Archive of Our Own

He can only look on helplessly as Jim vanishes round the corner. 

For a moment, as Oluwande ducks under the table to retrieve the fallen glass, he permits himself a hot little stab of anger. All the trials of this mad year on the run, the risks they've taken, the sacrifices they've made, and here’s Jim strolling right back into the lion's den like none of that matters at all — 

And yet. 

Isn't that what he likes about Jim.

What he well and truly adores, if he's being honest. 

That they're impulsive — yes — but decisive. They act. 

As long as Jim keeps rushing headlong into danger, they're going to do it with a great big lovesick barnacle firmly affixed, it seems, and there’s nothing they could do that would ever be able to scrape him off. Oluwande will bob along in the welter of their wake for as long as he's allowed. He'd live in hiding forever, if that's what it takes to remain at Jim's side. He'd face down the entire armada.

Compared to that, Spanish Jackie’s easy. 

Besides, the more he thinks about it, the more this run-in with her feels kind of like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders. He’d been dreading the prospect of their reunion for ages, and now look at him. Carried on a whole conversation, and his nose is still resolutely on his face.

Olu knocks back the rest of his gin. Best not to arouse suspicion by glancing towards the back room, no matter how badly he wants to — Jim will reappear at his side before he knows it, and then they can get the fuck out of here. 

He kicks himself, again, for his part in enabling the captain's foolish whims. Personal sympathies for the man aside, the great blinding white peacock has blundered into one fiasco of his own design after another. Jim was right; they should have just thrown the hostage overboard and been done with it.

“Need a refill?”

Oluwande nearly jumps out of his skin, but it's just the barman leering down at him as he slides a new glass over.

“Ta," he nods, but Geraldo doesn’t leave.

“Say, Mister Boodhari…” 

Resting his elbows on the table now, leaning in close, affecting immense concern.

“Where's that little friend of yours? You guys just got here. He left you all by yourself?”

Oluwande shrugs. Casually, he hopes. “Didn’t leave. Stepped outside to piss.”

“That's so weird,” Geraldo says. “I was just stacking some barrels out back, and I didn’t see him at all.”

Oluwande takes a draught of gin in lieu of trying to think what to say to this.

“You don’t suppose anything could have happened to him, do you? I hear this is a rough neighbourhood."

“If you didn’t see him, then he weren’t back there, was he? Probably just went round the side.” God, but he hopes the fear in his voice is sufficiently disguised by irritation.

“Around the side," Geraldo says airily. "Probably so. Well, if he comes back, tell him he’s drinking on the house all night. You both are. Jackie’s pleasure.” Grinning, he raps the table with his knuckles and traipses away.

“Awful kind of her,” Oluwande murmurs into his glass. "Fuck me.”

Nothing he can do now but go collect Jim, seeing as they can’t afford to stick around a minute longer. 

Oluwande risks a furtive glance across the room at Jackie.

He has to admit she looks particularly fearsome in that deep red velvet coat of hers. In the dim, oily lamplight, she could be drenched in blood or draped in rubies. Her sonorous voice is just audible over the din of the tavern. She seems to be deep in conversation with a couple of old geezers. Smoke blooms from the habitual Andalusian cigar clasped between the fingers of her finely carved hand.

It was hewn, she’d told him once, of holywood. Very hard, and very heavy.

He can still feel it stroking the sweep of his cheekbone. Posed fingers unnaturally smooth, palm strangely rough where intricate whorls are chiseled into the surface, all of it cool to the touch, especially the cold golden bands of her rings. For a moment, as she caressed his face, he was almost expecting a slap.

Well. Her attention is elsewhere now. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he slips away into the locked back room, where he is immediately knocked flat against the wall with a hand pressed to his mouth. 

Warm hand. Calloused hand. 

Jim's eyes widen.

“The hell are you doing?” they whisper harshly before letting him go. “No one saw you come in, right?”

“No, not a soul,” he whispers back, “but I'm telling you, we have got to get out of here right fucking now, okay. Geraldo is onto you.”

“Pfft, ese gilipollas,” Jim scoffs, turning to examine a tall cherry armoire. “That jealous little creep has nothing on me, alright?”

“He sure seems to think he does,” Olu counters, following Jim deeper into the shadows. “He was looking for you. He’s making threats. Oh, fuck, she kept his skeleton. Jim, I’m serious. It's too dangerous."

“Relax, guy. Are you freaking out because Jackie thinks I’m sexy? Trust me, Geraldo has nothing to worry about. She can look, but she can't touch.” This is accompanied by a lewd waggle of Alfeo's bony hand.

