Odyssey - 70. Chapter 70

October 31, 1798

London

It was All Hallows Eve, and Lord Spencer was due to attend a party at the Duke of Portland’s house. Before he left, he had one matter to attend to. He had, laid out across his desk, several letters, all with the same objective. The two most prominent were at the center of his desk. The first was from the Honorable East India Company, requesting that the Santa Clarita be sent back to India to serve in Rainier’s fleet. It was full of flowery language about the intrepid nature and superb skills of her captain, Francis Calvert, and it cited further the fact that the Santa Clarita was made of durable hardwoods and would survive in those tropical climes better than the standard ship. The second most important letter was from the Earl of Bridgemont, also requesting that the Santa Clarita be sent back to India. Bridgemont’s arguments were different, in that they alluded to the recent issues with his middle son Albert and his decision to remain in Calcutta. Bridgemont wanted a secure and trusted messenger to carry important personal letters to Albert, and as Calvert was a friend of the family, he was quite suitable for the purpose. Spencer bristled at that, at the idea that Royal Navy vessels would be dispatched to the ends of the earth merely to accommodate the correspondence of a powerful peer, but then shrugged that off, as that is how politics worked.

And as a shrewd politician, Spencer knew that there was more at work here than merely Bridgemont and John Company posturing. Someone else was pulling levers to have Calvert sent away. There was one voice that had not sounded off on this matter, one person who would probably have had something to say about Calvert’s deployment, but Spencer saw no correspondence from Caroline Granger. He wondered if she was behind this, and if so, what was her motive. She had schemed before to keep Calvert separated from her husband, but had since turned into one of his biggest cheerleaders. Could she have had a change of heart, yet again? Cavendish chose that moment to enter his office, bearing additional letters. “Will you need anything further this evening, sir?” he asked.

Spencer liked Cavendish, who was cultured, refined, and smart. He was also relatively trustworthy, which was saying something in this cesspool of politics that was the Admiralty. “What do you make of this?” He showed Cavendish the letters that he’d received, and watched as the young man scanned them.

“It would appear that someone wants Captain Calvert sent far away, presumably to get him away from England, sir,” Cavendish said, drawing the logical conclusion. He was well aware of this plan, and he was well aware of who was behind it. Caroline had implored him to do what he could to help her get Calvert sent abroad, although she had been quite vague as to why.

“But who?” Spencer asked.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m not sure that it matters all that much.”

“And why is that?” Spencer demanded.

“I do not see any letters here from other commanders, asking that Calvert be sent to serve with them, sir,” Cavendish noted.

“St. Vincent said he would welcome him, but it was hardly voiced as a strong request,” Spencer agreed. “And sending him off to India would certainly make Vandeput happy.” He was the admiral commanding the North American station, and he had managed to develop a particular dislike for Calvert, which was evident with the shoddy court martial he’d engineered over Calvert’s loss of Intrepid. Spencer was less than pleased with the admiral, though, so Vandeput’s happiness was perhaps not a positive.

“Admiral Rainier has been asking for additional forces, sir,” Cavendish reminded Spencer.

“So you are telling me that it really does not matter who is trying to get rid of Calvert, what matters is that I can satisfy Rainier along with several other powerful interests at the same time,” Spencer mused.

“That was on my mind, sir,” Cavendish said with his grin.

“It is hardly the best time of year to send Santa Clarita to India. She would surely hit the monsoons,” Spencer noted. Besides, it would be better to send a frigate to India as part of an escort, and there were no convoys headed that way at this time of year. Then his thoughts seemed to congeal. “It seems dashed unfair to Calvert to send him all the way back to the East Indies so soon after returning. They will think me the biggest tyrant who lived.” He liked Calvert, who was charming and smart, and had conducted himself admirably on this last voyage.

Cavendish knew that the ‘they’ Spencer was referring to was polite society, as well as the Navy in general. “Perhaps he does not have to be sent so far away, sir. If the objective is to get him away from England, there are closer stations.”

“I could send him to the Mediterranean. St. Vincent likes him, and that is certainly no small achievement,” Spencer grumbled. He saw Cavendish’s expression, saw him struggling with that, and grimaced. “You want to tell me that the Mediterranean is not far enough away.”

