Steve and the Noble Savage

Chapter 1 Steve, a summer bartender, meets a a new friend

This is an original work, Copyright, 2023, and entirely fictional. Any resemblance to living persons or places is coincidental. All characters portrayed in any remotely sexual activity are over 18. If male on male explicit sexual descriptions are not your thing, please feel free to move on. This is the first of a three chapter story, all of which have been written (and will post on approximately consecutive days). Thanks. BD

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I hesitated before deciding to tell this story as I suspect it is fairly typical--the casual summer sexual romance of two twenty-somethings. But, here goes. My name is Steve Holmgren and currently I am working as a summer waiter and occasional bartender at an upscale restaurant in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. I've spent a typical day so far: late morning and early afternoon in the sun among a large number of scantily-suited, body-beautiful college age guys and girls. It's time to clock in at the restaurant for the evening shift which I pulled today.

Rehoboth is a beach town which draws its summer clientele from the Washington and Baltimore metros--and a few from Philadelphia. Historically, it was a place for church bible and revival "camps", but in recent years it has become an upscale weekend and summer hangout for busy urbanites, many associated with the Federal government and those who profit from it. It's a fairly young town, obviously no longer dry, and by no means mono-hetero. Dewey, the town on the beach immediately to the south, has one of the few openly gay (and nearly nude) beaches on the East Coast--at least for a few blocks.

I've just finished my third year at Georgetown where I made the JV rowing and varsity swimming teams. I was originally from Owings Mills, MD and a large family. (I am the youngest of six--yeah, Mom was conservative Roman Catholic, but she would be horrified at what has happened to her church where piety is now defined as ultra-conservative godless politics bordering on theocracy and focused on abortion, contraception, and sexual identity--but that is for another story.) Mom died when I was 14 and Dad sent me--the last still at home--to Phillips. He was a pharma exec and spent long hours in the lab and days away at testing sites and drug conferences. Two years ago, he retired to a planned community near Rehoboth and built a nice home with a large workshop/lab where he continues to tinker, mostly with small medical devices. I spend most nights there although the restaurant association provides inexpensive crash pads in Rehoboth to accommodate the large number of summer employees who can't afford the summer house rents even when they group up. I occasionally use one of those like a motel to avoid the late ten mile drive inland, particularly if I have been drinking and cruising. Most of our family circulates through Dad's house some time during the summer, so the house is almost always full and Dad is pleased to have my room for grandchildren when I stay at the beach.

I'm tall (6-4), blond, with a short crew cut, square jawed, deep blue eyes, full lips. I'm slim with light but defined muscles and since my strokes are butterfly and breast, my pecs, delts and glutes are reasonably developed. There is a clear vee from my shoulders to my narrow waist. Clear skin with a nice deep rosy tan right now. The hair and jaw suggest Marine, but the body tells a different story. I've got big hands and long feet--so it is assumed I have the required equipment in my boxer briefs--which I don't usually wear in the summer. The assumptions are correct. Either from the communal showers or the beach, the regulars know that I'm endowed--cut, long, big-headed and a shower. They originally nicknamed me peach, I thought because of my blond crew cut or my peach fuzz facial hair, but I later learned it was the size and shape of the knob at the tip of my dick. I'm known among my summer friends as gregarious and extroverted, although that is not me--I'm a quiet, nerdy intellect who is generally happy to be alone with a good book. I know that, deep down, I am pretty middle class and conforming--except of course that I am gay.

Summer is a time to decompress from the demanding academic requirements of my combined theoretical physics/theology double major--even with a typical 50 hour per week work schedule--and I'm taking advantage of the anonymity of a summer beach town. I'm getting away with a very different persona during the summer. I'd really like to have a summer romance, but it's already late July and that has not yet materialized.

The Left Bank Rudder (how original!), the bar-restaurant where I work is fairly typical: slightly upscale pseudo-French seafood restaurant at lunch and evenings until about 9:30, when the place shuts down briefly and turns into a club/dance/bar, populated mostly by gays and metro-sexual gay watchers until 2 which is mandatory closing time in this formerly "dry" community! There are three other similar establishments on the same street (two are more hetero) and each offers a couple of days of discrete happy hours, designed to attract the young crowd on outdoor patios--but often nearly deserted as the potential customers are already serving early diners at the restaurants. The real action is late at clubs and it moves along the beach block street on different days.

