Page 13 of Blowing Off Steam

So Rushy undid the broadfall buttons restraining that magnificent penis, his hand burrowing into the humid crotch to grasp the root in his fist. Yet when he sat back on his heels, all set to admire the length and beauty of the drooling tool, he noticed movement on the other side of his pilothouse windows. His head snapped aside and he came nearly face-to-face with a greasy, gnarled old goat. This old salt leered down at him as he chewed on the stem of a pipe and clutched his own crotch suggestively, his bulbous nose smearing oil or something worse on the other side of Rushy’s window. He must have clambered to the roof of the texas to get an eyeful such as this.

Field was panting alluringly, and when Rushy rose to his feet he saw the pleading in Field’s soft eyes. However, the two lusty youths who now hoisted themselves onto the texas roof joined in the game, elbowing each other and making pretend—or maybe not so pretend—masturbation gestures against their own broadfalls.

Rushy said, “They’re watching like we were a monkey show.”

Field glanced aside but didn’t seem concerned. “Charge them extra for that show,” he said slyly.

Rushy didn’t need any more coaxing. Touching his open mouth to Field’s, he licked the roof of Field’s mouth while gripping the drooling cock in his fist. Semen dribbled out the tip and Rushy used the lubricant to grease up the pole, heavy and veined in his fist. But he wanted to watch the spectator’s reaction at such a sight, and when he turned his head aside, he saw the youths weren’t so frolicsome anymore. Dead serious they were now in their masturbation, mashing their bulging broadfalls against the window and elbowing aside the feeble old salt, who nearly toppled over the edge of the roof.

“They’re admiring your whopping hard cock,” Rushy told Field, sliding his other hand between the thighs to handle the firm ball sac. “You like to be admired?”

“Who doesn’t?” Field admitted. “We’ll never see them again.”

Rushy became even more sparked at his friend’s boldness, and he set to passionately frigging that beautiful cock, corkscrewing his hand up and down the length of it, drawing the tool out as far as he could for the viewing pleasure of their admirers. With his bound hands behind his head and his hips jutting out lewdly, Field was the perfect sculpture of a submissive Apollo.

Rushy felt as much as saw the arrival on the roof of the hulking Stan Sitwell. Having apparently gotten wind of the frolics in the pilothouse, he leaped off the stairs and joined the others on the roof with a bang that bounced the entire pilothouse, this time actually bowling over the frail old goat, who collapsed out of view somewhere. The youths tried to protest, but they were no match for the gigantic bruiser who pressed his entire maw to the glass, a thread of spittle oozing from a corner of his mouth.

“Your fireman enjoys the sight, too,” Rushy told Field, now taking the cock into both fists and pumping it heatedly.

Field glanced aside, his hips jerking at the sight of his ogling audience. “Let him. You’re the only one who’s going to frig me.”

Field erupted then majestically, Rushy stepping back to give the deviant observers a better view of the jism that splashed against his bare abdomen. Field rolled his head back against his bound hands and uttered strangled animal sounds, his eyes squeezed shut against the ecstasy as Rushy continued to milk the jerking member. Finally, Rushy couldn’t resist gluing his body to Field’s, allowing the semen to continue to spurt between them, rubbing the cockhead with his thumb as he gave great licks to the obedient throat.

They panted against each other, Rushy’s erection so burgeoning the slightest touch would have set him off. “They wish they were here in my place,” Rushy murmured against Field’s throat, “handling this beautiful cock.” He had never felt so alive, so at home as now, sweat and jism pasting his body to his friend’s.

They both jumped an entire foot when a sudden blast from the calliope steam organ rattled their senses, deflating both of their pricks in an instant.

CHAPTER SIX

Rushy cried, “Now, what’s gotten into old Larry?” Larry Middleman was the only crew member who could play that danged calliope with its thirty-two steam whistles, which had come with the boat and was located astern on the texas roof. Rushy thought it added a festive air for passengers—only not in the midst of a sensual sojourn.

But the sudden blast of trilling notes had the beneficial effect of startling their audience, one of the youths actually plunging off the pilothouse roof, Stan Sitwell spinning his arms as though about to take a header off the edge. For that Rushy was grateful, and he untied Field from the pulley, easing his arms down gently and massaging them to get the blood back into his hands.

“Thank God for Larry,” said Field, watching the last youth regretfully leap back down the pilothouse steps. “That playing brings to mind my sister Cynthia in Amsterdam. She could really go to town on her spinet.”

Field buttoned his pants as Rushy took a quick note of the river’s course. Field stood almost nostalgically at the door watching Larry plugging away at the brass keys. “Hey, it’s not Larry playing,” he said with wonder. “It’s that chef gal. I’m going to go have a talk with her.”

“The chef gal?” Rushy followed Field down the steps. “Why didn’t she tell us she could play the calliope?”

The chef, who was now revealed to be a buttery shade of blonde, her long hair done in a chignon like silken drapery fringes, looked up at them with a chipper face. She seemed cheerful enough, a spry gal—a stunner, really—of about thirty years, and Rushy greeted her with, “Ma’am.” He even tipped his captain’s cap.

Grinning away, she continued her booming and steamy song, and when done, she bounced up on the instant and stuck out her mitt. “Nice to meet you,” she said, pleasant as could be.

They shook hands all around, and Rushy queried, “And what should we call you?”

“My name?” For the first time she seemed flustered and glanced about as though the answer lay in the willows on the bank. Regaining her assurance, she stated, “My name is Calliope. And I believe you are Captains Rushy Wakeman and Field Trueworthy, chief cooks and bottle washers.”

She did have a lovely Appalachian drawl, candy-coated and drippy, and she gave the appearance of being capable. Rushy didn’t fail to note the uplifted shelf of her bosom. Perfectly round, her breasts jiggled when she moved in the slightest. He joshed, “Calliope? That’s funny. Because you’re playing a calliope.”

This appeared to fluster her, too, so Rushy continued, “How are you finding your quarters?”

Confident again, she chirped, “I’m snug as a bug in a rug! And, kind sirs, I’d like the opportunity to cook your supper this evening, to demonstrate to you my applications of my own particular recipes. I’d heard that you’re smack and smooth out of chefs, and I’d like to impress you with my skills.”

“Well,” said Rushy. “We’ll be getting into San Francisco around six o’clock and after dealing with customs and disembarking all passengers, we’ll be digging into the sausages at the Tadich Grill.”

Calliope didn’t seem to approve of this response, for her face turned a bit sly. “Yes. I reckon after the show you just put on in the pilothouse, you’ll be hungry for more sausages soon.”

Rushy’s heart nearly stopped at the implications of this devilish wench. He shared a stunned look with Field, and Field was the first to reply with dignity. “We have no idea to what you’re referring. But we can assure you, whatever sordid activities you’re implying did not take place.”