The Story of Cian and Kai

Cian thought, not for the first time ever, that he was sometimes at odds with his own name. Today in town he'd again had to explain that it's pronounced as Key-an. It was a conversation he's had to have at every bar and pub since childhood. He's grown tired of strangers butchering his name, yet loves how his Irish grandmother's voice still whispers "Cee-in" in his ear, as only she could.

It'd been five years since Cian's grandmother passed away, and he relocated to the Northern Territory seeking solitude and healing. He was the only grandchild, and with his father being emotionally distanced since they lost his mother to cancer when he was 12, she'd left everything to him. His grandmother had been his primary caregiver, filling the void with love, Irish stories, and a deep connection.

A few years after his mother had passed, Cian had confided to his grandmother that he was gay. His grandmother's face wrinkled with a smile, she held his face and said "Cian, my darling lad, that's something I've always known". When he'd stopped wearing deodorant and cologne when he was 17, she'd described him as having the "call of the wild Irish" in him. As he'd grown, lovers had described it as intoxicating and addictive, this smell of saltwater, sweat and earth. He enjoyed his own smell, he enjoyed it when others commented on it, and he liked the smell of other men.

And so it was that now Cian found himself, 45 years old, living near Katherine in the NT, on the outskirts of Nitmiluk National Park, sitting on his back deck with a cold Great Northern beer in hand. It was the middle of the dry season, the season of Dalirrgang as the local Larrakia people termed it. Hot, humid, with thunder and lightning storms stretching over the plains.

Cian was sitting on an old lounge he'd found dumped by the side of the road. It fitted perfectly with the rustic surroundings of his modest but comfortable cabin. He'd come to the NT in search of solitude and endless horizons, and had found both.

Sitting there, dressed only in shorts that had seen better days but he refused to throw out, he could feel the beads of sweat forming amidst his thick dark-blonde chest hair. Forming, collecting, and then running down his muscled chest. He reached across with his left hand to scratch his right armpit, his right hand still employed in holding the beer, and felt the dampness there. He'd loved men's armpits since first experiencing male to male relations, his first being with a very hairy man. Cian loved that as he'd grown, his own pit hair had joined up with his chest hair for a seamless transition between the two. He let his hand linger in his armpit, then drawing it back he smelled his fingers: the saltwater, sweat and earth still there, with the sweat holding court slightly over the other two. Just how he liked it.

His body knew how to react to the smell, with the front of his shorts now sporting a serious bulge. He reached his hand back into his pit, coated it in sweat from there and his chest. He let his hand brush across his nipples before letting it slide between his skin and the elastic of his shorts. His hand was in familiar territory as it grasped his manhood. He put his beer on the table at the side of the lounge, his right hand went to work twisting his nipples, while his slick left hand worked on his now fully erect cock.

His eyes drifted closed, savoring the familiar aroma that always stirred him. He stood and took down his shorts. He sat his now naked 6'3" frame back down, as the distant rumble of thunder and the evening song of cicadas' filled the air around him. Without the intervening material of his shorts, he could smell the musk from his balls reaching out to take him even higher. The smells he generated had always helped him get off, the weather and atmosphere simply added to the sensations. The musk, the sweat, the heat, his right hand now taking up position on cock, with his left working pits and nipples. His nipples could take some serious level of play.

His cock felt good in his first, with precum freely mixing with the sweat. As he felt daggers of pain shoot into his right nipple from where his fingers pinched it, he let out an audible groan into the last rays of the day's light. He opened his eyes to watch the setting sun, his hand quickening the pace as the evening took its rightful place. He moaned again, louder this time, much louder, as the scents all hit as one. As he looked into the end of the day, he felt his balls contract upwards, his cock thicken, and his thick ropey load hitting his lips, his chest and his still gripping fist.

He sat there then, in that early evening, sweat dripping off him. His nipples feeling the after effects. He licked his lips and tasted the particular saltiness of his load. He licked his fingers, and then worked the rest of his cum into his chest hair and armpits. He liked to walk around with the particular smell of his cum wafting over him for some time after shooting.

His mind wandered as well to the possibility of someone else appreciating this scent almost as much as he did.

He picked up his beer again, took a swig, and let his mind create a vision of what that man might look like, nuzzled into his chest, sucking at his cum soaked hair and pits.

