‘That’s my Eloise,’ Henry gasped as he mired his penis to the very hilt in her mud-filled vagina. ‘Good, isn’t it, my little puppy?’
Her answering sigh signalled agreement and he began to speed up, intent on reaching his orgasm while the mud enveloping his cock was still cool. Even as his pleasure rose towards orgasm, his mind filled with the thought of how her luscious bottom would look smeared with mud and he realised that he had to make use of it before he came. Checking himself, he pulled back, Eloise giving a disappointed moan as his cock pulled free of her vagina.
‘Turn over, trollop,’ he ordered.
‘Oh, yes, see my bottom; it must be filthy,’ she moaned. ‘Slap it, then put your cock in it.’
Henry had intended to slap a fresh handful of mud into her vagina and then finish himself off in that orifice. The idea still appealed, yet the invitation to sodomise her was too good to pass up.
Her buttocks were covered in mud, a filthy brown mess that clung to the skin and matted her hair. Taking his cock in one hand, he nursed his erection as he scooped up a big handful of thick, sticky mud and slapped it on to Eloise’s genitals. She gave a little gasp, then a deep sigh as he used his palm to press a good volume of the muck actually into her vagina.
‘You bastard!’ she moaned. ‘Go on, fill my cunt, then do it in my bottom. Oh, it’s going to come out, Henry; look, look.’
As he watched, her vagina closed, exuding a thick worm of mud that stood out for a moment and then fell into her ruined petticoats.
‘By God, you’re a dirty bitch, Eloise,’ he laughed. ‘So you want it in your breech, do you?’
‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Sodomise me, Henry. Do it in my bottom, Henry: deep, deep in my bottom, while I touch myself.’
Her anus pouted as she spoke, bulging out under its coating of mud to show a pink centre as she offered it. As he readied his cock, she slid a hand back between her thighs and began to rub the slime into the area around her clitoris.
Henry edged forward, slipping once, then pressing his mud-slicked cock to the proffered bum-hole. Eloise groaned loudly as her anus stretched out around the head of his cock, then began to grunt as he started to force himself up her back passage. He drew in his breath as the soft, warm flesh of her rectum enfolded his cock. The cooling effect of the mud made her body heat seem unnaturally high, almost scalding. Always sensitive, the tip of his penis felt as if it was being pushed into a pat of hot lard. Even as the hilt of his erection wedged up against the straining ring of her anus, he came, spurt after spurt of boiling come erupting into her bowels. At the very peak of his ecstasy, he felt her sphincter clamp on the base of his cock and she too started to come, her screams of desire blending with his grunted oaths as they climaxed together.
Some miles to the north, on a river bank near the town of Gien, Jean Faugres was undergoing an equally muddy but less pleasant experience. Morning had found his skiff on a sandbank in the middle of the Loire. He had still been securely bound and unable to do more than squirm and rage in the evil-smelling sack. So conditions had remained until finally a fisherman had noticed that something was amiss and released him.
Covered in insect bites and wearing only his shirt, he now sat on the quay at Gien, munching a generously donated sausage and thinking black thoughts of Eloise, Gurney and, in particular, Henry. There had been something about the Englishman’s manner that was particularly irritating. Gurney, with his ready fists and rough manner, he felt he could tolerate, even respect, as few men indeed had had the courage to challenge him since he had grown to his full height. Henry was different, combining all the features that Faugres most despised – wealth, breeding, looks and the smug arrogance that went with them. Worse still, he strongly suspected that the preening, self-satisfied Englishman was Eloise’s lover.
Natalie Moreau twisted the hank of sodden yellow silk in her hands, spraying drops of water across the lush grass of the bank. A stinging sensation in her bottom bore testimony to Eloise’s rancour at having been used by Henry in so humiliating a fashion. Or rather, as Natalie knew, to having taken so much pleasure in being so used.
