Quebec City Film Date

“So, will we see you at lunch too?” Amanda VanClief, eyes batting in a perfectly made-up blonde model’s face, still staying ahead of the elements at sixty, cooed to the young French-Brazilian waiter, Emil Alencar, aboard the Triumph II. The river cruise ship was tied up to the Quebec City Corridor du Littoral. The other three women, appreciably older than Amanda was—purposely on Amanda’s part—who were at her table in the ship’s Coastal Dining Room were eagerly attentive to Emil’s response.

The waiter, slender; dancer poised; self-confident; dark, sultry, and sexy; lustrous black hair pulled back in a tight bun except for one wisp dangling to a cheek, concentrated, as always, on the still-beautiful, elegantly dressed Amanda VanClief. She was his focus on this St. Lawrence Seaway cruise from Detroit to Quebec City and back to Montreal on this mid-October running of the Triumph II just as he had become her focus. The work on the cruise ship was seasonal. For the winter months, he had either to retreat to Las Vegas to waiter there and dance in male reviews as work became available or find some well-heeled matron—or master—to cuddle with him over the winter. It didn’t matter much to him if it were a woman or a man; Emil’s focus was on Emil, and to Emil, sex was sex was sex if it provided comfort for him. Amanda VanClief, of Bocca Raton, Florida, booked in one of the two owners suites on the Triumph II and who would be staying on for the return cruise to Detroit, fit the bill to a T.

Emil could see the signal from out of the corner of his eye from the jet-black, tall, and very thin headwaiter from the Congo, Jacques Odia, telling Emil that he was spending too much of his time at this table, but Emil ignored the gesture. The season’s cruises were about completed and Emil had to be all about securing his off-season accommodations.

“No, Mrs. VanClief, I’m afraid I’m not on the lunch service today. I have free time to enjoy going into the city.”

“We have a tour of the city ourselves today,” Amanda cooed. “I’m sure I could arrange for you to accompany us. I’ll bet you’ve stopped here in Quebec City many times this year and have yet to see it as a passenger on the cruise does.” The other ladies at the table bobbed their gray heads and twittered their agreement.

No doubt she could arrange it, Emil thought. She obviously ruled the roast on the cruise ship, which was all to the good for his longer-term plans, but not, alas, for today. Saying yes, though, would, he thought, enable him to pin down a winter sheltering opportunity. Weekly romps in the bed, he thought, would be all that was required for a cushy Florida vacation—and the woman, though probably thirty-five years his senior, looked like she knew how to fuck still. She seemed savvy enough too, that he would have to be the one to suggest low, soft lighting while they did it. He’d lived with worse off-season situations in his last four years of waitering on cruise ships and Las Vegas.

“Alas, the crew members aren’t permitted such delightful opportunities,” he answered, with a tone of regret topped by a dazzling smile. “But I’ll be right back here for the dinner service.”

Amanda, who, along with her contrasting gaggle of temporary girlfriends would also be sure to be right back here at Emil’s service table for dinner, simmered at his rich baritone voice and handsome, lean, dancer’s Brazilian body beautiful, trembled at the prospect. Jacques Odia came close and touched Emil on the elbow, and Emil, getting the signal clearly now, gave the women a dazzling smile and moved off to spread his heavenly attention to other tables.

An hour later, after fully contributing to the breakfast cleanup under the watchful eye of the headwaiter, a duty Emil often pranced away from as beneath him, choosing instead to stand near the exit of the dining room and pattering with the guests, Emil returned to his shared interior cubbyhole of a cabin on Deck Two. He pulled the small box with his accumulated stash of cash from the bottom drawer of his nightstand. As he’d done so many times before, he reviewed his bank books and recounted his accumulation of earnings and tips to determine where he stood now in relationship to his eventual life’s goal—to join his French mother, Monique, in running her small perfume and toiletries shop in the Saara shopping district of Rio de Janeiro when his youthful beauty to women and men alike had waned. She was barely making it now, even with him sending some of his tip money off to her now and again. His dream was to return someday with enough capital to upgrade their holdings and do so while he still had the looks and charisma to attract well-heeled customers. Of his Brazilian father, Emil thought little, as there was almost nothing he knew of the man, other than that he must have been a handsome devil. Emil too was handsome, but his looks were more androgynously reflective of his mother.

