The queen sat on the terrace at her favorite palace in Greenwich. From here she had watched ships sailed by Drake and Hawkins and Gilbert sail triumphantly up the Thames, laden with Spanish gold and new glory. From here she had watched ships, sailing with her blessing and often her patronage, speed toward Africa, raiding and harrowing the Portuguese colonies and gathering cargoes of blacks to be sold as slaves in the Indies. Spain was furious at the English interference in what had heretofore been her special prerogative, but as long as the plantations were short of workers, the Spanish landowners bought the Africans whether they be offered for sale by fellow Spaniards or by the hellish Drake himself. The prices paid were high, the profits great, and of these profits Elizabeth took good share. No longer was it necessary to affect horror before the Spanish ambassador when hearing tales of English villany among his shipping. Indeed, there was at present, no Spanish ambassador in England. Nonetheless, Elizabeth's actual participation in these forays, often to the extent of actually supplying the ships themselves, was something she never publicly admitted.
Would she also, one day, see a fleet of warships, sent by the long-tried Philip of Spain, sail past this rose-strewn terrace to conquer and ravage her land? She thought not. True, many of her advisors warned that unless she sent the attack first, this was exactly what would happen. Elizabeth, however, had more faith in her subjects, in her fast, trim ships and fine sailors. They would fight like hellions when the time came; they would repel the proud Spaniard.
She smiled, her face no longer young, almost tartish under the heavy paint, but still very much the visage of one to be reckoned with, she knew well that she was accused of vascillation; of indecision, of parsimony, even of cowardice. Why could not the fools see what she was doing? For years she had kept the country from any major war; any war that would squander the slowly-built reserves of her exchequer. For years she had played Spain off on France, and helped her European allies only when absolutely necessary, and then as economically as possible. She had never married, and in staying single, had kept England from any too-close game; had gained time to lift her country from bankruptcy, chaos and despair to the greatest heights. Her men were rich, fierce, brilliant, honored or hated (and they are much the same), where only a little time ago the Englishman had been the bastard child of Europe, unknown and unwanted.
Could not they see? No, they could not, except perhaps for the French de Medici, a woman like herself. And it was just as well. The queen's smile spread. They forgot that though her mind was that of a man, her heart was female. Though she could match cold-blooded intelligence with any king, she could scheme, dissimulate, tack and swerve as only a woman can.
She turned to go inside. Let them fume. She knew the show with Spain was shortly coming. She also knew that because she had gained long, prosperous years England had little to fear from mighty Spain or mighty God himself.
Robert roared with laughter and pressed more brandy on his guest. They were seated in his library, digesting a sumptuous dinner while the guest regaled his host with stories. John Fothering, though five or so years younger, had fought with Robert in the low countries those many years ago. He had sailed with Drake and prospered and it had been years since the two men met.
He had sailed again with Drake on his last rape of the Spanish Main, not as sailor, but as a chief investor. Now he was home, rich in booty and adventure.
“God's blood, John, but I do feel old. I, too, have made a penny from the raids, but there's little chance I'll take more active part than putting my hand in my pocket or signing my name.”
Fothering sipped his brandy. He was gaunt and tall, his face bronzed from wind and sun to the shade of weathered parchment. Irony glittered in his sharp, grey eyes as he looked at his friend.
“Old? Damn, Robert, you're ancient.” He drained his glass. “I know little of your employer except that he's reckoned a fool. However, knowing you'd never hire out to a fool, I would say there's more than can be seen. Perhaps you're on to more excitement than you say.” He raised his hand as Robert voiced a protesting denial. “All right, all right. I'm asking no questions. Still, if you can't regale me with your doings, I'll have to tell you of myself.”
Robert laughed. “When did you ever talk of anything else? Belinda should be here soon-my niece-and then you'll have a ready audience. A wild, rogue sailor would be just her idea of a man.”
“Wild sailor, be screwed! An English gentleman, blast you, and a fact not to be forgotten.”
