A Marine, A Judge And An Inspirational Surfer

It's damn cold on the mid-Atlantic since we came home from our December Hawaiian vacation, but we're keeping ourselves warm reliving our fun times there. As always, my journaling pays off. And another of the more memorable times I took the opportunity to write-up and submit. Hope you enjoy half as much as we enjoyed when it happened.

A Marine, A Judge And An Inspirational Surfer

by BillyC 
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We’d driven up to the North Shore in my husband’s parents’ big convertible Bentley to check out the surf meet. The difference between a meet and a competition escaped us. We just knew that they’d been advertising the Billabong Pipe Masters since we’d got there, and the day dawned sunnier than the others we’d had, so when we caught a news snippet that the surfing was on for the day that was all we needed to hear. We fired up the beast and cruised up the windward side of the island from my in-laws’ house, where we were spending the entire month. I know – niiiiiiiiiiiice!

I should also add that we didn’t much care whether it was a meet or a competition. There were going to be a bunch of surfers there, and that provided the draw. Every poster, every ad, every sandwich board walking Kalakaua all had pics of HOT men, sculpted torsos flexed in the sun, surf spraying in the background . . . I almost hadn’t noticed Billabong was the prominently-displayed sponsor and wouldn’t have had Jim not said something about how my butt would look in Billabong board shorts.

The coast of Oahu is breathtaking, and the windward side is a rare treat, as we spend most of our time when we’re there in and around Waikiki and Pearl Harbor. Having lived in an apartment off base in Kaneohe when I served at MCBH – otherwise known simply as Kaneohe – I was probably predisposed to that southeastern area over the more commercialized southern areas of the island, the richer areas. Whatever the reason, after we finished our early morning run, and has some us-time afterward, the ride up the coast in the morning sun with the top down was glorious.

When we got up to the Banzai area, west of Turtle Bay on the northern tip of the island, we found out that the meet was not the actual Pipe Masters, but a lead-up practice day. We were not deterred in our enthusiasm. “We’ll probably find parking easier,” I told Jim, who was driving, thinking of the expensive car and no valet parking in sight.

My husband agreed. “Probably be a lot of cars for the surfers without the press and broadcasters and most of the spectators.” As it turned out, there were a couple of sponsor kiosks, much like gear rental setups by a pool, or lube and condom companies sponsor stations at a circuit party, and there weren’t a tremendous crowd of cars around there. Before I could express my surprise, Jim turned the Bentley off the road, and we were bumping up onto the berm, feet away from the dropoff down to the beach.

“

Jim!” I gasped as we hit ruts and bumps over the grass and sandy area the few feet before he stopped us. I still am not acclimated to the way his parents consider things I could never have imagined having the use of – a jet, expensive cars, huge estates – as if they were tossaway or at least like they weren’t ridiculously expensive . . . like a Bentley. To him, to them, it was just a car, and there were plenty of other cars parked up there, so why not?

“We’re fine here, Billy,” Jim calmed me. “This big daddy would probably do better up here in the sand on the palisades than that little SUV or pickup,” he speculated, waving his hand at a couple of the nearest cars parked around us. “And look,” he added, gesturing forward.

It was, in fact, a perfect view. We were feet from the edge with an obstructed view of the wide expanse of sea in front of us, ten or twenty boards and surfers dotting the high swells and, as we could already see, riding a few mini-pipeline waves breaking. Wow!

Jim had another idea which gave me pause, but I accepted his suggestion that we sit up on the back, our legs hanging into the seat, where we could cast our views through the binoculars and see every heave of each surfer’s chests. The breeze was strong enough to be refreshing but not problematic, and we could look out, right over the top of the windshield.

We spent a couple of hours watching, until late morning when we saw the surfers begin to leave after the high tide was far enough gone to make it not worth their while any longer. We got our trash and recyclables properly disposed of, used the porta-johns they’d set up and headed back to the car to head out. Unfortunately, when we got there, neither of the cars which had parked behind us had left yet, nor were their drivers anywhere to be seen. We both thought the same thing – there were worse places to be stuck than the amazing North Shore coast of Oahu.

We hung out a bit talking to other spectators and people with the competition and some of the surfers. The surprising part were there were easily a third of the surfers our age! The sun was perfect by then, and the breeze was still just enough but not too much, so not blowing the sand all around. And the sun and residual moisture on the surfers’ mostly exposed upper bodies, with our now close-up view, was definitely . . . inspiring.

