"I'd like to make an Australian Crawl." Stan gave a hearty laugh and acknowledged an empty glass up the bar. While he was gone, Keith, in turn, acknowledged that his own beer glass had miraculously filled on its own. He didn't have much doubt that Stan was trying to get him drunk so that Keith would go in the back room with him. The burly barkeep had been putting the moves on him for some time now. Keith had to admit, though, that he came back because he was getting a lot of free beer—and also because he was getting closer to giving in to Stan.
It wasn't that Stan was bad looking, in a big bruiser, boxed-a-bit-too-often way. And it wasn't because he was old. He probably wasn't older than about forty and obviously still went to the gym, although the bartender was putting a bit of a paunch on him. It was more because Keith had heard that Stan fucked a bit rough. Keith didn't mind getting fucked; he just didn't like to be manhandled all that much—or so he thought. He'd shied away from it enough to only know it as a concept.
"And I kinda like the touchy-feely sound of it," Stan said. He was back, looking straight in Keith's eyes to hold the younger man's attention, while he deftly topped off Keith's beer. "The back stroke. The breast stroke—particularly like that one. The side stroke. That's not bad either. And the butterfly. They got an interesting fuck position called the Butterfly in that artsy-fartsy Indian shit—the Camera Suitable, or somethin'. You ever try that? Ever thought of tryin' that? Now the free style, that would really be something I could get in to; I've wrestled semi pro in my day—maybe with some diving. Get it?"
He laughed and was off again to serve another customer. But Keith knew he'd be back. This was how Stan moved toward a more direct proposition. And Keith knew Stan had been asking around about him and knew he took cock. So there wasn't much subtle about Stan's propositions when he got down to them.
They had been talking about swimming and who at the bar had and hadn't had swimming lessons. It turned out that only Keith had. And he'd also made the mistake of saying that he went to Larson's pond most Saturday afternoon's during the summer for a swim. Larson was a rich guy into both nudism and gay sex. He'd opened his pond to nude sunbathing and anything else guys might want to do during the summer months. All you had to do to get an invitation was to either let Larson fuck you or, if you were a top too, bring Larson someone he could fuck.
The latter was what had happened with Keith. Chris, who Keith had been shacking up with at the time but didn't know liked fucking around a lot, had wanted access to Larson's beach. He had taken Keith to the beach and turned him over to Larson while he cruised the other guys. Larson had fucked Keith silly for nearly three hours straight. Keith resented being used by Chris like that and gave him the gate, but he had enjoyed Larson's cocking enough that he continued to come to the beach and let him do him when he wanted to. Larson liked fresh meat, though, and had ready access to it, so he didn't bother Keith much.
It was a good routine for Keith. It would be over at the end of summer, of course, as Larson closed down his beach house then and went back to the city. But summer was all about "what the hell," Keith would start worrying about that in September.
Stan was back, standing in front of Keith, and leaning into him. They could have easily kissed, if Keith wanted to—and he thought that's probably what Stan wanted. But Keith didn't take the hint. "Wouldn't mind getting some lessons like that down at Larson's pond. Especially if you was the one who was teaching me. What say when I get off work here, we trot on down there and you can teach me some strokes and I'll teach you the Butterfly—you know the Indian one?" He was leaning over the bar toward Keith and leering to beat the band.
"Uh, I don't teach swimming, Stan. I can barely remember which stroke I'm using when I'm swimming. And right now I have some place I need to be. Sorry, but—"
A beefy hand shot across the bar top and grabbed Keith's forearm. This was what Keith was a bit afraid of. Stan was quite a bruiser and Keith was wary of being alone with him and in his grip. The grip didn't quite hurt, but almost. Keith wondered if Stan realized when he was hurting a man. He looked down at the forearm. A colorful tattoo of some sort of dragon. Keith wondered if Stan had other tattoos—and where. Keith got a little extra aroused by a man with tats. And he couldn't say that Stan didn't arouse him. He just scared him a bit.
