Tangier Season

Billy turned to me and said, in sotto voce, "Do you think anyone will notice we're gone if we slip out of our chairs and I fuck you under the table? Would you make too much noise when I was inside you? Would you make more noise if I fucked you with my fist?"

How could he look so harmlessly bookish and yet be so sensually bold?

"Behave," I muttered, prying at his hand that was squeezing my balls again, but he had a death grip on them, and I wound up relaxing the tension in my legs, letting them spread more, giving him a stronger grip on my nuts and the root of my cock, and just covering his hand with mine in surrender to him.

"Yes, I'll be doing some digging," Lord Harkwood answered the vicar's wife, all smiles.

"I want to do some digging too," Billy whispered.

"Keep it up and you won't get the chance again," I hissed.

"I have no trouble keeping it up," he shot back.

Luckily the glazed eyes of everyone else were turned toward a prattling vicar's wife. The plans for the faire carried them through the rest of dinner and out of the minefield. As the dessert arrived, a pudding flambé, which added light to the scene, Bowles released my balls and had both hands above the table, all innocence, as Charles came by to serve us.

While the vicar's wife rattled away happily over the coffee, Billy Bowles' heel came down on my foot again and he murmured, sotto voce, "As I hear it Oscar Wilde is your mentor—in the arts and other matters."

"Yes," I answered. "But where did you? . . . we do try to be discreet."

"I do get to London fairly often. Oscar's activities are not nearly discreet enough—although not as flamboyant as Robert Ross and Alfred Douglas are being. This will come to a head sooner than later. You will be fortunate to be well away from it—not that Tangier is away from it in some respects."

"I believe I am discreet enough," I countered. "I have women too in London. I fuck women."

"Bully for you. Don't we all? Wilde is married as well and father of two, and he is headed for trouble anyway. It's the modern way with the privileged, you know. Did you know that your uncle has a mistress in London—an actress?"

"What if he does? Men have had mistresses as far back in time in England as can be recorded, and not just men of privilege. Take a look at Margery. You would have a mistress too, wouldn't you, if you were married to her? I'm not sure why that's relevant."

"Ah, well, I'll not be the one to enlighten you, then. But where you are concerned, I also, in case you wonder, know Harold Mackelvoy."

"And you care because?" I asked. So that's how he knew I'd be so easy to approach in the way that Bowles had approached me this afternoon, I thought. Not just Oscar, but more specifically Harold Mackelvoy. Mackelvoy was a thug, a prize fighter in the grimmest part of London, who knew Wilde in some unknown connection. The point here was that Mackelvoy was who I went to when I was in the mood to be bruised and taken hard. He was a master of the whip and cane. Obviously he had told Bowles what I liked as a submissive. Knowing that he'd approached me with the knowledge of what I'd let him do didn't lessen my concern that I had enjoyed it as I had—and that I wanted him again.

"I care because I want another crack at you myself. And another one after that," Bowles muttered. He put his hand on my thigh briefly and squeezed. I'm sure he could feel me tremble under his touch. I wanted the hand on my crotch again.

"Your wife . . ."

"Is perfect camouflage."

"The baby?"

"Yes, I fucked it into her. You didn't ask, but this is our third one—in as many years. She can't get enough of me in bed. Are you jealous? You can't get enough of me, either, can you?"

I didn't respond, so he continued. "She will be here for the next several months—with all of the children—and I won't. I can come to London."

"As you heard, I'm going to Tangier."

"That's not an obstacle. And there's tonight. My wife is going to her parents', to be with our other children. I'm not. I'm leaving for London from here tomorrow."

I was going to ask what he meant by that, but Lord Harkwood was standing up from the table. It was time for the men and women to part and for the men to withdraw to the smoking room, with Billy and me going to opposite corners of the room. I suddenly was afraid of him—and afraid of myself with him. I had bought into separating from my loose life in London, which I could see was getting riskier as well as anyone else could see, and going off under the watchful eye of my staid uncle.

That night, I stood by the bed, as Charles undressed me.

"You came without your valet," he said.

