Steve and the Noble Savage

Steve and Mark have an accident which seals the deal

This is the third and last chapter of this brief story. Copyright, 2023. All characters are over 18; all persons and places are fictional. BD

No one was at the cottage when we arrived. Peter had apparently installed himself and headed out to the beach, promising to return around dinner time, according to a scrawled paste-it note left on the foyer banister. So Mark started up the stairs to his room and I followed, carefully focused on his remarkable ass as he climbed in front of me. He entered the room and I was close enough behind that I reached around and began to unzip him and drop his shorts before he even could react. I was really anxious, cocked and loaded. "Forward, aren't we. I like that about you." We stripped each other and dropped onto the bed to enjoy some full body contact.

Ultimately, I pushed him onto his back and knelt between his spread legs—his mouth-watering cock standing tall. I reached down, pulled the hood back from the deep purplish-red head and began my tongue treatment. Before long he was writhing in pleasure, levitating his hips and using his hands to force me farther down onto him. I looked up at this beautiful man as the dim light filtering through the blinds cast his deeply cut abs and hard square pecs into stark relief. It looked like one of those National Geo pix of the sculpted sands of North Africa, but he was hotter—and certainly more interesting—and definitely tastier.

I pulled back from his cock and the prominent veins on his phallus glistened with my saliva and throbbed in full excitement and erection as the hood drew back just a bit. My tongue moved down the shaft, reached his balls which I pulled in consecutively and sucked. I could taste the heavy musk which easily overpowered the pool chlorine. So I breathed in deeply. I reached to the bedside table for lube and extracted another magnum from the box. He lifted his legs and placed his calves on my shoulders as I jack-knifed him into submission position. Soon I was devouring, then fingering the entrance to his tunnel, reaching in often to stimulate his button of pleasure.

I wasn't the only one in moaning in pleasure. He raised his hips into me as his passion rose and his hole pulsed its invitation. "Please Steve. Put him in. I want to feel that baton inside me now." My taciturn model of coolness was overheating, pounding the bed with his clenched fists, and whispering his need. So of course, I obliged. I knew to take it slow. He was very tight, almost an anal virgin and I knew that although my dick was not overly thick, it was very long and the head was significantly larger than the shaft—baton was a good description. I paused at the entrance, lubed him and me liberally again and began to press. He responded, pushed out and opened, and I popped in. I could see the momentary pain and surprise in his eyes, so I froze. Within a minute or so, I could feel him begin to suck me in, so I pushed again. As the peach-shaped head scraped his prostate, he sucked in his breath drawing in his abs, not in pain, but attempting to forestall his orgasm so I helped by ringing and squeezing the base of his shaft. I waited and watched his deep black eyes looking for permission. Finally, he reached up to my hips and pulled me in. I was now planted deeply into his gut and again I froze. Then I began to feel his anal muscles massaging my stiff cock and I knew that we would soon both reach the point of no return. I wanted this to be as good for him as it obviously was for me. I was right at the edge.

I reached up and began to worry his nipples. "Fuck, that feels so nice. Three points of sensuous contact." "Let's make it four," I said, as I dropped down and took his mouth in mine, pushing even deeper into his sheath, pressing on the prostate. He moaned out approval, pleased to be taken so completely. He was mine; his ass was mine; his lips were mine; and his nips were mine to worry. Ny hunky alpha was enjoying bottoming—our relationship had evolved nicely. I thought for a moment that those seconds when one guy takes total control and possession of another's ass is the ultimate gay power-trip. It doesn't matter if you're a natural top, or even a dom. Any guy can experience this. But when the catcher is powerful and a natural top, the possession is so sweet.

"I can't hold on much longer," I murmured as I began the repeated deep assault on his tunnel. (Curious that we both tune the volume down as we ramp up the physical action in pre-orgasmic pleasure. Neither of us is a screamer.) I could see his abs tightening and I felt his balls drawing up and hardening. He was going to blast and so I let go. I increased the tempo of my thrusts, and the rest was automatic. My hot cum began to spurt into the magnum with enough force that he felt it too—the heat, if not the spurts. Then he too exploded, covering our chests with his milky essence. I collapsed on him and his legs dropped to envelop my hips as he struggled to keep me inside.

