To Die in Madeira

Spent, at least momentarily, his dick softening but still inside me, he asked me what had brought me to Madeira. I told him of Sir Guy and my service to him and that I was only here until Sir Guy passed on.

Reginald suddenly laughed and raised up on an elbow and looked down into my face.

"Why that old fucker. He bamboozled you too?"

"Excuse me?" I answered. Studying his face, looking for clues of what he might be talking about.

"Sir Guy is why I'm here too. He brought me out here five years ago. He said he wanted to die in Madeira. He had sweet talked me to be fucking him in that old geezer's home of his in Henley. Said he wanted to die in Madeira and would I bring him here to do so? Made it sound like death was imminent. I'll bet the old fucker will survive us all."

I started to say something, but Reginald stopped tweaking my nipple and raised a finger to my mouth, silencing me. I sucked the finger and then another two into my mouth. I felt his cock stirring again, rising again inside me. I reached back and palmed one of his bulbous buttocks cheeks and held him close against me.

"Five years ago," and he laughed again. "Well, we got out here and he came to life again and wanted to be fucked hard three and four times a day. I did that for months, waiting for him to die. But all he'd talk about were these little deaths of his—le petite mort he called it—and how they brought him life. And then I started coming down here and found this guy who appeared to be in a lot better shape than Sir Guy was and who was satisfied with a weekly fuck. One day I just didn't climb the hill again and I heard that Sir Guy had flown back to England. So, he's still alive, is he? And still getting away with this trick of his. I guess now you'll leave him too."

Reginald was fully hard again now. He plopped his cock out of me, though, and stood up behind my butt beside the narrow bed. I didn't quite know what he was doing—at least until I looked out at his paintings and saw in one a couple in a position that Reginald was maneuvering me into. My left leg was stretched out flat on the bed, and Reginald grabbed under my hip with his left hand and lifted my pelvis, while his right hand pulled up my right leg and propped it up along his chest. Then he swung his right leg over through my spread legs and to the other side the bed, where he dug in his heel where the mattress met the box springs. As he was swinging, I was crying out and grunting, because this maneuver brought his hard, long cock to my entrance at a side angle, and he thrust inside me and started caressing my channel walls with his cock bulb in places and ways it had never been made love to before.

He was stroking me hard and fast, and I was letting him know that I loved what he was doing to me. But at the same time my mind was processing what he had said.

No, I didn't think I'd be abandoning Sir Guy any time soon. I was fond of him, and I didn't begrudge him his little subterfuge in his clutching at whatever life and loving that was left to him. No, as long as I could occasionally break away to be mastered like this by Reginald, I believed I would be happy and content on Madeira—and in Sir Guy's bed—for some time to come.