Snaed on Anjajavy Beach

I had both the advantages and curses of being a rock star. I could afford to go anywhere I wanted on the spur of the moment or as the mood hit me, but if a mood hit me that would land me in the tabloids, I'd better be prepared to go to the ends of the earth.

The mood had hit me to get the most exotic and total fuck that I could find by the most talented cocksman I could attract. I had been on a road tour for months and could have had any woman I'd wanted during that time. But revealing what I really wanted just wasn't the type of publicity the band—or its teenaged-girl-based fan club—could use. And that's why on this particular evening I found myself on Anjajavy Beach on the northern coast of the island of Madagascar in search of relief for this heat I'd been in for a total plowing for the last few months of what must have been the longest road show concert series any international band had ever done.

My voice was hoarse from all of the performances, and my ass was twitching for attention. Madagascar wasn't necessarily the end of the earth. But it was so open to accommodating what I needed without a whole lot of publicity that it seemed the right place to be.

I'd heard that Howard's Bar on the fringe of Anjajavy Beach was the place to hook up. So, long after the sun had gone down, I entered the garden bar dressed in my most fetching low-rise stonewashed jeans and a pair of loafers and showered body and shampooed hair—augmented with a smattering of gold glitter to attract attention—and nothing else other than a friendly smile that had been plastered across numerous music, fashion, and gossip magazine covers.

The party was already in full swing. A couple of bars were set up under palm trees surrounding a meandering concrete terrace with a pool, many clumps of lush tropical vegetation that provided a good many discrete pocket garden areas, and a network of muted lighting that highlighted the central dance floor and provided good mood light to all of the other nooks and crannies about. There was a good crowd already partying—all hunky-looking men and all obviously either on the make or well into making or being made. A band of Indian musicians was doing a creditable job off to the side of many of the hit tunes of the day, including several that I had recorded to platinum myself.

I recognized some of the men there and was surprised to see most of them here; I didn't feel so isolated now in what I had to do to keep public face. But as long as they didn't do a double-take at seeing me, I wouldn't mess with their desire to hang out without being outed either. Still, with all of the talent in evidence, I was both surprised and a little gratified to note that all eyes at least stopped when they saw me, smattered with gold glitter and a familiar face, and a good many lingered there—with some even bold enough to give me a come hither look that I knew so well when I was on vacation from my public world.

I could feel my butt twitching. One of these hunks was going to top me tonight—sometime before I left Howard's Bar—and I wasn't going to let him go until he'd done me royally. I was going to work some unsuspecting guy to exhaustion tonight.

I sat at a bar stool watching the crowd and brushing off the braver of the swirl of cruisers who approached me with their tongues hanging out, whether attracted by recognized celebrity or my hours spent in the gym and grooming shops I knew not—nor did I particularly care. Any brand of honey would do tonight as long as the bees had nice bods, big dicks, and a lot of stamina. I wanted something special—and I wanted it soon; I'd flown all the way from L.A. for this.

Within about ten minutes, I'd seen him. I was sure that I saw him before he saw me. He was at a table with three other capable-looking muscle men—and he was the hunkiest of the lot. I could hear their boisterous conversation well enough to tell that they were all Aussies. He had the size and physique of a footballer and the face of a movie star. All blond good looks with enough of a tan to make him look like a serious outdoor sportsman. He was wearing baggy cargo shorts and a godawful Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose to reveal a serious bodybuilder's torso. I decided that if he had a cock to match that, he could very well be in for a special treat tonight.

He must have felt someone watching him intensely, because he turned to me, made eye contact, and gave me a glorious smile.

I was about to go over and tell him he was the night's lucky winner when a swirl of bodies came between the two of us. His table was across an edge of the dance floor from where I was sitting, and the singer of the band that was playing had put on a hard sell for dancers to flood the floor. They had done so. And out of that new, distracting wave of dancers, my attention was torn away from the Aussie hunk and found a new, fascinating focus.

There, highlighted by a traveling strobe light that must have been guided by a real fan in the lighting booth, was a sight that took my breath away. The dancer was Sri Lankan. He had a rich chocolate-brown body that was well muscled but that also was as lithe and as flexible as anything I'd seen on a man. He had a healthy head of black hair and a face so chiseled and fine boned that it was hard to think it was natural. But it was his torso that mesmerized. He was undulating in perfect harmony with the music in a slow, sensual motion that stretched and highlighted every muscle. He was wearing an island-style sarong skirt that barely covered his hips, and considering the movement of his body, it was hard to understand how the sarong stayed in place. As beautiful as the movement of his torso to the music was, however, what was primarily arresting was his body tattoo.

He had a gorgeous, almost luminous, rendering of an intricately scaled snake, in reds, greens, and purples, coiled around his midsection and winding up and around his left shoulder. The head of the snake, which, when examined closely, evoked the beauty and features of the dancer himself, dipped down and looked out—straight at me; always focused on me—from his sternum at the center of his torso just below his pecs. And when I was able to pull my gaze from this as the dancer made the snake sway back and forth with the undulating of the music's rhythm, I followed the tail of the snake. It wound back around to the front of the Sri Lankan and came just to below his puckered navel and then disappeared down and beyond the dipping waistline of the sarong, toward the very center of the dancer.

The dancer had seen me. The dancer had chosen me. He moved to directly between me and my line of sight on the Aussie hunk and stood there, dancing only for me. Swaying to the music for me. Undulating his snake tattoo in a mesmerizing movement that held my attention entirely and aroused my already oozing juices. The Sri Lankan was dancing with his hands too, turning them in impossible positions to the rhythm of the music. They were beckoning to me, and the dancer was slowly retreating from me, but drawing me with him.

