‘In my breech, Charles,’ she sighed gently. ‘Sodomise me.’
Happy to grant a favour, he withdrew, placing his hand down to catch his cock as it came free. It was slippery with her juice and felt ready to explode as he placed the end to her anus. She pushed out, everting her bum-hole in what was evidently a practised motion. The head of his cock popped inside and she gave a little grunt at the effort of accommodating him.
‘That’s my girl,’ he said, in response, and began to force his erection slowly up her bottom, rocking back and forth to reduce the pain of anal entry and increase his pleasure at the act of putting his penis into her.
It went up slowly, Judith giving grunts and sighs as she struggled to accept him. Finally it was all in, the full length of his cock sheathed in the warm, soft flesh of her rectum. He began to bugger her, bouncing on the pillows of her bottom with his cock wedged firmly into the central hole.
Judith was quickly clutching the bedcover as she began to lose control of her body. Yet the turmoil of her senses made no difference. He was in her and on top of her, his cock up her bottom, regardless of her feelings. She was screaming again by the time he came, lost in a welter of ungovernable impulses centred on the penis invading her rectum.
She heard him grunt and felt the jerk of his cock inside her. Then there was the slimy sensation of his sperm around the opening to her bottom and she knew he had come in her rectum. His cock stopped moving and her senses began to return to order, leaving her gasping and shivering beneath his weight, sore, used but thoroughly satisfied.
For a long time they lay together, bathed in an intimacy born of their mutual depravity. Finally Charles rose and ordered basins of scented water and a bottle of champagne from Griggs.
Later, after an afternoon spent in bed and two more encounters of a less frantic and more conventional nature, she decided that the time had come to leave. Charles accepted without fuss, demanding only that she leave a garter as a memory of their pleasure.
‘I did not say that there would not be another occasion,’ she said cheerfully as she tossed the embroidered green ribbon to him. ‘Merely that I had to go. As you may have realised, I am a kept woman and, for all the ease of life thus afforded, I am obliged to make at least a show of punctuality.’
‘A fine attitude,’ Charles replied, struck by the incongruity of the fat, jolly Squire Robson keeping such a fiery mistress, let alone indulging in the undoubtedly perverse pleasure she had demanded. ‘But tell me, the trick with the candles?’
‘It is called the burning shame,’ she informed him casually as she adjusted her remaining garter, ‘and is generally used as a punishment applied by bawds and pimps to slovenly or insufficiently wanton girls. It has the advantage over the cane or strap of not leaving evidence of its application. Personally, I find it most stimulating.’
‘So I see,’ Charles rejoined.
Later that day, Charles was seated in his favourite chair at the club, smoking and sipping cognac while he enlarged on the delights of Judith Cates to a group of his friends.
‘Judith Cates, you say?’ Conrad Clive enquired as he joined the group. ‘By God, but you’re the cool one, Charles!’
‘Why so?’ Charles laughed in response.
‘Well, the last fellow who tupped her ended up being put to bed with a shovel. He’s a devil of a fellow, you know.’
‘What? Bertie Robson? Nonsense!’
‘Bertie Robson?’
‘Yes, he was squiring her in the park this morning. I pinched her from him, easy as wetting the dunnegan! I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me he’ll call me out, are you? Come, come, Conrad; he’s no more than a buffoon!’
‘No, no, not Bertie; she barely knows Bertie. She’s Jinks’s mistress. You know, Captain Jinks, fellow who was mixed up in that duelling scandal last year. Fellow called Hunt, it was. The seconds tried to patch it up, but Jinks wouldn’t have it – shot Hunt dead. That was over her.’
‘Oh, hell!’ Charles breathed.
Henry Truscott stood before the doors of Truscott Hall, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. To every side, the Devon countryside sparkled with the dew of a bright autumn morning, while the sky was an unbroken vault of blue. In the distance a phaeton was approaching, a new and expensive-looking vehicle, which drew black looks from Henry. The passenger in the phaeton – he felt sure – would prove to be his brother Stephen, whose presence in Devon could only serve to curtail already limited pleasures. With his expression growing ever more morose, he watched the vehicle draw nearer, only for the driver to raise his hand in a familiar wave as it swung into the carriage sweep. Then, as the man alighted, Henry’s face suddenly brightened in recognition of his friend Charles Finch.
