Come Me Mr. Sax Man

After practice for that night’s performance and a shower, with Trent walking somewhat gingerly after his fantasy night at the Brazilian’s command--the walk a bit wavering even though the ship was now steadily docked at the Nassau cruise line pier--Trent found himself gravitating back to the Schooner Bar for the prenoon jazz set of Dean and Buzz. By all rights the night in the Brazilian’s cabin, combined with having been rebuffed in favor of a floozy old blonde the previous day, should have kept Trent away from Buzz’s realm, but it didn’t. Trent told himself that it was the jazz music--the smooth saxophone sound backed by soft piano music--that drew him. But he knew, deep down, that it was Buzz and the chance, no matter how slight, that the saxophonist would give him a tumble.

The sex with the Brazilian hadn’t satiated Trent; it had whetted his appetite for more sex--and for something he had missed in what the Brazilian had given him. The Brazilian had been attentive and commanding. But he hadn’t been even slightly rough and dangerous. Trent still saw that possibility in Buzz. Trent still wanted that included in the variety of his sex.

Frustratingly, the visit to the Schooner Bar was a repeat of the previous morning. Again, the bar was almost deserted just before noontime. This time, it wasn’t the other activities on board that were competing with the music in the bar, though. They were docked in Nassau. Nearly all of the passengers were off ship, in pursuit of whatever interests drew them to signing up for a cruise to the Bahamas in the first place. Once again it was just two of them vying for attention from the jazzman. Trent was holding up his end of the bar, nursing a beer. The same barman was there, and, although charged with pushing drinks, he wasn’t hassling Trent. At the other end of the bar sat a somewhat squat dark-haired woman in her forties. She was well dressed, showing a lot of cleavage, making the most out of her most distinctive asset, but there was a certain needy look about her--and she had her eyes locked on Buzz.

Once again, at the conclusion of the set, as the piano player was gathering up his music, Buzz laid his saxophone aside and approached the bar. His gaze went in Trent’s direction and he smiled, but as he reached the bar, he turned in the direction of the dark-haired lady. Trent and the barman watched out of the corner of their eyes from the other end of the bar as Buzz went into his zeroing-in routine, reached an accommodation with the woman with no effort at all, and the two of them walked out of the bar arm in arm.

Trent watched them go. Then he stood and walked over to the window that now loomed over the pier below and watched as passengers continued to disembark eight decks below. Seeing the Brazilian walking away from the ship toward the town only accentuated Trent’s feeling that, although he’d been well plowed the previous day and night, he wanted it now too. This often was the case with him. Multiple fuckings in a session often left him wanting more rather than satiating him.

With a sigh, he turned and went back to the bar, perched on the stool, and tossed off the rest of his beer in one gulp. As he put the empty glass back down on the bar top, he felt the strong grip of a hand on his wrist.

“You need it bad. I can tell,” the barman said in a low voice. “You’re coming into the kitchen with me, and I’m going to fuck your lights out.”

Trent raised his eyes, ready to say he would do no such thing, but then he saw the wild look in the barman’s eyes. And he saw the attitude of command and domination he had been looking for. Maybe he had misjudged. The man wasn’t a hulk, but there was a look of roughness about him. As Trent watched, the man unbuttoned his white shirt and shrugged it off his back. He was covered in tattooing. Exotic swirls and a whole story of dragons and demons.

He grasped Trent’s wrist again. “In the back, now.”

The man slapped Trent into the submissive position he wanted him in and fucked him in long, deep, cruel strokes, with Trent sitting on a counter, which his back and head crouched under an overhead cupboard, and his ankles locked at the small of the man’s back. When Trent begged him to give him time to open, the barman pressed in; when Trent begged him to go slower, the barman went faster. It was just the demonstrated dominance that Trent melted to.

The barman was thin and wiry, but he was cruel and demanding in the fuck, not giving Trent time to open fully to him before he was plunging hard and deep and fast inside Trent. He was quick and efficient in the fuck. All business. He chewed lightly on Trent’s neck as he plunged up inside him in one long jab. Trent cried out in pain and surprise--and in ecstasy. Then it was all taking, not caring that Trent’s head was bouncing off the back wall and up against the underside of the cupboard, gripping Trent’s throat with his hands, and making Trent’s eyes bulge, his tongue hang out, and his throat making guttural burbling sounds.

