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I generally don't go on much of a vacation. My decision to go to law school, combined with my internship, gives me precious little time to myself. Most days all I can do is come home, plop myself in front of my computer and check all of my e-mails and blogs before I go to bed. When I do have a day off I invariably "waste" it doing all of the things I've been meaning to do for weeks. Floors go un-vacuumed until a Court Holiday opens up. My fridge will be bare of anything but leftover pizza until President's Day. Pots in my sink turn into festering cesspools of old tomato sauce and green mold until the Fourth of July. I live alone, and as such chores do not get done until I have time to do them. More than once I've relied on a 24-hour laundromat in order to have clean shirts for the next day, and I'm on a first-name basis with most of the delivery boys in town.

Still, I am one to obey orders, and when my boss told me to "take a week off or else" I took a hint and scoured the internet for a travel package that I could afford. Wishing to escape the wet and cold of New England's "Janu-Feb," I decided on a cruise, figuring that, if I really needed a vacation, I needed to go somewhere that would force me to leave behind my cell phone, laptop and law books.

The vast majority of cruises available were clearly not my type. Knowing that their primary customers are elderly retirees and families on a budget, most Caribbean cruise lines focus on food, gambling and sedentary activities, two of which I get more than enough of already. I'm also not exactly a party animal, so cruise ships which advertised the number of bars or variety of drinks they had on tap were equally unappealing. Not that I'm averse to drink or anything, but after writing hundreds of breifs that contain the phase "defendant was intoxicated" I'm a staunch advocate of moderation.

One cruise stood out to me, though it would max my budget when combined with airfaire. A craft called the M.V. Ambrosia was set to sail within two weeks and was advertising a last-minute fare drop for anyone who booked immediately. The cruise boasted a number of stops on islands I'd always wanted to see, plenty of leeway on activities once in port, and most of all, an extremely handsome reindeer named "Wilhelm" in almost every promotional photograph on their website.

Everyone at work knows I'm gay, and my adoptive parents were always fine with it, seeing as they had three of their own children from which to get grandkids. So long as I'm successful and I don't flaunt my sexual preferences, nobody really seems to care, making it a surprising non-issue in light of many of the inflamed political tempers in modern times. Maybe it's because I haven't had a boyfriend since my college days, but I downplay my homosexuality to the point where the local LGBT Legal Rights association thought I was a "Straight Ally" for the first five months I attended their meetings. This was a sort of dubious accomplishment, really, considering that the homosexual stereotyping of my vulpine race seemed to be only reinforced by the girly-boy tods and bull-dyke vixens who ran the organization.

I hate to admit that I selected a cruise on the M.V. Ambrosia just because their spokes-model was exceptionally handsome (and just vacuum-packed into that thong he was wearing) but it really was a strong case. With so little time off, and so few opportunities to "be gay" in my daily life, I was intrigued by an all-gay cruise which promised I would "make new friends" and "indulge one's desires." Previous jaunts to assorted gay bars and gay-only vacation spots had generally soured me on such things, as my own predilictions turn me off flamers, queens and others who use homosexuality in place of a personality or proper understanding of social behaivor. But I hadn't gotten laid in over a year either, and quite honestly that played a big role in my decision.

Still, as you might imagine, my first few days on the cruise were very awkward. I had my own private cabin, a tiny affair which was mostly a bed, made even smaller by the fact that there were group showers and toilets instead of individual ones. I must admit that my shyness forced me to shower very early in the morning, and a fear of encountering someone through the glory-hole in one of the stalls ensured my trips were short and focused, to say the least. Still, the nature and design of the ship forced me to become acclimated to the fact that I was surrounded on all sides by males of all shapes, sizes and species, many of whom were in fact quite handsome. I was intimidated at first, my own slight paunch and underworked muscles paling in the face of the body-building gym-worshippers who seemed to be sunning nude on every deck or walking calmly down every corridor.

