Rene

bysr71plt©

I decided there were just two degrees of separation between us. Pamela and Judith had been college roommates at Sweetbriar, and Judith was Rene's trophy wife, and I think behind my back the cynics described me as Pamela's bought joy stick. That put the age spread between Rene and me at about twenty years—maybe more. But he was so distinguished and suave that the difference meant nothing to me.

Beyond that there were no ways in which Rene and I shared common ground—if you didn't include Pamela in the mix. And thus there was no way that Pamela and Judith's decision that we'd share a Mediterranean island villa for two weeks was going to work out anywhere near as nice for Rene and me as it would for Pamela and Judith, who could have done their giggling and gossip-sharing someplace a lot closer to home and a hell of a lot cheaper. Neither seemed to mind the expense. Rene was rolling in money from his high-end art wheeling and dealing and Pamela's family was rich as Midas too. As any of our "friends" in Charleston could tell you, that's why I married Pamela. And, true as that was, Pamela and I got along quite fine, thank you very much. I didn't watch where she went closely and she never asked why I had so many men friends, some of obviously unsavory character.

Rene was Brazilian, a sleek Zeus type, who spent most of his life on a recliner smirking at the working class but who dressed out looking like well-aged beefcake with a glowing tan. He had the best of everything, including a "not-the-sharpest-knife-in-the-drawer" wife who managed to look passingly beautiful and be several steps behind him at all times. They lived in one of the fine old city mansions in Savannah, where Judith kept busy as a real estate agent by showing wonderful homes but not closing any sales. For his part, Rene seemed to have the touch of gold in buying works by undiscovered artists cheaply who promptly died and became famously—and highly profitably—discovered. He knew the most important people, wore the best tailored suits, belonged to the most fashionable clubs, and drove a luxurious cream-colored 1951 Bentley MK VI Park-Ward convertible. He was so devoted to that car that he had it shipped to Turkey and ferried over to the island for just the two weeks, while Pamela and I settled for a rented two-year-old, rather battered Honda.

I felt like he was looking down his nose at me for nearly the full two weeks we shared the villa. And if I didn't have a "thing" for vintage South American beefcake, it would have been hunky-dory for him to just be sitting and passing judgment on every faux pas I fell into.

Beside him, I felt like a country bumpkin—which, beside him—or either of the two women, for that matter, I was. Product of a Midwestern state university on an athletic scholarship, I was much more at home and in my element on the tennis court, golf course, or in the pool than I was in the club house or lounging beside the pool.

In fact, when I met Pamela, who was eight years older than I was, I was the tennis pro at the club her family practically owned. It wasn't too long before Pamela owned me. We did fuck, yes, but she wasn't too demanding in bed—she actually preferred me lying back and her topping me and doing calisthenics on my gear shift. She liked to control. And she was more interested in having eye candy to escort her to all of the "affairs" she was involved in. This was agreeable with me; it left me space and time to continue my own "affairs" in the Charleston gay underworld—primarily in meeting men in their forties in the bathhouses who were still in great shape and were expert drivers.

What I didn't figure out for quite some time, however, was why she had suddenly lost her interest in tennis, golf, and swimming when we'd taken up temporary residence in an island paradise that made all of those so accessible—with the possible exception of the golf. There was a developing golf course on the island, but parts of it were still more like a rock garden than greens. But the tennis—mostly the good-on-your-knees red clay courts—and the swimming were both great. From the very first day on the island, Pamela had begged off on all but the swimming and had insisted that Judith and I trot off and enjoy ourselves with the tennis and golf. None of us even began to suggest that impeccable, languid Rene would take in either of these two sports. The only time other than meals that we seemed to be meeting as a foursome was at the pool. We had a small one at the villa, but Rene wanted us to be seen—and, I suspect delighted in us being seen driving his Bentley around—so we ferreted out several of the combined restaurant-pool clubs hovering on the rocks along the edge of the Mediterranean coast.

We didn't even see much of each other at night—or so I thought—as Pamela and Judith, insisting that they were here to completely relax, had found a four-bedroom villa and assigned each of us to separate rooms. That should have been a clue to me, but it wasn't. Basically, I guess, because I didn't give a shit really.

