Silver

Silver

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Tags

sex, etc

Summary

Oddments This is an odd selection. When I wrote these I was getting bored with writing wordporn. I mean, how many ways can you describe the same acts? So, there are the short pieces – these were written as challenges. I think benawriter might have been involved. Can you write a story in 500 words? 200, 100? Stuff like that. That covers ‘Goth’ (500), ‘Hors d’oevres’ (200) and ‘Watching’ (200) and ‘First Time’ (100). I really do recommend challenging yourself to write in your genre with a small word limit. Can you do it? The last three oddments, I didn’t actually write. They are ‘prentice pieces; written by students of mine – I may have tarted them up a bit and claimed them for my own, but they are by another writer – maybe two. ‘Silver’ – historical wordporn. I don’t do that. I like my fantasy ladies in lingerie, these bodice-rippers tend to lack lacy bras, sheer panties and fishnet stockings…. ‘Her Big Chance’ is a big cock story. I don’t write big cock stories because a) I don’t have one and b) they are so fucking obvious and all the same. ‘It Started With a Kiss’ is just plain weird. So, why did I post these and claim them as my own? I said already, I was getting bored with the old in-out; but I still had an audience. They filled that gap. As stories, they aren’t bad. Just not me. And that is it. That is all that was on the flashdrive. If you can think of any others, let me know. But I can safely say that I don’t have them.

Tags

sex, etc

Summary

Oddments
This is an odd selection. When I wrote these I was getting bored with writing wordporn. I mean, how many ways can you describe the same acts?
So, there are the short pieces – these were written as challenges. I think benawriter might have been involved. Can you write a story in 500 words? 200, 100? Stuff like that.
That covers ‘Goth’ (500), ‘Hors d’oevres’ (200) and ‘Watching’ (200) and ‘First Time’ (100). I really do recommend challenging yourself to write in your genre with a small word limit. Can you do it?
The last three oddments, I didn’t actually write. They are ‘prentice pieces; written by students of mine – I may have tarted them up a bit and claimed them for my own, but they are by another writer – maybe two.
‘Silver’ – historical wordporn. I don’t do that. I like my fantasy ladies in lingerie, these bodice-rippers tend to lack lacy bras, sheer panties and fishnet stockings….
‘Her Big Chance’ is a big cock story. I don’t write big cock stories because a) I don’t have one and b) they are so fucking obvious and all the same.
‘It Started With a Kiss’ is just plain weird.
So, why did I post these and claim them as my own? I said already, I was getting bored with the old in-out; but I still had an audience. They filled that gap. As stories, they aren’t bad. Just not me.
And that is it.
That is all that was on the flashdrive.
If you can think of any others, let me know. But I can safely say that I don’t have them.

Content

Submitted: August 02, 2020

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Content

Submitted: August 02, 2020

A A A

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Of Silver  we have heard no more…I daresay he met his old negress and lives in comfort with her…It is to be hoped so, I suppose, for his chances of comfort in another world are very small.

from the last page of Treasure Island

by R L Stevenson (1883)

 

The one-legged man stumped along the rough jungle path. One hand holding his crutch the other supporting a heavy box on his shoulder that clinked with the greasy promise of gold. In such a place a single man with a purse of copper was a target for footpads and vagabonds, but this man could walk anywhere unmolested on the island, especially on the path that led to the home of the juju woman. Even the animals in the forest knew the one-legged man belonged to the juju woman and not even the mosquitoes would dare to bother the juju woman.

The one legged man came to an open cove, the sea was aquamarine and the sand, white. High above the tideline there was a log house with a palm roof. The parrot that had sat on his shoulder during his hike now flew off to a perch by the plank door. The smell of cooking came to him through the light sea air. He felt his mouth water as he approached, crutch thumping the sand, the box clanking in his shoulder. The rhythmic wash of the surf on the beach called his name: “Silver, Silver, Silver….”

