Fisting On The River

I can't say I was surprised, but I was running on disappointment anyway when the two johns came down the staircase into the lobby of the Holston House Hotel in Nashville. Both were in their fifties. One was Richard Gere dreamy with a good build, a movie-star handsome face with a winning smile, and a healthy head of wavy gray hair. The other one was on the pudgy side, a bit gawky in his height, weak chinned, and bald as a billiard ball. The bald one, of course, was for me. The movie star was for Andy, who occasionally worked the escort agency dating service with me when I was in Nashville. Both looked pretty spiffy in their tuxedos, but I knew that Andy and I looked like the grade A young, twenty-something male hookers that we were.

I wasn't where I wanted to be. I wanted to be in New York, working the gay clubs, and going home with sugar daddies with luxury Manhattan penthouse and silk sheets on their king-sized beds. That wasn't anything like working the Mississippi cruise boat world. The best I could say was that it was a start to where I wanted to go.

The johns had paid for dinner, an escort to some ceremony and performance at the nearby Ryman Auditorium, and an "afterward" in their hotel rooms until 2:00 a.m. It wasn't an overnighter. I had to be in Clarksville by 6:00 a.m. to make the riverboat, the

American Queen

, for my other job, in this case a nine-day run up to St. Louis on the Mississippi.

They dined us well at the Southern Steak and Oyster restaurant on 3rd Avenue. The guys were nice to us and we chatted freely about safe topics like sports and travel. Both of them, Baldy introducing himself as Mark and Mr. Dreamy as Ian, were well-traveled and well-spoken. I had traveled a good bit too, much of it on riverboat cruises, and they were interested in knowing I played the piano and sang and did a bit of stage dancing. They both were in the entertainment industry too, they said. Andy was a bit out of the discussion. He was a construction worker and hadn't gotten beyond the Nashville area. He worked evenings as a stage hand at the Ryman for the Grand Ole Opry. But he was a real hunk, so he didn't need anything more than his looks and his flexibility in opening his legs for a man. Ian and Mark were good about including him in the discussion but it was clear they were more comfortable talking with me, Ian in particular.

Ian was sitting next to me at the table and at a couple of points I felt his hand on my knee and him squeezing it. The smiles we exchanged told me he wanted me as much as I preferred him to Mark. I wondered if he regretted as much as I did that Andy rather than I was his escort for the evening. The look I gave him said as much and was an offer for any swapping of dates he wanted to do and could arrange.

I had no idea what the ceremony at the Ryman was all about, other than it had something to do with entertainment and clubs. Ian and Mark were well known in the crowd and were greeted and chatted up a lot. They included Andy and me in these brush-by chats, and no one seemed at all surprised that their dates were young, hunky men. Ian was particularly good about smoothly introducing Andy and me to other men. It was some sort of awards ceremony, interspersed with on-stage musical revues, some of which were drag queens. I didn't think any of them were better than I could do, though.

The theater wasn't even half full, but it was a large-capacity venue, famous for having hosted the Grand Ole Opry performances for decades. Nearly all in the audience were men, and some of those who looked like women were really men, I could tell, after taking a good look. Everyone there seemed to be comfortable with this. I didn't know what it was all about, but I was only there so other men knew Mark and Ian were going to get lucky with young honeys, so I just smiled, let men ogle and touch me as we chatted in small groups, and went with the flow.

A few asked if I was Mark's steady or might be available. I gave those guys the escort agency's business card. None of those who asked looked sugar daddy well healed. If they had, I had business cards of my own I could give them.

After that, the guys took us to what looked, on the outside, to be a warehouse across the river on Davidson Street. Inside, it was a gay stripper club. We sat at a banquette table in the middle of tiers up from the stage and watched guys, most of whom paled in relationship to Andy and me, dance poles and strip. I was sitting plastered to Mark and the stage performances made him hot and frisky. He had his hands all over me.

"You could be up there on stage better than those guys," he breathed into my ear.

Been there and done that, I thought, although I just murmured a thanks. I was trying to work my way up from those beginnings.

We were both unzipped, released, handed, and rocking our hips before the guys agreed that it was time to go back to the hotel. I don't know what Ian and Andy were doing because I was too busy being friendly but not being raped on the spot by Mark.

