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roxymulti-fandom challnge,prompt Used: Eliade: Striptease/ Nautical themes / Kink: Whipping:
Name: Roxymissrose
E-Mail: Roxy5@comcast.net
Title: Bloody Kent’s Treasure: A Romance of the Sea
Fandom: SV
Summary: It’s a pirate story. Sort of. And it’s humorous. Sort of. Oh, and there’s sex. Yes. There’s definitely sex.
A/N: ...what?
I
Smoke from gunpowder and grenades streaked the air. The ringing crack of steel against steel provided counterpoint to the occasional pop of gunfire, men shouting, and screams of the victims of Screaming Star’s industrious crew.
Captain Jerome Kent the Bloody was the master of the Screaming Star, youngest and boldest of the men who sailed the Caribbean. Being the master of a pirate ship was a position he deeply enjoyed, as it afforded him the opportunity to see the many wonders of the world, to explore new lands, meet the fascinating people of these strange and beautiful lands, to rob them and gut them and in general be a right horrible fucking bastard.
It was damn good to be the Captain.
He leaped over the side of the enemy ship with a few of his men, sword drawn and ready to join in the mayhem. He paused to inhale deeply. Now that was a stink no oriental oil or Parisian parfum could hope to match. The smell of death--nothing like it to remind you what was important in life—mainly that you had one, and you had another day to take someone elses. He laughed.
Damn right it was good to be the fucking Captain.
His first mate called him over and handed him a slim leather-backed notebook. “Here you go, captain, a list of what cargo they have—it’s a good one—gold, rum, fruit, a goat, some slaves.”
Kent arched an eyebrow as he perused the ledger, absent-mindedly pulling at the red jewels hanging from his earlobes. This ship’s purser had kept records in a painfully clear and careful handwriting. “Slaves, eh?” His crew knew his policy regarding slaves—unless they cared for a life on the sea, they went over the side. “Don’t know about the slaves—the goat though, that’s a right useful item. And fruit—nice treat for the lads.”
The purser of the Screaming Star interrupted the two with a cough and a nervous avian bow. “Well, ya should know them slaves is not yer run of the mill slaves, Captain. These here are gussied up hoors, courtesans, says right there,” and he ran a grubby finger under the entry.
At Bloody Kent’s blank look, Piet explained “Pleasure slaves, Captain”. His broad dark brow furrowed as he recalled the scene in the bow. “Wee-ell, they *were* pleasure slaves at any rate. Women, a few lads.” He shrugged. “Not much left by now, ‘spossin’ the boys got a little rambunctious.”
Kent grunted in acknowledgement and checked over what was written on the page. The Screaming Star didn’t need dead weight, and his men deserved a little fun. What the hell. A little rum, a little fuck. They were decent hard-working lads. He scowled as his perusal of the list was interrupted by a high-pitched scream—it spiraled up and up until it seemed a human throat couldn’t possibly contain it. It cut off abruptly. His first mate coughed a little.
Kent looked down into his worried brown eyes, and the man said, “D’ ya want me to look into that, Captain?”
He frowned, “What, a little scream, Piet? That was just Youthful High Spirits, that’s all.” He waved his hand dismissively at the Moor. A scream was a scream and to be expected, considering the circumstances. Piet however, obviously had the booty below decks in mind—worried that the crew might spoil what was there in their High Spirits. He folded his arms and fixed Captain Kent with a steady glare, and finally the Captain stopped reading.
“Jayzus, what a nag! Can’t understand why I put up with ya, I really don’t.” He heaved a loud and gusty sigh and handed Piet the ledger. “Never you mind, man. I’ll look myself. Christ, yer worse than an old schoolmarm, you are.”
He’d go make sure the lads weren’t mucking up the take, join them for a bit, maybe wet the wick as well—he had damn little free time, and every man should take a minute or two for indulgences once in a while. With that in mind, he strode toward the bow of the ship, his coat tails flowing behind him, the wind blowing the slightly ragged lace of his shirt about. His earrings clicked at his lobes, keeping time with his step, pleasing him with the cheerful chime. He looked damn good and he knew it.
II
In the forecastle, a circle of men almost hid from view a slim young man, tied to the mast. A few crewmembers were hoisting the inert form of a woman above their heads, and with a shout heaved her over the side. Her limbs flailed, floppy as a rag doll and Kent dismissed her from his mind—no heartbeat, she’d been dead before she went over the bow. He tsked, they could have stopped and stripped her petticoats at least—even stained they had some value.
The splash as she hit ocean was loud and brought fresh tears from the ragged remnant of whores—courtesans, he corrected himself—fancy pussy got to have fancy names. The sight of him brought nervous muttering from the crew of the captured vessel cowering there also.
He licked his lips at the hot scent of blood and come and arousal, laced through with the scent of wood smoke and burning canvas, and he smiled. He just never tired of that heady smell—the smell of Victory. If he could bottle it, he’d—well—he’d have a bottle of some really foul concoction. Occasionally his mind took strange flights of fancy—must be the opium.
He grinned wider as his men became aware he was there and tried to pull themselves into a disciplined crew. They were streaked with ash and blood, and some were sporting bits and pieces of the defeated crews clothing, ragged little salutes flashed up and down the line of men.
“Having a party, lads? Care to share?” He swaggered over to the circle and the men melted away at his approach. A jug of rum made its way into his hand, and he was handed a wide strip of hand-embroidered silk he wrapped around his waist, to roars of approval from his boys. He grinned and swigged a long deep draught of rum—it was actually good stuff, and he was pleasantly surprised. He belched impressively and finally, strutted over to examine his crew’s newest toy.
Tied to the mast was a man, skinny, white as cheese and stinking filthy. Kent walked around the mast to face him, he looked like any other spoil of war, grime-coated, shreds of clothing hanging from his shoulders and his waist, fucked ‘til his legs gave out. Normal business.
The slight figure was splashed from asshole to bare skull with blood and come. He knelt in a pool of every fluid possible for a body to create. Kent wrinkled his nose and walked around until he could see his face.
He expected the tears of course, the bruises, he would have been surprised not to see them—but the snarl of defiance, that was unexpected. He laughed. It put him in mind of a poodle growling at a bear. Amusing—endearing even, but the end result was still dead poodle.
The man’s eyes were puffed and bruised and nearly closed to slits and still he could see the hatred gleaming in them. The long lean body, revealed by the tattered clothing was smooth as a boy’s, not even a hair on his head. He bent closer and grabbed the rounded smooth chin in his hand, twisted the face towards him. “You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you?”
