Hair’s the Thing

When he laid me on his bed and I opened my legs to him, he assented to my request to take me on my back so I could run my hands through his chest hair and down into his black curly pubes and watch him fuck me—all titillating hairiness—in the mirrors on the wall from all angles.

He kept telling me how nice I was, and how he wanted to keep me. He had a mammoth, extra-thick cock, which was nice—but not as nice as his hairiness—and was considerably more filling than Steve Adore had been. He had trouble cocking me at first, and I whimpered and struggled a bit, but he reached into a drawer next to the bed and came out with another one of those capsules, which he broke under my nose, and then a didn’t feel much of anything and opened right up to him.

While he pumped me hard, he asked me how many days I could be out to sea before needing to get back to land, and I told him I needed to be back by Monday morning.

It was all a dreamy swirl, but I noticed a guy standing at the window out on deck and watching us. He was an older guy, maybe in his forties. Built like a bodybuilder, though. And what caught my attention was that the nicely groomed hair on his head was white gray, but that he had chest hair that was salt and pepper.