Goodwin Prescott

Synopsis: Drunk and reckless, three American college jocks have killed the son of a powerful landowner whose bloodline stretches back to the Mayan nobility. Dex Lewis is innocent but has been accused as well.
XxxxThe police accede to the grieving father's request that the quartet "escape" and disappear and in his custody they find themselves stripped and splayed over altars in the ruins of an ancient Mayan temple.
XxxxScreams of sacrifice echo off the volcanic stones as handsome, muscular Jake, Caleb and Dougie learn what it means to be put to ritual death. Then it's Dex's turn.

Fernando Marquez stood quietly to one side of the pitted gray, basalt stone slab that, for a thousand years, had served as the high altar. As a mere boy he had been brought here by his father to watch his first ceremony and soon he would bring his own son to this place to begin his education as the inheritor.

The family blood-line was pure.

With the arrival of the Spaniards four hundred fifty years before, his tribe had retreated to an isolated jungle valley and thus escaped the decimating diseases brought by the foreigners. They also evaded deportation as slaves to the isle of Santo Domingo, the fate of most survivors of the smallpox and cholera that eradicated the vast majority of the native population.

The inhospitable terrain and seeming lack of mineral wealth of the Yucatan Peninsula did not attract settlement early on and, after depopulating and looting the area, the rapacious Spaniards departed. The tribe was able to return to its original jungle-clad location and, for nearly a century, go undiscovered.

The chief priest had a vision that told him that their ravaged temple was not to be rebuilt, the blood sacrifices secretly continuing amid the ruins on the undamaged altar. That proved fortuitous when, inevitably, Spanish priests eventually happened upon them. Pleased at the seeming absence of native idiolatry, they readily believed the sham of the tribe's eager conversion to Catholicism.

A Spanish grandee received a royal grant to the area and established a small hacienda. He was a rarity, a somewhat kindly overlord, lacking the ethnic prejudice, arrogant superiority and greed that characterized most of his kind. His barren wife shortly died leaving him childless and in poor health. Desperate for an heir, he adopted a particularly bright, lighter-skinned Indian boy, much to the disapproval of the handful of Spanish soldiers and missionaries in the area.

Trained by his new father to be a Spanish haciendero, young Juaquin Marquez was also well trained by the secret priests and nobles of his people to be what he truly was. Iztac Choluquimaja was a full-blooded prince of the Gatztal tribe of the mesoAmerican culture broadly termed "Mayan" by anthropologists. His ancestors had reigned for five hundred years before the disastrous arrival of the hated conquistadores.

Many people assume the "Mayas" to have been a single, unified civilization. In truth it was a mix of related but utterly independent and often warring city-states and tribal groupings scattered broadly over the harsh landscape of southernmost Mexico, Guatemala, and Belize. Political hierarchy, religious practices and even farming activities varied widely.

The area occupied by the Gatztal was not at all conducive to intensive cultivation of cotton as attempted by the hacienda and the effort was an economic disaster. When the don died and the Indian adoptee became haciendero, almost all of the area's Spaniards departed. They were unwilling to serve a native master, however devout and loyal to Spain he might be, especially in such an unproductive locale.

The small contingent of local priests shortly died of food poisoning ... no accident of course, despite appearances. As hoped by the tribe, they were not replaced and the small mission church, though maintained faithfully in fine shape by the Indians, went unused except when occasional Spanish or mestizo visitors happened by.

Thus the adroitly deceptive Gatztal were able to maintain their culture and keep their bloodline remarkably untainted as the centuries passed. Eventually one of the line of Choluquimaja/Marquez dons brought in cattle and the tribe thrived economically. By the time Mexico threw off Spanish dominion there was a well-established ranchero with enough wealth and influence to survive the turbulent nineteenth century unscathed.

The revolution of 1910 brought serious new risks. However, isolated in the far-off south, lacking a local population of disaffected peons, the Marquez estate weathered the socialistic upheaval, one of the few large holdings to survive the land redistributions of the 20's and 30's.

The bribe-based corruption and anti-clerical bias of the new regime even made it easier to continue the old practices without discovery. Strong PRI activists, the Marquez family and their loyal tribal subjects were able to keep outsiders away and virtually ignore the now disfavored catholic church.

Three of the dons even served as governors of Yucatan or Quintana Roo States at different times during the seventy year PRI domination of Mexican politics.

As he stood there, Don Fernando Luis Marquez Choluquimaja was mentally wrestling with the new difficulties challenging the secret Mayan enclave. The PRI was now virtually defunct. Accurately foreseeing that coming, with perfect timing, he had become a quick convert to the more conservative PAN party and backed Vicente Fox.

Even so, the future was uncertain, every decision rife with unpredictable consequences and he was constantly apprehensive that their true nature and activities would be revealed.

Without the convenient protection of the corrupt PRI government, they would have much greater difficulty keeping out prying archaeologists and anthropologists interested in excavating the area and examining the ethnic make-up of the population.

With a sigh, he forced himself to set aside these concerns and concentrate on the beautiful boy lying naked on the altar.

He was just eighteen, wonderfully muscled with a hard, sculpted physique developed from rigorous manual labor in the farm fields. His thick mane of silky hair spilled about his head like an ebony curtain, framing the handsome face.

The features just now were contorted with fear, the rugged muscles etched in flexing contraction beneath the fawn-brown smooth skin of the fine body. He was straining against the rope bonds that held him roughly in place on the altar.

He had some room to squirm around and had succeeded in turning nearly over onto his belly as he tried desperately to achieve freedom. Some of the ceremonies required the chest, with its vital pulsing heart, or the flat, tender belly or even the loins to be exposed and held steady for the knife.

However, the ritual wherein Fidel Gonzales was to be consumed required no particular posture on the altar. Thus his ropes simply insured he would remain on the top surface of the stone.

He was not a tribesman. A Gatztal boy would have gone to his death unfettered and calm, pleased and honored to have been selected.

Until the 1930's, the young men sacrificed on a monthly basis were drawn from among the Gatztal, reared from birth to serve willingly. But depleting the cream of their youth had become unnecessary with the advent of Mexico's huge population growth in the twentieth century.

There were so many utterly unneeded young males drifting about in the teeming cities and depressed farms of the countryside that snatching a steady supply for the altar was childishly easy.

The "catchers" sent out by the tribe sought out particularly well-built, attractive boys who would likely not be missed but who would please the gods worshiped in the ruined temple. Drugged or knocked unconscious, they were brought there to scream out their lungs in millennia-old rites like the thousands who had preceded them on this great rectangular block of stone.

