"And I don't believe there's any place like Bar Harbor in the late summer. There's a beach just below my family cottage there where some of the hottest men come that time of the year. You'd fit in very well there. So, we really must . . ."
Tim was looking out on the street from where he and Howard were sitting at the sidewalk café on Wisconsin Avenue. There was a man across the busy-traffic street, in front of the Bethesda Residence Inn, who was walking two Cavalier spaniels. Slender figure, but broad shoulders. Straight as a ramrod. Tim bet the man kept his body in great shape and was doing well with the battle against time. Expensive-looking suit. He looked almost European. Gray sideburns but his hair still auburn on top—and every hair in place. He reeked of money—and of exquisite taste, given the choice in dogs. Tim liked pedigreed dogs. He liked pedigreed men too—and older. Not too old to cock well, but a bit past forty at least.
Tim imagined the man stripped down to a Speedo and playing with his dogs in the surf on a beach—somewhere up north, Maine maybe. But while it was still warm enough to swim in the ocean. He liked the cut of the man, slender at the waist, but a well-muscled chest and biceps—at least that's how Tim imagined him. Hair on the chest, but in an intriguing cascade down from underneath both pecs, down a flat belly, and curling into the low-rise waistband of the blue Speedo. Salt and pepper hair. A nice bulge at the basket and good, strong, firm legs. Tim bet the man ran regularly.
* * * *
The beach was one of those exclusive places that rich residents of weathered wood-shingled, rambling mansions they called their weekend cottages banded together to keep for the use of a small tight community that only appeared from the city three or four times a year. The houses lined a bluff well above the sandy beach, and if you stretched your towel out where Tim envisioned he had, you could be in the sun but away from the prying eyes on the decks of the houses above. It was a place where there was hardly any beach traffic during the week—mainly the servants in the houses above with nothing to do for weeks on end until receiving notice that the masters of the house would be there. Tim only thought of the male servants. The women would be busy actually doing something—too busy to come down to the beach. These were mainly chauffeurs and gardeners and handymen—hot young men who shared the secret of cushy, nondemanding jobs with their fuck buddies. They were mostly what could be seen on this beach during the week. And then young men like Tim who had heard of the hot men on this private beach and sneaked in for some action of their own.
Tim is lying on his towel, his attention split between the elegant older man playing with his Cavalier spaniels in the surf and two young men up the beach, who have laid out one large towel and are already stretched along each other's bodies, facing each other, and kissing and touching. Other than these men, the beach is deserted. And such a beautiful, sunny, warm day. It is a wasted week day—well, for everyone but Tim and these other guys on the beach. No doubt the beautiful weather wouldn't hold into the weekend when at least a few of the "cottages" above would be occupied.
Tim has taken off his own bathing suit, seeking that all-over tan. He's turned toward the ocean, sitting, with legs spread and forearms on raised knees. The older man in the surf turns and looks at him and then up the beach at the couple, where Speedos have already been shucked and the two are turned to each other on their sides, the hands of both of them busy between their bodies, their lips plastered to each other.
The man smiles and starts to walk toward Tim. Tim spreads his legs further and reaches down and cups his balls and cock with a hand, giving the man a sultry smile. The man stops on the beach at the line where the surf reaches its highest, a line changing from the dark tan of wet sand to the dry, white sand of the upper beach, a line demarcated by a band of small, mostly broken up sea shells. There, in that spot, the man slowly strips off his Speedo, and Tim swallows hard and moans at the sight of how beautiful the man's body is and how well-equipped he is. All power and grace, aged extremely well. As the man stands there, Tim goes to half erection, lifting it in his cupped hand as it lengthens and thickens so the man at the tide's edge gets a good view of Tim's arousal. Then he arches his torso back and spreads his legs wider and gives the man a saucy little look.