Given my large family--and the fact that I was shipped off to prep school at 14--I am not a prude. I'm attractive, intelligent, know how to sell the food and booze (and me) and make customers happy. So I typically attract large tips--yeah, both kinds. I hang with a large group of similar guys--and some ladies. Life seems to be an almost constant summer party.

My typical routine includes late morning to the beach--Dewey of course--where Speedos or even a little less are acceptable. (There are large placards in the sand at the northern and southern ends of a roughly three block beach span warning that public nudity violates state and county law and that family-friendly beach attire is required on the other side of the signs. Street side of this beach is mostly parking, so no residents or vacationers are likely to be scandalized. Then a nearly block long "no man's zone" is found to the north and south before families spread their blankets. Dewey's Chamber surely knows who spends, who waits, who tends--in fact who makes this beach what it is--so they tolerate our near nudity, within limits. Some more daring tourists even cruise our beach, treating it like a zoo.)

The beach begins to fill after 10. Many claim to be exercising--walking up and down the beach at the waterline showing off bodies sculpted by hours in the gym. Mostly flirting. My package is well-above average and fills one of my light-colored Speedos nicely--going nearly transparent when I decide to cool off in the Atlantic and advertise. I'm hardly ever alone, but I am a little choosy on who I date. And my tan is coming along very well, thank you. Around three, it's home or the crash pad for a shower and dress for work. My restaurant has a uniform: khaki cargoes shorts (which I wear tight to showcase my offerings) and a navy t-shirt with the restaurant logo, a tricouleur wound tightly around a tiller with a rudder handing below. (Some have described it as a French-wrapped phallus with free hanging balls!) But, no one has to agonize over dressing--which takes about two minutes. Then it's table setting and about five hours of table-waiting--7 days per week. Several times per week, I draw lunch duty and bartending at the later club "re-opening."

Even if you don't use the crash pad (two twins to a room, no choice of roommate usually, communal baths, $20 per night for towels and linens--you make and strip your own bed), all waiters at the sponsoring restaurants are welcome to use the large communal showers and lockers before and/or after work. Definitely a typical "Y/hostel" atmosphere. I always have a gym duffle nearby with the Speedo, toiletries, extra tees and, of course, the accessories for hoped-for sex.

Several nights each week, I cruise a club where the various logo-d tees intermingle with others who have come in for a week or weekend of sun and fun. The regulars can pick out a vacationer within a few minutes, and he is immediately labeled, based on very superficial observations, most importantly the face, the evidence of his equipment and muscle development. Some more attractive guys are immediately surrounded and hit upon. Others need to show talent on the dance floor. And some obviously are totally ignored. Very superficial. Not much bling or leather; no elaborate piercings or large tats--all minimally and colorfully clad, pseudo-clean-cut-college bodies since those are the kids the restaurant proprietors hire for their "family" atmosphere. Sometimes I successfully hook. Sometimes, it's home to Dad's place.

Sounds very vanilla. And it is for the most part. I've been with some of the other gay waiters that I fancy, usually as a top, but occasionally, I have bottomed. Sometimes a customer will hit on me and I have responded, particularly if he's a good tipper and reasonably good looking. I do manage to get off a few times per week. But so far it is pretty mechanical, just one step up from self-stimulation. Few repeats. No sparks. No regrets. No all-nighters. Certainly no take-me-home-to-Mama's.

Then one Friday near the end of July, an older (28?) guy walked into the club--it turns out Fridays are at our club. So I was on home turf. I was bartending that night. It was busy, and it was getting late. The disco was loud, the strobes were dimmed and getting slower. The dance floor was nearly full, hot and erotically charged. Tees and shirts littered the booths which had been left around the perimeter. Sweaty muscled torsos glistened in the disco lights. More than a few couples danced as one with hands inside shorts, both front and back, obviously in advanced foreplay--although the morals police prevented anything further in public. (The bath stalls, on the other hand, are in high demand.)