She had been birched, yet even while she had writhed naked under the blows of a hastily assembled bunch of twigs, she had been aware of a difference in Eloise’s manner. There had always been an intimacy to her beatings, and both women accepted that the normal end to such a punishment would be cuddles and the fervent licking of each other’s genitals. This occasion was no different, with Natalie being told to strip and wash her mistress, then made to kneel on the damp grass and wait while Eloise selected twigs. The beating had been brisk and hard, leaving Natalie trembling with pain and need. Eloise had then ordered her to masturbate and watched with a smile of quiet satisfaction on her face as her red bottomed maid brought herself to a climax.
The difference had been that, while Eloise was normally indifferent to who saw or heard Natalie’s degradation, she had been very careful to ensure that the beating took place well out of Todd Gurney’s hearing. Even in the extreme of her pain, Natalie had felt a quiet comfort in the knowledge that her mistress evidently respected the big man who had become her lover. Then, when bringing herself to orgasm under Eloise’s gaze, she had thought not of the anguish of her punishment, but of how her mistress would look kicking and thrashing over Todd Gurney’s knee in the course of a bare-bottomed spanking.
As the shadows began to lengthen across the western Sologne, the landau reached more broken land, with small valleys cutting down through the clay. Henry’s mind began to turn towards the prospect of another night in the open, which, with the evening chill already beginning to bite, was a less than pleasant prospect. Glancing at Eloise and Peggy, he wondered if the cold of the coming night might not provide the excuse he needed to further his desire to bed them simultaneously. Peggy returned his smile, but he found Eloise frowning and looking into the sunset.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, turning on his bench.
‘The light, it seems . . . strange,’ Eloise replied.
‘Fire,’ Gurney answered from the carthorse. ‘Some way ahead and down to the south.’
‘Best avoid it,’ Henry replied.
‘True, sir,’ Gurney answered, ‘only the track seems to run true and there hasn’t been a turning for a way.’
‘Then we’ll pull the landau in among the trees,’ Henry stated. ‘Make yourselves comfortable, girls, but don’t start a fire. I’ve a mind to see what’s afoot.’
With the landau unrigged and hidden well in among a copse of young willows, Henry and Gurney saddled the two greys. Ignoring Eloise’s protests that they would be better employed guarding the camp, they set off in the direction of the fire, now a clear orange patch against the evening sky.
The fire became audible as they approached, the crackle of flames punctuated by the occasional crash and also by human voices raised in glee. With great caution they approached, until the lane turned sharply and brought them out over a nightmare scene.
Below them stood a Château, the windows of its splendid facade and high turrets red with fire. Part of the roof had already collapsed, creating a fiery maw from which great red embers rose into the cold air. Black and orange shadows danced a wild jig on the formal lawn, where peasants in looted finery cavorted in patterns no less savage. Among them, up on a chair and with his neck in a noose suspended from the bough of an ornamental cherry, stood a man. His hands were tied and he had little option but to watch the conflagration in front of him, yet he remained straight and proud, while his face carried no fear but only an expression of haughty distaste. His fine clothes and powdered wig proclaimed him a noble and perhaps even the master of the Château.
‘He holds himself well,’ Gurney remarked.
‘Indeed,’ Henry replied. ‘Damn few at Tyburn or Newgate ever wore a face like that.’7
‘Proud buggers, these French lords,’ Gurney stated.
Henry grunted his assent and took a pull from the bottle of Méursault he had brought
to sustain himself.
‘Cowardly mob, as a whole, the French,’ he went on as he passed the bottle to Gurney. ‘I mean to say, take these revolutionary fellows. They used to bow and scrape and fairly grovel, but give ’em the whip hand and look at them. Now talk down to an Englishman and he’ll likely black your eye, but he won’t burn your house around your ears, nor yet hang you. Cowards, as I say.’
‘That’s nothing but a parcel of old crams, begging your pardon sir,’ Gurney answered. ‘When they were with the rebels to America, I’ve seen ’em stand to the last man.’
‘But those were soldiers and veterans to boot,’ Henry answered. ‘This crew would scatter if a party of your brothers so much as said “boh”.’
A fresh section of roof collapsed, sending a spray of sparks high into the night sky. The crash of timbers and tile came to Henry with a gust of laughter and cheering from the peasants. One, a lanky man with a straggling beard, thrust his torch close to the helpless noble, forcing him to move. The chair rocked and for a moment hung on one leg as the man struggled to retain his balance. By a desperate effort he succeeded, returning to his stony immobility as the mob laughed at his plight.
