South African Safari Sequel Ch. 01

Chapter 01

Paul starts work in Miami and begins a new life

This story is entirely original and fictional. South African Safari was published on Literotica several months ago. The gym/club mentioned in the story is the same as the one described in Jake and His Wild Irish Rose—my first published story on Literotica, but the reference is casual. There were requests for more chapters after South Africa. SIX chapters have been written, edited and will be submitted to Literotica in the next two weeks. All Characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. No AI was used in the production of this story. © 2024, All rights reserved. Brunosden

(The narrative is by Paul Goodfield, a neurotic stud, a former serial womanizer and total sub, with everything going for him except self-confidence. He remains cautious and confused about his sexuality:).

It's been a little over a year since I graduated and moved to Miami to take a job in the family's business—financial advisory services. They had given me a terrific vacation at a luxury game park in the Kruger after graduating from B-school and before starting. There I had met and had a great week enjoying the wild bush—with a young ranger, Ron Stillwell—who helped me to get over a breakup with my longtime partner (and abuser) Billy Morris. I hadn't heard from Billy since then; but Ron had texted me an occasional photo of an unusual wild animal adventure to keep in touch, perhaps to keep the flame alive. I've been pretty much working 24/7. I had established my value as an analyst, and as hoped, I had even drawn a few young clients—mostly up and coming techies that I had met at SoBe's swankiest gay gym/club, MiamiBods.

Ron had promised to try to get to the US during one of his vacations. He typically worked 24/7 for eight weeks, then got 3 weeks off. While he had good intentions, his mother and step-father were pressuring him to make a decision about his ranch near Durban in which they were still living. They wanted to move to a condo near the beach in town—but the old Dutch-style manor house needed regular attention and, even with hired help, someone with authority had to supervise the animals and the extensive property.

Ron had been working on a business plan—presumably giving up the idea of remaining in the Kruger camp ranger hierarchy or going back to graduate school. So every vacation was spent dealing with potential bankers, builders (his step-father was a general contractor) and workers. He was doing everything possible to lay the foundation for his dream—creating a rare animal species breeding farm with a tourism angle on the extensive property. So Ron had not been able to visit and was winding down his time at the camp, pleading with me to visit. So far, I hadn't been able to work things out either.

My life was forming up in Miami. Mostly work and some socializing centered on a gym. Fortunately, the action begins late at Bods since I was working well into most evenings. I had convinced myself that I needed physical exercise and that I was expected to begin developing clients. Focusing solely on analytical work was not going to achieve either of these goals. Bods was definitely upscale—the gym was state of the art and its clientele was attractive and had client development potential. Why cruise in a gym where the pickings were mostly impoverished students? Or why try business development where the clientele were nerdy, out-of-shape Dads who were mostly into golf?

So Bods it was for me. Three or more nights per week, after a tough workout, I cruised, often after the regular sexy wrestling matches that were staged to "stimulate" business. Occasionally, I scored. And a few times my FB had turned out to need investment advisory services. I had found three new clients in only a few months (but I had scored many more partners). I was slowly moving into the Miami gay scene, fully-recovered from my long unfortunate relationship. I was being careful to keep it light and to enjoy the sex. So it was mostly one-night hooks where I topped or bottomed as the circumstances seemed to warrant—and by my choice. No commitments.

I realized something was missing. Ron had "spoiled" me. In just a week he had shown me how good it can be where there is an emotional connection between two compassionate guys. But, I was still a little wary of becoming attached and dependent.

Last winter, I had moved to my own small condo—life at my parents' condo (I'm the only male child of a doting Jewish family) and aging grandparents (who lived in the same building) was not easy—even if they knew and almost accepted that I was gay. There was no way that I could bring someone home. Most of SoBe was goy—or trying to be. And the folks were very old-fashioned. Being gay was a challenge, but being gay with a goy was not going to work. My condo was in a modern high-rise with an urban (not beach) view on 12 Street (not 12^th I was repeatedly told), just off Collins, close to the office which was north a few blocks in Miami Beach and only a few blocks to the south to MiamiBods—close enough to walk to either. The condo was furnished Miami-modern—white, minimalist, masculine. But it did have a king bed and a giant flat screen facing it. The neighborhood was filled with coffee shops, bars, fast food, and upscale clothing boutiques. And it had a young metro-sexual vibe.

