An Evening with Jack Shaftoe

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Tom was so right. Oh Christ. Maybe if Jack could persuade Jamie and his greedy mouth into the alleyway out back...? But no, just as likely to be the scene of an ambush. Anyway, this whelp has very talented fingers. Jack slides down further, and closes his eyes as he shoves up into that cunning grip; Jamie’s thumb rubs over his cockhead, and when it comes back it’s slick on Jack’s skin, and Jamie’s murmuring on.

“Aye, taste it. I love it, the warm silky musty taste of it on my tongue.”

Christ, what a wanton! And he hasn’t even asked for any money, either. Though at this point Jack would probably give it to him.

“But more’n that, Jack. A fellow fine as you, oh, there ain’t a thing I wouldn’t do for him. With him. To him.”

Jack’s only got half an ear for it, now. The hammering, glimmering power of doing such a ridiculously wicked thing, right here in the pub, is sweeping him up in the beat of its wings and lifting him high. It’s making him harder than seems possible, making this the sweetest handjob of living memory.

But he mustn’t let it show. Mustn’t let anyone see that he’s doing this. Got to look normal. He wrenches his eyes open—

And the black gaze of that wild-haired pirate’s upon him. All-seeing, all-knowing; hungry and delighted.

“Oh fuck,” is all that Jack can manage. But why should he stop? Why? The man’s a stranger; and besides, the way he’s looking at Jack is... oh, it’s just...

“Jack Shaftoe,” whispers Jamie, “I ain’t about to leave London Town till I’ve sucked you dry. Show it to me. Show me what I’ll get. Show my captain.”

Jack freezes, surges, holds his breath as one two three a few short, hard twists of Jamie’s hand tug him over the edge and he comes, right there in his seat. The tavern disappears and the world’s nothing but a bright and shivery pulse of pleasure.

His itch is, very thoroughly, scratched.

END...

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