Different Strokes Ch 01

We were getting to the main event. Sailor A was lying on his back on the hotel room bed, legs dangling over the foot of the bed, and I was sitting on his cock, facing the foot of the bed. Sailor B was standing in front of me, his hands holding my head, and I was giving him head, while, using the leverage of my feet digging into the edge of the mattress and in a crouch on the bed on either side of Sailor A's thighs, I rose and fell on Sailor A's cock, fucking myself. Sailor A was just lying there, his hands loosely on my waist, but not doing anything but holding his hard. I would have liked him to be a little more active. He was the cute one of the pair.

I clutched Sailor B's butt cheeks to keep myself steady. I didn't often do two-for-ones. I was doing that now, though. I'd given them a high price, half thinking they'd back off, but they didn't. That was the thing with the sailors. They came off the ships horny and ready to go, but often without enough cash to give it a really good go.

They'd given me their names, but damned if I could remember them. This was their hotel room, at the Ypao Breeze Inn in Tumon, the touristy resort area on the west coast of Guam. It wasn't exactly a dive, but it wasn't the Ritz either. I could fuck on this bed—and I usually did when ships were in at the naval base—but I was glad I didn't have to sleep on it. I wondered if both of the sailors would be sleeping on it—and if they had sex with each other. Maybe they were in the room only long enough to use me in shore leave relief, and they'd go back on their ship after they'd done me. They certainly were royally doing me. Maybe I hadn't asked for enough money. I kept forgetting that the sailors arrived revved up and full of cum and could fuck like bunnies.

Both sailors were muscular. Both had average-sized cocks. One was younger and good-looking in a full-lipped, sultry way. The other was older, pretty ugly in the face, but having the better muscle definition of the two in the body, probably because he was more mature and more wiry. They'd told me the name of the ship they'd come off for shore leave from the naval base further south on the coast, but I hadn't remembered that either. Nor did I remember the name of the guy who had given them my telephone number for the hookup.

Some things were important to remember. For repeat sailors I could look at the face and know the size of his cock and how he used it. What was going on here wasn't that important. This was just paying the bills to cover what I really was on Guam to do—to ride the surf and paint. That's what was important to me. I was highly sexed, though, and had to have it regularly. Laying down for the sailors and being paid to do it scratched a couple of my itches.

Sailor B, the older guy, was the active one here, telling and showing me what they wanted me to do for them. Sailor A seemed to be along for the ride, more interested in Sailor B and pleasing him than in me, which was a pity because he aroused me in ways the older one didn't.

Sailor B fucked me as soon as we got in the room, bending me over the bed after I'd stripped for them and knelt in front of them, with them arm in arm, and worked them hard together, taking them both in my mouth at the same time as I was able. Sailor B ate my ass out as I was bent over the bed, fingered me for a minute or so, snapped a rubber on, slapped his cock around on my buttocks a few times, ran it over the hole, and then was inside me, pumping and snorting. Sailor A sat in the room's desk chair, beat his meat, and watched the action, egging Sailor B on with words that had a nervous edge to them. He wasn't comfortable doing this. Sailor B was very comfortable doing this.

Sailor B was efficient and straightforward and went directly for an initial jack off. They'd paid for multiples and a special, so I knew this was just Sailor B getting his anticipation rocks off—that he'd take it slower and more deliberately in subsequent rounds. I wouldn't have minded if Sailor A, the cute one, took up position behind me after the ugly one pulled out, but he didn't. They sat side by side on the foot of the bed and I knelt in front of them and handed and sucked on their cocks again.

They leaned into each other and kissed while I worked on their cocks, and that answered the "what are they to each other?" question for me. They probably were a couple on the ship, with older Sailor B seeing it as getting-his-rocks-off sex and cuter Sailor A seeing it as love. The cute one was here only because the older one wanted the variety with a rent-boy—with a third party they didn't have to live with on the ship.

When we moved into the "special," the cuter, younger guy just lay under me with his cock up my ass and moving it slightly in countermotion to my rises and falls. Sailor B, who I'd been sucking off, took the root of his cock and pulled it out of my mouth. He lowered his face to mine and took my mouth with his in a kiss. I felt him frotting our cocks together and stroking them. I continued rising and falling on Sailor A's cock. I felt that Sailor B was working toward the special—the double—though, and I was right.

