He was on top of me, inside me. He was heavy and burly, not fat, but big and muscular. His knees were between my thighs, my legs spread and bent, my feet flat on the mattress, my pelvis raised to the angle of his thrusts with pillows under the small of my back. My back was arched and I was thrusting up with my hips, working with his thrusts, trying to pull his cock into my soft core, trying like hell to zoom up into the stratosphere of sexual pleasure. He was a hunk and rough. I wanted to have supreme sex with him. A couple of more inches and I would be taking him into realms of cock milking that he’d never been before. I wanted to shoot to the moon with him.
He was leaning over me, looking down into my face with his ugly-thuggish-arousing face, his eyes flashing fire, his exclamations lewdly obscene. I was a whore and he was going to break me, make me feel him more than any other man. He was going to split me, shred me. He was trying, but he wasn’t quite there. His hands were on my throat, choking me, rhythmically, controlling my breath, making my eyes bug out.
“Get it, get it. One more inch!” I croaked breathlessly, egging him on to that last little bit until I went soft and spongy for him, and the muscles of my passage walls would kick in. Just a bit more . . . but then I felt him tense, grunt, and release his seed. He apparently wasn’t pleased he’d been told he wasn’t long enough.
I was flooded with disappointment as the first officer of the ship taking us from Southampton to Bombay, India, climbed off the bed from between my legs. He was a tall, handsome, muscular stud of a man with a dusky, something foreign-to-me countenance. Very mysterious, and hung, but just not quite bull enough to reach my center—although when I’d agreed to lie under him I had thought he could do me royally.
I remained in place, my legs spread and bent, my pelvis raised, my hole gaping open. He was a thick-cocked man—just not quite long enough. He was the thickest I’d had that day. We were a week out of port and, by agreement between Lord Dinwiddie and the ship’s captain, although I slept nights with either Dinwiddie or the colonel, I was assigned a small cabin every other day to take either the other men of the mission or, for a price, the ship’s officers and other interested men booked on the voyage. I understood there was a woman prostitute assigned a cabin under a similar arrangement, but I never saw her.
The voyage could be quite boring. This was a not atypical entertainment arrangement on the high seas, subject to the ship’s captain’s interest in such services. And, although the clients were generally of a lower class than I was used to and, in general, were in better sexual trim than those I serviced at the Marble Crescent Club, I was not taking more men in a day now than I did at the whorehouse, and at the Marble Crescent Club, I could count on only one day a week off my back on the bed. Also, here when the sun went down, the door to my sometimes cabin was closed. In London, my time was the time of any important man who could free his schedule and loosen his purse strings to fuck me.
Of course there were Lord Dinwiddie and Colonel Franklin, who seemed to be vying with each other to dominate my time in bed. Conversely, there wasn’t Lieutenant Smythe, at least yet, seven days on the seas, which frustrated me no end. As for men who could reach into my soft core and really set me off, only Lord Dinwiddie of the men who were laying me managed that. I’d had hopes for the ship’s first officer, but he didn’t quite get there.
Still, as I watched him pull his pristine white officer’s uniform on, I could tell that he had been satisfied—that he already had dismissed the hint that he wasn’t long enough out of his mind. And he confirmed that.
“That were very nice. You be a lay like we rarely get on this run. Well worth the money. A real treat you be.”
I so wanted to say that I’d had high hopes for him and for him to come back when he could grow his shaft another inch and I’d show him what sexual fireworks felt like. But I didn’t. Still, it would be a long run, and he did me better than most, so I complemented him. “You are a master cocker. You are the best I’ve had on the voyage. You should not have to pay, but, alas, I am not the one who owns my time.”
“If I can get you alone out of time some evening, would you take my cock from want of it?”
I swallowed hard, but what the hell. “Yes, of course. You are a stud.”
