Interrupted Escape

I could hardly snub him, especially at the beginning of a cruise of not more than a hundred vacationers, so I joined him and ordered coffee, juice, and a croissant when the waiter—thankfully not Leo—immediately appeared.

"Surely that's not all you're having for breakfast," Tom said with a smile. "We men must keep our strength up for all of the exercise we get."

So, he had heard me fucking Leo across the cabin wall from him. And he apparently realized I could hear them too. They had fucked almost constantly through the night.

We exchanged pedigrees, and he, indeed, was a rich oil man from Texas. Even as little as I knew about the oil industry, I recognized the name of the corporation he said he was a vice president for. He said that Sean had been a dancer in Broadway shows when they had met. It had only been a few months ago that they had met. They were in the spring of their relationship and already legally bound together. I had always taken much longer with my young men before contemplating a more formal commitment. Maybe that had been my problem—leaving it for too long. Not doing anything about it until the relationship was cooling off—in our autumn.

"You know Sean fancies you," the man suddenly said, looking at the ham steak he was cutting into.

"Does he?" I responded, not knowing what else to say, taken by complete surprise.

"Yes, and he's a great lay. He knows how to do marvelous things with his channel muscles walls. Would you like to fuck him?"

"Excuse me?" I asked. "Aren't the two of you on your honeymoon? The entertainment director told me you were."

"Horst?" Tom said, and laughed. "There's a man who could give you a testimonial on the muscles of Sean's channel. He fucked Sean this morning and is still down in his cabin, unable to control his hard."

It was true that I hadn't seen Horst yet this morning. It also true that someone had fucked Sean this morning. I'd heard the encounter through the then cabin walls. I had assumed it was Tom and had been impressed at the old man's stamina.

"Sean's a firecracker in bed. I'm too old to be cruising for my lays. The little booger wouldn't stay pinned down unless I guaranteed his financial security, so I married him. He wants more sex than I can give him. It's fine with me if you fuck Sean," Tom continued. "He likes variety, he wants you to fuck him, and I want to keep him happy. All I'd want is to be able to watch."

I avoided answering about Sean, at least for now. Yes, I wanted to fuck him, but this was surreal. I took another look at Tom. Even at his age he was ruggedly handsome and, I could tell, as he was in shorts and a T-shirt, he was hard-bodied. I'd been somewhat jealous of Sean in the night because of how long the old man could do it and how vocal Sean was about having it done to him.

"Well, that's not completely true," Tom said. "What I'd like to do is fuck you while you're fucking Sean. You're a handsome man. I'll bet you have the body of a god. If you go both ways, I'd like to fuck you myself. To be truthful, I'm more interested in that than putting you with Sean. Might it be that you take cock as well as give it?" He stopped eating, utensils poised in the air, and gave me a sharp look. I took it as a serious question.

"I'm sorry. I haven't taken the submissive role in a decade," I said.

"But you have taken cock before, yes? You were a submissive at one time?"

"Yes," I answered, "when I started, but I changed roles some nine years ago."

"Once you've done it, you never forget how to do it—and how to enjoy doing it. If you did it for any length of time it was because you enjoyed that position. You aren't curious how it would be with me—under me?"

I decided that would be a good time to work on buttering my croissant.

"You hesitate," Tom said. "I'd pay handsomely to get my dick in you. Perhaps you'll give it some thought."

"The truth is that I came on this trip to contemplate changing my lifestyle altogether," I said. "I'm just recovering from a relationship that went very bad that I had thought would be all I needed for the rest of my life. I think I may be getting too old for this life."

"Balls," he declared. "I'm fifty-seven, and I'll put it in as long as I can get it up. Look at it. You're what? Thirty or thirty-one?"

"I'm thirty-seven," I answered, saying it in the tone of it being a curse.

"You've aged extremely well, then. You shouldn't consider giving up. You could have this."

He indeed had unzipped himself and taken it out. He was a bull, and he was in erection.

"Touch it," he commanded. I felt myself slipping into a submissive role. Cowboy had commanded and I had obeyed. Maybe I wasn't considering all options. Maybe it wasn't a choice of doing another round with a far younger man in hopes of a deeper relationship as opposed to giving the life up altogether. Maybe there was an option of reverting to a submissive to older, randy men who could still get it up. I had several more years of body beautiful in me if I took care of myself.

