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"I was merely expressing my concern," says Jack, lolling back in the hard wooden chair as though it's a throne and narrowing his eyes at Barbossa, "that history not repeat itself in this instance." He picks up the bottle again and takes a long draught of rum. Worth it to watch Barbossa watching him swallow.
"What's to fear from the tale of Elizabeth, Queen of all England, and her loyal captain?" leers Barbossa. "Fresh from his victory over the dread Armada of Spain, Drake comes before --"
"Aye, well, there'll be no coming before this time around," growls Jack. "An', while we're delineating the bounds of history, I'd like to specify that there be no mutiny nor marooning, nor such related activities as might be found in the accounts of sundry notorious pirates." He scowls at Barbossa, hoping that 'not like last time' is implicit.
"Tortuga ain't what I'd be callin' a desert island, Jack," says Barbossa, shifting in a way intended (Jack likes to think) to ease the press of breeches 'gainst filling prick. "You've no call to fear marooning, here."
"Marooning?" says Jack. "There's worse things happen on land. I heard Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Though I'm unclear as to whether this," he gestures at his get-up, "constitutes scorning, per se."
"We'd best enquire as to Scarlett's terminology for your ... appropriation of her finery."
"Borrowing!" objects Jack indignantly, sitting up straight and almost parting company with Scarlett's spare peruke. "She c'n have it back ... after," he adds, with his most promissory look, steadying the auburn wig. He's short of breath but that's just the bloody lacing, tighter than would've felt right even when he was a slight-boned lad. And those days are surely gone. He'd not pass for a girl, even a gawky one, nowadays. Though apparently Barbossa's willing to take him for Good Queen Bess.
Take him. Jack's prick swells beneath his skirts, and he shifts 'til the silk's stretched tight over his thighs and Barbossa can notice the effect that his words -- well, to be honest, mostly Jack's own vivid imagination and selective memory -- are having on matters physiological. Jack waits 'til Barbossa's stopped noticing said effect and dragged his gaze up Jack's still-slender form, sleek in moss-green, before he licks his lips.
Barbossa swallows, his eyes on Jack's. He's still standing, though there's a perfectly adequate stool in the corner of the room, and an expanse of mangy carpet right here at Jack's feet. "Ready to accept your daring captain's tribute, then?" enquires Barbossa, rather hoarsely.
Jack tilts his head back so that he's not actually looking up at Barbossa. Barbossa's no spring chicken either, though the spark in his green gaze is livelier than it's been for a long while. Especially, footnotes Jack, when the fellow was dead. He likes to think that spark's lit by more than simply their concerted victory over Beckett's bloody Armada. He likes to think that, after all that's happened, the two of them can set the past, their past -- mutiny, marooning, murder ... mumbling ... -- behind them and engage as equals. Or at least as other people: Gloriana the Virgin Queen and her pet pirate Drake, Scourge of the Spanish Main. Jack smirks.
"Well, Jack?" snaps Barbossa impatiently. "Are you reneging on our little game?"
"I, renege? La, Sir Francis, you wound me." It comes out more girlish than Jack'd intended, but he blames the dress, in particular the excessively itchy lace collar. There's more cloth here than he's comfortable wearing. On the other hand, he doesn't expect to be wearing it all for very long.
"My most humble apologies, my lady," smarms Barbossa.
"You'll address me as Your Majesty," says Jack sharply. "And was there some talk of tribute? That's more like it! On your knees, and show me your paltry and doubtless inadequate ... gift."
Barbossa creaks down to the floor, dips his hand into one capacious pocket, and proffers a handful of gold and glimmer. Jack takes it gingerly, feeling the cool weight of it as it tumbles loose into his hand. Pearls the size of hazelnuts, and fine workmanship on the ornate settings too: he's impressed, though Barbossa needn't know it.
"Pearls, eh?" he can't resist remarking. "I trust that's not indicative of any more liquescent gifts you'll be hoping to bestow upon my person."
