Thanks again to all my readers who have stuck around for this wild ride with me! I have lost a few followers along the way with the switch to M and the change in content (understandable!), and it makes me appreciate my ride-or-die readers all the more ;) Sam: I love your admiration for Captain Smith (and Murdoch, too!) - it's very inspiring! I have heard those stories about Smith as well, and although it's hard to say which ones are true and which aren't, they definitely contribute to the man's enduring legend, and seem to fit with his overall personality of dedication and sacrifice. A heads up: if you stick around, you might see a familiar face in the next interlude ;) Also, I'm curious to hear your thoughts on our friend Mr. Lightoller. I feel like historians have mixed feelings about him, and I'd love to know what you think!
Okay, so for this one we're back on Titanic, and Harry does a Very Naughty Thing. M rating. Warning: somewhat disturbing content. For those that don't want to read the icky: skip halfway down the chapter and assume something gross happened. The second half is PG - and contains an interaction that's a long time in coming.
This was the most difficult and uncomfortable chapter for me to post, and will probably be one of the most controversial for readers as well. However, as I said before, Harry has to fall before he can get up, and this marks his low(e) point. To exclude it would leave out an essential part of his transformation: the realization and reckoning stage. This is the last of the bad stuff (although I didn't say it was the last of the naughty stuff ;))
"I've never done this with an officer before," she said breathlessly.
"And you won't, if you don't keep quiet," Harold rasped, covering her noisy mouth with his again.
The lights of Cherbourg weren't far behind them. Still, he knew that he was running out of time. It was now or never.
He removed his tongue from her throat long enough to give her a measured look. "Well, then?"
In response, she turned around and bent over the work table he had her pressed against, lifting her skirts provocatively.
Grinning, he unbuttoned his trousers and got down to work.
He had been stationed at the first-class gangway, waiting for the Nomadic to discharge its passengers. When they had finally begun boarding Titanic, he had dutifully checked tickets and greeted the toffs politely, with the respect and deference that was expected by the White Star Line. And that's when he saw her. She was crossing the swaying gangway imperiously, almost strutting in her fashionable kimono-like gown, the latest style from Paris - or so he had been told this spring by previous lovers. She had locked eyes with him - and then deliberately, slowly, pretended to trip, arms splayed out and an expression of almost comical mock-terror on her face.
Of course he had rushed to stop her fall... and of course, she was very, very grateful, near-swooning in his arms. Her mother flew over to her side, helping her up... but she only had eyes for him as she righted herself and continued to sashay through the gangway doors.
He wasn't surprised when, a few minutes later, after all the passengers had boarded, she had asked him to escort her to the ship's hospital to be 'checked out'.
When he found out later that she was an actress, he was not surprised by that, either.
She was attractive in a way, if you looked past the snooty expression. Luckily, positioned as she was, he didn't have to see that expression at all.
"I already have a husband, and a lover," she said coyly. "I know what I'm doing."
He grunted in agreement as he pushed up inside her. She did indeed seem to know just how to position her white arse to provide the most pleasurable angle. But he wished she would stop talking. First, he didn't care what she had to say... and second, her brash American accent was beginning to annoy him.
But he was relieved he had found a willing participant in his debauchery, and that he didn't have to wait until New York to satisfy his urges. Shagging a first-class passenger in the knives storeroom on D deck wasn't the smartest move he'd ever made, though - indeed, given White Star's regulations on officer-passenger fraternization, it was an outright transgression, and one that he had adamantly refused to indulge in previously.
But he had to find a way to get that girl out of his head.
Which is why he had another girl bent over, squealing, as he thrust into her. He didn't drink; this was his drug, his way to forget.
And oh, how he wanted to forget. Forget how the girl had made him feel, forget the way she looked at him, forget the instant spark he had felt when he looked in her eyes. He didn't need that; didn't need to be distracted, to be wanting... wanting what? To see her again? To be with her? That was ludicrous - it would never happen anyway.
