Eliza was on the cusp of release, her hips bucking wildly.
Tony took Abe’s thick cock into his hands and began to suck on the head. Using his tongue, he licked the length and then took Abe in his mouth.
Eliza saw stars as her body exploded with pleasure.
“Open your eyes, Lizzie girl,” James demanded hoarsely.
Eliza hadn’t even realized she had closed them. But when she opened them, she saw that Abe had switched positions with Tony. Abe was licking Tony’s thin, long cock while stroking his own. They both were wrapped up in their own pleasure.
It seemed impossible, but the heat between Eliza’s legs hadn’t dissipated all the way. She was starting to feel like she needed more.
Before Tony could shoot his load, Abe released his dick and turned the smaller man around. Bending Tony over, Abe licked between his ass cheeks, preparing him for what was to come.
Tony’s hand was on his cock he was reaching back, trying to take Abe’s as well. When Abe entered Tony’s ass, both men grunted their pleasure and Eliza felt a throbbing in her sex.
“Fuck me, James,” she begged him, pushing his hand away. “Fuck me.”
James didn’t have to be asked twice. In a moment he had laid her down and then was removing his clothing.
Abe and Tony continued to fuck each other but their eyes were now on Eliza. She had spread her legs and was playing with the heat there, waiting for James to join her. As soon as he could, James was on the bed and lifter her to ride him. Bringing her down hard on his length, he groaned as her hot wet heat enveloped him.
Abe and Tony were transfixed while James’ big cock was sliding in and out of her. She bounced on his dick, causing everyone in the room to moan. Tony was furiously beating his dick while Abe pumped hard in his ass.
To the surprise of everyone, Eliza reached out for Tony to come closer. Abe slid out of his ass and Tony moved toward the bunk.
Eliza peered down into James’ face. “May I?” she asked shyly.
James smiled broadly. “I had hoped you would accept them. This is more than I could have ever wished for.”
Placing her hands on Tony’s hips, Eliza brought his thin long cock to her mouth and licked the mushroom shaped head. Tony’s body jerked forward and he cursed loudly. Abe, not wanting to miss out on the action, moved behind Tony retake his ass. Eliza began a slow grind on James’ dick as she sucked and swallowed most of Tony’s dick.
It was carnal, debauched, and clearly the best sexual experience of Eliza’s life. She couldn’t count the number of times she came; all she knew was that instead of losing the one man in her life that meant the world to her, she ended up with three men who would have freely given their life for her happiness.
Sometimes life doesn’t go the way you expect it to. Sometimes there are bumps and curves that will lead you to some very dark places. In those times we have a choice, to give up, or to survive. Eliza was a survivor, and now she is a very happy and satisfied woman.
Chapter 10
Ten Years Later
“Tell me the story again, when you met mother?”
Abe turned to see his daughter, Sarah. At seven years of age, she had a way of pleading with those glorious eyes that reminded him so much of her mother. In the years since Eliza had come into their lives, Abe had learned that there were so many more ways to love than what society dictated.
Take their family for example. One might be offended or even disgusted that one woman and three men could form such a tight bond, each loving the other with every fiber of their being. At first there had been some bumps in the road, or perhaps it would be better to say caught in deep water. But they had weathered every storm and come out stronger because of it.
“Yes, papa Abe, please tell us about the pirates!”
Abe smiled and pulled baby Ethan onto his lap. At four, he wasn’t that much of a baby any longer, but Abe couldn’t help but want to coddle the little brown eyed cherub who was the spitting image of himself.
They had decided that they would be happy with whatever children God blessed them with. It was never a question of who fathered which child; they loved them all the same. With four children under tow, their lives weren’t boring.
“What do you know of pirates?” Abe teased Ethan.
James walked out on the veranda just then with Catherine on his hip. At eighteen months, she didn’t have many words, but she loved to be held by papa James. Her aristocratic profile was the spitting image of Anthony’s.
“Are you telling tales, Abe?” James asked with a teasing note in his voice.
Abe rolled his eyes, saying, “Sarah seems to think that I know a thing or two about them.”
“You know you do!” she said with a grin. “We found that treasure map up in the library.”
Tony walked out to join his family. Dressed to impress, he was all that was fashionable.
“Well, Duke?” James teased. “What have you to say of London?”
Eliza, who had been the last to enter with nine-year-old Bartholomew, leaned on her tiptoes and kissed Tony’s cheek. “Don’t let him bother you. I believe he is still miffed over the missing treasure in Jamaica.”
“Balboa, wasn’t it?” Abe interjected.
James scowled. “Wherever that Spanish fleet had been headed, we never did run into it.”
Sarah beamed with delight. “Were you going to slice them up to ribbons?”
Tony snorted with laughter while Eliza turned and gave her daughter a firm look of reprove.
“You are a bloodthirsty little pirate, aren’t you?” James praised his daughter, causing Eliza to turn and give him an indignant glare.
