Date: Sat, 13 May 2017 18:42:51 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Shark Reef 3

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.

*****

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.

*****

Shark Reef 3: Thus Spake Cannabithustra

By Bear Pup

I should have been really worried about the kid and his reaction. Gone
parental and made sure he was okay and knew that everything was fine. Maybe
even felt guilty. Yeah, not so much, really. I had been sucked out of an
airplane, nearly drowned, was surrounded by sharks, had no obvious means of
survival and no chance of rescue and I'd just blown a truly epic load. I
was out like a light while the kid was still mopping up my cum.

I woke slowly, comfortably. It's pretty amazing what a phenomenal orgasm
can do for a guy. I'm not sure what woke me. There was some tinkling as
leaves shed the last of their rain-drops. There was a softening of the
stygian blue to what I presumed was the east. There were soft sniffles from
the curled-in-a-ball redhead sitting at the furthest corn of the shelter. I
say up and Ian jumped, turning a staring at me in stark fear.

"Ian? What's up, buddy? It's fine. We'll get rescued," I lied, " and all
this will be over."

"No. No it won't. We're stuck here and I fucked everything up and you hate
me and there's nothing going right."

I wasn't awake enough for this. "Huh? Stuck here, yeah, sucks, got
that. Lots going right." I shook myself a bit. "We've got water, food bars,
fishing stuff, shelter -- sorta -- and all sorts of stuff. And why do I
hate you again?"

"I... I t-t-touched you!" Aaaaaand the sniffles were back, this time
bringing their friends mopey and weepy along for a visit.

"Oh, God, that? Ian, seriously? Did you hear me complaining? Or did you
hear me moaning like a cheap porn flick? Get over it. You were humping my
side so hard in your sleep I'd already started to tug one out. You just
finished the job." I smiled, perhaps wickedly. "Maybe a little more
spectacularly that I would have done on my own, but I'm not complaining and
I sure as fuck don't hate you. Get over it, kid. Shit happens. And if the
worst that happens today is both of us blowing huge loads all over the
island, I'm gonna count it as a damned fine day!"

"R-r-r-really?" His voice was small, as if sure this was the entr'acte of
me beating the crap out of him.

"Ian, yeah, I'm sure. Why waste time worrying about who got whom off how
and focus a little more on survival, okay buddy?" I got the slightest trace
of a smile.

I never really thought -- I rarely do, honestly -- as I rolled out from
under the Mylar and stood, stretching luxuriantly. I'd slept damned well
considering my mattress and the pillow had been sand under some
muscle-fanatic's shirt. I began to twist at the hips, bending and
stretching as I do every morning. I hindsight (hur, hur, *hind*sight) I was
giving the kid quite a show, especially considering that he was freaking
over giving me a knida-sorta-accidental hand job and I was still butt
nekkid.

Ian was probably at least six inches taller than me, but I outmassed him by
half at least. I was 5' 10" with footballer shoulders, wide and thick. I'd
never had to work on upper body much at the gym, just some bicep/triceps
work; the rest took care of itself. Thighs the same way. I fucking wish my
waist did. It didn't matter how often I hit the abs or what I tried, I had
a nice thick layer of flab from nips to hips.

I had plenty of dark hair, more pelt than fur; it's long and dense but not
very curly. I had a girlfriend in college, a Liberal Arts type, call my
front The Thunderbird Look -- shoulder-to-shoulder pelt, thick over and
between my pecs, then tapered down to a tiny spot six inched above my cock
then a flared 'tail' covering my entire crotch area from one hip to the
other. Thick on my calves and forearms and pits, but also the top and back
of my shoulders (and my big ass). Abigail was always on my to 'get
something done' about the shoulders, but at least I didn't have the whole
Yeti thing going down my back.

So there I am, lost in my little morning wake-up world when I turned and
Ian's throat was working like a snake eating a rabbit, convulsively
swallowing what had to be saliva. The little fuck was drooling over me! I
filed that away as 'interesting and useless fact 4,506c' and made my way
over the Frilly Lady bag, vaguely remembers a grooming aide that would be
nice to use.

