Come Me Mr. Sax Man Ch. 03

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

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

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

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

"I'm Trent," Trent answered.

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

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

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

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

"Does that mean you'll let me fuck you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I mean, I've always heard that it was a convenient cover for a rent-boy. I'm sorry if I assumed—"

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

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

"I think they're having a late-night barbeque at the pool," Trent answered.

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

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

"Maybe after the music is finished."

"It's already finished," Clint pointed out.

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

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

"Yeah, sure, why not?"

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

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

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

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

"We'll find out, won't we?" Clint responded with a hoarse whisper.

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

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

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

"This is how you want it, isn't it?" Clint asked.

"Yes."

"I thought so. It's how I want to give it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuckin' male whore. Gonna come for me? Gonna show me how much you want it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clint's buddies.

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

"Are you going to—?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That saxophonist, Buzz?"

"No, not Buzz."

"I thought you had the hots for Buzz."

"I did . . . I do."

"But it wasn't Buzz?"

"No."

"More than one?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Today or just tonight?"

"Whatever."

"Six, maybe eight."

"You are a fuckin' whore." It was said without malice.

"Yes."

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

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