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Ephraim fucked off to the supply shed more often than not in the evening.
Harsh way to put it, but it was the truth. What was there to do here, other than eat and sleep and work? It wasn’t as if Thomas could keep him from doing what he wished to during their downtime in the evenings. So he stuck himself in there frequently with his only form of entertainment.
That night wasn’t any different. There were a few days before he’d be off the island, and he was busy ensuring that the quarters would be spotless for the next wickies to come. He wanted–no, needed this. Even if the fatigue wore his body down, he pushed through it for sweet, momentary relief. He leaned against the wall, underwear and trousers pushed down to the very bottom of his thighs, just above his knees.
What a quaint evening, the winds bringing a comfortable coolness, with the moon bright above, a spotlight when it shone on his half-nude form. With a flash in his mind of Thomas peeking in, he moved back. He stuck closer this time to the stacks of crates and sacks of whatnot surrounding him, hoping they would obscure him despite his proximity from the window.
Thomas never left the lighthouse in these odd hours; he kept himself busy tending to the light, yet Ephraim shook at the thought of being caught all the same. So he stood still, staring down at his own length, then the window. Over and over, until the beating in his heart slowed down, until he felt he could breathe.
Slowly, he began to touch himself.
His dick was still soft, its decent length on display with his well-trimmed hair. He was always a stickler with how he maintained himself, even in parts people didn’t often see. He touched over himself with one finger, feathery light as he tried to will himself to think of something to get him started. Eager. Touches weren’t enough for him; he needed something to think about.
There were thoughts he would always default to—of women he once slept with, of ones he’d conjured in his head. Touching him, squeezing him. Begging for him to show her all the love he could give. It made him grin as it did now, as he imagined some brunette, tall, voluptuous. He didn’t know her name, what she did, he didn’t care; he could imagine her soft whispers in his ear to kiss her all over. It wasn’t long before he was holding his hardened length in his calloused grasp. Oh, what a dream woman he’d created. Oh, how he wished he could follow such a command–
In the back of his mind, he heard Thomas's voice, with a light roughness to its tone. He was yelling some nonsense at him, grand nonsense speeches that made Ephraim groan. Even in the midst of what was supposed to be a good time, in the middle of his fantasies, this kook was yelling at him. The corner of his lip twitched up before he rolled his eyes, relieved that he was as hard as he could be in his hands despite the intruding thought. He sighed, then bit down on his bottom lip as he found a sluggish yet perfect speed to stroke himself.
Oh, he needed this. Craved this. In his tight grip, he swore he could come in an instant hadn’t he the restraint. He licked his drying lips before his mouth hung open, every noise that wished to escape transforming into simple exhales. The noise of the foghorn had faded far into the distance; all that entered his ears now were his breaths, skin rubbing against skin, and the light creaking of wood beneath him. He pulled his trousers a little lower down, just for that extra bit of comfort.
He stared at the ceiling as he leaned his head back, letting it press against the solid wood behind him as he let each stroke of his cock send volts throughout his body. And with each volt, he let it rise to his mind, to power the fantasy he wished to dive into. The woman, though the vision of her had been so vivid, began to fade from his mind. He whined as if begging for her to return, holding himself tighter in his hand as the clear imagery became nothing but swirls of color.
Yet one thing remained clear: the voice of one Thomas Wake, ragging on him for all the minute mistakes he’d made. One second, he cringed as he swore he’d lose the sweet start he had; the next, he realized he was still hard. When he tried to shoo away another one of that man’s lectures from his mind, he paused when he realized his cock had twitched.
Twitched?
He stood there in silence, letting his cock throb in his grasp while he took a moment to take in his own bodily reaction. Thomas Wake… no, he wasn’t attracted to that man in the slightest. The man was a damn mess with that slovenly appearance of his, with that foul stench that filled the room. Yet as Ephraim let Thomas’s words fill his mind, alongside that came a sensation he expected the least: desire. He had half-admitted, half-joked once to that man that his flowery language tirades were a joy to watch, and they both laughed.
Ye goddamn dullard, Thomas once yelled at him for spilled coffee on the floorboards. It was already soaking into the wood before Ephraim realized what had happened, before he had clammored to his feet despite his sheer exhaustion. He wanted to yell back, but that day had drained him. And as he stood in silence, Thomas let his anger be known: Clean that up, ye useless dog.
Ye useless dog.
The slightest of moans left Ephraim at the memory, and he continued that pace of his, maybe sped it up a little. He never thought of himself as the type to indulge in masochism, though it seemed he wasn’t above such depravity. Hell, this wasn’t the oddest thing he had pleasured himself to, with mermaids and such like…
“Good-for-nothin’ thing, ain’t ye. Waste of a wickie,” he whispered to himself, trying to find Thomas’s twang in his own words before he sped up his own touches. He made a few noises, quiet whimpers, nothing more; his typical loudness would have him caught in an instant. A warmth overtook his whole body, like a subtle burn of alcohol sliding down his throat and into his veins. He knew he was on the right track now.