He approached the bar and called for a very expensive single malt scotch-rocks. This entitled him to a few seconds of conversation even though we were busy. His name was Mark and he had it all. I almost lost my cool when he said he was an associate at one of the big DC law firms. He didn't look like an attorney-grunt. He was dark, maybe mixed race, with wavy black short curls for hair, strong square facial bones, deep brown eyes, thick red lips and a toothy smile that looked like a commercial for ortho. All in all, he gave off a dark and dangerous vibe. He was wearing a white linen long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up over muscular arms, his hairless bis straining the fabric. I couldn't see below the bar, but he was tall--perhaps as tall as I. I learned from a few quick comments, spoken in a deep, jock-melting voice, that he had just arrived for a week at the law firm's summer group house--having driven out from DC in the late Friday summer traffic. He was tired and obviously still wound-tight. He was cruising. Our eyes met and they both simultaneously asked and signaled yes. He smiled, touched and covered my hand which was on the edge of the bar, and the contract was signed.

"What time do you get off?" "The club closes at two. Whether I get off or not, depends on my luck." "I'd like to see whether we both get lucky tonight. I'll stick around until then." "Name is Steve. I'll look forward to it." With this brief exchange, he turned to the floor, leaned back against the bar, and watched the dancing. I caught a few glances at his crotch as he leaned back and stretched his legs. He seemed to have what it takes to keep my interest. Later he ordered another drink for himself, declining several offers to dance or to buy by others. "I'm waiting for someone, thanks." His baritone refusals were like dismissive pronouncements from on high. Later, I was pleased that he left a normal tip on his tab. I was already fearing that he might think he could purchase my services and dominate our coming encounter--although with that body and that voice, I was probably game anyway.

Just after two, as I was leaving (my partner of the night had agreed to close up, acknowledging the trophy I had apparently hooked), Mark was waiting patiently at one of the picnic tables on the rear deck, perhaps dozing just a bit after a long day and a longer drive. His hooded eyes were definitely of the bedroom variety. "Hey Mark. Do you really want to do this tonight? I'm not on tomorrow and I'm usually finished by ten when I just wait tables. We could start earlier." "Let's see where this goes tonight. Where are you staying?" "When I work this late, I typically crash at the waiter's dorm over there," I said, pointing to a large wooden rooming house down the street. "I think our house is better. It's not far and I have a private room--at least for tonight."

So I grabbed my small duffel and we walked the three blocks to a large cottage-style place in the beach block. It must have had at least six bedrooms and a long screened porch across the front. Only two cars were parked. "I would have thought this would be a big weekend." "Unfortunately--or perhaps fortunately--the firm has an important appellate brief due early next week, but it's not my department. Most of my house mates will be in DC for the weekend although we may get a few tomorrow. I've got the week off, so I'm here until next Sunday. I'm to plan and buy for the blowout for next weekend. The place should be packed by Thursday night."

We walked up to the porch. He pointed to a glider. "Have a seat. Can I get you beer?" "Sure. I don't drink when tending." "You don't look old enough to tend or drink." "22, last April." And he left to get the beers. As he fumbled with the keys to the front door, there was enough light for me to detect well-developed thighs and a nice full booty below a vee-d torso tapering to an incredibly narrow waist. This guy was clearly an athlete, and he still spent time at the gym, legal briefs notwithstanding. (I wonder what kind of legal briefs he was wearing. I guess I'll soon find out.)

He came out a few seconds later and sat beside me on the glider, handing me a bottle. "Okay, tell me what I need to know about you." I provided a brief and only a little fictional version of my cv and turned to him, "Your turn."

"Sure. Short and sweet. Half Lakota (Dad) and half Italian (Mom). Yale on football scholarship, majored in Chemistry. I was an end--no jokes please about tight or not. UPenn law school, clerkship, associate in DC for the last two years. Intellectual property litigation. Condo in downtown DC bought with my quarterly Native American gas royalties from the tribe. From St. Paul. Gay, out, and unattached. The rest, I'll have to show you."

"I'm ready for the show and tell."

Mark put his bottle on the wood floor and reached over to pull me into an embrace. We kissed and, as I had anticipated, his tongue invaded--deep, hard and commanding. His hands began exploring beneath my polo. He was quite definitely an alpha. After we came up for air, he reached out again and he pulled me toward his lap.

"I guess you're a top?"

"Definitely, but not unconditionally. Is that okay?"

Before I answered, he rose, easily lifting me, and we moved inside. "I'm really tired. If we're going to do this, it has to be now. Door on left at top of stairs is my room for the week. I didn't even unpack yet. There is a bath inside the room. I'll join you in a second." He turned to lock the door--I guess I was here for the night. I climbed up, entered the room, stripped (I was commando so couldn't pose in briefs or boxers) and went in to use the facilities. When I came back out, he too had stripped. So I guess I'll have to wait to see the legal briefs.

