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| A sudden, Bobbish thought strikes Jack. Very unwelcomely. What if this is some sort of honey-trap? This lad’s been really remarkably forward. Who’s to say that all his cut-throat mates won’t come charging into the chamber as soon as Jack’s breeches are down around his ankles, and rob him of everything he’s got (not much) or (possibly because they’re so disappointed with takings, possibly just for fun) take their payment in more violent coin? Who’s to say Jack wouldn’t find himself the one taking it up the arse, repeatedly and unwillingly? “No,” he says, quickly, before that hand robs him of the ability to make a sensible decision. He sinks in his seat. “I mean... oh, you’re makin’ me happy enough as it is.” It’s bloody dark in here, and they’re well hid. What the hell. He snaps his buttons open under the table, and guides Jamie’s rough-knuckled hand inside. “Why don’t you just...” “Oh,” breathes Jamie, red-faced, wide-eyed. “Oh, you’re a wicked one, you are. What if someone sees?” “I c’n keep a straight face,” says Jack optimistically. “I... ooh, urgh, yes. I... um... Just try to look as if you’re talking to me, eh?” “I could tell you a story,” says Jamie, shifting round to better shield the pair of them from the potentially prying eyes of other patrons. “A story?” “’Bout what I’d really like to do,” murmurs Jamie. “’Bout how, mmm, you feel so fine under my hand, but I really want more. Want to see you, Jack. See your skin and scars and muscles. See this great hefty cock o’ yourn, and taste it, too.” Don’t stop there! |
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