Jamie was straddling Lieutenant Treadwell’s hips on the berth in the British Royal Navy ship’s third officer’s small cabin aboard the eighteen-gun brig-sloop HMS “Raven,” riding at anchor just off the Tripoli harbor. Anchored on the naval officer’s hips, Jamie was riding the man’s cock in a gentle rocking motion that matched the slight rolling motion of the ship in the water. Treadwell’s hand gripped the boy’s waist, and he arched his head back, enjoying the rubbing of his shaft against the boy’s tender passage walls prior to taking over a rush to ejaculation.

In April of 1805, the British and their allies were in a temporary, fleeting stalemate with the Barbary pirates on the northern African Mediterranean coast. The pirates, usually centered in Tripoli, had moved east, leaving the port open, at least for now. The allies had lifted the siege and it was as if all was forgiven for the moment. The sailors from the allied ships were welcome in the city to help fill the coffers of the businesses there once more. The allied forces were gullible enough to believe that welcome came from the Arabs of the streets as well as the business community.

The “Raven’s” cabin boy, Jamie, fourteen, was accustomed to riding the cock of the red-headed, florid, stocky, twenty-six-year-old ship’s third officer. Such was one of the duties of the smaller, handsome, blond cabin boy. Being small, blond, and handsome had been what had gotten Jamie impressed into the job. They supposedly had taken Jamie off an American ship and impressed him onto the British man-of-war to play monkey in the riggings, but it really was to give them sexual relief in their berths.

Jamie wasn’t English, his name wasn’t Jamie, and he hadn’t signed on with the Royal Navy. His family was from England, but they had immigrated to the newly established United States at Boston from the Devon, England, area when Jamie was barely fourteen, and he had been signed on as an apprentice sailor on a Boston merchant ship bound for the Caribbean as soon as the family reached Boston, planning to move farther into the interior of the new country.

Jamie, whose real name was Thomas James, hadn’t made it to the Caribbean, however. When the ship had reached the open seas, a British man-of-war had come upon them and, as was a festering bone of contention between the new American country and the British Royal Navy in this first decade of the 1800s, had taken sailors, including the barely fourteen-year-old Tom, off the merchantman and impressed them into British service. Tom was not taken for his use on the masts, working the sails. He was taken because he was blond and handsome and small, and sailors needed their sport and release while at sea. Since he had been impressed, he had been not only serving meals in the officers’ mess and grooming the ship officers’ uniforms and boots, but had lain under the officers and, when the ship’s captain was being generous, under the ship’s sailors as well.

The British had not only taken his virginity and lost him to a family no longer in Boston, but they’d also taken his name—purposely, to make it hard for anyone to find him. They had taken his last name, “James” and reduced it as a single given name of “Jamie.” And, so, to all, including the boy himself after six months of impressment on the “Raven,” Jamie it was.

Today, Lieutenant Treadwell was getting his exercise and release before a contingent of the sailors, including Jamie in his first step on dry land since being impressed, was to be rowed into the Tripoli harbor for a furlough day.

Both of the men were naked. Treadwell, stocky, but muscular, not fat, lay stretched out on his back on his berth. He was grasping the narrow hips of the boy, whose legs were bent and placed on either side of the ship officer’s beefy thighs. Jamie, facing Treadwell’s head, was leaning back and grasping the man’s knees. Jamie’s head also was flung back and he was concentrating on using the leverage of his knees to rise and fall on the thick cock rooted in the unruly flaming red pubic bush. As a mark of the boy’s surrender to him, the naval officer always wanted Jamie to fuck himself on the cock before Treadwell took over control in the journey toward release. Treadwell was harder to sheath than most of the other officers and sailors of the “Raven” who fucked him, but the man was cleaner and better looking than most of the others and less cruel in the fuck than most.

When Treadwell fucked Jamie, they were fucking and Jamie, not opposed to the male-male connection of it, was being satisfied as well. It wasn’t just a short, violent release of cum by the top.

