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"But Stephen, this is all wrong, you know," said Jack unhappily. There was a crease between his eyebrows, and his usually cheerful face had the look of stormclouds gathering.
"Nonsense," said Stephen. "We hear of the ancients and even the gods mingling pain with pleasure. There is a madam in the flogging profession in every port. Come, Jack, it is a common enough thing. Do we not purge the patient of his gross humours? Do we not bleed him to relieve the body and soul? It is a common principle that a little of what we might usually term ill-treatment is efficacious, even necessary, in the right circumstances."
"That is hardly the same thing," said Jack, still frowning.
"Do not be missish, Jack. I have had a long, trying day, we have engaged this inn, the servants are discreet, I have purchased this cat o' nine tails out of my own purse -"
"It is not a cat, it is far too small," Jack muttered under his breath, but Stephen ignored him.
"- you have been so good as to ask me what I desired, and I have told you, so be so good as to do it!"
There was a slightly cajoling, even whining note in his voice. It had indeed been a trying day. The young surgeon assisting him in a delicate operation had fainted halfway through the most complicated stage of the proceedings, and his trajectory had been such that he had deposited his dead weight entirely upon Stephen, both of whose hands were engaged, so that Stephen could not shrug him off for fear that his skull would crack open upon the edge of the operating table or the hard stone floor. A hard day.
An exhausting operation, and an awkward meal with the unhappy surgeon afterwards; then the long, long journey back from Chelsea, and the rain so heavy that Stephen was soaked in the walk to the inn, his little package clutched inside his shirt. By then his breast was tight with anticipation, his heart beating so that he could hardly breathe, and Jack’s enthusiastic welcome - he had been busy in the dockyards, and they had not seen each other for nearly a week - had strained his nerves almost to fever-pitch.
Jack sat back on his haunches and looked uneasily at Stephen. He still wore his breeches and undershirt - he could be absurdly modest at times - but nobody looking at him would have the slightest doubt of what he was about. His colour was high, his hair loose and dishevelled, his shirt was open by three buttons and there was a livid mark starting from the pale skin below his collarbone. However, it was equally clear that he had been brought up with a round turn, and that his arousal, powerful a moment ago, was waning. The leather whip Stephen had purchased, with its short, knotted lashes, hung limp in his hand.
"But Stephen -" he said doggedly. "Don’t you see that it is quite ridiculous? A commissioned officer in the Royal Navy, flogged? By the captain, no less? It would violate the Articles of War, not to mention the immemorial custom of the service."
Stephen stretched out his legs on the Crown and Pineapple’s large bed and sighed.
"Oh, well, suppose we imagine that I am one of your wasters, a lubberly landsman guilty of rank incompetence -"
"Do not tax my imagination too far, now," Jack said, his mouth twitching.
"And you are a 'hard-horse' lieutenant who has 'started' me for damaging his paintwork, or some other of the numerous pedantic tyrannies so usual at sea," he finished, with a certain bitterness. Although immune from starting, a violent, mean, bullying practice he abhorred, Stephen had nonetheless suffered numerous encounters with these tyrannies, which had time and again preventing him from watching his birds in peace, from sleeping past the second watch, or from walking from one part of the ship to the other in blood- or paint-stained footwear. This sense of injustice was now increased from his covert glance at Jack, which told him that his proposal would not answer.
"But Stephen," Jack said, frowning again. "You know I have always disapproved of starting. The end of a knotted rope is no way to teach a man his duty. An officer who cannot move a man without striking him -"
"And you know I have always esteemed this humanity in you," Stephen said, with a certain exaggerated patience. "But my dear, we are not on the deck of a ship! This is mere make-believe!"
"I do not understand why you think it necessary," Jack grumbled. "Plain, simple sailing has always been good enough for you before."
Jack, too, was tired. The corruption in the Greenwich dockyards had for the last several years moved beyond what was normal in the service to shocking, almost unbelievable heights of criminality, and his day had been spent in the belly of the Surprise cajoling, bribing and bullying more labour out of the sullen officers of the Navy Board and Ordinance. He was tired of the hypocrisy of man, and as a result he was perhaps more irritable than he might have been when it seemed that he was not to get the straightforward tumble he had looked forward to, the exchange of pleasure that had come as easy to them as playing a duet.
Jack had limited experience of make-believe, and this was all in the line of false colours, drag-sails, and other capers of that kind. Of human pretense he knew little, and little of that good. As for sexual encounters, his motto had, in love as in war, always been Nelson’s: "Never mind maneuvers, always go straight at 'em." Stephen was no French warship, to be sure, but Jack had never before felt this creeping sense of inadequacy with him, as if he were a squeaking midshipman with his first Malta Sally, and it made him sulky and withdrawn. Stephen sensed this now, and modulated his tone.
