Bad Boy, Good Cop

Standing on the wraparound balcony of the two-story, one-bedroom rental condo in the building at the northern end of the Shelter Cove yacht basin on Hilton Head Island, I scanned the marina below for the baddest yacht in the basin. I was alone. I hadn’t meant to be alone, planning on being here with the ski instructor, Felix, who’d picked me up in Aspen, slapped me around nicely, and fucked me hard. Felix was on his way to Hilton Head to exchange snow skis for water skis and I said I’d follow him there. But my family had found out about that and paid him off. I have no idea where he went from there, but I hadn’t seen him here. I came ahead to South Carolina to spite them, rather than return to Dartmouth where they wanted me to be. You can always find good cock when you are young and look like I do. Yes, I was a bad boy through and through.

The sleekest motor yacht I saw in the marina hands down was a Prestige 750, seventy-five-footer. It looked like it was ready to take wing. I knew the boat brand, as I had recently been in the market myself, my boyfriend at the time selling yachts out of Marblehead, Massachusetts. Seeing me come home with a black eye and bruised ribs at Easter, my family had scotched that relationship as well—I went for well-hung, athletic, and cruel men in their thirties and older, and, as I was barely twenty, my family didn’t have much pull in approval of my tastes beyond controlling the purse strings, which they only did loosely. I was aroused by being taken by force. Their plans were for me to marry a Vassar girl and settle down to the family trade of manipulating stocks and bonds and avoiding taxes. They’d paid off the yacht salesman and paid the penalty of the sale not going through on the small yacht I’d signed for. Thanks to my grandparents, I’d had my own nice stash since I was eighteen.

The name of the winning vessel in Shelter Cover was the Antinous III. According to the sign on its tail, it was homeported in Key West, Florida. Antinous was the god of homosexuality, I knew, whether the owners of the yacht knew that or not, so my eyes kept coming back to the yacht. Key West was a hedonist paradise for gays. I could see the blur of activity in the main salon. I went into the condo and came back with binoculars, which I trained on the yacht. Sure enough, inside the cabin, a naked young man about my age was sitting on a man’s lap, facing him, with his back arched back and his arms hanging loosely to his side like he was semiconscious. The man was gripping the youth’s thin waist and lifting him and slamming him down on his crotch, his cock presumably buried up the young man’s passage. It was safe sex at least, I could see, as split gold-foil condom packets lay on the counter next to where they were fucking. The meant Trojan Magnums. The man in control was hung. From the number of split packets, there was—or had been—a real party going on.

The man taking his pleasure was a muscular Hispanic, wearing a boat captain’s white hat and with a white shirt flared open. I would have looked longer, but there was another man, tall, trim, with wavy gray hair, standing in the well of the stern, scanning the buildings lining Shelter Cove with binoculars just as I was scanning the yachts. The binoculars scanned around to where I was standing on my balcony at the edge of Harbourside I, and our views locked. I put my binoculars down and posed briefly—I was only wearing a Speedo. The gray-hair saluted me, and I picked up the binoculars again to watch and see what he would do.

He was wearing just white shorts, so I could check his physique out. He clearly kept good care of himself, because, although he probably was in his early fifties, he was well muscled without any fat on him, nor did it appear that his skin was wrinkling as usually happened with older men. He was deeply tanned and hirsute, but not overly so, with swirls of salt-and-pepper hair on his pecs and descending to his waistline. He had a medallion on a chain nestled in the curly hair between his pecs.

He aroused me. Older, gray-haired, dirty-minded men with money and a “I can get what I want” attitude were another fetish of mine my family didn’t appreciate. In our world of the wealthy there were so many old men like this—ones who had the money and time to keep their bodies in shape. So many men who had wanted me. So many of them who had had me. I had specialized in lying down and opening my legs for the rich older associates of my father and uncles who, despite age, kept themselves fit.

As I watched, he opened his belt, unzipped himself, flared his shorts and flashed me with a long, thick cock. I could see that he was in an erection that would justify needing a Trojan Magnum XL. I slipped my Speedo off, and, although he couldn’t see my midsection because of where the thick, stucco balcony railing hit, he could see that I had taken the Speedo off because I held it out in my hand. He pulled his belt out of the shorts, folded it over, and snapped it against his leg. The inference was clear, and I went hard and nodded my head.

