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En Route to Tortuga	By : Chrysanthemum Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Slash - Male/Male > Jack/Will Views: 9594 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-En Route to Tortuga
- 1
En Route to Tortuga

By Chrysanthemum

August 2003
WARNING WARNING WARNING This story is SLASH. That means that it involves a romantic relationship between two men. If that bothers you, go elsewhere. Flames will be construed as proof of your inability to read disclaimers. Furthermore, this is rated NC-17 for explicit m/m sex. If this is illegal where you live or if you are underage, please read something else.
The story is mine. The characters are not. No infringement is intended on the rights of Disney, Jerry Bruckheimer, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, et cetera, et cetera.
Thank you to Mike, Lenore, and Spela for betaing!
Dedicated to Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom's footwork, which is quite impressive for actors who are most likely not actual fencers. (Really -- they have their knees bent and everything!)
As always, feedback is more than welcome at chrysanthemum@fastermail.com. Feed the writer! ;) And (WARNING: OBLIGATORY WEBSITE PLUG) if you like this, there's plenty more to read on my website! http://www15.brinkster.com/fleurdiabolique
Does he even realize how bloody gorgeous he is? I wonder as I watch him fighting with the air. The muscles in his legs tighten and relax in a hypnotically rhythmic way as he advances, retreats, spins, lunges. But even more captivating than those sculpted legs is the bare skin above his waist. I have discovered with some delight that he practices -- and yes, he really does spend three hours a day fencing -- shirtless. He is slender in a way that some might call "wiry," but well-muscled enough to be quite an eyeful. As I watch a bead of sweat trace its way down his chest, so very close to one dark nipple, I find it something of a challenge to keep myself from dashing to his side and retracing the path of that tiny droplet with my tongue.
And to make things worse, there's no way to distract myself from wanting him. If I look away I can still hear his heavy breathing, which brings to mind other situations in which I might hear him gasp and pant like that. Those situations will most definitely never come to pass, but just thinking about them is enough to call to mind images that are even more distracting than the real-life sight of bare-chested, sweaty, flushed Will Turner. So I watch him, watch the play of muscles beneath his skin as he parries his imaginary opponent in four, then six -- a fast retreat as if he has been counterattacked -- then a thrust. Seeing the muscles in his back clench, I think of an entirely different type of thrust that I'd very much like to be on the receiving end of. I find myself feeling strangely lightheaded, and realize that I've forgotten to breathe.
This is pure torture. If things keep going like this I'll be running straight to the whorehouses as soon as we reach Tortuga. Yet I know that I could have a dozen women -- or men, I'm not choosy -- and they still wouldn't erase the need I feel for one particular body, for dark brown eyes and strong hands -- callused, work-worn hands, which is all the better as far as I'm concerned -- and those muscles and that ass, God that ass, and his legs and I need a strong drink. Right now. But if I leave the wheel in this state I won't be able to stop myself from walking up to him and doing something that will earn me an uppercut at the very least and a swordfight in a worst-case scenario.
That's tempting, though; to provoke him just to see his eyes flash with that self-righteous anger, his whole face hardening and sharpening... I vow to myself here and now that I will never let him know how sexy he looks like that.
I really need a drink.
Time passes in that lazy way it has at sea, as though it couldn't care less if it stopped altogether. I watch him until my throat is dry and my eyes hurt from trying not to blink. I'm covered in sweat, I realize. I tell myself that it's because of the heat. Finally, in a futile attempt to distract myself from my want, the heat, his gorgeousness, and my cock trying to bore a hole in my breeches, I speak up.
"Does it really do you any good to practice without a partner?" I thank God that my voice doesn't crack and is in fact almost normally flippant.
He parries, lunges, and completes a parry six-remise and a second lunge before bothering to lower his sword and turn to answer me. "You can be the judge of that, I believe," he calls up to me from the deck. "We've crossed swords before."
