Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

He shrugged. “I care not whether your brother is sincere or not with that unctuous twerp. My job is to deliver you both, alive, to your father. Matters of sin and propriety are Collins’ concern.”

  She turned back to me. “Lie, Will. It is all lies. It does not matter. No one will judge you on what you say to avoid…”

  “I will,” I interjected. “The… God will. Centaurs cannot live in caves, watching the shadows of lies upon the wall.”

  “Oh, Lord,” she sighed. “They have beaten you senseless.”

  She caressed my cheek sadly with a gloved hand and stood. “Can you not see that he is in such a state as to be bereft of reason?”

  Thorp sighed heavily. “I can see that. I will talk to Collins.”

  Sleep called, and as I was so comfortable lying on the pallet, I followed. I dreamt of ships, and my matelot.

  I woke to insistent prodding, and Watkins had to hold me up as I used the proffered pot. Then he had to feed me the gruel: my hand shook so badly I could not hold the cup. I discovered Collins watching from across the table and could not remember how I came to be sitting at it.

  “I will not forsake Gaston,” I told him. The words seemed somewhat indistinct, and at his frown I began to repeat them.

  He held up his hand. “I do not ask that you forsake anyone. A man is allowed to love his fellow man… with great devotion. Many men have fierce friendships and loyalties. But… a man must not lie with another man, even if he loves him. Can you not love this man, but not lie with him? Can you not satisfy your carnal needs with a woman?”

  He sounded reasonable, but I did not trust it. There was something wrong with that reasoning. It involved truth, and pleasure, and carnal lusts, and… “My cock is… part of my Horse. And my Horse is my heart. And I ride my Horse. If I love, then I should be able to love the object of my love in all ways. Even if my cock wishes to go elsewhere... It should follow my heart. And cleave to my heart.”

  Collins regarded me as if I were mad.

  I did not care, I was confused. There was something wrong with my words. Gaston’s cock wished to go elsewhere, and though it came to me because he willed it so, it still wished to go elsewhere; and, I did not hold that against him.

  That was not the reason. There was some connection between lust and love, though.

  “My cock prefers men,” I said. “Women are merely interesting diversions.”

  “But your cock must not prefer men,” Collins said.

  I wanted to say that my cock could bloody well prefer what I would, but there was that specter of Gaston’s cock preferring women again. It mocked me.

  The cock did not have a mind of its own. The heart was the Horse. Gaston’s Horse loved me. Mine loved him. There was no confusion there.

  “The heart rules,” I muttered. “The cock is nothing.”

  “Aye, aye,” Collins said enthusiastically. “There can be love without carnality.”

  I nodded. I had to admit that was true. There could be love without carnal desire: there could be love without succumbing to carnal desire. But I liked my carnal desire, and felt I was entitled to it; and if I was to feel it and enjoy it, I should be able to share it with whomever I chose.

  “I love Gaston, and he loves me,” I said.

  “Aye, but you need not lie together,” Collins said.

  I shook my head. “Nay.”

  Collins smiled happily. “Just so, my lord. You need not.”

  I shook my head again. The man was stupid. “Nay. We do need to lie together.”

  Collins sighed with disappointment and leaned forward to pat my hand. “All right, we will discuss it again on the morrow. I feel we have made great progress today.”

  He did not understand a damn thing I had said. I was not sure if I did. Yet, he was so very close, and he still had an eye. I found the strength to relieve him of it. The room resounded with Collins’ screams and Thorp’s laughter as they pulled me off the fat bastard. Then a cudgel struck my head and all was darkness.

  I woke naked and tied over the barrel—with no turnip in my arse. I adjusted my position as best I could to get the weight off my chest so that I could breathe, and discovered they had whipped me with something while I was unconscious: my back was a mass of weals that cracked and bled as I moved. I wondered at the anger of men who would beat a man bloody when he could not feel it. Did they truly value Collins’ eyes so very much, or were they angry I had bested them? I chuckled, and heard the sound echoed by another in the dimness beyond the lamp.