He was naked of hair as a babe in arms and not a bit shaved, hairless by nature…he wondered if his balls were as nude. He dropped the chin and reached into the rags of his breeches. He felt soft, short curls around a sizeable cock, and raised his eyebrows. “Oh-ho. What have we here, my lad?”
The man hung his head, and Bloody Kent watched his jaws work. Ah well, if he was going to blubber like a babe, than over the side he could go--—a man crying for mercy no longer amused him as it once had. He started to rise--suddenly, something viscous and hot slapped against his cheek and slid downward.
Kent’s mouth opened in a startled O. “Bloody fuckin’ hell!” The fuckin’ cheek of the little bastard! The fucker…he spit on him!
He wiped the gooey mess from his cheek, staring at his red-smeared hand “—you fucking little shit--” he smacked him, not using a tenth of his strength, luckily not breaking bones or tearing muscle. His earrings rang as the stones struck against teach other and a shiver worked its way down his spine. The fucker coughed out a laugh—oh, you will laugh will you, you son of a syphilitic whore--
“Lash!” he shouted, and a leather cat dropped into his hand. “Pull him to his feet.”
The bounds on the man were yanked higher. As he came to his feet, he bit off a scream, and in a moment, he was stretched up on his toes. He held his head up, though…balls on the boy, no doubt. Kent fingered the knife he’d shoved into the sash around his waist. That might well be a temporary state.
“Good, there ya go lads. We’ll show this pup a thing or two,” Bloody Kent snarled, and the lash whipped through the air, striking the pale form. The crack was satisfying, but the man was silent, even though he arched, his chains ringing as they struck against each other.
Stupid—only an idiot tries to keep silent under the lash. Lots of screaming, that’s the way to get through it Kent growled to himself. Memory provided him with that information. Even though it’d been half a lifetime since he’d actually felt the sting of pain, the memory was still lively and fresh in the heart of him—the better to recreate in the flesh of others. Balance, that’s what it was. The world demanded balance and he was only too happy to provide.
Again the lash whistled through the air and ripped into twitching shoulders. Only Kent heard the gasp of pain and it made him smile. Again, and the now pink flesh split like a peach. Blood poured out and diluted with sweat--it flowed down his back in a thin wash. Captain Kent paused, admiring the flush of color against the pale swells of his ass. He decided not to land the cat on them—he had a better way to torture them.
The lash ripped into the man again and the crew shouted and hooted. Ah-ha. I know yer seconds from screaming, yer fucking little poodle. He drew back his arm and this time he let some of his true strength power the blow. The lash screamed through the air and hit the arched back with a crack like a gunshot. Droplets spattered crimson rain on the crew, splashed the Captain…the man jerked in his ropes like a fish on the hook and still….
Still not a sound. Well, well, well. Stubborn as well stupid….
Bloody Kent felt a little flicker of admiration. He was no disappointment, this one--tough as ironwood.
He let the lash hang loose, stood quietly. The whippet thin figure in front of him shuddered and shuddered. The chains holding his wrists together clacked together with each slow tremor, only Bloody Kent could hear the sound of his teeth grinding.
He waited, looking for the minute relaxation of muscles, the moment when he’d have to let go--Braver than one would expect for a whore, I’ll give him that. —and there it was.
The lash screamed through the air again as he struck out at full strength. It sliced into flesh, lifted a long flap of skin over the ribs and brought forth a scream that had to break things in the little fucker’s chest, Kent thought and shook his head.
Tsk…mortals, delicate little things, so easily breakable, so ready to tear, spewing theirs insides about like those candy filled bags children loved to hit He snapped his fingers, annoyed. what are they called, then—somethin’ foreign…p-something… Ah well-- breaking them was just as much fun for him.
The white figure hung motionless from his chains and dripped steadily onto the decks.
“He aint dead Captain,” one of the crew said in surprise, holding up the man’s head. “He’s still breathin’.”
“Really? Well, clean him up—if he makes it through the night, we’ll keep this one.” He looked narrow-eyed at the frantic remnants of the courtesans. “If I was you, I’d either look real useful or real enticin’.”
They brought up buckets of seawater and threw them at the unconscious man.
Kent stood by and marveled at the intensity of the scream as he came back to life. Not bad, he thought admiringly as the scream of agony spiraled down into a steady stream of cursing. He’s got a healthy set of lungs on him, good, that. Inventive too.
III
It took a mere two days for the man to stand on his feet unaided. He got no fever from the water, no seeping wounds, a few days more before the ribs healed nice and clean and the scar was nothing more then a thin gnarled red line…Captain Kent was more than intrigued—he had a strange niggling feeling every time he thought of him or looked at him that he finally realized must be fear. Yes…he actually feared the fancy little whore.
He tasted this new thing, rolled it about in his mind and considered it. Hunh. So this was what it was like to fear something. Interesting. Strangely, it added spice to the whole rape and maim business….
Kent considered the architect of this new sensation--why wasn’t he dead, did he have strange abilities too, and was there something about him that would explain Kent’s own existence? Could he have some key, some secret that would shed light on his own abilities? Would he have the power no one else did to destroy him?
Captain Kent the Bloody knew little about himself save that for years on end he’d been a slave of landowners who claimed to have saved him from a fiery death…who told him that he owed them his life. And he slaved from dawn to dusk, everyday, month in, month out…years…years of shoveling shit all through the week and spending the end of it repeating mealy-mouthed hogswallop on his knees, begging for forgiveness for crimes he never committed—until one fine summer evening he decided to run and raided the woman’s few bits of jewelry for a stake he figured they owed him. Was while stuffing the ruby red earrings he now wore into his pocket the thought occurred to him—might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb and free himself forever.
That lovely jasmine scented evening, he committed crimes worthy of the moniker Bloody Kent. (though most thought the name hyperbole) and from that point on, Jerome Kent the Bloody never looked back.
He smiled at the memories, lit his pipe and stroked the jewels at his earlobes in satisfaction. Good times, them, good times.
But now, today, he had important matters to attend to and his first order of business was to collect the rest of his part of the spoils-- his own little pussy to pet and to hold, he grinned.
IV
The man lay on the Captain’s bed, looking at him speculatively, without the slightest trace of fear. Bloody Kent for his part totally missed his captive’s expression; so intent was he on the sight of all that lovely skin. Kent was enormously pleased; he liked the look of him, ivory pale against the rich purple of the silk beddings. And there was an added spice to the thought that this one belonged to him, lock stock and cock.
