I notice his eyes before anything else. Big and wide, they are. In the dim perpetual dusk beneath the Boat Slip dock his pupils are so dilated and straining for light that they’re black marbles, shining and glossy as he stares.
He’s fixed on me. Now that the French cocksucker has abandoned his post, I have men crowding in to take his place. It doesn’t matter that I’ve blown my load; it doesn’t matter that I’m temporarily spent. I’m still mostly hard, and I’ve got hand after hand groping for my spit-sloppy cock. I have mouths on my neck, fingers rubbing my ass. This guy has some serious competition.
Those eyes, though. Fuck. Those eyes are black holes with their own gravitational force, and I’m over the event horizon, past the point of no return. There’s no escaping the pull of those eyes. That’s why I stare back at him, pull him close, and savagely press my lips against his.
Come to think, he never had a lick of competition after all.
The Frenchman had been a great kisser. This guy, though, is off the charts. My brain no longer registers the fact that I’m surrounded by two dozen men pushing and shoving to get my meat in their hands or mouth. All I know is that I’ve got my elbows resting on this fellow’s shoulders, my hands stretched out and languid, as my hips grind against his. We’re putting on two shows for these fellows. His is the dance of the victor. Mine is unhurried strut of the predator with his prey between his jaws.
He’s a sexy fucker, too. I can tell that when we take a break from our kissing and continue to grind as we stare into each other’s eyes. He’s got short black hair swept to one side and one of those faces that would look impossibly good at any age—classically handsome in youth, dark and inviting in its prime, youthful and rugged as he gets older. I’ve known him for two minutes of intense tongue-fucking, and already in my imagination I can see the entire arc of his face through time. He looks good through it all.
“How about that,” he whispers. “I guess I dropped my keys.” Slowly, inevitably, his dark eyes locked with mine, he drops down to his knees. He wraps his hand around my shaft and points it at his lips, claiming his prize. “Let me do this for you while I’m down here.”
You know, I’ve just shot an enormous load down a stranger’s throat. The Frenchman still probably has the taste of my sperm on his tongue, it’s been such a short time. But I’ll be damned if in this guy’s mouth my cock is just as hard as it was before I came. Harder, even. He’s got major skills. Most guys have an issue getting the whole length down their gullets without choking or clamping down on head so obnoxiously that I’d rather be doing anything else than getting head. Nope, this guy knows how to handle me. He knows how to open his throat and admit me in. He’s not trying to get me off quickly, he’s not greedy for the load. He just wants to give pleasure, and he’s got the tools at hand to do it.
He’s standing up again, jealously keeping my cock pressed against his body as he stands on his toes to make out with me once again. He’s got his prize. He intends to keep it.
My hands are down the back of his jeans. His ass parts as my hands slide between the smooth cheeks. I remove my right hand, pause our makeout session for a moment, and transfer a glob of spit to my fingertips. It goes down the back of his pants and straight onto his hole. I can feel him gasp and squirm when my fingers go exploring inside the warmest and most private spot on his body.
God, I want this hole.
“Do you have a place to go?” I whisper in his ear.
“I’m staying at the campground,” he tells me. Fuck. Is everyone in this town staying at the goddamned campground? I already know from the Frenchman that it’s apparently far enough of a walk that I don’t want to make it.
“Damn,” I growl. “I wanted inside that ass.”
“You want to cum inside?” he asks, teasing me. His lips brush my ear. “You want to spray your seed inside my hole?”
Fuck yes, I do. I turn him around. He braces himself against the support beams overhead. He’s got his shirt yoked over his head and his pants down. I press my cock against the crack of his ass and grind. I mock-fuck him right there while he gasps and lets out little cries of need and want. And once again, the guys throng around.
They try to insert their hands where our hips connect, to see if I’m inside him. They growl at me as if they think I’m inside the guy, instead of just humping him. They try to feel the connection of meat to hole, to get the smell of the fuck on their fingertips. I feel arms behind and beneath my balls, trying to grasp my dick from the underside. There’s someone lying in the sand, trying to slide along the ground between my legs. Doesn’t matter. I keep grinding. He’s letting out little moans that are sexual catnip to the crowd. Every one makes them press in closer, to handle us more roughly.
A man pushes his way through the crowd to stand opposite me. He’s tall, and pale in the dark. He stoops down to look at my bottom. I’m feeling a little bit of a jealous fire burning in my breast when he stands up again, unzips, and puts his hands on his hips. Then my partner leans back, still humping my cock in his ass crack, and whispers, “That’s my husband.”
Oh. That’s different. I reach out for the guy’s dick. It’s like a fucking blunt weapon. I can’t see it in the dark, but my hands are guessing it’s ten inches. A thick, heavy ten inches. Respect. No wonder this guy didn’t have any problems deep-throating my eight. It’s a cakewalk for him.
The boyfriend disappears after a minute. My guy turns around. “I think I dropped my keys again,” he murmurs in my ear. Then the man with the eyes is back on his knees and impaling his throat on my cock. He’s worshiping the fucking thing, giving it the respect it commands. He doesn’t need to clamp his fist around my shaft, doesn’t need to beat it. He gives me pleasure just by using his lips, his tongue, the wetness of his mouth. He’s a pro.
But I can’t shoot. It’s not due to his lack of skills. It’s not his fault at all, in fact. During all the groping and the snatching by the crowd that had been around us, someone had gotten a substantial amount of sand on my dick. I’d brushed off as much as possible, but a couple of the sharper grains have scratched up that sensitive area right beneath the head. I can’t tell if they’re still buried in the wet flesh somewhere, or whether I’m just puffy from the abrasion, but I know tomorrow I’m going to be hurting like hell.
I pull the guy up to his feet. I kiss him. And I break the news.
And you know what? He doesn’t move on. He doesn’t go hunting for more prey. Even though my dick’s ripped up and sore, his entire focus is still on me. “Let’s go sit a while,” he says, and he takes my hand. Fingers intertwined, zippers zipped and buttons buttoned, we scatter sprays of sand as we trudge back to the drive leading away from the beach. Moments later we’re sitting on a concrete piling by the hotel, legs pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, like lovers. And we talk.
He tells me about his home city, his hobbies, his husband. I talk about my life and my family. I’m usually fairly easy to talk to, but I don’t open up to others quite as easily. With this guy, I feel as if I’ve known him for years. I’m telling him anecdotes like he’s an old friend. In fact, it’s not until I can’t suppress any more yawns that I look at my phone to check the time. It’s three in the morning. That’s how long we’ve been at it.
My walk home is still a long one, so I say my farewells. He rests his hand on mine before I go, to tell me something. “You know what attracted me to you down there?” he asks. I shake my head. “Your eyes,” he says. “They’re beautiful. Even in the dark I could tell you had the most incredible eyes.”
Funny, I think to myself, as I gaze into his. I was going to say the very same thing about him.