Mutiny Release

"I believe it is time to take out the prayer kneeler now," he declared.

Jerry went to the closed door of a closet across the room, opened it and hauled out the bench, while Sir Sydney released my wrists and ankles. I looked around the room. Stone walls, ceiling, and floor. This was a room behind the ornate, miniaturized-version of a faux castle built on the shore of a small lake at Merton Hall.

The carriage had entered the estate through the farm entrance rather than the main entry and had followed the road into the estate that was buffered from the extensive lawn of the sprawling country house mansion by a line of trees in enough depth so that the lawns and the lake below the house were only occasionally visible between the tree trunks as the carriage passed.

Our destination was a folly, built on the other side of the lake from the mansion. Although the façade was, in appearances, three stories, including two towers rising higher than that, and reflected the mansion across the lake and up a hill from where it stood, it, in fact, was only a story and a half high, and the locked room behind it was only of one story. The coachman, Jerry, pulled the carriage in behind the folly so that our arrival would not be marked from the house. That probably was a good idea, as, from the corner of the folly, I looked up toward the house and saw that there was a small gathering on one of the terraces descending from the main house. Colorful dresses marked the presence of women. No doubt one of them was my half-sister, Caroline, Sir Sydney's wife. The same Sir Sydney that I'd just given a blow job to in the carriage on the road and who now stood close behind me, one arm around my chest, the hand of the arm cupping my genitals through the linen of my breeches, and his lips buried in the side of my throat.

We had stood there, at the back of the folly, as Jerry keyed a series of locks on a door. Sir Sydney obviously wanted to keep this room secret only to him, and I had understood as we entered the chamber. It was a sexual torture chamber, complete with restraints on a bed, a wooden cross to hang a man from, and various manacles and whips and straps hanging on the walls.

It was no ordinary prayer bench that Jerry dragged out of the closet. The base—the kneeling bench and railing above it were as a normal prayer kneeler, but the depth of the bench was greater than normal, with another padded railing between kneeler and prayer rail and on top of the prayer rail were located stocks for the head and wrists such as were found in punishment grounds.

It was now that I was really tested and Sir Sydney flew his genuine colors of dominator and sadist.

I was set kneeling on the lower plank, with my tail raised high by my belly resting on the padding of the middle rail. My head and wrists were imprisoned in the stocks. As an added embellishment, a chain choking the root of my cock and wrapped around the top of my balls was hung with weights that distended my balls painfully.

Standing behind me, Sir Sydney beat my back, rump, and thighs with a thick leather strap until he had gone hard again. Then he mounted and penetrated me from behind and fucked me to another ejaculation.

He was finished then, saying, "I have a regatta to go to and Caroline and my guests will be wondering where I am."

He added, "You may have him now, Jerry, and then take him back to London."

And have me, Jerry did. He released me from the contraption, carrying me over to the bed, bent me over the foot of the bed, and fucked the hell out of me. He was thick and had gone long, longer than I thought would be possible when I first saw him expose himself by the folly door. He was rough and very, very good with his cocking. He couldn't have been older than his mid-twenties and was robust and virile. I didn't often get young cock. He didn't give me any quarter and I didn't beg for any. Once he had reached the depth of my soft core, we were making love. We both knew, and appreciated, the difference between love and sex.

I reclined on the cushion in the back of the carriage, resting and regaining my strength as I was driven back to London. Luckily, I was trained to the cocking and was young—just nineteen—and resilient. There was no club member who taxed me more than Sir Sydney, but there were few who were in as good a shape as he was and who knew what they wanted and took it without my having to devise ways of making and keeping them hard or having to worry about hardening and coming myself. I had no trouble coming with Sir Sydney—or his coachman, Jerry, for that matter.

Before reaching the outskirts of the city, the carriage pulled off the road onto a narrow trail into some woods.

"Where are we headed?" I asked Jerry. He didn't answer, though. He set the carriage brake and climbed into the backseat, a gleam in his eyes. His trousers already were open; he was in full erection. He didn't have to tell me why we had stopped.

"Yes?" he murmured. "I think you want it from me again."