I had no idea I'd left the bar stool and was following the swaying snake until we were beyond the dance floor and entering one of the more private parts of the garden, still within sight of the swimming pool and well within hearing of the band music and softly lit, but somehow completely cut off from the swirling vortex of cruising men on the dance floor and at the bars. The achingly handsome Sri Lankan was still moving with the music, undulating his muscles and that fascinating snake. I was charmed. He drew me over to a velour-covered padded lounge chair, one of a large set scattered around the pool area, and I sank into that without being fully aware that I no longer was sitting at the bar.

The Sri Lankan swayed in front me to the music, drawing ever closer to me. The snake was holding my attention enthralled. I felt the long slender fingers at my waistband and the button being undone, and I heard the zipper being slowly worked down. And I felt my jeans being pulled off my legs, but I had eyes only for the undulating of the snake tattoo. It seemed alive. Sensual, not the least bit frightening.

The dancer leaned down and his handsome face crowded my vision. He was smiling and telling me how beautiful I was and asking me if he could fuck me. His long slender fingers were stroking my cock. And of course I told him he could fuck me. That's what I'd come here for. Exotic relief. And this was far beyond my wildest dreams.

He gave me a deep, possessing kiss on the lips, and his tongue darted inside my mouth. Here, there, everywhere. Exploring, slithering inside me.

He moved one of my hands to the knot at the waist of his sarong and whispered that I should untie it. All the time, he was swaying to the music, his muscles and that snake undulating in breathtaking motion. My hands were trembling and it took both of them to undo the knot. When I had finally managed to untie it, he stepped away from me as the silk of the sarong slithered down his legs and puddled on the concrete of the pool deck at his feet.

I gasped when I saw him naked. The tail of the snake wound down his groin and onto his penis and encircled it twice before ending just short of the cut glans head and on the top surface of his cock. His cock was long and curved up in tumescence. I had gasped mostly, though, because his bulbous dickhead had been rouged the same color as the snake head on his chest and two tiny green eyes had also been inked in. And, most maddeningly of all, he had a stud in his penis head and attached to that was five or six inches of thin red ribbon, slit most of the way from the tip. The forked tongue of the snake.

"Do you want to make love to it before I fuck you?" he whispered to me in a sing song voice.

Of course I did. He continued to undulate his tattooed torso in front of me to the rhythm of the music as I played his long, rouged cock with my mouth. He was humming to the music in half tones that harmonized with what the band was playing but that made the music into a more mysterious, sensuous sound. And somehow he managed to reach my cock with long sensual fingers and augment my arousal as I made love to the snake between his legs.

I heard rustling in the bushes and looked up to see that the Aussie who had first arrested my attention had followed us. He sat down on stonework surrounding an area of foliage in the shadows not far from us, and I heard the sound of a zipper, and he pulled out a cock even larger than I had hoped he had and fingered it as he intently watched with slitted eyes the Sri Lankan taking me.

Even before the Aussie arrived and settled himself, the Sri Lankan pulled away from me and, moving strong hands behind my knees on both sides, slid my body down the lounge chair so that my butt hung over the side, and spread my legs wide.

A light over the chair in a palm tree played down on us just right to focus down along a torso that was still swaying to the music. My eyes moved down from the undulating snake head on the torso to the approaching snake head at the end of his long, upward curved cock, and the light gave me a full view of him slithering inside me and giving my passage walls the combined thrill of dancing, swaying, a cock stud, and that swirling red-silk ribbon cock tongue.

He was striking inside me. Again and again. Biting every inch of my passage with the stud. Slithering that tongue inside, going ever deeper with each strike. I was lurching and moaning and groaning and begging him to fuck me forever just as he was doing. And the Sri Lankan was still swaying to the music and gliding his sensuous fingers over me and working my cock like the gear shift on a fine sports car.

I was turning my head this way and that way, glorying in the sensual fuck. I saw that the Aussie was highly aroused as well and was running his meaty hands over the deep curves and bulges of his muscles. His thick cock was standing out what seemed a full foot and he had his thumb on the head of it and was moving it in a slow, languid motion.

And now there were others there too. Not much different from one of my rock concerts—except that it was the Sri Lankan playing me to perfection rather than me taking the lead in entertaining the crowd. One of the small islanders had moved to the Aussie and, naked, was sitting, facing me, in the Aussie's lap. The Aussie was moving the smaller, bronzed islander up and down on his cock, controlled by strong hands around the smaller man's waist. The islander's head was lolling around on his shoulders, lost in the skewering by the larger man's prodigious cock. But the Aussie's eyes were on me. He, along with the Sri Lankan, was fucking me with his eyes. And I knew that later, when the Sri Lankan had done with me, I would be down in the shadows on the beach, being fucked by the Aussie in the same long masterful strokes with which he was taking the small islander.

The one light playing down between the torsos of the Sri Lankan and me, both swaying to the music of the fuck and slamming against each other, the snake between his legs slithering out and then slamming back into its hole. Repeatedly. Again and again. In rhythm to the music. The men gathered around were watching and fingering each other. One man was standing behind another, smaller one, and fucking him hard from behind. Lifting him with each thrust. Each thrust of his was timed with an appearance and holing of the snake between the Sri Lankan's legs.

I was getting exactly what I'd come for. I lay back and watched, along with the others, the rhythm of the Sri Lankan's fuck, knowing that I was the one getting the fullest enjoyment of it.

Laying and watching. No sense of time. Never wanting it to stop.