Also, he is the only Black guy in the room. Not that many in Fire Island, as a matter of fact. So I identified–only woman, only Black stud. I almost hate to mention his race. Because what do I do when I get to describing his cock? Sounds like a racist cliché if I tell the truth.
Nice looking guy, medium height, good chest and arms, narrow waist, legs with muscles. I had been noticing him all day at the beach. This is Fire Island, the long barrier reef off the south shore of Long Island, connected to the mainland by bridges at either end, but mostly reached by ferry shuttle, including one to America’s most famous gay hangout, the Fire Island Pines.
My gay friend brought me. I think to discomfort his housemates (most of the pricy houses are rented each summer by groups of gays for big bucks). No roads, here, just boardwalks. No cars. Red wagons at the ferry landing to haul your stuff. And miles and miles of perfect beach with not a car, rarely a store. On the scant, dry vegetation, the deer out here are dwarf.
The house is driftwood grey, like most, with wide windows and broad decks facing the Atlantic Ocean across the low grassy dunes and beach. All along there are boardwalk thoroughfares with little boardwalk “driveways” up to each house.
Mostly gays come here, summers. Lesbians go to other summer settlements. Fire Island Pines is the East Hampton of wealthy gay New Yorkers.
So what is this straight Black guy doing here, this guy whimpering to please, please leave him his underwear, please, except with a hand across his mouth he’s a little hard to understand. Two strong guys hold his arms behind him, so his chest thrusts out and his pelvis, too. Well, he came to sell drugs–your preference, sir? The guys here are anything but pushovers. They are New York, the “scene,” and all that. So, someone photographed him and recorded his drugs pitch.
At cocktail hour they showed him, with all of us relaxing with a drink after the sun, sand, and surf. Our drug dealer had kept on his trunks, at the beach–only one to do so. I had stripped, of course, to…yeah, polite nods. But I enjoyed being surrounded by dicks swelling a little in the hot sun.
So now, at the magical hour, when sunlight races along the west along the beach, we luxuriate under the outdoor shower, dress fresh, and take a chill white wine, I am watching the straight guy stripped channel..
The moment that the guy realizes that his recorded drug pitch has made him free meat, the guys jump him. Very friendly, joking, kidding, making light of it. He struggles, but all of it comes off, except his underwear. Most everyone is laughing. His terror at being exposed to these gay guys is chum in the water for sharks.
His body, held at shoulders, draped only by underwear, is twisting, hips jerking. It does no good. With cheers, guys start grabbing his big package covered by his underwear, squeezing it, shaking it. He yelps and yelps. That big lump sure is getting bigger. Someone gives the bulge of his balls a “friendly” slap and that becomes the new game.
I’m not much of a bystander when it comes to sex.
My friend calls to me: “Ellen”? I rise slowly, reluctant, at first, to help put in the boot.
But then I get an inspiration. Help this guy. Go over to his side.
I stand up, put down my drink, and shove my bathing suit top over my head, shove down my bottoms so they drop to my feet. Polite claps. Naked, I sidle over to the victim, looking right into his eyes. Does he feel any better with company? He’s the only straight, black guy; I’m the only girl and I’m already naked.
Now, I am standing right in front of him. He watches me like animal in a trap. I gently thrust my hand down inside his waistband, gazing into his eyes. My hand closes on his stuff.
Oh, my God! What a handful! I love it. Feels hot. Throbbing.
At the same time, I lean against him, my breasts on his chest, find his lips. A long, sexy kiss as I brush my stiff nipples back and forth across his chest and gently roll back the foreskin of his hidden cock. Still moaning, but a new tone to the moan.
A polite (bored) round of applause from a room full of advertising executives, male fashion models, psychiatrists, and foundation executives.
It does not save the victim. Now, everyone must shove a hand down inside the underwear and giving the stuff a shaking. At least better than getting slapped in the nuts. The passion mounts, hand after hand shoots down to grab and fondle him.
My nipples are stiff, watching this. A guy glances at me occasionally, as though curious. Jeez, super-firm boobs, contoured abdomen, ebony shock of black pussy hair…long perfect legs… Esthetic appreciation. Nothing sexual, I imagine. I notice a guy with heavy black glasses, very nerdish face, is staring. He says to me: “I never touched a woman’s breasts. I tried, in high school. Disaster. So I went the other way. Never touched them.”
I smile. They are out there, buddy. Firm, nipples stiff. I smile at him. I hike up my mounds with my hands, serving them to him. He smiles, shrugs, and walks away. An instant later, I give a start and yelp. From behind me, hands have whipped around to grab bare boobs and I am getting the feeling-up of my life. My gay friend behind me is laughing, calling out: “Look, girl getting felt up! Guys, remember high school when we couldn’t figure out what was so great about this? We still can’t!”
I am giggling, trying to tear his hands away, and getting ready to kick backward at his jewels. Some of us obviously are enjoying something more potent than wine. He sounds manic.
“Goddamn,” I gasp as he pinches my nipples and tries to pull them off. “Stop!”
He does. I whirl and slap his leering face. He laughs louder. I bring up my bare foot medium hard and feel his testicles jounced. Bending over, now, face bright red–but still laughing! What do you think? Ecstasy?
Then, suddenly, the whole scene shifted. The moment our poor guy has been dreading arrives. And all eyes are on his still-concealed, but much explores package. I see my gay friend bent over, holding himself, but watching.
Someone comes over with a scissors and careful cuts through one side, then the other, of his underwear. Whipped away. His dick is shining black, curving a little to the left at this moment, its foreskin dragged back to expose the glistening black berry–exposed, vulnerable.
Wild cheering. “Whoa! The prize! Look at that! Oh, my God!”
I agree. It’s jumbo and it’s out there helpless. What now? Absolutely anything that a dozen turned on guys want to do.
Someone clutches him around the base, so his balls are squeezed smooth and his dick swells. Another hand grabs the big cock and starts roughly masturbating it. Another slaps the big balls. Everyone is taunting, teasing, provoking like a playground humiliation.