If it could talk, Gaelean House would never condemn its inhabitants for their casual copulations, their periods of intense lovemaking, or even their orgies reeking of hot, primitive lusts, for these inhabitants were descendants of the House's builder-a man to whom lust and sexual gratification was not only a way of life, but also a religion.
That man was Rory Sean Gaelean.
"'Twas from man's own body the Master created woman," he was fond of saying in his later years. "Bone of man's bone, flesh of his flesh. And the man and the woman stood before Him naked and were not ashamed and He told them to be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth." Here a roguish smile would curve his mouth. "And this," he would continue, "was nothing but the Master's own polite way of telling them to go fuck." Then he would shake his lion's mane of hair reflectively, though with secret humor: " 'Tis the Book's own words. A cunt was made especially to put a prick in. And a man ought never to go against the Book."
Gaelean House sits at the head of a gigantic cove deep in the wild vastnesses of the Great Smoky Mountains. From it, the Gaeleans of today maintain an uneasy truce with self-styled progress and civilization, by which these two half-heartedly agree to refrain from flooding their domain with mechanical and electronic gadgetry, ulcers and high blood pressure, while the Gaeleans, with devilish little enthusiasm, agree not to hamper progress and civilization so long as it passes them by.
It is not difficult for the intelligent to understand the Gaelean's dogged determination to maintain their seclusion and independence. "Your civilization is a hypocrisy," they say. "And your progress a sham. Besides, this section of the mountains belongs to us, so we'll live in it and conduct our lives as we damn well please."
All this aside, this tiny paradise is worthy of their attitude, for Gaelean House is nothing like the clapboard shacks and rotting log cabins one is prone to associate with the grinding poverty of Appalachia today. In style it hints of the medieval, with its two-feet thick walls of native stone, the huge sunken windows, the round turrets bordering each wing and the great wall surrounding it. The erosions of time have delt kindly with Gaelean House, though today the walls are covered with Wicker's moss, itself shielded by mats of entwining ivy above the dappled rhododendron, laurel and seedling spruce.
And the man who built Gaelean House, this Irishman named Rory Sean Gaelean; whose personal philosophy and purpose in life was to engage in frequent and fierce sexual intercourse with each comely lass he met-what was he like? Above the great fireplace is that fading portrait which stares down a true likeness, with its jutting chin, hawk-beak nose and wide sensual mouth. Was it the artist's intent to incorporate in his work that sardonic, almost cruel twist of the lips, or that lascivious gleam in the eyes? Many, on seeing the portrait for the first time, are won't to compare it mentally with that of a frolicking satyr and, strangely, women are fascinated by it.
They gaze at it in rapt, transfixed silence, lips parted, breath quickening. If they by chance later hear the second-hand accounts, handed down from generation to generation and embossed considerably no doubt, of Rory Gaelean's sexual prowess, they listen avidly. Nor, human nature being what it is, are they to be blamed for the pleasurable tinglings of their loins on learning this first American Gaelean had the sexual vitality and staying power of a dozen strong men, could rut like a young bull all day long and all night, as well.
But enough of speculation. Let us look upon him, this Gaelic warrior. Upon Rory, the first American Gaelean and founder of Gaelean House, fighting and lusting his way from the Emrald Isles of his birth to the New World of the 18th Century.
CHAPTER ONE
Rory Gaelean slightly stiffened his naked body, holding his cock to the hilt in the belly of the equally naked, squirming young woman beneath him, knowing he had just got, and to a measure was still getting, the best fuck of his entire life. The full force of his sexual climax had passed, but the young woman, whom he knew only as Etha, was yet in the midst of hers and he lay atop her, listening with pleasure to her whine and sob, feeling her belly muscles knot and twitch against his and feeling, also, the gentle spasmings of her inner-cunt muscles as they munched deliciously on his buried cock.
At long last she sighed tremulously, opened her eyes and regarded him in the nickering light of the candles with an expression of worshipful awe.
"Now I know what my sister Rosie meant by you being something extra special in bed," she murmured.
"Rose is your sister?" He was mildly surprised. He had not known the proprietress of the Wild Boar, which he had been visiting for over a year and which self-sanctified, pig-minded, god-infested bigots in Gal-way referred to as a house of ill repute, bad a sister.
"Aye. 'Tis true. Since I was wed my home has been north of here, near Slingo, but these two years past my Arnie was killed in the mines and I finally decided to take Rose's invitation to live with her, so-" She stopped, placed her hands on his hip bones, lifted her legs wide and free, and worked her straddle against him several times, massaging the hot flesh of her upper cleft and clitoris against his impaling stake. A whimpering moan fluttered from her lips, she grimaced delicately in gathering passion.
"Ahhh, but that feels good," she said softly. "Two years of doing without can be a lifetime for any healthy lass of twenty-three."
"You mean--"
Her quick nod interrupted him. "Only my husband till his death," she breathed against his lips. "And now you. Nor do I intend to be one of Rose's girls. I've nothing against the practice, but I don't think I could sell my body. Yet my sister seen I was feverish for a man and-well-" A warm grin wreathed her face. "She recommended you."
Etha made as if to restrain him when he tightened his muscles in preparation to sever the coupling.
"Huh-uh," he chuckled. " 'Tis better you take care, else the pretty young widow from Slingo could soon be pushing a big belly before her." He drew his prick out of her cunt slowly, savoring the slight grip of her passage and the clutch of her vulval sphincter at his glans. As he stretched his long frame out on the bed she swung her feet to the floor and disappeared quickly into an adjoining room.
Rory stretched luxuriously, contemplating the sensual delights to come, recalling with relish her quivering eagerness when he had ensconced his gaff between her thighs for the first time less than half an hour ago. Her sister was right. She did need male attention, and he meant to see that she got it tonight-all she wanted.
Wavering flames of the candles caused light and shadow to do wonderful things to her naked body when she returned to the bedroom several minutes later.
"'Tis a wee strange to again be naked before a man," she said with a half-embarrassed laugh. Then she was beside him again, working her body close, wriggling the soft heat of her thighs and pelvic area against his firm and throbbing cock, thrusting her taught breasts, ripe and plump with wanting as dew-kissed melons, into his chest. He slipped an arm under her head for a pillow and they lay on their sides, facing each other, delighting in the tender after-kisses and knowing before long their hot bodies would once more be struggling in sexual conflict.
"Rose told me you go to the University," she whispered after a while.
Rory nodded. "I graduate this year." He was glad she had started a conversation for he wanted to prolong their time together. Normally he returned to the Flemming's from a visit to the Wild Boar around midnight, but tonight was different. Etha was something special and he had no reason to hurry.
"You have been widowed for two years?" he asked to keep the conversation going, though suddenly realizing it was not going very far.
Now it was her turn to nod. "Arnie was caught in a cave-in with eleven others."
"Rebecca Daugherty, a distant kinswoman of mine, has also been a widow for two years. Her husband was lost at sea-on the Scotia."
"I remember that. 'Twas on a voyage to the New World, I believe."
"Aye. Probably a storm at sea."
They lay in silence for a time, then she lifted one of her legs across his and put her hand down between them, grasped his prick and maneuvered her straddle against it until the bald knob separated the top of her cleft. Her breathing became audible when the knob pressed against the firm little nub of her clitoris and Rory knew there would be very little more talking between them, if any.
"Ayeee," she breathed softly. " 'Tis a marvel you are, Rory Gaelean."
Rory did not answer. Instead, he pushed her gently to her back and mounted into the saddle formed by her raised, separated thighs.
"This time let me," she said, and he felt both her hands take his prick this time, pulling him toward her and guiding him, not removing her hands until his glans popped inside. She gave a soundless scream at this. A tremor shook her while he gyrated his hips in small circles and applied pressure, his penis boring through her greedy cunt into the hot moistness of her sex-hungry body.
"Oh my god!" she sobbed desperately and Rory, his head buried against her shoulder, smiled to himself.
What a night this would be to remember.
The game, not surprisingly, was called hoop and ball. Or simply hoop. The ball, carved from a gnarled joint of slowly seasoned oak, was of a size that fit comfortably in the palm of a large man's hand. The wooden hoop, balanced on edge on the greensward, was one foot in diameter. The object of the game was to throw the ball through the hoop from a distance of forty paces without upsetting the balance.
Rory Gaelean measured the distance between him and the hoop with a practiced eye as he hefted the ball absently, then his arm swung to the rear, whipped forward and the oaken ball made a dull brown streak under the Irish sun. An envious sigh went up from those back of him, a sigh followed promptly with sounds of honest admiration that were punctuated by the solid thwack of the ball smacking the earthen backstop after centering the loop.
"You're a natural, Rory," William Leeds, his best friend, said quietly. "A natural if ever I've seen one. There's no other in Ireland to equal you."
"Nay, lads," Rory smiled, collecting the small bets. " 'Tis my lucky day. A hundred years and I couldn't repeat it."
"Nonetheless, you're fast teaching the lot of us to keep our wagers small."
"Aye, but yon Rory Gaelean is a one," Amy Leeds sighed wistfully to Mary Flemming from the edge of the greensward. " 'Tis lucky you are to have such a kinsman."
"Nay," Mary said roguishly. " 'Tis no luck, that. 'Tis luck he is a very distant kinsman, far beyond fourth cousin. Were he closer you'd be mooning about our house like an ailing calf while I, saints forbid, would be wearing a broken heart."
"Were I you I'd bed him and strengthen the tie," Amy said, turning sideways so the boys with Rory and her brother couldn't see and scratched her pussy. "Have you?"
"How can you ask it?" Mary demanded hotly. But there was no anger in her eyes. An impish smile bowed her lips. "Rory has never touched me that way." She faced the center of the green.
"Rory," she called. "The sun goes soon. Rebecca will be waiting supper."
"On my way, lass," he called over his shoulder as he finished collecting his winnings.
"I'd still bed him," Amy whispered feverishly and meaning every word of it, knowing if she ever got half a chance to be alone with Rory Gaelean she'd lose her virginity forthwith. "Oh, by all the saints, how I would bed him had I your chance."
"Amy, please," Mary said with quiet vehemence. "Speak not thus of my intended. We're to be wed when I'm fifteen and Rory finishes at the University."
Rory strode across the grass and took Mary by the arm.
"Evening all," he said loudly and led her toward the foot path cutting across the field and through the wood beyond.
"Rory," Mary said when they reached the thick forest on the other side of the field some minutes later. "Will you kiss me, Rory?"
He bent quickly and gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek.
"Fie!" she said. "What ails you, Sir Rory Sean Gaelean. If 'tis another maid I'll scratch her eyes out."
"Nay, mavourneen," he said flatly. " 'Tis no other maid. Only you gives me a problem."
Mary stopped, a hand on his arm. "I, Rory?"
"Aye, Mary mine. You."
"Can you speak of it?" She studied his face, her heartbeat speeding as she recalled Amy's comment about going to bed with this handsome kinsman.
"I can, but I won't. 'Tis no fit subject between us till we're wed. I've no right to share the burden with
"With your-goodwife, Rory?" she interrupted. He stared at her. "You're no yet my wife, Mary mine."
"But I will be soon, and I'll come to our marriage bed ignorant as a newborn babe unless I'm taught between now and then."
Mischief sparkled in Rory's gray eyes. "And what would you have me to teach you, goodwife-to-be?"
Mary stamped a tiny foot impatiently. "How to kiss, you ninny!"
"Aye," he grinned. " 'Twould be a mortal sin to spoil one's wedding night through ignorance. Come here, goodwife." He pulled her to him and lowered his lips to hers, felt a trembling course through her small frame at their contact. Then he began kissing her the way a lusty man knows a willing maid should be kissed; slowly, thoroughly, probing between her innocent lips with his tongue in search of hers, their bodies tightly pressed and enveloped in an invisible cocoon of increasing animal heat. Her lips were honey-sweet, heaven-spiced, and he drank from them thirstily until her knees slowly began to sag.
"Heaven protect us, Rory," she whispered weakly. "If thoughts condemn, your goodwife is a hussy."
"Nay lass," he rumbled in a voice which was already a deep base. " 'Tis no wrong to have such thoughts of him you love."
He released her, swept her into his arms and stepped off the trail, walking through the underbrush to a fallen tree twenty yards distance. Already the question was in her eyes when he took a seat on the trunk, slid the sheathed dagger in his belt around behind to prevent its interfering, then sat there a moment, her cradled across his lap, looking at her. She gave an involuntary start at his next move.
"Ro-Rory!" she gasped, round-eyed. "What is it you do?"
"Think you knowledge of a kiss is sufficient for a wedding night?" he chuckled.
She tried to squirm free of the arm circling her waist. "Rory, put my petticoats down."
"Be still, lass." Under her numerous petticoats his hand was going down behind the supporting band of her pantaloons, his fingers walking down over the soft flesh of her tummy to the downy triangle below. She started again but unconsciously spread her legs apart to make way for his inquisitive finger.
"We cannot, Rory!" she whispered fiercely against his lips. "We must not!" Her arms were hard about his neck now, her eyes closed. "Rory, move your hand, I say!"
"Have no fear, lass. We won't. Not in the way you're thinking, though I'll curse myself for a thousand fools later. 'Tis neither the time nor place, yet I care little if we're wed when you come to me. No ceremony in a church or words of a bible-pounder ever married a man and woman. You're already mine, but I'll not tumble you here in the woods like a tavern wench. 'Tis only a bit of play we do-that a man should teach his mate. Relax against me, lass."
Slowly at first, then with a gusty sigh of cautious anxiety, she did as he asked.
His finger against her cleft began its exploration, searching amongst the shielding fleece until it entered the little crevice. Mary shivered like one freezing when the finger began a gentle stroking. Again she spread her legs, but promptly scissored them as if to imprison his hand. Quick, strange sounds purred from her lips, varying in tone a bit as he kept at his task, then grew in volume when he speeded his finger's action. He was only permitted to continue this for a couple of minutes before she began to twist and jerk, before his hand was suddenly hotly sticky and he felt the sharp, biting pain of her small teeth on the side of his neck.
He held her firmly against him until the seizure passed and her squirming ceased, held her close and loving her but knowing this night he must ride to the Wild Boar on the outskirts of Galway and see Etha.
"Oh Rory," Mary whispered, opening her eyes. "Oh my darling Rory."
"Twas but play, lass." He smiled at the love light glowing in her eyes. "The real thing is a thousand times more wonderful-so I'm told."
She buried her face against his neck. "Is there not something I must do for you?"
He pushed her erect, surprised at such a question from Mary Flemming, then burst into hearty, rake-hellish laughter at the flaming red of her cheeks. She tried to hide against his neck once more, but he restrained her.
"Well," she pouted prettily after a moment. "Girls talk among themselves too, just as men do." Her arms still around his neck, she shook him gently. "Why must we wait till we're wed, Rory? Our love is true."
"Waiting is said to be best, lass, though I suspect it only Papist dogma." His hawk-like face, with it's hooked nose and its wide mouth suddenly went bleak and cold.
"Oh Rory!" Mary wailed in fear. "Don't look that way. Some day you'll manage to take back your lands in the north." She scooted off his lap and stood before him.
"Perhaps, but will that put back the breath of life in my murdered parents?"
"But Rory, we Protestants have done no better. As a child, before you came to live with us, I remember seeing poor Papists being hanged on the very green where you were playing hoop and ball but shortly past."
He held up his palms, wanting to change the subject and getting to his feet, the bitterness leaving his face.
"We were on a much more interesting topic than differences of religious doctrine, Mary. 'Tis better we return to it, I think."
She stopped, mouth open in the act of saying something, and a warm smile came over her face. She was only too glad to speak of anything except religion with her Rory, for in her secret heart she suspected he believed in no religion and no god, though he attended church regularly with her and her brother and sister. That he might be a non-believer chilled her to the bone.
"And what subject was that, my Rory?" she asked coquettishly.
"Did you like what I did to you?"
"Aye, Rory Sean Gaelean," she said solemnly. "I liked it muchly, and if the real thing is a thousand times more wonderful I suspect I shall join the angels or go screaming daft on our wedding night."
"We'd best go, mavourneen. Sir Godfrey returns from Limerick this night and he'll want us present." He took her by the arm and they turned toward the footpath.
"Aye, but I doubt he'll arrive till late, the coaches are so slow. Do you like my brother, Rory?"
"I love Sir Godfrey Flemming, lass. You know that. Why do you ask?" Then he chuckled, squeezing her elbow. "Could it be that my hand under your petticoats has you already a little daft?"
"Humph," she scoffed, and then deigning to notice it for the first time, she cut her eyes to the great, elongated bulge angling from his crotch down one leg of his tight trousers.
"'Tis obvious," she said with much gravity, "your playing between my legs did not effect you mentally, though it does seem to have deformed you in some strange way." At this she jerked free midst a gale of girlish giggles and raced along the path.
Rory let her go, glad she had not asked how he liked her twenty-five year old widowed sister, Rebecca. A lie would have been necessary. How could he explain to little Mary the lush charms of her sister had sent him galloping into Galway on many a night, and on others had kept him tossing and turning until the wee hours? Certainly he had no compunctions about a lusty romp between the sheets with his prospective sister-in-law. Hungered for it in fact, but she had given not one single indication he might be successful in such an attempt, though his nose had told him on many occasion Rebecca was sexually aroused to a point most women would find unbearable.
The time, for instance, she had accidentally entered his room and found him naked, standing up in the tub taking a bath. For the tiniest part of a second her eyes had centered on his dangling masculinity before she pulled shut the door without uttering a sound. When he came down the stairs an hour later the maddening scent of female in fierce heat was strong about the place, but Rebecca's composure was that of complete serenity. She had never mentioned the incident and neither had he. Many times he wished something had come of it, but it hadn't, and his position as a penniless relative in the Flemming household forbade his making the first move where she was concerned. Then too, there was always Mary. He thought of her for a moment before his thoughts drifted briefly into the past and the circumstances which had caused him to be in the Flemming home.
Ten years ago, when the Papists, under that Hanover tyrant, confiscated the Gaelean estates and put his parents to death, an elderly retainer had smuggled him south to the Flemmings outside Galway. Since then he had been a member of the family, though the actual blood ties were very thin. The kindly Godfrey had had him educated by private tutors, which included fencing, dancing and the two foremost foreign languages of the day, French and Spanish, then sent him to the University at Galway where he was now in his final year. In truth, Sir Godfrey treated him far more like a son than he did a distant kinsman.
Rory sighed heavily and brought his thoughts back to the present, imagining Rebecca's slim nakedness writhing in the throes of orgastic upheaval between him and the bed. Then he saw Mary standing just inside the woods and at the foot of the knoll whereon sat the huge stone structure of the Flemming manor. What a lovely lass she was, though he was of a mind to tease her for her remark about his hard on if she gave him the opportunity. She did. When she first spoke.
"You didn't chase me," she said with pretended peevishness. "Me thinks there is another woman in your life, Rory Gaelean."
"Aye," he said gravely, inwardly laughing. "And 'tis a matter I've longed to discuss with you, Mary mine, but I know not how to tell it."
As he drew close she stared at him in dumbfounded silence, the color gone from her face and no longer pretending. She didn't stop to consider that he might be playing with her, but in a flash of ghastly truth which smote her she simply knew there was another in his heart. For half a minute her eyes held his before that violent, demonstrative temper for which the Irish were later to become famous flared and she gritted her teeth with such fury the sound could be heard yards away.
"Some trollop in Galway, I wot!" she cried. "Some slut whose body has a price. Think you not I know why you gallop abroad these nights?" She flew at him as one demon possessed, small fists upraised, face now crimson with rage. "I'll kill her, Rory Gaelean! And you too!" In helpless anger she pounded his chest which, because of their difference in height, she was forced to stand on her toes to do.
"Nay, lassie mine," he said, grasping her wrists, delighted by her sudden fit of jealousy and continuing to tease. " 'Tis no strumpet who shares my heart with you." And in the long years to come, when memory of this lovely creature before him was dimmed by time, his next words were to be a puzzlement to him. " 'Tis Rebecca, lass. Your sister Rebecca."
"Rebecca?" Mary sagged against him, looked vaguely up into his face in effort to comprehend, and her anger fled with the speed of its arrival, for then she knew he was teasing. "Oh, Rory, my own darling. What a turn you gave me."
Though not apparent, Rory's surprise at his words was no less than hers-but this was not to be his only surprise of the hour. Some minutes later, as they walked hand in hand up the long slope toward the Flemming home, Mary broke their silence.
"Rory?" she said tenderly.
"Aye lass?"
"'Twould not be hard to endure, knowing you bedded Rebecca. She fierce needs a man and Jarl has been lost at sea these two years. 'Tis said a man must have a woman, marriage or now, and she could serve your relief better than any Galway tart."
"Why not you, lass?" Rory gulped, shaken to the core by her suggestion. You can reach my room any night easy enough." Could this be his Mary he was talking to in this fashion?
"Nay, my wild and handsome husband-to-be." She smiled softly. "That which I have to give you on our wedding night is the most cherished portion of any bride's estate."
CHAPTER TWO
Rory's composure had returned by the time they entered the great vaulted main room of the Flemming home and found Rebecca talking to a stranger.
At the time neither he nor Mary had reason to suspect the man of being a threat to their happiness. He did not look like a threat, but more resembled some madcap designer's idea of a squat, vulgar frog. His mangy looking wig would have delighted any family of rats seeking a home. Straggles of once white hair stuck from it in all directions. Dried snuff caked each corner of the enormous gash of his mouth, which underscored a broad, flat, cavern-nostriled nose, and the front of his waistcoat held food spots from many meals, some of them long since molded. Even from the doorway the nauseous stench of long unwashed human assailed their sense of smell and as he followed Rebecca toward them for the introductions his gait was a jerky shamble.
His face was covered with a thick greasy mat of graying beard that extended down over the inverted terrace of his several chins to the unclean lace at his throat. It was a face-
God's wishes! It was the face of a thing that belonged in the rotten muck of some forgotten bog. Stamped in every line and wrinkle, into each pore, was-evil. And the bulging, dirt colored eyes, totally devoid of all emotion, magnified this evil.
For the first time since growing into awareness of the female sex, Rory failed to take note of and appreciate the graceful sensuality of Rebecca's figure as she approached. Then Rebecca was speaking.
Rory-Mary, this is Squire Toada, an old friend of brother Godfrey's.
