Chapter Eight: A Stranger Approach
A/N: Sorry…there are a lot of alleys in London (18th C). You turn around and BAM there's one in your face. LOL.
A/N2: I've been using some old English terminology so I'll give you a bit of a dictionary:
~a buzzard or cull(y) is "a soft fellow who's been tricked into something"
~a muff – 18th word for vagina.
~Fussocks – a "lazy, fat wrench"
~Punk – Back in the day punk meant 'whore'.
~ "you really chaf'd him up, sir" – You really beat him/banged him up, sir.
WARNING: There's assault and rape in this chapter.
Arthur shuffled down Oxford Ave, huddled under his coat. It was frighteningly chilly as the City of London marched towards Mid-December and yet the sky refused to give up the first snowfall. Instead it rained, nothing but hard, cold rain. The Brit found himself having to dodge from tin canopy, to canopy, in the storm, hiding under an umbrella for extra protection.
Arthur threw himself into an alleyway momentarily as the wind picked up, shifting the direction of the rain from straight down to vertical. Wiping away his bangs, already wet and sticking to his face, he checked the pocket watch Francis had kindly let him borrow. It was already well past eight in the evening.
The Englishman huddled in the alleyway for a minute before heading back into the street. He jumped over puddles, trying not to slip. He looked down the cobble road, barely being able to see the street ahead of him as the rain continued to thrash onto the street, creating a deep mist.
Arthur had spent the afternoon and dinner time at Samuel Barlow's home. The lawyer was eager to get a better understanding of the young man who would be serving as his apprentice.
Kirkland was rather impressed by Barlow's home. It was a newly built townhouse a mere twenty minute walk from the Old Bailey. It had three floors, all neatly decorated with fine arts and crafts from abroad. Each floor had a gold and red diamond pattern wallpaper with curls and crowns. There were wooden panels in all of the main rooms and a brick fireplace in the narrow, but long dining room. Barlow, a man well into his forties, had three children and a courtly wife who made a fine roast.
While there the two discussed a variety of topics including the recent execution of Jonathan Wild. Barlow, on occasion, brought up the Molly House raids, but Arthur insisted the issue was not one to converse about with a good Christian woman and children around. The comment seemed to have pleased Barlow as he laughed heartedly and agreed. After the meal, he showed Arthur to the door, shook his hand, expressed his gratitude for the visit and excitement to work with him, and wished him well as he set out.
The visit to Barlow's homestead was a pleasant distraction from his heart wrenching concern over Hitchen. The day before the thief-taker had persuaded him through blackmail to rob an old woman of her finest cloth. After Francis casually appeared at the store he changed his mind. He had no doubt that Hitchen would attack him – politically or otherwise.
Arthur carefully made his way down the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for those dropping sludge into the streets. Many people took advantage of the sweeping rain to throw their dirty waste off to the side. It was dragged away quicker and made others feel less embarrassed about themselves.
Glancing up, he was suddenly jerked into an alley, a hand covering his mouth as someone dragged him deeper into the darkness. After a few punches to the head he was knocked out cold.
He woke up some time later, how much later he could not begin to fathom. Arthur looked around him seeing wooden furniture and boxes; there was even a coffin in one corner. It was a large room, damp and cold. He sneezed, noticing he was still soaking wet and tied to a wooden chair. The sudden bang of a door opening caught his attention.
Walking through the entrance was the man he feared the most at this point. It was Hitchen! The middle-aged thief-taker was dressed in dark colours, trying to blend in with the walls of the blackened room.
The door was shut behind the two henchmen who followed, one of them carrying a dimly lit lamp. He placed the lamp on a wooden table beside Arthur, grinning with no teeth to show. Arthur remembered him from the day before and it made him sick inside.
"So," Hitchen finally spoke, "Where's the cloth, or did you conveniently forget that you owed me your service?"
"I won't do it for you!" Arthur spat at him, wiggling in his seat, hoping to break loose.
Hitchen laughed, "You won't break from that. It's too tight – so tight it could cut your wrists."
The blonde scowled, "I don't have your damn cloth. I couldn't get it."
"Why?" Hitchen demanded, narrowing his brows.
"Because," Arthur looked away, "I was interrupted."
"By the Frenchman?"
Arthur looked back in complete shock. How did Hitchen know this? He swallowed hard, realizing how stupid it was to even second-guess the thief-taker; he had eyes everywhere. That is, after all, how he found out about Francis.
