Anything Goes Meme IV
The meme was such a splendid success and here are more stories written for it.
Stephanie and Jane
By teh_elb
“Dinner will be at seven o’clock sharp, Miss Aubrey, unless you are attending a ball - in that case there will be a large lunch at two o’clock to give you plenty of time to prepare yourselves, and then a small supper upon our return.” Mrs. Killick looked Jane up and down and subtracted the supper. “If the event is a dinner then of course you shall eat there. Breakfast is at seven o’clock in the morning…”
As Miss Killick went on, Jane was able to look around the hall - powder blue, with portraits of successful young ladies. Jane had met Miss Pullings and Miss Mowett downstairs, along with Miss Babbington who was much too young to be attending the Season, but was probably here because her father could not cope. That was the case with Jane’s own father, she cheerfully knew - the General was a very generous sort and wanted his only child to be well-married, but had no idea as to navigating the social minefield of the Season, and would only endanger Jane’s chances with his presence. And so Surprise House, run by the tyrannical Mrs. Killick, who was determined to marry off every single well-bred young orphan who passed over the thresh-hold.
“I have had to put you up in the garret - we are so very busy, you understand - but it is a charming room, with a lovely view of the roofs, and I think you will get on famously with- Miss Maturin! What is God’s name are you doing?”
The girl looked up at the shriek. Jane stared. Miss Maturin was sitting on the window sill, legs up against the side of the window. A corset lay discarded on the floor, never worn, or even laced; Miss Maturin was wearing only a shift, stockings, and most shockingly, drawers. The sole of the stocking pointed at Jane was black and threadbare. She was reading a book - a great thick tome - and she was smoking a cheroot. As she looked out at Mrs. Killick she defiantly tapped off the ash out of the open window, staring with the most incredible eyes Jane had seen - never in her twenty-two years had she seen eyes so pale and inimical.
Mrs. Killick thrust Jane out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and Jane spent a very uncomfortable five minutes on the dark landing listening to Miss Maturin’s (apparently numerous) faults. When this was over, Mrs. Killick came out, reminded Jane that dinner was at seven o’clock in a high-pitched, distressed voice, then skulked down the stairs in fury. Jane shyly opened the door again.
There were two little beds, which was a luxury; her trunk was already lying at the foot of the tidier one, which was nonetheless scattered with books. Miss Maturin rose to her feet from the window-sill. “I do apologise; I will clear them off,” she said crisply. Jane looked down at her, and felt a great stab of pity. Quite apart from those eyes, Miss Maturin was no beauty - shorter than any of the other girls save Babbington, she was almost skeletally thin - a corset designed by that labyrinth chap could not have given her any kind of bosom worth speaking about. Her black hair was in rags, but there seemed to be an awful lot of it. And - there was no getting around it - her skin was brown. Not the chicken-egg brown of too many careless days spent out in the sunshine - everyone was guilty of that from time to time - but brown, like a Moor.
It made Jane’s stomach clench in discomfort; she was sure that she had never spoken to a black person before, and all her books said that they had dark eyes. It would be terribly ill-bred to ask, of course, and a person’s skin mattered nothing; Maturin would not be in Surprise House if she did not have wealth or noble blood or something to recommend her. Jane put on a brave smile, and her pity turned to a desire to like and be liked. She was herself pretty, if on the plump side of it, though no one had ever told her so, with dancing blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a magnificent bosom. Her pride and glory was a head of thick golden curls which hung down to the bottom of her ribcage. One of Maturin’s rags came loose, and the lock of hair tumbled down - only the barest hint of a curl, and the hair fell long, down to the girl’s thighs, nearly to her knees. Jane felt another stab of horror at the foreignness of it all, but she thought she covered it well.
“My name is Jane Aubrey,” she said, looming over Maturin with a broad grin. “I am sure we shall be very excellent friends; I know that tonight we do not have anything , but tomorrow is the Earl of Rochester’s ball - are you not prodigious excited for it?”
Maturin looked up at her. “No.” She swept the books off Jane’s bed. “Stephanie.” She said by way of an introduction, and took up her place again on the window sill, opening her book.
Jane sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “What are you reading?”
“Linnaeus.”
Jane did now know who or was that was, and so that was another avenue of conversation cut off. She stood up again, opened her trunk and went to the wardrobe they would share to hang up her gowns - there was the most beautiful cloak that she had ever seen hanging up inside - thick, emerald-green velvet, lined with a magnificent grey fur, not just trimmed. “Oh, Stephanie, is that yours! It is marvellous!”
Maturin looked up in surprise, narrowing her eyes as she attempted to discern any kind of sarcasm. “It is, sure. It is wolf fur. My godfather and I shot the wolves for it.”
“Wolves?!” Jane turned around in shock. “You cannot be from England then!”
Maturin’s mouth quirked in a cruel smile. “Ah, you could not tell that from my appearance, then? I am become an Odysseus, a veritable master of disguise. No, I am not from England. I am from Ireland, and Catalonia.”
“Ireland?” Jane asked in surprise. “Oh, dear. Well, as long as you are not a Papist, dear Stephanie - the Papists are a very wicked crew, you know, with confession and all that. And they tried to blow up Parliament. Lord, how we used to keep up the Fifth of November. One of my very best friends - you would not believe how kind -was so upset when her mother married one that she took to mathematics and Hebrew directly - aleph, beth - though she was the prettiest girl for miles around - taught me mathematics - splendid headpiece, bless her. She told me quantities of things about the Papists: I forget it all now, but they are certainly a very wicked crew. There is no trusting them. Look at the rebellion they have just had.”
Stephanie’s face had settled once again into an expression of intense dislike. “The United Irishmen were primarily Protestants - their leaders were Protestants. Wolfe Tone and Napper Tandy were Protestants. The Emmets, the O'Connors, Simon Butler, Hamilton Rowan, Lord Edward Fitzgerald were Protestants. And the whole idea of the club was to unite Protestant and Catholic and Presbyterian Irishmen. The Protestants it was who took the initiative. And we prefer the term ‘Catholic.’”
Jane looked back, a slow but strong blush rising in her cheeks. Maturin had turned back to her book, positively bristling, like a hedgehog trying desperately hard to keeps its own prickles from rising. “I-“ Jane began again, unable to bear the thought of the conversation finishing on such a damning note. “I do not know where Catalonia is - is it a county of Ireland?”
“It is not - it is the region around Barcelona, in Spain, along the border with France.”
That would account for the dark skin. “Ah. Ah. I see. And - it is there that you shot the wolves?” Jane said, with the feeling of having found a possible foothold in an inevitable avalanche.
“With my godfather,” Maturin said, turning a page.
“And your parents allowed you to go out shooting wolves?”
“I think the matter did not weight very heavily on their minds, being dead.” Maturin peered pointedly over the page of her book.
