To England, With Love

Chapter IX: He Who Pulls the Strings and Swings the Sword

Kings House, Jamaica ~ December 1818

The scent of tobacco clung to every crevice in the study.

It clung to the upholstery made of priceless, Belizean-rosewood and cow's skin imported by a fanatical of the Worshipful Company of Upholders in London, it cleaved to the thick draperies of brown hues inlaid with gold thread buoyant by wind yet heavily-laden with smoke, it permeated the walls of the room some lined with velvet tapestry while others did naught (because of the dismal heat of this curst colony), it sunk into the dreary, golden-frame portraits of governors, past and present and lined their mouths that seemed to frown with displeasure, it coated the warm floors laid with gleaming wood, it curled in the embellishments of the chandelier and thickened in the wax of its candles and it created a thick, dense roof over the study, grey clouds obscuring the masterpiece mural drawn in the ceiling.

Yes, the Colonel His Grace The Duke of Manchester, William Montagu, loved a good smoking pipe. What he did naught like, however, was the way his present house slave was treating his cock.

"What in the heavens are you doing?"

She was on bent knees with her hands latched behind her. Her day dress was loose in the back and her dark bosom swayed tastefully above the hem of her lowered neckline. She stilled her ministrations and looked up skittishly through her course lashes.

"Your Grace...?"

His face was even more shocked than hers. Who, on God's green earth, gave her permission to speak to him?

"Did you just directly address me?" He shook his head, as if to get rid of the memory, "I was saying, before you rudely interrupted, that I am naught quite sure why I purchased you and your services when you cannot arouse me. What shall I have you do now?"

The look on her face was one of stupidity. What was she to do now? His genitalia was swaying limply in her field of vision waiting yet to rise, even so, he was cussing the skin off her ears for reasons that did naught belong to her.

He puffed another air of smoke before cussing bitterly under his breath. Not even the warm mouth of a woman could have him be pleasured in peace, when Wilton's hedge-cropping, harlot offspring was out and about gallivanting and fornicating somewhere in his colony!

Fie! Just thinking on her reversed his state of mild arousal, to nought. "Get out of my study."

She scrambled off her feet and begun to properly robe herself all while looking somewhat relieved, which did naught sit well with the governor, nor did it bode well for her.

He changed his mind.

"Come here."

When she drew nigh to him, he fondled her breasts harshly, tugging at their buds and drawing a muffled cry from her lips before flipping her against him to tear away at the bounds that held her dress together.

Still, nothing. He sighed, righted his breeches and stopped probing her.

"Leave."

She lowered her gaze and attempted to fix her robes again. He shook his head. "Let the cloth hang off you so people will think you were had like the whore you truly are."

Her eyes flitted around the room uncomfortably before she hastily fled with her dress bunched pitifully in her hands and her pretty breasts out for all the inhabitants of Kings House to see.

He took another draw from his pipe as she passed the threshold of the room and through the cloud, in came his advisor, Joseph Stanhope, who eyed the slave girl in a way that was driven by both arousement and amusement as she passed him by.