Crunchtober 2012 Day 27

Losing control

Rita gripped the basin on the escritoire with white knuckled hands in an attempt to stop the shaking. The water swirled, a dull pink, as the blood leached out of the once white cotton cloth. The rug in which she had concealed Connor’s body had done an admirable job of keeping the floor stain free, but the silk damask of the settee was stubbornly refusing to come clean.

The aging Madame had managed to drag her employer’s corpse to the steam driven elevator in the corner of his cabin, and had ridden with it down to engineering where Bucky had helped to hide it. Connor had said no one was to know, but Rita simply could not face the tragedy without some help. With Just in the SSA for his father’s funeral, she had no one else. The Chief Engineer was quick to understand the precariousness of the situation, and he was discreet. After they had found a barrel large enough, and found a quantity of high-grade scotch to fill it, Rita shucked her blood-drenched dress. The two, as lovingly as possible, folded Connor’s long legs into the barrel and bathed him in the amber scotch. Rita had never heard a sound as mournful as the hammer on the nails that sealed the barrel’s lid over Connor Graves.

Leaving Bucky with orders to destroy the rug and her discarded dress, Rita returned to the elevator. The only physical evidence that remained of the murder was the stained settee and Rita was damned if she would rest before it too had been restored to order.

The front of her shift was soaked through and bore the marks of the night’s horror. Her usually flawless chestnut hair was a corona of wisps and drooping tendrils. All trace of the mannered, contained and highly refined woman had been wiped away by an assassin’s knife, and what was left was shaking with bone-deep ague. A sob escaped her lips, and Rita raised one fist, biting her knuckles to stop the tears. There would be a time for grieving, but this was not it.

Pulling herself together, Rita wrung out the cloth and carried the basin to the French doors on Connor’s beloved taffrail. The assassin had entered through them earlier, and they stood open still, letting in the rotting stink of London. Connor had always hated London, and now Marguerite would join him in that hatred. She flung the pinked water over the balcony and into the Thames with a grimace of disgust.

Tomorrow they sailed for America. The thought of telling Just was a lead weight in her belly as she attacked the blood stained settee with fresh cloths and clean water. The crossing would be difficult as well, but her early life in a brothel had prepared her for the gentle lies and the masking of true feelings that would be required. She knew how to smile through pain, and flirt past despair. Those skills never truly went away, no matter how long they lay unused.

Briefly, she wondered if the Palace would revert to the time honored template for a brothel now that Connor and his vision of egalitarianism were gone. She shook her head in emphatic denial of that idea. The only method she now had of honoring her dear friend and mentor was in maintaining his shining ideals.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 26

It's raining now

The rain floods down from the dirty skies above London Town with alacrity of an emptied chamber pot in auld Edinburgh. Though not, thought Connor sullenly, with so much as a single ‘gardyloo!’ in warning. He pulled the sopping velvet of his evening coat tighter across his chest and hunched into his collar, miserable and still more than a little drunk.

He wasn’t sure why this particular anniversary had hit him so hard. Maybe it was being in London, a town that had never agreed with him. Maybe it was the fact that it was Kitten’s eighteenth birthday and for the first time ever he wouldn’t see her on the day. Maybe it was the fact that his beautiful daughter was now the age her mother had been on that blessed, cursed day. Whatever the factors, Connor had set out to drown his sorrows in drink and had taken a fairly good stab at it. The London rain seemed determined to finish the job.

A silent shadow slipped from an alley way and followed Connor’s stumbling steps towards the Thames docks. Connor was too preoccupied to notice he had picked up a tail. His thoughts were mired in the past. He burst into off-key song, a serenade for his lost love:

There was a lord in Lon-don town

He court-ed a la-dy gay

And all that he court-ed this la-dy

For was to take her sweet life a-way

*****

Just paced the decks of the Palace waiting for the return of his best friend. His pain at the loss of Isabelle was the only thing Connor had ever refused to share. On the anniversary, Connor traditionally masked his scars long enough to celebrate with his daughter, but once she was safely tucked into bed, he would disappear to the seedy underbelly of the dock-side dives and drink himself insensible. More than once, Just had found a sick a bloodied Connor in the gutter the morning after, but he knew enough to help his friend home and not mention the events of the night.

The problem this year, was that Connor’s annual pity-party fell on the week they were in London. They had avoided this cursed town as much as possible over the years since Isabelle had died while they were berthed here. Just and Rita attempted to schedule London runs when they could be piggy backed onto Calais or Glasgow stops, to allow Connor the dignity of business demands away from the ship for the single night or two it stopped in London.

