The Beach

	It’s strange seeing the jackal standing out in the surf, staring across the vast expanse of blue before us.  It’s like staring through the back of a mirror.  Not that we’re at all alike in appearance, life experience or anything of personal significance, really.  Just that I feel a nostalgic remembrance, like I’ve been exactly here before at many points in my life.  Looking out across the world and all its freedoms, standing in the promises of what life has to offer, while still knowing that all these things that so many take for granted are an impossibility for me.  Unreachable, no matter how many vessels I board, or the speed at which they sail.  I’m a dog running after my tail, except that while I’ve been chasing this impossible thing, I’ve seen so many others accomplish it with ease.  And for some reason, despite knowing the barriers to happiness for me personally are completely unconquerable, I keep thinking ‘that could be me’.  And I keep trying, and I keep chasing, and I keep getting hurt.
	The most important difference between Amon and I, I suppose, is that he seems to have given up.  You can see it in his eyes.  He said the ocean horizon represented ‘freedom’ to him, but he doesn’t mean it in the way that I do.  For him it is quite literally liberation from the forces controlling his life, the hyena clans that hold his contract, the importance of the collar around his neck.  Anywhere else in the world, his contract would not be valid.  He would be legally held by no man or woman, and the collar would be a relic of a bygone life.  Hell, there’s even a chance a skilled blacksmith could remove it. . . somehow.  I’m not certain how they even affix them, but I’ve heard the process of removing them is a jealously guarded secret in these lands.  Still, though it would be a sore reminder, he could live his life wearing it none the worse off.
	If he were anywhere but here.
	Travel itself has never been difficult for me.  I’m privileged in at least that regard.  Poverty in my country generally means you live a destitute, hungry life, and die young of a curable disease or of the aforementioned hunger.  Or war.  Or a thousand other things.  But Amuresca abolished slavery and practices like indentured servitude that are just slavery masquerading under another name a little over a century back, I think.  Johannes would know the exact date.  Oh, most of the poor ultimately live in service to the rich, don’t get me wrong, but we are free to leave and take our chances on the road if we’ve got the nerve to do it.  Most don’t.  But then most have family, children, responsibilities. . . it’s not as though they really have a choice except to stay put and accept their lot in life, unless they’re selfish enough to leave all that behind.  And more for them if they do, I say.  I left my father with a bad hip and a herd he couldn’t possibly handle on his own, and I have never regretted my decision.  If he’d wanted his son to stay put, carry on the fine family tradition and care for him into his old age, he should have. . . I don’t know.  Loved me.  At some point.  And maybe knocked me around less.  
	Imagining a life like Amon’s is difficult.  It’s foreign, obviously, but more than that, the restrictions we live our lives under are culturally different.  In many ways I’m fighting back envy, because he’s had freedoms I never have, despite literally being collared and controlled since I know not when.  The lands of Mataa are a bit more open-minded about some key social issues I’ve obviously struggled with my entire life.  I’m no scholar, but I know they believe in multiple gods, and due to some self-indulgence on my part back when I had access to Lucius’s library, I know that one of their gods – a jackal, ironically enough – apparently took male lovers amongst his harem.  This set a precedent for male lovers being acceptable, provided they were comfort slaves or paid workers, and held no real position of power within the household.  It’s a side note in even their religious texts, but a very important one for people like me.  It’s not that men haven’t loved men since the beginning of time, (women too, I’d imagine, but I know less of that world) but until it’s an accepted part of some kind of important cultural rhetoric, things outside the norm like this just tend to be labeled as ‘evil’.  That one little side note in their religion is the whole reason that male prostitutes can do business with men openly in their streets, adult men can live together without too much harassment, and no one is ever flayed, burned or killed in Mataa for preferring to fuck someone of the same gender.  They kill people for plenty of other reasons, there’s all the slavery of course, honor killings and warfare between clans, and even whispers I’ve heard of women having their nethers mutilated.  But I mean, Amurescan monks sometimes neuter themselves, so. . . .
	Every society has their evils.  And I know, obviously, that Amon has been monstrously abused.  I only know the barest scrapings on the surface of his pain, and each new revelation has been enough to make me recoil.  But here in his lands, provided your connection to another man falls within the bounds of what their honored gods have apparently deemed acceptable – in this case, keeping male lovers provided their position is relegated as ‘lower’ than their female, legally married counterparts – you are permitted to exist and live as you are.  Which is, at the very least, a step up from being labeled a heretic and being threatened with labor camps and death your whole life.
