Spring Brea in Greece Ch 02

Spring Break in Greece Ch 02

Vacation ends and reality sets in

A continuation of the special vacation enjoyed by four Colby basketball players and their hosts, 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.

After breakfast, we sailed. We spent the morning stretched out in the sun on the seat cushions which were moved around the deck to create chaises. Once in a while, one of us would rouse and offer to help, but the boat really sailed itself. The seas were calm and azure with streaks of turquoise. Either Greg or Connie could handle the Medea single-handedly. They were seasoned sailors.

From time to time, Connie came around with lotion and offered to massage it in. Nobody refused. By the time we arrived at the next island, it seemed that we had all conquered jet-lag. We were ready to enjoy. And it was pretty clear that Connie had set his sights on KC for his first. Surely, he didn't think he was going to get to fuck KC. So I guessed that he wanted to see how that monster felt inside. He had paid more than a little attention to KC with the oil, and he now glistened in the sun with the sunscreen, a black Adonis, ready to pose in a muscle pageant—which he'd win easily.

We were ready to explore—in the sea and in the town—and maybe to party.

Five of us went ashore in the inflatable dinghy—leaving Greg on guard duty—and to prepare lunch. Phil had either not picked up on the invitation, or he was anxious to go ashore for our first steps on a Greek Island. There were only a few shops—catering to yachtsmen: an open-air taverna, a bakery, and a general store, mostly filled with trinkets. We walked the long cove shore for exercise, bought bread and some fresh fruit and returned for a late lunch.

Soon the anchor had been raised and Connie had repositioned us just outside the harbor where we all spent the next hour or so snorkeling in the clear waters. Lots of coral, but not many fish. Over-fishing had significantly depleted all the species of fish in the Eastern Med and Aegean.

When we got back on board and after we had hosed down and eaten (again), Greg made his play. He invited Phil to review the charts in the captain's quarters. It was pretty obvious what he intended. He was going to start with Phil, while Connie was going to start with KC. Mark and I were on our own—so we stretched out on the cushions in the shade of the partially-hoisted sail. "Siesta time, Amerikanos!" (What he really meant was "playtime" of course.) He grabbed Phil by the shoulder—giving Phil no option at all, as Connie followed KC down the ladder to the vee-berth.

It turned out, however, that the hatch on the ceiling of the vee-birth had been left open. Mark and I were back to our favorite cushions on the foredeck to either side of the hatch. We were going to have a ringside view of the action below. I guessed this was going to be quite a show. As he entered the vee-birth, KC grabbed Connie like a small doll and pitched him onto the bunk. Connie realized immediately who was going to be the receiver—at least for the first round. He spun onto his belly to face KC and, before KC could climb on, had KC's enormous dick in hand and in mouth. Phil had been poetic about KC's size, comparing it to a long eggplant, but we had discounted all as exaggeration. We had seen KC in the shower—but apparently in addition to showing, he also was a grower.

Connie was wide-eyed. And certainly enthusiastic. His bubble ass was bouncing on the mattress as he swallowed KC's enormous sausage (or tried to), sucking loudly and trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to deep-throat. He was definitely an avid cock-sucker, syncing his sucks with strokes before moving down to take the balls inside—one at a time since they were so large. Finally, his tongue reached the taint. He flipped on his back and pulled KC over his face as his tongue reached in to bathe the rim and taste some ass.

But, KC wanted more than a blow; he wanted this guy's hot little ass. So he pushed Connie away, reached under his arms and pulled him into a standing embrace on the floor in front of the vee berth. Connie's arms went around KC's neck and his legs surrounded his narrow waist as KC rolled him back, pulled on a lubed XX Magnum and positioned. A few lubed fingers began the prep, but Connie didn't need much. He was obviously experienced, perhaps taking his brother's monster on a regular basis (despite the earlier disclaimer—which no one really believed—Connie was just too much of an obvious, delectable bottom). But KC was big—really big, so the fit was going to be very tight.

