Cole yanked the zipper shut, his hand shaking so hard it missed the pull once, twice, before catching. Darkness closed in, a cocoon of nylon with something sourer underneath—panic, maybe, or the kind of fear that sticks to a man for years.
He stayed crouched, knees almost buckling, while his eyes strained against the dark. He’d left Ethan on his knees by the embers, a vision burned onto the inside of his eyelids. But what haunted him was the look on Ethan’s face—not confusion or even embarrassment, but that soft, broken hope. Like a stray dog expecting another kick and still coming back for more.
Cole tried to pace the length of the tent, but the space wasn’t built for pacing. He was twice too big for it, every motion a collision with gear or plastic floor or the low sag of the ceiling. It didn’t matter—his body was a live wire, every muscle trembling, cock throbbing so hard it felt like the only source of blood in his body. The jeans choked him; his balls ached. He pawed at the button, then hesitated.
He’d lived forty years keeping this exact need boxed and locked, only ever giving it space in the deadest, loneliest hoursof the night. He was Walker stock—born and bred for control, for discipline, for manliness that made other men feel smaller. His father’s voice, a granite scrape in his head: “Weak men give in. Walker men don’t bend.” Cole tried to swallow the urge, to smother it under a landslide of shame.
But the image kept pushing back. Ethan’s open mouth. The width of his hands, strong and competent, trembling as they’d unzipped Cole’s jeans just moments before. The hard line of his jaw, so sharp you could shave with it, and those eyes—green, hungry, desperate. Cole thought about the hunger in Ethan’s stare.
Cole unbuckled his jeans, shoving them down just past his hips. His cock sprang free, thick, veiny and already leaking. He gripped it, thumb gliding over the uncut head, and shuddered at the electricity it sent down his spine. Even his own touch felt dangerous, like someone might burst in at any second and catch him in the act. His palm was calloused, built for rope and leather, not for this—never for this. But he wrapped his hand around the shaft and stroked, slow at first, then harder, the way he liked but never let himself enjoy for long.
His brain tried to put up a last defense, flashing memories of every woman he’d ever fucked. The blonde from Bozeman, the rodeo queen with her lashes and perfume, the exes who’d all agreed, at the end, that sex with Cole was a job best left to other, braver women. But the images had no staying power, not with Ethan’s face crowding out the others.
He closed his eyes and let the fantasy unspool.
He imagined Ethan on his knees in the tent, shirt already off, broad shoulders lit by a shaft of moonlight through the seam. Those strong hands stroking up Cole’s thighs, hesitating at the waistband. Ethan would be tentative at first—new to it, maybe a little clumsy—but determined, always so fucking determined. He’d breathe deep, like he was trying to remember every detailfor later, then lower his head and wrap those full lips around Cole’s cock.
Just the thought of it nearly made Cole explode.
He pictured the drag of Ethan’s tongue under the foreskin, the way he’d flick at the head, testing how much Cole could take before losing his composure. He’d get bold, then, gripping tighter, hollowing his cheeks to draw Cole deeper into his mouth. In the fantasy, Cole grabbed Ethan’s hair, gentle at first, then rougher, using the handful as a handle. He’d push in, just a little, feel Ethan gag, hear him choke and then recover, eyes watering but never breaking the gaze.
Cole stroked himself faster, hand slicked with pre-cum, hips rocking into the pressure. He tried to keep it quiet—camp was just ten yards away—but the sounds kept sneaking out, a grunt, a gasp, the slap of skin on skin as his fist picked up speed.
In his head, he saw Ethan loving it. Gagging for it, letting spit and drool run down his chin and onto his chest, smearing the mess across his own chest.
“Take it… that’s right… get it all the way… fuck yes, you look so hot choking on my dick…”
It was filthy and wrong, and it made Cole harder than he’d ever been. He let himself go, pounding the length with both hands now, one at the base, the other twisting up and over the slick head, squeezing just the way he liked. Every muscle in his body tensed, legs bracing against the plastic floor. The world shrank to nothing but cock and memory, Ethan’s tongue and the surge in Cole’s gut. The guilt only added to the need. Every stroke was a slap at his father’s legacy, at the Walker name, and still he couldn’t stop.
In his mind, Ethan was drooling, eyes wet with tears, voice ruined as he whispered “please, Cole, feed me your delicious cum.” Cole was seconds away.
He came hard, biting his own forearm to keep from roaring. Cum spattered across his hand, the floor, and the wrinkled fabric of his sleeping bag. The aftershocks made him buck and jerk, helpless to control the spasms. He panted, eyes closed, body limp.
The pleasure was immediate, consuming. The shame took a heartbeat longer, but when it hit, it wiped him out like a winter wave.
Cole blinked against the dim light filtering through the tent, his heart still racing as he took in the aftermath of his reckless release. The evidence of his shame lay sprawled across the floor, a stark reminder of his momentary surrender. With a heavy sigh, he reached for an old rag, its rough texture scraping against his fingertips as he wiped away the remnants of his need. Each stroke felt like a penance, a futile attempt to erase what had just transpired. Once the ground was clear, he crumpled the rag and tossed it into his personal trash container, the soft thud echoing in the silence, a finality that weighed heavily on him. He zipped his jeans, hands still trembling, and sat back against the tent wall, breath coming in wet, broken bursts.
He wanted to feel better. Lighter. But it didn’t work that way. The lust was gone, but the need was still there, an ache that had no remedy.
He pulled the sleeping bag up to his chin, shivered, and stared at the tent ceiling.
Cole closed his eyes, tried to let sleep take him. But every time he drifted, the voices came back. First his father, “Walker men don’t bend. Walker men don’t want.” Then Ethan’s voice, softer, more dangerous, “I want you. Please, Cole. Use me.”
He rolled over, face buried in the bag, and forced himself to think of nothing and go to sleep.
It didn’t work. There was no way Cole was falling asleep or finding any semblance of rest tonight. The weight of his desirespressed heavily against his chest, a relentless reminder of what he had just surrendered to in the privacy of his tent. Every time he closed his eyes, the images of Ethan flooded back—those green, hungry eyes, the way Ethan’s hands had trembled with anticipation. The fantasies played on repeat in his mind, each one more vivid than the last, igniting a fire deep within him that refused to be extinguished.
Cole lay there, heart racing, unable to escape the turmoil of his thoughts. The shadows of the tent felt suffocating, closing in as he wrestled with the storm inside him. He could almost hear the echo of his father's voice, a reminder of the man he was supposed to be, battling against the pull of the man he wanted to become. Sleep was a distant dream, elusive and taunting, as he tossed and turned, grappling with the ache of unfulfilled longing that gnawed at him like a hungry beast.
Chapter 13 - Ethan
Ethan drifted away from camp, the air a cold slap, but nowhere near enough to cut through the ache in his groin. He walked parallel to the creek, the moon laying silver snakes across the black current. He barely registered the night sounds: the tick of crickets, a distant owl, the burr of cicadas. All of it was white noise, background to the mess in his head.
His mind looped Cole’s face, Cole’s breathless words, the heat that had passed between them—then the crash, the sudden withdrawal, the way Cole had looked at him like he’d ruined something holy. Ethan wanted to scream, but nothing came out. He settled for clenching his jaw until his teeth ground.
He walked faster, trying to outrace the pulse in his cock. The way he’d dropped to his knees, needy and desperate. The memory didn’t humiliate him. If anything, it left him harder, more frantic. He needed to do something, anything, to clear his head.
The creek widened out, flattened into a dark pool ringed with sand and stones. Moonlight flickered across the surface. Hestopped, letting the cold seep into him, tried to will himself calm. It didn’t work.