"Nay, fair madame," Toada croaked. "Would that I were friends with the noble Godfrey Flemming. We were only business associates in a small way for a short time, many years ago." He bowed to Mary and Rory. "Lassie, young sir, your servant."
The slimy, unclean quality of the cold hand Rory accepted and quickly dropped filled him with revulsion and shortly after the introduction he took his leave, using as an excuse he must see to his horse before the night.
Furthermore, and for a reason which mystified him, one that he could by no means explain to himself other than that of a peculiar dread of being in the same room with Squire Toada, he did not respond to Mary's repeated calls to the evening meal, or even go to the house at Sir Godfrey's arrival, but remained in the hay mow till long after the sun had set, his brow black with thought, deeply troubled in his soul and not really knowing why.
When he at last returned a lone candle burned in the great hall and he took the candle with him upstairs to his room, where he quickly stripped to the skin and, disdaining the customary skin-length nightshirt because of the warm evening, crawled into bed, still preplexed over the Squire. For some minutes he lay under the sheets, fingers laced behind his head, looking at the full moon pouring its brightness through the huge window, having forgotten his decision to ride to the Wild Boar and wondering at his apprehension over the ugly man's appearance.
And then, with the facility of healthy youth, he drifted off to sleep.
How long he slept he did not know, but he awoke from the hackles rising on the back of his neck. A sixth sense warned him immediately on awakening he was not alone in the room and he remained perfectly motionless, eyes closed, his first thought of the repulsive Squire Toada.
When he had gone to sleep he had been on his back, a position he still maintained, only now his arms were out-flung. Though but a child of seven when his parents had been brutally slain, he had then vowed to himself that never, neither while asleep or awake, would he be caught without a weapon near at hand. He had never broken that vow. The dagger he wore, in compliance with the custom generally adhered to by the youth of the day, was on a night-stand beside the bed and within inches of his right hand.
Cautiously he slitted his eyes to survey the moon lit room. He saw nothing. Still he did not move, but continued his deep, restful breathing as though yet asleep, putting more faith in that sixth mysterious sense than he did the one of sight. He knew someone was in the room with him, had crept in while he slept. Without turning his head he strained his eyes to the right. Nothing. Next, to the left-and a chill of excitement trickled up his backbone. At the outer limits of his peripheral vision, so much so as to be indistinguishable even in the moon light, yet seated on the edge of his bed, was the intruder.
Rory very nearly betrayed his being awake by a start of surprise, but caught himself in time. He groaned as one asleep might do in shifting positions, turned slowly to the right toward his dagger, and gathered his muscles.
With the lightening speed of a jungle cat he plucked the knife from the stand, swept it aloft and whirled, whipping erect as he did so, his left hand grabbing a handful of the intruder's hair to control the head for a quick neck slice. The wicked, double-edged blade of the dagger gleamed murderously in the moon light as he struck-to within an inch of the slender white column of Rebecca Flemming's throat.
"Holy Mary Mother of God!" Rory cursed helplessly, horrified at what he had almost done; so horrified he still held her pulled toward him, the knife at her neck. Her eyes were large with terror.
Then he released her, threw the dagger in a corner and fell back weakly on the bed, covered with a sheen of icy perspiration, watching numbly as she sat erect, straightened her robe and gown and silently began to weep, her face buried in her hands.
"Rebecca, for the love of God-" he began when her tears subsided and she wiped her eyes. He had never seen her in night clothes and now, even though not fully recovered from the ghastly tragedy he had almost brought about, the beauty of her was a vision rare to behold.
When she spoke she did so in the intimate form of the softly accented Gaelic language.
"Thou, Rory Gaelean, art a wild and savage beastie," she smiled. "Dost greet all fair maids with dagger point when they enter thy bedroom chambers?"
"Nay, Rebecca," he replied in like manner. "I'd go to the gibbet with gladness in my heart and a song on my lips ere I'd harm one hair on thy beautiful head. Thou well knowest this."
"What kind of song, Rory Gaelean? A love song?"
The questions caught him unaware and he countered with a question of his own, switching back to their every day tongue-a mixture of words taken from the languages of the Danes, Normans, Scots, Britons, Angles and Saxons and commonly accepted as the framework of the English language today.
"And why does a fair maid come to my bed chambers at this hour of the night?" he asked.
"I must talk with you, Rory." Her tone was serious and so, suddenly, was her face, with its gentle planes and angles, red-ripe lips and large, soulful eyes.
"About Squire Toada?"
"How did you know, Rory?"
"The man has scarcely left my thoughts since we met. The sight of him sickens me, which was the cause of my going to the stables. Does he in truth know Godfrey?"
Rebecca nodded, turning more toward him on the bed, and he noticed the upper part of her robe was open. Through this opening he saw half of a plump, pouting breast and his masculine needs, fired to inferno pitch by his playing with Mary in the woods, flamed anew. Raw desire surged through his loins and he could not remove his eyes. Rebecca, who had been about to speak, looked at him questioningly several seconds before she realized the reason for his transfixed gaze.
"Rory Gaelean!" she chided fiercely, snatching her robe together and thereby concealing the lovely hillock. "For mortal shame!" But there was no honest condemnation in her tone. Nor any anger.
"Aye, lass," Rory said woodenly. "For mortal shame. 'Twas the odious Squire we were discussing."
"Rory?" In the single word she managed to include something both warm and wonderful.
"Aye?"
"'Tis the first time you've ever called me lass."
On hurried reflection he realized this was true. The word was usually bestowed by an older person upon a younger member of the female sex, yet Rebecca was eight years his senior. At the moment he did not try to analyze his reason for addressing her with the term.
"We still were discussing Squire Toada," he said somewhat brusquely. "What happened when Sir Godfrey arrived?" He waited patiently for her answer, silently cursing himself for having not ridden into Galway to cool the heat of his blood, knowing he could use brute strength and force Rebecca into his bed, but knowing with equal certainty he would personally damn his own soul to the blackest pits of hell before he'd so much as touch her hand without her consent. He was still awaiting her reply when she stood erect, shook out the folds of her robe and gathered it tightly about her, then settled more comfortably on the bed. It was at that moment that the unmistakable perfume of her arousal touched his nostrils. For one fleeting point in time he feared he might grab and rape her.
"When Godfrey arrived," she said, repeating his question. "He came in within an hour after you left for the stables and it was-terrifying. The three of us, Squire Toada, Mary and I, were seated in the main room trying to make conversation when suddenly Godfrey was standing in the doorway. On seeing Squire Toada all color very slowly drained from his face, leaving it an ugly, dirty white, like old dough, and he whispered in the voice of one speaking from the tomb.
"'Toada' he said. 'Like the kiss of death. I knew someday you'd find me. What will be your price?'
"Then the two of them went into Godfrey's study and talked till after dark. When Godfrey came out he looked ill unto death and told me Squire Toada would be living with us from now on."
"He's still here?" Rory jerked up on one elbow.
"Aye, Rory Gaelean," Rebecca replied, tears edging her voice again. "In the main guest room he is, him and his big sea chest filled with strange herbs and powders and evil smelling things from some place called China. I peeked into the chest while he and Godfrey were in the study." Again her hands went to her face and again she leaned forward as before, but this time, due to her new position, when she did so it brought her over Rory's broad young chest. Automatically, without a second thought, his arms went about her shoulders and he drew her close.
In all the years they had shared the same roof it was their closest physical contact.
Rebecca did not cry, as Rory expected, nor did she remove herself, as he feared she might, but slowly loosed the tension from her body and relaxed, resting against him. Minutes passed. Neither moved. But nature must be served.
And in the nature of things the ugly aspects of Squire Toada's abruptly thrusting his evil self into their lives was now even more abruptly thrust far back into the remotest recesses of their minds. In fact, at least for the time, they forgot his existence-totally.
Rebecca Daugherty, for the latter had been her late husband's name, lay with lips parted, listening to the hammering heart of the lusty young lion she rested on, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Despite her relaxed position certain organs and nerves and glands of her body were in a state of excruciating tautness; a condition engendered by two years of abstention from all sexual contact. The two years had not been easy, but long and ghastly and many the night she had found escape through sleep only after her pillow was wet with tears of wanting.
There had been opportunities. Aye, dozens of them, for the philandering swains of the district thought nothing more desirable than a lovely young widow, all hot and juicy with need. But she had refused them all without knowing why, unless it was either her strict religious upbringings, or some unrecognizable but rather morbid sense of loyalty to her departed mate. But whatever the reasons, all of them, had gradually began a slow but steady deterioration since that day she had chanced into Rory's room while he stood naked in the bath tub.
That night had been one long horrible nightmare filled with vicarious sensations of his lips burning against hers, his strong arms holding her tight, his hands searching out the hidden mysteries of her body, his loins pounding hers as his enormous thing rampaged amongst her secret places.
And yet, even now, that slow but steady deteriorating process had not completed its course. Even now, as he lay naked beneath the sheet and her on the bed with him in the privacy of his bed chambers, a small, nagging part of her conscience was pulling her back.
Would she, if he demanded? She honestly did not know. If, by some mental fluke, she became frightened of going all the way, there must be something they could do to....
She glanced down to where his great male member protruded from under the sheet, making a small tent.
"Rory?" To her own ears her voice sounded strange.
"Aye lass?"
She exhaled a deep breath. "Nothing, Rory."
"Say it, lass. 'Tis no crime to speak one's mind." His voice was a full octave deeper than she had ever heard it before. It rumbled like young thunder gathering in the distance.
"Have you known many girls, Rory?"
"Some."
"In Galway? On these nights you ride out and return in the wee hours?"
"A man must have relief, lass. 'Tis the manner in which nature formed him."
"Are they-pretty, Rory? These girls you-take liberties with? As pretty as I?"
"Nay, lass. Few women alive could equal the beauty of Rebecca Daugherty. There is no comparison."
She moved then, shifted her position to lay parallel beside him on the bed, pressing close, her lips an inch from his.
"I am more beautiful, you say, but never have you taken liberties with me, Rory. Not one."
"Nay. Never. Such as you, Rebecca, cannot be purchased. You are above price."
"Rory?"
"Yes?"
It was the faintest of whispers. "Will you kiss me, Rory?"
His heart leaped joyously at these words. How long had he waited for them or their equivalent to destroy in his mind the barrier which prevented his making an overt gesture toward Rebecca Daugherty? These words were the essential gesture and she had made it. Now there would be no stopping. Whatever devious route the qualms and fears which had so long restrained her might force them to take, the outcome would be the same. The end would find him pistoning his prick between her legs.
Her lips were sweet fire mingled with wild honey and rare spices, her gossamer tongue, timid at first, was soon a darting flame of consuming hunger. The kiss held until he began fumbling with the buttons of her robe. Then she looked a him long, hard, still trying to decide, not yet deaf to that nagging part of her mind pulling her back. She made no move to either help or hinder his efforts at the buttons as the question trembled from her lips.
"Sean, are you sure?"
"'Tis sure I am that you're a woman; that I'm a man, and that we want each other." He sensed the hesitancy in her and, because he feared it might later blossom into honest remorse, continued: "But we'll only play until you, Rebecca, are yourself sure. 'Twas true about the gibbet and the song. I would'na harm a hair of your head. Can you believe me in that?"
"I can believe you in that, Rory."
"Then remove your garments and come under the sheet with me."
She hesitated but seconds before she rolled away from him, off the bed, unfastened the buttons he had failed to, threw the robe over a chair and stood there in a brief pause, eyes on him, then drew the voluminous nightgown off over her head and tossed it after the robe and stood there in all her naked glory.
Something lurched greasily in Rory Gaelean's bowels. Something roared in his ears. Something told him that, at least for one time in his life-and it happens so few in any man's, largely to none-he was being witness to one of those priceless exhibits of loveliness which had all the exquisite charms of taunting female sensuality, plus the epitome of raw, unbridled sexual hunger. It beggared the imagination. His eyes stung. His throat was suddenly parched.
Skin behind his ears tightened and his jaw worked, but no sound came.
Holy Sweet Mother of Jesus-God!
"Am I pleasing to the eyes, Rory Gaelean?" she asked.
He could only nod as he sat up in bed and pointed toward that spot on the floor where the moonlight, streaming through the window, formed a silvery pool on the floor. When Rebecca entered the pool to stand looking at him, her eyes aglow with a wondrous light of their own, be traveled his gaze an inch at a time from the plump, pouting breasts, ripe and inviting, down over the narrowing rib cage to the tiny waist that flared gently at the hips. Then on down to the twin columns of tapered splendor that were her thighs. His eyes returned to rest at their apex, rest on that thick, curly thatch which spread upward in a broad sweep on either side of her lower abdomen, then peaked sharply to thin and disappear three inches below her navel.
She lifted her arms above her head, raised to her toes and, with head thrown back, revolved slowly in the silvery pool, splashes of brilliance dashing off the firm mounds of her buttocks, lighting for a fraction their darker cleavage as she turned. Her thigh muscles flexed and furrowed with maddening excitement and when again she face Rory his intensified imagination showed him vapors of lust wafting upward from the juncture of her thighs, like steam from a boiling kettle.
"Come," he managed, the word a dry, raspy sound. She drifted toward him, arms lowered now but still on her toes, swaying with a sensuous, voluptuous grace that threatened his sanity. Once more she joined him on the bed, asking again:
"Am I pleasing to the eyes, Rory Gaelean?"
"'Tis hard indeed to believe a woman can be so beautiful, Rebecca." He was barely conscious of speaking at all.
Instead of pulling the sheet up over her, he gave a quick flick of his wrist that sent it to the foot of the bed. They lay there naked, both of them, side by side.
"If you touch me I'll explode," she breathed against his mouth.
"'Tis been a long time then." It was a statement, not a question, and her reply brought to mind the remarkable parallel between her life and that of Etha, at the Wild Boar, with whom he had spent most of the night the previous week.
"There's been only one other-my husband."
"'Twas only a bit of teasing, lass. Lie flat on your back."
"Rory! You said 'tis only play we'll be doing till I was free in my mind."
"Aye," he chuckled; a deep, happy sound. "And I'm good as my word. Now, turn to your back."
She did. And her desperate sob filled the room when his head dipped, when he seized with his lips the nipple of a pouting breast. Her back arched as she shoved toward him, repeating the desperate sobs, which gradually grew weaker and farther apart the more she became accustomed to his sweet torture. Instinctively, unconsciously, her hand stole down in search of his great weapon, found it, squeezed it, pulled at it as he continued to nurse her breast. She trembled violently at the touch of his hand on her abdomen, more violently as his fingers drifted south to the dark triangle joining her thighs.
He moved his fingers slowly, wanting to hasten matters but knowing he must not, knowing he must stoke the fires inside her to the point of no return before, as she put it, she was free in her mind. He continued to tug and suck on her breast while his fingers toyed with her pubic hair, gradually going lower until he felt the top of her cleft through the softly bristling shield. He felt, also, her thighs move slightly but spastically apart as he traced his fingers outside the dividing fold of her labia.
The heady evidence of her arousal was strong in his nostrils. Her hand gripped his weapon just back of the glans, moving it this way and that into odd angles. He was about to send his exploring finger further into the tender delights of her fiery secret when she managed to speak.
"Rory, for the love of God! Now, Rory! Now!"
"You're sure, lass?" His calmness dismayed him-until he became aware of an unconscious decision which had been laying in the back of his mind since she had come naked to his bed. This night was Rebecca's. Despite his near-insane hungers, her needs were even greater than his, so he came second. And this decision dismayed him even more than his calmness.
"I'm sure. Oh, I'm sure." Her voice was feverish with anxiety. Her breathing came in heavy gasps. "Oh, my darling Rory," she breathed as he moved his weight above her in the moonlight. Her eyes sparkled with a fierce joy and she became breath-gone still when his hand went down between them to do necessary things.
Gently, expertly, his fingers separated the pubic shield of her straddle, then divided the folds of the valley beyond. She was smoldering hot and immensely wet from lymphatic secretions nature provided for lubrication. Next he planted the great bald knob of his cock within the steamy moistness of her vaginal lips, stationed it precisely at the panting portal of her inflamed flesh. Rebecca emitted a thin wail of impending ecstasy at the burning kiss of his rod, and trembled like a leaf in the wind as she raised her knees to receive.
Then Rory settled his stance on knees and elbows, lowered his weight till it pressed her lightly, and brought their mouths together. With consummate care, working his hips delicately while each drank the goodness from the other's lips and their tongues fenced, he began applying gentle force, maneuvering his big prick through the torturing heat of her famished cunt and up into the inner regions of her belly.
Rebecca, quivering with eagerness, was hardly half impaled, when Rory sensed the warning feelers of her approaching orgasm. Knowing her tremendous need and suspecting what her reaction might well be, he thrust his penis deep into her body, so deep a hot circle of her throbbing flesh gripped the very base of it, and held it there. She grunted explosively in approving acceptance, and a second later neglected nature, held in abeyance for two miserable, torturous years and seeking revenge, without warning sledge-hammered her savagely low in the belly with a massive, merciless orgasm. The blow knocked from her throat an unearthly wail that filled the room. Then all hell broke loose.
Rebecca Daugherty reverted to a screeching, clawing, primitive female as searing waves of unbridled rapture rolled over her. The sound of her clicking teeth as she snapped at his shoulder and chest resembled uninterrupted explosions. A full-throated mixture of animal noises snarled from her bared lips and she raked welts on his back, bucking and lunging under him, driving her cunt repeatedly, brutally against the rigid meat buried in her belly while her shapely legs beat the air in wild abandonment, without plan or pattern. At one point Rory was positive she would throw them both from the bed to the floor, but then the sweet agony seized him and, with a harsh, coughing grunt, he forgot all else.
Oddly, when Rebecca felt the scalding gushes of man-seed erupting inside her she calmed at once, folded her legs about his hips, clasped his head in her palms and commenced murmuring endearments, squirming her passage around his shaft just enough to intensify and prolong his rapture. She held him thus, her body at times still jerking and starting in her spasm, until both their orgasms slowly passed, and a trembling sigh escaped her.
"'Twas quick," she whispered.
"Aye. The first is often so. But the next will be slower, longer, and the one after that even more so. By time the sun lights the east it should take half an hour or more."
She pressed her head into the pillow the better to see his face and looked at him in pretended amazement. " 'Twould seem you plan to screw me all night, Rory Gaelean," she smiled, a glad light coming into her eyes.
"Aye, lass," he chuckled softly. "There's a lot of lost time to catch up on. I hope you've no objections."
"How can you speak so?" She hugged him closer with arms and legs and squirmed her cunt around his sunken prick. "Just screw." A tremor coursed through her. "Screw me till I won't be able to walk straight in the morning."
CHAPTER THREE
Rory sat staring out his bedroom window to the dry, crusty fields stretching into the distance toward Galway. His thoughts were bitter. Each time he recalled the slow, mysterious death of Sir Godfrey Flemming his big knuckled hands clinched as though throttling an enemy. None of the physicians attending Sir Godfrey had been able to determine the nature of his affliction or diagnose the cause of his death.
"But I know," Rory muttered to himself. "At least enough to satisfy me. That damned Squire Toada poisoned him with some of those herbs he brought from the Orient. Sir Godfrey began to fail shortly after Toada showed up."
Nor could any amount of logic shake his conviction that Toada had somehow managed to feed Sir Godfrey a slow acting poison-just as he believed the repulsive little man was now giving both Rebecca and Mary a narcotic of some sort. He had no proof to substantiate these two convictions, but for Rory Sir Godfrey's gradual, agonizing decline was proof enough for the first. For the second there was the unnatural way Rebecca and Mary acted on occasion-long periods of dull-eyed, morose silence alternating with spells of inane, rapid-fire chatter accompanied by seizures of flighty giggling. Delightful as their company was, at times their presence put a cold touch of horror in his bones. Of course there were times when the girls seemed normal enough, yet he felt the matter still needed looking into.
One day not long after Sir Godfrey's funeral little Mary, during one her giddy-headed moods, had insisted he make love to her immediately, which he would have been glad to do had he not been overcome by surprise, for she made her demand in the presence of Rebecca, who merely smiled benignly at her young sister. Then there was the time Rebecca, face flushed, a feverish gleam in her eyes, had rushed to the barn where he was giving orders to the stable boy regarding the care of his horse, hoisted her skirts in full view of the lad and pleaded to be screwed. If-
"I made us a pot of tea," Mary's soft voice interrupted his train of thought and he glanced over his shoulder to see her enter the room with a small tray, which she sat on a table near the window.
Rory felt his need stir sluggishly in his loins from watching her deft movements as she poured two cups. She seemed to be in one of her more normal moods, for the moment at least. Otherwise it would never have occurred to her to bring him tea, though she had done so often enough before Sir Godfrey's death.
Should have thrown the meat to her that day she asked me to, he thought wrly. She ever gives me another chance at that pussy of hers I'll do it, I don't give a damn who's present.
"I thought you might be wanting some," she said, handing him a cup, then leaning her buttocks against the table to drink hers.
"Gad!" He lowered his cup. "What kind of tea is this?" It had a peculiar, musty taste.
"Just tea. Same as always." Then she added a bit too quickly: "It could be a little stale. It's been on the shelf a good while."
Rory waited for her to continue. Usually when she brought tea to his room they sat and talked, sometimes for hours, but they finished their tea in silence this time and Mary, still without speaking, carried the tray from the room. Odd, he thought as he watched her go. Not a word for ten minutes. Could it be she was going into another of her dark, silent spells? Also, to his knowledge, it was the first stale tea ever served in the Flemming home.
Moments later a warm, delicious glow blossomed in Rory's stomach and mushroomed throughout his lanky frame, bringing with it a slight fuzzing of his senses which rapidly receded before a feeling of joyous exhilaration. Tension left him, flowed from his body, and wthout his realizing it, his thoughts on certain matters became quite the reverse of what they had been. He relaxed in his chair, his sudden happy laughter filling the room.
Hell! Squire Toada wasn't really a bad sort after all and as for him having poisoned Sir Godfrey, well-people died every day, didn't they. And some more mysteriously than others. And naturally it was his own prejudiced imagination which caused him to think Rebecca and Mary acted oddly at times.
