The Rake

by Aishling Morgan

  ‘Damn!’ Henry laughed as the song trailed off in drunken discordance. ‘That’s a guinea to you, Todd Gurney, but I still say she’d have done it without a cock in her breech!’

  ‘Dare say,’ Gurney grunted in response.

  ‘Put an apple in her cunt to keep her tight and hungry,’ Henry continued, ‘and have Natalie put her tongue to our fine lady’s cunny; there’s no feeling like having a woman come while you’re in her breech.’

  ‘Do it, Natalie,’ Gurney said in his crude French, the tiny maid immediately running to the table to obey his order.

  She came back with a red apple, wider by far than the thickest of cocks.

  ‘That’ll never go in!’ Henry laughed.

  ‘A shilling says it does,’ Peggy retorted.

  ‘Taken, by God!’ Henry swore. ‘Go on, Natalie, do your best!’

  ‘Grease it, first,’ Peggy suggested.

  Natalie giggled and pushed the apple into the lump of goose grease that had been used to lubricate Eloise’s bottom. Turning it until the red skin was glossy with fat, she then ducked down, putting the apple to her mistress’s vagina as Gurney drew back to make room in front of his balls. Eloise squealed as the fruit was pressed to her hole, then gave a gasp of shock as she filled.

  ‘Damn!’ Henry swore. ‘That’s a guinea and a hog down!’

  He stepped back; the changing expression on Gurney’s face told him that the time for trifling was over, at least for the moment. Natalie was holding the apple into Eloise’s vagina and had began to lick, applying her face directly to her mistress’s out-thrust clitoris. Gurney’s pushes had become more urgent, while Eloise’s face was a mask of ecstasy, her mouth slack and open, a dribble of pee and saliva running from her lower lip. Her buttocks began to tighten and she gave a long, drawn-out sigh, signalling to Henry the onset of orgasm.

  Gurney growled deep in his throat as Eloise’s anus began to spasm on his intruding cock. Since he had met her, the idea of buggering the haughty, aloof noblewoman had appealed to him, as if the act of sodomy alone had the power to make them equal. No girl who had been buggered could afford to give herself airs to the man who had done it, and now his cock was rammed to the hilt in her rectum, sheathed in hot flesh as her bottom-hole contracted rhythmically on the base of his shaft. He could feel the apple in her vagina as well, a hard bump that made her back passage tighter still. Natalie also had a hand on his balls, adding a final thrill to the glorious blend of sensations that were pulling him to orgasm.

  As Eloise screamed out her climax, he too came, deep up her bottom, filling her with sperm as spurt followed spurt, until his cock was in a warm pool of fluid. The pulsing of her anus drew out his last drops, and he kept himself deep in her until she had finished.

  He pulled free, spreading her buttocks with his thumbs and watching the glistening rod of his penis slide from her everted anus. The head popped out to leave her bum-hole gaping wide with a dribble of come and goose-grease running down to her engorged cunny.

  ‘By God, that’s open!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘A guinea says it can take an apple!’

  ‘Taken, if it stays!’ Gurney answered as he stepped back.

  ‘Peggy, choose an apple,’ Henry ordered, ‘and no bigger than the last.’

  Peggy passed the apple to Henry, who applied it to Eloise’s anus. The muscle opened, the well-buggered girl pushing out to try and accept it. Gurney watched Eloise’s fleshy bum-hole stretch, yawning wide until the apple at last went in.

  ‘My bet, I think!’ Henry declared happily.

  ‘Not so,’ Gurney retorted. ‘It must stay in place!’

  Eloise’s anus closed on the apple, the wet, pink sphincter creeping shut across the glossy red surface only to stop with an inch or so of apple skin still showing, like the bull’s-eye of a target. The whole centre of her bottom was everted, the straining flesh showing the outline of the apple within. As Henry removed his finger, her anus immediately began to open, the muscles of her sphincter evidently unequal to the task.

  ‘Hold it in, damn you!’ Henry swore. ‘I’ve got a guinea on that!’

  A sudden convulsive clenching of Eloise’s anal ring showed that she was trying, yet it was no good and the apple once more began to ooze from her straining bottom-hole.

  ‘By God, I’ll not lose this one!’ Henry yelled and began to scrabble at his belt.

