Harriet Page 11

  “Shame to waste that sweet mouth!” In one of the bedrooms Harriet’s possessor undid the restricting bridle and bit, freeing her to gasp, “You are English!” She was momentarily elated, but then reflected upon the evident relish with which he had viewed the Count’s cruel equipage and laughed at the brand mark seared into her rump.

  “No siree!” he sniggered. “A citizen of the land of liberty! The United States of America!” He rubbed his hands. “I just sold the Condy a cargo of prime black field hands that pleased him mightily! I guess you are a kind of gratooity!”

  “I am English and not a slave at all!” Harriet hastened to assure him.

  “You don’t say?” the man grunted, amused. “He bought you to match Cousin Augusta. You must have looked about the right colour!” He sniggered as Harriet attempted to lift up her breasts, so as to display for him the white undersides where the sun didn’t reach. “Of course, the mother was only one sixteenth!” he said. “She was the slave mistress of the uncle he inherited the estate from. Everyone in the district thought the besotted old fool had married her. The daughter was away at school with the nuns in Lisbon, but since no written proof of marriage or emancipation could be found, the Condy was declared the heir and when the girl returned she just became property of the estate, branded like you with the crown that the Condy’s ancestor is supposed to have won for killing a Moorish king in battle.”

  Trusting to memories of amateur theatricals, Harriet thought fast. “But Sir,” she protested, quickly disposing her hands as if to conceal her pudenda and breasts and casting down her eyes as if in shame. “I assure you I am not a slave. My name is Lady Harriet Brown. I am the wife of a British naval captain, lost overboard and rescued from the sea by ignorant and brutal fishermen who did not understand my pleas, but sold me to this wicked fellow to be used in his dreadful pleasures. If you will help me sir,” she lied hopefully, “there will be a great reward for returning me to my husband!”

  “Well! well! A captain’s lady, eh?” So now you have me really horny! I guess you had better get busy showing me just why your husband should be so keen as to have you returned.”

  “You don’t intend to help me, sir!”

  He stripped off his shirt and showed her his back. “This is what one of your damned British captains had done to me. Count the scars! See! Twelve of them. You’re going to have to give Simon Le Gris a good fuck for each of those scars.

  “Sir! Would you take advantage of my situation?”

  Le Gris sniggered cruelly. “I guess Condy Solero would be happy to supply a whip! Would you like to find out if I can duplicate these scars on your delicate back instead? See if you can keep silent while you get a dozen strokes?”

  Harriet had no need to counterfeit the quaver in her voice, but she stayed in her part. “Oh sir! Spare me! No gentleman would demand such a thing!” She had to think how the supposed officer’s wife would act. “Oh sir! W-what should I do?” What she was set to do was fondling the stirring worm of his penis where it appeared from under the hem of his shirt.

  “Oh sir...!” She thought of saying that she had never done such a thing, but remembered that she was supposed to have been a married woman. Following his further impatient injunction, she bent over him and moved her fingers up and down diligently as the penis rose and thickened. Her slender fingers closed tighter around it, using both hands as the knob rose clear, purple as a ripening plum. His thigh muscles bunched under her to thrust the strongly veined column higher into her clasp. It was a tricky balance, displaying enough reluctance to maintain her character while avoiding a whipping by the offended guest for recalcitrance. But as she had hoped and expected, his ardour made him no critic of theatre. She moved to swing her leg over him, still clasping his rigid stem in a firm grasp. Spreading her thighs wide she made little frightened gasps while guiding him unerringly within her.

  “Oh sir! Oh sir!” she squealed, sinking onto his pillar of flesh and guiding it to the last until she felt the wiry bush of hair at the base and she was seated firmly on his thighs. Le Gris kept giving her instructions, which she pretended to need. She began to bounce and twist in a fury of energy, giving him a corkscrewing motion within her that she quite enjoyed, while continuing to pretend reluctance and shame. It had the effect she intended and his body was soon stiffening and jerking beneath her heralded the swift hot discharge into her body.

