"Away From Tortuga" 3/3

The pirate leered and licked his lips. "That's what you might call irrumation, mate," he said smugly, "An' it's got its points aye? But that ain't what I'm hopin' for from you -- good but not th' full fare, if you follow me." Jack Shaftoe followed the pirate's beckoning hand right over to the cot, where he let Sparrow sit him down, let Sparrow urge him up, and back, and arrange his good self across the covers. Jack gripped the bedclothes on each side and steeled himself for -- he didn't know what. Some sort of onslaught, at any rate, under the guise of this "lessoning." Sparrow looked down on him, hands on gloating hips, lips swollen and red... and desire for Jack written unmistakably in his glittering black eyes, his darkly flushed neck, the long line of Sparrow's cock down his trowsered thigh.

Stealing through his mind came the notion that no woman, no matter how passionate, had ever been so very, frankly, undoubtedly, desirous of Jack's corpus for its own sake. Though many an actress had been glad to make financial arrangements with, as they often said, a handsome fellow, the handsomeness was always secondary to the finances. And here this chap was gagging for the chance to arrive at the same transaction -- from the other end, as it were, of that financial arrangement. Funny old world, eh?

Sparrow leaned down over him, setting his fists on each side of Jack's shoulders. That ridiculous hair swung down to trace across Jack's skin, bringing with it the smokey, spicy scent of him. "Next lesson, mate?" Sparrow murmured. Jack felt as if he were pressed flat under Sparrow's umbra -- a shadowy weight that held him, naked and helplessly anticipatory. He managed some insouciance with a head nod, and hoped that Sparrow was fooled by it. "Y'see, Jack, a chap can simply hold his mouth open an' let the other fellow fuck it, if'n he can get the hang of the throat business..." Jack gulped, both at the thought of the constricture deep in Sparrow's wicked mouth -- and at the thought of trying to emulate that in his own person. "But a mouth c'n do so much more, eh? Tongue, an' teeth, an' lips..."

Jack licked his lips, already feeling the press of the pirate's mouth on his. It hovered over him, swollen and red and utterly delectable. But it disappeared, and attached itself, instead, to Jack's stomach. The suddenness of it made him jump; but the heat of that suckling organ paralysed him. Lower it travelled, and lower yet, accompanied by scratching-tickling tangles of hair that spidered over his skin. And even though he knew, hoped, it was coming, Jack arched and bit back a howl when his yard felt the first gust of breath and then the velvet wrapping of Sparrow's tongue over the head. It swirled its way down, creating fire in the blue veins along the length of his cock, and insisted that he spread his thighs to admit its exploration around and about his balls. Jack did as it asked, and was rewarded for his acquiescence. It laved his scrotum and Sparrow sucked first one, than the other of those globes into his mouth. Long, clever hands slid along the length of him, a fingernail-- one, single, edge-- ran up the inside of a thigh, capturing all his attention for a moment, pulling it away from -- and then back to -- the heat in his yard. "...What?" he asked thickly.

"Are you paying attention, mate?" Sparrow repeated, glinting.

"A'course," Jack lied. Then there were teeth to pay attention to, repeating the pattern in company with Sparrow's tongue. Jack raised himself up on his elbows and saw lashes laying long and black over cheekbones made higher by the hollowing effect of suction. He looked down the length of Sparrow's naked back, and saw that the man's buttocks were clenching and releasing within the confines of his breeches. He let his head fall back, shutting his eyes against the sideways swing of the world. Jack Sparrow was getting, undeniably and unequivocally, as much as he gave. Something about that made him groan aloud, or perhaps it was the addition of strong suckling vacuum pulling blood into his already over-full prick, pulling him closer and closer to completion. He could feel Sparrow's cheeks tight about him, and his cockhead swelling impossibly more, constricted between the hard roof of Sparrow's mouth and his strong tongue --

"Of course, I don't expect you to be such an expert as I am, Jack. Not for your first time, but I 'spect you have the general principles now, eh?"

"Fuck!"

"I'd like that, but I wasn't asking it of you in the first place, an' I won't hold you to it --"

Jack forced his eyes open and tried to focus on Sparrow in a way that would convey the depth of his rage. "You utter bastard!"

Sparrow cocked his head in enquiry "Why love, wasn't it to your liking?" He wasn't as cool as all that; his mouth fell loose and pouting, his chest heaved, and his breeches were tented and darkened with wet where his cock -- Jack could see the flaring shape of the head-- rubbed against it.

Jack squirmed on the bed before him, shameless as any nautch-girl. Indeed, the poignant ache of need would allow him to do no less. "You fuckin' stopped, oh Christ Jack, what --"

"I contracted no... completion with you, mate. I offered you some instruction," Sparrow said, but he said it unsteadily, and his teeth worried at his lip. Jack wanted to feel those teeth worrying at him, dammit, and he said so, or something like it, and he thought he heard Sparrow tell him that he could if only Jack would; and Jack would. Oh, he would, he swore it fervently, but finish me, Jack, finish me you bastard, before it kills me, it'll kill me, I swear. He could hear himself whining, and felt that he might be embarrassed about it all sometime in the future, but that was the least of his concerns just now.

