Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  Pain speared through René, so sharp it might as well have been pleasure. He turned his head to the side and shut his eyes; still seeing James in the blackness though with his eyes closed it could have been anyone. So beautiful, even on his knees in the Tortuga filth, sucking his prick like that whore would have done.

  “James,” the name left his lips, glorious. René groaned and a groan answered him, filling his body with shivers as they slid along his cock. He thrust up for more greedily, arching hips from the wall to sink further into James’ warmth and died when it was allowed, and the hand holding him cupped his balls in a ready caress and stroked over the furiously pounding skin.

  “ Dieu!” René shouted hoarsely, on and on forever as the pleasure took him unexpectedly. His head flew back as he came, shock and lust burning out of him and leaving only splinters of black and gold behind his eyes.

  He was aware at first only of the sound of breathing, his own weighted battle for air against the weariness that left him drained and aching against the hard wall. It rasped out of his dry, scratched throat unevenly, but it pulled him from the darkness of his little death, made him feel the night breeze play along the sweat on his skin, and how it tingled on the places on his neck and shoulder where the skin felt sore.

  Then another sound joined it, laughter and shouts from a great distance, louder than the murmur of the ocean beneath it. The ocean he knew well, and he sighed, coming back to the world with a dizzy frown. But he did not open his eyes, his frown deepening at yet another sound, a sudden violent spate of coughing.

  Shivering, René turned his head and opened his eyes. He was in a shadowed, filthy alley in Tortue. The wind on his burning bare skin, on his stinging prick, was wounding, and he raised one hand to pull at his shirt. Only then did he move his eyes downward, and his brain seemed to throb against his skull at the slow motion.

  Still on his knees, James Fitzroy was bent over with one hand to his mouth. The other kept him from falling to the ground as he choked loudly and spit up a large amount of foul smelling, steaming rum. It splashed off his palm and sprayed all over the ground, where more rum and René’s seed mingled with the dirt. His strong shoulders shook with the effort to be rid of it and his startled moan was pitiful.

  If James were not careful, his spectacles would fall from his nose into that pile of slop. René thought it without much heat, as only the truth, for like James, the glasses were out of their proper place. James would stay there on his hands and knees and search for them in that disgusting puddle all night if he had to. It turned René’s stomach to think of that and he had to look away, focusing on the noise of the vulgar revelers. Some seemed quite close, perhaps in another alley nearby.

  He was almost as far away as to be one of them when he heard James shift. He turned back to look down into his used face. “René?” James’ voice was the croak of an old woman, his tone as uncertain. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand could not hide the marks of René’s force along his throat, nor the wetness lingering at the corners of his mouth.

  James had opened his mouth wider like some whore, the memory of it still had the blood pulsing between René’s legs and he could not push the knowledge away. James had let him shove his cock inside of…he left that thought unfinished and slapped a hand to his belt, still in place though loosened greatly by James’ hands.

  His neck snapped painfully as he pushed his body from the wall, his bones as stiff as those of a dead man, but he did not stop until James was at his feet, the angle too great for him to see into René’s face. Then he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “So you had my cock in your mouth and did not care for it?” he chided softly and was surprised that his voice did not tremble. Fire scourged through his middle, and he knew he would have to drown it soon or he would be left hollow.

  The Englishman’s eyes remained open; it would have been impossible for them to grow wider. But he did not turn, and so René could watch the words hit him. He saw the quick startled blink and then the absolute stillness. Only his mouth moved, glistening, red lips parting to let out one small, cold breath.

  “Perhaps Tortue is not for you after all.” René’s heart still pounded with lust and he set his jaw and moved his eyes down to himself. His prick was soft and wet and dangling between his legs, outside of his breeches. “Perhaps you ought to go to Jamaica,” he suggested and slowly uncurled his fingers so that he might tuck himself back into his clothing. His cock still prickled with the remains of pleasure, but he welcomed the pain as he rebuttoned his breeches and slid a hand to his sash. His sword was under his hand, only a few inches from his purse of coin.

  The Englishman still had not moved and René shrugged his coat back into place when the chill reached his skin. The heat inside of him did not seem to reach to the outside, but that did not matter. He needed drink, and soon.

  One hand dug into the heavy leather bag and he grabbed a fistful of coins. Then he turned and walked away. The coins pinged noisily all over the ground as he neared the entrance to the alley, and he paused.

  There was still no sound from behind him; for once the damned man was silent. There was not even the shuffle of hands in the dirt, searching for the tossed money. The money…René tried to think of how much had been dropped, distracting himself with numbers.

  It had been too much. A wink of gold had teased René’s eyes in his last view of the other man, a small circle stamped with the cross. James had to have seen it as well, why did he not move?

  Unable to keep still, René looked back and saw James move at last, bending his head forward so that his gaze would be on the ground. He lifted one hand to pinch his glasses into place, but did not raise his head again, though René remained a few beats more.

  A strong pressure, a hot presence, on the back of his neck held René still, and then he turned and soon quickened his pace as walked. He recognized his distant observer easily but said nothing, only wanting to make sure he was nowhere near the alley. His need for liquor was still strong as well, so though his limbs were weak and his mind was swirling he walked fast. The sounds of pleasure from others were still loud, and he realized without a word to the man behind him that he had heard him and James together.

