The Ravishing of Constance Ch. 12

Lady Beatrice screamed at the first touch of Marie's tongue. She fought the men holding her with desperate but futile strength. The pirates whistled and clapped and urged Marie on, their excitement quickly becoming visible in the erections that strained at their breeches.

Constance, frozen in place by the porthole, looked on in mingled embarrassment and horror. She knew that she should not watch this cruel abuse of Beatrice, that she certainly should not be warmed by it, and yet she was helpless to shut her eyes to the scene taking place on the deck.

She imagined herself in Beatrice's place. Pinned half-naked and defenseless before the admiring gazes of the pirates, some of them holding firmly to her arms and legs. Marie's knowing, clever mouth on her, making her wet, coaxing her into a fever of need.

Yet Beatrice was unwilling to submit. She wept and wailed and tossed her head from side to side, hair flying in a dark storm. At one point her body arched, and shuddered, only to resume struggling an instant later.

Had she spent? Constance suspected she had, and envied her. She'd been many days without a man now. Her time with Walter seemed very long ago.

She hiked her skirt enough to slip a hand beneath. Her pantaloons were damp with arousal, the lips of her cunny full, pouting, tender. A pulse throbbed deep within her. She touched herself through the silk, and she moaned softly.

Marie sat back on her heels and wiped her glistening mouth. There was a flash of something sly in her expression. She licked her lips with her pert little tongue and looked up at Michel.

"She is ready," Marie said.

Beatrice thrashed about with a renewed vigor. She was laid wide open to the hungry view of the pirates, the pinkness of her cunny peeking through. More than one of the men had unlimbered himself from his trousers. From where Beatrice lay, she would be staring up at a ring of bulging crotches and exposed cocks.

Constance put her hand into her pantaloons and caressed herself. She worked two fingers into her furrow, parting them enough to rub along the sides of her clitoris while her fingertips probed at her opening. The surge of sensation made her knees buckle but her other hand clutched at the wall to steady herself. She kept watching.

"Turn her over," Michel said. He undid his belt, stepped out of his breeches. He was magnificent, with muscular thighs and taut buttocks, and an impressive length of cock with a slight curve like a cutlass.

"No!" Beatrice cried. "No, please, she's lying! I am a virgin, I am!"

The men lifted her, flipped her onto her stomach over a barrel. Her white bottom stuck up. Michel went to his knees behind her.

"There's no need to pretend now, Lady Beatrice," he said. "You might as well give in, and enjoy."

The handsome first mate positioned himself, nudging at Beatrice's cunny with the swollen head of his organ. Beatrice begged and howled, promising him rewards, gold, jewels, if only he would not do this terrible thing, he must not do this to her, he must not deflower her, please!

"She likes it rough," Marie said.

No one else was looking at her, but something in her voice made Constance tear her eyes away from the spectacle long enough to see an expression both sly and smug flit across the girl's face.

Michel rammed himself into Beatrice. The brunette's shriek was ear-splitting. At that same moment, Constance pushed her own fingers deep, and wished it was Michel's cock. She mimicked his movements, matching him thrust for thrust, hard, relentless.

"Unh, she's tight as a drum," Michel said, gripping Beatrice tightly by the hips and driving his body against hers.

Constance's hand moved faster, in time with Michel. How she envied Beatrice, how she yearned to switch places with her! And did the foolish girl appreciate her good fortune? No, Beatrice was sobbing and carrying on as if it was the end of the world, no doubt trying to resist and deny the delicious feelings that Michel had to be creating in her loins.

What she'd give to feel a man inside her, a good stiff cock buried in her cunny! The fire was burning in her, raging out of control.

Michel fucked faster, groaning, his eyes closed as he neared his climax. He cried out – "Ah,yes!" – and pumped wildly for several more strokes. His body gleamed with sweat, his chest heaved as he caught his breath.

Fingers rubbing, sliding in her heat. Constance thought of Michel suspended over her, filling her, and the first waves of her climax crashed on her shores. She muffled her cries in her forearm, and leaned weakly against the wall.

Beatrice lay limp over the barrel, whimpering. Michel withdrew from her, and a startled exclamation arose from the crew.

His cock, and her inner thighs, were streaked with crimson.

"Blood," Adam said. "Blimey, shewas a virgin!"

