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Porthole: The Erotic Memoirs of HMS Fantasia

Porthole: The Erotic Memoirs of HMS Fantasia

 Porthole: The Erotic Memoirs of HMS Fantasia

 

CONTENTS

PORTHOLE – The EROTIC MEMOIRS

 

About the author

And Some Introductions before We Start

I Want It

The Horn

The Pump Room

Master Bates

To Strike a Chord

Paris’s Revenge

Time Gentlemen Please

 


 

PORTHOLE

 

‘The Erotic Memoirs of RMS Fantasia:

Volume One – Paris’s Revenge ’

By DI Andrea Johnson

 

About The Author

Andrea Johnson was born in Coventry, the West Midlands, England, in 1966. After obtaining 8 A-levels, all of which awarded Grade A and above, she left Coventry Central College of Arts and Humanities gaining a place at The Castle University, Warwick. Andrea obtained a first class Honours Degree in Public Service and Citizenship, then transferred upon completion onto The Castle University MBA – Business Administration Master’s programme. With first class distinction she took employment with the West Midlands Police as a fast-track graduate officer. By the age of 36 she had achieved the status of Detective Inspector, notably the youngest female DI in the history of the force. In 2007 she joined Merseyside Police, Liverpool.

Following her lead involvement in the biggest manhunt known today, the investigations into the crimes of the Gabriel Sect and the subsequent publication of the infamous ‘Meat: Memoirs of A psychopath’ (Dr Cerys Davies. 2013), her position as Detective Inspector became untenable. Following a legal battle and out of court settlement, Andrea Johnson reluctantly resigned her post.

Andrea continues her passion for writing erotica today. On a point of principle, she maintains the professional title of DI Andrea Johnson, her real name as presented on all publications.

Brittunculi Records and Books are delighted to continue to work with her.

 

Preface

The RMS Fantasia is a mighty ship indeed. Built in Belfast 1906, I am a ship that sees all and controls all. As you now join me on my maiden passage across the oceans and the seven seas, do take time to peep through my portholes for there in every cabin you will soon find something to your pleasure and delight. A journey on which there is no return and no way back. But then why would you want to? Be seated, relax and loosen yourself up, but most of all simply enjoy. As for the clever ones amongst you, well now, you’ll soon realise that there are seven chapters; a bedtime story for every night of the week. So tuck yourselves up in your bunks and do keep me informed. You may need a lifeboat although we will start the week in calmer waters. Bon voyage!

 

‘And some introductions before we start’

Edition includes nine photographs from the private collection of;

Leonardo Clit c.1900 Italy. RMS Fantasia’

 

If you too have just enjoyed the magnificence of Paris, her beauty and her perfection, then I am pleased that you took such time to turn to this page. For here the story begins, but a story now told with her erotic and sensuous physique now wedged firmly in your mind. For the cover photograph of her was taken soon after we set sail and all of what I tell centres on her, for she created me for what I became. Take time for yourself, to pleasure yourself as you need, as my story unfolds before you. Place down this book as your sexual tensions deem necessary and this they will, I assure you. Look at her, she is there for you too to share and placed proudly to my masthead. Take a peep through her porthole. Play through in your own minds all that I say. For as I control all who board me, then I too shall now control you. Let go of all of your inhibitions now, whether male or female and everything in between and enjoy, just be seated, relax and relieve yourselves upon my decking.

Imagine what I first saw of her? Paris as an angel, a woman of divine grace delivered to me quayside. Her personal voyage trunk filled to overcapacity. I watched her closely. I was instantly aroused and I knew she would be the one that I wanted. The straps of her heavy trunk stretched to the limit, leather strapping that always proved so useful for restraint. That trunk which had only one thing in mind, to now burst open and reveal all of that she had hidden inside. There, as is deliberately placed, a brief glimpse of white silk stocking trapped in its closed lid.

Why had she chosen not to reopen the trunk and push it back inside? To repack it in a more fashioned manner. Why had she left it, just the glimpse of trapped sensuality to hang down from the side? For she hadn’t packed in a hurry, oh no. She and Jacques had taken all the time that they needed to pack this trunk. The stocking on show, though just no more than two or three inches, was just enough to display. As Paris was bursting, so too was her personal and delicate collection of the finest French corsetry available at the time. Both Paris and her collection were bursting-outward, exploding with her need for sexual excitement. The need to finally fulfil her deeply held fantasies and for her now liberated sexual satisfaction.

Jacques had spent his time shopping with Paris during the days before we sailed. She had always possessed the finest of silks and lingerie, her basques and corsets always hand-stitched and created by the greatest of craft-hands. Her dresses and evening wear too, were the best that France had to offer. Jacques would never allow her to be underdressed. Paris could never be understated. Money was no object and she wore only the best, for if she was aroused then Jacques was aroused, and he so adored how both men and women would stand still breathless in her shadow and in the wake of her footsteps, her scent delivering an almighty blow to any that came near and for those of generous financial means, the quality of her finest French perfume instantly recognisable.

Jacques would watch her reactions intensely when she had received the adorations of admirers. It excited her, the attention and power she seemed to hold over others. This too excited Jacques. “Are we going to do this,” she would whisper into his ear, this as she felt his cum pump up inside her. “I need to,” he would cry out as he ejaculated, pounding her with uncontrolled passion. They would always talk dirty to each other whilst they made love, always very dirty and content of the most extreme filth. But it was all just talk, all just dirty fantasy.

Afterwards, after sex, the conversation would soon become forgotten. Every word that they had screamed out in the heights of passion put away until the next time they needed to fuck. They both steered away from what just minutes beforehand had turned them both on so very much.

Sometimes Paris would try to return to the central issue and say, “I don’t know if I could do it for real Jacques, but I know that I want to. I want you to watch me.” Jacques would reply; “One day my love I hope we can. I hope that the opportunity will arise and we’ll both know when that time has come. I want you to know that I want it too and that all will be OK afterwards.”

Statements like this would both worry and excite Paris.  “Will it really be OK?” she thought to herself. “Is he just testing me to see how I will react should this opportunity occur?” But these most personal and private thoughts of hers, held over the years of their relationship would grow stronger and stronger. Paris soon grew to long for the opportunity. She wanted it to happen. She needed to fulfil her fantasies and she needed Jacques to be in full control. Then one day as if by magic, that perfect opportunity for the couple did so arrive. For here we all are: Jacques, Paris and I in Ireland during the spring of 1906.

So now to you, as you read this, your erection so stiff it pains you or your cunt so wet it seeps through to stain the seat beneath you. Bear only one thing in mind now my readers; you are all free to join us, to work your way free of charge and to pleasure yourselves throughout. But you must never consider Paris to be a whore, oh no not ever, for she is so much more than this. Paris cannot be purchased or bought. She is perfection and she is living art at its very best. What they both created on this journey and what they left behind for the world to hear and bear witness to is the greatest of all creations.

I, the third person within this story, would now also be known throughout the whole world as a ship of true sexual expression, a place where you can all secretly become your real selves and behave as you please. A place to fuck and be fucked to one’s heart’s content. A secret world upon the waves where anything can happen and where all things will. Alone at sea, your anonymity assured.

I, the RMS Fantasia, am indeed an almighty ship, but please do not get me wrong or misunderstand me. It is not so much my size that counts but the quality of the package that I offer. I am a modest ship, oh yes, a vessel of 24,000 tons and my length an impressive 167 meters. But then length isn’t everything is it?

Of my beam? Well now, if you were to grip me tight within your clenched palm then a big hand 18 meters broad will surely be required. Since my very first maiden voyage from my birthplace in Belfast of 1906, I have watched them all very closely.  For I too have pumped my way across the oceans for many, many years now.

For I am her, the very ship, and here I begin my story. I shall tell you all of the stories that I have collected over the years from across those oceans and seven seas. You see, in every cabin there is a traveller and every traveller seeks that which they cannot find back at home. A journey that takes them to a place a thousand miles away, a journey in which they are surrounded by strangers and a voyage that is surrounded by the anonymous. This assurance of anonymity at sea was the perfect given opportunity for both Jacques and Paris.

So hear what I have to say, for you too will indeed enjoy such a trip. I will feed your desires just as I have facilitated theirs. You never know; you may even recognise yourself on board. Relax and lie here with me for a moment or two. Imagine you sit upon the rocks looking out across the horizon to sea. The waves are crashing at your feet. There in front of you passes me, the RMS Fantasia. In the evening’s darkness the light from within my cabins draws your voyeuristic eye, and through every porthole you then take a peep.

Stay for a while here inside me and loosen up your clothing, unzip your fly or hitch up your skirt. It matters not who, what or where you are, it matters only that I please you, for this is my purpose. It matters to me that you too become a part of Paris and Jacques’ story. Fear not that the price of such travel will prove too expensive for you as you will soon find out that you too are free to join us at any time and to work your passage. For I collect stories only from those who have a story worthy to tell and once upon a time –

Well then, shall we start?

Shall we begin in Cabin 069? You’ll find it located on A-Deck and one so affectionately called the promenade deck. Paris would walk this deck many times en route to and from her cabin, her every footstep perfectly coordinated. Such a fresh piece of fruit ripe to be picked from the tree. The promenade extends along an uninterrupted shaft, my entire 167 meters, and a walkway of pleasure along my entire upper superstructure. It is here upon this walkway that you will find the first-class passengers all seated upon their benches and admiring the view. There inside cabin 069, during the early spring of 1906 just as I had left port on my first virgin passage that they too, Paris and Jacques were also on their maiden voyage. This, a voyage of discovery and the voyage of their lifetime.

Paris possessed the most sensational legs a man could ever see. If God existed in the heavens, then Paris was his greatest of creations. She was born perfect in every detail but it was her legs that first caught Jacques’ eye. Jacques was born in Toulouse in 1865 and had left his home behind to pursue a career in music. His love was above all things, the sound of the violin. That was of course until his eyes fell upon the young Paris. Paris, named after the city of her birth, studied at the same music academy as Jacques and it was here at the Académie des Anges in the northern quarter of the city that they first met. She was just a little younger than he when they found themselves placed beside each other, in the same rehearsal orchestra. Paris was born in 1876, the eleven year gap a small and quite insignificant detail. Her chosen mode of musical self-expression was the cello, and both were accomplished masters within their creative art.

Jacques would watch her for hours as she played, for despite being surrounded by many such beautiful young talented women in the orchestra, it was always her who stood out to him. This was the sight of those long smooth perfect legs that he would glimpse as she hitched up her dress to rest her cello between them. Gripping and grasping at the firm hard wood she cradled, her thighs opened wide like some huge canyon gorge inviting the would be sight-seeing traveller or voyeur tourist further inside.

He would work his way up her slowly, examining every curve and every fine detail of this work of magnificent performing-art: her legs, her waist and her shoulders and that long black hair that twirled effortlessly around in the air as she performed. Jacques was always fascinated whilst watching her and he would lose himself to fantasy, frozen by her magnetism, her hypnotic power and her sexuality that communicated in volumes to him.

He would bow back on his violin and she would stare back opening her mouth. Her tongue would fall and he in time became unable to contain his excitement. Their musical notes seemed to bounce off each other, and soon without hardly having spoken a word, they became lovers. They had known each other just a handful of weeks before they first took each other. Both now so sexually charged to overcapacity that they fucked like rabbits; that first time without even the utterance of conversation. This happening after a late rehearsal – he just took her there and then, he pounded her ruthlessly. Paris had waited behind whilst all the others had left that evening as Paris knew exactly what she wanted to happen.

Putting her faithful cello away in its case, she kneeled to the floor above it. Her breasts upon it with her arms stretched flat to the floor. That perfect arse lifted proudly upward toward Jacques’ direction and he knew what was now expected of him. This was no misunderstanding and after all the weeks of silent flirtation, the weeks of need, he realised that she wanted it as much as he. There on the floor they first fucked.

Sex was now the regular event post-orchestral rehearsal and a perfect match they were. When all were gone and the hall stood silent, they would rehearse further on each other. Paris would raise her dress to reveal her French hand-sewn corset and stockings, her favourite activity revolving around the old grand piano that stood to the right of the stage. Lying there on her back on top of it, her open legs down against the keyboard as he would sit atop of the piano stool and consume her from below. He would eat at her for hours, dribbling like a vampire than hadn’t fed in weeks. Her legs would rise and wrap tight around the back of his neck and she would orgasm repeatedly, her arms thrust back behind her, gripping the edge of the piano as if she were holding onto a cliff face and life itself depended on it.

They were lovers and they fell deeply in love with each other. Sex had been the driving force behind them, a most important and mutually satisfying aspect of their relationship but it wasn’t everything. They had a mutual love of music, a shared cultural heritage in which they enjoyed fine food and French cuisine, the opera, the theatre and the finest of French and world literature. In addition, they loved to travel.

This sense of adventure and discovery would ultimately lead them to all four corners of the world. They would perform alongside the greatest and most accomplished of musicians amid the finest of surroundings, their need to express themselves and the need to publicly perform quite unrestrained. This need was a beast that could not be tamed.

The beast, as they both referred to it within the intimacy of private conversation, was indeed that need to perform. This sense of mutual discovery, public performance and the creation of loving as an art form; the beast was their own private fantasy.