"That we have." I pause, considering for a moment, then let go of the wheel and descend the stairs to the main deck. The ship can drift for awhile; we're in the open ocean, and there isn't anything that she could hit for miles around. "And it seems to me that you could benefit from a little man-on-man practice." His nostrils flare at that, and one eyebrow slowly raises. But he says nothing, so I continue. "Your technique is good, but you clearly aren't used to fighting other people. See-" I draw my sword and come at him on an inside line, then disengage from his wild parry and attack again on his outside. He catches my blade in six and holds it. Here I freeze and he, seeming to understand that this is a lesson instead of a fight, also stays still. I indicate our blade positions with my free hand. "Look at how far your arm is from the correct position. Your parry was right, but you did it with too much force. You overcompensated for my strength. Keep doing that, your parries will get bigger and bigger, which makes it all the easier for me to avoid them -- and then, well-" I draw my finger across my neck and wink, giving him my best condescending smile. "Tough luck, mate."
Now he's getting indignant. I can see an explosion building in him, but he's been remarkably good at keeping himself under control since our little -- hmm, let's call it a discussion -- after I told him about his father. His face is firing with irritation so beautifully that I can't help myself; I have to push him a little farther. So I add, "You have to learn a touch of finesse, mate. Maybe in more than fencing, too, hmm? I don't think your girl'll appreciate being manhandled every night when you two are nice and settled." Ah, that did it. He's really glaring at me now, and flushed from more than the heat and the exertion. If looks could kill... well, you know the saying.
He delicately raises his sword, resting its point against my throat. "Do not say such things about Elizabeth," he says with all the warmth of a February day in the northernmost colonies.
"All right, all right. I'm sorry, then."
The pressure on my neck increases fractionally. "I remember you saying something about making choices between 'can' and 'can't,'" he says almost conversationally. "Can you or can't you say that as if you mean it?"
"I can't, mate, I'm sorry," I answer, backing away. I'm feeling increasingly giddy; not a good sign, as I seem to exasperate others most when I'm in this mood, and Will is giving me such a dark look that I'm not particularly sure that I want to vex him any more just now. "Not to be mean, but I can't mean something I don't mean, and I don't mean things very much, that is unless I mean to mean something, in which case I show that it's meant -- if you understand what I mean." He gives me one of those blank looks that is almost, but not quite, as sexy as his angry looks, so I shrug, raise my sword, and say, "If it'll serve as a meaningful apology, you can do your best to beat me black and blue."
I have about half a second to prepare myself before he charges; I parry, spin, parry his next wild attack, lunge, and we're off. Now the fun really begins. This is good, this is living, the singing of steel on steel rippling through my blood, my body moving in a perfect harmony of arms and legs and feet, a tempting and sweaty muscled chest almost within reach -- no, wait, concentrate on the fight. Wouldn't want to get some vital bit chopped off accidentally. So parry, advance, crossover-lunge-recover-parry, retreat retreat spin thrust parry lunge recover retreat -- and I find myself with my back up against the mast. No more retreating, then. But in front of me, the fire in his eyes makes it quite clear that he will not go backward for any reason, so advancing is not an option. I try to slip sideways, but am met with the flat of his blade. It connects squarely with my side, and I yelp in surprise -- well, and some pain too, I suppose. Quite a bit of pain, actually. Good steel, that sword -- which is now up against my neck. This is not a good situation.
He is pressed up against me, pinning me to the mast. His legs bracket my own; his left hand holds my sword arm still while his right arm is bent to hold his sword at my throat. Those heated brown eyes are inches from my own. His breath, hot and smoky-smelling, ghosts over my face as he demands, "Do you yield?"
I can't come up with an appropriately witty answer. I can barely breathe around a sudden rush of renewed desire for this beautiful man who has somehow found his way aboard my ship. I pray he's not close enough to feel that I'm getting hard; straight as his sword, this one is, and if he realizes how much I want him right now and does something rash out of fear or offense... well, there are better ways to go than being beheaded.
