Steve and Mark have an accident which seals the deal
This is the third and last chapter of this brief story. Copyright, 2023. All characters are over 18; all persons and places are fictional. BD
No one was at the cottage when we arrived. Peter had apparently installed himself and headed out to the beach, promising to return around dinner time, according to a scrawled paste-it note left on the foyer banister. So Mark started up the stairs to his room and I followed, carefully focused on his remarkable ass as he climbed in front of me. He entered the room and I was close enough behind that I reached around and began to unzip him and drop his shorts before he even could react. I was really anxious, cocked and loaded. "Forward, aren't we. I like that about you." We stripped each other and dropped onto the bed to enjoy some full body contact.
Ultimately, I pushed him onto his back and knelt between his spread legs—his mouth-watering cock standing tall. I reached down, pulled the hood back from the deep purplish-red head and began my tongue treatment. Before long he was writhing in pleasure, levitating his hips and using his hands to force me farther down onto him. I looked up at this beautiful man as the dim light filtering through the blinds cast his deeply cut abs and hard square pecs into stark relief. It looked like one of those National Geo pix of the sculpted sands of North Africa, but he was hotter—and certainly more interesting—and definitely tastier.
I pulled back from his cock and the prominent veins on his phallus glistened with my saliva and throbbed in full excitement and erection as the hood drew back just a bit. My tongue moved down the shaft, reached his balls which I pulled in consecutively and sucked. I could taste the heavy musk which easily overpowered the pool chlorine. So I breathed in deeply. I reached to the bedside table for lube and extracted another magnum from the box. He lifted his legs and placed his calves on my shoulders as I jack-knifed him into submission position. Soon I was devouring, then fingering the entrance to his tunnel, reaching in often to stimulate his button of pleasure.
I wasn't the only one in moaning in pleasure. He raised his hips into me as his passion rose and his hole pulsed its invitation. "Please Steve. Put him in. I want to feel that baton inside me now." My taciturn model of coolness was overheating, pounding the bed with his clenched fists, and whispering his need. So of course, I obliged. I knew to take it slow. He was very tight, almost an anal virgin and I knew that although my dick was not overly thick, it was very long and the head was significantly larger than the shaft—baton was a good description. I paused at the entrance, lubed him and me liberally again and began to press. He responded, pushed out and opened, and I popped in. I could see the momentary pain and surprise in his eyes, so I froze. Within a minute or so, I could feel him begin to suck me in, so I pushed again. As the peach-shaped head scraped his prostate, he sucked in his breath drawing in his abs, not in pain, but attempting to forestall his orgasm so I helped by ringing and squeezing the base of his shaft. I waited and watched his deep black eyes looking for permission. Finally, he reached up to my hips and pulled me in. I was now planted deeply into his gut and again I froze. Then I began to feel his anal muscles massaging my stiff cock and I knew that we would soon both reach the point of no return. I wanted this to be as good for him as it obviously was for me. I was right at the edge.
I reached up and began to worry his nipples. "Fuck, that feels so nice. Three points of sensuous contact." "Let's make it four," I said, as I dropped down and took his mouth in mine, pushing even deeper into his sheath, pressing on the prostate. He moaned out approval, pleased to be taken so completely. He was mine; his ass was mine; his lips were mine; and his nips were mine to worry. Ny hunky alpha was enjoying bottoming—our relationship had evolved nicely. I thought for a moment that those seconds when one guy takes total control and possession of another's ass is the ultimate gay power-trip. It doesn't matter if you're a natural top, or even a dom. Any guy can experience this. But when the catcher is powerful and a natural top, the possession is so sweet.
"I can't hold on much longer," I murmured as I began the repeated deep assault on his tunnel. (Curious that we both tune the volume down as we ramp up the physical action in pre-orgasmic pleasure. Neither of us is a screamer.) I could see his abs tightening and I felt his balls drawing up and hardening. He was going to blast and so I let go. I increased the tempo of my thrusts, and the rest was automatic. My hot cum began to spurt into the magnum with enough force that he felt it too—the heat, if not the spurts. Then he too exploded, covering our chests with his milky essence. I collapsed on him and his legs dropped to envelop my hips as he struggled to keep me inside.
