Post-coital Panic

a/n: The first thing I'll say is: this is loooooong. I don't know how many pages it'll be on Literotica, but it's 22k words, 80 pages on my doc. I debated posting it in two parts here just for how long it is, but nah. I wanted it to hold-up as a stand alone story. Triggers don't go crazy on this, but some relevant ones: descriptions of vomiting (due to seasickness), drugged without consent (recreational/not perpetrated by the ML), very mild dubcon. Also, you'll notice there's some dialogue in different languages. Some of it isn't translated, and that's deliberate. If you do speak the language, and the translations are garbage—forgive me. I have no choice but to trust the Internet.

4/2/24: With the help of a reader on this platform, the Russian translations have been cleaned up. I also made a few other minor changes, mostly trying to tone down the italics. I get carried away in the heat of the moment.

It takes a special kind of douchebag to suggest a trip like this. Most people have jobs. Some, families. No one in our bunch, but that's beside the point. Ten days anywhere is borderline unreasonable, but ten days of risking life and limb is downright outrageous. I'm familiar with the statistics, okay? This isn't about the numbers. "It's less than one per year, you're more likely to die on your commute to work! Don't be a pussy, man."

For all we know, this godforsaken boat is that less than one. Don't come crying to me when you're too heavy for the door, asshole. Unlike Kate Winslet, I'll pry those stiff, frozen fingers off the hinges to save my own skin, not a second thought about it. Turn into a popsicle for the sharks on the way down. That being said—

"Blargh—!" My forehead skids across the rim of the toilet when I rest it there, slick with sweat. It's been less than thirty minutes since embarkation.

"Yo, Kit needs another patch!"

It takes a special kind of douchebag to come on a trip like this when suffering severe, chronic seasickness. It's not exactly a new thing. I'd be the latter douchebag, but I've got my reasons. They're good reasons, at least to me. In the bathroom's threshold, said reason comes up behind me. There's a sorry sigh, not remotely annoyed, and a big hand dropped to my sagging shoulder. The comforting grip makes me feel worse.

"Man, you seriously didn't have to come. We could've done our own thing." Henry says, apologetic.

"It's just—the...breakaway." I lie, knowing he knows better. I'm having to swallow back the nausea between every other word. "Just get me a patch, man, I'll be—heuk!"

I'm sure I'll never know the inside of another toilet better than this one by the trip's end. Henry's my best friend, and he's getting married in two months. This was a lavish bachelor's trip foisted on him by one of his Harvard buddies, Charles Kaiser. That Kaiser. As in, the Kaiser Family Foundation. As in, a branch of the Rockefellers. Charlie's not just a trust-fund baby, he's the trust-fund baby.

He'd be the former douchebag, and he spoils Henry like he's his little Chinese adoptee rescued from Nanning. Probably a comparison made in poor taste, but it's accurate. I'm not sure if it's a superiority thing, or if he's genuinely going about friendship in the only way he knows. Buying it. Or, sacrificing trafficked orphans at underground soirees, marking a cross on his forehead in their blood and wishing: "Please make Henry love me."

I can't stand the guy, obviously. Even if this ship does go down, I bet his family's private submarine is scooting through the foamy wake trails behind us.

Henry wasn't stoked on the idea of a cruise, especially not one lasting over a week, but Charlie insisted. It's a luxury liner sailing the coast of the Mediterranean, Barcelona to Rome, all expenses covered for the groom and whoever he wanted to invite. Not only are we strapped to a ship for ten days, we had to fly to get here. That was covered, too. Sure, I could've refused the invitation, and I know Henry was expecting me to. But, realistically, when would there be time for him and I to 'do our own thing'?

We're in our late twenties. We're not neighbors anymore, but two hours apart. When he was in attendance at Harvard, we were practically strangers. We have jobs, responsibilities. Not only is he getting married, but his fiancé is in her first trimester of pregnancy. So, kids. If this is our last hurrah for the foreseeable future, I couldn't bring myself to miss out on it. Except, now, I must be the world's biggest killjoy. Henry's going to feel obligated to babysit me on his own fuckin' trip. Even though we're the same age, separated by less than three months, he's always been like a mature, older brother.

I can't let it go down like that.

Smashing the handle, I collapse back against the cabinet. Henry's standing over me with his arms folded sternly across his chest, a concerned frown heavy on his brow.

"Dude, swear to God, I'll be fine. It's not that bumpy of a ride, I just had to...get it out of my system. There's a dinner rez, right? Go get ready, man."

