Cruising Cruise

I leaned into the dressing table mirror at Manny’s, the male-only club attached to the back of the Manhattan Men Male Strip Club on North Albany Avenue inland from Atlantic City, New Jersey. I was naked, having come off the pole on stage that way. My face and torso were splattered with small particles of gold metallic flakes, which were designed to catch the light while on stage and enhance the view of my body, but which were a bear to get off after the performance. But they gave me the impression of being clothed, so I didn’t rush to get myself covered.

Delmonte, one of the other dancers, came into the dressing room and came in close behind me, his big, black hands settling down on my shoulders and then slowly gliding down my chest, flicking off gold flakes as he went. I sighed and leaned back into him, as he buried his face into the hollow of my neck and we melded into each other.

There were a variety of male dancers at Manny’s. There were T-girls who did specialty shows of their own—mostly on different nights from when I danced there. There were tops like the black bull, Delmonte Taggert, who gave submissive patrons a thrill upon payment of a fee. And then there were a range of smaller-bodied, submissives, like me, who appealed to the dominant patrons. Some of us, like me, were all-American, very fit-bodied blonds. Others were more effeminate and limp wristed. We mixed and matched, performing sex acts with each other on stage as well as dancing the poles in solo performances. Somehow we managed to take care of most of the fetishes our patrons came in with.

Delmonte and I were a popular pair—a muscular, dominant black bull on a smaller, trimmer, submissive blond. Delmonte fucked me on stage and he fucked me wherever else he wanted to.

He lifted his head and we looked at each other in the mirror.

“There are three guys from the last set who are at the stage door. They want to take us both out.”

“They look OK to you?” I asked.

“They’re service types—military, it looks like. Good bodies. One’s in his twenties and two maybe late thirties or early forties. The two seem to be showing the ropes to the younger guy. They flashed big wads. They’re good with two-fifty each plus dinner and drinks, a hundred each in chips at a casino, and the room.”

“I couldn’t go beyond 2:00 a.m. I need to be home before 3:00.”

“That should be doable. You said you needed some cash. This is what’s on offer tonight.”

“OK. Did they mention where?”

“The Hardrock at S. Pennsylvania and the Boardwalk, on the ocean. You’ve got wheels, don’t you? You could drive.”

“Sure. You can tell them we’ll meet them there.”

“I already did. If you wouldn’t go, I was going to give it to Sean.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes, please,” he murmured, his face burying itself into my throat again and his hand gliding down, encasing my cock, and stroking. Sighing, I leaned back into him and let him have his way with me.

* * * *

The men’s names were Steve, Jack, and Pete. Delmonte had been right. They were sailors—ammunition carriers—from the Naval Weapons Station in Monmouth, out on furlough after what they described as a long captivity, and they were horny as hell. They all had the muscles to prove they spent their time hauling heavy ammunition. Steve and Jack, big burly, thuggish, and, I thought, sexy as hell—because I liked them unpolished, cocky with the right to be so, and sex hungry—were experienced in this. The younger one, Pete, obviously was along for the education. I got the definite impression that whatever Steve and Jack planned for Delmonte and me, they planned to finish by fucking Pete. He was a pretty boy in contrast to them.

I did wonder if Pete realized that plan.

They spotted Delmonte and me dinner at the hotel casino’s signature Hard Rock Café and we then went to the gambling floor. Steve and Jack were all over me. I was wearing black satin trousers and a tight, black mesh athletic T that showed my cut torso off well. Delmonte, who dressed in baggy clothes—with an athletic T that sagged off his bulging pecs—that almost challenged others to doubt he had the magnificent chocolate body all of us knew he had, instinctively knew that his assignment was to prepare Pete, so he was hands on with the young sailor, who was totally lost to him.

Delmonte and I each were given a hundred dollars in chips and we were good enough to remain even for the two hours we played the slots. The sailors were on leave and celebrating. They lost big. Delmonte made sure they’d handed over the seven-fifty each to him and me beforehand, though, so we didn’t care much what they lost afterward. As long as they were playing and losing, the drinks were on the house. So, the three of them were three-sheets to the wind when we all stumbled upstairs to the hotel room they’d booked.

Delmonte and I weren’t drunk, though.

The bed was big, which was a good thing, because all five of us fucked on it at once. I lay on my back, legs bent and spread, while, one after the other, Steve and Jack knelt between my thighs and fucked me. I did more work with Steve than with Jack. With Steve I had to lift my pelvis to his need, hook my knees on his hips, clutch his biceps, and rock my hips, fucking myself on his buried shaft. I started doing the same with Jack, but he wanted full control. He slapped me a couple of times to make me bend to his will, put my ankles on his shoulders, palmed my lower back to raise my hips with one hand, and put a chokehold on my throat with the other to hold me in full control. Then he banged the hell out of me.

