Your Day in the Barrel

"Lippincott?" said the doctor gruffly. "Mr. Lippincott?"

"This is he," said Mikey.

"You can come in."

The blond man stood up from the bench, half a dozen other people waiting on it, walking through the hatched door into Dr. David's cramped office. They had reached the Klump shipyard in the small hours of the morning, and now everyone had to have a routine physical before going onshore to meet the new crewmates.

Mikey locked the door and stripped off, standing nude in front of the doctor within ten seconds. David started up the motions immediately, taking his pulse and blood pressure, listening for his heart rate, inspecting his smooth skin and patches of body hair with a flashlight. He stood Mikey on his weighing scale, then stood him down again.

"Clean bill o' health. Welcome to Hamburg," spoke Dr. David, from behind his bushy salt-and-pepper moustache. Then he lowered his voice. "Just one more thing before ya go..."

"What's that?"

David wrapped his lab-coated arm around Mikey, and he whispered, but he whispered very loudly, with emotion.

"So the 'Clump' cadets are comin' on board tonight," he began.

"'Cloomp'," Mikey corrected him. "It's pronounced 'Cloomp'."

"Yeah," said David. "That. All twenty-nine of 'em, mostly young guys with ragin' libidos. And you know a bunch of 'em are gonna head straight for that barrel room, right?"

"Without a doubt," said the twink.

"Well, just in case things start goin' further, I want ya guys to have these."

David reached inside a drawer in his cabinet and pulled down a small metal box, labelled "Protection". The twink looked inside and saw that it contained the stretchy rubber sheaths, the ones that fit so much more pleasantly than the old sheepskins. You could wear one of these and not even notice.

"Wow," said Mikey. "Thanks a lot, David. I'll - I'll have to put them on the shelf downstairs."

"And listen. I really appreciate all the effort you're puttin' into that barrel room," said the doctor. "A mostly safe environment, and a - like an appreciative environment for all. And that new sign you put on the wall, remindin' everyone to get tested... that will keep a lot of us healthy. The whole spirit o' the ship is through the roof because of you guys."

"You don't use the barrel!" Mikey laughed. "How do you even know about that sign?"

"Nah. I - I mean, I heard about it from - from a friend," answered the doctor. "Anyhow. Thank you very much, Mikey. I mean it."

And as Mikey suited up, he was gruff again.

"Now go get my bacon ready."

-------------------

No one chatted today, and no one lusted. There was too much to do.

The crew disembarked, and then Herr Klump walked out of the building ceremoniously, his cadets marching single-file behind him and introducing themselves to the old crew in one-word announcements. "Heinrich." "Rolf." "Otto." "Stephan." None of them were giving signs of being interested, although they drew many a stare from the members of the barrel club.

The businessman gave a brief speech, and then it was straight back to business, Alan tied up in revenue meetings with Klump himself, Bastien and Bjørn and four beefy cadets hauling freight with their own muscles like a herd of elephants, and Mikey preparing for the banquet tomorrow night, before on Friday, at dawn, they set sail.

Below decks, Terry and Sam chatted as they paced around the engine room with rags, scrubbing and oiling the Triton's machinery. In the narrow window, Sam could see a sliver of the sun setting over the buildings of the port, the orange fading into a purple dusk.

"There is going to be a long lineup for that barrel tonight," said Sam, scratching his curly beard. "It's Wednesday, so... errr, hang on, Jason left. Who is Wednesdays now?"

"I am," responded Terry. He lifted his arm to polish some pipes, revealing his soft black armpit hair. "It's only my second time. Handjob in Bergen, remember?"

"Oh... ohhhh, yes, do I remember," Sam fawned. "Keep doing exactly that, me lad."

Terry moved over to the engine block.

"Here, let me finish that," said Sam, taking the rag.

"You'd better get going. They're not going to be late for this. Good luck."

With that, Terry made the short trip down the narrow, timbered hallway and climbed into the old oak cylinder, sitting up to brace his arms behind the glory hole. He still wore his work clothes, soaked down the chest with sweat and stained with mineral oil. There was a tin of the same oil right here in this space, because it was their lube. Terry smeared both his hands in the substance, and then he waited.

Alan was the first to arrive, darting into the warehouse right after dinner in hopes of beating the queue. He undressed, and soon he was sticking his semi-limp shaft through the hole, into the grip of the giver's fingers, and in an instant he was swept up and away.

Terry had a technique. He raised his left hand and firmly clasped it around the base of Alan's cock, then began to massage his right hand over the shaft, groove, and beautiful pink head, streaming with Alan's juices. His boner sprang right up, hot blood pouring into the tissues, sealed inside by the tight ring of Terry's other hand.

As Alan began to pump his hips, Mikey emerged through the doorway behind him, hand in hand with the night's first cadet.

"Relax, Kaspar," the chef was telling him, walking him forward slowly. "We'll let you watch first. We'll let you decide. You don't have to do anything tonight..."

Kaspar would be working in the treasurer's office, on a nine-to-five schedule. Blond and pink, he was a spitting image of Mikey, but with none of the confidence. His dark eyes stood out from his complexion, and they had a nervous, overstressed look. He sat down atop a crate, taking in this whole new realm of sights, lube, and male erotic art, and a box of Protection.

This was Kaspar's first time in the company of other men, and his brain was bogged down with questions.

The mate glanced over his shoulder as he thrusted, and he saw the new arrival. Alan was just about to speak, but he was cut off.

"Hello, Kasp- hnnnnnnnngh..."

Terry had just begun teasing at the long, vertical ridges on Alan's head, rubbing his fingers down them and around his flare and groove in little zigzags. His tip was inflaming before Terry's eyes, going from red to burgundy.

Kaspar laughed nervously. Seated at the front of the room near the hole, he watched Alan flexing his hip bones and muscular rear end against the barrel in a rhythm, like some mythical horned god.

"Fuck, Terry, this is incredible," Alan groaned, between panting breaths.

From time to time the mate's body bent, and the cadet got a glimpse of his pelt of soft, bearish pubic fur, beaded with sweat. Kaspar sat with a blank look on his face, not sure how to arrange his expression. But his dick was responding for him.

"Please, fuck, please... f-f-finish me..."

The left hand gripped the first mate's root even harder, making all of his skin swell and pulsate, and then his right hand tore into action, stroking every crease, firing up every nerve. Kaspar's eyes were on Alan's hairy balls, which rose and tightened, preparing to breed. And now he was fondling a pitched tent of his own.

"Oh, yes, Terry..." whined Alan. "I'm almost... I'm almost... Yeaaarrrrgh!"

Alan's breath seized. With a long, crooked step backward, he pulled himself out and spun around, facing the two observers. And then he was hurtling over the point of no return, and he squeezed his eyes shut and bellowed as he pumped out his manseed, long, narrow and stretchy white shots that seemed to go on forever. Mikey shuffled around with his handkerchief as the first mate came, catching all the seed he could, then wiping the last little bit off his deflated, dripping head.

"Yeaarrrgh..." Alan groaned again. Sweat was soaking his forehead and neck. "You see that, Kaspar? That is what you'll be getting on this ship. Every night, if you want to. And Terry is so good."

The chef gave the cadet's shoulder a gentle pat.

"Ready for your turn?"