He peered closer at his new pet. Looked healthy, good teeth, strong bones…was older than him, he thought, but not by more than a few years. He wondered what it was exactly that a courtesan did in bed, wondered if it’d be different than the average fuck. He was curious as to how a man with no hair sproutin’ all over would feel—he wasn’t one for boys or women. He liked a manly man—hair and muscle and a nice big cock--but he found himself wanting to feel the skin on this one, wanting to lick him from head to toe. He smiled at himself and settled in an overstuffed chair-- the prize of some long ago raid—and began to question the man.
“So. What do you think of your new home, bearing in mind that ya can go below decks with the crew if I don’t care for yer answer?”
The young man said not a word.
Kent puffed reflectively on the ivory stem of his pipe. “Do ya want to tell me your name?” He raised an eyebrow at the silent man, waited a beat before going on. “I meant ta say, of course, tell me yer name or I’ll squeeze it out of ya.”
The man looked him over as if to say, ‘squeeze?’ and rolled his eyes.
“You should know I don’t mean all of ya—just yer nuts.” He picked up a carved ball of ivory from the little table next to the chair, rolled it gently in his fingers and smiled sweetly, squeezed until it creaked and cracked, and powdered in his grip. He let smashed pieces of ivory dribble through his fingers—
“Alexander! It’s Alexander!”
“Ah. Now aint it nice when we share? And just to show ya I believe in fairness, my name is Jerome Kent—some call me Bloody Kent, some call me Fucking Bastard. Don’t matter what *you* call me. Won’t be payin’ attention anyway. D’ya know what your duties are to be. Alexander?”
“Let me think,” Alexander said and made a show of pondering. “Ah...getting fucked? He sneered.
The Captain laughed. “If you’re lucky.” He grabbed the pup by the scruff of the neck. “Unless of course you anger me. In which case--” he pulled him from the bed, ignoring his hiss of pain, and opened the cabin door. “Anger me, and yer’ll be the toy for all of them as wants ya, d’hear me?”
Alexander stumbled in his grip and snarled. “How could I not, you’re shouting right into my ear. I understand you well.”
“There’s a Good Boy. First thing, you can make your Captain a happy man.” He opened his breeches and pulled himself free of the confining material. He squeezed and stroked himself and watched Alexander’s eyes follow his hand. Kent was certain that Alexander didn’t know his tongue peeked at the corner of his mouth.
Alexander looked up and scowled, dragged his hand across his mouth when he caught Kent the Bloody sneering at him, but the captain saw a little light in the slate-blue eyes.
‘Oh yes. This one was a good choice. This one might live yet…’
He stroked himself into full hardness, slipping the foreskin back and forth over the head, until the other no longer pretended indifference. He sank to his knees and reached out, touched the skin pulled over the head.
“Go on then,” the Captain growled, “Take it in your mouth. Make me come.”
The other guided the cock with elegant fingers as Kent thrust forward, skinning back the hood of skin and exposing the rosy head, clear fluid shimmered at the tip and he snaked a pink wet tongue tip out to gather up the drops.
“Ahh! More of that,” he groaned and shifted his hips to drive his prick deeper into the heat, “Suck, suck,” he chanted, and the young man sucked and jerked his own hard flesh. The Captain marveled as the lithe tongue swirled around the head of his cock. There you go, that right there was the difference between an apprentice and a journeyman, he thought. Alexander’s tongue twirled and jabbed, rolled over and stroked it until Kent was gasping for breath and calling on several gods, as one could never be too careful.
The little whore knew what he was doing. He worked his prick like no other before, swallowed and pushed forward until the captain felt his cock slide into the tight throat, felt him working around his jerking straining flesh, and thought Journeyman? Fuck, he’s a Master--felt a groan that started in his toes and worked its way up into his throat and burst free like song, if song consisted of “Holy Fucking Bleeding Heart! Suck me!”
Alexander jerked and swallowed and it made him howl again and then, the boy was groaning. Kent gasped when he felt come splash his legs and instead of making him angry, it sent a bolt of lightning streaking through him, brought the come rising from his balls like a fire. A finger wormed its way onto his hole—he clenched around it, shuddering and moaning, and poured his heat into the man’s throat. When he had control of his brain again, his first thought was “that was new.”
He resisted poking a finger back there, wouldn’t be seemly, him being the Captain and all, and he’d never had anyone knock at the back door. Well, truth be told, never had anyone enter. Difficult what with the knocker being dead and all…. He had to say though--that had been…enlightening. His cock rose at the thought, and Alexander looked at him, surprised.
“What, so soon?”
“Go ahead, complain,” he said. “I like a good laugh whilst I fuck.”
Alexander climbed back on the big bed and spread himself over the silk. “Who, me? Complain? If there’s one thing I know, it’s my place.” He smiled, a tiny twitch of a smile, and crooked his finger.
And thus began the fall of Captain Jerome Kent The Bloody, Scourge of The Seven Seas, Right Fucking Bastard.
V
The Captain walked around the deck, smoking and thinking, leaving Alexander a bit of space to recuperate. He enjoyed fucking Alexander; he was an active and inventive in the bunk. It was no wonder he’d been so pampered at court. He had a sly wit, and an appreciation of the absurd. He had the capacity to be quite cruel, Kent thought, something else that he enjoyed about him. And a mouth able to suck the brass off a canon. Kent drew on the pipe. He’d certainly made his canon roar.
Alexander knew as little as the Captain about his own past, but eventually, he told him all that he knew about himself. Their pillow talk was…strange to say the least.
He couldn’t remember mother or father, in fact, he remembered little beyond being sold at a young age to a house of pleasure. He described his fear of the House, of the clients. He described the shame of being displayed for the pleasure of any with the right coin. He described the peg, having it worked into his body, being open at all times and the first time a living prick went into him. He told him how eventually hatred of the whole thing transmuted to pleasure—and that was when his real education began. There was a lot of power to be gained from the bedroom, and he had the added incentive of rising above peg boy status, going beyond his appeal as a freak and becoming a sought after companion.
Bloody shook his head. “They say if a thing happens often enough, it becomes good to ya. My heart is breakin’ for ya. However my cock is weeping, so let’s get right on that, shall we?”
Alexander sneered and rolled his eyes, his usual response to any of Bloody Kent’s little witticisms. “God’s Blood, Jerome, whoever told you once upon a time that you were amusing in the least should be dug up and hung, then drawn and quartered.”
“What makes you think everyone in my past is dead?” Kent frowned.
