Spring Brea in Greece

Spring Break in Greece Ch 01

Most of a New England basketball team get to Greece

Some of you will have read the series published on Literotica (Dylan Thomas Merriweather). This story is set about three years earlier, is "stand-alone" and involves two of the characters mentioned in DTW--Greg and Connie, brothers and owners of a Greek charter sailing yacht. All characters are over 18. This is entirely fictional and original--no AI used in its production. © Brunosden, 2025. All rights reserved.

It was mid-February and the snow was falling again in Waterville, Maine, home of Colby College. This was to be expected. Winters were always long, cold, dark and snowy, and this year was no exception. All of us were counting the days, maybe the hours, until spring break and a chance to escape to the sun.

Four of us, all juniors and jocks, shared a suite in one of the newer dorms at the edge of the small town campus, exclusively reserved for athletes--in our case, basketball players. The suite had two bedrooms, each with extra-long twins, a connecting "study room" and a multi-shower bath. The first floor of the dorm held a "jock cafeteria" and the basement was filled with gym equipment. It was one of the nicest arrangements available at Colby.

Until a few days ago, the Mules (our inaptly named basketball squad) thought they were going to be "guests of Colby" at a spring break invitational tourney in Tampa--but we had lost three consecutive games by a few points each and were out of contention--and out of a fully-paid vacation to Florida, including a few days in Disney World and a few on the beach in St. Pete. Not even a wild-card slot would save us. Many of us were scrambling to find another "sunny and warm" affordable venue. So far, we had come up with nothing--and the depressing thought of being stuck in New England or of going home for that week was sinking in.

We had played together since arriving at Colby, all on partial athletic scholarships from suburban high schools in the equally snowy Midwest--none of us had been privileged enough to go the prep school route. Our parents were middle class, and coincidentally, since each of us is the youngest in the family (except KC who was an only child with a single mother). The folks were beginning to "see the light at the end of the financial tunnel" of raising and educating children.

We had often been kidded about the name of the team--the Mules. Give me break, where the fuck did they come up with the "Colby Mules"? Everyone knows mules are sterile. And so the jokes of competitors (and classmates) proliferated. "Do you guys have a sex drive? Can you get it up? Do you have to use a condom? Do you need me to take care of Carol--or Sue--or Chrissy--for you?" And on and on.

But, we always (or almost always) had the last laugh. Years of teasing had given us ready and quick retorts. We argued that, like mules, we were stubborn and "super-horny" because we had to keep trying with as many partners as we could find. Yes we could get it up. "Haven't you ever heard of a donkey dick?--well mules have either a donkey dick or they're horse-hung." And, "Unfortunately we do need protection--if only they made them big enough for comfort and to hold the gallons of spunk we spurt!" And so the legend on campus was that the Mules were hung, potent and really good lays. And we worked really hard to maintain that rep.

I'm currently gazing out the window at the falling snow. My name is Jerry Parker. I'm 6-4, with longish dark hair and large brown eyes. I'm lightly muscled except for my oversized guns which stretch the armholes in a tee, very nicely, thank you. I'm a center, with a reasonable basket completion record, but unlikely to be pro-material. I really enjoy inter-collegiate athletics and the camaraderie of a well-oiled team. I'm headed for grad school, probably in computer sciences. I'm slated to be co-captain of the team next year. I've had a pretty active dating life, mostly coeds at Colby and a few others I picked up at mixers, but there is no one special at the moment.

I'm a social "bro"--I enjoy parties of all sizes; I'm rarely alone; I'm comfortable with and in my body.

My roommate Mark could pass for my twin, and he too is into computers--which makes us fairly unique in this mostly liberal arts institution with only a little STEM in the curriculum. We've been together for over two years--enough that we often finish each other's sentences and anticipate each other's needs--often helping to fill those needs.

I've had a man-crush on Mark almost since we met in the first class freshman year. It started as a slow burn, just really good friends who really enjoyed each other's company, easily ignored, but nevertheless real. But, it got stronger over time. Mark knows now, and he's not at all uncomfortable with a live-in "bi" sex partner without strings. Who wouldn't be attracted to a mirror of oneself? It had started with a pregnant stare, a casual tap on the ass, a bro-hug or the occasional soaping massage or teasing a rock hard dick in the shower. It had progressed from there.