  “Oh the shame!” she squealed. Simon Le Gris panted and groaned, appreciatively. His cock was still quite impressive even when she rose off it and it slid free and flopped lolling between his thighs, red raw and glistening. The drink he had taken meant that he only managed to deduct one more that night from off the dozen he proposed to exact. In the course of it, Harriet learned that the Count Solero had inherited only the title and his uncle who had detested him had intended to leave all to Augusta. He was the biggest landowner in the area, lording it over the other inhabitants and it had been considered unthinkable that a female slave’s offspring should inherit. The lack of documentation had been greeted with relief by the planters. Le Gris himself had arrived in Brazil aboard a slave ship and settled as a middle-man between the plantation owners and their sea-borne suppliers of various nationalities.

  Harriet was just thinking of confessing her true origin when he went on. “I fancy keeping you for myself, Lady Harriet! I reckon I can frighten the Condy by telling him who you are and persuade him that it’s far too dangerous to leave you running naked round the district. He has a lot of enemies. I reckon he daresn’t take the chance them latching onto your identity and drawing the attention of the governor to his favourite sports.”

  Next morning the disgruntled but avidly curious Count stood by as a closed carriage with its blinds drawn rumbled out through the arched entrance and set off into the countryside. Sitting on the seat opposite Le Gris, Harriet wriggled uncomfortably, the hot leather sticking to the bare cheeks of her bottom.

  “No you ain’t going to get clothes!” Simon snapped in answer to her appeal. “You can stay bare ass naked for the journey.”

  “But where are you taking me, sir?”

  “Solero thought of just cutting out your tongue, but I persuaded him to be more thorough. He thinks I’m taking you out into the swamps to cut your throat and sink your corpse somewhere it won’t be found. But I reckon you’ll serve to give me a lot more sport yet. Where we’re going is south and across the border. I have a friend there owes me money. Runs a brothel called the House of Cocks. Keeps girls of all colours. Far as she’s concerned you’ll just be a particular juicy piece of merchandise that I’ve kept back for my own use. You’ll make a prime attraction in her house while I’m away, Lady Harriet. Earn me a nice profit from between your legs. Since it’s a seaport you’ll probably have to take a lot of sailors. Pity the country’s at war with Britain, otherwise some night you might have found yourself being fucked by your husband’s crew!”

  The coach rumbled out onto the high road with the mules drawing it steadily away from the plantation house. Le Gris kept checking the progress from a gap in the blinds, until at last he sat back, satisfied. “We’re clear away from Solero’s place and out on the highway. So the captain’s lady had better start learning her new trade!” He drew Harriet down onto her knees and forward between his thighs towards the rearing cock that sprang from a bush of wiry black hair. “Begin with this, Milady! Put your aristocratic mouth around it and suck me off!”

  “B-But, Sir! I’ve never done such a thing!” she protested.

  “Inclined to turn your lady-like nose up at it?” he asked gleefully. “Get going! Swallow every drop as it comes or I’ll take the skin off your arse!”

  They travelled overland day after day stopping overnight at ramshackle hostelries consisting of open-sided thatched roofs supported on rough wooden pillars surrounded by haphazard enclosures for horses and mules. After supper the first evening, the two black coachmen
came lounging over to their employer’s flimsy cubicle, leering expectantly.

  “You’re going to have to keep them satisfied too, Lady Harriet!” Le Gris said. “It’ll save me having to pay them a bonus to keep their mouths shut!” So each man took Harriet in turn entering her from behind while she stood leaning forwards, propped with face and hands against the handiest pillar. At one place a man hobbled out of the mule pen at this juncture and paused to watch open-mouthed. Below his ragged cotton garment like a countryman’s smock his legs were curiously thick and swollen and something enormous thrust out the front of the smock. When the second coachman had finished, Le Gris invited the onlooker to take a turn. Smock pulled up, the bulge was revealed to be caused by a set of enormously swollen genitals, dark shiny-skinned testicles enlarged to the size of and appearance of a knotted fist and a huge and equally distorted penis wagging out above them like a black pudding stuffed with solid lumps.

