Tan Lines

I shuddered after an eternity. "If you don't stop that . . . I think I'm going to—"

"Yes, I want you to. Come for me. We have all day."

Trembling and with a little cry and a long sigh, I shot a load.

Jack gave a low laugh. "Sweet. Good. Now give me attention."

He put his hands on my sides under my arm pits and turned me onto my back with my head arched over the foot of the bed. I let him move me into the position he desired. The bulb of his erection was at my lips and I let him in and work his way into my throat. I couldn't see where his tan lines were, but I had memorized where they hit while we were in the beach bath house. I moved my hands to his waist and then traced where I would expect the tan lines to be with my fingers while I deep-throated his shaft as he faced fucked me with it.

He came up onto the edge of the mattress on his knees, and leaned over my body, and for a few minutes we were sixty-nining and playing each other with our fingers. He didn't let me suck him off. He reversed position above me, and I moaned and stroked myself off as me now traced the tan lines on my belly with the bulb of his cock, holding it in his hand and moving in back and forth across the tan line, dragging it through his precum. With a jerk and a little cry, I came again in my hand.

He put me back in the same position I was in when he entered the room. He stood behind me between my calves. I heard the snap of the condom being position on his cock. Then his hands were gripping my waist, his bulb was pressing at my hole.

And then he fucked me.

Later, when we were lying on the bed, both looking at the late afternoon shadows from the window playing on the sloping ceiling of the room, I began to fret a bit. I had enjoyed it—much more than I thought I would. It was better than any other casual sex I'd had. The fetish of playing the tan lines added arousal and satisfaction to the fuck. He was good at it. He was my age or younger. I was used to older men. He had ridden me virtually into the sunset, with vigor and sustaining power.

I had been fucked.

What now, though? Would he roll off the bed, tell me something that would let me think it was as good for him as it was for me—or, worse, not comment on it at all? Would he shower, closing the door to the bathroom, come out dressed, and tell me to have a good time for the rest of my vacation, making no effort to set up another hookup or take my cell number, and then just leave?

As I was thinking this, he rolled over and sat on the side of the bed.

"That was one hell of a good lay," he said. He turned to me and let his fingers play at the tan line on my lower belly.

My spirits soared and then swooped down again. We'd already established this was just a here and now hookup, no more. But that was before he'd fucked me.

"Let's shower and then go back to the Martini Beach," he said. "I have to work a couple of hours, but you wouldn't get bored. They have a tan lines contest going tonight. I think you should enter. You'd do well."

"You really think so?" I asked.

"I really think so," he answered.

"Well, even if I don't get in the contest, I'd be happy to see what the life is like here at the beach at night."

He got off the bed and went into the bathroom. He didn't close the door. He pissed in the toilet and then I heard the shower start. A few seconds later he appeared at the bathroom door. "Well, are you coming? I thought you understood we'd shower together—and mess around some more."

My spirits soared again. Messing around was Jack fucking me up against the tiled wall of the shower, under the cascading water, my knees hooked on his hips.

I did enter the tan lines contest, which was done completely in the nude to get the full effect of the contrast between tanned and not tanned. I took third place. It was obvious that some other guys lived at the beach here and took tanning very, very seriously. I think I did as well as I did because I was new to the clientele at the bar.

Afterward, Jack and four other guys showed me the upstairs of the club. There were rooms for playtime. One was big enough to hold all six of us, all having glorious tans and quite satisfactory erections, all of which got quite a workout. There were only two bottoms to four tops, so I and another guy got worked hard.

When I woke the next morning, I was in a double bed with mussed-up sheets in an unfamiliar bedroom. The sound of the shower starting in the adjacent bathroom must have been what woke me. The door was open, and as I was rubbing my eyes and bringing them into focus, Jack, naked, appeared at the bathroom door. "Good, you're awake. I thought we'd shower together again."

He was still drying off in the bathroom, when I came out and reached down for my T-shirt and shorts, laying in a pile by the bed. We'd already settled that he was late to go somewhere and that I could go ahead and leave.

"I should get out on the beach sometime today," he said from the bathroom while I dressed. "We'll see each other there."

"Yeah, sure," I said. On impulse I took something from my wallet and slipped into his wallet in the pocket of the shorts he had left by the bed the previous night. I had ascertained this was his room for the summer and it was a short three-block walk back to the beach.

I sat on the beach most of the day, watching the muscled-up studs go by and another volleyball game be played. There weren't as many deeply tanned guys out on the beach this day as there had been the previous one and it got overcast in the afternoon, so I went back to my room and sacked out. I'd gotten quite a workout the previous day. I didn't see Jack on the beach, he didn't come to find me in my room, and he wasn't at the Martini Beach that night.

I did hookup with a black guy at Martini Beach who said he'd seen the tan line competition the previous night, and I did bring him back to my room. He was a bull and liked my mouth work, and he fucked me. It was a good fuck, but, of course, there was no tan line fetish involved, and I was becoming obsessed with that.

Two weeks later, in Philadelphia, on a Saturday afternoon, Jack called me on my cellphone. What I had slipped into his wallet was a note saying, "It doesn't have to end if you don't want it to," giving my full name, cellphone number, and address in Philly.

"Hi, it's me, Jack, from the Cape May beach weekend. Do you remember—?"

"I don't think I could forget you, Jack," I said.

"You forgot your third-place trophy," he said. "I found it in my bedroom. I could send it to you . . . or maybe bring it over."

"Now, can you come over now? I know we both said we weren't interest in casual, but . . ."

"I could do that, yes," he answered. "Who says it has to be casual?"

My sentiments exactly.

"I'm on the fourth floor. Turn left off the elevator, and I'm the last door on the left. The door will be unlocked. I think you know where to find me after that."

I was a realist. I knew I was at the beck and call of my boss, Talbot, but I could retain a bit of control. I could have Jack and anyone else I wanted on the side—as long as we enjoyed the same fetishes.

I watched for him from a window and when I saw him enter the building, I went to the entry door and unlocked it and slit it open. Then I went into the bedroom, climbed up on the bed, on my knees, butt facing the bedroom door, cheek and chest pressed to the sheets, and waited for Jack to find and mount me.