Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling
Note: sex scenes in Part 2.
Part 2/ Chapter 10
A Saturday night in early spring, still in Rome, Bellamy wandered the docks areas, looking at the ships moored there. Some ship's crews were rough men, and there was often rivalry and even resentment between the crews - a form of gang warfare. He knew he wasn't allowed to fight, but there was a conviction within him that fights should be fair. When he came across two men from one ship taking too much punishment from six men of another ship, he intervened, displaying his impressive speed and skill, almost single-handedly driving off the six men who pressed forward. Behind him, the one who'd been down struggled to his feet again, and the three stood together, facing the six, who abruptly turned and retreated.
Renzo and Fabroni took him under their wing. Renzo was something like a foreman on the Marchesa, if not exactly in charge of hiring, at least in a position to make recommendations. That night, Bellamy slept in a bunk in a ship's cabin. In the morning, his passport and papers were inspected, and he was officially signed on. By evening, they were at a different anchorage. It seemed that Bellamy had become a seaman, though most of his work was to do with the stowage of cargo in the hold, and other simple labouring jobs.
Renzo and Fabroni knew he was simple even before he'd been taken aboard. They also knew he could fight extremely well, but it was unlikely that others would guess from his demeanour. Bellamy could win bets for them. Meantime, they looked after him, explaining jobs that needed to be explained, and reminding him to come to meals. Now that he was fed sufficiently well, he was beginning again to forget mealtimes. It was a small freight ship, with less than twenty crew, including the Captain and a couple of officers. Bellamy shared a cabin for four, with two other men, who started off by ignoring him, but became a lot more interested when Renzo and Fabroni told them what they had in mind. The ship's crew would make a killing when next they came across the Contessa, whose ship's crew liked to bet on their fighter.
They checked out their man when he showered. The consensus was that he was far too thin, even though they could see good muscle structure of limbs and back. He found himself being provided with second helpings at meals. Even the cook would be betting on him.
Three weeks after he signed on, they docked in Piraeus. The Contessa was already anchored. Bellamy didn't know the plans that were laid, but his shipmates were confident. Bellamy did whatever he was told. They'd tested, and even when he obviously wanted to do something else, a firm order was always obeyed, with no distinction made between an order from an officer, and an order from anyone else. He did whatever he was told. Bare knuckle fighting was not exactly civilised, but both the Captain and the First Mate would be ashore on the day for which the fight was arranged. It was to be on board their own ship, the Marchesa, where no police might interfere. The Second Mate would be present - he too had a bet - quite a large bet.
The famous fighter from the Contessa arrived, with several crew members of the Contessa. Bellamy's backers were given excellent odds, the odds rising even further when Bellamy turned his innocent gaze to those to whom he was introduced. He was quite a lot smaller than the other, too.
An open area on deck was cleared. Renzo instructed Bellamy to take off his shirt. He didn't seem to have any shorts, and wore the cheap shoes he'd been given by Father Tarzia, and the faded jeans he always wore. And then they told him he had to fight the other man. The other wore boxing shorts, and expensive running shoes, and his bare chest showed bulging muscle.
The big fighter's expression was puzzled. Was this the Bellamy that he was supposed to fight? He'd feel guilty laying a finger on him. He must outweigh him enormously, he was much taller, which meant, of course, that his reach was longer as well - why, the man was even trembling.
Bellamy was trembling and protesting. He wasn't allowed to fight. He might hurt somebody. He wasn't allowed to fight. And when they used the firm tone that he always obeyed, he turned in a circle, looking for an escape, and declared even more insistently that he wasn't allowed to fight. The other crew members were looking at Renzo and Fabroni with some considerable accusation. Generously, the crew of the Contessa suggested that all bets be returned, and they have a drinking session instead.
Fabroni was stubborn. He knew that Bellamy could fight tremendously well. He didn't understand why he was being so inconveniently reluctant. The gamblers went into a consultation. The odds had steepened to ten to one. They'd win a fortune if Bellamy won, and they'd lose quite a lot if he lost.
A large man called Giorgio was a leader among them. He swung the decision. They would go ahead. Their fighter just had to swing a few punches, and Bellamy would fight. It was in the nature of any man. And he grabbed the arm of Bellamy as he sought to retreat, feeling that there really was some solid muscle there. He pushed him toward the other. "Just swing a punch," the fighter was told. "You'll soon have your fight."
"The bets stand then," warned a Contessa man.
Giorgio nodded easily, "The bets stand."
Almost as reluctant as Bellamy, the fighter tried to hit him. Bellamy was still backing away, still trying to explain that he was a crazy man, and he was not allowed to fight because he might hurt somebody, but, almost as if by accident, he swayed slightly to the side, and the punch missed. Surprised, the fighter tried again, with more purpose. Again, the blow missed.
