Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-friends/shark-reef/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
"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?
Shark Reef 2: When It Rains, It Pours
By Bear Pup
We both pulled back as if shocked, and maybe that was all it was. Some bizarre phenomenon that happened when people are dropped out of low-flying aircraft into shark-filled waters. I pulled out several of Lunk-Lunk's items of clothing.
"Kid, um, Ian, we need to get our heads down if we're going to work at all tonight." I laid a tent-sized shirt and a pair of bulb-assed jeans down, then stripped to my skivvies, hanging my sweat-drenched clothes over a tree branch. I turned to grab another couple of items when I saw Ian staring at me in astonishment, something between horror and embarrassment. I made a quick check that none of the important bits had slipped out then looked at him. "What?"
"You're going, um, to, um, to go around naked?"
"First, this ain't nekkid, kid, and if you don't know the difference, well, there's not much hope for ya. As for bring in just my skivvies? Well, not in the sun, but for sleeping? Hell yeah, kid. I'm not gonna sweat my balls off and need even more water!" I was in no mood for further schoolboy nonsense and flopped down, working the sand around until it passably resembled a pillow under the shirt, and yanked the hideous pink hat over my eyes.
I awoke to a screech and leapt up, expecting to find, I dunno, alien death rays or walking sharks or some shit. Instead, Ian is there dancing like a princess around what might well have been a space invader, a brightly-colored crab with long, spindly legs that had apparently walked across Ian as he dozed. Now a lot of crabs are edible (extremely so), but not all of them. I'd never seen one as bizarre as this, a riot of strange colors, even on the Discovery Channel.
Apparently, either Ian's movement or piecing shriek had stunned the critter who just then got his wits back and scuttled quickly toward the ocean side of the island and into the water. "It's just a crab, Ian."
There are times when simple words are not enough to express a given sentence. What Ian said was, "I know it's just a fucking crab! It wasn't crawling on you, mate!" What I heard was "Oy noo itz joost a fookin crrrrabp! Twoosnt crrrrowlllling on yoooo, mayt!"
It was early evening, the sun cutting beneath the trees having already sunk well into the far horizon. I walked into the trees and started snapping off branches about three feet long. Ian followed mutely, searching the ground frantically for more attack-crabs, and I handed him the branches. He followed me, puzzled but compliant, as I jammed the sticks deep into the sand midway between the crest and trough of the waves. I did this several places on the narrow ends of our private island, and at a few select spots on the accessible perimeter.
I decided it was worth the risk to explore the tree-lined side. The water was about ankle deep on the peak and sole-deep at the ebb. I told Ian to stay where he was. He scowled at me and I said, "Ian, there are lots and lots of crabs." His eyes got huge and I turned to the completely (or relatively) crab-free sand. I made a quick trek along the mangroves, watching for three things: luggage, sea snakes and sea urchins. Luckily, I found the first and neither of the others.
Apparently, the passenger compartment was not the only thing breeched. I sent a silent prayer-of-apology to Lunk-Lunk; his duffle might well have come from the hold, just like the ancient, batter hard-sider with reflective tape that I snagged near the far end of the mangroves. I decided not to tempt fate so returned on the other side of the trees and the dusk deepened into night.
When I got back to where Ian was and dropped the bag with a huge THUMP, Ian squealed like an eight-year-old girl threatened by a bully with a grass snake. I noticed the front of his board-shorts dampen as he squeaked his way back to consciousness. I waited for moonrise so I'd have enough light to sort by, the dragged it on the beach.
It is truly amazing the weird shit people take with them on (or take home from) long trips, and this bag took the cake. It was obviously a frequent traveler because luggage rarely gets battered in a closet. I get the breathing machine that they use for people who stop breathing when they sleep, but why would anyone had a baggie of zip-ties? Why carry a bunch of CAT-5 cable halfway across the globe when you can buy it for pocket change when you get... wherever? I also REALLY didn't want to know why he felt it was necessary to travel with two -- TWO -- blow-up sex dolls.
The bag was a geek-fest, with two laptops and a set of those teensy-tiny screwdrivers. A rubber ducky (no shit) with a billion-dollar logo and a few of the toys the computer conventions are stuffed with. There were also a couple of combination and key locks and lockpicks. There was treasure here, though. McGeek had packed a small kit with a razor-knife and other small tools of his trade, along with two one-liter bottles of tonic water. Things that could help us survive. There was also gin, nasty shit to drink but great as an antiseptic. An unexpected find was a toy beach set, a souvenir from the Lizard Island Resort still in plastic wrap, probably a present for a niece or nephew. I mean face it, McGeek had TWO sex dolls -- you seriously think he'd propagated?
