And that path leads to a small, dim, firelit room, almost entirely filled by a sway-backed bed.  Jack stands there for a moment, speechless and uncertain, as Sparrow latches the door; and then there’s a hard, lithe body pressed up against Jack’s back, and two hands exploring down over the front of his breeches.

“Oh, yes,” murmurs Jack Sparrow, and shivers race down Jack’s spine as warm, damp, fascinatingly tickly kisses are pressed to the nape of his neck.  He worries, briefly, about the likely sensation of a moustache on one’s cock; and then starts appreciating, instead, the sensation of a hand on it.  The man’s a fast worker; Jack barely registered the opening of buttons.

“Urfff,” he says, as Sparrow’s fingers do something particularly tricksy and right on the borderline of mmmm and ouch.  Sparrow grins, and licks.  Hair scratches against Jack’s neck as Sparrow says, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Shaftoe; but I’ve got a definite impression that you’re not entirely au fait with the finer points of two men together.”

Jack shrugs.  Can’t deny it. But he also pushes into Sparrow’s grip, as if to say, Can’t be that unique, surely, and ooh, that feels good.

“So, I tell you what,” Sparrow goes on.  “I’ll be easy on you.  First one’s gratis.  After that, if you want another... well, the second’ll be a trade.  Fair enough?”

For answer, Jack squirms out of the man’s embrace, toes off his boots, and shucks his breeches.  His shirt tails curtain down on either side of his enthusiastically perpendickular cock, and Sparrow swallows as if he’s salivating.

“Jack?”

“Mmm?” Jack boldly takes a hold of the other man’s hand, and tugs it back to his groin.  Oh yes.  That’s more like it.

“C’n I... ‘fore I do this... can I do this?”

And Sparrow’s mouth is pressed to Jack’s, and Jack...

Pushes him away?  Or kisses him back?

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and the actors who portrayed them. Jack Shaftoe is the property of Neal Stephenson.
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