by James Lear
Still sitting with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, Morgan lifted me on to his lap; my chains were just long enough to allow it. A little more tearing and my own cock was free, springing up against his, their undersides glued together. He spat on his fingers and spread the saliva against my arsehole, working first one, then two fingers into me. It was uncomfortable, no more, and after a while I grew accustomed to the feeling and began to enjoy it. Another finger, and I was soon riding up and down in earnest. He pulled them out, and I knew that the biggest test was about to come.
I raised myself as high as I could to allow the head of his cock to make contact with my opening then, holding my cheeks open with my hands, lowered myself slowly on to him. It hurt, of course, but I was past caring. My cock was still entirely rigid, translating each sensation of pain into one of pleasure. Morgan grunted and buried himself inside me. I put my arms around his neck and he buried his face against my chest as he began to fuck me. When we broke apart after a few minutes, the hair on his stomach was plastered down by the juices that had been flowing out of my cock.
Morgan half stood up; I clung round his neck and kept my arse clamped tight around his cock. Now that I had it, I was in no hurry to relinquish it. Laying me gently on to his mattress, so that I was lying on my back, he picked up my legs, pulled a little way out of my arse and began his battery in earnest. My feet were weighed down with the chains that jangled with every thrust, but I could do nothing; my whole being was focused below. My head was thrown back, and I could see quite clearly that two or three of the other prisoners were watching the show, some of them masturbating openly. I didn’t care; if anything, it added to my pleasure. Strive as we might, Charles, we are all animals. I was no better than any of them. How could I be, lying on my back in a filthy prison cell taking the cock of some great shaven-headed brute up my backside?
I spread my legs as wide as they would go, took hold of my penis and stroked it back into a full erection; it had subsided somewhat during the battering of my hole. Morgan shifted his weight on to his hands, braced his feet against the wall and pistoned into me. Something in this new position found a spot inside me that I never knew existed and, before I could prevent it, I was squirting all over my hand, my stomach, on to the floor, even on to the wall behind Morgan, where a glob of sperm ran down the damp stone and puddled on the floor. The stirring in my guts must have worked some magic on Morgan, who glued his mouth to mine, stuck his tongue down my throat and fucked me harder, harder, until by his grunting and thrusting I knew that he was coming inside me. The other prisoners, inspired by the sight, added their own contributions. The cell was heavy with the odour of male sexual pleasure.
I let my legs, stiff with pain, fall down at last; Morgan pulled out and wiped his cock on his blanket, then stretched out on the mattress. He held out his arm and signalled for me to join him. And so we slept again, our limbs, and our chains, entwined.
The rest of my sojourn at Fort William has been a holiday compared to the preceding weeks. As Morgan’s ‘wife’ I am ignored, if not respected, by the rest of the prison. At least there have been no more attempts to hurt me. The guards, all of them corrupt, smuggle letters for Morgan and, at his request, for me; it is him you have to thank for this, Charles, if you ever receive it. I spend the days chained to the wall, but well fed and watered, telling stories to Morgan and any other prisoners who care to listen. I draw pictures to entertain them - mostly what you might call ‘erotic’ sketches, although I fear that my limited artistic abilities render nothing more than crude diagrams. At Morgan’s request, I attempted a portrait of Margaret, using our usual reddish brown ink for the outline, and a special blue tint worked up from the dye in his trousers to represent her eyes. Morgan even asked me to draw a picture of my ‘loved ones’; I executed, very badly, a portrait of you, Charles, with which he seemed pleased enough. I secreted it inside my clothes, where it remains.
At night I am Morgan’s property exclusively. Some of the other prisoners have attempted to ‘borrow’ me while he is asleep, but fortunately for me the limitations of our chains, and their fear of the big man’s displeasure, have protected me from anything worse than visual offence. My protector is a man of prodigious appetites, and fucks me every night before we sleep, every morning when we wake, and sometimes in between times. He is always affectionate, and considerate of my satisfaction as well as his own. I have grown accustomed to the experience, and am learning how to give more pleasure to both of us. If this is the worst I have to fear, I am well content. It is not how I would have imagined my life turning out, but it is not such a bad fate. My chief regret is that I may never share my new-found expertise with the one I would most dearly wish to.
