by Noah Harris
“Other affairs” being, of course, the murder of the fisherman. Thomas wished he felt worse about the man. During his shift, he had asked some of his shipmates about the fishermen, farmers, and other townsfolk, and they told him that most who lived here were criminals on the run or former pirates who had decided for a more settled life on shore. That made him feel a bit better. The fisherman had probably been as much of a rogue as any of the men on this ship. Thomas kept telling himself that throughout the day.
On the Manhunter, talk had centered on the Weasel’s proposal. Most of the crew hadn’t made up their minds but were leaning in the direction of saying no. After some hard thinking, Captain Seawolf had decided against it.
Thomas wasn’t so sure. The Weasel - or “King Bartholomew I,” as he wished to be called now, had specifically said that man-lovers could live as they wished in his domain. That was a powerful incentive to say yes. While the crew of the Manhunter had always been allowed to do a pleased in Cutlass Cove, to have that written into the law of a sovereign nation would be history in the making. Where else had such a thing been enshrined in law? Perhaps Ancient Greece, but the simple education Thomas received in his town’s schoolhouse had not covered such things. He’d heard rumors, though, and had fantasized about being born in that time instead of his own.
Once, he had made a Mediterranean run and had landed at Athens to unload a shipment. On shore leave, he visited the Acropolis, that vast collection of ancient temples overlooking the city that had been the subjects of so many poems and pictures and songs. It had been a bit of a disappointment. Most of it lay in ruins, little more than crumbled walls and cracked columns, but he had seen a few statues there that had made him stop and gasp.
One, especially, had caught his eye. It still stood on its plinth, a proud, muscular man of white marble gazing out over the city. He was nude and running a strange, curved object over his extended arm. The shapely curves of the man’s buttocks and crotch, the lifelike muscles of bicep and chest, had made Thomas linger and stare.
“Quite a man, isn’t he?” someone had said in broken English behind him.
He turned to see a Greek man his own age, with a fine, olive-skinned face and a pair of soft brown eyes like those of a doe. Black hair hung in ringlets over his forehead. A sensuous mouth had smiled at him knowingly and asked, “Do you know what he’s doing?”
“No,” Thomas admitted.
“He’s cleaning olive oil off his body. That tool he holds is called a strigil. My ancestors would exercise in the gymnasium with other men, always in the nude, and when they were done they would rub each other down with olive oil and scrape it off with a curved piece of bronze called a strigil. I’ve never tried it.”
Thomas got bold. “Try what? The strigil or the nude exercising?”
The Greek man laughed and took his hand. He led him through a shattered temple to the altar. Thomas noticed that someone had placed a wreath of laurel leaves on the cracked marble surface.
“This is the temple of Aphrodite, the goddess of love,” his new friend explained.
“I’ve never paid much attention to goddesses.”
The Greek had laughed. “Neither have I!”
They made love behind the altar, first with Thomas on top and then with the Greek man taking the dominant position. Afterwards, the Greek looked out fearfully from their hiding place.
“Is everything all right?”
“The police are coming. Follow me. I know a back way.”
They had managed to elude the police, but the mood had vanished and once they were safely in the alleys at the base of the Acropolis, the Greek bid him goodbye. Thomas felt disappointed but not surprised. All his trysts ended as quickly as they started.
The disappointment lingered that time, though. His trip through Athens and the long slog up to the Acropolis in the hot Mediterranean sun had been a pilgrimage of a sort. He had wanted to get to the historical source of man love, and when he had met a beautiful local who wanted to taste English flesh he had rejoiced, feeling as if history itself was giving him a warm welcome. But then they had to slip away from the police like a pair of thieves. There was no safe place in the world.
He wished there could be. Why not Cutlass Cove?
He found himself idly rubbing his trousers. The thought of that Greek had gotten him excited. Until joining this crew, that nameless Athenian had been the only man he’d tumbled with in the daytime, even if their encounter was hidden away in the shadows of an ancient temple. The memory brought back that first flush of excitement when their eyes had met and Thomas knew what kind of man the fellow was.
