Bad Boy, Good Cop

Standing on the wraparound balcony of the two-story, one-bedroom rental condo in the building at the northern end of the Shelter Cove yacht basin on Hilton Head Island, I scanned the marina below for the baddest yacht in the basin. I was alone. I hadn't meant to be alone, planning on being here with the ski instructor, Felix, who'd picked me up in Aspen, slapped me around nicely, and fucked me hard. Felix was on his way to Hilton Head to exchange snow skis for water skis and I said I'd follow him there. But my family had found out about that and paid him off. I have no idea where he went from there, but I hadn't seen him here. I came ahead to South Carolina to spite them, rather than return to Dartmouth where they wanted me to be. You can always find good cock when you are young and look like I do. Yes, I was a bad boy through and through.

The sleekest motor yacht I saw in the marina hands down was a Prestige 750, seventy-five-footer. It looked like it was ready to take wing. I knew the boat brand, as I had recently been in the market myself, my boyfriend at the time selling yachts out of Marblehead, Massachusetts. Seeing me come home with a black eye and bruised ribs at Easter, my family had scotched that relationship as well—I went for well-hung, athletic, and cruel men in their thirties and older, and, as I was barely twenty, my family didn't have much pull in approval of my tastes beyond controlling the purse strings, which they only did loosely. I was aroused by being taken by force. Their plans were for me to marry a Vassar girl and settle down to the family trade of manipulating stocks and bonds and avoiding taxes. They'd paid off the yacht salesman and paid the penalty of the sale not going through on the small yacht I'd signed for. Thanks to my grandparents, I'd had my own nice stash since I was eighteen.

The name of the winning vessel in Shelter Cover was the Antinous III. According to the sign on its tail, it was homeported in Key West, Florida. Antinous was the god of homosexuality, I knew, whether the owners of the yacht knew that or not, so my eyes kept coming back to the yacht. Key West was a hedonist paradise for gays. I could see the blur of activity in the main salon. I went into the condo and came back with binoculars, which I trained on the yacht. Sure enough, inside the cabin, a naked young man about my age was sitting on a man's lap, facing him, with his back arched back and his arms hanging loosely to his side like he was semiconscious. The man was gripping the youth's thin waist and lifting him and slamming him down on his crotch, his cock presumably buried up the young man's passage. It was safe sex at least, I could see, as split gold-foil condom packets lay on the counter next to where they were fucking. The meant Trojan Magnums. The man in control was hung. From the number of split packets, there was—or had been—a real party going on.

The man taking his pleasure was a muscular Hispanic, wearing a boat captain's white hat and with a white shirt flared open. I would have looked longer, but there was another man, tall, trim, with wavy gray hair, standing in the well of the stern, scanning the buildings lining Shelter Cove with binoculars just as I was scanning the yachts. The binoculars scanned around to where I was standing on my balcony at the edge of Harbourside I, and our views locked. I put my binoculars down and posed briefly—I was only wearing a Speedo. The gray-hair saluted me, and I picked up the binoculars again to watch and see what he would do.

He was wearing just white shorts, so I could check his physique out. He clearly kept good care of himself, because, although he probably was in his early fifties, he was well muscled without any fat on him, nor did it appear that his skin was wrinkling as usually happened with older men. He was deeply tanned and hirsute, but not overly so, with swirls of salt-and-pepper hair on his pecs and descending to his waistline. He had a medallion on a chain nestled in the curly hair between his pecs.

He aroused me. Older, gray-haired, dirty-minded men with money and a "I can get what I want" attitude were another fetish of mine my family didn't appreciate. In our world of the wealthy there were so many old men like this—ones who had the money and time to keep their bodies in shape. So many men who had wanted me. So many of them who had had me. I had specialized in lying down and opening my legs for the rich older associates of my father and uncles who, despite age, kept themselves fit.

As I watched, he opened his belt, unzipped himself, flared his shorts and flashed me with a long, thick cock. I could see that he was in an erection that would justify needing a Trojan Magnum XL. I slipped my Speedo off, and, although he couldn't see my midsection because of where the thick, stucco balcony railing hit, he could see that I had taken the Speedo off because I held it out in my hand. He pulled his belt out of the shorts, folded it over, and snapped it against his leg. The inference was clear, and I went hard and nodded my head.

