Show-Offs

So, what’s with my infatuation with red? A remnant of the long, sleek, bright-red fire truck I received for my fourth birthday and obsessively played with, ignoring all other toys? Or memories of my first two-wheel bicycle, and my dad patiently teaching me how to ride, bless him? Or my first car, my very own auto, a red Volkswagen Beetle?

No matter. I must mow the lawn today, after much procrastination, of course, and choose an outfit to match my red lawn tractor. My one-acre spread in Hawaii harbors a small but comfortable home, to which I have retired. I’m bounded by jungle on three sides; I can gaze into dense foliage through a large picture window in my office as I type. But the house’s other walls are framed by lawn, far too much of it, an unfortunate reminder of suburban California neighborhoods where I roosted and a distinct surprise when I searched for property. Fortunately, my grassy meadow contains three large, rocky islands of contorted lava outcrops, hidey-holes for resting and nesting mongooses, variegated foliage, wild orchards and a smattering of stately Ohia trees. Why developers didn’t leave most of the majestic Ohias intact remains a mystery. The Hawaiian equivalent of California redwoods that survive forest fires, Ohia trees spring almost magically from cooled lava flows; a pocket of water, an airborne seed, and poof, a tree is born. But I make the most of my stately lawn and give thanks for what Ohias I do have, delighted and proud to be their protector.

My lawn tractor is a joy to ride. Whenever I ride it, I bounce along thinking of Mr. Toad in his new red motorcar “…going merrily over, the road that leads to Dover…”

But as ever there’s a short somewhere in the electrical system that no one can find, certainly not me, so I must first engage my readily accessible red battery charger.

I pass my red Camry in the carport, hook up the charger and ponder my riding outfit. Jodhpurs and riding crop are not necessary, but a cap is in order. In fact, my skin specialist has warned me not to venture into the sun without dressing like a fireman. No kidding! No skin showing! Bullshit! That’s not why this sun bunny moved to Hawaii. I know I’m toying with fire, but, at my age, I don’t worry about consequences. So I compromise with a red cap, no shirt, red Puma sneakers, and gobs of suntan lotion.

And I wait until late afternoon—low sun, but more traffic on our road, which could be good or bad. My proclivity for exhibitionism is occasionally overridden by propriety. I live in a development where lots range in size from one to three acres, different than the typical tract development. My property is on the main cross street, with more than the usual traffic. Who might cruise by? So, let’s go fishing, not trolling, whilst we mow the lawn!

Let’s see: red and white, baggy, waist-to-knee surfer shorts, red hip-to-midthigh gym shorts, red Speedos or a red thong? I prefer the thong, having been told I look good in it (who’s to argue?), but that’s pushing the envelope should little old ladies tootle by, or a young couple meander along with their baby stroller. I thank god mankind has evolved from the white cotton boxers and briefs of my youth to colorful, form-fitting, even form-enhancing underwear. It feels great to harbor plumage, and the demarcation between underwear and outerwear, like the boundary of a black hole, is nebulous. I settle on the red Speedos, the ones with the extra-narrow waistband, of course. I stuff myself into them, no cock ring needed, excitement propels engorgement, and the pouch is promptly filled. Of course I stretch the drawstring to its elastic limit (pun intended for you engineers), and secure it with a square knot.

Battery charged. Engine engaged. Back out of garage. And off we go!

The palm and coconut trees on my property provide some shade, but mostly I’m in direct sun. And my thong tan line shows it. Great for the nude beach, but that’s another story.

I’m putt-putting about twenty yards from the street and notice a battered white flatbed truck approaching. It’s towing a trailer supporting a sleek, top-of-the-line green John Deere lawn tractor. The young, shirtless Hawaiian driver decelerates and cranes his neck as he passes. He turns the corner three lots away, the motor drifts into semi-silence, and gains in volume. Must have done a U-turn, a difficult maneuver with his lengthy set of wheels. He’s obviously curious, possibly intrigued, and, goddamn, perhaps serious, with the requisite skill set. It’s time to mow the patch contiguous to the road.

He pulls to a stop near me.

I rub my crotch.

He kills his engine and disembarks.