That Mary now. Rory ran his tongue over his lips, thinking of the delights her fresh, tender body offered. Their plans to marry shortly after his graduation last month had been upset by her brother's illness, and because of Godfrey's death they'd now have to wait a respectable several months, though Mary agreed that a wedding ceremony was little more than a public announcement they intended sleeping together, had even surprised him recently with the casual observation that a marriage certificate was nothing more than a license to diddle.
Rory's feeling of exhilaration suddenly dissolved into one of profound peace and contentment that seeped through him like water through a sponge. How good it was just to be young and full of piss and vinegar! Tears came into his eyes over a supreme gladness at being alive in this best of all possible rose tinted worlds. He wished he had another cup of that stale tea Mary had brewed.
As if his thoughts caused her to materialize, Mary walked through the door, closed it behind her and moved toward his bed, her face aglow with a secret smile. Nor did Rory think anything amiss when she began removing her garments. This, he told himself, his heart action increasing, was exactly the way it should be. It was all quite normal-even the rich, loin tingling perfume of female sexually aroused.
The incredibly lovely sight of Mary's body being further revealed to his gaze with the discarding of each additional garment thickened the saliva in his mouth and caused the nostrils of his hawk-like nose, filled now with scent of her desire, to flange repeatedly. White knuckles showed where his hands gripped the chair arms. Never before had he seen Mary naked and his eyes were locked on her, his breathing heavy at sight of the flawless expanse of creamy flesh when she flung her bodice free, the upper portion of her body then concealed behind the twin mounds of her brassiere. Then this, too, was gone, and his eyes drank the sight of the pert little breasts; pink-tipped and saucy and of the size to cup perfectly in a man's hand. He lowered his gaze, saw the sudden appearance of her cute navel as she unbuttoned her skirt at the hip and let it fall to a puddle of fabric at her feet, her finpers already busy with the drawstring of her pantaloons. Her movements were slow, sure, and each second or so, lips still bowed in a secret smile, she glanced sideways in his direction.
She turned her back on freeing the knot of her pantaloons, lifted her arms above her head to stretch lazily, then, with agonizing slowness, lowered them to slip her fingers under the band of the garment and begin sliding it down over her buttocks. Each fraction of its descent exposed to his gaze an additional measure of satiny flesh until the twin globes were in view and the pantaloons continued their downward journey. He saw through the open space at the apex of her thighs but gave this little notice. His eyes were too firmly affixed on that shadowed area at the bottom of her cleavage where her pubic growth began. His tongue felt like a lead weight in his mouth when she spun to face him in all her naked glory, the secret smile now one of wanton lust. She stood there a moment, hands on hips, feet spread, thighs apart, lustfully looking at the big bulge of his hard on while he stared at her pussy, so thinly veiled with curly fleece he could see the top of her cleft peeking through it. He gulped noisily.
"Come on, Rory," she murmured. "Get your clothes off." With this she crawled onto the bed and stretched out on her back, legs thrown wide and watching him as a hungry snake will a bird, waiting.
Her words acted like a pistol shot on Rory. Heart hammering with dull thuds in his ears, breath raspy, he bounced to his feet and began jerking off his clothes. Seconds later he was naked as she and on the bed beside her, his flesh burning with all the fires of hell at each point where it contacted hers. For a moment their eyes held, then he lowered his head, bringing their lips together in a kiss that sent tiny spits of flame dancing over his body. Her lips were hot and soft and sweet and when she slid the gossamer smoothness of her pink little tongue into his mouth he thought he would strangle for air.
"Kiss me again," she whispered when their lips parted, taking his face in her palms and pushing him gently away. "Only kiss me down there this time."
Later Rory was to puzzle as to why he was neither surprised nor shocked by this strange request from supposedly innocent, virgin Mary Flemming, but at the moment, even had he thought the request more fitting for one of greater experience in bedroom acrobatics, he would have ignored the thought. He was too nearly overcome with sexual excitement. Instead, he slithered around on the bed until his face was directly above her crotch, incense of her sweltering cunt wafting upward to his nose in waves. The deep-throated growl of a rutting lion rumbled in his throat.
He dipped his head, too overwrought for preliminary niceties, nuzzling roughly into her hot flesh as she drew her thighs farther apart, and Mary's ragged, desperate sob was followed immediately by a low, whistling scream as his mouth pressed firmly against her vagina. Rory moved his head from side to side, forcing his tongue through the soft brush and into saline moistness of her labia, and her whistling scream was repeated when he captured the slippery little nub of her clitoris and commenced to suck aggressively.
"No!," she cried suddenly, sharply, the word followed by a stream of whispered obscenities. "Up here! Come up here and put it in!"
As before, without thinking, completely submerged in a world of lustful abandonment, Rory squirmed up onto her, her soft body making a warm cushion under him. Her thighs swung wider still as she felt the knob of his prick searching against her twat. She grabbed his upper arms with hands that trembled with passion.
Rory wriggled on her, preparing to plunge his sex-spear home, enjoying the sight and sound of her passion and desire. He felt her release his arms and then one of her hands went down between them and located his flint-hard cudgel. She held it gently, seeming to glory in the sensations of her fingers curled around it, then she guided it toward her panting cunt.
Now, finally, at last, Rory thought in sudden fierce joy. At last he was about to get her cherry, about to pop the maidenhead he'd so long dreamed of popping, and he pushed forward in one long, steady thrust, all the way in with one long, sweet flow of motion, and the scalding flesh of her cunt swallowed his hot, rigid meat to the hilt, her only vocal response a small grunt of welcome.
Then both released gusty, ecstatic sighs at the same time, with Mary continuing hers, converting it to a continuous, lost moaning sound. Then Rory joined her with grunting pants as he wiggled his ass from side to side, stirring his big prick amongst her vital organs.
Her thighs, held wide to give him unhindered access, and held angled toward her shoulders to give him depth, came down to clasp his waist, moving against his sides as he pistoned in and out with his big cunt wrench. Her small, firm breasts flattened and recovered under the varying pressures of his action and her eyes opened to stare at him in vacant abandonment, as her moaning lips rubbed over his neck, his chin, his mouth-over any part of him she was able to reach.
Rory's body, especially his loins, were aflame and he felt the consuming pressure building in his pulsating, plundering prick. Though he had been screwing Rebecca regularly for months now, his hunger for Mary was enormous and he knew, dimly, that he'd soon be coming into her.
Mary squirmed and mouthed passionate, lustful sounds under him, for she too was building rapidly toward that final pressure. Her arms moved around and about his head, her fingers flitted over his naked flesh like the feet of dancing birds, touching his shoulders, his back, his buttocks. She grabbed the cheeks of his ass in both hands, pulling at him in silent exhortation to get deeper into her and at a more rapid pace, her thighs clasping and unclasping his waist.
Rory slid his hands down between her and the bed and cupped her taut young buttocks in his palms, hefting them, squeezing them, then worked his hands around her thighs and she moaned as his fingers entered beside the tube of his hard meat.
Her head began to move from side to side on the pillow. Her legs squeezed him tightly, then swung away, flopping down to the bed almost at right angles to her body. Her crotch was hot and wet and she felt exposed. Rory's fingers slipped from it and traced up the valley of her buttocks. He drew the globes apart and her hips jerked with passion from the stroking of his fingers on her puckered brown ring.
"God!" she sobbed. "God, oh God!"
She began to writhe in a paroxysm of raw lust, the not unpleasant odor of hot, fresh young cunt strong about them.
I'm about to blow my wad, Rory managed to think as he power-housed his big prick up into her belly, slamming it home each thrust with such force their loins made a softly smacking sound, each sound followed by a tiny grunt from Mary.
She quit tossing her head and her pink tongue darted around her parted lips as she looked at him, her eyes wild and desperate yet at the same time speaking to him, it seemed, loving him, begging him to drive his huge stake harder and faster into her body, shove it right up through her flesh so far it came out her mouth. Rory lowered his head, caught her tongue between his lips and teeth, pulled on it for a better hold, and sucked avidly. He pumped into her with steady, pounding drives, his hands drawing her buttocks off the bed, hugging her tighter against his loins.
She squirmed furiously, whimpering now, and whining, about to come, about to release her juices in a hot flood of maiden passion. Her mouth worked, formed odd shapes. Then her noises switched to a torrid hiss, like the sound of a cracked steam pipe, and she commenced to buck and lunge on his prick like a speared animal.
"I'm coming!" she wailed in a torment of exploding lust, and a pinpoint of time before the sweet rapture engulfed her. Then it was too late for words. Too late for anything but to pitch and heave, arms and legs lashing at the air from the avalanche of thundering bliss descending upon her.
Still holding her buttocks, and further inflamed by evidence of her orgasm, Rory quivered on the brink of release. He looked down and saw her contorting body, saw his prick pumping in sweet rhythm in and out of her young cunt, felt her spasming cunt muscles chewing in delicious hunger on his penis, and rammed savagely into her, the head of his prick seeming to swell ten times its normal size and about to shatter into a million tiny sparks of ecstasy. Harsh breath rasped in his throat. He felt the quick surge of flame along his sex-staff and his balls throbbed with an aching fullness as the fire flashed all through his rigid meat. He plunged up into her as rampaging lust knocked an agonized sob from his chest and then he was gushing forth, drenching her inner-belly with liquid heat that brought a screech of rapture from her lips as she clawed his back.
For several seconds he continued to hammer into her, then gradually slowed, sighing heavily and relaxing down against her warm convulsing flesh and felt her arms encircle him gently and her lips, light and tender, on his cheek until her spasmings ceased.
"Ayieeee!" she gasped finally, as he gathered his muscles and eased backward, snaking his big cock out of her belly. "Taking it out makes me feel hollow as a gourd."
A couple of minutes later Rory grinned, tweaking a tuft of hair on her pussy. "Up with you, lass. Go practice the black arts that'll keep a small Gaelean from seeing the light of day before our marriage banns are published."
"Why do you call it black art?" She looked at him wonderingly.
He shrugged. "To me it is. 'Tis a mystery I know nothing of."
"Come." She rolled from the bed and extended her hand. "Come watch what I do and it'll be a mystery no longer."
He followed her from the room, twin rivulets of pearl gray goo coursing down between her thighs, his prick bobbing before him like a divining rod.
Some minutes later they returned to the bed and fell across it and Mary crawled into his arms, pressing her warm flesh against his, grinding her hips against his still hard cock as they whispered and sighed in their tender after-kissing.
Only for one fleeting splinter of time did it come to Rory there was something grossly amiss with the whole situation, that the naked Mary beside him was not the Mary he had known and, for a fifteen year old virgin of small build he had got his hefty cock into her with surprising ease. Then the moment passed and he turned to his back to lay looking at the ceiling while Mary snuggled even closer, fingers of one hand stroking his cock. They were in this position when they heard a small sound and Rory glanced toward the doorway. Rebecca stood there, luscious looking as a hungry hard on's dream of a feast, a gladsome smile on her face.
"Well now," she laughed softly, approaching the bed. " 'Twould seem there is mischief astir."
"'Tis no mischief, this." Mary wagged Rory's prick at her like a war club. " 'Tis naught but heaven itself."
"I know," Rebecca blurted swiftly, feverishly, jerking off her clothes. "And a bit of heaven between my legs right now is what I need." Then, when her last garment had been flung aside: "Scoot back and give me room," she said to her sister. "This time I do the mounting."
And she did, much to Mary's squealing delight. Rebecca stepped up on the bed astride Rory, dropped to her knees and levered his cock upright. With the fingers of one hand she spread her cleft, then eased lower, until his glans was within her labia. Rory jerked from the kiss of her inflamed cunt-flesh on the head of his prick, but said nothing. He was unable to, so enthralled was he by the sight of his penis being devoured up into Rebecca's belly as she lowered herself, working her hips in small, steady gyrations.
Mary watched wide-eyed, mouth agape, and Rory felt the fierce heat of Rebecca's passage creep down his shaft as she descended.
"Mercy!" Mary gasped in surprise. She had scrambled around on the bed so that her face was within inches of the point of coupling. "So that's what it looks like."
"Ahhhhh!" Rebecca breathed, relaxing and sinking upon the impaling stake that final inch. "How good it feels." Then to her sister but looking at Rory with a teasing smile on her lips: "Why don't you straddle his face, Mary, and see if the University educated his tongue?"
CHAPTER FOUR
The long shadows of evening were creeping over the countryside when Rory awakened from his sleep of utter exhaustion. The orgy he and the two sisters had indulged in had left him all but without strength to move and he'd been half asleep by the time they'd gone, giggling and frolicksome as ever, to their rooms without even bothering to dress. Nor had he dressed, of course, but lay there on the bed naked, staring around the room as memory returned.
His tongue was dry and thick. His eyes were sandy. The persistent throb of a dull pain beat in the center of his forehead. He worked his mouth to produce saliva and when it came there was also the musty taste of the tea Mary had served him shortly before the sex party began. Then memories crowded his mind in a flood and he sat upright in bed, reaching for his clothes, cursing to the empty room, knowing some sort of drug had been in the tea.
Dear sweet smile of Jesus-God! He'd been doped. And by Mary! Of this he was positive, and just as positive he'd soon solve the mysteries with the arrival of Squire Toada.
Since the froggy sonofabitch rarely left them except at mealtime, Toada was probably in his rooms, and when Rory finished dressing he swept his dagger off the bedside table and headed down the hall. But Toada was not in his rooms. Rory checked them all, was returning to his own when from downstairs he heard the clink of silverware and realized the evening meal was in progress. Toada would be at the table-at the head of the table in Sir Godfrey's chair, smacking his lips as he stuffed his great paunch. Jaw clinched in determination, his face flushed with anger, Rory headed for the stairs.
Neither Rebecca nor Mary so much as glanced in his direction when he stalked into the room. Their vague eyes were on Squire Toada, resplendent at the head of the table in his new wig, purple waistcoat and Brokeshire lace.
"Mary!" Rory snapped. "When did Squire Toada give you that tea and tell you to make me a cup?"
Mary answered the loaded question laboriously, with obvious effort, her mind seemingly befogged. "Just before I made it," she said in a wooden monotone. From across the table Rory could see the unnatural sparkle of her eyes in the candle light. The pupils were dilated enormously. So were Rebecca's. The expression of both were cast in a death-like mask. Chill prickles of an unknown fear raced up Rory's spine.
"What was in the tea, Toada?" Rory asked quietly, standing close to the man's chair and looking down at him. "It was some kind of narcotic."
Toada swung his gaze up and around, his eyes reminding Rory of two half rotten snails on dirty table linen. Their eyes locked and held and for a moment Rory seemed to be looking into twin pits of hell itself.
"Nobody questions me in this house," Toada said in a mucky gurgle that failed to conceal the hate in the words. "And you, my fine fledgling, will be looking for another family to give you free bed and board soon as Rebecca and I are wed."
"WHAT?" Rory looked at Rebecca, playing at eating her supper, as was Mary, both apparently unaware of what was taking place. Rory's head spun suddenly. His senses reeled. He struggled for words and when they failed him he resorted to that measure which was to become characteristic of him all during his life. That measure was action. He slashed Squire Toada across the face, the quick, brutal blow making a meaty sound. Toada's head snapped to the side and Rory was swinging again, but the tiny pistol which appeared in Toada's hand froze him.
"The girls," the squat man ground out, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, "will swear I killed you in self defense." His eyes were pinpoints of evil. "You've no more sense than simpleton Godfrey had at your age. He always acted first and repented later, and thereby went to his grave thinking he murdered an official of the Far East Tea Company in the Spice Islands, where we met years ago."
"And that's the hold you had over Sir Godfrey," Rory said flatly. " 'Twas probably you who did the murdering."
Toada nodded judiciously and gouged in the back of his mouth to unlodge a shred of meat. "And robbed the corpse," he said. "I needed the money. But you'll never be likely to tell it. Striking Hasslip Toada is the last thing you'll ever do-except fall when I pull this trigger."
Rory stood within easy reach of the man, taut as a bow string, knowing Toada meant to kill him. He glanced toward Rebecca and Mary. They stared back, stone faced and motionless. Goddam it to hell, he didn't understand it!
"And I suppose you poisoned Sir Godfrey?" Rory heard himself asking, imperceptibly shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.
"There's no danger in you knowing, since you won't be able to tell," the Squire said placidly, confidently.
"And them?" Rory. indicated Rebecca and Mary with a nod of his head, sensing Toada was about ready to pull the trigger.
"A little opium, a little hemp, a little ground Dock root," the other grinned evilly. "Quite a mixture. Makes a person a willing slave, though they rarely remember much. Rots the brain in a few months-but then you'll be gone and by then I'll be wed to Rebecca, so when her and Mary die screaming maniacs there'll be none but me left to sorrow for them here on this vast estate."
"You filthy, slimy slug," Rory growled. "You'd kill their brother, destroy their minds and then marry Rebecca just to gain title of Sir Godfrey's holdings?"
"For what other reason would I marry her?" Toada chuckled oilily. "Not to bed her. That's not necessary. Or Mary either, for that matter."
"You've been with Mary?"
Had Squire Toada been more alert, or less confident, or had he been better acquainted with Rory Gaelean, he might have taken warning from the timbre of Rory's voice.
"Aye," the man said. "And before you.'" He erupted with a greasy belch-his last.
The pistol flew like a bird from his hand when Rory lashed out with the speed of light, murderous rage boiling in his young heart and the red haze of blood lust clouding his vision. The Squire was on his feet immediately, clawing at another pistol under his coat, a hint of fear in his eyes. He never made it with the second gun.
Rory was at him like a hungry tiger, candle light gleaming dully off the dagger in his hand. Then Squire Toada had reason to show fear, for Henri Gas-pard, the French fencing master who had tutored Rory in the use of the sword, had also taught him snickersnee, that deadly art of knife fighting for which history gives the French credit, but which was first brought to recognition by Irish gypsies.
Holding the butt of the hilt tightly, Rory chopped with the dagger as one would a hatchet, and Squire Toada's hand remained under his coat, fingers curled about the handle of the pistol, but his arm came away, severed at the wrist, and he stared in wondering disbelief and growing horror at the blood-gushing stub of his arm. He blubbered for mercy, but the killer rage had been loosed inside Rory and he had no mercy. A guttural scream ripped from Toada's cavernous mouth when his ear bounced from his head. His next scream jerked short in the middle, a long gaseous sigh escaped him and he wilted, the blade of the dagger through his guts, up through his diaphragm and into his heart.
Rory stared at the bloody mess at his feet. There was no joy in what he had done, nor any fear; only the certain knowledge his life had changed drastically in the twinkling of an eye and that he must flee at once or face the hangman's gallows. He looked across to Rebecca and Mary, bitter remorse strong under his tongue that he must leave them, probably never to see either again. They looked back at him, blank faced, vacant eyed. His killing Toada had effected them not one wit.
He swore savagely, helplessly, and dashed up the stairs to his rooms.
When he descended fifteen minutes later he had changed from his blood stained garments, carried a small wallet of clean clothes in his hand, and tucked snugly under his belt was the leather purse filled with gold guineas Sir Godfrey had given him before that good man's death. Rory paused briefly to look once more at the two sisters he had come to know so well. They were seated at the table as before. He desperately wanted to say something, but could find no appropriate words. What could a man say to the living dead? Again he cursed harshly, tears blinding his eyes as he left the house by the rear exit, headed for the stables and his horse.
CHAPTER FIVE
Some three hundred miles and six days later, two hours outside Dublin, Rory stopped glancing back over his shoulders in search of pursuers. Saddle sore, bore weary, his plans were made. He'd be safe in Dublin for a time, but only in the New World could he hope to evade completely any punishment for the killing of Squire Toada. He intended to book passage on the first packet leaving for the colonies.
During the grueling hours he'd spent in the saddle he had refused to permit himself to think of Rebecca and Mary, of what their eventual fate might be, of what his life with them could have been. He was determined to forget them altogether, and with the facility of youth he was succeeding by concentrating on the immediate present, on survival. That was the most important thing at the moment-which was one of the reasons he had fallen in behind the coach bound for Dublin. Highway travel at best was a risky business and the coach, with its guard, offered a measure of protection from highwaymen who infested the main roads.
He nudged his tired mount closer when they entered the gritlands; moors, heather, wooded valleys and limestones, an hour from the city, thinking this would be an ideal location for a robbery.
He was a hundred paces behind the coach when it passed from sight around a sharp turn in the muddy, rutted road just inside the edge of a dark forest. As his horse plodded wearily toward the turn Rory heard frightened female voices mixed with masculine oaths and realized the sounds of the moving coach had stopped. He stopped also, and dismounted, then moved forward on foot through the underbrush bordering the road, his curiosity growing.
The highwayman, in three-cornered hat, great cloak, black mask covering his face, and a pistol in each hand, sat astride a giant black gelding. Rory Gaelean stood there, unarmed save for his dagger, and watched the passengers fearfully dismount at the bandit's stern command, wondering what he could do and thinking there was nothing-until he glanced down and saw the stone at his feet. Stooping slowly so as not to betray his presence by quick movements, he picked it up and hefted it in his hand. It was almost round, and smooth and very nearly the size of the oaken sphere he'd won so many wagers with back home on the greensward playing hoop and ball. Carefully he gauged the distance. It was just about right. He might have a chance.
Suiting thoughts to actions Rory stepped from the undergrowth and whipped his arm forward in a powerful throw. His abrupt action caught the bandit's eye and smoke blossomed from one of the pistols. A fraction later Rory heard the eggshell-crunch of the highwayman's splintering skull from the stone smashing into his temple.
Then the sky fell on Rory Gaelean and he pitched to the mud of the road as one lifeless.
Consciousness returned to him slowly. With it came sounds of quiet movement, the hushed whispers of feminine voices and the gradually growing realization he was naked in a strange bed, a sheet pulled up to his chin. Instinctively he remained motionless, listening.
"... so big and strong," one feminine voice was saying. "So young and handsome, and look at his face.
There's something about it that reminds me of a hunting falcon."
"That isn't where your main interest lies, Sarah Devin," the second feminine voice said, a hint of laughter in it. "Look down there at the way the sheet sticks up. It appears you've got him under a small tent." When the voice continued it held regret. "I wish I'd been on that coach and had him taken to my place-but I simply must go now. I'll see you later."
Rory groaned and stirred sluggishly when the sounds of a closing door and retreating footsteps died, pretending to be yet unconscious. A second time he heard the click of the door latch followed by fading footsteps and knew that wherever he was, for the moment he was alone in the room.
