by S. Czolgosz
I’d like to say that the first thing I want to do with him when his boat comes back into harbor is talk. After all, I’ve got so much to say to him. The awkward telegraph-booth conversations, clicking out “I miss you” and trying to tell him about my days, those are wonderful but so very detached. Sure, he sends me letters, and I read them three times over. The personal ones are scented with lavender, so every time I go out to my garden I think of him.
But the first thing that I want do when I see him isn’t talk. I want to gag him and put his cock in my mouth. I want to run my tongue up the groove at the base of the head of it. I want to push him up against the wall, with my forearm against his hips to keep him from thrusting—though I’ll happily let him try—and slowly let the whole length of it into my throat. Come to think of it, maybe I should sink some bolts into the wall at the level of his waist. I’ll have to ask him to measure himself for me, next time we talk.
I want to tie him up in my office—where my roommates won’t run across him—and let him languish there. I don’t want to punish him for leaving, not really. But it’ll be nice to keep him around for at least a little bit before he sails away again.
I call him my pirate but it’s not true. He’s a gunrunner, and he’s not really mine.
The empire made it illegal for us to import ammunition here in the colonies. I shot my last legal round three years ago now, just an angry potshot at a passing police glider. I don’t have a head for grinding black powder, it turns out—though I still have my fingers, thank goodness—, so my sister put me in touch with some folks she knew, and they put me in touch with Gregor Johann. My pirate.
He was looking for a partner, someone to distribute, someone who could stay on land and manage the stores. Someone who could do encryption in their head, someone who had a way with words. Someone with no gag reflex.
And I was looking for him, though of course I didn’t know it. If you’d asked me three years ago, I would have told you I wasn’t particularly into sex, that it just didn’t do much for me. Of course, I’d never tied anyone down by the neck before, either, and watched their whole body convulse with orgasm while held down at a single, immovable point.
The deal went wrong. Our first deal, three years ago. Someone sold us out to Her Majesty, and we’d fled the docks, setting fire to the crates of explosives. We escaped with our lives, leaving two gendarmes dead in our wake.
We went up into the hills, into the birch forests, and I fucked him with the scent of scorched hair still lingering on my skin. The moonlight cast shadows from the leaves onto his bare skin as he lay with his back on the soft forest earth. My adrenaline high never stopped that day, not until dawn. After it all—after the deal, the fight, the fire, and the sex—I collapsed more exhausted, perhaps more complete, than I’d ever been.
The whole of the next day we slept in the sunshine, and woke up at night to fuck, make our way back into town, and fuck again. None of the guards saw me the night before well enough to identify me, fortunately, at least none of the guards who got out alive. But Gregor Johann wasn’t as lucky. His likeness was up on flyers around the town, most likely around a good portion of the country.
I hid Gregor Johann for two weeks before I let him out, and then he was off to sea.
A sailor knows lots of knots, but a pirate knows even more. Last time he was home, he taught me the ropework he’d learned overseas from a handsome man.
I met him at the docks in the morning mist—a much safer time for illicit activity than the dead of night, I assure you—and we shook as though there were only business between us.
“The months have treated you well?” he asked.
Gregor Johann knew well enough the answer to his question , because we run it together. Mostly, we use coded letters. Straight code, all numbers, using one-time pads. Any code you can work into legible sentences can be cracked, so we send letters through the couriers who work the black market and our correspondence is, by and large, unseen by the authorities. Our telegraph conversations are recorded, of course, so we say nothing of business.
“Fuck me,” I told him. “I’m sick of staring at crates of guns. It’s been months.”
“You oughta find someone else,” he said, not for the first time.
“You find me someone else,” I said, “I’m too busy.”
He laughed, and his crooked nose flared that way I dream about. He ran his tongue over his white teeth as he looked at me.
“I want to come on your face,” he said.
I blushed—I can’t help it—and I turned to the crates, clearly marked gin and clearly full of guns. “Let’s get this shit done,” I said.
We got the crates onto the back of the car and I hopped up onto the driver’s platform and drove us to the bar that held our office on the outskirts of town. The mist was clearing then, and the morning sun lit the white of the birch trees, the leaves yellow and copper.
We secured the crates in the cellar then walked up to the tower room, my office. I closed the door behind us.
“Strip,” I said. Unspoken was the if you want to that took us years to feel comfortable without.
He didn’t turn to face me. Instead, he stared out the window, overlooking the hills, and slowly removed his shirt, revealing his tan and miraculously unscarred back. Then his gun belt. He must have unknotted the drawstring on his pants after that, because they slipped down his muscled legs. Finally his drawers. He stepped away from the window to face me, his cock halfway erect.
I stepped up to him, placed my hands on his hips, and went up onto my toes to kiss him. His breath impeccably clean, his lips impossibly soft. He kept his beard and mustache just long enough not to scratch, and its tickle was a comfort. My pirate was home. At least for now.
