Hickey is doing something unthinkably obscene with his tongue, something so vulgar that the thought of it has never crossed Crozier's mind before -- his mouth is warm and wet, and Crozier can't help yielding to him, can't help stifling a groan into a spasm of anguished breaths. That tongue circles and presses, stiff as any other length of muscle -- his hands press apart Crozier's arse-cheeks, spreading him wide, and the heat of his breath makes Crozier's balls hitch up tighter. That grip is tight enough to bruise, but the feathery flicker of his tongue is too soft to bear.

This filthy thing they're doing is beyond words. Sophia had let him kiss her white thighs, the thatch of her hair, the pink prettiness of her cunt, but no more than that -- he wonders if this is how women feel, invaded to their most secret places.

"Don't stop," Crozier says, and his own voice sounds terribly rough and strained. "I'll hang you if you stop."

Hickey exhales with laughter, and the scratch of his whiskers is like the bristles of a paintbrush against Crozier's innermost thigh. "Oh yes, sir."

Just as Crozier thinks that surely he can't intend to taste the inside of him, Hickey's tongue forces past the band of muscle there, wetly violating. He fucks him with his fingers as well as his tongue, gouging and pressing with obscene enthusiasm -- the seed is already trailing from Francis' prick, stirred up by the torment of that wet muscled invasion, and the sharp edges of his fingernails punctuate the terrible pleasure with pain. A common seaman's hands, coarse as leather, and an insolent quarrelsome tongue.

When he withdraws himself from Crozier's hole there is a queer wet moment of disappointment -- a strange, slack, sensitized emptiness. Before he can gather his wits and find it in himself to complain, Hickey straightens up and mounts him from behind, slipping in as tight and snug as a hand in a glove. He sinks in deep to the hilt, making Crozier cry out at that prick pressing through his wet raw passage like a knife in a wound. The lad sets a rhythm for himself, driving thrusts that make Crozier's hips ache and his back arch -- for a thin man he is terribly strong, and quick.

"You love it," he hisses, voice full of raw amusement as he bends low over his back. "Filthy fucker."