After six months of serving the sailors on the ship, Jamie had learned not just to tolerate, but also usually to enjoy the cocking when it wasn’t hurried and gave him release as well. If nothing else, it made him feel important to the men and wanted. As long as he did it well, he’d be about the last one on board who would be thrown overboard. All sailors needed their release and preferred to do it in a warm, tight passage of a sleek, comely partner than in their own hands.

A bit of cruelty set in at this point, however. Not content with Jamie rising and falling on the shaft, Treadwell gripped the boy’s hips hard and took over the movement, increasing the pace and intensity of the thrusting, lifting the boy and slamming him down on the punishing cock, pulling the boy deep. Both were panting hard. Jamie, his head thrown back and his eyes wildly racing around the upper walls of the small cabin, was writhing above the man, moaning and murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes,” which he’d learned had been expected of him, but that, in the virile naval officer’s case, was freely given.

Treadwell was taking it to the boy, bringing Jamie off. When he had, the naval officer continued to thrust, working toward his own release. He was grunting and thrusting, until he reached the point of holding, tensing, and then expending his breath as he jerked and released, jerked and released.

Jamie cried out to the ceiling, “Yes, oh fuck yes!” It wasn’t a pretense. He enjoyed the sensation of a man releasing his seed inside him, breeding him—especially when the man had gotten him off first.

Treadwell spread his legs wider and Jamie collapsed back between them. The cock maintained purchase inside him, and both sighed and moaned, concentrating on the thick shaft going flaccid inside the boy’s channel—if only for a few moments. Treadwell was young, fit, and virile. He would fuck Jamie again before releasing the lad to shore leave.

The boy lay back between the man’s hairy legs, panting, still moving his pelvis, rocking gently on the man’s buried shaft, as he knew the redhead liked.

“You have plenty of time to meet your boat to the harbor,” the ship’s officer murmured, thinking ahead.

Jamie fully knew what the man was thinking. “Yes.”

“You must stick close to the sailors you go with. Don’t get lost. And don’t get any ideas about jumping ship.”

“Yes, sir. No, sir.” Jamie answered.

“You wouldn’t last long in the streets of Tripoli—a small, handsome, blond. You would not like what would happen to you. These Arabs can’t be trusted. They are animals. They have no control over their urges.”

“No, sir.” Jamie didn’t think this would be a good time to point out that Treadwell hadn’t made much of an effort to control his own animal urges just now.

“Ah, there is life again. Do you feel it?”

“Yes, sir.” He did. The thick cock was on the rise. The instructions were over. Treadwell moved a thigh over Jamie’s body, dislodging the cock, but only momentarily, and turned the yielding boy onto his back, between the man’s thighs, Treadwell ran a beefy arm under the boy’s waist and lifted his pelvis, Jamie’s torso streaming back onto the berth, his hands clutching at the wooden rails running on either side of the berth. Jamie held on for dear life, sighing, as Treadwell pulled out but then slid, long and deep, in to the quick.

Jamie took in his breath as the cock slowly pulled back out and then cried out “Yes, yes, yes!” as Treadwell thrust back inside him—thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

“Lay back and enjoy, little one,” Treadwell murmured. “This time is as much for you as for me.”

Arching his back, and allowing his head to drop over the foot of the bunk, Jamie clutched the man’s hips closely with his knees and dug his fingertips into the hulky ship’s officer’s shoulder blades, and, with low moans, concentrated on the thrusting of the cock deep in his channel. “Yes, yes, yes,” he whimpered.

“You won’t jump ship today, will you? You’ll come back to me for this, won’t you?” Treadwell asked as he thrust.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Jamie responded.

Jamie hadn’t been on dry land for six months when he rolled out of the longboat in the Tripoli harbor. From the harbor, the town looked like no other place the young sailor had ever seen before. The land was barren, other than palm trees rising up between the houses, both of which were surprises to Jamie. He’d never seen coastal land as bare as this or the exotic trees with green fronds fanning out above tall, slim trunks. And the houses were all a dull tan color by day as the town mounted a gentle slope from the harbor, but in the glow of the setting sun they would be luminous shades of red and orange and, in the twilight, a shimmering silver. They uniformly were flat roofed, but pencil-thin towers rose out of the townscape here and there, from which haunting chanting in a complicated foreign tongue wafted out over the water several times a day. One of the other sailors told Jamie that this had something to do with the heathen religion of the residents. It all was quite exotic to Jamie, though, and he took the chance whenever he could as the longboat approached the quay to cast his eye on the town.