We went back to the car to wait when people were thinning. About thirty feet from us was an ancient mini-pickup that I noticed shortly after we’d settled back into the amazingly comfortable despite the sun leather seats and put our heads back to enjoy the sun to the fullest. I’d heard someone, and a thirty-something Hispanic-looking surfer loped up energetically with his longboard. His wet suit was down, and his upper body was magnificent on display – broad shoulders, visible parts deeply tanned, exquisitely chiseled, a coating of thick, dark, short fur that withstood the ravages of the sun and salt better than the lighter hair on his head and arms. His wet suit exposed his Adonis belt as well as his thickening treasure trail as it met his pubes. I might have licked my lips . . . or, as Jim later said, smacked them; but I don’t remember that!

Surfer stud neither notices us nor the out-of-place vehicle we were in. He put his board in the back of the pickup, tail of the board up over the cab of the little truck, and tied it down with a bungie which I vaguely remembered wondering if it would be enough to hold the board if he headed into the wind. I was watching – reflexive recon, Jim calls it, and I'll accept that in this case graciously –and as he moved around the truck after the tie-down I enjoyed the sight of his lean musculature in motion. His great shoulders and thickets of dark pit fur in the deep recesses underneath was particularly eye-catching, dick-stracting.

I’m not certain what snapped me out of that reverie, maybe my brain was just finished processing information I’d surveyed because I became aware of and looked back toward the bumper to see one among several bumper stickers (a ton, actually) was one "FAT COCKS ROCK!" in rainbow colors, I might add, that made me laugh out loud as I processed it.

Meanwhile, the surfer stud strips off his wetsuit right there next to the truck, and he's got nothing on beneath it. That seems to be the way, as we’d seen more than a few along the roads around the island, but not right there, on display not far from us, a rather good show indeed. They just seem to not notice or not care that there is traffic whizzing by when they drop trou and towel off and change. This one's toweling his junk as we’re ogling, and he and notices us watching . . . and grins and takes his time, making sure we had a good view whichever front or back he was toweling, both of which he took extra care to towel completely. He finally slips on some boxer briefs or a swim suit that looked like boxer briefs, knocks the sand off his flip flops and, surprising both of us, strides over to our car.

I'll hasten to add that this was just after our pool boy sexploit . . . or incident, depending on how you look at it, probably both ways. So my husband's very low "You wanna do this again?" made me take pause. Did I? Did he? I quickly aborted my ruminations and did my best to adjust my easily-visible hardon in my own board shorts before surfer stud closed the gap and got to the car.

The surfer introduced himself buoyantly as “Rob” and asked if we surfed despite it being obvious we didn't (or weren't there to) because of the obvious absence of boards. He clearly made nothing to talk about into as long a chat as possible – the car, the surfing, surprised that we were visiting because of the car, where we were from, where we were staying . . . He generally hung around as long as he could, well past being obvious, and conversation was faltering.

Finally, I told him his bumper sticker had caught our attention and that his little "show" was icing on the cake, that we’d enjoyed and appreciated it.

Rob smirked and informed us, "You'd be surprised how much cock that bumper sticker gets me." He waited a beat.

I finally say, "Well, Rob, then we don't have to feel so bad not offering ours since you won't go wanting," and I waived my wedding ring. I know I wasn’t imagining that Jim let out a breath across the wide expanse of the car from me when I then declared our non-interest.

He just smiled and said, "I'd have regretted not trying. You guys are a HOT couple." Thankfully he didn’t add . . . of daddies!

Jim leans over and says low enough not to be heard by Rob, against my side of the car, "Had enough daddy play for one week?" and I realized that not only was Jim thinking the same thing, Rob probably did perv on us as daddies. Well, it hadn’t been so bad with Coby the pool boy!

“We’ve had enough. For now," I told him with an appreciative grin, but apparently not quiet enough.

Rob quickly interjected, “That mean I might enjoy you two at another time?”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t mean—“

“What my husband means,” Jim saved me from my stammering, “Is that we RARELY play with others. I mean basically we don’t. Except very rarely.” I wasn’t unhappy to see he was as unnerved by the hot surfer flirting with us – hell, propositioning us! – as I was. “But if we were of such a mind, you’d certainly be a tasty dish for us to . . . consume.”

My husband is the most charismatic man I’ve ever met. It’s natural for him, easy, even when he’s uneasy himself. He’s also sexy as all fuck! Rob was almost swooning, despite being rebuffed, and I hazarded a glance down and noticed his thin, tight swim suit was considerably tighter than it had been, a prominent, obvious bulge clearly showing his interest.

