From Part 7

"Go ahead, laugh," he told me, getting himself to standing, stretching his back muscles very enjoyably in front of me. I watched my cum run down over the back of his sac and down his thighs as he stretched to each side before he turned toward me. "Pretty proud of yourself, aren't you?" he grinned and smacked my abs with the back of his hand, pulling back hard, mocking pain and shaking his hand.

I did my own stretch for him, arms skyward, side to side, then touched my toes. Coming back to the naked gay sex version of parade rest I finally answered his question. "Proud, certainly. But more humming and buzzing than that."

We faced each other that way for a moment, both grinning. I was certain I was still running out of him, then a rivulet of my cum over his lower leg that came to the front at the top of his calf caught my eye, and I was gazing at it. "Oh, you have that, 'I fucking love watching my cum run out of the bitch I just fucked!' look," broke my gaze.

I looked up at him, and he was grinning wider. "You're partially right," I told him. "You forgot the, 'And I really need to refill that!' part of the look." His eyes narrowed as a shiver passed over him. I took a step and clamped my arm around over his shoulders, catching the crook of his neck, pulling him into me. "Hey, gimme some recharge time here! I'm really NOT that 'fuck machine' you called me."

Johnson turned his head, and being several inches shorter than me, got his nose in my sweaty pit and inhaled deeply, a long, low, "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm," coming out of him. Then he looked up at me sheepishly. "Sorry."

"I'm guessing what you want next is NOT a shower then," I joked. In response, Johnson licked at the hollow below my Adam's apple, the base of my neck, and smacked his lips. "I can enjoy that kind of shower, for sure!" I told him.

"C'mon," he urged, pulling me into the palatial suite.

When the magnitude of it was there, in front of me, I let my arm go off his shoulder and just stood there gaping. He had taken steps ahead, thinking I was following, and turned back. If that had been my apartment, he'd be across the room; here it was proportionately like he was a few steps away. "I've never . . . " I started, but I just stopped, taking in what must have been fifty feet of glass over the beach, a living room and dining area, each bigger than my entire apartment.

When I looked back at him, Johnson was smiling. "Well then," he picked up the gap of conversation. "I'm here the rest of the week, so we'd might as well enjoy it together!" he offered.

Part 8

ONE of the bathroomS inside Johnson's regally-sized and appointed suite at the Moana Surfrider - the one in his expansive bedroom - was just about the size of my entire apartment . . . and was no less magnificent than the rest of the suite. I'd only seen the entry room - another room bigger than my bedroom - before and while we'd fucked, then had gaped in awe as he pulled me into the suite and to his bedroom.

We availed ourselves of a shower that we could have invited a few more guys my size into - or several more his size - for an orgy, and we showered the residual sand and sweat off us, along with the new layer of sweat and cum we'd produced. Man, there was a ton of it, still running out of him as well as on him and me from his rather prodigious output.

As Johnson took an almost reverential approach to lathering and washing every square inch of my body, he spent a disproportionate amount of time lathering and laving my low-slung, spent nuts and my limp, swinging cock. Of course, it wasn't limp or swinging for long, and when he made it clear he wanted me to hoist him up and onto my cock and to ride me with his heels dug into my lower back and his arms clasped around my neck, I didn't pause to point out that I was starved, had just cum twice MORE (after the prior 20 hours or so of welcome-home sex I'd had with local fuckbuds. No, a marine always has enough energy for the next go-round.

Apparently I did, too, because when he shoved himself down onto my raging fuckbone again, my cumload HOT inside him and slicking his fuckchannel, any thoughts of anything other than fucking his brains out was eradicated. Holding his awesome granite globes of buttcheeks, bouncing him up and down on my length, I reveled in those first couple of minutes when his eyes were clenched shut in pain that I knew would soon go from pain/pleasure to pleasure to ecstasy. Johnson was a born bottom and a natural.

The hot water cascaded over us as I fucked up into him HARD and bounced him up and down to meet my thrusts, him helping, leveraging with his heels painfully in my back, and we just savagely pumped until suddenly - just as suddenly as he'd caused before - my balls came up TIGHT into my lower groin, and the burn ignited there, flared and flamed through me and erupted into a zillion sparks, channeled out through my fuckrod now buried DEEP inside him as I pumped more of my DNA into the depths of his cunt.

