Ashes to Ashes

by Jason Banks

  Durango slipped his legs out of both legs of his shorts and stepped over toward his suitcase, appearing to stroke his own dick with repetition. He returned to the side of the bed, where Max was waiting completely vulnerable to the man his senior. Durango was seen tearing an object open with his teeth before his hands returned to his crotch. In what seemed like five minutes to Maxwell, he felt what would be Durango’s cock tease his puckered hole in a circular motion before the initial strike of what he’d imagined being as lengthy as the fucking Titanic. Max winced between his clenched teeth each time Durango recessed his thick penis into his void.

  In. Out. In. Out. Innnnn. Out. Innnnnn.

  Durango pulled his head back, as if shouting to the heavens. “Ahuh,” he groaned.

  It seemed to Maxwell the man was almost going to climax, but he was already surprised by this daddy’s virility, he couldn’t be so sure about anything at that point. This was sure to be only the very start to an extremely rough fuck. One Max hadn’t received in a long while—and one he wasn’t entirely sure wanted to ever end. After many intervals of feeling what could alternatively be described as a submarine tank, sink into the depths of his manhood, Maxwell wailed in pleasure as he could feel his prostate being stimulated. This guy might not have had experience fucking men, but whatever the hell he was doing—was the right stuff.

  “Oh son of a bitch,” Durango rambled, pulling out completely.

  As soon as Max could finally seem to take in a deep breath without screaming in the absolute pleasurable pain he did previously, he bit down on his lower lip at the sensation of Durango’s warm mouth luring in his eager dick. He turned his head sideways to fetch for a pillow at the same moment both Durango’s rough fingers gripped tightly to both his nips. The cushion Max used to mask his shrieks barely sufficed as he could feel the pumping action from his sack increase in pressure. Another whimper escaped his mouth before he felt his left leg twitch.

  “I’m gonna…”

  Durango immediately removed his mouth from Max’s cock and released his firm hand grips.

  “Not yet, you’re not. I’m not done with you yet,” he murmured, allowing the fingers of his left hand trickle up Max’s torso.

  After he slid the rubber off, tossing it over his shoulder behind him, Durango allowed the weight of his body to fall into the sheets. Max could tell the man was needing to catch his breath. And rightfully fucking so, even God must take a breath every now and again. He slid his right arm underneath the psychologist’s naked backside and used it as an anchor to help pull his body over the older man’s fully naked body. While the darkness didn’t allow for him to see with any sort of great detail, he could make direction out of the glint in the tips of Durango’s eyeballs provided by the glow of the moon outside.

  After the man could catch his breath, Maxwell’s lips pressed against Durango’s mouth. He eagerly welcomed the thick tongue of his man, letting it dive forward, offering a bit of relief to the cotton mouth he was experiencing.

  Durango chuckled. “You’re parched, aren’t ya?”

  “Yeah, how did you know,” Max whispered back.

  Max heard Durango click his tongue. “Because that’s the effect weed has on people,” he stated. “But we can fix that, mister.”

  “Oh yeah?” Max questioned, rubbing his right thumb along Durango’s left temple, as if wiping away a tear—but one of implicit joy. “How do you suppose we remedy this malady?”

  “Well,” Durango began. “You need something to suck on, babe.”

  Max hushed the older man with his index finger. “Shhh, I see where this is going,” he uttered.

  It didn’t take a rocket science for Max to figure out what to do next, seeming to have forgotten how dry marijuana made a person’s mouth feel. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sweating much either. Surely that would quickly change, as there was somewhere deep inside his skin, pores ready to burst in perspiration after expending all his energy in the climax he was ruthlessly robbed the pleasure of so having minutes prior. He climbed down from the bed slightly so that he could take in every inch of the man’s still fully erect dick.

  ***

  Durango’s murmur deepened as the younger photographer faceplanted straight into his crotch, feeling the tip of his cock push into what was clearly Max’s throat. Durango hissed atop the bedspread, flailing his arms above, running his fingers through his shortened hair strands. This was perhaps the best sex he’d ever had in his life, and with the help of his friend Ethan’s generosity, he figured it was the best element to add to their night of passion.

