So Gallantly Streaming

Shivering, Betsy settled into the cushioned seat at the back of her husband's carriage.

She rubbed her hands over the goosebumps on her arms, and pressed up against Oliver as the door clicked shut behind him. Almost immediately she began to warm up.

Oliver always did produce enough heat for two men.

She had never imagined she might have anything as nice as this coach, roomy enough for 4 passengers, with its dark woods and mother-of-pearl inlays.

She had imagined herself wearing a dress this nice, but she hadn't known just what it would look like, her small Maryland town not having had access to the latest fashion plates from Europe.

Mooonlight streaked in through the window, catching at the edges of Oliver's dark hair, not reaching his bottomless eyes, fixed on her.

Beautiful. And very much unlike the husband she had imagined for herself. But better.

She squeezed her thighs together as the driver started them off towards home. Since she'd been with child, she had found herself needing to pee more often. She'd been feeling it since the start of the third act, but she'd stuck it out through the end of the play.

She knew Oliver would reward her for it.

"Piss for me, little spy," he whispered, and before he had even finished speaking she was fumbling under the seat for the bourdaloue, twitching aside her skirts with her other hand.

With a low moan, she began to fill the pot pressed between her legs, not caring about the icy bite of the porcelain against her thighs.

Her moan sharpened into a gasp as Oliver pulled at one of her nipples — more sensitive than normal, another of the child-to-be's doings.

His other hand clasped over her mouth, muffling her cry.

"Good girl," he breathed, twisting her nipple harshly, sending sparks up and down her body. Between that and the ruts in the cobbled London streets, she almost lost her grip on the sloshing bourdaloue, a disaster not to be contemplated.

Wrapped in him, she held firm.

How on Earth had she come to feel so safe in his arms?

* * *

Something had awoken in her when she first saw him stalking through the Maryland trees, muscles stirring under his sun-dappled red jacket and close-fitting white breeches.

Something else had awoken in her as she watched him fish his prick out of his trousers.

She had only ever seen a grown man's phallus in her grandfather's book of engravings after famous artworks. Even soft in his hand — she could deduce that much — this man's appendage appeared far larger than the ones on the Greek heroes.

Then again, she'd never seen a Hercules this broad-chested.

He began to piss against a fallen log. His countenance remained fixed in a glower. She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it, but she stopped herself, trying to remain as still and quiet as a mouse.

She had come here desperate to find a way to do her part in the war. If she could find out where the redcoats were marching, she could relay it to someone who — what?

Crouching here in the brush, her plan to be a valuable spy was beginning to unravel in her mind.

Worse, in watching this beautiful man arc his golden stream into the midday sun, she was becoming all too aware of her own need to piss. Why hadn't she stopped off before approaching the encampment?

And then there was a second need, mingled with the first, throbbing between her legs. The one she felt at night when she imagined she was in her marriage bed, that in the dark above her were the kind eyes of a husband and lover.

Suddenly, she was frozen, pinned to ground by the cruel eyes of the British officer.

Caught.

Oh no.

He took a step towards her, muscles bunching, dark eyes growing wild. His manhood, she somehow couldn't help noticing, was still out, swaying like a tree in a storm as he approached, and this time she was unable to keep a bark of panicked laughter from her throat.

He was upon her in a flash, taking her wrist in an unbreakable grip.

The alarm in his eyes had softened, or perhaps hardened, into a sort of amusement.

"I could have you hanged as a spy, girl," he said.

"Please," she choked out, "Let me go."

"Just what kind of a spy are you?" He looked her up and down. "Or are you merely a vulgar American tart, getting her amusements by watching a man in his private business?"

A single clear yellow droplet hung from the tip of his member.

She watched it, face blazing red, as it fell onto the hem of her dress.

"Swear to me on your honor that you won't speak a word of this, and perhaps I can keep your pretty neck out of a noose."

"I swear," she said. What choice did she have?

His grip on her wrist slackened for a moment, then wrenched tight again.

"No. How can I trust the word of a filthy girl like you? What do the uncivilized know of honor?"

His eyes narrowed at her.

"Show me how dirty you are, American," he whispered. "Piss for me. Piss on the ground in front of me like a beast. Then I will trust that you are merely a crude, savage strumpet, not a spy."