“Oh, I am sorry. My mother is dead,” Jane said, picking one of her best ball gowns to hang up.
“I am sorry for your troubles,” Maturin said, staring intensely at her book, her thick brows drawn together in concentration. Jane sighed sadly, and shook out another dress of embroidered muslin.
Below them, the huge grandfather clock that Jane had seen began to chime. “Time for dinner! Come on, Stephanie; Mrs. Killick said we had to be on time.”
“Tell the mumping baboon that she was right; the cheroot has finished me off. I am much too sick to come to dinner.” Maturin looked up, brought her hand to her mouth, and coughed very unpersuasively. “Now, run along.”
*
“Rotten luck, Aubrey,” Emma Harte drawled as she buttered a piece of bread. Mrs. Killick was out haranguing the cook, which gave them a moment of unsupervised talk. “To be paired with the black bastard. She’s an ill-tempered bitch, by God.”
“She seemed very pleasant to me, Emma - a prodigious prodigy, I thought. She is obviously very clever,” Jane said with as harsh a glare as she was able to manage. “But… she-?”
“A bastard,” Harte said triumphantly. “Terrible scandal. Irish father, Spaniard mother. And a Papist. You’d think someone like that would keep her black head down out of the pure shame of it, but she is as proud as the Queen of Sheba. As I said, Aubrey: rotten bad luck.” She smiled maliciously as Mrs. Killick came back in, and the conversation died.
They had not spoken since Jane had come up from dinner, and now the two girls lay stiffly in their beds.
“Stephanie?” Jane said, turning over.
“Yes, Miss Aubrey?”
“If… if you are a Pa- a Catholic, and not English, why are you at the London season?”
“I see Harte has been talking.” There was a creak from the other bed. “My father wished for me to attend. He stipulated it in his will, and provided a small allowance. No doubt the Protestants of the family pressured him into it. But my godfather wished to obey his wishes. So here I am.”
“Oh.” Jane looked up at the ceiling again. “Is there anything similar, in Barcelona?”
“In Catalonia, I had far better things to do than simper the night away.” The bed creaked again as Stephanie sat up, then stood up, padding across the room in bare feet to a loose floorboard by the door. Pulling it up, Jane saw the moonlight reflect off the side of a bottle, which Stephanie took a practiced swig from.
“Stephanie! You know that Mrs. Killick will have your head if she finds spirits in here!”
“She is welcome to it.” Stephanie hid the bottle under the floorboard. “It is only medicine, so that I can sleep.” She came back to the bed, lying down on it again, drawing the blankets tightly around her. Jane frowned, and settled back into bed, feeling chilled as she suddenly realised just how miserable Stephanie Maturin was.
Jane and Stephanie stood side by side, holding ices. Both were wearing white dresses for the occasion, but while Jane’s hair was piled up on her head in an artful mess of shining gold and yellow, the best they had been able to do with Stephanie’s were some severe braids twisted around her head in a dark mockery of a crown. She was wearing her only jewellery - a great thumping golden cross, with diamonds and pearls, on a long chain - with the wide velvet sash around her waist she looked very Spanish indeed. She had watched while Jane was waltzed around the room a few times, drinking wine and looking none the worse for it. Harte was holding court on the other side of the room, Mowett was reciting poetry for a portly admirer and lanky Pullings was dancing with enthusiasm. Babbington had been drawn into a cupboard much earlier on in the evening and had not been seen since.
One of Jane’s young men kept coming back for more dances - a devastatingly handsome country gentleman named William Sophis, who despite his good looks had such a quiet air of kindness and humility that both Stephanie and Jane were most charmed by it. Sophis had exchanged a number of very pleasant words with Stephanie, but it was obvious that he had eyes only for Jane. And who could blame him? Stephanie thought, scraping away at her ice. Sophis and Jane were speaking to another man now, a fellow decked out in the dress uniform of a captain of the 33rd. He was a tall, lithe man, with ruffled black hair and the most perfect posture; he did not seem to have very good skin, Stephanie noticed, and attributed it to a mixture of the sun (for he was quite tanned), and the whiskey he was holding. She rubbed at her own cheek self-consciously.
At that moment, Jane pointed at her, speaking most enthusiastically - probably trying to salvage any form of dance on her behalf, bless her. The Captain turned, and Stephanie felt as though her heart had stopped - the Captain’s eyes were such a blue, framed by dark lashes, and such a smile…
He walked through the crowd, holding out his hand. “You must be Maturin. I am Captain Apollo Villiers, for my sins. Just call me Villiers.”
“Then, please, simply call me Maturin,” Stephanie said, looking up with her pointed chin thrust out, but her forgotten and long-ignored heart fluttered.
“It is damned hot in here, Maturin - would you like another ice? What a splendid cross! My God, I love the look of diamonds on a woman. It is Spanish work, is it not?”
“You are an expert, Captain Villiers - it is indeed. Baroque, but borrowing a great deal stylistically from the Visigoths. These beams of light here turn it from a Crux Ordinaria into a Crux Rayonny.”
“So they do - a magnificent piece, I must say.”
On the other side of the room, Jane grinned, feeling very pleased with herself indeed. She was sure that things would look up for Stephanie from now on.
No Great Thing- Impotence
by alltoseek
"I'm sorry, Stephen," Jack said as he rolled onto his back.
"Sure, it is no great thing," Stephen murmured.
"Not tonight it ain't," Jack said ruefully, looking down at himself.
Normally, just the thought of having Stephen spread open beneath him was enough to get him aroused. The actual sight of his friend, hips raised, head pillowed on his arms, waiting with closed eyes and parted lips, usually had him achingly hard. But tonight, even after oiling himself up, preparing Stephen, listening to his gasps and moans as he inserted his fingers: as exciting as all this was to his mind, he could feel no answering response in his body.
He had tried stroking Stephen's cock; this often raised a sympathetic response in his own. But on these occasions, Stephen did not like him to - he wanted to last as long as possible. Even as the doctor pushed his hand away, Jack knew it wasn't working anyway.
Typically, by this point Jack would be trying to think of anything but sex - during these rare times when Stephen let him bugger him he wanted to fuck him as long and thoroughly as possible. Stephen had odd notions; usually he didn't want to be buggered, yet when he did allow Jack to do so, he seemed very pleased and satisfied. For his part, Jack was happy to have Stephen any way he could. He never talked to his friend about it, though; their relationship was so precious to him he did not want to look gift Trojans in the mouth.
When he was intimate with Stephen he tried not to think of Sophie, but tonight he pictured her being so open and eager - this often worked when it was just him and his fist. It didn't now and he thrust her image away. Then Diana came unbidden - and she was completely off limits now that Stephen was married to her. And then appeared an enticing tableau of Diana and Sophie together. Any other night and he would have gone right off. Tonight, he just groaned and rolled over: "I'm sorry, Stephen."
