This story and its characters are fiction. If any character resembles you or someone you know, it is pure coincidence and, anyway, I WANT DETAILS you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Don't repost it anywhere. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnappers don't know how good you've got it.
This story (eventually) involves sex between consenting adult males; if that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual death.
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Shark Reef 1: De Plane! De Plane!
by Bear Pup
So let's skip to the chase, because up until Sunday (maybe Saturday), my story is just another Hollywood mess. The flight took off from Brisbane about 30 minutes late on a rainy Sunday morning for arrival in Los Angeles very early Sunday morning. Yep. We were to leave at 10:20 AM (actually 10:55) and land at 6:00 AM on the same fucking day. I hate time zones. So anyway, depending on where we ended up, could be Sunday, could be Saturday. Anyway, it was dark, that's for sure.
I was cruising this adorable stewardess, not much in the tit department but what a walk. She's started to warm to me and, since my home base was not far from LAX, I was definitely hoping for a 'lay'-over. All a guy could do watching her from behind was think about those hips doing that on his... damn. Adjusted myself quickly before Grandma Noses in the next seat saw and made another pointed comment about my marital status and her niece.
That was instantly no longer a problem as the aforementioned stewardess shot sideways and vanished as the emergency exit went bye-bye just twenty feet in front of me along with two rows of passengers. I hoped they obeyed the 'fasten seatbelt' sign. It would suck not to plummet to your death with a tray table. Everything in the plane went flying. And a dozen of the nearest passengers quickly went into the void.
Me? I was buckled in. It had become a habit for me when flying just as when driving, and it never bothered me. The plane started to turn and dive as the little yellow "You're Going to Die" masks popped down. 'If someone near you needs assistance, secure your own mask first...' Done! '...then check on your fellow passengers.' Grandma Noses was staring blankly straight ahead, but it was clear she would not be needing a mask. Something, probably the laptop she's been fooling with, had crushed her throat.
The next two hours were unfathomable. The pilot got us down far enough that we could breathe again and had turned any number of times. There was no communicating with anyone between the wind, the engines and likely popped eardrums from the sudden depressurization. I was in a daze, taking in odd, fragmented snatches of sensation.
Some idiot getting up and getting smooshed against the ceiling on another sudden maneuver, then whisked into nothingness. A toddler calmly toddling down the aisle, completely unfazed. A book levitating -- during some wild gyration and constant wind, it was like the entire plane was simply moving around that book.
Next was darkness, HUGE sound, no seat, no plane. Cut on the arm. Pain! Water. Underwater! Light above. Kick off. See moon. Breathe. Big wave. Little wave. Big, BIG wave. Water. Big Wave. Sand under water. Stumble and fall. Sand above water. Crawl. Drier sand. Crawl. Really dry sand. Collapse. Completely fail to die. But you guessed that last part, since I'm writing this and I am not a ghostwriter. Seriously, like I could resist that pun?
Urg. World's worst fucking hangover. All sticky and sand everywhere. Passed out at Tiki Hut? After dance-a-drink-a-thon? Maybe. Where's the beach chair? There's always a fucking beach chair when I pass out on a beach! Soft sounds. Waves. Soft, lapping SHUT THE FUCK UP MY HEAD HURTS waves. Wish they'd invent remotes to turn off waves. And sunlight. Click! Darkness! Quiet! Thank you!
I gradually came out of it and remember the plane, the water, and why I was really pissed off about waves in the first place. I opened my eyes and quickly closed them. The hangover part was very, very real. Nausea, headache, all of it. But not from drinking apparently. Shielded eyes and tried again, a little at a time. I was sitting on a bar of sand about the size of two football fields end-to-end. The far end has trees, plenty of them from the look of it. From the flotsam, it looked like I was perhaps a dozen feet above the high-tide line.
I looked around for the wreckage. Outside of the seriously-freaky shit like Malaysia Flight 370, there is always wreckage. And don't forget that the vast majority of plane parts float. As do people and luggage. I stood, then sat unexpectedly. Tried again a few times until I was upright. No wreckage, no oil slick, no... bodies.
I could see a few items along the near side of the beach and headed towards them. A roll-aboard suitcase in the obligatory black is the first item, and I opened it. Woman's crap, but a couple bottles of water snagged when we got on the plane. I downed one of them in a single gulp and stuck the other in my pants pocket. I zipped the bag back up and dragged it well above the tide line.
Next was a small carry-on, obviously another woman's but one with a things for the beach, maybe even an athlete. Lots of lotions. I pulled out a spray bottle of SPF six billion and coated my neck, face and arms, the last with a shout. There was a livid cut down nearly the length of my triceps and it did NOT like whatever was in the sunscreen! There was also a huge, pink, frilly sun-hat like the ones Aussie chicks always wear. Fuck fashion; the sun was killing me! I slapped it on my head and dragged the case further from the water.
