He's invited me to go fishing with him, this well defined, gym using Albanian guy from the village. I hate fishing but I love the idea of seeing him in just swimming shorts so I say yes. We arrange to meet at seven in the evening, seems a bit late for fishing so maybe he has an ulterior motive. I hope but doubt.

He arrives at the appointed place at the appointed time on his motorbike; old, battered and noisy. I climb on feeling a little nervous. Not only at the journey into dusk but at the prospect of what may come. He tells me to hold on and I search behind for a back rest. There is none, hardly surprising on this ancient machine. Without warning he pulls away, I shoot backwards but grab forwards; my arms wrap around his hard body. I feel his torso through his shirt. I swear, he laughs and says something I don't understand. It doesn't matter - I can no longer hear anything but the rush of wind and the screaming engine.

We climb up into the mountain away from the beaches and across the island through the deserted pine forests. We pass only one other vehicle. A Farmer heading back to the village for a drink I guess. We turn off the road and onto a track and I know now where we are going. Down to a quiet, rocky bay where there is no taverna, no facilities, no people. I assume the fishing is good there.

Despite the encroaching dusk and the cool wind of motion I am sweating as soon as the bike stops and we clamber off. His face is flushed now from the air, his smooth cheeks rosy and his eyes alive with the thrill of the drive. It is still hot, even at the time of evening and I look forward to the cool water.

We scramble down an incline to find an inlet. Tall cliffs rise up on either side, large rocks shield us from the shore. We are alone. The fishing is good here he says.

And then the time has come to change. I have my trunks on beneath my shorts. I remove everything but my trunks. He changes too, shamelessly stripping but shyly turning his back to me. It's o.k. He can't see me admiring his smooth backside. He doesn't see me watching as he bends to step into his shorts, he doesn't know that as he bends I glimpse his balls, one hanging lower that the other, dangling between his legs. As he straightens up I turn away, looking out to the darkening sea.

He assembles some gear, a harpoon, snorkel and a torch and picks his way over the rocks. I follow, stones digging into my feet, the vision of his muscled torso imprinting itself into my eyes. I am instructed to follow and keep close behind. He does not know how close behind I would like to be. I put on my mask and snorkel, the world now seen through plastic. I hold the image of his backside in my head and we drop into the water.

All I hear now is the sound of my own breathing through the snorkel and the white noise rush of the water as it churns above me. I look around for the torch light and see it cut a beam through the dark water. Above us the night has fallen, closed in and the sea is now black.

He waves back at me and heads off along the shore line. I follow obediently, the wake from his gentle kicking blurring my vision. But I can see the light and I follow close.

After a short swim he stops and treads water, I catch up. We exchange a look, exhilaration maybe, the water is cold, salty. We look around the bay, deserted, a marble black sea. He places a finger to his mouth, shh, keep quiet. I nod. He floats on his front and I float near him. Below in the darkness I see nothing but a thin laser light from his torch. Something long and sleek flashes through it. He shoulders his harpoon. The fish darts away, to live another day. And then another takes the same route. He fires. He misses. He breaks the surface again.

We hang there suspended in water, black below, black above, as he reels in his harpoon. He resets it and nods towards the shore. We float and swim that way. I follow close, beside him now, watching the jagged beam of light as it cuts through the water. There is a sudden swirl, a panic of water and bubbles, a sharp movement to my left and I feel his elbow hit my face.

I surface, rip off my mask and gasp for air, sea water spits from my mouth and I gag. He is gone, somewhere below, somewhere in that endless night that is the ocean beneath us.

And then he is back. Breaking the surface beside me like Poseidon, his spear held high. Impaled on the end is a large, thrashing fish. He is triumphant - the warrior - the hunter gatherer - he has caught us food. But his expression changes when he shines the torch on me.

