Shores of Tripoli Ch. 02

"You'll be wanting to hold still for as long as possible. It's gonna happen, but you'll enjoy it more and longer if you hold still. This is what's gonna happen. I want you to know. I want you to count the seconds left in your life by how good my staying power is. As I jack off inside you, the knife's going up into your heart. A new fuckin' meaning of a good death. You'll want to keep me from shooting off for as long as possible, but you'll love your last second almost as much as I do."

Billy moaned again. But it was a rush for him too. He was hard as a rock too. There was nothing he could do about this. This was as high as it got for him in arousal.

He felt the man stiffen and knew that he was about to blow. "Chrisalmighty, you got a sweet ass. I'm gonna . . ."

Billy held his breath, poised for the fatal thrust . . . taking him into chaos as he had the sense that the dogs of hell were churning up his world.

* * * *

"It was only one dog. Freedom over there," Ben Palmer responded to the first question Billy asked when he came to. Billy looked toward the corner of the captain's cabin on the Black Falcon, where the coxswain from the beach at Shernhaven crouched beside Ben's big, black mastiff and petted the dog. The dog was panting with his mouth hanging open, obviously enjoying the attention.

Billy could feel the cock slowly working his insides and he looked down his belly. Ben was standing between his legs, with Billy's ankles propped up on his shoulders, fully encased and fucking him in slow pumps.

"Sorry, I couldn't wait for you to come to," Ben murmured. "It's been months."

The younger man sighed and lifted a hand to place it on Ben's bulging breast, but Ben gently pushed it aside. "Not until we have these cuts taken care of." He was washing Billy's cuts and applying clean strips of cloth. His cock kept moving slowly inside Billy's channel, though, and Billy rolled his pelvis up to get the full benefit of the long slide.

"What . . .?" Billy began.

"Nob there was in the same bar you were in. I let him take Freedom with him so the dog could get some firm land to piss on. He knew what that bastard you went with liked to do with boys, and so he followed you out into the alley and intervened when the sex got rough. He sicced Freedom on the son-of-a-bitch. Between the dog and Nob using the man's own knife on him, he won't be having his special thrill anymore."

"Ben . . ."

"What?"

"I'm scared."

"Why's that? You're safe now."

"I'm scared because it gave me a rush. I don't want to be safe. It's the scare that turns me on high."

"I know. I know that about you. It gives me a rush too. But it isn't healthy. For you, it isn't healthy. For me, fucking a tight little ass almost to death is just fine."

"Ben . . . I need you to fuck me nasty."

"Billy, you know I'm not jealous of you with other men, don't you? And you know I try to give you what you want."

"Yes."

"Nob over there saved you. And he's got a surprise I think you'd like. I'll give you what you asked for now. But he would like to watch."

"OK," Billy answered after a pause. He felt himself on the rise, so he did guess he liked that idea.

"And then I'm going to give you to Nob for half the night," Ben said in a low voice.

Billy moaned, but felt himself going harder.

"And then he's going to give you to the rest of the men in the forecastle for the rest of the night. Some of them are very rough and haven't had sex in a while. I haven't let all of the men go ashore yet."

Ben turned his face from Billy so that the younger man couldn't see how sad this made him. He wanted the best experiences for Billy—he knew that that was what turned him on—but he was afraid Billy would go too far, as he almost had done earlier tonight. It was a sacrifice to give him to the men, but he'd give them instructions. Billy would be returned to him alive—and in good enough condition for Ben to get what he wanted out of the relationship too.

"Oh, god, Ben." Billy felt himself going weak, all of his blood going to his dick. But he didn't have time to react further. Ben had grabbed his throat with both of his hands and was squeezing the breath out of Billy while at the same time slamming him hard, again and again, with his cock.

One, two, three, four thrusts, and the grip on his throat was released. Billy coughed and sucked in air. Ben tightened his grip again and Billy's eyes bugged out. His cock was at full staff though, and was beginning to ooze precum. One, two, three, four, thrusts. Then release and gasp. Pressure. One, two . . .

Billy was still gasping for breath as Nob lifted him up, slung him over his shoulder and left the captain's cabin. The coxswain sang out what was in the offing—sweet tail for the taking—as he strode down the deck toward the forecastle, and the crew, with hoots and whistles began to gather around.

