Deryk 3 – The Portuguese Man o’ War by Bulge Voyeur

The last time I saw my errant brother was on a trip to Scotland where, needless to say, he turned up in a kilt; it was guaranteed to initiate a sexual encounter was that kilt but then, there was also the business of that medallion…..and those eyes. Was it just my imagination or did they seem different when he raped me? He certainly seemed to have more than one side to him and I had puzzled long enough about that incident but for now, I had consigned this and earlier memories to the back of my mind – or so I thought.

The third time he re-appeared was in Bermuda, when I was on holiday with friends. Once again however, the day this happened I had gone off on my own, so there is no-one to vouch for what occurred. You will just have to take my word for it. Today, I wanted some time on my own to pursue one of my hobbies, so I set off after breakfast with my camera, to explore some of Bermuda’s more remote but photogenic forts and ruined gun batteries. Around mid-morning, I found myself some way off the beaten tourist trail, on the edge of a delightful bay, fringed by coral outcrops sheltering a deserted stretch of soft pink Bermuda sand. Climbing down the rough path to the beach, I sat down beside the water close to one of the old concrete piers that once supported the short-lived Bermuda Railway. The railway was long gone of course and much of its route was now a nature trail but here you could see what remained of the line of concrete piers across the little bay and I was admiring the view across towards the old battery on the other side.

In the warm sunshine, I had taken off my shoes and socks and I was cooling my tired feet in the crystal clear water when I heard a familiar voice behind me,

“Hello!” the voice said, “Fancy meeting you here!”

Over my shoulder, the source of the voice was standing right behind me, framed in shadow by the brilliant sun. Looking up, I shielded my eyes but all I could make out was a young pair of bare feet and legs clad in shorts. Nevertheless, I knew instantly who it was.

“We must stop meeting like this,” I quipped, “people will start to talk.”

“You busy or can I join you?” he said and before I could answer, he sat down and began dangling his feet in the water beside me.

Given his appearance in a kilt in Scotland last time, I quite expected him to be in Bermuda shorts this time and indeed, at first glance, that’s what I thought he was wearing; they were navy blue certainly, cut just above the knee, but when I looked across at him, I realized that in his case, they were designer-shorts and they fitted him far too well, and rather too snugly I noticed, especially around his nicely bulging crotch and thighs. As my gaze shifted upwards, I noticed that, once again, he was wearing his “X-Men” t-shirt; the one with “Wolverine” on it. Casual though the look was, it too fitted him perfectly and it seemed to accentuate every curve and ripple of his beautiful body. I sighed.

“Why do you always turn up like this, out of the blue and always when I’m on my own?” I asked him.

“I don’t know, why d’you think?” he answered enigmatically.

There was silence and I pondered for a bit. Then, I decided to try a different tack; a frontal assault, so to speak.

“You’re not really my brother, are you,” I said, “so who are you, really?”

“Aren’t I? Hmm.”

Another pause followed but I wasn’t about to give up my line of questioning; not yet anyway, so I continued, “Anyway, how did you know I was here; and how did you get down that path without me hearing you?”

He wasn’t wearing any shoes, I noticed, and the path down to the beach was uneven and pocked with exposed outcrops of hard coral limestone. Not an easy climb at the best of times, let alone in bare feet. He wasn’t carrying a bag either.

“Aren’t we full of questions,” he said. Then, after yet another pause which made it clear he wasn’t going to give me any answers, he changed the subject, “The water looks lovely. I fancy a swim. Are you coming?”

And with that, he dropped down into the water and began wading out into the bay – fully clothed. I watched, mesmerized by the slowly receding view of his tanned and slightly hairy legs wading through the water, and of his beautifully rounded rear, the cleft between his butt-cheeks perfectly outlined in those tight, navy blue designer shorts. He sank slowly into the calm water. With the sun on his broad back and his reflection on the surface, for a few moments it almost seemed as if he was melting into the sea, like an apparition.

But within seconds he was up to his chest and he turned and fell back lazily against the water, calling to me,

“Come on, it’s gorgeous; it’s so warm.”

Unlike him, fully clothed in the water, I was wearing board-shorts and a t-shirt, so I had no excuse. As I dropped into the water and began wading out to him, it felt cold at first, especially around my cock and balls, which suddenly shrivelled in the loose mesh modesty pouch of my shorts, but as I waded further out, the water became warmer and once I was alongside him, it was so warm and soft and comforting – or was it just being in his company that made me feel that way?