"I yield," I manage finally. As he relaxes and releases me -- and I swear I really don't know why I do this -- I drop my sword, wrap an arm around his back while tangling the other hand in his hair, and press my mouth to his.
Oh, and this is sweeter even than I expected. His lips, rough and wind-chapped, taste of sea water or maybe his own sweat. His hair is damp and slick but still surprisingly soft, and I press my hand deeper into it until I'm cradling the back of his head carefully, delicately. And then he pulls back sharply, and I open my eyes -- I never realized I'd closed them -- and steel myself for a blow. But surprisingly enough, he doesn't hit me. Apparently he's not so solidly heterosexual as I'd supposed. I fight down a chuckle -- I should have guessed; he does have this bizarre obsession with swords...
"Jack-" his voice breaks into my thoughts, confused but not soft -- no, nothing soft about this boy, I think as my right hand traces his shoulder blade. "What are you doing?"
"I'm kissing you." Giddy again. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with liquor, when I can apparently become involuntarily drunk at chance moments without touching a drop of alcohol. "Do you have a question that doesn't have an obvious answer?"
"Why?" He gets an adorable little dent between his eyebrows when he's muddled. I want to poke it.
"Because I feel like it." Before he can begin another question I cut him off in with a second kiss, open-mouthed this time, and it's really very convenient that he was about to say something because it gives me a fine opening -- no pun intended -- to slip my tongue into his mouth. He stiffens, his hands coming up to push at my chest -- which does nothing, really, because I've still got my back up against the mast, but I do him the courtesy of pulling back anyway. Something I've learned: if you aren't at least a little polite, you definitely won't get laid.
"This isn't right," he says, but he's breathing hard, and too much time has gone by since my surrender for it to be on account of the fight.
"That isn't an 'I don't want to do this.'"
He meets my eyes for the first time since I kissed him and takes a deep breath. "I..."
We stand there in silence for several heartbeats. I can feel the smirk commandeering my lips. When he says nothing more, I say, "Well, that's decided, then-" and go back to kissing him.
This time he freezes only for a moment, more because of shock than hesitation, I think, before he relaxes just a bit and his tongue moves tentatively against mine. I squeeze his back to show my appreciation and really settle in, using all of the legendary Jack Sparrow skill -- and I assure you, there are tales about my adventures in the bedroom as well as those outside. Soon he moans, leaning against me more as his hands come up to rest on the mast on either side of my head. I let go of his hair and start to touch him lightly, tracing my hands down his neck, his shoulders, and his back. When I dip a few fingers beneath the waist of his breeches he makes a small surprised noise and bucks up against me, his erection meeting my own through what are really too many layers of cloth.
Interesting, I think, and I continue to stroke him there with one hand while the other circles around to his front. He's moving against me now, and the friction on my cock is driving me that little bit more towards insanity as I break the kiss to lick and nibble at his jaw -- mmm, I love stubble -- and murmur, "It's getting rather warm, don't you think?" I pinch his nipple for the hell of it and thrill at his sharp gasp.
To his credit, he says, "Getting rather warm?" in a relatively steady voice. I only smile and raise an eyebrow, hoping he'll get the hint. After a moment -- not always the fastest ship in the fleet, this one -- he does, and I am admittedly impressed with his sudden eagerness as my belt, scarf, waistcoat, and shirt go flying. Last comes my hat, which he removes with proper care and sets gently on the deck a little ways away from us. I expect him to come back into my arms, but instead he stops a short distance away from me, his eyes on his shoes.
"I should tell you... I've never -- I mean I don't know what to-"
"Not a problem." I close the space between us and raise his chin with my finger so that he looks me in the eye. "It's not too hard to learn." Winking, I pull him close. He gasps as our chests meet, and to be fair I suppose I probably make some sort of noise too; this first skin-to-skin contact just feels too good to keep quiet. He wraps his arms around me, resting his hands on my shoulder blades, as I lean in and kiss him again.