While Steve and Jack tag teamed me, Delmonte had Pete bend over the bed and he fucked him interminably in a doggy fuck. Steve and Jack weren’t finished with me. They sandwiched me between them, Steve on his back and me riding him, facing his head, in a cowboy, and with Jack saddling up behind me, penetrating, and the two doubling me.

I had told the guys when I had to leave by, so they weren’t surprised when I pulled out of the pile and went to take a shower. When I came back, all three—Steve, Jack, and Delmonte—were showing Pete what could be done three guys on one and were teaching him new and interesting positions.

If Pete didn’t know the plans his buddies had for him before, he certainly knew now.

I drove north, catching route 87, Atlantic Brigantine Boulevard, and then toward the ocean into Brigantine Beach on Harbour Beach Boulevard and to the marina on West Shore Drive, where I lived with “Uncle” Carl, who wasn’t really my uncle, and where Carl kept the charter fishing boat he leased and was saving up to buy. We lived in an apartment above a tackle shop at the marina.

I helped Carl—Carl Wheaton—when I could with the charter boat and I would have liked to be able to do it more. I loved working on the boat and sailing out to sea on it. And I loved Carl too. He’d pulled me out from underneath a bridge where I’d been hoboing it, having left a terrible family situation. We told everyone he was my uncle and was raising me, but that was just to keep them from looking closer at our situation. He knew I’d started working in Atlantic City since leaving high school and getting ready to go to the community college he was insisting I go to “to make something of myself.” He didn’t know I also was stripping. He thought I was waiting tables. I was. But I also was dancing on tables and stripping on them, but he didn’t know that, or need to know that.

I’m sure he knew I was having sex with men. He was tolerant about that, but, again, I don’t think he realized I was taking tricks for money. I wasn’t doing that for myself. He was saving to own the boat he leased so he could be fully in business. He didn’t know that I was saving to chip in on buying the boat as well. I loved going to sea. I didn’t need to go to community college to do what I wanted to do—to work with Carl in a charter fishing boat business.

The lights were out in the apartment when I got home before 3:00 a.m. I knew they would be. Carl had a charter to take out in five more hours. Sleep or no sleep, I wanted to be there to go out to sea with him. I never felt more alive than on the fishing vessel out in the Atlantic.

I wasn’t going to get a lot of sleep, I realized, as I stripped and slipped into bed. With a low grunt, Carl turned to me, moved a strong, muscular arm over me, and pulled me to him. He turned me on my side, nestling me into his mature, muscular body. He was naked and in erection, his shaft pressed against the small of my back.

I whispered, “Oh, fuck, yes,” as a hand came around, fanned out on my lower belly, and pressed up, rolling my buttocks up. I reached around, grasped his cock, and put in in position. With a half dozing sigh from him and a gasp from me, he penetrated. He maintained the pressure on my belly, coordinating the rhythm of pressing me up and back with the deep thrusts of his cock. His other arm came around and went to my throat, arching my back and pulling my head into his chest.

I lay there, totally in his embrace, fully possessed by his moving cock, panting and moaning low. Once I had fallen into the cadence he’d set with the hand on my belly of rocking against his moving cock inside me, his hand moved down, encased my cock, and he stroked me to a completion. His ejaculation came in several small jerks and strong flows. He breeded me three times. I shuddered and emitted a gasp of pleasure with each breeding flow. When he was drained, he gave a low grunt and I felt him relax. My mind went to the sensation of him going flaccid inside me. Throughout he hadn’t been fully awake.

I slowly drifted off to sleep, purring. Three men had fucked me today before this, but only now had I been fully sexually satisfied.

* * * *

“You really like working on a boat on the ocean, don’t you,” Delmonte asked. “You really light up when you talk about it.”

We were backstage at Manny’s, waiting to go on and dance our hearts out and our bodies naked, and when Delmonte had asked if this was what I was going to do all summer, I told him about what else I was doing—going out on a charter fishing boat from Brigantine Beach. I didn’t mention “Uncle” Carl. I hadn’t told anyone else at the theater about the charter boat service and only mentioned it to Delmonte because he said he had signed up to work a cruise in the Caribbean out of Key West, Florida.

“It pays well—really, really well, if you include the tips. It’s a gay men’s cruise going around to various islands and laying on the gay nightlife before cruising away to the next island. For the countries that repress gays, we put the word out we’re hovering in international waters off their coast, and guys come out to us to party. Each cruise they hire some young guys like me to entertain at night and to hang around by the pool and elsewhere during the day and give the men on the cruise whatever they’re willing to pay for. The guy keeps half of whatever he makes this way under the table, plus he’s paid a regular contracted fee on the books for the stage entertainment. I did it a couple of summers ago, and the talent booker, Tony Castilain, just contacted me again. He’s booking guys.”

“Wow, that really sounds like something different. And you say you made a lot of money from that?”

