Date: Sat, 29 Apr 2017 17:17:04 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Shark Reef 2

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-friends/shark-reef/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local
rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but
flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

"Good to meet you, JB. Ian Doyle, at your service, sir." When our hands
met, something truly bizarre happened. It was like my entire body
tingled. From the shock in his eyes, something similar happened on the
other end of the handshake. I held on for longer than I'd held any
handshake in my life, trying desperately to understand that rush
of... something. A thousand thoughts flashed, all of them sexual and none
of them, not one, featuring a creamy little wisp of nothing. What the FUCK
was going on?

*****

Shark Reef 2: When It Rains, It Pours

By Bear Pup

We both pulled back as if shocked, and maybe that was all it was. Some
bizarre phenomenon that happened when people are dropped out of low-flying
aircraft into shark-filled waters. I pulled out several of Lunk-Lunk's
items of clothing.

"Kid, um, Ian, we need to get our heads down if we're going to work at all
tonight." I laid a tent-sized shirt and a pair of bulb-assed jeans down,
then stripped to my skivvies, hanging my sweat-drenched clothes over a tree
branch. I turned to grab another couple of items when I saw Ian staring at
me in astonishment, something between horror and embarrassment. I made a
quick check that none of the important bits had slipped out then looked at
him. "What?"

"You're going, um, to, um, to go around naked?"

"First, this ain't nekkid, kid, and if you don't know the difference, well,
there's not much hope for ya. As for bring in just my skivvies? Well, not
in the sun, but for sleeping? Hell yeah, kid. I'm not gonna sweat my balls
off and need even more water!" I was in no mood for further schoolboy
nonsense and flopped down, working the sand around until it passably
resembled a pillow under the shirt, and yanked the hideous pink hat over my
eyes.

I awoke to a screech and leapt up, expecting to find, I dunno, alien death
rays or walking sharks or some shit. Instead, Ian is there dancing like a
princess around what might well have been a space invader, a
brightly-colored crab with long, spindly legs that had apparently walked
across Ian as he dozed. Now a lot of crabs are edible (extremely so), but
not all of them. I'd never seen one as bizarre as this, a riot of strange
colors, even on the Discovery Channel.

Apparently, either Ian's movement or piecing shriek had stunned the critter
who just then got his wits back and scuttled quickly toward the ocean side
of the island and into the water. "It's just a crab, Ian."

There are times when simple words are not enough to express a given
sentence. What Ian said was, "I know it's just a fucking crab! It wasn't
crawling on you, mate!" What I heard was "Oy noo itz joost a fookin
crrrrabp! Twoosnt crrrrowlllling on yoooo, mayt!"

It was early evening, the sun cutting beneath the trees having already sunk
well into the far horizon. I walked into the trees and started snapping off
branches about three feet long. Ian followed mutely, searching the ground
frantically for more attack-crabs, and I handed him the branches. He
followed me, puzzled but compliant, as I jammed the sticks deep into the
sand midway between the crest and trough of the waves. I did this several
places on the narrow ends of our private island, and at a few select spots
on the accessible perimeter.

I decided it was worth the risk to explore the tree-lined side. The water
was about ankle deep on the peak and sole-deep at the ebb. I told Ian to
stay where he was. He scowled at me and I said, "Ian, there are lots and
lots of crabs." His eyes got huge and I turned to the completely (or
relatively) crab-free sand. I made a quick trek along the mangroves,
watching for three things: luggage, sea snakes and sea urchins. Luckily, I
found the first and neither of the others.

Apparently, the passenger compartment was not the only thing breeched. I
sent a silent prayer-of-apology to Lunk-Lunk; his duffle might well have
come from the hold, just like the ancient, batter hard-sider with
reflective tape that I snagged near the far end of the mangroves. I decided
not to tempt fate so returned on the other side of the trees and the dusk
deepened into night.

When I got back to where Ian was and dropped the bag with a huge THUMP, Ian
squealed like an eight-year-old girl threatened by a bully with a grass
snake. I noticed the front of his board-shorts dampen as he squeaked his
way back to consciousness. I waited for moonrise so I'd have enough light
to sort by, the dragged it on the beach.

