my dove, my duck, my angel bright

Tozer thrusts into him with two stout fingers, making that place tighten and spasm — he doesn’t know what he ought to call what they do, but he lifts his hips with pathetic eagerness to let Sol in, to let himself be had.

“All through watch I’ve thought of nothing but your little cunt. I mean to have you now.”

Irving winces. “Solomon, I’m frightened. You must do it quickly.“

“Ssh, now, don’t be frightened. I won’t ever hurt you, my honey, my dove.”

Rough-voiced he caresses him with all tenderness — and fingers him open, gentle as a bridegroom. Irving is laid out with legs bent back, prick jutting obscenely, and Tozer covers him with his body like a man covers his wife.

“It isn’t that,” Irving protests, “not that at all, you’ve been very good to me—“

“I’d be a fool not to be. I’ve never had such a fine lady.” He kisses Irving’s bearded face, and his lips taste of rum. John lets his head drop back, and lets Solomon in. Never is he happier than when Tozer is inside him, when he calls him his sweetheart and his little wife, and never is he more contrite than afterwards.