“Jim ,” he urges. “Please. I’m begging.” He knows how agitated he must look, sweating, heart racing. That jealous little creep fucking unnerved him.

Guess he must really seem desperate, because Jim is sufficiently moved to step in close and grasp him by the arms. 

Their hands are so hot, and their touch so slight and insubstantial, that he could sob with how badly he needs it. Needs to be slammed back against the door. Needs those hot hands holding him down.

A light squeeze is all he gets. “Relax, alright? Take a deep breath. Just help me requisition my fucking dagger, and then we're out of here."

Jim’s eyes are huge and dark under their ragged fringe. Forget the bloody dagger, Olu wants to say, knowing, of course, that he would never, ever be able to. He'd sooner climb up on top of the bar and dance a sarabande with the mouldering remains of Alfeo de la Vaca than deny Jim a single thing they want.

He sighs, collecting his wits, and gestures to the skeleton. "You strip-search him already, then?"

Jim throws a disdainful look over their shoulder and resumes rifling through the armoire. "It's not on him. Figure it must be hidden somewhere."

Olu finally tears his eyes away from Jim to examine the narrow, windowless room. It’s decorated nicely, if a bit haphazardly: a wooden writing desk in the corner heaped with stacks of papers, a soft red carpet underfoot, a pair of mismatched armchairs opposite some kind of fainting couch. Antiques like the cherry armoire are jumbled in among repurposed barrels and crates. Damn thing could be anywhere.

Supposing it might be hidden underfoot, Olu kneels to probe the floorboards for loose edges. If only he could dispel his dread and just savor how good it feels to work together like this, side by side in companionable silence. 

He sneaks a glance up to admire, as he often does, the way Jim's canvas jacket falls down the lean angles of their back. God, he loves how that jacket smells. Shudders with a little frisson of pleasure if his elbow so much as brushes against the fabric. Sometimes indulges a shameful, private fantasy of being that jacket, being carried everywhere Jim goes, pressed tight against their body, rolled up under Jim’s head when they need a pillow, otherwise tucked away secret and safe in a trunk bearing Jim’s initials…

This is what he's thinking about, down on his knees, when Jim murmurs his name. 

"Need you over here," they whisper, which is so, so terribly unfair. "This big thing’s got a lock, but it's too high for me to reach.”

"Aye aye," Olu says, "This big thing can pick any lock you put in front of him," and that makes Jim laugh , and this whole nerve-racking affair has been worth it just for that.

He cajoles the massive wardrobe open and is pleasantly surprised to find a cache of weaponry inside. For a makeshift armory, it’s a staggering array of broadswords, cutlasses, chains, spears and axes.

And some other things.

Blimey, there's some scary shit in here. More than a few whips, including a mean-looking cat. Branding irons. Pliers. Thumbscrews? Some things he hasn’t the slightest idea what they are. He can only hope that somewhere in this stash lies the Jimenez family dagger.

He glances over to see Jim examining something like a large, upright wooden casket with hinged doors. “Wonder what this is,” they whisper, and step inside. 

And then, to Oluwande’s absolute horror, he hears the turning of a key accompanied by an emphatically heavy and deliberate footfall. 

His absence has evidently been noted.

On instinct, he hisses at Jim to keep quiet, slams the casket shut to lock them inside, and throws an iron bridle to the floor with a loud clang to disguise the sound of their muffled surprise.

It’s all he can think to do. Against the flintlock pistol he knows is holstered somewhere within that blood-red coat, would the two of them really be able to fight their way out? After all their hard work — to take that risk — 

Besides. Even if they could subdue her, it wouldn't end there. All her cronies and compatriots would come crawling out the woodwork to avenge her; each of them, to a man, having now seen Jim's face plastered all over town.

Jim might hate him for this. Well, let them. 

Let him be impulsive for once. Let him suffer Jackie’s rage alone.

She blows in like a summer squall, kicking the door shut behind her.

“So,” she says, and Oluwande is discomfited to find that she has never, in all the years he's known her, looked quite so pleased to see him. “You've discovered what Spanish Jackie does to thieves."

He realises he’s still holding something ghastly and medieval-looking, and quickly shoves it back in the wardrobe.

“Jackie,” he stammers, but the sound of her bootheels crisply striking the floorboards as she closes in is driving every coherent thought out of his head.

Whatever he was going to say doesn't matter, anyway. She cuts him off with a dismissive gesture and tilts his chin up with two neatly manicured fingers.

"I swear to you, Jackie, I can explain," he tries again, and staggers sideways as a vicious blow across his face sends him reeling. 

Before he can react, he’s thrown to the floor with a calfskin boot bearing down hard against his sternum. If Jim were here…, he thinks hazily. But then, Jim is here. No doubt cringing at what they can see of this pathetic display through the hinge gap.