He saw me looking at him and without warning, he slapped both his hands on the surface of the water and splashed me from both sides at the same time. He laughed and I splashed him back. We splashed each other. He pushed me over and I did the same to him. We tussled, laughing and joking, just like brothers do, and then we swam together, side-by-side, further out into the bay.

Again without warning, he stopped and turned to face me, treading water. He threw his wavy black hair back from his face with a sweep of his head. As I began treading water too, I looked into his deep blue eyes and tried to read his expression but before I knew what was happening, he had grabbed me with both hands and was pulling me towards him. His grip was firm and strong but at the same time, gentle and caring, not rough or aggressive. Our lips met and I tasted what I had missed so much since Scotland; that warm, salty, delicious but forbidden taste of brotherly love, as our tongues entwined, almost as if we were searching deep into each other’s mouths for something more, something………

My eyes closed and we sank beneath the surface and the world above vanished from sight and sound, as we remained locked in the depths of a passionate kiss and my mind seemed to lose awareness of anything other than him; the firmness and safety of his hold; the passion and warmth of his mouth.

But then I became aware that a hand was inside my shorts, his hand, massaging my cock and tickling my balls. An electric charge surged through my body at his touch and my organ sprang to life in his hand. Still locked in our kiss, I began gasping for air but he wouldn’t let go of me. I began to panic, struggling to push myself up but his other arm was around me, his hand in the middle of my back, holding me hard against his chest. He was stronger than me, and heavier, so I was helpless – except that I wasn‘t helpless. I had him. Instead, he began sharing his own breath, his own oxygen with me and yet his other hand still massaged and stroked my now erect tool inside my shorts.

My mind was going into oxygen-starved delirium but I couldn’t resist him, nor the urge that was building in my groin, churning through my balls and sending shivers of ecstasy up and down my spine. I was in a kind of overwhelming euphoria. All the time, we were still locked in our passionate kiss, sharing the same single breath, as my orgasm began to build. Then, from somewhere deep inside my body, a contained explosion occurred which then grew, overtaking my whole body, until, in a death-defying shudder, I felt an aching pain in my cock and balls as jet after jet of my jism erupted into the warmth of his hand in my shorts. Unable to breathe but through Deryk’s unbroken kiss, the intensity of my orgasm enveloped my whole body, my whole being, and it felt as if I was emptying the entire contents of the inside of my body into the palm of his hand.

We burst from the surface together, into the sunlight, our chests heaving in unison, both of us gasping for air and a new supply of life-giving oxygen. Meanwhile, my depleting orgasm still throbbed in his hand as I began again treading water to keep myself afloat. Once again, the warmth of the sun was on our sea-splashed faces and as I blinked and gazed into his eyes, he casually wiped his mouth with his hand and grinned at me.

“Bet you’ve not done that before!” he said, with a note of knowing triumph in his voice.

My heart still hammered in my chest but he seemed almost unaffected by our near-death experience. I was speechless, not to say exhausted, so we both made our way slowly back to shore, swimming lazily on our backs, as the creamy white threads of life escaped from within my board-shorts and were lost in the sea.

As we sat together, drying-off back on one of the old concrete railway piers, I wanted to ask him so many questions but somehow I knew he was never going to answer them.

“I’ve still got your Celtic talisman, you know,” I told him, “You know, the one you left on my bed in Scotland.”

“You’re not wearing it though, are you!” he teased. His deep blue eyes seemed to twinkle as he spoke. I reached into my back-pack and brought it out in my hand.

“It doesn’t really suit me,” I said, “but I kept it with me, always, just in case. Besides, it looks much better on you.” I offered it back to him.

“Nah. You keep it,” he said, “You need something to remind you that I’m real.” He looked at me, knowingly, and he smiled at me, the dimples in his cheeks momentarily disturbing the lines of his sharply cultivated 5 o’clock shadow-beard.

There was no doubt about it; I was totally smitten. He was adorable in every possible way. I loved him, like a brother yes, but also as more than a brother.

We hadn’t been there long and had exchanged little more than these few words when he looked at his watch and said,

“I’m afraid I’ve got to dash. Some local guys I met this morning at the dock said I could go out with them and find out about deep-water fishing. I’ve always wanted to do that. I need to get back.”

And with that, he jumped up and brushing my damp hair back from my face with his hand in an affectionate gesture, he bent down and kissed me goodbye. He sprang off, up the path that led away from the beach, with the nimbleness of a mountain goat and with an energy I would not recover for at least another half-hour.

