South African Safari Sequel

Chapter 02

A South Beach Dinner and some disclosures

This story is entirely original and fictional. South African Safari was published on Literotica several months ago. The gym/club mentioned in the story is the same as the one described in some detail in Jake and His Wild Irish Rose—my first published story on Literotica. There were requests for more chapters after South Africa. All Characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. No AI was used in the production of this story. © 2024, All rights reserved. Brunosden

[Note: SAS describes Paul's time with a young Kruger ranger and his rebound from a break-up. In Ch 01, Paul met Breck, they hooked and scheduled a second date—within a few days. The beginning of the date (a sexy oily wrestling match is described in Ch 01.) Paul has obviously been burned, but he's ready to try again.]

It turned out that Breck didn't consider our brief attempt at wrestling (and other physical activity) as enough for him. He was obviously a gym devotee—every day, two hours or so. We decided against MiamiBods. Saturday early evenings were crowded—and the mission of most of the clients was a pickup, not a workout. So we went down to my condo's gym which proved adequate. There were several machines, cardio equipment and free weights. And it was totally ours. We were therefore efficient—or at least Breck was. I was totally distracted. His form was perfect. The weights he used were almost the largest on the rack. And soon he was glistening with sweat and pumped to magazine quality.

Nevertheless, he urged me on—more reps, more weight. I would be really sore tomorrow—and not just my butt.

We cooled off in the pool, used the sauna and the luxurious spa-like hot tub and showers. Then it was time to dress for dinner.

We had a 9 p.m. reservation at La Concha d'Oro which was a five block walk from the condo in South Beach, just at the edge of the famous Art Deco district. In fact the restaurant was in a remodeled Spanish Colonial-meets-Miami Art Deco monstrosity, with a large second floor roofed open-air dining terrace. It was a warm, humid night (when is it not in Miami Beach?) and the young crowds were out in force. Within an hour or so, Miami PD would shut down Collins—and perhaps Ocean Drive for a dozen or more blocks each, as the crowds spilled into the streets from the many cafes and bars which all had street-side tables, bars and service. People-watching on SoBe was the number one tourist attraction in South Florida. The clothes, (really costumes—every day was Halloween), were outrageously mod and aggressively sexy; the bodies were sculpted; the hair was remarkably colorful; the atmosphere was of an all-night party-turned-orgy.

The beach patrol would be busy tonight. "Fraternizing" on the beach after dark was strictly prohibited—but the rule was just about universally ignored. Actually, the presence of sand flies was more of a deterrent than the patrol.

We started the walk and the crowds began to thicken. Breck reached over and took my hand in his. "Don't want to lose you, Paul." I was floored. No one had ever taken my hand before! And as we got closer to the restaurant—really in one of the densest parts of the bar scene, he pulled me closer, dropped the hand, and moved to hook into the waistband of my shorts. I had chosen tight white shorts and a long-sleeved Cuban Guayabera shirt—that was nearly shear, although it did have a bit of embroidery on the two strategically placed pockets. He in turn was dressed in a simple white RL polo, but had left the infamous "lobster" jeans at home, substituting pink Bermudas with the red belt--that also instantly identified him as a New Englander. Dark Cuban chico meets blonde Yankee hunk!

I think we must have impressed the greeter. He gave us a thorough "look-over" before deciding to put us at an eye-candy table. (Or maybe Breck slipped him something. Hell, I'd give Breck anything he wanted just for a little attention.) We got an edge table on the terrace which had a bird's eye view of the revelers in the street and even had a glimpse of the distant beach a few blocks away. We tried the signature cocktail, a Golden margarita. But only one. I was definitely a Bombay Sapphire guy—and so apparently was Breck, although he "polluted" his with Fever Tree tonic. "When it's hot, I always use tonic—otherwise I drink too much too quickly," he explained when my eyes shot open as he ordered. "Besides, I've heard malaria is on the rise because of climate change." That remark got all the attention it deserved.

The meal was perfect classic Cuban—with a series of small plates, featuring pork (three ways), deep-fried plantains, and an unusually spiced shrimp ceviche.

