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the_challengerSeries: Echuca [1]
Title: The Meeting of the Waters.
Author: Raven
Email: tarnishedraven at gmail dot com
Rated: Adult
Characters:
Sheffield Station: Sean. Eric. Tiga [Karl]
MarySue: Marton.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story have the same names as certain well-known actors. The descriptions sound like them. The icons have their faces on them. But they are characters in a story and this story is of the genre known as fan-fiction. It comes from my imagination, nowhere else.
Note: Written in answer to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sileya's challenge here
Echuca, on the Murray River, Victoria grew out of a small settlement founded around 1850 by ex-convict Harry Hopwood and first known as Hopwood's Ferry. The paddle steamers plied their trade up and down the Murray, picking up wool, grain, livestock and timber from the stations along the Murray and delivering them to Echuca for transport overland to Melbourne.
The transportation of convicts effectively ended in NSW in 1848 and Victoria was officially deemed a colony separate from NSW in 1851. The gold rush began in Victoria in the early 1850's and many free settlers on small holdings [30 acres] left their homes to pursue riches on the goldfields of Ballarat and Bendigo.
Those who resisted that temptation took up the land and came to their wealth through supplying the gold fields with food and goods as well as exporting grain and wool to markets overseas.
"Sheffield Station" is one such large landholding and the paddle steamer, "MarySue" is a fictional representative of the many vessels plying their trade on the 1,600 mile long Murray River.
~~~~~~~
The Meeting of the Waters.
At last light, the lanterns on the jetties along the Murray were lit as signals. Steering the MarySue around a snag of logs on the bend, his spotter on the bow communicating by gestures the best route, Marton spotted one of the dangling lights on a post at the end of a half-visible pier as his new acquisition chugged around the bend to safety. Leaning out the window, he called the order to heave-to and the MarySue was soon tied up alongside.
It was as good a place as any to spend the night and better than some, he reckoned. His crew, a skinny Irish lad by the name of Logan and Thin Alex, one of the local blacks* did most of the work shutting down the boat for the night. He was new to this stretch of river, new to this country, and he'd likely saved these two from starvation through lack of work just as he'd saved the MarySue when he'd purchased her, sight unseen, from her recently impoverished owner in Moama a few weeks previous. Their gratitude expressed itself in various forms and taking on tasks unasked was just one of them.
After sounding the steamer's whistle to announce their presence, he decided to stretch his legs, strolling along the short jetty to the bank and sitting himself down on a rock to watch the river pass by. Australia was so utterly different to New Zealand. No verdant green pastures and rolling hills here. This was bush, as dry and as tough as the folk who'd chosen to make their homes here on the Victoria and New South Wales border. Ex-convicts, free settlers and rich Englishmen, all here with one goal in mind, to make a new start for themselves, perhaps even to make it rich, and escape the strictures of their former lives. He could understand that completely, having escaped New Zealand for precisely the same reasons, but still this vast land was alien and strange, if not a little frightening.
But in the half light left by the setting of the sun, the river at least seemed benign, as did the huge gums striving for the sky on the river bank, scrubby bushes at their bases nodding in the gentle wind, and the birds crying a good night to their mates and rivals alike. The footsteps coming up behind him was no surprise. Someone had lit the lantern after all. Marton turned from his study of his new surroundings to greet the new arrival.
Karl was expecting to see Mullins when he spotted the MarySue's cabin rising above the river bank. This feller was new. He lifted his wide brimmed hat by way of greeting. "Welcome to Sheffield Station, Boss."
Marton got to his feet, dusted off his trousers and held out a hand, taking in the tall, lean and handsome young man at a glance. "Marton Csokas. New owner." he introduced laconically.
"Tiga*." Karl nodded toward the boat where Thin Alex and Logan were sitting by the wheel, tamping tobacco into their pipes. "Still got the same crew, I see. Mullins lose her gambling?"
"No." Marton denied. "But close enough. Lost everything else." He studied the young man and was confused. The name he'd given belonged to a blackfella but the man standing before him was clearly white. "This is my first trip. You have cargo?"
