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The contents of this story are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts that may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males, who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read further.
There were four of us going to the wreck site. I didn't know them, they didn't know me, but that's the norm. We'd all be good friends by the time we finished two dives. A jeep-looking jitney pulled up to the hotel at the exact time advertised, and we piled in. The driver spoke no English, the dive master -- Koda -- was maybe twenty, twenty-five, and prattled nonsense nonstop. I tuned him out.
The other people were a woman from San Diego, and a couple of guys from Dallas. The woman, Marsha, looked forty, but was probably less. Her face told of countless gin and tonics, or Cuervas, or whiskeys. She had huge boobs, which seemed like magnets for Koda's eyes. The men were nondescript. Henry was about fifty, heavy-set with jowls and a paunch, Alan was much younger, say thirty-five, and slimmer. The Maker had not blessed him with handsome features, but he had a nice smile. After we exchanged names, I just watched the scenery in silence as we headed out.
The jitney took us from the hotel first to the dive shop near the beach, me hiding under the canopy from the gruelling sun. I'd been on vacation for twelve days and on Bali for two days, but the sun was still too strong for my skin, despite the factor 25 sunscreen I'd bought at the pharmacy in Billings before I went to the airport. Yeah, Montana.
I got my PADI certificate in Hawaii last year on my vacation, when Patty and I spent a couple of weeks there, trying to patch our marriage back together. It was a lot of fun, and we had a good time, but as soon as we got back to the farm, we knew it hadn't worked. The same arguments, the same lousy evenings, the same strained atmosphere at the dinner table. The kids could tell something was really wrong, and it tore us both apart.
We never could figure out what went wrong. We dated all through high school, all through college (we both went to Colorado State) and got married the week after graduation. We weren't virgins when we married, but we gave our virginity to each other in our junior year in College, and I never had sex with anybody but her until after we got the divorce. We had Josh, then Jen, then Bart and Bret (twins) and then stopped, despite the teachings of the Church. We were only twenty-six, and four kids were more than a handful when you have a farm to run.
We talked with our priest, David McCarthy, and told him we couldn't handle any more, at least for a couple of years. Patty was tired most of the time, what with caring for the kids and the house, and I had no spare time at all. We couldn't afford a hired hand, and of course the kids were no help -- Josh was just six last week.
Father McCarthy was no help at all. He said it was a sin to practice birth control, especially since we were both young, handsome, and healthy. I never went to our church again after that. Patty insisted we use the pill, as she hated the way condoms got in the way of making love. But it didn't work. We separated in January, and the divorce was final in July. I bought her a house in town, putting a second mortgage on the farm. She's . . . dating a guy from a farm over on the East Side of the county. I'm not ready for that yet. I used a prostitute a couple of times in September, but it was no good. A combination of guilt trip and clinical wham, bam. Plus, I hate condoms. I love life more.
After the divorce, I started to go to the Methodist Church in town, and that seems to suit me better. Patty is afraid to leave St. Barnabas, but she's asked me to take Josh to my church once or twice a month, so that he can learn about the other religions. Patty and me have stayed friends despite all the divorce stuff, and we spend most weekends with the kids, together. I mean, I love her deeply, we just can't be married to each other. I'm too driven, I think.
So this year, once the crops were in, I left Gary Bartholomew installed at the ranch as hired hand, and I took this two-week diving trip. The first stop was Fiji, for some fantastic wall drift diving, then the Great Barrier, for the experience of a lifetime, then here in Bali for a little wreck, drift, and night diving. I was scheduled to go home on Sunday -- Fiji to Hong Kong to San Francisco to Salt Lake to Billings. Ugh.
Gary is Rusty Bartholomew's son. He hasn't got the money yet to buy his own farm, and wants to stay in Montana. He's hiring out, just like I did, until he has a stake big enough to pick up a parcel. Nice kid, good grades, hard worker. He hasn't got a girl yet. I told him to hang loose until he got the scratch together for a farm, and he said that was exactly his plan. He went through a two-year Ag program at college, and did pretty well. He's just twenty now, so he's got time. He's a real looker, so he won't have any trouble getting a mate when the time comes.
So anyway, here I am, my two weeks almost up, and maybe twenty dives in -- but I haven't got laid once. There was a nice blonde on the boat in Cairns, but she wasn't looking for more than a nice meal and a little romance. She was a little old for me anyway -- probably over thirty.
The jitney stopped at the dive shop for the tanks and regulators, and jolted me out of my reveries. I had my own skin and fins, so I just took a regulator from the counter and put it into my dive bag, and went outside to wait for the others. I sat in front of the shop, watching the early morning traffic pass.
"You wan' café?" said a voice from behind me.
