Chapter 1: Port Royal, Jamaica (circa 1726)
The prison cell in the fort was just as Norrington remembered it - cool, damp, and very dirty. It was dimly lit from the narrow windows and the sconces on the walls, and smelled of human filth and rotting bones and moss. At least there were few other inhabitants at the moment, allowing him the luxury of a cell to himself. They were quiet, too, which suited him well, but it gave him all too much time to ponder the present state of affairs.
His state was sorry indeed - a disgraced officer of the Royal Navy, turned to piracy (and not even as a pirate captain!), hunted by Davy Jones' men, picked up by an East India Company ship and arrested on the orders of one Cutler Beckett. Worst of all was the knowledge that it was no more than he deserved - he'd fallen in love, then fallen into folly, and there was no escaping the guilt he felt at the loss of his ship and her crew.
He'd learned about the arrival of Cutler Beckett from Elizabeth Swann. It had given him some wry amusement to hear that the young trader with pretensions had clawed his way through the ranks of the East India Company. He had been less amused to hear of the warrant for his arrest - and after he'd thought the matter closed, too. He'd heeded the warning in the letters he'd received from the Admiralty: he'd tendered his resignation, packed up his house and slipped away one night on a local sloop: disgraced and forgotten ... or so he had thought. Now it appeared that their lordships wanted more than his commission as an officer in payment for his sins, and they'd chosen Lord Beckett as the executor of their will - or perhaps executioner would be a better term.
Lord Beckett. Good grief - the insolent little thruster had obviously come a long way. He wondered what the man would look like now. Curiously, Elizabeth had never described his appearance, and neither had Will Turner. Had fifteen years of Indian sun turned him as brown as a sailor? Would his body be wasted by sickness or gross with indulgence? He had no idea. He was certain, though, that Beckett wouldn't be the fresh-faced, eager boy he'd fucked that night after the president's ball.
He leaned back against the cold stone, remembering the heat of Madras, the heat of Beckett's body against his own, the way the boy had arched and moaned and clung to him… Gods, but he wished he could remember every minute. He'd been mouth-watering, so sweet, so wanton, so utterly abandoned. If only he hadn't had that wager with Blakely ... well, who knows what might have happened. Maybe he'd have treated Beckett with more consideration; maybe they would have become friends; maybe he would have had a happier life.
Instead, Beckett was a peer of the realm with a grudge to avenge, Norrington was a prisoner in his own fort, and Blakely was dead of the pestilence these ten years and more. Life never turned out the way one imagined.
He wondered what Elizabeth was doing now.
* * *
Evening darkened into night. Mosquitos buzzed and whined about him, eager to drink his blood. He slapped them away, wishing vainly for some of the scented candles his steward had used to keep them at bay when alongside. He debated taking off his coat to use as a pillow, but decided, in the end, that he'd rather risk a stiff neck than a chill. It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept on plain boards, after all, and if his fortunes didn't improve, it wouldn't be the last.
Dawn was heralded by the usual chorus of birds, louder than usual. The gaol attendant entered soon afterwards, ensuring that all the prisoners were awake by the simple expedient of banging his keys against the bars. The sound echoed off the stone walls and made most of them wince. "Awright, then, you scum. Time to be up," he bawled.
Norrington took his ration for the morning - a hunk of dry bread and a pint of water - and returned to the bench. He wished he had money to pay for better food, but he had nothing of value left, not even a sword. He sipped his water - it was fresh and cool, at least, but one pint was hardly going to keep thirst at bay.
It was around three o'clock - as near as he could judge from the light - when the gaoler re-appeared, this time accompanied by Mercer, the man who'd met the ship that had picked him up, and two Company militiamen. He stood while his cell was unlocked, and the soldiers moved in briskly to seize him on either side. He made no protest - it would have been worse than useless - and instead cast a wry look at Mercer's impassive face.
"I can assure you that I have no intention of trying to escape," he said, calmly.
Mercer gave him a thin-lipped smile in return, and held up a set of irons. "All prisoners are to be shackled when out of cells. Standing Orders."
Ah yes, Standing Orders. They were probably the using the Navy orders, the set he himself had signed a year ago and more, long ago, in the days when he was still in charge of the Jamaica squadron. He'd seen many a criminal in that office on the upper levels of the Fort Charles, all of them shackled, all of them protesting their innocence. He'd never imagined that one day he would make one of their number himself.
