Page 49 - Titanic: The Untold Tale of Gay Passengers and Crew

Titanic 35

neatly trimmed beard sported a becoming streak of gray.
He exuded the con fidence of a man whose logged nau tical
miles combined would have taken him around the world a
hun dred times. Brice had shipped out with him more than
once. They had an understanding. Their relation ship was
pure lust. They rarely spoke. Their common interest, on long
trans-Atlantic crossings, no more than the sexual gymnastics
they staged together.
They liked to facefuck.
Double facefuck.
Cock to cock.
Both their dicks sliding together down one throat.
The rugged carpenter Brice and the commanding officer
Max. Brice, blond and thick. Max, dark and regal. Brice, of
almost equal age, 34 or so, both of them older men than I at
22. Brice with 9 inches moved toward me. My own 8 inches
rose like a hard knot. Brice’s tool-hardened hand clamped
my shoulder, guiding me like a good boy down on my knees.
When my knees fold, my mouth opens. Some men like
that in a man.
Brice did. He was no talk, all moves. He spit into the palm
of his hand and spit-shined the big head of his cock, stalking
on his big legs toward me, his fat prick aimed for docking in
the open port of my waiting mouth. His coarsened carpenter’s
hand had calloused his carpenter’s cockhead. Its pink skin,
worn rough, felt like the smooth est of fine sandpaper in my
mouth. If ever a man were meant to “polish my sharp tongue
down a notch,” as my father had said when he shipped me off
to Oxford, it was not my British tutors, it was Brice.
He worked my sucking lips and probed my mouth,
driving left and right, tunneling for maximum headroom,
surveying with his rod the drop he’d clicked down into my