I remained where I was. Then, nodding toward the boat’s superstructure, he went into the yacht’s salon, pulled the naked young man off the Hispanic guy’s lap, and carried him, with an arm under the young guy’s belly, over to a table surrounded by a booth on three sides. He slapped the young man twice across the face, snapping the youth’s head from one side to the other. Then he laid the youth on the table, belly down, and slipped his shorts off his legs. He was in superb condition for his apparent age. Hard-bodied and sinewy muscled—the thighs of a cyclist. He turned toward my direction again, showing that he was hung and in erection. I’m sure he did that for my benefit.

I benefited. I was hard and leaking. I moved my hand to my cock. He couldn’t see that I was stroking myself, but I’m sure he got the idea.

He was still holding the folded belt in his hand, and, while I watched, he strapped the young man’s bare buttocks again and again with the belt. The youth writhed under him, but he took it. Then the man split a gold-foil condom packet, rolled the Trojan Magnum on his erection, covered the young man from above and behind, mounted him, and fucked him in long, cruel thrusts. As he fucked, he slapped the young man’s flanks with the belt. He looked around to see if I was still there. I was. The belt was raised over his head and brought down with a stinging blow to the young man’s back. Then again and again.

Assuming this was advertising for my benefit, I watched for a while—long enough to see gray hair grab the young man by the throat and arch his chest back at a painful angle. He looped the belt over the youth’s throat and used it like a leash. Gray hair turned to look at me, I think to see if I would shrink from his rough treatment of the youth, who just lay there, taking it, as if he was stoned and zoned out. So, I held there so gray hair would know I wasn’t intimated—or disgusted or uninterested—but not for long, as it was making me feel the loss. I hadn’t planned on being here alone, and I’d planned on spending a large portion of my time upstairs in this very nice condo, either under the ski instructor stud in the Jacuzzi or under him on the bed—and, with luck, feeling the snap of his folded-over belt on my flanks or the belt looped around my neck and used as a leash. After a couple of minutes of watching the gray-hair doggie fuck the young guy, I put the binoculars down on the patio table and went back into the condo.

It wasn’t that it wasn’t thrilling—it was that it wasn’t me being manhandled like that. I had a need.

Dusk was settling in, I was horny, and I was alone. I dressed for cruising and went down into the yacht basin and to Bucci and Murray’s Pub on the harbor. I was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer and feeling sorry for myself when the gray hair from the Antinous III sat on the stool next to me. He was looking good, in expensive clothes, all coordinated in gray and black, complimenting his curly gray hair, which, up close, still had some black in it. Up close he proved to be a very handsome man. He was aging very well. His gray silk shirt was open enough to show the silver medallion on a silver chain. He had diamond rings on his fingers and a big diamond stud earing. He wore a black sports jacket, which seemed unusual as it was quite warm even though the sun had set.

“Hi,” he said. “Do you speak English?”

“Hi yourself,” I answered. “Yes, I speak English, if New England speak counts.”

“I couldn’t tell earlier. You looked European and responded with the freedom of a European,” he said. “That’s a compliment; Americans can be quite up tight,” he added. “And you look very young.”

“I’m twenty,” I answered, putting that concern to rest. “Is the young man on your boat European?” I might as well settle that we both know what we saw.

“German. He’s twenty as well.”

“Is he well? Did he endure it?”

The man shrugged. “He enjoys it, and he is paid well for it. If the man is hard and long inside him, he’s fine with it. There are young men who enjoy being used that way.” He gave me a meaningful look, giving me the opening to say I was such a young man, in which case the proposition couldn’t be far behind. I didn’t respond, though. I just took a drag on my drink and waited to see how he’d continue.

He continued in action, taking a gold-foil Trojan Magnum XL condom packet out of a pocket and pushing the edge of it under napkin my drink glass rested on. He was making more than one declaration. He wanted to fuck me and he was hung.