Paris was a fine cellist indeed and Jacques a master of the violin, but as all others who studied at the Academy of Angels, the mastering of a second instrument was required; an alternative instrument, to be practised to a competent standard, and one that bore no direct technical resemblance to the first. This second instrument of personal choice for Jacques was the piano. Not coincidently though, the piano became his favourite practice pastime. He would play his violin professionally but always after the performance find time to play the keys and perform again for a second time that evening. Paris on the other hand had chosen the flute, the actual flute proving quite unnecessary, when she needed to practice advanced tongue-work techniques.

Paris and Jacques were in perfect tune together, instrumentally and sexually, and this had been evident to both from the start. Their unspoken thought (in contrast to love making) was sex as an art form, something that should be performed publicly and to perfection. At any given opportunity, Paris would place herself on top of the available piano whilst Jacques would feast from her warm moist slit, swallowing every drop. He would play the piano whilst he fed and she would play her flute. They would write, compose and perform music whilst making love to each other. Occasionally Paris would be heard to utter the words “I think somebody is watching us.”

The thought of being watched excited them both equally. Jacques would perform best when the uncertain presence of the stranger was felt upon them. He would strike a chord like no other and she would share her dark thoughts and sexual desires aloud, feeding herself with the flute between her loins. For whether they were really being watched was at times uncertain to them but without doubt the volume of Paris’s vocals confirmed that they were definitely being over-heard. Although not professionally trained in such a vocal skill, her performances more than qualified her to join the most famous of theatrical casts.

The classical world of Paris during the late 1800s was a small world and rumours would soon begin to circulate. The gentlemen of the audience would always grin to each other as they would say, “I hear that the best performance will happen afterwards.” Upon which a swift, though firm swipe to the back of the head would be delivered. Wives of the time were always very jealous of the attention that Paris would steal.

Then here in this account of the couple, we come to the spring of 1906, as I, the RMS Fantasia, left port for the first time. Jacques and Paris on board my upper deck, too, waved farewell. For during a brief orchestral tour of Ireland they had come to hear of a vacancy -‘Wanted classical duo, RMS Fantasia, to sail spring.’ For once they realised that they could perform exclusively as a concert duo where all eyes would be only upon them; just the two of them in a very small and highly intimate environment. With just one glance upon Paris, the Captain was more than delighted to offer the pair this new exciting opportunity.

So then, when my Captain asked them which cabin they would prefer, they eagerly replied in perfect unison, “Is cabin sixty-nine still available?” A sexual reference that Captain Patrick O’Brien was not, in his naïve closed world of sexual boredom, wholly aware of. But just as in France, in the city of Paris beforehand, rumours would soon follow the couple overseas. As we sailed around the world and to the full satisfaction of all on board, Captain O’Brien would soon learn to turn a blind eye, for those on board were men and women of considerable wealth. O’Brien was more than happy to take a small fee in order to accommodate both passenger needs and confidences. After all he too liked to watch.

Paris unpacked her trunk meticulously. She would lift her dresses up to herself and gaze into the long cabin dress mirror. A smile would come to her face as she would imagine what they had planned for her passage. Her intimate clothing placed away out of sight, and her collection of scents spread out across the dressing table. Her French corsets and her basques, a rainbow of co-ordinated colours, her matching sensual slips and her high-heeled shoes and boots. All of them so perfectly chosen by Jacques. Some more recent purchases too, those last few days must haves from Belfast in the immediate days before they boarded. Just as they had discussed the finer details of their work schedule and musical requirements with the Captain, they too had discussed the practicable aspects of their sexual journey ahead.

“Where shall I put the camera?” she smiled back toward a very aroused and sexually-charged Jacques. He had watched her as she had so tenderly tucked away her intimates, smelling them and feeling the softness of their texture. He had lay there upon the cabin bed throughout the experience, his penis swollen to its maximum proportions possible until eventually giving in and having to masturbate on her underwear. Paris would make jokes and flirtatiously play with the items of recent purchase. She would draw the whip up from the ground slowly and gently pass it over her vagina applying a little pressure to push it into her clit as she pulled it forward, just enough to leave a line of clearly visible dampness to her white silk underwear.

 

‘I Want It’

One very late and darkened evening, just a handful of days after we had sailed from port, Paris walked alone down the promenade. Jacques was drinking at the bar after a long performance that evening. Paris looked out across the sea and admired the stars, there perched in the sky within a carpet of perfect blackness. She had a sense of calm about her. They both enjoyed the work, and the cabin had proved delightful.

Noise was however always a problem, though not for the couple themselves. Paris liked to be noisy; “Fuck me, fuck me hard!” the words heard to the delight of the adjacent cabins most evenings. Jacques was of course always happy to oblige. You couldn’t possess such a beauty and not service her needs at any beckoned request. The old metal bed frame she would cling to banged hard against the wall as he pounded away, gripping her wrists in the most forceful and assertive of manners. When she wanted to be fucked she got fucked and the banging of the bed against the wooden cabin wall always adding a degree of extra excitement. Afterwards hearing the noises from the adjacent cabins, their neighbours had been clearly aroused by the performance, and all now in-turn screwing noisily without inhibition.

It was this sense of knowing that other couples enjoyed such voyeurism too that Paris and Jacques really got off on. They had been discreetly watched on many occasions and loved the thought that others were fucking whilst listening to them. But this is after all why they were here, now on board me. They needed to take these dark, exciting, overpowering urges, and uncontrollable fantasies to a higher level. I provided that perfect opportunity. They had talked and discussed these ideas for many years, always forming part of their dirty pillow talk, taking them both to the heights of climax, but now they were both to realise them…

As Paris looked out to sea excited in the knowledge that soon, at the right time and in the right place, these fantasies may become a reality, she gently started to stroke herself. Her thighs quivering as she imagined being taken. Fantasies were one thing, but would it really ever happen, she thought as she began to tremble. Then without any prior warning, a firm hand capped her mouth into silence. Her low toned sexual moans now muffled into expressions of fear.

She had been so taken by her private thoughts, slowly and gently working herself to orgasm that she had lost all sense of alertness to her surroundings. She hadn’t heard the quiet, almost silent steps behind her upon the decking board. “I will fucking kill you if you scream,” the words she then heard. “Do you know how cold it is down there?” A man’s voice whispering into her ear. “You’ll be long gone before anyone will even know you are missing,” he calmly and emotionlessly added.

Paris was terrified. This man who had watched her as she intimately pleasured herself was now in control. She wanted to shout out for Jacques. She wanted to shout out for anybody but she

knew most of the passengers by now sleeping, and those that weren’t were intoxicated beyond attention. She was alone within the dark shadows of my deck, a silent lonely deck in the dark and nobody would be able to help her. She knew that just one scream would lead to her fall to the cold sea below.

Paris clenched her arse tight and went rigid as she felt his first finger slide up inside. With one hand over her mouth and the other engaged below her, she froze. “Do you like this Paris?” he asked. “Yes, Paris isn’t it? I’ve watched you for several days. You like to prick-tease men, don’t you?” Paris loved the idea of being raped but rape was a fantasy that she shared with Jacques and this was no longer a fantasy. As he became more and more aggressive with her, she began to cry, whimpering softly as he talked her through what was now happening to her. “Well this little piggy went to market and this little piggy stayed at home and this little piggy went all the way up your cunt,” he sadistically informed her as he took her with several fingers at time.

As she fell silent realising that there was nothing she could do to stop what was happening, a sense of just needing to get through this took over. Paris wouldn’t scream or try to flee. The thought of dying in the black water below, drowning alone as she watched my deck lights pass into the distance ahead, was something that kept her together. “Where can he go afterward?” Her mind controlled by this moment of rational thought. “This is a ship, there is nowhere for him to run to and I need to survive this. He can fuck me now, just the once, but I will get him back for it,” she repeated to herself. She looked out to sea, at the stars she had so admired just moments before and focused her thoughts on anything that took her away from the situation she had found herself in.

As her resistance fell and her attitude of compliance became more obvious to him, he removed his hand from her mouth. Paris took a deep breath, a gasp of air she desperately needed. Breathing only through her nose, her snot and tears had fallen onto that hand and he shook it clean, as if he were shaking a handkerchief. “That’s better,” he said forcefully. “Now I am going to have you.” She felt him remove his fingers quickly from her cunt. He pushed her forward and over toward a lifeboat up-turned on my deck. Then she felt the stiffness of his erection as he pushed up against her. She fell across the boat as he pushed her head face down onto it, pinning her there. “Do you feel this Paris? Do you feel this?” he asked. “This fucking cock wants you and this fucking cock is going to have you. Do enjoy it sweetheart.”

He pushed his firm prick against her, her body pinned down and her arse up in the air as he grinded upon it, the stiff cock about to barge its way in. He pulled away only momentarily by inches to open his fly – then he fucked her, pounding her against the lifeboat just as if he were pounding a slab of meat. The pressure and force of his thrusted penis raising her arse each time, up and forward.  It was quick, his final and over exaggerated push as he squirted up inside her. She felt the pressure of his explosion, him not drawing back for several seconds. Paris groaned as this volcanic eruption had momentarily excited her but she soon gained her senses. “I am being raped” she thought, the reality of her situation striking home again. She was embarrassed, shocked at the idea that this rapist had heard her, that final grunt of enjoyment come out from her lips.

He never spoke afterward. He removed himself, took a moment to adjust his clothing, turned and walked away. Paris just remained bent over. She didn’t want to look at him. She kept saying to herself, “If I see his face I’m dead. Don’t look. Don’t look.” She waited until those footsteps upon the wooden decking had faded into the distance before she stood up and turned. She was soaking with cum, trickling down her inside thigh. She raised one leg to step out of her underwear, the white silk panties that he had so calmly just pulled to one side as he took her. Paris dried herself with them, removing what she could of his overspill and then threw them away overboard. She threw the offensive soiled item down to the sea below her. Trembling and unable to gain her immediate breath she sat down. Her right hand now smelling of wet semen, she slumped down and sat there rigid at the spot of her encounter upon the decking, her back against that lifeboat as she now, still trembling, lit a cigarette.

It took a while for her to regain her senses, to compose herself. “What was she going to say to Jacques?” or “What wasn’t she going to tell him?” After her second cigarette, and allowing for a period of time to settle her nerves, her final decision was to tell him everything. Jacques knew that Paris had long fantasised about being gang raped. Was he going to believe her given such knowledge? Or was he going to think that she had taken the occasion for a quick anonymous fuck, that she had in fact been unfaithful to him. They had discussed in detail the notion of sharing each other but there had to be rules, and as agreed both had to be present at the time.

She walked back to the Wheelhouse Club where Jacques was sat drinking whiskey with another male. It appeared to be a heavy conversation, one that she felt she couldn’t intrude on but she needed to tell Jacques immediately of her attack. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she spoke softly, “May I borrow my husband for just a moment?” The two men stopped speaking and stared at each other for a few seconds. Jacques turned and said, “What is it my dear? Is there something wrong?” Turning his head away from the other man and leaning to the right, he awaited her reply. Paris leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “I’ve been raped. Somebody just had me, took me like I was a piece of fucking trash.” “I know,” replied Jacques, “Can I introduce you to Stanton?” She froze and looking across to the man sat to Jacques’ side was quite unable to speak. “How do you know?” The only words she could find. The man smiled intently toward her, “Hello my dear, how lovely to have met you again so soon. I’m Stanton. It was a pleasure.”

Paris immediately turned and walked away. It wasn’t so much anger but a sense of disbelief. Jacques had known that this man had attacked her, had shown no apparent concern and was now sat at the bar drinking with him, the voice of Stanton clearly recognisable as that of the man who had assaulted her. She returned to her cabin, 069, and sat on the bed. Just a few minutes passed before she heard the turning of the door handle and Jacques appeared inside. Lost for words, she sat in silence until Jacques broke the awkwardness of the moment. “It needed to happen this way,” he said softly stroking her face with his hand. “You wanted it, he wanted it and I wanted it. I watched you both together. I watched you and it excited me beyond anything I have ever witnessed,” he said. “I watched you being raped as I stood in the shadows wanking-off. I heard you groan as he crushed you against the lifeboat with his last thrust. He was pinning you there against it with his cock inside you and I came; I shot my cum at the same time as him. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it?”

He went on to further explain himself to her. He had broken the ice and taken control of their sexual stalemate. They had both wanted to experiment with others but it had never quite happened. It had remained as always, just that of dirty erotic pillow talk. But now it had, she had been fucked by another and he had enjoyed watching it. Insecurity had always held them back from making their fantasies a reality. After climax the dirty talk between them as they fucked was soon forgotten. But Jacques had arranged it, a game with Stanton and was now anything but insecure about the situation. He was sexually charged beyond anything he had known and he wanted Paris to feel the same. Paris, finishing her cigarette and gently stubbing it out in the ashtray to her side, said to him, “Yes now I know that you were there too yes, yes I did enjoy it. That’s the truth and I want more.”

Jacques threw her backward onto the bed and fucked her until she felt bruised. “Is this what you want Paris, is it?” He shouted. “You want to be used like a slab of meat don’t you?”  “Yes, yes, yes, fucking do me,” she screamed back at him.”  “Then I’m going to give those cunts next door something worth listening to tonight. They don’t know what fucking is.” He grunted as he shafted her with long deep strides, gripping and holding her down by the hair he grasped in his left hand. Jacques needed to reclaim her, to take back ownership of that wet bruised little pussy. “It’s a shame you threw the knickers away,” he bellowed. “I wanted to ram them down your throat, but this will have to do.” As Jacques raised his arched body upward, with a final thrust he came, slapping her hard across the face. “How does it feel?” he shouted as his last act of orgasm completed. “The two of us inside you, to be full of our spray, both of us, two men.”  “I want it!” Was Paris’s final reply before they both fell into post-coital silence.