I next spotted one of those huge duffels that is about ten times the "Nothing larger than this box" box. Bright red. As a constant flier, I loathe people who hog the bins. It was bobbing in the surf, top just barely above the water. I waded in and dragged it up and started looking through the zillion pockets and pouches. Eureka! A snorkel, mask and fins in a mesh dive bag! Tourist grade trash with a resort logo, but at least I was less likely to starve.
Perhaps twenty yards off the beach, I could make out another bag, dark green against the crystal-blue water. I pulled on the mask, leaving the snorkel and fins. I laid face first in the shallow water and checked the seal. Not bad. Spit for anti-fog and a quick rinse, then snugged it on. I moved to knee-deep water and bent to swim out. I was back on the beach before I could blink. Right below the bag, in water no more than a couple yards deep, was a serious-sized black-tail shark. Not as much a killer as the Tiger or Bull, but still a real threat. Hey! Stop with the surprise. I watch Animal Planet, too.
On reflection, I thought through the other things I'd seen. The swaying coral fans had the yellow-white tips that, to me, screamed fire coral (more like evil fucking anchored jellyfish) and I saw several striped flashes. Until proven otherwise, I'd treat the area as having a healthy (unhealthy for me) lionfish population. Great. Lovely. Plane coulda dropped me in Bora Bora or a nice resort island with leis and lays galore. Nope, I get an episode of Pacific's Most Deadly. Sigh.
So that backpack was off the list, at least for now. I pulled the duffel with me to next sixty yards to the tree line, intent on going through it. Yeah, yeah. I know. I was supposed to go through the whole "rescue coming any minute" and "check the cell phone" thing. Or maybe "Is this actually Purgatory?" question. Sheesh. Uma Thurman and Matthew Fox already covered that. I was there. It was hot. There was no wreckage. I didn't care if it was a weird dream, bad drugs, coma-memory or really happening; I was exhausted, hot, sweaty and aching in muscles I didn't know I had.
I was about ten yards from the blessed shade when a loud, slightly-panicked male voice rang out. "D-Don't come any C-Closer! I- I'll shoot you!" I didn't even pause.
"Then fucking shoot me, jackass. But unless you're an Air Marshall, you're probably going to just throw a coconut at me. Now if you don't fucking MIND," I plopped down in the sand against the nearest tree, "I'm gonna catch my breath. Or you're gonna shoot me. Your pick."
I peeled off my shirt and mopped my face, floppy hat now turned into a fan. Out of the deeper shadows crept a very wary, obviously freaked young guy, maybe college age if that. Jean shorts, no shirt, barefoot. Milky skin, red-blond hair and more freckles than brain cells from the look on his face. Had the whole rail-thin thing going like a Burberry ad in the back-of-seat Air Mart. I think, 'I hope for your sake this is a dream, dude; you're gonna look like a lobster by sunset.'
"Cop a squat, kid. What have you found so far?" I took a swig from my water bottle and watched his eyes widen as he licked his parched lips. Half the movies, some guy starts to hoard everything. Dude, if they don't find you in 24 hours or so, you're gonna die anyway. Why be a prick about it? "Have some water, kid."
He moved forward, swear to God, exactly like a squirrel going for a peanut in fits and starts and then jumped out range immediately. He downed that bottle like I had the first. "So, answer the question. What have you found?"
He just stared. Sigh. I travel everywhere for work, so I can usually guess, but a red-hairs milky-white kid with freckles. They don't MAKE that model outside places where English is not the language of choice. He's not deaf; his challenge earlier didn't have any of the vocal signs of that affliction. And that challenge was in English. He was eyeing me the way I'd look at a grenade.
"Kid, we're gonna get rescued." His face lit up. "Or we're gonna die here. Like, in the next few days." His jaw dropped. Apparently, wherever he was from, honesty in the face of certain death was not normally on the menu. "So let's just work together, huh?" With no response, I turned back to pillaging. The duffle was a treasure chest. Apparently the property of a bodybuilder or health freak. There were a dozen just-small-enough-for-air-travel pouches of protein drink mix. Nope, not a health freak. I find a handful of posing straps.
Next surprise was small pack inside the larger bag. I smiled. Smart fucker. I've known business travelers like this. Try your damnedest to get you megabag onto the flight and, when forced, pull a right-size one out with essentials. Nope. Wrong again. Instead of the 'just what I need to fly', what was inside was even better. A small water kit, camelback, protein bars, more sunscreen, bug repellant, first aid kit, space-blanket -- a hiker's pack.
