He Always Says That

I slid, already tired although it was just past noon, into George's Tavern on the fringe of the small beach town, dressed for business—cobalt-blue silk biker shorts over a red-silk thong jock, white boat shoes without socks, and white mesh athletic muscle T above—to show off the great late-summer tan underneath. Not more than a week after July 4th, it still was a very patriotic dress day for me.

I took my regular stool at the bar. As I did so, an old geezer, tall, handsome for his age, tight-bodied, and bald, broke away from a group of other old guys at a table and came to the bar, taking a stool, but leaving one empty between us. This was my bar of choice on the outskirts of the Florida Panhandle Gulf-coast town of Watersound Beach to hook up with older men, who tended to pay more. When I wanted younger, more fit and vigorous guys, I went to a couple of taverns outside of Destin, closer to Elgin Airbase. It wasn't that this was my only choice in life. I was a submissive and I liked being fucked. I also liked being paid for it, though.

"You look thirsty," he said, giving me a smile. "Can I stand you a drink?"

"Sure," I said. I, in fact, was parched. I'd just come from four hours walking beyond a garbage truck and emptying cans into the back. A shower and a brief nap after I got back to my apartment and I was out to the bars, where I earned the bigger bucks to support my night courses at the local community college. I was determined to get somewhere. It was a rough road to somewhere though.

The man signaled to the barman. When we'd given our orders, he turned to me—he had a nice smile—and said, "How old are you, son?"

"Twenty-one," I answered. "Want to see an ID?" Both the question and my response openly revealed that we were negotiating here—and what we were negotiating about.

The man's eyes went to the barman who'd served us the drinks, and Pete murmured, "He's fine," which seemed to settle that. I knew I did look young for my age. But I also knew I looked damn good for guys looking for something young. My body was sculpted well. I just had a baby face, I guess.

It was the truth that I now was twenty-one and it seemed to be the first thing all of the men asked me when I came into one of these bars. The bartenders here at George's knew that. I watered here frequently, and they'd served me even before I'd turned twenty-one. There were a couple of places I went where the men didn't ask—because they didn't really want me to be as old as I was. I knew how to act with these men—each time like a naïve virgin. And when I let my hair down, I'm sure I looked girlish.

The man let out a sigh—probably of relief—and took a wad of cash out of his pocket. It was far more than was needed for the drinks. So far so good. He separated the bills, pushing a few toward the barkeep when our beers arrived and tucking the far larger wad of bills on the bar top next to where he set the beer can down. The wad sat there as both a promise and a proposition.

"My name is Hal," he said. "I've seen you in here before."

"Craig here," I answered. "I come here often."

"I've seen you leave with men from here." So, this wasn't going to be a long-drawn-out, beating-around-the bush conversation. The man was in heat. That's OK. It had been a hot day for me too.

"I'm sure you have. I leave here with men when I have a notion too." I gave him a direct look.

"You have a great tan."

"Thanks. I work on it." I did. It's why I wore mesh athletic T-shirts to bars like this. They showed off my tan as well as my cut physique. The neighborhoods I slung garbage cans in most mornings weren't swanky ones. It was the Florida Panhandle, in the summer, I often worked bare-chested. Always in shorts.

"I've noticed the tan doesn't go all the way up on your legs. You're wearing shorter shorts now than you usually do."

"Sorry, is that a problem?" I asked. It certainly seemed weird that he'd ask this.

"No," he said, and laughed. "But it's something I notice. I have somewhat of a tan line fetish. I find it interesting. Seeing the contrast and the pattern of it, focusing in on the goods, is a real turn-on for me."

So, this was going to be easy. I had a really well-defined tan line pattern. My goods also were quite good enough.

"Of course," he continued, "if you wanted to avoid that—showing a distinct tan line—there are beaches here where you can get an all-over tan."

"An all-over tan?" I said. And, yeah, right, I could just lay out on the beach all morning rather than muscle trashcans.

"Nudist beaches. There are some nudist beaches in the area. I'm a nudist. I notice tan lines and such. A nudist can get an all-over tan. I'm tan all over because there's a nudist beach just below my house."

"But you like guys with tan lines?"

"Yes. Them with tan lines, me tan all over," he answered.

"So, you aren't advertising for nudist beaches?"

"No, just sayin' what I liked in a guy."

