Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I was out in the late afternoon in late summer off Stone Harbor in a speedboat we'd been reconditioning the engine on when I saw a small sailboat—a Laser—clearing the intercoastal waterway above North Wildwood and set a course for straight out into the Atlantic. It caught my attention because it was too late in the day for a one-man craft to be out on the open ocean, and sailboats like this hugged the coast anyway. They didn't head straight out to sea.

It bothered me, and my first thought was that this was an inexperienced sailor and that he was headed for disaster. I couldn't bring myself just to ignore him and head back toward the marina myself when I had planned to.

When I looked out there and saw the mast of the vessel snap off and keel over to the side and into the water, I revved up the engine of the speedboat and headed out to help. Time was pretty much of the essence. The Laser was getting awfully close to the limits that the speedboat should be churning out in the Atlantic and night was coming on pretty fast.

When I came close to the Laser, I hailed it and didn't get a response. A little closer and I saw the figure of a man lying full out in the boat, and I thought that maybe he'd been knocked out by the boom when the mast keeled over.

When I got there and lashed our boats together, I climbed into the Laser and turned him over. It was Clayton Trumble. And he was groggy but not unconscious. The first thing I saw wrong was an open—and empty—pill bottle near his hand. The second was that the boat was flooding. He had pulled the drain plugs and the sailboat was taking on water fast.

I barely had time to pull him into my boat and untie his before it slipped under the waves. I started CPR on him, figuring I needed to get him breathing and then I'd try to get the pills out of his system.

But he clung to me and CPR began to turn into something more intimate. A kiss. And then a real kiss. He was pawing me and pulling me to him. We wrestled, but quickly it wasn't any sort of life-saving drill but a sharing of lust in which he fired me up and wrapped his legs around my waist after he'd pulled my shorts off and had lost his. He fisted my cock and I returned the favor and in mere moments out there drifting on the ocean, we were in full fuck. And he was good. He was real good. This wasn't anything as tame as we'd done in the hotel room. He pulled me inside him and showed me that he had a very talented channel indeed, using his muscles to pull me ever farther in and setting them to undulate across my cock until my gasps were overshadowing his moans and I fired all cylinders deep inside him.

Luckily, the speedboat was drifting back toward the shore while we were fucking, and after I managed to extract myself from him, I took the helm and set course for the entrance into the intercoastal waterway above North Wildwood.

"You could have died out there."

"I wanted to," was his reply. "I don't know even how I managed to get out to sea. I don't know anything about boats. I just knew that there was nothing worth living for anymore—at least until what just happened. Didn't you feel it too? It was fantastic."

Well, yes it was pretty good, I thought. Fantastic I'd have to think about. But now he had maneuvered under me in the seat at the helm and was lapping me and running his hands all over my torso and fisting my cock and bringing it to life again. Now it was feeling fantastic.

"Cut the engine," he said, his voice full of lust.

"We're almost into the mouth of the—"

"Cut the engine unless you want someone on shore to see us fucking."

I cut the engine and threw the anchor over the side. We were in shallow enough waters now that our position would hold.

He pulled me into the stern, onto the bench seat there. And then he sat on my cock facing me and took my face in his hands and held me in a kiss while he raised and lowered his channel on my cock and rotated his hips and twisted from side to side, sending chills of pleasure through my body and giving me an exotic fuck that I'd never had before. I was pretty much a doggy-position fucker, but he was showing me that there was so much more to the sex act than pumping from behind.

When we were done and I was just sort of lolling there, fully satisfied and in awe of what he could do with a fuck, he whispered to me, "My house is on the intercoastal waterway. There's a dock. I want to show you what I can do in the shower and then in the bed."

I was with him, held in thrall to the inventiveness of his lovemaking, for four days before I took the speedboat back to the boatyard dock. I left having given Trumble the promise that I would just pack up some of my clothes, check on how things were going at the boatyard, and come directly back to him.

The boatbuilders Shawn and I had working for us were on the job, doing their assigned chores when I got to Bascom's. But there was no sign of Shawn.

"He's gone, boss. Cleared out yesterday. Said he'd left you a note in the office."

And so he had:

I searched for two days, thinking you'd gone down out on the ocean. But I found the speedboat at the private house dock and checked and found out whose house it was. I'll be back to pick up the rest of my stuff. You can either buy out my share of the boatyard or I'll put my share on the market.

Guess we know who controls who now.

I thought that unfair. Shawn hadn't been there. He didn't know the circumstances. I didn't let anyone control me. But I stopped at that thought. What had been happening the last several days? Where was my control out there in the speedboat on the Atlantic? But I could change that whenever I wanted, I told myself. And then I thought about the fantastic sex I'd been getting and my resolve faltered.

The telephone rang.

"One of the guys told me you were back. If you'll stay there for a while, I'll clear my stuff out of the house and we won't have to meet."

"Shawn. It's not like that. It's . . ."

"It's like what, Greg?"

"It just happened. He was sailing out into the Atlantic, had taken pills, was going to kill himself. Damn fool had no idea what he was doing. The rigging went down . . . I saw that . . . and he pulled the drain plugs and then it just happened. The adrenaline of the moment, I guess. It just happened."

"Just happened, did it? He tell you he wasn't a sailor, did he? I think I wrote something about control in the note I left you. I liked you a lot better when you were cocky and in control."

"Shawn, that's not fair."

"Not fair. Look at what's under the note I left."

And then he hung up on me.

I pushed the note aside. There, under that, was a newspaper clipping with a photo. Two guys receiving a cup for winning an international sailboat race off New Zealand. One of the guys was Clayton Trumble. I had no idea who the other guy was, but I could tell just by looking at them that Trumble had the other guy under his thumb and that they were fucking each other.

I pushed the article away in disgust. Suicide, my eye. And his claims that he knew nothing about sailing . . . It was all to get me under his control. Well, I knew what I'd do. I'd go home and make sure I got there before Shawn left, and I'd manhandle him into bed and give him a doggy fuck he'd never forget. And then we'd be solid again.

I walked out of the boatyard building and to the dock. I got into the speedboat and sped up the intercoastal waterway to the dock at Clayton Trumble's house. I walked into his house and climbed the stairway, finding him in bed, naked, waiting for me. And then I asked him how he wanted us to fuck this afternoon.