‘Charles!’ Henry declared. ‘You are a welcome sight indeed!’
‘I heard of your mishap,’ Charles Finch replied, ‘and felt that you might appreciate a little company. Besides, in London, at present, I must watch my every pace.’
‘Trouble?’ Henry enquired.
‘A mere splash in a pisspot,’ Charles rejoined. ‘I tupped a girl, only to find that she’s the mistress of that loon Jinks. He wants a duel, but I’ll be damned before I’ll give him the satisfaction.’
‘A duel? Over a mistress?’ Henry sniffed disapprovingly.
‘So I must be sure not to allow him the opportunity of making a challenge,’ Charles continued, ‘and where better than here?’
‘How true,’ Henry responded wistfully as he looked round over the green and peaceful scenery that spread away in every direction.
For a moment both men stood looking out over the Torridge valley, a view of small, steep-sided hills, wooded coombes and fields, decked in shades of green and the richer colours of autumn.
‘So what sport is to be had?’ Charles inquired after a moment.
‘Rather little,’ Henry replied. ‘Father still drinks well enough, but he was ever a buck for the fashion and is currently following that set by our good King. At his age, he can neither ride nor wench, though he’d be game enough to try the latter, were not half the girls in the village likely to be his daughters. No, Charles, I am glad of your company, for I was never a great one for my own.’
‘I shall endeavour to liven matters up,’ Charles promised, ‘but do you not admire my perch-high phaeton?’
‘A splendid conveyance,’ Henry admitted.
‘Splendid indeed,’ Charles added, then addressed the man who had been the other occupant of the phaeton. ‘Run her round to the stables, Griggs, and roust out old man Catchpole. He’s the steward.’
‘Thinking of carriages, and so forth,’ Henry said as they turned to walk into the house, ‘there are a couple of light shooting gigs in the stable and an idea for a most amusing diversion occurred to me the other day.’
Henry stood back to admire his work. Beside him was the lake, with its surrounding path of pressed gravel. On the path stood two shooting gigs, light, two-wheeled vehicles designed to be drawn by a single pony. Both gigs were fully rigged, yet no pony was in evidence. Instead, a giggling girl stood harnessed between the shafts of each, naked but for her boots and an ingenious system of rope, chain and leather that acted as tack. The girls were Jane and Anne Silcott, local milkmaids.
‘Jane is always game,’ Henry remarked to Charles Finch in an undertone, ‘and can generally persuade her sister to dalliance. But a word of advice – by all means, press a hog into her cunny at the end, or bribe her for more speed, but do not make the offer plain. These are not London girls, and resent any implication that you might expect to pay entry to the buttock ball.’
‘I see,’ Charles replied. ‘One could wish that all wenches were so.’
‘To work, then,’ Henry continued in a louder tone. ‘First, I feel, we should test the mettle of our mounts and cast lots to see who gets whom – for the first run, at least.’
Jane Silcott smiled and lowered her eyes as the two men walked round to her front. Henry smiled back, pleased by her nervous
excitement and ready acquiescence to his suggestion that she and her sister be harnessed to carts. As one of his earliest partners, she was a girl on whom he knew he could always rely for sport, yet in nearly ten years she had never lost the air of unwitting naughtiness that had so appealed to him as a lad.
Her figure was classic Devonshire – tall, well built with fleshy, cream-fed breasts and hips that supported a firm, meaty bottom. A tumble of brown curls surrounded a face that was both pretty and bold, with a smooth, pale complexion.
Henry reached out and took Jane’s breasts in his hands, feeling their satisfying weight as she cast her eyes further down and gave a little moan of pleasure. Her large, pinkish-brown nipples were already erect, standing proud and resilient as he ran his thumbs over them. With her wrists strapped to the gig, Jane could do nothing but stand obediently still as her breasts were fondled. As his cock began to stir in his breeches, Henry stopped, standing back and making a gesture to Charles.
‘Be my guest,’ Henry offered, indicating Jane’s breasts.
‘Most kind,’ Charles responded and stepped forward to take over the exploration of the girl’s chest.