"Sure, it is no great thing." Stephen turned on his side to face his friend. Yet Stephen was disappointed. After a battle, or vicious storm, when he had worked long hard hours in the orlop, what he craved most was to be covered by his captain and fucked until every fibre relaxed and his mind emptied of all else. He had noticed too that Jack's post-battle melancholy often was relieved by this particular intercourse. Perhaps it was reliving the sensation of "boarding", but this time for love-making. The pleasure without the cost. Stephen had come to think of the act as medicinal for both of them.
Stephen trailed a hand down Jack's great belly. When Jack saw where he was headed he sighed and shook his head, "I'm sorry, old soul, I'm afraid it's no use." He loved the way Stephen's hand would curl firmly around him as around the neck of his 'cello, fingering and stroking him like a fine instrument; but tonight he knew it would lead only to more frustration. He raised his friend's hand to his mouth and kissed the palm before laying it back on his chest. A thought occurred to Jack and he turned on his side towards Stephen. "But love, I would be happy to..." His words trail off as he moved his own hand down down Stephen's midsection. Stephen said, "No, no, my dear, it is no pleasure for me when there is none for you."
"Oh, I am with you. It's my prick that ain't cooperating." To show him, Jack embraced him with one arm and kissed him deeply, his hand still moving towards Stephen's cock. Stephen returned the kiss, but grasped Jack's hand in his own, and like Jack brought it to his mouth for a kiss on the palm.
Stephen smiled, "Yes, joy, I understand." Still, Jack felt the hard length of him as Stephen moved closer to embrace him in return. Stephen sighed, his cock nestled against Jack's broad hip. The men so recently lost - Jack would deny it, but Stephen was sure their loss was pressing on his mind, preventing him from realizing his pleasure now. The thought of how easily that loss could have included Jack too drew Stephen's embrace tighter, even as his own sexual urgency faded. Stephen was happy to have Jack any way he could.
A Special Viewing of MandC: FSotW
by alltoseek
"That's supposed to be me?" sputtered Jack. "He's too short - he doesn't look anything like me! And why's he wasting time getting into uniform when we've just beaten to quarters and he doesn't even know what's toward? I'd've been on deck regardless before the first roll of the drum finished. Prodigious great - short dandy! Don't know why they slapped my name on him - nothing like me."
Stephen on the other hand was gazing complacently at Paul Bettany. He casually waved off Jack's complaints. "Mere physical resemblance is trivial, hardly to be considered. More important is to catch the spirit, the essence if you will, of a person." Stephen paused a moment, then continued, "Certainly the captain is not like you, my dear. For one, Russell Crowe is much better-looking."
"I never set up for an Apollo, Stephen," Jack said crossly. "Of course he is better-looking. He's not been in actual battle, has he? Why, he still has both ears! Where's the cutlass slashes? Where's the splinter wounds? What's he got - a couple scratches on his forehead? They look like smudges he hasn't washed off properly."
"What's that supposed to mean - "something more aggressive"? What's he mean by "aggressive"? D'ye suppose he meant to say "allegro"?" asked Jack.
Stephen gave a sidelong glance at Jack. "Apparently there is a notion among our, shall we say admirers, that our particular friendship is particular indeed - something more, so to speak intimate than merely close would indicate."
Jacked gaped once or twice, mouth opening and closing but no sound emerging. Then the puzzled expression cleared and he looked consideringly at Stephen. "And perhaps if you looked anything like Paul Bettany it would be, too."
Stephen considered a retort involving a comparison between 17-stone Jack and the much trimmer Crowe, but wisely choose instead to pretend not to have heard Jack's quiet remark. "Their musical performance is quite flattering: note-perfect, excellent timing, tone rich and sweet. I speak only for myself, of course, but I know my own attempts on the 'cello never come near such beauty. That fellow would make a much better accompanist for you, joy."
"Nonsense!" said Jack. "I'd rather scrape away with you on our old sea-going instruments - "screech-screech" as Killick says (they got him note-perfect, all right!) - any day, than aim for a performance fit for the King every night."
"Oh, oh, I'm glad Captain Howard is not with us! We would not have a screen to watch on any longer. What slander, to suppose a Marine officer of his judgment and skill would shoot you - any man - instead of the great albatross he's aiming for. Absurd!"
***
"Ho ho! Look at him take on three men at once!" crowed Jack. "Now that's a doctor I could use in action - slice up the enemy during battle, stitch 'em up afterward. And I know you could do so, too, even better than that fellow on the screen, too," he added with a sideways look at Stephen.
"Bloody-minded fool," muttered Stephen. "All those wounded already, and he's left them to Higgins' incompetent mercies - and for what? Why, to create more wounded - more work for himself! And he knows the Acheron has no doctor. Does he not trust his Captain, his friend, to have all well enough in hand? And what if he himself becomes injured again - who will take care of them all? Foolish, foolish, vain bloody-minded foolery! Just to show off his swordplay. Not enough to be known for his skill with the knife, the trephine, but must impress all with his prowess on the battlefield as well. Ridiculous peacock!"
***
"Well, well, so that is their idea of life in the Royal Navy in wartime. Very well. They tried to be accurate, I suppose, but there is nothing like living through it oneself. And I'm not altogether certain which adventure of ours they were trying to relate. I remember some such incidents, but not strung together like that. And no Acheron neither, French navy nor privateer. Perhaps this is just as well. After all, they have left out some of our less shining moments, too. I noticed you never fell overboard - not so much as a slip."
"My rare difficulties in going up and down the side - usually occasioned by challenging sea conditions or lubberly management of the boat, I might add - is hardly a defining aspect of my character."
Jack discreetly turned his choke of laughter into a cough. "Very true, brother, very true."
Stephen’s Dream
by anon
Stephen was cold. Icy shivering cold. Wet through cold. Exhausted cold. His cot was cold and damp, his clothes cold and damp, his blankets damp and cold. He could not remember warm. Heated muscles from the endless pumping, yes; warmth, life-giving warmth no. Exhausted from the endless pumping, he waited for his body to shiver itself to sleep.
Sleep would not come. Babbington's Newfoundland was whining at his door, his master at the pumps. Stephen got up to let the dog in. The ship's two remaining cats came darting in as well. He got back in his cot and the huge dog stepped up too, and lay down right on top of him, like a damp cold bearskin. The cats glided up, and nestled down on his shoulders, one on each side. Soon the shivering stopped.
