I lay there, on the towel on the Fenwick Island beach below my mother’s Bunting Avenue beach house, panting, the surf pounding in my ears, trying not to cry out. Mr. Murphy was stretched out beside me, his torso hovering over mine. He was looking down into my eyes in the dark and was stroking me off with a greased leather-gloved hand. I knew he wanted me to come first ... before he did what else he was going to do. I relaxed as best I could, keyed up by him jacking me off and was ready just to fire off as soon as it naturally happened. The last time I’d held off, knowing what was coming, but what was coming came anyway, so I might as well just give in to it now. I gave it up, jerking and giving a little groan, as my cum arced up from his gloved hand and splashed down on my belly, leaving me collapsed there, trembling.

Mr. Murphy moved his hand under my choke and entered me with a finger. I moaned and clutched at his hand with one of mine, but not to try to brush his hand away—rather to hold him there. I turned my body slightly toward him, arched my back, and raised my left ankle to his shoulder. He moved his finger in and out, in and out. I shuddered and gave him a deep moan.

Mr. Murphy laughed and murmured, “Good boy. You’re my sexy boy.”

It was late, after 9:00 in the evening, but it was also late in the season. Another couple of days and we—my mother and I and the Murphys—would be leaving the beach for the season and going back to where we lived the rest of the year. I’d be going to Wilmington, where my mother’s family was in banking. My dad died in Afghanistan. The Murphys would go back to Allentown, in Pennsylvania, where Mr. Murphy was a builder of something or other. The money for their beach house next to ours came from Mrs. Murphy’s family. She was older than he—Andy—was, and I know why she married him. He was all muscle and big cock. She looked prissy, but he said he plowed her every night and that she was a tiger in bed.

Mr. Murphy said he was oversexed, and I had reason to believe that.

Ned, the guy who lived on the other side of us at the beach, lived here permanently. My mother was sort of mothering him, although he was closer to her age than mine, because, like my dad, he’d been in Afghanistan. Unlike my dad, he’d come home—but he’d come home in a wheelchair. He had a caregiver much of the time, but my mother was looking after him and urging me to be a help to him as well at other times. “It’s always good to be a good neighbor and give help where it’s needed,” my mother was always telling me. She said this was a value she hoped I would have learned from this summer at the beach.

That wasn’t all I learned this summer at the beach. I had come here, at fourteen, an innocent virgin. I would be leave as a man’s sex toy, having experienced about everything a man could do with a boy.

Right at the moment, Mr. Murphy was helping himself to me, at night, on the beach, below our line of three wooden-bungalow-style beach houses that had all been here on the residential stretch of the Fenwick Island beach since the 1940s.

I’d left the lights on in our cottage so my mother would think I was still there, while she was next door at the Murphys’, their cottage all lit up now because Mrs. Murphy was having her weekly bridge night with women from the neighborhood, including my mother. Ned’s cottage was dark, but I knew he was in there somewhere. Ned never went anywhere.

The women at the Murphys’ were being pretty noisy, the sound easily extending down to where Mr. Murphy and I were lying on the beach, in the dark, just beyond where the lights from the two houses reached. Mr. Murphy had moved his gloved hand back to my cock and was jacking me with an increasingly fast rhythm, and I was moaning and panting and trembling under him, trying my best not to make too much noise, scared that the sound we were making would float back up to the women’s party.

I had turned fourteen in the spring. We moved to the beach in late June. Mr. Murphy, looking good to me in his tanned, hard, muscular body as he did stretches on their deck and ran up and down the beach below the houses, had been teaching me to fuck since mid-July. I’d been thinking about sex—and with men as often, if not more often than with women—for some time. I was ripe for it. Mr. Murphy was brimming over with sex. He saw that I was ready for it from how I greedily watched him working out in his Speedo. It was a piece of cake for him to put me under him and pop my male cheery.

My mother bore much of the responsibility for that. She’d seen Mr. Murphy as a substitute father figure for me and had pushed me in his direction at every opportunity. He didn’t hide his interest very well. I eventually just gave in, laid down for him, and let him strip, fondle, jack, and fuck me.

He had me on some sort of schedule, teaching me about hand jobs, like this one, first, and then about blow jobs. He had his dick in me next. We were near the end of the summer. He was an antsy guy, always wanting to move ahead with the sex. He’d been doing what he was about to do to me for about a week. I don’t know what else he could get into—could teach me to do with a man—before the summer was over. This was more than I had ever imagined that two men did together.

But I wasn’t a man. I was still a boy.

He put his hand over my mouth to muffle anything I’d involuntarily cry out as he sensed me tensing, ready to blow again as he stroked me off. And then, with a jerk and a shudder, I shot a load, and then another ... and another. Then he was bringing his mouth down to mine and kissing me while his greased gloved hand released my cock and moved lower. I panted and groaned, as his gloved fingers pressed into my ass and pushed in again, this time more insistently, deeper.

Coming out of the kiss, he murmured, “You know what to do now. Feet flat on the sand, keep those knees bent. Spread the thighs more. We’re taking this downtown.”