His woman was bending over a cooking pot which hung over an open fire. The local folk all believed that it was her witch’s cauldron, her juju-pot, and she let them believe that – she encouraged it. But Silver knew that the only juju of that old black iron utensil was a culinary magic: that woman could make anything taste heavenly.

His eyes feasted on her huge frame, draped in wine-red taffeta. He could see her bare feet and ankles where the hem of her dress rode up as she bent over the pot. How long had he been away? He gazed on her wide hips and felt his mouth dry. Why did he leave this woman?

“Oroma.” her name left him in a sigh.

The woman straightened herself, held her head high and, slowly turning gave him a wide smile. “Silva?” She ran to him and grasped him round his thin waist, “You come home. I knowed you would.”

 “Oroma,” he said again, “I’m home. Home for good.”

“You sed dat befo’ now,” she sniffed, “You leave I again….you leave I again…you leave again, Silva, I die.”

 “Never, my love. Never.” he crooned as she buried her face in his coat and wept inconsolably. Silver’s gnarled hands stroked her wiry hair, and he noticed the grey that had started to appear.  He knew how old he was, he felt every one of his sixty-one years, but he couldn’t stand the thought of his beautiful wife aging while he was away on the sea. A greasy tear rolled down his cheek.

 

 “Steal me. Steal me, robber men. I wort’ some big money.”

They had been burglarising a planter’s house, he and Pew. Filling their pockets with any cash or jewels, looking for valuables, when out of the darkness came the girl.

“Steal me!”

She was strikingly beautiful. A long-headed African girl, with a straight jaw, high-cheekbones and dark, sparkling eyes. Silver was smitten. He gazed at her, rooted to the spot.

“Leave ‘er Johnny,” shouted Pew, “What can we do with a girl in tow?” The fool had been blind even with his eyes.

“Come with me, lass. If you want to.”

“I want to, Mr Robber-man. Keep I safe, I be good fi you. An’ I don’ come empty handed.”

Silver saw that under each arm the girl was holding a bolt of fine silk. They ran off into the night. The silks fetched a fine price, and from that night on the African girl with the long head, straight jaw and dark, dark eyes slept under Silver’s blanket in the vagabond camp.

At first she merely supplied his need, functionally, remote, even when naked in his arms she was distant. But Silver was patient, despite the mocking of his friends and his own doubts for a girl who he would have to leave behind when the right ship came in. He treated her with love, his touches were gentle for such a big, rough man and in time they became lovers: each one giving as well as taking pleasure in the other. After a year she told him her name, her real name not her slave one. She told him she was of the Oyo, and if he wanted her forever, she knew an old man in the village who knew the ways of the Oyo. Silver knew there could never be another so, naked under a full moon, with a crazy old man singing in African he pledged himself to her, and she to him. Later at the vagabond camp they jumped the broom together and everyone knew that they were a couple.

 

Before God, that was thirty-five years ago. And although they’d been parted by the seas many times, Silver swore at this moment, he would never leave her again.

Oroma regained her composure, and wiping her face still in his grimy coat, she straightened up. She put her hands on his shoulders and he craned his neck down so that they could kiss. The touch of her lips, the warm wetness of her mouth and her probing tongue thrilled Silver in way he had not expected – had it been so long? He shivered despite the heat.

When they broke off she let her deep dark eyes linger on his, before letting herself grin again. “Cooked you somet’ing nice.  Jus’ what you want.” She returned to the pot and ladled some steaming broth into a wooden bowl. “You got yam fi body, lickle bit a goat meat, an’ kale an’ cabbage and peas fi green. All the t’ings a sailor miss at sea.”

“Not all the things, lassie,” said Silver.

“Tcha,” she snorted, “dat comin’, don’t think it’s not. And just to help t’ing along, there’s a lickle bit o’ herb in there and some hot peppers fi put a bone in your yard.”