Trent came up the man’s tattooed belly before the barman, barely having taken time to crown his cock and having used his spit as lubricant, pumped Trent hard and ejaculated. And then the man just let Trent’s body slump to the deck below the counter. He stood back, stuffed his cock back into his pants, zipped up, and rebuttoned his shirt.

“That’s what you needed,” he muttered down at Trent’s heaped and moaning body. “The saxophonist is going to keep to business. You come mooning here for him again, and I’ll take care of your need again. You’re a good lay. You want more, longer, just come around and we’ll make arrangements.”

And then he was gone, back to the bar. Trent lay there, panting, for a few more minutes and then, with a groan, he reached over and dragged his trousers and briefs back into his arms. The man hadn’t taken time to strip off more than that.

Gingerly he stood and put a leg into one leg hole of the briefs. He moaned again from the soreness of his muscles caused by the brutal fuck. But he was smiling too. It had been just the fuck he needed, the perfect counterpunch to what the Brazilian had given him.

He realized that he was strange that way--but it was just the way he was. And there wasn’t anything he wanted to do to change that.

* * * *

Trent was unnerved during practice early that afternoon. They were going through the routine of what would be a new show for them--“Gershwin of the Sea”--and all he could think of was Buzz. And not just a thought of Buzz, but a fantasy of him with those lonely, rich women. Did he have a private cabin of his own, or did he go to theirs? He had a vision of the women, sometimes the model-thin tall blonde and sometimes the shorter, more curvy brunette, on their backs on the bed, and Buzz crouched between their legs, fucking them hard and deep. For both, Trent saw Buzz as having a cruel smile on his face and pumping them hard with a long, thick cock as they cried out for him to slow down, give them more time, but, at the same time, arching their backs and clawing his bare buttocks in the ecstasy of being given exactly what they’d come on the cruise to find. Their purses were open on the bed beside them, and cash was streaming out of them--cash for Buzz.

Somehow Trent couldn’t see himself in that picture no matter how hard he tried to force his way in. He was disgusted with himself for even trying, but he still melted to the man. He still wanted it to be him in the place of those women, getting what those women were getting. Being cruelly treated, but loving every stroke of it. But there would be no open purse of his laying beside the copulating lovers. Trent had no money to give for sex. In this, he knew he was no different than Buzz. He would not pay for sex now, no matter how much he needed it. Maybe sometime in the future he’d be forced to. But not now, not even to have Buzz’s dick churning inside him.

“Mr. LeSur. Do you plan on joining us in the Gershwin set, or are you trapped in the ‘Stage to Screen’ program?”

Trent snapped out of his reverie. Standing next to him was a confused-looking Natalie, one of the women in the dance ensemble, waiting for him to lift her to match the position of the other two couples on the stage.

“Sorry,” Trent mumbled. “I guess I’m not really awake yet.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t cat around so much, you would be awake for the job you are paid to do here. And you aren’t moving as well today as usual, sweetheart. Calisthenics in the nighttime?”

This was projected from the third row in the audience with only a bit of acid. Trent knew the director considered him the best of the male dancers and, like all of the dancers, both male and female, the director, citing privilege, had bedded each and every one. He and Trent had parted on amicable terms, though, as the director realized he was too vanilla missionary for Trent and was just a bit intimidated by what Trent had shown him would arouse him to peak performance.

“It is a dream, sequence, love. But not quite that much asleep. Shall we go back to the top?”

Trent blushed and moved across to the wings from which he would make his entrance in this set.

In doing so, he brushed past Buzz, standing beside the piano Dean had been playing, and looking amused. Buzz also was giving Trent “the eye,” the look that Trent had come to understand as one of sexual interest. This confused Trent greatly, and he blushed again and turned his face as he moved into the wings.

This was all Buzz’s fault, Trent was thinking. The director hadn’t said what the musical backing for the Gershwin program was going to be. Trent shouldn’t have been surprised that it would be piano and saxophone and that the services of Dean and Buzz would be brought in for the program. But he was surprised, and he was disconcerted. Later, he saw that Buzz’s credit was given right there on the play bill in the frame outside the entrance to the Orpheum Theater. But he hadn’t bothered to look at the posted bill before. Between his pining for Buzz and the expert way both the Brazilian and the bartender of the Schooner Bar had taken care of him, he hadn’t been aware of too much else the past couple of days.