Karl nodded. "Bosses do. Ten bales, last of this season's shearing. One passenger, if you've room." he tapped his own chest. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a purse and tossed it to Marton who caught it effortlessly. "Usual price?"
"Thanks." Marton stuffed the purse into his vest pocket, not bothering to count it. The station owners weren't cheats. "Sleeping on board tonight?"
"Might as well." Karl told him. "I'll get me pack."
He vanished into the gloom but returned forthwith carrying a bed roll and saddle bags. The horse, he'd let loose, knowing it would go home.
Marton waited for him at the end of the jetty and when he strolled up, ran his eyes up and down the lean frame. "You eaten?"
"Not yet. Been busy."
"Eat with me then." Marton invited. He'd been making it a habit to be friendly with those he met on this first trip, eager for any information they might impart which could help him familiarize himself with this area and its people. "Fine bit 'o mutton stew and fresh baked bread on the table."
"Sounds good." Karl agreed, waving a hand. "After you."
~
"So tell me about Sheffield." Marton invited, propping his feet up on the rail and leaning back in his chair. A good day's work had left him in a mellow mood. Fueled by a fine dinner and a little rum after, he was ready for a smoke and a chat before bed.
Karl was watching Marton from the corner of his eye. A fine figure of a man, there was an air of quiet confidence, of solitude enjoyed, that was rare in a place where most were strident and eager for company. He liked it. Turning to gaze out over the water instead, watching the reflection of the moon in the swirling water further out, he spoke softly.
"Big place." he said. "Owners are two Englishmen. Took their selections side-by-side, bought out a few folk here, few there, ended up with most of this valley. They run sheep, cattle, grow wheat. Big boss, Sean, he's the one cashed up. Fourth or fifth son of some Lord or other, I disremember. Eric, he's Sean's… friend," he hinted. Dangerous, but he had a feeling. "He's big too, like the station. Hard-working, honest, treats folks right, but suffers no insult."
Marton nodded. He'd caught the hint and the subtle warning that followed. A pair of mollys escaping exposure or persecution, he guessed. He'd left New Zealand for reasons very similar, so he'd less reason than most to criticize. "Worked for 'em long?" he asked easily, crossing his ankles where they rested on the stool before the stove. They were in Marton's cabin right below the wheelhouse and the array of large windows was perfect for keeping an eye on the surroundings or for gazing out of as relaxation.
As Karl had suspected, Marton had no negative reaction to his hint. He relaxed even more, shifting in his chair which was set next to Marton's to take advantage of the view, and settled his arms across his chest, his feet on the stool beside Marton's. "Since I came back." he said. "Spent a few years wandering with the blacks along the river." He offered nothing more.
Marton was curious, but asking personal questions of so new an acquaintance was a quick way to earn a knife in your spine. Besides, Tiga's close proximity was arousing other concerns and he had the feeling he was being tested. It was frustrating. He'd not been captain of the MarySue long enough to have sounded out his crew's sentiment on the subject and so couldn't risk it. The vessel was small, each man always within earshot of the others. Regretfully he got to his feet, stretched and yawned, but not without sliding an apologetic glance sideways at Tiga.
"Best to be getting some sleep, I'm thinking." he said. "Much as I'd like to talk more, I reckon we're keeping Logan and Alec awake."
"Y'ar!" a muffled voice came through the floor from the cabin below.
Tiga raised an eyebrow and seemed to understand. At least, that's how it appeared to Marton though he could be sure of nothing yet. "We've a three day trip ahead." he offered instead. "If you've a mind to talk more. And I expect we'll be tied up at the Crossing for a day or two. I do prefer to stay onboard but visitors are welcome if they're so inclined." It was a vague enough suggestion but the best he could do with his walls having ears and all.
"Might do. An' the Crossing's known as Echuca now." Karl informed lazily as he got to his feet, his suspicions duly confirmed. Three days was not long to wait considering how rare a like-minded individual still was in this part of the country. Some days he envied his bosses, today was no longer one of them. "A good night to you." he said.