I turned to see Ian's face blush scarlet, unable to wrench his eyes away from the aforementioned dolls, their deflated state amusing causing the opposite reaction in the kid's board shorts. "Okay, kid, let's go find out whether we have good news or bad news."
I'd taken over an hour with McGeek for a reason. It gave me a way to figure out where we stood on tides. Tides are roughly a twelve-hour cycle. I could see the high tide line from the flotsam and jetsam, but there is no way to tell where the low tide would be. As luck would have it, the sticks were higher and drier; the tide was waning.
Taking McGeek's beach set, I walked about ten paces into the trees and found a high, sandy spot and started digging. Ian finally broke down, "What are you doing, mate?"
"Ian, we've been over a lot of this island, right?" He nodded. "Did you see a sign for a W/C anyplace? No? Me neither." His brow furrowed and went to the hole, then back to my face, his own a mask of horror. "And I picked a spot with built-in asswipe." I pointed to a vine thing climbing up the next-door tree that looked like a philodendron with nice, wide leaves.
"Bu-bu-bu-bu-bu-bu--" The fucking kid sounded like an outboard motor.
"Or ya can cross your legs until we get rescued in, like, never. Up to you, kid." I went on digging until it was at least two feet down. Task done, I took my plastic pail and shovel and went back to the 'camp', then check on the sticks. Tide still flowing out. Excellent.
The tide-channel at the south end of our little paradise was a deep cut whereas the North was far wider, but possibly wading-depth. What I was hoping (praying) was low tide would prove the north end was shallow enough to avoid critters or that the southern channel would be narrow enough to jump. I had decided to sit and wait at the nearer, southern end.
Ian stepped out and suddenly gasped. I turned and saw him doing something I had not thought to do. He was staring at the half moon and a startling spray of brilliant stars sewn into the luxuriant blue-black sky.
Ian moved and sat beside me. I am a creature of the American suburban world. What you saw when you looked up, if you were lucky, were the brightest of constellations like Orion. More likely, it was the moon and a few aircraft coming or leaving. Here, on the absolute ass end of the planet, there was not a square inch of sky lacking a pinprick of light.
I'm not sure how long we sat and stared. I finally shook myself. I saw Ian was holding an unopened bottle of water. "Ian?" I said softly, but he still jumped. "You wanted something?"
"Oh, yes, sir. I am really thirsty but not sure how much we should drink?"
I looked down and thought for a minute. "Let's split a half-liter and go from there, okay?" He nodded and drank about a third. I did the same and went to hand it back.
"No. You're bigger and was working harder. Finish it. Go ahead." I was surprised. It was both accurate and thoughtful. But I also knew I needed this kid healthy and alert for as long as possible, for both our sakes. I drank half the remainder and handed it back.
"Yeah, both of those are true. But one of those is about the change. How are you at track and field?" I pulled him to his feet and handed back the bottle and he drained it. "We need to practice the long jump." He looked at me, then the narrowing channel and smiled.
Ian was several inches over my five-foot-eleven frame, but it was impossible to tell if there was muscle underneath the cream-white skin or not. I used a stick to mark a double line, then drew a line each pace for a half-dozen out. I paced off ten the other direction and jabbed the stick into the ground, then turned and ran flat-out, leaping as far as I could when I reached the double line. I was shocked at how far it seemed and how short it was. I had just barely cleared the fourth pace-mark.
I rolled to the side and went to tell Ian to have a go when a blur of white flew past. Ian had easily gone five, nearly six of my paces. He looked at me, beaming. "Excellent, Ian! Excellent." He almost wagged. "Now, I want two more. And it only counts if you fall forward, not backwards." His face scrunched then swiveled to look at the channel and blanched at what 'fall backwards' would mean.
His second jump was more tentative, landing just short of the five-pace mark as he overcompensated in fear. "Oh, for God's sake, Sally, at least try." The scowl I got was mutinous, but his next fury-fueled leap him took him to the six-pace mark, or just shy, and he turned the landing into a roll. I was on him before he stopped rolling, patting his back in praise and stoking his boyish ego. "Sit here and rest a minute, champ. I'll be right back."
McGeek's horrific wardrobe included a pair of swim trunks of the Aussie 'middle-age' style, longer in leg and waist but tight like a speedo otherwise. More like the swim trunks when I was a kid. I got back to the kid carrying that, a pair of Hulmes shoes and a half-liter of water.
We sat and discussed strategy as we watched the water continue, almost-imperceptibly, to recede.
