed prominently in his sweatpants. Streaks of pre-cum
showed at the crotch of his sweats. Sam turned to me. He ran his hands over my
torso, down to my navel.

      Sam wasn't really my type. He was too much of a hunk, too strong, too
good-looking, just the right sort of guy for Red Feather. Still, his eyes were sad.
He looked like a lost, lonely guy. That appealed to me. "Don't forget the pits,"
Red Feather laughed as I lubricated Sam's torso with my tongue.

      I broke free of Sam's grasp and went to the bedroom. I returned with the
lube-tube. I knelt at the feet of Sam and Red Feather. Sam made room for me to
squeeze in between them. As I crept into place, Sam read the readiness in my
countenance and pulled me toward him. His lips grazed my cheek. He kissed my
shoulder and nibbled my nipple. Suddenly energized, Sam pulled off my bikini,
leaving me naked between the two guys. He groped my genitals, and reached for
my ass. He removed his towel and tossed it aside. He helped Red Feather out of
his sweatpants. Sam and Red Feather knelt close together while I sucked their
cocks, both together. We took turns sucking cock in a variety of positions.

      Red Feather told me to lie on my back. Sam helped me into position. He
gave me a wolf whistle, and praised my athletic display, while Red Feather lubed
my asshole. Sam got on top of me. I rolled over with him in an embrace. Now I
was on top. He didn't seem to mind. I kissed him, and massaged his cock with my
crack. I felt his cockhead push through my sphincter. I tightened my ass around
him. Sam arched upward, and pulled me close. His cock gained traction. I sat
upright, and allowed his cock to sunder me. I howled while he scotched me. From
across Wayward Bay we could hear the howl of timberwolves, answering mine.

      "Maybe one of them wolves is getting' fucked, too," Red Feather said. He
watched while Sam made a love-nest for himself inside my ass. He crept behind
me, and pushed me forward toward Sam. He drove his cockhead into my ass, into
position just above Sam's cock. I howled again, and the wolves howled back.

      "I've never been fucked by two guys before, so take it easy, guys," I said.
By that time, Red Feather's cock was all the way up by ass. He clung to Sam's
shoulders and pulled him tight while he thrust his cock into me with fierce
strokes. Sam held me firm by the haunches, and fucked gently while Red Feather
fucked mercilessly. The friction inside me dissolved into silky liquid when Red
Feather shot his jizz.

      I lay on my belly and gave Sam free reign of my body. He mounted my
backside and fucked intercursally. I like that term, "intercursal," referring to the
curvature of ass-cheeks. It's more dignified than "doggie-style."

      "Have fun boys," Red Feather said. "I'm hitting the shower." Groans
became moans during Red Feather's absence. Sam nibbled at my ear and
whispered terms of endearment, like what a wet fuck I was and how snug it felt. I
looked back at him and kissed his lips. He asked if we could fuck face to face.

      I lay spread-eagled while Sam knelt between my legs. "It'll work better if
you prop my ass up with a pillow," I whispered. Sam reached for a pillow,
anhelped me get into place. Our eyes locked in lust. He entered me in one steady
thrust. He fucked gently at first. "I'm trying to make it last as long as I can, Jake,
buddy," he said.

      "Do you want me to cum for you, Sam?" I asked. "I can cum while you're
fucking me." We took turns frigging my cock while he cock settled in slowly.
Sam was a tough guy, but tender. He kissed my cheeks and my shoulders. I didn't
turn away when he offered to kiss me on the lips. This was more than an
opportunity fuck for Sam. He was hoping that we could be friends.

      "I want to fuck you standing up," Sam whispered in my ear. He got behind
me while I balanced my weight against the sofa. He milked my cock with his
fingers while he fucked intercursally. We came together.

      On my back on the quilt, I told Sam to press his full weight over me. We
lay together for a long time. "I know you're committed to Red Feather," he said.
"I don't want to interfere with that, but I hope you'll find room for me in your
life, too, Jake. You're sensational."

      "Yeah, we can be friends. I'd like that," I replied. "As for us being fuck-
buddies, I think we've already established that." He laughed. We joined Red
Feather in the shower. The three of us slept through the night, with Sam in the
middle.

      At dawn, Sam and I trudged down the drive to the place where he thought
he saw a figure duck into the darkness of the woods. In the snow, man-tracks
formed a trail around some thick underbrush and back to the road. After Sam left
for another day's work in the forest, Red Feather and I looked through the local
newspaper, the Call of the Loon, to see if anyone had dogs for sale. "Here's one,
on a farm near the Rice River," I said. Later that morning, we checked it out. It
was a snarly spaniel mix. The farmer wanted $100. "I'm afraid we'll have to look
further," I said.

      Our route took us past my abandoned farm, so I pulled in the drive and
gave Red Feather a tour of the house, the barn, the chicken coop, and the other
buildings. I told Red Feather about its history. The homestead was founded by a
great grandfather on my mother's side, who was an immigrant from Sweden. "It
was founded in 1890, and it was one of the first three homesteads in Leander; 160
acres, like all the homesteads around here. Officially the area is called Perkins
Township, but its true name is Leander, as everyone knows who grew up here," I
said. "I've been thinking about buying some cows this spring, and starting it up as
a dairy farm again. The farm down the road belongs to a second cousin of mine. It
was one of the earliest homesteads, too."