I was clued in fast and unexpectedly, though, near the end of the first week. We were at one of the restaurant-pool clubs up the coast from the villa one afternoon when Pamela insisted that "we" check in with her parents and let them know how the vacation was going. The "we" in this case meant me, because Pamela refused to try to figure out how to make a telephone call back to the States from the Mediterranean, and it meant calling from the villa. She waved me off in the Honda, saying that the three of them would follow after the sun went down in the Bentley. I left them laying under sun umbrellas on loungers around the pool. As was typical Judith was zonked out in her usual afternoon drunken stupor.

I'd gotten half-way up the mountain from the coast before I realized that I didn't have the key to the villa—that I hadn't gotten it from Pamela. So around I turned and tootled back to the pool—to find Judith still snoring away but no sign of Pamela or Rene. I found them in one of the pool cabanas near the rocks leading down to the Mediterranean. Pamela was laying, legs splayed, on the daybed in the cabana, and Rene was crouched on his knees between her legs fucking her hard enough that she had her arms over her head, grasping the brass bars at the head of the bed, white knuckled, to keep herself in place.

I watched from the shadows for several minutes, more curious and embarrassed than anything else. If Pamela didn't mind other men fucking her, I certainly didn't care—as long as she paid the bills and didn't ask questions about where I went at night. And, truth be known, I was more envious of Pamela than of Rene. I had been more than curious about what Rene looked like naked, and I could clearly see that he looked very good indeed. Somehow his tan was a complete body one, but, of course, being a Brazilian, much of that might have been natural coloring. He was well-muscled in that middle-aged beefcake vintage and he had good firm, glute muscles that quivered only slightly as they bobbed back vigorously between Pamela's thighs. From time to time, I got a glimpse of what he was packing, which looked quite respectable. From the little urping sounds and moans that Pamela was making, I got the distinct impression that he knew how to satisfy and had no trouble doing so.

But mostly I was embarrassed. I had made mild moves on Rene myself earlier in the week and had mainly gotten slitted-eye looks of disdain and clipped-off answers, giving me the distinct impression that I was at least four levels of sophistication and breeding below him—which I probably was. The first three days before we had gotten adventuresome about locating the restaurant-pool clubs and when we were sitting around the villa pool working on neutralizing the jet lag, I had come to the pool gatherings in the skimpiest of Speedos and done everything I could to show off my good points—which were quite good enough to have caught Pamela in her search for a permanent presentable escort. And I paraded myself shamelessly—with no evidence of interest from Rene.

After watching them fuck through Pamela's noisy orgasm, I quietly went back to the pool. Judith was still soundly asleep. I opened Pamela's bag, extracted the key, and left again. They wouldn't even know I'd been there.

On the second day, Judith had come out of her gin-prolonged jet lag enough to make a half suggestion of interest in me, as I paraded around in my Speedo, but I politely played dumb. She wasn't half bad on the tennis court and golf course, but I had no interest in her in bed. She was the same eight years older than me that Pamela was, and she hadn't kept herself in shape nearly as well as Pamela had. Just too much booze and too little interest from Rene, I decided.

But from Rene, nada. He just sat there, hiding his eyes behind dark sunglasses but giving me that sardonic smile with those attracting full, sensuous lips of his. Very early in the game my Hail Mary attempt to talk shop with him went tragically awry. How was I to know that Thomas Kincaid was neither dead nor given much cachet in the New York art scene? Rene leveled me right quick on that one.

And so it all came together. Rene was here for Pamela, and Judith and I were just props to be kept dumb and out of the way. The night of the cabana tryst I pinned down what was going on. I waited until well after everyone had gone to their rooms and stood peeking into the hall from my bedroom. And sure enough, Pamela came trotting along on silent feet and entered Rene's room. I went out on the terrace fifteen minutes later and saddled up to the open French doors into his room, and there they were, in bed, Rene lying on his back, face up, and Pamela sitting on and riding his cock and twisting and turning her torso as if she was having the fuck of her life. She liked to ride me that way too, so I knew she was enjoying herself. I did wonder, though, whether, at Rene's age, he could stay hard for her as long as I did and give her multiple orgasms. Out of curiosity I stayed around to time them, and, sure enough, he did and could. An amazing man.

