The resort

by BRK   

Two vapid influencers get in touch with their primal natures on a resort island that isn’t ready for outsiders just yet.

All my friends and a bunch of paranoid redditors say that anyone who books a vacation on the newly declassified islands of Nlasibu where that Dr. Jon Franklin Maribeauxh supposedly ran all those secret experiments and no one was allowed to go there for fifty years is an idiot. But that can’t be true, because I’m going to Nlasibu, and I’m not an idiot. No sir!

It’s only the first day, and I’m loving it. Not least because I’m here with my crush, Remy, who’s actually not a manipulative food-obsessed rat but a fellow proto-influencer and fashion model. The name is short for Remuda, which has to do with horses or something (his parents were enviro-hippies), but he never tells that story. Instead if anyone asks he makes up something goofy about how it’s short for Remus, that Roman guy that got killed, I think. Or Remington, which he said means he’s basically named for James Bond (I don’t get that one). Or Remunerate. That one was funny, that guy doing Remy’s taxes made a lot of weird faces. Remy filmed it, it was hilarious. Went viral before they made him take it down, the lame-os. Shit, lame-os is ablist, right? Jenny said something about that. Um, so, they made him take it down, the, um, stupid-os. Heh, Stupid-Os, I’d have them for breakfast. Chocolate Stupid-Os. With strawberry milk. Skim strawberry milk, because otherwise it would be too heavy. Do they make skim strawberry milk?

Anyway, Remy’s really hot in that “I like to wear suit jackets with no shirts” kind of way. He’s all smooth and fit and with the spiky hair and guy-liner. He could be a 90s boy band guy if he could get back to the 90s. Very pretty and smoking hot, like, what, Duran Duran? Was that 90s? Anyway, when he does the shirtless jacket thing I kind of get hot and gooey inside and that long, smooth, stretch of perfect, hairless skin kind of looks like a landing strip—though he does have sort of faint abs and his pecs aren’t huge but he does have them so maybe you wouldn’t want to land a plane on it for real. Anyway it looks like a landing strip and I kinda been wanting to lick my way up it for a while, maybe get to those lips and see how they taste. Or maybe go the other way and down under those white cotton slacks he always wears. It’s not that I’m into him into him, I just, you know, want to lick him. In… places.

I dunno what Remy wants, because he looks at everyone like he wants to use them for something. He’s like that. And I dunno if in my case he wants to use me for kissing and some maybe hot fellatio or if he wants to use me for airfare to exotic tropical islands courtesy of my trust fund. So I had this brilliant idea. I would pay for airfare to an exotic tropical island, because, okay, trust fund (which is deep a-f, so, yeah). Then I would see if he’s, you know, done with me, and I’d know if that was what he wanted to use me for, or maybe he’s not done with me and there can be sweet, sweet cocksucking. In either direction. I’m verse when it comes to sucking cock.

So I get this email about the islands, there’s a resort there that was converted from Maribeauxh’s mansion or lair or whatever, cheap enough I can spring for first-class everything. And here we are, other side of the world and we’re not even falling off. I keep posting pics of my bare feet wiggling in the white sand and tagging my uncle and he keeps replying back about straps and magnets or whatever. People in my family are so dumb. If you needed magnets to stick to the Earth then wouldn’t there be people born with, like, the wrong pole? Like blood types? And if you were the wrong kind of magnet to stick to the Earth you’d shoot up into space, right?, and—fuck, wait, is that what astronauts are?

Anyway, I guess this is the first week the resort is open because there’s no other tourists, just me and Remy. No staff, either, which is weird, but there’s plenty of food around the place. The fridges and freezers in the kitchens are stacked with fresh meat and stuff. Remy’s a veggo but only in North America, he says, so we’re totally hooked up. And there’s these cases of glass Snapple bottles—no labels but they’re full of this yellow-green energy drink like, I dunno, flat Mountain Dew? Tastes amazing, at first anyway. The really sick thing about that stuff is how when I snapped off the lights in the kitchens and the bottle in my hand was kind of glowing? So cool! If they had that at 7-11s it would fly off the shelves faster’n Bud Light.