"Yeah, for six, Kit—"

"I'll be there, man! Seriously, quit worryin' so much."

Sensing it's a losing battle, he releases a big sigh and drops his arms. "Fine, but you better make it in time, man. The food's supposed to be nuts. Who knows when we'll get to eat like this again."

I swallow a snide reply. Let Charlie catch wind of a comment like that, he'll have Beluga Caviar and Wagyu tartare airdropped to his doorstep thrice a week. Henry's a guy from humble beginnings, and while he's done well for himself in adulthood, he's uncomfortable with ostentatious displays of wealth. He also hates jokes surrounding the one-sided, spendthrift nature of his relationship with Charles Kaiser. Insinuating he's any kind of charity case or dancing monkey is a surefire way to get clocked.

"Exactly, so I wouldn't miss it. Let the guys know I'll meet 'em there."

Finally, he leaves me be. We've all got our own suites, which is a little mindboggling. The cheapest rooms start at ten grand a head. True to what I'd said, the turbulence is next to none. Boats like this all but hover over the water. God forbid the inherent nature of waves causes a spill. Little do the guys know, I stay strapped with those dramamine pops. 'Lil' Giggles' has never steered me wrong.

It's six now, and our reservation is in thirty minutes. I decide there's time for a quick shower, as maybe it'll take my mind off being stuck in this overhyped scrapheap. Whiffing vomit on myself isn't ideal either. Stripping down, I abandon my activewear in a sloppy puddle on the floor. Sweats are probably criminalized anywhere outside of your room, though I'm tempted to try it. The dramatic clutching of pearls over a pair of Gymshark shorts would make for a priceless memory.

These stiffs should feel honored, my quads are a fucking treat. I'm a personal trainer, so they ought to be. I have a sizable clientele, but I'm no Instagram mogul. It pays the bills, but I'd never be able to afford a trip like this for myself.

That being said, all my most expensive articles of clothing are lined with mesh. Most expensive meaning—over a hundred bucks. Charlie might've covered the expenses of the trip, but the guy wasn't going to overhaul anyone's wardrobe. I bet these people will be able to smell the polyester blend on me from a mile away. For tonight's attempt, I'm going with a white, linen button-up and beige, blended pants. It's faintly pleated descending from the waistline, slim around the legs. Courtesy of Banana Republic. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but an outfit like this screams: uncultured douchebag steps foot outside of America for the first time.

Glancing at the time before stowing my phone in a shallow pocket, it's five minutes 'til. The curtains are drawn to avoid a glaring reminder of my whereabouts, but it's not so easily forgotten. My stomach rolls a warning. I stash a few lollipops in the opposite pocket and unwrap one for the trip over.

'Lil' Giggles' better come through, or there's going to be an extremely displeased steward fetching a mop.

—

I'm guessing whoever designed this ship is allergic to color, or they assume it'd be an eyesore for the upper crust of society. It's painfully monochromatic. White, gray, silver, black, and the occasional spot of gold. Very, very occasional. Every surface is a shiny one, and the budget set aside to buff out fingerprints and scuffs must be an astronomical one.

Swishing the pop between my cheeks, hands clenching anxiously in my pockets, I try to appear natural upon deboarding the spacious elevator. It felt like being trapped in a box of mirrors. I'm officially six minutes late for dinner, which is sure to earn some disgruntled glances from other punctual guests. We're dining in the steakhouse on deck five. It's a dim place with clinical, recess lighting and monochrome portraits of arbitrary figures framed on the walls. There are a few merchandising coolers spaced around the hall, wine and slabs of beef bathed in cool, blue light.

To me, there's nothing remotely appetizing about the place.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Stopped by the eagle-eyed maître d' behind his black, blocky podium. I rip the lollipop out of my mouth, rewrap it, and hastily shove it in my pocket with the rest. This uncouth move doesn't go unnoticed, nor does it win me any points with the guy. He wasn't smiling before, but now he's a spasm away from actively sneering.

"Ah, I'm with a party of six for...6:30? Kaiser?" It's tough not to cringe, as he and I both know it's now 6:38 PM. The name-dropping doesn't work like I hoped it would. Charlie's probably small potatoes overseas.

"I'm afraid we don't allow entry once it's five minutes past service."

Bullshit. You just won't allow entry to unmannered twats. I can hardly blame the guy. But, Henry's going to be pissed if I don't get in there. "Uh, look, if you could just make an exception this once—"

"Apologies for my friend, if you'll please excuse his tardiness."