	It seems woefully unfair that we can’t just cherry pick a few things we like from each of our countries of origin.  It would be fine to imagine that someday, a place like that might exist, and some of the struggles and efforts we’ve put in throughout our lives might pave the way for others.  But I’m not an optimist.  I’ve spent my life spitting in the face of authority, to no avail.  My successes to this point have come down to sheer luck and happenstance, being in the right place and knowing the right people to find my way into the house of a desperate nobleman who needed to marry his daughter off.  At this point I am the authority, and the only way I can maintain that power is by lying and obfuscating who I really am, and making them think I’m one of them.  Really ‘paving the way’ here.
	And Amon is in no position to do anything.  He has no power, no resources, no privilege, not even any kind of abilities that would help him fight or connive his way out of his lot in life.  I’ve considered, of course, that perhaps it’s time for me to repay the luck I’ve had in the past.  Be for Amon what Lucius was for me – offer him a way out.  But there are so many reasons it wouldn’t work.
	For one, I haven’t any idea what his debt to these clans is, but I’m guessing with an expensive drug habit, (he has kept that part to himself, but I can smell it on him every time we meet) it is likely a small fortune.  I could pull the coin from the coffers, but I’d have to get past the Pursar, and he is not a man to be trifled with.  Even by his Admiral.  
	Then there’s the issue of the drug habit itself.  The Divine is an infamous drug, even in my lands, where it’s both illegal and so exotic as to be insidiously expensive.  The only poison I’ve ever truly indulged in throughout my life is drink, and not even expensive drink.  And I’m well aware that a man can drink himself to death, God knows I’ve seen it happen, but the Divine can kill you if you stop taking it.  It induces some kind of sickness that if it doesn’t kill you in and of itself, can drive men to madness and to self-harm.  At the very least it would be a terrible and arduous process for the jackal, and certainly not one a man should undergo when traveling at sea.
	Then of course, there’s the whole issue of how I’d explain away the fact that I purchased a male prostitute.  And, well. . . I couldn’t.  Grayson once hid a woman away on his vessel by dressing her as a man. . . or she might have fooled him.  I’m not certain.  But I do know it caused a lot of problems once her identity was revealed, and it became known that the wolf had a woman in his cabin.  And they’re man and woman.  Completely normal and accepted outside the environment of a ship.  
	But then, she’s still around, so I suppose the men got over it eventually.  
	I cannot just buy the jackal’s freedom, as convenient as that might be.  And I’m not even certain he’d want me to.  As I said, he seems to have given up.  I don’t think he’s ‘made peace’ with his lot in life, and I can’t imagine many who could.  But he holds his head high, seems to want to maintain a sense of dignity despite it all, and I have to admire that and respect his boundaries.  But it’s hard.  Oh, it’s hard. There’s a profound sadness in him even now as I ask him what career he’ll pursue once he’s aged out of his profession.  Which by the sound of it, will be soon.  It is an absolute shame, because he’s stunningly gorgeous and charming, and even knowing him as little as I do now, I can safely say I’d enjoy watching him age, and knowing him all the while.  
	That thought is what spurs me to kiss him.  
	I’m not a complete fool,  I know a dozen or so visits in a brothel, a few late night conversations and one dicey fight in a back alley is no way to truly get to know someone, but I’m. . . fond of him.  Growing fonder, by the day.  And sure, some of that is because I’m as trapped on this island now as he is by my own circumstances, and he’s a comforting harbor whose arms I can fall into.  And maybe desperate times like this are not the best time to fall for someone, but I haven’t fallen, exactly.  I’m just. . . .
	. . . I’m just very fond of him.  
	Shit, I’m in trouble, aren’t I? 
	As it has been so many times in the past, I find it hard to concentrate on the bad choices I’m making while I’m in the process of making them.  Amon’s muzzle is everything I thought it would be, warm, soft and pliant, smoky tasting and filling my nostrils with the scents trapped in his fur, incense and sandalwood.  He has his own scent too, mild thanks primarily to the fact that he must bathe a lot, I can smell the soap there beneath the surface, but his musk is still distinctly canine in its own exotic way.  So unfamiliar, so foreign to most men I’ve been this close to, but I find myself craving it the more of him I draw in.  Perhaps he’s as addictive as the Divine.
	The small, haggard creature of reason that dwells in the back of my mind, neglected and pushed aside throughout most of my life, is screaming at me.  Something about repeating past mistakes.  We don’t get to know prostitutes, we sure as fuck don’t kiss them.  We very much don’t entertain fantasies about freeing them and taking them home with us.  But I’ve held to my rules, haven’t I?  Sex makes me emotional.  If I don’t actually take him to bed, put him under me, and fuck him, I’ll be alright.  Right.  Those are the rules.
