UNDERNEATH THE DOCK
By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM
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Someone was underneath the dock, I realized as I woke up.
This day was so hot that the sidewalks scalded your bare feet and so did the sand on the beach, so that only grass and dry wood offered any respite; I chose the latter. I ended up perched on the dock, sitting there with nothing to do and nobody to talk to; for all the other cottages nearby had been rented out by old people, who were all sitting indoors, watching soap operas and sipping iced tea with their air conditioners going full blast. I lay down with my head against a coil of rope and watched the sailboats way out on the water. I bet it was nice and cool out there, it looked cool. I drowsed and watched the boats, so far out that they seemed to be barely moving, here and there a flicker of white on sky, seagulls, invisible unless their wings caught the sun just right. It was a day for feeling unattached, your fall-to-spring university schedule in abeyance, your life on hold and not making demands, a time to do as you would when you would, to rest and do little, little or nothing at all, wild and free and untamed.... I slept.
I woke up after a while and wondered what had awakened me. Someone was underneath the dock. Murmurs, grunts, moans. I smiled. Somebody hadn't seen I was there, they had crept out under the dock and were making out. I was bored enough to wonder if I could get a peek at them. I inched quietly over and leaned my head down over the edge.
A yellow beach towel laid out, a sun-bronzed, blond-haired stud was mouthing the face of a blue-bikini-clad nymph, running his hands all over her body. She was doing most of the grunting, and it didn't sound that happy. He was moaning, had one of her legs between his and was hunching up at her. He got more urgent, more insistent, pulled her more roughly to him...and she exploded a protest into his mouth and broke away from his face.
"God, let me go!" she screeched.
"Aw, come on, Monica...." the guy said.
"No." she said. "I don't know what people have told you about me, but whatever you think I am, you're wrong!"
"I don't think you're anything, Monica." the guy said. "Just really pretty and I like you. Come on, Monica."
"No!" she said, pulling away from him. I could see now that his red Speedos were tented out alarmingly. Those too-brief swimtrunks are sexy...until you get an erection as this guy had. Then they lose all ability to cover you. I could see his balls peeking out from the bottom of them and if he'd been turned right, I could have seen his cock through the top of them.
He cooed at her a little more, but she wasn't having any of it. She got her purse and her small towel and took off in a virginal huff, toward the group way down the beach where they'd obviously come from, where the surf was better than this little eddy of bay where the waves were only little whimpers of their former selves. But there was no surf anywhere today, not enough to count; it takes wind to make surf, and there had been none for days.
The guy stayed behind, watching her. I watched her, too, her butt was swaying like crazy, back and forth, like a pendulum. I don't think that was the normal way a woman walked, she was doing it on purpose. As I'd overheard some friends call it, the old come-closer-now-get-away.
I heard a moan and looked back down at the guy. He had stuck a hand down in his Speedos and had a hold on his cock. His hand was moving back and forth, and his other hand came down to cup his balls.
Sweat gave his body a golden glow even in the shade, cooly shining. His muscles were paired orbs on his body, his shoulders, his biceps, his pecs, his abs, his thighs, all of them identical mirrors of each other, smoothly glowing, slickly shining. His face was where the angles of his body lay, the sharp angle of his jaw, the near-peak of his chin, the sharp jut of his cheekbone, the strong shelf of his eyebrows, furrowed in his desire.
He moaned and reached into his swimsuit and lifted it off from his body and tucked it beneath his balls. God, beautiful! Thick and straight as the tower of the city hall building, his pyramidal cockhead looked like it should have four clocks on it at the four compass points, telling the time.
I felt dizzy. I had been hanging upside down too long, my face must be flushed and red from the trapped blood. I raised up, blinked my eyes. Maybe I could carefully, stealthily slide off the dock and duck behind one of the pillars, peer at this sun-and-surf-worshiper from there.
I had a distance of a little over five feet to get down. Walking to where the dock met the land wasn't feasible, the dock stretched some thirty feet, the beach here was low and level, high tide reached far inland, and storms made the rest of it untenable for a permanent structure.
I didn't jump, but I levered myself down, legs dangling with the sharp ends of the beams in my stomach, and then dropped onto the sand. I quickly plastered myself up against a piling, and peered around it.
Surf-boy was still stroking his pud. The way he was groaning, I was surprised he hadn't shot his load yet. Or maybe he was killing some time while all alone (or thought he was). He was making long, slow strokes on his cock, running his hand up and down in long, languid motions, his cockhead was purple around the edges. His chest was heaving up and down in deep, long swells, like the swells of the waves, rising upwards and sinking back to rise again in an unending, even cadence.
The next piling was closer. I moved over to it, I was practically by his head, he only had to look upwards and he'd see me. But he thought he was alone, he expected to hear shoes on the dock, not my bare feet and soft padding on dock-shaded sand. He was lost in his rapture, he didn't see me.
I looked down the shore, his friends were still nearly a half mile away. Nobody else was nearby, none at all. Just the two of us, alone on this stretch of beach, under this dock.