  Thorp stepped into the light and came to squat near my head. “I had to stop them from using a cat. Poor Collins will never see again,” he said.

  I could smell wine on his breath, it wafted over me and made my stomach clench.

  “You are indeed a stubborn man,” he continued. “As your sister said.” He stood. “Did she tell you of the ship following us?” He chuckled and slapped my arse when I tensed. “Ah, she did. Well…” He leaned down to whisper in my ear. “It sailed past when we slowed to repair a sail.” He stood again and chuckled at the dismay I could not keep from my face. “It was a two-masted brigantine flying a red flag. Your Virgin Queen perhaps? It seems this ship and our escort were too much for them, and they have decided to wait for you in England.” He slapped my arse again. “I care not. It just means we will have more time together. And now that Collins has washed his hands of you, it is my turn.”

  My mind spun in turmoil at his words. Why would they have sailed by? Was he telling the truth? And, though I was already in agony of both spirit and flesh, his words and tone filled me with dread. And I cared not for his drunken arse-slapping.

  He had walked away, but he returned and leaned over my head again. I could see his shiny boots and nothing more, and then he slipped the gag in my mouth.

  “I have been wondering what it would be like to fuck a lord,” he said.

  I roared into the gag as he fondled my arse.

  “I got my hands on a lady of noble birth once, but I’ve never had any interest in lords per se. However, you, my dear Marsdale, are far too tempting a target.”

  I screamed and struggled to no avail, and he laughed and slapped my arse as he plundered me. Though he had greased his member, it hurt every bit as much as Shane’s depredations; and it seemed a million times more humiliating. I fought the urge to vomit into the gag.

  Then I found myself fighting my traitorous member as it sought to rise with every thrust. I knew it was not from lust, but from the sensation alone. He was not hitting the little hump of flesh inside me at an angle that would cause pain as Shane had done, or pleasure as my matelot did, but just enough of the latter to cause my cock to raise its head in anticipation. I concentrated on willing it away—to no avail until he began to speak.

  “Ah, see, that got your attention,” he taunted hoarsely between grunts. “I thought as much. Your father said if nothing else worked to break you, this would; but Collins would not ask it of his men.”

  My cock withered and shrank as it should, and I cried with relief.

  At last he finished, and made slow work of fastening his breeches. “That was actually quite pleasant. You are far tighter than my usual fare. We shall have to make a habit of it.”

  He came to lean so that he could peer into my face and laugh at what he saw. “Ah yes, we will make a habit of it,” he whispered in my ear. “I will break you before England. If it takes inviting every sailor on this ship to take a turn. When I give you to your father, you will never want a man to touch you again.” He kissed my ear.

  Then he stood and emptied the remainder of his wine bottle across my bleeding back. I yelped with renewed pain, and he laughed as he took up the lamp and left me alone in darkness.

  My Horse plunged about madly as the winds of madness swirled around me, throwing rancid memories and new fears in my face. The Gods help me; I believed he could do as he said.

  Eighty-Six

  Wherein We Cross the River Styx

  Sometime in the darkest hours
before dawn, Watkins and Lots came and released me. I flinched at their touch. This amused Lots. They directed me to my pallet, and affixed my chains to the loop. I was left to listen to their snores with an ache in my soul that was not tied to any part of my body, and fear that threatened to swallow me whole.

  I tried to gain some modicum of control by pondering it. I did not feel I would have the fear that now gripped me if Watkins and Lots had raped me instead of impaling me with a wooden turnip. It was Thorp that brought the terror, not the act itself. Thorp took malicious delight in my misery. Thorp was not some lowly cretin doing his job. Thorp might not have been a lord, but he was a wolf. Apparently I found it more humiliating to be raped by a wolf than a sheep, or pig, or dog.

  I would have thought my Horse would have viewed it the other way around. I turned it this way and that, examining the angles and my Horse’s feelings. A wolf was worse because a sheep raping a wolf—in any form—was an anomaly: a thing of a sheep’s wildest fantasies: a thing wolves allowed sheep to do on occasion to punish other wolves or reward sheep. There was always a wolf behind it, though: it was a thing of wolves even if the members involved belonged to the sheep. Watkins and Lots raping me would have been the work of my father. They would not have been the ones humiliating me, because in my heart I would always know they were not capable of doing the deed themselves. They were beneath me: mere tools of another’s evil. There would be humiliation there, to be sure, but not to the degree a wolf engendered.