“That was on my mind, sir,” Cavendish said with an impish grin. Besides, when Granger returned, it was highly likely that St. Vincent would want him back, and the objective, as Caroline had explained, was to keep some distance between them.

Spencer got up and walked over to the map, and his eyes inadvertently settled on the West Indies. That made him frown. There had been another mutiny, a horrific mutiny, aboard the frigate Hermione. Her captain, Pigot, had all but tortured his men and driven them to kill him and take over the ship. Even worse, the treasonous dogs had handed the ship over to the Spanish. She was sitting there in Porto Cabello, safe under the guns of the Spanish fortress. Calvert was resourceful, and the men liked him. “I will send him out to the West Indies. Sir Hyde Parker has been screaming for reinforcements, and maybe Calvert can help them flush out the Hermione and search down the mutineers.”

HMS Hermione being cut out in Porto Cabello

“An excellent idea, begging your pardon, sir,” Cavendish said, confident that the West Indies was far enough from England to placate Caroline. “Captain Calvert has served with success in those waters before.”

“And there is the added benefit that it will annoy Vandeput to have him back in the same hemisphere,” Spencer joked, making them both laugh. “Do you think that will placate those who wish Calvert to be shipped to the Indies?”

“I suspect that it will, sir,” Cavendish said.

Spencer nodded. “What officers does he have on board?”

“For lieutenants, he has Robey, Lord Milton, and Gatling, sir,” Cavendish said. Spencer raised an eyebrow, marveling that Cavendish knew that without checking. Lord Milton was Lord Fitzwilliam's son.

“Let’s transfer Milton off his ship and appoint another lieutenant to take his place,” Spencer said. “Draft orders for Milton, and for Calvert. We’ll locate another lieutenant for Calvert tomorrow.”

“I will attend to it directly, sir,” Cavendish said. He went back to his office and rattled out orders to the secretaries there, then left for the evening, determined to arrive at his father’s party before Spencer did.

November 10, 1798

Paris

“Madame Bonaparte,” Granger said as he bowed and kissed her hand in a courtly way. “I must thank you for inviting me to your home yet again.”

Josephine de Beauharnais Bonaparte eyed this Englishman with amusement. He had frequented her salon, which she appreciated, but he had also frequented those of others, including Madame Tallien. He did not thrive on the intellectual conversation of some of the drier members of the Parisian elites, people such as Madame de Stael and Benjamin Constant, rather his aristocratic airs reminded them of the styles and manners of their past. It made him charming and pleasant, but also mildly annoying, since his gracious demeanor tended to accentuate the less cultured behavior of the nouveaux who occupied power in Paris. “It is always a pleasure to see you, Lord Granger. And I see you have brought Mr. Eastwyck with you.”

Josephine Bonaparte

“I am also in your debt,” Eastwyck said, mimicking Granger’s gesture. Josephine raised an eyebrow at this other young Englishman. Granger was aloof and proper, one who even when inebriated was always on his guard. There was a secret competition amongst the hostesses of the Directory to see who could bed him first, but alas, none of them had the slightest bit of luck. Eastwyck was less refined, probably because he was from a lower social class, but she sensed he would be a much more willing bedmate.

“Perhaps you would be willing to repay that debt by allowing me to show you my latest acquisition. It is a painting I have just bought,” she said.

“With pleasure,” Eastwyck said with a bow, and offered her his arm. He led her off to another room, while conversation in the salon continued, the others seemingly oblivious to this temporary absence of their hostess.

George Granger pasted on his smile, even though he fought back the jealous demons inside himself. He and Eastwyck had become all but inseparable, which was entirely appropriate since they were both captives in Paris, and both staying with Talleyrand. They enjoyed each other’s company, and as they had, Granger had felt his feelings for this handsome young lieutenant grow and develop. They had become intimate in all ways except physically, although Granger had certainly detected some pretty strong hints from Eastwyck that such a liaison would not be unwelcome. Yet for some reason, he had not pursued them, and Eastwyck had not pushed him.

