Once again, my duties keep me late. Later than I would have liked to sit in a stuffy office at the fort, reading inventories and endless dispatches from every captain who thought he'd heard a rumor of where Sparrow might be hiding now. Thank God for the sharp rays of the setting sun and the overabundance of shadows which prevent me from reading in the dim light. I walk home through the hot twilight. I cannot wait to get this uniform off. And the wig. I can feel a trickle of sweat ease its way down the center of my spine and pool in the small of my back.

My cook has already left to feed his own family and my manservant has been waiting patiently for me. He helps me off with the wig and coat and lays out the cold supper that the cook has left for me. He, too, goes home. At last I am alone in blessed solitude. I strip the cravat and waistcoat from my overheated body and also relieve myself of stockings and shoes. With my shirtsleeves rolled up, my shirt mostly unbuttoned and my breeches open at the knee, I am at least almost comfortably, if obscenely, clothed. I don't particularly care, though. Not in my own place this late at night. I settle down to my cold meal and follow it with a good port that I drink on the veranda, listening to the crickets. Shortly thereafter, I make my way to the bedroom. There is nothing better to do than sleep and I will be up before dawn anyway. As always.

The bedroom is hot. And damp with Caribbean humidity. If I were of a poetic mind, I suppose I might call it sultry, or languorous. I am not, so to me it is simply uncomfortable and sticky. I watch several small lizards dart about the ceiling in the flickering light of the lamp. I strip off the remainder of my sweaty clothes and prepare for bed. The sheets hold the day's moisture and there is no breeze despite the open window. I set the mosquito netting around the bed and turn down the lamp after one last glance at the lizards that are now congregating in the corner.

I cannot sleep in this unrelenting furnace. I've kicked the sheets down to the end of the bed where they wrap around my legs and feet claustrophobically. I keep kicking at them until they lie in an untidy heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, the folds making hiding spaces for the lizards and for the ridiculously large flying roaches that inhabit this island. I'm told they're actually palmetto bugs, but I'm no botanist. Roaches.

I toss and turn for what feels like hours but I can get no rest. I am on my back now, sprawled across the bed, my legs spread apart to limit the sweaty contact they make with my own overheated skin. The buzzing, the clicking, the humming of the insects, frogs, and night birds seem to get louder with each passing instant.

I try to think cooling thoughts, hoping that I can somehow fool myself into thinking that this place is not the unbearable hell that it truly is. I think of water, lovely cool English Channel water that makes the goose-bumps rise on one's skin immediately and I consider walking down to the beach for a swim when an image of Elizabeth springs into my head. Elizabeth in only her chemise after Sparrow had ripped her dress and corset off to save her from drowning. My right hand drifts down and I lightly stroke my inner thigh, thinking of whisper thin fabrics and sharp nails. I pinch a bit of the skin at the juncture of my thigh until the sting of it burns. When I release it, the next touch is soothingly cool.

I imagine her standing there wet, white shift plastered to her skin, nearly translucent, showing far more of her than I had ever seen before. In this version, I can see that her nipples are hard and rose-colored. I touch my own nipple with my other hand, circling it softly then taking it between my fingers, pinching it and pulling slightly. I feel it harden under the attention and my breath quickens at the tiny burst of lust it unleashes.

Continuing the attention to my nipples with my left hand, I let my right hand drift higher, lightly stroking up my cock, feeling at once the pressure of my fingers against it and the sensation in the tips of my fingers of the velvety soft skin over hard arousal. When I reach the head, I dip my forefinger into the drops of pearly liquid that have gathered around the slit there. I bring my finger to my mouth and lick the salty essence from it. I press my calloused fingers harder into my flesh and feel the drag of the hard, textured pads, so different from Elizabeth's soft hands.

What would it be like, I wonder, to be touched by hands like these, hands like my very own? The unaccustomed image of rough sailor's hands and scarred palms against my pale English skin, touching and taking, makes me mad with shame and desire. I shiver. What did Elizabeth feel with Jack Sparrow so close behind her? Close enough to feel his breath on the back of my neck, pressed up against the lithe body, hard enough to feel the pirate's unmistakable arousal pushing dangerously at the cleft of my arse, the thin wet fabric between the two almost no barrier at all.

