Alvon, the fourteen-year-old Pretos boy was the one who put it into my mind immediately. Ethnic groups were divided into three categories in Brazil, a former Portuguese colony that had a rich history of immigrants from everywhere in addition to the indigenous native base that originally had lived there. Later there was an influx of Africans, Europeans, and Chinese, all of which intermarried, making for an interesting mix of origins that, generally, had arrived at very attractive people. Alvon was a successful mix of the races, leaning heavily on the African, which had given him his ebony skin. He also had the mark of aristocratic European and inscrutable Chinese, though.
He had come with the fishing boat crew that had taken Peter, Ted, Frank, and me off Brazil’s Bahia coast to act like we wanted to catch a marlin or something else big. The boy didn’t seem to have duties on the boat that were all that meaningful or necessary, as he never seemed to be doing anything but watching me. I found his small, perfectly formed body, clad only in a white loincloth, forever standing around, giving me and the other guys the eye.
I didn’t mind all that much. What he gave me was a hard on. I have a fetish for fourteen-year-old boys, starting to develop into men, but still tender and ripe for it. He was merely a slip of a boy, but he had me half hard while I cast a line out into the sea even though I’d quickly learned that I didn’t have much interest in catching anything that came out of the ocean. That wasn’t what we really were out here for anyway.
Peter, Ted, Frank, and I were all members of the Manhattan Gay Man’s Chorus. Many of those in the chorus were old, over-the-hill codgers. The other three and I weren’t. We were all in our late twenties and still cruising hard. We also were money makers in our own fields and thus able to pay for our fetishes. It wasn’t long before we were cruising and gyming together. Now we were vacationing together--this week at a gay-friendly beach resort, O’Ba Morere, on the coast of Brazil’s northeastern province of Bahia.
I’d felt a strike on my line and had a brief, scary moment of “now what?” when Peter slid into the deck chair beside me, gave me a smile, wagged his eyebrows at me, and said, “Next.” With a sigh of relief and a lurch of my cock, I handed the fishing pole off to him and went below.
The deck below had a general sitting and dining space with a kitchenette set on one wall. A narrow corridor led back to two snug sleeping cabins on each side and a head at the end.
The eighteen-year-old Branco whore, Ronaldo, was waiting for me on the bunk in the second cabin back on the port side. Brancos, descended mostly from aristocratic Portuguese stock and making up almost half of Brazil’s population, were primarily Caucasian, with a tinting of the other ethnicities. Ronaldo was a particularly handsome representative of the group, slender, well tanned and with dark hair, seen in his silky, shoulder-length head hair, his close-cropped mustache and beard, and the downy hair on his forearms, thighs, and swirling around his pecs and descending down in a thin line into his trimmed bush. He had a colorful tattoo that covered his left pec and his left shoulder blade and continued down his left arm to his elbow. Other than that he was unmarked. His cock was somewhat longer than half a foot in semierection, promising to fill out even more. His eyes were green and his gleaming-toothed smile was sexy.
Who wouldn’t want to fuck or be fucked by that?
The guys and I had gone in together to buy a young male whore to take out on the boat with us. Ronaldo had answered the call.
He was reclining on the bunk when I reached the door of the cabin, his head propped up on the palm of one of his hands, his elbow bent. His beautiful, slim body was streaming down to the other end of the bunk. He was on his side, facing the cabin door, his left leg bent, with the foot flat on the bunk, his uncut cock, that and his balls being darker than the rest of him, thanks, no doubt, to some Pretos ancestor, was flopped over onto the bunch.
He was dirty magazine posing just for me--for me to take the first long intake of breath when I saw him. I took in a long breath when I saw him. I’d seen him get out of the cab on the dock, of course, but he wasn’t naked then. He was naked now, and he was mine to play with until I was ready to go topside and say “next.”
He patted the space on the bunk beside him. I took a moment to peel off my Speedo, and then I sat on the bed. He sat up in the bunk as I came down, turned over to his other side, and, just like that, his head was in my lap, and his mouth was coming down on my already half-hard cock. He’d whispered, “Oo la la, magnificento,” when he’d gotten my cock in front of his eyes. He rubbed it on his cheek before putting his lips over it. I was pleased that he was impressed--or claimed to be. He was big; I am bigger.
