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The blue and gold of the Alexander lounge turned into scarlet and gold of the Hephaestion club as the American detective, Clint Folsom, and the German police inspector, Sigmund Frist, descended into an area that took perhaps a third of the room of the lounge above it but that held quite a few banquette-style seating areas on three tiers going down to a small, round center stage. The decor here was as reminiscent of the Greco-Roman era of the Mediterranean as was the Alexander lounge. On the top tier to the right of where the staircase descended ran a red-padded bar in a semicircle around the room, and Frist perched on a bar stool here and spread his legs and brought Folsom’s butt into his crouch.
As far as Folsom could determine, this space was tucked into the bow area under the lounge and he could make out a doorway under the stairs they had descended that probably went back toward the corridor that ended at the turn into the exercise room.
Frist had wrapped an arm possessively around Folsom’s belly and had his chin on the younger detective’s shoulder. Folsom could already feel Frist’s groin come alive and he sighed at the thought of what was to come. He had remembered Frist has being a superb cocksman, with power hammer drive.
“Want something to drink?” Frist murmured in his ear. “Just tell the bartender; he’s come over for our order.”
At the same time Folsom was ordering a Scorpion, he turned toward the bar and did a double take. Yet another one of masked blond hunks was there to take his order and was giving him the same “I know you; I’ve had you” smile. This set Folsom into some confusion; there could only be one of these studs who knew him so fully that he could share such a smile with him—and yet they had just left another such one up in the Alexander lounge. Folsom decided that they all probably were just very well schooled and that fucking the passengers or not fucking them was all the same thing and came with the territory; they were just taught to treat them all intimately, as required, and let the generous tips drop where they may.
Folsom and Frist were not alone at the bar. Seated next to them on a barstool, showing close interest in them from the moment they entered the room was a massive jet-black man, who Folsom had already been told was some vacationing potentate of a central African nation, traveling secretly outside of his region, spending his country’s treasury and indulging in his taste for other men who didn’t succumb to his charms simply to keep their heads on their shoulders.
As Folsom took his Scorpion from the bartender, whose hand lingered on his in the exchange a tad more than necessary, the lights on the walls around the chamber started to dim and spots opened up on the stage area below. A large number of the ship’s passengers were in attendance, and many of them were already well into pleasing each other intimately. In keeping with the spirit of this, Frist’s free hand had already unzipped Folsom and was cupping his package directly, skin on skin. No one around them seemed to mind or to pay them much attention; they all were paired off and doing much the same themselves.
The ebony giant moved his barstool a little closer to Folsom and Frist, and his eyes were glued to Folsom’s crotch, even though nearly everyone else was checking out the lit stage area.
As Frist nibbled and kissed the hollow of his neck, Folsom tried to focus on what was happening on the small stage below. An opaque, Plexiglas crossbeamed X rose out of the center of the stage. The stage was empty, but not for long. To the sound of a slow drum beat, the door under the stairs opened and two figures emerged and slowly made their way down to the stage. The one who seemed to be in command was a somewhat older rendition of the masked blond bartender trio. He was a good twenty years older than the bartenders—perhaps in his mid forties—and was rangier than they were, but he still had good, ropy muscle tone, his muscles so hard that the veins stood out on his arms, torso, and legs for lack of interior room to run. Like the bartenders, gaziantep escort he was dressed only in a short Roman-soldier skirt, which in his case was gold lamé in contrast to their shiny white; gold sandals, with gold laces rising to his knees, gold bracelets snaking around his upper arms, and a gold-sequined mask. He was carrying a gold box under his arm and was swishing a gold multistranded whip in his other hand. The other figure was that of a short, lithe young man of olive complexion and of a sloe-eyed, dark, curly haired beauty that was almost feminine in its delicacy. He was dressed in a loose shocking-white tunic and was wearing sandals similar to his companion’s, except in simple brown leather. And he had a gold collar around his neck that sparkled under the spotlights. The tunic hid his torso, but his lightly muscled arms and legs indicated a well-formed, if willowy frame.
The drums stopped their beat as the two reached the stage, and a disembodied voice asked those assembled to give a welcome to Roman the Magnificent and his assistant, Dieter. There was a smattering of applause that didn’t really mean any disrespect; it meant more that many hands among the audience were so buried in their own devices that they couldn’t readily disengage and welcome the evening’s entertainment appropriately.
