By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 3: Sentimental Education
So I’d got up in the morning so bored I could hardy drag myself to the shower, and by fuckin five in the afternoon I was lying on the bed, thinking how easy it turned out to be to get a cock into your hole, and how easy and AWESOME it was to get your cock into some other dude’s hole, which is something I NEVER could picture that I would EVER do! Ever!!! Well, I could picture it, but . . . .
Dinner that night was . . . different. I used to be kind of ashamed of my parents, who were, like, about 20 years older than they really were, and that’s why they went to resorts like that, so they could be around the other old people. I don’t think I knew exactly how I felt before, but now I did, and when I looked at them, it wasn’t like they were even my parents, you know? I’d just got misplaced somehow, and ended up with them. But mainly I was looking at all the dudes in brown uniforms running back and forth, taking out the plates and filling the water glasses. Fuck they were hot! I wondered who they were screwing, out behind the kitchen or wherever.
One of them took our dessert plates and my dad made a shrug towards him and said, “They call them slaps.” He’d obviously been talking to the other couples.
“Slappies,” my mom corrected.
“You’re right, honey. Slappies. It’s sort of a . . . . ”
“Labor corps.”
“Labor corps. They’re sort of . . . ”
“Troubled. Troubled young men.”
“Troubled young men. I guess they’ve got a lot of work for them here, because they come from all over. Other islands, South America, all over.”
“Venezuela.”
“Right, Venezuela.”
They were worse than ever, but since I was no longer related to them, it didn’t matter. I could just keep ogling the busboys. Of course, my parents never noticed. I could depend on that.
Next morning, Dobie and Patrick showed up to clean the room. All business, not even a kiss—just a few winks and gropes. “Doin it faster this mornin sir,” Dobie said. “Leavin more time for this afternoon. So . . . you wanna help? We showin you.”
“Sure! Yeah!”
Then I was working side by side with them, stripping the sheets and making the bed and restocking all the little “amenities,” just as if I was wearing browns. I was really bad at it. They kept telling me I “oughta be punish, mon. We take care a that, maybe this afternoon.” And they did come back that afternoon, and every afternoon for the next four days. I was learning a lot of things, mostly things you’re not supposed to learn. Mainly about sex. But also, in the intermissions, about being a slappie.
They took me through the whole thing that happened with them: went to college, arrested on spring break, sentenced to life, put through Training (“Prep School for Slappies—that’s where we met—valuable social contacks mon”), bought by the resort, and now “makin thee best outta life as state property.” I’d been wanting to ask them more about those necklaces they wore—“they ain’t necklaces, dude, they collars”—so now I did, and they told me how the collar worked, how they put you in a collar and you could never take it off, and it tracked you wherever you went and reported you if you went too far. Very cool! You know you’re a dangerous dude when you need to wear a collar like that on your neck. Then they talked about “how to live good as a slap, which is what we doin mon.”
That was Patrick talking. When he fucked, he was totally quiet, but he talked a lot afterwards. So I asked him, “Must be hard for you. Bein a slappie.”
“You wanna see hard? Check between you legs, dude. I know you hard about my collar dude.”
“Sure. Why not? Gimme another hit, dude.”
“Sure. You payin for it, dude.”
“What I mean, you went to a good school, and I guess your parents have money, since you come from a place like Palo Alto, and, I mean . . . . ”
“And you mean I’m Asian, right? So Asians gotta keep our dignity, right?” I could tell he was getting emotional, because he said “DIGnity,” like he was back in America, not “dig-nit-TEE,” the island way.
“Yeah, I guess you . . . . ”
“Guess we taught that way? In our famly?”
“Yeah . . . . That’s what I heard . . . . ” The last thing I wanted was to get into a fuckin argument about something I didn’t know anything about.
“Listen mon. Best thing bout bein a slappie—you never gotta see you famly!”
“In fact,” Dobie said, “you CAN’T see you famly.”
“Against thee rules,” Patrick said. “Not allowed.”
“You famly can’t track you,” Dobie said. “Even you name is diffrent. Thee name they call you by. You owner give you thee call-by name.”
“Really?” I said.
“You think somebody namin they son ‘Dobie’?” Patrick said.
They rolled over on the bed, kissing and laughing.
“When you a slappie,” Patrick said, “you free from you famly.”
“An all that other shit,” Dobie said.
“Totely free,” Patrick said.
“Fuck! Must be great!”
I just said it. It came out. Patrick looked at Dobie, and Dobie looked back.
“When you a slap boy,” Dobie said, “everything is free.”
“Yeh mon,” Patrick said. “You got you bunk, you got you chow, you got you beautiful slappie suit. Hey dude, you’d look hot!”
“Yeh mon,” Dobie said. “You bout Patrick size. Try on his suit, dude!”
“Dude!” Patrick said. “You gotta do this!”
