The island

by BRK

Banished to the remotest island in his family’s vast possessions for loving cock a little too much, Elliot is glum about his lonely exile—until he meets the caretaker.

Added: 27 Oct 2015 3,445 words 9,844 views No votes yet

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I
I got out of the Land Rover and stood next to it for a moment with the door open, staring up at my inheritance with a frown. I let the engine run for the moment, giving serious thought to just turning round and heading back where I’d come from. “Here’s the proof,” I groused sardonically, though there was no one to hear but the butterflies. “The family really doesn’t like me.”

I must admit that my lack of joy at having arrived at my new home had a great deal to do with my mood. I’m not normally so bitchy, but I was tired and grumpy: the trip over from the mainland in my sexy little one-man Monterey speedboat, the Cristiano Ronaldo, had been just long enough to emphasize just how really removed Ilha de Beleza was from civilization. Okay, actually, it had been about half again as long as that. And then … either the track inland from the slip where I’d beached and tarped my Ronaldo had been deliberately fashioned so as to be as lumpy and jarring as possible, or the Land Rover that had been left for me by the beach as promised had a suspension system that bordered on the malicious.

But it was the estate itself that was, on first impression, the true anticlimax. It had been built a hundred and fifty years ago by my gullible great-great-grandfather Beaufort, a old adventurer who’d believed with childlike excitement every and every word of the local legends claiming there was a warm, bubbling spring with mystical powers lurking somewhere in the caverns snaking through the mountain that dominated the island—an honest-to-Ponce-de-León fountain of youth. It was the reason cited for everything from the verdancy of the island’s lush rainforest to its miraculous salvation from destruction by hurricane, though locals on the neighboring islands said that the influence of the fountain was so powerful that no one could actually live on de Beleza, and after a few hundred years they’d become afraid to even visit the place. It was quite the story. Just to give you the idea, Grandpa Beau also believed in centaurs…but that’s another story.

So he’d bought the whole island and relocated here against the advice of every man, woman, and whippet in the family, built the estate, and mounted expedition after hopeful expedition into the mountain’s labyrinthine caves. Then he died disappointed eight years later of—well, of the sins committed in his youth, let’s say—with no sign that there was so much as a drinking fountain in all of Mount de Beleza. With some relief that it was all over the family turned its back on the island, the villa, and everything associated with it, burying it in the past with all of Beau’s boondoggles, and would have sold it all too had not old Beau trapped its deed in so much red tape, British, Brazilian, and otherwise, so as to be not worth all the bother of divesting a remote flyspeck private island that no one else even remembered. Only the ironclad trust he’d established for its constant upkeep and for the pay and boarding of a caretaker had kept it from falling into rack and ruin over a seven-generations-long slumber deep in the heart of nowhere.

So it was not surprising that this dormant artifact, Casa de Beleza, looked like it belonged to another era.

The edifice had been constructed so effectively in the style of an Iberian villa that any minute I expected an aging don with a magnificently elegant moustache to ride out from the stables on an equally dignified charger. The house itself was a immense but compact off-white adobe edifice with arched colonnades, corrugated red-tile roofs, and what looked like a hundred tall, arched windows, set primly in the middle of a sprawling spectacle of well-groomed lawns and shady patios and gardens filled with careful rows of bright flowers and aromatic plants. It all looked like a carefully maintained museum preserve surrounded by the jungle it had been carved from, the naked mountain looming dark and forbidding behind it against the bright blue South Atlantic sky. A small herd of dark-bottomed clouds seemed to be gathering near its summit, and I wondered how long before the glorious sun we were enjoying turned to the brutal winds and lashing rain all the locals tended to associate with this forsaken island.

Me and my Land Rover with its quietly thrumming internal combustion engine felt like an intrusion from a distant future, as if that rocky track through the thick island flora had been not just a kidney-buster but a time tunnel as well. Compared to the ultra-modern, high-tech estates and high-rise luxury flats I was used to, this place looked like an alien penitentiary where things like zero-degree refrigerators and high-end sound systems had never been known or wanted. All I’d ever known and expected was the Tony Stark life, and here instead I’d gotten a tropical Don Quixote.

