Eight Whores For Denver free porn video

PROLOGUE

We were making love in our first-class cabin when we felt the faintest “bump.” She whispered, “Nearly there!!” and I returned to the task at hand. Then, there was a rap on the cabin door. A voice said, “All passengers are to report to the boat deck. It’s the captain’s orders.”

We were wearing nothing but frustrated frowns. So, I only partially opened the door and said, “It’s the middle of the night. Why the devil does the captain want us on the boat deck?” The steward was standing in the passageway holding a pair of those godawful canvas and cork life belts. He said impassively, “I will help you put these on if you like.”

Exasperated, I snatched the belts, slammed the door and turned on the light. She’d wrapped a gown around her beautiful body and was sitting on the edge of the bed. She said puzzled, “What’s happening?”

I said, “I don’t know. We’re supposed to go up to the boat deck. I can’t imagine that they’d hold a lifeboat drill at this ungodly hour but that’s what it seems like.”

IN THE BEGINNING

The sea birds were soaring overhead, as we rounded Clarks point, out of Buzzards Bay. It was a dazzling early summer day, bright blue sky, a few white puffy clouds. The trees were vividly green. The waves breaking on the rocky beach added a foamy touch of contrast.

The wind was fair abeam as we felt our way in on the staysail and jib. The Ansel Gibbs had been hunting sperm whales in the South Atlantic and the hold was full of spermaceti. There would be a substantial pay-out and as a boatsteerer, I was in for a nice piece of that stake. Life was good.

It was rare, for a twenty-year-old kid to be a harpooner. But I’d grown up in New Bedford, where whaling was a religion, and it was in my blood from the time I was a wee lad. Like most little boys, I wanted to be just like my old man. He was captain of the Cicero, a huge fellow with fierce blue eyes and a weathered face. I never really knew him. He was away all the time. But I shared his love of adventure.

He’d given me a toy harpoon when I was young. I think somebody whittled it out of whalebone. I just had to try it. So, one morning I snuck up on the cat as it sunned itself in our window. I didn’t really hurt it; just jabbed it in the butt. But my mom remembers me yelling, “Pay out mother, she’s sounding,” as the cat screeched and shot off down the street.

By the time I was fourteen, I was blond, blue eyed and bigger than most men in my first crew. I had my Viking ancestors to thank for that. But I’d also spent every year since I’d begun to sprout hair building up my back and arm muscles. I knew that I had to be stronger than every other fellow if I wanted to pull the harpoon oar.

In my three voyages, I’d worked my way out of the focsle and into steerage, where the skilled hands slept. And I was still only twenty years old. To say the least, I was pretty full of myself. I was standing on the fantail rail, holding on to one of the spanker lines as Isaac, the steersman eased us into the dock. I threw the stern mooring line to the waiting longshoremen and they pulled us in to the pier.

Mr. Gibbs was already waiting for us with a money chest. Gibbs seemed abnormally happy to see us. It was like our appearance was a surprise. That was peculiar. I also wondered how Gibbs already had the money.

Of course, New Bedford was a hotbed of the factoring business. Basically, a speculator bets a certain amount of cash that the value of the haul will be greater than the amount that he paid the owner. It was a form of insurance. That must have been why Gibbs was already flush.

Gibbs’s half of the profit came off the top. But he still dropped almost a thousand dollars in gold in my hand. That was my share. He said, “It’s lot of money for a young man.” It ought to be. It represented over a year of hazardous and backbreaking work. The afternoon was turning hot as I strolled down the gangplank, sea bag over my shoulder.

I probably looked like an Indian. The tropic sun burns a man brown. We’d only been out a couple of years, which was nothing compared to the Pacific hunts. But it was a long time for a newlywed to be away.

The waiting crowd was sparse. That really didn’t surprise me. When a whaler goes out, it’s almost impossible for the home folks to stay in touch. I scanned the dock for Faith. I didn’t see her. But I saw my mom and Faith’s sister, Julia. I walked up to them, jaunty smile on my face and money in my pocket and said, “Where’s Faith?” That’s when I noticed the looks.

My mother wasn’t one of those warm and loving moms. She was a hard woman with her husband’s gravitas. She looked me over like she was gauging me. Then she took my arm and said, “Let’s go back to the house Jacob. There are a few things you need to know.”

