The Ravishing of Constance Ch. 14bySabledrake©
"Go and fetch the Lady Beatrice," Jacqueline said. "See to it that she's clean and dressed, and fit to meet her family."
"You wish me to do this? I am no maidservant." Constance gestured to Marie, where the chestnut-haired girl was sleeping curled in a tangle of linens on the floor, in Constance's makeshift bed. "Why not Marie?"
"Be sensible, Constance," scolded Jacqueline. "Do you imagine that Beatrice will be at all pleased to see our wicked little Marie? All matters considered?"
She supposed Jacqueline was right. It had been Marie's lie that led to Beatrice's brutal use at the hands – more, at the ready cocks – of the entire pirate crew. That Marie had not been punished for this, but had instead been almost instantly elevated to a position of great favor, could only be salt in the wound.
"But you ordered her placed in with Jean-Pierre," Constance said. "Do you imagine he'll be pleased to see me?"
"I rather hope he might, but knowing Jean-Pierre, he has likely convinced himself it never happened, or was all some drunken dream. It'll do him good to be face to face with you. Unless you fear him."
Her amused smile suggested to Constance how ridiculous Jacqueline found the prospect. Ever since the blonde pirate captain had made Constance succumb to wanton sex with Michel and Marie, Jacqueline's attitude toward her had continued to be one of scornful amusement.
Yet Constance still felt a bitter and genuine hatred beneath it, and was at a loss. She would have liked to befriend Jacqueline. Would have possibly liked to be more than friends with Jacqueline.
This last should have shocked her, finding such an admission in herself. But in the two days that she'd shared the captain's quarters, and particularly since discovering for herself the delights of another woman's body – she no longer balked at opening her legs to Marie, neither did she refuse to return the favor – Constance had taken to admiring Jacqueline's lithe body, wondering what she might be like, how she might feel, and taste.
But her speculations were for nothing. Although the rest of the crew were peopled by lusty, virile, and attractive men, although Marie had more than once offered her tender services to the captain, Constance had yet to observe Jacqueline express any sort of interest. The only time she'd heard so much as a husky note in Jacqueline's voice had been during the incident with Jean-Pierre.
Was she uninterested? What a sad and dreadful thing that would be. Mere weeks ago, Constance had been ignorant of the ways of men and women, and now she could not stand to think of living without the glorious crashing climaxes. Never mind how she had been introduced to it. The horror of her incestuous violation by her brother paled against the splendid pleasures she now craved. That Rob was far from here, and she would never have to see him again, only made her happier.
These past two days had been a glut of fucking, until Constance fell into her blankets each night sore and sated. She and Marie had put Michel to the very test of his stamina, with no complaint from the first mate. Then, too, there had been the Moor. Salvador.
Constance closed her eyes and could see again him, his skin glossy and dark as polished mahogany, his head smooth and shiny-bald, standing over her. His ebony eyes were unreadable, but the jutting of his cock said all that needed be said. They had been alone then, but for Jacqueline. The captain remained in her usual chair, watching, seeming to take some triumphant glee in seeing Constance's pale body covered, and impaled, by Salvador's darkness.
He'd been surprisingly gentle with her. After having seen him fuck Beatrice's mouth, slapping the noblewoman when she protested, and then shooting his seed into her upturned face, Constance had expected similar treatment. Instead, she'd been helpless beneath Salvador, her body doused in the scented oils he claimed would further inflame her passions. He held himself above her as he thrust slowly in, each movement taking long breathless seconds, and then withdrawing with the same exquisite slowness. His will was iron, his cock iron, and he wrung spending after spending from her.
She had even taken him up the bottom, with only a qualm of fear. By then, he had seen to her so expertly that she was willing to do anything, anything at all. She had gone to her hands and knees, once more sticking her backside into the air, and only once worriedly beseeched him to be careful, to not hurt her.
Salvador had promised, and been as good as his word. The oil eased his way, and the pain she'd felt when pierced by Rob was not to be found. Instead, there was pressure, oh, and a stretching, pushing sensation that she needed several moments to acclimate herself to, but soon he was fully sheathed within her bottom, and reaching under her to penetrate her cunny with fingers nearly as long and thick as an erect cock.