The irons were fastened around his wrists and he followed Mercer out of the cell and up the stairs. Instead of continuing up to the offices, though, they turned off into a dark corridor. Norrington knew where it went - a small postern door that led into an alley and then to the open courtyard - but he didn't know why.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked.
Mercer didn't even look around as he answered, "East India House."
That meant nothing to him - there had been no such house when he had left Port Royal. Still, he would find out soon enough where the Company had made its lodgings.
A carriage was waiting for them in the courtyard - large and ornate, with the insignia of the East India Company on the doors. Norrington made a face at the ostentation, but he had to admit that the carriage was comfortable and eased the impact of the badly-paved streets.
The carriage pulled up beside another alley that ran alongside one of the larger houses that faced the wharves. He recognised it at once: it had belonged to a rich merchant - what was his name? he couldn't recall - who had packed up and returned home to England around the same time as Norrington had resigned. It had elegant lines and spacious apartments, and he resented bitterly the fact that the East India Company could arrange quarters for their Agent so easily. No doubt they would be ordering carpets and furnishings in the company design, the better to intimidate suppliers and competitors.
They entered the house through a side door near the kitchens and Mercer led the way through long narrow corridors and up more stairs, passing through the baize door that formed the barrier between the servants' domain and the public apartments. One final corridor, one final doorway, and then they were in a large, imposing study. Norrington looked to the light and saw an impressive view of the harbour and wharves. Then he became aware of the figure sitting at the desk, and looked at the man he hadn't seen for fifteen years.
It was an interesting view - and it was definitely the same man. Cutler Beckett had filled out nicely. The powdered wig suited him much better than his own light brown hair had done, framing his face - which was still remarkably fair and smooth - and drawing the viewer's attention to the sweetness of the mouth. His hands were white and equally smooth, the long and graceful fingers set off with a gold signet ring. Rich waistcoat, lace cravat, fine linen - oh yes, Cutler Beckett was a good-looking man. Not even the slight stubble on his face detracted from his looks - if anything, it accentuated his masculinity, eliminating the softness that Norrington half-remembered from Madras.
Mercer and Beckett had been conversing in low tones while he was lost in thought. Beckett had examined the letters of marque that had he had taken from Sparrow's boat on Isla Cruces, and was now staring at the bag on his desk that pulsed faintly, attracting a cloud of flies through the shutters.
Beckett looked up at him. "Well, well, well. Mr Norrington, isn't it? Mr James Norrington, lately Commodore in His Majesty's Navy, now a penniless convict and pirate. How the mighty are fallen, indeed."
Norrington stayed silent. He wasn't going to bandy insults with anyone today. He had one aim only - to trade the heart of Davy Jones for his life, his freedom, and possibly some gold to ease his way into polite society again. He could take a little humiliation in order to achieve that aim.
"What do you expect me to do with this ... this lump of offal?"
"That lump of offal, as you term it, is what you've been looking for. With this you can control Davy Jones himself, and, through him, the seven seas. I imagine I've no need to tell you what the East India Trading Company could do with that sort of power."
"No need at all." Beckett took a few seconds to examine the bag on the desk. "He who commands the sea has command of everything (1)," he murmured. He waved off the flies before looking up at Norrington. "And what do you expect me to give you in return?"
"My life and freedom. Some money, to start over. Safe passage to Virginia. A ship would be most welcome but I think that might be asking a little more than you are prepared to give."
"Indeed it would. You seem to have an extremely high notion of your own worth."
"I've achieved more than Turner or any of your own men did. That's worth something."
Beckett stood up and walked around the desk, revealing a short but elegant figure. His knee-breeches were of the finest cloth and his shoes bore large gold buckles that glinted in the sunlight. Norrington could see that he hadn't grown much, if at all, since they had last met - he was quite short, and would undoubtedly reach no higher than Norrington's own shoulder, should he stand so close. Lord Beckett's diminutive form, however, was none the less imposing, such was the force of character. He stood beside the large map on the wall, and faced Norrington with amusement and not a little contempt.
"It may be worth something, but not as much as you might have expected." He assumed a look of pious superiority and continued. "You appear to be unaware that this case has attracted enormous interest in London. The loss of your ship and many of the crew in a hurricane was a nine-days' wonder: shocking and unexpected, but not, alas!, unprecedented in recent times. The fact that the aforementioned hurricane overtook your ship in the Mediterranean rather than the Caribbean did not go unnoticed, but your position so far from your duty station was taken as a token of your zeal in pursuit of your orders - misplaced, to be sure, but genuine nevertheless. The Admiralty, I am told, placated its critics, exacted its revenge and offered up a scapegoat by demanding your resignation, and all might have been well if it had not been for the subsequent news, conveyed from certain parties in Jamaica, of the circumstances preceding the departure of the Dauntless from Port Royal all those months ago.
