THE NEW ADVENTURES OF KAKE & PEKKA

By absman420 published October 2, 2009
Summary
A TOM of FINLAND Rhapsody...
THE NEW ADVENTURES OF KAKE & PEKKA (A TOM of FINLAND Rhapsody)
By Absman420


It's because of the heavy, pea-soup fog that you don't see the man tied to a tree until you're right on top of him. You've been hiking the Appalation Trail through the Shenandoah Valley, heading north back home to Maryland for the past few weeks and absolutely nothing has been out of the ordinary – until this fog rolled in. And the man you find tied to the tree.

The fog had caused you to get off the main trail, though you weren't worried about it. You knew that if you continued to head north, you'd eventually come to one of the many small backroads that criss-cross the area and find your way back to where you were supposed to be. Lucky you did, or who knows how long this guy would've been trapped here.

He's hugging the tree, tied from wrist to wrist with a course rope. Your first thought is "Thank God he's not dead!" because you see him moving, struggling against his bonds. Then you realize what you see – and you wonder, "Maybe I've stepped onto the set of a porn movie...?"

He's a hugely muscular man, although fairly out of proportion in the upper body – big arms, shoulders, a thick, bull-like neck – with an impossibly thin waist that not only emphasizes his upper body, but also makes his ass – his muscular bubble butt – pop. He wears calf-high motorcycle boots on his lean, muscular legs and a sleeveless white t-shirt that doesn't even reach his waist. Most telling, the black leather motorcycle cap – the kind worn by old-school gay leathermen channeling Marlon Brando – makes you wonder if you've really encountered someone in trouble, or someone making a movie...?

You call to him. "Buddy? Are you okay?"

He turns his head and faces you and you're awestruck by his beauty. Impossibly handsome, a strong square jaw and cleft chin, dark hair, long sideburns, beautiful, bedroom eyes hidden beneath the shadows of his cap. He looks tired... but satisfied – there's a bit of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

"I suppose you are going to fuck me, too," he says, and you can't quite place his accent – maybe Scandenavian. "They told me that others would come – they promised."

"How long have you been here?" you ask, shedding your backpack to access your small hatchet.

"It is hard to tell time in all this fog," he says. "Long enough to make me wonder if they are sending anyone. What a waste of a morning. Not even the police could find me in all this fog."

"But you're not hurt?" you ask, pulling the hatchet from it's pouch and turning to free him.

"Oh, HELL no!" he says, smiling broadly. "Well, only when my cock rubs up against the bark of this tree." He laughs. "Those boys were so HUNG, too! They told me they would sending others – I was hoping."

"I'll have you free in a second," you say, preparing to cut the rope.

He looks concerned, which you mistake for fear, until he says, "Are you sure you do not want a go at me before you cut me free? I mean, a handsome young man tied up and helpless and perhaps a little eager, too, yes? Look at this ass – you would not be disappointed." He wiggles it for you, muscular and round.

You don't know how to react – you stammer. Here is a half-naked man who's been tied to a tree and apparently gang-raped and he wants to know if YOU want a piece of him, too!

He takes your silence as a cue to continue. "Oh, I understand," he says. "You are embarrassed with your size! I can see that you are small, but do not worry – I have a very talented hole, with much control and strength. I will be giving you a great fuck."

"No..." you say. "No, that's not..."

"Then you are a bottom only? Is that what it is? Would you like to trade positions?"

Instead of answering him, you raise the hatchet and cleanly cut through the rope that binds him. When he steps back, you get your first look at the entirety of him – and your sense of shock doesn't abate. If his backside was exaggerated, it's nothing compared to his front.

His chest is impressively large, appearing to be even larger because of his tiny waist. The sleeveless t-shirt he wears clings to his over-sized nipples with the legend "FUCKER" printed across it – it doesn't even reach to his navel.

