Surfer Boys Read online

  “Oh, fuck…oh, fuck…oh, yeah…that feels so fucking good up my ass. On my dick. Up my ass. All over. Fuck me now. Fuck me now!”

  He was obviously feeling the same urgency as me, begging me for dick. I stared down at his tanned, arched, broad, and muscular back. His milky white buttcheeks squirmed, with four fingers working in and out of the distended, well-stretched slot.

  All at once I realized it was too exciting to rush. Instead of ramming my cock up that gooey surfer-boy hole, I prolonged the nasty moment. I probed deeper with my fingers, feeling his two digits beside mine, twisting and exploring just as eagerly. I pumped his fat sausage and tugged on his plump balls. He squirmed and moaned and continued to beg me to fuck him.

  My own cock reared up purple and eager between us. I rubbed the sticky head all over his smooth buttcheeks while I toyed with his asshole and boner. That really got the little fucker begging. His dreamy blue eyes came wide open as he stared back at my lengthy pole. I could tell he was imagining all eleven inches reaming him out.

  “Time to fuck,” I finally agreed.

  I pulled my fingers out of his asshole, a squishy slurp following them. He had two of his own fingers still up there, rooting around lustily. I decided to just add my cock to the gooey mess without any more dicking around. The puckered lips oozed cream, his fingers plunging in and out. I thrust forward, impaling him with half my meat in one deep jab.

  “Oh, my fucking gawd! Oh, my fucking asshole!”

  His squeal was fucking music to my ears. I heard my own maniacal laughter wafting away in the breeze. My cock was wrapped in heated, pulsing anus. It was awesome.

  I drilled the fucker all over his own surfboard. I held him by his plump, firm cheeks and fucked him. The waves beat against the shore below us, and the wind whipped all around us. But the sun was warm, and our own passion burned. The juncture of his asshole and my cock was a fulcrum of slippery, gooey flesh.

  The sexy punk kept his own fingers up his butthole as we fucked, pulling the slot open for my plunging boner and twisting them around to add that extra measure of pleasure he obviously required. The tight little fucker was obviously a bottomless slut!

  My hips slapped his in a relentless steady rhythm. My cock rammed home and pulled out, poised at the sloppy entrance, then drove to the balls again, in and out. I fucked faster and harder, driving the full length of my boner up into his churning slot.

  “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck my ass,” he chanted over and over.

  “Take my cock up your sweet little slot! Take it all the way, you little slut!”

  “I want it! Yeah! I want more! Faster! Harder.”

  “Open up that hole! Yeah! Spread your legs and take cock up that surfer ass!”

  We egged each other on like that until the sweat was flying from my forehead and I was pummelling him full force. The friction of his moist hole and swollen asslips grew hotter. My cock felt like it was on fire. I slammed faster. I bit my lip, tossed my head back and howled. Cum boiled up out of me like a river of lava.

  I pulled out of his ass and shot everywhere. With gasping moans, I held on to him to steady myself as my cock jerked and cum splattered his sweaty butt and arched back. I stared down at him, his fingers still plunging in and out of his just-fucked hole. Gooey cream oozed from the swollen slot.

  “I gotta get off. Finger my hole ’til I shoot!”

  He rolled over onto his back, lifting his thighs and moaning. My head was spinning, but I managed to lean forward and grasp his ankles in one hand. I crammed three fingers up his gooey maw. “Ooohhh!” he screamed.

  His wet hole convulsed around all those fingers, and he furiously beat his own fat boner. His ass was flushed and covered in sweat and cream and jizz. He squirmed beneath me, his ass humping and twisting around the fingers buried up it.

  He shot. He lifted his butt right up off the surfboard and sprayed. A stream of white stuff rocketed out to splatter his chest, chin, and lips. He laughed and snorted for air all at once.

  I rammed my fingers deep, more cum flying from his cock in response. Then I pulled out and leaned back to stare down at him. He jerked and twitched as his cock oozed the last of its pent-up load. He probed his own creamy asshole with two fingers.

  He gazed up at me with glazed, satiated eyes and a crooked smirk. “That was some fuck. But can you do it again?”

  He was a nasty little fucker!

  But so was I.

