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It’s raining. Rain drops fat as well-suckled babies. Warm, steamy rain that sizzles the dirt. Wet air, heavy and thick. Air you could drown in.
Jack Rackham sits in the window of the Tavern. Tea brewed to the perfect strength, which is filthy strong, the colour of dirt in the cup. Tannins so rich they dry the edges of his tongue. He adds sugar by the ladle. He has always had a taste for decadent pleasures. Vice and Jack Rackham are compatible bed fellows. He is, if one would allow the vulgarity, a slut for vice.
Talking of which, ah yes, his latest infatuation. Outside in the rain, Charles Vane is working with a small crew, unloading barrels of salted pork from a cart. The rain soaks him as he works. Slicking his hair down his back, sticking his shirt to his flesh.
Jack has known Charles Vane for years.
Charles Vane is a beautiful man. He is the most beautiful man Jack has ever seen in his colourful life as a rapscallion, gentleman thief, pirate and flaneur. He’s thought this, the noteworthiness of Vane’s beauty, for years. Always an idle thought, not a pressing, urgent one. Simply an admiration of Vane: savage in a fight. At home with violence. Fighting with blood and boots.
And yet lately, he has been considering, mulling as one would mull a philosophical argument or an artful and devious theft, that to have this savage of a man tame and between his legs would truly be the height of pleasure. A pleasure that should not be denied to Calico Jack, a consumer of the finer things in life, no decadent act should be barred to him.
This morning, in his notebook, Jack Rackham is writing a list. It’s a list of attributes, traits -- if you will -- of one Charles Vane.
He’s written notes like this before. He finds it a useful exercise. He compares himself to men he admires, men he knows, men…
Traits they share, traits they don’t. Places he could best them, places he could improve himself, places he could never best them. It’s important to know these things. To be ready for anything. Nassau is a place of forever shifting sands, of alliances made at sunset and broken by morning. The tides turn and the moon wanes and a man who would triumph must be ready for anything.
Know thine enemy. As simple as that.
When he compared himself to Flint he filled almost a quarter of his notebook with precise handwritten analysis. But when it comes to Charles Vane, Jack’s usual quick inspiration feels sluggish. The deep well of his wits is dry. Where his mind is usually quick, sharp and bright as the edge of a new sword, when he thinks of Charles Vane it feels dulled and slow. His thoughts about Charles Vane are a sweet soup, and yet, one he wouldn’t mind drowning in, like the thick airless air.
Under the first heading, the first part of the process, he has begun his list of similarities between him and Charles Vane and all he has written is
Piracy.
He slaps his forehead as if to unloose a stuck thought and adds
A good name.
Jack has a good name. Jack Rackham. As good a name as one he might have selected himself, but the only edit he had made to the name he had been born with was the change of from John to Jack. A smart choice. Elevating his name into something stylish and considered.
The repeated syllable. The clicking of a repeated hard C. Softened by its ending with a soft hum.
A good name and a name that should begin, Captain.
Jack’s name was his greatest possession. Worth more than ships or gold or glory. He is proud of the name he has built.
He is Jack Rackham.
He is Calico Jack.
Through the tavern window, he watches Charles Vane.
Charles Vane is a better name than Jack Rackham. It has no frills, no studied effort to it. It is strong and simple. It simply exists. Just a little assonance to ground it. Holding it there. Steady and immovable.
Charles Vane is a name for a Captain.
Jack looks from Vane moving barrels in the rain to his list and writes.
Flair.
Anne Bonny owns the whole of Jack’s heart.
He loves every part of her. He revels in her pleasure. He kisses her mouth when it tastes of Max’s cunny and he feels nothing but ease. He basks in the warm glow of her satisfaction.
He does not consider himself a cuckold. Even when his role in bed is to lie and watch Anne and Max rapt in the pleasures of each other. He is not superfluous to this arrangement and he would have too much dignity to remain here if he was
He simply has exquisite taste. He is refined and regal. He has the bearing of a Prince.
A Prince can lie with whomever he chooses. He does not bow to convention. He is tastemaker. If men knew of this arrangement and Jack’s place in it they would all crave two women in their bed too. They would line up to see their lover serviced by a beautiful whore.
