by Louisa Trent
He worked his way down. Keeping to her side so as not to crush her with his much greater weight, he pressed his mouth to her throat.
"Josh," she murmured in her sleep.
The familiarity pained him, reminding him as it did of a carefree time, a time when he still hoped they might make a life together, a time before he'd had to make the fateful decision that had ultimately destroyed that hope.
All for the best, he reasoned, in light of how she had turned out. A whore. His innocent Harry had become a whore. Jesus, but didn't it rip his gut apart, what she had done?
She had been the only pure thing in his life, and now she was as corrupt as a woman who came with a bill of sale could get.
The price tag didn't stop him from wanting her. After surrounding himself with the best of everything--house, furnishings, carriages--here he was in bed with a woman who had come cheap.
Beneath his mouth, a nipple softened with sleep turned hard. He placed a gentle kiss on the tip, though there was no need for gentleness; as a whore, Harry would be well used to rough manhandling.
His eyes burned ... she would never be his bride ... never be his bride ... never be his bride now. But he would fuck her. Hell yes, he would. Because he had paid for it, and as a matter of principle, he always insisted on getting his money's worth from his purchases. The intermingling of their body fluids would mean nothing, though she was sure to moan in delight during the exchange; whores always put on a good show in bed. Raised in a whorehouse, he knew all about those over-acted performances. He'd often overheard the prostitutes in his mother's establishment twitter amongst themselves over loud orgasmic scenes enacted the night before.
He blocked out the pain of that memory with activity; dropping his mouth, he suckled Harry's teat.
"Josh," she cried out heatedly. "Josh!"
Hmm--the naked tart was not so soundly asleep after all. That ache in her voice was priceless ... and signified naught. True, the nipple under his lathing tongue was erect, the tip elongated to fit the pull of his teeth, but that was but a physical reaction, having little if anything to do with him
She opened her eyes wide, a breathy "Oh!" left her lips.
A whorish trick of the trade! Disgusted at her deceit, he popped her teat out of his mouth, twisted his body round in the opposite direction to get at her luscious, woman-scented genitalia. He did tell her he would kiss those pretty swollen lips to make the hurt all better, and he always kept his word.
The first kiss was chaste, just a little tickle and a peck--no poke. Then his tongue came out to play. He delved her deep between the folds, licking her nectar, loving the taste of her in his mouth, loving the vixen sounds she made deep in her throat, though they were as artificial as her former heated cries.
Soon, side-by-side wasn't good enough, not close enough. He picked her up--she was full on top but trim below, and weighed no more than a feather--and put her back down so that her sweet swollen lips were directly above his mouth.
His tongue darted into the notch.
She squealed.
His tongue strained deeper, thrust harder, rammed as far as he could go, swallowing her essence, tasting her moisture before it dribbled down his throat.
He moaned into the hollow of her when, in an accidental move, her lips chanced to glaze the head of his cock. Then she did it again, this time her tongue actually flicking his engorged flesh, and he realized his naiveté; this was no happenstance encounter, this was deliberate provocation. Shocking! He didn't expect the intimacy, didn't even really wish for it, but in order to tell her to stop, to behave herself, to just lie there and passively take what he did to her like a good little whore, he would need to cease doing what he was doing, and if he did that, those vixen sounds she was making deep in her throat would cease. Although the sounds were creative license, a figment of his own need for them to be real, it was intolerable to cause those throaty murmurings to end.
He continued, though not nearly as smoothly or expertly as before. His even tongue strokes--experience-honed to give a woman the utmost enjoyment--changed to short spastic jabs as her mouth teased him. Closed mouth. Open mouth. Mimicking his moves, returning the favor, doing as he was doing to her.
Then he was in, all the way in, deep inside Harry's mouth. His tongue beat inside her cunt as his cock beat inside her mouth; she was as inundated by him as he was enclosed by her. And he asked himself, who has more power--she who sheathes or he who penetrates?
