by Molly Tanzer
He enjoyed her for much longer the second time. More confident, he thrust and thrust into her, trying to make it last as long as possible. He nearly lost it when she suggested he try it with her dog-fashion, but he controlled himself and discovered that way was very nice indeed. Something about the angle of it. When he came it was so intense he cried out from the pain and pleasure of it.
“Keep thrusting, Henry, please—I’m so nearly—nearly—ohh!”
He did his best to please her, and felt her cunt begin to pinch and pull at his cock; the spastic, nipping contractions stimulated him so intensely that he spent a third time, and so copiously it ran out of her and over his shaft, dripping down his scrotum and thighs. Incapable of moving more, he sat back on his ankles, gasping and still joined to her.
“Honor,” he sighed. “Oh, Honor, I love you. Did you—did I …”
“I enjoyed myself completely,” she said softly, sliding off him and collapsing onto the bed. “Very impressive.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Henry climbed down beside her and sighed happily. “I never hoped it would be so … wonderful.”
“Rather.”
Henry dozed off for a time, and when he awoke, it was dusk. Honor was still asleep; naked and breathing quietly, she sighed. He ground his hips against her bottom as they spooned. Gazing at her pale, slender body with its boyish hips and firm high breasts, Henry thought himself the luckiest man in the world. She was a tremendous thing, Miss Honor Clement. To have hoodwinked him so extremely—why, to have hoodwinked an entire college of learnéd men! She had kept up with the best of the class, nay, outstripped them, and with her woman’s mind and weaknesses, too! To think that she had attended classes, and probably turned in pages of perfect homework while dealing with her monthly curse! Tremendous was a word without the proper scope! She was … a goddess. He knew they could never marry, but to have even dallied with such a creature was a privilege he would cherish forever.
Marry.
The word stuck in his mind. Honor was to marry Godfrey one day, after his continental tour. They were betrothed, he had learned that last night—they had spoken of it in front of him! Good Christ. But Honor couldn’t have been a virgin before her decision to take Henry as a lover. Perhaps Godfrey had done the deed.
This seemed unlikely to Henry; Godfrey had also spoken proudly of having been caught with two stable-boys and a footman. That certainly seemed more up Godfrey’s alley than him claiming the virtue of his cousin, no matter how boyish she might look—but there was no way of knowing if Godfrey’s interest in lads was a strict preference. Perhaps he would make do with Thomas.
Where was Thomas?
“You seem preoccupied.”
Honor rolled over and stroked the end of Henry’s nose with her fingertips. Her eyes gleamed in the shadows.
“To be honest, I was contemplating Godfrey,” said Henry.
“Really?” Honor looked surprised. “I thought you said you weren’t a bugger?”
“I’m not—but he is?”
“Thoroughbred, as far as I can tell.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“Hmm?”
“If he won’t—you know.”
She slid her finger under the head of his cock and lifted it. Henry winced as some of his dried spendings tugged on the downy hairs on his thighs, and she chuckled. “I can feel the heat of your blushes from here, Mr. Milliner. Trust me, I shall make do. There is Thomas, after all—and you.”
“Madame, I am honored you would consider making this an, ah … ongoing affair.”
“Speaking of ongoing, I’m curious—can you manage again, do you think?”
She was insatiable! Henry’s prick was sore from crown to root, but her hand had been teasing and tickling him, and the stimulation had yielded a passable cockstand. Perhaps if she would lick it a bit, as she had done earlier …
He worked up the nerve to ask, and she obliged, slurping on it like she couldn’t get enough of the taste. This produced the desired result, and they wantonly fucked in the twilight, giggling about all the spirited screaming and hollering still happening outside, on the quad. She came twice, but the unusual amount of stimulation had numbed Henry somewhat.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, thrusting up into her as she rode a St. George upon him. “I’m very nearly there!”