They all turned on Marie, who raised her chin defiantly and said nothing. Michel got slowly to his feet, wiping himself clean with a rag, and pulled on his breeches. He stepped toward the girl and his face was thunderous.

"You lied, Marie."

She nodded.

"Youlied," Michel repeated. "You spun that yarn about the stableboy … why?"

"Because I knew that if you thought she wasn't a virgin, you'd fuck her," Marie said, not backing down as the pirate loomed over her. "I despise the bitch. I wanted to see her ruined. Do what you will with me, rape me, kill me, I don't care. It is all worth it to have seen her violated."

He raised his hand to her as if about to strike her down. Marie remained unbowed.

"You cost us a ransom!" he snarled.

Jacqueline's husky laughter stopped him as he was about to unleash a blow. The tall, blonde captain strode forth, shaking her head in her mirth.

"That she may have, Michel, but it was amusing. A revenge worthy of a Merlion, I daresay. You, Marie, come here."

Marie went to Jacqueline. Her body was tense, braced for a gunshot or the swipe of a blade, but she refused to show fear or repentance.

Beatrice made no move to rise or cover herself. She stayed draped over the barrel, weeping. Constance remembered how she'd bled after Rob's first violation of her, the misery she'd felt as she washed the evidence away. It almost made her pity Beatrice, but her envy was still too great.

"What has your mistress done to you, that you'd see her treated so cruelly?" Jacqueline asked.

"The tale of the stableboy was true in part," Marie said. She shot a hate-filled glance at Beatrice. "She was curious about men, about fucking, but wouldn't risk her precious maidenhead. So she orderedme to go on my hands and knees for Gerald, and watched while he fucked me."

"Is this so, Lady Beatrice?" Jacqueline's voice was ice and steel. When Beatrice did not reply, she seized a handful of dark hair and forced Beatrice's head up. "Is it?"

One look at that guilt-ridden countenance told all. Jacqueline let go of Beatrice's hair and brushed her palm on her shirt as if she'd touched something repulsive.

"What are we to do now?" Michel asked.

"Well, pretty little Marie here did lie to us, and lost us some gold. That cannot go unanswered."

"I will pay whatever penalty you set forth, captain," Marie said.

"Any penalty? Should I, for instance, sentence you to service every man of my crew with that saucy mouth, you'd do it?"

"Yes."

A rumble of interest passed among the men, along with many grins and elbowings.

"But isn't that the very thing that made you hate your mistress so?"

"I was young and innocent then," Marie said. "Thanks to her, those days are long gone. You do not know the half of what she made me do. Permit me to join your crew and I shall happily whore for them, at your orders."

"You wish to join my crew." Jacqueline's golden brows rose. "An interesting proposition indeed."

"I'm for it!" someone in the crowd yelled, and was immediately seconded by several other voices.

"Whatever you require of me." Marie's eyes met Jacqueline's frankly. "Anything at all, for your men … or for you, if that's to your liking."

"We'll start with the men," Jacqueline said. "Welcome, Marie."

A general cheer resounded, men tossing their caps in the air. Michel seized Marie around the waist, kissed her, and passed her to the next crewman. As she made the rounds, the first mate looked at the captain.

"And what of Lady Beatrice? I am sorry, Jacques … I did not know."

"She'll still be worth some ransom to us," Jacqueline said. "And since she's no virgin, however it happened, there's no reason not to do as you will with her."

Jacqueline walked off. Michel called for rum, and music. Soon the atmosphere was one of high revelry. Constance remained at the window, captivated by the sights she beheld.

Marie made good on her word. She was soon as naked as the day she was born, flitting like a nymph from one partner to the next, sometimes taking on men in threes and fours, utilizing both hands and her mouth while offering up her cunny for one lusty fuck after another.

Nor was Beatrice ignored, although the violated and defeated noblewoman did not relish her fate the way that Marie did. Constance saw Beatrice raped again and again, thrown on a pile of sacks, one man no sooner finishing and rising from her prone body than another took his place.

She saw a bald man of dark Moorish complexion force Beatrice to suck his cock, slapping her when she tried to turn away. He finally just held her by the sides of the head and fucked her mouth, pulling out at the last possible moment to spurt his seed all over her face, hair, and breasts.

It was horrible, what they were doing to her, and yet Constance could not help but be fascinated and aroused. There seemed no end of men, a parade of cocks of all shapes and sizes. Her body ached with longing, and all she had was her own hands.