In his hotel room, Mark did what he didn't get done in the stripper club. I gave him head, kneeling between his thighs as he sat on the foot of the bed. When he couldn't take that longer without coming, he rose, turned me onto the bed, on my knees, my legs spread, and my chest and cheek pressed to the bedspread, watching us in a conveniently positioned mirror above a bureau at the side of the bed. For a few minutes he knelt behind me, hands gripping my wrists to keep me under his control, and tongued my hole before rising, hovering over me, mounting and penetrating me, and fucking me.

No problem, although I was wishing it was Ian instead. He opened me well and I took the penetration and sinking of his shaft without difficulty. The service came with the cost of the escort package.

He had a good cock and a strong stroke. I writhed under him, telling him all the things a male hooker needed to tell a john about how well he was being fucked. But, in fact, I was being fucked good. He stretched and filled me and he set up a good rhythm. I went with it, rocking back on the cock in the cadence he set and murmuring, "Yes, Daddy, screw me. Fuck me good, just like that. Oh, Daddy, Daddy." It did give me a better-than-average john experience being able to watch him do me in the mirror.

I wouldn't have add the escort agency work to my entertainment job if I didn't like to sub under men.

Still, I couldn't help wondering how much better if would have been to see that divine body of Ian's--or what I assumed his body looked like, great even in his fifties--standing behind me, gripping my hips, and banging the hell out of me. While Mark was fucking me, I was wondering what Ian was doing with Andy in his hotel room, just down the hall from this one.

Before he finished, Mark turned me and did me in the Missionary position, with my ankles on his shoulders and my fingers running through his chest hair and playing with the nipples on his bulging chest.

"Fuck me, Daddy. Yes, just like that. Deep. Screw me deep. Yesss!"

Where he lacked for hair on his head, he made up for it with what was on the rest of his body. The light in the room was dim enough that I didn't dwell on his paunch or his lack of chin definition and managed to give him the climax he was paying for.

"Oh, fucking yess. I'm coming!"

At nearly precisely 2:00, the end of the contract, I came out of Mark's hotel room door, showered and back in my tuxedo, leaving him on his back on the bed, where I had ridden his cock in a second fuck in a Cowboy position, dozing and smiling. Andy was coming out of a door further down the hall. He was smiling and purring. He gave me a thumbs up, which meant he'd given and had had a real good time. I managed a smile, but, God, I wished it had been me in there under Ian.

At the elevator, Andy interrupted his humming long enough to say, "That man was a god. He's got some moves I've never done before--and a cock to die for."

I can't say that helped my disposition one little bit.

* * * *

I rode down to the lobby perplexed. It was after 2:00 in the morning. I had to be in Clarksville, fifty miles away, by 6:00 to make my river cruise obligation. I went to the reception desk, not really knowing myself what they could do to help. I certainly wasn't going to spring for a hotel car for that journey. A taxi wasn't much better, but I didn't have much choice. I asked whether there were taxis available nearby or if they could call one for me--and were taxis even running at this time of the morning?

The people at the reception desk weren't dummies. They knew I was a hooker.

"I can drive you to Clarksville--for a hundred bucks... or consideration."

I turned and saw a big--really big--black guy in a white uniform. I knew what "consideration" meant, but it certainly was something I had to seriously consider in this circumstance.

"This is DeVon," the man at reception said, referring to the guy who offered me a ride--for big money or a ride on what likely was a big cock. "He's just delivered fresh laundry to us. He has a van." The man was almost sniggering, knowing what the deal being proposed was.

What choice did I have.

DeVon fucked me in the back of his van, on piles of clean and dirty laundry in the nearly empty parking lot of a Dollar Store across South Riverside Drive from the marina on the Cumberland River in Clarksville, where the

American Queen

was berthed.

As I surmised, he was big--thick and long and jet black. I lay on the laundry, folded towels jutting my pelvis up, legs spread and bent, feet flat, with big, black DeVon on top of me, heavily pinning me to the floor of the van, sneering down into my face, one hand clutching my throat, holding me down and controlling my breathing and the other arm under my waist, elevating my hips, giving him an open straight shot into the quick of me. Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, with me spreading my thighs as much as I could to take the stretch of him. He was big inside me, as big as they get. I lay there, fingernails digging into his bulging guns, moaning, panting, enduring as he did what he wanted to do to me.

