by Neil Plakcy
That is, not until I got right on up to it. Or him, as was the case.
“How?” I managed, teeth nearly chattering.
He pried his lids open and stared up at me, impossibly blue eyes beaming through the thick, white fog. “How,” he replied, voice deep, hand held up, palm flat. “This Indian territory?” He looked around. “Where’s the casino?”
I shook my head and pointed down at him, at his naked body, strangely unfrozen. “No, I meant, how are you lying out? And naked?”
He shrugged. “Nude beach. Rules is rules.”
My head kept right on shaking as I took him in, from his bare tippy toes up his long bare body, stopping on his equally long, bare schlong, which was resting comfortably in a trimmed black bush, and then I continued to his flat tummy and hairy pecs before stopping on those eyes of blue yet again. “Um, I think that rule was meant to be broken. Fog trumps rule, friend.”
“Ben,” he informed.
I grinned. “Fog trumps rule, Ben,” I reiterated.
He propped himself up on his elbows, pink nipples pointing up and out. It was a wonder they didn’t crack and fall off, I thought, all things considered. “Fog indeed trumps rule, unless…” he said, patting the blanket beneath him.
“Magic blanket?” I hazarded. “You a genie, Ben?”
He grinned, teeth as white as the fog that continued to flow over us, nearly obliterating the beach I was no longer certain we were on. “What would your wish be if I was?” he replied, voice syrupy-sweet, tinged with something raspy and recognizable. Especially on that stretch of beach, June or otherwise.
I chuckled. “To not be so fucking cold,” I told him.
“Ah,” he said, sidling over a bit as he again patted the empty stretch of blanket to his side. “Your wish is my command, Master.”
“Jeff,” I told him.
He nodded. “Your wish is my command, Master Jeff.”
The words made my cock go boing, temporarily thawing my winterlike mid-June chill. And so I crouched down, one hand buried in the sand, the other patting the blanket. “It’s hot,” I said, with a surprised chuckle. “How?”
His chuckle echoed mine, the sound crashing over me like the nearby surf over the rocks. “We’ve already done that routine, Jeff.”
I moved in closer, both hands on the blanket now, a shock of heat pulsing up my arms. “No, I meant, how can you have a heated blanket in the middle of the beach?”
He sat up and put his hand over mine. The pulse repeated, hotter this time, tingling through my veins. “Rules is rules,” he said, yet again. “And Baker Beach in June can mean only one thing.”
“Fog,” we both said in unison, his hand now gripping mine as I sat down next to him, the chill at last replaced by glorious warmth.
“But, again, how?” I asked, utterly at a loss.
He flipped over, alabaster ass aimed my way, hairy crack splayed as he fiddled beneath the blanket, a black box soon whipped out and up for my inspection. “Battery pack. Five hours’ worth of juice in her. Just enough for a summer tan.”
I stared up at the sun. Or where the sun ought to have been. If it were, say, September. Or maybe not in San Francisco on the beach. “You bring sunscreen, too?” I asked. Because, fog or no fog, five hours outside was sure to burn something fierce.
He reached his hand in front of him and grabbed for a backpack that I hadn’t noticed. Then again, I could barely see a foot in front of me. Or maybe it was because my eyes were fairly glued to that stellar ass of his. I heard the zipper and then watched as he handed me the Coppertone. “Front side is done. Back side could use a schpritz.”
“You’re in luck,” I said, grabbing the bottle as I hopped up on my knees. “I majored in schpritz.”
“With a minor in Native American languages, if all that howing is any indication.”
He sprawled out on the heated blanket, hands digging into the sand as mine dug into his flesh, a soft moan swirling around us before it was lost in the noise of the surf. I wiped the sunscreen clear across his back, the smell of coconut wafting up my nostrils before I schpritzed even lower.
He squirmed and laughed. “Brrr. Cold.”
My hands traveled further south. “Let me heat it up for you then, Ben,” I said, grabbing onto his cheeks and digging in, splaying them apart as I leaned my head down for an ogle at his winking hole. I took a whiff, the smell of musk joining the heady mixture of sunscreen and salty ocean air. In for a penny, in for a pound, I darted my tongue out and gave the crinkled center a cursory lick.
