Water Rat

Water Rat

The wave-runner sputtered to a stop, and quickly settled into a foamy swell as I drifted towards the beach. I could smell hot plastic, and the engine case was steaming. I knew I had plenty of fuel, so the fucking motor must have blown a gasket or something. I know diddly-squat about engines, so who knows? I only know that this island is a good two miles from the mainland, and I’m certainly not a long-distance swimmer. Besides, the sun was already low in the sky, throwing pale blue shadows across the dunes. I had to find a phone, and call the house. The guys will think I drowned!

Not much of an island, really. More of a sand bar with short, windswept scrub and a few trees struggling to find roots on the far side, facing Europe. I figured any civilization would be among those trees, so I began to circle the point, hugging the lapping surf as I trudged away from the setting light. The sand wedged between my legs began to chafe my inner thigh, so I went into the blue-green water to rinse my ass. I thought I heard the sound of a circular saw over the pounding surf, or maybe a sander. I ran back up the beach towards the mechanical buzz. The source of the noise was a boathouse in the cove beyond. It perched on piers on a salty green lagoon, ringed with scrub and pokeweed. The bow of a racing sloop protruded from the big garage-type door on one side. A man was using a hand-sander, bringing years of marine paint down to the bare wood. He held the stub of a fat cigar in his mouth as his arms criss-crossed the ancient wood.

I hopped down from my perch atop the jetty, and lost my footing on a clutch of black mussels. My foot slipped out from under me and I fell into the foaming water, smashing my forehead on a rock. I collapsed into the surging breakers, flashing lights in the back of my head. I could see the boat-man drop his sander, totally astonished, then run towards me across the beach.

He certainly was a big dude! Lean and tall, broad deeply-tanned shoulders jutting out of a dingy white sleeveless undershirt. His rippling torso strained the thin worn fabric of the tee and I saw a patch of dark fur between his big pectorals, curling over the frayed welt of the shirt. He jumped into the surf, pulled me to the shore and gathering me into his beefy arms, lifted me out of the water. 

His hair was naturally dirty brown but months in the hot summer sun had streaked it golden blonde, his wavy locks held in a tight ponytail that hung down about a foot against his strapping back. He wore a pair of denim cutoffs that covered his thighs to the knee but revealed deeply tanned calves sprayed with silky golden threads of hair. The man carried me to the crest, and laid me on my back in the warm dune. His face was covered in a thick, dark beard that was also streaked gold around his chapped lips. His cheeks above the scraggly beard were burnt a ruddy red by the August sun. His eyes were deep blue, the same color as the evening sky behind him. Shame he’s such a slob. Even through my pain I could see he’d probably look real good if he cleaned himself up a bit!

His face was inches from mine. I smelled tobacco smoke on his breath as he leaned in to speak. “Hey, buddy, you okay? Lemme take a look at that cut!” He reached out to my forehead with his calloused hand. The grit and grease under his nails grossed me out, but I let him stroke my temple and daub at the still bleeding gash. The pain was still there, but subsiding. “Don’t think it‘s anything to fret about. Feel like you can stand?”

I struggled to my feet, and stood in the damp sand. I tried to walk, but the flashing lights and the throb in my head made me woozy. My legs buckled and I fell into the surf at his ankles. The man chuckled and stooped down to help me back up. “What the fuck are ya doin’, bud?” he said. “You hurt yerself! C’mere, lemme help ya to the shack!” He wrapped his bulging arm around my back, holding me firmly under my arm. His hair was grimy, I smelled sawdust and sweat mixed with stale beer. This guy was truly repulsive, despite his godlike physique.