When we lie together in the dark, as the rest of the prison sleeps around us, he tells me often of his plans to escape from Fort William and return to Margaret and his child. One of the guards, he believes, will release him from his chains and wink at his departure. I fear that this is a vain fantasy, but I do not tell him so.
I will close now. The guard is ready to take our messages to the outside world. How long is it since I saw you, Charles? It seems a lifetime away, a different world Do not imagine that, because I have found a friend here, that I have forgotten you.
Your servant
BL
Chapter Nine
My naval career prospered. So impressed was Captain Moore with my performance, both as barber and lover, that he decided to retain my services - and to ‘lose’ me as far as the English authorities were concerned. We continued our journey south to Liverpool, where Moore and the rest of the crew spent the night while I hid in the captain’s cabin, safe from prying eyes. When Moore returned the next morning, he recounted an interview with General Wade’s secretary at which he had concocted an elaborate story of how the ‘Jacobite Gordon’ had been caught stealing rum and been murdered by the enraged crew, his body thrown overboard somewhere off the Scottish coast. The secretary was furious, demanding that the corpse at least be brought in evidence, but Moore span a yarn about how sailors, superstitious souls that they were, refused to have a dead man on board. And so, in the eyes of the law at least, I ceased to exist.
The crew returned from shore leave very green around the gills, and were quite silent as they prepared for our onward voyage. I can only assume that the brothels of Liverpool had been well and truly visited; most of the sailors boasted that they would fuck as many women as they could the moment their feet touched dry land. All of them claimed that they reserved ‘boy pussy’ for sea voyages, although I was never sure how true this was. Some of them, Dessert for instance, with his golden brown skin and dirty blond hair, seemed more than casually interested in the male sex.
The Florida continued its journey towards Ireland, where we were scheduled to pick up a group of nuns en route for a convent in England. God only knows how the Florida, with its crew of debauched sex-fiends, had ever secured this commission. I can only assume that Captain Moore had sweet-talked a gullible priest somewhere along the way.
As the captain’s ‘body servant’ I enjoyed almost total privilege for the rest of the voyage, and began to forget that I was supposedly engaged on a quest of honour. I was so pleased at having escaped the clutches of the redcoats, for which I greatly congratulated myself, that I was content to enjoy this maritime adventure for all it was worth. Remember, I had never set foot outside Scotland before, had been raised in seclusion by women and was hungry to see the world. The longest voyage I had ever taken was the crossing to and from Rum. And so I spent my days on the deck, where I was now immune from the baser attentions of the crew, and the nights in the captain’s cabin.
Moore himself was besotted by me. He dressed me in his smartest clothes; they were too big for me, but I fancied that I cut a swagger among the crew. We bathed every day, and I grew accustomed to clean skin. We slept in the best sheets, and, when they were stiff with a night’s spendings, sent them down on to deck to be washed by
whichever poor unfortunate was on the laundry detail. How I loved my pampered status! I could order Dessert around, and he dared not disobey me. I deliberately walked over expanses of wet, freshly washed deck, just so that George or one of the other sailors would have to scrub them again. I know that they were furious with me, and would have liked nothing better than to catch me one night on deck and fuck some sense back into me; I found the sense of brooding resentment intoxicating.
The captain did everything he could for my pleasure. We spent the first week of our voyage exclusively in each other’s arms, but then he suggested that I might like to play with some of the crew. To that end, Dessert was ordered up to the cabin, forced to strip and suck my cock, then the captain’s. I lay down on the bed and ordered Dessert to straddle me, and watched with delight his grimaces as my cock slid up inside him. The captain approached him from behind and added his cock to Déssert’s already stretched hole. The midshipman shot a considerable load across my stomach while he was being thus doubly abused.