The Cavalier spaniels are bounding happily around the man as he starts to walk again, slowly, but deliberately, toward Tim. As the man reaches Tim, he kneels on the towel between Tim's spread legs and buries his fists in the sand at each side of Tim's chest. They hold there momentarily, staring into each other's eyes, conveying just what each wants. Then the man dips his face down to Tim's and Tim opens his lips for the kiss and sighs at the sweet taste of the man's mouth.
After a sweet kiss, the man's face moves further down and his mouth closes over Tim's cock. Tim sighs and closes his eyes.
The spaniels lay down at each side of the blanket and start panting happily. Tim hears the panting but takes a few moments to realize that it isn't just the spaniels. He is panting as well. The man's face is back, pressing into Tim's, and his tongue invades Tim's mouth and moves in and out, deeper into the cavity with each renewed invasion. More insistent, more brutal, more possessing. Fucking Tim's mouth cavity with his tongue. Tim gags and is finding it hard to breathe, but he doesn't want the man to stop. He opens his mouth as wide as he can, wanting the man to climb inside and take him completely.
One of the man's hands is wrapped around Tim's cock and is squeezing and stroking it. Tim moans and moves his hands around to the man's back, palming his shoulder blades and pulling the man's torso down to his chest, seeking to merge their bodies, make them one. The man's now fully erect and very proud cock is rubbing up and down on Tim's belly and is dueling with Tim's own cock. He traps both cocks with a hand and strokes them together.
No lover like an experienced lover, Tim thinks as he jerks and ejaculates for the first time. And only an experienced lover knows that there is more to come, if properly coaxed.
The man pulls away from fucking Tim's mouth with his tongue and his mouth moves down to the hollow of Tim's neck, where his tongue traces the throbbing vein there. Tim looks over toward the other men on the beach to see that one is on his belly on the towel and the other has mounted him, straddling his hips between his legs. His hands are on the other man's shoulder blades and his bulbous buttocks are flexing and releasing and moving languidly back and forth between the other man's cheeks.
Tim's own man has moved his lips to Tim's nipples, but his dick is still stroking Tim's belly.
Tim moans and whispers something and the man whispers back. Tim reaches over into the beach bag beside the blanket. One of the spaniels leans his muzzle over to Tim's hand, and he licks the tip of Tim's finger. Tim smiles and pets the spaniel on the muzzle but then he jerks a bit and arches his back and lets out a moan. The spaniel has turned his muzzle away. There is another tongue giving Tim attention, though. The man has moved down and wrapped his strong arms around Tim's thighs and parted and lifted them and his tongue is invading Tim's ass channel.
Tim turns his head to guide his hand into his beach bag in search of the condoms and lubricant he has placed there. The young men down the beach are going at it hot and heavy now, the dominating man having brought the other up on his knees and wrapped his arms around the other's chest. The bottom has arched his back into the chest of the top and reached back and cupped the back of the head of his assaulter. The top is banging the bottom hard in loud, slapping sounds that reach their way to Tim on the sea breeze along with the cries of the young man being deep fucked.
The cries of passion are becoming louder, more distinct, and in stereo. It takes Tim a moment to realize that some of those cries are his, as the man is crouched over his chest again, his cock head has gained entry inside Tim's channel, and his hard tool is beginning to thrust deeper, harder, deeper, harder, deeper . . .
* * * *
". . . and the yacht's just up in Baltimore. We could take the sea route to Bar Harbor. I've just had the vessel refurbished. I think you'd really like what I've done with the captain's cabin. There are mirrors—even over the bed, and . . ."
"Uh huh, nice," Tim murmured. He could feel the toes of Howard's socked foot nudging up under the hem of his trousers and rubbing against his shin.
Tim had first met Howard at the law firm where Tim, still in law school, was clerking. Howard apparently was some sort of important client—at least everyone had been told to hup to on that day when Howard came in. There were more senior partners sitting at hopeful attention in the conference room that day than Tim had ever seen there before.
