The Miniscule Victory of Davy Jones

4
Falling asleep in his cell hours later had proven difficult, but Beckett had found it, despite the pain and fear he felt at every moment. How long would this “punishment” last? Weeks? Months? All one hundred years of the service he was insidiously tricked into? Or would they stop when he was dead? Beckett wondered if he was even able to die now that his soul belonged to Davy Jones.
When he awoke from his troubled sleep, it was because of the fresh wounds caused by the stings and barbs of jellyfish tendrils. Something – or someone – was pressing against the burning red lines upon his pale skin.
From the angle at which his arms had been shackled, as well as his position facing down on the unsanitary floor, Beckett could not turn his head to see what was going on, but soon he realized from the cool water on his skin that his wounds were being cleansed. He winced under every pressure against the wounds, but hesitantly welcomed the act. One little detail bothered him, however…
“Why do you clean my wounds?”
At first the figure behind him did not answer, his actions stopped. Then a throat cleared itself and the stranger continued to clean. His voice was low and neutral, and Beckett could not quite place to whom it belonged.
“They need cleaning. Obviously you can’t do it.”
“Thank you,” Beckett replied quietly, though he still remained wary over whoever was tending to his wounds. He did not trust anyone at this point in time, and he was not sure if he would ever be able to trust someone again. He hardly even trusted his own mind at times. Just when he thought he was being rescued, he would realize that he had only been asleep, while other times he would awake with a shout of fear, mind plagued by nightmares of all the things done to him on this god forsaken ship.
Koleniko watched as the Dutchman’s prisoner and newest crew member ever so slightly calmed whilst in his care. He could feel the muscles beneath his fingers loosen as he cleansed the burn marks. This had been the first time since his capture that Cutler Beckett was actually calm, but then again this also marked the first time that he had been shown any sort of gentility on the Flying Dutchman.
Pity. The bastard did not deserve even this much courtesy.
Koleniko thought back to the days he and his crew were under the same treatment and scornful watch of Beckett’s men as was their captain. For the sake of keeping the still beating heart of Jones safe, the crew had to bend to every whim of the soldiers of the East India Company. Palifico lost several chunks of his coral protrusions of flesh due to wandering, mean spirited soldier blades while Quittance suffered several brands by hot irons whilst he was asleep. Clanker’s act of brutality only a day before was doubtlessly his own form of justice for the humiliation dealt on him he had been knocked unconscious, tied under the keel, and left there for eight solid hours without any means of escape.
But it was Koleniko himself who was given the worst, most appalling treatment during the Dutchman’s sale under the East India Company’s flag. His face still burnt with shame whenever he thought back on the evening when Beckett and his little toad Mercer were on Jones’ ship, inspecting the routine of the crew.
Swabbing the decks that evening, the pirate glanced at Beckett for only a moment and was transfixed instantly. He was not certain what specifically drew his gaze to the man like a moth to flame, but he could not tear his vision away as he continued to work. He tried not to be obvious, but he had no choice but to continue cleaning right past the chairman of the East India Company, practically three feet away.
Beckett did not notice the look. Mercer did, however, and confronted the pirate.
The other crewmen were held back to keep from defending their comrade, as soldiers began to mock and degrade Koleniko, knocking him to the deck and dumping the murky contents of his bucket onto his head. Two other soldiers began prodding at his spiny body with their rifles, occasionally causing his patches of puffer fish flesh to swell. When he finally acted out and tripped one of them, they kicked him hard in the side and another soldier came running up from within the hull holding an entirely different bucket.
“Let us help you, freak…?” he offered as he overturned the pail onto Koleniko and the deck. Out poured an entire crew’s worth of liquidated excrement, and the human men laughed.
Beckett only stood aside, making sure he was not within range of the foul mess, an arrogantly amused smirk twisting his once engaging features. Pretty eyes now danced with awful pleasure at the pirate’s humiliation.
“Your orders, Lord?” one of the soldiers asked him.
Beckett lifted an eyebrow as though the man were completely clueless.
“Proceed,” he answered.
Koleniko could do nothing, as it would spell doom for the Dutchman and its captain should anyone incur the hostility of its new master. He crept forward on his belly to reach for the fallen mop, but it was kicked aside.
“No, bad dog,” one of Beckett’s soldiers reprimanded him. “Dog’s don’t clean with mops. They clean with their tongues! Now get to it!”
Though he could hear the defiant cries of his compatriots, as well as their fight to keep self control, the action hardly helped the shamed man. Fighting not to vomit all over the deck, he opened his mouth and lapped up the vile, thick liquid.
Hate and despair aflame in his incompatible eyes, Koleniko pressed harder on the jellyfish stings and felt a jolting flinch underneath his touch. He allowed himself a satisfied smile.
“Turn a bit,” he whispered, keeping his true voice hidden. Beckett at first complied according to the direction in which he was nudged, further laying on his stomach. The wound which had once been his phallus was healing with surprising speed, most likely due to Beckett’s recruitment onto the Dutchman, and now the area carried only a dull ache. He was not tentative about the request, however, until the washcloth traveled down to his rump and was quickly replaced by prickly fingers.
“What’s going on…?” Beckett muttered nervously as he began to struggle, but the rough hands started to hold him in place. In his struggles, he managed finally to see who was treating him and he froze in fear, knowing in his heart that this creature had serious reason to harm him. The hands turned him on his stomach again and he fought against his restraints, screaming for help, but it did him no good. Koleniko grabbed him by his hair and throttled his head against the bars, rendering him unconscious.
Beckett awoke to a state of utter stupefaction, but there in the back of his mind, he could register the pain being dealt upon him. Slowly he felt the sensation growing greater inside him and he realized what was again happening to him. He tried not to scream this time, fearful that he would only be knocked out a second time, and instead he chose to weep forcefully with every hard thrust.
Somehow he was not surprised that Koleniko’s penis had acquired the same features as his puffer fish glands. Avoiding giving in to screaming proved to be very difficult.
Koleniko wept too as he continued his assault on the man’s rectum. It had been such a shame to destroy something he had admired so in the past, but he lusted to extract his vengeance on Beckett, somehow take away his own shame at the hands of the East India Company’s own brand of wickedness. He would never forget that pretty face and its evil smile, but he swore to himself that he would always keep his humiliation and abuse before it, no matter what. If only Beckett still had his cane, so that he could be beaten with it… but Koleniko remained confident that the swelling of his spiny member every time he plunged it hard into the hot orifice would be enough.
By the time Koleniko was spent and had withdrawn from his new crewmate, Beckett’s body shook with sobs and agony. Standing and buckling his ragged trousers, he observed the way the trembling body below him curled up, sniveling and eventually moaning when Cutler Beckett lost control of his own bowels. He lay there half naked, bleeding and writhing in his own filth when he felt a boot pressing his face toward the mess on the floor.
“You know what to do,” Koleniko said with a voice hard and cold as ice. “Clean it up like a good dog.”
.
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To be continued...