A part of me wanted to keep teasing Rob the hot surfer, whose fresh-ocean-combined-with-sweaty-man scent I could make out as the breeze came from behind him toward us. I wanted to keep him there until we had him good and worked up, see how big a wet spot we could get him to make in those skimpy swim trunks. It was my nature.

Rob saw me, saw where I was looking and leered at me. “Still resolved toward monogamy?” he asked me pointedly, his smirk filthy.

Jim squirmed a bit, and he looked at me questioningly. I just game him a mea culpa look and adjusted myself again. To Rob, “Still resolved, Rob. Sorry, but as hot as you are, I’m sure you have plenty of prospects available.”

“Ahhhh, flattery WOULD get you everywhere, Bill. But I guess you’ll be enjoying each other, and DAMN, I wish I could at least watch!”

“Well, that gives us another thing we’ll miss out on. Good luck with your surfing, Rob,” I told him.

Rob waggled his eyebrows. “I’m not actually part of the competition. I’m just here for the surfers,” he admitted with a smirk. And before either Jim or I could say anything, his eye caught what turned out to be a big blond hunk carrying a board to one of the cars parked to the side of us. “Hey, Chad!” he called to him. “Gotta go, guys,” he threw to us, loping off around the front of our car off just like that, his bulging briefs leading the way.

“Guess Chad is going to get lucky,” Jim cracked, settling back but pulling the rear-view mirror so he could watch to see when one of the cars behind us moved.

“I think I know a certain judge who’s going to get lucky,” I mugged back to him, “Just as soon as you can get us somewhere a bit more,” and with a firm grab of his readied cock, “Private.”

Jim put the seat back into driving position, hit the ignition and got that huge car forward, back and around and through the cars around us and out onto the highway in moments, us bumping about like loose cargo. A little over-enthusiastic, Jim gunned the Bentley’s big engine, and with a loud chirp of our tires which I hadn’t imagined possible from that behemoth we were speeding northeast on 83 up toward the cape.

We were laughing like a couple of schoolboys, dangerously playing grab-ass – but with crotches – as the big convertible roared unsteadily down the highway. When we finally got to the Turtle Bay resort, Jim sharply steered the car into the drive and roared up to the entrance. “What?” I started, but Jim’s grin told me what he had in mind.

I’d stayed at the Turtle Bay Resort almost twenty years before, and my stay had included a particularly memorable sojourn with a hot local serviceman. I wasn’t the least bit sorry for the knowledge that the memory my studly husband and I were about to make would put that time before well into second place in my mental scrapbook for Turtle Bay.

Jim threw the valet a twenty in passing and told him to hold the car in case we came back out, but he’d bounded out of the car and never broke stride until he hit the front desk, not even trying to conceal the obscene protrusion down the leg of his board shorts. His thousand-watt smile won over the young, jockish desk clerk, along with his Black Amex that he plopped down on the check-in counter, and served to have him trying to contain his grins at us as he found their “best available room with a king-sized bed” and checked us in. When he asked how many keys, Jim answered with a conspiratorial grin, “One is fine – we plan to be together the entire time.” I swear the look on the handsome clerk’s face and the noise he made involuntarily, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d cum in his pants just thinking about what we’d be doing.

Key in hand, Jim playfully raised it high and said, “SCORE!” as he turned and grabbed me. He tugged me into some weird victory lope across the lobby to the elevators, and I didn’t bother to point out that with a Black Card, it wasn’t so much of a score for us as for the hotel, who no doubt would not be giving any discounts on the rate.

We did score with an elevator car to ourselves, and Jim wasted no time in launching himself into me, shoving me against the side-wall, devouring my mouth with his and humping into me as he groped me with one hand and swiped at the elevator panel with the other. My husband is a talented man, particularly when he wants cock. He got the right floor and got a tight grip on my swelling cock, all the while humping his own hardon into my thigh. “GOD I FUCKING WANT YOU!” he gasped at one point. I didn’t have time to respond before he had my mouth covered again, my tongue frantically matching his.

I’m not really certain why we spent the money on the hotel suite. As worked up as he was – and that got me revved from zero to redline just as fast – we could have pulled the stop on the elevator and made done with it right then and there. When the electronic bong finally came and the doors opened, it was just in time to stave off two very premature climaxes.