He groaned, straining, as the actress moaned and writhed under him. Damn. This should be more pleasurable than it was turning out to be. She was enjoying it far more than he was, urging him on with her body and voice.
Maybe it was the voice that was bothering him, he thought as he continued his laboring movements, his tongue snaking out to wet lips suddenly dry.
Or maybe, thought his traitorous mind, it's because this isn't the right girl.
Go away, he told the pretty little Irish lass that had gotten lodged in his brain. Stop haunting me.
He moved faster, gripping bony hips tightly, and the girl had to grab onto the edges of the table to keep her balance.
But it wasn't working.
Sea-green eyes...
A tinkling laugh...
'Do you work on a ship?'
He faltered.
No. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel right to be thinking of her while he was doing... this.
He slowed, feeling himself growing flaccid.
"Hey, what's wrong?" the woman said, looking over her shoulder at him. She must have noticed him softening.
He tried to fan the flickering flame of his desire again, lifting her thighs and gazing down at his cock in her swollen flesh. He had her right there, his for the taking - and he didn't want her anymore.
"C'mon," she said beseechingly, wriggling her hips against him.
He gritted his teeth. Damn it. He wasn't going to let this trollop humiliate him. He gave her arse a smack, hard enough to leave a mark and make her yelp in surprise.
"I thought I heard someone coming," he said by way of explanation. Then he leaned over her back, pressing her body into the table. "But we're the only ones coming tonight, isn't that right?" he murmured into her ear.
Just finish, he told himself grimly, ignoring the shame filling his body. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his hips, finding his rhythm once again as he willed his mind to blankness.
Faster and faster he plunged into her, until she cried out and he felt the spasming of her muscles telling him she had climaxed. Still, he couldn't come... he was panting, yearning for it, needing it to be over...
He conjured the girl in his head once again - the sunlight shining on her hair, her impish grin...
Her eyes...
'That must be exciting...'
The memory of her voice echoed in his head, allowing him to find his release at last.
The other girl - the one he had just finished shagging - lay sprawled across the table, skirts still bunched around her waist. He looked closer at her face. How could he ever have thought she was attractive? Despite her young age, she looked used, hard... corrupted.
He ripped off the condom he had been wearing in distaste, discarding it carelessly on the floor. He was glad he had had one in his pocket - you never know when you'll need it, that was his motto - but he never wanted to use that one again anyway. The entire experience had left a sour taste in his mouth.
Not so for her, though. "Can we meet again on the ship?" she asked as she reapplied her lipstick.
"No," he said shortly. "I'm on duty."
"What about when you're not?" she pressed. Her painted smile was flirtatious, knowing, confident.
"I'm on duty for the rest of the voyage," he said with finality. He turned away from her and buttoned up his trousers. This had been a mistake - in more ways than one. He never should've taken the risk of getting caught dabbling with a passenger while he was at sea; it was one of his most stringently enforced personal taboos, one he had never broken before. But more than that... he shouldn't have used one girl to forget another. That wasn't fair to anyone involved.
He felt sick and disgusted with himself. Now who was the performer, he thought, feeling the self-loathing twist like a knife in his gut.
After giving the woman directions on how to get to her stateroom on E deck, he bade her a curt goodbye and cut through the second-class dining room to reach the aft staircase. By the time he reached the boat deck, his features - if not his mind - were mercifully composed once again.
His watch was almost over by the time he returned to the wheelhouse. Pitman, who was working in the chartroom, called out to him, "Lights was asking for you, old man. He's on the starboard bridge wing."
Harold suppressed a groan. Lightoller again, eh? That man had been a pain in his arse all day. He wondered what he wanted now.
He walked out the door and onto the bridge, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He spotted the officer of the watch by the bulwark, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, feet spread slightly apart, staring intently out into the night.
"Passengers all boarded safely?" the older man asked brusquely, not turning his head.
Harold nodded, then realized Lightoller probably couldn't see the motion. "Yes, sir," he replied, as respectfully as he could.
