The Sailor’s Dream


Nova Scotia 1896

The young man lay in his berth awake in the dark, his agitated body without relief. He tried again to focus upon the gentle sound of water lapping against the hull of the boat — but he could not stop thinking on the bonnie lass sleeping next to him. No part of him touched her, least of all his yearning cock, yet he was full attuned to the warmth of her small, nubile form under the covers. Rising upon his elbow he leaned closer to her.

In the starlight coming through the porthole he could just make out her pale face and dark hair. No paint wore she — no perfumes, nor unguents, but his primal awareness of her innate female scent set his organ a-twitching like the antenna of a bee scenting nectar. Under the blankets his hand bridged the space between them to seek out hers; ever so softly his fingers squeezed hers. “Liam,” she mumbled in her sleep. He sighed at the sound of his name upon her lips, his eyes lingering upon the dim outline of her.

After a moment he slipped silently from the berth, gathered his clothes, and retreated to the main cabin to dress and don his wool pea coat. From a locker in the galley he retrieved a bottle of whiskey and poured a measure into a tin cup. He climbed the ladder to the cockpit. All was peaceful without: the sheltered cove was empty save for his boat, and no lights were visible upon the shore. Only the faintest breeze touched his face.

He stretched out upon the cockpit seat and rested the whiskey cup on his chest, drinking of it intermittently as he contemplated the heavens. ‘Twas a moonless night, and the light from the stars outlined in ghostly blue the mast soaring above him. Usually a sight eliciting in equal measure sensations of serenity and pride, it was no longer a source for him of such solace.

He thought on the course of his life and the events which had brought him to this pass. In the space of his twenty-four years he had gone from a farm lad in Ireland, to an apprentice naval architect, a seaman in her majesty’s navy, a longshoreman, and a shipwright. Now he was in America, grasping at all its promises — having acquired a modest boat of his own, and bringing in the tin chartering her out for sailing excursions to people of means.

Then she had happened. Anya. Just two months ago she had come into his life — in the guise of a young lad — running away from a life of wealth and privilege, hiring his vessel to cross the lake in her flight to escape a lecherous stepfather. On that ensuing, unforgettable voyage he had discovered the lovely shy lass, just turned eighteen, behind the boyish disguise. His heart had been beguiled…then tormented with longing for her…then elated to find his love was requited…then broken when she left him.

Alone together upon the lake, there had been three glorious days of sexual congress, embarked upon with the rupturing of her maidenhead, and followed by his instructing the innocent girl in all the ecstasies of Venus. He knew the wild, passionate nymph inside the demure maiden. They had fucked and fucked with the desperation and raw tenderness unique to forbidden lovers: she a sheltered, refined young lady from a wealthy family…with her creamy skin and fine garments; he a salty working- class Irishman…all lean muscle, calloused hands, and rough clothes.

With the voyage’s end she had vanished back into her rarefied life, taken away by a powerful…and sadistic rival. But true to his Gaelic blood, Liam had rebelled against the fate doled out to him, setting out in search of her, and eventually — through a terrible night of violence — effecting her rescue. He had recovered her, and together they had fled aboard his boat. Recovered her…aye…but at what cost? The brutality of the male soul revealed that night had been a shock to the naïve lass. Now even more quiet than before was she, edging her way through the confined space they shared, ever guarded, her big dark eyes haunted.

So it was then, that they sailed on, Liam heedful of her wounded spirit. He had promised to make port in Boston and, should she so wish, see her safely aboard a train back to her wealthy aunt. With every day’s sail that moment of reckoning loomed closer. Heartsick he was, but he was a man of honor and would keep his word, so he would. Yet every night he chafed as they lay together chastely in his berth. Chaste in deed, right true, but not in thought. He was possessed of the desire to disport himself with her lovely body…to feel her transported in the crisis of bliss…to fill her with the balm of his love. The armor of her shyness restrained him; he pressed her not with his monstrous hunger. Still…he clung to any buoy of hope…perhaps her murmuring his name in an unguarded moment…?

Liam emptied the last of the whiskey, breathing deeply of the heady fumes. Shifting upon the cockpit seat, he adjusted the coarse cotton of his trousers to ease the constraint upon his cockstand. Gripping the heavy shaft through Anadolu Yakası Escort the fabric, he gazed up at the night sky. The wind shifted slightly, and the boat rotated slowly on her anchor rode…above him Ursa Major wheeled sleepily.


