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On Brutish Waves by Eightane ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He drew a deep whiff up his nostrils; the salt and tuna stank he now remembered, and grimaced to tolerate. "Permission to come abooaaard!! "

Bold tones, hoisted up. Smugness draped his tortoise features; their blue peaks and shallow age lines made a smirk. Steady on his heels... Besides being all-but a living tank, he wouldn't go ahead up the gangplank and have Eighty miss this for the world. There he planted himself, by walkway's foot. Watched sunbeams piece off in the rolling bay, while three tiny points beamed back, one from a silver stud in his eyebrow, two from nipple rings. Wingulls dove for breaching, careless Luvdisk... The hull of that fair ship bobbed, its bow toward ceaseless horizon and the haze of midday. A contoured, lustrous schooner, cradled by the Hudson.

The retort came late but hearty. "Granted when you cut the act, landlubber." Just the flowing jet mane was in sight at first: above the deck's rim, in a scurry for some last-second dock prep. "Never gets old, eh. Applying that to me." The guest cracked wise, looking down over himself. Thin scales, thick curves on the body of a Blastoise... The bottom layered in black denim and chaps, the top in mere leather vest, privy to the air and its rushes; he and friend alike wore muscled bulk, thick arms and chests with full, softer basket. A causeway of hair started high, passed his navel, thickening throughout. Maybe unlike Eighty's, butterscotch, not black, and maybe no field on his chest like on the Nidoking's, plus no beard to make his pencil lip-fuzz a Van Dyke... But density, the forest highway down his front, stopped the breeze in its tracks. He felt it mostly on the brow; beneath his vest-matched cap, it blew through furrows, robust for this time of year. A form showed past the boat's 'lip'... By an open white jacket, the captain proved also half-topless, his lower regions clad in simple shorts, robin's-egg and less than loose. Coattails ruffled in a gust; Blastoise, meantime, found a sand flea getting comfy on his trail. It was gone by a flick; he tarried to run large fingers through the carpet nature gifted him.

He missed when more than a hairstyle looked down on him, and caught him looking over himself. "And there's why. Give Dirk a day aboard a skimmer and he's struck by shit in his bodybeard." The Blastoise pursed lips, failed to look ugly. His host's tail curled up; its purple tip jerked rearward, to motion him up the varnished boards. A warmer smile coupled it. "Before we lose headwind, and lunch cools."

Dirk's stubby ears went straight; a growl pronounced his gut's attention. Wide feet marched up the planks; some creaked under him, and the breeze had brief use, removing clammy drops on that brow. Usage ended when one foot hit the deck, pounding slats; a half-bounce told that jitters left quick as they'd come. For a shining moment, the wonderment Eighty'd want struck that turtle daddy, etched on a mug that swung over the remodeling job, stem-to-stern. Maybe even stars in his eyes, inspecting the whitewash and... More, on the windows by the cabin. "Get outta here... Ivory trim!? "

Eighty's hand gave his shoulder a slap, then firm rubs. "That safari last year? I didn't hit Angola for the love of monsoons. More's inside."

Turtle's knuckles played the side of royal hips. "You get faster every year."

"I could stand to. Wanna see the next Ice Age." He bent to the window hatches; they closed tighter by his hand than by a wrench. "It's insulated. I know when you're uncomfy."

"Yeah, hold up a minute..." He spoke with honest awe. Part for the boat itself, how the S.S. Gravity was so reborn, handsomely; but his neck craned high, straightening its folds, to the perfect blue above them, marvelous omen. A few stray white wisps, but they themselves paled next to sailcloth; on two masts, tight-furled, and so clearly new it was criminal. His open jawline shimmied; the breeze so lightly-stiffened. "... Alright, take me down." He walked up to Eighty; breath-swapping-close, so common for either. "You're the guide."

"I'm a lot better'n that." They toed the first step together. "Or I could do just as asked."

Each took the stairs deliberately. Blue, surly pads followed a pair half-violet-half-white, humongous claws hooked to Nido skin. A faint glow fell over them; Dirk's lips parted lightly, dazed by ambience of candles hung in holsters about them, putting shape to sunrays filtered through the windows. The lowest board squeaked... He hit a rug, its browns, reds and oranges a taste of fall in summer's height. His head turned far as it could; shiny hatbrim grazed the snout of his host, who chuckled and tuned in to his pal's bluster. "Gawd... This thing's a floating palace."

Eighty's fist lightly butted tortoise spine; a lurch wobbled through the Water-type belly. "Bull, it's just not a junk in the literal sense. Your mind's got two years ago to contrast."

"Yeah, and all the work you had'da do between. You know it shows." He channeled spirit much younger; a twinkle of magic, in eyes that jumped from the ornate rug to the finely-carved legs of a table, smooth and pearlescent. The must-have's were present, a hand radio clipped fast to the burgundy ceiling, a cupboard with glass doors, where flares, life jackets and the Swiss cross fronted a kit; even gear and utilities were played on by the opulence around them. Two walls abutted bookshelves, three feet in height below the streaming windowpanes. Two chairs docked by the table's molding, dark, authentic wood and not impossible to pin as antique. Behind his left side, he saw good cause for this ship's height; apart from stairs was a curved-top door, a porthole in its sturdy metal, open to another room.

He stared in; one corner of lips crept up. "You either pack for long voyages, or this is ship, house and motel." He spoke of what first appeared to him; four-post bed, tall mattress, hogging the corner and inviting some particular guesses. He cut a sly glance to Eighty...

... The manfurred sailor mugged in return. "Cali' King, too. About the most western-looking digs I dug from this bazaar in Mumbai." He spat a whisper-laugh. "You'd not believe the rest of what they had for sleep. Whacked-out stuff, it'd make you homesick."

A breeze hit Dirk as Eighty passed; a slap from the Nido hit him barely on his back, not something lower. "Thirsty? The brew should be about done."

"Beer?"

"Hell nahh. If I make beer on this thing, everyone sees less of me." He fixed a stare out the bowside panels, lumbering up to a mini-range and the steaming pot atop; the look held, a little wistful, before he watched and stirred the drink. "Gotcha taken care of, though." His fist took the handle; held half-a-gallon as if light as a feather and transported to the tabletop. The steam, its smell, hit Dirk's nostrils right when purple arm reached in the cupboard's bottom, to a stack of mugs, fetching two and something else. "Earl Grey, a li'l twist for the tide." Blastoise arm pulled out a chair; his rump sank into it, and Eighty's open jacket meant he viewed sans-shame the blackened curls on a cream-white chest, bent silly ways through the half-empty bottle Eighty brought along with china. The tea was first poured, quick and careful... Eighty unscrewed the bottle, one hard twist, and spiked his own before lowering it above Dirk's glass. A slow pour; Dirk made out the label partly-under Eighty's sausage digits, and the 'royal' fisherman confirmed. "Cool day. Smart to put some o' the captain in you."

"No tempting." He blew it out a mouthcorner. Eighty's eyes, his smile, went a tad bright on hearing that so flatly. Dirk's nod was slight, the moment two shots' worth had been dispensed to his bergamot drink. He lifted - resisting instincts to pound, when something with more alcohol than zero was upon him - and downed a healthy swig. Eyebrows rose, and took their sweet time lowering.

Eighty drank on his, the bottle's injection rather more in its time; it came down with the first third gone. His arms near-crossed on the table, flat from elbows down, hiding none of his broad frame. "So... Life and everything." He phrased low and snappy. "What's it done for ya."

"I'unno... The biggest event since O'-12 was this fuzzed weirdo calling at lunch on a Thursday to get me on his mini-yacht."

"Don't even," Eighty joke-scolded. "Yachts are for guys with too much money and compensatings."

