Gift from the Sea

Sebastian palmed the Turk’s hairy pecs and dug his nails in, and cried out, “Fuckin’ shit, Jemal! Almak, almak!” as the man crouched between his thighs, pinning him to the bunk in one of the Dixon 63 sailing yacht’s cabins, and sent his thrusting cock into overdrive. There was a cruel-amused-lustful expression in the chunky Turk’s eyes that told Sebastian he was making what they’d agreed was their last fuck one to remember. Giving up the struggle, Sebastian shot his load, relaxed, collapsed back onto the bunk and let the Turk have his way with him in the buildup to Jemal panting heavily and ever more noisily, exclaiming something in Turkish, pulling his dick out of Sebastian’s ass, tearing the condom off, and coming on Sebastian’s belly.

Jemal came down on top of Sebastian, his garlic-breathed mouth seeking Sebastian’s. The ginger twink turned his head to the side, though, taking in the familiar scene of the red-tile-roofed buildings climbing the hillside on the northern side of the Valletta fortress through the porthole next to the bunk. Jemal’s mouth landed in the hollow of Sebastian’s neck, and, not taking umbrage, Jemal licked a throbbing vein there and then sucked on it. His hands went to between their bodies as he rolled another condom on his still-half-hard cock, adjusted the placement of the bulb, and pressed inside Sebastian again. The young American well knew from the long sail back from Turkey that the Turk had two quick-succession fucks in him, and he moved his arms to encircle the heavier man’s torso, dug his fingers into the Turk’s shoulder blades, hooked his heels on the man’s meaty calves, and began to rock back and forth as the shaft engorged and dug continuously deeper inside him.

He listened to the two younger Turkish crew members moving about overhead, bringing the Dixon 63 to resting anchor in the cove below Clifford Gainsworth’s hillside villa. He knew that they would be down, one by one, soon to get their piece of him—final payment for transport back across the Mediterranean.

It had been three months since Sebastian had impetuously sailed away from the cove on the northern side of Valletta, but it seemed like he’d never been gone.

They parted on the beach, with Jemal and his two crewman going off to the Crusader Bar, a haunt of men from the sea, to list the Dixon 63 on the “yachts for sale” board. He bought them in Turkey, most often in Kusadasi, refurbished them, and sailed them to the western Mediterranean to sell, as the market was stronger there. The Dixon 63 was a real honey after his restoration and Sebastian regretted having to leave it. But it had been three months since he’d left Malta, he’d recharged his batteries, and he had a life with Clifford Gainsworth to pick up again—or so he thought—until he could fall into new chances to sail the seas in classic sailing yachts.

The villa was deserted when he got there. No Clifford Gainsworth and no Mateo. Leaves were scattered about on the stone terrace. Gainsworth’s bed was stripped of its linens, and even the wheelchair was gone. Sebastian was moving about the villa, his footsteps reverberating on the deserted walls, with only his own room still littered with possessions—his own possessions, placed just as he had left them impulsively three months earlier.

As he came back down the stairs, he saw the figure of the lawyer, Guzi Penza step out of the shadows and look up at him. “You’re too late. He’s gone. Died two weeks after you disappeared,” Penza said.

“I was coming to that conclusion,” Sebastian said. “I hope he didn’t suffer.”

“He went quickly. A heart attack. He was distraught, if you must know, that you were gone. He expected to see you come back in off the terrace at any moment.”

“I’m sorry. The call of the sea and all that. I didn’t plan it.”

“It’s not my concern,” Penza said. “But he was so sure that you would return that he refused to make any adjustments.”

“And the painter, Mateo?” Sebastian asked.

“He left—back to Italy with his collection of paintings and some of Gainsworth’s silver—as soon as the funeral was over. I must say, he left resenting you and railing at Gainsworth.”

“Whatever for?”

“As I told you, Gainsworth refused to make adjustments after you left. He had left nearly everything—which is a good bit—to you in his will. Mateo resented that. He had planned to inherit.”

“Everything? The villa too?” Sebastian wasn’t exactly pleased. He felt the walls of the villa contracting on him—possessing him as Gainsworth had done while he was here.

“The villa too. Prime property. I already have had queries on who owns it now.”

“So, you won’t have trouble selling it?” Sebastian asked. “And for an advance on the sale, you’d be happy to double your sales commission?”

An hour later, Sebastian was knocking on the door of the tenement the writer, Jonathan Tremble, lived in and was being admitted with the same suspicious look from the crone of a concierge. The look now was more knowing than before, as she had made sure she was listening to the two men rutting like animals when they had fucked in Tremble’s flat three months earlier. Penza had assured him that Tremble was still in the city. This time there was no Jonathan hanging over the railing three flights up and beckoning Sebastian upstairs.

It took Jonathan a few minutes to come to the door of his attic flat when Sebastian knocked on it, and his expression was a mix of surprise, confusion, and bald desire when he saw that it was Sebastian.

“You’re back,” he said. “But Clifford is—”

“I know. I’m not back permanently. I just wanted to know if you were familiar with the Dixon 63 sailing yacht and knew how to sail one.”

“The Dixon 63? Yes, it’s a fine yacht. I’ve sailed one a time or two. But what a strange question to greet me with after . . . how many months since you left—two three? It seems like a lifetime. I’ve been wilting ever since you left. Having trouble with my writing.”

“Think your muse would be kinder to you if you are at sea while writing about roving the sea?” Sebastian asked, an amused expression on his lips—but a bit of concern in his eyes, as if he knew what he wanted but wasn’t at all sure it would come to him. He knew he didn’t deserve it. “Because I’m about to buy a Dixon 63 and I think there are two young Turks—who are versatile—who will sign on as a crew, but I need to have a destination and I need to have someone to rove the sea with me. I need you.”

“Are you speaking of the yacht down in the cove? The one that arrived earlier this afternoon? How soon would you need me? Would fifteen minutes be too long for me to be ready?”

- FINI -