"Good morning, sleepy head," I heard as Paul's hand played with my pubic hair.
It was such a lovely way to wake up as I opened my eyes, turning my head towards him. "Good morning. What time is it?"
"Quarter to six," he replied softly, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns through my pubic curls. "Sunrise came up an hour ago, and the tide's still low."
His touch sent fresh sparks dancing across my skin despite my lingering fatigue, but my morning wood was making me feel uncomfortable. The previous night’s intensity felt dreamlike now, the raw intimacy, the whiskey-induced haze, Ben's piercing gaze all flooding back with intense visions that not even an artist would be able to capture. Yet Paul’s warm body pressing against mine was utterly real.
"Need to piss," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep as I pushed the heavy quilt back. Paul watched me, propped up on one elbow. His blue eyes tracked my naked form, the curve of my spine, the taut play of thigh muscle, as I padded across the rough wooden floorboards towards the ensuite. The sound of my stream hitting the porcelain bowl echoed loudly in the small, damp-smelling space as Paul declared, "You have such a cute arse."
"Thanks," I responded as I felt immediately relieved. "Your arse isn't bad either.
I padded back and climbed onto the narrow bed, straddling Paul’s hips. His morning erection pressed insistently against my perineum. "Sorry I fell asleep so quickly last night," I breathed, leaning down to press my lips against the salt-tanged hollow of his throat. The memory crashed over me: Ben's charcoal scraping, Paul's hands on my cock, the window streaked with my release. "I guess I was just... overwhelmed."
"That's fine, Steve. I was tired too," as he started to twist my nipples playfully.
"Tell me, Paul, is your uncle cool about what we did?" I asked.
"Cool?" Paul chuckled, his fingers still teasing my nipples into stiff peaks. "He's lived through wars and loves a good storm, and quiet acceptance is his speciality. Besides, he knows the truth when he sees it. Like that."
He nodded at my cock, bobbing eagerly against his stomach. "He's used to me walking around with a hard-on, and even though he says he's not interested, I think he likes what he sees."
"Have you two ever been an item?" I pursued.
"No, not at all. I think he's asexual and just enjoys looking, and it's ideal because I don't fancy him and he provides me with a freedom of expression I couldn't experience elsewhere."
"You're lucky, Paul. My family would never be so understanding."
"Well, that's why I live with him," Paul declared.
"What now?" I sort of demanded.
Paul stretched lazily as I remained seated on his hips. "First things first," he grinned. "We get up, spend the day being sketched by Uncle Ben outdoors. Then later, he'll start painting in the studio," as I climbed off his naked body.
Paul swung his legs over the edge of the bed, padding naked to the window overlooking the sun-drenched harbour. "I suggest you go back to your hotel, deposit that fancy camera in your room, and I'll meet you down at the quarry near the Point in about an hour."
He turned, his cock stirring with the movement. "Bring nothing but yourself."
I crossed the room slowly, drawn to him by the magnetism of his easy confidence. Without hesitation, I stepped into his space and kissed him deeply. Our lips met with rough hunger, tasting of morning breath and lingering whiskey. Between our bodies, our cocks slid hotly against each other, rigid shafts pressing in a silent duel that sent sparks racing down my spine. His hands slid down my back, gripping my arse firmly as he pulled me closer, groaning into my mouth.
"Okay," I murmured against Paul's lips, tasting the brine on his skin. Reluctantly, I pulled away, leaving the warmth of his body and the scent of our shared bed behind. I padded downstairs, the bare wood cool beneath my feet, to find my clothes lying discarded near Ben’s stool.
Back in my hotel room, the shower was wonderfully hot, washing away the previous evening's sweat and salt, but leaving the memory humming beneath the surface. Brushing my teeth, I caught my reflection in the steamy mirror, a faint smile playing on my lips. What to wear?
The question seemed absurdly trivial after standing naked beneath Ben’s uncompromising gaze and Paul’s demanding hands, but I decided that cotton shorts, fresh Y-Fronts and a plain grey shirt would suffice. Breakfast was practical and nourishing, washed down with acceptable coffee and feeling refreshed and ready for the day ahead, I walked out of the hotel towards the quay.
Paul was already waiting at the harbour wall, leaning against weathered stone warmed by the rising sun. He wore only loose cargo shorts and an open, faded blue shirt revealing the lean muscles earned hauling nets. His greeting grin was easy, familiar. "Morning, Loverboy," he called out. "Ready to be immortalised?"
We fell into step along the coastal path towards Blakeney Point, the sea breeze carrying the sharp scent of salt and kelp. It felt less like a second encounter and more like picking up a thread left dangling years ago. He spoke of tides and currents, the stubborn beauty of crab pots, the way dawn painted the wet sand gold, details a fisherman knew intimately. "It’s not glamorous," he said, kicking a pebble into the low surf, "but it fixes my soul. Like…" He hesitated, glancing at me sideways. "Like your photos fix yours, I reckon."
It was apparent that Paul had recognised my work, my photographic signature's starkness instantly identifiable. I learned that Paul's photography was mostly detailed studies of tide-worn flotsam, rusted bolts, bleached gull bones, and the intricate patterns of barnacles, captured with an old Pentax inherited from his dad. "Not art like Uncle Ben’s," he shrugged, "just… noticing things most folk walk past."
"I would love to see your photographs, Paul."
"I guess, Steve, we can do that, but please be kind. I'm not at your level of experience."
"For you, Paul, I will be kind and objective. I will just have to deal with the difference in our themes, that's all," I responded.
We saw Ben in the distance, sitting on a mudbank at the head of the estuary. The day was going to be hot and windless as we arrived. He’d staked his claim early, canvas stool planted firmly, sketchpad balanced on his knees, gaze fixed out towards the distant sandbar where dark shapes of hauled-out seals dotted the glistening silt.
"Morning, boys, hope you had a good night's sleep, I trust?" Ben demanded to know.
Paul chuckled softly as he kicked off his trainers. "Like a baby, Uncle," he answered while I nodded my head in agreement.
Ben didn't waste any time as he outlined the first sketch he wanted to draw.
"Paul," he commanded, "I want you lying down on the sand, shorts on but bare-chested. Relaxed, as if drifting. Steve," his pale eyes flicked to me, sharp and assessing, "you're sitting up, entirely naked, supporting yourself with one arm, gazing down at Paul. The image is rest and contemplation. Your posture should speak of admiration."
I didn't even look if we were alone as I stripped naked, folding my t-shirt, shorts and Y-Fronts, placing them next to Ben’s stool.
I assumed the pose on the sand as Paul stretched out beside me, his cargo shorts riding low on narrow hips with his buttons open, showing the top of his pubic hair.
The scene was set, and Ben started drawing. I looked at Paul and wondered if he was wearing skinny briefs under those shorts, as my cock stirred into life at the image before me.
Ben’s charcoal rasped across the paper, a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant cries of gulls and the gentle lap of the incoming tide. Paul and I lost track of time until we heard, "Enough," he declared abruptly, capping his charcoal stick with a decisive click. His pale gaze swept over Paul’s reclining form and my own exposed posture. "Next composition. Both naked this time, please."
He pointed a bony finger towards the slick mudbank rising steeply behind us. "Paul, you stand there, leaning back against that bank. Gaze out towards the horizon." He shifted his focus to me. "Steve, sit on the sand, facing me. Legs drawn up, knees apart. Present yourself openly to the viewer."