It was finding Buzz here, on the stage with him, that had brought back to Trent that he still wanted the saxophonist, probably more so with it looking like he couldn’t have him. And that had sent Trent into his reverie. If the guy just didn’t give him those looks, those looks of “I am going to possess you and you are going to love it,” Trent could maybe pull away from him.

But Buzz did give him those looks.

Somehow Trent made it through the rehearsal. He left as soon as they were released, however. He had the feeling that Buzz wanted to talk to him, but Trent was just too confused and embarrassed to remain. The director had continued to razz him about what he only suspected, but that Trent knew--that he had been royally fucked throughout the preceding night and then again earlier today and was off his mark as a result. He’d made these catty remarks even though Trent had made sure that he was right on point for the rest of the rehearsal. Perhaps, he thought, there still was a little resentment there that Trent had drifted away from the director.

Trent beat his usual retreat when he was feeling out of sorts. He went to his cabin straightaway, changed into a Speedo, and headed for the pool deck. He’d snooze and bake his jitters away. He didn’t have to be back at the theater until after dinner. They had a show at 7:00 p.m. and another one at 8:45, and then he was free for the last three days of the cruise. The next stop, in the morning, was the cruise line’s own Bahamian “adventure” island, Coco Cay. Unlike Nassau, Trent would get off there and enjoy the day at the beach--and he’d signed up for a boat tour from there to what was called Drug Island. The name intrigued him, and Trent was looking forward to getting away from everything he was being assailed with on the ship.

Buzz, the Brazilian, the bartender, and now even the stage director. Did he need to let the director fuck him again to solidify his position? He was signed on for seven more back-to-back Bahamas cruises out of Baltimore for the rest of the season, but what after that? Maybe he’d put moves on the director again and spend some time under him just to be sure. Trent had to think that the man was sending signals of wanting him again at the rehearsal today.

His timing was off and he had failed to read the ship’s entertainments schedule, because when he reached the pool deck, the sports director was just then organizing a “best looking man” contest by the main pool. Trent usually avoided the pool deck like the plague during any such nonsense. But today, as soon as he emerged on deck and started moving toward the more private area at the stern of the ship, the sports director, bull horn in hand, was on him immediately.

“And there we have another one, folks. A real hunk. You there, in the white bathing suit, five o-clock shadow, and movie star looks. We’re having just the contest for you. Come on over here and join the meat--I mean glamour--line.”

Trent smiled and waved and continued on his way, having no intention of becoming any part of such a contest, but the bullhorn sounded out again.

“You guys, along his path. Close up. Don’t let him get away. He’s a contender.”

And, the crowd of people being there for the laughs and to be entertained did just that, closing the path Trent was on toward the stern and cajoling him not to be a poor sport. The “don’t be a poor sport” did the trick. More than one of those jollying him along to play the game identified him as a dancer in the stage troupe. As part of the crew’s incentive to always be pleasant to the paying passengers, they were given both “Wow” and “Boo” cards that they could turn in to the customer services desk either praising or panning staff members. Just one “Boo” card might be enough to get Trent kicked out of his job. Seeing where refusal to play might lead, he gave a fake, but convincing smile, acting like his attempt to escape was all part of the game. He turned and trudged back to the side of the main swimming pool, where the sports director was gathering other players, a mix of actual hunks and of “just-for-the-fun-of-it” aging lard buckets.

A line of women judges had been rallied, and the men, in turn, were given five minutes to make up to the women and, thus, to win the contest.

Besides Trent, there was only one other serious contender. A young blond bodybuilder type, with a movie-star face and muscles popping out on his muscles as he flexed for the gasping and cheering women, was an obvious winner. And that was quite all right with Trent. Whereas the blond, who had a cheering crowd of other young men his age and of similar physique--all of them quite possibly college fraternity brothers on a class-skipping outing--played up to the women judges, Trent merely smiled, and in response to calls for the audience to show dance moves, exhibited a few for their benefit, but remained restrained and barely smiling.

The judges apparently took that as being sensual and mysterious and cheered for him as heartily as they had for the young blond bodybuilder. The blond’s friends booed Trent, but in an “all in fun” way, trying to push the candidacy of their college buddy. And the blond, clearly competitive, wasn’t looking too happy that Trent was getting the reception he was from the women judges.

