Dylan Thomas Merriweather III Ch. 01

They grabbed drinks and Dylan began his cruise—to determine whether any of his targets—or perhaps friends from last season—were present. Dylan knew however that his relationship with Ollie had denied him the pleasures of many of the older students for the previous year or so. The vultures were all evident—after all, this was the first big party at the Pelican after the fresh crop of midshipmen and collegians were allowed out to party. (The midshipmen had been isolated in a form of basic torture/initiation since arrival in Annapolis in July and were definitely ready to let loose and party.) Dylan suggested to Greg that they split up and he gave Greg the option to find a date if he wished. "If you want some spice, feel free. I won't need you until tomorrow. But, if you score, make sure you wrap. This is a rough crowd and they do get around. And if you take him home, use Evermay or the pool house."

Dylan immediately spotted two of the guys from the photo albums and he confidently approached the first. "Hi, I'm Dylan. Welcome to Annapolis."

"Hi, my name is Billy. How do you know I'm new here?" He was a muscular midshipman, with dirty blond straight hair, bright green eyes, and the carriage and jaw of a Marine. He was a few inches taller than Dylan. His voice was deep and masculine. His handshake was firm, almost challenging. He wore a tight white polo and old jeans that framed his enormous basket and showed off his muscular thighs and butt to advantage. Dylan pegged him immediately as a top. He only hoped the basket wasn't "enhanced."

"I make it my business to meet and greet new folks to Annapolis. At least those who make it here to the Pelican. You might even say I have a subcontract with Welcum Waggin'. I can tell you're new and at the Academy. I presume that means you have a curfew at 1."

"Yeah, they keep us new guys—and girls—on a short leash for the first year."

Dylan knew nothing more tonight was going to be possible with Billy. He certainly was not into bath-stall blowjobs or even the use of the curtained booths with new hooks—even one as attractive as Billy. So, he said, "Let me buy you a drink, tell you a little about myself, and invite you to a small party next weekend at my place. Then, we can start earlier so that we can get to know each other."

"I think I've heard about your parties, Dylan. I'll have a drink with you—and yes, I'm game for next week." Billy draped his arm around Dylan's shoulder and drew him in for an embrace. His arms were muscled and his embrace was tight, possessive and masculine. And Dylan could already feel his hardening manhood. Dylan could tell he wasn't into false advertising. Billy was definitely a top—and presumably, he had heard that Dylan liked young aggressive tops.

"Good. I've got an open tab. Get what you want." And he motioned to the bartender and mouthed the words, "On me." and pointed to Billy.

They talked and drank for a few more minutes and then Billy's buds pulled him off with the deadly words, "Time to go, sailor." Dylan was definitely interested.

As the sailors left the club, Dylan noted that Greg had been circled by several older patrons of the Pelican. But, he decided Greg was a big boy—and knew absolutely that any sex except with Dylan would require protection. So he let him enjoy the attention. Greg did cut an amazing image. He almost seemed to glow with the inner beauty of a marble Greek statue. Dylan didn't feel jealousy—or possessive rights. Then, he also saw a few other guys enter. One was another of the photo-id-ed possibles. Dylan caught his eye and invited him with "the look" to the bar where he was standing.

Dylan Meets Sandy

"Alexander—or is it Alex? Good to meet you. I'm Dylan."

"How did you know my name? Incidentally, it's Sandy."

"The doorman is a good friend—in fact I have him on retainer—and he txts me when an attractive new guy arrives. So I get a buzz from my phone which I keep on my ass when someone new and nice arrives. My own kind of preferred vibrator."

"Interesting concept."

"Can I buy you a drink? Talk to me."

"So I'm already the 'attractive new guy", huh? I'll have a beer—any local brew. Thanks. Full name is Alexander Borodin, but I guess you knew that. I'm new at St John's, but a junior. I did two years at a community college in Pennsylvania to save money. I'm 21, first generation American—my father was a Russian émigré."

The Russian heritage explained a lot: he was tall, square-jawed, blond, blue-eyed with massive neck muscles. He gave off the air of a fighter and a warrior. In fact, Dylan detected a small healed scar below his left ear and noted a part tattoo of a bear on his bicep, peaking below the cuff. He ached to lick it to see about its erogenous possibilities. His broad chest and guns were barely contained within his bold light blue polo—he'd probably give Greg a run. So Dylan made a quick "command decision."

"I've got a place near here. Care to join me for some fun?"