	They feel hollow, in this moment.  I can feel that familiar swell in my chest, a lightness in my bones I haven’t felt in years, and even though I’ve only succumbed to it a few times in my life, and it has never ended well, I recognize what it is.  And I’m welcoming it.  I’m letting it in.  I need something like this in my life right now, I tell myself.  I rationalize.  I reason.  After all I’ve been through this past year, all I’m likely to go through in the coming year, don’t I deserve one blessed goddamn thing that makes me happy?  Don’t I?
	Doesn’t he?  Fuck, here we go.  Now my mind is cooking up reasons why this whole thing could be unselfish.  Damn if I’m not a champion at lying to myself.
	But he’s not resisting.  He’s not even going slack, or rigid, or showing any signs of discomfort.  He’s melting into me, and we’ve been kissing for awhile now, haven’t we?  Surely if this wasn’t what he wanted, he’d have stopped me.  This can’t just be because of the coin.  His tongue is between my teeth, and now we’re tasting one another, and I’m just drunk enough on the notion of all of this being okay that I’m willing to believe that it’s mutual.  That he wants me like I want him.
	Maybe if we’re going to be foolish, we could be foolish together.
	When we part, he immediately barbs me, but it’s good-natured.  And there’s a compliment in there, too.  I mean, I know I’m a good kisser, I don’t need him to tell me that.  But it eases what tension was there, assures me that he’s both recognizing that this dance we’re doing is outside the normal parameters between a client and a pro, but that he enjoyed it.  Maybe that’s what this could be.  We blur the lines a little, but not too much.
	Who am I fooling.
	We haven’t actually partaken in anything lascivious on this visit, and I’ll be honest, I hadn’t intended to.  One unfortunate side effect of ‘blurring the lines’ is that I’m starting to see him differently, and I’m beginning to feel just a bit slimy about the whole paying for sex thing.  Not overly so, a man in my position doesn’t have many options after all, but enough that I wouldn’t enjoy him sucking my cock quite as much as I normally do right now.  
	I could return the favor, though.  Turn the tables.  Be a real gentleman about it, even.
	He seems surprised when I offer, and then immediately dubious about my boasting.  Which I brought on myself, if I’m being honest.  This is his craft, after all, and I’m sitting here claiming I’m going to impress him.  But I’m pretty confident in my skills in this arena, and though I doubt I could pull them off with the versatility, nuance and artistry that he does, you don’t need to be a professional entertainer to suck cock.  The warm-up act probably helps, I know I certainly enjoy it.  But I’m a practical man, and I’ve had enough committed partners over the years that I’ve worked out the mechanics pretty well.  I’m honestly better atop a man than I am doing anything else, and I’ve caught him pouting when I’ve turned him down on that in the past, so I suspect he’d agree to it if I offered.  But. . . rules.
	Blurred lines are one thing.  If I’m going to cross them entirely, we’ll need to really figure out what our destination is, or at least start considering one.
	We were both half-hard by the time we’d parted muzzles, which is encouraging.  I mean, for my own part, it. . . doesn’t take much.  A beautiful golden jackal, pulled tight in my arms, kissing me by the light of a sunrise over a beautiful tropical beach?  Where have I read this again? 
	It really is picturesque.  I don’t get many moments like these, so I don’t question it.  Time like this is meant to be enjoyed, and not over-examined.  As I move my muzzle down the peach-soft fur along his torso, he chuckles at me.  I’m sure I look quite the sight, ragged-furred, rough fellow that I am, nosing down his chest like a hungry pup.  But I don’t care.
	He leans back on his palms, his body sinking just a bit into the cool sand, legs extending to either side of me.  His tail swishes behind him, I can hear it even if I can’t see it.  He cocks his head down at me, looking at me expectantly, those mismatched eyes not leaving mine.  When I first met him, the gold and green eyes were little more than a curiosity.  In my country they’d be considered a sign of poor breeding, a mark against his beauty.   Now, I can’t stop looking at them.  I remind myself silently that if I hold my gaze any longer, it’ll just start being strange.  With a sigh of breath against his sheath, I flick my focus to where his pink shaft has slipped out a few inches, my palm working up beneath it to cup his sac and rub it gently between my fingers, really feeling him there for the first time.  We’ve spent time together at least a dozen times since I came to port, and I’ve touched his body before, obviously.  But usually he’s servicing me, and what touches I’ve managed have been fleeting at best.  Now I really have the chance to indulge.
