Brokeback Fishing Trip

Note: For those looking for the inspiration for this story, in Brokeback Mountain, there was a third gay cowboy played by David Harbour. Here's the scene

The air outside the dance hall was thick with the scent of sawdust, stale beer, and the sweet, cloying perfume of a dozen overdressed women. Inside, the music was a jarring cacophony of honky-tonk piano and shouting men. Randall and Jack stood near the tailgate of Randall's pickup truck, their shoulders brushing, the leather of their jackets rubbing together in a friction that sent little electric shocks through both of them. Their wives had disappeared into the ladies' room hours ago, and even though the music was still thumping, Randall and Jack had retreated to the cool night air, the silence between them speaking volumes that the music couldn't quite drown out.

Randall took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing in the dark like a miniature, dying star. He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it drift toward the starless sky. "You know," Randall murmured, his voice husky, low, carrying only to Jack's ears over the distant bass, "Roy Taylor's got that little cabin up in the hills. He told me I could use it any time I damn well please."

Jack turned to him, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. He leaned back against the truck, crossing his arms over his chest, though the gesture did little to hide the hardening muscle beneath his flannel shirt. He flicked his lighter open and shut, the metal clicking rhythmically. "Fishing," Jack repeated, his voice a rough approximation of the word.

Randall flicked his cigarette butt away, grinding it into the gravel with his heel. "Something like that," he said, stepping closer, invading Jack's personal space. "Something quiet. Somewhere we can get away from the noise. And our wives."

Jack looked up at him, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. He knew exactly what "something quiet" meant. He knew that Randall hadn't invited him up there for trout. "Two weeks," Jack said, his voice dropping an octave to match Randall's. "You have my truck."

Randall didn't answer. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of Jack's neck, his fingers tangling in the short, rough hair at the base of his skull. He pulled Jack in, their foreheads touching, their breath mingling. "Two weeks," Randall whispered, his lips brushing against Jack's. "You have my truck."

Two weeks later, the rutted dirt road to Roy Taylor’s cabin had swallowed the truck whole. The isolation was absolute. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel under the tires, the hum of the engine, and the heavy, ragged breathing of two men who had been holding their breath for a decade.

They unloaded the gear in silence, the tension coiling between them like a live wire. A few pairs of clothes, fishing poles, tackle boxes, and a cooler of supplies. But Randall and Jack didn't go straight to the water. They stood in the small, sun-drenched clearing in front of the cabin, the smell of pine and damp earth filling their noses. They weren't thinking about fish. They were thinking about the way their hands had brushed over the last week, the lingering glances across the lunch table, the electric current that had been building since that night at the dance hall.

Randall shut the truck door. The sound echoed in the clearing, final and decisive. He turned to Jack, the sunlight catching the sweat beading on his forehead, making him look like a fallen angel, or perhaps a devil.

"You coming?" Randall asked.

Jack didn't speak. He just stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his hands sliding under Randall's flannel shirt, his palms hot against the firm, flat planes of Randall's stomach. Randall groaned low in his throat, a sound that seemed to vibrate right through Jack's chest. He grabbed Jack's waist, pulling him roughly against him. Their groins collided, hard and heavy, and the friction was immediate and agonizing.

They moved as one, stumbling toward the cabin door, hands everywhere—sliding up shirts to grip hard shoulders, pulling at belt buckles, fumbling with buttons. They tumbled through the door, kicking it shut with their heels.

Inside, the cabin was a sanctuary of wood and light. Randall kicked off his boots and turned, pulling Jack into a kiss that was nothing short of a war. It was hungry, desperate, and mindless. Randall's mouth devoured Jack's, his teeth grazing Jack's lower lip until it was swollen and red. Jack tore at Randall's shirt, buttons popping off and bouncing across the wooden floor, but he didn't care. He needed to feel Randall's skin, to feel the heat of him.

Randall shoved his jeans down, kicking them aside along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, veined and swollen, already dark with need and leaking a bead of precum that glistened in the light. Jack stared at it, his mouth watering with a desperate, hungry need. He dropped to his knees, his hands grasping Randall's hips, pulling him flush against him. He buried his face against Randall's groin, inhaling the musk of him—the salty, earthy scent of raw male desire that was driving him insane. He rubbed his cheek against the coarse hair, his tongue darting out to lick the heavy sac beneath.

Randall's hands tangled in Jack's hair, fingers gripping tight, nails scraping against his scalp as he forced Jack's mouth to him. Jack opened his lips, taking the swollen, flared head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive tip with practiced hunger. He tasted the sharp salt of pre-cum, the bitter tang of pre-ejaculate, and he moaned, the vibration sending shockwaves directly through Randall's thighs and down to his groin. He sucked hard, the wet, obscene sound of his mouth working filling the room.

Randall thrust forward, his hips bucking erratically, driving himself deep into Jack's throat. Jack gagged, a choked sound tearing from his throat, his eyes watering as he clawed at Randall's thighs, but he didn't pull back. He swallowed around him, his throat muscles clamping down in a tight, milking grip, drawing him in deeper, swallowing the spit and the cock. Randall hissed through his teeth, his head falling back, his eyes rolling back as wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashed through him.

