Rocking

Erotic short. A captain and his sailor engage in some birthday sex.

700w, cis M/trans M, rated E. Slow, drawn-out sex, teasing, PIV, lots of decadence and indulgence here. Samuel Coates and Tom Warren, again!

It’s late at night, and there’s something decadent about this experience, something luxurious about it. Tom almost feels as if he’s paying top dollar in the fanciest of molly houses at port, there’s so much sweetness and comfort to this — a recent passenger of theirs, some lord of some fuck, had given him a quilted blanket as a gift, and it’s soft and pillowy and warm underneath them both as Tom lies back on the bed, head on the pillows.

Coates is on top of him, stripped of his clothes and with another blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders, and he’s sat on Tom’s cock with Tom sunk all the way inside him; lovely hands are resting on Tom’s chest, his eyes closed, and he’s not even thrusting down so much as he’s rocking in place.

Tom doesn’t even know that Coates is rocking — the sea is rocking them as surely as if they’re in a cradle, an even back and forth, and Coates’ cunt is slick and warm and sweet around him, his lovely little cock occasionally catching against Tom’s belly when he rocks closer. Every time this happens, the most beautiful sigh slips out from between his lips, his eyes fluttering.

There’s a bit of peach fuzz on his cheeks, his upper lip — a lot of the lads have been teasing him recently for his not being able to grow a beard. His voice is naturally low, but he can’t grow a beard, it seems, probably never will.

Tom looks down at his body, at the round swell of his belly and the way it comes down and folds against the tops of his thighs, his hips, can’t resist reaching up and digging his fingers in, gripping at the other man before he starts to lean forward, wants to take handfuls of Coates’ arse, as well —

“No, no, you said I could set the pace,” says Coates, his voice distantly hoarse, and Tom groans as he falls back onto the pillows, looking up at him, at his belly, his thighs, thinks about that glorious arse of his and suffices himself looking at his fat, sagging tits, their big, broad nipples. He wants to reach up and tug on them, or lean up and mouth and suck and mouth, but he doesn’t do that either, just closes his eyes and gives a grind of his own hips upward.

Coates moans, then slaps him, but the blow barely hits, has no real intent to punish in it.

“Will we be at this all fucking night?” asks Tom, and fuck, but his own voice cracks and crumbles with desire all through it, and he can hear the strain in his own words even as they tumble out of his mouth.

“I want to enjoy myself, sir,” replies Coates, faux-obedient, faux-sweet, and it makes Tom’s cock give an eager pulse inside him, a comfortable jerk. Fuck, but he’s so warm, so heavy, so slick and so entirely welcoming, the most perfect cunt he could ever want to slide inside, the most perfect fucking sailor. “You said I could. It’s my birthday, Captain — ”

“Ride me for much longer, lad, and it won’t still be your birthday,” Tom points out. “Midnight’s coming on.”

“I was born at four in the morning,” retorts Coates. “Before the morning bells.”

Tom laughs, unable not to at Coates’ snappish tone as he bites it out, and it must feel good, must make his cock wobble pleasantly, because Coates suddenly clenches and rocks a bit faster, his breathing heavier.

“Fine, fine,” Tom relents — he wants to come, yes, feels a tension buried in him, coiling and coiling, but there’s no urgency just yet, no need to drive for it. If he had that urge, he might well indulge it, might flip the lad over and ride him until he was whimpering and gasping, but this, this is nice, this is lovely, and lovely is not a word Tom often associates with life at sea. “Take your time.”

Coates’ smile is a lovely thing, beaming and beautiful, another luxury on top of all the rest.

Tom closes his eyes, lets himself melt into the mattress and give himself over to the regular rock of the young man atop him.

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