All was for naught, however. At the end of the “contest,” the sports director revealed it had all been in fun as he brought out medals on ribbon lanyards for all of the contestants and the crowd applauded and gave hoots. Most of the contestants then dove into the pool. The blond turned to Trent and gestured that they go into the pool together, but Trent just smiled, shrugged, turned, and continued on his now-unimpeded journey to the more quiet stern area of the deck. He maintained his smiles and murmured to those who spoke to him as he passed through the crowd around the pool.

He was trembling slightly, though, when he reached the safety of the sparsely occupied loungers at the stern of the ship and took the same position he had the previous day when the Brazilian had approached him.

Trent was nervous in crowds. He didn’t really like attention from those pressing in on him. When he had revealed this phobia to the stage director earlier in the year and was asked why he then was interested in being on the stage, he simply pointed out to the director that the audiences in theaters were packed together, within touch of multiple other people in a crowded auditorium, whereas there were only a few people on the stage, spaced well apart usually, and actively moving, not just sitting there, static. The director had said he understood, but he had given Trent a weird look.

“And the lights are usually down over the audience,” Trent added. “I just pretend there’s no one out there past the first three rows. All of my attention goes to those rows, and then I’m OK. If the lights were up, I think I might hyperventilate.”

That night, as with every night, Trent did look out into the audience at the 7:00 p.m. show and, like every other night, he could only see as far into the theater as the third row, the lights on the stage only extending that far. He was surprised at something he saw, though. He saw the blond bodybuilder from that afternoon’s “best-looking man” contest at the swimming pool, and, strung out on either side of him were his buddies. Trent’s eyes kept going back to the young man, who appeared to be a couple of years younger than Trent, so still of college age. And each time his eyes went to the blond hulk, the young man appeared to be staring at him.

He didn’t have a belligerent expression on his face, but, rather, the familiar one Trent saw in a man who wanted him. This was a strange sensation for Trent. He only went with older men--and preferably men with money. The bodybuilder looked too young and fresh for Trent’s tastes. And yet his eyes kept going back to him, following the prominent curves of his bulging pecs and biceps, examining the handsome, almost wholesome appearing features of his face, the taper of his torso down to a narrow waist, the collegiate clothes he was wearing so well. And the bulge of his basket. It was almost a shock--something that nearly made him drop Natalie during a lift--when he realized that he was sexually attracted to the young man. Trent had never thought of lying with someone his own age or younger. It was a completely new sensation for him.

The blond was back for the 8:45 show, sitting once again front and center in the first row. He was alone this time, but, as with the earlier show, his eyes appeared to be following Trent around the stage. Whenever he thought Trent was looking at him, he smiled. And later in the program, at these moments he also spread his beefy legs and laid the palm of a hand on his basket.

It would have been sort of hard for Trent to misconstrue what the blond was signaling.

Trent assumed the young man would be standing at the door to the Orpheum Theater well after the crowd had cleared, waiting for the actors to get their makeup off, to change, and to emerge at the rear of the theater. And he was there, patiently waiting. Somehow he had figured out that the stage of the theater was at the very bow of the ship and that the rear entrances into the theater would have to be used by the cast as well.

“Hi, remember me from this afternoon?” he said in a deep voice when Trent emerged from the theater, accompanied by the three other male dancers. Only three appeared on the stage during a show, but a fourth one, all four taking turns, was always behind the stage, making the same costume changes as the others, and able to glide out and take the place of any dancer who faltered, sprained ankles on a pitching vessel being the most common reason why that would happen. During cruises with really rough seas, they sometimes had to improvise the ensemble, with more than one of the male or female dancers injured.

Trent murmured to the other dancers to go on, that he would hold up and talk to the built blond.

“Lucky sod,” one whispered at him. “When you’re done using him, can I take a tumble?” He laughed, but he went on with the other two, leaving Trent with the young blond outside the theater doors.

“Yes, of course I remember you,” Trent answered. “You were robbed this afternoon. You obviously should have been crowned king.”

“You would have been stiff competition in a fair contest,” the blond said. “My name is Clint.”

“I’m Trent,” Trent answered.

“Can I stand you a drink in one of the bars, Trent? A nightcap?”

“I’m pretty tired, Clint. Two shows takes a lot out of me. Is there a purpose in this?”