I was so intent on the buildup and eruption of my own nutblast that I didn't notice he'd gone taut, eyes again clenched until, with a long howl, he began bucking so hard on me as I sprayed his guts with my cum that I was afraid we'd both be a casualty there, in the lavish shower of the Moana Surfrider. His eyes flew open WIDE suddenly as his howl went to a gasp and then grunts as his own cumload fountained up between us, spraying my face as it was driven into the path of the shower sprays. His cuntring and channel were spasming and clenching on my cock, painfully milking me and prolonging my orgasm. I finally couldn't take any more and lifted him completely off my cock, which brought another wide-eyed look of surprise from him, before I set him on his feet, still holding him to ensure he was steady. If he hadn't been, we'd both have been sunk; my legs were about to buckle under me - both from the extremity of the release, from the exertion itself and because my body was in energy deficit and badly needed nourishment.

Johnson was on his knees before I could stop him, sucking me like a maniac. "WHOA! FUUUUUUUCKKK!" I shouted, my cock so sensitive I was about to jump out of my skin . . . thought his mouth was a slice of blowjob heaven, for sure.

He had me by the nuts, so I couldn't pull out, and he just looked up at me and managed a grin around my enormous fuckstick spreading his lips to their max. But mercifully, he lightened his suck-intensity and then, slowly, pulled off me, finally giving my still-engorged purple head a lingering kiss, then a lascivious swipe of his tongue over and through my piss slit. "Careful there, stud. I REALLY have to piss again . . . so unless you're into that . . . " I stopped, glaring down at him.

Johnson obviously wasn't, because he got to his feet. Then, to my surprise, he let his own stream loose, his stubby fat cock causing it to spray out onto my legs and feet. Before I could say WHAT THE FUCK, he was laughing at me. "C'mon, marine; tell me you never piss in the shower." When I started to reply, he interrupted me. "No, if you don't, don't tell me. I've always had this fantasy of being in a military gang shower and all of us fucking around together and just pissing. So don't ruin it for me. And I thought you had to go?"

Before I protested, I started laughing at his image of military life. Forget the enemy and their casual disregard for life, which caused us to be on our guard no matter whether it was a uniformed military man or a mother and child. No, a bunch of marines in a gang shower having an orgy capped with a group piss. OOOOH RAH!

I really did have to piss, and as I laughed I just gave in and let my stream flow. "Ahhhhhhh, there ya go!" he said, with a somewhat lustful appraisal of my - to me - embarrassing action.

When my stream was exhausted, I looked at him very gravely and said, "Lick it clean!"

His look of shock was priceless. Obviously he was NOT my local pizza guy who loved piss more than beer! But before I could tell him I was kidding, he was on his knees and giving my knob the cleaning of its life. He'd shake it, he'd lick it, dig his tongue into my piss slit, suck, then shake. Finally he came up and faced up to me. "How'd I do, sarge?" he asked, making a show of licking and smacking his lips.

If he'd even got a drop of my piss, given the aggressive shower spray, I'd be astounded. But Johnson played it to the hilt. My majority of thought was on whether I should correct him on the "sarge" comment. He could easily tell I was a marine by the EGA tat. The rest could go to vagaries unnecessary to sort right then. "Good man," I told him. And he beamed.

When we got out and were drying each other, he suddenly asked, in a tone far graver than necessary, "Are you thinking of taking off now?"

I looked at him, knowing what he was asking, but not risking the assumption. "If you want me to, I'm good with that."

He looked like he wasn't happy with my answer, and he then took a deep breath and looked away from me. "I, uh, well, I was serious before. If you want to hang, I'm here all week."

"Do you want me to stay?" I was going to make him say it. When he was still looking anywhere but into my eyes, I barked, "JOHNSON!" His eyes snapped up. "It's a simple question: do you want me to stay?"

"Um - well - Bill," he stammered, and then he suddenly blurted, "Of fucking COURSE I want you to stay. I may go home in a wheelchair, but FUCK YES I'd love more of what we've been doing the past hour or two. A LOT more. LOADS more!" he finished, with a grin. Then he looked away again, shyly.