  The exercise of this privilege seemed almost as painful to the man as to Harriet who in the end had to get down on her hands and knees and thrust her bottom up to make it easier for his swollen nether limbs. The two coachmen and Le Gris stood by to watch and comment, noisily encouraging the man in his desperate efforts. His weight bearing down upon the misshapen monster slowly forced it into Harriet with much breathless groaning and panting upon the part of both. The noise attracted a further audience encircling the coupling pair with goggling faces. Harriet spread herself desperately to accommodate the monster, all the while terrified that this gross distortion of body might transmit some dreadful contagion. She could only take comfort from reflecting in brief moments of clarity between the thrusts that Le Gris would surely not waste her earning potential.

  The final day’s journey went on later than usual. A loud military sounding challenge from ahead signalled a stop at last, but one where Le Gris engaged in a long discussion with several men involved. The sound of their voices echoed as if the coach had halted in a tunnel. Harriet guessed it to be the gateway to some fortified place for dark male faces topped by plumed shakos kept peering in through the windows at her then dropping back with a laugh, one to be replaced by another. At last the coach started off again, this time rumbling over cobblestones and pursued by ribald sounding shouts. Not far on they halted again in the growing dusk, and this time descended among crowded flat-roofed houses facing a high blank wall where a red shaded lantern above a massive wooden door showed a board with the representation of a crowing red cockerel. Le Gris knocked and when a small hatch slid open answered the gruff-voiced challenge with an impatient word. At once the door swung open by a squat powerfully built man bowing obsequiously. Harriet and her captor were admitted to a courtyard enclosed by an pillared arcade under which bright lamp light spilled from barred windows, behind the nearest of which a pounding kind of rhythm of guitars and drums accompanied by male yells and the giggling shrieks of female excitement.

  A doorway further on gave access to a spacious kitchen, stone flagged, with a small fire crackling in a generous hearth where a swarthy cook attended to a spit of small lumps of roasting meat. A young boy rushed in and began refilling a tray-full of glasses from a huge cask. A tall stout woman entered after him, well dressed in black silk with sparkling stones in her ears and in the comb holding back her jet hair, an olive complexion, sharp black eyes and a little rosebud mouth between pendulous cheeks. To her Le Gris addressed himself, ending by thrusting Harriet towards her.

  “This is your new mistress!” he told Harriet. The cook and the boy suspended their operations to stare with evident lustful interest as the large woman proceeded to make an expert examination of her new acquisition. She prodded and squeezed Harriet’s arms and thighs, examined her mouth and teeth and tested the resilience of her hair. Moving down she tweaked and slapped each breast in turn, then prodded Harriet’s belly and thighs. She bent over to tug the wiry hairs of the muff, then bent Harriet over the table to conduct an even more intimate examination. The onlookers craned to see as she fingered the double row of little gold rings. She plunged a fat finger between them into the undefended vagina, Harriet wriggling in protest as the woman’s finger drove deep within, curling as it went. A sharp order and a smack made it clear that Harriet was to stay still, but even so she could hardly manage it as extra fingers were added to the first, one after another, until four of them were distending her channel and the thumb was flicking her clitoris stiffened it under an expert test. Removing her fingers, with a wet plop that was quite audible, the lady entered into a discussion with Le Gris.

  “Madame Magdalena thinks it inadvisable to let you out to all and sundry flaunting a cunt-full of gold rings.” he told Harriet, amused. “The paying customers could easily recoup your price by filching a ring or two before they leave you!” With his evident approval, the woman produced a small pair of snips and carefully cut away the half dozen gold rings from the pierced lips of Harriet’s sex, carefully dropping them into a silk purse drawn out of the neck of her black dress. Harriet was fervently thankful after all that those fingers were still wet from her quim when they were used to make a similar exploration of her other opening, one, then two, then three, painfully spreading her anal rim. Humphing in satisfaction, the woman finished by presenting her stinking fingers to Harriet’s mouth, forcing her lips apart, making it clear how her acquisition was intended to perform the cleaning.