  BLUE GREEN

  Shane Allison

  Jamal thrashed about in the water struggling to keep his head above it, waving his arms to keep the water at bay. He couldn’t breathe as it filled his nose and lungs. The ocean was a merciless bitch that was much too strong even for his husky brawn.

  “Help!” he hollered. “Somebody!” He felt himself being carried out. He was much too weak for the ocean’s strength. Jamal was starting to give in until he felt arms around his belly tugging him out of death’s jaws. It was light again. His eyes were red and flushed. Jamal was coughing, struggling for air. His arms floated limp, lifeless like some thrift store baby doll. He squinted into the sun’s harsh rays as he felt himself being hauled onto his rescuer’s surf board.

  Am I dead? Is this heaven? he wondered.

  “You’re going to be all right,” said a voice of safety and reassurance. Jamal’s savior was a redheaded beauty with eyes as blue as the waters he was being pulled out of, and a face peppered with freckles. Jamal was a big-bellied sight floating on the redhead’s board as the other youth guided him to the soft shoulder of the shore.

  “Are you an angel?” Jamal asked. The redhead didn’t respond to Jamal’s query. You’d have thought he was from heaven the way the day’s light hit his face just so. When they reached the shallow end of the beach, he pulled Jamal to shore.

  The heels of Jamal’s feet dragged along cold, wet sand as he coughed up spurts of water. His hero turned him on his side, and people on the beach started to gather. Overweight mothers in one-piece bathing suits, water trickling off their cellulite thighs, kids holding neon orange and pink plastic buckets filled with sand, and braces-faced youth watched from a distance. Old men with sagging skin and varicose veins watched in shock and awe. The redheaded surfer hovered over him, water trundling off his boyish face. His head shielded Jamal from the sun, and he was able to make out his freckled mug. He reached up and touched him.

  “What happened?”

  “Dude, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you,” said the surfer. He reached down and took Jamal’s hand. “I’m Chuck.”

  “Jamal.”

  “You hold on, Jamal. Help is on the way.”

  Two female paramedics arrived a few minutes later. “Please. Everybody stand back. Give us some room,” said the older paramedic as she held her stethoscope to Jamal’s chest, monitoring his heartbeat while her younger partner wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around his arm.

  She pressed the bulb until the cuff started to balloon. “One ten over eighty,” she said when the gauge had registered.

  “I’m fine,” Jamal insisted. “Ain’t no need for any fuss. I just need to catch my breath.” He tried to sit up, but the paramedics refused to let him.

  “Sir, please, we need you to lie still.” The older woman pressed Jamal back down onto the support of the surfboard.

  “Sir, we’re going to take you to the hospital, okay?” the older woman said.

  “Why? So y’all can charge me out the ass just to take an X-ray? Uh-uh, no.” Jamal sat up off the board.

  “Sir. Please. We just want to get you checked out. Make sure you don’t have any internal injuries.”

  “Dude, let them do their job,” said the surfer, placing his hand on Jamal’s shoulder.

  “Are you the one who pulled him out?” asked the younger paramedic.

  “Yeah, I hit him with my board.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Chuck Huddleston. Is he going to be all right?”

  “He should be fine. He may just have a mild concu
ssion. We’re taking him to the hospital.”

  Chuck looked at Jamal and said, “Let them do their job.”

  “Fine, but I’m not staying overnight.” His granddaddy had gone thousands of dollars in debt while he was on his deathbed. Jamal wasn’t about to let that happen to him. He was used to going to the free clinic if he had so much as a sore throat. The paramedics returned with a stretcher, rolling it through thick, wet beach sand. The paramedics strained to his weight as they lifted Jamal onto the gurney. They strapped him in and rolled him to the ambulance. He cocked his head looking for the stranger that had saved him from a near-death experience, but Chuck was nowhere to be found. Jamal figured he must have gotten scared and left.

  Jamal was released from the hospital that same day with a clean bill of health. The next day he was back at the beach, looking for the red-haired surfer. He couldn’t get his mind off of Chuck. He wondered if the handsome surfer lived in Pensacola, if he had a boyfriend.