“Are you waiting for your boyfriend or has he stood you up?” the man asked. I guessed this was his way of cutting corners and establishing I was gay. “Although I can’t imagine anyone standing up a beautiful young man like you,” he continued.

“I think I was waiting for you,” I responded, going with putting this on the fast track myself. I was horny as hell.

“I’m Mario,” he said. Ah, Italian. I should have guessed.

“Ward here,” I answered.

“I don’t like the building architecture here,” he said. “The balcony railings are entirely too thick.”

I laughed, knowing exactly what he was referencing. “Private showings are possible.”

He leaned in to me and murmured in my ear, “I want more than a showing. If you take cock, I want to fuck you. If you don’t, you should be arrested for being a tease. And I was quite aware that you did not shrink from rougher possibilities.”

“You said I was beautiful. Would I be just as beautiful with red welts on my back and buttocks?”

“More beautiful . . . to me,” he answered. “I want to punish and fuck you.”

I didn’t answer that other than to look down at the hand he had on my knee and not shirk from it when he squeezed my knee. He squeezed it hard and I winced.

“Do you like pain?” he whispered. “Does that get you off?”

“Usually,” I answered. “Not pain of itself. Suffering.”

“I’m going to order a beer now. If you agree to lie under me, let me buy you another one.”

I put a hand on his side under his jacket and slid it up, discovering why he was wearing a jacket when my fingers came into contact with a gun holster. “You have a gun,” I whispered, rather idiotically in voicing the obvious. I shivered, fascinated, feeling every inch the bad boy with another bad boy.

“Yes. I’m eight thick inches hard,” he answered, purposely, I’m sure, misunderstanding what I said, and determined to move the negotiations along.

The bartender materialized and gray hair—Mario—ordered a Stella Artois and I a Corona. I made no effort to pay for my beer. After that, with him feeling me up as best he could in a crowded bar, we each had another beer, and I was starting to feel the buzz.

“I’m paying for the beer,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered, the “yes” meaning so much more than the price of a beer. We both understood that.

“The beer is just a start,” he said. “I have something much harder and stronger back on the Antinous III.”

“Yes, eight inches hard, you said.” It was my turn to purposely misinterpret what he’d said.

“Does that scare you?”

“Not as much as the assured approach and the gun do,” I said. “Or this,” I said, pulling the Trojan packet out from under my napkin and playing with it with my fingers. “Do you usually get what you want just by asking for it?”

“Sometimes I just take it,” he answered. He had his hand on my knee and I’m sure he felt me shudder at that. “You showed me what you’d do unless you were teasing me,” he continued. “Does it frighten you that I am so direct and confident—and forceful?”

“And dangerous,” I added. “A bit, yes. I don’t give total control over quickly.”

“I will demand total control and you will give it to me. You will enjoy it, and I will pull multiple heavenly orgasms out of you. Your balls will ache.”

I paused ever so briefly, but then said, “Yes. I have a need. It’s been too long.”

“And you’ll go on board the Antinous III with me? I am master on the Antinous III. If we sail out to international waters, I am God on the Antinous III. You aren’t just playing a game with me. You’re a submissive player. I could take you out to international waters, use you as I want, and throw you overboard.” All statements now. The questioning period over. His grip on my knee was painful.

“Yes, I’ll go aboard the yacht with you. No, I’m not playing a game. I need it bad.”

“You need a fix as well as the fuck?” The fuck was settled now.

“Yes.”

“I assure you that I’m very bad. You’ll let me rough fuck you?”

“Yes. I need it hard. I need it often.” I needed it so bad right now, I was willing to reveal all.

“Good to know. You snort, smoke, or shoot up? I’ll do you any way you like.”

“Snort. A little.”

“And you’ll let Julio and Pepe fuck you too?”

“Who are they?”

“Julio you saw earlier. He captains the boat for me. Pepe is the crew.”

“If they do it well, yes. If they are cruel.”

He gave me a sneery smile. “You like it cruel, don’t you? I thought so.”

“I get off best that way,” I admitted. “It’s just the way I am.”

“You’ve been gangbanged.”

“Now and again.”

“Doubled?”

“Yes.”

“Fisted?”