Jim stepped into the doorway to hold the elevator door open and pulled me to him, both of us panting. Wrapping his arms around me tight, and surprising me after the intensity of our clench inside the elevator, he kissed me very deeply and gently. As we kissed, my hands found his perfectly-formed bubble butt and squeezed. Jim moaned long and erotically into my mouth and pushed his butt back harder into my hands. “Yours,” he murmured through shallow breaths.

“Mine,” I murmured back against his lips.

At any given time the force of my husband’s love and lust and admiration and support and constantly expressed gratitude for me in his life awed me. When it was lust, it both awed me and ignited me. Not many men pushing fifty would be lucky enough to have a stud like my stunningly handsome, built, wonderful husband cock-crazed for them. Fortunately, my overactive cock and nuts usually took over at the point where awe paralyzed me and neutralized the two forces, allowing my own lust, need, appreciation, love, gratitude to respond in kind. Finding the opening and going long down the center as it were. The long, lingering kiss, lasting even after the elevator started buzzing, and the door was bucking against Jim’s back in its effort to close, served to tip the scales back, and I had to struggle to keep standing, despite my husband’s tight embrace.

“C’mon, lover,” Jim whispered huskily, having broken the kiss but not separated, his forehead against mine. But he didn’t move.

The buzzing went from intermittent to constant, doors from bucking to a constant pressure to close, bringing Jim into me tighter as he stood as sturdy against them as he could.

We’re both big men. My husband is almost six-seven so about two inches taller than I am, with broader shoulders than mine – like a surfer’s even though I taught him how to surf! – and more mass on his frame than mine. We’re both very lean, very muscular; but if you can call a guy over six-four and a half wiry, that would best describe my frame at two-ten of single-digit bodyfat. Jim’s carries more mass, all in his pecs, ‘ceps, delts, traps, lats, quads and calves, but it’s all muscle. His bodyfat comes in about nine to eleven percent, depending on the test, but you’d never know he’s got proportionately more than me from looking at his ripped, chiseled bod, head to toe. Our waists are the same despite the height difference, an easy thirty-one, closer to thirty but we both like to be comfortable in our slacks and jeans. So if you’re keeping track, factoring his body fat and two-thirty-five weight to mine, he’s got two inches in height on me, fifteen pounds of muscle on me and a half-inch in . . . length. Damn I’ve always loved fucking big men!

As side note, my father and mother are both naturally thin and very tall. My father I remember used to always look like his pants were a little baggy at the waist, though they seemed to fit him otherwise. I thank them for my genetics – for my build and ease of maintenance – often! Jim’s parents aren’t quite as thin as mine, more like muscular natural athletes, but my husband has equal gratitude for his genes, and he’s passed them on to his son . . . all of them. Gay men often aren’t so lucky and STRUGGLE to get to the “acceptable gay norm” which has to be a murderous burden. For me and my husband, whose bodies take little to keep them toned, and whose lives include craving for as much physical activity as we have time for and can fit in the weather of the season, it’s a piece of cake. Although I hasten to note that as I hurtle toward fifty, that piece of cake is getting less and less tasty!

Jim put up good resistance against the persistent elevator door – great core and leg strength – as we savored our moment forehead-to-forehead, but when he reached down and grabbed my cock through my shorts and got a sharp gasp from me as my entire body tensed, he knew it was time to move it to somewhere more suitable. Jim kissed me again, that time quickly, and asked, “When was the last time you had a hot fuck in a hotel, stud?” with a grin on his face.

“In a half-hour or so, I’ll be able to answer that with today’s date. Think you’re up to it, Your Honor?” I taunted him.

In answer – or instead of an answer to my asinine question – he grabbed my cock tighter. “God, Billy, you’re perfect for me.”

In truth, we’d has some awesome sex a month earlier in a swank hotel on the Via Veneto in Rome. So awesome that the occupants of at least one room adjacent to the suite my husband had arranged gave us knowing, filthy looks a couple of times. Maybe they were just looks of regret that they weren’t in there with us!

He tugged me free of the frantic elevator doors, laughing but holding eye contact with me as he moved backward, only throwing his eyes momentarily from side to side to find the room number guide on the wall. When he had, my hand in his –regrettably, but in the favor of good sense and decorum, he’d released his grip on my cock – he backed down the hall holding my gaze, grinning like he’d won the prize.