He was hard now. Strange he should get so riled up about a man he’d bedded two years ago. It was making him feel flush. Without really thinking, he removed his shirt, and noticed a sheen of sweat across his muscular chest. His cock was so firm, it was almost painful. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a few sailors giving him curious looks.
Then he smelled it—the musk. His eyes hooded, and he took a long, slow inhalation. A heavy footfall behind him told him someone was drawing close.
“You look even better in the sunlight, boy,” Osier’s voice rumbled behind him.
“Mmmm,” Thomas said dreamily, writhing his body a little and enjoying the feeling of the unseen man’s eyes upon him.
“I’d like to see more of you,” the werebear said. It came out as a command. Thomas did not mind. He had the musk in his lungs.
Thomas’s heart fluttered. For all his suspicions, for all his regrets about the fisherman, he had to admit no one had made him feel as good as Osier had that night in the shed.
After a moment’s hesitation, Thomas said, “Well, why don’t we go down below?”
A wave of musk wafted over him, making his body hunger for a pair of powerful hands to hold him still while he gave himself up to a deep penetration.
“No, we’re going to do it right here.” Osier’s voice came out deeper than before. Was he changing? Several of the crew had stopped their duties to watch now. Thomas ignored them.
“In the broad daylight in front of the crew?” Thomas asked, shifting in his seat to adjust the bulge in his trousers. Sweet memories of the Greek temple came back to him.
“That’s right, and when I’m ready to shoot I’ll shoot all over your face like you asked me to, and you’ll wear it all day like you promised.”
“I will, but on one condition.”
“I don’t accept conditions, boy.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“What is it?”
Thomas licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “That you change more than the last time.”
Another wave of musk passed over him, stronger this time. Thomas got to his feet, unbuckled his belt, and let his trousers fall to the deck. He could see people staring openly, and heard a distant voice say, “Take care, Thomas. This is not wise.” But it all passed as if in a dream.
“Grip that barrel and bend over,” Osier commanded. His voice no longer sounded human. The words came out as low growls, and the syllables slurred together.
Thomas did as he was commanded—as he wanted to do.
He closed his eyes. He did not want to see what was about to mount him. He only wanted to imagine it. And he did not want to see the sailors gathering in a wide circle to watch. He did not want to see any human faces right now, only to feel the sweet submission of offering himself to a powerful shifter.
Those broad hands he yearned for grasped his ass, kneading the soft flesh and a low, deep chuckle sounded behind him. Fingers reached around to clench the front of his hips, and two thick thumbs pulled his cheeks apart. How could someone’s hands be so big? Had Osier grown even more that Thomas thought possible?
Dimly, Frenchie’s warning about tempting the lycanthropes too far came back to him. Had Osier changed too much? Would this creature tear him apart like the lycanthropes had with that daring, foolish man who had ventured into their cage?
It was too late
to pull out now, even if Thomas had wanted to. Those hands had him clamped in a vice grip, and even now, he could feel that broad bulbous head with the thick shaft behind it pushing into his crack. Even now, he could feel the strange slick surface that was naturally lubricated in a way he could not imagine.
The cock didn’t even slow down as it penetrated him. Nothing could stop its steady advance. Thomas choked, cried out, and gasped in painful ecstasy as he was filled almost to the point of breaking.
Like the previous time, Osier was in no hurry. He kept up a steady motion, an unstoppable thrust and pull, thrust and pull. If it were not for those iron hands around his shoulders, the unusually sharp nails biting into his flesh, Thomas would have been flopping around like a rag doll.
This time Thomas did not need to keep silent. He cried out with every thrust, a wail of pain and joy and surrender all mixed up into one. Again, and again, that monstrous cock shoved inside him, bigger than the night before. Hot breath ran along his back, and the sweet, cloying musk drugged him out of his mind.
