The Captain and the Squire

by Catherine Curzon

  “Afternoon, Hardacre, afternoon, pig!” Longfellow lifted his flat cap for a second. “I was along at your former lady friend’s auction house this morning, picking up some odds and ends of brass for Mrs. Longfellow’s chimney breast, and what should I see but a little chap with a member you could lose an eye to!”

  The mind boggles.

  A chap and his member at Rudd Reeve?

  “Now, I thought he’d go down a storm in your little collection of naughty whatsits so I picked him up on your behalf.” He reached down among the dogs and produced a shoebox-sized parcel wrapped in bubble wrap. “I’d say it’s a gift but it isn’t. Three hundred quid, Bough, you can drop it round any time before tomorrow. No need to thank me or add a little finder’s fee, though I imagine you’ll insist. You’re a decent sort, after all.”

  “Oh.” Tarquin struggled with the oars, trying to bring them into the boat before nearly losing them again. He stretched his hand out to Longfellow. “Antique, is it?”

  If anything, it’d make a brilliant Christmas present for the boyfriend.

  “Probably not, but it’ll be a talking point.” He handed over the surprisingly weighty parcel. “They were keen to see it go. No provenance beyond Eastern, but you’re the expert on tumescence around these parts.”

  Chris stifled a laugh, turning it into a cough with no small amount of skill. He hastily cleared his throat, holding up his hand by way of an apology. With the box on his lap, Tarquin squeezed Chris’ knee, fully aware that Longfellow would see.

  “Chris would know all about that!” Tarquin said.

  “Mrs. Longfellow was right!” the farmer declared, triumphant again. “Well, no doubt you gentlemen shall both appreciate the contents of that box then, and I’ll say no more on that. A Bough and a Hardacre, is it? Wonders will never cease.”

  “Is that the only bit of this unexpected development that’s taken you by surprise?” Chris asked with a chuckle. “Not Squire Tarks falling for a man, but a Bough and a Hardacre?”

  Longfellow shrugged as though it happened all the time. “Well it’s not unheard of. Even in Sussex. How do you think Bough Bottoms got its nickname?” Then he gave a nod of farewell and turned, matching off across the field with his dogs at his heel.

  Tarquin burst out laughing. “No? That can’t be true. Although… Shall I open the box? God knows what sort of tat I’m now the proud owner of.”

  He unwound the bubble wrap from the box and levered off the lid. Several layers of tissue paper divided him from his quarry, but after some help from the Oracle, who decided Tarquin required the aid of her snout, he finally reached the object.

  He held it up to show Chris—a tiny soapstone figure with an enormous cock.

  “Erm…this seems familiar, but I’ve never seen it before.”

  Chris was staring at it, apparently dumbstruck. He sat up, leaning closer as he murmured, “This is the Nepalese artifact I was talking— Three hundred quid? It’s about as close to priceless as it gets. This must be a copy, it can’t be!”

  A cold shudder went up Tarquin’s spine. “How the balls does a priceless Nepalese statue end up in an auction house in rural Sussex? You don’t think… No, Petunia wouldn’t. Maybe they just didn’t know what it was. Someone offloading it, no provenance, looks like something a lad brought back from his gap year backpacking in the Himalayas for a jape?”

  “I can’t see Petunia being into international relic theft,” Chris decided. “But whoever’s on the top must be desperate to offload the pieces they’ve got left, just to be rid of them. When we get back I’ll call the coppers and let them know. This could be really important, Tarks. Not just for me but for those communities who were robbed. We could finally be onto the boss!”

  * * * *

  The police hadn’t seemed all that surprised when Tarquin opened the front door and the Oracle trotted up to greet them. They had, however, looked very surprised by the artifact that Chris presented them with.

  “Obviously couldn’t find trousers that fitted him,” Tarquin quipped. Quipping seemed to suit him, and he’d never really thought of trying it before. Chris’ influence, he decided.

  He rather liked Chris’ influence. Loved it, in fact.

  Once the police had gone, Tarquin said, “It’s a shame that little—or should I say rather big—chap had to go. Would’ve fitted into my collection very well! But I won’t have stolen artifacts under my roof.”

  “And it really means something to the people it was stolen from,” Chris told him. “It’s their history, and to think somebody just took it and passed it off as a bit of tat— I guess it’s better than ending up in some oligarch’s secret stash. At least this way they’ll see it again one day.”

