come, draw your peg, my rum one

“Heart of oak, eh? Do you see me in a red coat? I’m not one of your men, Solly. You don’t give orders to me.”

Mr. Hickey clambers into Tozer’s lap, feeling between his legs for something to squeeze – Tozer grunts at the weight, and shoves him onto his back. Hickey makes a huff of hot breath in response, telegraphing his annoyance in a bony wiggle like a gib cat; he’s not a big man, but he tosses his body around like a brick, and his arched back presses his hips against Tozer’s erection. His hands wreath around Tozer’s neck, tugging at his hair.

“Don’t I? Put your arms up, jackshite.”

“Are you going to frig me?” Hickey is laughing when he withdraws himself, tossing his head so the greasy strands of hair tangle against his cheek – his hands fold behind his head in loose fists. “You could do better. A big man like you, with a big prick. Are you scared I’ll snap it off?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If you want to suck my prick, you should ask nicely. I know all about your type of man.”

Hickey grins at him like a dog. “I don’t think you do, Solomon. Enlighten me.”

The sound of his Christian name gives Tozer a pang. He tugs apart the buttons of Hickey’s trousers, and fishes out the prick into his hand – it’s a pretty tool, fine and straight and flushed rosy-red at its tip, and it’d be the envy of any maid in Manchester if its owner had any use for cunt.

He draws him to the edge as briskly as he can, and Hickey’s satisfied breaths are on the brink of spilling over into smart remarks when the moment draws near – this caulker and the pinch-cheeked understeward must have frigged each other plenty in their time, and it would be an easy thing to bring him over. But a devilish mood has taken him. Before the poor fellow can spend, the ball of Tozer’s thumb presses into the head of his cock, sharp enough to hurt – Tozer knows from his own experience just how to squeeze, and how to discipline his expenditures the better to last out the rigors of self-abuse.

Hickey squirms, trying to close his thighs, but Tozer forces his knee down with an elbow and redoubles his strokes – easing up for long enough to draw out the pearls of spunk from the head of his prick, then throttling his grip just as Hickey’s balls tighten and his breath turns to a groan. Hickey twists beneath him and makes an undignified face.

“Do you handle yourself like this or only your friends in the Marines? Do you all frig each other?”

“Quiet, Mr. Hickey.”

As soon as the words have left his lips, he half-expects the whole thing to collapse like a soap-bubble – it’s not his place to give this little tyrant orders, even in jest, and for all that Hickey seems to take pleasure in making a mockery of their distance, he’s not the type to take them. He may have sealed his own warrant. But Hickey’s turn of mood is not anger but urgency – he thrusts his hips against Tozer’s hand.

“There’ll be no games, Sol,” Hickey begins, but he catches himself up in a thin little groan and all the muscles of his belly seem to spasm. “I won’t beg.”

Tozer doesn’t want him to beg – this is a man who had not begged for mercy beneath the lash, who had drawn himself upright with the welts of the whip on his bare behind and all but taken a bow after such a valiant performance. Tozer had taken notice of him then, and that is the man he desires, that is the scene of his guiltiest reveries. He wants to torment him until his cheeks are as red as the head of his prick and until his whole body is washed in sweat. He’s wanted to fuck this man bow-legged for long enough now, but he’ll make him whimper.

Hickey makes a sound of frustration from deep within, a thin sound of pain and pleasure like a girl in her throes. Solomon heaves against him to rut against his leg and presses his lips to that prickly throat, lips and teeth together. The sound of his own breathing is thick in his ears, and the sound of his short sharp strokes. It needn’t be over so fast, he thinks to himself, the two of them could do this forever. He could take this man to pieces, and Mr. Hickey would thank him for it.

There are tears in Hickey’s eyes by the end of it, and Solomon would almost feel sorry for him if it weren’t for his vicious little sounds of pleasure. At the undisputed peak, Hickey lashes out with an arm, grabbing Tozer’s curls with a mighty yank – Tozer curses and thumps him, but a fleeting moment’s relief is enough and Hickey spends with a terrific yelp, spilling his tallow all at once in a jet.

Solomon lowers his head, and kisses the spunk from his belly; Hickey’s fingers loosen in his hair and he begins, breathlessly, to laugh.