Eastwyck came from a prominent northern family and was a member of the gentry. His family was one that was on the fringes of the aristocracy, but not a part of it. He seemed to have relatives in key positions of the army, the navy, and the government, but those positions were at a more practical level, such as a key secretariat or other vital administrative function. Granger suspected that based on the intellect and social skills he’d seen from Eastwyck, as well as his cousins, Somers and Sir Phillip Kerry, it was only a matter of time before their family was able to demand a place among the elites of the realm. But they were not there yet, and the difference in the way Granger and Eastwyck acted was an outward sign of that.

These ruminations did nothing to stifle the jealous beast that lived within Granger, even as he chided himself for that emotion. There was no reason for Eastwyck not to indulge himself, and Madame Bonaparte certainly was an attractive woman. There was also the added benefit of seeing him cuckold the man who was conquering Egypt, and was possibly on his way to vanquishing the Ottoman Empire. While Bonaparte was off causing mischief in foreign lands, his enemies were here in Paris, fucking his wife.

Sieyes

“I see you are without your companion tonight, Lord Granger,” Sieyes said, joining the circle Granger was with. Granger had a difficult time being polite to this man, whom he found to be crass and annoying.

“I fear you are mistaken, Monsieur,” Granger said smoothly. “He has merely absented himself to view some new artworks.”

“You should take him out to see the museum at Versailles,” Sieyes said to Talleyrand with disdain. Sieyes did not miss a chance to assert his dominance over Talleyrand. “Then he can see what art truly looks like.”

“I have been waiting for the government to approve just such a pass,” Talleyrand said. “Perhaps you are influential enough to make that happen.”

“Perhaps,” Sieyes said with annoyance, mostly at Talleyrand’s ability to parry his thrusts so successfully. “So tell us Lord Granger, how do you find this country, where we have successfully ridden ourselves of our King, who was no more than a parasite, leeching the life out of France to support his own pleasures.”

Granger bristled at this insult to the House of Bourbon, and to monarchy in general. “I have thoroughly enjoyed France, and the French people,” he said graciously, getting smiles from the group around them. “But I do not see the cause and effect relationship between executing your king and the beauty that is France.”

“France was not beautiful before, where her peasants were ground under the yoke of tyranny,” Sieyes said self-righteously.

“I am wondering if, when the King reigned, highwaymen roamed the countryside and ravaged travelers as they do now?” Granger asked pointedly. “I am wondering if the general lack of order that appears to pervade the country is a positive development, as you see it.” Granger watched the crowd respond to his blatant condemnation of the Directory, and noted that some snickered, while others were outraged. He chided himself for allowing Sieyes to irritate him, and for allowing Eastwyck’s tryst with Josephine Bonaparte to put him in a bad enough mood to succumb to Sieyes’ taunts.

“Perhaps you are not being entirely impartial,” Sieyes said innocently, even though it was possible to see his temper exploding behind his eyes. “Perhaps your own aristocratic roots have made it impossible to see the beauties of removing, in addition to the King, that class of bloodsuckers who thrive on the essence of the people of France.”

Granger felt the rage growing in him, at seeing his entire social class, his entire caste attacked by this upstart. But as enraged as he may be, he was determined to let no one see it. Instead, he adopted the nonchalant style of Talleyrand, who said little, but when he did, his words had impact. “I think, Monsieur, that all you have done is turn your lawyers into lords, and your lords into lawyers.”

Sieyes eyes flashed fire at that, and Granger stood there, all but waiting for him to explode, daring him to do so with merely his eyes. The crowd around Granger, who had built and then thrived on this contrived society known as the Directory, looked at him with equal irritation, and that seemed to bolster Sieyes enough to help him control his emotions. “I will work on your pass. Perhaps some time away from Paris will help you appreciate what we have built.” That was most definitely a threat, but Granger was not daunted by it. He knew that a snippy exchange with Sieyes would not cost him his life, or otherwise impact his captivity. Sieyes turned away from him and spoke to others, and the crowd around Granger melted off accordingly. Granger was not bothered by that at all.

