Just to bust on him, they called him Trojan Troy behind his back, because he was one of those buttoned-up, conservative, bow-tied Banana Republican nitwits who insisted on wearing a three-piece suit when he so much as went out to have his nails done, and you could bet your last jar of face cream that he would never in his whole life choose to wear glitter. He sailed yachts and drank Scotch and voted Republican and probably had a wife and three kids somewhere that he could wear like costume jewelry as necessary to impress his Bush family friends.

The problem was, all that rowing at Harvard had given him shoulders to die for, and his blue blood mother gave him a prep-school-pretty face, so when he asked me to join him up at his family’s “camp” up north in the mountains, politics took a back seat. I said, “Hell, yes! Where do I sign up?” and did not give a thought to what I had got myself into.

We were already three hours up the highway in his BMW before I got cold feet. How would I get away if something went wrong? What would I do if Troy left me alone in the woods? What if we did not like each other? What if we had to dress in dickies or something equally morally repulsive?

“Where’s the camp?” I asked.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

We finally stopped along the highway in a tiny lot etched out of the snow bank by the plows. I shivered.

I said, “This is my version of Hell.”

“Shut up.”

“Whatever happened to the First Amendment? You Republicans...”

Troy shot me a hard look. He was hot when he was pissed.

I shut up.

For now, I thought, I’ll do what I’m told. You know how these Republicans like a police state. And police states can be hot. All that leather and handcuffs…

We set out on cross-country skis into the woods, and the only sound was the whisper of skis cutting through the new powder. Troy had shed the business suit for a pair of spandex leggings, a silk v-neck shirt that was open at the neck, and a pullover unzipped to the navel. As he skied, his muscular ass built and lengthened, built and lengthened.

Well, I certainly can’t turn back now, I decided. I relaxed into the delicious disorientation of not knowing where in God’s name I was.

After all, it’s every gay boy’s fantasy to be spirited off to nowhere and pampered, I told myself. I let myself feel a delicious thrill of fear. At least a Republican kidnapper isn’t going to be all gentle and respect my boundaries and shit like liberals are known to do.

The “camp” was a genuine log cab beneath snow-laden fir trees. Troy popped the door open and turned the beam of the flashlight inside. I laid eyes first on a stone hearth big enough to walk into, and then a kitchen, separated slightly from the main room, with a long sleeping loft up above. A giant black stove took up much of the space, with a gas griddle covering much of the surface. It looked like some medieval torture chamber.

“Take off your clothes,” Troy commanded. He lit a lantern, hung it on a post and then lit another.

“Wh-... But it’s still cold…”

“Take off your clothes.”

I let my pack fall. I shuffled off my heavy coat. Kicked off my shoes. Peeled off my socks.

Troy leaned against a sturdy wooden ladder hewn from logs that led from the main room to a loft overhead. He watched critically as each article of clothing came off.

“Leave on the hat,” he ordered.

The door flapped open and he kicked it closed. I stood, winter pale and naked. My hardened nipples were bullets in the cold.

Troy removed his gloves. He stood just inches away, and scooped a little frozen snow from my hat. He let it melt from the warmth of his fingers. Each drop falling on my shoulders felt hot, not cold. Scorching. And then the drops ran down over my belly toward my cock, which had somehow gotten hard, even in the cold air.

My belly gave an involuntary ripple. My cock twitched.

Troy touched my left nipple with a cold finger. I shivered deliciously. I ached to be taken, ravished, and warmed.

Troy paced around me like an alley cat, inspecting me from every angle, seeming to take forever behind my back, out of sight, total secrecy, what could you expect from a Republican, you know how they like national security.

It was all I could do not to turn, to look, to wonder what the hell was going on. I heard Troy’s boots come off with an ominous noise and then the wet snap-slap of spandex on skin.

When Troy slipped back into my view, he was naked from the waist down, and his cock hung half-full and already huge. It would have been easy to mistake that cock for one of the logs they had built this cabin from. His thighs were powerfully muscled, covered my dark hair.

He looked at me and then deliberately drew his sweater over his head, and his shoulders looked broader naked. The armpits were deep and filled with hair. The chest was not quite smooth, but a dark untidy trail of slicked hair ran down the middle of the belly pointing the way to that gorgeous, pulsing cock.

