by Nicole Dere
I lift the stirring prick, and now it is hot and heavy in my touch, and nuzzle it, rubbing my nose against it and letting my lips bestow light kisses on the fleshy softness of the glans, and on the brown throbbing shaft, down which runs a thin raised column, like a spine, as it flowers to its eager hardness. My head is dizzy; I breathe in the fragrance of his smell, let the tip of my tongue poke out to lap at the very tip of the helm, to absorb the sweet lubricious dew that appears at its tiny aperture.
I can’t wait! With a moan of ecstasy, I stretch my jaws, my neck strains forward and I take in that beating magnificence, fill my mouth as deep as I can with his splendour, sucking fiercely, and he drives himself into my warm wetness. I feel his hand clamped at the back of my neck, his hard belly thrust forward, his thighs rammed against the table’s sharp edge, and I gag and choke, his prick filling me to my throat. My senses reel, not enough air through my flaring nostrils, in their desperate whistling search, and on the edge of swooning I have to tear myself away, a long, noisy, squelching withdrawal. One wheezing agonising sucking of air into my lungs and maddened, my gaping mouth searches, my tongue flickering greedily, to be impaled on his majestic weapon of a cock once more.
After another mighty penetration, I am forced yet again to yield to the need to breathe. This time I thrust myself forward, lapping crazily at the tangy bitterness of the skin of his belly, and smother his lifting penis into the mashing softness of my breasts. They are not ample enough to enfold his column, but I do my humble best, squeezing them against that impressive length as it drives upward from my breastbone, presses into the expanse of my proffered throat, smearing more of its juicy benison over my flesh.
No longer able to deny our mutual urgency, we move in synchronised haste. I come up, unfold my legs, ready to encompass him as he lifts me, and my bottom rests on the very edge of the table, my thighs open wide and his loins move in to take possession. There is scarcely an instant of pause before the dome nudges at my labia, and glides smoothly in to my fiercely welcoming, tight but surrendered cunt. His fingers curve under my buttocks, lifting me onto him, his driving might, and the table, the floor, the whole damned universe, rocks to the might of our fucking.
He comes – I feel the cataract, the hot geyser of his climax, and I scream, batter my pubis against his, and he stays heavenly hard as the mad spiral of my orgasm swirls, erupts; he roars, I scream, yelp, sigh, gasp, whimper, shudder, my feet jutting out, every muscle in my stretched legs knotted, toes stiff, hair on end, lost in the apocalypse of that colossal shag.
I don’t make it as far as the skipper’s bunk that night. ‘I have to be up in a few hours,’ he explains, ‘so I need to get some sleep.’ But we do share a necessarily intimate but tender shower in that crowded little compartment, which is both mildly titillating and romantic. The final kiss is lingering and passionate enough, and he gives my bum, decently covered by the jeans once more, a friendly pat before he sees me through the outer door onto the bridge. I’m glad the light is dim enough to hide any blushes as I acknowledge the jovial “good nights” of the two watch-keepers and make my way gingerly down the ladders back to the crew’s quarters. I am to share with Amina, and I find her sitting cross-legged on her bunk, naked, busying herself with her toenails. I feel myself blushing even more fiercely, but to my considerable relief, her gaze is perfectly placid. There is even an amused smile on her lips.
‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon! Everything OK?’
‘The captain has to be up in the middle of the night. He’s just getting a few hours sleep.’
‘And no chance of that with you around, eh? You sexy beast!’ She laughs, puts away her neat little manicure box and stretches out lazily, giving me a splendid eyeful of her exposed beauty. ‘But surely even you have had enough for tonight, yeah? Am I safe from your randy clutches for tonight at least? Promise you’ll stay in your own bunk, please!’ She lets one arm fall, gestures towards the lower bunk.
‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ I can’t help replying a little irritably. ‘I’ve had more than enough to keep me satisfied – for quite a while!’
