Actions of Man on Covert Mission

Healing and Trade on Island Beyond

Sun and salt. Mouth dry beyond belief. Sand grating against the skin peeling off layer by layer. And such immense pain throughout the body.

Marco woke up naked on a deserted beach, exposed to the elements. He had managed to get hold of some debris in the water, but despite his best efforts of orienting himself and staying conscious, he had not managed to find land. Recollections were fuzzy at best. Providential winds had taken his body across the sea and washed him ashore somewhere after a less than clear number of hours — or days — after he had escaped the cargo ship. He was exhausted, disoriented and hurt.

As if the weight of a mighty boulder was pressing down on him, Marco made one giant effort and pushed himself off the ground and stood up. The heel was hurting. The gunshot wound had not become infected yet, but it needed tending soon.

The beach appeared abandoned, no fishing harbour in sight, no village. Where was it even? Probably somewhere in the Aegean Sea judging by the type of sandstone and vegetation, but that hardly narrowed it down all that much. For now, though, fresh water was the overriding concern.

Slowly Marco walked up towards the trees at the edge of the beach. Again some higher power pitied Marco, because at the edge of the beach there were fig trees from which that sweet fruit had fallen. Marco greedily put at least six in his mouth with their nourishment spreading through his body. As if by magic, several juicy pomegranates were hanging from a nearby tree, and Marco fingered them open and swallowed most of what they had to offer. The sound from a nearby brook drew Marco to fresh water, so Marco drank plenty. What great fortune, Marco thought as his spirit was lifted, and he quickly kissed the crucifix that had stayed around his neck above his chest while on the seas.

At this time, though, his exhaustion proved too great. One hour of sleep is all I need, then I can take action, create some basic clothing, orient myself and resume my mission, Marco decided against better judgement. Within a minute, he was asleep in the shade, a calm breeze caressing his body.

Under normal circumstances only the most accomplished spy could in the ordinary world sneak up on Marco undetected. But the present condition was neither normal nor ordinary. Therefore Marco woke up startled when someone poked him in the belly with a stick. Four men stood around him. 

The sun was setting and in the twilight Marco quickly got on his feet ready to defend against whomever had come this close to him. Since he had been sleeping so comfortably, dreaming about juicy pomegranates, he had a very natural yet slightly uncomfortable erection swinging between his legs. The four men observed him without any hostility, they nodded approvingly and began talking in what sounded a bit like Greek, but not quite like it. They realized that Marco did not understand. A few different languages were attempted, but not until one of the men spoke a few halting words of English did Marco understand.

“No fear, no fear. You came from ocean. Friends. Xenia. You are man. Good man. Come.”

They appeared genuine, and upon closer inspection, they were all quite athletic and relaxed, two of them had thick and well-shaped beards. There was still something a bit odd with the situation, but at least by a first estimation, Marco decided these four men were not an immediate threat. Better keep it that way, pretend to be a clueless American with wealthy relatives who can pay a ransom if it came to that. Yankee insurance, so to speak.

I just need to think, what would Agent Cooper do, Marco thought jokingly. The thought of bland old Agent Cooper helped Marco loose his erection, which in these circumstances was a helpful thing.

“Howdy y’all… I fell over board, my friend’s yacht was caught in bad weather, you know”, Marco said.

The four men continued to inspect him, or rather admire him. They said a few words to each other, then the one who had spoken before said.

“Your leg is hurt. We help. Come into village. Come inside us. Xenia. We help you walk there.”

Two of the men supported Marco, let him put his arms around their strong shoulders so he more easily could walk on his wounded leg. Another one grabbed Marco’s shoulder bag and carried it, and the fourth one guided the group on a narrow path up a hill. Soon they arrived in a village of white clay and stone houses, built from raw materials of the land.

A dozen or so men were standing at the village square, dressed in that classical tunic garment, quite short leaving lots of muscular legs exposed. Chiton it was called, Marco recalled from his classical education in parochial school. Judging by how the cloth fell and protruded, there was no other constricting material between the firm and healthy man parts and the short and thin fabric. The village smelled of freshly baked bread and citrus, and flute music echoed between the houses.

