Beach Boys (19 page)

“Bite down on this,” a hoarse voice whispered. “His lordship does not appreciate whimpers.”

Then there was silence, a universal breath indrawn, a pause pregnant with lurid anticipation. Some distant part of Benedict knew what was about to happen, remembered the glimpse of the monstrosity swinging before the leader’s strut. Another part of him crowed that he had been raped before. It had hurt like fuck at the time, but he had got over it. He had survived, hadn’t he?

A blow from a hot, horny hand across his ass made him jump, or he would have jumped had he not been held down by the acolytes and the master’s other hand not pressed down on the small of his back. There was heat, then more heat as the master knelt behind him, caressing the flesh of his thighs and where they joined almost tenderly, worshipfully. He was kneeling before him, kneeling. Something akin to joy mingled with pride washed through Benedict, irrational but rescuing, wrapping his sensibility in cotton wool and bearing it away somewhere it would be safe until all this madness was over.

The scorching bar of what he knew was flesh but which felt like metal penetrating his anus transformed the universe into the immediate here and now of agony, of the rhythm of the Master’s long, slow strokes that could not be escaped, the knowledge that his own impotence and inability to protect himself only added to the monster’s delight and that of his companions as they clamped and stamped and cheered along in time.

Benedict knew he was being torn, even though he could not at first feel the sensations of flesh and muscle and skin tearing, of his own blood lubricating the passage of the monster into those parts of him where no man was meant to go were he not a surgeon. What he did feel was blackness wrapping itself around his face, his eyes, his nose, blackness like thick, heavy cloth that deadened all sensation. He recognized it as his oncoming death, even though he had never experienced it before, and he welcomed it as he felt the throbbing, slamming, uncontrollable onrush of the monster’s climax. In the instant that one final thrust lifted him off the sand and filled him with acid flame eating him from the inside, the last vestiges of light and sound disappeared, as did the spirit that had been called Benedict MacFarlane. In that final instant, he was faintly disappointed that no great insight was revealed to him, that all there was within that good night was darkness.

The creatures, whatever they were, dispersed quickly once their master had had his way with their plaything. If any were disappointed, they had not been allowed to play the game they did not voice it as the faded into the trees, flitting this way and that, up towards the mountains, down towards the caves beneath the headland that overlooked Gabriel’s Haven. None remained when the clouds above the bay were finally ripped open and lightning shattered an old, proud palm tree on the very top of the headland. Heavy drops of rain created tiny craters in the sand of
the beach and quickly extinguished the last remnants of the fire. In a short while, even the rain ceased falling, and all that remained was the thickest of tropical nights.

* * * *

Lt. Ulysses Gayle stared down at the slashed and torn corpse face down on the still smoldering fire. He held a handkerchief to his nose to prevent inhaling the worst of the stomach turning odors. The waste, the futility, the brazen abuse of it all numbed him. No matter how many times he witnessed a scene like this, and this was by no means the first time he had been roused from sleeping of Mardi Gras excess to go out to investigate a ghastly killing, he did not find it any easier to keep himself from walking off the beach into the sea and drinking the ocean. What kept him standing there was the knowledge there was no one else on the island better equipped to deal with this than him. He wanted to weep, but didn’t.

A uniformed officer, Chanderpaul handed him an open wallet inside a clear plastic evidence bag. The face of a youngish man stared back at him, dark, curly hair, large nose and dark eyes. Benedict MacFarlane of Miami. These Americans never learned. They had turned his island into their pleasure garden, and Ulysses did not mind, because the money they spent had transformed the prosperity, any more than he disapproved of their preferences. To each his own.

What irked him, though, was their attitude towards the facts of the island, that on two nights of the year nobody stepped outside the light while the old ones had their carnival. They considered such warnings were only for superstitious native peasants. Yet it was a long, long time since the old ones had taken a San Gabrieli.

“Find out where he was staying, Officer Chanderpaul,” he ordered the uniform, handing back the wallet. “Somebody must be wondering where Mr. MacFarlane has gone.”