“Try with me below you,” she said. He heeded her council, but still he could not manage to finish, even with her calves encircling his neck. She was beginning to grimace with each thrust and her moans had changed in timbre. He must be making her sore; he certainly was—his cock felt more like a skinned knee than an object of pleasure. Still, he was eager, desperate to come, so out of politeness he gasped,
“What if you let me—in your mouth—”
“Oh no,” she said, with a shake of her head. “No, it affords me too much pleasure to have my vitals bathed from within.” She arched her back, and he felt her hand snake around behind him. “Let’s try …”
To his bewilderment and alarm she worked her finger into his bottom-hole as he continued to fuck her, but the unexpected stimulation surprised him into a prodigious spending. She cried out as the first jet struck her insides, and he collapsed on top of her with the last burst, exhausted.
“Very nicely managed,” she murmured, squirming out from underneath him. “Brilliantly done. You are such a sport, Henry. I like you.”
“Oh,” he said. After her earlier talk of love, this rather wounded him. “I … love you, I think.” He saw sympathy in her expression, so he amended, “I know I must always do so from afar, but I don’t mind!”
“Sweet boy,” she said, and climbed over him to rise. Naked as the day she was born she walked across the room, lit a candle, then opened her wardrobe, and shrugged into a parrot-green robe de chambre. Clothes transformed her back into St John, but Henry still thought her mighty handsome.
His stomach grumbled, and it occurred to him that she might need some refreshment after all that, too.
“Honor—are you hungry?”
“Famished!”
“You know, when I came back with scraps for Lady Franco, the whole of the college was topsy-turvy. The gates were open … could I … would you let me …”
“Hmm?”
“Let me buy you dinner, Honor? We could go out to a tavern—the Horse, if you like, they’ll certainly be busy what with King Charles’s triumph and all that, but we could get a bite and a pint.”
“If we do, you must let me treat you, Henry. I have taken your virtue today, after all. You must let me give you something back.”
Henry blushed. “No, please. Let me do this for you—you have done so much for me. It would be very exciting for me, I’ve never taken a girl out to dinner before.”
“You shan’t start now. If we go, you shall be escorting St John. I am not here, remember? Regardless, I must take care of something first. Go and dress, as shall I.”
Henry was so happy; he couldn’t ever recall being so very happy. Head propped on his hand, he looked at Honor in the candlelight, her chiaroscuro figure, the way the light played over her cheekbones.
“Are you going to go?” she asked. “I really am very much in need. If you want to watch me make my pee then that’s fine with me, but …”
Henry blushed. “All—all right, I’m sorry, I … I didn’t realize.” And, wrapping her bedsheet around his still-leaking nakedness, he scurried upstairs to dress in his best.
He wasn’t too keen on his only real suit of clothes. The black cloth of the coat, the plain falling-collar, and conservatively-cut shirt made him look more like a Dutch spinet-tutor than an up-and-coming English lawyer, but it was clean and unwrinkled, and he knew he would not embarrass Honor in it. He gave his hat a quick brush, checked to make sure his stockings were straight, and headed down the stairs with his purse banging on his hip—and found Honor in her laboratory, still in her robe de chambre, holding a glass tube that appe
ared to be full of golden liquid over a candle-flame.
As he watched, she took a long glass rod and dipped the end into some sort of fluid in a glass jar, then shook a drop into the yellow-tinted tube. It turned a brilliant pansy-purple and began to smoke.
“Wonderful,” exclaimed Honor—and then looked up and saw Henry standing there, staring at her. She sobered quickly. “I—ah, I had to conclude this experiment before getting ready. Please, excuse my tardiness.”
“Was that …” It seemed absurd, but Henry asked anyways, the original color of the fluid in the tube having been rather distinct, “your pee?”
“Yes,” she replied, tidying her workspace and retreating into her bedroom. “Why?”
“What were you doing with it?”
“Testing it.”
“For what?”
Henry followed her into her bedroom, excited by the idea of watching her change clothes. She stripped, heedless of his gaze, and shimmied into a pair of stockings.
“Help me into this?”
She was holding a strip of cloth, the one Henry had earlier seen tied ‘round her bosom. He helped her wrap it tightly, and she continued dressing without responding.