"I said touch it," he repeated. I reached over and touched it. And then I was lost.

* * * *

Tom fucked me on my bunk in my cabin. I'd put out a "Don't Disturb" sign as Leo had tired me out and I wanted to rest again after breakfast.

Tom didn't let me rest. We didn't start on the bed. He bent me over the table between the beds, and thank god it was a sturdy table, as he worked his bull cock inside a channel that had not felt a man's shaft for nearly a decade, but, as Tom had declared it would, it quickly adjusted, the muscles of my passage walls undulating over the penetrating rod and pulling at it.

Tom laughed. "Hungry for it, ain't cha? Yes, you remember how to take cock."

At least it brought back memories. I sobbed a response he could take any way he wanted. He obviously didn't care as long as he was getting his rocks off. Once saddled, he pounded me hard, taking me from the rear, fucking me rough, with one hand grasping my hip to hold me in place and the other run into the hair on the back of my head, arching my torso back into his chest. I let my eyes look wildly about through the picture window of my cabin at the morning traffic on the road in front of the stately stone building, with the spires of the Cologne cathedral floating above, while Tom pounded my ass with a thick bull's cock.

It was hot as hell to be watching normal life going by outside the window while a man was holding me in place and fucking me hard from behind on this side of the window.

Before finishing me or releasing himself, he moved me over to the bed. He pressed me onto my back and, stuffing the pillow under the small of my back and grasping my thighs with his hands, spread them apart to make me completely vulnerable to penetration. I was docile for him, reverting to my remembered submissive days and how I'd given control over completely to Cowboy and the men who succeeded him—knowing how hot the sensation was of a man wanting me so badly and me giving him whatever he wanted. I suddenly was twenty again—desirable and desired. Hovering there, Tom looked intently down into my face.

"Do you want this dick again? You want me to finish, to finish inside you? You want what I have to give you?"

His massive cock, still fully erect throbbed over my exposed belly, prepared to bury itself and to do its work if I wanted it again. The frenzied need for both of us had been expended in a quick and wild doggy fuck on the table. We'd both come, but not fully. Both of us knew a second fuck would be longer, languid, more sensual. It wouldn't be just to fulfill a primeval need. It would be a coupling for both of us to enjoy.

"Yes," I whispered, hating myself for my need, but, in fact, needing this but having no intention of returning to a steady diet.

"Good, then," he muttered "You. You put it in then," he growled, moving himself in position.

My need overwhelming my shame, I took his cock in both hands and moved the bulb to my hole. He laughed, and I jerked and cried out as he thrust inside.

I gasped and involuntarily whispered, "Yes, yes," as, working it in deeper, he covered me in the missionary position. Tom held my legs raised and spread, while I arched my back, panted and moaned, and took his cock hard and fast and deep.

As he got into a rhythm, so did I, going with him now—totally his for the next several minutes—digging my nails into his shoulder blades, pulling away from his grasp on my legs and hugging his waist close with my knees, allowing his hand to go to stroking my cock and tweaking my nipples. He was using me, but I was using him too.

I set my hips in motion, going with him in the fuck, muscle memory setting in in how to take the cock that was stretching and using me. The sounds in the cabin settled down to something quiet and serious: my combined grunt, gasp, and sigh when the cock hit bottom, sucking in air as it pulled back, the accompanying slap, slap, slap of the cock's penetration and of his balls on my buttocks, and the slight squeak and mashing tick of the bunk frame on the side wall. Both of us focused, nothing happening in the cabin but the fuck, marching resolutely to release. He wasn't a wiry old man crouching between my thighs stretching and punishment my insides. He was the master.

"Whooeee, now we're fuckin'" Tom cried out. "Ride 'em cowboy. Shit, what a ride!" He exclaimed the same as the times I heard him fucking Sean. I was keeping up with young Sean. I was twenty again—desirable and desired.

"Fuck me! Fuck me hard!" I was totally into it now.

"There, did you good, didn't I?" Tom yodeled when he'd come inside me, having brought me off by stroking my cock as he fucked, pulled out, and leaned away from me. "Pretty good for an old man, don't you think?"

