Tramp Steaming Ch. 03: Austin

So this was what serving the ship's needs was about, I thought. I was riding the tramp steamer captain's cock in his cabin on the Pitcairn. He was on his back, and I was saddled on his hips and both rising and falling and rotating on the shaft, driven deep, in every direction imaginable. He had my full attention—and had had it ever since he slapped me around when I came to his room and was forced into giving him a brutal, face-pumping, deep-throating blow job. He then had demanded that I ride him well or he'd beat me—and I had every reason to believe him. In any event, riding him hard this way was giving me as much pleasure as it was him, I thought.

He was into what apparently was his fetish—chocking me during the fuck. He had his big, calloused hands wrapped around my throat, using them to pull me up and down on his cock. I, of course, was doing all I could to anticipate when he pulled me up by rising on my knees with his jerk to take the pressure off my neck.

Before I'd come with him to his cabin after dinner on the Pitcairn when it already was well out to sea, Christophe had taken me out on the deck and to the side of the ship. With a sweep of his arm, he'd taken in the expanse of the wide, empty sea, no sign of land or of another ship evident.

"I want you to think of this when you are with Captain Thorensen," Christophe said. "We are all alone—isolated—out here on the ocean. Here the captain of a ship is the law, a god unto himself. While he's fucking you, I want you to be aware that he can take anything he wants from you. He can beat you; he can choke you; he can fist fuck you. You already know he will do this."

I shuddered at the thought of this, more than half of which was arousal.

Christophe continued. "He can fuck you to death if he wishes, toss your body over the side of the ship, and that will be that. I want you to be thinking of how close you are to the edge of life and of the power he has over you. And then, if you are alive tomorrow, we'll put that into a story."

"But he can't kill me in the story, right?" I asked, trying to make a joke of it—a weak joke, to be sure. "I mean you already have a snuff story for your collection. I can't die twice in it."

"There are other collections I can put it in," he said, pulling away from the rail and walking away a few steps before turning and addressing me again. "I assure you that there is little limit to what I can do to you in a story—and not much in real life, either. And let's be honest, it's that edge you came to the South Seas to ride."

Shuddering again, I turned to see where he was going to find that the captain was standing in the hatch door Christophe was headed to. As Christophe passed Thorensen, I heard him say, "Rough him up as you like; he wants it rough."

I didn't remember having said anything of the sort, but here I was, out on the wide, empty sea, as Christophe had said, and there Captain Thorensen was, smiling a little smile and beckoning me to come to him. I did, but as I reached him, his smile morphed into a sneer, he backhanded me hard across my cheek, and I went down on the deck. He simply reached down, hauled me up with his strong arms, slung me over his shoulder, and carried me to his cabin.

He was too strong for me to resist him even if I saw any good that would do. I was exhausted from the other "serving of the ship" I'd done that day.

We had arrived at shipside shortly after lunch, maybe around 1:30 p.m. The crew was still loading the ship with supplies going to smaller islands to the east of Fiji. I was later told that supplies would also be taken on, first in Pago Pago, in American Samoa, and then again, after islands in the Cook Islands had been supplied, in Tahiti, before the ship swung north and came back toward Australia by way of the Line Islands, Kiribati, Tuvalu, and Solomon Islands.

"They're not ready to cast off yet," I said. "We're early."

"We're not early," Christophe responded. "Part of our passage is covered by you helping with the crew's tasks. I suggest you strip down to your shorts—it's going to get very hot working out here—and start lending a hand. Besides, they will all want to be able to inspect what the captain has bought for them. I'll go check out the cabins and start working on the 'drugged fuck' story."

"The cabins?" I asked. "We're in separate cabins?"

"Yes. I don't want my sleep interrupted."

It was only the following night that I understood what he meant by that. The first night, I wasn't going to get to my assigned cabin. I'd be in Captain Thorensen's bed.

For the rest of that first afternoon, I worked alongside the crew of the Pitcairn, hauling supplies on board and stacking them "just so" in the hold.

