Into the Sunset

He pulled me into the stern, onto the bench seat there. And then he sat on my cock facing me and took my face in his hands and held me in a kiss while he raised and lowered his channel on my cock and rotated his hips and twisted from side to side, sending chills of pleasure through my body and giving me an exotic fuck that I'd never had before. I was pretty much a doggy-position fucker, but he was showing me that there was so much more to the sex act than pumping from behind.

When we were done and I was just sort of lolling there, fully satisfied and in awe of what he could do with a fuck, he whispered to me, "My house is on the intercoastal waterway. There's a dock. I want to show you what I can do in the shower and then in the bed."

I was with him, held in thrall to the inventiveness of his lovemaking, for four days before I took the speedboat back to the boatyard dock. I left having given Trumble the promise that I would just pack up some of my clothes, check on how things were going at the boatyard, and come directly back to him.

The boatbuilders Shawn and I had working for us were on the job, doing their assigned chores when I got to Bascom's. But there was no sign of Shawn.

"He's gone, boss. Cleared out yesterday. Said he'd left you a note in the office."

And so he had:

I searched for two days, thinking you'd gone down out on the ocean. But I found the speedboat at the private house dock and checked and found out whose house it was. I'll be back to pick up the rest of my stuff. You can either buy out my share of the boatyard or I'll put my share on the market.

Guess we know who controls who now.

I thought that unfair. Shawn hadn't been there. He didn't know the circumstances. I didn't let anyone control me. But I stopped at that thought. What had been happening the last several days? Where was my control out there in the speedboat on the Atlantic? But I could change that whenever I wanted, I told myself. And then I thought about the fantastic sex I'd been getting and my resolve faltered.

The telephone rang.

"One of the guys told me you were back. If you'll stay there for a while, I'll clear my stuff out of the house and we won't have to meet."

"Shawn. It's not like that. It's . . ."

"It's like what, Greg?"

"It just happened. He was sailing out into the Atlantic, had taken pills, was going to kill himself. Damn fool had no idea what he was doing. The rigging went down . . . I saw that . . . and he pulled the drain plugs and then it just happened. The adrenaline of the moment, I guess. It just happened."

"Just happened, did it? He tell you he wasn't a sailor, did he? I think I wrote something about control in the note I left you. I liked you a lot better when you were cocky and in control."

"Shawn, that's not fair."

"Not fair. Look at what's under the note I left."

And then he hung up on me.

I pushed the note aside. There, under that, was a newspaper clipping with a photo. Two guys receiving a cup for winning an international sailboat race off New Zealand. One of the guys was Clayton Trumble. I had no idea who the other guy was, but I could tell just by looking at them that Trumble had the other guy under his thumb and that they were fucking each other.

I pushed the article away in disgust. Suicide, my eye. And his claims that he knew nothing about sailing . . . It was all to get me under his control. Well, I knew what I'd do. I'd go home and make sure I got there before Shawn left, and I'd manhandle him into bed and give him a doggy fuck he'd never forget. And then we'd be solid again.

I walked out of the boatyard building and to the dock. I got into the speedboat and sped up the intercoastal waterway to the dock at Clayton Trumble's house. I walked into his house and climbed the stairway, finding him in bed, naked, waiting for me. And then I asked him how he wanted us to fuck this afternoon.