Tramp Steaming Ch. 02: Christophe

I shuddered again, looked away. Fortier gave another low laugh. "I didn't write anything that Etienne didn't have in mind for you until his greed interrupted the progression of his seduction. You are so expressive, you know." Christophe continued. "I think we're going to write great stories together. You both fear and are drawn to what I am suggesting, aren't you?"

"Yes," I answered in a small voice.

"Good. Remember all of your emotions—both now and when . . ." He let that just sink in, which it did—it sank right into my gut.

I needed to change the subject. "You had something else so right in the story—well a couple of things. That his cock was darker than the rest of him, and that he liked to give the impression he'd bite my tongue off."

"Ah, yes. Well, you aren't the first young man Etienne has brought to this hotel. I have other stories in the collection, taken from first-hand accounts. Other young men spoke of Etienne fist fucking them. Others have said he used the tongue technique so that fear would heighten their arousal. That's why I included those elements in my story. But you say he didn't get as far with you as the fist fuck."

"No, no he didn't."

"Is that a tone of regret I hear from you?" He was still holding his hand in the air, the fingers bunched, revolving the hand so that I could see it from all angles.

I didn't answer him. I just shrugged. But in my mind, I was lying on the bed on my back, Etienne hovering over me, latching his eyes on mine, gauging my reactions as he worked his fist up into my ass. Trembling at the image of that, I was melting to the possibility of it—the need for it. I had come to the South Seas for experience in the kinky and bizarre—and challenging.

"So, where does that leave us?" I asked "Do we go to your room now?"

We both knew what I was agreeing to.

"Yes, but still as a trial. I needed to hear you say that you would have let Etienne fist fuck you. My stories are about taxing sex. If you come to my room, you will have to let me take you places sexually you probably never have been before. You will have to pay your way by informing my stories. But, then, you say you have come to the South Pacific to deepen your experience. I will do that for you. Just imagining the fist fuck made you come big. I think you want the experience. Do you wish to come to my room now—knowing what I'm going to do to you?"

"Yes." Why the hell not. He was right. I didn't come on this journey for vanilla experiences.

* * * *

It took him a long time to get to it. If I'd known it would be as taxing as it was, I'd probably have tried to beg off or ask him for even more preparation.

He started off vanilla—except for the dildo part—with me bent over the bed and him kneeling behind me. Him even more appealing naked, in full up-curved erection, than clothed, pulling my cock and balls between my thighs and giving them and my hole almost endless attention. Slathering me with lube. He said I'd want to be as open as possible, and he was doing everything he could to make that happen. When he had three or four fingers inside me, I asked him if he was doing it now—fist fucking me. He just laughed and said, "Nowhere near. You'll know it when it's happening."

I was also fooled by the dildo, thinking he was fucking me with his cock. But I'd seen his cock. He had it out and was hard. Long but not particularly thick. This was thick. I nearly fainted when he took the dildo out and put it in front of my face where I was pressed, cheek to mattress, to the bed. The dildo was as thick as his wrist.

"I've taken that?" I whispered, in wonder. "I can take your fist?"

"Look at my hand, Nathan," he said. The hand was long and slender, but I could readily see that it was wider where it attached at the wrist—wider even than the dildo. I moaned at the thought of where we'd be going from here.

But we didn't go there immediately. "Time for a break," he said as he moved away from me and came around to the side of the bed. He came down onto the bed, adjusting pillows behind him to sort of recline up against the headboard, grabbed a pack of cigarettes from on top the nightstand, and lit up.

I rose up from my bent position over the foot of the bed and stretched my muscles. I felt as open in my channel as I'd ever felt. "A break?" I asked.

"For me, not you," Fortier said. "Ride my cock. I want to see if you're any good at it."

I climbed up on the bed, threw my leg over his pelvis, and lowered myself on his staff as he held it erect with one hand, still using the other to smoke his cigarette. I rode the cock from every conceivable angle for a half hour or more with the goal of making him put that cigarette out and become lost in me. I eventually succeeded, with him alternating from grabbing my hips and arching his back as he grunted and groaned and pulled me on and off his cock to my lying flat on my back with his ankles crossed on my chest, with me slamming my buttocks hard on and off his cock and him stroking my cock to an ejaculation that barely preceded his.