What assailed the boy’s senses the most as he fought to acquire his land legs, hanging back by necessity as the sailors he was with started moving up from the harbor into the town, was how closely packed the buildings were, with streets even narrower than those he had known in England and had seen in Boston the short time he was there. And the people—in dusty robes and most barefoot—milling around everywhere. The harbor area was teeming with noisy, swirling bodies.

It was there, in the harbor, where Jaime could see the most activity. The streets leading up the hills from the harbor were congested, but nothing like right here in the harbor. It was like a beehive, disturbed and buzzing angrily. Jamie saw that the British sailors were getting dirty looks. The Tripoli pirates who had given the town its business in exchange for subservience did not at all appreciate the attempt to blockade their activities or to challenge their right to tribute for the rite of passage from the Atlantic into the Mediterranean. The allied ships had blockaded Tripoli for months. Jamie was quickly becoming aware that the sentiment of the town was with the pirates, not with the British sailors. He looked around for his fellow sailors, feeling the need for them to stick together. But they were all gone. Despite their instructions, they had scattered in all different directions.

The sailors weren’t concerned about safety. They were in the need of drink and something to dip their cocks in. Beyond their close ship buddy, they didn’t think or move in a group. They scattered, wanting to be the first to find a wine shop and a brothel.

Jamie was alone as a foreign sailor from a ship that had been blockading the town for months. He stood out, and not just because he was dressed as a British sailor, in a white tunic top over navy-blue bellbottom trousers, tight across the pelvis, and black boots. He stood out because he was young-looking, blond, well-formed, and handsome.

He had the urge to be somewhere other than this crowded harbor area. He moved through the crowd, with hands reaching out to touch him, especially his nearly platinum blond hair. He headed for a street that didn’t look as congested as the harbor area was and walked rapidly up it, looking for any sign of the sailors he had landed with. As he had picked a stretch of street without a tavern on it, he saw none. The street opened up into an open market area—the souk—which, if anything, was more crowded than the harbor had been.

Again, hands reached out to touch him, to shove him, or to grab him to detain him for who knew what purpose? Some of the eyes he looked into reflected the anger and hatred he’d seen in the harbor, but more of them were laced with lust and were grinning at him. They were forcing him to one side of the narrow stone street, herding him toward the opening of a dark alley.

A hand reached out of a doorway and pulled him inside.

“Careful, son, with that sunny hair and your size, you best not be walking alone in the streets of Tripoli.”

“You speak English,” Jamie said, trying to focus in on the tall, slender, elderly gentleman who had pulled him into a copper shop. He wasn’t dressed in Arab robes as those milling around in the street were. He was wearing a light-colored Western suit and held a golden-headed cane. His head was covered in wavy gray hair, and he had bushy eyebrows and a close-cropped gray beard and mustache.

“Of course I speak English. I am English,” the man said. “Sidney Fowler at your service. Exporter of the exotic to the lands of the English-speaking people. And who might you be? A sailor off one of the British frigates out there? You hardly look old enough to be a sailor. How old are you?”

“I’m fourteen, sir. My name’s Jamie. I’m a cabin boy on the British brig-sloop, the HMS ‘Raven.’”

“A cabin boy to the Royal Navy,” the man said, adding, “Sweet,” in a knowing tone. He evidently had an idea of the functions of a cabin boy of Jamie’s age and looks in the Royal Navy. And he wasn’t wrong.

Fowler was dipping into his pocket and pulling out banknotes in some currency Jamie had never seen before. He had no idea how much he was being shown. He did have an idea why, though. The man had put a possessive hand on his buttocks.