"Sure, the unadorned act can be the joy of the world," Stephen said. "But occasionally I desire something else, by way of a holiday."
"A holiday!" exclaimed Jack under his breath, looking at the flogger doubtfully. "But Stephen, are you quite sure that you - I mean to say, after Mahon -"
Stephen reached out and laid his hand firmly over Jack’s, to stop him worrying the leather. His ugly fingers, twisted and scarred by French interrogators the previous year, rested in plain sight, and he allowed Jack’s gaze on them, as he rarely did.
"That is quite different, joy, as well you know," he said quietly. "By deciding beforehand what is to happen, I shall be in control, do you see?"
"I do not like it, Stephen, but that is all one if it is really what you want," Jack said, stroking his knuckles absently. "But this business of the captain flogging the ship’s surgeon really will not do."
"A midshipman, then," Stephen said testily. "I have seen you seize a midshipman to a cannon for a mistake in mathematics and beat him bare-breeched - indeed, I have tended to your unhappy victims. That would do, in a pinch." His face was slightly flushed, in contrast to his dry tone, and his eyes were bright as he looked up. "Shall you lead me through your Brown’s Principles of Trigonometry, now?"
"Trigonometry is no laughing matter," said Jack, rather stiffly. "A fine mess we would be in without it. It is the very heart of navigation."
"Oh, stuff," said Stephen. Attempting a more direct approach, he squirmed across the bed so that his thigh lay across Jack’s lap, where he could apply a firm but rhythmic motion that had answered in the past.
"You will not get around me that way," Jack said, lifting Stephen off him and laying him back on the bed. Stephen blinked up at him. Jack rarely used his far greater weight and strength when they lay together, taking care when he was atop Stephen and never holding him down. He did not remove his hands now, however, and when Stephen shifted experimentally against him, Jack bore down slightly to hold him still. Stephen’s lips parted.
"Do you mean to tell me that if a vile young midshipman foisted upon you by a Port Admiral called you a -"
He swallowed a gasp as Jack bent his lips to his throat, then shook him off and continued defiantly, "a great lummock -"
Jack’s head bent to the sheets next to Stephen’s head, but he was shaking with laughter.
"- oh, very well, very well, an unfair taskmaster, a cruel slavedriver, a poxed son of a Dutchman’s whore -"
"I should certainly think he was drunk, and I should stop the grog of the entire midshipman’s berth."
"- you would not beat him?"
"Well, no, I would certainly beat him," Jack murmured consideringly into Stephen’s ear. His breath disturbed the fine hairs there, and Stephen shivered. His hands were still heavy on Stephen’s hip and shoulder, constricting his breath slightly, giving him the pleasant feeling of being pinned down.
"But I would not ravish him afterwards, you know. The abuse of rank would be unconscionable. I have known whole ship’s companies destroyed by that kind of caper between officers, and even on the lower decks. It is different with you and me, you are not in line for promotion, but a midshipman, God forbid."
During this speech, Stephen had somewhat lost the thread of his original request, and had become involved with the soft skin behind Jack’s left ear - one of the few parts of his body that was not battered or toughened by weather, musket-ball or sabre - and in consequence, Jack’s voice was a little roughened, a little lower than usual. He was re-masted, so to speak, and the bulge in his half-unlaced breeches pressed against Stephen’s hip.
"You will not satisfy me, then?" Stephen said, slightly breathless. "I shall be forced to settle for a discourse on Naval discipline and an erotic court martial?"
Above him, Jack paused. "Do you know, Stephen," he said, his conversational manner belied only by his mouth’s proximity to Stephen’s, "I do not quite like your tone when you speak about the Navy."
Stephen’s heart stuttered in his chest.
"Do you not, sir?"
"I do not," Jack said decisively, and in a single motion he lifted himself from Stephen and rolled him so that he lay on his front upon the bed. "It sounds damnably close to levity."
He hesitated, and then brought his hand down upon Stephen’s breeches with a resounding smack. Stephen made a sound, quickly stifled against the bedsheets, and closed his eyes. Jack’s breath rattled in his chest.
"Criminal levity," he repeated. Smack. "You have never shown a proper respect -" smack "- for the immemorial custom of the service."
Stephen’s groan was almost audible.
"You were shockingly late for Admiral Thornton’s dinner," Jack reminded him. Smack.
"Wig all ahoo when you arrived." Smack.
"Coat a disgrace, great grease spots all over the pockets." Smack.
"And you were late for the rendezvous, so that we nearly missed the tide." Smack.