Unless …

Jean-Pierre had not moved since passing out from drink. He was on his back, his head pillowed on one folded arm. An empty bottle tilted against his side. His other hand clasped his Bible to his chest.

But what was she thinking? The very reason they'd put her in with the youngest Merlion brother was because he was so devout, wanting to become a priest, frowning on the sinful life his father and siblings led. He had barely looked at Constance, as if the sight of her might burn him.

If he woke to what was taking place on deck, it would not set his blood to boiling with lust, but with righteous fervor. He'd seek solace in prayer and rum, and certainly not succumb to temptations of the flesh.

And yet … he was so very handsome, like Michel but with an air of innocence about him. She wanted to touch him, kiss him.

As drunk as he was, he probably would not even know.

That thought first stunned Constance, and then brought a mischievous little smile to her lips. Why, she could doanything to him and he might not notice, or remember. She could keep her secret safe while assuaging her urgent passion.

She went quietly to the edge of the cot. Jean-Pierre's steady pattern of breathing did not change.

Could she really do this? Take liberties with some poor young man in his sleep? Not only that, but one who intended to become a man of the cloth?

If he woke, she would desist immediately. No one would be the wiser.

She took the bottle and set it aside, then leaned over and kissed Jean-Pierre. He tasted of rum, and his lips were soft for a man's, pliant. She ran her tongue along their seam and parted them to delve into his mouth. He coughed and rolled his head to the side, but his eyes did not open. Moments later, he was breathing regularly again.

Constance rested her hands on his chest. She felt the even thumping of his heart, the play of muscle beneath the black cloth. He was no weakling, at least. It felt so good to be touching a man again! She knew she should hurry, lest he revive, but there was such pleasure in savoring the feel of him. She opened his shirt and caressed his bare skin, which was warm and smooth.

Jean-Pierre rolled his head the other way and swallowed. Constance waited until he was still again, and then unbuckled his belt. She had to lift the lower half of his body to remove his trousers, but he did not waken.

She hadn't often seen a cock in its dormant state. Jean-Pierre's was curled small and detumescent atop the loose sac of his balls, resting on a thick nest of black curls. She extended one finger and touched him, ran her fingertip along the shaft.

When he still did not react, she curled her hand around him and gave a gentle squeeze. Her thumb played over his cockhead. He twitched, and began to stiffen. She bent down, her hair spilling gold across his thighs, and licked him. He tasted clean and good, only faintly musky. She licked more eagerly, and took the half-erect length into her mouth.

Soon he was entirely rigid, his cock standing up at an angle from his lean belly. His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids. She wondered if he was truly awake and only playacting, encouraging her to be even bolder. Well, if he was, he'd have his wish.

She shed her clothes and climbed onto the cot with him. His face betrayed no response. She whispered his name. Nothing.

"Jean-Pierre," she tried again. "I want you."

He was not awake. Only part of him was, that uncontrollable part she held in her hand. Perhaps he dreamed.

It occurred to her that he might be a virgin too, that she might be taking from him something that he was reserving either for the marriage bed or denying in the service of the Lord. But it wasn't as if he had a maidenhead to lose, it wasn't as if there would be any physical proof. He would never have to know, and she could satisfy her demanding desire.

She straddled him, and guided his cock to the entrance of her cunny. That first touch was nearly enough to make her spend, so afire were her emotions. She sank down onto him, taking him within her, feeling the delicious sense of beingfilled that her fingers could not provide.

"Ohhh," Constance sighed wonderingly. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, and rocked her hips in a slow, languid motion.

Now that she was actually doing it, she wanted it to last because she might not have another chance. She wanted it to last as long as possible.

Jean-Pierre made a murmuring noise. His eyes fluttered again. He moved his hips lazily, sleepily. A sigh escaped him.

Constance rode him slowly, the sweet tension gathering in her loins. She was going to spend soon, she knew it, and the temptation to fuck him faster was nearly overpowering. To keep at this careful pace was unbearable … and wonderful … and she never wanted it to end.

Her orgasm built, built, and then tumbled through her in a warm cascading glow. She arched her back, her hair tickling the backs of her knees, the walls of her cunny closing around him, loosening, closing. He was breathing harder, hips rising and falling, pushing his cock in and out.

"Is he a good fuck, then?"

