by Neil Plakcy
“I used to watch you on TV,” Rio said, his voice melting the last of the dream’s ice. His caresses woke other parts from slumber.
“I know,” said Hutch, his mouth still dry.
“Every summer, dude. I always cheered for you. You made me love beach volleyball.”
Hutch exhaled. “You already told me.”
“What I didn’t tell you was how hard it made me, watching you. I grew up near the beach. Used to love to gaze at hot dudes on Los Hombres. Sometimes, they’d spread their legs, go to scratch their balls, and a nut or the head of their dicks would fall out by mistake. I kept hoping you’d slip up and show us your junk when the camera cut to you.”
Hutch chuckled. “For real?”
Rio nodded, his outline a degree darker than the surrounding night. “Fuck yeah. Man, you on the sand court was poetry. Those legs and feet…”
“You want to see my junk?” Hutch growled, mischief in his voice.
Rio’s hand moved higher and yanked aside Hutch’s underwear. Both balls tumbled out to dangle in the sultry darkness. Another deft move and Hutch’s cock joined Rio’s in the open. A warm breeze kissed his maleness one step ahead of his eager pupil, who lowered himself between Hutch’s knees. The younger man’s lips greeted his cock. Fingers teased his nuts with gentle tugs. Rio opened wider. The tugs that followed were less gentle.
“Fuck,” Hutch said.
He leaned back and savored the attention and, for a short while, all of his worries evaporated, driven out by happy groans.
A moment of disbelief washed over Hutch, paralyzing him on the spot. Even his eyes, hidden behind shades, forgot to blink. His lungs emptied. Only his mind could move about and flex its limbs, meandering back to the last time he stood on this stretch of Los Hombres Beach, under the same circumstance. The footprints from his bare size twelves had likely intersected the ones he had made a decade ago, during his twenties.
The trip to the past was brief; Hutch’s palsy shattered and his heart restarted, jolted back to life by the friendly smack of a hand against his butt.
“Come on, dude,” said Rio, moving past.
Hutch blinked. A drop of sweat stung his left eye, his squint hidden behind his sunglasses. He remembered to inhale and drew in a breath rich with the smell of salt air, coconut sunscreen, and a hint of fresh sweat, male and clean—Rio’s.
Nodding, Hutch stole a glance at the other man’s lenses. The twin mirrors sent back his reflection: neat, dark hair going silver above the ears, the crow’s feet around his sapphire eyes, a gruffness in his expression from the last ten years. The day-old scruff on his cheeks, chin, and throat lent his image a don’t-fuck-with-me vibe, clear even to him.
“Let’s do this,” Hutch growled and resumed walking.
They marched across Los Hombres in the direction of the beach volleyball sand court, impossible to miss with its bleachers and banners, camera zip lines and announcer’s booth. The latest sponsors were a bottled-water giant and one of the Big Five carmakers bailed out by the government in ’09. Trickle-down, thought Hutch; they could afford to pay things forward, to bail him and the new league out of the mess that had befallen the old.
His emotions, equal parts confidence and worry, built with his steps. Hutch wondered if all soldiers experienced the same mix of bravado and anxiety when they set booted feet on foreign sand. Los Hombres was familiar, home soil, and his feet were bare, not booted, his soles tingling with electric pinpricks as they absorbed light and energy from the sun-warmed grains. But in the final leg, it could have been Kabul or Mogadishu or the desert wastelands leading into Baghdad. Not real warfare, he knew, nothing near the level of sacrifice American soldiers were asked to make. Still, a battle would soon brew, resulting in sweat instead of bloodshed.
The other soldier in his unit of two men faced him through sunglasses. A smile challenged Hutch’s game face at the image around those eyes: six solid feet of lean muscle, smooth above the ring of fur surrounding his belly button, plenty of hair beneath. A great set of legs. Flip-flops showcased feet that were equally magnificent. His dark blue jam shorts matched the pair hanging off Hutch’s hips. A dimple on one cheek greeted Hutch when his eyes returned up to Rio’s.
