Written for sidewinder for the 2009 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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The sun was already high by the time Captain Stewart Copeland of the Royal Navy strode onto the deck. As he did every day, he savoured the feeling of the fresh salty breeze on his face, and the thudding sound of his boots on the boards. Though at the time he had hated it, his father's decision to pack him off to the Navy had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. He looked back on his years of life on land with a kind of wistfulness now, and regarded his father's decision that he had to be separated from the evil influences of his college set (especially Sting) as a good joke. Poor papa, always too starched-up by half. Compared to what went on in the Navy, the kind of jaunts he had gone on while up were nothing at all, but he wasn't about to divulge this to his parent. In any case, life at sea suited him, the still growing prosperity of the EIC had offered him many opportunities, and he had climbed the ranks quickly. Now, in his 45th year, he had already been the commander of 5 vessels. Having been stationed previously in southern parts of the colonies, he had been given the chance to act as a privateer of sorts, clearing the trade routes of the pirates that had been running riot there, and this was how he found himself patrolling trade routes to the Americas now.
He was generally liked and admired by the crew, as well as the officers, and had no real intention of returning to shore any time soon. He'd always had a boyish temperament, combining a winning sensitivity and openness with a disposition to mood swings of childish extremity. This made him easy to relate to for the lowborn sailors, while his passionate dedication to his profession and charming honesty endeared him to them. He had sent the money he had made home, and had every intention of enjoying it once he returned, but he could not live without the sea and the thrill of action. With a sigh of contentment he took his place at the helm, as Dawkins, who had been minding it for the last shift, stepped back reverentially. As he surveyed the waters around them, and then the ship itself, his pale hazel eyes narrowed into slits, glowing oddly light in their shaded setting. He concentrated on the course for a while, checking the position of the sun, clouds in the sky, the wind direction, the waves, the way the ship leant, the way the boards creaked. From all these things he could tell how they were doing, what was to come and how the ship was. They had gone slightly off course because of what had happened over the last few days, and he had to remedy this, so it was some time before he could relax his concentration and stop giving orders. When he did, he looked over at Dawkins with his sunny boyish smile and said: "How are the prisoners today?" "Well, sir..." Dawkins said pensively, chewing the end of his clay pipe. "That French fellow's been causing some trouble again. I made him be quiet again, of course, but... Mark my words, sir, he's plotting something, that one, and something devilish, too. I don't see why ye don't just make him walk the plank, sir, not to criticize your decisions for I'm sure you know far better than I do." Copeland sighed. "For the last time, he's not French," he said. "And yes, I'll be pleased if you don't criticize my decisions, Dawkins, for all I know you mean well by it." "Well, what does he go about talking a bunch of dratted French to himself for, then?" Dawkins muttered. "He's a follower of Rousseau," Stewart said. "Why! Ain't he just!" Dawkins said, mystified. "Right you are, Dawkins," Stewart said. "Still, there's a price on his head, plus the usual payment, so I'd rather you had not talk of throwing anyone into the sea just now." But the conversation reminded him of something that had been niggling at the back of his mind for some time. The pirate captain and his main crew members whom he had captured some days ago were different from the usual bands of escaped, unorganized slaves or privateers who had run rampant. He had heard about the true, revolutionary pirates like Anne Bonney, Tew or Mission, but they seemed something unreal to him. This man, who allegedly was called Adam Ant, reminded him of them. It puzzled him, as for him there were few motivations in life other than desire and duty. Hierarchy and authority were meaningless to someone who was ruled by passion like he was. This was also the reason why he found himself slightly scared of this Ant person. He could not predict him and it made him frightened of not being able to control him. Though he had established some kind of acquaintance with him, he had done this partly because of his fascination and partly out of a desire to establish an equality, a grounds for peace. Still, he was nervous and any hints of bad behaviour made him apprehensive enough to make him want to check. Calling for someone to take over at the helm, he turned, and stomped off to the storage deck, the thunder of his boots echoing across the bare boards. The prisoners were kept on the deck above the ammunition one, with the food, supplies and the other goods they would trade for money at the port. There were two cages; at first he had wanted to place their leader in a separate one to make it harder for them to conspire but there been such fierce opposition to this he had not done it. Three were in one cell, the