It is truly amazing the weird shit people take with them on (or take home
from) long trips, and this bag took the cake. It was obviously a frequent
traveler because luggage rarely gets battered in a closet. I get the
breathing machine that they use for people who stop breathing when they
sleep, but why would anyone had a baggie of zip-ties? Why carry a bunch of
CAT-5 cable halfway across the globe when you can buy it for pocket change
when you get... wherever? I also REALLY didn't want to know why he felt it
was necessary to travel with two -- TWO -- blow-up sex dolls.

The bag was a geek-fest, with two laptops and a set of those teensy-tiny
screwdrivers. A rubber ducky (no shit) with a billion-dollar logo and a few
of the toys the computer conventions are stuffed with. There were also a
couple of combination and key locks and lockpicks. There was treasure here,
though. McGeek had packed a small kit with a razor-knife and other small
tools of his trade, along with two one-liter bottles of tonic water. Things
that could help us survive. There was also gin, nasty shit to drink but
great as an antiseptic. An unexpected find was a toy beach set, a souvenir
from the Lizard Island Resort still in plastic wrap, probably a present for
a niece or nephew. I mean face it, McGeek had TWO sex dolls -- you
seriously think he'd propagated?

I turned to see Ian's face blush scarlet, unable to wrench his eyes away
from the aforementioned dolls, their deflated state amusing causing the
opposite reaction in the kid's board shorts. "Okay, kid, let's go find out
whether we have good news or bad news."

I'd taken over an hour with McGeek for a reason. It gave me a way to figure
out where we stood on tides. Tides are roughly a twelve-hour cycle. I could
see the high tide line from the flotsam and jetsam, but there is no way to
tell where the low tide would be. As luck would have it, the sticks were
higher and drier; the tide was waning.

Taking McGeek's beach set, I walked about ten paces into the trees and
found a high, sandy spot and started digging. Ian finally broke down, "What
are you doing, mate?"

"Ian, we've been over a lot of this island, right?" He nodded. "Did you see
a sign for a W/C anyplace? No? Me neither." His brow furrowed and went to
the hole, then back to my face, his own a mask of horror. "And I picked a
spot with built-in asswipe." I pointed to a vine thing climbing up the
next-door tree that looked like a philodendron with nice, wide leaves.

"Bu-bu-bu-bu-bu-bu--" The fucking kid sounded like an outboard motor.

"Or ya can cross your legs until we get rescued in, like, never. Up to you,
kid." I went on digging until it was at least two feet down. Task done, I
took my plastic pail and shovel and went back to the 'camp', then check on
the sticks. Tide still flowing out. Excellent.

The tide-channel at the south end of our little paradise was a deep cut
whereas the North was far wider, but possibly wading-depth. What I was
hoping (praying) was low tide would prove the north end was shallow enough
to avoid critters or that the southern channel would be narrow enough to
jump. I had decided to sit and wait at the nearer, southern end.

Ian stepped out and suddenly gasped. I turned and saw him doing something I
had not thought to do. He was staring at the half moon and a startling
spray of brilliant stars sewn into the luxuriant blue-black sky.

Ian moved and sat beside me. I am a creature of the American suburban
world. What you saw when you looked up, if you were lucky, were the
brightest of constellations like Orion. More likely, it was the moon and a
few aircraft coming or leaving. Here, on the absolute ass end of the
planet, there was not a square inch of sky lacking a pinprick of light.

I'm not sure how long we sat and stared. I finally shook myself. I saw Ian
was holding an unopened bottle of water. "Ian?" I said softly, but he still
jumped. "You wanted something?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I am really thirsty but not sure how much we should drink?"

I looked down and thought for a minute. "Let's split a half-liter and go
from there, okay?" He nodded and drank about a third. I did the same and
went to hand it back.