 


 

‘The Horn’

 

 

The couple would continue to fuck like rabbits after this event. Their sex life had always been amazing but now it was different. Jacques for the first time taking a break from self-pleasure due to his new found soreness. The fucking spread like a virus along the corridor of A-Deck. It seemed that the louder the better, each cabin clearly audible to the other as they all joined in the fever. The next morning, everyday couples would walk hand-in-hand greeting each other with the usual polite pleasantries but always now accompanied by blushing embarrassment. Everybody knew what was going on but it wasn’t ever spoken about. The imagination proved to be a much greater tool of sexual titillation.

Stanton was an American and he too was a musician, an accordion player. Not a master of performance but a tradesman of great skill. If you peer through the porthole of cabin 034 you will find him there, crafting his ivory whilst smoking his pipe. Stanton made the most beautiful accordions, all from the finest of African ivory and leather. It would take him a full year to complete the perfect instrument to such fine detail and precision. It was this joint love of music that had got him talking to Jacques in the first place. The two men would talk long into the early hours after Jacques and Paris had concluded their musical delivery.

His wife was called Anna-Marie. The couple were returning to the United States following a long holiday in Ireland, where Stanton had overseas business interests. Anna-Marie had known all about the incident with Paris beforehand and it had occurred with her full consent. In fact it was true to say she actively encouraged it. She liked to watch her husband with other women and she liked also to be with other women, this all to Stanton’s absolute delight. But there was something very special about Paris. Everybody who met her wanted her and Anna-Marie wanted her share too. The deal between them had been agreed. Stanton would fuck her again and Anna-Marie would also get to fuck her. “This was only fair,” she would say to him.

Stanton crafted the Horn, as if working on the greatest piece of all time; the ivory perfectly smooth, like velvet so as not to tear any delicate area. The leather cut and tailored to perfect measurement too, these measurements all as supplied to him by Jacques. The couple so overly excited every time he would present it to her. “This is going to be the most beautiful performance you have ever seen,” Anna-Marie would say to him. “Now put it back in the box. You know it’s for Paris, not me,”

Dinner that night consisted of pheasant. The four of them all seated at the same table together, the girls picking gently at the flesh to tear it from the bone. There was something exciting seeing them do this with their greasy fingers as they stared across the table at each other: an exciting curiosity that many others in the restaurant shared. On the table, a gift wrapped present for Paris: a box tied closed with a red ribbon, and this she was instructed not to open until later. They joked between themselves and shared stories, all clean and quite normal just as you would expect from any other dinner invitation. Jacques and Paris would play for two hours that evening to the guests present and then they would all retire together for a glass of wine or two in Stanton and Anna-Marie’s cabin.

Returning to 069, beforehand the couple washed and changed, and Jacques presented the gift to Paris. “Would you care to wear it tonight?” he asked of her. To which a very excited reply was returned. “Oh yes, I would love to oblige sir,” she smiled with a cheeky grin. Paris dressed up for the occasion, a black French basque and seamed stockings, complimented by her high heels and elbow-length silk evening gloves, her long red cocktail dress covering the beauty of what was beneath. She sprayed herself with the most expensive perfume that Jacques had bought her and you could see how keen she was to get going.

A gentle knock on the door of 034 and Jacques turned the knob, opening the door quietly.  The couple went in to find Stanton sat in his armchair, a second armchair placed beside it for Jacques. On the table between the two, a bottle of Scotch, a full bottle to complement the full crystal decanter of red wine beside it, and also a bucket of fresh ice. “In case it gets too hot for us,” Stanton joked with Jacques.

There, lying on her back across the chaise longue was Anna-Marie wearing a long black nightdress, with intricate detail and thinly veiled at the hips and waist. All of the crucial parts fully hidden and covered in all the right ways. “Will she suffice?” Stanton asked of Paris. “Oh she’ll do nicely,” the reply as Paris gently stroked her thigh. Anna-Marie flinched momentarily given the application of that sensuous touch. “Do you like the present?” she asked. “Stanton has spent a very long time on it for you. I hope it’s perfect.”  “Perfect yes,” replied Paris. “They’re so very perfect and just what I’ve always wanted.”  “I know,” interrupted Stanton excitedly. “Jacques told me.”

Anna-Marie was then tied: tied up by arm and wrist to the chaise lounge with the same type of red ribbon that had been used to wrap the gift. Across her face, a black velvet blindfold tied securely to prevent view.

“Now then,” stated Stanton. “Is there anything we need before we start? I’ve got plenty of wine, scotch and ice. The heating is up and I’ve dimmed the lights. Is the light OK for you, Jacques?” he asked. “Perfect,” as ever was Jacques’ reply. “Well then ladies,” Stanton said as he rubbed his hands together adding, “shall we begin with tonight’s performance?” Paris sat down beside the tied and blindfolded Anna-Marie and started to tickle and stroke her ankles, this with ever-increasing longer strokes leading further upward. Anna-Marie trembled as she uttered the words, “You’re so tender Paris, and I do hope you will enjoy me.”

Stanton got out his accordion and started to play. “A French tune is best for the occasion, don’t you all think?” Jacques watched every move, his erection bursting from within. “Your first time isn’t it?” Stanton laughed. He knew that neither Jacques nor Paris had done anything quite like this before, but he gained a sense of excitement by reminding all those present of this important fact. “Just enjoy every moment of it. I’ve seen it all a thousand times and it is wonderful every time I watch her.” Stanton had enjoyed his moment whilst raping Paris whilst Jacques was watching – Paris’s rape fantasy now fulfilled. But tonight was about Anna-Marie and this is what she had always wanted. Not just any woman, but a woman with a strap-on penis.

Paris climbed over her, placing herself in a sixty-nine position. Anna-Marie’s dampness was quite uncontrollable and steaming. She was wet, very wet and by now eagerly awaiting the next move. Paris cooled her down occasionally with ice cubes applied to her nipples and clit. After a few minutes of gentle oral down inside her crutch with her knickers just lightly pulled aside, Paris sat up. Raising her dress above the stocking tops she sat down on Anna-Marie’s still blindfolded face. “Is this what you want,” Paris teased. Softly caressing her face as she rotated on it clockwise, the hard smooth surface of the horn upon her lips served only to fuel the delivery of Anna-Marie’s passionate gasps. “Yes, do it, do it all, fuck me Paris, fuck me!”  “Not just yet,” Paris stated firmly.

Paris felt the need to describe her new item of underwear in detail. Continuing to tease Anna-Marie, she explained. “One cock inside me and one cock inside you, is that how you want it?” Stanton had crafted the strap-on to meet the needs of both women. A dual ivory horn crafted into a fine penis at both ends. Shaped almost to a V, this allowed Paris to enjoy the penetration of one end whilst fucking Anna-Marie with the other. It was a precise fit, the leather bodice styled underwear to which it was riveted remaining firmly in place. This allowed both women to fuck with some degree of control over the penetration of each other. Stanton’s idea was that with such a hard inflexible ivory joint, as Paris fucked, the end penetrating Anna-Marie would react equally in reply. As Anne-Marie would grind upon the rod in return, she too could control what was soon to be up inside the both of them.

After some time Paris untied her. She instructed her to roll over on to her belly, and upon doing so immediately tied her hands behind her back. “Now then,” she said. “I want you to suck me. We have guests to entertain, so do a good job. I don’t want to have to spank you now, do I?” With Paris sat up firmly and toward the headboard end of the chaise lounge, Anne-Marie now began to give the artificial penis the sucking and wanking-off of a life-time. “Wow,” remarked Jacques. “That’s impressive.” But Stanton was too fixated on Anna-Marie’s arse, now raised high into the air in front of him, to respond, for she was now dripping her juices onto the cushioning below. “Let’s hog-tie her next!” he demanded.

Paris was overcome with ecstasy. Anna-Marie had learnt very quickly that by throwing her head from left to right and back again with violent additional gripping of teeth, the horn, dual end up inside, was driving her wild. Caressing her breasts and fingering her in return, Paris ordered her to sit up. Paris stood and removed her dress, then climbing back onto the bed but lying on her back with her legs down between Anna-Marie’s. “Be seated,” her soft whispered instruction. Paris pulling her underwear again to the side and Anna-Marie slid down upon the horn for the first time. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she cried out. “I want this, I want this!” With her hands still tied behind her back and the blindfold still firmly in place Paris pounded up from below almost thrusting her off it. “This is how your husband likes to fuck me. Does he fuck you this hard as well?” Paris asked. The reply in return, “It’s impossible to fuck me too hard, Paris.”

Stanton had taken his work most seriously. Paris’s end was crafted to the exact measurements of Jacques erect penis, and Anna-Marie’s end to his. “Bet it feels like a real horn-from-home,” he joked, intending to have said home-from-home but it had just slipped out that way and to which end had made him giggle. Paris removed the blindfold. “I want you to see what you are kissing” she said as she slid her tongue deep into Anna-Marie’s mouth, her black basque, stockings and gloves on display to Anna-Marie for the first time. “Let’s kiss like the French do. I’ll teach you.”

Both Jacques and Stanton made no secret of the impressive members down inside their trousers. No attempt was made to hide their public bulges. Stanton then said “You take her,” staring Jacques straight in the eye with his approval. “I’ve had yours so it’s only fair. You can’t sit here and watch two girls French kissing and fucking with a strap-on, and not want in on a piece of the action, surely?” Jacques removed his jacket and dropped his trousers to the floor around his ankles. “You’ll need some of this,” Stanton said passing him a small metal tobacco tin. Jacques opened it to discover the fine scented natural bees-wax inside. “Enjoy yourself and take your time. We have all night my friend.  I’m happy just to watch so do take your time my man,” Stanton reassured him as he continued to play his accordion again whilst also enjoying his pipe.

Jacques dipped his fingers into the wax and eagerly rubbed it onto his pulled back dry foreskin, then rolling his skin back and forth so that the entire length was lubricated. Grabbing Anna-Marie by her inside thighs he pulled her toward him as he stood to the end of the bed. Paris gladly repositioned herself to assist his reach. “Here’s a real one for you!” he exclaimed as he slid the entire length of his cock up inside Anna-Marie’s anus. One long slow but full motion, all the way in until he could pierce her no more. Paris stopped grinding momentarily to allow Anne-Marie to gain control of a natural and more comfortable rhythm, then the three continued grinding on both the horn and the cock in a perfect unison. As Anna-Marie attempted to speed up motion to a faster pace acceptable to all, the couple soon accompanied her. “Gentle, gentle, gentle,” Jacques would say commandingly down to her. “I want us all to cum at the same time.”

 


 

‘The pump room’

 

 

The two couples would regularly enjoy each other’s company, the girls taking it in turns to wear the horn, the men taking it in to turns to ride the raised female buttock. But more often than not the two men just enjoyed watching the girls as they tenderly stroked and teased each other. The sexuality virus had spread throughout A-Deck and I, RMS Fantasia witnessed and controlled all things. A white stocking hung from the outside of a cabin door was always an invitation to ‘cum’ inside. But interestingly, rumours had spread down below and if you now look through the porthole window of the pump room you will see a most interesting contraption.

The pump room is located to my rear, not fully of my stern but deep down below nonetheless. Here are kept all the tools of the trade for the crew, everything needed for any routine maintenance or emergency such that can befall us whilst out at sea. Here too is found Able Seaman Dodds. Dodds, a Scot, had joined the merchant navy at 13. Now at 32 years of age he finds himself responsible for my pumps. The pumps are the pressure valves that regulate the pressure from my boilers. Able Seaman Dodds opens them and closes them as needed to maintain that regular steady pressure. That firm sexual vibration that echoes throughout me is Dodds’ doing, and naturally this regular and strong pulsing vibration of my hull would make any a man horny. Dodds was regularly caught masturbating by his fellow crewmates. “You try working in here without taking a wank,” the routine reply.

Stanton had spoken to Dodds on many occasions, in order to borrow tools and materials for the crafting of the horn, the rivets and buckles and so forth. Stanton had promised to show him his finished work and this he had done. Dodds, a clever man and not one to miss an opportunity to make some extra money, had made his future plans accordingly. He was creating something that he believed people would pay for, a new leisure opportunity, a seafaring experience that only he could provide. Dodds’ wages were low and he soon realised that the first class passengers on A-Deck would soon pay handsomely for what he could now offer them. Whilst the snobs upstairs were not interesting in fucking with him, they would certainly be interested in paying for this.

Within my pump room he controlled the pressure. He would regularly, by adjustment of my control valves, release steam into additional escape pipe-work that via the heating chambers would eventually divert into my three main funnels. This was an art in itself, a well-rehearsed procedure on any steam ship as to do so too slowly risked boiler explosion and to do so too fast would at best reduce me to standstill. Once this forward momentum was lost it would take hours to rebuild my pressure again. Dodds installed some more additional pipe-work from an idea that had been inspired by Stanton’s horn conversations. With a combination of steel pipe and rubber heat-resistant flexible tubing, he could release a steady and unnoticed force that was not of detriment to my own personal performance. A platform measuring approximately six feet by two was created, the  frame, likened to a metal bed base was raised two feet or so from the ground by rubberised-type legs. This ensured that all vibration was maintained by the frame and the energy not lost deep into my hull. The level of movement and the vibration were controlled by one single throttle valve.

