Surf Stud Initiation

Author: Christopher Pierce

Of course I’d heard of surf cults, groups of surfers that guarded their
territory as ferociously as wild animals, but I’d never encountered one.
That is, until the day I found myself at the mercy of one, the center of
an insane orgy, a regular suck-and-fuck fest on the beach.

I was a damn decent surfer myself. The problem was, I knew it. I’d
gotten too damn cocky, that’s what got me into trouble. But it turned out
all right in the end. Did it ever. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’d been surfing the beaches of Malibu since I was a kid. I knew the
shores like the back of my hand. So when I finally shaped my first board,
getting it just the way I wanted it, I figured it was a special occasion.
That board had to get tried out somewhere special, not on the same old
waves I’d been riding for years.

Wanting to be alone that morning, I hadn’t called any of my buddies like
I usually did. I know, I know, it’s dangerous to surf without at least
one other guy with you, but hey, what can I tell you? I said I was cocky.
I didn’t want anything to interfere with that perfect morning, that
special time when I’d break in my new board.

It was just going to be me, my board, and the ocean.
I thought.

In any case, it did start out as a perfect morning. The sun was blazing,
and the waves breaking on the beach were beautiful — some of them up to
15 feet high. But I was used to that. I wanted something bigger, more of a
challenge.

I had heard rumors of waves that were 25 and 30 feet high in the waters
beyond the rocky cove at the furthest edge of Malibu. Some of the really
expert surfers, the rippers, had even said they’d seen waves that were 35
feet high. Damn! Heaven on earth! But it was too dangerous. To go
beyond the protective rocks out there to the open ocean, it was foolish,
and everyone knew it.

But that wasn’t all. Besides the fact that waves that size were brutal
and notoriously difficult to tame, there were rumors that a surf cult had
laid claim to the region just outside the cove border, making it
off-limits to anyone else.

I never knew anyone that had tried to surf out there.

But I was feeling brave that morning as I walked out with my new board
under my arm. Half of me was apprehensive, maybe even a little afraid,
but the other half kept telling me not to be such a wimp, that the cult
story had been invented by lifeguards to keep surfers inside the cove.
Surfing forbidden waters that were protected by a mythical surf cult and
the home of 35-foot swells — it sounded like the perfect place to test my
skills as a shaper and a surfer.

I figured there was nowhere better this side of Hawaii’s North Shore, and
nothing was going to keep me from it.

Standing at the water’s edge with the breakers splashing around my feet,
I knew I was ready. Fastening my board’s leash around my ankle so it
couldn’t get separated from me, I laid down on it and paddled out into the
ocean.

The chill of the water on my naked skin was delicious in the warm morning
air. Proud of my slim, muscled physique, I never wore anything surfing
except a pair of swim trunks.

I reached the cove border in no time, and without a second thought did
what I had always wondered about but never put into action — I paddled
out into the open ocean. Soon enough, I was far beyond the cove.
Now I was truly alone. Outside the cove’s protective embrace, there was
nothing but myself and the distant deserted beach.

And the waves.

They were already bigger than I was used to. Sets of them were crashing
down, at least 20 – 25 feet high. For a second, I wondered if this had
been a bad idea. To be out here, alone, without a life jacket and out of
range of the lifeguard towers, in dangerous waters…

I shook the thought off. I knew what I was doing, damn it. This was
what I wanted. I realized I had something to prove to myself. It was
like I wanted an initiation, a ritual that would transform me from an
amateur surfer into a ripper — a real master of the ocean. Taming this
treacherous area was just the challenge I needed. Here, away from the
lifeguard towers and the safety of the familiar, I could find out what I
was made of.

Here, I could prove to myself and the ocean that I was a ripper.
But there was no more time for thought, because a new set was heading my
way. Even from this far away, I could see how many waves were coming — seven. Australian surf-superstition was in force today. Some Aussie surfers believe that sets of seven waves were perfect, divinely ordained, ideal for riding.

This was my chance.

The swells got closer and closer, and as I got ready I could see them
rising, seeming to get larger and larger by some ocean-magic. As usual,
in the presence of large waves, I felt my cock harden up painfully between
myself and the board. My whole body was responding to the sea, as if I
was hot-wired into its energy by nature itself. Maybe that was why I felt
exhilarated instead of scared as the waves crashed towards me.

It was time. I paddled towards the first wave, picking up speed as I got
closer and closer. At the moment the board was picked up by the swell’s
momentum, I got up to my feet. My concentration as sharp as a diamond, I
performed a few deft maneuvers and then I was there — on top of the
swell. Riding the crest of the wave, I felt omnipotent, like a god in
ancient mythology, a god of the sea.

With my dick tenting my trunks, I looked down at the raging water beneath
me. I could hardly believe it, but the wave was definitely getting higher
as it approached the shore. I was at least 30 feet above the surface, if
not higher. Ecstasy flowed through me, I had done it! I had conquered
the ocean! Nothing could stop me now.

I glanced behind me to see if the rest of the waves in the set had gotten
this high. They had, but something else had caught my attention…
I wasn’t alone.

Riding the waves with perfect form and precision, and staring at me with
venom in their eyes, were three other surfers. In the split second I saw
them, my brain instantly registered everything I needed to know about
them.

They were gorgeous men, their faces tanned and handsome, their bodies
chiseled from years on their boards.

They were even better than me, because they were surfing with the casual,
breathtaking skill of true rippers.

They were the surf cult, the guardians and owners of this part of the
ocean. This was their territory, their sacred space, the place that they
and they alone could ride the swells.

And I had violated it.
And they were going to punish me.

A second of fear and panic was all it took to make me lose my
concentration. With a yell, I lost my footing and went flying off my
board into the wave. Water filled my ears and nose as I crashed downward.
I heard a sickening snap that I knew was my precious board being broken
in two by the force of the wave.

I fought my way to the surface, and was just in time to get caught in the
next swell as it smashed down.

Somehow, I was able to get to the beach. The undertow was hard to escape
but I did it, and dragged myself up onto the sand. Exhausted and
battered, I collapsed face-down.

Waves crashed behind me. I knew the guys from the surf cult were
emerging from the water, like mer-men or some other creatures of the
ocean, hell-bent on revenge.

Too tired and freaked out to care, I just lay there trying to catch my
breath. Suddenly strong hands grabbed my arms and dragged me up further onto the sand. Someone removed the leash from my ankle. A bare foot slid under my armpit and flipped me over onto my back.