Beach Boys (13 page)

I knelt at Rodolfo’s feet and kissed his cock. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I should have taken care of you back in the hostel. I want to take care of you now.” Opening my mouth as wide as I could, I swallowed my husband’s cock as far as my mouth and throat could take him. He lifted his balls from where they hung below my chin and raised them to my lips. I tried opening my mouth wider to include them in my sucking, but I couldn’t make them fit. Every time I lowered my bottom lip to try, my gag reflex reminded me that Rodolfo’s long cock was already pushing the boundaries of what I could handle.

He withdrew all the way for me to breathe. My eyes were watering partly from the hot Spanish sun and partly from my frustration. “I want to do this,” I said while Rodolfo pressed the head of his penis into the back of my mouth.

“I know you do. I’m glad you’re trying,” he said while caressing my scalp.

His touch calmed me enough that I regained my erection. I remembered that some of the other pirates were probably watching us. When I reached for Rodolfo’s sack with my fingertips to raise it in another attempt, he moaned softly. He paused and said, “Don’t worry about that right now. The effort is what counts. I’m almost there.”

In my concentration at taking all of him into my mouth, I had missed Rodolfo’s heavy breathing and the subtle rocking of his hips. My body swayed against his in rhythm while my lips tightened around his penis. As soon as I tasted his orgasm, I realized this was the first time I had pleasured him with my mouth as husband and husband. When I swallowed, I felt Rodolfo pat me on the shoulder.

“I forgive you,” he said.

* * * *

When the pirate boat anchored, we were facing Fisterra, also known in Latin as Finisterre. Growing up, I had been on the rocky beach many times to visit the place the Romans considered to be the end of the Earth. The sea crashed with violence against the rocks every time in the past I visited and watched the pilgrims throw their boots into the ocean. I explained the ritual to Rodolfo as one of the pirates threw the anchor off the side of the deck for us to stare at the end of the Earth.

“Why do they cast their boots into the ocean?” my husband said.

“Because the pilgrims have walked for many days, usually months. They begin in various places, but mostly they begin in continental Europe. One of the more traditional places to begin the journey is in France, but a pilgrim can begin the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela from anywhere. The goal is to visit the tomb of St. James the Apostle held in the
crypt in the Cathedral. Many pilgrims have been walking nonstop for several months, but aren’t quite ready to end the trip when they reach Santiago. Their feet full of blisters, their skin scorched, and a lot of weight lost, a large number of them continue walking until they reach the ocean. It’s more of a fitting place to end a journey and begin a new life after the pilgrimage.”

Rodolfo kissed me tenderly on the mouth, then squeezed me in a warm hug. “Here’s to the end of the Earth, and here’s to the beginning of our marriage,” he said.

I kissed him back and said, “To the end of the Earth.”

by Kaysee Renee Robichaud

Masks were mandatory after dark. Leave your cabin and you had to wear one. Scotty studied the leather hood, the brilliant chrome snaps for blindfold and gag. Neither of these was present, yet. Should a top see meat he liked, then he would make the approach. The master would bring his own accoutrements, of course, since different masters, Mel assured him, had different tastes.

What was Scotty doing here? He was BDSM curious—bi-curious, for that matter—but taking part of a six-day kink cruise? Instead of wading into this strange, seemingly wonderful world, this was tantamount to leaping in headfirst and hoping the water was deep enough that he would not crack his skull open.

The rest of the outfit, studded leather harness, g-string, black boots—those he could handle. It was like going out for Halloween in P-Town. The red beads, color code for “seeking male top,” were a little weird juxtaposed to the leather outfit. A taste of Mardi Gras meets the Marquis de Sade. This seemed a little, well,
off
. But it was all part of the costuming, right? This mask, however. It was a little scary, claustrophobic. What would it feel like on?

Leather and chrome, thick bindings in the back to make it second skin snug. Zippered slots for his nostrils, snaps for gag and blindfold.