The teenager on the altar had figured out what they were about to do to him and was screaming in terror as the high priest slowly approached him amid the stirring chants of the surrounding villagers.

Some rites were performed in secret, only the highest echelons of the tribe and the priests present. This one was, however, a public spectacle and the eager ranks of Gatztal commoners crowded as close as they dared for a good look at the naked young stud writhing atop the stone and making such a fuss.

Gatztal boys would have been naturally aroused between their muscular thighs as they lay over the altar awaiting death. To maintain at least the illusion that their involuntary gifts to the gods were similarly moved to hardness by their approaching sacrifice, the priests had concocted a balm using pepper extract that provided a hot, painful stimulus to the male genitals. It hurt ... but it also forced an involuntary erection that endured between the victim's thighs until he could be suitably dispatched.

Young Fidel's penis had been properly smeared with the agonizing salve and thrust out now from between his twisted, partially inverted body in steely hardness.

He had been liberally smeared with blobs of highly volatile pine-pitch, the thick glue-like substance drooling down the curves of his buff body in little rivulets. His cock was especially well coated and the pitch hung from the pulsing organ like icicles.

If Fidel had entertained doubt that he was truly about to be burned alive, it vanished as he stared in horror at the small torch born by the approaching priest. Shuddering, feeling utterly helpless, he finally closed his eyes tightly, nearly paralyzed in his fear. He could only lie there and await the agony to come, his mouth still gaping open in a soundless scream.

He was actually lucky, though he didn't realize it. The immolation death would proceed with swift resolution. The pitch would burn fiercely and the awful heat would quickly induce shock and unconsciousness. Those who simply had their hearts cut out died a quicker death, it was true, but some of the other ceremonies honoring other deities were prolonged and excruciating beyond imagination.

The suffering of their victims was of no concern to the priests. Many of the blood-thirsty gods of the Gatztal, in fact, required it. The ritual killers had become very proficient in drawing forth the desired levels of agony called for in the various sacrificial rites.

But then, they had had much experience and practice makes perfect.

Fernando turned his attention to the priest, admiring the magnificent headdress crowning his head. A gleaming golden skull with large blood-red rubies in the eye sockets was surmounted and surrounded by what at first glance appeared to be tails of pale yellowish-white feathers.

On closer examination, one discerned the "feathers" to be thin, carved scallops of human bone, each extracted from a previous victim lying where Fidel now reposed. Just shoulder length in front, the tails ran so far down behind the priest's back that the ends nearly touched the floor.

The bones rustled together with each step in the rhythmic semi-dance executed by the man, producing a distinctive soft swishing sound.

A carved mask, the wood darkened and cracked with antiquity, dropped down over the priest's face. It was bracketed by two special tails each of six connected segments of carved bone into which huge teardrop emeralds were embedded.

It was a stunning artifact, ten centuries old, and had presided at virtually every sacrifice over that time conducted on this altar, a succession of sixty-one prior high priests having worn the crown.

It was unlikely any more precious, authentic Mayan relic existed, most such treasures having gone into the melting furnaces of the conquistadores. The looting Spaniards had shown little appreciation for native artistry ... raw bullion and gemstones were easier to transport to far-off Madrid.

Such headdress masks had been found depicted in stone carvings throughout the Mayan region, but none was known to the outside world to have survived.

Suspended on a necklace of bone beads around the priest's neck was a second, smaller golden skull, also with ruby eyes. Multi-strand bracelets of human teeth were on his wrists and a belt of bone scallops secured his aged deerskin skirt. More teeth were in strands circling his ankles above his moccasins.

The teeth were from victims, such as Fidel, who had been given to the fire god by live immolation. Their bones were usually too damaged to be used to add ornamentation on the headdress. A molar had already been yanked from Fidel's mouth with pliers and would be added to one of the bracelets later.

His costume a chilling record of countless human sacrifices, the bared skin of the priest's torso, arms and calves was painted a ghostly white, giving him a truly supernatural, demonic aura. A feathered rattle with a bone handle and bone chips inside the vibrator was in his free hand to complete his regalia.

The priest, as were all of his predecessors, was called Xijultepec ... second most important figure in the ruling hierarchy of the tribe. He was a relatively young man in his thirties, only recently raised to the highest religious post in a bloody three day ceremony involving a dozen victims.

Otherwise he was Tomaso Valdez, a ranch worker who had suddenly become foreman at the same time that he became high priest. It had worked that way for over two hundred years.

The ceremony reached its inevitable conclusion. The priest, after what seemed an endless incantation over the bound boy, touched the torch to his crotch. There was a soft, concussive WHUMP as he ignited and rivulets of fire seemed to course out over his body in all directions like living bluish-yellow liquid.

As the blazing resin coating his skin communicated its fury to his flesh, Fidel's screams became mindless howls of suffering. The young body bucked and writhed within the crackling blaze that was now consuming it with such raging fury.

After about five minutes his struggles suddenly ended. Fidel Gonzales simply ceased to be. After the flames eventually burned out, his charred remains would be left on the altar long enough to cool down. Then they would be deposited into the seemingly bottomless water-filled sinkhole that had served through the centuries as the sacred well of the Gatztal.

David Dexter Lewis, "Dex" to his buds, shook his head as he stood on the knoll above the beach curling his bare toes in the sugary sand and gazed at his friends, his hands thrust into his pockets. The others were pointedly ignoring him. What ass-holes they could be!

He was terribly horny but just then he was even more pissed off. He had thrown on his Boondocker shorts to go walk off his irritation and find someplace quiet to masturbate. He was in no mood to engage in the randy sex available from the trio of air-heads with whom he'd chosen to spend spring break down in Cancun.

Okay, he was being a little unfair.

He'd known Jake Gunther for years and, well, what you saw was what you got. He was a jock through and through who'd avoided flunking out of college only through the influence of his coaches. When the stud drank he became aggressive and they'd all had just a bit too much to drink before running out of suds.

That was what set off the quarrel. Jake had announced he was taking the jeep and going to town to score more booze. Dex had told him he was too drunk to drive. Jake had called him an ass-hole and told him to mind his own fuckin' business ...

It had gone downhill from there.

Caleb, of course, always supported Jake in everything. A skater who was secretly a wanna-be athlete, he worshiped the ground his jockish idol trod. Both were, like Dex, twenty year old sophomores at UCLA.

The baby of the group, eighteener Dougie Kent, was a freshman, also a ball player, and equally under Jake's powerful influence. The two had met Jake and Dex in the dorms and a friendship had blossomed though often, like now, Dex felt like the odd man out.

