Standing on the wraparound balcony of the two-story, one-bedroom rental condo in the building at the northern end of the Shelter Cove yacht basin on Hilton Head Island, I scanned the marina below for the baddest yacht in the basin. I was alone. I hadn't meant to be alone, planning on being here with the ski instructor, Felix, who'd picked me up in Aspen, slapped me around nicely, and fucked me hard. Felix was on his way to Hilton Head to exchange snow skis for water skis and I said I'd follow him there. But my family had found out about that and paid him off. I have no idea where he went from there, but I hadn't seen him here. I came ahead to South Carolina to spite them, rather than return to Dartmouth where they wanted me to be. You can always find good cock when you are young and look like I do. Yes, I was a bad boy through and through.
The sleekest motor yacht I saw in the marina hands down was a Prestige 750, seventy-five-footer. It looked like it was ready to take wing. I knew the boat brand, as I had recently been in the market myself, my boyfriend at the time selling yachts out of Marblehead, Massachusetts. Seeing me come home with a black eye and bruised ribs at Easter, my family had scotched that relationship as well—I went for well-hung, athletic, and cruel men in their thirties and older, and, as I was barely twenty, my family didn't have much pull in approval of my tastes beyond controlling the purse strings, which they only did loosely. I was aroused by being taken by force. Their plans were for me to marry a Vassar girl and settle down to the family trade of manipulating stocks and bonds and avoiding taxes. They'd paid off the yacht salesman and paid the penalty of the sale not going through on the small yacht I'd signed for. Thanks to my grandparents, I'd had my own nice stash since I was eighteen.
The name of the winning vessel in Shelter Cover was the
Antinous III
. According to the sign on its tail, it was homeported in Key West, Florida. Antinous was the god of homosexuality, I knew, whether the owners of the yacht knew that or not, so my eyes kept coming back to the yacht. Key West was a hedonist paradise for gays. I could see the blur of activity in the main salon. I went into the condo and came back with binoculars, which I trained on the yacht. Sure enough, inside the cabin, a naked young man about my age was sitting on a man's lap, facing him, with his back arched back and his arms hanging loosely to his side like he was semiconscious. The man was gripping the youth's thin waist and lifting him and slamming him down on his crotch, his cock presumably buried up the young man's passage. It was safe sex at least, I could see, as split gold-foil condom packets lay on the counter next to where they were fucking. The meant Trojan Magnums. The man in control was hung. From the number of split packets, there was—or had been—a real party going on.
The man taking his pleasure was a muscular Hispanic, wearing a boat captain's white hat and with a white shirt flared open. I would have looked longer, but there was another man, tall, trim, with wavy gray hair, standing in the well of the stern, scanning the buildings lining Shelter Cove with binoculars just as I was scanning the yachts. The binoculars scanned around to where I was standing on my balcony at the edge of Harbourside I, and our views locked. I put my binoculars down and posed briefly—I was only wearing a Speedo. The gray-hair saluted me, and I picked up the binoculars again to watch and see what he would do.
He was wearing just white shorts, so I could check his physique out. He clearly kept good care of himself, because, although he probably was in his early fifties, he was well muscled without any fat on him, nor did it appear that his skin was wrinkling as usually happened with older men. He was deeply tanned and hirsute, but not overly so, with swirls of salt-and-pepper hair on his pecs and descending to his waistline. He had a medallion on a chain nestled in the curly hair between his pecs.
He aroused me. Older, gray-haired, dirty-minded men with money and a "I can get what I want" attitude were another fetish of mine my family didn't appreciate. In our world of the wealthy there were so many old men like this—ones who had the money and time to keep their bodies in shape. So many men who had wanted me. So many of them who had had me. I had specialized in lying down and opening my legs for the rich older associates of my father and uncles who, despite age, kept themselves fit.
As I watched, he opened his belt, unzipped himself, flared his shorts and flashed me with a long, thick cock. I could see that he was in an erection that would justify needing a Trojan Magnum XL. I slipped my Speedo off, and, although he couldn't see my midsection because of where the thick, stucco balcony railing hit, he could see that I had taken the Speedo off because I held it out in my hand. He pulled his belt out of the shorts, folded it over, and snapped it against his leg. The inference was clear, and I went hard and nodded my head.
