Of course, it ain't in my nature to fret for long, so once the tent flap
fell, I turned my full attention to the delectable Dick. He'd shed his
shirt, and I found myself presented with a back like a battlefield. I'd
seen nothing like it before. I'd have died from the pain of one tenth that
punishment, I knew, an seeing him still sitting and remembering his smile
earlier, I was struck anew with the power of the bastard, and my prick
reacted in the same surging fashion it always does when faced with
something remarkable.
He must've thought I was repulsed by what I saw, for he spoke in one of those gentle voices you use for reassuring puling brats. "I was flogged, Harry. I know it's no pretty sight. If you're troubled by it, no shame. I can sleep well enough." He reached for his shirt.
"No!" the word burst from me. My hands were burning to explore that ruined flesh. "No, Sharpe, it's fine I was just. . ." lusting, I thought, "surprised." I finished. "Lie down, it'll be easier to reach all the aches that way."
When he complied, lying on his belly, and resting is chin on his arms. I knelt across the small of his back, high on my knees, to keep him from discovering the state of my member prematurely, and leaned forward to rub the shoulders where they joined the neck with a light but insistent pressure.
After a few minutes of this treatment, he sighed, and commented, "Your hands are as soft as a lass's, Harry, but with more strength. I thank you, lad, that's eased the aching. I'll trouble you no further."
"It's no trouble, " says I. To be frank, I could no more have taken my hands of him then than I could have failed to a brandy and puggle pressed into my hand, "Relax, Sharpe, let me see if I can't do more."
"Aye lad, well, if you're sure. But again, I say, call me Dick."
I pressed my thumbs to the base of his spine, and began to move them with a firm, even pressure up toward his neck. The result was instant, and gratifying. He moaned, and behind my own arse, I felt his buttocks tighten. Success, I thought - the great man's great part was making its presence known.
"By lad, that's fine," he grated, "but you've no need," and I could hear stiff awkwardness in his tone, but nothing more. He was obviously embarrassed by his reaction to my hands, but not surprised.
So, Mr Sharpe wasn't a stranger to affection between men. That would make things easier - and speedier. I grinned, and let my knees bend further, still working my hands up and down his spine, until my crotch rested against his back, letting him feel the unmistakable bulge between my legs.
"Oh yes, I have Dick," I murmured, making my voice as husky as I could, "I've every need." He groaned again as I rubbed, and I asked, "Don't that feel good?"
He gave a crack of laughter. "You know bloody well it does! I think I might have misjudged you, Harry Flashman."
"Misjudged me?" Of course he'd misjudged me - people always have. They look at the bluster and see heartiness, look at the tall straight bearing and see courage, where it's just the supreme effort of will to keep the contents of my bowels where they belong that keeps me so upright, most of the time. But I was fairly sure that wasn't what he meant.
"I thought I'd taken a boy in hand here," says he, " A brave boy, yes, but one I'd have to protect, to look after. I think I might have been mistaken. I think you might be well able to look after yourself."
I laughed, quietly and leaned forward, so I lay along his back, and pressed a light kiss into the junction of his shoulder and neck. "Oh yes, Dick, that WAS a mistake. I can look after myself just fine - but that's irrelevant, at the moment, because I'm going to look after YOU, Don't y'see?" My hands slid round underneath him and found the fastening of his breeches, making him shudder from head to toe.
After that, being men, we didn't speak much.
I'd soon eased him out of his remaining clothes, and begun a proper exploration of the various marks army life had put on his body, beginning by running my tongue along the sword cut that bisected the welts left by the whip.
He sucked air sharply into his lungs then had let it out in a long hiss, before he rolled onto his back, so I was looking down into his face. It was just as lust soaked as any eager strumpet's and he grasped the back of my head to pull me roughly down into a kiss.
I realised then that this wouldn't be an entirely Flashy-directed encounter. Of course, that ain't a bad thing - enthusiasm in a lover is greatly to be desired, and Dick's leisurely thrusting of tongue toward the Flashman tonsils set up a pleasant little buzz in the groinal region, this greatly enhanced when a hard hand began to rub deliberately up and down the front of my breeches.
"Wait," I gasped, scrabbling to uncover the only eager soldier in the Flashman clan, which, freed from its restraints, stood proudly and stiffly to attention.
The slow grin spread across Sharpe's face, as he took the trooper firmly in hand, murmuring "By, you're a well made, lad, Harry" and for a while, I confined myself to strangled noises and a close examination of his chest, applying tongue and teeth to his nipples, before tuning my attention to a gash down the side of his ribs.
"Lance," he murmured as I kissed my way down it, loosing my tool to stroke my hair.
His belly, I found, was remarkably unblemished, though I looked closely for wounds, and the next anatomical wonder that rose to meet my eyes appeared equally unharmed.