He opened his eyes to be smitten immediately by the expensive furnishings. Everything in the room bespoke a wealth which he heretofore had imagined but never seen. Even the coverlet on the bed was of the finest hand made lace and the sheets pure, peach tinted silk. Then it struck him the bedroom was that of a woman, a woman with exceptionally fastidious taste. But what was he doing in a woman's bedroom? And in her bed? For all that, how the hell'd he get here in the first place? The last thing he recalled was clouting that highwayman with a stone and-then he remembered.
He moved various parts of his body in effort to locate any wound the bandit's pistol ball had made. He found none; found nothing but a slightly sensitive lump half the size of an egg high up on the side of his head. Silently he thanked any guardian angel which might be protecting him, for apparently the ball had only grazed his scalp, and his thick thatch of hair had prevented it from even breaking the skin. A wry grin spread across his face as he looked down toward his crotch. He couldn't be bad hurt. Not with a hard on like that. Then he recalled the whispered mention of his being under a tent as he was regaining consciousness. By damn! So that's what the two women had been talking about.
He relaxed back against the pillow, luxuriating in the delicious comfort of the bed. After six days of practically living in the saddle, it was a little difficult to believe. He stretched slowly, recovered, yawned and promptly lapsed into unconsciousness again-but this time that of natural sleep.
He was awakened at dawn by two distinct and separate reasons, either of which would have been sufficient. He was hungry. During his flight he had seldom stopped for a meal, except a hurried bite at some inn when need for sleep had driven him from the saddle, and his stomach growled threateningly now for food. That was one cause of his awakening. The other was only possible because he had been so utterly exhausted from other unaccustomed hardships of his journey. He was being very thoroughly and delightfully screwed.
At first, as he surfaced slowly from the bottomless abyss of sound sleep, he got the impression he was in the process of having a wet-dream; since he felt the press of no body against his, but when he opened his eyes in the darkness of the bedroom and noticed the first gray fingers of dawn stealing through the window beside the bed, he realized it could not possibly be a dream. Not only did he become aware of a slight motion of the bed, but over and above this he felt the unmistakable sensations of a hot, juicy twat gliding rhythmically to and fro along his rigid meat. Then too, in the increasing light, he was able to make out the bulk of a naked female body above him.
He grinned to himself. Dear sweet smile of Jesus-God! What a shame a man couldn't be awakened like this each time he went to sleep. Then he realized why he did not feel the weight of the woman as she went about her cunt-work. The only place their bodies were in contact was where they joined sexually. Her legs made a broad, inverted V over his hips and her arms were straight, her hands beside his head and she rocked her body back and forth with slow, measured tempo. Because of this action, every once in a while the tip of a nipple hanging down from one of her heavy breasts grazed his chest. That was all, yet he was touched all over the upper part of him by her growing animal heat, which seemed suddenly to become an invisible flame. It was then Rory knew his gentle rapist was about to come. For that matter, so was he.
A deep quivering seized her and tiny, subdued whimpering noises came from her throat as she continued massaging his rod with the sweltering sheath of her pussy. Apparently she was attempting to restrain herself from evincing too much vocal evidence of her orgasm for fear of awakening him, for her quivering became more pronounced and she seemed to be attempting to quieten the sounds forcing their way past her lips. At this point Rory himself began withdrawing from reality before the seizure of his own climax. For the next several moments they were two sweaty, writhing animals caught in the throes of orgastic bliss as searing gushes of man-seed charged from his balls through his meat-tube to explode in silent rapture in the hidden places of her belly.
"You're awake," she whispered accusingly when it finally passed. She relaxed and snuggled close with a small laugh, pressing her large breasts against his chest.
"Aye," Rory said, laughing in return. "D'you think I'd be missing a treat like this?" He pulled his knees up, fitting his body more closely to hers, then continued. "If you'll be so kind, lass, pray tell where am I and how come me here? But first, who might you be?"
"I am widow Sarah Devin, you're in my home and you were brought here at my insistence by the coach you saved from being robbed by the bandit who bounced a pistol ball off your head. Does your head hurt?"
"Nay, 'tis an Irish head. More than a pistol ball is needed to dent it. And the bandit?"
"Dead. Your stone smashed his skull."
"And what brought this on?" Rory moved his hips to wiggle his dick inside her to indicate what he was asking.
"The temptation of seeing you lying here naked and in such prime form was too much," she replied honestly. And then ludicrously: "I hope you're not offended."
He laughed heartily. " Twould be a bit late for offense, would it not? And rather out of place, since I enjoyed it so much." He lowered his knees so she could roll to the side. "But it's a fair guess I've not the strength to go another round, Sarah Devin, hungry as I am."
"Do you have a name, young sir?" she asked teasingly. "In exchange for it I'll bring you a tray that's been waiting in the kitchen since I got in bed with you."
Outside, the dawn light was rapidly giving way to the new day, and after he gave her his name she crawled across him, for the first time giving him a good view of her face and figure.
Widow Sarah Devin was perhaps six or eight years older than he, and was too short and plump to have ever won first prize in a beauty contest, but all her feminine attributes were well proportioned and in the right places, from her huge breasts with their dark-brown crowns to her ample waist and well rounded, rather heavy thighs, which jiggled in unison with her teats when she moved. Her face, oval shaped, had that wide-eyed, innocent look that reminded Rory of a trusting child. But there was nothing childish about the great wealth of honey blond pubic hair, only a shade darker than the thick, single plait reaching back down to her buttocks, which spread up from her cranny. The front extremity of this was liberally festooned with droplets of come from their recent labors.
"You stay right here, Rory Gaelean," she told him prettily as she left the room without bothering to dress. "I'll be back in a thrice."
A bit plump though she may be, Rory decided while she was gone, Sarah Devin was anything but hard on the eyes, and from first hand knowledge he could attest that she was no slouch in bed.
"With you going about undressed, I take it we're alone in the house," he said when she returned fifteen minutes later.
She nodded, approaching with a large tray. "I live alone, but I have two friends who stay with me quite often-Alice Gleason and Ruth Harding. Ruth was here right after you were brought in."
Rory realized Ruth must have been the other female voice he had heard when he had briefly regained consciousness.
"Then there's the day maid, but she won't be here for two hours yet. Will this tray be enough till she arrives to prepare breakfast? It's cold, all but the broth and I've had it on the stove."
One look at the food she placed on a chair beside the bed threw Rory's saliva glands into overtime activity. A very audible rumble came from the region of his stomach, yet despite his anxiety to appease it he knew he could never consume all the food on the tray at a single sitting.
The half-saddle of cold mutton was in itself enough to feed half a dozen, and it was accompanied by a great wedge of cheese, a large bowl of the thick broth, black bread and a bottle of red wine. Hungrily he eyed the viands, wondering where to start, but Sarah misinterpreted his look as being one of dissatisfaction.
"'Tis for sure rough fare, Rory," she said half apologetically, seating herself close beside him. "If you'd rather wait till the maid-"
"Hush, lass," he interrupted. "Say naught for a spell, unless you've a penchant for talking to yourself. My mouth'll be too full to reply."
And it was; for nigh onto half an hour. At the end of this time he fell backward on the bed, comfortably stuffed, the wine a warm glow in his stomach, the spine tingling scent of female aroused in his nostrils and his passion rising. The ideal way to top off any meal, he reflected in silent mirth, was with a lusty piece of ass.
After a moment or two Sarah stretched out on the bed, leaning against his chest, one hand stroking and caressing his abdomen as she brought their mouths together and tried, so it seemed to Rory, to smother him with kisses while her tongue darted about in his mouth in an almost involuntary spasm of sensuality.
Words between them were not necessary. Rory pressed her honey-blonde head back on the bed, the warm perfume of her need hovering around them like a sexual cocoon, and her hair brushed against his face when he sank into her lips and sucked them and her tongue into his mouth. Her flesh was hot and responsive, trembling against him as he traveled his hand down over the firm, melon-like breasts, the slight mount of her tummy, then to the softly bristling forest of hair which was silken smooth under his fingers. His hand went on down to her heated, slightly sweaty thighs and stopped at their topmost point, where they merged into that torrid area containing her peak of desire.
She gasped from the touch of his hand on her vagina, gasped into his mouth but unable to keep her lips against his from the sudden sensations. She pulled her head back and pressed her cheek into the bed in a passionate grimace.
Through the loose, wet flesh of her pussy his fingers wandered, until they found the winking aperture which they sought.
She sobbed and bit his lips in mounting passion as he lay with his cheek against hers. Her hand stole south in search of his penis, found it, and began to masturbate him gently, moving her fingers at times around the head of his hot, stiff flesh.
He felt her thighs move toward him and then open, her crotch pushing against his hand, demanding entry of his searching fingers. He pushed with them, easing them into the depths beyond.
A fluttering whimper escaped her as she swung her face back to his. She released his prick and grabbed his arms, holding tightly with both hands as she kissed him passionately, rubbing her face all over and around his.
"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh! Oh!"
Rory moved in against her flesh, rubbing his loins against her, drawing one of his thighs over hers. His fingers had penetrated as far as possible, and he could feel the smooth underside of her pelvis inside her body. Her thighs alternately clamped and released his hand, sweeping open and shut in wild, passionate moves. She was panting continuously and punctuating the sounds with little moans as he moved his fingers gently about inside her. Her lips trembled, her nostrils flared repeatedly and the long lashes of her tremulous lids made dancing shadows on her cheeks. Her slender hands darted hither and yon over his body, seemingly with a control of their own.
Rory pushed another finger into her cunt and she cringed away, then strove with her hips to swallow his complete hand. He let his fingers roam about as they explored her pussy, then he withdrew them in search of the tiny spur of her passion. It was hard and erect when he found it, but it kept trying to slip away as he caressed it with tender care.
This caressing sparked even greater charges of erotic reaction in her and she caught his penis once more, squeezing it hard as she appeared to be losing control, biting his lips and neck and chin like a famished she-animal. Stroking her, tantalizing her, bringing her to a frenzied pitch of heat-as he was doing for himself-Rory felt her thighs digging and twisting, trying to get him to mount her. Her palms pulled at his head, with her attempting to squirm under him, straining her huge breasts up so that their firm nipples poked into his chest.
"For God's sake, fuck me," she sobbed jerkily. "Fuck me now."
Rory, himself almost overcome with quivering sexuality, forced himself to prolong the moment, now that it had arrived, and for a minute longer traced his fingers back and forth through her wide open cleft, bringing from her lips spastic sounds of ecstasy.
"For the love of God," she begged weakly, barely able to utter the words, wagging and tugging blindly on his prick. "Get it in me. I'm dying."
Rory shifted his weight atop the warm, resilient cushion of her body, nudging at her straddle with his penis as her legs swung wide. With both hands she seized the flesh above his hip bones and squeezed it into odd shapes, gritting her teeth in his ear. She shivered with uncontrollable emotion when the solid knob of his cock touched inside her labia, the gritting sounds ceased and she became motionless with breathless expectancy. She remained thus while one of his hands, down between them, stationed the head of his rod squarely within her nest.
A fierce exhilaration coursed through Rory as he squared his hips and drove forward in one long, slow thrust that brought their loins solidly together. She drew her thighs up with his penetration, her belly arched against his.
"Ooooommm!" The ecstatic moan dragged from her lips at the same time. This sound was followed immediately by a short series of small, quick gasps, also brought on by his rod gliding to the hilt up into her belly, while Rory, in non-rhythmic accompaniment, began grunting with little explosive noises in time with his undulating hips.
Her thighs moved slowly about on either side of him, her calves and feet pointing into the air as he went about the business of stuffing her cunt. Her moaning lips formed strange figures as she tightened her grip in his upper arms with both hands. There was a desperate, helpless look in her eyes, a look born of the knowledge she was in the hands of a master technician and that the pressure building inside her would be released with an explosive force she had never known before-not even from the soft, demanding lips of her two friends, Alice and Ruth.
Rory's loins were afire. His entire body seemed to burn, and he could feel the rapture gathering in his throbbing penis as he plundered gently about inside her pussy. The preliminaries had prepared him for a quick come and the plump, succulent Sarah Devin, writhing and moaning under him, would soon be coming too. Once or twice already he had noticed her hungry cunt grabbing tentatively at his prick as her hands tenderly pinched and caressed various parts of his body. Her crotch was seething hot and so wet from her secretions that each time he withdrew his prick for another thrust the contrasting coolness of the air gathered noticeably around his staff, especially about the base, where his pubic hair was soaked with her juices.
When she suddenly commenced to quake from a raging inner turmoil Rory began hammering into her savagely, knowing they would both come at the same time. He bowed his back briefly, looked down to where their bodies were coupled, and saw her squirming loins, with his joint flashing in and out of her cunt. Sight of their sex in action, of his stiff meat rhythmically invading her belly, of his swinging balls bumping her spread buttocks at each forward lick, enhanced the already near-unbearable bliss pervading him and brought with it an atavistic desire to ram into her deeper. That was impossible, but he tried, his efforts resulting in a meaty thwack each time their loins hit.
All at once Sarah hissed like an angry viper. The sound broke off abruptly to be resumed at once in a steady stream of needle-pointed sound, like that of escaping steam, and her cunt muscles seized Rory's prick the same instant his balls exploded in orgastic fury. The scalding elixer sparked a garbled scream in her throat that quavered from her squirming lips like the breath of a dying fawn, and she began lurching and surging beneath him, lunging her steamy straddle against his impaling prick. Instinctively Rory clung tightly, not unlike a shipwrecked sailor clutching a piece of floating timber, and let nature have its way.
Nature took its time, during which Sarah Devin clawed and jerked and bucked through an orgasm so prolonged that Rory's faded while hers was still going full blast. She whimpered and sobbed like a soul lost in outer darkness, her belly muscles knotting and twitching against his as the ecstasy slowly drained from her and she went limp to lay there regarding him with awesome gladness, his big prick still buried to the hub in her belly.
He was rolling free of her when the startling clamor of the front door knocker rang through the house.
"'Tis that fool maid of mine," Sarah said with disgust, scrambling from the bed and throwing a robe about her shoulders. "She's come early this morning, as she does sometimes. Stay right here. I'll give her the day off."
After she left the room Rory lay staring at the ceiling, reflecting on the series of strange circumstances which had befallen him within the past few days, and as each event marched before his memory there came to his mind with greater force the hard, clear fact that he had killed a man. Dublin was on the opposite coast from Galway, of course, and it would probably be weeks before Galway authorities extended their search for him here, but in time they would come-and before that time he must catch a ship for the New World; must, bluntly, get the hell out of Ireland and stay out. He decided against revealing his plans to Sarah, or to anyone else, for that matter. The fewer who knew of them, the safer he'd be.
Thus ran his thoughts when Sarah returned to the bedroom some minutes later, a covetous gleam in her eyes and a mysterious smile on her lips.
"Was it the maid?" he asked, sitting up on the bed.
She nodded. "And Ruth Harding, too. I sent them both away, but Ruth, and Alice Gleason, the two friends I mentioned, will be back later this morning. Rory-" She stopped as he left the bed and reached for his clothes, folded neatly in a chair.
"Yes?" He looked at her, wondering at the odd lilt her tone had taken, and saw the mysterious curve of her lips was still there.
"Uh-Rory-do you know what a Lesbian is?"
"I've never met one, but-" Then it was he who stopped, for, inexplicably, the truth dawned and he knew what she was going to say. He chuckled gruffly. "You're about to tell me that you and your two friends are Lesbians, right?" For a reason he did not try to analyze, an excited thrill swept through him.
"I-well-" Sarah took a deep breath, then said defiantly: "Yes, we are. All three of us."
This time he laughed heartily. "Don't apologize, lass," he told her, climbing into his trousers. " Tis something those of infantile morality cannot understand, but there's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I'm not apologizing and I'm not ashamed." There was a happiness in her voice, for the problem of telling him had been bothering her. " 'Tis just that the word 'Lesbian' scares some people to death, that's all. Where are you going?" A note of alarm crept into her words. "Will you be coming back?"
"Aye. If you want me to," he said, though the thought of not returning had not occurred to him.
She rushed to where he stood, threw her arms about his neck. "I insist you consider this your home as long as you're in Dublin," she said hotly. "Will you be gone long?"
"Not long," he grinned. In accordance with his previous decision, he did not tell her he was going to the waterfront in search of a ship sailing for the colonies. "And if this Alice and Ruth you speak of are here when I return, I'll expect the three of you to put on an exhibition for me."
"Oh!" Sarah squealed in delight, stepping back and hugging herself. "We will. See if we don't. It'll tickle them to death. Only hurry back."
"Shouldn't be gone more than an hour." He kissed her quickly, pinched her buttocks and then smacked them smartly. "I'll be back before noon at the latest-and the four of us will have a screwing good time."
CHAPTER SIX
But Rory did not return to Sarah Devin's house within an hour. Or two. Or by noon, or by the time the sun had set. Nor until an hour after a sickle moon had forced its spotty way through the cloudy overcast of Dublin. Weary, footsore and somewhat disgusted over his lack of success, he plodded his way along the dark street until he came to Sarah's gate and turned in. All day long he'd scoured the waterfront, seeking news of a vessel leaving for the Americas. He'd talked with a dozen ships' captains, but all save one, a grizzled, one-eyed oldster named Farney, had shook their heads. Captain Farney had told him it was rumored the Saint Jude, an English vessel out of Bristol, would dock in Dublin prior to sailing for the colonies with a shipload of religious dissenters. And that was that.
Except he had also learned there were not enough gold pieces in the purse Sir Godfrey had given him to pay his passage, then leave sufficient for a stake when he reached his destination. And he was be damned if he intended to land in the New World broke. As it was there were too many penniless bums, tramps, con-men, ne'er-do-wells, ex-convicts, criminals and whores being forced to flee to the colonies. When he got off the ship he wanted enough gold in his pocket to pay his way and he meant to have it-even if he had to turn highwayman. Which wasn't a bad idea at all.
"Well! Do tell!" Sarah exclaimed in mock anger when she opened the door to his knock.
"I'm sorry I wasn't back sooner," he grinned tiredly. "I suppose Alice and Ruth have gone?" He followed her down the hall, noticing how differently she appeared now than when he'd last seen her this morning, naked. Now she wore a long-sleeved, high necked dress with a tight bodice and full-gathered skirt that reached to her ankles. Yet despite this, with all its accompanying ribbons and bows and frilly lace, it did little toward concealing the lush sensuality of her figure.
"They've been gone for hours," Sarah said quietly over her shoulder. "But there's someone else here I want you to meet." She threw a warning glance at him. "Don't say anything out of the way. She doesn't think as we do. Or like Alice and Ruth, either." She dropped her voice still further and breathed hurriedly. "I suspect she's a virgin and will likely die that way. Her name is Jane Wilson."
During the introductions and banal amenities which followed Rory saw with graphic clarity the meaning of Sarah's comment regarding her friend. He had never before encountered a female of Jane Wilson's class. She simply exuded frigidity. Each gesture, look, and expression bespoke a nature so cold there seemed to be a frosty aura hovering about the area where she sat. This puzzled Rory no little, but the aspect he found even more baffling was the fact that Jane Wilson was a stunningly beautiful female.
Her pitch black hair contrasted sharply with her cream-hued complexion. Her features were delicate, sensitive, with enormous blue eyes and naturally red lips. She was of his own age and the voluminous skirt and short jacket she wore could not hide the ripe contours of her small-boned frame.
She's ice cold, Rory decided as sounds of horses reached them from the street, but otherwise a prime piece of nooky. Still, building a fire in her loins might prove interesting. But Jane Wilson was of the type who'd never give a man a chance like that.
"There's my carriage, Sarah," Jane said, rising to her feet and cloaking herself in a large shawl. " 'Twas nice, Mr. Gaelean." She gave him a brittle smile and for one fleeting instant he saw something far in the back of her big blue eyes that was anything but frigid and remote.
Thoroughly perplexed, he said nothing, merely nodded and stood there while Sarah showed her to the door.
"How do you like her?" the plump girl asked when she returned. Before he could frame a reply she took his arm. "Come into the dining room. I know you're starved."
Which was very nearly the truth; his only food since dawn a rancid smelling mess of greasy fish and greasier potatoes he'd been unable to finish at a waterfront sailor's hangout. He seated himself at the table and squared off with gusto.
"I think something must have happened to her during childhood that turned her against men," he heard Sarah saying.
"Who?" he asked, his attention on a hot beef pie. He'd completely forgotten their recent visitor.
"Jane Wilson, silly," Sarah laughed, watching him with adoring eyes. "Then there's her brother Robert and his wife, Lucy. She lives with them and they're both sort of crazy where Jane and men are concerned. They harangue the poor girl constantly, accusing her of sleeping with first this man and then with that. If they see her talking with a man they accuse her of being pregnant. They've got her scared witless. It's frightening."
"Why doesn't she leave?" Rory asked, taking a long pull at his wine. It was light and dry and very delicious.
Sarah shrugged nonchalantly. "Blood's thicker than water, I guess. Besides, if Jane left, Robert and his wife would likely go in want. He's a hellacious tosspot, and when their parents died they left most of their shipping business in Jane's name. That's the reason I can't understand why Robert and Lucy treat Jane the way they do. If-"
"What sort of shipping business?" Rory asked, suddenly all ears.
"The usual. Importing, exporting-everything. Jane's uncle actually runs the business, but she keeps close touch with it. Claims it gives her something to do besides listening to Robert and Lucy all the time."
"I see," Rory said thoughtfully, digging into the beef pie once more. Cuddling up to Jane Wilson might be to his advantage as far as finding passage to the New World was concerned, but how the hell did a man cuddle up to an iceberg? There had been that one brief glimpse of flaming passion in her eyes just before her departure, but that was certainly little enough to go on. Besides, it was possible he could have been mistaken about that look.
Then there was the matter of finances and solving that problem was the first order of the day. He must have more money before sailing and that was gospel. Now, the coach routes leading to and from Dublin were often wild, deserted stretches of highway, and a daring man with a fast horse and a brace of good pistols just might....
"What Jane needs," Sarah said complacently, "is for some man to give her a good screwing. I believe it would change her outlook on a lot of things." She got to her feet, smiling. "And come to think of it, that's just what I need, too." She came around to his end of the table and pecked him on the ear with her lips. "Leave the table as it is when you've finished," she whispered. "I'll be waiting in bed upstairs."
