Beach house holiday

by BRK   

Five bottoms in search of a top find an unexpected solution during a sunny Christmas vacation in Australia.

The strangest shit happens when I go on vacation. Especially when it’s with the guys. Sometimes it’s wacky-hijinx strange, like the time in Cancun when a toucan stole my passport right off my hotel room bureau and flew straight out the window, after which those sociopathic fuckers at the consulate could not stop laughing at me when I put in for a new one. Sometimes it’s weird-vibes strange, like that club in Morocco where there was some funky smell spreading through the dance floor and suddenly every single guy was staring at us, smiling the same creepy smile the whole time like it was some kind of disco flashmob fuckfest.

Then there’s the vacations where everything gets wacky, weird, and sexy. Like, say, this one.

It was business as usual. We’d all decided to go someplace warm for Christmas, or at least warmer than our currently very snowbound Chicago. So we planned ahead, booked flights for the Australian Gold Coast well ahead of time, and snagged primo reservations at a quiet little beach house group rental at a very reasonable price. (Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not some trust fund pretty boy douchecanoe jetting off to Bali, Bangcock, and Basingstoke on a whim. I might be pretty but I clip my coupons, and my aunt the travel agent has dirt on everyone.)

It was going well. The food was great, the alcohol was flowing, we had a pool just for our group of five, and the sexy surfers on the beach were pretty good eye candy even in their body-huggng wetsuits, especially the ones who liked to undo them halfway and pal around with their neoprene second skin just hanging off their waists. A few days in, though, and I was gradually aware of a certain ennui as we lolled around in our loungers by the kidney-shaped pool in our festively matching red or green thongs. It was the usual deal. I was getting low-key hormonally agitated, and it was only going to get worse.

This always happened. You’d think bumming around all year with a devoted posse of four other sexy, uninhibited gay guys who were game for anything—the kind of men who’d strip themselves naked to dance in an Argentinian waterfall just because local legend said it brought good luck (which it did, but that’s another story)—that a situation would have, you know, presented itself. But there was one big problem. Jackson, Moe, Sheetz, Kit, and I were all absolute, total, kick-up-your-heels-and-leave-’em-there bottoms. I might be able to shove my dick into one of ’em with a gun to my head, but trying to push yourself to orgasm with a half-hard dick that does not want to be where it is is not my idea of a good time.

It’s not complicated. I’m not sub. I’m not prissy. I just like a dick up my ass, end of. There’s nothing better than that, and that includes crispy bacon, steamy parmesan wings, and the entire selection at Pommes Frites in Manhattan. The others? Same, more or less. Moe is a bit more of a traditional queen, though he works out enough you expect him to sound like a gymbro and then he opens his mouth and starts tearing up some outfit on Drag Race like he was competing for Cattiest Home Commentator. Sheetz carries himself like he just walked off the set of a telenovela (he’s a quarter Colombian, or so he says, though to me he looks more like a lost sibling from The Middle than some long-lost South American heartthrob). He always seems to be pursing his lips without meaning to. (His nickname isn’t from how good he is in bed, by the way. The story goes he was very athletically conceived in the back parking lot at a busy highway gas station in Pennsylvania, and that’s the kind of thing that’ll stick to you forever regardless of whether it’s true.) Kit’s a blond, lean, pallid, and American-born British boy who looks like he writes odes and rowed crew at Oxford (he went to Rutgers), and likes to play up the accent whenever he’s making a go at seducing those big, hard-bodied alphas he wants to nail him to the floor.

And Jackson… he’s kind of where it started. He’s medium height, his shoe-polish-black hair always parted just so, skin the color of warm honey, and a tight bod I almost literally couldn’t wait to get my hands on from the moment he dropped his perky little ass in the seat next to mine in freshman orientation. We realized we were checking each other out like hungry red pandas, and the rest was history. We were so into each other and making all sorts of plans… until that awkward moment when we got to my room and I spread my ass for him, and his eyes kind of went wide with what, in retrospect, was an expression of very comical dismay.

We even tried to make it work for a while, but sexually there was something, well, missing for both of us that no amount of toys and role play could really fix.

So we ended up as best buds who did some light fooling around occasionally. Our friends started mixing and soon we were a gang of five. It was a blended friend group—Kit was Jackson’s oldest friend, and Moe and Sheetz were from my swim team, and we all became one combined very affectionate group together, like a family. We were like the Brady Bunch for horny fun-boys who were all a bit into each other—especially we were all a bit into the acknowledged hunk of the group, Jackson, whom all of us lusted after to a greater or lesser extent—but who couldn’t do much about it besides kiss a lot after a few screwdrivers and try to get laid en masse, like shipmates on shore leave.

