by Louisa Trent
Josh felt himself harden. What was it about the soft curves of a woman's derriere that spiked a man's flesh?
He had grooves on his back, left there from his little whore's bloodthirsty nails. Harry had fair carved him up, and fucking her had been worth every last scrape. Lord, but she had been something! A real siren in bed. Would her sweet singing lure him to the rocks, destroy him as she had almost destroyed him before?
Three years before, when he had finally returned from the ice-jammed seas around Alaska, the excursion making him captain of his own ship and wealthy too, he'd thought to find Harry waiting for him on shore. He'd thought, despite their exchange of angry words, she would take the money he had left for her and use it to stay safe and sound. When he found out what she had done instead, he had gone on a month-long drunk, wenching from morning to night, not putting the bottle or whores aside until he boarded ship again.
That was the last time a drop of ardent spirits had passed his lips. The last time too he had gone a'whoring. Deciding he would not take the easy way out, that he would neither drown his sorrows in a bottle of rum nor fuck them away, he had channeled his anger into making something of himself.
He had succeeded.
Rising above it all--bad beginnings, bad temper, bad habits--Josh had achieved success beyond his wildest dreams, and yet he had felt empty inside, incomplete, as though a part of him was missing.
And there was the other part of himself now, her red hair all neatly tucked up into a starched cap, nary a strand escaping, her voluptuousness hidden under a pristine white apron.
"Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Taylor," she whispered like a well-trained domestic, bobbing a curtsey, her eyes demurely lowered to the floor.
Christ, he hated those meekly lowered eyes!
Glass selected, his hostess said, "See to those three gentlemen over there next."
Two-and-a-fraction gentlemen, Joshua corrected in his thoughts. Mrs. Taylor couldn't know part of him was a gaping void that Harry had once filled.
As she made her way to them, fluted glasses expertly balanced on the tray, eyes meekly lowered, he lowered his own gaze too, sharing the varnished pine planks.
"Champagne?" she offered, casting the tray all around.
His eyes came up, and he reached for a glass, with no intention of drinking it, just to have some part of himself close to her. "How have you been, Mrs. Smith?" he asked politely, offering a distant sort of consideration a caring employer would correctly show his servant, only his gaze, riveted to her face, giving his lack of distance away.
"Very well, sir," she answered quickly and just as correctly, and unfortunately telling him not a blasted thing. How was she being treated? He wanted to know, and would have asked had they been alone. Was her room adequate--comfortable being too much to expect in servants' quarters? Did she have enough to eat? She looked pallid, as though she hadn't gotten out much, as though she had been worked too hard for too many hours. So many things to ask her, and he couldn't ask them, not until they were alone.
Damnable party! He detested these engagements, everyone making silly conversation, sprouting witticisms ... flirting.
He wanted to flirt with Harry, whisper silly things into the perfect shell of her ear, try to make her laugh with a wit he didn't possess.
But she did. Harry possessed a sharp wit. She tickled his funny bone. She also made him angry enough to spit nails. And so horny he knew he would have to think up some excuse to get her alone. Fast. His cock was begging for her, weeping pre-cum for her, and if he didn't get into her drawers he didn't know what he would do. Why the hell couldn't he come up with one single reason to get her alone?
"Is this servant in your employ?" The merchant at his side questioned.
"Mrs. Smith is my ... uh ... uh ... housekeeper," he stammered, denying their true relationship which was--what? What was Harry to him, now that she was no longer the other part of himself?
She was his whore, of course. His little cunt. The wanton wharf-tart he had paid to fuck. He had not gotten his money's worth lately!
"I don't care to drink after all," he said, holding out the fluted glass of untried champagne to her.
She took it, her fingers knocking against his knuckles, some of the grape spilling onto the shine of his shoes in the collision.
She gasped. "So sorry, sir!"
His hostess, upon hearing the slight commotion, hurried over. "Those boots will need buffing, before the leather is stained. You, maid, take Captain Kane outside to the hall and see to it immediately. "
"By all means, ma'am. Come with me, sir."
Harry turned; he followed.
"Please take a seat. I will return shortly with the boot polish," she said softly, indicating a delicate armless chair situated in a small out-of-the way alcove under the staircase. Though no bigger in size than a cloak closet, closing the exterior door would turn a small open area into a comfortably snug secluded space.
Nodding at a few guests milling about in the hallway, Josh settled himself onto the brocaded seat, a gentleman awaiting a shoeshine.
When the shoe polisher returned, rag and blackening in hand, she sank to her knees in a puff of white apron before his long legs.
Her gown attracted his attention. The homely gray serge was obviously borrowed, obviously a scullery maid's, obviously two sizes larger than she needed at the waist, and obviously not quite large enough at the bosom. For a little slip of female, Harry had a staggeringly full bosom. Who knew, as a string bean maiden, she would blossom into voluptuousness? Not he, certainly. At just squeaked past seventeen, she had been very nearly flat on top, and he knew this for definite, having caught her in the altogether.