Marco was guided through an iron door into one of the houses. It was cool inside, and the walls were bare except for a single drawing of what looked like a satyr with an owl circling his unnaturally large erection. What an odd combination of symbols, Marco thought, and did I not see that very combination in the notebook on my way over the Mediterranean?

The men pointed to some sheets on the floor, clearly intended for sleep and rest. Then they gestured towards the wound in the heel. There were a few tools, bottles and crude bandages in the room as well, so a place for medical treatment, Marco surmised. He knew he had no reason to trust these men. They were weird, non-modern in their customs, ancient even. But were there any better options available? Marco had a feeling that they were too honourable to simply stab him in his sleep.

Marco laid down on the sheets. Soon a few more men in colourful chitons joined the group and began to examine the wound, as well as the remainder of Marco’s naked bruised body. The touch was gentle and skillful, the ointment soothing and fragrant, the attention curious and detailed. Despite his best attempts not to, Marco fell asleep again while his body was rejuvenated.

When he dreamt, Marco was flying. He was above the clouds, a few tall mountain peaks penetrated the clouds. This was a good dream. But so strange, here came a fellow traveller in the sky, circling around a particularly tall mountain. A butt-naked well-sculpted man in the distance, clearly looking in Marco’s direction. The unknown flying companion’s hair was fair and swirling in the wind. Friend or foe? Never mind, the companion’s perky butt was at the centre of Marco’s attention, those two waving buttocks, their sweet delightfulness felt throughout the body. Hills and mountains to mount…

Marco was pulled away from the dream world. He was still in that cold room, aroused. Down by his hard dick, a handsome man was rhythmically kissing and sucking. The man stopped for a brief moment as Marco woke up. Their eyes met for just a few seconds. A hint of a smile, and a nod. Then he resumed his efforts of hospitality, his perfect beard and strong grip creating all kinds of tingling sensations in Marco’s body and spirit. He must have been at this for several minutes. Maybe that can explain the strange vision before?

There was no shame or guilt or even the slightest sign on this man that this was anything but the most natural act of one man helping another man heal and grow. Come to think of it, there were descriptions in the notebook from the Parisian Seducer about ancient and rebellious warriors who practiced sexual traditions along these lines. ‘Creation of wisdom and knowledge are acts by body — create one do the other’, or something like that did the text say. 

Marco felt his balls tighten. The many days drifting in the ocean meant he had plenty in store, because foundational functions did not easily rest. The bearded man directed his efforts skillfully. The tongue moved up and down the shaft, all the way up to the tip. The lips were gripping and pressing wherever they found themselves. Light touches of the teeth were added for that extra tingling sensation. And with every motion in and out, all sides of the tip of the dick rubbed against the warm insides of the mouth.

Marco put one hand in among the curls of the hair and began thrusting his hips. Command and control is a natural urge. That distinctive gulping sound of passionate and hard face fucking echoed between the walls. Not long after, Marco pressed his head back into the sheets, eyes closed with stars sparkling in the darkness, and he pressed his hips skyward as he pumped.

It felt as if the body healed two or three notches more in a single instance. What a feeling. 

Only then Marco noticed there were another three men in the room, who had observed the show. Their chitons were protruding a bit extra. Two of them walked over and kneeled down next to Marco’s now relaxed penis. Gently and lovingly the two men started petting and kissing the dick like it was an object to revere, a source of power and joy.

Their efforts filled Marco with even more warmth and satisfaction. It is a false belief that the dick must be hard to create fabulous feelings. Eager worshippers between the legs must be in the top three of things that can make a man heal, walk through walls, and defeat might foes, real and imagined. At least so reasoned Marco as his spirit was elated.

It was impossible to not become hard, and Marco’s instinct to penetrate assumed control. He sat up, and pushed both worshippers on their backs onto the sheets, their chitons being flung upwards exposing their delightful bodies. From some primal depth within Marco, the urge to fuck ass took over and soon he had entered one worshipper with his semi-erect dick, the other with two lubricated fingers, oscillating at just the right depth and frequency. 

That noise, that sweet delicious noise. If I could isolate the connections between hearing the sound of a whimpering, moaning, panting guy with me inside him, and this healing whole-body sensation, Marco thought, then I would become so rich I could pay a Rockefeller to give me a lap dance. That’s how good it is.