The resort we were at was surrounded by some hills, and I’d noticed a solitary stately home atop one of the nearby ridges, surrounded by nothing but scrub and gum trees. I knew from the brochures there were walking paths through the surrounding (very tame) bush and they had to go near the house, but the maps showed only a little black square on the spot with no details. When I asked a member of the staff who lived there, he just shrugged and said, “No one.” Color me intrigued.

I’m a pretty active guy, and my friends can’t stay still for long either—especially when we’re all feeling the effects of cock deprivation. So when after a few hours’ sunbathing on the third day I sighed and said, “Anyone else as bored as I am?”, I got the expected consensus in the affirmative.

“Definitely,” Moe said. He was lying very still and staring up at the clear blue sky through his dark sunglasses, like he was looking for Shirtless Santa to fly by on a sleigh led by eight anthropomorphically hunky reindeer.

“Always,” lamented Sheetz, melodramatic as ever.

“Please tell me you have a plan,” whined Kit. He down sucked the last of his fruity drink noisily through his curly straw and plunked the glass on the table next to him in dejection.

Jackson lowered his sunglasses and met my gaze, his ocean-blue eyes glinting. “Yeah, what’s the plan, Kicky?” he asked, wiggling his thick eyebrows.

As usual, I felt a rush of erotic warmth at the sight of him, though the tide of arousal was stunted by the latest stupid nickname. My name is Richard. Nothing but Richard. Jackson, shrewd devil that he was, had sussed out my aversion to diminutives the first week he’d known me and instantly acted on it, starting with “Dickie” (which I hated) and then moving on to epithets that rhymed with “Dickie”—both to constantly reference the cringetastic standard nickname and at the same time call me something even sillier. I ignored it every time, or tried to, just like I ignored his perfectly proportioned, mouthwateringly defined torso and the bulge in his pine-green Speedo that a cruel god had decreed was never going where I desperately needed it to go.

“Put some pants on,” I said firmly, butch as you please. “We’re going exploring.”

The others were amenable—we might be bottoms but there was nothing passive about any of us. We all had pretty high metabolisms, also; too long in one place and we got fidgety. An hour later found us up the main hill behind the beach house, all properly attired in jeans, tees, and trainers, on the well-tended path with the abandoned estate easily in sight through the trees.

Wordlessly, I left the path and headed for the main entrance, and the others followed in train like ducklings.

“Who do you s’pose it belongs to?” Kit asked curiously, looking up at the arched windows and slated roof through his sunglasses as we approached the large, yet understated manor.

“Maybe it’s Santa’s summer house,” Moe said.

“I saw that movie,” Sheetz said. “It was hilariously bad.”

“Anyway, Santa wouldn’t come here between Christmases, dumbass,” Jackson said. “He’d go someplace where it’s warm July. Like Chicago.”

“I thought there was something secretly jolly about old Mr. Belcraft downstairs,” I snarked. There were a lot of kooks in my high-rise. Maybe I was one of them, I thought with a glance at my sexy friends, if all I could do with my life was lust after fellow bottoms.

We entered the house without issue. The inside was utterly bare—no moveables or accouterments of any kind, but also no graffiti or other signs of decay, like collapsed floors or peeling paint. At least it was cool and pleasant inside, with a nifty view of the lush coastline below and the ocean beyond reaching out toward Micronesia and the distant lands of the Incas on the far side of the world. Not a bad place to live, I thought wistfully.

Thinking I heard music, I wandered up the curved stairwell to what the locals would have called the first floor; though with the cathedral ceilings in the main rooms below it was high up enough to be well above the entrance. Following the faint noises—I wasn’t even sure I was hearing them, but they sounded like random piano plinks, like a toddler trying out one key at a time—we discovered a large round upstairs room with polished floors, big windows, and also the first items of furniture we’d seen so far: at the center of the space were four sturdy wooden chairs arranged in a rough circle facing each other, maybe five feet across, and against one wall was a worn, old upright piano.

“This is creepy as hell,” Moe said approvingly, walking around the room with great interest. Faint null spaces on the wall suggested where pictures or other items might have once hung, and the hardwood floor was lighter in spots as if from the ghosts of old sofas or bedsteads; but nothing was here now but the chairs and piano—not even dust. Weird, I thought, feeling a strange tingle at the bottom of my spine.

