Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  He could still remember holding his sword there in the cabin’s doorway, trying to keep the man at bay out of fear, and quaking inside to see no such fear in the eyes staring back at him. What in God’s name could make a man so cold, he wondered silently, and not for the first time.

  “Marechal brought you?” The question was asked with a deliberate sort of mockery that James associated with nobles and their cruel wit, and James felt his brows draw together in confusion but did not answer. Surely the man knew that, had asked Marechal to fetch him, had seen the big man at the door just now. No answer seemed to be expected, because though he waited tensely where he stood, Villon did not turn around nor ask his question again.

  There was little James could do but watch as Villon pulled his cutlass from his leather belt, his breath catching in his throat when the man brought the deadly sword down swiftly with a violence that should have been surprising from such a little man. The Captain cleanly sliced off the top of a clay flask of wine, the edge of blade inches from his hand though he did not seem to notice. He merely let the top fall to the floor and took a long drink, sheathing his sword as he did.

  The sheathed cutlass did not make James any calmer; this man did not need a sword to kill him and they both knew it. It was obvious in how thoroughly the Frenchman was ignoring him. His slight shoulders were relaxed, at ease; James could see them now that he had taken off the long, red coat he had taken from Lord Cavendish. It was draped over a chair next to a large desk, he noticed, and then blinked, looking around the room for the first time.

  It was small, though larger than the cramped hold where he slept when not on deck. A small, netted piece of bedding that sailors called ahamaca hung from the ceiling, and several chests, likely holding his spoils, were underneath it. Some casks, probably full of powder and shot, were near those. Other than the desk and chair, both covered with curled charts and maps, it was the only furnishing.

  The silence between them stretched out painfully as he watched Villon drink from the cask, watched all in bespelled fascination, even the man’s throat moving as he swallowed. He wondered if the taste of the wine would somehow affect his fate.

  Then the silence was broken by the shatter of the empty bottle on the wooden floor, dropped negligently now that it was of no use. Villon stepped away from the mess and turned around at last, the small woman’s earbob hooked through one of his ears swinging slightly.

  For a moment, the creation of purple jewels and gold wire held James’ attention, and then his gaze was captured by Villon’s again, as it always was. The other man’s eyes flicked over him smoothly before he moved, untying two laces at the top of his white shirt as if warm. It fell loosely about his slender body, for he was not wearing a vest, and billowed out around his waist where the sash still held his sword. James raised his eyes back to the man’s face when his gaze reached his low-hanging breeches and focused his attention on his neat features, straight nose and red mouth, anything but those eyes. Villon curled his lips in a faint smile as if noticing his study and then moved over toward a small basin filled with dirtied water on his desk.

  “The…boy…with you…he is well?” That was the last thing James had expected to hear and he nodded in agreement then frowned in confusion. Villon was not facing him as he asked, his still, slender form was James’ only way of judging his meaning and he could judge nothing. He curled his fingers into his palms before answering.

  “Yes.” He kept his voice even, startling even himself. Then his heart seemed to pound madly as he realized that the question might be a threat or warning, that the man would harm a child to punish him.

  “You are…” the man seemed to search for the correct word, finally pausing and looking at him steadily, half turned so that his hands rested over the bowl of water. “…Close?”

  Blinking at the strange emphasis put on that last word, James nodded, and then felt his frown deepen. The eyes had narrowed until they were like chips of coal with some fire kindled behind them and when he nodded the sparks seemed to blaze up, and James had jumped back into the door with the force of it before he could recover himself. His face reddened fiercely at his foolishness, but he stared back into infernal eyes. He had to keep Ben out of this.

  “Ben is a g…good lad,” James snapped the words out with only a small stutter. “Bright,” he added a moment later. He hesitated for another length of time, hearing his heart beat drum in his ears, then he lifted his chin the slightest, as much as he dared. “Please don’t hurt him,” he begged quietly. He could remember wondering before if it would do any good to beg, but for a child’s sake he had to try.