"Take it, bitch; take it, whore," DeVon kept muttering. "Take my dick."

And I took it. At that point, I had no other option. He fucked me with the anger of some unspoken hurt. Good thing I actually was an experienced whore. He certainly treated me like I was, and he was one big, black bull. I had gone from a plush room at the Holston House, with a rich man in a tuxedo, to being rough fucked in the back of a van in a Dollar Store parking lot.

He was bigger than Mark was--much, much bigger--and more vigorous... and crueler. But at least Mark had opened me enough that, although I suffered, taking DeVon's shaft didn't kill me. But it had me writhing and bouncing up and down in the laundry, the van rocking on its shocks, and me ending my night so that, although I made it to the

American Queen

well before my 6:00 last call, I was hobbling and moaning what the fifty-mile trip had cost me.

Good thing I was a pro at this and did this because I liked being fucked, or I don't think I would have survived the back of DeVon's van. I'd have gone out in glory, though. He was one big, black bull.

OK, so I liked being fucked by DeVon, and the next time I was in Nashville I sought him out and he bully fucked me again. And, yes, I asked him to do it in the back of his laundry van again.

* * * *

Larsen was stretched out behind me on his berth in the bowels of the

American Queen

. He was about twice as big as I was, a big Norwegian, and muscular, so he had no trouble controlling me--not that I was giving him any struggle. My writhing was because of how big he was inside me, stretching me to the heavy pant setting. One beefy arm was wrapped around my stomach. The hand of the other was opened over my face, smothering me and stifling as best he could any sounds of total taking I might make that would permeate through the walls of the cabin into the corridor and the other crew quarters around us. They could have told by the thumping on the walls in the narrow confines of the berth that fucking was going on, though.

My arms were immobilized by the hold he had on me, but I could reach my own cock with one hand and was stroking myself off in cadence with his thrusts deep inside my anal passage. With harmonizing grunts and groans, working together to try to come together, we finished close to each other, and, maintaining his embrace of me on the berth in his tiny cabin, the Norwegian dozed off and began to snore. He was in for the night, and I was in here for as long as he had his arms around me. The confines of the narrow berth occupied by the two of us was stifling. It was a good thing I wasn't claustrophobic.

That was OK. Stieg Larsen was the second mate on the

American Queen

. Although his cabin was miniscule, it was all his, alone, which was a luxury accorded only the officers on a cruise boat. The man himself would have been deemed too large to comfortably maneuver the tight spaces on the ship if he weren't an officer mostly appearing in the public areas. I had a cabin not much longer this, and I shared it with two other members of the crew.

We were on a nine-day cruise from Nashville, Tennessee, to St. Louis, Missouri, on the Cumberland, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers. Day three was moving into day four, with day four being a stop in Paducah, Kentucky.

I was part of the entertainment on the

American Queen

. My main territory was the piano in the Engine Room Bar at the stern of the boat, behind the Grand Saloon, on the Cabin Deck. Here I tinkled the keys and crooned seven afternoons of the nine days from 4:00 p.m. into the 7:00 p.m. second dinner seating call. I also performed in a review on the Grand Saloon stage three nights during the cruise, adding dancing to my repertoire. I had boat safety drill station responsibilities and I ran the bingo and/or trivia games on three of the mornings. Doing, preparing, and practicing all of this filled out my work week on board. It was a long way from here to Manhattan clubs, but it was a start.

There was a side, more lucrative, job too, and this was where Stieg Larsen came in. I didn't let him fuck me just because he was a big-dicked stud, which he was. He was the ship's pimp. Some in the crew, both male and female, were here in special hospitality roles. We had cruise jobs but we were also here for cruisers of both genders. We were hookers. We either fell into hookups with paying passengers ourself or Larsen arranged sessions.

