no maiden land

It is a pleasure to be there, on his knees.

Francis' fingers brush his ear, the corner of his cheek -- to stroke back a lock of hair or simply to touch. Fitzjames is so disarmed by the gesture that he makes a sound with his mouth still around his prick, a soft gasp. His own prick is throbbing with want, but the pair of them can deal with that later. This is service of the most delicious kind, service delivered most willingly.

He draws his mouth down Francis' tool, carefully and slow -- drawing back is near-torture. Doing things with the pad of his tongue that make Crozier's thigh muscles go tight against him, and that draw out hoarse endearments from Crozier's unpracticed lips -- that's its own kind of pleasure, not of serving but of mastery. Feeling the weight of Francis' balls in his hand, and the weight of his cock upon his tongue -- to be so close is precious, there is no greater pleasure than that. His cheeks hollow as he sucks.

He has done this before, but never like this -- in the narrow corridors of a deserted club or in the guilty privacy of an officer's cabin, in a Singapore alley. Francis is here, and a nicely willing subject for his experiments in tugging and sucking, in lips and tongue. For a man so buttoned-up he could almost be called demure, he makes such raw sounds of pleasure -- lucky the woman who'd have him for her bed, or the man. Even the sound of his breathing is obscene -- fast little shallow breaths drawn through shudders of pleasure, or deeper inhales as if he must keep himself from spending right then as Fitzjames' tongue circles the head of his cock. It's rather a wet business, between spit and the first delicious slickness of seed; even in the heat of it it is impossible to mistake who it is he's servicing: his scarlet-faced and quarrelsome captain. Regular servicing might put him in a better temper.

He must pace himself, and keep a rhythm. He can feel him on the edge of spending now, all of Francis' considerable endurance stretched to a steely limit, and he wants it very much. Fitzjames lifts his eyes -- looking up, Crozier's face is all he can see. Crozier's seed is in his mouth, and his most secret parts. How can he be anything else but wonder-struck?