Tramp Steaming Ch. 04: Pago Pago

"No shit? That's what you felt—or didn't feel?"

Christophe and I were sitting out on the portside deck, under the overhanging of the bridge above us, and working on the gang bang story.

"After about the fifth man, I plateaued out," I repeated. "Each successive dick didn't mean all that much—except perhaps for that Portuguese sailor. Every time he came around, I felt the stretch. And he had a distinct cork-screw type of working me."

"The Portuguese sailor. Alphonse. The younger, more muscular of the crew?"

"Yes, that's him. A thuggish-looking face that looks like he'd been hit by a two-by-four three times too many—but in the dark . . ."

"So, you wouldn't want to do that again? You have nothing that will enhance this story?"

I thought on that for a few minutes. I'd failed to say I didn't like it when he asked right after it happened. I still couldn't say that, on the whole, I didn't like it. "It was a mixed bag. I started to cramp after a while and was thinking more about that than about the men taking turns with me. But beyond the pain of being held in place by those rods, I sort of liked the feeling of being trapped like that—all decisions and responsibility out of my hands. No personal guilt for what was happening. And what was happening—that was arousing, I have to admit. The thought that that many men got hard for me. Repeatedly. That they came back for more. That they came. That I made them come."

"And did you come?"

"Yes."

"More than once?"

"Twice. Both time with the Portuguese sailor. He just had a way of going off beat when I was ready and triggering me." Blushing, I looked away from Christophe. I probably shouldn't have revealed to Christophe that the Portuguese sailor was special for me. Christophe picked up on everything—used it all to his advantage. And he later proved to do so in this instance as well. And beyond that, I didn't want to let him know of the three times later, with Austin—inside Austin. Who knows what Christophe would do with my awakening to the knowledge that I could top too—that there were young men, like Austin, who could make me want to top.

"Not for me? You didn't come for me last night. I was in the chain."

"I know you were. No, not last night. But I've come for you many times before. Last night, it was about the novelty of it—the shock, the imprisonment, the one cock after the other."

"So, there are emotions of the gang bang last night that you can give words to for this story after all?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"And after the gang bang. When Austin arrived. When you fucked him?"

Shit, I thought. "You saw that?"

"I see everything you do. I'm interested in everything you do. Not for this story, but—"

"Let's leave that alone," I said, angry and letting it show in my voice.

Christophe just smiled an enigmatic smile. "Do you want to fuck him again? Do you want the opportunity to do so?"

"Of course," I said, with a sigh, defeated by the man's persistence.

"I can arrange that. Come to my cabin after lunch. But for now, let's finish up this gang bang story. I trust you are satisfied that I have set it in that waterfront bar and the men taking you on a table, one of them pinning your throat to the table with a pool cue."

"Yes, that was fine," I said. But, in that one element, not as arousing as reality, I thought.

* * * *

I had Austin bent over the side of Christophe's bed, my hand cupping his throat, arching his back to me, capturing his mouth with mine as, the other hand on his hip, I pumped, pumped, pumped him deep and hard. I reached the hand around to find that his cock was hard now, a real handful when not flaccid. He moaned deeply for me at the pumping of both his ass and his cock.

He shot out on the bed and collapsed under me, as I heard the door to the corridor open.

"Fuck you, Christophe," I muttered, as I saw the Portuguese sailor move into the cabin, followed by Christophe, who closed the door and moved off to the side. "I know what you . . . oh, shit!"

The sailor came straight for me, losing his shorts, the only article of clothing he'd been wearing—on the way. He was in magnificent erection, no doubt having been prepped by Christophe already—by words or a blow job, I didn't know. And I didn't care.

And I didn't have a moment to think about it either.

He was at me, covering my back, grabbing my hips, forcing his cock inside me, beginning to pump me. I was still inside Austin, who was aware of the chain he was hooked up to, and who began to writhe and moan under me, his cock, still encased in one of my hands, coming to life again.

The Portuguese sailor fucked me at length, propelling my cock inside Austin's passage as much as his own cork-screwing, pistoning cock was working in my channel. Austin came first again, collapsing under me in exhaustion, murmuring his pleasure and sighing quietly. I came next, deep inside Austin, eliciting another deep moan from him. The Portuguese held out the longest, pulled out of me, and shot his load—a prodigious amount of it—across my lower back.

We weren't finished yet—and I had suspected we weren't as I'd already seen that Christophe had stripped down off to the side and was working his cock hard. When the sailor withdrew, Christophe took up his station, and Austin and I had to hold until he'd penetrated me, pumped, and fired his wad as well.

He patted me on the buttocks when he was done. "We'll leave you now to do whatever else with Austin you want to do. I'll go write up a story and you can go over it this evening."

Right. As usual, this was all for one of Christophe's stories. I no longer cared. Since Austin was here now, I took a few hours to do what Christophe said I could do—doing whatever else I wanted to do with Austin. It turned out he enjoyed some of the same positions I always had—from the same perspective he now was experiencing them.