"Yes, I have," I answered. I hadn't been able to tell my uncle that John no longer was with me. At the first whiff of scandal floating through London society, he'd asked for references and deserted me. I couldn't blame him. I could "chin up" the innuendo; a valet couldn't risk it unless he wanted to be painted with the same brush as his master. The two had to be intimate. As the master went so went the valet, was the conventional wisdom. "I wanted you to do for me," I added.

He was trembling and had gotten down to where I was just wearing my underdrawers.

"You have continued being very active, sir, I can see." He was complimenting me, I knew, on how toned I'd kept my body.

"You have as well. The underdrawers too, if you please, Charles."

He went down on his knees to pull them to the floor. "Will there be anything else?" he asked, looking up into my eyes.

"You know there is," I said. I was in half erection, which in my case, was something to behold. I reached down and pressed my cock against his cheek. Charles turned his head and opened his mouth over the shaft and began to suck it.

Fifteen minutes later he was under me on the bed, on his back, with a pillow under the small of his back and me lying between his spread legs, my cock a good five inches up inside him.

"You're tight. You're not giving it all to me. Open to me," I commanded.

"You are so big. I don't know if I can . . . oh, god. Oh, Fuck!"

I gave all of it to him, hard and deep, in three thrusts, and then pulled back as he was so tight it pained us both. He collapsed under me, with a moan. "Relax, open to me! Not so tight," I repeated, more soothingly this time.

Like a series of gates to the city opening in quick succession to accommodate a battering ram and avoid being shattered, the tension flowed out of him and his walls gave way. He groaned and moaned as I slid thick and deep inside him, and when I began to pump, he gripped my hips and moved with me—remembering as I did how we'd learned to do this together and had once perfected the rhythm of the fuck.

I fucked him slowly, tenderly, humming to him as he grimaced but told me with his eyes and murmured, "Yes, yes, yes, fuck me," to continue. He arched his back and alternated between clutching my shoulder blades and my buttocks, holding me close to him with his fingernails buried in my butt cheeks when I was pressing deep inside him, opening up new inches of his channel, and moving his hands back to my shoulder blades and moaning the want of the taking when I withdrew to rubbing his prostate with my bulb. He suffered at the beginning, from the size of me, so I frequently held for him to open more, but slowly his groans and grimaces melted into moans and sighs of passion, allowing me to stroke faster and deeper.

We kissed deeply and I moved my lips down his throat to latch onto his nipples, one after the other, and give them suck. I waited for him to beg for intensity and then I went hard, deep, fast, rocking the bed while he urged me to take him completely, fully, to heaven.

We moved in concert like the long-term lovers that we had been before I had moved more permanently to London, the groaning of the bed springs music to our ears. What I wanted, what I gave, as a top was far different from what I wanted as a bottom. Charles was the more tender lover of my awakening years; he wasn't the cruel father figure I longed to submit to.

As I creamed him deep with a muted victory exclamation, my peripheral vision focused on movement over by the door into my bed chamber. I caught a glimpse of Billy Bowles, in a dressing gown, at the open door. He took in what was happening on the bed, clicked the door shut, and was gone. I shuddered at the realization that he had had a cane in his hand along with leather straps that could be used as restraints.

"Sir, oh, sir," Charles murmured. His hand was encasing his cock, and his cum was gobbed on my belly.

"Shh, shh," I said. "Feel it? I'm hardening again. I've missed you, Charles."

"Oh, sir. Oh, OH!"

I had started to pump him again—slow, steady, deep.

Charles obviously couldn't stay the night. His day would start in a matter of just a few hours. I watched him redress in the light of a candle on my nightstand and walked him to the door to the corridor when he was dressed. We kissed and I stood in the doorway, holding the candle, as he slipped up the backstairs to the servants' rooms in the attic. When I turned to go back into my chamber, I saw that there was a light further down the hall. Billy Bowles. He was just in a dressing gown, as was I. I expected him to come down the hall toward me, and I would have received him in my room if he had. Instead, he gave me an expectant look, turned, and walked toward the main staircase.

I followed him. He descended the stairs, holding his candle, and moved into the family dining room. I descended the staircase as well and entered the dining room. His candle was sitting on the dining room table, but I didn't see him. I placed my candle next to his and turned, to find him standing close behind me, his dressing gown open, his cock in full erection. He had brought the cane and the leather straps.