“Yep, two fourteen-day cruises, six weeks employment altogether, and, if I remember right, I came away with about fifteen grand. Tony is coming by tomorrow night to see if I have anyone I can recommend to audition for him. You interested? You’d be terrific, and it’s obvious you like sea cruising.”

What I did with Carl wasn’t exactly sea cruising—and not at all like Delmonte was talking about—and six weeks. That was a long time to be away. Carl would have to find someone else to help him. On the other hand, fifteen grand. I’d saved up two. Carl needed maybe thirty thousand as a down payment to take over the charter boat and start on his own fully owned business. I wondered how much of that he’d saved already. Maybe if I did this cruise thing, Carl’s—and my—dream could get a kick start. Just six weeks of work.

Work on my back, though. But what was it I was doing here, now? I wasn’t making money from the dancing at Manny’s. I was making money from the occasional hookup from being seen dancing at Manny’s.

Tony Castilain was my vision of what a man doing what he was doing—procuring male whores for a floating brothel—would be like. He was roly-poly, loud, bald, ugly enough to be attracting, garishly dressed, and with multiple large-stone rings on both hands to reflect the overhead lighting as he gestured broadly of the great things he’d heard about me from Delmonte and of the great things he could do for me if I passed his audition. He’d be tolerable enough in a doggy fuck, where I didn’t have to look into his face. He was assuming I wanted the job and, despite being put off by him personally, the more he told me about the arrangement, the more I did want the job.

The audition started on familiar territory—in Castilain’s room in the Ceasar’s Atlantic City casino hotel room, on the bed, with Delmonte fucking me in one of the routines we used on the stage at Manny’s. Half way through, though, Castilain, who had been standing off to the side, stroking a not-long, but beer-can thick cock, pushed Delmonte aside. He was more into the buildup than the final liftoff, though. With Delmonte holding me down, Manny fucked me with his ring-studded hand to the sphincter rim, with four fingers, declaring all of the time that he was going to fist fuck me. I bore with that, giving him the sounds he wanted to hear, and he eventually backed away from that form of fuck, mounted me in a missionary position, and fucked me to his completion. I didn’t get the doggy position I would have preferred, but I managed.

I must have passed the audition, because he offered me a contract for two summer voyages, with the sole proviso that “You, have to pass muster with Mr. Michelson too.”

It turned out that Sten Michelson, usually resident in L.A., and able to make millions there, also had a place on Key West, and he was the one to put together the gay male cruises in the Caribbean.

“We’ll pay to send you down to Key West to be interviewed by Mr. Michelson,” Tony said. “He has last say on the crew for his cruises.”

* * * *

Still panting heavily, I let my buttocks sink back down on the bed. I was on my back, legs splayed and bent, feet flat on the mattress. I brushed the pillow off my face. In the final throes of the fuck, Michelson had pulled the pillow over my head, lifting and forcing it down rhythmically, controlling my breath, making me gasp and gag and suck in air as possible, taking my mind off the shaft punishing me deep in my core, and making me worry that snuff was his idea of a good fuck. He obviously wanted me to know that, if he hired me, my life was his.

I looked over at the sliding glass doors out onto the balcony of his apartment overlooking Mallory Square, the docks area of Key West, and beyond his heavy, somewhat gross, but completely unapologetically body leaning into the doorframe, to where I could see the cruise liner, The King Neptune, one of Royal Caribbean’s smallest, charter fleet of cruise vessels, anchored in the Caribbean off the shore. Michelson was a huge man. He was old, probably in his late forties or early fifties. And he was hirsute, curls of salt-and-pepper hair swirling everywhere, and fat, rotund, with two rolls of well-fed and highly liquored belly fat, but he was also strong and muscular. He was huge everywhere, including having an enormously thick and long cock, now quickly in full erection again, as he stroked it up with one hand for another go at me and smoked a cigarette with the other and watched me on the bed, struggling to regain my breath. He wasn’t the least bit self-conscious that he was a gross older man manhandling a young, movie star-handsome blond.

As if he could guess what I was thinking, he said. “There will be many old, out-of-shape men on board this pleasure cruise expecting pleasure from the young men I hire for the job you seek. You will have to give them what they want for what they are paying. Do you want to withdraw your application?”

“I like older men just fine. Come back to bed. Fuck me again,” I murmured.

“What was that you said?”

“Fuck me again. Screw me. You’re a hung stud,” I said, louder. Now that I was here, I wanted this job.

Giving a snort and a laugh, he slid the glass door open, flipped his cigarette over the balcony and strutted back to the bed. He came down onto the bed on his knees between my thighs. I raised my chest, reached down, and found his erection under the rolls of fat, but he grunted and slapped me twice, sharply across face, and when I fell back onto the bed, he grasped my wrists, forcing my arms above my head.

“There will be those who want it rough too,” he growled.

