Glorious Banishment

Clifton liked to watch. In a way that's what led to his banishment, I guess. I didn't know at the time that it could have been called a glorious banishment, but my more recent one certainly qualified for that.

I was in my second season as a dancer aboard cruise ships. I worked as one of ten dancers—five women and five men—and two women and two men singers who also did a little dancing. We worked up two programs a year and went from cruise to cruise. When we could get full booking, we'd do two performances each of two shows on a ten-to-twelve day's cruise in exchange for a cabin bed and pretty good board, some world sightseeing, and income that was more steady than trying to land musicals of any length on Broadway or the road.

The biggest downside of this was rather strange—it was the pitch and roll of the cruise ships. They have this down to a science enough that most passengers can manage it without giving it much of a thought—but get up on stage and try and do some fancy footwork while you're also fighting for balance and see how long before you've gotten a sprained ankle. That's why we have five of each gender for dancers. The routines are designed for four of each, which can be scaled down to two in a pinch. We have to maintain the extras to guard against being banged up.

I guess a dancer being banged up also figures in Clifton's glorious banishment story—but my own experience leads into an update on his.

I'd felt quite pleased about this eleven-day Eastern Caribbean cruise gig we'd landed. I'd done the landing of the job myself. The cruise ship was sailing out of Bayonne, New Jersey, and, at a time that the troupe didn't have a cruise and I was nursing a sprained ankle, I met a guy several months before this sailing in a bar in New York City. He was looking for what I was in the mood to give and we clicked pretty good. It was a Friday night, and he took me back to his hotel room and fucked me into Sunday evening.

He was interested in more than just a straight fuck. After what were pretty short preliminaries of him establishing control by going down on me and then forcing me to my knees to suck him, instead of leading me to the bed, he took me right there on the carpet. He pushed me down on the floor and grabbed my hips in strong hands and pulled me up onto my shoulders and stood over me and fucked down into my channel with my legs spread wide. While he was fucking me, he kept corkscrewing around my torso in a 360-degree rotation that had his slightly upward curved, long and rather thin, cock moving the full circle around my channel, with his cock head caressing my channel on all sides. It was a pretty nifty feel—and I've got to admit that I have been felt in my day.

I'd told him I was a stage dancer, so I guess he wanted to try my flexibility out—and it was quite an interesting testing. And it was easy on my ankle too.

It turns out we were both in the cruise industry. He was the cruise director on a company sailing out of Bayonne, and I was a dancer in a troupe looking for work on such cruises.

After that first, frenzied "get-acquainted" fucking and having found he liked me enough to do it again, Keith showed me that he liked to give massages that turned more and more intimate as his pre-sex play. And, as a dancer, I knew how to give and liked taking massages almost as much as I enjoyed the sex that followed.

He wanted more of what I could give him and so he offered my troupe this spot on an Eastern Caribbean cruise. I was well aware of the very strict rule of no sex between the crew and the passengers—and it often got boring just to get off with the other guys in the dance troupe—but the cruise director pointed out to me that there was no rule against sex between the members of the crew as long as they kept it on the hush-hush and didn't let it interfere with their jobs, which required their full attention during the many hours they were on duty.

His offer seemed like a win-win situation, and the cruise was a pretty plush one, so I didn't have any trouble getting the rest of the dancers and singers to sign on.

Everything would have gone OK—I spent more time in the cruise director's cabin giving and getting massage, head, and fucking than I was spending anywhere else on the cruise. But Keith was good at it, so it was easy to think that everything was fitting together real well.

But Keith was the jealous type—and also vindictive.

It was actually the mid-thirties blond hunk who sat in the first row of the ship's theater during the night's first performance while we were still sailing out to sea and steaming past Bermuda on our way to San Juan who was my undoing.

He came to both shows—and managed to sit at the front both times. And the way he stared me down and looked me up and down while we were performing told me in no uncertain terms that he was interested. He'd applaud and cheer and cat call when I was doing my featured spots, and when he wasn't doing that I could see that he was sitting there with his hand on his crotch. That night he was waiting for me in the side corridor when we'd changed and came out of the stage door.