leader and his strange second in command, some Italian called Marco, in the other. They all regarded Stewart with suspicion as he approached them. He glanced briefly at them all, and stood still before their leader Adam, who was sitting against the ship's wall. He was a beautiful and exotic-looking man, who combined a femininely pretty countenance with great, intelligent eyes and a mind that was unusually astute and learned for someone of his background. From his colouring and dress, he was clearly a member of the underclass, and even worse, probably a gypsy, but though he spoke with an accent he was eloquent and seemed educated. Where he had received this education was anyone's guess. He almost made Stewart believe in the elusive "sauvage noble". Until now, he had never found a savage who had been any more noble than anyone else, and very often much worse, but lately he had had to revise his views. At his approach, Adam lifted his head and stared at him, defiance in his green eyes. His full, curved lips twisted into a wry smile. "Good afternoon, captain," he said. As always, he behaved with a studied politesse that bordered on the mocking, but seemed sincere and was a little unnerving to Stewart. "How are you today?" Ignoring this, Stewart clung to his prepared speech. "I said you could share as long as you didn't make any trouble. But all I hear from Dawkins is you angering the crew with speeches and quotations. If I'm not to interpret this as an attempt to start a mutiny, what should I interpret it as? I'm warning you now, I don't have a mind to harm you but that's what I'll have to do if you don't leave off." "It won't happen again, captain." "You bloody well won't, or they'll get you out of here and keelhaul you themselves," Copeland said. "Which I'll do anything to prevent, as I like to get the reward I should."
"Certainly," Adam said, gazing up at him, a picture of guilelessness and virtue. Stewart bit his lip in annoyance. Adam's friends all looked at the floor, obviously acting whatever their part was. Only his cellmate, the burly Marco, gazed up at Stewart with ill-concealed hatred. Something was going on that Stewart couldn't put his finger on, and it infuriated him. Nothing he could say or do could make Adam confide in him, or do anything to protect him, and that irked him to for some reason. He decided to ignore Marco's fiery stare, swallowed his rage, tipped his hat to Adam, and clanked off.
"Who has?" Stewart said, trembling inwardly. "That heathen gypsy you keep locked up on the supplies deck, sir," Joseph, who came along after him, added, squinting up at Stewart with his one eye. "Though not killed him, exactly. Not for lack of trying, though." "Joseph," Stewart said, taking deep breaths. "What happened?" "Frankie went to bring him his mess, sir, and no sooner had he slipped it under the bars but that heathen hits him in the head with an ankle chain and tries to choke him. Naturally Frankie protested something awful, and that brought me an' Seth down there. When he saw us he let go quick enough." Joseph's eye sparkled with bloodlust. "What are you going to do, sir?" "See for myself, of course," Stewart said, derisively, and stormed past both of them and down into the ship, his mouth set in a harsh line, eyes narrowed. On the supplies deck, a bunch of sailors was gathered, shouting and banging on the bars of the cell, with Fat Frankie stretched out on the floor next to it, a bloody streak running across his forehead. As Stewart approached, the commotion quieted a little, and they shrank back a little, the atmosphere seeming suddenly a thousand times more tense than it had been with everyone running wild. Everyone held back, now, bodies straining and eyes wide as they awaited the real power, and the true brutality that came with it. Stewart paused, looking at Frankie. Mr Harrison the surgeon was already cleaning the wound. "Is he going to be well?" he asked. Mr Harrison nodded curtly. Time to face the evil-doers. Stewart turned and approached the cell, in which his prisoners still sat, the other four just the same as that morning, Adam crouched like a cat at the far end, looking defiant and strangely vulnerable. "You attacked him?" Stewart said, looking him in the eyes. "Indeed," Adam said, sticking up his chin. "Did the others assist you?" Stewart asked, already knowing the answer. "No, captain," Adam said. "It was my plan. I did it." "You struck him on the head and attempted to strangle him?" "I did." "Did he attempt to attack or bait you to provoke you into this attack?" "He did not provoke me." "The penalty for this crime would usually be heavier than you are about to be sentenced to, because you are valuable to us as a property, not because we think less of your crime or better of your person. Is that understood?" "Certainly, captain." "You will be tied to the great mast and left there until the third glass, when you will receive thirty lashes and returned to the mast, where you will stay until the next morning. