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Never Laugh At A Man In A Sarong

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The first time Sean saw Pierce in a sarong he burst out laughing.

Pierce turned Sean over his knee -- sarong and all -- and that stopped the laughing in its tracks.

One hard smack after another after another, until Sean's lower lip was caught between his teeth and he was trying not to beg. Pierce, observant man that he's always been, stroked his hand down Sean's back, watching the way his silver watch glinted in the sun.

"Want something?" Pierce murmured.

Sean pressed his hips downward, cock hard against Pierce's thigh.

"Want to give me something to make up for all that laughter?" Pierce asked.

Sean nodded, slid to his knees, and watched as Pierce drew the sarong aside. Bloody hell, he's got nothing on under that. Sean nosed his way forward, settling between Pierce's legs and cupping a hand around Pierce's balls as he licked his way up the shaft.

Pierce put a hand at the back of Sean's neck and began thrusting up gently. "Good lad," he breathed. "Harder. Faster. Come on, lad."

Bloody hell, Pierce's words. Sean sucked harder, moaning as Pierce thrust up to meet him, and tasted more salt than just the seawater as Pierce came down the back of his throat.

"What's my lad thinking?" Pierce murmured afterwards, as Sean came up on his knees and slid into present pose.

Sean glanced down at himself, at the way his erection was tenting the front of his trunks. "That I wish I had a sarong myself, Master," he murmured, then looked back up at Pierce and grinned.

"Oh, I think we can arrange for that," Pierce purred, leaning down and licking at Sean's lips. "Leave the trunks in the sand, lad." God bless the Est's Island. "I'll get you one at the first shop we pass."