"Come on, man. You know you want it. And I know you put out. I don't know the names of the strokes I use either, but I can stroke real good. Right here in the back room right now, or I'll meet you down by the swimming pond. I'll teach you the Butterfly. I can dick you deep with that. Chris Tucker told me you go wild with the deep diving. And I got a cock ring. You ever been fucked with a cock ring?"
"I really do need to be someplace, Stan." Keith managed to pull himself off the bar stool and out of Stan's grip. What he was thinking mostly was that he'd like to beat Chris Tucker to a pulp.
"But you will let me do you sometime, won't you?" Stan asked. There was an intense gleam in his eye.
Keith was trembling a bit. He'd thought about it and had decided that, yes, under the right circumstances he'd go with Stan just to see what it was like. One of his friends one night at a party had regaled the guys he was talking to about that cock ring Stan had and how different that felt. That's when Keith had first come in the bar. So, he couldn't say he wasn't interested. He had been wondering for weeks how it felt with a cock ring.
"Yeah, sure, we can hook up sometime, Stan," Keith said as he backed away from the bar and acknowledged the good-bye waves of a few of the other patrons, some of whom had been campaigning to get in his ass almost as much as Stan had been. "Just that I have to be somewhere else now."
As he left the bar, he tried to review in his mind what he'd told Stan about his visits to Larson's pond. He hadn't actually told Stan when he usually was there swimming, had he?
* * * *
The sun was out strong on Saturday afternoon and Keith was out on a blanket by Larson's pond working on an all-over tan. He had his Kindle and a good stash of GM action/adventure e-novels he'd downloaded the previous evening, so he was good to go for a while.
He wasn't the only one there, and there wasn't the normal crowd for a Saturday, but there was activity enough for him to glance away from the Kindle occasionally to take in the action. Between the fiction and the real, he was managing to keep at least half hard. He was putting off doing anything about that. He'd usually rev up for a while, jerk off, and then take a dip in the pond. If there was time, he'd repeat the cycle. He liked his Saturday summer afternoons at the pond.
The action, now that he thought about it, was actually very low for a Saturday. Off on the sand below Larson's vacation house, an area of the beach he reserved for himself, Keith could see Larson's bare rump between two bent brown legs. From the tightening and loosening and forward and backward movement of Larson's buttocks and the way the feet on the legs of the black guy were raising and lowering on the sand, Keith could tell that Larson was giving his usual good fuck. Keith didn't mind Larson fucking him, even though he took a lot of time doing it and left a guy wiped out; it was how Keith kept the welcome sign out for his own pond visits.
Larson fucked deep. Chris hadn't been wrong about that; Keith liked that.
Nearer, on the same side of the pond where Keith was staked out, two college-type hunks were playing a pass-the-beach ball type of slow-moving game out on the sand. Keith had seen these two out on the beach before. They usually played around like this until someone showed up they liked and then they shared him. And by shared, Keith meant that he had seen them do a guy together, two dicks in one hole, a couple of times. Keith had never done it that way, and although he thought about it, it scared him. He had been pretty standoffish with these guys and usually there were a lot more here on the beach when he saw them. He was usually just part of a crowd. If it looked like they were zeroing in on him, he'd look away or strike up a conversation with another guy. Today, other than Larson humping the guy on his own beach, it was just these guys and Keith here so far.
Keith actually thought about retreating for the day when he saw that no one else seemed to be showing up on the beach. He shuddered at the thought of these two working him over. They were both studs and appeared to be about the same age, twenty or something, like Keith himself, but they were quite different in their physical perfection. The guy Keith had named "Thick," was Nordic, blond and hairless. He was on the short side and compact, heavily muscular. Not fat, but solid and on the bulging side when it came to muscles. A ruggedly handsome face. A buzz cut for hair. He was the boisterous one, all smiles and laughter and jocularity. Keith had noticed that when they zeroed in on a guy, he was the one who took the lead in getting a guy interested. The name Thick came, naturally, from what was between his legs. Average in length, but thick.