"You...you call me a beast?"

He only stared down at her, unmoved. She swallowed her venom. Further angering him seemed unwise.

Putting on what she hoped was an expression of dignified defiance (but not so defiant that he might change his mind about letting her go) she hiked up her skirts, and let fly a stream of yellow into the bracken.

She released an uninvoluntary sigh as the pressure ebbed. At least in the midst of her terror, she could experience some sort of relief.

For a moment the only sound was the hissing of cascade against leaf.

She glanced up again, into his dark eyes. Along the way, she couldn't help but notice a twitch in his manhood. Was it standing longer, higher than before?

Her eyes locked to his, she lifted her skirts higher, giving him a view of her cunt. The better to play the harmless strumpet, she thought. Anyway, it only seemed a fair exchange for her own peeping.

He growled, just a tiny bit, deep in his throat.

When she fled home at last, she really didn't speak a word to anyone. She tried to put the whole business out of her mind.

It was four days later that the redcoats occupied her town.

Could she have prevented it by speaking up? She didn't know. But her eyes burned with shame when she saw the regiment marching into the square, and her anger rose when the broad-chested officer selected her home to make his temporary headquarters.

The arrangement was unwanted and uncomfortable, with Betsy and her grandfather cramped into one small bedchamber while the redcoats took over the rest of the house. But the Lieutenant Colonel took care to maintain the fiction that he and his men were guests in their home. Once, he even severely reprimanded an officer of his who spat thoughtlessly on her grandfather's floor.

They hosted the regiment's senior staff to dinner each night, as if they were distant relations come to stay for the week. Somewhat to her chagrin, Betsy found the Lt. Colonel to be a charming guest, well-travelled and clever with a story.

Betsy was surprised to learn that his own father was an American who had fought on the rebel side in the Revolutionary War. He had married a lady of the English nobility, a story she was very interested to hear more about. The family had returned to Britain with Oliver when he was a young lad.

She found herself telling him much of her own life, and feeling embarrassed at how little she had seen and done.

Well, there was one particularly embarrassing thing she had seen. Whenever he rose from the table, she was reminded again of just how closely his fine white breeches molded to the details of his anatomy.

Neither of them even hinted at what had happened, but she thought she could see an evil glint in his eye whenever they conversed.

On the sixth night, lying in her bed — or rather, on a sofa wedged into the small room she was now sharing with her grandfather — she tried to remember the kind eyes of her imaginary future husband. In their place, she only saw the contemptuous gaze of the British officer.

She reached down for the chamberpot, twitching it under her nightclothes, and began to pee. She swore she could hear the British officer's sneering voice as she filled the bowl.

Thene she realized she really was hearing him, distantly, below the window. Out there in the dark, he was conferring with a men on horseback. As she released the final trickle into the bowl, the man rode away. The Lieutenant Colonel stood there for a moment, appearing lost in thought.

A wicked grin came to her face, and before she could think better of it, she tugged open the window and whipped the contents of the bowl out into the night.

He had turned to look at the sound of the window opening, but the splash did not douse him full in the face as she had hoped. She cursed herself for missing her best chance at revenge. But then he produced a handkerchief to wipe some droplets from his brow, and she took heart.

He simply glowered at her, before stalking away.

In the morning, the regiment was packing up and moving out. The word went around the town: a truce had been signed.

* * *

Oliver pulled his wife closer. He could almost feel her burn with the embarrassed excitement that sent his desire spinning off into madness.

Her breath was hot against his hand, lips quivering as if she couldn't decide whether to bite him.

Outside, the horses clopped serenely through the dark streets.

He released her mouth, covering it again with his own, and she kissed him, deep and hungry. The trickling sounds from under her dress slowed to stop at last, and she pulled away to quickly stash the filled bourdaloue back in its compartment.

Then she climbed into his lap, resuming the kiss. Her skirts were still bunched up around her waist, and she settled down upon his cock, rubbing her naked wetness into his breeches.

"Filthy girl," he said softly.

"What ... are you going to ... do about it?" she said, her voice broken up by kisses.

