Gay for XXX

Two gay men hook up for their regular surfside date. Unexpectedly, a third party — a gay college kid just home for the weekend — accidentally joins the fun. This story contains some BD/SM, some romance, some pissing, some puking, some scat.

–1–

Jack drove out to the beach after work. The sun was just setting; he drove west with his eyes half-blinded, but he knew where he was going. Between two beachside mansions sat a modest white house on stilts, and there was just enough space to park his convertible Saab between the pylons and out of the next day’s sun. Bruce, his best friend, was waiting. Hopefully the beer was plentiful and well-iced. And there was plenty of lube.

He had the entire weekend to himself – plus a day. His wife left that Friday morning on a plane, bound for the North Carolina mountains and a rendezvous with her kin. She’d taken their two daughters with her and had sadly kissed him goodbye at the airport. Jack had lied and said he was too busy with work to travel over three-and-a-half days, so he begged off and would stay home. Which meant he’d stay at Bruce’s and spend the Labor Day weekend fucking.

“Ready to go?” Jack hollered up from his car. Bruce appeared on the deck that surrounded the house, tanned and well-muscled in his white linen shirt and khakis. He wore his hair in a ponytail always, and he had distinguished-looking heavy platinum hoops in both ears. There were hoops in his nipples as well, and Jack could see their outline against the shirt as Bruce descended the steps toward him. Bruce’s brown leather sandals completed the rich beach bum look, and as he slid into the seat beside his longtime lover, Jack couldn’t help but once again catch his breath in the fresh revelation of how lucky he was to have found such a classy, kinky stud.

“You look tired,” Bruce said, reaching out and rubbing Jack’s knee as he backed the Saab out toward the narrow beach town’s main road. They were headed to a beachside bar at the far end of the island, called “Ruck’s”, which served up the best gumbo and smoked mullet on earth, as far as Jack was concerned. It was just what he needed to set his mood straight for the weekend’s fun and to push back the scraping claws of fatigue that always dogged him at the end of his week.

“I’m OK now,” Jack smiled back, throwing the convertible into gear and roaring them 2.3 miles north. Along the way, he said, “I’ve been wearing them all day, you know,” and he unzipped the fly of his smart wool trousers so Bruce could see. A bright pink pair of panties was easily visible between the teeth of the zipper, but Jack reached in and pulled them aside to reveal the black leather straps of the cock restraint he’d been wearing. Bruce grunted his approval and leaned over, pinching Jack’s right nipple between his expert fingers for a good minute before letting go and leaning back.

“That’s the spirit!” Bruce laughed. “I bet that was some fun having that on in court today.”

Jack was a real estate lawyer. “How many times do I have to tell you?” He rolled his eyes mock-dramatically. “I do real estate. I don’t have to go to court, man.”

“Well, you might if somebody here sees you wearing it,” Bruce muttered, and Jack hastily tried to zip with one hand as he steered into the crowded parking lot at Ruck’s. Since they were in a convertible, people heading into the restaurant could easily see down into their laps as the walked past. It took a moment to furtively yank his zipper the last few millimeters up, but then all was well. On to dinner.

Bruce bought, as was his custom. Ever since selling off his company in the mid-nineties, life had been good for him. The majority of his profit from the sale got reinvested in the market, and the tech boom that shortly followed reaped him enormous reward. Still using the market to make money for him, Bruce had now amassed a fortune that would keep him secure for the rest of his life. As long as he didn’t suddenly try to buy Costa Rica or something.

“Pitcher of Bud, and let’s say… eh, three Jack shooters each, right?” Bruce announced to the waiter as soon as he arrived at their table. “And a dozen oysters on the half-shell… and gumbo for each of us… and then we’ll do some real ordering after that,” he chuckled, “if we can still remember where we are.”

The beer and the bourbon got both men plenty comfortable with their Friday night, and they sat at their table by the window, with its magnificent view of the Gulf of Mexico at twilight, and played footsies. Bruce’s shoes were off, and his bare toes danced their way up and down the damp cotton of Jack’s socks, his feet long since out of his cramped but handsome loafers. It was excruciating for Jack whenever his cock made to rise in arousal. The restraint became a choking, painful instrument of torture, and it caused him a great deal of squirming and shallow breathing while he willing it to go back down. Bruce, of course, made it worse by just staring at him as he agonized.