"No. You're bigger and was working harder. Finish it. Go ahead." I was
surprised. It was both accurate and thoughtful. But I also knew I needed
this kid healthy and alert for as long as possible, for both our sakes. I
drank half the remainder and handed it back.

"Yeah, both of those are true. But one of those is about the change. How
are you at track and field?" I pulled him to his feet and handed back the
bottle and he drained it. "We need to practice the long jump." He looked at
me, then the narrowing channel and smiled.

Ian was several inches over my five-foot-eleven frame, but it was
impossible to tell if there was muscle underneath the cream-white skin or
not. I used a stick to mark a double line, then drew a line each pace for a
half-dozen out.  I paced off ten the other direction and jabbed the stick
into the ground, then turned and ran flat-out, leaping as far as I could
when I reached the double line. I was shocked at how far it seemed and how
short it was. I had just barely cleared the fourth pace-mark.

I rolled to the side and went to tell Ian to have a go when a blur of white
flew past.  Ian had easily gone five, nearly six of my paces. He looked at
me, beaming. "Excellent, Ian! Excellent." He almost wagged. "Now, I want
two more. And it only counts if you fall forward, not backwards." His face
scrunched then swiveled to look at the channel and blanched at what 'fall
backwards' would mean.

His second jump was more tentative, landing just short of the five-pace
mark as he overcompensated in fear. "Oh, for God's sake, Sally, at least
*try*." The scowl I got was mutinous, but his next fury-fueled leap him
took him to the six-pace mark, or just shy, and he turned the landing into
a roll. I was on him before he stopped rolling, patting his back in praise
and stoking his boyish ego. "Sit here and rest a minute, champ. I'll be
right back."

McGeek's horrific wardrobe included a pair of swim trunks of the Aussie
'middle-age' style, longer in leg and waist but tight like a speedo
otherwise. More like the swim trunks when I was a kid. I got back to the
kid carrying that, a pair of Hulmes shoes and a half-liter of water.

We sat and discussed strategy as we watched the water continue,
almost-imperceptibly, to recede.

"This has to be a raid, Ian, not a mission. Jump and head for the
trees. Start at the far end. Don't stop to open anything, period. Get it to
the end fast, collect as you return, but don't pick up enough to seriously
slow you down. We can have more raids, but we don't have more Ians, get
me?" He grinned and nodded.

"Dump everything about a ya-- meter from the high-tide line and keep going
until you hear me yell. When you hear me yell, drop whatever you've found
and get your ass back to this end of the island, kid. It'll mean the tide
had changed. You'll probably have another few minutes to sling the shit
back across to me before you have to repeat your jump. Leave the shoes over
there. You with me on this Ian?"

We talked some more. I loosely knotted the laced of the two shoes together
and draped them over Ian's neck, the water bottle snugged into one of
them. What caught my attention was not the sticks, but the ripples in the
channel. I told Ian to take a piss. The tide that had moved in a torrent
and was suddenly slacking, meaning that the pull of the outbound tide was
waning.

I noticed that Ian hadn't moved. "Ian, take a piss NOW. Jumping with a full
bladder is dumb, kid, it's weight you don't need."

"But where?"

"Oh, fuck, Sally. Seriously? That is the OCEAN. The world's biggest
urinal. Stop being a baby or do you need me to find something you can sit
on to pee?" He looked like he longed to deck me, but turned away and let
loose with a long stream. Without a word, not even looking at the real
distance, He took a long run and threw himself over the water.

One thing neither of us thought of was the difference in the sand. The
edges of the channel were saturated and hard, making a much better launch
pad when Ian leapt. He cleared the channel with at least three feet to
spare, and again rolled forward. He jammed the bottle of water into the
sand and took off like a hare.

That island, from what I could tell of Ian's movements, was shaped like a
long, thin dog bone. With perhaps trees down the center about five yards
deep. He found two roll-aboards and another duffle, all on the inner face
of the island, before I saw the ripples tell me that the tide was being
dragged back into the lagoon. Ian slung the luggage across, the duffle
being the only one that posed a problem, but I was able to reach it before
the current could grab hold.

