Page 37 - Titanic: The Untold Tale of Gay Passengers and Crew

Titanic 23

He spit, a long white flume of spit, into Edward’s face.
Edward spit it back. And grinned.
The Stoker’s breath was as sweet as when he had been a
muscu lar boy harvesting the hay fields of Czechoslovakia.
He was younger by ten years than his huge size made him
look. With Edward’s spit hanging like white cum in his black
beard, he was no more than 30, but his command presence
made him seem like an ancient god.
They stood frozen in the circle of masturbating cocks.
The Stoker laughed, broke the tableau, and from his laughing
mouth, in the distorted shadows of the red light, his tongue,
long and tubu lar inched slowly from between his lips, the
head of it, swear to God, looked in the brilliant dark ness like
nothing so much as the head of a Roman-orgy cock, the way
the sides rolled up, forming a piss-slit, the shaft of it coming
out hard as a dick, slow inch by slow inch, the blue veins stark,
mean, the volume tumescent, stick ing out big and hard, a
cocklike blowgun bulleting out thick white clots of spit rapid
as a Gatling gun, targeting Edward’s open mouth, a foaming
pool of the Stoker’s sweet cumlike juice.
Edward, not to be outdone, spit the load back on the
Stoker’s greasy chest, white-hot lather mixing into the thick
black hair forested across the big man’s high, wide, and
handsome pecs.
That did it.
The Stoker drove his 5-inch tongue, mushroom-head and
shaft, straight through Edward’s lips and deep into the back
of his mouth, tongue-fucking him hard as any cock, hawking
his spermy spit back into his throat, shooting the cum of his
spit into Edward’s guts.
All this presentation of credentials, two stags squared off,
took all of six minutes. The rest took longer.