Five-Day Liberty

"Here. Suck this and be quiet. And be good," Robert commanded.

Randy did as he was told, and he started to let his hips roll with the fucking the shaykh was giving him. This was what he'd come out this evening to get. And this was kind of neat and arousing. Four guys all to himself. Him sucking one, the royal one cocking him, the black-suited black guy stroking Randy's cock, and the Arab thug playing with his balls.

The limo had come to a stop before the shaykh had ejaculated and Robert had covered Randy's chin and the front of his navy white tunic with his cum.

The four guys sat up and adjusted themselves. The black-suited black guy helped the shaykh put his galabiya over his head, and Robert was already exiting the car.

Randy took the moment when no one was paying attention to him to look out of the windows and reconnoiter. They were dockside in Manama harbor. Much of his view was blocked by a mammoth white yacht taking up a good third of the harbor and docked beside the limo, but Randy could see beyond it out into the outer harbor, where the USS Deringer rocked in the waves. So near and yet a world away.

"You may have him now, if you like, Tego," the shaykh said, as his two thugs helped him out of the back of the limo. Another one, probably the limo driver, an Arab wearing a galabiya, was standing outside the limo, holding the door open. "And if there's anything left of him when you are done, bring him to the ship. He still owes me a blow job—and Mustafa might be amused by him as well."

Randy eyed the black-suited black guy as he stripped his clothes off, folded them neatly, and laid them on one of the jump seats. He handed his pistol to the driver, who took it and closed the door of the limo with an ominous click, leaving Randy and the black thug inside. The thug was a muscle-bound mountain of a man. And he had a big black cock, now in arousal, that put what the shaykh had to shame.

Despite the tenuous situation, Randy melted at the sight of the hunk. This was every bit as good as he had come out for today. There were only a few guys on the ship who cocked him who came anywhere close to what this black thug had.

The thug reached up and released Randy from his handcuffs.

"The shaykh likes it this way, but I like it a little different," he growled. "You make it to the door and out, past me, and I'll let you live. You don't even try, and you're a dead man."

Randy tried. But he didn't make it anywhere close to the door. Randy put up a good fight, just as he knew the black thug wanted him to do, but he lost, just as was OK with Randy. The limo rocked wildly, as the thug picked Randy up and threw him, butt first, into the center of the back seat—and holding his arms out with fists gripping Randy's wrists—forced Randy's thighs apart with his knees and skewered the young sailor's pelvis to the back of the seat with his cock. And he thrust and thrust and thrust, as Randy yodeled to the plush ceiling of the car. Then the limo moved like a wave on the ocean, as the black thug threw Randy to the floor of the vehicle on his belly, held the young navy man's arms pinned to the floor with his fists, and his pelvis pinned to the floor with his cock, and went up on his toes and proved he could do 500 deep-thrust pushups over Randy's body and slam down to the root inside Randy's hole with each downward thrust.

Randy didn't want to reveal it, but he enjoyed every thrust.

Then the thug let Randy put his now-rumpled navy whites back on for the short stroll to the yacht.

"You are good," the thug said. "We'll do this again later, maybe."

"What if I had not pleased you—or the shaykh?" Randy asked.

"You would not be walking to the yacht then," the thug answered simply.

* * * *

The shaykh's yacht motored out of the harbor and within hailing distance of the USS Deringer on its way southeast down the Trucial coast of Saudi Arabia toward the postage stamp-sized emirate that the shaykh could call his own—and where his command was law. Randy didn't see his home ship, however, because he was busy in the shaykh's stateroom, the shaykh on his back in the center of his bed and Randy, his hands tied together at the wrists behind his back, crouched between the shaykh's legs and giving him the slow head that the shaykh had asked for in the Club Emile and not gotten. After that, Randy straddled the shaykh's hips and took a long ride on his cock.

The shaykh had had a boy of his own lounging in the stateroom when the club party had returned, and this lad was none too happy to see the shaykh return with competing entertainment. So, after this one session and to silence the screeching of the jealous catamite, Randy was locked in one of the other cabins, where, through the night, he was visited by, first, Robert, who fucked him in traditional style, and then by the Arab bodyguard, Mustafa, who belabored him cruelly with a riding crop and positions Randy had never even imagined before. Later the black Tego joined them, and Randy was double-teamed the night away.