The rest of the resort is kind of eerie, and not like the lake. The pool isn’t set up, which, okay, we got the beach and the ocean. We went skinny dipping first thing, and, wow, Remy’s cock is longer and looser than he is. No tan line, and all kinds of pretty. I’d bet Jenny a hundred bucks he had a piercing down there, which I lost. There’s a tiny tattoo just above the manscaping, though. I think it’s Donald Duck, but I’ll have to get closer. Wink.

Remy seemed to like my flappy parts, too. Justifiably so. They’re nice. Anyway he looked right at ‘em, as far as I could tell through the sunglasses. Personally I think skinny-dipping with sunglasses is cheating? Give me your thoughts on that in the comments below.

The rest of me is fine, just your typical fit shirtless PicThread influencer hotness, no news there. I’ve been trying the whole short curly platinum blond thing, like a throwback Timberlake? Pubes too, so maybe Remy was just reacting to that.

After the dip we went into the house, and since there was no one there we got daring and figured there was no reason to put our clothes back on, so we didn’t. We just left our clothes in the room they gave us and walked around. It was a little awkward carrying my phone in my hand, but I was kind of jazzed at how audacious we were being walking around all nuts out and everything. Plus if I walked a little behind him I could check out Remy’s sleek, tanned ass and try out in my head whether I wanted to lick up and down his spine like I did the front. I was pretty sold.

The room we got in the reservation was—I mean, they didn’t give us a room number or anything, I guess the rooms had names? because our room was the “Elihu Franklin suite, second floor left landing.” And there wasn’t even a plaque or anything, but there was only one suite on the second floor left landing so we took it. It was big and spooky, with long heavy curtains and archways and alcoves and lots of huuuge oil paintings of really ragey monkeys and leopards and little DNA helix sculptures and primate skulls everywhere. The wallpaper had these clawlike scratch marks in a couple places—really tacky. One big king-sized bed, so that was an interesting thing for later.

So after lunch—huge, juicy burgers from the fresh meat in the fridge, cooked over a flame and garnished with juice and some weird-tasting local pickles—we took our glowy energy drinks with us and wandered the building.

Two words defined this place: big, and dark. The stairways were wide and dark. The corridors were like walking through a fairy-tale forest with the canopy way overhead. The rooms were like—okay, I went to Versailles once where they had all these giant rooms with nothing in them but, like, an end table because the room didn’t actually need to be there? It was like that, only Versailles was sunny and this place was murky and shadowy and everything was browns and blacks and dark blues and the tapestries and drapes were all so ponderous.

Second floor there wasn’t much, just a few bedrooms and this huge trophy room slash ballroom? Like, you could dance the cha-cha with an audience of dead bears and wildebeests? No thanks.

Third floor was more expansive for some reason, corridors of bedrooms and parlors and whatnot at first, then up a couple steps, around the corner, and you’re in this different wing where it’s all cold and there’s big laboratories and, I think, operating rooms? That’s weird. There was one room with steel tables and a wall full of drawers, but it was even chillier in there and I could see the goosebumps on Remy’s arms, which—were they hairy like that before? I didn’t remember them being hairy. Anyway I was experiencing major shrinkage from the low temps and creepshow vibe, so we ducked out of that and went up again.

Fourth floor was similar, but the rooms were stacked with crates and boxes. I kind of wanted to see what was in them and kind of didn’t. They could be Etruscan urns or the bones of an ice dragon or Maribeauxh’s guest china, who knew. Maybe all of the above.

A little narrow stairs in a corner of the fourth floor side corridor led up to what turned out to be a rooftop terrace, which was cool. By now it was slipping into late afternoon. To the east the rolling jungle was already darkening, though it was very alive with bird circling and moneys and other animals darting through the soaring tree branches. There was a set of wooded ridges that way and a little rocky prominence that rose above the rest, almost like a wild counterpart to our own manmade elevation. Weirdly, there was a figure standing on those rocks, gazing defiantly across at us as we sipped our green drinks and stared back at him.

