That sweet rump is spread and split beneath him, those soft buttocks as white and sleek as a boy's beneath their angry red stripes, and Crozier's mettle has failed him. This is the curse of old soaks and tired bachelors; he already knows it well, knows how to chafe at himself to bring his cock to a stand, but all these tricks are failing him now. He curses under his breath, and jostles against the table's edge.

"Have I done something wrong, captain?" It's difficult to take the inquiry as altogether sincere; the man's voice is sweetly conciliatory, as if Crozier has fallen short in a drawing-room game or missed the mark in a shooting match and not been humbled in the carnal act. "It's the commonest thing in the world, sir. Honor bright."

His prick is only half-soft, useless to push with, but the desire still hangs on Crozier as heavily as strong drink. Mr. Hickey presses back against him obscenely; his thinly muscled back makes a perfect arch. The word for it is common -- how many men have buggered him before, how many ratings have spent themselves inside him?

"Shove your pity," Crozier growls, though this may be a poor choice of words. His hand makes a tight circle at the base of his cock, as if he can keep the blood from running back out of it through sheer force. When he takes himself in hand late at night, it's much the same, but without the matter of witnesses to his shame. It's the sort of thing that makes women laugh -- Sophia had not laughed, the look on her face had been the sweetest womanly surprise, and that look of tenderness had been enough to stoke him back to a full erection -- whether the shame of it or the sheer force of her regard spurring him on into action. Mr. Hickey turns his head, wriggling prettily beneath him.

"You can bugger me with your fingers, if you like."

He is audibly short of breath. Crozier's fingers are already inside him, working into the tight passage of his arsehole, and this insolence is enough to make him withdraw. He doesn't give a damn about this man or his pleasure. In his mind he can envision this man Hickey's face, scarlet and shameless and grinning, as shameless and red-faced as the day he was flogged. He wants to bugger this man bloody -- to show him what men do to one another, to take the shine off that damned cheek, to stuff him with all the regard shown by men who commit sodomy with cattle and sheep. He does not want pity, or consideration, or a generous display of pleasure.

Hickey reaches back, fumbling, as if he is reaching for a hand to hold -- to soothe him, Crozier supposes, pressing down on the wet nape of the man's neck like a kitten collared by the scruff. The lad groans a little, taken by surprise, and that makes his prick jump.