A familiar figure approached him, smiling. Don Jose de Azara was an older man, in his late 50s, serving as His Most Catholic Majesty’s ambassador in Paris. He was often found at these salons, as he was first and foremost a man of law and letters, and a diplomat second. “I fear you have summed up the Directory a bit too succinctly,” he said to Granger in Spanish.

“It is my experience, Your Excellency, that the truth can sometimes be painful,” Granger responded in that language, making both of them chuckle.

“I was hoping to encounter you,” de Azara said, “as I have something for you.” He handed Granger a packet of letters. “Correspondence from Spain, mostly consisting of letters from Their Excellencies the Dukes of Cardona and Lerma.”

Granger’s smile broadened. “It is all I can do to restrain myself and not run off and read these now. May I impose upon Your Excellency, once I have had a chance to read and respond to these letters, to send my letters back to Spain for me?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, bowing. “Despite your depredations in the Pacific, I have been instructed to do what I can to speed your parole.”

“I am most appreciative,” Granger said. “I have been gone for well over a year now, and would relish a chance to return home. As for the depredations you speak of, I was doing my duty while trying to conduct myself in an honorable way.”

“And certainly no one is disputing that,” de Azara said soothingly. “You are a bit like Casanova, where one feels remorse at losing one’s virtue to you, but is strangely satisfied, nonetheless.” They both laughed at that analogy.

“I think that is the highest compliment I have yet received,” Granger responded. He chatted away with the Spanish ambassador until Eastwyck returned to the Salon, some sixty minutes after he had departed, and fifteen minutes after Madame Bonaparte had returned. His appearance seemed spruce, and he did not have the flushed look one would expect of a young man who had just fucked someone. Clearly he had used his recovery time wisely.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Granger asked, ensuring he kept any acidity out of his tone.

“Most certainly, my lord,” Eastwyck said, his charming smile punctuating his words. The smile faded when Granger said nothing, but moved on to talk to others. Eastwyck wondered if he had offended his captain, and was confused as to what may have displeased him.

After spending a considerable time at the Salon, the three of them, Talleyrand, Eastwyck, and Granger, rode home in the carriage in uncharacteristic silence. Talleyrand was bristling internally at Granger’s remark to Sieyes, for although he knew why Granger said it, and he thought Granger was right; the thought of him transitioning from a lord into a lawyer was too horrible for words. Granger was silent as he grappled with his jealousy over Eastwyck’s tryst, and he wrestled with his general loneliness. He needed love, and he needed sex, and the only man who was probably in a position to give him that was presumably more focused on the fairer sex. That such a focus was a normal and proper attitude for Eastwyck did nothing to squelch Granger’s internal irritation. And Eastwyck remained silent because as the junior officer it was his place to do so, and because, despite his acute political instincts, he failed to see what he had done to annoy his benefactor.

Granger withdrew to his room and engrossed himself in the letters he’d received from Spain. Cardona regaled him with court gossip, and with the reaction of the Court and the King to his exploits in the Pacific. Much as de Azara had intimated, while they were obviously not happy with his incursions, and certainly not happy at what they cost, they were somewhat philosophical in writing it off to the costs of war, and bore him no malice. Granger, in a mood to flagellate himself, wondered if by feeling relieved at staying in the good graces of the King of Spain he was being disloyal to his own sovereign. Why should he care about the opinions of the enemy? But while Spain was at war with Great Britain, Granger decided that did not mean that he must hate all Spaniards, it just meant that he must do his duty to prosecute the war. He clung to that thought, ignoring the escapades of his randy lieutenant, and managed to finally drift off into a fitful sleep.

November 13, 1798

Palais de Versailles

The carriage rumbled into the courtyard and up to the entrance to the Palace, much as it would have done for King Louis XIV. “In the days of the ancien regime, only the King’s carriages were allowed here,” their guide said. He was the Marquis d’Argenson, an older man who had spent much time at Versailles in his younger days. He had emigrated during the Terror, then ultimately returned and settled into a quiet but remote life. Talleyrand had pulled him out of obscurity, or most likely bribed him, to take Granger and Eastwyck on a tour of the massive place.