They had been at it—all with their coats off and looking like they were in a disaster-relief planning session, all except for Howard Crandal, who sat there in his expensive three-piece suit, cut to his brawny, Zeus-like body, and perfectly groomed gray hair and manicured nails on his beefy, gold-banded fingers, looking all tanned and relaxed. The disaster relief image had come to Tim's mind because that's what he'd heard one senior partner tell another that they would have to do around here if they lost the Crandal account.
Tim had been called from the file room with some files they needed in the conference room. As he walked across the floor to the head of the table, where the managing partner was sitting, Tim felt Howard Crandal's eyes follow him. He thought he recognized that look.
He became sure he had correctly assessed the look Crandal had given him in the law firm's conference room more than a week later when Tim next saw Crandal.
Law school was expensive and Tim had expensive habits. It was a good thing he was a looker and had a great body too, because he was using that in a second job to make ends meet.
Tim was a dancer in the Green Lantern, a gay bar off Wisconsin Avenue, on the outskirts of the town of Bethesda that had been swallowed by the creeping tentacles of the greater Washington, D.C., metropolitan area. Tim danced a pole in a G-string on a small stage there for three sets a night, two nights a week. He also, if everything seemed right, would let a patron fuck him in one of the cubicles behind the stage between sets. He made more money these two nights than he did from his part-time job at the law firm. It all helped to keep him in law school—and, he thought, was better than what most of the other students were doing to stay in school. And he didn't have parents who would subsidize him.
One of the other dancers asked him one night how he could do this, considering what he wanted to do in life and, in particular, how he could let some of the older guys who came to the club fuck him. Tim thought on that for days before tracking the other dancer down and telling him that, first, he liked older guys fucking him. But, beyond that, if they were slobs and for those times he was dancing the pole and guys were wolf whistling and making suggestions and touching him wherever they could reach before a bouncer intervened, Tim just turned his mind off and thought of being someplace else and doing something else. He just drifted off into oblivion. The other dancer just gave Tim a funny look, no doubt having forgotten he even asked. But Tim was studying for the law. He liked to pin things down—when he wasn't daydreaming, of course.
Howard Crandal and he had encountered each other for the second time because Crandal had come into the Green Lantern while Tim was doing one of his stints on the pole. They didn't do more than make eye contact and both do a double take at seeing each other in this venue, but at that instant, Tim remembered the look Crandal had given him while he walked the carpet alongside the conference table back at the law firm, and Tim knew what Crandal was and what he wanted.
So, when Tim went back to the dressing room at the end of his last set, he wasn't at all surprised to see the message sent backstage to him—in pen on a bar napkin—proposing that Tim go have a coffee with Crandal at the outdoor café across the street from the Bethesda Residence Inn the next afternoon at 3:00 p.m. Crandal was definitely in Tim's zone of good-looking, well-built, rich old guys, so he'd shown up as scheduled.
It wasn't a real good venue for Tim. He had a hard time focusing when there was a lot going on around him, and Wisconsin Avenue in Bethesda in the midafternoon was one very busy place.
He smiled at Crandal, who smiled back at him and augmented the toe rubbing on Tim's calf with a hand dropped to Tim's thigh.
"The bed I had put into the owner's cabin is king sized and it has a vibrator. Those aren't as popular as they once were. I can't really understand why . . ."
"Um humm," Tim murmured. The man walking his Cavalier spaniels across the street had moved on now, but Tim felt someone watching their table, and when he looked back toward the door into the café's interior space he saw that there was a young, handsome guy about his own age, looking intently at he and Howard from just the next table and taking in everything Crandal was talking about with a funny, intense look on his face.
But there, beyond that guy, Tim's eyes focused on the host at the reservations table just outside the door into the café. He was maybe in his late forties. Tall, well-muscled. Sort of a Greek look about him. And dressed in some sort of uniform.
" . . . has a full crew, so we wouldn't even have to come up for air before we'd passed Long Island," Crandal was saying.
"Yes, interesting," Tim offered.
