Come Me Mr. Sax Man Ch. 03

After practice for that night's performance and a shower, with Trent walking somewhat gingerly after his fantasy night at the Brazilian's command—the walk a bit wavering even though the ship was now steadily docked at the Nassau cruise line pier—Trent found himself gravitating back to the Schooner Bar for the prenoon jazz set of Dean and Buzz. By all rights the night in the Brazilian's cabin, combined with having been rebuffed in favor of a floozy old blonde the previous day, should have kept Trent away from Buzz's realm, but it didn't. Trent told himself that it was the jazz music—the smooth saxophone sound backed by soft piano music—that drew him. But he knew, deep down, that it was Buzz and the chance, no matter how slight, that the saxophonist would give him a tumble.

The sex with the Brazilian hadn't satiated Trent; it had whetted his appetite for more sex—and for something he had missed in what the Brazilian had given him. The Brazilian had been attentive and commanding. But he hadn't been even slightly rough and dangerous. Trent still saw that possibility in Buzz. Trent still wanted that included in the variety of his sex.

Frustratingly, the visit to the Schooner Bar was a repeat of the previous morning. Again, the bar was almost deserted just before noontime. This time, it wasn't the other activities on board that were competing with the music in the bar, though. They were docked in Nassau. Nearly all of the passengers were off ship, in pursuit of whatever interests drew them to signing up for a cruise to the Bahamas in the first place. Once again it was just two of them vying for attention from the jazzman. Trent was holding up his end of the bar, nursing a beer. The same barman was there, and, although charged with pushing drinks, he wasn't hassling Trent. At the other end of the bar sat a somewhat squat dark-haired woman in her forties. She was well dressed, showing a lot of cleavage, making the most out of her most distinctive asset, but there was a certain needy look about her—and she had her eyes locked on Buzz.

Once again, at the conclusion of the set, as the piano player was gathering up his music, Buzz laid his saxophone aside and approached the bar. His gaze went in Trent's direction and he smiled, but as he reached the bar, he turned in the direction of the dark-haired lady. Trent and the barman watched out of the corner of their eyes from the other end of the bar as Buzz went into his zeroing-in routine, reached an accommodation with the woman with no effort at all, and the two of them walked out of the bar arm in arm.

Trent watched them go. Then he stood and walked over to the window that now loomed over the pier below and watched as passengers continued to disembark eight decks below. Seeing the Brazilian walking away from the ship toward the town only accentuated Trent's feeling that, although he'd been well plowed the previous day and night, he wanted it now too. This often was the case with him. Multiple fuckings in a session often left him wanting more rather than satiating him.

With a sigh, he turned and went back to the bar, perched on the stool, and tossed off the rest of his beer in one gulp. As he put the empty glass back down on the bar top, he felt the strong grip of a hand on his wrist.

"You need it bad. I can tell," the barman said in a low voice. "You're coming into the kitchen with me, and I'm going to fuck your lights out."

Trent raised his eyes, ready to say he would do no such thing, but then he saw the wild look in the barman's eyes. And he saw the attitude of command and domination he had been looking for. Maybe he had misjudged. The man wasn't a hulk, but there was a look of roughness about him. As Trent watched, the man unbuttoned his white shirt and shrugged it off his back. He was covered in tattooing. Exotic swirls and a whole story of dragons and demons.

He grasped Trent's wrist again. "In the back, now."

The man slapped Trent into the submissive position he wanted him in and fucked him in long, deep, cruel strokes, with Trent sitting on a counter, which his back and head crouched under an overhead cupboard, and his ankles locked at the small of the man's back. When Trent begged him to give him time to open, the barman pressed in; when Trent begged him to go slower, the barman went faster. It was just the demonstrated dominance that Trent melted to.

The barman was thin and wiry, but he was cruel and demanding in the fuck, not giving Trent time to open fully to him before he was plunging hard and deep and fast inside Trent. He was quick and efficient in the fuck. All business. He chewed lightly on Trent's neck as he plunged up inside him in one long jab. Trent cried out in pain and surprise—and in ecstasy. Then it was all taking, not caring that Trent's head was bouncing off the back wall and up against the underside of the cupboard, gripping Trent's throat with his hands, and making Trent's eyes bulge, his tongue hang out, and his throat making guttural burbling sounds.

