Despite the two-hour drive down into Washington, D.C., for my government job, living along the top of the ridge of Blue Mountain, the last mountain north in the Blue Ridge Mountain chain, was usually heavenly. In the summer, it was a good ten degrees cooler up there on the tree-covered ridge with stunning views of the town of Front Royal below and into West Virginia and toward the Allegheny Mountains to the west. The same tree coverage and the isolation from many of the amenities of city or suburban life could make the winters sheer hell, though. Often were the times in the winter that I had to stay in town on a snowy night. This wasn't all bad, as it gave me an evening to play, but it just wouldn't do during Christmas week.
I usually countered that by taking the week between Christmas and New Year's Day off, hoping for snow, supplying up, and planning to go nowhere out of the house. We'd even solved the problems of bundling up and trudging out for New Year's parties by having become the family that hosted the New Year's Eve party for those living along our ridge road who took to the mountains for the holidays. That usually worked out well—usually.
Our New Year's parties usually became an exhilarating and a bit dangerous "catch me if you can" game for me. Some of the men living along the ridge road, some married, some not, and some bold enough to be living with another man, were gay or bisexual. I, in my late twenties, was blond and fit and was told I was quite good looking. I was well-heeled too for a guy my age, with a good political-connections job on Capitol Hill. The connection, though, was through my wife Marianne's family. Her father had been a senator and now served on the board of a handful of powerful companies. Marianne was older than I was—much. She knew I went with both women and men before we were married, but she assumed that her family's position and sponsorship had solved that. It hadn't. Often, she was so busy being a hostess for New Year's Eve that I was able to welcome in the new year with a bit of touchy feely—and more—during our annual party.
Men who wanted to cover younger men seemed to gravitate to me, and if they were good-looking and hung, I didn't fight them off—if it was convenient for me to receive them. Most of my men now were prominent government men some twenty years older than I was. I had my times, though, when I'd look at a young, hunky blue-collar worker and longed to sheath his cock and be treated a bit rough in the ride.
I was contemplating being able to entertain one of the younger guys on New Year's Eve at 4:00 p.m. one afternoon, on December 29th, when I was in our lower-floor exercise room, doing my dailies, and Marianne was upstairs in the kitchen, baking Snickerdoodle cookies for the party. We were being buffeted from outside by an ice storm that was promising to be a record-snow and ice storm all along the northeast seaboard, but we were snug, with Christmas music playing on the stereo and shimmering decorated Christmas trees twinkling in various public rooms of our sprawling house.
I didn't have any lighting on in the exercise room—there was a wall of glass between the room and the lower-level terrace overlooking the valley below, which let in all the light I needed, even at that time of day in the winter. I did hear the explosive pop, though, and Marianne's exclamation from the kitchen overhead of "Oh, shit," and I knew instantly that the power had gone out. I didn't have any trouble knowing why it had gone out either. Trees fell and their tops snapped up here on the mountainside in any sort of storm. Ice storms were probably the worst. I could only hope that whatever tree that had brought down the power lines serving the houses on the ridge hadn't come down on our narrow gravel mountain road too. We had only one exit route from here.
This wouldn't automatically cancel the New Year's party. We had a generator and multiple fireplaces and lots of candles, but the generator couldn't be used before the party or it wouldn't last until the party, and the food for the party hadn't been finished yet—nor was it as far along to being finished as it usually was. Most of the locals could make the party on foot, but it was going to be cold as shit up here until we got power and I couldn't maintain e-mail connection with my office during a rather delicate political time. I was expecting documents via e-mail that I had to review and sign off on before January 1st.
I called the power company, to be told that there were outages all over the area, but in hearing who I was and who I was married to, we were put high on the priority list for attention.
"One of our board members lives up there," the woman I talked to said, "So, your area is already on the list." She said it like it wasn't any clout that I had that was making a difference. I was warned, though, that "high" didn't mean today. I had to accept that. The next thing I had to ascertain was whether we could even get off the mountain. We couldn't stay here tonight without power. Most of the neighbors along the ridge were outside, checking that out too, but the more seasoned of them—those who had lived up here through many more winters than Marianne and I had—warned that, if we wanted to stay warm, we best get out now for the couple of days it would take to get the power back on.