Well, fuck 'em all anyway! He thought, turned and stalked off down the beach.

Jake didn't even notice Dex leave, too engrossed in delicious, erotic sport with Caleb. Both were naked and Jake was swinging back and forth in a sling someone had improvised from ropes and a board on an old metal frame in the campground.

His cock was jutting up in full erection between his splayed thighs and every time he swung forward, Caleb was grabbing at his man package to give a hearty squeeze while trying to avoid Jake's efforts to kick him in the crotch.

It was great fun and both were laughing like a pair of little boys in a their friendly, playful contest.

For a moment he did think of Dex and glanced around, surprised that he was gone.

I was pretty nasty with him, he shrugged, But he'll get over it. He shouldn't have tried telling me what to do. If I wanna go to town, I'll fuckin' well go to town!

He liked Dex, maybe even loved the dude. They'd grown up together and shortly after puberty had discovered their shared gayness.

He begrudgingly admired Dex's great mind and, though the stud was not a college jock, he kept his body in just great shape and was superbly hung. He made a dynamite lover and Jake knew he was the type that, offered a relationship, would have been faithfully monogamistic.

But one guy would never be enough for Jake's insatiable libido.

Variety is the spice of life was the promiscuous jock's motto. He hopped from bed to bed without any guilt trips or regrets and knew that really bothered Dex.

He knew his buddy liked both Caleb and Dougie and, under Jake's encouragement, had sampled them sexually but there was no question that they were Jake's current boy-toys, not his, and that was also a source of regular irritation to him.

Jake really didn't go out of his way to torment Dex like that but it was no big deal to him either.

"Ya wanta hang with me, man, you gotta take me like I am," he'd told him repeatedly. "I am what I am."

"A one-night stand artist ... just a goddam boy-whore...," Dex had snarled once in return.

"Negative," Jake had laughed. "Never charged for it, so I can't be a whore, and just one night with any guy would never be enough to satisfy my active dick. I always give 'em at least two!"

The dick in question was suddenly seized and given an agonizing wrench by Caleb's strong fingers, bringing Jake's mind back to the game at hand.
"Unghhh," he bellowed, gritting his teeth. "You fuckin' bastard! That was a good one, Caleb. You'll pay for that buddy boy!"
And on his next forward trip he managed to nail the handsome super-hunk skater in the nuts with one of his feet. It clearly smarted but the jolt of abusive pain was all it took to trigger the horn-dog whose own big sex stick was up and drooling in need.
With a groan and a grimace the kicked bull grabbed his cock, gave it a couple of desperate strokes and started firing thick dollops of stud cream out before his flat gut.

Caleb was into piercing and the small gold rings in his earlobes and nipples glinted in the sunlight as he shuddered through his orgasm. A shark's tooth dangle hung from a leather thong around his neck just as a vintage German iron-cross medal was suspended around Jake's.

That talisman, earned by his great grandpa in World War I and handed down through the generations, had been joined by a string of sea-shell beads bought just the day before. He also had a matching anklet of the beads just above his right foot.

As the climax played out, Jake sprang from the swing like a pouncing feline and bowled the other boy over into the soft sand. Caleb offered no resistence as he was turned and Jake's huge rod was brutally shoved up his ass canal.

He adored Jake and loved being mounted by the awesome jock. He knew some people considered Jake too aggressive but to him the stark macho toughness was exactly what he found appealing. He had no problem being dominated and even regularly abused. He was a submissive bottom type and Jake was a perfect partner.

He was not under any delusions. Eventually Jake would tire of him but until he was replaced he basked in the delicious attention from the brawny stud hunk.

Dougie, a big, buff cute kid with a sandy mop of silken hair, watched the rutting pair of bodies writhing on the sand at his feet. He knew that when Jake was finished, he'd make Caleb suck his dick and eventually have Dougie fuck the living hell out of the skater's cum-lubed hole.

He liked letting Caleb dull the edges of Jake's furious lusts. When they settled in that night, he likely would end up in Jake's bedroll for a long bout of fairly easy-going sex while Dex took out his frustrations between Caleb's thighs.

He wasn't into abuse quite as much as Caleb, but submitted to whatever Jake wanted in the long run.

After all, he shrugged, I'm just a punk kid and it's my role to let Jake use me however he wants.

He was strumming his guitar as he stood naked but for a sturdy chain of braided gold around his neck. As he watched the hot male mating play out below him, he began crooning a little ditty that had just come to mind, his sweet, ballsy young voice echoing over the empty beach ...


Jake looked up from where he was recovering from his orgasm and shook his head, laughing.
"How do you think up those crazy little things so damned quick? You really crack me up, pup! Get your fool ass down here and shove that woodie up inside Caleb for me!"

"Yes sir!"

Dougie grinned impishly, laid aside his guitar and eagerly did as instructed.

Dex had followed a well-worn trail over the top of a high ridge separating his campsite from the next small bay and as he stepped onto the beach he stopped dead in his tracks and stared. He was not alone.

Clad in a skimpy Speedo, a solitary figure was kneeling near the waterline, watching the surf combers roll in and out. Behind him was an ornate sand castle that he must have built and it appeared he was just waiting for the ocean to slowly work its way to his fortified creation. Higher up, above the tide-line, he'd pitched a small tent.


Some guys just shouldn't wear Speedos ... in fact, they look utterly gross in them. This hunk was NOT one of those! Every part of the superb body was perfectly proportioned and sculpted in clean, hard toned muscle.

He wasn't very old ... late teens, maybe early twenties. There was a slightly Hispanic look to his stunningly handsome featureswhich were framed by a silken mane of bronze hair so dark in shade as to appear black from a distance.

There was a pensive look on his face as he stared at the sea, seemingly mesmerized. A bottle of corona beer was clutched in one hand and from the number littering the ground by the tent, the stud had tied on a pretty good buzz during the afternoon.

He seemed totally oblivious to Dex's sudden presence.

Dex felt like an intruder and turned quietly to retreat, hard as it was to tear his eyes from that gorgeous, nearly naked body. He must have made some slight sound, however, for the adonis spoke without turning his head.

"It's okay, dude, I don't own this beach."
The words, rather than in Mexican or accented English were beyond question pure, unadulterated american, though slightly slurred just then. He stood and turned towards Dex, his eyes running over the form of the new arrival at his hideaway. He seemed to like what he saw for a soft smile slowly edged over his face.
"Pretty hot looking stud...."
His smile turned to a grin,
"You can definitely stay."
Dex for his part tried not to gape. Fully displayed now, the Speedo-clad body was just spectacular! The arms and legs were bulging with power, thick as oak limbs, the hands and feet large and masculine.

