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Subject: Waterbaby by Cobalt Jade  [m/m voyr, mast.]
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Waterbaby [m/m voyr, mast.]

By Cobalt Jade


The people in this story are real. I swear it. The hot springs are real too. 
However, the cooperative that maintains them doesn't want any extra 
publicity, so the exact location is going to have to stay a secret.

This story is a work of adult fiction. If you are under the age of 21, you 
have no business reading this, and are breaking the law in some states.

This work is copyrighted 1997 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). 
Archiving and reposting of this work is permitted provided that no fee is 
charged for the use of the archival or posting site.  Charging a fee for 
this story, or publishing without this preface or tagline violates my 
copyright.

As always, if you like it, let me know.



He walked slowly up the mountainside bowed under the heavy pack on 
his back, sweat plastering his T-shirt tight against his straining flesh. 
The red-brown clay of the mountain, always damp here in the Pacific 
Northwest, stuck in clots to his hiking boots. He paused to wipe the sweat 
off his forehead. It seemed like forever to get to the springs, but then he 
was out of shape. Sitting at a desk all day in an advertising agency didn't 
make for the hard, taut bodies of the magazine ads he sold. Neither was it, 
he admitted, attractive to the hard, taut bodies he was attracted to.

Still, the weekly three nights at the gym were paying off; his wind and 
stamina had improved since last summer, better to make this mountain 
trip. Water began to appear at the side of the trail, cutting rivulets that 
oozed down like blood from a cut capillary. It was slightly warm, a 
warmth not accounted for by the summer air.

He was passed by at least five younger and more energetic people than 
himself before he took the trail turnoff that led to the hot springs. 
Twenty years ago the springs had been a collection of muddy patches on 
the mountainside, but the cooperative had changed all that. Over the 
years, those who knew of this place had dragged up timber and pipes, 
and with the work of picks and shovels, hammers and saws--all hand-
operated, no electricity up here--they built a series of terraces in the 
mountainside with wide, plastic-lined pools to catch the steaming water. 
No changing rooms, however. It was customary to go nude here, though 
not required.

He noted the regulars: the cute Japanese girl and her blonde boyfriend, 
the quiet security guard who worked at the Bremerton shipyards, the air 
freight pilot who flew out of Las Vegas. The hottest pool, affectionately 
called "The Lobster Pot," was empty but for the Naked Gourmet frying 
something over a portable propane stove set at the side of the pool. He 
stood waist deep in the steaming water, his skinny Puerto Rican frame 
like a wiry, gnarled root; thin, but in terrific shape from lugging his 
utensils up and down all the time. 

Crowbar was the unofficial bouncer, welcoming committee, and 
administrator of the springs. He spelled the Naked Gourmet at the stove 
as the latter took off to find a roll of paper towels. His paunch jiggled as 
he maneuvered in the water, a jolly Santa Claus bounce. "Hey, Steve, 
haven't seen you up here in a while."

"Been busy at the office." He took off his pack and then his clothes, 
folding them neatly to stow inside. No one paid much attention to him. He 
was slightly tan, slightly fit, but still clearly middle-aged; no one
special. 
The population of the springs was mostly male. Women came either with 
a husband or boyfriend or with a group of mixed sexes. He didn't mind, 
because women didn't interest him that much. "What are you cooking 
today?"

"Potato chips," Crowbar chuckled. "Greasy as hell, too, real fat pills. 
There'll be plenty to go around today. I think most of the regular folks 
stayed in Seattle."

"Pissy weather," he said. It was clear this far up in the mountains, 
though it had been raining down south when he'd left. 

"Baby!" Crowbar spread his arms, looking like Poseidon rising from the 
sea, as his daughter Prybar thumped onto the deck. She squatted by the 
side of the pool to give him a hug, shrugging off her backpack. "She's 
taking a year off from college, you know," he beamed. "Going down to 
party in Guatemala."

"It's a volunteer rainforest conservation project, Dad." 

"Whatever."

She made a face but stripped off her clothes as casually as the other 
hikers. She was all wholesome enthusiasm despite the ring in her navel 
and the Celtic tattoo around it...tall and slim, but still glisteningly ripe.

She had a tattoo around the thickest part of her shin, too, a banded 
design like the top of a kneesock, and her bush was trimmed back to a 
neat line. 

He was glad she'd arrived, because it caused a stir among the younger 
men in their teens and twenties. The rhythm of passing beers and 
smoking cigarettes did not stop, but quietly, unobtrusively, their dicks 
got hard, bobbing on top of the steaming water like buoys at harborside. 
It wasn't considered bad etiquette to have a hard-on at the pool, but it was 
not something that went without comment, either. The older men 
remained supremely unaroused, their dicks, both cut and uncut, almost 
regal beneath the overhanging shelves of their bellies, wreathed in 
nests of thick, soggy hair. The shriveled cocks had an odd dignity, like 
ancient warriors whose active duty was over, yet still possessed of years 
of experience.  