I grabbed the top of the headboard and just managed to suck in air as he reached for the pillow and pressed it over my face.

He let his heavy body pin mine to the bed, additionally depriving me of air to breathe, managed to position his cock on his own, forced himself inside me, and fucked me again.

Later as I was recovering again on the bed and he’d returned to smoke at the balcony door, he said, “The King Neptune displaces forty tons, it can accommodate a thousand passengers, but these cruises will book only about seven hundred as most will want rooms of their own to play in as they personally want—and at the prices we demand, they can afford it. We have added X-frames and other such devices to the rooms. Ships this small don’t have all of the amenities most in the Royal Caribbean fleet have, but they have what is needed to please men cruising for men. The ship is equipped with over four hundred crew—all men. Twenty of those, including you, will solely be there to entertain the passengers on the ship’s stage and anywhere else the men want to fuck them.

“There’s a tender boat out at the docks with a King Neptune sign on it. Tony Castilain is there and will have a contract for you to sign. I’m taking a shower now. Be gone when I finish there, but be back here at 11:00 tonight. You’ll be spending the night in my bed.”

And that was how I found out I’d passed the audition for two summer sailings of The King Neptune.

* * * *

My first night at sea on The King Neptune as it floated from Key West toward the first stop, the Bahamas, wasn’t supposed to be a working evening, but Tony Castilain, who was on the ship and managing the fees for service for his assigned twenty male prostitutes and members of the crew being rented out to passengers made clear that we were on duty and available twenty-four-seven from the moment we boarded the cruise ship. And we always had to dress for the part.

Thus, I dressed in black satin—a long-sleeved shirt, open almost down to the navel, gauzy harem pants, and “hardly there” open-toed sandals on bare feet—and went to the music bar. I perched on a stool where there was a bank of them around the grand piano, where an older man was playing bygone-era ballads, and a well-built man, in white linen trousers and an Hawaiian shirt, also open almost down to the navel, sat on the stool beside me and handed me one of two tropical drinks he had arrived with. I smiled and accepted the drink.

Ever since I had helped run the lifejacket drill an hour after we’d gotten under way, men had been ogling me—and the other male prostitutes on offer. I’d stuck pretty close to Delmonte, who had done the cruises before and knew the ropes, so we were a striking pair—a relatively small, trim blond and a hunky black bull. We were easy to spot as on offer, because every guy available for a fee wore a gold metal choker with a charm hanging from it in the shape of an erect cock and a set of balls. We were to wear it at all times, only taking it off if we had some legitimate reason not to be in play. If we went on on-shore excursions, we could take the charm off the chocker but not the choker itself. I didn’t intend to take it off much. I was here to maximize my profit.

And although Tony said we wouldn’t be in play that first afternoon and night, we were to walk around the ship to feed the passenger’s fantasies and encourage them to buy later.

The man was muscular, in good shape, and not bad looking, at least in the body. His face was angular, a bit on the craggy side, and he was bald. From what I could see he also was full-body tattooed. What I could see on his chest and forearms, though, had been skillfully done and appeared to be in a coordinated pattern of swirls and colors. He said his name was Kirk, which coordinated with the name on the passenger badge he wore. The color of the badge identified him as a premium passenger. He made clear he’d seen my gold choker and the cock charm by touching it and giving me a smile after I’d taken the drink from him. That’s when I noticed, the lighting hitting his face just right, that there was a scar going from the top of his right ear down to his lower lip.

The man now had an aura of danger about him.

We chatted for a few minutes between the tunes being played on the piano about the drinks—too sweet and girly—the cruise boat—nice enough for the size and more dumpy-looking passengers than he’d like to see; he’d thought the cruise would be more for young swingers—the places the cruise was going to—the system for hooking up they had here—and that he wanted to fuck me. He was straightforward about that want, which I found refreshing.

It was then that he took the silver poker chips from a pocket and plunked them down on the top of the piano beside the coaster I’d put my half-drunk “whatever” tropical drink on. The poker chips were bought by passengers from Tony Castilain to be presented to the male prostitutes and appropriate crew members for sexual services. Gold ones were for BDSM sex; silver ones for regular anal sex; blue ones for blow jobs; red ones for massages; and white ones just for conversation, meals together, and “walk around.” The prostitute’s accounting was accomplished simply by turning his collected chips back to Tony.

When I entered his cabin, I was facing an X-frame that had been set against the wall next to the glass door leading out onto his balcony. I had been told that selected cabins had outfitted with these, and other sexual torture devices. My first thought was that he’d bought a silver chip but meant to have a gold chip’s services. I trembled as, closing the door behind us, He embraced me, both of us standing, from behind, buried his lips in the hollow of my throat, and slowly disrobed me. I turned my face to his and we kissed deeply as his hands roamed all over my body.