She was, and the good meal and the good wine completely restored his spirits. His sexual vitality did not need restoring because he already had a hard on from her kissing his ear.
He screwed her half the night, stuffing her plump cunt while she meowed and caterwauled repeatedly, clawing his back and beating the air with her arms and legs and declaring her undying need for his big prick between her thighs. Yet he was up at dawn, headed for the waterfront again, in search of a ship.
And so it went in the days that followed; carrying on his search during the day and making love with Sarah whenever he happened to get home at night. During this period he saw Jane Wilson a number of times, usually at Sarah's on his arrival in the evening, where she was always frigidly civil, and once he met her in the upper harbor, where she stared straight through him as she marched haughtily past. Also he made the acquaintance of Alice Gleason and Ruth Harding, as different in appearance as any two young women could be.
Where Alice was tall and willowy, slender almost to the point of being fragile, Ruth was short, nearly squat, and so fat she rather rolled with a waddling gait instead of walked. However, both were good natured and very friendly, especially after Sarah informed them the three of them were to put on an exhibition for Rory.
"If," Sarah added petulantly, "he can ever finish whatever he does down at the harbor so he can get here at a reasonable hour. One night it was near midnight when he returned."
"Soon, lass," Rory told her. "Soon. I promise."
The night she referred to was the one in which he had pulled his first spine tingling, blood hammering, sweaty palmed robbery of a Dublin bound stage. Since then he had pulled a dozen. Just one more, which was already planned, and he could sail to America in style.
The day scheduled for the robbery a fierce gale swept from England across the Irish Sea and stirred waves tall as small mountains in St. George's Channel. The storm struck at mid-morning and Rory, when he saw it coming from the waterfront, headed for home, reaching Sarah's house only minutes before the sky darkened and split asunder.
Alice Gleason and Ruth Harding, less observant of the weather, were there when he arrived. Not only were they there, but were naked, the three of them, Alice, Ruth and Sarah, in Sarah's huge living room where the furniture had been pushed back against the wall and all three were engaged in what appeared to Rory to be a quiet, peaceful and thoroughly entrancing sexual orgy on the floor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They lay on their sides in a rough triangle, the face of each girl buried in the crotch of the one in front of her. To a person they were twisting and jerking, odd legs and feet waved in the air, odd hands pawed at it, but when a deafening clap of thunder rattled the window panes, all started in surprise as one. And the long, slender Alice, opening her eyes, espied him through the cleft of Ruth's fat buttocks. The tall girl pulled free with a glad cry and sprang to her feet, the others following suit.
They gathered about him, laughing, chattering, pulling at his clothes as they stripped him bare, and soon he stood before them as naked as they. Alice and Ruth's eyes grew round and sparkling with unfeigned admiration at sight of his huge cock angling sharply up along his belly above the two hefty, hairy balls.
"My," Ruth breathed in awe, gaze locked on his crotch. "You're right, Sarah. Tis a darling, that." She extended a pudgy hand and caressed his hot meat. "I've never seen a finer."
Alice, as though not to be outdone, squatted on her long haunches at his feet and gave his genitals a thorough, critical inspection by weighing his testicles in her palm, closely scrutinizing amongst the curly hair around the base of his tool, then levering his rod downward for a careful look at his glans and the tight collar of foreskin behind it. During this time Rory stood taut as a bow string, struggling not to cry out from the sensations her hands gave him.
"Do I pass?" he grinned at Alice as she rose to her feet.
"You pass," she sighed rapturously. "But here's the final test." With this she lifted her weight to her toes, balanced herself by a hand on his shoulder and pivoted to face him, cocking one leg high as she again depressed his prick, her free hand spreading the lips of her vagina, fitting the bald knob of his rod snugly within her labia.
"Well-I never!" Sarah scolded teasingly. "Of all the gross effrontery-"
"Shhh," Alice said, not looking at her friend, her attention cantered between her body and Rory's. "Can't you see, dear, that I'm very busy?" She worked her hips against his ready meat, trying to give him penetration by raising higher on her toes. "I have heard," she murmured breathily, "that the angle of the dangle equals the heat of the meat. If this be true, Mr. Rory Gaelean, you are very hot indeed." She leaned into him, the pointed tips of her ripe breasts jabbing into his chest and grunted in disappointment. "I'm afraid it's not going in like this."
"Come on, Ruth." Sarah took the fat girl's arm. "Let's finish up on the couch."
"I'd like to watch them," Rory said to Alice as the two girls retired to the long couch against the far wall.
"And I'd like to feel this big shillelagh of yours inside me," the tall girl said frankly. "Can't we do both at once?"
"We can try," he chuckled. "Step back a second."
They did do both at once. Rory placed a chair near the couch and sat in it while Alice straddled his lap, her hands trembling and her face working with passion as she squirmed along his thighs on her buttocks, watching his prick disappear up into her cunt. She sighed gustily when it was done, leaned forward, rested her arms over his shoulders and began grinding her straddle in small hunches on his cock.
Because Sarah kept him exceptionally well laid night after night, Rory was able to enjoy the fucking Alice was giving him, while at the same time give close attention to the lustful conduct of Sarah and Ruth on the couch a few feet away. The fat girl lay on her back, one leg thrown over the rear of the couch, the other sprawled to the floor, Sarah's honey hued head sunk into her crotch. Sarah knelt astride Ruth's head, her cunt mashed against her face, and Ruth also was nuzzling and tugging between Sarah's thighs.
Dear sweet smile of Jesus-God, Rory grinned to himself, blood hammering through his ears like a giant waterfall. A double blow-job! He'd often wondered how Lesbians made love. Now, at least, he knew one form they practiced.
Because of the storm outside, light within the room had dimmed considerably, but he was still able to make out the actions of the two girls with ease. Yet he was unable to give them the attention he wanted because of the erotic ministrations he was receiving from the lusty Alice.
Her upper torso was pressed tightly against him, her arms close about his neck and her legs held out at right angles from her body, feet barely touching the floor in effort to swallow the entire length of his prick up into her straddle. Even so, because of his upright position in the chair she could not capture the last inch, though she did a masterful job of trying.
Ruth gave a muffled squeal of passion into Sarah's crotch and commenced beating the air with her plump legs. Rory pulled his eyes away only when Alice whispered in his ear.
"Rory," she said feverishly.
"What is it?"
"Let's go into the big bedroom across the hall. We won't even be missed."
"You want me to do all the work," he grinned.
She swung from across his lap, released his prick, which snapped up to smack his belly with a meaty thwack. The comfortable temperature of the room was cool to his rod in contrast with the heat of her cunt. She didn't wait, but moved toward the door at once and, with a parting glance at the girls on the couch, he followed, of a sudden very glad over her suggestion.
At his arrival from the waterfront to escape the storm he had been in no devastating need of a woman because Sarah kept him so well fucked day after day, but Alice's greedy sensuality in the chair had fired his loins to inferno heat. Now his need was a ravening beast.
He walked behind her, feasting his eyes on the slim shoulders, the wasp-waist, the delectable buttocks and thighs, between which he could within minutes again have his prick.
In the bedroom Alice lit a lamp on each side of the bed and turned to him, stepping close.
"I don't mind getting fucked while others are watching," she said softly. "But I wanted to do it with you just once when we were alone." She ran trembling hands over his chest and waist and dropped them to his genitals.
Her touch shot through him like the lightning outside. He caught her close. She bit his chest, then found his lips with hers and plunged her tongue into his mouth. He felt the lush imprint of her body against him, the sharp nipples stabbing at his chest, the soft, luscious flesh of her thighs and belly and loins rubbing against him as they moved toward the bed.
She fell on it on her back and he fell down beside her, sucking her nipples into his mouth. She whimpered desperately, clawed at his head. Her fragrant skin was plentiful and firm and tasted of a strange incense. He ran his lips over her warm, lovely body. Her throat contracted in a low moan when he moved his hand down to her crotch. From their previous fucking in the other room she was hot and wet and wide open to receive him.
"Don't wait any longer," she implored. "Please." She opened her thighs and caught at his shoulders.
He slid his flesh over the hilly contours of her body. Her thighs closed in on him on either side, pressed convulsively against his hips. Then she pulled her thighs back a bit and reached down, searching for his penis. She found it, guided it to the lips of her panting cunt.
"There now," she breathed hotly against his mouth. "Home again-where he belongs."
Rory pushed gently and the soft flesh of her vagina offered no opposition, but blossomed warmly around the head of his prick. He pushed again and felt her inflamed flesh spread farther, gulp hungrily at his rigid meat sliding sweetly to the hilt into the hotness of her belly.
The low, tremulous cry of a wounded animal fluttered from her throat.
"This is so much better than in the chair," she wailed weakly. She rocked her crotch up and back so he could get the last fraction in and wiggled her hips in sexy accompaniment as he did so. "Aaahhhhh!" she continued. "I feel like a stuffed goose."
In the yellow light of the lamp a vein throbbed on her neck. Her back arched, pushing her breasts up hard against his chest. Ragged breaths struggled in her throat and burst from her lips in helpless pantings.
Rory ran his hands over her lovely flesh, clutching her shoulders, her arms and waist as he screwed into her. Then he slipped his hands down under her buttocks and commenced to weigh and knead the resilient mounds. Under him, Alice writhed in adoring torment.
Her eyes were closed. At times she quivered like a dying fish on his impaling organ, letting out little gasps of breath between her half opened lips. Her hands flitted over him, danced along his shoulders and back and buttocks like bird's feet, her long thighs moving erratically in various directions. Her whole body heaved and swayed against his flesh as he stroked into her cunt with his blood filled prick.
In the midst of a stroke she drew her thighs wider than ever and pulled them far back, giving him deeper penetration. In this new position his swinging balls gently bumped into the cleft of her spread buttocks, smiting her anus softly at each in-stroke.
Sexual heat grew over the moving mass of their flesh till they sweated from their luscious effort.
Rory felt his prick swell deliriously. His testicles grew heavy and puffed with semen. He clinched her shoulders in a convulsive movement, bruising them with a sudden adjustment of position. Her face contorted and she dug weals across his back.
Her lovely breasts splayed out under his weight and he shoved himself up so that he could look down and watch as he fucked her. Sight of his rigid meat pistoning rhythmically in and out of her cunt was almost too much to endure. The stretched mucous membrane lining her cunt pulled out a little at each withdrawal, sucking on his prick as though reluctant to release it, then disappeared when he drove into her again.
"Gaaahh," she grunted softly from his balls striking her anus. "Gaaahh!" In an agony of lust she suddenly cried wildly, "Fuck me harder, Rory! Fuck me harder!"
She clutched at him furiously and he felt the small pain through his mounting ecstasy; punished her for the pain by slamming his cock so hard and deep into her body she squealed.
Her belly heaved in great choking gasps and her legs flailed the air like two arms of a crazy windmill.
Rory's knees dug pits into the bed from his effort when he grasped her buttocks a second time, forcing her hips up toward the headboard and over her head. Her torso was bent almost double and he fucked like a madman, the slap of his loins against her open crotch giving off meaty sounds. It was as if all his emotions were gathering forcefully in his penis where they would soon explode in rapturous agony.
He watched her breasts jiggling from his screwing, watched the flesh tight and revealing over the bones of her hips as she wriggled and squirmed her tortured, naked body. He released her buttocks and straightened, her forearms swatting the bed as though she suffered from some terrible scourge while he re-positioned himself-and kept pile driving into her cunt with sledge hammer blows. On occasion her eyes would fly open to stare at him in desperation.
She appeared to be suffering the torments of a soul forever damned and began to buck and jerk under him, loosing little whimpers and yelps. She jack-knifed under him, almost threw him to the floor, but he stayed in the saddle, riding hard, and a violent quaking descended upon her, held her in its grip till she abruptly went as rigid as the cock assaulting her cunt, and spent her juices with a forsaken, unearthly cry.
Rory was himself coming when this happened, pumping massive charges of man-seed into her belly, engorging her spasming womb with the rewards of lust, and they clutched each other frantically with arms and legs, gasping and sobbing; a two-unit mass of orgasming human flesh.
A quarter of an hour passed before they revived. At the end of this time Sarah and Ruth came into the room and took seats on the bed.
"I'm next," Ruth announced with determination to Alice. "Both you and Sarah have done it with Rory and I'm next."
Rory stretched luxuriously, knowing it was going to be a day not soon forgotten, and hoped the storm outside would abate before dark. Tonight he planned to pull his last stagecoach robbery and bad weather could be a hindrance.
"Look at it lying there all shriveled and wrinkled," Alice said, sitting up in bed and pointing to his relaxed prick.
"'Tis the luck of the Irish I have," Ruth complained. "And it's all bad. Now that my turn has come he's unable to perform. Sarah, have you a bit of brandy?"
"Rory doesn't need brandy," Sarah laughed. "It'll be straight as a mast any time you need it-and I should know." She left the room and returned almost immediately with a bottle in her hand. "Plum brandy it is," she said. "The best."
"It wasn't for drinking I requested it," Ruth giggled. She poured some of the brandy in her cupped palm and Rory grunted with surprise when she began washing his cock with it, his rod swelling to full size under her hand.
"'Tis little cause for wasting good liquor," he grinned. "He'll do the job drunk or sober."
Sarah walked to the window and looked out. "To judge by the weather we're bound in for the day," she said. "Best I go fix us a bite to eat."
"Will he now?" Ruth chided to Rory. "Mayhap 'tis a job I want to do on him."
"I'll go with you," Alice said to Sarah, climbing off the bed. "Four hands are quicker than two." She smacked her fat friend on the rump as she and Sarah left the room. "Don't choke yourself."
Rory's loins tightened with excitement. "You propose to suck me, lass?" he asked Ruth.
She clambered over into the angle of his out-flung legs and assumed a hunkered position, her face above his cock.
"Aye," she laughed softly. "I've always craved the taste of a liquored shillelagh. 'Tis the chance of a lifetime."
"Which could spoil your lunch."
"Fie. 'Twill be dessert. No less."
Despite Rory's numerous sexual encounters with various women, his experience with fellatio was nil. In short, he'd never had a blow-job before; though, like most young men, had nothing against the art being practiced on him. His skin tingled over the prospects and he lay propped up on pillows, his eyes on Ruth in marked fascination.
She collected droplets of the brandy from his pubic hair and moistened the head of his cock after levering it upright, then pursed her lips. His rigid member, hot with excitement but cooled on the surface by its brandy bath, became even cooler from an unbroken stream of air she blew on it. His buttocks cringed and he gritted his teeth in a seizure of passion. Instead of shrinking from her ministrations, his prick grew even harder and the head, growing more chilled by the second, throbbed in angry protest.
"For god's sake," he groaned. "What are you doing to me?"
"Hush love," Ruth whispered. " 'Tis but the calm before the storm."
The head of his prick grew warm in the brief time it took her to speak the words, but icy again the instant she continued the stream of air.
He groaned a second time, unable to contain himself, and thought his limbs might fly off in all directions at once from the tumultuous sensations colliding inside him. Aside from the chilled head of his prick, his loins area burned with the fires of hell and an immense sweet pain was pervading his body.
This sweet pain became successive flashes of delicious agony when Ruth ceased her blowing, lifted his scrotum in her fingers and, with consummate delicacy, took one of his balls into her mouth.
Some tremendous inner force knocked all breath from his lungs. He strove to scream and failed. Sweet blue eyes of Jesus-God! The room wheeled. He clutched the bed viciously for support and to retain his faltering sanity. Gradually the room slowed and stopped. To a small measure he grew accustomed to the exquisite torture he was being subjected to.
Ruth held his testicle in her mouth till he gathered his senses, then began to lave it, sucking as she did so, caressing with her tongue, careful to be gentle. Rory boggled in a state of seething, suspended lust, feeling as if his asshole were gnawing a hole in the bedding. His jaw hung loose, his mouth was brick-dust dry and he made no attempt to speak, knowing such was impossible. He lay breath-gone still, cringing in excruciating ecstasy, eyes on their point of contact.
Ruth's plump mouth and throat worked in smooth silence on his ball, her teasing tongue a soft lance of gossamer flame that licked and tantalized as she sucked. A thin film of perspiration covered her upper lip and in the lamp light he saw a fine line of moisture where her mouth surrounded the section of his scrotum. Her eyes were closed in passion. She wormed her hands through his crotch into the cleavage of his buttocks and he felt her fingers searching for his anus, felt her press the tip of one finger against it.
I'm going to die as sure as there's a goddamned sun in the sky, Rory thought desperately.
Abruptly Ruth released his testicle, with her free hand pulled his brandy-wet prick toward her mouth and blew the tiny stream of air through her pursed lips on it once again. His suffering glans turned ice cold and he shuddered from the awesome sensation. Her next move caught him completely by surprise.
Without warning she capped the chilled head of his prick with the scalding heat of her mouth, at the same time thrusting her finger far up his unsuspecting anus. His horrendous bellow rocked the room. Blinding lights stunned him. Screaming demons hacked at his vitals and his balls shattered asunder from the mighty force of boiling sperm that exploded from his meat-tube like strands of barbed wire inch by inch.
She rammed her hot mouth far down on his geysering rod, grabbed at it like a starving dog with a giant sausage. Her free hand gripped the base of his stiff penis, held it steady as she followed his lunging hips about the bed.
The spinning room gathered speed before Rory's eyes. Once he thought the laughing faces of Alice and Sarah were in the whirling montage, but wasn't sure. He couldn't be sure of anything except the tidal waves of purest ecstasy rolling over him. They seared his skin, parched his mouth, churned his guts to a point where he imagined his soul might flee his body.
The harsh, agonized animal sounds filling the room subsided with the fading of the holocaust in his loins and only as the frightening orgasm dwindled appreciably did he realize the sounds came from his own lips. The room slowed, finally stopped, and he lay trembling, chest heaving, while the greedy Ruth coaxed from him the last drop of lust-juice and drew her finger from his anus.
"Like it?" she grinned, raising to all fours.
He did not answer at once; not till he recovered his breath, and then his only response was to indicate the bottle of brandy with a shaky forefinger.
She got it for him, stood by while he downed several large swallows, then replaced the bottle on the bureau and sat beside him on the bed.
"It must have hit you pretty hard," she said, still grinning, obviously delighted at having worked him over so well.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he blurted.
"Imagination. 'Twas all imagination."
The brandy warmed his stomach, spread through him in cozy heat, hastening his complete recovery.
"Lesbians are a breed unto themselves," he said, sitting up on the bed. "But I thought they abhored all men."
"Not me and Alice and Sarah. We aren't true Lesbians. We simply like sex and more often than not an acceptable man is hard to come by in Dublin, what with so many shipping out to the New World. But of the true Lesbians there is one faction-the 'male' faction-who will have naught to do with a man. Such women frighten me."
"Is Jane Wilson one of these?" he asked on impulse.
"Poor Jane," Ruth replied. "No, she's no Lesbian. Nor yet a full blown woman. Methinks she lives the life of a vegetable, though I doubt not it's forced upon her."
"For why?"
"Her brother Robert, no doubt. He's a fierce tosspot who'd likely be in want except for Jane. His wife Ludy also, of course. If it wasn't for her Uncle Mike, who really runs her shipping business, the poor girl would probably be daft by now. Would you like to fuck Jane Wilson, Rory?"
"What man wouldn't?"
"I wished something could be arranged for you here, but I don't think it could. I doubt if Jane has ever kissed a man." She stroked his wilting cock affectionately. "But a taste of this wonderful fellow between her legs and she'd be like to go man crazy."
"Who's hungry in here?" Sarah stuck her head through the door.
"I'm starved." Rory rolled off the bed. "I need refueling."
"Refuel well," Sarah laughed. "Alice has another surprise for you when we eat."
It was a surprise Rory was to remember for a long, long time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The meal passed rapidly midst laughter and gay banter, with Rory eating like a man going off to starve, his insides warmed by the brandy and further enhanced by two tumblers of wine with the food.
"What is this surprise you have, Alice?" he asked at the end of the meal.
"Never you mind," Sarah cut in. "If she told you, where would be the surprise? But do you know how to do the hornpipe?"
"Aye. What Irishman can deny knowing it?"
"Alice wants you to do the hornpipe with her."
"The hornpipe is danced by a single person only."
"True," Sarah said, suppressing a giggle. "But Alice has invented a special version, done to the music of a piano. I'm sure you'll like it." She leaned away from the table to peek at his lap, eyes seeking his cock. "Can he stand up after all Ruth's attention?" She extended a hand to his penis, which began to swell at once. "Hummm. I see that he can." Then to Alice: "Did you find the pomade on my dressing table?"
"And used it," the tall girl nodded, face aglow.
"Well then." Ruth finished her wine and stood up. "If this 'surprise' be what I think, let us be about it."
"I'm anxious myself," Rory said as the four of them went into the main room where it had all begun. His curiosity mounted when Alice brought two pairs of heavy wooden shoes and bade him put on one. By the time he finished Ruth was seated on the couch where she could watch everything and Sarah was at the piano, tinkering with the keys.
"Can you dance 'The Girls of County Cork,' Rory?" Sarah asked over her shoulder.
"Aye. But I'm a bit mystified as to how two people can do the hornpipe as one."
"Alice will show you." Both she and Ruth laughed merrily.
"That I shall." Alice moved in close to him, caressing his prick as if to test its firmness. "We'll start like this, Rory mine."
She turned her back to him, pressed his cock down and pushed her rear against it, maneuvering with her hips till her anus found the nub. Rory then understood the earlier comments concerning pomade. The cranny between Alice's was well lubricated. So well his prick was won't to slide free, but Alice caught it.
"Put your hands on my hips," she instructed. "That's the way we'll do the hornpipe. You dance close behind me-keep pressing in-and do every step I do. Understand?"
"You mean-?" he began.
Alice leaned her shoulders against his chest and looked up into his face.
"That's right. You're to bugger me. Unless you object."
"But to what end-for you?"
"Because I enjoy it, silly," she laughed. "You'll see."
"Do it standing up?" This was incredible.
She wrinkled her nose at him in a grin. "I'll bend over a little. Anyway, at first, but tall as I am, once you get it in I can dance up straight. Like we are now."
The only reason Rory believed his ears was the feel of her warm, naked flesh against his and the clamping sensation of her buttocks on the head of his rod. His balls began that slow, familiar ache. He didn't completely understand, but had no intention of backing out. He slid his hands down to her waist, grasped her hipbones firmly as Sarah trilled the piano keys and Ruth clapped her hands in delight.