  Coal black eyes widened in something like amazement. James stilled at the empty stare of the killer in front of him, caught in his blank gaze until the man’s eyelids dropped closed. When they opened again, all the feeling had been leeched from his expression.

  “How do you like life on my ship…James, is it?” Villon changed topic calmly, lifting one thin brow as the French were wont to do before dipping his hands into the filthy water and scrubbing them, as if it would do any good, as if he were some sort of gentleman, and not a thief and a murderer. Pilate’s guilt, James thought sickly, washing his hands after condemning Christ, but when that other thin eyebrow went up in question, he swallowed his angry words and did his best to answer, momentarily distracted to realize that the man knew his name.

  “I…I…” he stammered and shook his head, hoping he could make sense, and save himself. “It is as bad as the people say,” he said finally and then gulped. “But it’s better than being dead.” His own answer brought back his feelings of dread, hearing the temper in his tone that he could not hide, but Villon only smiled, turning back to him as he carefully dried his hands.

  “You are a smart man, James,” Villon replied finally. “For an Englishman.” Shockingly, James could feel himself scowling, but Villon did not seem to care. James’ anger meant nothing to him, it was clear enough in his amused expression as he drew near.

  James suddenly became startlingly aware of just how much slighter the other man was. His surprise turned to discomfort, and then fear, when the Captain only came to a stop right next to him, not even a foot separating them. James backed into the door, a mere inch or so behind him, and then tensed, not even wanting to breathe.

  “Are you smart enough to know why I called you here…James?” Villon asked in his same, soft voice, dropping one shoulder in a shrug. This close, James could smell the wine on his breath, warm, sour fruit, and the sweat soaking his clothes, something sharper. Even the water from his washing reached his nose, salted as if it were seawater, and James parted his lips slightly, breathing through his mouth. It made Villon’s smile grow wider.

  Was he going to live after all? Relief poured through James at the idea, but only for a moment. Then the trepidation crawled back inside him when the man did not move away, did not even blink.

  “Why…” James had to stop, had to swallow to wet his throat, suddenly wanting some of that wine. “Prithee…whydid you bring me here?” he got out hoarsely and watched that other shoulder drop carelessly even as the Captain’s eyes remained steady and intense.

  “It will be many weeks until we return to Tortue,” he explained simply and dropped his eyes again, glancing at his chest, nearly touching it like the frayed end of a rope. For the first time, a bit of warmth crept into his black eyes, and James tensed, trying to control how his body trembled at the faint suggestion in the other man’s tone.

  He could not push away the memory of the nights on the deck this time, and flushed with heat and color to remember the sounds and brief sights of the darkened ship. Suggestions more bold than this one, whispered at night from oneman toanother, from one man to another, speaking simply and clearly. He had heard, had been warned about the Park in London, and the men of the theatres, but surely even in the park men were not so…open.

  He had closed his eyes of course, looking the other way for their sake and for his, and covering his ea
rs to block out the sounds…the sounds they made in their search for pleasure…furtive and quick and wet. Like any other fuck except… It was sinful, and against the law, he reminded himself, but his face flushed anew at the memory before he dared to look into Villon’s amused eyes. Seeing his calm suddenly made his whole body seize with terror.

  “Why have you brought me here?” he asked again, expelling one long, shuddering breath that seemed to have been trapped inside of him. “You English and your lack of grace…” Villon trailed off, sounding faintly annoyed. Then his hand darted out, grabbing the flesh between James’ legs through his filthy calico trousers and cupping it firmly in the palm of his hand. James flung himself back into the door in surprise, slamming against it but unable to escape, that hand would not allow him to move.

  Villon’s hand was warm, was his first dim thought before the fear seized him again. Warm and it had been an age since anyone but James had touched there. But he was still shaking, trembling like he had as a virgin with his first bawdy girl. He tried to shake his head, but could not make himself even twitch.

