Date: Sat, 30 Apr 2011 19:45:34 -0700
From: Oregon Bear <oregonbear9@gmail.com>
Subject: Elk Camp, part 1

This story contains graphic descriptions of adult male gay consensual
sexual activity.  If this topic disturbs you or it is illegal for you to
read, please leave this site.

    Oregonbear@gmail.com

			     Elk Camp, Part 1

	We'd spent all day butchering, quartering and packing out Mark's
bull elk.  It was a nice four point, and he'd shot it right after dawn, up
on the ridge, about a quarter mile from camp.  He'd had a clean shot, and
we'd brought the liver and the heart down the ridge, too, so we'd have some
great camp meat this week.
	It was the third day of the second elk season, and we'd both taken
two weeks off to come up here in the mountains, set up camp and hunt to our
hearts' content.  And, hunting always meant more than getting up two hours
before dawn, and hiking up to the top of the ridge, freezing our butts,
waiting for a bull to wander by.
	It was much more than that.  It was the conversations around the
wood stove, the whiskey sipping in the evening, as we cooked dinner and
told stories, in falling asleep listening to the wind in the mountain
spruce trees, the full moon silvery against the fresh snow on the forest
floor, the camp coffee heating on the stove as we stumbled into our hunting
clothes, the smell of frying bacon in the crisp mountain air.
	I'd gotten my bull elk on opening day, and we'd spent most of that
day butchering and packing out my elk, a little three point bull.  The
quarters were hanging up in the trees on the upper side of our camp, now
joined by the carcass of Mark's elk.
	We'd never filled our tags this early in the season, and we had
another ten days to go before we had to go back to work.  I wondered what
we'd do with all that time on our hands.
	The weather was cold and it frosted every night, so the meat would
be just fine until we broke camp at the end of the season.  It would hang
there and age in the cold mountain air, improving its flavor so that when
the butcher shop cut it into roasts and steaks, and ground the rest of it
into hamburger and elk sausage, we'd be able to fill our freezers with
almost a year of meat.
	Butchering and hauling two elk carcasses down the mountain over
three days had left up pretty tired.  We thought we'd gotten in pretty good
shape during deer season, but all the packing out had worn us out.
	Mark was the last one in, hauling the last hindquarter.  We tied a
rope around it and hauled it up into the tree, joining all the other
quarters.  We had rolled up the hide up on the ridge, and I had packed it
out on my last trip.  We'd take it to one of our buddies, who knew how to
tan it in the old way, and he'd turn it into soft leather, the color of
caramel.
	Both of us were a mess, sweaty and our hands and clothes pretty
well covered in elk blood and a bit of the offal that comes from gutting
out two elk over three days.  And, butchering and packing out two elk
carcasses left us a lot riper than the normal hunting trip.
	The creek that ran by the side of camp hadn't frozen over yet,
though there was a growing edge of ice along the bank, next to the several
inches of snow that had fallen in the last couple of days.  Part of the
creek swirled in a slow eddy against a big log, forming a small pool.
	Like any hunters' camp in elk season, we didn't set up a place to
shower.  It was just too darn cold this time of year.  Still, we were
filthy enough that we really needed to at least rinse ourselves off and our
hunting clothes could definitely stand a wash.  The wind had picked up a
bit, blowing down the ravine, and the ice on the edge of the creek promised
a darn chilly bath.
	Still, we had the camp stove fired up in the big wall tent we had
set up, and we had some nice clean clothes and a bottle of whiskey waiting
for us after our plunge.
	"Time to take the plunge, I guess," Mark said, stripping off his
hunting jacket and shirt.  He slid off his boots and camo jeans, and then
unbuttoned his union suit long johns.  They were bright red, and he always
wore them on our hunting trips.  He liked to say he really was a 19th
century kind of guy and liked to wear the clothes his great grandfather
used to wear.
	As he unbuttoned his union suit, the thick tufts of his red chest
hair pushed out of the wool, and soon, he stood bare assed naked, his cock
flopping around above his nice set of balls, amidst the thick bush of hair
that splayed across his groin.  A thick blanket of fur marched up his firm
stomach into the thatch of hair across his muscular chest, and his large
reddish nipples.
	I always liked going hunting with Mark.  He got a little wild and
crazy on these trips, and he said he liked to be a mountain man once in a
while, and let his hair down.  And, he'd always given me a good show of his
nice ass and his thick cock on our trips, not something I'd get to see back
at the office, where we both spent our days pushing paper and going to
meetings.
	"Last one in gets to be the cook," he chuckled, shooting a big grin
at me through his four day old beard.
	That's another thing I liked about Mark on these trips.  He got
into the spirit of being away from civilization and let everything get wild
and crazy, like the red union suit, and dancing around the fire in the
snow, or plunging bare assed naked into an icy stream.
	I'd always tried to be like Mark on these trips, to let myself go,
to get in touch with my wild side.  After all, we were away from the
routines of work, and the demands of home life, the constraints of
"civilization".  Still, in years past, I'd shave every couple of days,
afraid, I guess of actually growing a beard.