This wasn't a favorite of mine, but they'd paid for it and I'd agreed to it. Neither of them was hung. I could manage them. It was something I was pleased to have managed—after it was over and the money for it had exchanged hands.

Sailor B was pressing on my chest with his free hand, and I arched back into Sailor A's chest, whereupon Sailor A wrapped his arms around my chest to hold me there. I groaned and opened my mouth in a wide yawn, which was the alternative to crying out, which I didn't really want to do in a hotel with paper-thin walls, as Sailor B worked his cock into my ass above Sailor A's cock. I did let out an "Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," though. I knew they'd want to think they were putting me in on-the-edge distress.

They worked together. They'd done this before. They probably did this to other sailors on their ship.

I gasped, gulped in air, and gave them a strained, "Oh fuckin' fuck. Shit, shit, shit," as Sailor B bottomed and began a slow pump.

It was only painful for a few minutes. My passage was well used, and I knew the tricks of relaxing and willing the passage to stretch. It had taken a variety of sizes and it had doubled for bigger cocks than this. The walls stretched to take them and rippled over both cocks, inviting them both to stroke. That was a special feeling when both cocks of a double were actively stroking. That wasn't the case here. Sailor A held steady, his cock throbbing inside me and him moaning as Sailor B stroked his cock slowly inside me. I just concentrated on being as relaxed and open as possible.

"Like that, do you?" Sailor B whispered in my ear, and I voiced a dutiful, "Yes, yes. Yes! Fuck me, sailor!"

Happily, it didn't take either long for both of them to fill out the bulbs of their condoms.

They lay on their sides on either side of me, touching me here, there, everywhere, intimately. Sailor A, more demonstrative now, touched me on my inner thighs and stroked them. I moaned for him, spreading them and put a leg over the legs of the sailor on either side of me and planted my feet on the other side of them. "Raise your tail," Sailor B commanded, and when I did he, bolder than the cute one, had fingers up my ass.

"Come for us," Sailor B directed, and there, with my legs over theirs and raising my pelvis off the mattress, I stroked off my cock. They both exclaimed their pleasure when I shot off in a strong arc of cum. Sailor B continued playing with my cock after I'd ejaculated and lowered my tail again.

"Like this?" he murmured.

"Um, um," I sighed in affirmative, knowing that was what he wanted to hear, although I did like it—and would have liked it better if Sailor A was doing it. I was built bigger than either of them, and Sailor B seemed to enjoy the size of me and making me fill out. While he fondled me, he licked my cum off my belly, and exchanged cum-laced saliva with me in a kiss. I got the impression that he missed some of the kinkier aspects of sex—that it wasn't something that turned Sailor A on, so rent-boy sessions like this when they got into port were meant to rev up Sailor B's engines.

I also got the hint from his playing with my cock that maybe he went both ways. Maybe he'd want me or Sailor A to spike

him

before the evening was over. Maybe

he

wanted to be doubled and was building up to that.

"Jake told us he was good value for the money," Sailor B said as they came up for air. So, then I knew who had recommended me, and I was more comfortable with them, for some reason, knowing that. It shouldn't have made a difference, but it did.

They weren't finished. They'd paid enough not to be finished. They lay on the bed, shorter Sailor A stretched out on top of taller Sailor B, Sailor B's cock poking through under Sailor A's scrotum, and, kneeling below them, I sucked off both cocks, together, unhinging my jaw to take both of them in. They liked that. They obviously liked having both of their cocks engaged together.

Sailor B fulfilled my suspicion for the finale. He rolled me onto my back on the bed, jacked me hard with his hand, crowned my cock, climbed on top of me, and moved into the saddle, positioning my cock head at his hole, sitting on it, and sliding down the pole. He rode my cock while Sailor A lay beside us on bed, watching his partner milk my cock with his passage muscles, conveying in his eyes that it would have been quite all right with him for them to have kept the hotel room to themselves, with him, rather than me, fucking Sailor B.

That was OK with me—that the sailor was using my cock. I was versatile and didn't get many clients who wanted me to fuck them. Jake was one of those. No doubt he'd told Sailor B I'd do a flip-flop.

Other than the oversized cock, I was built to be a submissive—slightly less than average height; a willowy body, although muscled up enough to please the eye; smooth, hairless torso; slim hips, flat belly, and plump buttocks; trimmed pubes; androgynous features that were assessed more to be beautiful than handsome; watery blue eyes and blond hair with platinum highlights that I kept shoulder length and had in a ponytail except during sex. Men liked to run their fingers through my hair during sex—or, if they were thuggish, to use my hair as a handle to drag me around with. Either way, they could excite me.