As he warmed, his mind started reviving too. Still exhausted, still waiting for sleep, thoughts began invading. Herapath, Wogan, Diana. He was using Wogan, using Herapath to get to Louisa. Louisa used Diana. Diana used him. All lies and duplicity. Stephen was so sick of it, so cold and sick. Sick - the scurvy - men not taking their grog with its vital lime-juice. Did Jack stop the grog? Was there any left after the panicking men broke into the spirit room? No spirits - the men needed spirits... He was so warm now, warm and wet, humid. A fuzzy humidness - like sleeping in a warm wet fur coat --
He was not in the ship anymore, or he was in the ship, but the ship was a hotel. Jack was the manager. And Stephen wasn't a person. Or he was a person, but a cat-person - sleek, lithe, and deadly cold. They were all cat-people, even Jack, large muscled golden-toned Jack. And they lived in a warm humid endless summer.
The hotel had a restaurant, a bar, but there were no spirits, no liquor - not allowed; it was illegal. But who cared about the law when people needed liquor? Even Jack knew - he wanted a happy hotel - cats need their liquor. He sent Stephen to get some.
Some cat was in their way - going to take their liquor. Stephen was repulsed by the hatchet job he was sent to do - so against the fineness of his physician's knife, the subtlety of intelligence work - but he did it. Jack needed him to, and Diana told him to. Diana was there, watching him, as graceful as ever in her sleek black fur, her dark blue eyes so startling in their intensity. She was deadly too, deadly and cruel. And graceful in her casual slaughter.
He and Jack were dining in a warm sunny outdoor cafe. And there was Louisa across the table from them, with Herapath at her side. Jack was threatening her, telling her the ship - the business - was no place for a woman. But Louisa just purred back at them, sultry and beautiful. And why was Jack threatening her? Was she not already in his power? Louisa said she was carrying on for someone - to avenge someone?
Stephen thought of betrayal - had he betrayed her? He was going to betray her. Stephen shivered, suddenly cold again even in this warm humid climate. Had Stephen been betrayed? He looked down at his paws - many were missing their claws. But there was Jack, holding him with one golden paw, licking him roughly with his great tongue. Stephen laid his ears back, hissed and lashed his tail. But Jack was imperturbable, holding him down with his two great golden arms, grooming him thoroughly, licking the hurts away.
The Commodore’s Salute
by anon
Captain Aubrey's mouth gaped in angry astonishment at the silly smug face across from him. He knew Harte would do him a bad turn any time he could - Harte had done so, again and again. But this was beyond belief - to controvert the late admiral's orders - in favour of a less-senior captain - impossible! Before he knew it, Aubrey had leaned over the table, grabbed Harte's neckcloth and dragged him back across, twisting the snug neckcloth tighter, so Harte's eyes bugged out and his tongue lolled from his open mouth, but he could not shout for the Marine guard just outside the door. Aubrey found his other fist drawn back, ready to turn that smug face into so much slush, but he hesitated. That scrub Harte had been waiting for a mistake like this for years. Once Aubrey struck a superior officer - even a God-damned lubberly infernal bugger like Harte - he was done for. And that was why Aubrey had swallowed insult after injury from Harte so often, and he was damned if he'd let Harte finally win after all these years.
From the great stern window of the Admiral's cabin Aubrey caught a glimpse of the new commodore about to board his ship and hoist his pennant. The sight brought up a fresh wave of anger and hatred - and an idea. Aubrey grasped a loop of the neckcloth and shoved it into Harte's gaping mouth. He loosened the ends of the cloth with one hand, while with the other he dragged one of Harte's ineffectually grasping hands behind his back. Quickly securing Harte's other hand, he tied both together. Now the admiral's mouth was gagged and hands secured with his own neckcloth, arching his neck painfully back, and drawing his wrists and shoulders painfully up. Harte still wriggled like a worm on the table, but Aubrey leaned one broad hand on the small of Harte's back while drawing his sword with the other.
The gunner on the flagship and Aubrey both saw the pennant flash out at the same instant. Aubrey brought the flat of his blade down hard across Harte's arse at the same instant the first gun cracked out. From long experience Aubrey knew the exact cadence of the guns during a salute. He brought the blade down again and again, the sound of the blow against Harte's breeches masked by the bang of the guns. The thought occurred to him that Harte must also know the rhythm, and would therefore be painfully anticipating each one. Each one of the fifteen for a Commodore.
Harte was anticipating each blow, but the pain was mixed with a much stronger pleasure. Oh why, he thought, why hadn't Aubrey come up with this earlier? No one had ever understood what Harte wanted just like this. Harte's mixture of insecure needling and brown-nosing was designed to evoke reactions like this from strong men, but he rarely received the type of attention he craved. Ledward had offered it on occasion, but Ledward was far away, only his pretty boy Wray here. Wray was good, but there was nothing like the honest righteous anger blazing from Aubrey; from the tall, broad, strong Aubrey. His strength was telling - little more than half-way through his well-earned and long-deserved beating, and Harte was writhing about the table. His head was turned toward Aubrey, and his gagged mouth brushed up against his crotch.
Aubrey looked down at Harte's face as it rubbed against his breeches. That sight and the sound of the gasps and moans coming through the gag gave him another idea. His right arm still administering the blows, with his left hand he undid his placket and lifted away the gag. He grabbed Harte's hair up tight against the back of his head and forced his mouth on his stiffening prick.
His prick stiffened even more as Harte worked it over expertly. Aubrey used his hand in Harte's hair to manoeuvre his head where he wanted him. As his pleasure grew his hips instinctively began thrusting, unconcerned with any gagging noises Harte made.
The naval officer part of Aubrey's mind, always on duty regardless of circumstances, fortunately kept count of the gun salutes and stopped at the fifteenth. He dropped the sword, letting it lie across Harte's back, and brought his right hand to help work his member. Soon he was on the edge, and he pulled away from Harte's mouth. Still using his left hand to hold Harte's head in place, he finished himself off and spent all over Harte's face.
Finally he let Harte's head go while he buttoned up his breeches and straightened his clothes. He retrieved his sword and sheathed it. Harte lay limply over the table, his legs dangling off one side and his head, dripping, off the other.
Aubrey left the cabin and nodded pleasantly to the sentry outside. As he came up on deck he felt much happier and more satisfied than he could have imagined mere minutes ago. He dropped down among his properly sombre barge-men, who had all heard about the new commodore and Aubrey's disappointment. Harte could still prosecute him for striking a superior officer, but then Aubrey would positively enjoy being present at the court-martial when Harte had to display the evidence. In fact, he would be thinking about that evidence at tomorrow's dinner, given by the Admiral to honour the new Commodore. The barge-men eyed each other nervously when they heard their captain laugh out loud.
Please feel free to come forward on who wrote which fic. All of you have given us a lot of reading pleasure with your works. The writer of The Commodore’s Salute already let us know that they will come forward, if the person who put down the prompt will make themselves known too.