Ah, fuck.

Charlie appears around the corner, having spotted me from the table. It's a challenge not to scowl on sight, and I know the feeling's mutual. He's only going out of his way like this because Henry's probably fussing over my absence. He might be of stateside upbringing like the rest of us, but Charlie knows how to blend. The bourgeoisie aren't all that different across the pond. Not a dark lock out of place, trapped in a casing of gel. Bespoke head to toe, accessories totaling to more than a year's worth of my mortgage payments. He's more snazzy than usual, but it's an appropriate amount of snaz for a place like this.

The last man breathing I'd want a rescue from.

Like a flipped switch, the maître d' nods, smiling tightly. He's still not thrilled about the breaking of decorum, but in person, Charlie exudes wealth. The kind of wealth that'll have you waking up in a sweatshop in Shenzhen, shaving aluminum from the edge of the Apple logo for twelve hours a day. "My apologies, sir. Please, go ahead."

Once we're around the corner and in step, Charlie hisses from the side of his mouth: "Christ, Carrington, if you're going to be fucking late, you shouldn't have come. And, was that a lollipop?"

"It's dramamine, asshole." I mutter back, wary of the tables we pass.

Charlie scoffs, but there's no time to trade more hushed barbs. I take the only empty seat at the table, and of course it's nearest the walkways. Charlie made sure to save the interior seats for he and Henry, so they can make eye-contact and play footsie. The other three guys on this trip are Cedric Kissinger, Cameron Watts, and Dakota Bullock. Cedric's another Harvard yuppie, but Cam and Dakota are childhood friends of our's. Blessedly, I'm seated next to Cam, across from Dakota. I get an elbow shoved in my ribs, and Cam's grinning ear to ear:

"Dude, you already missed the first course. You gonna be able to keep anything down?"

"I'm in peak condition, okay? What'd I miss?"

"Crushed fingerling potatoes with Normandy butter." Cedrick pipes up, glancing over the little slip of paper serving as the prix fixe menu.

Dakota snorts: "When'd they hire you, man? Where's your little bowtie?"

"It's not like you pricks looked at the menu." He defends haughtily. "You'll just stuff your face with whatever lands in front of you."

"That's the plan!"

"Keep it down, assholes." Charlie barks quietly from his end of the table, despite no one's octave rising above a normal, conversational tone. Henry leans around to level me with a glare.

"Dude, you said you'd be on time."

I know his ire stems from discomfort. It's been scribbled all over his face since we stepped foot on the ship. Of course, he's dressed to the nines, but he's stiff under the fancy garb. Charlie would never let him look impoverished, but mentally, he's like the raised nail expecting a hammer to crash on his head. I know, because that's how I'm feeling. The four of us come from the sticks, a tiny town with two traffic lights and a single Fareway closed by seven. It was hot talk when we got a McDonald's. We grew up biking to nowhere, dabbling in homemade explosives, and downing six-packs before our brains had a proper chance to cook through. Two of the four lost our virginity in a cornfield.

I'll cop to being one of 'em.

Cam and Dakota, however, aren't ashamed of their upbringing or origin. They're not embarrassed to be themselves in a place like this, but it's not exactly the type of fun we'd sign up for. This isn't a booze cruise by any means, and the closest thing to a rager is the piano lounge. I'm definitely a little uncomfortable, but Henry's got it the worst. Attending on a full scholarship, those first two years at Harvard were rough on him. It wasn't considered some praiseworthy achievement by most of his peers, and they weren't shy or quiet about their disdain. I mean, the midwestern accent alone was a bullet through the foot. I hate to admit it, but Charlie was a saving grace.

The meal continues with salads, then a succulent porterhouse. The food is absolutely something to write home about. Best goddamn piece of meat I've ever had in my mouth. The fat melts like candy floss across my tongue, which has gotta be some form of witchcraft. If I can get my sickness under control, the meals are sure to be the most memorable thing about this stupid boat. I contribute halfheartedly to conversation with Cedrick, Cam, and Dakota, as Charlie has Henry predictably monopolized in their lover's corner. There's also my own little pastime, one that runs like a background program in my mind.

It's something I can't really help, especially being stuck in a place with the same five hundred faces for a prolonged period of time.

Glancing around, I add to my tally.

