He came to me with a margarita. He was brown and tall, with short hair and a very tidy pair of swim trunks that could have doubled for underwear or stripper props. His hips were narrow, the bones cradling the muscles of his walnut-colored stomach. His shoulders were the sort that might carry the carcass of an antelope across the arid grasslands for a week, without complaint. I met him that morning, in the breakfast nook, off the pool. The sun was three fingers above the horizon and we were the first to stir.
“Coffee?” he asked.
I was alone. The morning Wall Street was before me. The air was warm and humid, even at 8:00 a.m. This was, after all, Jamaica.
I reached for the margarita and looked him up and down. “No thanks, this will do.”
I took a sip and slowly licked the salt off my lips, then looked back down at the paper. The Dow Jones had taken a dip due to some bullshit statement from the Fed. Some idiots in some frumpy little third world dive had taken some hostages. A minor internet upstart was overvalued. Some actor I’d never heard of had died at age 99. The humidity was soaking into my skin. My red toenails were glistening, my sarong was lying next to the beach chair. The margarita was almost gone when “cabana boy” walked over to see if I wanted a refresher. Conscientious fellow that he was, he carried a mister filled with cool water.
“Would you enjoy some coolness, miss?” he asked. A bead of sweat was running down his cocao chest. I set the paper to the side and took off my glasses. My feet fell to the sides of the lounger. “Sure, hon,” I replied. I closed my eyes and reveled in the fine mist that my morning slave sprayed all over my naked body. Beads of water coated my breasts and tummy and thighs and delightful labia. When I was coated in sparkling liquid, Mr. Cabana asked if I’d like a refill on the margarita. It took me a moment to regain my grasp on reality. When I opened my eyes, my gaze instinctively fell on the fullness of his trunks. Not daring to look into his eyes, I answered, “Sure, hon.”
The rising sun, the rising heat, the rising desire, the rising fantasies…I lost interest in that damned paper and the rest of the world. I just sighed and sank deeper into the lounge chair, waiting for Adonis to come back with my drink. After all, I was at this place to let go of the rest of my life. Twenty years behind a desk, staring out high rise office windows at life, had left me thirsty for a different and more basic reality. I’d had my shot at men in silk suits and patent leather shoes. I’d actually had a few shoot in and all over me. It was fun, but it wasn’t what I wanted. After all, a hard dick is not always an adventure. I owned my own business, back in the states. Here, I wanted someone to own my business, and I didn’t really care how they did it.
Before my little buddy returned with my second drink of the morning, Cece and her very nice-looking companion padded across the flag stones bordering the pool and settled in next to me. Cece was dark-skinned and small. Her companion was milky white and leggy, with tits that were natural and showing a little use. Still, those nipples stood tall and proud. I had met Cece the evening before, in the piano bar. She was young and adventurous and had booked a flight to Jamaica after her bonehead boyfriend had fucked some high-schooler in a drunken stupor. Cece had a score to settle, and wanted photos to prove it. She apparently found someone to assist her. Her name was Mica and she had an added benefit in her ability to speak French.
“Did ya get any?” she asked, nonchalantly, gazing out across the smooth water of the bay through her oversized sunglasses. Her left hand traced Mica’s right thigh as she spoke. Mica was available.
“Naw,” I replied, but I’m workin’ on it. Just then, Mr. Booty headed my way with the drink I’d ordered. His thighs were remarkable. Long and sinewy, I imagined that they could drive rivets through steel girders. And that stomach…I really didn’t care whether he was making beans and had no health care benefits. That stomach could bounce a cement block dropped from the top of my condo.
“Here you are, miss,” he said, politely, while trying to keep his gaze on my eyes.
I reached for the margarita. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Antoine,” he replied, confidently.
I doubted that he was stupid enough to give me his real name, but I played along. “So, Antoine,” I purred, “where does a woman, like me, find a perfect beast like you?”