Neatly putting the big bath sheet over top of the swinging shower door and taking my time to do it, leaving the long bar for his. When he had turned toward me again, our eyes meeting again, I told him, "How about we go grab some food and go from there? I'm about to collapse, because all I've had today was coffee . . . and some stray cum that splattered into my mouth. Then we can puck for the rest of the day - what do you say?"

He laughed, and was obviously relieved. "I've got a better idea," he told me.

Johnson went to the sink and pulled a phone receiver I'd seen before - and had wondered about - from the wall by the sink over the vanity. He told the operator to get him to room service, then he told them his suite number and ordered enough food for a company of men . . . and told them he expected it - and needed it - in lightning speed. All the while he was on the phone, he had a kidlike grin on his face as he asked for more and more, anything he could think of. It took them what seemed like several minutes to recap the order, and as he told them that was right he, he shrugged his shoulders like who the fuck knew? The "Oh, and some peanut butter, some grape jelly and a loaf of white bread," made me lose it, trying not to laugh too loud.

After he'd hung up, he pointed to my rather intricate watch. "Got a timer on that thing? Let's see how important I am to them. Or, correction; how important this suite is to them."

I did have a timer and set it. "We'll add about forty seconds to our readings as we progress, since we are starting the clock well after you finished the order," I pronounced.

He laughed. "Precision . . . I love it!" He had no idea . . . but we wouldn't need to go there, to a marine's sense of structure, order, plan, steps, definition and execution! "Hey let's go out on the balcony and enjoy the scenery while we wait for your refueling truck to arrive." I was tempted to take exception to that and prove that I could work him over again without refueling . . . but I restrained my typical marine aggressiveness, particularly since I was the one who asked for food.

It was magnificent. Both the balcony, with eight lounges of the non-mobile, furniture type, complete with sumptuous cushions far beyond the comprehension of a marine, various chairs and tables, but also the magnificent Waikiki and Diamond Head vista. I sometimes, in a typically non-marine depth of contemplation, was awe-struck by the love I have for our country and the juxtaposition of my upbringing in a "heartland" and my new association and deep affinity for these islands, which we'd appropriated with not-insignificant amount of duplicity less than one hundred years before. I loved it here as a part of MY country; not as an owned, but disparate, state that was late to the party, but as exemplifying part of what I love about my country, despite the anachronism.

I noticed that Johnson was standing next to me with his arm around my shoulders, our bodies touching. I was so carried away in my recovery from the mission, dosing myself with my adoring views and inhalations and listening to this place, that I hadn't even noticed the familiarity and intimacy of our positioning.

He was apparently as attuned to me as I was to the island, as he noticed my reaction. "You mind this?"

I thought for a minute. Did I? I almost never engaged in that kind of physical familiarity or intimacy. I FUCKED. I got sucked. I sucked. But I didn't cuddle, even this cuddle-light version. But on the other hand, a marine returning from a tough mission can be a bit off himself, and I was, because I thoroughly enjoyed standing up there, looking out like kings from a palace, feeling him next to me. "I like it," I finally said.

Room service took twenty-one minutes, by my calculation, having added the forty seconds to my watch's timer. How they did all that - it was an obscene amount of food! - and got it up to the top floor in that time, I have no idea. Johnson's comment: "Thought they'd move it. This suite carries weight."

When we were finished devouring almost all of the food, I was afraid if I looked in the mirror I'd have a pot belly. Johnson surprised me by matching me biteful for bite, and he didn't look any the worse for it when he stood and stretched and proclaimed, "OINK!" with a laugh.

"Yeah, you can say that again!" I agreed.

"Hey I know you've fueled up and are probably ready for me to rip those board shorts off you again and ride the stallion-dick you've got there, but would you . . . No, never mind. I want that cock!" he told me, looking determined but not lustful.

"What were you going to ask? And by the way - you like being called "Johnson" or . . . ?"

He laughed. "Stud, you can call me "Shirley" for all I care! But since you asked, Greg works."

"Cool, Greg."

Before I could go on, he jumped in. "My name sounds good coming from you, Bill."