"Right. Never known you to lug any of those." His hands lay flat, save for one's tapping two claws, an aid to thinking hard. Eighty looked on with smile and patience; he refrained from what he'd like to do, wrap his mitt around Dirk's and protect the polish under them. By rights, it was worth some pockmarked marble, this visit he'd reeled in. Dirk at last gathered facts enough to speak them. "Business booms. We had rough patches when the guy wrecked upstate, and when that jerkoff almost flooded us with bad drains."

"Say he lost his license."

"It's likely, I never heard. Hell, it's fine that he'll never set foot in there again. Takes more than plumbing to level nineteen years of TLC."

Eighty moved more in front of his arms; in so doing, the sinew down each arm just popped, clear and firm through every strand and follicle. "I woulda chased him straight to the county, with every biker you house. Not to tell you your biz, but admit it, if they ripped his plumber's card up you want fifty riders there so the shreds smell like leather. The paper's, his, who'd care."

"Yehh... Well that's pipe dreams..." The tapping escalated; he tried to guage if the boat was rocking any deeper, though anchored. "... Hell, I'm in a good place. You want cold numbers, I raked in 90 K' June-to-June. Sure it ain't Wall-Street take, but to just be serving liquor to parked Harleys..."

"Good deal, brother." The ending word was half-quip; the way he stuck out a palm, and had Dirk take it for hella-hard shake, was sincere. "My books closed a hair over sixty. With house, job and transport all the same-floatin'-thing, overhead's a fraction. Took my normal five vacations, put the rest away, on we go."

"FFFFuck." The word spat like a bullet. "Other men can make it sound easy. You paint it where I'm stupid not to be IN your shoes." His chin jumped a tick, imparting avid respect. "Just too many connections, too much time to keep. Else I'd be a first mate, keep this humdinger sloshing."

"You wouldn't own yours?" The most authentic question from Eighty.

"Heh..." Dirk fought himself not to scratch his neck, knowing the transparency. He sipped deep and gazed upward; ceiling patterns were olive, grey, purple, in curves and clustered diamonds. Eighty caught the pot's handle again; he freshened the mugs, and from pot to bottle, he drizzled higher doses, more spiced rum for the tea's head as well as theirs. He chugged half-down; at this strength, it was treated like a shot, and went down like one. A huff smoothed the burn in his throat; Dirk lifted his, helped himself to three gulps, and set it down with a 'WOO ' and a head tilt.

The Nido's chortle hiked his gums to expose; the sharp teeth bare-opposed the soft, swoop-curve of each strand below his nose. Dirk took notice, as he always had... Thoughts led him to their situation, their lack of ball-'n'-chain, and yes, the sheer length of August days this latitude. He only half-snapped out of it with Eighty's rising, leaving his seat in steady hurry. He of course remarked. "Gonna batten down the hatches while you're not piss-drunk?" He watched the tail whizz past; then looked in the mug's bottom, how little was left and how it didnt seem he'd had that much. "The way you make these..."

"You're rusty. For shame, bar owner." He rolled his cap front and down; fingers of wind reached down the stairs, well-prior to his climbing. "Hold tight. A slip here, a cut there and we're off. Should these westerlies hold out, we'll catch Elle's Point before the five o' clock news."

"Five, that's kinda la-... Oh. Right." He'd been distracted from knowing daylight stuck around... A captain's rear bounced up the steps, shaking its dual, meaty bumps. His tongue tasted air, mixing smoky scent with tea and rum. What he'd drank was the last thing he pondered.

It surprised him, once Eighty was above, how spacious felt the cabin. Not more roomy, nor welcoming, nor warmer... Just... Empty. He peered out the window; flags lay low to the hull, and yet unraised they would whip around, smacking air that moved them. Sure it was cool outside, before he'd entered, but to think they'd be thrashed so hard by no more than what he'd felt. He noted to ask the average for this port, conditions-wise, on his host's return. For now, another long sip of his drink killed it whole. He soon knew a second surprise, in how uncertain things mattered less and less... A lurch, the first moment adrift for the boat, phased him next to none. Roughly when his fists started table bongo's, Eighty's legs appeared, down the steps and with the rest of him in half-shivering tow. "Not that rough, and it's full-speed ahead. I'll grab the heater... Light only does so much north of Ottawa. Gettin' stiff out there."

Dirk's mouth let a cloying smirk... The entendre was indulgent. Either beverage or bend pushed his hand down his gut, slinking to the flaps of denim fly, a bulge hugged between chaps. Eighty'd walked in the bedroom; his guest's tongue made the rounds of his turtle mouth, but calmed and retreated by the time he strolled back in with propane heater, its topper-handle in a mighty grip. The tortoise played as if he hadn't had eyefuls of ass, or a few lightning-glances to the front, the mound of Nido's crotch in breathable cotton. Eighty played as if naive to both; and setting down the heater, bowed a little lower than needed, faced away from Dirk to light their tool for warmth. It came on without trouble; his gladness spawned a hum.

Two eyes were on him; two ears deciphered an old Seger tune, though Dirk spake over it. "Not that I want a show, but what sea game do you catch out here?"

Eighty answered with uncommon speed. "Depends on season, current, how far the ice tongues in. If I go east, I get salmon. West, it's more diverse." He swung his head back, sans-warning; Dirk flexed a mite, off-guard; he darted a look to his hand, a convenient gnat had landed side-palm. Eighty's smile went thin, pronounced. "I'll say no more. One day your ass'll put down here, and I'll keep the trade secrets. Security." Dirk's canines peked out from his grin. Eighty stood and faced away from a new, rising glow. "I can say I get snazzy some years and glide South of Bermuda for Blue Marlin. Not for money, for kicks."

Dirk shot back on-point, more aware since they'd shoved off as well as since his startling. "Hell, you prob'ly tug to Alaska. Get in on that crab fishing, just without a mess of cameras." A biting laugh from the Nidoking. "I'm reckless, not mental." His balking shook out a bit in his legs; their black frontfuzz lay static. "I don't chase waterfalls. Which is what those goddamn breakers hit when you're out with that cage and numb in six places. Limbs, tail, pecker."

Eighty's gaze happened not to be on Dirk when the Blastoise wicked a tongue down his lips, near-scratching blondish pencil-hair. "You are foolhardy..." He cast eyes to the heater, and barely kept from tapping in subtle fret. "... You have that on a floating tinder box."

"Often I won't." Reclaiming his seat - leaning to attended his tail, causing Dirk's stare down the pit of a chest forest - he snatched the cup and a sip. "Today, there's insurance along."

"I got news for you. If this bath toy goes up, you'll just see a broad shell chop the surf back to shore. Word to the wise, I'd jump and be surefooted." He'd slipped into feeling the refreshments. "Big-time." A casual confirming. Soon, he knocked his own forehead with palm. "The fuck did I wait to ask... How's Crossiron?"

The most pleasant vibes yet seeped from tortoise. "He's testy, but that-year bike's tough for a thing I'll outlive. Purrs like a dream since I flushed him out. If I grind the valves like I mean to, I'll be a streak down the open road."

"I call a ride, when we're back." He pitched forward. A light flashed in Dirk's eyes; the heater hit its max, and a wicked flame rippeled up steel. He added on. "Get me some dry wind on my face. Might as well take it all the way."

A bumpy moment hit them; the sound of the surf passed like doppler. 'King shrugged, turtle cooled and the room slowly warmed. The cup in Eighty's hands was emptied; he gave a gracious sigh. "How's your headboard rock these days?"

Dirk swiftly reeled, so overtly, but kept from laughing. "Dirty suuhn'bitch... Well, eh, when I can help it. There's prime meat that drops in for a drink, but a lotta work behind the scenes. Think of a tightrope."

