Monday, July 13, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Camp

Usually beneath Provincetown’s dick dock I’m paying attention to only two things: either the man bent over or kneeling in front of me, or else the periphery where hostile intruders might suddenly appear. I’m not worried so much about the cops, really. I understand they’ve descended upon the secluded cruising spot from time to time. There are other outside forces to worry about. Unsuspecting hetero couples mistakenly wandering down this particular stretch of sand, for example. Maybe some straight guys looking to make trouble. It’s best never to get too complacent in public sex situations, no matter how safe they seem.

It’s a weird night, though, and for the last several minutes I’ve not really been doing much of anything. I’ve got my shoulder resting on a girder deep in the shadows, my right hand’s in my pocket, my left hooked by the thumb in a belt loop with the fingers draped decorously over the half-hard cock pointing to my hip bone. Guys are shuffling in the sand back and forth in front of me, but for the moment I’m not liking what’s on parade.

Then I see a streak of something out of the corner of my eye. My focus shifts to the beach. Although beneath the deck it’s pitch dark, the beach beyond the dock is light brightly by the resort’s floodlights above our heads. Down the beach, trotting on little feet, is what for split seconds I think is a dog. Then I notice the large triangular ears, the reddish-brown coat, the bushy tail, and I realize that I’m watching a fox scampering down the beach toward the center of town.

That’s unexpected.

A man stops in front of me. I haven’t been paying attention to the crowd, so rapt I’ve been in puzzling what a fox might be pursuing down the beach on a Saturday night. I take stock of the guy as best as I can in the small measure of light reflected off the water. He’s of average height. Athletic. He’s wearing a spandex top that hugs his muscles, and the way he’s thrust his hands into his pockets shows off his brawny forearms. His hair is cropped short. He rocks from side to side, his hips pointed in my direction as he studies me back. He must like what he sees; he steps forward.

I unhook my thumb from my belt loop and hold out my upheld hand. It’s the universal sign of invitation, in this dark climate. He steps forward and rests his crotch in the cup of my palm. He unzips, pulls apart his jeans, thrusts forward about six and a half inches of hard cock, and waits. Just waits.

Fuck. Like I said, it’s been a weird evening—all cock feeders and no cocksuckers. At that moment I’ve already swallowed down five loads from guys like this, guys who just unzip and wait for service. I’d like a little service myself, you know. But these cocks aren’t going to suck themselves, and I happen to be good at it. Considering the five loads in my belly, good and efficient.

My knees are buried in cool sand; I’ll be washing the black flecks of the New England seashore from the crevices for days. The stranger likes what I’m doing to his cock; he’s grabbing what short hair I have and pulling my mouth down on the shaft to make me swallow every last inch and then some. “Yeah,” he growls in a light tenor. “There’s a good cocksucker. Make it feel good. Make it feel real good.”

I’m liking the way his cock tastes—clean, still soapy from a recent shower. His pubes smell fresh as he grinds them against my nose and cheeks. “Lick my balls,” he commands, pushing me down by the back of the head.

I obey. I pop one, then both of his shaved nuts into my mouth. He spits out obscenities in a low voice as I swirl my tongue over their surface. His inches thrust into the air, still slick and shining with my spit, waiting for my mouth to engulf it once more.

My mouth. Any mouth. A cock like that doesn’t usually dry off beneath the dock. Before I can return my attention to that dick, another cocksucker falls to his knees to my left and consumes it. He’s so hungry for the meat that he forces me off the guy’s nuts.

That’s okay. The guy getting sucked helps me to my feet and reaches for my cock. I’ve been squeezing but not beating it during the blow jobs I’ve been giving, though I’ve been tempted to beat off during this last. I’ve seen this cocksucker before. I remember him from last year, actually; he was a German guy who took my cock in his holes and attempted to make me walk back with him a long distance to the trailer park in the town’s west end. He’s a good looking guy, though—and more to the point, good with his mouth. “Good boy,” says the guy next to me. He runs a hand through the German’s curly hair.

I run my hand over the man’s Spandex-clad chest. He helps me out by lift it up over his head and wearing it, yoke-like, over his shoulders, leaving his muscular chest bare. It’s sparsely hairy, and firm beneath my hands. He reaches out and plays with my nipples. “Your turn,” he tells me, pulling out his cock from the German’s mouth with an audible plop.