Needing to speed up our progress to a place where I could do more than WANT what my husband’s intent promised, I pushed him playfully and then dragged him forward with me, speeding up our progress down the hall. I didn’t know the room number, but Jim did, and he was looking ahead far down the hall, checking numbers to the side occasionally.

It seemed like forever, but it really wasn’t until we ran out of hall. A set of solid double doors, one with a plaque that I didn’t have a chance to read because Jim had so quickly swiped the card and swung open, both of us hurrying inside, urgency rekindled. I know my nuts didn’t care what the hell the name of the suite was!

I may have mentioned, my husband is used to his family’s and his own wealth – luxurious things, luxurious accommodations, hell, luxurious underwear! So he didn’t gasp when we walked into an immense living room type space with two walls of windows. The windows overlooked the beautiful west point of Turtle Bay to the north and the expanse of the North Shore to the west and running southwest, both with expansive panoramas of the beautiful tropical Pacific beyond. I did – gasp. When I’d stayed in that same hotel, when MCBH didn’t have any space open in the BOQ, in ’98 my room was about a tenth the size of the living room we were in alone. Looking farther to the left, there were doors open to a vast bedroom, also with a wall of windows continuing from the other side of the wall the bedroom shared with the living room, completing the view southwest down the north shore across and beyond where we’d been at Banzai.

While I stood there gaping out the windows, having gravitated closer to them, Jim had been busy. “Hey!” he called sharply. I turned and found him standing stark naked, his huge hardon waving in front of him, heavy, hairy bull balls dangling tantalizingly underneath, swaying just enough to force me into a struggle to not become mesmerized. “I didn’t pay good money to spring for this room for you to ogle the view!”

Jim’s hands were on his hips, his v-shaped torso well-presented as were his big volleyball-sized shoulder caps. He threw his elbows out farther in a flex pose that made my breath catch. The view of Hawaii and its coast and surrounds would never be less than breathtaking to me; but my husband, naked, was heart-stoppingly magnificent. I let a grin break across my face. “Looks like the view is DAYUM good,” I told him. “What exactly did you have in mind for me again, Mister?” I mugged, doing my best to sound like a naïve young Marine. “I mean, when you picked me up hitchhiking from the base and asked if I wanted to go to the surfing, I didn’t know you’d, er, I’d have to . . . ”

Jim cracked a smile. “I’ve seen what you’re packing under there, boy, and I’ll just bet you know how to use it. So get those duds off, Marine, and I’ll show you exactly what I have in mind . . . and maybe even some things you never even dreamt of doing with a man.”

I mugged a filthy smirk as I pulled off my t-shirt. “Well, mister, you might even learn something from my smokin’ hot dreams,” I continued the banter, but then I had a bit of difficulty getting my board shorts over my raging hardon and got preoccupied with getting the laces undone so I could the Velcro fly ripped open and get the damn things off. When I was facing my husband, similar stance to his, my own horsecock waving, moving my hips just enough to make my own bigger, heavier nuts swing right back at him. I watched his tongue dart from between his lips.

Emboldened again with the success of my disrobing and the abject hunger in my husband’s eyes, I resumed. “I’ll show you some major fun, mister. You have NO idea what we young, horny marines get up to in the barracks. But I guarantee you’re going to want more of it.”

Jim took a loud breath. “God, Billy, if I’d known you when we were young . . . “

“I’m glad we met each other at this point in our lives,” I told him gravely, starting with small, slow steps to advance on him, careful to make my big cock and low hangers swing energetically as I did.

My husband gulped, making his gorgeous Adam’s apple bob in his corded neck and also his hairy, slab pecs bounce just a little. “Going to tell me why?”

My nuts sent a sharp reminder to my head – actually to both heads – of the objective at hand. “Because,” I took my time responding, advancing until I was cockhead-to-cockhead with him. “Because since the day we met, you knew exactly WHAT and exactly HOW to do everything two men can do to pleasure each other. No training curve just action.” MY voice was low, and as I loosed the last syllable I made sure to swing my cock so that my head brushed his. “Of course, in the spirit of fairness, the life you’ve given me wasn’t something I would have been ready for before,” I added, and my nuts severely reproached me for the drop in intensity of the moment.

Both of us were breathing heavily again, holding each other’s gaze. His body shuddered visibly when I knocked his cock with mine. My shudder was internal, as my nuts sent screams of desire through every area of me and caused precum to drip from my cock to the plank floor of the suite.

“Back atcha, babe, but . . . LOVE LATER. SEX NOW!” my oh-so-wise husband growled.