But I can’t in all conscience deny that I’m considerably miffed during the course of the following days to find her totally indifferent to my charms, such as they are, which are unavoidably displayed in the intimacy of sharing a cabin. Though I swear to myself that I will show an equal disregard for Amina’s beauty, of course I find it impossible. However, I’m startled when, a few nights later, she not only exhibits indifference but positive, and painful, antagonism towards my approach.
Captain Abdi is practically living on the bridge. He even takes his meals up there, which either Cara or Lochi takes up to him. We are off the southern point of the Gulf of Aden, and waiting there, cruising up and down off the coast of Yemen (for God knows what. Nobody tells me and I don’t ask!) which is, apparently, an extremely dangerous place to be for the likes of the Ocean Star . It also feels like the hottest and most uncomfortable spot on Earth. We take showers every other hour, but by the time we finish drying ourselves, the droplets of sweat are starting to form again.
We wear the minimum of clothing. Amina and I opt for a version of the kanzu , a traditional form of dress for males in East Africa, which looks in fact like a Victorian nightgown. We make a few modifications, such as cutting off the sleeves. It’s loose, so it allows what passes for air in this region around the body, and as we wear nothing underneath, we can sometimes snatch the illusion of coolness out on deck, where an oven-hot breeze blows sometimes. We stand in a shady corner, holding out the wide hems of our unflattering garments to maximise the passage of the air up over our limbs, to the amusement and obscene commentary of any of the passing crew.
Cara and Lochi, chief cooks, on duty in the furnace of the galley, go even further in opting for comfort over half-decency, and work naked except for much-stained green aprons tied at the front to cover breasts and belly. Facing them, their appearance seems almost respectable, but as they stand at the stove and the preparation tables, they are generally observed from behind, where their nudity is frankly displayed. Lochi’s pert little bottom and Cara’s fleshy buttocks bounce and quiver in cute synchronicity, which even in the draining heat of the Gulf, their fellow crewmen clearly and tactilely appreciate.
But as I was saying, dischuffed as I am with the beautiful but unresponsive Amina, I am unable to resist her allure on our fourth night together, as we literally jostle naked hips together, fresh from showers, and Amina treats me to a comprehensive exhibition of her excellence as she climbs onto her bunk and stretches out on top. OK, I think. So she won’t reciprocate. But I can’t help my overwhelming need to touch and feel and all the rest. Imagine my surprise when, instead of complacently spreading herself to receive my humble, devout worship, she gives me a repelling shove that sends me flying backwards to land with a yelp of startled pain on the hard deck, on my bare bum.
She leans over, stares down at me sprawled there, gaping up in hurt pride and backside. ‘Look! You don’t just jump aboard whenever you feel like it. I’ve told you! I’m not lesbian, all right?’
‘But – but – but ...’ I splutter like a farting scooter. ‘The other night–’
‘That was then! I could see you wanted it – wanted me . OK? But it doesn’t mean you can jump me every fucking night! Now and again I don’t mind you muffing me, but when I say so. Right? You want lezzy stuff every night go see Cara and Lochi. They’ll be happy to oblige, any which way!’
I pick myself up and quickly dive into my bunk. I wish I could pull the blankets up and bury my head under the pillow, but, as the song says, it’s too darned hot. It’s claustrophobic enough just lying there, with the sagging underside of Amina’s berth just a couple of feet above me. The tears well up and I have to fight hard not to let my weeping become audible. I wish to hell I was up there in the skipper’s cabin right now. Wish to hell he’d just keep me up there, never let me out. I wouldn’t care how busy he was, how often he h
ad to leave me alone. I’d be there, waiting for him, whenever he had time for me, ready to do whatever he wanted me to do.
Suddenly I think of Simon, and the grief wells up ten times as bad. The usual bitter condemnation begins as my inner self battles it out with me. You’re supposed to love him, yes? Yours, Simon. I’ll do anything! Whatever you want! And all you can think about is letting this latest guy, the magnifico Captain Abdi, screw the arse off you while you howl for more of the same. To say nothing of dying to bury your head between the legs of his girlfriend, the luscious Amina, lying naked two feet above you, whom you’ve just tried to jump and who’s just knocked you on your skinny rump for your pains! Serves you right, you totally screwed up little wimp!
