by James Lear
‘Loch Linnhe.’
‘Highlander. I thought so. You’ve the Highland colouring, sandy red hair, white skin. What age are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Are you brave?’
‘In a fight? Yes, I think so.’
‘In other ways?’
I did not understand what he was getting at. ‘What do you mean?
He changed his tack. ‘Been at sea before?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll not know, then, the ways of seafaring men.’ A faint light was dawning in my mind.
‘I suppose you mean men who go without a woman for many months.’
He grinned awkwardly. ‘Different customs at sea. I don’t say one’s good, one’s bad. It’s just the way things are. It’ll take us a few days to reach Liverpool. Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Thanks for the warning, but I can look after myself.’ Nothing, of course, could have been further from the truth. Thinking back to the usage I’d received at the hands of my friends in the inn, I absent-mindedly rubbed my still-sore backside. A dull twinge of pain shot up inside me and brought back a tangible memory of the huge battery of cocks that had stretched my arsehole to its limits.
The sailor sat down and carried on with his peeling. Above us, on the deck, the crew were beginning to stir. The ship rocked as we prepared to sail. I sat down, dipped a tin cup into the bucket and drank, wondering all the more about the maritime customs to which he had referred. I idly watched him at work, the starch from the potatoes drying in splashes on his powerful arms and legs.
‘Shall I help you?’
‘No, lad. Thank you for the offer. There’s only one peeler.’
‘Let me do a few for you.’
‘It’s all right. Rest yourself.’
‘Let me clear away the peels, then.’ I started to scoop up handfuls of the cold, wet, slimy things that surrounded him, piling them neatly beside me. In my eagerness to be of assistance, I inevitably slipped again and landed face down in the potatoes, which rolled all over the floor. I spent the next ten minutes chasing them around the dark corners of the hold until I had retrieved them all. Occasionally I heard the sailor laughing. What a fool he must have thought me.
Thinking that my assistance had done more harm than good, I decided that a companionable silence might be of more use and so I sat beside him and drank another cup of water.
‘There’s still a spud rolling around on the floor somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Can’t you see it?’ He hitched up the tails of his filthy white shirt and there, between his legs, was a large, peeled potato which I must have missed during my attempts to tidy the hold.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well come on, boy, pick it up and put it on the pile.’
I reached down to grasp it, but my hand slipped on the wet surface. It seemed somehow to be attached to the floor. I gripped it again, more firmly this time, and lifted it an inch or two off the ground, but further than that it would not go. Finally I heaved harder, the potato came free in my hand and I sat down hard. The sailor was looking at me and grinning, holding up his shirt tails and pointing a big, hard, wet cock at me. I examined the potato in my hand. While my back had been turned he had bored a hole in it just big enough to slide his prick into. When he saw the look of astonishment on my face, he burst out laughing.
‘Bet you’ve never seen a spud like that before, boy!’ His cock shook and bounced as he laughed. The white starch from the potato coated it, running down his balls and gathering in the wiry hairs on his scrotum.
Crawling forward on my hands and knees, with the hollow potato held in front of me, I positioned the hole over the head of his cock again and pushed it down with a rude squelching sound. The sailor sighed and stretched out his legs. I pulled the potato back until I could see the edge of his knob popping out of it, then pushed it down again. Up and down, up and down it went, until his cock had swollen so much that that potato barely fitted around it.
Finally I threw the vegetable to one side and replaced it with my mouth. I lay on my belly in front of him, burying my face in his groin, sliding my lips up and down his cock, feeling each thick vein with my tongue, tasting the strange starchy taste of the potato mingling with the more familiar savours of sweat and piss. Resting his weight on the palms of his hands, the sailor hoisted his hips in the air in order to allow me easier access. I increased the speed of my sucking and fondled his balls, which were big and heavy. Moving down, I took them one at a time in my mouth, rolling them around, running my tongue all around them while the sailor moaned and bucked his hips.
At length he kneeled upright, I got on all fours and allowed him to fuck my mouth while he held on to my ears. Reaching over, he ran a hand over my arse, finding the sore spot where it had been so recently abused. Again, I felt a twinge - of pleasure this time rather than pain. I wriggled my arse responsively.
