Tramp Steaming

I pulled a pair of low-rise shorts and a sports shirt out of the closet, put them on, leaving the sports shirt open and not tucked into the shorts, and padded down to the hotel reception desk to start the process of reporting I’d been ripped off, was temporarily destitute, and needed help to start the process of canceling cards and replenishing my funds. I was barefoot. I did have tennis shoes and a pair of boat shoes still, but I was in mourning for the beloved cowboy boots and interested in evoking sympathy at the desk by pointing to where the cowboy boots no longer were on my feet.

As I was talking with the hotel assistant manager, who was all sympathy and clucks, covering, no doubt a few snickers concerning the circumstances of my plight, probably having this problem regularly and even, perhaps being in on the take, I noticed another hotel guest, who was sitting in the lobby and reading a paper, starting to show interest.

The man possibly was in his early forties. Very well put together, dark complexioned and with dark curly hair. He was slim but well muscled and, like me, was wearing shorts and an open sports shirt. Unlike me, he had open-toed sandals on, but no socks. He had that artist aspect about him and was unmistakably French. He was, in fact, much of what I had thought I’d meet and have experience with in the South Pacific. A mature French artist type with a mature model’s face and aspect and a sensuous smile. Visions of Maugham and Gauguin floated through my mind.

He also reminded me that I usually went with older men and that my atypical tryst with a younger man hadn’t gone too well.

He was turning that smile on me now, as he stood, gave enough pause for us both to know he was commanding my attention, turned the smile even more sensuous, licked his lips, puckered them a bit, and blew a bit of a kiss. Only the French would do it this way, I thought. But the French could get away with it.

I followed him into the hotel bar, where he was already perched on a stool and turned toward me. The barman was at hand, ready to take the Frenchman’s order. I recognized the barman who seemed to be on much too large a scale to be standing behind a hotel bar. He had been a performer at the beach party the previous evening. He looked at least half civilized today, although I could see that the tattooing over half his face was real--that it hadn’t been makeup the previous night when, as a fully tattooed Samoan warrior, he’d performed a dance in just a loin cloth at the beginning of the festivities on the beach--a loincloth that had disappeared later in the evening to a general gasp of awe.

“Would you like a drink?” the man perched on the barstool asked me. His voice was a smooth baritone. He exuded self-confidence. He was as French as French could be. Both of us knew that, if he wanted to fuck me, he would. This was a gay resort. That’s what guys came here for.

“Can’t afford it at the moment, although I certainly feel like I need one. You probably heard back there in the lobby that I’ve been wiped out and am not fluid at the moment. I doubt I have enough cash for the next few days to stay in my hotel room, let alone to pay for drinks.”

The man shrugged. “I’m sure I can help you with both the drinks and hotel room--mine.”

“In exchange for what?” I asked, knowing what, but curious what he’d say. He obviously had heard that it was another man, staying with me, who had robbed me.

“I’m sure you know what in exchange for,” he said, showing me a nice smile. “That Etienne you spoke of at the desk is somewhat of a legend around here, although the hotel staff won’t admit it, for financial reasons of their own. And I’m quite aware of what he does with young men like you. I assure you that I’m very good with the cock too. And you are a sweet young piece. I’m very happy to help you out in your time of plight for cocking privileges. American, are you?”

“Yes, I’m American,” I answered.

“Nice. Some of my most memorable fucks have been of Americans. They are so naïve of the possible positions, but oh so willing--and appreciative. You look athletic. Can I hope that you are very flexible too?”

“You don’t believe in foreplay, do you?” I asked.

“Not when we both know you want me to fuck you. You’d want me to fuck you even if you weren’t in trouble.”

Thus it was I met Christophe Fortier.

* * * *

“Let’s go over to a table overlooking the beach,” the man said, “and I’ll treat you to a bit of foreplay. I know Americans like that. Then we’ll fuck. I’ll try you out to see if it’s worth my while to help you.”

He was holding both drinks he’d ordered--mai tais. Not my drink, but he was paying for them. He also was controlling them. I followed him to the table, where he sat in a chair parallel to the view and waved me to one facing the beach. I was surprised we didn’t just go to his room, but he didn’t seem all that anxious to proceed, even though I could see from the skimpy material of his shorts that he was hard.

“My name is Christophe. Christophe Fortier. The name is French, of course. Comes from ‘stronghold.’ That’s me--a regular fortress. And you, you’re American. You look a bit young to be traveling in the South Pacific alone. Let me see your passport, please.”

I showed it to him, knowing he wanted to make sure I was old enough to fuck. I was both amused and flattered. The age of consent here was sixteen, I’d been told. I had no illusions that much of my success in attracting men was that I looked considerable younger than I was.

“I wasn’t alone, of course,” I said with a smile. “But I would have been better to have been alone.”

“No, but you picked up Etienne in the islands, didn’t you? You didn’t bring him from New York or Miami.”

“No, I came from between those two--Philadelphia. And without Etienne. I’m a student--at Princeton, New Jersey. Oh, sorry, my name is Nathan Cassatt.”

“Ah, railroads.”

I was somewhat taken aback. It was a Mainline Philadelphia name, yes, but for a Frenchman in the remote South Pacific to know about the Pennsylvania Railroad was really something. Not having everyone around me know was one reason I’ve come this far for my junior trip. It made me wonder if Etienne had known too and had been more attracted by the money than by my body.

“Yes,” I answered. “But I came this far to escape that--and to improve my French, if you must know.”