Robert poured more brandy and the two men leaned back in their chairs, Robert listening eagerly as his friend talked on.
“Ah, Robin, old goat, will an ever simple, honest, straight-forward man track the devious twistings of a good woman's mind? God hang me, I know I won't. Let me tell you about Maria Ibafiez-the beautiful and virtuous Donna Maria De Palacio Ibafiez. First, let me give you a little background. “As you know, our expedition consisted of two caravelles as well as Sir Francis' own command. We were running south from the coast of Florida this day when we ran into a storm little short of hurricane force. My own ship, being the lightest and with very little ballast, was driven west and south, and when the sky cleared my fellow ships were nowhere in sight. Fortunately, we had received little damage, considering the force of the gale, but our water butts had broken their lines and smashed against a bulkhead.
“There was a group of islands, we knew, just south of the Florida mainland, and we decided to head for them. Actually, the mainland was closer, but it's got more bog than Ireland and more pests and vermin in the summer than can be imagined. Finding fresh water there is never an easy task.
“As usual, after a storm, the sky was soft and clear, and the ocean smooth as a mill pond. I was standing on the upper deck with the glass, hoping, perhaps to catch some sight of my sister ships. It was nearly noon, and hot as the breath of hell-”
The sun thundered down on his back and head as he stood scanning the flat sea. It was not the pallid benevolence that passes for sunshine in England, but a searing, scorching tyrant that lashed him without mercy. He took the glass down from his eye, knowing that there was little chance of spotting Sir Francis. He would be far east of them by now. Better to head due south, and catch him in the West Indies.
He ran his tongue over the inside of his parched mouth, but, one being as dry as the other, he found little relief that way for his raging thirst. There was a little fresh water left, for sure, but it would have shown a damned bad example to the men, were he not able to bear a dry throat as well as they.
The lookout called “Land Ho,” a welcome enough cry, then followed it almost immediately with the information that there was a ship coming speedily toward them.
John hastily picked up the discarded glass, and in a moment the sails of a large ship came into view. No. Two ships. They were still too far away for perfect identification, but it seemed doubtful that it was Sir Francis and the other caravelle. They appeared, at this distance, to be the same size, which would not have been the case had it been Drake and Captain Waring.
The ships were in direct line between The Gay Dart and the group of islands toward which they were headed, and as they came on, John realized that they were two Spanish merchantmen. From the way they rode, low in the water and cumbersome, it was obvious that they traveled with full holds.
Captain Pothering grinned.
“Full sail! Full speed ahead!”
The men hastened to their stations. The officers called out the gunnery crew and they hastened to make all ready for the fight ahead. They were getting desperate for water and worn from battling the storm just past, but this was too good to let go. It would be their first plunder this voyage, and although they were outnumbered, although each galleon was more than twice the size of the Dart, the English sailors had little respect for the Spaniard's ability to handle their huge tubs.
John stood on the upper deck, the glass pressed to his eye, bawling orders. To his surprise, the Spaniards came on instead of turning for the open sea. They were close enough now that they must know he was English, and knowing this, know also that he meant to take them. Apparently, they meant to make a fight of it, rather than take the safer course and run. Courageous, granted, but damned stupid.
As John watched, one of the galleons tacked to leeward, and he saw that they had added sail. They meant to straddle him, that was clear, but what was not clear was what kind of a damned fool was in charge of the procedure. Wasn't the idiot mariner enough to know that once well in his lee, they would loose all sail?
There was no need even to manoeuver. If he kept to his present course, they would simply ride into position and his gunners could do the rest.
Within minutes the fight was fairly on. The ship to leeward did indeed, founder, but they carried more fire power than John had expected from a merchantman.
Getting out of the range of the lee guns, he bore down on the ship off starboard. Her guns were, in the Spanish fashion, fore and aft, and she had little defence against a broadside attack.
“Fire!”
