Last Present

"You really shouldn't have done that, silly boy. That was naughty, naughty."

I looked sharply up into Denise's eyes, not quite sure what she meant, but half suspecting that I did know. Was all of the setup I'd gone through—the application process and then the training and all of the hard work in preparing for this voyage going to be knocked into a cocked hat, just like that? I was shocked at what she said, because the rest of her was following an entirely different tack. Her tits were nearly spilling out on the cocktail table right under my nose, and my gaze had been lowered, looking down, past that cavernous divide in the cleft of her breasts, through the glass of the table top, and to where she had hold of my cock through the material of my trousers. She'd been working on it for several minutes, and I had no doubt what was on her mind.

I looked quickly around the small Rear Lounge at the stern of the M.S.

Discovery

to see who might be watching, but there were few here, it being very late on December 27th, and most of the Rhine River cruise passengers being worn out from several days of festivities and already having retreated to their cabins. The Christmas tree was positioned between our table and the piano, where smoky tunes were being quietly played by a blowsy blonde who had done better than usual in drinks for tips that evening.

The first two nights out on the cruise I had taken the singer, Ingrid, back to her cabin in the crew area on the Odyssey deck after her last set and banged a high A out of her. But she was getting drunker and drunker as the cruise spun out, and fucking her after her evening set became like punching one of those plastic blow-up dolls. She thanked me, but if she felt the cock inside her, I doubt that she remembered the next morning. If what I heard was true, she'd had all of the cocks of the crew members who weren't gay inside her already on the cruise. Besides, it was time that I got down to business. Ingrid was still good for a nooner, though. I came naturally to this. If I didn't empty my ball sack every eight hours, I got jumpy.

"I don't understand," I said. "You didn't want that last Mai Tai?"

"I think you know what I mean, Dieter, darling," she said. Then she laughed her earthy, husky laugh, got a good grip on my cock, and squeezed and gave it a couple of strong pulls. I was getting very hard. This had never been a problem with me, but Denise knew what she was doing, and she did it expertly.

I gave her a quizzical look and slipped my hand under the table and covered hers, not in a motion to make her stop, but to lay my hand gently on hers and let her know I liked what she was doing and would like her to concentrate all of her attention on that. The edges of her gigantic square-cut diamond ring scratched the palm of my hand, but I tried to ignore the pain. I half knew what she was on about and I wanted to distract her. I gave her my best "little puppy lost" look with my eyes, came in close to her mouth with mine, and we moved into a dueling-tongues kiss.

I didn't like the taste of the tobacco in her mouth—not because I didn't find it enticing but because I did. I'd given up the habit some years back, but one never gives up the craving for it.

She nipped my lip as we were coming out of the kiss, and I leaned back from her and my hand came up from under table and went to my mouth.

"Ow," I exclaimed and looked at her with reproach. I leaned away from her in initial shock. The blonde at the piano had finished a song, and I clearly heard as well as felt and sensed the unzipping of my fly. And then I felt Denise's fingers snake under the waistband of my bikini briefs and take full possession of me.

"The earrings. I suppose you thought I wouldn't know just because they were buried under all those other baubles. You really shouldn't have helped yourself."

"I . . . I don't know what you mean." I was breathing hard—not from what she said but from the slow-pumping action and squeezing of her hand gripping my cock. She had her index finger pressed at my piss slit, trying to press inside it.

But of course I knew precisely what she meant. I helped myself because that's what I was here for. A great effort to land this job as assistant tour director for Rhine River boat cruises and then months of training—not to mention all of the effort to tone my body and groom for the older ladies—all for what I knew would be just one shot at divesting rich bitches of some of their jewelry.

"I should be annoyed. But I've decided not to be. They were paste, you know," she twittered and then she threw her head back and laughed a Bette Davis laugh. "At least if you were half as good at that as you are at fucking, you should have known they were paste."

No I didn't know. It was dark when I took them, and I hadn't taken the time to check since then. I could kick myself. "You won't—?"

"No, I won't tell anyone, lover. Not as long as I have you by these."

And, indeed, she had me by "those." She'd moved her hand from my cock to my balls, which she grasped hard and squeezed.