Marco allowed the weight of his body press against the worshipper on the receiving end of Marco’s dick. He kept rhythmically moving himself in and out, letting the butt grip and massage a generous range of dick meat. Command and control again. But admiration and love too. Marco leaned down and kissed the mouth of the worshipper and ramped up the thrusting to another level. The worshipper was responding favourably, his body in tune. This was not like the greasy French sailors, this was deep and loving connection.

The other men observing and adding the occasional stroke or pinch, started howling like dogs. First lightly and friendly, but soon increasingly aggressive and vicious. The men reached back and stroked Marco’s balls as they were moving back and forth while Marco plowed the worshipper who was on his back. Another man prostrated himself in front of the balls as if faced with a mighty relic. 

Marco was used to adding a bit of role-play to the sex act, but this seemed a bit much. Sure, any man of decent character would marvel at the sight of a big dick and mighty balls of Marco’s caliber. But howling and bowing was taking it perhaps a few steps too close to actual lunacy and profanity.

The grip of the worshipper butt intensified, it was almost as if it was sucking Marco’s dick in deeper. The stimulation was amazing. These bottoms are magical, Marco thought, when he felt that familiar tautness spreading from the base of his dick up his torso to throat, and he was again drained of a sizeable load.

Joy, elation, ecstasy, and again a sudden tiredness. Those were the feelings that washed over Marco as his happy, shrinking dick pulled out of the grip of the butt, and he landed on his back on the sheets again. His sweat was carefully wiped off his body with wet towels by additional men who had entered the room during the fucking, drawn to the seductive sounds. The combination of the cool and fragrant water they used to wash his body, and the calming distant flute music meant that Marco was soon again asleep, resting, healing, and dreaming of juicy pomegranates and plump white clouds penetrated by granite peaks.

The vivid dreams returned. There was a strange hyper-realness to them. The mountains that were peeking through the soft bouncy clouds were extremely clear. Every tiny bush, tree, crevice or trickle of melting water on the sides of the mountains were in focus. The clouds felt cool, and from their moisture rainbows shot out.

And there again, that faceless, butt-naked companion came flying. He was circling, waving, flexing. The body seemed so real. If Marco just could reach out and connect he knew exactly how it would feel to touch that smooth skin, the lightly goose bumped surface, move the tip of the finger downwards from the Adam’s apple, over the firm chest, caress the abdominal waves, tickle the suggestive belly button, and then onwards, all the way down. In ever greater detail, Marco could imagine the sensation of placing the palms around the buttocks, squeeze them gently, then a bit harder, and feel their life force. And then onto biting, licking the neck. 

The body of the companion was beckoning Marco closer, away down below the clouds. But who was it? The face was impossible to bring into focus, and the man otherwise lacked any distinctive features. No scar, no birth mark, no slight eyebrow or nose asymmetry, even the balls were hanging in perfect symmetry, and there was no curve or twist or turn of the penis, and the buttocks were full, perky, but they also lacked any idiosyncratic mark or shape.  

Marco woke up again. He did not know which day it was, or even the time of day, as if he had been evolving within a cocoon. This time he was alone in the room. Still naked, though. He sat up. His body felt great, like every fibre in his muscles had been polished, oiled and pumped full of vitamins. Even the wound on his heel looked far better. 

Only his balls ached a bit. He was not entirely sure which of his recollections were dreams and which were reality. He was quite sure though that men of the village, in all shapes and forms, had sexually enticed him again, and seduced him with sweet peachy buttocks, tight butts, bearded jawlines of perfection and precise lips and tongues. It felt like a phantom butt was massaging the dick in this very moment as if Steve, Jimmy, Bes, Ibrahim, even Billy, were all down there flexing their pretty and always so eager holes.

Was it time to think of escape? Marco felt quite well after all, and although these guys knew how to please a man, show him some proper hospitality, Marco was not entirely sure they were all nice. Something was amiss somewhere.

Before Marco had time to consider his plans any further, the door opened. An elderly man in the most exquisite grey beard entered along with a group of men of various ages dressed in chitons. He started to talk in the native language, while one of the men translated into basic English. 

“Big man from the sea, you are in command again of your body. We have put life in your bones, felt the manhood in your meat. You are of us. Time to do your duty. Pass your test. Dress now, the village needs you. Prepare for war.”