Shipwrecked Boy

by ChrisCross

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/mt, Consensual, NonConsensual, Rape, Gay, Fiction, DomSub, MaleDom, Light Bond, Rough, Interracial, Black Male, White Male, Anal Sex, First, Oral Sex, Size, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: The dream of a fourteen-year-old boy of being fucked by a hunky French yacht captain morphs into reality and the yacht captain morphs into a big black bull on the beach when the boy is shipwrecked on the coast of Africa. What follows is a total, primeval taking and a decision of what world the boy wants to live in.

It had come in my dream again--the dream of the hunky yacht captain between my spread and bent legs, his muscular, naked body heavy on me, a boy of fourteen, pressing me into the thin mattress of the bunk in the tiny cabin. His hands were gripping my wrists, my hands gripping straps on the wall above the head of the bunk. His muscular, hirsute man’s body was crushing my slim boy’s body. I was moaning, telling him I was scared and that he was heavy. He was shushing me, telling me it was all right, that he would make it all right, how pleased he was that I was taking him as my first.

He was inside me, thick, insistent, stretching me, causing me to pant hard. My grunts were loud, primeval. He was admonishing me to keep quiet, so that the Sylvesters, the couple taking me to see my parents in Cape Town, who were in their cabin just across the wall from the head of my bunk, wouldn’t hear what the captain was doing to me.

I stopped grunting so loud. I didn’t want the dream to stop. Always before it had stopped short of him penetrating me. I was frustrated that hadn’t happened before. It had happened now. I wanted him inside me. He was inside me. I didn’t think I’d feel it in a dream, but I did feel it, filling me, stretching me, rubbing against me inside, sliding in and out, with difficulty at first, but more easily with each slide.

I tried to remain quiet, although I couldn’t keep myself from whimpering and moaning as his pelvis rose and fell sending his hard cock deep up into my guts and then pulling out only to slide in again, my passage taking him deeper than before. It was painful, but also so pleasuring, what I dreamed about ever since we’d left Marseilles for this journey down the west coast of Africa to Cape Town. The dream, although I’d had it nearly nightly since we’d cleared the Rock of Gibraltar and the captain had seen the looks I was giving him, looks he returned, had come upon me more suddenly and more vividly than usual. I had struggled with him at first, and the feel of him forcing himself inside me had a realism and pain attached to it as never before. It seemed so real.

I didn’t want it to stop. He was so big inside me. I was fully possessed by him. I was completely his, just as I had dreamed to be. I had dreamed of this before, and, since Marseilles, of the French captain, moving around with the crew on deck, wearing only a slip of swim suit, muscular, hairy chested, tanned, and so handsome--always moving like a dancer, smiling, joking--and looking at me with lust.

When I stopped struggling--when the dream became real to me and I stopped wrestling against what I dreamed would be--and lay back, relaxed, and, as we both could feel, entirely open to his churning cock, the captain of my dreams let loose of my wrists and grabbed my ankles, wishboning my legs. He pressed his knees under my buttocks, elevating my pelvis. He moved deeper inside me and started to pump rhythmically. I moved with his rhythm, using my grip on the straps overhead and the leverage of my feet flat on the mattress to thrust my pelvis up as he thrust his down, reaching deep inside me. We were one glorious, forbidden fucking machine.

“You are fucked now,” he murmured. “You are fully mine. Take my seed. I’ve got your cherry.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I whispered in answer. I felt like crying, though. There was nothing romantic in his victory statement. There was no doubt I’d been had--that getting his cock inside me was the main event for him.

And then it no longer was a dream. Philippe really was on top of me, in the night, in a yacht off the coast of Africa--fucking me, a fourteen-year-old boy.

And, despite his crass characterization of what we’d done, I was loving it. I felt him tense and jerk--and give me his seed.

I heard the grinding noise and felt the lurch of the ship. The sickening sound of wood and metal being torn asunder brought me fully awake. Philippe was pulling out of me and leaving the bunk, racing for the door to the cabin. I heard the sounds of people screaming, having been abruptly awakened. I watched Philippe go, scrambling uphill on the decking because of the list of the yacht. I heard another crunch and was being drenched with water. I turned my head to see that there was a gaping hole in the side of the ship and water was rushing in and then, as the ship rolled in the other direction, rushing back out again--taking me with it.