  Pressing his crotch against Eloise’s bottom to keep the apple in, he pulled his belt free and hastily fixed the buckle to the loose end of the sheet that bound her wrists. Pulling the thick leather strap hard down between her legs, he pushed the tag end into Eloise’s open mouth.

  ‘Hold it in your teeth, you silly bitch!’ he called.

  Eloise obeyed, gripping the tag hard in her teeth and pulling her head up. Henry stood, triumphant, only to watch the apple exude slowly from Eloise’s anus, pushing the belt aside despite her best efforts.

  ‘Hell!’ He swore as her anus closed behind the apple. ‘You can let go now, Eloise. That’s a second guinea to you, Gurney!’

  Eloise hung in her bonds, the pain of her position submerged in a mist of pleasure and alcohol. Her wrists, shoulders and thighs seemed numb but nothing more, while her bottom throbbed with a constant sensual ache to remind her of her beating and subsequent buggery. Her mouth was full of the taste of her own urine, which also felt cold on her face and the dangling orbs of her breasts. The apple in her vagina felt enormous, bulging her out to force her clitoris into prominence, while the one in her rectum had threatened to make her lose all control.

  The feelings of shame, exposure and frustration – so strong when she had first been strapped up – had faded, lost in a welter of intercourse, buggery, and beating. Her final shred of reserve had dissolved at the moment her pee had erupted into the chamber-pot and at the sure knowledge that she was going to be made to drink it. Now she no longer cared, not that she had licked her maid’s anus, not that her cunt and bottom-hole had been stuffed with fruit, not even that a serving man had buggered her and come in her rectum. All of it simply added to her wonderful feeling of total vulnerability, of being helplessly available for any and every delicious degradation.

  Henry’s cock was once more stiff, a condition assisted by soft strokes of Peggy’s hand. Gurney had taken Natalie into the bedroom, and the tiny maid’s squeals of pleasure could be clearly heard. Determined to take his fill while he could, Henry moved once more behind Eloise. His cock slid easily into her vagina and he began to ride her bottom, concentrating on the sight of the recently inflicted whip marks in order to inspire him towards a second orgasm.

  It began to come faster than he had anticipated, a slowly rising tide of pleasure that grew with each stroke of his cock inside Eloise. She was grunting, and he was about to suggest that Peggy applied a tongue where it would do the most good when a thunderous pounding began on the door.

  ‘Go to hell! I’m parting my beard!’ Henry called out and again jammed his cock deep into Eloise.

  Her answering grunt was followed by another crash on the door, this time louder.

  ‘I said go to hell, you importunate hick!’ Henry roared.

  Another crash came in response, then a splintering sound as the catch gave way. Henry turned, furious, expecting the portly innkeeper or someone from a neighbouring room, irate at the noise they had been making. Instead, as his cock slipped from Eloise’s vagina, he found himself faced with the massive frame and bearded face of Jean Faugres, a vision of unkempt rage.

  ‘Bastard!’ the giant Frenchman screamed as his eyes lit on Henry.

  Peggy screamed, Eloise merely producing a moan of what sounded like disappointment. Henry backed away, horrified by the murderous hatred in the man’s eyes. Faugres came forward, his great hands clutching convulsively and his teeth bared in an animal snarl. He glanced at Eloise, showing no reaction to the fact that she was bound and naked, then leapt forward.

  Henry went back, borne down under his assailant’s weight. Striking out frantically, hi
s fist caught Faugres’ jaw, yet the blow only served to enrage the Frenchman further. Great hands closed on his neck, abruptly cutting off his cry of alarm. He pushed but to no avail, the giant merely laughing. As his vision began to blacken and blur at the edges, he felt himself picked up, to be held by the neck and shaken. Gurney’s yell sounded in his ears, and another female scream.

  In front of him, he could see Faugres’s face, dim and blurred with red and black shadows, the great mouth open in a triumphant yell. A pang of regret struck him, driven by the realisation, oddly sharp, that Faugres’s rage-contorted face would be the last thing he ever saw. The room swirled, all sense of balance vanished and he felt himself falling as his senses slipped away.