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir." Their audience shuffled their feet, muttered. They were restless, they wanted more - they always did. Stewart felt threatened by their almost palatable bloodlust. He drew himself up to his full height and frowned down on them forbiddingly. They gazed at him curiously, dirt-streaked bodies poised and ready. "He's not worth anything to us dead," Stewart bit at them. "If he rotted we wouldn't get a sou, so stop your mewling. If I catch any of you bothering him while he's tied to the mast you'll be washed and no doubt about it." He signaled to a few of the men to help him, opened the door to the cell, and watched as they grabbed Adam, his body curled into a ball, and dragged him out. "Careful, lads," Stewart said. "He won't fight now." He strode off ahead of them, his knees trembling a little with the shock and anger. He knew this had to be a part of some kind of plan, but what, he just couldn't imagine. He mulled over it as Adam was dragged across the deck, and planted against the mast by the two sailors. Dawkins came up with a coil of rope which he put into Stewart's hands. Still stumped by what the plan was, and hating it, Stewart approached his unlucky prisoner to tie him up. Adam stood stock still against the mast, apparently frozen in fear, the crew thronged around them both. Stewart looked stormy as he ran the rope around him again and again, pulling it down tight, hating how the suggestion of soft flesh giving just slightly before he loosened it again made his pulse quicken. "Why did you do it?" he whispered, acting as if to adjust the rope in his hand. Adam said nothing, a secretive, flighty smile curving his beautiful lips, and his green eyes darkening. He moved his body slightly against the strain of the rope. It was a small movement, but noticeable to someone as close as Stewart was. His refusal to confide in him irked Stewart, especially as the feel of him so close jerked something alive inside him, the muscles in his belly tightening with excitement. "You deserve it all," he growled at Adam, and knotted the rope. He got no reaction except a lowering of his eyelids, the long black lashes throwing shades over his cheeks. Frustrated and angry, Stewart turned from him, and walked away, leaving him to the mercies of the crew.
It was the dawn, and Stewart was standing in front of Adam's bent body, half-stripped and lashed at the hands to the mast. The sun was high and overly intense, washing everything out into yellows and whites. The smell of sweat and excitement from the throng of crew members gathered to watch mixed bitterly with that of brine. The ship rocked gently, the mainsail taut and snapping in the breeze. He stood still, surveying all, powerful in his regalia that shone with gold thread and silver buttons, his usual nervousness forgotten. His jackboots creaked slightly as he turned to pace, thud, thud, thud, across the boards. The lash he held was warm with his hand, the tails tapped lightly against him as he walked. He glanced once more at the body before him - so strong but now so powerless - muscles tense against what must come. Adam was resting his face against the mast, turned slightly to the left. His eyes were closed, his hair sticking to the back of his neck in wet curls. Biting his lip, Stewart swung back his arm and brought down the lash, as hard as he could with all his wiry strength. The feeling of impact was wonderful, the flesh giving way under his strength. Unexpectedly, he gasped at the way Adam's body jerked with the shock. His whole body buzzing with pleasure, he swung his arm back again, and again the bliss of the feeling of the lash biting into him, and again, and again... "Wake up, sir!" The voice of Dawkins came intruding into his thoughts uninvited. "Take yourself off," Stewart said. "Damn you, you dog, can't you tell I was sleeping?" "Beg your pardon but it's time for your nightshift, sir," Dawkins replied. "Oh god," Stewart said, rubbing his eyes. How was he ever supposed to concentrate on anything in this state? Still, reluctantly, and moping, he struggled into his clothes. He decided to add a coat to his usual outfit, because even though on a ship full of men nobody would be surprised to see him walking around still hard, he felt it would be deleterious to his dignity. Surly at being woken up, he sent Dawkins and Jones down. He wanted to be alone, though he would probably call them again in a minute in case he wanted someone to rant at. There would be someone at the helm, but he couldn't see them because of the mizzen yards. He paced the deck for some time, trying not to look at the great mast. Only of course, he did. Adam was hanging there, his head down as he had fallen asleep. Stewart wandered up to him, tilting his head up with one hand. He looked so sweet and young as he was sleeping, his nose just slightly snub and his mouth curved into a slight smile. Stewart jabbed him in the shoulder, and found he couldn't take his hand away. Adam awoke with a jolt, looking around in confusion and then remembering where he was. He looked up, the muscles of his throat stretching under the pale skin. Stewart gritted his teeth and tightened his hold on his shoulders. "You want to change your course." Adam suddenly said. The stars he was studying were reflected in his eyes, white glints and sparkles in the darkness. "What?!" Stewart said, his rapidly rising and falling sides chafing against the hardness of the ropes, his mind filled with the feel of Adam's body under his hands. "Unless you want to run aground," Adam added. He whispered now, and Stewart had to lean in to hear it. "You have to change your course." "How?" he asked. "Untie me, and I'll show you." Stewart sprang away from him, almost hissing with anger. "What do you think I am?" he spat. He spun around, flinging up his arms, then ran back to Adam and grabbed him by the throat, pushing. "A proper