His arms embraced my waist. We were getting right to it. He brought up a hand and nudged my shoulder. I understood and reclined along the bunk, his body stretched out between me and the cabin door. I nestled my face between his luscious thighs, pushed his foreskin off his cock head with my lips, and we sixty-nined each other.
I don’t know when the boy, Alvon, came to the cabin door, but it was sometime before Ronaldo tensed, arched his back, took his mouth off my cock and creamed my cheek as I pulled off his shaft. Ten minutes later, he was riding my cock, reverse cowboy style, my legs raised and bent and he, facing away from me, hugging my knees and doing the work of rising and falling on my cock. To his credit, he took all of my shaft deep, and rode it by rowing his body on it in all directions. He was good, very, very good, albeit only eighteen. The guys and I liked them young, but an eighteen-year-old in the States generally wasn’t this good. He pulled the cum out of me and milked me hard with very talented passage wall muscles.
It was only after I’d shot my load that I noticed that Alvon was still standing in the doorway, watching.
Ronaldo pulled himself off my cock and turned and lowered his body on my chest. His face leaned into mine and we kissed, our hands roaming each other’s bodies. As male whores go, he was really, really good.
We were still panting lightly, regaining arousal as our bodies rubbed on each other’s and we kissed. Ronaldo moved one of his hands down, coaxing my left leg to widen its stance and for me to bend my knee and place my foot flat on the bunk. He did the same with the other leg, and I understood what we were doing. That was all right with me. I did flip-flop occasionally--all four of us buddies did--even though I preferred to top--and to top young guys. Ronaldo was a beautiful young man, virile and vibrant. Eighteen years old.
I raised my pelvis a bit, leveraging off my feet, as a signal of surrender and to give the thick cock a good penetration angle. He was big, big enough to make me gasp and pant hard as he entered me. His hands glided up my arms and he grasped my wrists, went deep inside me, my walls only reluctantly giving way to him, not used to being the one invaded. I moaned a “Oh, god, yes. Do me,” as he slowly started to pump.
For the next several minutes I could think of nothing but the cock moving inside me and with moving my body to take the greatest advantage from the stroking, ever striving to open wider to accommodate the thickness of him and the ever-deeper depth he was achieving. He kissed me on the lips and I opened mine to his tongue. He tensed, his body jerked, he came, and he lowered his body on mine, with a sigh.
“Like that? It’s good for you, no?” he murmured.
“It’s good for me, yes. Very, very ... Oh, fuck! Do that again!”
Only then did I turn my face to the door to see that the Pretos boy was gone.
When I came back up to the open deck, I went over to where Ted was sitting in a chair, drinking beer, and lazily swishing his fishing line around in the water. His face lit up when I put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Next.” I wagged my eyebrows just as Peter had done for me.
“Good?” he asked, hopefully.
“Good, very good,” I said and took his place in the deck chair when he left it.
It wasn’t long before Alvon was there, close beside me. He was fiddling with my watch, a flashy gold fake Rollex that I’d bought in an alley in Manhattan. I had a real Rollex and liked the familiar feel of one on my wrist, but I didn’t take it on cruising vacations to remote areas of the world. I had this fake one to bring to Brazil with me. The clock ran just fine.
Alvon was fascinated by it.
“You like the watch?” I said.
“Very much, yes,” Alvon said, looking hard into my eyes. He was a beautiful boy. I was going hard. He knew I was because he was touching the head of my dick through the material of the Speedo with one of his fingers. “You give me the watch and you can fuck me,” he said, “like you fucked that whore.”
That surprised me. “You’re just a boy, Alvon. And this is an expensive watch.” Well, $75 three years ago, but there’s no reason the boy needed to know that.
“Yeah. you’re fourteen. Just a boy.” I couldn’t tell him I didn’t fuck young men. He’d watched me fuck an eighteen-year-old whore. I didn’t know if he’d watch the whore fuck me. Other than that, I’d love to fuck a nubile little fourteen-year-old boy.
“Fourteen is old enough in Brazil,” he said.
“I know we’re in international waters,” I said, “but--”
“No. The age, the age of...”
.... There is more of this story ...