	I feel him hum contentedly as I stroke his sac, and my nose moves down the bunching fur along his sheath, withdrawing ever-so-slowly as his length slips free.  I know it well enough from a lifetime of experience with myself, but still, it’s enjoyable to watch his arousal grow.  I continue to tease with my nose and just the outside of my muzzle for a bit while he hardens, taking stock of him.  I’ve seen him a bit here and there while he’s worked on me, but never all of him.  He’s larger than I would have expected, but then his frame isn’t small, he’s just thin.  
	He’s not shy about expressing himself apparently, and has been continuing the low hums from earlier, but they’re turning into a more impatient kind of groan the longer I tease, so I figure it’s time to really get started.  I open my muzzle slowly to take him in, curling my tongue over his tip, savoring the first taste of him.  As I expected, clean and only mildly musky, Amon is clearly a man who takes his hygiene seriously.  But then, given his line of work. . . .
	I roll my tongue beneath his shaft, back and forth a few times, wetting him for the rest of my muzzle, and he gives a long groan at that.  Then I slip him inside, and swallow him to the base, and his groan intensifies.  
	Now, I’m quite certain he’s going to act pleased regardless of my skill level at this.  Beyond the fact that I am still a client, he just strikes me as one of those sweet sorts who’d pat your head and tell you you’re doing great regardless.  And he’d even mean it, I’m sure.  Most men enjoy having their dick sucked enough to at least thank someone.
	But I want him to mean it.
	I continue stroking and rubbing at him beneath, and begin working the ministrations of my palm in tandem with bobbing my muzzle against him.  I’d have to say my main skill in all of this is my tongue, though.  I’ve always had a fairly large tongue for the size of my muzzle, and I can easily cup it around half his length, if not more.  I make sure to drag it up over his tip and curl it around his head on each upstroke, dragging each motion out longer that way.  My tongue is a lighter touch than my muzzle, so it’s how I prefer to tease his tip.  Or, well. . . anyone’s.  Most canines and foxes have sensitive tips, and I haven’t been with many other species throughout my life.
	I suspected that he might be long-winded, and he doesn’t disappoint.  That’s fine by me, gives me longer to enjoy the process and try a few tricks along the way.  I have to say, on the whole, I’m not generally one for submitting to another man, especially in bed, but for this.  I’m not certain what it is, it’s just always appealed to me.  Maybe because it’s such a sensory overload.  The feel of someone inside my muzzle, the scent of them, and of course the inevitable end result.  Perhaps there’s a part of me that enjoys being entirely at someone’s service, for a short while?  I’ve only had a command role for the latter half of my life, but it does get overwhelming and stressful, so maybe this is a release.
	Maybe it’s just another power trip.  Like this, a man’s pretty well at my mercy, after all.  Especially when I’ve got them good and going like this.  Amon’s moans have changed cadence, like he’s seen the light, that this is going to be one hell of a ride, and he might not have to ‘fake’ it.  Maybe that part’s all in my mind, I don’t know.  But he’s definitely begun to sound less purposeful in his noises, his soft, intentional moans occasionally punctuated by sharp gasps and more unfettered groans.  I can feel his toes digging into the sand at my sides, and while my free hand has primarily been pumping my own cock between my legs, I release it for a moment so I can run a palm down his calf, feeling his muscles tense as I do.  It’s almost as effective as touching myself, honestly.  Feeling his physical reactions to what I’m doing to him is for sure one of the reasons I enjoy this as much as I do, power games aside.
	I’m not sure how long it’s been going on when I feel him growing tense.  The stiffness in his body coils up for quite a while, and I instinctively grab at my cock with my free paw again, squeezing tight, my hardness so fierce it almost hurts, now.  God how I want to mount him.  If he knew how much I was fantasizing about it. . . .
	I’m full-on deep-throating him, and stroking myself at nearly the same pace as I’m bobbing my head, now.  It’s not quite mounting him, but there’s a sympathetic rhythm to it that I quite enjoy.  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll actually outlast him or not, when I feel his knot release, and I hungrily curl my tongue around it and take him those last few inches.  That seems to do it, as it usually does, and I’m drinking him down a few seconds later, his own hand finally, finally moving to the scruff of my neck beneath my skull.  He doesn’t press, he doesn’t pull, he just seems to want to hold me there.  
	It isn’t much longer for me after that.  Although I’m only a little ashamed to admit it, I come a short time after I taste the last of his seed trickling down my throat, and that last taste is definitely what has me spilling into the sand.  I pump myself through my climax, groaning around his cock, but not releasing it to suck in gulps of air until I’m well and truly done.  And by then, he’s fallen back into the sand, lying there prone like a defeated creature.  And I can’t help but take a hazy moment to look down on my work, and grin.