“Honor?”
“My family is given to kidney stones,” she said, not looking at him. “I test my urine regularly to see what is safe for me to eat. If the acidity is off, I must stay away from such things as beans and peas, is all.”
“Oh.” Henry wasn’t sure she was being honest, but then again, it was her piss, and thus her business. He instead focused on witnessing her remarkable transformation. Honor not only altered the line of her bosom, but wore a sort of special undergarment that simultaneously compressed the curve of her bottom and gave her a bulge in front. Her shirt was so ruffled she needn’t have bothered binding her tits, he thought, and the same went for her petticoat breeches, but when he mentioned this she came down hard on the side of verisimilitude.
“It’s an art form,” she said, powdering her face lightly and then darkening under her cheekbones with some tinted paste. “I always use a bit of this to make my face look more masculine, though I’m so very manly-faced I needn’t really bother.”
“I don’t think so!”
“Yes, but you’re at least part bugger,” she teased, as she donned her white wig. “All right, shall we dine? I’m famished.”
“To the Horse?”
“Yes, that sounds lovely.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re such a dear, Henry. Everything has worked out so wonderfully.”
Indeed, it seemed so. Henry had never felt so light of foot as he did during their walk to the Horse: Not only had he become a man that day, but he was taking his girl out to dinner, and that girl was St John Clement Lord Calipash! And not as part of a group or anything, just the two of them.
It was a good thing, too, he saw when the Horse and Hat came into view. The place was mobbed. Throngs of people were sitting and standing in the street, drinking flagons of ale and cups of wine, cheering and getting enthusiastically drunk; inside, there were no seats at all to be had, and most of the standing room was taken up with students, merchants, and farmers alike.
Henry felt a bit overwhelmed, and was just about to suggest they look elsewhere when Honor elbowed him in the ribs and nodded to a dark corner, where two figures sat deep in conversation.
“I say, isn’t that your friend Lord Rochester?” she shouted over the din. “Whoever is he with?”
Henry squinted, peering into the dimness, and did not recognize the other man. He was corpulent and red-faced, with yellow hair and a simpering smile. Henry watched him take a deep draught of wine and then, of all things, he kissed Rochester on the mouth, and not in a strictly friendly fashion, either. He had his fat, hammy hand behind Rochester’s small head and kissed him for a long time—and with tongue, Henry noted, mildly grossed out.
“Looks like you won’t be the only chicken plucked this night,” remarked Honor. Henry laughed. He was more comfortable with Honor when she was playing at being St John, things were so much easier.
“I should dearly love to go over there and see what’s happening,” cried Henry.
“Why don’t we?” shouted Honor, looking mischievous. “What’s stopping us?”
Henry saw her point, so they elbowed their way through the crowd, eliciting curses when they accidentally knocked into tipsy, lurching revelers.
“Hallo, Rochester!” Henry hailed his friend, who looked immediately annoyed, his companion even more so. “Nice to see you—we were just trying to find a place to sit! May we join you?”
“Do let us,” said Honor, with a bow to the assembled pair. “You’ve no idea how hungry we are.”
“All … right,” said Rochester, looking sidelong at his benchmate. “If you’re happy with it, Robert?”
“I don’t think we’ve met,” said Henry, plunking himself down on a stool before this ‘Robert’ had a chance to gainsay Rochester. “I’m Henry Milliner, our Lord Rochester’s oldest and dearest friend at Wadham. And this,” he said, indicating Honor, “is St John Clement, the current Lord Calipash, and the brightest star in our college’s firmament.”
The fat man seemed rather taken with St John and not at all interested in Henry. “My lord, it is a pleasure,” he said unctuously. “I am Robert Whitehall, a humble composer of verses. I am a fellow at Merton, but lately come back to Oxford and looking to … make new friends.”
“Robert Whitehall,” said St John thoughtfully. “Didn’t you get into a spot of trouble with the Roundheads over some poem—”
“Ah ha ha,” Whitehall laughed unconvincingly; there was no mirth in his eyes.