There is one more wonderfully long and detailed story waiting to be re-posted during the comms November celebration posts. :D
Stephanie and Jane
By teh_elb
“Dinner will be at seven o’clock sharp, Miss Aubrey, unless you are attending a ball - in that case there will be a large lunch at two o’clock to give you plenty of time to prepare yourselves, and then a small supper upon our return.” Mrs. Killick looked Jane up and down and subtracted the supper. “If the event is a dinner then of course you shall eat there. Breakfast is at seven o’clock in the morning…”
As Miss Killick went on, Jane was able to look around the hall - powder blue, with portraits of successful young ladies. Jane had met Miss Pullings and Miss Mowett downstairs, along with Miss Babbington who was much too young to be attending the Season, but was probably here because her father could not cope. That was the case with Jane’s own father, she cheerfully knew - the General was a very generous sort and wanted his only child to be well-married, but had no idea as to navigating the social minefield of the Season, and would only endanger Jane’s chances with his presence. And so Surprise House, run by the tyrannical Mrs. Killick, who was determined to marry off every single well-bred young orphan who passed over the thresh-hold.
“I have had to put you up in the garret - we are so very busy, you understand - but it is a charming room, with a lovely view of the roofs, and I think you will get on famously with- Miss Maturin! What is God’s name are you doing?”
The girl looked up at the shriek. Jane stared. Miss Maturin was sitting on the window sill, legs up against the side of the window. A corset lay discarded on the floor, never worn, or even laced; Miss Maturin was wearing only a shift, stockings, and most shockingly, drawers. The sole of the stocking pointed at Jane was black and threadbare. She was reading a book - a great thick tome - and she was smoking a cheroot. As she looked out at Mrs. Killick she defiantly tapped off the ash out of the open window, staring with the most incredible eyes Jane had seen - never in her twenty-two years had she seen eyes so pale and inimical.
Mrs. Killick thrust Jane out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and Jane spent a very uncomfortable five minutes on the dark landing listening to Miss Maturin’s (apparently numerous) faults. When this was over, Mrs. Killick came out, reminded Jane that dinner was at seven o’clock in a high-pitched, distressed voice, then skulked down the stairs in fury. Jane shyly opened the door again.
There were two little beds, which was a luxury; her trunk was already lying at the foot of the tidier one, which was nonetheless scattered with books. Miss Maturin rose to her feet from the window-sill. “I do apologise; I will clear them off,” she said crisply. Jane looked down at her, and felt a great stab of pity. Quite apart from those eyes, Miss Maturin was no beauty - shorter than any of the other girls save Babbington, she was almost skeletally thin - a corset designed by that labyrinth chap could not have given her any kind of bosom worth speaking about. Her black hair was in rags, but there seemed to be an awful lot of it. And - there was no getting around it - her skin was brown. Not the chicken-egg brown of too many careless days spent out in the sunshine - everyone was guilty of that from time to time - but brown, like a Moor.
It made Jane’s stomach clench in discomfort; she was sure that she had never spoken to a black person before, and all her books said that they had dark eyes. It would be terribly ill-bred to ask, of course, and a person’s skin mattered nothing; Maturin would not be in Surprise House if she did not have wealth or noble blood or something to recommend her. Jane put on a brave smile, and her pity turned to a desire to like and be liked. She was herself pretty, if on the plump side of it, though no one had ever told her so, with dancing blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a magnificent bosom. Her pride and glory was a head of thick golden curls which hung down to the bottom of her ribcage. One of Maturin’s rags came loose, and the lock of hair tumbled down - only the barest hint of a curl, and the hair fell long, down to the girl’s thighs, nearly to her knees. Jane felt another stab of horror at the foreignness of it all, but she thought she covered it well.
“My name is Jane Aubrey,” she said, looming over Maturin with a broad grin. “I am sure we shall be very excellent friends; I know that tonight we do not have anything , but tomorrow is the Earl of Rochester’s ball - are you not prodigious excited for it?”
Maturin looked up at her. “No.” She swept the books off Jane’s bed. “Stephanie.” She said by way of an introduction, and took up her place again on the window sill, opening her book.
Jane sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “What are you reading?”
“Linnaeus.”
Jane did now know who or was that was, and so that was another avenue of conversation cut off. She stood up again, opened her trunk and went to the wardrobe they would share to hang up her gowns - there was the most beautiful cloak that she had ever seen hanging up inside - thick, emerald-green velvet, lined with a magnificent grey fur, not just trimmed. “Oh, Stephanie, is that yours! It is marvellous!”
Maturin looked up in surprise, narrowing her eyes as she attempted to discern any kind of sarcasm. “It is, sure. It is wolf fur. My godfather and I shot the wolves for it.”
“Wolves?!” Jane turned around in shock. “You cannot be from England then!”
Maturin’s mouth quirked in a cruel smile. “Ah, you could not tell that from my appearance, then? I am become an Odysseus, a veritable master of disguise. No, I am not from England. I am from Ireland, and Catalonia.”
“Ireland?” Jane asked in surprise. “Oh, dear. Well, as long as you are not a Papist, dear Stephanie - the Papists are a very wicked crew, you know, with confession and all that. And they tried to blow up Parliament. Lord, how we used to keep up the Fifth of November. One of my very best friends - you would not believe how kind -was so upset when her mother married one that she took to mathematics and Hebrew directly - aleph, beth - though she was the prettiest girl for miles around - taught me mathematics - splendid headpiece, bless her. She told me quantities of things about the Papists: I forget it all now, but they are certainly a very wicked crew. There is no trusting them. Look at the rebellion they have just had.”
Stephanie’s face had settled once again into an expression of intense dislike. “The United Irishmen were primarily Protestants - their leaders were Protestants. Wolfe Tone and Napper Tandy were Protestants. The Emmets, the O'Connors, Simon Butler, Hamilton Rowan, Lord Edward Fitzgerald were Protestants. And the whole idea of the club was to unite Protestant and Catholic and Presbyterian Irishmen. The Protestants it was who took the initiative. And we prefer the term ‘Catholic.’”
Jane looked back, a slow but strong blush rising in her cheeks. Maturin had turned back to her book, positively bristling, like a hedgehog trying desperately hard to keeps its own prickles from rising. “I-“ Jane began again, unable to bear the thought of the conversation finishing on such a damning note. “I do not know where Catalonia is - is it a county of Ireland?”
“It is not - it is the region around Barcelona, in Spain, along the border with France.”
That would account for the dark skin. “Ah. Ah. I see. And - it is there that you shot the wolves?” Jane said, with the feeling of having found a possible foothold in an inevitable avalanche.
“With my godfather,” Maturin said, turning a page.
“And your parents allowed you to go out shooting wolves?”
“I think the matter did not weight very heavily on their minds, being dead.” Maturin peered pointedly over the page of her book.