Nob's secret—and, no doubt the origin of his name—was a thick but stubby cock that looked like it couldn't do a thing inside a man but that, when given entry, grew in both length and girth and had Billy gasping as Nob fucked and pumped the young man's cock hard to ejaculation.

And then it was a multitude of grinning faces and naked men and wagging cocks in erection or getting there fast. Billy writhed and moaned and groaned and grunted and shouted out at the continuous taking until dawn.

Back in the captain's bed in the early morning, Billy was laying on his back on the bed, one ankle on Ben's shoulder as the pirate captain sat on the edge of the bed below him.

"That's three," Ben murmured. "I got these in Egypt. I was told they are called Persian Delight."

Billy was holding very still, reveling in the three porcelain balls on a string that were inside his channel. There were three to go.

"Ben, you don't really mind. About last night."

"No, you told me what you needed. I gave you what I could. Don't ask me to snuff out your life during sex, though. That would snuff out my life as well."

"Ben . . ."

"Yes. Four . . . and five. God have you been stretched. You need some rest to get that back to tight enough for me to be interested."

Billy twitched and moaned. "Take me with you this time. I want to go to sea."

"You want smelly, ugly men fucking you night and day?"

"That too. Ugh." The sixth porcelain ball was inside him. "But I want to be one of you. I want the danger. Of being a pirate."

"Not today. But maybe tomorrow. Be at your family's pier at dawn and . . . maybe."

Billy sighed, reaching out for Ben. But Ben was standing now.

"And, are you ready for this, Billy." Ben grabbed Billy's ankles, wishboned his legs, and started working his cock inside Billy's channel behind the six porcelain balls in there.

Billy arched his back and cried out in frightened pleasure.

Freedom, laying in the corner, whimpered, and covered his eyes with a paw.

* * * *

Billy stood at the end of the wharf for hours the next day, looking out toward the sea, willing the sails of the Black Falcon to be there. But to no avail. Several times men from the counting house came out to ask him what the matter was, but he just shrugged them off.

He should have known. Ben had given in too easily. Would there ever be a way that both he and Ben could get what they wanted out of each other and for both to be happy? He had no idea.

That night, he dressed in elegant clothes and walked the four and a half blocks across town to Orange Street and Cooper's gentlemen club. He knew that he would find what he wanted, what he needed, there.

He arrived late in the evening, knowing that most of the patrons would be gone—but that the one patron he sought would be there.

The Reverend Andrew Apsley was just moving from the gaming room to the gentlemen's lounge for a late snifter of port and a few more of his special Virginia tobacco cigarettes. But he stopped dead in his tracks in the entrance from the front hall into the lounge when Billy entered the front hallway and the doorman had evaporated to wherever the servants disappeared when they sensed their presence wasn't wanted.

The rector stood tall and gaunt, looking like an avenging angel in his black cassock with the slice of white high collar at his neck. His eyes burnt like black coals, boring into Billy. His thick lips puckered into a slight scowl.

Billy sensed that the minister was going to admonish him for not attending church services at St. Michael's since the Rawleys had left for their plantation. But that wasn't what Billy had come for. He had come for something far more dangerous. He knew he wasn't wrong. In the weeks he had watched Apsley—and especially how Apsley had watched him—Billy knew he wasn't wrong. And, more important, he knew that Apsley would be relentless and cruel.

"I came to play poker, but I have no stakes to offer," Billy said.

"You have assets far more valuable than money," Apsley answered. His voice was like a whip crack. Billy moaned, knowing that it had already begun.

After Billy lost at poker, which he knew he would, Apsley returned to the lounge and ordered his port. After the servant had vanished, Apsley sat in a wing chair, his legs spread, and Billy knelt before him, going up underneath the cassock, and finding the man naked underneath. His cock was erect, curling up cruelly. There was a fat silver ring piercing the glans, a style Billy had heard was becoming popular on the docks of Marseilles but that he shuddered in pleasure to find on this man of the cloth. Billy wasn't surprised at the nakedness or the obvious preference, though. In those earlier visits, he had noted that the reverend never went upstairs with the girls, but that he often left with a young man. Billy never had seen any of these young men again. The mere thought of the possible implications of those factors had Billy trembling with arousal.