I don’t know how long I was out or how I got to the beach, but I slowly drifted into wakefulness, coming back through the same dream I had left, of Philippe on top of me and inside me, pumping. But then that turned out not to be a dream, didn’t it, I reasoned. I certainly was sore enough in my gut for a man to have been there. Than what was this? He was inside me still, thicker and longer than ever, taxing the stretch of my passage, the muscles of which were spasming, rippling on his throbbing, insistent, possessing cock.

I opened my eyes. It was still night, but the moon was out. I could see the man on top of me. He wasn’t tan. He was ebony black. He was muscular, but more so than Philippe--much more so. He was looking down into my eyes with primitive, primeval want. His probing cock was stretching me, reaching far up into my gut.

It wasn’t Philippe. This wasn’t a dream!

I came awake enough to struggle with him--but ineffectually. I was too weak. He was too strong. I beat on his chest with my fists, although “beat” was too strong a word for the energy I could muster. He laughed, grabbed my wrists, forced my arms over my head and picked up the pace of his massive thrusts inside me. When I surrendered to him and relaxed, collapsing back on the sand, he laughed again, shoved his knees under my buttocks, grabbed my ankles with his hands, and wishboned my legs wide.

Lost to him now, arched my back and thrust my pelvis up as he thrust his down, fucking me deep in my core. I cried out when I felt the gush of his cum inside me. I had already come.

He laughed, pulled out of me, picked me up, and tossed me over his shoulder. He was a monster of a black man. I already knew that from feeling the size of him inside me. He was well over six and a half feet tall, sturdy and impossibly muscular. I hung bent over his shoulder, one of his massive hands palming my buttocks, his index finger buried in my anus as he sauntered up the beach and into the night-time dark jungle foliage.

I could feel his cum dripping out of my ass as he walked--no, strutted--into the jungle.

Exhausted, I blacked out.


I don’t know how long I was down with the fever, drifting in and out, but I think it must have been three days. My system apparently didn’t like swallowing a lot of seawater. I was on some sort of wooden platform high in the trees. There were other platforms off in other trees, connected to this one by a rope ladder-like walkway. I was lying on a pallet formed out of large palm branches. I was naked.

I woke up occasionally to having the black man--I came to know of him as Big--down on his haunches beside me, cooling off my brow with a wet cloth, the cloth looking suspiciously like a strip of material from the sleeping shorts I had been wearing when I was sucked out of the hull of the yacht. He wore a primitive loincloth, made out of a strip of material draped in front and back over a rope around his waist. His body was huge and magnificent in every way--and ebony black. Other times he was lifting my head up, helping me to sip water from a hollowed-out coconut shell.

Still other times, in the dark of night, he was between my legs on his knees, with his torso weight supported on his hands, pressed on either side of the pallet by my arms, hunched over me like some sort of gorilla. His cock was inside me and he was fucking me in shallow strokes. He never went deep during these initial couplings, as if he had some regard for my feverish state. But he fucked me nonetheless, probably determined to get his rocks off while I was alive in case I didn’t make it. I wasn’t so far gone, though, that he wasn’t able to pull a climax out of me and then exploding inside me with series of prodigious blasts of warm cum before withdrawing.

That’s how I figured I was weak with fever on the pallet for three days--the nighttime fuckings. I would be awake long enough after he had lifted my head and ladled some sort of delicious soup between my lips and picked off chunks of meat from bananas and other fruit and putting them in my mouth for me to chew and swallow. For a time after that, I’d be more lucid than at other times. As it grew dark up in the eerie on the platforms under the heads of the towering jungle trees, he’d crouch on his haunches on the platform next to my pallet. His loincloth would be gone, and he’d be fisting an enormous erection. While I was still somewhat awake, he would reach over with his free hand and move in on my body, gliding around, paying attention to all of the curves and crevices there are on a fourteen-year-old boy’s body.

Big would take my cock in his hand and stroke me as, involuntarily at first but hungrily by night three, I would engorge and then ejaculate for him. On the third night, he held my cock loose and, feeling stronger, I moved my hips, fucking up into the sheath he made with his cupped hand. He laughed and made a guttural sound I took to be some variation of “good” when I came.

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