Then the music of 'The Girls of County Cork' spread around the room and they were dancing, the wooden clogs on their feet thumping on the rug covered floor in time with the music. Due to the vigorous activity involved in dancing the hornpipe the end of his penis kept working up and out of the greased grasp of her cleavage and Alice kept returning it. At last she bent forward, her fingers clasping his cock, holding it against the puckered brown ring, and made a back step when the dance called for a forward one. She grunted explosively and Rory gritted his teeth at his glans popping through the tight circle of her rubbery flesh.
"It's in!" Ruth cried from the couch. "He's got it in!" Sarah pounded the piano with greater gusto.
They continued to stomp and frolic up and down the room, at times their clogs almost drowning out the music, with Alice working her arms in the accepted hornpipe-dancer manner while Rory held onto her hips, making every move with his body that she did with hers.
He could feel her nether passage slowly relax and expand under his assault, for even with the dancing he managed to flick his hips now and then, pressing his tool deeper. This, plus the pressure he extended by pulling her back toward him, was causing his rigid meat to gradually disappear up her ass. If it gave her any pain she evinced no sign, but rather the exact opposite as best as Rory could determine. A number of times she looked around at him over her shoulder and each successive time her face was more drawn with lines of passion.
He kept his hands on her waist most of the time, but once he spread his arms, held them out straight, then put them on his own hips, the only point of contact remaining with Alice his connecting prick as they stomped and clomped through the hornpipe. His balls jounced in erratic rhythm of their vigorous movements. When Sarah and Ruth saw he was coupled with Alice by nothing but his cock they gave cries of lustful enthusiasm and encouragement.
But a sixth sense warned Rory he would never reach his culmination. Something was happening to his long legged partner. Her face was flushed a deep crimson, her gestures had taken on a spastic quality and strange, war-like cries came from her lips.
The music stopped, the dancing ceased, the room became quiet except for the sounds coming from Alice's throat. In the sudden hush Sarah's words to the room at large were clear and distinct.
"I've never seen her come this soon before. I usually have to play the song all the way through at least three times."
Rory stood with legs spread, hands on hips, observing the girl impaled on his meat. The hot, tight pressure of her back passage squeezed deliriously on his prick, but after the draining Ruth's blow-job had given him, Alice was simply too quick. He resigned himself to the fact that this was one orgasm he was forced to pass up. Even now the girl's knees were buckling, her descending body angling his weapon downward. When she slipped free it sprang upright, throbbing angrily in protest and Alice dropped to the floor with a soft thud, shivering and quaking in the center of an orgiastic storm.
His nuts ached. He was sorely disappointed.
"Don't worry, Rory love," Ruth soothed him some minutes later after he'd washed up. "You haven't fucked me yet, and that's something I'm looking forward to."
Three hours after his marathon session with Sarah Devin and her two friends; after having bathed and taken a refreshing nap, Rory Sean Gaelean pulled his last stage coach robbery-and that last good haul proved very nearly fatal. He performed the feat just outside the city's West Gate at ten o'clock that night. Fleeing, hotly pursued, he found himself in a vaguely familiar section of town, not far from the waterfront. His horse had received a pistol ball and was losing strength steadily. At that hour, and follow-the heavy storm, there were no crowds among whom he could lose himself. His pursuers were gaining rapidly when he was given one risky chance in a thousand of beating the gallows. He took that chance.
He rode up to a certain wall surrounding a certain house, which he had visited once or twice with Sarah, stood up in the saddle, vaulted to the top of the wall and hit the ground hard on the other side in a soaring leap. He hid his loot in the thick shrubbery of the garden and climbed the trellis to Jane Wilson's heavily curtained bedroom, where a small night lamp burned.
She sat up in bed, eyes wide with fright. He clapped a stern hand over her mouth.
"Don't scream," he growled. "I'm being pursued. If I'm captured it's the gallows. I know you hate all men, but I'm asking you to save my life. It's the only one I've got."
Dumbly the girl with midnight black hair nodded her head, the dim light doing wonderful things to her creamy complexion. On recognizing him her blue eyes became even larger.
"You will not betray me?" he asked.
Again she nodded her head.
"Good," he grinned and took his hand away from her mouth. "Now hide me. They're like to trace me here."
"Down the hall. The last room on the left. Robert and Ludy are visiting friends."
He feigned surprise. "I didn't know your tosspot brother and his slatternly spouse had friends." He could see the twin bulges of her young breasts through the nightgown and his eyes were suddenly very bright.
"Lock yourself in my brother's room. And Mr. Gaelean." The familiar frigidity was in her face and tone and she stared right through him as when they'd met on the waterfront. "My door will be bolted as well. If I read the rakehell's gleam in your eyes aright-"
"What a pity you're so afraid of being a woman," he mocked. "But as you will, Miss Wilson."
"I am not afraid of being a woman, Mr. Gaelean," she gritted in sudden anger. Then in a calmer tone: "What are you being pursued for?"
He smiled at her.
"Robbery. Highway robbery-of which I am damned well guilty. You've heard of the Gentleman Bandit, no doubt."
"You're the-?"
He made her a deep, sardonic bow. " 'Tis all too true," he said. "Your humble servant, milady."
"You awful man," she whispered. "Methinks I shall let them hang you." He knew she could never do this.
"And at my trial have the whole of Dublin learn you're my mistress? That after each robbery I fled to your boudoir where we made passionate love and counted the loot? 'Twould be a fetching tale."
"You wouldn't dare!" She glared at him.
"You'd be the toast of every tavern on the waterfront."
"Who would believe you?" Her question carried no conviction.
"Everybody believes the last words of a man about to meet his Maker-and I'll tell the story from the gallows as they fasten the rope about my neck."
Pistol butts sounded on the door. Rory gave the girl his best devil-may-care smile.
"Will you get rid of them? Or will you be known as the Gentleman Bandit's tart?"
He caught the flash of soft young thigh as she left the bed. The pounding at the door came again, louder now.
"Just a minute," she commanded in a surprisingly firm voice. She glared at Rory coldly, spoke barely above a whisper. "Very well," she hissed. "You have blackmailed me into this despicable situation-"
He grabbed her arm, turned her toward the door. "Haste, milady. Your audience awaits without."
With his eyes Rory followed her lithesome figure down the stairs; around a corner of the landing saw the door shoved open when she unbolted it. He barely had time to snatch off his garments and jump into bed before the clump of heavy boots sounded outside the room.
"I tell you, Constable, there is no one in my bedroom," Jane Wilson stormed desperately as the Constable and his men crowded through the doorway.
Rory Gaelean came up on one elbow, blinking sleepily, the covers falling to show him naked from the waist up. Jane Wilson's face was livid with shame.
"Damme!" the Constable muttered in disappointment. "A lover's tryst-and I 'ad me mind set on 'angin' the thievin' scut."
"Darling, what's the meaning of all this?" Rory inquired innocently of Jane. She turned on him fiercely and he searched her eyes, seeking some hint that she might betray him now that her honor was already besmirched.
One of the men stepped to the Constable, whispered in his ear. He looked at the girl in surprise.
"Be you Miss Jane Wilson of the Wilson Shipping Company?" he asked respectfully.
Jane drew herself up proudly. "I am."
"And who's 'e?" The Constable aimed a stubby finger at Rory.
"Obviously my lover, sir. Now will you please get out?"
Relief like warm spring rain flooded through Rory. The girl had grit-and for some as yet unexplained reason had chosen to defile her good name rather than give him over to the authorities. He was no little baffled.
He remained in bed after the men shuffled from the room, was still there when Jane returned from showing them out.
"You may leave now," she snapped when she returned. "I've saved your worthless life, now go!"
Meekly Rory started to leave the bed, caught himself. "Just one question," he said. "Why?"
When she didn't answer he repeated the question. "If my life is so worthless, why did you save it?"
"Revenge, perhaps." Her voice faltered. "My brother and his wife constantly accuse me of consorting with all manner of men. Now I can flout it in their faces." She stood ramrod straight, fists clinched, glaring at him triumphantly. Then, suddenly, her composure crumpled in tears and she sank to the bed, hands over her face and shoulders wracked with sobs.
Rory wanted to console her, to learn the cause of her tears, but even more he wanted to get the hell out of the house and flee. Sooner or later, next week or next month, someone might put two and two together and come to the conclusion he was indeed the Gentleman Bandit. A fast horse was what he needed.
Still, this girl had saved his life. What kind of scoundrel would he be if he left her in this moment of distress? At least he could wait till she gained control of herself-and that was little enough. She sat huddled on the edge of the bed, a frightened, forlorn little figure, her sobs rapidly taking on the tone of hysteria.
He put a hand on her shoulder and drew her flat on the bed. She offered no resistance, but her sobs became wild, frightening. Unless he stopped them, and quickly, she soon would be screaming like a mad woman. He leaned forward, face an inch above hers.
"Shut up!" he growled above the sounds of her weeping. "Shut up or I'll fuck you!" His purpose was to shock her.
Her tears stopped short, as though chopped off with a knife, and she stared at him, breath-gone still, blue eyes large and round.
"Wha-what did you say?" Even in the quiet of the room the words were barely audible.
"I said, stop crying or I'll fuck you."
"Is rape to be my lot for saving your life?"
He studied her gentle features a long moment before replying. He would like to back his threat with action but knew he would not. Nor was his decision based entirely on gratitude. Several weeks had passed since he'd first met Jane Wilson at Sarah Devin's home. During that time he'd encountered her there on numerous other occasions. Once or twice he had been here to this house with Sarah when she came to call, and often he had met her, or seen her from a distance, near the huge offices of the Wilson Shipping Company while searching for passage to the New World. In each of these instances his opinion that there was something pure and somehow sacred about her had grown. No, he would never rape Jane Wilson.
"You need have no fear of me in that regard, lass," he told her soberly. "If you'll step outside the room till I can dress, I'll be on my way."
She made no move to go, just held him with her eyes-and all but floored him with her next words.
"I suppose," she said in a tone bordering on intimacy, "that after the educated bedroom acrobatics of Sarah, Alice and Ruth, you'd find me rather unlearned fare."
He stared at her in astonishment. "You know of Sarah, Alice and Ruth?"
"In a way, yes. I've heard them talk. Just little things, but I'm not so ignorant as they think."
He continued to regard her, a bit bewildered, wondering what had happened to the girl with the ice cold demeanor. When he voiced his curiosity concerning her abrupt metamorphosis she sighed heavily.
"Habit, I guess. And for peace here at home with Robert and Ludy; to prevent their haranguing me for being a trollop I pretend to abhor all men." Her eyes sought his quickly. "But I don't really, and now that the good Constable and his men will spread the word they found a man in my bed-well-let Robert and his wife think what they will." She offered him an enigmatic smile. "Perhaps I am secretly glad you came here tonight."
"Perhaps," he said absently, thoughts in a whirl. This girl whom he'd never known to be anything but cold and unapproachable was changing into something warm and quite wonderful. If she decided to go all the way, he wondered if his lustful romp at Sarah's that day would become a hindrance. Then he knew it wouldn't. The mere thought of fucking Jane Wilson caused his prick to stir under the covers.
He bent and kissed the top of her head, moving his to under her armpit so that his fingers lay lightly along the outside edge of her womanly breast.
"This sudden change in you puts a different light on a number of matters," he said. "One of them in particular." Then he continued, saying the words only to test the certainty of his growing convictions. "Yet perhaps it's best I go."
"'Tis no secret you've been seeking passage to the New World," she replied. "If you go now I shan't tell you which ship is sailing on the morrow and how to get a berth on it."
His heart leaped, beat with excitement, not only because of the ship but what her words implied if he remained.
"You have such a ship?"
"Aye," she smiled. "Will you stay?"
"I promise."
"The St. Jude; with a packet of dissenters who seek religious freedom in the Colonies. She sails with the tide."
"Then I must be on her."
"I was sending a messenger to you with the information at sunup." Her smile blossomed into warm laughter. "Your passage can be easily arranged. The captain has been with Wilson Shipping for a number of years and will do anything I ask."
CHAPTER NINE
He was dumbfounded beyond utterance, seeing in her expression evidence that in the past he had occupied her thoughts much more than he had reason to suspect. At last he found his voice.
"When I go you realize that you will be left alone to face the scandal of me having been found in your bed, don't you?"
"So? I've been praying for an opportunity to put Robert and his wife in their places and this is it. Mayhap you can make this night worth the ordeal to come."
"You sound like someone old beyond her years."
"I am. I've had to be to get any peace of mind in this house."
He laughed gently. The breast under his fingers was solid and sleek-feeling, even through the nightdress. He felt a sudden urge to tear off the flimsy garment and grasp her breasts in his hands while he devoured her lips and lunged with his hips between her thighs. He leaned over her again. Her beautiful young face with its full red lips was very close. She put up her arms, caught his neck and pulled his head down. He kissed her and felt her soft lips pushing hard against his, heard her body rustling, knew she was rubbing her legs together. Now, with the last vestige of pretense gone, she rolled toward him in order to obtain a better hold. He squared himself beside her on the bed, still under the covers. She was still kissing him, but released her hold and laughed; a mixture of sensuality, nervous excitement and, yes, triumph.
"You're a vixen," he grinned. "A beautiful, lovely little vixen."
"Why, Rory?"
"All this time I thought you were made of ice and cold steel."
Her thighs were working together and the gown rising and falling from her breathing. With an ecstatic sigh he kissed her mouth hard, and then harder, forcing her lips apart so he could push his tongue between them. His hands went wandering over her body, searching over the luscious, hidden flesh. Then he reached down to the hem of her gown and slid his hand along her leg, up over the knee and up the thigh. He toyed with the thighs, teased them with his fingertips, drew his nails over the warm, glossy flesh. She trembled against the bed, eyes closed in the heat of sensuality.
His insides fluttered. In days past he had dreamed of this moment, but without hope it might ever come to pass, and now that it had . ... He moved his mouth from hers and ran his lips over her soft face.
"Put your tongue in my mouth," he whispered.
Her lips sought his and he felt the warm wet sliver of her tongue edge between his teeth. She flicked it in and out, breathing her passion into his mouth.
He sucked her tongue, his saliva mingling with hers, then forced hers to retreat before his, which filled her mouth.
Her hands moved vaguely around his head and neck, but occasionally they jerked when his more experienced technique gave her a tiny shock of pleasure.
His hands journeyed farther up her thigh, found the little nest snuggled there between. Softly he began to brush her with his fingertips. Gently, gently, back and forth, till the moisture began to develop along her smooth young thighs. Then he moved, searched for and found the wet, hard, little spur. She winced, gasped desperately. Tenderly he massaged her clit, felt it grow and thicken under his touch. Jane began to squirm and writhe, small grunts of uncontrollable passion bursting from her lips.
"Rory! Rory!" she cried wildly and thrust her tongue deep into his mouth. After a time he withdrew his lips.
"Would you like for me to suck your pussy?"
She pondered him in big-eyed dismay. "Is it done? I've never heard of such a thing."
"Between lovers it's done all the time. Would you like it?"
"I don't know. How can I say? Such a thing has never happened to me."
He slid his face swiftly down to her crotch. Her shy little virgin cunt peeped at him demurely through the frothy black mist between her thighs. Without further ado he spread the top of her cleft and seized her tiny quivering clitoris between his lips.
A harsh sob was wrenched from her throat, her hips bucked hard against his face, then twisted out of reach.
"Rory!" she wailed. "I can't stand it."
"Never mind." He chuckled happily, returning to his former position, aphrodisican perfume of her maiden juices on his upper lip strong in his nostrils. "We can do it later."
His face was hot. Perspiration beaded his forehead as once again he put his hand on her cunt, pushing his fingers into the moist flesh of her cleft. He eased a finger down and into the hot orifice. Jane jerked and pressed her thighs tightly over his hand, hindering his progress. He felt the warm flesh of her thighs bulging around his wrist as he began to work the tip of his finger inside her. Gradually she relaxed and opened her legs.
He leaned away a little and looked at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes closed, her lips open and trembling a little. He looked down, feasted his eyes on the creamy, flawless perfection of her body. The nightdress was up around her hips, revealing the delicious proportions of her thighs, the soft bulges of skin between her legs, the timid little area of black fleece where thighs joined body. The top part of her body was still covered. The hillocks of her breasts heaved in shapely unrest beneath the white material. He grabbed the shift with his free hand and pulled it up, exposing the first warm softness of little belly and hips and then the bulbous symmetry of her breasts above, with their slim, pointed nipples.
"Ahhh!" he breathed aloud. "What a doll you are."
He swooped down on her breasts. He kissed them, bathed them with his tongue and sucked the nipples, making her squirm with unbearable ecstasy. He ran his lips down over her ribs, then over her belly, which yielded spongily under the pressure. He covered her hips with hot, wet kisses, following the crease of her groin, licking the warm skin of her thighs. Again her dainty little cunt was within tonguing distance.
"Rory!" she gasped wildly. "Rory!" She seemed incapable of saying anything else as she squirmed her hips and belly under his lips.
Nipping and sucking the flesh toward the tops of her thighs, he moved his lips slowly. This time he had no intention of stopping so quickly. But this time neither did she jerk away from him. He scrambled around between her legs and gently pushed his hands under her buttocks, which tensed as she strained them upward toward his lips. He weighed a buttock in each palm and squeezed them, felt them relax in his grip. He nudged her thighs wider with his head, pushed his face against her straddle and darted his tongue into her cunt.
She made noises of torment-drawn-out gurgling sounds as he flicked his tongue in and out. She began to squirm even more, gripping his head between her thighs in convulsive spasms. Breath issued from her lips in one continuous groaning whimper. Then her movements grew so wild and out of control he was forced to remove his mouth.
He crawled back up beside her, reached up and pulled the gown off over her head. She stretched out her arms high and he slipped the shift over them and threw it to the corner. With a whip of his arm he flipped the covers to the foot of the bed and turned to her, saw her wide open eyes were filled with an anguish of desire.
His hard cock stuck out like a spear butt and he feared she might take fear at the sight of its size, but instead she fixed her fascinated gaze on the member as one hypnotized.
He moved in close beside her and kissed her neck.
"Oh Rory, I'm scared," she whispered. " 'Tis so much larger than I imagined. You can never get in."
"Don't worry, mavourneen. There may be a bit of pain, but nature prepares all women to undergo such an operation."
He captured an ear lobe with his lips and sucked it till she shivered and pushed her hot body hard against him.
For a few seconds he again stroked and teased her clitoris, then slithered over onto her body. For several seconds more he just lay there atop her, savoring the silken smoothness of her belly against his, the points of her breasts sticking against his chest, the feel of her opened thighs against his hips. She gripped him to her with slim arms and hugged him tight, nostrils flaring in her passion.
He slipped a hand down between their loins, found her untried cunt wet and quivery. He ran his fingers all through it, from one end of the hot little valley to the other, and she winced each time. Then he planted the tip end of his prick against the little aperture within her labia and removed his hand.
"Rory, will it hurt?" she cried in an agony of suspense.
"I'll not lie to you lass. Yes, 'twill hurt a bit, but sooner or later it must be done. Would you rather I desisted?"
She clutched at him in desperation. "No!" she whispered fiercely. "God, no!"
The head of his prick surrounded by the soft lip flesh of her cunt felt on fire and he applied quick pressure with his hips. Jane uttered a strangled scream and tried to crawfish from under him. Her attempt was unsuccessful. He followed her with his loins, anticipated her moves and met them with corresponding moves of his own. But he probed no farther for the time being. Already he had felt her flesh give under his attack and was satisfied that ere long he would achieve his goal. He wanted her to become accustomed to the pressure before he proceeded.
Gradually, though very gradually at first, she relaxed, her hips, went limp under him, her thighs fell away. Then, to his astonished delight, she caught her breath with a loud swoosh and wriggled her maiden straddle invitingly but experimentally against his hard meat.
He gave his hips a quick, short jab and Jane barked out a sound of pain.
"Oh Rory," she sobbed. "It hurts. It hurts more than a bit."
"I'll be gentle as possible," he promised feverishly. "Soon it won't hurt at all."
"It-it burns."
He could understand this, for his last effort had driven his glans through the mouth of her cunt. When she untensed, he began a small undulation of his hips, careful not to try for further penetration just then.
He found her lips with his, slipped his tongue into her mouth, and she responded by thrusting her own little tongue at his.
He fucked her tenderly, rotating his hips without advancing, but keeping up the pressure. Each time he moved to bore deeper she tensed and he stopped. Tiny droplets of perspiration beaded her face from the heat generated by their bodies. He slid his hands up her sides to her breasts, which were sweaty also. The girl was at the apex of burning, lustful heat.
Unconsciously, spurred by the urgency of his need, Rory was penetrating a tiny fraction deeper with each circular undulation of his ass. Jane clinched her jaw from the pain, which had lessened considerably after her hymen broke, and only when she cried out again did he realize he was thrusting progressively harder.
Her half-raised thighs trembled against the outside of his. Her hands squeezed at his flesh.
"Oooooh, it hurts!" She flung her head from side to side, but knowing the futility, made no further effort to jerk her hips away from his. "There's a fire in my belly," she sobbed. "You're splitting me wide open." And each time she thought the pain had eased it broke out anew and the great merciless boring-in between her legs went deeper and deeper.
She closed her eyes, tried to stop the tears oozing from under her lids. Why were women forced to endure such pain? Was this like having a baby? She would never, never have a baby.
In a paroxysm of lust Rory slid his hands under her behind, pushed his fingers around till one of them rested against her little rosebud. He was in a delirium of passion and the fire in his loins grew by leaps and bounds, drawing from his mouth strange sounds. His huge prick had almost disappeared into the hot, clamping resistance of her cunt. There was little of it left outside her body. In less than a minute he would orgasm and this knowledge, with its attendant sensations, twisted his lips into odd shapes. He humped his back and settled himself deeper into her saddle to drive in the last fraction of his penis.
Jane Wilson heard the strange mouthings pouring from his lips and a tiny chill of apprehension coursed through her. She wondered if this was the way with all men. But she was greatly relieved to find that the pain got no worse, that she was beginning to again experience some of the wondrous sensations she'd felt prior to his entry. Rory had been right all along. It would only hurt for a little while. In fact, the pain grew less with every thrust he made and she began to wriggle her loins and thighs against his. It did not seem possible that only a few minutes ago she had been crying out in anguish.