  His body jarred against something, hard. A sharp pain in one arm brought his senses back and he realised that the great fingers no longer dug into his neck. Shaking his head, he rolled to the side, his face contacting something slimy – the goose carcass. Other details of his surroundings became clear as his vision gradually returned, the splintered debris of the table and a chair, the strewn remains of their meal, and the massive body of Jean Faugres, prone among the debris with the tip of the carving knife jutting from his breast. Beyond, Gurney stood, the silver altar cross they had carried from St Romain clasped in his fist, Peggy and Natalie behind him.

  ‘Thank you, Gurney,’ Henry croaked as he pulled himself up on to one fist.

  ‘Wasn’t my doing, sir,’ Gurney replied. ‘He slipped on the plate of goose grease we were using for Miss Eloise’s behind.’

  ‘Who says vice doesn’t bring a reward?’ Henry managed feebly and collapsed back on to the floor.

  Shortly after, he had returned to his senses, aided by brandy and the ministrations of Peggy and Natalie. Gurney had meanwhile untied Eloise, only for her to slump to the floor. Even water poured on her head and slaps to her face had done little to revive her senses. With her curls plastered to her skin and her eyes half-closed, she lay limp, her mouth flexed into a happy, torpid smile.

  ‘Drunk as an emperor, sir,’ Gurney said unnecessarily.

  ‘Hell!’ Henry swore. ‘That’s all we need, and someone’ll be bound to have called the traps.’

  ‘Best be gone, sir,’ Gurney put in.

  ‘Come on!’ Henry urged, slapping Eloise’s cheek.

  She responded with an exhausted groan, merely rolling to her side.

  ‘Damn!’ Henry declared. ‘We’ll carry her, then. Come on!’

  He grabbed for his breeches, leaving Eloise to her stupor. Dressing with a frantic haste, he yelled instructions to the others, only to find them dressed before his numb fingers had managed to fasten his breeches.

  Once more, the door flew open, the innkeeper stepping inside with a look of fury that quickly turned to horror. Another figure was behind him – Emile Boillot. Before either could speak, Todd Gurney’s great fists had lashed out, flooring the innkeeper and then sending Boillot sprawling back into the passage. Shouts sounded somewhere down the passage and Gurney strode out of the room. As Henry struggled with the last button of his breeches, he heard a voice raised in anger, then abruptly silenced.

  Taking up everything they could carry, they fled from the inn. Angry cries followed them down the street but served only to speed their pace. Gurney was to the fore, Eloise thrown limp across his shoulder and a great bundle of goods in one hand. Peggy and Natalie followed, with Henry at the rear, staggering from both drink and his burden.

  Henry looked back over the stern of their vessel, searching for any sign of pursuit. Dawn had come up to reveal the French coast as a dull line on the horizon, while a substantial island lay to the north and west. Several sails were visible, and also the topsails of two larger vessels, one of which was beginning to give him concern. Once clear of the inn, they had left St Nazaire without hindrance, appropriating the boat that they had intended to travel in anyway. Despite what had seemed an easy escape, Henry had no doubt that the vessel would be missed.

  His concern increased as they ran up the side of the island. Twice the following vessel came alongside smaller boats, and always in their path. Finally there could be no doubt, as it became evident that the ship was a brigantine of the French navy and intent on overhauling them.

  ‘Hell!’ he swore. ‘We’re done up now, and so near!’

  ‘She’s carrying eight, maybe ten guns, sir,’ Gurney put in.

  ‘One would be enough to scupper us,’ Henry replied. ‘Not even that, really, as she has twice our speed and doubtless a fair crew, French or not.’

  ‘Are they going to catch us?’ Natalie queried in a small, frightened voice.

  ‘Yes, my dear, I’m afraid they are,’ Henry responded. ‘Not just yet, but they will.’

  ‘We must fight!’ Eloise declared. ‘I’d rather die than be taken!’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Henry answered. ‘Leastwise, I’ll not give them the satisfaction of lopping my head off with that infernal device of theirs.’

  ‘What if we were to pull for the lee shore, sir?’ Gurney asked. ‘We might make it.’

  ‘We’d be like rats in a barrel,’ Henry retorted. ‘Right under her guns, and they need only put a boat down to catch us. No, make north and west as if nothing were amiss and I’ll judge they’ll take two hours to catch us. So – Natalie, Peggy, sew us a jack, and be damned quick about it!’

  Henry glared up at the French naval officer who was looking down at him from the gunwales of the brigantine. He was a young man and carried an air of officious self-importance, yet seemed mild next to the expression of righteous triumph on the face of the man to his side – Emile Boillot.

