At Sea with Maurice

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We were all withdrawn into ourselves, needing that first cup of coffee before we could even think of being decent to each other or to struggle for something to say.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