Just as Osier began to pick up speed, and the thrusts became more painful than pleasurable, he pulled out. Thomas sighed in relief and disappointment. Osier’s hands released him. Thomas’s knees buckled and if he were not gripping onto the barrel he would have fallen over. He waited for Osier to penetrate him again.
“Have you forgotten your promise, boy? Turn around and get on your knees.”
Trembling with anticipation, he did as he was told, keeping his eyes firmly shut. A slick, repetitive sound came from inches in front of his face. He knew that sound well, for it was a sound heard many a times on lonely nights in the crew’s quarters of other ships. It was a sound he made himself when there was no man with whom he could satisfy his lust.
But now that sound had a different quality, because he knew that this was a sex act of a different sort, one both solitary and inclusive. It was two men sharing their own individual moment.
Thomas relaxed, eyes shut, lips slightly parted, and waited.
He did not have to wait long.
A hot spray shot straight into his face, hitting him in the cheek. Instinctively, he flinched, and the second shot hit him in the forehead. Then he pushed himself forward, face up, to catch the full force of the next shot.
It hit him square between the eyes, hot and powerful. The crew gasped all around him. Another gout of sizzling liquid splashed on his face, and the warm wave of cum poured down his broad chest, soaking his pubic hair and coating his thighs.
Another shot, the last. Thomas reached up and rubbed the man juice all over his body, anywhere Osier hadn’t hit. He coated his ass and put a thick gob inside his crack. He covered his cock and wiped it down the lengths of his arms.
He became aware that the sounds around him had changed. There were no more gasps of shock and delight. No more calls of encouragement. He heard the wet sounds of men being sucked and fucked. His display had brought the crew’s libido up to a fever pitch.
He waited for Osier to do more to him, but the werebear seemed to have departed. It did not matter. He had a whole crew satiating their lust all around him. He continued to kneel in the middle, covered in Osier’s cum, satisfying himself with his own hand until he shot his own stream of sex juice onto himself, another warm spurt of pure life.
As the orgy around him grew louder, he lay back in the sun with a satisfied smile and let the tropical sunlight dry the shifter’s cum on his body. He would leave it there all day as a testament to the pleasure he was able to give and receive from that strange, frightening supernatural creature. He would leave it there to show off that he dared to do more than any human on this ship.
Once the orgy had ended, and everyone except Thomas had cleaned up, the time came for the vote. People had been debating with each other all day or sitting off to one side in solitary thought. Everyone had taken this seriously, and it amused Thomas to see so many simple sailors using their heads for something other than thinking up filthy limericks.
The entire crew gathered for the meeting. Thomas knew that similar meetings were happening all over the bay. It was strange to think that so many murderous crews would sit down and debate the issue as if they were members of the Houses of Parliament.
Several people spoke. Captain Seawolf was dead set against it, stating how the Weasel certainly lived up to his name. He was the most dishonest man the captain had ever met, and that said something. Now, the bastard had gotten visions of glory and wanted to set himself up as king. He would be worse than the real kings because he’d throw his little power around as much as possible in order to prove himself. Far better, Captain Seawolf argued, to be free, then to be under the thumb of any king, especially a fake one.
Many of the men and both women nodded in agreement. Escaping the law was the reason most had turned pirate in the first place. They had no desire to put themselves under the authority of a new master.
But not all were against the idea. Several sailors got up and repeated “King Bartholomew’s” promise to treat their kind equally. Where else could they expect such treatment? While the captain objected that the man was a scheming liar and could not be trusted, those speaking pointed out that the Weasel needed all the support he could get, and that the Manhunter was one of the most profitable ships in the business.
Then, to Thomas’s surprise, Osier stood up.