Silver let his gaze take in his the woman before him: aye, she was a beauty, a gorgeous black princess. He’d need no herbs or chillies to fuck with her tonight, despite the weight of his years. He took in the soft roundness of her face, her plump dark lips, her strong neck, her deep cleavage…

“What you starin’ at?” she chided him coyly, “Can’t a lady eat her broth wit’ out some dirty sailor-man trying fi see her titties? Eat you supper, bwoy!”

Silver concentrated on his food. It was wonderful. There’d be time for the other later.

“You find Billy?” Oroma asked.

“Aye, found him dead of the apoplexy.”

“Dat the rum. Billy was an ol’ sponge. Always drinkin’, fightin’, raisin’ hell. What about Pew? Me can’ see him sniffin’ around after you like usual.”

“Pew’s dead too. Run down by a troop of dragoons. And Israel.”

“Mi sorry fo’ Israel. Him not sick in the head like dem other two. Him mek this dress y’knaw.”

“Aye, I remember. Israel was a clever man with a needle. He was apprenticed to a master tailor once, could have been a great man in that trade until he fucked the rabbi’s daughter and ran away to sea!”

“Him like the ladies, that’s for sure. An’ they like a man that can sew a gown as well as he heat a pussy.” She turned serious. “How him die?”

“Shot by a boy.” There was silence. Oroma ate quietly. Silver tried to lighten the mood. “We found Ben Gunn.”

Oroma brightened immediately, “Lickle Ben Gunn. Me love fi hear him sing!”

“Aye, he was regular nightingale was Ben. “ It was Silver’s turn to become morose, “He turned traitor on us. Now he rides up The Strand in a coach and four.”

“While you stay at home and tup your lady! Dat someting poor ol’ Ben could never do!”

That much was true, reasoned Silver. He shuddered at the thought of what they had done to Ben when he was a boy. He was a castrati. He’d been in a cathedral choir and they’d wanted to keep his pure unbroken voice, so the priests – priests mark you – had cut off his little ballocks. Call themselves men of God!

The meal over, Silver opened his sea chest. “This is all I could salvage from Flint’s treasure,” he grumbled, “A king’s ransom in gold, silver and jewels, and this was all I manged to get past them.” There was a large gold necklace, the chains layered and hung with golden discs and tassels. Oroma eyed it approvingly. There were jewel encrusted bracelets and brooches. There were gold doubloons, heavy and thick, and big bag of silver.

“Wit’ dis, and what we got stashed, we got more than enough to live on well for the rest of our lives, John.” Oroma said, “You done good.”

“We could have been a lord and lady, Oroma. We could have had coaches and servants and respect at court. We could have had power and influence…”

“Stop now, John!” Oroma snapped, “Look at I. Look, Silva! Am I going to get respect? Tcha! Dem lord and lady look at me, dem she ‘Yes my lady’ to mi face, but ‘Clean mi shoes niggah!’ when me back is turned! You t’ink them going to treat you as an equal? No, dem say ‘lordship’, dem t’ink ‘cripple’. Dat how it is!”

“But money answers all things, lassie. And they left the silver you know. Thousands of pounds of bar silver, waiting to be picked up…”

“You the only silva I want.” Oroma stated. “Me wan’ fi be Mrs John Silver – not lady nothin’. Me wan’ fi have a husband who care fi me, who eat at me table, who take I to bed, who love I for me. Me have that now. Me wan’ fi keep it.”

“I want to give you so much, my love…”

“Come now, John.” said Oroma, “It get dark. Me light a few candle now. You need fi tek a wash.”

Silver hopped to the paillasse that served as their bed and started to undress. When he was down to his shift, Oroma brought him a basin of sweet water and a tub of lye soap. Before God, she wouldn’t touch him if he wasn’t clean! Under her watchful eye, he soaped his penis, particularly under the foreskin, before continuing with the rest of his lower quarters, his arse, his stump.