Keith was already waiting for me in his cabin. After the first show, he told me that I'd put him in heat and he wanted to fuck—he said he'd arranged for his assistant to cover the rest of what he had to do in the way of passenger programming that evening and that he wanted me to come straight back to his cabin for some "special" sex. Although Keith was bigger and older than I was, he'd been a Broadway dancer himself, and he was still flexible enough to take me in some really interesting positions, like the one he'd used our first time, after we'd done our massage preps.

But here the muscle guy was—older than Keith, but still in tip top shape, a lot more muscular and better looking in the face than Keith was—standing at the stage door, tongue hanging.

"Hey," he said, putting his hand on my arm to make sure I knew he was talking to me and not to one of the other dancers who was coming off the backstage with me.

"Hey yourself."

"I enjoyed your dancing . . . a lot."

"Thanks. I guess that's why you made both shows."

"You saw me?"

"Yeah. We can make out faces pretty well about three rows back. You were a little hard to miss."

"Being that obnoxious was I?"

"No, being that good looking." If there was any doubt in his mind which way I swung, I could tell that I'd just dispelled that. He moved closer and put his hand on my butt. I knew I was going to have to cut that off, but I didn't really want to—certainly not until I'd enjoyed his touch for a few moments.

"Ummm, I thought maybe you'd let me buy you a drink."

"Sorry, I can't," I answered, trying to be polite, which is rule number one for cruise control in the care and feeding of paying passengers. But I wasn't really having trouble keeping a smile on my face either. He was a real looker, and if we didn't have this stringent, drop-dead rule about fraternizing with the passengers, I'd be happy to jump in bed with him in an instant.

He looked glum, and then even more glum when I put my hand on the one he had been squeezing my butt cheek with and gently moved it away.

"Listen, sorry. I have an appointment, someplace I have to be now. But also I'm afraid there's a solid rule around here about getting cozy with the passengers. Both you and I could be kicked off the ship."

"You don't find me attractive enough, do you?" he asked. He had such a wounded puppy dog look—and looked so good doing it—that I could have knelt right there in the corridor and given him a blow job that clearly showed what I really felt about him. God knows I'd done it on impulse enough when I felt like it and there was no impediment.

And I'm not particularly shy either.

"You look plenty good to me," I said. "I'd sit on your cock right here in the hall if it wouldn't get us kicked off the ship. Hold it until we're back in Bayonne, and I'll march right off the ship and into a motel room if you want. Hell, I'll let you do me in the backseat of your car in the cruise line's parking lot, if you can't wait for it."

For some reason this seemed to heat him up rather than cool him down. I guess I'm not all that great at cruise control.

"I know a place up on deck topside nobody'll be at this time of night. We could—"

"Sorry. As I said, I have a meeting with my boss I'm already late for—and we can't on the cruise. That's a rock solid no-no."

"I'll pay," he said with a whimper. "I'll pay off anyone who has to look the other way."

"It's not a question of money. I need this job. If you still want to do it when we get back to Bayonne, just whistle."

I physically disengaged his grip on my arm, but also gave him a smile, and started moving down the corridor. I ached to go topside with him to see if he was as well equipped and as proficient as his looks suggested. But . . .

"My name is Seth," he said to my back as I moved away from him. "Here, write down where I can find you once we get back to Bayonne."

"I'd be willing to meet you on the gangway in Bayonne," I answered. But then I sighed and turned and saw that he was holding out a business card and a pen. I looked at the business card before I jotted a telephone number and address where I could be reached when I was in New York—a two-bedroom apartment I rented with nine other guys who operated out of the city like I did but who, like me, weren't there all that often. According to his card, he was a stock broker in the big city—or at least claimed to be. The clothes he was wearing and the flashy Rolex watch on his wrist bore out the claim.

"I'm Dale," I said as I handed his card back to him and turned to continue on to my tryst with the cruise director, Keith, who indeed had a very inventive approach that evening. He turned me on my side and strapped my thighs and calves together and fucked me sideways, which gave us a really tight fuck.

I put Seth out of my mind after our brief encounter—or tried to—because his failure to offer to take me back to his cabin—which would have been very tempting regardless of the rules—or to take me right from the ship when it docked back in New Jersey screamed of commitments he had. He probably wasn't alone on the cruise and wouldn't be leaving the ship alone.

