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Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters, which solely belong to Disney, et al, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.
Warning: This story contains the themes of dubious-consent/non-con, male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi, and masturbation. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. This scene is of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write it as tastefully as my ability allows.
Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: 1) they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, 2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, 3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, 4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, 5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, 6) it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.
Thank you for your kind regards and any reviews (not flames) that you will allocate to me.
From Your Sight,
Yxonomei Ayuahteotl
::Pleasurable Distraction::
"Does this coffee taste different, Elizabeth?"
Elizabeth Turner watches impassively as her husband slumps in his chair, coffee cup upset on its matching saucer. Setting down her own untouched cup, she summons a footman to carry her unconscious husband back to his rooms.
~*~*~*~
Will Turner slowly returns to the world of the living to hear his beloved wife talking heatedly with someone else. A male someone. Someone he knows. Yes, he most assuredly recognizes that imperious voice, a voice used to issuing commands and being obeyed. Now if only the cotton in his mind would kindly leave him for a bit…Ah!
Commodore James Norrington is here as well. Interesting.
"Quiet," his wife hisses. Groggily Will opens his eyes. For a moment everything is a smear of muted color before his sight rights itself. He tries to raise a hand to brush back his hair only to find himself unable. Still a bit muzzy, he gazes dumbly at the ropes securing him to a chair.
"Elizabeth?" The woman sweeps into view and kneels elegantly before him.
"Will-love, I'm going into town to see the seamstress. A new shipment of fabrics has come in and I want to purchase some. I am going to try my hand at making you some shirts." He nods in vague understanding. His mind cannot seem to quite fold itself around her cheerful words. What is she going to do? Shirts? Fabric? What…?
"Why…?" He shifts to draw attention to his fetters. She pats his shoulder and stands.
"I can't have you wandering off down to the harbor again, now can I?" He blinks slowly and shakes his head uncertainly. "Commodore Norrington has graciously agreed to keep you entertained till I return. Is that not kind of him, love?"
"Ah…yes?" He shifts again, trying to loosen the ropes' hold. The commodore must have tied them; they don't give an inch.
The feelings inside of him are strange. He's fairly certain he's awake, but he's not positive. There's a strange lethargy possessing his limbs and his eyelids feel a mite heavier than normal. His wife's words sail through his mind and then sink into dark waters.
"Excellent." Elizabeth gives him one of her warm smiles and a chaste peck o n the cheek. Will finds himself both bemused and bewildered.
It's because of the coffee a little voice in his mind whispers. She must have done something to the coffee.
"Enjoy the afternoon, James, Will." With a limp wave of her hand she exits the room. The bound man turns his gaze upon the austere naval officer. His brow furrows as he searches for words to articulate his blatant confusion.
"Laudanum in the coffee," the older man explicates with a small shrug and the barest trace of a superior smirk. "She is quite the devious lady."
"Do you think you could untie me now?" he asks, or thinks he asks. Again, he's not certain if the words actually left his mouth. The commodore doesn't make a move, so he assumes he didn't say them.
Maybe he's drunk. He kind of feels that way, the same weightless, floating sensation accompanied by a strange blurring of the world around him. All thoughts seem too much like slippery eels. He cannot seem to grasp hold of one. Laudanum…He knows what that is…but he's forgotten.
With deliberate grace the older man kneels before him and gives him a calculating look. Will fidgets with languid restlessness. Something seems off about the situation, but the thought wriggles away.
~*~*~*~
Commodore James Norrington closely observes the drugged youth. There is something supremely satisfying in seeing young Turner in this state. His inky pupils are pleasantly dilated and his pink lips parted to reveal the barest edge of strong white teeth. A subtle flush tints the golden cheeks and his wavy, honey-brown hair hangs loosely about his oval face. All in all, he possesses a pleasing resemblance to coital languor.
And imagine that Mrs. Turner has left such a one in his care.
His love for her has become tempered with the passage of time and her subsequent marriage to Mr. Turner. The two men have interchanged their roles in Elizabeth's life. Turner is now the lover and he, James, the friend. Surprisingly, he is not as heartbroken about this as he supposes he should feel—certainly not with his counterpart looking so…alluring.
James has long considered intimate company among males to be a coarse act shared between men of lesser moral fiber. Of course, this is not to say that he is ignorant of the maneuvers involved. He has had enough personal experience to disdain further involvement later on. However, now he is faced with the fruit of good and evil and finding temptation sorely trying.
"Where's…Elizabeth?" Turner slurs as he looks around languidly.
"She just left," the commodore reminds him gently. A frown presses the youth's lips together and a line of wavering concentration creases his brow.
"Oh."
It seems as though the drug is interfering with Turner's immediate memory. James tucks this away for future reference. Thoughts slink in his mind that he knows should not be thought by a gentleman, by a man of respect. Yet he cannot stop them with the youth staring confusedly at him, swaying ever so slightly in the ropes.