  “If there’s any justice in this world, Chris, they will.” Tarquin twined his fingers with Chris’. “Don’t suppose the captain would like to go upstairs for a private view of the squire’s collection?”

  “Darling, I would love to.” He quirked one eyebrow. “And just for the squire, the captain will slip into his jodhs.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Tarquin unlocked the door and his collection greeted him.

  “Here we are, captain. My very special private museum.”

  Chris strolled into the room, dressed for his squire in jodhpurs and riding boots, a pale blue shirt buttoned just enough to be decent tucked in at his trim waist.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” Chris told him, looking around. “The squire’s pleasure palace?”

  “Oh, yes. All sorts of sordid items live up here.” Tarquin pointed out the cabinets as he wandered the room. “Casanova’s silk dressing gown, Christine Keeler’s false eyelashes—one bat of them could bring down the government—the Hellfire Club cravat with the skulls embroidered onto it, the Duchess of York’s tiny jeweled slippers. But I’ll show you my most special artifact—Prince Albert’s Prince Albert!”

  “Can I see the dressing gown too?” Chris drew the tip of his tongue along Tarquin’s jaw. “I’ve always had a thing for silk.”

  Lust stirred in Tarquin’s blood.

  In a soft, deep murmur, he remarked, “Why am I not surprised, you outrageous popinjay? It’s wrapped up safely to preserve it from fading…but I’ll let you have a look.”

  Chris’ hand stole down Tarquin’s tweed-clad back and settled on his bottom, squeezing softly. “Your outrageous popinjay.”

  “Come over here and bring that insinuating hand of yours too.” Tarquin beckoned him over to a drawer under one of the cabinets. He pulled it open and took out what looked like a flat leather valise, which he placed on top of one of the glass cases. “You may do the honors, captain. Draw back the wrappings and admire.”

  With great care, Chris opened the valise and peeled back the wrappings that preserved the delicate garment. Below those unassuming sheets was a blaze of orange silk, as bright now as it must have been all those centuries ago. Chris leaned closer and peered at the robe, then met Tarquin’s gaze.

  “Casanova’s robe,” he whispered, his eyes wide with excitement. This was Chris, he knew, not the careless captain. “Safely in the care of another great lover.”

  “Oh, I…I don’t know about that.” But the squire soon reasserted himself, and Tarquin winked. “Of course! It’s very delicate, but what a piece to own! Imagine the boudoirs this gown has visited? And imagine the toast crumbs he spilled down it!”

  “I wonder if it ever saw a rump as fine as yours?” Chris turned, the captain once again. He grinned and added, “Or mine, even? Unlikely, but you never know!”

  Tarquin gave Chris’ bottom a hearty slap. “Rumps like ours aren’t ten-a-penny, that’s for sure!”

  He gave a saucy wiggle and peered down at the robe again, his bottom rather prominent. Deliberately so, Tarquin knew. Wonderfully so.

  Tarquin grasped Chris’ buttock. “You’re teasing me, captain… You’re getting my dander right up!”

  “Are you going to give me what for, squire?” Chris’ voice was
low and breathless. “How stern are you feeling? Plenty of stamina, I hope, old thing?”

  “Bloody stern.” Tarquin spanked Chris’ arse. “And bloody energetic!”

  As though Tarquin hadn’t laid a finger on him, Chris took his time wrapping the silken robe again. He began to whistle a carefree tune, wiggling his bottom again as he closed the valise and fastened it safely. Then he glanced back at Tarquin and asked, “Did I feel a tap?”

  Tarquin put the precious garment back in its drawer. He stroked Chris’ bottom, then said, “You’d feel it sting properly if I yanked down your jodhs.”

  “Maybe,” he teased. With a wink for Tarquin, he sauntered across the room and rested one elbow on the conspicuously grand fireplace. It was an impressive feature for an unassuming room tucked under the eaves, but somehow entirely in keeping with Tarquin’s decadent collection. The iron grate was surrounded by black marble, which had been carved on one side to show a muscular man in a loincloth holding up the mottled marble of the mantelpiece, and on the other side a woman swathed in a flimsy gown that was very close to slipping off. There was a hint of lust in their expressions as they just about caught each others’ eyes across the grate.