My old man was a whaling captain. So, we were rich. It never benefitted me in the trade. But I WAS raised in one of those mansions on County Street. There wasn’t a word said as we walked up from the docks. I was thinking, “My God!! Where’s Faith??!

I grew up with Faith Polk. She was literally the girl next door. My father captained the Cicero and her dad was the master of the Charles W. Morgan. They were friends and partners in the whaling trade. And their stately homes were side-by-side on County Street, up on the heights.

Most of the time it was just Faith and me. There were boys in our neighborhood. But none of them were as adventurous as my little pal. We were maybe six years old when we started exploring the many interesting places along the Acushnet. We’d go out for the day with a basket, looking for duck eggs, and come home covered in mud.

Faith was a tiny girl. But she was as fierce and daring as her dad; and that man was a legend among the Pacific whalers. I had a rowboat by the time we were ten and I’d row us around the Acushnet looking for pirate gold, hostile Indians, or any odd creature - porcupine, beaver or skunk. Fortunately, we never encountered any such thing. But the thrill was in the trying.

Growing up, our parents made sure that we learned our readin’, ‘ritin and ‘rithmetic. They even talked about me going down to New Haven for college. But it killed both Faith and me to sit in a one room schoolhouse while there were further adventures to be had. So, more days than not we’d disappear into Clark’s Cove, and not return until supper.

Some radical changes happened once we hit puberty. I was ready for my first voyage by my fourteenth year, big, strong and able to do a man’s work. Faith had changed too. Growing up, she had been lean and hard as a vixen. Now she was a vixen with a chest that pillowed as broad and full as the mainsail of a whaling brig. Faith’s amazing tits were the talk of our social set.

We had a small collective of friends. New Bedford wasn’t Boston. But Faith and I were part of what passed for society there. So, we attended our share of socials and cotillions. It was just to learn the basics of being a grownup, nothing of a sexual nature. That changed as the sap began to rise. All of a sudden, my little buddy had a following.

Faith was inherently shy, and the newfound male attention embarrassed her. So, she’d cling to me even tighter. None of the other boys would mess with me. I was bigger than most of their dads. Hence, I became Faith’s protector, and as time passed, her lover.

It happened after my second voyage. I was seventeen, nearly eighteen, when I went out for a right whale hunt. It was on Faith’s father’s ship, the Charles W. Morgan. They are the “right” whale because they are easy to hunt and produced a lot of oil.

It was a short voyage, only five months into the Bay of Fundy. I was a deck hand back then, living in the focsle, pulling a whaleboat oar and doing all the menial chores. I made thirty-five dollars for the entire voyage. But that was how I learned the ropes.

Faith was waiting on the dock when we tied up. I assumed she was there to see her father. I marveled at how much my little friend had changed. She used to have a round snotty-nosed face with huge wide-set blue eyes and long blond pigtails. That face had lengthened into a thing of beauty, lovely high cheekbones, straight nose, pointed chin and full kissable lips.

Faith was wearing a light linen dress. It was hot and she had been sweating. So, it clung to her big boobs and nubile hips in a way that nobody could miss. When we landed, she rocketed past her father and threw herself into MY arms. I grabbed her and hugged her, surprised. She said, “Oh Jacob, I missed you so much.”

That was in front of her dad and the rest of the men, all of whom were giving her lustful stares. I mean, we’d been at sea for almost a half year and the focsle is no place to beat off. I looked into her face and she was crying. I said, “I love you Faith.” I hadn’t planned it. I just blurted it out. But I knew it was true the minute I said it. She said, “I love you too,” and we kissed.

That bought me five minutes of manly grief. But it was worth it because from that point on it never entered either of our minds that we wouldn’t marry. The nuptials were finalized in Grace Episcopal on the twelfth of May in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty-seven. We were both eighteen.

New Bedford wasn’t as Puritanical as the areas up around Boston. But that didn’t mean we were allowed to take liberties beyond the occasional embrace. Those restrictions went over the side the minute we said, “I do.”

Our parents were both wealthy. So, they’d set us up in a little saltbox house on Acushnet Heights. It was a pretty, three room cottage with a big stone fireplace and nice wrap-around front porch. The sea breeze was refreshing sitting out there in a rocker.