Henry moved to Anne, the elder sister and less familiar to him. She gave a shy giggle as he reached out and touched a nipple, tweaking the little bud of flesh quickly to erection. Her body closely resembled that of her younger sister, with just a touch less meat on her thighs and bottom. This was not true of her breasts, which were fat globes of pale flesh, surmounted by large nipples of a delicate rose-pink. Cupping one in each hand, Henry squeezed them together and buried his face in her soft cleavage, drawing a delighted giggle from her.
Satisfied for the time being with his exploration of her breasts, he moved round to take a handful of chubby bottom. She gave a pleased squeak as he squeezed, then a sigh as his smallest finger traced a line up the cleft of her cheeks. Leaning forward, he kissed her, first on the cheek and then on the lips. She responded, immediately eager, their tongues meeting as he reached up to touch her breasts. For a moment, he allowed a finger to stray between her legs, brushing against the silky fullness of her vulva. She shivered and her kisses became more urgent, to which Henry responded before pulling quickly back.
‘Drive Anne, if you have no objections,’ he addressed Charles. ‘She’s a game romp and has been chucking since I’ve been down, but Jane’s been my bob-tail many a year. She’ll not be wanting when the time comes to dance the gig.’
‘Fair enough,’ Charles responded from where he was still busy caressing Jane’s breasts. ‘Shall we say three laps of the lake at a bull a lap?’
‘Be bold, Charles,’ Henry responded. ‘A guinea a lap, and a dozen of claret to the first to bedew his pony’s rump after the finish.’
‘Taken!’ his friend answered joyfully, moving over to Anne.
‘Fine,’ Henry replied. ‘We’ll mount ’em kneeling, still in the shafts.’
Adjusting the leather straps that made up Jane’s bridle, Henry readied his mount, finishing by slipping the improvised bit between her teeth and taking her reins in his hand. She knelt to allow him to mount, briefly presenting him with a yet finer view of her magnificent rear. She rose once more and, with a final pat to her bottom, he mounted the gig. Low-slung and designed for working the rough paths of the estate, it was the ideal vehicle to which to harness girls, a chance feature of design that had given him the idea in the first place.
Taking up his carriage whip, he gave Jane a playful cut across the buttocks, drawing a surprised squeak from her and leaving a long red line across the white flesh of her seat. He was enjoying himself immensely, and felt a fresh surge of excitement as he admired Jane’s naked back, legs and bottom. To the side, Anne looked equally fine, harnessed and ready to run, with her plump bottom quivering slightly in her eagerness.
‘D’you see the crow down over the village?’ Henry called.
‘Ah . . . no,’ Charles replied. ‘My eyesight’s not what it might be.’
‘No matter,’ Henry replied. ‘We start when it pulls level with the steeple. Anne can see it, I’m sure.’
A nod from Anne gave her agreement. Henry turned quickly, looking to where the crow could be seen flapping slowly towards where the church steeple rose above the trees of the valley. At that moment, Anne started forward, Jane following her sister’s lead an instant later.
‘Damn! Run, girl!’ Henry exclaimed, seeing that Charles had taken an advantage at the start. ‘Come on, dam’t! A hog if you take the first lap!’
‘A bull and a quart of cider if you do!’ Charles yelled to Anne in response, simultaneously using his whip on the girl’s bottom.
The girls raced forward, both aiming for the narrow bridge that crossed the stream which fed the lake. Henry allowed Jane to do the work, holding her reins loosely and only occasionally applying his whip to her bottom. Charles, by contrast, was endeavouring to steer Anne as if she were a real horse and also using the whip with enough vigour to make her skip and falter.
Henry began to gain, Charles realising too late that his technique was inappropriate for a human pony. The bridge approached, the girls neck and neck, aiming straight at the impossibly narrow gap.
‘My road!’ Charles yelled.
‘Damned if it is!’ Henry called back.
Anne, faced with the immediate prospect of the lake, slowed, only for Jane – the younger and meeker of the two – to do the same. Charles immediately seized his advantage, turning Anne in and bumping the gig on to the bridge as Henry and Jane came to a stop.
