Death On The Rhine Ch 02

Clint Folsom was angry, tense, and horny as well now, having missed his first opportunity to dispatch the killer of his lover. He had sought one form of death—Bruno Meister's death. Having been denied that, he now had a gripping need for another form of death. It was time to see if the Italian count was able to live up to his potential.

Folsom crossed the foyer and mounted the half-story of stairs to the corridor leading through the suite section and back to the Ambrosia Restaurant. But, as he approached the entrance into the corridor, he saw the Italian count at the door to one of the suites. And there beside him, being held with a firm grip on his butt by the count was one of the other passengers, a man in his thirties who Folsom had recognized from porn movies he had watched with Brad. The door opened, but they stood on the threshold, kissing deeply, and the count, having unbuttoned the porn star's shirt as they were kissing, moved his lips traveled down the neck of the young photogenic stud and through a thatch of curly hair toward a nipple, as the two disappeared into one of the suites, And with that disappeared that option for Folsom, unless he was up for a threesome. And of course he was—but he thought it might be presumptuous for him to join the party until and unless he was invited.

He turned and went back to the Alexander Lounge and bellied up to the bar. He ordered a scorpion from one of the three masked and minimally dressed bartender hunks, and the bartender laughed and flashed him a winsome smile when he did so. Folsom raised his eyebrow at that.

"Sorry, mate," the man said with a slight Australian brogue. "Just a private little joke. I'm sorry. But, say, you look a bit down. This isn't the sort of cruise for that."

"I was near death tonight," Folsom answered, as he received and swirled his drink. "But not nearly near enough."

The bartender said he didn't understand, and Folsom explained to him the equation he had recently read about of death through ejaculation.

"I can help you with that, mate," the bartender answered. "I right fancy you. You look like you keep in tip top shape."

"I'm in such a state, I'd need it rough and hard," Folsom said wistfully. Now that he thought about it, maybe the Italian count wouldn't have worked well tonight. He seemed much too refined. Folsom wanted to sweat and squeal, to feel it deep and hard.

"Than I'm your death deliverer," the bartender said with a broad smile. "I can get away at any time. Or if you want to wait until after one, I can do you right here on the bar."

"Cabin 335," Folsom said in a hoarse voice. "Twenty minutes. The door will be unlocked." Then he tossed off his drink and quickly rose and walked out of the lounge, in a hurry lest the hunk behind the bar changed his mind.

He entered his cabin and tossed off his clothes and showered quickly in the small, but efficient bathroom. The cabin itself was bathed in soft light from recessed lighting around the edges of the ceiling. On each of the side walls of the cabin, with their blue-velvet upholstered headboards against the outside wall, were two blue-plush benches, either of which could be covered with a pull-down single bed. The walls and built-in drawers and bed frames were of a burled, blondish wood. The floor was carpeted in gold. The room attendant had pulled down just one of the beds and prepared it for the night. A sturdy table was set against the outer wall between the benches, and the entire width of the outer wall was a picture window, covered with gold pull curtains, now closed.

Folsom draped a silk robe over his shoulders but didn't bother to close it. He leaned over the table and opened the curtains. The ship was moving fast in the nighttime, its lights picking out a verge of grass and trees at the edge of the river in the near distance. Mist sprayed past the window, picked up as of more substance than it really was in the reflection of lights from the ship.

Folsom turned at a sound, and the bartender had entered the cabin and was just shutting and locking the door behind him. He pulled at his legionnaire-style skirt and underbriefs and they dropped to the ground. Folsom swallowed hard and his eyes went wide. The masked hunk was horse hung. He let the robe slip off his shoulders, and the bartender gave a yelp of approval and desire and was at Folsom, pushing him roughly down on his back on the table top and coming up on the table on his knees, holding Folsom's torso firmly between strong thighs. He took Folsom's head and brought it up to his mouth and brutalized his lips with his own and forcing his tongue into Folsom's mouth, making feral animal noises of lust and possession.

At length, he rose up on his knees, grabbed Folsom's wrists in his strong hands and forced them above his head and against the plate glass window. Then he force-fed his engorging cock into Folsom's mouth and face fucked him. Folsom gagged and fought for breath, loving every moment of the assault, seeking a rough release and death. As he fought hard to accommodate the huge tool, his eyes went to the bartender's shaved groin, and he almost laughed. There, in the soft crevice just above and to the left of the root of the man's cock was a tattoo. It was of a scorpion. Thus the amused reaction from the bartender when Folsom had ordered a scorpion cocktail. Folsom reveled in the sting of a scorpion. He was going to be delivered by a scorpion. He was reveling in having ordered this volatile cocktail.

The hunk clamored off Folsom's chest and turned him onto his belly on the table. He could barely touch the floor with his toes as he opened his legs wide in response to the hunk's slapping of and pulling at his butt cheeks. The hunk was attacking Folsom's asshole with his mouth. He pulled Folsom's cock back through his legs and was alternating attention to his hole with attention to his cock and balls with tongue and fingers.

Folsom looked up into the night through the opaque window as he was being prepared for mounting and saw that the lights of buildings along the Rhine were becoming more frequent. They were approaching Rudesheim, where they would dock in a few hours and that had several wineries the passengers could explore on the morrow. His mind contrasted the peaceful scene beyond the window and the ravishing of his body here inside the cabin. He was panting and moaning under the assault of the tongue and probing fingers and was quickly moving to a death.

And just as he died and his seed spilled out onto the gold carpet below the table, he cried out in pain. At that very moment the masked hunk thrust his cock inside Folsom's ass, bumping his head up against the plate glass window and plastering his cheek against the pane, where his peripheral vision saw flashes of lights from the river bank against the spray of sea foam. Folsom grunted and writhed and begged for mercy and for slower and less forceful thrusts inside him, not really wanting it to stop or slow down, and not receiving any mercy. The bartender had his hips in a strong grip and was drawing him back into each deep thrust of his powerful phallus.

Folsom rose off the table in a involuntary movement to escape the onslaught or at least to keep the thrusts from going ever deeper, but the hunk just turned him and pushed him down onto the adjacent bed onto his back, spread his legs wide, dug his own knees under Folsom's buttocks, and started pumping him hard again. Folsom found straps at the side and the head of the bed to hang onto in seas that were only rough in his cabin. He arched his back as the hunk ravished his nipples with his teeth while he stroked his channel hard and pumped his cock with a strong fist.

Folsom died a second time, spouting semen up onto the hunk's belly before the bartender himself gave a cry of joyous release.

The bartender left him almost immediately then and without a word. He used the cabin's shower, and then was gone, leaving Folsom to whimper in his exhaustion. Just part of his job on this sort of cruise. The death and release had been a good one for Folsom, though. It had taken his mind from his loss of Brad and from his scheming for revenge—if at least for the hour that he was being plowed. He was drifting off, only half possessed now with his demons, well plowed. But the lurching of the side of the boat against wood as the ship docked in Rudesheim jolted him back into the real world, and he only slowly sank into sleep, planning how he was going to get Meister alone. Maybe in the streets of Rudesheim, far away from the ship. He must do it undiscovered, if he could. He wanted to be around for a long, long time to savor his revenge.