I stand, my crotch proudly perched on the rim of the steering wheel. Speaking of rimming… I hop off, and we stand chest to chest. He’s five-nine to my six feet, with gorgeous deep-brown skin, long black hair tied into a neat ponytail with a red rubber band and sparkling black eyes, that hold who knows what memories. I should have worn the thong. Nah, let him explore, if he’s so inclined. I extend my hand.

“Aloha, I’m Doug, nickname’s Puma.”

“Aloha, I like that,” he says as his eyes raster my torso, pausing on my nipple rings, and proceeding to my runner’s thighs, lingering at the elongated bulge in my Speedos and its concomitant Shmoo-shaped stain. “I’m Kalani. Means—”

“The sky,” I interrupt. “Beautiful name.”

He arches his eyebrows and nods. “Also means ‘high chief,’” he says with a slight smirk.

“You look like a warrior,” I add. “Like to see you in a native loincloth.”

He grins. “It’s called a malo.”

“Or less,” I add, returning his smile and raising the ante.

We shake. His eyes reflect his astonishment that I’ve mastered the Hawaiian three-grip, sliding handshake. He recovers and rubs his crotch. “Good going, bro.”

“Care for a drink?” I ask, knowing full well what the answer will be.

“Mahalo,” he replies.

“Drive in,” I say. “I’ll leave the tractor here.” I’m wondering how the fuck I’ll start it after he leaves, hopefully after dark, perhaps in the a.m. “Stubborn battery,” I mumble.

Kalani shakes his head, pulls out a set of jumper cables and repairs the tractor and my attitude.

“Follow me,” I say, “lots of room to park.”

We proceed along the driveway, underneath arching palm trees, and I direct him to a spot while I pull into the garage. But he parks parallel to the triple carport, blocking the entire entrance. We get out.

“Gotcha,” he says. The key is almost tucked into his pocket when I sidle up to him. I have all I can do not to go down on him then and there. But I do rub his bulging crotch. Nice! Very, very nice indeed! We stare into each other’s eyes.

“C’mon in,” I say with a flick of my head, and grab his hand.

Mail is left in a box near the road, but parcels are delivered to the door. And I know the Fed Ex dyke would be more than tolerant, indeed would grin ear-to-ear, were she to approach in her spiffy, spankin’ new, walk-in white truck. She’s most proud of it, and I’ve admired it several times—seems they go together. We’ve bonded, and she views me as more than just another customer.

We sashay toward the house, arms swinging, remove our shoes and enter.

“Nice,” Kalani says, looking at the four-foot-square glass etching of a plumaria blossom suspended over the counter that separates kitchen and dining room.

I utter a slow, “Thanks,” as I kneel, wrap my arms around his thighs, and press my head into his crotch, savoring the aroma of sweaty Carhartts. I breathe deeply.

“Nice; very, very nice,” I whisper.

Kalani runs his fingers through what little hair I have, moves his hips up and down a bit, and morphs into a circular motion as he grabs the back of my head and pushes it deeper into his crotch. I feel his hard-on, even through the thick cloth. I nibble, he thrusts, and I reach for his zipper.

“Later,” he says, “I’m thirsty.” He pulls me to my feet.

Shit, I think, where’re my manners? But at least his remark is a harbinger of…of what? My head spins with possibilities.

“Lilikoi juice?” I ask. “Freshly picked and squeezed this morning.”

“Sounds good. I noticed all the fruit trees you have.”

I nod. We clink our glasses in a silent toast and take a few sips.

Shit, double shit, I think, my face contorted with embarrassment and frustration. I haven’t even invited him into the living room.

He takes my drink, raises the two glasses in another silent toast, sets them on the breakfront, and steps out of his tan shorts and tighty-whities.

His dick springs forth, thwacks his abdomen, almost reaching his navel, and after a few diminishing oscillations, finds its equilibrium aimed at my crotch. I kneel, purse my lips and latch onto it while wrapping my arms around his legs. My fingernails dig into his inner thighs, he squirms and pushes his fat dick to its limit—his public hair tangles with my moustache. Many years of experience come into play and I don’t gag. I grab his dickhead with my throat muscles and tease him—clench, relax, clench, relax. He hops from foot to foot and throws his head back. Then I capture his dickhead with my lips and nibble his corona—gently, harshly, gently, harshly. I’m able to tease some spit from my pursed lips, the thumb and forefinger of my right hand form a circle that I coat and slide along his shaft—back and forth, back and forth in sync with my lip motions.

