this entire post is basically NC-17.
Mar. 15th, 2007 08:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quigonejinnSo ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
la_reine_bleu writes me some filthy fic where Hornblower puts his tongue in a certain place of a certain Mr. Bush. When I graciously thank her for writing it to spec, she turns around and demands that I write her some porn in return. In particular, she wanted:
Hornblower, tied down, getting it hard from Bush. Teeth preferred.
Once upon a time, there was a captain who loved his lieutenant. One night, when they were trapped in France, the captain followed his lieutenant to the loft where they were building a boat to carry them out of France. Most nights, at this time, they would have been playing after-dinner whist with the Comte and his daughter-in-law in the parlor, but tonight the captain sat to the side while the lieutenant looked over the boat. He had only left her a few hours ago, but it was vital, it seemed, that he check the fit of her ribs and ponder where she needed caulking.
When the lieutenant looked up from inspecting the boat, he found that his captain had been practicing knots. In particular, the captain had been practicing using knots that seamen used when they were near land, but since the lieutenant was not imaginative, he did not grasp the significance of it. He came closer to his captain, asking, rather sheepishly, if the captain would like to see the boat; he expected that the captain would slip the bowline, storm at him a bit, then look at the boat, and go back inside. Bush knew he had behaved badly, and he expected a reprimand. He deserved one. He ought to have eaten dinner with the Comte and the lady; he ought to have gone into the parlor after eating to play whist. It was the captain's one pleasure in France.
Instead, the captain looked up. He had, indeed, been practicing knots. To give himself something to tie around, he had hitched himself to the bench. He had strung the knot through the planks and then up, over his wrist. When Bush came close enough, the captain put his free hand on Bush's hip -- this surprised Bush. He had not been expecting it. He did not expect to be looked at with such an odd, unreadable expression. He knew what anger looked like on his captain, and he certainly did not expect his captain to begin undoing the front of his, the lieutenant's trousers.
The captain had clever hands, and he had clearly been thinking about it for a while. Even with one hand tied down, he got the front of Bush's trousers down, and looked up at Bush. Bush sucked his breath in, and the captain slid over and put his mouth on Bush's cock. Bush sucked in his breath again. They had only held hands before this. They had never kissed. Bush had no experience of courting men; it was strange to slide his hand back through hair while there was a tongue pressed against his cock and find a queue at the end.
It surprised Bush how good his captain was at it. He had never imagined it, but the captain sucked on him long and slow, with care. He knew the trick about bobbing his head in short strokes over the foreskin; he knew, too, how to pull all the way off, wait a moment, and then begin to rub it over his lips. It made Bush tremble to look down and see his cock, red and stiff, against his captain's mouth. How did his captain know how to do this? Why was his captain doing it? There was a lamp nearby; Bush could see where his cock had now gone slick from his captain's mouth, and it was terribly wrong. All of it, including the fact that his captain's wrist was tied down, flat.
When Bush was close -- when his hand tightened in his captain's hair and when he knew he had put a little salt into that mouth -- the captain drew away. His lips were swollen and stiff; Bush moaned and felt his hips dip forward. He wanted to be back in that mouth. He wanted, as wrong as it was, that tongue pressed underneath him. If his captain would not let him spill in his mouth, then perhaps over it, or on his throat. Even into the straw, if necessary. He only wanted permission.
Then, though, the captain began to undo his own trousers. The front did not drop down in the same way that Bush's did. It was necessary for the captain to undo the buttons at the waist, then pull down, and then lift back up. It was complicated with one hand. Difficult. Bush moved forward to help, though he did not know what the captain was doing this for, but the captain looked at him sharply, and Bush moved away, a little worried.
More was to come: the captain put a finger in his mouth, drew it out, and then put it inside himself. It did not go in easily; the captain might have been accustomed to taking men in the mouth, but this was not something he was used to. He pressed. He made a noise. Bush had only buggered whores who came ready and loose, so it was novel to see one finger go in, slowly, with each knuckle marked by a gasp and the captain gripping the side of the table with more force. One finger. Spit. Two fingers. Then, three. The captain was fucking three of own fingers. He could not get them in very deeply, due to his position, but he could at least stretch the entrance, and when he was done, the signal was clear as a broad pennant over a seventy-four on a bright spring day.
Still, the captain said, just to make it utterly clear: "Come on, Bush. I deserve it."
So Bush found a bit of string in his pocket -- he had originally been using it to mark lengths on the boat and he picked the captain up and put him across the end of the bench. He tied the captain's other wrist down, rendering him a man at the grate, and Bush used his good knee to press the captain's legs wide, then took off the false wooden leg. The bench was heavy enough and his arms were strong enough, together with his remaining foot, that Bush could find enough leverage. He did not want to be encumbered while he did this. He took his time, pressing his mouth to his captain's back, touching his lips to his captain's spine the captain gasped and tried to pull away and press back and relax all at the same time because he now realized what he had gotten himself into. When Bush finally fucked him, he realized that he had not loosened himself as much as he ought to have to accomodate Bush.
Regardless, with a gasp and a cry and both of his wrists still tied down, he came first, and they lay together in the straw, afterwards, with the captain's coat over both of them.
...
