The King`s Commission - Dewey Lambdin

Every visit was a revelation, a learning experience in just how many ways two people could give each other pleasure, and Alan Lewrie was all for education-look how much the Navy had taught him already. It beat whores all hollow, in his estimation, didn't cost him more than "fiddler's pay"-compliments and wine-and took the rapacious edge off his manners with Lucy Beauman, whom he would have ravished by this time if he had not had another outlet for his frustrations. Being around, and tantalisingly near, such a delectable young girl with no chance to grapple would have killed lesser men by this time. One could hardly be considered a respectable suitor to conjoin with such a fine (and wealthy) family if he spent all his time goggling at Lucy's breasts, or fondling her on the sly. Not that they hadn't played lovers in daring, and heart-breakingly brief, moments of privacy. The common wisdom said that too much spending of one's vital fluids in fornication made a young man spineless and weak-his breath shallow, his eyes watery, and his general condition little better than a victim of consumption-but Alan was of the opinion that too little spending made one so full of humors that one would explode if restrained from the sport too long. Either that or begin to squirt semen from one's ears. If too much spending led to pathetic lunacy, then so be it; he could drool and cackle with the best of them, sooner or later.

"I have something for you, my chuck," Betty whispered, once she had gotten her wind back. She slunk out of bed, brushing her body the length of his, kissing him open-mouthed, then skipped coquettishly out of reach and down the narrow hall to the parlor as he grabbed at her. She returned with a small package and held it out to him, then busied herself at the bedroom wine-table to pour herself a drink while he undid the ribbon and opened it.

It was a watch-chain, a particularly fine one, with rectangular links of small and cunning workmanship. Depended from it was a braided band on which rested a small fob of silver and gold damascene worked in a fouled anchor over crossed cannon. It was beautiful. More to the fact, a well-made chain from an expert craftsman could cost more than a watch did.

"God's teeth!" he exclaimed in delight. The silver and gold chain, the dark blue ribbon, and the silver and gold fob were magnificent, and he told her so. "Whatever possessed you to do me so much honor?"

"You're truly pleased?" she asked, flinging her arms around him and drawing her delightful body the full length of his.

"And flabbergasted," he admitted. "It's so damned grand! How may I ever thank you for it?"

"By doing what earned it in the first place, my chuck." She nibbled on his ear, reaching down with one hand to dandle his member against her belly. "You have given me so much pleasure, and so much delight, I had to reward my darling lad. Ah, there's a stirring of gratitude, methinks? Shall I be rudely speared for my pains to please?"

"Methinks milady is right," Alan growled, seizing her buttocks and hauling her in closer.

"Pitiful, tearful beseechings have no avail," she whispered as she steered them backward toward the bed once more. "Even offers of gold cannot soften the heart of a barbarian bent on rapine."

Damme, here she goes with another of her bloody fantasies, he thought, more than willing to oblige, but tiring of her ripe imaginings in which he had to play so many parts.

"A tender senator's wife, with Hunnish blades at her children's throats. Tender white skin assaulted so wickedly by callused hands and brutal urges… ah!" she urged, playing at fending him off. "No, please… Rome lies open at your feet. Spare me this, I beg you!"

"You lay open to me!" Alan grunted, trying to be rudely Germanic.

"No, please!" she cried, but not too loudly. They mock-fought, and she fell face down across the mattress, and Alan knew his duty. He flung himself down on her, forced her legs apart, and entered her dog-fashion, gripping her hips and lifting them up off the sheets, and she panted and pretended to weep until the "virtuous Roman senator's wife" was overcome with pleasures she had never experienced on the bridal couch, and the game had its usual ending. Betty groaned and sobbed, rolled her hips and thrust to meet him as he knelt between her thighs, tore at the bed-linens with her nails until she shivered and cried out in ecstasy, gasping for air once more, and dropped away limp.

"Oh God, but you're a bloody stallion, dear Alan!" she sighed in a swoon. "So long and thick and hard, and…"

He rolled her over, and she chuckled as he lay down between her legs, which flopped aside in exhaustion.

"Alan!" she protested as he raised her knees and slid back into her hot wetness. "I am spent, truly."

"Hermann ist gut, ja? Hermann not through." He grunted as he began to plunge at her again for his own satisfaction, which she finally shared, all protests aside, and she clawed at his back and shoulders and uttered a thin keening cry until they lay still once more.

They finally rose and sponged down with a bucket of cool water left standing by the shuttered bedroom windows, snacked on some cold tongue and chilled hock for him, some "Blue Ruin" for her in a large glass. They lay down together to nuzzle and purr until the urge came on them again.

"Would we could do this always," she said softly.

"I have to sail eventually," Alan whispered back. "Or at least I hope we do. This idleness isn't doing the crew much good."

"To where?"

"Oh, up around Cuba or the Florida Straits, maybe over to the Windward Passage."

"And how long would you be gone, dear?"

"Near on three months if we don't take prizes to sustain us," he reckoned, half asleep. "Back in two weeks if we take enough ships to deplete the hands for prize-crews. Wish we could-I could use the money."

"You are short of cash?"