‘Wicked bastards, cowards or no,’ Gurney spat.
‘Don’t tell me you’re squeamish?’ Henry responded. ‘You must have seen enough men meet their end, surely?’
‘Not like this, sir,’ Gurney growled. ‘A fair fight’s one thing, but . . .’
‘D’you say we run him off then?’ Henry asked. ‘It shouldn’t be hard. Ride in like fury. I slash the rope, you pinch the fellow and away before they can raise a belch.’
‘Could be done, sir,’ Gurney answered thoughtfully, ‘but what of the wenches?’
‘I wasn’t suggesting they came,’ Henry laughed. ‘Lend me your knife, would you? My own lacks weight.’
‘I don’t know about this, sir,’ Gurney objected, but still drew the wicked foot-long knife from the sheath at his belt.
‘Nonsense,’ Henry laughed, ‘they’re paying no mind to the road and drunk besides. Come, let’s take the fellow, it’ll make a fine tale in the Five Shillings of a winter’s evening.’
‘And after?’ Gurney asked.
‘The devil with after,’ Henry replied and clapped his heels into the flanks of his horse.
‘Sir!’ Gurney’s voice sounded after him, but an instant later the clatter of hooves signalled that he was not alone.
A wild surge of exhilaration welled up inside him as the grey tore between the banks of the track. For a moment, only the burning turrets of the Château were visible. Then the peasants were ahead, leaping and swinging torches and farm tools, laughing and calling out to one another. One turned, his expression of drunken pleasure turning to horror as the grey crashed over a low hedge and burst on to the lawn.
Henry gave an exultant shout as the man fell away beneath his horse’s hooves. More heads were turning, faces stupefied with drink and destruction registering terror as they found themselves in the path of the two horses. The nobleman turned, his impassive face briefly showing terror as Henry slashed out with the knife. The blade caught the rope, cut, slipped free and Henry was past, leaving the nobleman kicking frantically at the air as the chair fell from beneath him. Henry wheeled, slashing at an adze-wielding peasant even as he struggled to bring the frightened grey about. Briefly, he saw Gurney grappling the nobleman and then a foot caught at his stirrup. As he brought the knife hilt down in a hard arc, his fist hit something hard. Someone screamed and the pressure on his foot vanished, leaving him to complete his turn.
‘Done, sir!’ Gurney called, and Henry shouted to his mount.
The grey accelerated, swerving to avoid a knot of men and breaking for the hedge as Henry wrenched hard at the reins. An instant later, he was through, the grey hard on the hooves of Gurney’s horse, across the neck of which lay the nobleman, his face purple and his tongue protruding.
‘Loosen the bloody rope, man!’ Henry called as they made the mouth of the lane.
The darkness of the track closed on them like a trap as they left the area lit by the fire. Screams of rage sounded behind them, bearing a demented quality that gave Henry his first pang of fear. Praying that the horse would not stumble, he urged it on, his vision slowly adjusting as they clattered up the track. Finally they stopped, turning back to find the peasants milling about on the lawn with a great deal of shouting and cursing but no evidence whatever of organisation.
‘Best get back to the landau and under cover,’ Henry panted, ‘before one of them decides to search out some horses. How is he?’
‘Live enough, sir,’ Gurney answered, ‘but there’s another thing. I’ll swear I saw that mop-stick Boillot down among the mob.’
‘Boillot?’ Henry demanded. ‘Here, ahead of us?’
Emile Boillot stared out into the blackness of the hillside, trying to discern detail where none existed. The attack had come so swiftly, the horses appearing from nowhere and retreating as fast, taking the Vicomte d’Arche with them. Yet one of the men had spoken in English, and their horses had been greys. It could only have been the two who had taken Eloise de la Tour-Romain.
Seething with outrage, he began to call out, trying to put some order into the rabble of drunken peasants before the burning Château.
‘Henry Truscott, at your service,’ Henry introduced himself.