“I think you know what I want,” the young man answered. “Unless, of course, you don’t swing that way. And if you’re tired, you could just lay there with your legs open. I’d be happy to do all of the work.” He smiled, impressed by his own joke.

“You know how to sweet talk a guy, don’t you?” Trent answered with a grin of his own.

“Does that mean you’ll let me fuck you?”

Trent surprised himself with his answer. He didn’t go with men younger than he was. He liked older men; men with money. This Clint most likely had spent his last nickel to get on the ship with his buddies. Trent didn’t fuck younger men, let alone for free.

“The Schooner Bar on deck six OK with you?” he asked. “But just a nightcap and introductions, OK? I don’t really--” Trent hesitated. “I don’t really go with young guys. I don’t want to lead you on.”

“The Schooner Bar’s fine,” Clint answered. He put a hand on Trent’s forearm, and Trent didn’t flinch away. “And you’d be surprised how fast I can age if I need to. When we’re in the dark in a cabin, you won’t even be able to tell who is younger. You’ll know I can take care of you, though.”

They both laughed. Trent knew at that moment he’d let Clint fuck him--and Clint knew it too. Clint’s hand went to the small of Trent’s back, and the dancer didn’t shirk away from that either.

Trent didn’t think he knew why he’d picked the Schooner Bar, but he actually did know, down deep. Dean and Buzz had moved there after the show, along with Helen, the black songstress in the stage show, to extend the night and fulfill their own gig obligation by taking some of the Gershwin songs from the stage show to their normal late-night set at the bar.

Trent and Clint sat at a table, away from the bar, and talked quietly about who they were and what brought each of them to this cruise, while Trent took frequent looks over to where Buzz was playing. Buzz already had let a middle-aged redhead corral him. She was sitting at the table right beside where he was playing and was supplying him with drinks from the bar. She’d occasionally look around the room, sending daring looks at any possible competition, asserting in no uncertain terms that when the jazz session was concluded, Buzz was hers for the rest of the night.

It was slightly amusing to Trent that her eyes quickly traveled over him and Clint in these sweeps, not seeing the possibility that Trent might be competition as well--that Trent damn well wanted to be competition. That he wanted to win one of these days before the ship returned to Baltimore. He still couldn’t believe that the looks Buzz gave him didn’t signal sexual interest.

The woman’s eyes did linger on Clint, though, speculating about him and her chances with him. This did raise Trent’s sense of competition and made him more vulnerable to Clint’s advances. Although they were chatting mostly about innocuous topics, Clint slipped in something insinuating and probing in a sexual way every once in a while. And he let his hands wander. Seeing the woman show interest in Clint, Trent’s hands did a little wandering on Clint’s body himself, which the blond hunk naturally took as interest and surrender.

The supposition that Clint and his friends were fraternity brothers having gone AWOL from a university proved to be correct. But a second look at the young man and in talking with him about experiences in life, Trent could see that either Clint was lying up a “wealthier than you think” position in life or that Trent had misjudged his financial capability.

Would he still go with him--a younger man--if he could pay for it?

That was answered soon enough. Having cajoled Trent into a second drink, Trent watched him write in a hefty tip for the waiter--thank goodness the bartender who had fucked him earlier in the day wasn’t still on duty, Trent thought--and then, while he had the wallet out that had contained his sea pass, Trent saw Clint slip a fifty-dollar bill and a condom packet out, fold the money, and lay both beside Trent’s glass.

“Do you have a private cabin?” he asked in a steady voice that showed no sign of just how much that question was covering, but rather the confidence that he would get what he wanted. “I’m afraid I share mine with a couple of other guys. Although, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind watching, or even--”

“No, I don’t. I room with another one of the male dancers, and he’s straight and not particularly understanding.”

“There’s a male dancer who is straight?” Clint asked, and for the first time Trent heard a catch in the young hunk’s voice, like he’d never considered that this could ever be the case--and that, therefore, maybe there had been a chance he would have assumed incorrectly about Trent.

“A few. Not many,” Trent said, with a smile of amusement.