"Don't interrupt me," Jackie says coolly. "You should know better. And stop squirming."

As the weight of her boot increases, he wheezes and struggles to remain still. His ears are ringing. His cheek throbs.

Jackie ostentatiously sweeps the red coat off her shoulders and tosses it aside.

Looking at her directly is like staring at the sun. He was always so afraid that she'd see right through him, everything he tried so hard to hide: his anguish, his treachery, his feelings for Jim.

They’re well past that, now that he finds himself quite thoroughly underneath her, and so he looks his fill. 

Untouchable and remote as she's always seemed, she isn't made of stone. Her eyes are bright and hard, but the rest of her is disconcertingly soft. Remarkable, isn't it, how the thrill of mortal terror only serves to accentuate her charms.

From this vantage point, he is struck by the elegance of her long, well-turned legs. The way each boot clings snugly to the curvature of the calf. The soft creases in her velvet trousers where her thick thighs meet her belly. The graceful heft and swell of her tits, God help him, in that frilly white blouse. 

He realises that his mouth is open, and hastily closes it.

Jackie raises an eyebrow. "If I tell you to get up off the floor," she says, as if he were the one who put himself there, "and sit your ass down so we can have a civil discussion, are you going to do it?"

He nods.

"And you'll do it slowly, without making any sudden moves or doing anything Jackie wouldn't like to see you try to do?"

He nods again.

"And you're not going to make me ask you twice?"

He shakes his head frantically.

The pressure eases. Jackie steps aside. 

"Hop to."

He rises unsteadily to his feet, taking in great heaving breaths as he shuffles across the room and drops to the fainting couch. 

Jackie fixes him with an exasperated look. “I didn’t say you could sit on my Venetian silk brocade chaise longue. Sit in a chair, for God’s sake. Not my fancy Italian furniture.”

Jackie likes to see her orders obeyed promptly. Of course, once Oluwande is at last seated in the manner she prefers, she certainly takes her sweet time retrieving a cigar and tinder-box from her desk. These items acquired, she settles in to recline opposite him on the chaise. 

At her behest, he gives her a light. The wavering flame bathes her regal face and marcelled waves in gold.

"Now then," she finally says after a few leisurely drags. "You're a bad liar, kid, so don't even bother. I know exactly what you were up to."

Oluwande's heart sinks, and he forces himself not to glance at Jim's hiding place. Looks Jackie in the eye, and waits for the hammer to fall. 

No other woman could manage to look so formidable whilst lying recumbent on a pink silk sofa.

She sighs heavily and takes another drag. "Damn it, you know you're like a son to me. You didn't have to break into my private quarters. You could've just asked. If you’d asked me nicely , Olu, I might have given you a little something."

Hang on. 

She doesn't know about Jim — she doesn't know about the dagger — she thinks he's just a plain old ordinary thief?

Jesus! All the more reason to keep Jim locked out of this little scene. He could almost burst into laughter. 

Can't look too relieved, though. He makes a show of hanging his head in shame. It's just as well; the rich, mossy smoke filling the air is making him dizzy.

"You're right," he says sheepishly, and she lets him speak this time. “I was going to steal one of your blades. And…and I'm sure you know why."

It's a gamble, but it pays off. Jackie leans in closer, slips his woollen hat off, and ruffles a hand through his hair. 

"Do I ever. You got mixed up with that feckless dilettante calling himself the Pudendal Plunderer, or whatever."

"The Gentleman Pirate," Olu can't help but interject. 

She abruptly tightens her hand in a fist, making him gasp at the prickling of his scalp.

"Genital Pirate, yeah, yeah. I thought I already said the thing about the interrupting. Anyway, this guy's a real piece of work, he's obviously going to get your whole crew killed. You gotta mutiny. But you need to be armed. Even against a hunk of puff pastry like that, you don't want to leave anything to chance."

Jackie loosens her grip, slipping her hand down to stroke the nape of his neck. Her sharply filed nails, he has to admit, feel nice. A little hypnotic, even, that slow scrape up and down.

He is humiliated by the sudden realisation that he would quite gladly lie facedown in the lap of Jim’s mortal enemy.

The tobacco must be going to his head.

"So you come crawling back to poor old Jackie, wasting away in her widow's weeds. And you're afraid she won't give you what you want, so what do you do? You take the B&E route instead. Like a coward. Like a scared little boy."

"Yes," Olu says, unable to prevent his voice from cracking. "I'm sorry, Jackie. Really, it was so stupid. And after you've been nothing but kind to me." 