Josh had just about grown up with Ben, for a time they had been as close as brothers, and so as he always did, Josh entered the waterfront shack without a warning knock.
And caught Harry in the tub before the fire in the kitchen.
Had he thought of Harry as his sister, the thing to do would have been to make a disparaging joke and turn his back in brotherly disgust, if only to hide his own mortification. But he hadn't been mortified, and the only disgust Josh felt had been with himself for not turning his back on Harry when, in her sweet innocence, she had sent him a smile...
* * * *
"Ben's not here, Josh. Gone out somewhere with Beth, I 'spect," she told him, continuing to soap up. "I've been out casting a line all afternoon, and as I stink of fish guts, I decided to take an all-over dunking before putting the trout to the fire. Stay to eat, please?"
A step in the small room brought his knees to the tin tub. He had stared, and stared, and couldn't stop staring. At her little tits, for the most part, as the rest of her was under soap bubbles.
"You really should have locked the door, sweetheart. There are rough men wandering these docks at night."
"And not a one will mess with me, knowing they have you to tangle with if'n they do. Besides, you know me, I can take care of meself." She raised a knee out of the water and sighed a long sigh. "I think I'm dying, Josh."
"W-w-what? Whatever gave you that fool idea? You're as healthy as a horse."
"I'm bleeding."
Every inch of him tensed. "Where? Tell me where, right now!"
"From my innards. My belly."
"Show me!"
When she raised the other knee, the move opened her up. "From here. The opening. See?" She pointed.
He looked. And saw. Everything.
* * * *
At the time, he recalled being more relieved than anything else. Harry was healthy, and that's all that was important. She was just growing up, was all! And as he had gazed into the notch, that wide-open notch, that's when he had explained how things work with females.
He should have explained everything to her then, not just the essentials. But the bath water must have grown cold, because she gave a little shiver, and he told her to get her tail out of the tub. After that, he just couldn't go on with the lesson, not when his cock was pointing north. Fe
eling rotten about his man's feelings for Harry, who was seventeen but was still little better than a child with her pert little tits and non-existent hips, and just the beginnings of a fiery red bush where her trim thighs met, he let it all go in favor of hiding his own lust from her. He didn't want her looking at him any differently than she always had, which was as an older male relative. But as she dried off before the fire, chatting away, not bothering to hide any of her naked self from him, he knew he could never return to those safe family-type feelings again. The very next day, he had signed up for another voyage, done to remove the danger of him from the innocence of her.
And now the grown up version of that child-woman knelt at his feet, polishing his boot, and she was not an innocent anymore.
"I apologize for my clumsiness, sir." Harry's eyes twinkled with amusement.
The dawning light came up slow. "You shameless hussy! You intentionally spilled that champagne."
"Mrs. Taylor is quite the stickler for shiny boots, sir."
He kicked the door closed with one of those shiny boots.
In the darkened cloak closet, her gaze lifted from the task at hand. "There is no inside lock, sir."
"As I am your employer, not Mrs. Taylor, you are in no danger of getting sacked should we be discovered."
"I have no reputation to lose, but what of yours?"
"My reputation be damned! I need to know how you have been."
"I have been most excellent, sir."
But her tone of voice told a different tale: his little whore was miffed. At him.
"I had to leave you here, Harry. There was no other choice. I couldn't take you with me where I was going, and I didn't want you with me when I sought out your last employer. And by the way, that little matter has been resolved. All an unfortunate misunderstanding." Josh had waited for the weasel outside a tavern, and after setting him on his arse in a back alleyway, they had come to financial terms about the missing silverware and jewelry. "So, that matter is finished. Why you chose that drunken lout as your protector is quite beyond me."
"Most women in my situation don't have the freedom to choose. They soon learn they must accept or starve. Would you have suggested I starve?"
"I left you a sum of money to provide for you. There was no need for you to go to Ruby's."
Even in a dark closet, it was nigh on to impossible to miss the jut of that obstinate chin. "I had every reason."
Water over the dam, he conceded. He had no wish to rehash a past history that could not be changed. Most especially, he did not wish to argue after only just returning. He wished for something else instead.
"Take that apron off," he said.
"Yes, of course," she replied. Placing her polishing rag and blackening aside, she untied the bow in back and drew the atrocious maid's apron off over her head.
"Cap too. And shake loose your hair."
When the thick richness of her red hair was undone, he leaned forward at the edge of the seat. He didn't give a tinker's damn that guests milled outside in the hall; he would have this!
"Strip off," he demanded. He couldn't go to her maid's bedchamber, nor could he bring her to his second floor guestroom. Waiting to get back to New Bedford before fucking her was out of the question.
Chin lowered, she nodded.
He refused to let her embarrassment thwart him. Harry was a whore, an occupation that didn't allow for modesty. If a guest opened the cloak door they would simply see a naked prostitute polishing his champagne-stained boots. Every gentleman has his carnal quirks.