This, too, Jacqueline had observed with evident satisfaction. She had asked Constance at one point how it felt to be fucked by a Moor, and what her father might say if he could see his precious daughter having that hard black shaft pumping in and out, but by then Constance was only able to gasp and moan.
Rumors had gotten out among the crew. Whenever she went on deck now, Constance saw them looking at her, and whispering sidelong to one another. Each man was waiting, with ill-concealed impatience, for a summons of his own to the captain's cabin.
Too, they were disgruntled that Constance took so much of Marie's attention from them, although the girl did spend a goodly portion of each day on her knees for the sailors, or letting them bend her over the rail, or wrapping her legs around their waists as they did her standing against the mainmast. But Marie had confessed to Constance that as much as she enjoyed a good fuck, she found women preferable.
"They're not just concerned with finding a hole to stick their pegos in," she had said last night, as she washed Constance's back.
They'd been sharing a bath in Jacqueline's large brass tub, while the captain herself was actually out seeing to the running of the ship instead of sitting in audience of Constance's ongoing depravation. Marie soaped Constance liberally, hands slipping in warm frothy lather, then embraced her from behind so that her small but pert breasts rubbed along Constance's back.
"I'd never been with a woman before you," Constance said. "I never knew what it could be like."
"Well," Marie giggled, "you're learning right quick, I can tell you. Quite a knack for tongueplay you've got, my lady."
"What do you make of the captain?" she'd asked.
Marie frowned. "I've offered every day, seems like, but she's never keen for it. At first, I wondered if she mightn't be having it off with Michel or one of the others, but none of the crew says as she's ever had a lover. Male or female. There's some that are dead inside, you know, that have no lust at all, like a dried flower, but she doesn't strike me as one of those."
"No, she doesn't," Constance said.
"But perhaps she just likes to watch. I've heard there's those as do. Maybe she frigs herself when we've all gone to sleep."
They had finished their bath and ended up on the floor, rolling around all nude and squeaky-clean until they ended up lying on their sides, each with her head gladly imprisoned between the thighs of the other. In this fashion, Marie licked Constance's cunny while Constance did the same to Marie, and so adept was Marie at mimicking what she felt that it soon seemed to Constance almost as if she was somehow, by a contortion not otherwise possible, doing it to herself.
Now, though, Marie was asleep, Michel and Salvador were off attending to their duties, and Jacqueline had sent Constance on an errand. As if she were no more than another member of the crew.
That thought made her stop short. A member of the crew … a prisoner … what was she to Jacqueline? Not a friend, surely, for there was that bitter hatred. Yet not distrusted, for they slept in the same room and Jacqueline never acted as though she feared Constance might seize up some weapon and do her harm in the night.
She was to be ransomed, she knew that, but whenever she contemplated it, her stomach turned to knots. Would her father insist on having her examined, to see if she was intact? Of course he would. He'd hate her for it, never knowing that she had been deflowered long before she'd even set eyes on any of the Merlions.
His pride would not let him admit the truth to any of his acquaintances, so he would take her home. To consign her to a convent, for instance, might be seen as an admission of her ruination. No, he would take her back to Veradoga, and either try with all haste to find her a closemouthed husband – Enrique? she shuddered with the knowledge that it could likely be Enrique – or keep her a veritable prisoner in the villa for the rest of her life. An old maid … with only her brother for company.
She shuddered again. Rob would argue for keeping her at home, she knew. He would pledge to look after her and protect her, his poor dear sister. And whenever their father's back was turned, Rob would be there. She could already hear him, wanting to know everything that had gone on. Jealously punishing her for fucking other men, for enjoying it.
Would that, or marriage to Enrique, be preferable to convent life? A few days ago, she might have said so. At least with Rob or Enrique, she'd still have that which she'd come to need. But now, thanks to Marie, she knew that women could be almost as fulfilling. Weren't there stories about convents, and the lewd practices that went on therein? Not even the godly were immune.
Which brought her to Jean-Pierre.
A tropical storm loomed on the horizon, piling clouds and distant slanting sheets of rain drawing steadily nearer. The breeze was fresh but laced with the scent of lightning. All over the Falcon, the crew were busy with preparations for the storm.