Barbossa's hand is on Jack's (shapely and muscular, if unfemininely hairy) ankle, sliding up under the hem of his skirt. He's on the same page, all right, though somewhat ahead of the reading. On the other hand, strike while the iron's hot. And something is definitely hot (and hard as iron too). Jack simpers down at his co-captain, and twitches his dress helpfully higher, allowing further access to those areas beneath said skirts that Bar -- that Sir Francis Drake might wish to, well, to explore. Or perhaps invade.
Heavy breath on his bared skin, hot fingers creeping higher, Jack's skirts bunched up in his lap and o sweet Christ yes sudden wet heat around his cockhead: Jack groans, lewd and loud, and the mouth draws back just enough to say, "Be that to your likin', your Majesty?"
"Aye," says Jack, tilting his arse up from the chair in the hope of regaining this new tribute. "Lay on, Drake." That's an easier mouthful than 'Barbossa', for sure.
If Drake's surprised by the prick he's discovered beneath these rustling skirts, if he'd expected to find some other privy parts, he says nothing of it; nothing of anything, for his mouth's otherwise engaged, though he's making indistinct sounds that burr up through Jack's -- through Gloriana's -- whole body and buzz like honey-bees in his, her, head. (Jack reaches for the bottle and takes another swig in the hope of warding off this new confusion of identity.)
There's a clattering sound as the pearls drop from her hand to the floor.
Drake's hand is in his own breeches, which is almost certainly a breach, haha, of courtly etiquette: but Gloriana is famed for her mercy and just this once she'll let it pass, for the man's tongue is more clever and witty in this employment than ever it'd been with the Spanish, and she finds herself -- much more quickly than anticipated -- most urgently ready to reward her humble servant with the royal essence, which pours out of her ... out of ...
Gloriana's gasping, not a little discombobulated by the rapidity and force of this exchange, when she feels something cool and rounded, several somethings, sliding up behind her knee. Pearls, pearls: and after 'em a hand, broad and hot and more than a little sticky, handling her with more familiarity than is entirely appropriate from a mere pirate, however fine his credentials. 'Sides, that hand is pushing at Jack's -- at Gloriana's knee, shoving her thighs apart, in a way that seems intended to open up the royal arse to all manner of depradations, explorations, et cetera.
Gloriana retaliates with a shove of her own, and Drake falls back on his arse, scowling. "Come, now, Ja--"
"Changed me mind," interrupts Gloriana. "Woman's prerogative. It'll be you on your back if you please, Sir Francis, and if you're fine and fortunate I'll bestow the royal blessing on your undeserving person."
Gloriana springs to her feet in a flurry of silk, nearly overbalancing as rum, loose carpet and bubbling afterglow conspire against her State. Drake's as bad, lounging back on the faded carpet with his breeches open and his prick in his hand. (It's a fine specimen, thick and hard and deeply red. Fit for a queen all right. Gloriana's own, newly-spent prick twitches at the mere thought.)
"What else be you concealin' 'neath that dress, your majesty?" enquires Drake, giving himself a long slow stroke. His cockhead gleams wetly in the candlelight.
"You'd be surprised," retorts Gloriana. She reaches down into her ... well, it's not precisely a cleavage, but that's not for lack of lacing. The seams of this damned dress will be mapped on her skin for the rest of eternity.
"Might be needin' a hand with that," notes Drake, eyes on Gloriana's flat chest.
"No thank you," snaps Gloriana. The little flask has slipped practically to her navel, but she ferrets it out at last, and flips the lid open. At once the room is scented with roses.
"Where did you get that?" demands Drake.
"Tribute," says Gloriana haughtily, stepping over to straddle Drake's legs. "From an admirer." She drops to her knees (Christ, this floor's hard: she's too old for this business) and shuffles up 'til her half-hard prick's rubbing against the rough dirty cloth of Drake's breeches. (Really, the man could've made some effort to clean up before an audience with his queen.) Drake's hand slows on his own yard: he's holding himself still and stiff, ready for her to take what she will.