	I'd grown one my sophomore year in college.  All the guys did, but
I shaved it off after about a week, afraid of what my folks would say, and
more afraid, I guess, of not "fitting in" and being the clean cut college
boy I'd aspired to be.  Being neat and tidy, and perfect in all ways was my
goal.  After all, I'm the guy who has to have his sock drawer all in order,
and I still iron all my dress shirts for work.
	I haven't even sported a moustache, not wanting to look the least
bit "wild".
	This year, though, Mark had dared me to leave my razor at home.  He
bet me a fifth of my favorite whiskey that I'd not shave for the full two
weeks we camped in the mountains.  And, I'd also have to "go commando" and
not wear any shorts.  It was a crazy enough bet that I took him up on it.
	It wasn't the only thing I'd be doing differently this year.  My
girlfriend of the last five years had left me last month, and I'd been
figuring out how to live by myself in my apartment.  Cindy had apparently
had enough of me, and left one morning, after we got into an awful fight
about my obsessiveness over the laundry.
	She wanted someone a little wilder in bed, too, she said.
	"You're too vanilla for me, you know," she said, crying that
morning.  "I have needs, and you just don't excite me any more.  You're too
predictable."
	I suppose she's right.  The missionary position works fine for me,
and I thought she'd always appreciate our schedule of lovemaking.
Wednesday night and Saturday morning.  Just like clockwork.  Still, after
five years, I could sort of see her point.  Maybe I was too predictable,
too vanilla.
	I watched Mark grab a bar of soap from the camp table, and plunge
into the icy stream, his naked self slipping under the water.  He emerged
sputtering and gave a shout.
	"Damn, that's cold!"
	I laughed at him, naked in a freezing creek in the middle of
November, up here in the middle of nowhere.
	An icy thick snowball splattered against my chest, its sharp edges
poking through my shirt, icy water splashing across my face and neck.
	"Get in here, Jake.  If I'm freezing, you might as well freeze,
too," Mark shouted, breaking into a fit of laughter as I sputtered through
the remnants of the snowball in my face, and dripping into my shirt and
onto my chest.
	"All right, all right," I said, beginning to strip off my shirt and
jeans, and unlacing my hunting boots enough so that I could slip them off
and leave my jeans by the bank of the creek.
	Mark had seen me naked before, at the golf club sometimes, and once
last year, when we took a quick dip in the creek on one of those rare days
when it turned really warm and the sun actually felt warm.  Still, I was a
modest guy and it was hard for me to accept Mark's ease with his body, and
getting naked.  He slept in the nude when we were in camp, and would jump
out of his sleeping bag in the middle of the night and take a leak right
outside the tent flap.
	I tried to wade slowly into the creek, one inch at a time. I was
finally in enough that the water was halfway up my thighs.  I had my hands
over my crotch, and I guess I was trying to protect my balls and cock from
the icy water, or maybe Mark's gaze, until he threw another snowball,
splattering ice and snow across my chest.  My hands flew up, leaving my
crotch exposed, and Mark quickly pitched another iceball right at my groin.
	SPLAT!
	My groin was plunged into a deep freeze, the snow and ice enmeshed
into the thick black hair covering my balls and hiding the root of my cock.
Startled by the attack, I slipped on the gravelly creek bottom, and fell,
ass first, into the deepest part of the pool, my mouth taking in a cup or
two of nearly frozen mountain water.
	I struggled to stand up, and Mark grasped my upraised hand, pulling
me to my feet, and against his strong chest.  His other arm curled around
my back, drawing me closer to him, until our bristly faces were just an
inch apart.
	"Steady, there, partner," Mark whispered to me.
	My chest was heaving, and icy water was dripping down, my balls
tight against my groin, my skin reddening with the sudden chill.
	"Here, let me clean you up so we can get you out of here and into
the tent," he said.
	His thick fingers quickly rubbed the bar of soap through my hair,
into my whiskery face, and through the fur that grew across my chest.  His
hands soon raised a lather of suds across my chest, under my arms, and down
into my groin.  Expertly, his fingers, soaped and cleaned my cock, and
balls, with one hand soaping under my sac and around my hole and butt
cheeks.
	More fingers soaped my cock again, and slid my foreskin down my
cock head a bit, washing around my cock head, the sensations mixing with
the stinging iciness of the water, my face reddening from his close touch.
	His hands turned me halfway around, and he held me steady against
the rush of the snow water until I regained my balance, my bare toes
gripping the gravel creek bottom.  His strong hands worked their way over
my shoulders and down my back, with more soap suds, until he reached my
butt.  Practiced finders slid down my crack, soaping me completely and
cleaning my around my hole.
	One finger slipped inside, slick with the soap and the water, until
it was one, then two knuckles deep, other fingers sliding against the back
of my ball sac, gentle, and slow.