Part Two

Later that afternoon, I had worked my way across to another part of the island and I had found an old fort to explore, set above a deserted beach on which I was now enjoying my packed lunch. Looking out across the beautiful azure-blue of the sea, mottled by reefs and shallows, I noticed a launch in the distance, crossing the lagoon. It was one of those high-powered, sea-launches with a canopied top deck and a low sheltered aft, designed for diving or fishing. It seemed to slow down, nearly stopping, and although it was a long way off, I could see that there were about 4 or 5 people on board, laughing and joking. The feint sound of reggae music wafted across the otherwise quiet lagoon and I figured those on board were having a good time.

I continued to watch the launch and its occupants, as I idly enjoyed the warmth and soft silkiness of the sand between my toes. Although I couldn’t see the figures in detail, one of them caught my eye. He was medium height, with dark hair, blue shorts and a pale shirt of some kind. Something about him told me it was Deryk. At first, he seemed to be larking about with the others but after a few minutes, the atmosphere seemed to change; the music was turned up, as if to drown shouting and it looked as though all the others were concentrating attention on him. Arms were thrown in the air in odd gestures and I realized there was some kind of struggle going on. One of the guys was pointing out from the rear of the boat at something in the water. Then it all happened in a flash, as I sat unseen on the tiny beach, unable to do anything to stop it. Deryk was thrown overboard and the launch lurched into life, surging around him in a wide circle, as the occupants of the boat laughed and pointed at him.

They quickly seemed to lose interest though and the launch then set off at high speed, leaving Deryk behind in the water, shouting after them. The music faded and the launch was quickly out of sight beyond the headland. Meanwhile, the figure in the water, whom I was sure was Deryk, seemed to be thrashing in the water. I already knew he was an excellent swimmer, so if he was just the victim of a practical joke of some kind, why wasn’t he making for the shore? Had they done something to him that was preventing him from swimming properly? I became alarmed. I stood up and moved towards the water’s edge, as if that would improve my view. It didn’t, of course. There was no-one else about and certainly no other boats that I could see. Realizing that Deryk was in trouble, I knew what I had to do.

“This is what always happens! You always have to come to Deryk’s rescue!” the voice in my head was saying, as I ran out into the shallows and began wading as fast as I could, out through the rocks and reefs and into deeper water. I swam as fast as I could, while trying to keep an eye on where he was. Thankfully, he was visible, but he had stopped thrashing and seemed only to be waving one arm about, trying to attract attention. As I got nearer, I could hear him shouting. Was he trying to warn me of something?

Then I saw the tell-tale purplish sail, floating on the water a few yards away; the soft and jelly-like top of a Portuguese Man-o’-War, the “Purple Terror”, one of the nastiest jellyfish-like predators in the sea, with long venomous tentacles trailing behind it, sometimes as far as thirty feet, each tentacle covered in barbed stings designed to paralyse its prey. Even to humans, the sting from one of these nasty little bastards can be at the very least painful, and at the worst, they can cause temporary paralysis and even heart failure. Deryk was about thirty or forty feet away from it and I had to swim in an arc away from it to get to him, desperately hoping that he wasn’t still tangled-up in its tentacles.

As I approached him, I tried to calm him, as he was still beating the water with one arm, desperately trying to keep afloat.

“I’m here,” I called to him, as I grabbed hold of him from behind. “It’s alright; don’t worry, I’ve got you now.”

“Oh God, it hurts!” he almost cried, “I can’t feel one of my legs and my other arm’s gone numb! Oh the pain! I never felt such pain!”

At least I knew why he couldn’t swim.

“Just try to relax,” I reassured him, “I’m here now and I’ll get you back to safety, don’t worry.”

I positioned myself behind him and with one arm occasionally supporting his back and my other keeping his face out of the water, I did my best imitation of a frog, kicking backwards for all I was worth for the shore. Fortunately, we left the tell-tale purple sail of the culprit behind and I was relieved that we weren’t dragging it with us; though what tentacles were still attached to his body remained to be discovered when we got back to the beach.

As we got into the shallows, it became more difficult to keep control of him but somehow I managed to get in-between the rocks and onto the sand, where I had to drag him backwards out of the water. Luckily, he was able to get up onto one leg and, with his good arm over my neck for support, I was able to get him back up the beach to where I had been sitting, just below the fort. I sat him down on my towel and, with a groan, he collapsed onto his back.