I stood up, my cock fully erect as Paul removed his shorts. He wasn't wearing underwear, and he was sporting a partial erection. Paul padded towards the mudbank, his lean form moving with unconscious grace. The wet, dark earth contrasted starkly with his pale skin as he leaned back against it. His semi-hard cock rested against his thigh, thickening slightly as his gaze drifted towards the distant horizon.
My own erection remained prominent, untouched, pulsing slightly as I settled onto the cool sand facing Ben, spreading my knees wide as instructed. The damp grit pressed against my bare buttocks and thighs as Ben’s pale eyes flicked rapidly between us, absorbing the lines, the angles, the play of light on damp skin and hardening flesh, his charcoal already whispering harshly against a fresh page.
To distract myself from looking at Paul’s naked body, I focused on the details Ben demanded, the slight lift of my chest as I breathed, the spread of my thighs anchoring me in the damp sand. Paul shifted almost imperceptibly against the mudbank, his hips pushing forward. The bead of pre-cum swelled, trembling on his tip. "Got mine done as a teenager," he breathed back, his voice rough-edged.
“What? I asked, having been verbally nudged from my trance. "Circumcision. Fifteen, and it was a medical thing." He chuckled softly. "Yours?"
"Oh,” I answered, grasping the topic of conversation as Ben continued drawing. As a baby, but I don't know why. I guess it was a cleanliness thing, but I prefer cut cocks, I must confess."
Paul nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on the horizon, though his cock twitched visibly. "Cleaner lines," he murmured, echoing Ben's artistic terminology. "Suits you, though. That neat helmet..." He swallowed audibly. "Looks... very desirable."
Ben’s charcoal scratched relentlessly, a harsh metronome marking time. The incoming tide crept higher, the saltwater now swirling around Paul’s ankles as he held his pose. My own position on the sand was becoming uncomfortable; the grit chafed my arse cheeks, and my erection throbbed persistently against my thigh. I shifted slightly, widening my knees another fraction, letting the cool air rush over my heated skin. The movement drew Ben’s sharp glance. "Hold steady, Steve," he commanded without looking up. "Don't fidget."
Paul’s cock remained proudly erect against the dark mudbank. Another glistening bead of pre-cum formed at his tip. My mouth watered, and I licked my lips. "Later," he breathed, so softly only I could catch it, a promise carried on the wind. "Later."
The visual hunger I felt was mirrored in Ben’s furious sketching. Rapid, economical strokes capturing the tension in Paul’s shoulders, the lean arch of his torso, the undeniable thrust of his hips.
As we both stood feeling a little weary, horny and bored, Ben capped the charcoal stick decisively. "Enough," he announced, his voice cutting through the rhythmic sigh of the waves.
Again, time had been forgotten as he gestured dismissively towards us as he flipped his sketchbook closed. "Boys. See that rowing boat stranded on the mudflat over there?"
He pointed towards a weathered wooden rowing boat, tilted precariously on its keel where the previous receding tide had abandoned it, about fifty yards away across the shimmering silt. "Go climb aboard."
He fixed me with a direct, commanding stare. "Steve. Sit facing towards the left, leaning back on your elbows. Legs stretched out over the side, casual. Relaxed." His pale eyes shifted to Paul. "Paul. Stand in the stern. Hold that long oar lying beside the hull as if you’re propelling and steering it."
We exchanged a glance, shrugged, and began navigating the slippery expanse. The mud was thick, cold, and clingy, sucking greedily at our bare feet. Each step sank us ankle-deep. Paul yelped, losing his footing as his heel slid sideways. He instinctively grabbed my arm for balance. "Christ, it's like walking through treacle," he muttered, his fingers warm and firm on my wrist. I grinned, gripping his forearm back. "Just don't fall face-first."
Reaching the stranded rowing boat felt like escaping quicksand. The hull’s bleached wood scraped against our palms as we hauled ourselves aboard. Inside smelled sharply of brine, rotting seaweed, and damp timber. I positioned myself near the bow as instructed, leaning back on my elbows, stretching my legs out over the gunwale towards the distant shingles and mudbanks.
Paul hoisted the long, heavy wooden oar resting in the bottom of the boat. He planted his feet wide in the stern, gripping the shaft firmly near the blade. His lean muscles flexed visibly across his shoulders and abdomen as he settled into the pose. Below, the shallow tidewater crept towards us, swirling closer and in no time we were adrift as Ben had obviously planned, and he returned to his sketchpad with renewed vigour.
My cock stirred again, heavy against my thigh. "Think he’ll capture how much you’re enjoying yourself?" I murmured, nodding subtly towards Paul’s thickening erection. The oar’s shaft rested against his hip, perfectly aligned with his pulsing cock.
Paul grinned, shifting his grip subtly. The worn wood slid fractionally against his hipbone, drawing a low groan from him. "Doubt it," he rasped, his knuckles whitening on the oar handle. "He’s focused on structure… angles…"
His breath hitched as the movement intensified the friction. His hips pulsed forward involuntarily. "Fuck, Steve," he choked out, gaze locked onto mine with desperate intensity. "I can't… much longer…"
“Longer?” I demanded.
“You know, Steve and if you don’t, just think about it,” was all Paul said.
While I got it, what Paul was suggesting, Ben’s charcoal stopped its frantic scratching. He lowered the sketchpad slowly. His pale eyes, narrowed against the sun’s glare, swept over the scene: "Done," he declared, his voice flat, cutting through the humid air. He snapped the sketchbook shut with finality. "I have what I want. You boys can now enjoy yourselves while I make notes of the light and colours."
He turned slightly, gesturing vaguely towards the distant sandbar where the seals lay like dark stones. "Don't forget lunch by the way," he added, almost as an afterthought, before purposefully making notes in his notebook, leaving us utterly ignored on the vast, shimmering estuary.
Paul’s grin was predatory, feral in the midday sun. He planted the oar firmly in the water, as he swung the bow towards the sandbar, Ben had pointed out. With practised, rhythmic strokes, he propelled us forward, the oars creaking in their locks, each pull bringing the seals’ low, grumbling chorus closer.
Paul’s cock was already fully erect, flushed and straining against his stomach as he worked. "We're going to have some fun," he declared, his voice rough with intent. "And, I suspect, we’ll entertain the seals for free."
The bow scraped against the coarse sand of the sandbar. Before I could react, Paul vaulted over the side, landing knee-deep in the receding water. He turned, grabbed my wrist, and hauled me bodily from the boat. I stumbled forward, and his hands caught my hips, pivoting me hard. With a grunt, he threw me backwards onto the warm sand.
The impact knocked the breath from me slightly as grains of sand stuck to my sweat-slicked skin. Before I could blink, Paul was on top of me. His weight pressed me into the yielding sand, his hands pinning my wrists beside my head. His erection, hot and rigid, ground against my hip. The scent of him, the salt, sun-warmed skin and his arousal filled my nostrils. Nearby, a seal lifted its massive head, whiskers twitching, curious dark eyes fixed on us, as I surrendered myself to it, while other seals shifted nearby, grunting softly, but did nothing to suggest we had disturbed them.