The crew of the Pitcairn was a motley collection and included one surprise. They were made up of various nationalities and colors and ranged from their twenties into their late fifties. There were two things that all but one of them had in common, though. They were body, if not face, beautiful—muscular and cut, little fat on any of them, the result no doubt of the physical demands made on a tramp steamer sailor. The other common denominator is that, throughout the afternoon, they looked at me with slitted eyes and great interest and showed every sign of maintaining hard ons.

The one exception was the surprise—and he stood out in such contrast that I had difficulty figuring out what he was doing on this crew. It was the young blond man who had walked by Christophe and me along the surf line at the gay resort hotel in Suva the previous day and who had let himself be lured into the bush by an old man with an oversized cock. He was working alongside the rest of us, although neither he nor I were able to hoist what the others did. He wasn't built for the work and he wasn't built like the others. It wasn't that he didn't have good muscle tone. It was that he was willowy and moved like a dancer. There was a natural sensuality and rhythm of movement about him, something slightly androgynous. Something that brought out my arousal in a different way than the men I wanted to fuck me did.

Throughout the afternoon, he stayed close to me. I got the impression he wanted to speak to me, but there were too many others around—too many giving me the eye. Giving him the eye too. I returned his gazes of interest with ones of my own, but I made no attempt to converse with him then. We would be on the sea for weeks. There was always time for that—and time for me to work out why he worked my emotions like no other man did.

Inexplicably, when I watched him, it was I who went hard.

The sailor who showed me where my cabin was later in the afternoon when the ship was under way and pulling away from the harbor at Suva, was all hands—touching me here and there, walking close behind me as he guided me through the narrow corridors of the ship. With a hand on my buttocks he turned me through a doorway and into a tiny room—more like a closet. But there was a bed and built-in cabinets on one wall and a door into what was the smallest head I'd ever seen—only room for a stool toilet and a tiny basin. The cubicle served as a shower too, with a shower head on the wall opposite the toilet and a drain in the floor in front of the toilet.

It was the bed that intrigued me. A single tray bed with high sides all around, The slats rising a good ten inches higher than the top of the mattress. I looked at the sailor, a question on my face.

"For rough seas," he answered. "So you won't fall out onto the deck and break your cute little neck."

"But the holes in its sides?" They were running down both sides and were stacked on top of each other, three to a row. The raised sides looked like Swiss cheese.

"To help the flow of air," the sailor said.

But the next night—not this night—I found out that the holes weren't for the flow of air at all.

And this night my ass was the captain's.

After riding his cock in a chokehold, I lay, splayed on the bed, panting and rubbing my bruised throat, while Thorensen sprawled his massive, Scandinavian frame on a chair across his commodious, well-appointed cabin, swigged beer, ogled me with a lustful stare, and reloaded.

"God, you're a sweet piece," he muttered. "Well worth the price. And if I hadn't been shown your passport, I would never have guessed at your age."

I was dozing when I heard the snap of the rubber gloves on his hands. I looked over to where he was standing next to the table where he'd arranged his empty beer bottles. There was a can of white grease on the table and black rubber gloves on his hands. I moaned at the realization of what came next. But there wasn't anything I could do about it.

He fist fucked me bent over the bed, my wrists tied together, arms stretched uselessly over my head, and my legs spread as wide as I could to accommodate as best I could the slow invasion of my channel with his greased fists, one after the other.

When he was done and we both were cleaned up, he took me to his bed, enfolded my body in his arms, and slept the night through with deep breathing and a slight snore.

He took me in a side-splitting fuck in the morning and then he sent me back to Christophe, who, sitting in a deck chair under cover on the port side of the ship, was polishing up a story on a young captive being fucked to death by a pirate captain in his cabin after a sea battle and sinking of the captive's ship. I arrived in time, hobbling and lurching against corridor walls—not all caused by the rolling of the ship—in time to add color to the story.

* * * *

"Do you mind if I join you?"

The young blond guy I'd dreamed about half the night while Captain Thorensen was fucking me looked up and gave me a look of noncomprehension. I immediately was crushed—rejected before I'd even had a chance.

But, no. He explained his response by telling me in hopelessly broken French that he didn't speak the language. He hadn't understood what I'd asked.

