by Felix Baron
She spat into her palm and offered it to me to shake. ‘And if three saucy girls pleases you?’
‘Then they will be suitably rewarded.’
Hope, most ungainly, sitting on the floor with her knees up and her naked cunny peeping up at me from the shadows of her underskirts, winked. ‘It’s at least half an hour till the next halt. As you said, Sir, you and I have unfinished business.’
‘You have a taste for being sodomised?’ I asked her.
She put on such a simpering look that I might have taken her for the tender age she feigned, and on her wedding night. ‘I dote on it, Sir. I beg you indulge me.’
What a clever little harlot she was! I was still randy, as a man who has been interrupted while buggering a pretty girl would be, but hearing the wench plead for a continuance of the depravity elevated my lust marvellously. I pulled the girl to her feet. She turned to lean over the table again but I had other ideas. I have deft fingers when it comes to unbuttoning and loosening laces. My hands turned her this way and that, each twist disposing of a fastening, until she stood naked but for her high-button boots and silk hose. I lifted her slight weight bodily and set her boots’ toes on the lower of the pair of berths, facing the beds.
‘Hold fast,’ I commanded.
With her standing on the berth below, gripping the one above, I manipulated her body, hollowing her back and protruding her bottom. Once more, my cock’s head nuzzled the tight purse of her back passage. With my hands lightly on her hips, I said, ‘If you dote on it, then show me. Impale yourself, little nymph, and dance the sodomites’ polka.’
‘While you “poke her”,’ Abigail jested.
Hope wriggled and pressed down. Once more, her rear opened for me. I simply held fast, allowing her the freedom to skewer herself, which she did with a squeal of delight.
‘Grace,’ she exclaimed, ‘I do declare our Reverend’s a veritable Priapus incarnate.’ Her pronunciation of the god’s name was inaccurate. No doubt it was a word she had read in a penny-dreadful but had never heard used.
Hope swivelled her hips slowly and lasciviously. ‘He stirs me in ways, and places, no man has ever stirred me before.’
I was not so innocent as to take her praise at face value. It is a common trick among practised whores to compliment their clients extravagantly. It can accelerate the transaction and perhaps earn a slut half a crown above her usual fee. In this case there was no agreed fee and we had three full days in which to indulge ourselves, but a skilled worker cannot but do his, or her, best.
I took Hope’s warm soft hips in my hands and stilled her gyrations. My feet moved me closer, so that I stood immediately beneath her. Leaning back, I thrust straight upwards. The impact of my thighs on the backs of hers was such that I lifted her feet off the berth and bounced the girl, ‘in my lap’ as it were.
A great gasp escaped her lips, followed by rhythmic grunts as I pounded up into her, penetrating ‘even unto the seventh rib’ as a Roman poet once wrote. As Hope jounced, her ‘sister’ Grace laid a tender hand on her shoulder. ‘Well done!’ she exclaimed. I wasn’t sure if the praise was aimed at me or Hope. ‘Hold tight, or this great stallion will surely throw you to the floor.’
I took Grace by her wrist and guided her hand down to Hope’s cunny, which by then was running wet. ‘Diddle her!’ I commanded.
Grace’s fingers slapped Hope’s slit. I pounded into the girl’s arse. Abigail watched, grinning.
‘I’m …’ Hope began. ‘I’m … I am undone!’ She juddered, went limp and swooned back into my arms.
I set her down on the berth opposite and turned back to the other two harlots. Both stared at my rampant member with rounded eyes.
Abigail drawled, ‘And yet it stands!’
Both of them were still fully dressed. I’d sooner have stripped one, or both, but we were closing on the train’s next stop. My arms scooped Grace up and seated her on the little table. I took an ankle in each hand and raised them, tumbling her skirts and petticoats about her waist. Her drawers were split from fore to aft. Without further ado, I pistoned into her, holding nothing back. It was a rude assault, but she was a sturdy girl and took it well. Still rutting into her, I turned to Abigail and told her, ‘Fetch me clean trousers from my compartment so that you and I may go shopping.’
She returned; the train’s brakes squealed, and I filled Grace’s pretty little cunny to overflowing, all within a few breaths.