As he was counting his money, the first call reached him on his cellphone, a call he could not ignore and one that determined where he would initially go upon leaving the ship for his late morning and afternoon of port leave. As he was preparing to leave, the second call came in—the one he’d been chasing down for days, the one that would bring him profit that would get him significantly closer to a return to Rio de Janeiro. He responded, finding, luckily, that this arrangement was possible in the afternoon.

It would be a juggling of time and quite demanding on him to make both of these appointments, but it could not be helped. There was no end to the balls he had to keep in the air in the limited time he was at the peak of his desirability and hence the availability of opportunities.

* * * *

When Emil left the ship, he was so happy to be on land for a change that, rather than catch a bus to take him through the old section of the town by the port and up the hill to the center of the small, historical city, he walked. It wasn’t just him being free to walk. Emil felt himself above those who would take public transportation, and with his exotic, almost feminine Brazilian looks and almost mincing steps, he felt as if the Canadians would all stare at him with admiration. At least he was at home with the predominant language, his mother having used French in their home, but he wasn’t one to talk with strangers.

He walked northwest alongside the quay of the large city marina on the Quai St-André until he could cut west onto the Rue des Ramparts, following the line of the old city wall until he could cut over to the Parc de L’Artillerie—the Artillery Park on the high plateau of the old fortified city. His goal was the small Hotel Hippocampe on Rue McMahon, across the street from the park. This wasn’t his first visit to the hotel. He’d been there just a few weeks earlier the last time the Triumph II had docked in Quebec City.

No one at reception challenged him when he walked into the hotel and to the elevator. If he had been a woman, they would have, as this was a hotel exclusively for men—for gay men. But beyond that, Emil had been here before and he was good for business. He even was part of their business on occasion. When he was in town and one of their guests had a special itch that Emil could scratch, the hotel called him, and he and the hotel split the fee.

Emil knew where he was going. He’d been given the room number in the first call he’d gotten in the late morning. He took the elevator to the third floor and then to the designated room. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open and entered. Jacques Odia, the tall, thin, gaunt, jet-black Congolese headwaiter from the Triumph II was standing by the bed, only in his briefs. As Emil entered the room and shut the door behind him, though, Jacques slipped the briefs off, revealing the semierection of nearly a foot of thick cock. Jacques motioned toward the double bed in the small room, and Emil immediately started to strip off his clothes.

Emil shuddered at the size of the cock on the Congolese man, which looked all the longer and thicker because of the slender build and tall height of the man. He had taken the shaft before, so he knew he could manage it, but he hadn’t taken one as massive as this before his encounters with Jacques started. Jacques briefly held the two of them, naked, in an embrace and frotted their cocks together to engorge them fully. But then he said, “On the bed. You know how I like it.” Emil whimpered, but he dutifully laid out on the bed on his back, his head hanging over the foot of the bed. He opened his mouth, unhinging his jaw, as the bulb of the head waiter’s cock brushed along his lips. Emil fought the urge to gag, as Jacques slowly moved the mammoth shaft into his throat.

Emil didn’t know if he’d let Jacques fuck him if Jacques didn’t control Emil’s job on the cruise ship. Probably yes, though. There was no satisfaction like there was to have been able to take a shaft as long as Jacques’s was.

Emil pressed his fingers into the Congolese man’s tight buttocks, as Jacques commenced the rhythm of the face fuck and leaned over the Brazilian’s bronze, perfectly formed body and took Emil’s cock in his mouth.