John felt the deck heave under him as their first broadside boomed toward the Spaniard. Without pause, he called the order to fire again, and listened with pride to the immediate response of his second battery.
“Fire!”
They were close now, and as the smoke cleared a little John saw that his gunners had done their work well. The Spaniard's masts were gone and half her breastworks shot away, but still she rode well enough to be sea worthy.
As they pulled in under her the cry to board was given, and within minutes grappling hooks held the galleon fast.
Being taller, at first it was more a case of the Spanish boarding the Dart, rather than the other way around. A man can leap down much faster than he can climb up. Driven on by greed and a pure lust for battle, the English soon turned the tide.
Screaming like a mad thing, John leaped into the fray, using his sword to cut, to stab, to club down when nothing else would suffice.
The deck was soon slippery with blood, and as John climbed the rigging and gained the deck of the Spanish ship, he saw more carnage than had met his eyes since the Netherland's campaign. One man was trying to push his intestines back with what remained of his right hand, but the gash in his head poured forth such a flood of gore that he bled to death before he was able to accomplish his objective and lay on the deck, dead, his guts still clutched in his hand. And another man had been pinned to the bulwark by a mariner's pike, and hung there screaming. What had become of the man who left his weapon in such an unlikely spot, who could tell?
The fight was quickly under control, the Spanish having little heart for it once they saw the toll that had been taken of their mates. John assigned a crew to run her in behind him, and ordered that her captain should be brought to his cabin.
He waited, but the Spanish captain could not be found. It was thought he had been killed and fallen overboard, but this soon proved to be a fallacy.
The sound of a great explosion brought John out of his cabin at a dead run. The galleon had lurched sharply and was now held by less than half the grappling irons, the other's having been yanked out when she listed. John shouted to the men clinging to her rail then stormed back into his cabin.
On receiving a full report of the occurrence from his mate, he cursed himself and the Spanish captain till he was hoarse.
It now seemed that one of the Spanish seamen remembered seeing his captain dash into the powder room shortly after they were boarded. No one saw him come out again. The ship that had been in the lee of the Dart had maneuvered enough to catch the wind again, but instead of coming to the aid of her fellow had raced straight for the open sea. Apparently the captain of the ship under fire, seeing himself deserted, had hidden in the powder room to await the outcome of the hand-to-hand slaughter that raged on his decks. Whether by accident or design, he had set the powder alight and blown himself and half his ship to buggery, to say nothing of several good English seamen who had been on board her at the time.
There was no hope of sailing her home as a prize, since she was sinking fast. The only thing to be done now was to unload her cargo onto The Gay Dart and get free before she pulled them down with her.
John was still sitting in his cabin cursing man and heaven for the loss of the galleon, when there was a respectful knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened cautiously and his second mate stepped inside.
“She's going down fast, Captain, but we've cleared her hold and we're under way.” He knew his captain was in vile humor, but risked a slight smile. “Christ, she must have been carrying half the bullion in South America. Let the bloody wash tub sink. We've got plunder in plenty.”
John allowed himself to relax a little. The officer before him was not much more than a boy, but he was shrewd and if he said the booty was rich, it undoubtedly was.
“Good. Many lost?”
The officer's smile vanished. “Some. More in the blast than in the fight. We've commandeered what's left of the Spaniard's crew, and we'll manage. Don't think much of their seamanship, but the bastards can learn.”
Having served as a seaman himself, John did not take lightly to the slaughter of his men. That some might die in boarding was taken for granted, but to be blown to heaven (or, most likely, hell) by a stupid bastard who was either fool or coward was something else.
“I'd flay their whole damned crew if we didn't need them,” he growled. “Anything else?”
The mate raised one eyebrow. “Well, yes. Rather. There's a woman being held-the captain's wife I believe. Would you care to see her?”
Though the Spaniards considered him a pirate, a scoundrel and a villain, John was only partly the former, and certainly not either of the latter. The Spanish woman would be held for ransom, naturally, but she would be shown every courtesy.
