Summer comes. Maybe just around the next corner. Talbot Crane, Marky Matthews, and Jeffrey Layins can tell, even this far south where even winters are mostly sunshine and warm breezes. This sunshine is more intense, this breeze is more noticeably warm than when the trio weekended here just a couple of months ago. This summer-on-its-way late-spring surf has an entirely different intensity than winter-in-full-swing. These sea-to-shore cascades aren't nearly as stirred to wildness and fury by mid-Pacific storms.
Their cock-in-ass, cock-up-ass, cock-wrapped-by-hand daisy-chain fuck, complete with their collective heaves for breath, is audible, even above the distant sounds of water crashing isolated Baja California coastline. Oak leaves tremble, within the large canopy of limbs that overhangs them, seemingly disturbed by the guttural sounds of these three rutting prime specimens in heat.
"Oh, Jesus, yes!" Talbot says. His hand is on a down-stroke along the powerfully uplifted length of his massive erection. By luck (or un-luck) of the draw, his boner is the only one of the three not occupied by tightly squeezing asshole. The heel of his descending hand mashes his red-haired testicles. His scrotum pleasure-compacts to the shape and size of a regulation basketball.
Marky's hard cock jabs full-length up Talbot's butthole. Simultaneously, Jeffrey's stiff dick commences a deeper jab of Marky's tight-to-virgin behind. The bulbous head of Jeffrey's hard rocket of engorged male meat expertly butts Marky's prostate, then glides on by. Jeffrey's corn-yellow pubic crotch hair entwine with the platinum-blond strands that line Marky's asscrack, just as Marky's crotch hair mingle with the red-hair strands that line Talbot's asscrack.
"Ungghh!" Marky groans.
"Tight, tight ass!" Jeffrey whispers in Marky's ear. Jeffrey's face is in close. The attractive bang of his corn-blond hair, and his full and sexy lips, butterfly-tickle Marky's left cheek.
"I'm getting close," Talbot says.
"Me, too," Marky says.
"One for all, all for one," Jeffrey says.
It's not as if their three-way just starts. They've been at it for quite some time. They have so perfected their fucking skills, one with the other, these classmates, friends and sex-buddies, that they've just about milked this latest group effort for all it's worth.
"I'm soon ... soon ... soon ... going to cream ... cream ... cream!" Jeffrey says.
"Me first!" Talbot says.
"My nuts get first rumble!" Marky says.
Marky's fingertips clamp all the tighter around Talbot's prominent hipbones. The rest of Marky's hands firmly talon Talbot's naked hips from behind.
Jeffrey and Marky wear lubricated rubbers. Talbot's cock is a natural leaker. So, there are lots of wet sounds as Jeffrey's cock and Marky's cock go into higher gear up assholes, and as Talbot's cock begins its even faster fuck of its owner's juicy pre-cum sopped fingers.
The trio makes so many increasingly loud foot-in-mud noises that previously undisturbed birds, roosting in seaside treetops, take wing in a flurry of squawks. Dislodged feathers spiral-drift to the ground.
Talbot's masturbating fingers, combined with the inherent pleasure of Marky's cock up Talbot's butt, surprises Talbot in not having already coaxed his deluge of cum from his cum-bagged nuts.
"I am just ... about ... there!" he announces.
Marky can't deny the verge-of-burst pleasure he gets from frantically clinging to the on-the-brink Talbot, while Talbot's ass wrings Marky's dick, while Marky's asshole gives Jeffrey's hard prick the same strangle-a-fucking-dick workout.
"Ahhhhh, Marky," Talbot says. "That cock of yours ... that cock of yours ... that lovely, lovely cock of yours ... shoved so deep up my ... my ... I'm fucking ... going to come soon ... ass!"
It's Jeffrey, though, who announces, "Now!", and explodes his dick up Marky's cock-clamping asshole.
Marky and Talbot's eruptions coincide with each other and lag too-slight-to-notice behind Jeffrey's first squirt of cum.
The three hold on for dear life, until the ecstatic orgasmic surf finally washes completely from their sweaty bodies. The surf of ocean, against shoreline, continues its backdrop.
"God, Marky, no one, except Jeffrey, fucks my ass as well as you do," Talbot says.
"Nothing like initiating a good camp-out by fucking and getting fucked," Marky says, finally able to talk.
Likely, novice campers would have set up camp closer to the sea, but these aren't novice campers. What's more, they've picked their spot for other than the obvious reason that it affords them a good deal of desired privacy. Even one additional tent would crowd their genuinely small bit of flat space among the hillside trees.