"It doesn't hurt much anymore, Rory," she breathed against his lips. "It doesn't hurt much anymore."
Her words vitalized his actions. There was a sweet submissiveness about them and her tone which made him feel god-like. He pulled her thighs up to a more acute angle with the axis of her body and pushed home the last millimeter of his hard, pulsating prick. Jane gasped from the pleasure this brought. Her hot, tender young cunt was tightly stuffed; gorged with his rigid male meat. At last she was a woman in fact and tears of joy filled her eyes.
An inferno smoldered in Rory's loins. His prick felt thick and heavy and weighted inside her dainty little cunt. It felt ready to shatter from the lustful sensations swirling in his balls. His belly heaved in and out like that of a marathon runner and he choked for air.
"Jane!" he gasped. "My only one."
"Rory darling," she answered tenderly through her mounting passion.
His jaw worked but no sounds save those of the struggle for breath came from his throat. He drove into her with passionate zeal, sinking his prick to the limit each thrust with such force it brought small, delicate grunts from her parted lips. His guts churned, felt watery, and he was dead to all else except his suffering prick moving among the vitals of the lovely creature speared on it.
A throaty snarl of victory erupted from his chest and he felt the top of his head pop loose from the silent explosion in his loins. He called her name desperately as the strong flow of yang raced into her virgin womb, clutched and squeezed her tender flesh as he hunched and bucked their loins together, flooding her belly with his escaping seminal fluid. Then he sank down solidly onto her warm, receptive flesh and lay there, panting loudly.
Through her own passion Jane was aware of his groaning and writhing, and with an immense feeling of secret feminine joy felt the scalding gushes of thick come spurt into her body, blossom into gentle heat in her belly, felt him quiver with each successive charge, and knew what it was to be a woman. His big, hairy testicles snuggled in the cleavage of her buttocks produced in her young body sensations she could never have imagined. She was hot and wet and there was a piquant burning in her crotch and loins. She was sore, yet not so sore she didn't want him to continue. She sighed passionately and tensed her thighs against his motionless hips.
"Don't get off," she whispered. "Lie as you are. Don't ever get off."
Rory chuckled inwardly, recognizing the un-quenched desire in her words. It was warm and pleasant having her provocative body as a live cushion for his. And he had no intention of getting off. Not yet. She had not reached a climax and it was a challenge to his manhood that she do so before he stopped fucking her. That he had climaxed first, and so soon, considering his lusty jousting most of the day with Sarah, Ruth and Alice, had come as a delightful surprise. He breathed deeply from the pure joy of his immediate situation. There was something about Jane Wilson that set her apart from any girl he'd ever known. So he was far from finished. He wanted to see her throw a fit while submerged in an orgiastic holocaust. Besides, tomorrow he sailed on the St. Jude and meant to leave port well fucked. There would probably be little cunt available during the voyage.
"I'm not getting off," he replied. "At least not yet."
"Don't ever!"
He grinned down at her. "You must like it a lot," he teased.
"I love it." A tinkling giggle bubbled from her lips. "I feel like a stuffed goose." She squirmed her hot passage around his ensconced cock, caught her breath in a short series of quick jerks. "My lord, but it's wonderful."
"Think of what you've been missing."
"I'll never miss it again."
"What about your family?"
"I come of age next week and get full legal control of Wilson Shipping, though Uncle Mike will continue to run it. Robert and Ludy can either toe the mark or get out. I'll brook no further nagging and vile accusations from either of them." Her voice suddenly shook with tremulous urgency. "Rory?"
"Yes, Jane?'"
"Fuck me again, Rory."
He grinned at her again and continued his teasing. "Say please."
"Please fuck me again, and this time don't stop till I've had enough. Will you do that for me?"
"Aren't you sore?"
"A teeny-weeny mite, but as you said, nature prepares a woman for such as this." She sighed voluptuously and caressed his rib cage. "And I'm a woman. Hurry, dear. Please fuck me." She ground her straddle against his prick and quivered deliriously. "Please."
He hoisted his weight to knees and elbows, adjusted his position, then began fucking into her in slow, deep strokes. Her breath escaped in a long, sibilant hiss, like the sound of escaping steam. Her arms crept around his neck and she raised and widened her thighs, presenting him with her unprotected bottom to do with as he would. He kept his thrustings slow and smooth, knowing she would climax at any moment, but wanting her to experience the foretaste of joys to come as long as possible.
She lay beneath him with eyes half closed, lips parted, hands resting on his hip bones and lips moving minutely, as though silently thanking fate for the night's events that had brought him to her room. It was her first sexual experience and she was determined to make the most of it. Yet there was in the back of her mind a faint shadow. She could not at all be sure she hadn't been in love with Rory Gaelean since that first moment she'd laid eyes on him at Sarah Devin's weeks ago-and tomorrow he would be gone forever, whether she loved him or not. But there was always tonight.
So she lay relatively motionless under him, glorying in the rapturous sensations brought about by his big engine pistoning with tender force in and out of her cunt. Had she been more experienced in matters sexual she would have realized that he was taking special care with her; that she was being fucked in a special way, that his purpose was, for the time being at least, to please her rather than please himself.
She burned with a fierce passion as a result of his gentle ministrations between her thighs. His member probing delicately in the dark recesses of her belly aroused emotions in her young breast she had never known existed. And their naked flesh to naked flesh contact filled her with a supreme sublimity that beggared description. A soft feline purr of absolute joy and contentment came from her lips. The sound stopped abruptly, smothered by surprise, when her orgasm drew within striking distance.
The cozy glow that had been building slowly in her loins suddenly became an inferno of lust that threatened to consume her reason. Her eyes flew open, sought his quickly, wildly. The blissful goodness enveloping her in a cocoon of passion was about to stifle her breathing.
"Rory," she whimpered desperately.
"Aye, lass.'" He well knew the signs and kept right on fucking. Moments past his gliding prick had noted a telltale tremor in her belly. To enhance her pleasure he now began giving that small extra hunch the female about to orgasm finds so fascinating, and its inclusion in his action brought other signs of her approaching glory. He knew she would come before he did and therefore took no thought of himself, but concentrated in producing in her a sexual holocaust she would not soon forget.
To help accomplish this, each time he gave the additional hunch he held his prick in her belly till he rotated his hips and rubbed the base of his staff and pubic hairs against her passion mark. Half a dozen such strokes produced a startling effect in Jane Wilson.
Her arms seized him about the neck, her knees soared up and her thighs scissored about his waist. Then she thrust her tongue into his mouth, a muffled scream gurgling in her throat. A second later the devastating orgasm sledge-hammered her without mercy low in the belly, triggered the lust bomb in her loins, and she shrieked like a wounded angel.
Her ripe lips drew back from her teeth like those of an angry cat and she snapped at his shoulder and arms. Harsh lines of passion warped her lovely face, her shapely limbs flew hither and yon as though she were trying to throw them away. And then her torso, powered by her lunging hips, commenced a weird sort of bucking, loping, in-place gallop under him so that he only had to hold his position. She did the rest by heaving her hips up toward him, her recently chaste cunt swallowing completely his stationary meat repeatedly, inner muscles of her belly massaging and sucking on it in delicious fervor.
A thin sheen of perspiration covered her normally white body, now flushed a hot pink from the brutality of her climax. Tiny yelps and spits and other strange noises bubbled from her lips, and when the orgasm reached its zenith of rapture she drifted off into incoherent babblings which, under different circumstances, would have been frightening indeed.
Rory managed to hold himself in place till her ecstasy began to wane, then loosed the grip on his emotions, slammed his cock solidly to the limit in her belly and lay there clutching her shoulders to keep from falling off the world.
"Mmmmmm," she murmured dreamily some time later. "How wonderful. How beautiful. Words fail me." Tears of joy edged her voice.
"Had enough," he smiled at her tenderly.
"I'll never have enough," she said with tremulous sincerity, large blue eyes holding his. "Darling, must you go to the New World?" Her joy was becoming tainted with despair.
"Aye, lass. That I must," he replied, thinking of the dead Squire Toada. "My life is at stake-and not because I was the Gentleman Bandit."
"But what will you do there in the wilderness, Rory mine?"
Then he voiced the words that had lived only in his dreams since that fateful night years ago, when as a child of seven the faithful old retainer had smuggled him from the family castle where his parents had been murdered.
"I'll build me a house, a home, like that which my family had in northern Ireland," he said quietly. "I mean to call it Gaelean House. It'll be such a place as my descendants can put down roots and know they are part of the building of a new land."
Jane sighed forlornly, then forced a bright smile on her lips and snuggled up close, a plan already beginning to form in the back of her mind.
"Well, anyway," she whispered softly. "It's hours before the St. Jude sails and we have plenty of time. Fuck me again."
CHAPTER TEN
Rory stood leaning on the rail of the St. Jude staring wearily out across the barren Atlantic Ocean. Three weeks had passed since his hasty farewell to Sarah Devin and a later, longer goodby to an almost tearfully hysterical Jane Wilson. He spat into the water below, cursing his fate. He couldn't get the raven haired, blue eyed slip of a girl who owned Wilson Shipping Company off his mind. For a reason he could find no logical answer to, she badgered his thoughts day and night-when he wasn't reminding himself how good it would be to have just about any piece of cunt. Not that there wasn't plenty of it aboard. Approximately half of the religious dissenters and those who claimed to be religious dissenters in order to obtain passage on the St. Jude were women. Yet all save two had husbands, and these two were Lesbians.
If luck was with him he might be able to get at thoroughly fuckable Mandy Mott, twenty-eight year old wife of the Reverend Mr. Isaiah Mott, both members of some religious sect he'd never heard of. He ached to fuck Mandy. Given half a chance he would fuck her. His loins warmed at the thought.
Again he spat into the ocean drifting past. On several occasions he'd caught her eyeing him covetously, a secret promise in her clear gray eyes, a taunting smile on her lips. For certain her sanctimonious husband couldn't give her a proper screw. Zealous, over pious, scrawny, dry-skinned Isaiah Mott had passed his sixtieth year. He couldn't have much left. If any. Many times since their first meeting aboard the St. Jude Rory had puzzled over why a succulent sex-pot like Mandy had married a withered old goat like him.
"Which is naught to me," he growled aloud. "So long as I get under her petticoats."
His thoughts turned to the two Lesbians, Gert Turner and Jenny Lea, whose sexual relationship to all aboard save him, apparently, was unknown. After the vivid descriptions of Lesbians given him by Ruth and Alice he had spotted the pair at once, though he suspected only Gert Turner was a Lesbian in truth, that the other girl was one due to circumstances, in the manner Alice and Ruth were. On numerous occasions during the night he had lain awake in his bunk listening to their lustful cavortings beyond the thin panel of sail cloth separating his sleeping area from theirs.
The St. Jude had been originally constructed as a freighter; only a half-hearted attempt had been made to convert it to carry passengers. Therefore, and because of the large number of persons making the voyage, many were forced to sacrifice the personal privacy they otherwise took for granted. As a consequence of this, Rory shared a miserably small, cramped cabin with Gertrude Turner and Jenny Lea, their respective areas divided by only a large piece of canvas hung up as a curtain. Not an ideal arrangement-for either of them.
Gert resented him bitterly, as she resented all men, both for his intrusion and for his masculinity, for Gert was the 'male' of the Lesbian duo.
Broad shouldered for a female, thick bodied, with large breasts and heavy thighs, she had an aggressive attitude which at times Rory found offensive. She had a broad and, surprisingly, rather pretty peasant face.
Jenny Lea was her exact opposite; a slender girl no older than Rory, with large frightened eyes and quick, bird-like movements. It was Rory's opinion she submitted to the sexual demands of the burly Gert more out of need for protection and companionship than from any desires of the flesh.
"To fuck Jenny I'd probably have to fight Gert," he mused at the water below. "On land I might consider it as a last resort, but not on this ship. Too many holier-than-thous about." His thin slash of a mouth twisted in a wry grin. "Maybe I should try to fuck Gert."
He had no inkling that before the sun sank into the sea again he would do exactly that.
The way it came about was quite by accident.
Rory was passing the cramped cubicle he shared with the girls when he entered on impulse to find the husky Gert furtively searching through his belongings.
He grabbed her shoulder, spun her from his gear at the end of his bunk, and Miss Gertrude Turner found herself staring down her nose at the blade of a wicked looking dagger. One glance at Rory's eyes told her the knife was in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. Her ruddy peasant's face turned chalky white. Punishment for thievery at sea was twenty lashes with the cat o' nine tails, the thief lashed to the mast. This punishment had never been inflicted on a woman, but Gert did not stop to consider this. She decided to brazen it out.
"I was looking for to borrow some soap," she said flatly. By her simple logic any man so good looking as this handsome young devil couldn't be very smart. Her resentment of him was enormous, though it stemmed not so much from what Rory, or any man, was, but rather from what she, Gertrude Turner, was not. Nature had betrayed her in making her a female. To her mind she had as much right as any man to a prick and brace of balls between her legs.
"You're a goddamned liar," Rory said in a low, quiet voice, shifting the point of his dagger till it rested against her throat. " 'Twas my gold you were seeking, so you and friend Jenny won't have to sell yourselves as bond slaves once we reach the Colonies." He'd heard them discuss the matter in the night.
"Don't call me no liar, you brash upstart!" she hissed venomously, color returning to her face. "I said I was looking for to borrow some soap."
The idea which had so casually occurred to him at the rail returned to his mind with forceful clarity.
Why not fuck her? he asked himself. And she just might let him if he threatened to take her to the captain.
"Soap it was," he said. "But I'm sure the captain will be pleased to hear you say it."
Again color promptly fled her face. There was no denying she feared the cat.
"You'd take me to the captain?" she asked weakly.
"Unless you want to take the punishment I give you," Rory said, watching her closely.
Her eyes became crafty, betraying her eagerness to bargain. "What sort of punishment?"
He told her his terms and she stared at him incredulously, anguish welling in her eyes. There was no way he could know she had never been touched by a man since the herdsman, when she was fifteen and serving as a dairymaid, had assaulted her in the barn. Rory only saw an opportunity to relieve the tormenting ache that had accumulated in his balls since the St. Jude had left Ireland.
"You're daft," she whispered hoarsely in despair. "Your punishment is too much."
"Then you prefer the cat?"
Suddenly she remembered. "They don't whip women."
"There's always a first time. And who will speak in your defense when they learn of your relationship with Jenny Lea?"
"You know of that?" she gasped.
"Aye."
"And you would tell?"
"Aye." This was not true and he promised himself to set the lie aright soon as he'd fucked her. "So you see, 'tis small choice you have." He stepped closer, knife still under her chin. "Back up to that washstand behind and rest your rear against it."
The stand was perhaps two feet by three feet, hip high and made of stout lumber, one end nailed securely to the cabin bulkhead. Slowly, as one in a trance, eyes locked with his and in the manner of a game rooster squaring off to fight, she did as he bade. Her gaze darted frantically about the tiny cabin in search of a means of escape. There was no escape. Rory stood between her and the only door. Suddenly her bravado wilted, her shoulders slumped in defeat, all the fight, all the aggressiveness attendant in the 'male' of any Lesbian duo, went out of her and tears glistened in her eyes.
"You can't do this to me," she said in pleading tones as her buttocks touched the stand and Rory sheathed his dagger.
"Tell me that a quarter of an hour from now," he said roughly. His face was full and loose with passion, his testicles swollen with lust-fluid and his long suffering cock struggled mightily against the front of his trousers.
Gert's eyes grew enormous as he unbuckled his belt, his pants dropped to his ankles and his huge penis thrust forth like an angry battering ram. She stared at it dry-lipped, in fascinated terror, and the look recalled for Rory something the fat Ruth Harding had told him concerning certain Lesbians.
"They abhor all men," Ruth had said. "Despise them out of jealousy because they aren't men themselves."
Apparently Gertrude Turner was of that category, for there was something in her expression that went beyond fear. Yet it made not a tinker's dam to him what her attitude or feelings were. The animal of lust was roaring in his loins and he meant to appease it.
"You're going to frig me against me will?" she demanded, shock of her predicament wearing off.
"How long would I have to wait before you agreed?" The question was purely rhetorical. His mind was made up. He had no interest in her answer.
"Forever," she spat. "No man sticks his vileness in Gert Turner's belly by her consent."
Rory grinned at her, knowing he was master of the situation. "This one does."
"Only by advantage of your blackguard tricks." Impotent rage made her voice thick.
"Raise your petticoats," he said evenly, meeting her eyes. "Lean back on the washstand, with your shoulders against the bulkhead, and lift your knees."
For a full minute she glared at him in mingled rage and despair, then turned her head to stare stonily out the nearby porthole and slowly did as he directed, spreading her heavily thighed legs wide. Odor of her open cunt smote him across the face and he wanted to bellow like a rutting bull. Unlike the weathered complexion of her face and hands, her thighs and belly were white as fresh milk. And soft and hot looking. His hands trembled with feverish excitement as he pushed down the boom of his cock and inched in close. Her dark expanse of pubic hair was the most abundant he'd ever seen on a woman. Glistening with body oils, the bristly curls covered nearly all that area between navel and cunt and reached from hip to hip. It was so long he was forced to part it with his fingers. When he did this he exposed the raw red gash of her labia and the aphrodisiac scent of her secretions became stronger than ever.
Submerged in lustful need, he planted the end of his prick against the soft portal of her cunt, ran his hands down under and around her muscular thighs, snapped his hips forward with all his strength. In one crushing hunch he sunk his cock to the very limit into her hot passage. She never removed her stony gaze from the porthole; only grunted harshly in protest when he rammed in between her legs. Rory also grunted harshly.
His balls exploded. Before he could stroke into her a second time great globs of semen shattered from his nuts, tore through his rigid meat tube like coals of fire and gushed into her belly. He grunted again, through clinched teeth, and the elixir of lust continued to belch from his loins in the delicious agony of a too-long-delayed orgasm.
"Have you satisfied yourself with me now, you beast?" Gert asked woodenly when it was all over, still not looking at him.
"Be patient," he chuckled. "I've only begun."
He unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and tossed them on his bunk, then stepped free of his trousers and kicked them aside, all without breaking their coupling. His prick soaking in her belly felt hot and tender.
"If Jenny finds us thus, I can never show her my face again," Gert said miserably. "I've vowed to her no man shall ever touch me." She looked down to where his prick disappeared into her body. Pearly drops of semen clung to the hairs bordering the lips of her vagina. More of his copious discharge oozed out around the shaft and crept slowly down into the clamped cleft of her buttocks. A dry, raspy sob wrenched from her throat.
An idea popped into Rory's mind. At once he shaped it into words.
"Let me fuck Jenny and I'll see she never learns of this," he said. "And you can pretend you don't know I fucked her. She'll never know."
Gert's mouth flew open to voice a protest, but before she could utter a word, he continued.
"Furthermore, when we reach the Colonies I'll see you have what gold you need so you won't have to sell yourselves as bond slaves." It was a promise he could easily keep. His last robbery had netted him over twice what all the others had and it was little enough to pay for assurance of female companionship the remainder of the voyage. For the first time since coming aboard the husky Gert looked at him with interest, a touch of wonder in her tone.
"You'd do this for us? Just for a bit o' friggin' now and then?" This horny young Irish blade didn't quite fit the pattern of other males.
"I promise. But Jenny Lea goes with the bargain." He squirmed his loins against her open crotch, moved his prick about inside her. It felt wonderful. Gert seemed not to notice.
"'Tis not such a price to pay," she mused cautiously, searching his face for some sign he was lying. No man had ever shown her a kindness before. "And Jenny will not object to such an arrangement. She likes the attentions of a man as well as mine." Her large breasts lifted from a deep breath, a slow smile wreathed her broad face and she drew her knees higher. "All right, you Irish stud. Frig away."
"I'll not be bargained for," a soft, feminine voice said from the other side of the canvas curtain dividing their quarters. Jenny Lea came into view around the edge of it, her usually timid bearing replaced by a haughty dignity.
She was amazingly slender, with smooth, even features except for a slightly jutting lower lip. Her eyes flashed with anger, but Rory sensed the anger was only feminine pretense. Her expression betrayed an inordinate interest in what he was doing to Gert.
"I entered directly behind you," she said to Rory. "And have been beyond the curtain ever since. I heard everything."
"Then you know he forced me at knife point to fuck him," Gert blurted hopefully.
"Aye. That I heard. And also your agreement with him concerning me." Then she said again, "I'll not be bargained for."
"But, love," Gert said hastily, somewhat ludicrous seated on the edge of the washstand, shoulders back against the bulkhead, knees high and wide with Rory standing between them. "He'll keep us from becoming bond slaves once we reach the Colonies. You'll fare worse as such than from any treatment he gives you."
Neither Jenny or Gert seemed to notice when Rory began to screw into the latter again with slow, deep strokes. He had no interest in their bickering. All he wanted was more relief.
"Still," Jenny said stubbornly. "I'll decide what man plays between my legs."
Rory glanced in her direction just as she looked at him. He saw the smoldering lust in the depths of her eyes and promptly lost interest in Gert. Passive cunt, such as hers, was fine when none other was available, but in Jenny Lea he recognized one that throbbed for need of a prick. Apparently her facade of timidity and submissiveness was for those from whom she wished to conceal her homosexual relationship with her friend, for she evinced no such characteristics now.
She stepped boldly toward them, looked down at their joined loins. Rory heard her sharp in-take of breath at sight of him pulling his cock free. Over the younger girl's head he winked significantly at Gert and indicated the door with a minute jerk of his head.
"Well now," Gert beamed with relief at being freed. "Now that I've done me duty toward our bargain, I think I'll have a bit of a stroll around the deck."
"Quite a woman," Rory said in the moment of awkwardness that followed her departure.
"Sometimes I think she's a bit daft," Jenny replied, eyes on his genitals as she began jerking off her clothes.
Rory grinned. "So you've come to a decision as to what man will play between your legs, eh?"
"I need it," she said shakily. "My husband has been in the Colonies for nigh onto a year, but couldn't send me passage fare. I've been living with his mother. Gert worked as a tavern wench near there and had saved enough to pay us across. When she made me her proposition, I took it."
Jenny flung the last of her garments aside and came into his waiting arms. Down the length of him her naked flesh burned into his.
