The blue and gold of the Alexander lounge turned into scarlet and gold of the Hephaestion club as the American detective, Clint Folsom, and the German police inspector, Sigmund Frist, descended into an area that took perhaps a third of the room of the lounge above it but that held quite a few banquette-style seating areas on three tiers going down to a small, round center stage. The decor here was as reminiscent of the Greco-Roman era of the Mediterranean as was the Alexander lounge. On the top tier to the right of where the staircase descended ran a red-padded bar in a semicircle around the room, and Frist perched on a bar stool here and spread his legs and brought Folsom's butt into his crouch.
As far as Folsom could determine, this space was tucked into the bow area under the lounge and he could make out a doorway under the stairs they had descended that probably went back toward the corridor that ended at the turn into the exercise room.
Frist had wrapped an arm possessively around Folsom's belly and had his chin on the younger detective's shoulder. Folsom could already feel Frist's groin come alive and he sighed at the thought of what was to come. He had remembered Frist has being a superb cocksman, with power hammer drive.
"Want something to drink?" Frist murmured in his ear. "Just tell the bartender; he's come over for our order."
At the same time Folsom was ordering a Scorpion, he turned toward the bar and did a double take. Yet another one of masked blond hunks was there to take his order and was giving him the same "I know you; I've had you" smile. This set Folsom into some confusion; there could only be one of these studs who knew him so fully that he could share such a smile with him—and yet they had just left another such one up in the Alexander lounge. Folsom decided that they all probably were just very well schooled and that fucking the passengers or not fucking them was all the same thing and came with the territory; they were just taught to treat them all intimately, as required, and let the generous tips drop where they may.
Folsom and Frist were not alone at the bar. Seated next to them on a barstool, showing close interest in them from the moment they entered the room was a massive jet-black man, who Folsom had already been told was some vacationing potentate of a central African nation, traveling secretly outside of his region, spending his country's treasury and indulging in his taste for other men who didn't succumb to his charms simply to keep their heads on their shoulders.
As Folsom took his Scorpion from the bartender, whose hand lingered on his in the exchange a tad more than necessary, the lights on the walls around the chamber started to dim and spots opened up on the stage area below. A large number of the ship's passengers were in attendance, and many of them were already well into pleasing each other intimately. In keeping with the spirit of this, Frist's free hand had already unzipped Folsom and was cupping his package directly, skin on skin. No one around them seemed to mind or to pay them much attention; they all were paired off and doing much the same themselves.
The ebony giant moved his barstool a little closer to Folsom and Frist, and his eyes were glued to Folsom's crotch, even though nearly everyone else was checking out the lit stage area.
As Frist nibbled and kissed the hollow of his neck, Folsom tried to focus on what was happening on the small stage below. An opaque, Plexiglas crossbeamed X rose out of the center of the stage. The stage was empty, but not for long. To the sound of a slow drum beat, the door under the stairs opened and two figures emerged and slowly made their way down to the stage. The one who seemed to be in command was a somewhat older rendition of the masked blond bartender trio. He was a good twenty years older than the bartenders—perhaps in his mid forties—and was rangier than they were, but he still had good, ropy muscle tone, his muscles so hard that the veins stood out on his arms, torso, and legs for lack of interior room to run. Like the bartenders, he was dressed only in a short Roman-soldier skirt, which in his case was gold lamé in contrast to their shiny white; gold sandals, with gold laces rising to his knees, gold bracelets snaking around his upper arms, and a gold-sequined mask. He was carrying a gold box under his arm and was swishing a gold multistranded whip in his other hand. The other figure was that of a short, lithe young man of olive complexion and of a sloe-eyed, dark, curly haired beauty that was almost feminine in its delicacy. He was dressed in a loose shocking-white tunic and was wearing sandals similar to his companion's, except in simple brown leather. And he had a gold collar around his neck that sparkled under the spotlights. The tunic hid his torso, but his lightly muscled arms and legs indicated a well-formed, if willowy frame.
The drums stopped their beat as the two reached the stage, and a disembodied voice asked those assembled to give a welcome to Roman the Magnificent and his assistant, Dieter. There was a smattering of applause that didn't really mean any disrespect; it meant more that many hands among the audience were so buried in their own devices that they couldn't readily disengage and welcome the evening's entertainment appropriately.
Frist and Folsom did clap, though, and Frist took advantage of having his hands now free to pull Folsom's head around and give him a deep kiss. He then pushed Folsom's pants down on his thighs, unzipped and freed himself, and brought Folsom's butt back into his crotch, with Folsom's balls and cock lying on top of Frist's sturdy piece as it thrust its way between Folsom's thighs. Frist held his hand there, letting the two pricks become better acquainted. Folsom took a big swig of his drink and tried to keep his rising desire in check as Frist slightly rolled his hips, rubbing the root of his tool back and forth on Folsom's exposed channel entrance.
Another hand had come into play now. The African leader, his heaving chest about to burst through the white linen tunic-style shirt he wore over equally white linen pants, was running a beefy hand up and down on Folsom's inner thighs, coming ever closer to the docked cocks.
The drink was strong and put Folsom a little out of kilter. But he took another big drag on it and then tried to focus his attention to the center of the state. What he really wanted to do was push Frist to the floor and sit on his cock and ride him until all thoughts of Brad Roberts and how he died and who had killed him were fucked out of his mind. But then Frist might become suspicious and start unraveling Folsom's true intent for coming on this cruise.
Down on the stage, the older man, obviously Roman the Magnificent, was tying the diminutive Dieter in spread-eagled fashion to the Plexiglas crossbar, his back against the crossbar, so that his arms and legs were spread and he was firmly fastened to the crossbar at his wrists and ankles. Then Roman opened the gold box he had brought onstage with him and took out a nasty-looking pearl-handled hunting knife and, as the drums took up a gentle beating again, this time accompanied by the sound of flutes, he began shredding Dieter's tunic. During this process, which had caught the audience's attention and fancy, the young man swayed about and made a mock attempt to pull away from his bonds.
Roman stepped up to the young man, wrapped his fists in the shredded material covering his chest and ripped it away, revealing a slender, but well-muscled and perfectly proportioned torso. He then went behind the youth and ripped away the material behind as the whole center stage began to revolve. As the crossbar turned, Folsom and Frist could now see Dieter's slender, deeply dimpled hips and firm, rounded butt cheeks.