  “I brought you here because I want to taste your cock,” Villon went on quietly, calmly, as if it were nothing to him and James stared at him helplessly, hearing those nighttime whispered words being said to him. “And then I want to stick mine into your ass…James.” He was as silky as his stolen coat.

  It was a thousand times bolder than those words on the deck and more vivid than any passage in a history text, but for a moment that was all he could see, a bejeweled Roman emperor with robes of flowing white and a slave at his feet, raggedly dressed as the stories suggested. He tossed his head from one side to the other and shook it away.

  “I’m no sodomite,” James answered unsteadily, after what seemed like forever, and then squeezed his eyes shut when Villon only pressed his hand harder against his soft prick and rubbed up and down once. James’ head swam dizzily at the action, a powerful throbbing centering there, below his waist, belying his words. And then, shamefully, he could feel himself reacting.

  Was this his revenge? He nearly moaned it. “I am not interested in your ideas of sin…” Villon remarked and then paused. James opened his eyes. Then he jerked his head up so fast it slammed into the low beams above when he felt a warm mouth on his chest, closing over one nipple. A heat covered the sensitive flesh, like the sun outside, almost soothing, until his slippery tongue slid over the surface, teasing it into a tight, erect point.

  James barely felt the ache in his skull, only shaking his head slowly at the stream of heat working from his chest to his groin. Then he gasped, the heat changing to spikes of pain as sharp teeth bit into the skin and pulled gently. It was only for a moment, and then Villon pulled away, observing him coolly.

  “You will beg to become one before I am through,” he finished, his mouth curved into a grin. His lips were slightly swollen, James saw, and then shook his head for seeing it at all. The pain in his chest was gone now, melted into something hotter than it had been before, shooting straight to his prick, still held against that welcoming hand. Now his nipple ached, he realized, and then shook his head once more. It ached for more. Even the air seemed to tease it beautifully.

  He wondered if Villon knew that, if he cared, and then swallowed anxiously, knowing that he wanted him to care so that he would do it again, when he knew that the desire was wrong. But it did not feel wrong when Villon again bent his head and took his other nipple, running his tongue over the aroused point almost playfully before pulling it between his lips. Again the pleasure seemed to radiate from that spot, creating shivers on his skin, both cool and hot, and James closed his eyes again, wanting to imagine that this was a woman, some bawd he had paid for. He could not, not with his dark hawk’s eyes in his mind.

  The hand on his prick moved again, moved at last, undoing carved bone buttons as Villon teased his nipple. The combined pleasure of even that was intense, and James held himself still, not wanting to admit to wanting this. But then he felt the air on his bare skin and his trousers sliding down to the floor and could not pretend anymore, not with his stiff cock there between them, jutting out greedily. All he could do was pull back into the door and moan aloud at the thought of the pain that was undoubtedly to come.

  It was a gentle tickle that surprised him into opening his eyes, a soft scratching on his stomach through the fine hairs leading down below his belly to his prick. Villon’s eyes filled his vision, lit with some unholy emotion as one hand teased its way across his stomach muscles, making them tense and quiver with what he knew was anticipation and not fear.

  James let out a long breath and then stopped, realizing only as he did it that the action brought his body closer to Villon’s fingers. The feather light caresses were softer than any woman’s, unbelievable from such a cruel man, and James’ eyes widened in surprise when the touch of fingertips became a whole hand, splayed out warmly over his stomach. It voyaged lower easily; James caught his lip in his teeth and turned his head to the side, letting it ride down until he felt the gentle touch on his balls then letting out a strangled cough when it slid even further and they were cupped in a calloused palm.

  Villon bent his head once more, clamping one nipple between his teeth so tightly that a sharp stab of pain made James wince. He was throbbing in two places now, his body jerking uncertainly against the caressing hand rolling his balls like pipped dice and the stinging ache in his chest. He tossed his head with that same confusion until his pain melted into pure heat, a pounding, heavy rush of blood to his belly and prick, making him twitch excitedly. Pain and pleasure at the same time, he had never…this was no occasioned fuck in a local brothel house. Surely this was sick.