“Maybe the people who lived here sat in these chairs and bitched at each other,” Sheetz said.

“Or sang madrigals together,” suggested Moe, eyeing the piano meaningfully. “And by ‘madrigals’ I mean ‘fucking to music,’” he added.

“We know what you meant,” I said.

I felt a little warm then, suddenly aware of being in an enclosed space with four very attractive and equally horny queers. “I don’t know, I feel like this is a very sexual room, somehow,” I heard myself saying. My cock was chubbing, and my skin felt hot. Glancing at the others I saw they were feeling the same way—this was a place of need and want, a mystery spot of pure sex.

Jackson was standing near the piano when it suddenly started playing all by itself. He looked up, wide-eyed. “I didn’t do anything!” he said, like a kid protesting that the cookie jar had smashed itself on the floor all on its own.

I frowned at the piano. It wasn’t a player piano, but the keys were moving up and down as though it were—or as though a ghost were playing the thing just to spook us.

“What kind of Scooby-Doo shit is this?” Sheetz said, his thoughts clearly running parallel to my own. The tune, I realized, was “Turkey in the Straw,” which I hated thanks to a bad experience at Cub Scout camp—long story.

The playing abruptly stopped, and the four heavy wooden chairs rattled themselves a bit, as if to suggest something to us that really should have been obvious. “Turkey in the Straw” then started up again, this time being played slightly more aggressively.

Kit gasped, glancing around the circle of chairs as if seeing them for the first time. “It’s Going to Jerusalem!” he said eagerly.

Moe blinked at him. scratching his pecs. “What is?”

“No, no,” Kit said, gesturing in a circle around the chairs. He tapped his temple as if trying to dislodge something. “Musical chairs!” he said after a second. He was looking around at us, even more excited than before.

The music circled around to the top of the old folk ditty, and Kit playfully started skipping around the “circle” of four chairs in time to the beat, more or less. Something in me wanted to follow him. I held back at first, but when Moe and Sheetz started skipping after him I glanced at Jackson. With a grin, we both joined them. The music sounded happier, speeding up a little, and we picked up our pace, traipsing in a well-spaced circle around the chairs.

“Whoever loses gets the tail pinned on his donkey!” I called out.

“Whoever loses has to pin his tail on our donkeys,” corrected Moe. “And by ‘tail’ I mean ‘dick,’” he added.

“We know what you meant,” the rest of us laughed. Something thrummed through us, as if Moe’s silly wager was reverberating through the air, mixing with the raw arousal floating through the room like dust motes. Something was forming a magical entente with the hoodoo operating the piano keys and rattling the chairs and making us all hot and horny as fuck.

Anyway, the joke that the loser would have to top, combined with our rapidly ascending state of intense collective arousal, was enough to have us all playing the game more or less earnestly; and when the piano stopped suddenly in mid-verse we all scrambled for chairs. Jackson lost out, ending up sitting in my lap for a pleasant beat or two before regrettably standing to stand in the middle of the circle.

We all stared hungrily at each other. The air was charged, almost crackling, like the universe might divide in any possible direction from this moment and this space.

“Now you have to fuck us,” Sheetz said with a smirk, his voice low and rough.

Jackson was turning where he stood, looking hard at all four of us. His aqua tee shirt was very snug, as though he’d gotten slightly buffer in the last few minutes—my shirt felt tight, too, but that was probably just from the increasingly strong impulse to remove it. And my pants, too, because my big, thick hardon was desperate for air, and in general jeans were really a crime against needy hard-ons.

Jackson’s lips were sweet and his skin smooth and slightly damp near the ears with sweat. He had never looked more delicious. He was also very obviously hard in his jeans like the rest of us, his tool so big it looked like he was smuggling an extra-large burrito in his Levis. The bulge of his fist-sized balls was also hard to miss. Oddly, there was a black leather cuff around his right wrist that I had never noticed before, but I couldn’t give it any thought beyond a creepy unconscious awareness that the unexplained artifact belonged not to Jackson but to the four of us—me, Moe, Sheetz, and Kit. Kind of like Jackson himself.

“I bet you want to fuck us,” Moe said, almost teasing.

“I kinda do,” Jackson admitted, his voice a rasp. Kit made a little whimpering sound in the back of his throat.

“Say it,” I urged abruptly, and he looked at me.

“I want to fuck you all,” Jackson said, clearly and distinctly. The statement was somehow intensified as he spoke it, as though we were hearing him through a high-end speaker and amp set-up. The sounds of the words vibrated every atom in the room.