Now, though London was growing in prominence, and the lure of strong new business had made Connor schedule a week stop at Thames docks. Just had not noticed that the week would fall over the anniversary, and apparently neither had Connor. That was part of why the boss was out punishing himself. Just wished he had taken up Rita’s suggestion to send a telegraph to Kitten the day before. The child could have taken the train to London and been here to help anchor Connor to the here and now.

Well, it was too late for regrets of that stripe. Just would give Connor another few minutes, and then he would head out into the downpour to find his friend and bring him home.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 25

The time between dusk and dawn

The porters were purposefully dragging their feet, Kitten was sure. She had only packed three steamer trunks, and two portmanteaus. They should have the carriage loaded already. She stood in the angled rays of the late summer sun on the front steps of Fettes College and fretted over the hour. If they did not leave for Leith by 8:00 PM, they would miss the sailing of the Carolina. If they missed the canal boat, they would certainly miss connecting with the Palace in Glasgow.

Her father’s letter had been specific. She must arrive at Clyde Docks no later than 4:00 AM, or the Palace would sail without her. He had no choice; he must be in Calais by midnight so that the ship could be prepared for the arrival of a Bourbon Prince. Though the crown of France was long lost, the surviving descendants of the royal family continued to expect royal treatment, and Connor Graves was especially good at providing those considerations, including punctuality.

Connor had engaged a suite in the Grand Central Hotel for Kitten in case she was forced to wait for the Palace’s return. She was determined not to need it. She had a limited holiday term, and did not relish the thought of spending nearly half of it in a hotel no matter how grand and modern! She needed the palliative of the Palace family and atmosphere to restore her. The Palace was vibrant and alive, whereas Fettes was stifling and moribund. The company on the Palace was witty and engaging, and at Fettes it was simply… not.

The last school porter finally appeared with her portmanteau and heaved I to the footman waiting on the carriage roof. They could embark! Kitten hurried down the stairs, and too impatient to wait for the footman, opened the door herself, pulling the accordion step down and climbing into the velvet interior in one smooth move.

“To Leith Docks, driver, and hurry please. The Carolina.”

“The Carolina, Miss? Ye’ll not likely catch the canal boat at this late hour.”

“Well, I simply must! There is a gold sovereign in it for you if we get there in time.”

The driver didn’t answer, but with a crisp cry of ‘Hold yer haun’s boys!’ he whipped the horses into a brisk trot around the fountain in the entry circle. As they gained the tree lined drive, he pushed the horses into a canter. Kitten held onto the edge of the window grimly determined to ride the bumps without complaint. She was on the way and that was what mattered.

As the carriage veered out of the gates of Fettes College onto the cobbled carriageway that led into Stockbridge the dusk light gilded everything with antique gold. The windows of the terraced houses on the hill glinted red and orange and the streets were flooded with palpable light. Kitten would be chasing the sun well into the evening as she sailed westward down the Edinburgh Canal to the Forth and Clyde canals. Then at the dawn, as she rejoined her family, and home, the tables would turn and the sun would chase her into the summer holidays.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 24

This is what the neighbors saw

This cruise was not going into the log as one of his favorites, Connor thought as he stalked down the promenade towards the fo’csle and the refuge of his cabin. It was those blasted English. Such a study in contrasts: whimsical but rigid, classist but egalitarian, adventurous yet demanding. He said a silent prayer of thanks that good King Jamie the sixth had resisted the siren song of the English throne three centuries before and the Scots had kept themselves to themselves.

Connor almost wished that he had resisted the siren song of a full ship for a trans-Atlantic crossing. The English guests were affable enough, until something upset them and then they were a plague. Mrs. Portenoy Sr. felt the soup was spiced too strongly. The Duchess of Cambridge felt it was too bland. Lord Hendale disliked being required to bathe before engaging a lady. Lady Hendale resented that he wasn’t required to bathe après cavorting as well. The Captain’s day had become one long hour after another of soothing ruffled feathers, and making accommodations for guests who didn’t want to ‘be a bother’.

He was within sight of his door when a voice raked him back to his duties.

“Captain, I really must have a word with you.”