As I was more than a little out of my element I didn't really meet anyone on the leg of the trip from Florida to Jamaica, though I did manage to get drunk and laid, in that order, almost every night. All of my partners were desperate vacationers like myself, hardly even bothering with names or formalities before going back to one or another's cabin to enjoy one another. I like to think of it as "masturbation with another's assistance," since while there's certainly sex going on, it's not the sort of mutual, intimate interaction that comes out of "real" sex. Animal urges take over, bodies grind against one another, and come morning you both move on. I'd indulged in a little bit of this in college, and like junk food, it was always both satisfying and not enough at the same time.

By the time we made it to Jamaica I'd decided that random humping wasn't enough, and I didn't have the sort of bravery (or outright lust) to try anything adventurous. Sex toys were on sale in a number of shops, and I got the feeling that just about any sex act with was both legal and physically possible could be indulged with the right partner. But deep down I knew that rubber and leather, while fun, was not exactly what my libido was craving. The sex, the drinking, the couples I'd seen on board, all of this was reminding me of how lonely and thankless my chosen occupation had become. As I've said before, I hadn't dated since college and I hadn't gotten laid for over a year before this trip. Deep down, my body and my mind craved an intimate connection with someone, not just physical but emotional and mental as well. I began to dispair, knowing damn well that such deep-minded hookups were not exactly the stock-and-trade of the M.V. Ambrosia. All around me were furries who were concerned only with their carnal desires, entertaining as many partners or as exotic a hookup as they could obtain. I was out of place, I'd allowed my urge to get laid to put me in a place where I could only get superficial fulfillment, and I was in danger of going home even more lonely and depressed than I had been before.

In an attempt to self-medicate my way out of my predicament, I began to drink a little heavily, excusing myself to the railing regularly as alcohol and seasickness threatened to make me waste the $12.95 I'd spent on a Shrimp Cocktail not three hours earlier. It was long past sunset and the ship was cruising out into international waters, neatly avoiding port fees and taxation by remaining near enough to port to return the next day for passengers who'd chosen to go ashore but far enough to avoid Jamaican taxes or port fees. We had picked up a number of day-trippers as well, locals or long-staying vacationers who'd booked a night on the M.V. Ambrosia, intending to get in a night of partying on-board ship without the cost of a private cabin. One such day-trip passenger was standing beside me, the bright-yellow identity bracelet strapped firmly to his wrist to ensure he disembarked come morning. He was staring at the island in the distance while nursing a beer and, occasionally, peeking over at me.

"Seasick?" he said, a note of concern in his questioning voice. His accent was mostly American, which surprised me at first considering that he was a milk-chocolate-colored mongoose, a now-indigenous species I knew comprised much of the local Jamaican population. His clothes and Jamaican flag pendant also pegged him as a local, too patriotic and yet too subtle to make him an imitating tourist.

"I've just had too much to drink," I replied, trying to smile. He smiled back heartily, revealing bright white and carefully manicured teeth. I'd helped represent enough Jamaican immigrants to find this unusual, and know also that he must be a male of means, though of course I could imply as much from the fact that he was able to spend the equivalent of two-hundred American dollars just for a night of eight-dollar beers and unremittent homosexual promiscuity. "It's wearing off, I feel okay now."

"No, you don't," said the mongoose. He walked over to me, and in the bright floodlights which illuminated the deck I could see how startlingly handsome he was. His body had the ripped and toned musculature of a bodybuilder, massive shoulders gently tapering to six-pack abs that looked so firm you could grate cheese on them. His green-and-yellow shirt was unbuttoned, allowing me ample opportunity to see the musculature of his upper body, and his drawstring pants did little to hide the musculature of his thighs. Or, I'm ashamed to admit that I noticed, the enormity of his penis. It wasn't until much later that I believed the bulge my eyes were seeing, and I know he must have seen me staring, though initially at least he didn't point this out. "You're upset about something. Trust me, I know. I see a lot of it at my job."

"What is your job?" I asked, straightening myself up as best I could. Even at my full height, I only made eye contact with him once he bent over a bit to grab the railing. He must have been well over six feet tall, his enormous height dwarfing my 5'6" (without ears) body.

