Page 126 of Rears & Vices

And so thus he wanted, in particular, to be held down and fucked. He couldn’t explain it, knew logically it meant nothing, but he wanted it, wanted Vitya heavy upon him, merciless, taking him apart, ruthless, gasping in his ear.

He tried being direct as he could bear, short of straight-out asking. When even finally asking, begging, pleading in the moment, failed just as well as anything else—a gentle, careful, trembling denial was his reward—he felt he had no choice but to enlist help.

Of course, then Romilly René, Vitaliy’s close friend, crew advocate, enforcer, intelligence-extractor extraordinaire, was no help at all.

“Matelot,” she said patiently, scratch-scratching into her ledger the take from the surrender of a Portuguese corsair, “I head an all-women company. So, I do not see why or from where you have gotten the expectation that I know the smallest thing about what makes a man’s prick point up.”

René, in addition to speaking loudly, liked to use her hands in emphatic gestures to underscore what she meant. Everard was grateful in this particular instance that she currently had both hands occupied, and that they were behind closed doors.

“Er—that’s not quite the… issue. I only meant… perhaps that…”

He was sweating, suddenly acutely aware he was probably making a mistake but figuring any potential result would be worth it.

Not quite how that works, a voice told him. He ignored it.

“Since,” he went on, “since you are yourself the fairer sex, I wondered if you might have encountered a point in your previous relations where—er, perhaps you found a man…” Unwilling didn’t work. Nor unobliging. “… holding himself back?”

René looked up, expression blank, rouged lips parted. “Pardon? Relations? Fairer sex?” She wrinkled her nose. “What… do I do with this?” she murmured. “Vee and myself, you ask.”

“Yes’m,” he said quickly.

The eyebrows stayed high, but her expression had turned into slanted mockery. Vicious.

Yes, Everard had made a mistake.

She leaned forward. “Holding himself back… you mean in the sex.”

Everard, scarlet, was nonetheless relieved that she’d understood. If she understood, maybe she knew⁠—

René shook her head and muttered, “Cannot he piss himself in fear, like all the rest?” She signed the ledger page with a flourish, replaced the pen, and leaned back in her chair. “Why have you come with this, to me? You should not. One, you have no right to know what you ask about me. Or anyone.”

“No. No, of course not. I see your point. You can of course turn me away⁠—”

“Two, I don’t think Vee would like you to say these things to me. Or anyone.” She hummed. “Possibly your Fitzwilliam,” she added thoughtfully. “Of course, he is not here…”

“Perhaps… perhaps not,” Everard said hastily. “But I am fairly desperate⁠—”

“Three, I do not want to shoulder this. Why must I?”

“Vitya said I ought do. Consult you, that is. More often. He trusts you. And I thought since you’ve had… er… relations… previously…”

She gave a brittle-sounding laugh. “Not like this, I don’t think. For my profession—at which I excel—yes. Not this. But let me on one thing correct you. How to say again? Matelot,” she said slowly, “I head an all-women crew.”

Everard nodded, bewildered.

René rolled her eyes. “Mon dieu. All right. I have never with Vee. Ever. We have never. I am uninterested in the sex with men. Totalement. Especially with Vee.” She shuddered delicately.

It hit him then. All-women crew.

“Oh,” Everard said. “Ohhh.”

René laughed, and Everard let the embarrassment douse him like spattering rain. No wonder Vitaliy had been so angry at his accusation. It had been mere jealousy; and, as it turned out, completely baseless, too.

Everard grimaced. “My apologies for the presumption. And the rest of it. You disliked me so that I thought—I assumed⁠—”

She smirked. “You need not say le prétérit.”

“Oh.” Everard snapped his mouth shut. “Indeed,” he made himself say. “I… All right. You make yourself quite understood.” He bowed. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, fleet master.” He about-faced.