"In a guy you want to screw."

"Yes."

Well, alrighty then. So, I'm going to get to see and admire his "all-over" too, I thought. Well, OK, his body looked tight enough for his age. I didn't discern any sagging or bagging. No problem if his billfold was sagging.

Hal was still talking, repeating himself, making sure I got the point. "I do have this fetish about tan lines, though. I bet yours are great. But if you want to work on an all-over tan, I can show you where there's a great, very private nudist beach—right below my house, as I said."

Yes, he did say. So, maybe he'd take me home to fuck me rather than to a seedy motel room. I never took them back to my apartment. It was small and the building was dumpy, but it was all mine, very private. I didn't share it with johns.

"And I suppose you would like to see my tan lines," I said.

"Yes, I certainly would," he said, smiling.

"Just to be sure, you want to pay me to go to a nudist beach with you?"

"A very private one."

Where you will fuck me, I thought. I didn't have to say it, though. It was what I was here for. That wad of cash was his ticket to use me. As if he'd heard my "yes, you can fuck me" acquiescence in my thoughts, he moved to the stool beside me and pushed the wad of bills over next to my beer can. "We could go over to one now. We could drive in my car and I could bring you back here when we're done."

When he was done fucking me on the beach.

So, what the hell, I went ahead and said it, "Where you will screw me. On the nudist beach."

"That's the plan, yes," he said, "where, if you have good tan lines, I'll worship them and fuck you on the beach."

"Sure, why not?" I said. It was what I was here for.

His ride turned out to be a nifty black Audi A5 convertible. He hadn't been stingy on the wad of cash he'd sent my way either. This would be a good day. He palmed my butt possessively to guide me out of the bar. He was old, probably pushing sixty, but he was a good-looking devil and looked to be in shape—no sagging or bagging. Well, no sagging except in the wallet, just like I liked it. If he didn't take pills, it would probably be a one-and-done and he'd be satisfied.

It's what I'd come into George's Tavern for.

* * * *

We drove into a gated community right on the coast, south of U.S. Highway 98E. All of the homes were low bungalows with two-car garages between the house and the street. The streets were windy. No one was about. It looked deserted, but everything was kept up well. It looked like money. As we wound down a street, a garage door was automatically raised on one of the houses and Hall pulled the Audi convertible into it and closed the door automatically behind us.

The house was neatly and expensively decorated. He led me, palm still cupping one of my buttocks, to the back of the house, to the master bedroom beside the living room. Both rooms had an expanse of glass on the back wall overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. This house and the one close beside it, a side window in the bedroom overlooking a side window of the next house, were perched above what did look like a very private beach, bordered on either side by a line of rocks tumbling down into the water. The houses on either side of these two appeared to have their own private little beaches as well.

I stood at the sliding-glass window out onto a terrace with a small oval pool. The terrace abutted the top of a wooden staircase leading down to the beach. Hal handed me a beer can he'd grabbed from the refrigerator in the kitchen while leading me back here and I took a swig of beer from it. I looked out onto the water while, in my peripheral vision, I saw him in the master bath, opening a medicine cabinet, taking out a bottle of pills, and popping a couple of them. He then stripped down and I could see him going hard already.

OK, so he was doing it with pills. That usually meant more than one fuck. They always seemed to want to get more than one fuck out of it if they had to use pills to get it up and keep it up. The pills gave them a couple of hours of perpetual hard, so they wanted to dip it as often as they could in that time. Even if they could get up another load of cum, they wanted to play hide the sausage. I'd been this route before.

His body was a nice surprise, though. He was as trim and hard-bodied still as he had indicated in the bar that he would be. The muscling was wiry, veining stood out on his torso and arms, indicating there wasn't a lot of fat for them to run through. His thighs and calves were firm, like those of a cyclist. His body was as hairless as his head. His erection was lengthening out nicely. His abs were tight and his belly flat. Surprisingly, he had black swirls of a shoulder and left pec tattoo. He'd been right that his tan was deep and had all-over coverage.

I focused my attention on the hardening shaft. He would do. If he was at all expert at this, he'd do just fine, despite whatever age he was. I wasn't whoring myself because I didn't like having a guy's cock inside me.

I started to pull my T over my head as he turned and walked back into the bedroom, but he stopped me. "No, please let me do that. I enjoy that."