Jacques was able to dominate Emil like this—for the third time in his Quebec City hotel during this river cruising season—not because he paid Emil for the sex, as all of the young Brazilian’s other sex partners in one way or the other did, but because he knew of the young man’s cultivation of rich widows and widowers on the cruises to become their short-term boy toys and he was willing to exchange looking the other way for occasional services rendered. To Emil, sex was sex was sex. The gender didn’t matter much, as long as they appropriately worshipped his body, and there was the pleasure in knowing that he could handle a monster shaft such as Jacques’s and thus could confidently take what came in other circumstances.

Emil was fucked on the bed, carefully, but totally, some men being too small to accommodate Jacques without a great deal of pain and thrashing about—which, however, didn’t stop Jacques from fucking them if he took a fancy to them. Emil lay on his back at the foot of the bed, his leg raised and spread, a bolster under the back to provide the best angle for the nearly foot-long, thick Congolese cock. Jacques hovered between the younger Brazilian’s thighs, fisting Emil’s calves to keep his legs spread and whispered, “Relax. Take it. Breathe. Give it to me,” as Emil panted, clutched at the bedspread with widespread arms, arched his head back, and, moaning low, waited for the headwaiter to be fully saddled and for Emil to be fully open to the cock.

And then, after a long, torturous mounting, Jacques was in, held for a full moment, murmuring, “Good. Good. Open. Good,” and when Emil had, Jacques began the slow pump, with Emil groaning and working to exercise the muscles of his channel walls, gripping at the thick cock and rippling his muscles over the shaft. Jacques was groaning now too, and, his panting matching Emil’s and Emil crying out, “Yes! Yes! Fuck me!” the two entered the dance of the fuck, shutting the rest of the world out, and moving with each other to a gushing crescendo of giving and taking.

For a time now, this wasn’t a matter of blackmail, something Emil had to do. The mounting of his ass was a painful experience, but once he was fully possessed, being fucked by what Jacques had inside him was glorious. For a brief time, Emil was in heaven. There was a sense of victory in being able to sheath a cock the size of Jacques’s, and once Emil had opened to it—was beyond the pain and demands of the sheathing—and their pelvises were churning in concert, there was no better fuck, in Emil’s mind, than this.

As Emil lay, panting, his legs now lowered to the floor at the foot of the bed, his hole dilated to the Congolese master’s specifications, Jacques went to the nightstand, pulled a cigarette out of a pack, lit up, and moved to the window, which gave a good view of the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac, the iconic hotel dominating the old city at its highest point. While he smoked, he stroked his cock. Emil, still panting lightly, watched him from the bed, mesmerized by the incongruous size of the tall, gaunt man’s genitals. Jacques had told him when they’d first coupled that Congolese men had, on average, the biggest dicks of the men of any other nationalities. Emil hadn’t believed him—while having every reason to recognize that Jacques himself was a monster in that department—but since then Emil had researched the boast and found it to be true. Since then, every time he’d passed a tall, slender African man on the sidewalk, Emil had wondered if he were Congolese and super hung.

When Jacques worked himself up again, he slitted the window open, flicked his cigarette out into the void, and turned back toward the bed. Groaning, Emil turned over on the bed, came up on the mattress on his knees, and started crawling toward the headboard. He was only half up on the bed when Jacques overtook him, slipped an arm under his belly, and held him up on his knees. Whimpering, Emil reached up and grasped the headboard with his hands. He arched his head up and let out a little cry as Jacques mounted his hips, thrust inside him, and started taking him in long, deep slides.

An hour later, Emil was lying on his belly on the bed, still griping the headboard, whimpering low and panting lightly, as he watched the cruise ship headwaiter come out of the bathroom, having showered, and dried himself off and pulled his black trousers, white shirt, and black vest on, ready once more to return to duty on the Triumph II.

“I booked the room only until 5:00 p.m.,” he said as he stood by the door. “Feel free to stay until then. Don’t be late for the supper service.” And then, without so much as a “Thank you for the fucks,” he left the room, and Emil was alone.