Minutes later and with reluctance, I rose. I had to go. I decided not to shower, just a quick wipe down—I wanted to feel and smell him on me for the next several hours. "I hope that keeps you until later. You've sure left me with a souvenir," I said, pointing to the dark hickey he had placed on my pec at the peak of his orgasm. "I'll be at the club toward the end of your shift. See you then."

Sundays at Rehoboth restaurants in July and August are like Fridays and Saturdays—busy and full. Early birds catch dinner before making the traffic-filled long trip home, while others who have just begun their "week at the beach" arrive a bit later. I checked in to a full house, hearing some sighs of relief from my co-waiters, and some snide remarks from others about my obvious state of bed head and sexual satiety. I jumped in, learned the specials and how they were prepared and garnished, picked up a dozen tables and began my pitches. I was back in my element—college-boy vanilla to families, flirty with tables of young ladies—and young gay men, and solicitous and well-bred to the older diners. I was a pro and it showed. For the next two hours, I easily carried more than my weight and contributed heavily to the tip tabs that were shared by all waiters on an hours-worked basis. There was an unspoken understanding that cash tips were held by each specific waiter—and I collected more than a hundred that night—at least some of it stuffed into my tight pockets by gays who had the technique down perfectly.

As the restaurant crowd thinned and we began the club setup, I prepared for my two hour stint as bartender. We started polishing glasses and displaying the bottles on offer, getting the shakers ready for the exotics. My partner, Brad, was a good friend, also from DC and GW. He was very presentable and clean cut—in fact, I had fucked him once. He had a good body, decent sized equipment and a voraciously talented hole, but there was no spark—he was a little too soft, a little too passive, and very loud. He was anxious to talk about Mark, but I decided to play it cool. "Yeah. We got it on. He is hot. He's meeting me here again tonight, but he has a friend coming along. He tells me the friend is gay and I'm guessing he is either a bottom or vers. Are you interested?" "Absolutely, and I do hope he looks a little like Mark." "He's also an attorney and the same age, in the same firm, but that is all I know. I think they plan on coming in for a few drinks before I check out at midnight." "Great. I'm only on to midnight too."

Suddenly, Tim shouted and the room grew unusually quiet. When clearing the linen from one of the booths, Tim found a note carefully propped on the condiments. It was one of those notes made by pasting words from newspapers and it threatened that "the end was near for the Rudder, the fag brothel and gateway to hell." The manager was called over. "Okay, guys. Does anyone remember who was sitting at this table?" "Yeah, it was a family with two pre-teens. They left about a half hour ago." "Probably not them, but let's find the chit." "We need to do a careful search of the entire place before we re-open. I'm calling in the police and asking for K-9 sniffers. And I'm doubling up the security at the entrance for the next few days. Anyone who feels unsafe can check out right now. I won't hold anyone here if you feel unsafe. Club time is probably more dangerous than the regular restaurant hours, but who knows."

Curiously pandemonium and a rush for the exits did not ensue. Someone called for us to turn the place upside down. Someone else shouted that we should not succumb to this kind of threat. Obviously, we didn't open the club at 10. The dogs were still doing their thing. Then there was a call from the booth nearest the restrooms. "We've got something. It's a small shopping bag from the local sex shop. It's filled with white powder, a large black dildo and there seems to be a fuse." "Don't touch it. The bag is slick and it or the contents may have prints." The police cleared the restaurant and the bomb squad approached. Just seconds later, they emerged with the bomb box and moved away from the crowd and the restaurant. Soon it was announced that the bag was full of flour and the fuse was a leftover firecracker—probably a hoax. Poking out the top was a large black dildo with its battery removed. Word traveled fast around the milling crowd outside. There was anger mixed with apprehension. Then the waiters all said almost in unison. "We need to open." So the GM, after another offer that anyone who felt in danger was welcome to leave, relented. We opened to a very thin crowd at around 11, but it was a heavy drinking crowd and very little dancing was happening. The mood was dark, but somewhat defiant. Pairing up was much quicker than normal, and couples started disappearing long before the typical last call exodus. But, nothing else occurred. Probably just the mindless threat of a gutless homophobe. But, the financial threat to the restaurant and club was certainly going to be real.