I pulled away from his mouth, but he sought after mine and I relented, letting him kiss me hard. Finally, I broke off to ask him, “what do you want?”
“I want you to beat me,” he said. “I want you to tie me up and beat me. What do you want?”
I didn’t have to think about it. I’d been fantasizing about him for months. “I want you to bite my nipples, hard. I want to still feel your teeth on them tomorrow.”
He sat down in my desk chair, put his hands behind his back, and looked at me as I pulled off my layers, exposing my chest. I took him by the hair and pressed his face to my breast, only letting go when my nipple was firmly held in his teeth.
It was the pain I’d been dreaming of, the pain that kept me going. All of my energy focused onto that single point on my chest. My mouth went agape and I let my head hang back, choking back a scream. He moved to the other nipple, and this time I smiled, looking down at the handsome man prepared to give himself to me.
After some indescribable length of time, he let go, pulled his head away from my chest, and stared at my skin. The release left me panting, happy, and horny as hell. “Get on the floor,” I told him, and he obeyed.
“What’s our safeword?” I asked him, though of course I knew the answer.
“Stop,” he answered. It wouldn’t work for everyone, but it worked for us.
I struck him open-handed on the face, not gently. “Do you want to get on your hands and knees?” I asked.
He did, and I beat him on his ass and back, with my fists and with my palms, slowly. Each smack echoed off the walls, and probably down through the stairwell to the empty barroom below.
Eventually he rolled over, onto his back, and looked up at me and smiled.
“Enough?” I asked.
“For now,” he said. I touched him then, running my hands down his chest, running a nail along his erect cock, playing lightly with the
urethra. Then I brought up my hand to hold his face, gently, and looked him in the eyes.
“Kiss me?” he asked, near to tears.
No one else has ever compared.
“I learned some new knots,” he said, and he showed me how to tie him up so that, if he struggled, they would tighten. I bound his legs together first, at the ankles and under the knees, a cord running between the two points for me to grab onto. I piled up our clothes under him to pad the wood-planked floor, then stopped to kiss him.
I never understand how he can be so gentle, when all I want to do is consume him whole.
I tied his hands above his head, then took shears from my belt and left them where he could reach them and cut himself loose if he had to.
I stood up and walked back to the door. Some things just need to be appreciated. The most handsome man I’d ever met was tied willingly on my floor, his face filled with longing. The sun cast squares of light on the floor where it came in the window. I had crates of guns in the cellar, and I wasn’t going to get caught. I touched my nipple between thumb and forefinger, and it was as though his teeth were still upon me.
I strode back over to Gregor Johann and touched his thigh with my toes, then ran my foot up onto his cock. I looked at him, he nodded, and I brought some of my weight down onto it. He looked pleased, so I lifted my weight and did it again, harder.
Then I straddled his chest, my back to him, and began to touch myself. It wasn’t hard to get worked up, and I let myself moan, staring at his cock, watching it move involuntarily. I let go of myself with one hand and reached out to touch it, pressing my thumb against the top of the base, watching it gorge even further with blood.
I bent over, pressed my ass against his face—letting him lick for a moment before pulling out of his reach—and put the head of his cock into my mouth, running my teeth lightly against it, flicking the urethra with my tongue.
Then I took him into my throat and let him fuck me, watched him try not to struggle too hard against his bonds. He thrusted and filled me, and I touched myself with renewed vigor. He was gasping now, and letting out long moans that filled the room and most likely the courtyard below the window. I put the head of his cock back in my mouth, tongued it, fucked it, moving my head faster than this thrusts, alternating my speed until we reached a rhythm with each other. My right hand was on his cock, wet with spit and jerking him off. My left was on myself, keeping me ever more aroused.
“Do you want me to come this way?” he asked.
I kept going, and he thrust harder up against me. It was too good to stop, too good to change positions, and I was bucking against him myself.
“I’m going to come,” he said, and I pulled his cock out of my mouth, drooled spit into my hand and jerked him off faster, keeping my face and my mouth inches from him.
He came onto my face. He’s a man who keeps his promises. It spurt up against my lip, my cheeks, my chin, came a little too close to my nose. I let it drip down me, down my neck and chest.
“Tell me to come,” I said.
I took my hand off his cock and slapped his side, hard.
“More,” he said, and I did it again, and again.
“Now come,” he said. “Fucking come.”
I hit him another time and then orgasm came over me. I put both hands on myself and collapsed against his body, my face near his cock, and shook, letting it run through me. I breathed hard, and heavy.
The autumn wind picked up outside, rattling the glass, and I slowly came to my senses.
“Do you want me to untie you?” I asked.
“In a minute,” he said.
Later that day, we worked out business. Business is important too. And fun, and dangerous. It’s hard to imagine fun without dangerous.
I can’t wait to see him again.