KC positioned his cockhead and paused looking for more lube. But Connie was too anxious. He dropped on, allowing the enormous, hard head to pop in. He swore in Greek (something about a Greek being fucked by a Trojan horse's monstrous dick—but I thought historically it was the other way around?). KC pressed farther in and hit his nut. Connie squealed and his head dropped to KC's muscular chest as he released another flurry of guttural epithets and pleas for more, heard all over the ship, before he sucked down on a nipple to quiet himself. Finally, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he emitted a long groan of pleasure as his chute accepted the inevitability of the invasion. By then, KC guessed that quiet or private sex on the Medea was not on the agenda! So just fuck and enjoy. And he realized he'd have an interesting Greek vocabulary by the end of the trip.

He thrust over and over by snapping his thighs forward and up into Connie as Connie clung to him like it was a matter of life and death—and KC was the last life preserver on board. KC had the strength and the stamina to make this work. He went deeper and deeper, thrusting over and over, stretching as he did. KC moved toward the bunk, rested Connie at the edge, stiffened and plunged again. Connie spoke again, but this time in colloquial American English, "Fuck. You're in my throat, KC. I feel like I'm your fucking puppet. No one has ever reamed me out and filled me like this before. Not even Greg." "Fuuuuck," he screamed.

KC pumped a few times, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back. With all the action he was enjoying, KC had stamina—and practice. So he pounded for what seemed like forever as Connie melted into complete submission. Connie felt KC's cock enlarge even more, crowding his prostate and sending thrilling electric bolts through his system. There was nowhere to hide. That dick was so big that any movement was a massage of the love nut. Constant pressure. Constant pleasure. Fuck, he wished he could experience it all the time. It was better than any drug that any passenger had ever offered him.

Then he felt KC pulling in his abs and stiffening his thighs. The end was cuming. He was cocked and ready to shoot. One last thrust and KC was filling the magnum bulb. Even with the protection, Connie felt the shocks and the heat. Connie let go, splashing what seemed like a quart of ouzo on KC's massive chest as his dick pounded both of their abs. He collapsed into KC, totally spent and really fucked. He had gotten his wish. He had taken the biggest American dick he had ever seen. He was smiling and holding KC tightly, striving to keep him seated deep inside while his tongue reached out and licked the cum-coated smooth pecs of the champ.

Then they heard our applause from on deck. To which KC shouted out, "Fuck you, guys. You're just jealous. Just wait. You're next."

Phil and Greg had been well aft, but they had heard everything too. They had left the hatch to the captain's quarters open to catch a passing breeze. Connie's cries had electrified the atmosphere. Fucking was all around us. The chart table in the captain's quarters was perfect for fucking—just the right height and with a slight slant. Greg pointed out a few lines on the charts (they weren't even charts of the local waters); and when Phil bent over the charts to examine, Greg moved behind and covered him. He was a big man, and, although Phil was taller, Greg was definitely in control. Greg was really ready since he had visualizing this fuck for over a day. He batted Phils thighs apart to vee his legs, pushed his chest into the chart, grabbed his hips and mounted from behind—all in one fast series of actions. It looked a bit like a rape—but Phil had gone willingly to the captain's quarters—and he was still smiling. He was a practiced and satisfied bottom. And he loved being taken roughly.

Greg leaned in and began the assault, gripping Phil's shaft and balls with both hands. Did he think Phil was going to try to escape? Within minutes, Phil started groaning and squirming. Greg was no small fucker, and he had invaded without much preparation. He was stroking hard and deep, pushing Phil up onto the chart table with his power. And the two hands on his stuff were actively massaging and generating lots of baby-making activity, waking up all the little swimmers. Phil was actually enjoying being man-handled—once again. Then he screamed (he was always the loud comer among us) as Greg punched his prostate one last time and began to fill Phil with his Greek spunk, pushing Phil's cream out in long ropes. He hadn't even bothered with a condom. (And fortunately, the charts, now dotted with Phil's cum, were encased in plastic!)

Witnessing KC's raw energy and such a powerful fuck while listening to Phil's loud accompaniment was a terrific aphrodisiac. The moans, groans and shouts all around us were too much. I was soon straddling Mark's lap, bouncing on his dick. Our chests were pressed together, held there by my embrace and glued with my cum. And we were necking, connected. Markie was launched hard up into me, hitting all the spots it knew so well. He unloaded as I squirted Mark's chest with my own copious spunk. KC's performance was a show; Greg's was apparently rough and dirty. But somehow, I sensed ours was much better. We weren't performing or just getting off. There was history, love and experience in ours. And therefore, at least for us, it was better.