Another rise and fall of minor height; a tiny clunk outside, from a pail Eighty now knew he'd missed securing. "Just tell me if the steel in your head starts to rattle."

"Why? There flesh-eating magnets here too?"

"You ol' hairy puss." He flicked the turtle's elbow; Dirk magnanimously rolled his eyes. "Not that I'm the angler-god, things can fuck with me too. Out here you just feel... Humble. At home with the fact you're one eddy in time. Why d'you think we're on the 'Gravity', of all names?" "I could mention Earthquakes." "Heh... I make the mountains bow, what of it." His neck tilted, deadpan as possible.

A sharp *clunk * had Dirk flinch a tad, and Eighty stare to the front windows; a few white breastfeathers had stamped where a Wingull flew too low. Both men tossed a chuckle to the moment. Dirk's elbow anchored to the table; it would pivot his hand to his moustache, and brush off a brown squatter-droplet. "So you asked 'bout my hog."

"I'd say the pep's there and alive. Delivered you on-time."

"Wrong hog."

Eighty saw the same light in that gaze as he himself reflected. Things were cozy, beyond the propane's literal flame. He'd know without a move the state of Dirk's 'home plate'... At the moment, it'd be pushed from within, heavy pressure on denim and detachable crotchplate. "Yeah, about that..." He rustled below, stirring, taking his snaplatch and undoing it, picturing the moment that blue, uncut schnitzel would fall free, pull the curls of its manwreath, a butterscotch scent trap. "You keep him oiled, right? He's easier..." Suavely, Eighty handsfree-brought his coat down his shoulders a mite; the black field, the creamy chest, less and less covered. "... Makes his own 10W-30."

Dirk's hands met the table's lip, curling left and right of him; he meant to pull one side, shove the other and slide away, disposing separation. His 'Kingly host bragged in action, though, as one purple hand planted near the underside's center, and just lifted it, legs, veneer and all. Dirk let go; Eighty curved his arm leftward, placed it far outside of them. It hit the floor uneven, rocking all four directions; before momentum was gone, a tall blue tortoise found himself on the wall, sandwiched hard by slats and a steam-hot belly. Shorts lay piled on the Nido's feet; so poised to fall from their fast rise, hard pressure and no underwear. Royal hands held Dirk's wrists; their salt-conditioning had no price in strength. Even a burly bear-turtle couldn't fight the captain's power, a physical ideal packed in all from forearms down to solid, hairy calves. Eighty's core nudged his; two hues of fuzz met and crunched on each other. Nipples seemed to spar for who went hardest, quickest. Eighty's breath invaded his guest; spiced rum, bergamot, plus saline backtone... The capped mariner so-lived on crisp waters they fermented him, like a lumberjack's perma-musk of wood.

Eighty watched his leather'd peer part lips; smelled the same refreshment, but put mind to the turtle's right arm, fumbling near the shoulder but adept at the fingers that unzipped, then grabbed the loose plate and wrenched away. He could see no further down than their chests, equal in size and shallow cushion-fat, but his piece stuck far ahead. It grew into the forest by Dirk's legs; he felt the drag - a Blastoise pipe low and stiffening - as it tugged his own dickhead on the droop. Two seconds more and Dirk was talking; regardless, the throb in both's loins felt deafening. "Had a LONG Rhydon mine me last week... But been bottlin' since..."

Eighty's grin went salacious; his teeth framed it wider, a mature throat and tongue. "That wallet's packed then..." Slow, seasoned moves brought their tools to contact. Nine inches of Nidomeat, and eight-point-five of Blastoise, cut and uncut... Both so thick, tree limbs of pulsing pole in untamed daddy bush. Eighty's largest vein slid its length up Dirk's hood; their cocks, fat as wrists, filled long and hard as able. King's throat so dominantly rumbled; Blastoise was taken by spasms, jigs down goosebumped arms and legs. Eighty went on; self-control was no contest, and he fueled them well though throbbing harder. "Glad no one hears a yell out here. You never shot how I'm gonna make you."

Their lips closed on one another; swordfighting tongues, exchange of taste, building hunger. Two gruff, sturdy men up on the wallboards, craving each other, to fill or be filled. One spiked, one shelled, both rock-hard and huge.

A flash lit half the sky; a livid clap nearly took both from their feet.

Eighty's cheek met Dirk's; they shared a look through the panels, to a sky less blue and more milky. Nido suspended their sport, and stepped out each grounded shorts leg; he slapped Dirk's back in lieu of fondling, tuned to an emerging priority. His smile clung fast through breath half-rushed. "Goddamn, it's like that, huh..." He stood promptly by the windows, leaned up to one and checked its latch. Then to the next one, down the line, grousing. "Killer forecast, experts. Papa said, trust the bones..."

Dirk's shell came off the wall; an inner battle raged. To see what threatened outside, give in to tingles down his arms, the stomach-butterflies, or to hold his machismo, take it active. He thinned lips; stepped to Eighty, with low stare all the while. A bottomless King... A long, mighty tail up in loose curl, and its soft pink secret. 'Sunken treasure, ' Dirk mused, 'and it'd fit a bed, alright...' He took sweet time coming to help; Eighty's tiny black strands reached as far as his canyon's edge, and with every move, every stretch to batten down hatches, it seemed to stare at Dirk and pucker. His tongue tumbled on his chops; he could very well sidestep, catch his host unguarded from behind... But a bounce, and splash up the portside hull, rescinded that option.

He met Eighty by the hip; all-thumbs with the last third of the windows on the right, taking longer to tighten them with fidgeting hands. He felt the eyes on him; just as low, just as shameless, a smirking fisherman watched his blue boner swing, dead-straight. "Damn..." One word, hot and friendly, from a bothered 'King. When it caught Dirk's attention, more followed. "... Your plank's eager, bud. I'm that much with all in your head..."

The Blastoise huffed, dropped eyes to the side, but smiled. He wouldn't address it... Not when a breaker rode up left of the bow, and a rippled impact swayed them, challenged footing. A full second, his pupils rattled their sockets. Recovering, he misplaced vocal mojo, his notes raised and tottering. "H-how solid's this..." He paused, straightened tall and wore courage. "We're good, yeah?"

Eighty's grin lay at max, his gaze at its narrowest. Dirk had dodged his query; he would dodge teasing an invalid fright. "Not much can slay Gravity. Shook four hurricanes, an Arctic squall and tax debt." Another thunderclap; in Dirk's peripheral, the bolt struck clean to the open water, from a cloud whose grey sure wasn't brightening. To observe it, no surprise, fear was minimal; Eighty's hand didn't hurt, lifting to his chest, taking fuzzy moob to cup. "We're untouchable. Here..." His hand clutched gently; its mass, and the feel to that stocky turtle, opened room for what next he asked. "... Walk out with me, roll the sails before it hits. We'll be socked-in, sloshed and chummy."

So much confidence in the sailor, so free of fear, Dirk wouldn't trip on thoughts of gloom. They stepped to the doors; threw them open hard, though the wind helped their force; galloped out and placed themselves at hitchropes. Only one knew his way with the knots; his blue, chubbed guest watched and aped the process on moderate delay. Under Eighty's caramel chorus, each sail was lowered, bound and safe. Dirk's heart pumped normal speed, aided by his focus on the cloth, the gusts on his legs, Eighty's belting out 'Hip to be Square ' at full, throaty volume... Any harder *thump* was for that 'King, his bare assets, private by open waters. When the tail would whip, from wind or upbeat work, the business lay in sight, where Dirk's mind rode the prospects of sinking balls-deep. On the count of six minutes, they'd prevail, each mast and knot in order. Boat owner's hand caught his partner's shoulder; leading his 'crew' to the stairs, through the doors, back to radiant comfort. The propane burned steady; its flame tongued motionless, though distorting the far wall with stuffy waves. Each man sighed; the biting clamminess eroded, the bumps shrank on swarthy manhide. Eighty rolled palms down his stomach, a squeegee for the spray that might flavour him.