He bent me over Lord Harkwood's chair at the table—sideways, so that I straddled one arm with my chest and the closer one with my belly. He tied my wrists to the chair legs on the other side from where my feet were on the carpet. I remained silent throughout the binding other than whimpering low with my eyes on the cane laying on top of the table. My dressing gown was gone, the sash was cruelly tightened around my head, gagging my mouth.

I moaned as he commenced caning my bare buttocks, thighs, and back. For some minutes the only sounds in the room were the swishing and crack of the cane, my gasps and moans as my body jerked within its confining bindings, and Billy's heavy breathing. I went immediately hard as steel and throbbing. When he had tired of beating me with the cane, he slapped his hard cock on my buttocks for several strokes and rubbed the underside of it up and down in my butt crease and repeatedly across my anus, which was open and begging for him.

He gripped my hips and put his bulb in me, but just that, and I heard him give a low, hoarse laugh as I pushed up on my toes, raising my buttocks to take in three or so more inches of him. I was aching for the cock and fully open for what he could provide. He grabbed the hair on the back of my head and bowed me painfully back to him, arching my torso and stretching my arms to the limit the bindings would permit. As he did that he slammed his cock deep up inside me. He withdrew and trust up into me again to the hilt—then a third time. He suspended the anal assault there, untied me, pulled me under the dining table onto my back and, coming down on his knees between my spread legs, grabbed my buttocks in both hands, elevated them to his desired angle of thrust, fed all of the cock into me again, and fucked me as he had said earlier he wanted to do—under the dining table.

Groaning, but thoroughly aroused, at the churning of his cock inside me and from the sting of the caning of my tender flesh, I leveraged off my feet and met his thrusts with counterthrusts of my own. Clutching his undulating buttocks with my hands, I helped intensify the velocity of his up thrusts, taking him as deep as he was able to get. He jerked, gave a little cry, and came inside me, after which he released the sash gag and possessed my mouth brutally with his. I had already ejaculated while he was caning me bent over the chair, but when he rolled off of me to the side, latched onto one of my nipples with his teeth, and entered my ass with two fingers to rub my prostate, I quickly masturbated myself to a second, arcing coming. I could have come again and again under his cruel attentions. He hadn't so much satiated me, as he had set me afire.

He abandoned me there, on the floor under the table, to recover, and the door to his bed chamber was shut tight when I had struggled, wincing from the caning, back to my own chamber. I had thought to spend the night under him either in his bed or mine, but I tried his door and it was locked.

When I came down for breakfast in the morning, a couple of suitcases were in the front hall. Before I reached the dining room, I heard Sydney and Billy talking and laughing. Bypassing breakfast, not wanting to face both of the men while eating breakfast on the table I'd so recently been assaulted under, I walked out of the house and down through the gardens.

Not wanting to face Billy in Lord Harkwood's presence didn't mean that I wasn't keyed up still. I had remained hard for the rest of the night and tossing in my bed. Masturbation hadn't satisfied me. I wanted more.

As I had done whenever I visited Falconcroft in the last few years, I sought out the gardener, Thomas. An ugly, gnarled, but muscular, man in his mid fifties—always sweaty, always with dirt under his fingernails, never cowed by rank, always randy. He was ever crude and illiterate other than knowing and using more dirty curse words than anyone else I'd ever met. He also had a longer and thicker cock than I did and had, over the past three years, laid me wherever he found me alone—in his cottage, under trees or bushes, in his wheelbarrow, on the bank of the ornamental pond.

From the moment he saw the interest and ache for it in my eyes he had fucked me without leave and as if by right. I didn't have to make the decision to lie with men. He made it for me and nearly ruined me that first time, showing me no quarter. I had Charles first, but Thomas had already had me first. He reamed me in repeated fuckings of that thick cock of his and toughened me to be able to take any man in London. He always reminded me of my natural place in a pecking order established by a more realistic standard than title heredity. There were few men who knew what I wanted when I bottomed. He was one of them. He had trained me to want it that way.

And he was cruel. When I was in need as I now was, I knew I could come to him for relief.