  “Hmpphhh,” Durango groaned, knowing that within a matter of moments he was probably going to spill every ounce of his seed.

  Max raised his head. “You like that huh?” he affirmed. “You like that tight throat, do ya?”

  Durango couldn’t help but continue letting the guy keep going down on his junk, it was the best oral he’d ever received from anyone—may they have been a man or woman. He was at such a total state of arousal, not a single wink of worry nor anxiety riddled his brain in the moment. The level of mental clarity he felt, was as if he were gently floating up toward the star cloaked sky in a manner that a feather wafts and waves in the gentle wind.

  Durango jolted his head back toward the cushioned bed top and yelped while feeling both legs buckling tightly.

  “Ahhhfffff,” Durango cried in satisfaction, while multiple twines of thick white cum expelled from the tip of his cock faster than what felt like the speed of light. He felt six to seven different shots scatter across his naked torso.

  After the instant relief washed throughout his body as if he’d just wrung out a soaked dishrag while a cavernous sigh escaped from his lungs. His heart beat faster for several moments while taking note of Maxwell’s body lowering directly on top of him. Maxwell plunged to the opening of Durango’s jaws and he tilted his head slightly to the left, as Durango swiped his left hand through the river of creamy delight, scooping an ample taste to present between the younger man’s lips. He felt the slick glide of Maxwell’s chest against his and he moaned in approval.

  “That’s a good boy, take my cum,” he ordered.

  Maxwell groaned.

  “Roll over,” Durango asserted, helping push Max over onto his back.

  He scooted off the bed and rested on both knees while covering Max’s pulsating cock with the inner palm of his right hand. Durango continued to stroke in fast interludes as if swiftly jolting the bow against the melodic fibers of a violin. For all Durango cared, he was the master conductor of a five-string quartet, and Maxwell was in the audience—his cries of arousal sufficing as applause.

  In the split-second Durango stopped stroking, Max wailed in praise.

  “Mmmmmm godddamnnnittt!”

  The long-awaited apex of surmounted passion spilled out in several directions, made visible by the moon’s sufficient gleams against the body of water. The likes of which, once making impact against Durango’s forehead.

  Durango sighed. “Holy shit, guy,” he purred, taking hold of Max’s legs to pull him toward the edge of the bed.

  While Max climbed down from the bed, Durango turned sideways and sat Indian style with his right shoulder propped against the bed frame. Max mirrored him. The caroling of an owl could be heard close by from outside the open center window pane. Meanwhile, Max appeared to still be high on life and in the trance of being whisked away to neverland by the complimentary bud.

  Max began giggling, leaning his head into a palm. “I act…”

  “Shhh,” Durango held out his forefinger, the tip gently pressed against the younger man’s chapping lips.

  This was the moment Durango was in search of. A single moment of pure silence, providing him the chance to tell Maxwell about the cosmic alignment which by some supernatural or metaphysical force, joined their paths for a good reason. He cleared his throat and let out a short cough. Surely, he overdid it a little bit and exerted more energy than he should have.

  �
��You see this, honey?” Durango began, twisting his torso underneath the sparkling twilight. “This scar,” he added, pointing towards the large reminder of his incision.

  Maxwell nodded his head in agreement. “Well yeah, it’s a scar.”

  “Remember when I called while you were on the road from Indiana to move Melanie’s belongings here?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow. He hoped like hell Maxwell was not too baked to take in this moment.

  “I guess, I was kind of occupied with wrapping up brunch, if I remember right.”

  Durango clicked his tongue. “Babe, I was at Mt. Sinai Health the night Brogan passed away.”

  Max stared blankly into Durango’s visage. “You were?”

  “I have his heart, Max.”