“Oh, I am sorry. My mother is dead,” Jane said, picking one of her best ball gowns to hang up.
“I am sorry for your troubles,” Maturin said, staring intensely at her book, her thick brows drawn together in concentration. Jane sighed sadly, and shook out another dress of embroidered muslin.
Below them, the huge grandfather clock that Jane had seen began to chime. “Time for dinner! Come on, Stephanie; Mrs. Killick said we had to be on time.”
“Tell the mumping baboon that she was right; the cheroot has finished me off. I am much too sick to come to dinner.” Maturin looked up, brought her hand to her mouth, and coughed very unpersuasively. “Now, run along.”
*
“Rotten luck, Aubrey,” Emma Harte drawled as she buttered a piece of bread. Mrs. Killick was out haranguing the cook, which gave them a moment of unsupervised talk. “To be paired with the black bastard. She’s an ill-tempered bitch, by God.”
“She seemed very pleasant to me, Emma - a prodigious prodigy, I thought. She is obviously very clever,” Jane said with as harsh a glare as she was able to manage. “But… she-?”
“A bastard,” Harte said triumphantly. “Terrible scandal. Irish father, Spaniard mother. And a Papist. You’d think someone like that would keep her black head down out of the pure shame of it, but she is as proud as the Queen of Sheba. As I said, Aubrey: rotten bad luck.” She smiled maliciously as Mrs. Killick came back in, and the conversation died.
They had not spoken since Jane had come up from dinner, and now the two girls lay stiffly in their beds.
“Stephanie?” Jane said, turning over.
“Yes, Miss Aubrey?”
“If… if you are a Pa- a Catholic, and not English, why are you at the London season?”
“I see Harte has been talking.” There was a creak from the other bed. “My father wished for me to attend. He stipulated it in his will, and provided a small allowance. No doubt the Protestants of the family pressured him into it. But my godfather wished to obey his wishes. So here I am.”
“Oh.” Jane looked up at the ceiling again. “Is there anything similar, in Barcelona?”
“In Catalonia, I had far better things to do than simper the night away.” The bed creaked again as Stephanie sat up, then stood up, padding across the room in bare feet to a loose floorboard by the door. Pulling it up, Jane saw the moonlight reflect off the side of a bottle, which Stephanie took a practiced swig from.
“Stephanie! You know that Mrs. Killick will have your head if she finds spirits in here!”
“She is welcome to it.” Stephanie hid the bottle under the floorboard. “It is only medicine, so that I can sleep.” She came back to the bed, lying down on it again, drawing the blankets tightly around her. Jane frowned, and settled back into bed, feeling chilled as she suddenly realised just how miserable Stephanie Maturin was.
Jane and Stephanie stood side by side, holding ices. Both were wearing white dresses for the occasion, but while Jane’s hair was piled up on her head in an artful mess of shining gold and yellow, the best they had been able to do with Stephanie’s were some severe braids twisted around her head in a dark mockery of a crown. She was wearing her only jewellery - a great thumping golden cross, with diamonds and pearls, on a long chain - with the wide velvet sash around her waist she looked very Spanish indeed. She had watched while Jane was waltzed around the room a few times, drinking wine and looking none the worse for it. Harte was holding court on the other side of the room, Mowett was reciting poetry for a portly admirer and lanky Pullings was dancing with enthusiasm. Babbington had been drawn into a cupboard much earlier on in the evening and had not been seen since.
One of Jane’s young men kept coming back for more dances - a devastatingly handsome country gentleman named William Sophis, who despite his good looks had such a quiet air of kindness and humility that both Stephanie and Jane were most charmed by it. Sophis had exchanged a number of very pleasant words with Stephanie, but it was obvious that he had eyes only for Jane. And who could blame him? Stephanie thought, scraping away at her ice. Sophis and Jane were speaking to another man now, a fellow decked out in the dress uniform of a captain of the 33rd. He was a tall, lithe man, with ruffled black hair and the most perfect posture; he did not seem to have very good skin, Stephanie noticed, and attributed it to a mixture of the sun (for he was quite tanned), and the whiskey he was holding. She rubbed at her own cheek self-consciously.
At that moment, Jane pointed at her, speaking most enthusiastically - probably trying to salvage any form of dance on her behalf, bless her. The Captain turned, and Stephanie felt as though her heart had stopped - the Captain’s eyes were such a blue, framed by dark lashes, and such a smile…
He walked through the crowd, holding out his hand. “You must be Maturin. I am Captain Apollo Villiers, for my sins. Just call me Villiers.”
“Then, please, simply call me Maturin,” Stephanie said, looking up with her pointed chin thrust out, but her forgotten and long-ignored heart fluttered.
“It is damned hot in here, Maturin - would you like another ice? What a splendid cross! My God, I love the look of diamonds on a woman. It is Spanish work, is it not?”
“You are an expert, Captain Villiers - it is indeed. Baroque, but borrowing a great deal stylistically from the Visigoths. These beams of light here turn it from a Crux Ordinaria into a Crux Rayonny.”
“So they do - a magnificent piece, I must say.”
On the other side of the room, Jane grinned, feeling very pleased with herself indeed. She was sure that things would look up for Stephanie from now on.
No Great Thing- Impotence
by alltoseek
"I'm sorry, Stephen," Jack said as he rolled onto his back.
"Sure, it is no great thing," Stephen murmured.
"Not tonight it ain't," Jack said ruefully, looking down at himself.
Normally, just the thought of having Stephen spread open beneath him was enough to get him aroused. The actual sight of his friend, hips raised, head pillowed on his arms, waiting with closed eyes and parted lips, usually had him achingly hard. But tonight, even after oiling himself up, preparing Stephen, listening to his gasps and moans as he inserted his fingers: as exciting as all this was to his mind, he could feel no answering response in his body.
He had tried stroking Stephen's cock; this often raised a sympathetic response in his own. But on these occasions, Stephen did not like him to - he wanted to last as long as possible. Even as the doctor pushed his hand away, Jack knew it wasn't working anyway.
Typically, by this point Jack would be trying to think of anything but sex - during these rare times when Stephen let him bugger him he wanted to fuck him as long and thoroughly as possible. Stephen had odd notions; usually he didn't want to be buggered, yet when he did allow Jack to do so, he seemed very pleased and satisfied. For his part, Jack was happy to have Stephen any way he could. He never talked to his friend about it, though; their relationship was so precious to him he did not want to look gift Trojans in the mouth.
When he was intimate with Stephen he tried not to think of Sophie, but tonight he pictured her being so open and eager - this often worked when it was just him and his fist. It didn't now and he thrust her image away. Then Diana came unbidden - and she was completely off limits now that Stephen was married to her. And then appeared an enticing tableau of Diana and Sophie together. Any other night and he would have gone right off. Tonight, he just groaned and rolled over: "I'm sorry, Stephen."