“Mr. Murphy,” I whimpered. But I didn’t know what to say next. This wasn’t the first time he had done this and probably wouldn’t be the last time. He owned me and took what he wanted. With a sigh, I spread my thighs further, opening as much as I could, knowing I would have to open a lot more. My tail already was raised; he’d rolled up a beach towel and wedged it under the small of my back before he’d jacked my cock.

He kept his face over mine, looking down into my eyes with his to capture my suffering to come. He ran the fingers of his left hand into the blond curls of my hair and gripped hard, holding my head to the towel and in place so that I couldn’t avoid looking into his face as he did me. He greased and gloved right hand was positioned under my balls, with first one finger and then two, pressing inside me. After he’d come out of the kiss, he’d stuffed my Speedo in my mouth.

“We don’t want them to hear,” he’d said. “Your surrender to me is for my ears only.”

I trembled and gave him a wild look with my eyes, which made him smile, as another finger went inside me, working with the first two to open me up, to stretch me to his need. By the time his was inside me to the knuckles of four fingers with the greased gloved hand, I was writhing under him, groaning deeply, and being pressed to the ground by his muscular torso.

Then he breached the sphincter muscle and the fist was inside me. We went into a dance of him controlling me closely and me writhing and bucking on the hand as he fist fucked me—until I was stretched enough to take it and fully surrendered and collapsed under him. When I relaxed, I could take it even better, and I lay there, whimpering and panting, as Mr. Murphy fucked me with the fist. He laughed and stopped moving his hand and just held it steady, as fully surrendering, I rocked my pelvis against the buried fist, fucking myself.

After a while he wanted more. The fist sucked its way out of me and he moved over on top of me. He held there, kneeling between my thighs, his magnificently muscular torso hovering over me as he split open a condom packet and crowned himself. The packet dropped beside me on the beach and I could see that he still was using the black-foil Atlas rubbers with “extra large” screaming on the packet in red letters.

Mr. Murphy was all big, hard man, and Mr. Murphy liked to fuck fourteen-year-old boys. He liked to train them to the hand and the mouth, and to the fist and the cock. This summer I was his project.

As he started shoving his cock up inside me, he grabbed my ankles and wishboned my legs. I arched my back, dug my fingernails into his biceps, arched my back, and counted the stars in the heavens while he fucked the shit out of me. After the fist and even as Atlas-sized big he was, I was able to sheath him and take his pounding.

As he was jerking and filling the bulb of his condom, he brushed the Speedo out of my mouth and came in for a kiss. We embraced closely, me clutching his shoulder blades with my hands and hugging his hips with my knees, rocking back and forth on his still-buried cock, and we both returned to earth.

We suddenly were aware that sounds of women talking outside the Murphy’s house and of car doors closing were coming from above us.

“Shit, the party’s breaking up,” Murphy said. He’d told his wife he was going to a bar and poolhall while she was entertaining her bridge club and he’d driven out in his truck, parking it down the beach on North Carolina Avenue. In a blink of an eye, he was off me, dressed, and was jogging up the beach toward where his car was parked.

With groans and grunts, I managed to pull myself up off the beach and pick the towel up. My mother would be the last one to leave the bridge party. She’d help Mrs. Murphy clean up while they gossiped about the other women who had come to the party. I had plenty of time to get back to the house, shower, and be in bed when my mother came home.

As I climbed the wooden stairs from the beach to our lot, a moving red dot caught my attention. Ned’s house on the other side ours from the Murphys’ was dark, but Ned wasn’t inside, sleeping. I could see his outline on his back deck. He was in his wheelchair. He was either naked or just in shorts. The red dot was the lit end of the cigarette he was smoking. He held binoculars in his hand. I had every reason to believe that they were night scopes and that he’d been watching Mr. Murphy fuck me.

“Mrs. Murphy and I should be gone all day, Chris. You shouldn’t be bored, though. I told Mr. Murphy you’d help him put up the shutters on their house this morning. They go back to Allentown tomorrow. And Clarice has the weekend off at Ned’s next door. I told him you’d bring him lunch—I have lunch for both of you in the takeout carton in the refrigerator—and, if it seems like he would like company, you should stay with him for a couple of hours.”

“Because... , “ I said, lifting my fork from my breakfast eggs and giving it a twirl, “I would be acting...”

“Like a good neighbor, yes,” my mother filled in and then laughed. “I guess I’ve said that a few times this summer, haven’t I?”

“I hardly noticed,” I answered, and we both laughed. I think the woman was clueless on just how good a neighbor I’ve been to Mr. Murphy, on the one side, and Wheelchair Ned, on the other. How often between when we got here in July and now, at the end of August had I been “like a good neighbor” under Mr. Murphy and like “another good neighbor” fetching and carrying for Ned?

“So, will you be a good neighbor today while I’m gone? You know I think you’ve really grown up this summer and are taking responsibility and being of good service to others. I know you haven’t been around men much and gotten the contact with them that most boys get. Mr. Murphy seems to have taken you under his wing and I think you’re learning a lot from Ned Brice in terms of adversity and overcoming it. I do think it was a good idea for us to come out here alone for the summer.”