Dirk approved; he looked at nothing else. "We're solid. No task left."

"Not now, any rate." Eighty's hands drew lower every rep; his package dangled, bounced, a snake with bushed nest.

"No needs... No trouble..." He gulped a mouthful of drool.

"No way."

They stood chin-to-chin, thigh-to-thigh. Dirk's hand, its open fist, reached out... At first, Eighty's length was just held, cuddled, as it hung past every blue finger. But all to change that was for Dirk to feel it grow again. To hear Eighty, who could throw such level bass, now hum out a groan that went higher, finer. To begin a tug, roll his digits up the long, warming tube, then have Eighty reciprocate. 'King's left hand crept down Dirk's gut; so much blondish hair was raked in approaching tortoise cock. His palm went straight past to settle on impressive globes, pet and hand-hug above their silver basal ring. Eighty only droned his hum in pleasure, pipe stroked and praised... But Dirk cooed, shook at the jawline, when Eighty's hand closed gentle on his nuts. One claw made its delicate way down the midseam.

"Shiiit... This plump bag..." A drive in Eighty's tone, its hardy, butch flow so apparent. A part of it stirred in tremors, breaks from a struggle not to roar full-out his pleasure. All for another, literal part of him, in Dirk's hand, feeling want and affection. "... Must get heavy, luggin' around all-every day..." He glowed in smile; his belly sloshed a tad, less by the ship's ride than his thick friend's fingers travelling him.

Long, pink shaft in Dirk's hand, so strong in every bloodpump through size. Coarse black coils quaked at the root; when he throbbed, they quivered, as wheat blown by the vault of his loins. Dirk's nostrils opened, whereupon he flung groans to befit a plus-sized man; Eighty's pits, the jet-grass tufts they corralled, strung a scent of beaded sweat to nose's stoop. 'How's it that-damn-... Chriiist...' Thoughts failed to congile; the pungeance, the mansmell, like he'd wedged snout in the bends and huffed their cloudy mist.

Blastoise worked his yearn through the knead, equal to the Nido's. Not that it came easy, spreading his palm down its girth, pulling two fingers up the large, drastic bulge of inner jizzpipe. To work a tool that size wasn't walling; but Eighty's hand, his claw, tracing just where a ridge of nerves made every second of its crawl unreal. Dirk's brow shot to a peak; his head gave limp nods to no beat. Every soft edge - his gut, his asscheeks, the fat behind each ring-draped nipple, jiggled in a force above words. Hairs down his arm were sparse, but none avoided standing on end, no less when Nido's index digit tunneled in sackring, scraping beneath it the point of split's most-sensitive. Eighty knew not to wait on an answer; Dirk's exploding vulnerability stood so close, he could thrust in, run his rocket headfirst up turtle's fat bone. So he did... And so Dirk's mind broke records for reduction to a brawny flake, a relic of former machismo.

"Ohh-hh-hhmyfuckin'shiiiiit..." His hand, its massage of Eighty's length, cranked up; joined by his other mitt, in weak control of its grab on Eighty's globes. Neither man loved the other's rod any more than the ammo satchel... Both were comprehensive, in gun and the heavy tankard of juice, right there and so wont to be shot. Dirk didn't tickle, he pulled; what hadn't failed his memory was the shudder, the pleasured scowl earned when Eighty's skin drew flat and showed a mile of capillaries. Groans by gruff whores; both had no thought or gripe for motion of the ocean. Neither's mind could leave the enormity, the burst each throb would feel like in their mass. Beyond stiff, in each other's face and working as one.

"Unnhf-fff...FUCK, brother..." Eighty toughed out the pull; his dick stood nodding, so far-swung in its pulse. "Yank it. Big ol' hairy nuts. Roll and stretch..."

"Gall-DAMN I missed you, rough sunuvabitch..." He inferred the power; pivots into his stroke-hand, wind of Eighty's breath hot on his lips and snout. The Nido drew a lungful, and with chest enlarged, gut tightened, what Dirk saw behind the open shirt was pure beef, textbook-muscle and fat, so fucking hairy in best quadrants. He went on shivering, Eighty's finger de-tunneling his ring, then curling under, lifting the balls. "... Ohhhyeeeahhh-"

"Mmm, you know the drill." Said as the captain held high, met Dirk's wood to his creambag. One foot forward, then the other; steel on Dirk's chest hit his own with sharp chill. Nine royal inches slapped his near-as-big buddy, pushing Dirk's hand, just in throb. "Snakes up. Make 'em hug... Yeeahhh, you..." A dash of praise, since Dirk had so quickly applied himself... Before Eighty'd even mouthed the order, big blue fingers pushed that throbbing monster to the sky. His sack poured either side of the skin they held up, by a cut digger and an unsnipped pole pressed so tight. He had just the time to view it, pissholes up to the ceiling, hard-as-fuck around them, when the inaugural slide won him nirvana.

Eighty's spear rode its veins up turtlehood; a glut of wooly black pushed and poked the cushioned butterscotch. A wobble hit Dirk's knees. His teeth, fangs shorter than the host's, peeked from trembling lips, as if animately fearing submission. Eighty's dick flowed down Dirk's topside in recoil; it came back harder, quicker, and the turtle's legbends clacked, two thick caps buckling together. Nido's friction was deep, zapping pleasure... Dirk's uncut rod pushed up on its base, so rigid, adamant to stand. It had Eighty's leap a tad; the lengthy pushes jumped, mid-through each time and dead-center of the captain's moaned mutters. "Mmmnghh... Feel that, shellback... Shiiit whatta weight..." Eighty reached and cupped Dirk's pipe at its fattest; lifted them a bit, tossed them upward, where they fell back in his palm; then rubbed under, sensuous and firm as his dick drove the other side.

"Ohhhhh-h-hh..." Dirk spited any whole-hog submittal; but here he stood, it openly occurring. Allowing Eighty's act, lust and advantage. Permitting captain's face nearer... The beard, devilish smile, bright green eyes, shadowing his face more each moment. Still parted were his nuts, split afeld, wiggling; nothing else could they do with two impressive guns frotting, rifles paired and high off the other's warmth. A heat also in the air, Eighty's nose gusting down his open throat. Small disks hit the windows; a light, pattering sprinkle. They heard, and knew, but Eighty's tending was the jaw he opened, placed over Dirk's. Tongue stole into the turtle; its partner swept under, wrapped the wet muscles hard. Eighty's body lurched; his arms slapped over leather, itself covering a brown shell. Dirk embraced him back; his hands slipped under white shirttail, rubbed the rough hide around spikebases.

Moustaches brushed; chest hair whisked and twirled. Bush, from the manpatch to curls around Dirk's dangling balls, retreated and unfingered, then rammed back entangling. They breathed each other's scent; tasted far into the spit and gums they offered mutually. Neither man was shirtless, but neither closed off the front glory; large ovals, scratchy trails, fat bellies, navels at a height where they would meet, almost kissing, while passion joined their lips. Eighty's mouth drew hard in leaving Dirk's; suction echoed over the pats of drizzle; the Blastoise tilted, knocking brow on Eighty's. He stared holes through the Nido's beard, past the neck he saw between lines. "Drink... Sweat... Ocean..." He throbbed so hard, Eighty's dick barely poked into his crotchide free from bouncing on its pace.

"All in here, eh? " He one-handedly tapped by Dirk's nostril; the other hand stroked them in his thrusts' opposition.