Alexander grinned and ruffled Kent’s hair. “Because you’re like me, thorough, neat and not given to leaving loose ends.”
He kissed him, and Kent felt happiness fizz in his veins like French wine. He had no idea how he’d earned this wonder, this treasure—especially considerin’ how really fucking horrible a creature he was, but looking a gift horse in the mouth had never been a stupidity of his.
“Come on now, Alex, sit on this and later, I’ll tell you stories. I’ll tell you about two men who became the rulers of the worlds….”
VI
Kent bent over; sweat ran into his eyes and clouded his vision.
“Hold yourself open.” he heard and he gripped his cheeks, and spread them at the words. He felt the leather lashes slap into his back. The crack of impact was just as loud as if it hurt, but it only made his prick rise, and he felt them like a caress. They trailed slowly down his cleft and he groaned—he liked this game very much.
The lash whipped away and whistled through the air to land between his cheeks, and his teeth nearly met in his lip—the slap of leather against his puckered opening was almost more than he could take. It felt like dozens of fingers all playing at him, teasing him--his prick dipped and rose and spurt onto the floor of his cabin and he yowled, “Fuck me now, you evil bastard spawn of Satan!”
Alexander dropped the lash, massaged stiff wrists and grinned. “Oh please, I really think at this point, we’re beyond formalities. Alex is sufficient.” He slammed into Kent without warning, the Captain howled.
“So good. Someday, Jerome--” he huffed out breathless with the force of his thrusts “—you must tell me what makes you so remarkable.”
Kent the Bloody’s only response was to groan and spill over the floorboards.
The Captain was obsessed, completely absorbed with his pet, wrapped up and bound and enslaved to his slave.
All his time was spent trying to figure out how to make Alexander come as hard as he could—less and less time spent running the business of the ship.
It couldn’t last, of course. For every action there’s an opposite and equal screwing over all parties involved. The Universe suddenly realized that one Captain Jerome Kent the Bloody was stupidly happy, and that made it prick its ears up.
VII
Piet was in his cabin, exhausted from double duties, cramped with resentment and desperate for sleep, when the purser popped his head in.
“Beggin’ yer pardon sir but we need to talk about the captain and his boy...man…his. Erm.” He waved a hand as he searched for words before dropping it and blowing out a frustrated huff of air.
“I understand.” Piet did—what did you call two lads so deep into each other that surely when one shat, the other…offered a nice fluffy soft piece of paper?
“Ordinarily, none of us would give a fig, but this ain’t ordinary. We’re low in supplies and the men are getting restless, and all the bloody captain is doing, is the beast with two backs...something like that, ye get my drift…Buggerin’ hell--not that there’s anything wrong wi’ buggery, o’course….”
“Oh, no, not at all... “
“I ain’t got nothin’ against it.”
“Nor I, nor I…” Piet coughed dryly and said, "You were sayin’?”
“Yer know what I’m talking about. We need a new captain, a man of vision, a man in charge, one who does his thinking with the head on his shoulders, if you get my drift.”
Piet sighed. “You’re asking me to overthrow a man I consider my dearest friend.”
“Arrr.”
“I take it that disgusting noise mean’s yes.”
“Arrr-now yer gettin’ my drift. Say—how about we call’s ya Captain Black Pete?” The purser grinned up at him, the light reflecting off his gold and single tooth.
Piet looked at him. “No.”
VIII
They roused Kent the Bloody from well deserved sleep. He blinked slowly and groggily at Piet and the purser. “Captain we need to show you somethin’ in the hold. We found a cask of jewels and we're not sure if it’s your own, or if it’s to be divided ‘mongst the crew or not.”
Kent blinked again, the man wasn’t making much sense, but it was up to him to make a captainly type of show, a no doubt long overdue show of leadership. He stretched, yawned and rolled out of bed, breeches, sash, and boots already on. Piet raised an eyebrow in inquiry and Bloody Kent rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t ask.”
Piet nodded and looked at Alex. "You can come if you want.” He made a great show of reluctance knowing of course, that would insure Alexander would want to come.
“Oh, sounds interesting,” he smiled, and also rolled out of bed, coming to join Kent and Piet at the cabin doorway.
Kent sighed, “If you don’t mind, can you put some clothes on first?”
Alexander looked down at himself and smirked. “Oh, if you insist.”
******
In the hold, a cask was put before the Captain and his companion. “If you’ll just look those over, purser will take note of what’s there--”
And here’s the part that years later, Alexander always insisted was rather amusing and Kent the Bloody eventually came to admit grudgingly that yes, there were some aspects of humor in it, but it would have been greatly improved as a humorous tale if he’d been allowed to make a necklace of everyone’s liver and lights like he’d wanted to at the time—and some one talked him out of that, thank you very much, still bitter about that.
The box opened at the same time the industrious crew charged the companions with rope and chain, and nestled inside the box, formally the armor of some little-known saint, were a few pieces of second rate jewelry and a pendant set with a hideous green jewel, a glowing green jewel…
In short time, Captain Jerome Kent the Bloody was trussed up like a Christmas goose, his beloved pet wrapped up and chained to him.
Piet cried real tears as he led the two to a waiting lifeboat. “It’s not something I do with an easy heart, Captain, but it’s the law of the sea—if the Captain’s unfit, the command must pass on. I’ll always remember you, my friend. I’ll regret this act to the very last day of my life,” which turned out to be in the not too distant future, accompanied by short bursts of screaming and a rather longer bleeding to death, and remembering that part did tend to make Kent laugh.
IX
Alexander and Kent the Bloody stood on the sandy shore of an un-named bit of land, a tiny island in the vast ocean that stretched forever on all sides of them. They watched as the Screaming Star sailed away over the horizon, and Kent thought she made a magnificent sight, masts outlined against the setting sun, blazing gold and rose and purple, and the flag of the ‘Star flying at her topmost mast.
“We’ll die here, you know. There’s no fresh water, we’ll expend too much energy trying to fuel our bodies…there’s no return, Jerome. We’ll starve to death.” Alexander spoke calmly, the tone of a man just reporting the facts. He looked a little sad. “I’ve grown to care for you, Jerome. It’s an unusual feeling, but one I’ve come to treasure.”
Jerome turned to him, heart filled with love, spirit light with the knowledge it was shared. With a brilliant, blinding smile, he asked, “Tell me, Alex, do you believe that a man can fly?”
He took Alex’s hands and watched his eyes slowly begin to regain their beautiful sparkling glow. “I think you’re going to like this next part very much.”