If a Jamaican can visibly blush, Antoine did. While he was formulating his young male testosterone answer, I spread my legs and reached over to run my fingernails down Cece’s right shoulder. She giggled.
Antoine regained his confidence and announced, “We have a competition, this afternoon, down on the beach. You should be a part of that.”
“Oh,” I said, “and what sort of competition is that?”
Antoine took a moment before replying. His smile was intoxicating. It took over his whole face. I thought the bulge in his pants looked a bit larger.
“Miss…you will do quite well.” He looked at Cece and Mica and ran his thumbs under the waistband of his trunks. “I think you may win,” he said, glancing back my way. “The competition starts at three.” Then, turning back toward my neighbors, he asked, “Ladies, may I get you something from the bar?”
Mica asked for scotch on the rocks, not a bad call for breakfast. Cece doubled the order. Mr. Hotstuff turned to retrieve the drinks.
“I think you’re meat, baby,” Cece said, looking at me with a Cheshire grin. She spread her legs a bit to allow my roving hand to explore her oiled and warming skin.
I decided to force some issues. “Hey Mica, let’s see who’s meat.” I leaned over and kissed Cece and plunged my hand into her crotch. Mica ran her hands over Cece’s breasts and stomach. Nothin’ like hot sun, warm skin, oil, the smell of the ocean and booze to get a morning off to a great start. By the time the scotch showed up on the scene, Cece was spread wide with her arms thrown up over her head. She gazed through her sunglasses at Antoine and came like a bronco, coating my hand with her juice. Antoine waited, patiently, until she settled into her lounge chair, then offered her scotch. The outlines of his long cock were readily visible and he took evident pleasure in showing them off as he handed Cece and Mica their refreshments.
“You will all do quite well, this afternoon,” he said with a broad ivory smile.
I use photos, sometimes, to help illustrate the sexual emotions I'm trying to evoke in my writing. Sometimes, they add to the artistic expression. Sometimes, they detract. But, when it comes down to it, the pictures really exist inside of each one of us. Eroticism is in the mind, after all. And the photos in our minds are often more vivid and more meaningful and more fulfilling. So, here's a photograph in my mind...
The place is buzzing. It's on a dry and dusty playa. Dance music is blaring. Costumed people, half-costumed people, naked and half-naked people are grinding to the beat. The place is sweaty and dirty. It reeks of horomones and pheromones and herbal smoke. The room of dancers is below us. We watch from a balcony, rubbing our skins together. She wears a short skirt and dusty boots. My hands cup her naked breasts. The beat, the heat, the animal odor, the love...it's as thick as tapioca pudding and as warm as summer honey. When I slide the skirt off, over her gyrating hips, she allows it without a break in the movement of her sensual body. When I press my cock into her, we dance.
“You couldn’t hit that hole if it was on your forehead,” she said, cradling the cue stick in the crook of her elbow. He grinned, widely, and took aim at the 4-ball at the far end of the table. Her trash talk was fun, but distracting. Or, maybe, it was knowing that she wore nothing under that paper-thin tube dress that was interrupting his concentration.
He drew his cue back and sent the cue ball rolling. It was off line, and the four caromed off the cushion, inches from the pocket. She giggled as she saw the frustration etched on his face. She took a sip of Maker’s and fondled a breast until the nipple hardened. “I guess it’s my turn,” she said, smugly.
Tuesday nights, at the Golden Globe Tavern, was usually pretty slow. Billy and Daisy picked Tuesday as their weekly pool tournament night. The Golden Globe, or “GiGi” as the regulars called it, was a sleazy little neighborhood hangout that hid all of its filth and flaws in dim, windowless, light. With faux Persian carpeting over concrete, band poster-covered dark wood walls, ceiling-mounted stereo speakers and four regulation pool tables, the GiGi had survived decades of dry rot, carpenter ants, spilled beer, puke and human debauchery. Billy and Daisy knew most of the clientele and had befriended the staff. It was their kind of place.