On our wedding night, I came back from my nightly visit to the outhouse, to find my new wife propped up, pillows at her back, wearing a flannel nighty. The moonlight through the window illuminated a fine brass bed. It was a wedding present from my grandparents.

She gazed timidly at me as I shucked my long johns, pulled the covers aside, and lay down next to her. I might be an apprentice boatsteerer and a wizard with the harpoon. But I was as nervous as she was.

We had been almost exclusive companions for two thirds of our life. But that was by far our most intimate moment. We’d kissed, of course. But those were mild displays of affection. We both knew that tonight’s event was something entirely different and neither of us was experienced enough to even know how to take the first step.

Faith was lying back, looking at me with a touch of fear in her eyes. I lowered my face to her lush lips. The spark was instantaneous. The closeness we ‘d shared growing up unleashed a tidal-wave of passion.

Faith moaned loudly and her mouth opened. My tongue instinctively headed for hers. We held that kiss for what seemed like hours. Just getting prepared for the act to follow. She exhaled a series of rapid breaths. It was as if she was hyperventilating. Then she sat up and frantically pulled her nighty over her head. Her body was heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Faith’s big boobs had been a topic of conversation for every teenage boy in New Bedford. Now, there they were!! They were even prouder and fuller than we’d all imagined, with wide pink circles on the tip and jutting nipples perfectly located in the middle.

Growing up, Faith had been a skinny little girl. Her waist and legs were still tiny. But her hips had broadened to a lushness that promised both strength and fertility and her flanks were as tight and powerful as a little filly’s. I just gazed at my new wife in wonder.

Her tits jiggled and jogged as she threw her nighty aside. I reached over and hefted one, awestruck by its substantial weightiness. The size of the thing emphasized the disparity between Faith the girl, and Faith the woman.

I tweaked the rapidly growing nipple. That produced an unexpectedly violent reaction. The instant I squeezed it Faith uttered a loud, almost startled, cry. She might be a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter. But she dragged me between her legs like the crew manhandles a whale. I’d forgotten how naturally pugnacious she was.

Neither of us had any experience with the other’s sexual equipment. So, there was an uncertain moment as we got accustomed to the terrain. Still, the concept is age-old, and the design is so intuitive, that we rapidly discovered how things fit. It was extremely hot and slippery down there, which was baffling. But we were bathed in a scent that made me crazy.

The human animal has a few basic instincts and one of those is the act of sex. So, I just acted. Faith gave a loud gasp as I slid up into her. There was a momentary obstruction and she gave a cry of pain, clutching me. Then she made a long groan of satisfaction. The continuation up her passage was just nature taking its course. It was pure reflex.

I could feel her arms around my neck and her feet braced against the bed, as she pounded back against me. I was totally out of control by that point. It was the culmination of a dozen years of intimate comradeship, and it had built itself into a tidal wave of need for this woman.

Faith was panting loudly, grimacing, mouth wide open in a rictus of sensation. Then she began making rhythmic “ahh-ahh-ahh” noises, like a person about to sneeze. In fact, what followed was exactly like a violent sneeze. Except, it was in her nether regions. Then my new wife proceeded to buck and writhe like she was suffering intense pain. It probably would have alarmed me if my balls weren’t experiencing their own violent seizure.

After the moaning and shouting rumpus had died down, we lay there exhausted. I ultimately got enough of my sanity back to look at her sweet face. She was looking back at me with a mixture of wonderment and unease. I think she was worried that her animal behavior during our first nuptial voyage would somehow put me off.

I looked her squarely in the eye and said in a voice suffused with emotion, “We’ve loved each other since we were mucking around on the Acushnet. This just seals the deal. You’re mine forever.” Her face got a jubilant look as she said, “That’s all I ever wanted, my love.”

For many years, I remembered the short period after our wedding as the best days of my life. Existence was a cozy haze of companionship, love and passion. But whaling was in my blood. So, I knew that I would eventually have to return to the sea.

Faith didn’t want me to go. She kept urging me to take a landsman position in her father’s office. Her dad, Jedediah Polk, had three ships and a thriving business in whale oil. I could have made more money as a broker and that would have kept me ashore. But that was never an option. I was young and the thrill of a Nantucket sleigh ride was too much to resist.