Four
THE PLATFORM HAD been transformed into a fantastic bazaar by bright oil lamps and dazzling gas lights. Merchants clamoured for the passengers’ business. Unfortunately, there was an ample quantity but little choice of victuals. Abigail and I failed to procure even one roast but we did manage to purchase several boxes of Belgian chocolates and French peppermint sticks, plus three pork pies, two game pies, a cherry tart and a tray of Dampfnudeln that were seasoned with brandied damsons. The wine merchant could only produce three magnums of an indifferent champagne so I added half a dozen bottles of Slivovitz and four of a very potable Hungarian red wine, Egri Bikaver, sometimes called ‘Bull’s Blood’. With three hot harlots to service, I’d need all the bullish help I could find.
I sent a porter back to the carriage with our purchases and dallied, doing my best to charm Abigail. She was obviously the leader of the trio and I’d usurped her, in a way, by turning the tables on their plot. If I didn’t want to spend the rest of the journey watching my back, I’d best befriend the woman.
There was a stall that offered ladies’ dainties. I treated the girls to combs for their hair and two pairs of silk hose each.
‘Stockings become Hope’s pretty legs,’ I remarked.
‘Grace’s likewise.’
‘I look forward to watching your girls try these on, don’t you?’
Abigail looked me in the eyes and told me, ‘I do, very much.’
I’d hinted, and it had been candidly confirmed, that Abigail was more ‘Tom’ than tart.
‘I hope I will acquit myself well with your girls,’ I told her. ‘Perhaps I can persuade you to assist me in pleasuring them? A man has his limits. However copious a pot, it can run dry.’
She nodded. ‘But our bargain encompassed the three of us, did it not?’
‘I thought your preference was for …’
‘Indeed it is, but not to the exclusion of your gender, Reverend Sir.’ She gave me a quizzical look. ‘Which do you favour, oysters or stewed eels?’
‘Oysters.’
‘Me too, but after I’ve slurped down a dozen or three, sucking the liquor from a nice long piece of stewed eel makes a very pleasant change.’
I gave her my warmest smile. ‘Then please consider our three-day orgy your personal buffet, Abigail. If a dish appeals to you, sample it, but no one is going to expect anything from you that it doesn’t suit you to offer.’
She tucked her arm through mine. ‘Reverend, I do declare, this holiday promises to be as memorable as a Christmas Day orgy in Brighton’s best brothel!’
We’d supped before Hope had anointed my privates with port and by the time we returned to the girls’ compartment it was well past midnight. ‘You may sample the chocolates and open one bottle of the plum brandy,’ I told them. ‘Our true celebrations will commence in the morning. Hope, put a robe on. We’ll divide, two and two. You’ll come with me.’
In my compartment, I put Hope in one upper berth and secured her wrists to a handle with a cravat from my chest before taking the other upper berth. She made no objection. Doubtless she’d been tied before, with amorous intent. My reason was less erotic. I’d made friends with the trio of trollops, as best I could, but they were ramp-artists and thieves, first, and they knew I carried a fortune in gold. I’d have been a fool not to take precautions.
Lulled by my swaying carriage and the ‘clicketty-dee, clicketty-dah’ of iron wheels, I slept the sleep of a righteous man who’d fucked one girl and buggered another that very day, and looked forward to a morrow filled with similar ac
tivities.
Five
THE PORTER WHO brought hot water for my morning ablutions raised a bushy brow at the length of lovely limb that was exposed in the upper berth occupied by Hope. A pair of golden guineas smoothed his forehead and sent him after another pitcher. I was being profligate with Ben Midras’ funds, but the Pasha tithed the salt trade in the south-eastern reaches of the Ottoman Empire. It’d be easier to dry up the Atlantic Ocean with a bath sponge than to deplete his coffers.
When Hope and I arrived at the girls’ compartment, Grace was kneeling in a Seitz bath, soaping her privates with unladylike vigour. Abigail, in nothing but her drawers, was standing with her shapely back towards us, encouraging Grace with, ‘Spend for me, my pigeon, my pet! Frig with a will, darling dolly-mop! Polish your pearl for Abigail!’