I decide several minutes later that I really can't get enough of his mouth. He's not a bad kisser by any means once he gets comfortable, and his lips and tongue and teeth are slowly driving me out of my mind. But after a time, a hand kneading my ass and his hard heat pressing insistently against my own reminds me that other parts of my anatomy and his would eventually like some attention too. I spin us, pushing him backwards until he connects with the mast solidly enough to make him grunt. I wince, thinking of the splinters that he must have gotten in his back, but then smile wickedly as, biting at his neck, I imagine how I might make apologies for those splinters later. He gasps as I find a sensitive spot where collarbone meets shoulder; his free hand (thank God the other one stays firmly on my butt, which is I suppose a sensitive spot of my own) clutching the the back of my head.
"Y'like that?" I grin against his sweat-damp skin.
"Yes," he gasps. "God, Jack, please-" Whatever else he had to say -- if he had anything more than that -- is lost in moans as I stroke, then pinch his nipples.
"Please what?" Oh, I'm enjoying myself far too much. I can't stop smiling as I kiss my way down his chest, the smoky flavor of him mixing on my tongue with the salty tang of his sweat.
"Please -- anything -- I don't know -- ah!" And I thought that provoking him was fun... how much nicer to tease him like this, to nip lightly and then not so lightly at one nipple -- which was where he gasped and left off talking -- then to lick it slowly, dragging the flat of my tongue along that little puckered nub just to hear him moan. I suckle on it briefly, loving the way he arches into my mouth, and then gasp as he moves against me in just the right way to send a new wave of heat crashing down to my groin. I run my hands down his sides to rest on his hips, squeezing slightly as I move my mouth from his nipple and do just what I wanted to not half an hour ago: spotting a droplet of sweat sliding down his chest, I follow in its wake with lips and tongue. I discover another sensitive spot below his ribs on his right side and spend several minutes there until he is squirming and moaning without cease. Only a short distance lower, and I reach the top of his breeches. I run my tongue teasingly under the waistband, slide my hands around to the buttons -- and pull back.
"Are you really sure about this, mate? If you aren't, we can stop now."
I suddenly feel very glad that his sword disappeared somewhere between that first kiss and this moment, because he looks furious enough to do some real damage to yours truly if he had the proper tool.
"You started this, Jack," he says almost evenly, but there is a betraying tremor in his voice that blows to bits any impression of coolness on his part. "If you don't finish it I'll bloody well have your head."
I flash him a cheeky grin -- biting my tongue behind it to keep myself from asking "Which one?" -- and get to work on his breeches. It's much more difficult to unbutton the fly than it should be, and I curse my shaking hands more than once before finally the damn pants are around his ankles. It's only then that I realize I've forgotten his shoes and stockings. I sit still for a moment before saying something so foul that it actually makes him flinch -- no -- he's laughing, damn him! This is not funny. But never mind, he's taking his shoes off now, and I handle his stockings and help him to step out of his breeches.
His chuckling stops as I stand up and step back to just look at him for a moment. He's blushing slightly -- embarrassment or the heat, I wonder, or is it simply arousal? He shudders as I take him in my hand, his eyes closing to slits as his head drops back against the mast, and I decide that the third option is the most likely reason for that becoming flush.
I don't usually put much stock in gentleness, but since this is his first time with a man I hold back a little, wanting him to get used to the feel of a man's hand on his cock. But in a very short time he is bucking into my light strokes, pleading between moans for more, harder, and I oblige, gripping more firmly and stroking him faster as I squeeze his balls with my other hand. He makes a desperate sound, his back arching, and I can see him digging his nails into the mast.