“What if someone sees,” he said, the chuckle returning as he spread his legs even wider apart, ass higher up, balls hanging down low.
“Doubtful,” I replied, mouth on his hole now, tongue delving in. I came up for air a minute later. “I can barely see, and I’m right here.” I gave his ass a playful slap, the sound echoing out in all directions.
“Ah,” he said, on all fours now, legs far apart. “Good point.”
I spat into his hole, the saliva trickling down his swaying nuts. Then I gently worked a finger inside of him as I reached my free hand between his thighs, my hand gripping his hard-as-granite pole, which throbbed as I gave it a tug and a stroke. “Here’s another good point, Ben,” I said.
“Feels more like two,” he said, moaning as he bucked his ass into my hand.
“Three,” I admitted. “But who’s counting?” In fact, all three spit-slick fingers were now buried deep inside his ass. But that wasn’t the point in question. “No, my point was that I’m on a nude beach and I’m not nude.”
“And rules is rules,” he reminded me.
“Only, you’re on the hot blanket, and I’d be up here in the frigid cold. And a polar woody sounds awfully painful.” I laughed as I added, “Gives a whole new meaning to the term blue balls.”
He crawled forward, his ass retracting from my fingers in an audible pop. Then he jumped up and motioned for me to do the same. So I too jumped and then stood in front of him as he reached down and then promptly wrapped the blanket around the both of us, the warmth returning as his eyes met mine, his so blue that they put the sky to shame. What little of it there was to see, that is. “Better?” he asked, his lips brushing mine as a swarm of butterflies got loose inside my belly.
“Much,” I exhaled, my lips grinding into his, the chill obliterated as the blanket covered us up, his cock poking my belly. “Almost,” I amended, realizing my own cock was still encased in denim. Then I reached down, grabbed the bottom of my t-shirt and hiked it up and off. “Closer,” I added.
He rubbed his free hand across my chest, the other holding the blanket as he pinched my nipple and gave it a tweak. My eyelids fluttered, a groan traveling up from my lungs. Still, I had work to do. And closer wasn’t quite there. Meaning, the denim shorts dropped to the sand, tighty-whities all the tighter with my cock filling up every square inch of cotton. And then, quick as a wink, I was nude on the nude beach, tree limb of a prick at last free, jutting out to meet its newfound friend. Needless to say, no down, boy this go-round.
“About time,” he whispered into my mouth, eyes an inch from mine, his body again pressed up tight as the blanket encased us, heat cycloning around me even as the fog grew ever thicker, like we were lost in a cloud.
I reached my hands around his waist and again cupped his ass, fingers delving dead-center, pushing and prodding against his still-wet hole. “Now, where were we?” I rasped in his ear, taking a tender lobe in between my teeth for a gnash and a chew.
He moaned and shivered into me. “I believe we were at three good points.” He reached down and grabbed my cock, a million volts of adrenaline suddenly surging through me. “But I’d settle for one really big one.”
“Settle for or settle on?” I asked, one hand reaching in front of him to grab his massive tool, the head already slick. I wiped the salty jizz off and sucked my index finger clean.
“You always talk this dirty to guys you’ve just met on deserted nude beaches?” he asked,
a question for a question.
“Rules is rules.”
“So they say,” he retorted, bending down again, backpack unzipped, a square flash of foil and a bottle of something slick happily glimpsed through the dense fog. Then he grabbed my hand and began walking me up the beach, ever northward as our cocks swayed in rhythm. “So they say.”
Thankfully, we still had our sneakers on. That and the blanket and permafrozen smiles on our faces. Needless to say, even with the fog that was still zooming past, I could see that we were alone out there. No-man’s land. Or make that two-man’s land. Our-man’s land. Me and Ben, the sand and the surf, and the occasional piece of driftwood or stone outcrop to keep us company.
We made our way closer to the shoreline, the waves crashing directly in front of us. I could just make them out, with the cold Pacific lapping at our feet, eager for someone, anyone, to come and play with it. “Please tell me we’re not going for a swim, Ben,” I said, hand in his hand, cock pointing dead ahead. “I don’t think the blanket would keep us warm in there for very long.”
“Not there,” he replied, pointing instead to a large brown form a few feet away. “There.”
