Tail in the South Pacific

"Quick. No time. The storage shed," Brolin muttered in a guttural whisper as he lurched into the room and pulled Jules up from the floor. He was completely naked, his firm muscle twitching in the shock of the moment, his manhood and ball sack hanging and swinging low.

"What . . .?" Jules muttered, dazed by the sudden eruption of activity on their peaceful, isolated beach.

"No time. There's a hiding place in the storage shed. And it's concrete. We could be quickly burned out here or plugged by a stray bullet."

"Sid . . .?" Jules said idiotically as he permitted Brolin to pull him toward the back door and the pathway away from the beach toward the storage shed. His sarong went to his ankles and constricted his movement so that he hobbled in a shuffling gait as Brolin propelled him along. Brolin reached down and tore the material off Jules, freeing the young man's movement but making him as naked as his mentor was.

"Sid's PNI," gasped through his pants, and then when the sense of that didn't seem to register with Jules, he spoke again. "He's a member of the communist movement. If they come here, it will be because of him. The Dutch are burning out the resistance movement. If they find we're harboring a PNI member, we'll be burned out too. Sid's gone into hiding away from here."

Both of them were panting heavily when they got to the shed. Looking back toward the beach, Jules could see figures of men with lifted torches and rifles, silhouetted against the glow on the horizon from Bengkulu, coming through the palm tree verge and heading toward their hut. Brolin pulled him roughly into the hut, moved some boxes aside at the back of the small room, pushed Jules roughly down on his back in a narrow space been the back of a wooden-back shelving rack that went nearly to the ceiling and a concrete block wall, and then, after pulling the boxes back to cover the entrance to their hiding place, and sprawled down, full-length, on top of Jules. There was no room in the confined space for him to do otherwise, but Jules was fully aware of his mentor's nakedness, and the hairiness of the very fit man's chest, heart pounding and muscles taut, on top of his own naked chest.

Adrenaline was pumping through both of the men. Brolin couldn't help himself, having wanted to be doing what he then did for the entire two months they had been in Sumatra. And Jules, aroused by what he'd seen Brolin and Sid doing earlier and the sudden awakening to passion couldn't help himself either. The danger and the passion of the moment swept them both up into its clutches, and Brolin was cupping Jules's head in his hands and was kissing him deeply in his full and sensuous lips. At the same time his pelvis was grinding against Jules's. Jules reach down and took possession of Brolin's cock and felt it grown long and thick and hard. His own cock was rising too, and Brolin was left with no doubts about Jules's willingness. Brolin took one of his hands away from Jules's cheek and spit on it and moved it down between Jules's thighs and found his young student's virgin hole.

Jules arched his back and rocked his head back, away from Brolin's lips, and opened his mouth wide, preparing to scream out in surprise and pain as Brolin entered him with his moistened finger. Brolin's strong hand went to Jules's mouth, however, and covered both his mouth and his nose, as his finger continued to probe. Jules was trembling and gasping for air beneath the stifling gag and he was beginning to black out. Brolin released his hand over Jules's air passages, but he replace his hand with his possessing mouth. He was kneeling on his knees now between Jules's thighs and pulling Jules's legs up to his shoulders.

Jules felt the large dick head at his hole as Brolin removed his searching and stretching fingers, and Jules arched his back again and silently screamed around Brolin's probing tongue as the head of the teacher's cock obtained purchase just inside Jules's hole.

They both froze at the sound of voices outside the door to the storage shed. The room was full of light now that blazed over the top of the shelving unit that didn't quite meet the ceiling and through cracks in the backside and around the edges of the case.

Voices. Angry voices. Firing off rapid-fire exclamations in Indonesia, clearly not pleased that they hadn't found any communists to exterminate. Jules knew now that their lives depended on him not screaming. This was a moment such as he'd written about. But the reality was so much more intense than his imagination had been when he was writing. He now fully appreciated what his teacher had been trying to tell him about experiencing being necessary to capture the passion of a story that would lift it head and shoulders above the competition—about danger and what a man had to do in the face of danger to survive and to come out as the master.

Brolin took advantage of the moment of Jules's fear of making any noise to start the plowing of his plump, experienced cock up the young virginal ass canal.

Regardless of the danger of the moment, Jules started to whimper and to struggle underneath Brolin, the hard thick possession of the older man being almost more than Jules could take. Brolin covered Jules's mouth and nose with his hand again, and all of the fight went out of Jules as he began to drift out from oxygen starvation and Brolin's dick continued its throbbing invasion up his canal.