  ‘Damn you, sir, are you trying to start another war?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘These are they,’ Boillot declared to the officer, ignoring Henry completely. ‘Take them.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Henry shouted.

  ‘You stand accused of crimes against the French people,’ the officer replied. ‘Including murder, grievous assault, assisting a known felon –’

  ‘What!?’ Henry roared. ‘If this is a jest, then it’s in damn poor taste, and damn foolish, too. Don’t you realise the consequences of pulling over a vessel under British colours?’

  For a moment, the officer wavered and began to speak in a less arrogant tone, only to be cut off by Boillot.

  ‘Don’t listen to his rodomontade,’ the student declared and then turned down to Henry once more. ‘Come, Truscott, submit to justice, for it has caught you at last.’

  ‘Truscott? What the hell are you talking about, man?’ Henry blustered back. ‘Who’s this Truscott? I’m Tom Cobley, a Plymouth merchant.’

  ‘Ha!’ Boillot began, only to be cut off by a movement of the officer’s hand.

  ‘Do you deny the charges, then?’ the officer asked, still trying to look stern.

  ‘Deny the charges?’ Henry retorted. ‘Of course I deny the damn charges.’

  ‘Can you prove this?’ the officer continued before Henry could get into the full swing of his tirade.

  ‘Prove it?’ Henry yelled. ‘Damn you, I’ve no need to prove anything, to you, nor to any other jumped-up French puppy!’

  ‘It’s him, I tell you!’ Boillot put in. ‘Search the hold, and you’ll find the harlot Delatour and her lackeys! Then the truth will be plain!’

  ‘What?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘I have reason to believe that you are carrying a woman wanted for crimes against the French state,’ the officer replied, now evidently struggling to maintain both his authority and his temper. ‘Namely, Eloise de la Tour-Romain. Also her two maidservants.’

  ‘Maidservants?’ Henry demanded, abruptly altering his tone from anger to humour. ‘Ha, I wish we were. But no, your accusation is preposterous. This is a trading vessel, come to collect St Nazaire oysters, smoked, in barrels.’

  ‘And may we inspect these barrels?’ Boillot enquired sarcastically.

  ‘If you must,’ Henry replied. ‘Despite this gross breach of our
sovereign rights, you may come aboard and see for yourself.’

  Boillot gave Henry a look, not of doubt, but of puzzlement. The officer called two seamen over, and together they climbed down into the smaller vessel. With Gurney standing silently to one side, Henry motioned the Frenchmen below decks, into a small space stacked with barrels and rich with the heady smell of smoked oysters.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Henry said mockingly and gave a sweeping bow that took in the entire hold.

  Boillot immediately began to search, peering into every space large enough with increasing puzzlement. The two seamen searched more methodically, but with no greater success. Finally, it became evident that the two Englishmen were the only occupants of the vessel.

  ‘There we are,’ Henry declared. ‘I trust you are satisfied. And now, if we might resume our journey?’

  ‘They are in the barrels,’ Boillot declared. ‘Fetch an axe, officer.’

  ‘The barrels are sealed!’ Henry expostulated. ‘And besides, how would these supposed women breathe, immersed in oysters? I have been generous. I have allowed you to search my vessel, which I was under no obligation to do, but I will not allow you to ruin my stock!’

  ‘See how he blusters!’ Boillot declared. ‘Search the barrels!’

  ‘My stock!’ Henry protested. ‘Look, officer, be sensible; the barrels are packed with oysters and sealed! Anyone inside would suffocate.’

  ‘He is right,’ the officer said tentatively. ‘Monsieur Boillot, are you sure these are the men?’

  ‘Citizen Boillot,’ Boillot replied firmly. ‘Yes, I am certain. Two Englishmen, one of ordinary size, one tall and strong. I do not know the tall one, but this impudent villain is Henry Truscott, a –’

  ‘I’m Tom Cobley, I tell you,’ Henry blustered. ‘I’ve never so much as heard of this Truscott fellow, nor ever before seen this lunatic!’

  He indicated Boillot, who returned a look of frustrated outrage at this blatant lie. Reasoning that, with Faugres dead, it was highly unlikely that anybody was aboard the brigantine to gainsay him, he decided on a final bluff.