captain who won't let his ship run aground," Adam whispered, his voice breathless. "You're scum." "I'm not. Captain." "I won't let you go." It sounded rather more pathetic than threatening. "Just long enough to make sure we don't all die." Without noticing it, Stewart had leant in again, his face inches from Adam's, his hands leaning against the mast. It took only a small movement to make his mouth touch Adam's, and when it did he didn't seem to know how to stop. It was a strange and violent kiss, with neither of them giving in - he bit Adam's lower lip, and was rewarded with a twist of the head and a bruise on his chin. When he pulled away, he tasted blood, and didn't care whose it was. For a moment, he pressed his body onto Adam's, the feeling of the rope against his midriff frustrating and excitingly rough. He had moved his hand, almost without noticing it, between his legs, and for a moment his head filled with the thoughts of his dream. He groaned in a low voice as he indulged himself with a long stroke, and suddenly he had an idea. It was difficult to find his way into Adam's breeches, because the buttons were half-covered by rope. When he wanted something, however, he got it, and he smiled as he found Adam's cock, hot and half-hard already. He heard him gasp above him at the touch, and his body twisting in its bounds, uselessly. Straightening up a bit again, he kept his hand still for a moment, waited until Adam had opened his eyes, the pupils huge and black, his mouth tense with excitement, and began to stroke. With every jerk, he felt Adam twist aimlessly, the muscles in his throat tensing and relaxing, like he was in agony. Maybe he was, but there was no helping that now. Stewart bit his own lip, and pushed into his own hand as he watched him, trying to keep himself together. It didn't last long - soon Adam's little guttural groans faded and he came, shuddering convulsively against his constraints, eyes slipping shut - and it caused Stewart to lose control as well. Everything was silent after that. The sails rustled and snapped against the yards, the ocean lapped quietly against the sides of the ship. Stewart only heard his own breathing, too loud even though he tried to repress it. He leant limply against Adam's captive body, wiping his hands with his necktie. "You..." he said, weakly. Adam drew in a sharp breath. "I don't know why, but I'll let you go. Only as long as is needed, though." As soon as he said it he had no idea why, but he staggered back, legs wobbly, and started to untie Adam anyway.
The ropes uncoiled slowly from around his pale body, like a waking snake, revealed his body in stages, streaked in dirt and scratches, long, burgeoning bruises where the bounds used to run. Though his hands and feet were still tied together, he tried to turn and stretch himself a little, face distorted with pain. Stewart watched him closely, ready to react if he did anything, and went to stand behind him, prodding him in the back with one hand, though he let his fingers linger on the curve of his lower back. They walked - slowly, because of Adam's feet - over to the top deck. As they were halfway up, Adam suddenly stopped. Stewart frowned, alarmed and started to reach out when Adam swung himself round. The last thing Stewart saw was a lantern, flying at his face. Everything went black.
But he was, at that moment, lying unconscious in a sloop that was bopping in the froth around the ship. Also floating there were a few other sloops, waiting for the crew to spill out and hopefully find them. The ship was ripping up in the wild slipstream, crashing again and again into the razor edges of the reef. It shook and fell to one side, the crew flying out into death or a lucky escape, the mast breaking off with a groan, the mainsail loose and drifting away. It was with only a bare interest Adam and his men watched this, as the slipstream was violent and dragging them off into the swirls of the current quickly. It was nearly all they could do to hold on. "I hope they make it," he muttered. "I hope we make it," Marco said beside him. They were mostly sitting on Stewart, who was turning out to be a handy deadweight for keeping their boat still, and a comfortable cushion, despite taking up a lot of room. "Of course we will," Adam said. However, he looked apprehensive as he leant to unlock his ankle fetters. The rest of his salvaged crew were free of them already, he had saved his for last. His pale brow was creased with worry as, in the distance, the screaming and wailing of the crew and its doomed ship were continuing. It was a horrible sound. Mixed with the drama of their own increasingly perilous situation, it was no wonder they were all five looking pale as ghosts. They were all gripping the edges of the sloop to stay put until their knuckles went white. Their sloop creaked and shuddered in protest as it was thrown around by the waves like a plaything. Adam grit his teeth and told himself it was alright. He looked up at the sun. "It's fine, we'll be there soon." he said to his crew. Marco put a large reassuring hand over his, and he smiled at his friend's inscrutable, blank face. "It's gone alright so far and our scheme was a real long shot." As everyone was too preoccupied by the wild rocking of the boat and looking to their left, at the ship that was rapidly disintegrating, they did not notice the strange pattern in the waves to the right, not even as they started to be pulled into it.