Trent came up the man's tattooed belly before the barman, barely having taken time to crown his cock and having used his spit as lubricant, pumped Trent hard and ejaculated. And then the man just let Trent's body slump to the deck below the counter. He stood back, stuffed his cock back into his pants, zipped up, and rebuttoned his shirt.

"That's what you needed," he muttered down at Trent's heaped and moaning body. "The saxophonist is going to keep to business. You come mooning here for him again, and I'll take care of your need again. You're a good lay. You want more, longer, just come around and we'll make arrangements."

And then he was gone, back to the bar. Trent lay there, panting, for a few more minutes and then, with a groan, he reached over and dragged his trousers and briefs back into his arms. The man hadn't taken time to strip off more than that.

Gingerly he stood and put a leg into one leg hole of the briefs. He moaned again from the soreness of his muscles caused by the brutal fuck. But he was smiling too. It had been just the fuck he needed, the perfect counterpunch to what the Brazilian had given him.

He realized that he was strange that way—but it was just the way he was. And there wasn't anything he wanted to do to change that.

* * * *

Trent was unnerved during practice early that afternoon. They were going through the routine of what would be a new show for them—"Gershwin of the Sea"—and all he could think of was Buzz. And not just a thought of Buzz, but a fantasy of him with those lonely, rich women. Did he have a private cabin of his own, or did he go to theirs? He had a vision of the women, sometimes the model-thin tall blonde and sometimes the shorter, more curvy brunette, on their backs on the bed, and Buzz crouched between their legs, fucking them hard and deep. For both, Trent saw Buzz as having a cruel smile on his face and pumping them hard with a long, thick cock as they cried out for him to slow down, give them more time, but, at the same time, arching their backs and clawing his bare buttocks in the ecstasy of being given exactly what they'd come on the cruise to find. Their purses were open on the bed beside them, and cash was streaming out of them—cash for Buzz.

Somehow Trent couldn't see himself in that picture no matter how hard he tried to force his way in. He was disgusted with himself for even trying, but he still melted to the man. He still wanted it to be him in the place of those women, getting what those women were getting. Being cruelly treated, but loving every stroke of it. But there would be no open purse of his laying beside the copulating lovers. Trent had no money to give for sex. In this, he knew he was no different than Buzz. He would not pay for sex now, no matter how much he needed it. Maybe sometime in the future he'd be forced to. But not now, not even to have Buzz's dick churning inside him.

"Mr. LeSur. Do you plan on joining us in the Gershwin set, or are you trapped in the 'Stage to Screen' program?"

Trent snapped out of his reverie. Standing next to him was a confused-looking Natalie, one of the women in the dance ensemble, waiting for him to lift her to match the position of the other two couples on the stage.

"Sorry," Trent mumbled. "I guess I'm not really awake yet."

"Perhaps if you didn't cat around so much, you would be awake for the job you are paid to do here. And you aren't moving as well today as usual, sweetheart. Calisthenics in the nighttime?"

This was projected from the third row in the audience with only a bit of acid. Trent knew the director considered him the best of the male dancers and, like all of the dancers, both male and female, the director, citing privilege, had bedded each and every one. He and Trent had parted on amicable terms, though, as the director realized he was too vanilla missionary for Trent and was just a bit intimidated by what Trent had shown him would arouse him to peak performance.

"It is a dream, sequence, love. But not quite that much asleep. Shall we go back to the top?"

Trent blushed and moved across to the wings from which he would make his entrance in this set.

In doing so, he brushed past Buzz, standing beside the piano Dean had been playing, and looking amused. Buzz also was giving Trent "the eye," the look that Trent had come to understand as one of sexual interest. This confused Trent greatly, and he blushed again and turned his face as he moved into the wings.