But all that is secondary to his gigantic genitals. As he stretches, his cock starts to harden – easily as big as your forearm – exposing the two lemon-sized balls hanging heavily behind it. "Ah, that feels good," he says, raising his arms up in the air and placing his hands behind his head – then he looks at you and indicates his cock. "Do you want to feel it for yourself?"

It is now rock hard, arching up to nearly the base of his pecs – the head throbs a blushing red, a single pearl of pre-cum on the tip. It's nearly irresistible – this obscenity – you find yourself drawn to it, regardless of the insanity of the situation. What the hell is going on here?

"Again you hesitate," he says. "Am I not the most perfect example of man that you've ever seen? Even in this land, I am one of the biggest and the best. Yet, you hesitate. Where are you from, outlander – what repressed, Puritan land do you call home? America?" He laughs at his own joke, but can tell by your reaction that he's stumbled on the truth. "Oh. I'm so sorry." His dick mirrors his emotion by softening a tad, still impressive.

"It's not that," you say. "I just don't understand..."

He advances on you. "This is not a time for thinking," he says, smirking. "You've just saved me. NOW is the time for rewards earned." He wraps the rope around the back of your head and pulls you toward him. You fall on your knees. With his cock literally in your face, it's impossible to control yourself anymore – you flat-tongue his big piece from base to tip. It's like licking a baseball bat made of hard flesh. "Oh, fuck yeah," he moans. "Finally."

He leans against the tree he was just tied to, putting one booted foot up behind him, releasing the rope so he can pinch his own nipple – he knows you're not going anywhere.

It's so monstrously big you can do little more than lap at it, running the flat of your tongue up and down the thick shaft – the head alone is the size of a Gallen Apple – your entire hand doesn't even go around it. How on Earth could you be expected to put that in your mouth, let alone your ass? So you do your best, which seems to be satisfying him, if his breathing is any indication.

You're hard as a rock, too – three weeks hiking the Appalachian Trail alone, remember – shamelessly rubbing yourself against his boot as you work his enviable cock. You've never thought of yourself as small – your eight inches has brought you (and others) nothing but delight – but you're a banana compared to a skyscraper next to him. You're probably gonna cum without even getting your dick out of your pants.

And then you hear it – you both hear it – voices coming through the fog, out of the woods. "Where the fuck is he?" – "Over here, not far." – "Damn fog!"

He speaks first, raising his head and pursing his lips. "NOW they come! And after I have been all rescued." He strokes the back of your head affectionately, then pulls you away from his softening cock. "But perhaps we should go," he says, looking in the direction of the sound. "It was a hot scene, but quite brutal. I am not sure you would fare so well against them – they are lumberjacks... and quite large." He indicates his cock.

You're immediately on your feet – your own erection vanished – your fear level rising. (There were more like HIM?) "What'll we do?" you ask him, sotto voce.

"The road is that way," he says, pointing in the direction opposite of the voices. "It is where I left my bike." Then he smiles. "And my pants."

We hear the voices again. "Where are you, Leather Boy?" one calls, the same accent as the man you rescued, the one who now seems to be rescuing you. "Are you ready for more fun?" They're close – within a hundred yards.

"Come," he says to you, motioning to follow him. "Can you run in those... things?" He indicates your hiking boots, top of the line models, like he's never seen anything like them before.

"Faster than you," you say – and you aren't nearly kidding.

You grab your pack and follow him blindly into the forest, back into the dense fog. The two of you hold hands for fear of getting lost, but at least he seems to know the way, taking confident strides through the thick pine trees, this half-naked man beside you, his giant cock flopping back and forth. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it registars that this forest is much older than the one in the Shenandoah Valley where you've been hiking – everything's different. But it occurs to you that YOU are the one in the wrong place, not the other way around.

You eventually come upon a road – although "road" is a bit misleading, barely more than a semi-paved trail through the forest. A Mountain Road, clearly used for little more than logging. His motorcycle is parked just off the packed dirt, next to one of the massive pines that make up the area, his leather pants draped over the handlebars. "There, see? Just where I left it!"