Marton might have been unsure as Tiga's tone gave nothing away, but as he opened the cabin door to allow the other man to pass him, Tiga reached out and ran a hand, long slender fingers pressing lightly, down his cheek and throat and across his chest, fingers stilling for a moment over his heart, pinching his nipple lightly. The other man's gaze was dark and heated and Marton's breath caught in his throat, the expression on Tiga's face leaving no room for doubt at all. And then the hand was gone, dropped away and Tiga was gone too, his booted feet making little sound as he strolled along the walkway to his cabin.
~
Echuca was a shanty town, timber roughly sawn and erected into usable frames without regard for aesthetical values. But the signs were clear that this willy-nilly construction was changing as the area continued to grow and prosper. Certainly, there were rough bark hunts aplenty, posing as residences and places of business, but on the outskirts of the hamlet more solid buildings were springing up and the banks of the river were alive with the construction of new piers and jetties to handle the increasing amount of river traffic.
Marton dealt with the business that had brought him here and then retreated to the MarySue from where he could observe the goings-on in comfort. Logan and Thin Alex received their pay with a whoop and a holler and made haste for shore. Marton smiled when he saw their direction; Tiga had told him of the infamous Star Inn and that's where the two were headed. The hinged door of the bark and canvas shanty opened and swallowed them whole. He hoped they would reemerge eventually with all body parts intact, even if with throbbing heads and empty pockets.
Of Tiga there was no sign but Marton expected his business for his employers was taking up much of the day. It was pleasant here on the foredeck in the late afternoon sunshine. From a branch of a stringy-bark tree on the shore, a kingfisher swooped down to catch his dinner, reemerging from the sparkling waters moments later to carry his wiggling prize aloft, his iridescent wings dazzling in the dying light. Magpies caroled in the high branches and on the opposite bank, a wombat trundled along the river's edge, it's shuffling gait and rounded body deceptively appealing.
By the time darkness fell there was still no sign of Tiga and he began to think the other man had changed his mind. A shame if he had, because during the three days the trip had taken, he'd formed a liking for the laconic Tiga and respected his knowledge of the area, the people, and the conditions, as well as acknowledging a more personal attraction. But he had gotten along well enough before without and no doubt would again. After years of practice, he'd become fairly self-reliant in most aspects of his life.
Rising from his deck chair, he lit the stern lamp and then went about the business of locking up the steamer for the night. He drew the curtains upstairs and then went down below deck. The engine room was eerily quiet, the only sound the lapping of the water against the boat's sides and it was dark and warm, the sole illumination a single lamp swinging from a beam. He moved to extinguish it and jumped in fright at the figure which materialized in the doorway where moments ago there'd only been darkness.
Heart racing and thoughts of robbers running through his mind, he was immensely relived when the figure resolved itself into Tiga's familiar frame. "You scared me half to death!" he protested, one hand still clutching his chest while the other stopped moving in the direction of the pistol he kept tucked into his belt.
Tiga didn't speak but he did smile as he entered the room as silently as he'd descended the stairs and closed the engine room door behind him. For a moment, Marton felt a fresh frisson of alarm but when Tiga turned to face him and he saw the same dark, heated look in the other man's eyes that he'd seen in his cabin three night previous, then the thumping of his heart had new impetus.
In the blink of an eye Tiga was inches away and his hand, the same as before, drew a line from Marton's cheek, down his throat and across his chest. But this time, the hand boldly darted inside the open neck of his shirt and the pads of Tiga's work-worn hands glided across the dark nub of his nipple. It stiffened immediately and Tiga's smile grew wider, his other hand rising to Marton's waist, thumb caressing the curve of his hip as Tiga pulled him close.
"Three days." Tiga's first words were throaty and thick. "Three days is too long to wait." His hot breath fanned Marton's cheek and his hand dived boldly between Marton's thighs to feel through the cloth and fondle him.
Karl watched Marton's pupil's dilate, his expression soften, and he breathed in his scent, wood-smoke and tobacco, male musk and the faint, yet distinctive tang of the river that had seeped into his skin. He pinned him against the upright beam in the room's centre and, as Marton opened his mouth to respond to his words, dipped his head and captured the lush lips with his own, tongue darting out to taste him.