"I'm a cabbie, ostensibly," said the mongoose. He grinned a bit, shooting me a sly look. "Although I make most of my money offering other 'services' to my passengers, particularly pretty girls with deep pockets and a desire to have a good time." My mind hazed by intoxication, it took a few minutes for me to catch on. I was rather surprised that he'd admit to being a gigolo, especially considering that it was an illegal occupation, and one he'd have a damn hard time plying on the Ambrosia.

"Well," I said, "you'll want to go back on shore, then. There's no girls here, despite what you might think by the looks of some of them. Besides, it's all given away free here. Nobody would pay for it even if they had the cash, which I doubt they do since everything is just charged to the room." My words were rambling and lacking in confidence, the result of a liqoured tongue and a desperate desire to keep this handsome figure talking to me.

"How do you know I don't work for them, selling something too good to give away free?" He asked, chuckling and scooting closer. Though I didn't notice it at first, my breath and heartbeat grew faster as he came in close. I could smell his cologne, a vaguely foreign and lightly spiced scent which drew me in. "I'm joking, of course. I came to the Ambrosia to get away from my job. Don't get me wrong, I love pussy, just...Sometimes I don't love what it's attached to. I had a run of fussy customers and I just needed to get away for a bit. Plus I'm friends with Keoni, the bartender, and I wanted to see him again."

"So you're not gay then?" I asked, secretly disappointed. Considering the context and location, I had hardly expected this handsome figure to be anything but queer, and my imaginations of what might be going on behind those drawstring pants were instantly dashed.

"Well, not really," he said. "But I'm not exactly straight either. Sometimes I just need a...Vacation from females. And that's what this is. A night where I can get away from licking clits until my tongue goes raw or doing my best to be genuinely interested in my client's life. One would think that a girl wouldn't hire you to be her company for the night and then spend most of her time complaining about her boyfriend back home or some vindictive bitch at work but...Well, I don't need to say more. That's the reason I go on these little vacations. To get away from other people's problems."

"Then why ask me how I feel when you know I'm not okay?" I said, trying to keep my heart from racing as he scooted ever closer to where I was standing. My palms were sweaty as could be, and I gripped the railing like I was afraid I might be blown off by a sudden gust of wind. Surely, my new "friend" noticed my nervousness, but he wasn't put off with it. I think on some level he was enjoying himself, enjoying how shy I was in his presence, and how I was so clearly and immensely attracted to him.

"Force of habit, I guess," he said. His gaze slowly drifted out over the black water to the dot of light on the horizon, and for lack of anything else to do, I looked out as well. There was a quiet, slightly dreamy look in his eye, and I could tell that his patriotic jewelry was more than just local kitsch. "Bringing joy to others is my business, and I instinctively react to its absence."

I felt that I could probably open up to this male, probably tell him anything I'd tell my therapist, and maybe even a few things I wouldn't. Though his size and handsomeness were intimidating, his nature was kind, his words were soft, and my instincts told me he was the sort of person I could trust. His occupation certainly involved a lot of trust, lest unhappy husbands and boyfriends find out about his clientelle, or worse show up jealous and well-armed. But even with my lips loosened by whiskey I was still a bit shy, especially when I realized that I had not yet introduced myself.

"My name's Matt, by the way," I blurted out. "Matthew DuMont, if you want to get specific."

"You can call me Malcolm," he said, extending a hand much bigger than my own. I shook it. His grip was firm but friendly, and had none of the fakery or force that I've gotten from used car dealers and landlords. "Do you mind if I smoke? I'm going to, but I know some people don't care for the smell."

"Go ahead," I said not wanting to mention that I had given up smoking once I realized how miserable it is to try and be a smoker working in various smoke-free government buildings. My long-repressed nicotine addiction began to resurface, and as Malcolm pulled out and lit up, I realized that I desperately wanted a cigarette as well. "In fact, I'd like one too, if you can spare it."