“Would you prefer we spoke in French?”

“I’d like to try that,” I said. “If I have trouble, your English seems superb and we can always revert.”

He’d finished his mai tai and signaled for another--for both of us, although mine was only half gone. He moved into a smooth French, which I found so much more sensuous than English. He also laid his hand on my thigh. I wondered why we didn’t just get on with it. I thought he was wrong about Americans wanting a lot of foreplay. I reacted better to someone who approached me and said he wanted to bang me--and then did, wham bang. Of course, that had been Etienne’s approach.

“I’m surprised you know the name and the connection to Philadelphia,” I said in what seemed to be halting French against his fluid diction in both languages.

“I lived and worked in New York for several years--honing my skills and looking for publishers. The Cassatts do some publishing, don’t they?”

“Yes,” I answered. But I was a bit nonplussed by that question. They didn’t do publishing all that openly. A small, niche publisher, headed now by my father’s boyfriend, James, using my father’s money and name. The same boyfriend who had taken my virginity and initiated me into wanting sex from men.

“I know of that because I am a writer,” he said. He opened the briefcase that had been at his side, hanging from a strap on his shoulder, when we’d come to the table and that he’d put on the floor beside his chair. I could see that he had a laptop computer in there. He took it out; placed it on the table, the screen in front of me; and opened it to a file.

“And you write about the South Pacific?”

“I write about young men being fucked by other men in the South Pacific. Look out toward the beach, Nathan. What do you see?”

“Beach, ocean, palm trees . . . bathers.”

“Men bathers, Nathan. Randy men, all working on making or being made. This is a gay beach resort. Men come here to fuck. You came here to fuck. I came here to write stories about men fucking. Men fucking men.” He moved the laptop closer to me.

I would have looked at the file on the computer screen if I hadn’t been shocked by what he said next and latched my gaze on his face.

“Tell me, this Etienne, was his cock thick and long? Did you have any trouble taking him? Did he do more? Did he fist fuck you?”

“Excuse me?” I said. But he had his hand on my cock through the material of my shorts. He knew that my cock had lurched at that question.

“Was he horse hung? I see that you’re approaching that yourself. A bit of a surprise for someone on the small and slender side as you are. Has anyone told you that you are more beautiful than handsome? A beautiful blond. Do you do modeling in the States? Or perhaps pornographic films? Is that James Miester, who runs the Cassatt publishing house, into more than pornographic publishing?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” I said. “But, yes, Etienne was horse hung”--I’d rendered “horse hung” in English, as I couldn’t quite manage the French pronunciation Fortier had given the term. “No, I didn’t have trouble taking him. I know I look young, but I’m experienced--and have been reamed wide before Etienne. I came to the South Pacific just for such a stretch. I’m sorry, did I word that wrong? I don’t know the French word for ‘reamed.’” I could be as straightforward as he was being.

“No, I think you worded that perfectly,” Fortier said, with a small laugh. “You probably wonder why I asked. There, read the story I wrote last night--there, read it on the screen.”

I began to read, and my jaw almost dropped to my chest. He had written about me and Etienne--at the dance on the beach. I could tell it was us, but it was written even more sensually than the actual experience. I found myself trembling. The actual events had been arousing, but this story made them even more so. I looked up at him.

“This. This is Etienne and me last night. You obviously were observing us. Is this what you write?”

“Yes, this is what I do. I travel regions of the world and write collections of short stories. I am doing this in the South Pacific now.”

“You mean like James Michener and Tales of the South Pacific? He’s already done that.”

“Yes, and made a lot of money from it and from the musical made based on it. But mine are different. Mine are in French, for specific collectors who pay a lot of money for them, and mine are hard-core male pornography. And . . .”

“And what?” I asked. It came out a little breathlessly as he was gripping my cock hard, and I was hard for him. If this was foreplay, he was still taking the direct route.

“And my stories are based on observation and experience. That is where men like you and Etienne come in. That is why I might be offering you support until you can regain your finances. I know now, knowing the family you come from, that you will regain your finances. But in the days before you can do that . . . this isn’t Philadelphia or New York. I know that eventually you’ll be set up again--through contact with an American Express office, and there are a few scattered around on the South Pacific Islands. But--”

“You said you might be offering support. You already offered it before.”

“I must be sure. For me to support you--I’m not made of money as you are--I must have compensation. Inspiration for my stories. Observed experience. Do you understand?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Observed experience may not be accurate. I write from observation, yes. But I write more from my own experience. What I have done myself--what I have done to young men like you. What I have men I bring in to do to young men like you--that I observe and usually participate in. It’s why I asked you if you could take an extra-large cock--and maybe two at once. Or a fist. Do you understand what I’m telling you? I write for a highly sophisticated, demanding, and searching audience. I don’t write vanilla stories. Have you ever had two men working you over at once--hard?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just shrugged.

“How far into the story have you read on the computer screen? Did you read of the sex on the beach?”

“No. I’ve read of how provocative and sensual you made the dancing at the beach party.”

“Read on,” he directed. As I turned my face to the computer screen, I heard and felt the unzipping of my shorts. He gripped my cock, skin on skin, and started a slow stroke as I read. I looked around, in shock, afraid that we were being observed. But this was a gay resort. I’d seen men fucking in the lobby and no one had intervened.

In the story, a complete departure from what really happened, Etienne was coaxing me out onto the beach, beyond the fringe of the lighting from the beach party, where the moon shining off the lapping waves on the beach provided the light.

