Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's Notes: This is part of the Your Move universe.




An extremely hard prick massages the cleft of my arse in a languorous sliding motion. Frankly, I can't think of a better way to be woken up. Can you? The clicking of the cicadas fills the room. As usual, he scaled the trellis holding up the trumpet vine and climbed in through my window with the practiced silence of the penultimate thief. How he does this without waking me up, his hair jangling, the charms tinkling against one another, is beyond me. I am on my side, he is spooning me. Then wrapping himself completely around me, he scrapes his nipples against the muscles of my back as he continues to rub and tease me with his cockhead.

"You awake, Jaime?" he whispers.

"Hmmm, you're early, were due…next week," I gasp, as his hand reaches round and circles my nipple with his thumb, and then slides back and forth across the nub in time with his cock.

"Missed you. You really awake, now?" Slim fingers begin to pinch my nipple, tugging gently, tugging harder.

"Yeesss." I force out the words because I am extremely distracted by those wicked fingers.

"Oh good, James, because I want you to enjoy every second."

Continuing that divine stroking of my cleft with his cock, he brings his hands up and scrunches my hair in his both of his hands, "Pretty, pretty," he coos and parts the hair to expose my neck to mouth the base of my neck and shoulders. The sharp edge of teeth bite into my flesh, then he laves and kisses, dragging a full bottom lip along the teeth marks, then starts over in a new spot, bites, laves, kisses. I thrust back against him and reach around with a trembling hand to grasp his ass cheek.

Jack stops. "Oh no, Jaime, no touching tonight."

Even for Jack Sparrow this is too much. What is he thinking? Has the man gone mad? Been away for three weeks and no touching! Absolute bollocks. Just as I am about to turn around and prove that yes there will indeed be touching and quite a lot of touching if I have anything to say about it, he catches both wrists in one hand and brings them above my head. Interesting. And then I gasp (and not in the ways that I like) as cold metal bites into the warmth of my wrist. I begin to buck (and again, not in the ways that I like), but he is too fast for me. Snap. He has manacled me to the bedpost. At his mercy.


The game has begun.

I remain calm. Which he loves because this means he will do his utmost to goad me. And if we follow our usual pattern, I will become the very model of British naval sangfroid (Damn the French. Couldn't we have invented that word? I console myself by remembering Shakespeare.). Next is a round robin of insults, barbs, put downs, and mockery, ending up in a thoroughly depraved and passionate coupling of the most obscene kind. We both enjoy this game immensely.

But perhaps he has gone too far this time.

"I imagine, to add insult to injury, that these are the very manacles that I have—"

"Had," he smirks.

"In my top desk drawer."

"Especially liked the little love letter you wrote me." I hear the hiss of a match as it strikes against the flint. He is lighting the candles.

I shift my wrists slightly to ease the pressure of iron against flesh.

"You mean the one that says, 'Jack Sparrow, keep your filthy pirate hands out of my desk.'"

He puts down the flint and matches for a second and kisses me. Just a hint of a tongue flicks out to tease my upper lip, then he returns to lighting more candles.

"That's the one," he chuckled. "Must buy Will a drink. That lock took me a whole two minutes. Boy's getting really good."

"I'll tell him. A craftsman is always gratified to hear his work is appreciated. What's that? Lock six, maybe seven that you've managed to pick?"

He grins over the flickering light of a candlestick.

"Think we're on number eight, love."

"Jack, I know this is a silly question, but you did bring the key, didn't you? I will be most displeased if you didn't."

"Ooohh," he purses his lips together in amusement. "Displeased is it? I especially fancy the commodore when he's displeased. Hmmmn, did I bring the key or not? Ole Jack's memory isn't what it used to be. Now did I leave it on the desk…"

"Jack," I warn in a low growl. I am always a little afraid he will go too far, this Puck turned pirate. Never quite sure if he knows where the final line is. And of course, he is always pushing the final line, dragging me along with him in the undertow.

Then I see it, he has woven it into his hair. Yet another trophy for the infamous Jack Sparrow dreadlocks.

I sigh. "It took me months of pleading and begging for you to remove that blasted bone—"

"Liked the bone." he pouts.

"It nearly blinded me twice," I remind him. "Not to mention the scar I'll have for life. Now the key. Give it to me."

"I don't think so," he sings-songs.

He has finished lighting the candles in the room. My butler has mentioned three times to date that our candle consumption in the house has quadrupled in the last few months. There is the implied question: what in the hell are you doing in the middle of the night that requires so many candles in your bedroom? I merely smile and murmur something about paperwork. The fact that there is no paperwork in my bedroom is immaterial. Last week he asked me bluntly why I need twenty candles in my room. I murmured that my eyesight is deteriorating. He snorted in disbelief. Simon is far more intelligent than I've ever given him credit for. Eventually he will ask why the sheets are always streaked with kohl. How in the bloody hell will I explain that?

The first night Jack and I made love it was in the secret darkness of this room. Since then he always lights the candles. He must see me, he tells me. Must see my body, my eyes as he brings me to climax. When the last candle has been lit his face breaks open in that feral, I-am-going-tofuck-you-crossed-eyed, grin. Seeing that predatory glee always hardens me instantly. I know what is coming. I crave it, I meet it.