“I hope we will be forgiven for such an act of lese majesty,” Granger said with a smile. They looked out at this sprawling edifice which was once the center of government, but which now was a museum that housed famous works of art.

“Those rules no longer exist,” he said, forcing his voice to remain neutral lest he show any royalist sympathies. Their guard, a squad of ten hussars, dismounted, and five of them followed d’Argenson, Granger, and Eastwyck into the palace. Granger noted that the weather, which had been almost pleasant when they’d left Paris, was decidedly colder. The clouds above them seemed to indicate that a weather front was moving into the area, and that was the cause of the temperatures that were fast becoming frigid.

“May I help you?” growled a grizzled old man. A woman stood next to him, presumably his wife, since she was of similar age, and similarly decrepit.

“I am d’Argenson, and I have come to show these gentlemen around the palace,” he said curtly.

“We were not aware of any delegation,” the man said.

“You are being made aware now,” d’Argenson said firmly. His irritation at being addressed by these peasants in less than an obsequious manner was obvious. The old man eyed the large hussars, harrumphed, and turned to leave them. And so they began to explore the palace, these eight men, reveling in the sights of not only the magnificent architecture, but of the artwork that had been assembled here. It was not in any particular order, and there were paintings that were not even hung on the walls, but it was all of it spectacular. Clearly the caretaker assigned to the palace did not appreciate the art, or was too lazy to do anything about it.

“I fear, gentlemen, that we would have enjoyed this more a month ago,” Granger said to them in a friendly way. The hussars smiled and nodded, but they were not as impressed by these fine objects as d’Argenson and the Englishmen. They did appreciate that it was cold, though, and longed to find an inn with a roaring fire and a pint of beer. Their hope was that these men would soon tire of this tour and see the beauty of the warmth and alcohol they envisioned.

They traversed up to the first floor, and through the Salon de Venus, which was the entry point into the Grands Apartments. Granger marveled at how beautiful and ornate these rooms were, even with their furnishings stripped out. They had dedicated rooms to the Roman gods: to Diana, Mars, Hercules, and Apollo. It was these rooms that comprised the state apartments of the French kings. It was hard not to feel the majesty of those men looking down with disapproval at this new regime that had swept their descendants away, and left their palace to all but rot.

From the Salon of War, as d’Argenson styled it, they entered the Hall of Mirrors, a fabulous room that went the length of the palace. Windows overlooked the gardens, while the mirrors on the opposite walls reflected the outside scenery back into the room. If the weather were not so cold and miserable, this would truly be a magnificent sight.

And so they explored, touring the Queen’s ceremonial apartments, and then moving inward to the private rooms of the former French monarchs. The hussars were much happier in the private apartments, since they were internal and warmer, shielded from the wind by walls, and not porous windows.

When they finally emerged from the interior apartments and returned to the Hall of Mirrors, they were all horrified to see snow blanketing the grounds. “It is too cold to return to Paris,” d’Argenson announced to all of them. He turned to the nearest hussar. “We will stay at Marly. Send the others to prepare rooms for us there, and to find mattresses to sleep on. We will require food, and make sure they stock up amply on wood.”

“Food, wood, and some wine, will no doubt require money,” Granger said, interceding. He handed the hussar a number of coins. He suspected that had he not done that, the hussars would have been reluctant to acquire items from their own purse, and may have just appropriated them from the local populace. Granger was hoping that his money would improve the quality of the fare they received as a result.

“Thank you, sir,” the hussar said formally, and left with relative haste. He was no doubt anxious to get out of the cold. After he left, they continued their tour, visiting the wings that had housed the various ministers and courtiers, until their teeth were chattering, and they could endure the cold no longer. They entered the carriage for the brief ride to Marly, while d’Argenson wistfully hoped that the hussars had made that small palace inhabitable.

“The Chateau de Marly was quite spectacular in its day,” d’Argenson informed them. “It was where the King went to relax, to escape from the rigors of the Court.”

“Rigors?” Eastwyck asked, no doubt wondering what those would be, since the King would have been completely pampered at Versailles, with his every whim waiting to be met.

