Your Day in the Barrel

So far, Alan and Mikey might have seemed to you like perfect human beings - perhaps too perfect to be entirely believable.

But this was not the case. They had one flaw. And they showed it in Lisbon.

The moment the Triton's horn blew, the dockers stamped down the gangway, and soon they were readying the containers onto their pallets, one filled with a thousand tennis rackets, another a thousand soccer jerseys. This gear was bound for the city center, where Tiago Vieira had been kind enough to secure them a few audience seats in tonight's round of his very own bodybuilding competition. Too often, he played to an empty house.

Bringing Vieira Athletics on as a client had been Herr Klump's personal decision. It was no major secret that Tiago was himself a member of the "lavender community", and his competitions were a safe place for queer athletes of all stripes. Throughout the continent they were advertised in the underground monthly papers, with the better ones even featuring grainy photos of beefcakes, clad in bulky boots and branded leather shorts.

As eight o'clock rolled around, a group of these beefcakes took their places on the stage of the hotel's dim ballroom just as the sailors made their way in and sat down at Tiago's front-and-center table. Mikey made sure to get the spot just beside the guest of honor.

"Hey, buttercup," sang the chef, his satin shirt sparkling and his hair teased high by a thick layer of mousse. Tiago smiled and shook his hand, but turned away, welcoming in Alan as he sat at his other side. Then he shifted, facing the stage.

In quiet Portuguese an emcee spoke, while the stagehands wheeled in the gargantuan barbells that were the night's main challenge. Then the spotlights turned down, illuminating the line of four macho bodies in all their glory.

"No way. No damn way," said Stephan, looking at the front of the line. Bernd saw him, and his jaw also dropped.

"It's Magnus Muster!" he exclaimed.

Alan shrugged. "Who?"

"I'm sorry. 'Who'?!" shouted Kaspar, outraged. "Only Berlin's most famous weightlifter of all time! I thought he retired way back before the war!"

"Oh, yes," said Tiago, brushing aside his pitch-black bangs. "Old Muster's always loved to show off. With all the wild arts and performances going on in the Weimar, he probably figured it was time for a second act."

"And, fuck, is he ever good at it," said Steven, practically drooling while this man stepped to center stage. Alan knew nothing of him, but soon he was just as raptured as those who did. He put him at six-foot-five, with about 330 pounds of sculpted, iron-hard flesh, even paler than Mikey's. His brown hair was tinged here and there with blond, and clipped short. A narrow pencil moustache and soul patch sat on his face, and inside his nose, as big around as an orange, glinted a steel ring.

Magnus grimaced, hoisted the weights one by one into the air, and revolved his beastly body around for all to see. He thrusted his left biceps above his head, then his right, repeating the motion ten times over. Sweat poured out of every pore on his body, turning his neck and chest into wet muddles of pink. And he grunted, roaring low as he flexed in all directions.

Tiago strained in his chair. He uncrossed his legs.

"Can you lads please shift out a bit?" he asked Alan. "For some reason my pants are getting really uncomfortable..."

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"I've never seen anyone so proud to finish second-last," smirked Kaspar.

Finally the curtain was down. Tonight's other three strongmen were all Lisbon locals, and they had captured the gold and silver and quickly parted ways. The Berliner, however, hung back to gloat, bowing to the sailors with his bronze medal dangling from his arm. Tiago flagged the bartender down, ordering him a nightcap on the house while Mikey gazed once more into his deep hazel eyes. Three empty steins sat before them, one tipped over.

"Well, thank you kindly, sssir, for treating us to that brilliant display," said Mikey, batting his lashes. "We are all duly impressed."

"Likewise," said Tiago, and patted him on the back. The blond leaned in with a puckered mouth, but he pulled away.

"No thanks."

Mikey pouted.

"Might have better luck with him, though," he added, motioning behind his head. Magnus was standing propped against the railing, downing his beer and staring Alan and Mikey over from head to toe with that tell-tale look of sensual hunger in his eyes.

The two senior officers turned, seeing him clearer than ever, and what a sight he was. Tangled brown-gold fur frosted his pectorals and armpits, and a dense happy-trail pointed down the seam of his washboard abs, still shiny with sweat.

Alan swigged back his remaining half-mug of beer and burped heartily. And Magnus burped back, looping one bulky arm around the mate's sideburned head. Quite often this was how Alan flirted, and he had the highest success rate of the crew.

"You are all spending the night in Lissa-bon, no?" asked the weightlifter, in what was more of a rumble than a voice.

"We are," Alan replied, a slight slur in his words. "Still more clients in the morning."

A conspiring grin crossed his strong jaw. He slouched his neck down and pulled Mikey in close.

"Would you fine fellows perhaps like to spend it somewhere a little nicer than your cabins?"

Mikey hesitated.

"Come on upstairs with me. Bitte," urged the weightlifter. "I just love a sailor-man. Or two."

"Wait!" said Bernd, waving from across the table. "What about us? Can't we join in?"

"So sorry, Herren," said Magnus, chin held high. "I am simply not attracted to... average folk like yourselves."