“I think you ask too many questions,” I responded, giving him a little smile.

He answered with a smile of his own. “When I said I had something stronger on the Antinous III, I meant something more than just recreational—good stuff, high quality. I import it myself. It’s only the best for me and my boys—to put us all in the mood. The aftereffects are slight. The effect on the libido while taking it is amazing.”

“I’m already in the mood,” I said.

“So, you’ll come on board and join me in a snort.” It wasn’t a question. He knew he had me. It was a command.

“Yes. Here, I think you’ll need this,” I said, handing him his Trojan Magnum packet back.

I did have a snort with Mario before he used and fucked me. On board the Antinous III, in the salon, Mario put out a sheet of parchment after we’d had a few shots of very smooth and expensive, I’m sure, whiskey, and laid out five lines of coke. He snorted three lines and I two and then he fucked me. I felt the effect immediate, was hard as a rock and throbbing, and was docile for him, letting him undress me and work me with his hands for as long and as he liked before he fucked me, although as the effect of the drug heightened, the more impatient I became for the shaft. He was hard as a rock too; he could bury it in me at any moment. I certainly wasn’t holding him off—nor did it have to be just once. I had no place I needed to be. He strapped me with his belt too and I was so high I hardly felt it.

He had me on my back, under him, and his bunched fingers were inside me, buried beyond the knuckles. Any moment now he would breach me and have his fist inside. It wasn’t what I wanted, though.

“The cock. Now, now,” I kept begging. “Put it in me now. Screw me.”

He adjusted our positions. It was the same position his captain had taken the young man earlier that day. I was naked and, to this point he still was dressed. After some disrobing and fooling around, with me asking him to leave the gun holster on when he was getting naked and him laughing, but complying, he sat on a padded bench and I sat in his lap, screwing down on his eight hard inches, just as promised, and with him grasping my waist between his two strong, diamond bedazzled hands, I rose and fell on the cock. He had folded over his belt and snapped me on the thighs as we fucked.

After several minutes, he wanted full control, and I did as I saw the young man do with the ship’s captain earlier in the day. I arched my back, let my arms dangled at my sides, turned my face to the ceiling of the salon, and let him raise and lower me on his cock at his own speed.

After all that tease with the Trojan Magnums, he wanted to go more dangerous. He didn’t want to wear protection. I didn’t want that either. I lived dangerously and so, obviously, did him when he wanted to go with maximum arousal. It was part of the being a bad boy thrill.

Before either of us came, he pulled me off him, we each snorted another line, and then he carried me below, where two men, naked, were waiting for us. On the way to Mario’s cabin, with me draped over his shoulder, we passed the open door to another cabin, where the young guy from the afternoon—the German my same age, Mario had said—was nearly zonked out on a berth, and one guy was fucking him doggie while another one was feeding his cock into the youth’s throat.

Both of them were Hispanic and muscular and handsome as the devil. Both were in erection, both proudly so if not the match for Mario. One I’d seen in action before—Julio, the ship’s captain. The other one, younger and shorter, even more muscular, thicker of cock than either Mario or Julio, but not as long as Mario, must have been Pepe, the crew member. They left the other younger guy and followed Mario and me into his cabin.

The bed was rigged up with leads and restraints. I was put on my back on the bed, my wrists restraint above me. I was so buzzed that I just let them move me as they wished. My ankles were put into restraints and then they cranked them up, raised and spread, and Julio came up on the bed, pushed his knees under me and fucked me. Pepe followed. Then Julio was under me, fucking up into me, and Pepe was on top of me, fucking down into me—the two of them inside me together. Mario watched until he was in the mood. Then at his command, the other two shrank away, and he mounted and fucked me again, this time taking it to his ejaculation inside me.

I would have screamed for them, but, noting that we were still in the marina, Mario had Pepe pop a gall gag in my mouth. I still made a bit of noise.

We all had a good time, although I was in a haze, everything happening in slow motion, feeling them inside me and the stretch of them there, but roaming in some other world mentally. Intellectually, I realized it was I who was being fucked and I particularly melted to Mario’s length and expertise, and, on some level, I was enjoying it, but, at the same time, I felt detached from it all.