“Bring her in.” He sighed. “She could have had her own cabin if her bloody husband hadn't blown it up. Now, I guess I'll have to give her mine.”
The young mate looked mournful. “And you'll take the first mate's, and he'll take mine, and I'll sleep on the hard deck.”
“Piss off, you whoreson, or you'll sleep with the fishes!” Fothering roared, then laughed. “We'll work something out. Is she pretty?”
“Gorgeous!” the mate replied. “Beautiful! And as lousy tempered as a fish-wife. If you plan to bed her, watch your back. Her tongue's sharper than any dagger I've seen.”
“I'll bear it in mind. Now show her in, instead of taking liberties with your captain, Mr. Nation.”
Mr. Nation bowed low and backed out of the door. He was undoubtedly impertinent, but he was a good officer and would some day make a good captain, if he lived that long.
A moment later there was another tap at the door and Nation ushered in the woman, then left hastily.
John looked up. The woman in front of him was indeed beautiful. She was in her twenties, no longer a girl, but slender and blooming. Her jet hair was piled high on her head and her black eyes flashed.
“Donna Maria De Palacio Ibafiez.”
John stood up and bowed.
“Captain John Fothering.”
He held a chair for her and she sat down. Her gown was cut even lower than was usual in English society, and John caught a quick glimpse of pink nipple before he, too, sat down.
“You are, I understand, the wife, or rather widow of Captain De Palacio Ibafiez?”
She threw her head back, unconsciously displaying to best advantage the smooth whiteness of her throat.
“I am his widow.” Her English was excellent. “I do not profess to you that he was the perfect husband, but now you stinking English filth have robbed me of even of that poor antique bungler.”
John smiled. “My commiserations, Madam, but had your late husband not been such a bungler, he would still be with you. It was he, not I, that lit the powder.” He paused. “You do not seem too distressed. Is that because of the “antiquity” you mentioned?”
“He was old, yes, but he was also very rich.” She leaped to her feet. “Damn you, half the gold bullion you have in your hold is mine! Filth! Scum! Robber of defenseless women!”
She cleared his table with a sweep of her hand, sending papers, tumblers and a pitcher crashing to the floor.
“Careful! The water in that pitcher was “robbed” along with the gold, and there isn't enough of it to waste.” John laughed as she sat down again in outraged silence. “It would seem that you are more bereaved by the loss of your treasure than by the of your husband. However, you are mistaken when you call me a 'robber of women.' It was the ship I robbed, if you like, but never could I bring myself to steal anything from a woman as beautiful as you, except, perhaps, her heart.”
Donna Maria turned towards him, a smile lifting her red lips.
“Then you will return my treasure to me?”
John laughed again. “I will not. As I said, it was not taken from you, but from the ship. It will remain in my keeping, and so will you until such time as you are ransomed.”
Donna Maria stood up again, sneering. “It is as I expected. English swine. Am I to be raped, as well?”
“You will be given every comfort. If rape is essential to your well-being, then you shall have that, as well. Otherwise, your doubtless lovely body shall remain yours to do with as you will.”
John ducked as the pitcher was retrieved from the floor and went sailing past his head.
“Madam! If you persist in breaking up the cabin, God only knows where you are going to sleep.”
For the next few days John did, indeed, take the first mate's cabin. He sent the Donna a standing invitation to share dinner with him, but was turned down flat. The poor steward in charge of her comfort brought him reports of villainous temper and foul language, and his last report was that she refused to keep to her cabin and was parading the deck, sweeping past the sailors at such close range that she brushed them with her skirts.
“They been away a long time, Captain,” the steward concluded, “and they all be woman-hungry. I'm afeared she'll come t' harm by them, wit her perfumes and brushin' by so close.”