When Elizabeth summoned him earlier, it was simply in order to distract Turner from turning his gaze seaward. His wife has told James of her fears that the ocean will steal the young man away from her. The fathomless tides ebb and flow in the rich waters of his veins and he seems helpless to resist. The commodore can understand the inexplicable draw; he is a man of the sea, as well. However, he is a naval officer and tied to the land as well. Turner's heart throbs with the blood of piracy and is beholden to no rock.
James pities the young wife, as he senses that the sea will eventually claim young Turner for Her own bridegroom.
But that is neither here nor now.
Here is the selfsame youth. Now is his hands resting lightly on Turner's knees. Now how did those get there?
The heat rising from the cloth-covered flesh seeps through the barrier of his gloves and into his palms. He looks up to find Turner watching his hands with most the endearing look of bewilderment imaginable. A most peculiar, due to the context, yet familiar heat surges downwards. James shifts, breeches suddenly chafing a most sensitive area—all because of the nearly unconscious young man before him.
Conscience schooled by pride, he slowly slides his hands past the knees to curve about Turner's thighs. Thumbs lightly trace circles around and around. Mrs. Turner had asked him to keep her husband entertained…
"Turner," he murmurs and then frowns slightly. "William…" Yes, that is the proper name for this situation, or what it soon will be. With gentlemanly tenderness he urges the lad's taut thighs to part, and Turner—no, now he is William—obeys sluggishly.
"Wha…?"
"Hush." Emboldened by his own power and the youth's lack of resistance, James moves between the spread legs. Greedily, delicately his hands map the outer convexity of thigh and hip.
For once in his life James will become a pirate with the all the role's attendant morals.
~*~*~*~
Heat blooms in Will's cheeks and he fuzzily wonders if he has caught a sudden fever. And what is Norrington doing? He can feel the heat of the man's hands on his hips and the weight of his gaze on a place Will thinks it ought not be. Cottony unease tries to alert him, but his muddled mind dismisses it. Every attempt to wriggle away is met by gentle restraint from the hands flexing rhythmically upon his hips. And when the man rises, they run up his sides, dance across the restraining ropes and grasp his shoulders.
He thinks he is about to ask a question when Norrington's face fills his vision. Dark brown eyes penetrate him as they search for something unknown. Gloved hands whisper up the column of his neck and fame his heated face. Time becomes viscous like molasses, every moment a single portrait of the inexorable stream.
Will is startled, as much as his befuddlement will allow, to find a pair of firm lips sliding damply across his. Wrong, his mind mutters distantly. This is wrong because…The thought sinks into the honeyed confusion of his thoughts. And now a wet, hot tongue probes delicately at the seam of his lips. He jerks and opens his mouth to—
The tongue plunges inside, stabbing deeply into the cavern of his mouth. A small noise gurgles up his throat and he wiggles drunkenly, but the hands on his face, the thumbs massaging his jaw, distract him. He knows he doesn't want this—whatever this is—but protesting is more of an effort than he can manage; so he allows Norrington to explore him with only the occasional murmur of resistance.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
"William," the man murmurs huskily as his hands tangle in Will's brown hair and tug his head back to expose the flesh of his throat.
"Sin," Will replies resignedly, finding the reason for protesting.
"Perhaps." This doesn't appear to deter Norrington. Will loses track of the man's hands as they seem to be everywhere, prodding, prying, caressing, massaging. And wherever they land, little patches of immolating heat blaze forth. In fact, his body seems to want this, desire it. It arches up, without his say so, and shudders most pleasantly.
If the ropes did not bind him to the chair and his limbs did not feel of molten lead, he would struggle, but they do and so he doesn't. Every sense whispers of submission, of yielding to the flow of fire sweeping through.
The hands and mouth find a focus for their attention. Will's eyes fly open in shock. Head lolling to the side he witnesses Norrington's dark head between his spread thighs. Tongue and lips and teeth work against the fabric of his breeches. His hips buck as darts of sensation bite his spine. He curls forward as much as the ropes will allow and gasps brokenly.
Somewhere in his mind, having forgotten, he wonders how the man came to this position. The rest thinks of Elizabeth and the sensation of sliding into her in the sultry darkness; but this is far better, more intense, more real even in the disconcerting feeling of disconnection.
Dimly he can hear the choked grunts and whimpers pouring from his swollen lips as he jerks against Norrington. The darts become swords plunging recklessly into his stomach and slicing through to the point of exquisite sublimity. Chest heaving he draws in strangled breaths, body wild within the restraints. Everything is dark, and he knows not if this is because his eyes are closed or because his sin has doused the sun; but now it no longer holds meaning. Only heat and moistness matter. Only bruising fingers forcing him towards a final ecstasy contain him.