Paul’s lips crashed onto mine, bruising, possessive. His tongue invaded my mouth, tasting of salt and pure need. I arched against him, my own cock surging against the rough friction of his abdomen. He released my wrists. One hand slid down my flank, gripping my thigh, forcing it wider. The other tangled in my hair, holding me still for his kiss.
Breaking the kiss, Paul reared up, straddling my hips. His cock stood proud, flushed crimson against the pale backdrop of his belly. He gazed down at me, hunger blazing in his eyes. "Uncle Ben’s still sketching," he rasped, nodding towards the distant mudbank where Ben’s figure was visible. "He won’t stop and doesn’t care what we do," as he leaned forward, his lips brushing my ear. "Let’s give him something unforgettable."
His hand wrapped around my cock. The pressure, the heat, the sand grinding beneath, it was raw, elemental. The seals barked sharply, a sudden, approving eruption of sound as Paul’s thumb swiped roughly over my leaking tip.
"I had better taste this," he said as he lowered himself towards my hard manhood, dying for attention and boy, did I need, want, his attention.
His mouth engulfed me in a single, seamless motion. There was no tentative exploration, no teasing build-up, just pure, shocking heat and wet pressure as he took me deep, his throat muscles convulsing around my shaft. A choked groan tore from me as my hips arched off the sand. His tongue worked beneath me, pressing firmly along the sensitive ridge and frenulum, creating a rough, blissful friction that contrasted sharply with the tight seal of his lips.
His nose pressed hard into my pubic bone, sand gritting against my skin where his forehead brushed my belly. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, a focused invasion that obliterated everything else, including the cries of gulls and the snores of the seals nearby.
My pre-cum flooded Paul's mouth; I felt the vibration of his low hum of appreciation against my cockhead as he swallowed, his fingers digging hard into my hips to hold me steady. He pulled back slowly, his lips dragging slickly over my swollen crown before plunging again, burying himself to the root.
This time, he hollowed his cheeks with ferocious suction, creating an almost painful vacuum. His free hand slid beneath my balls, cupping them firmly, the rough pads of his fingers massaging the tender skin behind. Saliva dripped from my shaft onto my stomach, mixing with sweat and sand. My fists clenched handfuls of sand, as waves of pure electricity radiated from my groin, short-circuiting coherent thought. "Oh fuck... Paul... yes!" I gasped, the words ragged and hoarse as the seals grunted louder, a curious audience to this primal act unfolding on their beach.
Paul sensed my impending climax. He pulled off abruptly, leaving me gasping and achingly empty in the humid air. My cock throbbed violently, dark purple and slick, untouched by anything but his mouth. He looked up, his lower lip glistening, eyes dark with triumph mixed with lust. "Not yet," he whispered, his voice thick.
He shifted, kneeling between my splayed legs. One hand returned to my shaft, pumping slowly, torturously, while the other traced the overheated skin of my inner thigh. He leaned down again, but this time bypassed my cock entirely. His tongue flicked out, hot and wet, tracing a deliberate path from the base of my shaft, over my straining balls, and further back, a teasing, intimate graze across my perineum that made me jerk violently.
"Feel that?" he breathed against my skin. "That's where I'm going next," as he lifted my legs, hooking them over his shoulders, exposing me utterly. "But first," he growled, lowering his head once more towards my weeping erection, "let's finish what I started."
His mouth descended again, hungry and relentless, determined to take everything I had.
Paul’s lips stretched tight around my girth, his jaw working with practised urgency as he swallowed me to the hilt. The wet suction pulled deep, dragging groans from my chest that echoed strangely alongside the seals’ grunts. He moved faster now, slick sounds filling the air as saliva dripped freely onto my stomach. His tongue curled and pulsed under my crown, a relentless pressure on the most sensitive spot, while his hand tightened at my base, controlling the rhythm.
I arched, trembling, fingers clawing at the sand. The world narrowed to the burning heat of his mouth, the urgent slide of his lips, the scrape of his stubble on my inner thighs. His throat opened around me again and again, accepting every desperate thrust until my balls drew tight against my body. He drew back slowly, almost to the tip, a cruel tease, before slamming down violently. The sudden depth, the raw vibration of his groan against my shaft, shattered my control. "Paul!" I choked out, hips lifting off the sand as release tore through me.
Thick pulses filled his mouth. He drank greedily, swallowing without hesitation, his throat working around me. He kept sucking, milking every last drop until I collapsed, shuddering, onto the gritty sand. Only then did he release me gently, his lips swollen and glistening. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on mine, triumphant. "Never lasts long enough doing it that way, but I had to take you," he rasped, breathless himself. He leaned forward, planting a salty, possessive kiss on my slack mouth.
Before I could recover, Paul rolled off me and stood up. "Your turn if you can catch me."
I scrambled upright, legs shaky but driven. Sand clung to my skin as I launched forward. Paul sprinted away, laughing, a wild, echoing sound that contrasted with the seals' grunts. He ran parallel to the waterline, bare feet kicking up spray, his hard cock bouncing with each stride. I pounded after him, lungs burning, the chase igniting something primal. Ahead, seals lazily lifted their heads, whiskered faces turning with mild disinterest as two naked men streaked past their sun-warmed beach landings.
The gap closed. I lunged, tackling him around the waist. We crashed onto damp sand, rolling once before I pinned him, his laughter turning into a gasp as my knee slid between his legs. His erection pressed hot against my thigh. "Caught you," I breathed, pushing him down as one hand slid firmly up his inner thigh, tracing the straining veins. Above, a curlew cried sharply, a reminder we weren't entirely alone, but we were oblivious now, concentrating on each other.
Neither of us noticed him; a man in khakis and binoculars, frozen fifty yards beyond the seals. If we had noticed him, his stillness screamed stunned voyeurism as he turned his binoculars towards us.
I lowered my head, tongue flicking the salty bead pooling at Paul’s tip. He hissed, arching off the sand. The taste of him flooded my senses. The tight heat of his shaft, his ragged breaths, and the way his hips bucked helplessly against my mouth. I sucked hard, relentlessly, swallowing every pulse until he shuddered beneath me, crying out my name, spent and trembling.
Heaven wasn’t distant skies; it was Paul sprawled on sun-warmed sand, as his cock pumped his seed into my mouth. I managed to recover as his cock softened against my lips, the seals grunting low approval nearby. I raised my head, wiping my mouth, meeting his gaze, his more than satisfied gaze as his fingers tangled loosely in my hair. "Steve..." he murmured, voice wrecked. I kissed his thigh, savouring the musk and salt.
Then, sharp and jarring, a single slow clap echoed across the sandbar. Clap... Clap... Clap. The sound cut through the sea breeze and seal murmurs like a knife. Instinctively, I rolled off Paul, scrambling to shield him partially with my body as I twisted towards the sound. Paul jerked upright, eyes wide, scanning the shingle mounds behind the seals.
The man stood atop a low shingle rise, lowering his binoculars, his face serious, his posture rigid with disapproval.
Paul scrambled up beside me. "Oh shit," he hissed, but with absurd synchrony, we both offered a stiff, shallow bow towards the distant figure. Gratitude? Irony? Pure panic? It didn't matter. The gesture was automatic, ludicrous. Then we were running, legs pumping, bare feet slapping hard on wet sand and sharp shingle, hearts hammering against ribs. The seals erupted into surprised barks as we scrambled past them, a flurry of startled grey bodies.
