"And I don't believe there's any place like Bar Harbor in the late summer. There's a beach just below my family cottage there where some of the hottest men come that time of the year. You'd fit in very well there. So, we really must . . ."
Tim was looking out on the street from where he and Howard were sitting at the sidewalk café on Wisconsin Avenue. There was a man across the busy-traffic street, in front of the Bethesda Residence Inn, who was walking two Cavalier spaniels. Slender figure, but broad shoulders. Straight as a ramrod. Tim bet the man kept his body in great shape and was doing well with the battle against time. Expensive-looking suit. He looked almost European. Gray sideburns but his hair still auburn on top—and every hair in place. He reeked of money—and of exquisite taste, given the choice in dogs. Tim liked pedigreed dogs. He liked pedigreed men too—and older. Not too old to cock well, but a bit past forty at least.
Tim imagined the man stripped down to a Speedo and playing with his dogs in the surf on a beach—somewhere up north, Maine maybe. But while it was still warm enough to swim in the ocean. He liked the cut of the man, slender at the waist, but a well-muscled chest and biceps—at least that's how Tim imagined him. Hair on the chest, but in an intriguing cascade down from underneath both pecs, down a flat belly, and curling into the low-rise waistband of the blue Speedo. Salt and pepper hair. A nice bulge at the basket and good, strong, firm legs. Tim bet the man ran regularly.
* * * *
The beach was one of those exclusive places that rich residents of weathered wood-shingled, rambling mansions they called their weekend cottages banded together to keep for the use of a small tight community that only appeared from the city three or four times a year. The houses lined a bluff well above the sandy beach, and if you stretched your towel out where Tim envisioned he had, you could be in the sun but away from the prying eyes on the decks of the houses above. It was a place where there was hardly any beach traffic during the week—mainly the servants in the houses above with nothing to do for weeks on end until receiving notice that the masters of the house would be there. Tim only thought of the male servants. The women would be busy actually doing something—too busy to come down to the beach. These were mainly chauffeurs and gardeners and handymen—hot young men who shared the secret of cushy, nondemanding jobs with their fuck buddies. They were mostly what could be seen on this beach during the week. And then young men like Tim who had heard of the hot men on this private beach and sneaked in for some action of their own.
Tim is lying on his towel, his attention split between the elegant older man playing with his Cavalier spaniels in the surf and two young men up the beach, who have laid out one large towel and are already stretched along each other's bodies, facing each other, and kissing and touching. Other than these men, the beach is deserted. And such a beautiful, sunny, warm day. It is a wasted week day—well, for everyone but Tim and these other guys on the beach. No doubt the beautiful weather wouldn't hold into the weekend when at least a few of the "cottages" above would be occupied.
Tim has taken off his own bathing suit, seeking that all-over tan. He's turned toward the ocean, sitting, with legs spread and forearms on raised knees. The older man in the surf turns and looks at him and then up the beach at the couple, where Speedos have already been shucked and the two are turned to each other on their sides, the hands of both of them busy between their bodies, their lips plastered to each other.
The man smiles and starts to walk toward Tim. Tim spreads his legs further and reaches down and cups his balls and cock with a hand, giving the man a sultry smile. The man stops on the beach at the line where the surf reaches its highest, a line changing from the dark tan of wet sand to the dry, white sand of the upper beach, a line demarcated by a band of small, mostly broken up sea shells. There, in that spot, the man slowly strips off his Speedo, and Tim swallows hard and moans at the sight of how beautiful the man's body is and how well-equipped he is. All power and grace, aged extremely well. As the man stands there, Tim goes to half erection, lifting it in his cupped hand as it lengthens and thickens so the man at the tide's edge gets a good view of Tim's arousal. Then he arches his torso back and spreads his legs wider and gives the man a saucy little look.
The Cavalier spaniels are bounding happily around the man as he starts to walk again, slowly, but deliberately, toward Tim. As the man reaches Tim, he kneels on the towel between Tim's spread legs and buries his fists in the sand at each side of Tim's chest. They hold there momentarily, staring into each other's eyes, conveying just what each wants. Then the man dips his face down to Tim's and Tim opens his lips for the kiss and sighs at the sweet taste of the man's mouth.
After a sweet kiss, the man's face moves further down and his mouth closes over Tim's cock. Tim sighs and closes his eyes.
The spaniels lay down at each side of the blanket and start panting happily. Tim hears the panting but takes a few moments to realize that it isn't just the spaniels. He is panting as well. The man's face is back, pressing into Tim's, and his tongue invades Tim's mouth and moves in and out, deeper into the cavity with each renewed invasion. More insistent, more brutal, more possessing. Fucking Tim's mouth cavity with his tongue. Tim gags and is finding it hard to breathe, but he doesn't want the man to stop. He opens his mouth as wide as he can, wanting the man to climb inside and take him completely.
