It was raining hard in Newport. Otherwise Sandy wouldn't have come to his club to do his running that morning. Sandy taught sailing at the nearby U.S. Naval War College, and at his age—he was pushing forty-eight hard—he had to work extra hours to keep in shape. So far, running ten miles a day had helped keep him hard, but Rhode Island wasn't the best place to assume dry days. So, he'd joined a club that had its own indoor track, and that's why he was here this day. It was raining hard outside and it was time for him to run.
But the track was covered with little furry things on leashes. He had turned back to the men's dressing room in disgust, thinking hard on where he was going to go for exercise now. He wondered if going back to the war college campus and fucking that young naval captain's brains out for two hours would off-set a ten-mile run. It was at least worth a try.
While he was changing back into his street clothes and feeling mad at the world and sorry for himself, he overheard the conversation of two of the guys who were just returning from swimming laps in the club's indoor pool.
"So, what's going down on the indoor track?" asked one.
"Dog show," answered the other.
"Oh, that sissy stuff," responded the one. "Owners besotted with their dogs and looking just like them. Total waste."
"Not completely so," answered the other. "Clive Bailey owns last year's champion—probably this year's champion too. And he's no dog face; he's a real looker, and I understand he's the most delicious bottom in Rhode Island. He's got one of those fluffy little things that win so many dog shows—his dog, I mean, not his ass. I think it's a Japanese . . . no, it's a Chinese Crested. A very oriental name his has: Da Mei Yang. It was in this morning's paper. But that Clive, now he's got the most talented ass on the East coast."
The two laughed as they went off to the showers. Nicest ass on the East Coast was what translated to Sandy. Sandy collected nice asses. And he couldn't resist the challenge of having one that others said was the nicest to be had. Speaking of nice asses, though, there was that young naval captain very ripe and just ready for plucking over at the naval college. Sandy dug out his cell phone and started dialing.
He'd had the naval captain meet him down at the boathouse, where he kept a full range of small sailing boats that he used to train these guys in the basics—these guys who'd forgotten all they knew about the basics of sailing because for the last ten years they'd been driving big ships that did everything but wipe their butts for them on automatic pilot.
Sandy had taken the young captain into a lifeboat hanging off the back end of one of the larger sailing boats, and the nice, young, firm piece of tail was bent over the center wooden seat on his belly and was grabbing the gunwales with white-knuckled fists and was throwing his head back and screaming his satisfied lust as a crouching and covering Sandy split him from behind with the biggest cock in New England.
With each thrust Sandy first thought just how nice and tight this young sailor's ass was and, second, wondered how it compared with the one those guys in the locker room were declaring was the nicest ass to be had in this region. Long after the naval captain had whimpered his surrender and Sandy's digging cock had delivered the coup de grace, Sandy was resolving he was going to get to the bottom of this Clive Bailey guy—to the bottom and then into the bottom and a good ten and half thick inches farther than that.
He turned the young naval captain on his back on the centerboard and held his ankles up and out and fucked him again. The guy would be begging for another private sailing lesson again the next day. They all did.
Sandy returned to his Brenton Cove cottage after having stopped at a convenience store and bought the morning paper. His cottage wasn't the most luxurious house on the cove—not by a long shot—in fact its low profile and small size, nestled up to his own private dock but hidden from the road by heavy foliage, rendered it almost invisible. But he liked it that way. And in its own way it was more distinctive than any of the hulking wooden waterfront mansions around it. Sandy was quite certain that more future admirals had lost their male cherries and been fucked three ways from Thursday in his bedroom than any of the other houses on the cove could boast.
He settled down in his favorite overstuffed chair, with its wide view of the Newport harbor beyond a bank of sun porch windows, and leafed slowly through the newspaper. There was the report on the dog show and a picture of the champion, Da Mei Yang, but that was the only picture. Not a bad-looking mutt. Sandy read the article very closely; it revealed that Da Mei Yang was being used as a stud for the Bailey Kennels.
A week later, after the submission of voluminous forms and the writing of a hefty check, Sandy answered his door. The man standing on the threshold looked very young—much too young to have already acquired a reputation as a champion bottom—but Sandy had to admit that he was gorgeous and compelling. He could feel that his cock thought that too. He hoped he wasn't being too obvious. All he had on were a pair of running shorts and shoes.
The young man gave him a wondrous smile. He looked like a young Greek god. Dark and heavy tanned and muscled and all white teeth and tumbling black, curly locks of hair. The little ball of fluff he held under his arm that was the celebrated Da Mei Yang was all smiles too. He'd been told why he was here. Sandy was happy to see that his groomer was smiling even though he didn't yet realize he was here for a similar experience.
"Admiral Thompson?" the young Greek god asked with a luminous smile.
"Yes," Sandy answered with a warm, inviting smile of his own. "Here, come through here to the backyard. The bitch is back here. I have her penned and ready for you already."
The Chinese Crested perked up his ears and began to pant in anticipation. Sandy was more than pleased himself with this Greek god Clive, and he was fairly panting himself as he led the groomer and stud through the bungalow and to the backyard.
There was a small, newly improvised dog pen just beyond the lattice-covered and grape-vine bedecked patio off the sun porch, on a short grassy area between the house and the start of the pier out into Newport Harbor.
A dog looking somewhat like a Chinese Crested was bounding around the pen and yapping its silly little head off.
With little fanfare, the young man lifted Da Mei Yang over the lip of the pen, and the champion stud bounded out of his arms and into the enclosure. There was little doubt that the immaculately groomed Chinese Crested knew exactly why he was there.
As Da Mei Yang stood solidly in the middle of the pen and stared down Sandy's pooch, Sandy saddled up close behind the dog groomer. The sounds from Sandy's dog turned from ridiculous but noisy yapping to uncertain yipping to whining, and its head descended lower and lower as Da Mei Yang stood there, majestically, staring the other dog down.
Similarly, Sandy had come in very close to the back of the dog groomer as he stood at the edge of the covered pation, but well in the shadows. The young dog groomer felt Sandy's hand on his arm and the older man's hot breath on his neck. He had been attracted to the retired admiral's handsome, square-cut looks and hard, well-taken-care of body from his first look at the jib of the man. He was graying, but only at the temples, and on him it looked good. He had the torso of a mature man, but one who was still solid muscle and who took pride in and much effort on his form. And the dog groomer hadn't missed the bulge in the admiral's basket and the curly salt and pepper hair that cascade up out of the front hem of his low-rise running shorts when he had opened the door.