By tapping onto a rotating shaft, Dodds had created an additional feature. A metal rod that rotated to-‘n-fro, aft-‘n-forward, the speed of which he also controlled. From mahogany that he had acquired from an old broken table (somebody had got a little over-excited on it), he had shaped a fine set of penises. He had carved, from the table legs three versions of the same style but each uniquely different: large, medium and anal, anal being the small one as nobody would want such a diameter for vaginal purposes he had thought. The demand would prove to be low.

Paris felt an overwhelming urge to explore the lower deck on this particular day, an urge that I, RMS Fantasia, controlled. I would lead her down into the depths of my hull and introduce her to him. Dodds cared for me and it was only right that I use my power and influence to return the favour. Paris had no idea why she felt the need to go down below. But deep down she went, turning the heads of all the crew members as she passed them by. The lower she went the stronger the shaking of my hull, this arousing her as it would any other. The fierce vibration of the hand rail along the pump room corridor, at times, made it quite unable to be gripped. Naturally Paris started to wet herself below.

Catching a glimpse through an inner porthole window of Dodds finalising his creation, she watched him closely with amazement. “It looks just like a mechanical penis,” her immediate thought. Dodds upon seeing her staring beckoned her to join him. “I’m sorry ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t know you were watching. Nobody ever ‘cums’ down here except me and a handful of others and today is their day off. I wasn’t expecting to see anybody else today. Please don’t tell the Captain what you have seen. Please don’t. I’ll lose my job.” “What on earth is it?” Paris enquired. “Well, it’s a kind of…, it’s a…, it’s a…, a machine for…, er, er, it’s not really an-anything-thing miss.” Dodds with his red-faced expression and fearing certain dismissal, these the only nonsensical words he finally blurted out.

“It’s a ‘fucking machine’ isn’t it?” Paris asked, without any embarrassment or pause. “Well, yes ma’am. I guess it is,” was the only reply he could muster. “Is it yours?” enquired Paris. “Yes madam, well yes and no, I mean I built it but it’s not for me.” Dodds by this point not knowing what to say or where to look. Here he was confronted by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and caught red-handed by her, fine tuning the fucking machine. Able Seaman Dodds decided that a frank and honest explanation was required and needed fast. “If I may explain ma’am. I just wanted to make some money and heard about what goes on upstairs.  Somebody made an ivory strap-on and I just adapted the idea from the man I helped to make it.” “Oh, you’ve met Stanton then?” Paris smiled. “I know them both very well, very well indeed.”

Paris had no idea why she had felt the need to explore below decks that day but realised that this find, her meeting with Dodds, was a kind of destiny for her, something over which she had not had control. “It’s the ship,” explained Dodds. “It makes you do things; things you want to do but wouldn’t normally do. It’s the ship ma’am, and it has a control over everybody on board.” Paris wasn’t impressed by the idea that I, the ship was somehow able to telepathically read her mind and thus control her movements but she humoured Dodds regardless: this belief in me as he truly saw to be the case. “I’ve served on many ships ma’am but this one is different. It makes you think things, dirty things.” She told him that his secret was completely safe with her and that she was more than a personal friend to Stanton. “Can I try it then?” she promptly asked. “I mean if I am going to recommend your services to my friends upstairs then it is at the very least required that I sample the goods on offer.”

Dodds was keen to assist. Paris lay backwards upon the frame and raised her legs into two fixed ankle brackets that held her legs up high and open. Paris pulled her panties aside and adjusted herself so that the medium option of wooden penis was penetrating now just one inch. This was the start-up amount as he explained to her. When the machine was started and the frame vibrating in tandem with the rod, it would go in a further six inches or so, Dodds continued to explain. “It’s best to start from a novice’s stand-point,” he claimed from his first-hand experience, “just until you get used to it. You can adjust yourself easily. Grease is on the floor next to you, right hand side. Naturally if you want more whilst it is running help yourself. You’ll soon discover a preferred comfortable position,” he added.

Dodds started the machine in motion. “Steady away ma’am” he chuckled. “If you require any lubrication like I said it’s on the floor to your right. Sorry but prop shaft grease is all I’ve got but you’ll find it works a real treat, though it is a little bit irritating afterward.” And he left the room. Dodds, a decent chap had agreed to allow the first class passenger her privacy for a fifteen minute period.

Upon his return he found Paris to be sat trembling in the corner, the machine at standstill. Crouched up like a cold child, her hands wrapped tightly around her knees that she had pulled up to meet her chest. “Is everything alright miss? You didn’t, I mean please tell me you didn’t touch the pressure valve after I set it, did you?” “Am I alright?” Paris bellowed back at him. “I’ve just been fucked senseless by a machine and you stand there and ask me if I’m alright? Of course I’m fucking alright!”

With every intention of fucking all night, the deal was agreed and a shake of hand sealed the final contract. “Don’t worry about the Captain, Dodds. I’ll take care of him,” her final words to Dodds before limping back toward A-Deck. Today was Sunday, the other ‘semen’s’ day off, and only Dodds would be on that corridor and in the pump room on Sundays. Paris, who had affectionately nicknamed the fucking machine, the Day of Rest, thought this to be a wonderful idea. Sunday was to be girls’ day out and the men could take their much needed and well-earned rest.

Glimpsing through the porthole of the Captain’s cabin later that evening I found Paris to be on her knees. Paris had indeed taken care of Captain Patrick O’Brien. Whilst other passengers would use the allure of money to buy his confidence and silence, she would use her mouth, all the time showing him the advanced tongue techniques she had required for the professional playing of her flute. There, Jacques as ever, watching them both. “Don’t mind me Captain. Just pretend I’m not here,” words that O’Brien was quite often used to hearing by now.

Ladies day proved to be a most popular event. Only the most daring ones would chose the large option from the menu. Anal had proved to be a most popular choice as well, but as Dodds had so predicted, this not for vaginal usage. The ladies would queue along the pump room corridor enjoying the pulsing beat of my vibration as they waited patiently for their turn. A fixed period of ten minutes per person was agreed, this not only to allow for a fair usage policy of this most popular machine but also as Paris explained to them, “Ten minutes is all you will need. Anymore and you risk never walking again. Believe me, I’ve done it.” A clear warning was always given to the Captain, a reminder on the Day of Rest. Never was I, the RMS Fantasia to be shafted back into hard astern whilst the machine was in use. This would certainly be all that was needed to kill someone.

Now dear reader, if you can just pull your hand away from yourself for just a moment, I need to tell you this important fact. The next time you see a product with the words ‘Stanton-Dodds’ written upon it, a car chassis, bicycles, motors or other metal-framed or housed product, well now you know how the company was first formed: ‘Stanton-Dodds, established New York 1907’ and born of me and my pump room. Their full range of more discreet personal apparatus and necessary supply detail is not found within the company’s public marketing brochures.


 

‘Master Bates’

 

 

Master Bates was a gentle soul and a very fine soul was he. He was a very feminine male who soon caught the attentions of both Paris and Jacques, especially Jacques because he could not work out at first if Bates was male or female, such was his manner and appearance. Paris, well she was more obsessed with his legs. She had noticed one day whilst swimming in the upper deck pool how smooth and perfect they were. Paris had remarked to Bates that his legs were in fact smoother than hers. This, just by way of a compliment, as we know it not to be at all in fact, true.

Master Bates had soon become the personal pet of the couple. Whilst physically a man, outwardly he was clearly a woman. Paris would spend hours putting her make-up and scents on him, brushing his long curls and telling him how beautiful he was. He appreciated this attention as the sailors regularly enjoyed taking him up the arse as he would put it, but he felt that Paris sincerely cared for him, cared about his feelings, his appearance and for his company.

Master Bates would try on all of her clothes and they would spend hours together giggling and parading in them in front of Jacques, experimenting to find which joint look most aroused their male companion. Her black basque with the rear-seamed stockings was always a favourite for both Bates and Jacques, Bates, always with an immediate erection upon enclosing himself within it.

It was a most impressive tool and Jacques adored externally teasing it through the soft black underwear. The thought that everything that appeared to him to be female, was in actual fact housing this impressive member down below, was to be very exciting for him. Paris also enjoyed her new pet and gained much excitement in preparing him for the attentions of Jacques. Indeed, her over-excited sessions on the fucking machine would occasionally require a few days of respite from activity. In return for her custom, bringing the ladies down to the pump room, Dodds had in return assured her of unlimited free access, and she had never failed to take full advantage of such a generous offer.

Mater Bates was indeed female. No evidence of masculinity at all, and no evidence of any male stereo-typical characteristics other than the cock. He was always immaculately waxed of all facial, bodily and pubic hair, his eye brows plucked and possessing a sensational figure and even a small cleavage. This, other than his small tits, similar in dimension to Paris’s, thus provided for no shortage of perfectly fitting lingerie with which he could play.

Jacques did not fancy men and had never considered himself to be gay. He had always held a deep fantasy for the shemale experience. Paris was delighted to assist in fulfilling this desire. Bates, well he was ‘overcum’ with the opportunity not only to be freely female but to be treated as a female as well. The other sailors were always rough with him. He enjoyed a good hard fuck but had longed for gentleness and tenderness. He wanted to be spoilt and he would, in return, serve well his new master and mistress.

Jacques would sit upon the bed with Bates stood upright in front of him, licking and gripping that impressive erection through the thin underwear, between his teeth. Jacques would take his time, the longer it took for Bates to spray his load onto Jacques’ face the better. Paris always joined them in licking both men clean afterward. Her affectionate pet name for Bates was Spunkpire which aroused her sexually, given her fetish for vampiric thrills: a vampire fantasy that she desperately longed to fulfil but for now she and Jacques would just have to make do and feed upon the sperm of Bates.

After an evening’s musical performance and after Bates had also finished his table duties, the three would retire to Master Bates’ cabin for fun. Every evening, he wore a different item of costume provided for him by Paris and a different scent with alternate make-up colouring to suit the delicate hues, the particular item of sensuous lingerie as chosen for him that evening.  Bates would finish his shift around 11 pm. He was a waiter in the Wheelhouse Club. The couple would finish a performance sometime after, usually 2 am, later in the early hours of the morning. If they weren’t required to perform for longer, they would eagerly head to cabin C329, the staff quarter where Bates would prepare himself and wait for their impending arrival.

On the occasions wehn they couldn’t join him, not only due to their work commitments but often because they had chosen the company of others, they would send a message to him  saying, “Sorry, can’t ‘cum’ tonight, have fun.” Bates, always over-excited and having desperately avoided masturbation in eager anticipation would then care for himself. When he was wearing Paris’s lingerie, his swollen cock was always rock hard and throbbing. The torment that he was desperate to be fucked and now had to wait for it, excited Paris and Jacques equally.

A cucumber would suit the purpose of solo performance every time. Bates would dig it down into his pillow and sit upon it. Unable to slide away from side to side given the deep anchorage that his soft bedding gave, he could rodger down on it to his heart’s content. If you peep through his porthole you will often catch him fucking himself, there sat upright on his knees to the bed, the cucumber deeply embedded and opposite the long dress mirror. He liked to watch himself caress his own body in front of it. Slowly stroking his clean-shaven breast and practising his moves, acting out what he would want to see from a woman, pulling off his shoulder straps to enable Paris’s slips to fall around his waist and at the precise moment of his ejaculation.

One particular evening Paris removed the leather strapping from her trunk and gave Bates strict instructions. “We will be down tonight and we want you prepared.”  “I want to surprise Jacques with something a little special this evening.” She passed him a scribbled diagram of how he was to use the straps. “Hog tied, you want me hog tied?” gasped Master Bates. “Yes indeed,” said Paris. “Hog tied. I learnt it from Stanton, and you’re getting slaughtered tonight, young man.” Although Bates was a little concerned about where this was all leading, the thought of being restrained by the couple excited him. “You will let me go afterward?” he asked cautiously. “You won’t be too rough with me, will you?” Paris smiled, “I promise, you will love every minute.”

Paris instructed him to go to her cabin and to choose red, something long and silky. “Jacques likes to slide it up your thighs before he takes you, when you bend over and he sees the shape of your buttocks imprinted through the silk, he likes it that way,” she gleamed…

Two am that morning soon came and Bates had done as ordered. He would always comply with the strict instruction of Mistress Paris. He was after all her Spunkpire pet, and all good dogs do as they are told thus ensuring the love and devotion of the master or in this case, the mistress. He was prepared and had spent two full hours readying himself: waxing and bathing and applying his make-up meticulously; black mascara to his long lashes and lipstick to match perfectly with the deep red silk slip Paris had told him to wear. A wide black suspender belt held up his seamed red stockings with a black garter to his left leg. But no bra. Jacques hated this. Pretend tits were out of order as he had no desire to caress paper tissue. Jacques wanted flesh, his naked chest only. Shoes to match, black stilettos of course, and suitable hanging jewellery adding that additional feminine character.

Master Bates looked himself up and down in the mirror and was very pleased with his results. “I’d liked to fuck her,” he laughed as he looked at the reflection of this beauty before him. Experimenting with sexually suggestive positions in front of the same mirror, he would bend over and raise his arse in the air imagining the sight of Jacques pounding it. He lowered his shoulder straps and repeatedly stepping in and out of the slip, excited by the way he had to kick it away from under him as it caught on his stiletto heel.

He positioned himself, and as ordered, applied the leather straps. His poor effort at tying himself up was soon to be corrected upon the couple’s arrival. Jacques and Paris entered the cabin, having waited a few moments at the door, given the quiet discreet knock in which Bates could confirm to be ready or not.