Malcolm expertly flipped another one out of his pocket, and as he brought it to my lips I realized that it was hand-rolled. The back of my mind was about to burst into a fit of fear and tell me to spit it out, lest I smoke something a bit less legal and more embarassing than tobacco, but by the time I realized I might be in a fix Malcolm was already hovering close to my face, lighting my cigarette with his own. I puffed frantically, trying to light the dried leaves before the sensation of being so close to so handsome a figure left me hyperventilating. The cigarette lit, and instantly my mouth and nostrils were filled with a powerful and intoxicating taste and odor. I had always smoked cheap, nasty cigarettes intended to give me the rush of nicotine more than anything else, and I was unprepared for what exactly was going on inside me now. I coughed, more from the rush of sensation than the irritation of the smoke, and I felt my body rushing with a buzz unlike any I'd ever gotten from smoking before.

"What IS this stuff?" I asked, taking the cigarette out of my mouth and examining it in my fingers. It was definitely tobacco, and just tobacco, but it had a flavor and smell that was distinct and not nearly as unpleasant as what I'd smoked during my college years.

"It's Cuban," said Malcolm, grinning as he took a long puff and blew out a few small clouds into the night air. "Jamaica has no embargo and I can get the stuff easy enough. Nobody makes tobacco like the Cubans make tobacco. It takes getting used to, but the flavor almost makes it worth the risk of lung cancer." He took another long, slow drag and then smiled at me, playfully blowing smoke into my nostrils. The scent was intoxicating, much more pleasant than the slow stench that permeated my hallway whenever someone wished to flout the rules.

I gently nursed my own cigarette, hoping the nicotine would give me focus and courage as Malcolm took another deliberate step towards me, his body now so close to mine that I could feel the heat coming off of his arms as we both gripped the railing. I could feel that an erection was straining hard against my pants, and I was glad that I could bend over a bit to try and hide it.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said. "My Island, I mean. From here it looks so peaceful, so coated in bright lights and cheer. From here you can't see the crime, the poverty, the violence...I've lived in America much of my life, but I always come back to the Island. It's home. And whenever I get the chance, I like to look at it from afar, to remember that it really is a jewel worth keeping." I was surprised at the turn his conversation took, but I nodded along politely, agreeing with him even as my heart raced faster and faster.

Before I even realized he had moved in, I could feel his big hand gripping my far shoulder, rubbing it gently. His grip was warm and comforting, almost loving in its subtle eloquence. I stiffened at first, causing him to stop, but as I took no action against him he continued to rub gently. His enormous thumbs dug deep into my shoulderblades, gently pulling and forcing out tension. I whimpered, my body melting under his massage as he gently, delicately caressed my back with his powerful grip. I must confess, I've always had a weakness for being in the arms of big, strong men. It makes me feel safe, something that I rarely feel, fear and suspicion being the norm both for my species and occupation. Malcolm's firm, gentle touch overwhelmed me with trust and emotion, and if there was ever a time I fell in love all at once, this was it.

"You like that, don't you?" he said, his body coming in close behind mine. My body was racing, filled with electricity and sensation, my libido rising until I brimmed with heat and energy. "I do too. It's nice to have someone who will let me do the talking for a bit, let me take the lead..." His shaft pressed up against me from behind, and due to its immense size, I thought it was his thigh until I began to feel it throb and pulse even through both of our clothes. "Tell me, how do you feel about my pleasure?"

"I ahh...I feel it's very important..." I tentatively reached back a bit, to caress the enormous length I so desperately wanted to touch, but he stopped me. Pulling me close, he retained a quiet control, leading the dance even as he made certain we were doing only what I wished to do. I could feel his abs and chest against me now, his arms coming to the front and holding me close. My erection strained against my pants, and my body conflicted between a desire for him to get on with it and for the teasing to continue.

"Good, I was hoping you would," He ground up against me a bit more, making sure I could feel exactly how immense he was. "I'm not much for these self-concerned sluts who care only for how much they're getting off. That's why I approached you, you seemed...Different. I have an instinct for these things. I think you're going to make me very happy." Slowly, he untied the drawstring on his pants and guided my hand into him, letting me grip his manhood with one hand, then both. I was amazed. I had seen seen shafts as big as is in my porn movies, of course, but I'd never actually held one in my hands before. It was, like Malcolm himself, both intimidating and inviting, daring me to try and take it on while threatening to be more than I could handle. My eyes went wide and I took deep, panting breaths as I rubbed up and down, my hands expressing my disbelief again and again as I squeezed and rubbed his enormous length.