They tapped knuckles. Hutch licked his mouth and noted Rio’s phantom taste through the dregs of toothpaste, one of the two choicest pieces of ass Hutch had ever eaten. Then, together, the two men entered the sand court, where the second of those two best assholes upon which Hutch’s tongue knew the honor of feasting waited.
Cameron Ford stood on the other side of the net, arms folded.
His former teammate and ally. Now, the enemy.
“So here’s how it’s gonna go down,” Cameron said and spread his legs.
The beach towel opened, its flaps unfolding on either side of the man’s muscled thighs. Cameron’s cock, already stiff, jumped out of cover and pulsed upright under its own power. The two shaved balls hanging beneath spilled along the inside of his leg. Cameron gave them a tug before pumping on his cock, conjuring a cloudy tear from his pee-hole.
Troy Kearns crossed his arms, coughed to clear his throat. “Let me guess—I want to be your new partner out there on Los Hombres, I gotta prove you and me are a good fit, right?”
Cameron’s smirk widened, exposing a length of clean white teeth. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”
“Smarter than I look?” Troy challenged.
Cameron absorbed the full image of the young man before him—a former college volleyball stud who’d gone on to win gold in the Olympics. Fucker had more than that bit of pedigree going for him now that classes were out of session; bragging rights to the medal hanging in his bedroom were still good for free drinks at the local sports bar, but little else. Kearns, with his short, sandy hair and scruffy goatee, reminded him of Hutch for all the right reasons and few of the wrong, at least at this point in the negotiations. Dude had balls, for a start. After their initial workout, he’d made sure to look when they were soaping up. Big ones, as he’d suspected—loose and full of juice, dangling beneath a decent dick.
Cameron squeezed his by the root and grinned. “You’re looking smarter by the second.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You still haven’t proven anything. I’m not convinced.”
Troy drew in a deep breath. Dude knew the score, Cameron figured. The man seated before him, legs spread, unashamed at playing with his dick, was one half of the former most famous team of the brief golden days of professional beach volleyball. A ticket to the new American Beach Volleyball Federation. A means not to an end but to a beginning… if he agreed to take Troy on.
Cameron enjoyed this part of the game almost as much as the physical action on the beach. Always had, dating back to his days with Hutch. Heat flared in the head of his dick, unleashing concentric ripples through the rest of his body that were curiously icy in nature.
“Not convinced. Let me do something about that,” Troy said and dropped to his knees.
“Ten years ago,” Cameron said, grunting as Troy wrapped his grin around the head of his dick, “me and Hutch… we were on top of the world. We fucking owned the planet, every summer… fuck, that feels great. You done this before? Sucked dick?”
Troy regurgitated Cameron’s cock. “I’ve had some practice, yeah.”
“Keep working on your game, dude,” Cameron ordered.
Troy resumed sucking and toyed with Cameron’s nuts for added effect—clearly appreciated, judging by the other man’s happy grunts.
“If the old league hadn’t gone belly-up, fuck… yeah, work my dick as far down as you can. Don’t just suck the fucker, make love to it with your face. Fucking league president mismanaged funds. Me and Hutch, we were close… too close…”
Troy lapped at Cameron’s balls before moving behind them, stealing his first taste of asshole.
“The end of the ABVF was the end of us,” Cameron continued. He drew Troy up from the floor, fumbled the o
ther man’s shorts off his butt and down to his hairy ankles, taking the boxer-briefs beneath with them. Then Cameron leaned forward and pressed his nostrils against Troy’s ball sac—considerably hairier than his shaved set. “Nice.”
“They’re so fucking ripe, I can smell them from here,” Troy chuckled.
Cameron licked his lips. “I like what I smell. What I see.”
“Enough to make it official? You and me, partnered up against the rest of the competition on Los Hombres?”
“Maybe,” Cameron said. For the next ten or so minutes, the only conversation passed in happy groans.
“A great opportunity,” Cameron huffed between sips of air. “The new league’s well-funded. With Hutch’s and my history… former partners turned archrivals… man, it’s money.”
Troy drew back, slammed in again. Only his balls stopped him from fucking Cameron deeper. “And you need a new right-hand man. A Dude Friday.”