"This has to be a raid, Ian, not a mission. Jump and head for the trees. Start at the far end. Don't stop to open anything, period. Get it to the end fast, collect as you return, but don't pick up enough to seriously slow you down. We can have more raids, but we don't have more Ians, get me?" He grinned and nodded.
"Dump everything about a ya-- meter from the high-tide line and keep going until you hear me yell. When you hear me yell, drop whatever you've found and get your ass back to this end of the island, kid. It'll mean the tide had changed. You'll probably have another few minutes to sling the shit back across to me before you have to repeat your jump. Leave the shoes over there. You with me on this Ian?"
We talked some more. I loosely knotted the laced of the two shoes together and draped them over Ian's neck, the water bottle snugged into one of them. What caught my attention was not the sticks, but the ripples in the channel. I told Ian to take a piss. The tide that had moved in a torrent and was suddenly slacking, meaning that the pull of the outbound tide was waning.
I noticed that Ian hadn't moved. "Ian, take a piss NOW. Jumping with a full bladder is dumb, kid, it's weight you don't need."
"But where?"
"Oh, fuck, Sally. Seriously? That is the OCEAN. The world's biggest urinal. Stop being a baby or do you need me to find something you can sit on to pee?" He looked like he longed to deck me, but turned away and let loose with a long stream. Without a word, not even looking at the real distance, He took a long run and threw himself over the water.
One thing neither of us thought of was the difference in the sand. The edges of the channel were saturated and hard, making a much better launch pad when Ian leapt. He cleared the channel with at least three feet to spare, and again rolled forward. He jammed the bottle of water into the sand and took off like a hare.
That island, from what I could tell of Ian's movements, was shaped like a long, thin dog bone. With perhaps trees down the center about five yards deep. He found two roll-aboards and another duffle, all on the inner face of the island, before I saw the ripples tell me that the tide was being dragged back into the lagoon. Ian slung the luggage across, the duffle being the only one that posed a problem, but I was able to reach it before the current could grab hold.
Ian pulled back, ran hard, and leapt. Three difference were almost our undoing. First, critically, Ian was winded. Second, the reverse of the previous wet-sand behavior -- where the edge had dried a bit -- robbed his takeoff of just a tiny bit of his power. Lastly, I wasn't over there to piss him off and goad that extra bit of oomph. I grabbed hold of his windmilling arms and he barely got his feet wet. I was pounding his back like an Olympic coach as he caught his breath. I handed him a half-liter, "Drink it all, Ian." He did without argument and we worked together to drag the bags up toward our nest.
We set to disassembling the haul. One, sadly, was a repeat of the Teeny Bob pack, largely electronics. The only useful things were a half-dozen candy bars and a couple bags of granola, and an assortment of sunglasses and sun-scarves.
I thought Ian had wounded himself somehow as he squawed and threw something away from him in horror. It landed next to me. It was a white tube with "Relief from Vaginal Fungal Infection" on it. I guess Ian was afraid of pussy-cooties or something. He then whooped. Apparently, this bag, now called Klepto, belonged to a kid with real issues. She'd somehow raided the liquor box in the galley and an even dozen tiny bottles of booze came out, along with a pill bottle that even in the dim light screamed Oxycodone.
We spoke as we worked, Ian telling me that he spotted at least one bright-red bag snagged in the trees, and something that might have been a very large black bag on the other side. That gave us a goal for the next night.
I had taken the duffle, this one smaller than Lunk-Lunk. It was another frequent traveler like McGeek or Hulme. Men's 'salesman drag' outfits mostly, everything impeccably packs and organized. He was someone who either flew first or got upgraded a lot; his packing units were the first class goodie-bags, and he had all sorts of crap from those freebees. The real treasure was four of the little sewing kits. I cried out in happiness and Ian looked over. I held up the little kit with its needles, thread and all-important safety pins, "Instant fishing kit!"
The last of the bags was instantly Hypochondriac in my mind. It yielded a travel pill case, a set of two weeks with morning, noon, evening and bedtime, each spot near to overflowing with unguessable pills. There were also five or six bottles, actually labelled in English and impossible to reads in the dim light. Ian's stomach erupted in growls. I smiled and threw him a granola bar but only ate a half for myself. I had fat reserves that the pipsqueak sure didn't.
There was a rumble to the East and we both looked up. The stars in that direction were gradually disappearing. I ran and ripped into Lunk-Lunk and ripped open one of the packaged space blankets. I grabbed some of McGeek's CAT-5 and started madly tying the corners to trees. Making sure that there was plenty of slack in the middle. I pulled and stacked the luggage on the upwind side to create a break, then dragged our makeshift sheets (Lunk-Lunk clothes) to the center of the shelter. It would be tight, but it would work.