* * * *

Austin and I had plenty of time between then and the ship's arrival in Pago Pago to satisfy each other—in addition to satisfying the rest of the crew. We also had time to make plans for Pago Pago that didn't necessarily meld with either Captain Thorensen's or Christophe's plans.

As far as Christophe was concerned, I couldn't figure out if he was losing interest or regrouping for something else he had planned for me. There were no new stories being written for more than a week. Christophe was using the time to polish and repolish the ones he had—all the time pressing me to unfold more emotions and sensations that would embellish them.

"You haven't come up with new ideas for several days," I said to him, both of us sitting in our customary deck chairs on the port side, one morning, only four days out of Pago Pago. "Are we coming to the end of this arrangement?" I didn't know whether I should tell him or not that I planned to try to split with him and the ship in American Samoan—that Austin and I were forming a pact.

"You're not getting enough attention?"

I shrugged. Let him think that's what it is, I thought. Better than him thinking I was working on wrapping this arrangement up.

"I have plenty of new ideas," he said. "Thinking back on an earlier conversation, I think East Europe might be a very creative destination. I have a publisher in Prague too who might like to print this collection."

"East Europe. You mean the vampire theme? Sucking and fucking to death?"

"One aspect, yes. Have you ever been bound, hung from a hook, tortured, and fucked?"

I looked sharply into his face. He was smiling, but it wasn't an "I am joking" smile. "The East Europeans do that?" I asked.

"They do it superbly. They could make you come continuously for hours."

"No, it doesn't really appeal to me." And, in fact, it didn't. I think I had gotten to the edge of fetishes that aroused me. I was, as I could, just moving between Austin and the Portuguese sailor. One on one, going both ways, was settling in to being enough for me.

"Ah, well. Think about it. I think the idea would grow on you."

"And how would we get to Prague?"

"Your finances should be in order well before when we reach Tahiti. I'm sure you could swing it all."

No doubt, I thought. And it came as no surprise that Christophe would suck at my teet as long as he could. He still hadn't suggested cutting me in on the royalties of the stories he was writing on my efforts on my back.

"Yes, it's something to think about," I answered as I rose from the deck chair. "Now I have—"

"Now you have to follow the Portuguese sailor who just signaled you," Christophe said.

"Yes, yes, I do," I answered, beyond asking for Christophe's permission to do anything—and beyond wondering how he managed to tune in to every sexual nuance going on around him.

* * * *

In the end, escape—or the simple parting of ways, I guess, as neither of us had really ever been a prisoner to what happened to us beyond the situation we were trapped in by the isolation of being on the vast sea—was fairly easy.

While we were helping to unload supplies for American Samoa at the Pago Pago waterfront and took on whatever Pago Pago could supply that would be wanted in Tahiti, where a major supply would be taken on for the more remote island along the northern tier of island archipelagoes, Austin simply broke away while I stayed to watch where the other crew members were. Neither of us was really engaged that much in the loading or unloading operations—or were expected to be. We were there for entertainment while the ship was on the high seas.

Austin simply went to the other side of the ship—the side facing away from the harbor—and manually let down one of the lifeboats. I joined him there, and we took the lifeboat around the headlands of the harbor and then walked back into town. We found the American Express office while the Pitcairn's crew was still occupied with the exchange of cargo.

My line of credit had been reestablished. Austin confirmed his as well. And I learned something important about Austin. We went to a café well away from the waterfront and one that no crew member of the Pitcairn was ever likely to enter and drank some sort of coconut refresher and discussed where we would go from here—which increasingly looked to me like nowhere together. I wondered if it looked that way to Austin as well.

"So, I can get us both on a plane back to the States before we're even missed on the ship," I said, looking over the plane schedules I'd picked up at the American Express office and locating the airport on the southern coast of Tutuila, the main island of American Samoa. Pago Pago was on the northern coast, but you could just about see both the northern and southern coast when standing in the middle of the island here.

"Is that what you want to do?" Austin asked.

"Well, yes, of course. This is been about as much an adventure for me as I can take," I answered. But the way he fluttered his eyelashes at me made me reach out and stroke his forearm. "Not that I'd change having done it, of course," I added. "Especially meeting up with you."

Got that right, I thought. I don't know how long I could have gone without realizing that there were men I liked to fuck—that being fucked needn't be my whole sexual experience. In some ways, I went higher with my dick inside Austin than when I was being fucked by another man.

"I'm not sure I'm done," Austin said. "I may press on to Tahiti. Might even return to the Pitcairn."

"To be used like you were?"

"I like being used—even roughly. It's what I came to the South Pacific for."

"But why then—?"

"You were being used too hard," he said. "I wanted to help you get away. You seemed to want that too."

"But I thought the two of us . . . if this is about not having the plane fare home—"

"You never asked me my full name, Nathan. It's DuPont. I can pay my own way home."

"Oh," I said. If my family was considered rich in Philadelphia, the DuPonts were considered filthy rich all through the Mid-Atlantic states.

"Let's think more on this," Austin said. "I don't want to do anything hastily. I do care for you."

How much and in what way? I wondered. I also wondered how I really felt. In the euphoria of what I'd discovered about my sexuality and how Austin fit into that, I hadn't thought too hard about the implications.