The constable saluted and set off up the beach, the white sand almost enveloping his shoe with every pace he took, towards the wooden staircase that would take him up the small cliff to where three of the five police cars on San Gabriel waited.

Gayle turned back to the corpse, shaking his head. Surely somebody had to have missed the wretched fellow by now.

* * * *

In the suite at the Hotel Paradis he shared with Benedict, Peter Lascelles lay back on the crisp linen sheets and luxuriated in the sensations of relaxation. What a night. What a night. There wasn’t a part of him that did not ache wonderfully. The only way the experience could have been improved was Benedict being there. Then it would have been perfect. But he wasn’t in the bar when Peter went to find him, and he wasn’t back yet, so he had obviously found his own entertainment, the dirty dog. It was going to be such fun when he got back and they could tell each other all about it. In the meantime, though, a guy needed his beauty sleep.

by Ziggy Raht

There are tribes. There are some tribes in Africa where men fuck one another. Women are brought into the picture only to multiply while the tribesmen are being, well, fruitful. Tribes, like the Nkundo, the Bala, and the Thonga. Fertile ground for study by your frightfully queer anthropologist. That would be me. But my adventures these many, many years have been in the New World—the Caribbean World.

It all started, as they say, some fourteen years ago. I was at home, pretending to work on a manuscript at my computer, but really just endlessly formatting and re-formatting the pagination while enjoying a joint. I had just decided to switch to viewing some porn when the telephone rang. I swiveled on my office chair and rolled across the floor to answer. It was a telemarketer of some sort. As I was understandably a bit slow on the uptake, he read through much of his script before I could get a word in edgewise. That word should’ve been “no,” but I blurted, “Okay.” Yes to accepting my winning an eight-day stay in a Jamaican resort, all expenses paid. It was likely the effect of the weed that made me so docile, I suppose. All I had to do was sign up for something or another—the details were pretty fuzzy—which I did, in twelve easy payments. The next day, I could’ve kicked myself for such stupidity, but I was trying to nurture a belief in there being a reason for everything and that one should go with the proverbial flow—something my therapist had been trying to convince me of for years. So I did.

Before my flowing, however, my friends warned me to be careful, as Caribbean countries could be very homophobic. I knew this to be true, but wasn’t planning to be any more reckless than baking in the sun and knocking back several coconut rum cocktails.

Of course, “all expenses paid” was somewhat a misnomer, as I had to pay the travel taxes and an outrageous booking fee. The five-hour flight was relatively stress free, and the winking attendance of a sweet redheaded air steward made me forget all about taxes and fees. My being in the aisle seat made it easy for him to flirt.

It always surprised me that people considered me a catch. I was dishy enough, I suppose: mid-thirties, high cheekbones, blue eyes, shaggy blond hair, and a body—if not to die for, then at least to bruise a bit. My eyeglasses added that
soupçon
of braininess that some find especially alluring. Still, the attention was not something I expected or sought out from the get-go.

The steward literally fawned over me, the dear, making goo-goo eyes whenever he passed. His tailored trousers left nothing to the imagination, fore and aft—well, to
my
imagination, anyway. So much so, I felt the need to somehow blow off some steaminess. While the rest of the passengers were riveted to their video screens, I went off to relieve myself in the john with a feverish wank. As I made my way down the aisle, I noticed the steward kneeling to check the stock of beverages in the galley. As I neared the washrooms, his keen radar sense seemed to activate, and he swiveled in my direction. A Mona Lisa smile crept across his face—that is, if La Gioconda had been a gay air steward on the make.

As I opened the bathroom door and entered, I felt a sudden nudge. It was my little redhead. He quickly backed me into the cubicle, shut the door behind him, and slid the occupied latch in place. How he was able to so deftly maneuver in that confined space was beyond me, but perhaps he had had lots of practice. No perhaps about it. He smashed his lips against mine. Our tongues darted back and forth in each other’s mouths. We paused for a moment to catch our breath—and beheld each other’s beauty, I’d like to think. I glanced down at his nameplate: Jeremy.

