Barbados Fantasy

[This story was written for a writing exercise limiting the text to exactly 750 words.]

A big, black buck on top of me, me belly down to the bed. The stud inside me, doing pushups on my ass. Opening my eyes, I could see his beefy, ebony hands grasping my wrists, as I gripped the rungs of the brass headboard, rhythmically bouncing against the stained plywood shack wall. Through a glassless window I could see the moon beam-painted ocean lapping on a beach.

I panted as I regained consciousness. He grunted and I gasped as his shaft, thick and long, plunged, withdrew, plunged, withdrew. I somehow knew he was tall and broad shouldered, muscular, handsome, and black as black could be.

In, out. In, out. I went with the fuck, rising my tail by digging my knees into the mattress and pushing my ass back as he thrust forward. My mouth involuntarily yawned, and I fought the impulse to tense and try to expel him. He was quite possibly the most gigantically equipped man I’d ever gone under. My first Caribbean black.

Lyon, now I remember. His name was Lyon. I’d met him in Pepe’s Bar at Ragged Point, on the east coast of Barbados. I’d asked the Caribella Beach Resort desk clerk if there was any gay action around, and, giving me a leer, he’d said “Pepe’s Bar at Ragged Point.” He too had been a big, black buck.

This wasn’t Pepe’s Bar. Lyon rolled away and took me with him. His dick didn’t lose purchase, but now I was on my side, my right leg bent over my left. I was spooned into his front, his right leg bent over mine. His right hand snaked around to possess and stroke my cock. His hips move back and forward, his thick cock fucking me.

“My twenty-ninth is coming up soon and I’d like to do something wild and memorable before hitting the big three-oh,” I said to Frank, in shipping, who’d just vacationed in the Caribbean and who, like me, was gay. This is where he’d suggested to come—to Barbados and a gay-friendly resort.

“Let it happen from there,” he’d said.

It was happening.

From here I could see more of the shack. I had no idea how I’d come to be here. It was definitely a shack. Plywood walls, masses of palm leaves for a ceiling. Another big, black buck was sitting in a  chair, balancing himself. Naked. Pulling on his meat. Watching Lyon fuck me. A taxi. Now I remember. I asked for a taxi to take me to the hotel, but it had brought me here. The man sitting there, watching Lyon fuck me was the taxi driver. He’d said his name was Malik.

Lyon turned again, going on his back, pulling me, facing up, with him. Clutching my hips between his hands. Lifting and lowering me on the cock. Then Malik was looming in front of me at the foot of the bed. Crawling up on the bed on his knees, erection in hand. A hard-on to rival Lyon’s.

“No, oh no. Shit. Fuck, No, you cant. It won’t”

But he could and it did fit. Malik straddled Lyon’s legs, nudging my chest back, my pelvis lifted forward and up. Malik, grasping my ancles and raising, spreading my legs, put his erection in position and penetrated, the underside of his cock sliding in on top of Lyon’s buried shaft.

“Shit! Fuck!” I writhed and cried out and sobbed as the two big, black bucks gloriously fucked me together.

I lay, moaning in the bed until I became aware of dawn beaming into the room through the window. I also smelled brewing coffee. With a moan, checking my body for damage and ache, I struggled from the bed, used the adjacent bathroom, such as it was, wrapped a sheet around myself, and stumbled out of the bedroom and into what was a living room-dining room-kitchen combination.

Neither Lyon nor Malik were there. But the desk clerk from the Caribella Beach Resort, Talin, was. That explained the recommendation of Pepe’s Bar. Unwinding my sheet, he fucked me on the kitchen table, me bent over the table, arms outstretched, hands gripping the far edge. Talin saddled on top of me, riding me like we were at the races.

Looking up, I saw, looming in the door, Pepe, a big, black buck. He scraped me off the table when Talin was done, threw me over his shoulder, and started walking down to the beach.

Some vacation to remember for my twenty-ninth? No problem.