This was all Buzz's fault, Trent was thinking. The director hadn't said what the musical backing for the Gershwin program was going to be. Trent shouldn't have been surprised that it would be piano and saxophone and that the services of Dean and Buzz would be brought in for the program. But he was surprised, and he was disconcerted. Later, he saw that Buzz's credit was given right there on the play bill in the frame outside the entrance to the Orpheum Theater. But he hadn't bothered to look at the posted bill before. Between his pining for Buzz and the expert way both the Brazilian and the bartender of the Schooner Bar had taken care of him, he hadn't been aware of too much else the past couple of days.

It was finding Buzz here, on the stage with him, that had brought back to Trent that he still wanted the saxophonist, probably more so with it looking like he couldn't have him. And that had sent Trent into his reverie. If the guy just didn't give him those looks, those looks of "I am going to possess you and you are going to love it," Trent could maybe pull away from him.

But Buzz did give him those looks.

Somehow Trent made it through the rehearsal. He left as soon as they were released, however. He had the feeling that Buzz wanted to talk to him, but Trent was just too confused and embarrassed to remain. The director had continued to razz him about what he only suspected, but that Trent knew—that he had been royally fucked throughout the preceding night and then again earlier today and was off his mark as a result. He'd made these catty remarks even though Trent had made sure that he was right on point for the rest of the rehearsal. Perhaps, he thought, there still was a little resentment there that Trent had drifted away from the director.

Trent beat his usual retreat when he was feeling out of sorts. He went to his cabin straightaway, changed into a Speedo, and headed for the pool deck. He'd snooze and bake his jitters away. He didn't have to be back at the theater until after dinner. They had a show at 7:00 p.m. and another one at 8:45, and then he was free for the last three days of the cruise. The next stop, in the morning, was the cruise line's own Bahamian "adventure" island, Coco Cay. Unlike Nassau, Trent would get off there and enjoy the day at the beach—and he'd signed up for a boat tour from there to what was called Drug Island. The name intrigued him, and Trent was looking forward to getting away from everything he was being assailed with on the ship.

Buzz, the Brazilian, the bartender, and now even the stage director. Did he need to let the director fuck him again to solidify his position? He was signed on for seven more back-to-back Bahamas cruises out of Baltimore for the rest of the season, but what after that? Maybe he'd put moves on the director again and spend some time under him just to be sure. Trent had to think that the man was sending signals of wanting him again at the rehearsal today.

His timing was off and he had failed to read the ship's entertainments schedule, because when he reached the pool deck, the sports director was just then organizing a "best looking man" contest by the main pool. Trent usually avoided the pool deck like the plague during any such nonsense. But today, as soon as he emerged on deck and started moving toward the more private area at the stern of the ship, the sports director, bull horn in hand, was on him immediately.

"And there we have another one, folks. A real hunk. You there, in the white bathing suit, five o-clock shadow, and movie star looks. We're having just the contest for you. Come on over here and join the meat—I mean glamour—line."

Trent smiled and waved and continued on his way, having no intention of becoming any part of such a contest, but the bullhorn sounded out again.

"You guys, along his path. Close up. Don't let him get away. He's a contender."

And, the crowd of people being there for the laughs and to be entertained did just that, closing the path Trent was on toward the stern and cajoling him not to be a poor sport. The "don't be a poor sport" did the trick. More than one of those jollying him along to play the game identified him as a dancer in the stage troupe. As part of the crew's incentive to always be pleasant to the paying passengers, they were given both "Wow" and "Boo" cards that they could turn in to the customer services desk either praising or panning staff members. Just one "Boo" card might be enough to get Trent kicked out of his job. Seeing where refusal to play might lead, he gave a fake, but convincing smile, acting like his attempt to escape was all part of the game. He turned and trudged back to the side of the main swimming pool, where the sports director was gathering other players, a mix of actual hunks and of "just-for-the-fun-of-it" aging lard buckets.

A line of women judges had been rallied, and the men, in turn, were given five minutes to make up to the women and, thus, to win the contest.

Besides Trent, there was only one other serious contender. A young blond bodybuilder type, with a movie-star face and muscles popping out on his muscles as he flexed for the gasping and cheering women, was an obvious winner. And that was quite all right with Trent. Whereas the blond, who had a cheering crowd of other young men his age and of similar physique—all of them quite possibly college fraternity brothers on a class-skipping outing—played up to the women judges, Trent merely smiled, and in response to calls for the audience to show dance moves, exhibited a few for their benefit, but remained restrained and barely smiling.

