Mutiny Release

I was stretched out on the bed, wrists and ankles shackled to the four corners of the frame, lying on my belly. My cheek was to the mattress and my view was of Sir Sidney’s foot, the sole pressed into the headboard being used to leverage his thrusts. His other foot was pressed to the headboard on the other side of my head. His hands were grasping my ankles. He was stretched out on top of me, his body reversed on mine. He was inside me, plunging in when he pulled back onto his knees, planted on either side of my torso, and pulling out as he pressed on his feet and stretched out taut on top of me.

It was a new way to fuck to him—not necessarily to me; I think I must have experienced it all in the year I’d been at the Marble Crescent club—but he was ever on the lookout for new ways to take his pleasure with male whores like me. This wasn’t a taxing position for me in terms of what Sir Sydney could—and would—do with me, nor did I think it was the most taxing position he would put me in this afternoon. He wouldn’t have brought me all the way out here to his country house merely for a blow job in his carriage and this bound reverse-body fuck. I knew there would be more—and there would be Jerry too, I was sure, Sir Sydney’s reward to his coachman for aiding him in this adventure.

From the way my head was turned, I could see past Sir Sydney’s foot to where Jerry, tall and bulky and every inch the rough Cornwall peasant, stood by the folly chamber door, watching Sir Sydney fucking me and keeping a lookout for anyone who might happen by and discover the master in the folly fucking a young male whore. Jerry’s fat, stubby slug of a cock was outside his trousers fly and he was stroking himself as he leered at us. Sir Sydney had assured him he’d have a turn. I hadn’t been consulted about that, nor did I expect to be consulted. What a club member did with one of the whores during his time with them was up to the club member.

Sir Sydney was grunting and churning his body on top of mine faster, more insistently. This position was fine with me, as long as we were doing sex rather than making love, as the cock didn’t penetrate as deeply as it could in some other positions, so he wasn’t working my core. It was when the cock got in deep and caused me to go soft and spongy for it at my core that I was being touched by a man. When a man reached me there it was where the shell of being a mere whore broke away and I was vulnerable to caring. The reward for the man when that happened was that it stimulated my wall muscles to grab his embedded cock and ripple over him, giving him incredible sensations as he was being milked. He often would just hold at that depth inside me, groaning his pleasure as my channel muscles squeezed and caressed his shaft and we became one in a pleasure that rolled on and on and on—for both of us.

Sir Sydney was doing all of the work; he was the one being exhausted. Eventually, he grunted and tensed and then I felt the wetness of his ejaculation inside me and he rolled off to the side and reached for the glass and liquor bottle on the stand next to the bed. After taking a swig, he swiveled back toward me, leaned over the small of my back, and slapped my buttocks—and then again, harder, listening for, and hearing, my yelp of pain-pleasure.

This is where it was going to get more taxing—and it did.

“Let me see it. Expel it,” he commanded, and I bore down on my channel muscles and pushed some of his cum out of my ass. He laughed and penetrated me with, first, one finger and then two more, digging for the cum his shaft had deposited inside me, pulling it out, smearing it on my buttocks, and then brutally entering me with his fingers again. His fingers taxed my channel as his cock had not done. He found the prostate with them and I writhed and moaned for him.

“Raise your tail,” he commanded. When I had put my knees under me and raised my rump as well as I could against the restraints, he snaked his hand between my legs, squeezed and rolled my balls in their sacs until I was panting and begging him to stop, and then he fisted my cock and roughly milked me to my own ejaculation.

I collapsed on the mattress and panted heavily while he turned and returned to his glass and the liquor bottle.

“That’s what I like about you, Ross,” he said. “You can always play the virgin. No matter how many times I pluck that out of you, you can convince me the next time that I am taking an innocent. Don’t lose that.”

It sounded ominous, but I knew it was true. I knew what my talents with men were and I had no illusions about my worth in this business when I lost that.

After several minutes he moved off the bed and onto a low bench at the foot of the bed on his knees. He bent over the foot of the bed, running his hands up my hips and along my waist to the sides of my chest. He buried his face in my crack and I moaned and raised my buttocks to him as he tongued me deep, pulled away to lick and nip at my butt cheeks, and then buried his face again and ate out my ass. His hands came down and were slapping my butt cheeks rhythmically as he tongued me, and I writhed under him, whispering to him how masterful he was.

Men didn’t usually give this attention to my body. Usually, it was me giving them their pleasure. This was arousing me, and I was being brought into the fuck as a participant rather than just a vessel to sheath the man’s cock and to take his cum. With Sir Sydney, though, I knew it was all a false sensation of his regard for my pleasure. I knew that it would all end with the whip.