Bellamy was pushed back from the onlookers, and Fabroni yelled at him that he had to fight! He had to fight and beat the other man.
Bellamy was looking all around, looking anywhere except at the man who he was supposed to fight. And not even looking, he dodged the fist that flew at him. The fighter would not have been the dockside champion if he'd been accustomed to defeat, and the next attack was determined. Bellamy paid attention, ducking, weaving and dodging, but his hands were still by his sides. He'd been struck a couple of glancing blows now.
They thought that surely he would fight back now. But a memory of the searing blows of a whip was running through the head of Bellamy. A crazy man must not do the wrong thing. He must not hurt somebody. Instead of turning and fighting, he turned and stayed still for the heavy blow that knocked him out. The Contessa fighter had won, and he felt terrible. Bellamy's shipmates lost their money. Bellamy was left to lie where he was felled.
It was a couple of days before he was fit for work again. By that time, the ship was well out of sight of land, and would be for nearly three weeks. No-one reminded him to come for meals, and there were certainly no second servings. Those who shared his cabin radiated such a hostility that he started to sleep on deck, in the shelter of a lifeboat. It was not a good shelter, and he woke with a cry of pain when a heavy kick caught him on the shoulder.
A decision was made. The imbecile had cost them money. Very well, Giorgio said, they'd take it out of his hide. Preparations were made, and whispered consultations went on - who was in, who was out.
Bellamy felt a softening toward him, and one of his cabin mates found him in order to remind him where he was supposed to sleep. He was given dinner. His mind was opaque these days, and he didn't feel the different way he was looked at as he showered. In all his years of travelling, there had never been any attempt at sexual molestation. It was set for the following day.
Renzo and Fabroni were under a cloud almost as much as Bellamy. They thought they'd best cooperate with their ship-mates, whether they really wanted to or not. Giorgio's threat to do them instead, or as well, swung the balance. Bellamy was an imbecile, and probably wouldn't feel the humiliation as a normal man might. The intended victim was treated with a lot of apparent kindness that morning. He didn't understand the reason, but it was better than being kicked. Either Renzo or Fabroni were always with him, telling him what to do, looking after him again, even reassuring him that everything was all right. Their voices were gentle, soothing. No-one shouted, no-one was rough.
Bellamy appeared more vague than ever, the tension he felt adding to the confusion that afflicted him. He was pulled away from the railings a couple of times that day, just in case. There had been a lot of looking at him that morning. They'd seen his body before, but there was a different feeling now. Excitement was growing, and the more they thought about what was to come, the more excited they became. Twelve men, including Renzo and Fabroni, although they'd told each other they wouldn't participate. Afterward, Giorgio promised, Bellamy would be left alone, his debt paid.
A noisy activity started in the engine room an hour after lunch. It would conceal any noises that might emanate from the hold, although they knew from experience that it was very difficult for people outside to hear what went on in the hold in any case. None of the officers knew what was in the wind, in case they thought it necessary to put a stop to it. A job to do in the hold, Renzo told Bellamy. Fabroni was on his other side. Casually, they urged him into the hold. Casually, they told him it was a dirty job, and that he should take off his shirt. Renzo gave him the example. They often worked shirtless. It was only practical when it was hot, as it often was in the hold.
Hesitantly, Bellamy removed his shirt. Why were so many here? He stared around, his gaze slightly unfocused. Everything was blurry as it always was, and his vagueness was apparent.
Giorgio gave Fabroni and Renzo a nod, and they tried the next step. Giorgio was thinking what a laugh if he'd strip and lie down for them just for the asking!
"We have to work on this blanket," said Renzo, nervously, indicating a blanket that was being laid down. "So you have to take your shoes off."
Bellamy was frowning, looking around, worried. "What do we have to do?" he finally asked.
"Just a job that only you can do," said Fabroni, in a soothing voice. "You have to take off your shoes, though." He knelt, "Here, I'll help you."
Bellamy was trembling again, worried and upset. But he allowed Fabroni to take off his shoes.
"Now your jeans," said Fabroni, in a matter-of-fact tone, and started to unbuckle the belt.
Bellamy stepped back, out of reach. "No!" he stated flatly. And he turned and started toward the ladder that would take him up out of the hold. Pretence was abandoned, and Bellamy was pulled back by several strong hands. Renzo and Fabroni held him firmly. He was still not fighting.
Renzo was pleading. "They're going to do it anyway, Henry, it'll be a lot easier for you if you just let them."
And Fabroni added, "You're not going to be hurt - just make them happy, and they'll let you alone."
Bellamy trembled. He didn't quite understand what they wanted. He was still only held by the two who'd acted as his friends, but ten men stood around, three directly between himself and the only exit. The lust on their faces was obvious, but possibly not to Bellamy. Giorgio gently stroked the erection that showed through his clothing.