He was a big, hairy fellow—not really a gorilla or a monkey, more like a half-man, half-jungle primate, with hair everywhere and sort of magnified features. His teeth were huge, but the thing that really made him a beast was his fur-covered muscles. This guy was beyond swole—everything you’d build and grow at the gym was blown up beyond reason. His delts alone were the size of dodge balls, his traps went up to his ears, and his pecs stood out so far it was already black as night under them. His arms looked like industrial equipment, and his legs could kick over the nearest oak. All of this was covered in thick, lush fur, too, like, this guy made the hairiest dude you could think of look like Vin Diesel’s head. He was an animal, but, like, he was a beastified man, everything human but massive and devolved.

Especially his dick. It jutted out from him like this stone spike that erupted outward from his body, only it was red and pink and its eyes was looking right at us. The whole package was turning me bigtime on at some deep, primal level. I’d never been into bears, or daddies, or what-the-fuck-ever, but I like muscle and cock and hairy arms and a bit of attitude and this guy was all that a thousand times over. I was—well, let’s just say my own stone outcropping was showing.

I looked at Remy, and—fuck, he was looking a little extra himself. His beard had come out—I’d never seen that, he must have shave five times a day before if his five-o’clock shadow was an actual stubble-beard like that. He was looking kind of large, taller than he should be (though we were still the same height?). Wider and thicker, too, like he was working out a lot more than I thought he was. Maybe my lust was getting to me and making me see things, because… man. He definitely had a crop of curly chest hair covering those slab-like pecs, too—it almost looked like they were curling in real time. He had lats, and fucking intercostals, and his abs were still sleek and chiseled but no longer smooth and hairless—shit, did he shave everything all the time? Time intensive, props to you, Rem. Then I got to his still-narrow waist and forgot about beards and ab-hair and all that, because his big, lickable cock was rock hard and as thick as the Snapple bottles we were swigging as we eyed each other.

Because we were totally eyeing each other.

“Duude,” I said, ogling his prick, “how are you so huge?”

“Not as huge as you bro,” he said, swallowing the last of his juice and tossing the bottle off the roof.

I looked at my own prick, pointing up at the sky like it was looking for the North Star. It did look bigger than Remy’s, and the flat washboard belly it overshadowed was so covered with sandy-blond hair it was like looking at a wheat field from above.

I grinned over at Remy. “Dude, we’re wasted.”

“Coool,” he grunted, grabbing my neck under the long hair I didn’t remember having and kissing me hard. Our tusks got on the way at first, but we figured it out.

The hairy guy on the little peak was making noises at us. “Unh! Unh! Unh!!” he shouted. When we looked over at him he grabbed his huge, hard wang in both hands and jerked it at us like he was making an obscene gesture. Though I guess any gesture you make with a gigantic purple erection is going to be obscene.

“Rude!” I said gruffly, offended and wanting to laugh at the same time. I downed my drink and tossed the bottle like Remy had.

“Mf,” Remy said. “Could be invitation. Maybe he has beer and foosball.”

I laughed. “He wants us visit man cave.”

“Ha.” Remy kissed me again, and I realized my Remy-fantasies had revved waaaay past licking into shoving. And nutting like I’d never nutted before. My nuts felt heavy too, though not as heavy as my giant beast dick dripping all over the stone slabs of the terrace.

“Unh! Unh! Unh!!” the other beast guy shouted again. We looked at him.

“Maybe hungry,” I said, jutting my thickly bearded chin at him.

Remy grinned. “We should share our meat with him.”

“Ha,” I said. I waved our hirsute friend over with my long, powerful, hair-covered arm. He frowned at us, then started down the mountain like he meant to meet us in the back patio for a dust-up. That was fine—I had a feeling a little fighting would make awesome foreplay. I was ready to rassle!

“Unh,” I said to Remy, nodding toward the stairs we’d come up. He nodded, and followed as I loped toward the way into the building, using my knuckles instinctively to help with the top-heaviness of my fur-covered muscles—though, appropriately, it was my giant, hard, up-and-forward-pointing prick that led the way in front of me.

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