“God bloody damn the popish jade to hell,” John muttered. “It would serve her well if they did grab her.'“ He stood up. “No, it's not her safety I'm that concerned about, but I won't have my men teased in that fashion. What the devil ails the bitch? She has her own bit of deck to take the air on.”
John strode forward to what had been his own cabin. He was icily polite, pointing out that if Donna Palacio wished to take the air, she was to confine herself to that portion of the foredeck that had been reserved for her use. She replied that she was bored and lonely, having been deprived of any company save that of the old steward. John agreed with her that the man was hardly a scintillating companion, but pointed out that if she were lonely it was her own choosing, since he had repeatedly invited her to dine with him.
“You?” Donna Maria sniffed, turning her back on him and flouncing across the cabin. “Do you think I place no value at all on my person? It is well known that English sea captains, if such they can be called, would rape their own mothers.”
Stung by this most unjust accusation, John leaped to his own defense.
“You bloody trollop, I haven't laid a finger on you! 'Sblood, if you keep mincing about my ship like a bitch in heat, the men will give you cause to shout rape soon enough. They're not the filth you call them but they are men and they haven't seen a woman in some time. Rape me no rapes, woman. Just stay the hell off my afterdeck!”
“Trollop? Bitch? How dare you, you vile beast!” Her eyes blazing like the Plymouth light, Donna Maria hurled herself across the cabin and struck him full in the face. She was slender, but she was not weak and the blow hurt. Robert bellowed and grabbed her arm, just as she was about to land a twin to the first slap.
“God damn it, are you mad? You've been treated as well as any woman could want. What the hell's the matter with you?”
She struggled in his arms, panting with rage.
“Treated well? You say you are a gentleman, but it's clear you know nothing of how to treat a lady. Dockside whores, yes, but not ladies.”
There was uncomfortably too much truth in what the Donna said, but Captain Fothering had neither the time nor the inclination to remedy his lack of education right then. Sharp, white teeth sunk into his wrist, and he cursed with rage and pain. Trying to throw her from him, he knocked them both off balance and they ended up in a heap on the floor.
The sailors were not the only one's who had been without female company, and as John felt the soft, wriggling body underneath him, he realized just how very long it had been since he had held a woman in his arms. He leaned up on one elbow, taking his full weight off the senora and let her catch her breath. Let her go he would not, until she had calmed down enough for him to feel safe from further physical abuse, and at any rate it was very pleasant to feel her warmth so near to him.
He looked down at her. Her dress had been torn in the fray, and one breast showed quite naked. Her hair had fallen down around her shoulders and her lips were parted as she gasped for breath.
The sight of that full, red-tipped breast, swaying slightly from the force of its own weight sent a hot stab into John's groin. He looked at her face; the parted lips, the half-closed eyes, the thick cloud of madly tumbled ebony. He bent his head and kissed her lips very softly.
The kiss lasted only a moment, but although it ended with a curse and renewed struggling on the part of Donna Maria, Robert was sure that even in that instant, he had been kissed back. He held her still and kissed her again. This time he pressed his mouth down hard, forcing his tongue between the white teeth (this last at the dire risk of his tongue, he well knew). For a moment the senora continued to struggle, then he felt strong, cool fingers grasp his neck, holding his face down on hers.
There was no mistake this time. Donna Maria clung to him, nibbling his tongue, using her own to caress his lips and probe deep into his mouth. John had been without a woman too long for this sort of thing to be taken lightly.
He moved his mouth away from hers and kissed the white neck, tasting the perfume of her loosened hair. He ran his mouth over her throat, her shoulder; kissed the soft, milk-white breast, the large, stiffened nipple.
Donna Maria moaned softly. She was breathing fast, but now it was not rage that caused her breath to catch in her throat.
“Donna Ibanez,” he whispered. “Maria. You are indeed in danger now, of being raped.”
She held him to her, murmuring. Searching, he found the laces of her dress, and standing her on her feet, he pulled it from her. Her underskirts took another moment (damn it, why do women wear so many clothes?) then she stood before him, naked and shaking.