“What I need,” Cameron said, bent over with the younger man’s damp flesh atop his, “is a partner who knows the game. More than that, who knows his place in the game—on and off the sand court.”
He pulled back, so that just the head of his dick and an inch or so of shaft remained lodged in Cameron’s hole, only to ram his cock in fully, right to the bush and balls. “You know what a solid teammate I am. I’m great, man,” Troy answered through clenched teeth.
“You sure the fuck are,” Cameron said. “Now fuck me. Oh yeah, fuck my shit, bro!”
Troy did as ordered.
“But I need you to understand how this works. You may have fucked me and fucked me better than most. All, in fact, except for the way Hutch used to.”
Sitting naked, his hairy athlete’s legs and big feet spread, his balls puddling beneath a swollen dick that hadn’t fully softened even after its second nutting, Troy offered a high-five.
Cameron met it, the thunderclap of their hands almost as electric, as intimate, as mouths had been to cocks, cocks to assholes; almost as arousing as the mouth to asshole and the kiss that followed.
“Pick me,” Troy said while scratching at his nuts, toying with his cock, nowhere near spent. “I’ll fuck you every day, as often as you want.”
“You may fuck me,” Cameron said, all business, “but you’re the beta dawg everywhere else. I’m the alpha. I’m on top. I tell you when to bust your load and how hard.”
Troy waved the same fingers he’d used to ogle his meat, dismissing the conditions as a minor concession. “Whatever you say, dude. Sir.”
Cameron smiled. “That’s more like it.”
“So it’s a done deal?”
Cameron maneuvered back between Troy’s legs. “We’re not done yet.”
Troy sighed, “Yeah, suck my dick, sir.”
“I’m gonna suck it and then you’re going to fuck me again, and when we hit Los Hombres for the ABVF tryouts, we’re gonna fuck Hutch and his new pretty-boy partner. Fuck ’em badly.”
“I like what I’m hearing,” Troy said, a cocky smirk forming on his mouth.
“First, Los Hombres. Then in the weeks ahead, we’ll fuck them again on Myrtle Beach, on Daytona, on Blacks and Long and Malibu and every other stop on the tour.”
Hutch stood on the sand, no longer a man of thirty-five but in his twenties again. He gazed through the net at their opponents, a cocky dude named Troy, some flashy stallion with a goatee and a bit of Olympic gold on his resume, and a familiar face—one he’d seen often between his legs or underneath his as he’d fucked the dude’s ass in that other life and time. Cameron had aged well. Suddenly, Hutch was thirty-five again, and it was Rio standing beside him, his partner in a sport he loved—despite it so often breaking his heart.
The two sides faced off. Music from the loudspeakers and excited chatter from the crowd rose, shorting out in a crackle, becoming a dull, distant whine.
Rio assumed the sharp angle to cover the seam. Hutch took the blocker position to cover the power angle.
Coin toss. Opening tip.
The big white ball tumbled out of the sky. Hutch tensed, smiled. His hearing returned, that old cacophony like the music of a favorite, almost-forgotten tune that suddenly belts out of the radio, transporting the listener through time.
And then he was flying off his feet again, carried on the summer breeze, the sweat pouring and the sunlight narcotic.
Side out.
SAND DREAMS
Jay Starre
The sun rose behind Blake to cast its shimmering light on the rolling surf as it danced rhythmically against the beach. At the break of dawn the waves had been strong enough for him to ride, but had tamed themselves after his first hour of gliding pleasure.
His board lay beside him. The beach just south of Monterey was deserted, except for a lone sunbather on his blanket. The blond dude pretended to read a book but glanced over at the tall, lean surfer with obvious interest more often than he perused the pages of his book.
Blake pretended not to notice Colby as he gazed out to sea. His toes stroked the sand under his bare feet in unconscious mimicry of the softly beating waves a few yards below. He loved the sand most of all about beaches. He didn’t really like getting it in his trunks and around his balls and the crack of his ass, but he did like to feel it between his toes and under the bare soles of his feet, like now. He loved just to lie in it on a sunny day and enjoy the sensual feel of it along his calves, his bare back, his shoulders, and his arms. He liked wet sand, sometimes cool and sometimes steamy warm.