In case you've forgotten me: I'm Paul Goodfield, a recent MBA graduate, 24, Jewish (non-observant), with dark eyes, black hair, a "Med" complexion, a good-sized cut dick (8 inches, with a big head, but not too thick), and a gym-rat, lightly-muscled, slim body. I'm technically vers, but mostly a bottom. I'm a pretty good conversationalist, a great financial analyst, reasonably extroverted, gay and out. When I want to look intellectual or older, I leave out the contacts and wear black-rimmed glasses. They definitely give me the professorial look.

Tonight will definitely be a Bods night. I finished up at the office around 9:30 and headed over to the club. I changed into the "required" tight designer gym shorts and tee, punished myself for about an hour—it was upper body day—or rather night, showered and threw on a tight tee and shorts (the "Miami uniform") to catch a drink and some bar food upstairs on the roof. I knew I looked good—still wet shaggy hair with a touch of a curl, pumped, bedroom eyes—and tight shorts that advertised my butt and package quite nicely. Tonight, I'm definitely going to get lucky. I just feel it. I had missed the wrestling demos that Bods sponsors a few times a week, but the crowd had stayed on and moved to the roof to enjoy the cooling, moist Miami night. It was crowded, and the peacocks were preening. Most were aroused from the demos (where several bouts had likely resulted in rough public sex) and were definitely cruising.

I ordered a very dry (forget the vermouth) martini, Bombay Sapphire, on the rocks with lime and a plate of spicy Buffalo wings with lots of celery. Most of the offerings were garlicky—and I didn't want to take that chance. The drink was served. I picked it up and I swiveled to inspect the scene, resting my back on the bar rail, crossing and stretching my legs to pop my crotch. The invitation and the bait were set.

It didn't take long. I watched a big beautiful dirty blonde surfer dude bro-hug an even bigger ginger across the terrace—and the ginger left immediately for the elevator. I was guessing that the hook hadn't worked. He looked over at me, smiled and shrugged—and I stared and smiled back. It took less than a minute before he was standing next to me at the bar. He was tall—probably 4 inches taller than my 6-even, blonde with straight, medium long hair, blue eyed, tanned, with wide shoulders, a thick ropey neck, pecs that threatened to explode his tee and a narrow waist and hips—accented by a bright red leather belt threaded through the loops of his designer "threadbare" white jeans, curiously with embroidered lobsters sprinkled on the denim—the latter definitely non-Miami! Where had he found those?

"Hi. I'm Breck."

"It's Paul. Nice to meet you. Like the jeans." I whispered sarcastically. "I guess you're visiting from Nantucket. Sorry I missed the matches—were you up there?"

"Yeah. Sorry about the jeans—this is cruise-wear on the Cape in the summer. I won the second match, but the ginger I beat was strictly a top. He had me by ten pounds and a few inches. I guess he thought I was a push-over. I pinned him quickly, and then he dropped the news. He was only a top. I wasn't going to make a scene. So I let him blow me and gave him a pass. The crowd wasn't pleased. So, I'm guessing that I won't be invited as a contender for the semi-final rounds. The managers count on more action in the ring—after the match, as you know. I probably shouldn't have let him off so easily."

"Too bad I missed it. That must have been a unique experience for this place. You look like you'd fill out a singlet pretty nicely. You've got the body for it. Did you wrestle in college? Do you live in Miami?"

"Lots of questions. I'm guessing you're a lawyer. Not quite a resident. I'm using my uncle's condo in Bal Harbour until I find something. I've got until January to decide. I'm managing a team of software installers on contract with Miami Health. It's a pilot installation. You can probably guess the health care market is pretty robust here. The pilot's supposed to turn into a regular consulting gig in the health care field. I'm slated to head up the branch if that happens. So I guess I'll be staying for awhile. Besides, I like the scene. Much hotter than 128. Oh, I did wrestle in the unlimited weight class at MIT. I was actually pretty good. Can I buy you another drink?"

The small talk conversation continued for another few minutes, during which time Breck's hand moved from my knee to my thigh, and from my thigh to my butt and squeezed a few times. He learned a little about me. He looked clean and tasty—and he was definitely hung looking at that basket. Bal Harbour was definitely very upscale. And he was in a very lucrative field. So I took the plunge.

"My place is only a few blocks from here. Can I offer you a night cap?"

"That depends. Do you bottom?"

I really like a confident, direct guy. "Yes, I've done that. But only if you wrap."