The broad, deep pec curves poised heavily over a rock-hard, six-pac belly and the massive bulge in the pouch of the crimson Speedo left nothing to the imagination about what was lurking between the smooth-skinned thighs.

"You're staring, man!" hunk-breath snickered. "Come on to my tent and I'll get you a beer."
The demi-god stumbled slightly as he started to walk and instinctively Dex reached out and steadied him with his hands on one shoulder and one hip. The fawn-brown skin was like fire on his palms so deliciously warm was the heat radiating from the pulsing flesh.

He was close enough now that he caught a whiff of the musky, pure-male scent of the buff body and almost swooned with pleasure.

He started to remove his hands, fearing he'd offend the stranger but no protest was offered, no flinch detected in the hard muscles, so he relaxed and slipped a brotherly arm around the broad shoulders.

He left his other hand in place on the hip just where the Speedo curved around to partially cover the dimpled bubbles of an absolutely delicious set of glutes.

"I guess I've had about all I need of this stuff," stud-boy confessed, raising his corona and letting Dex support him until they reached the tent. "You got a name?"

"Dex ... Dex Lewis, how about yours?"

"Erik Mendoza, all-american mongrel at your service."

He turned and jutted out one of those big jockish hands as Dex reluctantly removed his own hands from the other boy's warm velvet skin. The handshake lasted a bit longer than was socially expected. Dex accepted a beer and took a sip.
"If you're a mongrel, I'd sure as hell rush to the pound to adopt you as a pet hound."
Erik laughed.
"Yeah ... you'd probably have my ass fixed too!"
He let his fingers lightly touch the massive bulge in his crotch. Dex could actually see the stark outline of the cock itself through the flimsy material of the Speedo. It was definitely beginning to harden. Within his boondockers, his own rod had already come to near full attention and was tenting the denim.
"No fuckin' way in hell!" Dex laughed. "I aint crazy! What's down there would definitely stay as I learned how to properly take care of my new doggy."
He reached out and gave a playful scratch with his fingertips beneath Erik's chin.
"Arf!" Erik barked. "Careful, dude, I might bite!"

"Hey," Dex warned with a broad smile, "behave. A bad puppy just might get neutered after all!"

Erik leaned close and let his very wet tongue lap out and lick at the side of Dex's neck in his best hound-dog imitation. Dex just about went into orbit, unable to keep from shuddering in sheer pleasure at the sensation.
"Is that better behavior?"

"Oh yeah," Dex sighed. "Good, GOOD doggy!"

"It's getting a bit hot out here in the sun. Why don't we retire to my pup tent?"

To Dex that was just a wonderful suggestion. In moments the two young bulls were stretched out side by side on the sleeping bag within the canvas shelter. Perhaps startled at the speed with which their relationship had formed, they both backed off briefly from the mating they realized was now inevitable and mutually very much needed.
"Down here for spring break?"
Erik shrugged.
"Sorta. My mom lives up near LA and got custody of me when my folks split the sheets a few years back. Now that I'm in college, I live alone.
Xxxx"My old man's a doctor down here in Cancun and I came to visit him for the break, but unfortunately he has a bitch who demands most of his attention so I only get what's left over.
Xxxx"I got pissed off about it and came to camp out down here to work off my frustrations. How about you?"
Dex explained about his buddies over the ridge and the argument.
Erik shook his head,
"This Jake must be a real jerk. You try to save his ass from trouble and he gives you shit over it. Uncool."

"He's just drunk. He gets like that when he gets buzzed. He'll be okay. Hey! I just discovered how much I like this NAFTA thing!"

"Whatta you mean?" Erik looked puzzled.

Dex reached out and let his hand gently stroke the inside of one of Erik's thighs.
"I just found living proof that combining Anglo and Mexican assets is a hell of a good thing!"
Erik laughed, then got solemn, gazing into Dex's eyes. Their mouths slowly moved together and met in a very long, very wet kiss.
"Get rid of those ridiculous pants," Erik whispered. "Let's see what you got, man."
Dex wore no underwear and presented his nude form to his new buddy as he pulled off his Boondockers. His dick was jutting up like a piece of steel rebar, drooling and very ready. When Erik's fingers began to caress it and roll his balls around he wondered if it was possible to die from excessive sexual bliss.

Nature intervened.

"I gotta take a piss...."
He sighed, caressing Erik's bronze-dark locks,
"Don't go anywhere."

"Don't take too long," Erik urged. "I fuckin' need you, dude!"

When Dex returned he found Erik ... sans Speedo ... on his belly on the sleeping bag, one knee thrust out to splay the crack of his perfect ass. The invitation was unmistakable.

Dex knelt, leaned down and gently kissed one of the dimpled lobes, then licked it. He continued to bathe it as he edged his tongue over until it entered the moist little valley between the twin cheeks and eventually found the pucker of the tight ass-hole. Erik shuddered violently as Dex tongued his hole.
"Uhhhhh!" he gasped, writhing around. "OHHHH that's ... incredible. No one's ever done that to my ass before!"
Dex pressed a bit lower to run a slobbery trail over the steely cock-root and licked at the huge balls dangling just beneath the ass cleft. Then he drew first one and then both of the pulsing seeders into his mouth and rolled them around and battered them with his tongue and nibbled with his teeth as he sucked on the orbs. Below him Erik bucked like a bronco.

When he freed the balls and raised up behind the prone stud, Erik flipped over and dove towards Dex's crotch, obviously intending to give head. Laughing, teasing, Dex shoved him onto his back and stared down at this delicious new lover.

"The way I have your hole spit-lubed I want my cock going in someplace other than your mouth!"
Erik gazed up with something bordering on adoration in his big hazel eyes.
"Cool by me," he grinned. "Just be sure you ram it in good and deep."
Playfully he brought up a foot and began to massage Dex's nuts and cock with his long, flexible toes. The cock was like steel, oozing a steady stream of pre-cum pearls from its slit lips.

And it was Dex's turn to writhe in new pleasure. There was something just intensely erotic about having his manhood caressed by those long, hard toes.

Despite other faults, Jake was a genius at opening his lovers' eyes to the joys of experimental ingenuity in sex. The aggressive jock's mating behavior was seldom the same twice in a row. The first time he and Dex had coupled it had been pretty standard ... two new guys exploring each other's charms and assets.

The second time they bedded, a few days later, Jake had hauled out a squirt bottle of honey and doused Dex's nipples, armpits, crotch and thighs, then slowly licked it all away while Dex just about went wild with delight.

