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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


This story is true. I swear it. The people in it are real. These 
springs really exist in the mountains somewhere north of 
Seattle...however, the cooperative that maintains them doesn't 
want any extra publicity, so the exact location is going to have to 
stay a secret.



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 sorehead. 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. Ten years ago the springs had been a collection of 
muddy patches on the moutainside, but the forming of 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. Tarps shielded the pools from the rain, and benches lined 
the ouside of the terraces. 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 Groumet and his cooking utensils. He was frying 
something over a portable propane stove set at the side of the 
pool, standing waist deep in the steaming water. His skinny 
Puerto Rican frame looked like a wiry, gnarled root, each knob of 
his spine standing out like a dinosaur's; thin, but in terrific 
shape from lugging his utensils up and down all the time. 

Crowbar was the unofficial bouncer, welcoming committee, and 
administrator. 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 in 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 Dad 
had. She was all wholesome enthusiasm despite the ring in her 
navel and the Celtic tatoo 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 posessed of years of experience.  

But it was the middle aged men, the family ones, who had the most 
interesting reactions of all. 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 nonchalent 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 
definately arousing, though he was not on the brink of erection 
just yet. If he did become hard, he could 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, almost from the boonies, 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. Crowbar passed around with the freshly fried 
chips. Some hikers arrived and others left, pulling on their soggy 
clothes on the terrace below.

He glanced up as another fresh group arrived, picking their way 
down the narrow steps that led to the terraces. Some older men, 
two women in their thirties. A young woman in her twenties 
perhaps, leading a four-year-old child by the hand. Behind her, 
oh my god,  a living god. THe spitting image of Dart Bishop, the 
porn star of the late eighties. Buff, fit, cut. 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-pack. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and a pair of 
khaki shorts, with the clunky oversized hilikng boots like an R. 
Crukb cartoon character would wear.. Tan and healthy, or as tan 
as he could be here in the Northwest. He started to drool he 
couldn't help. Was he alone? Who did he come with? He stepped 
further down the terace, a figure descending out of a dream, a 
blank yet fixed expression on his face he threaded the rocks. He 
bent over to keep his balance, coming closer to the bottom 
terrace, revealing the nature of the pack on his back.

A baby. SOlemn, pudgy, with the immense dignity only healthy 
babies could have. A father. ANd turned back to ask him 
something, the woman holding the toddler's hand, the gleam of a 
wedding ring visible through the pudgy little fingers. God Damn 
it!

But he couldn't take his eyes off the couple as they staked a spot 
for themselves on the terrace, putting their packs and children 
in order. THe woman was about 28, he guessed, but young looking 
for her age; her breats were small and drooped only slightly after 
two children. She was slim, but her belly had a healthy 
roundness; she wore her long brown hair in several loose braids. 
Her clothing was all of cotton in muted colors, not expensive, 
loose in the modern day back-to-nature mode, and she wor  
several strands of beads. She took off her clothes while her 
husband minded the children--like an alpha male od a gorilla 
band watching out for the youngsters--and then undressed the 
four-year-old and gave him a small plastic pail and bucket to play 
with. THe baby came next.

But he wasn't paying attention to the baby. He only watched, 
meserized, as the man pulled off his boots, his shirt, his shorts. He 
carefully pulled down his briefs, stepping carefully to not let 
them touvh the wet deck. He was built, alright, a perfect "V" 
shape from behind, broad choulders narrowing down to a trim 
waist, hard as a board he guessed. His muscles rippled as picked 
the briefs up and stowed them in his pack. More delightful yet, he 
was three toned...an ass as creamy as grade A butter, bronze 
above waist, and a slightly lighter bronze, almost gold, on his 
legs, which were fuzzed with fine, pale hair. Scandinacian, he 
thought; he had that up-and-down spareness, the clean lines 
without bulges insdicate of the finest Sweidish  moderne design. 
THe buttocks were perfectly molded, looking hard tense even 
though he was relaxed, with a slight indentation, a dimmple, 
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 rippled back like a god, the Norse god Thor.

He felt like a voyeur, watching all this, but he couldn't help it. 
Besides, no one saw or noticed what he was doing. He could have 
been staring out over the valley at the clouds as far as they knew. 
He turned around and oh my god, the hammer of gods, open and 
vulnerable to his inspection. He was cut, but the cock was a 
healthy size, maybe a bit oversized, as clean and architectural as 
the other lines of his body, straight and burving neither to the 
left of right, with a healthy set of balls dangling beneath it. Nobs, 
they called them in Scandinacia. THe whole was a nice mauve 
color, a lilac-mauve-pink color or healthy blonde flesh, moving 
slightly when he walked, a Viking raider, a Norseman, an 
explorer of the northern seas. Unself-conscious, he padded 
toward the third-tier pool.

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

Life was unfair. Life was so unfair. Why did a man who looked 
like that have to be so...straight? Wifey came up, nude but 
inconsequential, baby on her hip, the toddler following beating 
out a tattoo on his plastic pail. "Thor surrended his watch to her, 
exposing a pale band on his left wrist. Wifey dipped her legs in 
the pool, keeping an eye on the toddler who was splashing in the 
next poool over. She handed the baby to her husband.

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

"Well look at that!"  "I've never seen such a thing." Chirtling, 
laughing, the baby splashed, its somber mien gone, THe chubby 
legs and arms jerked.