He was still fully clothed; in his “X-Men” t-shirt that clung tight to his rippled chest and his blue shorts; blue designer shorts that now clung even more tightly to every curve and bulge of his thighs and groin. I was getting a hard-on just looking at him. But all down one arm, he was covered in red welts and there were bits of tentacle still attached to his shirt around his midriff and down one side of his shorts. There were more red welts on the lower part of his “good” arm and hand, where he had obviously tried to pull bits off himself in the water. In my back-pack I carried a small first-aid kit and I retrieved it and knelt beside him, as I took tweezers and began to carefully pick off all the bits of tentacle I could find and any remaining barbed stings still embedded in his flesh. He winced every time I carefully pulled each one off.

He was a pitiful, helpless sight; a pale shadow of the strong hero who had, just hours beforehand, gripped me in his firm hold beneath the sea in that passionate lovers embrace. I stroked his face and brushed the hair out of his half-closed eyes. He turned his head towards my hand and kissed it.

“I knew you’d come for me,” he whispered, “Just like you always do.”

I sat him up and gave him two strong painkillers and told him to swallow them. He looked at them in his hand and then at me, grimacing.

“I can’t take tablets without water,” he complained, with a pained expression that made him look more like a schoolboy than a grown man. I looked at him in disbelief. Then I sighed and reaching into my back-pack, I brought out a bottle of water.

“Here,” I said, “you big baby,” as I gave it to him. He took his tablets, like the good boy that he really was; like the good little brother that had haunted me throughout my youth.

I peeled his t-shirt off him as gently as I could, while he kept going “ouch!” every time I touched a bit of him that hurt. I lay him back down and could see where the side of his torso was covered in red blotches where, even through his t-shirt, he had been stung quite badly. His lightly hairy chest heaved and strained; his breathing wasn’t right either. It was probably the shock; extreme shock – and pain. He’d probably been stung through his shorts too, I realized, as he lay there, moaning and groaning, coughing and still in agony. I looked down at his bare tummy, tender and exposed and quivering with pain; but my hard-on got harder, as I gazed at the “treasure-trail” of black hairs that led from his navel down to his waist, where the top of his briefs showed just above his shorts.

Kneeling across him, I looked once again at those wet, tightly clinging, bulging blue shorts and I sighed.

“This is how it always is,” I said to myself, as I leaned across and undid his belt and top button. As his waistband fell open, it revealed the top of a pair of Diesel briefs which, as I released the next button of his flies, revealed themselves to be in broad nautical blue and white stripes. The line of his flies followed a hard, curving bulge over his manhood, still tightly contained out of sight. But in order to open the remaining buttons, I now had to press my hand firmly against his bulge to release the pressure on each button. As I did so, with each button that was released, his bulge seemed to inflate, growing harder as I went on, until finally, it was fully inflated and released from the clinging wet prison of his blue designer shorts.

Pulling carefully on each leg of his shorts, I slid them down his legs, inevitably dragging them over the painful red sores which I couldn’t yet see down his one leg. He yelled out in pain as I did so, but at the same time, he helped me by lifting his butt off the towel. As I finally pulled his shorts over his feet, he gave a sigh of relief and lay back. He lay there before me, legs slightly apart and arms by his sides on my beach towel, naked but for his nautical blue and white striped Diesel briefs. My cock was now oozing pre-cum into my own underwear but I was trying not to think about it.

I had read once that, unlike jellyfish stings, you shouldn’t use fresh water on Man-o’-War stings; seawater was better. So I looked around, scratching my head for inspiration. Then I remembered. I grabbed my plastic sandwich-box from my bag and filled it with seawater, which I then used with a handkerchief to bathe his wounds. As I gently dabbed and bathed his sores, he softly groaned and sighed.

“It got me down the back of my leg too,” he murmured, “and on the bum. It was trying to wrap itself around me, until I managed to pull it off me and get away.” He held up his other hand to show me the red sores where he had grabbed at its tentacles in the water. I bathed it and checked it was clear of barbs; then I kissed it.

“You’d better roll over then,” I said, “so I can do that side too.”

I gently rolled him over and saw where the welts ran round his midriff to the waist of his briefs; and then from below his briefs, all down the back of one leg. I fetched more seawater and continued bathing his sores. Meanwhile, the rounded cheeks of his butt kept drawing my attention. I paused.

“You know what you’ve got to do,” he murmured, his face half buried in my towel. Somehow, he too knew how this always had to unfold.