He contrasted with the other guy, who Keith thought of as "Long." He was more the Mediterranean Mafioso type. Swarthy and brooding. Handsome in a dark, silent, sensuous, dangerous sort of way. He was hairy to Thick's smoothness, with intriguingly curling hair on his pecs and down his sternum to his bush. And on his forearms too and his legs. His head hair was curly and a lock fell almost over his eyes. He wore a permanent five-o'clock shadow, and Keith got the impression the guy probably had to shave three times a day to keep it cut back to the exact length. He was taller and thinner than Thick, but still well-muscled, and he, too, got Keith's name for him from what he was swinging. Not thick, but longer than average.
Keith thought arousing thoughts of being fucked by them individually, but he wasn't all that sure about this doubling stuff he'd seen them do.
And right about now, they were forcing him to make a decision on whether to pack up and leave or stay and take his chances of maybe taking two cocks at once. He usually let someone fuck him here on Saturdays, but this doubling business still had him unsure. Their game was moving closer to him, and the blond was flashing him smiles, working on making contact. Keith had seen this before and knew that this was how they moved in on a target.
Keith was about to make a decision when he saw both of them turn and look up at the wooden stairs leading down from the parking lot next to Larson's summer home on the bluff. He let his attention sweep that way too—past the tableau of Larson now being on his back and holding the waist of the young black guy riding his cock—to the top of the stairs, where a young Asian guy—probably Indian—was standing, looking tentatively down at the beach. He was wearing baggy swimming shorts and had a towel and what looked like a pair of water wings tucked under an arm.
After a few hesitant moments, he started to come down to the beach. He was wearing flip-flops on thin legs with strongly defined muscles. They had strength in them; they just looked sinewy. A soccer player, Keith thought.
The two hunks conversed between themselves momentarily at a volume that Keith could almost, but not quite, hear, and then, the blond having given Keith a wink and a "later" smile, they recommenced their beach ball passing game and moved back along the beach, getting closer to where the Indian was spreading out his towel.
The new arrival wasn't tall. Certainly not as tall as Long; more the height of Thick. But he was even thinner than Long was. Keith thought more in terms of wiry than thin, though, as the guy had real good muscle tone. He just was willowy and had long, thin legs, with little meat on the bones. He obviously hadn't realized this was a nudist beach, because he was wearing baggy swimming shorts, emphasizing the thinness of this body—and looking at the other guys but then looking away in apparent slight embarrassment.
He was standing below his blanket, nervously eyeing the water and letting his hands prod and knead the inflated water wings like he wasn't really sure how to put them on. He did have inflatable plastic things around his ankles, though, which made him look like a gangly kid. Long had the beach ball and was going back to sit on his towel, arms hugging knees, and watching Thick go to work.
Thick sidled up to the Indian. "Going for a swim with those things?" He was gesturing at the water wings.
"I want to swim, yes," the Indian answered in precise, but somewhat accented English. "But I've never lived near the ocean. I can't swim."
"This isn't exactly the ocean," Thick said with a broad smile. "I think you'd have to get all the way out to the middle before you couldn't touch bottom. You don't really need those wings."
"I think I would be scared without them. There may be deeper places. And I might not be able to float."
"Yeah, you don't look like you have an ounce of body fat on you and might not float too good," Thick said. "Nice body, though. But you're wearing a suit. Do you know what kind of beach this is?"
The Indian was shaking his head back and forth in little dips, which Keith could tell was confusing Thick but that Keith knew was an Indian gesture of "yes." "Yes, I know. Mr. Larson invited me. He has known me." Considering the strange word arrangements of his sentences, Thick probably couldn't be sure that this meant what he'd literally said either. But the way Thick's body relaxed told Keith that this admission was all the permission he needed to target the guy.
The mention of Larson caused both of them, and Keith too, to look over at Larson's private beach. He was embracing the black guy's back close in to his chest, and, with the black guy raised a bit on his knees, Larson was fucking up into his ass at a fast pace.
As the Indian was looking at that too, The Indian's face reddened up, but he neither looked away nor packed up and left the beach. Thick chose to more assuredly interpret what he said and gestured as acknowledgment that the Indian knew what this beach was for—and that he took cock.
Larson didn't invite anyone to use his beach in the summer who didn't give or take cock—and who wouldn't take it from Larson on demand.
"Maybe you'd have enough confidence if you had a few swimming lessons," Thick said.