Everyone was after-sex naked. My clothes were scattered all over the floor. Their clothes were stacked in two neat piles in front of the TV, boots side by side on the carpet. That was always how they did it. When I brought it up, Patrick said, “Slappie School, dude.” Anyway, I didn’t hesitate. Right away I was grabbing his little brown y-fronts out of the pile and pulling them over my balls. Feel? Thick. Heavy. Tough! Smell? Piss, cum . . . . They smelled of Patrick. Unbelievable—like being inside another dude. And I’d thought I wouldn’t get hard again for at least half an hour.
“Get you shorts on there,” Dobie said. “You still practickly naked.”
“Sure!” I said. The shorts, which were my size, were a little slack in the ass (Patrick had a big, luscious ass) and a lot tighter in the crotch, for obvious reasons right then, but if the waist hadn’t been right, the elastic would probably have made it that way. I hadn’t realized that slappies aren’t allowed the luxury of belts. “Yeh mon,” Dobie said. “Too dangrous. Might hang youself. Ha!” The shorts weren’t like jeans, where there are always a lot of hills and valleys or whatever, or like the shorts I’d been wearing, which hung down really lax and casual. Patrick’s shorts smoothed down perfectly over my front—dick mound included! His sox also fitted me—naturally, he said, because slappie sox are all the same size. And his boots were just right. Which was fantastic, and I still could NOT believe it—like I said, I’d never worn boots before! They went on pretty hard, but that was just because I wasn’t used to them. Once I was in them . . . it was like, now I was twice my size! I took a couple turns around the room in my new boots. I was lovin it.
“Dude,” Dobie said, “you gotta lace em up. Otherwise you be punish.”
I hated to take time to do that, and my fingers were out of control, because I was so excited, but once I did it, the boots were EVEN hotter.
“OK mon,” Patrick said. “You needa put you shirt on you. Can’t have all that skin on display.”
The shirt was the best part of all. My nips are always WAY sensitive, and to feel that brown cloth sliding over them was like, fuck–I can’t describe it! I wasn’t just INSIDE, I was totally inside! Buttoning the thing over my chest was like locking the door and throwing away the key. That shirt was all over me. It smelled like Patrick, and to me it even felt like Patrick, and when I turned to the full-length mirror that they always have in one of those rooms, and I saw this new guy dressed up in brown, I felt like I WAS Patrick. After all, there was his name on my chest! Except that I was definitely me, and getting more like me every second; it was just a totally new me. New and improved! Down on the bottom of the mirror I saw the clothes I’d been wearing, lying on the floor on the other side of the room, and I was as far away from the dude in the loose shorts and the flip-flops and the vacation shirt as I could possibly be.
“How May I Serve You?” said the man in the mirror.
“Maybe by puttin on you cap,” Dobie answered. I got the cap and put it on. Now the man in the mirror was a total slappie.
“If I wasn’t wearin this collar,” Patrick said, “I could jus sneak out in you clothes, dude. Maybe I will anyways. I can see that you woan mind.” He’d stepped over and was standing next to me. So it was one naked slap (Patrick) and one slap in uniform (me!), and both with enormous hardons.
“Wish I had time to use this,” he said, reaching into his shorts and grabbing my dick, “but I doan wanna be punish for dirtyin up my browns.”
“Yeah, dude,” Dobie said. “An it’s time we goin.” He was already getting back into uniform.
“Yeah,” Patrick said, giving me a final squeeze, “it’s time this slappie boy be strippin outta his beautiful new suit.”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” I said, dragging my arms out of the shirt. So that was another amazing thing I said before knowing I was gonna say it.
“Patrick,” Dobie said, “give thee freeman some help. Tell him bein a slap actually hard. Not jus in thee way he’s thinkin ‘hard.’” Followed by a little grapple with my dick.
“Doan know why,” Patrick said. “I doan care if he wanta be a slap boy.”
“OK mon,” Dobie said, turning to me. “I’ll tell it. So far mon, you jus’ seein hot slap boys like me. An Patrick here, I guess. An we not jus roun here fuckin thee free boys all afternoon. We got other things we gotta do. In thee mornins, anyhow! But some a thee slappies . . . . ”
“Hey mon,” Patrick said. “Needa get my boots off you.”
“All right, sorry!”
“Like I sayin,” Dobie went on, “some a thee slappies are NOT doin so good as Patrick an me. Tell you what. We seein you tomorrow, same way, but in thee mornin you go watch thee grouns gang. They diggin out thee new path to thee beach down there. Then you see . . . . You see somethin else.”
“But you gotta wake up early,” Patrick said. “They doin it early on, so they woan bother thee precious guests. Startin at dawn dude. Jus so there be a lovely trail to thee bright sandy beach for lil sweetnesses like youself.”
I grabbed him and pretended to wrestle him, but he was already on his way out. “You can watch em from thee Coffee Deck” was the last thing I heard as they walked through the door. I was naked, and I was alone. But I’d had a fuckin great time.
Click for next part
Click for Island Paradise – Part 2 Part 1