“Hello, Jeremy. I’m Roger.”

In response, Li’l Red dropped to his knees. He skillfully unzipped me and flipped my cock out from my Calvins. A bold move. He kissed the helmet head of my dick, then deeped it in one ravenous gulp. One bold move deserved another. I scooped him up, turned him around and pushed him against the miniature sink. I hugged him from behind, as he stared at himself in the mirror. I could see him smiling in the reflection, and he let out a low moan. I undid his perfectly tailored pants and slid them down part way—not easily, given how tight they were. He wore no underwear. A respectable cock sprang up.

But it was his ass that drew my attention. A proverbial bubble that had my name on it; I imagined him craving to be “rogered.” However, Ol’ Red now seemed a bit nervous and checked his watch.
Tempus fugit
, I reckon, especially when in actual flight. So penetrating him was out of the question. Besides, I had left my meager supply of condoms back in my carry-on. Instead, I glided my even more respectable cock along his hairless crack. Up and down his furrow, with my pre-come and his saliva lubing the way, as his dick slapped against the cold water faucet. I reached about and wrapped my fist around his curved shaft. All this was so naughty but incredibly hot, and within another thirty seconds I splatted my load against his ass cheeks, while he decorated the mirror with his.

I momentarily slumped against his back, as he flicked out a paper towel from the dispenser and cleaned his come from the mirror and sink. Another flick, and he sopped up my juice as best he could from his spermy bum. I used some toilet paper to wipe my dick and pulled up my pants. He did the same, but was horrified to discover that much of my come had dripped down onto his pants.

Jeremy desperately dabbed and rubbed at the stains, mumbling, “I’ll never fucking learn.” He threw me a split-second scowl and shifted his focus back to his task. He allowed a perfunctory peck on the cheek, and I slid out of the cubicle. A couple stewardesses stood in the galley, whispering to each other. One looked at me and rolled her eyes. I gave her a sheepish grin and ducked back to my seat.

For the rest of the flight, Jeremy wore a service apron around his middle. As he was collecting leftover paper cups and packaging, I pulled out one of my cards and fingered it over towards the end of my tray. He picked it up with a tight smile and dropped it into a receptacle with the rest of the trash. This seemed to alleviate any guilt I was feeling. I might be a catch, but I was merely Jeremy’s catch of the day. I chuckled to myself and relaxed for the final hour of the flight.

* * * *

The resort, Casa San Monique, was near Nail Bay in Spanish Town in the parish of St. Catherine. “Near” was hardly beachfront, but a good mile inland. The hotel did have a large pool, which was fine, except that its cement had just recently been poured and was not yet fully dry. In fact, the entire hotel was in a state of partial construction. Plastic tarps blocked some of the corridors and flapped as one walked past. Footprints could be seen everywhere—not in sand, but in plaster dust on the carpeting. As well, the hotel was woefully understaffed, and getting any kind of service was an exercise—if not in futility, then in trying one’s patience. Not fun.

After two days of this, I was trying to psych myself up to check out and find somewhere better to stay, but the sky was so clear, so incredibly blue. I decided to leave it another day. I slipped on my Speedo and flip-flops and went to sun myself by the not-dry-yet swimming pool. It was surrounded by bright yellow tape, as if it were the scene of a horrendous crime. I seemed
to be the only one around. Perhaps others were put off by the tape and all the construction, or perhaps I was the only guest left in the place. In any event, I intended to make the most of the rays before seeking out alternative accommodation.

I tilted my sun hat over my eyes and lay back on a deck chair. The sound of sandals dragging on pavement and then stopping caught my attention. I slowly lifted the brim of my hat. A very tall black man stood inside the taped area. He wore a long baggy swimsuit. Fluorescent orange and blinding in the sunlight. And nothing else, besides from the aforementioned sandals. He was looking down into the empty pool as if transfixed by the blotchy cement. I felt compelled to say something.