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By *est-couple OP Man
over a year ago
Southwick (near Trowbridge) |
The Housemaid’s Tale – A Victorian Fantasy
It was a very frightening prospect. My first time away from my home and into employment in a great country house. Poverty in my humble family meant that, at just eighteen years of age, I had to go into service with a wealthy family far from home. All through my long coach journey to London I trembled with fear, not knowing what to expect. Who would be there? What would I have to do? Would they bully me? On arrival at Paddington Station I was met by a surly manservant who grunted to indicate I get up into a wagon with another girl who had apparently arrived on an earlier train. Our bags were thrown up onto the roof and the wagon growled out into the noisy street.
Edith, for so she was called, was my own age but seemingly worldlier than I was. She was free in her conversation, and the way she talked about men made me blush – and made me hot with confusion also. Within two minutes she had worked out of me that I was a virgin and that I knew nothing at all of the ways of the world. With a smile and laughter, she told me that my eyes were soon going to be opened. How right she was.
We arrived late at the house and were put together in a small room. I was not unfamiliar with sharing a bed – I had done so with my sister – but was rather put out by Edith’s unabashed nudity. She encouraged me to strip naked like herself – it was more hygienic, she said – and the two of us slid between the cold sheets. As I lay with my back towards her, I felt her move and her body mould itself into mine. Her not breath was on my neck, but I felt comforted by the warmth of her abdomen and ample breasts as they pressed into me. Almost unconsciously, I relaxed, and her arm came across me to draw me close to her. To my surprise I felt her lips on the back of my sensitive neck, a feeling that was nice none the less, but then her hand strayed down first to my own breast which it squeezed and caressed, before it reached even lower to the bushy fur of my motte. What delicious feelings her gentle fingers caressed out of my innocent body - where my own hands had never strayed, being told that such things were sinful, her fingertips parted my lips and sought out the little bud of pleasure that had never been teased before. Turning me over, but keeping her hands on my most private place, her moth sought mine and her tongue parted my other lips. He hand guided mine to her own naughty hole, and I was shocked to discover that she had no hair down there, just a stubbly mass where what had been had been shaved off. I was astonished. But my astonishment was swallowed up when a shuddering feeling ran through my body such as I had never known before. I was exhausted, happy but confused, and as my unskilled fingers brought her to her own release of happiness I fell into a delicious sleep in my new friend’s encompassing arms. What would the morrow bring, I wondered, as I drifted off to sleep.
I awoke to the sound of birds and to the most delicious sensations in my loins, which seemed to be both liquid and on fire at the same time. Confused, I stumbled into wakefulness and realised that the blankets had been pulled off, leaving my nakedness fully exposed to the early morning sun. Edith, still naked, was kneeling between my opened thighs and with her tongue was circling my sensitive opening. All I knew about that place on my maidenly body was that it was naughty, a place of sin – and that I must not let a man or a boy anywhere near it … but no one had said anything about allowing another girl to touch me down there, and what she had done with her fingers and her tongue was giving me so much joy, how could that be wrong or sinful. I felt myself sliding into that joyful abandonment which I had first experienced from her fingers the night before and as I shuddered I felt my body exude a torrent of moisture – nay, a veritable fountain – into my playmate’s face. I felt embarrassed, but she merely laughed, and with her fingers conveyed some of those tasty juices to my own mouth. I tasted myself for the first time just then, and on her invitation knelt down between Edith’s thighs as she sat on the end of the bed and copied what had just been done so pleasurably to my own body. Though she did not soak my face as I had done hers, she thrashed frantically as her final joy came to her and her hands pushed my head so deep into her that I thought I might lose my breath.
Enraptured and breathing heavily we both paused, but she was to give me one more surprise as she positioned me on the bed and rubbed her own naughty place up against mine, making us both shudder into pleasure, this time at the same time. I liked my new friend, though I still could not understand the import of what we were doing, even though it brought me such joy at her hands. Warning me to be quiet about our fun, she bade me dress in my new uniform and guided me downstairs to the hall where, she assured me, it was customary for the servants to meet at five thirty in the morning in order to have their daily tasks allocated.