Outside, he heard the sounds of the deck party starting up. Fifty kink connoisseurs looking for some sweetmeat pastimes.

That
, he thought with a shy grin,
could be me
.

A pastime. A spot of fun. Such an idea simultaneously filled his face with an embarrassed flush and bobbed his cock in its leather cup.

He pulled the mask on. It proved tighter than he thought it was going to be. A choking darkness. He struggled to pull it down, sweaty fingers slipping from the material. Then, light and air greeted his success. The mask hugged close, like multiple pairs of hands firm around him. He reached back and pulled the cords tight, cinching the mask even closer. Not uncomfortable at all. In fact, he had to admit it was kind of reassuring. Like some beefcake hunk holding his head with both arms, cradling him against bared, muscle-bound chest. Or maybe being sandwiched between two hunks.

Kind of yummy, all told.

In the mirror, he could not recognize himself. The mask made him…someone else. The eyes were his, though the pinched corners of the mask gave them a quality of the otherworldly. The full lips were his, though the ring of black around them emphasized their redness, their shape when open. The body was his, toned through regular visits to the free weights, but the costume practically made it someone else.

The power of masks. Of costumes. They could free a person, remove him from his inhibitions.

Outside, a crack and luscious whimper. He turned around, eyed the reflected halves of his ass, separated by the slender strip of black. He reached back and ran a hand along the slope of one cheek, pondering the lines of red to come.

“Spank me,” he whispered, “Please spank me.”

His blush did not show through the mask.
He
did not show. He could do anything, be anything, beg anything. He—

Should he?

Would he?

Could
he?

”Yes,” the mask said with his voice.

* * * *

The party was ramping up when Scotty joined it. Masked faces, all around. Masquerade animals and bondage hoods and fixed domino masks. Their bodies were nude or adorned with leather straps and shiny D-clips, or fully hidden beneath shiny latex. The beads they wore were obvious—blue for tops, red for bottoms—even more so than the tools of punishment in tops’ hands.

Where
, he wondered nervously,
does a body even begin
?

“Are you new?” someone asked. Red beads. A lovely-bodied sub, with broad shoulders and arms that looked strong enough to crush granite should he choose to embrace it. The stranger wore a white leather cowl, harness and cup. The color made his flesh, nearly as black as fertile earth, seem somehow even darker. A faint sheen of sweat gleamed beneath the indirect lighting as did the crossed barbells through his nipples.

“Yeah,” Scotty said.

“You know the rules?”

Scotty had received a printout along with his beads, at trip’s beginning. Simple enough rules about safe words and decorum. They all seemed to be pretty much common sense, though Scotty had never actually thought about fetishism in such a reasoned manner. “Yes.”

“What are your preferences?”

Scotty drew his lower lip between his teeth, and the stranger reached up to flick his own left nipple. “I want to explore my limits.”

“Don’t we all,” the stranger said. “How new are you?”

“I’ve played a little. Once or twice.”

“What do they call you?” the stranger asked.

Uhm. Not his real name, that was for sure.

The stranger noticed his hesitation. “They call me Rice.”

“Call me. . .Shy.” Was this too close to Scotty? It began and ended the same letters.

Rice’s lips turned up in a smile. “Okay, Shy.”

In the moment the name emerged from Rice’s lips, the masked Scotty became someone else. It was kind of freeing, really. Strange to think of it: freedom found in a tight mask and a leather bondage harness? But there it was.

“I can show you around, if you want,” Rice said. “Maybe make some introductions?”

“I would appreciate that.”

Rice led him around the room, past neighing pony boys in their hoofed gloves and boots, past a pair of svelte boys kissing while kneeling upon thorny rose stems, past approving tops and conspiring bottoms, to a section dedicated to human furniture, where tops’ asses rested upon the sculpted bodies of carefully positioned bottoms. Rice offered the names of potential tops, and a few details. “But these are men you’ll want to work up to,” the dark skinned man said, “I think I have the perfect starting Master for you.”