I remained where I was. Then, nodding toward the boat's superstructure, he went into the yacht's salon, pulled the naked young man off the Hispanic guy's lap, and carried him, with an arm under the young guy's belly, over to a table surrounded by a booth on three sides. He slapped the young man twice across the face, snapping the youth's head from one side to the other. Then he laid the youth on the table, belly down, and slipped his shorts off his legs. He was in superb condition for his apparent age. Hard-bodied and sinewy muscled—the thighs of a cyclist. He turned toward my direction again, showing that he was hung and in erection. I'm sure he did that for my benefit.

I benefited. I was hard and leaking. I moved my hand to my cock. He couldn't see that I was stroking myself, but I'm sure he got the idea.

He was still holding the folded belt in his hand, and, while I watched, he strapped the young man's bare buttocks again and again with the belt. The youth writhed under him, but he took it. Then the man split a gold-foil condom packet, rolled the Trojan Magnum on his erection, covered the young man from above and behind, mounted him, and fucked him in long, cruel thrusts. As he fucked, he slapped the young man's flanks with the belt. He looked around to see if I was still there. I was. The belt was raised over his head and brought down with a stinging blow to the young man's back. Then again and again.

Assuming this was advertising for my benefit, I watched for a while—long enough to see gray hair grab the young man by the throat and arch his chest back at a painful angle. He looped the belt over the youth's throat and used it like a leash. Gray hair turned to look at me, I think to see if I would shrink from his rough treatment of the youth, who just lay there, taking it, as if he was stoned and zoned out. So, I held there so gray hair would know I wasn't intimated—or disgusted or uninterested—but not for long, as it was making me feel the loss. I hadn't planned on being here alone, and I'd planned on spending a large portion of my time upstairs in this very nice condo, either under the ski instructor stud in the Jacuzzi or under him on the bed—and, with luck, feeling the snap of his folded-over belt on my flanks or the belt looped around my neck and used as a leash. After a couple of minutes of watching the gray-hair doggie fuck the young guy, I put the binoculars down on the patio table and went back into the condo.

It wasn't that it wasn't thrilling—it was that it wasn't me being manhandled like that. I had a need.

Dusk was settling in, I was horny, and I was alone. I dressed for cruising and went down into the yacht basin and to Bucci and Murray's Pub on the harbor. I was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer and feeling sorry for myself when the gray hair from the Antinous III sat on the stool next to me. He was looking good, in expensive clothes, all coordinated in gray and black, complimenting his curly gray hair, which, up close, still had some black in it. Up close he proved to be a very handsome man. He was aging very well. His gray silk shirt was open enough to show the silver medallion on a silver chain. He had diamond rings on his fingers and a big diamond stud earing. He wore a black sports jacket, which seemed unusual as it was quite warm even though the sun had set.

"Hi," he said. "Do you speak English?"

"Hi yourself," I answered. "Yes, I speak English, if New England speak counts."

"I couldn't tell earlier. You looked European and responded with the freedom of a European," he said. "That's a compliment; Americans can be quite up tight," he added. "And you look very young."

"I'm twenty," I answered, putting that concern to rest. "Is the young man on your boat European?" I might as well settle that we both know what we saw.

"German. He's twenty as well."

"Is he well? Did he endure it?"

The man shrugged. "He enjoys it, and he is paid well for it. If the man is hard and long inside him, he's fine with it. There are young men who enjoy being used that way." He gave me a meaningful look, giving me the opening to say I was such a young man, in which case the proposition couldn't be far behind. I didn't respond, though. I just took a drag on my drink and waited to see how he'd continue.

He continued in action, taking a gold-foil Trojan Magnum XL condom packet out of a pocket and pushing the edge of it under napkin my drink glass rested on. He was making more than one declaration. He wanted to fuck me and he was hung.

"Are you waiting for your boyfriend or has he stood you up?" the man asked. I guessed this was his way of cutting corners and establishing I was gay. "Although I can't imagine anyone standing up a beautiful young man like you," he continued.

"I think I was waiting for you," I responded, going with putting this on the fast track myself. I was horny as hell.

"I'm Mario," he said. Ah, Italian. I should have guessed.