Malcolm nibbled my ears, his touch warm and reassuring. "I thought you'd like that," said Malcolm. "Everyone does. Well, most everyone. Don't be afraid of it, though, I'm very gentle." Though he certainly did not need to prove his point, he reached around, undoing my belt and pants and fondling my own much more modest length between his fingers. I felt almost embarassed at how much smaller I was than him, even if I was perfectly proportioned for my height. A few of my lovers had even praised me as being "not too big, not too small," especially since I could easily fit into many of them without the lubrication and preparation so often necessary with bigger shafts.

Malcolm's fingers gently caressed my length, his grip every bit as gentle and firm as it had been on my shoulder. He was teasing me now, grinding his enormous, half-exposed shaft up and down between my cheeks and against my tail as he softly worked my erection in his grip. Had I not still been a little drunk and decidedly well-fucked from the night before I probably would have creamed my pants right then and there, but as it was, my body would need much more stimulation before there was any kind of conclusion tonight. Still, I begged for it wordlessly, pushing back against his grinds and whimpering with desire as he teased me mercilessly. I was clay in his fingers, he could bend or mold me any way he wished. But my submissiveness did not compel him to plow ahead. If anything, it encouraged him to go slower, to drag out his enjoyment as long as possible. Whatever it was that I was giving him, it was not something he could get from his customers, and he intended to gorge himself on it, lest it be much too long before he could get a second helping.

I half expected him to fuck me then and there on the deck, but instead there was a long, awkward and fumbling trip back to my cabin, our clothes made uncomfortable and inappropriate by our arousal. We kissed passionately again and again, our lips and tongues intertwining briefly in the elevator and every time we were forced to stop and wait for one reason or another. Somehow we disrobed once we were behind the locked door of my cabin, since we were both completely naked by the time he threw me on the bed. His jewelry gently dangled on my chest as he rubbed me up and down, his body letting loose long, slow growls as he explored me, evidently finding me to his liking. I had never considered myself attractive, but I knew enough to know I wasn't ugly, and I blushed with satisfaction as I saw the lusty look in Malcolm's eye. He wanted me, and he was going to have me, his own shaft throbbing and preing with excitement as he kept looking and touching.

Soft and yielding as I was, I remained on the bed, letting him take the lead and do to me what he would, even as I desperately wished to feel him fuck me deep inside. His motions were slow and deliberate, letting him enjoy my body with his fingers, with his lips, with his whole form instead of just his shaft. He was against me and above me, touching and caressing and rubbing me everywhere at once. He drank me in like a fine wine, sniffing and licking as his fingers teased my length and hole, his palms caressing my chest with an almost loving touch. My head was spinning now, overwhelmed with sensation and lust, so buffeted by what was going on that I knew only that it was pleasureable and I was happy.

Considering all of the other surprised he had foisted on me up to this point, I guess I should have expected him to do more than just what I thought he would, but I was still a bit caught off guard when he began sucking and slurping my shaft. I'd known many a dom or top to work me up like this, and I certainly enjoyed it, but I hardly expected a male who expressed such a deep love of pussy to be at all interested in cocksucking. Yet suck away he did, his tongue expertly whipping and twisting this way and that as he bobbed up and down my length. Whatever his true sexual orientation might be, he had certainly put enough shafts into his mouth to know how to work one, and the blowjob I recieved remains, to this day, the best I've ever had.

He used his lips and teeth to feel me out, gently determining what I liked best and bringing it to bear again and again, giving me just enough time to recover before sending down another wave of pleasure. He did not neglect his hands either, one working my balls while the other reached up to caress my heaving chest and rub across my thumping heart. His tongue was everywhere at once, working up and down my length even as he teased back and forth across my slit. As you might imagine, it wasn't long before I caved in, my shaft exploding inside his muzzle. Malcolm swallowed greedily, sucking it down with relish and desire. His hand came down to milk me dry, squeezing out the last few drops before he emerged from my crotch, licking his lips.