Daisy sauntered up to the table. She was ahead in the 8-ball tournament, with one win out of the usual 9-game match. In this game, Billy had two balls on the table and she had four. The Budweiser pool lamp glared down on the stained and ragged green felt of the table. Daisy stood against the table, eyeing the arrangement of the balls, chalking up her stick. Her breasts jutted into the bright light. The Stones’ “Start Me Up” blasted through the speakers and the clinking of glassware behind the bar.
Billy stood on the other side of the table, glass in hand. Daisy decided to start her run with the 11-ball in the side pocket. It was a straight-in shot, no slop. She flashed a grin at Billy and bent at the waist. The weight of her tits pushed the slight fabric of her dress away from her chest and Billy stared into the naked tunnel of her cleavage as she took a bead on the cue ball. She snapped the cue ball against the 11, drove the 11 home and stopped the cue ball dead, all lined up for the next shot.
Daisy moved around to the end of the table, bent over and tapped a gentle push down the slate to the 14-ball. In it dropped. Tie game.
Daisy stood and slinked up to Billy. She pressed her soft body into his and kissed him. He reached around to grab her ass and pull her closer. “You’re so fucking hot,” he growled. “Wanna fuck?”
Daisy suddenly felt a familiar jolt in her abdomen, followed by a damp warmth between her legs. “Tell ya what, pool boy,” she purred, “you win, you call.”
“You’re totally on, bitch,” Billy said, grabbing Daisy’s pussy. “What if you win?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Daisy’s next shot rammed the 9-ball home. After that, the 13 skirted by the 8-ball and left a nice little side pocket shot for the second win. Billy just had to watch the game run away from him. “Rack’em, pool boy!” Daisy ordered, as she stood back away from the table. “That’s two, zip, baby.”
Billy scooped the balls into the rack. “You’re goin’ down, bitch,” he said.
Daisy lined up for the break. She had a smirk on her face as she bent over the cue ball. “Yeah, I know.”
The cue ball crashed into the rack and balls scattered all over the table. It was a good break, but nothing went down. “Open table,” Daisy announced. She walked over to her whiskey and took a sip. “See if you can get it in the hole, stud,” she pimped. She kicked off her pumps and wiggled her toes as she watched Billy go to work. The whiskey was making her nice and warm, inside. In between shots, Billy glanced over her way. She hooked a finger under the hem of her dress and pulled it up until Billy could get a good view of her naked pussy. She giggled and took another draw on her whiskey. “Get busy,” she said.
Billy did as told and ran the table. One after another, the stripes disappeared off the felt. As Billy bent into the last shot at the 8-ball, Daisy came up behind him and reached between his legs. At first, Billy was distracted. Then, as Daisy rolled his nuts in her hand, he drove the 8-ball home and won the game.
“Wow,” Daisy said, stepping back. “That was some concentration!”
“Rack’em, pool girl!” Billy ordered. He walked over to the table where his drink sat and reclined in the chair. After Daisy had racked up the balls, good and tight, he commanded, “Come over here.” Reaching into the front of his unzipped jeans, he pulled out his cock. “See if you know what to do with this,” he taunted.
Daisy looked around the bar, nervously. No one seemed to be paying much attention. She padded over to Billy and bent over him, sucking his dick into her mouth. Bending over that far, made her dress pull up high over her bare ass. Billy slid a wet finger into her pussy. He pumped in and out of her a couple of times, then pushed her away, tucking his semi-turgid stick back into his pants. “Guess I’d better shoot,” he said with a sly grin. “I’m comin’ back.”
Billy stood up and started to move toward the table. Daisy grabbed the crotch of his pants and planted a big kiss on his mouth. “God, I want that,” she growled.
“Don’t worry, you little slut, you’re gonna get it.”
“Step away, little girl…I got work to do.”
