CHAPTER ONE (England)
Disillusioned, angry and feeling like whoring, Rothschild Cape stood outside the publishing house of Byron and Shakespeare, rejected manuscript under his arm. He watched a lady riding sidesaddle eating grapes but holding her nose as she passed the horse-drawn night-cart that ought to have been off the streets at that time of day.
Roth loved whores but so many of them here in London were diseased with pocked-faces. Perhaps he should sail for America where the skies were blue, the women clean and the streets of New York were paved with gold?
Yeah why not, he thought, throwing his manuscript at the engraved profile of the Bard, smashing the window. Two constables rushed up, truncheons at the ready. Roth pointed to the drunken night-cart man sleeping and the hapless grimy man was carried away, protesting.
Resting in a pub, drinking finest ale that reminded Roth of old rainwater tasting of cyanobacteria, he waved aside whores inviting him to a hairy munch. He thought perhaps this might be the final year of his young life at thirty-two. It was being widely predicted the sky could fall in ten months' hence on 1st of January 1800, turn of the new century.
Angrily he thought of those two old farts of editors whom he now despised. The elder one Mr Tomlinson had said it was insane for Mr Cape to expect readers to accept that women liked to fornicate and ridiculous that they would lovingly suck a gentleman's penis. His college Mr Pepys agreed and said it would be at least 200 years before a woman might think of that being acceptable behavior and try to enjoy it.
"You write of it as women doing it like clockwork," he'd said.
Roth said he'd chosen to set his fantasy novel in the twentieth century so perhaps he was on target after all as cockwork would be popular by then. Mr Pepys chose to ignore that.
Mr Tomlinson said equally preposterous was the thought of a man being with two naked women simultaneously and licking their you-know-whats. "At that I almost drowned my fob watch in vomit. I say sir, get out of our respectable office and take that revolting rubbish you dare call a manuscript with you. The only place fit for you is America or a tidal dudgeon."
Leaving the pub hours later, not at all unsteady on his feet and that making Roth even more suspicious he'd been buying tankards of old rainwater he was set upon, not by prostitutes as one would expect, this being London, but by sailors ordered by their captain to go on a recruitment spree. He was coshed unconscious and thrown into an abandoned night-cart the sailors had found outside what was widely known as the sanctimonious publishing house of Byron and Shakespeare. Roth joined two comely but pock-marked wenches and three riff-raff males floating in swill.
With a full ship's complement, the Jolly Good Show set sail down the Thames but it took five days to reach the Channel because Captain Horatio Smith insisted on stopping off at every pub. Finally pirate Smith set a course for the Caribbean, eager to plunder French, Irish and American trading ships, English ones too if there were no other vessels around to act as witnesses.
On the seventh day out Roth was on his hands and knees polishing the heads of nails on the decking where the captain liked to strut. He said, "Barometer's dropping capt'n."
"What's a barometer – we don't have one?"
"Storm's coming from sou-sou-east."
"What direction is that?"
Roth pointed.
"That's where the only sunny patch is. Stop wasting my time."
"As you say capt'n. May I polish your boots while I'm doing this?"
"Why not? You have a fine ass young man."
When Roth had finished licking and polishing the captain's boots, the captain absentmindedly drumming his fingers on Roth's ass, Horatio said, "Give this man eight measures of rum." He turned to look at the fine patch to the sou-sou-east and crapped his white breeches. A towering thunderhead, as black a tar, filled that quadrant, scores of lightening bolts flashing from it.
"Oh mummy," cried the fiercest scoundrel in piracy of those times (they were a dying breed because so many of them died young).
"You mother is no help out here capt'n unless she's below mating with the crew."
"No, she's at home. Please help me out Jack."
"It's Roth sir."
"Help me out quickly – I need to change my pants."
"Head in that direction capt'n. It's our fastest point of sailing and will allow us to just slide past the edge of the storm. Beside that's the direction of the West Indies."
"Oh I say. Jolly good show. Do what our new first mate says, helmsman."
"I'm the coxswain capt'n, the regular helmsman has the crabs."
Accepting the responsibility of being first mate, Roth said, "Old man if you have the helm you are helmsman. Turn to the west eight degrees."
"Aye, aye sir. What are eight degrees?"
Thanks to first mate Roth the good ship Jolly Good Show got to the Gulf of Mexico a week ahead of schedule.
Captain Smith went with half the crew ashore to a small town in Miami to whore, drink and fight but not necessarily in that order. He returned and Roth took the other half of the crew to raise mayhem but he stole a horse and rode off. It couldn't be called jumping ship because he'd been unlawfully press-ganged aboard and so the colonization of America by Roth and his descendent was off to an auspicious start (the owner thought his horse had strayed rather than been rustled).
Fortunately for the Cape family the sky didn't fall in on 1900 and 2000. Roth spent his evenings seducing women as he worked up the east coast and some of his lusty descendants had capes named after them. Outside of a town in South Carolina Roth swapped his horse for a fine young filly called Rosie North. She beget a son during their travels, by then turning west, to establish what became known as the North-Cape branch of the family.
CHAPTER 2 (NORTH-CAPES FROM YEAR 2000)
Seb (Sebastian) North-Cape unknowingly took up his distant predecessor' interests in writing about whores but he did not knowingly cohabit with them. It's very difficult to identify whores because many look like average moms and those charging the earth often looked like models or TV weather presenters or female attorneys.