He smiled and went to the door. I had gained an important fan on this ship, which was sovereign territory as long as it rode the high seas. When he’d opened the door, I saw that someone was waiting there—beyond the sailor assigned to mark who came and went and thus who had to pay what for the privilege, a third of which went to me. Dinwiddie pocketed a third and the captain the other third.
Just as Lord Dinwiddie had hinted to me, the East India Company mission representative, Horace Walpole, who had been so shy and so difficult to bring to enough arousal for a climax the evening I serviced him at Entworthy, had gone India native and become more comfortable in that as soon as the ship set sail from Southampton. The first time he’d come out of his cabin, he was wearing a kurti, a long, collarless white cotton shirt, over dhoti pants, a billowy cotton skirt that was twisted into pants, and a Sikh turban. And he looked exotic—Dinwiddie said he looked Indian—and very much in his comfort zone.
And now he was standing outside my door, waiting for the ship’s first officer to be finished with me and waiting his turn. I had known he had made an appointment to attend me in this cabin. The only thing I did in this cabin was let men fuck me. Walpole and I hadn’t had anal sex before. When I saw he was going to visit me, I assumed it was, at the most, for a blow job. I didn’t think it was for an anal fuck.
I was wrong. I had, despite Lord Dinwiddie’s warning, thought he was just an old, scared rabbit, wanting more than he was capable of managing. I was wrong.
My eyes went big and I choked down a moan as soon as I saw him walk in. He was carrying a smooth-wood dildo the size of a gourd. That it was a penis shape was obvious. The bulb on it was huge.
He entered, closed the door, and walked over and sat down on the side of the bed.
“I understand that your name is Sean now,” he said, with a smile.
“Yes,” I answered, my eyes still on the wood dildo, which he carefully lowered to the bed by my waist. I started to move my body into another position than the ship’s officer had left me—my pelvis raised, my legs spread and bent, and my hole gaping—the male whore’s position when he wasn’t on all fours with his tail waving in the air.
“No, stay in that position, please,” he said. He put a hand on my belly and slowly moved it down into my bush and to my cock, which he stroked a couple of times slowly, and then down to my balls, rolling them a couple of times too, and, finally, as I begin to pant lightly, down and under. He entered me with his middle finger. He sought, and found my prostate, slicked from the deposited cum of the ship’s officer, with the pad of his finger. I licked my lips and moaned. I reached down with a hand to hold his in place, but he brushed it away.
“No,” he said. “Give yourself to me entirely.” I moaned again as a second finger invaded.
At Entworthy I had taken the initiative. Now, where he was more comfortable, he was taking the lead—slowly and sensually.
“I’m afraid I didn’t do you justice before. But you weren’t naked before. I didn’t know what a beautiful young man you are. I’m glad you’ve changed names. We can start this all over again.” He took what looked like a thin, dark-leafed cigar from a pocket in his kurta, along with a box of matches. “Do you smoke?” he asked.
“Not often,” I answered.
“This is a special form of cigar. Special to India, of course.” He put the cigar in his mouth and lit it. He only took one puff before offering it to me, his fingers continuing to stroke my prostate. “Would you like to try it? You’ll find it interesting.”
“If you wish me too,” I answered. I inhaled a puff of the smoke and before I could exhale, he leaned over and had his lips on mine, holding the smoke in, which swirled up into my sinuses. I didn’t gag on it. The sensation was pleasant, sensual. He pulled his lips off mine and put the cigar between my lips again. I inhaled more smoke, and he took my lips with his again to make the smoke swirl up into my sinuses. I felt tingly all over. Suddenly, the fingers he had inside my hole felt as thick and as long as the cock the ship’s officer had had inside me. I felt myself go hard and my cock to elongate.
I felt his fingers come out of me. They were covered with cum that the ship’s officer and another man had put inside me before Walpole had come. I watched him slather the cum over my cock head, which was extra sensitive to the touch, arousing me incredibly. My cock lengthened an inch as I watched and started to throb.
“Fuck, what’s in this cigar?” I whispered.
