Cruise cocktail

by BRK   

For a guy on a deluxe, all-expenses-paid gay cruise, Carter is a little grumpy. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he’s having trouble fitting into his briefs thanks to a certain shipboard perk he hadn’t known about ahead of time.

The polite triple knock—rap-rap-rap—came precisely at eight o’clock, just as it had for the last four days, and Carter gave the stateroom door a dirty look. Irritably, he tossed his inadequate pair of clean, folded, aqua-blue stretchy-briefs he’d been staring at back into the bureau drawer and, flapping the heavy sage-green ship-supplied bathrobe closed around his nakedness, he stalked over to the cabin door and yanked it open before the knocking started again.

A cheerful, fit young man in a crisp white short-sleeves-and-shorts uniform stood on the other side. “Good morning, Mister Barron!” the perky crewman enthused, dazzling him with a sunny smile that Carter thought was a little too much to take this early in the morning. “My name is George. Happy Thursday!”

Carter eyed him warily, making sure he was standing just out of the other man’s reach. “Good—” he started to say.

Before he could get the full greeting out, George had whipped his arm up and shot him what looked like a compact, high-tech pistol. With a tiny thwip the dart smacked right into his exposed neck, sending its troublesome payload directly into Carter’s jugular.

He gasped. “Damn it!” he roared, glaring at the happy young man as he scrabbled at his neck. He yanked out the dart, but it was already too late—he could feel the rush of heat and the subtle, full-body tingling he’d already learned to associate with a certain fiendish concoction he’d already been subjected to four times—once a day for the whole duration of this rather unique cruise. He’d been reluctant to go in the first place, but this…

Hell’s hairy armpit. He’d totally prepared himself for the patch they’d slapped on him yesterday, after he’d gotten wise to the complementary bloody marys he’d had the first two mornings. The patch-slap, he’d been ready for. A dart gun was damned dirty pool. “For fuck’s sake,” he growled at the other man, his Carolina drawl thickening as his annoyance increased. “I already told you fuckers—”

“Language!” George sang, his smile not losing the slightest bit of wattage as he swiftly repocketed the dart gun and clasped his hands behind his back.

Damn it, he was right—not cursing at the crew was in the cruise agreement. Carter bit back a retort and reined himself in with an effort. He could feel the stuff working, which only made him want to shout that much louder, but he knew that wouldn’t get him anywhere with these people. “Look,” he ground out, ignoring the flush of pleasure working its way through his muscles and junk as they experienced the serum’s effects, “I already told you guys I don’t want any more of that stuff. Not that I don’t appreciate your—services, but I don’t need—”

“It’s fully paid for, Mr. Barron,” chirped the young crewman merrily, rocking on his heels. “All part of the deluxe package you ordered!”

Carter gritted his teeth. “I didn’t order it,” he said, for at least the fifth time. “This whole thing was a gift.” And when he got back to the assembly line he would have a few choice words for his awesome but clueless shift-mates about the difference between the deluxe-package gay Hawaiian cruise they thought they’d gotten him as a funny gift for his ten-year anniversary driving rivets into fancy passenger airplanes and the deluxe-package body-mod gay Hawaiian cruise he’d somehow actually ended up on instead.

George was unfazed. “It’s our pleasure and duty to deliver all paid-for services, Mr. Barron!” the young man burbled, still smiling brightly. “It’s not just our contractual obligation, it’s our pride and privilege!”

Frustrated, Carter threw open his robe. “Look at me!” he demanded, holding it open so the other man could get a good look.

George dutifully cast his gaze efficiently down Carter’s thus-exposed body, clearly taking in his impressively enhanced muscles, slowly proliferating body hair, and bulky, disproportionately huge junk. “Seems to be working perfectly, Mr. Barron!” he told Carter, beaming. “I know I’d be pleased!”

“I can’t put on any underwear!!” Carter bellowed, half exasperated, half pleading for the other man to understand. “I mean—no shirts, no pants, I get it, it’s a cruise, but—! Underwear!”