“Children, it’s time to get cleaned up for tea.” Nurse stood in the doorway and ushered them inside. After taking Catherine from James, she closed the door, leaving the four of them alone.
“Are you still angry with me?” Eliza moved into Tony’s arms, laying her head against his chest and squeezing him tight.
Tony shook his head with a sigh. “No, you are right, I needed to go and claim my birthright. In some ways I am saddened that I can’t face my bastard of a father. But it’s for the best that he’s dead, because I likely would have been thrown in prison for doing the deed myself.”
“We missed you,” she said with a smile and then released him so that Abe and James could give him a welcoming embrace.
The cool island air had always had a calming effect on Eliza. Now that her family was back together again, Eliza was happy. She never did return to England. James was still a wanted man, and Eliza had no desire to go back to those days.
They now lived on a beautiful plantation in Jamaica that was owned by the Duke of Bancroft.
Tony, after claiming his birthright, did occasionally have to travel back to sit in the house of Lords. But other than those mandatory trips, he loved being at home with everyone. Their makeshift family was anything but conventional. Sure, there had been gossip by some of the upper crust, and they refused to answer any questions about their living arrangements.
It helped that Tony was officially the Duke of Bancroft, and a rather wealthy individual. Society refused to give him the cut directly for fear of retaliation.
“What are you thinking about?” James murmured, joining her at the ledge overlooking the garden. His hands snaked around her waist and soon Tony and Abe were by their sides.
“I was thinking about how much I love every one of you,” she said, her smile somewhat wistful and her eyes misting over.
“Dear Lord,” Abe gasped. “How far are you?”
Tony turned, awestruck. “She’s always emotional when she’s increasing.”
James tightened his arms, kissing the top of her head and saying softly, “Please say that you are having another baby.”
Eliza laughed, despite the few tears that managed to escape. “You all know me too well. I can’t keep anything from you.”
“Good,” Abe grunted.
“That’s how it should be,” Tony a
dded.
There had been a time when Eliza had no one. She had been tossed into the streets only to lose her precious baby and last connection with James. She could have never imagined at that time that she would now be loved by three handsome, amazing men. Her very own pirate crew to passionately plunder whenever she wished.
Sometimes life really does have a happy ending.
About S. Cinders
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Cut and Thrust
by Simone Leigh
Chapter 1
The Gilded Cage
England
1780
My mother stares down the length of her nose. “Don’t be absurd, Josephine. Of course you want to marry him...”
“But I…”
She examines the embroidered fabric sample in her hand. “… A girl of your age cannot afford to be choosy. How many young men would be willing to marry a prospect of your… limited… appeal? At twenty-two… well… possible suitors will begin to ask what is amiss with you…” She pins me with a gimlet stare over the sample. “…Won’t they?”
My shoulders droop and I whisper to the floor. “I suppose so.”
She churns on, relentless. “And your father cannot support you forever…”
“I’d be happy to obtain a position, Mama. As a governess or…”
She snorts…
Like a horse…
“… Now you’re being quite ridiculous. What young man of good breeding wants a wife who works? Good Heavens… you’ll be suggesting trade next.”
My mother returns the sample to the seamstress standing attentively by, then fans her neck and face, rather vigorously, apparently recovering herself after my shocking suggestion.
Having regained her composure, she raises a palm. “Now, Josephine… The real decision you must make at this point is whether your attendants will be wearing the pink damask or the mauve taffeta?”
She phrases it like a question, fingering more fabric samples, but does not look at me. “Such lovely colours. So soft and feminine.” Then she offers them back, arm outstretched, to the seamstress. “We’ll have the taffeta, Milly. My daughter prefers that. And it will match the flowers.”
I blink. “Match the flowers, Mama? But the arrangements of roses I preferred are red.”
She sniffs. “You will be carrying violets, Josephine. Such modest blooms. Entirely appropriate for a young bride. That shade of mauve will match them very well. The taffeta, Milly.”
Milly’s eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments, then flick away. She bobs. “Yes, ma’am.” Then, gathering up her samples and materials, she scuttles off.
I make to stand, intent on escape, but my mother aims a long finger back at my seat. “The next task, Josephine, is the invitations. Mr Bennet, the printer, offers a fine choice, and I have made a selection of ten for you to choose from.”
I stare at the wretched things, with their gold scrolling, bells, ribbons and lace. As if I wanted to invite anyone at all. It would be as good as confirming my participation in all of this.
My mother watches for a moment, then shakes her head, tutting. “I see that, as always, you are prepared to leave all the work to me.”
Weariness washes over me like a tide. Swallowing revulsion, I rise from my seat. “Mama, I have a headache. I am going to lie down.”
Lips pursing, she rises with me. When I was small, my mother would look down her long horse nose at me. Now she cannot. Instead, she aims her beak of a chin upwards. But the tone and the words have not changed. “Really, Josephine! Whatever will your Mr Melville think?”