Billy walked up to the table, aimed the cue ball and smashed it into the lead ball. A good break, balls scattered evenly across the green. But, again, nothing went in. Daisy’s turn. She assessed the sequence and stepped up to the task. She rolled the top of her dress down until her breasts popped out, then bent over the table. This got the attention of a few of the patrons, and they called out, egging her on. That’s the reaction she was hoping for. The 1-ball was Daisy’s first victim. Down it went and the cue ball banked off the cushion, in place for the next shot at the 6-ball. Daisy took steady aim, but missed. She rose up and walked over to her whiskey, feeling bold and a little drunk. In the shadowy lighting of the bar, she could sit back in her chair and play with herself while she watched her man circle the pool table like a cat.
By the time Billy had emptied the table of about three of the stripes, Daisy was all worked up. She was slow in getting out of her chair to go take the next shot. Her dress was down around her waist, but she was comfortably oblivious to how she looked as she bent over to take a shot at the 6-ball again. Billy was more than happy to stand behind Daisy and admire her wet clam as her dress rode up over the curves of her ass. The 6-ball rolled into the corner pocket and Daisy stood up.
“Take it off!” someone shouted from across the bar. It took a couple seconds for the plea to sink into Daisy’s consciousness. Once it registered, however, Daisy was quite happy to comply. Off the dress came, and Daisy stood naked in the bar, pool stick in hand, a wickedly delicious grin on her face.
“Like that?” she shouted back. A cheer went up from the bar, accompanied by a smattering of enthusiastic applause. Daisy returned to the game. The 2-ball was next. Daisy took her time, bending over the table, aiming the cue ball. Her ass gleamed in the harsh light of the pool table lamp. Her brain was swimming with excitement. The 2-ball missed the mark and Daisy returned to her chair.
Not to be outdone by his companion, Billy removed his shirt. His taut muscles and thinly-haired chest rippled beneath the light. Daisy’s legs instinctively splayed as she watched him circle the table, making shot after shot. Finally, Billy had the stripes off the table, and was zeroing in on the final shot of the game. “Take it off!” a female hollered from the bar. Billy backed away from the table and peered out toward the bar. Apparently, he and Daisy had become the center of attention at that point. All eyes were on him as he set his pool cue on the table, unbuckled his belt ceremoniously, and stripped his pants off. Hoots and hollers filled the GiGi as he swung his cock in his hand, pumped his hips for the benefit of the crowd, then stepped back up to the table.
He was about to make the shot, when Daisy called out from the sidelines, “You couldn’t hit that hole if it was on your forehead.”
Billy looked over and started laughing. “Watch and learn,” he shot back.
Bam! The 8-ball in the side pocket wrapped up game number four. “Tied up,” Billy announced, as he turned and leaned his bare ass against the table. “Rack’em, pool girl!” Fuck Pool!
Daisy got up out of her chair and walked, seductively, over to Billy, fell to her knees and gulped his cock deep into her throat. A cheer went up from the bar. The Eagles “Take It To The Limit” blared over the speakers. Daisy held Billy’s cock in her throat and looked into his eyes, the corners of her mouth upturned in a shit-eatin’ grin. He started to harden, filling her mouth with hot meat until she had to back off. People with beers in hand started moving into place around the pool tables, watching from the shadows as Daisy started to work Billy’s stick from head to root. Billy leaned back, his stomach tight, his ass clenched. Daisy’s hungry saliva dripped off his balls onto the faux Persian carpet. When Billy’s pecker was like the wood of a pool cue, Daisy rose up and, clutching his nuts in her hand, ordered, “Fuck me!”