The wind was rising and Ian hollered at me, "What are you DOING? You have to tie one side lower. The wind will blow right through! We'll get SOAKED! "
I pushed him inside and said, "Yeah, and if we angle the fucking thing, kid, the water runs off and we die here when we stop finding luggage with water bottles." He stared and huffed at me, then settled down and dragged some clothes over him. Now, space blankets aren't huge things to start with, roughly 4.5 feet by 7. With the arrangement to turn it also into a catchment, we had maybe a yard width and a bit over six feet of (relatively) dry space. Ian could huff if he wanted, but he couldn't put much distance between us without being fully in the rain. Even with that, he had to curl up some to keep both head and feet dry.
I watched the storm build and sweep in, keep a hawk's-eye on each connection point. The wind was brisk, but not hard and everything held, then the rain started. I sighed deeply as I saw the center of the Mylar sheet dip and the water started to run into the resulting cup.
When the worst of the wind was gone and only the rain remained, I took stock. Everything was still in place and we'd have some water to drink in the morning. I realized something else I'd been try to ignore the whole day. I itched like a motherfucker. Sand had gotten places sand just shouldn't be allowed to go. I rummaged through Teeny Bob and found a body wash that apparently had swallowed a fruit stand.
I walked out from under the sheltering trees and stripped off. After I was wet (and shivering), I used my not-terribly-nasty boxers as a washcloth, getting as much as possible out of pits, crotch and crack, then used my hands to collect the rain in quantities enough to rinse with. When I finally felt clean, I walked back toward the nest and draped the boxers over a couple of branches to rinse and eventually dry in the rain. Would they be comfortable with that soap in them? Fuck no, but they'd be tolerable in a pinch.
I ducked into the shelter to be confronted by what looked like a couple of ping pong balls. Ian's eyes were so wide I could see white at every edge, and his mouth was open so far he looked like something Edvard Munch might have painted. "What, kid, you don't have showers at your school?" I rummaged through Beach Bimbo for the towel I was sure I'd seen and used it to dry my ass, dick and balls, confident the rest would air dry. "Ian, son, if you want a shower, you should hurry. Rain doesn't last forever, kid."
He snatched as the towel and I pushed him off. "Hell no! You ain't getting our only towel wet out there, kid." He tried to use the floppy hat to protect a dry pair of shorts and ran to the far side of the trees to wash. Something that people don't realize when they see the balmy temps of tropics is that 63° F at night sounds fantastic... when you have a bed and blankets. Otherwise it's cold as fuck. I pulled out another couple of Lunk-Lunk shirts and made sure they'd cover both Ian and I.
I settled in and listened to the rain which slowly subsided. Ian came back drenched, holding a dirty, wet pair of board shorts and wearing an equally-soaked pair of cutoffs. He came in shivering and I handed him the towel. He started with his hair, which was understandable. Where I had what is often called a high-and-tight, he land long, curly, ginger hair that was incredibly thick, and thus incredibly wet.
"Ian, son, you can't get dry if you're wearing wet clothes. And you sure as fuck aren't getting under these covers soaking." He blushed furiously but turned and pulled off the shorts. For a skinny kid, he had respectably glutes. I could see why he did well on jumping to the other island. He wasn't an LD runner because he wasn't scrawny. I guessed soccer or hurtles.
He looked over at me as he finished and tried to figure a way under the covers that would offer zero crotch exposure. I sighed. "Ian. Sit. Let your skin either dry a bit or absorb some of the water. It's been a long fucking day, kid, and we need to sleep soon. He never did turn around, but he sat and watched the rain. We both started to drowse as the rain moved on and left us with the drip-drop rhythm from the leaves. I felt the Mylar and was pleased. There was likely enough in there to keep us hydrated for at least the following day.
I laid down just inside the drip perimeter and pulled the shirt-blanket over me. Ian hadn't stirred yet. I fell asleep trying to remember how to guess volume of a cone. Pi and something-squared became pie at a Jb's on Temple Square, a lovely dream. I semi-woke and saw Ian shivering.
"You're gonna freeze. Get under here, kid." I held up the corner of the shirt and he reluctantly scuttled in. It was clear that he was horrified at the idea of coming into contact with my naked body, and just as clear that it was that or he could shiver to death. I think I mumbled something like "apple crumble, pl..." as I slipped back into my culinary dozing. I woke to something very warm moving about.
