Tramp Steaming Ch. 02: Christophe

"Yes, they're very nice," I answered.

That seemed to be enough for Christophe. He rose from his chair and moved down the beach to meet the two where they stood over their towels stretched out on the sand. The three conversed for a few minutes, doing more looking at me than at each other. They walked to me together.

"Go with these men, Nathan," Christophe said. "Let them do anything they want with you."

They both fucked me on their towels, one after the other, but both being involved at all times—one at my tail, in doggy or missionary style, and the other at my head, feeding me with his cock. By the time they were sharing me, both standing, facing each other, with me flopping around between them, being double played like a calliope, we had gathered a crowd, standing around and watching us and pulling at their own dicks—giving the same circling vultures aura that I'd seen when the young blond was walking the beach. Christophe sat off to the side, stroking the keys on his laptop.

The story he let me read later had both forms of the double penetration in it that I had experienced that afternoon and the previous night. But the scene he set was of me walking along the surf line—just like the young blond I'd seen and been aroused by and snatched off the beach and out to sea by a couple of beefy men in a canoe (both of whom seemed to sound an awful lot like the Samoan bartender), where my character is taken to a much smaller island, hung by his bound wrists from a tree limb, and double assaulted six ways from Sunday by those two and other men doing some sort of victory celebration on the island.

The plotline seemed outlandish to me, but Christophe made it arousing with what always was his elegant and detailed writing. That evening we sat over the laptop, while he scoured my brain for the emotions and physical feelings of being doubled and polished up his story.

We did that, I'll say, until there was a knock on the door, and Christophe opened it to let in a large-boned, ruddy-looking man who must have been a Swede or a Norwegian and at least fifty years old—gaunt and weather-beaten.

"This is Captain Thorensen, Nathan. He's going to spend a few hours with you."

What Thorensen wanted to do was to fist fuck me and then just to fuck me silly on the bed missionary style with his big bone. He also wanted to nearly choke me to death, being interested in edging and breath play while he was fucking me. Several times I nearly blacked out while he was fucking me and stroking my cock with one beefy, gnarled hand and choking my throat until my eyes bugged out with the other.

When he was done with me—Christophe having just looked on, pecking away at his laptop, as I almost died—and he was leaving, the gaunt man from the north turned to Christophe and said, "He'll do. We sail at 4:00 p.m. tomorrow."

When he was gone and when I could manage to at least barely croak, I asked the questions that were burning in my mind almost as hotly as my throat was burning. "What did he mean by I would do? What's he the captain of, and what's this about sailing at four tomorrow?"

"He's captain of the Pitcairn, one of the supply tramp steamers plying between the islands. We're booked to sail as passengers on the Pitcairn tomorrow bound for Tahiti in French Polynesia. I need new locales for the anthology I'm writing, and I wouldn't want you to miss out on seeing Tahiti on your grand tour of the South Pacific."

"And it hadn't occurred to ask me if I wanted to go to Tahiti? I need to get my finances reestablished."

"Why should I give a shit what you want?" Christophe responded. "Until you are hooked up again, you are dependent on me. And you needn't try to tell me that what you're getting isn't exactly what you were looking for in coming to the South Seas. They have an American Express office in Papeete. You'll be reestablished when we get there, you will have had your adventure, and I will have an anthology I can sell."

I opened my mouth to object to something—but I couldn't think of anything to object to. He was right. Even in suffering the breath play, I was gathering sexual experiences that I'd always wondered about. Who would have known that I could take fisting so casually, for instance—or doubling, for that matter. And beyond all that, I was finding that I liked to be dominated—to be told what to do. Even to be knocked around a bit. It aroused me. It made me feel the experiences I was getting.

And I wanted to know the story Christophe would make out of tonight. I wanted to read his arousing take on it. I wanted to be part of telling his readers what it was like to experience that. He had won me over to this storytelling program. I wanted to know what was next.

But there was another question. I repeated it. "What did the captain mean by I would do?"

"You were our entrée on board. He had to approve of you. Obviously, he does. We'll be at sea for a couple of weeks from here—on an isolated sea, a ship full of randy men and no exit—a ship where the captain's word is law. I am thinking of the short stories I can write. You can think of the adventure."

And, strangely enough, the way he put it in his rich French baritone—the way he had with words and with manipulating me—all I did see was the sensual adventure on the offing.

* * * *

"This isn't . . . this is snuff," I said, with surprise. "I'm sure he never meant to go that far."

We were huddled around the laptop in the hotel room that evening. Christophe had spent longer than using tapping out a story. His concentration had been total and his brow knitted. His hand had also been busy working his cock whenever he took his hands off the keyboard to concentrate on the word he wanted to write or image he wanted to create. He had me quite curious. He hadn't focused as fully on the writing in the previous stories he'd written from the experiences he developed for me.

In this story he had me picked up in a bar on the waterfront, taken in a backroom by a hulky sailor, and choked to death during sex. The sex scene was quite graphic and long. My character in the story suffered—tried to resist and get away but couldn't manage it. Still, he had come in great gobs before he expired. It was clearly drawn that he had been sexually aroused by his own death. I had never read anything so pruriently brutal.

If it hadn't made me so hard and dripping as I read it, I would have taken my eyes away from it in disgust.