We hit the water swirling around the stranded rowing boat waist-deep, hauled ourselves over the gunwale with frantic urgency. Sand scraped skin raw. Paul grabbed the oars, gasping. "Row!"
I panted, shoving the other oar at him. He didn't need telling. He jammed them into the rusted locks, muscles straining. The blades bit into the silty water. The boat lurched forward, scraping free of the sandbar with a groan.
We rowed like demons possessed, backs bent, arms burning, pulling hard against the incoming tide. Water splashed onto our heated skin. The sandbar shrank rapidly behind us, as the stranger dwindled into a motionless speck.
Within minutes, we were sliding clumsily onto the mudbank near Ben, gasping for air. He glanced up from his weathered notebook, unfazed. "Ah. Lunchtime already?" he murmured, his pencil scratching steadily across the page, absorbed in capturing the precise shades of the day.
"Sandwiches and cider are in the basket. You might want to rinse off first, though. The estuary mud is particularly clinging today."
His utter indifference was almost calming. The ordeal on the sandbar felt suddenly distant, surreal. We sagged against the boat, catching our breath, the adrenaline ebbing as the familiar scent of brine and Ben's detached focus settled over us. The danger had passed, leaving only exhaustion and the lingering salt sting on our skin as we opened the box stuffed full of sandwiches.
"Steve," Paul hissed, a wicked gleam lighting his eyes despite his exhaustion, rummaging deeper into the wicker basket Ben had packed, pushing aside wax paper bundles. "You are not going to believe what I have found," as he withdrew his hand, clutching a distinctively familiar tube. "KY Jelly. Do you think it's an accident this came packed alongside the ham sandwiches?"
My own exhaustion evaporated, replaced by a fresh wave of heat pooling low in my belly. I met Paul’s hungry stare. "No accident," I breathed, reaching for the tube. The cool plastic felt charged against my palm. "Ben sees everything and knows everything, it would appear."
The implications were dizzying; permission granted, desire sanctioned. I squeezed a generous dollop onto my fingers, the slick translucence catching the light. Paul’s breath hitched audibly as my slicked hand slid down the cleft of his arse. He braced himself against the muddy hull of the boat, legs trembling slightly. The cool gel met his heated skin as my finger circled his tight opening, pressing inward slowly against resistance. He groaned, low and ragged, pushing back urgently.
"Yes... Christ, Steve... now," he gasped, his knuckles white where they gripped the bleached wood. My finger breached him, sinking deep. His body clenched around me, hot and insistent. I added another finger, stretching carefully, feeling the frantic flutter of muscle, the pulse of his need echoing through the contact. Above us, Ben’s pencil scratched rhythmically, a steady counterpoint to Paul’s choked whimpers.
I withdrew my fingers, slick and glistening. Paul remained turned, as wordlessly, I slicked myself thoroughly with the jelly, the intense visual drag of it almost too much. Gripping his hips, I guided him backwards onto a patch of slightly drier mud against the hull, and I lay on my back.
Paul sank, impaling himself slowly onto my thick length with a ragged cry.
The tight, yielding heat was immediate, overwhelming. I thrust upward, burying myself to the hilt, my hands gripping the sharp ridges of his hipbones. He arched back, head thrown back against the wood, a cry ripped from his throat that Ben definitely heard, though his sketching didn’t falter. We moved together, slick sounds obscene against the estuary’s quiet, the KY easing the friction into pure, urgent ecstasy. This wasn't stolen; it was gifted, witnessed, and utterly consuming.
I fucked Paul hard and long, taking my time. Not a frantic escape, but a claiming. Each deliberate thrust drove him down onto my cock, his body yielding and tightening around me in turn. Mud gritted beneath my back and shoulders, but the world narrowed to the slick slide, the slap of skin, Paul’s choked gasps riding the rhythm. I watched him above me, sweat tracing paths down his straining neck, his jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut, then flying open wide every time I angled deeper, hitting that spot that made him shudder uncontrollably. His cock bounced hard against his belly, weeping onto mine. "Harder... Steve, please!" he begged, voice cracking, fingers scrabbling at the hull.
I obeyed, shifting my grip to haul his hips down harder with each upward surge, the slap of flesh echoing. His groan turned into a desperate keening. The rhythm was primal, a deep, pounding cadence that shook the breath from both of us. I relished the feel of him stretched taut around me, the desperate flutter of his muscles as he fought to take it, to push back. My name became a ragged prayer on his lips. Time stretched, distorted; there was only the push and pull, the heat building low and terrifying in my own belly, mirrored in the frantic clench of Paul’s body.
He came first, untouched by human hands. A raw, animal cry tore loose as his body seized, back arching impossibly, his cock pulsing thick ropes of cum onto my chest and stomach after I had been hammering his spot. His inner muscles clamped down on me like a slick fist, triggering my own climax. It ripped through me with shocking force, deeper and longer than before, emptying into him with shuddering pulses as I drove upwards one last, fierce time, holding him impaled.
We collapsed together, trembling, slick with sweat, mud, KY, and seed. We lay tangled, breathing ragged, the scent of sex heavy in the salt air. Only then did Ben clear his throat softly. "The tide," he murmured, utterly calm. "It’s rising fast. Unless you fancy swimming, I suggest retrieving the sandwiches. They’re drifting."
Sure enough, the wicker basket bobbed gently twenty feet away, carried inland on the rising water. Hunger and exhaustion hit us simultaneously. Paul’s shaky laugh echoed weakly against the hull as he disentangled himself, wincing slightly, and slid into the warm water.
I followed, the chill sharp against my overheated skin even though the water was warm. We paddled, retrieving the basket just before it floated beyond reach. Back on the mudbank, we rinsed off hastily in the shallow channel Ben pointed out, the water washing away the worst of the grit and stickiness. Cleaner and shivering, we huddled near Ben’s stool, devouring thick ham sandwiches and washing them down with sharp, cold cider. Paul leaned against my shoulder, radiating exhaustion and a strange contentment. The cider’s tang cut through the lingering salt and musk. "Art's hungry work," Ben observed drily, turning a page in his notebook.
After eating, drowsiness settled thickly. Paul nudged me. "Come on," he mumbled, stumbling towards the rowing boat. We hauled it higher onto the bank, out of the encroaching tide. Inside its cramped hull, bleached wood warmed by the sun, we curled together. Paul nestled against my chest, his breathing slowing instantly as he dozed in the sun's warmth, supported by my body's heat.
Sand still gritted between us as I wrapped an arm around him, the rhythmic rise and fall of his back beneath my hand anchoring me. Ben remained perched on his stool, sketching the distant dunes, the seals on the sandbar, the play of light on the water, a silent guardian. The estuary stretched vast and quiet around us, the only sounds the lap of water, distant gulls, and Paul’s soft breathing.
"Steve," Paul started.
I shifted against the rough wood floor of the rowing boat, careful not to wake him fully. His head rested heavily on my shoulder, breathing slowly and evenly.
"All these years living on this coast..." Paul murmured, his voice thick with sleep, "I never found anyone like you." He sighed, nestling deeper. The admission hung between us, raw and unexpected. "Since that very first time I saw you... standing naked in a pose for my uncle, I felt... something. Like a hook snagged deep inside," as his hand drifted absently across my chest, his fingertips tracing the line of my stomach. "Couldn't describe it then. Didn't dare try and now, I still can't describe it."