Her breasts were large and heavy, her waist no bigger than his hand-span, her hips and long legs twin columns of moulded ivory. He too, was shaking as he yanked off his clothes. He held her to him, stroking the silken flesh of her back, her buttocks, her thighs. She sobbed softly, rubbing her body close against him.
He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bunk. Laying down beside her, he took her in his arms again. As he kissed her, he felt her teeth bite hard into his bottom lip, drawing blood. He pulled away, furious and bewildered, and saw that she was glaring at him with a pure, malevolent hatred.
“Damn you! Damn you, damn you, damn you! Don't you touch me! I am a decent woman. Pig! Rapist!”
Before he could overcome his astonishment at this new attack, especially after her considerable co-operation in the proceedings up until now, she reached up and pulled her nails the full length of his face. This was too much. John raised his free hand and laid it hard across the side of her lovely face.
“Do that again and I'll knock you senseless. You've been screaming rape ever since you came aboard, and that's what you're going to get.”
It had finally dawned on him that that's exactly what she wanted-what she had wanted all along. It completely absolved her of all responsibility for the act (a lady never fornicates with strangers), while allowing her to enjoy fully the pleasures of same. Her earlier anger at him has been occasioned by his quite unwelcome gallantry; her anger now was caused by the fact that she had had to help, to assist at her own violation. He almost laughed, but as he had just learned his first lesson dealing with ladies, he quickly decided that the second lesson was not to laugh in their beautiful, naked faces when their duplicities were caught out.
The slap had settled her down somewhat, but she still kept her legs tightly twined together. In the light of her recent ardour, John knew damned well that he could get those legs apart by specific means, but he also knew he wouldn't be thanked for it. Accordingly, he grabbed her thigh with one hand and pulled hard, forcing his knee between hers and finally succeeding in spreading them enough for him to roll between them. The performance, with all the attendant contact with the Donna's soft, full body, had roused John to a state of white heat. He was long past the stage of patiently working her up to his own pitch, but if she wasn't ready, she'd just have to suffer.
Lying full on top of her, he pressed his mouth hard on hers. For a moment longer she made a weak attempt at resistance, then John felt the warm, heavy lips part under his, and soft, strong arms went around his back and held him tightly. He reached down and guided his hard, pulsing rod into the opening of her cunt. He groaned aloud as he felt his shaft slide deep into her belly. Too long continence had given him a sore ache that this, and only this, could cure.
He no longer had to question her readiness. Her juices were so heavy that they flowed over his balls, drenching the thick, blond hair that covered his thighs. The hot sheath of muscle tensed and pulled on his cock as he lowered into her and her hips rotated madly under him. Once again John felt those lethal claws, this time digging hard into his buttocks, pressing him ever deeper.
She kissed him avidly, sucking on his lower lip. Her whole body was a symphony of motion, scorching John's chest and belly with the rich femaleness of her flesh. She turned her face into his shoulder, breathing hard and whispering in Spanish.
John buried one hand in the thick, sooty hair and slid the other under her bottom, pulling her up to him. There was a roaring in his ears worse than that from his own guns, and fire, hot and fluid, poured through his thighs. A charge that had been building up for many weeks surged up his shaft into the huge, swollen nob, and in two more strokes he felt it pour out of his body into the throbbing cunt of the Spanish woman. He cried out, deep and loud like a young bull, in an ecstasy of sensation and relief.
Had he but known it, Maria had been celibate for as long, or longer, than he. Not only were the feeble advances of her elderly husband incapable of satisfying her, they were actually so repulsive that she had long ago ceased to allow him his conjugal rights. Twice before she felt herself washed with John's hot gush of burning come, her own body had stiffened and burst in flaring, searing orgasms. Madre de Dios, she had been afraid he'd never take her, and she need him so!