“Ultimate pleasure,” he answered. He took two puffs himself and then gave me another puff. I started to tremble, feeling more aroused through my body than I had felt since the lieutenant had fucked me.
“That’s incredible,” I murmured, moving my fingers to my nipples and pinching them. Giving a low chuckle, Walpole moved his lips to my right nipple and sucked on it. The fingers he had in my hole penetrated me again and he started to move them, in and out. My pelvis moved with them. All of the others who had covered me in this cabin had taken me quickly and left. Walpole was working me to a frenzy before putting his cock in me.
He moved his lips off my nipple and took a couple of more puffs on the cigar. He gave me a couple more puffs as well. The room was going blurry, but he stood out prominently in my view. His features were mellowing. He wasn’t ugly any more. And his eyes had gone dreamy. I moved a hand under the hem of his kurta and to his crotch, feeling him inside the gauzy cotton of his dhoti. I could feel him hard, and in stark contrast to how hard it had been to achieve any semblance of a hard cock of any length when we were at Entworthy, now his erection was quite decent.
More shared puffs, and I was zooming up the heights of sexual want.
“Fuck me. Fuck me,” I murmured. Now, in contrast with the evening at Entworthy, I had no doubt that he could do it. I looked down at my cock, which was longer and thicker than it had ever been—or so I was thinking. Everything in the room was outsized and floating around.
“The cigars. They are drugged,” I whispered.
“Of course. It’s a sexual aid in India. I did not perform well with you before. I will perform well with you now.” He lowered his mouth on my cock and gave it suck. I came in a flood of cum down his throat. He pulled off, took another puff on the cigar and offered it to me. I was still holding and slow stroking his cock through the dhoti material. He was bigger than before. I unwound the material at his waist, pulling it away from his cock and stroked him flesh on flesh.
Shared puffs on the cigar again. He lifted up the wooden dildo so that I could see it. It looked twice as big now than it had been when he brought it into the cabin.
“I am going to penetrate you deep with this now,” he said calmly, matter-of-factly. “I don’t think any man is this large.”
I whimpered. “Oh, God. Oh, fuck.” But I didn’t beg him not to do it.
“I understand that you have had a man’s fist inside you before. If not, we should not do this. Can you confirm you have?”
“Yes,” I said, truthfully, although I said it with reluctance and more than a bit of fear.
He lowered it and I felt the bulb at my entrance. How could I possibly take something that large, I wondered.
But then I did. The head had plopped inside me and he was moving it inside me . . . deep . . . deeper . . . deepest. It was inside my soft-core zone, my center was going spongy, my passage was grabbing at the dildo all along the channel, my muscles rippling over it. The bulb was huge. He slowly twirled it inside me. I panted, clutching at his shoulder with one hand, squeezing his ever-lengthening cock with the other.
I had not gone flaccid with my last climax. I had another ejaculation and then another one. My hard cock was reaching for the ceiling and spouting like a fountain.
Walpole rolled over on top of me, pulling the material of the dhoti away, shoving the hem of the kurta up above his belly. He extracted the wooden dildo and replaced it with a long slide of his cock. His cock felt as thick and as long as the dildo had been. He reached my soft core, and my wall muscles went into overdrive, making love to his cock.
He cried out in ecstasy and rode me and rode me and rode me. We both fired off left and right, ending up with him still on top of me, still panting heavily, both of us, at least, totally sensitive to both of us losing our hardness.
We were drained of cum.
“That is some amazing shit,” I murmured when I was able to find my voice.
“You will love what India can give you,” he responded, “and India will love you.”
“God, what you did to me . . . I can’t. . . . That was . . . incredible.”
“India is a magical world. You will love what India will open to you. What you can do with your passage muscles is magic too. I didn’t want to leave you with my failure that first time. I wasn’t feeling well then. I wasn’t in my element.”
“You’re in your element now,” I said. “But we can’t do this too often. I don’t think I could survive it very often.”