“You cannot be roaming the streets of Tripoli by yourself, lad. You need to be somewhere safe. There’s a hotel, the El Khan, close to hand that caters to Europeans. I will feed you a dinner there. Come with me.”

In fairness to Fowler, Jamie had a very good idea what the man wanted to give him in the hotel in addition to dinner and he went with him anyway. It wasn’t just dinner the man wanted to feed him, and Jamie understood that perfectly. The boy knew the look the man gave him. He definitely knew the meaning of a hand pressing possessively on his rump, fingers pressing into his crack.

Lifting his cane in front of him, obviously well-versed in clearing a path through a Tripoli crowd with it, Fowler applied a strong grip on Jamie’s arm, and without asking for the boy’s assent, propelled them both out into the narrow street.

Fowler fucked Jamie on the bed in a well-appointed bedroom at the El Khan. The boy, naked, was on his knees on the mattress at the foot of the bed, his chest and cheek pressed into the damask bed cover, gazing out of an open door onto a stone balcony and at a slim tower he didn’t know was a minaret, framed by the tops of palm trees. The mysterious cacophony of the Arab street drifted up from below, while in the room, Sidney Fowler, standing behind him, was mounted on his ass, grasping the boy’s hips between his hands, and grunting and fucking.

Despite his age, the man had a mammoth cock on him and he could keep it up.

Before Fowler had put Jamie in the position of the dog, he’d laid the boy on this back at the foot of the bed and hovered over him, fondling, kissing, and licking the boy everywhere—gliding over every curve, exploring every crevice. Sucking and stroking the boy’s cock, while penetrating him with one, two, and then three fingers, opening the boy up, making him beg for the cock. Jamie came the first time before Fowler put the boy on his knees and elbows and covered, mounted, and entered him.

No one on the ship had used and worshipped the lad’s body as fully as this man did. Conversely, Jamie responded to Fowler so yieldingly that the man had no question that the boy regularly took cock and would take his.

As old as he was—Jamie assuming he was ancient when he probably wasn’t far out of his early forties—the man had admirable stamina. He was both long and thick, and he knew how to work Jamie’s passage to pull moans and groans out of the boy, to kiss and rub the boy’s passage walls to coax the muscles of the walls to ripple over the hard shaft as he set up a steady rhythm and then made Jamie groan by going off rhythm for a couple of beats.

The man was enjoying Jamie’s body to the fullest, but the boy couldn’t say he wasn’t obtaining the same satisfaction—and he was the one being courted and paid.

Fowler maintained control, spinning out the fuck for a long time. When Jamie felt the man tense and begin to tremble, Fowler held Jamie still. As he brought himself back into check, he ran his hands over the boy’s body and kissed him on the back of his neck and down between his shoulder blades. As he did so, a hand came around Jamie’s belly, laced its fingers in the boy’s balls and distended and rolled them, coaxing groans and murmurs of “Yes, yes, yes,” out of the boy that were truer than any Jamie voiced for sailors on the ship as they fucked him.

Jaime was brought off twice, panting hard and murmuring “Take it, get it. I’m going to...” before Fowler reached and went beyond his own endurance, holding Jamie tight and pumping out cum deep in the boy’s passage. Once, twice, and then again. This wasn’t anything like the takings on the ship. Those were mostly hurried and furtive, the sailor having someplace else he should be, something else he should be doing. This man savored the taking—and took Jamie completely.

When the man had come, he pulled out of Jamie, slapped him on the rump, said, “So far so good,” and sauntered over to an en suite water closet. He had a small bag with him and stooped down and extracted from it some lengths of leather strapping and a small hand whip. At the door to the closet, he turned and said, “Go onto your back and open your legs wide for me. We will resume in a few minutes.”

When he was gone, Jamie rolled off the bed, quickly pulled his clothes on, grabbed the banknotes that had been scattered on the bed, and quickly left the room. It wasn’t so much that he needed to get away from the older man—Fowler was an expert cocksman and he had fed him dinner and was willing to pay for the sex—but that the light outside was dimming. Jamie needed to get back to the harbor and return to the “Raven.” He had promised he would not jump ship.