I remained where I was. Then, nodding toward the boat's superstructure, he went into the yacht's salon, pulled the naked young man off the Hispanic guy's lap, and carried him, with an arm under the young guy's belly, over to a table surrounded by a booth on three sides. He slapped the young man twice across the face, snapping the youth's head from one side to the other. Then he laid the youth on the table, belly down, and slipped his shorts off his legs. He was in superb condition for his apparent age. Hard-bodied and sinewy muscled—the thighs of a cyclist. He turned toward my direction again, showing that he was hung and in erection. I'm sure he did that for my benefit.
I benefited. I was hard and leaking. I moved my hand to my cock. He couldn't see that I was stroking myself, but I'm sure he got the idea.
He was still holding the folded belt in his hand, and, while I watched, he strapped the young man's bare buttocks again and again with the belt. The youth writhed under him, but he took it. Then the man split a gold-foil condom packet, rolled the Trojan Magnum on his erection, covered the young man from above and behind, mounted him, and fucked him in long, cruel thrusts. As he fucked, he slapped the young man's flanks with the belt. He looked around to see if I was still there. I was. The belt was raised over his head and brought down with a stinging blow to the young man's back. Then again and again.
Assuming this was advertising for my benefit, I watched for a while—long enough to see gray hair grab the young man by the throat and arch his chest back at a painful angle. He looped the belt over the youth's throat and used it like a leash. Gray hair turned to look at me, I think to see if I would shrink from his rough treatment of the youth, who just lay there, taking it, as if he was stoned and zoned out. So, I held there so gray hair would know I wasn't intimated—or disgusted or uninterested—but not for long, as it was making me feel the loss. I hadn't planned on being here alone, and I'd planned on spending a large portion of my time upstairs in this very nice condo, either under the ski instructor stud in the Jacuzzi or under him on the bed—and, with luck, feeling the snap of his folded-over belt on my flanks or the belt looped around my neck and used as a leash. After a couple of minutes of watching the gray-hair doggie fuck the young guy, I put the binoculars down on the patio table and went back into the condo.
It wasn't that it wasn't thrilling—it was that it wasn't me being manhandled like that. I had a need.
Dusk was settling in, I was horny, and I was alone. I dressed for cruising and went down into the yacht basin and to Bucci and Murray's Pub on the harbor. I was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer and feeling sorry for myself when the gray hair from the
Antinous III
sat on the stool next to me. He was looking good, in expensive clothes, all coordinated in gray and black, complimenting his curly gray hair, which, up close, still had some black in it. Up close he proved to be a very handsome man. He was aging very well. His gray silk shirt was open enough to show the silver medallion on a silver chain. He had diamond rings on his fingers and a big diamond stud earing. He wore a black sports jacket, which seemed unusual as it was quite warm even though the sun had set.
"Hi," he said. "Do you speak English?"
"Hi yourself," I answered. "Yes, I speak English, if New England speak counts."
"I couldn't tell earlier. You looked European and responded with the freedom of a European," he said. "That's a compliment; Americans can be quite up tight," he added. "And you look very young."
"I'm twenty," I answered, putting that concern to rest. "Is the young man on your boat European?" I might as well settle that we both know what we saw.
"German. He's twenty as well."
"Is he well? Did he endure it?"
The man shrugged. "He enjoys it, and he is paid well for it. If the man is hard and long inside him, he's fine with it. There are young men who enjoy being used that way." He gave me a meaningful look, giving me the opening to say I was such a young man, in which case the proposition couldn't be far behind. I didn't respond, though. I just took a drag on my drink and waited to see how he'd continue.
He continued in action, taking a gold-foil Trojan Magnum XL condom packet out of a pocket and pushing the edge of it under napkin my drink glass rested on. He was making more than one declaration. He wanted to fuck me and he was hung.
"Are you waiting for your boyfriend or has he stood you up?" the man asked. I guessed this was his way of cutting corners and establishing I was gay. "Although I can't imagine anyone standing up a beautiful young man like you," he continued.
"I think I was waiting for you," I responded, going with putting this on the fast track myself. I was horny as hell.
"I'm Mario," he said. Ah, Italian. I should have guessed.
"Ward here," I answered.
"I don't like the building architecture here," he said. "The balcony railings are entirely too thick."
I laughed, knowing exactly what he was referencing. "Private showings are possible."
He leaned in to me and murmured in my ear, "I want more than a showing. If you take cock, I want to fuck you. If you don't, you should be arrested for being a tease. And I was quite aware that you did not shrink from rougher possibilities."
"You said I was beautiful. Would I be just as beautiful with red welts on my back and buttocks?"
