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“He is a devious seducer.”
Lieutenant John Irving tries to keep his voice steady, with as much calmness and conviction as he can manage. When talking to your superior you need to show that you're competent, demonstrate respectability. And Captain Francis Crozier, sitting opposite him, does not look very convinced right now.
“What evidence do you have for that claim, Mr Irving?”
Irving clears his throat. “Mr Gibson told me he was … well, led into … sin by Mr Hickey. And that Mr Hickey would stop at nothing to get him to satisfy his depraved urges.” He feels a blush heating his cheeks, and silently curses himself for that sign of weakness.
Captain Crozier looks completely unfazed. “The problem is, Mr Irving”, he begins, looking out the double-glazed stern windows at the towering ice floes, “there is no evidence at all, is there? Any witnesses to this act?”
Of course Irving remembers the time he caught Hickey and Gibson down in the orlop behind the storage boxes, but that has been …when? – three months ago? And he has not told anyone. If he tells Crozier now, what will the captain think of him for keeping this transgression to himself? It would look like Irving has something to hide.
Irving shakes his head. “No witnesses, sir.”
“Well.” Captain Crozier lifts his palms in a shrug. “Then there is not much we can do.”
“Mr Gibson said –“
Crozier raises a hand as if anticipating Irving's objections. “Yes, I know Mr Gibson does not have a history of quarreling or dishonesty, so his accusations are probably not malicious. So while there is not much we can do, there is still something.”
“And what …?”
“Do us a favour and keep an eye on this Mr Hickey.”
That's not quite what Irving has wanted to hear. “Keep an eye on him, sir?”
“Yes. Interrogate him on the matter. Privately, of course, at your own discretion. I've got to admit I haven't got a good feeling about this sly little weasel myself.”
But clearly, for Crozier, this seems to be a mere annoyance, a source of minor trouble. Whereas for Irving … The young lieutenant wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers, as unconspicuously as he can manage in the presence of his captain. “Interrogate him, sir?”
“Well, if you have any reason to believe there might be a grain of truth to Mr Gibson's accusations, give Mr Hickey a warning. As I said, I leave it entirely to your judgment. In my experience it often takes no more than a few well-placed wallops on a sailor's bare arse to remind him of the authority he's being paid to obey.”
Irving's mouth goes dry, and his trousers suddenly feel constricting. An image of Hickey flashes through his mind, the young caulker's mate bent over Irving's bunk, bare-bottomed and trembling in anticipation of his punishment …
“But, sir …” Irving objects, “isn't a punishment supposed to be public – a formal event for the whole ship's company to attend?”
“Didn't you listen?” Crozier sounds impatient. “It's a warning, not a punishment. And I leave it entirely up to you to determine what that rascal might benefit from.”
Irving looks down at his hands folded in front of his lap, shame creeping further up his face. He must be positively glowing now.
“Or can you not be trusted to deal with a 'devious seducer', Lieutenant?”
*
Irving is not entirely sure he can trust himself indeed. Ever since he has discovered these two petty officers, their deed so shamelessly obvious – what else would they have done there? – in the orlop, old demons have awoken. Two of his crewmen, particularly Hickey – who's been looking at him boldly, audaciously, as he served up his paltry excuse – are now reframed in his mind, newly identified as damned, filthy sodomites without any regrets. Or, as the temptator's voice whispers to him, available.
What have they really done? There cannot have been much time to consummate, or even begin, any acts of depravity from what he has seen. But surely on other occasions, they have gone further – Gibson has implied it, and made it clear that Hickey had been the instigator.
Irving rests on his bed, utterly lost and alone in the tiny cabin as the sinful images invade his mind; teasing, tormenting, mocking him. He has thought he would be past this. Too long he has battled impure thoughts, battled himself as he was tempted to give in to self-pollution brought on by those thoughts. The Arctic, or so he has imagined, would have been a remedy – an arid, forbidding place where lust and sin cannot bloom – but obviously he has been naïve.
Naïve. And stupid.
Overcome with self-loathing, he clutches his erection, hard and ready thanks to the devil's invasion of his mind, and gives in.
*
The next morning his head is much clearer, especially after his ablutions at the washbasin – a few splashes of cold water on the face work wonders, as do his morning prayers. He may have erred from his path last night – the crumpled handkerchief on the floor, caked with the signs of his weakness and shame, is a cruel reminder – but he recalls the infinity mercy of the Lord, and sits down on his chair, mumbling a few words of repentance. All will be better now.