And a man who revels in a pleasure such as this could not be considered an invert. It is a deeply male thing, a masculine thing. He tells himself this as he watches his lover in the arms of her lover, once again, he is no cuckold. His masculinity might be more complex than that of a man like Charles Vane, nevertheless he knows who he is. He knows what he wants and it is this. It is Anne happy. He knows his strength in giving her this.
It is a strength even the strongest of men do not possess.
Jack lies back on sheets that stink of pleasure. He licks his palm and takes his cock in his own hand. He watches the women in his bed and he allows himself a moment of thinking of Charles Vane’s mouth on him, of sprawling in the decadence of a bed of fucking and fluids.
He spills fast into his fist with a gasp, unnoticed.
Jack watches as Max takes her own pleasure from his lover, animal wild. Both performing her climax, as she has done for so long she cannot stop the performance, and real, tender as she looks at Anne when she regains herself. She pulls Anne up her body, skin sliding on slick skin, and cradles her. Strokes Anne’s tangled hair away from her face. Anne is so soft in response to this tenderness that Jack feels a catch in his throat. He could cry for how he deeply loves her.
Anne looks at him through a curtain of hair, damp with sweat and falling in her face like Charles Vane working in the rain. She looks like him. She looks like Charles Vane.
Unguarded, guileless, he says to his lover and her lover, “Do you think Charles Vane is attractive?”
There is a long pause in a room full of breath.
“Do you think Charles Vane is attractive?” Max says.
In the Inn, Jack watches Charles Vane. Across the room, drunk and soft on rum. A whore on his lap, kissing at his neck for gold. For a fleeting second, he imagines himself in that whore’s place.
He thinks of being taken and used by Charles Vane.
Taking Charles Vane’s cock in his mouth and sucking him hard. Climbing astride Charles Vane’s body, supine on his finest sheets. Riding a cock. He has never seriously considered such a pleasure before.
But such pleasures exist and he knows.
The thought of it rolls around and around in his head and his guts. Anne returns from the bar. She sits down next to Jack and says, “Tell him.”
“Anne dearest. He’d skin me alive.”
Anne touches his thigh. “Know yourself, Jack Rackham. Know yourself as I know you.”
Anne had been thirteen when he met her. He took her in because she would have died on the streets. Although he has encountered many an urchin destined to die on the streets and walked right past. But he had not done so with Anne and he doesn’t know why, but he thanks the Gods for it. He knew, when he saw her, that she was close to breaking. Now, she seems so hard that nothing could touch her, but then, a night of rough treatment would have shattered her like glass.
He knows what her future would have been without him. A broken whore. Dead eyed. He has seen such whores. He has bedded them. He does not care for it. He has always preferred a bed partner who he knows could kill him. Who only leaves him with his throat unslit because of his charm and his willing way with his cock and his tongue and his fingers. He likes to see a woman who has felt a man die in her arms climax in his bed.
And that had always been Anne. Their best fucks had always been after he’d seen her kill. He has licked the blood from her tits and it has made him the man he is.
But who is that? And who is he becoming?
He has tempered Anne to a strength he values and worships. He would trust her with his life and he trusts her when she says, “Skinned or fucked by him, you would know yourself. Dead or alive. Like this you are neither.”
Sometimes when he looks at Anne he still sees a child. Sometimes, a monster. His monster. He took a risk fashioning a creature to love and fight. She is now more of a monster than he’ll ever be, and more of a man. Anne was the best decision he ever made. Is he now about to make the worst?
He leans in and drinks a kiss from Anne’s lips. She tastes of rum and sweat and decades of knowing every crease of him. He presses his tongue deeper into her mouth. He loves Anne with every part of his soul, but when he kisses her he thinks of Vane. He wonders who is in her head when she kisses him.
He pulls back from the kiss to stroke a flat thumb across Anne’s cheek. He glances over to Vane’s seat and sees that both the man and the whore are gone.
That night Jack doesn’t sleep.
In the morning he resolves to put this madness behind him. A symbolic gesture is required. From his notebook, he tears the page containing the barely begun list of traits he shares with Charles Vane and burns it in the Tavern fireplace. In the embers from the night before, still spluttering in the grate.
A voice behind him, familiar, dark and low, says, “What the fuck are you destroying, Jack?”
Jack turns to see Vane, body black, blocking the sunlight in the doorway.
“No business of yours,” he snaps back.