Ephraim let one hand touch over his chest, poke at and pinch at his nipples underneath his undershirt. He pinched more than he poked, harder than he should have, making sure the buds were caught between nail. The pain made him let out wails he had to hold back. It made the arousal all the stronger, his orgasm draw nearer, made those insults he fantasized of all the better: Look at ye. Havin’ a hard time there, lad? he imagined Thomas tell him with snark, standing back just to watch him try to come. There’d be tears in his eyes as he looked up at Thomas, who stared at his shaking form with both disdain and desire. Like some hopeless wench. Like a bitch in heat. Corrupted, that’s what ye are. Almost sad to watch ye like this, lad.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry,” Ephraim murmured to himself, eyes closing tight as he hastened his pace. He could imagine those eyes searing into him, leaving their mark on his deplorable form. He began to drool as he let out louder moans, his saliva dripping from the corners of his lips and onto his stubble. “I–I’ll make it quick, promise I will.”
Did I tell you to speed up? Didn’t ask ye to do a damn thing, lad, Thomas would say, and Ephraim would whine as he couldn’t help it, he began to fuck his own hand, thrusting into it as his arm ached from his fierce pace. Didn’t ask ye to touch yerself, either. Show some shame, ye mutt.
“Sorry again, sir,” Ephraim would whimper out, trembling all the while. Each thrust forward was forceful, all his lower muscles tense which each movement forward. His one hand continued to play with his nipples, this time pulling on them, he was sure he’d bleed with his sheer force. He closed his eyes tighter to hold back tears, yet they slipped all the same. He let them spill alongside his drool, wet trails covering his face.
Why, look at this. You look revolting, lad! Thomas would say, tsking only to laugh out loud soon after—a cackle. Ephraim’s face was scorching hot. Nothing but smut on yer mind. Some dim-witted damn thing y’are, just like a whore. You know that laddie?
“I is if you say so, sir,” Ephraim said as the once sweet rhythm of his own thrusts had become erratic, as his moans echoed across the room. “I–I’m nothin’ but some no-good, pointless, dolt of a wickie. Stupid, stupid, whore of a wickie. Stupid, stupid, stupid…” There was a moment where it seemed his orgasm would come, and he gasped out loud, but all he could do was whine when it was nothing but a false promise of a sensation. It was growing hot, too hot despite the cool winds that overtook this island.
“Oh, sir, I ain’t even deservin’ to be one. I don’t even deserve to have you look at me.”
He ached, he ached, oh how Ephraim ached. He was fucking his own hand with such intensity that the floorboards beneath could’ve broken in half. He was chasing what he yearned for with such speed that he didn’t care now if he was caught. He let a cacophony of Thomas’s words repeat in his mind. All jarring, all harsh, all he couldn’t even imagine as full sentences as his climax came closer, and closer, and closer, and closer–
Ephraim came, and he had to hold back a scream as he nearly fell back, having to remove his hand from his chest to cling onto the wall behind. He didn’t open his eyes yet, wanting nothing more than to take in how he finished. Perhaps due to the ferocity of his own self-stimulation, it practically hurt when he came, as he would have fallen to his knees at the exhaustion that overcame him with each drop of cum that shot from the tip. He could feel the cum land on his hands, fall down to the floor below, but all that was overtaken as the noise of the foghorn was clear to him again. He stiffened at the noise just as his orgasm drew to a close, and finally, he opened his eyes.
Ephraim stared at the stickiness that splattered all over his hand and on the ground. Then, he shuddered. Late at night, yet he had to clean up a mess again unless he wanted it to leave a permanent stain for the next keepers of this lighthouse to be baffled by. He brought his hand to his lips, letting his tongue run along his fingers to clean up his own cum: thick in texture, its taste was bitter, a bit sour, not a surprise considering all he had eaten for the past few weeks. He winced, yet cleaned himself up all the same; didn’t want this to stain any of his clothing.
And with the unpleasantness of the taste, he found himself shot back to reality, and soon thinking of…. what he’d just used to reach an orgasm. He clicked his tongue, looked around as if someone was watching him, thankful there were no mirrors or anything else to see his reflection in. He knew he’d hate to see himself basking in the afterglow of a climax, only reached with the help of one wickie he had no clue how to feel about.
He knew he always needed that little extra to push him over the edge, but this instance had him standing in silence as he thought over his relationship with one Thomas Wake, even if he knew they were soon to part and never to speak again.
Or so he thought.