Malcolm moved up the bed, his large, warm body pressed tight against mine in the restrictive space of the cabin. We kissed, our tongues entertwining, my mouth filled with the mixed flavors of breath mints, fine Cuban tobacco and my own seed. He held me tight, held me close, but his clutch was neither desperate nor longing. He intended to charge the situation, to remind me what we were doing here, and that the night had only just begun. I had in fact only received the first of five orgasms I would before morning, though of course I was not aware of it at the time.

Slowly, tentatively, I slid my hands down to Malcolm's immense shaft, the half-hard length now draped across his thigh. He did not stop me, in fact as I bent forward he broke our kiss and left a small trail of pecks across my cheeks and neck, encouraging me with his lips as well as his fingers. I was more than a little intimidated by what I had in my hand, which appeared even more enormous now that I could see it fully. I gently moved down between his legs, licking at his length softly, taking in long slurps of the salty flavor. He was hardening again quickly, the stimulation of my body coursing through him, and he moaned softly with satisfaction.

Taking my cue I moved down between his legs and began to work on him with ever-increasing enthusiasm, working his shaft in my hand while I moved my muzzle up and down along as much as I could. Not being a slut or porn star, it was all I could do to put about half of his shaft into my mouth, and even then I had to struggle against my gag reflex. Malcolm seemed unperturbed by this, though, and merely caressed my ears delicately, his touch encouraging me to do my best and push my limits. I am normally a bit of a top and I certainly lacked the experience Malcolm appeared to have, but I did my best, and my partner was very clearly enjoying it. I could feel him preing enthusiastically in my mouth, and though his shaft was soon as hard as a rock, he seemed in no danger of cumming, though whether this was self control or some limitation on my part I'll never know.

Once my mouth and jaw began to get tired, I let him know I was ready to move on by crawling up over him, kissing his chest and neck and cheek as his erection throbbed against my stomach. My maleness was also fully erect and throbbing, invigorated by the activity. I've always prided myself on my ability to "reload" quickly, and more than one of my partners has said I make up for in quantity whatever I may lack in size or strength. Malcolm noticed his, rubbing my length eagerly, his hand and kiss telling me that he was happy to see I was going to be able to go the distance this evening.

Slowly, gently, he rolled me onto the bed and got on top of me, pushing me onto all fours and rolling back my tail with his hand. I grew anxious, as I could no longer see what he was doing, but my anxiety melted into pure bliss when I felt his long, warm tongue licking up and down my taint and tailhole. I confess, my deepest sexual weakness is being rimmed, and more than once a partner has had me whimpering and squealing like a high-school virgin through the use of a clever tongue. I had been keeping things clean as possible back there during the entire trip, in hopes that I might have a "visitor" or two, and Malcolm certainly rewarded me for my efforts. Possibly due to his occupation, he was able to twist and lick and work his tongue with a dexterity I did not think even remotely possible. He probed me, gently at first, but then more aggressively as I managed to relax, his tongue slipping deep inside my admittedly well-traveled and meticulously cleaned hole.

Malcolm's daring move had effects on me unlike I'd ever felt. He teased my prostate with his tongue, making my cock shudder with sensation. Had I not shot one off only ten minutes prior, I would probably have been cumming like a burst pipe. As it was, my knees went desperately weak, and had not Malcolm grabbed my ass to steady himself, I likely would have fallen over on myself, weakened as I was by the sensation. The last time someone had actually gone up my ass with their tongue was a full three years and two boyfriends ago, and that long-since past lover had none of the daring or skill that Malcolm used on me. I was downright dizzy with the pleasure, my tail wagging into a blur as his cold nose blew hot air across its base. To this day I think it is the most pleasurable sensation I have ever felt, including both of the times I was doped up on opiates prior to surgery.

Like all good things, the rimming eventually had to end, and as Malcolm slowly pulled out I began to drift down from my high in a state of absolute bliss. I barely even noticed as Malcolm gently lubed and probed my ass, massaging and relaxing me with his fingers until he felt certain I'd feel no pain as he entered me. It was not until I felt his tip pressing against me that I came back to earth, and as he gently sank his length inside of me, I zoomed back up into the heavens, lifted madly by the power and depth of the sensation.

