We, dear reader, are going to spend today at the beach. Specifically, a somewhat private beach, on a small Caribbean island, at the sort of resort that people pretend they don't believe exists exclusively to cater to the very rich. Here, we find two young men, one rather younger than the other and, in fact, quite possibly underage in certain areas where one has to concern oneself with such thing. This is, of course, not one of those areas.

We will call them Lex and Clark, because that is, in fact, their names. Clark is stretched out on the beach, reveling in the unadulterated sun reflecting off the cerulean blue sky, white sand, and clear topaz ocean. He drinks it in like others might wine, or perhaps one of those strange sports drinks that's supposed to balance your enzymes or something. He is desperately pretending not to have an erection beneath his brand-new red swim trunks, and his companion is aiding in that pretense, or else it might have failed rather more spectacularly than he'd have liked.

"So, Lex, tell me again why you're wearing nothing but a scarf?" His companion is draped in a swath of colorful fabric, low on his hips so as to expose the maximum amount of cobbled abs and smooth, unblemished skin. Clark is also pretending not to notice that there is no line of hair running down to the top of the sarong, and, indeed, that Lex appears not to have any hair at all except for eyebrows and eyelashes. He is much better at his pretense, as he has been practicing it for several years out of politeness and sheer self-preservation.

"It's a sarong, Clark," Lex corrects gently. Laughter lurks in his voice, a hint that he's well aware of Clark's scrutiny, and in fact is amused that Clark refuses to just come out and ask him if he's bald in few places that even their long and varied history have kept hidden from Clark's view. He stands up, dusting fine white sand off of skin that seems only a few shades darker. "It's comfortable," he says with a shrug. This, too, like so much in their relationship, is pretense. He's wearing it because he wanted to see if him wearing it will make Clark hard, and possibly also see if he can force this unspoken thing between them out into the open.

He walks towards the ocean, the small scrap of fabric hugging a behind far more toned than Clark thinks the ass of a corporate executive has any right to be, the little dips on each side calling out for Clark to fit his hands in them, or his face. The fabric bunches over the middle, and Clark wants nothing more than to nuzzle up beneath it and see what sorts of noises he can make come out of Lex's mouth. He has heard Lex angry, drunk, sad, bitter and in pain. He wants these new sounds with the intensity only teenage lust can bring.

Lex is in the water now, slicing through the brilliant blue like he belongs there, water streaming off skin as hairless as a dolphin's. He ducks under, and when he comes back up, there are sparkling drops in his eyelashes like diamonds, which Clark wants desperately to kiss away. Lex would also like this, but of course, they aren't quite there yet. The sarong itself has gone dark and slightly translucent, molding itself to the front of Lex's body quite obscenely. He is half-hard, and the fabric outlines his cock in vivid detail, curling up under his balls in what would be an uncomfortable manner if the fabric wasn't quite so fine and soft.

Clark's eyes have gone wide and dark, and Lex thinks that perhaps now is the time for them to set pretense aside. He moves forward, part of his anatomy expanding to point the way obscenely through the wet fabric, and Clark licks lips which Lex has privately always thought were made for precisely the activity he hopes to soon be engaging in. Clark is simply fascinated by the sway of Lex's hips and the way the movement makes his cock twitch and sway in counterpoint.

As Lex grows closer, Clark becomes uncomfortably aware of his own erection, which has taken this opportunity to get some sun of its own and is now poking its head over the top of the admittedly tiny red trunks. It is Lex's turn to lick salt-flavored lips, the taste of ocean water a small preview of his immediate future. Clark lays helplessly on the sand, pinned beneath Lex's shockingly frank gaze and thinking inconsequentially that Lex and his father had both been right about the trip. It is proving very educational, as well as an excellent chance for the corruption of Clark's admittedly already compromised morals.

"Tell me what you want, or we'll never speak of this again, Clark," says Lex, his voice rough with salt and, of course, several months' worth of pent-up desire. He had strongly suspected, upon arriving in the place of his most recent exile and meeting the delectably untouched farmer's son, that his father had not had in mind that his heir learn his way around the realities of a certain class of rude joke. Still, he had to admit that at least this farm boy wasn't about to go crying to daddy, and they were, in fact, so far away from barns and hay that it barely deserved mentioning.

Lex's legs are spread slightly as he stands over Clark, feet on either side of the boy's knees so as to afford him the best view of the temptation he is offering. The astute viewer will note that the sarong has, at this point, become so hopelessly tangled around his erection that the flowing line of his thighs is completely exposed leading up to and including the smooth, low-hanging balls. Clark swallows, mesmerized as the motion of his throat causes an answering twitch in Lex's anatomy. "Naked," blurts Clark, the first word that comes to his already lust-addled mind.

Lex laughs, and the sound is low and sexy in his throat, as he is deliberately using his voice to bring goosebumps to Clark's golden, sun-drenched skin. His grin is feral and wicked as he tugs at the wet fabric, loosening the knot with practiced ease and letting the cold fabric fall free to the ground where it drapes, unnoticed by either of them, over Clark's involuntarily parting thighs. Clark's mouth falls open just a touch, a tacit invitation which Lex has no intention of refusing, and he drops to his knees, bringing the prize not nearly close enough for Clark's satisfaction, but certainly close enough to finally answer the question of Lex's utter lack of hirsute qualities.

We will leave you here, dear reader, to contemplate what may or may not follow, as our time has expired and the camera, as it were, is now panning off to take in lush green mountains scattered with quaint cottages, leaving them to enjoy their beach and one another in privacy.