by James Lear
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, sir.” He was squirming. I still had my pants around my ankles, and it occurred to me that I might try one of Young’s tactics, and fuck the boy into silence. My dick was as big as Young’s, it could go all the places his could go, and I knew how much Sam loved it, however much he disliked the person to whom it was attached.
“Shall I empty your pot for you, sir?” He looked around the room, trying to find the evidence of my malaise.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sam, leave a fellow in peace.”
“It’s no trouble.” He darted over to the bed, and looked underneath it. I raced around to the other side, grabbed the pot, and flung a cloth over it.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Sam got to his feet and brushed down his trousers; he had obviously satisfied himself that the valise was still there, apparently undisturbed.
“It’s no trouble.”
“No, really, I—Oh, Christ.” I managed, through sheer willpower, to squeeze out a fart; not much of a fart, certainly not compared to the competitive pant-rippers that I’d heard around the campfire at Harmony, but enough to convince Sam that I was about to increase the yield in the pot. He backed out of the room with his handkerchief over his face. It had not been necessary to fuck him after all. One fart and he’d flown.
I could not push my luck, though, and I knew that if I stayed any longer in the room, Sam’s suspicions would be aroused. I dared not look at the diary again—but I had seen enough to know that my stay in St. Albans was about to come to an abrupt, and perhaps bloody, end. I dressed, grabbed a file of letters that happened, luckily, to be lying on the table, and locked the door behind me.
Sam was back at the desk, glowering at me.
“All done,” I said, brandishing the file at him.
“The key.”
“Here you go.” I tossed it in a high arc; he missed it and was obliged to grovel on the floor as I walked out, whistling “John Brown’s Body.”
Weapons…ammunition…regiment…raid…meeting with the gang at Jenkins Point…Jack “safe” with Sam…I puzzled over these fragments as I scratched aimlessly at a sheet of paper in the Northern Rock office, expecting the still air around me to explode with gunshot at any moment. Who was Bennett Young? What was Camp Harmony, and why was he raising a regiment? To whom did he answer? Who gave the commands? Was he simply a pirate, a thief, or was he something worse, a traitor and a mercenary? And what was I? What had I become?
I walked on broken glass for 24 hours, waiting for disaster to strike. But St. Albans went about its business, undisturbed. A few callers came to the office, some even deposited money that they had promised Young in return for share certificates, forged by my pen. I took the notes, I made entries in the ledger, I signed and issued certificates in my own name. What a fool I had been! A forger, an embezzler, a stooge, a sacrificial lamb, my name on everything while Young himself was invisible, a ghost…
He returned at 11 the next morning, his usual charming self, although there was something in his eyes, a strange sparkle, a slight fatigue, as if he was running a fever.
“Good morning, Jack.” He ruffled my hair, kissed my head. “Did you miss me?”
“You know I did,” I said.
“You been a good boy while I was away?”
For the first time, I resented him calling me a “boy”; I was nearly the same age as he. But it suited him to remind me who was boss.
“Yes. I’ve been good.” I wondered what Sam had told him. Had Young been back to the hotel already? Had he checked on his diary? Had he noticed that it had been disturbed? I put it back as carefully as I could, but for all I knew it may have been protected by a dozen invisible security devices, hairs gummed over the pages, or something of the sort. I waited for an accusation.
“Heard you been sick.”
“I had a delicate stomach.”
“I heard you gassed out the whole of the Station Hotel.”
My act had been convincing, then. “Please, Bennett. That’s not nice.”
“You’re such a delicate flower.” He put his expensively shod foot up on my desk. “You better now? I don’t want shit on my prick when I fuck you.”
“I’m better.”
“Good. Then pull down the blinds and bolt the door, baby, because Bennett’s balls are full of cream for you.”
I did as I was bidden, and was soon sucking on his cock with a show of my usual enthusiasm. He was as hard as I had ever known him, maybe harder; perhaps the imminence of a different kind of action was inspiring him. Maybe I was just sucking better than normal. His dick tasted sweet and salty. I pulled my mouth away and a long silver string of sticky juice hung between my lips and his pisshole. I smeared it around my face, wondering if this would be my last taste of Bennett Young’s love juice.