I found where the line had come down, just a couple of lots further down the road from us, at the Barnes's house. Timothy Barnes, a black Marine major, whose wife, Sharon, had inherited a vacation house up here, was standing outside his house by the downed tree. He had a power saw and was cutting off limbs, but it was obvious that something more powerful than what he had was what would be needed to get this pine tree cleared.
That wasn't to say he wasn't a powerful man. He was a big, strapping, squared-away Marine, all muscle, square jaw, and crew cut. I'd had my eye on him for some time and he on me too, I could tell. We were both married, him with kids, but the signals were there and I'd returned them. The Barneses usually weren't up here for Christmas and New Year's, though.
"Looks like a bad one," I said as I came up to him. We were both bundled up like snowmen, but we both had gotten the measure of the other. We knew what was on offer. We had just been waiting for the opportunity. As they hadn't been on the mountain for Christmas before, I just hadn't thought it would be this New Year's.
"Yeah, we're going to need a power company bucket truck up here. Guess this scotches your New Year's party, and we'd made an effort to be here for it this year. I'd made an effort to be here." The look he gave me told me exactly why he'd made the effort to be here for the party this year. We'd murmured to each other before what fun the party could be. He'd decided this was the year the two of us would manage to party.
"We have a generator," I said. "We should be able to have the party even if the power doesn't come back on. Whoever is up here on the ridge might be stuck up here at New Year's anyway. I'm looking forward to you being at the party."
"Of course, there's no reason to have to wait for the party," he said, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes scanned up and down the road. No one else was in view.
"Oh?" I asked, trembling in anticipation. I'd been dreaming of getting me some young cock this Christmas season. It had been several months since I'd had any cock at all. Barnes was maybe in his mid-thirties. There was no doubt he was fit.
"I'm hard as steel and aching for it," he growled.
He fucked me up against a tree well out of sight of any of the houses. We remained bundled up, but he was hung like a bull, long and thick, and my jeans and briefs were only pulled down to my knees. My buns were kept warm by his gloved hands palming and separating them, as, with my knees hooked on his hips and my gloved hands clutching his biceps, he worked his way inside me with difficulty. Once in, though it was smooth going, with me rocking on him in rhythm with the thrusts. We fucked like two horny animals in deep rut—which, of course, we were. It would be nice if the Barneses made the New Year's Eve party, but there was nothing insistent now that they be able to do so. I had been had by him.
I was humming when I returned to the house and Timothy picked up his power saw to resume his limb trimming. I didn't think of myself as a slut for it, but perhaps it would be best for me to give that another thought.
Marianne was from Arizona. She wasn't a fan of cold in any shape or form. She cursed about having to suspend her food preparation, but she voted for going down to the valley for a night in a hotel before I did. So, we packed for two nights, took the winter car—an old and trusty Land Rover—and went down into Front Royal. I only had a couple of documents to look at being sent to me via the Internet, but it was vital that I receive and review them before the new year. The money they represented, if I signed off on them, would be lost if not dedicated to a project this calendar year.
There aren't many hotels in the Front Royal area that pass muster with Marianne, but there's a super-duper Holiday Inn resort hotel out near where Route 66 goes by the town that she likes, so that's where we headed. It wasn't really far from Blue Mountain. We could clearly see it from our house, but coming down off the mountain and through the town of Front Royal takes more than a half hour in the best of times—and while an ice storm was still spitting along wasn't the best of times.
It took us the better part of an hour to reach the hotel. I drove in a funk, thinking that being stuck in a hotel in the boonies with Marianne would really crimp of my style of wanting to mix it up with other guys during the Christmas holidays.
But my disappointment proved to be unfounded.
When we were checking into the hotel, without reservations and finding the parking lot almost entirely deserted, the reception clerk noted that there were few rooms available, because "anytime now a hundred Dominion Energy linemen will be showing up to stay here en route to the Northeast, where the storm is raging."
