Your Day in the Barrel

"So what do you say, Cal?"

"Eh... no, thanks."

Bastien hadn't thought so. Smiling, he packaged the three tickets back up in his wallet, and he and Calum went back to swallowing hearty gulps of oatmeal.

The Scottish docker was now out of the closet to almost everyone, except a few of the people with crosses on their doors. And that pathetic dinosaur, Blind Reemus. Unlike the pretty-boy types, Calum had only grown hairier and beefier since he came out. He often worked shirtless even through the winter storms, heaving those arms and legs twice as hard, blazing with metabolic heat and pungent perspiration.

Bastien was fairly butch himself, but he was thrilled to go to the masked ball. He'd forever loved music, dance, theatre - any art in which you could become whatever you dreamed of.

So he still held three free tickets. Who would go with him? Putting away his tray and cutlery, Bastien headed to the ship's library and approached the typewriter.

With this bunch, he knew there was only one good way to decide.

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%%%%%%%

MILKING CONTEST

8pm, Friday after next

(scheduled port day - Bordeaux)

~ MILKING only - no insertion. ~

~ VOLUME counts - not DISTANCE! ~

TOP 3 FINISHERS

will receive VIP tickets to a

!!! SURPRISE PARTY!!!

Please see BASTIEN BASSET for details

%%%%%%%

The signs had appeared overnight in the warehouse deck, and on the ladder descending to it. The crewmen simply passed by them, smiled as they noticed, and then went about their business. Sailors didn't beat around the bush much, and there was no point in denying that every man needed a release.

Days later, when Captain Blackheart finally found out about the signs, he tried to have them torn down in the name of professionalism, but Mikey immediately put up twice as many again, and soon the captain surrendered, let them be. As the fateful day approached, the cargo ship steamed rapidly onwards, heading down the coast of Belgium, then tacking around Brittany - the sharpest corner of France.

Here an age-old Celtic culture still flourished, and after restocking the stores in town, a few of the sailors headed to a pub together, the village's second pub where only a few men hung out, craving the cheaper pints. Terry finished his fish and chips and headed onto the warped wooden stage, shaking out his sore muscles as he danced to the music of a fiddle.

"Practisin' for the Ball already, mate?" asked Hamish, watching him prance about.

"I could be," said Terry.

"But ye haven't won yet."

"I'm going to, and then I'll need a pair of fancy feet. One, two, three!" the machinist replied, spinning around on his heels in a manly but flamboyant jig.

"Sheesh..." Hamish sighed, wrinkling his brow in discomfort. He was used to emptying himself every Saturday, and by now he was a few days overdue. Alan was at the table with them, and he had a competitive streak. He too was feeling the strain as he edged up his nearly two-week load for a victory.

Others on the crew were starting to see the changes of mood in the first mate and the docker - not enough to get in the way of their work, but they were a little more irritable, short-spoken, as they tried to ignore the pressures going on down below. Alan and Hamish were tapping their legs restlessly against the bar floor. They clinked glasses, looking knowingly into each other's eyes.

Win or lose, it would all be well worth it soon enough.

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The sun was going down, and the waters of the Bay of Biscay were flared up into fiery fringes of red. Needing to wash and clean before eight, Mikey and Steven served supper earlier than usual, and the Bordeaux wine they'd brought aboard was flowing fast and free.

There was a new sign on the warehouse door that night, and the men looked it over carefully as they filed in.

%%%%%%%

ROUND 1

Alan - Kaspar - Steven

ROUND 2

Hamish - Terry - Walt

ROUND 3

Bernd - David - Mikey

%%%%%%%

Sam's copper contraption sat high up on a crate, alongside a supply of sterile soap, water, and towels. Beside them were nine small beakers, each marked with lines and labelled with a single initial, which was enough. Dr. David picked up his, then began handing the rest out around the room, which was already dotted with bottles of lube and clean, white cloth rags.

Bastien took the middle of the floor and began talking. He didn't even have to clear his throat - his bellowing voice rang out like a megaphone, strong, deep, and spiced by his French accent.

"Good evening, and welcome to the Triton's historic first-ever Milking Contest."

Loud applause. George and Sam sat at the side of the audience, along with a half-dozen guys who were just a tiny bit too shy this year.

