Hurley looked out to sea and inhaled a deep, briny breath which filled his ample lungs and brought a smile to his ample face.
"What a treasure," he thought to himself, "to be able to visit this beautiful shore on a whim and prayer. Even though it's a little lonely to watch the sun set by my lonesome, at least I have the privacy to practice self-love as I see fit."
And fit he saw it.
He scratched his hairy ass, and his cock twitched. His baggy tee suddenly seemed cumbersome, so he removed it promptly along with the nylon basketball shorts he had found on a corpse in the wreckage three months prior.
It felt good. Hurley wasn't used to just letting go and let live, but he decided to surrender himself to the carnal smorgasbord of carnal delights his carnality was now channeling carnally. As his nubby, sausage fingers scurried up and down his prickly thighs, his thoughts turned toward the supple bodies of the other passengers of Oceanic Flight 815.
The kind eyes and stern smile of Bernard stuck to his thoughts like a peanut butter ball on a window pane (Hurley's favorite dessert). Hurley barely knew Bernard, and yet whenever he had closed his eyes and massaged his member here by the shore over the past months, he had consistently imagined having his fireman clothed in Bernard's velvety shit.
It's not that Hurley was gay or anything, man, it's just that an ass is an ass, you know, and no ass on this island is finer than Bernard's, according to Hurley.
His hammy hand squished his squishy man gumbo. It felt like Heaven on a stick wrapped in bacon, Paula Deen style. He was leaking like a waterfall, like a wallaby on Wednesday. As he pumped his peen up and down, down and up, his eyes rolled back in his head, and the starry sky opened up like a scroll. For a moment, on the edge of ecstatic orgasm, he thought he had been born again.
Before he could attain rebirth, however, Hurley heard a crackling in the bushes. Someone was watching him. Someone was watching his meaty body heave up and down in pleasure and longing. The thought of this made Hurley even more enflamed. With renewed vigor, he began to yank at his hefty, fur-covered jewels, tugging and groping with the might of ten normal-sized men.
Fuzzy coconuts nestled in the boughs giggled in the evening breeze. The object of Hurley's affection, shadowed in the night, squatted low and panted quietly while gazing upon the porky figure sprawled in the sand.
Bernard had also felt acute pangs of desire for the busty belle banging his bangkok before breakfast that he now watched. He loved his wife. He loved Rose fiercely, like the deserts miss the rain. And yet...
Bernard had spent his early years in an orphanage, sucking dick for money so he could buy more dick to suck. He was a real mogul. A child mogul, one might say, and many did say.
Mustering up his courage Bernard emerged from the bushes, feasting his carnivorous eyes on the whale carcass that was Hurley. "Hey boy," he shouted, startling the big-boned boihemoth.
Following seven minutes of titty fuck and oral, Hurley accepted Bernard's generous, engorged lovestick, parting eagerly his sweaty ham-flanks and puckering his boi puss. Bernard entered greedily smacking the grape Bubbleyum brand chewing gum in his salivating boi mouth. Hurley's dewy hole was a hospitable host, the silky inner walls undulating a soft and steady rhythm, slurping his incredibly erect phallus into its den. It was so comfortable, so familiar, like mother's skin. Rocking faster and harder, Bernard could barely hear Hurley's puppy-like whimpers over his own guttural moans.
"Mama...Mama..."
He grabbed Hurley's long, soft curls and inhaled deeply the scent of fresh papaya and body odor. His sixty-year-old dick rammed into the hilt, though it could barley make contact with Hurley's tutu nut due to abundant ass fat. The many layers reminded him of a younger, heavier Rose. He pushed on, sliding down the love chute he so desperately desired.
He would pull every petal from this flower until he found--nay, extracted--the golden honey he so longed to taste. As he plowed ceaselessly into Hurley's loose butthole, he thought of his wife, Rose. He thought of Topeka. He thought of Bass Pro Shop. And he wept.
Rose, ah Rose, he loved her, but he wasn't "in love" with her. Since she had the cancer, since she lost the weight, he gradually fell out of love--and lust--with her. And yet, here now as he pummeled the hot, pulverized Mexican refried beans ensconcing his schlong, it was only Rose's scent he could help but conjure. Gap Heaven, Rose's signature scent, and the words to her favorite Cher song, "Do you believe in life after love??" echoed in his fevered brain.
"I did believe, Rose... I did..."
Hurley yelped. His frequent ass-buckings felt like a mink stole on the nape of Bernard's manhood. Hurley grimaced and bit a nearby coconut on the sand, the pleasure-pain combo driving him into sheer, unadulterated madness. He never wanted this to end. He never wanted this to begin.
"Oh mama, what am I doing?" Hurley thought, as Bernard's flacid, mediocre shaft shot into his pooper. The stench was pleasant, fragrant of hibiscus and jumbilyah, a royal, magnificent scent which Bernard had never experienced prior to now. It was perfectly splendid. He reveled in the beauty of Hurley. He treasured this stunning buttfuck.
"What is love?" he wondered. "My goodness," he thought, "This is it."
Hurley died of a heart attack.
The end.