Mark and Pete arrived around 11:30 and were clueless as to the nearly deserted club and the somber mood. It was a weekend in mid-summer. Where was the action? They approached the bar and I quickly explained the facts as best I knew them. Brad looked on as I did so. He was eying Pete, a six foot lovely specimen of a man, with a model-like chiseled face (the kind they use for men's cologne marketing), perfectly cut blond hair and a nicely muscled torso beneath his Springsteen tee. (I guess I should have assumed that Mark would have good taste in friends.) I introduced Brad, and he and Pete shook hands, Brad perhaps lingering a extra few seconds in the grip. Pete looked into Brad's face, quick to get the invitation, pulled his thumb out of the grip and smiled. Brad looked him straight in the eye and squeezed his palm into a cup drawing the thumb back in, rejecting Pete's desire to top and offering instead to pitch. Pete got the message and his tongue tip emerged to wet his lower lip signaling acceptance. Brad was already glowing over his luck. Mark was the first to speak, "Let's take this party to the cottage. I'm not here on vacation to deal with bigots. I already have enough of that shit in my life." Pete looked at Brad, "Care to join us?" Brad brightened. "Sure, the GM is ready to shut us down anyway."

So a few minutes later, we headed for the cottage. Brad's arm encircled Pete's waist as we walked. Mark's hand was inside my shorts resting firmly on my cheek, his fingers trailing along the cleft, guiding with every step. I guess I was bottoming tonight. All of us were flush when we climbed onto the screened porch—and not because the evening was particularly hot or humid. Mark opened up and he and Pete went in for the drinks, emerging a few seconds later with a tray, glasses, ice and a large bottle of Tito's. "Anyone prefer a cold beer?" No one answered. So for once the bartenders became the customers as Mark and Pete splashed generous amounts of the clear liquid over the ice and added cuts of lemon. We sipped and talked for a few minutes as Brad's hand caressed the back of Pete's neck and finally drew him in for a long soul-searching kiss. Mark looked at me, winked, and whispered, "Let's take this to my room. I'm not into orgies and I can see Brad is on his way to a easy conquest." As we left the porch, Brad was undoing Pete's zipper and pulling him into his lap. I guess Mark's observation was correct.

We went up to Mark's room, carrying our libations and the ice bucket. "We're gonna have a bit of fun with these." Inside we both stripped and Mark pulled me into a straddle, carefully placing his lengthening tool in the crack which stretched open as my legs parted to surround his hips. "I can't get enough of you, Steve," as he pulled me tightly into his chest and began to suck on the side of my neck, slowly moving down to my nipples which he gently bit, probably giving me a matching hickey. As I was running my hands through his silky waves, he reached over, lubed his fingers and began the deep probe for my pleasure spot, finding it almost immediately. I gasped and pushed him back into the chair, reached down and nibbled on his nibs. He pushed back and stood holding me to him with strong hands on my ass.

He turned, placed me on the edge of the bed and expertly wrapped his baby maker. Soon I was in orgasmic heaven as he slowly sunk into my hungry hole. He began the now familiar rocking in and out, stimulating the prostrate with each pass. He was by far the biggest I had ever had in me, but he was considerate and talented. If I'm bottoming, I really appreciate a pro with the right equipment. My own cock lengthened and swelled, the peach head inflating like a balloon, leaking precum. We were both close. He took one massive lunge, bottomed and I was at the edge—when suddenly, he grabbed a handful of ice and pressed them hard against my taint. That halted my orgasmic spasms, although it did cause my autonomic anal muscles to squeeze his invading ram. My dangerous Indian suddenly darkened and he shouted out a few unintelligible words, probably Sioux war cries. Then he exploded. Literally exploded—so hard the condom split—and I felt his warm spunk flooding my gut and his swimmers seeking my upstream passages.