	He cracks an eye open before long, and I lay down in the sand beside him, stretching my arms above my head and giving a long, bodily sigh.  I feel him turn to regard me after many silent moments stretch between us, and I glance back at him sidelong, smirking.  
	I feel my point has been well and truly made.
	He leaves me alone on the shore a short time after that, to bathe in the surf.  I’d join him, but honestly, the salt does not agree with my fur.  Love the ocean though I might, I try to avoid sea bathing whenever I possibly can.  Although I might consider it in the future if it means sharing it with him.  
	He’s a vision, standing out there in the surf, the water lapping up around his waist now.  His tail bobs in the waves like a peel of gold trailing behind him.  With the sun’s radiance making itself known in a more profound way now, his lean figure is backlit in blue and rimmed in yellow, like a halo surrounding him.  
	And then the beautiful scene breaks down before me, as a powerful glint of sunlight off his neck momentarily blinds and forces me to cringe back and shut my eyes a moment.  The collar.  Of course.  What made me think I could enjoy this moment without one stark reminder of our reality?  
	Or more than one.  The steel band around Amon’s neck may be a reminder of his tragic circumstances, but I have plenty of my own.  The winds are easterly today, I can’t help but notice as I take in the state of the clouds.  Northeasterly.  They’d be perfect to sail on, to make our way back home, to Amuresca.  The monsoon season on this island will be coming in with the changing of the seasons, which isn’t far off.  We’re missing the best sailing weather for our escape. . . right now.  As I sit here.
	But we can’t risk it.  The Cathazra longships have no cannons, no ballista or ranged weapons of any kind.  They ride low in the water and don’t weather storms as well as we do, they can’t hold near as many men, and they crack like old bread in ship-to-ship combat.  But they have something my galleons don’t. . . oars.  And the Cathazra dragons themselves, who are worth three or four of my sailors in manpower, and can best just as many in combat.  Their vessels are made for ramming, and once they’re aboard, there is no surviving their onslaught.  And then of course, there’s the drakes and their fire bombs.  We only barely managed to outrun them long enough to make it to the Shanivaar through lucky winds we were able to catch, and the last few days were a dangerous game of cat and mouse we very nearly lost.  
	This time around, we will not be so lucky.  The weather here is good for sailing in the best of conditions, but we won’t catch the kinds of trade winds we did on the way here.  And they’d bomb us out of the water regardless, especially now that they’ve had time to recoup and gather fuel.  Our harpoons can only handle so many of their fliers, one or two always tend to get through.  The Manoratha only barely survived the fires the last time we fought, bringing up our tail the way it was.  My Captains will never thank the man, but Grayson Reed and his oversized Man-of-War are the only reason my fleet is at all intact.  We’re very lucky the drakes could not tell our vessels apart, or they would have focused their fire on my capital ship.
	I’m honestly at a loss as to how I’m going to get us out of this one.  But. . . I’ve been at a loss before.  In Serwich, I found an answer.  My solution to evacuating the colony haunts me to this day, and it didn’t save all of us, not yet anyway.  But I’m hoping there is a multi-part plan here I just haven’t figured, yet.  Something I’m missing.
	I’ve a meeting with my Captains in an hour or less, and I need to tell them something.  I need to at least make them believe that all is well in hand, that their Admiral is going to pull another clever ploy out his ass.  Fake it until I’ve got something.  Maybe dazzle them with some dash of wit or insight.  Show them I have some legitimate, skill-based claim to my rank.	
	While I’m racking my mind to come up with something, I hear padding in the sands, and look up to find that the jackal has joined me again.  Specifically, he’s standing over me, fur glistening with fresh seawater.  He’s looking down at me, bemused.  But he’s smiling.  
	It’s a tired, worn smile, thin around the edges and cracked in more places than I can see.  But he’s smiling at me.  And I can’t help but smile back.
	We’re probably both well and truly fucked, but all of that is ahead of us.  Right now in this moment, we’re alone on a beautiful beach, together basking in the afterglow of enjoying one another’s company.  If this was all I was allotted in an entire lifetime for happiness, all the pain that brought us here might actually be worth it.  
	But it’s not.  I’ve had other joys, and I’m certain he has, too.  And we can’t know what the future will bring.  Maybe we’ll have many more moments like this.  Maybe better.  Maybe, maybe, maybe.
	The maybes are worth fighting for.  I hope he feels the same way.  If there was one thing I could give Amon, this jackal with this sad, desperate future ahead of him, it wouldn’t be freedom.  Freedom is temporary.  
	It would be defiance.  Conviction.  I would ask him not to give up.
	So I do.