  Putting a hand to his stomach did not ease the churning ache but René left it there anyway, making himself smile to imagine Marechal’s reaction to the fevered screwing in that alley. If the man’s privates were hot and hard now it was his own fault, and he could find relief on his own, so long as the man did not return there. He had been told to stay on the ship.

  The heated gaze never left him and he sighed in near relief, slowing slightly. The silent man would not ask why René had spent so long on the island, would never speak of it, and this time René’s sigh was real, though it eased only a fraction the tightness of his stomach.

  Tortue was a small island, but a busy one. René reached back into his bag of coin once more, idly toying with the rough edged bits of metal as he walked on. There were many places here for a man to find drink, even some accursed rum would do.

  Port Royal

  Chapter Six

  Before him were the sky and the sea, and his eyes swept slowly over the achingly beautiful shimmer of blue that ran through both. A small sound pushed past his lips before he thinned them, and then he turned his eyes resolutely from the freely

  stretching Paradise and back to the Purgatory of columns on the page below him.

  Staring out the window and dreaming away… He ought to be whipped for a laggard or a lackwit, would deserve it indeed since he was the world’s greatest fool. James named himself right enough, pinching his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose until it pained. He did not relieve the pressure on the small bone, frowning down fiercely at the numbers and sums he had just penned onto the neat leaf of paper instead, waiting for the dazzling view outside the opened window to fade from his memory.

  His memory, as it always was of late, was not agreeable, and painted for him the
faint trace of white sand at the edge of that sapphire water that would have been visible if he turned his head to look. Small, tottering wooden and brick buildings with thatched roofs almost blocked the sight of the Jamaica beaches from him, life in Port Royal busily going on in the street running alongside them, merchants, and house slaves, and sailors of every sort, not one stopping to glance out at the water. None would, James knew from experience, not even the mariners though they still walked as if water were below their feet. His own feet still tripped him with that delusion, at night when he was too tired to fight them.

  He had learned that the merchants would not glance seaward unless a profitable ship sailed in, and that the sailors sought only their pleasure before returning to where the water darkened. The house slaves did not have the time to spare.

  From the corner of his eye, James beheld the clouded spectacle of a wealthy lady in a carriage, her maid opposite her, eyes cast down. Her skin was nearly as white as the lady’s, so much so that only her meek posture told who belonged to whom. She was lighter than many of the Africans brought here to harvest sugar in the fields, though most of the house slaves were light-skinned, he had learned. Sir Marvell had several.

  His thumb restlessly smoothed over the page on the desk before him, smearing a still wet droplet of ink. It stained the skin, revealing swirling patterns, and James studied them for a moment before realizing that he would also stain all that he touched now, including Sir Marvell’s accounts. He found his blotting cloth and dabbed at his thumb until it was dried, then tossed the scrap of cloth aside with a bit more force than was necessary. Let the clerks around him stare; he did not care a whit. He did not answer to them in any case.

  Shifting in his seat, James raised his shoulders so that he would not have to feel their curious gazes on his face, then turned his body, already awkwardly angled on the slim stool. He looked a perfect fool and he knew it, ill-fitting clothes stretched out over his large frame. Bought cheaply from a man nowhere near his size, but his only choice until he could afford to buy new togs, and that would be some time, for his salary was saved for other expenses, and he did not intend to ever spend the one remaining piece of gold still in his possession.

  James coughed, the violent, abrupt hacking doing nothing to ease the fiery knot in his middle. He tossed his head, like some madman who heard voices that were not there, and narrowed his eyes again to the straightforward sums.

  They were nothing but slashes of black on the parchment, meaningless, and he squeezed his eyes shut, setting down his quill before the others would see his shaking hands. Three months it had been. Three months and the breezes of spring were felt even here in the Indies; surely they would carry away his degradation with them, leaving him free again. If only he waited a little longer.

  He searched his soul for patience, seeking out the water with his eyes again when the desk failed to comfort him. A dark speck was visible on the ocean now, a ship, and another cough escaped him, though he quickly shaped it into a lifeless chuckle. Likely it was more pirates, or a slave ship, or silks from the East for the lords and ladies to wear. And with its cargo it would carry rats, disease, and drunken men, as well as news of home.

  For the smallest moment James thought of the letter he had written, and the cost of mailing it, which did not guarantee it would even reach his father and stepmother. But they would be longing for news of him, and in truth he was well nigh sick to hear from them. Months to wait for that as well, if it came at all.

  It was only the creaking of the desk that made James aware of his hands, pressed flat onto the chipped, hard surface and pushing down so tightly that he imagined the wooden legs were near to buckling. He quickly lifted them, clasping them together and inhaling deeply.

  He did not need to be working these columns of figures now, and he unclasped his hands to snap the account book closed before he could smudge it further with his carelessness. He neatly cleaned his quill as well, and then set it down next to the closed ledger, letting the feathery tip brush across his knuckles. The worn feather was as soft as a woman’s hair in his hands, reminding James of just how long it had been, well over a month, since he had been with a woman. His hands had tangled in her hair, just as sweet as this, when she had bent over him to please him.