Sometimes he even dreamed about sand. His mind wandered as the surge and ebb of the gently beating waves calmed and mesmerized him. He realized he had spent a great deal of his life on the sand. As much as possible, actually.
He glanced back at Colby on his blanket and smiled, reminded of where his love affair with sand had truly begun.
A decade ago, when he was just twenty and a lifeguard on Hermosa Beach, he had fallen for a muscular blond roller-blader. Every day as he patrolled the busy Los Angeles area beach, he’d spot that bright platinum head as its owner bladed past. He began having cock-stirring fantasies about the jock from the first time he laid eyes on him.
Blake was a surf bum when he wasn’t doing his lifeguard thing for cash. With shaggy auburn hair, a deep tan, bright blue eyes, and a wide, pleasant face, he was used to being noticed. He rarely had to seek out any other hot dudes for friendship—or fun and games. They came to him. It took less than a week for the blader to take notice and make his move.
Colby rolled up to him and spun to an expert halt. A brilliant smile in a freckled face, a few words of fairly inane chat, and then the dude was abruptly coming on to him. “I’m going up north on Saturday to Humboldt County for a week of camping on the beach. Want to come along? We could have some serious fun, I bet.”
The soft green eyes sparkled and the smile teased. But he meant what he said. Blake’s stiffening cock urged him to agree to the impromptu offer. He knew he could get the time off if he wanted to.
“Sounds like an awesome plan. You got wheels? I’d want to bring my board.”
“No problem. I’ve got a pickup. So Saturday it is.”
Blake had never been to the beaches in Northern California. Buddies told him the surf could be good, but the water was cold and the air didn’t get as warm as it did in Southern California. None of that really mattered to him. It was an adventure. And as a bonus, he was pretty sure he’d get a chance to get naked with the blond roller-blader.
They hit it off right away. Colby was a chatterbox and Blake was a good listener. It took all day to drive the hundreds of miles north to Humboldt County, but the time flew by. Colby was a sophomore majoring in natural history; he commented nonstop on the spectacular scenery as they traveled through the hot Central Valley, then the rolling hills of the wine country, and finally arrived at the rugged Humboldt coast.
His friends had been right. The beaches of Humboldt County were nothing like Southern California beaches. First off, stunning redwood for
ests hugged the shore above the coastal cliffs, an easy drive from their camping spot on the beach. They hiked through the ancient woods almost every day. He felt dwarfed by the soaring trees and their gigantic girth.
And there was the fog—every damn morning. It swirled in off the cool water and insinuated itself nearly everywhere. That was usually when they went for their hikes in the redwoods. Shrouded in the mist, the trees quietly endured, century after century.
There were some things about the fog Blake discovered could be a bonus. They awoke their first morning together huddled side by side in their small tent. He crawled out of his sleeping bag to peer out the tent door and discovered the thick blanket coating everything. He couldn’t help a groan of dismay.
Awakened by his new friend’s movement and groan, Colby laughed and turned Blake’s groan to yelping glee, sliding a hand between the surfer’s thighs from behind and cupping his dangling nads.
“My, my, what big balls you have! I like that. Can I suck on them? That might brighten up a foggy morning for you.”
Hoping for some action but not yet ready to push it, Blake had slept naked the night before on purpose. But all they’d done was talk. He’d fallen fast asleep to the sound of Colby’s deep voice chattering on and on.
Now, with the big dude’s hand on his nads, it was obvious he was about to get some of that action. “Hell yeah! And you can suck my dick after that.”
Blake scooted backwards and raised a knee to settle over Colby’s grinning face. His fat balls plopped right down on the freckled nose and plump lips. His cock stiffened up nicely as lips opened wide and sucked in his balls.
Moaning with pleasure, he spread his legs wide and began to hump that wet mouth. At the same time, he yanked down the zipper on Colby’s sleeping bag and tore it open. Right away, the muscular blond’s cock reared up, bright pink and twitching. It was thick, with a huge knob at the head. Blake dropped down to take that blunt head whole.