"Yes," I answered, pleased that he had at least asked, although I knew he would have taken me anyway. Sir Sydney hadn't told him he had bounds with me, and I had taken him enthusiastically in a second fucking on the bed in the folly, me on my back, with my legs raised and spread, and he between my thighs pounding me into a passioned-cry submission.

He laid me out across the carriage seat; fumbled with my trousers; pulled them down off my legs, laying me bare and erect from the waist down; and then laid me again. And he laid me quite well. As his cock reached into my soft center, I wrapped my legs around his thighs, sighed, and began moving my hips in rhythm with the pumping of his cock. I reached down and fisted my shaft and stroked myself to the beat of his thrusts, fully invested in the fuck.

There are some things that peasants can do as well as royalty can. Once a cock was inside me and had been accepted at my core and was caressing and mastering me there, I didn't question its lineage. He fucked me with force, the carriage groaning on its shock absorbers, until he had pushed in deep and I felt him in my core. Reaching there, we just rocked back and forth, swaying together in close embrace, his cock head kissing my tender passage walls at that depth.

"Yes, yes, just like that," I murmured, and he stayed with me. My channel took over control then. I clutched at him, holding him close in an embrace when his cock penetrated into my soft-core zone, and, heeding my signaling, Jerry just held there, shuddering, as my channel wall muscles took over in caressing and milking his cock. He was a fighter, though. With a roar he took control of the fuck again.

I lay back fully open to him, my eyes locked with his, my tongue running over my lips, murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes," as he went a bit deeper and I moaned my total surrender, panting lightly. I tensed and splattered the belly of his livery with cum. He laughed, proud that he had pulled a climax out of a high-class whore, and resumed a long-slide pumping to finish taking his own pleasure, which I did not begrudge him, and sealing his victory over the privileged.

He lay on top of me, inside, as we both concentrated on him going flaccid, which he didn't do completely. He was young and virile, not what I was usually used to.

"That one were good, weren't it?" He whispered. "You was full with me that time. I know you liked it along with me. You're not really that uppity, are you? We near came together, the high-up ripe whore and the serving Cornwallman. Did you good, did I?"

"Again. Fuck me again," I whimpered. I felt him stirring inside again. "Deep again," I begged. "Do me good again, just like that. Lay me out full. Make us come together." He complied, engorging immediately, going deep, deep, deep into my soft inner core and rocking there with his bulb caressing my channel walls and the muscles of my channel walls rippling over his cock, the two of us rocking together, moving together, sighing and moaning together, coming together.

When he returned to the driver's box, I came up front with him, and sat close beside him. He smiled the rest of the way. When he stopped the carriage, I turned to him and said, "No, I'm not really uppity. That back there, in the folly. That was just business—what I have to do. That in the carriage in the wood—that is what I really want from being with a man. Thank you."

He smiled as I climbed down from the carriage. "You are a good lad," he said, and as I walked up the steps, he called after me, "And a great lay." He laughed a deep laugh, flicked his whip, and the carriage drove off.

Percy Blackthorn, looking concerned and a bit piqued, met me at the entrance to the Marble Crescent club. "There you are," he said, as if he hadn't known where I was. He was the one who made all of the arrangements. "You have taken longer than I anticipated." He said this as if I had any control over how long a club member occupied my time.

"You have a visitor in the private parlor. Look lively now. He's one of our more privileged members."

I was a little piqued now myself. I wasn't usually booked with sessions this close together. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in the foyer before I went in to him, whoever he was. I looked remarkably good—and desirable—if I did say so myself. Of course my eyes were glittering and swimming in the cum of Sir Sydney and his coachman, Jerry. Jerry had been particularly prodigious in his contribution.

"Come, come. Hurry," Percy said, shepherding me down the corridor to the back parlor.

Chapter Three: London

I opened the back-parlor door, stood there for a long moment of surprise, and then backed out and silently shut the door again.

"What's wrong?" Percy asked.

"Are you sure he said he was waiting in the back parlor for me?" I asked.

"Yes." Percy brushed past me, silently opened the door and then quickly pulled it shut again. "Just a moment. Let me check." He went back to his office, which was the next room back, behind the private parlor. I knew what he was doing. He was checking through one of the peepholes he had there on who was doing what to Philip in the parlor.