Dejected, Bernd growled, and a furrow of guilt came over Mikey's face. "Hey, that's not fair -" he began telling Magnus, but the delectable arm thumped his shoulder blade, its swollen veins bulging.

"Do you want to stay with me or not?" rumbled the voice. Alan wrestled with his instincts for all he was worth. But he couldn't just say no to this.

"Thank you - thank you kindly, Magnus," intoned the first mate. "Steven, please - please guide the others back aboard. I promise, we will make it up to you later."

Steven pounded his hand on the table.

"And tonight was our big poker game, too!"

"I'm sorry," Mikey whispered, and as the bartender arrived, he busied himself in conversation. At last, resigned, Steven shuffled away.

"Lissa-bon!" roared Magnus, raising his glass for the final gulp. Tiago, Alan, and Mikey clinked back, and he rose from his chair.

"Room 676," he said to the sailors. "Please get there fast."

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The door accordioned open, and the two men shuffled down the carpeted hall to the sixth-floor suite. Sweeping bay windows revealed a magnificent view of the city spread out below, a dark blue maze of cliffs rattling with cable-car lines.

An immense four-poster bed sat in the center of the room, its curtains drawn apart. Magnus was sprawled on his back on the velvet outer bedspread, barefoot, but still clad in all his other gear. Across from him the head chef sat down in a plush chair near the bed, making small talk. Alan scratched at his capped head, still loaded with the residue of salt and the grime of the day.

"Do you mind if I take a shower here?" asked Alan.

"Sure. But please, no soap," said Magnus. "I need to smell you."

"Always the best choice," Mikey remarked, from a plush chair near the bed. "A man smells absolutely amazing."

Magnus roared with laughter. "Yeah," he replied, breathing in. "I was lifting with Bjørn a couple months ago, and couldn't get anything done because it felt like I was in a perfumery -"

"Bjørn Olufsen?" exclaimed the blond. "We've met before!"

"Yes! Helsinki tag team competition partners, last November -"

And immediately they launched into a thousand fond reminiscences of their mutual friend, most involving his dick and its unique machinery. For ten minutes they rambled on, drunk and blissful, until at last the running water ceased in the bathroom.

"You know, maybe I'll jump in too," commented Mikey. "I've got far too much mousse on."

As he stood up, Alan emerged through the bathroom doorway, a hand towel draped over his shoulder. Magnus looked over, and now it was his turn to be raptured. His heart began to patter, his cheeks flushing dark, while he hunted his eyes around the big, strapping body of the sailor-bear. Alan's nipples and the head of his semi were glowing, standing out among all that hair of his, like three shining red beacons. He came to the four-poster, and the athlete reached his hand out and caressed him on those sensitive spots, beginning their foreplay.

"Ach... I need to bust so bad," Magnus groaned, patting the seat of his leathered crotch. Alan could see how hard the bulge was.

"I think you've come to the right place," he chuckled. Without delay, he began to lower the athlete's waistband. His happy-trail expanded out of the fabric, followed by a plenteous mat of pubic hair. The leather resisted for a moment while Alan kept pulling, caught up on the hard lever inside. A stretch and a quick jerk, and finally it sprang free.

Alan tried not to ogle. It was no use. This man was an easy nine inches, and even thicker than Bjørn. The base of his shaft was very meaty, and under it sat a patch of loose skin, forming a bridge that led down to his low-hanging balls, which were like pasty pink plums.

The mate's mind reeled as he climbed up on the bed. This was the true superman. And Magnus purred with lust, thinking the exact same thing. He opened his enormous arms and cradled the sailor, and soon his lips were squished against Alan's, that cold nose ring bobbing back and forth. They shifted their chests around, each feeling the thick pelt of fur of the other, a pair of alpha bulls finding their perfect match.

"So what do you like to do?" asked Magnus, muffled behind two tongues.

"We give head," replied the mate. "Mikey and I are the best cocksuckers on our ship. Do ye want to give it a try?"

"Hnnnnnngh... aye, aye, captain."

"Soon enough," Alan remarked. Pointing his legs out toward the window, he stretched his upper body upside-down over the sprawled form, homing his mouth in. Slowly he descended the weightlifter's body, licking his nipples, his belly-button, and smooching down along the happy-trail to his target. Magnus's cock was draped in a loose, thick turtleneck, like elephant skin. Alan kissed its puckered slit and drove his tongue inside. Lower and lower he sank, until he had it captured inside his mouth, blowing it for all he was worth.

From the bathroom came the sound of a flicking towel, and the door creaked open. Mikey was done his shower. He pranced up to the bed, and Magnus's heartbeat grew faster still, his eyes greeted with this new treat.

"You can play with my nuts," said the rumbling voice to Mikey. "They have incredible sensation."

Sliding up on the foot of the bed, he drew in beneath the huge sack. No doubt, Magnus had sweated hard tonight, but by now the water had evaporated, leaving a spicy, hormonal paste behind on the skin. Mikey took a sniff, and it was as if the hotel room had dissolved. Spots flashed and flickered behind his eyes.