But the mullet was ordered, more beer consumed, and eventually Jack felt the urge to piss suddenly come on him all in a hot, pressing rush. He told Bruce, and they went ahead and settled the bill, swinging by the tiny restroom on the way out. There was one stall and two urinals all compressed within a room not much bigger than a linen closet. The urinals were so close to one another that there was no space between for the customary short partition. The two men were alone as they entered, the stall door hanging partially open, blocked by the jutting lower bowl of the second urinal.

“Yeah… a nice, cozy piss….” Bruce murmured, as he sidled up to the second urinal, unzipped, and let his water flood out. Jack, standing right next to the door back to the restaurant, had to wait and jiggle his cock a bit, trying to get it to soften a little more so he could go. His eyes peered through their dizzy fog at the urine cascading down beside him, and he couldn’t help but sigh. And as the last bit of that long breath died, he suddenly felt his dick release, and his own gushing piss began to thunder down onto the stained porcelain and the baby blue deodorant cake.

“That’s it, Jackie… nice, hot piss!” Bruce cheered, already re-zipped and clapping him on the back. He leaned in close and licked Jack’s ear, breathed hotly into his neck as he kissed it. Jack rolled his head ever slightly and moaned. Bruce nibbled on his earlobe and whispered, “You know I love watching it, remember?”

Outside the door, a waiter could be heard walking by, asking someone else about a salad order. Something bumped the wall on the other side of the urinal, jostling the door but not opening it. Bruce stayed on Jack’s neck and ear, kissing, licking, nibbling, breathing so low and so slow. Jack’s eyes were closed, and all he did was feel it all. And then he felt the splash.

Opening his eyes, he looked down and saw Bruce’s large, bronzed hand playing back and forth through his still-rapid flow of pee. As his lover danced his fingers across the jetting piss, hot splashes of it rained back against Jack’s front, pelting his crotch, wetting his pants obscenely. Jack’s nearly choked on his sudden desire, his breathing came so hard; all he wanted to do was lie down right there and let Bruce find a dozen other men to come in and soak him in his clothes, from head to toe, with their stinking, boiling piss.

Bruce chuckled softly, watching Jack jerk a little with pleasure. “You little pig, you,” he intoned, closing his fingers over the head of Jack’s cock as the urine stream weakened and then died. He gave it one affectionate squeeze, then pulled up his hand and wiped it back and forth several times across Jack’s dress shirt. It soaked in a few places large enough and deeply enough to see the matting of his chest hair beneath. And its rich stench was all around him, that glorious piss-stink he’d loved all his life.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered, then laughed. He got his cock back in his pants and took care to give Bruce a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, stud,” he smiled. “I owe you one.”

Before Bruce could kiss him back or laugh or drag him into the stall for a serious moment of cocksucking, the door was flung open; three men attempted to bunch themselves inside the claustrophobic restroom, much like idiots outside elevators often attempt to enter before bothering to look inside it to see who might be coming out. The first man ran right into Jack as Jack stepped back away from Bruce in surprise. The other two men attempting to follow the first piled all into each other, until their combined klutziness pushed them and Jack straight back into the stall’s nearest partition and up against the sink. Bruce laughed, “Whoa!” He had his hands out helping to catch and steady any man he could reach.

“Jesus!” said one of the men, then, “Thanks.” They all managed to keep their feet and navigate their way around each other, Jack and Bruce finally getting through them to the open doorway. In those close quarters, pressed almost sensually up against the strangers as he shuffled his way out, Jack smelled powerfully the odor of piss; he caught one man as he passed sniff and glance down dully at Jack’s splotched shirt, but he stared openly as if not at all comprehending what he saw, not able to add the stench to the stains and come up with the obvious. It was clearly not a leap the stranger was able make. He blinked in a dim sort of way and awkwardly let Jack go on out the door.

A few moments later, Jack was slowly attempting to meander the two of them home. He was at the very end of his tolerance for alcohol, was just the perfect shade of drunk for the night, and he could tell that Bruce was, too. They laughed even more, touched even more. Talked even less about stupid, mundane things. The car hummed along, almost seeming to drive itself. The breeze that blew over them took away most of the piss smell that still clung to Jack, but Bruce, ever Puckish, raised his hand to Jack’s nose from time to time as the went along, giving his lover some sweet moments to inhale the scent of dried urine that still clung to Bruce’s unwashed fingers.

“Hey! Pull in here,” demanded Bruce suddenly, pointing at a brand new convenience store about halfway between his house and Ruck’s. “I need some smokes.”