“Mother fucker!” he yells. “I’m gonna come.”

“Not yet,” I say as I lean back on my haunches and form an evil grin, watching him pant and clench his fists. I stare at his bobbing cock, glistening with precum.

He reaches for his dick and I swat his hand. I lick his piss slit and capture a large silky drop before it can slither to the edge and float to the rug.

“Your turn,” he says, and tugs at my Speedos. They don’t move. I untie my drawstring with a flourish and stand stone-statue still. He chuckles and guides my briefs to my ankles. My saber springs forth, almost a challenge.

“Let’s go outside,” I suggest. Or was it a command?

“But, but…” he stammers.

“It’s an acre lot, the backyard is deep and surrounded by jungle on three sides. Takes a machete to get through it. We’ll be alone. I promise.”

“Well, okay.” He tries to cover his dick with his hands.

“Relax,” I order, “and help me.”

He follows me into the bathroom and notices my floggers hanging from a rack as we pass my office. He pauses but says nothing. We enter the bathroom and stop short.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“A fuck bench,” I reply.

“I should’ve guessed. What’re those slots for?”

“Straps, to secure the willing victim.”

“Oh.”

He stares at the wooden contraption. Its two angled sides are trapezoidal in shape, three feet long on the floor, two feet across at the top. The rear edges are thirty inches tall; the front, thirty-three inches tall. They support a sloped leather pad, thirty-three inches long, six inches wide. Hinges screwed into a cross piece near the floor separate the side pieces and provide stability. Four padded side cushions support shins and arms.

“Wanna try it?”

“Sure do!” A pause. “But without the straps.”

“Fine with me.”

We pick up the bench and lug it outside. I point to a spot in a grove of dwarf banana trees. Kalani carries the front of the bench, and I bring up the rear, as it were. God, I’m turned on looking at his broad shoulders, traps and supple back muscles. We stop, and raucous myna birds squawk from the top of the catchment. A mongoose darts from a lava outcrop, stops, sits on its haunches, stares, blinks and retreats.

“Romantic, sort of,” he says, fondling a bunch of dwarf bananas. I nod.

“Be right back.” He caresses the leather and I return to the house.

A few minutes later I skip off the lanai with a bucket of towels, lube and bottled water, but catch myself and transform a jog into a saunter, pacing myself to appear relaxed, not overly eager. He’s already stretched out on the bench, head sunk into the leather and pointed toward my private rain forest. I can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I think as I stare at the luscious feast spread before me. Mom would never have approved of my language, and couldn’t begin to comprehend the situation, but, hey, we do find our own way.

“Water?” I whisper.

Kalani jerks his head, a startled motion, like he had been dozing. “Mahalo.”

We drink, him still in a prone position. “Relax. I’ll take it from here.”

He gulps, puts his head down, and I rub his back.

A loud clatter interrupts our reverie. He jerks up.

“What’s that?” He’s trembling.

“The pot police whirlybird just lollygagged by,” I answer. “Nothing to worry about. Sometimes they drop a rope and rappel into a yard or field, but we’re clean. No suspicious plants here. Now try to relax again.”

“Jesus. Exciting neighborhood.”

“Yeah. This is a hippie town. You know that.”

He plops down.

I spread my rainbow towel on the lawn in a neat rectangle, kneel, spread his cheeks and stare. A gorgeous ass, a puckered hole to die for framed by a few black hairs, looks like a sloppy shave, but no, it’s almost hairless like the rest of his body. Not like the haole forest sprouting between my buns.

I blow a steady column of air around his hole, he squirms, and then I attack with my tongue. I lick and savor his musky maleness, cover the perimeter with spit and lick it off. A late afternoon Hawaiian picnic! My curled tongue pushes as deep as possible, and I tongue-fuck him. He squirms and moans and I capture him, arms around his thighs, face buried until I surface for air. I sit back and swat his ass.

