Is it Worth It?
In his private journal a lonely man writes of his absent lover, a daring pirate out on the open ocean.
This story was written for Reivan as part of my Patreon request days for February. It contains M/M romance and intimacy between consenting adults.
Is it worth it?
Journal of James Cuthbert Franklin
July 3rd, 1720.
Is it worth it?
I sit here in luxury that I did not earn, writing with ink for which I used stolen gold to pay. I sit here looking out of a window over a beautiful vista, seeing the shimmering azure of the ocean lit up by the early evening's setting sun, but without anyone with whom to share the bounty of this paradise. My lover leaves once again, his ship drifting out across the bay under oar even now. The crew were so eager to depart, bellies full of beer and balls drained of seed, their shore leave complete. Ready to get back to sea. Back to their chosen work. Back to ransacking those who venture into Caribbean trade routes without escort.
Do not think that I am a good person. I know what my lover is. What he does to grant us the life we so enjoy upon land. I know, and I let him do it. But... I let him do it because I never could. Because when I first ventured out with him upon the seas, I could find the fun in having my ass filled and my cock tugged to the rocking motion of the ocean beneath us, but I blanched and paled when faced with an enemy to run through by cutlass or drop with shot from my pistol.
I am not a good person. At best, I am a lover of peace. At worst, I am a coward. Either way, I reap the profits of my mate's ill deeds. Perhaps then it is fitting that I sit here alone, with no-one to confide or comfort me as I watch him depart once more.
So again I ask, is it worth it?
Perhaps not. But... what other choice do we have?
***********
Journal of James Cuthbert Franklin
August 14th, 1720.
I dreamed of him last night. I was upon an island of sand with only a few palm trees for shade, and out of the haze of the sun that seemed to turn the sea to molten metal and the sand to fire beneath my feet, I saw him drifting towards me upon a boat. Just a little thing, wooden with slatted seats. But it bore his flag upon a crudely carved bow spirit, in the shape of two bodies entwined.
He rescued me from the island, and upon his boat, drifting in an endless ocean, we made love. That damn fox, he didn't even have to try. I was so willing. So grateful to have been saved by him, my clothes practically fell off my body, and he set upon me like a starving man presented with a feast.
My heart swells, my body aches just thinking of it now. How he took my antlers in his hands as he knelt behind me and rutted me like a wild animal. How he tugged at my long ears and made me scream, knowing how I cannot hold back when he does so. He leaned over me, his stomach to my back, our bodies so entwined I could barely tell where he stopped and I began, and called me his. His now, his forever.
And then I woke up. Staining the sheets with my wasted seed, shaking like he really had just claimed my body as his own from within, but... alone.
I know sometimes his sojourns can take longer than this one. They have before, and will again. But, still I worry. There have been talks of increased British presence in the waters surrounding us. And if these patrols are increased further... I fear for his ability to return home, never mind carrying off a raid without attracting unwanted attention.
Day and night I find myself looking to the bay's edge, praying for the sight of his ship. But when he does not come, I feel despair creeping ever closer. How can I rely on God to answer my prayers when I dream of lying with another man? When I shudder, and self gratify, and cum day after day dreaming of cock, and speaking heated blasphemies with every release, waiting for my pirate lover to return?
And if I cannot rely on God to answer my prayers... how can I trust in him to keep the men aboard my lover's ship safe, so that they may keep my man, their Captain safe in turn?
***********
Journal of James Cuthbert Franklin
August 24th, 1720.
He returned last night.
Most of him, at least. The damn fool.
I am so happy he is home, yet so desperately furious at him for what he put me through. For what he put himself through.
His right leg is gone below the knee. Shredded by a cannon misfire aboard his own damn vessel less than a week after he left port. For the last month he has lain in a hospital not four days away by horse down the coast, wracked by fever, fighting every day to live. And then, five days ago, he emerged from his delirium. His wound still aches, but the nurses who cared for him did a remarkable job cleaning it, dressing it, keeping the worst of the rotting sickness at bay from the exterior as he fought it within.
Now he jokes about it. Says how they were lining up by his bedside to bathe him, and much more than that too. I tried to laugh along, but he could see I was angry. He can see it now, watching me from the bed as I write this. And no, he doesn't blame me. He knows I have every right to be angry at him, at the foolish crewman who left a cannon loaded and primed, at God himself for doing this to the man I love.
The man I love.
And I do.
Still love him, I mean. I do, with all my heart. An injury doesn't change that. Not for one moment. If anything, it reminds me how desperately I love him. How much I need him to be with me. To be safe, and... and here. Not off on the ocean. Not away with his crew, risking life and limb for the sake of another month of plunder.
I have to tell him how I feel. I have to tell him that no matter how much we ask the question, wishing to at least keep the answer at arm's length, this makes it clear.
It isn't worth it.
We can live, comfortably, if not luxuriously, on the income from selling off his stake in the ship. We can live quiet lives, outside the public eye and beyond the reach of the law or the church, whomsoever might try to separate us or punish us for our affections.
These are facts. And I will make him listen to them. After all, it's not like he can stand up and walk out while I try.
Ah. See, now that got his attention. I laughed, and now he's curious.
Well, let us see how he likes what I have to say.
If he does, so much the better. If he does not...
No. He will see.
He has to.
Yes. Let us think positively. He has to see sense, it is only right.
And then, maybe... if he's a sensible man and listens to reason, I can remind him of my love for him.
I can allow him to indulge in one of the few active exercises in which a bed-bound man can still share. It has been close to two months since we were last together, after all. And while my dreams have kept me busy many a night, I crave him.
I dare say that even with his stature diminished by half a leg his manhood will still rise to the occasion, and succumb to the allure of my backside wrapped around it.
By Jeeves
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