Rice led the way to a slender man in a mask adorned with colorful peacock feathers. He wore a suit straight out of the 1920s. Finery that would not be out of place in a period piece, some F. Scott Fitzgerald story perhaps. The top’s goatee was white as Maui sand.

“Master Pi,” Rice bowed before gesturing to Shy. “May I present Shy for your entertainment?”

“A new guest, eh?” Master Pi said. A European accent. French, perhaps? Master Pi’s eyes twinkled with unspeakable promises. “Answer me now.”

“I am new here,” Shy said.

“Bold little thing, aren’t you?” The top’s eyes roamed down his body. “You should really be kneeling, Shy. And bowing your head.” Master Pi turned a finger down, pointing the way to the floor for emphasis.

Shy dropped to one knee, resting his arm across the bent other leg like some medieval messenger newly come to the court of a king. He bowed his head. “Apologies, Master Pi.”

Chills like electricity ran through his body.

Like diving headfirst
— It was too late to stop now. The water had risen to cover his head, and in time he would see whether it was deep enough for him or whether he would rebound off the bottom.

“A little catamount, eh?” Master Pi chuckled. The throaty sound suggested realms of mystery and wonderment. “I think you may well do. I like to bind my toys,” he said. “Would you like that? My ropes around you. Clasping you to Rice here. Would you perform for me?”

Scotty considered the sensation of Rice’s hardened muscles against his own body. Wondered how the man’s tongue might feel rolling round and round his own. Pondered the contents of that full, white cup. The images filled his head and heart with such delicious desire. “I would,” Shy said, “Master.”

At his command, one of the two pieces of Master Pi’s chair held up several spools of colorful rope. The top took the offering and rose, unspooling the ropes as he walked closer to his prizes.

Dreadful vulnerability crystallized within Scotty’s spine. With so many eyes around—sure, they were uninterested in him for the moment, but what about later? If they all looked at him, wouldn’t he curl up into an embarrassed heap? Maybe even die?

Shy, however, remained where he was. Dropping now to both knees.

Master Pi drew Rice’s hands behind his back, turning purple, black, and gray rope around wrist and arms, then around the man’s gorgeous body. The act was slow and sensual to watch, the colorful ropes sliding across sweat-shining skin like languorous serpents crushing close. As Master Pi cinched them tight, Rice gasped. Nearby tops and bottoms watched, interests aroused by the way Pi moved, the way Rice responded.

“Your turn, Shy. Come here.”

Scotty felt a sudden urge to rise and flee. To find somewhere to hide with his embarrassment.

A strong part of him wanted to remain, to partake of this moment, this scene, yet, a larger part wondered
: How could he endure all this scrutiny
?

Scotty might have fled, but Shy did not. On both knees, Shy inched toward the Master, following the command, but slowly. Petulance peeked through the subservience, demanding to be broken. Master Pi’s grin promised delicious reprisals.

Eventually, Shy arrived in the desired position, his chest only inches from the second slave’s. “Your impertinence will not go unpunished,” Master Pi said.

New ropes filled the top’s hands. Copperhead colorations. The top drew them across Shy’s shoulders. Silken sensation slithered across his skin, then round his mask, across his lips. A tease, this.

Without a word, Master Pi pulled Shy’s hands behind his back. Shy’s muscles tensed, defiant; ultimately, however, he yielded. Silken loops wound round his wrists, curled up around arms and elbows. Master Pi was nearly breathless as he whispered, “You impertinent whelp. I’ll show you how I defang a catamount.” Loose loops tightened with a tug, drawing a surprised hiss of from Shy’s lips and rendering his arms immobile.

More ropes.

Around Shy’s chest, flicking his stiffening nipples, gliding round his sides and back. Every caress of that rope sent charges through his body, drawing twitches. Shy writhed as Master Pi drew the lengths around him, loose until his practiced tugs cinched them tight. Shy moaned softly as he tugged at the unyielding ropes.