Seconds later, as we cooled—and realized what had happened, Mark pulled out, rose immediately to get a wash cloth, and began the apologies. "Steve, I'm so sorry. Believe me that has never happened before. I didn't do that on purpose. I am clean. I've been tested every month since I began sexual activity in Washington. And I've NEVER had unprotected sex. I've always been the top. You are the first guy that has fucked me—and you got to do it on the first date, so I'm sure you think I must be a slut."

With a mock frown, I stared at him. "Now you've done it. This is my time of the month. I'm surely pregnant. And I'm going to hold you responsible." His face darkened again and then I met his eyes with a broad smile. "And technically, I think you gave it up on the second date. I was sort of hoping that you had given me your cherry. I knew you were very tight and I loved it. And you are definitely not my cum slut."

"This is serious, Steve."

"Yeah, but, it's not the end of the world. I get tested every month as well and I have never had unprotected sex—at least not anal. I'm assuming we are both clean. I guess we are. Let's get tested tomorrow. And then, I'm ready to go exclusive if you are. I don't think they make larger or stronger condoms and you are so gigantic. I can't imagine doubling. And I don't want to stop."

"I'm okay to get tested tomorrow. And although it's been only a few days, I think I am ready to go exclusive with you as well. But, we are going to continue to wrap until we get the test results. Move in with me this week and we'll see what develops. Frankly, I can't wait to plunge my bareback cock into your hot little ass and breed you. You'll be my first.

"I think technically, again, I already am your first. I couldn't ask for more."

"Meanwhile, I didn't get off thanks to your ice bath and the accident. Roll over babe, on your side facing the wall. I'm cuming in." As he did so, we heard Pete's door closing across the hall and within seconds, I recognized the sounds clothes hitting the floor and Brad's loud assault on Pete's ass. Brad was turned on and physical, smacking Pete's soft ass cheeks, moaning and loudly slurping into his work on Pete's hard pecs or maybe his dick—all in all, not a quiet lover. And it turns out Pete was not exactly a quiet bottom—he kept urging Brad to fuck him, to pound his ass, to bite harder, to go faster and deeper, shouting loudly in passionate receptivity, complimenting Brad on his technique and equipment with long strings of four letter words punctuated with the names of every deity known. Brad for his part was calling out his strokes like plays at a sporting event and reveling in conquering a beautiful receptive sub. We were going to have accompaniment, hot and loud, and I was okay with that. It aroused me to steely hardness and unusual girth. I winked at Mark and spooned up against his ass.

I lifted Mark's right thigh, pushed it forward and began working his entrance with my tongue and then lubed fingers as he writhed in pleasure, issuing quiet murmurs of satisfaction. Then, I wrapped and began the sideways passage into his welcoming burrow, pulling him into me as I nuzzled his earlobes. Soon, I had bottomed and we were at fever level and I was sliding in and out like a well-oiled piston,—or maybe that anaconda that was his shape-shifting goal. "I guess we can both shift to anaconda-mode." He chuckled, but was too pre-occupied with his rising passion to appreciate my humor. His dick had recovered and was hard against his abs. So I moved from the hard abs to his hard shaft and began rhythmic strokes, timed to my hip-driven assault on his smooth dimpled ass. I know he could feel I was near— because I began to spasm within him and because the speed of my shaft stroke increased. I grabbed his balls, pushed on the taint, tensed and shot within him as he too exploded again into my cupped fist with that now familiar victory cry. I brought my fist to my lips, and sucked noisily, tasting his delicious essence—which incidentally went quite well with the lingering flavor of the lemon Tito's. His face lit the room as he nestled into me, turned to kiss and closed his eyes, my semi-hard snake still firmly lodged inside. Then we heard the applause from the next room. I guess we are not so quiet as we thought.

Each time is better than the last. Lust can and does move to affection. We're on our way. So I guess I'm going to have my summer romance—as passionate and physical as I could have imagined. He's asked me to move in for the rest of the week. We are going to be tested and go exclusive and bare. And we've got the rest of this week, weekends for the next month, and then we are in DC thereafter. We've still got a lot to learn about each other, but this is one tutorial I'm definitely looking forward to. I think I could love this guy, my noble savage. I know I can't get enough of his dick—and his ass. And if he wants, I'll be his cowboy sidekick, so long as we both get to continue using our guns.

Thanks for reading. BD