I would be away a couple of years. And so, my decision to go whaling caused some upset with my wife, which puzzled me. She’d grown up in New Bedford and she ought to know that it took to be married to a whaler.

I said, “Look Faith, your parents have been together for almost thirty years and they’re happy; even though your dad has been away on three-year voyages that entire time.”

She looked at me skeptically. So, I added, trying to comfort her, “You’ll be well taken care of, and it won’t be forever. I’m saving up to buy my own brig and we’ll be able to live on the proceeds from other people’s work. You just have to be patient for a few more years.”

She stared at me pleadingly and said, “I want a husband, not a whaling skipper.” I appreciated what she was saying. Faith had always been spirited and adventurous. But she needed intimacy, like a fish needs water.

I appealed to her practical side. I said, “We can travel together when I have my own ship. Then, we can see and do things that we always dreamed about. This is the start of a great adventure, the one we always wanted.”

She said warily, “When will that be?” I said earnestly, “No more than three more voyages, if they’re successful. Maybe six, to eight years.”

Faith looked defeated, almost frightened. I should have understood. In some ways she loved me too much. That period of time must have seemed like a hopeless eternity; especially when she was so young.

Hunting a sixty-foot creature is a perilous undertaking. Nonetheless, we were both brought up in New Bedford and whaling voyages were as much a part of our world as eating, sleeping and going to church. So, there was no arguing about it. Faith just had to accept that I was going hunting because that’s what men in whaling cultures did.

Thus, I signed on with the Ansel Gibbs as a boatsteerer. The offer of a boatsteerer’s position was what helped me make the decision. I wanted to be a captain, just like my dad and that was a crucial leg up. I was only eighteen, which would make me by-far the youngest harpooner in the entire town and a rising star in the whaling trade.

The boys my age were pea-green jealous. I’d crewed with Jimmy Faulks on my first two voyages. He was signed-on as a hand on the Gibbs too. He was a pal when it came to shipboard routine. But he was lazy and born jaded. So, he was never going to be more than a deckhand.

He said, “We could be out a couple of years. What are you going to do about your pretty little wife?” I said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He laughed and said, “She’s the best-looking woman in the whole town. You don’t seriously think that the other boys won’t come calling once you’re out of the picture?”

I gave him a hard stare and said, “It doesn’t matter. Faith won’t give them the time of day. She loves me. So just shut up or you’ll get what I’d give any fellow who took a run at her.”

He was right though. There were lots of slick landsmen in New Bedford, many of whom were Jimmy’s and my age. I knew that any of them would give an eye tooth for a shot at Faith. But the insinuation that one of them might lead her astray made me angry. Wives waited for their husbands. It was their duty.

The hunt was in the area that lay between the Falklands and the South Sandwich Islands. We’d watered at Stanley on East Falkland, where we heard about a population in the open ocean. The Concord was in harbor when we pulled in, and they were loaded with oil from the hunt. So, based on their advice we bagged nine of the huge beasts in just a few months.

The hunts themselves were dangerous. You’re in an open, thirty-foot rowboat and you need to get within twenty yards of the whale to put a harpoon into it. Then you have to fight a seventy-ton creature that doesn’t particularly appreciate your trying to kill it. But we were skilled hands and we knew what it took to survive.

In fact, the only real threat was on the way out. We sailed into a hurricane while we were passing east of Hatteras. We didn’t know it at the time. But the ferocity of that storm was the talk of the entire east coast. It was particularly violent, with killer winds. Many ships were lost. We would have been one of them if it wasn’t for a little bit of luck.

We managed to dodge due west, leeward, and through the Inlet into Pamlico Sound. We’d have all drowned if we’d been a little farther north, off the shoals off Cape Hatteras. The wind was diminished behind the barrier islands and we were able to beat our way into Ocracoke.

Most men would have insisted on rushing home to their bride, rather than following their mother. But the thought never crossed my mind. People did what Mother told them to do. She was a commanding presence. It was a silent trudge up the hill to County street. Mother was striding grimly along. Julia seemed to be crying. I was getting concerned. Where was Faith?