The buttons of Marton's trousers were no obstacle and Karl soon had him free and was stroking him, delighting in the rare pleasure of so intimate a touch and the reactions it engendered. The tiny gasps and moans were all the more exquisite for having come from such a quietly self-assured and independent source and he reveled in them, forgetting for now his own growing need. So when Marton's questing hand found him and exposed him, and the strong white teeth fastened to his throat and worried at it, he gasped.
The muffled grunts and urgent gasps for air were the only sounds other than those coming in through the boat's sides from outside. They were insulated from the world out there, cocooned by the warm murk of the engine room in a private and intimate moment, their safety guaranteed by the thick wooden door and the heavy latch. Tiga's hands were everywhere, or so it seemed to Marton, awash on a sea of sensation. He grunted, felt the once-familiar sizzling of sparks arcing up his spine, his hips jerked and everything went silent for a second, the world beyond the four walls, even his heart, as his semen spilled, painting Tiga's hand with thick globules of white.
Karl bit down on Marton's collarbone through the rough fabric of his shirt and rubbed the head of his straining prick against Marton's exposed belly. That, and Marton's deft, knowing fingers, was enough. His head tipped back, face showing the strain of his release and then he relaxed in a huge exhalation of air, forehead coming to a weary rest on Marton's broad shoulder.
After a few minutes of winded recovery time, Karl stepped away to allow Marton space to adjust his clothing. He used an old cloth hanging from a beam to wipe his hands and silently handed it to Marton who did the same. Marton sucked in one last deep breath and then lifted his head to smile. "Definitely too long." he commented.
Karl knew what he meant. "We can work something out." he said confidently. After all, the MarySue traveled the Murray past the Sheffield jetty regularly. Despite the difficulties presented by the presence of her crew he figured a plan might be made, if Marton wanted more as much as he did, that was.
Marton opened the furnace door and threw the cloth in then he turned around and blew out the lamp. Karl saw only a flash of white in the darkness as he smiled. "No doubt we can." he said.
~~
TBC
Notes:
*Tiga: pronounced Tig-ar.
*Australians of the day referred to Aborigines as blacks or blackfellas. The terminology is correctly used in this fic. It was not derogatory or insulting in the 1800's nor is it meant as such here.
*Molly= 18th century English slang for a homosexual..
Title: The Meeting of the Waters.
Author: Raven
Email: tarnishedraven at gmail dot com
Rated: Adult
Characters:
Sheffield Station: Sean. Eric. Tiga [Karl]
MarySue: Marton.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story have the same names as certain well-known actors. The descriptions sound like them. The icons have their faces on them. But they are characters in a story and this story is of the genre known as fan-fiction. It comes from my imagination, nowhere else.
Note: Written in answer to
sileya's challenge hereEchuca, on the Murray River, Victoria grew out of a small settlement founded around 1850 by ex-convict Harry Hopwood and first known as Hopwood's Ferry. The paddle steamers plied their trade up and down the Murray, picking up wool, grain, livestock and timber from the stations along the Murray and delivering them to Echuca for transport overland to Melbourne.
The transportation of convicts effectively ended in NSW in 1848 and Victoria was officially deemed a colony separate from NSW in 1851. The gold rush began in Victoria in the early 1850's and many free settlers on small holdings [30 acres] left their homes to pursue riches on the goldfields of Ballarat and Bendigo.
Those who resisted that temptation took up the land and came to their wealth through supplying the gold fields with food and goods as well as exporting grain and wool to markets overseas.
"Sheffield Station" is one such large landholding and the paddle steamer, "MarySue" is a fictional representative of the many vessels plying their trade on the 1,600 mile long Murray River.
~~~~~~~
The Meeting of the Waters.
At last light, the lanterns on the jetties along the Murray were lit as signals. Steering the MarySue around a snag of logs on the bend, his spotter on the bow communicating by gestures the best route, Marton spotted one of the dangling lights on a post at the end of a half-visible pier as his new acquisition chugged around the bend to safety. Leaning out the window, he called the order to heave-to and the MarySue was soon tied up alongside.
It was as good a place as any to spend the night and better than some, he reckoned. His crew, a skinny Irish lad by the name of Logan and Thin Alex, one of the local blacks* did most of the work shutting down the boat for the night. He was new to this stretch of river, new to this country, and he'd likely saved these two from starvation through lack of work just as he'd saved the MarySue when he'd purchased her, sight unseen, from her recently impoverished owner in Moama a few weeks previous. Their gratitude expressed itself in various forms and taking on tasks unasked was just one of them.