O . . . K . . . this was getting a little mushy all of a sudden. "What were you going to ask before, Greg?"

"Oh, well, I was going to ask if you wanted to do something outside for a bit, maybe. But then I realized I don't know how long I'll have you, and you're here to fuck me, not to keep me company, so I should get back to business."

He said it simply, without any noticeable sign of embarrassment. Other than the moment I realized he had his arm around me on the balcony and then with liking me saying his name I hadn't had any desire to leave anytime soon. That in itself surprised me, as did the ease with which I surprised the flight response. "I have nowhere I have to be. I'm on leave, and I'm enjoying being here. What were you thinking we could do?" He flashed a very evil grin at that. "Uh, let me rephrase that. Other than what we both know we'll do again, what was it you thought you might want to do outside for a while? Go back to the beach?"

"Oh, fuck no! Too many other smokin' hot guys to turn your head down there!" he laughed. When I didn't react, other than a smile, he went on. "No, seriously, I was thinking of taking a bike ride or something. Your calves and quads make me think you might like to cycle."

I was impressed with the deduction and the coincidence of its accuracy. "It happens I biked here, to the hotel, from where I parked in the free public lot down by the zoo. You have a bike?"

Greg grinned widely, a bit conspiratorially. "Watch this." He grabbed the phone, asked for the concierge and told him he'd like a bike, asked if they could have one for him in five minutes. It took no more than an instant before he thanked the concierge and hung up, grinning. "I'm telling ya, bud; this suite, I could ask for a dancing bear, and they'd come up with one."

My turn to be playful. "You're into bears?"

Greg laughed heartily. "Right now I'm into TALL, athletic, BUILT mildly-hairy, marine top studs!"

"And bicycling," I added, grinning.

"You have bike shorts?" he asked, going into the bedroom to his dresser, which I could see from the living room where I was.

"Oh, you're seriously into cycling, aren't you? Or are you just checking to make sure you don't have some before you call down to have those brought up?"

"Dude, I LOVE biking. I have so many trips where my bike shorts come home with me clean because I couldn't use them. This will be AWESOME." The last part he beamed, coming back to the living room and chucking me a pair of bright blue bike shorts with yellow stripes. "See if you can wriggle into those. My ass is already destroyed from a rampant horsecocking earlier, so it doesn't matter much for me, but you tops have such delicate butts, I know!" he teased.

"I don't have anything to go under these, just saying. We just showered and all, but as long as you don't think that's weird."

His eyes were suddenly lustful and hooded. "DUDE! When you're done with them, those might be my prized possession!"

He had a pair of far less flashy black bike shorts, which I'd honestly have preferred, but I just got out of my board shorts - again - and squeezed into the lycra shorts. They were the right size, but my thighs were pretty thick. And then there was my cock and balls . . . which were displayed obscenely in these shorts. When I looked at him, he was equally exposed. He was also stalled in full ogle mode.

Greg finally noticed me noticing him ogling my package in the bike shorts. "Fuuuuuuck! Sorry, but godDAMN you're fucking HOT, Bill."

I actually felt a blush . . . and I actually didn't mind it. "Come on, ya horndog, let's go peddle your ass!"

His breath caught. "Fuck that would be even hotter. If you wanted to, that is."

It took me a minute, but then I got his meaning. "So I'm not enough for you?"

He blushed. "Oh, trust me you're MORE than enough! I was just letting my inner pig out there for a minute."

I stepped in and grabbed his ass, eye-to-eye. "Be VERY careful what you wish for." Holding his gaze until he cleared his throat and coughed a little, I gave his ass another squeeze through the padded shorts, then gave him a hard, loud smack on his thigh, where the padding wasn't. "Come on, you horny bitch."

As we walked to the elevator he said, very low but also very seriously, "You can call me 'bitch' as much as you want, stud."

I chuckled and warned him, "Be careful what you wish for!"