I found a large boar-bristle brush, the kind that frizzy women think will
help their hair. Regardless of whether that works, it's damned fine for
getting sweat, sand and dried cum out of a body-pelt like mine. Just cuz
I'm a bastard, I made sure that Ian had a very clear and thorough view as I
worked it over and over through my pubes and down my ass. I balanced on one
leg as I made a meal of brushing my taint and fork.

I turned to the wide-eyes kid who was clutching something, maybe
yesterday's damp board shorts, over his crotch. "Ya wanna? Great for
getting cum-flakes outta your crotch, kid." He sucked in a tiny squeak,
turned and fled. Damn. That is one fine fucking ass on that kid. Wish I
could get him some tits and a pussy to go with it; that would turn this
into a nice little island after all.

As the light built, I began to lather on the sunscreen. Something I'd
learned from Aussie friends, sunscreen even under the shirt. I dragged on
short pants and a long-sleeve dress shirt from Hulme and replaced the pink
Beach Bimbo hat to make a quick circuit of the island, looking for anything
the rainstorm might have changed. I was in luck. At some point, the breeze
and waves had changed and the big-handled bag that Ian had tried to wade
out to was only a couple yards from shore in very shallow water.

I returned and grabbed my shoes (laceless sneakers, what I always flew
with) and noted that Ian had pulled something, probably clothes, from a
couple bags but was nowhere to be seen. I went back and was able to wade
only calf deep to where the light-green bag sat, careful to watch for
critters in the shallows. The bag was... strange. It wasn't a backpack and
wasn't a 'rolling office' computer bag and wasn't a purse. It was kinda all
those things. Big-ole purse-like handles, but also a roly-handle.

I dragged it back and started to unzip it as a very red-faced Ian came from
the direction of the makeshift latrine. "Everything come out all right?" I
smirked and he looked appalled. Apparently bathroom humor was also not
common in his world.

The bag was a motley assortment of business crap. A laptop about as thick
as a sheet of carboard, the inevitable dop kit with a couple small
surprises -- six or so disposable razors. Odd, since there was also an
electric razor and no shaving cream. Hmm. An e-reader and a tablet in a
custom pocket against the back. Two slim, three-ring binders with salescrap
in a script I didn't recognize, sort of like thick, long Arabic. A manila
envelope stuffed with a month's worth of receipts from at least a
half-dozen countries.

A change of clothes, a towel, a belt (probably never put back on after
security), three different lighters but no cigarettes. AH! That's why,
there was a small plastic container (like for chew) of some vile Turkish
tobacco with a papers-dispenser build into the lid. This was a
roll-your-own kinda guy.  Newspapers and magazines in, oh, okay, that
script must be whatever they use in Turkey? Hmph. Plenty of charging cables
and a card-wallet with about thirty credit cards from different
countries. A couple of city maps (real useful on a pacific atoll).
Something still seemed off, and I couldn't put my finger on it.

Then I put my finger on it. Where everything else on the bag had seams with
thick, regular stitching, the part that covered the roly-handle thing
was... wrong. One side looked almost hand-stitched. I doubt anyone could
have noticed, but I was bored and the bag just seemed off for a business
persons. Also, you'd never see it until you had done what I had -- taken
every item out and laid them aside. The customs pocket for the e-reader and
tablet hid the seam completely.

I gently teased it open and whistled, long and low, getting Ian's immediate
attention. Exactly, down to the millimeter from what I could see, the
dimensions of both the tablet and the e-reader was a packet. Sealed inside
at least three vacuum-packed layers of plastic was what looked for the
world like a fibrous chocolate bar. Next to it was a long, thin, porcelain
tube. I slit open the bag with McGeeks' little pocket razor that I'd taken
to carrying. The scent was overwhelming.