Renzo said again, "It'll be a lot easier for you if you just let them."
"What do they want to do?" Bellamy asked.
Fabroni didn't know how much the retarded man knew of sex, and said in a soothing voice that he was just to lie down with his clothes off, and the men wanted to touch him. Nothing else, and it wouldn't hurt. They just wanted to touch him, and maybe rub up against him a little.
Yeah, Giorgio thought, rub up against him a little. But if they could get him down without fighting, it would be easier, and he stopped stroking himself, and looked away casually. Others followed his example. Once down, it would not be hard to hold him down. All of them but the cook were manual labourers, and strong, especially those who'd been chosen to do the holding.
Fabroni and Renzo were still trying for a relatively non-violent conquest. Bellamy would be hurt less if he didn't fight it. Fabroni tried again, using the firm voice that was nearly always so effective. "You have to do it, because you did the wrong thing before." Firmly, convincingly, "You did the wrong thing before, and this little thing won't hurt you. You'll be making up for doing the wrong thing. You have to do it. There's no alternative." And as he spoke he started again to undo Bellamy's belt, this time succeeding. "You have to do it."
When Fabroni started to pull down his jeans, though, Bellamy revolted, and wrenched his arms from the grip of Renzo. He was swiftly grabbed by those who'd been given the job of holding him, and were ready. Finally, finally, he started to fight, but although he knocked down three men, they were not much hurt, and were quickly on their feet again. In spite of his resistance, his jeans and underpants were pulled from him, and, struggling furiously, he was pushed face down on the blanket. He managed to get a leg free and another of his attackers collected a bruise.
When the Second Mate looked into the hold, it was to the sight of Bellamy held very firmly face down. A strong man held each of his legs, drawn quite wide apart. Two more men held his arms, and his shoulders were forced down heavily onto the blanket beneath him. He was naked except for the moneybelt, which only drew attention to the pale buttocks. The Second Mate had participated in something like this before, and was deeply ashamed of it. His wife would not have believed it of him. But when Renzo looked up, half hoping that a stop would be put to it, the man was rubbing his groin, and had the same expression of lust on his face as the others.
Bellamy was swearing now, quietly and continuously, the vilest imprecations of a dozen languages, slipping from one to the other without a pause. A hand smeared Vaseline on and around his anus, and a cruel thumb was roughly inserted, pressing in and out a few times.
Bellamy relaxed his body, and his voice changed to the Italian of his attackers. Giorgio knelt between his legs, holding his own penis, fully erect, ready for the act he'd been dwelling on all day. He was a big man, and breath came short as they watched avidly.
Renzo and Fabroni forgot their reservations, and were as excited as the rest. They would have their turn. What difference did it make? Ten or a dozen, and it was perfectly obvious that the Second Mate was going to have a turn, probably straight after Giorgio, exercising the privilege of rank. Thirteen, unlucky for some!
The voice of Bellamy was insidiously undermining their resolve, a graphic description of the castration that would be performed on any who touched him. Bellamy had been a jackeroo once, long ago, and the procedure for castration with a sharp knife was explained in explicit detail. Giorgio was beginning his penetration, but his erection melted away as Bellamy described the slitting of the bag, and the removal of testes.
Giving up, he stood, furious, and spat the order. "Gag him!"
Bellamy was gagged, and lay now silent, relaxed in his body, not even trembling, no longer struggling. They thought he'd given up. There were too many to fight.
A discussion was going on. Giorgio was not the only one no longer hard. Who was going first? But before another took Giorgio's place, without the slightest warning of his intentions, Bellamy leapt into action, tearing himself free from the hands that no longer pressed as heavily, and one of the holders was hit with a vicious blow. He reeled back, dizzy, and then another joined him, slumping onto the deck.
Two men still fought to hold his legs, and others came forward to try and restrain him again. But now Bellamy was in full fighting mode, and managed to come to his feet in spite of those who pulled at him. More men were downed, and those who fell did not get up. Bellamy had forgotten that crazy men were not allowed to fight, and he fought as hard as ever he had, except that he used no magic.
His fury was frightening, and when one of the men tried to flee up the ladder, he was grabbed, pulled down, and knocked out. That action nearly lost him the fight, as four piled on him from behind, bearing him down again. Bellamy was fighting dirty, and a man's head was crashed against a wall, and then a thumb pressed so hard into the neck of another that he let go with a cry of pain.