“I mean, I’ve always heard that it was a convenient cover for a rent-boy. I’m sorry if I assumed--”

“There’s nothing convenient about being a dancer. It’s hard work--and very athletic. But nothing to be sorry for,” Trent answered. “No wrong assumptions here.” He placed his hand over the fifty-dollar bill, palmed it, and moved it to his pocket. It left the condom packet sitting where it was. He’d made his decision back at the theater door. He’d been sexually aroused by the young blond--maybe as early as this afternoon at the pool. He certainly had a great body and a promising bulge at the crotch. It wasn’t his policy to go with younger guys, but what the hell.

“Maybe we can take a walk up on the pool deck.”

“I think they’re having a late-night barbeque at the pool,” Trent answered.

“But it’s a long ship. There are areas of darkness at both ends, I think. And it’s a warm night.”

Trent thought of the lounger he’d twice occupied on this cruise at the side of the rock climb tower at the stern of the ship. It was well away from the central pool area, it would certainly be dark there at this time of night, and it was straight up from this bar, just three decks.

“Maybe after the music is finished.”

“It’s already finished,” Clint pointed out.

And so it was. Dean was standing at the piano, gathering up sheet music. Buzz and the redhead already were gone. The saxophone was locked into its cradle next to the piano, as deserted as Trent was.

“You gonna let me do you on the pool deck?” Clint asked, suddenly sounding like a little boy, wondering if all of this had just been teasing, and not knowing if his arguments had worked or not. Not knowing what to do about his fifty if Trent just got up and walked out of the bar.

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

All resemblance to a schoolboy melted off of Clint when they had reached the shadows beside the rock-climbing wall at the stern of the ship.

They were standing, embracing, beside the same chaise lounge Trent had occupied twice before.

As soon as they reached the spot, Clint told Trent to strip, and he started doing so as well.

“You have done this before,” Trent said as Clint lowered his body over him on the lounge bed.

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Clint responded with a hoarse whisper.

Clint showed Trent that he had done it before. He was all domination and command. And this was the right key to Trent, who went totally submissive and aroused and was moaning even before Clint turned him onto his belly on the lounge, sat at the end of it, and leaned over and stuck his face into the crack between Trent’s butt cheeks.

Trent was already trembling from having seen the young man’s equipment. His cock was undersized in length, but it was perhaps the thickest one Trent had ever seen.

While Clint slurped at Trent’s hole, he slapped at Trent’s butt cheeks--hard enough to make Trent exclaim in pain. And hard enough to make Trent harden up at the rough treatment.

“This is how you want it, isn’t it?” Clint asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought so. It’s how I want to give it.”

When Clint pulled away and rose from the lounge, there was a brief moment when nothing was heard except the whimpers of Trent from having been thoroughly eaten out and his buttocks both slapped red and bitten hard. Then Trent heard the snap of latex on a cock and felt Clint’s arm go under his belly and raise his hips up. There was no lube other than the spit Clint had deposited while he was tonguing and sucking and biting at Trent’s hole. And then Clint was crouched over Trent’s hips, his legs on either side of the lounge, and he was impatiently stuffing Trent’s channel with the monstrously thick cock.

Trent cried out for Clint to have patience, to go slower, to give him more time to open to him. And Clint answered that by pushing harder, and leaning down to cover Trent’s back close. He latched onto Trent’s back at the base of his neck with his teeth and dug them in. Almost instantaneously he was in as far as he was going to get and started pumping Trent hard and fast.

The cock might not be long, but it was just the right size for the bulb to rub against Trent’s prostate again and again. Clint moved his powerful arms under Trent’s and then locked his fists behind Trent’s neck, trapping him helplessly in a full nelson hold. He then pulled Trent’s torso upright, bringing Trent to his knees. The maneuver tightened Trent’s channel, and he groaned and his eyes watered at the tormenting of his channel walls to accommodate the thickness of the cock.

He whimpered at the strength and cruelty with which Clint was fucking him.

“Doin’ you well, aren’t I?” Clint muttered in his ear before he bit into the lobe. “This is the way you want it, right?”

Giving a little cry, Trent whimpered a, “Yes, god, it’s good. Fuck me hard. Git it, git it, git it.” He wasn’t responding this way just to please a john. This was good for him. He wanted to be punished.

“Fuckin’ male whore. Gonna come for me? Gonna show me how much you want it?”

And in a spouting ejaculation, Trent did just that. Clint gave a low laugh and kept on pumping until he too shuddered and filled the bulb of his condom.

Then he released Trent and just let him fall, exhausted, to the surface of the lounger.