Constance rapped on the door, heard his call for her to enter. She did so, and the first thing she saw was his pale, haggard face. He looked decades older than his years, his chin dark with a sprouting beard, his eyes red-rimmed from drinking. At the sight of her, he visibly flinched, and cast his gaze at the floor.
Lady Beatrice was on the cot that was to have been Constance's. The bruises on her fair skin had faded to a greenish-yellow, dappled here and there with smudges of blue. She had not made any effort to care for herself since the multiple rapes, save to nibble at food and use the privy. Her dark hair was a snarled mess, she was grimy, and her gown of apple-green silk was stained and rumpled.
"Jean-Pierre," Constance said, and he flinched again at the sound of her voice. "I had hoped to speak to you."
"I have nothing to say to you," he said, refusing to look at her.
"I'm so greatly sorry."
His jaw clenched.
"There can be no excuse for what I did to you," she said. "But I do wish you'd allow me at least to explain. I never wished to harm you. I only … I needed … you were there, and so handsome, and I was so needful, and I thought you wouldn't know."
"And that's meant to make it all right?"
"No, of course not. I am sorry."
"Are you?" His head came up and his eyes flashed green fire, so like Michel except that she had never seen Michel in the grip of a fury. "Do you expect me to forgive you?"
"I would not blame you if you did not." Just as she, in her heart, would never forgive Rob. No matter that she had learned to like, and even hunger for, the things he'd done.
Through all of this, Lady Beatrice had remained where she was, sitting on her cot with her hands in her lap and her head bowed. She hadn't even stirred when Constance came in. Now she glanced up once, quick, furtive, as if she sensed something alarming.
"Why are you here?" Jean-Pierre barked.
"We are nearly to port," Constance said. "Your sister asked me to help Lady Beatrice tidy up, for she's to be ransomed."
"Oh, why, yes! The ransom will be paid and then it will all be as it was before. She'll be returned to her family, and all of this will be just an unpleasant memory, no more than a nightmare to be forgotten upon waking. You're a fool if you believe that!"
"I did not say I did."
He cast aside the Bible he'd been holding. It thumped against the wall and fell to the floor in a flutter of pages. He took a single long stride toward Constance, and she instinctively stepped back.
"You saw what they did to her." He spoke with absolute conviction. "She told me that she looked around at one point for help, finding none, but seeing your face in that porthole there. Watching, like you wished you were the one being …" he faltered, then spat out the word. "Being fucked."
Constance dropped her gaze.
"And that was when," Jean-Pierre continued, taking another stride, and she had retreated to the wall with nowhere else to go, "you decided that you had to have some man, any man, any cock to fill your slut's need, and you thought I might do."
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, that's indeed how it was."
Jean-Pierre moved swiftly, crossing the remaining distance in less than the time it took Constance to draw in a quick breath. He delivered a stinging slap to her face, then pinned her against the wall. Even as she reeled from the unexpected attackHe3 He
, Jean-Pierre was leaning into her with the full weight of his body, grabbing one of her wrists.
He forced her hand down, against the front of his breeches, against something rigid. "Is that what you were after, harlot?" His voice was a hiss that was somehow more unnerving than any shout. He ground his hips, pushing his erection against her hand, bending her wrist painfully. His other hand hiked her skirt and groped rudely beneath it.
She was wearing nothing at all beneath her dress, so he found silken thighs and the downy fluff of her cunny hair.
"Slut!" he hissed. His face was livid, a wild and somehow righteous light burning in his green eyes.
"Silence, slut!" He stuck two fingers up her, and when they slid deep into her warmth aided by her moist arousal, it only seemed to enrage him further. "If it's what you want, what you must have, then perhaps I should give it you and see how you like it then!"
Lady Beatrice was huddled on her cot, staring aghast as Jean-Pierre spun Constance and threw her toward his bed. She struck it with the backs of her legs and fell onto it. He was upon her at once, muttering oaths and tossing her skirt to her waist. He yanked at his breeches, undid them, shoved them down. His cock sprang forth at once and Beatrice whimpered.
"This is what you want? This? Needful, you said … do you need me to put it here?"
