Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (7 page)

He watched me with his head cocked. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing I do tonight is to hurt you. Do you understand?”

He shrugged, and his look was mildly defiant.

“Gaston, nothing. If it hurts, you will tell me, oui?”

His nod was somber, but it was obvious he harbored reservations as to the necessity of my words. I ignored that for the time being, and joined him on the hammock. He took my kisses with hungry abandon.

I anointed him with gentle caresses, as I had many times before. In the past, he had come to relax beneath my ministrations with happy little grunts and mewls. Tonight, he writhed and groaned.

I soon had him on his belly, and when I reached his buttocks and slid fingers into the crevasse between, he pushed up to offer me far more. I toyed with his opening, and he rocked against my hand with little thrusts.

“Oui,” he breathed, as I pressed just a little inside.

I knew I could have him, but that would be a selfish thing born of my desires. Tonight would be for him. I wanted to paint over all of his furtive attempts at dissipation, and especially that one hideous night where last he had exercised his libido. Then I wished to fill the canvas with a new and vivid memory of carnal pleasure.

“Roll over,” I urged.

“Non, take me,” he whispered.

I gently slapped his buttock. “Trust me. If you are truly surrendering to me, then do not question me. Roll over.”

He complied, and I was rewarded with the sight of his manhood in all its glory. It was lovely: short, but strong and elegant, with surprising girth. I resisted the urge to grasp it then and there.

While he gasped and squirmed, I pooled oil in the hollows of his hip bones, alongside his member. Then I lifted his rump, so that his hips were supported above the netting upon my knees. His legs found their way around my waist. I pushed them apart again, so that he was open before me.

I was struck dumb by the sight of him thus spread and ready. His eyes were trusting. A muffling wave of white flowed over the mural of all my conquests, until I could see none but him.

“I love you,” I murmured.

“And I love you,” he replied earnestly.

I could see him sinking into the fear though. His manhood was shrinking in the face of his change of demeanor. I leaned forward, and pulled his mouth up to mine for a gentle kiss. When I let his head drop, I met his eyes.

“My love, I will not hurt you. I will do nothing you do not wish.”

He nodded, but his eyes were a child’s. I considered abandoning the endeavor, and simply holding him, but the thought of his manhood straining so tightly urged me on. It deserved release at least once this decade if I could arrange it. He was indeed a skittish horse, and I was sure that if I could get him over this first hurdle, he would surely develop a taste for jumping.

I sat back, and returned to his opening. He tensed, and his member jerked. I slowly teased and cajoled until he relaxed. His eyes were heavy-lidded with passion again when I slipped a single digit inside him. I quested about until I found the lump of flesh I sought. At first his eyes shot wide and he tensed, but then as I established a rhythm, his cock jerking in time, he began to arch and claw at the netting above his head.

His manhood was soon resplendent once again. This time I did not deny myself or it. I dipped fingers in the oil and grasped it with my free hand.

He was not long in coming. Truly, there was a moment when I was not sure if he would stop. I thought he would destroy what was left of his voice with his cries.

I released him and withdrew my finger when he finally ceased to spasm in my hand. His body slowly relaxed back to the hammock.

He lay there inert and mute, with shallow breath, closed eyes, and twitching fingers. I slid my knees from beneath his thighs and retrieved a rag to clean us. He pushed the cloth away as I began to dab at his chest. He raised his head enough to regard himself, and slid his fingers through the pool of jism with wonder. When he fell back, his eyes found mine. His mouth opened and closed silently.

I put fingers to his lips and whispered, “Sleep, you have earned it.”

He shook his head and reached for my member.

“Non,” I sighed. “It is not…”

He was insistent. I sat astride him so that he could reach me. He scooped up his come and slathered it on my still turgid member. I gasped and laughed, and he grinned at me triumphantly. I kissed him with renewed fervor, and dropped upon him to slide until I added to the mess.

In the aftermath, we curled together and listened to the storm.

Despite the now howling wind and drumming rain, I drifted to sleep with the pleasantest of thoughts. He had at last returned to me in spirit as well as body.