I reached out slowly and put my right hand on Jim’s left shoulder, applying enough pressure to get an immediate leer to emerge. As he dropped to his knees, he said, more to himself than to me, reverently, “So big,” letting his big hand lightly explore the length of me, making my breathing shallower.

“Show me what you can do,” I pleaded more than ordered, even though I knew exactly what my sexy beast of a husband can – and does! – do . . . at any opportunity.

He took my length and girth to my nuts in one gulp – his superpower, or one of them. NOBODY had ever done that for me before him. The only men who could throat me had to struggle to get on me ot to take me in if I forced them, and then they were really no good whatsoever and had to be coaxed to aim shallower, where they could use their mouths and tongues and lips without near-death cock grappling. But not my Jimmy. No, he had the skill and knew how to pace himself . . . and loved bringing me to undone, considered it a privilege. Who was I to argue.

Those were mostly my last coherent thoughts, as my husband worked my cock and nuts, the latter with a firm grip in his strong hands, rolling, pulling, squeezing, massaging, just like his tongue, mouth and throat was working my cock. “FFFFFFFFFFFFuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkkkkkk!” I exclaimed, which I knew Jim knew was a compliment.

Then, as my breathing was taking some concentration to maintain, I shouted, “FUCK, JIM! You need to—“ but it was too late for him to stop and too late for me, because my hands were clamped on his head, I was skull-fucking him like a crazed bull and my nuts were a beat away from explosion.

Jim, amazingly, stepped up his throatwork on my big head, the sound of his slurps and loud inhalations through his nose in my pubes driving me farther toward and over the edge.”OHFUCK OHFUCK,” I gasped, and just then Jim took my nuts in a vise grip and yanked HARD.

How I remained standing as my entire body was wracked with spasms of seismic proportion I don’t remember and can’t imagine, remembering the intensity. My eruptions were nuclear, and Jim gulped and coughed and sputtered and choked but wouldn’t let go as I unloaded down his throat. And unloaded. And kept pumping after my nuts were empty and it was just dry spasms, or at least it felt like it after the initial torrent.

Jim’s GQ-worthy face was beet red and sweaty when he finally withdrew. He was choking and gasping, but his eyes were shining with pride when he rested back on his heels. Looking down at him I noticed also that there were cum splotches on the floor that I knew weren’t mine – he never misses a drop. I turned enough to see the spray of several long shots along the floor behind me from in front of where he’d been kneeling, and I knew he’d cum while he was servicing my cock. HAWT! He’s always hot.

Seeing me take notice, he stuck his chin up defiantly. “Couldn’t help it,” he said simply. “You do that to me.”

My husband is living Viagra. His cock was flagging a bit, but mine was still hard as a lightpost, dribbling dregs of my load – or maybe the next load’s precum . . . or both. “Don’t waste that – we need lube! Because I’m going to show you JUST what I can DO to you!”

Jim’s eyes flashed icy blue, and his face became intense, set. He reached between my legs, swiping my drooling cockhead with his tongue as he did, and he swiped a handful of his own seed from the floor. He stood awkwardly, getting up from on his knees with one palmful of man goo. But once he was standing he turned, planted his big feet wide and bent forward, away from me, and, looking back at me through his legs, lasciviously slimed his fuckhole . . . slowly and thoroughly.

He took his time. He had three fingers almost fully inside himself before I smacked his ass HARD. “Get your ass on the bed – NOW!” I ordered over his yelp.

As he laughed and trotted off into the bedroom, waiving his ready ass at me and throwing me nasty grins over his shoulder, I realized – again – how lucky we were. Two middle-aged men, crazy-stupid in love and, despite our recent playtime with the college jock pool boy, lusting constantly for each other. “Marine!” he barked when he’d got to the bed, and I was still standing there, salivating for him. “This ass isn’t going to fuck itself!” he declared.

He was on the big bed, on all fours, his fuckhole wagging at me, still grinning as nasty as I’d ever seen. I was on the bed, crossed the expanse from the other room in about four leaping strides. My cock was raging as if I hadn’t satisfied it for weeks instead of already three times since we got up that morning. I dove on the bed and scrambled to between his feet on all fours behind him and then grabbed his hips and shoved my face into his crack.

“OH BILLY! Just FUCK me PLEASE FUCK ME! I’m ready, and I WANT IT!” Jim howled. But as my tongue swiped his hairy pucker he yowled a long, “OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH FFFFFFUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKK YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!” and ground himself back into my face.