Emil had gone with men as well as women before signing on for the season on the Triumph II, but he’d never been with a man as largely endowed as Jacques Odia. The headwaiter didn’t really give the young Brazilian a choice of what Emil had to do at the Quebec City stop to “get along” on the cruises, and Emil always dreaded them before he arrived for these trysts. Once the monster cock was inside him and the two were moving together as one, though, Emil was lost to what the Congolese top had to offer and could do with it.

He couldn’t stay until 5:00 p.m. There was the other assignation he had agreed to—the one that would add significantly to his nest egg as going with Jacques Odia did not. He wouldn’t stay in the hotel room that long, but it was barely 1:00 p.m. now. He rolled over onto his back and bent and spread his legs, placing his feet flat on the mattress. Just a bit more time—to let his channel recover and readjust—although he knew that would be taxed again later in the afternoon—and then he’d shower, dress, and walk down to the lower, reconstructed old city at the base of the cliff the Château Frontenac, possibly the most-photographed hotel in the world, was perched on.

* * * *

Leaving the hotel across from the Artillery Park, Emil walked back down to the Rue du Petit Champlain old town area between the St. Lawrence River and the cliff rising to the Château Frontenac Hotel. Having been leveled by warfare and fire several times, the old town area had been reconstructed into an area of quaint shops, bars, and restaurants on narrow, stone streets. With purpose, Emil, entered the Rue du Petit Champlain and found the stone-façaded Pub des Borgias, which was tourist-atmospheric and specializing in serving a wide variety of designer beers. Emil entered the bar, which was made up of connecting vaulted-ceilinged stone chambers purposely reminiscent of a subterranean wine cellar.

He didn’t penetrate far into the complex of rooms, though, and waved off the waiter offering to guide him to the bar. His eyes scanned the rooms he could see through wide-vaulted doors and came to rest on three men sitting at a table. The men already were zeroed in on him. One of them was cradling an industrial-sized video camera. The men had half-full glasses of beer in front of them on the table. They had recognized him from his photos on the Internet. He similarly recognized them. After a brief moment of locked eyes, Emil turned and exited the bar. Within a few steps, he turned and walked down the stone street running beside and behind the bar and approached the cliff wall, where a funicular railway ran up the side to the cliff to the platform above on which the Château Frontenac Hotel hovered beyond a wide band of promenade at the top of the cliff.

One of the men, the one with the video camera, chugged his beer and followed almost immediately on the heels of Emil from the building. He stood out on the street, across from the pub and recorded Emil’s slow walk to the entrance to the funicular. Emil lingered at a store window while the cameraman chugged around him and positioned himself to be able to capture Emil entering the gondola. As he passed Emil, he muttered, “Good, good. You’re doing it just right.”

In the funicular, Emil stood at the side of the gondola, looking down, while and the cameraman followed the cab’s rise to the top of the cliff. He turned his camera back to the entrance of the Pub des Borgias in time to catch the other two men exiting the pub and turning the corner to approach the funicular.

The two men were both similar and a contrast. They both were muscular and walked like athletes. There were stark contrasts, though. The older man was the taller of the two and more angular and wiry of body. He was the better dressed of the two and was at least in his late forties. The hair on his head was wavy, with graying at the temple. His face was Patrician handsome, and he moved with confidence. The younger of the two, bald, somewhat thuggish in face, and simian, his bulging arms swinging low from his squat, heavily muscular and hirsute body, was dressed in rougher clothes and moved in a swinging motion. He was no older than his late twenties or early thirties.

Those observing the two walking, obviously walking together, could be forgiven to wonder what they possibly could have in common. Maybe one was the bodyguard of the other?

