Rough Day in Shelter Cove

I shouldn't have been bored. I was lying, naked on my belly on a nice soft bed, staring out the window at the masts of yachts in Hilton Head's Shelter Cove, the sturdy little hulls thrusting their hard masts into the clouds. I had what I thought I wanted. A week off from a grueling job, far from anyone I knew—a demanding boss, a grasping wife, a simpering boyfriend—a week in this South Carolina paradise doing what I liked best: tennis or sailing in the morning and cruising the rest of the day. Bringing pretty boys home and spreading my cheeks for them. Just such a tanned, toned pretty boy I'd hooked up with on the tennis court stretched over me now. He was tooling my depths in deep, proficient strokes as good as I'd gotten in years. But he wasn't enough. I was bored. I wanted something new, something rough, something a little seamy and threatening.

The pretty boy did me a good turn, though. I lied to him and told him he was terrific and that I wouldn't be able to walk straight for days. And then I hinted that I heard this part of South Carolina was into something a little different, a little seamier and rougher perhaps. I didn't ask in terms that I was going to go right for it, saying that what I liked about Hilton Head was its absence of this underclass underbelly, but he contemplated the question as if it was a serious academic one and gave me the information I wanted.

"You're right," he said. "We don't go in for anything like that here. But there's a place I've heard of, Jack's, across the sound, near Paris Island. You know the military training base. Rough place that Paris Island training center. Feeds into rough needs and desires, too. I hear that Jack's caters to that need. So you best just stay away from that Paris Island; those military boys can go crazy."

Late the next morning I'd driven around the sound to the other side and managed to find Jack's. Appropriately, it looked like a shack begging for a condemnation notice on the door and a fire in the kitchen. But there was a variety of "tough" hillbilly vehicles—trucks, souped-up vintage racers, Hummers, and motorcycles—parked around it, so I assumed it was open. My maroon BMW Z3 roadster looked nervous parked between two of these intimidating and hulking vehicles, but even the image of my roadsters being hugged between all that male testosterone on wheels had me tingling and my "not bored" juices flowing.

I'd purposely come early in the day, as I figured the very serious guys would be here then. And I wasn't disappointed. The bar was filled with hulks, several of whom were also hunks, playing pool, permeating the air with smoke, and slugging back beer in cans to the tune of raucous laughter, challenged four-letter words, the sounds of pool balls breaking against the side of tables, and the squeaking of leather.

I sat at the bar, drinking imported beer in a glass, and surveyed the room, looking for my "not boring" man. He was with a group of three others, all big guys, but in a powerfully constructed way, at a smoke-rimmed table, where they were playing cards, knocking back beers, and cussing up a storm.

I put my eyes on him and kept them there, willing him to come get me. He was deeply tanned or Hispanic, I know not which. I just know he looked real good. A leather vest, no shirt, a swirl of curly black body hair, muscles bulging. He had his shoulder-length hair back in a pony tail. Brooding dark, piercing eyes; the dark sullenness of his face relieved when he opened his face into a very nice, white-toothed smile. He would have been handsome except for the thin scar running from the corner of an eye down to the corner of his mouth. Hell, he was handsome even with that. And dangerous looking. Like a cat or a snake, looking at leisure, uncaring, but ever ready to pounce.

His eyes found mine and stayed there, giving me a chance to look away, giving me a promise if I didn't. I didn't, and his face lit up into a grin. He said something to the others at the table. They turned and clamped hard stares on me, assessing me, looking me up and down. And I was looking at them too. Any of them would have done fine. But the one I'd first picked out, stood, tossed his cards on the table, ran a forearm across his mouth, and moved around the table and toward me.

His stride showed confidence and a flowing grace. His jeans were tight and his basket prominent. I could easily follow the length of him across his groin, pushing at the taunt denim, as he walked toward me, and I trembled at the thought of where this could be going.

"You lost, Pretty Boy?" he asked in a pleasant, slightly sarcastic tone that resonated with rich baritone. "You missed the turnoff to where they're filming the hunk movie?"