“We should vote to join this new kingdom. Where else can we find such a safe haven? And what really changes if we join? We’ll have to pay some docking fees, sure, and that’s too bad, and we’ll have to help out other pirate ships in trouble, and that could be damned inconvenient. But what if we don’t join? We lose our right to dock at Cutlass Cove and must take our chances at the other ports like it used to be before the Weasel set this place up. Do any of you remember what that was like? I do, and some of the others do as well. We were always having to look over our shoulders, hoping we weren’t recognized. If we robbed an English ship, we hid out at a Dutch port. If we robbed a Dutch ship, we had to find a French port. It was a damned pain in the ass and not the good kind, I can tell you. Plus, there was always some bastard of a port official who figured out who were and demanded a bribe to stay quiet. No, I don’t want to go back to that nonsense.
“And I have another reason to say we should join up. If we don’t, some of the other crews might decide to turn on us to get in good with the Weasel. If they hear we got a good haul, what’s to stop them from attacking us? It already happened to the Guerrero.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” Seamus shouted. “No pirate ship has ever attacked us before, and you know why? Because we could beat any one of those filthy crews.”
That brought a cheer from the assembly. Osier nodded.
“We could beat them, yes, but we’d lose good men doing it and perhaps damage the Manhunter, as well. And where will we find a port safe enough to go in for repairs for a week or a month? Now let me tell you something, lads. There’s another reason they might come after us. I learned of a big haul to the south of here, near the opening of the River Amazon.”
Thomas perked up. That was the location of that island on the map, the one with the “Bahía de los Tritónes” marked on it.
“When in town this last time, I overheard some sailors talking about a Portuguese gold shipment coming down that river. They say the Portuguese have found huge deposits of it on the riverbanks far up in the jungle. They’re planning on shipping out the gold in a month and heading back to their country. Now this was the crew of the Monsoon that I heard telling of this. You know the ship - it’s that fine sloop in dry dock at the moment. They’re in for repairs and won’t be ready to ship for a week at least.”
“You’re saying we should head out and try to get that gold ship before they do?” Seamus said. Osier had everyone’s attention now.
The werebear nodded. “That’s right. The Monsoon is a fast ship, faster than the Manhunter, but with a week’s head start we should be able to beat her. What I’m worried about
is if she brings some allies along. The crew I overheard were trying to convince some officers from another ship - I don’t know which - to join them and add some guns to what is sure to be a hard fight. You know how well ships from the mines are protected. What if they see us plundering the gold shipment and attack us? What if it’s their two ships to our one? We might not survive. If we join with the Weasel, we won’t have anything to worry about.”
“Assuming the Monsoon and the other ship abide by the Weasel’s words. Assuming they even join the kingdom.”
“They will want to. Didn’t you see the captain of the Monsoon go up and shake the Weasel’s hand right when he came into the meeting? He’s been in on it from the start.”
Thomas nodded, impressed. The captain of the Monsoon had, indeed, done just that. Osier had spun a clever tale, a mixture of fact and fiction.
Yet the question remained—what would happen once they got down there? If Osier wasn’t telling the truth about the treasure map now, he wasn’t going to tell it at all.
“What if those lads from the Monsoon were just wagging their jaws and didn’t know what they were talking about?” someone objected. “Or if they were running some sort of confidence game?”
“It can’t hurt to go have a scout,” Osier replied. “If there is no treasure ship, there are plenty of other Portuguese vessels we can attack. It’s gotten a bit hot for us up here. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to test some new waters where we aren’t known.”
The crew broke into a dozen conversations. After a few minutes, Frenchie called for order. “All right, lads, let’s take a vote. Who is in favor of joining the Kingdom of Free Caribe? Say aye!”
“Aye!” came the response. Thomas cast his vote with them. It did not sound like they had a majority.
“All those opposed, say nay!”
“Nay!”
That sounded like a clear majority.
Nevertheless, with such an important vote, Doctor Hartencourt made a tally. Nearly two-thirds of the crew had voted nay. Osier looked irritated but shrugged it off.