It took me a minute to run through Brisbane, plane, waves, sand, island before I got to 'Ian'. My eyes popped open. I was on my back, one arm thrown back which is how I normally end up. Where I don't normally end up is on a makeshift bed with a pasty-white kid humping against my side.
What shocked me more was that I was railed as well. The dream pie had morphed to creampie, one of my wife's favorite activities as I ate her out after a vigorous fuck before getting into round two. I'd been in Oz for two weeks on this trip and, as a faithful husband, had refrained from any sort of sexual contact other than Rosy Palm and her five skinny sisters. This pup humping me, moaning softly in his sleep, posed a unique challenge.
I could wake him, push him away, or ignore it. Well, 'ignore it' was definitely not an option; he was basically using my love handle and a fleshlight. Worse, rain is not really a shower, and his young musk and my own crotch-sweat blended into a hormone-laced stew that seemed to soak into the shirt-blanket. I pulled the cover off to lessen the concentration, but the scent just exploded when I did. I ran my hand south and decided that I could let the kid sleep and pull one out since he sure the fuck wouldn't notice.
I was leaking so bad from the cream-dream that my belly-fur was drenched. I was getting close when the inevitable happened and the punk spunked all over my leg and side. I mean, seriously, this kid came buckets, bucking and moaning and, just that quickly, waking in horror. In one of his wild gyrations, he dumped a good part of his load right onto my own aching prick.
He jumped back, right into the luggage and screamed, then looked back at me, his mouth working crazily, eyes wide. I thought for a second. There were plenty of ways to play this, but I decided on 'calm older brother' mode. "Hell of a load, kid. But you made a real mess. Think maybe you should clean it up so's we can sleep?"
His face was almost invisible in the gloom as the white skin vanished in a mortified blush. He grabbed the first wad of cloth he could find and started wiping the puddle from the shirt-sheet under us, trying to avoid contact with me. He stopped and stared as he realized that most of his jizz wasn't on the blanket, it was on me. I watched his Adam's Apple bobbing like mad.
My voice was not harsh, but brooked no argument. "Ian, it's your mess, not mine. I'm not mad or upset, Ian, but I am absolutely NOT going to wipe up your cum. You get me, kid?" He nodded and went to work. I rolled a bit to give him access and he got my side and upper leg at least passably dry and I rolled back. He started on my hip, but could see that a load was soaking in my own pubes. "Just do it, Ian. I'm tired." And there was my critical mistake. I hadn't notice that 'the first wad of cloth' was a silk blouse, probably from Old Lady Bag, maybe Beech Bimbo.
But the critical feature, the heart of the problem was the word 'silk'. Saturated with the kid's still-hot load, I moaned "Holy fuck!" when he dragged that luxurious, hot, sticky, wet, slick cloth up my balls and over my cock. He didn't seem to notice, locked in his private, embarrassed focus on 'his mess'.
He swiped in along the edged when my sac met my leg and I shuddered. He went back down, starting right behind my balls and back up, "E-E-E-Ian, uh, y-y-y-you -- n-n-n-no -- ah, ah, FUCK!" And I blew like a cum bomb. As luck would have it, the blouse completely covered the head of my prick right then and we both looked down as my powerful ejaculations blasted against and occasionally through the sheer fabric. I am a healthy man with a lusty wife and very well-soundproofed walls between us and the room housing our six girls. I was, shall we say, not a calm or quiet orasmateer.
I grunted and growled and screamed through my long-overdue release. Ian simply sat there, hand unmoving, as I thrust in and out of his hot, wet, silk-encased fist. With one last gurgling howl, I fell back, spent. I'd been 16 the last time I'd come in a guy's fist, our first ecstatic week of missionary work for our small church. My mission-buddy was Darren and we'd shared a bed one night because of a leaking AC that ruined the mattresses in the room we had been assigned. I can't even tell you how the mini-circle-jerk happened, though I can say not a word was said and our eyes never met. It was powerful, and we never acknowledged that it happened -- that anything happened, ever.
This was better. Frankly, this was as good as, possibly better than, the strictly-physical side of sex with my own wife. It had been a long time since I'd cum that hard, that long, that intensely. The prior occasions had always been intense, long, edge-fucking sessions, seeing how many orgasms I could get out of my wife before succumbing to my own explosive release. He done with four strokes, maybe five, what normally took two hours. I looked up and saw his mortified confusion, and the dawning realization of what he'd just done.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 23 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 14 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 15 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Off the Magic Carpet: 9 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/ Lake Desolation: 8 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Dear John Letter: 2 chapters .../military/dear-john-letter/ Brother Bear: 4 chapters .../incest/brother-bear Shark Reef: 2 chapters .../adult-friends/shark-reef