"Sure, it is no great thing." Stephen turned on his side to face his friend. Yet Stephen was disappointed. After a battle, or vicious storm, when he had worked long hard hours in the orlop, what he craved most was to be covered by his captain and fucked until every fibre relaxed and his mind emptied of all else. He had noticed too that Jack's post-battle melancholy often was relieved by this particular intercourse. Perhaps it was reliving the sensation of "boarding", but this time for love-making. The pleasure without the cost. Stephen had come to think of the act as medicinal for both of them.
Stephen trailed a hand down Jack's great belly. When Jack saw where he was headed he sighed and shook his head, "I'm sorry, old soul, I'm afraid it's no use." He loved the way Stephen's hand would curl firmly around him as around the neck of his 'cello, fingering and stroking him like a fine instrument; but tonight he knew it would lead only to more frustration. He raised his friend's hand to his mouth and kissed the palm before laying it back on his chest. A thought occurred to Jack and he turned on his side towards Stephen. "But love, I would be happy to..." His words trail off as he moved his own hand down down Stephen's midsection. Stephen said, "No, no, my dear, it is no pleasure for me when there is none for you."
"Oh, I am with you. It's my prick that ain't cooperating." To show him, Jack embraced him with one arm and kissed him deeply, his hand still moving towards Stephen's cock. Stephen returned the kiss, but grasped Jack's hand in his own, and like Jack brought it to his mouth for a kiss on the palm.
Stephen smiled, "Yes, joy, I understand." Still, Jack felt the hard length of him as Stephen moved closer to embrace him in return. Stephen sighed, his cock nestled against Jack's broad hip. The men so recently lost - Jack would deny it, but Stephen was sure their loss was pressing on his mind, preventing him from realizing his pleasure now. The thought of how easily that loss could have included Jack too drew Stephen's embrace tighter, even as his own sexual urgency faded. Stephen was happy to have Jack any way he could.
A Special Viewing of MandC: FSotW
by alltoseek
"That's supposed to be me?" sputtered Jack. "He's too short - he doesn't look anything like me! And why's he wasting time getting into uniform when we've just beaten to quarters and he doesn't even know what's toward? I'd've been on deck regardless before the first roll of the drum finished. Prodigious great - short dandy! Don't know why they slapped my name on him - nothing like me."
Stephen on the other hand was gazing complacently at Paul Bettany. He casually waved off Jack's complaints. "Mere physical resemblance is trivial, hardly to be considered. More important is to catch the spirit, the essence if you will, of a person." Stephen paused a moment, then continued, "Certainly the captain is not like you, my dear. For one, Russell Crowe is much better-looking."
"I never set up for an Apollo, Stephen," Jack said crossly. "Of course he is better-looking. He's not been in actual battle, has he? Why, he still has both ears! Where's the cutlass slashes? Where's the splinter wounds? What's he got - a couple scratches on his forehead? They look like smudges he hasn't washed off properly."
"What's that supposed to mean - "something more aggressive"? What's he mean by "aggressive"? D'ye suppose he meant to say "allegro"?" asked Jack.
Stephen gave a sidelong glance at Jack. "Apparently there is a notion among our, shall we say admirers, that our particular friendship is particular indeed - something more, so to speak intimate than merely close would indicate."
Jacked gaped once or twice, mouth opening and closing but no sound emerging. Then the puzzled expression cleared and he looked consideringly at Stephen. "And perhaps if you looked anything like Paul Bettany it would be, too."
Stephen considered a retort involving a comparison between 17-stone Jack and the much trimmer Crowe, but wisely choose instead to pretend not to have heard Jack's quiet remark. "Their musical performance is quite flattering: note-perfect, excellent timing, tone rich and sweet. I speak only for myself, of course, but I know my own attempts on the 'cello never come near such beauty. That fellow would make a much better accompanist for you, joy."
"Nonsense!" said Jack. "I'd rather scrape away with you on our old sea-going instruments - "screech-screech" as Killick says (they got him note-perfect, all right!) - any day, than aim for a performance fit for the King every night."
"Oh, oh, I'm glad Captain Howard is not with us! We would not have a screen to watch on any longer. What slander, to suppose a Marine officer of his judgment and skill would shoot you - any man - instead of the great albatross he's aiming for. Absurd!"
***
"Ho ho! Look at him take on three men at once!" crowed Jack. "Now that's a doctor I could use in action - slice up the enemy during battle, stitch 'em up afterward. And I know you could do so, too, even better than that fellow on the screen, too," he added with a sideways look at Stephen.
"Bloody-minded fool," muttered Stephen. "All those wounded already, and he's left them to Higgins' incompetent mercies - and for what? Why, to create more wounded - more work for himself! And he knows the Acheron has no doctor. Does he not trust his Captain, his friend, to have all well enough in hand? And what if he himself becomes injured again - who will take care of them all? Foolish, foolish, vain bloody-minded foolery! Just to show off his swordplay. Not enough to be known for his skill with the knife, the trephine, but must impress all with his prowess on the battlefield as well. Ridiculous peacock!"
***
"Well, well, so that is their idea of life in the Royal Navy in wartime. Very well. They tried to be accurate, I suppose, but there is nothing like living through it oneself. And I'm not altogether certain which adventure of ours they were trying to relate. I remember some such incidents, but not strung together like that. And no Acheron neither, French navy nor privateer. Perhaps this is just as well. After all, they have left out some of our less shining moments, too. I noticed you never fell overboard - not so much as a slip."
"My rare difficulties in going up and down the side - usually occasioned by challenging sea conditions or lubberly management of the boat, I might add - is hardly a defining aspect of my character."
Jack discreetly turned his choke of laughter into a cough. "Very true, brother, very true."
Stephen’s Dream
by anon
Stephen was cold. Icy shivering cold. Wet through cold. Exhausted cold. His cot was cold and damp, his clothes cold and damp, his blankets damp and cold. He could not remember warm. Heated muscles from the endless pumping, yes; warmth, life-giving warmth no. Exhausted from the endless pumping, he waited for his body to shiver itself to sleep.
Sleep would not come. Babbington's Newfoundland was whining at his door, his master at the pumps. Stephen got up to let the dog in. The ship's two remaining cats came darting in as well. He got back in his cot and the huge dog stepped up too, and lay down right on top of him, like a damp cold bearskin. The cats glided up, and nestled down on his shoulders, one on each side. Soon the shivering stopped.