When he came around in front of me, he’d taken his shirt off and I saw the pockmarks—healed bullet wounds?—marking his lower torso. My first man on the ship and I was afraid. Was he going to demand more than he paid for? There wasn’t a chance in hell I could fight him off from taking whatever he wanted. Then what would he do to me. We were on a closed container. The only way out was over the side and into the water. He was muscular and strong. The tattooing, covering the left side of his body, across his pecs and down his arm, was of an oriental vessel on a restless sea. The pock marks had been incorporated into waves, so the wounds came before the tatting.

He went on his knees in front of me, grasped my buttocks in his strong, separating, and squeezing hands, and gave me head while holding me under his control, me rocking against him and moaning. He stood, possessed my mouth with his, and frotted our cocks together. He had lost his trousers and briefs. He was bigger than I was and uncut. He docked the cocks, pulling his foreskin over my bulb, and stroked us together as he became more insistent, controlling in the mouth work.

When he picked me up in his arms, I was afraid he’d move to the X-frame, but he didn’t. He carried me to the bed, where, over the next two hours he was a lover. He was an expert, fucking me in several exotic positions. The positions were athletic but not overly taxing—more different from the norm. Most I was familiar with, but they were coming in review at a good time—at the beginning of a two-cruise orgy.

The more active ones included the Crab, with Kirk on his back and me on top of him, supported by both my hands and feet buried in the mattress on either side of him, me facing the ceiling as he thrust up and I rode him; the Jockey, with me stretched out on my belly, tail lifted, and Kirk on top of me, supported by his hands and knees, and riding me like I was his horse; and the Bumper Cars, with me face down and stretched out, my back arched, supported by my elbows digging into the mattress, and Kirk mounted of me, reversed, his legs hugging my sides, his fists buried in the mattress, and riding my tail in reverse.

The more intimate positions—and the one we finished in—the Lotus, had Kirk sitting on the bed, legs folded in front of me, and me sitting in his lap, on his cock, facing him, and in his close embrace, as we kissed and rocked against each other, both of us enjoying the in-and-out movement of his shaft inside me, and undulating of the muscles of my passage walls over his thick and long cock.

To the extent that there was anything of the thug about Kirk, it was not displayed on this first night of the cruise. In the early hours of the morning, I woke, showered, and left him sleeping on the bed, softly snoring.

Returning to my own small cabin—I had been assigned one so that there would always be someplace I could take a paying passenger if we wanted privacy and couldn’t find it anywhere else—I thought that, if the whole cruise went this way, it would be smooth sailing.

But, of course, the whole cruise wasn’t going to go that way.

* * * *

The sun was still high when The King Neptune eased out of harbor at Nassau, in the Bahamas, and headed southeast toward the next port call, the Turks and Caicos, so the swimming pool area at the top of the ship had become the gathering place of choice. Delmonte and I were there, on strategically located lounge beds poolside, and were being ogled by a multitude of men. Delmonte, big, black, a bull, was rubbing sun screen on my skimpy Speedo-clad body as I stretched out on my belly on the lounge bed. He was making it as much a massage as a sun screen lather, and we were very much aware that most of the eyes at the crowded pool were following every glide of his beefy, brown hands and fingers.

We were doing our jobs.

“There must be hundreds of men here,” I murmured to Delmonte. “Are the two of us expected to lay down for all of them?”

Delmonte laughed. “Maybe only fifty apiece, although you have to take on more than I do. Most of these guys look like they want to top. They look more scared of me than horny to fuck me. It’s you most of them want to fuck.”

“Well, that’s certainly reassuring,” I said. That, of course, was a sarcastic response. At the moment, though, I felt I’d have no trouble handling this. The Kirk of last night had looked like a thug, but he’d been a lover. And today, in Nassau, it was just a couple of older guys happy just to have a young looker to walk around with.

“But seriously,” Delmonte continued. “I’ve been told on the sly that there are far fewer paying passengers on the cruise than advertised—maybe only about 450. But they’re paying through the nose, so the cruise is still a profitable venture. And it isn’t just the twenty rent-boys Tony is herding around here who they can feed on. Most of the crew is available to the passengers too. The contracts of those who come into direct contact with the passengers includes sexual servicing clauses. It’s not just us. We’re just the icing on the cake. And, speaking of which, now that we have their attention, we’d better separate and earn our keep.”

With that, Delmonte left me, performed an excellent dive into the pool, a maneuver that was watched by nearly everyone at the pool and caused an audible sigh, and did some laps across the lap of the pool, with, even as crowded as it was, a lane always being cleared for him to pass by. After several laps, he ended up backed against the wall of the pool on the opposite side from where I was lounging. He fanned his arms out from his body on the lip of the pool and smiled and chatted at a gathering group of ogling men.

Not long after he left, two big bruisers—maybe early forties muscle-bound teamsters on the most expensive vacation of their lives, moved in on me, each perching on the lounge bed on either side of me, turned toward me in the confined space they were making even more confining for me.