Then the other guys had a better time. Mario pressed coke-laced plugs up my nose, and I sort of zoned out—but not enough not to know what was happening. Pepe went under me, grabbed my hips in his hands, and worked his Trojan-sheathed cock up into my passage from below. And then Julio came up on the bed on top of me, pushed his also Trojan-capped cock inside me above Pepe’s, and they double fucked me again, more vigorously the second time than the first. I was half looped but not enough not to feel it. I’d never been filled like that before—I’d been doubled before but not by two hung men. They worked me for a while and then Mario, hard again, exchanged places with Julio, bringing a dildo with him, and I was even more filled than before by cock and dildo together.

I was freed of the restraints, Julio and Pepe melted away, and Mario was left to take me in a prolonged, close embracing, heavy humping missionary. I’m not sure, but in my haze, I thought that, when Mario had come the last time, he took his gun out of his holster, buried the barrel up my ass, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the click—once, twice, three times; was this Russian roulette?—almost made me sober.

Sometime before midnight, with lights still on in the buildings surrounding the yacht basin, they dressed me, carried me off the yacht, and sat me down on the bench on the surrounding boardwalk. I sat there, still floating in another world mentally and watching the Antinous III fire up its engines. The yacht backed out of its slip and moved slowly, no wake, toward and out of the mouth of the harbor and into Broad Creek, which ran up the gut of the island and dispensed in Calibogue Sound and then into the Atlantic Ocean.

As I watched the ship depart, even in a drug-induced haze, I felt the loss. Mario had told me that’d take me with them.

As I was coming out of the drug-induced coma, I saw that a hunk of a black man was sitting on a wall not far from me and watching me. He was older than I was, but not by much. And he was gorgeous, all ebony muscle. He was wearing white shorts and a loose white cotton jacket over a red athletic T. He watched me for a while and then stood and came over and stood in front of me, towering over me. He was a good six and a half feet of perfectly proportioned, powerful muscle.

“You OK, guy?” he asked.

“Never better,” I mumbled.

“Care if I sit with you until you’re able to move. You shouldn’t be out here alone, like this. Who knows what might happen to you?”

You have no idea what just happened to me, I thought, but what I said was, “Be my guest.” He sat and I slowly came back into the world. “My, you’re a big one, aren’t you?” I said, all ready to party again.

“You came off the Antinous III,” he said. It was more a statement, like he’d seen me brought off the boat, than a question.

“Yes,” I answered.

“You staying on the boat?”

“Just visiting. I’ve got a condo. Up there. The one in the corner.” I gestured to the Harbourside I building.

He looked up at my rental. “Nice,” he said.

“I think so. A bit lonely just for one, though.”

He leaned into me. “And you’re just one up there?”

“Yes. Are you hitting on me? Are you going to kiss me?” I asked.

“Unless you don’t want me to.”

“Which? Hitting on me or a kiss?”

“Both,” he answered.

I wanted him to kiss me and feel me up as he did so, and he did. I slid a hand up his side under the cotton jacket as we kissed and felt the gun holster. Did they all have guns?

“Are you going to help me home to my condo?” I asked.

“If you want me to.”

“Are you are going to take advantage of me?”

“You’re just begging for it, aren’t you?”

“Are you a bull? So you use Trojan Magnums? The legend is that all black bruisers like you are hung like a bull.”

He did use Trojan Magnum XLs. He fucked me on my bed—repeatedly through the night—and, as best I can remember, he was very, very good, taking his time in preparing me the first time and opening me up with his tongue and fingers. I didn’t need the preparation the next two times. He was a veritable fuck factory, if standard issue. In spite of having been doubled earlier, I needed the extra effort to be open to him. He was a couple of inches longer and was thicker than even Mario—a black bull indeed. He certainly lasted long enough, cradling me in his arms, with my knees hooked on his hips, bottoming and holding while I opened to him and until I begged for it and then thrusting, thrusting, thrusting forever. He had a powerful backswing.

I came twice, exhausted before he finished, edging himself so that, when he was close to coming, he stopped and held me, me trembling and begging him to finish, until he had edged off and then thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. We were both fully naked, except that I asked him to keep the gun holster strapped on, which, laughing, he did.