“So, you don’t want to do it again now?” he asked, giving me a smile.
“No, but I would guess you could do it again now.” I regretted how dismissive I’d been of him before.
“Yes, I could. If it helps with your thoughts about this India mission, I understand that the Maharaja of Sagala has access to this drug.”
Terrific.
At the door, he told the sailor keeping records that he didn’t think I was up to any more visitors that afternoon. He was so right.
* * * *
I entertained several of the men on the ship, an average of twenty a week, I would guess, which wasn’t a heavy load for me. But I did not lie under the only man I had thought about being fucked by during the voyage—Lieutenant Owen Smythe. It didn’t take long at all for me to decide that fucking men wasn’t his preference. That was a tragedy, as he did it so well. I knew within days of being at sea that he had come to my room and ridden me all night at Entworthy because Lord Dinwiddie observed that I was interested in the lieutenant. Dinwiddie had instructed Smythe to lay me out totally to win over my acceptance of going to India. I thought I was going to India with Smythe, but I wasn’t. In fairness, Dinwiddie had more or less admitted to that when I had challenged him.
We were sailing a passenger ship. England, thanks to the East India Company, had a strong presence in India, and the continent was being populated with a large colony of semipermanent English colonialists who required much support from their own. Among the passengers returning to India from an extended home leave in England were a wealthy doctor, Henry Ratcliff, and his comely daughter, Mercy. Dr. Ratcliff was a leading surgeon in India and chief of the teaching hospital in Bombay. He had considerable standing in the colony, and his daughter was highly eligible. She not only would come with an excellent dowry, but also with high standing in the colony. In addition, she was beautiful, nineteen, and saucy.
Nineteen was fairly old for marriage in 1856. Unfortunately, Mercy had gained somewhat of a reputation for being easy in England during their home leave there, which they had been taking primarily to get her well married. They were leaving England because she’d let two eligible and well-placed prospects taste the goods without making an offer to buy them and word had gotten around.
It was a frustrated doctor and a rebellious daughter who boarded the ship in Southampton to return to Bombay, mission not accomplished. Fortuitously for them, though, there was a divinely eligible prospect sailing with them. Mercy not only melted at sight of a fine figure of a man, handsome features, spiffy uniform, and winning smile, but Lieutenant Smythe had also been warned by Colonel Franklin when they boarded that he had reached the point of advancement up the ladder in the British Army in India that he should have an appropriate wife.
A long ocean sailing in 1856 could be very tedious. If all of the stars aligned, as they seemed to in the needs of Mercy Ratcliff and Owen Smyth, there was no reason the two should not be betrothed before the ship reached Bombay.
Mercy was a rebellious and forward young woman—and already damaged goods—and as I well knew Owen was a randy and virile boy.
Owen had been avoiding me, I thought, for days of the voyage. He always seemed to be in attendance with Mercy Ratcliff. His cabin adjoined Lord Dinwiddie’s and mine and had a connecting door, as required because Owen was Dinwiddie’s adjutant.
On the afternoon I discovered why Owen was avoiding me and how far the circumstances had gotten with Mercy Ratcliff, I was alone in my cabin and I heard strange, but familiar noises from the adjoining cabin. Owen had locked the door to the deck, but not to the attached cabin. I opened the door, saw what was transpiring, and closed it nearly all of the way but leaving enough of an opening so that I could watch Owen fucking Mercy for a while.
She was bent over the bed, still mostly in her many-petticoated dress. Owen was covering her on top. He was bare-chested—so was she for that matter, her bodice having been unhooked and allowed to fall to her waist—and his trousers, held up by suspenders were on his legs, but his fly was unbuttoned and flared. Her petticoats were pushed up to her waist in back, her panties nowhere to be seen. She was wearing cotton stockings held up by a garter belt, but other than that her buttocks and cunt were bare. Owen was squeezing her breasts with his hands and his thick cock was buried in her cunt. He was fucking her good and she was loving it.
