Today's guest is Jean Roberta, whose bawdy period novella The Flight of the Black Swan is a delicious riff on a classic tale...
Imagine an upper class English girl kidnapped by pirates when she was eleven, and eventually returned to her family. If this sounds familiar, you've probably either read the classic book A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes, or seen the movie. Whatever you may imagine, Jean Roberta has taken the grown-up Emily far beyond your--or the younger Emily's--wildest speculations. This is, indeed, a ''Bawdy Novella,'' but there is more to it than that. Emily is a smart, spirited heroine, adventurous enough to see the bright side of the unspoken (and unfounded) assumption that she must be ''damaged goods.'' When her romantic affair at a girls' school is abruptly ended because of her lover's cowardice, Emily tosses off the constraints of 19th century English society and returns to the sea on a more-or-less pirate ship, the Black Swan, manned by gay fugitives from the British Navy.
Here Emily, on board the Black Swan and headed for America in the 1860s, consummates her marriage-of-convenience to Roger, the Captain, and his First Mate, Martin:
My heart filled with affection for both my unlikely suitors. I realized then that love exists in as many different types and degrees as there are colors in the sky and the sea. “You’re both generous,” I told them, smiling. “And honestly, I’m starved for it.”
Roger wrapped me in his arms, and gave me a gentle kiss that carried a hint of fire. I immediately felt like a match that has been struck. “Oh,” I gasped, pulling away, “but I really don’t want to become a mother. Not yet. I hope you don’t—”
“Emily,” smiled Roger, “we understand you, and we quite agree. No offense taken. We have too much in hand to invite more difficulty into our lives. Never fear, dear.” He winked. “We know how to give you all the pleasure you can bear with no distressing consequences.”
“If you wish,” muttered Martin. He cleared his throat. “Emily, we shall both close our eyes whilst you undress.”
“Don’t be silly, Martin,” I told him. I couldn’t help feeling amused at his discomfort. “If we’re going to do this at all, we must do it properly. We must have no secrets from each other.” I began to unbutton my shirt, holding his gaze with mine.
Dear Reader, please don’t judge me for surrendering what was left of my virtue for the sake of friendship. I did not love my husband or his lover in the way that good women in our time were expected to love men—more than life itself!—but then little about my marriage satisfied the requirements of Society.
I handed my mannish garments to Martin, one at a time, and he occupied himself by folding them carefully. I soon stood barefooted and as naked as Eve on the slippery wooden deck, watching my two suitors studying my form in the flickering light from a lantern. I could feel the vibrations of the ship in my legs and even in my small, sensitive breasts.
I didn’t need to ask which man would be my first. “Emily, darling,” said Roger, approaching me with arms outspread. He scooped me into his embrace and lifted me off my feet. He raised me until my face was even with his, then he kissed me with all the restrained passion that any female lover of novels might hope for.
Laying me in his hammock, Roger smiled at Martin, who still stood with my clothes in his arms like a laundress. “Come on, man,” said my husband. “Don’t deprive her of your favors.”
As Roger left burning kisses down my throat to my breasts, holding me close, I felt Martin stroking my legs, moving higher up my thighs until his fingers were in the curly hair that barely covered my moistening cleft. Seemingly on impulse, Martin pushed his nose right into my wetness as though my nectar were as necessary to him as milk to a baby. “Don’t be afraid, dear,” he told me, although he had no reason to think me reluctant.
Roger stroked my hair while nuzzling my breasts. Martin grasped my buttocks in both hands like a jolly sailor with a woman on the town, and lapped at my wet folds with a broad tongue until I squirmed under him in almost unbearable ecstasy. Both men seemed delighted with my responses. Roger squeezed each of my breasts in turn, and stroked my nipples until I could feel them harden. I struggled to get enough air into my lungs. I could feel my pulse beating time in my puckered nubs, and Roger sucked them into his mouth as though to give them relief.
I was on the point of spending, but I controlled my feelings until I could determine whether Roger, my bridegroom, would really deflower me—assuming that neither Lucy nor I had done this already. My guess was well-founded. Martin spread my thighs apart, then backed away as Roger placed himself over me, one hand on his red prick to guide it into my waiting cunny. He was as much a gentleman as I could reasonably expect, but before I could fully accept his large sword in my scabbard, I felt such a burning pain inside that I instinctively jerked upward, further impaling myself.
“Oh!” I heard myself shout.
“Shh!” replied both men at once. They were clearly more conscious of an unseen audience of listening ears than I was.
“Easy, dear,” Roger told me. His voice in my ear sounded sympathetic, but with a note of masculine pride as well. “I’m all the way in. I won’t be long.”
I thought him altogether too long and too thick, but soon the pain inside me mellowed into a heat that heightened my excitement.
“Ahh,” breathed Roger, jerking his prick out of me with rude haste. A fountain of white spunk erupted from the tiny slit in the prick’s head like champagne bursting from its bottle, and baptized my belly. “Thank God,” he swore. “That was close. I’m sorry, Emily, but you cast a spell on me. I could hardly control myself.”
Roger’s prick softened to a less intimidating size, but it still bore streaks of red. I knew that my maidenhead must be well and truly gone.
Had I ever really hoped to live the life of a respectable woman? At that point, I couldn’t be sure. I reminded myself that no one could ever blame me for submitting to my bridegroom on our honeymoon. No one.
Looking over Roger’s shoulder, I saw Martin standing upright against the wall, wearing a forlorn expression.
“Help me, Martin.” I begged, wanting to give him as much comfort as I hoped he would give me. “I need your tongue.”
Roger moved aside, allowing Martin to take his place. Martin showed his skill at soothing my tender slit with his tongue, and he seemed sincerely interested in my female parts. I surmised that he had sailed in such waters before.
The Flight of the Black Swan is available in paperback, e-book and audio from
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Jean Roberta lives on the Canadian prairies, where the vastness of the land and the sky encourage daydreaming. She has taught English at the local university for over twenty-five years, and now teaches creative writing there as well. Her diverse short stories (mostly erotic) have appeared in print anthologies from both sides of the Atlantic, and in several sadly-missed journals and websites that
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1 comment:
What a fabulous excerpt, Jean! Not to mention a lovely photo.
Respectability is highly overrated!
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