Show-Offs, page 8
Without further ado, Craig pulled my thong down to my knees. I stood so he could remove it from me entirely, and so all the beach would see my naked skin. Too absorbed in gathering the money from the flaming drug plane, each man, woman and child scrambled naked, clothed or otherwise for the cocaine-crusted bills. Craig kissed my cock’s head with his seaworthy mouth, and I closed my eyes as a tremendous weakness claimed me. “Oh, Craig,” I mouthed, hardly able to speak.
“Let me do everything, Shannon,” Craig said withdrawing his mouth briefly from my cock. “Don’t try to help. Give your cock to me.”
As if I would deny my cock and cum to him! Whatever Craig was willing to do, so was I eager to give or to receive.
“My cock is yours,” I whispered as his hands slipped over the mounds of my naked ass. “And let all the world watch in awe.”
Craig kissed and licked my shaft before going to work in earnest on my dickhead. He massaged the tip of my cock with hot firm lips. His mouth worked me, encased me, enraptured me. In rapture, my spirit drifted over the sapphire shallows toward the unfathomable indigo deeps. When his tongue caressed my cock, I thought I’d expire from the breathtaking distress of yet unfilled pleasure. I hovered on the rim of insensible delight, unable to move and hardly able to breathe. My cock was hard near to splitting; I leaked lean streams into Craig’s mouth.
“Worship my cock,” I gasped. “Give me your adoration.”
Like an angel at the gates of paradise, Craig took my whole cock then. His mouth was a tight, moist thing that encased my cock. His mouth was a sucking pleasure hole. “Uh,” I moaned, unable to form coherent thoughts or words. His mouth sucked me toward the by then crucial orgasm. “Ah,” I gasped, hardly drawing breath as billows of staggering pleasure swept through my loins. All my narcissistic, attention-seeking soul condensed in my balls. My mouth murmured words of its own accord. “Feel me. Taste me.”
I tried to stand so the beachgoers could see my naked buttcrack, but Craig pushed me down. His lips pressed against my shaved pubic area. I wanted to stand. I wanted to be watched, but I allowed myself to be driven farther down toward the floor of the sailboat.
Standing firm would have been nothing more than a toothless chomp at a steak sandwich. The lust for money is the root of all human vacuity. I could have been waving roman candles while Craig blew me and no one would have noticed then.
“Oh, Craig,” I whimpered as the orgasmic waves deepened, and I was caught in a tornado of pleasure. The potent muscles at the base of my penis contracted as they’d never constricted during masturbation before the mirror, and I savored the great spurt of cum springing forth from my cock and chugging down Craig’s throat. I no longer cared whether anyone watched me or admired me. My very narcissism, the seat of my personality, pumped from my balls, flooded up my dick stem, and poured into the sucking mouth of a sailboating English professor. The waves of rapture rolled on and each came with that intensely satisfying ejaculation of my life’s spunk.
In some mysterious way, strange and delicious, the realization that I was coming into Craig’s mouth made me wonder whether I might grow from object to admirer. Would I soon be the one giving the blow job to him? Would I be receiving his cock in my mouth or even in my ass? Would I be able, for once in my life, to think of giving pleasure to another?
Black smoke was still pouring from the scene of the plane crash, but we were spared the odors. Obviously the drug smugglers had perished in the crash, but no one on the beach attempted to check. They were too busy searching for any remaining hundred-dollar bills. Neither Craig nor I had devoted an iota of thought to the victims either. We had been too absorbed in our own bliss.
Bicycling back to my rented bungalow, I stopped at Joe Peters’s farm for the eggs. Margie eyed my thong with amusement as she helped me store the eggs in my bicycle’s pannier. The kids, Crissy and Bart, did not giggle then. Joe came out of the barn, and Margie pointed toward my swimsuit. “You ought to buy one like it, Joe. You could wear it around the farm. Set a new trend among the island farmers.”
“I bought it at Mae’s shop in the village,” I offered helpfully. “She’ll make you one. It’ll be the perfect fit.” Margie laughed at that, but Joe turned bright red. The kids looked at their father anxiously as if they expected him to put on a thong right then.