"I want... I need more..." Dirk trilled, breathless. His hands swept down Eighty's back, out the hills where each leg became a fleshy cheek. Not all would be submission; he shared control in how he closed in on the round button by Eighty's tail, peach-fuzz at the ring's very edge.

"Mine and yours... Where's it live? " He spoke as if loving the words; flexed his arms, upsizing their beef but also feathering the pits, tendriled patches.

"I'll show... Goddamn I'll lodge in... "His head sank down, past Eighty's neck, past a shoulder blade; his finger nudged a crease, a seasoned donut; it pressed in, and Dirk's nose pressed in the hot, savory bowl of Eighty's pit.

Eighty last saw the round, increasing splatter on the glass, before his eyes shut out light. Drops the size of golf balls; the size of Dirk's nuts, whose mass felt sensations so distinct he whinnied to take pure pitbreaths, felt Eighty's dick rush up his own, listened in on royal growls as he rocked and squirmed his finger in the tight, older hole. His tongue escaped again; this time, licking up the strands, tasting salt and musk and a hot, bitter slime. Even if he dropped down, dug his face into the rich strands of Eighty's groin, it would find no smell finer. Thunder rolled a three-second dirge; loud 'splats' rang in the first sheet of rain. It pelted regardless, unchanged by turtle's licks, by the Nido's dick screwing his guest's. That sea-dog drug his length with pride; lust took command of every nerve in his body, in-turbo as his pit was huffed, licked, loved. "Yehhss... Oh fuck, clean it, get in there... Grunge, eat it down... I'll fuck yerr damn dick... Screw your dong and THEN some..."

Dirk feasted on his friend's pit. His stomach rode up on Eighty's; temperate sweat rolled under it. A strong source of heat, slats venting high above; a stronger pair of arms on him, down his neck, his armoured spine. Eighty's hair was a broom, raking his nose, sweeping brow, lips, chin with moist scent. "Ooohhnmmnn... *sniiiiiiffffff*... DAAaamn, man!!... *whiifff* OHH- *whiifff* OHHH-HH-*sniiiifffffff* ... FUUUCKTHATSMELL!!! "

"Yeeahhh... Rank enough? " He barked a tad, having meatslide and panting to jigger him, but held outrageous composure. One elbow pushed Dirk to compound his dig in that hairy bend. "Taste like a filthy god? Dick-swingin' cuss? "

Dirk shoveled mansweat like snow, if tongue's a silver plow. His sack slid under the huge, bushed member of a captain... A morsel of pain, lost in blissful buffet. He ate Nidopit like a hole... Fat dick slid up fat dick, had both moaning spicily. Feeling so above-words, as lights fizzled around them. They brightened back, neither man cared, and hardly a blink for the thunderclap. Eighty didn't bother to tell the generator's safety, or harmless stunts by voltage in wet air... The drive, the amps in them owned focus. When Eighty shoved his beastly pecker up Dirk's, punched its helmet in the blondish scrub, Dirk nosed into more musk and sucked it away. When the tide rocked, and slight angles came to the floor, they braced on thick, planted beef of each other.

"Mm-mnffff-" A blue snout circled blackbush-pit; it popped out, quite literally by sound made. "Like a stew... Ohhshit, HAVE some! " His face streaked up to Eighty's, pushing snout to purple maw.

A crumbling sailor - a 'King whose legs twitched, whose dick lay stealing control, leeching it to the glorious rub of cocks - lobbed his tongue, slicked the damp, natural grease on Dirk's gob, until his mouth and throat lay glazed one and the same. "Christ... *slurp*... Thanks large..." His dick cruised up the foreskin of his guest's... They knocked thighs, chasing the edge, toying but dodging. "That's an ace word..." He shimmied hips, so light it moved his tool to tickle both. Goosebumps shot down Dirk; he thrusted hard, and his spunkbag rolled like dough. The mid-pinch was howled out, but he pushed against Eighty, where it mattered, no lighter. Nido grinned, teeth as fragrant as a foot-and-change southeast of them. "... Relatable."

Their mouths met; Blastoise stole a taste, licked his lips, added more back. Eighty's pitglaze was a layer on their faces. Two rings lay into his nips; chest-on-chest, natural rugs. Dirk's arm came up on Eighty's scalp; their shoulders bumped, where the earthy colognes might swirl, become one. The floor tipped to one side; both men suffered tilt to every end of their stance. A slight pause, not even total with their mouths frozen, sausage steaming on, and they wrapped in each's beefy toplimbs.

Eighty thrived in the command he lay on Dirk and his type... Insistence, punching tongue through tortoise lips, holding sway on a man big and 'rigged' enough to hold sway himself. Therein lay the fun; pressing Dirk's heft with his own, skating hairy arms down a shell with odd warmth, what permeated from blistering want within. Two huskular studs, exploring each's maw, snouts so close they traded air thick with odor. Two thick-hung hammers, steeled and riding ecstasy, knowing the other in complete, alluring sense. Dirk's hand climbed to Eighty's cap; he grabbed its brim, flung its poufed white to the floorboards and raked rows of coal-black scalpwheat. Turtle's face resembled his scrote; flushed, sweating, prey to a tried-and-true stud in the bowels of his floating den.

"Mmmnhh"... Dirk filled Eighty's mouth with moan; deep-Frenching jogged the manhunger. The floor tipped starboard; Nido's leg tendons locked, assured balance.

Their gobs pulled apart; Eighty strung beads of drool, slaves to gravity that drooped, webbing Dirk's chin, his host's beard, down into the clumps, the fistfuls from heart to wood. Dirk struggled not to gawk like a bitch; as Eighty teased him, he lost that bid. "Can't help wantin', eh slutass... " One purple hand jumped from Dirk's shell to his gut; a sweet edge, a brotherhood by scorching rub.

"Ohhh-hh, you ain't... Christ you damn-filthy-..." Streamed consciousness, as the words just oozed out his chops. Fat, sky-blue fingers combed crazily on Eighty, learning firsthand that no time erased the plush body. Greed consumed him, so ravenous he burst forth a cough, then transformed it to wheezing, slutty groan.

"Yehhh? Bear with a Bo' stick? " Eighty stand-straddled him, petrified ligaments, held them so sure on the bounding vessel, all while showing how vicious he could slide that nine-inch staff. Low roars bejeweled the push. "Urrrrghh... Fuck... Ol' Willy, up on yours... Dirk *junior*... Pumpin' on... Filth you love..." The slats below them creaked under angry surf. Sheets of water slogged the windows; the hull around them moved upright corkscrews in the riptide. Eighty's glans went moist, clear and beading; mere seconds split the pre's emergence and laying its slick gloss, buttering Dirk's pipe. Blondish curls, fat veins, rippled foreskin, a ballbag rolled by their meat. Nido's lube slathered on, to where his mouth on Dirk's - with hand flat on tortoise head, up under shiny leather brim, pulling in that butch, caving cueball - was barely wetter joy.

Weather slammed their vessel; Blastoise slammed tongue in Eighty's mouth. Ravenous, anxious, he slipped a fist low on Eighty's cream-white globes. Instant warmth for his bottled loads; he sang a moan, and Dirk slipped wetly off his lips to nose just north of moustache-line. "Thought I forgot? Or did you? " He squeezed, and smiled to see his taker fight crumbling. "Bub's weak spot... "

Eighty's beard lowered; his chin had flash-plummeted. Dirk weaponized the name, a token of a past where anything went and all was up for grabs. Eighty's cock swept the Blastoise, speeding. Dirk chomped air as the captain now began to; plump sacks danced down to the last nerve. Dirk's lay aching, centered in fat rods, sore less from roll than from backup. He howled excitement, knowing the pain proved how hard and copious he'd shoot. Eighty's nuts tumbled by his fondle, the able, curtained fingers. "Tough as a Butterfree. SO fun buggin' that." Then and there, it still struck his joy like ever, sweet as the first time showing Eighty his chutzpah.