I took that as a sign of approval. "I heard about this place. I sought it out," I responded.

"I'm Pete," he said. "You really know what you came here for?"

"Hi, Pete, I'm Cliff," I answered. "Yes, I was bored and, as I said, I asked around and heard about this place."

Pete was leaning up to my stool now, and had an arm around me. "You want to go someplace with me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think so," I said, trying to keep the catch out of my voice at how fast this was unfolding.

"You 'think' so? Well, I don't know myself," he said. "I was winning at cards over there. And it wouldn't be nice just to walk out on my friends. You got something nice to compensate?"

"I can pay, if that's what you're asking," I blurted out. "And I think I can make it interesting for you."

"Interesting for me?" he asked. And then he gave a low laugh, down deep in the back of his throat. "You sure a fancy city guy like you can handle what I've got?"

"Oh, I could handle you and all of your friends over there," I retorted, with false bravado. This was getting a little sinister, but I'd show him I could stand up to it. He was just a South Carolina hillbilly and I'd graduated from Princeton. "Have they got a back room here?" I asked, determined to call him and raise him.

"Yeah," he answered. "But I feel like fresh air—and a ride. Sure you can give me a good ride?"

I looked hard back at him. "Yes, I'm sure."

"So, do you have someplace we can go?"

"Yes, I answered. Someplace nice. But it's at Hilton Head. You want to ride that far?"

"Oooo, Hilton Head. Fuckin' la-te-da," he said with a flash in his eyes. But then he simmered down just as quickly and put his arm around me possessively again. "I can ride all day," he said, giving me "that" look. "You got wheels?"

"Yes, but do you want to follow me over there? How will you get back?"

"I'll worry about getting' back," he said. And then he went over and talked some in a low voice to his friends at the table, who sniggered and gave me looks of lust and high-fived Pete as he sauntered back to me.

An hour and a half latter, we were at my rented condo on Shelter Cover, in the shower, and I was doing all I could to handle a brown eight-incher pushing its way down my throat. He was feeding it to me hard and rough, his fists buried in the hair at the back of my head and working me back and forth on his cock. My hands were roaming all over tight butt cheeks, beefy thighs, and cut abs. He'd let his hair down and it snaked down, wet and close to his cheeks. He had a mean, controlling look in his eyes that was arousing me as I hadn't been turned on for months. His hips were in countermotion to his hands on my head, and I felt helpless and consumed.

But then he just stopped, pulled out of me, and announced he was hungry, leaving me in a heap on the floor of the shower, the water cascading down on me.

I'd lost all sense of control. I wanted him to control me during the fuck, sure, but I wanted to see if I could tame him just a bit—if I could make him moan for it as well.

As I dried, I told him to go out and sit at the table on the balcony and I'd bring some fruit, crackers and cheese, and wine.

I could hear his snort. "Pretty Boy food. Well, OK, I'll go for steak and potatoes after I've fucked." Not "we" fucked; "I" fucked.

When I came out, he was sprawled on one of the iron terrace chairs, a foot propped up on the balcony balustrade, his manhood laying along a thigh and twitching, open to the world, proudly declaring its potency and "I don't give a fuck" attitude. I put the fruit basket and wine bottle down and then padded back to the kitchen for the crackers and cheese and the glasses. I poured the wine and he took a long drink. I thought then that he was going to ask me if I had any beer instead, but he didn't. He just took another swig of the wine and started scratching the hairy patches under his nipples.

I sat down across the small table from him, facing him. As I took my first drink from the wine, I lifted my foot to his groin and clasped his cock between two of my toes. Pete lurched a bit and gave me a surprised look. But he did nothing to move away from my caress. He was surprised and interested. Good.

I ran my toes up and down on his tool for a few minutes and I sensed him engorging. His hand went to my ankle, I'm sure without him really realizing what it was doing, and started caressing my calf and ankle.

