Survivor belongs to CBS and Mark Burnett. These men are not gay. This is fiction. Don't take it as real life. Use protection in real life. Don't read this if you are not 18 or the age of majority in your area.
Sorry for the delay, everyone. Please keep writing in and telling me what you want to see. I'm trying to keep this tied to the current episodes. I anticipate your thoughts on this chapter and hopes on future chapters (the next one will involve the Morgan hunks, especially the increasingly adorable Ryan).
Shawn Cohen had joined Survivor to get his face on national television, to test his strengths, and oh yeah...winning a million bucks wasn't too shabby.
So the guilt which panged at his soul, sapped at his spirit, was very odd.
In the midst of a tropical shower, the 29-year old shook his choppy black hair like a puppy caught in a rainstorm. His aquamarine buff crumpled in his hand while running a few meaty fingers down his buff, bare chest. The faint brown stubble peeking out from his pecs itched him like crazy. Too bad the last reward challenge didn't involve a waxing kit. As Shawn furiously scratched his chest, he imagined Burton having a good laugh right now at his expense.
Burton.
Shawn grunted as he accidentally thumped a nipple. Burton was his alliance partner and his...buddy. Yeah, that's what he was. Shawn had stabbed him in the back by voting against him on day 12, but Burton brought that on himself by wanting to throw that challenge. The rest of the tribe was going the same way, and Shawn had to follow orders. Why should Shawn have to feel bad for saving his own skin? Burton would've done the same thing...probably.
Shawn knew that Burton hated the idea of being seen as top dog, but also knew he had no chance of going under the radar. Burton's towering frame, broad, naturally honed shoulders, and matinee idol looks captivated or intimidated all he met. That first day on the boat, Burton damn near broke Shawn's hand. A firm grip; he made sure Shawn knew who was in charge. Burton was like that. And his eyes were so brown, big wet brown eyes which he tried his best to narrow into slits, but which opened up into vulnerable pools when he let his guard down. Burton tried hard to be intense but just never convinced people that he should be taken seriously. He was a nice guy.
Shawn tugged at his increasingly low-riding shorts; they were well below his waist and nearly showing pubes now. Burton always loved to point out his ass crack; one time he even tapped a finger against it. Shawn never told Burton the way he shivered at that touch, or the way he wondered how Burton's thick tongue or big fat cock would feel pressed against his moist entrance.
As if he had lost control of his own body, Shawn watched as his hands gripped the stark dark fabric around his waist and tugged down. The hairs on his sinewy, pale hips sighed from the fresh feeling of warm rain. He gripped his plump, hard 7 inches. At first just as a release, because he was so fucking horned-up every day and all of the Drake women were more likely to castrate than fellate. Even ally Michelle hadn't given him or Burton more than an occasional bulge squeeze when they went for private jungle walks. She'd usually lingered a bit longer at Burton's bulge.
Shawn flicked his small tits again as he gradually increased the pace of his stroke session. Skin against skin...like the way Burton's bare shoulders felt against his chest when they would wrestle. Sparring, grabbing any available, weak body part in a fruitless attempt to burn off pent-up loin longing. They grappled mightily, their tree trunk thighs interlocked in a primal homoerotic struggle. Burton's hands cupping his pecs, whispering seductively into his ear that he had the biggest tits on the island, then biting sharply into his lobe. Burton's furry chest burned into Shawn's slumped, straining shoulders. His meaty nipples, as hard as glass, stabbed Shawn's spine, kissed roughly against his skin.
Shawn shut his eyes and slid his fingers in his sweaty navel and down his treasure trail as he remembered those matches. Remembered the final match where Burton stripped bare, making sure nothing got in the way. Remembered that he hadn't even made the pretense of not staring at Burton's beefy ass or dangling, veined sausage. Burton was half-hard that first time, and Shawn knew it was from the excitement, man against man, cock against cock, skin against skin. Shawn was fully hard almost as soon as Burton's hands had smacked against his chest. Burton had chuckled when Shawn's erection stabbed into his abs. "And I'm the one from San Fransisco!" he'd jeered. Shawn had clenched his fists in Burton's hair and yanked him in close. So close their smelly, manly breath seeped into each other's pores. So close their stubble set off sparks. So close that he let his tongue grazed Burton's upper lip. Panting and gasping overcame the match, overcame their inhibitions.
Shawn whimpered at the memories. As much as he urged himself not to, he slipped a finger between his tight cheeks, jiggling around the snug opening, finding a weak spot. Burton liked to do that a few times when the wrestled. In that final match, the two men were too busy trying not to talk about why their tools were so hard that they hurt, why Shawn's fuck juice was matting in Burton's carpeteed belly. The wrestling was a distant memory by that time. Shawn remembered Burton's hand tentatively wrapped around Shawn's hog, just like Shawn's hand was now there. The hesitation, yet the knowing touch of a man who'd done this before. Shawn had felt his knees buckle at the touch, had felt himself give into the sheer bliss of living through his penis, every last shock and jolt of that organ. He'd encased Burton's own 9 glorious inches deep in his palm, with an angry, almost violent fist job. Their thrusts into each other's hand holes had been animalistic, from time constraints as well as refusal to admit just what they were doing. When they'd finally finished, Burton had smashed Shawn's mouth against his, absorbing Shawn's war cries as he painted his macho stud tribemate and now lover's furry pate with load after load after load of white base. Shawn had been so busy spasming his orgasm that he'd barely felt the tube steak erupting in his own hand, the bulbous purple head spraying like a broken hose against his small tummy. Both men had been so spent, and so confused, that they'd broken apart immediately. Gathered their clothes. And the next day...Burton was gone. 5 votes against him. Everyone but Michelle. Now Michelle was gone too.
Shawn pumped himself with borderline rage. His nails dug into his nubs and slid up and down his red-hot hips. He was frightened of the power that a few fingers near his prostate had, but he shoved three thick digits back inside his chute, knowing the outcome. Screams filled the jungle brush as he imagined Burton's arm around his shoulder again, Burton's confident smirk, Burton's lush lips and powerful kisses, Burton kicking his legs apart, making him his bitch, fucking Shawn into oblivion...
"OOHHHHH FFFFFFUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!"
Shawn screamed as he tried to exorcise every last mixed emotion into his quaking shaft. He cleaned his softening tool off before pulling on his shorts. Then he wiped his hands clean, took a tentative lick of one or two cummy fingers, wondered if Burton's semen was as sour as is, or sweeter. Maybe he'd never know. He didn't want to go back to that damn Drake camp ever again. He hoped he would see Burton again before too long. He also wondered about how close the Morgan guys were. Little did he know...
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