  But Thorp: he was my peer, even if I no longer considered myself a wolf, but a centaur. I supposed I considered centaurs equal with wolves, but different. And Thorp considered himself my peer, even without a title. He stood beyond Collins’ small-minded values, as I did. He was his own man. He was a man I could respect. He was a man I could find attractive. His flagrant disrespect of me by committing rape upon my person was truly humiliating as a result. He was not belittling me because of what I was; nay, his insult to me was personal and triumphant. And, because of his status as a peer, Thorp was not the instrument of my father—and Shane—but a new enemy in his own right.

  I did not feel my father could break me; unless he possessed some leverage over me, such as Gaston, but I had once given Shane the leverage to hurt me and bend me to his will. I felt that was now long departed, too, though—unless he had Gaston. So what of Thorp? What did this bastard have over me? He did not have my matelot. He did not have my love.

  Yet, did he have my future pleasure with Gaston in his fist? How very long had it taken me to recover from Shane’s depredations? Thorp’s parting words about making me not wish to be with a man ever again echoed coldly in my heart. Thorp understood some of what he was about. But, I felt—nay, I knew—my father and Shane, and even Thorp, did not understand that Shane had been able to do as he did, not because I was weak, but because I loved him. They thought me a thing other than I was. They did not understand love, only lust. They thought to deprive me of my lust, but they could never deprive me of my love.

  That was my weapon, or at least my armor. I would not let him win. I already did not want just any man to touch me. I only wanted one man. And nothing Thorp did could make me fear Gaston. Even if Gaston did exactly the same thing as another man did to me, it would not be the same: it could not be the same in my heart: to my Horse.

  My Horse was very sure of this. I had a great deal of faith in the judgment of my Horse.

  I was fed a little porridge and water in the morning: not enough for a grown man, but it was something. I ate, and slept, and waited.

  Watkins and Lots sat at the table and played cards, or took turns going above deck. After the savagery of the beating my gaolers had given me as punishment for Collins, I found it disturbing that they seemed content to ignore me now.

  Thorp arrived with the darkness. Watkins appeared to greet his arrival with resignation, but Lots grin lit with cruel anticipation. I hated them, and I tried to let that hatred fuel anger that could protect me, but I found myself curiously resigned. He would do what he would, and all I could do was defend my heart.

  He instructed them to gag me and place me in the stocks. I fought them, and let the immediate pain of their blows distract me from whatever might come next. Eventually they were, of course, successful. He then had them tie a rope about the contraption and run it over the beam so that I could be hoisted up to hang by wrists and ankles in a manner that left my backside, privates, and thighs totally exposed; and me with the choice of looking between my legs to observe his leering anticipation, or throwing my head back and regarding the ceiling and my bleeding extremities.

  “If he hangs like that for long, sir,” Watkins said diffidently, “it could damage his hands such that his fingers won’t work proper.”

  “Well, we can’t have that,” Thorp said as if he would not mind that at all. He cast about. “Here, let’s push this under him and lower him a bit.”

  He shoved the table under me and they lowered me until my buttocks rested upon the edge. It did take some of the weight from my wrists. I did not care. It left my most vulnerable parts at a very fine height for him to damage me in ways I thought would scar me more.

  Thorp sent the others away. Lots appeared disappointed, and Watkins relieved. I kept my head up and watched my tormentor. He was not ashamed to meet my gaze; on the contrary, he seemed amused I would meet his.

  I tried not to flinch—and failed—when he ran cold fingers down the inside of my right thigh. He watched me as a cat does a mouse, waiting to see which way I might run, as he continued to stroke my thighs. Then his fingers gently probed my member, and I jerked again: both from the sensation, and the surprise that he would deign to do so. He found much amusement in that.