Then they started to spin.
When he woke up again he felt marginally better. Though he was thirsty and felt scorched by the heat, he wasn't as sick as before and his headache seemed to have decreased in intensity. It was getting dark quickly and he felt nervous as soon as he opened his eyes. Being in strange surroundings in the dark made him feel a primitively strong need for shelter. He moved all his limbs a bit at a time, still lying down. They were stiff and painfully weak, but at least they seemed to be working. It would be a lucky stroke if he hadn't broken anything during whatever had caused him to be washed ashore here, so he was prepared to suffer disappointment. But when he started to get up, though it took a long time as he was restrained by his body's weakness, he tentatively decided it was alright after all. He managed to stand up, wobbly on his legs but definitely standing. He looked around to get his bearings first, and to determine where to go. Then he started to scramble towards the darkness of the shrubs and trees in front of him, faltering on his unsteady legs. Exhilarated by the fact that he could walk and terrified of what he might find, his progress wasn't that fast. He was exhausted by the time he found the first good size tree in sight, and, having checked the ground and surroundings, he sank down on the ground and leant against it. His throat burnt with thirst, but there was no point in trying to find a stream now. There was no light, and the ocean and the noises of whatever lived here in the woods drowned out the sound of any possible running water. He wondered whether he should try to climb up the tree to escape from possible predators, but this, risky when healthy in the dark, would be a foolhardy thing to do in his current state. Vegetation was not dense, and deciding that he could probably hear or see anything dangerous coming, he armed himself with a rock and a big branch he found on the ground and leant back. It was less cold now, and he sank into a thoughtless lethargy, too rested to sleep and too sore and exhausted to move or think. Sometimes he listened to the various sounds around him and tried to place them, but mostly he was too tired to do this. After a while, as the moon was right above him, he started to hear a strange sound. It was a thudding noise, repeated in an irregular fashion, and even as faint with distance as it obviously was, it still made the foliage on the vegetation around him tremble as if with an invisible breeze. Stewart frowned. The sound itself reminded him of poles being pounded into the ground for the foundation of a house, but was slightly different. Could it be the drums of a native people? He listened keenly, as the sound got louder slowly, and the vibrations it spread stronger. Then it suddenly grew enormously in strength, and it became clear to Stewart that it must be made by something that could move, and could hit the ground. Footsteps? But what could make footsteps of this kind? He had seen elephants, and even they could not make the ground tremble when they walked. Nervously, he looked at the tree he was sitting against - maybe it was a better idea after all to climb it, but then if this thing was so big he might be easier to get at in a tree than out of it. So instead he tore a bunch of limbs off a shrub and curled up against the tree trunk, covered in them. The sound was now so loud it thundered in his ears, and he could hear the sound of trees being torn aside and the rush of leaves. He peeped up from his hiding place and saw something that made his heart seem to stop and shrink, painfully, from the shock. It was a huge reptilian creature, its great stoney head towering out above the canopies, small preternaturally sharp eyes peering around, its scales the size of plates. It twisted its head this way and that, like a hen looking for a grain of feed, and stepped stealthily forward, quite close to where Stewart was cowering. Its paws were enormous, with great talons on them that ripped the earth where they landed. Stewart was frozen in horror and disbelief, and was even more petrified when it stopped. He was too scared to look up to see what it was doing, but he could feel the rush of air when it turned towards him, and opened its mouth to smell. Then it carefully placed one paw over the other, the talon only feet away from Stewart. Stewart had his eyes closed and was clenching his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, sure that doom was upon him. Clear as an angel's clarion, a loud howl came from a tree behind the monster. It did not sound human or animal, but to Stewart it was the sweetest sound ever produced in the history of the world. Because as soon as it sounded, the monster swung its great head around, startled, and roared. Stewart crawled slowly around his tree, and