"Well, not short, really. I was thinking of after the war when I'll go back to England. London wouldn't have gotten any cheaper. I've enough now for my needs, what with naval pay and my remittance." He shrugged and snuggled closer. "Enough as long as I stay at sea three months out of four, that is."

"Perhaps I can help," she told him, rolling over to look down on him. "I have money of my own, and as long as my dear husband may indulge his pleasures in discretion, and I play the proper wife, he allows me to spend as I will. He has bags of money. Perhaps the only endearing side to him," she concluded sourly.

"Here, now," Alan replied, warning her off as he got an inkling of a change in their relationship beyond the physical.

"As long as you pleasure me to utter ruin, I could support any desire you have," she promised. "You would be at sea part of the time, but once back in port, you could lodge ashore with me. No more visiting and having to skulk away."

"But what would that do to your good name in Society?" he protested, sitting up and fluffing up the many pillows to sit upright.

"This is not my only residence, dearest Alan." She chuckled, rising to get herself some more gin. By this time, she was a trifle unsteady on her feet, and he was sure it was the drink that had given her courage enough to make her proposition. "I have property of my own, mostly rentals. I cannot count on my husband to play me fair should he have the good grace to die. There are children to consider. But over the years, I have provided for my own security. Now I could lease you a lovely flat… I own this building entire. Would you prefer a suite here? Or would you like a set of rooms with a harbor view, closer to the piers. You tell me, and I shall move my things next door to you. We shall be no more than friendly neighbors, should anyone remark on our companionship. Of course, the rooms would cost you nothing. And I could furnish them to your taste, and put it down to my fondness for you. And the way you bull me all over the lot. The fob and chain are only a token of what I could offer the young man who so eagerly tops me so well… and often."

Her smile was positively vulpine, though she meant it to be seductive; the hawkish nose had a lot to do with it.

"Whew," Alan wheezed. "That's a damned handsome offer, from a handsome piece of woman, I might add."

"Then you will?"

"Seems a waste, when I'd get ashore so seldom." He stalled, gaining time to think this over. "And people would talk anyway."

"Aye, people would," she allowed breezily. "People already do, no matter what one does in Society. Rumors are more interesting than truth, don't ye know, and the naughtier the better. There's not one woman on this accursed island who hasn't been whispered about, only half of them with good cause. Only fools marry for love, unless they both have wealth and security of their own, or know how to pile it up, as I have. That victory celebration at the Beaumans'… I know more than two dozen women there who already have their own pleasurable arrangements with other men, and their husbands have theirs as well. God, don't admit you're truly an innocent!"

"No one in their right minds has ever called me innocent." Alan laughed.

"The only important thing about our wretched English society is to be discreet, and one may do anything one wants," Betty Hillwood said with a sneer. "And if one has money, then no one will even utter one peep of remonstrance. You won't hear sermons preached against anyone like me, as long as I give to the alms box and pay the Poor's Rate on time. One only gets exposed when one goes broke."

"Or gets too careless?" Alan finished for her, taking a sip of wine from an offered glass.

"Exactly, though I hardly have to tell you that, Alan dearest. You're discreet in your visits to me, I trust."

"Completely," he assured her. The last thing he needed was for anyone to know that he was courting Lucy Beauman and rogering Betty Hillwood at the same time.

"Who knows, you may even wish to return to England with me."

"Eh?"

"After the war, when the seas are safe, I'll go back to London where I may live in a proper style," Betty prophesied, downing her gin and pouring another. "You shall be on half-pay by then, and as you say, London will not have gotten any cheaper. My husband can stay here and rot for all I care… he's probably peppered to his eyebrows with the pox by now, anyway. You would have servants, fine clothes, anything your heart could ask. And you would have me. And I could have you, every night and day. We could live together, or apart, but only a bit apart. I would want you to spear me and split me until I scream for sheer joy."

Now what do you say, fool? Alan thought, trying to plaster his most disarming smile on his face as he pondered this new development. She may be a good ride, but I'm damned if I want a steady diet of Hillwood mutton. And I'm not so poverty-stricken I need to be supported. Tis flatterin', I'll grant, but she's a little long in the tooth for more than a few hours.

"You must know, Betty, that I've been up to the Beauman place quite often." He temporized, trying to be honest without hurting her feelings. "Their daughter Lucy and I… well, nothing's been said one way or the other, but eventually, I would wish to settle down and wed… somebody, wouldn't I? And where would that leave you? I mean," he added with a sudden burst of inspiration, "it takes an Act of Parliament to get a divorce, and your husband could maybe stand going his own way, but no man wants to be known as an outright cuckold. Why risk his anger and your reputation going for more than we have now?"

"He's been cuckold since 72!" Betty declared, exasperated with his sudden cold feet. "Not, I'll grant, by anyone that could even approach your talent at it, dearest. And as for the Beaumans… that pack of 'Chaw-Bacons'! For all their airs, they've not been long off the hay-wagon, with the manners of stable-hands. Oh, they're rich, I'll allow, and you see security with that little chit, do you? Well, let me tell you, she's not been pining away for you to sail back into her life. No party is complete without her, and her pack of admirers just slavering for a grope at her, and she's not exactly been shy at being groped at, I'll wager."