He should leave, he thinks, push his way past Vane, through that door and out into another sun soaked morning in Nassau. He would be free then, free in that sunlight. Cleansed. But he doesn’t move. He stands by the dying fire in the gloom of the Tavern. Air wretched and stale with old smoke and old sweat and split rum and split blood.
Vane walks towards him, breeches and boots creaking. “Saw you last night in the Inn, staring at me, drooling like a fucking dog. Like a bitch. A bitch in heat.”
“I am as free as you are to frequent the Inn. If I happened to glance in your direction, what of that?”
“That, Jack,” Vane takes one last step, a step that brings him close, “was no glance. Men who look at me like that, you know what I do to them?”
Jack can’t reply. A problem he has rarely encountered. And yet….
And Vane takes hold of him, not even fast, but he makes no move to resist, fists bunching in the lapels of a jacket he is particularly and rightly fond of, and shoves him backwards, hard, into the chimney breast. Discarded bottles on the mantelpiece rattle, “Well?” Vane says.
Vane’s body is so very close to his. Tall and broad. Overwhelming. Almost touching.
“I really,” Jack stammers, “I really have no idea.”
“Think on it,” says Vane, dropping his grips so fast Jack almost falls. He feels the fire behind him, feels his heart beat hard. The paper catches and flares. Heat on his leg.
Vane puts a hand between Jack’s legs and touches Jack’s cock. Hard, stupidly hard. Jack says nothing. Vane smiles, turns and walks away.
That night Jack takes Anne to bed, thinking that he will find the part of his mind he has lost to this unwelcome obsession if he buries himself in her body.
But when he lies beside her, weakened and soft, she says, “Max says you want her as lover for me because it is something you desire for yourself.”
Jack looks up at the ceiling. It is cobwebbed and flecked with mould in places, but it has a certain grandeur. He says, “I’ll thank you not to bother me with the opinions of whores.”
“She is no whore when she shares our bed.”
“Yes, love. That is true. She is far more than a whore. I have seen that.”
“And she is sharp,” Anne says, rolling over so her body presses to Jack’s side. She touches his chin. “I’ve always liked that. You know I have.”
Jack doesn’t look at her. He keeps his gaze on the ceiling. “You think Max is correct, perhaps that she knows my mind better than I do myself?”
“I do,” says Anne quietly. “She does.”
“I see.”
Jack sits up and hauls naked from the bed. He pulls on breeches and shirt and walks out of the room. He walks from the Inn to the Tavern to the beach and back to the Inn. He’s not looking for anyone. And he finds the person he’s not looking for when he’s three drinks deep.
Or he is found.
Vane sits next to him. Plops a bottle on the table. He’s sitting too close. His mouth almost touches Jack’s ear when he leans in. Breath sauced with drink, “So you’ve finally accepted you want my cock in your mouth.”
Jack fills his glass from the fresh bottle and turns. “Fuck you, Vane. I’d bite it off.”
“Aye, so you could keep it and use it to pleasure yourself.”
“Don’t waste your breath. I was going to lie with a man, I can assure you it would be a man of breeding.”
“Oh really.” Vane slides a big hand onto Jack’s leg. “So how much money would it take to part your thighs like a bitch? If it's a Lord you want to breach you. I have a consignment of jewels. Keeping them for a rainy day.”
“It’s hardly a matter of money.”
“Lucky, as I wouldn’t pay a farthing for your filthy hole.”
“How dare you,” Jack swivels to face him, “my hole is the delight of New Providence.”
Vane makes a single sound of amusement. “You do know, Calico Jack, that if I wanted you there would be no negotiation. I could take you right here. I could drag you to my bed. Who’d stop me?” Vane’s voice is low, a vibrating rasp that hits Jack in the guts.
“If you wanted me?” Jack knocks back his drink. “And why the hell wouldn’t you want me?”
Vane leans back and looks him up and down. Then laughs. He stands up, still and walks away. He’s halfway across the room when he tosses back over his shoulder. “You’re a joke, Jack, you filthy fucking Mary.”
There’s a murmur around the Inn, soft laughter and looks. Jack glares after Vane’s back. Horrified. He tops up his glass from the bottle Vane has left on the table. Seething.
The indignity. The sheer rudeness of it. How dare he. How fucking dare he.
After that little event, Jack stews for five days. Looks and laughs have never troubled him much. He’s got used to them. He’s always had a manner, a countenance, that suggested things. Suggested things to the type of men who wouldn’t know class if it bit their dick off. Sadly New Providence teams with such uncultured swine. And suddenly it feels like the whole damn island is sneering at him.