As soon as his cock moved within her mouth, he had his answer.
Powerless not to, he made a push. Not a cocky thrust, nor even an eminently satisfactory glide. No, his move was not nearly that graceful; it contained little in the way of savoir-faire. He made one jerky, uncoordinated jab to the roof of her mouth and that was all he could manage; like a green lad, he knew he was about to come.
Not until she did, he vowed. He was not a gentleman born, but he always pleased his bedmate. First.
His body, undisciplined as never before, strove to force an honest climax from her. Sweating in his determination, on the brink of exploding and desperately trying to hold back, he knew the meaning of agony then.
He could tell when it started to happen for her, for her mouth, her glorious, pouty, sassy mouth, tightened 'round him as she crested, then came. As the beast of pleasure clawed at him, he succumbed too, his seed a hot shot of surrender to her throat.
His tension dissipating, his muscles unknotting, Josh allowed his head to fall backwards onto the bed, while simultaneously, she released him to collapse prone onto his chest, her cum-filled mouth neighboring his testicles.
"Swallow," he rasped.
He felt a real satisfaction when she did.
Many a night, he had awakened in a sweat, his bed linen wet and slick after having dreamt of her orally stimulating him, orally pleasuring him, just as she had just done. Christ, Jesus! She had taken the whole of him, just like the best of whores. But never, not even with the best of whores, had it been like this; never had he been pleasured, as Harry had just pleasured him.
"Kneel up," he barked, disgruntled.
Immediately, she obeyed. Knowing the way of it, her thighs stretched open over his hips, up on her knees...
Turned away. No man fucked a whore face-to-face; face-to-face was reserved for wives and wedded bliss. She understood this requirement without having to be told.
His arm lifted from the mattress, his palm taking ruthless possession of her bottom cheek, cupping the whiteness of her rounded flesh, a thumb traversing the crevice, his cock tightening in anticipation. "I will need to withdraw." His member was now fully erect, the distension eagerly prodding the air. "My box of rubbers are next floor down."
"Rubbers, sir?" she questioned.
Goodyear and Hancock had begun mass-producing prophylactics. All seamen kept a supply on hand for those comfort trips ashore. As a whore, she had to have familiarity with the barrier method of avoiding disease and conception!
"Rubber condoms," he stressed, suddenly weary of her games. "I am clean, but I could seed you." He swallowed hard. "Unless, would you prefer to receive me here?" His wandering thumb split her bottom cheeks and pressed against that small seductive hole in back.
"The choice is entirely yours, sir," she replied, holding herself steady for his digital manipulation.
Naturally. He was paying after all, and she had already agreed to give him anal.
Discounting that one dismal failed attempt before, this would be their first intercourse. They were hardly bride and groom, but the romantic in him called for a vaginal penetration.
He parted her hair into two equal portions and swept the mass of red ringlets over her shoulders, so nothing would obscure her long white back with that straight, proud spine. What right did a whore have to carry herself with such a prideful straight spine?
"Go to all fours," he said, tersely.
This is not how he had planned it, this was not the rose-colored fantasy he had once envisioned for them, but poss
ibly this, the hard reality of fucking her on a narrow bed in a servant's chamber, was the very thing he needed to drive away those fantasy visions. Lord knew, he needed something to force them out of his head.
Doing as she was told, Harry arranged herself doggie fashion, up on her arms, legs spread wide to receive him, making both inlets, vaginal and anal, easily available to him.
He situated himself behind her, up on his knees. Reaching a hand around her, he cupped the fall of her full breast, hanging drooped to the bed linen because of the positioning. He liked her teats toppled, he liked the bestial quality of it; she was not so dignified now, was she? No! She looked like a dock whore with her teats out and hanging.
Josh didn't allow the weight of the breast to fill his palm, but rather he let the hardened nipple skim his fingertips; the hardened nipples swaying back and forth like a pendulum.