The judges apparently took that as being sensual and mysterious and cheered for him as heartily as they had for the young blond bodybuilder. The blond's friends booed Trent, but in an "all in fun" way, trying to push the candidacy of their college buddy. And the blond, clearly competitive, wasn't looking too happy that Trent was getting the reception he was from the women judges.

All was for naught, however. At the end of the "contest," the sports director revealed it had all been in fun as he brought out medals on ribbon lanyards for all of the contestants and the crowd applauded and gave hoots. Most of the contestants then dove into the pool. The blond turned to Trent and gestured that they go into the pool together, but Trent just smiled, shrugged, turned, and continued on his now-unimpeded journey to the more quiet stern area of the deck. He maintained his smiles and murmured to those who spoke to him as he passed through the crowd around the pool.

He was trembling slightly, though, when he reached the safety of the sparsely occupied loungers at the stern of the ship and took the same position he had the previous day when the Brazilian had approached him.

Trent was nervous in crowds. He didn't really like attention from those pressing in on him. When he had revealed this phobia to the stage director earlier in the year and was asked why he then was interested in being on the stage, he simply pointed out to the director that the audiences in theaters were packed together, within touch of multiple other people in a crowded auditorium, whereas there were only a few people on the stage, spaced well apart usually, and actively moving, not just sitting there, static. The director had said he understood, but he had given Trent a weird look.

"And the lights are usually down over the audience," Trent added. "I just pretend there's no one out there past the first three rows. All of my attention goes to those rows, and then I'm OK. If the lights were up, I think I might hyperventilate."

That night, as with every night, Trent did look out into the audience at the 7:00 p.m. show and, like every other night, he could only see as far into the theater as the third row, the lights on the stage only extending that far. He was surprised at something he saw, though. He saw the blond bodybuilder from that afternoon's "best-looking man" contest at the swimming pool, and, strung out on either side of him were his buddies. Trent's eyes kept going back to the young man, who appeared to be a couple of years younger than Trent, so still of college age. And each time his eyes went to the blond hulk, the young man appeared to be staring at him.

He didn't have a belligerent expression on his face, but, rather, the familiar one Trent saw in a man who wanted him. This was a strange sensation for Trent. He only went with older men—and preferably men with money. The bodybuilder looked too young and fresh for Trent's tastes. And yet his eyes kept going back to him, following the prominent curves of his bulging pecs and biceps, examining the handsome, almost wholesome appearing features of his face, the taper of his torso down to a narrow waist, the collegiate clothes he was wearing so well. And the bulge of his basket. It was almost a shock—something that nearly made him drop Natalie during a lift—when he realized that he was sexually attracted to the young man. Trent had never thought of lying with someone his own age or younger. It was a completely new sensation for him.

The blond was back for the 8:45 show, sitting once again front and center in the first row. He was alone this time, but, as with the earlier show, his eyes appeared to be following Trent around the stage. Whenever he thought Trent was looking at him, he smiled. And later in the program, at these moments he also spread his beefy legs and laid the palm of a hand on his basket.

It would have been sort of hard for Trent to misconstrue what the blond was signaling.

Trent assumed the young man would be standing at the door to the Orpheum Theater well after the crowd had cleared, waiting for the actors to get their makeup off, to change, and to emerge at the rear of the theater. And he was there, patiently waiting. Somehow he had figured out that the stage of the theater was at the very bow of the ship and that the rear entrances into the theater would have to be used by the cast as well.

"Hi, remember me from this afternoon?" he said in a deep voice when Trent emerged from the theater, accompanied by the three other male dancers. Only three appeared on the stage during a show, but a fourth one, all four taking turns, was always behind the stage, making the same costume changes as the others, and able to glide out and take the place of any dancer who faltered, sprained ankles on a pitching vessel being the most common reason why that would happen. During cruises with really rough seas, they sometimes had to improvise the ensemble, with more than one of the male or female dancers injured.