But, fuck we stunk. Fuck, the entire boat smelled of sex and cum and testosterone—said to be the signature perfume of the Greek Islands.

A few minutes later, the Americans spread out on deck to catch the sun's rays and reminisce about our recent experiences. What an incredible week this was turning out to be. Soon, all of us fell into a deep sea-breeze-cooled nap.

At dusk we awakened; Connie turned bartender; and, after a few ouzo-infused concoctions, we pulled on the briefest of swim suits and tees and headed into the town again to try out the taverna that was now open. Six macho studs in search of adventure!

The taverna wasn't crowded. There were only a few tourists. This was obviously not a "happening" place. We started with a light dinner of mostly seafood, and looked around at the guests. It didn't seem that partying, cruising or dancing was on the agenda, and none of the other guests seemed to be of college age. That didn't stop several of them from propositioning KC, however. He could have drunk all he wanted all night and not spent a penny—and he could have spent the night in one of several of the upstairs bedrooms, maybe making even enough to pay for his trip. But, he smiled at each proposition and pointed to us. After a few hours, when it appeared that we weren't in for any action, we all headed back to the Medea.

Beds had been made and everyone headed in for a night of sleep—and maybe a little more play. I guess we were going to play musical beds. KC and Connie headed to the vee berth, Greg and Phil took the double in the saloon, and Mark and I decided to "bunk" on deck on cushions. We had comfortably and easily fallen into the easy-going Greek sensuous lifestyle of ambiguous sexuality. It was very different from what we had expected when we booked, but the sun, sea and sex were terrific!

Day Three...

Connie announced that the next island was on the horizon, and warned that this was a tight harbor and often crowded with small yachts like theirs. It wasn't charted as nude, but most of Greece was quite tolerant—except of course if there were a small cruise ship in the harbor. Speedos that looked like t-strap jocks were thrown to each. "This is all you'll need—even ashore. This is the gay side of Simi. Let's see how tight the anchorages are. Probably not as tight as Phil's chute!"

Greg maneuvered around a rocky outcropping, dropped the sails and moved toward the inner harbor where he tied up to a permanent buoy. We were surrounded by 15 or so crafts. "No dingy here, guys. The inner harbor is too tight and the wharf is too small. When we're ready to go ashore, I'll call for a sea taxi. Note the buoy number: 69A. (Apparently the others were 69B etc.) The taxis are free—it's included in the anchorage fee. They'll bring you back later. But, beware, they don't run after mid-night—and they probably expect a tip or bribe to bring you back on demand. Or, certainly in your case, the payment could be a blow job or a fuck. The sea taxi drivers are all gay."

The "wharf" was small—really just enough to dock a small ferry and the "town" stretched on either side, fronting the sandy beach. Fortunately, there was no cruise ship. So Greg called for the sea taxi and we were soon deposited on the shore. There were no sidewalks—only a wide board-walk. This was shoulder season, so the town wasn't crowded—maybe a few dozen people (all older males) were walking, many hand in hand. Many were quite obvious in their appreciation of the new crop of young men that had been deposited in their midst. Some knew Greg, and so we were stopped often and hugged in that unique Greek way—often for far longer than a casual bro hug. On more than one occasion, a hug that I received included a squeeze of an ass cheek. KC received several stares, and when we reached the café, he realized that two cards with phone numbers had been slipped into the back waistband of his chrome yellow jock. How had they done that?

There were two small hotels, obviously catering to mainland adventurers who arrived on the daily ferry. And everything was newly painted a blinding white with sea-blue accents—the colors of the Greek flag. The taverna was nearly deserted—although it seemed quite large, given the population. Maybe the harbor would fill with a younger crowd later. So they headed back to the Medea for drinks.

The plan was to eat on board that night and then we could go ashore to the taverna or remain on board if a sufficient number of other yachts arrived. Greg took charge again. He was the fucking cruise director—or at least the "cruising" director. He unveiled the pairs for that night: he was going to take Mark in the captain's quarters; Connie and Phil would have the vee-birth; and KC, with me in the saloon.

