An Xcite Books collection of twenty gay erotic stories with mixed and varied m/m themes.
I waded to the top of the sand dune, looked down, and there he was – laid out on the beach like a Nubian offering to the glute gods. He was all by himself, sheltered by a set of dunes, flat on his stomach on a white towel, his ebony body shining under the hot sun, his thong-split butt cheeks gleaming like twin liquorice orbs.
I went weak in the knees, hard in the cock.
I’m an assman from way back. Men’s rears have always held a fearsome attraction for me. I’ve gravitated to their moons for as long as I can remember, following them with my eyes in pants and shorts and swimsuits, fondling them with my hands, clothed and bare, fucking them with my cock. While some men are beachcombers, scouring the shimmering sands for lost treasure, I’m a buttcomber, the beach just one of the many places where I pursue my passion for male posterior. And here I’d hit the jackpot.
This man’s served-up ass was one of the most luscious I’d ever seen, the thin red line of his thong accentuating the massiveness and moundedness of his humps, cleaving them depthlessly down the middle and swelling them up into stunning relief.
I waded down the crumbling side of the dune on crumbling legs, closer to the man with the burnished thunder cheeks; moving silently, stealthily, his buttocks looming ever larger in my widened eyes. It was mid-morning, beachgoers on either side of the sand dunes, laughing and splashing and chasing each other around. But as I drew nearer to the man and his cheeks, the sound of blood pounding in my heads, my heart in my chest, blocked out the rolling surf and public noise.
Although I did hear one other thing – the light snoring of the butt-blessed dude stretched out face down on the towel. He was sleeping!
I could barely contain my excitement, the huge bulge in the front of my knee-length swim trunks. I’d thought I’d have to go waist-deep in the ocean to fully take advantage of this precious sighting; jack into the surf as I stared at the double-hilled shoreline. But now a bolder plan took hold in my dirty mind, like my hand on my cock rubbing through my swimsuit. I approached the dozing man from the rear.
I stood right in between his splayed legs on his towel, gazing down at him, at his huge buttocks rising up to meet me. He had a shaved head, a gold earring in his right ear, his torso and legs long and lean and coal-black. His face rested on his folded hands, his eyes closed and mouth slightly open.
Now, I’m not a bad-looking guy myself – tall and thin, with brown hair and blue eyes, an attractive if tense face, a large, easily aroused cock. So I could have sat down on the sand next to the guy and introduced myself and maybe gotten to know him, gone up the beach for a Coke and a hot dog. Only that would’ve taken time and a set of social skills, and I’m short on both. Besides, men are asses to me (in the finest sense of the word), nothing more, nothing less. Relationships are for other guys not always hot on the trail for tail.
So, impulsively, needfully and uncontrollably, I pushed my swimsuit down to my ankles and hefted my heavy, hanging cock, started stroking. Right out there in the open on the beach, under the spell of those glorious globes.
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