A few days later I suggested that my friend from the hold, with whom I had spent an interesting morning among the potato peelings, be brought to the cabin. I had been thinking a good deal about him, remembering his firm, hairy body, his sleepy, slightly simple expression, and the vigour with which he had fucked me. Much as I enjoyed playing the stud with the captain and Dessert, I was eager to get a dick up my arse again. The sailor stood nervously in the doorway as Moore gave his orders; within minutes he was naked, pushing his fat prick into my arse as I bent over the captain’s table. Moore sat nearby, his feet on the table, watching our every move, encouraging us to shift ourselves so that he could see more clearly the sailor’s cock ploughing in and out of my arse.
On another occasion, after we had been partaking more freely than usual of the captain’s stock of excellent wine, we descended on to deck and called George from the wheel.
‘The boy needs fucking,’ said the captain. George’s eyes lit up, and he stood to attention.
‘Yes sir!’
And there, in front of the eyes of all, I was stripped and plugged by his gargantuan black penis. Moore watched from the bridge; the rest of the sailors were less distant. They crowded round us, slapping me in the face with their cocks, always mindful that they were observed by the captain. I didn’t care; they could be as brutal with me as they liked. I came while George was fucking me, but ordered him to continue, and within a few moments I was stiff again, with Dessert’s cock in my mouth and another in each hand. How I loved playing the slut!
We docked in Dublin, picked up our religious cargo and returned with all despatch to Liverpool, hiding our sexual activities behind closed doors. The men were all under strict instructions not to molest the sisters, on pain of immediate death. I can only assume they obeyed, or if they did not, there were no complaints. Our nightly orgies raged below decks while the nuns above us sang hymns and prayed for a safe crossing.
We left Liverpool and turned north again. I am ashamed to confess that during all this time I had as good as forgotten Lebecque. It was only the knowledge that we were returning to Scotland that pricked my conscience. Oh yes! I would resume that heroic quest when opportunity allowed. But for now, I had no choice: I told myself I was a prisoner on the ship, however indulged. The truth is that I had become accustomed to reigning in my own little kingdom, and was in no hurry to abdicate. The life suited me. I had all the pleasure I could want; the appetites of a nineteen-year-old boy are more prodigious than those of a forty-year-old man, but when Moore was tired of my advances he was happy to allow me to play with the sailor - or sailors - of my choice. I fucked, or was fucked, never less than three times in every twenty-four hours.
This unwonted activity, combined with the healthy influence of sea air and the little work that I did on board, suited me well. I had dropped the last traces of puppy fat, and my muscles now stood out on my arms, chest, stomach and back. My legs were strong; I could shin up the main mast with the best of them. My arse was still as round and pert as ever, but now it was muscle rather than flesh that gave it its tempting shape. The sailors could not take their eyes off it; they longed, I know, to tear into my smooth white cheeks and fuck me ragged. I teased them; I walked around the decks naked, sometimes, daring them to touch me. Often, I would drag one of them up to the wheel and let him fuck me while he steered the ship.
It was not just my arse that was in demand; the captain, to my surprise, had an insatiable appetite for my prick. Indeed, after George, mine was the biggest on board; perhaps all the exercise had made it grow. Moore was quite shameless about his enjoyment in getting fucked; he deliberately positioned the mirror so that he could watch his arse being stretched around my bloated cock. Some of the other sailors enjoyed it just as much, but were more secretive. Dessert was known to be a good bit of ‘boy pussy’, but after a few weeks all of them had accommodated me both orally and anally, even George. The sight of my fat pink shaft disappearing between his smooth black buttocks made my pleasure complete.
But before long my appetites became jaded. I would like to say that my conscience won through, and that I was spurred on to my escape by a sense of honour. That was partially true, but more pressing at the time was the ennui and claustrophobia that began to plague me. Much as I enjoyed the constant debauchery of our seagoing life, I sickened of it too. After a month in which I had been constantly mauled, fucked and sucked, I began to long for the purer joys of solitude and contemplation. What a spoiled creature I had become! I indulged myself in gloomy contemplation of my fate, I worried about my mother, I even spared a thought for poor Lebecque; and then another cock would be in my hand, another arse offered to me, and I forgot them all again.