Once or twice, after a party and few too many, we had jerked each other. The jerks morphed to blows, really hot 69, with no holds barred. Then some fingering. And finally I had given the signal, and Mark had stuck his dick into my tight little hole. That did the trick. Both of us were addicted and probably bi. The twin image incidentally applies also to our equipment: both of us have nearly identical dicks--very long and uncut, but not too thick, and shaved. We are vers, although he tends to top more often, and we're informally exclusive--at least with a male partner.

Of course there were temptations--right in the suite. None of us is rigidly hetero--Dr. Kinsey was absolutely correct. On his scale of 0 to 6, I'm maybe a 4 and Mark is probably a 3. That seems to be often the case in the ZZ-generation: We're just a lot more casual about sex--it's recreational, not defining; labels just don't matter at our age. If it feels good, and nobody gets hurt, go for it.

So we both continued to date, and often we scored. And when a date was unavailable or had refused to commit to a mutually pleasurable evening, there was always a willing roommate back in the dorm. It was really a perfect arrangement for two spunk-filled hunks.

Mark was out at class at the moment. But, Phil (Jameson), another suite-mate, an English Lit major, was sitting on the sofa, "paging" through an online skin e-zine on his laptop. He shares the other room with KC (Masters), a poster-boy black beast from Chicago--really tall, with dark black, almost purple skin, dark flashing eyes, glowing white teeth, good muscles, and a chiseled face with a square jaw and concave cheeks--definitely model material. KC was the other humanities major in the suite--American Civilization. Phil and KC were bi, like Mark and me--although KC wouldn't admit it if asked. In fact, Phil was probably gay. Both dated, but it was pretty obvious that KC was often in Phil's bed. And Phil was always the bottom.

Phil had seduced KC and remained a willing cum-dump when KC needed relief. KC really didn't consider it gay at all. Quite appropriately, KC, the tallest at 6-8, had the longest and thickest and baddest dick in the suite. He was packing porn quality. And Phil, when aroused, was pretty vocal about it. In fact, we all made jokes about the fact that Phil couldn't seem to orgasm--even in a wet-dream--without some sort of ear-shattering war cry. His balls were apparently directly wired to his vocal cords--as well as his sensitive tits. Certainly the occasional phrases heard from their room--Phil's plea for deeper or harder suggested that. All of us were discrete and not flamboyantly out on campus--in fact, not out at all. But, in the suite, Phil was definitely the most convincingly gay bottom.

Four of us, all with an open attitude toward sex, had found each other and after freshman year, had become easy roommates.

Mark and I often knew when KC was giving it to Phil--and that was on a pretty regular basis. And more than once, it had set us off. At 20 or so, it doesn't take much to cause an erection, and if the atmosphere and attitude are conducive, a need to relieve that condition. We just moved to the room or the shower and shut the door. All of us were just letting off sexual steam.

So we were quite compatible and were often together--but we always paired off with the same partners. We had never tried an orgy, and really had no desire to do so.

Now, however, we're really bummed by the turn of game events which meant we weren't going to get any relief from the long cold winter. And of course, we blamed ourselves. How had we blown such a chance in only one week? Three games, each lost by one or two points in the last seconds. Do we have a death wish? Or a Santa-complex to stay where it's cold? Even the thought of being cooped up with a ready sex partner and no classes did nothing to relieve our disappointment. We weren't going to Florida.

******

My Dad has always been a small-time gambler. Nothing major. Never been to Vegas. But, he played the lottery at the local convenience store and had taken chances on various things at the Church bazaar or for other local charities. Last November, he had won--a trip for two couples to the Greek Islands with a week on a small captained yacht, everything included. So my folks and our next door neighbors were due to leave for Greece in several weeks, coincidentally at the same time as our guys' planned trip south. So going home was not really an option for me anyway.

So, right now, when I should be prepping for an upcoming math quiz, I'm staring out the window at the depressing grey and falling snow. The room was typically warm--Colby made up for its geographic handicap by pumping steam heat hard into its student residences. Phil and I were dressed only in b-ball shorts and tees. My cell chirped its familiar but ancient six-note ring ("She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah."), and I looked down to see it was Mom calling. How coincidental! I was just thinking about her.

