bmblbee (bmblbee) wrote,
bmblbee
bmblbee

Hang Ten

Title : Hang Ten
44/50
Author: BmblBee
Paring: Spike/Xander (of course)
Rating: NC17. Not a lot of sex, but what there is, is very graphic. M/M
Warning: See above
Disclaimer: The Bee has no claim on any of the characters she plays with.
Summary: A story of teens, sun and surf in the 1960's. HAU.


Link to previous chapters HERE






Special thanks, as always to my dearest friend Petxnd for the wonderful banner.

The Bee greatly appreciates readers who take the time to comment.
Spelling and punctuation checked by Silk_Labyrinth. Remaining boo boos are by the
Bee's choice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Ever since the age of 13, Xander Harris had been enamored of Rocky Coons. He had posters of
the man hanging on his bedroom walls. They were huge, colorful, glossy pictures of his hero
riding majestically, skimming effortlessly over the top of the waves. And he knew Rocky's bio
by heart.

It was a genuine rags-to-riches tale of a poor boy growing up in a cabin in the mountains of
Tennessee. He had moved to Hawaii at the age of ten when his father was transferred with the
Army. He taught himself to surf and by the age of 14, won his first local. He had rejected
numerous college scholarships in order to travel the world gaining sponsors as he maintained the
purity of the sport of surfing while traveling some of the most exotic and hazardous coastlines
in the world.

He was a hero. He was a legend. He was also, apparently, a bit of a drunk.

Xander smiled weakly and attempted to take a step to the side.

"Um, maybe we could talk later. Truth is, I gotta piss like a Russian race horse so, if you don't mind...."

Rocky matched him step for step and blocked Xander's exit. Fritz, who had been discreetly standing
by, hoped Rocky wasn't going to make an ass of himself...again. When it became obvious that he
was, Fritz started to ease over. Rocky ignored the warning glare his partner was giving him and
he loomed over Xander with an ugly sneer.

"Hear that, Fritz? Baby boy says he gotta piss. You need help with that, boy?"

In a fast move Xander never saw coming, Rocky grabbed Xander in the crotch and squeezed his
dick painfully. The hurt shot through Xander's cock and balls and he responded with an iron
clamp around Rocky's wrist which he tightened till he could almost feel the bones grind together.
Xander would not be bullied.

"Now, you want to let go of me or do you want to surf in this fucking contest with a broken wrist?"

For the next ten seconds, no one moved. Their eyes locked but neither's reflected the pain they
were enduring at the hands of the other. Finally, with a bellowing, foul-smelling laugh, Rocky
released his hold on Xander's dick and Xander cautiously let go of Rocky's wrist. Still, neither
man blinked and their wordless stare was point, counterpoint. It said everything that needed to be said.

For Xander, it told him that Rocky Coons was a has-been. A washed up alcoholic whose time had
passed and who was hanging on to a glory that no longer shone. For Rocky, it confirmed his worst
fears. This was the face of the future. The boys who would reap the rewards from all his hard
work. The ones who would make the big bucks from the sponsors who were now backing the sport
of surfing as they tried to kick Rocky aside.

Both competitors were saddened by what they saw but gave no measure. As the heat of
the confrontation cooled, Fritz threw his arm around Rocky's shoulder and led him away.

"Come on, buddy, let's get a Coke and a burger before our next run. I don't know about you but
I'm hungry as fuck."

Xander watched them go and he saw to the business of his bladder, cringing as his cock
complained about the crude, rough treatment it had endured. When he finished, he headed back to
his friends. His back was a little straighter and his resolve steeled. He held his head high and he
knew, win or lose, that would never be his future.

"Hey, good, you're back. They made an announcement that the first team up is Warner and Ho.
They are taking their boards to the shore now. Come on."

Xander joined his partner and they made their way through the crush of people lining the shore to
watch the ride. When the spectators saw who they were, the crowd separated like the Red Sea,
allowing them to pass. When they stepped up to their vantage point, Xander leaned over and spoke
in Riley's ear.

"Up to now, we have been on the defensive. We have followed the lead of the others and tried to
match them move for move, but we are done. From this point on, we go on the offense. Nothing
they do matters. We are the leaders here and our runs will show that. Fuck them. This is our competition."

Riley turned to his partner and saw the confidence and conviction on his face. He nodded, grinned
and the two clasped hands before turning their backs on team #3 who had entered the water. From
there, Xander and Riley retreated to a far corner of the beach and for the next ninety minutes, they
talked. They planned, drew diagrams in the sand and they approached this as they would any
other sporting event.

They listened intently as each team was called into the wash and they knew their time was drawing
near, but now they were no longer nervous. They were prepared and the plans they discussed were
set and firm. The continued rehashing was only to reinforce their confidence and solidify their partnership.