But it was the middle aged men, the family ones, who had the most 
interesting reactions. They tried to act self-effacedly fraternal towards 
the girl, yet there was an extra intensity there, a show of trying very 
hard to be nonchalant that was revealed as a show by hard they were 
trying. Their cocks, though unerect, seemed on the verge of inflating; a 
tension existed there that was amusing to watch.

He rinsed off his feet and settled himself into the third-tier pool, the 
water enveloping him like a womb. The innocent show was definitely 
arousing, though he was not on the brink of erection just yet. If he did 
become hard, he could blame on relaxation and the temperature of the 
water like most of the other men did. He flipped over on his stomach just 
in case, accepting a friendly Red Hook pale ale from the UPS pilot. He 
couldn't help smiling at the gesture, in the cool way a former lover told 
him was like "liquid ice on hot chrome." The young man would be very 
surprised if he knew another man was imagining his lips wrapped 
around a cock instead of the mouth of a beer bottle.

He lay there for a while, letting himself dream, soaking away the petty 
tensions of a week in the business world. The pilot had a rough trade 
charm about him, and there was an exquisite pale boy in the pool below, 
half-Japanese he thought, with the warm dark eyes of a gazelle. Just the 
barest fuzz on his shaved scalp, a dusting of velvet nap on ivory. He made 
small talk about the weather, the stadium issue, Paul Allen's latest 
business deal. 

He glanced up as a slim woman in her twenties picked her way down the 
slippery steps leading a four-year-old child by the hand. She wore loose 
cotton clothing in muted earth-and-berry colors and carried a pack on 
her back. Nothing unusual in that. But behind her...

He sat up in the pool, walking his ass up the side for a better view. Shit. 
Doublefuck. The spitting image of Dart Bishop, the gay porn star of the 
late eighties. A patrician face young enough to be vulnerable but old 
enough to speak of experience, an aquiline nose, blonde hair in a 
ponytail that reached to mid-back. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and a 
pair of khaki shorts, with the clunky oversized hiking boots an R. Crumb 
cartoon character might wear. Buff, fit, tanned, or as tan as one could be 
in the soggy Northwest. He wore a heavy pack. He surveyed the pools 
like Thor, the Norse god of war, then descended the wooden steps.

Fantasies exploded in his mind as Thor came nearer. Scandinavian for 
sure...he had that up-and-down spareness, the clean lines of the finest 
Swedish design. Would he talk to Thor, maybe offer him a beer? Would 
they exchange numbers? He ran the possibilities over in his mind, then 
saw what Thor carried in the pack on his back. 

It was a baby. Solemn, accepting, with the peculiar blank dignity only 
healthy babies could have. The woman holding the toddler's hand turned 
back to ask Thor something, the gleam of a wedding ring visible through 
the pudgy little fingers. God damn it!

Life was so unfair. Why did a man built like that have to be straight?

The couple staked a spot for themselves on the terrace, putting their 
packs and children in order. Wifey took off her clothes while her 
husband minded the children. She was about 28, but young looking for 
her age; her breasts were small and drooped only slightly after two 
children. As she undressed the baby Thor took off his shirt and shorts. 
He was built all right, a perfect "V" shape from behind, broad shoulders 
narrowing down to a trim but proportional waist. His muscles rippled as 
stepped out of his briefs. More delightful yet, he was three-toned...a 
tanned bronze above his waist; an ass as creamy as grade A butter; and a 
lighter bronze, almost gold, on his legs, which were fuzzed with fine, 
pale hair. His buttocks were perfectly molded, with a dimpled indentation 
above that mouth-watered crack, and another perfect scoop of indented 
muscles at the sides below his hips. He turned around, his long blonde 
hair swinging like a mane, and...*Hammer of the Gods.*

His cock was cut, nicely oversized, but as clean and architectural as the 
other lines of his body. A healthy set of balls dangled beneath, the pale 
lilac-mauve-pink color of well-toned blonde flesh. Nobs, they called 
them in Denmark. The whole moved slightly as he walked, with 
unselfconscious grace, toward the third-tier pool.

He held his breath as the Thor stepped in, blithely ignorant he was 
being watched. "Excuse me," he murmured, and the others moved aside to 
give him room. A whiff of sweat and maleness, the momentary heat of a 
passing body. Thor settled himself in against the pool edge closest to the 
deck, scooping palmfuls of water over his arms, his magnificent chest. 
Soggy strands of hair escaped from the ponytail and plastered 
themselves to his face.

Wifey came up, nude and inconsequential, baby on her hip, the toddler 
following, beating out a tattoo on his plastic pail. She dipped her legs in 
the pool and handed the baby to her husband.

Carefully, as if in a ritual, Thor took the baby in both hands, supporting 
it by the neck and back as lowered it into the pool.

"Well look at that!"  "I've never seen such a thing." The baby laughed, 
jerking its arms and legs, its somber mien replaced by a grin.