We really knew very little about each other. So the conversation flowed easily. Breck was attentive—although it was obvious that there were other patrons who were expressing interest in him and trying to get his attention. He just ignored them. I guess that's what comes from having his looks and his money. He was able to wall off everything except the two of us and what we had to say. Throughout dinner, his hand would frequently rest on my arm, and his knee was teasing my crotch under the long colorful tablecloth. He knew how to sustain interest.

After dinner, we moved down to the dance hall—a garden which had been re-created as an air-conditioned "dessert table and bar." A portion of the roof was glass and would slide back if the evening cooled. The back wall still contained the quietly bubbling waterfall. It poured into a small plunge pool in the center. And of course, one had to assume that it saw use every night, probably in the wee hours of the morning. The dance floor surrounded the pool on three sides. A two sided bar occupied the wall between the front outdoor dining and the dance area and a few dozen booths occupied the side walls. Large tropicals were everywhere in colorful pots—to provide privacy and character. It was a large space—and already 50 or more were present, many dancing. It seemed to be about half hetero couples, half gay. The music was disco, loud (but not so loud as it would be in an hour), and a mix of Latinx soul and salsa, with a touch of a crooning Sinatra-wannabe—and mostly with a heavy beat. I guessed the crooner would give way to heavy metal or rap soon.

Breck turned out to be a good dancer. I was beginning to realize he was probably good at everything. His moves were precise, practiced and sexy. And when he bent forward and his straight blond strands dropped over his eyes and he wagged his cute, muscled butt, I noted more than a few stares. Soon we were both topless and sliding around together, chest to chest. He was mine for the night. He refused several offers to dance by others—and when the music permitted, he held me molded into his body as his hands spread possessively over my ass. So I took a chance and reciprocated—I looped a thumb in his signature red leather and web belt and dropped my fingers inside to feel his tender, hot skin. He bucked into me in acceptance. Our covered cocks clashed. And then he looked down and took my lips in his. My eyes closed and we swayed for a few minutes. This was real rom-com sex appeal.

I whispered that it was time to go. Before someone snapped a cell phone shot that we might come to regret some day. He paid, and we walked slowly back to the condo. As we left, I noted that dancers were slowly losing garments—and I saw two guys who were obviously down to boxer briefs. This was a top spot in SoBe. It could easily be raided for public indecency if the Miami PD was feeling left out of the fun.

Once inside the condo, we stripped each other, showered and fell into bed. We were exhausted. Would you believe, too tired for sex? But, it turned out Breck was a cuddler and we fell asleep in each other's arms after only a few minutes of necking and caressing. Fortunately, it was Saturday—and both of us were free the next day.

We woke late—and again I was spread out over him—lips sucking on his nipple, hand caressing his shaft, thigh pushing up his heavy balls. He pulled me up on top and kissed me hard and long as he hands roamed my butt cheeks. He spread his legs and pulled me deeply into him. We were sweaty and the aroma of musk rose from our loins. Without speaking, we untangled and moved to brush and wash. Then it was back to the king for the next act.

I rolled over onto my belly and waited. Seconds later, I felt the bed sag as he kneeled and pushed my legs apart into a wide vee. He bent in, spread my cheeks, and I felt his tongue on my rim. There was still mint in his mouth, and, when he blew softly after licking, I tingled the coolness and the anticipation. The tongue plunged deeply and my ass rose from the bed to meet its master. Breck slipped a pillow under and continued his explorations. Then, it was the cool lube and strong fingers. He was opening me very nicely. I purred. "Put him in, now."

Then he repositioned, slipped the cockhead past the ring and paused. My pregnant expectation was at its peak. He started to rock and with each push, he deepened the thrust, touching, scraping, squeezing the prostate. I felt his hands slip under and grasp my pecs. Then he sat back on his haunches and pulled me up into his lap, bottoming deeply as he did so. His lips went to my throat, then my ear lobes. His fingers squeezed my nipples, then moved up and grasped my throat, pulling me around so his lips could suck on mine. I caught our reflection in the mirror. My tanned dark skin had deepened in color with the heat, and his lighter Yankee skin was blushing in passion. We looked like one of those touristy erotic bronzes.