He swallows hard and meets her stern gaze. "Forgive me, Jackie, please. I'll never do you wrong again, I swear."

"You sure as hell won't," she says, but she seems satisfied enough with his apology. "You're a good kid, Olu." She rubs his knee brusquely, and he’s not sure why that, of all things, makes him shiver. 

"You just need a little help. You're damn lucky I’m here to keep you on the straight and narrow."

"I am," he says with genuine contrition. “I know I am.” 

Jackie nods decisively, as though the issue is settled. She leans back against the chaise, taking up her cigar again, smoking in long languorous pulls. Through the walls, the muffled commotion of the tavern is faintly audible, but it feels so far away from this dark, humid, close little room. The earthy musk of the tobacco is dulling his senses.

He looks down at his clasped hands and waits for her to speak, unsure of what else to do but feeling tentatively hopeful that he’s passed her test. Seems she just wanted to slap him around a little, put the fear of God in him, and he and Jim will be getting out of here in one piece after all. 

Jackie hums agreeably and sets her cigar down inside an enormous upturned cowrie shell, breaking the silence. 

“Then there’s just the matter of your punishment.”

Olu recoils in horror at her businesslike tone. “What?”

"Your punishment," she drawls. "You heard me."

"What are you — Let’s please be diplomatic about this," Olu pleads, his voice rising in an unbecoming way that he hates for Jim to be hearing. 

"That ship sailed when you picked the lock on my interrogation cabinet," she says, thumbing roughly at his cheekbone where she struck him, reawakening the ache. "Darling Olu. You've earned a spanking, you juicy little apricot."

“No,” he stammers.

“Oh, yes, indeed."

“That’s — Jackie, what are you saying? That’s a boy's punishment — Jackie —"

"You want the thumbscrews instead?" she shoots back. "I told you you're like a son to me. A wayward son. In need of a firm hand."

His mouth has gone dry.

"And besides," she adds, her voice like melting wax, "I've always wanted an excuse to spank that sweet, plump derrière." 

She winks. "Really fucking hard."

He can't speak, just gapes up at her as she cradles his face in her hands. Her nails scratch gently through his beard.

"Stand up," she entreats, and he does. 

She splays a hand on his chest. He can feel her rings knocking against his collarbone.

"If you want to get back in Jackie's good graces, you'll take what you're given and thank her for it. That clear?"

"Crystal," he whispers hoarsely.

"Good. Now stay there."

She turns on her heel and saunters over to — what did she call it? Her interrogation cabinet. Jesus.

Jackie is mere inches away from Jim's hiding place, and that terrifies him more than anything. She must see him looking over there, because she gestures to the upright casket with a flourish. "You like this? It’s a little design of my own I've been working on. Wanna know how it works?"

Please, please don't open it, he begs silently. Do anything you want to me, just don't open it.

"How?" he forces himself to ask.

"I’m gonna nail spikes all the way through it. You lock someone in here," she gives a kittenish little tap for emphasis, "spikes do their thing. I don’t know what to call it, though. Still hammering out the details."

He feels lightheaded.

“Yeah, it’s too plain, I know,” Jackie sighs. “Needs more flair. Like I said, it’s a work in progress.”

With that, she turns and begins rummaging in her treasure trove of medieval horrors. 

"I thought you said no thumbscrews," he says, and winces at the shakiness of his voice.

"Jesus, Olu, do these look like thumbscrews to you?" she asks, holding up a fistful of rope and leather. "Don't borrow trouble, son."

He shuts his mouth. 

Jackie locks the cabinet and returns with something small and multi-tailed. “Ç'est un martinet," she declares with satisfaction, and Olu is further shamed to realise that he kind of enjoys hearing Jackie talk French like this. The way she rolls each vowel around in her mouth like a clay marble. “Une bonne fessée cul nu, voilà ce que tu mérites…"

“Un…un quoi?” he asks weakly.

She strokes the wooden handle and shakes out the falls, letting him get a good look. 

"A martinet. Stings like hell, and it leaves real pretty little marks.”

He understands, of course. Jackie's had men's noses for less. This is the price he has to pay to get Jim out of there alive. And he would do anything for Jim — including, evidently, have them bear witness to his abject humiliation.

"Untie your pants," Jackie says, rolling up the billowing white sleeves of her blouse. His heart skips to see the dark hair curling over her muscular forearms. "Get up on the chaise longue, and kneel.”

Oh, now I'm allowed to sit on the fancy Italian furniture, he dares not say to her. What else is there to do but obey? He can take a hiding.

Whether he can survive Jim overhearing it all is another matter, but there’s nothing to be done about that, is there.