"First, thank you for your massive interest. There will be three rounds, each featuring three strapping bulls, as listed. Do you lads all know which round ye are?" Low mutters, nods in response.

"The player who ejaculates the largest volume into their cup will win the round, and a dance ticket. Not in the cup, it doesn't count. No penetration or insertion of bodies, but you may use any other assistance to get your milk out, including lubricant and the contraption - thank you as ever, Sam!"

Seated in the audience, the mechanic waved at Bastien. "Only one person can use that in each round, of course, so if you want it, grab it early. And finally, with your consent, Dr. David will be examining your sperm samples after the contest to verify that they are healthy. Self-pleasure should always be celebrated - it is safe, healthy, and fun."

Cheers for the doctor.

"Arrrgh," Hamish growled. "Let's just get on with it!"

"Yes, I believe this pretty much covers the rules," Bastien told him. "If you're all set, lads - you may begin milking. Good luck!"

Without further ado, the contestants of Round 1 rose to their feet. Alan stripped nude in a flash, hanging his badged uniform over the back of his chair, and walked stealthily out into center stage. Steven was undressing beside him on his right, Kaspar adjusted out of his pant flap to his left, and straight away most of the other bators were pulling aside their shirts and britches, some without even getting off their seats.

For the past three days, Alan's boner practically hadn't gone away, and that constant tension was cutting through his ballsack, radiating deep down into his cremaster muscle. Standing just inches in front of the audience, Alan caressed the large, cut head of his dick, which was flicking back and forth in time with the pulsing of his heart.

He fondled his piss slit, and probed his fingertips around on the areas to its sides. The skin squished creamily under his fingers, and pre-ejaculate leaked out of his slit in glowing streams. His shaft was soon moist with his fresh, man-made lube, and he began to beat off. Mikey was entranced.

"You have the prettiest cock ever," he told Alan.

"Ahem?" said Steven, glaring at him.

"Ah! Second prettiest..."

The apprentice chef was preparing himself in the meantime. He drew three crates together into a long bench, laying his cushioned clothing on top, and lay back. His business end was pointed at the audience, and they focused their gazes in closer. Steven oiled up his brown fingers, then teased them against his silky taint, and his hard-on snapped to attention.

Perched on a crate, Kaspar still wore his whole uniform. He was poking his semi out through his britches, and kept it mostly hidden under the hand he was using to feel and bounce at it. While he hadn't edged for a week-plus like some of the men, he was still overdue. Alan came over to his side.

"Yar... I loves yer little pecker, me lad," he said softly. His pirate persona always turned Kaspar on. "Can't wait to see 'er blow."

Bashfully, the young treasurer stood up and began to shed his clothes, avoiding the audience's gaze. He was looking into Alan's eyes, about to ask for help, for validation. But Alan didn't have to say a thing. Grinning, he stretched his biceps over the lad's tense shoulders, pulling him into a robust hug.

The bear's mat of hair pressed against Kaspar's smooth torso while he humped him to the rhythm of his strokes. The blond picked up his cock and joined in, stroking himself in time while the mate's other biceps clenched around him, strong and comforting. He began to lick Kaspar's neck, then moved up to his cheeks, and the lad's inhibitions were melting dead away.

So far, the contraption had remained unclaimed. Scooting sideways on his bench, Steven picked it up and drizzled some lube into the opening, and then he went to town. As usual, Steven kept his foreskin extended while he bated, sending light but firm pulses into his prick head from the outside as he watched Alan and Kaspar lock lips, the bearded face of the captain's mate scraping against the cadet's stubble in a passionate act of man-love.

"No tongue allowed, fellas," George informed them. "That qualifies as insertion."

"Really?" Mikey called out. "Are you gonna get in there yourself and check?"

The minutes were rolling by, and now there were three deep currents of moaning echoing through the room, heard by all, but Kaspar's were the strongest, the lustiest. Showers of sparks were exploding from his nipples as the pelt of bear hair scraped back and forth upon it. He was climbing.

"Yes, sir..." he uttered. "R-r-rub me right there..."

Alan shifted his chest closer, focusing the pressure on Kaspar's two soft pink spots. The cadet grunted as down below he threw his hand into overdrive, pulling the skin back and forth twice, three times a second. He howled, and the howl grew, a long, primal wail rising from deep in his chest.