When I had looked I could see Philip, one of the younger male whores here, and I could see that a man was fucking him, but I couldn't see who the man was. The man was sitting in the center of a settee directly across the room from the door. All I could see of him were hairy legs, the hair curly and blondish red, the legs meaty, and his arms, still clothed in a suit coat. Philip's body was hiding most of the rest of the man. Philip, naked except for his singlet and his black knee-high stockings held up by black garters, was in the man's lap, facing away from the man and toward the door I almost had entered. He was sitting on the man's cock—obviously a thick one from what I could see of the root of it when the men lifted Philip high before slamming him down on the cock again. The man held his legs together, but he had Philip's legs grasped under the knee with strong hands and had the young man's legs raised and spread.

A head of golden red hair was buried in Philip's neck from the rear and Philip had his arms raised, flung back and his hands clasped behind the man's neck. The man was raising Philip nearly all of the way off his thick and long cock and then slamming the young man down on the shaft. Up and down; up and down. Philip's eyes were flashing like light reflecting off glass and his mouth was open in a long yawn. He was blowing bubbles, panting hard, and babbling in tongues. I knew when Philip was faking when he was being fucked by a man. We were involved in multiple couplings often enough for me to know his technique well.

Philip wasn't faking a total taking by this man. He was being totally fucked.

Percy came back. "It's him. The man who insists on waiting for you."

"He doesn't appear to be waiting for me," I said. "Perhaps he's getting enough pleasure from Philip. I'll just go upstairs and—"

"No. He was insistent he would be served by you. Wait in the office. I'll ask him what he wants to do after he has fucked Philip. He may still want to fuck you too."

"He's doing Philip so vigorously that he may not have energy left for me."

"Oh, I think he will."

"How do you know?"

"He hasn't been here for a year. He's been off in India, I understand. But when he was living here, he was a regular, and he could ruin three lads in a night."

"Wonderful," I said, not bothering to hide my sarcasm. "You just sent me out to be ravished by Sir Sydney"—I was careful not to mention Jerry, the coachman, who actually had done much of the ravishing—"and now you want me entertain a strongman. Do you have any idea how long he—?"

"He has paid for the evening. I couldn't promise the night. This is Bishop Ingram's night with you. But, curiously, he said it would be up to you whether he stayed. I told him he'd have to pay for the time anyway, and he gave me no trouble with that."

"Strange. Who is it?"

"It's Lord Dinwiddie. Daniel Dinwiddie. He's with the Foreign Office."

"Yes, I know who he's with," I said through gritted teeth.

"I'll just check now," Percy said, opening the door to the back parlor a crack. It was only a crack, but it was wide enough that I saw that Dinwiddie had Philip on the carpet now on all fours, and that it indeed was Lord Dinwiddie who was saddled on the small young man's ass and was riding him hard.

I felt chills go up my spine and my cock going hard from the memory of both of those positions—and also of the memory of the last thing Dinwiddie had said to me earlier in the day. He'd spoken of riding me, probably in the same taxing way he was riding Philip.

"Just wait in the office," Percy said to me, as he quietly shut the door.

* * * *

"Lord Dinwiddie will see you now," Percy said when he came for me in the office. It had taken the man twenty more minutes to be finished with Philip.

"Philip?" I queried when I stood up and turned toward the door to the corridor.

"Philip is fine," Percy said. "In fact, you could tell he's bordering on ecstatic. He told me to tell you to enjoy yourself, to just relax and enjoy the ride."

"Funny," I said. "I actually saw Dinwiddie earlier today, and he told me he was looking forward to taking me riding."

"He paid, with a generous tip," Percy said. "He is in very good standing here. Remember that. Give him what he wants. Always give our good patrons what they want."

"I always have," I said, as I entered the back parlor. He was standing near the window. He had pulled his trousers back on and looked impeccable in an evening suit. He was heavy, but not fat. He was as handsome and imposing as he had been earlier today astride his horse, and I shuddered at the thought of him astride me. Now that we were alone, I could acknowledge that he wasn't a stranger to me, although he had aged in looks since I previously had known him. The golden red mane on his head should have been a giveaway earlier on who was fucking Percy. But then I hadn't seen him for a year before earlier in the day, and I hadn't expected to see him now, so I think I can be forgiven not identifying him earlier.