He fisted his hand in her hair. Just a gentle tug, for now. He didn't want her cries to alert the driver. They would get louder, later.

"You've put me in quite a state, little spy," he whispered. "I require the use of a chamberpot myself, but you've got my cock too hard to point it down into the bourdaloue."

Even in the moonlight, he could see her cheeks aflame. She knew very well what he was asking of her.

"You're a monster," Betsy said through a shuddering breath as she rolled her hips, raking his manhood with her cunt.

"That's right. Now, kneel, my sweet chamberpot," he said, his lips brushing her ear.

Obediently, she lowered herself to the carriage floor in front of him. Fire crackled in his veins. His perfect, beautiful, dirty wife loosed his cock from his breeches, and lowered her mouth onto it, looking up at him.

She was trying to scowl, but the arousal in her eyes and the effect of her lips sealed carefully around his manhood spoiled the effect. Or, he should say, improved it.

He truly did have to piss, but it was always difficult to remind his cock of that when it was being so potently directed towards another aim. A pause ensued as he tried to gather his forces.

Betsy giggled around him.

Then, at last, his spray emerged, hitting the back of her throat, and she began to swallow.

She held on, even through the jostling of wheels clattering over stone. She drank him down, not losing a drop. Her huge eyes, fixed on his, had lost the scowl, and the giggle. Now those pools were all focus, filled with the desire to please him.

They both knew he would make it worth her while.

Her nostrils flared, taking in his scent as she drew careful breaths. She remained on him even after he had emptied himself. He touched her hair, tenderly.

"That's right," he said. "Keep going."

Now, inching forward, she took more and more of him, and she began to rise and fall, drinking his cock down further with each dive. She steadied herself with her hands around his hips, and buried her face into him, until he could feel the perfect little point of her nose pressing into the hairs below his belly.

He had not thought it possible that he would ever meet a woman of such power, such devotion. He was on fire, a burning building, collapsing in on himself now. Boneless, spent, surrendering himself utterly to her besieging mouth. His head swam with lust, and delight, and pride as she swallowed all he gave.

* * *

All the way back to her grandfather's house, he had felt like a fool. He'd felt like a fool when he resigned his commission, bidding farewell to his men as they boarded the ship. He'd felt like a fool when he asked the old man's permission to court Betsy.

He felt like a fool standing here, clasping her small hands in his, making his case.

Anger radiated from her. He was beginning to feel a bit angry himself — but not at her.

They were standing out in the field beside her home. The master of the house sat in a chair out front, watching them like a distant hawk.

"I've seen the scrawny bumpkins in your village," he said, trying a different tack. Did he sound desperate? "Are you resigned to having one of them for a husband?"

"You haven't met our finest young men, because they were off routing the English at New Orleans while you were drinking my grandfather's wine."

"Tell me, little spy," he laughed, trying to pitch his voice low. "When your finest young men rise from the dinner table, do you stare at their cocks? Or is that just for me?"

"Certainly not!" she sputtered, though exactly which part she was denying was unclear.

He took a step closer to her.

"You needn't give me your answer right away," he said. "We'll speak again tomorrow."

At that, he left — fled, really.

When he returned the following afternoon, he was ready to resume the charge from a new angle.

"I can give you so much more than you'll ever find in this rude, muddy village," he said as they promenaded through a rough little garden. "I have just one condition."

"Your army is gone. Beaten." She grinned impudently. "Who are you to dictate terms?"

He lowered his face to hers, silently willing her to meet him halfway. Had he be tricked by his own desires into seeing them reflected in her?

"Your loving husband, if you'll take me. But I have certain expectations of..."

"Yes."

He was stopped short.

"No," he blurted.

"What?" Betsy hissed, her face screwing up into an incredulous scowl. "Where in your books of lordly etiquette does it say you can propose marriage, and then reject my acceptance?"

"You don't understand, little spy. I believe that I may prove a very bad husband indeed. Bad, in ways that you may never have imagined."

"You mean," Betsy said slowly, holding his gaze, her lips quirking into a slight smile. "The kind of husband who likes to watch his wife piss?"

* * *

That evening, before she retired to her room, Betsy asked the servant to leave a tub and a ewer of hot water by the bed. The water would likely be cold by the time she used it, but it would certainly be welcome.