One of the man's hands is wrapped around Tim's cock and is squeezing and stroking it. Tim moans and moves his hands around to the man's back, palming his shoulder blades and pulling the man's torso down to his chest, seeking to merge their bodies, make them one. The man's now fully erect and very proud cock is rubbing up and down on Tim's belly and is dueling with Tim's own cock. He traps both cocks with a hand and strokes them together.
No lover like an experienced lover, Tim thinks as he jerks and ejaculates for the first time. And only an experienced lover knows that there is more to come, if properly coaxed.
The man pulls away from fucking Tim's mouth with his tongue and his mouth moves down to the hollow of Tim's neck, where his tongue traces the throbbing vein there. Tim looks over toward the other men on the beach to see that one is on his belly on the towel and the other has mounted him, straddling his hips between his legs. His hands are on the other man's shoulder blades and his bulbous buttocks are flexing and releasing and moving languidly back and forth between the other man's cheeks.
Tim's own man has moved his lips to Tim's nipples, but his dick is still stroking Tim's belly.
Tim moans and whispers something and the man whispers back. Tim reaches over into the beach bag beside the blanket. One of the spaniels leans his muzzle over to Tim's hand, and he licks the tip of Tim's finger. Tim smiles and pets the spaniel on the muzzle but then he jerks a bit and arches his back and lets out a moan. The spaniel has turned his muzzle away. There is another tongue giving Tim attention, though. The man has moved down and wrapped his strong arms around Tim's thighs and parted and lifted them and his tongue is invading Tim's ass channel.
Tim turns his head to guide his hand into his beach bag in search of the condoms and lubricant he has placed there. The young men down the beach are going at it hot and heavy now, the dominating man having brought the other up on his knees and wrapped his arms around the other's chest. The bottom has arched his back into the chest of the top and reached back and cupped the back of the head of his assaulter. The top is banging the bottom hard in loud, slapping sounds that reach their way to Tim on the sea breeze along with the cries of the young man being deep fucked.
The cries of passion are becoming louder, more distinct, and in stereo. It takes Tim a moment to realize that some of those cries are his, as the man is crouched over his chest again, his cock head has gained entry inside Tim's channel, and his hard tool is beginning to thrust deeper, harder, deeper, harder, deeper . . .
* * * *
". . . and the yacht's just up in Baltimore. We could take the sea route to Bar Harbor. I've just had the vessel refurbished. I think you'd really like what I've done with the captain's cabin. There are mirrors—even over the bed, and . . ."
"Uh huh, nice," Tim murmured. He could feel the toes of Howard's socked foot nudging up under the hem of his trousers and rubbing against his shin.
Tim had first met Howard at the law firm where Tim, still in law school, was clerking. Howard apparently was some sort of important client—at least everyone had been told to hup to on that day when Howard came in. There were more senior partners sitting at hopeful attention in the conference room that day than Tim had ever seen there before.
They had been at it—all with their coats off and looking like they were in a disaster-relief planning session, all except for Howard Crandal, who sat there in his expensive three-piece suit, cut to his brawny, Zeus-like body, and perfectly groomed gray hair and manicured nails on his beefy, gold-banded fingers, looking all tanned and relaxed. The disaster relief image had come to Tim's mind because that's what he'd heard one senior partner tell another that they would have to do around here if they lost the Crandal account.
Tim had been called from the file room with some files they needed in the conference room. As he walked across the floor to the head of the table, where the managing partner was sitting, Tim felt Howard Crandal's eyes follow him. He thought he recognized that look.
He became sure he had correctly assessed the look Crandal had given him in the law firm's conference room more than a week later when Tim next saw Crandal.
Law school was expensive and Tim had expensive habits. It was a good thing he was a looker and had a great body too, because he was using that in a second job to make ends meet.
Tim was a dancer in the Green Lantern, a gay bar off Wisconsin Avenue, on the outskirts of the town of Bethesda that had been swallowed by the creeping tentacles of the greater Washington, D.C., metropolitan area. Tim danced a pole in a G-string on a small stage there for three sets a night, two nights a week. He also, if everything seemed right, would let a patron fuck him in one of the cubicles behind the stage between sets. He made more money these two nights than he did from his part-time job at the law firm. It all helped to keep him in law school—and, he thought, was better than what most of the other students were doing to stay in school. And he didn't have parents who would subsidize him.