  “What?” Max snorted, shoving his hands in the air. “And I’m Prince Harry! I only had to dye my hair dark to cover it up. You caught me.” Max screeched throughout the room.

  “YOU WHAT?!?!” Max recoiled, before springing to his feet.

  Durango remained planted firmly into the soft carpet, looking up into Maxwell’s direction.

  Whatever feelings were coursing through his veins just moments prior, quickly turned into confusion. Then rage. So much rage. If what Durango just said was the truth, Max figured he had every right to be royally pissed off. Why hadn’t he told him sooner? When did he find out? Was this some big joke, still? How could it be true? Maxwell Williams grew up on the foundations of seeking for facts, instead of assumptions or hearsay. But in the current moment, Max wanted to wake up from whatever dream he hoped his conscious was succumbed to.

  He pinched himself. Nothing.

  He slapped his face so hard, it could have left a blood blister. Nothing.

  As Maxwell continued to try processing this new bit of intel which Durango Walters was only just now proving him, he quickly grew tired of wandering around in the dark. As he stomped toward the door to switch the lights on, his thoughts continued to drown his mind.

  Un-fucking believable.

  What? No!

  God damn it!

  The latter thought made itself audible. “God damn it, Durango!” he wailed.

  Max tilted his head around in disgust at the sight of an innocent looking man sank into the floor, eyes like a puppy dog piercing his skin like supercharged ultraviolet radiation permeating below the surface. He spotted the silver tray with the remaining joint, scooped it into his grasp and forcefully chucked it across the room.

  “Max, please,” Durango cried out, preparing to stand up.

  Sounds from the shattering center window pane resonated against every opposing wall and echoed pristinely when Max stretched out his arm, much like he did when he kicked Trevan out of his Seattle hotel room a few months prior.

  Max started to spout off his frustration, while noticing the owl from earlier flee past the wreckage as if he were flying to safety. “Save it,” he began. “You’ve known this since before Thanksgiving and you’re just now telling me this? What the actual fuck, Durango?”

  The tears down Durango’s face were pronounced, but they didn’t offer a miniscule bit of comfort to what Max felt.

  “And you’ve drank alcohol several times,” he spat off, “with MY HUSBANDS beating organ?”

  “I’m in AA forever, how could you possibly have kept drinking with another person’s heart beating in your god forsaken chest? Let alone BROGAN’S?!?!” Maxwell continued his verbal rampage, “and my god, I smoked fucking pot with you and I’m not supposed to even have that!”

  “I drank socially, Max,” Durango pleaded, planting his head into both of his open palms. “My doctor gave me the clearance a couple months after the transplant, as long as it was on occasion,” he paused, taking in a deep breath, wiping away the tears showering each side of his face. “It wasn’t even all that much, Max.”

  Max shook his head. “Not when you’re carrying my dead husband’s living organ, you don’t even a bit. No,” he threw his right hand in the air, looking to the heavens as if he still couldn’t believe it all was actually happening.

  Durango sat at the edge of the bed, head lowered back into his soaking hands.

  “I can’t right now. I’ve gotta go,” Max insisted, feeling every bit of necessity to leave and hop on another train to go back home as soon as they boarded for Washington state. “I’ll make sure Melanie knows to have Gage dropped by your brother’s place,” he assured, that much he could promise because no matter what fresh fuckery was ensuing, Gage didn’t need to be placed in the middle of anything. He wasn’t sure of a damn thing, whether eventually he’d be able to speak with Durango again or not. So many uncertainties floated around his mind while he quickly shimmied into his pair of jeans which were draped neatly over the back of a lounge chair.

  The older man didn’t move, didn’t appear to have a single ounce of saying another thing. Which to Max in the current moment, sufficed perfectly fine. He bent down to his suitcase, yanking whatever warm and dry top his fingers touched first, still neatly packed from arriving mere hours prior. He glanced into the secured compartment to check that his charging cord was still inside and noticed the small brown package, which was his first little Christmas present to give Durango on their—supposed to be—romantic getaway. Even thinking of the word romance put such a sour taste in his mouth, regardless of whatever it was the past few hours—the mood seemed to have taken a definite wrong turn. In fact, more than one.