He will fulfill his duties as a lieutenant. He will not disappoint Captain Crozier. Today, he will give Cornelius Hickey a serious warning, a reminder of the authority that recalcitrant petty officer serves under. And then the rat-faced little imp will cause no more trouble. Captain Crozier will appreciate the solid work of his dependable Third Lieutenant.
Irving finds Cornelius Hickey recaulking the deck planks in preparation for the next Arctic winter, a task necessary to keep the Terror isolated as the new onslaught of the pack is expected to move and squeeze her.
“Mr Hickey? A word in private.”
He leads the young petty officer down to his cabin, congratulating himself on his steadfast demeanour so far. He will not let this devil provoke him. Today, Hickey will realize that cannot just do as he pleases onboard the Terror, that the ship's company is not a schoolroom where he can introduce other boys to habits of vice. So God help me.
Hickey appears almost docile, asking no questions as Irving slides the cabin door shut behind them. It's a small and cramped space, so Irving stands with the door against his back as he confronts the other man.
“Do you know why you are here, Mr Hickey?”
“I don't know, sir.” There it is again, that mocking smirk, just like when he talked himself out of his wicked crimes back then in the orlop. “But I'm sure you'll tell me.”
“I have been authorized by the Captain to give you a warning, Mr Hickey.”
The younger man lifts an eyebrow in response, silent, but the smile remains in place.
“We take offenses such as yours very seriously. At the same time we believe that every man deserves an opportunity to mend his ways, for oftentimes vice is committed out of sheer ignorance, especially when sailors such as yourself have never been guided –“
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” If Hickey's eyebrows could rise any further, they most certainly would. “What did Gibson tell you!?”
Irving is taken aback by the sudden interruption – how dare he! – but then, he is not yet done here. He inhales, composes himself. There will be no explanations, not from him. “Be quiet! You know that very well.”
Oh, that grin, that insulting smirk – Irving wants to wipe it off that cobold-like face with a fierce slap. But he needs to remain calm. Anything else would undermine his command.
“Mr Hickey, pull down your trousers and bend over the bunk. This is to be a reminder that, should you re-offend, your punishment next time will be with the cat, and in presence of everyone.”
For a brief instant there's a look of disbelief on Hickey's face. But it's back right away, the icy gaze from big, gray eyes and that unbearable, mocking smirk on his lips. He glances down for a moment and then back up, as if sizing up the lieutenant in front of him. Then he whispers, “I know your type, Mr Irving. Men like you … loud to judge, quick to condemn. But not because they are more virtuous than us, but because they battle within themselves the very vices they decry in others.”
“Quiet!” Irving bellows, his voice an octave higher than he means to. “I'm not going to ask again!”
Almost too slowly, Hickey removes his jacket, his gaze holding Irving's. That despicable smile is gone, but Irving knows it's there, just lingering beneath the surface, waiting for him to bare another weakness. Irving inhales deeply. He will not, must not falter.
Hickey unbuttons his trousers and drawers and pulls them down, standing there naked below the waist, and pauses defiantly just for a moment for Irving to observe all of him. Hickey's pubic hair is sparse and dark blonde, he notices not without surprise, but quickly catches himself and is about to order him to turn around and bend over, when Hickey does so without further words.
The sight of this slender, youthful body leaning over the bunk, presenting his backside to him, makes Irving silently curse himself. He should have known better. Should have known that this would rouse the old demons he has so long battled and prayed to silence.
At least Hickey is quiet. Yet Irving braces himself for the next quip from this rascal, the next inevitable insolence designed to catch him off guard.
He positions himself behind Hickey, and hits him on the buttocks. Slap.
Hickey does not move, or react in any way, and Irving realizes it wasn't a very hard slap, but he breathes a sigh of relief – this is easy, he has himself under control; and most importantly, he has this devil under control.
Thwack.
The petty officer makes no sound but flinches just barely. Yes, this is working. Dear God, let him stay quiet, please. Irving looks down at him, marvelling at how narrow the younger man's waist appears from here. He could probably fit his hands around it. Really, this is just an unruly youth who needs to feel the touch of authority.
Why has Irving ever allowed to let himself be unnerved by Hickey's lack of manners? He could subjugate this mere boy with little effort, hold him down perhaps with just one arm. A wonderful rush spreads through Irving's lower belly. He slaps Hickey's behind once more, and this time lets his hand rest on the abused area.
It is nearly smooth, covered only with a downy fuzz, not like his own or other mens' hairy bottoms. Irving tries to keep his breath inaudible as he gently squeezes that firm, round arse-cheek.
“Sir, didn't you mean to give me a good, hard walloping?”
Now it is Irving who flinches.
There is just the slightest chuckle from Hickey as he turns his head to look over his shoulder, right at Irving. “Or is the sight of my pretty arse distracting you, sir?”
