Rough Hands at the Marina Slip

The marina at Shelter Island was dead quiet after midnight, just the slap of bay water on fiberglass and one sodium light buzzing over slip fourteen. I had spent three hours hosing salt crust off Grant's charter boat, and my shirt was a wet rag against my chest. He came up from the cabin with two beers sweating in his fists, bare to the waist, shoulders still shining from the rinse. Grant was thirty-two and bigger than me in the way that made my stomach drop: thick pecs, a dark line of hair down a hard gut, arms that looked like they could pull an anchor without help.

Everybody on the dock called me Tyler. I was twenty-nine, and I detailed boats for a living and lifted before the sun came up, so I was not small either. My arms were pumped from scrubbing, veins standing, board shorts hanging low on my hips. Grant looked at me like he had been waiting all day to quit pretending we were just crew. He set the beers on the tackle bench and pulled the pier gate until the latch caught.

- You gonna stand there dripping, or you coming down?
- Cabin's an oven. Deck's fine.
- Then we're staying up here. I don't want some night walker on the pier.
- Gate's locked. Nobody's coming.

- Watched your back all afternoon.
- I know. You gonna do something?
- Yeah. Turn around.

That was the last thing either of us said.

He spun me toward the gunwale and pressed in behind me, chest sealed to my wet back, cock already thick against my ass through thin shorts. His mouth found my neck, teeth scraping, tongue hot. I pushed back and felt the sound he made against my skin. He peeled my shirt off and dragged his hands down my chest, thumbs catching my nipples until they drew tight. I braced on the cool rail. He shoved my shorts to my ankles and kicked them aside. Night air hit my cock. I was hard, leaking. Grant dropped to a knee. His hands spread me. His tongue licked a slow stripe from my taint over my hole and circled until my knees shook. Spit slicked me. His beard scratched. I held his head and ground back on his mouth.

He replaced his tongue with two thick fingers, slow, curling, finding the spot that made my cock jump and drip on the deck. I heard his belt, then his shorts hit the nonskid. He stood. The fat head of his cock nudged my hole, burning hot. He spat in his palm, stroked once, and pressed. I breathed out and bore down. He sank in an inch, then another, stretching me wide, the burn bright and sweet. One hand stayed on my lower back. The other wrapped my cock and stroked while I took him. When I pushed back he buried the rest, hips flush, throbbing at the root. I felt every ridge of him. He held still until the sting eased and my body opened around the thickness of him.

He fucked me in long strokes, almost out, then deep until his balls slapped mine. The boat rocked. Water knocked the hull. Each thrust drove a sound out of me I could not hold. His grip would bruise my hip. His fist stayed on my cock, slick with precum, twisting the head when he sank all the way. Sweat ran down my spine and he licked it, greedy. He locked an arm across my chest and hauled me upright, fucking up into me, my back to his chest, the sodium light gold on his forearm. My hole fluttered around the drag of him. He did not rush. He used the whole night. My thighs trembled. I reached back, grabbed his hip, and pulled him deeper on every stroke until the bench behind us rattled in its brackets.

He pulled out slow. The empty ache made me grunt. He bent me over the tackle bench, chest to the wood, boxes rattling, and drove back in harder, short and mean, one hand in my hair, the other pinning my wrist. I took it. I wanted the slap of his hips and the swing of my cock leaking under me. He ground deep, circling, rubbing that spot until sparks crowded my eyes. Then he sat, dragged me into his lap facing him, and I sank down on him myself. This angle filled me fuller. His hands spread my ass while I rode, slow, then fast, wet skin smacking in the quiet slip. He sucked my nipple and bit the muscle over my heart, eyes on my face the whole time. I held his shoulders and rolled my hips, taking every inch, sweat shining in the hair on his chest.

I felt it build low behind my balls. He fisted my cock and stroked with my ride, thumb on my slit. I came hard, striping his stomach and chest, clenching so tight I could barely move. He held me down and thrust up through it, three sharp drives, then buried himself and came, pulsing, heat flooding deep, a broken sound against my collarbone. We stayed locked while the boat settled. His hands slid up my back, still shaking. When I lifted off, his come leaked down my thigh. He pushed two fingers back into me, gentle, and I kissed him, salt and beer and skin. His cock thickened against my stomach. I wrapped my hand around both of us and stroked, ready for whatever he wanted next.