Billy began to suck the man's cock underneath the cassock, reveling in the danger of the act, knowing that another guest could walk in on them at any moment.

He gasped and gagged and then one of his hands went to the buttons of his own trousers and then to his hardening cock, as Apsley grabbed his head through the fabric of the cassock and held it in place and he began thrusting his pelvis up, pushing his cock to the back of Billy's throat until he came and Billy sputtered his surrender.

When he'd cum, Apsley pushed Billy to the floor, stood, and readjusted his cassock. "Get up and come with me," he growled.

"Yes, sir," Billy answered.

The church's rectory was in St. Michael's Alley at the side of the church itself. The objects Aspley had gathered in the basement of the house were ones he told anyone who asked had been collected for a museum of the Catholic Church's Inquisition period.

The rack he tied a naked Billy to was one where Billy's belly was folded over a saddle affair on a trestle and his legs were tied in a wide stance to legs of the machine. His arms were stretched out wide at either side and tied down on wings extending from the central structure. It was a simple device really, and it held Billy bent over, with his head hanging down toward the floor, quite effectively and completely.

Billy cried out in ecstasy at the glorious never-before-experienced pain of the whip lashings of his back and thighs and buttocks followed by the paddling of his exposed and sore buttocks cheeks.

The fucking was fast, hard, and cruel, with Apsley grabbing the hair on the back of Billy's head and arching his torso back. Billy concentrated on the effect of the thick silver ring inside him and, as he ejaculated for the second time since he'd been on the rack, he knew he'd made the right decision to seek Apsley out.

When Apsley crouched down in front of him, smiled up into his face, and moved his lit cigarette toward Billy's nipple, the young man's eyes went wide, his adrenalin spiked, and his moan arced into a scream.

Over the course of the spring and summer, Billy visited Apsley's basement more than six times. It was obvious that the clergyman was fond of the young man, if for no other reason than that Billy was permitted to walk out of the dungeon room under his own power in order to return that many times. For the danger of it, Apsley also took Billy out to Sullivan's Island to the north of the city to observe a cock fight. Billy sucked Apsley off as they sat in the back of Apsley's carriage with the top pulled up enough to put them into the shadows as Apsley watched the cock fighting and licked his lips. Apsley continued to watch the cocks tearing each other apart even while Billy was perched in the clergyman's lap and riding his cock.

If any of the other patrons watching the event also watched the debauchery in Apsley's carriage, nothing was said in public. Soon thereafter, though, Billy started to have "chance encounters" and suggestions of assignations from some of the men he had met in their homes during the social season who, through some excuse or another, had found they had business that needed to performed in the city, away from their plantations, and who had, hopefully, it was evident, asked him if he would remain in the city after the social season was over and his uncle had retreated to his own plantation.

Such encounters were numerous enough that rumors began to seep out—and then to fly.

When Charles Rawley returned unexpectedly during the fall harvesting of the rice on his plantation, lured back by the rumors, he found Billy tied to the four-poster bed in the master bedroom of the Queen Street townhouse and being fist fucked by a half-drunk sailor.

A week later, Rawley now fully aware of why his brother-in-law had sent Billy south, bundled Billy off to the Rawley Place plantation with instructions of his own that paralleled William Senior's earlier request that Billy be put at hard labor and closely supervised—and the Rawley women were brought back to Charleston weeks ahead of the start of the 1803 social season.

* * * *

Rice planting was among the most human-labor intensive and demanding of cultivations. Conducted in river marshes of hot, humid, mosquito-infested locations, the crops had to be closely developed and maintained, with individual attention to individual plants, over a seven-month period stretching from late March to September. The fields were drained of water and the seed was sown by hand. The fields were flooded for a week to water the seeds and then drained again. The plants had to be weeded—also by hand—so the fields were periodically drained, and the workers moved from plant to plant in the soggy soil, weeding out all but the rice plants. Then the fields were flooded again to give the plants the continuous moisture then needed to grow. This cycle went on periodically through the late spring and hot summer months. The constant flooding and draining took a heavy toll on the banks of the fields, so these had to be monitored and repaired constantly. When the rice plants were harvested in September after the final draining of the fields for the season, the rice kernels had to be beaten out of the stalks, hulled, and then polished for packing—all by hand—loaded on boats, and floated down the river to the city from which the rice was then transported to its final market.