"How did all of this happen?" you ask as he puts the pants on, kicking off one boot, sliding his foot through the pant leg and back into the boot again, then repeating on the other side.

"I had stopped by the side of the road to piss," he says, carefully tucking his huge cock down the leg – it reaches his mid-thigh, then buttons up. His over-sized genitals make an obscene bulge in the worn leather pants. "And these loggers came upon me." He snorts his disdain. "Loggers – they rape the country side," he says. "And anyone they come across in it, as well." That brings his smirk back.

"Come," he says, righting the bike and kick-starting the engine. "There is a Service Station a kilometer or so down the road where I work. We will be safe there – and we can figure out what to do about you."

As tempted as you are to go with him, as hungry as you are for another chance at that crazy dick of his, instead you say, "Listen, this is all just a little bit too much for me. Just point me in the direction of the trail and I'll be on my way."

He is genuinely confused. "What trail? What trail is this?"

"The Appalachian Trail. I can't be more than a couple miles off – it's gotta intersect around here someplace."

"My friend, there is no trail, not by that or any name. Come with me – we will be safe at the Service Station. We can figure out what is confusing you."

You are defensive. "Nothing's confusing me!"

"Except you do not know where you are – you speak of places that do not exist. Your size concerns me enough, but that you do wear such odd things on your feet. Do you not even have a pair of boots?"

"These ARE boots!"

He sighs, frustrated, crossing his arms before his massive chest while straddling the motorcycle. "Do you even know your name?" he asks.

"Well, it's not like we've had time for proper introductions..."

He barks a laugh. "Yes! And when being chased by rapists, when is the best time for this? If you must know, I am Kake." (It sounds to you like he said "COCK-uh" – but with his accent, it's hard to be sure.)

"What did you say your name was?"

"Kake. K-A-K-E. It is Finnish." (Yup, "cock-uh" – that's what he said.)

You react to this, not his name. "Finnish? Really? My surname is Finnish!"

He acts as if he's never heard of such a thing. "'Surname'...?"

"My last name," you say. "It's Pekka!"

His jaw drops. It's the first time you've seen an emotion on his face unconnected to lust – in a way, it's disconcerting. "What?" he asks, squinching his eyebrows. "What did you say?"

"My last name... is Pekka."

He is fighting the smile that's breaking out on his face. "No," he says. "It's not possible. It can't be..."

"What?"

He studies you more closely than he has before. "But it IS!" he says, rubbing his chin. "I see it in your eyes, in the shape of your face. It's true – and it explains EVERYTHING!" He steps off the bike and hugs you, kissing you on each cheek – his cock has come back to life, pushing hard against the constraining leather. "Now you MUST come with me, Pekka," he whispers in my ear. "At the Service Station, there is something I must give you."

You assume he means that big dick of his. And there's a part of you – a growing part of you – that figures, what the hell? You're not on a deadline and you've gone weeks without – is this any different than taking advantage of any other bounty that crosses your path? It's the old saw about the hiker and the farmer's daughter... sort of.

Which is how you find yourself riding down the road hugged up close to him, your arms wrapped around his waist, the smell of his heavy leather jacket in your nostrils. Between the width of his back and the vibrations of the engine, you can't help but get an erection – you also can't "help" but press it into the back of his ass.

He responds by pressing his ass back into your cock, seductively rubbing it even while riding – (he must be a fantastic fuck, you think. He seems MADE for it.) With his left hand, he grabs your right wrist and pushes it down, until you take his leather-covered cock in your hand. As you gently squeeze it, it grows, already as thick as your wrist.

As you travel out of the forest, descending down into a valley, you notice that the fog has been lifting, becoming merely overcast – the view is not what you're used to seeing in Central Virginia. Wherever you are, you begin to seriously suspect that you're far, far from home.

Far, far from home on the back of some superstud's motorcycle with the biggest cock you've ever had in your hand. Could be worse.

