When Gus’s car breaks down along a deserted country road, what else can he do but get naked? And go looking for help, which he finds in the most unexpected of places. Keep your eyes opened locked; you won’t want to miss a moment of this steamy poolside romantic encounter.
NOTE: This story appears in Rob Rosen's best-selling collection, Short Spurts.
“Fuck,” Gus muttered, seconds after his car came to a skidding stop along the side of the deserted country road. The flat was unexpected, though the lack of a spare tire was not -- after all, he couldn’t fit it and the two side tables he’d bought into the trunk at the same time. Then again, the antique shopping occurred a week prior, and the dusty tire now sat in his garage a good fifty miles away, back in the city. “Fuck,” he reiterated, kicking the flat with the now unmistakable hole in it. Little good that it did him.
“Now what?” he asked himself, once he realized his cellphone had no reception out in the middle of nowhere. He glanced right, down the barren, tree-lined road. “Nothing,” he groaned. He looked left. “Damn it.” In truth, he hadn’t seen another car for a good half hour, and taking the scenic route home after the weekend getaway, obviously, wasn’t looking like such a great idea after all.
And then he remembered it: the house a half a mile back, the one with the white picket fence and the yellow shutters and the wooden whirly-birds spinning on the pristine green lawn. Resigned to his fate, he kicked the tire again for good measure, then began the walk along the nearly silent road.
“Well,” he said with a grin. “Nice day for it, anyway.” Indeed, the sky was a crystal-clear blue and a nice, warm breeze blew over him and rustled the trees that ran alongside the road. Gus breathed the clean, country air into his lungs and shifted the boner that was rapidly filling his shorts. He was alone, after all, out in the boonies, with nary a soul to see or hear him.
Looking around, he slid the zipper to his shorts down. The white, cotton briefs bulged out of the hole. “Well, Mother Nature,” he yelled out, with his head held up. “Mind if I take my cock out?” He always was a bit of an exhibitionist, though he wondered if it counted if no one could actually see him. In any case, he reached inside, fiddled with his meat, and then pulled it out. Standing at attention, the full seven inches bounced in front of him while he walked, much like a divining rod -- only, instead of water, it pointed, Gus hoped, to a spare tire. Or a working cellphone. Preferably not in the possession of a mass-murderer. Or any kind of murderer.
The air felt great against his skin, especially as it rushed across the sensitive head of his now-dripping cock. He paused, turned back, and looked up and down the road again. Still nobody in sight. No cars. No people. Not even a cavorting deer.
The button to his denim shorts came undone next and then the shorts slid down. He kicked them off. If a car was coming, he figured, he’d hear it and be able to get redressed before they were any the wiser. And then the briefs were down around his ankles and off. Gus squatted along the road, ran his hand across his cock head, and sucked the precome off his fingers. Pulling on his heavy balls, he stroked his fat cock and stared at a lone squirrel as it scampered into the forest before him. He spat down and wet his dick, then slapped it and watched it bounce. The sound pinged all around him, echoing off the nearby trees. He slapped it again. His cock stiffened, hard and dripping. The squirrel ignored him, clearly interested in other kinds of nuts.