I gave him a wide berth for the rest of the trip, which most certainly wasn’t what I thought would be happening on this voyage or later, when we got to India. I had let myself believe that no matter who else I had to fuck for Lord Dinwiddie, there always would be Owen to take care of my own needs.
Quite apparently not.
* * * *
We were off the west coast of Africa. We’d had three rough days straight of sailing in a storm, with the crew being challenged to keep the ship afloat and the passengers being sick as dogs. Most of us, that was. Somehow, I hadn’t been affected, and the crew and some of the other passengers had kept their sea legs. But my services had been closed down for four days and neither Lord Dinwiddie nor Colonel Franklin had been in the condition to think about having sex—or, in the colonel’s case, tying me to the bedposts and strapping me and then fucking me.
All day on this day, though, the weather had been perfect. The sea had been quiet but not so quiet as to impede our progress. The salon that night was crowded with passengers and off-duty ship’s officers. The conversation was boisterous and free flowing, as was the drink. Smoke from pipes and cigars filled the salon. I was keyed up. I wasn’t shy about admitting that I was a satyrist, that I needed frequent sex. I hadn’t gotten any in four days.
I needed to be laid. I scanned the room and my eyes stopped at the sight of the ship’s first officer, jawing and laughing with some of the men passengers, swigging beer, and looking magnificent in his white uniform. I caught his eye. He smiled and winked at me. I smiled back and inclined my head toward a door out to the deck. After a moment, with him continuing to steal looks my way, I slowly moved toward the door and went out on deck. I moved down the rail toward the bow. When I was sure he had come out on deck, I moved further down into the shadows, near the bow.
The hunk followed me. I was standing at the rail, in the darkness, my arms stretched out, my hands grasping the rail, when he came up behind me. He covered me close from behind and embraced me, one arm encircling my chest, the hand of the other cupping my basket. I was his, under his control. I wanted him to master me, to fuck me. He kissed me in the hollow of my throat, and I emitted a low moan. I reached back and rubbed his crotch with my hand. A low growl came up from the depths of me. Fuck me, fuck me, raced through my mind. I didn’t care that he lacked that one inch that would send us into the fireworks zone.
“Are you lonely for a man tonight?” he whispered in my ear. He was undoing my belt, unbuttoning my fly. He knew I was.
“Not just anyone,” I murmured. “I need a real stud—a real man. A man who can reach up deep in me and pull my guts out.” He hadn’t quite done that the first time, but he was as close as I was likely to get tonight.
“I can be your man. Do you want me to fuck you here or take you back to my cabin.?”
“Yes. I want you inside me. Here. Now.” He pulled my cock out and stroked it, and I groaned for him.
“You told me before that—”
“I don’t want to be your whore tonight. I want to be your lover. We won’t speak of money. Just be good, very good to me.”
I heard him undoing his belt.
“Here, though, this will help,” I said, dipping into my pocket and pulling out one of the small, India drug cigars that Horace Walpole had used with me. I really wanted the extra inch of reach from this magnificent, muscular and virile seaman. I had stolen a couple of the cigars from Horace. He had more than enough to last us until we got to Bombay. I had planned to use one with Owen just to see how wild a total fuck could be. But Owen was out of the picture now.
The ship’s officer accepted the cigar and took a match box out of his pocket and lit the cigar. He took a puff and then handed it to me. I took a puff as well.
He laughed. “I know what this is. Where in the fuck did you get this? You let me use this and I’m going to fuck the stuffing out of you. We’ll have a ball of me balling you. You won’t be able to walk for a week.”
“That’s the plan,” I answered.
He did just that. He pulled me deeper into the shadows, to the very bow of the ship, where the rigging jutted out like a spear and the carved wooden figurehead in the shape of a buxom woman, naked, nestled under the bow spar.