By this time, by dint of some wriggling on Stephen’s side and some repositioning for better leverage on Jack’s, Stephen was fairly in Jack’s lap, and with every stroke he ground down against Jack until they were both breathing hard. Jack's blood was up now, and his eyes were gleaming as he hoisted Stephen up and tugged his breeches and drawers down his thighs to leave his backside bare. Stephen - usually an awkward devil to manhandle, either contrary or trying to help in entirely the wrong way, so that Jack always had to be wary of elbows amidships and knees below deck - was now pliant and docile as a saint, and Jack was flushed with conquest. He seized the little flogger and examined it critically. It would not break the skin, he thought; the angle was poor, but the difference in their relative heights should supply the deficit. He whipped it down on his bare forearm by way of experiment, once gently, then a little harder to get the feel of it. Stephen tensed in his lap at the sound of the leather tearing the air, then squirmed deliciously when the blow did not fall.
"Hmm," said Jack, then stroked the braided straps over the pink skin of Stephen's arse.
"Stop teasing, Jack," Stephen said hoarsely.
Jack raised his arm, then paused, caught by an idea.
"Should you like to beg my pardon?" he asked.
Stephen was silent. Jack stroked over a place on his bare shoulder where freckles had gathered on their last voyage across the equator, and wished that he could see his face.
"I think not," Stephen said at last, muffled by the sheets.
"Should you like me to call you a trollope, that sort of thing?"
"No, no," Stephen said testily, shifting on his lap. "Just as you were. Do not quibble, Jack, I am getting cold. A trollope, for all love," he muttered under his breath.
Jack hesitated, looking at Stephen's bare back. He felt a sense of diminished forward motion, as if he had tacked into the wind and missed stays. He was not quite sure how to get back the urgency of five minutes before. His excitement was a dull, throbbing thing, but now he regarded it with apprehension. What had possessed him, to say such things to Steven? The heat of the moment was all very well, but what might he think, or say, after?
"You are thinking too much, my dear," Stephen said, almost gently. With a convulsive squirm he pulled his arm from under him - nearly hitting Jack in the stomach - and reached back to catch Jack's hand in his own, while turning so that Jack could look at him. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks flushed. "Criminal levity," he added.
"Criminal levity," Jack repeated, then, more strongly, "Yes, that's right. It cannot go on."
He brought the flogger down, so that the leather straps kissed Stephen's skin with a stinging slap. Stephen gasped, and his head dropped down against the sheets again. Jack held back a moment to let him feel the effect, and Stephen groaned again a second later as the first shock faded into a second wave of pain.
"Stings, don't it?" said Jack, with some satisfaction. Stephen shifted against him, his thigh rubbing against Jack's cock; there was an uncomfortable, dangerous edge to the pleasure he took in the friction.
"It is - interesting," Stephen said, his voice breathy and high. "You may do it again."
"That is kind in you," Jack said, and hit Stephen again. He did not hold back so much this time, and the sound the leather made whipping through the air was familiar, Stephen's sharp grunt
more so. "Tell me if it is too much," he said, a little anxiously.
"Never worry, my dear, it is - Jesus, how it comes on in waves," Stephen gasped, tensing and thrusting against Jack again. "I had no idea."
"Do you like it?"
"Yes -" gasped Stephen, "Yes, again."
Jack did not pause between strokes this time, but brought the leather straps down twice in quick succession upon Stephen's behind, one on each buttock. This elicited a series of noises from Stephen, none of which Jack had ever heard, and, amazed, he watched his pale skin bloom with red as Stephen writhed urgently against him. His next blow smacked against one of the pinkest spots, and Stephen cried out loud, his more rhythmic thrusting as he rode out the pain accompanied by soft, fervent curses in a language Jack did not know, and the friction, along with the thrill of inducing Stephen to forget English, now brought Jack to a state of painful arousal.
"Stephen," he croaked, "I must - forgive me."
He shuffled back, depositing Stephen on the bed, and finished unlacing his breeches, sighing with relief as his erection sprang free. As he left his clothes on the floor and returned naked to the bed, he saw Stephen's eyes gleaming in the candlelight, watching him. He lay on his stomach on the bed still, his arse covered with streaks of pink, his hair damp and plastered to his forehead. He was smiling a little, and looked dazed. Jack's skin prickled, and he felt desire turn over in his belly. He swallowed, dumb, lost as to how to proceed.
Stephen cleared his throat. "You have had enough with whipping me, I collect."
"Yes," Jack said. "Stephen, may I - God, I want -"
"Yes, yes," said Stephen, and he threw Jack the little pot of grease and pulled a pillow under his stomach. His aim was off, and the pot went into the corner, but by the time Jack had retrieved it the cold of the room had had a sobering effect and his hands were not shaking. He still had to take a few deep breaths after pushing into Stephen, however, and he stroked the pink, fragile skin above the point where their bodies joined.
"You are a hairy creature, Jack Aubrey," muttered Stephen. "Your thighs are like sandpaper."