Although the late-spring day is downright balmy, any come-night exposure to the ocean, just on the other side of the hill, guarantees some very chilly hours. Large up-swellings of deeply frigid ocean occur all year around just off-shore. Nightly ocean-to-land breezes blow over that cold water and regularly chill the adjacent land. Cold breezes meeting up with warmer land causes year-round bone-chilling fogs. The fogs here in-come most every evening, just before nightfall and cover most of the area, with the usual pleasant exception of the small depression, this side of the hill, within which these knowing and been-here-before campers have pitched their tent.
Marky gives an audible grunt as Jeffrey removes cum-depleted erection from Marky's tight ass.
"As soon as Marky pulls his cock out of Talbot's ass," Talbot says, "I'm thinking a short nap."
"Better you nap now than during sex later in the evening," Jeffrey says.
"Right!" Talbot's tone insinuates the likelihood of his going to sleep during sex--any sex--is equivalent to the sun not coming up in the morning. Especially since the three don't have that many remaining chances for fun and games before their high-school graduation sees them go their separate ways at least for the summer (and probably for longer).
"I think I'll check the ocean view," Marky says. He has seen the panorama from the nearby hill-top countless times before, but he never tires of the ocean breaking on the rugged coastline that parenthesizes the beach below.
"I'll replenish our water," Jeffrey says. He comes off magnanimous, but it's his turn. There's a stream, downhill from where they camp. It veers south into an age-old gully that dumps the freshwater into the salty sea.
Once dressed, Marky leaves his two companions and takes the trail that meanders uphill through the trees. The slope strains to impressive high-relief the calves of his muscled legs. Marky, though, is in excellent physical condition and isn't even breathing hard when he comes out on top.
He's dead-center the cliff that rises at the leading end of the slight indent chewed by weather into this bit of Baja California coastline. The indent couches the prettiest of narrow white-sand beaches. The sand, and the frothy leading edge of the breakers that steadily whip the beach and the surrounding rugged outcroppings, are one and the same bleach-bone white. An untrained observer always thinks the beach is far more extensive than it is. In fact, it's an exceedingly thin crescent of sand whose westward edge, once disappeared beneath the shifting tides, descends rapidly toward a major subterranean drop-off less than a quarter mile off-shore.
During fall, winter, and early spring, the surf here regularly gets awesome. At such times, the spot attracts old-guard surfers willing to make the extra effort to hike in, surfboard in tow, to advantage the excellent but exceedingly dangerous water.
This verge-of-summer time of year, large waves are less predictable. Marky sees only one tent on the whole beach. Two surfboards, stuck upturned in the sand in front of the tent, resemble brightly colored gravestones.
A lone surfer appears from the rocks at the far north-end of the beach. He carries his surfboard hoisted over his head.
Marky doesn't head downhill, He heads south, then southwest, along the top of the cliff almost to its southwestern-most extremity. He stops a few yards short of the farthest edge of a rocky headland whose one side is deep gully. Within the gully runs the stream from which Jeffrey, out of sight, but not out of mind, presently draws their drinking water.
Marky steps around a lone, small, and wind-stunted tree. Only twelve feet of solid land now separate him from the sheer drop-off that punctuates the western-most spot of land for fifty miles in either north or south direction.
He sits, his back to the gnarled and twisted trunk. The tree is so sculptured by the elements, its branches and its trunk so nightmarishly configured, it gives the best hint that weather here can be far less ideal than it is at the moment.
Marky shuts his green eyes to a sun only a couple of hours from its final dip beneath the horizon. Already multi-colored clouds scroll the distant sky. Although, the faint and pleasant sea breeze is yet to be replaced by its soon-to-be-expected chillier cousin.
Marky doesn't mean to catnap, but he does.
It's a sudden decrease in daylight intensity, against his closed lids, that leads him to suspect fog rises between him and the distance.
When he opens his eyes, though, it's neither fog, nor cloud, nor official twilight. It's a human silhouette, on the very lip of the escarpment, between him and the sun, between him and the drop-off. Sunlight so hugs most of the silhouette and, by contrast, so intensifies the shadow, the person's facial features are hidden. However, it's the very same sunlight, caught within corn-blond hair, that's the dead give-away.
Likewise, anyone other than Jeffrey would send far less familiar vibes.
"You fetched that water faster than Jack and Jill ever went up their hill," Marky says.
"And, I returned to find Talbot not napping but busy beating his meat solo," Jeffrey says. His hand runs cascaded strands of corn-gold hair out of his blue-to-black eyes. "Granted, Talbot could be having a wet dream, inside the tent, what with all of his, 'Ungh ... ungh ... ungh!' But, I opt for it being pure self-abuse and fantasy. What do you think?"
"I think you and I pretty much always think the same," Marky says.
Jeffrey unfastens his pants. His trousers and underwear make a faint whoosh as they drop.
"What am I thinking now?" Jeffrey says and steps out of the pile of clothes around his feet.