Page 50 - Titanic: Forbidden Stories Hollywood Forgot

36 Jack Fritscher

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
lower jaw, like a miner opening a cave wide enough for
heavy ma chinery, to fit his cock inside up tight against
Max’s dick. Max! Who liked to deep-six his long, lean
shaft down voyager’s throats while Brice alternately
plugged left cheek, right cheek, waltzing matilda, one,
two, three.
A pair of lip-rippers they were, but my cock was up
for the stretch even if my mouth had doubts. If Edward
had taken the Stoker’s 14 inches up his ass, my mouth
could swallow the 18-inch double facefuck I saw coming.
If not, by the time we docked in New York, I’d regret
forever falling short of my lover’s titanic feat.
I sucked a mouthful of Brice’s globular head, wrap-
ping my lips tight around the underlip of the corona. I
felt I was swallow ing one of Mr. Edison’s elec tric bulbs:
hot, large, and hard. I moaned. Behind the head of his
slow-probing prow, my eyes, almost crossed, looked down
the veined length of his sturdy, studhorse cock. He drove
me over half-back wards. My hands left my cock to support
me from behind. My head tilted up flat as a plate. His
cock angled like a lever forging open my lips a crack, a
crack wide enough for Max, moving slowly, cruising into
view over my fore head, cock first, with a crystal glass in
his hand.
He poured at least three fingers of absinthe over
the hot head of Brice’s cock, three fingers of 68% alcohol

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