The embarking passengers were picking up the
Novorossiysk
in Sochi, and Trent paused at the bottom of the gangplank to run his eyes across the line of ship's officers standing in a row to welcome those joining the ship in that recent Olympic venue. The
Novorossiysk
was a supply freighter that constantly circled the Black Sea. Its ongoing sail from here was around the southern end of the sea and then back up to Istanbul before returning to Constanta, in Romania.
Ah, there he was, the first officer, second in the line. Mavis Winslow, posing for this operation as Mrs. Deavers—Juliette Deavers—the companion Trent's supposed family had shackled him with to ensure he made it to his twenty-first birthday without giving himself away to some gold-digging man, nudged Trent from behind and whispered, "Don't look at him openly." But this was in Trent's area of expertise, not hers, and he thought it important to look at the man directly, to establish connection and understanding.
The ship's first officer picked Trent out on the dock with his eyes and gave the young man an appraising look. When Trent was sure he was looking at him, Trent gave a little smile and lowered his head. Mavis probably never would understand the signals of both interest and submission men who hooked up with men gave to immediately establish both connection and pecking order.
Mrs. Deavers nudged Trent again, but he stood his ground in that pose for a good five seconds. She didn't understand the world of animals and of gay men. In that simple gesture, Trent had signaled submission to the man posing as Yuri Kerenskyi and functioning as the first officer on a supply steamer of the Black Sea Shipping company, which delivered goods and a limited number of passengers to ports in Russia, Georgia, Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, and the Ukraine.
Just as Yuri Kerenskyi was a pose, so was Trent's cover as Cory Crenshaw, the very public black sheep of an American manufacturing dynasty family, being handled as best as the family could manage and as far out of the reach of the American media as possible.
By that act alone—signaling submission to the man—the young man posing as Cory had saved several days of preparation. It was Cory's job to have Kerenskyi salivating after him so much that he'd be willing to leave the ship in Istanbul—but not before—to have Cory writhing under him. The whole operation was for the former U.S. Naval man, Gene Chambers, who had defected to the Russians with a boatload of Naval documents and codes and who was currently posing as Yuri Kerenskyi, to leave the
Novorossiysk
in some country that would be willing to extradite him back to the United States. According to the operation Trent was involved in, that was going to be Turkey.
As the newly embarking passengers passed down the line of officers before being shown to their cabins, Cory made sure to lower his face again when being introduced to Kerenskyi and to include a blush, a noticeable shudder, and rubbing of the forefinger in the hand that he held just a few seconds longer than he did any of the other ship's officers.
There weren't many passengers. The main job of the
Novorossiysk
was to move containers of goods around the Baltic. There were fewer than fifty paying passengers on the ship at any one time, and those were usually off-the-beaten-path trekkers traveling on the cheap.
Cory Crenshaw and Mrs. Deavers weren't traveling on the cheap, and their cabins were as well appointed as they would be on a major cruise line. The entertainment and activities support sucked—there virtually was none—and the dining arrangements weren't gourmet, but the food was good enough.
Everyone—including the ship's officers—ate in one dining room in one seating, though, which was something that Cory had counted on. He also was counting on the mingling of passengers and crew to be more informal and natural than they would be on a cruise ship. This bore out on the first evening out of Sochi, as the ship steamed for its next port, Batumi, in Georgia.
There were fewer than a dozen passengers who had boarded the ship in Sochi, so it was natural for the captain and various other crew members the passengers might be expected to interact with to visit them during their first communal meal to welcome them aboard and to make small talk.
The Russian captain addressed Mrs. Deavers, leaving his first officer, naturally, to talk with Cory. At this point, the assumption was natural that Mrs. Deavers was Cory's mother. In the operation setup, the two made sure to get across that the family had great wealth and that Mrs. Deavers was an employee, not a family member.
"So, you aren't mother and son?" Kerenskyi said to Cory, as he stood on the other side of the table from the young passenger, his hands on the shoulders of the passengers across the table from Cory and leaning down—the man was quite tall. Tall and trim, reddish-blond hair, suntanned weathered skin, and a well-muscled thirty-something. He was thirty-five, Cory knew—but not from anything the man had said yet.
"No, I'm on my post-graduation trip after college. Mrs. Deavers is my companion. I'm afraid my father is the doting type." Cory gave the ship's officer a shy smile with just a bit of devious hinting at the corner of the mouth and in the eyes that was consistent with the signaling he'd already conveyed earlier. "I'm afraid my family thinks I can get a little wild. Man trouble. But this is my birthday trip. I'll be twenty-one shortly after we reach Istanbul and then my family will be relieved of legal responsibility for me, no doubt with a great deal of relief, and Mrs. Deavers can move on to chaperoning another problem child."
