The Adult Version of The Sea Wolf

The Adult Version of The Sea Wolf




DO YOU REMEMBER When... you were enthralled by the adventures of “The Sea Wolf”... And his crew... In one of the most thrilling sea sagas of all time? Now we bring you the new and very adult version of the same tale. Everything is as close to the original as possible... Except that our adaptation has been written as it might have been originally... If the author had the literary freedom of expression of today's mores and standards. In this version of this nautical adventure... You will get a literary view of a sadistic, animalistic captain and his near-mad crew... And their wild sexual desires. Adventure and sex at their literary best.



Publié par
Date de parution 04 janvier 2013
Nombre de lectures 34
EAN13 9781608726929
Licence : Tous droits réservés
Langue English

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In this adult version of “The Sea Wolf”... we have attempted to capture the style of the original story... the mood of the characters... and the period of time depicted in the story.

A villainous and sadistic Captain... a degenerate crew... and an atmosphere of almost-human bestiality... aboard a ship destined for excitement. When a young man and an amorous and lovely girl are rescued by the mad Captain Wolf Larsen... they are subjected to an inhuman voyage. The reader will find that the story will make him a part of this thrilling adventure.

The author has attempted to tell his story in a realistic and natural manner... maintaining the original story-line and still injecting the scenes and acts that were omitted from the original version because of the literary standards of the time. “The Sea Wolf” was a literary standard... and we feel sure that this adult version will enhance it... and bring it up to contemporary standards.



I could feel my fingers digging into the flesh of her ass as I lifted her torso up to meet my throbbing cock. Her black stringy hair covered her hawk-like face and the contortion of passion etched furrows into her forehead. Her hands were clawing at my shoulders and her mouth was twisted in an ugly grimace as the sensations of pleasure began to lick through her wet cunt.

I pounded into her, not wanting to look at her expression. Maybe I was ashamed of myself, I don’t know. But I didn’t think of her as somebody—she was just a woman to me—a woman without even a name, a female into which I could pour the seed of my lust...

Our meeting was as casual as our fucking. We had met on the after-deck of the ferry-steamer, The Martinez, making her fourth or fifth Saturday morning run between Sausalito and San Francisco. The fog was heavy, blanketing the bay and obscuring vision so that one could barely make out the dark, choppy waters. Perhaps there was something mysterious about the moist obscurity of the fog—something that cuts down the inhibitions that we normally wear around us. Anyway, we talked, shared a cigarette, and then, as the fog thickened and made our observation point even more uncomfortable, she suggested that we retire to her cabin...

The suggestion was obvious. There were no games of seduction. For whatever her reason, the girl was willing to give her body to me. My reasons? Perhaps a false romanticism brought about because of the fog. Perhaps the easiness of a quick lay. Or maybe just boredom. I don’t know. Anyway, there we were, sprawled out in the bunk, naked—our bodies meeting and thrashing.

But like strangers.

I could feel her heavy tits pushing against my chest. The trembling of her thighs as she wrapped her legs around my hips and ground her hot pussy into my loins. The soft choked cries from her throat as I thrust my big prick even deeper into her sheath. She was lost, totally absorbed in the all-consuming world of sexual satisfaction. But I wasn’t.

It was as if I were someplace else. Perhaps back up on the deck. From out of the fog I could hear the mournful tolling of a bell and I could feel the boat turning rapidly. Our own whistle was blowing hoarsely, and from time to time the sound of other whistles came to me from out of the fog...

“Oooh fuck me,” she whimpered under me, her belly grinding into mine. “Fuck me good!”

Through the porthole I could see the gray coat of fog. I listened to the whistles—identifying now a ferry boat, now a scow schooner, now a cruiser of some kind. Whistles were blowing blast after blast and the cruiser’s mouth-blown horn was tooting in terror-stricken fashion. I envisioned what was going on out on the waters—the panic of non-seeing pilots attempting to guide their craft like seeing eye dogs...

Her back arched and her cunt thrust up and I could feel the hot slick walls of her sheath closing and opening around my prick. I drew in a breath and then slowly pulled my erection out of her, getting some kind of a charge out of the way her face contorted with pain because of the exquisite sensations at the friction on the tip of her lips.

Then, savagely, I pounded my prick deep into her bowels. The deep scream caused my back muscles to ripple with pleasure. There was no stopping her now... she began to gyrate and thrash under me, her eyes deep in the back of her head, her mouth partially open and a gurgle of drool oozing from her throat...