"The realisation that a Naval officer allowed the notorious pirate Jack Sparrow - yes, I do know that he styles himself captain, thank you - allowed him a full day's head start, after which the said Naval officer was unable to catch him, despite having the fastest ship in the New World, could not go unnoticed by the Court, let alone the Admiralty. Questions were asked in the House of Lords that risked serious embarrassment to the King and his ministers. Their lordships at the Admiralty saved themselves only by declaring that your actions were deemed to be so far beyond your orders that they were perilously close to treason; His Majesty concurred; and the warrant was issued.
"That doesn't explain why you're here."
Beckett gave a deprecating smile. "It was the privilege of the East India Trading Company to be able to offer His Majesty the use of one of our Agents - myself - for a task which, in all delicacy, could hardly be handled by a fellow Naval officer. I'm sure that you can understand."
"And what fee did the East India Trading Company exact for this delicate task?"
"Fee?" Beckett shook his head in gentle admonishment. "One does not insult the king by demanding a fee. Likewise," he added, smiling in a manner that might have been intended to appear innocent, but was in fact remarkably close to that exhibited by a cat after consuming a saucer of the best clotted cream, "one does not insult the king by refusing an offer of exclusive trading rights, should it be made."
Norrington snorted. "Of course not. But why you? Why not some other Agent?"
"I? I was in London." Beckett walked around to the window and looked out into the harbour. His voice was a shade darker as he continued. "My father died several months ago, and I returned to England to assume control of the estate and take my seat (2). When it became clear that something would have to be done about this tragic sequence of events in the Caribbean, I cut short my leave of absence and offered my services to the Company. It was the least I could do."
"So what happens now?"
"Now? There remain other matters to be weighed up before I make my report to the Admiralty. They will have the final say, but I will have the care of you until such time as their decision is made known to me." Beckett continued in his walk and came around to the front of the desk again, leaning back on it as he resumed his speech. "As to the substance of my report ... I am sure that you are aware of the many nuances that one can attach to a narrative of this nature." He regarded his fingernails briefly before looking up. "You have brought me the heart of Davy Jones, Mr Norrington, an act which I may, upon further consideration, allow to be sufficient to make up for the distressing lapse in judgement concerning the pirate Jack Sparrow. That achievement may buy you your life, if the authorities in London agree to it, but not your freedom. There is a matter between us these many years that remains unresolved. I intend to resolve it."
Norrington looked at him, puzzled, before realising what Beckett meant. "You want revenge for Madras?"
"Of course I want revenge, you fool! Did you honestly expect me to offer you absolution?" Beckett swung himself off the desk and regarded his captive with icy disdain before dealing Norrington a blow across the face that sent him reeling to the floor. Beckett looked down at him with an expression of the utmost loathing. "I suffered at your hands. I was a boy of nineteen and you used me as a pawn for the sake of your petty wager. I was reviled and humiliated, for your sport and that of your friends. No, Norrington, you'll get no forgiveness from me. I'm going to extract every means of revenge that I have imagined in the last fifteen years. I'm going to make you wish you were dead. I'm going to make you wish you'd stayed with Jack Sparrow as his cabin boy."
Norrington looked up from his place on the floor, unable to rise for the shocking realisation of what Lord Beckett had in store for him. And if he had thought that scrubbing the deck of the Black Pearl had been humiliation, he knew now that it had been but a mere taste of what he was going to have to endure.
Beckett smiled.
* * *
Mercer and one of the militiamen escorted him out of the room and up another two flights of stairs to the servants' and slaves' quarters, and walked all the way to the end of the corridor. Mercer unlocked the solid-looking door and ushered Norrington in.
It was a small room, with a plain wooden bed as its only furnishing. Attached to the outer, stone wall was a large, rusty iron ringbolt, with a pair of leg-irons attached by a six-foot length of heavy chain. Mercer attached the leg-irons while the militiaman stood guard. Only after they were secured and tested did Mercer take off the wrist-shackles, looping them neatly and stowing them in one of his capacious pockets before leaving the room and locking the door behind him.