We went into the parlor. I knew right away that something auspicious was coming. The only time we used the parlor was for weddings and funerals. Mother sat me in one of her ghastly carved wood chairs, while she and Julia sat opposite, on her dreadful horsehair sofa. Julia was wringing her hands with anguish.

Mother began without preamble. She said, “We had word that the Gibbs was lost in the hurricane of fifty-seven.” I said, “So that explains why the town was surprised to see us.”

Mother looked ominous. She said voice dripping disdain, “It was Esau Briggs who brought us the news. He said he heard it in Baltimore City.”

Briggs was one of our old social set. His dad was an oil speculator and investor. Briggs junior traveled up and down the coast, buying up options on the proceeds of voyages. I said, “He was almost right. We weathered it out in Ocracoke. But it was a near run thing.”

Then it dawned on me. I said, “Did the news cause much distress here?” Mother looked even grimmer, if that was even possible. She said, “Most of us were used to it. We’ve been through it before. But your bride hadn’t.”

She added even more ominously, “The news nearly killed Faith. We told her that it was just a rumor, nothing would be certain until you didn’t come back. But she just couldn’t be consoled.”

Mother stopped and looked at me with what almost seemed like pity. Then she continued with fury in her voice, “Esau Briggs devoted all of his time to consoling her.”

Julia burst into tears. I was speechless. I said, “Briggs was comforting Faith?” Then it hit me, “NO!! IT COULDN’T BE!!”

Mother said with intense anger, “There is no easy way for me to tell you this, son. But Faith died in childbirth two months ago. It was the disgrace that killed her.”

It took a moment. Catastrophic, news is like that. The implications take time to percolate into your brain. Mother saw my face. She hastily added, “Briggs is in France. You’ll never find him. Everybody knew you would kill him.”

Then she got a harsh look and said, “I don’t need to tell you that this is God’s judgement. So, accept it” She added in a kindlier tone, “Faith’s buried in the Congregational cemetery if you care. We wouldn’t allow her to be buried in our churchyard”

It was like being submerged under a breaching whale. The pain was devastating. I couldn’t bear it. My little Faith, the love of my life, betraying me with that snake. All light went out of the world. I was a big strapping boatsteerer. But I broke down in tears.

Mother was visibly disgusted by my display of weakness. That was when I understood why Julia was there. She rose, walked over, gently gathered my head to her bosom and we sobbed together. She kept repeating over-and-over, “Faith found out that you were still alive when the Concord pulled in. All she wanted was your forgiveness.”

Suddenly, I got the claustrophobic panic that you get when you’re drowning. I thrashed my way to my feet and ran panicked out of the house. Both women called out, “Jacob!!”

The rest of the day was a blur. My heart was dead. I remember stumbling down to Faith’s grave. I had to confirm it. There was a nice headstone. Her family loved her. It was a hot, cloudless summer afternoon and I just sat on my wife’s grave cursing Esau Briggs and the God who would let this happen.

Then I thought about what my mother had said. I was nobody special. So, why was I involving God in the discussion? It was Briggs who owed the bill!! There was only one option. That is, if I ever wanted to be free of the burden of Faith’s infidelity. I needed to find Briggs and kill him. It would be my life’s purpose.

Hence, with murder on my mind, I went down to the waterfront, drank dark rum in a shadowy corner of a filthy sailors bar and passed out.

I slowly opened my eyes. The gloom and smell was pervasive. I was disoriented. I had a splitting headache and my mouth tasted like the bottom of a blubber vat. I sensed that I was at sea.

I was lying on a floor with a huge man standing over me. It was his boot to my ribs that had awakened me. I jumped to my knees to avoid the next kick. The room spun and I threw up what felt like a gallon of cheap rum. The guy hit me with a roundhouse right. I fell to the floor and he went back to what he had been doing earlier, which was kicking me.

I was more puzzled than hurt. The last thing I remembered was my head hitting the top of the table in an anonymous whaling tavern. Then, the next thing I knew I was getting the shit beaten out of me in what was obviously a ship’s focsle.

I hadn’t lost a fight in my life and I wasn’t going to lose one now. So, I rolled away from the next kick and sprang angrily to my feet. My head hit an overhead beam and I went out like a light. Some fights you lose.