"I have thought of taking lessons, but I never have had the time," the Indian answered.
"Well, if you have the time today, my friend over there and I could maybe give you lessons in a few basic strokes." Thick drew the Indian's attention to Long and smiled and waved, and Long raised his hand and gave a minimal response. Keith could see the Indian's eyes slit when he saw Long, who was sitting with his legs bent and was squatting close enough to the towel that his cock head reached the towel and turned up, almost winking at the Indian.
Maybe the Indian isn't as innocent as he's coming across, Keith thought.
"I think my friend and I could teach you a few good strokes," Thick said. He had an arm around the Indian's shoulders and they were walking slowly toward the water. The water wings had dropped to the sand next to the Indian's towel. He still had the bloated anklets on, though. They were orange. Keith almost wanted to laugh.
Keith watched for a bit, as Thick and the Indian stood in water up to their knees and Thick was showing the Indian how to position and move his arms in swimming strokes. There was a lot of hands-on work and Thick had gotten hard. The Indian couldn't have not noticed that. Well, he's on his own, Keith thought, and went back to reading his Kindle and turned onto his belly, facing away from the water, deciding that it was time for sun on the back.
When he turned back to lie on his back and took his attention away from the Kindle, he saw that Thick was in business. The Indian was floating on his back—his torso actually looking like it was floating, but from Thick's stance, it was possible that Thick's arms were under the Indian's back, supporting him in the water. The Indian's arms were spread straight out from his side and they looked like they were floating. The Indian's legs were spread and floating on top of the water—at least the inflated anklets were working a charm. Thick was standing between the Indian's thighs, and from the wave patterns in the water, it was fairly evident that Thick's cock was buried in the Indian's ass and that the blond was pulling the Indian on and off his cock. What were doing the best job of floating were the Indian's baggy swimming shorts. They were floating on the surface of the pond all by themselves and off to the side, remaining afloat with the big air bubble inside them.
Keith wondered what stroke Thick had told the Indian this was.
He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye up the beach and saw Long languidly unfolding himself, rising, and slowly sauntering toward the water line. He was at least half hard. In following Long with his eyes, Keith's attention went to Larson's private beach. It was empty now except for a mussed-up beach blanket. But up on the bluff on the house's porch overlooking the water, Keith could see that Larson was sitting on a chair and the black guy was in his lap, facing away from him, and moving his hips up and down on Larson's cock with the leverage of his feet. Larson had an arm around his waist and both appeared to be watching what was going on in the pond while they languidly fucked.
Keith tore his attention away from that action and went back to reading his Kindle. He was a little concerned for the Indian, whether or not this was really what he'd come here for, and whether he was getting into more than he bargained for, but Keith didn't want to get involved. He thought he really should just pick up his blanket and leave, but he had just a bit more to read in this chapter. He got to the end of the chapter and it had one of those cliff hangers that bugged him about what a character he liked was going to do to get out of trouble, if, indeed he did, so Keith kept on reading.
It was the sounds coming across the water that arrested Keith's attention and made him look up. The Indian was being quite vocal. At first Keith thought he was in distress as he was using curse words that Keith wouldn't have thought an Indian would even know. But as Keith paid more attention to the words, he realized that the Indian was enjoying himself and most of what he wanted his tormenters to do with themselves, he wanted them to do to him.
The three were plastered together in the water, the surface level of which reached just below where the obvious action was taking place. The tableau was familiar to Keith. Long was behind the Indian, leaning back, his arms crossed and embracing the Indian under the Indian's pecs. Keith had no doubt that Long had his cock snaked up the Indian's channel. Thick was plastered in front of the Indian, holding the Indian's thin, long legs up and spread from his body. Thick's buttocks were making waves in the water behind him as he took long, slow strokes inside the Indian's channel on top of Long's stationary cock. The Indian was clutching the tips of Thick's shoulder blades with his white-knuckled hands. His head was thrown back into Long's shoulder, and his mouth was hanging open. He was practically yodeling.
Up on the bluff, the young black guy's back was arched down to the floor of the porch, with his arms spread on the porch over his head. Larson was gripping his waist and pulling him on and off his cock.