He was spectacular and his smile seemed to suggest he knew it. I like a confident guy. He stood tall with legs far apart and arms crossed over his impressive chest, pushing out his bis. Very defined muscles, extra-lean eight-pack, big brown aureoles, no tan lines, and hanging from the vee was a thick uncut darker semi that might go over 9 or 10 inches, arching over kiwi-sized balls. More than enough for me. And an ass and thighs that proved he didn't miss many leg days. Curiously almost no body hair except well-groomed pubes. "Wow. You're beautiful. My god, Mark, when I said yes to bottoming, I didn't realize that you were packing that howitzer. I need to work--and walk tomorrow. You are definitely the noble savage, but you're going to have to go easy with that weapon." I remarked about the lack of hair, only a thin treasure trail leading to trimmed pubes, and he smiled, "One of the few advantages of native blood. I'm pretty pleased with what I'm seeing too. You're a golden boy and I love the skimpy Speedo tan lines. You're not exactly average. I'm looking forward to sucking on that nice ripe peach. Turn around so I get the full 360." As a swimmer, I was shaved, well-tanned and of course the swimmer's torso, hard bubble butt, and concave gut were on display. He went in to the bath, brushing my dick as he passed, and emerged a few minutes later still glistening with moisture. He threw a fresh towel on the large bed.

"I'm not going to be very good or last very long tonight. I'm tired and I haven't gotten off in a week. That cold water will only last for a little while."

"I'm okay for a quick one. Can we spoon for the night and have some morning fun? I don't report until four tomorrow. I tend to like mornings anyway. I won't judge your performance tonight as long as I get off."

"Oh, you'll get off. I promise."

"Sounds like a plan. But let's see where tonight takes us." He took a few steps, knelt, took my dickhead into his mouth, and wrapped his arms around my ass which he squeezed as he pulled me toward him and then pushed me back toward the edge of the bed. I began to run my fingers through his lush black curls, holding him into my crotch. He stood, dropped back onto the bed and pulled me on top. We kissed again as his fingers found my crevice which he parted like the Red Sea. He reached for lube and I noted the foil packet next to it. That wouldn't be an issue, thankfully. He squirted the lube and began working fingers into my gateway as our rock hard dicks slid together in hot friction between us. Long fingers soon had me open and ready--he was in with three, then four and very deeply.

Neither of us was a virgin, but he was clearly much bigger than average. "Do you want to ride? That's often best for the first time. I'm pretty big." "Don't I know it; what an understatement. You're huge. I'm happy to ride even though I don't have a cowboy bone in my body." "I think this one qualifies," he joked as he gripped and squeezed my dick. I rose, shimmied up to his chest and was surprised when he lifted his head and took my bulb between his lips again. "Ah, my favorite nectar, and your cock head is shaped like a peach," as he sucked out my pre-cum.

Meanwhile, I had grabbed the lube and condom and, reaching behind me, installed both on his massive spear which was totally vertical like a rocket on the launch pad. I shot the lube deep into my anus using the long applicator. Then, using my thighs, I lifted, hearing the pop as my bulb left his lips, slipped back, and placed my opening at the apex of his penis. Slowly, I descended, pushing the hood back from the top. I could definitely feel the stretch and the burn, particularly as the hood bunched at the corona providing a stimulating ridge, even under the condom. It felt like heaven. Then, he hit the love button and I moaned and my dick leaked on his abs. "There it is. Play it again, Mark." He used his fingers to scoop the liquid up and brought it his lips, smiling as he did so.

I continued the descent, now feeling no pain, but lots of pressure and pleasure. I felt the pubes as he bottomed and his grin widened--mission accomplished, firm landing. I started my up and down routine, being sure to maximize prostrate stimulation. I'm told I have talented anal muscles and I used them to massage his cock sucking him in and squeezing him out. I reached behind me and fondled his balls and poked his taint. He was enjoying this and I thought maybe he was going to be one of the guys who pops quickly and then falls asleep immediately. But no, suddenly, his eyes went wide and he used his impressive arm muscles to hold me above him as he began to launch a rapid, deep missile attack on my silo--lifting over and over well off the mattress, stimulating the tunnel and pounding the p-spot with every penetration. I was definitely going to know that I had been fucked by a giant tomorrow morning.