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Kai sat at his desk, surrounded by papers and notes, the Northern Territory sun streaming through his window. He typed the final sentence of his article:

"Saltwater Hearts: Larrakia Culture's Embracing Spirit"

The words echoed his heart -- a tribute to his grandfather, a celebration of Larrakia tradition, and a perhaps not-so-subtle declaration of his own identity.

Kai's backstory unfolded like a map in his mind:

He was born here in Darwin 37 years ago to his Larrakia father, Djalu, and Italian mother Alessia.

Family had always meant so much to him. When he was 16, he lost his beloved grandfather, a respected Larrakia elder, who taught him traditional stories and culture. It was a traumatic blow not only to him, but to the community. It was perhaps this time, more than any other, which solidified in his mind the importance and art of story-telling. His mother had always had a love of Italian literature, Alighieri and Fo being amongst her favourites for their wit and societal commentary. That had certainly rubbed off on Kai given his penchant for sarcasm. More than that though, he'd found solace in writing during this time of grief, and found power in having words shape his thoughts, giving them life on a page instead of dwelling and demonising inside his brain.

He'd moved to Carlton to attend the University of Melbourne and do his Bachelor of Arts and then Master of Marketing Communication.

Melbourne was also where he truly came out to himself and enmeshed himself into the local gay scene, finding a particular sense of home at The Laird. It was nights there, as well as other places like it, where he discovered the smell of men when they get together, when they sweat, when they dance, when they slide up against each other.

With his article for the NT News now finished, Kai decided to enjoy the air outside. As he sat on his porch overlooking the Pine Creek sunset, a warm breeze rustled his hair, carrying with it the faint scent of eucalyptus from the nearby trees. He could already feel the sweat forming on his chest. He'd always been a bit of a sweaty type. Not to the levels of hyperhidrosis or anything, but it didn't need to be too warm for him to start. He didn't mind though, as his hand passed across the dark hair on his chest, the setting sun painting his skin in shades of orange and gold. He scratched at his armpit, the area thickly furred with dark, luscious hair that frames his skin like a wild jungle, emitting a potent aroma, carrying the sharp tang of his musk. A scent reminiscent of leather and hot skin.

His thoughts drifted to the men he'd met in Melbourne, and the ones here in the NT. He loved hairy men, armpits, scents and cum. There was just something so primal about it all, he didn't truly understand how someone could not be turned on by it. Kai's armpit-sweat slick fingers traced his lips, and he tasted himself. It tasted good. As he stretched languidly against the railing of his porch, he could feel the warm air caress his bare chest. It was easy enough to let his shorts drop off him as well as they weren't particularly tight. For what was not the first time, he was pleased he lived on a bit of land and had no neighbours within sight. Not that he would have minded having someone watch him.

With that thought, and with the setting sun casting long shadows, his hand began to wander further down his body. An urge stirred within him, a familiar warmth building in his core. He inhaled deeply, the musky scent of his own skin filling his lungs, a sensation that was both grounding and intensely arousing.

Kai took a grip of his cock, feeling the veins of it against his fingers. His dick was already slick from the amount of pre-cum he produced, which was certainly not a small amount. He could feel the hood of his uncut cock move over the tip, and he watched himself work it over. It felt so good, one hand on his cock and one in his armpit. He stuck his finger into the foreskin, feeling the pool of pre-cum in there before bringing it to his mouth to taste.

He put his hand back, and began working on his cock in earnest. His hips gyrated against his fist while he could feel sweat flow down between the cracks of his bare arse. The feeling of it reminded him of a tongue tracing the globes of his arse, only to spread him and the tongue to flick across his hole, and then to enter him.

The thought was enough for Kai. He let a moan out into the air as he felt his cock swell and shoot ropes of thick cum out onto the red dirt. Streams of cum shot from him, making his body shake with the intensity. He moaned again, and again, not letting go of his cock even when it began to soften. He scooped the cum off his cock, putting it to his mouth. Thick cum on his fingers, sucked eagerly, the salty and bitter taste and the smell of it filling him.

He sat on the steps of his porch, letting the last of his cum drip from his cock. He began to think it would be nice to share that with another man, and to feast on his.

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