“This isn’t as it happened,” I muttered.

“You went to your hotel room,” Fortier whispered. “The story had to extend from what I observed. I had to capture where it might go. That’s why you’re reading this. I need to know how authentic it is--how natural the progression is. Location isn’t all that important, although the readers will be more aroused by a beach at night than a hotel room. It’s one reason why I asked you about the size of Etienne’s equipment and how easily you took it. Why I asked about Etienne’s fetish. You didn’t have time to find out Etienne’s fetish? I have to know if my development beyond my ability to directly observe was authentic. And I have to know if you would go where the Etienne of the story took you.”

I moaned as I read on in the story--not just because of what was written, but also because Fortier was slowly jacking me off. Embarrassed, I took another quick look around. The bar was deserted at this time of day other than by the native islander barman. He had come out to the side of the bar, leaning against it, watching us, his dick out and in his hand. His cock was as oversized--a real tropical sea slug--as the rest of him was.

There would be no objection or interference from that quarter. In fact, looking over at the door in the lobby, I saw that the barman had closed that. Probably locked it too. Of course, anyone could appear from the beach, but no one did. From here I could see that the beach was nearly deserted. This obviously was a gay hotel. Most of the men who had been there when we sat down had made their hookups. This activity went in cycles. Regardless, those left were interested in each other, not in what was happening in this bar.

Even if any of the male hotel guests came in from the beach, they were likely to do what the barman was doing--watch the show that Fortier was putting on, using me. He had one hand on my cock under the table top and the other gripping the back of my neck and massaging it. His face was pulled in close over the top of the laptop, watching my expressions as I read his graphic story.

“Are you writing a story about this, what you are doing to me here, in your mind even now?” I asked in a whisper.

“Of course I am. Later I’ll have to fill in the emotions it’s bringing out of you--or you will, if I let you stay with me. Now read the rest of the story on the screen.”

In the story, I was on my back on the sand and Etienne was stretched out beside me, rolled toward me. We already were naked, and he was holding me in a close embrace. He was giving me a hand job, preventing all attempts of mine to work him as well. He wanted me milked first and said so.

“Have you read where he jacked you off first?” Fortier whispered.

“Yes, but that wasn’t what he did. He worked me with his mouth first--at great length.”

“Because I was right? Because he is magnificently hung and wanted you able to take him? Because he wanted to do more--wanted you more open?”

“Yes. That’s what he said. That’s what he did.”

I read on, my trembling increasing, my moans deeper and prolonged--and not just from the effect of Fortier’s hand job in the present. It was the attention Etienne gave me in the story, on the beach. So much different, so much more than he gave me before he fucked me in our room last night. But somehow . . . somehow so Etienne.

In the story he worked me hard, but it was with his fingers, at first, and then his fingers up to his knuckles, and finally his whole fist. Fisting my hole, stretching my channel. My right leg was raised up his beefy chest, the ankle hooked on his shoulder. My left leg bent, my buttocks rolled up to give his fist fullest access. He was deep kissing me on the mouth, sucking on my tongue, pressuring it with his teeth--bringing me to the edge of fearing he’d bite it off. Just like, now that I thought about it, what he’d done at the height of passion last night. And he had his fist up my hole. Holding me tight, preventing me from writhing beyond limited bounds, my huffing and deep moaning competing with the sound of the surf.

My explosion in the story was gigantic, my cum arcing up high toward the sea in multiple spouts. Only then, me exhausted and trembling from the fist slowly moving inside me, did the Etienne of the story turn me on to my knees and forearms and fuck me like a dog to his own ejaculation.

“Oh, god, Oh shit, I’m gonna come,” I muttered in the real time of the bar as Etienne creamed my insides in the story. And then I did, my wad hitting the underside of the table and dropping back onto my thighs.

Christophe laughed. “Now you know why I get paid good money for my stories.”

My eyes darted over to the bar, where the barman was arcing his cum on a tabletop too, and then going around behind the bar for a rag to clean off the table and going back to nonchalantly polishing glasses.

“It wasn’t like that. He didn’t . . .”

“He didn’t fist fuck you to an ejaculation?” Fortier asked, pulling back from me, but leaving me sprawled in my chair, my dick hanging out of my shorts. He hadn’t freed his, although I could see that he was hard inside those shorts and was leaving a precum wet spot.

“But was that a natural progression of what he would do with you?”

“Yes, I guess so.” And I did guess so, it seemed, even at the time, that Etienne was headed toward something I’d never done before--almost welcomed him doing.

“And would you have let him fist fuck you?” Fortier asked.

“Yes, I guess,” I responded after a bit of silence. If I could take it, I thought, although I didn’t say that.

“Have you been fist fucked before?”

“No . . . I haven’t.” There was just enough pause before I completed the denial to tune Fortier into there being more--something I wasn’t saying. And there was more. There was James’s fetish. The anal balls.

“You hesitate. There’s been something comparable?”

“One sex partner of mine,” I murmured--I was not about to reveal who it was though--“One sex partner liked to use a string of graduated anal balls.”

“Graduated? Graduated to what diameter?”

“Uh, I can’t remember . . . but yes, I can. He was proud that he’d found them. The largest three inches, I think.”

Fortier whistled. “That large? Why that’s probably the diameter of the heel of my hand. You’ve already been there in reality--or nearly there.” He raised his hand for me to see and turned it slowly in the air, bunching his fingers together, exhibiting it for me at all angles. He gave a little laugh and I shuddered. “Would you say the heel of my hand was three inches across? Maybe. Maybe a bit larger, though. Etienne’s a much bigger man than me. What would you say his dimension would be? Four, five inches? And I understand it was his fetish. That if he’d been with you longer . . .”