Ian pulled back, ran hard, and leapt. Three difference were almost our
undoing. First, critically, Ian was winded. Second, the reverse of the
previous wet-sand behavior -- where the edge had dried a bit -- robbed his
takeoff of just a tiny bit of his power. Lastly, I wasn't over there to
piss him off and goad that extra bit of oomph. I grabbed hold of his
windmilling arms and he barely got his feet wet. I was pounding his back
like an Olympic coach as he caught his breath. I handed him a half-liter,
"Drink it all, Ian." He did without argument and we worked together to drag
the bags up toward our nest.

We set to disassembling the haul. One, sadly, was a repeat of the Teeny Bob
pack, largely electronics. The only useful things were a half-dozen candy
bars and a couple bags of granola, and an assortment of sunglasses and
sun-scarves.

I thought Ian had wounded himself somehow as he squawed and threw something
away from him in horror. It landed next to me. It was a white tube with
"Relief from Vaginal Fungal Infection" on it. I guess Ian was afraid of
pussy-cooties or something. He then whooped. Apparently, this bag, now
called Klepto, belonged to a kid with real issues. She'd somehow raided the
liquor box in the galley and an even dozen tiny bottles of booze came out,
along with a pill bottle that even in the dim light screamed Oxycodone.

We spoke as we worked, Ian telling me that he spotted at least one
bright-red bag snagged in the trees, and something that might have been a
very large black bag on the other side. That gave us a goal for the next
night.

I had taken the duffle, this one smaller than Lunk-Lunk. It was another
frequent traveler like McGeek or Hulme. Men's 'salesman drag' outfits
mostly, everything impeccably packs and organized. He was someone who
either flew first or got upgraded a lot; his packing units were the first
class goodie-bags, and he had all sorts of crap from those freebees. The
real treasure was four of the little sewing kits. I cried out in happiness
and Ian looked over. I held up the little kit with its needles, thread and
all-important safety pins, "Instant fishing kit!"

The last of the bags was instantly Hypochondriac in my mind. It yielded a
travel pill case, a set of two weeks with morning, noon, evening and
bedtime, each spot near to overflowing with unguessable pills. There were
also five or six bottles, actually labelled in English and impossible to
reads in the dim light. Ian's stomach erupted in growls. I smiled and threw
him a granola bar but only ate a half for myself. I had fat reserves that
the pipsqueak sure didn't.

There was a rumble to the East and we both looked up. The stars in that
direction were gradually disappearing. I ran and ripped into Lunk-Lunk and
ripped open one of the packaged space blankets. I grabbed some of McGeek's
CAT-5 and started madly tying the corners to trees. Making sure that there
was plenty of slack in the middle. I pulled and stacked the luggage on the
upwind side to create a break, then dragged our makeshift sheets (Lunk-Lunk
clothes) to the center of the shelter. It would be tight, but it would
work.

The wind was rising and Ian hollered at me, "What are you DOING? You have
to tie one side lower. The wind will blow right through! We'll get SOAKED!
"

I pushed him inside and said, "Yeah, and if we angle the fucking thing,
kid, the water runs off and we die here when we stop finding luggage with
water bottles." He stared and huffed at me, then settled down and dragged
some clothes over him. Now, space blankets aren't huge things to start
with, roughly 4.5 feet by 7. With the arrangement to turn it also into a
catchment, we had maybe a yard width and a bit over six feet of
(relatively) dry space. Ian could huff if he wanted, but he couldn't put
much distance between us without being fully in the rain. Even with that,
he had to curl up some to keep both head and feet dry.

I watched the storm build and sweep in, keep a hawk's-eye on each
connection point. The wind was brisk, but not hard and everything held,
then the rain started. I sighed deeply as I saw the center of the Mylar
sheet dip and the water started to run into the resulting cup.

When the worst of the wind was gone and only the rain remained, I took
stock. Everything was still in place and we'd have some water to drink in
the morning. I realized something else I'd been try to ignore the whole
day. I itched like a motherfucker. Sand had gotten places sand just
shouldn't be allowed to go. I rummaged through Teeny Bob and found a body
wash that apparently had swallowed a fruit stand.

