The Captain`s Vengeance

instant, his heads would explode-both of them! And where did a girl that fine learn that? Lewrie wondered in a brief moment of concern, one that quickly passed. Was she so experienced, so widely ploughed, that he'd need to dig into his valise for a sheepskin cundum?

Before he did burst like a 12-pounder, he drew her up and away from his groin, got her to her feet, swept that concealing hair behind her shoulders and embraced her, savouring how smooth, soft, and wee she was as she eagerly pressed against him, lifting her arms about his neck and silently urging him to lift her off her straining toes.

She was not quite as light as the elfin Phoebe Aretino that he remembered, but he had no trouble hefting her up, her face level with his, to support her bottom with his hands, and slowly walk towards the bedstead as she rained kisses on him, now making faint, kitteny whimpering sounds. He sat her on the high edge of the bedstead, her legs scissored about his waist, and began to reward her, kiss for hot, wet kiss, slowly roaming to her eyes, her ears, down each side of her neck, then to her breasts.

Charite leaned back on the palms of her hands, luring him to a matching lean forward, her head thrown back and her mane beginning to whip and toss with each pleasured roll of her head, her hips starting a slow, metronomic sweep from left to right and back again, supporting herself on her hands and the strength of her legs, beginning to thrust and recede, even squirming impatiently to snare his prick and lure it in, and Lewrie squirmed as well to lower his member, now stoutly upjutting as a jib boom, to meet her. Quim and cock met at last, darker wrinkly nether lips gently parted as the head slid so easily into her, one heavenly inch, as if dipped into a brazier-warmed pot of honey…

'Oooh… Alain!' she whimpered, freezing in place. 'Mon Dieu, le preservatif, 'l'anglais,' please? The… protection?'

'Arrr!' he good-naturedly groaned, a single second of madness away from spearing her to the root. But he turned away and went to his valise. Spare shirt and hunting shirt went flying, as did rolled stockings, a clean, pressed neck-stock, and spare underdrawers, flung upwards without a care to where they landed, as if he was a highwayman rifling a coach passenger's bags for hidden jewels.

He heard her softly tinkling laughter and turned. She'd rolled over on her stomach and was peeking between the bedstead curtains in full amusement, chin resting on her forearms crossed atop the massive mahogany footboard. Lewrie shrugged and grinned back at her, at last found his cundum packet and unbound the tied ribbons to lift the flap and pull out a whole handful, showing them to her before returning to the side of the bed.

By then, Charite had rolled back to the bedside, quickly, eagerly posing herself. Her hands grasped the upper canopy railing and, half standing on the short assisting ladder with one dainty foot, and with her other slim leg resting on the mattress, thighs far apart, she pretended to swing slightly, almost childlike, as she watched in wide- eyed wonder to see him sheath himself and bind a cundum on. Once done, her welcoming, warming, growing smile was all the invitation he needed.

He embraced her about her thighs, pressing his face against the soft-fleshed and fragrant warmth of her firm, flat stomach, kissing up to her breasts again to restore his slightly cooled ardour, squeezing gently at her bottom; kissing slowly downwards over her belly that was almost shuddering, quivering under his lips and the tip of his tongue.

Sliding over and sitting down where she'd been when he left her, Charite leaned back on her hands again, parted her sweet thighs, lifted her knees, and resumed the left-right squirming of her hips, and the upward, forward hungry thrusting of her groin, as steady and gentle as waves breaking at a slack tide.

'Mon Dieu, please! Maintenant… now, cher! I can't take any more!' Charite huskily begged, clawing him upwards, sliding her body to the very edge of the high bedside, then embracing him in a death grip as frantic as someone about to drown. Lewrie rose, stepped up, dragged her to him with one hand at the base of her spine, and guided himself back to the pleasure seat. Succulently hot nether lips, slick and engorged… that first inch into Paradise swiftly, even more easily regained… both of his hands seizing her hips and another, short half step to the bedside, gliding in, gliding upward… half his manhood all at one steady, gentle thrust… an inch more, then one more… drawing back and hearing her sob in shuddering want… then all of him, ramming himself home, eliciting a startled shout as he felt his cap bumping against the sea-bed of her depths, sunk to the root, and she clung to him desperately, legs clasped high around him, ankles crossed on the back of his hips and demanding, quickening his pace. Head and long, glossy hair tossing and turning, she whined and groaned, whimpered, and laid her head on his shoulder for a little time, softly bawling like a newborn calf, a trickle of saliva from her gasping, panting mouth on his skin…

'Je vais jouir!' Charite cried at last, 'I am going… aahhh.' A baby shriek, a broken, quivering-whimpering sudden sinking away, arms and thighs turning flaccid and limp, though her quim pulsed, squeezed and suctioned like a Chinee finger-puzzle, as if to draw all of him in and keep him secreted forever, and for a few, floating moments of absolute ecstacy, nothing else in the universe existed for him but their groins, his shaft, her gulf. Even the sounds she made, the endearments she grunted, receded, and all he could hear, cared to hear, was the hot, sweet liquid sound of sex before his own moment arrived. A long, inarticulate deep-voiced lion's roar, and he burst so deep into her, losing all cognizance, a siege-mortar's shell exploding, trails of violent smoke spreading outward, outward behind the red-glowing jutting embers of his passion. And his arriving restored her strength for a few minutes, to clamp damply sweet thighs and arms about him, force-squeeze her. belly muscles to match the last upward jerkings he used to tease her, fiercely clinging, kissing, and stroking in pleased reward.

She fell back onto the soft, yielding feather mattress finally, one arm over her eyes to get her breath back, legs wide apart as if to wish him gone from her, but Charite needily moaned in limp protest when he finally shrank away and withdrew. He stripped off his used cundum and clambered up into bed with her, scooped her to him, and pressed his length along hers, gently nestling her close, and both of them all but purring in delight.

'Fantastic,' he whispered into her ear, drawing forth her happy chuckles and fondly closer pressing, her head on his chest. 'Charite, darlin', you are simply marvelous. So sweet, so handsome…'

'I please you?' she asked, almost hesitantly, her head averted, as if fearing he hadn't been.

'Two steps past Saint Peter's gate into Heaven itself,' Lewrie truthfully avowed. 'You're a little peek of Paradise, cherie.'

'You do not ask if you…' Charite said, sounding small and meek as she turned her head from one cheek to the other to peer up at him.

'Sort of got the, ah… impression that I did,' Lewrie teasingly muttered back, giving her a warm squeeze, a cozy jounce. She slow-blinked her eyes and nodded her recumbent head, then the most beatific smile slowly blossomed on her face, a longtime, committed lover's expression that told him all. She slid up his body 'til they were face to face, draping herself on him, one sticky-damp thigh slyly insinuated between his as she said, 'Oui, tres bon, aussi… you did. You will, encore. Or should I go now, and let you sleep?'

'Sweet little dear'un!' Lewrie protested, holding her tighter. 'Cundums in London came by the dozen! One down, eleven to go…?'

'Hah!' she cried in bawdy delight, laughing with joy. 'You are that formidable? Then as our backcountry 'Cadiens say, 'laisser les bons temps rouler'!'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

And the 'bons temps' did, far into the night.

Charite entranced him, amazed him with her eagerness, even stunned him a few times with her expertise. One moment she was as sweet, loving, and fond as a blushing new bride, purring like a cat with half-slit sleepy eyes. The next moment she could be as fierce in her ardour at kissing and foreplay as a milkmaid, a Jill, tearing at her Jack with only five minutes to spare in the dairy barn's loft.

And she was so skilled at other times, almost suspiciously so; she chuckled, so