Rest of the pockets: Small electronics, dop kit, all the usual. The clothes were useless. The shirts were the size of tents and the pants had waists about the right size to be a cockring. Big, I meant HUGE collection of pill bottles. I glanced at the labels. Oh, to have internet. The labels are in what I'm guessing is Russian. Yay.
For reasons I can only call anal-retentive, I neatly repacked the bag, putting the least-useless items in the outer pockets. I flipped Mr. Quiet a protein bar and eat one myself, slipping the water kit into my pocket. Donning the über-fashionable pink floppy hat, I dragged the other two bags into the shade and repeated the inventory. I giggled and the kid looked at me like I'd grown fangs. Sorry, I couldn't help it when I thought, 'Well, we'll never run out of tampons!'
I stood up again and looked at the kid. "Okay. Since you've decided not to talk and don't appear to have any real use, I'm going to call you SALLY."
"Hey!"
"Oh, now you speak? So, Sally, what have you found?"
"I'm not Sally! Stop calling me that!" He was blushing as only an Irish kid can. The voice was definitely from that Emerald Isle.
"Not until you -- 1 -- answer the fucking question and -- 2 -- giving a me a reason not to... like telling me your name. Actually, I kinda like Sally. You look sorta like a Sally."
"Stop that! It's mean! I'm Ian. I h-h-haven't found anything. I w-woke up in the trees and saw you coming for me."
I heaved a huge sigh, "And you were just gonna sit here and, what, starve? Get your ass in gear, Sally, and help. Until you do, Sally is the only name you're getting." I turned and walked off, and felt more than heard him follow. I skirted the edge of the trees on the same side the bags had been floating and found a backpack and really expensive leather bag. I checked the embossed logo. Yep. Hulme. The carryon cost more than my Biz Class ticket.
"Yo, Sally! Catch!" I slung them both to a furious Irishman who was smart enough to stash them with the others instead of mouthing off. He was back with me shortly.
"There!" He shouted and was ten feet out, about knee deep when I yelled.
"FREEZE! DO NOT MOVE!" It was like he was a stop-motion toy, instantly inert. He'd been headed for a light-green bag with huge handles. "Son, Ian, turn around and come back, try to step in about the same places. I know for a fact that there are sharks, and pretty sure of fire coral, not to mention other nasties. You're barefoot, kid, don't be stupid."
He came back, stepping gingerly in the insanely-clear water, eyes the size of saucers. He leapt the last few yards and stood quaking. "Come on kid, Ian, let's get you protected from the sun and talk a minute. Turned out the Hulme piece had clothes that would only look ludicrous on his slender frame. I sprayed him with SPF Nuclear War then handed him a shirt (very nice, very fashion-forward) which he shrugged into, then a pair of pants. He stared at me, clutching the garment in front of his body. "Fuck, seriously? We're deciding whether we're gonna die and you're bashful? God's sake, Sally. Grow a pair."
I had the decency to go back to rummaging. The shoes were not completely useless. They had fine leather soles but would be slippery as fuck in the water. I looked up in time to see Ian turned away from me, struggling into the too-big pants. I filed away the facts of 'went commando' and 'not bad ass if he were a chick' then dove in search of a belt.
He just stood there. Not his fault; without both hands, he'd be nekkid again in a heartbeat. I finally gave up and went to the Frilly-Lady bag -- I was already started applying mental tags -- and pulled out a red belt that would likely fit, then turned to Beach Bimbo and retrieved another floppy sun hat. It was a shockingly-lurid turquoise.
Ian literally scowled at me, mutinous at the colors. "Look at it this way, kid. With me in pink and you in that, we've a better chance of getting spotted." He jammed it on his head, sadly forgetting the belt situation. The tail of the shirt hid his junk, but he reacted as if I'd barged into his stall in the men's room. Whatever.
While he got himself sorted, I grabbed the mask again and tent-shirt from Lunk-Lunk's bag. We soon set off, him awkward in the too big... everything. And me already sweating in the shirt but glad for the layer of sun protection. Went around the other side and found that the trees all the way into the water. We'd have to wait for low tide to check there, or venture into the mangroves or whatever these things were. Not a nice thought. I looked out and saw nothing, nothing at all. No bags, wreckage... Coast Guard helicopters. Sigh.
I used the mask as a leaky dipper and fed some of the water into the purifier. To my indescribable sadness, the result was just as saline as what it started as. Apparently (like I knew how the fuck they worked) you couldn't use it to make salt water into fresh water.