"Ward here," I answered.

"I don't like the building architecture here," he said. "The balcony railings are entirely too thick."

I laughed, knowing exactly what he was referencing. "Private showings are possible."

He leaned in to me and murmured in my ear, "I want more than a showing. If you take cock, I want to fuck you. If you don't, you should be arrested for being a tease. And I was quite aware that you did not shrink from rougher possibilities."

"You said I was beautiful. Would I be just as beautiful with red welts on my back and buttocks?"

"More beautiful . . . to me," he answered. "I want to punish and fuck you."

I didn't answer that other than to look down at the hand he had on my knee and not shirk from it when he squeezed my knee. He squeezed it hard and I winced.

"Do you like pain?" he whispered. "Does that get you off?"

"Usually," I answered. "Not pain of itself. Suffering."

"I'm going to order a beer now. If you agree to lie under me, let me buy you another one."

I put a hand on his side under his jacket and slid it up, discovering why he was wearing a jacket when my fingers came into contact with a gun holster. "You have a gun," I whispered, rather idiotically in voicing the obvious. I shivered, fascinated, feeling every inch the bad boy with another bad boy.

"Yes. I'm eight thick inches hard," he answered, purposely, I'm sure, misunderstanding what I said, and determined to move the negotiations along.

The bartender materialized and gray hair—Mario—ordered a Stella Artois and I a Corona. I made no effort to pay for my beer. After that, with him feeling me up as best he could in a crowded bar, we each had another beer, and I was starting to feel the buzz.

"I'm paying for the beer," he said.

"Yes," I answered, the "yes" meaning so much more than the price of a beer. We both understood that.

"The beer is just a start," he said. "I have something much harder and stronger back on the Antinous III."

"Yes, eight inches hard, you said." It was my turn to purposely misinterpret what he'd said.

"Does that scare you?"

"Not as much as the assured approach and the gun do," I said. "Or this," I said, pulling the Trojan packet out from under my napkin and playing with it with my fingers. "Do you usually get what you want just by asking for it?"

"Sometimes I just take it," he answered. He had his hand on my knee and I'm sure he felt me shudder at that. "You showed me what you'd do unless you were teasing me," he continued. "Does it frighten you that I am so direct and confident—and forceful?"

"And dangerous," I added. "A bit, yes. I don't give total control over quickly."

"I will demand total control and you will give it to me. You will enjoy it, and I will pull multiple heavenly orgasms out of you. Your balls will ache."

I paused ever so briefly, but then said, "Yes. I have a need. It's been too long."

"And you'll go on board the Antinous III with me? I am master on the Antinous III. If we sail out to international waters, I am God on the Antinous III. You aren't just playing a game with me. You're a submissive player. I could take you out to international waters, use you as I want, and throw you overboard." All statements now. The questioning period over. His grip on my knee was painful.

"Yes, I'll go aboard the yacht with you. No, I'm not playing a game. I need it bad."

"You need a fix as well as the fuck?" The fuck was settled now.

"Yes."

"I assure you that I'm very bad. You'll let me rough fuck you?"

"Yes. I need it hard. I need it often." I needed it so bad right now, I was willing to reveal all.

"Good to know. You snort, smoke, or shoot up? I'll do you any way you like."

"Snort. A little."

"And you'll let Julio and Pepe fuck you too?"

"Who are they?"

"Julio you saw earlier. He captains the boat for me. Pepe is the crew."

"If they do it well, yes. If they are cruel."

He gave me a sneery smile. "You like it cruel, don't you? I thought so."

"I get off best that way," I admitted. "It's just the way I am."

"You've been gangbanged."

"Now and again."

"Doubled?"

"Yes."

"Fisted?"

"I think you ask too many questions," I responded, giving him a little smile.

He answered with a smile of his own. "When I said I had something stronger on the Antinous III, I meant something more than just recreational—good stuff, high quality. I import it myself. It's only the best for me and my boys—to put us all in the mood. The aftereffects are slight. The effect on the libido while taking it is amazing."

"I'm already in the mood," I said.

"So, you'll come on board and join me in a snort." It wasn't a question. He knew he had me. It was a command.

"Yes. Here, I think you'll need this," I said, handing him his Trojan Magnum packet back.