Rigidly holding himself in position, he flinches at the shock of Jackie’s hand on his clothed arse. "Relax," she says, stroking lightly, and it gives him vertigo how much she suddenly sounds like Jim. 

“Man alive, you’re tense. I told you, you’ve got Jackie here to guide you now. Teach you right from wrong.”

Both her hands are on him, roving expansively and with great relish. The one radiating heat through the linen, the other terribly unyielding.

Did he really hear her say she’d always wanted an excuse to do this? There were times, he thinks, back in the day, when her attitude towards him seemed to verge on the carnal. Not that he ever imagined anything like what she apparently had in mind. 

Jackie’s rings clink softly as they drop from her fingers. Without warning, she yanks his trousers and underclothes down and gives his bare arse a condescending little pat. 

"Goddamn, this is lovely. Shame it needs to be punished."

"Christ," he mumbles. His face is so hot. At least Jim isn't able to see him blush. "Jackie, I really am sorry.”

The leather tails brush gently against his skin.

"Are you?" she says cheerfully. "Well, you will be. I’ll make damn sure of that."

He hears a rush of air, then a cruel snap as the martinet falls.

The first hit isn't much, but Jackie has a strong fucking arm. She's not holding back. She keeps up a buoyant pace, giving him no time to catch his breath in between, and it stings like the bite of seawater on abraded skin.

She lands a particularly ruthless strike to his upper thighs.

“Ah!” he gasps, knees buckling.

“Stay in position,” Jackie orders. “ Up , damn it. Arch your back.” She punctuates this with a sharp swat between his shoulders, and he complies, kneeling upright, trying to be good for her.

“Good lad,” she says, as if having read his mind, and the worst part is that he likes it. He likes squirming under her hand. Even though it hurts.

Because it hurts.

Because Jackie is so good at making it hurt.

Christ. He desperately hopes she won't notice that the strict treatment is making his cock swell. What would she do then? Thrash him even harder for taking pleasure in his punishment, no doubt. He tries desperately to focus solely on the pain, but it doesn’t work. The signals are all mixed up. He fucking likes it too much.

“I’m going extraordinarily easy on you, given the circumstances,” she says after a while, squeezing his arse. “Mm. This is getting nice and warm already.” She draws her hand back and smacks the tender undercurve, hard. "Be well and truly roasted by the time I'm done."

“Jackie,” he whimpers. "Hurts, oh.”

“It sure as hell better,” she says mildly, giving him another.

"Now listen. You know how I usually deal with thieves?" Another.

"And men who disobey me?" Another.

"And trespassers," another, "who creep around behind my back," another, "and break into my private quarters?" Another, and another, and another.

"Well? Let's hear it. What do you think they get?"

"A stern lecture?” he gasps out, knowing it will earn him a harsh volley of blows, and it does.

“Ha ha,” Jackie says. “No. They get to learn their lesson before an audience. It just so happens that I wanted this,” another hard squeeze, “to myself. So consider yourself damned lucky it’s not the pillory out there, where all the loyal clientèle of Spanish Jackie’s can be a party to your disgrace."

With that, she picks up the whip and resumes the same brisk pace as before. The rising sting is fast becoming unbearable. And Jackie says nothing, just calmly metes out his discipline with expert efficiency, landing the odd strike to his thighs or shoulders when he requires additional encouragement to stay in position.

As the room echoes with the cracking report of the martinet, and with his own stifled cries, a horrible thought suddenly occurs to him. 

Jackie’s patrons may not be able to see this thrashing. But can they hear it?

They could be listening right now. If he can hear the ambient clamour of the tavern from this room, couldn't they just as easily hear the rhythmic snap of the whip, striking his arse over and over?

Jackie made it sound like this was a regular occurrence. Way back when, before the Siete Gallos business, he never got the chance to witness such a spectacle himself. But maybe it happens all the time these days. Just another poor sinner suffering at Jackie's command. Maybe it's so unremarkable her regulars hardly even pay attention any more.

But what about Jim, he wonders deliriously, writhing under the relentless strength of Jackie's arm, what about Jim. The sole spectator who matters. They're hearing everything. Not only the snap of leather against vulnerable flesh, but all his shameful little gasps and whimpers too. And just how much are they able to see from in there? Can they see his arched back, his arse pushed out to accept his punishment? Can they see that he likes it? Can they see that he's hard?

Jesus. His head is swimming. She could have paraded him naked through the town square and he wouldn't feel so exposed.

"Jackie," he grits out after barely a dozen more blows, beginning to feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. It's a struggle to stay upright now. "Jackie, please."

"Please what," she says evenly, not stopping.

"Please, mercy," he begs. "I've learnt my lesson."