  “Did that hurt?” he teased. “I don’t want to hurt you, yet…”

  He deftly caressed and cajoled my member, as if he handled cocks other than his own quite often. My confused cock hovered on the edge of stirring: like a dog looking to its master to see if it should give chase. I was pleased it had not yet gone off yapping in pursuit of pleasure, but I was afraid it would at any moment. I thought of horrid things: a whore I had seen with her pubic hair full of crabs; a rancid pussy I had once encountered; a cock with a boil upon its tip; the bodies Hastings had left for us to find; the stump of a prick of a man emasculated by his lover; the face of a man ravaged by the pox; Goliath wheezing in pain with his legs broken; Shane, drooling and drunk, telling me I wanted him.

  “Nay?” Thorp teased. “Perhaps this will help.”

  He shed his clothing. He was indeed a handsome man: sleek muscle on a lean frame: the type of body my cock favored. His member was flaccid but pretty.

  I jerked on my left wrist until the pain bit deep and blood began to trickle down my arm.

  I stared him down until he smirked wryly and cocked his head. “You do favor men? Or have we been completely misled?”

  I snorted and smiled around the gag.

  “Perhaps you favor another form of encouragement,” he said, and turned to unwrap a bundle he had arrived with. I could not see the contents. He selected an item from it and brought it before me. It was a finely crafted ivory dildo. If I had not been gagged I would have remarked that it was an odd thing for a man who pretended to be so very virile to carry.

  He applied grease to it from the pot they had used to prepare the turnip. I tried not to regard it with trepidation. Given my traitorous organ’s behavior when stimulated even in the worst way yesterday, I feared what would occur if he should apply the dildo and touch my member.

  It was odd: my Horse knew this was wrong; and He wanted no part of Thorp. Yet, He wanted the pleasure, and He showed a depraved interest in the circumstances. If Gaston had stood before me at this moment, I would have sprayed all over my belly just looking at him. I had often been afraid my Horse would react thus if anyone offered to ride Him wildly as Gaston sometimes did. That angered me. If I could not trust my Horse, what could I trust? I had been so damn proud of Him: of myself: when Al
onso had come at me and I had fought him; but I could not fight this night.

  Shame gripped me. Unfortunately, I knew that emotion would not be enough to keep me down. But it did give me a path of escape. I imagined what I would feel if Gaston were to see me rise for this bastard. I recalled what I had felt when I had risen to Shane’s abuse. I recalled a great many times when my wayward member had not been my friend.

  When Thorp impaled me with the dildo, I was already writhing with self-loathing: hating my cock and myself: angry with my Horse: angry: disgusted: shamed. Thorp’s other hand closed over my member while he applied the phallus with remarkable dexterity: showing he knew exactly what he must touch and entreat. I thought it very likely he was much like me in other ways, and I tried to cling to hypocrisy to give myself purchase, but it was too slippery.

  My cock stirred beneath his fingers. He grinned triumphantly. I could not bear it. I focused all my will and told my Horse that if my manhood rose now, I would never have any use for Him again. I envisioned cutting it off and throwing it into the sea. I envisioned leaving my Horse alone in a stall with this bastard: with Shane—and burning its ruined body later as I had Goliath’s.

  Grief and fear and shame welled within in me until I could not contain them, and then something popped in my head, and heart, and soul. It was the sound of a thing breaking, followed by an aching feeling of dismay and loss. And my cock no longer stirred. And I felt nothing at all.

  Tears ran down my face and I gasped around the gag. Thorp redoubled his efforts, but I dropped my head back and hung limply. The irony was literally crippling. I had just broken myself to save myself.

  Thorp found this change in my demeanor arousing, and the dildo was cast aside. I felt his cock as if from a great distance. I raised my head to regard him with disgust. My fear was gone. He slammed into me with abandon until apparently my gaze troubled him, and he stopped and studied me with curiosity.

  “You’re surely not enjoying this,” he taunted, “but you’re not hating it, either. Hmm… What shall we do to make you miserable again? Well, for one thing, I am tired of you glaring at me.”