Page 39 of The Two Wills

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous in the dark,” he said. “The way down is treacherous. We could stumble and fall.”

“I used to run up and down the bell tower stairs at Saint Leonard’s,” I said.

“But there might be sea monsters in the water,” Little Goat warned.

“Oh, come on! It’s my first time. See how the moon is begging us! We’ll just go in a little.”

He hesitated. “Very well, but just in and out.”

It took us a very long time to get down the zigzag path of the cliffs. I could hear the roar of the sea, like an audience of thousands cheering and stomping in the distance. Near the bottom, with a few jumps and slides, we made our way onto the beach. The sand betwixt my toes felt strange and wonderful. We tore our clothes off until we were stark naked and ran toward the waves that shushed and burped against the shore. Both of us dove into the bubbly tumult. The current was far stronger than the Thames, lifting me as if there were hundreds of arms pulling and tossing me about. I swallowed a gulp and coughed.

“It’s so salty!” I shouted to Little Goat.

“’Tis!” he called back. “We should take some back to flavor our dinner!”

We splashed about wildly, laughing as the frothy tide knocked us about. The huge cliffs above us were both terrifying and lovely, and I stared at them mesmerized, as if they were the towers of a great castle. It was Little Goat who first noticed something down the beach.

“Shh,” he said, pointing some fifty feet away. “Look down there by those rocks, closer to the cliff wall.”

His finger targeted upon the shadowy form of a grown man totally naked, his arms hugging a large rock, back and buttocks exposed. With him was a woman in just her corset and skirts, bosoms spilling out for all to see.

“Shall we get a closer look?” I said.

To ensure we would escape detection, we swam farther out, just past the waves’ cresting. Then quietly and slowly we swam across toward the large rocks so we might conceal ourselves and get a glimpse of the lovers. The din of the crashing waves concealed the sound of our splashing. It wasn’t until we found our hiding-nook that I recognized the Poet’s form.

“It’s Will,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

“O, me, the gods!” Little Goat gasped.

The Poet was not fifty feet from our hiding place, with the half-naked woman in front of him. His body was lithe and muscular, with hairy legs and a bright white bum that shone in the moonlight. My eyes lingered across every inch of him, burning the image into my memory. The night was bright enough that I could make out red marks across his broad back, like he had been attacked. The wounds were deep enough they looked ready to bleed.

“He’s wounded!” I said.

“Shh!” Little Goat whispered. “Listen.”

What I had first thought were the Poet’s moans of agony, I finally recognized as moans of pleasure. The half-naked woman was adjusting her skirts, which had become in a great disarray. I couldn’t make out her face at first, for she was hidden in the shadow of an over-hanging cliff. I could only see she was finely formed. But then she stepped out into the moonlight, and I could plainly see the mass of frizzled hair tied atop her head with that vile, single red rose sticking out. It was her. She then pulled a riding crop from the waist of her skirts—the riding crop that clearly caused the wounds on the Poet’s back. I had heard stories about how men and women played with pain in the bawdy houses, but I didn’t believe it until that moment. But when she struck the whip across his back, there was no cry of pain in his voice, more a groan of hunger followed by a plea for “More!”

Rose did not satisfy him with another lash, but instead dropped the riding crop, and began to kiss the Poet’s wounds. I could discern his body shivering. He turned round and grabbed her as they fell together upon a blanket that had been laid on the sand. Little Goat and I dipped down behind the rock again, fearing we would be seen, but when we peeped out again, we knew they were too enraptured by their passion to see or care about anyone but their own brutal coupling. The Poet pulled up her skirts and began to rut. The whole time he kept his one hand on her throat, and I feared he was going to hurt her as revenge for the lashing. But when he briefly removed his hands, she grabbed for it to choke her again, crying out, “Tighter!”

Like eels, Little Goat and I slithered to a closer hiding place, where the water was so shallow the pebbles scraped my belly and cock. A herd of clouds had thankfully dimmed the moonlight, which had shone so bright just moments before. But still there was enough light to make out Rose’s taut, smooth legs lifted around the Poet’s waist. A moment later she wrestled the Poet onto his back and mounted him. Now it was she as the aggressor again. At first, she threatened him again with the crop. He lifted his face as if urging her on. But she threw away the crop and slapped him hard twice with her hands. He pulled her down and ravished her mouth. My blood rushed to all my extremities. My hard cock ached against the sand. That a man would allow himself to be so misused by a woman this way excited me no end. I was ashamed at my arousal but could not stop watching.

“Do you think he makes love to his wife this way?” I whispered to Little Goat, the waves drowning any sound except that woman’s monstrous groans of pleasure.

Little Goat laughed. “I’ve heard his wife is a hideous old shrew that lives up in Stratford with his children. It’s no wonder he cavorts with other women.”

Just then the clouds removed themselves from their spot in front of the moon, making the entire scene—and us—much more visible. I didn’t dare move, nor did I want to as I watched the Poet return the woman to her back and escalate his thrusting. He pulled her hair and slapped her as hard as she had given him. I worried for her, but she groaned again in pleasure, begging, “Harder!” He complied and this time slapped her with his other hand so her face turned toward the rocks where we hid.

Both Little Goat and I aimed to escape, but it was too late. She saw us, half standing in the shallows, my own hard cock glaring in the bright moonlight.

“We better go before he recognizes us!” Little Goat hissed before diving out into the deeper water and swimming back toward where we had entered the beach.

I could not move. While she had seen me, the Poet hadn’t. He continued his violent copulation, and a dark longing inside me would not let me look away. As if the Devil himself had possessed me, I began to stroke my cock under the water. She smiled at me in that way she had at rehearsal. I did not smile back but instead allowed my blue eyes to glare at her as if they were cat’s claws attempting to shred her skin. Still, I could not stop touching myself as the Poet suckled and bit her breasts.

He then saw she was staring off, and turned his gaze toward where she was looking, but she quickly commanded him to his back, preventing him from seeing me. She mounted and began riding him again but continued glancing over at me with her black eyes, licking her lips, encouraging me on. It was as if she wanted to share what she was feeling with me.

I imagined myself in her place atop the Poet’s lap. I pretended to feel his cock sliding in and out, the prickle of his bush, the jiggle of his balls. As my stroking grew more aggressive, her groans grew louder. Before I knew it, my staff spat its milk into the sea, becoming one with the foam.

Rose started to laugh.