When he came out, Bruce was accompanied by a scrawny-looking kid in baggy painter’s jeans that barely hung onto his bony hips. He wore a black Emerica t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and his hair was shaved on the sides, long on top, and fine strands of long blonde hair fell all about his head in a lazy way, stirred a bit like spaghetti just thrown into the boiling water.

“Hey, Jack, look who I found!” laughed Bruce, who tossed a carton of Dorals into Jack’s lap and then graciously held the door open for the boy. Nearly tripping over his own flip-flops, the kid scrambled to get behind the seat that Jack hastily folded forward. He glanced once at Jack and muttered something that must’ve been a thank you, and then he glued his eyes to his own hands, clutching a one-liter bottle of Mountain Dew in his lap.

“It’s Raylene’s kid, Cory,” chuckled Bruce, settling in the passenger seat. Raylene was Bruce’s regular drinking buddy, a divorcee with all kinds of money pouring in. She lived in a house similar to Bruce’s just a quarter-mile down the beach. “You remember him, don’t you? He used to be the guy wakeboarding in front of my place 24/7.”

Jack did a double-take, and Cory turned red. “Yeah, matter-of-fact, I do remember him. Wow! You’ve grown up a bunch, kid.” Jack was lying. Except for the haircut, which had definitely thrown him, everything else about the boy seemed the same as it was the last summer, when he was hanging around their beachfront, almost like a lost puppy, showing off his little wakeboard tricks. “You off at college now?”

Cory cleared his throat and looked out the side as they rode. “Yeah,” he grunted, taking a swig of his Dew. “I’m up in Gainesville.”

“Well, congratulations, man,” Jack smiled, remembering some good times there. “That’s where I went to school, too. I know you’re having loads of fun!”

“Yeah,” said Cory flatly, and he rode on with them in silence. Jack had to glance back over Cory’s shoulder twice on that drive, checking traffic behind, and he couldn’t help but notice that Cory’s jeans were riding so low as he sat that nearly half the white of his underwear was visible beneath his t-shirt. But it was thick underwear, or baggy, or some kind of pair of shorts or something he had on, because it was clear there was more bulk to the undergarment than a normal pair of BVDs would show. Jack, in his hazy brain, barely thought about it, though, and soon he quit glancing back entirely and just kept on driving.

Bruce was trying to make conversation still, without much success. “So where’s your skateboard, Cory? I heard from Raylene that you’re skating more than ever now, got some kind of traveling competitive thing going on sometimes too? Some kind of skate club in Gainesville, right?”

“Yeah, well,” muttered Cory, “it’s more than a club, really…. But I’m just takin’ a break down here this weekend. Tonight. I guess. Didn’t even bring down my board….”

As the boy’s voice dully faded away, it was clear to Jack that the kid was regretting accepting the ride. But Bruce would not be Bruce if he didn’t bull straight on ahead and force the boy to talk some more. He grabbed a question from out of the blue and let it fly: “So, Cory, you still smoking as much pot as you did before, back when you were such a little dick-beater hanging around my house all hours of the day?”

Jack couldn’t suppress his short laugh, and he looked back briefly, just in time to see Cory roll his eyes in a heartfelt and spontaneous commentary upon the infinitely moronic ways of adults. The boy shook his head in disbelief and then shrugged, looking down at his Mountain Dew. “Yeah, dude. Of course. What-the-fuck, right?”

They dropped Cory off in front of his house, a modest beachfront frame home built in the sixties, raised up on a small forest of twelve-foot wooden pylons, each one as thick as Bruce’s considerable chest. The boy shrugged his way out of the backseat and mumbled his thanks to them for the ride, slowly threading his way through the pylons and out toward the darkened beach, which lay out of sight over the slight dunes. He was already fishing in his pocket, pulling out a large joint, finding his lighter with the other hand, the bottle of soda lidded and tucked beneath his arm. As Jack’s car backed away, Bruce reached over and sharply slapped the horn. A short blare of noise shot all around the underside of the house, making Jack jerk nervously despite himself. Bruce laughed hard at him, but he watched Cory too; and the boy never even flinched.

“What a burned-out little fuck he is now,” chuckled Bruce, lighting up a cigarette as Jack turned them back onto the road. “We’ll have to come down and visit his snotty little ass later on. I really think we will.”