Pulling himself out of my mouth, he pushed me down until my face was pressed against the floor of the hold, and then undid my trousers. I expected, then, to feel the heat of fingers or cock pressing against my arsehole, and was bracing myself for the pleasure to come; all through the sucking, I had been thinking how much I wanted this thick, hard piece of meat inside my bowels. But instead something cold and wet slapped against my arse: he had scooped up a huge handful of potato peelings and shoved them between my buttocks, rubbing them around until I was covered in starch. A few peelings clung to me as he picked up more, mashing them against the firm white flesh of my backside, rubbing them over my balls and then grasping my prick in a cold, slippery grasp that only made it hotter. Only then, when I was thoroughly plastered with the thick white fluid, did I feel at last the sudden hard prodding of his cock head against my slimy hole. I breathed deeply, opened up and felt him slide into me. A few short, hard thrusts and he was spewing his own load deep inside me.
With his prick still buried in my arse, the sailor flipped me over on to my back, spat on my cock and took me in his hand. I was desperate to come, and squirmed around on his still-hard pole, forcing it into the most sensitive corners of my arse while he wanked me gently at first, picking up pace until he was lifting me off the ground with each stroke. When I came, it splattered up his stomach and chest. He ran his fingers through it and brought them to his mouth, then leaned forward and kissed me. His cock slid out of my arse with a wet plop just as we heard footsteps approaching the trap door above our heads.
Quickly, silently, the sailor crushed his mouth against mine in a bruising kiss, pulled me down to lick the last few drops of come from his dirty, sweaty chest, then motioned me back to the cot. I scuttled across the floor; he hefted his cock back into his trousers and started work on another potato. The trap door above our heads creaked open and slammed down on to the deck; the sudden influx of light caused me to wince. Boots appeared at the top of the ladder, then a pair of legs encased in thick blue cotton, a big, rounded bum, a heavy leather belt, and a bare back.
‘Time to wake up, sleeping beauties!’ The new arrival jumped the last three feet to the ground, landing deftly on the slippery floor. When he turned to face us I saw a powerful, deeply-tanned torso, perfectly smooth in contrast to the hairiness of the other. Slabs of muscle slid and twitched under the toffee-coloured skin. White teeth gleamed out of a mocking smile. Black eyebrows and eyelashes framed pale blue eyes, forced into brilliance by a mop of hair the colour of dirty straw. Evidently this was a man of some authority on the ship; possibly the captain.
He strode over to where my sailor was hunched on the ground, and made as if to kick him in the face. The sailor flinched in fear, then, when he realised he had been tricked, scowled sulkily and returned to his work.
‘Fuck you, Dessert.’
‘That’s Mister Midshipman Dessert to you, shithead.’ He had a French drawl to his voice. Clearly this was not a regular naval vessel. What band of pirates had I fallen among? My sailor grumbled and turne
d away.
‘Where’s the new pussy? Have you fucked him yet, shithead?’ There was no reply. I thought it best to feign ignorance, and pretended to wake out of a deep sleep. Dessert strode over to the cot and stood with his feet a yard apart and his hands on his hips, every inch a pirate out of a tale told to frighten children.
‘Time to get up, pussy.’ He prodded me none too delicately with the toe of his boot. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. Dessert’s groin was hovering a few feet from my face. I had a distinct premonition that it would be closer still before we reached Liverpool.
‘You’re wanted up on deck. We don’t carry passengers, you know. There’s work to be done. Oh yes! Do we have work for you!’ He laughed - not kindly. I cast around me for the clothes I had been wearing when I left Gordon Hall. Of course they were nowhere to be found.
‘Where is my coat?’
Dessert laughed again. ‘Your coat? You’re wearing all the clothes that you arrived in. You want to be more careful about the company that you keep, Mister Gordon.’ He knew my name, then. ‘There are some dangerous characters at large in the Highlands. A nice little piece of arse like you isn’t safe to roam around at night. Who knows what they might take from you?’ With that he threw a bundle into my lap and jumped back on to the ladder. ‘Change into your uniform and report to me up on deck in five minutes.’ He was gone.