It had been the night that Randy had dreamed of having, this first night of his five-night shore leave. He hadn't been required to spring for a room—the appointments of the yacht were luxurious beyond his wildest dreams—he'd been well-fed with both food and cock, and he'd been taken in expert and imaginative ways throughout the night.

There were only a few wrinkles. He wasn't his own man at the moment, wasn't even in the country he was supposed to be in anymore. And he was steaming toward a country where the shaykh's word was unfettered law. These were pretty difficult wrinkles, to be sure, but he had three more nights of shore leave to get them ironed out. Randy was the optimistic kind. And he'd led a pretty lucky life until now.

Besides it was nearly dawn and he was still busy. Tego was sitting on his chest and feeding him with his cock, and Mustafa was busy trying to get both his dick and a dildo into Randy's ass.

And Randy was having too good a time to think much about tomorrow.

* * * *

The harem chambers Randy were escorted to after only a couple of hours of sleep were straight out of an Arabian nights' fairy tale and had an excellent view of the shaykh's yacht—and another one that arrived in the late afternoon—riding at anchor in the Persian Gulf, from a belvedere, a covered porch, the only disadvantage of which was the iron latticework designed to keep the harem in and lusty marauders out.

There were only three other guys in residence in the harem, two young Arabs who chattered to each other in Arabic incessantly, and a morose European, who wouldn't even look at Randy, let alone talk to him. Randy had no idea whether he could either speak or understand English, and Randy certainly couldn't speak another language; he'd never seen a reason to try to before now. All three treated Randy like he was temporary, and it pleased Randy to think he was too. He only had three days and two nights left on his leave pass. It would be murder for him if he didn't make it back to the ship on time.

Randy figured there was a women's harem here too, and from what he'd heard about Arabs, it stood to reason that they'd see the importance of producing sons even if their pleasures went in another direction.

He decided he was right, because they could hear the cat fighting from where he was and when he went out into the belvedere, he found there was another one right next to theirs and he could actually get a glimpse of women flitting around in the chamber that led from the belvedere. There seemed to be more in there than in the men's harem.

Randy thought they were being quite neighborly here, because the guards of the male harem included Tego and Mustafa, and Randy didn't have to get anyone else up to speed on entertaining him. Tego and Mustafa weren't shy about asserting their access rights to Randy.

He thought it was really good that the weather was so warm here, because they hadn't let him keep his navy whites. He was virtually naked in just diaphanous harem pants that hid nothing, a skimpy embroidered vest, and thick gold bands on his upper arms, wrists, and ankles.

That evening they came for him. He was taken to a covered pavilion overlooking the water, where a small band was playing weird tunes softly in the background and near-naked boys were passing trays to the shaykh and an older guest—a gray-haired Arabic man, not unattractive of face, who was burly but not exactly fat.

"Dance for them," Tego leaned over and hissed in Randy's ear when they had arrived before where the two men were reclining in a pile of cushions.

"I don't dance," Randy whispered back.

"You will dance tonight, or you won't see the dawn," Tego hissed back.

Randy was in a quandary. Three days from now he had to be climbing back up into the USS Deringer from a tender—or he'd be in a heap of trouble.

So he danced for them. He figured all they wanted to see was him move his body and swing his cock, anyway—and he seemed to be right; the two men seemed to enjoy him a lot, and they talked animatedly between themselves. To Randy's ears, it sounded like they were haggling about something and that the older man was frustrated and getting a little worked up. By the time both Randy's vest and harem pants had been tossed aside, though, the older man was all smiles.

Tego only had time enough to let Randy know he'd been sold to the older man before Randy was being bundled out of the pavilion by a new set of thugs.