The German opens wide and takes all of my meat without effort. He’s deep-throating me effortlessly, taking my cock in seconds from dry everywhere except around the tip to sopping wet from head to base. I groan a little. “Yeah, he’s a beautiful little cocksucker, isn’t he?” asks the shirtless guy. I’m betting it’s a rhetorical question.

After a moment I withdraw, and guide the German’s head to my buddy’s cock. “Suck daddy,” he commands. The German grunts loudly and opens wide. “Oh-ho!” chuckles the guy. “Did you see that? He loves his daddy’s dick. Suck it, boy.”

Even in the dark it’s obvious how much the German is digging the dad/son talk. He’s moaning around the guy’s dick, sputtering saliva and precum so far that it spatters against my own skin. The guy ups the ante. “My own son, suckin’ on his daddy’s big dick. Yeah, just like I taught him. You love the dick that made you, huh, boy? Now, suck your uncle again.”

We’re attracting a bit of a crowd, now. The two or three guys who had been crowding in to watch turns into four or five, and then seven or eight. More guys are standing on the sidelines to watch the action between the three of us. “Yeah, my son’s sucking on his uncle’s big dick. Big dicks run in this family, huh?” announces the self-styled dad of our group. “Takin’ my boy on his first camping trip. Teachin’ him what being a man is all about. You like your camping trip, son? You learning lots?”

Honestly, I’m rolling my eyes a little bit at this point. To me, dirty talk or roleplay is like salt or pepper at a meal. Used sparingly, it’s great. A little bit even enhances the flavor. Too much just insults the cook. And this guy is just ladling it on, at this point. “Dad and his big brother are loving his little boy’s mouth on this camping trip, I tell you! Little boy’s going to go home a man!”, the guy’s saying loudly, so that everyone in the immediate vicinity can hear.

Corny as I find the chatter, though, I’m not leaving. I’m getting good head every now and again. And shocking as my readers will find the confession, I like an audience.

But then it just gets weird. “Maybe I should dress him up in his little sister’s panties, make him bitch out his cunt to daddy and his uncle, too! Get him back in that trailer and show him how daddy fucks little sissy boys!” The German, though. He’s so excited by everything that’s going on—the dirty chat, the cocks going down his gullet, the crowd—that he’s pushed over the edge. He makes a high-pitched whine as his throat engulfs my dick; I feel moisture spew from his nostrils into my pubes. Then, as he convulses on the sand, jerking back and forth, I feel another moisture all over my toes. His load spatters onto my feet and sandals. It’s a violent orgasm. He nearly chokes on my dick as he comes.

Then, abruptly, it’s over. “Come on, son, suck daddy’s dick like he taught you,” says the guy. But the German’s having none of it. It’s over. Gulping for air, he struggles to his feet. A few men from the crowd grab at him, trying to cajole him into giving them attention, but he’s done. He shoves them off and stumbles away toward the east end of the dock, where stairs lead back to the street.

The crowd realizes there’s no more show. They evaporate like a popped soap bubble. All that’s left is the other guy and myself. He laughs slightly as he pulls the Spandex back over his head, and I try to stuff my still-hard cock back into my pants. “You can’t be arrested for what’s only in your head, right?” he says, slapping me on the chest. “Know what I mean?”

Somehow it seems to me that if you’ve told a crowd of strangers and a couple of sex partners a pretty involved fantasy, it’s not merely in one’s head any longer. But whatever. “Fair enough,” I tell him, before he walks off in the opposite direction.

In my periphery, I see another streak of reddish fur. Another fox, running down the beach in the same direction as the first. Or is the same fox, circled back to make the route once more? I watch it chase its invisible prey until it disappears from where the pools of light from the floods end and the shadows begin.

3 comments:

  1. Fond memories...I remember that very place a few years back with a hot ginger. Great to hear that something's never change.
    BlkJack

    ReplyDelete
  2. Amazing post as always my friend. I think i'm with you on the dirty talk thing, it's ok to have some but not to much. To bad that you didn't came that time but i'm sure that you found somebody later on to unleash your load. Always great to read you sexy man.

    Yves

    ReplyDelete
  3. Yeah. Talking too much killed it for me.

    ReplyDelete