And then the light and the voices were gone, and Brolin had removed his hand and was kissing and sucking and nibbling on young Jules's neck and nipples and the pits under his arms as the master's cock bottomed deep inside the tender canal and began to pump and pump and pump deep inside his student. Harder and faster. Jules was gasping and groaning and moaning now.

Brolin had gathered control of himself enough to murmur that he'd try to stop fucking Jules if the pain was unbearable and that's what the young man wanted, but Jules was too far gone in the experience now. He could only manage and breathless, "No-o-o."

"No, what?" Brolin grunted.

"No . . . don't . . . stop," Jules cried out.

And Brolin fucked on. he had Jules's cock in his fist and he relentlessly stroked him off until Jules ejaculated with a gasp and collapsed back to the floor. But Brolin fucked on and on and on. The passion flooded back into Jules and he moaned and groaned and cried out for the fuck, his mind racing, forming words and images and experience-filled themes to pour out onto the typewriter keys.

* * *

The next day dawned much like any other on Sumatra. Brilliant sunshine filtering through rustling palm fronds at the verge of a bright white sandy beach. The surf relentlessly lapping at the beach and the birds chirping away in the inland pine trees. It was as if nothing had happened the previous night that was in any way out of the ordinary. And the people would continue living their lives as if nothing had happened the previous night, as if the Dutch and their native underlings hadn't conducted yet another of a long series of nights of the long knives. And if the mothers and wives of the young men who had been singled out as PNI members or supporters mourned the permanent absence of their loved ones, they did none of the keening in public. The Dutch were the gods on Sumatra. There might come a day when all of the people of the archipelago were free to think what they wanted to think and do what they wanted to do, but 1918 was not such a time.

Brolin was still abed, having had his fill of both Sid and Jules the previous night, and exhausted from the loss of adrenaline over their near brush with the long knives of those doing the bloody bidding of the Dutch.

Jules, again wearing the sarong from the previous night, was walking the surf line of the beach, grappling in his mind a reworking of the elk story. He didn't want to write a totally new theme. He still wanted to work with the elk image. He wanted to show his teacher that he had been right—that Jules's brilliance as a writer could be touched and could shine out increasingly as he gained passion and experience. He knew now that Sid would not be spending all of his nights in the hut—that Jules's himself would be draining the teacher of far more than words in his search for new and richer experience and for the passion he needed to convey to his readers.

Jules had been walking for long, lost in thought. When he looked up, at the sound of rustling in the jungle beyond the fringe of palm trees, he discovered that he was well beyond their beach area toward the east, in the direction away from Bengkulu. He walked toward the sound.

What he first saw were the bright colors. Lengths of brightly colored sarong material, waving and dipping in the thick covering of ferns under the palm trees. Then he heard the giggling. He moved stealthily to behind a fat palm tree and observed Sid in the process of fucking a comely Sumatran lass. She was on her back with her legs spread wide, and he was crouched between her thighs and leaning over her, his lips working a nipple on her plump breast, his hand caressing her cheek, and his dick thrusting strongly in and out of her cunt. She was thrusting her hips up to meet his downward thrusts and was laughing and moaning for him.

More experience, Jules thought. And he watched the two making love, drinking in the experience of it, trying to merge with them from his position behind the tree. He could feel his cock engorging and he was stroking himself as he watched them fucking with abandon and obvious enjoyment. The passion and enjoyment of the two were obvious. Jules felt that he should rejoice in what they were doing with each other, both fully giving and receiving, no regrets, no shyness, no inhibitions. But there was something missing. What Jules wanted to write about—what Arthur Brolin had defined to him the previous day that he, deep down, wanted to write about—was possession, not mutual satisfaction. No, not the abandon of shared passion, really, but the possession of, the mastery of one over the other. There had to be a winner. Someone had to be in total control.

"You want to fuck too her too?" Sid was asking, having seen Jules well before Jules realized that his presence was known. "Come, yayi. Come, younger brother. She is very nice and ripe. She does very nice ju ju. And she likes you. She's always telling me she wants to make ju ju with the serious, strong, young American. And you are beautiful too. She wants you too. Come, yayi, come and share the joy."

What a simple culture, Jules thought. Last night Sid was escaping just ahead of a mob that wanted his blood, and today he was leisurely fucking a comely young lass on the beach. Jules tentatively moved toward the coupling lovers as Sid pulled his cock out of the girl's cunt and made way for Jules. Not being real sure what to do, Jules went down on his knees between the girl's outstretched legs. She looked up at him and smiled a big smile of welcome. Sid leaned down and kissed Jules on the lips to show the complete abandonment of the time and place.