Taking leave of the family, I bicycled up the hill at the island’s center. The air temperature dropped about ten degrees as I climbed, but the cooler air felt pleasant upon my skin. I reached my bougainvillea-covered bungalow, put my bicycle in the storage shed, and carried my fresh eggs inside.
The island taxi service car arrived right at seven, and Craig climbed out. He had changed out of his sailor suit and was wearing sneakers, tight denim shorts, and a muscle shirt. I kissed him warmly, somewhat to the taxi driver’s surprise, and ushered him inside.
“I see you took off your thong,” Craig said, surveying my naked cock. Perhaps it was the full frontal view that had caused the taxi driver’s eyes to bulge so oddly.
“I hardly ever wear clothes around the house.”
Laughing, Craig pulled off his sneakers, pulled his shirt over his head and skimmed off his shorts. To my delight, he wasn’t wearing underwear. I pressed close and kissed him again. He placed his hand behind my head and held me in the kiss until both of our cocks were rigid. His other hand slid down my back until he caressed my ass.
“I do worship your ass, Shannon.”
“I know. But we’ll eat dinner first. I have everything ready.”
I poured glasses of a frosty chardonnay flavored with a hint of coconut, and led him to a table already prepared in my backyard. The sun was just setting over the golden shadows of the sea. I lit a couple of citronella candles to keep the night’s insects away.
Craig looked about nervously. “Are you sure that your neighbors can’t see us? We’re pretty exposed to be naked.”
“Oh, they can see us just fine. Don’t worry about it. Since I started the trend earlier this summer, most of them have been going about in the buff too.”
“Who needs clothes in this climate?” Craig asked rhetorically and a little falsely. He was not used to public nudity.
We sipped our wine and forked chunks of the crayfish salad into our mouths. I rescued a gigantic round of flat bread from the oven, which we dipped in olive oil. Red snapper broiled with dill followed, and dessert was a tart lime cheesecake. We sampled everything but we did not drink to excess, nor did we surfeit ourselves with the food. The night promised other pleasures.
Craig and I came together under the rising moon. I kissed his lips and let his tongue probe my mouth. Our lips pressed, warred, struggled, caressed, made love. He licked the inside of my lips. I stabbed my tongue into his mouth, fucking it with my tongue as I had fucked it with my cock earlier. Then I sucked his tongue before licking his throat. Olive oil had dripped onto his chest, so I licked it off.
“Do I need to give you a good licking?” he asked me.
I was burning for him. “If you want to. If it pleases you to do so. But that is not the end of this night.”
“Oh, I hope not. What do you have in mind, Shannon?”
“I’m going to give you what you want most.” What I wanted most too. I wanted him to master me, overpower me, use me. I was ready to give my deepest mysteries to him.
His breath came in a sharp gasp. “You mean…”
“Yes, I’m going to give you my ass. Just the way you want it. With protection or without as you decide.”
His eyes widened. “You trust me that much?”
“Speak truth to me, and I will believe you.”
“I’m clean. I have no diseases. I’ve lived a life of extreme caution.”
“So have I, Craig.”
He regarded me with eyes that spoke so much. “Then you really want to take it bareback this time?”
“Believing in you with all my heart—yea.”
“The everlasting yea,” he quoted as I led him to my bedroom and he saw the gigantic bed hanging from six thick chains from the bolts in the eight-inch-thick roof beams. I had already arranged two pillows to raise my backside for his enjoyment, and the towels and lubricant lay upon the hibiscus-flowered sheets.
I tumbled into the bed ahead of him and offered him a view of the object of his desire. The bed swung from side to side as he climbed in and placed his hands upon his prize.
“Worship my ass, Craig,” I urged, and he gave it his full attention with such devotion that he fed my ego until far into the night.
Craig started by kissing my buttcheeks. Then he kissed my anal crevice and pushed his face between my buttocks, driving his nose and lips into my crack. He slurped up my fissure until his tongue bathed the small of my back. Then he licked downward until he reached my ball sac. As he tongued my buttcrack, his pure need burned within him.
His tongue touched my anal sphincter, the sigil of adoration. I sighed with joyous gratification. As Craig rimmed around my hole, my cock nearly exploded. His adulation delivered me into a state of rapture. Craig idolized me. He adored me, he worshipped my ass.