“Ohmygod!” His cry begins as a moan and crescendos to a howl of exhilaration.

Might be his first time, I think. Or, perhaps, his best time, I add with self-congratulatory satisfaction.

We slurp more water. He rises up on two hands and looks back at me.

“I’d like to fuck you,” I announce.

“Yeah, bro, yeah, I’m all yours.” He slumps into the leather and clutches the hand rests.

Better hold on, boy, here we go.

I don a rubber. I lube his asshole with one hand, and with my other hand jerk his cock, which is hidden under the bench but not difficult to find since it’s hard. Very hard. Then I enter him. Sort of slowly, but then I plunge to the limit. He gasps.

“It’s okay, we’re there.”

He grunts.

I grab his hips and pump. There’s no holding back. I flop onto his back and heave my weight into my lunges. I bite his neck.

“You’re a good fuck, boy,” I growl.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he answers with what breath he can summon during my assault.

“Puma is fine. No role-playing. Just you and me.”

“Okay, Puma.”

“That’s better.”

I stare into the jungle, not noticing anything in particular, content to be embraced by nature. I gently slap his shoulders with both hands in time to my pelvic rhythm, and then alternate hands as I smack his ass.

Whack! Oof!

“Like that boy?”

“Yes, Puma!”

Praise to the Hawaiian god or goddess of sex, I think. I could go on like this all day.

“I’m going to come, Puma.”

“Go for it boy, I’m with you.”

I feel his trembling, the precursor to his eruption, and I join him.

Kalani lifts himself onto his knees and elbows and lets out a mighty bellow. I follow a few seconds later with a loud “Aaaah!” He collapses onto the bench; I rest on his back and soften within him.

Our breathing slackens, and I pull out. He sits sideways on the bench, legs dangling over the side, palms on the leather. He looks up at the sky.

“Whew, quite a ride, a ride and a half.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

“More than enjoy. It was, it was, well—”

I put my index finger across his lips. “Shhh,” I say, and lean into him and kiss him. Our long, floppy dicks rub like two mating snakes. I pull him to his feet and lead him to the patio. We sit and stare silently into the yard. Two red cardinals chase each other, swooping and diving like a World War I air battle, fighting for a lone plain-Jane female watching from a bird feeder. We chuckle in unison.

“Lots of red around here,” Kalani observes.

“A great color.”

“Why? What’s so special about it?”

“Well, it’s snazzy. Always wore red shorts when running laps at the college track after work, or on morning neighborhood runs. And, believe it or not, a recent study shows that reactions become more forceful when you see red—enhances speed, if only briefly. Like a danger signal.”

I pause and put my hand on his thigh. “Or maybe an invitation.”

“Hmm. Yeah. Female baboons get red bottoms when they wanna get laid, I learned in bio class.”

“There’s that. And your bottom has a nice blush to it.”

Kalani squirms. Cute beyond measure. “Feels good, though.”

We’re silent for a few moments.

“I noticed that some of your whips are, what do you say, braided in red and black.”

“Yes, by special order.”

More silence.

“Some of them seemed, like, kinda soft.”

“Like a car wash.”

“Why would anyone wanna be whipped?”

“’Cause they enjoy the sensual trip.”

“But some of them looked mean, real mean.”

“Yes, it can be painful. In fact, I’ve used a signal whip—that’s a short single tail whip used in dog sledding—to make a series of x’s across a person’s back.”

“Wow.”

“But sometimes the person leaves their body and goes, who knows where. And, on rare occasions I go with them—the whips take care of themselves.”

A long pause.

“As a top, I actually enjoy the sensual trips. It’s more of a challenge to be warm and loving using a whip.”

Calmness hangs between us.

“Would you flog me?” A slight hesitation. “Sir?”

“Yes.” Oh, yes, indeed.

“Outside?”

“Where else? Stay here.”

I go inside, throw a few whips over my shoulder and grab a handful of bungee cords and two soft leather wrist cuffs. Kalani stands when I approach. I put my hands on his shoulders and bore into his soul.

“You sure?”

“Uh, yes, Sir. Like, I trust you.”

