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| Pulling away from Sparrow’s grasp, Jack can feel the burn of blood in his cheeks. That was... Well. “That ain’t what I was doing in that theatre,” he says, tilting his hips into Sparrow’s hand as a reminder of his insanely engorged state and the promises that were made downstairs. “True,” murmurs Sparrow, smiling a fiendishly unrepentant smile. “As I recall it – though my observational angle did leave a few things to be desired – you were seated.” He pushes Jack gently down on the bed. “And your companion was knelt down between your thighs, thusly...” He positions himself, gazing up at Jack with those whorish black eyes, and licks his lips. Jack’s heart is careering around in his ribcage, thumping and hammering and generally behaving in a wildly over-excited manner. Jack can only concur with its sentiments. This is the best sort of madness. “That,” says Jack Sparrow, staring appreciatively at Jack’s cock, “is a mighty fine specimen, sir.” “Er. Thank you,” says Jack. (Compliments are always more pleasing when the bestower seems likely to know what he’s talking about.) And then, for quite a while, Jack can’t speak at all; because Sparrow, it transpires, most certainly is au fait with the finer points of two men together, as he’d put it so elegantly. In fact, au fait really doesn’t do Sparrow’s level of competence any justice. He is clearly at the very peak of his game. He’s as much an artist as that Shakespeare bloke, only the tools of his creative trade are the male anatomy instead of words; he’s Michelangelo; he’s that mad philosopher Newton that Enoch Root’s always name-dropping; he’s genius. These thoughts are a lot less coherent inside Jack’s head, where they appear only as vague coloured explosions, and even less coherent in his larynx, whence they emerge only as groans and the occasional heartfelt blasphemy. No man could speak any sense with this glorious manipulation going on. This is, it’s, it’s... “Aaaargh,” says Jack loudly, and twitches, wracked, spurting, transported. He falls back on the bed. After a moment’s contemplation, he recalls Sparrow’s Fine Print. If he’s going to receive that again – and he most surely is going to – then reciprocation is the order of the day. Jack sighs. “Drop your trousers, mate.” Want to go back to the BEGINNING?
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