The sound of Jacqueline's voice slashed at Constance like a shard of glass. She stifled a cry. There stood the pirate woman, arms akimbo, expression stern.

Caught! Constance froze, knowing there was no way on earth she could make this seem anything other than what it was.

"Jacqueline, I …"

"He's waking."

She looked down. Jean-Pierre's eyes opened, his brow knit in confusion. He focused on Constance, astride his naked hips, and a sudden horrified understanding burst over him.

Jacqueline moved faster than Constance had ever seen a woman move before. In a flash, she was at the head of the cot and seizing Jean-Pierre's arms, pinning him as he was about to shove Constance off in a violent lunge. He only bucked against her strength, and then she had him trapped.

She flung her short hair out of her face and looked at Constance. "Fuck him, go on, finish it."

"What?"

"He's in you, isn’t he? And hard?"

"Yes." She instinctively ground her bottom against him a little.

"No, no, I must not," Jean-Pierre gasped.

"Move your arse, damn you," Jacqueline spat at Constance. "Before his conscience gets the better of him and makes him go limp. Don't give him the chance. Go on, fuck!"

"Stop, oh, God, stop this!" He tried to throw Constance to the side by twisting his body, but failed. "Be still, baby brother," Jacqueline said. "You've already lost your cherry. Might as well shoot your seed."

"No, Jacques, I mustn't!"

Astounded by this turn of events, Constance did not move. Jacqueline bared her teeth.

"Fuck him, I said! Make him spend."

Over Jean-Pierre's pleading protests, Constance began rocking her hips. She could not quite believe it of herself. It was tantamount to what Rob had done to her. She was taking him against his will … and worse, she was making him be a participant in his own ruination.

He had lost some of his stiffness, she could feel it, but as the walls of her cunny clasped at him, slid along his length, he soon grew hard again.

"There, yes, like that," whispered Jacqueline. "She's fucking you, Jean-Pierre. Doesn't that feel nice, her hot little cunny swallowing you up? Oh, and it’s so wicked, isn't it? Just like Eve and the apple."

Constance wouldn't have thought it possible, would have thought that her fright at being discovered would put an end to any passion, but incredibly, she was climbing toward another orgasm. The seductive whispering of Jacqueline, plying Jean-Pierre with talk of sex and wickedness, was working on her, too.

Jean-Pierre tried to pray. Jacqueline overrode him.

"Look at her, baby brother. Bouncing up and down on your cock, the way it plunges in and out of her. And look at those plump titties. Wouldn't you like to suck on them? She's fucking you good and proper. See her face? She's going to spend, I think. And so are you."

"No," he choked.

"Yes," she hissed. "There's no way to deny it or forestall it. Are you spending, Constance?"

"I'm almost … oh, oh yes!"

This time, it burst over her with even greater intensity. She felt Jean-Pierre suddenly turn taut as a harpstring. He cried out like a doomed soul as his cock pumped its creamy seed, a copious torrent of it, flowing around the mingled joining of their bodies.

"There," Jacqueline said, and her tone was as satisfied as if she'd been the one to come. "There, Jean-Pierre, you are finally a real man."

He was trembling all over, his eyes tightly closed, lips moving in silent prayer. Constance stayed atop him a while longer, until she had subsided into a comfortable state of satiation. At last, she disengaged from him and stood beside the cot on slightly shaky legs.

"Well," said Jacqueline, looking her over. "I imagine you have an explanation? Michel and the crew were under the impression they'd abducted a virginal maid."

Constance blushed crimson. "It's … rather a long story."

"Get your clothes on, then, and we'll discuss it over wine. I think Jean-Pierre needs some time to himself."

"Are you angry with me?"

"Angry? You've done me a favor. Have you any idea how long we've been trying to get him abed with a woman? It never struck me to have someone fuck him in his drunken sleep."

Jean-Pierre had covered himself to the ear with a blanket, and turned so that he was facing the wall, his back to them. He trembled, perhaps weeping. Constance felt a pang of guilt. She hurried into her clothes and accompanied Jacqueline to the captain's cabin.

There, with the sounds of the ongoing orgiastic revelry less audible, Jacqueline brought goblets and a bottle of wine, and sat down in her large leather chair across from Constance. Those keen blue eyes studied her over the rim as Jacqueline sipped the ruby liquid.

"So the cherished daughter of William deGranville is not so sheltered after all," she finally said.