I put the cuffs on him, and snap the locks shut. His dick jumps with each click. I laugh.

“That’s my boy. Follow me.”

I grab my bucket and towel and head across the yard, boy in tow. We pass under a coconut tree and Kalani stares up at the fronds swaying in the gentle breeze.

“Coconuts were trimmed a few weeks ago,” I assure him.

“Oh.”

I stop at a tall, straight, very solid Ohia. I wrap the rainbow towel around the trunk, secure it with bungee cords, stuff a towel under its upper edge, and tighten another bungee seven feet up. Kalani steps up to the trunk and leans into it, his head resting on the pillow.

I tie his hands to the upper cord.

“Gotcha,” I chuckle. He shudders and I blow a measured, gentle breath across his back.

“You’re considerate,” he says.

“I want you to be comfortable while I pummel you.”

“Huh?”

“No distractions, just the whips.”

“Oh.”

“This is very special,” I whisper.

He nods.

I rub his upper back, reveling in the firm, but supple muscles.

“Here we go,” I announce.

I take my red deerskin flogger, grasp the tails near the handle, and with my other hand slide the dangling tips across his upper back, down his torso, and tease his buttcrack. He remains motionless, almost afraid to breathe.

“Relax,” I command.

He inhales deeply.

“Good boy.”

I take a practice swing, less to gauge distance, more so he feels the tips grazing his back. I strike his shoulder blades using a figure eight pattern, and gradually increase the intensity. He hops from one foot to the other as I progress from pats to pummels, his cries of “Ah, ah, ah,” in sync with each hit. Then I strike. Hard. He screams and rears back. I wait and strike again on the other shoulder. He roars.

I throw my arms around Kalani, my torso to his back, and slither in our sweat.

“Doing okay?”

“I think so.”

“Have some water.” We drink.

“That’s what I want to hear.”

I grab my black, very solid leather flogger.

I hit each shoulder blade a few times and move to his ass. And what an ass it is! I crouch a tad, steady myself and use a gentle backhand stroke on each cheek, switching from hand to hand.

“That’s a big whip,” he says.

“Yep.” I raise my voice. “Don’t worry about the tool, just sink into the sensation,” I shout.

Then I lay into him, let him have it, little or no mercy, but a modicum of care.

He screams. And screams. And screams.

I back off and throw water across his ass. He jumps and yells. His backside is a uniform deep red, almost burgundy. His breathing slackens. We share more water, he gulping, me sipping.

I hoist my one-hundred-twenty-tail whip, custom made with no small amount of grumbling from the master whip maker. The twenty-six-inch-long soft tails are green, black, and turquoise, with a few red tails peeking from the center. I slide them down Kalani’s back and then strike. It takes a strong arm to maneuver this instrument of pleasure. I hit his shoulders as hard as possible; the tails splay and cover his upper torso.

“Holy shit,” he gasps.

“My car wash whip,” I yell.

I continue pummeling him, his body slumps, his weight supported by the cuffs. A few more strokes and I stop. I touch his shoulder blades with my palms.

“We’re done,” I say between labored breaths. His head jerks to attention.

“Huh?”

“It’s all over, you can rest now.” I undo his cuffs, slide the towel to the base of the tree and guide him to rest against it.

He shakes his head. “Where was I, Sir?”

“Only you know that, boy.”

I kiss him and lead him into the bedroom. I move my stack of books and notes from the king size bed. I spoon him, my arms wrapped around my prize. Eventually we stretch out and doze. An hour or so later I climb out of bed and raise the blinds. He rolls over. I point at a palm tree, seventy or so feet tall, ivy swirling about its variegated trunk, climbing and reaching for the newborn coconuts just under its spreading fronds. Nature’s stately umbrella gleams in the low sun, framed by white, downy clouds wandering through an azure sky streaked with pink. I climb back in bed.

“Beautiful,” he says. “Thanks.”

He puts his arm around my shoulder.

“Lots of books around here.”

“Yep.”

“Lots of subjects.”

“Yep,” I respond, running my hand along his chest, trying not to grab his hard dick. “What’s your major?”

“Astronomy.”

“Continue, please, I’m interested. Very much so.”