I'd already had enough in my life of married guys cruising for that little extra exotic experience with variety tail.

So, I forgot Seth, which was pretty easy to do considering some of the other offers I was getting from bored cruise passengers on the high seas—both male and female—and the new ways Keith was showing me he could mine my channel. At least I forgot about Seth until three nights later, after we had left after a day in St. Thomas and were headed for Samana in the Dominican Republic.

We did the second of the two sets of shows for the cruise that night while we were sailing, and there was Seth, tongue hanging out, hand on crotch, in the front row during the first show.

He wasn't there for the second show, though, which made me feel a little deflated. It had been flattering that he had wanted me so bad. I thought that he certainly could cool off fast.

In the middle of the second show, Keith told me to come to his cabin when we were finished.

He was on the bed, on his stomach, just in a pair of athletic shorts, when I entered the room. By routine, I stripped down to the altogether and straddled his thighs and began to massage his back and shoulders—and then down to work his glutes and his thighs, calves, and feet. He was hard when he turned over and I only briefly massaged his chest and hips until I was massaging his cock with my mouth.

He slowly face fucked me until he murmured he was about ready to come, and then I finished him with my hand. He pulled my face down to his and we kissed. While we were doing so, he turned me onto my back and began running his hands over my body, pushing and pulling, and kneading—but only with one hand, because the other one was busy stroking my cock.

He knew how to bring me to the edge but not take me over, so that I began to writhe under him and beg him for his cock.

At that point, he laughed and turned me onto my belly. With a hand on my lower belly, he raised me onto my knees and I felt his knees pressing into my hips on either side and the long slide of him into my channel, and he rode me slowly and deeply. He slid back out after several minutes of long-stroking and left me briefly. He'd pressed me flat again on my stomach as I felt his weight lift off me, and then my thighs were being straddled and forced together by knees, and while my back and arms were being massaged, a hard cock was sliding up and down across my hole between my butt cheeks.

I begged him for it again and moved with the rhythm of the stroking—and then jerked and gave a little cry as the head of the cock broached my rim and was slowly sliding into me.

I thought that Keith must have had his Wheaties that morning because he seemed thicker and seemed to be mining me deeper than ever before.

But then I looked over at the sofa beside the bed and saw that Keith was sitting there and stroking his cock and watching me being doggy fucked by . . . I discovered Seth, when I cranked my head back to see who was doing this to me.

Rules or no rules, I was being covered by a blond hunk who already had his thick, hard cock a good nine inches up into my channel. So, I gave in and went wild with the fuck—he was entertaining and tantalizing me, with a tattoo of three short digs from rim to prostate and then to long, deep plunges, a twist of the hips and then all of the way out and then a kiss of my rim with a rotation of his cock head before the next shallow penetration. I lifted my hips to his pelvis and started thrusting back hard with his first plunging stroke—and then he lost control of his artistry and just started pistoning me hard and deep in long strokes while I went wild and cried out for him and twisted and turned my hips and thrust back to capture the full length and girth of a cock that seemed to grow with each plunge.

We went on for what seemed to be an eternity. From time to time, I looked over at Keith who was beating his cock furiously, but who had a little frown on his face. The blond and I exploded together in a harmonious cry of release and ecstasy and we both fell to the surface of the bed, he stretched beside me, legs akimbo, and arms in an entwining embrace.

We stayed that way until I heard his breath regularizing. He may have thought he was done, but I wanted more. I reached between his legs and wrapped my hand around his cock. He was in good shape and virile, so it didn't take much to arouse him into action again. I turned onto my back and opened my legs and made him take me again—with kissing and nipple chewing and heavy sighing this time.

He paid Keith at the cabin door, with a big wad of greenbacks. Keith tossed a fifty on the bed beside me and told me I needed to leave—that he had another event to announce within a half hour. He'd always let me shower in his cabin afterward, but this time he tossed my clothes at me and I quickly pulled them on and slipped out of the cabin.

The next afternoon, I and my luggage were standing on a pier in Samana, Dominican Republic—with a voucher for a plane ticket home, but a banishment from the cruise line's sailings into perpetuity.

That's how I found out Keith was both the jealous and vindictive type. He'd taken Seth's money to set me up for a fuck in his cabin—but obviously I had enjoyed the fuck too much and had given Seth what Keith perceived I wasn't giving him. So, I was put off the ship. There was no hint that Seth would be put off the ship too, though.