The call was brief. Too much snow in Dearborn. Allocated school snow days had been used up--and the School Board had decided to cancel half of spring break to make up the days. (Mom is an algebra teacher. The neighbor's wife also planning on taking the trip was a history teacher at the same school. Neither could afford to take off a week during the school year. Calling in sick during recently canceled vacay days was just too obvious.) The planned trip to Greece needed to be canceled, and unfortunately couldn't be rescheduled. The charter week had been set in stone--or maybe with a "firm anchor." So, if I wanted to come home for the break, they would be home to expect me. We commiserated for a few minutes, and I returned to reading and study. I really wasn't looking forward to heading home to equally cold and grey Dearborn.

Phil had overheard most of the conversation. Phil incidentally is a 6-6 guard, buzz-cut blonde, blue eyes, probably the most muscular in the suite and certainly the most aggressive on the court. Isn't it a fucking joke that the most devoted bottom in the suite was also the most aggressive player on the court--and the most externally masculine? He looked a little like Mr. Fucking Clean. No one would ever guess.

He picked up on it immediately. "How much do you think it might cost to get to Greece from Boston at the end of March?" I guessed where he was going. So I pulled open my laptop and went to Kayak. March is not high season--the fares would be about $450 per person roundtrip, in steerage and with a stop or two en route.

"Do you think the charter could be transferred to us? I think that if I eat PBJ for the rest of the year and give up lattes, I could scrape together that air fare--and Boston is only a short drive--Colby even has shuttle buses to Logan for spring break."

Phil looked over, "Do you think four six foot plus guys could fit in airline steerage? We might be paralyzed for life. But, fuck, I'm willing to try."

KC and Mark arrived a few minutes later and, when Phil explained the possibility, were just as enthusiastic. Mark even whispered, "I think this deserves a nice hot shower fuck. I'm really horny for your ass right now." Then, in a louder voice, he announced, he was headed in for a shower before dinner. I followed as KC and Phil moved to their room.

By the time I had stripped and reached the enclosure, Mark was already wet. He looked edible--glistening light muscles, hair drooping over his face, puckered pink lips, water swirling down his Adonis vee and rippling over the abs and the final gush over his semi-erect dick. The water temp was perfect; he pulled me in for a hug, then spun me around, stretched out my arms high on the tile and batted my legs into a vee. I bent over and threw out my ass so my balls were swinging low in the vee and my pink cheeks were beckoning. I had assumed "the position." I guess it was going to be his turn--again. He moved in tightly and began to soap and massage, tickling under my arms, squeezing my thick, hard eraser nipples and sliding his dick into my slippery cleavage. My temperature was definitely rising, and Jerry-J was definitely interested.

He reached around with one hand and gripped my shaft while he wiggled the fingers of the other hand, soaked in conditioner, into my tight hungry hole. I purred quietly as he touched, then poked the love nut, sending chills up my spine despite the hot water. He did it again. And again. Then he backed up, coated his dick with more conditioner, positioned and pushed, as his chest fell into my back. I responded by arching as he bumped up inside. He launched his dick hard on my prostate by bucking a few times, and he had me. Fuck, I loved it when he did that. It made me feel like the whore he was really into. Just pump the hole, with hard and long strokes, taking personal pleasure, confident that doing so would bring me along for the ride.

He stroked several times. Bottomed and held. What a fabulous feeling of fullness! His big fat pole was stretching me and sending waves of electric pleasure throughout my pelvis. We reveled in the endless hot water for a few more minutes. Then, one hand went to my shoulder to steady me as the other to my throat to pull my face around so we could suck while he held Markie deep inside throbbing against my nut. Fuck, we were both so hot and so ready. I wonder what he'd been eating--or more likely thinking about--earlier that day. He was perfect. Primed and ready. I felt his first spasm and followed with my own,both dry, contracting my anal ring around his cock. Then he released my shoulder and moved down to hold my abs tightly to him as the fingers of his other hand ringed the base of my shaft.

Fuck, Mark was going to edge me! He knew how I really got off when he did that. His thumb and first finger squeezed around the base as the other fingers scooped up my balls so he could press my taint with the heel of his hand. He had me completely at his mercy, all of my most valuable stuff cradled tightly in his large hand. My life and my future were his. I hissed. "You fucker. I should get a penalty throw for that foul. But squeeze it tighter and fuck me deeper. Fuccccck!" He held on for maybe a half-minute as I darkened and tensed, nearly climbing the wall of the shower for relief. But, as I rose, he held on, and kept me plugged deeply. He was absolutely unrelenting. And really enjoying his moment of dom.

