International Manwhore – Part 12

Everyone in this story is 18+

The dock at St. Tropez buzzed with mid-afternoon chaos—yacht crews shouting in French, seagulls diving for discarded croissants, and the distant thrum of a helicopter ferrying some oligarch's entourage to shore. I leaned against a weathered piling, waiting for the courier, the salt air sticking to my skin like a bad decision. The Amazon box arrived via a sunburned kid on a Vespa, who thrust it into my hands with a shrug and sped off without a word. Plain brown wrapper, no frills, but the weight of it felt like judgment.

As I tucked it under my arm and headed back toward the yacht, my mind replayed that satellite call with Leona two nights back. I'd paced the deck under a canopy of stars, voice pitched low to avoid Hunter's eavesdropping. "I railed Marcus until he was a puddle," I'd argued, trying to sound cocky. "Adrien won't want to flip if I deliver that level of performance. Trust me—I'll leave him boneless." Leona's had been sharp as usual, like cracking ice. "Vers means he plays both sides, Tucker. Boredom is your enemy. You prepare, or you fail." I'd pushed back, hard, until she relented with a sigh. "Fine. Solo practice only. But if he turns the tables, don't you dare hesitate. I'll overnight the kit." The call ended, and here I was, dodging the inevitable.

I spotted Asher first—lounging on the upper deck in his signature crisp linen, green eyes scanning a tablet like he was dissecting state secrets, and I veered hard left, pretending to inspect a mooring line. Hunter was worse: blasting EDM from a portable speaker while he struck poses in Versace shorts that left nothing to the imagination, his gold lion necklace swinging like a hypnotist's pendant. "Bry-Bry! Come join the vibe check!" he yelled, but I waved vaguely and slipped below deck, heart pounding like I'd just evaded border patrol.

The cabin door snicked shut behind me, and I exhaled, the space feeling smaller than usual—polished teak walls closing in, the faint sway of the yacht a constant reminder of open water and no escape. I dropped the box on the bed and peeled it open, black tissue rustling like whispers. Inside: a treasure trove of intimidation. Four rose-gold plugs lined up in velvet slots, each thicker than the last; two silicone dildos (one veined and modest, the other girthy with a suction base that screamed commitment); a slim vibrator curved like a question mark; a fat bottle of lube that promised endless glide.

I locked the door, dimmed the lights to a single lamp's glow, and stripped down. The mirror across the room caught my reflection—toned chest rising and falling, skin flushed from the sun and nerves. I propped the laptop on the nightstand, needing a spark to start. Straight fare first: a clip of a brunette with endless legs, arching under some faceless guy's hands. It did the trick—blood surged south, my length thickening against my thigh as I watched her writhe. Good old, familiar territory.

I started easy: the smallest plug, cool and smooth in my palm. I squeezed lube until it dripped between my fingers, the clear gel warming as I spread it over the metal, then reached back. On my knees, face pressed to the sheets that smelled of fresh laundry and sea salt, I circled the tip against my virgin hole, teasing the tight ring until it yielded just a fraction. A deep breath, then push—slow, insistent. The narrow shaft slid in with a faint resistance, the flare popping past the muscle to nestle snug. Fullness bloomed immediately, a strange pressure that made every inhale feel amplified, like my body was recalibrating around this intruder. I shifted my weight, hips tilting, and felt the subtle nudge inside. Not overwhelming, just... present. I wrapped a hand around my hard shaft, stroking lazy while the girl on screen gasped. The dual sensation built steadily, my pace quickening until I spilled over my knuckles, body clenching around the toy in a way that dragged the peak longer than usual.

Breath steadying, I eased it out—empty now, oddly hollow—and set it aside, wiping down with a towel. The brunette clip looped, but curiosity tugged. I switched tabs: a raw amateur scene, two lean twinks in a sunlit bedroom. One pinned face-down, the other driving in from behind with fluid rolls of his hips. I waited for deflation. Instead, my length stayed rigid, a sharp jump when the receiver arched and pushed back. Heat prickled across my chest. I grabbed the next plug—medium, curved this time.

More lube, generous this time, fingers slipping as I worked it against myself. The wider base demanded patience: I bore down, exhaling long, feeling the stretch widen me inch by inch until it seated with a final, satisfying sink. This one pressed deeper, the angle grazing something that sent a jolt straight through my core, making my toes flex against the sheets. I flipped onto my back, knees bent, and tested a rock of my hips. The pressure intensified, a building throb that synced with my heartbeat. Hand back on myself, I stroked firmer now, eyes glued to the screen where the twunk flipped his partner, legs hooked over shoulders, bodies slamming together in a rhythm that echoed my own motions. The toy shifted with each tug, amplifying everything until I erupted in heavy arcs across my stomach, muscles fluttering around the metal like they were trying to keep it forever.

Sweat cooled on my skin as I removed it, the absence leaving a faint ache. The gay clip played on, the receiver's face twisting in raw pleasure, and I felt another stir—undeniable, insistent. No backing out now. I snatched the vibrator next, slim and buzzing when I thumbed the switch to low. Lube again, then insertion: easier this time, the hum vibrating through me as it curved right to that spot. My length leaped, beads of fluid welling at the tip. I cranked the speed, hips lifting off the bed as the vibrations rattled my insides, every nerve firing in chaotic bursts. Hand flying, I chased the edge, the twinks on screen blurring into pure motion—thrusts, grips, sweat-slicked skin. I peaked hard, jets striping my chest, the toy's buzz dragging it out until I was trembling, oversensitive.

Last: the girthy dildo, suctioned to the headboard for leverage. Fingers first—two, then three, scissoring to open myself wider, the intrusion turning from burn to crave. I positioned on all fours, backing onto it slow, the veined length filling me stretch by stretch until my ass met the base. The depth was staggering, every vein dragging as I rocked forward and back. On screen, the twinks switched, the receiver now driving, and I mirrored the frenzy—slamming back, hand blurring over my shaft. The fullness consumed me, pressure tighter until it snapped, seed spraying the sheets in forceful bursts that left me gasping, collapsed forward with the toy still buried deep.

I eased off eventually, body spent, the cabin air thick with salt and exertion. The laptop screen glowed softly, the clip frozen on tangled limbs.

I am definitely still straight, I reminded myself for some reason, even as my spent length gave one last twitch at the thought.

Two nights until The Apollo. Ninety-eight percent sure I could top Adrien senseless and skip the switch. That lingering two percent?

No point in going there. I got this.