I walked out from under the sheltering trees and stripped off. After I was
wet (and shivering), I used my not-terribly-nasty boxers as a washcloth,
getting as much as possible out of pits, crotch and crack, then used my
hands to collect the rain in quantities enough to rinse with. When I
finally felt clean, I walked back toward the nest and draped the boxers
over a couple of branches to rinse and eventually dry in the rain. Would
they be comfortable with that soap in them? Fuck no, but they'd be
tolerable in a pinch.

I ducked into the shelter to be confronted by what looked like a couple of
ping pong balls. Ian's eyes were so wide I could see white at every edge,
and his mouth was open so far he looked like something Edvard Munch might
have painted. "What, kid, you don't have showers at your school?" I
rummaged through Beach Bimbo for the towel I was sure I'd seen and used it
to dry my ass, dick and balls, confident the rest would air dry. "Ian, son,
if you want a shower, you should hurry. Rain doesn't last forever, kid."

He snatched as the towel and I pushed him off. "Hell no! You ain't getting
our only towel wet out there, kid." He tried to use the floppy hat to
protect a dry pair of shorts and ran to the far side of the trees to
wash. Something that people don't realize when they see the balmy temps of
tropics is that 63° F at night sounds fantastic... when you have a bed
and blankets. Otherwise it's cold as fuck. I pulled out another couple of
Lunk-Lunk shirts and made sure they'd cover both Ian and I.

I settled in and listened to the rain which slowly subsided. Ian came back
drenched, holding a dirty, wet pair of board shorts and wearing an
equally-soaked pair of cutoffs. He came in shivering and I handed him the
towel. He started with his hair, which was understandable. Where I had what
is often called a high-and-tight, he land long, curly, ginger hair that was
incredibly thick, and thus incredibly wet.

"Ian, son, you can't get dry if you're wearing wet clothes. And you sure as
fuck aren't getting under these covers soaking." He blushed furiously but
turned and pulled off the shorts. For a skinny kid, he had respectably
glutes. I could see why he did well on jumping to the other island. He
wasn't an LD runner because he wasn't scrawny. I guessed soccer or hurtles.

He looked over at me as he finished and tried to figure a way under the
covers that would offer zero crotch exposure. I sighed. "Ian. Sit. Let your
skin either dry a bit or absorb some of the water. It's been a long fucking
day, kid, and we need to sleep soon. He never did turn around, but he sat
and watched the rain. We both started to drowse as the rain moved on and
left us with the drip-drop rhythm from the leaves. I felt the Mylar and was
pleased. There was likely enough in there to keep us hydrated for at least
the following day.

I laid down just inside the drip perimeter and pulled the shirt-blanket
over me. Ian hadn't stirred yet. I fell asleep trying to remember how to
guess volume of a cone. Pi and something-squared became pie at a Jb's on
Temple Square, a lovely dream. I semi-woke and saw Ian shivering.

"You're gonna freeze. Get under here, kid." I held up the corner of the
shirt and he reluctantly scuttled in. It was clear that he was horrified at
the idea of coming into contact with my naked body, and just as clear that
it was that or he could shiver to death. I think I mumbled something like
"apple crumble, pl..." as I slipped back into my culinary dozing. I woke to
something very warm moving about.

It took me a minute to run through Brisbane, plane, waves, sand, island
before I got to 'Ian'. My eyes popped open. I was on my back, one arm
thrown back which is how I normally end up. Where I don't normally end up
is on a makeshift bed with a pasty-white kid humping against my side.

What shocked me more was that I was railed as well. The dream pie had
morphed to creampie, one of my wife's favorite activities as I ate her out
after a vigorous fuck before getting into round two. I'd been in Oz for two
weeks on this trip and, as a faithful husband, had refrained from any sort
of sexual contact other than Rosy Palm and her five skinny sisters. This
pup humping me, moaning softly in his sleep, posed a unique challenge.