After sounding the steamer's whistle to announce their presence, he decided to stretch his legs, strolling along the short jetty to the bank and sitting himself down on a rock to watch the river pass by. Australia was so utterly different to New Zealand. No verdant green pastures and rolling hills here. This was bush, as dry and as tough as the folk who'd chosen to make their homes here on the Victoria and New South Wales border. Ex-convicts, free settlers and rich Englishmen, all here with one goal in mind, to make a new start for themselves, perhaps even to make it rich, and escape the strictures of their former lives. He could understand that completely, having escaped New Zealand for precisely the same reasons, but still this vast land was alien and strange, if not a little frightening.
But in the half light left by the setting of the sun, the river at least seemed benign, as did the huge gums striving for the sky on the river bank, scrubby bushes at their bases nodding in the gentle wind, and the birds crying a good night to their mates and rivals alike. The footsteps coming up behind him was no surprise. Someone had lit the lantern after all. Marton turned from his study of his new surroundings to greet the new arrival.
Karl was expecting to see Mullins when he spotted the MarySue's cabin rising above the river bank. This feller was new. He lifted his wide brimmed hat by way of greeting. "Welcome to Sheffield Station, Boss."
Marton got to his feet, dusted off his trousers and held out a hand, taking in the tall, lean and handsome young man at a glance. "Marton Csokas. New owner." he introduced laconically.
"Tiga*." Karl nodded toward the boat where Thin Alex and Logan were sitting by the wheel, tamping tobacco into their pipes. "Still got the same crew, I see. Mullins lose her gambling?"
"No." Marton denied. "But close enough. Lost everything else." He studied the young man and was confused. The name he'd given belonged to a blackfella but the man standing before him was clearly white. "This is my first trip. You have cargo?"
Karl nodded. "Bosses do. Ten bales, last of this season's shearing. One passenger, if you've room." he tapped his own chest. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a purse and tossed it to Marton who caught it effortlessly. "Usual price?"
"Thanks." Marton stuffed the purse into his vest pocket, not bothering to count it. The station owners weren't cheats. "Sleeping on board tonight?"
"Might as well." Karl told him. "I'll get me pack."
He vanished into the gloom but returned forthwith carrying a bed roll and saddle bags. The horse, he'd let loose, knowing it would go home.
Marton waited for him at the end of the jetty and when he strolled up, ran his eyes up and down the lean frame. "You eaten?"
"Not yet. Been busy."
"Eat with me then." Marton invited. He'd been making it a habit to be friendly with those he met on this first trip, eager for any information they might impart which could help him familiarize himself with this area and its people. "Fine bit 'o mutton stew and fresh baked bread on the table."
"Sounds good." Karl agreed, waving a hand. "After you."
~
"So tell me about Sheffield." Marton invited, propping his feet up on the rail and leaning back in his chair. A good day's work had left him in a mellow mood. Fueled by a fine dinner and a little rum after, he was ready for a smoke and a chat before bed.
Karl was watching Marton from the corner of his eye. A fine figure of a man, there was an air of quiet confidence, of solitude enjoyed, that was rare in a place where most were strident and eager for company. He liked it. Turning to gaze out over the water instead, watching the reflection of the moon in the swirling water further out, he spoke softly.
"Big place." he said. "Owners are two Englishmen. Took their selections side-by-side, bought out a few folk here, few there, ended up with most of this valley. They run sheep, cattle, grow wheat. Big boss, Sean, he's the one cashed up. Fourth or fifth son of some Lord or other, I disremember. Eric, he's Sean's… friend," he hinted. Dangerous, but he had a feeling. "He's big too, like the station. Hard-working, honest, treats folks right, but suffers no insult."
Marton nodded. He'd caught the hint and the subtle warning that followed. A pair of mollys escaping exposure or persecution, he guessed. He'd left New Zealand for reasons very similar, so he'd less reason than most to criticize. "Worked for 'em long?" he asked easily, crossing his ankles where they rested on the stool before the stove. They were in Marton's cabin right below the wheelhouse and the array of large windows was perfect for keeping an eye on the surroundings or for gazing out of as relaxation.