I don't want him to come like this, though, not just now anyway. No, I have better ideas. He groans a protest as I release him, but fast on the heels of that comes a sharply gasped "Jack-" as I drop to my knees and slowly, deliberately lick the length of his cock, then swirl my tongue around the tip. And oh, how delicious he is... Elsewhere his skin tasted like a fine cigar; here he is smoky and sweet and musky all at once -- like rum drunk in a whorehouse with the aftertaste of women and a good smoke still lingering on your tongue.
His hands have tangled in my hair, and I really have no reason to resist the force they're putting on my head -- well, other than sadism I suppose, but I can tease more later. Right now I'd rather see him come completely undone. I lean forward slightly, my hands finding purchase on his hips, and take him into my mouth.
He moans low in his throat -- likely one of the sexiest sounds I have ever heard coming from a man's mouth -- and lets go of my hair to brace his hands on my shoulders. No wonder he needs the support; his legs are shaking against my chest, and the trembling is growing with every slide of my tongue on his cock, every little scrape of teeth on his most sensitive areas. Rather nice, actually, that soft quivery rubbing against my nipples with every tremor, and I groan my appreciation around his cock, which makes him gasp and shake harder. He can't be far from release now, I think, and searching for just the right thing to push him over the edge I remember the place on his side... Sure enough, as soon as my fingers rub just so along that patch of skin he cries out and spurts into my mouth. I swallow what I can (his come tastes of smoke and metal, as if the smithy in which he works has found its way into his very body) and when he pulls me to my feet, he licks away what has dribbled out of the corner of my mouth before kissing me hard. I kiss him back with just as much passion, my hands slipping into his hair, and have I mentioned that I really can't get enough of his mouth?
Somehow his leg is between mine, right up against my cock, and I can't keep from grinding against his thigh. The friction alone is nearly enough to send me over the edge; when his breath catches and his hands begin a slow slide down my back I have to break the kiss to have enough concentration left to keep from coming right now. I am not ruining this very nice pair of breeches, I tell myself just before my ability to think disappears completely as his teeth scrape that one particular place on my neck. I make some sort of noise partway between a grunt and a moan and tell him, "Do that again. Harder."
"How much harder?" he murmurs, the movement of his lips against my throat driving me crazy, and oh God don't move away from me, Will, but then again maybe that's okay because he's helping me out of my boots and stockings and now he's pressed up against me again, his hands fumbling with the buttons to my breeches, but it seems to be taking an age and-
"Much harder," I finally manage and cry out, jerking against him, as he bites down nearly hard enough to draw blood.
"How was that?"
"Perfect," I gasp, taking his head in both hands and dragging it up for another kiss.
Suddenly I feel a breeze on my land and my ass, the air playing in fascinatingly near-ticklish ways on my overly sensitive skin. I step out of the cloth pooled around my ankles and kick it off to the side as he pulls back just enough to break the kiss but leave our lips touching.
"You've got to tell me what to do, Jack." Easier said than done; the part of my brain that isn't absorbed by his hand stroking my ass is intensely interested in his other hand, which is resting against my thigh oh-so-close to my cock. Neither part feels particularly like shifting its attention long enough to make an understandable sentence.
"I'm not sure I do-" I have to pause to breathe as the hand on my thigh moves ever so slightly in a very good direction, "-have to. Tell you what to do. I mean." Did that make sense? No matter now. More important things happening. "You seem to have a good idea already." I take his hand and wrap it firmly around my erection, just in case he doesn't get my hint.
My eyes drifted closed quite a while ago; now I open them to lock my gaze with his. His eyes are faintly amused and rather glazed over as he tentatively strokes me once, twice, and then I have to close my eyes again and concentrate on breathing between moans.