I stayed utterly still, absorbing his words, the warmth of him pressed against me. It explained the fierce challenge in his eyes that first day, the immediate hostility masking something else entirely. The mudbank seemed far away, the seals forgotten. Only his hesitant breaths against my skin mattered.
A flush crept up Paul’s neck. "Stupid, really," he mumbled, half-asleep again. "Thinking you’d just... understand."
"I didn’t," I whispered back. My fingers brushed sand from his temple. "Not at first. But I felt something too. In your uncle’s studio... the way you held me... it burned too hot not to hide something else. "I didn’t expect this, though, but I knew we had something, a connection."
"Is it possible, Steve, that I'm falling in love with you?"
The words hung, heavy as the estuary silt, muffled only by the creak of the rowing boat beneath us and the distant cry of a gull. Paul didn't move, his head still nestled against my collarbone, his confession seeming to drift up like mist from his half-slumbering state.
I didn't breathe. My arm tightened instinctively around him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my ribs. Falling in love? The phrase echoed, stark and terrifyingly real against the backdrop of salt-crusted wood, shared exhaustion, and the lingering phantom ache of our bodies entwined. It wasn't just the frantic coupling on the sandbar or the deliberate claiming against the hull witnessed by Ben's silent indifference. It was him, the fierce intellect masking vulnerability, the raw honesty beneath the artist's intensity, the way he saw something in my photography that Ben initially dismissed. The way he pushed, challenged, and then yielded utterly.
I shifted against the gritty hull, Paul's warmth seeping into me like a balm. The estuary sighed around us with the lapping water and sound of distant seals and gulls. "Perhaps," I breathed again, clinging to that fragile word.
"What do you feel, Steve? I sort of need to know, in case I'm reading vibes incorrectly," as his thumb absently traced circles on my sternum, sticky with dried cum, salt and cider.
The question lodged in my throat like a fishbone. I lay utterly still, eyes fixed on a water stain above us, blooming like some archipelago across weathered oak boards. His head remained heavy on my shoulder, breathing shallow, waiting. The confession bubbled in my mind...I feel it too, but fear clamped it down. Photography demanded solitude, detachment, weeks spent chasing dawn light across desolate marshes, sleeping in my van.
Could I anchor myself to Paul, to this wild coast, without drowning the drive that defined me?
"I feel it too, Paul," I whispered, the admission scraping out raw.
Paul lifted his head slowly, his eyes searching mine with unnerving clarity. "Uncle Ben," he began, his voice husky but deliberate, "he sketches connections. That's his art. The friction between bodies, the tension in the space shared." He gestured vaguely towards the mudbank where Ben still sat. "You capture... isolation. The starkness of a single dune against the sky. Opposites." His gaze held mine. "Doesn't mean they can't share the same frame, Steve. Your lens found me, and we made a connection."
"Wow, where did that come from? In fairness, though, your uncle found me. Perhaps Ben was supposed to find me....for you. I don't know, but I more than like you. I am relaxed about you. Every time I see you, my heart flutters, and every time you take me, I’m in heaven. I would never have pictured this, today, in my wildest dreams."
His fingers traced my jawline, rough with stubble. "Then don't picture it," he murmured. "Just feel it."
He leaned in, kissing me slowly, deeply, tasting of cider and salt and something indefinably Paul. My doubts dissolved like mist under the sun. When we broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against mine. "Stay tonight. Stay tomorrow. We'll figure out the rest together."
The 'stay bit' needed no explanation. Our tangled limbs, the drying mud, and the lingering ache of shared release were our reality as Ben capped his pencil deliberately. "Sun’s shifting," he announced, voice cutting the intimate silence. "Tide’s high enough. I'm going to walk back, and you boys can do as you decide," as he gestured towards the path snaking inland.
Paul groaned theatrically but slid off me, muscles protesting. As he stood and stretched, starkly nude against the estuary light, he shot me a look that promised the conversation wasn't over. "What do you want to do, Steve?"
I thought about it, and then said to Paul, knowing Ben would hear, "I want to stay naked with you and walk, explore and... make love." The decision felt simple, inevitable as the sunlight warmed my bare shoulders.
"Fair enough, boys,” Ben said. “I shall leave your clothes here. They should remain out of reach of the tide, but I can be sure, so perhaps you should hide them better, and I will see you back home," he announced as he picked up all his stuff and headed back towards Blakeney.
We watched him retreat, two silhouettes against the estuary glare. Alone, naked. The vastness of the salt marsh stretched around us, whispering with reeds and distant waterfowl. Paul stretched languidly, muscles rippling under sun-kissed skin, the mud-streaked perfection of him momentarily stealing my breath. "Exploration it is," he declared, a predatory grin spreading. "But no more talking. Not now," as he reached for my hand, his calloused palm rough against mine, fingers interlacing tightly. "Feel it."
We climbed awkwardly out of the rowing boat’s shallow hull, bare feet sinking into cool, yielding mud. Paul pointed towards a clump of bleached driftwood higher on the bank. "I'll stash our clothes there," he murmured. The spot was unmistakable, a stark landmark against the shifting greens and greys. Having hidden the all-important clothing, we committed the location to memory, essential practicality settled briefly, a counterpoint to the raw intimacy humming between us.
Hands still clasped, we turned towards Blakeney Point. The vast expanse of salt marsh stretched before us, a mosaic of glistening mud channels, whispering samphire, and whispering sea lavender. The tide was high, lapping hungrily at the marsh edges, leaving only a narrow ribbon of firmer sand and gravel between the reedbeds and the encroaching estuary. This became our path as we walked naked along the water’s edge, the cool wash swirling around our ankles with each gentle wave.
Our fingers remained intertwined, the weather wonderfully warm and sunny as our eyes scanned the distant shingle, the scattered clumps of sea buckthorn, constantly seeking any darker shape that might resolve into a human silhouette.
I was enjoying myself and then wondered, was he still out there, the disapproving man who had seen us? The memory made me tighten Paul’s grip momentarily. "Paul, do you think that guy's gone by now?"
"He must have moved on by now," Paul suggested. "Besides, there's no law against walking naked along the beach," his voice was rather throwing caution to the wind.
"Paul, there are laws against what we did earlier, but fuck it. Maybe we made his day," I replied, chuckling at the idea.
We walked on, footprints washing away instantly. The estuary narrowed at the point, its brackish scent sharpening as it met the cleaner brine of the North Sea. We reached the point, a confluence of worlds. Mudflats and sandbars surrendered to open water, the vastness of The Wash stretching silver-blue to the distant Lincolnshire coast. Seals bobbed offshore, dark heads like buoys. The sheer scale stole our breath; land yielding to endless sea. "Quiet," Paul whispered, squeezing my hand as if anchoring us both against the immensity.
We found a patch of sun-warmed sand and shingle sheltered by a low dune draped in marram grass. Without words, we sank to sit, Paul settling himself between my spread legs, facing the sea. I wrapped my arms firmly around his chest from behind, pulling him snug against me.
His back pressed flush against my chest, his heartbeat thudding against my forearms. My chin rested on his shoulder, our gaze fixed on the horizon where sky bled into water. The solid warmth of him, the familiar scent of salt and skin and exertion, filled my senses. For long moments, we simply existed, breathing in rhythm, watching seals dive and surface, the wind lifting spray like fleeting ghosts off the waves. "I feel so safe, Steve," he murmured, leaning back into the circle of my arms.