Sometime later, I was with Shane in the barn, but this was not one of our early pleasant forays into trysting. Nay, he had me pinned with an arm across my throat, while his other hand fondled my privates. It was a twisted thing, in that I knew I was dreaming. Beyond the first year, Shane had wished for little awareness of my pleasure. Why would I dream of him stroking me now?

The wind howled and the roof shook with the steady downpour. It was cold, the chill of a tropic storm that I found so odd in a land that did not know frost. My skin was clammy, except for where there was weight and heat behind me, and the fire wrapped around my member. I felt pressure against my buttocks, and he moved rhythmically. His lust was a thing crouched upon my back.

I hung, suspended by talons of violent passion in some limbo betwixt dream and waking. I knew not what was real. All was dark. I could not bring words to my lips. Instead a shameful whimper emerged from me, a sound I remembered all too well. I knew I should fling myself clear, but I could not move. The pain and fear roiled about inside me, seeking release, threatening to explode and tear me asunder. It found escape from my throat in a harsh ragged sob, that if I had not felt its rise and reverberation in my heart, I would not have known as mine.

At this utterance, he stopped and stayed as still as I. In some unfathomable way, his lack of movement released me from my spell of paralysis; and with another cry, I tore myself out from under him and flung myself onto the floor. Despite the darkness, I found the corner of the outer room. I could not hear over the rain. I sensed movement toward me, and I struck out wildly with the panicked inconsistency of the boy I had once been. I hit him. I knew not where. He withdrew, and I was alone again in the dark and the past.

I curled in upon myself and sobbed, cursing the Gods for being so damn cruel.

I woke to silence and dim light. Rain no longer lashed the walls, but the wind still gusted. The door was open. Gaston was not in evidence.

All smelled of wet dirt. My nakedness had been covered by our one blanket. I had not placed it upon me. On the wall, “J’taime” was written in charcoal.

Fear clawed at my heart anew, with talons as piercing as those I had felt last night, yet these did not immobilize me. I scrambled to my feet and out into the light. I found Gaston sitting by the cook fire. He rose at my approach, and picked up his musket and bag. He was dressed, packed, and armed to leave. I stopped, knowing if I came too close he would run. His emerald eyes were haunted. I know not what he saw in mine, perhaps the fear, and perhaps he would interpret it incorrectly.

“I love you,” I whispered.

He shook his head in initially mute refutation. Then his words were delivered with rehearsed precision. “I know. That is why I cannot stay.

I am still mad and have little control of myself. I have accomplished nothing these last months. I am as mad as I was when we arrived here.

And I now know I am more a threat to you than before. I am sorry. I do not want you to waste your days waiting on a thing that will not happen. I may never be well. It is best for you if I go. I could not live with myself if I harmed you. You must understand.”

As he spoke, I did not allow myself to think of precisely what he spoke of, mainly the events of last night. Instead, one thought rose from the depths of my soul: my love made me brave, not desperate.

Thus, anger replaced the fear. “Non. I will not understand. You will not leave me again. If you go I will follow, and do not think you can escape me. The world is not large enough to hide you, and I will follow you across the River Styx herself if necessary. If you love me, you will stay, and we will endure and conquer this madness of yours together.”

He frowned with wonder, and the hint of a smile graced his lips.

“Will, I will surely kill us both.”

“Oui, that seems likely, but I for one will be happier if I do not die alone. And just this once, do not call me a fool for it.”

“You are not a fool,” he murmured. “You make my heart ache,” he added with a small smile.

The anger fled and I played along with our old jest. “Do you wish to kill me?”

“Non, the other one,” he said and walked past me into the cabin.

When he returned he was without his weapons or bag.

He tossed me my breeches. “This path you set us on will be a challenge, Will.”

“Oui, I well know it. Yet the Gods know I adore a challenge, and I am sure that will be my undoing.”