Still, I thought it best to be sure, so I gave every part of it a brisk once over with my tongue, prompting Dick to resort to his trooper's vocabulary, with an exclamation of "Holy FUCK, Harry."
I've always liked a man who ain't mealy-mouthed, and knows what he wants, so that when I thought to venture lower and he hissed, "If you take your damned mouth away from what you're doing now, Harry Flashman, I'll break your bloody neck", I was glad to oblige him and continue my ministrations.
And shortly, I was even more impressed than I'd been before. He showed the stoic resilience that has made the British solider so feared across the empire, bearing up as bravely under the assault of my tongue as he did when flogged, and I'm damned sure I gave him a great many more than 200 lashes. I suspect we broke a record, though if I dared to claim it, no doubt some damn Yankee would put in a counter to best me. Even so, Dick held out under siege for a good hour before surrendering unconditionally with an ecstatic sigh.
I continued my interrupted progress downward then, and was stunned to see his flag struggling to hoist itself again, even as I moved from thigh to thigh, kissing the bullet wound in the left softly, and stroking a fingertip along the long bayonet slash that stopped just short of disaster in the inner right. You don't see forces regrouping that quickly every day, I can tell you, and it must have made Wellington proud to command such a man.
Tough and keen though he might be, however, I had no intention of letting Sharpe engage in another bout until I'd filled a breech of my own.
His last scar was ideally placed for my purposes, a slash on the right kneecap. I took a perfect attacking position, my shoulders under Sharpe's knees then sat myself up to rest on my heels. This left his knees over my shoulder, the wound perfectly placed to kiss better, but more importantly, it lifted his buttocks from the bed, lining the crack in his defences up just rightly for me to press my attack home smoothly.
"Present arse, Mr Sharpe," I murmurs.
"Advance, Mr Flashman," he replies "at the double, if you please."
I never obeyed an order with more alacrity in my life, nor got greater satisfaction out of doing my duty.
Battle, of the most delightful kind, raged back and forth for most of the rest of the night, and I confess without shame that I was totally outgunned. My brief and glorious conquest was countered by an invasion so thorough and complete I weren't sure that Sharpe was ever going to withdraw. Not to put too fine a point on it (although his point, God love it, was as fine as bloody hell) Dick Sharpe all but rogered me senseless, then used his mouth to suck out any remaining wit I had, so that I was a total blathering nincompoop when he rolled me over and mounted a second attack on the Flashman rear. I assumed it was a Forlorn Hope. It turned out to be another rout. I was defeated. I was in love.
It was nearly dawn before Sharpe's exhausted soldier failed to muster for action, and we slept, at last, locked together, in bruised and sweaty contentment.
He must've thought I was repulsed by what I saw, for he spoke in one of those gentle voices you use for reassuring puling brats. "I was flogged, Harry. I know it's no pretty sight. If you're troubled by it, no shame. I can sleep well enough." He reached for his shirt.
"No!" the word burst from me. My hands were burning to explore that ruined flesh. "No, Sharpe, it's fine I was just. . ." lusting, I thought, "surprised." I finished. "Lie down, it'll be easier to reach all the aches that way."
When he complied, lying on his belly, and resting is chin on his arms. I knelt across the small of his back, high on my knees, to keep him from discovering the state of my member prematurely, and leaned forward to rub the shoulders where they joined the neck with a light but insistent pressure.
After a few minutes of this treatment, he sighed, and commented, "Your hands are as soft as a lass's, Harry, but with more strength. I thank you, lad, that's eased the aching. I'll trouble you no further."
"It's no trouble, " says I. To be frank, I could no more have taken my hands of him then than I could have failed to a brandy and puggle pressed into my hand, "Relax, Sharpe, let me see if I can't do more."
"Aye lad, well, if you're sure. But again, I say, call me Dick."
I pressed my thumbs to the base of his spine, and began to move them with a firm, even pressure up toward his neck. The result was instant, and gratifying. He moaned, and behind my own arse, I felt his buttocks tighten. Success, I thought - the great man's great part was making its presence known.
"By lad, that's fine," he grated, "but you've no need," and I could hear stiff awkwardness in his tone, but nothing more. He was obviously embarrassed by his reaction to my hands, but not surprised.
So, Mr Sharpe wasn't a stranger to affection between men. That would make things easier - and speedier. I grinned, and let my knees bend further, still working my hands up and down his spine, until my crotch rested against his back, letting him feel the unmistakable bulge between my legs.
"Oh yes, I have Dick," I murmured, making my voice as husky as I could, "I've every need." He groaned again as I rubbed, and I asked, "Don't that feel good?"
He gave a crack of laughter. "You know bloody well it does! I think I might have misjudged you, Harry Flashman."