I looked over my shoulder and saw a Fiji kid, age undetermined, wearing nothing but a skimpy Speedo knock-off. Body fat no more than five percent, the usual lithe figure these people all seem to have until they get married and go to rotund. A big smile, perfect white teeth. He had one of those flawless South Pacific honey-coloured skins, mahogany-black hair that looked softer than the Japanese hair, which somehow always looks coarse to me. His lips were full, not Negroid, not Caucasian, just full.
"Sure!" I said. "Black without."
He disappeared into the shop. I couldn't help noticing his butt, small, round, shimmering but taut. Nothing lascivious, mind you -- I just noticed.
I looked back onto the road, crammed with vehicles of every sort, and just people-watched. The boy came back with the coffee in less than a minute.
"You alone here Bali?" he asked. It's something I noticed here -- people have no reticence in posing questions of tourists.
"Yes," I said. "Thank you."
He grinned. "It pleases me."
"That someone gives thank you for me to bring café."
I didn't know what to say, so I sipped the coffee. It was strong and full of flavour, almost as if a little cinnamon or some other spice had been added.
"You dive today?"
"Yes. There are four of us."
"No, Sa'ab," he said. "One stay on boat."
"Boyfriend of big man."
I was a little startled. "Why do you say boyfriend?"
"It show in the eyes that he love him." came the response. "You can not hide it."
"I'm sure you misunderstand," I said automatically.
"No," he said. "I know what is."
"I see," I said, amused. "I will have to ask them."
"Please, no," he said. "You will see yourself. Prokka does not wish to bring them unhappy."
"You are Prokka?" I asked. He nodded, almost shyly. "Well, then, I am Jon," I said, and held out my hand.
He looked at it, then at me, and said "You have very big hands," and put his into mine. It wasn't a handshake, somehow. His hand was delicate, strong but with long thin fingers, and he wrapped them around mine and squeezed, but differently than you or I would. It was like a mini-massage between his thumb and fingers, but no grip.
"Yes," I said. "I'm a farmer."
"Really?" he said, with a smile almost of delight. "My father is farmer! Rice!"
I just smiled. I doubted he would understand alfalfa and barley.
"Would you like for me to be dive buddy?" he said, not looking at me. "I am very good under water." He still held my hand, now in both hands. It felt . . . nice.
"Will that be okay with the dive Master?" I asked.
"It his idea," said Prokka. "He sees I like you."
Whoa. What was this all about?
"You like me?"
"Oh yes, Sa'ab,' he gushed. "You are big and strong!" He put his hand on my forearm and squeezed it, almost like a massage. "You have golden hair on your arms and head. I like."
I think I actually blushed. I was speechless. I had a guy hit on me once in Billings, but that was way easy to handle. The guy was drunk, and I just sent him away. I wasn't sure if this was a case of Prokka hitting on me, or just looking for a big tip, figuring that any guy alone in Paradise must be gay.
"You're good underwater?"
"Yes, Sa'ab. I have many hours. I no use weights."
Oh, great. Nothing like being put down because you need a few kilos of weight to keep you from bobbing to the surface. I take four kilos.
"You know the waters?"
"Oh, yes, Sa'ab! I dive this wreck at least ten times ten times."
"Well, okay, I guess," I said smiling. What harm could it do? It wasn't as if I was going to lead the kid on, or anything. I'm straight.
We finally left for the boat at eight, and it was confirmed that Alan was not going to dive. He only had one lung. Not the Big C, just a cruel joke of nature -- his left lung simply never developed. First time I ever heard of that. I was impressed that he would go on a dive trip with someone and just sit on the boat, only to hear the stories of glories seen, paradise visited.
I watched Alan and Henry surreptitiously, and saw that Prokka was right. They looked at each other in that way only two people who are in a relationship look. I was surprised that I hadn't noticed it before. I don't know anybody who's gay in Billings, so I have no standards of comparison, I guess. Henry and Alan don't look gay, anyway. They're both masculine, and . . . I'm not sure what looking gay is, anyway. I mean, you only see it on TV once in a while.
The boat was an old clunker, like they usually are on the islands. That's okay. It's more fun. It took an hour to get to the wreck, and another half to get the gear on, go through the usual drills (cutting corners here and there, almost everywhere). Prokka hovered near me most of the way, but made himself useful as well. He kept looking at me in a way I found a little alarming. "Calm yourself, Jon," I told myself. "It's only a harmless flirtation."
When I put on my gear, it was Prokka who did the adjusting, checked the straps, attached the weights. Nothing out of the ordinary, very professional. He wasn't kidding about being buoyant-neutral. Not a single weight, no skin, no BCD, just his trunks and a T-shirt under the tanks and vest. His butt was almost obscenely pretty.