“Are you happy with your surprise?” Paris asked, to which Jacques delightfully replied, “Oh yes, thank you my dear.” Bates was hog tied, his arms and legs up behind his back and fastened at a single point to wrist and ankle, lying there on the bed face down and smelling simply divine. Just the odour of Paris’s favourite scent called Take Me had driven Jacques into sexual turmoil. The bespoke scent, made in Paris, was distilled to her exacting detail by the finest French perfumer.

She fastened the leather straps tightly, ensuring that no arm or leg would be able to work itself free and spun him around on the cabin bed so that his torso filled the full width of his centrally placed position. Taking two wooden chairs which she then placed to either side of it, she sat in the chair on one side of the bed and Jacques to the other. Raising her dress, she revealed the horn to be in situ. Paris adored publicly walking the corridor to Bates’s cabin with the outline of her erection clearly visible beneath her clothing. “Now you’re going to find out what it’s like to be treated as a slab of meat,” she stated firmly to Bates.

Master Bates, in his moment of shock at what was about to happen, attempted to protest, but in reality it was a half-hearted attempt and not too loudly voiced. It was evidently more of a sexual torment to the others and in reality he wanted it as much as the couple did. “We’ll need to do something about the noise,” Paris said sarcastically as she gagged Bates with a black velvet evening glove that she removed from her right arm. “Women have taken it for years without complaining,” she laughed. “Trust me, you will love every moment of it.”

Jacques concentrated on the face, Bates sucking his hard erect penis whilst being firmly controlled by both hands, a firm grip to his hair either side of the head by Jacques. Paris took up the rear, gripping tightly the knotted strapping to his back with both hands. Both had pulled up their chairs to allow for a comfortable relaxed position in which the legs could be opened out wide across the bed in front of them, with their groins in easy reach of their sexual facility.

As Bates continued to lick and suck the cock before him, Paris gently slid the horn up inside, Bates grinding back on it with a sudden burst of sexual adrenalin rush. The more he thrust to and fro back against Paris, the further Jacques would penetrate his throat, gagging and choking him and thus creating a most colourful frequency range of gargled sounds. Jacques was a performer, not a composer, but it was this noise of uncontrolled and slightly muffled sexual expression that cemented an idea firm into his mind. “What if I were to create a masterpiece? An ode to fucking, a symphony created out of the sounds of sex,” he thought, as he continued to enjoy Bates’ most fine attentions.

This thought was too much for him, cumming unexpectedly earlier than planned and shooting his load deep into Bates’s throat who in return choked and spat some cum back out onto the floor. “Allow me to help,” Paris informed as she withdrew herself slowly from Bates’s anus. Walking around to where Jacques was now standing and readjusting his clothing, she kneeled. Her tongue licked clean Bates’s face and in doing so savouring every drop as she opened her mouth as wide as she could. Her tongue mixed saliva and cum together, as if kneading dough, in the clear and visible direction of her partner Jacques.

A quiet polite knock at the door was then heard. “Come in Leonardo!” Jacques shouted. “Ah, I see you have started without me. Sorry I’m late,” the new face of Leonardo said upon entering the room. “So this is the young filly in question then,” referring to Bates and not to Paris, he and she already being well acquainted with each other. “Let’s see what we can do with it then,” his zip coming down and the Cobra, as he called it, now released. “Allow me to introduce myself young man, I’m Leonardo and my Cobra wishes to spit. I hope there are no objections? No? – Okay then, let’s get on with it. I have an early start in the morning.” The words spoken in tandem as he entered up inside the young Master Bates without giving any genuine pause for objection. To say that Leonardo was in a hurry was quite an understatement, for he fucked Bates quite senseless. All this as Paris continued with her French kiss knelt there in front with the horn standing up between her thighs as proud as the Eiffel Tower.

Leonardo let out a huge gasp as he came deep inside. Bates by now was almost rigid and unable to cope with the pounding that his gentle petite little arse had just encountered. Jacques on the other hand wasn’t into gay sex. He wanted oral only but the possession of a penis on his female was all the more exciting for him. Leonardo liked young men. The more he got to take as a prize, the better. As soon as he had spat the Cobra into his victim he was off again. There was no polite etiquette with Leonardo. It was all about cumming and as quickly and as often as possible.

Leonardo was an Italian hunter. But he didn’t collect the heads

of game animals but more the photographs of his sexual conquests. He was in a hurry, now in his late fifties, to photograph as many as possible before, as he put it, “The end comes.” He was an established photographer and to Jacques’ delight had produced a most magnificent collection of stills, all taken of Paris, one of which you can see on the cover, but most of which could never possibly be realistically published. Jacques would spend hours masturbating over them. Pornography was common among the French at the time and Leonardo was delighted to assist with a new broader-minded collection.

Before he left he took many pictures of Bates photographing the very fine detail of all parts of his now battered and abused young body. Paris seated with her horn down inside Bates’s throat a particular favourite. Spunkpire evenings would while away many an evening after this; Leonardo inviting an ever increasing circle of eager male Cobra counterparts into the family. And what of Jacques? Well he would sit and watch this onslaught of anal fucking, listening to every sound and noting down perfectly his new symphony on a manuscript, a musical masterpiece affectionately still known today as the Ode au Sexe.

 

 

 

‘To Strike a Chord’

 

 

Oh my dear voyeuristic reader, how I wish you could now join me for I can see you as I see all things on board. Shall I grip your penis firm in my hand and finish you off now? Swallowing every drop of that sweet nectar that you care to share with me? Or shall I slide my fingers into you moist wet canyon of delight and pleasures? Shall we continue to fuck each other as you read on through my story? There is no need to be shy, no need to feel embarrassment at all for I

am here to please you. I’m sure you will find your voyage to be ‘moist’ satisfying indeed. I have been pumping my way for several weeks now and I wish you could see what I see, but I’ll share what I can. I see all things at all times. There are no secrets from me, the RMS Fantasia. But you my reader, you are a lesser mortal than I, and I accept with all my frustrations that we proceed step by step, just one porthole at a time. So don’t cum just yet. Save yourself for a little while longer

Paris and Jacques have sown a seed that they no longer control, but I do. I have no desire to ever bring an end to what I witness here throughout time and space. With those white invitation stockings hung to countless cabin door handles and the finest of male and female passengers joining me at every port, my cold steel hull shudders in anticipation of the next new performance. My Wheelhouse Bar heaving with the sweaty cum-soaked flesh of human screw and all performed to the masterpiece of the Ode au Sexe.

Paris and Jacques, those two classical performers who joined me back in the spring of 1906 were always a popular sell-out. The royal blue blood of many a king or queen payed handsomely to join our passage from all four corners of the world.

It was in the November that same year that the Prince Regent of Raminnesia came aboard. Raminnesia was then just a small regal protectorate but one that would later on grow to epic historic proportions. The Prince Regent (who will all referred to as the King, due to his reputation for owning a most impressive mast), was not a lover of the cold winter months. He had sought to find a hotter climate, and noting the rumours circulating within the highest of royal circles, had booked his passage.

This was the perfect opportunity for Jacques. His musical creation performed in the presence of a King. This was a performance that would be timed to perfection. Rehearsals were strict, frequent and well-practiced by all involved. Jacques’ work of art was now a mammoth 3 hours in duration with every scripted sound of sexual coupling meticulously noted down. He was a master and the Wheelhouse grand piano, the perfect stage.

After several days and nights of most disciplined rehearsal and of a noticeably changed manner of walking movement by many whilst they strolled along the promenade afterward, the time had come. Jacques was finally ready. He had not allowed the beautiful Paris to physically involve herself. She needed to be fresh for the pleasure of the King. Any unnecessary soreness of the lead performer had to be avoided. This not something that could have been said of the promenade ladies during this same period of time.

You could see who had been involved. It was usually very obvious and they were easy to pick out. The gentleman would remain sat on the promenade deck benches as the ladies would limp on past, their stiff straight backs held high in an attempt to conceal the uncomfortable mode of post-rehearsal movement. “Strange how the ladies never want to be seated these days,” a common and deliberately overheard comment of those men who watched them go slowly by.

Captain Patrick O’Brien had ensured that everything was perfect for the evening’s entertainment. The cutlery spotless and immaculately polished as high grade silver should be, and not one stain, regardless of how small it was, to be present on the table cloths. An occurrence that was hard to avoid these days and the laundry staff always kept fully employed and active in service.

The evening came. O’Brien first greeted His Majesty of Raminnesia with the courtesy befitting the most welcomed royal visitor. Then greeting the increasing number of first-class passengers who eagerly lined his palm with the sweet scent of money to ensure a prominent seat. As the candles flickered and the soft silks, a rainbow of colour hung from all walls, blew gently in the sea breeze, Jacques and Paris prepared themselves like they had never prepared before. “Now is everything perfect?” she said nervously to Jacques. “I’ve never fucked a King before.” “I’ve never seen a King fuck you either,” his short reply. “I guess Kings just fuck like everybody else, don’t they?” he inquired of her. “Well,” Paris laughed, “if I’d ever done it with one I’d know wouldn’t I? I’m sure you would have been the first person to find out.” By now she was shaking with nerves as the time for curtain call fast approached.

Jacques entered first, his appearance perfect, impeccable in his velvet fitted dinner jacket and purple bow tie. “I present your Majesty with my work. I trust it will be to your favour,” he announced as he sat on the piano stool, stretching his arms and fingers out before him. The room fell silent, not a breath, and a pin drop could easily have been heard. Jacques started to play, striking his first chord.

Paris was treated as if she was the reincarnated Cleopatra. The King had supplied to her his own hand-picked maidens who bathed her in fine scented oils, attending to the trimming of her sweet little vagina and dressed her in corset and stockings accordingly. The King’s own private staff allowed to attend to her every need and Paris looked exquisite, just perfect. The divine angel as I have previously described. As the sounds of Jacques striking a chord echoed through to her, she became weak at the knees.

A sound of beauty, the Ode au Sexe drove every woman and man wild with sexual excitement. There, all sat around their tables watching and listening as he played, the need to fuck was palpable to all and the accompanying verbal delights un-restrained. It was not possible to sit in silence when the ode was played, for it was created from and for the pleasures of the flesh, and a hypnotic spell was soon cast upon all who heard it, intoxicated by the grunts, the sudden gasps for air and intakes of sudden breath. The musical score shouted out aloud as if all were now in a state of uncontrolled Tourette’s syndrome. “Fuck me. Take me. Do it. I need it. Fuck me hard, harder!” And so on. All were looking around the room at each other as if unable to explain why they had just shouted out such words.

Upon her cue, Paris entered, her long white virginesque dress train trailing behind her and the King mesmerised by the sight of her. “How much for it?” he shouted out in an instant. Paris smiled downward at the floor knowing that the King had not been able to control his verbal release, just as all others present that night. She was now blushing and not wanting him in any way to feel awkward with such an audible outcry. She knew how important it was for her and Jacques to behave in as royal a manner as they could and respect His Majesty at all times.

Paris stood before them all and after taking a bow, stretching as low to the ground as humanly possible and extending her glorious backside upward and outward to much applause dropped her white negligee to the floor at her feet. Stepping out of it, she turned her back to present her endless legs and pert rear once more to the audience, her every move exaggerated by her three inch white-heeled thigh-high boots. She then walked over to her cello and lifted it up. Laying it on top of the grand piano, she climbed atop, straddling it with her legs opened wide. There had been some dramatic improvements in her playing style since she had come aboard me in the spring. She now demonstrated the highest degree and standard of professionalism, which was duly noted by the royal party present. No, for unlike the usual traditionally expected manner where she would bow the strings with the instrument gripped firmly between her thighs, she would now grip the body with one hand and the neck tightly grasped by her cunt. Role reversal easily applied to both people, and musical instruments.

As Jacques continued to play she too continued to play. Every note from her cello being toned by sliding backward and forward, the heavy duty strings grasped and plucked between the pink, raw flesh, of her moist clit. Paris was note perfect using her warm moisture to dampen the sound as required, the necessary leaping up and down forcefully upon it, the cello banging violently against the piano lid for

the developing musical crescendo.

Watching Paris screwing her cello in front of him and in so doing managing to deliver every note exactly as intended was far too much for the King to handle. The sight of her sliding to and fro, smearing herself on the neck shaft, and the strings controlled as if slicing her in two between the legs, served only to cause his premature ejaculation. This vision before him and the accompanying noise of sexual expression from those sat around, that striking of the chord as Jacques played his masterpiece, were far too much for any unprepared man to bear.

The King leapt to his feet in an instant and with all manner of tabletop dressings flying across the room, yelled out at the top of his voice, “Hamrannullah!” in his mother tongue of Raminnesia which literally translated means “I’m cumming.”  Now interestingly, ever since this event occurred and, with the later addition by Jacques of the Hamrannullah Chorus to the musical score of the Ode au Sexe symphony, people still stand to this day. That’s right – whenever the public performance of this piece of music is held and always as a strictly observed tradition and custom, at the point of the Hamrannullah Chorus, the audience all stand up. It’s a mark of respect and in recognition of the spontaneous ejaculation of the Prince Regent.