I could wake him, push him away, or ignore it. Well, 'ignore it' was
definitely not an option; he was basically using my love handle and a
fleshlight. Worse, rain is not really a shower, and his young musk and my
own crotch-sweat blended into a hormone-laced stew that seemed to soak into
the shirt-blanket. I pulled the cover off to lessen the concentration, but
the scent just exploded when I did. I ran my hand south and decided that I
could let the kid sleep and pull one out since he sure the fuck wouldn't
notice.

I was leaking so bad from the cream-dream that my belly-fur was drenched. I
was getting close when the inevitable happened and the punk spunked all
over my leg and side. I mean, seriously, this kid came buckets, bucking and
moaning and, just that quickly, waking in horror. In one of his wild
gyrations, he dumped a good part of his load right onto my own aching
prick.

He jumped back, right into the luggage and screamed, then looked back at
me, his mouth working crazily, eyes wide. I thought for a second. There
were plenty of ways to play this, but I decided on 'calm older brother'
mode. "Hell of a load, kid. But you made a real mess. Think maybe you
should clean it up so's we can sleep?"

His face was almost invisible in the gloom as the white skin vanished in a
mortified blush. He grabbed the first wad of cloth he could find and
started wiping the puddle from the shirt-sheet under us, trying to avoid
contact with me. He stopped and stared as he realized that most of his jizz
wasn't on the blanket, it was on me. I watched his Adam's Apple bobbing
like mad.

My voice was not harsh, but brooked no argument. "Ian, it's your mess, not
mine. I'm not mad or upset, Ian, but I am absolutely NOT going to wipe up
your cum. You get me, kid?" He nodded and went to work. I rolled a bit to
give him access and he got my side and upper leg at least passably dry and
I rolled back. He started on my hip, but could see that a load was soaking
in my own pubes. "Just do it, Ian. I'm tired." And there was my critical
mistake. I hadn't notice that 'the first wad of cloth' was a silk blouse,
probably from Old Lady Bag, maybe Beech Bimbo.

But the critical feature, the heart of the problem was the word
'silk'. Saturated with the kid's still-hot load, I moaned "Holy fuck!" when
he dragged that luxurious, hot, sticky, wet, slick cloth up my balls and
over my cock. He didn't seem to notice, locked in his private, embarrassed
focus on 'his mess'.

He swiped in along the edged when my sac met my leg and I shuddered. He
went back down, starting right behind my balls and back up, "E-E-E-Ian, uh,
y-y-y-you -- n-n-n-no -- ah, ah, FUCK!" And I blew like a cum bomb. As luck
would have it, the blouse completely covered the head of my prick right
then and we both looked down as my powerful ejaculations blasted against
and occasionally through the sheer fabric. I am a healthy man with a lusty
wife and very well-soundproofed walls between us and the room housing our
six girls. I was, shall we say, not a calm or quiet orasmateer.

I grunted and growled and screamed through my long-overdue release. Ian
simply sat there, hand unmoving, as I thrust in and out of his hot, wet,
silk-encased fist. With one last gurgling howl, I fell back, spent. I'd
been 16 the last time I'd come in a guy's fist, our first ecstatic week of
missionary work for our small church. My mission-buddy was Darren and we'd
shared a bed one night because of a leaking AC that ruined the mattresses
in the room we had been assigned. I can't even tell you how the
mini-circle-jerk happened, though I can say not a word was said and our
eyes never met. It was powerful, and we never acknowledged that it happened
-- that *anything* happened, ever.

This was better. Frankly, this was as good as, possibly better than, the
strictly-physical side of sex with my own wife. It had been a long time
since I'd cum that hard, that long, that intensely. The prior occasions had
always been intense, long, edge-fucking sessions, seeing how many orgasms I
could get out of my wife before succumbing to my own explosive release. He
done with four strokes, maybe five, what normally took two hours. I looked
up and saw his mortified confusion, and the dawning realization of what
he'd just done.

<eof>

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