When the Bough Rakes

by Mercy Loomis

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Mercy Loomis

Cover design by Mercy Loomis. Phopgraphy by Tommy Schultz.

Bonus stories:

“Encore” copyright 2010 by Mercy Loomis. Originally published in Taste Test: Rainy Days and Mondays. Round Rock, TX: Torquere Press, 2010.

“Pit Stop” copyright 2010 by Mercy Loomis

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form, save for brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Rookery Creek Media, PO Box 754, Stoughton, WI 53589.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead (or undead), is entirely coincidental.

When the Bough Rakes

Dillon had hardly been home for an hour when he snuck out the back door of his parents’ house. In the general hubbub of arrivals he doubted anyone would notice, but they were probably used to it by now, anyway. He’d heard his mother telling his aunts and uncles before about how he always had to go “visit the land,” with a catch in her voice that meant she was all misty-eyed, thinking about his childhood and how her baby was all grown up.

He hunched his shoulders and walked faster.

The family used to own considerable acreage out here, but over the years parcels had been sold off one at a time as there were fewer bodies willing to do the work. Now they didn’t farm at all, unless you counted his mother’s garden, and most of what was left was forest.

Dillon slipped under the canopy’s shadow with a sigh and a guilty glance over his shoulder. He hadn’t been out since school started, and as much as he missed his family, anticipation burned like an itch in his blood. College life was wonderful, but even after three months he felt like he was still figuring things out, not quite comfortable in his new surroundings. He could be open out there, he figured. Soon.

The idea made his stomach knot, and he pushed the anxiety aside. Time enough for that later. Right now, he had an appointment.

There was no path to the spruce grove, and Dillon had been careful over the years not to create one. When he still lived at home he’d taken circuitous routes through the trees, the extra travel time only heightening his eagerness. Today there was no need for that, and he hiked over the hills and across the brook in the most direct line he could manage.

The trees around him creaked and swayed in the breeze. The sound, the cool air on his skin, the smell of the leaves and the hint of hidden pines, all caressed his senses and made him stiffen under his pants. He broke into a jog, placing his feet carefully as he trotted over the uneven ground. There was no way to know how long the wind would last, and the weather was perfect.

Finally, the dark green shadows appeared ahead. Dillon walked between two trees and into a world suddenly muffled. The carpet of needles was nearly silent under his sneakers. The ocean-like hush of wind in the leaves faded and was replaced with a faint whistle as the breeze fought its way through the densely-packed needles. It was an almost desolate murmur, like something you’d hear as a sound effect in a movie about the desert or the arctic.

His breath already coming hard, Dillon made his way over to two trees that grew close together. The branches on the one had been stunted by its overhanging neighbor, and Dillon had trimmed away the lower branches on the smaller tree years ago. Now the low-hanging branches of the larger tree nearly brushed the trunk of the smaller. He’d have to come back out before he left and trim them a little.

No time for that now though. Dillon took off his jacket and shirt and let them fall to the ground. He slipped in between the bole of the smaller tree and the reaching branches of the larger, shoved his jeans and his briefs down to his ankles, and wrapped both arms tight around the trunk.

“Blow, wind, blow,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

The cool evening air on his bare skin made him shiver even as the prickly needles raked across his back. Dillon moaned, a wild elation running through him, as invigorating as jumping bone dry into a cold pool. The branches brushed back and forth in the breeze, leaving lines of heat across his shoulders, his ass, his thighs. God, he’d missed this, needed it. There was no hiding from pain, no confusion in the sting of wind-driven wood. Everything was so simple. He pushed his hips back as a big gust sent the branches whipping past, gritting his teeth as new tracks crossed over the last set, doubling the burn.

“Harder, please,” he begged the wind, but the wind didn’t listen. It never did.

Something snapped nearby, and Dillon raised his head and looked toward the sound. A young man stood off to one side, twirling a long, thin branch between his fingers.

“Is this a private party, or can anyone play?” the stranger asked with a grin.

Dillon’s jaw dropped, and he froze. He’d never seen anyone anywhere near here before, much less this rugged-looking guy with the I’ll-buy-your-soul gleam in his eye and the tight, tight jeans. The cold was obviously not bothering the newcomer at all. An embarrassed flush crept across Dillon’s cheeks, but he couldn’t stop staring at the stranger’s crotch. No man had ever gotten a hard-on looking at him before.

A strong gust sent tree branches raking across his back again, and Dillon sucked in a sharp breath. The stranger’s eyes widened fractionally in response, his lips parting, and he took a step closer.

“Wait! Who are you?”

The man stopped, his hands making “calm down” motions as if he were soothing a startled horse. “I’m Austin. I just bought this land.”

Dillon forgot his embarrassment in the surge of outrage. “Mom and Dad sold my grove?”

Austin’s eyebrows bounced. “You must be Dillon, then. The couple who sold me the land said they had a son about my age.”

“They sold my grove?” The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t have sold it. It was his! Of course, they didn’t know that—it’s not like he’d ever mentioned the place. But still… It was so unfair.

Austin gestured at the tree Dillon was still half-hugging. “You, ah, been coming here awhile?”

That made Dillon remember his current state of undress. His cheeks heated, but he was too angry to be mortified. “Yeah.”

Austin sidled a little closer, still playing with the branch he was holding. “How long can you take that?”

Dillon’s arms tightened around the trunk. “Awhile.”

A slow grin spread over Austin’s face—a little bit wicked, a little bit taunting, an almost predatory look. “How long is ‘awhile?’”

Dillon had gone a bit soft with surprise at having an audience, but Austin’s expression and the slight growl in his voice made Dillon suddenly hard again. He liked that look. He liked it a lot. “The wind usually gives out before I do.”

Austin laughed just as another gust came through. “Prove it.”

The pine branches whipped in the wind, and Dillon closed his eyes. The needles pricked and slashed, the pain washing away the anger, the shame, grounding him in the now. He could almost feel Austin watching him, and the knowledge of it made Dillon’s balls ache. Dillon arched his back, showing off as the movement sent the needles across a fresh section of his shoulders.

Almost lost in the muttering wind, a soft groan.

Dillon cracked his eyelids. Austin stood off to the side, his breathing heavy, his face a mask of want, one hand pressed hard against the front of his jeans. As Dillon watched, fascinated, Austin’s hand curled around the bulge in his pants, squeezing, stroking, sliding down over his balls.

It was, without a doubt, the hottest thing Dillon had ever seen.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that—not nearly long enough—before the wind died.