I squinted into the fog, the rock taking shape as we drew nearer. “All the comforts of home,” I quipped, hopping on, the blanket warm beneath my ass and against my back. And then I wrapped it around me and over him as he sank to his knees into the sand. Or, more importantly, sank his mouth into my crotch. I breathed in, deeply, the smell of ocean filling up my sinus cavity as my cock filled up his oral one. “Mmm,” I groaned, the Pacific groaning right on back at me.
He popped my prick out and slapped the fat, glistening head against his full lips before glancing up at me, those eyes sparkling like sapphires. “Hot time, summer in the city,” he semi-sang.
I ran my hand through his tangle of jet-black hair. “Battery-packed though that hot might be.”
He giggled and stood up, lips again meshed with mine, tongues doing a midair tango as I heard the foil tearing open, the sound sending a spark down my spine that made my cock twitch. I watched him slide the rubber over my prick, the lube quickly dripping down my sheathed-up shaft. I grabbed the bottle as he turned around, my hand in his crack, fingers, plural, quickly gliding inside of him, thick gobs of Wet sloshing up and in.
And then he backed up, my hand again free as he positioned his stunning ass just above my pole. Round peg, round hole, perfect fit. Down he sank as my cock slid in, the blanket wrapped around us, heat on the outside, heat on the inside. I nibbled on his neck as he sank even lower, until he was grinding his ass into my dick, mashing my balls with his cheeks, groaning so loudly that I could no longer hear the surf.
I reached around and grabbed his dick. His body quaked as I gave it a stroke, the sweat on his back gluing my front to him, until it was impossible to tell where he ended and I began. A seagull flew overhead, squawking at our shenanigans. Or perhaps it was just jealous that someone was keeping warm on a beach day in June in San Francisco.
Up and down his ass went on my cock, each time getting a moan from me, a groan from him, my palm working faster and faster on his prick. “Close,” he soon howled into the fog, the sound booming all around as it bounced off the cliffs behind us.
I shoved my dick as deep as it would go and pounded his rod fast as lightning. His head tilted back, sweat flinging off of him as his cock grew surprisingly thicker in my hand. And then he spewed, thick bands of cum flying this way and that before landing noiselessly in the sand. A split second later, his ring gripping my prick, I filled up that rubber with a load so big that my entire protein reservoir was wiped clean out.
I panted as I jerked every last drop of spunk out from his dick while he ground his ass into me and did the same with mine, until we were both spent and soaked with sweat. Slowly, he stood up, my cock springing free, the rubber quickly buried in the sand for posterity’s sake. Then he grabbed my hand and walked me to our starting place, the backpack where we’d left it, the blanket again spread out, me spooning him as we drifted off into wave-crashing slumber.
When I woke up, Lord knows how much later, the fog had lifted, the beach pristine, the magnificent orange bridge looming high overhead as the Pacific rolled in far below her golden gates. I sat up and looked around. Not too surprisingly, we were no longer alone, other nude men, other blankets, joining us on our remote patch of paradise.
Ben stretched and yawned and also sat up, then stared at me with those stunning eyes of his. “Neat,” he said, with a wide grin. “You’re even better looking in the light of day.”
I ran my finger down his stubbled, tanned cheek. “Ditto.”
Then he leaned in, his lips finding mine, warm as, well, the sand beneath us. Finally. And again those butterflies took wing inside my belly, my cock stirring as his tongue swirled around my own.
Down, boy, I willed it.
Though, of course, it was already too late.
Because, as they say, rules is rules. Especially on a nude beach in San Francisco. Even in June.
WHAT WASHED ASHORE
D. K. Jernigan
A sharp bark near my head dragged me out of the sea of oblivion, and I lay moaning on the shores of consciousness as the pain in my face and body came rushing back. A wet snuffling at my ear reminded me of the proximity of the dog, and I reached up a shaky arm to tangle my fingers in silky fur. “Hey doggy,” I said. My voice was slurred and thick, and I realized I was speaking through a split lip. I moaned again, still not daring to open my eyes. Had my head been injured? There was a rushing sound in my ears, rising and falling in a constant rhythm.