Norrington stood silent, absently rubbing his wrists, as he looked around the room. There was little enough to see. There was a small shelf on the far wall, but no furniture apart from the bed-frame - no mattress, no table, no chair, no carpet, not even a chamberpot. Nothing that could be used as a weapon, he noted, grimly. He paced out the room as best he could, but the chain only allowed him as far as the end of the bed, and even at his furthest stretch he couldn't reach the shelf or the door. The small window had a few grimy and cracked panes of poor-quality glass, giving him a dim and distorted view of the world outside - which at present consisted of the stone walls of the house next door, a small patch of grey cloud and, looking down, the alley that ran between the houses. He tried to open the window but it was jammed shut. The air was hot and foetid, and he wondered how long it would be before anyone brought him water to drink. On second thought, though, he had no chamberpot, and had no desire to piss in a corner, so perhaps it was just as well.
He examined the bed-frame, but there was little chance of moving it or of breaking it up - it was of heavy wood and he could barely shift it with his shoulder. He gave the ringbolt and the chain a few tugs, but desisted once he had satisfied himself that the iron was nowhere near corroded enough for him to break. He sighed. The room had obviously been designed and fitted out as a private prison, and he would be lucky to leave it. He wondered what story Beckett would give the militia to explain his incarceration here - if, indeed, he bothered to give any explanation at all.
About an hour later, Mercer opened the door wide, allowing him to see the soldier stationed in the corridor before stepping in and offering him a leather tankard of water and a hunk of bread. There was no tray; no cutlery; nothing that could conceivably be broken or used against his gaolers. Norrington watched impassively as Mercer gave him a mocking bow and left, making sure that the door was locked once more.
He gave a moment of grudging respect for Beckett's foresight and intelligence, then set his mind to working out how he would escape.
* * *
He was left on his own for several hours, until the light had faded and the room was dark. He had found that he could stretch out comfortably on the bed, and had finally taken off his coat and rolled it up to use as a pillow. All in all, he was more comfortable than he had been for several days, though he still lacked water, a chamberpot, and something he could turn into a weapon.
He was roused from sleep by the door opening. Mercer entered, lantern in hand, and held it high as he checked on his prisoner. Norrington could have sworn that he cast a pitying glance down at him - but he was bleary-eyed with interrupted sleep and might have been mistaken. Mercer placed the lantern on the shelf and turned to face the door.
Norrington wasn't left in suspense for long. Beckett strode in, having discarded his elaborate coat and his wig. He looked older and less imposing without them; his closely-cropped hair was thinning on top and his figure was slight. There was strength in the shoulders, though, and in the thighs, and he recalled being told that Beckett had arrived in Port Royal on horseback. Norrington could see that he had the strength to control even a stallion, and he had no doubt that Beckett would make him suffer. At least he could see no weapon - he had been dreading a horsewhip or cat o'nine tails.
"On your feet."
He rose; slowly enough to satisfy himself, not so slowly that it could be cited as dumb insolence.
Beckett looked him up and down. He was obviously not impressed with what he saw. "You look dreadful and smell worse," he stated, lifting a handkerchief to his nose.
"Oh, I do apologise, milord," Norrington gave an elaborate bow. "I fear that the ablutionary facilities in prison are somewhat inadequate."
"Indeed they must be."
"Having had the time to make a thorough exploration of this room, I can advise you that the facilities here are equally inadequate."
"How shocking. I'll send someone up in the morning. For now I'll just have to put up with you dirty. Turn around. Mercer, the shackles, if you please."
Norrington turned to face the back wall, not really sure what Beckett wanted him to do. Mercer applied the wrist shackles, looping the chain through the frame of the bed, so that he was immobilised in hand and foot.
"Thank you, Mercer, that will do. I'll knock on the door when I'm ready."
Mercer bowed and left, closing and locking the door behind him. Norrington looked over his shoulder, and saw Beckett smiling like a fox left alone in a henhouse. He shuddered, inwardly, and hoped he'd be able to bear the pain with dignity.
Beckett reached around and undid the buttons on his breeches, pulling them down to his knees. A rustling sound indicated Beckett's own breeches being opened.
"Bend over," he was told, and he complied, no longer in any doubt as to his fate. Another backwards look revealed Beckett reaching into his pocket for a small stoppered bottle. As Beckett opened it and tipped some of the contents onto his hand, Norrington saw that it was some sort of oil, and relaxed a little. If Beckett was going to prepare him, it wouldn't be so bad.