Stupid, effortless jeering. Jack doesn’t listen. Doesn’t listen to things like: “Hear you like to part your legs these days, Calico Jack.” It’s fucking juvenile. “Does Anne fuck you with a chair leg to satisfy you?”
Insults he could stand, but this level of banality would try the patience of a bloody saint.
So he goes to the fort to put an end to things. He spends a quarter of an hour remonstrating with the brainless cretin who bars his way. It’s not that Captain Vane won’t see him, it’s that he is busy.
“Tell him it’s Jack Rackham. Tell him to eject his seed into whatever manner of hole he’s using this evening, pull his drawers up and grant me a fucking audience.”
Nothing.
“I am telling you this will not wait.”
Nothing.
He should have brought Anne.
No, no. He shouldn’t.
“I’m not leaving until you at least tell him I am here.”
Once he manages to make that understood, that he will not be leaving until someone actually tells Vane he wants to see him, things begin to move in the direction he wants and instantly regrets. Vane, the response comes back, will see him in his bed chamber.
Although chamber is too fine a word for the room Jack is shown to. Pit, would be a better word. Squalid pit. A dark cavern of a room, with only a fire and a few torches on the walls for light. Vane lies in his bed. Or, he lies in a nest of soiled linens on the floor, which is the closest thing to a bed the room appears to have. Vane is naked. Jack had seen the whore leaving as he approached. He is still visibly soiled. Seed drying on his belly.
“What do you fucking want?” Vane grinds out. Making no move to stand, or even to cover his body. A twisted rag of a sheet covers his thighs. His limp cock is uncovered. His bare shoulders rest against a stone wall. His chin is set, his mouth is firm.
Jack squares his own shoulders. “You have insulted me, Sir--” he begins.
Vane interrupts him with a wave of his hand. “Oh get out you pathetic molly, and send my whore back in. I’m lying here with my dick in my hand.”
Jack looks at Vane’s dick and smeared seed. It was practically an invitation. “It’s quite clear that you are finished.”
“I’ll decide when I’m done fucking, Jack.”
“How dare you refuse to bed me,” Jack spits out suddenly, almost shocking himself.
“How dare I? I will bed whomever I choose. And in case I haven’t made it clear, I choose not to bed dogs like you.”
“I’ll have you know I am a comely specimen.”
Vane looks Jack up and down. “Really. Then why not show me how comely you are. Strip yourself.”
It’s like a game. Who is going to blink first? And Jack thinks, right. Jack thinks, good. Jack thinks, he knows games. He knows how to win games. This game might end with a blade at his throat but he will still be the victor. He will spread his legs for Charles Vane or die trying.
With Vane watching, Jack strips. He pulls off his shirt. He shows Vane his skin. Every inch of it. Skin that is burnished by sun and salt, tanned to leather by bruises and piss and humiliation.
He loses his boots and breeches. He raises his hands behind his head and displays it all for Vane. He’s hard. There’s a stab of shame in that.
Vane looks. “What would you offer me? Your mouth or your hole?”
Jack lowers his gaze. “Anything.” He lowers himself to his knees and says it again. “Anything.”
“You would have me take my pleasure from you however I choose?”
“Yes.”
“What if my pleasure is to send you away?”
“It isn’t.”
“You sure about that, Jack?”
“I’m kneeling naked in your bed chamber.”
“Turn around then. Convince me this is going to be worth my time.”
Jack shuffles around on the grimy floor. He shows Vane his ass, then reaches back and opens himself. He shows Vane his hole. Thinking, distantly, that if Vane does send him away after this, the indignity itself might be enough to kill him. His dick is still hard.
Vane starts speaking. “If I let you come to my bed, Jack, know this: you will do as I say, You will give yourself to me like the most willing whore. You will beg for my cock inside you.”
Jack turns back around, shuffling on his knees. He swallows. Is this a yes? “A fair deal,” he says, voice level and calm.
“And you won’t fucking talk.”
“As you wish it.”
“And you will call me Captain.”
“Hard to do without talking.”
“And you won’t be fucking smart.”
“These demands get harder and harder.”
“You’ll get harder and harder.”
“That last request is practically impossible. I am known for my fine mind.”