He was a good boy and wore a Trojan. I said he didn’t have to, but he said he did. I said I didn’t really want him to, but he said he would. And then he wore another Magnum for the second fucking of the night . . . and then a third. By the third time, we were fully in synch, one fully coordinated fucking machine. Exhausted, I fell asleep in his arms. He wasn’t fully flaccid even then. I had no doubt he could have done it again. The boy had been eating his Wheaties.

As I was nodding off, he asked, “Am I as big as Mario and do I do it as well as Mario does?”

“Bigger and better,” I honestly answered, only half thinking well enough then to wonder how he knew Mario’s name—and later not being sure the question had even been asked. That was some pure coke Mario had given me. It left me muddled and hazy, but by the next morning my brain was no longer fried.

The last I heard him say, not being sure, in my haze, that he actually said was, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I just couldn’t help myself.”

* * * *

I woke in the morning crying out “Yes, yes! Fuck me!” as the big, black bull was doing just that, both of us on our sides, him behind me, clutching my hips to him, buried up inside me, and pulling/thrusting, releasing, pulling/thrusting, releasing. Knowing now that I was fully awake, he rolled over on his back, pulling me up with him, still skewered on the thick, hard Trojan-sheathed ten incher. I was on top of him, facing away, leaning over and grasping his ankles. I took over the fuck, rising and falling on the shaft, taking it deep. Moving from side to side and front to back, revolving on the hard shaft, and then up and down, taking it all, using all ten inches of him—trying to rev him up to manhandling me.

“Beat me. Choke me!” I called out, but he didn’t do it. He was being too good. Luckily, his cock was such a monster inside me that I wasn’t deflated that he wouldn’t take me rougher.

Rising and falling. Shooting off between his thighs onto the sheets. Continuing to rise and fall on him until he too shuddered, tensed, jerked, and came. Shuddered, tensed, jerked, and came. Shuddered, tensed, jerked, and came—virile and prodigious, regrettable, to me, giving his seed to the bulb of the condom. Just for a second there, holding me tight, thrusting hard, giving me extra pain-pleasure. Then jerking the Magnum XL off and moving me down to take him in my mouth, cleaning the shaft, tickling the back of my throat with his bulb, the most cruel he was going to get.

He was humming. Me, I wanted something more. He was a black bull. He could have taken more from me. He could have taken me harder. I wanted him to take more. I wanted him to go Nazi on me. He’d have been a glorious take-no-prisoners conqueror. I wanted to feel his repeated flows deep inside me. I wanted his trusts to rock my boat. I wanted him to whip me into submissive, to make me a moaning heap at his feet and then to force me to take the cock both ways. He was being too good.

Over breakfast on the balcony of my condo, overlooking the Shelter Cove yacht basin, Jacko—for that was the name he gave me only this morning as we were showering and shaving together—grilled me on who I was, what I was doing here, and what my relationship to Antinous III and Mario Finelli, which was the name Jacko gave me for gray-hair, was. He even made me show him ID. Hoping that he was going military on me and would fuck me Nazi cruel, I complied. He did a professional job of getting information out of me and seemed satisfied that I could afford this condo and had only a casual, one-night-stand relationship with Mario and his yacht. He took my ID off to the balcony and made a call. He said nothing when he came back.

And, speaking of Mario’s yacht, as we were eating breakfast, the Antinous III was gliding back into the harbor and slipping back into the berth it occupied the previous day.

After breakfast Jacko, saying, “I shouldn’t . . . but . . . ,” fucked me again in a sensual, filling, but not cruel doggie and then sprang up and informed me we were going to go get some exercise—as if fucking didn’t provide exercise. It certainly did the way Jacko did it. When we’d gotten going, he’d held still and had me rocking back and forth, fucking myself on the ten-inch shaft.