  “Hands on the mantelpiece. Grip it.” Tarquin held Chris’ waist firmly. “Came from the bedroom of a royal mistress. Imagine what this has seen—but that’s nothing to what it’s about to.”

  “And me in my jodhpurs just for you.” Chris pouted then turned and gripped the mantelpiece just as Tarquin had instructed. He squared his broad shoulders, putting on a little show of strength for his lover.

  Tarquin stroked Chris’ shoulders. “Very nice. Hold tight, captain.” He stroked down Chris’ back, then brought his hand to the front of Chris’ jodhs and cupped Chris’ erection through the fabric. “You’re straining against the fabric again. I like a keen lover.”

  “And I like a hard squire,” Chris purred. “That must be why we get on so well.”

  “Indeed it must.” Tarquin pressed his hips to Chris’ side, knowing he would feel him through the corduroy. Then he tugged down the zip on Chris’ jodhs and carefully brought them down to his knees, revealing Chris’ firm bottom. “You’re a fine sight, captain.”

  “I know. Aren’t you lucky?”

  Tarquin gave his buttocks an appraising stroke, as if Chris were a choice horse on sale at the market. “Mmm…firm.” Then he drew back his hand and gave Chris a solid spank. The reply was a low moan of pleasure and Chris threw back his head, tossing his dark blond hair.

  “How was that, squire?” he asked. “Did you like that?”

  “Moan again for me, captain…” Tarquin spanked him once more, a little harder this time. Just as Tarquin guessed he might, Chris bit back the moan, his lips tight together even as his body arched with unspoken need.

  Tarquin kissed Chris’ neck as he closed his hand around Chris’ erection and stroked him back and forth. “I can’t hear you moan, captain… Louder!”

  “You’ve got to earn it,” he sighed. “Come on, squire, put your back into it and I might let you put your cock somewhere too!”

  Tarquin caught Chris’ earlobe between his teeth and teased it as he released his erection. “Somewhere you bloody well love me putting it, too!” Then he gritted his teeth and, with a grunt, gave Chris a spank.

  “I won’t…moan…” he breathed out, long and low. “Until you’ve really earned it.”

  Tarquin grasped Chris’ buttock and gave it a firm squeeze. “Hmmm… Could you take a riding crop to the arse, captain? A priceless antique one at that?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Tarquin, his eyes flashing. “Try me. You might just get your moan.”

  With great care, Tarquin took a gold-handled riding crop from its cabinet. The metal was cool against his palm as he brought it back to show Chris.

  “This riding crop was once owned by Skittles, a Victorian courtesan who brought crowds to Rotten Row as she rode.” He walloped it against the mantelpiece. “And she rode many a famous cock in that century of petticoats and lace!”

  “She sounds like a fun sort of girl.” Chris grinned, his blue gaze flirting between the crop and Tarquin. “I bet she was never at a loss for a story.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure of it.” Tarquin flexed the crop and stood back. “Ready, captain? Prepare yourself for quite the rasping!”

  “Come on, squire,” Chris told him, his voice alive with excitement. “Give old Skittles something to be proud of!”

  “Too bloody right I will!”

  Tarquin drew back the crop, then swished it through the air to land with a crack against Chris’ arse. He still didn’t get his moan but instead Chris gave a groan of excitement, his sculpted back arching. He drew the tip of his tongue over his lips and said, “Again, darling!”

  Tarquin pressed the handle flat across Chris’ buttocks. “I don’t believe I heard a moan, captain! Again!”

  Drawing his arm back farther, Tarquin streaked the riding crop through the air with a cry of “Huzzah!”

  “Yes!” Chris exclaimed. “Bloody hell, yes! I love you, you bastard!”

  Tarquin’s blood fizzed. “Another, you delectable bounder?”

  Chris nodded, gripping the mantelpiece so tightly that his knuckles were white, the muscles in his forearms taut beneath his rolled sleeves. He looked at Tarquin, panting, then begged, “Another.”

  “All right, but first…” Tarquin crouched behind him, stroking the pink marks on Chris’ buttocks before gently kissing them. And that was all it took for him to tempt one of those beguiling moans from his lover’s lips. Then Tarquin rose to his feet again. He popped his cuffs, drew back the crop and spanked Chris firmly.

  “Tell me how much you want me,” Chris gasped, pushing his bottom toward Tarquin’s hand. “I know you’re desperate for me.”