He dreamt that he was back in the British Royal Navy, back aboard the HMS Abderdare. In his dream, he had snuck Anya aboard in plain sight — dressed as a young lad, and she was doing a creditable job acting as cabin boy. Many weeks at sea they had been, with neither his crewmates nor the officers any the wiser. He kept a protective eye upon her — but from a distance, for to be near her…to look down into her provocative eyes, to see her plush lips part, to smell her femaleness…aye…’twould be his undoing.

It had been weeks, weeks since he had had a man’s release; he was nigh bursting with the excruciating pressure of his craving… and when their eyes occasionally met across the space of the deck, the heat of her gaze told him that she similarly suffered. But lest he endanger her disguise, he had to keep away from her. No fervent kisses, no charged embraces, and absolutely no fucking.

In the crew’s cabin every night, he watched her covertly over the edge of his hammock as she climbed into hers hanging in the next row a few feet away. As she swung one leg up, her oversized boy’s trousers momentarily stretched tight, and in the lantern light, the rounded cheeks and shadowed cleft of her wondrous arse were a joy to behold. The edges of her hammock then hid her from view, but his eyes studied the small bulges and curved shapes in the canvas, and he imagined kissing the delicious source of each impression.

The voyage seemed interminable; day after day, night after night passed so, the pain of love consuming him. And then he was at the point of crisis; he could no longer contain himself. Finding himself again awake and engorged in the middle of the night, surrounded by the snores of his sleeping comrades, he deliberated no more. He tipped from his hammock and crept soundlessly in the dark cabin to hers. In one motion he was in the hammock with her, his hand upon her mouth forestalling any sudden vocalization, his rigid organ pressed against her bottom.

She started awake, but even in the pitch black knew ’twas he. Her body twisted round, his hand slid from her mouth. No sound made they, no whispers, no questions of whether ’twas safe. Their lips found each other’s. Hot, greedy kisses…his tongue in her mouth…their bodies straining together in the fabric cocoon…his hands upon her bound breasts under the shirt…her slim arms round him. The high sides of the hammock hid them from view, and they smothered the sounds of frenzied love — perhaps if a nearby person were awake there could be heard a faint intake of breath through parted lips, or a too frequent creaking of the beam from which the hammock hung.

He struggled with the cord cinching up the trousers round her narrow waist, then yanked it free. Under the loosened waistband his large hand burrowed. O Heaven! Her little mossy mound…her smooth warm thighs…her moist cunny crease. Her fingers tugged at his trouser opening. So intent was he upon achieving copulation that he noticed not the abrupt jerk of the hammock. ‘Twas not till Anya’s terrified gasp of “Liam!” that he felt that they were in free motion and heard the raucous voices; he realized that they were being carried in the hammock by several men.

He thrashed about, trying to get his head out, but the men had the canvas tightly bundled about them. “He likes the wee lads, does he?” came a loud taunt followed by a chorus of sniggering laughs. “So the big bogtrotter is a gal-boy!” They were dumped upon a hard surface, and the canvas was thrown open.

Anya and he scrambled to their knees. He squinted at the sudden lantern light in their faces, one arm held out defensively, the other holding her tightly against his large body. They were upon the long oak table in the middle of the cabin, encircled by his twenty-five jeering shipmates. The sneers and laughing abruptly halted. They all stared at Anya. Her wool cap was upon the table top and her pinned up hair was falling down her back in dark shining waves. Though she hid her face against his chest, his arm round her back and her hand clutching up her unfastened trousers pulled the baggy clothes tight and revealed the unmistakable female curves.

“‘Tis a wench!” The men crowded nearer, peering at her, excited and surprised chatter rising. “Liam, ye sly git! Ye stowed a dollymop aboard!” All round the table Liam saw the growing gleam of hunger in the men’s eyes as they appraised her potential assets. “Don’t be hoggish, mate! Let us have a go with her too.” Chuckles and whistles. “I haven’t had a fuck in months.” Anya shrank against him. The lantern was brought closer and slowly lowered along the length of her shaking body to a chorus of hoots and coarse speculation. “We can Bostancı Escort all have her — one after the other!” “Awww let her have a bit of kip between fucks…she’s such a little creature.” “Let me go first!”