4-26-2006
Name: Roxymissrose
E-Mail: Roxy5@comcast.net
Title: Bloody Kent’s Treasure: A Romance of the Sea
Fandom: SV
Summary: It’s a pirate story. Sort of. And it’s humorous. Sort of. Oh, and there’s sex. Yes. There’s definitely sex.
A/N: ...what?
I
Smoke from gunpowder and grenades streaked the air. The ringing crack of steel against steel provided counterpoint to the occasional pop of gunfire, men shouting, and screams of the victims of Screaming Star’s industrious crew.
Captain Jerome Kent the Bloody was the master of the Screaming Star, youngest and boldest of the men who sailed the Caribbean. Being the master of a pirate ship was a position he deeply enjoyed, as it afforded him the opportunity to see the many wonders of the world, to explore new lands, meet the fascinating people of these strange and beautiful lands, to rob them and gut them and in general be a right horrible fucking bastard.
It was damn good to be the Captain.
He leaped over the side of the enemy ship with a few of his men, sword drawn and ready to join in the mayhem. He paused to inhale deeply. Now that was a stink no oriental oil or Parisian parfum could hope to match. The smell of death--nothing like it to remind you what was important in life—mainly that you had one, and you had another day to take someone elses. He laughed.
Damn right it was good to be the fucking Captain.
His first mate called him over and handed him a slim leather-backed notebook. “Here you go, captain, a list of what cargo they have—it’s a good one—gold, rum, fruit, a goat, some slaves.”
Kent arched an eyebrow as he perused the ledger, absent-mindedly pulling at the red jewels hanging from his earlobes. This ship’s purser had kept records in a painfully clear and careful handwriting. “Slaves, eh?” His crew knew his policy regarding slaves—unless they cared for a life on the sea, they went over the side. “Don’t know about the slaves—the goat though, that’s a right useful item. And fruit—nice treat for the lads.”
The purser of the Screaming Star interrupted the two with a cough and a nervous avian bow. “Well, ya should know them slaves is not yer run of the mill slaves, Captain. These here are gussied up hoors, courtesans, says right there,” and he ran a grubby finger under the entry.
At Bloody Kent’s blank look, Piet explained “Pleasure slaves, Captain”. His broad dark brow furrowed as he recalled the scene in the bow. “Wee-ell, they *were* pleasure slaves at any rate. Women, a few lads.” He shrugged. “Not much left by now, ‘spossin’ the boys got a little rambunctious.”
Kent grunted in acknowledgement and checked over what was written on the page. The Screaming Star didn’t need dead weight, and his men deserved a little fun. What the hell. A little rum, a little fuck. They were decent hard-working lads. He scowled as his perusal of the list was interrupted by a high-pitched scream—it spiraled up and up until it seemed a human throat couldn’t possibly contain it. It cut off abruptly. His first mate coughed a little.
Kent looked down into his worried brown eyes, and the man said, “D’ ya want me to look into that, Captain?”
He frowned, “What, a little scream, Piet? That was just Youthful High Spirits, that’s all.” He waved his hand dismissively at the Moor. A scream was a scream and to be expected, considering the circumstances. Piet however, obviously had the booty below decks in mind—worried that the crew might spoil what was there in their High Spirits. He folded his arms and fixed Captain Kent with a steady glare, and finally the Captain stopped reading.
“Jayzus, what a nag! Can’t understand why I put up with ya, I really don’t.” He heaved a loud and gusty sigh and handed Piet the ledger. “Never you mind, man. I’ll look myself. Christ, yer worse than an old schoolmarm, you are.”
He’d go make sure the lads weren’t mucking up the take, join them for a bit, maybe wet the wick as well—he had damn little free time, and every man should take a minute or two for indulgences once in a while. With that in mind, he strode toward the bow of the ship, his coat tails flowing behind him, the wind blowing the slightly ragged lace of his shirt about. His earrings clicked at his lobes, keeping time with his step, pleasing him with the cheerful chime. He looked damn good and he knew it.
II
In the forecastle, a circle of men almost hid from view a slim young man, tied to the mast. A few crewmembers were hoisting the inert form of a woman above their heads, and with a shout heaved her over the side. Her limbs flailed, floppy as a rag doll and Kent dismissed her from his mind—no heartbeat, she’d been dead before she went over the bow. He tsked, they could have stopped and stripped her petticoats at least—even stained they had some value.
The splash as she hit ocean was loud and brought fresh tears from the ragged remnant of whores—courtesans, he corrected himself—fancy pussy got to have fancy names. The sight of him brought nervous muttering from the crew of the captured vessel cowering there also.
He licked his lips at the hot scent of blood and come and arousal, laced through with the scent of wood smoke and burning canvas, and he smiled. He just never tired of that heady smell—the smell of Victory. If he could bottle it, he’d—well—he’d have a bottle of some really foul concoction. Occasionally his mind took strange flights of fancy—must be the opium.
He grinned wider as his men became aware he was there and tried to pull themselves into a disciplined crew. They were streaked with ash and blood, and some were sporting bits and pieces of the defeated crews clothing, ragged little salutes flashed up and down the line of men.
“Having a party, lads? Care to share?” He swaggered over to the circle and the men melted away at his approach. A jug of rum made its way into his hand, and he was handed a wide strip of hand-embroidered silk he wrapped around his waist, to roars of approval from his boys. He grinned and swigged a long deep draught of rum—it was actually good stuff, and he was pleasantly surprised. He belched impressively and finally, strutted over to examine his crew’s newest toy.
Tied to the mast was a man, skinny, white as cheese and stinking filthy. Kent walked around the mast to face him, he looked like any other spoil of war, grime-coated, shreds of clothing hanging from his shoulders and his waist, fucked ‘til his legs gave out. Normal business.
The slight figure was splashed from asshole to bare skull with blood and come. He knelt in a pool of every fluid possible for a body to create. Kent wrinkled his nose and walked around until he could see his face.
He expected the tears of course, the bruises, he would have been surprised not to see them—but the snarl of defiance, that was unexpected. He laughed. It put him in mind of a poodle growling at a bear. Amusing—endearing even, but the end result was still dead poodle.
The man’s eyes were puffed and bruised and nearly closed to slits and still he could see the hatred gleaming in them. The long lean body, revealed by the tattered clothing was smooth as a boy’s, not even a hair on his head. He bent closer and grabbed the rounded smooth chin in his hand, twisted the face towards him. “You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you?”