He arched his back and moaned, an arm thrown over his face, as I felt him flow two and then three times in the bulb of the condom deep inside me. Then, suddenly, he was animated, jack-knifing himself from under me, jumping off the bed, pulling me back into the bent belly position over the foot of the bed, and I screamed out in surprise and pain as he rammed the thick dildo back inside me and pistoned it hard and deep.

I writhed under him, begging for mercy, but answering each declaration from him that I could and would take it with a "Fuck yes. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me." My eyes opened wide in another scream when I felt his own cock entering me on top of the dildo.

"Shit. God, I don't think I can take this?" I cried out.

"You can take it. Your passage is fine with it," he growled in my ear. "You were prepared well for this before. And you'll be taking more than this soon."

Soon came almost too soon for me.

I was spread-eagled on the bed, restraints running from my wrists to each end of the headboard and on my ankles to the ends of the footboard. The roping attached to my ankles was loose, allowing me to bend my knees and spread my thighs. Pillows were under my buttocks, raising my hole to point at the edge of the ceiling across the room. A ball gag was jammed in my mouth.

"You'll be glad for the gag and the restraints," he told me. And he was right, as I tried screaming and writhing free as he gave me the experience of fist fucking—probably not nearly as much as one trained to it over time, but enough to have almost made me black out.

He was wearing tight rubber gloves, and he kept slathering his hands and my passage in a white grease as he moved from hand to hand, pushing them inside me with his fingers bunched, slowly opening me to the hands, as I strained at the restraints, bit into the soft rubber of the gag, rolled my eyes wildly, and huffed and puffed at the exertion required to take him.

He informed me when a fist was inside me, up to the wrist.

"There, it's in," he whispered as he leaned close over to me. His other hand had lost the glove and he was stroking my hair and kissing me on the cheek. "I want you to remember all of the sensations of this," he murmured. "That's why we're doing this. I want you to have experienced it and to be able to describe it to me—both the physical and emotional sensations—in detail. I'm going to make you come with the fist now."

And he did. He moved the fist inside me, a knuckle of the hand rubbing my prostate, and in short order I exploded and fell back on the bed, exhausted, almost ready to black out—with one last arching of the back and scream as he extracted the fist. He leaned over my body, tearing the gag out of my mouth, possessing my mouth with his, jerking at his cock, and spouting great gobs of cum out over my belly.

Emotions? He wanted emotions and physical reactions? Well, for that latter, pain, of course, and the feeling of being impossibly stretched and possessed. The need to shit but not being able to, but also the feeling that my prostate was being pushed up into my sac as a third ball—throbbing and aching and feeling the buildup of the cum—the feeling that I was about to explode, wanted to explode, and that, in doing so, I'd be torn apart. And still wanting it. The emotion of wanting it, despite the pain, of wanting to be fully possessed. The helplessness of being restrained. Not only of being fully controlled and filled but then, also, the glorious feeling of being able to do it—to take it. And when the explosion of the release came, a high like none other. Wanting the high again, as crazy as it sounded.

So, did I want it again? No, of course not . . . but maybe—maybe yes, if I could get that high, could have that feeling of having taken it. Already wondering about a bigger hand, an invasion further up the arm. I'd seen up to the elbow in vids. Could I?

I lay there, on my back, the restraints removed, still moaning, my legs still bent, spread apart, my insides feeling hollow, like air was rushing up my passage, toward my stomach. I let out a mighty fart, and Frontier laughed and moved from the bed over to the table where his laptop was open.

"I don't know if you noticed that the story based on you and Etienne was written with you as the narrator—first person in the character standing for you. I want to read to you the passage of the fisting on the beach. And I want you to give me the emotions that go with that—taken from what we've just done. I want the story to read like it really happened—from your perspective."

