The Black Mermaid rolled under a low yellow moon. Canvas snapped. The Caribbean night was thick with salt, tar, and rum. Below, dice clattered and men snored. On deck the planks still held the day’s heat.
Tomás came aft barefoot, as he always did after dark. The weathered oak was warm under his soles. His knee-length shorts were old faded linen the colour of sand, frayed at the hem, hanging loose on his skinny hips so the inside of one thigh showed when he walked. The thin white shirt hung open three buttons, clinging where sweat had stuck it to his chest and the faint dark trail that disappeared into the waistband. At eighteen he was all long bone and new leanness. Collarbones sharp. Ribs just visible when he breathed. Messy dark curls falling into his eyes.
He had done things below deck. Not this. Some of the crew would catch him in the dark between the water casks or behind the ladder and put his hand on them. Wank me, boy. He knew the weight of a cock in his fist, the smell, the way a man jerked and spilled over his fingers. He did it because it was easier than refusing, and because part of him had wanted to know. His own hand in his hammock afterward always felt small and private after that. He had never been opened. Never had a man inside him.
He set the captain’s rum on the barrel.
Stay.
Silas Vane turned from the rail. Dark hair tied back, thin scar cutting through one eyebrow, shirt already open to the chest. His gaze travelled from Tomás’s bare feet up the loose shorts, lingered, then rose to the open shirt.
You have been watching me, Silas said. And they have been using that hand of yours below. I know. Tonight that stops being enough.
In the great cabin the lantern swung. Silas walked a slow circle around him. Knuckles brushed the small of Tomás’s back, then hooked in the waistband of the shorts and tugged once, not pulling them down, just testing.
Shirt.
Tomás pulled it off. Skinny torso, sun-browned, nipples tight in the lantern light. Silas looked at him the way a man looks at a chart he already means to follow.
Turn. Shorts stay until I say.
When they came off they pooled around Tomás’s bare ankles. He stepped out of them.
Silas kissed him hard. Rum and tobacco. Then he put him on the edge of the chart table, maps crumpling under his thin ass. He took his time. Mouth on the boy’s cock first, two slick fingers working him open, then three, until Tomás was shaking and dripping onto the parchment and whispering please without knowing he was saying it.
Look at me while I take you.
Silas lined up and pushed in slow. The blunt head stretched him. Tomás’s mouth opened on a sound that was half pain. Silas paused when he was in to the hilt, kissing him through it, then began to move. Long deep strokes that made the table creak.
Wanking had always been a neat little peak. Palm, spit, a few hard pulses into his fist, then the drop. This was not that.
The pleasure started deeper than his hand had ever reached. Low in his belly, behind his balls, a thick spreading heat that made his thighs shake and his hole clench around the thick shaft. Every inward thrust pushed it further up until it felt like it was filling his whole skinny torso. His cock leaked against Silas’s stomach. He barely needed to be touched there.
When it hit, it was not coming. It was an explosion.
His hole clamped down so violently it almost hurt, locking around Silas. His cock jerked and spilled between their bodies, more than he had ever spent, pulse after helpless pulse. The real blast ripped up from the place he was being fucked, through his guts, into his chest, out his throat in a raw broken shout. Vision whited out. Back arched off the table. Toes curled. He kept coming while Silas kept thrusting through it, each drag detonating another wave until Tomás was shaking apart, sobbing for breath, hole fluttering and leaking around the cock still stretching him open.
Nothing about it felt like the private, manageable finish he knew from his own fist, or from the hurried hand-jobs in the dark below. It had blown through him. And it had the captain’s name on it.
Silas followed soon after, burying himself and filling him until it ran out onto the maps. He stayed inside a long moment, then lifted the boy as if he weighed nothing and carried him to the bunk.
They lay chest to chest in the narrow bed, both shirtless, both sweaty, a sheet kicked to their hips. Silas’s weight pinned him horizontal, one heavy thigh over Tomás’s bare legs, mouth against his damp temple.
The men do not put their hands on you again, Silas said quietly. You sleep here. When I want you, I take you. Understood?
Tomás turned his face into the captain’s chest. His voice was hoarse, young, already certain.
Aye, Captain.
Tomás slept the way a body sleeps after it has been taken apart. Face turned into Silas’s chest, skinny legs tangled with the captain’s, the sheet twisted around one ankle. He was still wet inside. Silas’s first load had not all run out. It sat warm and slick in him, a dull fullness he felt even in sleep, hole soft and used and not quite closed.