Jack made a noise that he supposed might be sympathetic, but he was fully occupied by the scalding heat of Stephen's body, especially the skin of his buttocks, and the pleasure that ricocheted up his spine, making it difficult to keep still and wait for Stephen's comfort. Stephen rocked back against him, however, and made a low "Hmmm" of satisfaction, like a cat with a large fish, and their earlier violence had infected Jack's blood. He seized Stephen's hips and pulled his body against his own, with no heed for how his thumbs pressed into the rising welts from the whipping he had received. He filled Stephen to the hilt suddenly, and Stephen gasped as if Jack had struck him again.
"Stephen?" he managed, through gritted teeth, and Stephen panted, "Yes," and so Jack took him - fast, rough, and hard.
They had both been waiting for a long time, and they could not last at such a pace; still, Stephen was almost suffocated in the sheets before Jack hoisted him up and took him roughly in hand. Stephen did not like to make noise, and deprived of the mattress he muffled his face against Jack's arm, and as he spilled over Jack's fingers he bit his arm so hard that Jack nearly shouted himself. Jack's climax hit him like a full broadside soon after, forcing his eyes closed as he clung to Stephen and shuddered, his forehead pressed against his shoulder. When his twitching muscles gave out - Stephen now a dead weight in his arms - they collapsed forward together against the mattress.
"Not on top of me, Jack, please," Stephen grunted after a couple of moments.
"You have bit my arm," said Jack.
Stephen opened one eye and examined it from where he now lay. "Pish, it is nothing. The skin is not broken." But he nestled a little closer to Jack and flung one arm over his side.
"And you?"
"I doubt I will sit comfortably tomorrow," said Stephen, sounding pleased with himself.
Jack could feel sleep coming up over him fast, and after a few delicious seconds where he considered surrendering to it, he rolled Stephen off him, ignoring his protests, and went to get a washcloth from the basin. When they were both clean, he pulled the blankets up over them. They were cold, and after a moment, Stephen huddled into his old, grey-ish nightshirt and a shapeless nightcap which he pulled down around his ears. Jack blew out the candle, and they lay together in the dark. Outside, a dog barked, and a carriage returning from some late party rattled along the lane. Despite the damp chill in the air, Jack felt suffused with warmth. He also felt awake, now that the initial glow was passed, and he was aware of a certain anxiety, a hesitancy between them that he knew from experience should not be left until the morning. However, he could not find the words to ask what he meant.
"Are you well, Stephen?" he said at last, speaking low.
"I am very well, thank you, Jack," Stephen said. He hesitated, then said, "Thank you," again, as if he, too, were not sure how to proceed, and this eased Jack's heart. There was a rustling on his side of the bed, and then his cold hand touched Jack's arm.
"You will not become morose or melancholic now, will you, my dear? The release of vital spirits and the relaxation of high emotion can have a depressing effect on the spirits, and I have known violence to have this effect on you before."
"After battle, you mean?" Jack said, surprised. "Oh, no. It is nothing like that. Dear Stephen, I was not -" he stumbled over his words, and tried to choose more carefully, aware that there was precious little sea room between himself and an awkward lee shore. "I was not really angry, you know."
"No, no."
Jack shut his eyes tight, and felt his cheeks heating. "It is only that I did not expect to enjoy it quite so much."
"You are never squeamish about pinking my behind a little, Jack? You, who have boarded scores - nay, a hundred French ships with sword and pistols?"
"That is war!" said Jack, shocked. "This is - well."
"'Militiae species amor est; discedite, segnes: non sunt haec timidis signa tuenda viris,'" said Stephen.
"Yes, well," said Jack, brightening at the opportunity for wit, "You may flash out all the Latin you choose, but amor ain't military, and it ain't quite weary neither, ha ha!"
"Viris, Jack, as in membrum virilis, the male member."
"That is what I meant, too," said Jack, and he laughed so loudly that Stephen attempted to suffocate him with a pillow.
"The female of the tidarren sisyphoides, the small tangle-web spider, is said to consume her mate after copulation," Stephen said, when they had settled again. He sounded wistful.
"I wish you would not talk about spiders in bed," Jack said. He yawned. He felt that he had been disturbed about something, but now it did not seem to matter so very much. It was still the same Stephen. But still -
"It is not quite like bleeding, or purging."
There was a silence on the other side of the bed.
"It is a more pleasant method, to be sure, but to the same end," Stephen said at last. "An expurgation of ill humours, no more."
"I mean," said Jack, "Not for us. It is more for us." He yawned again, despite his wish to stay awake.
Stephen's cold hand brushed his upper arm for a moment, his fingers cooling the place where he had bitten Jack.
"Perhaps it is," he said quietly, and Jack took his hand and kissed it before sliding into sleep, still holding Stephen's palm against his heart.