I sighed and reached into the car to switch of the engine. A more natural quiet descended on the strange oasis, though there was still plenty of sound, and it, too, was bifurcated: from behind me came the cries of tropical bird claiming territory and seeking mates; before me, somewhere, wafted the faint, endless splash and burble of an unseen concrete fountain on some hidden patio somewhere. A cool, lazy breeze tickled the hairs on my exposed calves and forearms as the house, the Land Rover, and I all basked a while in the bright tropical afternoon.

I tried to look at the villa and its grounds a little more sanguinely. This was home now, like it or not. I bit my lip, wondering where I went from here. Maybe it wasn’t just the architecture that had had me thinking of prisons, because truthfully, I had nowhere else to go. This was it.

“Do you like what you see, Mister Bainbridge?” came a soft voice from behind me.

I was quite startled, as I’d already become oddly accustomed to the idea that I was the only living soul in this forlorn little world, and turned sharply to see my interlocutor. I took in a breath: here was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

He was shorter than I, as indeed was everybody I’d ever met so far—but, astonishingly, not by much; but where every corner of my physique attested years of athletic conditioning, resulting in thick muscles and a sculpted frame worthy even in my pubescence, long before my present size, of Adonis or Antinoös, this tall, rangy young man was broad-shouldered but lithe and lissome, seeming even on first sight as if he possessed in abundance strength that unlike my crassly built-up muscles did not require cultivation by labor or sport. (Later I would learn just to what extent this initial impression was borne out in truth.)

He seemed to be at least partly of local stock: he had skin the color of milky tea, thick black hair, black expressive eyebrows, no beard, inviting lips, and chocolate eyes that seemed both bright and fathomless; but he had no accent—or, as I corrected my sloppy thinking, he appeared to have the same accent as me, and his clothes were…

My eyes snagged on something impossible, and the tough boots, the knee-length khaki utility shorts, the sturdy, hunter-green V-neck tee fell away in my mind as I stared at his impossible… I licked my lips, my brain shuddering like an engine given too much fuel. It was immense—immense, truly immense, and immense was all I could think of, the only word that registered inside me. It was wide and thick and flat, exactly the dimensions (as I later verified) of my wrist just where a watch would go if we still wore watches, and it was so long it …

There was an interior sleeve attached inside the heavy tee-shirt, I now saw, presumably to keep the thing firmly in place, pressed hard to the warmth of the godling’s tight, well defined torso. The sleeve started out somewhere in the vicinity of his belly button, but instead of proceeding straight up along the sternum, it instead listed to his left, with its egress was partly along the slope of the collar above the point of the V; so that the head… as it emerged from the sleeve… it was…

I was suddenly filled with the awareness that it—”It”—this immense possession of his… he was erect. Fully, throbbingly, magnificently erect. It twitched, it pulsed along its entire length, from his crotch all the way up to…

The head was rubbing against his carotid pulse-point, nuzzling the little hollow there as if that there the cockhead’s most natural location in the world. But out of all this, the thing that got me truly hard in my own pants was the smears of spunk along the most sensitive inches of his neck. I watched as a fresh bead of warm precum emerged from his slit and clung to the light brown skin of his neck, then was abruptly rubbed into a smudge of fresh jizz as he swallowed.

My tongue would know no other satisfaction, from that day forward, than the lathing of that neck. It was not even a thought; I just knew to be a fact. He swallowed again, and the new nuzzling, the new smearing of spunk, made my breath shudder. Or—no, he was not swallowing. He was speaking. He was saying my name, over and over.

“Mister Bainbridge?” he said again, calmly but intently.

I blinked, and blinked again. Social interaction. Speaking. I was supposed to be good at that. I recovered the mechanics of speech as if through frenzied consultation of buried and forgotten tomes. “Y-yes?” I said hoarsely. “Yes.” And then, as if in confirmation of my affirmation, “Yes.”