It was my seven thick inches hard that surprised, although I wore clothes tailored to give a hint of it. And I didn't usually wear underwear at all. That really turned the johns on, seeing me in the raw when I unzipped and flared my shorts, giving them a shot of the trimmed golden curlies followed by the root of a thick cock. Often they stopped me there and took out their cell phones to take a photo to take home with them. I didn't care. I wasn't ashamed of my package, and it wasn't a head shot. It wouldn't be identified specifically as me.

They were both off the bed after Sailor B had fucked himself on my cock and headed for the shower. I heard sounds of them fucking in the shower. It sounded like it was the younger guy, Sailor A, who was fucking Sailor B, which is what I thought he longed to do the whole time.

I lay there watching them as they dressed. They'd counted out $400 and put it on the dresser, so unless there was any last-minute funny business, we were all good. That was a lot of money on Guam for a sailor trick, although it was two of them. They both had great bodies, which I guessed was usual for working sailors. It was why I liked to lay down for the sailors rather than working the businessmen of Tumon. It was just that, although it was only a business transaction, I would have liked Sailor A to have more actively fucked me. It wasn't a bad way to earn $400, though. It wouldn't have been nearly that much without the DP. I had three days of abstinence coming up, so the money was welcome.

Sailor B turned to me. "The bathroom's all yours now if you want to clean up. If you'll show us a good bar for us to go to, we'll stand you a drink. You did great. If you have a card we'd be happy to pass it on."

It was 10:00 p.m., a good time to go cruising. They'd stood me a steak dinner before we'd come up to the hotel room. They had fucked me—and each other—for more than an hour and a half and paid me well for it, in terms of Guam prices. This wasn't New York City or L.A. I couldn't see any reason not to steer them to a good club for the rest of the night.

I took them to Denial, which was nearby and which had a good band going, a dance floor, pool tables, and a bar. They could pick their interest. Since their ship was in, they hooked up there with some of their mates. They ordered me a drink and paid for it, I gave each of them and all of their friends my card, and they went off to the pool tables while I leaned against the bar and contemplated whether I could—or wanted to—fit in another john that night. The ship had just come in, so there was no doubt that I could pick someone up for an energetic hour in the hay. Was I up for energetic, though? I checked my mind and ran a mental scan for aches and pains and was surprised to learn that I was up for nasty.

I would have to go three days after this without turning a trick. I'd enjoy the time off to do what I came to Guam to do, but the money would have to stretch. I'd made good money for a day, and I usually worked only long enough to feed my surfing and painting habit for the foreseeable future. I lived up the coast near Fai Fai Beach, on a more quiet stretch of the South Marine Corps Drive coast road, and I only came into Tumon when I needed to replenish the cookie jar. My Jeep Wrangler was ancient—Guam wasn't a place to find a new car—and I didn't exercise it any more than I had to.

There was a clean-cut, good-looking guy who obviously wasn't Navy—more professional or businessman—sitting at a table across the room and looking at me. I looked back, instantly attracted to him, even though my mind check had come back "nasty," and this guy didn't look like that's what he was looking for. I was concentrating on thuggish sailors, who were all hard muscles, a fetish of mine, who fucked fast—if furiously and multiple times—and who would be on a ship again before they could complicate my life with claims of commitment. A guy in civvies might be a permanent resident and come with issues that didn't want to go away easily.

The guy was maybe in his early forties, but strikingly good looking and solid, and, regardless of the "local john" possible problems, I was thinking of maybe going over and asking him if he'd like some company. Before I could do so, though, there was a chunky hunky sailor at my elbow dropping one of the cards that I had just given out to Sailors A and B on the bar top. "Chunky hunky" is a name I give to big bruisers who would be considered overweight if they weren't so massive that they carried the weight more as muscle than as excess padding.

He looked thuggish and would, by my guess, give me a cruel ride. But part of why I chose to make my money this way was that I liked variety and was turned on by a little danger and manhandling. I didn't object to being knocked around a bit occasionally. I'd have three days to recover. Sometimes the vanilla sex dulled my arousal. Being taken by a thug now and then sharpened my appetite for it. Of course I didn't need the sex—or so I kept telling myself—but as long as I was in that business, it was good to sharpen the arousal now and then.