I shuddered again, looked away. Fortier gave another low laugh. “I didn’t write anything that Etienne didn’t have in mind for you until his greed interrupted the progression of his seduction. You are so expressive, you know.” Christophe continued. “I think we’re going to write great stories together. You both fear and are drawn to what I am suggesting, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered in a small voice.

“Good. Remember all of your emotions--both now and when . . .” He let that just sink in, which it did--it sank right into my gut.

I needed to change the subject. “You had something else so right in the story--well a couple of things. That his cock was darker than the rest of him, and that he liked to give the impression he’d bite my tongue off.”

“Ah, yes. Well, you aren’t the first young man Etienne has brought to this hotel. I have other stories in the collection, taken from first-hand accounts. Other young men spoke of Etienne fist fucking them. Others have said he used the tongue technique so that fear would heighten their arousal. That’s why I included those elements in my story. But you say he didn’t get as far with you as the fist fuck.”

“No, no he didn’t.”

“Is that a tone of regret I hear from you?” He was still holding his hand in the air, the fingers bunched, revolving the hand so that I could see it from all angles.

I didn’t answer him. I just shrugged. But in my mind, I was lying on the bed on my back, Etienne hovering over me, latching his eyes on mine, gauging my reactions as he worked his fist up into my ass. Trembling at the image of that, I was melting to the possibility of it--the need for it. I had come to the South Seas for experience in the kinky and bizarre--and challenging.

“So, where does that leave us?” I asked “Do we go to your room now?”

We both knew what I was agreeing to.

“Yes, but still as a trial. I needed to hear you say that you would have let Etienne fist fuck you. My stories are about taxing sex. If you come to my room, you will have to let me take you places sexually you probably never have been before. You will have to pay your way by informing my stories. But, then, you say you have come to the South Pacific to deepen your experience. I will do that for you. Just imagining the fist fuck made you come big. I think you want the experience. Do you wish to come to my room now--knowing what I’m going to do to you?”

“Yes.” Why the hell not. He was right. I didn’t come on this journey for vanilla experiences.

* * * *

It took him a long time to get to it. If I’d known it would be as taxing as it was, I’d probably have tried to beg off or ask him for even more preparation.

He started off vanilla--except for the dildo part--with me bent over the bed and him kneeling behind me. Him even more appealing naked, in full up-curved erection, than clothed, pulling my cock and balls between my thighs and giving them and my hole almost endless attention. Slathering me with lube. He said I’d want to be as open as possible, and he was doing everything he could to make that happen. When he had three or four fingers inside me, I asked him if he was doing it now--fist fucking me. He just laughed and said, “Nowhere near. You’ll know it when it’s happening.”

I was also fooled by the dildo, thinking he was fucking me with his cock. But I’d seen his cock. He had it out and was hard. Long but not particularly thick. This was thick. I nearly fainted when he took the dildo out and put it in front of my face where I was pressed, cheek to mattress, to the bed. The dildo was as thick as his wrist.

“I’ve taken that?” I whispered, in wonder. “I can take your fist?”

“Look at my hand, Nathan,” he said. The hand was long and slender, but I could readily see that it was wider where it attached at the wrist--wider even than the dildo. I moaned at the thought of where we’d be going from here.

But we didn’t go there immediately. “Time for a break,” he said as he moved away from me and came around to the side of the bed. He came down onto the bed, adjusting pillows behind him to sort of recline up against the headboard, grabbed a pack of cigarettes from on top the nightstand, and lit up.

I rose up from my bent position over the foot of the bed and stretched my muscles. I felt as open in my channel as I’d ever felt. “A break?” I asked.

“For me, not you,” Fortier said. “Ride my cock. I want to see if you’re any good at it.”

I climbed up on the bed, threw my leg over his pelvis, and lowered myself on his staff as he held it erect with one hand, still using the other to smoke his cigarette. I rode the cock from every conceivable angle for a half hour or more with the goal of making him put that cigarette out and become lost in me. I eventually succeeded, with him alternating from grabbing my hips and arching his back as he grunted and groaned and pulled me on and off his cock to my lying flat on my back with his ankles crossed on my chest, with me slamming my buttocks hard on and off his cock and him stroking my cock to an ejaculation that barely preceded his.

He arched his back and moaned, an arm thrown over his face, as I felt him flow two and then three times in the bulb of the condom deep inside me. Then, suddenly, he was animated, jack-knifing himself from under me, jumping off the bed, pulling me back into the bent belly position over the foot of the bed, and I screamed out in surprise and pain as he rammed the thick dildo back inside me and pistoned it hard and deep.

I writhed under him, begging for mercy, but answering each declaration from him that I could and would take it with a “Fuck yes. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” My eyes opened wide in another scream when I felt his own cock entering me on top of the dildo.

“Shit. God, I don’t think I can take this?” I cried out.

“You can take it. Your passage is fine with it,” he growled in my ear. “You were prepared well for this before. And you’ll be taking more than this soon.”

Soon came almost too soon for me.

I was spread-eagled on the bed, restraints running from my wrists to each end of the headboard and on my ankles to the ends of the footboard. The roping attached to my ankles was loose, allowing me to bend my knees and spread my thighs. Pillows were under my buttocks, raising my hole to point at the edge of the ceiling across the room. A ball gag was jammed in my mouth.