“Let’s see if I can hit that hole,” Billy said. He grabbed Daisy, and spun around behind her and, in one deft move, grabbed her hair and pushed her over the table and impaled her from behind. His cock slammed into her, and the excited onlookers shouted their approval. Daisy’s tits were squashed on the green felt and she drooled onto the table while Billy’s long strokes drove his balls against her labia, slapping again and again until Daisy’s ass squeezed her first orgasm out of her throat. A chant went up from the room. “Fuck her! Fuck her! Fuck her! Fuck her!” Billy rammed into Daisy like a machine. Joan Jett was cranking out “I Love Rock & Roll” on the Bose speakers. Daisy came in screams, her cum running down the insides of her legs. Billy slapped Daisy’s ass cheeks until they glowed in the spotlight. He drove his long, straight, strokes with backspin, right-hand English, left-hand English, sending the balls back to the whole until he couldn’t take it any more. He pulled out and, to the roaring approval of the GiGi patrons, spewed his talcum sperm all over Daisy’s ass. When the last dribble dropped off the tip of his cock and into Daisy’s crack, Billy bent over Daisy’s heaving body and he whispered in her ear, “Fuck pool.”
It wasn’t too long after his surgery that he was able to use his cock again. It was painful, at first, and he closed his eyes, tightly, when the thin juice of his balls flowed out of him in spasmodic dribbles. After the initial novelty of the post-prostate experience, he began to settle into the disconcerting change in his orgasmic feelings. Instead of blasting quantities of thick, white, jism into space, his dick just leaked clear and sticky stuff while he ground his hips in rhythm to a deeply gripping, muscular, series of contractions. It was, as he was told, more female-like. Over time, as the clarity of the memory of his pre-surgery orgasmic sensations waned, he began to enjoy the depth of his transformation. One thing, in particular, was exciting. He found that by rapidly rubbing his frenulum, he could trigger an orgasm in the most covert manner. He quickly learned that he could secretly cum, under the table at meetings, or on the plane, or in the back seat of cars. Other than a moment of silence, and a flush of the skin on his face, there were no outward indications of what was going on in his pants. It was delightful, having this option. After all, the volume of his ejaculate was not so much that it would soak through the fabric of what he was wearing. But, the intensity of his orgasm was tremendously satisfying. He quickly became addicted to the feeling and the depraved excitement of it all. He was a newly-born pervert, and it was such a gratifying feeling to have beaten death and be left with the means to experience such naughty joy. He squirted into his pants at work, behind his desk. He did it in bathrooms and bars. He imagined that his sensual situation was akin to that of a woman with a dildo implanted in her pussy, vibrating constantly. Unfortunately, as time progressed and the sensitivity of the nerves impacted by surgery regained a level of homeostasis, the frenulum became less sensitive, returning to where it had been before the cancer. He needed more stimulation and the urgency disappeared. It was a grand time, however, that post-surgery insanity. And it taught him a valuable lesson: when life gives your lemons the inability to make juice, make the most of the rinds. After all, there’s reason their shavings are called “zest.”
Squish. Up between the toes. Squish. And, all around, blaring sun and distant snow and whispering air. “Squish.” What an evocative word and sound and feeling! Does it awaken something primal, that soft sound? Squish is the sound of birth. It’s the sound of shit. The sound of tender lips on a milky breast. The sound of fruit and a deep pussy. Squish.
We found this spot, this living slimy glorious spot, on the spinning globe in the spinning solar system in the spinning galaxy in the spinning universe. “Squish,” it said. It spoke to our feet and legs and hands and slipping, sliding, spinning bodies. We flew across it and into it. Squishing into the creases and crevasses and hollows and pores of our bodies, the mud brought the life of prehistory to life, once more. And we laughed the joy of remembrance into the air of all ancestors. Squish.
In one small spark, this was set into motion; the skating and slithering essence of being. And we saw it and grabbed onto it. “Squish.” The sound of the beginning and the end, and all things sacred in between.
“What’s all this shit about Microsoft Word,” she said somewhat peevishly. It was not really a question; it was a statement about her ignorance. “I have Microsoft Works!”