I lay there, feeding him what underlay what he'd already written, and when I was able to rise from the bed, he beckoned me to come over and read it. I saw that he had added the perspective of Etienne as well—the feel of having his entire hand inside me, of working the prostate, of the high arousal it brought him, and the prodigious release. He had made the story come alive. I had never read anything as taboo and pornographic and, at the same time, as arousing and as movingly described. He had told me that these were specialty stories, sold to a select few at high prices, and I now could see why they went for high prices.

Now, I was surprised to realize, I nearly ached to do it again.

But we didn't do it again. Later that night, he took me into a new story, a different one, but one that was served by the fisting—the coaxing of my channel impossibly open.

We were on the bed—only returning there after a long recovery period of polishing the story and eating a meal in the hotel restaurant—and returning to the bar for a nightcap. The same bartender was there, although there was another one on duty as well. The big bartender kept looking at me, undressing me with his eyes. He made me shudder. I'd rarely seen a man as big as he was—and as primeval, with that tattooing that accorded him such menace when he performed his Samoan warrior dance for the tourists—making it provocative in keeping with this hotel being a gay resort.

When he took me to bed, Fortier instructed, "Awareness. Remember everything again. You have a talent for it. Not just for the sex but for the description of the physical feelings and emotions you receive from the sex. We will write excellent stories, you and I."

It was the first inkling that I had satisfied him and that he would continue to support me until I could regain my financial footing.

I didn't know, though, what special story he could get out of the fucking we were doing. He called it the position of the crab. He was on his back on the bed, and I was draped over him, looking up at the ceiling, my legs bent and my hands stiff-armed into the mattress on either side of his chest, while he fucked up into me from below. Him being long and me still being very open, there was no trouble with him maintaining purchase inside me, and I held steady, on top of him but suspended over his torso, and he thrust up inside me, with his hands gripping my waist.

I understood what was new—what was fodder for a story—though, when I heard the door of the room open, and saw the bartender—the massive Samoan warrior dancer—from the hotel bar move toward us. He was naked and in angry, magnificent erection. Fortier was scooting our bodies down toward the foot of the bed as the Samoan advanced. When the Samoan grabbed my ankles and wishboned my legs, causing my body to drop fully onto Fortier's torso and Fortier's cock to slam up deeper inside me, I knew what the next story was about.

I cried out in both pain and ecstasy as the Samoan drove his cock inside me above Fortier's already-buried cock and started to piston me hard.

Then, for the first time, I understood what he'd meant when he asked me if two men had ever worked me hard together. And I fully appreciated the preparation Fortier had gone through and the experience of having been fist fucked earlier in the day. I never before would have thought I could take a double, and if I'd gotten into the situation, I probably would have tightened up enough for there to be nothing but pain if two men insisted.

But now—oh, shit, that Samoan; thick, long, fucking deep, hard, that tattooed, fierce face pushed into mine, while, underneath me, Fortier held steady and hard, also deep inside me even if not as thick as the Samoan, eventually also counterpistoning with the Samoan and taking me to paradise—now I thoroughly enjoyed the fuck two men could give me together.

* * * *

"See anything you like?"

Christophe had caught me eyeing the men on the beach at the gay hotel in Suva. The beach had been made private here and was well screened at either end—although I occasionally could see motorboats drifting in toward the beach, carrying men with binoculars. Those on the beach all were men, many in couples or more, and in various stages of dress and undress—and undressing each other. Sucking each other. Fucking each other—right there on the beach.

There were more older men on the beach, though—prowling about—than there were younger ones. Mostly the younger ones were posing and the older ones were shopping.

Fortier and I were sitting in chairs at the top fringe of the beach, in the shadow of palm trees, both in Speedos. Fortier was pounding away at his laptop, presumably writing up a story to go with last night's threesome between him, the Samoan bartender, and me—with me in the middle. I was daydreaming and sitting sprawled in the chair and working on recovering from what the Frenchman had put me through the previous day.

