Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

He was grunting hard and I was groaning even harder. I felt the bulk of him slip away from me and both heard and felt the slurping of his impaled dick pull out of me, and I thought he'd finished with me, short of my release. Short, I was sure, of his own. I had not invited him in, but I felt a sudden loss of him.

But he wasn't leaving me; his weight momentarily removed, he turned me over on my back, and in one swift movement pushed his knees between my thighs and grabbed me above the hips, his hands so big and my waist so thin that his fingers almost met, and pulled my torso down hard into him as he thrust his dick strongly up in me once again. I cried out and arched my back, writhing and trembling under his new, stronger assault. I reached over my head and grabbed the rungs of the headboard to hold myself in place against the tossing ship and the White Russian's digging cock.

My head lolled to one side, and that's when I saw him. Maurice, sitting in a chair across the cabin. Naked under a robe, hanging open at his sides. Sitting there, one leg hooked over the arm of the chair to give him a wide stance, intensely watching the White Russian fuck me, a little smile on his face, his hand pulling slowly, rhythmically on his meat. The reddish glow of the night lights made the curled wisps of his heavily matted silver-colored chest hair stand out prominently. He was breathing heavily, his barrel chest expanding and contracting, bringing movement to the thatch of chest hair that reminded me of a breeze passing over a field of wheat. His engorged cock was big and thick, extending from a luxurious bush, its bulbous head angry red in the glow of the night lights—and glistening with precum. His eyes glued to the spectacle of the slight me being manhandled and fucked by the burly White Russian deckhand.

The rolling of the ship and the thrusting of the White Russian's cock was too much for me. I gave a gasp and my muscles tightened, and then I gave a little scream, collapsed under the relentless pounding, and released my seed up into the muscular, flat belly muscle of the thrusting deckhand. He, in turn, roared in triumph and jerked and ejaculated deep inside me.

Then he was gone but was almost immediately replaced with Maurice, who took up the just-vacated position, his knees pushing under my ass cheeks and thighs, his strong hands digging into my hips, a thicker cock than the deckhand's thrusting inside me. And thrusting and thrusting. Fucking me hard, the rolling of the disquieted sea tossing and turning and churning me on his relentless cock. I ran my hands up through the enticing thick hair on his chest and took his nipples between my fingers and gently squeezed. I smiled into his face, a smile of welcome, of gratitude for the free passage. Wanting him to enjoy the fuck. Enjoying the fuck myself.

But Maurice had worked himself up into a frenzy in his voyeuristic foreplay. My welcoming him wasn't really the image and the fulfilled fantasy he was seeking.

"Fight me," he demanded. "Struggle for your freedom or I'll fuck you unconscious." Then he backhanded me across the face, and I began to writhe under him, trying to escape. But this was probably why he had selected me. I was small and light, and although I was strong, I wasn't strong enough for the White Russian or for Maurice.

I did manage to dislodge his cock and scramble over to the side, but the safety slats on the side of the bed were insurmountable, especially as the ship had taken that moment to lurch to port and roll me back into Maurice.

He laughed and grabbed me around the waist with one hand and scooped up two pillows with the other. He turned me on my face and forced the pillows under my belly, raising my hips to him. The lurching of the ship was tossing us about, but Maurice was used to this. He crouched up over my hips, his thighs encasing mine. I felt his hand positioning his angry red knob at my hole, and then he reared his pelvis back and brutally thrust inside me and started pumping me hard. Going with the lurching of the ship, using the ship's motion to delve deeper into my channel and assault and caress every inch of my channel walls as he drove up inside me. Driving me to distraction. Sensations I'd never felt before. Completely taken, wholly controlled and invaded.

He was riding me like a jockey in a closely contested race, the image not lost to either one of us. He ran the fingers of one hand into my hair, and grabbed, and lifted my head up toward his face, arching my back painfully. Bringing my ear to his lips, he whispered in a throaty, lust-driven tone, "Did your David ride you like this, my little filly? Was he this big and thick, and did he thrust like this . . . and . . . umph . . . like this . . . and like THIS?" Each brutal thrust made me jerk and spasm. Then he bit me on the earlobe.

I gasped and yelped a reply, but he wasn't listening to me. He wasn't interested in what I had to say. He had been so reserved and mannerly in the light of day. In the light of the reddish night light and on the tossing sea, he was something else altogether. He was a vengeful god; King Neptune. And he was splitting me asunder with his spear. I was completely in thrall to him. Alone out here on the sea. Completely at his mercy.

And his mercy was very thin at the moment. He was riding me like a rodeo bull performer, tossed by the wallowing ship, duplicating the fury of the gale thrusting against the creaking ship. He was slapping my butt cheeks with stinging blows from his hands, and pistoning inside me, and riding . . . riding . . . riding.

* * * *

The next morning, the sea was calm as glass. I remarked on this to the third mate as I was entering the dining room, and he said, "Yes, that's not unusual. But the weather charts say to expect another rough night at sea tonight."

The deckhands—and the ship owner and passenger as well—were quiet and a bit groggy after a hard night at sea—harder for some than others; harder in a different way for one than for the others.

We were all withdrawn into ourselves, needing that first cup of coffee before we could even think of being decent to each other or to struggle for something to say.

Maurice was already there, nursing a steaming mug, when I fairly hobbled in, not all from lack of sea legs.

The eight deckhands were huddled over their own coffee, hoarding their cups from each other like they were treasure chests. They all looked at me as I came in. They had had their heads together, listening to the White Russian whispering, when I entered the room. He stopped whispering as soon as he saw me come in.

I went over and sat next to Maurice, not saying a word. I was trying to think of something to say, when I felt the nudge of a hand against the one I had laid on the table top. I looked up into the eyes of a smiling, blond giant of an Australian. Open smile, a gleam in his eye. A steaming coffee mug in his hand.

"A cup of Joe, mate?" he asked. All smiles, super friendly.

I smiled wanly back at him and took the cup. "Thanks . . . mate," I managed.

He smiled again and backed his way to the table of the deckhands and slowly sank into his seat, his eyes still on me. The eyes of all eight on me. One set satiated; seven sets in lip-licking anticipation.

I turned my eyes to Maurice, who was also giving me "that look."

"So, you fancy him, do you?" Maurice said, his eyes telling me all I needed to know about the rough nights at sea with Maurice.