The strange thing was that I easily could marry up what Fortier had written with the sensations I had while the tramp steamer captain was choking and fucking me. I wouldn't have any trouble at all providing the emotional underpinnings for this story. I just didn't know whether something like this should be available to read at all. I had to think about that. I hadn't thought of questioning anything of his I'd read earlier.

"Yes. I watched you when Thorensen was choking you while he was fucking you. At any moment he could have gone over the line and snuffed you."

"And you would have let him?"

"Of course not."

"You would have stopped him in time from where you were sitting across the room and watching? I've never seen a story that went all the way like this. Have you written this sort of stuff before?"

"Snuff stories? Yes, of course. I get more money for these from my select clients than for most of the others. Having a gang of thugs beat a young man to death while passing his ass around for all to enjoy is more brutal than this—and it sells the best."

"And you specialize in these?"

"You should read the vampire collections I've written. I'm particularly fond of one titled Vampire LaCour's Second Coming. My protagonist fucks his victims to death as he sucks their blood, both fluids needed to bring him back to a high-toned body, and his victims die with a smile. Perhaps after we do the South Pacific, you might like to return to Europe with me and meet my model for the vampire. He's very much into the role. He would enjoy you. He has a magnificent cock."

"And the men you mated him with . . . who he . . .?"

"They all completed their roles with a smile on their faces."

The look on my face made him laugh. "No, of course he didn't really kill them. But, yes, he did suck some of their blood and fill their passages to the brim with his cum." He laughed. "And, no, I didn't hear of any of them turning into vampires from the experience."

Christophe had risen from the table where we'd both been looking into the laptop monitor, had gone to a bureau and rummaged around in a drawer, and came back to me. He had the dog collar around my neck and pulled tight, almost choking me, before I knew what he was up to. A leash was attached to the collar, and he almost pulled me out of the chair with a jerk.

"Over to the bed. Now. More research."

The wrist restraints were still in place at the corners of the headboard from the previous day of the fisting scene, and Fortier manhandled me into these. In short order he had me on my knees on the bed, my arms incapacitated, and was mounting me from behind. One of his hands was under my belly and the other held the leash tightly, arching my head back.

He took me swiftly, coordinating the jerk of the leash—and the sensation of choking by me—with thrusts of his cock and release of the tension with withdrawal.

He was barebacking me, not having taken the time for a condom—or for lube for that matter. I still was dilated well from his fisting and that of Captain Thorensen, whose hand was significantly bigger than Christophe's was. So, I could take him.

But the fuck was raw, brutal, and choking—and in some primeval way, I was fully into it—slapping my buttocks back into his thrusts, the thrusts compensating for the jerk of the collar on my neck.

With a little cry, Christophe creamed my insides, pulled out of me, and pushed me over on my side, releasing the collar leash. He reached up and freed my wrists. My hands went straight to the collar, which I unbuckled and tossed to the side. Pulling myself up on my elbow and hanging my head down, I panted, fighting for more breath.

"I had to capture what the captain would have felt," he said. "Do you think you can put those two experiences together to help polish up this story I've written," he said. He was calm and matter-of-fact, as if he hadn't, only minutes before, been choking and fucking me to within an inch of my life.

"Yes, I said," with a gasp and a raspy voice. "I could have done that before you fucked me just now."

"But I fucked you good, didn't I? Made the emotions of being choked nearly to death fresh, didn't I?"

"Yes," I answered, still rubbing my throat.

"Yes to which question?"

"Yes to both," I answered—honestly.

"So, get out of the fuckin' bed and come over here and help me finish off this story."

That night he held me close and made long, slow, deep, languid, sex with me. We apparently were now beyond the condom stage. He hadn't used one for the choking sex. I'd thought it had just been an oversight when, in fact, it was a turning point in our relations.

"Live on the edge; live dangerously. I do," Christophe said. "It takes you higher."

Feeling his cum gush deep inside me and his cock churning around in his cum certainly did that for me.

The next morning, he pulled me over to the laptop, backtracked on his stories—made them ones of barebacking—and pumped me for details on how it felt, what emotions it pulled out of me. It aroused us both—I was feeling exceedingly sexy this morning anyway and had a perpetual hard on—and the session wound up with me sitting on his cock in his chair, facing him, in his lap, pumping myself on his hard staff in another bareback fuck. And then, quite soon, another.

Christophe must have taken something before we'd come to the computer. After that first ejaculation, he remained hard and took over pulling me on and off his cock, as I lay back in his grip, allowing my head to reach for the floor, my arms to dangle out on the carpet. He fired off again and again, causing his cum to flow around his churning cock and dribble down my thighs, taking me higher and higher to my own explosions—actual fireworks shooting up into the heavens in my vision. I felt so high that I thought maybe he'd slipped something into my morning coffee too.

I rose up and clung to him when his cock went flaccid at last and pulled his face into my chest, where he feasted on my nubs, causing me to ache to go again. We rocked back and forth, both panting heavily, both moaning low and sighing. He went hard again and gave me a weak ejaculation, which, nonetheless, was the sweetest of all.

"Remember this," he murmured. "Later, on the ship, we'll write a story of a young man being drugged and ravished again and again. Perhaps in an encounter in the same waterfront bar as the last story. Of course it will have to be placed before the other one. You die in the choking story. That one will have to be the last in the collection, I suppose. But now we must pack up and get to the ship."

"It's not leaving until 4:00 this afternoon, I thought."

"You will have duties in preparing the ship for sailing," Christophe said. "Serving the ship's needs go with the price of passage."