      We decided to drive to Hibbing, to check out the only Humane Society in
the region. When we entered the dog pound, twenty dogs started barking at once.
"The dogs love human company," Mrs. Wilson remarked. She was in charge of
the pound remarked. "Your visit is the biggest event of their day." There were
four young yellow labs in a cage at the back of the room. Three of them stood and
barked like the others. The fourth raised his head, looked around at the
commotion, and lowered his head and closed his eyes.

      "That's the one," I said. "Does he have a name?"

      "No name yet," Mrs. Wilson said. "When it comes to the young ones, we
like for their new families to give them their names."

      "We'll call him Wolfie," I said. I paid his fees, and added $100 as a
contribution to the Humane Society.

      "Come back again, if you discover that Wolfie needs a companion," Mrs.
Wilson said. "He's a laid-back male lab. I've found that a dog like him gets along
very well with an alpha female, like this loveable red ridgeback. Her name is
Daisy. She's a bundle of energy."

      While we were in Hibbing, we paid Mrs. Ravitch an unexpected visit. I
introduced her to Red Feather - and Wolfie. "We just stopped by to show you our
new dog," I said. Wolfie played in the back yard while Mrs. Ravitch prepared
coffee. I bragged about Red Feather's piano-playing, and promised that she would
hear him play the next day, if she still wanted to go with us to the Mission Church
in Crane Lake. "I wouldn't want to miss out on that," she said.

      "Actually, Mrs. Ravitch, I was hoping that you would show us some of
your nudes," I said. She told us to go upstairs to the back bedroom and look for
ourselves. The room was stocked with dozens of paintings, mostly male nudes.
There must have several hundred sketches, and photographs. As Red Feather and
I studied them, we noticed that some of the sketches and photos were linked to
paintings in some way.

      Mrs. Ravitch arrived, carrying a tray with three mugs of coffee. "All the
sketches and photos are studies in preparation for a painting," she explained. "Of
course, many of the paintings have been sold, or given away. Only the
impressionistic ones, though. The world isn't ready for my naturalistic nudes."
She asked if we noticed anything else about the paintings.

      "I think I've noticed something," Red Feather said. "Not of the paintings
depicts a single figure. All of them have at least two figures, even the ones that
show only one nude."

      "Very observant of you, Red Feather," Mrs. Ravitch said. "Anything
else?"

      "Well, there always seems to be someone in the picture who is looking at
the nude figure," Red Feather guessed.

      "That's true," Mrs. Ravitch said. "The nude is always the object of
someone's gaze within the painting --- a woman, a man, or a group, or two or
three nudes together. My idea is to draw the viewer into the painting, by sharing
the gaze." She showed us a series of six paintings of what she called "soldiers at a
swimming hole." This was a traditional nineteenth-century scene," she said. "I
struggled with this theme for years. The only version I'm satisfied with is 'Water
Hole Follies'. It's a jungle scene in Vietnam." It depicted forty marines in various
stages of nudity and dress. A few were swimming in the water. Two were perched
on a log. The others were getting dressed in a panic, while a sergeant appeared to
be calling them out of the water. A pale-faced lieutenant gazed with a worried
look on his face. Overhead, in the sky, three black helicopters approached,
ominously.

      "The impressionistic version of this painting is in the contemporary
collection of Universidad Nacional Autónomia de México," Mrs. Ravitch said.
"It's an idyllic water-hole episode interrupted by the urgent realities of war.
Impressionism obscures anatomical correctness, but you can see it here, you see?"
She handed me a magnifying glass, which disclosed the intricate designs of
military dress, guns, ammunition, and --- in the case of the nudes --- the
individuality of each male figure.

      Mrs. Ravitch showed us another painting. The foreground depicted a
seaside shrine with Corinthian columns. On the wall of the shrine was a fresco, a
triptych that depicted three scenes, each partially obscured by the columns. The
first depicted Tantalus's murder of his son Pelops. The second fresco was twice
the size of the others. It depicted the gods seated at a banquet. One of the columns
split the banquet scene into two halves. None of the gods were eating, except for
the goddess Demeter, who was devouring some flesh from the feast. In the third
fresco, at the far right, the god Hermes and the Three Fates stood before a
cauldron and raised Pelops back to life. One of the Fates, named Clotho, had
fashioned an ivory shoulder for Pelops, to replace the one that Demeter had eaten
at the feast. Pelops emerged from the cauldron as a handsome young man, his
groin barely visible, but anatomically exciting. In the background, behind the
shine, a chariot rose out of the sea, drawn by two winged horses. The charioteer
was Poseidon, god of the sea. In his arms he held another nude Pelops, identical in
appearance to the youth in the cauldron. Poseidon's and Pelops's legs were
entangled with each other and with seaweed and waves from the sea. Below the
groin, it was as if the two male figures disappeared into the mystery of the waters.

