The Lonely Farmhouse

The sun had long since bled into the horizon, leaving only a bit of orange smudged across the fields of Louisiana as Beau Thorne eased open the creaking door to his farmhouse. His boots, dust-caked and worn at the soles, thudded heavily against the floorboards. The house smelled like old wood, sweet tobacco, and faint cologne soaked into the grain --remnants of a man who never quite washed away his sins, just rearranged them. He unbuttoned his shirt with slow fingers, each snap glinting in the amber light as it peeled back to reveal his chest--sunburnt, sweat-damp, and marked by a jagged scar that disappeared beneath his belt line.

The house whispered around him--floorboards groaning, wind pushing through the halls like an old hymn. He passed the mirror in the hallway, catching a glimpse of himself: eyes dark-rimmed and heavy-lidded, jaw shadowed in stubble, lips set in a line that had forgotten how to smile. He looked like a ghost that hadn't figured out it was dead yet. But he didn't pause. He never did. Beau moved through the house and up the old stairs that wept under his weight.

He stepped into the bathroom, lit only by the flicker of a single old bulb. The mirror was streaked from grubby fingers distorting his face just enough to make him look haunted. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water over his face, bracing himself against the porcelain sink as droplets clung to his lashes. When he looked up again, his eyes were clearer--still tired, still dark--but a little less distant. He ran a hand through his tousled hair that curled slightly at the ends from the humidity that clung to everything else in the area. Short, blonde, thick. He unbuckled his jeans and kicked his pants off, following his shirt. He looked in his reflection. Stared at his hairy legs, his glistening V line, his growing member. Short, blonde, thick.

Stripping down, he hung his work clothes over the side of the clawfoot tub. His body bore the weight of the day--muscles aching, back stiff from riding fence lines and lifting hay bales. Bruises bloomed across his ribs from some rough encounter he hadn't bothered to explain, and dirt clung at his knees and ankles. He stepped into the tub, the water hissing against the porcelain. It was hot enough to sting, to raise pink along his spine and shoulders. He liked it that way. A lava bath, his Mama called it. He scrubbed each joint, every worn muscle. Made sure to spend extra attention at his pits and privates. Seeming to spend a bit longer at his pubes.

Massaging his fingers in deep, stroking his shaft a bit, tugging his hefty ballsack. Before he got too carried away, he stepped out. Letting the dirty water drain. Going down the hall to his room without even bothering to wrap a towel around his waistline. His thick member had grown erect now with the extra 'cleaning' it recieved. Beau wished he could clean it using some lady's little mouth, imagining a girl in nothing but his own flannel. He quickly tried to shake the thought away. He hadn't gotten tail since, well. Too long, essentially.

He let steam rise off his body and the chill of the air conditioning dry him a bit

The AC helped him not need a towel, but also caused his nipples to stand on alert from his haory chest. Even though the cold gave him goosebumps, he kind of liked it. Memories drifted up--gunmetal nights and voices he couldn't answer anymore. This house was so empty, far too quiet.

Beau looked at himself in the broken mirror atop his dresser. He always looked like a man preparing for either confession or a funeral. He didn't know which anymore. He debated pulling on a clean cotton shirt, worn thin with age, and soft sleep pants that hung loose on his narrow hips. After thinking about what he was going to do next, he decided to just settle for worn gray sweatpants. A clear outline of his erection that seemed to not be going anywhere. He gave it a squeeze. A brief moment of recognition. It sent a shiver up his body. His nips still on high alert.

The bed was unmade--sheets tangled like the aftermath of a storm. He didn't fix them. He liked the disorder, figured it was pointless to make it tidy only to mess it again. A candle flickered on the nightstand, its flame casting shadows like fingers across the walls. He lit it every night--cedar and vetiver--something grounding, earthy, familiar.

He sank into the edge of the bed, rubbing a palm over his thigh where old scars sometimes ached when the weather turned. The silence of the room was thick, alive with the sounds of the swamp just beyond the window: cicadas screaming, bullfrogs crooning, the wind rustling through moss like a passing ghost. Beau sat still for a while, letting the night settle around him, feeling heavy. He continued to rub over his thigh, inching closer.

The bed felt too big, the night too long--but he was used to that. He wanted to share it with someone. A pretty lady. A sweet fella, perhaps. Someone whose lips he could tangle with, whose body could dance with his. He imagined their hand feeling his outline in his gray sweats. Squeezing it as he did again. Complimenting it. Calling him a big boy, a good boy, anything.

His eyes closed. His imagination opened. His legs parted as did his lips in a silent acceptance. He rubbed his palms over his gray sweats. Touching, squeezing, massaging, taunting himself. He rubbed like he did in the clawfoot tub. Letting out the quietest little moan. Beau kept taunting himself until he was rock solid, the tent in his sweats pulling the elastic slightly away from his happy trail.

Beau pulled his pants down, just to his upper thighs. Trapping his legs in place. "Please..." He quietly begged no one. His imagination getting more naughty. His hands wrapping around his cock. Stroking. Massaging. Teasing his mushroom tip. Tugging his hefty hairy balls. He even ran a finger around his backdoor, rimming it in a teasing aching fashion. Never entering. "Fuck...." he whispered to the empty room. Stroking himself faster now. Getting more aggressive with it.

Beau's eyes still closed, he knew exactly which buttons to press to get himself there. It wouldn't take long at all. He hadn't erupted in about three weeks. So it would be quick and messy. But he didn't care about the cleanup. "Yes...." he stroked faster, jerking off furiously now. Aching. Yearning. Needing to cum. His imagination grew intense and so did his creeping orgasm. It felt too good. He panted quietly, the only noise in a dim lit room. He could be as loud as he wanted but instead turned his head to bury his face in the pillow.

Fireworks behind dark lids. One shot, two shot, six intense trails of white cream. It coated his hand, still feverishly pumping. Painted his muscular abdomen. Stained his sheets. He let out a low gutteral groan at the relief of a quick release. Imagining hearing a petite female's voice tell him 'good boy'.

Sleep came slowly, like a tide creeping in. He didn't fight it. He never did. Let it take him. Let it wash over the pain and the longing and the sins he kept stitched behind his smile. In the dark, Beau Thorne was just a man--no bounty, no blade, no badge--just bone and breath and the desperate lonely cum stains in mismatched sheets. He'd have to do that way more often.