"Misjudged me?" Of course he'd misjudged me - people always have. They look at the bluster and see heartiness, look at the tall straight bearing and see courage, where it's just the supreme effort of will to keep the contents of my bowels where they belong that keeps me so upright, most of the time. But I was fairly sure that wasn't what he meant.
"I thought I'd taken a boy in hand here," says he, " A brave boy, yes, but one I'd have to protect, to look after. I think I might have been mistaken. I think you might be well able to look after yourself."
I laughed, quietly and leaned forward, so I lay along his back, and pressed a light kiss into the junction of his shoulder and neck. "Oh yes, Dick, that WAS a mistake. I can look after myself just fine - but that's irrelevant, at the moment, because I'm going to look after YOU, Don't y'see?" My hands slid round underneath him and found the fastening of his breeches, making him shudder from head to toe.
After that, being men, we didn't speak much.
I'd soon eased him out of his remaining clothes, and begun a proper exploration of the various marks army life had put on his body, beginning by running my tongue along the sword cut that bisected the welts left by the whip.
He sucked air sharply into his lungs then had let it out in a long hiss, before he rolled onto his back, so I was looking down into his face. It was just as lust soaked as any eager strumpet's and he grasped the back of my head to pull me roughly down into a kiss.
I realised then that this wouldn't be an entirely Flashy-directed encounter. Of course, that ain't a bad thing - enthusiasm in a lover is greatly to be desired, and Dick's leisurely thrusting of tongue toward the Flashman tonsils set up a pleasant little buzz in the groinal region, this greatly enhanced when a hard hand began to rub deliberately up and down the front of my breeches.
"Wait," I gasped, scrabbling to uncover the only eager soldier in the Flashman clan, which, freed from its restraints, stood proudly and stiffly to attention.
The slow grin spread across Sharpe's face, as he took the trooper firmly in hand, murmuring "By, you're a well made, lad, Harry" and for a while, I confined myself to strangled noises and a close examination of his chest, applying tongue and teeth to his nipples, before tuning my attention to a gash down the side of his ribs.
"Lance," he murmured as I kissed my way down it, loosing my tool to stroke my hair.
His belly, I found, was remarkably unblemished, though I looked closely for wounds, and the next anatomical wonder that rose to meet my eyes appeared equally unharmed.
Still, I thought it best to be sure, so I gave every part of it a brisk once over with my tongue, prompting Dick to resort to his trooper's vocabulary, with an exclamation of "Holy FUCK, Harry."
I've always liked a man who ain't mealy-mouthed, and knows what he wants, so that when I thought to venture lower and he hissed, "If you take your damned mouth away from what you're doing now, Harry Flashman, I'll break your bloody neck", I was glad to oblige him and continue my ministrations.
And shortly, I was even more impressed than I'd been before. He showed the stoic resilience that has made the British solider so feared across the empire, bearing up as bravely under the assault of my tongue as he did when flogged, and I'm damned sure I gave him a great many more than 200 lashes. I suspect we broke a record, though if I dared to claim it, no doubt some damn Yankee would put in a counter to best me. Even so, Dick held out under siege for a good hour before surrendering unconditionally with an ecstatic sigh.
I continued my interrupted progress downward then, and was stunned to see his flag struggling to hoist itself again, even as I moved from thigh to thigh, kissing the bullet wound in the left softly, and stroking a fingertip along the long bayonet slash that stopped just short of disaster in the inner right. You don't see forces regrouping that quickly every day, I can tell you, and it must have made Wellington proud to command such a man.
Tough and keen though he might be, however, I had no intention of letting Sharpe engage in another bout until I'd filled a breech of my own.
His last scar was ideally placed for my purposes, a slash on the right kneecap. I took a perfect attacking position, my shoulders under Sharpe's knees then sat myself up to rest on my heels. This left his knees over my shoulder, the wound perfectly placed to kiss better, but more importantly, it lifted his buttocks from the bed, lining the crack in his defences up just rightly for me to press my attack home smoothly.
"Present arse, Mr Sharpe," I murmurs.
"Advance, Mr Flashman," he replies "at the double, if you please."
I never obeyed an order with more alacrity in my life, nor got greater satisfaction out of doing my duty.
Battle, of the most delightful kind, raged back and forth for most of the rest of the night, and I confess without shame that I was totally outgunned. My brief and glorious conquest was countered by an invasion so thorough and complete I weren't sure that Sharpe was ever going to withdraw. Not to put too fine a point on it (although his point, God love it, was as fine as bloody hell) Dick Sharpe all but rogered me senseless, then used his mouth to suck out any remaining wit I had, so that I was a total blathering nincompoop when he rolled me over and mounted a second attack on the Flashman rear. I assumed it was a Forlorn Hope. It turned out to be another rout. I was defeated. I was in love.
It was nearly dawn before Sharpe's exhausted soldier failed to muster for action, and we slept, at last, locked together, in bruised and sweaty contentment.