The old man's stateroom in his yacht was more utilitarian than the shaykh's was, and the bed was in a corner rather than in the center of the room. There was a mat on the floor in the center of the room and a mean-looking hook in the middle of the ceiling with chains hanging down from it. And Randy soon found out that there were slots in his wrist bands that hooked quite conveniently in the ends of the chains and that, when he was hung from the ceiling, his feet barely touched the floor.

The older Arab had an amazing number of different toys to use on Randy through the night, and his cock was thicker and longer than the shaykh's too, so Randy's second night was just another version of how he had planned to spend the nights of his shore leave—and once again he didn't have to worry about room and board.

Randy thought this second night was great. The older Arab had made him come three times, and the hanging part was interesting and arousing—it was something he'd be unlikely ever to experience on board the ship. So, it was all good—maybe not every night, but as a new experience, it was just fine.

Randy was a seasoned seaman by the time his first cruise reached the Middle East, so he had no trouble, using his powers of observation and the "feel" of the float of the yacht, to determine that they were motoring northwest, back up the Trucial coast toward Bahrain, where they had started from.

* * * *

Bahrain, that playground of the Arab world, had a special beach, called the Shaykh's Beach, where the well connected could swim just like they do on the Riviera. In most places in the Middle East, an Arab man or woman who wanted to go into the ocean was covered nearly from head to foot, for modesty purposes and to keep the local Muslim clerics from separating their heads from their bodies.

If you could get permission to use Shaykh's Beach, though—and it wasn't guarded by anything more than common sense and the desire not to lose one's head—the women could go topless just like they did in Nice—and anyone could go bottomless too, if that was your desire. You could do just about anything you wanted there, actually.

Midafternoon of Randy's third day of shore leave found him lying on a beach towel on Shaykh's Beach, a Speedo at his side, his thighs spread open, and the thugs of the older Arab man who had bought him selling his ass to passing interested men by the minute.

Randy had to admire the way his new owner made his investments work for him.

The arrangement worked pretty well for Randy too. He was learning all sorts of new positions. He'd have Tex experimenting all the way back across the Atlantic.

The trip to the beach worked out well for Randy. There were lots of toys at the beach, and some Arabs who could afford them but had no fucking idea how to operate them.

When the two thugs and the guy who had been working between Randy's thighs had their attention arrested by the collision of two parasailers high in the air and over the water just off the beach, Randy merely struggled up from the towel and walked through what was a pretty crowded day on the beach and up onto the road into Manama. At the edge of the road, he stopped to put the Speedo on that he'd brought with him. He looked back to where he'd been holding court on the beach, and he saw his guards racing around and looking for him, but the numbskulls didn't seem bright enough to figure he'd head straight for the road.

Randy didn't know if Arabs knew anything about thumbing a ride, but he gave it a shot. A van stopped for him, and he saw too late as he approached it that the two guys in the front seat looked entirely too interested in the expanse of body his Speedo didn't cover.

There proved to be two guys in the back too, and they rolled the side door open, pulled Randy into the back of the van, and the four randy Sudanese construction workers worked over Randy's body in succession as the van drove slowly back into Manama.

* * * *

The third night of Randy's "liberty," although he wasn't thinking that word fit too well just now, found Randy in a small room at the back of a club in Manama, flat on his back on the bed, which took up most of the space in the room, and opening his legs to men who paid to get at him. The Sudanese in the van had sold him once again. Randy was amused to think that he was flipping over more transactions on the same piece of goods than a dollar bill moving around in a McDonald's.

Randy didn't mind it all that much. Three nights in a row now, and he was fulfilling dreams and fantasies that he'd conjured up all the way across the Atlantic and around the Horn of Africa. And he'd yet to spend any money on room and board. Of course he no longer had either his navy whites or the money he'd come with—but he still remembered his ATM number, and all he had to do was get to a banking machine and he'd have plenty of money to draw on. He'd have to think about those navy whites, though. He could hardly return to ship in what little or nothing he'd had to wear during the first half of his leave.

The guys who fucked him—mostly Arabs, of course—all had different techniques and fetishes, and he found the experience kind of interesting. Variety was the spice of life, he kept telling himself.