We are back on land now, on a flat piece of cool rock. The catch and the equipment discarded beside us. He is tending to my face, a small cut only. His rough skinned fingers have been made softer by the water but I still flinch as they wipe away a smear of blood. I tell him not to worry, he tells me he wants to. He shifts his position, one knee bends up and rests against my leg. It is awkward. I open my legs to give him more room. He slides closer in, I bend my leg and my foot rests under his knee. He is wet and cold, but beneath the isthmus of moisture his flesh is warm. He leans into me, shines the torch at me and decides that it is nothing. I will live.

He rests one hand on my shoulder and uses the other to turn my face, he is checking for other injuries. He will not find any but it offers me the chance to look down and, in the spill of the torch light, I catch the outline of what is in his shorts. The material has become baggy with the weight of water, his balls stretch it down, creating dark patches where they press against the light material. To one side lies a short but heavy cock, I can almost see the pink of the head above the ridge.

My face is turned back to face him. He cups my head in both his hands and nods. I nod back. Everything is fine and he's caught his fish.

He is sitting between my open legs, facing me, holding my head in his hands. I am breathing fast and heavier than I would like, I am giving myself away. And he is staring into my eyes, the torch to one side casts strange shadows across his face. But I think he is smiling.

I feel pressure on my skin, he wants me to move, to lie back. I obey, our eyes fixed. His hands slip easily around my shoulders as he lowers me tenderly down. He slides his legs between mine as they part for him. I feel the cold rock under my back and gasp. I feel his stiffening cock against mine and I gasp again. I feel his lips touch mine and I make no sound. I feel his powerful back with my trembling hands, cautiously I lower them, feel his spine, reach as low as I can until my fingers slip under the sodden band of his shorts. His tongue is in me. His lips are soft and taste of salt. His backside is as solid as the rock that supports me, as smooth as the flat sea beside us.

My fingers move towards their goal, their tips daring deeper until I touch on wrinkled flesh. As I touch him there he presses his lips harder against me and moans. He has given me his permission. He slides his body further up mine allowing me more room and my finger penetrates without restriction. I cup his small, solid backside and circle inside him as his rigid cock presses as desperately as his lips against me.

He sits back, still looking at me. The moon is rising behind a mountain. A silver light scuds over the cliff and the water that still clings to him sparkles as he removes his shorts. I make to remove mine. He stops me and does it for me. And then he is over me again, crouched like a frog with his strong legs on either side, his balls squashed against my stomach, his cock hot and hard above them. Expertly he slides once more, downwards, as our lips meet again. I feel his hand on my cock, guiding it. Without breaking his movement I feel it pressed against a warm barrier; but there is little resistance as it breaks through. He continues down, our wet bodies slithering into place, until his hairless balls are pressed against my pubes and my cock is bathed in his deep warmth.

He is filled, I am in him. I imagine his small arse glowing white in the moonlight as my dark shaft is buried into him, his hole stretched wide and willing.

It feels good here, it feels right. Open air, silver moon, calmly lapping sea at our side. Night rhythms; the ocean to the shore and flesh to flesh. And we move as calmly as the sea, as slowly as the tide. There is no approaching storm, no build up, nothing breaks the continuous, gentle rhythm. As I slide in him so he slides on me, his cock feels fatter now, harder and hotter. But still we move slowly, perfectly timed bodies against each other as friction builds.

Until I feel a subtle twitch and a new warmth holds our bodies together. He kisses me harder, gasps once and bites gently at my lip. I hear him restrain a cry as the heat between us intensifies. I grip his thighs, it is like I am trying to push him away but keep him close at the same time. I can not break the rhythm, the spell, I can not call out and I am grateful for the firmness of his kisses as I empty myself over and over again deep into him.

The rhythm continues until I know there can be no more. Slowly we come to a stop, unlike the sea which continues to finger the rocks beneath us. His breathing slows as he lays his head on my shoulder and I slide out of him. There is a subtle kiss of cool night air on my spent, warm cock.

I feel nothing after that except his hard body lying over me and his soft breath on my cheek.

I hear only his breathing, and the sea in its calming, ceaseless motion.

I see nothing but the image of us caught in the neon white of the moon, smooth wet flesh glistening in a world asleep.


Edward James

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