Sometime later that very same evening, well the early hours of the following morning to be more precise, and as the couple slept, a knock was heard on their cabin door. Upon hearing it, Jacques sat up in bed to investigate and saw a letter discreetly pushed underneath. It was a royal invitation to join the King in his royal quarters, a stone’s throw down the A-Deck corridor, in cabin number 001. The most lavish of cabins aboard and reserved only for the most important of seafarers. Captain Patrick O’Brien was housed next door in 002

Now it doesn’t take much imagination to understand what the King had in mind, and a peep through the porthole of 001 will soon reveal all. “Your Majesty,” Paris shyly spoke as she entered the Prince Regent of Raminnesia’s royal cabin chamber. “I hope you don’t mind. I am eagerly keen to be of service but Jacques must be with me at all times,” she nervously added. “He is most welcome my dear,” The King replied. “I’m sure there is more than enough room for both of us,” he added. Paris blushed, “What on earth has he got in mind for me?” she thought to herself. After all, he was called the King because of his huge reputation – and she couldn’t possibly accommodate an entire royal flag pole, could she?

The King, pouring all present a glass of best Russian vodka went on to congratulate the couple on the magnificence of the evening’s entertainment. “There is neither a woman nor symphony like it on earth,” he excitedly spoke, adding, “You, my dears, are the only people in history to have made me cum without once having touched myself or someone else first. Incredible what you have achieved and for you I offer my Royal ‘Seed’ of Approval. Now drop your nightwear Paris, let’s see it in all its full glory.”

His Royal Highness lay on his bed naked and before the now naked Paris, he tenderly started to stroke himself until fully aroused. Paris stood before him pinching her nipples simultaneously as she watched the King grow. “Will it ever stop?” she thought, it was indeed proving to be a most impressive navigation aid. Then, slowly sliding her right hand down whilst her left remained on her breast, she began to stroke and play with herself between the legs, humming the tune ‘Ring around a Rosie’ to him.

Coitus interruptus was the couple’s usual mode of birth control; Paris’s chest and lower abdomen regularly smeared with her conquest’s secretion. However, she was a little concerned to make such a request of a future King. To interrupt His Majesty in the throes of passion may serve only to back-fire on the couple, she thought. But Paris’s worries were not to be of concern as the event panned out. His Majesty wanted Paris up the arse and also had a clear, defined, role for Jacques.

Paris climbed up over the body of the King as he lay on his back on the bed. Turning to face his feet, dry, she lowered down gently and slowly upon his erect penis, letting out an almighty squeal as it forced its way up inside. The King spat on himself forcibly and with great accuracy. “That’s all the lube you are getting from me… All the way my dear as far as it can go,” he grunted and then demanded, “Now lie backward on top of me, open wide and make room for Jacques.” With the King fully penetrated up inside Paris’s tight dry hole and lying backward with her naked back upon the King’s almost supine body, she raised her knees up to her chest, spraying out her own body juices out as if spitting at Jacques, though this act quite unintentional. “I’ve never seen you spit at me like that before,” an extremely over-excited Jacques stated without thinking. “It’s the position,” replied Paris. “I’m all a bit squeezed,” she laughed as even more squirted out at him, some of her juices trickling down her arse crack to greet the penetrating penis, and help provide a little welcome relief.

His Majesty wrapped his hands tightly around her torso, gripping her inner thighs and pulling her legs back as far as he could. Paris immediately grabbed the metal head-board behind her with both hands and started to whimper as if in a breathless state, but it was more to do with the firm compression of her knees being

pulled hard down onto her tits than lack of air. “Now, Jacques,” the King assertively instructed, “Can you take her up the cunt for a while? I like the noise and the feeling of two cocks rubbing together in such a confined space. I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s a most pleasant encounter.” Jacques started to undress as he stared deep up inside the now open and quite endless dark tunnel that Paris was presenting to him. He placed his head down and spat up inside her, two maybe three times, just as the King had done to her anus. Then with his knees either side of the Royal arse he thrust himself forward up inside her.

“I can feel you,” Jacques said in addressing His Majesty. “Give her a good slapping for me my boy, my hands are somewhat occupied,” he replied. Jacques had only slapped Paris around just the once before, the night that he had reclaimed her cunt back from Stanton. He had certainly never beaten Paris over-hard, but the thought of slapping her as she lay there pinned between the two men in such a restricted position seemed like a jolly good idea indeed. Tonight it was going to be a good slapping. “No Jacques, no. Please don’t hurt me,” Paris bleated out in whimpered voice, but before she had finished her utterings, Jacques had already started to slap her hard, from left to right, from right to left and so on. The noisier she was, the harder he slapped her and the harder he began to fuck her. The more he would bang hard between her thighs, the more the King would probe upward from below.

Paris, unable to take any more, released her grip on the bed-frame behind her head that her arms had been stretched out to and started to ward off Jacques hands. The King immediately grabbed her wrists and pulled them back. “I think this one’s going to be difficult tonight Jacques. We’ll need to reconsider our approach with it.” Jacques laughed. “Indeed, let’s see what we can find,” he suggested in reply, seeking only to please the King and not thinking of Paris’s needs for relief for a single moment.

While Paris lay held by the King repeatedly saying “Please don’t hurt me, Jacques. I don’t like it,” Jacques continued to ignore her. He looked around the room. He reassured her only momentarily with the words, “It’ll be fine Paris. Just enjoy it. I won’t really hurt you.” But her face was clearly and already quite red with his palm prints.

Jacques picked up the King’s royal walking stick, the head of which was a carved Royal Eagle, the crest of the Raminnesia province from which the Regent heralded. He also removed the curtain ties from the long red curtains which separated the cabin into two halves. Jacques tied Paris’s arms by each wrist to the brass bedhead using a ‘semen’s’ knot he had learnt to tie, and from which he knew there could be no escape. The King in return, releasing his firm grip of her arms, re-applied them under her thighs, pulling her legs back upward to their original knee-to-shoulder position. Jacques slid the walking stick horizontally across her inner knees. “Take a grip at each end your Royal Highness. I think you’ll find she isn’t going to go anywhere now,” Jacques stated with a very proud expression in self-recognition of his own creativity. Indeed, as much as Paris wriggled around whilst on top, with her anal canal still penetrated, she was most definitely pierced completely to the spot. Evidently, as I witnessed, she would go nowhere.

Both men spared no punches given the manner in which they physically abused the naked and physically-restrained Paris, fucking her as hard as they both could muster. As one pulled back the other would thrust and become more and more aggressive as Paris groaned with both excitement and pain. Following this renewed onslaught, she soon began to relax, realising that just as she had with Stanton that evening, resistance was by now quite futile. With the King pulling back hard on the walking stick toward him, Paris was now unable to move at all. Occasionally Jacques would stop, withdraw himself from her cunt and slap her arse before returning inside. Eventually the pathetic whimpering sounds of her pain exciting them both to point of climax. As the King shot as deep as he could up inside her anus, Jacques simultaneously withdrew and kneeling between her legs, delivered his cum over her outer crotch. There was now much wetness running down into the crack of her arse, mixing with the King’s as his load too was squeezed out by Paris’s tightly clenched buttocks and running down onto his huge still, stiff cock. Jacques went down and licked her clean, ensuring long applied tongue strokes up around the royal penis. He gently sucked the Regent’s balls, the actions of which served only to re-excite the King even more furiously. Just as she hoped it was all over he began to bang her all over again. “Get off me!” Paris shouted out loudly at the pair of them, as if by way of telling both men off for their unwarranted naughtiness toward her.

As you can well imagine, this resulted in quite the opposite happening. “Oh no my dear. You’re still in-service for quite a while yet,” the King’s sarcastic reply to her pointless demand. “Top left draw, white scarf, I think we need to shut her up for a bit don’t you think Jacques?” Jacques found and applied the silk scarf as requested around Paris’s head, tying it tightly, with the knot wedged into her gapping mouth, ensuring the soft knot was pushed fully in by ramming it further with his hand. The muffled protest continued to fully arouse the now refreshed, still hard and once more double penetrating penises.

“I’ll race you Jacques,” said the King, “Are you ready? – go!” Jacques was sure he would win, pounding up between her legs as hard as he could but the King had a clear advantage, raising Paris up just a few inches above his groin by pulling further back on the walking stick, the springing of the mattress aiding his frantic bounce assisted motions. It was a clear victory, His Majesty thrusting upward for his release and Jacques ejaculating just a few moments later.

“A Royal victory Your Highness,” laughed Jacques, as he attempted to catch his breath, to which the quite unexpected reply from the King was “I think you let me win that time my boy.” And after a few seconds to draw his own breath came, “Once more, best out of three I think, that’d be fair. Now just because I’m of blue blood doesn’t mean you have to hold back Jacques,” he added. Jacques was up for it again, but questioned inwardly the reality of him actually really winning and how not to upset the King in doing so. It was common knowledge then as it is today that you simply do not upstage a King.

“Come on then boy, once more,” His Highness suggested, “Then we’ll let poor Paris limp off to bed and have a few nightcaps together.” Paris at this point fucked into complete silence, just the presence of her heavy breathing filling the air around the cabin, all useless protestations now gone, her sense of helplessness and acceptance of the situation quite evident. “A little different this time, Jacques I want you to join me in here, rub against me and let’s feel each other pumping together at the same time.”

Paris’s pathetic muffled “No,” the only audible noise she now spoke. Wiping the wet juices of both Paris and himself from between her legs, Jacques now reused them to moisten his slowly limping but still hard enough to function penis. This state of slight softness allowed him to quite easily slip up alongside the King. Both now inside Paris’s over stretched cum-soaked anal orifice. Paris groaned in exhausted pain as both men started to slowly and jointly screw her up the same hole. Steady away at first, Jacques and the King both becoming harder as they squeezed up together as far as they could, and could push in no more. The noise from Paris was amazing, with every shove a grunt, an “Uhh” and an “Ahh.” As gagged and exhausted as she was, the words “It’s fucking amazing. Do it to me, fucking do it!” clearly heard coming from her at each specific precise moment.

The fucking wasn’t as frantic this time as the friction between the two men, at times, was uncomfortable. This time the men crushed her as hard as they could, their cocks pushing as deep as they could together, and holding her pinned between them with each probe forward held fast for several seconds. This was a technique that met with her full approval. Working together and by almost splitting her in two, all three worked up to orgasm, the men’s third, but Paris’s first. The frantic anal-cunt pounding hadn’t excited her quite as much as double anal penetration with the full steam ahead technique. As Paris writhed around on top of His Majesty, as if laying back on hot coals, Jacques too came and before he was forced to withdraw and take a seat in his almost paralysed, exhausted physical state, the King simultaneously shot into her. “Hamrannullah!” he shouted loudly and without reservation. Paris’s orgasm was accompanied by the violent panting of a rabid dog hurling its head around.

Within a ten second period, all three had managed to climax at almost the exact time. Thereafter however, future rehearsals would soon improve the efficiency of such precision of timing between the three of them. The Official Secrets Act of Raminnesia was duly signed and recognised as enforceable throughout all nations of the time although to you, to my readers’ delight, no longer legally binding since 1956.

 


 ‘Paris’s Revenge’

 

 

Paris was not only beautiful, she was extremely sexually talented, gifted in physique and possessing a musical ability beyond any other. She was also very cunning. There was not a man alive who could not resist her charms or be manipulated by her oozing of sexuality. That night, as the two men had later laughed and drank together until day break, Paris had limped quite alone and exhausted back to her cabin.

En route she passed the many couples who were walking up and down the corridor, either entering or having just left a cabin in which they had been swapping around. Paris noticed that as soon as one couple left a cabin, the door handle was soon re-adorned with a fresh hanging invitation stocking. One lady remarked to her en route, “You look like you’ve been having some fun tonight.” Paris blushing in her reply said “I’ve just been on the Royal Seat of Approval.” She soon fell asleep and was awoken only by Jacques’ drunken return at 7.00 am.

As the days passed and in-between her regular visits to the mechanical apparatus of the pump room, a plan was hatched. Though the events that happened that night in 001 were quite unprepared for, she had actually loved every second of it. As previously stated, regular returns to all new sexual companions remained a noted feature on the couple’s social calendar. How could she return the favour to Jacques?, she thought. It was a grand gesture born out of appreciation that helped formulate her ideas. Able Seaman Dodds would soon answer her prayers.

Using his exceptional and most discreet talents, Dodds was commissioned to construct a frame. By combining two sun loungers from beside the upper deck swimming pool, a device of purpose suitability was soon produced. The frame allowed the victim to lie down whilst restrained on all fours. Though essentially it looked like any other heavy-duty sun lounger, this one was now more of a platform-based design model. It could easily trap its victim quite unsuspected. Just as Paris had nicknamed the pump room fucking machine the Day of Rest, this device was now called the Venus Fly Trap.

The games area is located on B-Deck. If you peer through the porthole of B127 you will see all manner of recreational facilities: snooker tables, table tennis tables, darts, skittles and much more. But if you now look a little closer you can see the Venus Fly Trap to the far rear corner. Paris was very keen to organise her games evening, proudly designing her score cards to award the appropriate prizes to the events’ winners and overall supreme champions. She notified the Captain of her intentions in the usual manner, hoping that he too would be able to ‘cum’, sensuously swallowing every bit of him.

The trap was a novel idea. In principle, it was a flat mattress hung from each corner by the original sun lounger springs. A very comfortable device. As the would-be victim Jacques would rest down upon it, the weight of his body would sink the platform and stretch the four springs. In doing so a hinged mechanism below would, by the natural pull of his bodyweight as it sunk the platform, activate from below three clamps. They would then swing over the top. The claws as Dodds would refer to them in demonstration, clamping down on the unsuspecting victim. And of course, the eager Stanton was always present and most fascinated by Dodds’ new creation, drawing many fine sketches of the basic principles of operation in his anticipation for later mass production.

