Cause and Effect
The man behind him grunted and groaned, and Mr. Jeremiah Pitt, late of Somersetshire, did his best to ignore it. The attempt failed.
The man was Colonel Bishop, and the cause of his vocalization was...was...it shamed him to admit, Pitt himself. He gave himself leave to hate cleanly for one sharp, defined moment, before quelching the sensation as one that would only get him killed, but it was hatred nonetheless, hatred of the Colonel, the stockade, and the table Jeremy leaned over at that very moment.
Bishop had made his intentions clear not long after the day of their purchase. Jeremy summoned up memory, blocking out the futile present with the bitter past.
The day they arrived in Port Royal, free men no longer, Jeremy and Peter Blood and several others were sold as slaves to Colonel Bishop, a man of power and wealth in Jamaica. Their master, and a cruel man about it. His man led the string of slaves up out of the town and towards the plantation Bishop owned. Colonel Bishop and his niece had ridden on ahead, the horses kicking up gobbets of mud nearly face-high as they passed.
The lady herself looked of a sweet and kindly disposition, but her uncle sat in his saddle a picture of precisely the opposite characteristics.
They trudged in the wet heat towards their new home, Jeremy's ankle chained to that of the man ahead of him, and the man behind. Each man occupied, no doubt, with similar thoughts as they stumbled to keep an even pace with one another.
Finally, when the sun had moved from high noon to an hour or two later, the long line of men filed into the stockade and their new lives. The lady had gone into the great house, but Colonel Bishop kept a post by the stockade entrance, surveying each man as he passed by, in a manner he had not when making his purchase. Peter Blood had stopped and surveyed the Colonel in turn, hands on his hips as if he were the master and not the slave. Bishop had terminated the unspoken interview by reaching forward with his crop to lash the shoulders of the man in front of Blood, looking at Peter the whole time.
"Tend to your patient inside, Doctor Blood."
And the line had moved again.
When Jeremy passed the colonel, Bishop had stood stock still for a moment, arms crossed against his chest. But he said nothing.
Colonel Bishop's meaty hand wrapped around what Mr. Pitt had once jokingly referred to as his "li'l Jerry" and pulled on him like a farmer's hand on the teats of a cow. He was half-hard already from earlier attentions, however unwanted, and his face burned as the Colonel's casually delivered ministrations rendered their desired effect. The older man chuckled darkly.
"You like it." Came the whisper in his ear.
I do not. But his body turned traitor in the other man's hands. He didn't protest aloud.
It would only lead to more violation, a whipping, perhaps worse. There was the time the handle of a whip had stretched him to screaming, Jeremy choking nearly to unconsciousness on the rags stuffed in his mouth. That had been a bad evening. The colonel, angry at some moral blow administered by the Governor's newest doctor, had fetched Jeremy up to his rooms after dinner. It wasn't the first time, but the worst thus far. The man had spent the evening amusing himself thoroughly at Jeremy's expense, alternately whipping him and sodomizing him with the very instrument of his punishment.
"Oh, you like it, you filthy little whore." Bishop dug his fingers into Jeremy's hips and lifted his feet nearly off the floor, pinning his chest to the table, lower body hoisted into the air. Crockery jumped and the salt cellar fell over, not far from Jeremy's face. Jeremy made a small sound, protesting the scrape of the other man working inside him.
His cock was squeezed so firmly in response Jeremy nearly fainted then and there. At his body's sudden shudder and relaxation, the colonel merely plunged deeper, with the muttered exclamation, "God's wounds!"
A day's worth of stubble scratched at Jeremy's shoulder and neck, the buttons and buckles of the other man's clothing digging their imprint on his slave's naked body. "Ah, that's tight. Tight little whore." Jeremy's hands clung to the edges of the table. He would not move. He would not move.
The thick hand on him pulled and Jeremy shook, not wanting to respond. But want and have are two different things.
This was true slavery, even his body not his own to command. Bishop rocked them together, working Jeremy in his fist as if working himself, all the while calling Jeremy his little whore, swearing his mouth would be plundered next if Jeremy didn't bring him off.
Something in the new angle and depth of the colonel drilling into him brushed repeatedly against some mysterious core at his center, opening up something inside. He couldn't help but twitch in response. Jeremy bit into his lower lip, fighting the sensation. He tasted blood. Bishop's pace increased. A shudder started at the bare soles of his feet, and Jeremy finally convulsed, toes curled, his back arching, everything fading as unasked-for pleasure swept him over again and again. Thick cream sprayed his master's hand and the floor beneath the table.
"'Swounds!" answered Bishop, thrusting only a few moments longer into Jeremy's slack, unresisting body, then stiffening and making a final oath as his own pleasure took him.
This was true slavery.