Troy smiled, a predatory beast. His movement was so sudden, it made me jump and dodge. Troy jumped toward me, caught me, propelled me against the ladder to the loft above. The opening of the condom pack sounded like he was tearing my skin.

I gripped the ladder’s railings. When Troy entered me, I gasped and shuddered and swore I would vote Republican the rest of my days. He took my ass as if it was his birthright.

I felt the cold and the dripping wet from Troy’s face. His body felt like a furnace behind me. He grunted and gripped and for a while he wasn’t touching me anywhere, except for his cock. Cock on ass. No other point of contact. No other place that mattered in the world.

My sphincter tightened on Troy’s wood. Tightened and released. There was pleasure in all the seams of my body. I felt him inside me, felt split like a log.

Troy gripped me. By the shoulder. By the hip. By the thigh. With each stroke of Troy’s cock, I bruised myself on the ladder’s wood rails. Sweet bruises, like those on a fruit’s skin that turn rapidly to sugar.

Troy was closer now, his face flat against my shoulder blade, then at my neck, in my ear. A wordless growl of pleasure grew like thunder in his chest. And then it was in my chest.

And then that manicured hand took hold of my cock like it was a halyard on his yacht. Holding me through the rungs of the ladder, he stroked and touched me, weighing my balls, fingering the base of my cock.

A dull glow of warmth and pleasure reached up from within me. His fingers tapped my nuts and the dull glow spilled over, the hand stroked, the body behind convulsed, and then I was spent, my jizz dripping from the rungs of the ladder in a long slick and, for a moment, Troy heavy as a bag of bricks on my backside as he gathered his breath.

Troy braced himself on my back and pulled away. His cock came free with a wet “plucck” from the grip of my ass.

I was breathless, and clung to the railing. I felt the appreciative eyes on my backside like a set of firebrands. Troy was the kind of guy who would own horses, and I was just one of the stable.

“Come on,” Troy said. “We’re not done. We’ve only just blessed the place.”

I turned slowly, weary almost, wondering what could possibly be next.

It turned out we had left our packs out in the snow, and while we had been fucking, an inch of snow had fallen and covered our tracks through the woods. It was impossible to see where we had come from.

“They say we’re supposed to get ten inches,” Troy said. If he was making a joke, he did not show it. He was deadpan. As always. Almost as if he had not just fucked me raw with about that measurement, and left me standing there, shivering in the cold.

I said, “Oh, no, what are we going to do, we’re trapped.”

Troy—who had hardly said a word—gave a sly grin. Then his eyes slid sideways and met mine. He raised his eyebrows. Licked his lips.

“Nothin’ to do but rut,” he drawled.

If this was how Republicans acted in their spare time, I thought, I was ready to join the Party.

Normally, I was all about city life and Chardonnay and freedom and organic soy products and group sex and big government. I hated to feel trapped. Get the tricks out before morning, that was my motto.

But me and my ass woke the next morning to the sounds and smells of Reagan’s America: bacon and eggs frying on the grill; the scent of tomatoes freshly cut; cinnamon and apples from a pot of oatmeal, and coffee—rich, dark hair-on-your-chest coffee, none of this Starbucks triple skim latter nonsense.

I peered over the edge of the loft, where we were sleeping. Troy was in the kitchen. He was wearing snowmobiling boots, wool socks to his knees, and a pair of woolen knickers with suspenders.

His bare back was etched like marble, his lats like a pair of wings, his waist narrow as a girl’s except for the two mounds of back muscle on either side of his spine. From behind, he looked younger than he was, a high school sports stud with clear skin and a rock-hard cock.

Except, of course, for the flowered June-Cleaver apron he had taken down from a nail on the wall and tied around his waist. He was juggling two or three cast iron skillets at once, all the while holding a wooden spoon by its handle in his mouth, so that he could stir the simmering oatmeal from time to time.

“Hey, Paul Bunyan...” I called out, swimming from beneath the covers.

“Don’t you move from under those blankets,” Troy replied. His voice was authoritarian and deep, with a deep reverb. He waved his spatula at me for emphasis as if he would spank me with it. Which I could only hope he would.

The crack and pop of the wood fire lulled me to sleep. And then, from close range was the smell of food and man at close range, and I was not sure which I wanted first.