I dared to walk over to him. Only when I got close, very close, did he hear my feet and the sand scrunching under them, a soft whf-whf-whf! sound.
He raised up and looked at me, his eyes wide, his hand on his cock, his cock throbbing.
"It's all right." I said to him softly, rapidly. "It's okay. Nobody else is around. Just you and me. Nobody has to know." I breathed to him rather than whispered. In the stillness of the afternoon air, he heard me.
I knelt down beside him as I said it, as I said, "Just let me do it for you, just let me take it for you, I'll treat you right, you'll get off, don't worry, nobody will know...."
His eyes were wide, his mouth was open, his face was soft. Caught, deep in his passion, immersed in his need, his body angry at the betrayal of the woman and her refusal when she shouldn't have, all his buddies had said she would, and she had left him, and he was ready and she left him...and I was there. Me. I'd do.
So he didn't move to stop me, or to help me. Just lay there as I took his cock in my hand, and his hand fell away and it was warm, so warm, in my hand. I gripped it tight and I milked it up and down and he watched my hand, watched my face.
"Don't worry," I sighed to him. "We're all alone here. Nobody is ever going to know. You're safe, don't worry."
And he breathed a sound of relief, of acquiescence, surrender, lay back on the sun-yellow towel and let me pump his prick, let me please him.
"Now, now I'll take care of you, you'll like it, don't worry." I said to him as I leaned over. He watched me as my mouth moved into position, as my lips rose over his cockhead, as I lowered them over his glans, as my lips touched the smooth velvety skin, as they rolled over the warm bumps of the flare of the glans, as they touched the tender, thin skin beneath, as they conquered the tougher, leathery foreskin beneath that, soaking it all in my saliva, wetting it, savoring the clean taste and satiny sleek shaft, I caught it at the base, and I clung to it as I pulled it up, up, the foreskin bunched over the glans, caught there, then surged over it like waves crash over breakers, and he moaned.
It was the sound of summer in that moan. The sound of the wind in the trees full of green leaves, the sound of the pilings groaning under the waves, the sound of feet in the hot sands, that was the moan that lifted from his throat.
It was like a benediction, that sound. I worshiped the worshiper of the surf and the sand, of the sun and the sea, of the waves and the beach, of the board and the foam. These things had formed his body into smooth fluid shapes, the way driftwood is turned and polished into long, curving, dull-tipped diamonds, graceful and sinuous. I moved my head and lips upon his idol of flesh, upon this man-eel of turgid flesh, it was warm, it was smooth, it was silken on my tongue and it was heady to my nostrils, and it was pleasant to my eyes.
He moaned, so softly, so quietly, as if he feared that others were nearby as I had been, as if he didn't want to disrupt this dream, as if I were a sun-inspired mirage crafted by his lust into corporeal form, and like the sea-foam, the castle of my body would shatter if he moved, if he uttered a single sound or cry.
In his silent meditation of my sucking of his manhood, in the soft, deep throaty sighs of pleasure from him and from me, this moment of sheer, pure, untarnished joy was played out. His sighs were louder and closer together now, his body was tensing like a panther for the kill, his hand dared like a tarantula to come up and clasp my head, his upper body was raised up to rest on one elbow, his eyes were closed in his pleasure, in his dream, his lips were open, as vulnerable as a child, as delicate as a rosebud, and from those lips issued the soft deep sighs of manly pleasure.
He urged my body with his hand on my head to faster servicing of his pleasure, I obeyed this divine command and suckled him the more fervently, his pleasurable utterances flew from his lips like the birds of dawn burst from the treetops of a sudden, his gasps were like a cluster of butterflies dancing in the air all at once, mixing, stirring around in a three-dimensional ballet, his ahs, his uhs, his oohs, his ohs, all of these were there, intermingled and joined together in one brightly colored explosion of sound, a low, stirring, heart-wrenching sound of joy, "Ooohuhhhguhhhahhh!"
In that sound, in that moment, his seed of life, his pearls of joy, his nectar of immortality, poured from his shaft and into my mouth, a deep, heady, heavy, musky, deep, raw, sensual, elementally brutal flood of power and vitality, it strode like a confident giant onto my tongue and down my throat, as if daring me not to swallow it all.
I swallowed, and more poured into my mouth to replace it, not in one gulp was I to be finished here, I suckled and drained this goblet of human life, this flask of potency, I drank and drank deeply, until at last the offering was done, the flow ceased, and he lay back to pant and gasp, his beautiful chest bobbing up and down like a desperate fish stranded on the shore.
His motions eased, his urgency softened, and he looked up at me now, spent and relaxed.
I smiled at him, licked my lips. "That was good." I said to him.
"It sure was." he agreed.
"I won't tell anybody about this." I promised him again.
"Okay." he said.
I stood up, to leave him to his rest and well-earned recuperation from his exertions. I started to leave, looked back at him. "I'll be here all summer." I said to him.
He smiled at me. "Tomorrow, the same time." he said.
I smiled back at that promise. "Sounds good."
"See you then." he said.
"You bet." I agreed.
And I left him there, underneath the dock.
THE END
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