We took kayaks out from Shelter Cove into Broad Creek. Then he drove me in a black Mustang convertible to Coligny Beach and he fed me lunch. From there, we went to the landward, quieter side of the island, where he found a tree-enclosed track off Marshland Road to the edge of the marsh and he fed me his cock and we showed that you can fuck in the front seat of a Mustang. It helped that he was ten inches and that I was nimble. Despite the awkwardness of me sitting on it in the front passenger seat, he could keep it in to a mutual ejaculation, while I worked to rise and fall on it and he chewed on my nipples as I leaned back into the dashboard. There was a zipline attraction on this side of the island, and we did that as well.

Then he told me he had to let me off at Shelter Cove and go do some stuff he had to do. Although he had drained me of information on myself and my limited relationship to Mario and his yacht, Jacko had told me virtually nothing about himself other than his preferred brand of rubbers—Trojan Magnum XLs—which we now had used in abundance and I hadn’t wanted to use at all.

“Stay out of trouble, and I strongly suggest you stay away from Mario and his yacht,” was the last thing Jacko told me as he let me off at the King Neptune Plaza in a corner of the Shelter Cove yacht basin.

But I’m a bad boy. I made a beeline for the boat slip where the Antinous III was now resting in.

Mario saw me coming and came out to the stern of the yacht. “You coming back? You want more of the same?” he asked, with a smile.

“Yes,” I said.

He laughed.

As I came aboard, Mario called out to Julio, “Take us out to the broadest part of Broad Creek. I want to hear him scream, but we don’t need others in the harbor to hear it.” He turned to look at me to see if what he’d said scared me shitless. It did, but I didn’t want to let him see me sweat. I did, however, tremble in anticipation as Julio revved up the engines.

Once anchored in the broadest section of Broad Creek, they hung me from the ceiling of Mario’s cabin and took turns flogging me and fucking me, fucking me and flogging me. I was a bad boy. I needed to be punished. I was a needy boy. I needed to be fucked. The three of them did both. I screamed and they all laughed.

They took me down, I did a couple of lines of coke with Mario, and he bound my wrists to the headboard of his bed. He spread and bent my legs, placing my feet flat on the mattress, and placed a couple of pillows under the small of my back, raised and angling my hips. I let him manipulate me as he liked, murmuring, “Yes, yes, take me. Punish me.” My mind couldn’t help going to Jacko doing this to me. I wanted the big black bull to take me this way.

Mario played with a string of tear-dropped anal beads, pressing them inside me and then slowly pulling them out as I groaned and moaned for him. He pressed three fingers into my channel and I cried out, “Yes, fist me!” and fingers entered me up to the knuckles?

“More? You want more?” He was breathing heavily, consumed by lust.

I cried out “Yes, yes. Do it! Take me hard! Be cruel to me.” I dug my heels into the mattress and raised my pelvis to him. His knuckles breached my sphincter muscle this time. Stretching myself out flat on my back, arms flung aside, in total, open surrender, my legs spread and bent, I raised my pelvis to his buried fist and rocked on it, fucking myself on the fist.

He fucked me with his hand as I cried out in pain-passion and arced my cum, more prodigious than I’d ever managed before, down onto my belly. I screamed and screamed, with nobody but those torturing me to hear me. But I was more sexually alive than I ever had been before. I exploded with Mario’s fist inside me and then exploded again. I came and came and came. I orgasmed until I was totally drained and my balls ached. Which, of course, was the whole point of my having put myself in this position. They were enjoying the screams and, perversely, I was enjoying the release they provided.

Then all three of them fucked me again. During this session, they brought the young German from the previous day into the cabin and did a round robin between us, doing him on the floor and me on the bed. His weak cries of “Ja, fickt mich wieder” mixed with my more enthusiastic, “Stick it in me! Do me hard!”

The other young guy looked so coked up that he was perpetually out of it. He just flopped around, docilely letting them do whatever they wanted to. But then, so did I. I kept crying out “Yes, yes” and “More, more,” and the three of them laid it on, eventually no longer capable to more themselves.

The German youth fainted when he was given the fist.

When I hobbled off the Antinous III near dusk after it had returned to its slip, Jacko was sitting on a wall, waiting for me.

As I approached him, I shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a bad boy. And I have needs.”

“Which I have tried to fill,” he said, “when I most certainly should not have done. Shit, I don’t know what it is with me wanting you like a do.”