"Well," she says, "in that case," and thank God, after one last emphatic snap, she discards the martinet and gives his arse a rough little rub. 

It's driving him crazy, how he doesn't know what to do with the sensation. He wants to squirm away from the searing ache and he wants her hand on him to rub away the sting and he wants to come and he wants to crawl into a hole and die of shame.

"What a brave boy," Jackie murmurs. He collapses forward, panting, and lets his head drop to his arms. “How manful. How stout of heart.” She gently scratches the heated skin, making him shiver violently. “Mm. Shaking like a leaf.”

"'S over?" He clears his throat, tries to swim back up to the surface. He distantly recalls what she had said about you'll take what you're given and thank her for it. "Thank you, Jackie."

"Oh no, baby," she says brightly. "We're not done. Jackie's just getting started. Because," and she suddenly digs her nails in hard, "you're enjoying this, you little reprobate.”

He hears himself whimper plaintively, fathoms deep and too strung out to protest.

“Lie to me,” she demands, sounding almost bored. “Go on, Oluwande. Tell me you’re not hard as goddamn iron right now.”

“Not,” he chokes out, and this must be a nightmare, he’s delirious with fever, he’ll awaken any second, “swear ‘m not, ah —"

His aching cock bounces with a sudden desultory backhanded slap.

“Uh huh,” Jackie says, “pathetic,” and the whip again snaps down remorselessly, wrenching a sob from deep in his chest. He can’t help it now, he’s crying as she beats him, crying from the sting of the martinet, and from the sick pleasure laid bare by his abasement, and most of all from knowing that if Jim wasn’t aware of his true predilections yet, they certainly are now. He’ll never be able to look them in the eye again. 

If there ever was a point when he could take it quietly, he can’t anymore.

As he sobs, he gradually attains a dim realization that the blows have abated and Jackie is scolding him again. 

"I said get up,” she barks. “You have five seconds to haul your ass over here, because I swear by all the saints and angels that if you come on my Venetian silk, you're a dead man."

His face burns as he shakily tries to stand. Too slow, evidently, for Jackie; she roughly grips the scruff of his neck and pulls him to his feet. 

Her hand is firm on the back of his neck, and his arse is terribly sore, and astonishingly, the crushing shame of it all is only serving to wind him up further. 

"Now, mon coquin," she says. "How the hell am I supposed to correct your fucking misdeeds if you're getting off on it?"

"Not trying to," he whines. "Can't help it, 'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

A slap to the face cuts him off. 

"Yeah, I’ve heard that a few times now," Jackie says drily. "You know what, Olu? I think you wanted this to happen. I think you wanted to get caught."

Christ. All he wanted was to spare Jim. What was he thinking?

"In order to learn from his punishment, a young man must be in the proper frame of mind," Jackie sermonises. "No distractions. Turn around."

He turns. At least this means she's looking at his arse, instead of his raging hard-on.

Which seems preferable, until he comes to the disastrous realisation that he's directly facing Jim’s hiding place, and now he wants the earth to swallow him up. 

All the same, he has scarcely a moment to contemplate this before Jackie is pressing up hard behind him, her right arm thrown over his chest to crush him to her, her left hand wrapped round his cock. The soft velvet nap of her trousers rubs with devastating intensity against his raw, tender arse, and the shock of it all makes him wail as if scalded.

"That's a real nice sound you just made," she says, as if commenting on the weather.

"Jackie," he gasps. "What is this?"

"Oh, do you not know?" Her hand on him is ruthless. "I'd have thought a sailor would be well acquainted, after all those long lonely months at sea."

Olu squirms in her arms as she laughs at him, but he doesn't want to get away, not really. As much as he hates knowing that Jim is watching, he'd hate even more for Jim to see him put up a real fight, and lose.

Mostly he just wants to stave off the inevitable for a respectable minute or so. At least retain that scrap of dignity.

He vaguely realises that he's being admonished in Jackie's husky, rhotic growl while she tortures him, but he’s not listening. He's imagining that it's Jim instead. 

Why shouldn't he? The Jim inside his head is the only one who'll have anything to do with him after this. He's already fallen so far, he may as well get something out of his doomed fantasy.

He comes to the phantom sensation of Jim's wiry strength holding him in place, Jim's canvas jacket against his skin, Jim's breath on his neck, Jim's voice in his ear, Jim's hot hand jerking him hard and fast— 

Spent, he sags in Jackie's arms. Distantly he registers that she has elected to clean her hand by smearing his seed across the back of his shirt. His throat feels sore; he might have shouted.

He can't even catch his breath before she's dragging him, stumbling, to her desk, where she sweeps the jumble of papers to the floor and unceremoniously bends him over.

