Your Day in the Barrel

Not far south of Bordeaux lay Biarritz, and it was in Biarritz where the winter became the spring. A fresh mist of promise was on the air as the Triton steamed into the wharf. Resort houses gleamed in the pink dawn along the beach beyond.

Klump had been hiring quite a few security guards lately, and here, they were taking Raoul on for the job. Just twenty years old, he was already formidably powerful, with washboard abs and cannon-like forearms that had impressed in the ancient strongman competitions of the Basque Country. This was his very first sea voyage.

Alan met him on deck with a warm handshake and gave him a tour of his cabin, his command posts, and all the common areas. Cadets waved at Raoul from armchairs, introducing themselves. He drew many a stare as they gazed upon him.

Eventually their tour came to a stop outside the bridge. Raoul spoke up.

"I have an... ahem... personal question, sir."

"Fire away," said Alan.

"I can't help but notice that there are no women on this ship," he replied hesitantly. "And we're at sea for weeks at a time, aren't we? What do you all do when you have to... blow off some steam?"

The first mate grinned from ear to ear. He wrapped his arm protectively around Raoul's shoulders. His eyes met the guard's steely grey ones, glowing with the look of a friendly pirate.

"Listen here, me young rapscallion," said Alan sweetly. "All the lads go through this, and we're all here to help out. If you feel the urge starting to get at ye, go through that hatch around eight o'clock any night." He pointed.

"Climb down to the bottom stern and ye'll find a barrel with a hole in it. Kinda hard to miss - there's a theater goin' on around it now. Then just stick yer dick in and start thrustin', and you'll feel better. I promise. Oh - and David cleared you medically already, right?"

Raoul nodded.

"Attaboy," said Alan. "Welcome aboard."

The image loomed in Raoul's mind throughout the day. Indeed, it had been some time since he'd had any women around. A semi was stirring in his black britches. When eight o'clock arrived, he headed straight downstairs. A few of the cadets were settling already into what must have been the viewing area, and in the other corner of the room was haphazardly thrown a red apron.

Raoul peered at the hole in the oak for a few moments. Skeptically, he unbuttoned his britches and pulled out his brown, eight-inch member. With difficulty he pushed himself into the hole, dabbing on lots of lube to make it fit.

A quake of pleasure hit Raoul instantly as a pair of lips pulled his foreskin back and closed around his cock head. Then another quake shook him, and a third, and the cadet's breath was accelerating by the second while the lips captured his shaft, taking it in inch by inch with short, squeezing hops.

He made quite a bit of pre-fluid, and the mouth harnessed the clear, viscous drips, mixing them in with mineral oil and spit to create a thick lush blend which he spread across the skin. Raoul was grunting. This man - this mouth - had techniques beyond what he could have even dreamed of.

"Yeah, he's the best, isn't he?" murmured Calum from behind. "He's had quite a bit of practice..."

The strapping young lad was climbing fast, his grunts loudening and his face breaking into a wild, primal snarl, blushing and sweaty. His hips and abs were thudding against the barrel as he face-fucked that mouth with all his might. It slurped around on the walls of his cock, spinning it like a rolling pin, still wet and tight under the suction of the blowjob. The tongue pierced into his flare's groove with stabbing motions, while the left lip excited his head and the right one his shaft. Those lips - were they moisturized?

Some seconds more, and Raoul's grunts broke into short bawls, and the mouth went berserk, drilling all around the flesh of his prick head while it began to pulse. Raoul sprayed out a hearty, creamy fountain, and he heard the throat swallowing beneath.

He wiped his brow and gave a panting sigh. His libido was vaporized - gone. Just as he wiped himself off, Alan stepped through the door, ready for a session of his own.

"Well, sir, I am definitely doing that again," said Raoul to him, breathless.

"As I said, eight o'clock," Alan replied, "any night of the week. Except for Monday."

"Monday? How come?"

"Because Monday is your day in the barrel," replied the audience, in unison.

They all roared with spirit and patted Raoul on the back as he strode out of the room, a new spring in his step.

Alan turned to them, and winked.

"Still got it, folks," he said.