Used

Erotic short. A captain makes use of his cabin boy early in a morning.

1.7k, rated E, cis M/trans M. More of Captain Ian Chisholm and Lluw! Featuring somnophilia, D/s, anal sex, size difference and size kink, mild objectification, quiet sex, and then threats of fisting.

Mildly undernegotiated consent within the context of a kinky dynamic where they’re both at home with this sort of play. Note that Ian refers to Lluw as his “nephew” and himself as an uncle, but this is because that used to be a common term to disguise a queer relationship, not because they actually have that relationship.

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Ian doesn’t want to fucking be here.

Admiral Connelly is an awful fucking prick, and Ian has never particularly wanted to go to any one of these posh cunts’ parties at any time he’s ever been put to sea, but these things are expected of him and, worse than being expected of him, they’re actively demanded of him.

“Just fucking go, Chisholm,” Barclay, who was definitely Mr Banks’ assistant and was occasionally Mr Judge’s assistant as well, at least when it came to anything to do with the mercantile business, had said to him. “Go to the fucking party, be a decent houseguest when you stay overnight, make small talk at breakfast, and then you can go.”

“But I — ”

“It convinces these awful people to sail with us.”

“But I don’t want them to fucking sail with us.”

“Well, we do! They’ve got money, Chisholm! And take your nephew.”

“Lluw?”

“He’s much better at talking to people at these things than you are.”

Which —

Well, it’s not wrong.

Ian is not at home at parties and soirées and all this business, especially not when people are always approaching him to speak — he wears a wedding ring and typically feigns himself a widower who could never again marry, but this doesn’t stop people from introducing him to women, sometimes even girls younger than Lluw is, girls of twenty, twenty-one, who’d have no business being married to a tired old merchant sailor.

Lluw knows very well how to speak to these sorts of people even though his father and uncle, both navy men themselves, were never quite highly lauded enough to make contact with these circles, and he often speaks well, makes polite small talk, prompts other people to talk about politics without saying anything too incriminating himself, or brings up items from the news, or aspects of gossip.

Truth be told, Lluw fucking enjoys these parties, Ian is fairly certain — he likes to pick up new pieces of information about marriages and births and promotions and all that sort of shit, likes to take it with him and leverage it about.

Ian barely says a fucking word himself, just nods and grunts in what he hopes are the right places when people talk at him; when Lluw is standing beside him, speaking in full sentences where his “uncle” remains monosyllabic, at least it doesn’t look quite that off, but he’d rather not have to bother at all.

He’s dreading the party itself, which is on late tonight: they’re currently abed in a rest house with a further day of travelling ahead of them, and Ian knows that the rest of the inn’s rooms are full up with posher fuckers than him going to exactly the same party.

Later tonight, he doesn’t even know if Lluw and he are going to be in the same bedroom or if Lluw is going to be in with some of the other unmarried sons and nephews at this fucking thing.

He thinks about it for a moment, the idea of Lluw in a bedroom with some bastard prick chattering on about the woman he’s keen on marrying, thinks of his voice trailing off as he catches a glimpse of Lluw’s boycunt, realises what he could have instead.

Ian turns over in bed, looking at Lluw packed under the blankets — he’s on his belly with his face pressed into the pillows, his breathing steady and quiet, coming out in soft, pretty snores. He’d ridden Ian last night, his hands braced on Ian’s chest as he’d worked himself down, and they’d taken their time about it, not wanting to make too much noise, although to be fair to this particular inn, the beds are solidly made, and don’t creak or make any undue noise.

Ian’s cock is half-hard with the morning already, and he reaches down and gives himself a stroke, squeezing around his head through the fabric of his sleepshirt.

He doesn’t want to turn the lad over, doesn’t really want to wake him up — right now, he’s entirely relaxed, and Ian knows already that to slide inside him will be soft as butter, warm and welcoming, but —

“Not demanding enough with you, lad,” he murmurs, his voice quiet in the darkness of their bedroom, “that’s what you were saying last night, wasn’t it?”

Lluw is a heavy sleeper, and he snores through it, his lovely hair a mist on the pillow, his face lax with sleep.

Ian rolls over, taking up the wax from the table and warming a little in his fingers, feeling it go slick and oily before he reaches over, sinking them into the cleft between Lluw’s arsecheeks.

He doesn’t so much as moan, just keeps on sleeping through it as Ian circles two fingers around his back hole, slicking up the pucker before he waits for Lluw’s exhale and presses a knuckle in.

Lluw’s breath falters, a sigh escaping him before it evens out again.