After a couple seconds of George just blinking at him, grin still on at full blast, Carter decided a demonstration was in order. He stomped back to the bureau he’d been standing at when the knock on his door had come, returning a second later with the stretchy aqua-blue briefs he’d been frowning at before he was interrupted with the latest escalation of his problem. Balancing easily on his left foot with the robe hanging open around him, he slipped his big, bare right foot through the leg opening on one side, then switched and put the other foot through. He pulled the briefs up over his enhanced thighs with a bit of effort, the fabric stretchy to accommodate his newly brawnier legs. That wasn’t the problem, Carter knew—at least not yet. It was what came next that showed how much things had gotten out of hand.

He pulled up the back of the briefs first so that the fabric was already pulled tight over his firm muscle ass, then got to work in front. First he drew the generous pouch over his fist-sized balls, letting the wrist-thick length of his dick flop one way and other as he tried stuffing his massive nuts into the briefs. He had to bounce the briefs a few times for the big balls to feel fully seated in the meager fabric, each ball threatening the spill out the leg on either side at the slightest opportunity. Then he tried pushing his cock in, shoving its bulk down in front of his heavy balls, but the introduction of that much new mass disturbed the equilibrium and his balls started trying to escape. He kept bouncing the briefs with one hand and using the other to shove, push, and stuff, but as soon as he got one massive testicle in and situated with his oversized space-hogging phallus the other slipped out. And if he did get all three components into the pouch its inadequacy was laid bare, hairy nuts exposed in each leg hole and the elastic pulled down from his waist like he was trying to shoplift a cantaloupe in his gayboy briefs, or maybe an aardvark.

After a few minutes of this he glared up at George, one hand on the waistband of the briefs, the other gesturing toward his crotch in a sarcastic “uh, hello” fashion. They stood there in tableau for a long moment, Carter glowering at George while George smiled inanely at Carter’s oversized, insufficiently brief-embraced junk.

Carter’s left nut silently plopped out of the briefs.

George looked up at Carter, still smiling, eyebrows raised slightly. “The shops on the Promenade deck offer a wide array of apparel for your—” he began, but Carter cut him off.

“In order to go down to the shops,” Carter said through gritted teeth, “I would have to be able to put on clothes.”

Unexpectedly, at this George actually seemed to brighten, something Carter would have sworn was impossible. “You’re in luck, Mr. Barron!” he said, his excitement at finding a new perk for his guest obvious. “Today is Naked Thursday! All passenger areas of the ship are clothing optional all day! You don’t even need to carry a room key—all the VIP staterooms are thumbprint accessible!” This last was accompanied by a nod at the combined thumbprint scanner/swipe lock Carter knew was positioned to the left of the door.

Carter stared coldly at the crewman. Just then his other billiard-ball-sized nut fell out of his briefs, leaving the pouch completely full of his cumbersome, too-long-for-one-hand, too-big-to-reach-his-fingers-around, just too-fuckin’-big cock.

“Anything else I can do for you this morning, Mr. Barron?” George asked innocently, bouncing up on his toes briefly like his inner exuberance was just too much to keep in.

Carter narrowed his eyes. In the back of his head he wondered distractedly whether the guy’s cheeks ever hurt from smiling so much. “No,” he said, a little more emphatically than he’d intended.

“All right then! Enjoy the ship, and call if you need anything!” George said, waving as though they were greeting each other from different decks. He started walking away, backward. “See you again tomorrow morning!”

Carter poked his head out into the corridor. “Not if I see you first!” he called after the man. George, still walking backward, waved again cheerily at him before finally turning around and striding off, whistling the chorus of the theme from The Love Boat as he disappeared around a corner.

Carter stared after him, shaking his head. Still standing in the doorway, half in and half out of his stateroom, he awkwardly yanked down the inefficacious briefs and stepped out of them. Balling the fabric, he tossed them vehemently into the room. He hesitated, then hauled off the robe and hurled that back into the room, too. Naked Thursday was fucking Naked Thursday, he thought.

He pulled the door closed, hearing it latch with a satisfying click. He glanced at the thumbprint scanner, thinking he should have tested it first, then shrugged it off and, squaring his thick shoulders, stomped barefooted down the corridor in a huff, his serum-grown VIP cock and balls slapping audibly against his thighs as he headed for the elevators on his new and dauntless quest: he would find massive-cock-accommodating, giant-ball-hugging underwear if he had to show his junk to every happy, uniformed pipsqueak on the whole fucking ship.

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