Six were down, and out of the fight, at least for the moment. Others hung back. Bellamy's back was to the wall, and he breathed hard. But his eyes were fixed on Giorgio who had not yet taken part in the fight. He advanced slowly on the big man who had come so close to raping him. Two smaller men tried to take him from behind, but he treated the secondary attack almost with contempt, throwing off one, and using the other as a shield when Giorgio hit. Giorgio hit very hard, and a rib was broken, but it was not Bellamy's rib.
Warily, they circled. Bellamy somehow knew that Giorgio was probably the best fighter of them all. In these circles, the leader often achieved that position with his fists. The other men hung back now, watching, waiting to see if the big man they feared, might be defeated. Giorgio flicked his eyes to one of the men, who obeyed the unspoken order, grabbing Bellamy's right arm, while Giorgio hit out. The blow was avoided, and Bellamy's left-handed uppercut almost took Giorgio off his feet.
Giorgio was defeated, and the remaining men on their feet scrambled for the ladder, trying for escape. Bellamy was before them. One was there who had held one of his legs, and Bellamy's eyes never left him, as he stalked the terrified man around the small open area of the hold, finally punishing him with a single crashing blow that laid him out.
Few were left standing. One was the Second Mate who'd taken no part in the fight. There were also Renzo and Fabroni, and the short man who served as cook. Another had managed to escape up the ladder to call for help. Captain Verdi appeared, to see the new man, reportedly gone berserk. But Bellamy was just standing, his back to the wall, naked, a gag still in his mouth, and now he'd started to tremble again.
Three men still lay unconscious, including Giorgio. Others were groaning their way back to consciousness. One was holding his hand hard to the side, where Giorgio's fist had struck. With few exceptions, they looked at Bellamy with hatred.
The Captain raised an eyebrow at his Second Mate, "Well?"
The Second Mate shrugged. "It seems he just went crazy, stripped off his clothes, and started hitting."
"And why the gag?" the Captain asked quietly.
The Second Mate looked back at Bellamy. He'd forgotten the gag, and had no answer for the question.
Bellamy was shaking harder. He was not supposed to fight. His wits had totally deserted him now, and when the Captain told him to remove the gag, he made no move. The Captain told the cook to go to Bellamy, and remove the gag for him. Hesitantly, the cook took a step. Instantly, Bellamy stopped trembling, and bloodied fists were raised in threat. The cook quickly retreated. The trembling returned.
Captain Verdi spoke gently, "Bellamy, the fight is over. You can relax now. No-one's going to hurt you?"
Bellamy didn't appear to hear.
Carefully, slowly, the Captain approached, soothing with his voice, "I'm only going to take away the gag, and then we'll go up the ladder out of the hold."
Bellamy's eyes found the Captain's as he came close, and again the trembling ceased. His fists were part raised. The Captain continued to soothe with his voice, and looked into his eyes compellingly, as he felt around Bellamy's head for the cruel knot that held the gag. It was not easy to undo, and the Captain had to worry at it for a little. He could feel the tension in the man, and thought that he'd feel more relaxed if he'd only start to tremble again. It was as if he could spin into action again at any second.
Fabroni was picking up the clothes of Bellamy, his shirt and jeans, although his underpants had been used to staunch the blood on someone's face and were no longer wearable. Fabroni felt as if he'd lost all right to go near Bellamy, and only added the shoes to the pile of clothing.
"Where will I take his clothes?" he asked the Captain.
"Put them in the bridge. Bellamy will join me there for a while," said the Captain, racking his brains to think what to do with the man. He'd obviously been attacked, but he couldn't run the ship without two thirds of his crew. It was Bellamy that had to go. He cast his look around at the downed men. Another was stirring. Giorgio still lay unmoving.
"I assume everyone's still alive?" he asked the Second Mate, and when he was answered with a restrained nod, he added, "I'll see you shortly."
Bellamy was coaxed out of the hold, and led to the unfamiliar bridge. It seemed as if he was willing to trust the Captain for the time being. On instruction, he tried to dress, managing to get on jeans, and shoes, but the shirt was not done up. Again he was trembling violently, and couldn't cope with buttons. It was perfectly obvious he was suffering from shock, and the Captain already knew he was somewhat feeble-minded. A report came back. At least three of his men should be looked at by a doctor, including Giorgio, and another who was also still unconscious.
The Captain made a decision, and called for help. The cruise ship, Costa Rivera, was close, and would carry a doctor. And maybe Captain Guido would take Bellamy as well. After all, as far as he knew, he was a perfectly good hand, normally.
Bellamy tried to drink a mug of hot chocolate that a nervous cook had provided. Even with both hands, he shook too much to raise it to his lips. The warmth on his hands was comforting, though, and he held it, still on the table, even dropping his face over it to feel the steam. The Captain regarded him with worry. At least he didn't look inclined to fight any more, and he marvelled. Twelve of them, thirteen if one counted the Second Mate, and he'd beaten them!
***chapter end***