Cabins 221 and 222 on the Cabin Deck, in the stern, next to the Engine Room Bar, were kept open for liaisons. Outside their doors were tags that were changed from green to red when the cabin was in use. The crew quarters were entirely inappropriate. Few had private cabins, and it sometimes was inconvenient to meet up in the passenger's own cabin. Quite often the john had an unknowing or unapproving spouse or boyfriend sharing his cabin. Larsen kept book on who got laid for how much and the whore got half and the pimping operation got half. Accounting was loose, so the prostitute could fiddle it--but probably only once or twice before Larsen caught up with it, and then there would be more hell to pay than it had been worth. He often said that anyone crossing him would fall overboard on a wide stretch of the river, and I, for one, wasn't about to challenge that assertion. Larsen was a mean sonofabitch.

Since we were nearly half way into the cruise, I was surprised during happy hour the next day, as we were pulling out of Paducah and entering the Ohio, that I saw

him

enter the bar with a young man not much older than I was. I was surprised to see Ian, the dreamboat from Nashville, on the riverboat at all. I'd told him I was working these river cruises when we were at dinner in Nashville. He didn't reveal that he'd be on the next cruise I was working on.

I was being rushed by two other men, apparently together and maybe a couple, Stan and Jerry, who were in their forties and not beautiful, but they were nice looking enough for me to take their money and they were built fine, and pretty openly revealed they had dirty minds and intentions.

Stan was white; Jerry was black. The piano had three high stools positioned around the sounding board, and Stan and Jerry had been there, feeding me with tunes they said they wanted to hear. They were joined by another, older guy on the third stool, Tex, who was more rugged looking and beefed up than they were and who was fitting in despite Stan and Jerry requesting Broadway show tunes, and Tex, dressed cowboy style, wanting Country and Western.

I enjoyed the challenge and managed it all.

Ian and the younger guy, who obviously was salivating after Ian, came in later, at about 6:00, and sat away from the piano. I know Ian recognized me. He smiled and saluted when he saw he'd caught my attention and then sat and listened to the music, chatting with the younger guy, who was posing in ways I knew to attract sexual interest. I wondered if he'd already been fucked by Ian or was making a bid to be. I could tell that he wanted to be bedded by the movie-star handsome man. What kept going through my mind was Andy telling me at the hotel elevator in Nashville that Ian had had sex act moves Andy had never known before while looking a bit gawgaw and walking funny afterward.

If Ian hadn't spiked the young guy he was with yet, the young guy apparently was in for a treat, a treat I ached to have for myself.

In a lull of the attention I was getting from the three guys at the piano, Ian came over, smiled at me, and stuffed a fifty-dollar-bill in my tip glass.

"You really can play and sing them," he said.

"If there something I can play for you?" I asked. I really was asking if I could lie down for him. I hoped he got that message. I wanted to think that the fifty he's put in the jar was a proposition.

"What you've been playing is just fine," he said. "But we've got to go now. We have a 7:00 dinner call. Hope to see and listen to you again."

"Not as much as I hope for that," I answered, giving him my "Cover me and take me to heaven" look.

He smiled and left. Soon after that, my set was concluding and, not too surprisingly for me, Stieg Larsen was suddenly there. Tex had left the piano and I saw him talking with Larsen in the corridor by Cabin 222. Larsen came into the bar and drew Stan and Jerry aside for another short conversation. He handed them cabin cards, they came back to the piano and stuffed my tip jar with hundred-dollar-bills, and I didn't really need Larsen to tell me that I was about to do a threesome in Cabin 222.

It wasn't a threesome. It started off that way, with me kneeling on the end of the bed, naked, with Stan standing behind me, also naked, hands clutching my hips and doing me in a Doggy, while Jerry sat off in a chair, naked, and pulled on his black cock. Then Jerry did me in a Missionary at the foot of the bed, with me panting and moaning more for him than I did for Stan. He was thicker and more demanding. Stan sat, beating himself off, and watching.

Both were sheathed, but neither came when they were working solo. They saved that for when they were doing me together, Stan on the bottom, facing up, me on top of him, facing down, and Jerry behind me, holding my hips. They both got in there, inside me, and worked me together. It was obvious this was a team event they often did. I didn't often do it, but I was a pro now. More than the usual use had made me wider and more pliable there. There wasn't much I hadn't done. And now I took a double penetration--and well-orchestrated one. All three of us came.

I was lying on the bed on my back, panting and recovering, thinking we were done here, waiting for them to shower and dress and starting to wonder why they were just milling around and beginning to get that they were just recovering for another go at me when the cabin door opened and Tex came in.