“You’ll be glad for the gag and the restraints,” he told me. And he was right, as I tried screaming and writhing free as he gave me the experience of fist fucking--probably not nearly as much as one trained to it over time, but enough to have almost made me black out.

He was wearing tight rubber gloves, and he kept slathering his hands and my passage in a white grease as he moved from hand to hand, pushing them inside me with his fingers bunched, slowly opening me to the hands, as I strained at the restraints, bit into the soft rubber of the gag, rolled my eyes wildly, and huffed and puffed at the exertion required to take him.

He informed me when a fist was inside me, up to the wrist.

“There, it’s in,” he whispered as he leaned close over to me. His other hand had lost the glove and he was stroking my hair and kissing me on the cheek. “I want you to remember all of the sensations of this,” he murmured. “That’s why we’re doing this. I want you to have experienced it and to be able to describe it to me--both the physical and emotional sensations--in detail. I’m going to make you come with the fist now.”

And he did. He moved the fist inside me, a knuckle of the hand rubbing my prostate, and in short order I exploded and fell back on the bed, exhausted, almost ready to black out--with one last arching of the back and scream as he extracted the fist. He leaned over my body, tearing the gag out of my mouth, possessing my mouth with his, jerking at his cock, and spouting great gobs of cum out over my belly.

Emotions? He wanted emotions and physical reactions? Well, for that latter, pain, of course, and the feeling of being impossibly stretched and possessed. The need to shit but not being able to, but also the feeling that my prostate was being pushed up into my sac as a third ball--throbbing and aching and feeling the buildup of the cum--the feeling that I was about to explode, wanted to explode, and that, in doing so, I’d be torn apart. And still wanting it. The emotion of wanting it, despite the pain, of wanting to be fully possessed. The helplessness of being restrained. Not only of being fully controlled and filled but then, also, the glorious feeling of being able to do it--to take it. And when the explosion of the release came, a high like none other. Wanting the high again, as crazy as it sounded.

So, did I want it again? No, of course not . . . but maybe--maybe yes, if I could get that high, could have that feeling of having taken it. Already wondering about a bigger hand, an invasion further up the arm. I’d seen up to the elbow in vids. Could I?

I lay there, on my back, the restraints removed, still moaning, my legs still bent, spread apart, my insides feeling hollow, like air was rushing up my passage, toward my stomach. I let out a mighty fart, and Frontier laughed and moved from the bed over to the table where his laptop was open.

“I don’t know if you noticed that the story based on you and Etienne was written with you as the narrator--first person in the character standing for you. I want to read to you the passage of the fisting on the beach. And I want you to give me the emotions that go with that--taken from what we’ve just done. I want the story to read like it really happened--from your perspective.”

I lay there, feeding him what underlay what he’d already written, and when I was able to rise from the bed, he beckoned me to come over and read it. I saw that he had added the perspective of Etienne as well--the feel of having his entire hand inside me, of working the prostate, of the high arousal it brought him, and the prodigious release. He had made the story come alive. I had never read anything as taboo and pornographic and, at the same time, as arousing and as movingly described. He had told me that these were specialty stories, sold to a select few at high prices, and I now could see why they went for high prices.

Now, I was surprised to realize, I nearly ached to do it again.

But we didn’t do it again. Later that night, he took me into a new story, a different one, but one that was served by the fisting--the coaxing of my channel impossibly open.

We were on the bed--only returning there after a long recovery period of polishing the story and eating a meal in the hotel restaurant--and returning to the bar for a nightcap. The same bartender was there, although there was another one on duty as well. The big bartender kept looking at me, undressing me with his eyes. He made me shudder. I’d rarely seen a man as big as he was--and as primeval, with that tattooing that accorded him such menace when he performed his Samoan warrior dance for the tourists--making it provocative in keeping with this hotel being a gay resort.

When he took me to bed, Fortier instructed, “Awareness. Remember everything again. You have a talent for it. Not just for the sex but for the description of the physical feelings and emotions you receive from the sex. We will write excellent stories, you and I.”

It was the first inkling that I had satisfied him and that he would continue to support me until I could regain my financial footing.

I didn’t know, though, what special story he could get out of the fucking we were doing. He called it the position of the crab. He was on his back on the bed, and I was draped over him, looking up at the ceiling, my legs bent and my hands stiff-armed into the mattress on either side of his chest, while he fucked up into me from below. Him being long and me still being very open, there was no trouble with him maintaining purchase inside me, and I held steady, on top of him but suspended over his torso, and he thrust up inside me, with his hands gripping my waist.

I understood what was new--what was fodder for a story--though, when I heard the door of the room open, and saw the bartender--the massive Samoan warrior dancer--from the hotel bar move toward us. He was naked and in angry, magnificent erection. Fortier was scooting our bodies down toward the foot of the bed as the Samoan advanced. When the Samoan grabbed my ankles and wishboned my legs, causing my body to drop fully onto Fortier’s torso and Fortier’s cock to slam up deeper inside me, I knew what the next story was about.

I cried out in both pain and ecstasy as the Samoan drove his cock inside me above Fortier’s already-buried cock and started to piston me hard.

Then, for the first time, I understood what he’d meant when he asked me if two men had ever worked me hard together. And I fully appreciated the preparation Fortier had gone through and the experience of having been fist fucked earlier in the day. I never before would have thought I could take a double, and if I’d gotten into the situation, I probably would have tightened up enough for there to be nothing but pain if two men insisted.