Trent heard him pull back from the lounge and the rustle of his clothes. Trent was still moaning at the strength of the taking.

“That was a good one. I’ll want to do it again before we get back to Baltimore,” Trent heard Clint mutter, and then the dancer was alone.

To think that Clint had been so polite and mild mannered earlier that he had almost lost out on this great fuck, Trent was thinking as he rolled over onto his back.

That’s when he realized he wasn’t really alone. He hadn’t even heard them. But they had been there all of the time, probably, watching and listening to Clint fuck him.

Clint’s buddies.

One by one they emerged from the shadows, naked, their hard dongs in one hand, clutching fifty-dollar bills in the other. The first guy approached the chaise lounge from the end, moved his legs on either side of it, and moved in toward Trent’s crotch. He dropped his fifty-dollar bill beside the lounge and looked down into Trent’s eyes.

“Are you going to--?”

“Yes, OK,” Trent answered with a bit of irritation. They were all hunks and he couldn’t say he hadn’t dreamed about this from time to time.

The young man then gathered Trent’s spread legs and spread them further and raised them, as he moved in, sliding his hard, curved, sheathed cock up into Trent’s hole, already reamed wide by Clint’s cock. The cock slid right in, deep. As the young man started to pump, Trent saw another hand drop another fifty-dollar bill on top of the first, and a second young man was at the head of the lounge, grasping Trent’s head between his hands and turning it up so that he could slide his cock between Trent’s lips.

It wasn’t long before Trent felt the man fucking his hole withdraw, only to be followed by another, thicker cock.

How many buddies did Clint have? Trent wondered. But it didn’t really matter how many there were. Trent knew that he would be servicing them all unless he broke away. And he just didn’t feel like breaking away from this.

An hour or more later, he rolled up to a sitting position on the lounge with a groan. He was alone--this time really alone. He didn’t know how long he’d been alone, when the last of the young men had pulled out of him and they had melted into the dark from whence they had appeared when Clint was finished with him. He reached down and picked up the bills scattered beside the lounge. $250. So, unless one of them had reneged, there had been five, plus Clint, whose fifty-dollar bill should be in Trent’s trouser pocket.

He patted the floor again where the bills had been, in case he’d missed one. His hand brushed against a spent condom. With another groan, he went down on his knees on the deck by the side of the lounge and collected up other condoms. Six of them. That made sense. He gathered them up and hobbled over to the ship railing and tossed them out and down toward the churning white-capped waves many decks below. He could only hope that the wind didn’t carry any of them back onto one of the balconies below.

He wasn’t angry or even embarrassed about what the young men had done to him. None of the ones who had followed Clint had been as rough as Clint was, and they hadn’t done Trent any real indignity. They had treated him like a male whore. But that was what he was. If they’d been back in Baltimore and had hired him to do an exotic dance for a fraternity party, he’d have let them do the same. He’d been in gang bangs before. And after the reaming of his hole that Clint had done with that extra thick cock of his, there had been no pain from the subsequent cocks he’d taken. If anything, there had been pleasure.

But the embarrassment to him was the evidence that they had left. Those spent condoms. Those he had had to toss away before someone from the crew found them here in the morning.

Pulling on his clothes, he struggled through the darkness along the deck, to the door into the corridor leading to the elevators at the Centrum atrium, the public space at the center of the ship that rose, an open space, from the fourth deck up to the top. He could still hear music coming from the swimming pool area, but it was more muted than it was when Clint had begun fucking him. They were winding down there.

When he got into the corridor, he looked at his watch. It was only slightly after midnight. The ship wouldn’t fully settle down for the night for another hour or more. He himself, though, felt like he’d been awake and lying under a man fucking him for days.

As he reached the elevators, he straightened up and attempted to look like he was just another young man aimlessly moving from entertainment venue to entertainment venue in the ship’s public areas. The sound of a woman singing in Spanish to the backing of a piano and a snare drum wafted up from the base of the Centrum atrium. Five others were waiting at the elevators when he approached, all of them evidently leaving the festivities at the swimming pool.

One couple got off on the eighth deck, the deck of the more expensive suites, the deck where the Brazilian’s cabin was. Trent had the urge to get off there too and see if the Brazilian was in his suite, and alone, and hoping that Trent would return to him. But he didn’t get off. He didn’t want to find that the Brazilian wasn’t alone or, worse, didn’t remember who Trent was.