Blonde, cocktail dress, mid-40's: 3

Handlebar mustache, in this day and age?: 5

Young, attractive couple, Italian...?: 2

Dress two-sizes-too-small: 1

Redhead, smokin', mid-20's: 4

Ben Shapiro look-alike: 2

Damn. Numbers like that, and it's only the first night. It's hitting me how small this ship actually is compared to some liners. It's a count of how many times I've glimpsed that person in passing, as I have an eidetic memory. I know, what an exciting twist. I try not to lead with it, because I don't want 'freak brain' to be a primary part of my personality. It's never been something I used to my grand advantage, mainly out of laziness. I've never had a thirst for knowledge or love of learning.

Growing up, and even now, I treat it like a party trick. Chicks love freak brains, and I've gotten laid more times than I can count by reciting the first fifty digits of Pi. I mean, being a handsome son of a gun doesn't hurt either.

I'm not particularly smart, but I've developed an affinity for quick counting and simple calculation over the years. I'd assume it goes hand in hand with recall. It's not as burdensome as it sounds, and it's not like everything I've ever seen sits at the forefront of my mind. When there's something I need or want to remember, it's there. Believe it or not, I'm shit at remembering the day-to-day stuff, or where I last left my wallet. I forget meetings and appointments constantly. It's the useless information that's always at the ready.

It should go without saying, but I've got all of Charlie's information on lock for a rainy day. Social, bank cards, addresses.

Maybe he'll buy me a Rolex from the onboard shop. If he gets drunk enough, he'll think he bought it for himself.

My gaze catches on a table in the back, and I pause. It's a trio of men, and for how much they stick out, I haven't seen any of 'em until now. There's...an air, different from the rest. Not quite your average elitist on holiday. For a group of dude's, it doesn't seem like a boy's trip. Business, maybe, but this'd be a strange locale to conduct it. Mid-thirties, early forties. Dressed well, dark colors, but not bespoke or conspicuous. No overpriced accessories, though I do catch the glitter of studs in an ear or two, a gold chain. Neat, groomed, intimidating.

One man in particular stands out from the other two for his sheer size. I'm not a small guy, but I'd say he's worth two of me.

It's dark, so that could be an exaggeration. It's difficult to make out his face, but it's...severe. Like, Dolph Lundgren. Not saying he looks like him, just...a hard, severe face. Sharp, intense features. He's got a buzzed head, light hair. Dude looks like he makes his living fucking people up, a real movie-esque, foreign mafioso—

"Shit!"

My eyes snap back in their sockets, and I hastily return my attention to the safety of my own table. Again, it's dark, but I swear to Christ he just caught me in the middle of staring. Great, now I'll have a hit on me before the end of the first fucking day. Call it profiling, but I do a lot of people-watching. Those aren't normal guys.

Cam doesn't miss the muttered curse. "Yo, Kit, you good?"

I blink at him, barely registering the question. "Huh—? Oh, yeah. Just, uh...bit my tongue."

Thankfully, we're wrapping up the dessert course. It might be paranoia, but I swear I can feel watchful eyes. I've lost whatever appetite I managed to regain, which is a shame. That singular bite of pecan-sprinkled brownie soaked in cream was enough to make a grown man cry.

—

The next two days are spent docked in Ibiza.

We could've docked in the middle of Gravois Park, St. Louis, and I'd still have scampered across the gangway like an excited mutt. Land is land. This land, however, is widely known for its club scene. Spain's hedonistic getaway, which is much more a bachelor's vibe. Dakota, Cedrick, and I are woefully unattached. Cam's in a situationship, and his feelings about it are subject to change every other hour. I've looked at engagement rings with the guy, and I've also helped him curate countless breakup texts.

Charlie idles in a weird gray area. He's never without a girlfriend, i.e., one girl. His relationships last anywhere from six months to a year, and as far as anyone can tell, he treats his partners well. But, there's not a faithful bone in the guy's body. If a girl's pretty enough, you'll find Charlie's balls slapping off her chin in the cramped quarters of a backseat. I'm not sure if it counts as infidelity, as any girl who signs up to date the prick has to have some sort of awareness. I mean, it's not his looks gettin' him through the door, y'know? If the dude was poor, he'd be wanking off to torture-porn in the INCEL forums.

Henry, of course, is the man's golden standard. He's obsessed with his fiancé, a girl he met in his fourth year at Harvard. They've been dating for three, and to this day, he's only got goo-goo eyes for Sarah. She's a good girl, and a great match for him. They're both whip-smart, morally fibrous, goofy. They share plenty of common interests, work in the same field, and have similar dreams for the future. Real Disney shit, and I love that for him.