I bounced a few times on his cock and felt it swell and heat. God, he was so good for me, to me. He had the most talented dick. And it fit me and my needs perfectly. He stroked a few more times, seeming to reach even greater depths. His hands moved to my crotch. The heel of one hand pressed hard on the taint—pushing my prostate hard into his solid shaft inside closing the transit vesicles for my cum. The fingers of the other ringed my shaft and squeezed, both restraining my release, but insuring a powerful orgasm later. He pumped again. Poked the love nut again and again. I was nearly mad with pleasure. I needed relief. So I squeezed my anal muscles tightly around slipped up and down a few times. I moaned in pleasure. That took him over the top. I felt the blast, the hot wet blast of his creamy spunk deep inside, seeding me and making me his. As he released my shaft and massaged my balls. I exploded and shot, bigger and longer than ever before—actually reaching the headboard with the first shot.

Breck pushed me forward to the mattress and pressed his chest into my back, enveloping me again with arms and legs as I squirmed in my own cum. He moved in and kissed my throat and pulled my lips to his. We slept again—perhaps for an hour or so—and this time I awakened held close into him in a tight embrace. He was still sleeping, but even in sleep he was establishing ownership. And my mind began to wander.

We had had only two dates—although both had turned into overnight fucking marathons. He had fucked me perhaps a half dozen times. But, he already owned me. He was beautiful. And he was absolutely the best lay I've ever been with. And my orgasms were momentous. He wasn't the abusive Billy that had dominated me for several years, but he could be. As of now, he had been perfectly attentive—assuring that I was pleasured as he was. He had asked me whether I would bottom before he agreed to come home with me. He had insisted on paying for dinner--technically, he had invited me. He was the youngest child and therefore accustomed to getting pretty much anything he wanted. (But, I was also an only child with doting parents and grandparents.) He was obviously intelligent—and wealthy—two more dom signs. (I wasn't dumb and we did have a reasonable amount of money.) He was a champion athlete. Well, I was good at handball.

And of course, he is a terrific, apparently compassionate lover. But, two dates do not a lifetime make. And deep down, I knew I'd accept his dominance if that was required to keep him in my bed. He was that good. And I was addicted already. We would need to talk. Probably within a few weeks—assuming our pattern continued. My old neurotic fears were creeping back.

And I also concluded that I needed to go to South Africa. I needed another dose of Ron's psychological conditioning and persona building. And maybe I needed to cool it a little with Breck. But, it was too early to discuss any of this with him. I would plan the trip—and I would remain silent about Billy and Ron for now. And hope that Breck didn't break me before then.

Later in the day we made sandwiches, worked out at the condo again, and in the early evening were relaxing on many banked pillows in front of the TV on the king. I assumed we had one more chance for fun before the week began.

Breck pulled me over into his lap. I assumed he was getting ready for a blow. But first, he pulled me into an embrace and hugged me tightly to his chest with one arm, as the hand of the other began its explorations inside my gym shorts. He stroked and caressed, weighing my balls and bouncing them just a bit. Shit, even his fingers could raise my temperature. Then he spread my legs and continued to the taint and the rim. Soon he had fingers inside and was finger-fucking me. I was his again. He had me again. He knew every switch, every move.

Then suddenly he pushed me into the pile of pillows and moved lower in the bed. I assumed he was positioning for our last missionary of the weekend. But, he bent down and pulled my cock into his mouth. The tongue became active, licking and tickling the back of the shaft until he began to vacuum suck the head. His hands went to my balls and he started the slow caressing which moved the fluid toward the shaft. Using my thighs, with feet flat on the bed, I was rising up to meet him. I was stiff with arousal and boiling with spunk. "You're going to make me cum, Breck. I'm almost there."

"I thought that was the idea of this exercise?"

His hand went to the shaft and started pumping hard. I could feel the pre-cum leaking. I was at the bitter edge. And of course, he sensed it. His index finger penetrated and he stabbed the prostate and flicked it a few times. It was all over. I tapped his temple to warn , but he held me inside as I filled his mouth. He looked up and I saw it dribbling at the corners of his smile.

"Really great stuff. Can't get enough. That was a thank you for a terrific weekend—probably the best I've ever had." Then he reached back down and used his tongue to clean me up. I tried to flip to reciprocate, but he stopped me. "I don't think I've got any more in me. And I do need to leave early. I've got a flight to New York tomorrow morning for meetings with the bankers, and then I'm going to take a few days with my folks—it's their anniversary and the family typically gathers to celebrate. I'll be away for the entire week—unless one of my team makes a critical mistake."