Craig ravished my anal cleft until my cock throbbed with rhapsody. He licked me and he finger-fucked my ass. However, when he tried to push two fingers into my asshole, I dissuaded him: “Be careful, Craig. You’re going to make me come too soon. I love the way you finger-fuck my butt, but I want your cock now. Stick it in, please.”
Craig shifted his position. I could feel his burning lust, and then I felt his cock between my rounded buttcheeks. Bareback! I had never taken a cock bareback. I could only wonder at what I was doing.
Closing my eyes and drawing a deep breath, I pushed my asshole open. Craig’s cock filled my dilating ass. My own cock throbbed. He started humping me, fucking my ass with a steady rhythm. As he fucked me, his cock milked my prostate, and that combined with my extreme arousal brought me closer to orgasm.
I ground Craig’s cock with my asshole, which made him quicken his thrusts. Stirred by the rising semen in his balls, he rode my ass harder and faster. His cock swelled thicker as I tormented it with my asshole. I felt the first tingles that signaled the approaching storm of pleasure.
“You’re making me come, Craig,” I moaned, as our bed swung upon its chains.
Gripping hard with my buttocks and asshole, I let his cock bring me off. The tingles in my dick surged into bliss. Then I was coming; my hard cock spurting onto my hibiscus-flowered sheets and pillow. In the throes himself, Craig humped me like a maniac, his breath rasping in my ear.
“Come in me,” I urged. “Give it to me, Craig. Shoot it into my ass.”
I sensed his hot spunk being spurted into me. I felt his cock in my asshole, his hips striking my buttocks, and the continuing deep prostate massage. Following his unbelievably extended orgasm, Craig slowed his thrusts. He pushed his cock in and out a few more times, slowly, ever slowing; then he stopped and lay still. For a minute he stayed atop me with his cock buried in my ass, both of us gasping and sweating. Then we rolled apart and stared at each other with amazement.
“Let’s shower together,” I suggested, leading him to the shower stall tiled with seashells. “We’ll soap each other up and towel each other off.”
For years now, Craig and I have corresponded several times a day and telephoned each other frequently. We meet on the island every summer for a full three or four months, but we keep our college professions in different parts of the country. Each summer as we share bungalow, swinging bed, sharpie sailboat, and island bicycling, we also share our cum, giving and receiving, each man in his own way, as the golden shadows of the tropical paradise lengthen across the sapphire sea.
THE PICKUP MAN
Shane Allison
I’m relieved I’m able to make it to Billy’s in my piece-of-shit car. It crackles over rock and gravel as I make my way into the parking lot. A week ago it wouldn’t start when I was leaving the baths. The last thing I wanted was to call my dad to tell him the carburetor was acting up again and he’d have to pick me up from a bathhouse. He’s already embarrassed that I can’t tell a flat tire from a dead battery. What can I say? All I know how to do is put gas in ’em and drive ’em.
When I open the thick wooden door, Lynard Skynard blasts out of the hole-in-the-wall country-western bar that’s on the ass end of Tallahassee. It’s a popular spot for local rednecks, not to mention a slew of cops who get called at least twice a week to break up a fight between a couple of drunken hicks. When I enter, I get more than a few stares, all eyes dead set on burning a hole the size of Florida clean through me.
The place reeks of stale beer and prejudice. I carefully tear past grungy denim-clad cowboys with bloodshot eyes to make my way to the bar. I sandwich myself tightly between two drunkards nursing a couple of longnecks. They look me over disgustedly, as if I don’t belong there. And to be honest, Billy’s is the last joint I want my black ass to be caught dead in. I stick out like a sore thumb in my Timberlands and baggy FUBUs. I wait and watch the burly bartender pop tops off bottles of cold German beer before I wave him down. He gives me a stern glare. I yell through the brash country tunes roaring from the jukebox that sits against a wall of cinder blocks, “Excuse me. Where’s your bathroom?” I hold out my oil-soiled hands. He points past ten-gallon-hooded heads to the far end of the bar. I saunter past mean, prying eyes that continue to watch me as if I’m going to magically sprout wings from my ass.