With that, he drove his cock into her. A sudden expression of shock fell over his face, as if he had only just realized what he was doing, and could hardly believe it. He started to pull back, but Constance clamped her legs around his waist.
"Yes!" she cried. "Yes, it is what I need, do it, please, yes, fuck me!"
She pushed her hips up at him, taking him all the way in. His anger abruptly changed, diluted by the realization of how it felt to be buried in a woman, how good it felt, and he began to move in an instinctive thrusting.
"There, how do you like that, you slut?" he panted. "Wicked whore, Devil's temptress! Look what you've made me do!"
"Oh, yes!" Constance shouted. She held to him, digging her fingernails into his shoulders.
He was already about to spend, she knew, she could feel it in the gathering tension of his body, but that was all right because she was there too, a fast and violent climax like the firing of a cannon. Jean-Pierre jerked against her and howled, anguish mixed with pleasure. He went limp, crushing her to the bed.
Constance took him by the sides of the face. She raised his head – his eyes were half-lidded and dazed – and gave him a deep, thorough, exploring kiss. For a moment, he responded, but then he was leaping off the bed and scrambling away as if he'd discovered he was kissing a venomous reptile.
Lady Beatrice was weeping in the corner, arms hugging herself. The tormented Jean-Pierre hastily arranged his clothes, looking mortified beyond endurance by having not only fallen from grace again, but taking Constance forcefully before the very eyes of the poor abused Beatrice.
Rising from the bed, Constance straightened her own clothes. She sighed rapturously. "Thank you," she said to Jean-Pierre.
He recoiled and would not look at her. A litany of murmured prayers was already issuing from his lips. He dashed to pick up his cast-away Bible, then hesitated with his fingers just over it like he feared it might blister his sinning, tainted skin. The leather cover did not smoke with brimstone when he touched it, though, and he clasped it up in his arms with a broken sob.
"Lady Beatrice," Constance said. "The captain has offered you the use of her bathtub. Please come with me, that we might make you presentable to rejoin your family."
It took some doing, and her coaxing abilities were hampered by having Jean-Pierre rocking on his knees in a penitent's pose, tears streaming unchecked down his face and dripping onto the Bible, but in the end it seemed that the very presence of the young man – revealed now to be just as much a rutting beast as any of the ones who'd taken turns with her – convinced Beatrice to accompany Constance.
They returned to Jacqueline's cabin, where Marie was no longer present but had left all in readiness. Fresh water filled the tub, from the casks on deck, not warm but not unpleasantly cold. A gown, more demure than the low-cut one that Jacqueline had given Constance, though possibly still from the same sacked ship – was laid out on the bed. It was a lovely cobalt-blue, trimmed with a froth of lace, and Constance thought it would suit Beatrice's coloring admirably.
Beatrice was like a waxwork at first, neither helping nor protesting as Constance divested her of her apple-green silk. She stepped into the tub when directed, and sat down with a sound of relief. Constance went to work on her hair.
The water, and the attention, helped to relax Beatrice. She settled against the back of the tub, eyes closed, as Constance combed the tangles from her dark tresses.
All was quiet except for the lapping of the water whenever Beatrice stirred. Then, without warning, she spoke.
"How could you let him do that?" she asked accusingly. "How could you like it?"
"With Jean-Pierre, do you mean?"
"Yes! You let him … you encouraged him …"
"And I did like it," Constance said, smiling.
"You let him put his …"
"… into you! You didn't fight him, or make him hold you down."
"I wanted him to. It was wonderful."
"And you a lady! Moaning like a whore."
"Ladies enjoy it too."
"I would never!"
"Didn't you, with Marie?"
"I was watching. I saw how they held you so she could give you a good licking. She's quite skilled, as I've since found out." At this, Beatrice's eyes popped open but she said nothing. Constance went on. "There was one moment, during her tongue-lashing, that I saw you quiver all over. You spent then, did you not?"
"I think you did. I think she made you, because she knows so very well what to do. Wasn't it nice?"
"Nice? She lied to them so they'd rape me, and before even that, she had to do what she did, and … and …"
"And make you like it," Constance said. "Yes, I know. Then they turned you over and Michel fucked you. It must have felt good."
"He ripped away my maidenhead! I bled!"