  He probably ain’t even gay, dumb-ass, he said to himself. He didn’t see Chuck until he was standing in line at the refreshment stand. It was hot as hell, and he could feel the sweat dripping from his armpits, trickling down his back. Looking over to the other side of the stand, he saw Chuck in line there and walked over. “Hey,” he said, as he tapped Chuck on the arm.

  “Hey, how’s it going? How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health. No broken bones.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad,” said Chuck.

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank you before for saving my life.”

  “It was nothing. Anyone would have done it.”

  “Not anyone. I probably wouldn’t be standing here today if it wasn’t for you.”

  “I shouldn’t have been surfing so close to where people were swimming,” Chuck said.

  “It’s my fault for being such a shitty swimmer.”

  “You know I give lessons to kids over at the Y. I could teach you a few things.”

  “Wouldn‘t that be weird? You wouldn’t want parents to think that I’m some kind of perv.”

  “It’ll be a private lesson. Why don’t you stop by tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t know.” Jamal looked at Chuck with squinted eyes, sweat beading his forehead.

  “C’mon. It’ll be fun. Besides. It’s the least I can do for cold-cocking you with my board.”

  “Okay,” Jamal said, smiling.

  “Cool. See you next week.”

  Jamal watched him walk away, his eyes on Chuck’s ass snug under the skin of his wet suit. He spent the day watching Chuck riding the waves like they were blue-green horses. Butterflies fluttered around in his gut every time he thought about Chuck, wondering if the red-haired surfer had invited him for a swim lesson—or for something more.

  On Thursday night, before he left for the Y, Jamal stood naked before the mirror of his medicine cabinet. He hated his body, how he had let it go eating all that greasy Chinese food. He thought of what the triple-meat cheeseburgers did to him when his man-boobs kissed every time he pushed them together. He ran his fingers along the stretch marks that decorated his love handles. They were the reason he always wore baggy T-shirts to the beach.

  His face was round, and he could pinch an inch on the second chin that was coming in. I hate myself. Just wish I could cut myself out of this body.

  Jamal’s dick was short and soft. Seven inches when fully hard, and no complaints from the men who blew it. “Not too big, not too small,” they would say. Jamal’s balls hung high, perfect for guys who liked to roll them around in their mouths.

  He stood in the shower wishing the hot water would melt his fat away. He had tried every diet, even those advertised in infomercials. He never did much in the way of exercising, unless you counted lifting the fork from the plate to his mouth.

  When he got out of the shower, he made sure everything was perfect. The way he carried on, you would think he was getting ready to go out on a date. He sprayed on enough Axe Factory to put an elephant down, then worked himself into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He grabbed his Mighty Mouse beach towel from the dryer along with a six-pack of cheapo beer from the fridge.

  When he got to the Y, the only car in the lot was a candy-apple red Camaro. He plucked his towel and the beer out of the backseat of his Explorer, then entered through the set of double glass doors that read PENSACOLA YMCA in big, plastic blue and white lettering.

  Jamal walked onto the pool deck with the six-pack of booze and his towel thrown over his shoulder. Chuck was swimming laps, cutting the aqua-blue water with his long, muscle-bound limbs. Jamal was enamored with how beautifully Chuck swam. He stood at the edge of the pool and watched him, watching the way the water washed over pecs and abs. Chuck stopped when he got to the end, sticking his head above the water.

  “Hey, you made it,” he said.

  “I brought beer. I hope that’s cool.”

  “Beer is always cool,” he smiled.

  Jamal sat next to him, working his legs into the pool. Chuck lifted himself out next to Jamal. He watched as water trickled down his chest, arms, and back, wet red hairs lying down his legs. Jamal handed him a beer.

  They pushed up the tabs from their respective cans.

  “Cheers,” said Chuck. They tapped them together in unison and took a sip.

  “You look good in there,” said Jamal.

  “Thanks. It’s great for upper body strength. But I still have a long ways to go before I hit pro.” Chuck took another sip from his beer. “So how ’bout it? You ready to jump in?”

  “I guess so,” said Jamal. They set their beers down and climbed in.

  “You’re not going to take off your shirt?” Chuck asked.

