Date: Sun, 26 Oct 2003 04:32:34 +0000
From: Bobby Reardon <reardon_930@hotmail.com>
Subject: Survivors: Pearl Island 3

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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My e-mail is Reardon_930@hotmail.com