Kaspar pushed his beaker up between his legs. The glass zoomed him in, giving the crowd a clear view of the base of his shaft just as it started to pump into action. And the cadet fired a few boiling white blasts down into the beaker, the accumulated seed of two or three days. He wasn't going to win, but he had really just come here to play. And what a game this had been.

"Ahhhh!" sighed Kaspar, contentedly. The deep praising cheers of Alan, Bastien, and the other bulls rang through the room while the treasurer wiped off his brow, straightening his sweat-matted golden curls as he buttoned up and headed back to his seat.

"Right! Who's next?" chuckled Alan, walking across to the bench of crates. He flashed his ass at the crowd and raised his arms in a superman pose, and his purple shaft bounced up and down.

The first mate had an exhibitionist side, and it was shining strong tonight under the haze of all that wine. As Steven lay playing two-handed with his cock and taint, Alan sauntered up beside him, and the young sous-chef looked up to see his hairy armpit directly above. He inhaled deeply, and let out a mad shout as a whiff of hot, hormonal sweat hit his nose.

"Fuuuuck, you smell amazing," murmured Steven as Alan manoeuvred his armpit over his face, bathing his nostrils with perspiration. The recruit rolled over on his side and drew back his skin just slightly, exposing a glowing purple spot around his slit, and Bernd watched adoringly through the toy's window as he jerked the spot across its rubber hairs, rapidly mounting his tension.

"Do you want to sniff my balls?" asked Alan.

"Oh, yes... please..."

The bear straddled the head of the bench, pulled Steven's face against his crotch, and started to hump it. Steven excavated his nose hungrily inside the ridges and folds, damp with Alan's man-smell. Electric currents rippled up to his brain and across his dick, his limbs, his heart.

His hand stiffened, moving the contraption more passionately around his head, now fully unsheathed. He was seconds away.

"Huf - huf - haaaaa..." said Steven, almost hyperventilating.

"Pick up your cup!" Mikey blurted.

Just in time, the sous-chef put down the contraption and swapped the glass in, positioning it perfectly just outside the pearly purple end of his manhood. Still breathless and quiet, Steven's body tremored, and the sperm began to flow. Although the pressure of his cumshots was low, there was a huge amount of volume inside him, a week's worth or more of solid seminal buildup, and he didn't miss a single drop.

Alan was watching the gushing cock beside him like a hawk. As he did so, he remained in his place, standing tall like a monolith while he made the final push, fisting his shaft like a piston inside an iron machine. Drops of sweat were flying off his brow, his cheeks blushed up just as brightly as the purple skin on his glans. Steven felt up his balls lightly with both greased hands, returning his earlier favor.

And now Alan was on autopilot, head tilted back at the ceiling while he stroked and strained.

"Ah, shiiiitttt -" he hissed. "I think - I think this is it - fellas -"

Every eye in the room flew to Alan's penis as if held by a magnet. His cremaster clenched up, and the happy growls began to ring out strong and deep from his chest. The mate adjusted his cup in front of his cock just in time for it to start pulsing, blowing out shots of his love juice, small and quick as bullets from a machine gun. Alan screamed and bucked his hips as more pressure came off his swollen balls with every pulse. This was the best orgasm he'd ever felt. Most of the audience stroked themselves while they watched the bear roar and stomp around. Hamish bit his lip, screwing up his face as he fought to keep himself from spraying his load all over the chairs.

Drained at last, the mate waddled to the corner of the room, still shivering while the beautiful aftershocks kept tearing through his soul.

And so the first batch of milk was made. George moved to the table and carefully inspected the thin lines on the cups. He cleared his throat.

"There was some close and friendly competition here - very friendly indeed," announced George. "But one of you did produce the most. Steven, I am pleased to inform you that you have won Round 1, and are hereby awarded a ticket to the Pretty Boys' Ball!"

But before the applause could even begin, the door crashed open again.

A bald, thick-necked man in a French police vest stood in the entrance of the barrel room, tapping his fingers aggressively on the wall. He hardly even seemed to notice that a bunch of the people inside were naked.

"I need somebody to tell me where Valerie Warnock is. Right now, please," barked the man. "She and I need to have a little chat."