Seeing his relief, Beckett snorted. "Be under no misapprehension, Norrington. This is to ease my way, not yours," he hissed, and with a quick swipe to coat his cock he moved behind Norrington and thrust himself in.
Norrington managed to avoid screaming, but only by the greatest effort of will. It hurt. Oh, god, it hurt! It was agony - he was being ripped in two. He couldn't even form the words of a curse, he was in so much pain. He'd been sodomised before, once or twice, but never like this; never so roughly. The pain was even worse than when he'd been wounded. He tried to pull forward, to pull himself off the shaft that impaled him, but was hauled back by two strong hands on his hips, and Beckett thrust again.
As the pace increased, there was no pleasure for him, only pain and more pain. He was groaning at each thrust and panting between, and barely registered that Beckett was talking - quietly, almost to himself.
"I dreamed of this, you know, in those weeks after you left me in India. I spent hours imagining every sort of revenge upon you. I never thought it would be this good - so sweet." He adjusted his stance slightly and continued. "Godsblood, but you're tight! I was sure you'd been warming Sparrow's sheets, but maybe I was wrong. Have you been pretending, all these years? Have you been imagining yourself a proper gentleman with a good position and a fiancée and a prick that rises only for women? Do they know you like to bugger boys, Norrington? Do they know you like to suck on a good thick cock?"
Norrington made no attempt to answer - not that he could if he'd tried. Every ounce of strength, every sinew, was wholly consumed in the fight against crying out in pain. Even his vision had dimmed, and he was shaking, not with passion, but with effort.
Beckett shuddered and climaxed, giving a groan as he did so. There was peace for a blessed second, then another jolt of pain as he pulled out.
Norrington, trying to catch his breath, barely noticed Beckett moving. With no warning he was pulled up and twisted around. Beckett held his chin and then - most shocking of all - kissed him, full on the mouth. It was no gentle lover's kiss - it was harsh and forceful, a violation no less brutal than the rape that had preceded it. He fought for breath, but his mouth and nose were sealed by Beckett's face and he was suffocating. He thought, briefly of biting down on the tongue that was probing his teeth, but then Beckett let him go, and he staggered, exhausted. He held himself up by sheer will-power, determined not to allow Beckett the satisfaction of knowing how close he'd come to breaking down completely.
Beckett smiled at him - a sly, vulpine, cruel smile. "I knew you'd be worth the effort," he murmured, wiping his hands and cock with a plain handkerchief that he dropped to the floor with disdain, and then rebuttoning his breeches. "Consider this: that tonight has been only the introduction to your new life. I can and shall do this again and again, as often as I want, and there's nothing that you can do to stop it. Everything you do, you do at my will: you shall not drink, eat or sleep unless it be at my pleasure. You have no life beyond these four walls. Think on that, Mr Norrington. Until tomorrow."
He knocked on the door and was bowed out by Mercer, who unlocked the shackles and left without a word.
Only when he heard the door close behind him did Norrington let himself collapse down to the floor, feeling the throbbing of his arse and the wetness between his legs that he hoped was only oil and semen. He looked up at the window and tried his best to stop the tears from filling his eyes, but in vain.
* * *
He slept badly, tormented by pain and self-disgust. Finally, at dawn, he woke and lay motionless, looking out of the window at the brightening sky.
He was thirsty again. It seemed to have been a constant state for the last few weeks - first on that godforsaken island, evading Davy Jones' men, then in the longboat when he had drifted for days. There had been a brief respite on the East Indiaman, when he had been given a sailor's ration, but that had only lasted for as long as it took them to return to Port Royal, and then he'd been subjected to the privations of the cells in Fort Charles for three days before being brought here.
He imagined what it would be like to have a glass of cool water in front of him. It would be cold enough to collect a film of dew, clear enough to sparkle in the sunlight, and it would taste clean and pure, not brackish or tainted with slime. He could almost taste it, if he imagined hard enough ...
It's no use, he told himself. You're only making things worse.
Instead, he went back to thinking about Cutler Beckett, and how the man had changed in the fifteen years since they had last met. He had only known the boy a couple of days, true, but he was sure that he had seen neither cruelty, nor self-absorption, nor cynicism. What had happened to him after that night in India? Had the story of his seduction by Norrington spread to the local company officials? Had Beckett endured months of humiliation and excoriation for his unwitting role in such an unsavoury exploit?