“Hi, I’m Frank,” said the one to the right of me. “I think your black friend missed a couple of spots on your back with the sunscreen. Maybe I could—”

“Sure, why not,” I answered. “I’m Jason.”

“I thought your name was ‘Sweet Piece of Ass,’” he said. He already was pulling my Speedo down and off my legs, letting me know what part of my body he thought Delmonte had neglected applying sunscreen to. A silver poker chip was dropped by my face too, letting me know that he’d paid to be very familiar with me. And very familiar he got, as well. Most of what he was applying sunscreen to were my buttocks orbs, which he more massaged than patted. I raised my pelvis for him as a thumb entered my ass.

Not to be ignored, the beefy guy on my left dropped a blue poker chip in front of my face. “I’m Jake,” he said. “I’m badly in need of a blow job.” To prove that, he pulled an erection out of his bathing suit and stroked it. His other hand had snaked under my belly and was playing with my cock, squeezing the head of it and worrying my piss slit with his pinky.

They were going to do me here at the pool, with over a hundred other guys here—and not just here. They were going to watch me get fucked. They were going to get their jollies without having to invest with Tony in any chips. It occurred to me that there should be a fee and poker chip for voyeurs.

But before Jake got his cock stuffed in my mouth and Frank mounted me, I saw that not all of the other men at the pool were watching this action. Somehow a guy across the pool had come up with a blue chip as well, and Delmonte was now sitting up on the lip of the pool, his spread legs dangling in the water, and an old guy was crouched between Delmonte’s thighs, hovering in the water, and was sucking the black bull’s cock. Delmonte was guiding the guy’s head with his hands. A multitude of men were gathered around, in the pool and on the terracing around the pool and were watching that action.

This initiated action all around the pool, much of it between passengers rather than with a designated male prostitute. I gathered that this was just what the cruise directors wanted to happen—that young men like Delmonte and me weren’t all of the entertainment—we were meant to be the catalyst for the passengers entertaining each other.

Before I could sink into these thoughts, though, I became occupied with the pain-pleasure of being fully used. I was gagging on Jake’s shaft stuffed into my throat, and Frank was up on the lounge bed, on top of me, crouched over my raised hips, clutching them between strong, calloused hands, his shaft deep inside my ass channel, and pumping me hard and fast to a chorus of “Spike him” and “Fuck him hard” and the rise and fall of collective sighs as he did just that. He came and left. Another silver chip was dropped in front of my face, and another guy was on top of me, mounting, penetrating, and fucking me. And then another.

Afterward, I lay there, stretched out on my back on the lounge bed, panting and moaning. The pool area was clearing out. Clouds had come across the sun. I looked at the pool. Delmonte was gone, no doubt in some cabin somewhere, collecting a silver poker chip.

No more chips were being invested in me. They were expensive and it was early in the cruise. Men were only beginning to learn what they meant, what they bought, and where to get them. Delmonte and I had just demonstrated to them at the pool what they bought. Those who were interested and not yet in the no were off finding out what they cost and where to get them. Many others had use the orgy Delmonte and I caused to hook up with each other.

This was how it was done on the cruise and it was done for the afternoon—or so I thought.

As I lay there, two figures loomed between me and whatever light from the sun was getting through the clouds. Two men stood there. Mean-looking muscle men, not older than their mid-thirties. They looked like tattooed thugs. They were tattooed thugs.

They both were holding gold poker chips.

They manhandled me down into the bowels of the ship, to one of the smaller double cabins with a porthole but no balcony. There was both a X-frame and a padded bench there, with restraints at the base of the four legs. The equipment took up nearly all of the available space in the small cabin. Harvey and Clem didn’t use the X-frame, but they did use the bench and the bed, repeatedly. They bound me to the bench, wrists and ankles restrained, and they took turns paddling my buttocks and doggy fucking me. They took me in several positions on the bed, both individually and in a double penetration.

The dinner hour on the ship stretched to 9:00 p.m. All three of us missed dinner that night.

* * * *

The King Neptune’s departure from Kingston, Jamaica, was a late one, and darkness was falling and lights were flickering on across the city as the cruise ship moved out to sea. I went to one of the bars for a drink and took it out onto the deck to watch the island slip away. It was the first time I’d been out of the cabin for over a day and a half. After being used and abused by Harvey and Clem, Tony had told me to take a day off to recover and to rest in my cabin.

“You earned enough for three days,” he said—probably to let me know that such days off only came when one of his guys had been overachieving. “You do know that accepting a gold chip is your option? The contract doesn’t obligate you to go that far if you don’t want to.”

No, I didn’t know that. But that was a very good thing to know. I sort of wondered why he’s held off on telling me that.