The two men stopped at the entrance of the funicular, and the cameraman, himself in his mid-twenties, hippie-like, slender, wiry, with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and heavily tattooed, sauntered down the narrow street, passed them by, and caught the next car up the side of the cliff. When the two men took their car up, the cameraman was already on the promenade at the base of the Château Frontenac Hotel filming Emil as he moved up the promenade, found an empty bench facing the St. Lawrence River, and sank down in the middle of it. Then the cameraman turned the videorecorder toward the upper entrance of the funicular in time to catch his two colleagues appear there, walk together down to the end of the promenade, turn, and walk back and stand in front of the bench where Emil was sitting. After a moment of discussion between Emil and the two men, the men sat on the bench, as well, one on each side of Emil. Almost immediately, both men moved an arm to the back of the bench, behind Emil, the fingers of the hands of each resting on the tip of the young man’s shoulder on either side.

The cameraman caught a period of discussion between the three men on the bench, not missing the touching the men flanking Emil were doing with the young men or the stroking fingers of the older man on the back of Emil’s neck, stroking that Emil was permitting. Watchers of such films would take this as a signal that Emil was a rent-boy who the older man would buy and fuck.

The men were looking around as if to see if anyone was watching and then the photographer captured the older of the two men feeling Emil’s crotch up and placing Emil’s hand his crotch briefly. Little question was left that this was a sex hookup transaction.

The camera also caught, before the three rose from the bench, the wad of money the older man took out of a pocket and handed over to Emil. The cameraman went into motion, moving over to an entrance into the Château Frontenac Hotel, to catch the approach of the three men, Emil in the middle in the light grip of the other two, first toward the entrance of the hotel, and then, once all were inside, toward the bank of elevators in the lobby. They didn’t enter the elevators but stood off to the side, Emil looking into a shop showcase and the other two standing on the other side of the elevators, conversing. The cameraman, Chris, went to the elevators and entered one. Only then did the other three move to the elevator doors, all three entering the same one.

On the twelfth floor, the elevator door opened for Chris to get a shot of the three men—Emil being held close between the American, Peter, and the younger, German bodybuilder, Horst, with Peter having an arm around Emil’s neck and capturing the young man’s lips with his in a kiss. Horst had a hand on Emil’s crotch. After getting that shot, Chris scurried to the far end of the corridor to film the three moving to the hotel room door and entering, Peter’s hand clearly seen palming Emil’s ass. The room obviously had been acquired earlier for this tryst filming.

A fourth cameraman, a towering black French Canadian, Eduard, was standing across the hotel room from the door to the corridor, video camera at the ready and stage lighting positioned around the room, focused on the king-sized bed, to catch the entrance of the three into the room and for Peter to close the door behind them as he and Horst embraced Emil in three-way kisses and fondling.

Emil was sandwiched between the other two. They all remained dressed until this segment of film was blacked out, but Emil’s knees were raised onto the hips of the older American, Peter, he was facing, and the crotch of the German, Horst, was pressed into Emil’s buttocks from behind and all were rocking together to give the image that Peter and Horst would be fucking Emil in a double penetration if they had been naked.

* * * *

There was a distinctive formula to films produced by the American porn filmmaker Peter Wilson that caught viewers’ attention. They all featured him as a top, but, more arousingly, they all started with a bang—producing the most memorable and taxing of the sex scenes right off the top. There was a foreplay period of Peter and Horst working Emil—fondling and kissing him between them and getting him fully undressed—but they kept their own clothes on, with only their shirts unbuttoned and flared to show their muscular torsos and the flies open, with their quite-nice cocks out. So, typically a Peter Wilson movie ran in succession from what would be penetrative sex if all weren’t fully clothed, to what was penetrative sex while the bottom was naked and the top was (or tops were) fully clothed other than their shafts being freed, to full, naked sex. Typically, the movie concluded with the power top walking away from an exhausted and fully laid out bottom.