It was with much regret that I went back to my room. I didn't begrudge Pamela her extramarital fuck, but I regretted not having one for myself.

We got down to the next to the last day of our vacation, and I decided to give it one more direct try. After seeing Pamela and Rene together, I had fantasized being fucked by Rene myself, even though I now knew the score of how and why we'd all arrived here. And I was a little resentful of Pamela. She had dragged me away to get her jollies here when I could have been in Charleston getting screwed by my own friends. I hadn't had sex in more than a week now, and I was randy as hell.

Pamela and Judith were out doing last-gasp souvenir shopping and Rene and I were sitting by the pool studiously not talking to each other. I was still scheming on how best to make an approach when Rene piped up out of the blue and said, "I've got to take the Bentley to the dock tomorrow for the return trip. Fancy a ride out to the eastern peninsula to have one last look at the wild end of the island?"

"Sure," I said. "I'll just go in and change."

"Why bother?" Rene asked. "The sun's shining. I'll put the top down and we can both put a last layer on our tans."

That certainly seemed fortuitous, I thought. Possibly a chance for an approach but yet actually doing it can be put off. I knew I was headed for disaster. But I didn't think Rene would tell either of the women that I'd clumsily hit on him. Judith apparently didn't care what he did, and Pamela didn't particularly care what I did. At worst, the two would just never bring us together again, and Rene had held me in such disdain that this didn't seem to be much of a losing proposition either.

So, out we drove, in the sleek cream-colored vintage Bentley, with all that plush leather upholstery and the cavernous back seat. Rene drove right out to the end of the peninsula, where few ventured because of the dense foliage, high cliffs, and roiling sea. He parked the Bentley parallel to the sea, where I could easily look down into the surf pounding on jagged rock outcroppings. It was a magnificent, wild view, heavy with a sense of danger and adventure. It got my juices flowing.

"Oh, damn," I heard Rene mutter, and I turned toward the driver's seat, and he had an arm over the back of the seat and was up on his knee looking in the back.

"What?" I asked.

"The cooler. I just noticed the cooler," he said. "We still have two chilled bottles of fine champagne that we can't take on the plane."

I turned and looked over the seat, and he was right. Two bottles, sitting there in the cooler, crystals of ice still formed along the glass.

Rene turned and grinned at me. The first expression of open humor I'd seen on his face during the entire vacation. "Can't let it go to waste. What do you say about popping into the backseat with it and each killing off a bottle?"

I immediately dreamed of Rene getting drunk and not having any sense of what he was doing long enough for me to put the moves on him. But not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that this would actually happen. But it did—in reverse.

I thought Rene must have been one of the world's quickest drunks, because he was barely half way through his bottle and we had our arms wrapped around each other and were playing a serious round of suck face. And I must have lost control of what I was drinking as well, because I had no idea how I had managed to get him in that position. But I was sobering up enough to fully appreciate it when my Speedo had come off and Rene was fisting my cock.

The next thing I knew I was bent over the side of the convertible backseat, my head looking down into the pounding surf of the Mediterranean, and Rene was on his knees behind me and tonguing my butt cheeks and asshole while he had a hand through my legs and was fondling my balls and hard cock.

And then he was crouched over me from behind, and sliding his cock inside me and slow-fucking me while his teeth went to one of my ear lobes and he was crooning into my ear in Portuguese. I couldn't understand a word he was saying, but it sounded oh so sexy and I hoped he was telling me he was going to fuck me like that, slow and deep, forever.

He didn't fuck me like that forever, though. He fucked me like that long enough for me to ejaculate, being all keyed up by my impossible fantasy becoming reality. He did continue fucking me, but he was sideways in the wide, soft backseat, sitting on his calves and had turned me so that my thighs were in his thighs and we were connected at my asshole, and I lay back on the seat and looked up at his tanned beef-cake torso while he continued to slow pump me. His smile was still sardonic, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

"You don't know how hard I schemed to get my cock inside you," he murmured. "This whole vacation was so that I could fuck you."