I bellied up to the ship’s rail and watched the city of Kingston recede in the distance. I would have liked to get off the ship and explore the city, but I had, in fact, needed the day for recovery in my cabin. There would always be the next cruise—if there was a next cruise.

As I stood there, a man came in close behind me and put his arms around me. I turned my head to see that it was Kirk, the mysterious one—the thuggish man with healed bullet and slash wounds who, nonetheless, had been a lover in bed. That was OK. I could manage what he had wanted in sex.

He nuzzled his face into my throat and kissed me. One of his hands glided into the gap in my shirt and fingers went to the bar in my right nipple and played with it. The other hand showed me a poker chit—it was too dark to see what color it was, which he then slipped into my pocket—and then moved down my belly to my crotch, where he unzipped me, extracted my cock, and stroked it. I rocked back into his embrace, moaning and sighing.

This was good. This was what I needed to get back into the saddle on this job.

“I looked for you today,” he whispered into my ear. I felt the hard need of him at the small of my back, he was rising and falling slightly on his toes, rubbing his erection against me. “I wanted to explore Kingston with you—to explore you—but I couldn’t find you.”

“It was a day of rest,” I answered. “Sorry. I would have enjoyed the . . . exploring . . . as well.”

“There’s this evening. We can have dinner together, and then we can go to my cabin again and I’ll fuck the hell out of you.”

“Yes,” I murmured. His kind of fucking would be a balm for the tasking Harvey and Clem had subjected me to the previous day. But little did I know.

Dinner was very nice. He was very attentive to me and kept drinks coming. After dinner, though, he took me, half drunk, to his cabin, stripped me, hung me on the X-frame, gagged me with a ball gag, and whipped and fucked the hell out of me bound to the X-frame—just like he said he was going to do but that I didn’t focus on.

Later in the night, when I got away from him, and stumbled back to my cabin, I found the poker chip in my pocket. It was a gold one.

Never again on those cruises would I make assumptions about how a guy looked or acted or had treated me before the next time he fucked me.

* * * *

It wasn’t a cruise liner, but it seemed almost as big as The King Neptune when I and a couple of the other guys with the gold collars and cock charms were shuttled from our ship out to the sleek white mega yacht floating just beyond whatever territorial waters the Cayman Islands tried to control. The man—maybe early thirties, toned, tanned, in command, and arrogant—standing at the top of the ladder and inspecting us as we climbed up out of the shuttle was introduced as Oleg. He brazenly ogled each of us as he went by him at the top of the ladder and touched us where and how he wanted. He wasn’t a Russian oligarch. He was the son of a Russian oligarch, which was probably even more dangerous to be playing with.

Tony hadn’t coerced us. We’d volunteered after he told us what the deal was. Delmonte opted out, but they were more interested in submissives than tops.

“They’ll supply the tops,” Tony said, “and I won’t lie to you. They’ll be power tops who are demanding, and once you’re over there, you’re in their control to demand what they want.”

But the money being offered was great—more than for a gold chit, which should have told me something right there—and I already was of the mind to make as much as I could off this one cruise, doing whatever it paid top dollar for, and not doing the second cruise. Sign on for anything and everything, make a killing while hoping I didn’t get killed, and pull out with as much as I could get. Kirk had taught me I wasn’t in control here and I wasn’t likely ever to be.

We played with Oleg and his friends all day on his mega yacht, while the passengers from The King Neptune were spending the day on the island, in George Town. Tony had arranged the play date for us. He also supplied the drugs, which kept the other prostitutes and me happy, high, and dancing on the tables and writhing on the benches and beds. We weren’t confined to the ship, but were sent out on a small fleet of jet skis to race and play dodge-em. I learned you could fuck on a jet ski. I was reminded that you could fuck in a bathtub and on a sofa and on top of a bar, taking more than one man. I learned that Oleg grew to like me best and that Oleg played rough, including oversized dildos, restraints, whips, the ever-favorite X-frame, and a revolver that may or may not have had any live bullets in it.

Throughout it all the drugs and liquor kept coming, making it all fun, bearable, and floating in a haze.

When the prostitutes from The King Neptune were gathering at the top of the ladder to return to the shuttle to take them back to the cruise ship, leaving at 4:00 the next day, Oleg had me held back, spirited down to the master cabin, held down and fucked by the two thugs restraining me while Oleg waved off the rest.

When Oleg appeared, he said, “How would you like to go cruising with me for a while rather than on that cruise ship?” And then he answered for me too. “Well, of course you would.”

And then he fucked me again.

* * * *

I had taken control, turning him, only now coming fully awake, onto his back, and, after sucking his cock into his full wakefulness, moved up his body, positioned myself saddled on his pelvis, descended down the length of the erection I had caused, and rode him. I rode him in reverse, facing his feet and grasping his knees in my hands.