* * * *
They had exchanged looks even as Tim was walking up the gangplank onto the cruise ship he was taking out of Baltimore Harbor for a long weekend cruise to Bermuda. The officers of the crew were standing in a long line of pristine-white uniforms on the rail three decks above the gangplank. The one with the most gold braiding on his uniform caught Tim's eye, and they exchanged interested glances in a way that Tim had learned to recognize oh so well.
Even then it was a surprise to Tim when he received the invitation to sit at the Captain's table on the first night out to sea. The captain turned out to be that man who had been wearing the most gold braiding on his uniform that afternoon while the passengers were embarking.
The captain was tall and well-built. He was maybe in his late forties and had the look of a Greek god about him, a mature one, though, a regular Zeus. He certainly was in full command on this ship. The rest of the crew seemed to scuttle around doing his bidding without him even having to give a verbal command.
Tim is sitting beside him at the table, obviously a place of honor, and the other passengers at the table are looking speculatively at Tim, wondering what manufacturing mogul he's the son of. Tim feels the socked toe work itself under the hem of his trousers and move up and rub against his shin. When Tim feels a strong hand squeezing his thigh, he turns his face toward the captain, who is giving him a piercing look.
"After dinner I will show you the captain's cabin and we will fuck." It is whispered in Tim's ear, but it isn't a request. Tim knows it's a command. Two of the captain's officers are standing near the captain's table and giving Tim a look that tells him in no uncertain terms that out here on the open seas the captain will have what he wants.
Tim stops inside the door into the captain's cabin and is caught short, standing there in awe. Facing him is the foot of a gigantic four-poster bed, set in an alcove. What catches his attention, though are the mirrors—on the walls on each side wall of the alcove, on the back wall, and even on the ceiling above the bed.
He shudders and leans back into the captain, who is standing close in behind him, kissing him in the hollow of his neck, his arms wrapped around Tim, and his hands working the buttons on Tim's shirt and then the buckle and zipper of his trousers. And then his cock. Holding Tim there and stroking his cock, both of them watching in the mirrors, until Tim ejaculates.
The captain is standing over Tim, the gold braid once cascading down the front and sides of his pristine-white jacket now binding Tim's wrists to the headboard above Tim's head and his ankles high up on the posters at the bottom of the bed. The captain is naked from the waist down, a gigantic erect phallus curving up from his belly. He's still wearing his jacket, but it is open in front, revealing a deep, strong-muscled chest.
The captain is asking how Tim likes his chest. Has he ever seen such a barrel chest, the captain asks. He says it's because he is a champion swimmer, that it has given him the breath power and stamina to go for hours. He says Tim will like that, and he laughs and Tim cries out as the captain's cock breaches Tim's channel ring, and the captain starts to breath in and out and stroke in and out, in and out, in long, deep, rhythmic strokes, making Tim imagine he is in a scull listening to the rhythmic cadence of the strokeman's call.
The world is in motion, and it takes Tim several moments to realize that they haven't hit rough seas but that the bed itself is vibrating. The captain is grinning down at him and stroking to the rhythm of the vibrating bed, digging deeper and deeper, the cadence picking up. Tim ejaculating again and begging for mercy, but none coming. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Thump, thump, thump.
* * * *
"Sir, sir, are you all right. Are you having a seizure of some sort? Should we call someone?"
Tim returned to full consciousness, suddenly aware that he was gripping the table top with white-knuckled fists and thumping it up and down on the brick surface of the outdoor café. The waitress also was gripping the table top, trying to hold it steady and to keep the china on top of it from tumbling to the ground.
"Sir, are you OK?" the waitress repeated. When Tim loosened his grip on the table top, so did she, and she handed forth a table check. "Sir, the older gentlemen said you'd take care of the tab for the coffees. Are you OK now?"
Tim turned his head this way and that way, fighting to bring his focus back to the sidewalk café on Wisconsin Avenue. Howard Crandal was gone from the table now—as was the handsome young man who had been so attentive at the neighboring table.
He took the check from the waitress, but he couldn't stand up for several minutes. He found that he had ejaculated in his trousers and was still half hard.