I untied the bundle and extracted two garments, neither of which I could identify at first. One was clearly intended for the upper body, one for the lower, but they were of a design hitherto unknown to me. The shirt, if I could call it that, was little more than a sleeveless singlet which, when I pulled it on, stopped short around my midriff. The trousers were unfathomable: there seemed to be a part missing. They were loose around the hips, and depending on which way I wore them they left either my cock or my arse exposed to the elements. I assumed they were some kind of over-garment, to be worn with the proper underwear, but there was nothing else in the bundle. I turned to the sailor for help, but he just shrugged and carried on with his work. I would have complained, but there was something about Dessert’s tone of voice that quelled my disobedience. Adjusting the trousers so that the gap was at the rear (my theory being that I could more easily hide myself by keeping my back to the wall) I climbed the ladder. I caught my sailor friend casting one last fond look at my arse as I ascended, and then emerged, blinking, into the daylight.
Strong hands gripped the waistband of the trousers and hauled me up on to the deck; several voices raised an ironic cheer.
‘Here’s our new recruit! Make him welcome, boys!’ Dessert held me up for inspection, then dropped me and shoved a scrubbing brush into my hands. He motioned with his foot to a wooden bucket of filthy suds.
‘That’s your work for the morning, my lad. Get down on all fours and scrub the deck.’
I was not used to this kind of address, and something in my expression must have betrayed my contempt for his orders. Seizing my ear, Dessert dragged me down to the ground and forced me to kneel at his feet. ‘Come now, Mister Gordon, is this mutiny?’ I hung my head and said nothing. Resistance was futile. I dipped my brush in the pail and began to scrub.
It was then that I realised that my decision to wear the trousers with the hole at the back had been a foolish one. Forced as I was to work on hands and knees, my arse was open to inspection by the entire crew, none of whom seemed to have anything better to do than stand around watching me work and passing comments on my performance. I tried to ignore their comments, but certain words - particularly the oft-repeated syllable ‘fuck’ - kept jumping out from the babble.
After a solo performance of perhaps five minutes, during which I had kept my head down and looked at nobody (partly to hide the shame burning in my cheeks), I heard Dessert blow a whistle, and the crew jumped into action. Bales were loaded into the hold, ropes wound and unwound, the sails hoisted into position. For all that they were a ragged-looking crew, they lacked nothing in discipline when it came to work, and within half an hour the ship was ready to sail.
I tried to keep out of the way, hoping that they would forget my presence in the business of embarkation, but no. Every time one of the crew crossed my path he would either pass comment on my arse, or make some lewd suggestion as to what I should do to his prick. Some of them were not content with words alone, and aimed sharp swipes of foot or hand at my bare bum. One of the sailors, a huge black man - the first I had ever seen - inserted one thick, dark finger a few inches into my hole. The shock made me gasp and sit up, flushed with embarrassment. He wiggled his finger around inside me, whispered a few obscenities in my ear and let me go.
After that I was spared no indignity. Dessert, finding fault with my work, subjected me to six strokes of his thick leather belt while the crew looked on and counted, cheering when he showed them the red marks that shone out on my lily-white arse. Then, with the assistance of the black man and another brutish-looking creature, I was hauled to my feet and bent over a barrel. Dessert pulled my cock and balls down so that they hung between my legs, and invited the sailors to take turns pulling and yanking on them, promising an extra tot of rum to the man who could give me an erection. There was little to excite me in the situation, and I remained obdurately limp until the black sailor, who seemed to enjoy a privileged position on the ship, knelt between my legs and started lapping at my arsehole with his tongue. The sensation was so soothing on my poor, abused posterior that I sprung a stiff rod immediately. The black sailor stood back to show the results of his handiwork, and I was just beginning to feel a little happier about my position when I was doused with the filthy contents of the pail I had been using to clean the deck. The sailors roared with laughter.
