by Johnny Murdoc
My father used to tell me stories about surfers. Mythical men who rode blue waves on long boards of balsa wood. Men with sun-bleached hair and sun-burned skin, their bronze bodies sliding over mountains of water as they cut across the sea. We would sit around a small fire, and talk about blonde sand, blue skies, and bluer water.
Looking at the ocean now, it’s hard to believe his stories. The surface is thick and black, and there are no more waves. Instead, the water pulses like it’s breathing. My boots sink into the thick, wet sand, and I can’t imagine walking here barefoot. I come here every few weeks to scavenge and to dream. Something deep below the long abandoned beaches causes long-buried surprises to grow out of the sand like so many lost plants.
Today is a good haul. A handful of glass bottles, for storing treated water, and some unmatched broken sandals. They make excellent soles for refurbished shoes.
I look up to see the sun being swallowed by the ocean’s chemical haze and decide that it’s time to head back. As I turn my foot catches against something small in the sand. I bend down to pick it up. My heart jumps a little with hope, but I brush the object off to make sure it is what it is. It is! I use the last swallow of my canteen to rinse it off completely, and then I tuck it into my pocket. Topher will love it.
I trudge across the dark sand, a happier spring in my step. Potter’s Field isn’t too far from the ocean. I pull my satchel up onto my shoulder, and make a small salute to Reavis, the first sentry, situated in a dilapidated lifeguard’s tower. He waves back, and I hear a small burst of static as he radios ahead that I’m coming. Fifty yards off I can see the ramshackle walls of Potter’s Field. The wind picks up, and I draw my hood closer around my mask. Two more guards sit at the gate. They nod at me, and pull open the gates.
Potter’s Field buzzes with life: dozens of people walk about, some running, some laughing, some working, some playing. I cut through a small circle of young boys and drop my satchel off at the Sort.
The sun is pale blue through the mask’s visor, and I realize only then that I’m still wearing it. I decide to leave it on, to avoid having to talk to anyone else. My tent isn’t far, and it isn’t long before I’m ducking inside.
Topher stirs from his nap when I step in. He has one bare leg slung off the bed, and his arm crossed over his face. He peers over his forearm as I pull off my mask. His head is freshly shaven.
“Hey there,” he says.
“Hey there yourself,” I say.
I lean over the bed to kiss him. His sheet catches on one of my buckles as I straighten up, and the dingy blue cloth slides over his body exposing his erection. My own penis throbs with excitement.
“I have something for you,” I say.
“Can’t it wait?” he asks, sitting up.
“You’ll be glad I didn’t,” I say. I reach into the small pocket on my arm and pull out my find.
“Oh, my gods,” he says, jumping up. His cock waves around in front of him as he bounces. “A 1960’s Volkswagen Camper!” He takes the tiny matchbox car from me, and gives it a wistful rub with his thumb. “That’s brilliant!”
For as long as I’ve known Topher, he’s had a right obsession with collecting matchbox cars. He has a small army of tiny vehicles, miniature replicants of the very machines that landed us in the hell we live in. He keeps them hidden in a box under the bed, a mass grave for a long dead industry.
As Topher bends down to pull out his collection, I turn away and begin to undress. I leave the thick layers of cloth and armor in a pile in the corner.
Topher grabs me from behind in a tight bear hug.
“I fucking love you,” he says. His erection throbs between my ass cheeks. “Now let me give you a proper thank you.” He pushes his erection downward until it slips in between my legs, pushing against the back of my testicles. His hand slides down my chest and wraps around my already thickening penis. His stubbled face presses against the back of my neck, and he kisses my flesh. He slowly pumps his cock in between my legs, using my thighs for friction. His free hand crosses over my chest and he pinches one of my nipples lightly, causing my cock to throb in his hand. My head falls back as he continues to stroke me, pump me and pinch me.
“I want you to ride me,” he says.
He pulls me toward the bed. He lays down, and I straddle him. He pushes his hips off of the bed, using his hand to hold his cock upright. I center myself over him, and relax, falling slowly onto his erection. He is hard and thick inside of me. He reaches a hand up and lets his thumb flicker over my nipple. Clear, slick pre-cum drips from the tip of my cock on to his abdomen. He wraps his other hand around my cock and strokes it in time with his rhythm, and it doesn’t take long for me crest over the edge.
As Topher thrusts into me from below and I spray my cum over his chest like so much sea foam, I think: The oceans may be dead, but there are still waves to ride.
Johnny Murdoc lives in St. Louis, MO with his partner, where they tend a huge urban garden. He writes dirty stories, publishes a zine called Blowjob, and blogs nearly every day at http://www.johnnymurdoc.com.
Mirrored from Circlet Press: Welcome to Circlet 2.0.