"Let's go to a waterfront bar and get plastered," I said. "This coconut swill is nearly undrinkable."

"We can't go to the Pago Pago waterfront. Pitcairn's crew will be crawling over that as soon as they are finished loading the ship."

"There's another waterfront—a rougher one, I'm told. There are hydrofoils going to Western Samoa almost hourly. We can be in Apia before dark."

And we were—and in a bar with much the same atmosphere as a series of stories in Christophe's collection. Sitting there, with Austin, while the rough life of sailors in an out-of-way port swirled around us, I had the slight regret that Christophe wasn't here to give me a chance to fold in the sights, sounds, and smells of the bar into the stories he'd written. If I'd ever come in contact with him again, I'd have to go over those stories with him again.

Both of us sat there at a table, observing and being observed. We must have been like a bonanza of two honey pots dropped into a congregation of bears. After the first drink, we didn't have to pay for another one. They kept coming from hulky sailors of all nationalities, who moved around us, maintaining a bead on us with their eyes, smiling little leery smiles, licking their lips, throwing air kisses when they established eye contact with us.

For my part, I found myself looking beyond the bruiser hulks to a young, dark-headed, almost effeminate young man sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. He was barely dressed in low-rise jeans and a half-cut T-shirt that showed a thin waist and a small silver ring in his belly button. I could tell he was French by the way he formed his words when talking with the bartender. But he was half something else too. Polynesian, probably.

What I noticed about him is that he kept looking at me and fluttering his long eyelashes. He was beyond cute. He was beautiful, his olive skin flawless. He was wearing sandals without socks and he had painted his toenails a fluorescent blue color—to match the color of the nails on his fingers. If he had done this to promote a man to think about sucking his toes, it had worked with me.

While meeting his gaze from time to time, I realized that he was waiting for me. He was being approached repeatedly by one sailor after another, but, while smiling at them, he obviously wasn't giving them what they wanted. I got the distinct impression that he was waiting for me to come for him.

"Austin," I said, turning toward him to see that he was flirting with his eyes with two muscular sailors who were leaning into each other at the bar but were drilling Austin with their eyes—obviously with another form of drilling in mind.

Austin broke eye contact with them and turned to me. He was smiling broadly, and I didn't get the impression the smile had just been plastered on for me. The realization hit me that there was nothing in terms of romance or a relationship either there or building between the two of us. Austin liked being fucked and had been attracted to me within this context. Little more than that. And I had perhaps thought I'd fallen for Austin more than I really had just because he had been the catalyst for my discovering that I wasn't just a bottom—that I was versatile.

"I agree, Nathan," he said, holding the smile and reading my thoughts. "It's been a real blast. Here, let me give you my contact information in the States. I'm sure I'll be back there at least for the start of school in August. I'll include my e-mail." He took a napkin and jotted his information. I took the opportunity to do the same, although he hadn't asked for it.

We slid the napkins across the table, our hands touching, but not lingering. It was over. I knew it and so did he.

"Gotta go take a piss now," he said, standing and heading for the back wall of the bar. The two muscular sailors at the bar followed him. I knew they would.

Still, I waited for a good fifteen minutes, my attention increasingly going to the young dark man at the end of the bar. His interest in me obviously increased as well.

A sailor started moving toward the table, and I rose, heading for the back, for where the john was, as much to avoid him as anything else. In the corridor, I didn't go into the john. My feet carried me farther down the hallway, to where I could see through a not-entirely closed doorway into a storage room, where the two sailors had Austin pinned down on his back on a low table. His head was hanging over one end, and one of the sailors was deep-throat face fucking him. The other sailor was at the other end of the table, holding Austin's legs spread and raised while, standing between his thighs, the sailor pumped his ass.

The noises Austin was making told me that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Back in the bar, the dark-headed honey was still perched on a stool, his eyes glued to the door into the hallway back to the john and to where Austin was getting what he obviously wanted. The young man's face lit up as I walked into the room and moved toward him. He inclined his head, and I nodded. He climbed down from the stool and headed toward the exit. I followed.

I fucked him in a small park not far from the bar, against a wall, his back against the bricks, his legs hooked on my hips, and our mouths plastered together as I thrust up inside him. He took me back then to a one-room flat above a restaurant, where a band played to a strong beat that I matched with the pumping action of a second and then a third fuck on his narrow bed—first missionary style and then doggie. Later in the night a side split.

The next day I took a plane out of Apia on a series of hops across the Southern Pacific—to Fiji and then Vanuatu, New Caledonia, and Sydney. No time or patience for tramp steaming now. I stopped along the way overnight, always picking up a small, yielding, almost effeminate young man at a gay bar and fucking the stuffing out of him on his own bed that night.

I never asked any of them their names—nor gave them mine. I'm sure I left them satisfied. I know I left each one of them fully satisfied myself—and exuberant that my sex life from here on out would be twice as interesting as before.

I kept the napkin with Austin's contact numbers on it, of course. One never knows.

I might even write a story about it someday. I'm sure my father's boyfriend would be happy to publish it.