We spoke no more for a time, and busied ourselves repairing our roof in the aftermath of the storm. Other than his complimenting me sincerely on my extension to the hut, we worked silently side by side; and though our silence was not awkward, it was not companionable either. Our eyes were oft upon the other, only to dart away upon gaining the other’s notice. I mulled through last night’s events, and wondered about a good many things.

When Pete and Striker arrived, I was not sure whether I was happy to see them. They appeared relieved to see both of us. Gaston appeared ready to retreat to the woods at the slightest provocation.

“Came to see if you blew away,” Striker said, as they watched us come down from the roof.

“Nay, you are still blighted with our existence,” I sighed. “And all others? The ship?”

“No true harm done.” He addressed Gaston. “It is good to see you.”

My matelot nodded curtly, but remained silent and distant. I did not miss the look Pete and Striker exchanged.

As they had brought a bottle, and we had several dead fowl due to the storm, we proceeded to set the chicken to cooking and then joined them in drinking nearby in the shade, away from the heat and smoke.

Striker made conversation about who had suffered what minor damage.

“Took us a time to find the Bard,” he chuckled. “Here we thought him washed away, but nay, he was carried out on the tide of love. When we found them, the man was reluctant to come and look over the vessel.

First time I’ve seen him care for anything more than a ship.”

I was amused. “The heady rush of new love will do that.”

“That Been A Time In Comin’,” Pete added with a grin, and shook the bottle admonishingly at Striker, who rolled his eyes.

“Pete swears they’ve been enamored of one another for a time,”

Striker sighed.

“Based upon what I learned last night, I would agree,” I said. “But only one of them understood the nature of it.”

“And the poor swain sought you out for advice?” Striker teased.

“I told him he was a fool for it,” I grinned.

I glanced at Gaston. He was sober and tense, and I noted he was not drinking. I thought that wise. I tried to remember if I had told him of Dickey’s revelation last night while we ate. He was not regarding me during the conversation with curious eyes, though, so surely I had.

Striker continued, “When we finally did get him to the ship, he pronounced we could start careening her at once. I would have preferred to wait until Cow Island. With so many hands it would go quicker.

But this way, it’ll allow us to field more men to hunt whilst the French careen.”

This caught Gaston’s attention, and he eyed me quite curiously. I felt other eyes upon us.

“Striker wishes to sail soon. I will let him tell you of it,” I told Gaston.

I then gave the other two a jaunty grin and said, “We did not speak much last night.”

They took my meaning, and at least appeared a trifle embarrassed to have been exchanging another one of their now annoying glances, which I knew I interpreted correctly as concerned and pitying.

Striker quickly told Gaston of all he had told me concerning Morgan’s plans and his own. My matelot remained silent, but nodded thoughtfully when he finished.

“So are you two with us?” Striker asked.

I began to shrug, but Gaston beat me to answering. “Whatever Will wishes.” He stood and went to check on the chicken.

“If you two look at one another in that manner again, I will shoot one of you,” I muttered without regarding them, and followed Gaston. I heard matched chuckles in my wake.

I knelt next to the fire and watched him turn the spit. “We do not…”

His gaze was sharp and cut me off handily. “There is no reason to stay. What do you desire?”

“Do you feel… ready…?”

He shook his head. “But it matters not. Three months of steeping you in misery has solved nothing.”

“It has not all been misery, and… It is more important that you are well and happy. Being on a vessel surrounded by others will make things better?”

He studied the fire and finally sighed. “It will be much as being bound. On a ship amongst many I cannot run wild, and I am constantly minded of it. And you are still my touchstone of sanity.”

“Thank you. But… we could do that here and…”

“Will! Decide!” he hissed.

I winced at the rebuke, though it was earned. He was giving me the right to choose. I needed to trust that he would abide by my decision, and not blame me later.

“We will go. I grow weary of this place… without you,” I said softly.

His eyes softened and he nodded. “You are the best happiness I have known. I will be with you. And truly, Will, my way did not work. We will try yours.”

I was not sure what my way was. The heavy mantle of responsibility settled across my shoulders, and for a brief moment I thought I might be smothered by it. But then the weight subsided, and I felt comfort under it. I was indeed loved and trusted.