It was the Duchess, a sturdy, jowly woman, clopping along the promenade in a pair of wooden shoes with Geoffrey in tow behind her, his modesty protected by a tiny silken loincloth. The Duchess was wearing an outrageous open cage bustle with no skirts and nothing but a pair of thin cotton bloomers underneath. A horsetail was cunningly affixed to the waist in back and it swished with her movements as if it was batting at flies. Geoffrey held a set of reins that trailed from and leather headband across the Duchess’s expansive brow.

“Really, my good man, you cannot believe what dear Geoff and I have to put up with from that French fellow in room 112.”

“Do you mean Milord Rougeot?” Connor asked, pronouncing the name row-gut. “The Earl of Northumbria?”

“That may be how he styles himself, but we all know that Milord Roo-zyaa is only one generation removed from his froggier relations. And really, he has no respect. You will not believe the sight poor Geoff and I were exposed to when we were out for an innocent ride.”

“Now, Milady,” Connor tried in his most soothing voice, “You know that the Palace officially has a play and let play policy.”

“Play? This would not matter a whit if it was play! He was pretending to be a dog! He was with that girl of yours, the French one, Yvette, and she had him on a leash! And he was barking! The indignity of it all is frightening. I shall never forget the sight!” She emphasized her outrage with the stomping of a wooden hoof.

Connor nearly choked on his swallowed laughter and made a mental note to give Geoffrey a bonus for keeping a straight face through all of this. The Duchess would, Connor was certain, not only never forget, but would probably never stop telling the tales if he did not find a way to diffuse the situation. He did not care a whit for the Earl’s reputation, but the Palace had her own reputation to look to.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 23

On the other side

Being a virgin on a ship full of prostitutes was an uncomfortable and frustrating position for Kitten. Every female in her life was on the other side of womanhood. They were cultured, urbane, witty and self-possessed. They were beautiful and secure in their bodies. They laughed differently, as if they belonged to a secret club in which she was not yet initiated.

It was high-time, Kitten felt, that she get some education in the art of love. After all, she was fourteen now, and would be a grown woman soon. She had spent the whole of the afternoon working up her courage and now she stalked Geoffrey through the public rooms. He was the most likely candidate because of his impeccable skills at keeping secrets. Kitten knew that if her father found out, he would kill her and then lock her in her room for eternity. A man who could keep silent was essential; also, Geoffrey had dreamy green eyes.

She watched him from her position behind the potted fern as he moved through the room, paying compliments, delivering saucy looks, flirting as often with the men as the women. Kitten didn’t understand, but the women seemed to like it when Geoffrey made eyes at the men. Why would he bother to do that? Geoffrey was no longer a boy, and the men that liked it with other males generally preferred boys, didn’t they? There was just so much she didn’t understand about the world of sex. Tonight she would take her first step on the road to understanding.

She lurked. She plotted. She imagined. She dozed. When she snapped back to awareness, the salon was empty. The gaslights were turned low, the glasses had been cleared, and the cushions fluffed. Kitten looked around, both frantic and groggy. She had to find Geoffrey. This was her night!

She stumbled out the French doors onto the promenade, searching desperately left and right for a sign of her intended. She tripped over a teak deck chair and sprawled in a heap against the railing. Her heart was pounding and her head was woozy. Her only thought was that she couldn’t bear even one more night stuck on the wrong side of womanhood. Tears began to flow and Kitten screwed her eyes shut trying to stem the tide.

“Kitten, honey, what’s wrong, beloved?” It was Just, bending over her, as she lay crumpled against the rail in a heap of confusion and frustrated hormones.

His kindness was more than she could bear. “Everything,” she said. “Everything in the whole world!” She pulled herself to her feet and ran for the safety of her room unable to outpace her humiliation.

Kitten was sure she would never, ever be a confident and inspiring woman like those she was surrounded by. She would never be bright and funny like Stella, or wise and warm like Yvette. She would never be as canny as Rita, or as beautiful as her mother had been. Her life might as well end now before it ever started. Who had she been kidding? Geoffrey would never look at her in that way. She was on the wrong side of womanhood.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 22

AND.... finally:

Write about asking for mercy

Her nipples tasted of strawberries, and Connor looked up at her in surprise, one eyebrow cocked in question.

“Trade secret,” she said, using her interior muscles to squeeze his cock and refocus his attention.

She arched her back as he devoted himself to worship of her breasts. He sucked the nipples to rigid points, alternately licking them with a soft tongue and lightly nipping at them with his teeth. Her motions on his cock became more frantic as she drove towards orgasm, and he widened his thighs to give a deeper thrust.