It sounded like a commitment, for eternity, and my anus twitched with excitement as I realized he really, really meant it.

“I have waited so long to hear you say that,” Kit said, surprising me. The others made little noises of agreement, and I realized I hadn’t been quite as alone in my unrequited longing as I’d thought.

“It’s only us you fuck,” Sheetz put in, his voice sounding more Latinx-inflected than usual. Weirdly he was looking distinctly Colombian in this light. He actually could do a telenovela, I thought, impressed by his now extra-pouty lips.

“We’re the only ones who can take that club of a dick,” Moe added.

“Look at that thing,” Kit drooled, squirming in his seat as he stared at the massive bulge of Jackson’s cock.

Fuck, it did look huge. “You’re making so much pre,” I said distractedly, watching as his juices pumped from the footlong, fist-thick wang, the sopping wetness of it spreading outward from the tip. My own huge cock flexed in sympathy, as though gaining power and potency from the proximity of its big brother. “I bet that’s how you can fuck us,” I added, unable to tear my eyes away.

“You don’t even need lube,” Moe put in. “You can fuck us deep with your own sweet slick. Your sweet, addicting, ass-stretching slick.”

“Stretching only us,” Sheetz insisted. “Addicting only us.”

Jackson was growling in the back of his throat, impatient to dick us with his steel-hard monster tool. “Fuck,” he spat. “Turn around and grab your chairs.”

We instantly scrambled out of our chairs and bent over them, grasping the chair backs like the good little bottoms we were. They were just ordinary wooden chairs, but right now they felt rooted to the hardwood floor and utterly immovable.

Our libidos were off the scale. We were so turned on I didn’t think we’d ever return to normal—we’d always be horny as fuck, our asses begging for this one huge pillar of a cock that belong to us four alone.

“I can’t believe this actually happening,” Kit said, sounding rapturous.

“It is happening,” Moe said.

“And it’ll will keep happening,” Sheetz added.

Jackson was behind me. In a single, easy move he yanked down my jeans and boxer-briefs, exposing my firm ass. “Four orgasms,” I begged huskily. “You’re gonna unload in each of us like a cum geyser.”

“Every time,” Sheetz agreed, always on message. “Cum in each us every time.”

“As often as humanly fucking possible,” Moe finished. The charge in the air seemed to intensify, and suddenly we were even more turned on, like this dicking was both all the five of us wanted and the barest satiation. We’d have to fuck again when we got back to the beach house. Assuming we didn’t stop on the way.

“For bottoms, you four are pretty bossy,” Jackson rumbled. He pushed the massive head of his dick between my cheeks, just enough to mark my crease with his warm, almost tingly goo, as if his precum did something to us that let us take his inhuman, 16-inch colossus all the way inside.

He moved to the others, marking them in the same way, and suppressed a whimper. “That’s because you belong to us,” I gritted out, squeezing onto the back of the chair with white knuckles.

Jackson came back around to me. There was a sweet trace of humor in his voice as he said, “Is that right, Witwicky?”

I grinned over my shoulder at him. He looked like a god, all of his handsomeness dialed up to a level that was almost unbearable. “Stick it in me, Optimus Prime,” I shot back.

He smirked, and then that arm-sized tool was driving into me and I forgot everything else but my thicc, Jackson-ready ass and the bliss of his huge, rigid rod pushing all the way into my very core.

Minutes and eons elapsed, and the groans of my three fellow bottoms harmonized with mine as he drilled deep into each of us. The pleasure of it was so intense I could feel him in me even when he was pounding the others, like he really was fucking all four of us at once, our raptures all bleeding together and our senses overlapping; and when he built to a crescendo, pistoning us so deep I felt I was meant for this and this alone, we all reached the cliff together and came with a single, massive, quintuple orgasm, Jackson unloading gout after gout of hot cum into us until I half-expected it to come up my throat and dribble out of my lips.

We slumped to the floor…. which was now covered in cushions somehow, with no sign of chairs or piano. Okay, whatever. Jackson’s cock was draped languidly over one leg, his heavy balls lolling proudly between his sculpted thighs. My own tool was still half-hard, twitching against my abs, and my other bottom-bros were the same. We were going to need another dicking, and soon.

I smiled at Jackson, and he gave me a tired smile back. I noticed he still had that leather cuff, and the hope it gave me that our magical control over our shared super-hot top might not end when we left this house made me start to harden up all over again.

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