He laughed. “Microsoft Works is, like, SO archaic,” he countered, in his characteristic metrosexual affectation. If she hadn’t just had her lights fucked into oblivion by him, she would’ve sworn he was gay. Not that there would be anything wrong with that. She imagined that even gay guys might need a tight pussy, from time to time. After all, they liked assholes. At that moment, she was peering at him as if he was an asshole.
She sat naked, in front of her Gateway 831GM, and tried to find this “Word” thing in her programs. Her pussy was still wet and dripping cum onto the chair. “See,” she blurted, after perusing the list of programs on her hard drive, I don’t have “Microsoft Word!”
He bent down next to her ear, and whispered, “If you suck my cock, I’ll find it for you.”
What had brought them to this point in their post-coital reverie, was a somewhat off-topic comment by Billy that she might have more time to fuck if she’d learn to use a car, instead of a horse and buggy. He had been trying to get her to use Word for a few months, so that she could more easily send her erotica to online publishers. She was rather pig-headed, however, and stuck with her old way of doing things, even though it took twice as long to accomplish things that way. He couldn’t help it; they had been screwing the afternoon away, and she had just had her zillionth orgasm. She, clearly, was enjoying herself. So, as she was catching her breath after another gut-wrencher, he poked her again with his admonition to change her computer skills. She had had enough. She jumped out of bed and ran to her computer, leaving his flagging dick waving in the air.
She turned in her chair and gulped the length of him into her throat. True to his word, Billy reached over her shoulder and scrolled the programs until he found “Microsoft Office Word.” He right-clicked, put the shortcut on the desktop, and drove his cock into her. As she gagged, he crowed, “There ya go.”
She couldn’t believe how fast that happened. She snapped her head away and gazed at her desktop. “How the fuck did you DO that!” she exclaimed.
“It was right there, in black and white,” he said, grinning. “Microsoft Office Word.”
“Huh? I saw that, but I thought it was for office use!” she said, defensively.
“Well…where’s your office?” he said, wagging his saliva-coated pecker in her face.
“Goddam it!” she whined. She waited a moment, to allow her embarrassment to subside, then licked the end of his cock. “OK, so I’m stupid,” she pouted. Then, looking up with her kitten-cute eyes, she mumbled between licks, “Where’s YOUR office?”
Without missing a beat, he returned with, “Up your sweet ass.”
Just another boat ride…not! We rolled up to the launch and I backed the boat into the water. The others parked up in the lot and started carrying coolers down to the dock. The men did most of the carrying, of course. The girls, in varying states of undress, were great to look at. They stood on the dock…all three of them…waiting to pile into the boat. After drinking whiskey along the way to the lake, they were already rollin’. Gina, of course, was catching looks from the moment she piled out of our truck. She decided, at the last moment, to throw on one of my old white oxfords. Buttoned, strategically, just above her navel, it revealed just enough tit and pussy, when she walked down onto the dock, to get any observant male’s attention in both heads. And there were a few of them, mostly party folks out for a hot day on the lake. A few old-timers were not quite sure what they were seeing.
I tethered the boat to the dock and the guys started dropping the goodies into the boat. The women were already in, giggling and sort of pretending to help out. Janie had a suit on that was so small the fabric could have made a potholder. Like Gina, Bobby was nearly naked. She donned a sheer beach robe and a pair of flip-flops. After unloading the truck, I parked it up in the lot and walked across the steaming asphalt to the dock. It was only 10:00 am, and the day was going to be a hot one.
The plan was to head out over the lake, to a bay where there was a three-day Labor Day party. Bands on the beach, flotillas in the lake. Women, music, water, sun…what could be better? The trip to the beach would take about an hour. As I turned the bow around and headed out on the glassy water, the women took the cue and stripped. Gina took her favorite spot on the bow, right in front of me. The scenery was, to say the least, magnificent. What, with rocky bluffs, deep azure skies, and naked pussy ahead of me, what more could I want?