I press the door open to the men’s room where a bunch of cowboys stand side by side at the urinal trough. My dick twitches in my baggy jeans to the sizzle of piss splashing against the glossy porcelain. Some turn to take a look at the new addition; others focus on emptying their bladders. At the sink, I turn the tap with the side of my hand, careful not to smudge it with oil. Cowboy after cowboy enters the shitter, each with a dick full of piss. I’m a bundle of nerves in this den of country boys. I press pink liquid soap into my dirty palms and work it into a frantic lather.
My dick gets thick as I gawk at the row of tight, redneck booties flexing and farting in jeans. I rinse the soap off my hands as I run them under a tongue of cold water. I stare at these muscular, big-butt cowboys as streams of gold shower the trough. I gotta pee so bad I’m about to explode—I’ve been holding it in since I left home, thinking I could wait until I got to Brian’s party. A space opens up between two guys, and I quickly elbow my way between them. “Sorry,” I tell them, as I take my place alongside their flannel-clad bear bodies.
As I unzip and fish my dick out of my underwear, I nonchalantly take a peek at soft peckers the size of Vienna sausages being shaken clean of pee. Others are fully erect with cockheads of all shapes and sizes. Some have the typical mushroom head while others are simply cloaked in tender pink foreskin. Some dicks are riddled with veins; others look sweaty and ripe from being held captive in briefs all day. Some even sport Prince Albert crowns. I want nothing more than to drop to my knees and worship each and every erection in all its glory.
I feel a slight burn as I make my own donation into the golden river. I watch for prying eyes to see if any of these country ruffians are checking out my equipment. I’m not what you’d call “porn-star big,” but I hold my own, and the boys don’t complain. I don’t care if they’re looking. I’m a dirty little exhibitionist anyway. Like what you see? I think. Several of the men have come and gone and have hauled out into a vortex of Brooks and Dunn vibrating against paneled walls and the shoddy Sheetrocked ceiling.
There are only three of us left draining the last droplets from the slits of our dicks. A short, pudgy Mexican dude wearing a cream-colored cowboy hat and caramel-brown boots has finished up, tucking his uncut dick into a tomb of boxers. The medium-build guy to the right of me wears a red and black long-sleeve flannel shirt, a gray cowboy hat, and faded jeans with holes in the knees. He’s got a round, bubble, black-boy booty that’s firm in dirty denim. His dick is cut, the head slightly freckled. We stand together, close as any two men can get, each playing with ourself for the other to see. I watch excitedly as his dirty fingers squeeze his curved dick.
Just when he’s about to grab my cock, two men walk in and take their places next to us. The cowboy nervously puts away his boner and saunters to a vacant sink to wash up. I swaddle my sex back into my Hanes and duck into a stall that’s filled with wads of wet toilet paper and soggy cigarette butts. I unroll some tissue and try to clean the toilet rim of pee and what can only be described as tobacco that has been spewed from the dirtiest mouth in town.
A hole’s been gutted in the wall of the stall to the left of me. The partition is caked with mostly racist and homophobic graffiti: NIGGERS GO HOME and DIE STALL FAGS. An intricate picture of a Confederate flag has been drawn above the glory hole. The best part of public shitters is reading the ridiculous messages guys scribble while they’re pinching a loaf. Some people have way too much time on their hands. I’m one to talk, though, since I’m guilty of sprawling my own dirty messages across bathroom walls.
I push my jeans around my knees to keep them from dragging across the disgusting floor. As I hear the heels of the cowboy’s boots against the tile, I stoop over to watch a pair of cruddy snakeskins make their way into the stall next to mine. My glasses graze against the partition. I take them off and stuff them into my shirt pocket. I play with myself as I watch him undress from the waist down. He takes his dick out, then wraps his fingers around it, giving me a state-of-the-art glory-hole show. I glide my index finger within the circle, letting him know I hunger for what hangs between his thick, hairy thighs.
I watch as his crotch comes through the hole. I tilt the soft-hanging member under my nose to give it my infamous smell test. I approve, and work the rest of it past my lips and into my warm mouth. My tongue slithers along the belly of his snake. The traffic from new visitors is thick, but we’re both locked securely in our stalls. Some piss and leave, while others linger, as if they know what’s up. I struggle to keep my slurping to a minimum by wrapping my lips tighter around his stuff.