when the monster turned another, now distracted, little eye upon it, it saw nothing and lost interest. With a lurch, it stamped towards the other tree, but whatever had made the sound was too high up for it to reach, for it stretched up in rage and then fell back again. It gazed up for a few moments, clawing the ground in annoyance with one foot, and then, after a second roar, stamped off. Stewart stayed where he was, shivering with shock and the sudden release. He heard a sudden rustle, not too far off, and jumped up, ready to run. Eyes bulging, he looked around, but he was not prepared for what he saw. Standing before him was a man, dressed in the remains of a white shirt and slightly ripped black buckskin breeches and long leather boots. He had gypsy-like dark colouring, his hair black and curly and his eyes a dark green. With a rush, everything that had happened came flooding back to Stewart. The two men stared at each other for a moment in silence, then Stewart said: "We ran aground." "Yes," Adam said, casting his eyes down. "Are we the only ones left?" "I think so." "Have you found any of the others...?" "No. The whirlpool must have scattered them." Adam looked around skittishly. They could still hear the monster's rapid steps boom. They seemed to be getting closer. "We really should be going, it might come back and..." he started. "What WAS that thing?" Stewart interrupted him. "A dragon?" Adam said. "Oh, of course. A dragon. Why not?" Stewart said, starting to feel slightly hysterical. "Why not???!" "We need to go up there," Adam said, ignoring his outburst. He pointed at the tree the noise that had distracted the monster came from. "That was you?" Stewart said. Adam nodded. Stewart opened his mouth to say something, but just as he started, the sound of the dragon was starting to get louder and louder again. They started to run, Adam purposefully, Stewart flailing, towards the tree. Adam found a vine and started to climb up it, limber as a monkey, but when Stewart tried to do the same he faltered. His arms just wouldn't work. "I can't do it!" he shrieked, faint with panic. Adam, resting on a lower branch, glanced down at him. The dragon was now visible, its form moving like a shadow among the great trees, the sound of its paws deafening. Adam came sailing down on his vine. "Hold on to me," he said, and Stewart clamped onto his back for dear life. Together they started to climb back up, more slowly, and they had only reached the lower branches when the monster came rampaging by, immediately noticing his tiny prey perched there. It made a happy little honking sound. "GO HIGHER!" Stewart howled, his fingers digging so deeply into Adam's flesh the latter swore under his breath at the pain. But he did it, struggling at a maddening pace to a higher branch. Below them, the dragon stretched and stretched and its little eyes, glowing an evil amber in the dark, swiveled as it looked for a way to get to them. Stewart let go of Adam, reluctantly, and was now riveted to the great branch, his vision turning black with exertion. They just sat there, for a long time, looking out at the night. Bats occasionally flew past. The moon sank and the sky was turning a crystalline grey when Stewart finally spoke. "Thank you," he said. "My pleasure," Adam said. He was leaning against the trunk of the tree, the vine tied to the belt around his waist. "Sit up for a moment," he said to Stewart, as he reached around the trunk of the tree and pulled free another vine, tugging at it to test its strength. Stewart, sitting up now, watching with narrowed eyes as Adam reached over to him and tied it, with measured movements, around his thin waist. He jerked his hands up to stop him, but he checked himself. "So you won't fall," Adam said, glancing up at him, great eyes shining in the pale light. Stewart thinned his lips and felt uncomfortable under his close gaze. He longed to grab him and bend him into submission, but now they were in a world without ranks or his easy physical advantage of height the thought made him squirm even more. So he smiled the open-faced, boyish smile that had made him a favourite with elder officers in his early days. "You know, I'm..." he started to say, but he couldn't bring himself to add "sorry". Adam, his hands still on the knot he had tied, smirked and let his fingers slip slowly onto the pale skin of Stewart's belly, savouring the feel of small hairs that grew there. Stewart wanted to move away from his touch, that went straight to his groin and brought back memories he should be ashamed of but found he couldn't be. Something between them had changed and turned on him, and he was scared to find out what it might be, but also eager. "Don't worry," Adam said, gazing up at him. "You can make it up to me."
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