‘Donatien, Vicomte d’Arche,’ the nobleman replied, taking care to address his remark solely to Henry, ‘and be assured that your singular service to my person shall not go unrewarded.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ Henry replied, brindling slightly at the implications of the other’s response.
‘Best keep it down, sir, there’s torches down along the lane,’ Gurney put in.
Henry put his hand to his horse’s muzzle, and began to stroke soothingly. They had dismounted and pulled the horses well in among the woods in order to release the noose from around the neck of the nobleman.
‘Let us hope the girls have the sense to stay quiet,’ he whispered.
‘Reckon they will, sir,’ Gurney replied.
‘You have others with you?’ the vicomte asked. ‘Women?’
‘The Demoiselle Eloise de la Tour-Romain,’ Henry answered casually. ‘She’s a friend of mine, don’t you know? A brace of maids as well.’
‘The daughter of the Comte Saônois?’ the vicomte asked in apparent amazement.
‘The very same,’ Henry replied.
‘Death of my life! And what does she do here? In . . . in such company?’
‘Oh, this and that. We’re on our way to England.’
‘England? The poor demoiselle. These are terrible times indeed.’
‘England, sir,’ Henry retorted, ‘has the advantage that one is neither likely to be roasted nor decapitated at a moment’s notice.’
‘Quiet, sir; they’re coming,’ Gurney hissed.
The vicomte choked off whatever he had been about to say and ducked down. Together they watched, first hearing the clatter of hooves as three horsemen passed, then watching silently as a large group with torches walked no more than fifty yards from their place of concealment. While the horsemen had been silent, the others were not, but called out angry boasts and drunken threats aimed at their unseen watchers.
Finally they passed and Henry, Gurney and the Vicomte d’Arche began to move cautiously towards where they hoped to find the landau. Despite the dim moonlight Todd Gurney managed to locate the copse of willow and was presently rousing the frightened girls. The vicomte greeted Eloise with obsequious enthusiasm, ignoring the others with the same total disregard that he had shown Gurney.
‘It is clear that I owe my very life to you, Demoiselle,’ he finished. ‘From now on I am your most humble servant, and swear to give you my protection, be it even at the expense of my life.’
‘You are kind,’ Eloise replied smoothly, ‘yet it was no more than courtesy. Observing the flames, and fearing for your safety, I prevailed upon my companions
to effect a rescue.’
Henry swallowed his response at Eloise’s outright lie, contenting himself with an internal promise that, at some more convenient moment, she would pay for her coquetry with a sore bottom.
The night passed with the group huddled shivering around the landau, through cold and in some cases through fear. Several times, groups of torch-bearing peasants passed along the track, and the moon had covered a quarter of the sky before the three horsemen, who had been first to pass, returned. Finally all became quiet, and even the dull red light in the western sky faded as the Château was consumed.
Nine
Henry awoke to the plaintive tones of the Vicomte d’Arche bewailing his loss to Eloise. An immediate pang of irritation faded as he rolled and bumped against Peggy’s ample bottom. At some point during the night, she had come to him for comfort and warmth, which he had provided by having her curl into his lap and entering her from the rear. The memory of his cock inside her and her full bottom squashing against his front went some way to relieving his annoyance at the newcomer’s monopolisation of Eloise, but no more than that. Promising himself to think twice before rescuing anybody else, particularly men, he sat up and yawned widely.
‘Wealth and beauty such as may only be found in our dear land,’ d’Arche was saying. ‘The finest expressions of French art – Le Nain, Boucher, Clouet – burnt to ashes. Tapestries dating back to the fourteenth century, destroyed in flames – marbles, silks, jade, alabaster! My horses! My dogs!’
‘Oh, I doubt they’ll have burnt the horses and dogs,’ Henry quipped. ‘Deuced useful things, horses and dogs.’
D’Arche turned him a look that was both puzzled and annoyed, clearly failing to find amusement in the remark.
‘Where are Gurney and Natalie?’ Henry enquired.
‘Your servant is on watch,’ Eloise replied. ‘I have sent my maid to fetch water.’
The Rake Page 17