Sir Sydney came up onto the bed on his knees, running his thighs under mine and lifting and spreading mine. He grasped my waist between his hands, positioned his cock head at my hole, and thrust inside me. The power of his thrusts nearly lifted me off the bed. I involuntarily cried out as his cock spread me and plunged deeper and deeper.

“Yes, yes!” I cried out. “Fuck me! Fuck me hard!”

He did. His tonguing had opened me to him and had hardened and lengthened him as well. He was fucking me in my soft, spongy core. I melded with him, merging with the rhythm of his thrusts, and for several minutes we were one, coordinated fucking machine, giving and taking equally, both striving for the same goal and, eventually, achieving it in a near simultaneous mutual ejaculation.

Leaving me panting and moaning, having achieved a height of sexual satisfaction that was at the base of why I had become what I had, and that I rarely achieved with a client, Sir Sydney returned to his drink. He spoke to Jerry now, who had received his own climax with us.

“I believe it is time to take out the prayer kneeler now,” he declared.

Jerry went to the closed door of a closet across the room, opened it and hauled out the bench, while Sir Sydney released my wrists and ankles. I looked around the room. Stone walls, ceiling, and floor. This was a room behind the ornate, miniaturized-version of a faux castle built on the shore of a small lake at Merton Hall.

The carriage had entered the estate through the farm entrance rather than the main entry and had followed the road into the estate that was buffered from the extensive lawn of the sprawling country house mansion by a line of trees in enough depth so that the lawns and the lake below the house were only occasionally visible between the tree trunks as the carriage passed.

Our destination was a folly, built on the other side of the lake from the mansion. Although the façade was, in appearances, three stories, including two towers rising higher than that, and reflected the mansion across the lake and up a hill from where it stood, it, in fact, was only a story and a half high, and the locked room behind it was only of one story. The coachman, Jerry, pulled the carriage in behind the folly so that our arrival would not be marked from the house. That probably was a good idea, as, from the corner of the folly, I looked up toward the house and saw that there was a small gathering on one of the terraces descending from the main house. Colorful dresses marked the presence of women. No doubt one of them was my half-sister, Caroline, Sir Sydney’s wife. The same Sir Sydney that I’d just given a blow job to in the carriage on the road and who now stood close behind me, one arm around my chest, the hand of the arm cupping my genitals through the linen of my breeches, and his lips buried in the side of my throat.

We had stood there, at the back of the folly, as Jerry keyed a series of locks on a door. Sir Sydney obviously wanted to keep this room secret only to him, and I had understood as we entered the chamber. It was a sexual torture chamber, complete with restraints on a bed, a wooden cross to hang a man from, and various manacles and whips and straps hanging on the walls.

It was no ordinary prayer bench that Jerry dragged out of the closet. The base—the kneeling bench and railing above it were as a normal prayer kneeler, but the depth of the bench was greater than normal, with another padded railing between kneeler and prayer rail and on top of the prayer rail were located stocks for the head and wrists such as were found in punishment grounds.

It was now that I was really tested and Sir Sydney flew his genuine colors of dominator and sadist.

I was set kneeling on the lower plank, with my tail raised high by my belly resting on the padding of the middle rail. My head and wrists were imprisoned in the stocks. As an added embellishment, a chain choking the root of my cock and wrapped around the top of my balls was hung with weights that distended my balls painfully.

Standing behind me, Sir Sydney beat my back, rump, and thighs with a thick leather strap until he had gone hard again. Then he mounted and penetrated me from behind and fucked me to another ejaculation.

He was finished then, saying, “I have a regatta to go to and Caroline and my guests will be wondering where I am.”

He added, “You may have him now, Jerry, and then take him back to London.”

And have me, Jerry did. He released me from the contraption, carrying me over to the bed, bent me over the foot of the bed, and fucked the hell out of me. He was thick and had gone long, longer than I thought would be possible when I first saw him expose himself by the folly door. He was rough and very, very good with his cocking. He couldn’t have been older than his mid-twenties and was robust and virile. I didn’t often get young cock. He didn’t give me any quarter and I didn’t beg for any. Once he had reached the depth of my soft core, we were making love. We both knew, and appreciated, the difference between love and sex.