"Ow," he gasps, his face smushed into the burled wood. Without the protective shield of arousal and adrenaline, his arse really fucking hurts. To his renewed dismay, Jim once again has a clear view straight to his imminent chastisement.

"Not quite so eager anymore?" Jackie croons, raking her nails meanly across his inflamed skin. She gives him a hearty slap. “Don’t move.”

He can tell by the sound of her footsteps receding that she's returning to the cabinet. What in God's name does she have in store for him now? He half expects her to return with the branding iron; it already feels like he's got her initials seared into his arse.

It's worse than that, he finds, as she comes round the other side of the desk to face him. She's wielding a distressingly thick rattan cane.

"Couple of my husbands are English," she says by way of explanation. "One of 'em gave me this." She swishes it through the air and grins, then taps the cane lightly against his arse, lining it up.

"I do think it's kind of a blunt instrument," she sighs. "But you have to admit it's effective. The only question is, how many stripes?"

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

It becomes clear that she's expecting an answer.

"As…as many as you think I deserve," he offers, feeling a bit hysterical.

"Oh, good answer." She leans forward and tousles his hair affectionately.

Before he can wrap his mind around the trouble he's in, she pulls back and lands a perfect hit across her target. 

Olu exhales shakily and manages not to cry out. To his surprise, that actually wasn't so bad. She isn't giving him her full strength.

Yet. His stomach lurches at the thought.

Jackie gives it just enough time to sink in, and then she places a second line just under the first. The third and fourth, too, are almost bearable.

“Need I remind you,” Jackie continues, between strokes, “you’re getting off easy,” and how does she still sound so cool, so controlled as she thrashes him? Like it’s not affecting her at all. Like she’s doing this just because he needs it.

The tenth stroke takes his breath away, making him howl and jump up off the table, clutching at his throbbing arse. He can't stop himself, it's too much, it's too much.

"Back in position," Jackie snaps. "I'll give you that one, but next time it happens I'm starting over from the beginning."

"Jackie, please," he sobs.

She lands a searing line at the top of his thighs.

"I said get back in position. Do you really want me to have to tell you again?"

"No," he says meekly, and hastens to bend over the desk again. "Only — please, Jackie, will you — hold me down?" The request is utterly humiliating, and he can only imagine how Jim will deride him for this, but he forces himself to get the words out. "Think I need — help. To not move."

"Aha," Jackie says, and she sounds amused. She rubs his lower back with her wooden hand. "This what you need?"

"Yes," he begs. "Please, please."

She presses down harder, forcing his spine to arch, and taps the cane against the roundest swell of his arse.

He’s sinking again, further and further down as her hard hand pins him to the table.

“Thank you,” he slurs, not even because he knows she wants to hear it. Just because it feels good to say it.

“Mm,” Jackie murmurs, setting the cane down to pet his bruised and welted skin. “Good lad. Gorgeous boy.” Every touch is agony. He didn’t realise how desperately he needed it.

“Six more, I think.”

In a daze, he takes the last of his punishment. 

When she finally releases him, he slumps across the desk and floats there for a while, adrift, as if clinging to a piece of flotsam.

Smoke on the horizon. 

Jackie's lit her cigar again.

And he's fully clothed, lying on his belly. On the sofa. When did that happen? He groans, relishing the deep thrumming ache that resonates to his core.

Jim, he remembers, his stomach twisting. Oh God. Jim. Got to get them out of here. Got to get out.

He cracks an eye open. Jackie's hair is perfect; her crimson coat sits square on her shoulders; the kohl lining her eyes is unsmudged. She's saying his name.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

He nods as best he can, facedown in a silk pillow.

“You took it well,” she concedes, and she almost sounds proud, and she almost seems to be on the verge of saying something else, when a sudden crash from the direction of the bar launches her upright in a fit of pique.

"My noses!" she gasps, hauling him to his feet. "Damn it, get the fuck out of my establishment, I have to go deal with this."

“Mmnnh,” he protests, struggling to walk on trembling legs.

"OUT," she says firmly, and the next thing he knows he's being shoved behind a hanging tapestry into a dark corridor with a narrow stairway leading to the street outside.

He listens for the slam of the heavy oak door, and for Jackie's booming contralto issuing threats of murder, and rushes back inside to release Jim.

They stay quiet as he approaches the wooden casket. Oluwande’s heart is pounding hard enough to tear itself out of his chest.

He’s not sure what he expects. Disgust? Incredulity? Cold silence?

What he gets, when he hastily slides open the hinged doors, is a fierce tangle of sweaty limbs thrown around his waist, and Jim kissing him hard and messy, and it’s the sheer glorious surprise of it as much as the physical onslaught that knocks him off his feet with Jim still straddling him, holding him tight. 