Tension is building low in my belly and in the base of my spine, and every pull on my cock sends me higher. His other hand is on my back now, stroking a little but mostly just keeping me upright, though it's not really working -- he has no real leverage on me to hold me up, and my legs are quickly becoming unable to support me either. In degrees, I slide lower and he comes with me -- his hand never leaving my cock, God bless him -- until we're lying on the deck, him atop me. He's heavier than he looks -- makes it hard to breathe for a moment -- and then it gets really hard to breathe, as his mouth starts doing incredible things to my chest, my nipples, my abdomen, my thighs -- and by now I don't know how I'm hanging on, only that I'm clinging to the edge of sanity by my fingernails. I look down at him just as he looks up at me, and I swear that I will never know anything as incredible as watching this beautiful boy suck my dick. He takes just the tip into his mouth and flicks it gently with his tongue, and I drive my nails into the palms of my hands in an effort to hold on just a little bit longer. Then, still holding my gaze -- it should not be possible to be so damned sexy -- he starts to slide his mouth down over me.
I hear someone screaming; it takes me a moment to realize that it is me and that I'm calling his name. Everything goes golden, and then white, and finally black, and I am perfectly happy to sink into that blackness and float drowsily for a while, wallowing in the pleasant aftershocks still tingling up my spine and through my limbs. I come to feeling the deck hard and rough under my back, the sun hot on my skin -- I'm going to get sunburned in the most inconvenient places, I think drowsily. His body is stretched warm and damp along my side, his lips pressed to the side of my neck just below my jaw. When I feel like I can speak, I comment, "If you're new to all this, I'd pay good money to know where you got so good at it."
He looks up at me, embarrassment and hurt crossing his face before he realizes I'm teasing. Then, to my surprise, William Turner of all people turns coy! "Maybe I'm a natural," he suggests, pressing closer to me, a smile dancing shyly about those delicious lips.
I chuckle -- full of surprises, this one -- and dip my chin just enough to catch his mouth with mine; he sighs and opens to my tongue willingly. It is a long, deep kiss, and the taste of him mingled with my come is intoxicating. He really does feel so good against me, so right, and despite myself I start to get that hot ache in my groin again. This boy is going to run me into the ground -- well -- fuck me into the ground might be a better way to put it -- and oh, the ideas that brings to mind... I push him onto his back, rolling atop him, and discover that I'm not the only one taking a renewed interest in this encounter. Bracing my arms on the deck to either side of his chest, I pull back from the kiss just to watch the blissful expression on his face as I thrust slowly against him, rubbing our erections together. His hands slide roughly down my back to cup my ass, encouraging me; his fingertips slip ever so slightly between my cheeks, brushing against very sensitive skin, and I suddenly recall that notion I had a moment ago.
"Will-" I can't help myself; he looks fit to eat, and before I say any more I have to bend my head to nibble at his collarbone, his neck, his jaw, that full lower lip... He draws me into another kiss that's going to get very involved in a moment. As tempting as that is, better things will come if I can just pull away long enough to ask him -- so I do, reluctantly, shivering at his disappointed moan. "Will, me dear, would you perhaps like to take this a bit farther?"
He opens his eyes at that, and raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that there was any farther to go," he says breathily, never stopping the slow rocking of his hips against mine.
"Oh, there is." I smile seductively. "And I think you'll like it. What d'ya say?"
He considers for a moment, perhaps, but no more. "All right. What do we do?"
"You'll see." I turn us on our sides and kiss him again just because I can. He groans, his tongue slipping into my mouth, our legs tangling together so that now with every slow thrust of our hips skin meets skin in new and interesting ways. But this isn't quite what I had in mind, as nice as it is. I reach behind me, take one of his hands, and bring it to my lips -- so unfortunate that I have to stop kissing him to do this, but I suppose I must make some sacrifices. I kiss his palm slowly and with just a hint of tongue, smiling at his surprised gasp -- never thought of this before, hmm, Will? Then, one by one, I slip his fingers into my mouth, treating them as I might his cock -- slow swirls of the tongue, gentle suction, every now and then a hint of teeth. He makes an appreciative sound, the nails of his other hand digging slightly into my skin -- quite nice, that -- then puts his mouth to good use along my neck, making me gasp.