He was naked of hair as a babe in arms and not a bit shaved, hairless by nature…he wondered if his balls were as nude. He dropped the chin and reached into the rags of his breeches. He felt soft, short curls around a sizeable cock, and raised his eyebrows. “Oh-ho. What have we here, my lad?”
The man hung his head, and Bloody Kent watched his jaws work. Ah well, if he was going to blubber like a babe, than over the side he could go--—a man crying for mercy no longer amused him as it once had. He started to rise--suddenly, something viscous and hot slapped against his cheek and slid downward.
Kent’s mouth opened in a startled O. “Bloody fuckin’ hell!” The fuckin’ cheek of the little bastard! The fucker…he spit on him!
He wiped the gooey mess from his cheek, staring at his red-smeared hand “—you fucking little shit--” he smacked him, not using a tenth of his strength, luckily not breaking bones or tearing muscle. His earrings rang as the stones struck against teach other and a shiver worked its way down his spine. The fucker coughed out a laugh—oh, you will laugh will you, you son of a syphilitic whore--
“Lash!” he shouted, and a leather cat dropped into his hand. “Pull him to his feet.”
The bounds on the man were yanked higher. As he came to his feet, he bit off a scream, and in a moment, he was stretched up on his toes. He held his head up, though…balls on the boy, no doubt. Kent fingered the knife he’d shoved into the sash around his waist. That might well be a temporary state.
“Good, there ya go lads. We’ll show this pup a thing or two,” Bloody Kent snarled, and the lash whipped through the air, striking the pale form. The crack was satisfying, but the man was silent, even though he arched, his chains ringing as they struck against each other.
Stupid—only an idiot tries to keep silent under the lash. Lots of screaming, that’s the way to get through it Kent growled to himself. Memory provided him with that information. Even though it’d been half a lifetime since he’d actually felt the sting of pain, the memory was still lively and fresh in the heart of him—the better to recreate in the flesh of others. Balance, that’s what it was. The world demanded balance and he was only too happy to provide.
Again the lash whistled through the air and ripped into twitching shoulders. Only Kent heard the gasp of pain and it made him smile. Again, and the now pink flesh split like a peach. Blood poured out and diluted with sweat--it flowed down his back in a thin wash. Captain Kent paused, admiring the flush of color against the pale swells of his ass. He decided not to land the cat on them—he had a better way to torture them.
The lash ripped into the man again and the crew shouted and hooted. Ah-ha. I know yer seconds from screaming, yer fucking little poodle. He drew back his arm and this time he let some of his true strength power the blow. The lash screamed through the air and hit the arched back with a crack like a gunshot. Droplets spattered crimson rain on the crew, splashed the Captain…the man jerked in his ropes like a fish on the hook and still….
Still not a sound. Well, well, well. Stubborn as well stupid….
Bloody Kent felt a little flicker of admiration. He was no disappointment, this one--tough as ironwood.
He let the lash hang loose, stood quietly. The whippet thin figure in front of him shuddered and shuddered. The chains holding his wrists together clacked together with each slow tremor, only Bloody Kent could hear the sound of his teeth grinding.
He waited, looking for the minute relaxation of muscles, the moment when he’d have to let go--Braver than one would expect for a whore, I’ll give him that. —and there it was.
The lash screamed through the air again as he struck out at full strength. It sliced into flesh, lifted a long flap of skin over the ribs and brought forth a scream that had to break things in the little fucker’s chest, Kent thought and shook his head.
Tsk…mortals, delicate little things, so easily breakable, so ready to tear, spewing theirs insides about like those candy filled bags children loved to hit He snapped his fingers, annoyed. what are they called, then—somethin’ foreign…p-something… Ah well-- breaking them was just as much fun for him.
The white figure hung motionless from his chains and dripped steadily onto the decks.
“He aint dead Captain,” one of the crew said in surprise, holding up the man’s head. “He’s still breathin’.”
“Really? Well, clean him up—if he makes it through the night, we’ll keep this one.” He looked narrow-eyed at the frantic remnants of the courtesans. “If I was you, I’d either look real useful or real enticin’.”
They brought up buckets of seawater and threw them at the unconscious man.
Kent stood by and marveled at the intensity of the scream as he came back to life. Not bad, he thought admiringly as the scream of agony spiraled down into a steady stream of cursing. He’s got a healthy set of lungs on him, good, that. Inventive too.
III
It took a mere two days for the man to stand on his feet unaided. He got no fever from the water, no seeping wounds, a few days more before the ribs healed nice and clean and the scar was nothing more then a thin gnarled red line…Captain Kent was more than intrigued—he had a strange niggling feeling every time he thought of him or looked at him that he finally realized must be fear. Yes…he actually feared the fancy little whore.
He tasted this new thing, rolled it about in his mind and considered it. Hunh. So this was what it was like to fear something. Interesting. Strangely, it added spice to the whole rape and maim business….
Kent considered the architect of this new sensation--why wasn’t he dead, did he have strange abilities too, and was there something about him that would explain Kent’s own existence? Could he have some key, some secret that would shed light on his own abilities? Would he have the power no one else did to destroy him?
Captain Kent the Bloody knew little about himself save that for years on end he’d been a slave of landowners who claimed to have saved him from a fiery death…who told him that he owed them his life. And he slaved from dawn to dusk, everyday, month in, month out…years…years of shoveling shit all through the week and spending the end of it repeating mealy-mouthed hogswallop on his knees, begging for forgiveness for crimes he never committed—until one fine summer evening he decided to run and raided the woman’s few bits of jewelry for a stake he figured they owed him. Was while stuffing the ruby red earrings he now wore into his pocket the thought occurred to him—might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb and free himself forever.
That lovely jasmine scented evening, he committed crimes worthy of the moniker Bloody Kent. (though most thought the name hyperbole) and from that point on, Jerome Kent the Bloody never looked back.
He smiled at the memories, lit his pipe and stroked the jewels at his earlobes in satisfaction. Good times, them, good times.
But now, today, he had important matters to attend to and his first order of business was to collect the rest of his part of the spoils-- his own little pussy to pet and to hold, he grinned.
IV
The man lay on the Captain’s bed, looking at him speculatively, without the slightest trace of fear. Bloody Kent for his part totally missed his captive’s expression; so intent was he on the sight of all that lovely skin. Kent was enormously pleased; he liked the look of him, ivory pale against the rich purple of the silk beddings. And there was an added spice to the thought that this one belonged to him, lock stock and cock.