Oh leave me alone! I tell myself, burying my face in the rapidly dampening pillow. I’ve a right to feel sorry for myself. Stuck here in the middle of nowhere. A prisoner, with literally nothing of my own, abandoned by everyone. No wonder I try to take comfort from Amina, or from Captain Abdi – or whoever else I can find it with!
Suddenly unable to stand another second of such gloomy introspection, I push myself up from the creaking bunk, grab the kanzu I have just discarded and make for the door. I step from the corridor onto the open deck. The darkness flows like a warm blanket stiflingly over me, then I look up and see the stars – thousands of them, seemingly reeling and sweeping over my head, and my dot-like insignificance overwhelms me. I let myself go, sobbing, surrendering to my utter misery and loneliness.
I give a little start at the gentle fall of a hand on my shoulder. A squat, shadowy figure, with a strong odour of sweat, tobacco and alcohol, folds me in its swarthy, hairy, sheltering arms, and a broad hand cradles the back of my head, pulls it tenderly down to a swelling chest clad in a ragged sleeveless singlet. Over its scooped top, I feel a sprout of thick, tangled body hair and, beneath, a pronounced belly. But being hugged into this solid, somewhat smelly body is strangely and powerfully comforting, and with a weary sigh I lean into him, rest my tearstained face against his bulk. He gathers me up, lifts me in his arms, and moves along the dark waist of the vessel, to where a small boat is fastened to its davits. He easily swings me aboard and clambers after me, drawing aside the canvas cover, settling us on the curving bottom boards between the seats.
Desperately I’m trying to remember the man’s name; vaguely recall his short, stubby stature, the bald head and open, fleshy face. A comic face, always grinning, little black beads of eyes. Hamid? Hassan? Who cares? He doesn’t, and neither do I. Hairy, bald, thin, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, sweet or sweaty – who am I to be choosy, after the times I’ve given and sought comfort such as this with strangers? Lovers, if only for a night.
Gently he lifts the gown, up over my thighs, my hips, then draws it over my head, places it carefully on the seat behind us. I feel his face, thick lips at my neck, then tracing a path to the centre of my chest. His thick fingers with delicate care explore my breasts and his greasy face moves softly over them. His tongue laps, his mouth closes over first one small nipple, then the other, and they tingle and harden under the suction, and I clutch that thick neck to me, feel the roll of flesh above his wide, sloping shoulders. Then a hand is between my legs, the thick fingers opening me, sliding in to my wet slickness, and my thighs part. I feel the clasp of my muscles against his penetrating finger, the little thrust of my belly and hips, acknowledging his possession.
All at once I am afire with need, to prolong my excitement, to rouse him further, to share this coming together, to be his partner. Not just to accept, but to give too. I swivel round, fumble, find his shorts, already open, through which I feel the thick shaft of his prick rampant, prodding, and I wriggle round, free myself of his embrace and bend, my mouth open, searching. The strong body smell, of sweat and arousal, sends my blood racing. Blind, I search, and feel that great dome, slippery with his discharge; my fingers grip below the glans. His column is short and squat – like his figure – and I thrill as my mouth closes over it, and my tongue laps like a thirsty castaway, drinking in his stickiness, the taste of him, his rank and honest, unwashed flavour.
All at once, after only a few violent plunges of my mouth as far down his throbbing prick as I can, he forcibly drags me free by my hair, lifts and turns me, and clasps my waving legs about his thick waist. With a mighty thrust, he pierces me, drives deep into my pussy, and we ride together, clashing, our sweat-slippery bellies slapping and sliding, until he grunts and I let go, fling my head back, arch my slim body, kick and thresh and howl with fulfilment like the bitch I truly am.