  Max pushed his arms through the sleeves of his hunter green cashmere sweater and retrieved the small package. He resealed his suitcase and charged toward the door to slip on his pair of black Dansko shoes, whether he was wearing socks at all or not. Fuck it, I don’t need ‘em.

  “Merry fuckin’ Christmas,” he exclaimed, hurling the small package in Durango’s direction on the farthest side of the bed, paying no mind that it landed on the floor. “I guess we’ll talk in a few days,” he paused.

  Max shook his head yet again while his tongue clicked. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anymore,” he added, turning back toward the door to leave as a tear fell from his right eye.

  Once in the hallway, Max finished schlepping toward the elevators. Though however short of distance it actually was—it seemed about the length of a football field. He pressed the light on the elevator panel to descend into the lobby, while glancing back over his shoulder. Max didn’t hold any high expectations of Durango chasing after him, pleading him to not leave. The chirp from the elevator’s arrival confirmed his suspicion, as in fact, he was still the only person in the entire hallway on the third floor of the resort. The pangs of his hurtful words reverberated throughout Max’s gut the entire ride down to the lobby. Whether they were hurtful or not, Max felt justified in his current emotion. Deep inside, he felt betrayed that the person who received Brogan’s heart would consume the poison which shook his own life to the core ten years prior—no matter if it were Durango Walters or Larry fuckin Bird.

  As soon as the elevator doors swung open, he charged toward the front circular lobby door while turning his head around, just ironically making eye contact with an older guy of Durango’s age with a shiny silver nametag: Shane.

  “Sorry about your window, man. You can charge whatever you need to my AMEX Card.”

  Durango looked out the large wall of window panes, into the illumination of the full moon which, even accounting for the billions of stars present that night, remained the brightest token for him in the moment that no matter what happens in life—things always find a way to work out. He stood propped against the frame of the center pane as a cool breeze stung the caked remnants of his tear riddled cheeks. In his shoes obviously, given the shards of glass scattered around the carpet like sharp daggers left behind to serve as a fervid haunting of what transpired only minutes prior.

  On one hand, he knew that not chasing after Maxwell was the right thing to do. This was at the forefront of his mind the whole time, because it seemed most prudent that he’d suggest this to any of his clien
ts or their parents in a situation which escalated from basic conversation to pure fucking pandemonium. But on the other, Durango was left feeling empty, convicted of trashing his new organ, even when his doctor cleared him months ago for an occasional glass of wine and toke of a reefer. Sure, he above anyone else knew what moderation meant. This is what he thought probably set him apart from Maxwell, in the trickle of years between them.

  His sights quickly became lost in the ripples of Horseshoe Bay which swayed in no definite pattern. The years of life experience and expansive years of education within the realm of psychology proved to him that Maxwell’s behavior—while hurtful—a very normal way of reacting to such powerful input. This didn’t excuse it, nor did it make Durango feel any less hurt. But he was confident that an indeterminate amount of time would help bridge them back together, as it was so inherently clear they were meant to be a part of each other’s life.

  Three raps were heard against the other side of the door in the hallway. “Housekeeping!” A man’s voice announced.

  Durango shuffled to let the guy inside, as surely he was there to clean up the mess Maxwell’s tantrum left behind. Oh, and one thing was clear to him. It wasn’t going to come out of his dimes. That, he was most certain of. He pat dried his eyes with the tips of his bare fingers, not that it felt like it made them any drier.

  “Man, what the hell happened?” The gentleman asked, peering his head inside, around the slow to open door.

  Durango pressed his hands back to his face. Yep, the tears were certainly not compelled to quit falling down his face, leaving the sensation of a thousand bee stingers striking against each pore on the way down to his chin.

  “Oh Shane,” Durango cried. “This is not how I pictured catching up with you at all when we made this reservation two weeks ago.”