The other four alternated their attention between the action in the water and the conference off to the
side in the sand. While they could see Xander and Riley, at this point even Spike knew to let them
be. He could see the intensity between them and he did not want his presence to be a distraction.
Sitting cross-legged, he poked Willow on the knee.

"Do you think they are worried?"

Willow squinted off into the distance where team #23 was huddled as she considered Spike's
question. Even at this distance, she recognized the look on the boys' faces and she grinned.

"Nope. In fact, I would say it's the other teams that had better be concerned now."

Before Spike could respond, the crowd on the shoreline erupted into applause as team #21 emerged
from the water, dragging their boards through the sand and dropping in satisfied exhaustion. It had
been a good ride. A clean ride. But had it been a winning ride? That remained to be seen.
Within minutes, the loud speaker cracked and boomed.

"TEAM #23. HARRIS AND FINN. REPORT TO THE WATER."

There was nothing else to say. Xander jumped to his feet. He grabbed his board and, as always,
Riley followed Xander's lead. Together, exuding the very image of youthful confidence and virility
that the Brown Bodies oil company was seeking, the boys ran across the sand and without slowing,
dove into the water to the roar of an appreciative crowd.

They started out, keeping a measured distance between them. Close enough to prove that they were
a unified team and far enough to give the other room to maneuver without the fear of cramping or colliding.

As the afternoon wore on, the height and ferocity of the waves had increased and it was more and
more difficult to move against the tide. Every muscle in their arms strained yet they gave no thought
to pausing to rest. On they pushed as the combination of the constant deluge of salt water on their
faces and the pull of the undertow beneath them threatened to force them off course.

Still they persevered. The cheers and encouragement of the crowds on the beach worked like a
massive team of cheerleaders to egg them on. Out. Out. Out. Further and further they went,
trusting that the other was still at their side but knowing that if they stopped to check, a break in
rhythm would be disastrous.

The blazing sun, magnified by the surface of the water, baked their backs and legs as it
repeatedly washed over them, basting them like a couple of Christmas turkeys. Then, as the
hurt threatened to consume them, their bodies reached the athlete's wall and they caught their
second wind. Despite all their discomfort, years of sports training had taught the boys to disregard
the physical pain and focus on the mentality of the challenge.

Instinct, the feel of the ocean beneath him and the air around him told Xander when they had
arrived. When the spot was just right. He made no effort to shout, trying to be heard over the
constant roar of the ocean. It wasn't necessary. Riley would follow his lead. He always did.

Together, they front-flipped and turned their boards into the direction of the flow and they laid down
flat, allowing the ocean to toss them about like pop bottles thrown overboard to bob and float on
the surface of the sea. It was a brief time of recuperation. A time to give their strong hearts a
chance to slow to a near normal pace before the next straining event.

And it didn't take long to feel the physiological shift. Within minutes, the blood flow slowed
through their veins. The burning feel in their lungs eased and their respiration rate backed down.
The tight screaming in their biceps quietened and by holding their faces down toward their chests,
they were able to breathe without the constant feeling of near drowning.

They were ready.

Xander pushed himself into a sitting position, straddling his board as a signal to his partner who then
did the same. Though separated by a great distance, Riley waved his hand to signal to his leader
and Xander responded by again flipping onto his stomach. Together, they dropped their arms into
the water and they began to paddle. Harder and harder. Faster and faster.

From behind and beneath them it came. A wave of monstrous proportions, it shouted and roared
its wild outrage at the mortals who invaded its territory. At the first feel of its strength and size,
both boys stopped paddling and grabbed the rim of their boards. They took a moment to balance
and stabilize themselves, then......as the mob on the beach howled in one huge collective voice...
they leapt effortlessly to their feet and the ride was on!

Using the judges' sheet of rules as a game plan, Xander and Riley incorporated as many of the
moves described as possible. The rode, aiming their boards directly toward each other and
cutting sideways through the wave, appearing as if they had lost control and a collision was imminent.

The reaction on the beach was frenzied. The spectators shouted their warnings only to explode
in laughter and appreciative applause as the riders crossed over each other's wake and turned
again toward shore. From that moment on, team #23 owned the day. They walked their boards
casually as if strolling down the street. They stood. They crouched. They turned and they
expertly dragged out what should have been a short ride to an unbelievable length. This was their
rodeo. They had lassoed the wild Pacific and beaten the bucking bronco.

This time the pounding in their hearts was from the thrill of triumph! They were gods.
They owned the world.

When they finally slid onto the sandy beach, the mob that rushed them was every bit as
overwhelming and frightening as the Pacific ocean. They were hoisted on the shoulders of
strangers and carried back to their blanketed nest as the loudspeaker blared.

"TEAM #6. COONS AND GAREN. REPORT TO THE WATER."
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  • 45 comments

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