But now--oh, shit, that Samoan; thick, long, fucking deep, hard, that tattooed, fierce face pushed into mine, while, underneath me, Fortier held steady and hard, also deep inside me even if not as thick as the Samoan, eventually also counterpistoning with the Samoan and taking me to paradise--now I thoroughly enjoyed the fuck two men could give me together.

* * * *

“See anything you like?”

Christophe had caught me eyeing the men on the beach at the gay hotel in Suva. The beach had been made private here and was well screened at either end--although I occasionally could see motorboats drifting in toward the beach, carrying men with binoculars. Those on the beach all were men, many in couples or more, and in various stages of dress and undress--and undressing each other. Sucking each other. Fucking each other--right there on the beach.

There were more older men on the beach, though--prowling about--than there were younger ones. Mostly the younger ones were posing and the older ones were shopping.

Fortier and I were sitting in chairs at the top fringe of the beach, in the shadow of palm trees, both in Speedos. Fortier was pounding away at his laptop, presumably writing up a story to go with last night’s threesome between him, the Samoan bartender, and me--with me in the middle. I was daydreaming and sitting sprawled in the chair and working on recovering from what the Frenchman had put me through the previous day.

I also, admittedly, was watching the other men on the beach and, yes, gauging them in terms of arousal. There were quite a few who did arouse. Some of the older men were well preserved but there, also, unabashed were ugly men, and fat men--undoubtedly rich men. Most of the latter were watching the eye candy and working on adding to the arousing men’s bank accounts. I marveled at how many of the young studs were willing to go into the bushes with old, fat men. I was sure it was for the money and mentioned that to Christophe.

“Some of those old, fat men are horse hung or have very soft mouths and great technique,” he said, without looking up from the computer. “It’s darker in the bushes. Many a young man is more interested in the size of the cock inside him than the weight of the man fucking or sucking him. If you are interested in testing that out, I know of a couple of men out there on the beach who can make you forget they are ugly and fat. In fact, it would make for a good story because many of the men who pay dearly from my stories are ugly and fat.”

I turned my eyes back toward the beach. More than a couple of the older men had passed close to us as well and given me the eye. As if on cue, one of them pulled down the front of his suit and flashed me what must have been an eleven-inch cock. And true to what Christophe had said, my own cock lurched in answering arousal. It seemed quite evident to these lurkers and shoppers, though, that I was with Christophe--and that Christophe could meet my needs.

He certainly had done that and more so far.

“Those men might have been good looking when they were young,” Christophe said, again with his head buried in the computer, making me wonder how he’d seen the old geezer flash me, “And most assuredly they had the eleven-inch cock then that they still have now. But, to their credit, they are more likely to know how to fuck you to heaven now than they did when they were younger and way less experienced. But you want to take them young, I’m sure. Hard body is a thing with you, I’ve observed.”

“There are some good-looking younger men out on the beach, yes,” I answered.

“Any you want to fuck?”

“What do you have planned now, Christophe? Have you finished a draft of the story from last night? Can I look at it yet?”

“The research isn’t finished yet. I need you to select a couple of muscle men off the beach. Hard bodied, as I know you like them. Hard bodied like Etienne was. See anything you like?”

Just then I saw a young blond guy, walking along the surf line all by himself. He wasn’t what Christophe was asking me to pick out, but, for some reason, he arrested my attention--and he aroused me in a way I’d never been aroused before. I’d always looked at men as possessing me--James had trained me to that early. But this man . . . he brought out different sensations in me. Strangely enough, I envisioned him as under me, with my cock inside him.

He wasn’t a muscle man. He was slender--well muscled enough--but not bulked up, and he walked with the grace of a dancer. He was nude, carrying a Speedo dangling from his hand. There was nothing oversized about him--he was a bit undersized in the classic “David” look--but that only enhanced the boyish innocent aura he exuded. He was beautiful and seemed shy, walking with an introspection as if he was the only one on the beach. There was a sadness about him, and I had the sudden strange urge to go to him and embrace him. And to . . . I couldn’t even think about it; it wasn’t my role in the world of men with men.

There were, of course, men pacing with him, working on making their moves. All kinds of men--all being drawn to him. If he noticed, he didn’t indicate that he did. I had the sensation of vultures circling him, poised to swoop on him all at once--and to tear him apart with their teeth.

He hadn’t gone too far down the beach than he met the old man who had flashed me walking toward him from the other end of the beach. The old man flashed the young blond with that big snake of a cock of his, and, just like that, the young blond separated from the rest of the vultures and followed the old man into the bushes.

“Those two, perhaps?” Christophe asked.

My attention was switched to two muscle men--one in his late twenties, perhaps, and the other in his early thirties--coming out of the surf, arm in arm. Both were hunks, naturally. I would not expect Christophe to draw my attention to anyone who wasn’t. I couldn’t quite tell their nationality--Spanish or Brazilian maybe. One thing that distinguished them, though, was that they seemed to have their eyes fixed on me as they walked out of the surf and to a couple of large, colorful towels stretched out on the beach not far between the surf line and were Christophe and I sat. Rather than settling on the towels, they remained, drying themselves off with other towels, but half turned toward us, their eyes fixed on me, whispering to each other. I had the sensation that they were posing for me.

Now that I thought about it, I’d seen them standing out in the water earlier with another young man. The two seem to have been working the young man together. Christophe had drawn my attention to them at the time, but there had been so much to see that I hadn’t watched them for long.

