IN WHICH TINTIN EXERCISES HIS IMAGINATION FURTHER
He isn't exactly sure what the chances are that seven handsome, muscular, oily, sunkissed, near-identical bearded sailors would actually come to end up working together in the same cargo hold.
Surely events do not come to such a ridiculous conclusion.
At any given time, there are five to ten thousand ships in the ocean, and while the odds of meeting a doppelganger in one's lifetime are well over one-hundred percent, the odds of SEVEN of them finding work together on a single freighter is probably smaller than finding treasure by accident, or discovering a bomb has been planted on your flight, or making contact with aliens. All of which I've actually done, he considers - but add that, of course, to the fact that this place so happens to be where a boy who is very interested in that sort of thing ends up, and –
Tintin sighs. He must remind himself that as gratuitous as these aspects of his shameless little narrative are, they are also of no importance. He must not let his usual desire to quash wishful thinking with reason devour his present arousal; this has happened before, much to his annoyance.
No! It does not matter how they got there, or why they are so dashing, or what they are up to (or how they all mysteriously came to be without shirts...) and in these solitary intrigues in Haddock's bed, sealed away behind two drawn curtains and a locked door in the seadog's absence, it does not matter what Tintin himself was doing in his fantasy when he walks into the room and finds them.
"Oh," he visualizes himself uttering breathlessly when he rests eyes on the tantalizing sight, and he also whispers it aloud, eyelids fluttering closed as he brushes his cheek against the satin of the pillow, breathing in the Captain's scent. "I was just looking for-"
What was it he was looking for? Again his mind threatens to stray from him on petty technicalities and he corrects it with a fervent tug at his hardening cock. Something, he hisses. Anything. C'mon, old man.
His gentler side begs him for the usual fare, a more tasteful or well-paced daydream - he pictures a heavy welted door slamming behind him as if to silence it, making his shoulders jump. He does not need to turn around to know that there is an eighth sailor behind him screwing the handwheel shut tightly. Tintin bites his lip, content to coast on the first swelling tide of delicious anxiety. There are eight of them. Eight of them! Sapristi!
Of course he bases their image loosely off of his favorite sailor - the only sailor he knows intimately, really.
Though he imagines them to be a little bit taller. A bit wider. A little...bigger. The overzealousness of his mind's eye is already causing him to blush furiously and he tuts at his own greediness.
They're observing him with marked interest; carefully stepping closer, like hyenas cornering a kill. In reality they probably wouldactually be trying to kill him - and he himself would be jumping into a far corner out of their reach, utilizing crowbars and nets and bits of splintered planks in his defense; would already be planning his escape out the porthole window or back through the door as he piled their unconscious bodies safely into empty crates.
But not tonight.
Tintin takes another deep breath into the pillowcase and unlocks a secret part of himself that he has scarcely even shown to the Captain in their several months of burgeoning intimacy - an intimacy that is rather...vanilla, if the reporter has to be honest; however it is his love of the older man that he currently finds most exciting, and Haddock's uneasiness, on occasion, can be incredibly charming.
And dare he considers...exploitable.
What he is doing now is an oddity, he knows, definitely - but it's no use, he assures himself as he does every time, brow furrowing as he strokes his shy organ back to attention, it's of no use giving oneself a hard time over desires they cannot control, however extreme, if nobody is getting hurt.
"What's a pretty young thing like you doing on a ship like this all alone?" one of the sailors says in a heavy accent also not entirely unlike the Captain's, and the plot of Tintin's scenario takes a sharp turn down a different avenue when he meets the larger man's eyes with a coy stare, his stature shrinking demurely with unspoken invitation before boyishly replying:
"I...I don't know, sir."
"He doesn't know! The little lamb's lost!" The men all laugh heartily and the reporter tucks his chin to his chest in embarrassment - though a smitten, wondrous little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, eyes widening with glee as they pan across the dusty canisters and piles of fraying cloth.
"Didn't you say you were looking for something?" another says.
"I think I know what he's looking for," a third says flatly around a cigarette, staring at him with an intensity that rattles Tintin to the bone, "else he wouldn't have paraded that cute little arse in here in the first place."
Tintin blinks obtusely. He is already finding the heat radiating off his captors to be wonderfully stifling and cannot keep the edge of desperation from creeping into his voice as he replies,
"H-however do you mean?"
I'm just an innocent young man! I know nothing about such matters!
"Look at him, gone rosy all over. He's practically begging for it."
"You're monsters," Tintin manages, though his budding erection is by now fairly noticeable; he cries out when two large hands ensnare his arm and wrench him into a half-nelson, pushing him firmly onto a crate until he is completely bent over it.