  “I’m going to leave it on.” There was no way Jamal was exposing his fat stomach to this gorgeous guy. He ventured out in the water until he could no longer feel his feet touch bottom.

  “We’ll start off with the backstroke,” Chuck said. He swam alongside Jamal, their arms grazing. “To start, float on your back in a horizontal position.” Chuck helped him to turn over, and he felt Chuck’s fingers tickling the back of his neck. “Good. Now kick your legs up and down. Keep ’em straight, but not entirely rigid. Good, yeah. Point your toes out.”

  Jamal tried to process all of this new information while doing what Chuck instructed.

  “You’re doing great. Pivot at your waist, rotate your shoulders, and windmill your arms. Good. Keep one arm straight as you raise it out of the water from your waist. Your hand should always enter the water pinky-first. Keep your head floating.”

  Jamal loved being touched by Chuck, feeling those fingers like feathers fluttering along his skin. “Keep looking up and breathe. You’re doing fine. We’re almost at the other end.”

  By then, Jamal was growing tired, his arms and legs getting heavy. “You okay?” Chuck asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Jamal smiled. His lips were so close to Chuck’s, he could have reached over and kissed them, but Jamal was afraid he would lose his concentration and that Chuck too, would lose his. They made it to the other end of the pool, where they relaxed, floating at the edge.

  Once again, their faces were close to each other, and this time Jamal took the chance, kissing Chuck. Strong. Hard. Then he quickly pried himself away. He waited to be yelled at, called a queer or faggot, or worse, take a punch in the mouth.

  “I’m sorry. Shit. I’m sorry.”

  Jamal swam awkwardly to the corner of the pool and pulled himself out. He couldn’t look at Chuck, but he felt the surfer’s baby blues on him. He was embarrassed, grabbing his towel to cover the erection that had grown in his shorts.

  Chuck swam over to the same corner and climbed out, not saying anything. Jamal still waited for words that stabbed and broke. He was prepared to block a fist to his round, fat face, but all Chuck said was, “I’ll get the beer.”

  Jamal wanted to haul ass. He could feel the aftermath of the kiss on his lips. Chuck retu
rned with the beers, tugging two more from the plastic rings and handing one to Jamal.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, accepting the beer.

  “It’s fine, really.” Chuck tipped his beer to his head and took a long drink.

  “It’s not like I go around kissing surfers,” Jamal said.

  “Really. It’s okay. It’s not like I haven’t been kissed by a dude before. Plenty of drunken nights on the beach,” he said. “Just me and my BF’s fucking around.”

  “You don’t seem like the type that would be into that,” said Jamal.

  Chuck leaned toward Jamal, whose heart was still racing from the kiss. Pearls of water dripped from tufts of red hair. His lips kissed Jamal’s this time. They closed their eyes like actors do in soap operas and romantic comedies. Jamal slid an arm around Chuck, fingers kneading muscles under flesh. When Chuck attempted to push his hand under Jamal’s drenched, bulky shirt, Jamal pulled away.

  “Wait,” he said. He didn’t want Chuck to touch what was underneath. Belly. Stretch-marked boobs, love handles of supple fat.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not in the best of shape.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Chuck said. He took the tail end of Jamal’s T-shirt.

  “I can’t, man.”

  Chuck kissed him again, running his hand along his clean-shaven face.

  “It’s fine.”

  Jamal relaxed as Chuck started to lift the wet shirt over his belly. He held up his arms when he reached his chest. Chuck worked the neck of the shirt over Jamal’s face, then threw it in the pool. He traced Jamal’s dark nipples, and his touch sent shivers.

  Chuck groped excess flesh, sucked Jamal’s nipples past thin pink lips and white teeth. Jamal leaned back on his hands in puddles of chlorine water as Chuck teased him with his tongue.

  Jamal pushed his fingers between Chuck’s swim trunks and his waist. He felt dick: warm, hard. He played with foreskin, meaty head. He tugged it out. Chuck undid the plastic white clasp exposing curls of strawberry red pubic hair. He unzipped Jamal’s shorts, too, and Jamal sank into the pool between Chuck’s legs. He took the surfer’s dick into his mouth, tasting chlorine. Jamal looked up into the other boy’s eyes as he blew him.