Satisfied that her man was clean Oroma took off the taffeta dress; in her linen shift she padded across the room to find the jar of oil she used to keep her skin clear. Silver loved to watch her oil her skin and he knew that Oroma knew how much he enjoyed it. Her skin preparation had become part of their foreplay many years ago.

Oroma sat on the wicker stool and started with the tops of her feet, rubbing on the scented oil. Then she pulled her shift up to her knees and worked the lotion in her curved calves until they shone. Silver stretched himself up for a better view when his wife pulled her shift up further, exposing her thick, meaty thighs. Her strong hands worked the oil into her upper legs, stroking along the tops, then the outside, before pulling the front of her shift over her sex as she swept the oil up the inside of her thighs.

Her legs shiny in the candlelight, Oroma stood up and turned her back to Silver. She hiked the shift up to her waist exposing her broad, chunky buttocks. Silver felt his yard begin to twitch as his wife’s long fingers clutched her huge arse, squeezing and stroking, making it drip with warm oil.

Then she pulled the linen garment over her head and Silver grimaced at the old scar-tissue that marked her from her slave days. Oroma continued to rub her skin, unconcerned by her husband’s discomfiture.

This uncomfortable feeling was cut short when Oroma turned to face Silver. Her arms were high, as her hands rubbed the oil into her face and neck: she rubbed over her shoulders and under her arms, then to Silver’s delight, she started on her breasts.

She stroked her hands over the tops of her long breasts, pausing at the tips to pinch and stretch out her thick black nipples. Silver groaned. Oroma let herself smile as her cupped her hands underneath her great dugs and pushed them together, letting them slide and slip, as they were now slick with oil.

Then she rubbed the round expanse of her belly, moving her open hands in wide circles. Her fingers slowed and paused as they touched the triangle of wiry little hairs that covered her sex. Silver’s cock was lengthening now as he watched this part of their sport reach its conclusion.

Oroma sat on the wicker chair and rubbed the oil into her tightly curled pubes, then, spreading her thighs, she began to oil her cunny. Silver felt his heart beat raise and his breath quicken as Oroma’s fingers explored the slick mulberry folds, the oil mingling with her own juices, making her cunt glimmer with wetness in the candle flame light of the shack.

“Turn yu back now,” Oroma commanded and Silver turned to the wall. They had lived so long together and she still demanded that he never look at her pissing. Silver was happy to oblige, it was a change from the communal life on board ship where nothing was private, and unlike some he knew, he got no pleasure from watching a woman take a piss. Bloody funny way for a man to get his jollies, Silver mused. He heard a brief soft clink of metal then Oroma said, “Now yu look.”

Silver gasped when he saw her. She had adorned her shining ebony skin with the treasure from his seas chest. Her arms were now hung with gold and jewelled bracelets and bangles, a silver comb was fixed in her thick dark hair and around her neck were the layered chains, discs and tassels of the big golden necklace.

“Oroma.” Silver gasped, “You’re like a queen, a goddess.”

“And yu like a fool, Silva,” she scoffed playfully, “Tcha. I not no queen na goddess. I Mrs John Silver. Wife to my man!” She lowered herself down onto the bed, “Come on now, bwoy, lets wi find out why dem call yu Long John.”

Oroma put her hand on either side of Silver’s narrow hips and let her breasts dangle over his thickening cock. Silver was relieved that he was finally erect. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d be standing proud as soon as Oroma reached for the oil jar, that he could fuck her twice, roll over for a wank, and fuck her again before she’d done her knees! But age creeps up and now a hard cock once a night was a victory. A victory over age that he would savour tonight.

He gripped the swinging dugs with his gnarled, rough hands, letting he flesh push through his fingers. He thumbed her hard dark nipples, the pinched them, which made Oroma moan in pleasure then he pushed her breasts together and stuck his cock up into her sticky cleavage, fucking her tits. As his cock head slipped in and out of the top of its fleshy choke-hold, it banged against the gold of the necklace, making a clunking rattle. This made Oroma grin.