Frist and Folsom did clap, though, and Frist took advantage of having his hands now free to pull Folsom’s head around and give him a deep kiss. He then pushed Folsom’s pants down on his thighs, unzipped and freed himself, and brought Folsom’s butt back into his crotch, with Folsom’s balls and cock lying on top of Frist’s sturdy piece as it thrust its way between Folsom’s thighs. Frist held his hand there, letting the two pricks become better acquainted. Folsom took a big swig of his drink and tried to keep his rising desire in check as Frist slightly rolled his hips, rubbing the root of his tool back and forth on Folsom’s exposed channel entrance.
Another hand had come into play now. The African leader, his heaving chest about to burst through the white linen tunic-style shirt he wore over equally white linen pants, was running a beefy hand up and down on Folsom’s inner thighs, coming ever closer to the docked cocks.
The drink was strong and put Folsom a little out of kilter. But he took another big drag on it and then tried to focus his attention to the center of the state. What he really wanted to do was push Frist to the floor and sit on his cock and ride him until all thoughts of Brad Roberts and how he died and who had killed him were fucked out of his mind. But then Frist might become suspicious and start unraveling Folsom’s true intent for coming on this cruise.
Down on the stage, the older man, obviously Roman the Magnificent, was tying the diminutive Dieter in spread-eagled fashion to the Plexiglas crossbar, his back against the crossbar, so that his arms and legs were spread and he was firmly fastened to the crossbar at his wrists and ankles. Then Roman opened the gold box he had brought onstage with him and took out a nasty-looking pearl-handled hunting knife and, as the drums took up a gentle beating again, this time accompanied by the sound of flutes, he began shredding Dieter’s tunic. During this process, which had caught the audience’s attention and fancy, the young man swayed about and made a mock attempt to pull away from his bonds.
Roman stepped up to the young man, wrapped his fists in the shredded material covering his chest and ripped it away, revealing a slender, but well-muscled and perfectly proportioned torso. He then went behind the youth and ripped away the material behind as the whole center stage began to revolve. As the crossbar turned, Folsom and Frist could now see Dieter’s slender, deeply dimpled hips and firm, rounded butt cheeks.
Roman the Magnificent stood back and started swishing the young man’s torso with the multistranded whip, not doing any damage, really. But Dieter writhed around as if it were otherwise, and lips of lust and anticipation were being licked all around the banquettes.
Frist had two of his fingers in Folsom’s mouth now, and the younger detective was giving them suck, his eyes slitted with wanton pleasure at this and what was happening between his legs as he watched the playacted debauchery begin on stage. The ebony potentate was drawing ever closer to Folsom and Frist and he now was fisting and stroking Folsom’s piece.
Roman went to his box of tricks again and came out with a handful of small golden clamps, which, to the tune of much groaning and moaning and feigned begging from Dieter and an increase in the rhythm and volume of the drums and flutes, he began clamping onto the youth’s body, concentrating first on the nipples and then in a V from there up to Dieter’s shoulders and then on his inner thighs, rising toward the groin.
As Dieter writhed on stage under this onslaught, Frist withdrew his saliva-moistened fingers from Folsom’s mouth and moved his hand down between his thigh and that of Folsom. Folsom began to writhe just as Dieter was doing as Frist’s fingers rimmed his ass and then entered him. The African was stroking Folsom hard now and had his head nearly in Folsom’s lap. His other hand had gone under the stool, and now fat African fingers had joined slender German ones inside Folsom’s ass.
“Uhh. Oh God,” Folsom exclaimed to Frist with a release of breath. “What are you two doing? You said we’d go back to your room. It was to be just the two of us.”
“Haven’t you remembered, Clint?” Frist whispered into his ear. “Remember? I can do you here and there and in the corridor in between too and alone or with others. You liked that before. The danger of that. And then I can turn you to the African, and he can use my cream as a lube.” Both Frist and the African were breathing hard now and working their fingers together.
“Oh God, Oh shit!”
“And do you like this?” Frist asked in a husky voice.
“Oh, oh, y-e-s.”
“Oh shit. Oh fuck y-e-S-S!”
The African had his lips on Folsom’s cock now, but this was just too much, too fast for Folsom.
“Please not this, not here, not now,” Folsom exclaimed. He pushed the African’s head away. The African sat up, looking very disappointed.
“Later,” Folsom managed to say through gasps of what he and Frist were doing with their fingers. “Later would be fine,” he said to the African. “When I can concentrate just on you.”
This seemed to placate the ebony giant, who could naturally see that there was no reason for him to be sharing such a luscious tidbit with anyone else, and he sat back on his barstool and turned his attention for the first time to the entertainment on the stage.
Roman had been flicking the clamps on Dieter with his golden whip, and Dieter was tossing his body back and forth on his restraints and moaning loudly. Roman went back to his golden box and extracted a mammoth-sized dildo. Dieter looked at it and his eyes went wide in well-schooled fear and trepidation. As Roman played the dildo up and down between Dieter’s butt cheeks, Frist rubbed his cock against Folsom’s hole, holding his hips to him with a strong hand on Folsom’s belly.