He was interested and he had the money. He also would pay for the room but only at a cheap motel. I took him back to the Ypao Breeze Inn, which was nearby. Once in the room, he was impressed that just an unzip and tug on the hips of my trousers had me ready for him. He slapped me around, did me in a doggie on the floor, slapped me around some more, tossed me on the bed and, with a massive cock, brutalized me with a pistoning missionary accompanied by a choke hold with a strong, calloused, Navy man's hand. He left me moaning and with my legs spread wide for some time to come. But he did leave me with the room for the rest of the night and left the agreed amount of money on the desk.

In this business, you take the bad with the good—the brutal with the vanilla. And without some manhandling thrown in, you could too easily become numb to it. I was a rent-boy not only because it was a relatively easy way to make money on Guam if you were good-looking, trim, and submissive. Androgynous blond guys could score, because the local women were mainly squat and dark, and sailors came off the ships with an "any hole will do" attitude, many of them looking for a blond cutie rather than an island local. I was a rent-boy because I enjoyed having a man's cock inside me.

My dwelling was not much more than a shack on a beach near Fai Fai Beach—one large room with a floor-to-ceiling glass window to take advantage of the light for my painting. I managed to haul out of the hotel early enough next morning that I was back at my place in time to grab a couple of fried eggs and be wading out into the surf with my board as the sun was coming up. I surfed for an hour, first alone but increasingly with buddies who showed up here regularly to take the waves. When I returned to the beach, I could see that the retired sergeant, Sid Tanner, who was in a wheelchair and who owned one of the small houses with a large deck on the hill overlooking the beach, was out, watching me.

We had an arrangement. I went up the beach and climbed the wooden stairs to his deck. As the sun climbed up in the sky, I sat, facing him, on his cock in his wheelchair, and rode him to his ejaculation while he licked and sucked on my nipples and whispered his thanks over and over again. It was about the only excitement he got twice a week and he paid for the Wi-Fi in my shack. Beyond that, I considered it a thanks for his service to the nation. He lost use of his legs in Afghanistan; I saw no reason why that should be rewarded by losing use of his cock before he had to. I wasn't a totally selfish shit.

I liked this regular fuck almost as much as Sid did. He made it seem almost like lovemaking. I couldn't reach the deck with my feet with my legs hanging over the wheelchair arms, so it gave my thighs muscles and my biceps exercise in rising and falling on his cock. He was paralyzed down there except for his cock, which was capable of erection, of feeling the rub, and of ejaculating. He had what they called a beer can cock—all thickness and little length. That too was an aid to me in training my hole to be able to open quickly and wide. My hole, like the rest of my body, was deceptively small until it had received a thick cock or two. It was part of the turn-on for some johns—that what I had to receive them with looked like it couldn't manage them, but that it then did—swallowed them right up to the short hairs, rippled over them, and milked them dry. It was a talent, and it put money in the bank.

Returning home, I painted for two hours, this being the best day for the angle of the light coming into my essentially one-room—although it was a big room—abode, and then I slept for four hours.

Just another day of filling in and paying for the days of a free spirit on the island of Guam. I didn't apologize for the prostitution. I had a young, supple body, a talented hole and passage, and a good face that hungry men lusted after. And it was my life to do with as I liked. I wasn't so invested in it—I didn't think I needed cocking as much as I made use of it to support my free and easy lifestyle—that I couldn't give it up when my paintings started to sell well. They sold now—just not well.

* * * *

At 11:00 I was at the free clinic on South Marine Corps Drive that I'd been sent to for a blood test. I tested for HIV regularly anyway, but this was a special. If I cleared, which I did, and abstained for the next three days after the test, I could do a one-day, one-night $1,000 gig at a private ocean-side mansion north of Tumon. The owner of the mansion, a mixed Japanese-American named Lee Houser, was a sometimes client of mine—he usually went for higher-drawer hookers than I was and ones he could certifiably bareback, which I couldn't afford to accommodate in normal circumstances, but sometimes, he said, he liked to go with someone less practiced and jaded. He also hung nearly a foot long hard, which required some recovery time afterward but was oh-so melting in view of what a guy managed to sheath. He also was a master of the fuck. When he did me, I usually just lay there, willing myself to open, breathing shallowly, whimpering, and concentrating on how far up into new territory he was journeying—giving a long sigh as he withdrew it and a deep gasp as he slid it in deep again—and then again and again. He really knew how to work a guy with the snake he had.