Sandy smiled. It had taken less than ten minutes to hook. He was going to like Annapolis—and he appreciated not having to report in to a difficult father every weekend when he arrived home late—or didn't get home at all. He didn't know Dylan, but he was much heavier and battle-scarred. He wasn't afraid. "Sure, let me tell my friends that I'm off to another party."

Dylan settled his bill with the barkeep, walked over to Greg and indicated he was leaving with a friend. "When you come back to the house tonight, assuming you do come back, please bunk out on the Evermay. At this moment, I'm hoping to get lucky. It sure looks that way right now." Dylan noted that Greg was flanked by a few twinks. "And it looks like you might be in for a party as well."

"Sure, Dylan. See you tomorrow. Do you want to go for a sail tomorrow?"

"Plan on it. And I might have a guest."

"Maybe I will also if that's okay with you." Greg then turned back to his guests, perhaps a little disappointed that Dylan had hooked so quickly and easily.

Dylan went back to Sandy and the two left the Pelican. A rank of ubers was waiting and Dylan called for one, giving him the address of the estate. Minutes later they approached the gates after a short drive down a leafy approach that hid the gates from the street. Dylan got out, motioned Alex to follow, added a tip to the uber bill on his phone, and punched in a code on the gate post. Soon the giant wrought iron and gold gates swung open, changing the giant gold "W" to two "V"s as it did so. Only then did Sandy realize the V's formed the torsos of two cartoon men, who seemed to be holding each other's erect dicks. They walked up to house and Dylan again punched in codes to enter. All the staff had long since retired to the gate house and the mansion was dimly lit, deserted and silent.

"There's a bar upstairs. Let's get comfortable. I think we can take the party there," Dylan whispered as he started up the carpeted hourglass staircase. Sandy's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened at the wealth that surrounded him. More than he had ever imagined.

"Are your folks home?"

"No, Mom died twenty years ago. Dad died in a plane crash almost five years ago." And then changing the subject, he asked, "Would you rather have a swim first? The pool is heated."

"Maybe next time. Is this yours?"

"Yeah, this is mine. I inherited it." Sandy quietly followed Dylan up the stairs, his eyes shifting between the opulent furnishings and the supple ass cheeks climbing just in front—both were equally engaging. Sandy began to wonder about this guy who had hooked him; and Dylan began to wonder whether bringing him home on a first date was a good idea.

Dylan led the way into his suite. He went to the bar and pulled a few cold beers from the fridge—handing one to Sandy. The king bed had been turned down by the staff. New towels were placed in the bath. "I'd like to start with a shower. You're welcome to join me. It's really large. The Pelican always leaves me feeling a little soiled." Dylan stepped into the bath, dropped his clothes on the floor and beckoned for Sandy to join. Sandy stared at Dylan's lithe body, full tan, and long-hanging dick—which seemed almost obscene on such a small guy. Following suit, Sandy stripped, fluffed his dick, and stepped into the large shower. Dylan manipulated the controls—the rain shower and the body jets and handed Sandy a coarse lofah. "Please scrub my back. The body shampoo is there." When he finished, Dylan unlatched the anal cleaning rod and douched himself. "Can I do you?"

"Absolutely. It will be my pleasure."

"No, I think it will be mine," Dylan murmured as he began the soapy rubdown of Sandy's massive muscle development. Within seconds, Sandy's cock had responded powerfully and stood out at a solid 90 degrees, perhaps more than 8 1/2 inches and appropriately thick. Dylan stroked the penis, fondled he balls, and motioned Sandy to turn and place his hands on the tiled wall. He batted his thighs apart and then took the anal wand, adjusted the temperature, lubed it, and inserted it. Sandy hissed, cursed in Russian, betraying his father's immigrant arrival, looked over his shoulder at Dylan's smile, and relaxed into the stimulus. With this kind of obvious wealth and a guy who looked this good, he was prepared to give up his virgin cherry if that is what it took. He began to move his ass in a seductive dance until Dylan reached around and steadied him with a grip on the base of his cock. One hand held his manhood as another was pushing a squirting wand into his ass. Sandy had never felt so turned on—or so vulnerable. But, hadn't Dylan told him that he was a bottom?

When Sandy was overheating and nearing climax, Dylan suddenly pulled off, stepped out of the shower and threw a towel at Sandy. "I wondered if you were going to let me do that. Glad to see you are prepared to let me run this show—even if I am going to be your very best bottom ever."