Grace’s eyes widened at our appearance. Abigail turned. She might have been the Tom in their ménage à trois but she had by far the most womanly form. Hope and Grace were sylphs, almost boyish at their hips and with half-lemon breasts set on narrow chests. Abigail had curves. Her hips flared; her waist was a reed; her bosom a pair of succulently ripe fruits that swayed and wobbled but didn’t sag.
‘Please carry on,’ I invited. My hand gestured towards Abigail’s, which was still gently mobile inside the slit in the front of her drawers.
She gave me a sweet smile. ‘It wasn’t our intent to start without you, Reverend, but anticipation overcame us.’
I didn’t correct her for calling me ‘Reverend’ after I’d set that guise aside. She persisted, I assumed, because an orgy with a man of the cloth would be far more sinful than one with a layman. For some people, if not all, the greater the transgression, the more intense the thrill.
A knock announced the arrival of coffee. Hope and I crowded the doorway as I took the tray from our porter, so that his sensibilities would not be further offended. By the time we had the steaming pots on the table, Grace had rinsed herself and had knotted a Turkish towel low about her hips. I produced my Bowie knife and cut a game pie into four. My blade impressed the ladies, or so they professed. The game in the pie was mostly hare, which occasioned a number of ribald remarks. For lack of milk or sugar, I laced our cups with plum brandy. By the time the last crumbs of pie had been dabbed up and the coffee pots drained, we were as jolly and companionable a quartet as you might wish to encounter.
I stood and announced, ‘Champagne!’
Hope said, ‘We lack glasses.’
‘You’ve heard of gentlemen toasting their ladies by drinking champagne from their slippers?’
She nodded, frowning.
I continued, ‘For want of slippers, we’ll use a glove – Venus’ glove.’
Hope still looked blank until Abigail explained, ‘It’s an old expression, you silly goose. Your “Venus glove” is your cunny, pussikin, twat, or how you like it.’ Abigail looked at me and shrugged. ‘Young whores today – no education.’
‘Then we must school them,’ I said. I tugged the cord at her waist. Her sole garment slid down to the rondeur of her hips. Her eyes on mine, her face expressionless, Abigail rippled her abdomen. Her drawers slithered to her feet.
I wrapped her thighs with my hands and hoisted her on to the upper berth. There, she submitted to my disposition of her limbs, which I arranged as spread as the cramped quarters allowed. I folded a pillow in half and tucked it under her bottom to tilt her hips.
The younger girls watched and giggled as I stripped the foil from a magnum and plucked out its cork. Two fingers of my left hand parted the fleshy outer lips of Abigail’s cunny. I tilted the bottle slowly, taking careful aim. Wine dribbled on to her mound. I directed it lower, so that it trickled and foamed directly on to the barely-exposed head of her clit.
Abigail shivered. ‘That’s cold!’
‘We’ll warm you anon,’ I told her. The wine coursed through her convoluted channel and pooled where her pussy’s lips joined into a tiny soft cup. Stooping, I sucked and lapped and probed, working upwards until I was giving the ‘feathery flick’ to her hard little bud.
As soon as her soft moans and twitching hips told me she was responding, I lifted my head, boosted Hope up to stand on the lower level, pulled her face close to Abigail’s cunny, and poured again. The girl buried her face between Abigail’s thighs, slurping and snuffling. Abigail clutched Hope’s head and humped at her face. I found the uninhibited debauchery so fascinating that I was hardly aware that Grace had taken the bottle from me. I felt her warm softness brush against me as she settled into the lower berth. When I glanced down, she had the bottle tilted to her lips but she wasn’t swallowing. Her free hand took my stalk and guided it to her lips. Her mouth, full of foaming champagne, engulfed my knob. I almost expected to feel tiny bubbles bursting on my dome, but the sensations were too subtle to discern. I did, however, enjoy the swishing of her tongue and the vigorous bobbing of her head. When the wine was gone, the minx took my cock from between her lips and poured champagne over it, to slurp off with avid little sucks.
Abigail arched and grunted. Hope turned to me with a triumphant grin. Her face was glossy, partly with wine, mainly with Abigail’s spending. I gave her cheek one long lascivious lick before plunging my tongue into her soft wet mouth. Her flavour, part wine, part spittle, part woman-essence, was more intoxicating than the juice of the poppy.