The dog started to lick my face, and then suddenly he was gone and a deep, masculine voice startled me. The dog’s owner, I guessed. “Hey man, you okay? Need me to call anyone?”
I jerked, which set off bursts of pain throughout my body, and I moaned again, feeling like the world’s biggest crybaby. “I feel like I got hit by a truck,” I said. The image of five men standing around me, laughing and kicking, pushed its way to the fore and I did my best to shove it back. The sound of a seabird brought me back to the present, and suddenly the rushing sound made sense. “Holy shit, is that the ocean?”
“Well, you did sort of pass out on the beach,” the voice said. “Look, do you need me to call an ambulance or a girlfriend or someone?”
How the hell did I get to the beach? “Where am I?” My head was throbbing. I raised my hands to my eyes, but the pressure brought a screaming pain and I dropped them again. Damn.
“Seabright,” the man answered, and when that didn’t get a response, “Near the Boardwalk?”
“The Boardwalk? Like in Santa Cruz?” Those assholes dragged me all the way to Santa Cruz?
“Okay, yeah, I’m going to just let you sleep it off, man. No worries, okay?”
I snorted painfully. “I’m not drunk. The last thing I remember was walking out of Spla—um, a bar. In San Jose.” Splash was a gay bar and dance club over the hill, and the last thing I needed was to incite a second gay bashing in two days. Santa Cruz was known for being sort of hippie, but why take the chance?
“You’re from over the hill? Who the fuck did you piss off?” The man’s voice had been drawing away, but he’d returned and was standing over me now.
“Suffice it to say, it wasn’t anything I did wrong.” I cracked my eyes open and when that didn’t kill me, I rolled slightly to one side and moaned as I tried to push up to a seated position.
“Shit.” The man hesitated. “You clean?”
“I just told you I’m not drunk,” I said, concentrating on trying to keep my arms under me.
“No, but you’re covered in blood. You contagious?”
“Oh, yes. I mean, no. God! I mean I’m clean. And I’m Cam, by the way. Thanks for stopping.”
“Yeah. I’m Bryant.” I looked up to greet my rescuer and had to refrain from drooling, even with my throbbing body eager to distract me. The guy wore sweats like some men wear designer suits, with s
houlders that screamed for attention even through the thick fabric. His hair was just long enough to look sexy and tousled, and his eyes were the same gray-green as the sea beyond him. I wobbled a little, and he ducked to take my arm and steady me. “Take it easy,” he urged, but I just shook my head. I needed to get up before I could process how much it was going to hurt to do all that moving.
“I’m okay.” I winced as he helped me climb to my feet. My entire body would be covered in bruises from five pairs of feet kicking and stomping. I stepped forward, testing myself, and my leg buckled under me. Bryant moved quickly and managed to hook me by the armpit, keeping me upright.
“Shit. I’m sorry.” How humiliating. I’m on a beach with the cutest guy I’ve met in months, and I can’t even stand up by myself. And with that, the rest of my awareness came back completely. I was damp and fucking freezing in a thin cotton shirt and jeans. My body began to tremble wildly, and Bryant had to wrap his arm around my waist and grip my arm where it draped over his shoulder to keep me steady. His large ball of golden fur jumped around at our feet, barking and whining.
Bryant heaved a put-out sigh, and then almost reluctantly gestured up toward the street. “I have a car that isn’t too far away. I can get the heater turned on for you. Come on, you can do it.”
Step by step he practically carried me up the beach, pausing when I tripped in the heavy sand, patiently steadying me and nearly dragging me until we got to a strip of dirt, then sidewalk. “Just up there,” he said, gesturing to a car parked nearby. “Come on, Jack!” Jack, the dog, left off whatever he was sniffing and bounded over to us, following obediently as his master and his beach find climbed the slight hill to a blue Jetta. Bryant unlocked the doors and slid my sandy, bloody self into the passenger seat.
I exhaled a small moan of relief to be off my feet and took a deep, steadying breath. With my eyes pressed shut I listened as first one door opened behind me—presumably to admit Jack—and then a moment later the driver’s door opened and the car settled as he slid in. It wasn’t long before the engine had warmed up and I could bask in the heat, taking the worst of the chill out of my bones. Behind me, Jack licked at my ear in what I assumed was sympathy.