I kissed his shoulder in acknowledgement and then moved my right arm down his body, taking his cock in my hand. Beautifully hard and demanding, I started to rub his shaft, intent on forcing another orgasm from the man I was falling in love with.
Paul remained utterly still in my arms as I drew him closer to an orgasm, his breathing shallow and ragged against the crook of my arm. My fingers worked him steadily, slicked with the remnants of arousal and seawater, the ridged shaft hot and pulsing in my grip.
My thumb stroked the velvet-soft head rhythmically, tracing the neat circumcision scar I knew intimately now, feeling the tiny bead of pre-cum welling. His stillness felt profound, almost reverent, as if he was surrendering completely to the sensation, to the inevitability of the cresting wave.
I leaned in, pressing my lips to the heated skin where his neck met his shoulder, tasting salt. My hand moved faster, twisting slightly on the upstroke, relentless. "Let go," I breathed against his ear, feeling his entire body stiffen in response.
A deep shudder ran through him, starting from his core and radiating outwards like seismic ripples. His stillness was shattered. He gasped, sharp and involuntary, head snapping back against my shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. The orgasm tore through him silently at first, a violent internal upheaval, then erupted in ragged cries torn from deep within.
I felt it, the frantic pulse against my palm, the hot spurts of cum hitting my hand and his stomach, with the remaining spurts landing in his pubic hair. He turned his face into my neck, biting down softly on the tendon there, muffling a final, fractured groan.
Without a word, Paul twisted in my arms. A blur of sun-kissed skin and wiry muscle pushed me firmly onto my back onto the yielding shingle. Sand gritted against my shoulders as he settled himself, stretching his body between the length of my legs. His head nestled deliberately against my damp pubic hair, his cheek brushing my still-hard cock.
He inhaled deeply, a low hum vibrating against my skin. "Yum," he murmured. Then his mouth enveloped me, hot and wet and purposeful. There was no teasing preamble, only deep, insistent suction, his tongue working relentlessly along the underside of my shaft.
The sensation ripped through me. One hand braced firmly on my hip, anchoring me, the other curled possessively around the base of my cock, controlling the depth. He took me entirely, again and again, his nose pressing into my groin, his throat working around me. He was determined, focused solely on forcing a climax from my aching length, his own release still cooling on his belly mere inches away but covered in sand as he lay there, servicing my needs.
Time dissolved. My head on the shingle beach, eyes squeezed shut, surrendering utterly to the rhythm. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, a white-hot spring winding in my abdomen. My hips lifted involuntarily, thrusting deeper into that slick furnace. A low groan escaped me, drawn from deep within my chest. "Ohhh god, Paul... yes..."
I was building, unstoppable, my balls tightening fiercely against the onslaught of his determined mouth and then..."Hello, boys."
The words crashed into our intimacy like a sledgehammer striking glass. It was a hard voice, sharp-edged and thick with Norfolk accent. My eyes flew open, blinking against the sudden brightness. Framed against the bleached sky, standing atop the low dune we’d used as shelter, stood the stranger from earlier. The disapproving watcher. Paul froze instantly, his mouth releasing my cock with a slick pop that echoed obscenely in the sudden silence. Panic flared in his eyes as he scrambled back awkwardly, sand sticking to his wet thighs and cock.
"Don't stop because of me," he stated flatly, almost dispassionately. His gaze flicked over Paul's trembling form, then met mine, holding it. "Seen plenty of guys like you over the years, rutting like stoats on a public marsh.
Paul was kneeling in the sand, looking at him. I managed to get up, standing in front of him, my cock still fully erect. "Binoculars work both ways, lads, and I've been watching you ever since I saw you earlier."
He paused, letting the implication sink in as he sat down. "It seems the artist you were with got you all excited."
Shock paralysed me. The binoculars... he'd been watching us back at Ben's sketching spot? My skin crawled. Paul scrambled to his feet beside me, pressing close, his ragged breaths hot on my shoulder. The stranger remained seated, legs sprawled awkwardly on the dune slope like some spectator at a lewd show. He gestured dismissively at Paul. "Not shy anymore, boy, are you?"
"A bit late to be shy, I guess," Paul replied.
"I take it you two are an item from what I've been able to see so far," the stranger responded.
I remained silent, my erection wilting fast under his cold scrutiny. Paul straightened beside me. "We are," was all Paul said.
"In that case, why don't you continue what you were doing, as I watch?" the stranger suggested.
Paul shifted sideways, partially shielding himself behind me. "You're not angry with us, then?" Paul demanded.
"Not at all, lads. In fact, I was enjoying it and it was more exciting than watching fucking seals lying in the sun," he declared. "In fact, I was planning to knock one out while watching you."
Paul’s grip tightened on my arm as the stranger leaned back casually. "Why didn't you?"
“I wanted you to know I was watching. It's more exciting that way," he said.
"Oh," Paul responded to his statement. “I guess it is.”
"Tell you what, lads. Will it turn you back on if I strip off so we are all equals amongst men, as so to speak," he asked.
I felt Paul’s fingers dig into my arm, grounding me. His breath hitched against my shoulder. My gaze snapped from the stranger’s intense stare back to Paul’s face. Slowly, unwillingly, my focus dropped lower. My cock, wilting under the shock, stirred sluggishly against my thigh. The sight of Paul, sand-dusted, flushed, defenceless, and the raw memory of his mouth on me ignited a flicker of heat beneath the fear.
For the first time, I looked at the stranger, not just as a threat, but physically. Early fifties, I guessed, lean and ropey like men who worked the marshes. Average height, wiry muscles etched by salt and wind beneath his faded shirt. Then, unbidden and visceral, I had a thought. I wonder what his cock looks like. The thought felt intrusive yet primal, fuelled by adrenaline and the sheer audacity of his presence.
Beside me, Paul trembled, a fine quiver running through his arm pressed against mine. But I also felt the hot pulse of renewed arousal radiating from him, a counterpoint to my own stirring heat. The stranger’s gaze remained locked onto ours, expectant.
"Tell you what," I said, my voice rough but steady, surprising even myself. "If you want to watch... why not earn the privilege?" Paul sucked in a sharp breath. "You knock one out. Right here. Right now. Show us what you’ve got, and we will watch you."
The stranger’s eyes widened fractionally, then crinkled at the corners. Not a smile, exactly. More like predatory amusement as he slowly and deliberately stood up.
Paul slid his hand down my arm, interlacing our fingers once more as we sank onto the warm sand. We sat motionless, elbows resting on our knees, completely naked as the stranger began to unbutton his worn flannel shirt. He shrugged it off, revealing wiry arms mapped with faded tattoos, anchors and seabirds. Sunlight glinted off the silver hairs scattered across his chest. His fingers moved to his belt buckle, the rasp of leather unnaturally loud against the sigh of the estuary breeze.
His jeans slid down lean hips, discarded onto the dune. He stood finally in navy Marks & Spencer briefs, a thick ridge tenting the cotton, straining against the fabric. Holding our eyes, he hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband and pushed them down. His cock springing free, thick, uncut, and at half-mast, flushed pink against his tanned skin.