“You done those letters like I told you?” he said, caressing my ears.
“Mmmf.”
“You take much money while I was gone?”
“Mmm-hmmf.”
“Okay, baby. Time for you to take this up your sweet ass.”
He pulled down my pants, pushed me over the leather-topped desk, and slicked my ass up with his spit. Soon the Northern Rock office reverberated with the grunting and banging of a good, vigorous fuck. I shot my load over a pile of freshly forged share certificates; Young didn’t seem to care. He pulled out, darted around the other side of the desk, held my head by the hair, and squirted a huge volume of spunk into my upturned face. I held my tongue out and caught as much as I could. Even knowing what I knew about Young, and fearing much worse, I was still unwilling to relinquish a drop of him.
“Gotta go.”
Normally he was gentleman enough to ensure that I came as well; now he couldn’t care less. I was hard, my ass was on fire, and I needed release—but Young was putting his coat on.
“Bennett…” I tried to look seductive. “Aren’t you gonna…”
“You better take care of yourself.”
“You can watch.” He liked watching, I knew. I lay back on the desk and starting playing with myself. There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the juicy noises emanating from my cock. I sighed and closed my eyes and felt my orgasm approaching.
And then I heard Young laugh—a soft, mocking laugh.
“Hey, Jack.”
I stopped stroking.
“Huh?”
I heard the jangle of a bunch of keys. I opened my eyes. Young stood there, the keys in his hand, waving them to and fro. He must have seen the fear that flitted across my expression. What did he know?
“I’ve got to run now, Jack. It’s been fun.”
He winked, turned, and closed the door behind him. And then he locked it—once, twice, the full security that we employed each night when we closed the office. I heard his boots banging down the hallway, and he was gone.
I ran to the door and tried it—knowing, of course, that I could not get out that way. The windows were locked as well, bolted shut, unopenable. I hastily dressed—my cock has shriveled pretty quickly—and thought about calling out for help. There must have been someone else in the building, someone who could find the locksmith to set me free.
I rattled the door, banged it. The rest of the building was silent.
And then, from the street, I heard gunshot.
I ran to the window just in time to see Young, mounted on horseback and leading a gang that comprised, among others, Wallace, Scott, Brown, Collins, Teavis, Doty, and Gregg. They were riding toward the bank, and shooting as they went.
X
WHAT STARTED OUT AS A LETTER TO JACK EDGERTON, wherever he may be, has become a diary, or at least a habit of writing. We live in strange times, none stranger than the times I’m having at the Alhambra Theater in Richmond, Virginia, under the paternal eye of “Captain” Harold Chester. It seems only right that I should keep some kind of record of this turbulent year of 1863, if only to read back to myself if I ever reach old age.
The chances of that look, at present, fairly slender, and we have all adjusted our attitudes to suit the daily imminence of death. The cautious, pious, righteous Aaron Johnson, the ambitious clerk who counseled abstinence and respectability, seems a stranger to me now.
Richmond is in the eye of the storm, and weirdly calm, at least to outward appearances. We hear the war news, of course, and we see the stream of wounded soldiers crawling back to Virginia after the catastrophic defeat at Gettysburg. There is to some extent a siege around Richmond, although we are free to come and go as we like. But “out there,” as we refer to the wider world, is dangerous, and we prefer to stay here in the relative safety of our burrows than to venture out. For Billy, Charlie, and me there are good reasons for keeping a low profile. They’re both deserters—admittedly from the other side, but they have no desire to draw attention to themselves. And I, as a black man, am unlikely to find much of a welcome outside the bohemian enclave into which I have strayed. In the theater, and in the strangely theatrical world of Richmond, where all is show and parade, I am accepted, even courted. If I rode ten miles down the road, I’d be lynched or sold into slavery. So we concentrate instead on the business of day-to-day life.