As for himself, he had barely given the incident a thought after the ship had left Madras. They had returned to England via Ceylon and Bombay, and after that he had been lucky to get a position in the Home Fleet before coming out to the West Indies. He had changed ship time and time again, always a new start, always moving up, until the day he had reached the pinnacle of his profession and his life had come crashing around his ears. That had been the day he had met Captain Jack Sparrow.
If he had known then what he knew now, he would not have hesitated to put a bullet in Sparrow's head that day, even at the risk of wounding Elizabeth. The man was a parasite: selfish and wilful; giving no regard to the demands of duty or the responsibilities of command; making use of everyone around him and giving nothing in return. The sooner the world was rid of him, the happier Norrington would be - and if he had to sell his soul to the East India Trading Company to accomplish that, then perhaps he would count it a bargain.
On the other hand ... he thought about Beckett's words the previous night: Everything you do, you do at my will: you will not drink, eat or sleep unless it be at my pleasure. It was not a reassuring prospect. If Beckett wanted him to die of thirst of starvation, there was nothing that he could do about it while he was chained to the wall. He had to find a way to escape.
He heard footsteps approaching from the corridor, and abandoned his cogitations. He hauled himself to his feet, prepared to greet Beckett with as much dignity as he could muster, in spite of the pain; but it was Mercer who entered, bearing another tankard of water.
Norrington resisted the urge to grab it and down the contents with one go. Instead he forced himself to sip it in a deliberate, elegant fashion.
Mercer watched him drink, as if waiting for him to finish.
"Am I keeping you from your duties?" he asked.
Mercer gave a small, thin-lipped smile. "Not at all, Mr Norrington. My duties today are to make sure that you are ready for his lordship if and when he decides he wants to see you."
"And does the term ready include any reference to food, or am I to be kept on water rations?"
"It includes whatever his lordship wishes it to include," replied Mercer, in a dry, unperturbed tone. If Norrington had expected any further elaboration, he was disappointed: the man said no more.
Norrington sighed and sipped his water. It was clear that he would have little success in interrogating Mercer, who appeared to carry discretion to extravagant lengths.
As he handed the tankard back, he said, "I require a chamberpot, unless you wish me to piss in a corner, and Lord Beckett" - gods, how that name stuck in his throat - "stated that I would be able to wash and shave this morning. I trust that you will make the necessary arrangements."
Mercer looked a little taken aback, as if he had not expected the prisoner to assert his own authority so bluntly. "I shall arrange matters in accordance with his lordship's directions," he said, and then Norrington was left alone once more.
A chamberpot was provided few minutes later, and he used it the minute the door closed again, sighing with relief. He knocked on the wall, then shouted to the guards, hoping that it would be removed, but there was no response. He pushed it to one side with his foot and tried to ignore the smell. It was no worse than the ship's bilges, after all.
It may have been an hour later, it may have been three, when the door opened and Mercer entered once more, this time followed by three slaves. One carried a large jug, steaming with hot water, the second carried a matching bowl piled with towels. The third, a pretty dark-skinned maid, brought up the rear, holding a basket of clothing.
The slaves set down their burdens on the floor and retreated, leaving Mercer and the maid, who looked at him expectantly.
"Now then, Mr Norrington, his lordship has directed that you are to be washed and dressed. Let's be about it."
"I am perfectly capable of washing myself, thank you."
"But that's not what his lordship wants, is it? His directions were quite specific, and I intend to see that they are carried out."
Norrington recognised the single-minded implacability in Mercer's eyes and took off his shirt. Under Mercer's watchful eye, the maid began to wash his face and shoulders. The water felt delightful on his skin, warm and soothing, and if the situation had been only a little different he would have enjoyed it hugely. Being tended to by a pretty slave was a favourite fantasy of his - one that he shared with every other man in the Caribbean, he was sure - and it was ironic that now, when the fantasy was made real, he was completely incapable of taking advantage of the situation.
Once his upper half was clean and dry, he was handed a fresh linen shirt. He drew it on, revelling in the feel of the cloth against his skin - the first clean clothing he'd donned since Tortuga. He deliberately took his time over buttoning the sleeves, putting off the moment when he would have to remove his breeches and undergarments.
In the end, it wasn't quite as embarrassing as he had dreaded. Certainly neither Mercer nor the maid batted an eye at his nakedness, and the maid set about washing between his legs with a detachment that led him to believe she was no stranger to this quasi-intimate act. She wasn't even particularly horrified by the dried blood and other, more unsavoury substances there. He had to bite his lip as she washed his most intimate parts - the soap made the raw flesh sting - but otherwise he bore the ordeal with as much dignity as he could summon.