"Then, let's go."

"Can we walk? I left my car in the hospital garage and took an uber here. I was hoping I'd get lucky. And it seems that I have."

**********

A few minutes later, I let us into the condo and didn't bother with lights. The place was already glowing with the lights of the now-empty office building across the street. "What can I get you?"

"I've already had a few. Maybe we should just move to your bedroom."

"Sure. That way." I started to wonder how quick this was going to be. He was proving to be pretty aggressive, and he was big.

I led the short walk and pointed to the bath. "I'm gonna use that first if you don't mind. It won't take long. I showered at Bods."

"It's your place, Paul."

Moments later I emerged completely nude, whistle clean, and with the first touch of lube. I was glad that I had regularly scheduled man-scaping. I knew I looked good. And the lube was because one can never be too careful with a new hook. I'm not into unnecessary pain or dry entry. And this guy seemed to be in a hurry.

Breck had stripped and was clearly posing, legs akimbo, arms crossed under his pecs, showcasing development. He was definitely a keeper, and he knew it. Really defined abs. Light dusting of peach fuzz. Silver dollar sized dark aureoles and eraser nipples. Nice pale reddish treasure trail ending in man-scaped pubes. And a giant uncut piece of meat arching over lemon-sized balls. The blonde hair was not from a bottle. Really narrow waist and a surprisingly small but muscled high butt with the kind of deep hip dimples that create a nice hand-hold. He was taller and had twenty or more pounds on me. And his dick was porn-quality. Definitely my kind of top.

His eyes popped when I appeared. He threw his head back to clear the long blond hair from his eyes and smiled. I guess he liked what he saw. He stepped into the toilet and quickly completed his requirements—while complimenting me on my lithe, slim body. I moved to the bed, pulled the lube and a roll of condoms (I was being optimistic) from the end table and threw them on the bed.

When I turned to ask Breck how he wanted to start, he grabbed me in a tight embrace, placed his giant hands on my ass cheeks and lifted me into his chest so my toes barely touched the floor. His lips took mine—wow a kisser, on the first date! He sucked on my tongue for a few minutes as his fingers worked their way into my cleft. This was definitely a silent take-charge guy. He was going to show me what he wanted and how he wanted it. I can live with that.

Then he sat me on the edge of the bed, knelt and moved in to suck my dick to rigid length and hardness. He pushed me back, lifted my legs and his tongue reached in to my taint, rim, then my hole. Wow again. This guy may be a top—but he was considerate and "full service." Finally, he moved my hands behind my knees, grabbed the lube and shot it into me, smoothing some on his cock. He used a finger, then a couple. Long slow strokes, looking for the pleasure spot—and finding it. "I'm not a virgin, Breck. I'm ready." He opened the condom with his teeth and rolled the magnum on, re-lubing as he did so. He leaned in and I felt his head at the entrance. I breathed out as he pressured. And pop. He was in. Shit, he was in! He was big, stretching me, and I was definitely plugged. I was up for a nice ride.

He reached up and held my shoulders to stabilize me as he started to enter. A couple of thigh thrusts and he was crowding my prostate, sending shivers up my spine. He was really filling me—just the way I liked to be taken by a power top. A few more thrusts and he bottomed, his red hot balls bouncing on my ass cheeks. Then he leaned in again and lightly bit each nipple before moving in to stare into my eyes and for another kiss. This guy was a lover. I had hit the jackpot.

And he had stamina. (Of course the ginger had blown him an hour before.) He pumped and pumped as I examined his square determined face. And I leaked and leaked as my dick bounced between our abs. He reached down and rubbed my sensitive tip, nearly pushing me over the top—but collecting enough pre-cum to bring to his lips, moistening them very nicely. He smiled. "The Bombay/lime is a nice touch, Paul." (God, he even remembered my name—and my drink.) But we both were getting close. He speeded up and deepened.

"I'm cumin, Breck."

"Just do it." And he cupped a fist over my dickhead. "I'm gonna have some of this in my next COCK-tail." Then I could feel his glans expand and I could even feel the vas swelling with fluid moving up his shaft—it was so tight in my chute. He strained, sucked in his abs, stretched his legs, cocked and pumped hard several times quickly and shot. I counted a half-dozen spasms. This guy is a superman. I released my own abs and I filled his fist with my spunk.