"Roll your shoulders," he ordered, because he could; he could make her do any ungraceful move he desired.
She complied, and her large breasts swung back and forth. Freely. Inelegantly.
His cock lurched.
He could take no more. He mounted her full on, covering her stud to mare, and like that same stud, his mouth opened over her nape. Then squeezing her breast as though it were a tropical fruit, a melon, warm and ripe from the vine, he went in. Not driving in. Not in like a madman forever in search of a sanity far removed from his grasp. And not like a whaler either, gone to sea for much too long. He went in like a gentleman. A polite penetration showing her restraint and consideration, for all that she was a whore. And still she cried out.
"I'm sorry, sir. I sorry," she said, her voice tight with pain. "It won't happen again, I promise. It's just that you're so large..."
Another whore's trick, to tell a man his cock was as big as a stallion, and he would go off quick from the swell of his head alone.
Damned disingenuousness. Dammed calculation. He slid forward for a stroke.
He didn't go hard nor did he go deep, and fortunately the back-to-front positioning of the congress hid his surprise: Harry was the tightest non-virgin he had ever encountered. She might very well have been a bride on her wedding night, for all the give her narrow channel afforded him.
She bucked.
"Hold steady," he cautioned. "I intend to go easy."
Still, her body revolted against the intercourse, a joining that, though mercenary, could hardy be called callous. His strokes were deliberate, careful. Conscious of her narrow make, she had no cause for complaint! Yet, her body remained tensed.
"Would you care to end it now?" he asked politely, his cock not buried near enough to derive optimum sensation from the encounter. She would not make him feel like a rapist for a second time! Once had been bad enough.
His hand loosened from her breast and came away. So too did his grip on her hip slacken. He would not hold her in place. Let her go, and good riddance to her! "The money we agreed upon will still be yours, regardless of tonight's outcome. You may take the Ming vase and leave."
Her answer was filtered between clenched teeth. "I have always earned my money."
Work, that's all he was to her. "Then so you shall now as well," he replied.
He resumed the fuck, fully aware of her pride; fully aware too that to Harry, he would always be the dark-skinned bastard son of a whore, a cock she would tolerate inside her body only because she needed the money.
He didn't push, he didn't drive, he didn't go hard or fast or deep. Keeping to a measured tempo, he stroked to a swift if uninspired resolution onto the bedding.
At least, she didn't scream "yes, yes, yes" or some such nonsense. At least she spared him that empty fraud. He hadn't pleasured her and he damn well knew it.
And why should he care? What matter to him if Harry remained unfulfilled?
Because her lack of orgasm reflected poorly on him as a lover ... and as a gentleman. Only an inconsiderate clod got his without regard for the woman underneath him. That explanation was the only reason. She had her pride, and he had his pride too; he had vowed to make her climax as she had not climaxed before. And though he had pleasured her with his mouth, with his hands, she had only put up with having him inside her.
He supposed even that was an improvement over their encounter of seven years before. At least there had been some resolution this time, as lacking in potency as his weak expulsion of semen onto the linens had been, at least the intercourse had been fully completed this time. Their new relationship was officially consummated.
As transactions went, a handshake would have been more intimate.
Josh couldn't help but think that the letdown, the dejection he was currently experiencing, was what a man must feel upon the first sexual intercourse after a wedding ceremony. Though on the one hand, the groom is disappointed, even crestfallen with the experience, he is at least relieved that the first awkward step is over and done. On the other hand, once accomplished, the marital novice is hopeful the next time will be an improvement, until mutual bliss is eventually achieved over the course of a long and happy lifetime.
The similarities between himself and a newly wedded groom began and ended with that initial vague sense of disappointment. There was no lifetime here to look forward to--at Harry's going rates, Josh's wealth would be depleted forthwith, if he paid for an extended liaison with her. Also, though fundamentally simplistic, it was still worth impressing upon himself that Harry was not his bride, she was hardly a virgin, and mutuality had never been part of their agreement. He had paid to use her body, and use was what he had gotten from her. All that he had gotten from her. His own hand would have achieved the same end result.