Jack pulled back, a thick, glistening string of saliva and precum stretching between his lips and Randall's cock, snapping wetly. He looked up at Randall, his eyes dark and burning with lust, his mouth messy and red. He reached for the lube in his pocket, uncapping it with a wet pop. He squeezed the bottle, coating his fingers generously in the clear, slippery fluid. He slicked down his hand, then reached between Randall's legs, his fingers probing, seeking the tight, dark entrance he intended to devour.

Randall stepped closer, one foot on the edge of the cot in the corner of the room. He braced himself against the wall, his muscles tense and coiled like a spring. Jack moved behind him, his hands spreading the firm globes of Randall's ass. He paused for a moment, just looking, admiring the view. He pressed the tip of one finger against the tight, dark entrance, circling it gently.

Randall gasped, his muscles clenching instinctively. "Don't tease," he growled, his voice a ragged whisper.

Jack didn't wait for permission. He drove his finger in, slow but relentless, pushing past the tight, burning ring of muscle until it was buried to the knuckle. Randall groaned, a low, guttural sound, his head dropping forward as his knuckles turned white from gripping the rough wood. Jack scissored his fingers, stretching the walls of his passage, tearing them open to make room. He added a second finger, then a third, ruthlessly stretching him until he felt loose and gaping. He crooked his fingers, digging deep, seeking that sweet, prostate-ravaging spot that would make Randall scream.

Randall's body arched violently, his back bowing like a taut bowstring, his head thrown back against the wall. He was panting like a man running a marathon, sweat dripping from his nose in hot beads. "Yeah," he hissed, his voice breaking into a desperate whine. "Right there. Fuck, right there. Don't stop."

Jack withdrew his fingers with a wet, obscene sound, leaving Randall gaping and dripping with the slick evidence of his own readiness. He positioned himself behind Randall, his erection long and thick, throbbing with a heavy, aching need. He lined up the mushroomed head against the fluttering muscle of his entrance, the head nudging insistently against the tight ring. He looked at Randall, his eyes intense and hungry. "You ready?" he asked, his voice a husky promise that vibrated in the air.

Randall turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Jack. His eyes were dark with lust, burning holes into Jack's soul. His lips were swollen and red from kissing, wet with spit. "Always," he breathed. "Fuck me, Jack. Ram me full. Fuck me like I've never been fucked before."Jack didn't wait. He thrust forward, burying himself deep inside Randall in one long, hard stroke. They both cried out, the sound echoing through the small room. It was tight, hot, and incredibly wet. Jack paused for a moment, letting Randall adjust, letting his body accept the invasion. Then, he began to move.

He pulled back slowly, the friction exquisite, then drove back in hard, his hips slapping against Randall's ass. Randall gasped, his fingers digging into the wood of the wall. Jack set a rhythm, fast and furious, pounding into him with unrelenting force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, loud and carnal. The smell of sweat and sex was heavy in the air, suffocating and intoxicating.

Jack reached around, his hand wrapping around Randall's cock. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, matching his rhythm, their movements perfectly synchronized. Randall moaned, his head falling back again, his body trembling.

"Harder," Randall commanded, his voice breaking. "God, Jack, harder!"

Jack obeyed. He grabbed Randall's hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, bruising him, marking him. He drove into him with everything he had, his body slapping against Randall's with loud, wet thuds. The friction was blinding, the heat overwhelming. Randall was panting, his mouth open, his eyes rolled back in his head. He was lost, entirely at Jack's mercy, and he loved it.

Jack leaned forward, his chest pressing against Randall's back. He wrapped his arms around Randall's waist, holding him tight. He buried his face in the crook of Randall's neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin, tasting the salt of his sweat. He thrust even harder, deeper, driving into him with the force of a thousand storms.

"I'm gonna come," Randall gasped, his voice a ragged sob. "Jack, oh god, I'm gonna come!"

Jack felt the walls of Randall's body clamping down on him, milking him, gripping him in a vice-like grip. He thrust one last time, burying himself to the hilt. He felt the trigger snap. With a roar that shook the cabin, he came, spilling himself deep inside Randall, filling him with his hot seed, marking him, claiming him.

He thrust erratically, emptying himself, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He collapsed against Randall's back, his breathing ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Randall cried out as he followed, his body arching, his cock spurting thick ropes of hot semen over Jack's hand, his head falling back as he rode out his own intense orgasm.

They stood there, frozen for a moment, the silence returning to the room, but now heavy and charged with the aftermath of their passion. Jack pulled out slowly, a wet, lewd sound filling the air. He helped Randall turn around, collapsing with him onto the cot. They lay there, chests heaving, sweat slicking their skin, their bodies tangled together. They were sticky, messy, and completely exhausted, but they had never felt more alive.

Randall rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. He looked at Jack, his eyes soft and filled with a tenderness that was almost painful. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Jack's face, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw.

"Best fishing trip ever," Randall whispered, his voice barely audible over the fading echo of his own moans.

Jack smiled, a lazy, satisfied smile that reached his eyes. He caught Randall's hand in his, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Yeah," he whispered back. "Best fishing trip ever."