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

Water baby. He knew who they were know; the new back-to-
earthers, the small but growing community who lived in 
harmony with the earth, probably vegans, too. They probably 
lived on a farm and sold free-range chickneshift as fertilizer, 
weaving ponchos out of malamute hair. What a waste. What a 
waste.

They were talking, but he wasn't really listening. They did live 
on a farm; they were into brewing their wine and making cheese 
from a nearby dairy farm. Thor placed the baby on his stomach 
and he started to swim, a coordinated doggy paddle. "He's been in 
water since birth," they said. "Every weekend. It just comes 
natural to him. It reminds them of when they're in the womb."

Back to the womb, back to the egg, before it was kissed by the 
sperm. He started to sqirm. He hadn't had sex since the spring; his 
life lately had been lovers that turned tinto friends, friends that 
became baleful injured parties with no explanation, chemistry 
that soured or never ignited. Being at the pools today, seeing all 
this flesh..well, he han't felt this exposed and this horny and 
tried so hard to control, since his college athletic days, when it 
had been so painful a few times he'd actually had to run out and 
whack off in the bushes. A halthy, libido, but also a unhealthy 
level of frustration. EVen the baby seemed to taunt him, his baby-
whiz half-erect like a leering putti on an Italian Renaissance 
fountain. KNowing pursed lips, cellulite heavy flesh, all those 
pink, plump cellulite-ridden asses floating up to heaven.

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--
lossely, so its folds could conceal the iron-hard instrument 
beneath--and began to decisively walk up the stairs to the area at 
the top of the springs. THe forest was pretty thick around there; 
he could find a private spot if he wanted. It was embarassing 
having to do this, but it was undeniably healthy, undeniably 
youthful, so his feelings were an oddd mix of furtiveness, 
pleasure, and censure. He couldn't helkp the censure. God only 
knew he wasn't as self-assuredly confidant, as happy with his 
sexuality as the younger faggots were. They'd grown up with a 
measure of acceptance; he hadn't.

So he stumbled up the stairs, nodding only curtly in response to 
Crowbats' "Hey, leaving already?" and reached the trail. Now 
where to go?

It had to be distant; he was going to do himself good, a long, hard, 
extremely satisfying hand job, and the place had to be just right. 
He kept an image in his mind of Thor as he searched. He felt light 
and daring, almost like he was 19 again, under spell of the dark 
glamor, the forbidden yet delicious spell of his own sexualit.y He 
kept that image in his mind, as hje kept himself hard with loving 
trokes underneath his towel, until he found the spot. Behind a 
stump, hidden from the trail by a sharp overhang, but 
overlooking the valley below, with the view screened by some 
trees. He could masturbate all he wanted, with none the wiser.

It wasn't as hard to get to as it looked. He reached the spot and 
parked his back against the tree. He slipped his hand under the 
towel and started to rub.

A lifetime of jerkoffs had made him develop the perfect 
technique ffor him. To his surprise  he responded quite quickly; 
it must have been the mixture of relaxation and then tension. He 
rubbed hi shaft up and down, his hand in a fist described as 
losslely tight, his left hand encircling the head of his cock, 
storking 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 
better? A few more...and...oh! that was it. He felt the sensation of a 
fishing reel drawn right in his testicles, building up the release 
of tension. He felt his veins throb all the way down the 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 making him get even harder, 
even though in his head he was still seeing Thor, long blonde 
hair unbouind, as he knelt to take his cock and balls completely 
in his mouth, his nose rubbing against his puiblic hair, with a 
suck like a Hoover on steroids, the muscles of his back rippling as 
his head loved, like a liquid bronze melting in a forge.

A small noise made him turn around. He opened his eyes and 
turned around. A pair of eyes peered at him out of the brush 
about 40 inches off the ground. Stared briefly, the branches 
swished into the place where they were. "Daddy!"

WHat the hell...?

The mood was broken. He could no longer remain hidden now. Oh 
no, what if the kid thought he was some pervert hiding in the 
bushes? THere'd been entirely too much on the news the past few 
years about child molesters lately. His ass could be in a slig. THe 
mood was gone, but his cock was still half hard, aching in 
frustrated dissapointmnt, trying vainly to regain its former 
height. He had to come out, to announce himself to the paretns. 
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 
sandels and a roll of toilet paper. Taking the kid to the potty. 
Magnificently in spite of the mandaneness, or perhaps because 
of it.

"THere he is Daddy. That man had his thingy in his hand."

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

"Sorry," Thor murmured. "Kids." He took up the boy';s hand. "He 
was just trying to find a place to go potty, Trevor. Just like you."

"No Daddy. He was making noises."

Oh god. He could have shriveled and become a clot of mus in the 
muddy mountain trails. He felt a mosquito nip his ass. Thor rolled 
his eyes, apparantly as embarassed as he was. Well, not quite 
discomfited enough for embarassment. He and wifey pribably 
shared all the houseold farm chorse; he must be used to kidshit by 
now. "Come on Trevor. Let's leave him alone. Sorry 'about this."

He brushed past him on the path with the lingering aroma of 
calm male aroma, not aroused, not violent, not tired. Just male, a 
musty odor like stale perfume, trailing disappointment in its 
wake.

END

This work is copyrighted 1997 by Cobalt Jade 
(Cobaltjade@aol.com). One copy of this story may be made for 
viewing. This story may not be archived or reposted without my 
permission. Charging a fee for access to this story, or publishing 
it without my approval, this preface, or my author credit, violates 
my copyright.

For more stories, including the novel "The Black Pearl of 
Pharazion," check out my home page: 
http://members.aol.com/cobaltjade


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