When he inserted the tip of the bottle's spout up into Dex's ass-hole and gave a little squirt, then followed it with his slurping, snake-like tongue, pressing deep within the sphincter, Dex had cum spontaneously, spewing gism like a fountain.

Shuddering in pleasure, Dex now reached down and captured Erik's versatile young foot. He brought it up to his mouth and gently kissed each of those pliant, perfectly-formed toes, starting with the smallest. When he reached the big toe he let it slide between his lips and sucked on it with hungry urgency.

Then he bit it ... just hard enough to sting.


With a choking gasp of mixed ecstasy and pain Erik flung his thighs widely apart, jerking his foot from Dex's face. He drew back his knees and rolled up his hips. His ass-hole was fully exposed, still wet and slick with Dex's saliva.
"Plow me!" he ordered. "Plow me good and hard, man!"

"Uh...," Dex teased. "Shouldn't we be doing it doggy style?"

"If you don't hurry up and ram that big rod home up in my gut, I'm gonna show you what a rottweiler bitch with pms would do to your cock with her fangs!"

Jesus! Dex laughed inwardly. Now there's an image I can do without! Ouch!

He positioned and pressed his turgid pole to the quivering anal orifice and then pressed it slowly in, taking his time to let Erik adjust to the mild pain of entry. He fed his meat on in inch by inch until he was buried to the balls.

He slowly gyrated his hips around, letting his cock massage the prostate while he lowered over the body below him until his mouth found Erik's.

Their arms locked around each other and, as their tongues fought a wet duel, Dex drew back his hips to withdraw all but his flared cockcrown, then gave a hard, pile-driver thrust to re-fill the wildly clutching ass canal holstering his organ.

Erik was now feeling nothing but pure pleasure and Dex proceeded to rut into him with savage abandon.

They were both way too steamed for it to last long. As Erik felt Dex reach a pulsing orgasm within his gut, he fired his own load out between their mated abs, the warm flood gluing them together as one.

In the meantime, over the ridge, Dex's campsite was empty. The other three, under Jake's leadership, had piled into the jeep and headed for town on a beer run, spinning gravel and slewing all around as they went.

It was well after dark when Dex forced himself from Erik after they bathed in the ocean to cleanse away the proof of their repeated matings. Both had reached orgasm three times over three hours, a performance that not even capable Jake had been able to urge from Dex's loins.

Now he knew he had to go mend his fences with his companions. As he pulled on his boondockers, he glanced up at the still very naked Erik.

"We gotta stay in touch."

"You got that, man!" Erik nodded eagerly. "I aint never been with a guy like you! Where'd you say you go to school up north?"

"I didn't. It's UCLA."

"You're joking...!"

Erik looked amazed and delighted,
"I'm surprised we aint bunped into each other on campus!"

"No way...!"

Dex started laughing too.

Erik gave Dex the directions to his apartment a few blocks from school, then, his voice edged with seductive suggestion, reported ...

"I'll get home Sunday night.I won't have a damned thing to do."
Dex grinned.
"I'll be back by then too. Plan on having an overnight guest."

"Shit! I don't have a second bed, dude! Where will you crash?"

Dex just grinned.
"We'll just have to figure out something."

"Yeah," Erik grinned back. "I suppose you could share my bed but it's just a single so there'd be lots of body contact and I always sleep nude."

"Damn! That's gonna be just awful, but I guess there's no other choice!"

Still laughing they parted with a long, wet kiss and Dex returned to his camp. He didn't like what he found there. With a curse he noted the absence of the jeep.

That stupid fucker did it after all! Jesus I hope they make it back in one piece!

More worried now than angry, he stirred the fire back to life and settled in to wait. It was a relief when the jeep skittered to a ragged halt a few minutes later and the three muscular young studs piled out.

"Christ, you guys are idiots! I'm sure glad to see you all okay, though...."
His relief froze as he saw the looks on all three faces. They were obviously very, very shaken and scared. Then he saw the big dent in the hood of the jeep.
"Oh God...."
He drew in a breath,
"What the hell happened, guys? What have you done?"
Jake, not ordinarily too rattled by much of anything, was clearly close to panic.
"We ... we gotta pack up and get out of here. NOW!"

"He ... he ... hit a kid on a bike," Caleb managed to stutter out. "The kid rode right in front of him. We were goin' too fast to stop in time."

"You didn't stop after you hit him?"

Dex was aghast.
"How bad hurt was the kid?"

"Dunno," was all Jake could manage as he started tossing things into a duffle bag. "I was too scared to stop. This is Mexico for Christ's sake and I'm a fuckin' gringo!"

Tears were in young Dougie's eyes as he stared at Dex, then he dropped his gaze in shame.
"I told him to stop. The kid ... he was ... hurt real bad. I think he's probably ... dead. We hit him real hard. He flew all the way up over the jeep and bounced on the pavement behind us. There wasn't much left of the bike."
Dex felt like his world had come to an end. He didn't know what to even say or do.

It turned out not to matter whether he said or did anything. An ATV with four very angry-looking mexican cops arrived less than a minute later. Their guns were out and leveled as they invaded the camp site. It turned out the accident had had several witnesses and the police had guessed the jeep was heading back to the beach area.

It also turned out that the boy was indeed dead. The sixteen year old was an accomplished mountain biker who'd been out on a trial run for an upcoming race. His name was ... Antonio Marquez.

It also turned out the police did not believe the Americans when they tried to explain that Dex had not been involved. All four were shortly locked in an isolation cell in the nearest jail.

But not for long.

The dead boy's father arrived at the station within the hour together with half a dozen of his ranch hands and the looks on their faces were very grim and determined.

"Where," Fernando asked calmly. "Are you keeping the killers of my son?"

Marquez was a powerful, wealthy patron and in rural Mexico that still counted for just about everything. Even without that, the police sympathised powerfully with his need to deal with his son's killers harshly and personally.

Their own rage at seeing Antonio's mangled corpse lying like refuse by the side of the dusty roadway had been extreme.

The flood of american college students each spring break ... drunken and reckless as though they owned Cancun ... was a bitter pill for the officers anyway. The yankee dollars were badly needed and the cops had been ordered to ignore all but the most extreme excesses of the arrogant young gringos.

They all knew as they faced the father that it was likely the authorities might just rule the death an accident and send the quartet home to avoid the damaging publicity of a trial and imprisonment of the young men.

There was another source of seething anger with the cops that night.

Up north, let a Mexican kill a gringo and they killed him ... shooting him up with deadly drugs, frying him in a chair or gassing him ... ignoring protests from Mexico and thumbing their noses at world opinion ... even intercessions from the Pope himself.