The world snaps into jagged fragments and the burning hand of God tears him open. He arches up, spine taut like a bowstring, and whispers a choked cry for forgiveness before sagging limply against the ropes. From the vicinity of his lap Norrington murmurs deceptive praises that would sicken Will had he the strength and wits left to care.
Slowly, blissfully, sight and sound recedes and the abyss of darkness opens its divine arms to take him under. Regret and memory wash away and so Will returns to the threshold of innocence.
~*~*~*~
Aching, throbbing for satiation, yet strangely pleased, James raises his head from the musk and saltiness of Williams's lap to observe the youth's slack, peaceful features. Though impeded by the cloth of William's pants, he can still taste the rich flavor of the young man's spilled seed. Carefully he licks his lips and smiles.
This event had not been planned, but, then, there is always something to be said about spontaneity.
Absently he caresses his unrequited member and lays a hand upon the damp stain upon William's breeches. There is no response from the youth as he runs his gloved fingers up and down the subtle line of the covered cock. Unconscious, James decides with equal parts amusement and regret.
With a sigh he straightens up and walks around to untie the knots; William is obviously not going to be going anywhere anytime soon. As soon as the bonds are loosened, the youth makes to fall off the chair. Fortunately, despite the unsatisfied erection, James manages to catch him before he does fall. Grunting as the lad's not insubstantial weight falls into his arms, James drags the unconscious William towards the bed. With a mighty heave he wrestles him onto the coverlet and stands back, panting, still aroused.
William Turner still has a pleasant look about him, and now the air of coital languor has achieved veracity. A fine sheen of sweat dews his skin and adds a sensual glow to his unconscious form. James licks his lips again and peruses the lax form avidly.
Hardly daring to breathe, heart and cock pulsing in tandem, he carefully undoes the ties of the youth's breeches and tugs them and the underclothes down. Now his eyes may feast upon the treasure formerly hidden from view. The graceful organ lies quiescent amid a thatch of dark curls and spent seed. Delicately he traces the calm veins beneath the fragile layer of skin and essence. There is no response save the one of his own body.
Gingerly, quietly, he undoes his own breeches enough to allow his turgid cock to spring free. He feathers his fingers up and down the stiff length, eyes locked upon William's unknowing form. Up and down, up and down, James increases the pressure and the pace. Harsh pants spill past his parted lips as he strokes himself. So beautiful, he thinks, eyeing the youth's disinterested flesh. His hips jerk with each rough pass and he grunts lowly, animally.
Thick drops of liquid begin dribbling down, slicking up his glove and throbbing shaft. And he doesn't stop. Not till…not till he can feel the tension drawing up his sack. With an almost savage twist to the head of his cock, he thrusts into his hand and shoots pearlescent strands upon the unconscious William. Gasping, moaning he spasms to completion and sags against the bedpost.
William does not stir.
James regards the mess sticking to the young man's thighs and groin with deep satisfaction. The room smells heavily of spent passion and young William bears the stains of their mutual satiation. Never once does it cross the commodore's mind that he has transgressed a sacred boundary of friendship and trust. After all, it is not as if the youth will remember this upon waking, certainly not if James fixes the mess, and Elizabeth had asked him to distract her husband.
Carefully he tucks himself away and tenderly cleans William off with a flannel hanging from the washstand near the bed. James pulls the youth's breeches back on and maneuvers him beneath the blankets. From the bedside table he removes a worn Bible and sits upon the vacant chair.
As he reads Genesis his dark gaze occasionally flickers back to William and he smiles a little.
Yes, indeed, today has been quite pleasurable for the commodore.
~*~*~*~
"He fell asleep not too long after you left." Elizabeth Turner smiles happily at this news.
"I'm glad. Thank you so very much for doing this for me. I am truly grateful."
"It was my pleasure; though, Elizabeth, I wouldn't use laudanum on a regular basis. It is one of the worst vices." The young woman nods in agreement and casts a fond look at her sleeping husband.
"Would you like to stay for supper, James?" The commodore smiles graciously, but declines the invitation on the grounds of needing to oversee preparations for the HMS Dauntless' departure in a fortnight. She announces her regret for his departure but wishes him luck and fair weather.
At the door he raises her hand to his lips and kisses it chastely with a promise to have dinner with her and young Turner at a later date.
"Goodnight, James, and thank you again," she calls as he mounts his horse. He gives a little wave and is off.
"What a kind man," Elizabeth murmurs as she closes the door. A fond smile curves her lips and she turns her gaze towards the sweeping stairs. Hopefully Will will have awoken. If not she will simply have to dine alone. Mentally she adds a tick to her side of the tally. Let the sea try Her hardest, Mrs. Elizabeth Turner will not give up.
* * *