He stepped out of the briefs, kicked them aside, and settled himself onto the sand beside us with a deliberate grunt. "Happy?" he asked, his Norfolk accent thicker now, roughened by something like excitement as he leaned back onto his elbows, legs sprawled casually apart.
Paul didn't hesitate. He shifted forward onto his knees, closing the gap between the stranger. Before I could react, his hand was reaching out. Not tentatively, but with purpose. His fingers closed firmly around the stranger's thick shaft. "Let me stiffen that for you," Paul murmured, his voice low and surprisingly steady. His thumb brushed the foreskin taut over the bulbous head, coaxing it back with practised ease. The stranger emitted a sharp inhale, his hips lifting slightly off the sand. Paul’s hand moved steadily, rhythmically, twisting on the upstroke, palm cupping the heavy swell of balls on the return.
The sight was transfixing, Paul’s hand working the stranger’s cock to full, throbbing hardness, the ruddy flesh glistening under the sun. Yet Paul’s attention was split. His gaze flickered back to me, an unreadable intensity in his dark eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, Paul released the stranger’s erection, and without preamble, he leaned sideways towards me, placing his own hand beneath my now taut cock as the stranger took control of his own cock.
Paul’s mouth descended onto my cock with a low groan, engulfing the crown, then digging deep, tongue laving the underside with possessive insistence. My hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the damp strands as heat surged through my pelvis. Simultaneously, I heard a low grunt beside us. My eyes snapped sideways. The stranger was propped on one elbow, his roughened hand fisting his own thick shaft with slow, deliberate strokes. He was watching Paul’s head bobbing in my lap, his gaze predatory, mesmerised. His rhythm intensified, thumb flicking over his own glistening tip. The sounds mingled brutally, the wet suction of Paul’s mouth on me, the slick slide of the stranger’s hand on himself, the rasp of his own breathing growing jagged.
Paul shifted his weight, pressing closer against my thigh. The urgency in his sucking intensified, signalling my nearing climax. I tightened my grip on his hair, hips lifting instinctively. At the same moment, the stranger gasped sharply, his strokes becoming frantic, almost brutal. His head tilted back, tendons straining in his neck as a thick jet of semen arced onto his stomach, followed by pulses landing heavily on his stomach and pubic hair. He groaned deeply, the sound raw and primal, his eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t shoot like I used to at your age,” the stranger declared as he sat in recovery mode, watching us.
Paul didn’t pause. He kept driving me relentlessly towards release, his hand clutching my thigh possessively. Overwhelmed by the voyeurism and Paul’s fierce dedication, my climax hit violently. I cried out hoarsely as pulses erupted deep into Paul’s throat, his hips bucking uncontrollably. He swallowed convulsively, hungrily, holding me deep until the tremors subsided. Only then did he lift his head slowly, lips slick and swollen, gazing up at me with eyes dark and unfathomable. Behind him, the stranger lay panting, spent, staring blankly at the sky.
Paul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yum," he declared while tasting the last of me.
He climbed to his feet, offering me a hand up. The stranger remained motionless on the sand. "You lads... that was quite a show," he finally mumbled, pushing himself up slowly.
Paul’s expression hardened slightly. "Hope you enjoyed the show," as he turned away, tugging me up to stand.
"I enjoyed that very much," the stranger declared. "I guess you have to go now."
"Sorry, mate, but yes. The evening has expectations like I do, and we can't be late," Paul insisted. At that, Paul pulled my hand, leading the way. "Enjoy the memory, mate, and perhaps we might meet again."
The stranger watched us go, not speaking, clutching his discarded jeans. The vastness of the marsh pressed in once more as we walked back towards where we had left our clothes. "Pretty random," I said.
"You're fucking telling me," Paul responded, "but I sort of found it erotic someone watching. Not like Uncle Ben watching, but erotic all the same."
"I thought you were going to blow him," I stated.
"No chance. Happy to get him hard, but this mouth is only for you," he declared as he squeezed my hand.
We found our crumpled clothes nestled amongst the bleached driftwood pile. Dressing felt unnatural, as Paul helped me pull my shirt straight, his fingers lingering at the hem, brushing bare skin beneath. The walk back along the narrowing marsh path towards Blakeney, hand-in-hand, was perfect. The incident with the stranger evaporated like mist, replaced by the warm press of Paul’s hand against mine.
My hotel loomed ahead, its old facade glowing warmly in the golden evening light. We paused on the pavement, our feet gritty with sand still trapped between our toes despite the long walk back. "Can I come up?" Paul asked, the question hung, simple yet freighted with the weight of everything unsaid since the dunes. Before I could answer, he added smoothly, "I'd like to see your photos." A thin pretext, but his smirk acknowledged it. His gaze dropped pointedly to my lips. "The whole album, raw and intimate."
"Of course you can, but only the raw and intimate ones...capturing the contours of natural bodies in the land," at which Paul smiled, the innuendo not missed.
The room was warm and inviting as I closed the room door behind us, when Paul surged against me. His hands gripped my hips fiercely, spinning me abruptly to face the rough wood panelling. His body slammed flush against my back, pinning me. Hot breath scalded my ear. "I fucking want you, Steve. Right here. Now."
All I could say before Paul turned me towards the bed was, "I'm yours."
His urgency pulsed through every frantic movement. Before I could kick off my shoes, his hands shoved me face-first onto the duvet. The starched cotton smell filled my nostrils as I gasped. Deft fingers yanked my shorts down my thighs, followed by the elastic waistband of my Y-fronts, trapping them at my ankles until he gave them both a yank and they were off.
I twisted, flipping onto my back. "Paul"
He silenced me with his weight, pinning my hips as he climbed atop me. My partial nudity wasn't his focus. His breath hitched, lips crashing against mine in a bruising, desperate kiss that tasted of salt, cum and cider. One hand tangled in my hair, anchoring me. The other fumbled at his shorts, but I took over, urgently undoing the buttons and forcing them along with his briefs over his bottom. With agonising slowness, he pulled his faded shirt over his head, muscles flexing, revealing the familiar lean torso, still dusted with estuary sand as he kicked his shorts and briefs off the end of his legs.
He broke the kiss, hovering inches above me, eyes dilated, lips swollen. "Guess what I nicked?" A sly grin spread across his face as he produced the familiar tube of K-Y Jelly from his crumpled shorts pocket. Triumph flashed in his eyes. "Ben won't miss it, considering he brought it for us to use." The plastic cap clicked open. Cool, slick fingers circled my entrance without preamble, stretching me with impatient precision. I arched off the bed, groaning into the quiet room as my need for Paul to take me overtook everything else.
"No teasing," he growled as he managed to remove my shirt. Slicking himself liberally with thick, translucent gel, his cock pressed against me, blunt and insistent, demanding access. I lifted my legs over his shoulders, and within seconds, he guided himself in with one brutal thrust.
The invasion stole my breath. Paul hadn't fucked me yet, but he was going to now as I felt a welcome burn yielding to fullness. His hips slammed flush against me, burying himself to the hilt. "Fuck, Steve…" His voice cracked. He stilled, shuddering, forehead pressed to my spine. For a heartbeat, silence hung thick. Then movement, deep, punishing strokes that rocked the bedframe against the wall. The rhythmic thud, the slick slap of skin on skin, as I felt him, taking me.