Troy hissed, “I want your ass.” I opened my eyes and his face was in front of mine. A bit of stubble showed on his cheeks and chin, and the shadow made his eyes deeper than ever.

He bit my lip instead of kissing me. I felt the straining hardness of his body, smelled the stink of him, the man-sweat, the lust, the bacon-meat. It was a potent, intoxicating mixture, and my morning wood throbbed.

He set aside the dishes he had brought with him up to the loft and rooted through the blankets until he found my ass. He rolled me over and let a long slow spit drool into my crack. He drew a line with his finger and then split my ass with his thumbs as if it was a breakfast roll, and all hot and fresh-baked inside.

His fingers drew a neat circle, a soft probe of my still-tender asshole. Testing the sphincter, pressing, entering a fingertip and no more. I arched and pressed back against his ass, back against that finger, now up on my knees, face down in the pillow, as in the air, as he worked me with a finger. Like I was his puppet.

This is what they mean by a puppet state, I thought.

He worked a whole finger in me and then two, it was an easy slide, I felt broken in, and pliant, unresistant, welcome to be used.

When Troy put himself inside me, the condom stretched to the limit, I moaned and bit the pillow. My ass had that good kind of well-fucked soreness, and he was slow this time, slow and deliberate, like he was going to beat me to death with his wood one gentle stroke at time. The only sound in the cabin was my own moans and the crackle and burst of the logs in the fire. The snow silenced everything outside.

The thrust began to build up, imperceptibly at first, but then I found myself bracing against them, bracing on the posts of the bed, as all his weight slammed into me, centered on his shaft.

I grabbed my own cock and began to stroke it, and Troy whispered, hissed, a harsh, grating succulent voice in my ear that sent an arrow of nerves down my back and made my sphincter close with pleasure, give a squeeze to his manhood.

“You like my cock?”

Damn right, I did, and I exploded all over the flannel sheets on that alone.

We sat in front of the fire all day, eating and fucking and sucking, and going through a fistful of condoms, and he pampered and treated me and did not let me lift a finger, as if he wanted me for nothing but my body. If this was some kind of campaign, he had long since got my vote. Approval ratings, as they say, were high.

Troy pressed a mug of steaming chocolate into my hands.

“Drink that up,” Troy ordered. He was obviously used to having a lot of servants around the house to do his bidding. Like a good boy, I drank down the mixture of hot chocolate and crème de cacao. The alcohol fumes made my eyes run. There was not much chocolate in it.

Maybe he’s saving the rest of the chocolate to lick off my inner thighs.

Every once in a while Troy got up to throw more logs on the fire, a sheen of sweat over his fine body, the damp in his crotch always caught my eye, and the muscles wrestling beneath his skin like cobras. He was lean and without an ounce of fat, but naturally, as if he had never in his life been to a gym, all red meat and team sports and naked shenanigans in boys camp.

In late afternoon, Troy snatched a hatchet down from the wall. So much, I thought, for compassionate conservatism.

But my fear dissolved in weak, relieved laughter as Troy yanked on lederhosen and suspenders and headed out into the cold. The sky had again cleared again and his nipples turned hard in the chilly air.

I stood in the cabin door, wrapped tight in a Hudson Bay blanket like an immigrant wretch, and watched, fascinated, as Troy wielded the axe and hatchet with equal skill. Every sinew in his shoulders stood out in perfect relief. The two muscular cords on either side of his spine bulged, and his belly clenched and unclenched with each “thwock!” of the blade in the wood.

When he came back and dumped extra logs by the fire, I ran a hand over the delicious cold of his skin. I took it on myself to warm Troy up. I tried to yank him down on the rug, a hand on the cloth around his growing cock.

The elephant, I thought, is the perfect mascot.

“Not yet,” Troy said, standing tall, erect, proud. He was perfectly controlled, even though his cock made a tent out of the front of his lederhosen. He loved to be in charge.

With the extra logs, he fed the wood stove. Then Troy hit a valve and water from the wooden hot tub next to the kitchen passed through the coils in the wood stove, gathering heat. On the other side, the heated water dumped back into the tub. Soon, the room was steamy and Troy’s lederhosen were hanging from a peg on the wall, and we were naked, submerged in the powerful stream of fresh hot water pouring in from the stove.