The day came when my desire to escape transformed itself from a vague longing to a definite resolution. We had done two more round trips from Oban to Liverpool, Liverpool to Dublin, back and forth across the Irish sea. With every league I grew more discontent, and the image of Lebecque burned brighter before me. He had started to visit me in my dreams; before long, I was consumed throughout the waking hours by a sense of guilt and failure. The allure of clean sheets and hard cocks was as strong as ever, but one day, as we plied further north than usual, I thought that I recognised the shape of a distant headland. With nothing more than the clothes I stood up in, I slipped over the side of the Florida and began to swim towards the shore.
It was harder than I anticipated. Down in the water, I could no longer see the land that had been so clearly visible from the ship’s deck. The sea was freezing, and I had to fight for every breath. Strong as I was, the currents were stronger, and before long I had not the slightest idea of which direction I was swimming in, only that I must keep swimming in order not to drown. Waves lifted me to terrifying heights and then dropped me into sickening chasms below. Time after time the water closed over my head; time and again I fought to the surface. I regretted my folly, thought again of the warmth and security of the ship and the friends that I would never see again. But there was little time for reflection. If I didn’t find land soon, I would freeze to death.
The waves buffeted me so strongly that I was barely swimming a stroke, just struggling to keep breathing and to survive each fresh assault. The currents were dragging me somewhere, and I was powerless to resist them. I could only pray that they were carrying me towards land rather than further out to sea. If the latter were true, I was dead for sure.
Finally one massive wave caught me just as it was breaking. All the breath was slapped out of me, I rolled over and over seeing now dark blue, now white and green as I tumbled helplessly like a piece of seaweed in the foam. The water roared in my ears, my lungs felt as if they would burst from the effort of holding my breath, I kicked my legs furiously in one last attempt to break the surface and saw, as my head emerged, the rapid onrush of land as I was thrown into the air by the fury of the waves.
I landed with a thud on the sand, winded completely. Another wave was coming up fast behind me, white hands r
eaching out to drag me back into the sea. I struggled with all my might, catching on to handfuls of sand which disappeared between my fingers, leaving me with nothing to grip. The second wave broke over me, crashed on the shore and then returned with a hiss into the sea, taking me with it. I flailed around, tumbling in the undertow, and my hands found a rock. I grasped and slipped and was dragged back. My hands found another rock - this one, mercifully, with a hole in it the size of an egg. I buried my fingers in it and clung on for dear life. Yes: I was still there. The waves had receded. I struggled to my feet and ran like a drunk man up the beach and beyond the waves’ reach.
I lay for a while resting my head on the ground, thanking God that I had been spared. Then, content that arms and legs were unbroken, I tottered to my feet. How strange the ground felt beneath them! It was many weeks since I had last stood on dry land; I felt at each moment the phantom swell of the water which all sailors miss so much when a voyage ends. And then it dawned on me-I was free! I would find help from my fellow countrymen, beg clothes and food from some kind family, and resume my journey.
I ran up the beach into a sparse wood; beyond this, I guessed, must lie the nearest settlement. My feet crunched through bracken and moss; how good it was to smell the earth again, and all its riches! I had been too long at sea. Time to return to reality! Time to find myself once again among decent people whose interests were focused chiefly above my waist.
The wood thinned out, and a patch of sandy heath extended beyond it, with a few clumps of heather twisting their woody roots into the sparse soil. Oh Scotland, my homeland! My heart was jumping for joy as I sank to my knees and smelled the sweet herb. Then I ran on, up a bank, through some more trees and out onto a grassy plain cropped short by sheep or rabbits. Now, surely, I would see the smoke from a homely cottage, and would run towards the honest welcome of a humble Scottish family!
