Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

"So long, Alain, mon cerf formidable]" she crooned in his ear, a tiny, breathless huskiness to her usually small voice. "Mont' an' mont', you be away, an' on'y ze une lettre! Mon coeur, ah mees you si trиs beaucoup]"

"Phoebe!" He sighed, chuckling with uncontrollable, undeniable delight, by then, as he dipped his head to kiss her throat, the soft flesh under her chin, her slim neck below her ears.

Knew this'd happen, he chid himself; knew it! But not anywhere near as harshly as he might. God help me, but…!

Nature had her way with him, by then. Unbidden, in spite of a whole host of good intentions, the fork of his breeches felt nigh to bursting with a raging tumescence which he swore could serve as taffrail flagstaff in a full gale! He took a clumsy step toward those first set of stairs, felt her shift against him, meaning to keep his balance under such a tempting, alluring, top-heavy cargo… and he was lost. Again.

"Ma chйrie," he muttered, "ma petit biche. Ma choul"

"Oh, Alain, 'urry!" she teased, glancing upward. "Mon amour]"

Well, he thought, not a touch rueful; s'pose we have to get reac-quainted first. In for the penny, in for the pound, an' all that!

They'd not quite attained real privacy, not that first reunion. A trail of his shoes, sword and belt, neck-stock and coat littered up the second flight attested to that. Waistcoat gone, long-tail shirt and breeches open, he'd played horsey to her hunter, and trotted her to the tiny upper landing, into her bedchambers, and all about the room. Laughing all the while, crying "Yoicks, Tallyho!" and making bugle calls through his nostrils. "Trot! Canter! Draw sabers and… sound the Charge!" As he recalled from seeing the local Yeoman Cavalry practice their drill back in Angles-green. Spitted upon him, Phoebe had shrieked aloud, open windows to the street bedamned… and more than once, too, he smugly congratulated himself… before they'd collapsed exhausted across her high bedstead, in shuddery giggles of delight, tears of ecstasy, and much-needful pantings.

A quarter-hour of kisses, caresses, strokes of dearly remembered skin. A quarter-hour of endearments, of pledges of heartbreak over the long separation, many sighs and shudders, and rolling about, twine and countertwine, stoking the coals with kisses becoming more and more intimate and giving…

Looking up at her, rough sailor's hands on her slim, swansdown hips as she bestrode him, rocking and riding bold as a plumed lancer… riding Saint George with her head thrown back and her carefully coiffed hair come down in sweaty "а la victime" ringlets. Incredibly slim arms, her waif-slim waist, and taut little belly… Phoebe's small breasts in his eyes, large dark areoli and pouty little nipples mesmerizing him all over again, bedewed with perspiration as she flung herself, thrusted to meet him. So tiny, she was, so gamin and light, so completely engrasping and enfolding about him! So utterly kittenish, yet minxlike and enthralling! And so strong, her slim little fingers, on his shoulders as she leaned forward, face crumpled, tears flowing, breath rasping harsh and insistent between her moans and cries.

He slid his hands up to surround her breasts and she leaned in to support herself, eyes flying wide open as she began to smile, expectantly, speared to the utter depths of her heart, of her soul, in one more of a series of "the little deaths." As his own release built to more than he could stand without bellowing like a steer, not a moment more could he wait, withhold himself, delay his pleasuring in hopes it might help her attain hers! Hard and greedy now, niceties bedamned, and Phoebe took his hands in hers, crushed sword-bruted, rope-bruted palms into her tenderest flesh. Twined fingers and keened aloud, a victory paean that went on and on, rising falsetto in time to their every shift and judder, until at last…

She screamed a weak, thin scream, twined fingers tighter, and leaned back, trusting him to keep her from falling, as his own head exploded, as he departed his life for a maelstrom of colored stars, tumbling down a cannon's barrel into the swirling sparks and flame points of eruption. Exploding upward, delirious and aswim, reeling and rolling in a fever-dream, feeling her grip him, grip him, grip him and spasm, as their senses tumbled around the cosmos.

Utterly ruined, when he came back to his life, a few moments later, chest heaving for air. Utterly spent, as she sat back erect, then dropped, shuddering and gasping, atop him. Her soft, gentle breath gusting now, across his shoulder. Damp ringlets clinging to both their faces. Surprisingly strong little hands and arms about his neck. Yet such an utterly soft, sweet, and spent kiss did she give him in reward, her full, sweet lips brushing his so lightly, and curling upward in a smile.

He put his arms about her slim back, stroked her damp flesh from shoulders to buttocks, then encircled her and squeezed possessively, inhaling deep for his wind, and taking in every subtle nuance of cologne, scented soap, perspiration, sweet hair, and lovemaking, as if to fill his lungs with her forever.

"Je t'adore, Alain," she told him, her voice tiny, and barely audible, even with her lips near his ear. "Afterr aw' zees time… you are 'ere, encore! Je t'adore, mon coeur. Mon chou fantastique."

"Missed you, too." Alan sighed, giving her another squeezing hug and feeling a shoulder-rolling shudder go right down to his toes as he did so. "You, I adore, aussi, ma chou. Je t'adore … trиs beaucoup]"

Damme to hell, but… he sighed to himself, biting his lip but with his hands gently caressing her in spite of all; I said it, both ways-Frog and English. Damme to hell, but it's true!

"Je t'adore, ma belle amour. Je t'adore," he whispered. In for the penny, in for the pound, indeed. But it felt so good to be back!

"Ahoy, the boat!" Midshipman Spendlove called to the heavy hired cutter, as it neared them, oars dipping in liquid gold water in an amber-tinted Mediterranean twilight.

"Jesterl" came the return hail, from their captain himself.

"Must be in a hurry, not to've sent off for his gig," Hyde opined by his side, on the starboard gangway.

"Thought we'd have been up-anchor, and away, hours ago," Mister Midshipman Spendlove rejoined. Though he had already speculated on why the captain had sent his gig back to the ship, just after he had gotten to Gibraltar 's Old Mole landing, a heavy bundle of dispatches in a canvas-wrapped case under his arm. And then he hadn't returned since noon? And Midshipman Clarence Spendlove, from previous service, knew what tempting lure still lurked at Gibraltar, to ensnare the captain… just like Dido from his Latin texts. Dido and… whatever his name was! Imprudent reality made his slim erudition flee his head.

"Mine arse on a bandbox," Spendlove muttered sotto voce, emulating his commanding officer, once he had a gander at the cutter's contents. "Mister Rydell, midshipman of the watch's duty to Mister Knolles, and inform him the captain's returning aboard. Run, boy! Mister Cony? Bosun o' the watch, there! Side-party, man the gangway!"

Spithead nightingales shrilled, Marine Sergeant Boothby and the first officer, Mister Knolles, presented swords. Marines stamped their feet and slapped walnut musket stocks in salute, as the top of their captain's hat loomed over the lip of the entry port. Crewmen of the watch, and most of the off-duty watch idling on deck, doffed hats, to pay homage.

Homage that was returned, by the doff of a gold-laced cocked hat, on Lewrie's part, once he'd attained the security of the upper oaken gangway deck.