*

He'd miscalculated, Jack Sparrow reckoned. The game was simply too much fun to play, and he'd let the man come too close, and now he himself was sucked into Shaftoe's vortex of need... Dear God, he was beautiful, all undone and pleading, his big hands gripping the sheets and his ferocious face staring up at Jack. And damn him and his sudden expletives, because ever since Shaftoe'd said "Fuck", Jack's mind had been consumed by the idea. That was a gorgeous yard laying on that gorgeous belly, broad and long, promising him that it would reach places within that would fire up into incandescent pleasure. And at the same time, that magnificent torso writhing in that way, thighs lolling open, was inviting -- nay, demanding -- the same. All Jack had to do now was bring Shaftoe to it. And thus far, Jack reminded himself, he'd brought Shaftoe to the brink of orgasm but not yet to any guarantee of reciprocation.

"Oh, Christ, Jack, I will," he said, "I want to badly, I can tell you. I want," he said, and leaned over the wild blue stare, "to taste your spunk. Only, you promised you'd put your mouth to me --"

"All right, all right!" Shaftoe gabbled. He sat up, hissing as his hard prick knocked against his thigh, scrabbled till Jack's buttons came loose from their holes, and yanked the canvas down. Jack felt a blow -- like a swipe from a bear's paw-- as Shaftoe's hand landed at his waist, and whirled him suddenly, and quite neatly, onto his back on the cot. Jack gaped upwards at the sudden reversal. "That mouth of yours," Shaftoe said indistinctly, and he came close -- and closer -- and bit at Jack's lip. Jack clenched the sheets in his turn, so as not to grab and pull, and Shaftoe's lips were not gentle now; and his hand came up and cupped Jack's jaw and pulled down; and oh God, where had Shaftoe learned to kiss? And who would have thought that Shaftoe would kiss Jack -- kiss a man -- so heatedly, so fiercely, so bruisingly?

The rest of his body felt remarkably neglected. Shaftoe was kneeling high above him. There was -- a quick glance showed -- Shaftoe's thick cock hanging heavy between his thighs. And there was Jack's own, surely a worthy match, and far too much distance between them. There would be time, there would be a next time, Jack promised himself. But, right now -- Shaftoe pulled away suddenly, and glared at Jack once more. Jack bit back what he wanted to say, which was along the lines of "Please, oh please," and said instead; "Go on, do it," which might not have been all that different come to think of it. And amazingly, thankfully, Shaftoe went on and did it.

Shaftoe's mouth wasn't tender any longer. He nipped at Jack's throat, sucked fiercely to leave bruises. Jack gasped and hissed, and felt a weighty hand come down on a hip bone to hold him still. Shaftoe looked up for a moment, smirking and still astounded at the same time, an aphrodisiac combination, and then turned his attention back to Jack's corpus, and ooh, what had been gentle on his nipples now was not. Shaftoe swiped the sting away with his tongue, but immediately stung Jack once more, scraping at Jack's ribs with his sharp teeth. Jack waited in an agony to feel Shaftoe moving down, and yelped when he was bitten on one hip bone, and then, oh -- then -- the heat of his breath washed over Jack's prick.

*

If he didn't do't quick, he was sure, he'd never come to it at all. And then Jack Shaftoe would have to leave this shiply haven and its Captain. Having made that decision earlier to stop worrying about his shamelessness, he likewise decided to put aside for the moment this notion that -- as odd and unnatural a creature as Jack Sparrow was, Jack wanted more of... of...

Of the peculiar strength and sinew in this man's body, of his leaping, laughing grasp of pleasure, of his expressive voice and shockingly beautiful visage, the spice of his (utterly masculine) smell, his knowledgeable hands and mouth, and most of all...

Jack wanted more of Sparrow wanting him more than any woman ever had done. He wanted more of Sparrow looking at him with lust and admiration, and he wanted more of Sparrow's hunger; and when Jack'd said "Fuck," Jack Sparrow's reply had been very intriguing indeed. And thus he found himself setting his tongue to the flesh of a man for the very first time. It wasn't bad, really -- silky to the lips, and dry -- save for the musky wetness coming from the slit, and Jack found that the flavor was not very objectionable at all, even with the faint ammoniac tang. And Sparrow groaned so wholeheartedly when Jack put tongue to that place and sucked away what humours there were -- causing more to well forth -- that he was minded to do it once more, just for the triumph of it. So he did, and this made the body under his hands writhe and tremble. Sparrow's voice shook as it muttered praise, and Jack felt that hearing that sound again, the oddly helpless note, was worth a little more effort. He opened his mouth wide -- wider -- and took the blood-engorged flesh into his mouth and sucked hard. Sparrow convulsed under his hands, shewing plainly that Jack was going the right way about things.