Vane looks at Jack lazily. “Luckily, Jack, for me you can be pretty fucking stupid.”
“Aye,” Jack says. “Captain.”
“Quartermaster to my Captain, how it should be.”
Jack knows that a Captain, a true Captain, has to bewitch his crew to a greater or lesser degree. Some are better at it than others.
He watches, still kneeling, as Charles Vane gets naked from his bed, crosses the room and bends and it happens so fast. One moment he is still unsure how this will end and the next Vane’s tongue is in his mouth, Vane’s hand is in his hair. Vane bears down, forcing Jack’s head back so all he can do is take the kiss, the deep, sweetness of Vane’s velvet tongue. Jack moans. He puts his hands on Vane’s bare thighs. It’s hopeless, how much he wants this.
When the kiss breaks, he feels instantly bereft. Vane stands over him. “Come back tomorrow, Calico Jack. I’ve already had a whore tonight.”
Breathless, Jack says, “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow. And I won’t need to pay the a whore I take then, will I?”
Jack walks to the Inn, buys a bottle of rum and drinks it on the beach until he’s unconscious. But before he’s unconscious, he thinks, well, so here he is. On the cusp of becoming Urainian. A pathic. A slut begging for cock.
He wakes in the rain. Sweet in his dry mouth.
He walks home and lies in bed all day, working his fingers into his ass
The feeling of being filled is good. He doesn’t do this often. He’s scared of how he loves it. But now, he is glad of how he loves it. He thinks of Vane’s thick fingers. His rings, cool and smooth, bumping over his rim as he cracks him apart.
No matter what slurs men might throw at him, a man with a certain grace, a certain manner, he is not a Molly. He has not bent himself over for a man before.
As evening falls he goes back to the fort. As he walks the thought catches him that this, still, may not happen as he wishes it. That he might still lose this mad game of his own devising. That he might arrive to find Vane ready to laugh at him for turning up for this.
That might be sent away empty, humiliated, with Vane and his men’s laughter in his ears.
He finds himself dwelling so hard on these thoughts he is angry at the inevitability of it when he arrives in Vane’s bed chamber.
Until he really sees it.
The room is no longer the pit it was the previous evening. It is lit up. Candles set on elegant stands light the edges of the room. Soft gold light instead of the ominous orange of fire. And that light illuminates a transformed boudoir. There are silks. Red and purple, on the bed, spread over the rough linens. He can still see the old bedding at the edges. It’s not a neat or thorough job, but an attempt has been made.
But the most striking thing about the room isn’t the candles or the silks, it’s the gold coins that are scattered around the bed as additional decor. Not a conventional choice, but it certainly has flair. In the candlelight the gold pieces glitter. The effect is pure pirate decadence.
Jack can’t help his satisfaction at the sight. It’s more than just an effort to prettify the space: it’s him. Captain Jack Rackham. Calico Jack. It is so strangely in line with his tastes it makes his breath catch. It is a bed chamber for him.
A room like this. A bed like this. A bed which is completed with one final note. One perfect accent. Vane. Charles Vane, lying atop the silks and encircled by the gold, naked, skin burnished and glowing in the candlelight, refracted by the scatter of gold, the sheen of the silks.
This a room prepared for the taking of Calico Jack. His skin is alive at the thought of it.
“So,” Jack says, the invitation suggested by the obvious effort makes him swagger. “You’ve cleaned up for me?” He takes his shirt off as he speaks. He rolls his neck. He hopes to God he looks good. That the lighting helps. His body looks less like that of a scarred and ravaged old seadog.
“I gotta compete with two bitches. Thought you might need pretty things in your bed to get hard.”
Jack loses his breeches. “The sight of you is enough to bewitch me, I assure you.” He shows himself naked to Vane. Nothing Vane hasn’t already seen even the display of the previous night. But his heart still starts to hammer hard.
Vane stands. He walks naked from the bed of silk and gold and toward Jack. He’s holding a string of pearls, creamy white with glistening colours dancing in their lustre. When he gets close enough he hangs the string around Jack’s neck. They are cool on his hot skin.
“You’re right,” Vane says, close enough that the smell of his sweat fills Jack’s senses. Vane smells so relentlessly masculine. Vane brushes the back of his hand over Jack’s fast-stiffening dick. “Perhaps this prettiness is for me. Make you a sweet sight for me.” Vane looks down at Jack’s body and bites his lip, almost showily. “Show me how you kneel. I enjoyed seeing that.”