With as much decorum as he could muster, Josh hastened his withdrawal from the bed, grabbed his clothing from the floor and left the room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Harry had always been an early riser. Since childhood, she would be up and about, walking to the pier at dawn alongside the dockhands. Today was no different, yet very different. Today she wasn't bursting with energy, ready to defeat whatever obstacles stood in the way of what she needed to accomplish. Today, she lumbered heavily from bed, taking no notice the door was open to the hall. There are no locks on servant's bedchambers, and prostitutes are impervious to open doors. As she was both, the lack of privacy left her unaffected.
Squinting against the beginnings of light streaming into the narrow casement window beside the bed, Harry despondently regarded the dead weight that was her body. She understood for the first time what it was to be whore, to feel used, soiled then abandoned, to sleep alone in a lust-scented bed.
Thus far, she had climaxed twice, once through digital and once through oral stimulation--the first time ever she had known such blessed release, the first time ever she had known such utter despondency.
Was a fleeting elation worth this utter dejection?
Last night she had felt nothing. Not anger, not resentment, not even hurt at Joshua's usage. It was as though she were dead inside, or at the very least, gone away somewhere else. Indifference was new to her, but as she had sold herself as an object, it did make sense she should suddenly be incapable of emotion: things are utilized or admired; things lack the capacity to cry or laugh ... or climax.
The pitcher of water was still on the bed stand, left there from the night before. Harry walked to it, poured a conservative amount into the shallow basin. Cupping her hand, she swished out her mouth, and then spat into the commode installed inside the washstand's lower compartment. Next, she splashed water onto her face. She didn't bother to dry off afterwards, but let the moisture drip down her chin, her throat, to fall onto the upright tilts of her nipples.
Her nipples were sore, she noted distractedly. From dragging back and forth across the coarse bedding, she supposed.
Caring very little about the abraded skin, she opened her legs and washed her tender vulva. There was no semen to cleanse. Her owner had withdrawn in time, spending his seed on the bedding. He had come once in her mouth, and tha
t ejaculate she had swallowed.
His cold treatment of her, the way he had cut himself off from her, his objectification of her ... the absolute authority by which he controlled his climax ... had been a blessing, a reprieve from sensation she didn't choose to feel. His remoteness had resulted in the numbing of her feelings.
Just as well, she decided, she felt dead inside. What need did a whore have for sentimentality?
She was a whore.
The knowledge finally sank in. Whether she did her whoring at Ruby's place, in Boston, or here in this room, she was now a whore, paid to service a gentleman.
Rinsing the cloth, she washed between her buttocks.
All for the best, the back-to-front doggie approach: the positioning kept her ever mindful of her new occupation in life. She must come to terms with the fact she was now a prostitute! It was done, best to accept it, and move on. She had taken money for the use and abuse of her body. No going back.
Turning, she took up a small bottle from the bed stand and opened the top. With a tilt, she placed a few droplets onto her finger, coating her labia with the lotion.
The fall of a footstep behind her.
"Sore?" she was asked.
Evidently her owner could see over her shoulder.
Her belly did a flip-flop. Was that genuine concern in his voice?
She killed the hope, squashed it dead. This arrangement must be kept on a footing she could deal with; she could not deal with concern.
To that end, she replied breezily, "Sore? Hardly. I barely knew you were there."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes," she said, trying not to wince. Her vagina stung. The lotion was making her morning-after swelling worse. "Yes, really."
"I am happy to have caused you no undue inconvenience."
"No inconvenience at all. So little did you distract me, that while you went in and out, I created a new recipe in my head involving your delicious honey."
"Glad to have been of some assistance, and I hope the unguent helps the soreness. You were disturbingly tight, madam."