“Aren’t hot tubs a little California liberal for you? I mean, I would have thought you went in for being whipped with ash boughs or something...”

He jumped me, nobody but a fish should be able to move that fast through water. He crushed his lips over mine, pushed his tongue into my very words, into my throat, until I swear he could have done all my speaking for me.

When we were roasted, he rousted me from the tub, and we jumped outside, naked in the foot-high snow. The cold was a rush like a punch to the belly, and I screamed at the tops of my lungs. Troy only smiled and pelted me with half-packed snowballs and there was snow in his chest hair and dripping down to his crotch and I lapped it all of him, from cock to shoulder, until I could stand the cold no longer.

We scampered back to the hot tub, dizzy with heat, and plunged in, skins streaked with red. I toyed with Troy’s crotch, which obediently grew in my hand. Troy’s breathing went deeper, coming in sheets. He was looking at my body beneath the water with predatory hunger. I was ready to surrender, softened by the heat, my ass hungry.

Troy seized me, but I shook off his grip and darted toward the ladder to the loft. Troy gave chase, catching me as I took the first step as he had the first night. His tongue feathered down my backside, down each vertebrae one by one, until Troy’s tongue was in my ass. His lips pulled at the folds of skin. I swear I felt the snap of teeth, the rush of fear, like he would swallow me whole, but the pleasure was all I could focus on.

Wetness from the water brought out the stink of his sweat, his manhood. I swore that I could smell the guy’s desire, gulp, never felt anyone had wanted me as much as Troy did now. He was greedy. Unapologetic.

I felt like I was going to be obliterated by his want, his need, his hunger. I felt the scruff of his beard on my asshole, the chafe and whiskers, the tongue as hard as a cock, inquisitive and teasing, and then the tongue was actually parting my asshole, opening it up, and was in him, tongue like another cock, fucking me, just at the muscle of my sphincter.

When I was about to come, he knocked away my hand from my own cock, withdrew his face from my ass, and it was like he had robbed me of the will to move. I was drained, hard, straining, balls drawn up.

“Get upstairs!” he ordered.

He slapped my ass as I dragged myself up the ladder, I could feel the brand marks of fingers long after the red had left my skin. And I thought, This time I’ve got to defend myself.

Up in the loft, I found some energy. We wrestled and tossed and struggled, and I wasn’t doing so bad for a little guy. Our bodies were locked. Our eyes were locked. We breathed in time.

First one was on top, then the other. Troy managed to pin my arms, but I broke free. And each time I moved, I felt the firebrand of Troy’s manhood against my skin, and it was all I could do not to give up then and there, take the warmth inside me as I so desperately wanted.

Finally, Troy took me, pinned on my side, torso twisted so my chest was facing him. His thrusts were not tender. They were deep and hard, and there was a pulsing of my sphincter as it gave up, and let it be pierced, and a sweet dull pounding deep inside. This time, for the first time, Troy was pressed up against me, covering me with his body, wrapping his arms around me, so that I could not move, and I loved the sweet rage with which Troy took the pleasure from my ass.

Troy spasmed. His strokes evened out, in long hard even thrusts that seemed to poke to my soul, to a place no one had ever been. Troy’s body was as hard as it had been when he chopped wood, the same tension and release, the same sheen of sweat, and the same hard grunt as he burst, deep inside my body. I swear I felt the gush of seed inside the condom.

He lay over me for a moment, breathing heavily as if he did not quite believe what had come over him and was only now getting his conscious self back. Then he rolled off and I squirmed away like a wounded man, oddly content in the scratch of wool blankets on bare skin.

Every sense was more alive than it had been and when Troy reached over for me, those two strong hands against my cock was all that I could bear, and I exploded all over Troy, falling into and against his body with a soft shudder, a sigh, a groan.

Freedom is overrated, I thought. Chardonnay is for wimps. Give me the hard booze and chocolate, the hot and the cold, the rough blankets and rough sex. And a long hard day on the campaign trail. That’s what’s got my vote. I’d be glad to be the White House fuck-toy if Trojan Troy took the prize.

 

© 2005 Scott D. Pomfret - Contributor's Bio