Beachcombers

Beachcombers By R.W. Clinger Tab Fuller returned to Sontimore Island in July and was watching me again. I had seen him grow from a boy into a chiseled-hot man throughout the past ten years. He was a sexy thing along the private beach, and sometimes d**k-hard in the summer months, a wild thing in nature who liked to tease me with his suntanned muscles. The young man was tongue-wagging beautiful, if the truth be told; someone who caused me to become d**k-hard and overheated, even when I was in the shade. I took in his constant stares like soothing medicine, and desired him as much as he desired me. I lived on the private island in a bungalow along Lake Sontimore in New York. My job was simple of course, until he occasionally came around to visit his wealthy aunt, who owned ninety percent of the island; the young man seemed to always distract me in the most s****l manner. I studied the water for safety: chlorine levels, oxides, currents, temperatures, toxins, bacterial life (pathogens and coliform), and plant life. I had a degree in environmental biology from Temple and specialized in fresh water studies. Clean water was my game; that’s how I made my living for the last eight years. The government paid me to check the water and run tests on its purity. My job entailed daily tests of the fresh water. Thereafter, I sent my results to the mainland for further review at Bressner University near the lake. What I wanted to test was the blond guy on his beach blanket who had always watched me that summer. He had a deep dark brown suntan, blond hair between his rock-hard pecs, swimming green eyes, approximately twenty-three-years-old, five-eleven frame, hundred and seventy-five pounds of medium muscle, and adorable. He was a temporary visitor from somewhere distant (New York City? Boston? Los Angeles?) and would probably only stay for the summer. I knew his name because I wanted to, because he was sexy, and he made me hard between my legs: Tab Fuller, the nephew of Edith Fuller, one of the wealthiest women in the Sontimore area. How many scorching days of summer did the guy use me, Wayne Dixon, as his visual object of desire? I was unsure. Maybe a week. Maybe longer. And what exactly did he find so attractive about my thirty-two-year-old frame, two hundred pounds of beefy muscle, onyx-colored crew cut, crystal blue eyes, six-foot structure, and clean-shaven chest? Yes, I was bronze, just like him. And yes, I was handsome, particularly in my canary yellow Rufskin shorts that were too snug, and a white tank that outlined every ripple and curve and bump on my meaty chest. Why had Mr. Sunbather enjoyed admiring me on the beach, day in and day out, when there were others in his wealthy world to study? That is what I wanted to know. That is what I would find out. * * * * (Environmental Notes: the water was seventy-eight degrees in the sun; low chlorine; no sign of any bacteria; current was southwest. Tab was staring at me again, ogling me, taking me in every second he could get; treated me as if I were his eye candy; likable me; edible me; had his legs spread open; adjusted his balls and c**k inside his teal-colored briefs; maybe just for me; licked his fingertips after he touched himself and—) * * * * Later that day I suffered from a bit of sunstroke. Water was needed. Rehydration was required. How long had I been out in the July sun? Just about as long as Tab watched me. Two hours. Three hours. Four hours. I didn’t even know. I became dizzy and had to sit down in the shade. My temperature rose to an exceeding level as I found a beach chair. Perspiration dripped over my face and shoulders. I removed my tight tee and dropped it to the sand, next to one of my cotton towels. I began to shake and the beach turned into three beaches. My eyes closed and—