Another couple got off on deck seven, where the balcony rooms were that didn’t cost an arm and a leg.

That left Trent and a middle-aged man. Two buttons were lit up. One for the third deck, where the exterior rooms with windows were and nearly as many interior rooms and deck one, Trent’s deck, where the staff lived mostly in small, double-occupancy cabins.

Trent could tell that the man was watching him, that he probably recognized Trent as one of the dancers and, like nearly everyone, it seemed, probably thought that Trent’s time and ass were for sale. Trent felt like he had some sort of sign blazoned on his chest announcing that he could be had for fifty dollars a fuck. Trent turned away from the man, willing him not to speak, praying that he wouldn’t ask Trent to go to his cabin with him.

He held his breath until, after opening its doors on deck three and dispensing the man, the elevator’s doors shut and Trent was all alone for the two-deck descent down to his level.

He walked down the narrow corridor toward the bow of the boat, where he shared an interior cabin with another dancer. He could see that the door to one of the exterior cabins near his was open, and by estimating distances, he thought that it must be that of the stage director.

He was right. As he drew nearer, the stage director stepped up to fill the space in the open doorway. He was wearing just sleeping shorts and had a glass of what was probably scotch in his hand. He watched Trent approach, giving Trent “the stare” that the young man knew so well.

He asked no questions about where Trent had been and just drew into the room a step as Trent reached the doorway. With a sigh, Trent turned toward the open door rather than toward the cross corridor that would lead to his interior cabin. He had known that the time for this would come. He had reasoned that out earlier in the day, when the director had made pointed comments about Trent’s sex life.

The cabin was small, but it had a porthole and the director had the cabin to himself. Trent shut the cabin door behind him, unbuttoned his shirt, and dropped his trousers, as, sitting on the side of the berth across the cabin, the stage director watched him and sipped on his scotch.

The director widened his stance as Trent approached him and went down on his knees between the man’s legs. The older man was still sipping his scotch, as Trent fished the director’s cock out of the fly of his sleeping shorts, cupped his balls with a hand, and opened his lips over the bulb of the cock.

The director fucked Trent with Trent on his back on the bed, his ankles hooked on the shoulders of the older man, and the director crouched between his legs. Trent arched his back and lifted his buttocks to give the director’s cock a smooth, straight glide directly inside him.

The director spoke for the first time. “You’ve been with another man. I can tell. He must have been a monster in thickness to open you up like this.”

“He was,” Trent answered, reaching over for the empty glass the director had dropped on the bed and running his tongue around inside it to pick up the last taste of the scotch.

“That saxophonist, Buzz?”

“No, not Buzz.”

“I thought you had the hots for Buzz.”

“I did . . . I do.”

“But it wasn’t Buzz?”

“No.”

“More than one?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Today or just tonight?”

“Whatever.”

“Six, maybe eight.”

“You are a fuckin’ whore.” It was said without malice.

“Yes.”

“Still the sweetest ass on the ship. Gorgeous body. Can’t get enough of you. But you go on like this, you’re gonna . . . flame out . . . young, you know.” His breath got more belabored as Trent could feel the man getting close to ejaculation.

Trent almost snorted at the incongruity of the director admonishing him about indiscriminate sex while he was pumping his ass--that he could even be engaging in a conversation like this during sex. Tired of just lying there and listening to the man huff and puff and feeling his cock slip in and out of a hole reamed so much wider earlier in the night than the director needed, Trent clinched his channel muscles on the cock, arched his back, dug his fingernails into the plump flesh of the director’s ass, and murmured, “Oh, Daddy; oh, Daddy, cream me. Fuck me so good.”

It was time to reach the climax of this.

The director gave a little cry as he came, lowered his chest onto Trent’s chest, and took Trent’s lips in his for a brief kiss. “Oh, god, how I’ve missed you. You’re the best.”

Trent marveled that the man hadn’t even noticed that Trent had just laid there, docilely, in the same old, same old missionary position while the director had spiked him.

Without saying more, the director made clear, by pushing Trent up full onto the berth after he had ejaculated and stretching out beside him that Trent would be spending the night there, with him, in his cabin, with the director’s cock inside him.

Trent didn’t mind. His own roommate snored.