Roman poised the dildo at Dieter’s asshole for a full revolution for all in the audience to see, as Frist took a silver packet from his pocket, tore it open, and rolled a condom on his erect cock.
Roman slowly pushed the dildo into Dieter’s hole as Frist lifted Folsom hips and pulled him back on his skewering cock. Dieter cried out and arched his back. Folsom gave a little cry, arched his back up to where his shoulders dug into Frist’s chest, and threw his arms up and around Frist’s neck. The two moved into a deep kiss as Frist’s tool worked its way ever deeper into Folsom’s channel.
They were lost in lust—for only for a second. They both heard the cry from the stage and focused their attention there. Roman and Dieter no longer were alone on the stage. A naked hairy figure as outsized as a bull—not fat exactly but stocky and with a thick ram between his legs—had jumped up on stage. He was quickly followed by another figure, who Folsom quickly identified as one of the masked blond bartenders, now without his skirt on. The bull, who Folsom realized with much shock was Bruno Meister, grabbed the whip from Roman and was lashing Dieter hard with it. The young man was writhing and crying out for real now, it appeared.
Both Roman and the bartender, who evidently had been with Meister before he had become crazed and stormed the stage in a lust called forth by what was being acted out there, stood aside and let Meister have his way, although both had expressed of deep hatred on their faces. As the bartender turned, Folsom zeroed in on the groin. There was, indeed, a tattoo there just above a lovely sized prick. Folsom couldn’t tell at this distance whether or not it was a scorpion, but he thought it highly likely that this was his special bartender.
With much vocalization of his burning lust, Meister stripped Dieter’s bonds, picked up the dildo from the ground and herded the young man off the stage and through the door below the stairs. When they were gone, Roman and the masked bartender exchanged dark looks and followed on behind.
“It looks like the show is over,” Frist said as he pulled out of a now distracted Folsom.
“Who the fuck does he think he is?” Folsom asked in indignation, trying his best not to reveal that he’d ever even seen Meister before.
“That’s easy,” Frist said with a bitter laugh. “He’s the big cheese here. That’s Bruno Meister; he owns this tub and everyone working on it. He can do what he wants with them.”
The magic between Frist and Folsom was lost now, if only temporarily. “Perhaps we should use this opportunity to adjourn to my cabin,” Frist said with a touch of regret in his voice.
The two adjusted their clothing and Frist lifted Folsom’s unfinished drink from the bar and watched him chug it before they left.
Frist supported Folsom as they mounted the stairs, walked through the Alexander lounge and foyer, and descended the stairs to the B corridor cabins. Folsom was feeling a little woozy now, an apparent combination of the invigorating and draining day he had already had the effects of the strong drink. Frist’s cabin was on the same corridor as Folsom’s but on the other side of the ship.
As had been the case in Folsom’s cabin the previous evening, the steward had lowered only one of the beds and, after helping Folsom shed his clothes, Frist sat him on the edge of this bed, disrobed himself, and then knelt between Folsom’s thighs and gently sucked Folsom to a orgasmic death.
Folsom was having trouble focusing. The cabin walls seemed to be moving, although he knew the ship was still docked at Rudesheim.
After Folsom had ejaculated, Frist rose and sat beside him and made slow and gentle love to him with his hands and lips and tongue, while Folsom sighed and moaned and tried to focus on Frist’s expert lovemaking.
At length, Folsom fell over onto the bed sideways, and Frist stretched him out on his belly on the bed, his legs together. Folsom was aware of Frist stretching out on top of him—but just barely. However, he was very much aware when Frist, straddling his exposed butt cheeks with his thighs. Folsom jolted awake and nearly lifted off the bed at Frist’s first thrust inside him, but he got the old lover’s measure as he entered his channel strongly and deeply and began stroke his hips up and back on Folsom’s thighs, in a wavelike fashion, his thighs encasing Folsom’s and his chest propped up from Folsom’s shoulders with arms locked and hands buried in the mattress. As Frist’s cock dug deeper and stroked harder, Folsom gathered up a wad of sheeting in his mouth to keep himself from screaming in tones that could be heard beyond the cabin’s walls and grabbed for those storm straps at the head of the bed.
Folsom was still conscious when Frist came in a first ejaculation of ecstasy, and he was barely conscious while Frist nibbled at his ear and rolled on a fresh condom, and then renewed his stroking down into him. But then Folsom slept. The sleep of the dead. The welcome release from the cares of this world, while Frist continued thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.
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