“Business” is a good word for it, as everyone here has something to buy or sell, and in this particular market I find that I can command the best prices. Captain Chester has dropped a few coins in my pocket in return for a taste of my cock, but there are far greater rewards to be had. I tried my hand first as a companion to the ladies of Richmond, who were certainly keen to be “had.” They came to the theater and eyed me as I stood at the door; many of them blushed or whispered to their companions as they swished by me in their fancy gowns. Some were quite shameless, and propositioned me directly, inviting me to visit them in the daytime when their husbands were at work. Others took a more roundabout route to the same thing, engaging me at first in earnest talk about the “Negro problem”—the only real problem for them being how they could get their hands on a real live Negro without fatally compromising their social standing. When they realized that I was educated, discreet, and trustworthy, they suggested I might like to take tea with them some afternoon. And the outcome was the same.
Some of the ladies had the good sense to send me away with coin in my pocket; others thought that they had shown quite enough favor by allowing me to have my wicked way with them. For these ladies I had nothing but contempt. They assumed that, because of the color of my skin, I was little more than a ravenous beast who “fed” on white flesh—at least, this was the sort of crap they used to spout while I was fucking them. Perhaps they had spent their girlhoods on Daddy’s plantation, driving the slaves crazy by flashing their pink asses at them, too scared to do anything about it for fear of being branded as a nigger-lover. Well, now in the crazy world of wartime, they could scratch that itch with the boy from the theater.
I was never going to get rich servicing the dames of Richmond, and to be honest my heart was never in it; if I wanted to fuck something in a skirt, didn’t I have Billy beside me all day long and most nights? He had developed something of a following as a travesty turn at the theater, having been “discovered” by Captain Chester trying on some of the items in the wardrobe. He came on with a painted face, false curls, and a good deal of padding in front and behind, sang a few popular and patriotic songs, and then waited for admirers to turn up at his dressing room. There was never a shortage.
I soon found out where the real money lay in Richmond. One afternoon, while entertaining a very respectable lady named Mrs. Prentiss, who lived in one of the most beautiful houses in town, I was surprised to hear the outer door of the house slamming shut and the sound of a male voice in the hallway.
“Caroline, my dear, are you home?”
At the time, I was taking Caroline from behind over the back of a tapestry-covered easy chair, her skirts hitched up (she had not been wearing underwear), so it would have been quite easy for her simply to stand up, smooth down her clothes, and pretend that nothing more sinister than a cup of tea was being enjoyed. Instead she clamped herself hard around me, clutched her hair in “wild distress” (I had seen this done in plays), and screamed loud enough to be heard all over the house.
“My husband!”
I tried to disengage myself, but it was no use.
“Don’t move,” she cried, shoving herself back against me. “All is lost!”
I heard Mr. Prentiss’s feet ascending the staircase, and the door burst open.
“Caro—oh, my God!”
“Frederick!”
“My God, boy, what are you doing to my wife?”
I thought it best not to say, “Fucking her.”
“I am undone!”
Prentiss was carrying a riding crop—although I had not heard the sound of horses’ hooves prior to his arrival—and strode toward us. If he had attempted to strike me, I could easily have broken his arm. Instead, however, he used the crop to lift his wife’s skirts even further, so that he could see the point of union.
“Oh, I see, I see,” he said, in a voice trembling with emotion, “your huge black cock is violating her delicate pink flower…”
I realized that we were acting in a play, and that I too had my role. I pulled as much of my “huge black cock” out of her as I could, so that Prentiss could admire its length and girth, then plunged it back in. Caroline shrieked, rather musically.
“Good God, Caroline, how could you allow this to happen?”
“I don’t know, Frederick… He made me…”
“Is this true? You forced my wife to submit to your bestial desires?”
I could think of no reasonable reply to this, and besides was afraid that if I did speak I would start laughing, so instead I withdrew my cock completely and rubbed the head all over Caroline’s quivering white buttocks. Prentiss was spellbound.
“Oh, vile, vile… No, don’t stop… Oh, the shame, the shame… That’s right, slap her with it…”
Prentiss was the typical Richmond gentleman, about 45 years old, stylishly dressed, a hint of the dandy about his striped silk vest and his cream spats. You would have passed him in the street without a second thought, seeing simply a prosperous, settled family man. Now, I realized, there was more behind that facade than the casual observer could guess. I wondered which way this scenario would develop.