“Yes, they’re very nice,” I answered.

That seemed to be enough for Christophe. He rose from his chair and moved down the beach to meet the two where they stood over their towels stretched out on the sand. The three conversed for a few minutes, doing more looking at me than at each other. They walked to me together.

“Go with these men, Nathan,” Christophe said. “Let them do anything they want with you.”

They both fucked me on their towels, one after the other, but both being involved at all times--one at my tail, in doggy or missionary style, and the other at my head, feeding me with his cock. By the time they were sharing me, both standing, facing each other, with me flopping around between them, being double played like a calliope, we had gathered a crowd, standing around and watching us and pulling at their own dicks--giving the same circling vultures aura that I’d seen when the young blond was walking the beach. Christophe sat off to the side, stroking the keys on his laptop.

The story he let me read later had both forms of the double penetration in it that I had experienced that afternoon and the previous night. But the scene he set was of me walking along the surf line--just like the young blond I’d seen and been aroused by and snatched off the beach and out to sea by a couple of beefy men in a canoe (both of whom seemed to sound an awful lot like the Samoan bartender), where my character is taken to a much smaller island, hung by his bound wrists from a tree limb, and double assaulted six ways from Sunday by those two and other men doing some sort of victory celebration on the island.

The plotline seemed outlandish to me, but Christophe made it arousing with what always was his elegant and detailed writing. That evening we sat over the laptop, while he scoured my brain for the emotions and physical feelings of being doubled and polished up his story.

We did that, I’ll say, until there was a knock on the door, and Christophe opened it to let in a large-boned, ruddy-looking man who must have been a Swede or a Norwegian and at least fifty years old--gaunt and weather-beaten.

“This is Captain Thorensen, Nathan. He’s going to spend a few hours with you.”

What Thorensen wanted to do was to fist fuck me and then just to fuck me silly on the bed missionary style with his big bone. He also wanted to nearly choke me to death, being interested in edging and breath play while he was fucking me. Several times I nearly blacked out while he was fucking me and stroking my cock with one beefy, gnarled hand and choking my throat until my eyes bugged out with the other.

When he was done with me--Christophe having just looked on, pecking away at his laptop, as I almost died--and he was leaving, the gaunt man from the north turned to Christophe and said, “He’ll do. We sail at 4:00 p.m. tomorrow.”

When he was gone and when I could manage to at least barely croak, I asked the questions that were burning in my mind almost as hotly as my throat was burning. “What did he mean by I would do? What’s he the captain of, and what’s this about sailing at four tomorrow?”

“He’s captain of the Pitcairn, one of the supply tramp steamers plying between the islands. We’re booked to sail as passengers on the Pitcairn tomorrow bound for Tahiti in French Polynesia. I need new locales for the anthology I’m writing, and I wouldn’t want you to miss out on seeing Tahiti on your grand tour of the South Pacific.”

“And it hadn’t occurred to ask me if I wanted to go to Tahiti? I need to get my finances reestablished.”

“Why should I give a shit what you want?” Christophe responded. “Until you are hooked up again, you are dependent on me. And you needn’t try to tell me that what you’re getting isn’t exactly what you were looking for in coming to the South Seas. They have an American Express office in Papeete. You’ll be reestablished when we get there, you will have had your adventure, and I will have an anthology I can sell.”

I opened my mouth to object to something--but I couldn’t think of anything to object to. He was right. Even in suffering the breath play, I was gathering sexual experiences that I’d always wondered about. Who would have known that I could take fisting so casually, for instance--or doubling, for that matter. And beyond all that, I was finding that I liked to be dominated--to be told what to do. Even to be knocked around a bit. It aroused me. It made me feel the experiences I was getting.

And I wanted to know the story Christophe would make out of tonight. I wanted to read his arousing take on it. I wanted to be part of telling his readers what it was like to experience that. He had won me over to this storytelling program. I wanted to know what was next.

But there was another question. I repeated it. “What did the captain mean by I would do?”

“You were our entrée on board. He had to approve of you. Obviously, he does. We’ll be at sea for a couple of weeks from here--on an isolated sea, a ship full of randy men and no exit--a ship where the captain’s word is law. I am thinking of the short stories I can write. You can think of the adventure.”

And, strangely enough, the way he put it in his rich French baritone--the way he had with words and with manipulating me--all I did see was the sensual adventure on the offing.

* * * *

“This isn’t . . . this is snuff,” I said, with surprise. “I’m sure he never meant to go that far.”

We were huddled around the laptop in the hotel room that evening. Christophe had spent longer than using tapping out a story. His concentration had been total and his brow knitted. His hand had also been busy working his cock whenever he took his hands off the keyboard to concentrate on the word he wanted to write or image he wanted to create. He had me quite curious. He hadn’t focused as fully on the writing in the previous stories he’d written from the experiences he developed for me.

In this story he had me picked up in a bar on the waterfront, taken in a backroom by a hulky sailor, and choked to death during sex. The sex scene was quite graphic and long. My character in the story suffered--tried to resist and get away but couldn’t manage it. Still, he had come in great gobs before he expired. It was clearly drawn that he had been sexually aroused by his own death. I had never read anything so pruriently brutal.

If it hadn’t made me so hard and dripping as I read it, I would have taken my eyes away from it in disgust.