Henry swore as he tried to back the gig up and his rival sped merrily away around the lake. Once back on the level, Jane began to gain, but too slowly, allowing Charles and Anne to take the first lap. Smarting under his friend’s derisive hoots and demands for his money, Henry gave Jane a couple of firm cuts across the fullness of her bottom, then once more gave her her head. With her pride stung and her bottom smarting, she gained more ground, pulling up to Charles’s rear as they reached the point where the lake bordered the lawn. She was running sweat, her hair a wet mane that hung halfway down her back, her buttocks glistening and damp, her thighs as red as the trio of welts that decorated her bottom. Her breath was also coming hard, although less so than that of her sister.
Sensing victory, Henry applied the whip once more to Jane’s bottom, calling out encouragement and steering her on to the lawn. She obeyed the command, her muscles straining as she drew level and then ahead of Anne. Henry raised his hat to Charles and began to free the fastenings of his breeches as the gig bumped over the edge of the lawn and back on to the path.
They took the second lap and were still increasing their lead. Henry now had his cock free of his breeches and his attention focused firmly on Jane’s bottom. It was a sight guaranteed to bring blood to the best-used penis. Her cheeks bounced and wobbled as she ran, the hard muscles of years of churn carrying showing beneath the softness of yet more years of feeding on the products of her labours. Four deep pink lines decorated the dancing, sweat-slick globes, evidence of the whipping she had received.
With his cock hard in his hand, Henry went into the third lap. Behind him, Charles was yelling encouragement to Anne and Henry turned to gauge his lead. The other gig was some twenty yards behind. For a moment, he watched Anne’s heavy breasts bounce with the motion of her running, feeling his cock twitch in anticipation at the sight.
‘A last round, then it’s Moll Peatley’s gig for you!’ he called to Jane, who renewed her efforts at his words.
Laughing as he focused once more on his pony’s beautiful rump, Henry sat back to complete the lap. Charles was working himself into a fury, but – as Henry had known from the start – Jane was the younger girl and so was made to do most of the work at the dairy. Triumphant, he crossed the line and quickly ordered her to her knees.
She sank down, kneeling with her bottom stuck out for entry, her head hung in exhaustion and her wet hair down around her face. Holding his cock in one hand, Henry jumped down from the g
ig and settled himself behind her. In front of him her bottom was a fat globe of wet, gleaming flesh, criss-crossed by welts and parted to show her anus, which pulsed with her deep, even breathing.
Resisting the temptation to force his cock up her bottom, Henry put it to her vagina, which proved every bit as wet and excited as he had hoped. He slid in easily, his balls bumping on her pussy even as Charles pulled Anne to a halt beside them.
‘I’m not beat yet, Harry!’ Charles declared as he dismounted hurriedly.
Henry turned, to find Charles flourishing a fully erect cock over Anne’s naked buttocks. Yet, instead of sinking his penis into the glorious target beneath him, he kept it in his hand and began to masturbate furiously over Anne’s upturned bottom. Ignoring his friend, Henry concentrated on the feel of his erection in Jane’s vagina. Her flesh was tight around him, her big buttocks pressed warmly against his belly, wobbling like great, pink jellies with each of his thrusts. She was moaning loudly and clutching the shafts of the gig, clearly desperate to get her tied hands to her breasts and cunny but unable to do so.
At the thought of her helpless ecstasy, he started to come, jerking his cock free of her vagina at the last instant to spray come across her naked bottom, as the bet demanded. Sighing deeply, he drained himself over her, splashing her back and the cleft of her buttocks, before finishing by rubbing his cock against her wet, half-open bottom-hole.
‘My game!’ he gasped as the last of his sperm oozed out into the hair around her anus.
‘Great heaven, Henry! Is there no depth of depravity to which you will not sink?’
Henry turned sharply at the words, Jane and Anne each giving a squeak of alarm as he did so. Behind him, standing on the path that led up to the house, was his brother Stephen. Further back, two other figures stood, a tall, black-visaged man and a small, curvaceous woman.
His witty retort to his brother died on his lips as he realised the identity of the other visitors. One was Captain Jinks, the man determined to call Charles out. The other was Peggy Wray, who he had last seen while he was being rolled naked into a gutter in a lane near Gray’s Inn.
The Rake Page 8