“Oh, you fuck so good,” she moaned. “You fuck so damned good!”

A shrill little whistle, piping as if gone mad, came from directly ahead of our bow and from very close at hand. Gongs sounded somewhere on the Martinez and machinery creaked to a halt and then started up again in reverse. The shrill little whistle began to fade away and I relaxed...

Her hand reached down between us and cupped my balls that had been slapping against her ass. She squeezed and I trembled with the delight. She sensed my reaction and smiled up at me, her face and throat glazed with the sweat of passion. I watched a tiny rivulet of it seep down between her tits and crawl between our bellies.

“Oh, I’m gonna take good care of you,” she crooned. “I’m gonna suck you and suck you until you beg me to stop. But first—first—give it to me. Give it to me... REAL GOOD!”

With her final words she closed her eyes and slammed her pelvic up into me. Her hot pussy absorbed my prick and I could feel the damp heat of her vagina blanketing the hard thickness of my tool. She was about to come and I knew that when it happened, her climax would completely swallow her.

A deep whistle sounded out in the fog. I tensed over the writhing figure under me, realizing that some vessel was heading directly toward the Martinez. The whistle sounded louder and suddenly a symphony of gongs and bells and horns let loose overhead.

That’s when she came.

Her scream blended and mixed with the charging horn of the unknown vessel. I could feel the juices pouring out of her loins and mingling into our pubic hair. The scream seemed ripped from deep within her throat, sounding like the cry of some wounded prehistoric beast.

And then I felt her pass out, her body going limp under mine.

I turned my head and could see out of the porthole. The fog seemed to suddenly break away as though split by a wedge, and the bow of a steamboat emerged, trailing fogwreaths on either side like seaweed on the snout of Leviathan.

I tried to scramble up from the limp body under me, but fingers clasped together around my back held me tightly against her throbbing tits. I reached and tugged at the knot of fingers, tremors of fear shivering goosebumps across my arms and shoulders.

The vessels came together in the next instant, hitting squarely amidships, several cabins down from the girl’s. The Martinez heeled over sharply, and there was a crashing and tearing of timber. I was thrown to the floor, the girl joined to me, pulled onto my torso. I lay stunned, and it seemed as if that moment in time was suddenly suspended—for I could hear the sounds of panic all around, mixing with the noises of a ship breaking up.

There were the blood-curdling screams of women. The loud and raucous shouts of men. The high-pitched yells of children. I envisioned a tangled mass of people above decks, all struggling and fighting to save their lives.

The horror of it dawned in my consciousness and I felt sick and squeamish. In a hazy fog of awareness, I heard the sounds of men rushing and shouting as they strove to lower the boats. It was just as I had read descriptions in books. The tackles jammed. Nothing worked. One boat lowered away with the plugs out, filled with women and children, and then with water, and capsized. Another boat had been lowered by one end, and still hung in the tackle by the other end, where it had been abandoned.

The girl still unconscious, clung to me, her weight pinioning me to the cold floor. The Martinez seemed to suddenly stand upright in the water, cracking and splitting along her seams. The freezing sea roared in and then receded, sucking the two of us out of the debris of the cabin and into the bay.

The water was cold—so cold that it was painful. The pang was as quick and as sharp as that of fire. It bit to the marrow. It was like the grip of death. I gasped with the anguish and the shock of it, filling my lungs before popping to the surface. The taste of salt was strong in my mouth and I was strangling with the acrid stuff in my throat and lungs.

But it was the cold that was the most distressing. I felt that I could survive but a few minutes. People were struggling and floundering in the water all about me. I could hear them crying out to one another. A piece of timber floated by and I grabbed it, clinging to its oily surface like a limp cloth.

Time passed and I marveled that I was still alive. I had no sensation in my legs and lower torso, and a chilling numbness was creeping throughout my nerve-endings, strangling and stifling all feeling. Small waves, with spiteful foaming crests, continually broke over me and into my mouth, sending me off into strangling coughs and chokings.

Then I became aware of the girl, her arms still clutched like a noose around my neck.

I had been oblivious to her and now I was too weak and too chilled to fight off the grip at my throat.

The noises around me grew indistinct, though I heard a final and despairing chorus of screams in the distance and knew that the Martinez had gone down. Later—how much later I have no knowledge—I came to with a start of fear. I was alone in the water except for the girl who still clung tightly to me.