Not my Mr Melville…
Hers…
I don’t give a dash what Mr Melville will think. I have not orchestrated any of this. I am not responsible for any of this. And I do not want to consider any future life as Mr Melville’s wife.
By the time I escape, creeping out of the house to the back garden, my head is spinning and my stomach churns uneasily.
The gardens are very pretty; trimmed and manicured, with neat paths and neater lawns. And by the herb beds, at a neat table laid out with cloth and pot and cups and cake, neat people take afternoon tea with my father.
A snatch of conversation drifts past. “I did so enjoy your sermon last Sunday, Reverend. Your reference to Saint Paul concerning modesty in women was…”
I slip past, by the shelter of the shrubberies, uninterested in hearing what Saint Paul had to say about my supposed modesty.
As quietly as I may, I make my way to the far end of the garden; past the gardener’s heap, which smoulders blue wisps by his weed-filled barrow. Dandelions and dog-daisies spill over the sides, the light fading from their bright eyes. A few dry stems crackle and flame, then drop to ashes.
Moving on, beyond the clipped grass and over-pruned roses, the garden is wilder. Ancient apple and pear trees stoop low, decked in mistletoe and lichen. The grass swishes against my skirts, dotted with oxeye, knapweed and vetches, alive with bees and hoverflies. A dragonfly zigzags at the edges, like some fantastic jewel, and painted ladies flit side by side with meadow browns.
My mother dislikes it here, considering it uncivilised. But for me, it is my private haven, my port in a storm, and I take refuge in the tiny pavilion which marks the end of the grounds. Small and tumbledown it might be, but I am concealed from view and will not be disturbed. Still, I keep a sewing basket here, so that should I be discovered, I can pretend to be working on my embroidery; something my mother finds acceptable.
Stepping carefully over floor timbers soft with age and rot, I settle into my favourite chair. It catches the sun at this hour and the surrounding greenery filters away the breezes.
Taking out my sewing basket, I set it on the table, arranging the embroidery hoop as though I am working on a napkin, its primroses half-finished. They have been half-finished for the last year now and doubtless will continue to be so.
Then, with a quick check to be sure I am unobserved, I take my book from the bottom of the basket: Mr Defoe’s ‘Robinson Crusoe’.
And for the first time today, my blood thrumms…
This is my escape: the excitement of the story, and the frisson of the almost-forbidden. Neither of my parents approves of me reading novels. I can hear my mother’s voice, haughty with disapprobation; “Unsuitable for a young girl.” And my father’s grunting agreement.
Nonetheless, this is my secret pleasure.
I have read the book many times now, and I love the story so much. I first heard it from Matthias, my brother, reading to me in his piping boy’s voice when he was maybe ten years old and I was six.
But then… Shock. Horror. My mother’s face, prim and displeased, her lips pressed white when, for my ninth birthday, I asked if I might have a copy of Mr Swift’s ‘Gulliver’s Travels’.
Instead, I was given a porcelain doll, her porcelain face white like chalk, her porcelain lips red like cherries. The doll now sits on a shelf in my room, where the maid dusts her once a week.
Growing up, Matthias kept the books for me that I was not permitted to read, slipping them to me in my snatched moments of privacy. As a boy, his reading of exotic places and travel to far-off lands was indulged as a masculine taste for adventure.
But of course, with time, Matthias followed his dreams, leaving home at sixteen to go see those foreign lands and visit some of the marvellous places we read about together.
I was left to my porcelain l
ife and only the promise of being married off to some appropriately connected suitor of my mother’s choosing. When I was informed of her choice, it turned out to be Mr Melville. I do not believe she even consulted my father, except to obtain his agreement when she had already made her decision.
Of course, he did agree. Why would he do any different? It is a young woman’s fate to marry and raise children, isn’t it? That is what young women are for.
Where are you now, Matthias?
I kept all the letters my brother sent me; wonderful letters full of stories of new places, strange people and customs, amazing cities.
Distracted from my reading of Mr Crusoe and his ‘Man Friday’, I take out the bookmark; the last letter I received from Matthias. Unfolding it, I spread it against the open pages of my book, stroking out the paper flat with my palm.
Dearest Josie,
I am writing to you now because we are about to embark on an exciting new voyage and I was sure you would want to hear about it.
We are to set sail for the New World in a few days on an expedition to map lands far to the South. In particular, we will be visiting a place they call Terra del Fuego… the Land of Fire…
The letter is dated almost two years ago.
How can land be fiery?
Why did you stop writing to me?
“Ah, there you are, Josephine.”
Jolted from my reverie, I drop my book, and it falls, pages splaying, onto the floor. My mother’s eye rakes over the embroidery hoop with its bedraggled yellowed linen and its never-blooming primroses.
I stoop to retrieve my novel, but a hand is there before mine, Mr Melville’s pudgy fingers curling around it, creasing pages and my brother’s precious letter. “And what have we here?”
Pirates, Passion and Plunder Page 112