Liam held out his hand to ward them off and spoke in a firm voice. “Calm yerselves, mates. Make no mistake: no doxy she be. She’s a gentle lass and me own sweetheart true.”

Silence fell over the men. They absorbed the sight of her bowed head and cowering body and Liam’s protective stance. Low comments round the table, but no one challenged him. Indeed, his comrades now seemed abashed by their crudeness. At last Mack, one of the older men, addressed him, his voice quiet: “May we see her Liam? I havena seen the face of a gentle lassie in many a month.” Murmurs of concurrence. “Aye Liam. Can we look on her face?” this from fellow Ulster lad, Jimmy McCann. “We’ll not harm her.”

Liam considered their request, his eyes traveling over the now subdued group. His arms relaxed round her, and he bent his head towards hers. “Anya,” he whispered close by her ear. “Will ye let them look at ye? Let them see your lovely face.” He stroked her hair. “Dinna be frightened, they’re sorry for their rude conduct. None here will hurt ye.” Slowly her face lifted from his bare chest. “There ye go, sweetheart. Lift your chin.”

Still kneeling, she sat back upon her heels, her eyes downcast, her hands in her lap gripping the twisted trouser waistband. Liam moved to kneel beside her, giving his shipmates an unobstructed view of her face. He pushed the heavy locks of hair back from her forehead and over her shoulders, while the circle of men shifted towards one end of the table. Liam brushed away a tear clinging to her cheek. It became very quiet.

They drank in the vision of her beauty: the striking contrast between the dark hair and white skin, the high cheekbones and blushing cheeks, the pink bow of her lips. Liam stared as well, as last able to indulge his adoring eyes after weeks of feigned detachment. Anya’s gaze lifted to look out at the men studying her and one by one they fell under the spell of her eyes. Large, heavy lashed, the unshed tears magnifying the hypnotic effect of the whiskey colored irises.

There were soft exclamations and murmurs all round. “O what a pretty girl!” “The jammiest bits of jam I ever saw!” “Have ye ever seen the like of such eyes?” “Above the background chatter a jocular voice called out: “Oi Liam! ‘Ows are ye so fortunate to find such a corker for yer sweetheart?”

“‘Tis the rewards of popery, mate,” he replied with a broad grin — payback for years of their friendly chaffing him for being Irish. He looked round at his comrades as they regarded his lass, and he saw the various emotions in their eyes — admiration, envy, longing, reverence, even pride in him their comrade — but all tellingly muted, as if the vision of her was beyond comprehension in the realm of their existence. These men whom he knew like brothers, he saw in their faces the years of hard labor and discipline, low wages, separation from loved ones…some without loved ones, dockside wenches for company, the ship their only home. But for the grace of God, it had been his life too…he felt a humble gratitude for the prize he had been granted.

He put his arm round Anya’s shoulder, leaned close, and spoke quietly in her ear. “Anya. I want you to let my comrades see your charms.” Her head turned and her suddenly frightened eyes raised to his intent gaze. “Dinna be shamed or scared. You are lovely beyond words…the vision of your exquisite beauty will be a gift to these men that they will remember for all their lives.” Her eyes fell again. “I’ll be right here beside ye. None will touch ye.” He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Will ye do it?” She looked at him with wide, beseeching eyes for several moments before looking down again. Her tremulous whisper was almost inaudible, “Yes, Liam.”

None of this was heard by his mates. They only saw Liam speaking in her ear and observed with curiosity the appealing deepening of her blush and the tightening of her grip upon her trousers.

Liam raised his head. “Lads listen well. Ye have my leave to look on her full proper, but none but meself can touch her.” His eyes deliberately met those of the men surrounding him, and he knew right well that the honor of comrades in arms would not be broken. They nodded, struck by the pointedness of his speech and manner, though not fully cognizant of his meaning. Quizzical glances were exchanged briefly before their attention was rapidly refocused upon the table by the sight of Liam kneeling up, putting his arms round the lass, and undoing the top button upon her shirt.

Confirming that their eyes had not deceived them, his fingers moved to the next button and released it. They could scarce believe what appeared to be unfolding before them. One by one he opened the buttons upon the shirt placket. A fluctuating Erenköy Escort murmur of excitement ran through the spectators. “Is he…?” “Did he mean…?” Liam gently disentangled her fists from the trouser waistband. “Raise your arms, love.” He gathered the shirt tail and tugged it over her head and arms.