"He's a water baby," Thor volunteered, a smile on his face. "He was 
Lamaze all the way. They dipped him in tub of warm water before they 
cut the cord."

Water baby. He knew who they were now: earth-firsters, modern 
hippies. They lived on an organic farm near Snohomish and sold their 
free-range chicken shit as fertilizer. Natural childbirth and wheat 
berries and hand-weaving on a wooden loom, as if he hadn't seen 
enough of that in the early seventies, thank you very much. But the 
younger generation had discovered them anew, put their own twists on 
them. 

Thor placed the baby on his stomach, still supporting him. The baby 
started to swim, a coordinated doggy paddle. "We take him swimming 
whenever we can," he explained. "It's good exercise. It just comes natural 
to them. It reminds them of when they're in the womb."

He started to squirm. He hadn't had any fulfilling sex since the spring. 
Being at the hot springs today, seeing all this flesh..he hadn't felt this 
exposed and horny since his college athletic days, when it he'd often had 
to run out of the locker room and whack off in the bushes. He'd always 
had a healthy libido, but that carried with it an unhealthy level of 
frustration. Even the baby seemed to taunt him, his baby-whiz half-erect 
like a leering putti in a Renaissance painting...all those plump, pink 
little asses floating up to heaven. God help him, what kind of pervert was 
he, getting turn on by a young father playing with his baby in the pool!

He had to get out of here. He HAD to.

He murmured excuse-mes to the other soaking bodies and stumbled to 
where he'd left his towel. Had anyone seen him, saw what made him 
crouch? He wrapped the towel around his waist and trotted quickly up 
the stairs. The forest was pretty thick above the pools; he'd have no 
trouble finding a private spot. He felt an odd mix of pleasure and 
censure. He couldn't help the censure. He wasn't as self-assured about 
his sexuality as the younger faggots were. They'd grown up with a 
measure of acceptance; he hadn't.

Distance didn't matter, as long as he was hidden. He was going to do 
himself good this time: a long, hard, extremely satisfying hand job. He 
felt light and daring, almost as if he was nineteen again, under the 
forbidden yet delicious spell of his own sexuality. He kept Thor's body 
spotlit in his mind, keeping himself hard with loving strokes beneath 
the towel, until he found the place...behind a stump and hidden from the 
trail by brush, but with a view of the valley below. He could masturbate 
all he wanted with no one the wiser.

He parted the branches and parked his back against the tree. He parted 
the folds of the towel and started to rub.

A lifetime of jerkoffs had perfected his technique, and he responded 
more quickly than usual. It must have been the mixture of relaxation 
and sexual tension. He rubbed his shaft up and down, his hand in a fist 
loosely tight or tightly loose, his left hand circling the head of his cock, 
stroking it delicately. He grew larger by the second. My god. He didn't 
know it was going to be this good. Was it going to get any better? A few 
more...and...ah! that was it. He felt the sensation of a fishing line reeled 
tight into his testicles, building up to the release of tension. He felt his 
veins throb all the way down his shaft, aching as they hadn't since he 
was in his twenties. This one was going to be really good! He increased 
his rate of stroking, hands pumping up and down. The sight of his cock 
and fingers made him get even harder, though in his head he was still 
seeing Thor, long blonde hair unbound as took his cock and balls 
completely in his mouth, nose buried in his public hair, the muscles of 
his back dancing in perfect time as he sucked like a Hoover on steroids.

Something made him open his eyes and turn around. A face peered at 
him out of the brush about thirty inches off the ground. Stared briefly, 
then the branches swished into the place where they were. "Daddy!"

Oh shit, what if the kid thought he was some pervert hiding in the 
bushes? There'd been a lot of stories on the news about child molesters 
lately. His ass could be in a sling. He readjusted his towel and burst out of

the brush to make an explanation.

Thor stood in the path, naked but for a pair of river rafting sandals and a 
roll of toilet paper: magnificent in spite of the banality of the situation, 
or perhaps because of it.

"There he is Daddy" the four-year-old said with squeaky solemnity. "That 
man had his thingy in his hand."

He tried to grin sheepishly, feeling his hard-won erection deflate.

"He was just trying to find a place to go potty, Trevor. Just like you." Thor

took up the boy's hand. "Sorry," he murmured. "Kids." 

"No Daddy. He was making noises...."

Oh god. Thor rolled his eyes, apparently as awkward as he was. Strange 
considering he and Wifey probably shared all the household shores; he 
must be used to kid shit by now. "Come on Trevor. Let's leave him alone." 
He began to walk his son down the trail. "Sorry about this," he said in 
passing.

"It's all right." His words sounded as limp as his cock.

The god and his offspring brushed past him on his way to the toilet, with 
the lingering aroma of calm male rationality, not aroused, not violent, 
not tired. 

And most of all, not aware.

END

8/14/97

Comments to: Cobaltjade@aol.com

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