My eyes watered and I wanted to reach for the same high F the blowsy blond was hitting on her rendition of a Broadway tune.

Inside Denise's cabin door and not even flicking on the lights because I wanted to assert control, I turned her back to the wall next to the door, and I jerked down on the straps of her dress. Her tits plopped out, and I feasted on her coin-sized nipples as my hands hiked up her skirt, and I helped her step out of her panties. Her hands made quick work of unbuckling my belt, unzipping me again, pushing my trousers to the floor, and forcing the waistband of my briefs under my balls.

She hooked the backs of her knees on my hips and guided me to her slit with her hands.

"Wait," I muttered. "My jacket pocket. Condoms."

"If we must," she said, with a guttural laugh. She found the packets in my jacket pocket and expertly crowned me, as we pressed against each other on the wall, each lost in ragged breathing. I had been fully prepared by her otherwise in the cocktail lounge.

I was angry—at myself more than anything—and felt trapped and cruel. So, as soon as she'd rolled the condom on, I thrust up inside her, hard and deep. She arched her back and cried out a primeval cry that ended in a lusty laugh.

Don't laugh at me, bitch, I was screaming in my head. I pulled most of the way out and plunged hard up into her again.

"Oh, yes, oh god yes," She cried out, and her hands, now wrapped around the back of my neck, clawed into the tender flesh there.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. She was loving it. And I no longer minded either. She was clawing at my shirt, tearing at the buttons, digging into my pecs. I took possession of her mouth with mine and she was chewing on my lip. I thrust harder and deeper. Her body was shuddering and then mine was as well.

Later, she was lying on her back on the bed, smirking, as she watched me stand above her and dab as my bloody lip with a tissue.

"I want you to stay the night."

"I don't stay the night," I answered. "You know that already. I told you that the first time."

"You will tonight. Remember what I have you by."

"I work during the day. I have to be fully alert. It isn't easy guiding you people around, you know. It's like herding cats around."

"Yes, I can imagine. Fat cats. Cats you'd like to rob. I want you to stay all night. And I want you to fuck me nonstop. Do it well, and I'll tip you accordingly."

When I left her cabin four hours later, I felt more than the condom packets in my jacket pocket. I wanted to laugh when I'd dipped my hand into the pocket and came up with a pair of diamond earrings. Something told me that these weren't paste.

I wasn't anything close to fully alert the next day—and Denise Bessinger didn't join us for the walking tour of Wertheim. At dinner that evening, she was walking somewhat bowlegged, but she was purring. And that night, too, I slept inside her, her legs wrapped around my waist, claiming full possession of what she claimed had been the best cock that had ever been inside her.

* * * *

The first time I had seen Denise Bessinger and started to zero in on her as a target was Christmas Eve morning. The boat had docked the previous night on the banks of the tenth-century well-preserved Bavarian city of Bamberg.

The primary duties of the assistant tour director was to hone in on the special needs of passengers—especially the ones in the suites—and to help them.

An elderly gentleman and his far younger wife were booked in the 405 suite on the Navigator deck. I'd been told to pay special attention to them, as the man was the owner of a chain of gourmet restaurants along the Eastern Seaboard of the United States, and there had been quite a wrangle and pulling of strings to get him on this cruise. He was said to be very ill, having already suffered several heart attacks, but he insisted to be on this cruise and had paid the necessary money to make it happen.

Still, I was surprised when I was told that my services would be needed in Bamberg to assist the elderly gentleman from 405, George Hazelton, who wanted to tour Bamberg. When I was summoned down to the dock, he was already there, in a motorized wheel chair. He was saying good-bye to his wife, a slim, auburn-hair woman, possibly in her late thirties, who seemed quite reluctant to leave him. But as I walked down the gangway, she did so and walked over and got on the regular tour bus taking passengers from the boat on their own city tour.

As I approached, the man looked up at me, and smiled—through a grimace—and extended his hand. "You must be Dieter, assigned to help this old bag of bones around the town."

"Yes, I am Dieter, Mr. Hazelton. But are you sure? Bamberg has some hills and the streets are cobblestone."

"Yes, I'm sure. I've waited for years to do this. We'll meet up with the tour for lunch—but then I wish for you to stay on with me a bit after that, if you will."