We became naked too, taking time out to take puffs on the thin cigar. We fondled each other. We stood close to each other and stroked each other’s shafts. The drug worked. We were both massively erect. There were two steps up from the deck to the spar and there was a conveniently placed padded hole carved into the spar where the first officer could lay me on top of the spar and my cock would fit. He thoughtfully wrapped my smalls around the rim of the hole as well so that I wouldn’t chaff my cock in the hole.
“This is—” I started to say about the hole, which was suspiciously sized for a thick cock.
“Yes, the crew uses this just this way, for our amusement. On long voyages, the crew has mostly each other to sport with. I fuck you and you fuck the hole. When one of the crew be randy for a cock, he goes to the stud of choice and invites him to fuck the lady. They come here to do it. When we do it here, it’s called fucking the lady.”
We took a couple of more puffs and then I wrapped my arms around the spar and cupped the breasts of the wooden figurehead. The position had been carved to perfectly fit a submissive for hours of comfortable fucking, which is fortunate, as the first mate fucked me for what seemed to be hours. Hollows had been carved in which a man’s balls could nestle, there was a rise at belly level to raise the submissive’s tail at a good angle for the slide of the dominant’s cock, and there were footholds at the base of the spar on either side, where, with legs bent, the submissive could leverage his feet to raise and lower his hips and join in the sway of the ride, which I did heartily.
He stood on the steps down to the deck behind me. This was so conveniently configured that we made full and long use of the position for the purpose it was intended. I screamed to the wind hitting us in our faces as the ship cut through the water and he thrust inside me again and again until he was in to the root. Thanks to the drug, he now was fully long enough to reach into my soft core, which went spongy for him. As my passage muscles started working his cock, pulling him in to me, rippling over his throbbing shaft, rhythmically squeezing and milking him, he was yodeling in ecstasy as well and got the fuck of his life.
“Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!” he cried into the wind as he fucked me deep, grabbing my hips and setting up a vigorous stroke.
“Yes, yes! Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!” I cried back, the two of us able to hear each other, but the whistling of the wind blotting out the rest of the world around us.
Lifting my buttocks and stroking the padded hole in the spar with my own erection and being caressed and worked deep by his now-enormous cock, I got the fuck—the release—I needed too. Fuck and release; fuck and release; fuck and release. We each came innumerable times; he slathering my insides until his cum was flowing out of me and down my thighs; I contributing my manly juices to the ocean below. I couldn’t get enough of him; he couldn’t give enough to me. The drug continued working. It kept us hard through ejaculation after ejaculation as he fucked me there nearly until dawn, the breaks shorter than the frenzied fuck periods.
I was to find that the configuration worked the other way too. If you lay on your back on the spar above the figurehead, the same bump that raised your pelvis to a good angle of thrust when you were on your belly, raised your pelvis when you on your back. And there were handholds and shackles, depending on your preference toward the end of the spar that the submissive could raise his arms to, and rope straps in the rigging on either side of where the spar jutted out, where the submissive could put his feet when he raised and spread his legs for the dominant to crouch between his thighs and fuck him.
Before the first watch of the day came out on deck, the first officer pulled me down off the spar, draped, first my clothes, and then me over his shoulder. He wore only his trousers. He took me back to my cabin. He missed it by one. He opened the door to Lieutenant Smythe’s cabin. Owen and Mercy were naked, on the bed, Mercy on her back with her legs spread. She was holding Owen’s face to her breasts and he was fucking her in long slides.
The first officer quietly shut the door and moved on to the cabin Lord Dinwiddie and I occupied. Dinwiddie came off the bed as I was brought in. He had a dressing gown on, but it was open in front, hiding nothing. He was in erection and quite obviously had been entertaining himself.
“Where the fuck did you find him?” he said as the first officer dropped me on the bed on my back. I spread my legs and pushed my pelvis up. Dinwiddie could clearly see that I was gaping open and dribbling cum.
