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There are worse things than being lashed.
Hickey's own words came back to mind as the cat hit him again, but wasn't followed by the Captain's order to carry on. Twenty three was all he deserved ; a bastard number, not even a round one. It wouldn't be enough to stop at twenty, but Hickey's pettiness wasn't worth a lot more lashes. But when Hickey was pulled up to his feet and thought he was done with, another order was given. Something that confused him at first, and made his throat clench then – something that could be fear, if he didn't suspect what would happen. Getting stripped, bent over and lashed hadn't happened since his childhood, but what followed didn't have the priviledge to be buried in an age too early to truly be remembered.
The last time it occured was soon before leaving London ; it was what convinced Hickey there was nothing left for him in that awful place. Someone who recognised him followed him in an alleyway and forced him to his knees with a gun to his head. That man called him a variety of names, though none Hickey hadn't heard before. When he spent down Hickey's throat and lost his grip on his gun, Hickey took it from him and shot him in the throat. He liked a little revenge.
But here and now, it wouldn't be revenge. It wasn't assault, it was punishment. Turn him around, Crozier's voice boomed, and Hickey was laid flat on his back, on that same table soaked in his own blood and sweat.
The touch of wood on to his raw wounds was agonising. He cried out in pain, his backside pressing on the table as his legs were pulled up, and his drawers were torn from his feet. Then he was yanked back, his head hanging over the edge of the table and blood throbbing at his temples. His arms were stretched out and bound into place. His knees were brought up to his chest and parted open, and a length of rope was bound around each leg, spreading him open.
Hickey's heart pounded in his chest. He could swear it banged at his ribcage to break free, seeking only respite from that tortured prison of meat. Hickey didn't protest, didn't beg. He only bit down on it and tried to breathe slow, knowing he had no chance to escape what would happen. For now, he was only on display. The men surely didn't understand why Crozier ordered him to be placed this way – until they saw between his legs, and between hushed words of surprise, Hickey definitely picked up some of mockery. That Hickey was playing dress up, was the main idea that emerged. He had no doubt those who resented him on that ship (and they were many) took great pleasure in seeing his secret exposed for everyone to see.
"Life at sea is cruel," Crozier began. "It's tough, it's merciless, and it calls for great discipline. It as well calls for honesty and respect ; of one's superior as for one's own self. Lies, deceit, and acts counter to nature and order, shall be met with fitting retribution."
Hickey bit his lip and the inside of his cheeks until it bled. He wished for the tang of iron to muffle everything ; sounds, his heartbeat, the pain in his body.
"Tonight, men, an act of violence has been carried out against an innocent woman – an act that has received correction. But Mr Hickey, before you, has shown great disrespect to both his superiors, crewmates, and to himself."
He marked a pause. A voice rose ; faceless, worthless, just as what it uttered – that's herself, Sir, it said, and Hickey gritted his teeth together. Crozier didn't register it.
"Tomorrow shall be a new day," he resumed. "But for now, as penance for perversion and deceit, Mr Hickey shall suffer. Men," he said, and stood upright, "Your relief shall be his punishment. Take yourselves out on him."
And, as though he had ordered some ordinary command, the Captain turned to leave. He slipped a word to Tozer, entrusting him with keeping a modicum of order.
*
Some rough sailor was the first to breach him. It had been a while Hickey allowed anyone in that hole ; and even longer since it was claimed by force. Most men didn't oppose the artificial, chiseled-whalebone cock he strapped to his hips and used to fuck them. Some probably didn't even notice the otherness of his body at all. They didn't deserve to see him naked. Billy had, and didn't mind it.
Billy.
He was in the room, right now. With some luck, Irving would refuse to bear witness to that scene of debauchery, and he would ask his steward to leave with him. But luck wasn't on Hickey's side. As he looked up from his uncomfortable angle, he saw Irving was still here : hands fumbling with the pearls of a rosary, and lips moving in a muted prayer. His eyes were closed, and Billy stood next to him. Upright, still, unfaltering. Eyes anchored on the tip of his boots, jaw clenched. Hickey was grateful he Billy wouldn't look at him. He couldn't bear to sense pity when his wife talked to him later, if he did at all.
But soon Hickey's sight was blocked as another, un-gentle man grabbed his head and forced the head of his cock in his mouth. Hickey knew how to take it – open his mouth as wide as he could, put his tongue out, clear the entrance of his throat. He knew how to resist the urge to gag. He could take it. He already had.
It burnt when the cock forced itself in his throat and cut off his airflow. It thrusted in, again and again, leaving Hickey no chance to breathe, until his squirming was alarming enough to pull out of his mouth. He coughed, spit and snot and fluids threatening to drown him. The man made to resume, but Hickey caught a glimpse of red behind the man, and his throat was left alone.
The burn in his entire head had almost made him forget the other man between his legs. He heard others cheering, and laughing, and calling him the usual names – whore, minx, trap ; and he realised he was making sounds. Breathless, visceral sounds when the thrusts hit him deep and hard, pounding a bruise in his tender insides, and he couldn't stop these sounds. They seemed even louder the more he tried to stiffle them.
That's a good cunt, he heard amidst laughter. Hey, my turn now, another said, before the erect member spilled inside him, pulled out, and was replaced by another. This one was thicker, and it fucked him with a vengeance. A hand pressed down on the base of his throat, and withdrew, and slapped his tits, and grabbed one so tight Hickey was certain it would bruise – and he moaned.
The best he could do was endure. His body wasn't really betraying him. It only took, and didn't care whether it was rape or love. Where morals took place was in the brain, and Hickey did his best to shut it down. He only took man after man, cock after cock ; he took those spitting on him, cumming on him, slapping and choking and fingering him, and he heard himself as though from a distance, crying out and moaning and uttering pitiful pleas. He had promised himself he would never speak this way again, with that whiny voice he couldn't remember he last heard.
It may have lasted an hour, just as it could have been days on end. But when finally an end was put to it, Hickey felt as though he might start believing in God. It was stopped just as it began : officially, and ridiculously so. What protocol was there in that sentence? Crozier's order was the only thing justifying it happening, and it was the Captain's delegated authority that called it over. It was Tozer's voice that spoke up – It's over, men. Captain's order ; punishment stops at midnight.
And as swiftly as Hickey had been flipped around and tied up, he was set free and pulled up to his trembling legs. Tozer's hands were the one to catch him when he staggered, and it were Tozer's arms that held him when Hickey didn't fight passing out.
All he felt was pain ; on his backside and in his throat, and his hole, and his chest, and every part of him that had been abused. Had they also used his ass, or had they been left too long without a cunt to pound to pay it any attention?
He wished it had stopped at the lashing. He even wished the lashing lasted longer. But it was done, and now it was over. This cold comfort revolved in his mind as blackness claimed him – it's done, it's over.
It's over.