Back around. We found a large backpack actually in the trees and the type of canvas bag that only old ladies used, both well off the ground. Okay, so that's why no wreckage, at least right here. The plane had still been airborne when I, and the luggage, had been sucked out. And Ian.
We found nothing else before reaching a relatively narrow channel washed by waves as the tide began to move out, water flowing from my left to right. I could make out the next sandbar-island, with a much larger group of trees. I looked down and a very large, very fast shape shot through the channel. Make that 'a much larger group of completely-inaccessible trees'.
I followed the arc of what I could see. The islands were perhaps a half-dozen feet above the tide-line at most, so trees would be all I'd see more than a few hundred feet away. I spotted a few other places where they stood as I turned in a slow circle and was able to sketch the outline of what was a clearly an atoll. The good news was that the luggage (at least that we could see) had fallen inside the sheltered lagoon and was thus unlike to wash away. The bad news was the sharks didn't fucking care.
By the sun, I guessed it was midafternoon. We trudged back to the trees and began the rip into the new bags in detail. The Hulme suddenly caught my attention. I'd rifled through it quickly, but really didn't take any time on what was obviously a Tumi shaving kit. Until I noticed that there were three such in there. And me oh my did the third one have a surprise. Handcuffs, both metal and leather, and a variety of interesting toys appeared. Ian's eyes got bigger with every item revealed, and his jaw dropped complexly when the front compartment yielded a TSA-approved clear baggie with, you guessed it, about nine flavors of lube.
"Apparently, Ian, a gay couple someplace was going to be having extremely uncomfortable sex..." assuming they lived, I silently amended. The small bag I called Old Lady yielded a massive skein of wool and knitting needles. Seriously? I can't bring fingernail clippers and some old bat can bring a pair of sixteen-inch steel stilettos? WHF? Strike that, several pairs of various-length ninja death needles. Yowza.
The kid finished sorting what might well have been his own backpack going by contents. Under a scrunched-up hoodie and a couple of those little hats that look like stretch-beanies, were every electronic gadget known to teendom. Better was the TSA baggie stuffed to the breaking point with sample-size bottles of every hair and skin product ever invented. It looked like someone had robbed a high-end salon and the backpack was their getaway vehicle.
Overall, we ended up with much better haul than I expected. Two smuggled-aboard (would love to know the woman's secret) one liter bottles of Ph8 water and just short of a dozen of the smaller bottles handed out as we boarded the plane. Everything -- EVERYTHING -- else was a distant second in importance. Overall, assuming the kid and I were the only survivors, we could last at most three days with the water in those bottles.
I sighed deeply. "Ian?" He pulled his attention from an earphone thing he'd been exploring. "Ian, I need you to focus for a minute. You with me?" He nodded, brow furrowed since I'd apparently interrupted a VERY important track from WhoTheFuckCares. I decide to start slow. "Water is going to keep us alive Ian, you with me so far?"
He rolled his eyes. "I read Dune. 'One date palm requires forty liters of water. A man requires eight liters. A palm equals five men. There are twenty palms out there--one hundred men.' Duh." He eyes widened suddenly; apparently he could also do math.
"No, Herbert -- yes, I read! -- had that wrong. You need two quarts, I forget what that is in metric--"
"Under two liters."
"Oh, um, okay. Under two liters to survive each day. So here's the choice, Ian. Stretch it out and hope, or drink when we're thirsty and die tomorrow." He gave me a clear Are You Brain Dead look. "I agree, but that means we have to guard this stash above all. Nothing else matters. Get me?" He nodded. "Also, we need to leave the shade at night, if possible, to limit our loss. You with me, Ian? Now, anything you find help us get out of here? No sat phone? Shortwave radio kits, Ian my boy?"
Ian shook his head. "Um, thank you for stopping the 'Sally' thing. I'm sorry if I was a bit useless at first. But, um, what do I call you?"
I blinked. He was right, I never thought to tell him my own name even as I teased him about his. "I'm Jason, Ian, but everyone calls me JB. JB Cantrell." I reached up with an offer to shake, and Ian smiled.
"Good to meet you, JB. Ian Doyle, at your service, sir." When our hands met, something truly bizarre happened. It was like my entire body tingled. From the shock in his eyes, something similar happened on the other end of the handshake. I held on for longer than I'd held any handshake in my life, trying desperately to understand that rush of... something. A thousand thoughts flashed, all of them sexual and none of them, not one, featuring a creamy little wisp of nothing. What the FUCK was going on?
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 22 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 14 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 15 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Off the Magic Carpet: 7 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/ Lake Desolation: 7 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Dear John Letter: 2 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/ Brother Bear: 3 chapter .../incest/brother-bear