"Let's don't play around before we do it," she whispered hotly against his lips. "We can play later, when there's a need."
They stood embracing fiercely, gently swaying to the roll of the ship. Her thighs opened against his genitals as she clung to his neck. She tried to pull herself higher, tried to clasp his hard prick with her legs.
Rory caught her ass in his hands, held a firm buttock in each, and lifted her free of the deck. She tightened her hold around his neck and brought a knee up on either side of his waist.
Quickly he moved to the stand where Gert had been seated, placed her on the edge of it and reached down between them to guide his rod toward her vagina. Jenny relaxed her arms about him in order to watch. Breath spewed from her mouth as the bulbous end of his prick touched the inflamed flesh of her cunt.
"I need this," she moaned softly against his chest. "Oh God, I need this."
She snapped her thighs back nearly to her shoulders to aid his entry. Hair on her crotch was surprisingly sparse.
"How old are you, Jenny?" he asked.
"Coming seventeen-old enough to be wed these fourteen months past." She spoke with head bowed, eyes fixed on the point of his rod blunted against her pussy. "Go ahead," she pleaded. "Get it in me." She forked the first two fingers of one hand around the end of his prick and opened her labia.
Rory tingled all the way to his heels when his glans kissed the steamy pink flesh beyond. She seemed to have trouble with her breathing. He adjusted his position to get smoother penetration and commenced working his hips in small hunches. Low, guttural sounds of pent-up lust gargled from the girl's throat. She braced herself on her palms behind and threw her head back, face screwed tight in a mask of passion.
"Faster," she sobbed. "Get it in me faster."
Her cunt was hot and soft and moist. It was tight around his boring prick, but nature had lubricated her well with secretions and he encountered no difficulty. Each forward pressure of his loins deepened the penetration of his blood swollen organ. Half way in he stopped, but Jenny made a strangled, frantic sound of protest and he began again. Under the edge of the washstand his balls swung sedately to and fro with his hip action.
Jenny appeared to be throwing some sort of strange fit. She seemed in a frenzy of ecstasy caused by the big cock inching up into her belly. Her cheeks puffed and hollowed, her eyes rolled, she chewed her tongue while unfeminine snorts and honks of seething lust poured from her lips.
Rory's penis felt hot and squeezed in her tight channel. When he maneuvered the last fraction of it into her he paused a moment to watch her weird display, wondering if the girl might not be going out of her mind. It was hard to imagine any female as attractive as Jenny Lea to be so hard up for male attention. Among the garbled incoherencies issuing from her throat he managed to intercept one as, "Do it to me.
He grasped her waist to hold her steady, snapped his hips to the rear, then threw them forward, again plunging his big prick into her depths. She squealed like a castrated pig. He set to work with a vengeance. She was not the only one suffering from lack of attention from the opposite sex.
He held her on the edge of the stand and drove into her with passionate vigor, slapping her open crotch wih his loins so hard meaty thwacks filled the tiny cabin.
She lunged forward, clung to his neck like a person drowning; choking and gasping, her breasts flattened on his chest.
"Oh God!" she cried as though in mortal despair. "Oh God!" She grasped a hand full of his hair, pulled his head down to her searching lips, and plunged her tongue into his mouth, groaning in an agony of passion. With hands under her buttocks he lifted her free of the washstand in an ecstatic fury and stood there jogging up into her while she sobbed his name. He replaced her on the stand and she released his neck, fell back till her shoulders hit the bulkhead, whining in a delirium of hot lust. He increased his hip action till they became a hazy blur, his cock pistoning in and out of her cunt with dizzy speed. At such a pace she could not last long, and neither could he. Yet she urged him on to greater effort with an impassioned flow of filthy obscenities.
She squirmed and strained on the small stand like a trapped animal, moving arms and legs and torso, but never the point where his prick invaded her body.
"Fuck me!" she screamed hoarsely, wild eyed. "Fuck me! I'm about to come!"
The orgasm slugged a great spongy cough from her lungs, then the hot, juicy tube of her spasming pussy clamped viciously around his prick and she was coming like a broken dam. So was Rory. The instant her scalding juices flushed around his plunging prick his balls gave up the ghost in a mad shattering of tensions. A wild Irish war cry tore from his throat and he pitched forward onto her and lay there, each clutching the other in ecstatic desperation while their spending fluids mingled in the hot recesses of her convulsing belly.
Rory continued to work his hips, savoring each small hunch, for some time after their rapture had left. Hairs of their genitals were soppy with goo, and when he at last pulled his prick from her body a small rivulet of it overflowed her cunt to fall to the deck below.
The look she gave him was akin to worship when he stepped back.
"We're not finished are we?" she asked anxiously, lowering her legs. "We're going to do it some more, aren't we?"
He grinned hugely, almost beside himself with happiness over the abrupt change his fortunes had taken.
"Jenny Lea," he told her slowly. "We're going to fuck all the way to the New World."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rory's statement that they would fuck all the way to the New World was not entirely an overstatement. Two days and nights, interspersed with long periods of sleep and rest, passed before Jenny managed to assuage her sexual hungers. They did it all over the small cabin and in every conceivable manner the human male and female bodies can be sexually coupled. They did it during the husky Gert's absence and with her present, one time not even stopping to eat, with Rory taking the younger girl from behind while Gert fed them biscuits and cold mutton. At the end of the two days Jenny Lea was too sore to leave her bunk and Rory decided to take a walk on deck. He left the cabin promising to return soon, his mind on Mandy Mott. Strangely enough, his mind had been on Reverend Mott's lovely young wife during the last few hours of his marathon session with Jenny.
If he scored with Mandy he would have to work fast. According to Gert, who had blossomed into a warm friend despite his previous treatment of her, the ship's captain had informed the passengers that land would appear on the horizon some day soon now.
Rory found Isaiah Mott and his comely wife at the rail on the opposite side of the vessel. As usual, the aged Mott was extolling the beneficence of the All Mighty to all passersby who would listen. He laid a palsied hand on Rory's arm as the young Irishman took a position at the rail beside him.
"Look at yon clouds, Mr. Gaelean," Mott croaked in a dry voice. " 'Tis the handiwork of the Lord. And this vast body of water on which we sail-the handiwork of the Lord. And this great ship St. Jude-the handiwork of the Lord." He smiled benignly at Rory, presenting a mouthful of toothless gums. Rory wondered what the great St. Jude looked like when the Lord had it by Himself; before shipbuilders shaped and formed its timbers, but said nothing. He had other things on his mind. Namely, the lovely Mandy Mott standing on the far side of her husband.
She was tall for a woman, with wide, lush hips, full breasts and a firm, straight back; carrying herself with the grace and poise of a queen. Her dark hair was done in braids, then coiled atop her head and her wide blue eyes, oddly enough, reminded him of little Jane Wilson-whom he was missing more and more with each passing day. Mandy's complexion was flawless. She glanced fleetingly at Rory as she spoke to her husband.
"Isaiah dear, I'm sure Mr. Gaelean is acquainted with the handiwork of the Lord. Why don't you go see how Ep Hines is coming on. Perhaps he needs your prayers to cast evil spirits out from him again."
Her suggestion appealed to the elderly Mott, who took his leave and hobbled off with alacrity. They followed him with their eyes till he disappeared around the aft superstructure. It was Mandy who broke their silence.
"He's a good man," she sighed quietly. "But he's so-so-ancient."
"'Tis a thing that's given me no little puzzlement," Rory said. "Why did you marry so old a man?"
She looked at him frankly. "Because my father is a beast and my mother a nagging shrew and Isaiah was the only marriageable male in the village. Does that answer your question?"
"Aye," he replied, deciding to take the plunge. She could only say either yes or no and a man couldn't be hanged for asking. "It answers one of them. I have another."
She regarded him evenly, eyes almost at a level with his. In the back of them he saw the secret promise he'd noticed there before.
"What question?"
"I was thinking how delightful it would be to relieve your ancient husband of some obligations he is surely unable to perform."
This bold approach caught Mandy off guard and she gaped at him a moment before a deep crimson crept up her neck and fused her face. She pulled her eyes from his and stared out over the water, saying nothing. But Rory did not miss the excited pulsations of the large vein on her neck. He could be patient-for a little while. As well screwed as Jenny Lea had him it wouldn't be too difficult.
"You're a brash young man," she said at last in words so low he barely caught their meaning. Her full breasts lifted in a deep sigh and she faced him, the mysterious little smile playing around her lips. "A very brash young man-but you do have the most interesting ideas. Isaiah is always sound asleep by the second watch, and I come up on deck to enjoy the evening air."
"Will you enjoy it this evening?" His heart fluttered like a humming bird's wing.
"I hope to," she said. "More than ever."
While Gert stood guard for them he fucked Mandy that night on the forward deck near the bridge behind a great pile of rope and spare sails. In the ravishing torment of her lust-heat Mandy had no objections to a comparative stranger, and another woman at that, knowing she was spreading her legs outside the marital bed. In truth, a quick, intimate friendship sprang up between Mandy and Gert at the very onset.
The elderly minister's wife damned near ate Rory up while in the throes of her first orgasm. He was forced to cover her mouth to prevent her wild screams of rapture from alarming the ship. Her second time around was little less vociferous, but her third was more controlled-she only beat the deck with balled fists and flailed the air with her legs. During her fourth and fifth she retained complete possession of her wits and each time thereafter when she charged the slope of victory she whined and mewled voluptuously in his ear, holding him close with soft arms and warm thighs.
The rough deck was hard on his knees and elbows, but except for Jane Wilson, Mandy Mott was about the best fuck he'd ever had.
The moon was gliding toward the sea when they finished and sneaked silently past the watch, the sexually satiated Mandy too weak to stand steady. Her knees were trembly, she wobbled when she walked, and Rory had to support her on his arm to the door of her sleeping quarters.
Back in his own quarters Gert Turner regarded him in slack-jawed awe.
"You," she said emphatically, a big smile splitting her peasant's face, "are the frigginest Irishman I ever even heard a rumor about."
Jenny, abed propped on an elbow, studied him curiously. "Gert told me about it," she said. "You mean after three days and nights in the bed with me you had to have more?" She shook her head, finding it hard to believe.
"'Tis the way nature constructed me," Rory chuckled, taking a seat on his bunk. The canvas curtain dividing their cabin had been removed. "Are you still sore?"
"I am," Jenny replied promptly. "You aren't hinting, I hope."
'Well-" He let his voice trail off, looking at her sideways. "Perhaps not, but I was thinking of the morrow. I can't very well bed Mandy Mott with her husband gawking about pounding the Good Book and praying evil spirits out of folks."
"Who'd he pray evil spirits out of?" Gert asked. "Some man named Ep Hines." Both girls burst out laughing. Rory looked askance from one to the other till they quited.
"Ep Hines?" Jenny chortled in high glee. "We know him from back home. He was the town drunk. Every time he got too much he'd claim he was possessed by demons and send for the parson to pray for him. In the tavern where she worked Gert heard him bragging about how he was going to smuggle a keg of Red Devil rum aboard the St. Jude. Looks like he did it, too."
"I thought this ship was a load of religious people," Rory said.
"It is," Gert told him. "Which means it's got its share of hypocrites." She stood up and began undressing.
"Rory." Jenny caught his eye and winked hugely. "If you need another lay, why don't you try Gertrude again?"
"Hesh your mouth," the other girl said bluntly. "He's had enough for one day."
"Why not, Gert?" Rory asked with pretended seriousness, joining in Jenny's little game. "I couldn't have been that bad the other day."
"'Tweren't you, lad," she said. "But as you said, it's the way nature constructed me. I've no craving to have a man's engine stirring amongst me innards. And that's that. If you simply must relieve yourself once more, then bugger Jenny. It'll be a fresh experience for her."
"Oh no," Jenny said hastily, pulling the covers up under her chin. "Not that big thing in my behind. I'm going to sleep."
Rory began unbuttoning his garments. "I think I'll do the same." And he did, puzzling in his mind how he could manage to get at Mandy Mott in broad daylight tomorrow. Just before sleep claimed him, Man-dy's face and figure segued into those of Jane Wilson, and he drifted away from reality with a smile on his lips.
* * *
The manner in which he managed to insinuate his hefty tool into Mandy Mott the next day in full view of those aboard ship, including her husband, is unique in the annals of fuckology and sent Jenny Lea into fits of hysterical laughter.
Gert Turner devised the plan, and engineered it insofar as having Mandy cut a long slit in the back of her dress, then conceal the slit with one of the ankle length, wrap-around aprons so popular with women of the day.
"Now look you, Master Frigger," she laughed to Rory in their cabin while Jenny boggled in breathless excitement. "See how that porthole by the washstand angles inward?"
This was true. When the St. Jude had been converted from a freighter to a passenger ship the porthole had been cut in the bulkhead at a point where it angled sharply toward the center of the ship and was perhaps two feet above the deck. Passengers often paused to sit on the angle, which ran the length of the cabin.
"Your lady fair," Gert continued, grinning enormously, "will take a seat on the porthole with the apron, which is tied in the back, in her lap so it won't interfere with the cut in her dress, and you're to get on your knees on this side of the bulkhead, here in the cabin. From there on I've no need to instruct you."
"You mean I'm to screw on my knees through the porthole?" Rory chuckled. He found prospects of such an encounter highly enervating. "But what if someone comes up and takes a seat beside her? Her husband, for instance."
"I'll be outside trying to fend them off. See that weather crack above the porthole?" She pointed toward the bulkhead. With him on his knees the quarter-inch crack would be about level with his eyes. "You can watch through that. But it makes no difference. People will be too excited to notice what Mandy's doing. The crow's nest spotted a fast clipper ship passing us for the Colonies a while ago and everybody's abuzz with speculation, so no one is likely to notice. Understand? You can keep friggin' long as Mandy is seated. I've told her not to move till you've withdrawn."
Rory nodded. It was a mite risky, but his balls ached for relief and Jenny was still incapable-his thoughts were too engrossed with the project at hand to linger long on the clipper ship that had passed.
Gert left the cabin to inform Mandy all was in readiness. Jenny lay on her side, facing the porthole with bated breath, eyes sparkling with anticipation. Rory shed his trousers and stood waiting near the porthole.
A shadow flicked over it, then the sunlight coming through the port was cut off by Mandy's lush bottom. Jenny sat upright in bed when he dropped to his knees and inched close, fingers searching for the slit in Mandy's dress. They found it, parted the material, and beyond Rory felt the steamy hot lips of her juicy cunt. A powerful surge of lust in his loins parched his mouth with excitement. For a reason he as yet was unable to determine, this woman's erotic affect on him was breathtaking.
He looked through the crack in the bulkhead over the porthole, gently stroked her bristly cunt with his fingertips and saw her shiver. He wormed a finger into her labia, sought for and found her cuntal opening, and eased a finger inside. Mandy's shoulders jerked upright and she shivered again, this time more noticeably, and Rory thought he heard her gasp sharply.
Then the lust in his loins began going out of control and he pulled his fingers free, maneuvered himself till the head of his cock was against her opening, and hunched with all his strength.
The moist heat of her cunt flashed down his bludgeoning rod as he drove into her three-quarters of the length of his prick. A low moan came from the other side of the bulkhead. Hastily he re-adjusted his position, thrust in the rest of the way, and began to fuck her through the porthole with frenzied enthusiasm, pistoning his swollen meat up into her smoldering cunt as though their lives depended on it.
Without warning the orgasm slugged him from all sides at once. His face warped from a thousand pressures. A guttural cry died against his clinched teeth. He pawed at the bulkhead, seeking hand holds, but found none, his erupting cock pumping a volcano of man-seed into Mandy's seething belly. He sagged forward when it was over, prick still buried, gasping for air.
It had happened so quick, had been so massive. Sweet blue eyes of Jesus-God!
When he recovered completely he peeped through the crack again, saw Mandy seated primly on the porthole, dress and apron flowering around her hips to conceal the fact. From the rhythmic movements of her arms he realized she was knitting and could not repress a grin. Probably a pair of sox for the Reverend Mr. Isaiah Mott.
Slowly Rory began a rhythm of his own, working his rigid meat through her cunt with measured tempo. Instinctively he knew Mandy had yet to orgasm-and he was determined that she do so. It was only just. And now that his own excess steam had been released, he could perform a much better job.
He fucked her smoothly, leisurely, pressing his prick to the limit on each in-stroke. Behind him, on her bunk, Jenny was quietly going into mirthful fits.
Through the crack Rory saw Isaiah Mott approaching Mandy, saw Gert tactfully try to intercept him and fail. Mott took a seat beside his wife and his aged, raspy voice came through the bulkhead as though it was not there.
"Ep Hines is a free man again," he announced proudly. "Since I arose this morning I have been praying beside him in his quarters, and at last the evil spirits belaboring the poor man's soul fled before the wrath of God." Mott was tremendously pleased with himself.
Mandy muttered something unintelligible in reply, Rory kept fucking knowing from the clutching at his cock by her inner-cunt muscles she was about to come, and Jenny stifled her glee with a mouthful of blanket.
Silence-till Mott spoke again, obvious concern in his tone.
"Mandy my dear. Don't you feel well? Your color is changing-to that like Ep Hines' while evil demons afflicted him-I-you-Mandy!" The old man's voice ascended to a terrified screech. "Ep's evil demons are trying to enter you!"
Mandy's cunt gnawed on Rory's cock with spastic fervor, the back of her neck grew warmly pink, the knitting fell from her lap and her hands made helpless gestures. Strangling noises coming from her throat as she struggled in the fiery grip of a convulsing orgasm.
"Mandy!" Mott cried again. "Have courage, my sweet! I will save you!"
With this he plunged to his knees on the deck, arms upraised, face cast in harsh lines of fanatical zeal, and began braying at the sky, commanding Satan's evil spirits to depart from the undefiled body of his innocent young wife. Nor did he cease his exhortations till Mandy's seizure passed. Then he labored to his feet to stand with a hand on her shoulder, weathered face glowing with the pride of accomplishment.
"The handiwork of the Lord," he said with awesome reverence. Mandy nodded meekly.
Rory, grinning, glanced around at Jenny. She held her middle, desperately fighting back screams of laughter.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rory lay stark naked on his bunk in the thick darkness, waiting for Jenny Lea to return to the ship for one last rousing sexual frolic before they went their separate ways. At the moment he and the one or two sailors left on watch were the only persons aboard.
At dusk the St. Jude had eased in toward the coastline half a mile below the lofty clipper ship which had overtaken and passed them several days earlier, and all the passengers except him had scrambled to the boats in their anxiety to set foot on land in he New World. After paying Gert and Jenny the money he'd promised, Jenny had said she would return for a night of goodby fucking.
At the moment his thoughts were involved with plans for the home he would build soon as he got established. Gaelean House would be its name, as Gaelean Castle had been the name of his family's home before the death of his parents.
Strangely, and of late, Rory had discovered he was unable to think of Gaelean House without his thoughts associating themselves with thoughts of little Jane Wilson, the only person in the world aside from himself who knew he had been the Gentleman Bandit of Dublin. This fact puzzled him no end. As much as he ached to do so, he would never set eyes on Jane Wilson again, so best forget the lass-if he could manage it.
He knew he could never forget their parting just before he boarded the St. Jude that morning after he'd spent the night with her. Tearfully she had pleaded with him not to sail, making no attempt to conceal the fact she was hopelessly, desperately, almost hysterically in love with him.
"Goddamn Squire Toada," he muttered bitterly into the darkness. "If it hadn't been for that slimy son-of-a-bitch I would still be in Ireland." And yet, he reflected, indirectly Toada had been the cause of his meeting Jane.
He sighed heavily, wishing Jenny would hurry. A night of fucking might clear his mind.
From out on the deck he heard the patter of feminine footsteps, which ceased abruptly to be followed by the watch's subdued challenge. A brief period of whispering followed, then came the footsteps again, and Rory tingled with anticipation. Jenny Lea could take a man's mind off a lot of things.
"Over here," he said in a low voice as the cabin door opened and closed quickly. The quiet rustle of garments being discarded tightened the muscles across his flat belly. His prick was hard enough to use 'as fire-flint. A warm hand found him in the darkness and in another moment she was reclining on the narrow bunk beside him, squirming close with the gladsome eagerness of a young puppy. There was a somehow strange yet vaguely familiar perfume about the girl as he drew her knees apart, swung his weight above her and settled in the waiting yoke of her thighs, but he gave the scent but little thought. He was too enraptured by the feel of her nimble fingers guiding his rod toward her cunt.
Her voluptuous, almost wanton sighs of rapture were in his ears as he began his action with small hunches, maneuvering his big prick up into her belly with powerful expertise. Her young cunt was hot and juicy and she shivered deliciously several times before he got it in all the way. Then they were solidly coupled in passionate embrace by their sex organs, and Rory prepared to commence an undulation of his hips.
At that moment the watch strolled past with his sea lantern, and for one fleeting pinpoint of time the lantern's light flashed through the porthole to bathe the face of the girl beneath him.
He was stunned by the sight of it. Breath in his lungs became fire. A cackle of mad laughter gathered in his throat. His mind was playing cruel tricks on him and a minute passed before he recovered. Then the girl speared beneath him on his cock spoke and his asshole cringed in a wild and fierce joy at the sound of her voice.
"Does the Gentleman Bandit of Dublin know who he is fucking?" Jane Wilson asked softly against his lips.
"I-when-In God's holy name, lass," he croaked. "How did you get here?" The awesome exultation swelling in his chest a glorious thing. He took her face in his hands, showered it with passionate kisses.
"The clipper ship anchored just north of here belongs to Wilson Shipping," she murmured ecstatically. "And when I inquired of you at the fort a girl named Jenny Lea said you were remaining aboard till morning. She also asked me to tell you goodby when she learned I was coming to the St. Jude. She said you'd understand. As for my coming to the New World-well-being with you is more important than remaining in Ireland; and Uncle Mike can take care of the Wilson Shipping Company." She worked her seething straddle against the hard meat of his buried cock and sighed in wondrous contentment.
"But what will you do in this wilderness?" he asked inanely. "Where will you go?" His recovery from the shock of seeing her, of knowing she was with him, was not yet complete.
"I'll do whatever you do and go wherever you go, silly," she purred happily. "But we can settle it all in the morning. Right now just fuck me, Rory. Fuck me good." He did.