He'd slipped out of guard; Eighty struck back with either hand, claws-sheathed, driving index finger's tip on defenseless blue spheres. The boat's wood rocked and buckled; their wood painted clear juice to the root, from Dirk's hood and Eighty's scar to their strandclusters. When a port-bound slosh nearly dropped them, more beads just wept out their rock-hard dickholes. Eighty's veins pounded, begging him to fuck, to release. "Go on, play rule. You're not king... Your thick ass bows right on this." His hand slipped topside of his cock; pressing down, the pulse, the inner flow was made known to Dirk. Eighty spoke on through their wincing. "I run it through 'til pigs fly."

Dirk struggled not to whine; against a literal-kneel, the ship's beating, his mind screamed to drop, turn and hike it up. His voice did better. "Like you'd ever... Tame this... Tail... W'jus' that... Hairy dog..."

"Hehehhh, yehhhh... The magic key..." Pre flowed down their lengths; a mini-foamup slicked where they rubbed, going faster, feeling more. "Rams your lock. 'Til the meaty walls glow."

"F-fffuuuck...!! " What was born as moaning grew to mighty pants. His control, his skill to hold his own, snapped away. "Damn ol' beast, you salt-smelling deep-fuckin' pile o' pits and COCK!!!-"

He curled a palm below his dick; stroked it open-handed, built the pressure. Scent hung in the air, their sweat, Eighty's chest, the morass below each arm, even a funky, newer note. It came from close in... From his own star, the round, smooth ass at its access...

... Lightning struck the water; tendrils fanned out a stone's throw from the bow. Eighty blinked, his vision green-ed for a moment. Dirk's teeth chattered on the *BOOM*. He vaulted, higher than his legs looked apt to spring. The pair fell not from his startled flux... Their forms staggered, slammed the wood Eighty's-thigh- and Dirk's shellside-first, when the boat went sideways.

One mast came three feet short of skimming. Slowly, with creaks, it rose to right itself. No damage to structure, but no rest for the duo within. Light and burn were gone; the heater's failsafe tripped and shut it off. The table lay two-legged, maimed by a ten-foot tumble. Shards were all surviving of the mugs. Eighty's legs wound through Dirk's; they lay unhurt, faces proximal, but with turtle's eyes berserk. Fear had clinched him; where they met, sweat chilled Eighty's skin. To stay the shock, to save intent, any chance rest on the 'King.

Maybe he was rash to launch into roll, spin them twice on the floor. The clack of Dirk's shell and Eighty's spikes rang from wood boards; so it had Dirk's eyes flutter, so the first portion worked. The second, where Nido creeped, drug his Van-Dyke on Dirk's cheek, then nose, then lips, was even greater success. Gravity held together; its beams locked strong, as Eighty's arms between the elbows and belly of a leather-dad. They pried in each's lips, swapped tongue and spit; Eighty eased back down the turtle's chin, his chest-fuzz down the midriff. In spite of storm, of falling, fright and risk that battered on outside, two monsters rejoined, smearing mangloss. Only now with change... Dirk's balls were free, tingling, and Eighty worked lower. His dickhead, the frot's path, scraped where turtle's ballskin met webbed roads on his tool.

Dirk's legs went airborne, jiggling around the 'King. Eighty swept that Blast'hood with sensory torment; it bounced from gut to air, blood racing. Pre flowed like water... Eighty's bathed his liason down the cock's side, under nuts, down the sweaty taint. Dirk's head swung to and fro; he jumbled shouts, far above a moan's range. Beard hairs scratched his neck, and for every scream from his pulsing, Eighty brought a push and mad verve that escalated.

"Take your licks... Shit, that smooth neck... Nnnghh... Shaggy piece... You know you'll shoot up your beer gut..."

"ARRNnnghhh!!... OHHHHHhhh-make-me... Bring it you butch FUCK-"

"If I seek that ass, man... You want my load, want me to blow, I'll wreck that hole..." His fangs locked; feral aggression, aroused rage.

Dirk lay trembling, half-kicking around his top's haunches. Eighty drew even lower; the slide of meat, dick-on-dick, switched out for Eighty pushing his base. The fat pink bell first nudged Dirk's cock upward, then pounded it, as if chiseling the root. Dirk screamed; the pinch made every throb stronger. "AHHHHH!!! MY-GOOOD, FUUUUCK!! " As deep and strong as orgasm, merely close to one.

Eighty used and abused, a true alpha. His mind defined want, insatiable, working a manbitch like dough. The storm, the boat's turbulence, had effects that only now exposed. Waves slapped the hull; the onslaught grew, outside and in. Eighty's dick slammed Dirk so hard he stamped his own navel; just two inches south and it would shank that earthy cave. 'King craved more than to bust up his guest... He half-curled, slid his nose down Dirk's collarbone and thrust it up in armbend's blonde wads. Dirk had sniffed him hard enough to chill the bend; he drew breaths so deep it tugged the skin where grew the pitstalks.

"MMMMNN... *sniiifff*... Prime slut... *SNIIIIIIFFFF*... Daaaamn, twinge o' leather!! " In a fleeting moment, Eighty made the greater bitch; his tongue plowed the field, farming spice. Where Dirk had self-coated with funk, Eighty gulped it, eating his friend's pit by the truest means. He stole a hand to Dirk's pubes; his tongue plowed, his fingers shoveled. So much sweat to dig out, now that he blanketed the tortoise; his jacket held the air, damming scent to just hang and fester. They breathed and created it. Pre leeched into cracks on Dirk's pucker. Drops wicked from neck over his shell, and trailed down the plating. His dick's ooze filled his navel.

Nido spoke straight to his bend, muffled but clear in the bass. "You need pluggin'... *liick* Oh... *sniiifff* Oh fuck..."

A woozy float hit their stomachs; The boat rode high on a wall of wave, and coming down fought real G-force. Dirk's wails gurgled; a daze, a sickly pallour held him.

Eighty sighed, reluctantly sensible... Games couldn't outweigh what faced them.

He drug an arm under the shell; Dirk was limp, bulky, but pulled to his feet without a hitch. The turtle's face looked double-drunk; its blue was light, and Eighty knew what he looked at. "Shut your eyes, think of the ground and bein' on it. I'll do transport."

The Blastoise nodded daisily, but did as advised. Eighty's coattail swept Dirk's enduring wood; a pleasure-jolt helped with turmoil in his gut. Eighty walked him steady, he ambled along, toward a threshold well-seen. The gateway to a bedroom, the arched door harnessed by a strap, tight-against the inside. He saw nothing upturned or broken inside; it took him a breath or two to understand. "A partial upfit," He croaked, in a purple arm and by the steel doorway-molding. "Nailed those down and said 'fuck it'."

Eighty's snicker made an irked acknowledgement. The boat creaked around them; rain trickled down the stairs. "Time's a fence bad as cash-" Another crash, as the boat fell amid breakers. Nido barely saved his guest from tumbling. "-Steady. Up on the frame here, be quick." He pushed Dirk to the doorway's metal. His shell, and purple skin by Eighty's spikes, wedged them in sidewise. Knees-to-knees, face apart by a pen's length. Eighty raised an arm to the frame's lip. He clutched hard, and Dirk gripped his love handles. A wall of water slapped starboard; their heads bobbed, their bellies jiggled. Two chubbed dicks stayed hot and tender; this they knew when the impact whipped their meat, hood-to-scar hard as ever doable.