He peered closer at his new pet. Looked healthy, good teeth, strong bones…was older than him, he thought, but not by more than a few years. He wondered what it was exactly that a courtesan did in bed, wondered if it’d be different than the average fuck. He was curious as to how a man with no hair sproutin’ all over would feel—he wasn’t one for boys or women. He liked a manly man—hair and muscle and a nice big cock--but he found himself wanting to feel the skin on this one, wanting to lick him from head to toe. He smiled at himself and settled in an overstuffed chair-- the prize of some long ago raid—and began to question the man.
“So. What do you think of your new home, bearing in mind that ya can go below decks with the crew if I don’t care for yer answer?”
The young man said not a word.
Kent puffed reflectively on the ivory stem of his pipe. “Do ya want to tell me your name?” He raised an eyebrow at the silent man, waited a beat before going on. “I meant ta say, of course, tell me yer name or I’ll squeeze it out of ya.”
The man looked him over as if to say, ‘squeeze?’ and rolled his eyes.
“You should know I don’t mean all of ya—just yer nuts.” He picked up a carved ball of ivory from the little table next to the chair, rolled it gently in his fingers and smiled sweetly, squeezed until it creaked and cracked, and powdered in his grip. He let smashed pieces of ivory dribble through his fingers—
“Alexander! It’s Alexander!”
“Ah. Now aint it nice when we share? And just to show ya I believe in fairness, my name is Jerome Kent—some call me Bloody Kent, some call me Fucking Bastard. Don’t matter what *you* call me. Won’t be payin’ attention anyway. D’ya know what your duties are to be. Alexander?”
“Let me think,” Alexander said and made a show of pondering. “Ah...getting fucked? He sneered.
The Captain laughed. “If you’re lucky.” He grabbed the pup by the scruff of the neck. “Unless of course you anger me. In which case--” he pulled him from the bed, ignoring his hiss of pain, and opened the cabin door. “Anger me, and yer’ll be the toy for all of them as wants ya, d’hear me?”
Alexander stumbled in his grip and snarled. “How could I not, you’re shouting right into my ear. I understand you well.”
“There’s a Good Boy. First thing, you can make your Captain a happy man.” He opened his breeches and pulled himself free of the confining material. He squeezed and stroked himself and watched Alexander’s eyes follow his hand. Kent was certain that Alexander didn’t know his tongue peeked at the corner of his mouth.
Alexander looked up and scowled, dragged his hand across his mouth when he caught Kent the Bloody sneering at him, but the captain saw a little light in the slate-blue eyes.
‘Oh yes. This one was a good choice. This one might live yet…’
He stroked himself into full hardness, slipping the foreskin back and forth over the head, until the other no longer pretended indifference. He sank to his knees and reached out, touched the skin pulled over the head.
“Go on then,” the Captain growled, “Take it in your mouth. Make me come.”
The other guided the cock with elegant fingers as Kent thrust forward, skinning back the hood of skin and exposing the rosy head, clear fluid shimmered at the tip and he snaked a pink wet tongue tip out to gather up the drops.
“Ahh! More of that,” he groaned and shifted his hips to drive his prick deeper into the heat, “Suck, suck,” he chanted, and the young man sucked and jerked his own hard flesh. The Captain marveled as the lithe tongue swirled around the head of his cock. There you go, that right there was the difference between an apprentice and a journeyman, he thought. Alexander’s tongue twirled and jabbed, rolled over and stroked it until Kent was gasping for breath and calling on several gods, as one could never be too careful.
The little whore knew what he was doing. He worked his prick like no other before, swallowed and pushed forward until the captain felt his cock slide into the tight throat, felt him working around his jerking straining flesh, and thought Journeyman? Fuck, he’s a Master--felt a groan that started in his toes and worked its way up into his throat and burst free like song, if song consisted of “Holy Fucking Bleeding Heart! Suck me!”
Alexander jerked and swallowed and it made him howl again and then, the boy was groaning. Kent gasped when he felt come splash his legs and instead of making him angry, it sent a bolt of lightning streaking through him, brought the come rising from his balls like a fire. A finger wormed its way onto his hole—he clenched around it, shuddering and moaning, and poured his heat into the man’s throat. When he had control of his brain again, his first thought was “that was new.”
He resisted poking a finger back there, wouldn’t be seemly, him being the Captain and all, and he’d never had anyone knock at the back door. Well, truth be told, never had anyone enter. Difficult what with the knocker being dead and all…. He had to say though--that had been…enlightening. His cock rose at the thought, and Alexander looked at him, surprised.
“What, so soon?”
“Go ahead, complain,” he said. “I like a good laugh whilst I fuck.”
Alexander climbed back on the big bed and spread himself over the silk. “Who, me? Complain? If there’s one thing I know, it’s my place.” He smiled, a tiny twitch of a smile, and crooked his finger.
And thus began the fall of Captain Jerome Kent The Bloody, Scourge of The Seven Seas, Right Fucking Bastard.
V
The Captain walked around the deck, smoking and thinking, leaving Alexander a bit of space to recuperate. He enjoyed fucking Alexander; he was an active and inventive in the bunk. It was no wonder he’d been so pampered at court. He had a sly wit, and an appreciation of the absurd. He had the capacity to be quite cruel, Kent thought, something else that he enjoyed about him. And a mouth able to suck the brass off a canon. Kent drew on the pipe. He’d certainly made his canon roar.
Alexander knew as little as the Captain about his own past, but eventually, he told him all that he knew about himself. Their pillow talk was…strange to say the least.
He couldn’t remember mother or father, in fact, he remembered little beyond being sold at a young age to a house of pleasure. He described his fear of the House, of the clients. He described the shame of being displayed for the pleasure of any with the right coin. He described the peg, having it worked into his body, being open at all times and the first time a living prick went into him. He told him how eventually hatred of the whole thing transmuted to pleasure—and that was when his real education began. There was a lot of power to be gained from the bedroom, and he had the added incentive of rising above peg boy status, going beyond his appeal as a freak and becoming a sought after companion.
Bloody shook his head. “They say if a thing happens often enough, it becomes good to ya. My heart is breakin’ for ya. However my cock is weeping, so let’s get right on that, shall we?”
Alexander sneered and rolled his eyes, his usual response to any of Bloody Kent’s little witticisms. “God’s Blood, Jerome, whoever told you once upon a time that you were amusing in the least should be dug up and hung, then drawn and quartered.”
“What makes you think everyone in my past is dead?” Kent frowned.
Alexander grinned and ruffled Kent’s hair. “Because you’re like me, thorough, neat and not given to leaving loose ends.”