I also, admittedly, was watching the other men on the beach and, yes, gauging them in terms of arousal. There were quite a few who did arouse. Some of the older men were well preserved but there, also, unabashed were ugly men, and fat men—undoubtedly rich men. Most of the latter were watching the eye candy and working on adding to the arousing men's bank accounts. I marveled at how many of the young studs were willing to go into the bushes with old, fat men. I was sure it was for the money and mentioned that to Christophe.

"Some of those old, fat men are horse hung or have very soft mouths and great technique," he said, without looking up from the computer. "It's darker in the bushes. Many a young man is more interested in the size of the cock inside him than the weight of the man fucking or sucking him. If you are interested in testing that out, I know of a couple of men out there on the beach who can make you forget they are ugly and fat. In fact, it would make for a good story because many of the men who pay dearly from my stories are ugly and fat."

I turned my eyes back toward the beach. More than a couple of the older men had passed close to us as well and given me the eye. As if on cue, one of them pulled down the front of his suit and flashed me what must have been an eleven-inch cock. And true to what Christophe had said, my own cock lurched in answering arousal. It seemed quite evident to these lurkers and shoppers, though, that I was with Christophe—and that Christophe could meet my needs.

He certainly had done that and more so far.

"Those men might have been good looking when they were young," Christophe said, again with his head buried in the computer, making me wonder how he'd seen the old geezer flash me, "And most assuredly they had the eleven-inch cock then that they still have now. But, to their credit, they are more likely to know how to fuck you to heaven now than they did when they were younger and way less experienced. But you want to take them young, I'm sure. Hard body is a thing with you, I've observed."

"There are some good-looking younger men out on the beach, yes," I answered.

"Any you want to fuck?"

"What do you have planned now, Christophe? Have you finished a draft of the story from last night? Can I look at it yet?"

"The research isn't finished yet. I need you to select a couple of muscle men off the beach. Hard bodied, as I know you like them. Hard bodied like Etienne was. See anything you like?"

Just then I saw a young blond guy, walking along the surf line all by himself. He wasn't what Christophe was asking me to pick out, but, for some reason, he arrested my attention—and he aroused me in a way I'd never been aroused before. I'd always looked at men as possessing me—James had trained me to that early. But this man . . . he brought out different sensations in me. Strangely enough, I envisioned him as under me, with my cock inside him.

He wasn't a muscle man. He was slender—well muscled enough—but not bulked up, and he walked with the grace of a dancer. He was nude, carrying a Speedo dangling from his hand. There was nothing oversized about him—he was a bit undersized in the classic "David" look—but that only enhanced the boyish innocent aura he exuded. He was beautiful and seemed shy, walking with an introspection as if he was the only one on the beach. There was a sadness about him, and I had the sudden strange urge to go to him and embrace him. And to . . . I couldn't even think about it; it wasn't my role in the world of men with men.

There were, of course, men pacing with him, working on making their moves. All kinds of men—all being drawn to him. If he noticed, he didn't indicate that he did. I had the sensation of vultures circling him, poised to swoop on him all at once—and to tear him apart with their teeth.

He hadn't gone too far down the beach than he met the old man who had flashed me walking toward him from the other end of the beach. The old man flashed the young blond with that big snake of a cock of his, and, just like that, the young blond separated from the rest of the vultures and followed the old man into the bushes.

"Those two, perhaps?" Christophe asked.

My attention was switched to two muscle men—one in his late twenties, perhaps, and the other in his early thirties—coming out of the surf, arm in arm. Both were hunks, naturally. I would not expect Christophe to draw my attention to anyone who wasn't. I couldn't quite tell their nationality—Spanish or Brazilian maybe. One thing that distinguished them, though, was that they seemed to have their eyes fixed on me as they walked out of the surf and to a couple of large, colorful towels stretched out on the beach not far between the surf line and were Christophe and I sat. Rather than settling on the towels, they remained, drying themselves off with other towels, but half turned toward us, their eyes fixed on me, whispering to each other. I had the sensation that they were posing for me.

Now that I thought about it, I'd seen them standing out in the water earlier with another young man. The two seem to have been working the young man together. Christophe had drawn my attention to them at the time, but there had been so much to see that I hadn't watched them for long.