Approaching the Service Station, you begin to wonder if you've stepped back in TIME, as well. You're reminded of rural back-woods country – a farm house that's been converted with a false store front and two fuel tanks in the matted dirt of the front yard. The fading, hand-painted sign reads, "TOM'S – Fuel and Motorcycle Repair."

There is a small repair shop – about the size of a three-car garage – around back. Kake parks his bike at the door, but not before revving the loud, growling motor once as he cuts it off. Stepping out of the garage comes another man, another man built – and clearly hung – as well as Kake.

This guy is a redhead with a flat-top so perfect you could land a plane on it. But for that, he has the same rugged good looks as Kake – the two could be brothers. He's dressed in an dangerously small pair of greasy coveralls, open to his auburn pubes to expose his sweaty, dirty musculature, but barely containing a package that rivals Kake in size and girth – also, you can't help but notice that he wears motorcycle boots, too.

His name is spelled in cursive writing within an oval on his coveralls – "Vicky," it reads, which makes you snort. The noise gets his attention, and he sizes you up quickly.

And as he is about to speak, a truck pulls into the station, distracting us all. "A customer," Kake says.

The blonde – Vicky – speaks, his voice deep and sexy. "I know that one – he is only interested in my ass," he says. "Not in buying Petrol."

Kake laughs. "You ass is better than the Petrol. Go take care of him – we only want happy customers, yes? I must take my friend upstairs and give him something."

Vicky looks at you and rolls his eyes. "You have a fondness for the little ones," he says to Kake, chuckling. "I think my small finger is bigger than his cock!"

You almost speak up this time – you're just about sick of these guys making fun of your dick. Eight inches is nothing to sneeze at! You want to say, Sure, you two are monsters, but where I come from, being eight inches is something most guys lie about!

Instead, you watch Vicky's incredible ass as he sashays over to the truck and sticks his head in the driver's window. Within seconds, he's leaning in up to his waist, tip-toeing on the metal step – the "customer's" big hand is holding his ass and pressing up the crack in the coveralls.

"Come," Kake says to you. "He will not bother us for a while."

The house is smaller than it looks on the outside, very old-fashioned with little in the way of furnishings. Kake takes you up the back staircase to his room, which is as simple as he rest of the country house – just a big bed and a small dresser. Not even as many mirrors as you would expect. "It is simple but good for fucking," he says cheerfully. "The bed makes all kinds of good noise."

You sit on it, unsure of what to do, and the bed groans a metallic sigh.

"I cannot believe I did not figure this out sooner," he continues, stripping off his leather jacket and hooking it on the back of the door, revealing his incredible upper body once again, the tight little sleeveless tee reading "Fucker." "If it was a snake, it would have bitten me – is that how you say it? I think, yes." He opens his closet door and a waft of leather-scent fills the room. "I have them in here somewhere. It has been a long, long time – but I kept them faithfully!"

"I wish I knew what you were talking about," you say, unable to help but stare at the globes of his ass. Indeed, he's made for fucking.

"You do not remember," he says, "but you will. HERE they are!" He pulls out a pair of dusty motorcycle boots, almost exactly like his but they have a buckle and strap across the bridges.

"What are they?" you ask.

He smiles broadly. "They are your boots!" he declares, holding them out to you – you resist taking them. "I do not joke. Look at them – look at the inside seam."

So you take them from him, these heavy, clunky things and you look inside. There, scratched in the leather – with a nail or the tip of a knife, perhaps – is one word, the same in each: PEKKA.

"At the very least," Kake says, smiling again, "it explains why you wear those ridiculous things on your feet."

"How is this possible?" you ask, examining the boots, hoping for any sign of familiarity. Your mind is racing. You think, maybe "Pekka" is a common name around here – around here! And just where are you, exactly, that makes you think there's an "around here?"