We spent the almost-hour prowling around the wreck, a World War Two freighter torpedoed by the Japanese. Lots of Morays, parrots, a few small sharks, a couple of octopus, a million and three candidates for aquariums, each more beautiful to look at than the last. Prokka took my hand at one point and guided me under the rudder, and showed me a crevice where at least a dozen giant crayfish lurked. Spiny lobsters, if you will.
With a sudden movement, he grabbed two of them, and held them together so they could not flap their tails. If they had, his hands would have been badly cut by the spines. Somehow, he managed to tie them together with a strip of rubber tubing that he held in his mouth, his regulator bobbing to one side. I went to help, and we got them into a net bag without either of us getting cut -- no small achievement. They were two feet long. Prokka was going to have a fine dinner!
We reached the end of our air, and went to the surface slowly, just enjoying the scenery. When we were half way up, at about fifteen meters, Prokka grabbed my arm and pointed down to our left. Three rays were doing a graceful dance above a sandy patch on a shelf, indescribably beautiful. Somehow, in the watching, my arm went around Prokka's waist and his around mine as we turned with the rays. It felt perfectly natural -- it was the best way to pivot together.
We surfaced a few dozen meters from the boat, and waited for it to come to us. The other two, Henry and Marsha, were with the Dive Master, Koda, already on the boat. Some people use their air faster than do others.
"We eat together tonight!" said Prokka, a big grin on his face as he held the bag in from of me. "Yes?"
"Yes!" I said without thinking. The crayfish looked huge and tantalizing.
"I glad happy!" Prokka said, as the boat began to head towards us. He put his free hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "I want show you home!"
I wondered what that meant. "What the hell." I thought. "You don't have to sleep with him. Just have a good time."
We clambered up on the boat and doffed our gear. Alan and Henry were impressed with the lobsters, but Marsha cringed. She said she'd grabbed one once and got her palms lacerated, and had never eaten them again. Koda put them in a tank in the front to keep them fresh.
We motored over to a cove between two islands, dropped anchor and ate lunch, a tasty concoction of rice, shrimp, veggies and spices. I recognized only saffron.
After, we lay under the canopy as the food worked its way through. Prokka was next to me, Alan and Henry were on the bow in the sun, and Marsha was on the wide bench opposite, snoring lightly. I dozed off, the light tossing of the waves as hypnotic as "somnifères."
When I woke, there was a nylon jacket over my trunks. A good thing, as I had an erection. I wondered who had put the jacket there. I wondered why I had an erection for a second, then realized it was because there was someone snuggled against my side -- Prokka. My arm was around him. I had dreamed of . . . kissing him. Oh, shit.
"You very big," whispered Prokka in my ear. His head was on my shoulder. "I hide from lady."
I looked across at Marsha, who still snored softly on the bench.
"I, uh . . ." my voice tried to figure out something to say, but failed.
"You want me take care of you?"
"I, uh . . . " What the hell was I doing? I almost said yes! Cut that crap out, Jon! You're straight! You like girls! Think!
My treacherous libido pulled the rug out from under me when I tried to imagine a girl. I saw Prokka. Oh. Shit.
"I think better we wait to tonight," Prokka said. "I hold jacket, you jump in water."
So, having no better solution, I sat up, let Prokka hold the jacket as I sat farther up on the hull, and rolled back into the sea. My treacherous dick was at full mast, but at least it stayed under the nylon, poking over my hipbone. Prokka looked at it openly as I sat up, and I saw that he too had a pocket trout. Smaller, but definitely not a miniature.
He dove in after me, and we trod water for a few seconds, then swam a few dozen yards to a butte that almost poked out of the water. We stood on the sandy centre, facing one another, and laughed at the beauty of it all.
Then Prokka reached out to me, putting his hands on my waist and pulled himself to me, his eyes somehow hypnotizing me into acceptance. When his lips brushed mine, I was lost. I pulled him to me, his mouth opening to my tongue, his nips rubbing mine, his arms around my neck, my erection raging to escape the nylon prison. His lips were like velvet, but with a strength to them I was not used to. His erection was pressed to my hip, and it felt like it was meant to be there.
I got dizzy with the blood pounding in my head, and pulled back, looking into his deep, brown, olive eyes.
"You want me?" he said softly.
"How long you stay?"
"I leave Sunday."
"It only tonight."
"We have much to do," he said, giving me a soft peck on the lower lip.
I started to say something, but he stopped me with his tongue, then pushed away from me and started swimming back towards the boat. I peed in the water, then followed, easily catching him up before he got to the boat.
We clambered in over the side, and made enough noise to wake Marsha. Koda was already laying out the gear for the afternoon dive, and the boat driver got a kick on the foot to wake him. He hopped up and started the engine without any fuss, not even pausing to stretch. Prokka hauled up the anchor, and then we motored out maybe a hundred yards.
