Death On The Rhine Ch 06

Folsom was set adrift on the Rhine, but it was a gelatinous Rhine, which supported his body as he lay on his back and which swayed him back and forth with the current. But the current wasn't being provided by the flow of the father of all German rivers; the motion was being provided by a multitude of men between his legs, moving him back and forth on their hard cocks. He was being taken to multiple deaths by ejaculation by a procession of men, some nearly identifiable to his lost lover, Brad Roberts, and to a long line of other men who had known him. He sighed and moaned for them with sounds that seemed to be echoing back at him in loud mutterings that blended with the sounds of the water rushing past him. He momentarily tried to reason how the water could be gelatinous and rushing at the same time, but he felt weak and groggy and just laid back and enjoyed the fucking.

The grinning face of a man in a mask rose up between his legs and he was being entered again. And this time he was being invaded with a member that was impossibly thick. He grunted and groaned as it just kept feeding into him at a depth he'd never experienced before. He tried to raise his head to seek assurances that his masked assaulter was bottoming out, but the figure rolled his torso up onto Folsom's belly so that his view was blocked. However, after Folsom had taken several more inches inside him, the masked figure took Folsom's hands and brought them between his legs and wrapped them around a smooth plastic grip. He placed his own hands over Folsom's and guided him in stroking himself with the oversized dildo that was mining his ass passage.

The sound of the rushing water grew louder, overpowering Folsom's groans and moans so that he couldn't even hear himself. He felt like he was in a drunken stupor, but he felt himself bucking hard against the mammoth dildo churning around inside him. It slowly retreated and he turned his head to the side, pulled a string of the gelatinous material into his mouth, and bit down on it to keep himself from screaming out. Even this confused him, as he was both terrified of what was happening to him and in a deep state of ecstasy at what was turning and stroking inside him.

The clouds of confusion began to dissipate around him, and he no longer was floating in the river. He was in one of the cabins on the MS River God—not his own cabin, but one quite similar to it. He was stretched out on the bed, his face only a few inches from the edge of the table. One thing remained the same, however: something was stroking back and forth deep inside his ass channel.

As he became more conscious, Folsom realized he was in the embrace of another man, who was stretched behind him, both of them on their sides. The other man was holding him firmly encased in his arms, with a hand on Folsom's belly that pushed in so that Folsom's hips met the thrust of the man's cock. The man was murmuring in Folsom's ear in words that were becoming increasingly clear.

"You're so nice. Such a sweet, warm ass."

Folsom recognized the voice and turned his head to receive a deep kiss on the lips from Sigmund Frist, whose body suddenly became quite taut. Frist gave a little cry, thrust his hips against Folsom's butt three times in short, insistent strokes of spurting release, and then fully relaxed against Folsom with a satisfied sigh.

"That was so nice. As good as all the rest," he whispered. "You're amazing."

"All the rest?" Folsom asked in a hoarse voice, a voice he had been searching to exercise for some time but only now seemed to be able to command.

"Yes. We've been fucking all night. Look it's day already. And look at those." He laughed as he pointed to a pile of spent condoms on the floor beside the bed and under the table. "This is why I come on these cruises. For the release, pent up from months of hard work." Folsom saw that, indeed, they had been very busy. He remembered little of it, having slept so deeply after the exhausting previous day. But he didn't even consider telling Frist that he'd been more than half out of consciousness most of the night. He also had a splitting headache and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton.

Folsom looked up at the window wall running around the head of the bed and the inner edge of the table and saw that Frist had spoken the truth. Daylight was streaming through the window. He could also feel that the ship was under way, plowing down the Rhine toward Koblenz. They had left Rudesheim behind.

Disengaging himself from Frist, Folsom asked if he could shower and then declined the offer that they shower together. If they'd done it as many times as Frist indicated they had, he thought they both had had enough. All he could think of was getting rid of this headache and going back to tracking Bruno Meister down and killing him.

After he emerged from the shower and as he was drying himself off, Frist, still stretched out, naked in the bed, was looking very pleased with himself and looked very pleasing to Folsom still.

"We're under way," Folsom said, noting the obvious just to fill the air with something more than the smell of sweat and sex.

"Yes. This is our Romantic Rhine day," Frist answered. "The entire day until late this afternoon flowing down the most scenic stretch of the Rhine—lots of castle ruins perched on high hills with vineyards running down to medieval villages at the river's edge. It's a day just for sitting and gawking at the landscape, although I would be content to just sit and gawk at you."

Folsom managed to retreat from Frist's cabin without so much as another kiss or embrace—he knew that if he let Frist touch him again, it was likely they'd be in bed for the rest of the morning.

His cabin was being attended to by the steward when he reached it, and after an awkward greeting without explanation on why the room had obviously been unused since it was set up for night the previous evening, Folsom went on to the restaurant for a buffet breakfast.

He ate quickly, not bothering even to check on whether Meister was about and then returned to his cabin, stripped, and pulled on a Speedo. He'd go topside and try to shake this headache and take in the sights as well.

About half of the passengers had chosen to oo and ah over the Romantic Rhine cruise, complete with commentary from the bridge, from the comfort of the Alexander lounge. But many others, like Folsom, chose to watch the scenery slide by while getting a tan, and were topside, on the Helios deck. A few of these men were paying some attention to the landscape; several more were more interested in the sights of other men stripped down for tanning; and a large group was already fucking on the lounge chairs and completely oblivious of the centerpiece of their sightseeing cruise.

Folsom didn't make it very far down the line of loungers before a black, beefy hand reached out, took his wrist, and brought him to a seated position on a lounger. It was the African potentate, wearing only a thong, and looking like a massive black statue, more well-defined gleaming muscle on a man than Folsom had ever seen before.

"Remember me?" the African said, showing a full set of pearly whites that contrasted with the blackness of his handsome face.

"Of course," Folsom responded. "How could I forget?"

Another big grin from the African.

"You said maybe later."

"Yes, yes I did."

"Can this be maybe later?" the African asked, although his hands were well ahead of his mouth. He already had a beefy paw between Folsom's prick and the inner lining of the Speedo.

"Yes, why not?" Folsom said and then the need for discussion had ended. In short order Folsom was stretched out, reversed, on top of the African, Folsom's mouth working the African's gigantic tool and the African's thick tongue working Folsom's asshole.

When he was ready, the ebony giant lifted Folsom's body by his waist as if it was a paper doll, and with much huffing and puffing from them both, brought Folsom's ass down into his lap, slowly skewering Folsom's channel on his massive pole. Then he pulled Folsom's shoulder blades back onto his chest, moved his legs to the side of the lounger, dug his heels into the deck of the ship and began a long, rhythmic stroking up into Folsom to the tune of much gasping, panting, and impassioned cries—from both of them.

When they both were spent, they just lay there, Folsom stretched on top of the African, and watched the ship's passage through rocks of the Loreley, with their legend of siren songs luring seafarers to their death on the tricky shoals of the passage of the Rhine between two rocky crags.

As they passed this formation, a shadow fell on Folsom and he looked up to see Frist staring down at them. He didn't look the least bit pleased. In fact, he looked rather upset.

"Look, Sig, just because we . . . ," Folsom started to say, but Frist motioned him to stop with a cutting gesture of his hand.

"I don't give a crap who you fuck or how often you fuck them, Folsom. I just came to get you because there's something you need to see . . . in your professional capacity. Could you come with me below, please?" It didn't really sound to Folsom like either a request or a question. Frist obviously was quite upset about something.

Folsom had the sinking feeling of having been dashed on the rocks by the siren song of the Loreley, but he had no idea why he felt this way.