The strange thing was that I easily could marry up what Fortier had written with the sensations I had while the tramp steamer captain was choking and fucking me. I wouldn’t have any trouble at all providing the emotional underpinnings for this story. I just didn’t know whether something like this should be available to read at all. I had to think about that. I hadn’t thought of questioning anything of his I’d read earlier.

“Yes. I watched you when Thorensen was choking you while he was fucking you. At any moment he could have gone over the line and snuffed you.”

“And you would have let him?”

“Of course not.”

“You would have stopped him in time from where you were sitting across the room and watching? I’ve never seen a story that went all the way like this. Have you written this sort of stuff before?”

“Snuff stories? Yes, of course. I get more money for these from my select clients than for most of the others. Having a gang of thugs beat a young man to death while passing his ass around for all to enjoy is more brutal than this--and it sells the best.”

“And you specialize in these?”

“You should read the vampire collections I’ve written. I’m particularly fond of one titled Vampire LaCour’s Second Coming. My protagonist fucks his victims to death as he sucks their blood, both fluids needed to bring him back to a high-toned body, and his victims die with a smile. Perhaps after we do the South Pacific, you might like to return to Europe with me and meet my model for the vampire. He’s very much into the role. He would enjoy you. He has a magnificent cock.”

“And the men you mated him with . . . who he . . . ?”

“They all completed their roles with a smile on their faces.”

The look on my face made him laugh. “No, of course he didn’t really kill them. But, yes, he did suck some of their blood and fill their passages to the brim with his cum.” He laughed. “And, no, I didn’t hear of any of them turning into vampires from the experience.”

Christophe had risen from the table where we’d both been looking into the laptop monitor, had gone to a bureau and rummaged around in a drawer, and came back to me. He had the dog collar around my neck and pulled tight, almost choking me, before I knew what he was up to. A leash was attached to the collar, and he almost pulled me out of the chair with a jerk.

“Over to the bed. Now. More research.”

The wrist restraints were still in place at the corners of the headboard from the previous day of the fisting scene, and Fortier manhandled me into these. In short order he had me on my knees on the bed, my arms incapacitated, and was mounting me from behind. One of his hands was under my belly and the other held the leash tightly, arching my head back.

He took me swiftly, coordinating the jerk of the leash--and the sensation of choking by me--with thrusts of his cock and release of the tension with withdrawal.

He was barebacking me, not having taken the time for a condom--or for lube for that matter. I still was dilated well from his fisting and that of Captain Thorensen, whose hand was significantly bigger than Christophe’s was. So, I could take him.

But the fuck was raw, brutal, and choking--and in some primeval way, I was fully into it--slapping my buttocks back into his thrusts, the thrusts compensating for the jerk of the collar on my neck.

With a little cry, Christophe creamed my insides, pulled out of me, and pushed me over on my side, releasing the collar leash. He reached up and freed my wrists. My hands went straight to the collar, which I unbuckled and tossed to the side. Pulling myself up on my elbow and hanging my head down, I panted, fighting for more breath.

“I had to capture what the captain would have felt,” he said. “Do you think you can put those two experiences together to help polish up this story I’ve written,” he said. He was calm and matter-of-fact, as if he hadn’t, only minutes before, been choking and fucking me to within an inch of my life.

“Yes, I said,” with a gasp and a raspy voice. “I could have done that before you fucked me just now.”

“But I fucked you good, didn’t I? Made the emotions of being choked nearly to death fresh, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” I answered, still rubbing my throat.

“Yes to which question?”

“Yes to both,” I answered--honestly.

“So, get out of the fuckin’ bed and come over here and help me finish off this story.”

That night he held me close and made long, slow, deep, languid, sex with me. We apparently were now beyond the condom stage. He hadn’t used one for the choking sex. I’d thought it had just been an oversight when, in fact, it was a turning point in our relations.

“Live on the edge; live dangerously. I do,” Christophe said. “It takes you higher.”

Feeling his cum gush deep inside me and his cock churning around in his cum certainly did that for me.

The next morning, he pulled me over to the laptop, backtracked on his stories--made them ones of barebacking--and pumped me for details on how it felt, what emotions it pulled out of me. It aroused us both--I was feeling exceedingly sexy this morning anyway and had a perpetual hard on--and the session wound up with me sitting on his cock in his chair, facing him, in his lap, pumping myself on his hard staff in another bareback fuck. And then, quite soon, another.

Christophe must have taken something before we’d come to the computer. After that first ejaculation, he remained hard and took over pulling me on and off his cock, as I lay back in his grip, allowing my head to reach for the floor, my arms to dangle out on the carpet. He fired off again and again, causing his cum to flow around his churning cock and dribble down my thighs, taking me higher and higher to my own explosions--actual fireworks shooting up into the heavens in my vision. I felt so high that I thought maybe he’d slipped something into my morning coffee too.

I rose up and clung to him when his cock went flaccid at last and pulled his face into my chest, where he feasted on my nubs, causing me to ache to go again. We rocked back and forth, both panting heavily, both moaning low and sighing. He went hard again and gave me a weak ejaculation, which, nonetheless, was the sweetest of all.

“Remember this,” he murmured. “Later, on the ship, we’ll write a story of a young man being drugged and ravished again and again. Perhaps in an encounter in the same waterfront bar as the last story. Of course it will have to be placed before the other one. You die in the choking story. That one will have to be the last in the collection, I suppose. But now we must pack up and get to the ship.”

“It’s not leaving until 4:00 this afternoon, I thought.”

“You will have duties in preparing the ship for sailing,” Christophe said. “Serving the ship’s needs go with the price of passage.”