We’ve all been to that bend in the river, haven’t we? Where the woodbine twineth — among other thangs.
In case you’ve forgotten what a thang looks like, our master artist Josman draws a whole slew of tumescent ones for the R.J. Marsh story The Way Things Are, which you’ll find in the Inner Circle.
A potent, hardon-making tale, it is also beautifully written — something we’ve come to expect from this author. For the way things are is that nobody in this story is gay. Nobody at all. All the guys tell us that several times. And yet…
And yet each one of them finds their way to that bend in the river.
That too is the way things are: For while there may be many secret places in the wood, they are as sunlit meadows, compared to the tangled undergrowth that twines through the secret places of the heart.
Here’s a taste
Noah stands by the water, bringing his arms up over his head to stretch them out.
His shirt untucks, belly bares, and the man with him, a man his father’s age, takes it all in — the skin, the smooth brown hairs, the muscled dip.
And the fat impress of Noah’s cock against the front of his jeans. Not erect, not yet, but fattened and lengthened, making a drop to the left of his fly.
The man swallows a suddenly inordinate amount of saliva that has collected on the center of his tongue.
He steps past Noah, his hand brushing against Noah’s hand casually, intentionally. Noah catches it up in his own because they are far enough from the dirt road not to be seen, and he brings Mike’s hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it, pressing it against his cheek for a moment, then taking one of the fingers into his mouth.
This is not anything that Mike had expected.
What he’d expected with a boy like this one was to go to his knees to accept the proffered erection, to suck this one off, to be used blatantly and without apology or thanks. He’s been with that type before and quite honestly, he preferred them.