Jack’s heart thumps. He feels blood rush to his dick. Dry-mouthed he says, “Kiss me first.”
Van pecks him on the lips and pulls back with a smirk.
“More than that you fucking swine.”
Vane pauses. A second of anticipation. And then he leans in and kisses Jack slow and deep. Vane’s hands glide over Jack’s shoulders, down his back and over his ass. Fingers find his hole, tease over it, making him moan. He cants forward, pressing his naked body to Vane’s naked body.
Vane makes a chuckling noise and rubs a fingertip over and over, over Jack’s hole. “Easy to make Calico Jack weak,” he mutters with his mouth on Jack’s cheek. “So sweet and delicate like this. Moaning for me. Would you like me to take you delicately, like a blushing maiden when I relieve you of this maidenhead.” The tip of his finger slips inside.
Jack whines. “No, please,” he says, begging now. “Take me roughly, like a common whore.”
“I’ve often thought,” Vane growls into his temple. “Calico Jack would make a fine common whore.”
“How dare you,” Jack shoots back, finding a shred of himself in the haze of his useless arousal. “If I was a whore you’d never afford me.”
This bluster just makes Vane laugh. “Get on your knees,” he says, in a voice that makes Jack helpless not to obey. “I won’t tell you again.”
Jack obeys indecently fast. It’s undignified to be so breathlessly compliant, but he’s so far beyond dignity now that it’s almost laughable to consider it. So, he revels in it. He slides naked onto the floor in front of Vane. Knees spread and cock hard. He moans to do it. It feels good. “Now,” Vane says, tangling a hand in Jack’s hair, “remember what I told you about talking. Lets find a better use for that cocky tongue of yours.” And he fucks his dick, fast and rough into Jack’s mouth.
Jack gags. His head swims. Vane’s thick cock tastes filthily good. Jack sucks hard. He wants to taste every scrap of Vane’s skin and especially the skin of his cock, soft and smooth. He wants to savour it. He wants to sicken on it. He wants to feel Vane’s cock in his mouth for days after this.
“Aye,” says Vane, “and you’re a pretty bitch like this. Made for it, aren’t you? Made for a cock in your vicious mouth.”
Jack moans.
Vane slides a finger into Jack’s mouth alongside his cock and touches Jack’s tongue. Jack can feel one of Vane’s rings, warm metal, brushing his lips. He puts his hands on Vane’s thighs and whimpers. He wants more.
Vane twists Jack’s hair hard enough to sting and burn.
Jack whimpers and Vane growls down at him. “Waste to spill here when I know your hole is so empty you’re ready to come here and beg.” Vane pulls his cock free in a mess of spit and fluid, leaving Jack gasping, mouth empty.
He swallows and says, “I did not beg.”
“You’ve been begging for weeks. Reckon you were born begging for a cock in your ass. Made to be fucked like you were made to suck.”
Vane turns and picks up a kerchief, a scrap of rough linen, that lies on his bed. He uses it to wipe off his cock then shoves it in Jack’s mouth. “Now that’s pretty. Keep that in your mouth. Get on the bed. On your back.”
Jack stretches his eyes at Vane. He doesn’t speak. He crawls over to the bed and lies down on his back on the cool silks. Vane walks across the room to him like a predator. Looking up at him, Jack feels small, so aware of how much bigger and stronger Vane is than he.
He’s making a ridiculous mewling noise into the kerchief in his mouth and his cock is hard, leaking on his belly. He doesn’t think he could be more aroused, more ready to be fucked, and then Vane crouches between his legs and licks over his hole.
Jack makes a wild noise into the kerchief. The feeling is intense. His hole is so ready, so fucking sensitive and greedy. Vane licks him again and Jack feels a wash of pleasure, followed by a wash of shame. He is on his back, like a maiden, receiving tongue, like a maiden. He has done this to Anne, he has seen Anne do this to Max. He is spread under Vane’s tongue, a blushing virgin being prepared with a little courtesy for his first breaching.
Vane’s tongue is making him wet. It’s a strange sickly feeling, being made wet and open. And he never wants it to stop. He spread his legs wider for it. Moans and sobs for it. Wants and wants and wants like he could die for wanting.