“Frederick,” whimpered Caroline, who had reached a hand down between her legs and was fingering herself, “can you ever forgive me?”
“You must be punished, my girl.”
“Yes.”
Prentiss let his riding crop play over the sticky surface of his wife’s buttocks, occasionally using it to stroke and tickle my cock. I could see, from the rapt expression on his face, that he would like to be exploring it with more than just his crop. I put my hands on my hips and waved it at him. He looked me in the eyes, held my gaze for a moment, nodded slightly, and then returned to his part.
“I’ll teach you to disgrace me in my own home.” The riding crop sliced through the air and stung Caroline across the ass. She shrieked.
“No!”
“Again!” Swish, smack! went the crop, leaving a red mark on her behind.
“Frederick, I beg you!”
Swish, smack! Swish, smack! Six stinging bites of the crop crisscrossed Caroline’s white buttocks with red lines.
“And now, my dear, you must take the rest of your punishment. You want this black man to fuck you?”
“Oh… No, no please…”
“It’s too late to ask for mercy now.” Prentiss took hold of my prick with one hand and guided it toward his wife’s pussy. I noticed that he took the opportunity to caress it, to feel the weight and heat of it before feeding it to her.
“Here he comes, Caroline.” He held her pussy open and guided me in, feeling every inch of me as I slid into her. “How does that feel, Caroline?”
I had a feeling that Prentiss would be finding out for himself how it felt before too long.
&
nbsp; “Oh, Frederick. Oh!”
I fucked her for a while, as she and her husband kept up the dialogue. Mr. P had been erect inside his clothes for some time, and I thought it was time he joined in, rather than just flicking his wife with the riding crop and feeling my dick every time he could get a hand in. So I reached over and grabbed his crotch and gave him a good squeeze. His eyes opened wide in surprise as I rubbed and caressed.
“What are you doing? You don’t intend to have me as well, do you? In my own home? Oh, you brute!”
I simply winked, and guided his hand back to my wet prick. He was less guarded now in his handling of it, and I could tell that he wanted it all to himself. But there were appearances to be kept up, at least for the time being.
I started to unbutton his fly; this was not easy while a) fucking his wife and b) making sure he was able to handle me on the way out and the way in. But he got the message and finished the job for me. Soon his pants were around his ankles, his shirttails framing a stiff prick of reasonable proportions. He stood for a while, uncertain how best to proceed, so I grabbed him by his handle and drew him toward me. Caroline was oblivious to what was going on behind her and could not see the look of rapture on her husband’s face as I masturbated him. I fucked her hard, and kissed Prentiss full on the lips. This was getting interesting.
Caroline started looking around, so Prentiss drew away—but he had that glazed look in his eyes that I had seen so many times before. He would be back for more. I pulled out of his wife, making sure that he had a good feel of my prick as I did so, and pulled Caroline to a standing position.
“Oh, help!” she cried, quite softly. “Two of you! Oh, what is going to happen to me.”
“Does she suck?” I asked.
“Oh, I could never… Oh dear…”
I took that as a “yes,” and moved around to the other side of the chair. When she saw my dick waving around in her face, she opened her mouth wide, emitted the tiniest of screams to justify the action, and then got to work on me with her lips and tongue. This left her rear end clear for some conjugal attention, and Prentiss plunged in with some enthusiasm. His eyes never left me. Thus arranged, we gave Mrs. Prentiss what she wanted, and what she thoroughly enjoyed, as she soon dropped any pretense to the contrary. When I was on the point of coming, I pulled out of her mouth and finished myself off in full view of the husband, who, I was quite sure, would have given anything to have exchanged places with the wife. I shot a good big load that arced over Caroline’s head and landed on her back. Prentiss stared at the gooey white puddles and would, I’m sure, have liked to lick them up—but that would have been a step too far. Instead he increased his pace, fucked his wife good and hard, and came inside her.