Now if you open your hand out flat (that is if you can borrow it back from inside your crotch for just a moment) I’ll try to clarify how it all works for you. With your hand stretched out flat, push your index finger down into the centre of your palm whilst pushing in return upward with your hand. The harder you push the more your fingers curl over inward imitating the motion of a genuine Venus Fly Trap as its jaws close up over the top of its prey. Hence the name Paris affectionately christened it.

The claws were hung below the mattress and without close inspection remained quite unnoticed. To all intents and purpose this, to the unsuspecting eye was nothing more than a bed hung on four springs. Now who could resist such luxury and comfort? “Definitely not Jacques,” Paris explained as she discussed the method of final installation with Dodds.

The evening was arranged. A select invite list and no more than twenty men composed of the finest first-class males on board. Leonardo was most helpful, recruiting these guests from those who had an admiration for the male rear end only. Jacques was known to be both bisexual and very greedy. Ladies too were invited but their role was to be adjudicators, scorers or competition judges, whichever term you prefer, and they would assist Paris in ensuring that the competition was fair at all times.

Later that evening, on the Day of Judgement as sold to the ladies by Paris, and as Jacques finished his performance and rested his keys, Leonardo invited him down to the games room. “Just time for a few games of chess,” stated Leonardo. “Come on Jacques, just a quickie so don’t be boring, winner takes all,” said Leonardo, smiling to himself at the thought of what ‘taking all’ really involved and the true meaning of the word quickie. The unsuspecting Jacques was keen to oblige his friend. “Just a couple Leonardo. I need to get an early night tonight, I have some ideas, small changes for the symphony in readiness for the ball and I need an early start.” “No worries Jacques,” a rather false promise given back in return.

Dodds had managed to finish the Helmet just in time, a secondary piece of equipment as Paris had also specified. He discreetly passed it to Paris inside a large box as she finished her evening’s workout in the pump room. “Thank you Dodds. It’s perfect.” Paris gave the blushing Dodds a peck on his cheek in gratitude. She eagerly rushed to the games room to make the final preparations for the evening’s scheduled entertainment.

After a couple of quick games of chess and several grand glasses of scotch, Leonardo pointed Jacques in the direction of the lounger. “Have a lie down Jacques. I’m going to play one more game with Popeye here and you can then take on the winner?” Jacques, restating his need for an early night, was indifferent at first but after something of a guilt trip, reluctantly agreed. “Make it quick then Leonardo,” Jacques said. “Oh that we will,” came the reply accompanied by smirks of the most generous proportions from both, the smirk of Popeye the bigger of the two.

Popeye’s real name was Brutus and quite a brute he would prove to be. Brutus, a successful author who later on in 1929 would write several cartoon strips based on a character with the nickname his gay friend Leonardo had given him. Brutus was Leonardo’s favourite male as he possessed a weapon of most devastating proportion. “It’s not so much a spitting cobra but more of a crushing anaconda,” he would proudly tell all.

As Jacques lay back on the bed the trap was sprung. Brutus and Leonardo jumped to their feet in such readiness that the chess pieces were thrown flying from the table. “Brutus, grab the arms. I’ll take the little fucker’s legs,” as they tied Jacques by ankle and wrist to each corner. Jacques was taken completely by surprise, not only by the shocking swing of the claws but also by the actions of his companions. “What? What the? What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted, the only words he could find as Paris also approached, seizing her opportunity to apply the Helmet as quickly as possible. “It’ll be fine Jacques. Just enjoy it. I won’t really hurt you,” Paris quoted verbatim the words of Jacques as delivered in the Kings cabin on that specific occasion before.

The Helmet was a deep-sea diving helmet with modifications made from white Irish linen cloth from a hammock Dodds had taken from the laundry. Akin to the standard deep-sea diving helmet of the time, it covered Jacques’ entire head. Breathing was only possible through a tube that came out of the top. The linen, tightened by a chord around the neck, made this single tube the only option available to Jacques to obtain air. “I’ve heard that gay men like asphyxiation games,” Paris said as she turned to Brutus. “Oh yes indeed my dear. I think that pipe is flexible enough to take a ‘semen’s’ knot or two,” he laughed at his pun and acknowledged the full applause of the room. The ladies present, more excited in fact than the men.

Jacques’ trousers and pants quickly came off, Paris saying whilst doing so, “I got you some pig lard my love, more than a generous gift under the circumstances. He didn’t afford me this luxury, did he ladies?” Paris turned back to face the laughing crowd. Adding “But you’re going to need it more than me, especially when Brutus gets in there. Have you seen the size of it?” Obviously Jacques had not and his view was extremely restricted by the helmet. He could see immediately up and from side to side but nothing else down to his feet.

She fingered the lard up into his arse, exaggeratingly for effect, and licked her fingers clean afterward to the words of “yum yum, a tasty tight virgin’s bum.” Paris invited Leonardo to take first turn. “It’s the least I can do for you.” he said. “I mean you have taken so many beautiful pictures of me after all, I bet you don’t have a snap like this though do you.” Leonardo was rock hard and duly barged up into Jacques’ crack, pausing only momentarily to take his first of many prize close-up photographs. Paris took control of the tube, tying a firm knot in it. She had decided at this point it would be much more fun to stop the air flow completely and just open the front view hole of the helmet from time to time, depending on the array of colours present upon Jacques’ surprised face within. Jacques was all the colours of a rainbow, his shouts of protest from within the helmet completely inaudible. Unsurprisingly, there was little sympathy for his plight shown by his partner. “Yes, I remember this,” she said out loud. “The gag in my mouth” and adding, “And of course, don’t forget you had a race up inside my cunt if I remember correctly too.” All spoken most sarcastically.

Paris passed out her score cards to the ladies of the room. “Now then girls, as the men fuck we need to award marks for performance. You’ll see five categories on the score card: technique, size, speed and quantity. Obviously we can’t see the quantity of load released so we’ll just have to take an estimate from the visual circumference of the competitor’s balls.” All this was said to huge applause. Then further suggesting, “The final category is for overall entertainment value. Award marks out of one to ten for all categories please ladies.”

Well, by this point it was clear that Leonardo was not in a position to win as by now he had paused the proceedings many times in order to take more photographs. “It’s not about winning. It’s the taking part that matters,” he explained to the bemused Paris. “Consider it pre-event prepping. I’m just loosening him up for them,” he laughed. Clearly Leonardo wanted to take his time, saw absolutely no need to rush and the rigid, taut body of Jacques, quite unable to move wasn’t exactly going to go anywhere else anyway.

As he came he gave his final thrust, he yelled out his favourite climax expression, “Fuck you.” This was not exactly the most original of phrases given the momentous occasion. Paris opened up the front hatch of the helmet and peered in. Shouting at such a loud volume, accompanied by a spray of spit and saliva, Jacques balled back out at her, “You fucking bitch. You fucking whore. You fucking…!” The final words he managed to express to her before being silenced by the immediate closing back up of the lid. “Well, such language,” laughed Paris. “Now where have I heard all that before, I wonder,” she said, giggling to herself as she readjusted the ties to his legs, and thus raising his arse again into a more convenient, accessible and prominent position. “Thanks for the feedback Leonardo. I’ve made the necessary adjustments and I whole-heartedly agree, less air this time. That’ll shut the foul mouthed arse-wipe up,” she said as she continued to giggle aloud. Paris and the other ladies drew their chairs up into a semi-circle and watched intently as the second competitor of the evening engaged. “Don’t forget the air,” shouted out Leonardo. “Oops, I almost forgot.” Paris left her seat to check on the hatch of her victim. After all, less air didn’t mean no air. Opening and shutting it quickly, and most amused by the sound she could hear within, and also musically control, “Cu’…, fuc’…, basta’…, whor’…,” and so on. This as she opened and closed the hatch repeatedly for fun. The ladies watched intently with the score cards placed on their thighs, legs akimbo, and a considerable degree of self-stroking and fingering taking place with some assisting those beside them.

By the time Jacques had been fucked by the 19th male of fine standing, the application of fresh pig lard proved to be less important than previously thought, and as events unfolded, I was no-longer needed. The excess volume of spunk was continually farted back out by Jacques, quite visible to all. After a roar of applause for number 19, the ladies began to chant, “We want Brutus, Brutus, Brutus. Bring out the Brutus,” and so on.

Brutus was fucking huge. Massive. Thirteen (unlucky for some) inches in length and a staggering three inches in width. A multitude of the ladies jaws dropped to the floor upon its exposure to them. “Fuck me!” gasped one. “You mean to tell me that Popeye here is gay? Such a fucking waste.” “Trust me, more of a bisexual,” replied Paris, that all too familiar smirk blossoming in purple across her face.

“I think for the occasion we should open the hatch ladies, don’t you agree?” Paris said as she looked in on the now very sore, battered and frail Jacques. “Just taking a peep dear. Is everything all-right in there?” And for a brief moment the silence convinced her that she’d actually killed him by suffocation. All forceful expression was by now completely sucked out of him and long gone. Jacques was quite unable to speak and in a quite pathetic voice uttered, “Please, no more.”  “Last one now,” she joked. “We’ll leave the hatch open for you to get some fresh air shall we?”

Brutus, despite his massive girth, slid in quite easily. The now cum-soaked over-stretched anus offered little resistance to him. Jacques’ personal expletives were now ones of just agonized pathetic quietened groans and mumblings. Brutus was firm, clenching Jacques by his inner thighs and shunting on like a steam locomotive although at a somewhat reduced speed as he knew that his member had to be applied with some consideration. The object of tonight’s game was to have fun and not exactly to kill anyone. “Overall performance, that’s where the marks are,” he thought as he reminded himself that speed wasn’t everything.

The evening finished about 4 am with Jacques duly untied although strangely he hadn’t hastened to return to his cabin as he had originally planned. He just lay there without standing for at least a further two hours. This two hour after-period was hugely enjoyed by the ladies who were all now enjoying personal time with each other and playing Sex Scrabble, the object of which was to write down the filthiest word or sexual act they could find and then personally demonstrate it. And what of the evening’s male winner? Well, you won’t be surprised to find out that it was Brutus, by a clear majority.

 

 

 

 ‘Time Gentlemen Please’

 

 

As time passed Jacques soon began to see the funny side of things. After all, the couple had set out on a journey of sexual exploration and Paris had only played the same game by Jacques’ own rules. As the weeks passed and the seasons flew by we find ourselves after many months at sea, in desperate need of annual service. So here we are, fast approaching our berth back in Belfast and where I must now sadly, for the time-being, dock.

But as I set off back across the ocean from New York en route to Ireland, I must tell you one last story. I need to tell you all about last night, the night when all aboard said their own personal goodbyes and bid me farewell before they disembarked down that long wooden gangplank onto Manhattan Island Portway. Many more new guests were to return to Ireland with me later.

The symphony is finished as are many of my fellow passengers, but not in quite the same way. It is a work of art and it will take to the stage for its final performance aboard me. Paris and Jacques will move to New York where their performances of the Ode au Sexe will sell out every night for many, many years to ‘cum’. Stanton and Dodds will form their new company together and Brutus will write his epic comic strips. And what of Leonardo? Well he will become the most sought-after royal photographer that Raminnesia has ever known. As for the rest of my many merry passengers – well they will continue to fuck each other like rabbits for all eternity to ‘cum’.

No expense was spared for the Venetian Ball. All the passengers spent hours on their own unique intricate costume with facial mask to match, the Captain having set the theme of Sin and Sinners. The men preferred to dress alike in long black robes, singularly fastened by a chord tied around the waist, their facial masks all the same theme, the long pointed nose of the crow. The ladies on the other hand were a bit more creative and spent more time on the project in hand with purple and red, white and a host of other colours and many adapting their under-garments to match, not so much in colour but more the insertion of holes to the cups of their corsets and slits to the crotch of their knickers. It was going to be a popular ball and the need for quick entry always at the forefront of their minds for tonight the ladies wanted as much as they could and as quickly as they could. The sisterhood of sin was not to be stopped.

Paris and Jacques would perform as others around enjoyed the flesh of each other. Candles were lit, placed inside tall metal holders that stood freely in a large circle, the glittering brightness visible through the porthole window of the ballroom for many miles out at sea. The finest silk cloth and velvet cushioning was scattered around throughout the floor. And rope and chain, chord and an array of hard useful implements were placed easily at hand. The King with his pride of place, was to be seated looking down on all.

The passengers were encouraged not to sit in their usual places, but to now mingle and move around. The masks were to be maintained at all times. The young virgin waitress, the single remaining virgin aboard (as it was rumoured to be amongst the first-class passengers), attracted the watchful eye of many a male and female predator too. Paris was thinking about her deep need to fulfil her fantasy with Dodds. He had after all been so helpful and a farewell kiss later on, on all fours whilst arched up to his fucking machine seemed only fair. This of course whilst gently sucking at his penis and swallowing every mouthful of his fine main course.

As the guests dined, eating the most-tasteful of pheasant, rabbit and venison and enjoying the finest of wines from Italy, France and South America, the first brave young lady stood forward. Aroused by the music she had sat in her own juices for far too long and somebody somewhere had to break the ice and go first. She took to the centre stage lying on her back within the circle of candles. Slowly raising her skirt and tenderly stroking and fingering herself, she removed one item at a time until she was fully undressed. Then she inserted fresh cream to her inner thighs and spread it out across her breasts.