I could see where bits of the bar had been scraped -- no, shaved --
away. This was a salesman's sample for a drug cartel. This was well over a
pound of black-tar hashish and a x-ray-immune pipe. Fuck! Now, why would a
Good Christian spot something like that? Dude, did you never go to college?
Ian's mouth was open and he whispered, "That isn't... is it?" I just
nodded. I was probably holding between ten and twenty thousand dollars of
highly-concentrated pot. "We can't... can we?" I shook myself and then
looked hard at Ian.

"If we had a rock-solid source of water and another of food, I'd say
yeah. But we don't. Until we do, hands off this, right, kid?" He nodded
sincerely but I could tell he was sorely tempted. I was aching, tired,
worried, stranded, stressed and probably going to die on this overblown
sand dune before long. For me, 'tempted' didn't even come close.

The sun came up fully and it was time to start working. First order of
business was water. I pulled out the smaller of the McGeek Beach Toy
bucket, the one not yet used for anything, and scooped some of the water
from the tarp. I took one of our several empty .5l bottles and found the
water filter. Rainwater was supposed to be pure, but who knows what
creepy-crawlies lived on leaves in this place. Better safe than sorry. I
kept adding scoops of water to the filter and watched as it slowly,
agonizingly-slowly filled the bottle. I handed the first to Ian.

"Drink as much as you want, Ian. The best place for water..."

"Yeah, I know. Dune. The best place to store water is in the body. But JB,
we don't have stillsuits." He still guzzled the bottle in a single
swallow. He was right, but it was moot. Whatever we could not filter and
bottle might well be lost anyway. I was able to fill all the remaining
empties and Ian and I each got nearly three liters of water apiece. Very
little was going to waste, and I used it to rinse the bucket I'd used as a
shovel.

By this time, the sun was well up and the heat of the day was upon us. I
convinced Ian to rest a while and did the same, dozing fitfully for a few
hours. When I felt the afternoon settle, I set about figuring out how all
those survival people said you could make a fishing line with thread. What
the fuck were they trying to catch? Mayflies? I finally figured out a way
to twine the thread round and round and round like rope, which seemed to
make it strong enough. I ended up with about 15 feet of 'line' tightly tied
to a safety-pin at one end and a stick at the other. Yeah, like this was
gonna work. Now for bait...

Don't you love it when the universe decides to play nice? At that moment, a
shriek in the 'speaker feedback' range of sound alerted me to the arrival
of bait in the form of an iridescent crab. As Ian did the 'I Hate Crabs'
dance, I was able to bean the thing. With the aid of one of the Knitting
Ninja Needles, I hacked off a claw, cracked it and put the flesh on the
makeshift hook.

I was a bit stunned when something grabbed hard on the line just minutes
after I threw it on the outer side of the island. Fully conscious of how
delicate the thread might be, I gradually dragged the thing in until it was
visible. Perhaps not two feet long with a big ole hump on the head, it
seemed blue-green-silver in the surf. I managed to coax it in a little
further into the shallow surf then scooped it ashore where it flopped
desultorily. Apparently, it had been as surprised as I was and didn't
really fight. If it had, I expect I'd have been out one priceless
safety-pin.

I looked edible. Okay, yeah, I know that makes no fucking sense. Let's try
this: It looked kinda like something I'd seen on the front of a menu
once. Nothing about it screamed 'Poison'. Okay, we now had sashimi, but I
don't like raw fish.

As soon as I had started the twining of the line, I'd set Ian to finding
dry wood, either dropped branches or driftwood. After making sure that
breakfast-lunch-dinner was not about to flop back to home, I used one of
Dealer's razors to trim some shavings of a bone-dry stick of driftwood as
tinder and one of his several lighters to start the blaze. I asked Ian's
opinion and got a gallic shrug. He made it clear that he thought seafood
came from the fishmonger labelled in brown paper packages tied up with
string.

As Ian tended to the growing fire, I figured out just haw insane it is to
clean a fish using a computer geeks' razor knife. I am quite certain that
Ian found the experience educational, assuming he took a Colloquial
American Obscenity class.