I could hear no calls or cries—only the sound of the waves, made weirdly hollow and reverberant by the fog. Panic, when one is alone, is of a fear that sucks the life out of one’s being. That was the panic I suddenly suffered.

Where was I drifting? Was I being carried out to sea? The piece of debris now seeming so small and fragile. Would it suddenly break into small fragments? I remembered reading about such things—where wood will suddenly become saturated and lose all buoyancy and sink. And I couldn’t swim a stroke. I was alone, floating, apparently, in the midst of a gray primordial vastness. I confess that a madness seized me, that I shrieked aloud as the women had shrieked, and beat the water helplessly with my now-numb hands. But I wasn’t alone.

The unconscious girl still clung to me.

How long this feeling of panic lasted, I have no idea, for a blankness intervened, of which I remember no more than one remembers of troubled and painful sleep. When I awoke, after centuries of time, I saw, almost above me and emerging from the fog, the bow of a vessel and three triangular sails, each lapping the other and filled with wind. Where the bow cut the water there was a great foaming and gurgling, and I seemed directly in its path. I tried to cry out, but was too exhausted. The bow plunged down into the foam, just missing me and sending back a swash of water which rained down over my head. Then the long, black side of the vessel began to slip past, so near that I could have reached up and touched it. I tried to reach it, but my arms were heavy and lifeless and my effort was futile. Again I strove to call out, but made no sound.

It was then that the girl began to regain consciousness.

I could feel her fingers unclasping from around my neck and as she unlocked her grip, her body began to glide away from me, ribbon-like into the blackness. I reached out blindly and, grabbing her by the hair, slowly tugged her face back to the surface.

The stern of the vessel shot by, dropping as it did so into a hollow between the waves. I caught a glimpse of a man standing at the wheel, and of another man who seemed to be doing little else but smoking a cigar. I saw the smoke seep from his lips as he slowly turned his head and glanced out over the water in my direction. It was a careless, unpremeditated glance, one of those haphazard things men do when they have no immediate call to do anything in particular, but act because they are alive and must do something.

But life and death were in that glance.

I could see the vessel being swallowed up by the fog; I saw the back of the man at the wheel and the head of the other man turning, slowly turning, as his gaze struck the water and casually lifted along it toward me.

His face wore a blank expression, as if he had been in deep thought, and I became afraid that even if he did see me, his consciousness wouldn’t register the fact. But his eyes did light upon me and he did see me. For a moment our eyes met and from his expression I suddenly had the feeling that he wasn’t going to do anything...

Who would know the difference?

The girl suddenly shifted and using her arms as levers, braced herself on the wreckage and lifted her torso up and out of the water. The act sapped the last of her strength and she slowly sank backward into the foaming blackness. Once again I grabbed at her hair, debating within myself whether or not to let her sink down through the depths or to make a final futile attempt at saving her...

Who would know the difference if I let her go?

The man on the vessel sprang to the wheel, thrusting the other man aside, and whirled it round and round, hand over hand. He shouted orders of some sort to the wheelman, who raced to the stern, calling to other sailors. The vessel then seemed to go off at a tangent, disappeared for a moment, and then leapt almost instantly back out of the fog.

I knew why he had made the decision. Not because of any real desire to save my life. But because he had seen the girl as she had attempted to hoist herself onto the platform of the debris. She must have looked like a sea nymph, her hair glistening from the water and hanging down either shoulder, and her large ripe breasts uplifted and full from the effort. It was the girl whose life he was attempting to save, not mine. But I didn’t care...

I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness and I tried, with all the power of my will, to fight above the suffocating blankness and darkness that was rising around me. A little later I heard the stroke of oars growing nearer and nearer, and the calls of a man. When he was very close I heard him yelling angrily, “Why in hell didn’t you call out, you stupid son of a bitch!”

I remembered thinking that he meant me—then the blankness and the darkness fell over me like a closing curtain.



I felt myself coming up through the blackness and the darkness into a world of pink-cushioned satiny light. Sweet-smelling and exquisitely sensuous. Warmth ran through my body and I snuggled even deeper into the delight. Images and feelings cascaded through my mind and feather-like touches soothed my yearning.

It was a dream. An erotic dream. She was naked, lush and ripe and as she bent over me, her beautiful tits brushed my flesh and I shivered. Her hands uplifted the hanging orbs and the nipples hardened under her touch. I tried to reach them—to take them in my hands so I could caress the golden flesh prior to reaching them with my mouth—but she gently pushed my hands aside and slowly shook her head as she smiled at me.