Chapter Twenty-three
HIS NAME IS HASSAN. I’m afraid to go to the mess the next morning, anticipating the howls and roars which will assail my ears after his bragging, vivid obscene description of our interlude to his mates, but no one seems to bat an eyelid – they don’t appear to know a thing about it. I can hardly believe it. Then I realise, as the day progresses and I still don’t come face to face with him, that I have in fact seen comparatively little of him since I joined Ocean Star , and discover that he is one of the handful of men who make up the “engineers” (or “stokers” as their indelicate comrades name them), who tend to spend most of their time, on or off duty, down in that fiery, noisy, pungent space far below decks, of which I have had only a brief glimpse from above, like Dante gazing down into hell with his guide. (No extra charge for these literary allusions, courtesy of Miss Challis – I’ve never read the damned thing!)
Hassan does occasionally appear at the communal evening meal, as he does the day after our rendezvous in the lifeboat, to my toe-curling, scarlet-faced chagrin, but apart from his habitual beaming grin and the briefest of almost imperceptible nods, gives no indication of our night-time tryst. For which I am extremely grateful.
I study him in surreptitious fascination as he shovels in his food, chewing inelegantly and muttering to his neighbour, another mechanic, in the gruff tones of a language I can’t make out. He’s incredibly ugly, almost distinguished in his ugliness – a fact I didn’t fully appreciate in the dimness of the upper deck last night. He is indeed bald; not a trace of hair on that shiny pate, which seems narrow at the top because of the enormous girth that lies below: the swelling neck, its rolls marked by deep lines, the sloping shoulders and the great solid mass of his belly which thrusts out his vest in a large dome, and hangs over his sagging shorts like a woman far advanced in her pregnancy. His chest and his bare arms and legs, are covered with thick, dark scrolls of hair. In contrast, his feet, clad in the universally popular rubber flipflops, seem amazingly small, almost delicate in comparison with the rest of his bulk.
I feel increasingly guilty at the way I sneak covert glances at him, while otherwise acting as though he isn’t there and, worse, at the way he clearly goes along with it, ignoring my presence even more pointedly, which I know he is doing only to ease the embarrassment he thinks I must surely feel in his being around. He leaves as soon as he finishes his meal, the men off watch settle down to one of their interminable card games, and another long, stifling evening looms ahead. Amina disappears. I assume she has gone to the cabin. After our exchange yesterday, I have no wish to spend any unnecessary hours cooped up in that tiny space with all that beauty spread temptingly and untouchably before me.
I wander out onto the upper deck, by the same doorway where I encountered my latest lover last night – hoping I might bump into him again? I can’t even answer that myself, though as I linger in the shadow of that little boat where our passionate encounter took place I feel my body reacting strongly to the recall of its physical excitement and fulfilment. A hot waft of air moves and presses the loose-fitting kanzu against my naked body beneath, and my left hand reaches out automatically to stroke the rough texture of the tarpaulin cover which is once more stretched over the interior of the boat.
I find myself moving towards the stern, searching once again for that hatchway leading down to the engine room, where Amina and I had stood, staring down into the pounding interior o
f those glistening, driving pistons. Next thing I know, I’m there, standing on the grating. I feel the intense heat wafting up, under the wide hem of my only garment, stirring my limbs, and the beating centre of suddenly vitalised sensation between my parted thighs. And there, staring up at me, doubtless enjoying the scarcely concealed view of my lower body, I can see Hassan’s glistening face, his bald pate, and that of a companion.
I can’t move. I can’t even attempt to cover myself from their rapt gaze. My own eyes remain riveted to that twinkling, black-eyed stare, until Hassan whispers (or shouts) in the ear of his mate, and that individual, with a last lingering look up at me, nods and vanishes from sight. Hassan nods, beckons me down, his eyes never leaving me, his face shining, wreathed in folds, liberally coated with grease and sweat, as is the rest of his ample body, clad only in a pair of filthy shorts. On his feet are boots, their laceless uppers gaping, their steel capped toes coated with many layers of oil, grease and other dirt.