I put a hand to my throat, press hard enough to make my breath catch and I can feel the links of chain digging into my skin, taking back what the pirate so recently granted me. I push harder against my hand, Jack Sparrow tightens the chain and whispers in my ear, dark promise of things to come. My feet clatter against the boards of the dock as I put up a pretense of fight while secretly letting Sparrow push and pull me where he will. I can smell the salt in the air and the spicy tang of some exotic perfume in his hair. I close my eyes until the rough ground beneath my feet gives way to smooth. I open my eyes and I know he has brought me to his cabin on the Pearl. The bulkheads surrounding us are deepest black and the enormous bed is decked entirely in purple silks. At a touch from me, the chains about his wrists fall away and come to rest in a shining heap on the bed.

I catch his eye and deliberately begin to untie my cravat. It drifts to the floor but his eyes follow it not. They are on me and me alone. I slowly, excruciatingly so, remove my garments, one brass button at a time, until I am finally revealed before the pirate. My own hand roams across my body as if it were his. I touch my nipples again and swirl a finger around the edge of my navel and then let my hand drift lower. I raise my leg and gently caress the crease where my arse joins my thigh. I know he watches my performance for him, keen dark eyes sharp despite his heavy-lidded languor. He grins at me and reaches for the bed. I know he is reaching for the chains and that they are for me this time. I hold my wrists out to him and my entire body shudders when he locks the cold iron around them. I am his now until he chooses to free me and yet I do not feel trapped. He smiles again and pulls the chain, pulling me against him. I stumble and let myself fall into him. The buckles and adornments of his clothing bite into my bare flesh with their hard edges.

We fall back against the bed and I am tangled in the covers, the chains, his limbs. He takes my chained arms and places them above my head, pressing them into the downy mattress. I find that they are held fast, as if encased in stone. He maps me out with harsh hands, sharp teeth and those damning eyes. When he kisses me, the roughness of his moustache and beard resounds against my skin, sometimes light enough to tickle, sometimes hard enough to burn; always reminding me of what, of who is making me frantic with desire. He reaches between us and grasps my yard in both his hands and fondles and strokes it until I cannot control my moans or my bucking hips. At that moment, he releases me and moves away. He stands poised by the stern gallery at the back of his cabin. He beckons me with a movement of his fingers and dives into the water far below. Suddenly, I find that I can move again and I fall after him, flying through sky and water that are all of a color.

I swim towards him, somehow unencumbered by the chains I wear for him. By the time I catch him, the water has melted away the metal completely. It also melts the clothing from his golden body. I see his greatcoat swirl and trail away behind him as I reach for him and finally hold him in my arms. I touch him greedily, impatient and insistent. He returns my ardor and it seems his hands are everywhere at once, touching, stroking, owning me utterly. It is unlike any sensation I can remember. I possess him even as he does the same and we stroke each other in tandem, harder and faster until I am shaken with the power we each hold over the other. We shatter apart together and breathe in the heady salt scent of this ocean world with desperate panting breaths.

I attempt to clutch him to me once more, but it is like trying to hold the sea in an embrace. He moves away from me and swims down, deeper and deeper until all I can see if him is the black dot of his hair and finally, nothing. I float gently on the blue waves, buoyed up by unseen forces until my pounding heart stills and my breathing becomes calm again.

I open my eyes and gaze at the familiar walls of my bedroom. The lizards dart after the shadows of insects and the cicadas hum their tuneless melodies. I close my eyes once more and dive into the endless blue void, chasing the dream I can no longer see. I know he is there, though, as sure as I know that in the morning I must again resume the hunt for the real Sparrow with his stink and his filth and his unbearable luck and his mocking, mocking eyes. Would they become more so or less if he knew of this secret dream, buried in the depths of a hot Caribbean night?

It does not matter, I decide as I follow the dream to its conclusion and awareness fades gently away. The last sound I am conscious of is the wind rattling against the pane of the open window. It resounds against the stillness of the night and the lizards run skittering for the shadowed corners.