He smiled with his eyes, and might have done with his mouth too, though now that I had transferred my attention to his eyes I was just as riveted as I had been by the cuddling of neck and cock. “I am glad you arrived safely, Mr. Bainbridge,” he said smoothly. A motion below, between us: he’d proffered a hand. “My name is Heitor. I am the caretaker.”

I took his hand firmly in mine, and suddenly it was as if an ocean of raw arousal washed through be and sank deep into over cell, pore, and molecule of my being, an arousal so intense I seemed to feel it on a hundred planes of existence. My cock was already hard, but this shock of pure pleasure made me feel as though I had gone from flaccid to instantly hard, or from hard to interdimensionally hard, like my huge aching boner was filling up the space between the stars. Fuck, no wonder he’s so hard, if this is the kind of sexual potency he can impart just with the first touch. But it was more, deeper than just the erotic. For what might have been the first time I felt for him. My usual pleasure receptors were swamped, saturated, and I discovered there was more in me, worlds more, universes more.

I let go a shuddering breath, still drowning in his eyes. The sensations did not leave me, and I did not let go of his hand. I held onto him, as if he were the only solid thing in the world. “E-Elliot,” I stammered in a thin voice. I could barely think. Waves of pure arousal and much more than arousal were still washing through me from his touch, like tall waves crashing endlessly onto the best surfer’s beach in the world. “Call m-me Elliot.”

“Elliot,” he repeated. He seemed pleased. “Would you like to tour the estate?” he asked.

I nodded mutely, and I felt him shift his hand in my grasp, as if to end our hands’ embrace. Instinctively I clasped a touch harder, not wanting him to let go.

I think this surprised him. Some part of my brain wondered how often he interacted with outsiders for provisions and tools. Maybe he didn’t realize the effect he had on people. Or maybe it was only on me.

“Elliot?” he asked.

“I—” Suddenly I realized what I was doing, and I cast his hand from mine roughly and, breaking his mesmerizing stare, turned away from him, my face heating. I took a step away from him just to create a bit of distance. “Sorry, sorry,” I sputtered, full of shame, not least because despite my chagrin my cock showed no sign of softening even a little from its mega-hard state anytime soon. I stared up at the mountain and its gathering storm. “I can’t believe I—you’re an employee, and I—”

“I don’t work for you, Elliot,” Heitor interrupted easily from behind me, as if it were silly to think so. “I…work…for the island.” A pause, and then he spoke in a slightly different voice that was less formal than before, a little more open and honest. “I’ve been here on Ilha de Beleza for many years, and I haven’t had a single soul to share it with. Will you—” Another pause, and then, softly, with heartbreaking vulnerability: “Would you let me share it with you?”

Unexpectedly, I laughed. I turned back to him, seeing him maybe as an actual complete person for the first time. He looked at me quizzically, glad to see me laugh but not sure why I was doing so. Later I’d have to try to explain the richness of the irony. Here I was, cast out of the family by my witch of a grandmother, cut off from my inheritance, and actually banished to the loneliest and remotest of our family’s holdings, all for spending my adult years hungrily, relentlessly seeking the biggest, most suckable cocks in Britain in every nightclub, pub, and laundromat from Dover to Glasgow—only to find, in the very site of my tropical exile in disgrace, what had to be the biggest cock in the world!

And there was a greater irony yet. None of those men back home had been anything but a means by which I could feel huge hardness with my lips and tongue and experience my own orgasm from those sensations. I’d never felt anything for them other than the raw, superficial, carnal experience of mouth and cock. But Heitor—

As I let my mirth subside and simply smiled at him, causing him to raise an amused and dubious eyebrow, I suddenly knew something that surprised and shocked me more than anything since that first great shock a month ago, when the web erupted with a well-hung blogger’s unfortunately true tales of my fixations and depravity and Grandmother finally descended upon me with the wrath of the unleashed Furies. As much as I needed to pleasure his immensest possession, and specifically to lick the spunk from his neck and cockhead and to do so at such great length and with such attention and fervency that we neither of us could bear another minute of that single, intense set of pleasure, I knew that Heitor was the first man who could ever be more than just a cock to me. Just his eyes, his smile, his touch—but it was more than that, too.