"Lord Dinwiddie," I said.

"Ross Petigrew," he responded.

"I was surprised to see you earlier this afternoon," I said. "I thought you were in India."

"I was. I was brought back by the Foreign Office for consultations and for instructions. We have a problem in India. Rather, the East India Company has a problem. But one never knows where the British Foreign Office and the British East India Company differ in any way these days. I thought you were in Edinburgh—in school."

"I didn't go back to Edinburgh."

"You went somewhere else after I left?"

"I came straight here."

"And they took you right in and gave you a position?"

"Yes. I was only eighteen, but I had more than enough experience. You saw to that."

And he had seen to that. My mother, the music hall singer of some repute and a courtesan, had been his mistress at the time. I had come home—or, more specifically, to her London flat; I never felt I had a home—on holiday from school. He had continued to visit and bed her there. Half way in irritation that my mother was entertaining men so openly—he was her main sponsor but not her only lover at the time—and half way because I was aware that men were more arousing to me than women, I had flirted with him. Unexpectedly, he had flirted back, and that was all the more arousing for me.

One day he came visiting not long before my mother had to leave for Drury Lane for a play rehearsal. He stayed and found me taking a bath. I stood up in the bath, facing him, and lowered my head in a signal of submission. He got his trousers off before climbing in the bath, but otherwise was fully clothed. That wasn't an impediment for him. He bent me over the side of the bath and fucked me. Then he pulled me out of the bath and fucked me on the wet carpet just as I had seen him fuck Philip earlier. Then sitting on the bed, taking me in his lap with my legs raised and spread just as I had first seen him taking Philip. Then on the bed. He had amazing stamina and claimed that he had been fantasizing for some time about ravishing me.

By the time my mother came home from her rehearsal, he had shown me eight ways an experienced man could fuck a virgin. I had been raised in a libertine household; I took the experience as liberating and another step in growing up. For several months Dinwiddie had two mistresses in the family flat. Surely my mother knew it; she didn't seem to care. If anything, she seemed to be relieved that I was growing up, making choices, and quite possibly finding the talent that later would provide my room and board.

I was eighteen. She probably was worried that I wouldn't go off on my own. My father was paying for my schooling; she wasn't. I was just one of his by-blows. If he was prepared to put me on any allowance after my schooling was complete, my mother hadn't mentioned it. In perhaps the only indication that she wasn't pleased that Lord Dinwiddie was fucking both of us, she had begun to hint that it was time for me to either go back to Edinburgh—my holiday had become somewhat longer than the school's idea of how long it should last—or to find a skill and make my own way in the world.

Dinwiddie had stolen a march on both of us. He had been sent off to India by the Foreign Office.

My mother had a new patron within days. It didn't take me much longer to find a new vocation here at the Marble Crescent club.

"Does your mother know you are working here?" he asked.

"Yes. She thought it was a good idea. She said that, with my looks, being in the theatre or a whore house were the two best bets for an earl's bastard. She thought there was more stability here."

"Is your mother in London? I would have thought I would have heard about who she was screwing now as soon as I returned, but I haven't heard a whisper of her."

"Would you screw her if you ran into her in the city?"

"Yes, of course."

"And you are going to screw me this evening?"

"If you don't object. I will not force you. We have been too close for me to treat you as a whore, even though I'm happy to pay the club for your use. But, yes, I would very much like to fuck you this evening. I've been thinking of fucking you since I saw you in Sir Sydney's carriage this afternoon. You were always one of the best lays."

"A better lay than my mother?"

"I won't answer that. It was never a competition between you, Ross. I appreciated you both, in different ways. There was—and is—no reason for you to be jealous. So, is she in London?"

"No. Haven't you heard about Covent Garden?" I asked. And then when he gave me a quizzical look, I explained. "The Garden burned to the ground in March. I guess you were in India then and the news didn't travel that far. A magician, John Henry Anderson, had a production called the Bal Masque booked for the theatre before my mother was to start rehearsals there in a revival of Bohemian Girl. She plays Arline. The man's act included fire. It burned the theatre down and there were no other theatres available for mother's production. It has had to go on the road. Ironically, she is in Edinburgh now, and I'm not."