Following the clothed humping scene of the introduction, the cameras came back on catching Emil, naked, kneeling before a clothed, standing Peter and sucking his cock, while Horst sat on the bed, nearby, clothed and stroking his cock. But the film quickly moved into the first, most unusual sex scene, with Peter, still clothed, lying on his back on the bed, and a naked Emil riding his cock in a cowboy, facing Peter’s head and palming Peter’s muscular pecs inside his flared shirt. Horst, still dressed, was riding Emil’s ass in a double penetration fuck from a kneeling position behind the naked Brazilian. His hands were palming Emil’s pecs and he, solid and heavily muscular, was doing the thrusting inside Emil.

Emil was taking the two cocks with a great deal of grimacing, moaning, and writhing about. It wasn’t an act. He wasn’t a professional porn actor. They really were double fucking him with vigor. Part of the arousal for a viewer was that the two tops were so different physically. Emil was only doing this because there was a great deal of money involved. He had advertised for a paid hookup in Quebec City this afternoon on a gay dating site to add to his nest egg, and Peter Wilson, looking for a likely submissive for a movie, had jumped at the chance of doing the androgynously beautiful French-Brazilian and had made Emil an offer the young man couldn’t refuse.

As he writhed between the two well-endowed men sharing him on the bed in the Château Frontenac Hotel room, Emil almost regretted having signed on for this. Peter hadn’t lied about what the scene entailed. The effort was too great, but the money was just too good—Emil’s goal of returning to Rio de Janeiro and upgrading his mother’s perfume shop was just too much closer to hand with this movie deal.

After the two had finished him in a “he-naked-they-clothed” double penetration, Emil lay there, panting and moaning on the bed, stretched out and vulnerable, as, first Peter, now naked—tall, wiry, tightly muscular, smooth-bodied, and mature, stripped, grabbed Emil by the ankles and pulled the young man to the foot of the bed, his butt resting on the edge. Peter flared Emil’s legs, as Emil, groaning and scrabbling at the bedspread with his outstretched hands, trying to maintain traction, begged for mercy—again, not as an act—and Peter, holding the young man’s legs spread and raised, moved between his thighs, thrust inside him, with a long cock, and fucked the hell out of him.

The two cameramen, the tattooed, rangy Chris and the dark, meaty Eduard, danced around the bed, taking in the action at all angles and expertly staying out of each other’s way.

The young, bald, bodybuilder German, Horst, stood by the bed, naked, short, solid, slightly bow-legged, and blondly hirsute everywhere on his body except his head, and watched, licking his chops and pulling on his thick cock with the hand of an overlong, simian arm. No sooner had Peter come and stepped away from Emil, then Horst was there, turning a moaning Emil over, onto his knees at the foot of the bed, embracing the young Brazilian with his arms, pressing his face into Emil’s throat, and thrusting up inside him. The beefy German rode Emil long and hard, pulling the young man’s torso up into his chest. The camera angle was of slightly bowed, short legs and undulating plump buttocks, with the soles of Emil’s feet pressed into Horst’s thighs and the young man’s arms stretched out straight from his hidden body in a sacrificial position. The German’s low-hanging, hairy balls slapped against his thighs with his thrusts. The sound being caught left no question that Emil was taking a thick and vigorous cock. Panting and moaning, Emil, exhausted, just lay in the German’s embrace and took it—and took it and took it.

He just fell forward, totally spent, when Horst had come and released him. The German stood back from the bed. Peter looked at the two cameramen. Eduard shook his head, but Chris nodded, handed Peter the camera, with Eduard recording him doing so, and shucked off his clothes. Chris climbed up onto the bed, dragging Emil further up onto the mattress with him, put Emil back in a doggie position, and fucked him. Before he was finished, Horst climbed up onto the bed, got Emil between him and Chris, and the film ended with Emil being double fucked one more time, all three of them naked, the contrast between the tattooed rangy guy, the honey-colored, androgynous French Brazilian, and the bodybuilder hirsute German delicious to the eyes of the cameras held by Peter and Eduard. There was no question that Emil was being exhausted and used totally.

