Marooned, 17

In Which Jack Finds Himself Back in the Brig

by

Gloria Mundi

Then the glimmer of a lantern: Norrington, of course, come to check on his prize. "Turn around, face the wall," he commands from behind the circle of light. Then, "put your hands up; yes, just there, like that."

There's the noise of the key grinding in the lock: then Jack, all boneless obedience if it'll keep him alive, feels the closeness of another body. The Commodore's in the brig with him; he's set down the lantern; his breath is warmer than the ambient air, and Jack can feel it on his neck.

"I've decided," he says softly right next to Jack's ear, "to see for myself whether there's any truth in the stories."

"What stories?" says Jack, as though the feel of Norrington's hard prick pressing up against the cleft of his arse doesn't tell him exactly which rumours have, however improbably, reached the Commodore's freshly-washed ears.

"The stories about your prowess with women—and with men." The Commodore sounds a little—well, a little stiff. Perhaps he's not used to talking of such things. Perhaps he's distracted, like Jack, by the way their hips rock together. "The stories that say you're insatiable. That you're impossible to satisfy. That no one can master you."

Jack wants to argue these points, no matter how true they are, but the Commodore shuts him up by sticking his fingers in Jack's mouth, which gives him something to do while he's moaning and gasping at the feel of the Commodore's other hand unfastening his breeches, letting them drop so that Jack's naked from the waist down. He's propped his forehead against the wall between his two hands, sucking hard on the Commodore's fingers to get them nice and wet, and to give the Commodore some ideas about what he could do with his mouth on other portions of the Commodorial anatomy.

There's a lot of touching, then, all caught up in a big rush that leaves Jack aching and shaking and not afraid to plead for Norrington to fuck him, hard and deep and fast and now. Though when the Commodore tightens his hold on Jack's hips and pushes in firmly—and in, and in—Jack's almost breathless with choking on his own cries. Norrington's big, and it's a long time since he's been on the receiving end of this particular transaction, and the Commodore is showing him about as much mercy as Jack can expect without Miss Swann to plead his case, which is to say none at all. And it doesn't help that after every stroke Norrington pulls almost all the way out, so that only the broad head of his prick stays inside Jack, stretching him: then a heart-stopping wait, like being at the edge of a cliff, Jack writhing and begging and Norrington cool as anything, until he relents and plunges back in. Every time it feels as though he's going deeper, as though his prick is getting longer and fatter and altogether even more of a good thing, and Jack is completely undone, and it goes on.

After a while, even Norrington is affected by the astonishing heat and grasp and slide of Jack's arse, and he's murmuring endearments into Jack's ear. "Love the way you take it, take it all," he says, hand pressing at the base of Jack's prick in a way that's just the right side of painful. "Going to keep you for myself. Too good for hanging."

This is so entirely in accord with Jack's own views on the subject that he can hardly protest. Instead he shows his agreement by twisting and bucking against the hardness that's impaling him.

"Going to strip you naked and lock away your clothes. Keep you in my cabin, ready for whenever I want to have you," says Norrington thickly, a promise rather than a threat, into Jack's ear. He bites the earlobe as punctuation, and Jack jerks against another hard thrust. "Maybe," says James (Jack decides he's allowed to be on first-name terms: it's his fantasy, after all), "maybe I'll even let you show me whether you give as good as you get." And then he's pounding even harder into Jack, heavy against Jack's shoulders, gasping, "Come for me, Jack." And Jack, unbelievably, does as he's commanded; he comes without the Commodore's hand loosening its hold, and the result's a spasm so hard that it hurts.

Back on the beach, the sun had come out, and there was sand blowing past the doorway of the hut, almost horizontally. Jack's right hand was cramping, and he wanted to wash, but the thought of being lacerated by flying sand made him decide that cleanliness could wait. He flopped onto his back and sighed heavily. Wondered where the Commodore was now: pestering some poor sod just trying to grab a living from an unfriendly world, no doubt, or harassing another bunch of rum-runners into giving up business and settling down in some slummy fishing-village.

Jack grinned at the thought of Norrington seeing one of his signals, changing course for his little island, and coming across Captain Jack Sparrow in the aftermath of one of his more entertaining diversions. He could just imagine the Commodore's expression. "The one that got away," he murmured, circling a finger idly in the sticky mess on his stomach.

But then, of course, he'd never have the appeal for the Commodore that bloody Elizabeth had possessed. With any luck, of course, the Commodore would have found himself a nice young wife to take the edge off all that earnest rectitude.

Jack smiled again, reminiscently, and wrapped the remains of his shirt around his hips before he ventured out into the wind.

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