It was with a profound sense of relief, though, that he watched them leave the room, bearing all the bowls, cloths and towels. He eased himself back down onto the bed and lay there, his hands behind his head, waiting for Beckett. (3)
His gaoler appeared in the early afternoon, looking cool and efficient in his shirtsleeves. He had been freshly shaved, and he wore a plain cravat and breeches. In one hand he carried a small vial - oil, presumably - and in the other another scented handkerchief.
The door closed, leaving them alone, and Norrington raised an eyebrow. "No shackles today?"
"Well, that all depends on you, Mr Norrington. I have a small task for you, and if you complete it successfully, you get to be prepared and oiled before I bugger you. If not, then I'll take you dry."
Norrington hesitated. It sounded too good to be true - which meant that there was a catch. "What's the task?" he asked.
"I want to you to stay absolutely silent for the next ten minutes."
Norrington opened his mouth to enquire why, then shut it again. He wasn't going to be caught out that easily.
Beckett smiled and nodded. "Very good, Mr Norrington. Now, unbutton your breeches and clasp your hands behind your back. Do not release them until I give you leave. Do you understand?"
Norrington nodded and obeyed. Beckett stood in front of him and slipped a hand inside his breeched to grasp his cock and give it a few long, slow strokes. In spite of his revulsion at his position, he found himself responding to the caress, and almost let out a groan until he remembered his task. Stay silent, he told himself. You know that Beckett is only looking for an excuse.
Well, he'd had plenty of practice at staying silent during this particular activity - whether at school or at sea, there was always someone within earshot, and he'd learned to bring himself off with scarcely a sigh. Surely this couldn't be any harder than that?
He'd reckoned without the force of nature that was Cutler Beckett's mouth. He couldn't help the intake of breath as it closed over his cock - it was a long time since he'd had anyone do this for him, and the sensation was so intense it was almost painful. He could feel Beckett's tongue swirling around the shaft, teasing him, bringing him to the brink faster than he would ever have thought possible. He gritted his teeth and held his breath as he came, determined to show Beckett that, although he was a prisoner, he was not a broken man.
Beckett looked slightly disappointed at Norrington's feat. He stood up and gave his captive with a keen, shrewd look. "Very good, Mr Norrington," he said at last. "I am impressed with your self-control. You may speak now."
Norrington opened his mouth, but there was really nothing to say. He certainly wasn't going to compliment Beckett on his talent, and he knew better than to insult him.
"Cat got your tongue? Oh well, I'm not here for conversation. Drop your breeches and bend over the bed."
Norrington hesitated, but Beckett drew the small vial of oil from his pocket and set it on the window-sill. "I'm a man of my word. Spread your legs."
Norrington complied and felt Beckett's hand reaching between his buttocks to apply the oil. He shifted his position to allow better access, and got an approving pat from the man behind him. Unfortunately, all the preparation in the world couldn't heal the bruised and tender flesh that the previous day's activities had left, and even though Beckett entered him slowly and smoothly, it was still intensely painful. He tried his best to relax, but there were tears in his eyes and blood on his lip by the time Beckett was fully inside him.
Thankfully, Beckett didn't take long to achieve his release, and withdrew as soon as he had finished. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, wiping himself off with his handkerchief.
"It was less violent," was all that Norrington allowed himself to say. If Beckett was disappointed in his response he hid it well, merely pocketing the oil and walking over to knock on the door.
"Until tomorrow, Mr Norrington," he said as he left the room.
Norrington slumped back against the bed. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow ... endless days of torment stretched out before him like ripples on the ocean, his very own Sargasso Sea, (4) and he had no choice but to bear it.
He looked around the room, but it was as empty as it had been yesterday. Now he understood the reason why the room was so bare - not to protect his gaolers, but to prevent him ending his life. Even so small a mercy was denied to him, and this, more than anything else, made him realise that he was truly lost.
(1) Themistocles. Quoted in Cicero, Ad Atticum. Back
(2) In the House of Lords. Back
(3) Yes, this is a subtle reference to Waiting for Godot (a play by Samuel Beckett). Back
(4) The Sargasso Sea is a region in the west Atlantic ocean where light winds, circular currents and immense rafts of seaweed can trap a ship for weeks.