"Yes, sir, I certainly will. I'm completely at your disposal."

"If only . . . but that's certainly gratifying to hear."

I thought that was rather a strange thing to say, and I looked down into his face, but he wasn't looking up. He was in some private moment of pain. Other than the grimace, he was a handsome man. The gray hair became him—possibly more so than whatever color it had been before had done. He had strong, craggy features, and was unusually well-muscled and tanned for a man confined to a wheel chair and well along in years.

"Shall I pick out some sites to see—none too strenuous to get to—or do you have a destination in mind?"

"I have a map here. I would like to go to Edelstrasse, here on the city map, but we can take a route that will put us through the Altstadt and near the market, if you can find the way. I wouldn't mind to reminisce a bit."

"Yes, sir."

Cobblestones were the rule in the Altstadt—the old city—but my mind worked out a route that would put us near some historical areas but give occasional relief from the uneven paving to minimize the jolting. Still, the old man seemed worn out and a bit too shaken up by the time he rolled onto Edelstrasse.

"Any place in particular?"

"There, over there. I recognize the building. Please, across the street from there. Stop right here, if you will."

We stopped across the narrow street from an old building that was perhaps twenty feet in width. Although it was a row house, it seemed to lean into the building next to it. The ground floor was all brick and windows and housed a bakery. The upper two stories were in timbered Tudor style.

We remained there—me standing and him in his wheel chair, his wheezing slowly coming under control for several long minutes without speaking. It had begun to snow, but only lightly. I was about to suggest that we go on, toward the restaurant on Steinertgasse, near the market place, when, at last, he spoke.

"It was up there, second floor, the window on the right, where I lost my virginity."

"Really?" I asked, not knowing what else to say, a bit nonplussed at the statement that seemed completely noncongruous to the setting and to this old man.

"Yes, it was 1956. I was in the American army. The Army of Occupation the locals called it. I was barely nineteen."

"And this is why you made the effort to come here?" I asked.

He proceeded on as if he hadn't heard me. And perhaps he hadn't; he seemed completely withdrawn into himself, possessed by his own memories.

"He was a beautiful young man—almost as beautiful as you are. Oh, don't look so surprised. I'm not going to rape you. But it's important that you understand me—that you get a full picture."

I was shocked, of course—more by the surprise of it than the revelation it provided. Of course I wouldn't have anything to fear from him. He could hardly handle the motorized chair, let alone seduce me.

"The full picture?"

"All in good time. Later. And, yes, this is why I had to make this trip. At my time of life, almost nothing is as important as memories. I had to come on this river cruise not just because it stopped in Bamberg, but also because it cruises that castle-crowned gorge down through the Lorelei. That's what Hans did for me—after he had taken my virginity up in that room. His family owned a fish shop, which was then there, on the ground floor. They supplied our base, and that's where I met him. He had strong hands and was powerfully built and had a special smile. He beckoned to me and I went with him. I was on a three-day pass, and after he possessed me up there in that room, he took me down through the gorge on his family boat. We made love the entire journey, with him whispering to me the lore of the castles as we passed. I had to take that journey one more time."

"I understand," I said. And I did. I was a romantic that way, and it didn't really matter that much to me whether that sort of ultimate experience is found with a woman or a man—at least for anyone else.

"I was shipped home to the States the next week. I never saw Hans again." He paused for a few minutes and then sighed and continued in a stronger, more in-the-present voice. "Now, I think we must go to the restaurant, or we will miss the tour group." He said this almost briskly, as if, once here, he was closing the book on this memory for the last time—and with no regrets.

We sat separately from the rest of the tour group in the restaurant because, as a restaurateur himself, Hazelton wanted to sample everything. He'd heard of the Hofbrau restaurant on Karolinenstrasse before and, indeed, had influenced the cruise tour's choice for lunch in Bamberg. I could tell he wasn't that impressed with the food, though, and marked in my mind that he would only accept the best if he came on to land to eat again during this tour.