  When the teeth bit down again, and the rush of blood came to him another time he gasped in welcome, and smoothed his hands against the wood door behind him, pushing himself away from it. Against Villon’s hand his manhood swelled larger than before, admitting to his shame more than he ever could, his throat locked tightly.

  Villon laughed at that, a sound that should have brought color to James’ cheeks. Instead James turned to look at him, wondering what the other man saw that made him seem so triumphant. Whatever it was he kept to himself, remaining silent as his fingers slipped away from his balls at last and slid to his prick, circling over the large vein at the base of the shaft.

  They moved away at James’ shocked exclamation, moving slowly up the seam underneath, stopping only at the head. James twisted his hips, vainly seeking for some way to ease the building ache in his belly, the pull at his balls at Villon’s burning touch. Then he looked down, no longer able to bear not knowing.

  Villon’s eyes were on his body now, on the hard flesh he was laying claim to. He smoothed his thumb over the clear drops leaking out of the head of James’ cock and then twisted his hand, pressing the pad against the soft flesh on the bottom, just where the two bits of skin met. He rubbed that spot rhythmically, drawing sharp sounds from James with each move of his hand. It was pain again, or a pleasure so sharp it was pain, James could not tell, could not breathe, could not think. There was only Villon and the ache he had created.

  “You wait like a martyr on a cross.” The remark seemed to come from nowhere, and James snapped his head up and tried to focus on the words. Distantly, he saw the other man’s hoteyed amusement but could not speak to question it. “It is…sad…that you are not,” Villon went on, still rubbing his prick with deliberate softness, “I have always wanted to fuck your Christ, and I am not likely to ever meet him.”

  James could hear the gasp that followed the man’s blasphemy, but was not aware of opening his mouth or even drawing breath. He could not think, focus on what had been said; he very much feared that if he did he would have to answer, and he had none. It was sinful, yet the words stroked over him like velvet, creating a burning like Hellfire in his loins, and Hellfire it must be indeed.

  Villon made a sound in his throat as he looked him over, as if he wanted to either laugh or be sick, and th
en curved his lips into a sneer. “Shall I continue…James?” Breath tickled his face again and James felt his lips part.

  “He is yours too.” It was only a shaky whisper, but his meaning was clear. The edge of a fingernail pushed into the slit at the tip of his cock and James jerked upright and gasped anew at the pain, his whole body throbbing.

  “No, you are mine.” Villon’s sneer was gone. His cheeks were flushed with temper or impatience, and seeing it caused James’s heart to miss another beat. His blood was singing gloriously through him, centering at his prick until he had to fight not to push his hips forward. “Yes or no?” Villon demanded, his voice rising. It caught on the last word and turned rough, almost savage.

  I want to taste your cock, Villon had told him plainly, and he was on fire at the thought, his mind not letting him dwell on the rest of what the man had promised. “Please,” he got out at last, disbelieving. “Yes.” Sweet Jesu, he swore silently, cursing himself for a weak stripling, for a coward. But it did not feel cowardly, to beg for pleasure from a killer. His heart was pounding as furiously at the blood between his legs, echoing his desires in his ears. “Please,” he said again, his voice nothing more than a rough whisper.

  Villon removed his hand at the word, leaving a sharper ache behind him. James barely had time to recognize that before Villon reached around him and grabbed the flesh of his ass, pulling them closer. His hands squeezed it curiously, parting the skin to make way for his questing fingers, ignoring how James went still and closed his eyes in remembered fear and startled pleasure at the feel of him. Then the other man slid down his body onto the floor, his knees bumping softly on the wood as he landed.

  Then there was nothing in the world but the warm breath brushing the tip of his prick.