Stroking his cock with the other hand, Ian grins to himself, and reaches for the tin again.

* * *

Lluw is deeply asleep when he comes slowly to, aware of a warm body on top of his, aware of a feeling of fullness. It’s satisfying, but unexpected — it’s not often that Ian fucks him awake, not often that he indulges Lluw like this. Ian’s huge thighs bracket his own in, his chest and belly coming to rest on top of Lluw’s back as he sinks himself in to the hilt.

Lluw isn’t sure how long he’s been at this for, but he slides easily into Lluw’s arse, sinks right into him until he’s in to the hilt, and Lluw’s arse isn’t obscenely tight, but Ian is certainly obscenely large. It takes time, to get him ready to take the whole thing, even asleep, and aside from that, he can feel how wet he is, how open his cunt is, his cock hard.

“Ian,” Lluw mumbles sleepily, but before he can say anything else, Ian’s huge arm comes around and frames around him, Ian’s huge hand covering his mouth. Lluw’s body jerks without his permission, his whole cunt throbbing, and he tries to struggle, tries to push back against him, but he can’t.

Ian’s stronger than he is, far stronger than him, and with his whole body weight on top of Lluw’s, his hand over his mouth to keep him from making noise, he draws back his hips and suddenly slams them home, the wet slap of their bodies colliding filling the room. Ian does it again, and again, and again, fucks into him hard and deep in a way that makes Lluw’s eyes cross, and fuck, it feels good, it feels wonderful, but his eyes are tearing up with the desperate want to have Ian’s cock filling his cunt instead.

Like this, with these gliding thrusts deep into his arse, heavy and rough and fast, his balls occasionally tickling his perineum and the lower part of his cunt with his arse cheeks pushed apart, the sensation in his cunt is glancing, dull. It’s the promise of pleasure, the barest taste of it, without real fulfilment, and he tries to whine, tries to beg, but succeeds only in letting out a few grunts that are muffled by Ian’s palm.

Like this, he’s reduced to naught but a toy, couldn’t come if he tried — he can’t even attempt to get his hands underneath himself to touch his cock, can’t even get some friction on it up against his belly.

He tries to spread his legs wider, get himself lower so that he can at least get the tiniest bit of a touch on his cock, but when he tries to part his thighs they meet Ian’s knees. He tries to whine, but Ian clamps his hand down harder, and fucks him harder, too.

He struggles and writhes in his place, gets fucking nowhere, and Ian moans quietly in his ear, says, “That’s it, lad, just like that.”

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but it feels like he’s going crazy, feel like he’s driven into madness by the regular thrust of Ian’s cock inside his arse, the way he feels so full and yet so painfully empty, his cunt clenching around nothing, slickness on the inside of his thighs, dripping out of his cunt.

Ian’s cock feels like it’s coring him open, and for the first time Lluw finds himself wishing it was somehow even bigger, wishes he could feel it in his cunt, too. When Ian comes, then, then Lluw feels it, feels his whole body stiffen on top of him, Ian grunting quietly in his ear on top of him, and Lluw’s head is spinning as Ian finally withdraws, leaving his arse left open.

Lluw shivers as Ian pulls his hand away from his mouth.

“What was that?” he asks, aware that he sounds dreamy and slightly out of it as he rolls onto his back, looking sleepily up at Ian as he pushes himself up from the bed and goes to use the chamber pot and wash his cock off.

“You were saying yesterday you wanted me to be rougher with you, be a bit more dominant,” says Ian. His voice is a little quieter as he asks, “Was that alright?”

“Yeah,” says Lluw, blinking slowly. “Yeah. Yes. Can you fuck me again?”

“Time is it?”

Lluw reaches for Ian’s pocket watch on the side table, looking at it. “Six fifteen?”

“Can’t go again,” says Ian. “But I’ll fist you.”

Lluw’s cheeks feel hot, and his stomach gives a sudden nervous flip as he glances down at Ian’s hands as he washes them. He’s fisted Lluw before, but only once after a night where he’d been passed between other men, had taken two cocks in his cunt before he’d even been fingered, had already been stretched wide and ready.

“It’s my fist or nothing,” says Ian sternly. “You don’t get to come otherwise until tonight.”

Lluw looks over at him, feeling somewhat overwhelmed, and Ian meets his gaze.

“That alright?” he asks again, voice softer.

“Please fist me,” whispers Lluw. “Sir.”

Ian grins at him, and finishes washing his hands. “Spread those legs, lad,” he orders crisply, and Lluw slowly opens up his trembling thighs.

FIN.