He pulled in close behind me, his arms going around me, after he'd taken the beer can out of my hand and placed it on the top of a bureau within reach.

"God, it feels good to be fully free again," he murmured. "I go naked most of the time at home." And then, "And you have such a beautiful body. You should go nude whenever you can too."

He took his time in almost ceremoniously stripping me, running his hands under the material and gliding over flesh before revealing the flesh. Fingers traced the tan lines of my body, and he was panting when he did that. The fetish talk hadn't just been come-on talk. He spent considerable time tracing the tan lines. This wasn't going to be a ten-minute up and down, in and out. He'd glide his finger across the tan line; touch my cock, which was engorging nicely for him; and then go back to tracing the tan line. He was going to take his time. I was going to earn my money, but in the most pleasurable way.

I groaned and sighed as his hands ran under the hem of the T and up, covering my pecs. I felt him give a little shudder when he realized I had gold bars in each of my nipples. He took time to play with these. I moaned and jutted my buttocks back into his crotch, where I clearly could feel him engorging. His erection slipped between my thighs, under my perineum, and I rocked back on him as he dry fucked me and moved his hand over my body, slowly divesting me of T and then shorts and, finally, the red silk thong. Before the thong came off, he had both hands inside the pouch, feeling, fondling, stroking.

I reached down and encircled his shaft. He was ready for action—ready for deep-penetrating action. I groaned. "Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me now," I whimpered. It wasn't all an act a rent-boy does for johns. I liked to be fucked. I wanted him to fuck me. You only so often encountered such a long cock, regardless of whether it was pill-enhanced or not. He'd said we'd do it on the beach, but it was OK with me that he didn't want to wait.

"You like how I'm hung?" he whispered.

"Yes, very much."

"You think you can handle it?"

"I want to try." Of course I could handle it. I was a rent-boy.

He laughed, went back down on his knees behind me. He was touching and tracing the tan line again with his fingers—and then with his lips. I gasped when his face buried itself in my crack. I jutted my butt back to him, pressed the palms of my hands and of my cheek to the cool glass looking out onto the terrace, the beach, and the sea, and, rocking against his searching tongue. A hand snaked around my hips and he stroked me off as the fingers of the other hand continued tracing tan lines. He took his time eating my ass out, loosening and stretching me, periodically moving his fingers, up to the knuckles, to help in the preparation process.

I gave a little cry, "Yes, yes, YES! Screw the hell out of me!" as he rose behind me and I heard the snap of the condom. He mounted my ass, put himself into position, slid inside me, and fucked me hard and deep.

I came first to his stroking hand, splashing my seed on the glass window. He took longer.

He was still hard when we showered afterward.

He was still hard when he said, "Let's go down on the beach," and we did, still in the nude. He was still hard when he put me on all fours on the large beach towel on the sand, crouched over me, holding my hips between his knees, mounted me high on my ass, and fucked me like a dog in heat.

And he was still hard when, after another shower in his master bathroom, he folded up my clothes and put them on a shelf in his closet, saying, "Going nude is what we do here," and led me to his bed, put me down on my back, grasped my ankles, raised and spread my legs, thrust up inside me, and fucked me again in the missionary position. He was even harder than before—and thicker too. The pills were keeping him hard. I gasped as I was stretched and worked. He had great stamina for his age. Thrust . . . moan. Thrust . . . groan. Thrust . . . whimper. I wasn't so well used that I didn't feel—and love—every stretching thrust.

"Christ, you're killing me good," I gasped. He laughed.

Going nude wasn't the only thing he did in his house. He fucked nonstop when he was on the pills. He fucked really good, so I wasn't going to complain.

We were cooling down on the bed, bodies in entwined, Hal still hard and evidently having every intention to continue fucking me until the pills wore off, when we heard the garage door going up.

"Oh, shit," Hal exclaimed. "Angela. My wife, Angela. She wasn't supposed to be home until tomorrow. Fuck. You need to be out of here. The beach. Go back down on the beach. I'll come for you when I can. No, there's no time for your clothes. Get out of here. Down to the beach! Out the sliding glass doors!"

* * * *

"I'll bet Hal told you this was a public nudist beach. He always says that to his young men."