“Like that, bwoy? You fuck me titties and you fuck yu gold?” She laughed and slipped her tits away from his grip and brought her mouth to his pulsing pillicock.

Silver almost cried out as Oroma’s lips slid over his bell-end and closed on his shaft. Her cheeks puffed as she moved her head up and down, sucking him greedily. Now the gold of the necklace was clanking against his bollocks. What a feeling, the hard cold gold and her hot wet mouth. Now she took him deep into her mouth, it was Silver’s turn to moan as he grasped the paillasse below him.  He could feel his cock end was at the back of her throat, it was a pleasure divine. Then she started to choke and gag, filling her mouth and coating his prick with saliva. She jerked her head up off his cock and back, making gloriously obscene slurping noises, spit dribbling down his shaft and over his sack. If he’d been younger he’d have spent there and then. But Oroma had another idea in her mind. She pulled herself up his body, her knees now either side of his skinny waist.

“Touch me now, John,” she crooned, pushing her hips towards him, “Touch me pussy. Feel her.”

Silver needed no second telling, he reach out and cupped his wife’s swollen vulva. He froze. She felt…hard…lumpy. Not the canker. Not Oroma. Anything but that. He drew his hand away, but nearly jumped out of his skin when a thick, heavy gold doubloon plopped out of his wife’s cunt and landed, sticky and wet, on his belly. He heard Oroma laugh as another greasy gold coin slipped out of her and finally a shower of six or seven golden coins cascaded from her sopping wet cunny and clattered chinking on his midriff!

His laughter joined hers and she fell towards him, enfolding his slim frame in her voluptuousness. The cunt-slicked coins jammed between them.

“Dat what gold fo’, John!” she giggled, “Not fi power or t’ing, but fi mek you laugh! Fi mek you happy!” She pushed herself up so that she was once again straddling him. “I t’ink there might be some more of dat gold if yu dig for it.” She whispered lasciviously.

Once again Silver’s fingers were at her cunt. No hardness now (thank God!), just the hot sensual wetness of her deep ruby twat. He shoved three fingers into her, probing, searching. He found that special place inside and rubbed gently. Oroma groaned thickly. As he rubbed and stroked at that rippled ridge, he thrust his hand in and out, making his wife catch her breath and begin to whimper as her fanny squelched noisily at this treatment. Then he manoeuvred his thumb to the hairy fold at the front, to flick and stroke her little pink berry. Oroma’s breath came quicker, her howls became louder as Silver poked and stroked, faster and harder until she screamed in joyful lust and a wash of her juices soaked Silver’s hand.

She fell into his arms, panting, “Yu no’ find na gold, but you find a pearl, hmmm?” Silver chuckled and rolled her onto her back.

Moving himself with his one leg deftly into position, he placed his cock up against her hot wet cunny. Oroma spread her legs wide, opening herself to him and he slipped easily into her greasy hole. She wrapped her big legs around his skinny arse and pulled him close as Silver began to buck and thrust at her like a demon-possessed man.

They rutted like beasts until both were sticky and shiny with sweat and oil. Their lusty groans and laughter filled the shack, the clearing, the beach. And just when Silver thought he would never spend, Oroma bore down on him, clenching her cunt like a vice, drawing the spunk from his cock like a milkmaid at the teat. He cried out like a drowning man and collapsed into her huge warm embrace. They lay there, locked in each other’s arms until the sounds of the jungle and the sea filled the air again.

Oroma’s gripped loosened and her breathing became steady, soon she was snoring gently in her husband’s arms. Silver stared into the darkness, listening to the sound of the waves on the beach as they rhythmically called his name; “Silver, Silver, Silver…”

His mind wandered from the bed and the shack and the beach to another island. An island far away, where there were thousands of pounds of bar silver waiting to be picked up by the man bold enough to go back for them.

“Silver, silver, silver….” chanted the waves.

 

 

 


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