“I gave him a tour of the ship,” the first officer said to Dinwiddie, a smirk on his face.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” I continued murmuring. I had a silly grin on my face and was blowing bubbles.
“Did you have a good time?” Dinwiddie asked.
“We surely did. That boy of yours is a first-class lay.”
Dinwiddie went to the bureau and came back with some banknotes.
“I didn’t—”
“I want him to have a good time,” Dinwiddie said. “You obviously gave him a good time.”
The first officer took the money, grinned, and left the cabin.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” I murmured, half dozing.
He leaned over me and said, “Haven’t you had enough? He fucked you all night, didn’t he? You’ve been using Walpole’s drugs, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but no to having enough. I can never have enough cock. I can never have enough of your cock. Fuck me. You fuck me too. Slam it in and never take it out.”
“I’ve been wanting you all night. I’ve been hard for you all night,” Dinwiddie growled. “I sat and listened to Smythe fucking that girl in the next cabin, and I’ve needed you. Are you sure? You’ve been at it all night.”
“Fuck me, fuck me,” I murmured, still floating along on the effects of the magic cigar. I raised and lowered my pelvis, daring him to thrust inside me.
Dinwiddie shucked off his dressing gown, bent over me between my legs, and did just that. He went deep into my soft core without the need for an aiding drug and soon was groaning as my passage muscles proved that they were still awake and functioning.
“God, I’ve wanted you all night,” he growled.
I reached for his shoulder blades, digging my claws it, but he grabbed my wrists, forcing them over my head. I was his, open and vulnerable, fully under his control. He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.
An hour later he was still fucking me. We’d both come twice but we both quickly regained our erections and he continued fucking me. I looked over to the door between the two cabins to see that Owen was standing in the open doorway, naked and leaning against the side of the doorframe. He was smoking a cigar, arms folded, and watching Dinwiddie fucking me. His body was that of a god, and I ached for him. After a few minutes, he turned, and shut the door behind him.
Only later did I realize that he had been in erection. I wished that it had been for me.
* * * *
The drapes were open on the windows in our cabin when we returned from dinner. All of the talk in the dining room had been of the projected landing in two days’ time in the busy port of Bombay. From there, Lord Dinwiddie’s mission would set off north, immediately, for the clutch of satraps northwest of Delhi. News from there wasn’t good. Dinwiddie wanted to get there as soon as possible. All of us were getting anxious to get on land and off the ship. I was being especially bothered by nervous energy. Dinwiddie’s attentions had been satisfactory, but I hadn’t been fucked spectacularly since the surprise sessions with Horace Walpole and then with the dusky, muscular first officer. Walpole had run out of his drugged cigars, so there was no repeated supercocking from him. And the first officer hadn’t been able to get back to me. The transit of the Horn of Africa had been a difficult one, and after that he’d had his hands full helping to keep the ship afloat.
The seas had been calm for two days now, and I had seen him more frequently. In fact, he had passed the windows into our cabin three times since we’d returned from dinner, each time looking in and sharing looks of want with me. I had certainly noticed he was stalking me. So had Dinwiddie.
“You want to go with him, don’t you?” Lord Dinwiddie asked me.
“I had thought of spending the evening with you,” I answered.
“And the night too? You have been pacing around like a caged cat. I think what you need is a good fucking.”
“And the night with you too, of course,” I answered. We both knew he could give me a good fucking.
“I think you are aching for variety. I am not jealous. I know that we cock well together. But I think you want to spend the evening and night under the first officer.”
I couldn’t deny that I was aching for that.
“There. He’s gone by the cabin again. He has no business here other than to draw you out. Go to him. We have very little time left on the ship. Have your pleasure.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course. And here, here’s my gift of approval. I was saving it for us, but there will be more to be acquired in a couple of days.” He handed me one of Walpole’s drugged cigars.
“The magic cigar,” I exclaimed, my eyes lighting up.
