“Kissing the gunner’s daughter, indeed.” Stephen sat down on the bench as Jack put his violin away. “I daresay that if Mr. Horner had any daughters, he would not tolerate any midshipmen kissing them, even by the Captain’s orders.”
“Well, I’m glad he don’t.” Jack sat down next to him and took a sip of his wine. “At least as far as I know. I feel sorry for gunners’ daughters. Noone ever wants to kiss them, ha, ha, ha!” He laughed so hard he nearly broke the glass, which he leaned over to set on the table.
Stephen had a mischievous look about him, one that gave Jack the feeling that he might be lingering in the great cabin for a good while longer, and he replied, “But they do get kissed, and perhaps more frequently then they should. Surely it cannot be healthy for a girl to be kissed by as many young gentlemen as a gunner’s daughter is. Her poor head must be constantly spinning. And how many times have you kissed her?” he added as an afterthought. “I have on very good authority that your kisses can be fairly rough at times, my dear. How many times have you left the poor gunner’s daughter with her lips so badly used that one more kiss from the next young gentleman and they must erupt in an open sore?” A particularly strong twinkle in his eye. “Or have you broken her back with your weight?”
“I’ve never broken a gun, I don’t weigh that much!” With Stephen looking at him like that, Jack was tempted to pin him to the bench and demonstrate just how roughly he could kiss, but he continued, “As for how many times I kissed the gunner’s daughter in my youth, well, I’m afraid I’ve lost count. I lost count of the number of times under Captain Douglas alone, before he finally turned me before the mast.”
“I cannot say I’m surprised. But I assume the Resolution was one ship where the poor gunner’s daughter never rested, and nor did the boys who kissed her.”
“It was.” Jack laughed at the memory, glad he could now. Then another thought cross his mind, and his face turned more serious. “Though you know, they say there are some ships where...” he drifted off. He looked at the gun in his own cabin, and at Stephen.
“Where the gunner’s daughter isn’t the only person with someone leaning over her.” Stephen finished, and his expression turned to one of grave concern. “Were you ever on any such ships, joy?”
Jack shook his head. “No. I was an innocent young maiden when you took me to your bed in Spain.”
Stephen snorted, both their cheer returned. “An innocent young maiden? Who had just buggered me horribly in my own bath?”
Jack blushed. “Okay, maybe not quite so innocent.” Stephen blushed as well, at the memory of that particular encounter in the bath, which “horribly" described all too well. Jack had truly not had the slightest idea of what they were doing at all, and Stephen’s experience had been limited to one odd incidence in his youth, so needless to say, it had not been carried off too well.
“Not innocent at all, my dear sir! And if you had any innocence left by the time you were a lieutenant, then I’m Bonaparte. Why, you ought to be seized to the gun this very instant for saying such a thing!”
He must have meant it jokingly, but a thought suddenly entered Jack mind which made his prick twitch in his breeches. He stood up. “You’re right.”
Stephen looked at him in confusion, so he continued, “Somebody ought to put me over a gun. Unfortunately, I can’t very well have my crew see me in such a disgraceful state, unless they have already seen me in enough states that one more doesn’t really matter. So I am afraid the duty falls to you, my dear doctor.”
Stephen comprehended. “Very well, sir. Remove your breeches, shoes, and stockings, if you please.”
The commanding tone in his voice was unexpectedly arousing. Jack hurried to obey, and by the time he had taken off his breeches and neatly folded them on top of the bench, his prick was quite swollen. Stephen looked at it appreciatively, and Jack could see a bulge begin to form in his own breeches. “Your shirt, and position yourself.”
Jack took off his shirt and laid himself across the gun, placing his arms around the barrel. Stephen took his folded shirt and breeches and placed them under Jack’s abdomen. A second later he added his own shirt. “Will that do?”
“It ought to.” Jack’s voice came out strained.
“You know I have never cared for flogging.” He heard Stephen say. “But then, neither have you, so I assume you will not object to ointment?”
Jack shook his head. A second later he felt a single oiled finger enter him. "You could start with two," said Jack. "I believe am not too tightened at the moment."
"Jack!" Stephen chided. "Has it not been made clear to me that a flogging must be done with all full ceremony?"
"This particular type isn't always." But Stephen would not listen; on finding Jack impatient, he was left wanting all the more to make him wait.
Indeed, he took longer than usual with the preparation, keeping only the one finger in him far longer than would have been necessary had they not done this in months, taking an equal amount of time with two, and by the time he reached three Jack was biting his lips, because he wanted badly to beg, or shout, or say something. But he feared that would only make Stephen delay longer.
But then at long last they withdrew, and Jack felt a powerful pulse of excitement charge through him as he heard the rustle of Stephen removing his breeches. Eagerly he spread his legs apart, then pressed his mouth to the metal of the gun to stifle the moan when Stephen plunged into him with one powerful stroke, his thighs slapping across Jack’s legs, and his arms wrapped around Jack’s in almost an exact imitation of Jack’s arms wrapped around the gun.
“One.” Stephen’s voice was hoarse, he whimpered as he pulled out and drove in again, pushing Jack hard into the gun. “Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Five.” Stephen reached under the gun to take Jack into his hand. Jack’s mouth remained sealed on the gun, and his moans made the metal vibrate. Stephen became less coherent, until Jack could no longer tell what number he was on, and he was completely beyound counting himself.
He gave up counting, and his head fell onto Jack’s shoulder-blades. He pressed kisses to the skin, licking the spots that made Jack gasp into the gun, which was no longer enough to muffle his cries. With his other arm Stephen slid his hand to clamp Jack’s mouth, his own pressed itself into Jack’s back, his tongue lolling over Jack’s skin.
Then Jack came, grinding his teeth together in his desperate attempt to keep quiet. Another stroke, and Stephen gasped out Jack’s name and sagged against him, spent.
For several minutes they lay limp on top of the gun. Then Stephen pulled himself off Jack, and Jack rolled to the floor, carefully avoiding the mess he had made next to the gun, thankful for the thousandth time for Killick’s discretion. Stephen lay near him, then let Jack take him into his arms and kiss him tenderly, then he pressed his face into Jack’s neck and stroked his hair, which had at some point come undone.
“So, Jack, was the gunner’s daughter a more pleasant person to kiss then in times past? I think you fairly ravaged her this time.”
“Yes, I think she’s aged well. Like this ship.” But then he remembered the fate that awaited the Surprise when she got back to England. Knowing his thoughts, Stephen tightened his embrace and kissed him again.
“Do you think you were bent over this very same gun as a midshipman?”
“Well, it has been a very long time, but I don’t suppose it’s impossible. I’m afraid last time I was kissing the gunner’s daughter in this ship I wasn’t paying much attention to the gun itself.” He lifted his arm up and stroked the gun fondly.
“So I don’t suppose I really should be jealous?”
“Of course not. Unless you want to be kissing her yourself at some point?” It was only after he said this that he realized how it could be taken. He must admit, he didn’t find the idea unappealing.
Stephen chuckled and drew Jack’s mouth back down to him. “Perhaps.”