By the time Jack had killed the engine beneath Bruce’s house, his fly was unzipped and his cock was being tugged free. Bruce was done with his cigarette and bent over, slurping up and down his lengthening rod, mumbling happy sounds to himself. Jack lifted his ass off the seat and let Bruce pull his pants and Jockey’s all the way off, kicking free of his shoes in the process. He lay the seat all the way down so he could angle his ass and legs a little better, and soon Bruce’s finger slid wetly up Jack’s musky asshole. Bruce poked at Jack’s prostate in a delicious rhythm that matched his sucking mouth perfectly. Jack just closed his eyes and listened to the dim boom of the waves in the distance. There was nothing as good in this world as sex at the beach. Nothing.

The finger withdrew. The sucking stopped. Jack sat up, startled. Bruce was getting out of the car and heading toward the steps. “Well, come on,” Bruce chided quietly. The sounds of partiers on a nearby condo balcony echoed faintly among the pylons. “Let’s go get serious about it, why don’t we?”

“No fair!” whispered Jack, gathering his clothing and scampering up the steps. “You are a fucking cock tease, godammit!”

Bruce had the door open for him, and as soon as they were inside they locked in a passionate kiss. Jack tasted some of his own pre-cum in Bruce’s mouth, along with the flavor of cigarettes and a hint of their gumbo and oysters. His hands worked to get his lover fully undressed, as Bruce did the same with him. Soon they were both nude, pressed tightly together, hips working to grind their cocks against each other’s hard belly.

Jack withdrew this time, dancing away toward the wall of sliding glass doors that faced the darkened beach below. He got down on the Berber carpet on all fours, pressing his cheek to the rolled fibers and swaying his back. His ass was high in the air, and he knew how delicious his balls must look. The scant moonlight coming into the darkened room was plenty for Bruce to see by, and Jack was rewarded with a low whistle.

“Mmmmmm, Jackie,” murmured Bruce, “Lemme’ have a lick of those sweet nuts….” And then Bruce’s tongue was on his scrotum, licking, slurping, tasting up and down on his sack, around each shaved globe over and over, just delicately enough… just rough enough… and Jack could only tremble and moan. Then Bruce’s tongue moved up his perineum, the delicious ridge of skin that lead straight from the root of his balls to his asshole. Over and over, the tongue caressed his ridge up and down, until his sack was dripping with Bruce’s saliva.

And then his tongue found the hole. Jack gasped and pushed his anus back against Bruce’s face, and his lover happily obliged by driving his tongue even deeper into Jack’s musky, loose hole. Around and around the tongue went, licking hard against the inside of Jack’s tingling anal ring. Bruce’s hand came up and began to lightly stroke Jack’s cock and balls. An agony of sweet strokes and subtle squeezes, a little tug timed just right as his tongue stabbed deeper than ever… and Jack had to pull away. He fell forward upon his face, chest heaving, arms splayed out to his sides.

“Oh God! Jesus!” Jack breathed. “Too much! Fuck!”

Bruce crawled on top of him, chuckling. “You look like you’re ready, eh, bitch?” His fat cock wedged between Jack’s asscheeks like an enormous crowbar. It was huge and hard and slimy at its tip. Jack’s anus spasmed; his ass humped reflexively against the weight of it lying in his crack. His own cock plowed back and forth upon the springy, rolled carpet, crushed beneath their combined weight, quickly getting raw.

Bruce’s mouth was on Jack’s ear, nibbling, licking, breathing hot against him. Bruce kissed his neck and bit his shoulders, his teeth going in hard, chewing against his skin in time with their slow, hard humping. Jack knew he’d have marks all over him for a solid week, but he could find ways to avoid his wife seeing. It took some care and some luck, but the inconvenience was worth it. Between his cock scraping across the carpet, Bruce’s cock sliding up and down his asscrack, and the teeth gnawing mercilessly at his skin, Jack was powerless to do anything but grunt and buck and beg for more.

“Oh yeah, fucker, bite me!” Jack growled. “That’s it, fuckin’ chew on me!”

Bruce bit down harder, grabbed Jack by the back of his hair and ground his face into the carpet. He lifted his cock just enough to reach in with his other hand and jam the head straight into Jack’s sloppy, wet asshole. In one searing thrust, Bruce’s huge cock sank to the root. Jack was powerless to move. He could feel a rug burn grind itself into his cheekbone as Bruce continued to smear his face into the berber. His shoulder felt like it was bleeding.

“That’s it, oh yeah, bitch,” Bruce muttered, his hips twitching as he settled his cock inside Jack as deeply as possible. “Way down in that hot ass. Deep inside you, you goddamn faggot….”