"Darling, we aren't monsters," the sailor standing before him says kindly, pacing a bit as he finishes his cigarette. The muscles in his considerably well-formed, tattooed arms are flexing of their own accord and Tintin's jaw drops in bed just picturing them as he fists his length gently. "There are much, much worse places to be on this ship, believe you me. We've been without flange for, what lads, five months now? So we'll treat you real nice, love. Real nice. We've got just the thing for nosy little sluts like you."
Tintin clutches his hardness tightly beneath the sheets. He has rolled onto his stomach now on the mattress and he dazedly mouths the words as if practicing for a play he knows by heart,
What nerve! How dare they call me that! I am a perfectly respectable young man! I'm no slut!
Indeed, as a zipper is pulled down before his face and a large blunt cock protrudes expectantly before him, already dripping with pre-cum, he regards it with a shocked expression as though he has never witnessed one in his life. To both his horror and excitement he sees out of the corner of his eye the remaining six men lining up and unzipping their trousers to reveal equally imposing members, but he doesn't have much time to gawk, as the first sailor is now rubbing the tip of his erection against Tintin's lips, smearing moisture across his chin. It isn't long before the boy finds himself gazing upon it with as much longing and hunger as he did when he first saw the Captain's in real life, eventually breaking down and opening his mouth accommodatingly.
Oh god, he sighs wantonly into the pillow, as if the revelation is just as new to him this time as all the other times he's come to it, they're right, I am a depraved whore!
He feels one of the hands on his shoulders creep into his hair and tug his quiff upwards, holding his head in place. "That's a good lad."
I am a good lad, aren't I?
Tintin groans disgracefully and eagerly indulges the man before him as the latter tentatively quickens his rhythm, and he finds himself gagging slightly from the sheer size of his sex but also finding a special thrill, too, in this - it's reminiscent of an incident in which the Captain was accidentally a little too forceful and caused a similar reaction, only to find that his usual protests fell on deaf ears when the mistake had only put the ginger in an even more elevated state of desire.
His own desire is becoming almost painfully sensitive within his trousers where it is sandwiched between his belly and the lacquered wood of what has turned out to be the nicest crate in the hold, oddly enough, but Tintin has no time to think about that because the sailor behind him is pushing against him with all his weight, pinning him all the way down. He wants more of that weight on him, needs it - oh, how he wishes all of them would just lie atop him and-!
The journalist slaps his cock against his stomach before regaining his balance on the mattress with both hands and taking a deep breath. He has lost it early before, and it was quite the disappointment, but he can't stop now. Not now. He raises an eyebrow and cautiously resumes his stroking, the pending eruption subsiding back into the delightful panic from before.
His release will have to wait until they've all had their turn. The process is agonizing as it is arousing, being forced to attend to each of them until they surround him once more, casually handling their soaked cocks.
"Get those 'bockers off him," one of them says, and Tintin pleads frantically, a tear rolling down his cheek. It is not very convincing as his pleas are being channeled through all sorts of moans and lustful whines, and Tintin claws at the sheets as an unexpected shudder of glee grips him when he imagines what a sorry, foolish sight he must be. His stomach sinks a bit in retaliation when his virtuous tendencies threaten to creep back into his mind's eye, berating him for thinking such wicked and perverse thoughts. He quickly erases them from his mind. No, he asserts himself. If this were real I'd behave accordingly but it is not and I want to be sorry! Sorry, and wrong and used! Oh, how I deserve it!
An unexpected slap to the behind makes him cry out. "God, look at that perfect peach. Be a shame to let that go to waste, eh boys?" Tintin squirms beneath the two men that are now pinning him to the crate, dropping his head and running his cheek against the sweaty, hairy arm looped about his neck before placing a desperate kiss to it without thinking.
"He's an affectionate little lilly, ain't he?"
"What'd you think, virgin?"
"Certainly won't be after this," another behind him answers, and Tintin gasps when he feels the head of a cock press against his rear.
"You like that?" the offending party breathes huskily as he carefully pushes in, sliding the reporter's sweater up and pressing his rough palms into the small of his back. Tintin feels his quiff collected into a fist again and his head tugged to the side as his hips are grasped, forced higher until he is balancing on his toes. As the sailor begins to thrust the ginger's red face contorts into a scowl of bewildered passion, his lips opening silently. If only such little preparation would suffice in his actual pursuits - the Captain would be flabbergasted!
In actuality Tintin's face is wedged into the pillow again and the fingers from one of his hands release the edge of the mattress, sliding into his mouth. He dances them up his spreading thighs as the sheet falls from his body and wriggles one into his arse, which has now shamelessly risen off of the bed.
"Ah-! Ahh..."