He didn't think too much about how he was going to get from here to the ship at the end of his leave, but he decided not to worry about that. He'd already been taken out of the country and returned the next day, all without him having to do anything or to even worry about it. So, he had faith it would work out.

And early in the night it began, miraculously, to start working out for him.

The first evidence of this was when he looked up and found that his next customer was the European-style guy he'd seen that first night in the Club Emile and had decided he'd maybe like to have ball him.

And here he was, willing to pay to do just that. And he'd paid for an hour and a half of Randy's time, because he said he'd remembered seeing Randy and wanting to have him, and he liked to fuck real slow.

And that's how they did it. Randy gave him slow head to start with, bringing him all the way to ejaculation. And then, while the European guy was reloading and getting into the mood again, he massaged Randy's body and tongued him, all the way down to Randy's asshole, where he worked inside Randy's entrance and stroked his cock until Randy had come as well.

Early in the foreplay, the European let Randy know they were in the back rooms of the Club Emile, and Randy laughed at the irony that not only was he back in Bahrain but also back at the club from which he'd first been kidnapped.

Forty-five minutes into the session, when the European had just started fucking him, yet another fortuitous occurrence walked into Randy's lucky life.

He heard a voice out in the corridor that he recognized. The cocksmen on the USS Deringer liked to cruise ports in a pack. Chuck, an E-2, was the most forward of that lot. He was the first to head for the back rooms of a club to get a fuck. Randy heard him in the hall and knew this meant that other guys he'd fucked with on the ship, including his own bunk and fuckmate, Tex Collins, were probably in the club.

"Do you have some place we can really fuck?" he whispered to the European. "Some place less depressing than this? You could fuck me tonight and tomorrow night too—for free, for nothing more than a roof over my head and some food and beer if you have some place and will take me there now."

"I have a flat, yes. Just me. And I'd be delighted. But I know how it works here. We can't just walk out. You are money to these people."

"If I'm right, we can walk out, yes," Randy said. "And we should be able to get at least to the club floor easily. They think you're in here for another half hour. They won't be looking for you—or both of us—to be walking out."

The backroom guards did see Randy and the European leaving when they got close to the beaded curtain separating the back rooms from the club floor, but the two were out on the floor well before the guards got to the beaded curtain.

And Randy was living under a lucky star, because five of his burly USS Deringer shipmates were at the bar, in a group, and had already established a "don't fuck with us" zone.

"Hey, Tex," Randy called from across the floor. "Look what I got."

"The Frenchie looks good on ya," Tex yelled back, "but what is it with the Arabic nightshirt?"

"Long story, and I doubt you'd believe it if I told you," Randy answered as he and the European he had in tow reached the perimeter the sailors had set at the bar. "And long story short," he continued as he turned and saw the backroom goons approaching, "See those thugs walkin' on us? Me and this guy here need to get out of the club and away from them. Need your help."

"Sure thing," Tex responded. He had the other sailors formed into a wedge, with Randy and his friend in the center, in no time, and they had no trouble getting out of the club and past all forms of security.

In the covered parking garage, standing beside the European's Mercedes, Tex said he and the guys had to go back in the club. "Chuck's in there, and if he likes what he sees in back, the rest of us are going to dip too. We only got this one more night of shore leave, and we're gonna make the most of it. You goin' back to the ship now?"

"Nope. I got a date," Randy answered and he gave Tex a wink. "One thing you can do for me, though."

"Sure thing," said Tex.

"What's your address, stud?" Randy turned and addressed the European lounging against his Mercedes' fender. "Can you write it down for my friend here? And, Tex, I need a new set of navy whites to return to the ship in—no, don't ask; if you're good to me on ship, I'll tell you about it—could you bring a set of mine to this guy's apartment?"

"Sure. In the morning?"

"Yeah, if you can't be away from the ship longer—but I'll be there tomorrow night too—if I don't fuck up the hospitality."

"Boy, you know how to get the most out of a five-day liberty pass, don't cha?" Tex said, and he laughed. "Nice stud you got there. He should give you a good ride. And it only took you four days to land him."

"Piece of cake," Randy answered. "You have no idea what a ride these four days have been."