Her mouth clamped down on the spot between his collarbone and his shoulder. Her frantic sucking sent tendrils of need through his body. He bucked under her, unable and unwilling to let her provide all the motion. They rocked together, fingernails raking down the muscles of their backs, fingers pinching, mouths searching for purpose, tongues fighting a battle as old as humankind.

Stella began to cum and her muscle spasming drove Connor over the edge as well. They clung to each other, hearts pounding, as their bodies slowly unclenched and relaxed into each other.

“Feel better?” her impertinent question was asked against the hollow of his neck where his heartbeat still fluttered wildly.

“I feel like I still have work to do,” he growled in response. He shifted his body to turn and lay her back on the furs. “My father taught me you must always groom a steed after you have taken it for a ride.”

He pushed open her thighs and drove his tongue into her tender flesh. She arched up at his assault and then relaxed to his ministrations, shuddering and moaning her pleasure softly into the furs beside her head.

He could taste his seed mingled with her juices and it drove him to deeper explorations. She was a mystery and his tongue probed for answers, alternately thrusting rigidly, or lapping with long strokes against the tender flesh. When her orgasm came she tightened the muscles of her thighs, thrusting his head back, too overcome by sensation to allow any further contact.

“Feel better?” he asked when she finally stopped shaking.

They spent the long afternoon while the ship was becalmed alternately pleasuring each other and sleeping; waking only to drive towards climax again. Stella welcomed Connor’s long pent up desire, and matched it with a sensuality of her own. The repeated cycle of tension and release relaxed him in a way that he hadn’t managed in nearly sixteen years.

Finally, he reached a point of exhaustion, and his satiated manhood would not rise again. “Have mercy, woman! I am an old man.”

“Not so old in my book, Connor Graves,” Stella said with a satisfied cat of a smile as she curled up with her head on his shoulder and drifted off to sleep.

As Connor lay listening to her gentle snores, he marveled at the restorative magic of a lover’s touch. He felt more clear-headed than he had in ages. He still missed his wife; he would likely mourn her loss all his days. But for now, lying tangled in the curls of this obstinate and remarkable Irish girl, he was content.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 21

Cont from yesterday...

In a state of disarray

Connor knelt over Stella and drank in her naked form. The intoxication of it had a far greater effect on him than the whiskey. She reached up to undo the buttons on his fly. Her knuckles brushed over his erection, and he quivered at the touch.

“It has, um, been a while love,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice.

“Well let’s get the preliminaries out of the way shall we? Then we can both relax.” She sat up on the furs and pulled his trousers over his hips and down his thighs. The tiny buttons on his trotters provided no barrier to her nimble fingers, and his erection sprang free of confinement, rigid and trembling.

Stella leaned forward and took him in her mouth. Her tongue made circles over the tip of his cock, sending fresh waves of pleasure shooting up his spine with every pass. Her attentions drove all conscious thought from his mind and he was reduced to a being of pure sensation.

The ends of her hair brushed against the fronts of his thighs, tickling his skin and causing the coarse black hair on his legs to stand to attention. He reached for something to hold on to, and she raised her hand to intertwine with his, palm to palm. Her other hand stroked the base of his shaft and between the rhythm of her ministrations and the darting of her tongue it was not long before he found release.

As his shudders began to subside, she pulled her mouth away and gave him a wicked smile before guiding him to a reclining position beside her on the bed of furs. For a brief moment, Connor thought that this would be it. The edge had been taken off his lust, and he could simply rise, gather the shreds of his dignity, and quietly leave the room. Stella, however, had other ideas.

She rose to straddle his hips, her spine to his face, and proceeded to lean forward to tug his trousers off. As she leaned, her ass rose just a bit, and the cheeks separated so that he could see her glistening sex. He suspected that trousers were not that difficult to remove, but she took her time at it, being sure he had long minutes to stare at her offering. His cock responded by stiffening under her thighs, and she ground her pelvis into him to let him know she noticed.

When his feet and legs were at last free of the encumbrance of clothing, she pivoted on his hips to face him, deftly slipping his newly aroused manhood inside her silky passage. Connor sighed with the overwhelming eroticism. He thrust his hips to meet her, reveling in the magic of a purely biological nature.

Seeing Stella’s breasts unclothed for the first time, peeking out from behind the curtain of her hair gave him the desire to taste them. He wrapped his hands on her hips and held her in place as he moved to the edge of the platform where he could sit up and take her nipples into his mouth.

To be cont…