Minutes later and with reluctance, I rose. I had to go. I decided not to shower, just a quick wipe down—I wanted to feel and smell him on me for the next several hours. "I hope that keeps you until later. You've sure left me with a souvenir," I said, pointing to the dark hickey he had placed on my pec at the peak of his orgasm. "I'll be at the club toward the end of your shift. See you then."
Sundays at Rehoboth restaurants in July and August are like Fridays and Saturdays—busy and full. Early birds catch dinner before making the traffic-filled long trip home, while others who have just begun their "week at the beach" arrive a bit later. I checked in to a full house, hearing some sighs of relief from my co-waiters, and some snide remarks from others about my obvious state of bed head and sexual satiety. I jumped in, learned the specials and how they were prepared and garnished, picked up a dozen tables and began my pitches. I was back in my element—college-boy vanilla to families, flirty with tables of young ladies—and young gay men, and solicitous and well-bred to the older diners. I was a pro and it showed. For the next two hours, I easily carried more than my weight and contributed heavily to the tip tabs that were shared by all waiters on an hours-worked basis. There was an unspoken understanding that cash tips were held by each specific waiter—and I collected more than a hundred that night—at least some of it stuffed into my tight pockets by gays who had the technique down perfectly.
As the restaurant crowd thinned and we began the club setup, I prepared for my two hour stint as bartender. We started polishing glasses and displaying the bottles on offer, getting the shakers ready for the exotics. My partner, Brad, was a good friend, also from DC and GW. He was very presentable and clean cut—in fact, I had fucked him once. He had a good body, decent sized equipment and a voraciously talented hole, but there was no spark—he was a little too soft, a little too passive, and very loud. He was anxious to talk about Mark, but I decided to play it cool. "Yeah. We got it on. He is hot. He's meeting me here again tonight, but he has a friend coming along. He tells me the friend is gay and I'm guessing he is either a bottom or vers. Are you interested?" "Absolutely, and I do hope he looks a little like Mark." "He's also an attorney and the same age, in the same firm, but that is all I know. I think they plan on coming in for a few drinks before I check out at midnight." "Great. I'm only on to midnight too."
Suddenly, Tim shouted and the room grew unusually quiet. When clearing the linen from one of the booths, Tim found a note carefully propped on the condiments. It was one of those notes made by pasting words from newspapers and it threatened that "the end was near for the Rudder, the fag brothel and gateway to hell." The manager was called over. "Okay, guys. Does anyone remember who was sitting at this table?" "Yeah, it was a family with two pre-teens. They left about a half hour ago." "Probably not them, but let's find the chit." "We need to do a careful search of the entire place before we re-open. I'm calling in the police and asking for K-9 sniffers. And I'm doubling up the security at the entrance for the next few days. Anyone who feels unsafe can check out right now. I won't hold anyone here if you feel unsafe. Club time is probably more dangerous than the regular restaurant hours, but who knows."
Curiously pandemonium and a rush for the exits did not ensue. Someone called for us to turn the place upside down. Someone else shouted that we should not succumb to this kind of threat. Obviously, we didn't open the club at 10. The dogs were still doing their thing. Then there was a call from the booth nearest the restrooms. "We've got something. It's a small shopping bag from the local sex shop. It's filled with white powder, a large black dildo and there seems to be a fuse." "Don't touch it. The bag is slick and it or the contents may have prints." The police cleared the restaurant and the bomb squad approached. Just seconds later, they emerged with the bomb box and moved away from the crowd and the restaurant. Soon it was announced that the bag was full of flour and the fuse was a leftover firecracker—probably a hoax. Poking out the top was a large black dildo with its battery removed. Word traveled fast around the milling crowd outside. There was anger mixed with apprehension. Then the waiters all said almost in unison. "We need to open." So the GM, after another offer that anyone who felt in danger was welcome to leave, relented. We opened to a very thin crowd at around 11, but it was a heavy drinking crowd and very little dancing was happening. The mood was dark, but somewhat defiant. Pairing up was much quicker than normal, and couples started disappearing long before the typical last call exodus. But, nothing else occurred. Probably just the mindless threat of a gutless homophobe. But, the financial threat to the restaurant and club was certainly going to be real.