"As I say," Kake says, leaning against the wall, sexy even when he wasn't trying, "it makes complete sense, given the parts I know. My friend Pekka loved the lumberjacks, the mountain men – he loved the brutal and clumsy way they fucked, their big cocks. And one morning, one morning like today, thick with fog, my horny friend Pekka disappeared during his hike to their camp. Days later I found his boots deep in the woods – I have held them ever since. That was long ago, though time is difficult to feel here. But now you reappear, looking weaker for sure, like you've lost your manhood, without boots – well, it all makes sense. You are back! My Pekka has returned to me!"

"But... how...?"

He waves you off. "'How' does not matter," he says, gently touching the side of your head. "'Why' does not matter. All that matters is you are back – you are finally back. Now, put on the boots and be whole again."

Okay, so you're sure you're the victim of mistaken identity – however incredible it would be to actually BE this Pekka of whom he speaks – but you're not against putting on a costume and doing a little role-play, either. If the most incredible man you've ever seen in your life wants you to put on some boots before you fuck, you put on the boots, right?

There's humor in the way he holds your hiking boots, like they were some dead animal carcass or the laces were snakes or something, after you've untied them and stripped them off. He tosses them deep into his closet, as if even looking at them will ruin the illusion. Whatever – you still wear your thick cotton hiking socks, the most comfortable in the world.

The boots are dusty, which to you is no big deal, and incredibly well-worn, like this "Pekka" never took them off. Kake apologizes for it. "At least I kept them," he says, rubbing the leather that covers his cock. "Perhaps we will stumble across someone who wishes to shine them, perhaps even lick them, yes?" This thought gives his dick a jolt, pushing it that much further down his thigh. "Perhaps that someone will even be me..."

You chuckle, saying, "Tease," while sliding on the right boot.

And the coincidences continue to pile up – the boot fits like it was made for you. You're... shocked at how comfortable it is, how beautifully it supports your arch, pads your heel – the leather is supportive, yet yielding. You've never felt anything like it. Suddenly, this scene has become less about acting – no need to pretend fucking in boots is hot if fucking in boots IS hot...

"It fits!" you exclaim.

Kake is unsurprised. "Of COURSE it fits," he says. "They are your boots."

So you put the left boot on and you're jubilant when it fits the same way – no, more. More than ecstatic. You're...

You're hot.

You're turned on by them – by you in them. You stand, and even your stance is more confident, more manly. More sexual. You start to get a hard-on, your dick coming to sudden life beneath your cargo shorts. No, more than a hard-on – it's almost like your dick is thickening, but not getting harder – like it's growing. It makes you feel confident and masculine, feelings you do your best to encourage, rather than frighten away.

Because fear is one of the first things to disappear, followed quickly by shame and guilt. You love how it feels to be a man, to get hard and be comfortable with your body – with your beautiful, masculine phallus. Wearing these boots reminds you what it's like. What it used to be like.

And your clothes are getting tighter in the ass and thigh, but looser in the waist, and nearly painful in the crotch. Your whole body's getting an erection, swelling and growing more muscular. The bigger you get, the more confident you become, the more erect you become and the more turned on you become, which causes you to get bigger, continuing the cycle.

You don't know what's happening – you don't CARE what's happening – just that wearing these boots is helping you remember what it is to be a man. No... what it is to be a gay man – the ultimate gay man.

You are Pekka. You realize it with a clarity and a simpleness that makes it impossible to deny, even if you'd want to deny it. You remember everything as if your brain suddenly found all the forgotten neural pathways. You remember your homeland, your backstory, your hunger for woodsmen and sailors – visiting a logging camp staffed by three horny brothers in a water-colored haze – your nearly insatiable need for cock – in your mouth, down your throat, up your ass, all at once. You are the ultimate expression of gay male sexuality and pride.

Your cock is huge again – you are restored. Pekka is once more.

Your upper body ripples with muscle. Your pecs are nearly out-of-proportion with the rest of your body – your nipples are larger than a 10-markkaa piece, full and inviting. Your skin is so smooth, it shines like a delicate pencil-on-paper drawing.