But let Mexico, which had no death penalty, throw one of the precious gringos in jail for a few days and all hell broke loose with boycotts and other economic reprisals.

For that matter, the american congress wasn't even honoring the commitments of NAFTA because Mexicans were apparantly too stupid and poor to safely operate trucks on the northern roads.

The insults and provocations never seemed to end.

Accordingly, it took less than five minutes for the agreement to be struck. To their amazement the four prisoners were pulled from their cell and released on a promise not to leave Mexico until the investigation was complete.

Of course, the second the stunned, relieved quartet stumbled through the back gate of the jail they were clubbed, stripped, bound and tossed in the back of a truck for transport to the ranch.

They came to, heads aching and disoriented, locked in a brick and stucco, wood-floored cell in the jungle a scant fifty yards from the ruined mayan temple where they were to be put to death.

Of course they were blissfully unaware of that, but, nonetheless were smart enough to realize they were in very deep shit. Since their mouths were tightly gagged, they were unable to share their thoughts but from the looks on their faces each was fully aware that the others were utterly terrified.

It was not long before grim-faced guards came and carried away Caleb, the boy writhing and struggling in helpess desperation in his captors' arms.

Marquez ... Choluquimaja ... had had a strongly worded quarrel with Tomaso Valdez ... Xijultepec. The high priest had been deeply troubled, objecting to use of the ancient rites to satisfy a personal vendetta.

"The sacrifices made on the altar must be for the glory and sating of the gods, not for our own base desires. You seek to sully the sacred rituals!"

"What nonsense! In the old days, enemy warriors were put on the altar by the hundreds after a battle."

"But that was in thanks for the gods' assistence in prevailing and to celebrate the joy of the victory as a people.
Xxxx"It was not to satisfy a blood vengeance of a single individual! Take these boys out into the jungle and dispose of them as you want but do not force me to put them over the altar!"

But Choluquimaja was always supreme ... his authority divine and final ... and he would not yield. The killers of his son were to be delivered up to the gods. Reluctantly, Xijultepec acceded to the decree and now stood over the first of the naked young american studs and prepared to dispatch him.

The gag had been removed but a numbing salve applied to his tongue and mouth had robbed him of the ability to make more than grunting, pig-like sounds.

Caleb lay atop the dark, flat surface of the volcanic rock, his wrists bound behind him. Ropes from his ankles and wrists ran to the back and sides of the altar to securely hold him in place over the stone.His biceps were bound so tightly together behind him that it bowed out his shoulders and chest to fully expose the lucious curves of his deep pecs.


His penis had been smeared with some type of ointment that quickly began to burn with steady, painful effect. Against his will, his rod had insisted on rising into solid erection and even now wagged between his parted thighs with every breath as his heaving diaphragm sucked in and exhaled in panting gasps.

He was virtually paralyzed in fear as he lifted his head and gazed between his knees at the masked, bone-bedecked savage standing at the foot of the altar. The man, obviously some type of pagan priest, was uttering a lengthy incantation in a language that was incomprehensible ... clearly not spanish..and brandishing a long-bladed, razor-scalloped obsidian knife. It was now midday and the sun glinted off the blade as it was held high over the demonic figure's head.

Caleb could not know, but he was truly the lucky member of his group. The first in any multiple-victim sacrifice always had to be given to the primary god of the mayan pantheon and the ritual involved was firmly set. Death for him would come with brutal but merciful speed.

Though this Xijultepec, sixty-first in his line, was relatively new he had already performed this particular rite several times and his movements were sure and practiced.

He objected to Choluquimaja's profaning of the altar by these vengeance killings but the killing itself was no issue to him. He had no qualms about extracting this young man's life which was of no use or value in the big picture of things.

In fact, he had found he rather enjoyed the moment of killing. It gave a tremendous rush of power and pleasure to him quite unlike anything he'd ever experienced. As he moved to the side of the altar he gazed down at the trembling youth through the eyeslits of his mask and was struck at the exquisite beauty of the muscular naked body.

Offering up such a magnificent young animal to the god would ordinarily fill him with rapture but he still feared the all-powerful deity might be offended by the impure motives sullying the ritual.

Still, it must be done and he found great delight as he touched the warm, throbbing breast of his victim with the fingers of one hand, tracing out exactly where he would plunge the blade for the cut.

He could not resist letting his fingers glide down to briefly caress the erect penis between the boy's thighs. As it throbbed and contracted within his grasp, he began to reconsider his objections.

Perhaps Choluquimaja's base motivation might be tolerable within the god's purview considering the unusual perfection of the body being offered up. All four of these gringo whelps were so superb physically that it really would have been a great shame to simply butcher them in the jungle and deny the gods the pleasure of receiving them.

Suddenly much more comfortable, the priest smiled in rising excitement behind his mask and raised the knife high. As it had done so many times before, it plunged down and pierced Caleb's breast just to one side of his left pec muscle towards the center of the chest.

Expertly, the priest's wrist flexed and jerked to carve through the muscle and fracture the bone as he laid open a gaping incision.

Reaching in, he seized Caleb's throbbing heart and jerked it up and out even as he slashed deftly with the knife to sever the connecting veins and artieries.

The organ still pulsed briefly in his hand as he held it high and gazed at it with near rapture while uttering the final words of offering.

Below him, it took a few seconds for Caleb to really understand that his chest had just been cut open and his heart removed. It had happened so swiftly that there had actually been little real pain, the shock setting in almost instantly.

He had but moments to realize he was, for practical purposes, already dead, before the darkness enveloped his oxygen-deprived brain and he slumped on the stone. His body gave a few last, involuntary muscle twitches and it was over.

They came for Dougie next.

As Dex watched the youngest in their group carried out kicking and writhing in abject terror, he had no illusions. Something truly awful was being done to them one after the other. He wasn't sure if they'd grab Jake on their next visit or himself, but he was pretty sure it really didn't matter much. It was just a matter of time before they all were disposed of.

In frustrated helplessness, he again struggled against his bonds, proving anew that they were beyond his ability to break free.

In the meantime, Dougie was bound over the altar. Caleb's corpse had been removed and deposited in the sacred well, his heart burned in a small brazier. The blood on the stone surface had been washed away but there was a lingering aroma of death in the air that the new victim sensed and his eyes widened in greater panic as he was tied into place for killing.

He was positioned similar to Caleb but his knees were forced widely apart to completely expose his hairy young crotch with its pendulent manhood. After his gag was removed, his mouth and tongue too were numbed to silence his pleading cries.

Such sounds were inappropriate and distracted from the solemnity of the rites through which he was to be delivered up to the gods.

