Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

We hadn't set down to our evening meal in the container ship's dining room until we had cleared the Singapore Straits and were steaming into the Indian sea. All alone now on the sea; no land and no other ships in sight in any direction. The sun was still bright outside; it wouldn't set for another couple of hours. The ship's mate came into the dining room as deserts were being handed out to report that we also seemed to be steaming into a squall. All hands were called on deck to methodically walk through the stacks of metal containers as big as box cars and ensure that all of the cabling holding them in place was as tight as could be. One container dislodged could roll the whole ship over in a high sea. It was going to be hard work and the sun was still hot, so all of the hands pushed their desert plates aside, stripped down to their waists, and headed for the hatchway.

I sucked in my breath at the look of the White Russian's physique when he was stripped down. Heavily muscled, bulking, a regular Zeus. In fact, all of the deckhands were large-boned, particularly well muscled; and strong looking; it obviously was a career necessity.

Maurice left with them, but he returned in a few minutes, and we finished our deserts and coffee in an otherwise deserted dining room. He was being extremely polite and solicitous—almost fatherly—toward me. Not for the first time did I feel embarrassment at my slight size and young looks. I wondered how I was going to get past him treating me like I might break in two if he touched me. David had never shown me this regard.

Over the day on board, Maurice had grown on me. I was used to going with older men, and, although "of an age," he seemed in better shape than most. And his curly salt and pepper hair intrigued me. I wondered if he was as hairy under that shirt as the back of his hands and the V at his neck implied. And whether he had such a luxuriant bush at his pubes—and how low he was hung. The hair leading me down that path. I was resisting the urge to run my hands under the hem of his shirt and up to his nipples and trying to start the inevitable process of the taking—right here on the dining table. I leaned in a bit toward him and moved my hand to the edge of the table near him.

But then Maurice abruptly rose again from the table and took a step back. "We should turn in early," he said. "If we run into the squall, it will be a rough sailing night."

"Shall I come to your room tonight?" I asked. Maurice had still not openly expressed the price of my passage, and I wanted to make clear that I knew what I owed. I also knew from how he looked at me that he wanted me, even though he was withdrawing from every signal I was sending him.

"No, no. It's not necessary," he answered.

I found this very frustrating. David—at least after my jockey career was shot when I stopped competing and putting horses through their paces so that I could respond to his every whim—had never let me forget that sex was my price for any favor or spending money. I hadn't needed to beg for the responsibility or right to pay my own way with the only coin available to me with David. I couldn't figure Maurice out.

My confusion and funk continued after I had gone back to my cabin, stripped down to my sleeping shorts, and tried, unsuccessfully, to read from one of the paperbacks I'd brought. The ship wasn't churning in the disquieted seas too violently yet, but it was pitching and yawing enough so that my eyes couldn't remain focused on the small print of the paperback. I had left the night lights on as Maurice had cautioned me to do with the comment that you never could tell where the furniture would wind up at night at sea and it would be best to be able to get your bearings if you had to get up in the night. But the lights cast an eerie red glow around the cabin that fought hard with every attempt I made to sleep.

I rose and padded barefooted out to the covered deck at the back of the passenger cabins, overlooking the wide span of the open hold in which the containers were stacked. Those of the deck crew who so recently had been heartily eating and laughing in the communal dining room were still hard at work, checking cables and tightening up anything loose on deck. It had grown dark now, as much from the black clouds scudding in from overhead as from the end of day. The White Russian, still naked to the waist, torso gleaming from sweat and salt water spray in the lights beaming down from the bridge, was there, not more than ten yards from where I was standing at the railing of the covered passenger deck. What came next came to as if in a dream.

* * * *

He has come to me in the darkness of night in a stormy sea, riding me on the crest of the waves. I have had to raise the side the rails to stay in the berth as the ship struggles through the squall, rolling and churning through the stormy sea. He comes down heavily on my back as I'm stretched out in the berth on my belly. He is heavy with undulating, insistent muscle, invading, consuming.

Unable to sleep in the tossing sea, I had come to the rail and watched the deckhands moving like dancers, tightening the ropes, securing the cargo. I watched him, the burly White Russian, for hours as the ship raced toward the twilight horizon, just ahead of the storm, losing the race by the minute, inevitably being enfolded from behind in consuming embrace.

Stripped to the waist, he worked hard with ropes at the bow of the ship, letting his muscles and hands work as they knew so masterfully to do. Beauty in motion. Sensual. Arousing. No longer watching what he was doing, because he was watching me.

"What was that you said?" I called out over tumult.

"Your cabin number?" he called back. "I can come soon. I want to fuck you."

"Fuck me?" I cried out in shock. Maurice had told him, had told the White Russian I fancied him.

"Your cabin number," He called back. No longer a question.

I wonder if he would have come anyway, even if I had not told him the number.

Heavy, stretched out, covering me. Wet and salty, just come from the sea. Too strong for me, even if I had wanted to struggle. He gives me no choice, however. His strong arms lace under my armpits and back over my shoulders and make a fist with his hands at the nape of my neck.

His knees are forcing my thighs apart. His club of a dick is at my channel, pushing, pushing, pushing. Entering and rising up inside me. And he just holds me there, letting the rolling and lurching of the tossing, storm-cast sea move him deeper, deeper inside me, Rolling this way and that, the hot bulb of his cock kissing and assaulting my sensitive inner walls at all angles in the rhythm of the tossing sea. Ahhhhhhh.