Men Must Work

The Groves/Gillette Series, Chapt. 3

Midnight Oil

by

Gryphons Lair

"Turn the glass and strike the bell," Gillette said.

"Turn the glass and strike the bell," Mr. Gibbs repeated.

The hourglass was turned. The Dauntless's bell chimed eight times.

Before the last stroke had sounded, the larboard watch was on deck. Midshipman Groves half-ran up the stairs to the quarterdeck. "You're relieved, Mr Gillette."

Theo leaned on the rail next to Andrew. "Quiet night?" Their sleeves brushed, their hands less than a finger's breadth apart.

Andrew's breath caught. "Very quiet." He moved his smallest finger outward a fraction, so it trailed down the outside of Theo's hand as he straightened.

They faced each other; Theo licked his lips.

Andrew tried to think of a reason to stay on the quarterdeck that wouldn't cause gossip among the men, failed, and settled for wishing Theo a good watch.

He pushed open the door to the starboard midshipman's berth and closed it again, giving it the little jiggle you needed to make sure the latch set properly. All the hammocks were occupied, save his, and the variety of snores echoing in the compartment told Andrew the others were all asleep.

He undressed quickly, stripping off coat, waistcoat, cravat, shoes and stockings. When they were neatly folded, he opened his sea-chest for a clean shirt, to have it ready for morning. As he pulled the shirt free, a small green-glass vial clattered to the floor.

Andrew picked it up.

It's not fair. If Captain Franklin had put them on the same watch, they'd have been able to talk more, perhaps even have some time alone—or as alone as you could be with a dozen men watching you from the waist, waiting for orders—when they stood the mid-watch. With him on starboard watch, and Theo on larboard, they saw very little of each other, except at mealtimes.

Picking up the discarded cravat, he carried it and the vial to his hammock.

Carefully tipping a thimbleful of the vial's contents into his cupped palm, Andrew raised it to his face and breathed deep, eyes closed. If they were in the same watch...

The Dauntless's great cabin: the sun shining through the stern windows, the two nine-pounders lashed in their corners, the Captain's voice echoing faintly from on-deck. The key turning in the lock.

The fingers of his right hand undid his breeches buttons.

Theo astride one of the cannon, breeches tangled around his knees, his body stretched along the barrel. Sunlight hot across his shoulders and back, his hands curved over the muzzle.

He closed his left hand, fingers rubbing through the oil.

Himself standing behind Theo, his hands on Theo's hips.

His oil-slick hand closed over his prick, tightened.

Theo moaning, eyes closed, as Andrew pushed slowly into him, his cheek pressed tight against the cold metal, the line of sweat on his upper lip catching the sunlight.

His hand began to move.

Theo's hands gripping the cannon's muzzle, knuckles white, countering Andrew's pull on his hips.

Sped up.

Theo making small, half-muffled noises as Andrew fucked him hard, pushing back against each thrust...

He arched upward, clenching his jaw to keep from crying out as his seed spilled, warm and sticky, over his hand.

Andrew lay still, eyes closed, until his breathing steadied. He used the cravat to wipe himself clean before dropping it to the deck, and tucked the vial carefully into his breeches-pocket.

Settling himself under the blankets, he thought of Theo, on the quarterdeck, alone.

It was going to be a long six weeks to Jamaica.

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