  He had welcomed the different position, his stomach lurching to see her falling to her knees. The whore, Jean, her name had been, had not liked being dragged back to her feet, until James had hurriedly suggested the bed. He had been without company for close to a month, and she had been pretty and spirited. To his great relief her touch had made him hard, but he had not been able to simply stand there and let her suck his cock, no matter how pleasurable her mouth was.

  He had not, still could not, recall the sensation of her thick hair wrapped around his fingers without a powerful feeling of loathing directed at himself. But his cry for the bed she had liked well enough, and James had been glad to feel softness at his back and not hard wood or rope.

  Shame heated his face and neck, spreading like a conflagration down over his body, until he was sticky with sweat on his chest and under his arms, and his own smell reached his nose, stronger than the salt of the sea. He smelled of filth, and longed for a bath, though it would not cleanse him anymore than a dip in that pure blue water would clean his memories.

  His teeth found the inside of his cheek, biting and sending a droplet that tasted of metal over his tongue. He smeared the blood across the roof of his mouth and then swallowed it. Perhaps if he found Jean again he could purge himself of the memories once and for all. But fear tightened his throat, and he glanced down once more, and then let his eyes swing back to the shore, and the ship making its way in.

  It was not the same ship, of that he was certain without even looking closer. And he was grateful, relieved, that he could continue to work and live here without risking anyone knowing the truth of his past. Though, verily, none who visited the port city seemed to care one bit who fucked who in the inns and behind taverns, no matter what sex or country of origin. Or age. What else could one expect in an island guarded by thieves? The only difference between the Old World and the New was the openness in which men degraded themselves, beyond that, he wondered at the need to pretend that each place was unique.

  Grimacing, James thought of Ben, and glanced about anxiously for the child, as he had been doing since arriving in Port Royal. Ben was supposed to be helping around Sir Marvell’s home with anything that needed to be done in exchange for his feeding and care, but had come into town with James today. Now he had wandered off, probably getting into mischief. He would come back later with a few coins or a few bruises or both, grinning as if nothing had happened.

  “Earned ‘em,” was all the child would say if James asked about either, with a strange, triumphant light in his green eyes, and so James had stopped asking, even if the sight of the bruises had nearly created a panic inside of him at first. Ben had seemed surprised that James had asked at all, as if James already knew the answer, or perhaps as if no one had ever asked before. Whatever the reason for Ben’s odd behavior, he was proud of the money he earned and had fairly beamed like the sun when James had smiled at Ben’s little pile of savings, leaning against James until James had pulled away.

  “He snuck out a while ago,” a helpful clerk supplied from behind him and James blinked before nodding to acknowledge the man’s comment, wondering if all could read his thoughts on his face. How he shuddered to think they might, and trembled inside to know that to some his damned foolish notions must have been obvious indeed.

  But at times, at night especially, the port town was a sinful place, well deserving of its title of the wickedest city in the world. The pirates and privateers andcorsaires more than ensured that with their debauchery, and James would not have Ben touched by that. One taste of it had nearly ruined James.

  This time his cough was more of a gagging noise, a horrified gasp as the strength seeped from him and his flesh heated. So hot and heavy on his tongue,
weighing down his lip, a thin stream of his own spittle slipping down his chin as he had struggled, struggled like some drunken sot to take in more of Villon’s cock. Into his mouth.

  James choked, his own madness stealing the breath from his lungs. He had not been able to breathe then either, but he had not minded. God’s teeth, he had not even felt the ground under his knees or the sharp tug of hands in his hair. René had groaned and wept above him. James had felt his arousal, and unlike with the woman he only dimly remembered, James had grown so hard that it had hurt.

  His eyes opened in an attempt to be rid of their dry stinging, and he found himself staring out at the window again, unsurprised this time. He had still been hard later, he reminded himself, hard and aching when kneeling his own sick, listening to the clatter of coins on the ground all around him, watching a red coat slip away into the darkness.

  Villon had been generous; James had not even paid that much to Jean. But he would not have taken it, if there had not been Ben to consider. His hand stole into the pocket of his tightly-fitted coat; down to the very bottom where, tucked into the half-ripped seam, was a thick gold coin. His teeth snapped together as he set his jaw, his ink-stained thumb tracing over the stamped markings.

  “Ah, there he is.” The hearty tones of Sir Marvell snapped James’ attention from the past and around to the opening door of the small office. Hurriedly, he reached for his wig hanging off the corner of the desk and slapped it onto his head, trying not to imagine whose head the hair had come from, as he often did when he was forced to wear the bloody thing. Or to think of Lord Cavendish, and the chestnuts curls of which he had been so proud.

  The hair fell heavily against the back of his neck and he shivered with the desire to take it off and scratch his scalp. He would grow hot in a moment, and probably sweat like a man out in the fields. There was nothing for it however, so he stood up respectfully just as his employer stepped over the threshold. Behind him stood another figure, and the first real smile of the day passed over James’ lips to see the lean form of Etienne Saint-Cyr.