Irving's face heats up with embarrassment and rage – mostly because what that deviant says is true, and the realization is a bitter pill.
He is just about to place another slap on Hickey's behind, when – all of a sudden – that blonde devil reaches out his own hands behind him, and grabs his buttocks, spreading them. “That exciting you, Mr Irving? Have a good look, sir!”
Nothing is as Irving has believed – this devil, this perverted fiend has never intended to show respect and obeisance, is shamelessly toying with him!
“Stop this at once!” Irving grabs Hickey's wrists, pressing them firmly down onto the mattress, breaking up the obscene gesture. He is breathing hard. “Devious … seducer!”
The next moment Irving realizes that by pushing down Hickey's hands on the bed he has shoved his groin against Hickey's arse, bent over him like some dog mounting another.
To make matters worse, he is panting like one, too. God in Heaven, what is he doing!? He releases Hickey's wrists and retreats backwards quickly.
“That's rich, coming from one as yourself.” Hickey is looking over his shoulder, scowling at him. “Does our captain know, Mr Irving? That you cannot control your filthy urges when alone with a subordinate?”
“Shut up!” Irving hits him on the buttocks – thwack! – hard enough to make his palm sting. “Shut up!” Slap.
“Was that your cock I felt against my arse just before, sir?”
Irving slaps him again, and again, forcefully. “Be quiet”, he pants, but he isn't sure whether that is directed at Hickey or at his own demons.
To his horror, he has indeed become aroused – and that does not stop his rage; instead, incenses it further. His palm burns from the smacking, but he continues. Slap. Finally, finally, Hickey winces, breathing little gasps of pain. Thwack.
Yes. He was right. He can do it. Assert himself. Put this mere boy in his place.
Irving pauses, his gaze held by the reddened, sore arse and the slim, sylph-like body in front of him – Hickey is not so much a man as he suddenly feels himself to be, more man now and larger and stronger than he ever remembers being, and his gut tenses with a delicious rush as he grabs Hickey's waist and bottom, feeling, fondling. Overtaken with a need much older than himself, Irving does not think as he opens his trousers – it's as if his fingers move on their own. His throbbing erection springs free and he bends over Hickey, pushing it against him, and buries his face in the area between Hickey's neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply and moaning against the soft skin there just under the collar; he must show him, subdue him, dominate this bitch!
Feeling for and finding his goal with one shaking hand, he pushes his cock in with the other, grunting as he slides the tip in.
Hickey emits a pained gasp and Irving's hand is instantly on his mouth – be quiet, be silent, wretched devil, go the demons' voices in his mind. He thrusts forward, forcing his whole length inside, one sweat-slippery hand on Hickey's hip and the other muffling his whimpers.
The world is standing still, and even Irving's ragged breathing as he pounds into the passive body beneath him is silenced as the demons in his head scream louder than ever, crying out his victory and triumph – the devil is subdued, his own control asserted. With a shudder he releases, moaning against the tender neck beneath him.
The wave of climax overwhelms his entire body, and for a moment he lies slumped over Hickey, before coming to his senses.
Oh God.
Lieutenant Irving, worst of sinners on HMS Terror, stumbles backward, still breathing hard. He leans against the cabin door, legs weak as a trembling jelly pudding, as he stuffs his softening cock back into his trousers with sweaty, unsteady hands. The whole desperate act cannot have taken more than a minute, yet, right now it's as if his entire life has been a sin.
“Get out”, he presses from between clenched teeth at the creature opposite him. “Pull those trousers up … get out.”
Again, ever so slowly as to obviously torment him, Hickey fumbles with his drawers and trousers. A trickle of seed glistens on the inside of his thigh. When he is finished buttoning them closed, he turns to look at the lieutenant with icy, gray eyes, head cocked slightly, chin raised in defiance. The smirk is gone. He adjusts his lopsided collar, and brushes back his dishevelled hair until he is, again, the tidy image of calmness and composure. He appears exactly as before, save for a sheen on his forehead and slightly reddened cheeks, but Irving does not look at him long enough to notice that.
“You animal ”, Hickey says.
“Get out”, Irving repeats and it's all he can say before his voice will break.
“It didn't surprise me, though, sir”, Hickey says as he reaches for the door. “As I said before, I know your type.”
There it is again, that smirk.
“Your type … weak and cowardly. You try to control, yet only debase yourself.” With that, he slips out of the cabin, no doubt with a triumphant expression on his face.
Irving sinks down along the wall until he sits on the cold wooden planks, his back against the door, and hugs his knees, stifling a sob.
The End