Your chest and your ass are your best bodyparts, as they've always been. Your big, bulbous buttocks can take a battering from the biggest men and bouce back for more. It's hungry for a fuck right now – it's been so damn long...

Fortunately, Kake is there – and few men have bigger cocks than Kake. You grab it through the leather even as you pull him in for a kiss. He immediately begins massaging your ass as his tongue slips deep into your mouth. He spins you around, so you're gripping the metal bedframe, and he presses his bulging package into the crack of your ass, reaching around your torso and roughly pinching your gigantic, tender nipples.

"Do you remember now, Pekka?" he whispers gruffly. "Do you remember how much you love my cock up inside you?"

"Fuck me, my brother," you answer, your voice back to its sexy, gravelly timbre. "Fuck me the way you used to – the way you did before I got lost. Fuck me until those memories of that other place fade away to nothing. Fuck me back to Pekka."

He chuckles slyly and drops to his knees, slipping his fingers into the hem of your cargo shorts and yanking them down your muscular legs, burying his face into your deep crack and attacking your hole with his tongue. You moan – it's so good, so familiar – and you pinch your own nipples, your cock springing up and slapping your upper abs.

He's so aggressive, spitting and licking, lubing you up for that gigantic cock of his – it's been so long, you're liable to be ridiculously tight. What a great fuck this will be. What a way to come back. (Hopefully, you've returned before the fleet rolls into Helsinki.)

And just as he pulls out that magnificent cock and touches it to the bud of your hole, there is a commotion just outside the window, down in the lot. You both see two pick-up trucks pull into the station and several huge, gruff men step out.

"Those damn lumberjacks," Kake says, his huge erection hanging out of his leather pants. "Looks like they found us after all."

You smile. "That's okay. I think I'm more than able to handle them now."

Looking up, they see you both in the window and – monstrous dicks swelling – yell for you to come down. "Where will we fuck down there?" you call. "On the gravel? Come up here and use the bed like civilized men! Fucking lumberjacks!"


As they lumber up the stairs, you help Kake strip off his leather pants, easily taking the head of his cock in your mouth – Pekka will show these lumberjacks a thing or two, you think, as the mist finally burns away to reveal your new world, and a hunger that you'd nearly forgotten completely takes you over.

You are Pekka. And you and Kake are together again – and you will fuck the world.

END

[AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD: I know it's unusual for the author to address the audience AFTER the work, but I figured if I got all intellectual in a foreword, some might not read the story, figuring it to be too cerebral, so I'm commenting here. Hopefully, you've taken the time to clean up first (hopefully, there's a need for you to clean up!).

As a young gay man in the 1980's, Tom of Finland had a major impact on me, how I saw myself, and how I saw the gay community. He showed me that gays could be strong, masculine men to whom sex was a pleasure, not a punishable offense. In his images were the men I wanted to be and, in a funny way, idolized.

I've had a "man wakes up in Tom of Finland World" story floating around in my head for a number of years, but it wasn't until I recently read a new, complete collection of Kake cartoons that the penny – or in this case, the markkaa – dropped and I was able to craft the story.

Clever readers may recognize some of the images that pack this text. Most of the settings are based on specific ToF drawings, although I've taken some liberties with the physical look of Pekka. (Pekka appeared in a water-color series that Tom did in the 70's – although Pekka's appearance is much more "classic 70's" – sandy blonde requite with cheesy moustache – I've given him the standard 1980's ToF body, MUCH more muscular and thick.)

Of course, my hope is that readers unfamiliar with Tom of Finland can enjoy this story, but those who are fans can find some of my little in-jokes and nods to the Master. Please let me know one way or another if I've succeeded. I have strong feelings about this piece and want to know what you all think.

Thank you for your indulgence. Please – if you haven't already – search out Tom of Finland's work. His drawing will speak to you and you may just like what you hear.

Absman420 or...
Tom of Maryland Oct09]

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