“—and then got into trouble with the Royalists for writing turncoat doggerel?”
“Ah ha ha ha,” he said, turning redder, if that was possible. “You are well informed, my lord.”
“I follow poetry.”
“Indeed, my lord? How wonderful,” Whitehall said, his fleshy cheeks wobbling as he smiled. “Well then, I must compose some verses in your honor, for a poetically-inclined gentleman has no need for food, drink, or love—for he has found the greatest happiness of all. Would you not agree?”
When Whitehall spoke, Rochester got a sloppy sort of worshipful look in his eyes that Henry didn’t like at all. Could the boy not see through the toady?
“I could not say,” replied Honor. “I suppose it depends on the poetry. If such is true, however, I’d advise those trying such a thing to be careful—insipid verses would likely cause anemia as easily as an inadequate diet.”
“Will you not shake hands, Rochester?” asked Henry, leaning over to converse with his friend. “You’ve not said a word to me.”
“Why are you here, ruining my night?” snipped Rochester, tossing back his wig-curls. “Go and join the rest of the Blithe Company, I saw some of them earlier—look, there’s Neville and Jones, they’re having a private chat, and you seem to enjoy breaking up that sort of thing.”
Oh, yes—there they were indeed, but Henry didn’t care.
“You’re sour as Belgian beer,” he said. “Whatever’s the matter with you?”
“Robert and I were having a lovely time before you barged in here.”
“I saw. Watch yourself, John, or you’ll end up spitted between the kidneys before this night’s out.”
Rochester’s eyes widened. “You’re vulgar common trash, Henry Milliner.”
He had said it so loudly that Honor and Whitehall both fell silent and looked at the two of them. Henry flushed, angry and hurt, but then he saw something and went cold as the Thames in winter.
“St John,” he hissed. “St John, behind you.”
Honor turned—and stiffened.
St John Clement Lord Calipash and his cousin Mr. Godfrey Fitzroy had just come in through the door of the Horse and Hat.
Chapter Fourteen: A History of the Unfortunate
“Shit,” said Honor.
Rochester had noticed why their attentions had suddenly b
een diverted; Henry knew it because the young Earl’s brow furrowed in consternation as he tried to puzzle out how there could be two St Johns at the Horse, identical but for the color of their coats. Henry was also curious, but Honor looked so panicked he didn’t want to bother her.
“Arrrround firthehrourse!” shouted the other St John, waving his arms to gesture at the crowded tavern. He almost fell over but Godfrey caught him mid-sway. “Drink up!”
Godfrey, Henry saw, looked mildly perturbed by St John’s behavior. Neither had yet seen Honor. Those in the bar didn’t seem to have noticed the doppelgängers, they were too busy hailing their unexpected luck and claiming tankards filled and passed out by the staff.
Then the other St John climbed up on a table, hoisting his mug, which foamed and spilled over his hand and long, ruffled cuff.
“Toats,” he slurred, “A toats to my breloved sisterrrr.”
“God damn St John,” swore Honor, looking increasingly cross. “I must leave—out the back—is there a way? I, I must …”
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” said Henry. “St John? But you said he was at your ancestral home, did you not?”
“I did,” said Honor shortly, casting about for an exit and finding none. “Henry, do not speak to me about this now, I shall explain presently. Oh, we should never have come here!”
“Troday, I saw my sisterr joins inlussst—with an asshole,” shouted St John, and then he took a long pull on his beer. Revived, he began anew. “Not my asshole neither, mush t’my constipation.” He frowned. “Consertation. Con-ster-na-tion.”
Henry felt a yawning in his stomach, as if he had been climbing stairs in the dark and at the top felt his foot sink lower than expected, having thought he had one more to go.
“Honor,” he hissed. “Honor, is there something I should—”
“Oh do shut up!” she hissed back. She seemed frozen, unsure of what to do. To leave would mean walking past her double, past the Blithe Company members near the front, so she sat still and tall in her seat, eyes glued to the other St John, her brow growing increasingly damper. “I never thought he would—”