I gave that no notice at the time. It was only when we were eating dinner in Houlahan's, a bar and restaurant connected to the hotel, that we saw men dressed for work outside in the snow and ice slowly drifting in, most headed for the bar. Three strapping guys came in, boisterously yammering with each other, and briefly stood at the hostess's desk before turning left into the bar. They appeared to be rough-and-ready hulky hunks, a Hispanic and two Mediterranean types. They saw that I was looking at them and one of them winked at me. I instinctively winked back. I don't know what it is about guys in my lifestyle, but we seem able to quickly connect our interests.
These guys were gods in work clothes, a combination quite arousing to me, and I was fairly open in showing my interest. These three guys were open in returning that interest. It was just a brief moment. Marianne brought me back to ground by asking me a question and the three guys turned toward the bar.
We went upstairs to our room and it was less than another hour before one of our neighbors up on the Blue Mountain ridge called to say that the power was back on. Marianne got antsy at that point.
"I have so much to do before the party. I'm thinking that we should go on home."
I hadn't received the documents I needed to review by e-mail attachment yet, though. "The power being on doesn't mean Internet access is up yet," I said. "The cable companies can't get their lines back up until the power is on, and we won't exactly be high priority to get the cables back in."
"You could stay here and I'll go home," Marianne said. She really, really wanted to get back to the house.
I wasn't thinking straight or I would have hopped on that idea immediately. Instead, I said, "You don't like driving the Land Rover and the roads are treacherous. I don't want to see you trying to drive in this on your own." She showed a pout and I adjusted. "I can drive you back up and come back to the hotel to review my documents and spend the night. It would just take an hour and a half."
I wasn't even thinking of possibilities at that point, but, luckily, Marianne jumped on the idea. So, that's what we did.
The drive up and back was harrowing, but the Land Rover managed it. I almost went into shock when I got back to the hotel. The large parking lot was nearly bumper to bumper with a sea of Dominion Energy bucket trucks. The bulk of the army of linemen headed into the Northeast to repair the storm damage there had arrived. The lobby of the hotel was clogged with bulked-up outside service men checking in and standing around and jabbering to each other. I was triggered into going into arousal overdrive, but I made it to my room, found the documents had arrived, and did what I had to do to get those back in time to pin the funding down.
The documents taken care of, I realized I was hopelessly keyed up—on more levels than one. I was relieved I'd gotten the work done I needed to do; I was still full of nervous energy from the difficult drive, first down the mountain and then up and down again in the messy weather; and having all these rough-and-ready men around me had me aroused. On top of that, I felt free of Marianne for the night. She was on top of Blue Mountain. I was down in Front Royal, by myself. There was no way Marianne was suddenly going to show up wherever I was and whatever I was doing. I could do what I often did when I was stuck in Washington alone on a night like this.
I needed a drink—or two or three. I needed to be fucked too—Timothy Barnes had only whetted my appetite for young cock. I wanted to lie on my back with a thick cock deep inside me, moving, while a young muscle stud did pushups on my body.
I dressed in something provocative and went down to the bar at Houlihan's. I unconsciously had been preparing for this before I was aware I was. When I'd taken Marianne back to the house, I'd pulled out a pair of white stretch jeans and a red-mesh athlete T-shirt. It was nearly New Year's and I'd have something with me to dress for the season now that I would be on my own for the night. I was aware of the possibility of going into Front Royal to Charlie's, a gay bar, but nothing consciously had formed at that point.
In Houlihan's, I turned left into the bar, which was chock-a-block with boisterous Dominion linemen. Passing through the bar, I entered the back party room that the bar had opened to take the overflow.
The three guys were there, standing in a tight group, drinks in hand, ogling the other men swirling around. They saw me. They smiled and ogled me and I smiled and ogled them back. They obviously were on the make. So was I. I was aware of the danger that they were doing this as a pack, but that only heightened my arousal. I'd been gangbanged before.
Their names were Anthony, Sami, and Ed, Ed being the Hispanic looker. Out of their bulky outerwear, all three of them looked like muscular bodybuilders. They all were older than I was, but not older than their early forties.