Gloriana's hands are pretty rough and dirty too, considering that she's a queen: they're dirtier, for sure, once she's pushed one finger, then another, slowly into herself. The oil stings a little but the smell's divine, and the sting melts to a tingle that bids fair to resurrect her erection. A third finger now, and Drake's impertinent hand is on her knee. She glares at it icily until it's removed; returns to the business of opening herself up.
Drake doesn't dare complain as she slicks him up. From the noises he's trying to hold back, this is either bitterest torture or really rather pleasant. Gloriana, clearly growing soft (in matters of sentiment, at least) in her dotage, finds herself favouring the latter. For that, she bestows an especially wicked twist that has Drake gasping as she leans up over him, hiking her skirts up, trusting him to hold still as she --
"Oh fuck," says Gloriana. "Oh."
"Be this too much of a broadside for --"
Gloriana glares at her loyal subject. "I don't bestow this favour on every dashing pirate as donates to my treasury," she says. "It's been a while."
"Beggin' your majesty's pardon most humbly," says Drake with an abortive buck that wholly lacks humility, "but, you bein' the Virgin Queen an' all, I was wond'rin' if this might perhaps be an overly ambitious ... inauguration."
"Give it to me," commands Gloriana. "Give it to me hard."
"I --"
Gloriana breathes deep, rocks hard, takes more of that broad pulsing prick into herself. "I may be Elizabeth of England," she says, "but this ain't the body of a weak and feeble woman. I can take whatever you've got for me: give it to me, Sir Francis, or I'll have your head."
"Have it all," grunts Drake in an unnecessarily vulgar way, and he pushes up, hard, to meet Gloriana as she sinks down upon him.
Then it's hot and hard, that shimmery brimming place 'twixt pleasure and pain, two comrades, comrogues, taking what they can and giving back all that's in (in) 'em to give. It's the scent of roses and the reek of sweat. It's prick in arse, hand on prick, mouth on mouth, tongue on gilded teeth. It's the graunch of joints that've been battered and strained in battle, and the curses of men who're old enough to be past fucking on the floor of a tavern room in Tortuga. It's Gloriana rewarding her Pirate Errant for the latest haul of plunder (not to mention that wrecked Armada) and Drake serving his Queen with joy and pride.
"Fuck," says Jack at last, his arse still quivering and clenching 'round Barbossa's spent prick, his own seed spattering the other's tattered shirt. He lifts himself away, wincing, and subsides on the carpet beside Barbossa, who -- open-mouthed, eyes closed -- looks more stupefied than ravished.
Christ, it's hot under all these skirts -- though Jack's unencumbered with drawers, and it turns out he can muster the strength to roll over onto his back, crook his knee and hike his dress up to ventilate the lately-explored territories of arse, balls and prick. There's even a slight, pleasurable breeze from somewhere: perhaps Hector's snoring, or --
"You stole my wig, you fuckin' pirate!" screeches a horribly familiar voice. Jack finds himself flinching, though there's nowhere to flinch to.
"An' my dress!" cries another harpy, doubtless Giselle. That might explain why the lacing's so tight: she's a bit less of a handful than Scarlett. "You better get that a-soakin', Sparrow: spunk don't 'arf stain!"
"Ladies!" lies Jack brightly, not bothering to sit up and be slapped back down. "Pray let me explain the nature of this most unusual, yet thespian request. Now, my esteemed colleague here was inspired to create a Triumphal Tableau in order to celebrate our glorious victory, and --"
"I'll jus' be ... shiverin' some timbers," says Jack's esteemed colleague hastily, staggering to his feet. "Swabbin' the yard. Cuttin' and runnin'. See you at the docks, Jack." The door slams shut behind him, leaving Jack with a sore arse, a handful of pearls and two irate females, and only the diplomatic savvy of a long-dead English queen between himself and certain ruin.
Good thing he's flexible, really.
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