I looked over at Phil who didn't really appear to be very happy about the situation. His guy had been KC for over a year. KC had fucked him almost every night, but he hadn't verbalized any commitment. Sharing KC with two Greek guys that they'd never see after the week was one thing. But sharing him with a suite-mate? Suppose we hit it off? KC was his. He was by far the hunkiest, most desirable guy on the boat, maybe the world: perfect muscles, nice smooth dark complexion, ruggedly handsome face and that trophy dick! When we had walked earlier, KC was in constant danger of a "wardrobe malfunction"—the pouch was too small and too weak to hold all his meat. And we knew that all the eyes of the harbor, male and female had been glued to KC as he moved.

Fuck, it didn't seem that Phil was really into this game. But he remembered that it had been KC who had instantly agreed on behalf of the four of us. And Phil was just a little fearful that if he held on too tight, KC would bolt. Somehow he already knew that in another year, after Colby, he and KC were not going to be a couple. But he still hoped and prayed for a miracle.

I understood. I wasn't incredibly happy about sharing Mark with Greg either. And later in the week KC and Phil would both get a shot at Mark too. Musical beds was turning out to be a little problematic for Phil and me. We were thinking long term already. I didn't think that was going to happen with Phil and KC, but I was pretty sure that Mark and I had the potential. But, none of us had had any other homosexual experience. Maybe a little freedom would help to move the relationship along when we returned to Colby. At least, I tried to rationalize with myself about that. But in the meantime, it was pretty clear that KC was going to fill my ass later that night. I shivered a bit at the prospect. Fuck, he was carrying some very heavy artillery, significantly more than Mark.

We talked and drank on deck until we all agreed it was time to turn in. Then we all moved to our assigned spaces. KC and I moved down to the saloon, but realized that he was not going to be able to do me justice on the narrow bed—so we went back topside and found some cushions. Meanwhile, the sounds from the prow told us that Connie was plugging Phil—which of course all of us expected. And I think Greg was taking Mark.

KC pulled me into his lap, and pushed my head to his dick. I stretched and could barely get it in. So I sucked hard on the head until I drew some tasty KFC (KC's fresh cum), and then started to lick the shaft as my hands went to massage his egg-sized balls. His own talented fingers were opening and lubing me, nothing really different from what I had experienced with Mark before—so far. I was prepared to let him continue for awhile. I knew how big he was.

Then, KC whispered, "I want you to fuck me, Jerry. You'll be my first. It's something I want to try—and not with Phil. It'll mean too much to him." I was floored. Here I was ready to submit myself to potentially incredible pain to "be a good sport" and to experience something new. And he wanted me to do him? I wonder what brought that on? But, fuck, who was I to give up the opportunity to do a god?

He pushed me off his lap, turned and bent over the backrest in the cockpit, pushing his fabulous ass into my face. Fuck, he wanted me to take that ass from behind. Thank you, Santa! And, before he could change his mind, I grabbed the lube, batted his thighs apart and started to open. His ass was like rock. He must do a fucking thousand squats a day. The hip indentations were at least an inch deep and his bubble shelf poked impressively back into me. I used both hands to separate and tentatively tried a tongue. They were like a vise. Fuck, if my hands released those boys, my tongue and nose were going to be trapped. But, what a way to be imprisoned! I had never felt such strength before in my life. And the aroma—clean, deeply musky with just a touch of coconut oil. It was an incredible turn on.

I managed to get three greased fingers inside and started to scissor and thrust. I found the nut and cupped a few fingers to scrape the surface. When I did, he gasped in pleasure, turned, and his blinding white toothy smile made it clear that he was enjoying this—maybe for the first time. "Oh, that's good, Jerry. Soooo good. Just a little more, please. Now I think I understand Phil a little better. This is so nice." (What a polite bottom!) I continued a little more and managed to get a fourth inside. With the other hand, I reached around and tried to grasp the enormous pole. My fingers didn't touch—and they were almost burned with the heat. I bounced the balls in my palm and felt the internal turmoil. Fuck, he was an incredible sexual animal.

And then just in a quiet whisper that I almost didn't hear, "Put him in. I'm ready. Please." I lubed and pressed my glans on the pink rimmed hole, now the size of single digit—but the rim had swollen, colored to a deep rose and was quivering in the moonlight. One of my hands added rigidity to my pole. But, it seemed hopeless. The anus was so small. He was so tight. And those cheeks were like rock protectors of a treasure cave. "Breathe and press out, KC. It'll make it easier."