“Hmm,” he replies. “Unusual. Most folks don’t give a damn.”

I smile. “I’m waiting,” I coax and nibble his nipple, teasing my teeth into a bite.

“As a boy,” he begins, “I was intrigued at the glistening white domes on top of Mona Kea.”

“Observatories,” I interject.

“Yeah, sponsored by several countries. I visited, and was hooked. What do you do…I mean, did, like…like before you retired?” He leans over, tugs a few of my chest hairs, and pinches my nipple.

“I was an optical engineer, specialized in optical coatings.”

“Like, holy shit!”

“I’ve supervised the coating of more than one large telescope mirror. And designed the coatings.”

“They could use you up there.”

“Well, those days are gone. Besides, it’s too damn cold at fifteen-thousand feet. I left the snow behind me when I moved from the mainland.” I shiver and pause. “I also fabricated minute mirrors, like for endoscopes.”

He roars, spits on his finger and goes for my asshole.

I sink into the pillows and close my eyes. Silence. I look up and he’s untangling one of the flat, red cargo straps dangling from the bedpost. He ties my wrists together with an evil grin. I smile and nod. He wraps the remainder of the cord around my ankles, pulls them to my wrists and hog-ties me on my back. He cinches the slack to the iron cross frame above my head and shoves a pillow under my butt. My hole is exposed, open, puckered, whatever. I’m a pretzel, not bad for my age, and almost embarrassed.

“Nice haole hairy hole,” he states matter-of-factly. He grabs a condom from the bedside table and lubes his dick and a few fingers. I again close my eyes.

A finger probes and enters, then two, then three. He chuckles.

“Could probably stick my whole hand up here.”

“It’s been done. Up to the elbow.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! So I don’t have to be gentle.”

“Well…”

He plunges in, and I swallow his fat dick. My cock rubs against his smooth chest. He’s fucking me, and I’m fucking the cleft between his pecs.

“Never done this before,” he gasps.

“Could’ve fooled me. Where’re you learn the rope trick?”

“Watched a few flicks. Now shut up, and screw, Puma!”

“Yes, Sir, boy!”

I have no choice, I can’t move. I revel in his having his way with me. Our eyes meet. Mine glisten over. Yeah, its good, it’s very, very good, I think. I tremble, almost shake, in my secure bondage. He smiles.

“Glad I can give you a good time, Puma. You deserve it, like, like…lots.”

Kalani wraps his arms around me, we can’t get any closer, can’t couple any tighter. We’re one sweaty ball. He wiggles and moans. He pauses, perhaps to savor the moment, his anticipation, his awe.

“Jesus, Puma, I love you,” he whispers. He comes in me—I feel his gentle shudders. But he doesn’t pull out. He massages my cock, and I groan and cover his throat with cum. He leans back.

“Mahalo for giving me this,” he says.

Who’s giving who what? I think.

“Thank you,” I manage to utter as he wipes off his neck.

Kalani unties me and we rest side by side, our inner hands clasped together. He looks over at me.

“You have a nice tan,” he says.

“Probably because I have a little Cherokee in me. Dad was from Georgia.”

“Holy shit! That sorta makes us, like, well, related?”

“Well, hardly.”

His kiss is slow but vigorous. Almost sucks the breath out of me.

“Will I see you again?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” he answers. “Soon, very soon.” He pauses. “I’d like to give you a Hawaiian friendship bracelet.”

I sit up. “I’m honored, deeply honored. That’s, that’s very special.”

“Yeah, very. I’ll bring it over my next visit. Gotta get home now.”

Where? I wonder. And to whom? Well, no matter.

Kalani sits up and looks over his shoulder as he traipses to the living room. I follow. He gets dressed and I hold the door open. I trail him to his truck.

He punches me in the chest with his fist.

“Aloha, bro,” he says.

“Aloha,” I respond.

He hops in the cab. I watch my Hawaiian boy drive away, his left hand waving through the open window. I’m standing at the end of the walkway, naked, half hard. Jesus, what the hell would the Fed Ex driver think of this outfit?

In truth, I don’t care. I like showing off and look who it brought me today.

I stroll into the house.