We got into the boathouse, and the man laid me down on a musty damp cot in the corner of the big open building. My headache was receding. I could see clearly again and began to focus on my surroundings. The hanger-like room was filled with rope, pulleys, boards, huge barrels of marine dope (for finishing the wood), and power tools of every description. A little personal gym was set up to one side with a weight bench and some old Nautilus equipment. A rack of bars and iron weights hung from the wall. I heard the steady throb of a generator coming from behind the wall. A bare light bulb cast yellow light in an anemic pool at the center of the room, and spotlights were focused on the bow of the classic sloop. The sky outside had grown inky-black, the pounding surf in darkness beyond the gloom at the doorway. “How the fuck did you get on my island? This is the only pier, and you sure as hell didn’t pull a craft in here without me seein’ it!” he grumbled. I explained about the wave-runner, but he looked at me with skepticism. “You’re too far from mainland for that. You’d hav’ta be fuckin’ nuts to be on a wave-runner in the open ocean, man!” He ran off into the night to find the disabled Ski-Doo on the far beach. I really didn’t care if he came back. I just wanted to find his phone and get my sorry ass lifted off this goddam Gilligan’s island. 

I pulled myself off the gritty mattress and snooped around the hanger. No phone, nothing. Not even a television. The only electric appliances seemed to be his huge collection of power tools and a small boom box on top of a bar size refrigerator. I opened the ‘fridge and saw several six packs of Miller and some eggs, not much else. Strewn around the kitchenette were beer cans and empty donut boxes. Fucking animal...I helped myself to a Miller and tossed it down my parched throat.

He re-entered from the gloom, the spots on the boat revealing his lean, strapping body in silhouette. What an amazing physique! Not a bit of fat on him (despite the appetite for brews), just six and a half feet of tightly packed sinew and muscle, rippling and flexing like a steroid lion as he strode across the room to where I stood. “There ain’t no Runner out on the beach. What kinda shit you tryin’ to gimme?” He slurred a little, the effects of several six-packs illustrated in his speech. He reached for my arm and pulled me roughly to him. “”Who are you, anyhow?” he shouted in my face.

“My name is Jimmy. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure meeting you, but it’s not!” I replied. He grabbed my other arm and pushed me towards the cot. “Well, Jimmy, les jus see if ole Kevin can’t make this a little more pleasurable for ya!” he hissed. I felt him ripping at my spandex bathing suit, the fabric stretching around my waist and slipping down my hips. He turned me around and twisted my arm behind my back. I yelled out in pain. “Fuck yeah, Jimmy! You jus yell all ya want. Ain’t nobody here to save your miserable little faggot ass, so jus scream like a pussy ’cause it fuckin’ turns me on, baby!” We had reached the cot, and he tossed me violently across the mattress. I cowered against the headboard, expecting to be beaten to death. 

Kevin pulled several lengths of lightweight nylon rope out of a box next to the workbench, the type you use to whiplash sails onto the boom: thin, flexible, and incredibly strong. Wrapping it first around my wrists, he then wound the cord tightly around my legs and tied it off firmly at my ankles. “Why are you doing this?” I sobbed. “Please! What are you going to do to me?” He grinned at me, trussed like a turkey, ready for basting. He stepped back to admire his knotting skills, re-lit his cigar and began to undress.

He pulled his tank over his head, revealing his broad shoulders and incredibly developed torso. I saw a thin strip of pale skin at his waist, contrasted against his deeply tanned body and sunburned arms. The patch of sun-kissed brown hair in the center of his chest continued in a soft, fuzzy line to his waistband where it began to thicken across his belly. “Yaaaah, Jimmy, take a good look, baby. You like what ya see, don’cha?, You gonna be a good little fag boy and help Kev get off tonight?” he spat out between draws on the smelly cigar clenched tightly in his teeth. He pulled his belt out of the loops: a thick, rawhide western belt with metal grommets and a shiny silver buckle. He unbuttoned his fly and dropped his pants around his legs, revealing snowy-white hips and the most perfect cock I had ever seen. To this day it is the cock by which I compare all other cocks. Not just enormous but perfectly shaped, it rose from a dense patch of pubic fur and thickened towards the tip. The plump, flushed glan peered angrily from it’s velvety cowl of pink skin.