‘That’s enough now, men! Back to work!’ Dessert lifted me off the barrel with surprising gentleness. My legs almost gave way; he held me up with an arm around the shoulders.
‘Don’t be afraid, little one,’ he said. ‘We won’t really hurt you. We have to deliver you in one piece, after all. The men must have their entertainment - and on this voyage, it is you.’ His large golden hands pulled the vest over my head, then tore the trousers off me; both garments were dripping and foul from my drenching. We stood face to face, his powerful torso with its ridged stomach and prominent nipples opposite my own smooth white flesh, streaked with muck and covered in goosepimples. Looking over Dessert’s shoulder I saw a face watching us through the cabin window - the face of an older man, smiling. This, I assumed, must be the captain.
I had little time for reflection. Dessert took a length of rope, made a loop in one end and passed it over my hands, tightening it at the wrists. The other end he tied around my ankles. Thus hobbled I was led to the foot of the mast and tethered like a goat. Beside me were three rough-hewn wooden troughs with outlets leading into a runnel cut into the deck that directed their contents over the side. I could tell from the pervading smell that these were the ‘heads’ - the ship’s latrines. My degradation was complete.
We set sail as the sun was rising in the sky, and by the time we’d cleared the mainland it must have been full noon. A misty morning had given way to an unseasonably warm day, and the heat was beating down on my naked body with some force. I was warm and comfortable enough at first, but soon I became aware that my pale flesh was burning.
The black sailor was the first to visit me.
‘All right, pretty boy? Comfortable?’
‘I’m too hot,’ I said, and immediately regretted it. He hauled out his cock - even blacker than the rest of him - and weighed it for a moment in his palm. Bending his knees, he let loose a thick jet of piss into the nearest trough and then, when it had gathered its full momentum, directed it straight on to my chest and stomach.
‘There you go, boy, better now?’ I was drenched from chest to legs again; the smell of his piss on my hot flesh was overpowering. Choking back my anger and disgust, I had to admit that it was, indeed, very soothing.
The next visitor was a wiry Highlander, a handsome-loo
king redhead with a gold tooth and a great quantity of red fur visible at the neck of his shirt. Without preamble he dropped his trousers and exposed a pair of massive thighs and a big, white cock dangling down from its red wiry bush. This time there was no pretence of aiming for the trough; he simply stationed himself in front of me, pulled my head back by the hair and pissed straight in my face. I closed my eyes tight shut and tried to close my mouth. There seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of piss in the man; finally, however, he flicked the last drops in my face and I opened my eyes. Instead of walking away, however, he stayed where he was, pulling on his foreskin until his cock had fattened and lengthened. Taking me again by my wet hair he pulled my face towards him. I did not need to be told what to do. I opened my mouth and let him in. I thought that he would simply use me as a convenient hole in which to dump his sperm, but he wanted more than that. I was obliged to do all the work, sucking and slurping on his now rigid tool until he was almost ready to come. I had always been accustomed, when pleasuring a man’s cock in my mouth, to use my hands for extra stimulation; now, however, with my wrists bound behind my back, I was obliged to do everything with lips and tongue.
At length he pulled out of my mouth and sprayed my face with his sperm. It ran over my lips and down my chin; there was nothing I could do to wipe it away. I cleaned myself as best I could with my tongue.
My cock, of course, was painfully stiff by now, and there was nothing I could do to relieve it. I could only hope that one of the sailors would take pity on me and help me out as one by one they soaked me with their hot, yellow piss, dumped a load of come on me or in my mouth, occasionally stuck a couple of fingers up my twitching arsehole. But not one of them would touch my cock.
This ordeal lasted the best part of the day. Mercifully, as the ship turned south I was spared the full glare of the sun and was able to doze in between ‘entertaining’ the crew. They were an insatiable rabble; there could not have been more than fifteen of them, but I must have received double that number of visits during the course of the day. The black sailor, whose name was George, returned and pissed out another hefty load. Dessert came by every couple of hours to give me water and bread, but he too relieved himself on me. By the time the sun was sinking on the starboard side of the vessel, the decks around me were awash with piss.