Two roars filled the cabin. Dirk's hat crinkled on the doorframe, his head thrown back by more than the surf. His teeth and Eighty's clenched watertight. The captain's thick niner touched his, fren-pit on its intact cousin. Both felt the bubbling up their meat, clear as rain, thick as syrup. Eighty's eyes trailed down past Dirk's hairtrail, his bread basket, the orchard sub-navel. He could at last see it happen; As Dirk forgot all unease, and colour returned to his face, he saw just how that head filles out as it leaked. The Blastoise shivered; muchly warm, just paralyzed in pleasure. His and Nido's manlube flooded blue foreskin... Breakers shot foam up the hull, and the hits did all the work. Thunderclaps were merely drips in a pan, next to the rock-hard monsters sliding and slapping.

Dirk appeared not to've sickened at all. He smiled, automatic on the quickened bliss. "J-Jee-ee-eeeez-" he could barely form the end; consonants strained his tongue. "Lookit'dat... Eighty, God-daamn, OH-hh..."

"I knoooww, fuckrrhh..." He was mushmouthed; every sound chewed up in splendour. Waves kicked the bow; he timed them and thrusted to accent. Breathing with practice, in and out to reign his throb. A snigger sneaked out him. "Y-you... Can't fight all day... You'll lose it... Mmmnph, and I'll go straight-on..."

He surprised the 'King, rebuking in a flash. "Fat chance, b-buddy... Wanna wait me out, you'd fall to nap and have wet dreams befo-ooore I let it fly..." He curled a smirk; another wave and slide, and it hid in a jawclench.

"Sorely mistakeh-hnnn-nnhh..." Eighty's pulse was its own handicap; the gale took the brunt of blame, but when his dick filled with heartbeat, tiny, spurted friction tickled down to the base. Necks tightened. Bellies caved and regrew. Sweat ran down his nipple, then hung, enclosing a black curl like lucite.

Dirk's head lay bobbing; the fat he wore well became tsunamis up from loins to chin. "Yerr... Yerr'ohhhnnnn, man..." The groaned speech drew lower; he already battled that he make himself a liar. Eighty's greatest act was to tame his grin; how high it would've gone if unchecked, to know what he had in store. White bolts branched over the sky, torrents flowed and chained drips down the lip of their buoyant safety. A school of unseen fish, maybe Relicanth, knocked the side of the basespine. Eighty's pink staff rode on hooded blue, strummed like a tuning fork.

Thunder masked their yelps.

White cloth beat its holding mast in the tempest, and two bodies stood wet from only pleasure. They wouldn't lose it on chance; neither would sacrifice that bonus. Eighty shoved nose on Dirk, met chins, mated chests. "Give up, you're gone. I'll stroke my shots ww'hh... W'th'white horse o' yours." The most deviant grin, as he turned the phrase they shared for power's carrier.

"N-never... Dream on, buck... Flip it for the f-fffacts..." It was paltry to try and convince; Eighty laughed off how poor the attempt as Dirk trembled, every finger and toe, while dick rubbed dick. Suave as could be, he leaned back; bracing on the trim above, before a monster wave struck and slapped other monsters. the thrill-ride feeling wore off; the tingle in his tool lived long, and he watched the veins pipe each pulse. Once, he looked higher; Dirk lay temple-on-the-frame, wincing in upward fever, the rush on so close an edge. Eighty hadn't won him, but how that kingly jerk could threaten it, and in ways to have him twitch lips and beg to peak, take all the pressure to blast out and over that Nido's black-trimmed gut 'n' package. But he wanted it seen first, from Eighty. He willed in silence for the 'King to drop in his classic, gutteral roar, and the stream of thick seed to geyser up, fall down their lengths and butter them.

The boat clunked off a breaker. Furniture rattled in the bedroom; the rest slid and tossed where it may. A table's white leg rolled to Eighty, then rest by toeclaws. Eighty beared down, assumed the prime stance. He found his center by the belt, squeezed that certain inner way and locked Dirk at the knees with tail.

A single, wee spritz treaked out Eighty's slithole. Not pre, a bit coloured. Dirk's eyes flew open; the second he realized, air swept out his lungs with whined force; his fingers threw signs nonexistent. A curtain 'boiled' up from thick Nidomeat; still hard as fuck, but sending piss up his rod to fountain, wet them straight to the balls.

"Ohhhyou bastard, UNfair... Foul, that's a... Foou-uuhh-hll..." He'd gripe to the end, though Eighty was right as rain pouncing on a rich trigger. The boat outside was a giant puddle; inside, one with hinted yellow grew by their feet. Musk washed from their nuts and inches; drops hit their large plods pre-steeped in a scent that could melt hearts.

Eighty chuckled strong, near a laugh. He watched Dirk writhe, at war with how it pleased, piss falling on his dickhead, riding down. The sack bumped on Eighty's... Hard nudges, as they drew up on Dirk's body, then pitched back. Warm fluid washed down his cock; he strained to look, and saw the sheeting; the plane where Eighty sprayed a flat-line wizz, where he saw flashes bounced on the floor through the pissbeam. All while so rigid it pointed to Polaris. While it throbbed and paddled Dirk as the storm incited.

"AHHHHFUUUHHCK~"

It crept cruelly... Hot as hell to the Water-type, but his tenure restricted him. Standing welded to his edge; were it literally a cliff, he'd be sideways, throwing physics the bird. His host was a triple threat; Eighty's cockslap put him closer, even as breakers leveled. Their lengths abused each other, swords that grew harder landing blows... The 'grass' on nuts rustled, like their gut hair... And the shower, the gold-spewing daddy cock, relieving Eighty to sighs, could nary be resisted.

Nido's right arm left the molding; one limb's strength could insure him while the other dipped, presented palm and held it half-down the spray arc, facing Blastoise gut. Hot wizz dealt with a hard rod, its pressure too low to reach the biker's paunch; it rained on bush, sifted through his well-aged patch to the roots; some still would hit his dick, but the flow was halved, and by this the feel magnified. Eighty's laugh rumbled; the spout kept on, and his gaze adored the friend whose body - whose rough, sweatsoaked turtle skin - twitched deeper, his antsy slant driven to the brink. Nido treasured it, the gem of Dirk's assets: how he'd always hit that moment in thermal frenzy. Purple hips nudged in to fix the storm's descent. One last time to tease this tortoise, as shivers took him over. Not a muscle lay still as Eighty badgered. "Yeahhh, perfect record... Can't hold the white, you're leakin' out... Mnnnrghhh..." It pleased intensely; Dirk's whimpering, his flail up on the doorframe, the thick gobs rising and pouring out his dick. So much cum rode down his foreskin, then muscles caught up with him, synced with nerves and pushed blue dick to a bomb-blow.

Screams were Dirk's least actions. His head clubbed the frame, his shell clobbered wood, bounced between its sheen and host's wet belly. Loads exploded like his swimmers chased air, and their jailbreak branched. Half flew in the air to be gunned down by piss stream; the rest broke through, covering both where hairiest, soft pecfolds down the midstripe. Climax rocked him, untrapped in one extension; arms, legs and all sensed it like parts of the veiny girth. Load after load, an arsenal, shooting him empty. All that cooked in those heavy nuts fired out, rolled down their dicks. Eighty roared; he was only close, but Dirk throbbed so hard, a chimney letting off its plume. Duly all throbs lay right on his, while piss trickled, light yellow rushed over and past slower white. His doing, that Dirk was speechless; but he talked it out, the bliss coming on like a typhoon. "Ohhhhyou-bitch-fuck... Stood your bear-ass there while I soaked yerr meat 'n' balls... You came ALL in my wizz, I... I... FUUUUCK, IT'S OOOONN!!! "

Dirk threw himself on the frame; small cracks showed up as he milked the blasts. Now, gasping, he was covered anew. Sweat rilled in the crow's-feet of his armbend; it seeped in the pitscrub, but Eighty's beaded down his black tufts like they sucked it in. He did effortless... The angle, the power, sent white over Dirk. Blondish gut hair lay in piss and his own loads; but the chest bush, the thickest field of his beyond crotch, took buckets of ropes.