There was no need for Jules to prepare his cock. It was already at full attention and was dripping precum. The young Sumatran girl gave a little giggle and came up on her knees. She took Jules's cock in her hand and straddled his thighs with her own and guided him inside her. She was deep and moist and her passage walls were undulating around Jules's cock. She flung her arms around his waist and began to rock back and forth on his cock with her hips. He joined in that motion and buried his face between the fragrant mounds of her pert, full breasts. The girl gave a little lurch and a gasp and Jules looked up to see that Sid was crouched behind her and obviously had entered her ass with his cock. The three of them rocked on and on and on as Jules's two companions gave small, satisfied exclamations and muttered to each other happily in the sing song tones of the Indonesian language.

Jules and Sid came almost simultaneously and the Sumatran girl cried out her satisfaction of having been doubly ridden and filled. She was the first to move. She extracted herself from the two young men and smiled and chattered to them in low, silky tones as she, rewrapped her colorful sarong around her waist and backed away to a place where she had left a water jug. And then she turned and disappeared into the jungle.

Jules and Sid sat there, on their haunches, facing each other. Jules knew he should feel satisfied. But he wasn't. He wanted possession. He wanted mastery. He wanted to win over the elements and other men. Women were fine, but men were equal adversaries. They were what he needed to master.

Sid gave him a little smile and started to rise and reach for his own sarong. Searing passion flashed through Jules's brain, though. With a cry, he came up onto the balls of his feet and grabbed Sid by his hips and turned him and pushed him down on top of his spread sarong on all fours. Then, crouching behind and above him, Jules thrust his still-engorged dick inside Sid's ass and rode him hard, fucking him like a dog, until Sid collapsed to the ground underneath him, gasping and groaning and moaning. Jules followed him to the ground, grinding his cock deep inside the young Sumatran, while his prey, his majestic elk, writhed under him and whimpered for relief. At last, Jules spouted off deep inside the Sumatran houseboy, who just lay there panting, a big smile on his face, as Jules rose, rewrapped his sarong and turned and walked back up the beach with strong, proud strides.

* * *

"Excellent, excellent. Ready to be published. Sure to win an award," Arthur Brolin was crowing with pride and full satisfaction after reading Jules's rewrite of a story of the elk stag the following day. Once more they were sitting at the low table at the palm-tree edge of the beach and watching a gingerly treading Sid cast his net in the incoming tide of the Indian Ocean. This time, however, Jules was cuddled into Brolin's lap, his back to Brolin's chest, and Brolin's cock deep inside his student. Brolin was rocking his pelvis gently back and forth in rhythm with the rustling of the wind through the palm fronds overhead, and Jules was doing his best to concentrate. He'd give Brolin is enjoyment for now. But before the year was over, Jules was determined that Brolin would be begging for Jules to fuck him—and Jules would only be doing so when it pleased him.

In Jules's rewrite, his protagonist, now named Pete, had tracked a mighty elk stag up in the snowy and rocky reaches above the timberline of the Wyoming Grand Tetons for days until both he and the elk were near exhaustion. When he finally cornered the elk, he found that an Indian brave had been hunting it as well and had fallen while notching his arrow to launch against the beast, which was upon him, lashing at him with his antlers. Pete had shot the elk, but it hadn't died. And then Pete's rifle had locked up and the wounded elk had pawed the ground and lowered its fourteen-point rack and charged the hunter, forcing him to the ground and piercing him again and again with the sharp points of his antlers. Pete had fought back with his bare hands, helped by a weakened and bloodied Indian brave, and Pete had, in the end, killed the elk. The Indian and the White hunter had briefly stared at each other, taking each other's measure, prepared to take the struggle to its ultimate conclusion. But in the end, the Indian had bowed to Pete's mastery of the elk. The brave had gone off with the hide, but he had insisted on the ascendance of the White hunter, and Pete had its head hanging over his fireplace and the Indian brave's turquoise-beaded breastplate lying on the mantel.

"You are ready to write your novel of man against the elements and of male bonding now," the teacher said, his voice full of approval. "And I know it will strike a note in an America just opening up to its destiny of mastery of the world. Jules Kincaid will soon be a household name."

"Not Jules Kincaid," the student said quietly. "From now on I will be J. Harvey Kincaid."

And J. Harvey Kincaid wrote his novel of the great American west, full of its symbolism of a new, resource and space rich nation coming into its own and possessing and mastering everything in its wake as it reached out to embrace the world. And when his first novel won the Pulitzer Prize, he kept writing the story over and over and over again. And the depth of his theme and the richness of his imagery increased manifold as he lived life on his own terms and sank into being his theme.

And before the year ended, Brolin would be begging to be fucked by Jules, and Jules had met and mastered and possessed many of Sid's Sumatran friends.