I hadn’t ridden Carl very long, though, before he was awake enough and aware enough of my presence to take control. He pulled my back down into his torso, an arm coming over my shoulder and his hand grasping my pec, and he took over thrusting up inside me while jacking me off with his other hand. The position was one I’d learned was called the Pearly Gates, and I went into it easily, giving control over to him. I took over control again by moving into the position of the Crab, supporting myself over him, legs bent and feet on the mattress on the outside of his thighs and my fists buried in the mattress outside of his shoulders. From this position, we worked together to a mutual ejaculation, me rising and falling on his cock and he thrusting up into me and grasping my shaft with a hand and jacking me off as we mounted together in a mutual explosion.

Afterward, lying there beside each other and panting, Carl whispered, “You came back.”

“Right on schedule,” I answered.

“I wasn’t sure you would. You didn’t tell me when you’d get here—or how.”

“I flew up from Miami to Atlantic City. Took a taxi here. The plane was getting in real late. I didn’t want you to have to pick me up. And I wanted you. I wanted to surprise you like this.”

“Well, you succeeded in surprising me.”

“And, I think, making you happy to see me from how quickly you’ve gotten it up again.” I had stroked him to another erection.

“Got that right,” Carl growled, as he rolled over on top of me, put me on my belly, grasped my wrists, and bowed my torso back. He saddled himself on my buttocks, thrust up inside me, and fucked me in what I had learned was called a Prison Guard position. I wondered if he had a name for it. I knew it was one that signaled total control over the one you were fucking, and I was happy with the knowledge that Carl was my master and I was his slave.

The next morning, I found him sitting at the kitchen counter and nursing a cup of coffee. He’d had maybe half a dozen eggs and a rack of bacon, recovering from an unexpected workout the previous night. He didn’t look nearly as happy as I thought he would.

“You’ve learned some tricks while you were gone,” he said, as I dropped a couple of slices of broad into the toaster and poured myself a cup of coffee.

“Yes, I have. Do you mind?”

“No, of course not,” he answered.

“You seem bothered by something. Have I become too much of a slut for you? Are you mad that I took off to do cruising on a cruise this summer?”

“No, it isn’t that. It’s good to have you back. I was scared you wouldn’t come back to me.”

“I’ll always come back to you, Carl. What is it then?”

“It’s the charter boat—the business. Sam has a buyer for the boat and I haven’t scraped up enough money for a down payment to take it on. Sam said he’d prefer to sell to me, but it’s taken too long. He needs to sell. I’ve lost the business.”

“How much are you lacking on the down payment?” I asked.

“Twelve grand.”

“No problem,” I answered. And it wouldn’t be a problem. I’d come home from the cruise cruising summer job in the Caribbean with sixteen K. I could handle it easily. There for a while it had appeared I wouldn’t be able to handle it at all. I was taking on the sex—and demanding and punishing sex—much too quickly. Tony Castilain had brought me back from the edge. The encounter with Oleg, the Russian oligarch’s son, had been the height of the danger. I had escaped him myself in that mega yacht off the Cayman Islands coast early in that first cruise—but Tony had given me the support I needed that saved me.

After whipping and fucking me on the X-frame, Oleg had freed me, messed with me a bit on the bed, and then gone to sleep. I had learned to ride the jet ski well enough earlier in the day and managed to get to one and get it launched without any of Oleg’s crew members or guests stopping me. I jet skied back to The King Neptune. Tony took over from there, having one of the cruise ship’s shuttles take the jet ski into the George Town harbor and leaving it there for Oleg’s crew to think that’s where I’d gone, and then confining me to my cabin until the cruise ship moved on to its next port.

Then Tony sat me aside and asked me if I wanted to leave the cruise—take what I had made so far and go home. Or did I want to calm it all down, not be so intent on killing myself in earning top dollar, and settling in to a less-taxing routine for the full two cruises.

“Listen, you’re the sexiest piece we’ve got. You don’t make me money, though, if you burn yourself out,” he’d said. He then reiterated that I didn’t have to take golden-chip work if I didn’t want to. He saved me. I ratcheted my work down and stayed on. By the second cruise I was even able to work in some golden-chip work again and had become expert in gauging which men would be dangerous and which ones would not. I even became happy with working with the older men who couldn’t manage much sexually but who wanted the companionship with younger men.

It wouldn’t be too much longer than that would be the plight of “Uncle” Carl—being too old to be highly active sexually with younger men but in need of a more enduring relationship. I’d had worries about that before this summer. I no longer did. I might find other men for sex, but I’d always be with Carl for companionship.

“I’ve got the money we need to keep the business,” I said. “And note that I said ‘we.’ We’ll be partners in this as well as in life.”

“And the summer cruise work in the Caribbean?” Carl asked.

“I can leave that to others. I start college in a month, and I’ll do some work at Manny’s again to get my exhibitionist jollies scratched. But beyond that, it will be you, the charter boat, and churning through the waves of the Atlantic in our boat.”