He nears the bed; his natural grace always causes my breath to hitch. He runs both hands over my chest, lingering a bit over my nipples and then turns me over gently, easing the manacles around my wrists so they don't chafe too much. Dancing his hands over my hips, my thighs, my calves, as always his touch is like being caressed by a sunbeam. I use my elbows to push off from the bed to give my knees some purchase. Oh for that delicious cock up my arse.

"Missed you something fierce," he murmurs, palming my arse with his hands, circling wider and wider as he spreads my cheeks.

I groan. Loud. Into my pillow. Jack has threatened many times to gag me. He calls me his caterwauling commodore. I lift my head, "More," I beg. "Inside, now," I beg louder. I've missed him, too. The manacles begin to chafe my wrists as I thrust back and grind against his hands, letting him know how fast I want it, how hard. The metal rasps against skin. I ignore it.

"No Jack in James tonight."

WHAT!!!

"Hell you say. JACK!" I try to keep my voice to a mere yell, but I'm sure they've heard this screech at the fort. I pull frantically at the manacles. The bed shakes with my efforts. God damn that William Turner for being such an excellent blacksmith. They hold tight as I rattle helplessly to get free. "Consider yourself warned, Jack Sparrrow," I hiss. "There will be pay back of the worst kind. You will suffer. What in the hell game are you playing… Oh."

A hot mouth kisses the inside of one manacled wrist, then the other. Moving up my arm, he sucks on the crease of one elbow. A particularly tender spot. I whimper. He moves down the bed. His mouth hovers over one arse cheek. I can feel the heat of his breath against me, hear his quick panting. He mouths it. Oh. Waits, then kisses the other. Yes. The flat of his tongue swipes slowly on the edge of my buttocks where arse cheek meets thigh. Oh. Yes.

With his tongue he circles one arse cheek, then the other. The manacles cut my wrists as I push into the mattress with my cock in desperation.

He shifts back up my body. I twist my head around to see what he is doing. I moan with frustration as the mouth leaves my arse. With the flat of his tongue, he cuts a path from the base of my neck to the very tip of my cleft. The circling with the palms of his hands, hard against my cheeks, starts up again. I lift my head and begin wholesale, no holds barred, begging.

"Jackpleasepleasefuckmewithyourtonguepleasefuckfuckinnowin."

A hot breath, and then the tip of a tongue plays with my arse hole, rimming the entrance, sucking gently, swiping up and down my cleft. I bury my face into the pillow and continue to fuck my mattress. Hard. I am in agony. The tip of his tongue teases my hole, enters just a little, pulls back, rims again, goes in a little farther. But not far enough. By now I am babbling in between panting. I've asked Jack what I say when I reach this point, but he smiles and won't tell me. I just hear sounds, meaningless, to my ears, but it always spikes Jack's desire. Tonight is no different. The overwhelming smell of rum, cinnamon, and musk fills the room as Jack starts panting in rhythm to my own gasping. He rests his forehead just against the top of my arse. His hot breath warms my cleft. I can feel him straining against me and he must be fighting back his own need.

His lips quiver against the outside of me, his tongue thrusts inside. Despite the iron grip he has on my hips I am bucking, desperate for release. I have never felt such heat from him. His tongue searches, caresses the inside of me. Just when I think I will go mad from this, insane from frustration, we find our rhythm he and I. Being fucked by Jack Sparrow is as if the very ocean were filling you. There is the roll, the movement is not a series of thrusts so much as one long caress, reminiscent of a wave overpowering you. And if you are as lucky as I am, you've learned not to be afraid of that wave, that it will not drown you, it strokes you, bathes you, loves you.

He is saying something to me. I can't understand him, but the vibration of his voice sends shocks waves from my groin and races all over my body. I begin to shudder, so close, so close. And because we've danced this dance many times, he knows how close I am, what the shudder means. He cups my sac and a hand grasps my shaft and squeezes. Once. I pull at the manacles as my body arches up. The extreme pain from my wrists meets heat from my groin and lightening rips my body apart as my orgasm breaks forth. I pound into that hand, spending, releasing, a million nerves erupting in pleasure so intense that it walks, back and forth, back and forth, that very fine line between agony and ecstasy.

I am so overwhelmed that I don't even hear the click of the manacles. The first thing I am aware of is that he is kissing my wrists, tonguing the cuts and scrapes. "My poor commodore, my poor commodore," he whispers.

Exhausted, I pull my wrists away from him, and wrap my arms and legs around him. "Sssh," I whisper back. I kiss him slowly. Oh so beautifully tired. But he is not tired. His lips are shaking, they are demanding. His cock thrusts against me.

"That was lovely, Jack." I stop kissing him and pull away. I get a mewl of disappointment. I nuzzle his earlobe. A sigh of contentment. More little thrusts of his cock. Now it's his turn to play. Hmmmn. "Wonderful. Completely wore me out."

His shoulders tighten, he stops thrusting.

"Really tired. Long day, in fact."

"James?"

"Night," I kiss him on the forehead and turn over.

"Not bloody funny, James," he hisses. "Not funny at'tall."

I yawn very loudly. "So sleepy. Blow out the candles, will you?"

"JJJJJJJJJAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMEESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!"

Think they heard that over at Tortuga.




Fin

Continuing silliness over here: Manacles on the Other Wrist (R) (2055 words)