Silas did not sleep long.
He woke to the lantern burned down to a low orange eye and the boy’s breath slow against his collarbone. He looked at him for a while. The dark curls stuck to his forehead. The slack mouth. The faint tremor still in the thin thighs. Then he shifted.
He rolled Tomás onto his stomach without waking him, one arm under the boy’s narrow chest, knee pushing his legs apart. Tomás made a small sound and stayed under. Silas spat into his palm, added it to what was already there, and lined up.
The head of his cock found the loose, cum-slick rim and pressed in.
Tomás’s dream changed.
He was still on the table, still full, but the ship was rolling differently and someone was inside him again. Thicker. Slower. No hurry. It did not feel like a hand. It felt like being opened from the inside while he could not move. The first inch slid in on the wet left from before and his hole gave without the sharp stretch of the first time. A low sound left him, half into the pillow.
He surfaced in pieces.
Heat. Weight. The captain’s chest against his back. A cock pushing deeper, using the mess already in him as slick. His own cock trapped under him, half-hard from the dream before he even understood he was awake.
Shhh. Silas’s mouth at his ear, voice rough with sleep. Stay soft for me. You are still full of me. That is why it goes in so easy.
Tomás’s fingers clutched the bedding. He was not fully in his body yet. Each slow thrust felt like it belonged to the dream. The slide. The wet sound. The way his hole fluttered around the shaft and pushed Silas’s earlier spend out around it in warm little leaks. The sensation was thicker than the first time, less pain, more a heavy, filthy fullness that made his stomach jump.
Silas fucked him like that for a long time. Lazy. Deep. Almost rocking. One hand spread over Tomás’s skinny belly to feel himself moving inside. When Tomás tried to lift his hips Silas pinned him down with his weight and kept the same unhurried rhythm.
That is it. Waking up on my cock. You do not have to do anything. Just take it.
The second orgasm did not explode like the first. It rose out of the half-sleep like a tide. Tomás came with a broken whimper into the pillow, cock pulsing against the mattress, hole clenching in slow waves around the shaft still working him. Silas groaned and followed, grinding in to the root and adding a second load to the first until Tomás felt overfull, leaking, the wetness unmistakable every time Silas shifted.
Silas stayed in him after, chest to back, breathing hard against the boy’s neck.
Go back to sleep, he murmured. I will still be in you when you wake.
Tomás’s answer was only a small, wrecked sound. He drifted under again with the captain’s cock softening inside him and the evidence of both times still warm between his legs.
Morning came grey through the stern windows. The lantern was dead.
Tomás woke on his stomach, one skinny leg drawn up. The first thing he felt was the leak.
Last night’s cum had gone thin inside him. Mixed with it was a little of his own mess, loosened from being kept open and full until dawn. It slid out of him when he shifted, warm and slick, wetting his thigh and the sheet. His hole was soft and would not stay shut. He made a small sound and tried to close his legs.
Silas’s hand was already there.
Do not. The captain spread him with two fingers, just enough to see. That is mine. You are still full of it.
He did not wait for the boy to be clean.
He rolled Tomás onto his side, hooked the thin top knee up, and pushed in on what was already there. It went easy. Tomás gasped into the pillow. Silas fucked him through the leak, unhurried, each stroke pushing more of it out around his cock onto the sheet.
Feel that. Still open from me and I am using it.
Tomás came weakly, a few shaky spurts against the bedding, hole fluttering around the shaft. Silas followed soon after, burying himself and adding to what was already in him, holding the boy’s skinny hip until he was done.
Only then did he pull out.
Tomás whimpered at the empty feeling. More of it slid out of him onto the sheet. Silas watched, then stood.
Up.
He filled the wooden tub himself and put Tomás in it. The captain stripped to the waist and washed him with a rag. Throat. Chest. Belly. Then between his legs, thorough and without embarrassment, until the boy was clean. Tomás sat with his knees up and his face turned away, letting it happen.
Silas rinsed the dark curls last, thumb at his nape.
You will walk the deck today in clean shorts. Nothing underneath. If I put my hand on you later I will find you wet from me. Not from the men. Understood?
Aye, Captain.
Silas lifted him out, dried him with his own shirt, and dressed him in a fresh pair of the same knee-length linen shorts. Barefoot. No shirt yet. The drawstring tied by Silas’s hands.
The Black Mermaid was already alive with morning work. No one asked why the cabin boy came up from the great cabin washed and quiet, or why the captain’s eyes followed him the rest of the day.