"Are you up for trying this again next weekend? How about if you come up to my condo? My flight gets in at 6—Ft Lauderdale—so I'll order some take-out for Friday. Is 9 too late for you? I've got tickets for a show in Ft. Lauderdale on Saturday. The condo has a gym and a pool of course and it's on the beach. Dress is country club chic for the concert. Plan to stay til' Monday morning if you can. I can drop you at the office and then go on to the hospital."

He grabbed his cell from the end table. It had been conspicuously quiet all weekend. He flipped it on—he had closed it while we were together. "I want a few pictures of this dick—just for me. Don't worry. Just in case I get bored this week."

Within an hour, Breck had showered and left. And the condo and I were both feeling very empty. Lust is a really bad boy. He can make you do anything.

The next week was routine and seemed to last forever. I did two client presentations—and both resulted in small IRA transfers to Goodfield Investment Advisors. But the owners were young, on the make, entrepreneurial, and the portfolios would grow. Dad was excessively embarrassing as, during a staff meeting, he praised two of the analytic tasks I had completed—and investments based on them were already up nearly 10%. I worked out hard at MiamiBods on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday—I had somebody special to work for now. And tellingly, I didn't cruise afterwards.

At one point Dad asked why I seemed to be so cheerful. I had spoken to Breck the night before, and we had face-timed each other into big filthy orgasms. I begged off by explaining that I had booked a two week trip to South Africa in mid-October—before the year-end portfolio repositioning rush. I had heard from the ranger I had met last year, and he had invited me to inspect his newest venture—a game breeding program aimed at safari parks and zoos. I didn't mention that Ron wanted me to review and comment on his business and finance plan. "Is he the guy who helped you get over Billy?"

"Yeah. He is. He's a really nice guy—a native South African, young and intelligent. But, don't worry. We might have some fun. There's no long term for us. He's married already—to his farm in Durban, and I couldn't imagine doing anything other than what I'm doing right now. But it'll be a nice break—it'll be late spring there and cool—and, if I'm lucky, I might even miss a Miami hurricane."

"Let's hope not. We don't need another of those this year. And fly business. We can probably justify it as a potential investment opportunity investigation. We can afford it. This has been a great year. By the way, when you get back, Mom has her eyes on this really nice guy who attends our synagogue. She's going to fix you up." I'm sure my eyes rolled, but I averted my face in time.

I left the office around 8 on Friday (Breck had txted around 7 that his flight was on time and he was en route to the condo), walked to my condo, picked up my travel case and ubered to Bal Harbour. The condo, probably ten or more years old was in the prestigious One Bal Harbour, and it was on the corner of the 19

th

floor with views of the Atlantic, the cut, and the Intracoastal. I had assumed "understated" when Breck had talked about his family background—maybe even New England antique colonial, but this was apparently owned by a semi-black sheep—a great uncle--who had lavished millions on a 6000 square foot, five bedroom "bachelor pad." The furnishings weren't gross—modern, comfortable and colorful—obviously done by a single designer. Large abstract expressionist paintings occupied many of the interior walls—the exterior walls being all glass obviously and all with automatic sun-glare filtering shades. Later, I learned that the owner's suite (which we did not use) was filled with erotic art—the hetero variety, while all of the baths contained very suggestive abstracts. Breck hinted that one of the locked bedrooms held a dungeon, but he had never seen or used it.

The concierge greeted me, and after calling "Mr. Lodge", pointed to an elevator. "I'll key in the security code from here. The elevator opens into the apartment." Nineteen floors later, I stepped off into the ubiquitous white marble foyer just as Breck pulled open the floor to ceiling faux-art-deco glass door. He was dressed only in silky gym shorts, red, apparently his favorite color. He was commando, barefoot and his hair was wet from a recent shower. He actually looked good enough to eat right then and there. He immediately scooped me into his arms as I dropped the case. "God, I've missed you. Has it been only five days? Get that fuckin' suit off. I've got something I want to show you before we eat." His words were rough and contrasted sharply with the romantic picture and smile he had presented when I arrived.