He kissed him, and Kent felt happiness fizz in his veins like French wine. He had no idea how he’d earned this wonder, this treasure—especially considerin’ how really fucking horrible a creature he was, but looking a gift horse in the mouth had never been a stupidity of his.
“Come on now, Alex, sit on this and later, I’ll tell you stories. I’ll tell you about two men who became the rulers of the worlds….”
VI
Kent bent over; sweat ran into his eyes and clouded his vision.
“Hold yourself open.” he heard and he gripped his cheeks, and spread them at the words. He felt the leather lashes slap into his back. The crack of impact was just as loud as if it hurt, but it only made his prick rise, and he felt them like a caress. They trailed slowly down his cleft and he groaned—he liked this game very much.
The lash whipped away and whistled through the air to land between his cheeks, and his teeth nearly met in his lip—the slap of leather against his puckered opening was almost more than he could take. It felt like dozens of fingers all playing at him, teasing him--his prick dipped and rose and spurt onto the floor of his cabin and he yowled, “Fuck me now, you evil bastard spawn of Satan!”
Alexander dropped the lash, massaged stiff wrists and grinned. “Oh please, I really think at this point, we’re beyond formalities. Alex is sufficient.” He slammed into Kent without warning, the Captain howled.
“So good. Someday, Jerome--” he huffed out breathless with the force of his thrusts “—you must tell me what makes you so remarkable.”
Kent the Bloody’s only response was to groan and spill over the floorboards.
The Captain was obsessed, completely absorbed with his pet, wrapped up and bound and enslaved to his slave.
All his time was spent trying to figure out how to make Alexander come as hard as he could—less and less time spent running the business of the ship.
It couldn’t last, of course. For every action there’s an opposite and equal screwing over all parties involved. The Universe suddenly realized that one Captain Jerome Kent the Bloody was stupidly happy, and that made it prick its ears up.
VII
Piet was in his cabin, exhausted from double duties, cramped with resentment and desperate for sleep, when the purser popped his head in.
“Beggin’ yer pardon sir but we need to talk about the captain and his boy...man…his. Erm.” He waved a hand as he searched for words before dropping it and blowing out a frustrated huff of air.
“I understand.” Piet did—what did you call two lads so deep into each other that surely when one shat, the other…offered a nice fluffy soft piece of paper?
“Ordinarily, none of us would give a fig, but this ain’t ordinary. We’re low in supplies and the men are getting restless, and all the bloody captain is doing, is the beast with two backs...something like that, ye get my drift…Buggerin’ hell--not that there’s anything wrong wi’ buggery, o’course….”
“Oh, no, not at all... “
“I ain’t got nothin’ against it.”
“Nor I, nor I…” Piet coughed dryly and said, "You were sayin’?”
“Yer know what I’m talking about. We need a new captain, a man of vision, a man in charge, one who does his thinking with the head on his shoulders, if you get my drift.”
Piet sighed. “You’re asking me to overthrow a man I consider my dearest friend.”
“Arrr.”
“I take it that disgusting noise mean’s yes.”
“Arrr-now yer gettin’ my drift. Say—how about we call’s ya Captain Black Pete?” The purser grinned up at him, the light reflecting off his gold and single tooth.
Piet looked at him. “No.”
VIII
They roused Kent the Bloody from well deserved sleep. He blinked slowly and groggily at Piet and the purser. “Captain we need to show you somethin’ in the hold. We found a cask of jewels and we're not sure if it’s your own, or if it’s to be divided ‘mongst the crew or not.”
Kent blinked again, the man wasn’t making much sense, but it was up to him to make a captainly type of show, a no doubt long overdue show of leadership. He stretched, yawned and rolled out of bed, breeches, sash, and boots already on. Piet raised an eyebrow in inquiry and Bloody Kent rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t ask.”
Piet nodded and looked at Alex. "You can come if you want.” He made a great show of reluctance knowing of course, that would insure Alexander would want to come.
“Oh, sounds interesting,” he smiled, and also rolled out of bed, coming to join Kent and Piet at the cabin doorway.
Kent sighed, “If you don’t mind, can you put some clothes on first?”
Alexander looked down at himself and smirked. “Oh, if you insist.”
******
In the hold, a cask was put before the Captain and his companion. “If you’ll just look those over, purser will take note of what’s there--”
And here’s the part that years later, Alexander always insisted was rather amusing and Kent the Bloody eventually came to admit grudgingly that yes, there were some aspects of humor in it, but it would have been greatly improved as a humorous tale if he’d been allowed to make a necklace of everyone’s liver and lights like he’d wanted to at the time—and some one talked him out of that, thank you very much, still bitter about that.
The box opened at the same time the industrious crew charged the companions with rope and chain, and nestled inside the box, formally the armor of some little-known saint, were a few pieces of second rate jewelry and a pendant set with a hideous green jewel, a glowing green jewel…
In short time, Captain Jerome Kent the Bloody was trussed up like a Christmas goose, his beloved pet wrapped up and chained to him.
Piet cried real tears as he led the two to a waiting lifeboat. “It’s not something I do with an easy heart, Captain, but it’s the law of the sea—if the Captain’s unfit, the command must pass on. I’ll always remember you, my friend. I’ll regret this act to the very last day of my life,” which turned out to be in the not too distant future, accompanied by short bursts of screaming and a rather longer bleeding to death, and remembering that part did tend to make Kent laugh.
IX
Alexander and Kent the Bloody stood on the sandy shore of an un-named bit of land, a tiny island in the vast ocean that stretched forever on all sides of them. They watched as the Screaming Star sailed away over the horizon, and Kent thought she made a magnificent sight, masts outlined against the setting sun, blazing gold and rose and purple, and the flag of the ‘Star flying at her topmost mast.
“We’ll die here, you know. There’s no fresh water, we’ll expend too much energy trying to fuel our bodies…there’s no return, Jerome. We’ll starve to death.” Alexander spoke calmly, the tone of a man just reporting the facts. He looked a little sad. “I’ve grown to care for you, Jerome. It’s an unusual feeling, but one I’ve come to treasure.”
Jerome turned to him, heart filled with love, spirit light with the knowledge it was shared. With a brilliant, blinding smile, he asked, “Tell me, Alex, do you believe that a man can fly?”
He took Alex’s hands and watched his eyes slowly begin to regain their beautiful sparkling glow. “I think you’re going to like this next part very much.”
4-26-2006
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5/18/06 03:14 am (UTC)