Seb's father worked secretly pirated software while his mom owned and operated a guesthouse that all locals were aware was a front for the best brothel in the city. How Seb had missed becoming morally contaminated was a mystery because both sets of grandparents had been punished at law for sex offences. Seb wrote his sleazy novel on hearsay, his mother and grandparents being primes sources of basic information and descriptive recalls of disgusting exhibitions. He'd worn out two pairs of shoes attempting to find a publisher.
When holidaying in Louisiana Seb luckily met an East-Cape member of the extended family, so far removed they were practically unrelated. She was a prim school teacher called Marion, unmarried and barely touched but being in her annual cycle that required her to be seduced she touched Seb many times until it was practically bursting from his pants.
"Marion," he slurred, as she ordered two more Martinis as their hotel bar. "Unaccustomed as I am, all this touching is making me feel randy."
"Oooh," she said, attempting unsuccessfully to pull down her top down.
They had dinner and went to his room but he had problems getting it up and she was so drunk she couldn't keep her legs open.
Around 10:30 next morning Seb smiled, a whacking big erection in his hand. He shook Marion awake.
She looked reasonably bright and said she felt okay.
"Okay to, um, you-know-what?"
She giggled and said she needed to clean her teeth. He said she didn't need to clean her teeth before putting her mouth around his dick and she laughed and said didn't he know that was women's code for saying she needed to go for a pee. He made a note in his writer's diary while she peed.
The sex was unremarkable.
"I though you would be at least eight inches and as thick as a horse."
Sep wondered what kind of dick she'd been getting. Perhaps her father kept horses.
Well, she really was big. He slopped around in her and finally made her bellow and she bit him on both shoulders and for a moment he thought she was urinating, but no, it was the real thing. Almost a year's supply she said but he thought that was unlikely as it was she'd have an arsenal of dildos etc.
Seb felt good getting a couple of hefty shots away but that wasn't what took him by surprise. She said, "Would you like a copy of the early history of our family?"
Seb said sure and she asked him to bang her again. No problem, he was into it and ended with a roar, she having difficulty walking to the bathroom.
"God, you are an animal but also with intellect," she said. "Just like Roth. More that normally I would be prepared to admit," she said, collapsing alongside him. Seb scarcely heard her, focusing instead on being termed a sex animal. Oh God, what a supreme accolade for lowly Seb North-Cape – an insignificant rancher by day, and struggling and failing writer by night. He too fell asleep and they awoke early evening to rut again.
Seb strutted through the crowded railway station to begin his sub-continental journey back home thinking all the pretty women but not so pretty ones but with sexy smiles thronging the station would be wishing for a piece of him. North-Cape super stud still on a post sexual high and over-inflated ego began losing that upbeat demeanor when noticing not one of those women was staring at him, pushing out her breasts and working her tongue-tip. He virtually did not exist. He realized he was back in his usual sexual desert.
Forty-second cousin or thereabouts Marion had dropped Seb off at the station in Lafayette where he entered his roomette for the 34-hour journey to Tucson where he'd drive around midnight to his grandparent's former ranch just out of Fountain Hills. Seb preferred train travel believing their smashes were usually less spectacular than those of aircraft. He also wrote undisturbed on trains.
Once underway and when there was nothing of note to observe out the windows Seb pulled out the two books Marion had given him – one called 'The Known History of the Cape Family in America' and the other 'Rothschild Cape From Whose Loins We Are Descended'. Both publications had been written and published by Marion's father Larry. The family history was a glossy volume but it was the soft cover publication and the revelations in that booklet sexual maturityread during the last hours before arriving in Tucson that had Seb hugely aroused. Roth had been an adventurer, nonstop seducer and lifelong unsuccessful author, not stooping to publish his own manuscripts. Seb felt an affinity deeper than he'd ever felt for anyone in his adult life. He imagined his 200-year-old family branch founder was within a hand's span of him. It was eerie.
Seb found Julie his 42-year-old married housekeeper had stayed behind to welcome him home as she usually did. She was soft on him, he knew she was but he'd been too uptight and prissy to yield to her. But this time, being a changed man sexually after reading about the carnal exploits of Roth, he spread his fingers over her right breast as they performed their usual chaste kiss they shared when he'd been away from home longer than two days. Deftly she slipped her dress and bra off that shoulder and Seb found he had a soft, rather small breast to play with. He smiled. She smiled and slipped to her knees. Soon Seb had thrown his head back and was smiling hugely.
Julie was a great fuck. She really wanted him and that mattered. Seb found her soft hand and lip caressing almost unbelievably erotic and when he doggied her and she pulled both of his hands on to her tits before she went down on to her hands he felt his cock seemed at least an inch longer. Julie wept as she kissed him goodnight, refusing to stay. She said she had to give some attention to her husband and get her two teenagers off to college in the morning. They agreed they'd had such a good time and must do it more often.
Sun streaming into the bedroom woke Seb in the morning to handle the largest hard-on he'd had for a very long time. Marion and reading about the cock-rampant Roth had helped to liberate him sexually, he believed and he rested peaceful locked into that thought.
After showering and cleaning his teeth Seb went to the stables to check on his yearlings in the nearby corral. They looked fine. He checked the horses. They were fine but one was missing and so was his stable hand Lilia. As he neared the house he heard thundering hooves and turning saw the 18-year-old on Jools waving highly excited and he knew what that was about. Jools had previously let nobody but him ride her; in his absence Lilia had broken through.
"Oh Mr Cape oh Mr Cape. Look at me."