As he warmed, his mind started reviving too. Still exhausted, still waiting for sleep, thoughts began invading. Herapath, Wogan, Diana. He was using Wogan, using Herapath to get to Louisa. Louisa used Diana. Diana used him. All lies and duplicity. Stephen was so sick of it, so cold and sick. Sick - the scurvy - men not taking their grog with its vital lime-juice. Did Jack stop the grog? Was there any left after the panicking men broke into the spirit room? No spirits - the men needed spirits... He was so warm now, warm and wet, humid. A fuzzy humidness - like sleeping in a warm wet fur coat --
He was not in the ship anymore, or he was in the ship, but the ship was a hotel. Jack was the manager. And Stephen wasn't a person. Or he was a person, but a cat-person - sleek, lithe, and deadly cold. They were all cat-people, even Jack, large muscled golden-toned Jack. And they lived in a warm humid endless summer.
The hotel had a restaurant, a bar, but there were no spirits, no liquor - not allowed; it was illegal. But who cared about the law when people needed liquor? Even Jack knew - he wanted a happy hotel - cats need their liquor. He sent Stephen to get some.
Some cat was in their way - going to take their liquor. Stephen was repulsed by the hatchet job he was sent to do - so against the fineness of his physician's knife, the subtlety of intelligence work - but he did it. Jack needed him to, and Diana told him to. Diana was there, watching him, as graceful as ever in her sleek black fur, her dark blue eyes so startling in their intensity. She was deadly too, deadly and cruel. And graceful in her casual slaughter.
He and Jack were dining in a warm sunny outdoor cafe. And there was Louisa across the table from them, with Herapath at her side. Jack was threatening her, telling her the ship - the business - was no place for a woman. But Louisa just purred back at them, sultry and beautiful. And why was Jack threatening her? Was she not already in his power? Louisa said she was carrying on for someone - to avenge someone?
Stephen thought of betrayal - had he betrayed her? He was going to betray her. Stephen shivered, suddenly cold again even in this warm humid climate. Had Stephen been betrayed? He looked down at his paws - many were missing their claws. But there was Jack, holding him with one golden paw, licking him roughly with his great tongue. Stephen laid his ears back, hissed and lashed his tail. But Jack was imperturbable, holding him down with his two great golden arms, grooming him thoroughly, licking the hurts away.
The Commodore’s Salute
by anon
Captain Aubrey's mouth gaped in angry astonishment at the silly smug face across from him. He knew Harte would do him a bad turn any time he could - Harte had done so, again and again. But this was beyond belief - to controvert the late admiral's orders - in favour of a less-senior captain - impossible! Before he knew it, Aubrey had leaned over the table, grabbed Harte's neckcloth and dragged him back across, twisting the snug neckcloth tighter, so Harte's eyes bugged out and his tongue lolled from his open mouth, but he could not shout for the Marine guard just outside the door. Aubrey found his other fist drawn back, ready to turn that smug face into so much slush, but he hesitated. That scrub Harte had been waiting for a mistake like this for years. Once Aubrey struck a superior officer - even a God-damned lubberly infernal bugger like Harte - he was done for. And that was why Aubrey had swallowed insult after injury from Harte so often, and he was damned if he'd let Harte finally win after all these years.
From the great stern window of the Admiral's cabin Aubrey caught a glimpse of the new commodore about to board his ship and hoist his pennant. The sight brought up a fresh wave of anger and hatred - and an idea. Aubrey grasped a loop of the neckcloth and shoved it into Harte's gaping mouth. He loosened the ends of the cloth with one hand, while with the other he dragged one of Harte's ineffectually grasping hands behind his back. Quickly securing Harte's other hand, he tied both together. Now the admiral's mouth was gagged and hands secured with his own neckcloth, arching his neck painfully back, and drawing his wrists and shoulders painfully up. Harte still wriggled like a worm on the table, but Aubrey leaned one broad hand on the small of Harte's back while drawing his sword with the other.
The gunner on the flagship and Aubrey both saw the pennant flash out at the same instant. Aubrey brought the flat of his blade down hard across Harte's arse at the same instant the first gun cracked out. From long experience Aubrey knew the exact cadence of the guns during a salute. He brought the blade down again and again, the sound of the blow against Harte's breeches masked by the bang of the guns. The thought occurred to him that Harte must also know the rhythm, and would therefore be painfully anticipating each one. Each one of the fifteen for a Commodore.
Harte was anticipating each blow, but the pain was mixed with a much stronger pleasure. Oh why, he thought, why hadn't Aubrey come up with this earlier? No one had ever understood what Harte wanted just like this. Harte's mixture of insecure needling and brown-nosing was designed to evoke reactions like this from strong men, but he rarely received the type of attention he craved. Ledward had offered it on occasion, but Ledward was far away, only his pretty boy Wray here. Wray was good, but there was nothing like the honest righteous anger blazing from Aubrey; from the tall, broad, strong Aubrey. His strength was telling - little more than half-way through his well-earned and long-deserved beating, and Harte was writhing about the table. His head was turned toward Aubrey, and his gagged mouth brushed up against his crotch.
Aubrey looked down at Harte's face as it rubbed against his breeches. That sight and the sound of the gasps and moans coming through the gag gave him another idea. His right arm still administering the blows, with his left hand he undid his placket and lifted away the gag. He grabbed Harte's hair up tight against the back of his head and forced his mouth on his stiffening prick.
His prick stiffened even more as Harte worked it over expertly. Aubrey used his hand in Harte's hair to manoeuvre his head where he wanted him. As his pleasure grew his hips instinctively began thrusting, unconcerned with any gagging noises Harte made.
The naval officer part of Aubrey's mind, always on duty regardless of circumstances, fortunately kept count of the gun salutes and stopped at the fifteenth. He dropped the sword, letting it lie across Harte's back, and brought his right hand to help work his member. Soon he was on the edge, and he pulled away from Harte's mouth. Still using his left hand to hold Harte's head in place, he finished himself off and spent all over Harte's face.
Finally he let Harte's head go while he buttoned up his breeches and straightened his clothes. He retrieved his sword and sheathed it. Harte lay limply over the table, his legs dangling off one side and his head, dripping, off the other.
Aubrey left the cabin and nodded pleasantly to the sentry outside. As he came up on deck he felt much happier and more satisfied than he could have imagined mere minutes ago. He dropped down among his properly sombre barge-men, who had all heard about the new commodore and Aubrey's disappointment. Harte could still prosecute him for striking a superior officer, but then Aubrey would positively enjoy being present at the court-martial when Harte had to display the evidence. In fact, he would be thinking about that evidence at tomorrow's dinner, given by the Admiral to honour the new Commodore. The barge-men eyed each other nervously when they heard their captain laugh out loud.
Please feel free to come forward on who wrote which fic. All of you have given us a lot of reading pleasure with your works. The writer of The Commodore’s Salute already let us know that they will come forward, if the person who put down the prompt will make themselves known too.
There is one more wonderfully long and detailed story waiting to be re-posted during the comms November celebration posts. :D