He lifted his butt slightly, as I gripped the sides of his briefs and then slid them down, carefully over the sores on his leg. I lifted his feet and removed them completely. There were red blotches across one of his hairless buttocks, which I dutifully bathed and then gently kissed before sitting back to admire his naked body, so perfect in proportions, so perfectly tanned apart from the soft pale skin around his bum where his briefs had been, almost shining like two soft moons, separated by a narrow cleft into which I had ventured once before. The memory of Scotland flooded back and the temptation was overwhelming; I kept telling myself it was wrong but I was too weak to resist him.

Slipping my own shorts and now sticky underwear off, I lay down on him as gently as possible, my erect cock snuggly between his smooth and inviting buttock-cheeks. I slid my arms under his shoulders and stroked his hair, as he sighed softly and settled into our embrace.

It was so easy at first, so simple and so smooth; as if we were meant to fit together like two missing pieces of a jig-saw. Clasped between his bum-cheeks, my organ seemed to slide effortlessly towards the awaiting gateway of his anus, which relaxed and welcomed my slippery eagerness with only the slightest of movements on my part. As I entered him, the warmth of his insides greeted me and that warmth seemed to envelope my whole body and my passion was aroused.

It was only then that I felt resistance, a tenseness that threatened to frustrate me at this desperate moment of no return. I pushed forward and he groaned quietly, shifting slightly beneath me. I kissed the back of his neck, still salty from seawater and breathed softly behind his ear, as I pushed harder and he stifled a slight yelp, as I felt his insides give way and the swollen head of my organ slipped deeper into his insides.

My head was in turmoil; I was in heat, consumed by his body and desperate with desire to defile him and yet a voice kept saying,

“Forbidden sex; incest, you disgusting person!” And yet another voice was saying,

“He’s not really your brother; you don’t have a brother; do it! Take him!”

In the heat of that moment, my passion began building from my groin, churning in my balls and throbbing in my tool, enveloped within the soft, warm interior Deryk’s backside. My cum rose within me and without any movement, I felt it surging forward through my cock and filling his interior, as my orgasm exploded through my body like an internal tidal wave from my head to my toes.

Spent, for the second time today, I lay still on his back, as I felt him sigh gently and moan softly. Slowly, my erection subsided and slipped from Deryk’s rear, retreating to its more usual home between my balls. It now laying, exhausted and drained against Deryk’s balls within the gap between his legs.

I carefully rolled him over onto his back and watched, as if in slow motion, his partially engorged penis roll slowly upwards across his tummy, to lay gently throbbing, growing harder as I watched. His balls churned in their pouch, as it tightened around them and I was transfixed. He sighed.

“I wanted to come too, you know,” he whispered, “this morning, in the sea. But there wasn’t time for both of us.” He closed his eyes but his organ still throbbed, now straight and hard at an angle, not quite touching his stomach.

I reached out and as I touched his erect tool, it seemed to jump into my hand, eager to be satisfied. I gently slid down his foreskin, revealing its soft pink head, from which a tiny drop of pre-cum oozed and fell into the hairs of his soft treasure-trail. At the same time, he seemed to sigh and groan in both contentment and expectation. I leaned forward and took his organ into my mouth and tasted his juices, sweet and salty, as I began to work his tool up and down, up and down. He whimpered and groaned and it didn’t take him long; he was so pent-up. As I sucked and teased and caressed his hard manhood, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the muscles of his legs rippling and flexing and I could feel his pelvis rising towards me, as he began to arch his back, desperate for release. Then with a great gasp of relief, he came into mouth, not in short, hard jets but in what seemed like one long and exhausting gush that filled my mouth with his warm brotherly fluids. As I felt with one hand the rapid throbbing of his perineum behind his balls, I swallowed and sucked and licked until his organ throbbed its last throws of his exhausted orgasm. He fell asleep.

The sun was now going down and I realized that my friends back at the hotel would be wondering where I was; although I had phoned about mid-day, they hadn’t seen me since breakfast. I took out my phone and thought for a moment. Not wanting to have to explain everything, I decided to text my best friend saying I had met someone I knew out of the blue and we were going for a drink over at Dockyard (which was the other end of the island from the hotel), so not to expect me back for dinner. I finished by saying,

“Don’t wait up,” – plain code for, “I might be getting my leg over!” It was kind of true really; I just hoped that my friend getting the message would not pass on the last bit of my message to the others, as they might not be as understanding as him!

But things were to take a surprising turn, as that evening unfolded……….