I filled Big Bucket with seawater and finally rinsed the (mostly)
scale-free fillets (hacked up fish slabs) for a while as I scooped up
entrails and threw them into the lagoon. I figured it wouldn't do much for
our fishing prospects if Mr Fishy's friends saw bits of him floating
about. I picked a place where relatively-deep water came within tossing
distance of the sand and was both gratified and appalled at the flurry of
aquatic activity that act produced. It looked like those piranha movies.

There was this big, flat thing that looked vaguely like a banana plant. I
figured since it didn't 'look' anymore poisons than Mr Fishy, it would work
for a cooking vessel. It only took perhaps a week to beat a couple of the
giant leaves into submission.

For an hour, we watched dusk turn to dark as the driftwood sent tiny
fireworks in unnatural and wondrous colors up to join the emerging tars. I
knew this was from the various salts from the seawater trapped in the grain
during repeated soak-dry cycles, each different element oxidizing
explosively in the flames. It didn't matter. It was also clearly the
universe's way of saying, "I know I fucked you guys six ways to Sunday. The
least I can do is make it magical..."

It was full dark before the fire had burnt down to simple coals. I cut the
'banana' leaves into nice packet-sized swaths. I wrapped the fish and threw
the packets onto the coals where they spat and hissed like angry cats.

As they cooked, I turned to Ian.

"Kid, I have no idea if that fish is poisonous, the leaves are poisonous,
the fucking fire is poisonous. Don't eat it if you don't want to. Maybe
hold back and see if I die horribly?"

"No fookin way, mate. You are NOT eating all that fish without me!" I left
him to tend the fish and broke out another of the Mylar space blankets,
spreading it like the first between some other trees. I stacked the
collected driftwood there so it would stay fairly dry and give us another
water catchment.

We ate in high style. The apparently-non-lethal fish and leaves made for a
meal as good as many Pacific resorts where I paid a small fortune per
entrée. It started to drizzle so we retreated to the 'nest' and zipped
the uneaten fish packets into and emptied zip-lock. If only we had a nice,
crisp wine to go with the beautiful night and the sound of raindrops. Sigh.

It was almost as if he read my mind, "Uh, JB? Well, mate, we have plenty of
water and, well, food for a couple days at least. We don't have any wine,
but what about...?"

A slow smile spread across both our faces. I found Dealer's secret treasure
and carefully shaved off a few tiny curls of the dense, dark material. The
pipe's bowl was a long, narrow affair that seemed well-suited to the
strips.

"I've heard of it but never tried it, JB. Just pot, really. What's it
like?"

"Pot on steroids. Quicker, stronger high. We take it SLOW, champ. Got me?"

This was "demo grade" so was likely potent. I figured two tokes apiece, max
and Ian reluctantly agreed. The shit was so pure that it wouldn't even
light! It just bubbled and melted.  A lightbulb went off over my head. THAT
was the reason for the cheap and vile Turkish tobacco! I crumbled the
strips into a pinch of the tobacco and refilled the bowl. The first hit was
like breathing lava. I managed to control it but Ian was hacking up a
lung. The thick, resinous hash snuffed the flame as soon as we stopped
drawing air across it.

Huh. Nothing! Maybe it's not hash? Well, shit. We both took another hit and
Ian managed to hold this one, doing a number of the un-cough things known
to every stoner on earth. Still nothing. Oh well, there was a little
left. We each took two more tokes and I cleaned the barrel, incredibly let
down over the fact that it wasnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Oh, fuck. Yeah it was hash! I'm a big guy, and smoked weed for a decade
when younger. This shit hit me like the fucking hand of God. Two tokes?
That was clearly one too many. And we'd had FOUR. Did I say hand of God?
Nope. Within a minute of two I was having a long conversation with the
aforementioned Heavenly Father and he assured me that something much bigger
than Him had whacked me on my ass.

Luckily, we were already sitting under the Mylar as the rain came down. I
could no more have walked than flown. Frankly, I realized that flying was
much easier, really. I looked a few miles off to my left and saw Ian
leaning against me, a look of insensate bliss in his slowly-blinking face.