"What is it about that long-haired blonde boy that makes you disobey everything that's civil in this world, hm?" Hitchen continued, a hint of slyness in his voice.
"N-nothing," Arthur gritted his teeth, trying to hide his fear.
"No," Hitchen circled the trapped man, "There's definitely something. I want to know what it is. Is it the way he makes you feel?"
Arthur looked away from Hitchen's luring stare. Those beady, black eyes made him nervous. Instead he focused on the floor beneath him and the little pools of water marking areas where there were holes.
"Well?" Hitchen's snatched the Brit's chin and lifted his face to meet his own. The dark-haired man gazed into the eyes or, in Arthur's view, the soul of the Englishman, trying to find a quick, sufficient answer to his question.
Instead Arthur answered with his own question, "I failed you so what do you plan to do to me? Sell me out?"
"I could," Hitchen grinned, "But I'm rather interested in this whole thing. Why you'd take up company with a man. He's got every part you do, so why no interest in what a woman's hiding up her skirt?"
Arthur blushed a deep red, "W-who said…I wasn't interested in women?"
"That kiss you gave the Frenchman told me so."
Arthur furrowed his eyes, trying to defend himself, "You saw it then, did you?"
"I sure did. With my own eyes."
"Then," Arthur thumbed around in his brain, trying to find the perfect argument, "You'll remember that he kissed me. Not the other way around."
"I didn't see you resisting." Hitchen glared.
"Of course not!" Arthur argued, "I was too in shock!"
Hitchen took his hand off the Brit and brought it to his own chin, deep in thought. After a moment of twitching his lips and shifting his eyes he folded his arms, settling on a decision.
"Well obviously you must've done something to show interest."
"You twit!" Arthur yelled, "That's the dumbest, most outrageous conclusion anyone has ever mustered up!"
Hitchen covered Arthur's mouth with his hand, muffling the lad, "Now you listen here, boy. No matter what you say, I have no intention of letting you walk away a free man. Do you understand? If I can't get you to steal, then I'll find another use for you."
The Londoner shuddered. What else could Hitchen need him for if not to steal? That was the dark eyed man's whole life…what more could he possible want? When Hitchen spoke again, Arthur nearly caved with anxiety.
"I'm going to find out why;" He grinned with a hint of mischievousness in his eye, "why you'd chose a man over a whore."
Looking back at his crew he nodded for them to leave. They were hesitant but followed his instructions, closing the door firmly behind them. Hitchen turned back to Arthur, his hand still tightly concealed the Brit's lips, "I've never fucked a man before. What's it like?"
Arthur was unable to answer, his mouth still forced shut, but even if he could he wouldn't have been able to give a satisfactory comment since the most he'd ever received was mouth-to-genital contact.
Unhappy with the young man's silence, despite the impossibility for him to answer, Hitchen's grabbed Arthur's wet hair with his other hand, yanking it hard, "I'm going to make you a woman!"
The crack against his cheek was followed by a numbing feel as Arthur was repetitively hit in the face. The young blonde was still tied to the chair. His hands were bound to each other behind the back of the seat, while his ankles were tied to the individual chair legs they were perched in front of.
The Englishman spat out a trail of blood and gave the thief-taker a menacing look. The criminal would not back down however, as he tore open Arthur's shirt, punching him in the gut. The move made Arthur gasp for air, hunching over as much as possible.
Hitchen grabbed his hair again, pulling the young man's face close to his own. He stared deep into Arthur's eyes looking for signs of fear, waiting for the boy to flinch.
"What do you two do?"
"P-pardon?" The Englishman struggled with his words, his body still in pain.
"How do you do it? How do you fuck each other? You're men!" Hitchen let go of Arthur's hair and studied the figure in front of him from head to toe.
"I…don't know" Panic was shooting threw the young man's body. Was Hitchen serious? Did he really intend to find out what it was like to have sex with a man? It was utter madness; he would become a criminal himself!
Hitchen slapped him, "Don't be stupid boy! You must know!"
"I don't!" Arthur was telling the truth. He'd never actually had intercourse with Francis, he'd only felt the sensation of having his dick sucked by the man.
"You're just making things worse for yourself!" The thief-taker grabbed him by the throat, "Now, tell me, has he done anything to you at all?"
The Brit hesitated, but the tighter the grip around his neck got, the more he coughed up his secret, "H-he just…me…"
"He what?"
"H-he…su…me."
Hitchen released his hold, "Spit it out, ya buzzard!"