But, no matter, really, as it worked out. Seth hooked up with me again in New York later, and he was as great a fuck on land as he'd been on the sea. So I'd call my experience with Keith's cruise line a glorious banishment.

* * * *

As luck would have it, I knew that my old dance master, Clifton Ware, himself had been banished to the Dominican Republic—and to a villa in the mountains above Samana, as a matter of fact. So, I thought it would be nice to check in with him as long as I was here.

Clifton was a funny guy. He was a master dance teacher—as sure a ticket to a Broadway audition as a dancer can get. Any guy would have been happy to let him fuck them for what he could teach them—or to fuck him, if that was what he preferred. But Clifton preferred to watch. He was a voyeur. And he didn't apologize for it. He didn't crave the physical contact himself. He wanted to watch it while he masturbated.

That's what had gotten him banished at the dancing school I attended in New York in preparation for getting in Broadway shows. The other master teacher at the school, Jacques, did like to fuck his protégés. He called it the ultimate control, necessary for discipline, and he wouldn't teach anyone, male or female, who would not totally surrender to his will.

I had done so gladly. I'd known what I was and had fucked my way into the attention of drama coaches and dance masters in my home city, state, and region before moving on to New York.

Jacques liked to fuck, but he didn't like to be watched doing it. Clifton, conversely, got his rocks off solely by watching. One day on the upper landing of a set of stairs on a stage set, Jacques had been instructing one of his students to pirouette with Jacques's rod up his ass, when he noticed that Clifton was watching them from the side of the stage and doing himself with his hand. Jacques had flown into a fury of "being spied on by that pervert" and in the process had fallen down the stairs and broken himself up so badly that he never was able to dance again. He continued to teach the dance, but he no longer could demonstrate positions and he felt only half the master from that point forward.

He naturally blamed Clifton and threatened lawsuit—and jail time, if he could—not to mention a blade between the ribs some night when Clifton least expected it. Jacques was of the Latin temperament.

Clifton's ancestry was steeped in cooler climates and emotions. In response to Jacques's threats, Clifton just disappeared. Only years later did I learn that he had escaped to the Dominican Republic and was living there in well-enough style.

Well enough was somewhat of an understatement I was to discover. When I contacted Clifton, he was delighted to have me come visit him—and to stay as long as I wanted.

I took a taxi from the Samana harbor up winding roads into a mountaintop area called El Vista Cayo, where Clifton had a rambling villa with magnificent views down into the Bay of Samana and the harbor city of the same name.

"Ah, Mr. Ware," the young cab driver said when I gave him the address. "Yes, yes we all know where he lives—all of the young men know where Mr. Ware lives." And then he gave a little laugh and smacked his lips together and leered over his shoulder at me.

Luis, Clifton's "do everything" man, met me at the door. He was tall and well-built and big white smiled and bulging in the crotch and a deep chocolate brown.

Within the hour of my arrival I was on my back on a lounge chair on a deck off the back of the villa looking down toward the sea, Luis's plump cock up my channel, and the happy native was doing a plunging dance between my legs that was having me moaning and squealing with ecstasy. Clifton was sitting close to us in a deck chair and stroking his cock and still declaring how happy he was to see me. I didn't need much convincing to see how happy he was.

I hadn't really been asked if I wanted it—although I might have been sending signals I couldn't control as I watched Luis pad around the house in just shorts. But I wasn't a stranger to Clifton. He knew I liked being taken by surprise and manhandled. And he liked watching that happen to me. One minute Clifton and I were hanging on the rail of his deck, looking on my departing cruise ship in the harbor, and the next Luis was kneeling behind me, beefy hands on my thighs and my trousers and briefs down around my knees and his big lips sucking on my rim. I squirmed and moaned as Clifton turned to watch and slid down the rail far enough to get a good view of what was going on. In short order, Luis was covering my back with his heaving chest, holding my wrists far out at the sides on the rails and his dick moving deep inside me. At Clifton's direction when the cruise ship had rounded the rocks at the promontory at one end of Samana Bay, Luis turned me and lowered me to a lounge chair and began pumping me in earnest.