Perhaps a year/week/hour later, I swam back to consciousness still sitting,
Ian and I propped against each other, listing to the most amazing fucking
tune on the radio. Sorta Pink Floyd orchestrated for waves and
raindrops. The volume control on the damned MP3 player was busted. Either
that or you actually needed the earbud thingies that were utterly beyond my
grasp. Or maybe an on switch? Batteries? Whatever. Fuck it. I scrolled
through the tunes, blessing whoever put together this amazing
playlist. When all that was left was white noise (what sick fuck puts wind
noise on their playlist, huh?) I came back to Earth again.

I floated back and grabbed a bottle of water, forcing half down Ian and the
other for me. The baggie told me to split a fish with the kid and I did,
then the empty bottle of water started to cry so I split another with Ian
so it wouldn't be lonely. I arranged us on our backs. Ian shivered and I
hugged his shoulders into mine and covered us with a Lunk-Lunk shirt.

I woke and it was off us, a good thing since I was hot as hell. I tried to
sit and decided such complex activities could wait. I looked over to Ian
and ruffled the kid's ginger hair with honest and heartfelt
affection. "You're a good kid, Ian. Sorry bout the Sally thing. You're a
good kid. Good kid."

"You're so beautiful."

"No, you're the pretty one. Those lips, that face, that ass,
that... ass. So smooth and nice and pretty. Good kid, too." I petted his
long hair and smiled stupidly at his. His eyes were glowing in the dark, a
vivid grass-green like a Kerrygold advert.

"No, you are perfect. Beautiful. Handsome. Perfect. Handsome. Sex-- oops."

"Uh?"

"No."

I bent down and pulled his chin up. He was blushed. "No, what, your little
ginger angel? What?"

"You're so sexy I was so scared and now I'm not I couldn't touch you and
then I BOOM but you made me well you told me well it was my mess and I
wanted anyway and I wiped and touched and touched and you POW and then I
WHAM again and can I do it again JB please can I make that happen again?"

I had no fucking clue what this little angel kid was saying. I was having a
sidebar with God at the moment. "Knock yourself out."

"What?"

"Whatever you want angel guy. Knock yourself out." I went back to communing
with God and suddenly that conversation got seriously interrupted.

The best pussy on earth, greater than a dozen Abigails, wrapped around my
raging boner. I wailed in delight. And every pussy had its own little
tongue doing oh such fucking amazing things. I started to whimper and bite
my lip. Houris. The word floated all big and pink and bounced like a
balloon. Paradise virgins. Muslim things when you're really, really
good. Assassins. Hashish. Horuis. That's where they came from. I looked
down to see the dozen gazelle-eyed virgins working my massive erection but
there was only one, a cream-skinned, green-eyed, red-headed, tit-less one
with an unstoppable ass and wondrous lips slobbering and slavering and
devouring me.

Another word bounced into view, this one cream-colored and throbbing with
hairy orange-red. Blowjob. It bounced against Houris and suddenly the two
were making out. Pink Houris and creamy Blowjob, each consuming the
other. Two smaller words, a bright-white Hands and a deep-red Balls started
to dance together and a giant scream named MOANFUCKMOAN started to wrap
itself around everything.

God said, "Yo, dude! You're all, like, distracted and shit. Let's rap
later. Pay attention to the Ginger Angel, bruh, as he blows your mind and
everything else. Righteous resin, man, righteous. Drop by anytime. But
bring the pipe, dude!"

I looked down again as Ian began to moan and growl around my meaty cock,
sending trills and arpeggios through every fiber of my body and mind. I
pounded on his shoulder and he mind-shouted, "Fuck Off! I'm Busy! MORE
COCK!" and redoubled his efforts. It took maybe seven or eight centuries of
bliss as my balls slowly, achingly, torturously climbed my shaft until I
screamed in a voice that should have lit up rescue screen in Quebec,
"FUUUUUUUUUUCK!" and was... gone.

<eof>

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