Etienne

This is the first chapter of a finished, five-chapter novella, which will complete posting by the end of November 2017.

*****

Taking him. All of him inside me. Fucking me doggy style on a platform bed in a seedy beach hotel cabana room just steps away from the ocean north of Suva, in Fiji, across a thin line of coconut palms from the top of the beach. He was a muscular hunk, atypically younger than I was by a year or two, crouched over and mounted on my hips, his strong hands grasping my wrists, my hands buried in the mattress to hold me steady. Atypically because I was used to going with older men. His teeth chewing on my earlobe while he pounded, pounded, pounded away inside me.

He released one of my wrists, rummaged around in the drawer to the nightstand without missing a beat of the fuck, came out with what I took to be a small bottle of poppers, and ran it under my nose. Whatever it was, it didn't enhance anything sexually. What it did rather than the expected was that it put my lights out just after he went rigid, jerked, and gave me his load.

When I came to, I was stretched out, flat on my stomach, appendages all akimbo. Through the open sliding glass doors out onto the beach, the sun was going down. Another spectacular sunset over the South Pacific Ocean.

Etienne—if that's what his name really was; he had been quite secretive about letting me see his passport when we'd entered Fiji—was gone. And the cabana had a deserted feeling about it. The eerie quiet prompted me to drag out of the bed, staggering a bit and shaking my head to try to shake off what had to be more than just the one bottle of scotch we'd polished off together earlier in the afternoon, and to check out my valuables. My former valuables, I must say. Etienne had cleaned me out. At least he'd been gentleman enough to leave me my passport and my clothes—other than that Western-style leather-fringed vest he'd admired so much when we first met in Nouméa, on Loyalty Island in New Caldonia. And my fancy tooled cowboy boots. He'd wanted them too, I could tell.

I was a pushover for French men. And Etienne had been more exotic than that. Some Maori or other native South Pacific Islander breed in him. It gave him bulk and the look of carrying that bulk well—of being overpowering. He certainly overpowered me—emotionally as well as physically. I was on a discovery tour of the South Pacific in the summer of my junior year at Princeton. Not so summer down here in the islands, but still warm enough for the beach life. I was looking for life experiences. I was getting them.

I'd done Sydney and had enjoyed the laid-back gay scene there—and fully intended to go back there before going home to the States. And then to Auckland, in New Zealand. I wanted to work on my French and was told I really should take a swing through the South Pacific islands, so I decided to do so. I had the means and the time.

I picked up Etienne—or, rather, he picked me up—at a hotel beach bar in Nouméa, New Caldonia, during a night of beach dancing—me just in a Speedo, my cowboy boots, and the fringed Western vest. I found myself dancing with a real hunk of a man—a ruggedly handsome hunk of muscle who spoke French, looked at one with the islands, had a great smile, and was wearing a skimpy bathing suit with an intriguing zipper down the pouch that I could tell was barely containing a monster cock and balls, and swaying oh-so flexibly and provocatively in front of me. He spun away long enough for me to regret his absence and then was back.

In the interim I had visions of opening that zipper in the pouch of his swimsuit to examine the jewels tucked inside.

"Nice vest and boots," he said when he had swirled back to facing me. He said it in English, obviously already fingering me as American, but with a heavy French accent.

He spun away again to be replaced by someone not half as alluring—leaving me to wonder if he'd done that on purpose—and giving me that image of his zippered pouch again. The "someone" touched me intimately as we were dancing, obviously wanting a hookup, but he paled in comparison with the guy with the French accent. Then that guy was back, flashing a toothy smile, moving close into me.

"You have a beautiful body," he whispered in my ear as he leaned into me. "I want to fuck you. Do you take cock? I see that you keep eyeing my zipper. Want to blow me?"

I'd had far too many beers to be coy and the night was moving on—and I'd come to the South Pacific to get laid, so I told him yes—to both a blow job and a fuck.

"Now?" he asked, putting his hands on my hips and running his fingers on either side under the waistband of the Speedo.

"Now is fine," I answered.

"You have somewhere we can go, or do you want to entertain this crowd?"

In short order we were in my hotel room, with me kneeling before him, slowly opening the zipper on his crotch pouch, finding the jewels as glittery as I had imagined, and taking that monster in my mouth. It was a surprise—browner than the rest of his tanned body, almost black. Long and thick. And he wanted it deep-throated. I did what I could.

He fucked me up against the wall, my legs hooked on his hips, one of his strong hands holding my wrists captive together above my head, pressed to the wall. He fucked me doggy style as we slithered over toward the bed. He fucked me missionary style on the bed. We slept the few hours before dawn, and then he fucked me on the bed with him lying on his back, trapping my arms and legs with his and fucking up into me as I yodeled to the ceiling.

He ordered room service for breakfast, told me if I really wanted to polish my French, Fiji was the place to do that. Then, using one of my credit cards, he booked sea passage and a hotel room for both of us in what he said was a special sort of beach hotel in Suva, in Fiji.

"We're going by tramp steamer to Suva," he said. "It should take three days. I think you'll find it interesting. Slow and easy." And it

had

been an interesting experience, with Etienne fucking me slow and easy the entire three days in a small cabin on a working island supply ship on a bunk meant for one. I'd come to Nouméa by tramp steamer from Sydney, so I'd known more-or-less what to expect. I'd expected boredom, but on the sail from Sydney to Nouméa I hadn't had Etienne.

After making the reservations, Etienne pulled me into his lap, facing him, as he sat in a straight chair by the breakfast table and pulled me on and off his cock to what was my fifth ejaculation and his third in the little time I'd known him.

And here, a week later, in Fiji, I'd endured two more deep-throated blow jobs, he'd fucked me three more times, and then he'd rendered me unconscious and practically wiped me out of all my liquid financial assets, my credit cards—and my beloved fringed vest and fancy tooled cowboy boots.

No sense in fighting it now—there's no way I could regret his servicing of me or the pride I'd acquired of being able to deep-throat a monster cock. He was, I was sure, half way back to New Caldonia now to fleece his next tourist.