"That's nice," I whispered dreamily. "Just don't stop fucking . . . Oh, god, yes, do that again. Oh shit Yessss!"

If he only knew. If he only knew how hard I'd worked on this too—and how clumsily. If I'd only known he wanted me. But he was three steps ahead of me. Three steps ahead of us all. Figuring the best way to get me was to go through Pamela and her appetites.

"Oh, God . . . I'm going to cum again," I cried out. And I did. Rene was amazing. He had made me come twice and he was still hard as a rock and pumping me. No wonder Pamela had arranged to have him. I could only wish that I fucked her half this good.

Rene was moving me again. On my back at one side, reclined on the pillows, my legs up in the air, one bent with a heel dug into the top of the back seat and the other out wide hung over the back of the front seat, and he was kneeling between my legs. Holding my legs and fucking into me with faster, deeper, more insistent strokes. We were both sweating now, our muscles glistening with effort and the kiss of the sun. Skin slapping on skin, cock sliding with a slurping sound in hard-worked channel.

I threw my head back. "Ahhhhhh. God you are the best. Brazilians are the best," I cried out. Rene bent his face down and buried his teeth and tongue in the pit of the arm that I was gripping the side of the convertible with to try to hold myself study. My back was being scraped raw as it was rubbed back and forth on the leather pillows by the strength of his pistoning cock. But I didn't care. And I wasn't paying much attention to that anyway. I was focusing on his cock cap rubbing across my prostate with each long thrust. My nuts ached. I was swelling up to another gushing. But I hadn't had time to recharge. I didn't have another ejaculation in me this soon. My balls were aching so bad—wanting to eject what they didn't have. And his dick was so hard and plowing so deep, and rubbing across my prostate . . . rubbing across my prostate.

And then I found I did have another ejaculation in me and it was a geyser, bringing up a couple of weeks of unaccustomed celibacy. Cleaning me out.

Rene was turning me on my belly, flat along the backseat. Holding my legs in tightly between his knees as he straddled my butt. Squishing my channel tight. His cock head rubbing against my tightened entry.

"No, no, Rene . . . please," I begged. "I can't . . . Oh shit! Oh fuck! Yessssss!"

He was plowing me again. In my tightened hole; filling me and stretching me inside. Frenzied pistoning and then he was coming too. In three heavy spurts and then a long, endless flow. It was only then that I realized that he had been barebacking me. But I didn't care. I luxuriated in his flow, feeling it creep up between cock and channel and oozing out of my ass.

He was stiff as a board on top of me. Every muscle tense and held as if he was marble. His fingernails dug into my shoulder blades. Panting heavily. Then slowly quietening down, his body relaxing.

But his cock still hard as a rock.

And then . . . moving inside me again, slow fucking me in the squishing sensation in my cum-filled channel.

Me panting heavily now. "Rene . . . ohhhh Reneeee . . ."

We were stretched out on the backseat, listening to the surf and the breeze through the trees, watching evening approach. Rene was on his back and I was laying on top of him, my back to his front. In our last fucking, he had lain like that and I had sat on his cock gripping the rim of the side panel and fucked myself on him, so well lubricated inside that it was a quick slide deep inside me with each stroke. The man was phenomenal. Brazilians do make the best studs. When he had ejaculated—I had been spent for some time myself—I had just laid back into his chest with a heavy sigh, and he'd wrapped his arms around me and we lay there, wishing it could be forever.

"Last day tomorrow," I whispered.

"Yes," he whispered back.

"Tonight . . . maybe."

"Pamela," he murmured.

"Yes, of course," I answered, suddenly feeling oh so sad. A wasted vacation. There was this afternoon. But somehow, now that it had become reality, it seemed to make it all worse.

"Not to worry," he whispered. "I had planned for the possibility. You live in Charleston; I live in Savannah. Beaufort is almost half way between. I have a condo there now."

Always. Always three steps ahead of the rest of us, I thought, warm now and oh so comfortable.

But, wait . . . is that his cock stirring again? Mooaaannn.

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