He feels another cock pushing against his mouth and looks up hopefully, opening his jaws wider. Yes...yes! More! Despite the strong hands pinning him down the crate is scraping across the floor with every thrust from the considerably large man behind him. The sailor in front of him plunges his sex into the ginger's flushed lips and Tintin groans contentedly as the grip on his quiff loosens and the two men fuck him in earnest amongst remarks of approval from the rest of the crew in the hold.
"Bring him here, lie him down," another says after a while; the sailor in his mouth withdraws, agitated, as Tintin feels himself tugged off of the crate and rotated so he is facing the man inside him, straddling his muscular thighs. His eyes widen when he hears the sound of spitting.
Surely they wouldn't-!
"Relax, princess," comes a gentle voice from behind him, and then there is another set of hands on his shoulders, another length is nudging at his hole.
Gracious!
He whimpers and sheaths two more fingers inside himself in bed, imagining the strain of giving way to something much more enormous - the thought of being forced against his will to perform such a task in real life is daunting but in his fantasy he is ecstatic at the prospect that it is going to keep coming whether he wants it or not, stretching and filling him until he feels he might explode with pleasure.
"That's a very, very good boy," one of them says, and the others cheer as Tintin juts his hips against the intrusion in eagerness, two firm sets of hands holding him tight, restraining him. Before long they are dictating his rhythm, bouncing him up and down as much as his body will physically allow and he's sobbing blissfully, his palms pushing pink pressure marks against the wide, sweaty chest below him. The ousted sailor from before sees a chance and goes for it, standing over his comrade and guiding his cock again into the young man's open mouth.
Three! Three of them! At once! Tintin's brow furls against the duvet as he imagines being outnumbered and overpowered, utilized to capacity. The voices of his innocent conscience quelled, his fantasy now happily runs away with him and he fingers himself fiercely as heated images cross his mind of them sharing him without apology, getting every little thing they can out of a deliriously euphoric and debauched youth.
He bites his lip hard; he loves it. He does not know why he loves it but he loves it - the feeling of having no escape, of imagining his body squeezed and fondled, passed around for everyone to have their fun. So many gentlemen using me I may as well be a parking meter, he notes cheerfully in his mind, and a strange sort of pride wells in him; sandwiched between so many bodies and hungry erections he very nearly feels like a prince swimming in a glorious ocean of never-ending diamonds. He imagines himself amongst them, only a spot or two of creamy sweat-drenched skin in a tangle of course hair and firm, tanned muscle. His muffled moans echo into the cargo hold as he's jostled; he feels his heart could just burst from the sheer excitement of it all. Shame! Shame on him, for going where young boys (or young looking, in my case, Tintin supposes) shouldn't be poking their noses about!
He comes with a keening hopeless noise through gritted teeth as he pictures the three of them spending their fluid into his willing body, the other five gathering around and releasing load upon load of semen onto his elated face. He's positively covered in it, licking his lips with drowsy satisfaction as the men reluctantly withdrew, grasping him crudely by the arms and legs and carrying him elsewhere - perhaps, perhaps they will tie him up and do even more things to him! Or there will be more of them at the door when it opens, waiting their turn! Or perhaps the Captain will arrive to rescue him and punish him for being so naughty...
He can just see Haddock now, finding him lying on the dirty floor covered in semen, his voice rumbling as he grouses,
"Having fun without me I see, you little minx."
"Having fun without me I see, you little minx."
Great snakes! I've forgotten to lock the door! Tintin flips over, scrambles to throw the covers across himself out of habit but the Captain has already reached the bed and is removing his cap, sitting beside the flushed, panting ginger and gently brushing his matted hair back up into its usual coif.
"You look as if you've run a marathon, lad."
A breathless little laugh escapes the reporter. "I haven't gone anywhere, Captain."
"You're gonna run right off and leave me now that you've settled your own matters though, won't you, you rapscallion?" the Captain chuckles.
"I may. Unless someone, say, I don't know...ties me to this bedpost?" Tintin replies impishly without thinking before he can stop himself, lust already beginning to gather once more between his legs and clouding his thoughts even as embarrassment washes over him.
Crumbs, not even a year with the Captain and you're going to scare him away with your crazy ideas!
"Er... I mean-"
Haddock looks surprised at this, ready to delve into bumbling protestation as is the usual; but instead his voice unexpectedly drops to a dangerously deep register, settling quietly just above the horizon of Tintin's audible hearing like the warm sound of a cello singing its lowest note.
"Someone like...a poor sailor who's been hurting for it all afternoon and doesn't appreciate a little tease doing gymnastics in his room while he's away?"
His hands are running down the boy's sides, slowly dragging the edge of the blanket down his hips.
Tintin dazedly takes the hat from his the Captain's lap, revealing an impressive bulge, and places it decidedly back on his lover's head.
"Do your worst," he challenges through an astonished grin.