He was watching me closely as I took a large, juicy orange from a basket on the table and cut a large core out of it with a paring knife. As I slowly worked on the large orange, I told him in soft tones exactly what I was going to do with the orange, and I could see Pete melting into interest and lust as I talked. And I could feel his anticipation in the cock I was stroking with my toes as well.

The orange prepared, I moved my foot away from his lap and dragged my chair around to where I was close beside Pete. I squeezed the core of the orange across his now-heaving chest and, as I licked the juice off his nipples and held him close with an arm around his shoulder, I took the cored orange in my other hand and slid it down onto his erect penis. He lurched and gave out that treasured little moan I had wanted to coax out of him as I did so. I continued to slide it up and down, holding a now very-interested and engaged Pete in place while I nibbled on his oranged nipples and he whimpered and moaned, fucking the orange to ejaculation.

* * *

Ah. Now that was nice. I enjoyed that. My coals were well stirred, I thought, as the rich, spoiled dude did his magic with the orange. I laid there sprawled out on the chair overlooking the masts of those sailboats for a long time, trying to regroup and to recharge the virility that this twink had drained from me. The pretty boy does have some good moves of his own, I was thinking. But this was getting out of hand. Anyone who walks into Jack's dressed like he was and with his attitude—and driving a sleek little foreign convertible—needs to get exactly what they came looking for. My underlying anger at his attitude and his money and cockiness began to flow back into my body, along with my virility. And being ignited I grrrrowlllllled and grabbed the cream filled orange and tossed it off into the nest of money-showy boats below.

Then I grabbed him, my hot visitor from the world of wealth and cockiness, by his waist. And I lifted him up and tossed him over my shoulder and carried him inside, caveman style. We'd just see the difference between his world and mine. There I dropped him onto the bed. He bounced and gasped as I growled with desire and straddled his hips. I savaged his throat, then his heaving breast, snapping at his hard nubs, my fingers digging into his waist and then his firm, pampered thighs. My hungry mouth descended his body, nipping and sucking, licking and kissing him, all the way down to the thick forest surrounding the root of his long, hard rod. I gulped his tool, my tongue slithering over it, round and round, up and over and down. Tracing its features and sending him into a moaning, arching, thigh-spreading ecstasy—as my fingers reached under his nuts and beyond. And I rimmed him with my fingers and dug them brutally inside, as Cliff gasped and bunched up the silk sheets of the bed in his well-manicured fingers.

His hole was tight, not ready for me, but it spasmed and opened at my touch. I caressed and sucked his manhood till his seed was spent, and then his entrance had my complete attention. He wanted it rough. He wouldn't have come into Jack's if that's not what he wanted. He'd laid down the challenge. He lay under me, open to me, writhing under me and whimpering softly. He was mine. All mine to ravage—at least all mine if I got to it quickly. To enter, to fill, to drive into roughly and explore and possess. I felt a glow and a satisfied smile spread across my face. Then I hammered home my possession in deep strokes. And it was his sharp cries, begging and whimpers fueling my passion now.

* * *

He had me in a tight grip and was fucking me hard, just as I had wanted him to do, and I was crying out in all-consuming passion for him. So, I barely heard the gentile knock on the door when it came.

I heard Pete's "Oh, shit," exclamation, and then I groaned and moaned as his pumping picked up speed and intensity, full of urgency now. He pulled out of me, and with a grunt and spasm of his own, spread warm, thick cum across the small of my back.

He was off of me quickly and had gone to the door. I was too paralyzed from his spent passion and the effects of my own ejaculations to move a muscle.

And then the room was full of hulking figures—three of them other than Pete. All stripping and laughing and making lewd comments.

One of them was taking me by the wrists, which he was tying off to the headboard, while another two already had fingers inside my ass and were slapping me on the butt cheeks. Pete was telling them about the orange trick in boisterous tones as a hard cock pushed at my lips and strong fingers wrapped themselves around my head. I gagged at the invasion of the cock several inches and then I lurched and took more of it in in surprise at the first thrust of a new cock inside my ass.

This was why Pete hadn't needed a ride back. His friends had followed us. This had all been prearranged. It wasn't going to be just another boring lay.