Yes, surprisingly, that was good for me. It was very good for an old man, I thought, still panting and gasping, laid out, legs spread, pelvis rolled up, cum dribbling out of my hole, not sure when I'd be able to move again. It had been so long since I'd gone under a man—and not often under a man as vigorous and forceful as this old man was.

He left me groaning, but, he claimed, satisfied, with a cheery, "That was nice. Nice way of getting your rocks off, ain't it?—taking a big one. Don't know why you're fooling around with topping. You have a sweet one still. You were born to be fucked. Let's do it again before the cruise is over. Let us know if you want to do Sean."

I didn't think we'd do it again. The jury was out on whether I'd have the courage to do Sean. Tom left me exhausted and groaning. It indeed was a big one. But I wasn't interested, really, in reverting to a submissive's role. He'd been brutal, if thorough and full servicing. There was little evidence going back to a submissive, though, would transition me into a mellow next phase of my life.

Now that it had happened and was over, I felt my thirty-seven years. I ached all over. I'd used muscles in the fuck I hadn't exercised in years.

There had to be something else. Some other way. This wasn't the escape I was seeking. Still, I lay there for several minutes, legs spread, checking over my systems for levels of pain and pleasure, and reminiscing on times past. Cowboy inside me had been memorable. In his own way, so was Tom. Could I do at fifty-seven what Tom did to me—lay a younger man out, stretch him to the limit, and fuck him royally? That, indeed, was the rub.

Chapter Four: Hunting It?

I avoided lunch in the dining room just as I had breakfast, this time with a growing list of people I didn't want to mingle with just then. Instead, I made use of the limited-offering buffet that was set in the Rhine Lady lounge, eating early and departing the ship while the others were at lunch. I hadn't intended to leave the ship that day after what I'd done with Tom in the morning, but the more I thought on that, the more I thought I had to get off the ship. I couldn't backslide into the submissive role. If nothing else, I most certainly was getting too old for that in terms of hooking up with desirable tops. Younger men would make me seem needy. That would be pathetic. But men with good bodies were important to me. There wouldn't be many older men eligible for that. I didn't know how much longer I'd qualify for that. Tom had been something else in that department, especially in terms of stamina and drive at his age.

I needed to do something to drive this morning—and how easily I'd succumbed to it and to having taken pleasure and comfort from it—out of my system. So, I'd do what I had decided earlier not to do—but not all of it. I wouldn't try for a hookup; I'd just check out the center of the old city.

Horst saw me pass by to the gangway from the dining room and came out to see me off. He was looking smug, as if he knew what I'd done that morning. But he most likely did know. He was surely thick as thieves with Tom and Sean already. If Tom hadn't lied, he and Horst already were sharing Sean.

"So, you've decided to check out the cathedral," he said.

"I'm going to do some walking in the city. I don't know about checking out the cathedral. Perhaps I'll pass by it." At that point, this wasn't a lie. I was planning to give the cathedral and the pat little assignation Horst had set up for me in theory a wide berth.

"From here, you can't miss the cathedral," he said. "All paths from here go there before you can go on to anywhere else. Have a good time in the city. Remember the hotel I recommended, the A&O Koln Dom, just up Komoedienstrasse from the cathedral square. And don't forget that it's all back on board at 5:30 for a 6:00 p.m. departure. Happy hour in the Rhine Lady lounge starting at 5:00. I'll be giving a preview of Rüdesheim, our destination for tomorrow."

There was a twinkle in his eye as he turned from me to pass the same information—minus the gay-friendly hotel recommendation—to the elderly couple that had been lost on the wrong deck in Amsterdam and that had decided to depart the River Princess at the same time I was.

I had intended not to fall in with Horst's plans for me that afternoon, but of course I did. He had been right that whatever pathway I could take from the ship seemed to head for the tall spires of the Cologne Cathedral. Less than a seven-minute walk and I was in the cathedral square.