	I gasped again, the cold and the intimacy all mixed into one blur
of sensation.  The icy mountain air stung my lungs, my eyes tearing up at
the chill that was soaking into every cell of my body.  Yet, the heat and
the softness of his touch lit a fire inside of me, a fire of excitement,
even desire.
	"There, you're clean," Mark whispered, his voice just barely
audible over the burbling of the creek.  "Now, wash me up."
	He handed me the soap bar, and gave me a big grin.
	"Come on, Jake. I'm starting to feel a bit of the chill here," Mark
chuckled, obviously enjoying watch me rise to the challenge.
	I gingerly starting lathering his hair, and then his stubbly beard
and moustache.  Slowly, at first, my fingers touched him, feeling his skin,
and the texture of his hair, and then the course wiry stubble that covered
the bottom of his face.  My fingers shampooed him, the lather slipping off
his sprouting moustache and chin, and dripped down into the thick fur of
his hard chest.
	The wind died down a bit, and a few skiffs of snow began to dance
downward from the darkening sky.  A few flakes caught in his hair, and in
his beard, the white stark and pure against the red fur of this wild man.
	The soap bar worked across his chest, and under his arms, my
fingers feeling the heat of his armpits, and the stiff nubs of his nipples,
and the hard curves of his pecs and stomach.  I could smell the pure
mountain creek water, a bit of the elk blood, and the last of the sweat and
musty stench of this mountain man, now thinned by the clean smell of the
soap.  I'd never touched a man before, not in this way, not this intimate.
	I paused, looking into Mark's eyes, asking him, silently, if I was
done.
	"Keep going, Jake," Mark whispered.  "Wash me everywhere.  Please."
	I hesitated, the soap bar cold in my hands, the icy water now
completely numbing my feet, and my legs.  My heart beat loudly, and it was
hard to breathe.  Not just from the cold, I realized.  It was something
else, something new.
	"Looks like you're enjoying this," Mark said, his voice awakening
me from my thoughts.
	I followed his eyes, and looked down, seeing my cock hard, full,
and pointing upward, right at Mark.  I hadn't felt myself getting hard,
hadn't realized Mark had turned me on, aroused me.
	I blushed, looking away, my face reddening, sweat starting to form
in my arm pits.
	"Oh, God," I stuttered.
	The forest, the creek, the world stood still, silent.  All that
moved, all that was important, was my cock, hard and ready for sex, turned
on my lust, my desire for my friend, for a man!
	"You wear it well, my friend," Mark whispered.  "That hard cock
looks good on you.  Enjoy it."
	He took my hand, still gripping the slippery bar of soap, and
guided me down, down his hard, furry stomach, into the thick bush of hair
surrounding his cock, and his balls.
	"Wash me, Jake, nice and slow," Mark said.  "It feels so good when
you touch me."
	I forgot we were butt naked, standing thigh deep in an icy mountain
creek, my hands touching my best friend, soaping up his cock, his balls,
even, with Mark's gentle help, his butt crack and his hole.  He held my
hands firm, asking me to keep washing him, to work up a lather, to push my
finger into the warmth of his hole.
	He turned a bit, taking me back to his cock, now hardening a bit
from our slippery strokings, and guided me to run a finger under his
foreskin, to feel the ridge of his cock head, rubbing the soap's lather
across his cock head, and around his cock, and through the thick, wiry
curls of his fur.
	He took one of my hands and helped me cup his balls, holding them
softly, slowly rubbing the lather around them, and through the hairs of his
sac, showing me how to feel their weight, how they moved under the thin
skin, and the texture of their sac.
	Mark leaned closer to me, pulling me closer to him, pulling our
furry chests close, until the wet curls touched, until I felt the stiff
points of his nipples poke into me, until I could feel the fur of his
stomach and groin surround my hard, aching cock.  His lips touched mine,
and he held me in a kiss, his hand against my cock.
	We pulled away, just a bit, his hand now sliding up and down my
cock.  We stood still, the water flowing around our thighs, the rumbling of
the creek loud in our ears, as he kept sliding his wet, soapy fingers up
and down my manhood.  Again, and again, slowly, then a bit faster, keeping
pace with my quickening breath, and my heartbeats.
	I breathed deep, not feeling the cold air rushing deep down my
throat and into my lungs, as he pumped me, faster and faster, my hips now
joining in to his dance with me, matching his thrusts, beat for beat.
	Nothing else mattered now.  There was no creek, no mountain, no
snow.  There was only the pistoning, back and forth, of the slippery, warm
hand, along my shaft, and gently touching my hot and needy cock head, and
my seed, rising high in my balls, aching to be released.
	Again and again, he slid and moved back and forth and I moved
forward and back, faster and faster, until I could take no more, until my
seed hurled through my shaft, spurting in thick globs against his fingers,
against his thick fur, against his cock, thick and slippery on his skin,
and mine.
	Releasing their load, my balls dropped a bit, their sac now
slippery with my newly released seed, hot in his tender hand.
	Mark kissed me again, holding my now trembling body tight in his
arms.
	"Let's take this show inside," he whispered.  "It's starting to
snow."