He feels like he’s reached the edge of madness when Vane moves, body over Jack’s, a hand between their legs to guide him in. The head of Vane’s cock opens him, slides slick into him, splits him apart and remakes him into whatever strange creature he is now becoming.
After a couple of slow movements, Vane speeds up and then its rough. Vane growls and starts to fucks him like death is coming for them, shells are raining down around them, like it’s now or never, like they have decided to face their ends in each other’s arms. Jack rolls his head against silks. He looks up at Vane above him, his bare wide shoulders, his thick arms, supporting his big body.
It’s a hard fuck. He hasn’t been fucked but he has fucked and he feels the power in this, the bed-shaking, eye-rolling power. Vane is savaging him.
Nevertheless. He wants more.
He spits out rag and begs for harder, says, “Harder. Captain, please. Fucking split me open, break me in two, damn it. Take me like a dog with a bitch.”
Vane snarls with pleasure and licks Jack’s neck.
He grunts as he slams into Jack harder. The rim of Jack’s asshole is burning, stretched and tight. All of him feels tight, taut on building, mounting, endless pleasure. “I should keep you a trophy,” Vane says, he’s panting with the effort of fucking and Jack finds this wildly arousing. “My own pretty bitch. Calico Jack Rackham, a pansy cock slut, screaming for me.”
Vane growls deep and Jack babbles out. “Please, please, use your knife on me.”
“Use my knife for what?” Vane is sweating. They both are. Vane’s voice is thick with sex and need.
Jack grinds out, “Hold a knife to fucking throat.”
“You’re a strange fucker, Jack.”
But he fumbles for it. Of course he has a small dagger beside the bed. In easy reach. Jack gasps to feel it pressed to his bared neck, hair sharp, cold as death. He lifts his chin, opening his throat to it.
Skinned or fucked by him, you would know yourself. Dead or alive.
The blade whispers against his throat. Vane could kill him. Slice his throat open and fuck him as he drowned in his own blood
Jack spreads thighs wider. He brings his legs up behind Vane and locks his ankles behind Vane’s back, pulls him deeper. Vane is so deep inside Jack that his vision blurs and he is tossed on waves of pleasure like a storm of it is raging around him.
It builds then. It builds and builds and he is lost. He is sinking under. He is deep, deep below the surface of his consciousness drowning in the ocean of his desire. Vane makes a growling noise. A sound of pleasure. A half spat insult.
Jack moans and spends between their bodies. Vane has a hand tight in Jack’s hair. His thrusts get harder. Jack is whimpering under him, a mess. Vane is strong. He thrusts hard as his own pleasure builds. The mess of seed between their bodies is slick, sliding flesh over flesh.
Vane climaxes with a growl, a noise in his throat that isn’t human. Jack feels Vane’s seed inside him, flooding his guts, making him feel wet, loose and open as Vane’s cock slips free. They’re both panting, breath gone and unspeaking. The air is fetid clouds around them. Jack turns his head as Vane rolls off him and looks at the gold on the floor, glistening in the flickering light.
Vane makes a noise that could only be described as a purr. The silks on the bed have twisted to thin ropes of fabric under them and Jack wriggles his bare ass against the rough linen they’ve revealed and lets Vane, lets Charles, pull him close.
They lie like that for a while. Candles flickering, gold glittering, breathing. Charles turns his head and kisses Jack’s temple.
“I had a plan, you know,” Charles says, voice sounding softer than Jack has ever heard it.
“So did I,” Jack says.
“Oh? What was your plan?”
“To persuade you to fuck me using wits and cunning.”
“You mean begging me to do it?”
“It worked,” Jack says dreamily. “I simply used my cunning to discern what would work.”
“Aye. Very smart, Calico Jack.”
“What was your plan?” Jack says.
“I was gonna kick you out. Fuck you and send you away with my seed dripping out your ass.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Who says I changed my mind?”
“This?” Jack rolls over. He kisses Charles on the nose. It’s an extremely unlikely gesture, but such concerns feel so far away. The romantic basking in the afterglow.”
“Ah,” says Charles. “Aye. Fuck you, Jack.”
“So what was it? What changed your mind? What made you divert from your dastardly plan to eject me?”
“The way you screamed like a bitch when I licked you. You make pretty sounds. I like them.”
“I thought you liked me quiet.”
Charles shrugs, bare shoulders rolling against the mess of soiled bedding. “Changed my mind about that too.”