We were on his bed by a window in his cottage near the front gates of Falconcroft when the carriage taking Billy to the train station to catch the morning train to London rolled by. As I watched the carriage wheel its way past the window, my wrists were tied together behind my back by a leather strap, my cheeks still smarted from Thomas slapping me into submission, he was gripping my waist, he was ramming my channel up and down on his impossibly thick cock, and he was telling me in the most graphic terms how he was going to "bring Mr. Lauty Dah Lord of the Manor" down a notch and fuck the stuffing out of me doggy style on the floor when he'd gotten me warmed up in this position.

And then he did just that. And he caned me, with me on all fours, before he fucked me like a dog. It was Thomas who introduced me to the arousal of the cane. I have no doubt I had a father fixation on the man. I never came so prodigiously as I did under Thomas' assault. Whenever he was caning me, images of my father raced through my mind.

Well, perhaps Billy Bowles had done that for me, as well. But Thomas had been there before him.

* * * *

Tangier, Morocco, Mid Fall, 1890

The coupling was hurried and it had taken godawful long to get her out of her fussy long-skirted dress, remove the bustle, and untie and free her of the corset. She kept urging me to hurry. I'd stripped without trouble and she was panting for me, her hands already having smoothed the rubber French Letter on my cock. I didn't bother removing her knickers. The bodice unlaced so that I could free her breasts and there was a flap in front that I merely unbuttoned and pulled down. There wasn't time to take her laced shoes off. Trysting with a lady of elegance in the waning years of the nineteenth century was no easy task.

I laid her on her back on my narrow bed, over the lip that was there to prevent the pitching of the ship from rolling a body out of the bed. We were in my cabin in P&O's Cadiz Star steamer that had brought us from Southampton to just beyond the harbor breakwater in Tangier, Morocco, our destination. We didn't have time to spare, but Amelia had insisted on one last tryst before our arrival and possible forever separation.

It had been an enjoyable journey down the western coast of France to the entrance into the Mediterranean for me. I had a cabin separate from Lord Harkwood and thus could while my time away in any dalliances I found possible when he didn't require my secretarial services. I had found it possible with the American, Amelia Anderson, whose somewhat scattered father obviously had trouble reining his daughter in. And I had found it with a young dining mess waiter named Yousef, who was returning to his home in Tangier and who voiced his wish to lie under me again there, as was possible.

"Hurry, hurry. You have me all aflame," Amelia murmured breathlessly in a voice she must have placed in her mind from reading steamy Romance novels. "Christ, you are huge," she then said in a voice she must have picked up in the London streets. She was holding me with both hands, guiding me to between her legs. I usually spent some time with my face there, sucking on her clit and tonguing in her folds, but we had no time for that today.

"I suppose you've had opportunities to compare," I muttered, teasing her by rubbing my bulb against her clit.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she said, with a gasp, as she manipulated the sheathed cock herself to rub between her folds before moving it back to her clit. "It should be enough for you to know that you are among the biggest I've known."

I didn't have to wonder if Amelia had been with many men. She had seduced me. I hadn't lied when I'd told William Bowles that I laid with women—I just didn't do so often. Amelia had set her cap for me before we'd left Southampton. She'd been the one to supply the French Letters. She'd ridden my cock like a Gropecunt Lane whore.

"I don't know if I can . . . Oh, Gregory, slower, my love . . . oh, Oh, OH! Yess!"

I was on top of her, inside her, pumping her shallow and then pumping her deep—but not too deep. I was longer than she could comfortably take, but we'd done this enough for me to have her measure. I gave her exactly what made her moan, pant, and purr the most. I turned and sat on the side of the bunk, pulling her with me, holding her in my lap, skewered on my cock, raising and lowering her on the staff. My lips went to her exposed breasts and taut nipples. Whimpering and sighing, she went lip, relying on my arm around her waist to hold her in place on my lap. I moved the fingers of the free hand between us, search for and finding her clit, and rubbing it.

"Oh, Christ, Gregory!" she cried out as she came alive, writhed on my lap, took over the fuck by rising up and then slamming herself down on my cock, comfort no longer a concern for her, taking my full measure, and then exploded. She collapsed again, sighing and moaning. I took over again and pulled her up and down on the cock with more intense velocity and she exploded again—and then again. And then it was my turn.