My gut pulled in, and his hand stroked the six pack. I could actually feel the movement of his spunk up his long shaft on the walls of my chute. I dry shuddered deep inside. My spunk was boiling, banging on the gate ready to swim for the gold. I was ready to explode. Then he blew lightly on the little hairs of my neck, relaxed the grip, keeping his finger lightly on the vas, just as he managed a final thrust and bottomed yet again. He shot his hot spunk inside as I felt mine moving up the shaft. My cock expanded and I sprayed the shower wall with mine. Long ropes of pearly white cream. The final big globs hit the shower floor. Then my legs collapsed, and he held me tight to prevent a fall. One arm under my pecs, the other holding my crotch. When I anal-orgasm, I lose all motor control. Markie had done his work again. Fuck, I love this guy.

The stall was filled with steam and musk, intoxicating both of us. How did I ever live without this before?. Finally, our breathing slowed and we emerged to dry--just as we heard Phil's shouted war cry announcing his cuming. KC had dumped again. Both Phil and I were going to be dripping at dinner.

*****

It took only a few days to work out the details. The charter transferred. My folks had bought insurance on the airfare and so had a full refund--and they would lend me enough to pay the fare--provided I paid them back from summer wages. And it turned out that within two days, all of us were able to beg, borrow or steal enough to do likewise. So four "Mules" were headed for Greece for Spring Break.

*****

Three weeks later, we were pumped and on the shuttle to Logan for the overnight flight to Athens via Iceland and Frankfurt. There, we would be met by the charter company rep and taken the short distance to the Port of Piraeus to board the yacht for a Saturday to Saturday charter. And we only had to cut one day of classes. We were unbelievably excited and ready for adventure. Of course, we assumed that Greece was definitely as "hot" as any Florida beach during Spring Break.

We arrived in Athens, late Saturday morning, too ramped up to realize we were exhausted--overnight transatlantic economy seats are definitely not made for basketball players! But the plane on the long leg from Reykjavik to Frankfurt had been half full and we had cajoled the flight attendants (with some vague promises of hooking up) into permitting us each to stretch out on three economy seats with flexible arm rests at the back--and slept some.

The Port was crowded, and only a few miles from the airport runways--we could even see planes taking off when we arrived at the pier. The yacht was old, but well maintained, a "motor-sail." There was a young captain (Greg), probably around 25, about six foot, deeply tanned, stocky, with black curly hair and a mate, his younger brother, Connie. The latter was short and muscled, with sparkling eyes and an ever-ready compliment. Greg was a magnificent piece of man-flesh. He would steal the show any day--unless KC were on the stage. They were dressed in form-fitting tees emblazoned with the name of the yacht and tight, white shorts. Both wore broad smiles, were very friendly and spoke passable English. (That was fortunate. Our Greek was absolutely nil.)

Greek men are obviously accustomed to being very "hands on" with both friends and guests. We were greeted with hugs, cheek-kisses, and back-and-ass-taps. All of us were a half foot or more taller than our hosts--so back taps became ass taps. And of course, we all knew all too well that Greek men were typically bi. This was going to be an interesting experience. I wondered how long it would be before an attempted seduction would occur.

Later, we learned that Greg and Connie were actually the owners of the yacht, operating on a shoe-string. So they weren't reps who were going to escort us to the yacht and leave. They were going to be our hosts for the week.

The first order of business was a tour. It didn't take long.

There was a passenger cabin in the bow, with a vee-berth--a double bed, which narrowed slightly toward the prow. Forward of this, under a latched port was the locker with the anchor and the inflatable zodiac/dinghy. A second "double" bed was created in the saloon from a bench seat and a long table that hydraulically lowered (well, once hydraulically, now by careful manual coaxing) as the mattress pad was pulled forward. The bath between the vee berth and the saloon-bedroom was shared. It was a small room where the shower was the entire space--with two doors, one opening to the "owners' cabin", the other to the saloon. The ceilings were all just about six feet; so we all had to scrunch down to move around. I think most bathing is going to take place in the sea or on deck.