He rolled over and lay beside her, his arm darkly bronze against her snowy skin as he cradled one heavy breast in his hand. She lay still, her bosom heaving, her eyes closed and wearing the small smile on her lips that is the mark of a woman well and truly laid.
“Agua. Water, I am so thirsty.”
John brushed her forehead with his lips and threw his legs, albeit reluctantly, over the edge of the bunk. He crossed the cabin to a carved oak stand and picked up the silver water jug and a glass goblet. Pouring some into the goblet he handed it to her. As he watched her drink he caught sight of his face in the polished metal of the jug he held in his hand. The uniformity of his deep tan was ruddily broken by four deep, blood caked gashes running from his cheekbone to the point of his jaw.
“God's teeth! What damned ribaldry this will provoke. I won't be able to show myself outside the door without getting smirked at by the lowest deckhand.” He took the glass from Maria's hand and put it back on the stand. “Though the pleasures of your beautiful body are undoubted, you have all the sweetness of temper of an alley cat.”
He sat down on the edge of the bunk and, half lifting her, pulled her across his knee. She struggled to get loose, not sure what he was planning to do, but strongly mistrusting his tone of voice. He threw one long, hard leg over both of hers, pinning them against the sheet, and held her shoulders down with his left arm. Her body was held firm, arched over one knee. Her bottom jutted temptingly, round, white and defenseless.
“I'm going to enjoy this. This is something you should have had years ago, I'll warrant.”
With difficulty she turned her face to look at him. The contemptuous hauteur was gone from her dark eyes, replaced by decided anxiety and the beginnings of fear.
“What are you going to do? Let me up. Please.”
“Not till I'm ready, and there's no sense in wriggling. You can't get free and if you make it difficult I'll just lay it on harder.” He raised his hand. “I am about to teach you, senora, not to go around drawing blood-especially not mine.”
Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the raised hand. It was large and bony and hard, and looked altogether formidable.
“You aren't going to beat me?” Her voice was a mixture of indignation, pleading and incredulity. “Surely not?”
“I'm going to spank you.”
His hand dropped, hard, and his satisfaction was greatly enhanced by the sound of her sharp cry. His hand rose and fell again, leaving a nice red pattern on her plump behind.
Donna Maria wriggled frantically. How dare he?
The hand fell again and she cried out. It hurt! Damn him, it hurt like blazes!
“Stop! Oh, please, stop. Let me up.” Her bottom burned terribly and as she felt John's hand land again, tears stung her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Oh, please, please let me up. It hurts! It hurts!”
“Seven,” John counted. “It's meant to hurt. Those blasted scratches on my face hurt, too.” Her pretty bottom was bright pink, and as John laid on another stroke she started sobbing in earnest. “Eight. Two more to go.”
The last two seemed not quite as hard as the others, but still they hurt badly. Her punishment over, John released her and held her in his arms where she lay sobbing, tentatively rubbing her poor behind.
“I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I won't do it again. Oh, oh, you hurt me.”
Being no sadist, John was surprised at the sensation that crept into his crotch at the sight of the reddened buttocks and the clinging, whimpering woman. He reached down to stroke her, murmuring comfort, and his fingers brushed the opening of her vagina. She was wet. John's excitement rose.
“There now, don't cry any more.”
He eased her out of his arms and lay her gently on her stomach on the bed. His cock was rigid now, and he felt it jerk hard against his stomach as he looked at the havoc his hand had wrecked. Maria's white flesh was crimson, and bluish welts were starting to show already. Though not seriously damaged, she would be good and tender for awhile, and it would be several days before she could sit down without being reminded of him.
He leaned over her and kissed the scarlet bottom lightly. He ran his tongue over her, tracing out the weals. Maria's sobbing tapered off, and a new sound took its place as she arched up slightly.
John slipped off the bunk and kneeled on the rug. He pulled her across till her legs hung over the edge of the bed. Spreading her thighs wide, John kneeled behind her. He kissed her bottom again, pushing his face underneath her so that he could run his tongue deep into her vagina. Maria moaned. The tender skin of her beaten ass felt hot against his face, and he straightened.
