This stand-alone story is a sequel to Daisy’s Duke and The Duke and the Daisies (linked at the end). The Duke has been taken advantage of by two young women he hoped to take advantage of; perhaps he’ll have more luck with men in his service.
Today
This has long become a routine, the anticipation of which peppers the week with illicit thrills. Each Sunday afternoon, while my groom stirs the full-throated delight of my wife, I steal into her boudoir to don a gown and a wig, and apply a little rouge to my cheeks, then repair to the drawing room to meet my gamekeepers.
Let it never be said that the Duke of Netherswell does not pay his debts.
* * *
Some time ago
The two duplicitous Daisy’s have left me in a most inconvenient position: embracing a tree, with my wrists bound, my frock coat upon the ground, my britches around my ankles, my arbor vitae flying free, and a posy of wildflowers thrust up my fundament.
It is an edifying experience.
The initial intrusion of that small bundle of stalks caused me some discomfort, but its continued presence became queerly pleasurable. I find when I clench my arse to squeeze upon the stalks, the pleasure I feel is pumped directly to my prick. The more I squeeze, the stiffer I become, until a throbbing ache overtakes my senses. Seeking relief, I press my gaying instrument against the smooth trunk of the sapling to which I am bound, and grind as though I were humping some grizzled hedge whore’s droughty quim.
Alas, the bark is rougher than it seems, and my actions risk increasing my discomfort to intolerable levels before I can achieve emission. Nevertheless, I persist… until I hear voices behind me.
“Well, blow me, Dan! Here’s something you don’t see every day! A young lady, her bum as bare as a woodland nymph’s, a-shagging of a sycamore!”
“Who is she?”
“Dunno. Let’s call her Daisy, after the flowers she holds between her cheeks.”
“Are you certain Daisy is a lady, Tom? Tupping a tree with a posy up yer arse surely ain’t ladylike. And she’s wearin’ britches.”
“She’ll be dressed as a gentleman so brigands and vagabonds might do no worse than rob her. She is a maid, I’m certain, but a swift check shall attest to the truth.”
Zounds! Those are the voices of my gamekeepers. I cannot let them know me for who I am. As I hang my head, trying to bury my face in my chest, I sense a body close behind, and feel an arm reach around my hip, and a hand grasp my cock.
“Oh, yes, she’s definitely a lady. She has a dainty little sugar stick, Dan. Most feminine, it is.”
Tom’s horny hand is barely less rough than the bark of the tree, yet it is soft enough to bring me closer to heaven, and when his calloused palm slides up my shaft and rubs against my most tender part, I am undone. To my shame, I spend my seed upon his fingers with an unladylike groan.
“I was wrong, Dan! She’s certainly no lady; she’s a dirty moll. She spat her love cream at me! I should tan her pretty arse.”
“That wouldn’t be very Christian, Thomas. See how her wrists are bound? She’s been misused, I don’t doubt. We ought to be good Samaritans and rescue her from her terrible predicament.”
Pitching my voice as high as I might, I try to tempt Tom away from chastisement and toward charity. “Oh please, good sir, release me! I shall reward you with a silver shilling!”
Tom is not persuaded. “A shilling, for such noble service? Five pounds seems more fitting. Five pounds each.”
I am certain the Samaritan sought no reward, but, “Yes! Yes, you shall have five pounds! Only please, set me free!”
“Gladly, milady. But I had better first remove the flowers some scoundrel has thrust inside you.”
I feel the stalks slide out… and I feel the gaping emptiness they leave behind them.
“Lawks a-mercy, Dan! Her poor round mouth has been cruelly treated with such unnatural trespass. A little soothing balm ought to ease her suffering.”
“Balm, is it? D’ye have any upon you, Tom?”
“I do, Dan. I do. Why, the clever girl splashed some across my hand only a moment ago.”
The emptiness I felt between my cheeks is slowly filled by a slick finger, delving deep within me, pressing, and probing, and finding some hidden spot, a part which welcomes touch; a touch which makes me gasp like a pinched chambermaid and returns my prick to a state of eager stiffness faster than I thought possible.