She had to admit, her would-be husband's demand was an odd one.

At supper, he had been much the same charming man she remembered from the occupation of the town. But his eyes had a new fire in them this time, as though he were in the very heat of battle. And when he had stepped behind a screen to use the chamberpot, she had seen a kind of mask of cruelty in his countenance, as if he were trying to scare her away.

She would not buckle.

She set down the chamberpot by the tub. It sloshed. She had made some babbling excuse to vanish from the table after he filled it, stashing the bowl away for later recovery.

Stepping out of her dress, and then her shift, Betsy lowered herself into the tin bathtub. She pictured Oliver in here with her, glowering from the bed as she unpinned her hair.

You don't have to do this, she thought. You could simply refuse to debase yourself like this.

You could douse him the contents of the chamberpot, this time with better aim, for daring to order his future bride to abase herself so foully.

But then, she remembered the beating of her heart, crouching in the ferns, his hand clamped on her wrist. At his mercy. The potent wine of dread and humiliation and attraction, warm and dizzying.

Her heart was beating now, as she tilted up the pot, trembling slightly, and splashed Oliver's piss across her breast, feeling it runnel down her body.

"You will bathe yourself in my piss tonight, little spy," she remembered his icy, commanding voice, soft and close to her ear. "And you will push those sweet, slender fingers of yours into your cunt."

She was rubbing at the slickness around her entrance now. Trembling, she poured another splash of his golden water into her hair, feeling it drip down her face, the scent of it filling her nose, touching her in a way no man ever had.

"You will fuck yourself for me, little spy," his voice echoed in her head, "Like it is my own cock inside you."

Her fingers slipped inside easily.

She could taste him on her lips. Acrid, unpleasant, like bad wine. But she felt drunk, her head reeling, body shaking as she reached for her innermost places. Touching herself deeply — withdrawing — pushing back.

"Once you have done all that, then, if you truly wish to give yourself to me, I will hear your reply."

Parting her legs wider, hooking one over the rim of the tub, she aimed the falling liquid between them, raining it down on the hood of her cunny. Her hips jerked, stars bursting behind her eyes. She continued to pour, lifting the pot higher to tumble down with greater force, and then she was gone.

* * *

Oliver had teased her mercilessly throughout the rest of the carriage ride. He had hoisted her up onto his lap, wrapping her in his powerful arms. Escape was utterly impossible.

Her eyes rested on the legs of the driver, visible faintly through the front screen. If he was eavesdropping on his passengers, Betsy trusted that he would hear only a husband and wife chatting cordially about the play they had just seen.

She did issue an unladylike belch at one point, but the carriage-man couldn't know what a low and depraved sort of drinking she had been doing to bring it on.

She was not quite able to fully suppress the little gasps and throaty whines that fell from her lips when her husband occasionally broke from gently caressing her growing belly to surprise her with a goading thumb against her clitoris, or a tweak of her nipple — or a soft embrace of her throat, a reminder of the proud ache she had won by taking every bit of him. But she was forced to rely on the hammering of the cobbles to disguise the sound.

When at last Betsy stumbled into her bedchamber, she was practically tearing off her dress before Oliver had even closed the door behind him.

He leaned against it, fingers loosening his cravat, eyes blazing down at her.

His powerful chest freed itself from waistcoat and shirt. He looks like two Greek gods rolled into one, she thought, laughter bubbling up at her own lascivious inanity. He quirked an eyebrow at her suppressed giggle.

Her dress dropped to the floor, and before she could even wriggle out of her shift or kick off her shoes he was upon her — dashing her down across the bed in a splay of limbs, strong hands pulling her stockinged legs apart like iron chains, savage mouth hot on her cleft, tongue dragging without mercy.

His tongue, his lips, his fingers were everywhere, and she lost track of all sensation, all composure. Here, on this bed, she could be nothing but a blubbering heap. Here, she dissolved into wild, wailing delight.

He was kissing her now — when had he shifted positions? — the sharp taste of herself on his tongue jolted her partway back to awareness. Glancing down across their tangled bodies she could see his rosy prick pressing against her entrance. Her breath caught as he slid inside her with impudent ease.