Using his advice on what young men or women were cruising the area, I easily was able to pick the prospects out. I found him almost immediately. He was tall and willowy, a blond—almost platinum—and had striking blue eyes. The hair was long, put up in a bun at the back of his head now, but I could envision it let down, reaching to his shoulders, the way I liked it. He was perched on the steps up into the cathedral, a bit apart from a group of other young men, who gave me a close once over as I passed. Cologne wasn't any different from any other city in some respects. The looks I was getting from the young men told me they were available. He was a bit more aloof. He was playing a guitar, rather badly, but more just random chords to attract attention. He had charcoal sketches displayed in front of him, which I assumed he was selling—and probably using to sell himself, but the looks he gave me also were familiar in intent to anyone who had shopped for flesh before.

I stopped in front of him and looked down at the sketches. His talent here was rather greater than it was with the guitar, but nothing to rave about. His smile and the confidence and almost arrogance that he exuded were what attracted me. It was as if, with some half dozen young men loitering around the cathedral steps and obviously on the make, he knew he had the advantage.

"Mögen Sie die Kunst?" he asked me, his voice a rich second tenor—as a music professor I paid attention to a man's vocal tone. When he saw my quizzical look, though, he switched to English. "Ah, you speak English instead?"

"Yes," I said.

"English or American?"

"I'm an American," I said.

"Wunderbare—Wonderful. I asked you if you liked the art work."

"It's . . . very interesting," I said. And the closer I looked at it, the more interesting it was. It wasn't that it was good; it was that among the sketches of the cathedral itself, there were a few of young men in evocative poses. I'd seen him pulling those sketches out from underneath his guitar case and putting them out as I approached. They were just for me—and for other men he assessed to be interested in young men.

The young man's eyes followed mine. He smiled, reached under his guitar case again, and brought out a folder. He opened this for me to see—nudes; nudes of young men. And there were a couple, as well, of young men, singly and in pairs, in sexual positions. He moved a couple of older men covering younger men to the top of the pile. As I looked at the sketches, he positioned a hand where I could see it, curling the fingers and touching them with his thumb, making a sheath for the thumb of his other hand to move inside—a universal signal of anal fucking. He popped his tongue in his cheek. What he was selling was quite clear, and it wasn't the sketches.

Taking my time, I sorted through the sketches, spending as much time perusing the ones showing graphic gay sex as any of the others. Playing his game, I lingered over those of older men—older, but still in good shape, as I was still in good shape—fucking young men. I isolated to one where the young man was a blond, with hair cascading to his shoulders.

"Any in particular that you like?" he asked. I think he fully knew which ones I gravitated to—and why.

"This one and that one are intriguing, and I'm drawn to them." One was of two men in a lotus position together and the other was the missionary position. Both were of an older man on a young blond, with long hair.

"Is it the ages of the figures or the positions they are in?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered and gave him a smile.

"Ah, very good choices, I think."

"Do you think so?" I asked. "Are those ones you would pick for yourself?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Do you think it would be possible for me to purchase something like those? How much are they?"

He named an astronomical price in terms of the quality of the art, but not too bad in terms of rented flesh.

"That sounds quite reasonable if you are selling everything I am assuming you are," I said. "Would you be able to deliver it to a hotel nearby. The A&O Koln Dom has been recommended to me."

He smiled broadly. "Natürlich—Naturally. I know where that is and I was about to take a break from here. And the artwork. Are these of the most desirable position for the sketch you would like? Maybe I have sketches showing other positions that you would like better?"

"I like this one fine—the one of an older of the pair driving from the top. That's what I prefer. Do you have a favorite yourself of those positions? Would this position be to your liking?"

"But of course it would. My name is Ryker. This is a sketch I think I like best." He was pointing to the lotus position one. And, with that, with a nod from me, he started to gather up his sketches and reached for his guitar case.

* * * *

When I came out of the hotel bathroom, showered and naked, and condom packet and tube of lube in hand, Ryker was sitting on the side of the bed facing the window, away from me, still dressed. He had just turned on the radio on the nightstand beside the bed. Wagner was on the radio. "Ride of the Valkyrie." The overture to Act Three of Die Walküre, the second of the four operas constituting Richard Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen. I knew it well. I specialized in Wagner and taught him in college and wrote what I thought were very erudite commentaries about him in obscure music journals. I had unaccountably been nervous about this encounter, probably because I hadn't cruised like this—taken a young stranger off the streets to fuck—for a good many years, and, despite the boisterous nature of the music, it calmed me down.