With air filling his lounges again, he shouted, "HE SUCKED ME YOU DAMN ARSE!"
Hitchen's eyes widened. He stepped back, looking at Arthur as though he were pale with the plague, "What do you mean? You mean your dick?"
The word made Arthur shudder. He was still too embarrassed to admit what had happened. As Hitchen's probed for more information he quietly nodded, frowning at his defeat.
Without any reason Hitchen said, "I want you to do it."
Arthur looked up confused.
"I want you to do it to me."
The Brit's mouth dropped open in surprise. The thief-taker really did plan to experiment! Now Arthur would be guilty of not one, but two accounts of sodomy. It frightened him…but there was still some hope. He remembered studying a case where a young boy was the victim of a sodomite attack. The sodomite was sentenced to the pillar and the boy walked away free. But Arthur couldn't expect such luck; he'd already had a sexual encounter with Francis. He could not claim that Charles Hitchen had raped him and Francis had not. It was one or the other – either you were a full sodomite and all sexual activities were legitimate or you weren't.
As Arthur hummed over the topic in his head, Hitchen slowly pulled down his pants. He appeared hesitant himself, but was also extremely curious. The criminal had never been one to follow the rules and this to him was another way to control others. There were 'respectable' woman running underground brothels, using unhappy married women as slaves to make money, so why not take advantage of this poor bugger?
Whipping his plump manhood out, he stood in front of Arthur glaring down on him, "Suck it."
The blonde clenched his eyes shut and turned away. He could barely even look at the hard stick of flesh in front of him. He opened his eyes and yelped as his hair was pulled for a third time.
Hitchen took the opportunity to shove himself inside the mouth of the young man whilst he cried out in pain. Holding Arthur's head in place, the dark haired man started to thrust himself in and out, adjusting to the wetness and heat.
Tied to the chair, Arthur couldn't do anything to stop the onslaught by his captor. He wailed as the fleshy manhood continue pushing further down his throat. The mumbled sounds seemed to be affecting Hitchen as his dick became harder and his movements faster.
He felt ashamed feeling himself become firmer. He was not attracted to Hitchen at all, yet his body was still reacting to the provocative actions. Mentally, he wanted to break down and cry or run away and get help, none of which was possible.
With an intense feeling in his abdomen rising, Hitchen released himself into Arthur, making the Brit gag.
"A man's seed shouldn't be wasted down the throat of some cull; it should be somewhere more proper." He examined Arthur as the young man gasped for air, "Well, you don't have a muff, so…I guess the ass is all that's agreeable."
Leaning over, Hitchen cut the ropes binding Arthur's legs to the chair. He stood up, grabbing one of his victim's arms, lifting him up off the chair and leaning him against table nearby.
Struggling to keep his footing, Arthur crashed onto the table, his hands still bound behind him. He began to feel dizzy as things were happening too fast. He could barely keep his head straight as Hitchen pulled down his trousers, grabbing hold of his tingling cock before thrusting his own inside.
"Ah!" Hitchen shouted, not anticipating the tightness, "Bloody fucking hell!"
Arthur was lost in a daze, caught between agony and numbness. He couldn't believe this was actually happening to him. His mind and body came back as Hitchen began thrusting, having adjusted himself to Arthur's tightness.
The young blonde clawed at his own back through his shirt, trying to fight the tears swelling in his eyes. It was the worst feeling he'd ever encountered as electric bolts of pain shot up from his anus to every part of his body.
Hitchen's insertions were strong and paced. Arthur had to keep his eyes closed, and his mind focused to fight his own insanity. After several minutes the hardness inside him released a stream of warm fluid that climbed its way up inside him, making him tremble. The feeling of the jet stream of cum inside him made him spill his own frothy, white semen.
The finish left the two of them panting harshly, Hitchen standing erect, Arthur hunched over the table.
Hitchen pulled out with a snarky comment, "You should've taken the linen from that damn, fat fussocks. Now look where you've gotten yourself. You're a damn man-punk."
Hitchen's pulled up his pants as one of his henchmen re-entered the room. He stared, slightly frightened of the image before him, before speaking, "you really chaf'd him up, sir."
"Yeah," the middle-aged man muttered, "Now get 'im outta here and make sure he stays quiet."
For the record, there really were women hosting underground brothels that held married women. Many of these "unhappy married women" were blackmailed into working for the brothels because the owner would encourage them to do something wrong/illegal or to have an affair and then threaten to tell their husbands about it. It was totally sneaky!