"I understand there was an incident on the gangway with a young first class woman," Lightoller continued.
"Yes, she slipped, but she's fine now," Harold said, adding, as an afterthought, "sir." He stood next to the man in a perfect imitation of his pose, hoping the conversation would end soon and he would be dismissed.
Lightoller nodded. "Very well, then; carry on." He turned toward Harold for the first time, glancing at him... and Harold watched his eyes narrow as he focused on his tie. His mind whirled. Did he forget to straighten it afterward? Was there... was there lipstick on it? Lightoller leaned closer as he adjusted it, giving a sniff of disdain - and then looked up slowly, suspicion blooming in his eyes.
Shit. He must've smelled the woman's perfume on his uniform. Damn, that man is observant, Harold thought wildly.
"Mister Lowe." Lightoller pronounced the words slowly, deliberately. "It seems you have quite a bit of time on your hands lately." Harold froze, waiting for the verbal blow, for the recrimination, the accusation.
But it didn't come. "I know you just finished helping the passengers..." He deliberately left the sentence hanging for a moment. "...but I'm going to need you to stand in for Mr. Boxhall this evening. He hasn't been well; bit of lung trouble, I hear."
Harold's breath caught in his throat. That meant that he would be on watch continuously until four in the morning. Boxhall worked the opposite watch from him, and his would end right when Harold's normal watch would start. He ground his teeth but said nothing; Lightoller's punishment was mild compared to what he could have done to him.
But Lightoller wasn't finished. "I believe you have some time now before the bell, so I wish for you to round the ship, from orlop to boat deck."
"Yes, sir."
"I would like you to report back to me no later than twenty minutes from now."
"Yes, sir." That meant he would have to practically run... but he would do it. This man wasn't going to break him. He had served under tyrannical skippers and cruel ABs for too long to be intimidated by some haughty dab from Lancashire.
"You will personally see to the readings from the standard compass every bell, and will likewise take the water temperature yourself. There are also a set of star sights that Mr. Boxhall was going to calculate. You will handle those as well."
"Yes, sir."
Lightoller resumed staring out at the sea, delivering the coup de grace with his back turned. "And I believe I fancy a cuppa, Mr. Lowe. It is a chilly night, after all. If you would be so kind?"
Harold almost shot back that he could get his own damn tea and to hell with him, but held his tongue at the last minute. The order was designed to humiliate him, to bring him low and remind him of his place in the hierarchy... and it worked. "Yes, sir," Harold mumbled. He stood, downcast, and waited for the senior officer to dismiss him.
Lightoller raised a finger, as if remembering something else. "Oh, yes, one final thing. You will tell Mr. Moody that he is to be in charge of passenger boarding from now on. We wouldn't want any more... slips."
Harold suppressed a flinch. "Of course, sir."
"Dismissed," Lightoller said lazily, and Harold took off at once.
He barely made it to the officer's lavatory before his dinner came up in a rush. After he finished emptying his guts, he sat on the tile floor, his sweaty brow pressed against the cool metal wall. He knew that he had to hurry and start his rounds in order to make it back in time, but he was pummeled by wave after wave of nauseating self-contempt. How the hell had he managed to cock up everything in such a short amount of time? His actions had been revolting, selfish, crude... not at all what he wanted to be. He buried his head in his hands, willing it all to go away.
By the time he rose unsteadily to his feet, he was certain of two things. The first was that he wished he had never set eyes on that girl in Southampton.
The second was that he would give anything to see her again.
Once again it's time to remind everyone that this is fictional; this outrageous incident never actually happened in real life.
If you recall, Corrine's in her stateroom, reading Futility and daydreaming of her handsome Officer Lowe, while one deck above her Harry's debasing himself with Dorothy Gibson (that's the name of the actress he was banging). Such a contrast between their lives at this point in time!
But this is Harry's turning point. He realizes that even if he never sees 'the girl' again, he can't go back to his old ways of dealing with stress and sadness. And what do you do when your favorite drug no longer works?