He fucked me like claiming territory. Possessive. Necessary. Rough and loving. His fingers dug bruise-deep into my hips, dragging me back onto him with every plunge. Pleasure coiled tighter, winding with the sting of friction. Outside, the distant cry of gulls mingled with our ragged breathing. He pressed his mouth to my shoulder blade, teeth scraping. "Mine," he rasped against sweat-slick skin. "All fucking mine and I love you."
Then, without warning, the rhythm fractured. He eased out almost entirely. Just the slick pressure of his swollen tip lingered at my entrance. His breath hitched, ragged. I felt his trembling stillness, not retreat, but transformation. His palm slid slowly up my chest, pressing flat, as if anchoring himself against a sudden surge of overwhelming emotion. He kissed my neck gently. The urgency gone, replaced by something dense and profound.
He eased back in. One deliberate, breathtaking inch. Agonisingly slow. Luxurious. He stayed there, trembling. "Look at me," he murmured, his voice thickened. "Please." It was a plea stripped bare. I did as ordered, his face swimming into view above me, eyes wide, vulnerable, dark pools reflecting the dimming light filtering through the hotel window. Tear tracks gleamed faintly on his dusty cheeks. "I need to see you," he breathed. "I need to see you feeling this, knowing I love you."
“I love you too, Paul,” I said, as I savoured every fraction of his penetration, his movement now almost a sacrament. His thrusts deepened, measured, staying deep within me for long moments before retreating only to fill me again. "Feel it, Steve," he whispered, lips brushing mine. "Feel… us. Don’t think. Just enjoy us being together." His next thrust rolled through us both, a deep wave cresting slowly. "Just feel me making love to you."
“I feel you, Paul, I really feel you,” was all I could say as he withdrew again, almost leaving me, then returned with that same unhurried reverence.
His hips moved in a new cadence, long, rolling waves instead of hammering strikes. Each motion lingered, explored. He filled me, holding himself deep, a profound anchor. Not claiming but belonging. Together. His trembling intensified, but it wasn't exertion now; it was raw, exposed feeling. His eyes shone, locked onto mine. The fierce possessiveness melted into a bewildering vulnerability, open and vast as the marsh outside.
He kissed me deeply, tasting of salt and exhaustion and something pure. "I love you," he breathed against my lips, again. I arched beneath him, surrendering utterly. This wasn't just sex. This was the deep-water place Paul had spoken of. Felt, not spoken. Real. Necessary. My arms wrapped fiercely around him, pulling him deeper still. Home. Safe. Loved. "I feel it," I gasped into the hollow of his throat. "God, Paul… I feel it all."
Every slow, deliberate thrust resonated through me. I could tell he was getting closer, the subtle tremor in his thighs braced beside my hips, the shift from measured control towards a heavier, urgent pulse buried deep within me. Each withdrawal became shallower, lingering less, returning faster, driven now by a primal urgency I felt echoing in my own tightening core. His fingers tightened on my hips, knuckles white against my skin. The fire it ignited wasn't just arousal; it was fierce protectiveness, an aching need to hold him, keep him, claim him back entirely. I wanted him more. Needed him deeper, closer, fused into my bones. "Harder," I pleaded, clutching his sweat-slicked back. "Please…"
His growl vibrated against my chest as his control dissolved. "Steve!" His cry ripped through the stillness, raw and beautiful. He buried himself impossibly deep, hips grinding against me. A violent shudder tore through him, echoed instantly in my own body.
His eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream. I felt the hot, liquid pulse deep inside me, wave after wave timed with the frantic rhythm of his hips. It triggered my own explosion. White heat shattered behind my eyelids. I arched violently, crying out his name as pulses tore through me, spattering hot between our pressed stomachs. Ecstasy wasn't bright; it was blinding darkness, all-consuming.
He slumped onto me, trembling uncontrollably. His face burrowed into the damp pillow beside my head. Soft, choked sounds escaped him; exhaustion, relief, awe. His softening cock slipped free, leaving a warm wetness trailing down my thigh. Weakness flooded me, liquid and profound. My arms were leaden, barely clinging to him.
He lifted his head slowly, blinking as if surfacing. Dusty tear tracks carved paths through the mess on his cheeks. His swollen lips curved into the faintest, exhausted smile. "Bloody hell," he rasped, voice shredded. His smile widened, crinkling the skin around his impossibly warm eyes. "I definitely felt that..."
He shook his head slowly, words failing. He simply kissed me. Soft. Lingering. A benediction. "Steve." My name, barely a whisper, held the universe as he nestled his head back onto my shoulder, breath slowing, evening into a deep, exhausted rhythm against my skin. His weight, heavy and warm, was the only anchor I needed. The silence deepened, wrapping around us like the worn hotel quilt.
As we recovered, I nudged his head gently. He shifted, blinking drowsily up at me. "Fancy seeing those photographs now?" I asked.
A flicker of familiar mischief sparked in his eyes, chased by genuine curiosity. "Thought you'd never ask," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. He stretched languidly, a symphony of lean muscle and lingering sand grains. "The raw and intimate ones. Exactly as advertised."
He didn't move off me. Instead, he shifted sideways, pulling my laptop onto the rumpled bed between us. Skin still sticking slightly where sweat, sand, and K-Y mingled, as we lay naked amidst the tangled duvet. My fingers shook slightly as I navigated to my website. The stark, curated galleries felt suddenly alien. Grey Dartmoor tors, mist-shrouded Scottish lochs, compared to the raw heat still humming beneath my skin. Paul leaned close, his shoulder pressing into mine. "Start with the landscapes," he commanded softly, "Show me where you get lost," as his finger traced a ridge on my stomach.
We spent the next hour like that. Bodies nestled together, the laptop screen casting a flickering blue light. He asked probing questions about composition, about the moment I pressed the shutter.
He leaned heavier against me, warm and solid. Comfortable silence lingered. Then he sighed while stretching. "Best be getting home," he murmured, regret colouring his tone. He shifted slowly, disentangling limbs sticky with dried sweat and cooling K-Y. His hands rubbed my bare hip. "Uncle Ben will want supper." The sudden shift felt abrupt. Jarring. The warm intimacy shattered like the laptop screen snapping shut.
"I need to eat too," I heard myself say, my voice flat. The gnawing emptiness in my stomach suddenly sharpened. "And a shower, also."
The cooling sweat clinging to my skin felt grimy now, intimate relics turning sour. "I'll see you later, but why don't you come to the pub, and we can have a drink and continue the tour of my website?"
"Yeah," Paul replied, already swinging his legs off the bed, excitement about the hastily made plans building in him. He gathered his discarded clothes and quickly dressed. "Definitely, after dinner."
He jumped back on the bed and kissed me goodbye. "Make sure you clean this," as his fingers played with my flaccid cock. "I want it clean for later."
"Don't worry, I will," and at that, he jumped off the bed and walked out of my room, closing the door behind, as the latch clicked softly shut.
The silence rushed in, thick and suffocating. The room still smelled intensely of us, sex, sweat, and Paul’s skin, overlaid now with the faint ozone tang from the laptop charger. The crumpled duvet mocked me, holding the deep impressions where our bodies had lain tangled only minutes before.
I managed to climb off the bed and walked to the window, opening it wide. Fresh air was required, if only to cool my thoughts as I walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
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