Sandy smiled, reached out for Dylan, and pulled him into a kiss and an embrace that could be back-breaking if Sandy so desired. Dylan stepped over to the bed and pointed Sandy to the lube and condoms. Then he pushed his shoulders into the pillows and arched his incredible bubble ass cheeks into the air. "I'll need a little prep, but not much. I have a live-in butt plug. Let me see what you've got and what you can do with it."

Sandy lubed himself, grabbed and rolled on a magnum, and began to prep Dylan's bright pink entrance. Dylan was right; he was tight, but flexible. After some skilled tongue action, Sandy quickly had several fingers inserted. He backed up, swatted Dylan's cheeks until they too were pink, forced some lube deep into the hole, and began the relentless assault on Dylan's pleasure tunnel. He found the love button immediately and started pressing it with each stroke. Dylan started to leak. And then he started pushing his ass forcefully into Sandy's abs until he felt the helmet deep in his chute and the big swollen balls bouncing on his own. Sandy reached under, squeezed Dylan's pecs and nibs and then moved down to hold and stroke the shaft. He had learned to forestall his partner's orgasm by pressing on the taint and circling the base of the penis. He tried both. He wanted this to last. He wanted to prove how good he was—and he definitely wanted to see this hook turn to something more. Soon he couldn't hold off any longer. So he pulled Dylan into his lap, deepened his thrusts, and pointed the purple head of Dylan's cock upwards toward his chest and gave him one last long stroke.

Dylan exploded and the resulting anal spasms spewed his creamy nougat and milked Sandy of every bit of his syrupy baby-makers. Sandy caught some of Dylan's spunk in his fist, swiped more from Dylan's chest, and drew it immediately to his lips. Sandy smiled and licked his lips. They froze in place as the after-shock spasms continued, then quieted. Dylan fell forward, squeezing Sandy's dick with his ass cheek muscles so hard that he had to follow and cover. Sandy reached out to support himself, not wanting to press all of his weight on the smaller man, but Dylan batted the outstretched arms away and caused Sandy to collapse completely.

Sandy was on top, totally covering and in control of Dylan's smaller body, but Dylan was orchestrating this symphony. Sandy remained hard and held tight within Dylan's muscular ass. Minutes later, Dylan eased off, Sandy rolled to the side and wet towels suddenly appeared to handle the spunk.

Dylan pushed Sandy onto his belly and pushed one thigh forward. Then he spooned up behind Sandy and nestled his still chubbed dick into Sandy's crevice. Dylan's arm reached over and rested on Sandy's pec and held it firmly. And Sandy realized, this is how they were going to sleep that night. He was Dylan's "big" Teddy. Dylan murmured, "Nice moves Sandy. Don't ever forget the motto of my namesake, 'Do not go gently into that last good night.'"

The next morning, shortly after the sun rose, Sandy awakened. Dylan was gone, but Sandy heard voices in an adjoining room. He got up and walked to the open door. Dylan had put on a white button-up shirt, but was seated bare-assed in a black high-tech desk chair before a large screen. He was talking with several other men. Sandy backed off and went to shower. The sound must have alerted Dylan, because very soon, Dylan was in the bath. "Let's go for a swim. Would you like to go out on the Chesapeake this afternoon?"

"Sure, but you should know I am barely competent as a swimmer."

"So long as you are a bare swimmer with a hard cock, you are welcome in my pool and on my boat. I'll make sure you don't drown." Dylan pointed to an elaborate espresso machine and a plate of still-warm croissants. "Help yourself. I'll be only a few more minutes. I've got one more call to make."

A Sunday Cruise on the Chesapeake

The pool was set in a large very private garden and the pool house had a large roofed terrace on which a self-service bar and buffet could be set—to minimize the number of "help" roaming around any party that Dylan might host. The mansion was an old multi-gabled wood frame monstrosity on a wide section of the "creek" near the mouth of the Severn on the Chesapeake. The pool house was placed and the yacht was berthed such that the pool was entirely hidden from river traffic—while vegetation shielded it mostly from the other shore. Dylan himself was an exhibitionist and a nudist so the privacy wasn't really important to him—but he wanted to make his guests comfortable. His parties (typically orgies) were legendary among the local gay community—and drew "friends" from Washington, New York and Baltimore.

The guys moved to the pool and Dylan executed a perfect swan into the deep end. Sandy used the stairs and carefully moved around the shallower end. After a few laps, Dylan came up behind Sandy, pulled him into deeper water, and then grabbed him around his waist. Sandy's legs wound around Dylan for security so their dicks were floating side by side on the surface. Dylan pushed him to the pool wall, spun him, and began to rub his hard dick along Sandy's crack.