We rode down the beach, along Kalakaua, and then threw both bikes in my truck and drove up to the North Shore. When we'd got to my truck, all washed shiny clean by some marines courtesy of my CO - I'd have to find and thank them - Greg whistled, "Nice ride!" and then later, when we'd left the parking lot I caught him just looking at me driving. "Oh, sorry. It's just that this is a little like a teenage fantasy - a big, manly, horse-cocked, rough-fucking stud, a big, manly truck . . . "

He trailed off, and when I glanced back, he was rubbing the growing bulge in his bike shorts, still raking me up and down with his leer. I grinned at him, then turned my attention back to my driving. "You keep working that thing, you won't be able to ride that bike when we get there . . . or your shorts will be slimy!"

"OR," he began suggestively, "You could find a lush, secluded place, bend me over the open tailgate of this manly machine and fuck me so hard I will have to ride standing up." I wanted to laugh, but my cock thought his idea was a good one. "Looks like OTHER marine there is ready to take on that mission," he observed, and as if to confirm, leaned across and took a firm grip of my half-hardon.

"Six miles," was all I said, more a whine, though I'd attempted a growl, and I added five mph to my speed.

The rest of the ten minutes in the cab of the truck went by without words and without touching each other or ourselves. Even so, when I pulled off near the beach into a wild area that was clear of any cars and sufficiently far from the road to be out of sight, we were both hard as lead pipes in our bike shorts.

Without words, we both got out, went to the back of the truck and I popped down the tail gate. I turned to him, saying nothing.

Greg looked transfixed, his breath shallow, expectant. "Fuck, this is fucking HOT!" With that I reached over, grabbed him roughly, and in one motion pulled him over, shoved him down bent over the tailgate and ripped his bike shorts to his knees, exposing his very fuckable ass . . . again. "OH FUCK YES!" he cried, planting his hands on the tailgate, gripping it, planting his feet wide and shoving his ass back more, moving it in a way we might today call a mild twerk.

I hocked up as much thick, mucous spit as I could and smeared it roughly on and into his fuckpucker, thinking it was too bad we'd showered as thoroughly as we had, cleaning my last load(s) out of him. As I roughly invaded and rubbed around his cuntchute, Greg gasped and moaned but didn't pull away. I knew I'd rip him apart with just that spit and snot for lube. "Wait a sec," I told him, yanking my fingers out of him, eliciting a short cry of pain, and jogging to the cab.

The only thing I had that could be remotely lube-like was my tiny plastic jar-like thing of lip balm . . . but it was slick and there, in the truck. As I jogged back I got it open and coated my cock with it, feeling the coolness of the breeze on me, awkwardly struggling against the bike shorts pulled down below my swinging balls.

"C'mon, marine, you know I can take it. FUCK ME!" he goaded, planting himself again, full of intent. "Make me your bitch boy!"

I lined up behind him, having chucked the lip balm into the bed of the truck, and I SHOVED. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA FUCK!" he shouted . . . but he pushed back into me at the same time, and he gasped out between breaths, "YEAH, fucker, fucking USE me! FUCK! What the fuck did you lube your cock with?"

My balls had taken control from the moment he'd suggested we fuck instead of - or at least before - we rode, and my hips were thrusting into him ROUGH and FAST, just FUCKING HIM, as he'd asked. "Yeah, bitch, you couldn't wait for this big cock, could you? You're just a bitch for MANcock, aren't you?" ignoring the question about the lube, now feeling it wasn't the breeze, it's the lip balm having a cooling burn effect on my cock that must be painful for his already-savaged cunt.

"Oh . . . fuck yes . . . fuck me!" he panted, matching my savage thrusts with his own back-pushes, causing my pubic bone to jolt with every collision into his tailbone.

"SAY IT!" I ordered. "TELL ME!"

I wrapped my hands over his shoulders for leverage and increased the savagery of my slams to where my shoulder sockets strained every time I SLAMMED into him. My big, swinging nuts were agonized from slamming into his and then back against my own ass when I withdrew before the next assault.

Greg struggled to both continue fucking back into my savage drilling and to maintain his footing, gasping and crying out frequently when I'd nail his prostate so hard I wondered if it was possible to rip it apart inside him, SHOVING past and then raking it roughly with my angry, flared cockhelmut on the out-pull again. "I - NEEEEEEEEEED - it," he gasped. "I - am - your - bbbbbbittch - your ------- cock - slave!" he choked out as he could. Then, as I SMACKED his ass HARD, "OHFUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK!"