He pulled his hand away. I released my legs and wrapped them around his waist. And he fell onto my chest. We were both spent. The orgasm had been powerful, and unusual for a first time, really good. After a few minutes, I motioned him to my side and rose to get some wet towels—and two more martinis.

Then I decided to take the chance. "Can you spend the night?"

"Sure. I have a locker at the hospital and I keep extra shirts and slacks there. Mostly I work in casual clothes, but when I have a meeting with the suits, I need to have the ability to dress."

"That was pretty good, Breck. I'm hoping it wasn't a fluke. I'd sort of like to try again before you leave."

"I was hoping you were going to ask. You're a damn good bottom Paul Goodfield."

"By the way, what's your full name? And how did you know mine?"

"Your name is on the condo door. That was a no-brainer. And I'm Breckinridge Morgan Lodge—yes, one of the Boston Lodges."

"Shit, you're a blueblood. Your ancestors were on the fucking Mayflower! You realize you just ate some Jewish spunk! I didn't think that was permitted."

"Oh. That's the best kind. Especially laced with Bombay and lime." With those words, he licked his palm and downed the drink I had just handed him He was unassuming and funny too. Is there anything this guy isn't?

I flipped on the ceiling fan and pulled up the duvet. And he pulled me into a tight spoon. God it felt good to be in bed in someone's arms again. And with a semi resting in my cleft. He was an Adonis, an All-American god. I was in for some lurid dreams. "I don't really need to be in until 10 tomorrow."

"Oh, I think we can work with that. I'll be in again well before that." I could tell he was smiling at his own joke. As he sucked a nice big hickey on my shoulder.

********

I hadn't shut the drapes so we were awakened early. During the night I had escaped from his spoon and was sprawled over him, my cheek firmly on his left pec, my inner thigh cradling his ball sacs and my left hand holding his shaft loosely. When my eyes opened, his big brown nipple was only an inch or so from my lips. Why not? I moved a little and sucked on it as it hardened and he groaned. And I felt his cock stiffen.

"I'm really sensitive there, Paul."

"I can see that." But I went back to work, as my left hand tightened on his cock. Wow, my fingers didn't even touch. He was throbbing and hot. I reached lower and cupped his balls. They were big. I don't think I could have gotten both in my mouth at the same time. But, I was going to try. I bent down, pushed his thighs apart and began to suck on the balls. I was right. Only one fit. But, each got his chance and both were alive with little Brecks waiting to seed someone soon. I pushed his ass up and rimmed him with a tongue, then a wet finger. I penetrated. "Are you okay with this?"

"Are you kidding me? I love having my ass eaten and played with. It just doesn't happen often enough." Breck was darkening and squirming. He was going to go ballistic any second.

"Can I ride you?"

"Do the Lodges talk only to the Cabots?" (I guess that is one of those "in" Back Bay Boston jokes—and I presume he was telling me it was okay.)

So I lubed him and me, rolled on a wrap, and positioned myself over him. His narrow waist was perfect. My thighs were comfortable on either side. And those abs were e-porn-zine quality—the ripples were deeply shadowed by the low morning sun. I aimed his cock and slowly descended. I rose and fell a few times, being sure to scrape my nut, but then he took over. His feet were planted on the mattress, and he began to buck. I reached out to grab his pecs, squeezing his nipples. He went wild. And so did I. He bucked and I bounced remembering to squeeze my anal muscles on descent. My cock began to leak then spurt my night-time cum over his chest. I scooped it, used it to lube the nipples, and then went in for the kill. I sucked again, really hard this time. And Breck filled the condom—with so much spunk that it started to leak from the base. Thank god, I can't get pregnant. I'm sure this guy has got some pretty potent stuff. We collapsed into the bed, squirmed a bit. Then, I lifted, gazed into his startlingly blue eyes and kissed, a deep soul sucking kiss.

But, all good things had to end. We rose, showered, together of course. I made coffee while Breck redressed and called an uber. I would leave in a few minutes for the office. "I usually do the Bod on Monday, Wednesday and Friday—typically getting there a little before ten. I hope to see you again."

"I'm not a member. A friend brought me last night to wrestle."

"Well, you're going to be my guest." I grabbed his cell and punched in a number. Then I used it to call myself. "Txt me, Breck. I'd like to see you again—at MiamiBod or elsewhere. I'd love to wrestle with you—and when you win, I promise to be the best little bottom you've ever had."