I did have a snort with Mario before he used and fucked me. On board the Antinous III, in the salon, Mario put out a sheet of parchment after we'd had a few shots of very smooth and expensive, I'm sure, whiskey, and laid out five lines of coke. He snorted three lines and I two and then he fucked me. I felt the effect immediate, was hard as a rock and throbbing, and was docile for him, letting him undress me and work me with his hands for as long and as he liked before he fucked me, although as the effect of the drug heightened, the more impatient I became for the shaft. He was hard as a rock too; he could bury it in me at any moment. I certainly wasn't holding him off—nor did it have to be just once. I had no place I needed to be. He strapped me with his belt too and I was so high I hardly felt it.

He had me on my back, under him, and his bunched fingers were inside me, buried beyond the knuckles. Any moment now he would breach me and have his fist inside. It wasn't what I wanted, though.

"The cock. Now, now," I kept begging. "Put it in me now. Screw me."

He adjusted our positions. It was the same position his captain had taken the young man earlier that day. I was naked and, to this point he still was dressed. After some disrobing and fooling around, with me asking him to leave the gun holster on when he was getting naked and him laughing, but complying, he sat on a padded bench and I sat in his lap, screwing down on his eight hard inches, just as promised, and with him grasping my waist between his two strong, diamond bedazzled hands, I rose and fell on the cock. He had folded over his belt and snapped me on the thighs as we fucked.

After several minutes, he wanted full control, and I did as I saw the young man do with the ship's captain earlier in the day. I arched my back, let my arms dangled at my sides, turned my face to the ceiling of the salon, and let him raise and lower me on his cock at his own speed.

After all that tease with the Trojan Magnums, he wanted to go more dangerous. He didn't want to wear protection. I didn't want that either. I lived dangerously and so, obviously, did him when he wanted to go with maximum arousal. It was part of the being a bad boy thrill.

Before either of us came, he pulled me off him, we each snorted another line, and then he carried me below, where two men, naked, were waiting for us. On the way to Mario's cabin, with me draped over his shoulder, we passed the open door to another cabin, where the young guy from the afternoon—the German my same age, Mario had said—was nearly zonked out on a berth, and one guy was fucking him doggie while another one was feeding his cock into the youth's throat.

Both of them were Hispanic and muscular and handsome as the devil. Both were in erection, both proudly so if not the match for Mario. One I'd seen in action before—Julio, the ship's captain. The other one, younger and shorter, even more muscular, thicker of cock than either Mario or Julio, but not as long as Mario, must have been Pepe, the crew member. They left the other younger guy and followed Mario and me into his cabin.

The bed was rigged up with leads and restraints. I was put on my back on the bed, my wrists restraint above me. I was so buzzed that I just let them move me as they wished. My ankles were put into restraints and then they cranked them up, raised and spread, and Julio came up on the bed, pushed his knees under me and fucked me. Pepe followed. Then Julio was under me, fucking up into me, and Pepe was on top of me, fucking down into me—the two of them inside me together. Mario watched until he was in the mood. Then at his command, the other two shrank away, and he mounted and fucked me again, this time taking it to his ejaculation inside me.

I would have screamed for them, but, noting that we were still in the marina, Mario had Pepe pop a gall gag in my mouth. I still made a bit of noise.

We all had a good time, although I was in a haze, everything happening in slow motion, feeling them inside me and the stretch of them there, but roaming in some other world mentally. Intellectually, I realized it was I who was being fucked and I particularly melted to Mario's length and expertise, and, on some level, I was enjoying it, but, at the same time, I felt detached from it all.

Then the other guys had a better time. Mario pressed coke-laced plugs up my nose, and I sort of zoned out—but not enough not to know what was happening. Pepe went under me, grabbed my hips in his hands, and worked his Trojan-sheathed cock up into my passage from below. And then Julio came up on the bed on top of me, pushed his also Trojan-capped cock inside me above Pepe's, and they double fucked me again, more vigorously the second time than the first. I was half looped but not enough not to feel it. I'd never been filled like that before—I'd been doubled before but not by two hung men. They worked me for a while and then Mario, hard again, exchanged places with Julio, bringing a dildo with him, and I was even more filled than before by cock and dildo together.