I came around a couple of minutes later. The face that was hovering over me was the ugliest sight imaginable; and I’d looked sperm whales in the eye. He was taller than me, over six-two and he must have weighed close to two eighty.

He was completely bald, with a full beard that looked like a bushy head-of-hair had slipped around to his chin. He had mean, piggy eyes and he was missing an ear, which might have been related to the scar across his face. He had on a ragged captain’s swallow-tailed coat and he smelled like the bilge after a long voyage in the tropics.

He gave a nasty laugh and said, “Welcome aboard sailor. I wanted to introduce myself.”

I wiped the blood off my mouth and said testily, “Who the hell are you and what the hell am I doing here?” The giant laughed, made an ironic bow and said, “John Quincy Adams at your service ... AND you’ve just joined the triangle trade.”

The unpleasant fellow in front of me was clearly not the seventh president of the United States. But I got the joke. John Quincy Adams’s nickname was “the Abolitionist” and the triangle trade was still going strong; even though it had been banned in England and America for over a half century.

Cotton and rum went from the U.S. to England, cloth, guns and trinkets went to Africa and slaves were shipped to the U.S. The legal penalty in Great Britain was death. But you could get extremely wealthy if you were successful. Of course, the profit was all for the owners.

Nobody in their right mind wanted to crew a slaver. The only thing a crew member got was regular beatings or hung from a yardarm, if he were caught. It was just my luck that they’d found me passed out; when they were looking for somebody to shanghai.

The captain said, “You’re a sailor. What do you do?” I said, “None of your business.” Which earned me another rap in the mouth. I said grudgingly, “I was a boatsteerer.”

He looked skeptical and said, “You’re kind of young to be doing that ain’t you?” I said angrily, “I don’t give a shit what you think. My wife’s dead, and I’m fixin’ to join her.” Adams got a beatific look on his face, chuckled and said sardonically, “I can help you with that.”

That was how I became a maintopman on the good ship Princeton College. It was so-named, because Adams claimed that he had been a student there. He might have been. He was a very smart man. Except he was also creepier than a belfry full of bats.

He could actually quote Latin phrases, or at least I think it was Latin. I barely spoke English. So, foreign tongues were out of my reckoning. But when it came to humanity, he was a total headcase. Adams hated everybody.

The ship I was on was a ninety-foot, square rigged brig of two-hundred-and-seven tons burthen. It had a crew of twenty, which was dangerously sparse for a ship that size. And I was one of the few experienced hands.

Hence, in weather fair or foul, I was the guy who got sent aloft to trim sail on the topgallant yard. That was the most dangerous work on the ship. The pitching of the mast was magnified up there and the deck was a long way down.

I was chained up while we were loading and unloading in Plymouth. It was below-decks where they kept the African cargo. I was bound with another unfortunate. He’d also joined the crew via the abduction method. Except he was a landsman who they’d snatched off a pier on the Chesapeake, while they were loading the tobacco.

The manacles kept us from jumping ship. They had plenty of those handy, given the ship’s real purpose. We actually became friends of sort. I suppose it was the brotherhood of misery. We were both literally and figuratively in the same boat.

We talked for hours in the dark of the hold. His name was Springfield and he called himself a preacher, which meant that he had no useful skills. But he could read and carry on a sensible conversation. He’d never had a woman in his life. Being frail and poor, was no way to attract a mate. So, he was very interested in my situation.

I told him about Faith and her betrayal. He said, “But your wife thought you were dead, right? She had no further obligation to the marriage vows if you were dead.” That hurt a lot. I wanted Faith’s actions to be purposely immoral, not the result of a regrettable misunderstanding.

Springfield asked puzzled, “Do you think that feller made up the story?” I was sure that the slimy son-of-a-bitch had fabricated it. Every young man in New Bedford wanted to slip their hand under Faith’s petticoats. But sadly, there was also clear-cut evidence to the contrary, since we HAD nearly foundered.

I don’t know whether the fact that Briggs’s lie was based on truth made me feel better, or worse. Briggs had always drooled over Faith, just like the rest of the New Bedford lads. She was far and away the most beautiful girl in our social set. I smiled bitterly and said, “No there was truth to it.”