In moments, I found out. I was rather focused on Gina, when I suddenly felt some nice warm breasts pressing against my back, and a pair of small hands reaching into the front of my shorts. I knew where Gina was, and I sort of could make out Bobby sucking on something hard over my left shoulder so, being capable of outstanding deduction, I surmised that Janie wanted something. Always the conscientious ship captain, however, I could do little but navigate the vessel, while Janie navigated my ship into her throat. Standing there, with my shorts around my ankles and the sun beating on my ass, while Janie was beating my balls, was quite the mid-morning experience.
Not to be diverted from the task at hand, I pulled my steely rod out of Janie’s warm mouth and handed the steering wheel to her. “Here, take the wheel, mate,” I ordered and walked to the back of the boat to grab a beer out of the cooler, my saliva-coated cock waving in the warming breeze. Janie was happy to be at the helm, and she quickly forget what she was doing moments before. Instead, she seemed quite enamored with Gina’s oiled flesh, laid out in front of her.
The sex cruise was on. I sat across from Bobby and her men, and watched as she took them both on. I didn’t even have to touch my dick; it just sort of stayed hard all by itself. After all, it’s not every day that I was treated to Bobby bobbing on the heads of two cocks while fingering herself to multiple orgasms.
A few of miles out into the lake, Gina decided to join the group long enough to duck into the head. She came out from the cabin with rope in hand. “Baby, will you tie me up?” she asked, crossing her legs and wiggling. Bobby, by this time, was getting fucked, and Janie was still making believe that she was Johnny Depp. “Sure,” I said, and got up from my front row seat. Gina climbed back onto the bow and spread herself wide. I roped her up. Her ankles were tied to the railing, as were her wrists. She wasn’t going anywhere. That’s what she wanted.
After I had her tied into place, I poured oil all over her until she reflected the sun’s rays back into space, announcing her availability. I bent down to kiss her. “I want the girls,” she said, nearly pleading. I kneeled next to her and played with her splayed pussy for a bit, until the juice was coating my hand. Then, I left her.
We had a few more miles to go before reaching the scene of the party. I had to calculate things, just right. I let Gina lie there, for awhile. After taking over Janie’s position at the wheel, I was able to watch Gina’s body react to the cooling effect of the wind on her magnificent nipples. Janie, in the meantime, had joined Bobby and the sounds of good, hard, butt-fuckin’ sex filled the air. Gina, of course, could hear much of what she could not be a part of, being tied up and all. I could see her hips move every time someone had an orgasm. Then tension was building. “Billy,” she called. I ignored her. “Billy!” she called, more frantically. “BILLY!” she yelled.
I didn’t respond. I knew we had a couple of miles to go, to get to the flotilla. I told the girls to go up and attend to Gina. I supplied them with a nice big dildo that Gina and I dubbed, “Daddy.” “Go play,” I ordered. “Make her cum until she passes out!” Janie and Bobby pulled away from the business at pussy and made their way to the front of the boat.
The boys were left flopping in the air, but a couple of cold beers soon cured any disappointment they might have. Besides, they could now watch some fun shit on the bow. We compadres lined up along the windshield and watched some absolutely ball-blowin’ action. Janie and Bobby went to work on Gina like a couple of pros. No centimeter of skin went untouched. It took less than sixty-fuckin’-seconds for Gina’s back to arch into the sun and her cries of “Fuck me” to leave the earth. That was before the Daddy plunged into her. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
Here we are, a boat load of tanned and happy campers, pulling into the flotilla. Music was blaring from the beach. Party goers were dancing, in various states of coherence and dress, on the sand and boats, and in the water. We floated in, six naked crazies, with Gina at the fore, screaming in orgasm, her pummeled crotch pointed at the crowd, and two gorgeous women on her nipples like flies on shit. Needless to say, we left a good impression that spread rapidly through the crowd. After Gina was untied, we fucked like bonobos on the engine cowling, to the cheers of the crowd. The party got better, from there.