“What?  Him, over there, with the hair, and the eyes, and the... additionals?”

“That’s the one.  Ain’t he fine?”

“No,” lies Jack, nervous enough about the path he’s following without adding an additional complication (and the captain looks nothing if not complicated.) “I don’t need him.  I reckon you c’d keep me more’n happy enough, Jamie.”

“I could, at that,” avers the lad, and then there’s a hand on Jack’s thigh, under the table.  A strong-fingered hand, spidering its way up towards Jack’s privities.

The Imp chitters and bounces.  Oh, this is interesting.  This is very interesting.  Jack’s never messed about with lads before; but it stands to reason, don’t it, that they’ll know what they’re about.  And this one, in particular, looks like he’s more than knowledgeable.  He runs his hand over Jack’s swelling prick, and his lips open damply.  Such pretty lips.  Pretty white teeth.  Pretty white skin.

“What d’you fancy, then?” says the pretty thing.  “Fancy comin’ upstairs with me?”

Is Jack going to throw caution to the winds?
Or maintain some semblance of control?

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