He was out there at the deck railing when I came out on deck, watching the sun drop into the ocean. It had fallen dark between the time I left the doorway of our cabin and when I reached him at the railing. All I had to do was to show him the drugged cigar and he knew how the evening and night would transpire.
“Shall we go to my cabin?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“I think we should go to the salon and enjoy ourselves with drink for a couple of hours . . .”
“I’m not sure I can wait,” he interjected.
“ . . . and get a start sharing the cigar there, perhaps. Then I’d like you to take me forward, back to the bow, tie me to the bow spar, and fuck me mercilessly.”
He did just that. Both of us reeling and massively erect and randy, he put me on my back on the spar, tied my wrists to the handholds above my head on the spar and then raised and spread my legs and tied my ankles into the rigging above the gunwale at the bow. Coming in between my spread thighs, he worked hard getting what was now an enormous phallus into my channel, forcing himself deep into my soft core. My passage muscles went into overdrive on making love to his cock, and for hours we fucked and shot our loads and fucked and shot loads again, fireworks going on all around us thanks to the magic of the drugged cigar.
As the drug started wearing off, he carried me to his cabin and fucked me again. We dozed off and I woke to him fucking me yet again. He had taken up permanent residence in my soft, spongy core and both of us were exhausted by continued rolling sexual pleasure.
We lay there, stretched out against each other, sensing the room was getting lighter. As Lord Dinwiddie had prescribed, we had fucked through the night. And Dinwiddie had been right that this was exactly what I needed. This was respect for what each of us brought to the cocking bed, but we both knew this was just a pleasant conclusion to our voyage and time together.
“My name is Sean. Sean McDonald,” I wished to try out my new identity marking my arrival in India, but he wouldn’t have known that. “I’ve never given you my name.”
“I know that. Your name is on the passenger list. You are Lord Dinwiddie’s catamite.”
“Not quite, but close enough,” I said. “I think you could say I was the prisoner of Lord Dinwiddie’s wishes and cock. I’m too old to be a catamite.” He was stroking my cock so I wasn’t about to argue with the essential correctness of what he voiced about what I did for men, including Lord Dinwiddie—what I’d been doing for him for hours.
“My name is Adhidjeet.”
“Adhidjeet? That’s a strange name,” I said.
“Not where we will land tomorrow, in India. I am a Sikh, from the Punjab. I am of India.”
“You are? I knew you were from somewhere exotic. So, are you a Moslem or a Hindu?”
“Neither. We are a sect of our own.”
“Are all Sikh men as tall and muscular as you are? And do they all have massive cocks, and balls the size of cannonballs, able to fire continuously and produce buckets of cum?” I didn’t mention the dusky skin. But I had, indeed, known he wasn’t European. I just had hoped that he was an example of what the Maharaja of the Satrap of Sagala would be like. But Prince Babua Jahan wasn’t a Sikh. He was a Moslem.
“Many of them are.”
“So, when we reach Bombay, will you be home?”
“No, regrettably, I wander the world on ships. We will stop in Bombay but then go on to Burma and Malaya. We will be back in Bombay within a year, though.”
“I perhaps will see you again then. I will be going to the Satrap of Sagala.”
He laughed. “India is a very large country. If you are in Sagala, you won’t see me in Bombay from there or even from my home in the Punjab, which is not far from Sagala. But I think we shall meet up again . . . someday.”
“I will certainly remember you.”
“I will remember every inch of you, but now I believe I must explore you again. Have you noticed? Have you felt that I am erect again?”
Of course I had. I was making a sheath of my hand and he was sliding his massive, hard cock in it. But then he reached over with a hand and touched the insides of my thighs, which was all he needed to do for me bend and spread my legs and elevate my pelvis, and for him to roll over on top of me, slide in all the way to the center of me, and start to pump.
Not yet on the soil of India and I had been had by my first Indian stud bull—I was being had yet again by my first Indian stud bull. Were all Indians handsome, tall, muscular stud bulls, I wondered.
[To be continued]