“It is not easy to live in the public eye,” d’Argenson noted. “The King of France was always on display, and always being watched by his courtiers. That alone must become wearing.”

“I witnessed that at the Alhambra,” Granger said, validating d’Argenson’s comments. “The royal family appeared to me to be living in a luxurious cage.”

“An apt description,” d’Argenson agreed. Eastwyck nodded as he pondered their words. “To receive an invitation to join the King at Marly was a sign of favor, and one that was quite coveted. Those attending the King would wait until they had his attention and ask ‘Marly, sire?’ The King invariably would say ‘we will see,’ then he would compile his list. It created quite a bit of competition and rancor depending on who was asked to a ‘Marly’,” d’Argenson noted.

“It is probably not terribly unlike being invited to Windsor by His Majesty,” Granger said, almost as much to himself. He hoped that the French courtiers had enjoyed their time here more than he had enjoyed Windsor.

Chateau de Marly

The carriage pulled up to a lovely setting, a natural valley, where several buildings surrounded what must have been a spectacular pool with fountains, but was now placid and derelict. The miserable weather detracted from the pretty sight, but only slightly. At the head of the pool was a large building, with smoke coming out of its chimneys. “That is the King’s Pavilion,” d’Argenson noted. “The hussars have decided we will stay there.” It was hard to tell if he was annoyed by that, or if he was happy.

“As long as it is warm, it will serve,” Granger said with a smile.

D’Argenson smiled wanly, and then continued. “You will note that there are two other buildings adjacent to the King’s Pavilion. These housed important guests, usually members of the royal family. There are ten other buildings, five on each side of the pond, and these housed other guests. Usually two parties shared a pavilion.” D’Argenson looked at this royal retreat wistfully. “In earlier times, it was quite the showplace, with fountains and waterfalls.”

“It is still quite grand,” Granger said, trying to make him feel better. It probably made no difference.

They got out of the carriage and were pelted by snow, in what was quickly looking to be a blizzard. It was a quick sprint to the pavilion, but as soon as they entered, they were welcomed by the relative warmth of the sheltered room. Granger allowed himself to appreciate the warmth, but that feeling was soon overcome by the smell of food. Two old women labored over a fire, cooking something that smelled quite wonderful. Granger hoped that it would taste as good as its aroma. And so they ate in a communal way, d’Argenson, the Englishmen, and the hussars, sitting around the fire much as they might sit around a campfire. Granger felt as if he were on campaign, on the march with the army.

They were all relatively quiet during dinner, even though Granger made sure to thank them all effusively for bringing them out there. After they were finished dining, d’Argenson grabbed two candles and led them into what must have once been spectacular apartments. “These are the King’s apartments. We were only able to find one mattress. Hopefully that will serve.”

Granger eyed the relatively narrow mattress that had been placed close to the blazing fire. “I’m sure it will be fine. Thank you, monsieur.”

“There will be servants to attend to the fire during the night,” he said. He handed Granger one of the candles, then left, taking the other one with him.

Granger walked over to the mattress and began to remove his outer garments: his coat, his vest, and his shoes. “My lord, I can sleep on the floor,” Eastwyck offered, seeing how small the mattress was.

“You can, but I prefer that you do not,” Granger said. “I will feel bad for your lack of comfort, but more importantly, I am hoping that the heat from your body will help eradicate the chills from my own.”

“I will attempt to turn myself into a human furnace, my lord,” Eastwyck said, making Granger chuckle. He arrayed their coats near the fire to dry them off, and then stripped off his trousers and his shirt, so he was naked and shivering. “I hope this is alright, my lord. This way we can dry out our clothes for tomorrow.”

Granger tried not to lust too much at his body. “A good idea,” Granger said, and proceeded to remove the rest of his clothing as well. He finally stood there, as naked as Eastwyck, with his teeth chattering, then climbed into the bed, such as it was. Granger lay on his side, arranging the blankets over him, when he felt Eastwyck climb in behind him. He lay with his back to Granger’s back, an innocuous enough position until Granger felt his own buttocks touch Eastwyck’s firm, round globes.