When I smacked his buttbubble his cunt, already STRETCHED to straining, involuntarily contracted around my cock, almost choking me to the point of pain . . . and heightened pleasure. So I did it again . . . and then again and again.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHH GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDD YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" he shouted, over and over, and I felt him fighting his climax, wanting it but also wanting to keep working my cock and fucking into me fucking him. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHIIIITTTTTTTTTTT OH GODDDDD YESSSSSS THERRRRRRRRRRRRE!" he almost screamed, as his body went rigid for a moment, his cuntclench excruciating around my fuckrod, which didn't care if his clench ripped the skin off, it was going to keep punching that cuntchute hard and fast and deep. And then he was crying out a long wail of ecstasy, as his body began to thrash violently.

I love fucking my bitches' loads out of them, particularly a stallion like Greg, out there in the sun and ocean breeze, our cries of pleasure carried across the pineapple fields. But even more so, a bitch who, while he's still cumming, still blasting his seed onto the ground as I continue to invade and fill him, as his cuntmuscles are spasming and massaging, demands my own load. Greg loosed his grip on the tailgate with one hand and reached back and got hold of one of my nuts and then worked that into a grip on both and pulled fiercely. "GIVE - ME - YOURS!" he growled.

When Greg gave my nuts a painful YANK, I was gone. It was like pulling the ring on a grenade with no handle, no timer. My climax exploded inside me and through me instantaneously, and my nuts began expelling my seed as savagely as I'd fucked him, as the ricochets of excruciatingly ecstatic sensation flowed from my core through my hair follicles.

"AAAHHHHH FUCK! YEAH GIVE IT TO ME!" he hissed and then shouted, when my first nutblast splattered his fuckchute DEEP inside him. As I pumped more, he yowled, "FUCK THAT FUCKING STINGS!"

I emptied myself into him . . . again. It felt like I'd shot more and shot harder than before, amazingly. I was moving from the dissociated bliss of ejaculation back into the now, aware that his grip on my nuts hadn't flagged, and the tantalizing pain from before was beginning to just be painful. I stood up straighter, serving to move my middle into him more, and I reached down and gently disengaged his hand. "I'd like to reuse those," I panted out, laughing.

Greg replaced his displaced hand with a grip backward on my ass and stood up and back against me, holding us together. I swung my arm that had been holding his shoulder still over, flattening my hand against his sweaty cobblestone abs, feeling us pant against each other, his sweat-slick back against my sweat-soaked chest fur and heaving muscles of my torso.

It was a little more intimacy than I was used to, but I held our position, there in the ocean breeze cooling our bodies, still joined together with my flagging fuckrod inside him. I didn't even pull back when he moved his head back and nuzzled the side of my face and murmured, "THAT was fucking AWESOME!" as he twisted his neck and kissed mine. Not only didn't I mind the intimacy, I found I didn't have to work too hard to tolerate the escalation, his kiss.

When he finally moved to pull away some, he apologized. "I really have to take a leak." I did, too, actually. His voice caught with a wince when my big cockhead re-spread his cuntring and plopped out. "DAMN!" he exclaimed.

I said, "Sorry," and rubbed the back of his head and neck.

"OH NO, don't you 'SORRY' me for fucking me better than I can remember getting fucked!" he admonished me, starting to hobble away to piss, his bike shorts impeding his thighs' movement.

Mine weren't so bad, the waist of my shorts under my balls, and I steadied Greg as we walked a few steps to the side of my truck and let our piss flow. The view of the ocean from the hill we were up on was expansive and magnificent, and it took my breath away in and of itself. To be standing, pissing with this sexy bitch I'd just fucked like a caveman, well, what could be better.

"Don't suppose you'd like to take that bike ride now, given your destroyed ass and all," I floated with a grin.

"FUCK THAT! I can do it!" he foolishly said. Then, as we got in the truck to head on down to the beach he added, "I might be riding standing up, though," with a grin. "Just like I was riding your mastodon-cock standing up before . . . and I hope will again."

Mastodon-cock was a new one . . . but I'd take it. And I'd take his HOT ass quite a few more times, if he let me.



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