When that finger withdraws, the void it leaves behind hungers for more… but it gets nothing, for Dan draws a knife to slice through the rope around my wrists, and so released, I fall to my knees.
Such is my gratitude I do not even stop to pull up my britches, but crawl to my frock coat to fetch my pocket-book and reward these fine gentlemen. Of course, I find nothing: that wicked trull, the second Daisy, helped herself to everything I had before she shoved a most expensive bunch of flowers up my arse.
In the same girlish voice in which I had begged for release, I now plead for mercy. “Oh, gentlemen, forgive me! All my monies were stolen whilst I was bound, and I cannot reward you!”
Tom chuckles. “You owe us ten pounds, Daisy dear! But fear not, you needn’t pay with coin. A dirty moll like you, on her knees already, must surely know how to knock sixpence off her debt.”
He pushes his own britches down, and I discover why he bears the soubriquet ‘Long Tom’. His tackle is twice the size of my own member, and just as rigid and ready.
I know well what sixpence may buy a man, for I have bought it often from the cats who congregate in Covent Garden. He expects me— No! He expects the woman he believes I am to suck his cock, and if I am to carry off this deception and preserve my dignity, I must oblige him.
And that prospect is not so horrifying. Long Tom’s sturdy tool is an elegant object for such a common man to possess: there is a graceful curve to it; its thick shaft is traced with delicate veins like lace; and its purple crown is almost imperial in its shining presence, slick with the oil of love which drips from its opening. The mere sight stirs feelings I have denied since my schooldays… and now I have no choice but to surrender myself to them.
Tom murmurs, “Good girl, Daisy!” when I cool the heat of his prick with my mouth, but those words stoke the heat in my own prick.
My mind is vacant. I cannot remember a single thing a doxy has ever done to me while I was in Tom’s position and she on her knees. All memory has fled, replaced by shame at what I must do, and guilt at the pleasure I take in its anticipation. But I have no need of memory, because Tom knows what he wants, and that is for me to become a mere receptacle for his lust. His hands grip my hair, his hips buck, and he treats my open mouth in the manner I have so often treated a strumpet’s open legs. And I let him. For sixpence.
My surrender feels more fitting than any fee.
When it comes, his emission seems to surprise us both. One moment he is rutting hard, the next he curses and my mouth is filled with bitter regret. Nevertheless, I must continue to play my part as the wanton Daisy, lest Tom discover the truth of who I am, so I swallow my pride and hang my head in shame.
Tom pulls his britches back up. “Thank you, Your Grace. You still owe us nine pounds, nineteen shillings, and sixpence, and we shall want the balance in trade.”
* * *
Today
That fateful meeting in the woods occurred more than three years ago. My gamekeepers visited me that evening and we quickly came to a suitable arrangement: once a week, Daisy dresses up and make herself pretty, that she might service my debt. Usually her mouth will deduct a shilling, but some weeks Tom finds goose fat or lard of mutton in the kitchen, and Daisy’s arse earns half a crown. On one glorious occasion she earned five shillings: Long Tom kneeling behind me, driving hard, hitting that hidden spot he first found with his finger over and over again, until my emission stained the parquet floor, while at the same time, Sandy Dan knelt before me, my tongue using every whore’s trick I could recall on his more modest prick. Dan’s emission stained nothing more than my conscience for I did not spill a drop, and I carried Tom’s to the privy before releasing it.
Today, Tom eyes me curiously as I take to my knees. “You know your debt was paid in full last week, Daisy?”
“It was,” I pipe, “but perhaps I feel my saviours deserve greater reward.”
Daisy's Duke
I’m sitting on the path out of Jockum Wood weeping bitter tears when I meet him. From the long rod in his hand, and his tackle basket slung over his should…
Brilliant Marsha - the deliberate misinterpretations are priceless!
Loved this in particular “When it comes, his emission seems to surprise us both. One moment he is rutting hard, the next he curses and my mouth is filled with bitter regret. “
And so His Grace keeps on paying his humble servants... most enjoyable 😉