With a little sweat, my husband’s ass goes from delicious to addictive. With cum, it could challenge the Pope’s celibacy. I inhaled of his cum freshly applied, his clean sweat and a hint of his unique musk, and my balls reminded me that they wouldn’t wait forever.

I slurped and tongue-fucked his hole and rubbed my face in his crack until he’d created a puddle of his own precum and was shouting his pleas for my cock. I was using his nuts for grip, yanking them HARD to keep his hole exactly where my tongue wanted it, slurping and tongue-fucking him so aggressively, I might have sucked all the cumlube out of him had my nuts once again reminded me that it was THEIR turn . . . again.

“FUCK YES!” he cried out when I finally got on my knees behind him and pushed my throbbing, flared cockhead against his spit-soaked cuntring. Despite being horse-fucked thousands of times, his cunt is amazingly tight, both the ring and his chute, and it doesn’t yield without pressure. It’s another of his super powers – muscle control I’d never experienced before him. Fortunately Jimmy and I both love it on the rougher side, and SHOVING my cock into him forcefully elicited a mutual “FFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!” from each of us, followed by a, “FUCK ME ALREADY STUD!” from him. He emphasized the demand by pulling himself almost off me and then SLAMMING back into me HARD, showing me what he loved most.

Despite having been pleasured no more than a few minutes ago, my cock felt like it could go off the moment I was balls-deep in my husband’s white-hot, tight mancunt. No matter what, where, when or how many times, it was always that way. The feeling of driving my fucklog home took my breath away, gave me peace of a profound nature at the core of me, and ignited my need to breed – all at the same time. And when he fucked himself on it that once, it ignited my after burners.

Before I knew it, I was slam-fucking him hard enough that my balls were smacking painfully against Jim’s, and my groin smacking into his hard-muscled ass was loud enough to compete with our growls, moans, grunts and exclamations that echoed in the huge bedroom of that hotel suite.

“OH, GOD, Billy – YES! JUST LIKE THAT!” Jimmy cried out when I adjusted my angle enough to nail his p-spot HARD once and then again, getting another loud shout. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” he shouted even louder. And then, without warning, he tipped his head back and howled toward the ceiling, “FAT COCKS ROCCCCCCKKKKKKK!” he yelled.

He was meeting my thrusts with bone-jarring back-thrusts, and we were rutting like two wild animals, both caught in the moment and the need. But his invocation of our surfer-friend’s bumper sticker caused me to guffaw and nearly lose tempo. Proud of himself for getting a reaction from me, he compensated for my near collapse into laughter and kept us bumping uglies at the frenzied pace.

I wasn’t the only one almost losing it, though, because Jim choked out a laugh despite his perfect fuckwork. I growled and rammed his p-spot HARDER. “Billy, fucking BREED ME!” my husband pleaded. “FILL ME with you!” Well! I thought I HAD filled him with me – over nine and a half amazingly thick inches of me, to be exact, or that’s the way he characterized my fuckmeat. But a career Marine has sense of duty that’s been ingrained to the point of reflex, so . . .

My body suddenly seized in place, tense from hairline to toes, planted as deep as I could be inside my husband, and then the convulsive spasms started, as did my blasts of my essence deep inside him. I felt the torrent again, too caught up in the ecstasy to be proud of myself right then. “GOD YES! I FUCKING FEEL YOU PUMPING ME FULL!” he shouted.

Before I lost my ability to control my body at all, I yanked him up by his short hair so his back was against my chest, and I reached around to get him off with me. I needn’t have bothered, because the moment I had him yanked back against me he started shuddering and crying out and let loose with his own load, spraying a long arc out in front of him, all over the bed, pillows and headboard that any porn star would envy. Easily as much as he’d sprayed the floor with . . . all over again that soon.

I had one arm over his shoulder, my forearm tight against Jim’s sweaty chest, holding him against me. My other arm wrapped around him and grasped his side, steadying me more than him. We both heaved and panted as we rode the wave and crashed through, pumping out our seed. My nuts were screaming with pleasurable pain from over exertion, but I knew they’d pumped my husband full and done me proud . . . again.

Jimmy finally reached up and clasped one hand over my forearm across him, and his other over my other hand down by his groin. Our skin was slick with sweat – his back to my furry chest, and his hands and arms where they gripped mine, and my arms and hand where they gripped him nearly sizzled from the heat at the contact points. He nuzzled his head back and got his temple along my cheek and held there. “We’re so fucking lucky, Billy,” he exclaimed reverently.