Slowly but surely, one by one, the other ladies joined her. Slowly, not because they were not keen to do so, but slow only in that they had enjoyed watching the brave young lady’s solo performance. Eventually, they were all naked, other than face-masks, enjoying the wet fresh loins and succulent nipples of their companions upon the floor before all. Needless to say within just a short period of time a snake pit of groaning steaming female flesh all fucking each other commanded much applause. Jacques was as hard as ever and Paris just as wet as they looked down and continued to play the ode. Leonardo meanwhile documented the whole event with his camera.

There, in my ballroom, existed a snake pit of women licking and sucking gently at the clitoris of another with their teeth nipping and with finger nails pinching at the array of hard pointed nipples on show. They were sitting there upon each other’s faces, and many a cunt-to-cunt grinding went on. They were fucking each other with candles and stuffing each other with items of food taken from the tables. A crate of cucumber and marrow was delivered from the kitchen with the compliments of the Captain.

The virgin waitress was summoned to the Prince Regent’s seat where she was soon required to straddle upon him, sliding down on the King’s Rod without wasting too much time. Her agonising yell of the commanded initial penetration rang out at the splitting of her hymen for the first time.  A gentle drip of blood trickled to the seat below them. “Take your time young lady,” the King’s personal advice whispered suitably into the ears of the young beautiful novice. “I’ve had my eye on you for quite a while, my dear,” he said, to which she replied “We’re not allowed to mix with the passengers, Captain’s order.” “Yes I know my sweet little princess but O’Brien promised you to me on the last evening aboard so do not fear.” “Will I have a baby now?” the naïve young thing asked. “I can’t have a baby. How will I care for it on my own?” she said, seeking some form of royal financial promise from His Majesty. “You can’t get pregnant the first time. Don’t you know that? Where on earth have you been hiding, not to know that fact”? he said to her in the full knowledge that he was a liar.

He desperately needed and wanted to cum in her, a virgin taken for the first time and the need to shoot up inside a pure fresh cunt where no man had been before, this his utmost priority. This he did. She fucked him whilst slowly gyrating and as uncomfortable as it was for her, until he came. He wrenching down on her pony tail as he thrust her up off his lap. “I can feel it, feel it pumping,” she said whilst being filled to her complete surprise.

He turned to his immediate aide and laughed at the actions of this foolish young filly. “Throw her to the lions,” he laughed. The aide escorted her to the lesbian snake pit located in the centre of the room. There, as if thrown to a pack of starving wolves, the women began to lick the young girl clean of the royal sperm. “Don’t worry,” one concerned woman said to her. “We’ll get as much as we can out of you.” The young first timer writhed in ecstasy amongst them.

As the evening developed, and as so many other things had happened in the room that night, the King took further delight in whipping the arses of the ladies that had caught his wider eye (having borrowed Paris’s new personal riding whip, a whip that he had not returned to her for a considerable amount of time). There were many women around the room by now bent over the many tables, most receiving a splendid good rodgering. The ones without underwear were preferred for the purpose. He watched intently as the men would lift their clothing to see what was hiding underneath. There were three basic models available: knicker-less, with knickers, and crotchless-knickers varieties. Stanton preferring the crotchless variety, shafting the crotchless women on their backs, table top, whilst he enjoyed feeding on the nipple through the purpose-built peep-hole brassiere.

As men fucked upon the tables and as the King whipped many a bottom red until sore, the ladies of the snake pit licked and sucked; all this whilst Paris and Jacques continued to play the Ode au Sexe perfectly envious that they had to work that evening and couldn’t enjoy the folly there before them.

At 11 pm, during a brief interlude allowed for the couple to prepare for the second half of the show, Paris seized her moment. What had started out as just fantasy and dirty talk between the pair had evolved into practical application, their limited insecurity ensuring that each were present whilst the other played. Time had come and gone and such insecurity had long been left in the midst of the past. Both Jacques and Paris by now comfortably enjoyed the pleasures of others individually whenever the opportunity arrived. Upon climbing back into bed together afterward, they would titillate each other with blow by blow accounts of what they had been up to whilst apart. Jacques considerably enjoyed claiming Paris back, fucking her harder and harder as her story about another unfolded to his ear.

Paris was off like a wild pony en route to the pump room. There inside attending to his pipe work as usual, she discovered Dodds to be all alone. “I only have twenty minutes,” she blurted out to him. “Do you want to fuck me or not? Stupid question; of course you do. Quick get on with it, full steam ahead,” she ended. By the time Dodds had had time to offer a reply there she was, her favourite purple basque, interwoven with red and white thread and matching stockings with her knickers pulled aside manoeuvring backward onto the machine’s cock. “I want your rod deep down my throat now Dodds, make me gag, come on quick, only twenty minutes.”  “Aye aye ma’am, get ready to make way then,” he replied, unbuttoning his trousers and presenting his penis to the gaping wide begging mouth of Paris. The long deepthroat action maintained throughout until the whale exhaled. Gagging as promised, Dodds grabbed her head and thrust down into her throat further than he had thus before been in any woman. Dodds had been alone at sea for several months and for the male the machine had limited use. As Paris choked on Dodds’ throbbing member and tried to push him backward to gain breath, she felt the powerful hot spray of salt erupting into the back of her mouth. “Yummy yum yum, that’s my boy,” she said as she squeezed his cock tightly and as close to his groin as possible before running her hand up the full length of it, wringing every last drop. As the last drop dripped away, she caught it with a flick of the tongue and showed him the full contents of her mouth before swallowing. Her tongue licked her lips clean afterward, and laughingly said, “Sea-water can be drunk after all…”

In the meantime Jacques had taken the opportunity to concentrate on the soiled virgin. Burying his head down between her legs and sucking her cunt so violently that others around them found it hard to believe that a man who had Paris at will could possibly appear to be so starving. Jacques ravished her cunt, ramming his full hand up inside the agonised girl and saying, “I need to open you up a lot more than this, and we have a social responsibility to the poor amongst us you know. I’ll get out any that the ladies have left behind shall I?” And ironically after convincing her that she was now sperm free, he climbed on top of her and fucked her all over again, pumping deep inside the poor confused creature for a second time that evening. Afterward, he lifted her bottom onto a cushion and with two fingers deeply inserted he attempted to hook and fish out what he could.

Paris rushed back to the ballroom orgy and passing Jacques on the floor with the waitress below said “Quick. We’re late. Are you ready?” “Just a minute,” was his reply. “Don’t worry about finishing her off Jacques just now. We’ll take her back with us later and do it together.” Jacques agreed, realising that Paris clearly also wanted a taste of such fine young flesh. “Until dessert then,” Jacques’ departing words to the now highly experienced and educated young crew member.

As Jacques again bowed down on his violin and simultaneously as needed struck down on his keys with fresh wet stains still present on his trousers, Paris, still in only the glory of her underwear bowed onto her cello strings and the momentum of the room soon began to pick up pace. Those who had taken the opportunity to refresh and recharge were already keen to go again once more. The King, far too distracted by his collection of red bottoms that were now bent over the many tables surrounding him, hadn’t even noticed that the interval had taken place! The groans of those he whipped caused by the pain of multiple red flares of thrashing whip marks upon the backs, thighs and breasts, was the only music to his ears that he had wanted to hear.

As opium was smoked and alcohol consumed, the communal spirit of the party continued. The ladies of the snake pit had been joined by numerous males who proudly stood above them wanking onto their faces and breasts below. Around the outer walls of the room a caterpillar queue formed with Stanton sharing his many new horns; the ones that he had delighted in crafting since his first original sample prototype given to Paris as a gift: woman upon woman upon woman, and all of them having the most thrilling time. The sandwiches created by the girls crushed between men, one to the rear and one down the throat. Many a woman having more than one man to the rear, both in terms of double penetration of anus and cunt, but also shared penetration of a single mutually-agreed point of entry. Anne-Marie took the initiative in one party of males by sitting forward on one as he lay on his back, another to her rear pounding her simultaneously up her arse and a third to her front upon which she suckled. All this happening whilst either side of her, wanking off two more standing males. Evidently they were not the first that evening as she was soaked in so much spunk, it cascaded from her breasts on show to all. How much she had kept to herself in reserve by swallowing it in all shipping channels, even I, the RMS Fantasia cannot be sure. But it is safe to assume, sufficient quantity to keep any woman alive whilst lost at sea.

As the passengers were left to enjoy themselves on this, the last evening of my voyage, some chose to remain within the groups that they had formed that night until way into the early hours. Others found new partners, threesomes, foursomes and more, and all this quite anonymously as not even I knew who was hidden behind some of those masks as they all excitedly left together as they disappeared back to their cabins.

But for me, the most pleasant part of the evening was what I now saw of Jacques and Paris, as I peeped through their porthole in cabin 069 in the early hours of the day beyond to bid them goodnight. There cuddled up tightly together in bed I found the three of them. Paris with her horn up inside its cunt; Jacques with his cock inserted deeply into its arse; and yes there, the ‘it’, the waitress pinned firmly between by both, French kissing both Jacques and Paris at the same time. The pair, their fingers inside her mouth, upon her breasts and upon every part of her, was pausing occasionally to jointly suck on her tender young neck. With two small superficial nicks to either side made with a razor, and blood all smeared in the spit around it for I’m pleased to inform you that Paris has now found a likeminded pet that at long last equally shared her vampire fetish for fresh young blood.

Here as I take to my berth, and as you take to your beds, I invite you to ‘cum’ back soon and book further passage. If you have enjoyed your time aboard then please take the time to tell me so. Write soon for I am sure I have many more stories that will, and do excuse the final pun, most certainly rock your boat for you.

But for now I conclude Porthole Volume One, for the Captain has spoken – “Time Gentlemen Please.”

 

Leonardo Clit at work

Photographer unknown c.1900 RMS Fantasia

 

– END of PORTHOLE –

 

 

Other titles by this author:

MEAT: MEMOIRS of A PSYCHOPATH
‘THE DEFINITIVE EDITION 2016’

Dr CERYS DAVIES et al

 

‘Meat: Memoirs of A Psychopath, The Definitive Edition’, is truly a world’s first in contemporary literature. Each book contained inside is written by the characters within. Each work is intentionally written in a quite specific and separate genre. This unique publication, ‘The Definitive Edition 2016’, contains ten separate and individually identifiable works including a radio play and musical soundtrack (1 hour 40 minutes) and additional audio book. There is even an accompanying film script which concludes Part Four; the Gabrielites.

Their strong driving narrative concerns the relationship between an ageing, retired police officer, and the sadistic cult leader who now stalks him. The story herein is carried across several books, all self-contained. Each story collides with another developing into a complex plot; but they can also be read quite independently away from the common narrative.

The intention is that this novel be later published by mainstream publishing houses (or independently) as eBook and print versions and released as one volume. However, in later printed versions beyond initial promotional proof copies, it is the author’s intention that it be easily adapted into a continuation series of paperbacks. Accordingly you will find that The Definitive Edition is split into appropriate sections as intended.

The author of this work has also included a download link for the accompanying radio play and soundtrack, ‘Meat: The Musical’, and the children’s story audio book. We sincerely hope that you enjoy this publication. Please note that whilst the children’s story contained is indeed most suitable for minors, the publication as a whole alongside other works is most definitely not suitable for children. Use only the download link provided to obtain the audio version when sharing with children.

If you are a member of the press or media and would like a free copy of this publication for review we would be delighted to hear from you. Please contact us by using the eForm supplied on the publisher’s Brittunculi Records and Books, website.

Brittunculi (from ancient Roman: meaning nasty little Britons) is the independently owned record label and distribution outlet of Jonathan R P Taylor (Odd Jonathan). Thank you for your support!

 

 

Download the Definitive Edition here!

 

INSIDE THE DEFINITIVE EDITION

 

Pre-Installed Navigational Guidance (PING)

JRP Taylor (The songwriter Odd Jonathan)

(Contemporary conspiracy/Suspense/Cookery)

 

How to Breed Chickens in Iowa

Chandelle Davies (Youngest daughter of Dr Cerys Davies)

(Country and Western/Romance/Fairy Tale)

 

Meat: Memoirs of a Psychopath

Dr Cerys Davies (The forensic psychologist)

(Psychological thriller/LGBT/Biography)

 

Please Take Care of Bethany

PC Brian Wilkinson (The investigating policer officer)

(Military espionage/Mystery/Historical)

 

Porthole: Paris’s Revenge

DI Andrea Johnson (The senior detective)

(Period-drama/Erotica/Slap-stick humour)

 

Communists in Outer-Space

Isabella Davies (The eldest daughter of Dr Cerys Davies)

(Political revisionism/Sci-Fi/Sociology)

 

Meat: The Musical

JRP Taylor (The songwriter Odd Jonathan)

(Musical/Radio-play/Comedic-farce)

 

The Gold Star Kid

JRP Taylor (The songwriter Odd Jonathan)

(Fantasy/Children’s story/Audio book)

 

The Man Who Buried Himself

PC Brian Wilkinson (The investigating police officer)

(Detective/Crime/Shoestring)

 

Surge: The Movie Script

Her Holiness Gabriela 13 (The death cult leader)

Classical horror/Supernatural/Film script

 

Download the Definitive Edition here!

 

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Erotic Stories: Porthole: The Erotic Memoirs of HMS Fantasia , Latest erotic stories, adult stories, erotic stories, erotic literature, sexy stories, erotic short stories, erotic literature, erotic novel

Porthole: The Erotic Memoirs of HMS Fantasia

 

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