As Karl had suspected, Marton had no negative reaction to his hint. He relaxed even more, shifting in his chair which was set next to Marton's to take advantage of the view, and settled his arms across his chest, his feet on the stool beside Marton's. "Since I came back." he said. "Spent a few years wandering with the blacks along the river." He offered nothing more.
Marton was curious, but asking personal questions of so new an acquaintance was a quick way to earn a knife in your spine. Besides, Tiga's close proximity was arousing other concerns and he had the feeling he was being tested. It was frustrating. He'd not been captain of the MarySue long enough to have sounded out his crew's sentiment on the subject and so couldn't risk it. The vessel was small, each man always within earshot of the others. Regretfully he got to his feet, stretched and yawned, but not without sliding an apologetic glance sideways at Tiga.
"Best to be getting some sleep, I'm thinking." he said. "Much as I'd like to talk more, I reckon we're keeping Logan and Alec awake."
"Y'ar!" a muffled voice came through the floor from the cabin below.
Tiga raised an eyebrow and seemed to understand. At least, that's how it appeared to Marton though he could be sure of nothing yet. "We've a three day trip ahead." he offered instead. "If you've a mind to talk more. And I expect we'll be tied up at the Crossing for a day or two. I do prefer to stay onboard but visitors are welcome if they're so inclined." It was a vague enough suggestion but the best he could do with his walls having ears and all.
"Might do. An' the Crossing's known as Echuca now." Karl informed lazily as he got to his feet, his suspicions duly confirmed. Three days was not long to wait considering how rare a like-minded individual still was in this part of the country. Some days he envied his bosses, today was no longer one of them. "A good night to you." he said.
Marton might have been unsure as Tiga's tone gave nothing away, but as he opened the cabin door to allow the other man to pass him, Tiga reached out and ran a hand, long slender fingers pressing lightly, down his cheek and throat and across his chest, fingers stilling for a moment over his heart, pinching his nipple lightly. The other man's gaze was dark and heated and Marton's breath caught in his throat, the expression on Tiga's face leaving no room for doubt at all. And then the hand was gone, dropped away and Tiga was gone too, his booted feet making little sound as he strolled along the walkway to his cabin.
~
Echuca was a shanty town, timber roughly sawn and erected into usable frames without regard for aesthetical values. But the signs were clear that this willy-nilly construction was changing as the area continued to grow and prosper. Certainly, there were rough bark hunts aplenty, posing as residences and places of business, but on the outskirts of the hamlet more solid buildings were springing up and the banks of the river were alive with the construction of new piers and jetties to handle the increasing amount of river traffic.
Marton dealt with the business that had brought him here and then retreated to the MarySue from where he could observe the goings-on in comfort. Logan and Thin Alex received their pay with a whoop and a holler and made haste for shore. Marton smiled when he saw their direction; Tiga had told him of the infamous Star Inn and that's where the two were headed. The hinged door of the bark and canvas shanty opened and swallowed them whole. He hoped they would reemerge eventually with all body parts intact, even if with throbbing heads and empty pockets.
Of Tiga there was no sign but Marton expected his business for his employers was taking up much of the day. It was pleasant here on the foredeck in the late afternoon sunshine. From a branch of a stringy-bark tree on the shore, a kingfisher swooped down to catch his dinner, reemerging from the sparkling waters moments later to carry his wiggling prize aloft, his iridescent wings dazzling in the dying light. Magpies caroled in the high branches and on the opposite bank, a wombat trundled along the river's edge, it's shuffling gait and rounded body deceptively appealing.
By the time darkness fell there was still no sign of Tiga and he began to think the other man had changed his mind. A shame if he had, because during the three days the trip had taken, he'd formed a liking for the laconic Tiga and respected his knowledge of the area, the people, and the conditions, as well as acknowledging a more personal attraction. But he had gotten along well enough before without and no doubt would again. After years of practice, he'd become fairly self-reliant in most aspects of his life.