I have never had sex with anyone as massive as Malcolm, and I likely never will again. But it was not just his size that was so incredibly sensation, but the care, talent and even love with which he maneuvered himself inside of me. What I felt was not the quick, lusty humping I'd gotten so often on this cruise thus far, but instead the deep, intimate sensation of having another person inside of me. It was almost as if he had become part of me, as if his pleasure, sensation and confidence was sliding into me as well as his enormous length. I let out long series of low, pleasurable moans, my entire body consumed with feeling as I felt the long, slow wave ascend from my backside to my brain.

When Malcolm began thrusting, he did so with such slight and gentle motions that I did not initially notice it, I knew only that the pleasure surging through me shifted from a steady push to a series of waves. Even so, he soon built his speed, my pleasure and sensation apparently reflecting against and enhancing his own as he made love to me with greater and greater intensity. I could sense the rumbling within his massive form as his body pushed back and forth inside of mine, his orgasm approaching even as his length made me feel stuffed, my pleasure overwhelming me so much I could barely maintain.

Malcolm's orgasm was immense, to say the least. I have no idea whether it had anything to do with his little "vacation" or this was in fact how he was normally, but it remains to this day the biggest and messiest orgasm I have ever personally experienced. His entire body halted, his length almost hilted in my ass as he poured out inside of me. I could feel the warm, sticky liquid filling me up and wrapping around his length, backing and filling until it spilled out, dribbling against my balls. Even so, as he pulled back, I felt shots continue to blast wildly inside of me, the last two only finishing when they landed on my cheeks. I could feel the hot liquid dribble down my rear, and as if he was committed to keeping me surprised, Malcolm gave one a long, slow lick, slurping up his own seed before kissing my butt and giving it a playful little spank.

I gasped, grabbing the thin white sheets, my body so immensely exhausted that I could barely do more than breathe and stay awake. Malcolm was certainly less energetic, though he had none of my exhaustion, and though his shaft was now growing soft I could tell that he had every intention of continuing. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close and nibbling my neck. Though he said not a word, I could feel the love eminating from him, his intense emotions pouring into me through the intimacy of his arms and the love of his lips.

Though I reciprocated the feelings, for some reason I didn't say anything, and though there was plenty of moaning and groaning, I don't think we said more than five words before morning. We also didn't have any more "sex" in the proper sense, probably more due to my exhaustion than anything else. I fell asleep at some point, but Malcolm kept rubbing and cuddling and stimulating me right up until the noon-day call that summoned all day-trip passengers down to the gangplank. I did my best to return the favor, and at least once he coated both of our chests in long, white jets of his hot, sticky seed, but I could tell that the magic had passed and at this point we were merely drifting through the clouds back to a safe landing.

We exchanged names, phone numbers and e-mails after our brief encounter, but I have never seen Malcolm again. Whatever feelings we had for one another on that night were genuine, but not to be pursued. I think on some level both he and I know that we could never be, and that to pursue any sort of relationship would ruin that one night we spent together. We've become friends, or at least pen-pals, and his polite words and gentle concern have helped me to open up a bit in life. I've since even managed to score a boyfriend, a raccoon which, while certainly not as big or handsome as Malcolm, is a trusted and loving friend who has every intention of moving into my apartment and end my messy, lonely lifestyle. We're best friends, very happy together, and intend to keep it that way for may years to come.

Still, sometimes when I am at home alone, late at night, I pull out a picture Malcolm mailed me soon after I returned home. It is the only remotely sexual thing he's ever sent me, although being a nude of him with his substantial, half-erect cock flopped across his thighs while he relaxes in the sun, it's more than enough. It comforts me, to see his smiling face and those white teeth, the look in his eye so loving and inviting. I gently slip back into that long-ago night as I touch myself, remembering his soft caress and deep intimacy as I read the words he scrawled across the bottom:

"Remember our night.

-Love Malcolm."