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- The sun has long set by the time you're done mending and washing clothes. Most of the camp is asleep as you make your rounds delivering the various items to tents.
- Arthur's tent, however, still has a light on, even though the flaps are pulled closed.
- Curiously, you enter without announcing yourself, holding his fresh shirts and trousers. “Forgive the late hour, Mr. Morgan, but I--”
- Arthur's gaze snaps up to meet yours as you trail off, taking him in. The man is bare to his waist, union suit unbuttoned and pushed down. His hand is wrapped around his cock, erect and reddened. It's clear he was busy, and you've interrupted.
- Your skin flushes hot and you drop the clothes. Why can't you move? Lord, you've never seen a man naked before – never seen his privates, don't know a damn thing about what goes on in a marriage bed – and you're utterly shocked.
- Arthur knows all of this.
- “Thanks for the clothes, sweetheart.” He drawls, making no move to cover himself. “Ah, I forgot – you ain't familiar with all our rules yet, are ya?”
- “I—rules?” You squeak, finally managing to tear your gaze away, consumed with embarrassment. He's going to tell Dutch. You're going to be out on the street again, pick-pocketing to get by, and--
- “Rules.” Arthur echoes. “Y'can follow rules, right?”
- “Y-yes. I'm ever so sorry, I'll go, I ain't gonna tell a soul--”
- “Nah, it's fine. C'mere.”
- Flicking your gaze sideways, you see Arthur's outstretched hand. Purposefully, you do not look anywhere else. “Wh-why?”
- “If y'find a man in this... state, in camp,” Arthur says, “it's your duty to help him out. Y'understand?”
- You do not, but you take his hand anyway. He pulls you forward at the same time as he sits up in his cot. You stumble.
- “Help him?” You parrot, stupidly. “I—I don't, I've never...”
- “Really?” Arthur eyes you, languidly stroking himself. Are all men so large? Wouldn't it hurt? “Y'were livin' rough, and you ain't laid down for a man yet?”
- Shaking your head, you bite your lip. “No, Mr. Morgan. I slept at the church at nights, and the sisters always told us that, um, we should be keepin' ourselves pure for marriage.”
- “Ah, good advice, yeah,” Arthur says, “only the sisters didn't mention that there are other ways to help a man out. Ways that'll still keep y'pure for your husband.” His smirk is darkly handsome.
- “And these are the camp rules?” You whisper, trembling.
- “Rules is rules, sweetheart. I didn't make 'em. Good girls help the fellers out. Bad girls? Well, they don't last long, here. Are you a good girl?”
- “Yes, Mr. Morgan.” You hope you are, at least. You try to be.
- “Alright then. Kneel down for me, there y'go.”
- Arthur spreads his legs as you do as you're bid, face-to-face with his dick. It's even more intimidating up close. He watches you with hooded eyes, waiting. When you do nothing, he rumbles lowly.
- “Go on, then. Open your mouth.”
- “Why?” You whisper, confusion bright in your eyes. Arthur laughs.
- “Christ almighty, y'really are an innocent thing, ain't you? Thought there was none left in the world.” He reaches forward, thumbing your lower lip, and you obediently relax your jaw. “Men like a woman's mouth. Use your tongue, like y'would on a piece of candy. No teeth, though, y'hear?”
- Nodding, you take a deep breath, and lean forward. Your first licks are exploratory, hesitant. His skin tastes salty, and he smells headily masculine; coffee and liquor and tobacco spiked with something earthy. Like candy, he said. You pop your lips around the head of his cock and suck with a loud slurp.
- “Jesus,” Arthur grunts, jerking his hips forward.
- “I'm sorry,” you rush, “did I do it wrong? Should--”
- “Keep goin', woman. Do it again.”
- With slight hesitance, you repeat the action. He moans lowly, tangling his fingers in your hair. Determined to do things properly – to not break the rules – you swirl your tongue, licking his twitching cock eagerly. For guidance, you glance up at him through your eyelashes.
- Arthur is staring down at you with teeth bared, pupils blown, utterly fucked-out on lust. He watches you do your best to please him, and the clumsiness of the blow-job turns him on more than the slip and slide of your tongue. Lord, just the idea that he could fuck your mouth and tell you it's proper, and you wouldn't know better, has him dizzy with power.
- You feel him pull you back and away by your hair. Worried that you've done badly, you stare as he takes himself to hand, stroking his cock in quick jerks. Then he purrs, “Open y'mouth up wide, sweetheart.”
- Tongue curled, you do as he says. He moans at the sight, shuddering. The first jet of his cum hits your cheek, makes you flinch in surprise, but he holds you tightly in place. Arthur pants and growls, landing more spurts of his cum on your lips, tongue, and chin. Although you drool a little, you keep your mouth relaxed.
- “Damn,” Arthur gasps, releasing your head, “shit. Ain't spent that quickly in a long while.”
- You don't quite know what that means, lips still parted in compliance. Arthur chuckles roughly.
- “Y'can spit my seed if you want. But the best girls always swallow it.”
- Not a good girl – one of the best girls. You want that. Gingerly, you gulp down the stickiness in your mouth, trying not to wince at the salt-bitter taste that is foreign to you. Arthur nods, fondly thumbing your temple.
- “Good. Y'did so well, sweetheart.”
- Arthur reaches over to his nightstand and hands you a bandanna. It's black and white patterned; you've seen him wear it before. You understand without him needing to tell you that you should wipe the rest of your face clean. Once you've done so, you offer the rag back.
- “No, no,” Arthur says, “keep it. I got a feelin' you'll be needin' it.”
- “Okay.” You agree, voice a little thick. “Am I allowed to go to bed now, Mr. Morgan?”
- “Yeah, off with ya,” he makes a gesture, “I'm tired.”
- You scamper back to your bedroll, thinking about everything that transpired. Arthur knows so much, and you know so very little. Perhaps someday you can ask him why doing... that with him made you wet between the legs.
- Weeks pass. Arthur wakes up early one morning, pouring himself a cup of coffee, peering out over the misty lake. It's going to be a warm day, he thinks.
- He's distracted from his thoughts by the rustle of John's tent flaps.
- When you emerge, bandanna in hand – the god damn bandanna he gave you – he stiffens, catching your eye.
- Shyly, you wave, dabbing at your chin. When you realise he's staring at the piece of cloth, you shrug your shoulders nonchalantly. “Rules is rules, Mr. Morgan. Like you taught me. Good mornin'!”
- You turn to go about your day, innocent to Arthur's grip tightening around the tin cup in his hand, denting the metal.