tagGay MaleAny Port in a Storm

Any Port in a Storm

byal_Ussa©

João Carlinhos Garcia made his way across the deck. The only survivor of a plague that had wiped out the rest of his crew, Garcia knew that his chances were slim. They had been at sea for months when the disease broke out. Soon every other man on the ship bore those strange pock marks and grew tired and listless. They always died a few days later. The lucky ones in their sleep. And yet, as they fell one by one, only Garcia was left.

It was an unfortunate position for him, watching each of his comrades die, and knowing that he would suffer an even worse fate. Without a crew, the ship would drift aimlessly about until it ran ashore or he ran out of food. His best hope was to pray that he inadvertently come across another ship. After many mind-numbingly long days of flying the flag of distress, Garcia was already starting to run low on supplies. He had plenty of biscuits and hardtack, but that precious commodity of fresh drinking water was scarce. He had enough for maybe five or six more days at best.

As he contemplated his future, Garcia scanned the horizon. He was shocked when he realized that -- in the distance but quite distinct -- was an island. Land! It meant that he might yet be able to survive, even if it did mean he might be consigned to lonely exile on some uninhabited rock in the middle of the Atlantic.

Quickly, Garcia dropped anchors and loaded as many supplies as he could onto one of the larger rafts. He had no idea what awaited him on the island... in fact, he had no idea where he even was for that matter. But that didn't really concern him at the moment. Garcia was so concerned with finding fresh water, with finding safe haven, that all he could think about was rowing.

As he got closer to the island, he could see that there was a verdant patch of tropical foliage. Palm fronds, enormous ferns, and exotic, brightly colored flowers loomed off in the distance, gradually giving way to more dense forests. He could see some of the familiar birds gliding close to the shore. As he got closer still, their calls and songs greeted his ears, and he could smell... something... something very fragrant. It was an unearthly feeling when he finally reached ground. Garcia ran barefooted through the surf, the sand and cool water feeling comforting against his swarthy skin.

Garcia wondered where he was. Brazil? The West Indies? Cape Verde? Senegal? Perhaps even in the Congo? As if in response to his question, Garcia was greeted by a fearsome-looking band of black warriors, the sun shining brightly against their muscular ebony frames. Each of them held a long assssegai spear and wore a bright red clothe draped over their shoulders. Their heads were completely shaved clean, but they wore an excessive amount of beaded jewelry, and wore large ornaments through the piercings in their ears. The men regarded him with cold, almost contemptuous stares.

Thinking quickly, Garcia tried to seize control of the situation by acting diplomatically. He had experience dealing with natives before. Holding his arms outstretched to show he bore no weapons, the lost white man made his way towards his new visitors.

"Hello," he called out in Portuguese, "My name is João Carlinhos Garcia and I am lost. I'm the only survivor of my ship. I come only in peace."

There was no response from the trio of African warriors, so Garcia repeated the phrase once again, but this time in Castellano, then in Kongo, and then finally in Arabic. None of them seemed to get any sort of response out of the three. Garcia could see them talking amongst themselves, as if they were deciding what to do with him. The biggest of them -- a tall, muscle-bound brute of a man with nearly pitch black skin -- approached him, speaking in an unfamiliar language.

Garcia shook his head, unsure of what the man was trying to tell him. In response, the man started to talk louder and slower, and began to make gestures at Garcia. He still didn't understand what the leader wanted from him, but he could hear the others laughing in the background.

Eventually, the African dropped his cloth, exposing his massive erection. Garcia was amazed. He had never seen a penis so big before in his life. The African warrior smiled at him, his pearly white teeth shining against his ebon black lips. Garcia knew exactly what the man was getting at. He began to work his belt buckle and dropped his tight fitting pants. Then he took off his shirt, leaving himself naked and fully exposed to the Africans. His lithe, muscular body was still wet from making his way through the beach, and from sweating under the tropical sun.

With his swarthy good looks and hairy chest, Garcia had always thought of himself as a rather good looking man. His natural charms had endeared him to many of his fellow sailors in the past. After all, as many of them told themselves, any port in a storm. Those long months at sea made men... a little too excitable on ship, but it was nothing a quick trip to the Confessional couldn't take care of. That's why Garcia went along with the African man's actions.

Garcia began to stroke his cock, slowly letting it grow erect. It was nothing compared to the African warrior's gargantuan cock, which hung there like a branch on a tree. He was a little shocked, though, when the African shook his head. He grabbed Garcia and turned him around, shoving the tip of his massive cock against Garcia's anus.

The Portuguese sailor had never allowed himself to be penetrated, but he knew that he didn't have much choice in the matter now. He tried to brace himself for it as much as he could, but he still screamed out when the African began to forcibly sodomize him from behind. It was painful as hell. For his part, the African seemed relatively unfazed by this and just kept happily pumping away. He clutched the white man's body tightly as he continued to fuck him.

It seemed like an eternity before the great ebony warrior finally finished, shooting his fiery hot juices deep into the European's colon. Garcia gritted his teeth as the seed burned his innards. The African let go and Garcia fell to the beach sand, limp and utterly exhausted. Still, it wasn't that bad at all. In fact, Garcia felt that he could get used to this sort of thing. The African, now finished with his task and content, walked back towards his companions.

Garcia was not expecting, however, that both of them wanted their own turn with this strange new play thing. He clenched his teeth with anticipation as he saw the second warrior come over expecting to pleasure himself as well.

"Oh well," he thought to himself, "Any port in a storm."

And after months at sea, it certainly was the best experience João Carlinhos Garcia had had in a very long time. Just as long as nobody back in Lisbon saw him like this...

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