  Evidently satisfied with Harriet’s degree of submission, the Madame took her by the ear and led her to the farther doorway. It opened onto a sort of alleyway between two lines of small tile roofed shacks, each little more than a cubicle, with a narrow window beside its door, most of them showing a red light. The alleyway was full of lounging and squatting men, apparently soldiers for the most part, by their uniform coats, cross-belts and shakos, seeming of varied races, some swarthy, lean featured and sharp nosed with lank moustaches, a few as black of skin as the slaves on the ‘Cormorant’, but mainly men with flat expressionless faces, hairless and in complexion more reddish-brown than olive. The Madame maintained her grip upon Harriet, surveying the crowd of men, some attentively leering at the naked woman so displayed, a few intent upon bargaining for drink as the boy with the tray zigzagged among them. The dominatrix raised her voice peremptorily and there was a sudden unanimous rush forward of clamouring men. She pointed a fat finger imperiously, picking out seemingly at random two of the foremost, who amid disappointed jeers from their companions, came forward to take Harriet by the arms.

  Le Gris had already retreated inside, where a flight of narrow wooden stairs rose from the kitchen to an upper storey and vanished somewhere above so Harriet assumed she would be taken back there, to whatever rooms the establishment set aside for such lubricious pursuits as the men clearly had in mind. But quite the contrary, their destination was only as far as the nearest unlit and unoccupied cubicle, where she was thrown onto her back upon the rickety bed and rapidly fucked by the pair with the minimum of preparation, one man holding her and the other banging away. The provider of their sport lounged at the doorway meanwhile, dividing her attention between Harriet’s rapid usage and exchanging banter with those of the men who had formed a queue outside.

  The rest of the night was passed by Harriet in different positions upon the bed with a dazing sequence of smelly, sweating noisy men turning her this way and that, hoisting her up and down, ramming their steaming cocks into every orifice, sometimes as impatience or the Madame grew confident of her capacity, into two or three at once. None of the men removed any item of clothing or even bothered to take off their boots. She realised that the piece of coarse canvas that covered the end of the bed was meant to keep their hob nails from tearing the mattress, but the leaky thing was so thumped and beaten that escaping straw got everywhere, plastered to Harriet’s damp body by the joint sweat of her and her partners, tangled in her hair, even into her mouth along with the male spunk.

  Occasionally a candidate more pernickety or more affluent,
thrusting coins at her captor, seemed to desire of buying more time to fuck his prize properly, but this was objected to by the impatient queue and the Madame seemed reluctant to do more than extend the time a little. One of these connoisseurs, carelessly bullying and cursing as they all seemed to feel obliged to do, revealed himself to have some command of English, delivered with an Irish accent. Harriet just then was poised upon all fours on the bed while he fucked her vigorously from the rear, grunting responses between thrusts in answer to her equally breathless questions.

  “Us...? On guard at the town gates ... payment for entry ... offered you ... just come in from the interior ... cooped up without women for months ... mostly conscript Indios ... or hired slaves ... Some like me...” he showed his teeth in a grin, “volunteered to escape the gallows...! Offered you free .... whole company...”

  How many there might be in a company, Harriet had no idea. The number of men in the alley at the beginning waiting for a turn with a whore had been no more than two dozen at most, but she found that however many men she took they still kept coming, the newcomers turning up in their full regimentals, piling musket and bayonet by the door as if freshly come from sentry duty. Numbers were evidently responding as the word spread of a free fuck at the Red Cockerel, with soldiers hurrying to satisfy so cheaply an urge that had built up over many months of lonely guard duty. The first rush was frantic, but as the night wore on, the later arrivals were able to take Harriet in more leisurely fashion. Most employed the orthodox position, on her back upon the bed, legs spread wide, but others were more venturesome, poking her from behind while draped upon the bed edge or kneeling up on it upon all fours in animal fashion like the Irishman.

  By the time she had been gone through by every man in the unit, she had long since lost count of the number. Her only immediate hope seemed to be that this woman who had acquired her would think her profitable enough to be preserved for further use. Presently, as some of her earlier users returned for second or third turns and she was made to kneel down and suck their pricks back to full rigidity for that purpose, Harriet found it advisable to do her best bring the man off in her mouth, or at least to be grateful to him afterwards if he used her anus and spared her over-worked vagina. There was just time between sessions to clean herself from the jar of hot water by the bed and gulp down half a cup of some sweet and fiery spirit tendered by the grudgingly approving Madame before her ordeal was resumed.