“No,” she crooned. “I—I want to take care of you first. Then—then we’ll fuck.”

I sank back down into the warmth and gave my body to her. She was on her knees at my side, her long tresses kissing my flesh. Then she bent over and her mouth covered mine. I squirmed under the sensation of her moving wet lips and her probing tongue. She sucked the life of desire into awakeness and my loins blazed with anticipation. I tried to move free but she wouldn’t let me, searing our mouths and our lips together so that we were one...

Then I felt her hands moving on my body.

Goosebumps of pleasure crawled down my thighs and across my belly. I whimpered at the first touch of fingers on my cock. My erection was instantaneous.

“Oooh, you’re so big,” I heard her say with admiration.

I lifted my torso up in response and her fingers tightened around the hot stick of my prick. Feelings rushed out of my loins, spreading throughout my being. Then she began to slowly and seductively stroke my now-throbbing prick.

“Oh God, that’s good,” I cried, tearing my mouth from hers. “So good!” And it was.

Better than anything I had ever felt. No woman—and I had had my share—had ever manipulated my cock like she was doing. It was almost like self-masturbation for only experienced hands could make me feel what she was making me feel.

She must have spit into her palms for now there was a slickness to each stroke. Like oil. The pain of the pleasure was exquisite and it felt as if she were deliberately sucking each delight out of my balls. Slowly, ever so slowly, she kept working her stroking fingers. It was like torture—an agonizing ecstasy that caused the pulsing and the throbbing in my sensitive flesh to ache with urgency.

“Faster!” I suddenly screamed. “FASTER!”

The hands moved in response. Quick sharp thrusts that drew the spiral of sensation up into the painful velvet tip of my prick. I could feel the sweat storming off my forehead and my head began to twist from side to side. It was as if I was trying to free myself from the tentacles of tension that were winding tighter and tighter inside my balls.

“Harder! Do it harder!”

The pain was real and then I could feel the beginnings of the slow surge of release building and building. Then I came.

Exploding with a vehemence and a violence that shattered my consciousness. I felt the semen pour out of me in quick-quick spurts of release, oozing back down onto my now-slippery prick and onto my belly and chest.

I woke up.

It was all a dream.

A wet erotic dream.

I opened my eyes and cringed at the sight of the man leaning over me. I looked down past my heaving chest and saw his hands still stroking my folding cock. The leer on his face caused shivers to run through my spine and then, as total awareness dawned, I angrily knocked his damp hand away from my loins.

“What the hell are you doing!” I stormed at him, struggling to my feet.

He grinned at me, wiping his hand across the thighs of his grease-stained pants.

“Always wanted to try that, mister,” he said. “To jerk somebody off when they were unconscious.”

“You’ve got your damned nerve!” I roared at him. “Just what kind of an animal are you!”

He looked at me, a sleepy expression of satisfaction spreading across his coarse features. “You didn’t seem to mind one bit, Mister,” he answered nonchalantly. “Not one single bit.”

I started to respond but the truth shut my mouth. It was true. I hadn’t minded. Not one single bit. More than that, I had succumbed to the pleasure willingly and eagerly. My face flushed with embarrassment and, as if the incident was now unimportant, I looked around to get my bearings.

I was in the ship’s galley and the man who had masturbated me obviously was the cook. His face was soft and weakly pretty, almost effeminate. A draggled muslin cap on his head and a dirty gunny-sack about his slim hips proclaimed his status.

“How are you feeling now, sir?” a sailor said, entering the dirty galley.

The rattle and bang of a frying pan against a wall grated on my nerves and I couldn’t collect my thoughts. Clutching the woodwork for support—and I confess the grease with which it was scummed put my teeth on edge—I reached across a hot cooking range to the offending pan, unhooked it, and wedged it securely into the coal-box.

The cook grinned at my exhibition of nerves and thrust a steaming mug into my hand. “Here, this’ll do you good.” It was a nauseous mess—ship’s coffee—but the heat of it was reviving. Between gulps of the molten stuff I felt my senses and awareness slowly returning.

“Have you any dry clothes?” I asked the cook, now totally conscious of my nakedness and of my limp, but still scum-covered cock.

“Yes, sir,” he answered with cheerful eagerness. “I’ll run down and take a look over my gear. If you’ve no objections, sir, to wearing my things.”

He dived out of the galley door, or glided really, with a swiftness and smoothness that struck me as being not so much...


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