“Hello,” he whispers, not entirely sure that he isn’t dreaming, or feverish, or dead.

“Hey," they whisper back. "Look at this."

A tarnished knife is withdrawn from their pocket and held in front of his face. Even with his eyes crossed, he can see that the name JIMENEZ is carved into its wooden handle.

“Your dagger!” he exclaims.

“My fucking dagger!”

In all the time he’s known them, he’s never seen Jim like this. They throw their hat aside and lean down to kiss him again, pressing him deeper into the frayed carpet. Their hot hands are everywhere.

“Where the hell was it?” Olu whispers. 

Jim grins hugely under the horsehair beard.

“In that casket thing?”

Impossibly, their smile stretches even wider.

“I locked you inside the one single solitary fucking piece of furniture in this entire room that happened to have your knife stashed in it?”

“No,” Jim murmurs. “You didn’t.”

Their big dark eyes shine with triumph.

“It was inside Jackie’s coat pocket.”

Olu gapes up at them.

“She was a little distracted,” Jim whispers into the crook of his neck, nipping him playfully. “Thanks to you.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Olu whispers.

“I’m crazy?” Jim giggles. 

Olu can’t help himself; he’s laughing too. “Yes, you maniac! I’m sure I wasn’t the one who decided to scamper in here with a bounty on my head and skulk around right under Jackie's nose!"

Jim smacks his shoulder. “Look who’s lecturing me about rational decision-making! Husband number nine-fucking-teen!”

"Unbelievable," Olu grins. "Christ, I thought she was going to castrate me."

Abruptly, utterly without warning, Jim is unlacing his trousers and sliding a hand down to wrap around his cock. "Y le doy gracias a Dios que no pasó."

“Jim,” he groans. “Seriously — here? — not on the floor —”

"Can you go again?" Licking his neck sloppily. "I can."

Evidently, yes. But — 

"Hang on, what d'you mean you can go again?"

"Mm, I wonder," Jim murmurs, directing Olu's hand to their cunt.

"Oh, you are soaking wet," he whispers in amazement.

"You cannot be surprised by that," Jim says drily, "not after that little show you put on."

Olu's blush deepens. "Here I thought I was sparing you the wrath of the woman who wants to kill you," he says. "Little did I know I was just locking you into a fucking — wank cupboard — ah…"

Jim twists their hand hard to shut him up. "Here I thought you were playacting the penitent schoolboy for her benefit," they pant, rocking against his thigh. "You were getting off on it the whole time — you fucking love it—"

"Yes," Olu hisses. "Jesus. Yes. I love it." He tightens his grip on Jim's waist, aching for them to ride him harder.

They look so astonishingly lovely like this, arched above him, using his body for their pleasure. His heart flips.

"You're still getting off on it," they rasp, sweat dripping from their dishevelled hair. "The bruises, right? The marks? Fuck, I can't wait to get a good look at what she did to you."

The erratic snap of their hips stutters wildly as Olu trembles underneath them.

"Jackie was right, you know." They press against him deeper, faster, grinding roughly, jolting him backwards across the carpet with every thrust. "You took it — very — well —"

He comes so hard, it feels like drowning.

"Jim," he gasps, when he can speak again.

They mutter something unintelligible, slumped heavily on top of him. He strokes up and down their back in slow patterns, rejoicing in the feel of the canvas jacket under his fingers.

"Wait," he realises. "Did you—"

Jim lifts their head to meet his gaze. "Yeah," they mumble, almost shyly.

"Oh my God."

"Mm. Hey, Olu," they add, eyes growing brighter and more alert now, "you realise she could walk back in here at any moment?"

"Of course I do, you nut," he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You're the one who couldn't wait til we got back to the bloody ship.” 

Jim springs to their feet and offers him a hand. "I'm ready to go. Dunno what you're waiting for."

"Such cheek," Olu admonishes, taking their hand. He feels like he'll never stop grinning.

They tidy themselves up as best they can and stumble together through the hidden corridor. On the stone steps, just before they reach the exterior door, Jim pauses.

"There's something I want to ask you," they say, and the gravity of their tone stops Olu in his tracks.

"Anything," he promises.

"Do you think that maybe…I don't know, a few years down the line. When the dust has settled."

"Yeah?"

"Well…if you still want to be with me, that is…"

Olu rubs his thumb gently against theirs. 

"Do you think Jackie would ever be down for a threesome?"

"Oh, that's it," Olu laughs, "now I'm going to spank you," and Jim charges ahead, cackling, into the street.