      "There are two competing stories about Pelops, you see," Mrs. Ravitch
said. "Both stories are true to myth. In the first, Tantalus sacrificed Pelops and
served him as a feast for the gods, but the gods knew, instinctively, that Tantalus
was trying to get them to eat human flesh. This they refused, except for Demeter,
who was distracted by the recent death of her daughter Persephone. So when
Hermes and the Fates restored Pelops back to life, Clotho had to prepare an
artificial shoulder for him, to replace the one that Demeter had eaten. That's why
Pelops has an ivory shoulder. According to the second myth, there was no murder
of Pelops. Instead, Poseidon carried him off to be his lover, and taught him to be a
great hunter and horseman. Years later, Poseidon returned Pelops to his home in
Elis. There he won his wife, Hippodamia, in a chariot-race against her father,
King Onoemaus of Pisa. This chariot-race marked the beginning of the Olympic
Games. The shrine in the painting is the hero-shrine of Pelops. My point in the
painting is that both myths are true. Of course, the painting doesn't depict the
chariot-race of Pelops and Onemaus. Maybe that should be the subject of another
painting."

      Red Feather and I took turns examining the painting with the magnifying
glass. The two figures of Pelops were identical in every detail. I asked Mrs.
Ravitch if she had any plans for this painting. "It's such an important work," I
said. "It ought to be in a museum somewhere."

      "Classical themes are out of fashion at the moment," Mrs. Ravitch said.
"I'm hoping to bring them back, with the help of naturalism and correct anatomy
in the nude figures."

      We descended to the parlor. Soon enough, our conversation returned to
Mrs. Ravitch's paintings. "About your male nudes, are they all imaginary
figures?" I asked.

      "I've tried doing that, painting from memory and imagination," Mrs.
Ravitch said. "The result was never convincing, at least, not to me. I always ended
up painting over the imaginary nudes, because they seemed to lack personality. It
takes a real-life model to make a nude figure convincing."

      "If you're looking for a model, I'll pose for you, Mrs. Ravitch," I said.
Red Feather smiled. He knew I would offer.

      "You're an excellent specimen, Jake," Mrs. Ravitch said. "But modeling
takes time. I wouldn't want to impose. Still, if you want to do it, I can think of
some classical themes that would be perfect for you."

      "He'd like to be Hercules, or Theseus, or maybe Achilles," Red Feather
jokes. "Jake's an exhibitionist at heart."

      "Don't forget, Mrs. Ravitch's nudes usually come in pairs, like Poseidon
and Pelops," I said. Red Feather blushed. "I can audition for you right now!"

      "If we do that, I'll need to take photos," Mrs. Ravitch said. "We'll need
proper lighting. My lamps are upstairs." We agreed. Red Feather and I carried the
lamps and set them up in the parlor. "Just your shirt for now, Jake," she said. She
took several photos of me in different poses. I stripped down to my jockey shorts.
She took more photos. She lowered the backside of my shorts, and took photos of
me bare-assed.

      "And now, Jake, if you're ready," Mrs. Ravitch said, "If you're going to
get naked with me, you boys will have to start calling me Anna. It makes me feel
too conspicuous when my nudes call me Mrs. Ravitch."

      I stripped off my shorts and posed for more shots. My cock hardened in
the intimacy of the moment. Mrs. Ravitch --- Anna --- continued her study and
photography of my body. I couldn't stop blushing. "There's no need to feel
embarrassed, Jake, if your body responds as any man's body would do," she said.
"Physiology plus psychology equals art."

      "Is there room for me in this picture, Anna?" Red Feather asked.

      "I thought you'd never ask," Mrs. Ravitch said. "Take off your shirt, Red
Feather, and let's get some photos of you two together."

      Red Feather approached me, shirtless, and held me in a variety of poses,
each one more proprietary than the last. Acting on impulse, I stripped off his jeans
and shorts. We posed in the nude as lovers. Mrs. Ravitch went to the kitchen, and
came back with a bottle of olive oil, which she handed to Red Feather. "Let nature
take its course," she said.

      I lay on my side, facing Mrs. Ravitch. Red Feather got behind me. He
applied olive oil to my backside and coated his cock. He entered me slowly. I
looked back at him lovingly when he started to fuck me. "You gentlemen make
possession look so right and so natural," Mrs. Ravitch said. "I can only hope that
my art will equal the high standards of your passion."

      Our passion was fueled by the knowledge of Mrs. Ravitch's gaze. We
fucked doggie-style. We fucked standing up. I sat on Red Feather's cock, facing
him. He missioned me, and got me to cum while Mrs. Ravitch photographed my
facial expressions. He turned me over and humped furiously.

      Later, Mrs. Ravitch told Red Feather: "Jake is so beautiful, Nature
intended that he should be possessed. When a man has such beauty, the act of
possession is most convincing when it is accomplished by another man. The
Greeks understood that. And you make an ideal partner, Red Feather. You are
both blessed!"