"How about English, then," I asked. "I was asking if I could join you." I had seen that he'd taken his lunch out of the communal mess hall and toward the bow of the ship, where he'd settled on a thick rope coil and turned his face from the ship's superstructure toward the direction in which we were steaming—east, toward Pago Pago in American Samoa.

That did the trick.

"Yes, English is good. And, yes, please do join me. I've been hoping to be able to talk with you."

Nothing like I'd been hoping for it, I thought, as I settled, cross-legged, on the deck beside the coil, facing north, looking at him in profile and being as surprisingly sexually aroused in looking at him from that perspective as from any other.

"Your English is excellent—an American accent. Are you—?"

"I'm from New Jersey. Toms River," the young blond answered. "I've escaped from NYU for a semester. Your accent is American too, isn't it?"

"I'm from Philadelphia. On my junior summer escape from Princeton." Princeton was a hop, skip, and a jump from either Toms River or New York, the home to NYU. I didn't need to say it; both of us obviously saw the irony of each of us going to the South Seas to meet up with a virtual neighbor. His smile told me he was amused by that too. His smile was luscious.

"I'm Austin," he said.

"Nathan here. What are you studying at NYU?"

"Theater arts. Dance mostly."

I would have guessed that. He carried himself like a dancer. It was one of the things that had arrested my view of him. He was different in so many things from other men I looked at . . . interacted with . . . let fuck me. I still couldn't quite figure out what the overwhelming attraction was. I could only acknowledge that I was drawn to him—sexually.

I continued the conversation. "And you needed to escape from that for a while—the dance?"

"The dance of life, I suppose," he answered. And then, when I looked at him quizzically. "I've had a relationship gone south."

"She left the dance?"

"He," he said, looking up at me and giving me a slight smile.

"Ah," was all I could think of answering to that. For some reason my heart was palpitating at double rhythm. "Ah," I repeated. "I guess I knew that. I saw you back on the beach in Suva. You went into the bushes with an old man. I wondered—"

"He had an exceptional cock. I just closed my eyes. I've found that older men, in general, have much better technique—and are more grateful to a young man who will submit to the fuck than other young men are."

"Ah, I see. For me, escape from the States was more a learning experience thing. I'm an international relations major. I wanted to hone up on my French. French is still one of the principle languages of diplomacy."

And I wanted to get away from the vanilla sex of my father's boyfriend, too, I thought—although he had stretching ways with toys that had put more exotic sexual testing in my mind. I hadn't come to the southern ocean just for the French. It was also for inventive, free-spirited, and bold Frenchmen, and for sexual testing and variety in experiences. And I hadn't been disappointed.

"And you are satisfied with what you found?" he asked. "With that writer fellow, Christophe? With the captain? I know you were in his cabin all night. I know what he was doing to you."

"You know that? How?"

"I know because if you hadn't been there, I probably would have been. That's likely where I'll be tonight—while you are being introduced to other members of the crew. I've been fucked nearly nonstop from New Caldonia to Fiji. And not just by the captain, but by the crew as well. You seem to have been taken up in that now too. Did you realize that was what you signed up for on this ship? Is that what you came to the South Seas for?"

"Yes, I'll have to admit, it is," I answered, looking directly into his face, not wanting that to be a show stopper for whatever he were moving into here—but not knowing what that could be. Austin obviously wasn't a power top; he may not even be agreeable to the position he'd been put in and that, evidently, thanks to Christophe and his story needs, I was experiencing as well.

"And it's not the same with you?" I dove in and asked. "You didn't come to the South Pacific to gain more and varied sexual experiences?"

There was a pause, but then he reached out and placed his hand on my forearm, and said, "Yes, I came here for that too."

I ached for him. But there was nothing I could think of doing for him. Two submissive bottoms, he evidently as attracted to me as I was to him. But out here on the isolated sea, at the mercy and the continued beck and call of power tops.

I thought he was about to say something, but we were both alerted to the bellowing of the first mate as he charged out on deck from the ship's superstructure, followed by other members of the crew.

"All hands on deck. Squall coming. Check the lashings on the tarps."

