Legends of the Treasure Child

That night, Jack Sparrow dreamt. He dreamt hard, flexing all his muscles in his sleep, clenching his fists, gripping his bedspread until his knuckles whitened. Sweat poured from his body, the droplets running down his feverish forehead, running in streams down from his chest, across his hardened nipples, dripping down on the soft, goose down-filled mattress in his cabin on the Black Pearl. He’d refrained from asking John to come back into his bed, refrained from asking about where he would spend the night. And he’d seen John take off, diving back into the deep of the ocean, and for some reason Jack couldn’t name, or didn’t want to name, it hurt. Perhaps it was the fact that a part of him told him he had to reject John, to get the boy to grow up. A boy who already was so much of a man, more than Jack would ever be. And Jack dreamt, that his time was past, knowing deep in himself that his dream of becoming the famous Captain Jack Sparrow was lost. It was John Sparrow the world would remember. The Treasure Child. Only the forces beyond those who resided on Earth, Heaven and Hell, would maybe, if there was the slightest chance, remember Jack as the man who managed to turn the curse of the Treasure Child into something good. John had to be good. He just had to be.
Jack dreamt on, writhing in his sleep, fighting with himself while his body burned. His pelvic area was on fire with an ache he hadn’t felt since way back when it was time to give birth to John. The blood in his veins drummed in his ears, and he thought he heard waves crash against shore, until he realized it was the flapping of mighty wings. Jack tossed himself onto his stomach, attempting to massage away the pain by grinding his loins against the mattress, but it only resulted in arousing him. He tossed back again, only half asleep, and his right hand leisurely downwards until his nimble fingers found his erect member. He embraced it, stroking himself absentmindedly while still in a dream haze. His mind settled in a spiral concerning women and their attributes. Women and their cleavages, from the milky white, soft plums of the Tortuga whores, yes the brunette - what a treat, the blonde rider, aye she was something, Jack grinned in his half sleep, stroking himself off faster, and then the redhead and the Cantonese one – oh yes, once more please, he fantasized, trying to will the pain away. He could almost feel how it was to slide into their wet warm caves, burying his face between their tits, oh how he longed to caress their naked thighs with his beard, to kiss his way up and in into unknown., bushy territory…!
Then Elisabeth’s face came to mind, and his eyes sprang open. He’d kissed her, had almost gotten her, once. Unfortunately she was too bright to just let go and let him rein her in, being too busy chasing that Will fellow. Jack had to grin. He closed his eyes again, thinking of Will and Elisabeth, seeing them together and naked. What would that have been like? Jack wondered. He could so vividly picture the two of them together, the sweat dripping from Elisabeth’s head and down onto her breasts as she sat on top of Will, riding him, glancing over her shoulder to stare invitingly at Jack. Her moist lips begging for more, saying ‘Jack, Will isn’t man enough for me, I need one more, here, look here’ she’d say, gesturing towards her perfect bottom, her rear entrance. ‘Come Jack’, Jack could almost hear her say to him, ‘come Jack, and help me a little!’, and Will would stop for a moment to gaze at him also, his eyes saying ‘aye, Jack. A little help?’

Of course he’d be happy to give them a hand.

Jack felt himself peak, felt himself come hard beneath the blanket. As he came, his mouth shaping an ‘o’ as he did, he felt something give in between his legs, and pour out of him. It startled him, making him lose the better half of the orgasm, and he quickly got out of bed, fumbling around for matches and candle, feeling something trickling down between his legs. It was sticky, and smelled of blood. Jack cursed out loud as he even managed to put his toe in it, and he desperately managed to light an oil lamp while he kept his legs together. Finally able to shed some light, he looked down between his legs to asses the situation. The pain was still there, but had moved further down, and he felt swollen and strange. He reached down, carefully examining himself. Jack sighed. He remained standing in a pool of his own slime-blood, feeling irresolute and alone. It was as he’d feared. A gap had re-opened itself between his balls and his rectum. A birthcanal.

Standing like that for a few minutes, Jack then decided on a resolution. He took his bedspread and dried his feet on it, then wrapped it between his legs and draped the rest of it around his waist before he tiptoed to the door, opening it and barking to the nearest person on deck. A few minutes later, he got the bucket of salt water and some soap and a brush. He turned to the bed, only to find Elisabeth standing there, looking at his pool of goo by the bed. Bugger. He’d forgotten about her and that he’d invited her to sleep over in his cabin, giving her every guarantee he’d act like a gentleman.

“Are you all right?” she wanted to know still a little sleepy.

“So sorry I woke ye. You probably be wantin’ yer beauty sleep. Don’t mind me. I’m fine” Jack said, smiling nervously at her. She didn’t seem to take the hint, something was typically Elisabeth Turner, so he said to her again, a little more sternly than he’d intended: “Look, sweetheart, just mind yer own business. It’s nothin’, just a minor leak. Happens all the time”, he lied, shooing her off.

“Where did the blood come from, Jack?” she insisted, crossing her arms over her chest. She did sound a little concerned. A little.

“Please, Lizzie, this is really embarrassing” Jack implored her, sitting down by the pool and beginning to clean it up. It was really revolting, and he wished he’d ordered one of his men to do it instead. But then he’d have to explain to them too.

“You can talk to me, you know, Jack. I won’ t tell” she said, squatting next to him. “You’ve already shared so much your story. Why not this too? I swear I won’t laugh or anything.”

“It’s all so new to me, Elisabeth. I—“

“—there’s blood in your bed as well.” She indicated to the red stained trail from where Jack had gotten out of bed. How incredibly demeaning. Jack sighed deeply, wishing himself far away.

“You’re bleeding. Like a woman when she’s of age.”

“It’s just when she’s of age. When she’s no longer a child, a girl, but woman. A proper one.”

“Aye, that’s helpful.”

“I know what it’s like, Jack, I’ve been there myself. There’s a first time for everyone, for women, and you it seems. I hope.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack laughed, “how would you know—“

“—it’s the smell. And your hands are shaking. And you’re treating it with the same –language- as all other of my girlhood friends did. You know, your bodylanguage? Like the blood, it’s icky, repulsive and special at the same time?”

“Elisabeth, why are we havin’ this conversation?” Jack told her, not wanting to talk, not wanting to know. He’d rather just get over with it and ignore it until morning, and maybe, just maybe it had gone away by itself. Aye, do it the Sparrowy way, he told himself.

“Suit yourself then, Jack”, she said, getting to her feet and walking over to the sofa where she was sleeping.

When Jack was finished, he took the bucket outside and tossed the bloody content into the sea, ordering a new set of sheets in to his cabin, explaining it away with an imminent illness causing him to vomit on the bed. Jack spent the rest of the night with a rolled together sheet between his legs, his last thoughts going to Elisabeth and how he’d have to apologize to her come first light, and that he’d have to get her to tell him more, like how the women even got out of bed with all that blood gushing out from between their thighs. How were they supposed to get any work done? He was glad to be a man, but hey now that didn’t work anymore either. Jack sighed discontentedly and finally drifted back into sleep.