There were four of us at the table. The two woman, although both startling beautiful, were a study in contrast. Hazelton's wife, introduced to me as Claire, was a woman young and lithe of body, but with a sadness in her face that spoke of long suffering and age. This did not detract from her beauty, which was a naturally achieved one, but rather seemed to enhance it. She was quiet throughout the meal—and closely attentive to the needs of her husband—but when she spoke, it was with conviction and knowledge, spoken in a clear-toned voice. I found myself willing for her to contribute to a conversation. I hung on every word she spoke.

The other woman there was Denise Bessinger, because she was in the suite cabin next to the Hazelton's on the M.S.

Discovery

, was, in contrast, an exuberant, earthly zaftig presence that couldn't be denied. Everything she said was said with gusto and with lusty humor. I couldn't really imagine the Hazeltons with such a woman, but we all seemed to get along fine at the lunch. Denise was what I would call Rubenesque rather than the usual inference of "zaftig," which is fat. She was one of the truly well- and provocative-proportioned women I'd met. She was raven haired and alabaster skinned and looked to be in her forties thanks to highly professional carving and cosmetic work, but more likely was a good ten years older than that. She was wearing a low-cut purple velvet dress despite the winter weather and was dripping with jewels.

With my ulterior motives for being on the cruise well in mind, my eyes followed her wide-gesturing, highly manicured hands, my attention caught by the size and glitter of the diamond and ruby rings on her right hand.

The diamond on her hand made me ask at one point, "Is there a Mr. Bessinger?"

To this, she answered with a raucous snort, "There certainly is. But he's married to his department stores. This right here, this Rhine cruise, is his Christmas present to me—and mine to myself. This is how I show my loving wife side. I go on cruising trips during holidays, and he and his secretary make whoopee without fear of me while I'm gone. And that's all we need to hear about Mr. Bessinger."

She made sure I understood what she meant by that. She had an unshod foot pushing up under the hem of my trousers and a hand on my thigh.

When we were arising from the table and Hazelton was quizzing me about whether a tip was appropriate, she broke in with a "Of course, any good service is worth a good tip." As she said it, I felt the touch on my coat jacket pocket. In the men's room immediately thereafter, I found a restaurant napkin with "Cabin 407" written on it and five twenty-dollar bills, U.S. currency, tucked inside. I also found two condom packets I hadn't put there. They weren't the magnums I used, though. She would be surprised, I hoped pleasantly.

I stood at the restaurant door, beside George Hazelton in his motorized wheel chair, as the boat passengers followed the tour director off for more exploration of Bamberg. Claire Hazelton was looking back, in obvious concern, at her husband, but he waved her off with a smile that must have cost him great effort. I could tell that his reserves were being sorely tested.

"We'll be fine. Young Dieter here is taking good care of me." And then, when the group was out of earshot, he said. "Poor Claire. I don't think she's been away from my side for this long since we were married."

"I'll help you back to the boat," I said.

"No, not yet. Not quite yet, please. There's a Bierhaus over there, across the street. I fancy a genuine German beer before we go back."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure. There's the full picture to provide. I don't want to rest before that. This has been on my mind for a very long time."

I was uneasy as we settled in for the beer, worried more than half where this was going, considering what he had told me earlier that morning—and calculating in my mind how much I would ask for the service. Not wanting to do it, but knowing that everything had its price, and that I was on the cruise to make a one-time killing—whatever it took.

"What do you think of my wife?" Hazelton asked when our beers were half spent.

"She seems to be a very fine woman," I answered. But I didn't want to leave it like that. "She's very attentive to you and she's very well spoken. Everything she said was succinct and it had meaning. But her eyes are sad."

"Yes, all of that. She's the most wonderful wife a man could have. I would have died five years ago—probably should have died then—if it wasn't for her care and determination to keep me going. As I said out on the street, she is never far from my side. It's always my needs that are met—even before she starts thinking of her own. Can you imagine how I met her?"

"No." He obviously expected me to ask him how, but he didn't really require the request. He was set on telling me.

"She was a waitress in my New York restaurant. I ate there every morning I was in New York. And she was always there, providing the best of service. And it wasn't because I owned the restaurant. I did everything I could for that not to be known by the staff there. I ate there to check on how they treated customers. Claire was always the one with the winning smile and the succinct, but, as you have heard yourself, the perfect words to say for the occasion."