Here was the most sensual man ever made, and yet even now, having known him for mere seconds, I knew that his beauty was more than the sensual alone, and most surprising of all, I wanted to explore it, to find out what made him who he was. He’d infected me with a disease I’d never had before. I shook my head as I rode out my amusement.

“Turn over a new leaf,” I’d been instructed, and I’d smiled in full contempt at the idea. I’d always laughed at people who told people that or said they’d done it. But here—this, here, was an unexpected game-changer I was more than happy to let take me into uncharted worlds.

Still bemused and amused, Heitor put out his right hand again, wordlessly renewing his offer to show me around and to share the island with me. I took his hand with my left this time and laced our fingers, thrilling once more at the rousing stimulation of his touch. My aching cock seemed to shift once again, from cosmically hard to some new level of huge and infinite arousal.

“C’mon,” I said. “Show me our island. Show me everything.” Later, I’d wince at my choice of words; but all I can say is, at the time, I meant them.


Desmond drove his little powerboat, illegally modified to produce startling speed over an extended fuel range, up onto the rough, pale beach on the far side of the island, and killed the engine. He regarded the jungle before him with a practiced eye, then flicked his gaze up to the storm clouds brewing round the heights of the island’s dour-looking mountain complex. He touched his hand to the compass/GPS on his belt reflexively, then cinched up the zip on his lightweight jacket. The population of Ilha de Beleza was about to jump all the way up to three, he thought grimly, as he took up his pack and slipped it onto his shoulders.

He pressed his lips together, his usual pre-mission adrenaline rush a little muted this time. It was grating on him that despite being on this job for four months now he still knew next to nothing about his objectives or his quarry. So far he basically still knew only two things. One was that there were supposed to be two permanent inhabitants: a caretaker who occasionally went to market on neighboring islands and, once every month like clockwork, on the Brazilian mainland in Natal; and a UK billionaire so reclusive that he’d never been seen at all, and probably never left the compound that his ancestor—namely, the island’s original owner, Beaufort Percival Bainbridge-Ellsworth—had carved out of this wilderness back in the days when the Brits had a positive relish for doing so on every corner of the globe. He’d only laid eyes on the caretaker, whom Brazilian tax records had as Heitor Guaraná, 25. He was a tall, cheerful, and exceptionally good-looking young man of mixed heritage, and apparently completely guileless, as he was unfailingly friendly to every stallkeeper, tourist, and chicken he met; but tailing him on two outings in Natal had produced no further news than the fact that the man somehow made Desmond’s dick rock hard at twenty paces.

The second thing he knew was that there was something on this island that his employers wanted, though what it could be was far from clear. Doing research in Natal he’d heard every kind of tall tale about Ilha de Beleza—everything from twenty-foot-tall toucans to an actual fountain of youth. Desmond guessed what his paymasters wanted was pharmacological, some exotic local plant, perhaps, that was found only here: in any event it was the blood sample he’d gotten during the caretaker’s last outing to Natal—a quick jab in the back through the stiff green windbreaker Guaraná always wore off the island, zipped to the top no matter the weather—that had evidently confirmed for them that there was something here that was worth trying to find and secure. Not that they’d tell him what they’d found or wanted, of course; only that either the caretaker or the British recluse, or preferably both, were to be retrieved, packaged up and delivered alive in Miami for questioning and tests.

Desmond didn’t like it. He’d spent his entire adult life on covert missions where he knew little more coming out than going in; but he was starting to get fed up. He’d never had as little intel on a job as he’d had this time, and there was something about Guaraná that made Desmond want to find out the man’s secrets for himself.

Sparing a last quick glance at the darkening clouds, Desmond stooped and snatched up a machete from where it had been secured against the hull, then jumped nimbly out of the powerboat and started heading up the narrow beach for the treeline.

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