The afternoon dive was just a typical drift dive. Besides the usual clouds of colourful fish, we saw countless sponges, a few giant clams, more morays, lots of the blue starfish, plenty of fan and brain coral, and so on. Besides the usual crackling of the ocean, at one stage I heard high-pitched whistles, and when we looked up, there was a trio of porpoises off to the right, herding a school of fish. I couldn't see well enough to know if they were eating as they herded, but I imagine so. Prokka came up to me and held my hand as we watched them head away. I put my hand on his back, just at the waist, and he gave me a look that said it was the right thing to do.
I looked around for the others, but Prokka pointed up and back, and I saw them overhead and a hundred yards behind, already getting into the boat. My gauge showed nearly a half tank left, and Prokka's showed even more, and I still had half an hour at this depth, so we agreed to stay down for another fifteen or twenty. We drifted together, hand in hand, and I could feel my erection coming back.
"Horny bastard," I thought to myself, just as Prokka stopped and turned to me. He put his mask to mine, and his arm around my neck to hold himself in place, then put his hand into my Speedo's and grasped my dick. His eyes registered a combination of surprise, excitement, affection, whatever, then he closed them and grasped me again. Suddenly, he let me go, and moved back, and shrugged out of the straps at the bottom of his tanks, then slipped out of his trunks. His dick was erect and perfectly proportioned, perhaps six inches or a little more in length. His trunks went into a pocket of my BCD, and he pulled my trunks down, letting my dick wave in the water. I began to see what he was up to, and wondered if it would work.
Then his face mask was against mine again, and his legs went around my waist, just under the BCD. He grabbed at my dick with his hand as I put my arms around his body, holding him in position, and he guided the end of my dick to his butt. With a push -- no, a pull, from his legs, and a thrust from me at the same time, the head of my dick popped inside him. There was no lubricant other than the water and maybe a little precum, so it hurt a little when I pushed into him. I wasn't expecting that.
His eyes widened, I'm sure in pain, but he kept himself in place, pulling himself onto me as we drifted over the sponges and coral on the seabed. I was amazed that he could get me into him at all, and even more amazed when I felt his butt up against my groin. His insides gripped me incredibly tightly, and then he started to move us into a back and forth rhythm, my dick moving in and out maybe half way each time, all the way back in on the "in" stroke. I let go with one hand to stroke his dick, help him reach an orgasm like I was about to reach, but he grasped my hand and put it back in place with a shake of his head. We lost our balance a little, so we were drifting almost upside down, but that doesn't matter under water.
I started to feel the impending orgasm, from deep inside my belly, and I grunted through the mask so he would know. He squealed, sort of, and I felt these amazing contractions going on around my dick, and that sent me right over the edge, I started pumping my semen deep inside him, just as I saw a tendril of his semen float down towards our face masks.
A fish rushed up and gobbled it down, and suddenly there were eight or nine fish, all trying to get at Prokkas's cum as he pumped it out into the water, without his or my hand to assist. We looked down, to see one fish positioned right at the slit of his dick, between us, and when a jet of semen rushed out, the fish dashed forward and swallowed almost all of it at once. I couldn't help but giggle through my face mask, and looked up at Prokka's eyes. He was staring into my eyes, an almost gauzy look that I recognized -- it was the same look Patty got when she had a really good orgasm.
I wanted to kiss him, tell him what I felt, tell him how good he felt, but the mask got in the way. I looked at my gauge, and still had a third of a tank. We'd taken only five minutes to get to one of the best -- and definitely the most unique -- orgasms I'd ever had.
He slowly pulled away from me, and I felt a fish nibbling at my dick as it came out of him, probably more then one. As the head of my dick popped out, a fish nibbled right at the slit, and it felt really strange. I expected it to hurt -- some fish have teeth! -- But it was just a peck.
Prokka pulled his legs down and then helped me pull my trunks back up, then took his slip back from the pocket of my BCD and wriggled into them, while I held him still. Then we tried a kiss. I took a couple of moderately deep breaths from the regulator, and took it out of my mouth, and he saw and did the same. The damned masks got in the way, but we managed a ten-second French kiss that got my dick twitching again.
Prokka pointed at his gauge, then up, and I nodded in agreement, a little sadly, as I put the regulator back in my mouth. I had crossed a huge divide, in a place and in a way that I would never have thought possible, with a boy of no more than nineteen; my whole world had been changed.
When we got to the surface, we were a half-mile from the boat, but they saw us right away, and headed for us. We trod water and grinned at each other, knowing that the night was going to be full of fun, excitement, loving sex and the creation of beautiful memories, and that what we had just done was merely the amuse-gueule for the banquet before us.