Once upon a time, there was a lieutenant who loved his captain even though he did not think of it as love in quite that way. Strange as it was, after that night in the loft, he never thought of it that way again.
la_reine_bleu writes me some filthy fic where Hornblower puts his tongue in a certain place of a certain Mr. Bush. When I graciously thank her for writing it to spec, she turns around and demands that I write her some porn in return. In particular, she wanted: Hornblower, tied down, getting it hard from Bush. Teeth preferred.
Once upon a time, there was a captain who loved his lieutenant. One night, when they were trapped in France, the captain followed his lieutenant to the loft where they were building a boat to carry them out of France. Most nights, at this time, they would have been playing after-dinner whist with the Comte and his daughter-in-law in the parlor, but tonight the captain sat to the side while the lieutenant looked over the boat. He had only left her a few hours ago, but it was vital, it seemed, that he check the fit of her ribs and ponder where she needed caulking.
When the lieutenant looked up from inspecting the boat, he found that his captain had been practicing knots. In particular, the captain had been practicing using knots that seamen used when they were near land, but since the lieutenant was not imaginative, he did not grasp the significance of it. He came closer to his captain, asking, rather sheepishly, if the captain would like to see the boat; he expected that the captain would slip the bowline, storm at him a bit, then look at the boat, and go back inside. Bush knew he had behaved badly, and he expected a reprimand. He deserved one. He ought to have eaten dinner with the Comte and the lady; he ought to have gone into the parlor after eating to play whist. It was the captain's one pleasure in France.
Instead, the captain looked up. He had, indeed, been practicing knots. To give himself something to tie around, he had hitched himself to the bench. He had strung the knot through the planks and then up, over his wrist. When Bush came close enough, the captain put his free hand on Bush's hip -- this surprised Bush. He had not been expecting it. He did not expect to be looked at with such an odd, unreadable expression. He knew what anger looked like on his captain, and he certainly did not expect his captain to begin undoing the front of his, the lieutenant's trousers.
The captain had clever hands, and he had clearly been thinking about it for a while. Even with one hand tied down, he got the front of Bush's trousers down, and looked up at Bush. Bush sucked his breath in, and the captain slid over and put his mouth on Bush's cock. Bush sucked in his breath again. They had only held hands before this. They had never kissed. Bush had no experience of courting men; it was strange to slide his hand back through hair while there was a tongue pressed against his cock and find a queue at the end.
It surprised Bush how good his captain was at it. He had never imagined it, but the captain sucked on him long and slow, with care. He knew the trick about bobbing his head in short strokes over the foreskin; he knew, too, how to pull all the way off, wait a moment, and then begin to rub it over his lips. It made Bush tremble to look down and see his cock, red and stiff, against his captain's mouth. How did his captain know how to do this? Why was his captain doing it? There was a lamp nearby; Bush could see where his cock had now gone slick from his captain's mouth, and it was terribly wrong. All of it, including the fact that his captain's wrist was tied down, flat.
When Bush was close -- when his hand tightened in his captain's hair and when he knew he had put a little salt into that mouth -- the captain drew away. His lips were swollen and stiff; Bush moaned and felt his hips dip forward. He wanted to be back in that mouth. He wanted, as wrong as it was, that tongue pressed underneath him. If his captain would not let him spill in his mouth, then perhaps over it, or on his throat. Even into the straw, if necessary. He only wanted permission.
Then, though, the captain began to undo his own trousers. The front did not drop down in the same way that Bush's did. It was necessary for the captain to undo the buttons at the waist, then pull down, and then lift back up. It was complicated with one hand. Difficult. Bush moved forward to help, though he did not know what the captain was doing this for, but the captain looked at him sharply, and Bush moved away, a little worried.
More was to come: the captain put a finger in his mouth, drew it out, and then put it inside himself. It did not go in easily; the captain might have been accustomed to taking men in the mouth, but this was not something he was used to. He pressed. He made a noise. Bush had only buggered whores who came ready and loose, so it was novel to see one finger go in, slowly, with each knuckle marked by a gasp and the captain gripping the side of the table with more force. One finger. Spit. Two fingers. Then, three. The captain was fucking three of own fingers. He could not get them in very deeply, due to his position, but he could at least stretch the entrance, and when he was done, the signal was clear as a broad pennant over a seventy-four on a bright spring day.
Still, the captain said, just to make it utterly clear: "Come on, Bush. I deserve it."
So Bush found a bit of string in his pocket -- he had originally been using it to mark lengths on the boat and he picked the captain up and put him across the end of the bench. He tied the captain's other wrist down, rendering him a man at the grate, and Bush used his good knee to press the captain's legs wide, then took off the false wooden leg. The bench was heavy enough and his arms were strong enough, together with his remaining foot, that Bush could find enough leverage. He did not want to be encumbered while he did this. He took his time, pressing his mouth to his captain's back, touching his lips to his captain's spine the captain gasped and tried to pull away and press back and relax all at the same time because he now realized what he had gotten himself into. When Bush finally fucked him, he realized that he had not loosened himself as much as he ought to have to accomodate Bush.
Regardless, with a gasp and a cry and both of his wrists still tied down, he came first, and they lay together in the straw, afterwards, with the captain's coat over both of them.
...
Once upon a time, there was a lieutenant who loved his captain even though he did not think of it as love in quite that way. Strange as it was, after that night in the loft, he never thought of it that way again.