Rising from his deck chair, he lit the stern lamp and then went about the business of locking up the steamer for the night. He drew the curtains upstairs and then went down below deck. The engine room was eerily quiet, the only sound the lapping of the water against the boat's sides and it was dark and warm, the sole illumination a single lamp swinging from a beam. He moved to extinguish it and jumped in fright at the figure which materialized in the doorway where moments ago there'd only been darkness.
Heart racing and thoughts of robbers running through his mind, he was immensely relived when the figure resolved itself into Tiga's familiar frame. "You scared me half to death!" he protested, one hand still clutching his chest while the other stopped moving in the direction of the pistol he kept tucked into his belt.
Tiga didn't speak but he did smile as he entered the room as silently as he'd descended the stairs and closed the engine room door behind him. For a moment, Marton felt a fresh frisson of alarm but when Tiga turned to face him and he saw the same dark, heated look in the other man's eyes that he'd seen in his cabin three night previous, then the thumping of his heart had new impetus.
In the blink of an eye Tiga was inches away and his hand, the same as before, drew a line from Marton's cheek, down his throat and across his chest. But this time, the hand boldly darted inside the open neck of his shirt and the pads of Tiga's work-worn hands glided across the dark nub of his nipple. It stiffened immediately and Tiga's smile grew wider, his other hand rising to Marton's waist, thumb caressing the curve of his hip as Tiga pulled him close.
"Three days." Tiga's first words were throaty and thick. "Three days is too long to wait." His hot breath fanned Marton's cheek and his hand dived boldly between Marton's thighs to feel through the cloth and fondle him.
Karl watched Marton's pupil's dilate, his expression soften, and he breathed in his scent, wood-smoke and tobacco, male musk and the faint, yet distinctive tang of the river that had seeped into his skin. He pinned him against the upright beam in the room's centre and, as Marton opened his mouth to respond to his words, dipped his head and captured the lush lips with his own, tongue darting out to taste him.
The buttons of Marton's trousers were no obstacle and Karl soon had him free and was stroking him, delighting in the rare pleasure of so intimate a touch and the reactions it engendered. The tiny gasps and moans were all the more exquisite for having come from such a quietly self-assured and independent source and he reveled in them, forgetting for now his own growing need. So when Marton's questing hand found him and exposed him, and the strong white teeth fastened to his throat and worried at it, he gasped.
The muffled grunts and urgent gasps for air were the only sounds other than those coming in through the boat's sides from outside. They were insulated from the world out there, cocooned by the warm murk of the engine room in a private and intimate moment, their safety guaranteed by the thick wooden door and the heavy latch. Tiga's hands were everywhere, or so it seemed to Marton, awash on a sea of sensation. He grunted, felt the once-familiar sizzling of sparks arcing up his spine, his hips jerked and everything went silent for a second, the world beyond the four walls, even his heart, as his semen spilled, painting Tiga's hand with thick globules of white.
Karl bit down on Marton's collarbone through the rough fabric of his shirt and rubbed the head of his straining prick against Marton's exposed belly. That, and Marton's deft, knowing fingers, was enough. His head tipped back, face showing the strain of his release and then he relaxed in a huge exhalation of air, forehead coming to a weary rest on Marton's broad shoulder.
After a few minutes of winded recovery time, Karl stepped away to allow Marton space to adjust his clothing. He used an old cloth hanging from a beam to wipe his hands and silently handed it to Marton who did the same. Marton sucked in one last deep breath and then lifted his head to smile. "Definitely too long." he commented.
Karl knew what he meant. "We can work something out." he said confidently. After all, the MarySue traveled the Murray past the Sheffield jetty regularly. Despite the difficulties presented by the presence of her crew he figured a plan might be made, if Marton wanted more as much as he did, that was.
Marton opened the furnace door and threw the cloth in then he turned around and blew out the lamp. Karl saw only a flash of white in the darkness as he smiled. "No doubt we can." he said.
~~
TBC
Notes:
*Tiga: pronounced Tig-ar.
*Australians of the day referred to Aborigines as blacks or blackfellas. The terminology is correctly used in this fic. It was not derogatory or insulting in the 1800's nor is it meant as such here.
*Molly= 18th century English slang for a homosexual..
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