In fact, I was the lucky one for him having found me, found me possible and worthy, found the way to make me see that and allow myself to dive into this life with him after decades of self-isolation from anything remotely emotional. As always, to hear him say it – how very lucky WE were and are – melted me and, at the same time, sent a renewed chill of fear through me that he’d wise up and kick me to the curb in favor of someone of his own class and status. “Babe,” he reproached me, feeling exactly what I was thinking, yet another of his super powers. Clutching my arms tighter he rubbed his head against my face again. “This is us – that’s all there is – us. Now and always.”

I took a deep breath to force myself back to the moment and inhaled the intoxicating stench of mansweat and cum overpowering the air freshener the hotel used to make the room smell like what a tourist would think a hotel room in paradise should smell like. But the very male essence pervading my senses sent signals to my nuts and cock – primal, needy despite satisfaction already to the extent few men ever had. My head spun one way, my loins felt like a flash-fire had engulfed them and my senses were overloaded.

“EASY, tiger,” my husband cautioned. He felt my cock respond to that primal jolt. “That super studcock of yours might be ready to go again, but you hit my hole pretty hard, and I could use a little time,” he told me apologetically.

In fact, I probably wasn’t ready to go again, despite the persistent turgid state of my cock and my demanding nuts. Over his grunt of discomfort I began to gently pull free. Then my brain reunited with my nuts, and I told him, “Maybe I should kiss it and make it all better.”

The final exit got me a sharper whine from him, seguing from the growl, which was his response to my suggestion. I helped him gently to lay back even though I wanted to throw him face down and dive in again. I raised one of his legs and went to lay myself between his legs, near his freshly-fucked cunt, and I looked up at him. His eyes narrowed. I grinned at him and pushed his other leg up and brought my face into range.

I inhaled and my head spun a little from the heady scent of our mating. His musk was more pronounced, as was his sweat and, of course, our cum. My cum, its own overpowering scent strong, but his gentler-scented cum, residual from his self-lubing and the dregs running out of his fat, flagging cock was the catalyst to my most basic needs. I leaned in farther and swiped my tongue up my husband’s hairy, sweaty, cummy crack, and he moaned long and loud as I did, throwing his head back. Inhaling deeply again, I took another tongue swipe, this time pressing into Jim’s still-open, battered hole. That got me another long, low moan from him.

I licked, kissed, and basically pigged-out on my own spunk in my husband’s cunt until he was crying out for mercy. When I surfaced he was hard and leaking again, his head thrashing back and forth into the pillows, fists clenched in the bedsheets. I wanted to gobble up his beautiful long cock, but instead I got myself over him and lowered myself, covering his body with mine and pressing my slimy lips over his.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” he moaned, slurping my tongue with his mouth and swirling his tongue in my mouth. “GodDAMN, I taste GOOD!” he exclaimed. “Uh, that’s mostly ME you’re tasting!” I corrected.

“Oh, yeah, the cum tastes good, too,” he teased me. I smacked his nuts and he jumped and yelped. We both cracked, and I fell sideways onto the bed beside him. He pulled me tight against him. “Billy, I’m wrecked. In the most excellent way possible.”

“I thought the term was ‘ruined for all others,’” I replied into the sweaty fur of his pec.

“That too, about four and a half years ago,” he reaffirmed. “What say we make the best of this room?” he suggested.

“I thought—“

“I meant room service. Say a good lunch. I’m starving, despite that big load you fed me a while ago. And as well and fully as you ate me out, I suspect you could use some fuel, too. A shower and then lunch while we enjoy the view from up here? Then we can head home.”

“IF we make it home,” I grinned up at him. “It’s a long way, and we barely made it here from the sufing. Fortunately I know a few spots we can stop on the way down the coast if we can’t make it.”

Jim’s grin widened. “God I love being married to a resourceful Marine. Now come on and let’s order a ton of food, just in case we need the extra fuel. We can get our skanky asses into the shower while we wait. Gotta keep it clean, Marine!” he joked.

I kind of liked smelling like we’d just fucked our brains out, but he was right . . . as always. And we only rarely shared a shower without it leading to another nutting. Yes, he was right. Shower time!

Thanks for reading. Hope you've enjoyed. As always, I enjoy your emails and comments, and I appreciate you reading me. Happy new year.