"Twenty-one? You look much younger than that." The look he gave Cory was a bald "and I could just eat you up" look. The two passengers he was leaning over weren't looking up at his face, and Mrs. Deavers was entirely engaged in speaking with the captain. Cory lowered his face in submission again. The others at the table were oblivious to the deal the two men were striking. The inference was that the moment they could be alone, there wouldn't need to be any uncertainty—Cory could be flat on his back with the ship's first officer's knees between the young man's thighs and Kerenskyi's cock thrusting up inside him.
"I get that a lot," Cory answered. "I don't mind being rather small, though. It's an advantage for me."
"The Black Sea is a bit out of the way for a graduation trip, I would think," Kerenskyi said. "Most go to London or Paris, don't they?"
"I wanted to see Moscow and St. Petersburg, and most of all I wanted to see Sochi, where we just were."
"Why Sochi?"
"Because the Olympics were there. I'm a figure skater and hope to be able to concentrate on that now that my college is over. I dream of going to the next Olympics as a figure skater. I guess it's why I don't mind being rather small and young looking—it helps on the ice. But, tell me, you have practically no accent when you speak English. How did you learn to speak it so well? If anything, your accent is French, not Russian."
"Canada. I originally was from Montreal—French is widely spoken there."
And in the New Orleans area where the portfolio on you said you were born, Trent, who was posing as Cory, thought.
After spending considerable time in close discussion with Mrs. Deavers, the captain was on the move toward another set of passengers who had just joined the ship, and it was obvious that Kerenskyi needed to move on as well.
"Well, I hope you will enjoy your cruise with us and that we have a chance to chat again."
"I hope so, as well," Cory said, giving him a winning smile as if the young man could think of nothing he'd like to do more than enjoy the pseudo Russian's company again.
"It's fascinating that you're a figure skater," Kerenskyi said as he straightened his stance, ready to move on. "I'll bet you have to be very flexible for that—be able to put your body into many interesting positions."
There was little doubt of the interest the man was conveying to Cory—or that he was signaling that he would be a taxing and inventive lover. "Yes, yes you do," Cory answered, lowering his face shyly and willing his cheeks to blush. "I love the prospect of demanding exercise."
Kerenskyi gave the young man a tight little smile as he moved off.
* * * *
Cory encountered Kerenskyi on deck the next morning and spoke with him briefly before going into breakfast.
"Yes, I would enjoy that," Cory answered to Kerenskyi's offer to show him around the ship later that day.
"There are so many nooks and crannies where one can be tucked away and never found on a ship like this," Kerenskyi said, his eyes watching Cory closely. He probably would have been more explicit if there weren't other passengers within hearing distance of them.
"Fascinating," Cory answered. What Kerenskyi couldn't convey in voice, he signaled with his hand. He had a hand on the small of Cory's back as they stood at the rail and looked down at the wake created by the ship slicing through the somewhat choppy water. Anyone who was looking would see it just as a steadying gesture, because the ship was pitching a bit. But Cory knew differently. Kerenskyi managed not only to touch his back but to rub a finger down the base of his backbone. Cory shuddered to convey that he was imagining the finger exploring farther down.
"Just come looking for me when you wish a tour—the crew quarters are on deck two. There isn't that much for me to do when we're on the open seas."
Kerenskyi managed to brush his mouth close to Cory's ear as he was turning away. "I'll give you a fuck like you've never had before," he whispered before he moved off.
After lunch, having caught a nod of the head from Kerenskyi toward the decks below, Cory went looking for him, finding a staircase that would take him down to deck two. Knowing that Cory would seek him out, Kerenskyi had left the door open to his cabin, nearly the last one down a long, dark corridor.
Cory heard them before he saw them. He recognized one of the Filipino mess stewards. He was jackknifed under the bulkier, hunkier Yuri Kerenskyi, his legs plastered against his chest, with Kerenskyi laying on top of him, in the position of doing pushups on the body of the small Filipino. Kerenskyi's cock was buried in the steward's ass, deep thrusts being provided by the pushup motion.
The steward was moaning and muttering in some language Cory didn't understand—probably Tagalog. Cory had no doubt that he was being taken hard and deep.
Cory didn't retreat. Chances were very good that Kerenskyi had set this up for Cory to see—to understand that Kerenskyi would do this to him as well, given half the chance. If not, it still fulfilled the need to quickly establish Cory's interests and the depths of his willingness and his availability to the man. If Cory was just a tease, Kerenskyi was giving him his chance to establish that and to back off.
The Filipino was being fucked mercilessly. Cory wasn't being left any room for misunderstanding how cruelly Kerenskyi would fuck.
Cory stood his ground at the cabin door, watching the Filipino being brutally fucked. It wasn't long before Kerenskyi looked over and saw Cory standing there. His eyes latched onto Cory's and there was an expression of arrogance and command in his face. Cory didn't look away for a minute or more, holding his gaze long enough to convey a deal of mutual interest between the two of them—to Cory's claimed willingness to submit totally to the man.
Except that Kerenskyi wasn't going to get all that he wanted—not for some time. That this would drive the man crazy was all part of Cory's plan.
* * * *
The nook and cranny spot in the bowels of the