"You've got me at a disadvantage. You know I can't swim and I'm a little timid in the water."

"Let me tell you, Sandy. My partners are always at a disadvantage. You are not alone. But that doesn't make them any less attractive to me. I like my men strong, hot, aggressive—and trainable." With these words, he reached around and fisted Sandy's rock hard shaft. "And big dicks don't hurt either." Sandy turned, pulled himself up onto the ledge, and spread his legs—offering himself to Dylan. But, just as Dylan bent to the task, they heard a call from the Evermay.

"Good morning, Dylan. These are my new little friends, Tom and Jerry. Can we join you?"

Dylan laughed at the obvious falsity of the names of Greg's "guests." But maybe they don't do cartoons in Greece. And he also thought that unique timing of Greg's arrival as he was about to blow Sandy to the future was perhaps auspiciously timed to interrupt.

"Sure. This is Sandy. He's at St John's. Sandy, that is my current captain, Greg. I'm assuming Tom and Jerry are his new first mates."

Both guys smiled and waved. Greg and both his toys were nude when they reached the grass from the gangplank. They almost looked like twins. Both were small, dark, all-over tanned, with long hair, pink lips, and rosy cheeks. Their dicks were clean shaved, long and thin. In fact, both were very slim and underdeveloped. Dylan wondered about their age—they looked to be about 14, but they had been admitted to Pelican which cards carefully, so they must be of age.

"They are visiting from Baltimore. They're art students, seniors at the Walker Art Institute—and hope to be creators of video games." (Dylan realized that as seniors, both were clearly more than 18, so he relaxed.) But, he wondered about Greg's choice of a twink—or rather two of them. Greg was huge and could crush these guys with one arm. Each to his own. But, the twinks were not Dylan's "type"—maybe that is what attracted Greg to them. Maybe Greg was making his own statement to Dylan—even if he didn't do it consciously or with any guile.

The guys all swam (or at least they all did except Sandy) for a while, then moved to the pool house. Unseen staff had set up a small brunch and the ravenous young men made short work of the spread. "Is is okay if Tom and Jerry help me on the bridge this afternoon?"

"Of course. Let's get on with it I have a six o'clock conference call with my guys in Singapore."

Dylan escorted Sandy to the yacht for the grand tour. Sandy was clearly a land-lubber, but was impressed with the design, the gadgets, and the lavishness of the yacht. The yacht had four decks—including the crew quarters and galleyin the massive port-holed pontoons. One deck above the pontoons contained the four bedrooms including the owner's suite and the corporate command center. The second deck held the bridge, a lounge/dining area and a large covered deck with a hot tub (the "party deck"). The third held a sun deck and the bar. They finished in the owner's suite in the prow with its king-sized berth and mirrored ceiling. Dylan explained that the mirrors were designed to give height to the lower ceilings inevitable on a yacht, but Sandy immediately perceived the erotic potential. He pushed Dylan onto the bed, easily lifted his legs into a high vee, and rolled him backward, diving in for his brunch dessert.

"I've been horny for you since I woke this morning. You are mine. This ass is mine. This hole is going to be filled very soon. You did say you liked aggressive partners. I'm going to show you what that can mean. Get ready for an invasion. I'm told Atilla was an ancestor—and his DNA is in one third of Europe and most Russians. But for a condom, mine would swimming upsream in you in a few minutes."

In obvious agreement and pleasure, Dylan pointed to the drawer containing the lube and the condoms. "Give it to me Sandy. I can take anything you can deliver."

Sandy reached behind Dylan's back, lifted him easily, and pushed him back toward the headboard. "Grab those bars and don't let go until I say so." So Dylan reached back and gripped one of the horizontal nickel pipes that made up part of the headboard, while Sandy's tongue plunged again into the twinkling pink entrance. Slowly, Sandy used his powerful arms to raise Dylan's legs and thighs, locking just behind the knees to do so. He didn't need restraints; Sandy was powerful enough to handle his partner without any other help. "Curl your toes under the bar." Dylan was helpless, jack-knifed and almost suspended over the mattress. And he reveled in his submission. Sandy's cock was steel hard showcasing the bulging blue veins while his hood was drawn back exposing the deep color of his tip which was dripping clear pre-cum. This was new. This was raw power, raw domination. This was indeed a barbarian invasion. This was ecstasy. And Sandy knew it. He had to prove he was indeed Atilla.