More than an hour of film had been taken. There was more than one movie in what they had filmed.

They had paid Emil before they entered the hotel, and Peter added a tip to that, declaring that Emil had been great and giving Emil a business card. “We’d like to do it again with you,” he said. “You could be a porn star.”

Emil kept the card, but he didn’t think he’d be doing this again—not a double penetration gangbang like this. It would age him too quickly, he thought.

“You can keep the room for the night; it’s paid for,” Peter said, as the movie team returned from the shower, dressed, and packed up their cameras and lighting equipment. Emil, still stretched out on his back on the bed, totally wiped out and moaning lightly, mumbled something. He knew he couldn’t keep the room for the night, though. He had to be back on the Triumph II for the dinner service—within the next two and a half hours.

Peter, Horst, and Chris were at the door, carrying the equipment, when Peter called out that they’d be down in the hotel bar when Eduard was done.

When Eduard was done? Emil thought. Before he could have another thought, though, the movie crew was leaving, and Eduard, black, muscular, black bull hung, walked out of the bathroom, climbed up on the bed, gathered Emil up into his arms, put his cock into position, and thrust up inside Emil.

The Brazilian cried out in surprise, moving into ecstasy, as the big-cocked black bull set up the rhythm of the master fuck. A camera was set up to capture the action. Another movie.

* * * *

“As you know, I’m staying on the ship tomorrow in Montreal during the changeover of passengers for the return cruise to Detroit,” Amanda VanClief said to Emil when she arrived at dinner that evening to be seated a bit earlier than her girlfriends were. “And as you also know, I’m taking the return cruise. You don’t have to serve a lunch that day, do you? You’re free, aren’t you? I asked about that at the pursers office and they said they would be on half staff because the old passengers will be gone and the new ones not yet on board.”

“Yes, I’m sure I can be scheduled off, if you wish me too be,” Emil answered. He was looking past the woman to the head waiter, Jacques Odia, who was giving him a mean look. Odia was the one who would have to schedule workers for that lunch. There was only the crew and a few remaining passengers to feed for lunch the next day. He hadn’t announced the work schedule yet and hadn’t planned on giving Emil the afternoon off. He nearly said something, but then he caught Emil’s facial expression and understood something Emil had said to him earlier that day.

This arrangement they had was a double-edged one, Emil had said. Jacques hadn’t thought about it at the time, but now he understood. Just as he had control over Emil, knowing what the young Brazilian’s game was here, Emil had a certain control over him too. Not only did he want to continue fucking Emil, but Emil could report him for many small crimes on board the cruise ship in addition to his covering Emil, and Jacques would be out of a cushy job.

Jacques gave Emil a terse nod and moved off.

“I’d like you to go into Montreal with me for the afternoon,” she said.

“I would be quite happy to,” Emil responded.

“You said earlier that the ship’s staff wasn’t permitted to mingle with the passengers in that way. So, I thought maybe—”

“Technically that would be between cruises,” Emil said. And then he saw the opportunity to land her decisively. “Besides, I’ve become quite taken—quite attracted—to you. I am willing to take the risk and to suffer the consequences for the pleasure of being in your company.”

The ploy worked a charm. He almost could see tears in her eyes. She leaned into him and whispered in his ear. “I desire you. You understand what I mean by that? Do you think—?”

“I think there’s nothing I would like more than to try to satisfy you . . . sexually.”

Trembly, obviously moved, she whispered, “I have a hotel room reserved. If you satisfy me, I have a proposition to make about your immediate future after this last cruise is over for the season.”

Emil was determined that Amanda VanClief would be quite satisfied in that hotel room. He was a bit amused that it was in the Château Frontenac Hotel, on the same floor that he had made a movie earlier that afternoon—where he had prostituted himself just as he was about to do again. He wondered if he should tell her that he still had the key to one of those rooms in his possession. He most certainly wouldn’t tell her what he’d done in that room.