Or in his case ... to a goddess.

Dougie was being given to the goddess of fertility and his suffering would be prolonged and terrible, really even worse than what was eventually in store for Dex who was to be given to the fire god.

This goddess required great agony from her victims in token recognition of the agony women suffer in bringing forth life.

Again, the pepper balm was applied to the boy's penis and it quickly rose in steely, painful, involuntary erection. The way the priests murmured in pleased anticipation as they studied the unusual size and perfection of his roused organ gave Dougie fresh cause for alarm. He had no doubt whatever that something real bad was heralded by all that admiring attention to his big cock.

This ritual was not dominated by the high priest. Lesser priests began the ceremony by slowly dancing and chanting around the altar while Xijultepec intoned the preparatory prayer for acceptance of their gift. Then, one by one, taking turns, the four junior priests began stabbing the boy with thick bronze pins capped with obsidian beads.

He couldn't know ... nor would he really have cared ... that each agonizing perforation of his flesh was a symbolic act of intercourse, the pin representing a phallus merging with his body to deliver life-producing sperm. In return he would deliver up his own life-enabling fluid ... his blood.

Quite simply, Dougie was going to be slowly bled to death, suffering torment every second of the way.

His nipples were pierced through. His penis, naturally, was riddled, the first pin forced side to side through the flared crown head with intentional cruel slowness while his disabled mouth issued the gurgling grunts to which it was limited. In impotent reaction to the excruciating pain, he bucked hard against his restraints as further pins were speared through the shaft of his cock, marching downwards.

Then came his balls. His groin was stabbed. His cockroot and anus were gored. Eventually, pins were expertly thrust into his inner thighs to perforate his vital femoral arteries.

His blood was flowing steadily now, pooling beneath him and running away over the stone in small rivulets to drip over the sides of the altar. And as he bled, his struggles began to slowly weaken as his vitality sapped.

His dulled senses, however, were blasted back to full conciousness as Xijultepec himself stepped forward and used the same obsidian knife with which he had dispatched Caleb to radically castrate the boy on the altar.

As slowly as possible he cut through the neck connecting Dougie's genitals to his groin. Despite his numbed mouth, the boy was able to force out some real shrieks as he was emasculated and his body flexed like steel, the muscles cording so hard that they looked about to rip through the tawny skin.

Once the manhood had been severed, it was dropped into a brazier to be burned to ash while blood spurted in small pulsing fountains from between Dougie's parted thighs. The new wound, as agonizing as it might be, had greatly hastened the death itself and within ten minutes the teen lapsed into merciful unconciousness and died shortly thereafter.

At dusk they came for Jake.

Had Fernando believed the protestations of the group to the police that Dex had not been involved in any way, he would certainly have spared the boy, but he was not in a frame of mind that encouraged fair investigation.

Nor had the grieving father made any effort to determine the actual driver who had killed his son. He didn't care. His rage reached out to all of them equally, though had he known Jake was the driver he would likely have accorded him Dougie's protracted death.

Not that Jake departed life with particular ease.

Had anthropologists and historians been able to witness Jake's sacrifice, they'd have, naturally, been horrified at the barbarity of his killing. But they'd have also been utterly fascinated.

The particular rite played out was a vital one that connected the Mayas to the Olmecs and Aztecs to the north but no proof of its practice among the southern tribes had ever been found.

Conducted but once each year, the one religious ceremony that was common throughout meso-american cultures was the renewal of the sacred fire. The most long-lasting, deep tribal emnities were put aside temporarily for its performance.

As with the Aztecs and, before them, the Olmecs, the Mayas recognized a centralized primary temple from which the others on a localized level traced lineage. In the case of the Mayas it had been at the coastal site called Tulum.

Once all of the tribes except the Gatztal had been destroyed or assimilated, only their temple continued to operate and, therefore, became the successor to Tulum as the site for the repository and annual renewal of the flame.

This fire, given by the gods in the mists of time, had been kept perpetually burning at the central site. An annual ritual of sacrifice was called for to strengthen and renew it at the time of the spring solstace. Jake and his friends had been seized at the precisely correct time for that rite and his buff young body was now to serve as the living vehicle for the process.

The flame was supposed to remain in the temple itself, lovingly protected and fueled by the attendant priests, but with the advent of the conquest it had been necessary to modify that. The fire was now maintained in a carefully concealed and vented stone vault within the precincts of the ranch compound.

Even as Jake was being tightly bound on the altar, the stone freshly scrubbed of Dougie's copious flow of blood, Xijultepec was removing a store of pulsing red embers from the sacred fire, securing them in a small bronze container.

Then with fervent, solemn prayer, the fire itself was extinguished, the residues cleansed from the hearth, and a fresh bed of tender and wood laid to receive the refreshed, purified flame.

When the embers arrived at the temple, a junior priest was given custody of the container while Xijultepec approached the altar and began the chanting incantation that signalled the next phase of the process.

The knife was yet again in his hand. It was the most sacred relic of the tribe, in many ways more precious than the headdress worn by the high priest and on par with the sacred fire itself.

The relic, carved so long before that no one could really contemplate its age, had likely been the dispatching tool for more individual deaths than any single hand-wielded weapon in human history. It was about to add one more to its list of countless victims.

His mouth numbed, his penis forced to erection, Jake screamed as best he could and writhed in abject suffering as his flat, corded belly was slowly, carefully slit open. The cut extended from just below his belly button to just below his sternum.


The cut was pried open and a store of dry, pitch-laden knots and chips of wood inserted until his stomach was filled. Then the precious embers, the drying remants of the extinguished sacred fire, were carefully inserted.

As had occured at least a thousand times before the wood quickly began to smolder and smoke seeped lazily from within Jake's gut. Then a little wisp of bright flame flickered forth and then another.

The priests' chants roared to a crescendo of ecstasy as the flames began to crackle and leap hungrily from within the boy's belly.

And as he cooked from within, Jake had never imagined anything could possibly hurt that much.

Of course, his trauma was so great that shock quickly set in and eased him into a coma. His swiftly rising body temperature soon overcame his ability to live.

A torch was ignited from the flames pouring from the living firepit of Jake's belly while he was still fully concious and suffering all the pangs of hell. It was raced to the hidden site of the perpetual fire and used to ignite the waiting bed of wood to complete the renewal.

In ancient times, torches ignited from Jake's burning gut would have been taken by runners from Tulum to all the outlying temples throughout the mayan domain to reignite the temple fires that had just been extinguished in preparation for the renewal.

Now just one remained ... that protected and nurtured by the faithful Gatztal.