Gown pulled down to her waist, corset and chemise removed, Harry now knelt bare-breasted at his feet. She was beautiful in her partial nudity. Lovely and refined and dignified. She looked almost like a lady, for all that she was on her knees in a small alcove room under the staircase.
Looking toward the door, she stalled in her disrobing.
"All the way, girl. Everything must come off."
While she shimmied the gown down her hips, he reached for the enormous jut of a bobbing nipple, already gone from soft pink to hard claret. "Tell me you missed me as I missed you. Say it, even if it is a lie."
Her eyes shuttered down. "I missed you."
He would soon see how much.
"Leave the stockings, dispose of the drawers."
At last she was naked, her enormous nipples eagerly jutting, the full breasts swinging ever so gently, just the way he liked, but her shapely legs lamentably closed.
"Open your thighs," he said, her obstinacy making him more and more aggrieved. She knew what he wanted--she whored for a living--why did she drag her round heels over this?
When her limbs were parted, he gave her the nod. "You may proceed," he said relaxing back in his chair and holding out the stained boot to her.
Naked, she buffed his boot until it shone. He quite enjoyed the performance, so much so, he held out the other boot too, just to watch the gentle sway of her bosom increase to a fast-paced oscillation.
By the time the second boot wore a shine, he was in pain.
He ripped open his suddenly too-tight breeches.
His throbbing cock made an undignified arc. His excitement was not lovely, not refined, and certainly not gentlemanly. "Place the polishing rag away, and take me in your mouth."
Her chin tilted forward, her lips parted.
Christ! The wet rasp of her tongue on tortured flesh! The hot kiss of her lips, the glorious welcome of her mouth...
He knew he would come immediately if she sucked him off, and thereby disgrace himself.
"No, don't!" Two hands on her shoulders, he set her away.
She had been kneeling upright, but she slid back onto her haunches at his rebuke. "I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he growled.
She rubbed a hand over her pouty lips, already a bit swollen. "But I thought you wished me to..."
"I do."
Her bent-back legs were well open. No longer seeming concerned about a possible interruption, her face looked slumberous, her mouth a little slack. A female in heat, she slid a palm between her thighs. "I-I truly did miss you," she said, cradling her opening.
"You need it?"
When she nodded, her palm pressing into the notch, he lost the rest of his already diminished control.
With a yank, he brought her up and over his lap to straddle him, her bright red bush decorating the front of his breeches like a bouquet of red posies.
She was wet. As open as a female can get too, the positioning so exposing her that he felt the damp heat of her cunt through his woolen trouser leg.
He took the point of a tit into his mouth, groaning between suckling her, hard and strong, finally biting into the flesh, his teeth grinding the huge nipple. Taking the harsh cry of her pleasured pain into his mouth, his tongue muffling the sound, his big hands clenched on her buttocks.
He didn't need to tell her to turn about; a whore to the core, she swiveled of her own accord until she was faced away astride his lap, her hips lifted slightly, her nude body angled forward.
"Will this do?" she whispered.
He ran a hand down her spine, under her bottom. Yes, she would do exceptionally well.
But he remained silent, not telling her anything of the kind.
Mistaking his reticence for displeasure, she lifted some more. "You can get it in either way," she offered, a whore trying to please. Back hole, front hole, she had made both easily available to him.
Digging his fingers into the softness of her bottom, he weighed the advantages of both approaches, before deciding upon a natural, if intense congress.
He savagely forced his cock into her, a full penetration of the front passage.
She bucked.
"Take it," he told her. "Take all of it." He thrust home hard.
"Oh, God," she moaned, a hand going to cup the notch again, cradling her red pussy again, as though this was new to her, as though she hadn't done it hard a thousand times before, as though he was actually paining her.<
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"Be still," he admonished. "I'm almost there." He bit into her shoulder, his hands seizing her toppled breasts, his fingers squeezing the southerly-directed nipples, pinching them as he made the push.
She felt so good, so tight, so wet and hot and obliging, as she accepted his length, every last inch, giving him his money's worth and then some.
Then he was driving his cock into her, and everything he had done during the past week was forgotten. There was only Harry. Only Harry. Only Harry's sweet cunt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She was dropped off at the front door to the sea captain's fine New Bedford mansion like a sack of bruised something, and then with the strict admonishment for her to stay put inside the mansion until his return, Joshua Kane sped off down the cobblestone lane in his carriage, not even coming inside to change his travel-dusted black suit, no explanation as to where he was going, no word of when he might return.
Gone fishing off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland for cod, mackerel and haddock in his two-mast schooner, Peggy told Harry when she asked.
Off getting laid, more like it!
No wealthy sea captain toils like a poor fisherman. It was naught but a ruse. The lusty seaman most likely had a different woman in every port. That business about him missing her back in Boston was pigswill, bosh a man spoke to get whatever he could from a woman.
Save that Joshua didn't lie. He was honorable through and through. In Boston, in that dark little closet-room under the staircase, he said he had missed her. Why would he have said such a thing unless he had meant it?