The cavilling little voice that kept saying bad and no man would and humiliating was silenced now, possibly drowned in Jack's racketing blood. No humiliation, not when his actions made the other man near a puppet; when a swipe of the tongue evoked that long gasp, when this caress of the hand on velvety soft scrotum caused that shuddering all through long, fine legs, and made Jack Sparrow fall back off of his elbows and spread his thighs wide. Jack's prodding fingers were schooled to a wet cunny but found instead smooth soft skin behind Sparrow's balls -- that lead back to...

"Oh, Christ, mate!" Sparrow husked. Jack let Sparrow's cock out of his mouth, and wrapped his fingers around it as promissory; he had a question to ask.

"D'you like that as well?"

"Aye, indeed," Sparrow muttered. "Later, eh? Put your mouth, your mouth..."

Jack did so, but more deliberately than before. He remembered what Sparrow had just done to him; he remembered women who'd given him sweet service. Remembering this, he found himself in a peculiar sympathy with Sparrow, as if Jack's tongue that was lapping at the hot, swollen head, was lapping also at his very own, and he moaned for Sparrow's imagined pleasure -- which made Sparrow moan, in truth. His own cock wanted that constricture that Sparrow's throat had afforded him, and it seemed worthwhile to reproduce it for the shuddering, heaving man under his hands. Jack managed it for a moment before gagging and pulling away, and Sparrow drew a great breath and groaned loud and cried out his name for it, and Jack tried it once more.

"Jack, oh Jack, oh --" Sparrow's long fingers sped across Jack's face, buried themselves in his hair. Sparrow's legs wrapped themselves about Jack's back. No woman in Jack's recollection had ever given herself this way, so generously, and when Sparrow intimated that he would soon be offering a gift of a more emphatic nature, Jack had but a moment to decide if he would accept it or no; his indecision, 'twixt his triumph and his (odd how rapidly it was diminishing) repugnance was his undoing, and he received Sparrow's briny, bloodwarm tribute in his mouth. Nor was this the most surprising thing, but that Jack was so mindful of Sparrow's ecstatic paroxysms that he swallowed in order to stay with the pirate, and suffered the twining fingers tugging in his locks, and heard with pleasure the groaning heartfelt praise that Jack Sparrow gave him.

Sparrow wriggled out from under, still breathless and laughing, and pushed at Jack till he rolled onto his side. An arm thrust between his thighs and pulled him close and Sparrow nuzzled over his hips for a moment before engulfing Jack in heat and wet and suction. And, quite suddenly, Jack followed Jack into shouting bliss.

*

Mr Shaftoe, Jack Sparrow considered, had gotten himself a pretty good deal. He seemed pleased, at least; he lay spreadeagled, flushed and panting, and didn't seem to mind Jack's weight upon him when he scrambled up; indeed, Shaftoe's arms came away from the bedclothes and around his back. Jack pressed his lips to the strongly-carved jaw, and Shaftoe turned and met them with an inquisitive and -- could it be -- eager? tongue. Jack tasted himself in Shaftoe, and knew quite well Shaftoe must taste himself in Jack's mouth. Lazy fingers slid across his skin, tracing the lines of scars and circled each knob of his spine, until Jack arched and purred. Shaftoe pulled back to look at him, half-lidded and dimpled.

"You've worked your fare, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack -- just to see what the man would do.

"How odd you should say that, Captain. I was just musing..."

"Yes?" Jack prompted, for the hand had stilled and he wanted it back again.

"That our transaction seems inconclusive."

"Why, sir, ain't you safe aboard? Although there's the matter of a chest to be dealt with." Jack pushed himself up and off, to sit beside Shaftoe. "If you honor me with the wherabouts, I'll send a couple of lads to fetch it."

"No-"

"No, Mr. Shaftoe?" Jack rushed on, "A little reflection would show you that your goods are perfectly safe. Here you are, and here will the chest be-- we can hardly sell it in Tortuga, after all. O'course if you wish you can go along, I s'pose they need your guidance to find the cache but I thought you di'nt want to let Roger know you was still about-"

"No, no!" Shaftoe said, half laughing. His big, warm hand came sliding around Jack's ribs. Jack turned his head, to look at the man, relaxed, smirking, positively glowing, in his bed. Then Jack found himself sprawled under Shaftoe, the hot hard length of him. He wriggled delightedly and opened his mouth- only to find his words forestalled by a finger laid across his lips. His vision was filmed over by a curtain of thick bright hair. "Captain Sparrow," Shaftoe began, and then bit his lip. Eyes the color of a summer sky surveyed him up and down. "I reckon you..." Shaftoe said, and grinned. "Oh, shut up," he concluded, and began the first kiss.