He gripped the left nut and began to spin it lightly between his palms, rolling back and forth. Its flesh was surprisingly soft, giving way easily to the twink's touch. Then he repeated the motion on the right nut, and on both together. He smiled as he stared at Magnus's butthole, watching his core tremble with anticipation as he lay panting on the bed, grunting like a wild boar.

The rhythmic slurping of Alan's mouth continued from above. It sounded like fun to Mikey, and he joined in. The alpha bull's pheromones packed his nostrils as he flapped his tongue against the sack on all sides, cleaning away every drop of its sweat and leaving it fresh and slimy. His brain had gone blank. These balls, these swollen, desperate balls, were all that remained in his world.

"Bbb-bphllllk." A soft gargle escaped Alan's throat, and he pulled up and away. While he had plenty of experience servicing cocks of all sizes, this one simply wouldn't fit any longer.

"Let's switch places," said Mikey. With hardly a pause at all, he and Alan rearranged themselves around Magnus, who puffed air through his crimson cheeks as the first mate's hands tugged at his nuts and the chef shifted his head and neck around, determined to fit that pulsing ramrod inside.

A shaft this big took true concentration. Mikey brushed his tongue to the side and let his soft back palate do some of the work, fitted against the bulging glans like a fleshlight while he bobbed rapidly up and down.

And now Magnus was quaking, his nose ring creaking underneath droning breaths that didn't stop getting louder.

"Finish me! Hnnnnngh!"

Alan pinched his hand tight around the bull's balls. He had his masterstroke ready to go.

"On three, Al," said Mikey through his obstructed mouth. "One... two... three..."

The blond tensed his sucking and waterfalled his tongue around the bull's shaft, just as Alan gave his nuts a hearty, wet lick. He bawled, kicking his feet wildly against the mattress. The base of Magnus's cock spasmed as if it had been hit by lightning, hot juices flowing up inside it right under Alan's fingertips. And then the juices erupted, blazing into Mikey's mouth, shot after shot after precious shot of fresh alpha seed.

The load was as thick and lush as cake batter, yet still just as huge as those of the Triton's milking champions. Mikey gargled it, maniacally rolling his eyes and tongue around. He pulled Alan under his arm, and the sailors kissed passionately, sharing the flavor of the weightlifter's seed, its texture, its divine taste.

They were eager for more fun, but already the strongman was spent. He lay spread-eagled, letting out yawns that sounded like the song of a whale. Alan handed him a towel to wipe off, and then he lifted the covers and tucked himself into bed. On opposite sides of his heaving body the sailors joined him, settling into his arms of steel.

Just as they began to drift off, Magnus rolled over on his side. Mikey caught vague sight of the tattoos on his upper back. There was a red rose, an Egyptian ankh, and several stars. And one which, except for a letter "A" marked above it, was identical to Steven's. Oh, crud, not that tattoo. Not now...

As the uncomfortable pang lashed him, Magnus pulled Mikey's arms around himself, grinding them into his six-pack and pubes. His mind cleared.

It was all worth it.

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The three men in the bed woke up at almost the same time, listening to the squawking of seagulls and crows on the terraced hills far below. The dawn was breaking, and the Triton would soon have to move on.

Two little pressures stirred at Magnus's legs, and he drew back the sheets and saw a spirited pair of boners pushing in against them, long, stiff and tender under the effect of their morning wood. A light, pungent smell was filling the room, that smell of bodies waking up rested and refreshed.

With a soft touch, Magnus began to fondle Alan's nuts. The mate opened an eye, nodding in contentment while his cut mushroom swayed and pointed straight up into the air. The big man licked his palm and spiralled it around the bear's head and shaft, applying a firm clench. Alan's breathing quickened. His hips bent up, and then they were thrusting up and down as he vigorously fucked the warm, moist shell of Magnus's hand.

Immediately he set up his other fist the same way. Mikey slipped himself in, and soon Magnus was stimulating both shafts in the same motion he'd done hours before on those weights, pumping and flexing in a rhythm that ever so gradually grew faster, a firm rhythm of love.

It was Alan who came to his brink first. Expertly, the bodybuilder slowed the pace of his left fist, edging the first mate just firmly enough to keep the moans going, while he accelerated the pumping of his right. He drooled warm liquid over Mikey's dry tip, once again making it slick to the touch, and the twink let out hisses of pleasure. And harder he moved both his fists - harder - harder still -

The clouds broke suddenly over Lisbon, and the morning sunlight poured into Alan's and Mikey's eyes as the beautiful feeling of their simultaneous orgasm swept across them. Magnus rotated the two cocks inwards over his chest just as they sprayed, coating his skin from neck to belly in a double layer of juice. Mikey's watery, fruity-smelling essence fitted into the gaps between Alan's white ropes, and on and on went the flows, until at last the sailors collapsed atop the muscleman, heaving and happy.

Their happiness was still radiating off them while they all cleaned up. Magnus headed for the shower, putting on his coat as he returned.

"Um... where are we going?" asked Alan.

"Breakfast," he replied. "I've got to have my egg tarts."