“You’re too good for me,” I said. “I’m into bad shit.”

“Come upstairs, to your condo, with me. We got some things to deal with.”

I shivered. This was where the big black stud would lay it on me—do me royally; whip me and fuck me hard and nasty. Be bad to the bone with me. Be a Nazi for me. He had the shaft and fists to do some real damage. I wondered if he was packing some strong drugs as well as that gun.

* * * *

“We aren’t up here to fuck?” I asked when we got to the condo and Jacko pulled me out on the balcony and sat me down. He took a hard look out into the yacht basin.

“No, we have to talk,” he said. “I made a mistake laying you in the first place. You were too much temptation. It wasn’t professional.”

“Not professional how? Why do you have that gun? What are you looking at out there? Are you spying on the Antinous III?”

“Yes. Bingo. I’m a cop, Ward. We’re watching that yacht. Mario Finelli is a mobster kingpin. He’s into a lot of bad shit—up and down the East Coast. Drugs and gun running, even sex trafficking. I had to determine whether you were part of this.”

“So, am I part of this?” I asked. I knew I was part of the receiving end of what Mario was into. I could be sent up for snorting the coke, to begin with.

“I’ve done what I can to keep you out of this. He’s going to be raided and arrested tomorrow. Can you just stay away from him now?”

“Are you going to stay with me and make sure I stay away from him? Are you going to take me inside, tie me up, beat me, and fuck the shit out of me?” I asked.

Jacko gave me a hard look. “You don’t want that, and it was a mistake for me to do with you what I did. You’re such a desirable piece, though. Go back to Dartmouth, where your parents want you to finish. Get over this ‘I’m bad’ shit nonsense. Grow up and take care of yourself.”

“Take me inside. I’m bad. Punish me?” I whined.

“That’s enough of this shit,” Jacko said, standing. “Just stay away from Finelli. Don’t be on that boat tomorrow morning. I’ve got to go check in with my people now. Just stay put here.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, deflated that he wouldn’t take me inside and fuck the hell out of me.

After he left, I went to the balcony at the other side of the condo unit, at the entrance to the condos, and looked down into the parking lot below. I waited until Jacko got into the black Mustang and drove off. Then I took the elevator down to the first level and walked out onto the Shelter Cove boardwalk.

Mario came into the stern of the Antinous III as I approached.

“Came back again, did you?” He asked. “Haven’t had enough?”

“You need to leave, Mario,” I said. “A cop”—a good cop, I wanted to say—“pulled me in and told me to stay away from you. That you were really bad news. That they were going to raid you and arrest you tomorrow. You need to leave.”

“They are right. I’m really bad,” he said. He was taking it calmly.

“Yes, I know.”

“And still you came again.”

“I come best with the bad,” I said. “I can’t help it; it’s what I am. It takes the bad to make me come the best.” And it was true. Jacko was good—in so many ways. Really, really good. But I was bad. To be fully satisfied, I had to have it taken from me—I had to suffer.

“You have two choices then,” Mario said.

As night was falling, the Antinous III was gliding out of Shelter Cove harbor, into Broad Creek, en route to who knew where, and I didn’t care. Mario was crouched between my spread and raised legs, holding my ankles up and away from my body, fucking me with his eight incher, while Pepe was binding my wrists to the restraints in the bed’s headboard. They’d pushed the German youth, unconscious or something and naked and bruised, off the bed onto the deck while they were clearing the bed to put me on it. He wasn’t moving. I wasn’t going anywhere now that they didn’t want me to. There was more to come. A gigantic, heavily veined black dildo and a many-thonged hand whip lay on the bed beside me. I was trembling in anticipation. I was already leaking. Mario and Pepe were fully erect.

“Are we going to have ourselves a time when we get out to international waters,” Mario was murmuring. It wasn’t a question.

As the two of them were busy trussing me up, I looked out of the cabin’s window and saw that a dark-blue boat, Jacko standing in the bow, was following the Antinous III out of the cove and into Broad Creek. They weren’t waiting until tomorrow to pull the raid. I guess that’s why Jacko was a good cop.