When I have worked my way from his pinky to his thumb, he pulls back to comment with faint amusement, "As good as that feels, I don't understand how sucking on my hand is taking things any farther."
I give his thumb one final lick before releasing it from my mouth. "It isn't," I answer, guiding his now-slick hand down my body. "That was preparation. You wouldn't want to hurt poor old Jack, now would you?" He's leaned back enough now to look me in the eye; I wink at him as I say, "This is taking things farther."
He gasps, his eyes going wide with sudden understanding as our joined hands reach their destination. I don't force anything on him, simply hold his hand there as I say, "You can still back out if you want, love."
There is a long, silent moment. I think disappointedly that I've gone too far, he'll pull away any moment now... but then his free hand drags my face to his and he kisses me, hard, and when our lips have disentangled he only says, "What do I do?"
"Just press in." Sudden pain makes me jump and cry out. "One finger, lad, one to start! And a bit more gently, if you please." Seeing the distressed look on his face, I lean forward to kiss him briefly. "It's all right. Just be a bit more careful."
He nods, looking so adorably serious that I have to chuckle, which turns into a gasp as he breaches me with agonizing slowness. Immediately he stops. "I'm hurting you-"
"No, that's-" That feels so good, and it's been so long since I did this that it's hard to speak around my want. I gasp in air for a moment, then try again. "That's not painful." At his doubtful look I add, "Trust me," with such force that his eyes go wide again. Without further protest, he presses his finger into me fully. I move with him slightly as he starts to slide in and out, half-moaning under my breath; I moan in earnest when his other hand finds my left nipple and his mouth my right. I'm trying to prolong this, so I let him drive me nearly past the ability to speak before I gasp, "Another finger, Will-" and that feels so good that for the second time today I find myself within a hair's breadth of coming before I want to. I want him in me now, but I know I'm not ready yet, so instead I say, "Another." That's a real stretch, and suddenly I'm nowhere near orgasm; I'm almost feeling more pain than pleasure until his fingers curl and brush that one spot that sends fire shooting through my body. The pleasure is so strong that for a moment I can't breathe; I buck against him, crying out.
When my head stops spinning and I become fully conscious of my surroundings, he is perfectly still inside me, his face near my own. "Jack?" he says in a tone that suggests he's been trying to get my attention for a bit. I nod to indicate I've heard -- I don't exactly trust my voice -- and he continues worriedly, "Are you all right?"
"Better than all right," I manage. "If you've never done it, you won't really understand -- but God, don't stop!" He seems slightly confused but obeys me, stroking me carefully from within and pressing up against that spot with every thrust -- fast learner, this one, and I thank God for that -- until I am writhing against him, on the brink of coming again. When I can stand it no more, I roll him onto his back and sit up, straddling his waist. His fingers are still in me, and the shift in position makes them rub against my insides in such delightful ways that I can't hold back a moan.
His eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the deck. I can feel his hardness brushing against me from behind; I wonder if he's figured this out by now or if he remains the innocent. Well, "innocent" may not be the best word... I chuckle at the thought; his eyes slide open to watch me curiously. They are nearly black with his desire. He is such a picture at this moment: slitted, hungry gaze atop slightly parted, kiss-swollen lips, the whole framed by damp, thoroughly disheveled hair. His pale throat, temptingly exposed, leads my eye down to that finely muscled chest, heaving with each shuddering breath. His free hand is playing with his nipples; as he sees me watch him do this he smiles, a come-hither, cocktease smirk that could not be duplicated by the priciest whore in Tortuga. How can I resist? I lean down to trace that smile with the tip of my tongue, then brush my lips against his -- lightly, just enough to tease. He moans, reaching up to get more contact, but I lean backward for each of his forward movements, refusing him an actual kiss.
"Jack," he breathes, almost warningly, but I only smile and nip the tip of his nose.
"There is more than this."