Maria cried out as she felt his penis enter her, and the coarse hair on his belly rubbed against her bare flesh. She wriggled frantically, torn between a desire to get away from the pain, and a terrible hunger for the thick, hard cock that filled her.
“Hush, woman,” John panted. “You have had your punishment, and now you shall have your reward.”
He looked down. Pulling his cock out to the head, he watched as he drove it slowly in again until his tight, swollen testicles pressed against her hot, wet cunt. The red, glowing cheeks fascinated him, and taking them in his hands, he spread them with his fingers, revealing the tight, little hole. As Maria strained against him, arching up to take his driving cock, the hole opened slightly. The fire in John's guts raged hot and, pulling back from her, he took his great cock in one hand and rubbed the dripping end over her, sliding it up and down the crease of her ass until she was well greased. Placing the end of his nob against the tight opening, he pressed forward. Maria squirmed, moaning and whimpering, as he pushed again. He stroked easily for a moment and the tight ring of muscle around the entrance relaxed, opening until she could take the full length of his rod.
As he surged up into her ass, Donna Maria jerked her hips wildly. Her hands clutched the sheets and her long hair fell into her face as she threw her head back. It hurt; God, it hurt as that great, hard prick pierced her behind, but she wanted him desperately. He leaned forward to squeeze one heavy breast, and the sore skin on her bottom stung more than ever as he ground against it John pounded into her; harder, deeper. He was panting hard, the tight hole squeezing almost painfully as he plied in and out. His cock jerked hard as great spasms of passion twisted his belly. The heat of the woman he was taking added to his own desire and he felt, once again, the sperm burst forth from his aching nob. He clutched her tight, filling her ass with a flood of boiling come, and she opened wide, taking it all, as her own passion rose higher and higher, breaking in a long, ecstatic climax.
“She cried for hours afterward, swearing that I had dragged her to the depths of the lowest doxy. I tried to comfort her, swearing with profuse apologies that I'd never come near her again, but she'd have none of it.”
Robert laughed at the downcast look and poured his friend more brandy. They were both a little drunk by now, but had every intention of getting a little drunker-perhaps, even, quite a lot drunker.
“You low bastard! Did she barricade her door for the rest of the trip?”
John shook his head, his face looking even sadder. He sighed deeply.
“No. No, she decided that the only way to redeem her virtue was to fall madly in love with me. This she proceeded to do. Passionately.”
“Then why in God's name do you turn down your mouth so far your chin's in danger of falling in? Did the poor, raped woman give you the pox?”
Again John shook his head. “No. Pox is something you get from dockside whores. From ladies you get something far worse. You get trouble. Granted, her company was more than pleasant on the long voyage, but once at home it became a little stifling. Not only was she most demanding physically, a fault I'm quite ready to forgive, but she was damned possessive. God be damned, the woman nearly drove me mad! If I wasn't in her or on her, she was never more than inches away. If I so much as glanced politely at another female, I ran a grave risk of losing my eyes.” He drained his glass and held it out for more. Whatever Robert was doing, he must be doing well. Damned fine brandy. “I dropped her ransom as low as I decently could, and took to thumping her regularly in hopes of driving her off. On the contrary, the more I whaled her, the less inclined she was to leave me. In the end,” he said, almost in tears, “I had to bribe her brother to come over from Spain and carry her off bodily. It cost me over five hundred angeles, and before she left she stabbed me in the arm with a meat knife.”
Robert's laughter boomed through the quiet house.
“You better go back to the whores, Johnno. Respectable women are much more expensive.”
“Damned right.” He held his glass high. “A toast to the whores; may their simple, poxed-up twats be always with us.” He grinned, downed the brandy and thought for a moment, his face grave. “And the next whoreson bitch of a lady that wants to get raped can find herself some other captain.”