The Man On The Hill

Erotic short. A young man drowns in shadow.

Trans M/amorphous man made of shadows. 900w, rated E. Vaginal and anal sex, oral, spitroasting, overstimulation, sex outdoors.

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It’s raining, and as the water comes down each heavy drop is a weight on his skin, one after the other, a hundred tiny little blows on his shoulders, streaking down his back, into the cleft between his arse cheeks, down his thighs, his calves. The water’s path isn’t neat or predictable, keeps catching on the hair on his shoulders, on his legs — some of it drips down his front and forms a trickle down his chest. Occasionally, a droplet of water dribbles into the hollow of his navel, and now and then this is so cold and so surprising, somehow more intimate than the flow of water over the rest of his naked body, that he shivers.

The grass is wet under his feet and flattens under his soles; the mud sticks between his toes, covers his heels in a cap.

Makes him think of Achilles, makes him wonder if you could tell by sight the place where his indelible armour ended and where it began, if Patroclus whilst washing his lover’s feet of mud and earth would be able to feel the difference, trace the line on his skin. Would Patroclus, touching the man he loved, be able to trace the ghost of Thetis’ hands on his skin — her thumb print, the tips of her fingers, the places where they edged the line of his vulnerability?

Would he tell him, if he could?

“Hello, Sam,” says the man on the top of the hill.

He is made of shadow so that as Sam climbs up to the top, he looks as if he must be lit from the back; his precise shape is obscured by the pounding rain, all grey and moving water.

Even if this was a sunny day and the sunlight was kissing his bare skin instead of the rain, the man on top of the hill would still be shadow.

Sam doesn’t say anything. He gets to the top of the hill and feels where the land evens out, where he’s no longer on a slope — his feet haven’t been sliding much in the mud, but they have been digging in more at the front of his foot than the back, and now it’s evened out.

The man on the hill leans in and Sam closes his eyes for this part, knows that if he tries to keep them open his eyes will get confused trying to track his edges and his beginnings, trying to look for a face or look for a body or look for hands or eyes or a mouth. It gives him a headache to try; it ruins it to try.

There are lips on his mouth and hands on his cheeks and a knee between his legs — the water is hitting the man on the hill, too, but it’s not running down his body because he doesn’t have a body.

Or, he does —

But it doesn’t count, does it?

There is a tongue sliding into his mouth and against his own, and it’s slick and strong and longer than it should be; Sam’s gasp is sharp and breathless, and when there are hands on his hips and pulling him up and hands on his thighs pulling them up and a hand on his throat he moans.

(Those are too many hands; he knows this, but it doesn’t matter.)

There’s a cock in him and that’s too long as well, too long too thick too much too much —

He’s moaning and he can’t make himself stop, hears the noises coming out of his throat as the rain comes down even heavier, soaking into his hair, streaking down his body. It keeps collecting against his belly in the sandwiched space between his belly and the thickened shadow that isn’t a belly pressing up against him, and he feels stretched wide, feels the pressure in his arse and the stretch-wide of his cunt, too. He feels so full he can’t fathom it, feels his thighs spread wide apart and the tilt of his hips and the tip back of his head.

When he comes, he comes screaming, and thunder rumbles across the black skies over their heads — all those clouds are so black, the rain coming down so hard, and Sam wonders if he’d be able to tell where the cloud ended and the man on the hill began, if he tried.

He wouldn’t try.

His body is quaking, legs quivering as his hips buck wildly into the fullness on all sides, and it doesn’t stop — he’s thrown onto his back on the air and there’s more smoke and shadow filling him, sliding into his mouth and into his throat and there’s more packing into his arse, his cunt, he’s so fucking full he feels like it might start steaming out of his pores and he’s so oversensitive, his body electrified, he feels he might fucking die.

“That’s it,” says the man on the top of the hill. “Take it all.”

Sighing, he lets his body go lax, lets himself relax into it, lets himself be wholly consumed.

Later — not for hours — the rain will stop and the shadows will dissipate and he will be left sprawled alone on the grass, soaked inside and out. Perhaps he’ll even sleep for a time before he fumbles his way home.

For now, he is overwhelmed, and lets himself be drowned in it.