Both Austin and I scrambled up to do the first mate's bidding. As Austin probably already knew and, I understood, I soon was to find out, when the first mate called, you hupped to. And even then he could be very, very cruel.

* * * *

At least initially, I was glad for those strange raised boards all around my bunk. The squall had come and gone, but it had left the sea churning up enough that the tramp steamer was bobbing up and down and back and forth and it had been a real challenge to keeping our chow in our plates long enough to get it eaten at dinner—or in our stomachs afterward, for that matter.

Christophe and I spent the evening going over his collection of stories again, making sure that barebacking had been woven in where it would both foster arousal in the reader and be a natural element in the story.

"I will get a very nice return on these stories," Christophe said.

I noticed the "I"—that it wasn't a "we." It already seemed that I was the one covering our passage to Tahiti. What after that, though? I wondered. I was about to broach the subject when Christopher blindsided me.

"You going to fuck that young blond guy? I think his name is Austin."

"Excuse me? Me fuck him? You mean top him? I've never—"

"I watched the two of you together while the goods were being brought on board and again this afternoon—and he was the guy walking the surf back at the Suva resort who made your cock lurch, wasn't he? It's obvious you want to poke him. It's equally obvious he would like that himself."

"Obvious to who?" I asked. "Not to me." But now that someone had said it, yeah, I could see how it would be obvious that I wanted to fuck him. But I'd never topped. I was a submissive bottom. As far as I could see, so was Austin.

"Well, if you get around to it, I have some story ideas that would fit with it."

"Always the stories with you, isn't it, Christophe?" I exclaimed, rising from the chair in his cabin—a cabin that was far better appointed than mine was. It made me wonder again what he was doing to earn his passage—other than pimping me out, of course.

"The stories are giving you what you want—what you need," he retorted. "You could have left me in Suva. You didn't need me to carry you until the recovery of your funds came through. Surely you figured that out for yourself. You could have just walked along the surf line at the resort, like the guy you're pinning for, Austin, did the other day. You would have picked up a daddy almost immediately. Just like he did. He didn't get more than a hundred feet farther on the beach from where you saw him. That an old man was humping him in the bushes just up the beach while you were getting a double from those Brazilians. Young men like you and that Austin can stay on your feet just by lying on your backs and opening your legs. You stayed with me because of the stories—because you wanted what I could give you."

"I think that's enough of this for tonight," I said, as the ship lurched and I had to grab at the edge of a bureau. "Best place for me in this turbulence, I think, is in my bunk. And I need the sleep."

"On your back on a bed is always the best place for you, I think," Christophe said with a sneery smile. "And I wouldn't count on getting much sleep tonight."

I gave him an ugly stare.

"You know I'm right," he said, as I turned and did a zigzag approach to the hatch door out into the corridor.

He was right about the lack of sleep, of course. And I found out what the holes in the tall slats rimming my bunk were for. They were for the thick wooden rods that were slid through them.

I was nearly asleep when the men came into the cabin—filling the cabin to overflowing. All of them were naked or quickly getting there. I didn't have a chance—even if there had been a chance to be had. A couple of them held me down, my face pushed into the mattress, as I heard and felt the slide of the thick rods. They were been inserted in the holes in the side of the bed facing the room and rammed through corresponding holes on the other side. One rod down low, across the back of my neck, holding my head against the mattress. One further down, crossing under my armpits, forcing my arms up and over the side of the bed on one side and laying against the wall on the other, completely incapacitating them.

I was hauled up onto my knees and a rod pushed through just in the back of my knees, holding me in that position, my tail thrust up behind me. I had gone to bed nude, which made it convenient for them. I was completely and effectively entrapped now by the rods holding me in place, with my ass in perfect position for them.

I moaned and slobbered all over the mattress my face was pushed into as one of the crew members ate my ass out and prepared me for what then came—a succession of randy and muscular tramp steamer crew members mounting my ass and fucking me one after the other. Some wore condoms, but several barebacked me, and it wasn't long before I could hear as well as see their hard cocks sloshing around in the cum their mates had deposited inside me.