Eighty snarled like every shot stood alone. Sound so butch, and he fired off words like his rod fired cumstrings. "RRRGH-YEEHHHH!!! FFFFUCKYOU, WHO'S-TOP-DAWWGGG!!! WHO-OWNS'AT-SHRUB-POLE!!? "

Dirk was far from answering. Cream hit him in sheets from two rods. He squealed moans, no contempt for his loss, bouncing stomach fluff on Eighty's. Cups worth of spunk, a stunned, jerky shot for each. Down his front's every square-inch, it met salty wizzstain from a sealoving stud. As ever he had, he caved. Smells, peak, their history, fed his mind so deep as to jack his jaw open, shove it on Eighty's, plant tongue and rake 'staches. So brief, maybe a second-flat they lived the taste, no more could happen gripped by release. But in its shortness, they were ravenous. Wet, trembling, cumming, they worshipped, and tongues made love like only older, hairy players could share. The mouths pried apart; each man bumped the frame, leaned back and fucked the other's gun. Neither quit spraying; thrusts only gave to the other's crest, and they felt and heard mutually the boon.

Rain renigged to a hard drizzle. The tied, bunched sails softened whipping. Eighty's chest jigged, fat dancing on his pecs. He half-bowed, stringing drool in Dirk's navel; to the weather, oblivious. Hips and lips moved with animation; every hard shot grazed his guest. "FUCKIN'-SLOGYOUU!!! RRRHHH!!! " He glazed the turtle's core, white syrup in curves and loops. Dirk went off half as high, but equaled the punch... Cum lay so thick on Eighty's bush the black left sight. Some hit with a splash; some came in cascades, Dirk's dickhole down the Nido's fat hog, every peaking inch. One thing on Earth was strong enough to best the manfurred king: his own climax. "GGGAHHHH!!! SSHHHIIIIIT-I'M-A-MORTAR!!! RRGGHHHH!!! RRRAHH-HHH!! FUUCK!! "

Blue muscles were shaking; the Blastoise stood so critically swept up, in gasped yowls. He cared not if Eighty spotted the smirk; the tiny one-side lift, as he moved with grace one quivering hand. Nido's sack had him in shouted throes, sending gobs on its own; but Dirk's fingers went around the spheres, and with tender strength, hugged.

It tumbled Eighty's faculties. His eyes even shot open, reflex, and around their beady black went bloodshot. Pain didn't enter him; but every shot, the volleys that his dick pulled out with charge, had a new skill done to their ride. Lessons from a drifter, in back of Dirk's bar, now cashed in... Cum just flew. Dirk's hat was spattered, then his brow; thick shot after shot, Eighty bellowing. "HHHHOLYYY-SHIIIITTT!!! AHHHHHRRRHH!!! "

Cracks drilled the frame, but growth slowed. "C-can't hold that, eh... Fucker..." A curt edge, from a turtle whose orgasm shallowed. "Loss with style." Shots begat ooze from his thick head; a creek rippling on foreskin, down his dick and Eighty's. Though the sailor had finite fuel within - though the royal goo went bullish, lower each breath - Dirk's handle on his bag kept it spraying. White washed his chest; as he licked an earlier lip-bound shot, hummed to taste the 'King's broth, trails wormed through his nip rings. So much jizz, one silver hoop filled out with it; Eighty's hot seed netted inside, like sugar in the odd breakfast "O". So much of the puddle still was piss... Their bush, the forests endowed on them held it. So much cream, clung fast, still coming... As if their bodies coveted, held the given manshots to deny the floor's taking them.

Eighty's knees swayed less and less. The roars, first furied, now tepid. His dickhead, shining-hard, burped a few last shots, a beeline down the turtle's butterscotch. He stood back; anchored heels on the doorframe, legs bowed around the guest who'd shown him revenge. His last cumleak, Dirk's final dripping, ran down their undersides together. Both men cooed "Ohhhhh ", rowdy and encored... Their huge tools persisted throbbing. The afterglow, their huffing, smiling groans, told it all. Monster daddies, a godly crest for both, and their dicks refused that tanks were dry.

It had to be minutes, with the sprinkle outside at its end, and they inside, backs plastered to the frame. Gales became wind, then breezes; their dicks barely drooped, sending tail of orgasm up their sturdy spines. No more did the sails flit and spank tall masts; but below, two masts as tall and sturdy pulsed down, spat creamy sprigs, rubbed veins as their mass went low to hang. As a beam of light broke through, brightening wood by their pissed-on feet, Water- and Poison- alike wheezed a chuckle. Eighty sighed so rich, his helmet spunked like the skin-wrapped girth of Dirk's. That tortoise nodded forward, opened lazily his eyes, and assessed what he felt all down his musclechub. It was natural both men should lift their arms - weakened as they were - and run through the coated love they'd shot. Eighty went attentive, big hands combing his pubes, all the globbed ropes covering. But all he'd gave up, how much more he'd laid on Dirk, had the turtle's thumbs-down-to-forearms raking snowdrifts' worth of Nidokids on his shapely, hairy folds. "Maaaan... All you fuckin' JIZZED on me..."

He'd not fight it; the hands came up, and he heard Eighty's laugh over the hungry slurps of his meal. Sunlight bathed the schooner; Dirk saw nil of it, with eyes closed, his mind on the taste as he ate. Light darkened through his lids... Eighty swooped on a break between handscoops, and put nose to nose, shoved tongue through Dirk's lips and tasted his own. Still palming his bush, and up his dick, trading off hands to run them straight from the root, a squeegee. While they breathed easy, bellies touching as they took in air, he didn't lift Dirk's jizz to eat as the turtle did his. The rolled cream was slapped on blue, fat member... Eighty stroked his buddy's soft hang with what that dick itself had sent. Dirk moaned, and couldn't quit; a long, waffled note purged the air in his lungs. Four nuts: two pairs, lighter but still as plump, patted one another. Cum strung out from each, and more flowed down them from the base of two guns.

"How's the Emergency plan? " Eighty's hand slipped up to a blue hip; large folds of ass meat were clenched.

Dirk reaped a kiss, wanting that Van Dyke back against him. Parting left cum-strung backwash, and Dirk's rare smoother tone. "Felt micromanaged. Which'z good."

"Heheh..." Eighty chucked his pal's chin. "And that matters, huh? Really figures in?" A rolled cum-barrel rode between their nudgecoasting tools. "Still fudged your bet. I mean that's an all-case thing, but-"

"Screw off!" Dirk chuckled on that, slamming Eighty gut-to-gut. "All that shit you talked, asswise in the untouched bedroom. I'm eating what you said I would catch."

"Like one piece of a pie." Eighty's hand went back over the shapely turtle buns... Occassionally, pricking the wobbly ends with gentlest clawtip. "More helpings left." He squinted; the mid-angle sun broke through a weathered high-slat on the wall, beaming his eyes. To react, he swept Dirk up by the thigh and half-carried-half-dragged him from the doorway. The bedroom barely was wet, and oddly warm. "You spray like a bitch. Act out how to bend like one."

Wood legs, china pieces and the deadlocked heater strewn the outer room. Among many things else, they waited.

A single airborne figure fluttered on tardy breeze. His silhouette cut over dusk glory.~

*=To be Continued=*