I reclined on the cushion in the back of the carriage, resting and regaining my strength as I was driven back to London. Luckily, I was trained to the cocking and was young—just nineteen—and resilient. There was no club member who taxed me more than Sir Sydney, but there were few who were in as good a shape as he was and who knew what they wanted and took it without my having to devise ways of making and keeping them hard or having to worry about hardening and coming myself. I had no trouble coming with Sir Sydney—or his coachman, Jerry, for that matter.

Before reaching the outskirts of the city, the carriage pulled off the road onto a narrow trail into some woods.

“Where are we headed?” I asked Jerry. He didn’t answer, though. He set the carriage brake and climbed into the backseat, a gleam in his eyes. His trousers already were open; he was in full erection. He didn’t have to tell me why we had stopped.

“Yes?” he murmured. “I think you want it from me again.”

“Yes,” I answered, pleased that he had at least asked, although I knew he would have taken me anyway. Sir Sydney hadn’t told him he had bounds with me, and I had taken him enthusiastically in a second fucking on the bed in the folly, me on my back, with my legs raised and spread, and he between my thighs pounding me into a passioned-cry submission.

He laid me out across the carriage seat; fumbled with my trousers; pulled them down off my legs, laying me bare and erect from the waist down; and then laid me again. And he laid me quite well. As his cock reached into my soft center, I wrapped my legs around his thighs, sighed, and began moving my hips in rhythm with the pumping of his cock. I reached down and fisted my shaft and stroked myself to the beat of his thrusts, fully invested in the fuck.

There are some things that peasants can do as well as royalty can. Once a cock was inside me and had been accepted at my core and was caressing and mastering me there, I didn’t question its lineage. He fucked me with force, the carriage groaning on its shock absorbers, until he had pushed in deep and I felt him in my core. Reaching there, we just rocked back and forth, swaying together in close embrace, his cock head kissing my tender passage walls at that depth.

“Yes, yes, just like that,” I murmured, and he stayed with me. My channel took over control then. I clutched at him, holding him close in an embrace when his cock penetrated into my soft-core zone, and, heeding my signaling, Jerry just held there, shuddering, as my channel wall muscles took over in caressing and milking his cock. He was a fighter, though. With a roar he took control of the fuck again.

I lay back fully open to him, my eyes locked with his, my tongue running over my lips, murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes,” as he went a bit deeper and I moaned my total surrender, panting lightly. I tensed and splattered the belly of his livery with cum. He laughed, proud that he had pulled a climax out of a high-class whore, and resumed a long-slide pumping to finish taking his own pleasure, which I did not begrudge him, and sealing his victory over the privileged.

He lay on top of me, inside, as we both concentrated on him going flaccid, which he didn’t do completely. He was young and virile, not what I was usually used to.

“That one were good, weren’t it?” He whispered. “You was full with me that time. I know you liked it along with me. You’re not really that uppity, are you? We near came together, the high-up ripe whore and the serving Cornwallman. Did you good, did I?”

“Again. Fuck me again,” I whimpered. I felt him stirring inside again. “Deep again,” I begged. “Do me good again, just like that. Lay me out full. Make us come together.” He complied, engorging immediately, going deep, deep, deep into my soft inner core and rocking there with his bulb caressing my channel walls and the muscles of my channel walls rippling over his cock, the two of us rocking together, moving together, sighing and moaning together, coming together.

When he returned to the driver’s box, I came up front with him, and sat close beside him. He smiled the rest of the way. When he stopped the carriage, I turned to him and said, “No, I’m not really uppity. That back there, in the folly. That was just business—what I have to do. That in the carriage in the wood—that is what I really want from being with a man. Thank you.”

He smiled as I climbed down from the carriage. “You are a good lad,” he said, and as I walked up the steps, he called after me, “And a great lay.” He laughed a deep laugh, flicked his whip, and the carriage drove off.

Percy Blackthorn, looking concerned and a bit piqued, met me at the entrance to the Marble Crescent club. “There you are,” he said, as if he hadn’t known where I was. He was the one who made all of the arrangements. “You have taken longer than I anticipated.” He said this as if I had any control over how long a club member occupied my time.

“You have a visitor in the private parlor. Look lively now. He’s one of our more privileged members.”

I was a little piqued now myself. I wasn’t usually booked with sessions this close together. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in the foyer before I went in to him, whoever he was. I looked remarkably good—and desirable—if I did say so myself. Of course my eyes were glittering and swimming in the cum of Sir Sydney and his coachman, Jerry. Jerry had been particularly prodigious in his contribution.

“Come, come. Hurry,” Percy said, shepherding me down the corridor to the back parlor.

[To be continued]