There's not much conscious thought that goes into it. Jack finds a rhythm and glides, back and forth, tongue flat and teeth covered. He pulls back until just the tip balances between his lips then slides down as far as he can, sucking hard.

His eyes shut, concentrating on the motion, on how to control his breath. Nothing else matters. He doesn't want to think, just feel.

The thigh muscle beneath his hand trembles just before Norrington's hips slip, jutting his prick down Jack's throat. Jack swallows convulsively so he doesn't choke, gripping hard to the fabric of Norrington's breeches. His other hand flies to Norrington's hip, to steady him, and he glances up.

All Jack can see is a shirt fisted upwards. The sun throws shadows over the crown of Norrington's head, backlighting him. Head reclined back and a long, flushed neck.

Jack loosens his grip on Norrington's hip, keeps his hand there but no longer restricting motion. Guiding him, gently, to move if he wants to.