Billy arrived at Rawley Place, escorted by the plantation's hard-driving overseer, Hammond, during the last weeding of the drained fields before the last flooding. This was perhaps the most labor-intensive weeding period and the process had done its worst to the banks. In keeping with Charles Rawley's instructions, Billy was immediately sent among the slaves weeding the fields, and when he had become fully adept at doing this, he was turned over to the crew repairing a levee in the lowest field. Every member of this crew was a strong male slave, those with the most developed musculatures, as the work was the hardest.

To Billy's consternation—and his arousal, as well—the defiant ebony giant he had seen go unsold on the block at Brown's Wharf earlier in the year because of his belligerent and unyielding nature, was a member of this crew. The other black men were hunks, as well, but this one man was the dominator. All of the rest acceded to his direction.

His attitude had not changed appreciably. When Hammond brought Billy forward and told the crew that Billy was to receive no special consideration and was to be worked hard, Billy saw the gleam in the eye of the ebony giant, who was introduced to him as Spear. A good name, Billy thought, having seen the man's spear on the auction block. He was wearing short leggings held up with a rope now—as were all of the men, including now Billy, with Spear's showing a particularly prominent mound at his groin.

Hammond told the men that, although a member of the plantation owner's family, Billy would be staying in the overseer's house with him. Billy saw that this statement had an unusual effect on the men, who exchanged secret smiles and some sneers. Billy found out that very night why this was so. Hammond lived alone, he knew of the rumors of why Billy was there, he fucked men, and Billy was totally under his control.

At the base, Hammond was a primitive man. He was stronger than he looked, being gaunt and wiry. There was no fat on him. He was all muscle, with the veins of his arms popping out because they had no fatty tissue to travel through. He had to be strong to manage the slaves, although there were several underseers to help him. He walked with a bull whip that he knew well how to use. He didn't use a whip on Billy, though. He didn't need too. He was so hard-bodied and hard-minded that he could do whatever he wished and Billy knew that he could.

He didn't have to use any coercion. He simply told Billy at bedtime what he wanted from him and pulled his nightshirt over his head. Billy sank to his knees in front the naked overseer and gave him the preparation and the incentive he demanded. Then he pulled Billy's nightshirt over his head and motioned toward the bed. As Billy reached the bed, Hammond approached him from the rear and bent Billy over the bed, with Billy's hands planted in the mattress and his feet on the floor.

Hammond was a man of routine. Every night Billy was with him, he wanted the buildup to ejaculation the same way—in four positions, all basic. Nothing inventive about Hammond. It started that first night as it would every subsequent time, with Hammond wrapping an arm around Billy's bent body from the back and fucking him in a set rhythm of two shallow and one deep and then repeat. Then he wanted Billy on his back with Hammond holding his legs out and Hammond's thin hips pumping between in what most knew as the missionary position. Once again two shallow and one deep in repeated rhythm. Billy would just lay there, his face turned to the side, counting the faded flowers in the wallpaper of the far wall. The third position—the one Billy thought of as the "he's tired" position—had Hammond on his back and Billy riding his cock. This was the only time variety was permitted, and it had to be Billy who varied the routine if it was to happen at all. Billy could face Hammond or away from him, Hammond didn't care, as long as he could rest and still maintain his erection. In the climax position, rested, Hammond needed to do the driving to the conclusion. Billy was stretched out on his stomach, his eyes cast to the wall on the near side of the bed, once again counting faded flowers, with Hammond crouched over his hips. There was no usual rhythm this time. Hammond was too close to ejaculation at this point to care. This position didn't last for long, as they didn't go into it until Hammond felt he was near to eruption.

Twenty-three minutes. Billy could have almost timed it out to equal length each time—if he had been of a mind too. He had actually done that the third and fourth nights, watching the clock on the mantle at the fireplace because he'd gotten the drift that the routine would be set. But then he lost interest after that. Twenty-three minutes. Seven minutes each to the first three positions and the last one in two or less. It was usually only during this last one, where Billy felt that, at last, Hammond was lost to his need to explode, that Billy managed to explode as well.