They both froze in place, as if unsure if it was alright to have their asses touching each other, but then they gradually relaxed, letting their backs touch as well. Despite the fire and their closeness, they were still not generating enough heat to stop their teeth from chattering. Granger felt the mattress moving as Eastwyck repositioned himself, and then instead of his back, Granger felt the young man’s chest pressing up against his back. The warmth from his body was intoxicating. “Is this alright, my lord?” he asked nervously.

Granger moved back into him, and grabbed one of his arms and pulled it to his chest. “This is better,” he said, and looked behind him to grin at Eastwyck.

“I think so too, begging your pardon, my lord,” he said, making them both chuckle. Now they lay there, relaxed and warm and so content was Granger that he emitted a sigh, something that was rare for him. They lay there, and Granger heard Eastwyck’s soft snores, so he knew he was asleep. One of the servants came in and stoked the fire, adding more logs, but didn’t really deign to even look at them.

When he left, Granger moved slightly, and that elicited a response from Eastwyck. He tightened his grip on Granger, pulling him closer, and totally enveloping him with his arms. Granger felt something poking him in his ass gently, as if testing him to see if it was alright. He smiled to himself and pushed his ass back toward Eastwyck, and felt the hard thing, his cock, slide between his legs so it was lodged along his taint, with the head pressed firmly against the back of his balls. “Mmm,” Eastwyck murmured, and began to move his hips, sliding his cock along Granger’s taint ever so slightly.

Granger moaned and slid his ass in the opposite direction to Eastwyck’s small thrusts, accentuating the range of motion. His own dick was rock hard, but he kept his hands to his sides, waiting to see if Eastwyck was asleep and dreaming, or awake and trying to fuck him. He felt Eastwyck’s mouth on his neck, kissing and nibbling, and that sent shockwaves down Granger’s body. Granger moaned more loudly, and moved more deliberately.

Eastwyck was sliding easily now, and Granger could feel something wet against his taint. Eastwyck must be spewing out precum, and he was doing it in copious amounts. Granger adjusted his ass so now Eastwyck’s cock was pushing against his hole. With each small little thrust, he deposited more precum into Granger’s hole. With each small little thrust, his dick went just a little farther into Granger. Granger felt Eastwyck’s head pushing into him, and just when it was about to pierce through Granger’s ring, Eastwyck backed off. Then he moved in again, going just a little farther, getting just a little closer to penetrating him, and then backed off yet again.

Granger had not had sex since Beauvilliers had last fucked him. He had largely forced his sexual urges to remain dormant, only sating them with his hand. But having this handsome man so close to fucking him was fueling his normally active libido much like pouring fuel onto a burning fire. Eastwyck pushed in again, and was so close to fully penetrating Granger that Granger was about to go mad, when Eastwyck made to pull out. Only Granger had had enough. He reached behind himself and grabbed Eastwyck’s ass to hold it still and then jammed his own ass back into Eastwyck’s cock. He moaned contentedly as he felt it slide into his hole.

And with that, Eastwyck came alive. He put one hand on Granger’s abdomen, and wrapped the other arm and hand around his chest to immobilize him, and then he began to fuck Granger. His lips were assaulting Granger’s back, so Granger craned his neck around and moved his own mouth to meet Eastwyck’s. Their lips met in a surreal connection, the likes of which Granger had only experienced before with Cavendish. Granger let his body go, then let himself respond to Eastwyck’s thrusts with his own undulations, and was so excited and so absorbed that he almost screamed out when he felt Eastwyck’s hand on his cock.

Granger knew from the urgent way Eastwyck was stroking him that Eastwyck was close, and he was right. Eastwyck uttered a guttural growl, groaning into Granger’s mouth as he deposited his seed deep inside Granger’s bowel. The feeling of Eastwyck’s cock expanding and exploding inside of him, the stimulation of Eastwyck’s hand on his cock, and the raw power of Eastwyck’s growl sent Granger over the edge with him. He held his other hand in front of his cock to catch his own load, and it seemed that the first few shots hit his palm with an incredible force. They writhed together, milking their orgasms for all they could, and then Eastwyck pulled out and collapsed onto his back, panting from the exertion.