  Tarquin pressed his lips to Chris’ ear and told him, “I want you more than oxygen.” Not something the squire would necessarily say, but Tarquin didn’t care. The air seemed suddenly very still and Chris looked back over his shoulder, his eyes filled with nothing but love.

  “I love you, Tarks,” he said gently. Then he beamed a devilish smile. “You got your moan, squire, I’m all yours.”

  Tarquin kissed Chris on the lips, then broke away. He put the riding crop aside and his hands fell to the hem of Chris’ shirt, where he toyed with the fabric. “I’m glad to hear that, captain. Keep holding tight to the mantelpiece… I want you, captain, I want you so much I—”

  Tarquin was never sure afterward if he had meant to do it or not, but whatever his intentions, he had gripped Chris’ shirt and with one almighty rip had managed to tear the shirt in two, all the way up to the collar. Tarquin stared at Chris’ exposed back and shoulders, and at the handfuls of cloth that he still held.

  “I…I appear to have torn you out of your shirt.”

  “You appear,” Chris began, looking back over his shoulder, “to be entirely in charge, squire.”

  Tarquin brushed the remains of Chris’ shirt down his arms. “Let go of the mantelpiece…let the shirt go.”

  He obeyed, letting the tattered remains of the shirt whisper onto the wide hearth. Then he replaced his hands on the mantelpiece, tensing for Tarquin’s benefit.

  The excitement Tarquin felt whenever he was with Chris seemed amplified somehow, naughtiness burning in him. He brushed his fingers over Chris’ lips and commanded, “Suck them.”

  Chris took Tarquin’s fingers into his mouth, caressing them with that ridiculously talented tongue of his, and there was the promise of that perky erection that had stolen Tarquin’s breath in the tack room on a bright morning at the start of summer.

  “That’s it,” Tarquin murmured. “Nice and wet, that’s it.”

  Then he withdrew them and pressed them between Chris’ buttocks. With a little push, they slid inside, and Tarquin kissed Chris’ shoulders as he stroked him from within. Now there was no shortage of moans as Chris tipped his head back, seeking a kiss from his squire.


  Tarquin kissed his way to Chris’ mouth, and their lips met in a sloppy snog, passionate and careless and free.

  He loved everything about the man in his arms, his Chris, his captain, who took advantage of Tarquin’s distraction to give full expression to his studied, deliberate insolence. As their kiss went on Chris took one hand from the mantelpiece and began to stroke himself in what Tarquin knew was a very deliberate challenge.

  We seem to get more wild with every passing day.

  Tarquin brought his free hand to Chris’ erection and stroked him too. “Are you ready for your squire? For a good old seeing-to?”

  “You have very, very talented fingers,” he sighed, his perspiration-sheened body pushing back against Tarquin’s hand. “God, you have…”

  “You’re lovely to touch,” Tarquin said, his voice soft. “I can’t help myself…but now…”

  Tarquin withdrew his fingers. In his pocket, he’d brought everything he needed from the bedroom to ensure the two of them enjoyed what remained of the afternoon. Within moments, Tarquin had kicked aside his trousers and he was ready.

  He pressed against Chris and with one thrust and a deep sigh, their bodies were united. Chris moaned his name in a hoarse whisper then thrust back against Tarquin, joining them as close as they could be. Tarquin was breathless for a moment and paused, savoring the sensation of their joined bodies. Then he began to move with strong thrusts, the hearthstone beneath his feet creaking with every buck of his hips.

  “I love you.” Chris groaned, jerking their joined hands against his own erection. “Tarks, I really do.”

  “I love you too, Chris. Have you ever been happier? I haven’t…I haven’t…” Tarquin’s voice vanished into a sigh.

  “Never,” he breathed. “Tell me when you— I want us to come together, darling, I love you.”

  “You saucy thing.” Tarquin pressed himself close to Chris’ back, his eyes half-closed. All he saw was Chris’ dark blond hair and his sweat-sheened nape. The floor was creaking rather badly, and Tarquin made a mental note to get it looked at. But for now, the room seemed rather stuffy and the clouds must’ve rolled in as the light was dim, but still Tarquin thrust, making love to his captain against a mantelpiece. “Soon, soon…this is fantastic, you’re fantastic! I’m on the verge, darling, any moment… Chris, darling, now!”