"His young men?" I asked, looking up and seeing that there was a huge bear of an older man crouching down beside me. I was sitting on the towel Hal and I had left on the beach, my knees drawn up to my chest and my head down, dozing, as I waited for Hal to come down from his house to give me the all clear on coming back up—or maybe bringing me my clothes and getting me away from here.

The man was gorgeous in a wild, hairy way. He appeared to be older than Hal was, bigger in every way, and his heavy, hirsute body was overwhelming in contrast to Hal's trim, hairless one. The man was a god, though, a Zeus. His hair was salt and pepper in color and curly and silky in texture. It covered his body from his luxurious head of hair and his bushy mustache and beard down to his bush. His eyes were a piercing pale blue, contrasting with his heavy tanned body—an overall body tan. He was a large, heavy man, but muscular in a way that, although he was thick through the torso, the impression was more of power and perfect proportion than of fat. He was naked other than the gold jewelry he wore—rings in his nipples and a thick one in the massive purple bulb of his cock, and a thick gold chain around his neck, with a heavy gold coin suspended between his bulging, hair matted pecs. His cock, in half erection, was the thickest one I'd ever seen on a man—one referred to as a beer can cock. His balls swung from down from the root of that, low hanging, the size of lemons, and covered in fuzz.

I melted to him. If he wanted to fuck me, I was all his.

Although he was naked, he was carrying a towel and a small pouch. He put the towel down on the beach beside the one I was on, but he didn't fan it out. That gave me the notion he planned to share my towel with me, and I wasn't put off by that idea.

"Come, let's get a look at you," he said rather than immediately answering my question. Strong, beefy, hands, the backs of them and of the fingers covered in hair, insert themselves between my knees and my chest and coaxed me to unfold. I reclined back onto my elbows. He grasped my knees with a strong, but gentle grip, and pulled my thighs apart, bending my legs and setting the soles of my feet down on the wide towel. I was completely open and vulnerable to him. I didn't mind. I didn't mind a bit.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked, giving me a twinkling smile.

"No so far," I said, already having decided I'd let him cover me if he wanted to.

I was open and vulnerable to him and he looked down at my naked body, assessing and possessing with his searching eyes. "Yes, very nice. Very fuckable. One of Hal's better finds. I can see how he was able to manage so many mountings."

I didn't mind drawing this out—toying with him a bit and not letting him know he had me at "I'll bet."

"Excuse me?" I asked. "Who are you, please? You're saying this isn't a nudist beach? I've been led to believe nudism isn't about sex so I should be safe from being hit on at a nudist beach." My voice was shaky. The man was overwhelming. He was a massive, hirsute god. Shit, that cock was impossibly thick. He'd split me in two.

"Nudists not concerned with sex. That's a good one. Did Hal say that to get into your pants on the beach?" He laughed. His voice was in the low baritone range. His laugh was even deeper than that. His hands remained gripping my knees, keeping my legs spread, exposing my cock and balls, the shaft engorging. I couldn't help that. He was swaying my legs back and forth a bit, mimicking the rhythm of a slow fuck. I melted to it.

"Do you seriously think I came down here without the intent of fucking you?"

"No, I guess not."

"My name is Rodney. This isn't really a nudist beach, young man. But it can be a very private one. It's summer. This is a 55-plus retirement community. Most of those living here are snowbirds. They live somewhere else, somewhere cooler, in the summer. Just these two houses up there look down into this beach. And Hal and I have an understanding and shared fetishes. So, yes, we often go nude on this beach. Hal and I are both nudists when we can be. He lives in that house and I live in the one over there. We both bring young men down here on this beach to fuck. You're a beautiful young man. I'm sure Hal went wild over these tan lines. I saw him screw you good already."

What was that about? Down here on the beach? The first time had been in the bedroom in Hal's house.

One of his hands came off a knee, but I didn't move it, and traced my tan lines. I maintained the slow rhythm of swaying my legs back and forth, both of us, I'm sure, imagining him already between my legs, inside me. I shuddered at the touch of him and my eyes went back to his crotch as he crouched on his haunches beside me. I gave an involuntary moan. He had engorged further, both in length and width.

He looked down at where I was looking and laughed. "Yes, you put me in erection. Not for the first time. I don't have to use pills like Hal does. And, yes, I am going to screw you good if you let me. Whatever Hal's paid you I'll match. You're not an amateur pickup, are you? You're a pro. You'll give me what I want for money, right?"