Immediately their eager eyes were confronted by the wide, white linen band snugly wrapped round her chest. Otherwise she was bare from the waist up, her torso slim, her shoulders and arms pale and smooth. Liam brushed her hair back. “Hold your hair up,” he instructed. She complied, gathering up the long heavy tresses, and holding the glossy pile atop her head, her arms upraised. He scooted round her upon his knees, his hand trailing over the linen bandage till he found the knot at her side. Freeing it, he began to unwind the fabric. He knelt behind her, over and over passing the growing bundle of linen from his hand in front to his hand behind her.

‘Twas a most enchanting picture, this lovely lass demurely upon her knees, sitting back upon her heels, her small bare feet visible under her buttocks, her white neck exposed by her gracefully bowed head, as their bold young shipmate stripped her. Round and round the linen was unwrapped. The men watched with keen attention; Liam felt the communal holding of breath — his own included. Finally, he came to the knot of the last loop — with a tug it popped free and he whipped the fabric completely away. Her naked breasts bounced free.

In the circle of sighs and gasps, Anya knelt frozen, her hands holding her hair, her eyes tight shut, her quivering lower lip the telltale of her shy modesty. Her breasts, although reserved in accomplishment of volume, were exceptional in their erotic refinements, being full, round, and projecting proudly from chest. They were bejeweled by small pink tips with a most enticing, impudent uptilt.

“O…how lovely!”

“Did ye ever see such fine bubbies?”

“Look how they stand out so!”

“Ahhhh…can ye imagine the feel of them…?”

“Och, see how they tremble…the poor lassie is frightened.”

“And cold,” another observed. Admiring chuckles all round. Liam, looking down over her shoulder, could not but help agree…they were the sweetest breasts he’d ever seen and held and kissed. And indeed, her dainty nipples were rising under the men’s perusal.

Before dissipating the momentum of her acquiescence, Liam took hold of her elbow and exerted a gentle upward pressure, saying, “Stand up, lass.” She hesitated…then slowly knelt up. One knee lifted to place her foot upon the table…her leg straightened…she rose to standing. The unfastened, oversized trousers promptly fell to her ankles.

The collective gasp was like a bleeding steam valve. For a moment there was naught but the creaking of the floor boards as the men pressed forward, then someone breathed, “O…crikey…!” She was stark naked before them, the young lass, her arms still obediently raised, holding her hair up, her knees shaking, clearly struggling against the urge to lift her leg to shield her cunny from their view — the irresistible spot to which twenty-five (twenty-six including Liam’s) pairs of lustful eyes immediately had flown.

Aroused at the sight of her naked charms, Liam finally noticed her quaking knees. “Anya, hold on to the beam to steady yerself,” he urged. She followed his directive, letting go her hair, and grabbing the oak beam just above her head. He wished he too could stand, but atop the table there wasn’t enough headroom, being more than a foot taller than she. Instead, he momentarily contented himself with sitting back upon his heels, and like his comrades, devouring the sight of her lovely bare body.

His hand came up to lightly rest upon the warm skin of her hip. “Turn round, love.” He gave her a gentle nudge. “Show us your charms.” Under the guidance of his fingertips, she turned in a slow circle, stepping out of the crumpled trousers, shifting her hands upon the beam, her eyes downcast. The men were afforded a lengthy display of her nakedness, and unabashedly took every advantage of the astonishing spectacle. It scarce seemed possible that less than a yard away a beautiful lass was standing unclothed upon the scarred table at which they ate their gruel and hard tack.

She was quite a petite creature, the lines of her lithe body sweetly punctuated by her pert curves. The dark cascade of her luxurious hair to her waist contrasted with her cream-colored skin. A matching tidbit of curls decorated her mound — the pleasure puff just begging to be petted by a large male hand. Standing upon the table, her cunny at eye-level for most, the men were gifted with a glimpse of the start of her nick. Some of the bolder among the sailors even crouched lower and peered up between her legs in the hopes of a more intimate view.

Her slow rotation most entrancingly highlighted her endowments. Transitioning from the front prospect to the side to the back, they saw the line of her narrow waist curving out to her hips then continuing smoothly into her lissome thighs, the wobbling of her protuberant breasts, and the luscious roundness of her bottom cheeks jutting out below her incurved lower back.

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