I told them my name was Craig. It isn't, but close enough for a one-night stand. And this would be a one-night stand. Three of them and rough trade. I just needed an itch scratched—a Christmas present.
They came to me in the back room at Houlihan's. If they hadn't, I don't know if I'd played coy or worked my way to them or maybe seen the danger and extreme possibilities of three rough men and backed off. But I didn't have time to think about it. They came to me, two of them each taking an elbow and the third, the Hispanic, who seemed to be in charge, saying, "You were looking for us, Blondie?"
They hadn't been in the Houlihan bar all this time. They'd come in in their work clothes, but now they were in jeans and leather jackets, with tight T-shirts that clearly showed how sculpted their torsos were. They'd probably eaten, gone to their rooms to clean up, and returned to drink and carouse—and, it now was quite evident, to hook up—and to hook up with men rather than women.
To hook up with me—three on one. Throughout the evening, they moved in consort as if they were accustomed to this.
I had a brief worry that they'd seen me with Marianne, a woman, earlier in the restaurant portion of Houlahan's, but then I remembered that we'd been sitting in a booth. I'd been facing the entrance where they were. Marianne had been hidden from their view.
"Maybe," I answered.
"Dressed just for us, did you?" the one who looked like a Turk asked. "Nice." He touched me on a nipple, which clearly showed through the mesh of the red T-shirt. The nipple was puffed up. I was more than ready.
"Maybe," I answered him.
"Looking for company?" asked the third, the guy who looked Greek.
To which the Hispanic said, "I think he says more than maybe to that. I think he dressed just for us. Come on over to where we can sit and talk—and stuff."
And stuff. It was a clear signal for me to piss off if I didn't want this to wind up with dicks inside me. I didn't back off.
They guided me to the far wall of the room, where there where horseshoe-shaped bubbly vinyl-covered sofas lining the wall, with ottomans at the open ends. The lighting here was dim and tinted blue. You had to be standing right over anyone sitting in this configuration to have a clear view of what they were doing. That was, I was sure, on purpose. I'd been to private parties here and knew one could get quite intimate and frisky without being noticed as long as everyone else had someone to concentrate on. One section was just being vacated, and they sat me down in the middle, with the Greek on one side of me and the Turk on the other. The Hispanic sat on the ottoman, facing us and hovering over toward me. I was blocked from view from the room. Ed could have come in closer, put it in me, and no one in the room would know I was being fucked if I was quiet about it.
The Hispanic had come very close to calling me slut on the make for them. That triggered my arousal, and I decided that being entirely free this evening and hot for it, I'd be their slut, if that was what they wanted. Three rough linemen. Macho time. It was just a one-night stand.
"You boys seemed to know each other very well," I said as the Hispanic leaned over, grasped my knees in two strong, callused hands, and spread my legs. The Greek and the Turk from each side laid an equally strong-looking and callused hand on my thighs. A barman arrived and the Hispanic ordered Corona beers for all of us. He was taking charge of me as well as of his chums. After the beers arrived, he ran his hands up my inner calves inside the stretchy material of my jeans, and I shuddered for him. What I wanted to say is that they seemed to be running in a pack of like minds—there didn't seem to be any hesitation in what each of them wanted and how they signaled they wanted it.
"Yep, we're buds," the Hispanic said. "I'm Ed—for Eduardo. That there is Anthony," indicating the Greek, "and Sami," indicating the Turk. "We both work for Dominion out of Nashville, Tennessee. The storm didn't hit there, so we're being sent together with two of trucks to help out north. We like to play together and it's been a long day. Anthony here is randy."
"And you're not?" I asked, giving him a saucy look. If it was slut they wanted, it was slut I'd give them.
"What do you think?" he asked. He looked around to see if anyone was watching us close, and, deciding they weren't, one of his hands went to my basket and to the zipper, which he pulled down, provocatively, just an inch. His eyes were locked on me to see if I'd resist that. I didn't. He could, I'm sure, feel me going hard under the heel of his hand. "We can't party long tonight. Are you a local? Do you know where we can go to be comfortable and let it all hang out?"