Our kiss was interrupted by Abigail, who eased off the berth feet first, descending between Hope’s body and mine. Her legs spread wide, encircling my chest, and slithered down my torso, smearing the wet open mouth of her cunny over my breastbone. A twitch of her shoulders flicked an engorged nipple across my lips. With her back towards the berths, arms spread across the upper one, Abigail worked her way lower down my body, ending Grace’s champagne games, until her knees bracketed my hips and the soft lips of her sex parted over the hard knob of my stem.
‘Put it in for me, Grace,’ she hissed.
Two hands manipulated me, pulling my shaft down against its will, then letting it up to nestle its head just inside Abigail’s humid portal.
I raised an eyebrow at Abigail. She’d declared her taste to be more for the weaker gender than for mine, and yet, despite ‘the little death’ she’d recently enjoyed, she was coming at me like a vixen in heat.
Her eyes blazed into mine. ‘I’m going to fuck you,’ she declared, as if it were a dire threat.
I understood. I was a challenge to her domination over her girls. She had to defeat me, sexually, or lose status. She wasn’t to know that I have been a Sufi and a Yogi and have followed the Tantric path. Had I wished to compete with her, I could have gone the three days denying myself any release at all, or I could have internalised my climaxes, enjoying a multitude of orgasms without ejaculation. Either way, I’d have been indefatigable.
I decided to be magnanimous. Winning was vital to her. I would have let a bright child beat me at chess. I’d allow Abigail to defeat me in love’s lists, but not too easily.
I braced myself. My feet were set flat and wide apart. My knees were bent and turned outwards. My hands gripped the edge of the upper berth. In my mind, I became a stone statue, immobile, unmovable.
Abigail lowered herself until her cunny embraced both the head of my cock and a little of its shaft. Her legs moved, finding purchase. Her knees were hooked over my hips and her ankles were crossed behind me. With her eyes intent on mine, she raised herself until her soft slippery petals held my dome in only a tentative grip, then gradually lowered herself again. Slowly and steadily, up and down, the slippery vestibule of her sex slathered my helmet. I was supposed to find the partial penetrations unbearable and be moved to thrust into her depths, galloping to a climax. Well, she’d be rewarded with my orgasm, in due course. First, I intended to put her through her paces.
From her waist up, Abigail was rigid. Her hips rotated as she drew herself closer to me. My shaft spiralled into her. She bent at her knees, pressing her mound against my pubic bone. A small grunt escaped her as she ground down with a
ll the force she could muster, forcing my flesh deeper into hers. Holding that position, she clenched and relaxed on me, massaging me with her powerful internal muscles.
Her belly twitched. A bead of sweat appeared on her upper lip. Her forehead creased in concentration.
I gave Abigail my most beatific smile.
Fingers caressed my scrotum. I’d almost forgotten that Grace was in the lower berth, behind Abigail. The points of Hope’s nails traced lines down my back. Her mouth was wet on my shoulder.
So – it was to be three against one. ‘Kiss me, Hope,’ I invited.
She raised herself up with one foot on the lower berth and one on the opposite one. Her tongue worked into the crook of my neck. Below me, Grace weighed the contents of my sac on her palm.
Abigail grinned. She retracted her right leg from behind me and with an impressive display of flexibility, folded it close to her body. Her toes trailed up my chest until she could hook her foot behind my neck. Her left leg followed the same path. Abigail crossed her ankles behind my neck. Hanging thus, the flexing of her thighs alternately moved her cunny from side to side and up and down.
From her navel down, she writhed. My cock became a stiff pestle in the yielding mortar of her sex. She swivelled and churned. Her internal muscles milked at me. Hope stretched in from the side to suck on my lower lip. Grace toyed with as much of my shaft as was exposed from time to time and smoothed a wet fingertip over the pucker of my anus.
I sensed some desperation in Abigail. To her mind, my self control should have disappeared long since. Despite herself, or perhaps she wasn’t aware, her focus shifted. She became less intent on stimulating the head of my cock and more on grinding her tender bead against my hardness. Her mouth slackened. Her eyes misted. A droplet of sweat ran down the valley of her breasts.
Her hips lifted and smacked down, splattering aromatic dew with the impact. Abigail gurgled. She screwed at me, lifted up and paused, rigid.