"And I think that I may have guessed what it is." The corner of his mouth tips upward as he slips his fingers out of me, but despite his effort at nonchalance his breath is coming faster and more harshly. I smile back at him as I raise myself up and then sink down upon him.
He moans, arching up without thought, and as a result slides fully into me a good deal faster than I had expected. I bite back a cry -- he is big, and I have not done this in such a long time; I was ready for discomfort but not for actual pain. "Wait, wait-" I gasp when he would start thrusting. "I need a moment."
He strokes my face, my neck, my chest gently, and I hear regret in his voice as he says, "You can't say that I am not hurting you now."
I start to deny that, but he glances at my hands, which clutch his chest so hard that the knuckles are white, and I know that he speaks the truth. "That I can't. But just -- wait -- this will pass in a moment, I promise. I only need to adjust-"
He nods, and draws me down with gentle hands for a slow, soft kiss. As our tongues slide together in slick heat, the pain lessens to a burn, then to an ache. Finally all I feel is fullness, and rising desire as he explores my mouth and his hands map the muscles of my arms with touches that grow harder and more demanding by the minute. I rock on him, just a little, and he moans. One hand settles on my ass, urging me on just as much as the small, encouraging noises he makes as I begin to ride him in earnest.
I shift the angle so that with every thrust he hits that place inside of me. I'm trying to take this slowly, but with that pleasure added to his moaning, gasping, running his nails down my back, and raising his hips to meet my every downward stroke, I know I'm fighting a losing battle. I try to hold on, really I do, but I'm getting swept away in his hands, his voice, his cock hard and hot deep inside me, the lightning that sparks through me every time he strikes the pleasure point in my ass. I can't help but speed up, and when he wraps his hand around my erection and strokes in time with his thrusts I come hard and long, spurting onto him as I tremble and dig my nails into his chest.
I collapse against him, trying and failing to coax strength and movement out of my shaking, limp body. He must sense that I'm finding it hard to move, for he rolls us until I am on my back. I manage to find enough energy to bring my legs to my chest, and he plunges into me again.
He's beginning to lose his control; I can tell because he's growing rougher, losing his care for my comfort; every thrust is coming harder than the last. I love being taken like this, pounded through the deck; I let my head fall back, cover his hands with mine, and meet his strokes as best as I can with so little leverage. Over the sound of the waves -- or is that just the blood pounding in my ears? -- I hear him calling my name over and over. With every thrust it escapes his lips, so quiet as to be nearly impossible to hear: "Jack -- Jack -- Jack-"
"...Jack? ...Jack?" A hand waves in front of my face not two inches from my nose. I blink, shake my head to clear it, and turn to see a (disappointingly) fully-clothed Will looking at me with a mixture of concern and confusion.
"Yes?" I try to sound as unruffled as possible, given that I've just been distracted from a very enjoyable daydream by the object of said daydream. I hope I don't look like I want to tackle him to the deck and fuck him senseless. I hate it when I transmit my feelings like that.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Why?"
"Well, I had to call your name seven times."
"I was -- thinking." About you. Naked on the deck with me. Would you mind if I went back to that now? It's much more enjoyable.
Fortunately he doesn't ask any more questions on that topic; he only raises an eyebrow (I can almost hear his thoughts: "You -- thinking?!" with a mental roll of his eyes) and says, "I just wanted to ask you how far it is to Tortuga."
"Not much more than a day's sailing," I answer. He nods and goes down the stairs to the main deck to lean on the railing there and stare out across the sea. I sigh, watching him for only a moment before turning my full concentration back to steering. We have gone slightly off course; I silently scold myself for my lack of attention. No more daydreaming about pretty boys, Jack; you've got better things to do. Besides, you need him for an entirely different purpose than as a bedmate.
Then I eye his tempting body one more time, and clutch at the wheel as want makes my eyes glaze over and my heart quicken. All right -- no more daydreaming about pretty boys until we reach Tortuga. After that... we'll see.
-FIN-
- 1
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En Route to Tortuga