There also remained just one of the four americans to be sacrified.

When they returned to the cell, Dex writhed against the ropes binding his arms and ankles and mumbled protests through the tape gagging his mouth, his eyes wide in fear. He had no doubt he was about to die.

But he had a temporary reprieve.

"You go to fire god," one guard taunted him in broken English. "That must happen at dawn so you get sleep through night ... but not too comfortable, hokay?"
The guards thought that was just real funny and all laughed. They grabbed his penis and smeared it with some type of pungeant smelling salve and almost at once there was a warm, tingling sensation that progressively got hotter and hotter until it became really irritating. He flexed at the painful stimulation but his rod insisted on hardening and shortly jutted up in granitic erection.

That really amused the indians and they even played with his steely sex pole for a while before tiring of the sport. They slapped him around a little just for the fun of it and one gave him a punch to the balls that doubled him in pain just before they left him in the dark.

After the pain in his nuts finally ebbed away, he straightened and edged to a wall until he could lean up with his back and shoulders on it. Gasping for breath, he angily realized his goddam cock was still hard as steel and cursed it in his mind as a traitor to his body.

The realization that his boner was not about to subside made him cringe. Anticipation of the agony to come from an enforced erection lasting hours and hours was not pleasant but it occured to him then that a killer case of blue balls was mild compared to what they planned to do to him at dawn.

Holy shit! What had they said ... a fuckin' ... FIRE GOD!!!

And what had they done to the other three? Caleb, Jake and poor baby-faced Dougie were almost certainly dead by now and he shuddered to imagine how they might have been snuffed.

He lay there in the dark, his roused loins throbbing painfully with the heat from the pepper-based ointment used on his cock, and his eyes filled with tears.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed as he lay there in his private hell, but was sure it was nowhere near dawn when his fogged senses were drawn alert by the sound of his cell door again opening.

Bright light from flashlights and lanterns illuminated him and he raised his head and stared fearfully to see who was coming for him now ... and wondering if some new torture was to be applied.

Fuck! He shuddered. Maybe they're gonna castrate my ass now or something!

He thought he must be dreaming. He made out a familiar face in the group of men staring down at him.

Erik? It couldn't be!

But it was. The mixed-blooded boy knelt and gave a reassuring caress to one of the prisoner's naked shoulders.

"It's okay, Dex. You're gonna be okay. Just trust me. Can you do that?"
Dex had no choice really and after a moment nodded. Erik brought out a small square of cloth and pressed it to Dex's nostrils. There was a sharp, chemical odor from the damp material and Dex reflexively held his breath and tried to avert his head.
"Just take a deep breath, Dex. You gotta do it, man. Please, trust me. I'd never do anything to hurt you."
Dex steeled himself, nodded again, then drew in a deep breath. Darkness descended on him almost at once as a black veil of nothingness.

Dex came to lying in the soft comfort of a downy bed. He was disoriented and had a throbbing headache. There was also a pulsing ache between his thighs and he suspected his cock was a bit swollen and bruised from its prolonged erection that had finally eased away. It was a bright day and sunlight flooded through the open doors leading onto a small balcony.

"Welcome back, stud," a voice spoke softly from the other side of the bed.
Dex turned his head and found Erik smiling at him, standing there clad just in cut-offs,
"It was real close out there. We reached you just in time."

"Where the hell was I? I was knocked out for the trip."

"I can't tell you that," Erik shrugged. "That's why we had to chloroform you to bring you back. It was part of the deal my dad made."

"What deal? And ... the others? Jake, Caleb and Dougie?"

"I'm sorry...."

Erik swallowed hard,
"They're gone. Their bodies will never be found. Their parents will demand an investigation, of course, but it will lead to nothing.
Xxxx"The man who held you is very powerful. Your story has to be that you were attacked after the police released you and then came to in an alley while they were loading your friends in a truck.
Xxxx"You managed to get away and, afraid of the authorities, you finally found your way to my house ... I'd given you directions."

"If I tell the truth?"

"They'll hunt you down no matter where you are. You'll live your life in fear. My father and I will be marked for death too and I hope you won't do that to us."

Dex sighed. Nothing was gonna bring back his friends and he wanted an end to the nightmare. He nodded.
"But how did you get involved in this?"

"I was ... curious ... about your friends and followed you back to your campsite. I saw what came down. I went into town and was about to go inquire about you at the police station when I saw you come out ... and what happened then. I got the license number of the truck.
Xxxx"It took some hard talking to get my dad to help, but he's real influential and respected around here. He finally had the truck traced and just about crapped when he found out who had snatched you. The guy's a real mover and shaker and it was a relative of his who got killed."

Erik continued,
"He denied anything, of course, but when my dad presented him with my avowal that you were utterly innocent, he finally agreed to release you in exchange for silence."

"How on earth did you convince him you weren't just lying to protect me?"

Erik reddened.
"I had to tell him and my dad what we were doing there on the beach. I guess they figured I wouldn't lie about something like that! Homosexuality isn't considered real macho down here."

"Shit!" Dex gasped. "Your dad must be pissed!"

"Actually," Erik chuckled, "he was pretty cool about it. He made me promise though ... no gay pride parades or crap like that. I gotta stay in the closet for the family's sake."

"That might put a real cramp in your sex life."

"Not if I have a full-time live-in lover back at UCLA."

"Anyone in mind?" Dex grinned from the bed.

"As a matter of fact," Erik grinned back, even as he lowered his face to meet Dex's. "I do."

Their tongues met.

The kiss was long and very wet. Gasping, Erik pulled up.
"Thanks for saving my fuzzy ass," Dex whispered. "You got there just in time. They said something about giving me to some fire god at dawn."

"I have no idea what they meant," Erik frowned. "You might have misunderstood them. Anyway, it's best we both forget everything that went on out there, okay?"

"Sure," Dex agreed.

And meant it.
"And as for saving your ass?"


Dex cocked an eyebrow.
"It's such an exquisite, dimpled bubble butt that I saved it for a reason. As soon as you've recovered enough, I have every intention of fucking it real hard and deep."



Dex grinned wickedly.
"My head still hurts some and my cock is sore as hell, though it's hard as a rock again right now. But I think I've more than recovered enough to take a good plowing."
And he rolled over onto his belly, kicked off the covers, splayed his thighs and thrust the twin lobes of his ass up behind him. Erik's cut-offs dropped around his ankles. He stepped from them with one foot and kicked them against a wall with the other.

He was wearing no underwear and all but threw himself onto the bed, his turgid cock bobbing wildly like a happy puppy dog's tail.