The kid grabs John by the shoulders, his grip bruising - fingers slipping on John's wet skin - and shoves him up against the dirty wall of the boat shed. John lets it happen, doesn't take the kid down and force his arm up behind his back, accepts it. They're hidden in the shadows in the corner of the shed, the air coming in cool off the ocean, but it's not safe. Anyone could walk in and see them. Him and a boy not even half his age.
"What's wrong? You tiring out already? C'mon, Dad." The kid's grinning, wild and dark with teeth, and it makes John want to bare his teeth too.
He shoves his hand furiously into the kid's wetsuit, pulling his cock up through the opened zipper that gapes from neck to crotch. He starts to pump, his grip wet and gritty, sandy. He bites the kid on his exposed, perfect collarbone.
"I am not," John grits out, "your father."
The kid laughs and shoves his dick into John's hand, his body against John's mouth. His cock is leaking, and when he speaks, he sounds breathless, but it doesn't trigger the grim sense of vindication that John usually feels when he's got someone turned on.
"Aw, that's too bad," the kid pants out, then moves so his mouth is next to John's ear. "My real daddy gives the best spankings," he breathes.
Now John does take him down, twisting a leg around his ankle and applying just the right pressure to make him fall, then kneeling on his arms, pinning him to the ground. John's wetsuit is already half off, riding low on his hips; he shoves it down a little further and get his dick out. Beneath him, Logan laughs, and John doesn't know why, but he doesn't care.
"Dumb kid," he mutters, shoving his cock into his warm waiting mouth without any preamble. It feels good, hot and slick, and the little brat with the private-school vocabulary and the three thousand dollar surfboard starts sucking like he knows how, and John knows he's not ruining anything that hasn't already been tarnished, sullied. Spoiled.
The kid looks up at him like he knows, and his mouth moves fast and efficient, and John can't help but say it out loud. "Spoiled little brat," he says, shocked to hear his own voice. He never usually talks, during. "Did daddy teach you to suck cock like that, too?"
He moves as if to pull off, as if to answer back with some smart comment, but John doesn't let him; he uses his weight to keep his head down, keep his mouth full of John's dick, and then slides in a little deeper. The kid groans; he even likes it.
John wants to come. He speeds up, closes his eyes.
Feels a vicious pinch to his hip, then another. Somehow the kid's maneuvered his hand around enough to get access. Fuck. John pulls out, rolls off, flings an arm over his face, tries to get his breathing under control. He can feel his cock throbbing.
"Sorry," the kid says, not sounding sorry. "Guess I'm just a cocktease." John looks up and sees that he's standing over him now, peeling off the rest of his wetsuit and positioning himself over John. He rides his ass against John's cock, not letting him in, just, just -
John snarls, flips him again, shoves hard at his limbs until he's on his hands and knees with John positioned behind him. "Guess so," John says, and he's out of control now but doesn't care, doesn't care with the kid's ass right up against him. They've been rolling around on the sandy planks at the back of the shed and it's gonna hurt but it doesn't matter anymore.
"Come on, daddy-o," the kid says, laughing again. "Show me what you've got."
John does. It takes him a while to get in, everything salty and sandy and tight, the kid grunting under him. John wonders if he's ever done this before.
When he's finally in all the way, stinging and scraping and feeling just fine, John stops to get his breath and drops his forehead to rest on the kid's sweaty back. His body is perfect, sixteen and flawless. John remembers being this age, being invincible.
Beneath him, the kid shoves back at him, forcing John to open his eyes and pay attention again.
"Move, goddammit," the kid growls. He doesn't sound like he's laughing anymore. "I didn't bring you in here to stroke out and breathe on me . . . "
John fucks him as hard as he can, for as long as he can. He thinks the kid comes; he's not sure. He's lost in the sweat and the motion of it, the hard unyielding planes of the body beneath him. After a while the kid falls forward, dragging John down with him, John still pumping into him over and over.
"Jesus, jesus, fuck," the kid gasps, and John feels it now, the vindication, the knowledge that he's won. "Fucking - come already, jesus, I can't take it, please - "
John makes noise when he comes in the kid's ass, a long groan that feels ripped out of him. He thinks he bites, he's not sure.
After he pulls out and rolls off, he watches the kid pull himself up to his knees, then flip over. His face has sand stuck to it, and his hands look scraped up from bracing on the old splintery wood.
John winces as he tries to get back into his wetsuit, trying to cover enough of himself to satisfy basic decency. He feels embarrassed by the stubborn middle-age fat that's coming around his middle, by the grey grizzled look of his chest hair.
"What are you, stupid?"
The kid looks up questioningly.
John gestures between them. "You let some guy twice your age fuck you bareback in a shed at the beach?"
"This is the weirdest safe sex lecture I've ever received," the kid drawls.
"Shut up," John says, then opens his mouth to say more. The kid interrupts.
"You are not," he grins, "my father."
"Right," John says, "fine. Throw your life away." He gets to his feet, manages to zip up without losing anything important, and stalks out.
"Gee, mister," the kid calls after him, "can't I have your phone number?"
John doesn't go surfing at that beach again.