A servant’s life is very hard, and the only relief from my days of domestic drudgery came each night in the arms of Edith, who continued to bring me the most exquisite pleasure with her fingers and tongue each night when we lay naked in bed together. In truth, I was so innocent that I did not understand what it was we were doing, only that it seemed natural and gave me great pleasure. It was, for me, a type of game, a sharing of selves, and it was only when I asked Edith about her now reappearing maiden hair that I realised that what I was doing might well be something forbidden. I asked her how it came to be so short when I first met her, you see, and then she told me that a man had shaved it off, when she was in her last employment. I was shocked, horrified even, for I knew that it was wrong to have a man down there before marriage, and indeed I literally couldn’t imagine what he could have been doing with such a sacred space. When she told me that he had done many of the things that WE had done, that he had teased her with his fingers and licked her with his tongue, I was truly shocked. I though what we had been doing was an innocent game, but now it seemed so sordid and dirty, part of something that shouldn’t be thought about, let alone talked about. I wept, and Edith first mocked me for being such an innocent goose – and then comforted me. Though I was reluctant, the magic of her fingers brought me back to exquisite pleasure and after her tongue had kissed my maidenly passage I began to question why something that felt so good should seem s sinful. The delightful Edith took it on herself to educate me in the ways if the world, and though I was shocked and at times still very uneasy, I came to understand that what we had been doing as an end in itself could lead to so much more with a man, and that all men were seemingly desperate to enjoy a woman’s tender body in such a way that she herself might feel enjoyed. As if to illustrate what a man might do, Edith took my hairbrush and slid I inside herself, causing the whole 12 inches of its handle to disappear, and tickling her sensitive bud with the soft bristles that daily caressed my own hairs. Her climactic joy came beautifully, but she warned me not to try the same myself, lest I lose a treasure that might well bring me more than pleasure in the future. I learned that the seat of my pleasure was in my cunny – the other word for that place I learned later – that what happened at the moment of my joy was called ‘spending’, and that I might take a man’s pego rather than a hairbrush on the day I should lose my maidenhead – or ‘cherry’, as she pleasingly called it. My fear and consciousness of sin were rapidly being replaced by a sense of anticipation, a desire which I dared not yet own or admit to. She said she would give me a surprise in the very near future, and with that delightful possibility in my girlish head, I drifted off to sleep, naked in Edith’s arms.
Of course, you are all curious to know what my surprise was to be, aren’t you? Let me pass over a few days until one night when, after dark, Edith beckoned me to follow her down to the scullery. There, she hastened me into a cupboard, the door of which she wedged open slightly, giving me a view of the scrubbed wooden kitchen table. Cautioning me to be quiet she bade me wait. In around ten minutes the door was quietly opened, and in came a boy whom I recognised as one of the footmen. I watched as they kissed, he being rather noticeably the more nervous of the two. Edith,, though encouraged him with her eager hands and I was shocked to see her release from the front of his trousers a long, pink shape which I under stood to be his pego. Fascinated, I watched in surprise as she dropped to her knees and began to lick it. It became noticeably harder and the footman squirmed. When she took the bulbous head of his pego actually into her sweet mouth his face was a picture to behold: I imagined he looked rather like I do when Edith gives me joy each night, for his eyes were closed and his face blissful with pleasure. This was not all, though, for Edith rose and leaned back against the table, gathering her skirts up around her waist so as to reveal her creamy thighs above her tightly gartered black lisle stockings. Her hand guided his now purple-headed pego to what I knew was her womanly entrance and as she raised her left thigh, quite deliberately, I saw its tip distend her opening and then the length sink within. They played like this for a good five minutes, and as his panting breath became more urgent she suddenly pushed him from her and as his pego left her body I saw an enormous spurt of white fluid issue from the end and spatter the inside of her thigh. Quickly, she kissed him and then bade him leave before they were discovered. When she heard the door to the kitchen close and latch she beckoned me from hiding. ‘Taste’, was all she said, and my tongue brought her to the pleasure that the young man’s thrusting had failed to do. ‘You should taste him too’, she said ‘but mind you keep it from my cunny!’ I took my first mouthful of the essence of man – a salty tribute I had had no part in extracting from that young man’s loins. It was a moment that changed me utterly and forever.
The weeks passed by, and my nights of ecstasy with my best friend, Edith, were punctuated by her occasionally allowing me to witness her nocturnal couplings with the young footman. Indeed, as she told me, he was not the only member of the household engaged in what I once believed to be an unspeakable sin. One night she cautioned me to be quiet and to take up my usual vantage point: Edith had found something out which she wanted me likewise to witness, and which she said might prove a defence for either of us should we ever be accused of some misdemeanour in the servants’ hall. I had maintained my post within the cupboard for some ten minutes, when I was shocked to see Cook appear – and then more shocked to see the stately Butler follow her. Latching the door, as Edith herself had done, they set to with an abandon even more ardent than that displayed by my friend and her lover. Stripping their middle-aged bodies naked, they began furiously to couple on the very table upon which Cook daily prepared her vegetables. Their congress was noisy and quite animal-like: the butler’s large hands mauled Cook’s substantial breasts, which I had just witnessed hanging down almost to her midriff, squeezing them into fantastic shapes and making her long and dark nipples protrude. His tongue did excellent service upon these, I might add, and I was shocked to see him place his erect and magnificent pego between her ample titties, which she squeezed together to make a soft furrow for him to plough to his obvious pleasure. Needless to say, after leaving the furrow he sought to cleanse his instrument in her willing mouth, from which it merged wet and shiny, its crested helmet distended and purple in the light of the kitchen candles. What came next shocked me. As Cook reclined naked on the table, propped up on her elbows but wantonly displaying her womanly parts – which I noticed she had shaved bare in contrast to the butler’s luxuriant bush of wiry grey hair – I observed her lover rooting in the corner of the kitchen over which she daily presided. He returned with a basket, out of which he produced a variety of vegetables, which successively he utilised to open and distend her womanly orifice. From my vantage point, suppressing my excited breathing, I observed him penetrate her with a very substantial carrot, a bulbous parsnip, a shiny and long cucumber and finally a whole head of celery. Cook, very much excited and gratified, made noises such as I had never heard, and on the butler’s withdrawal of the celery, took hold of his pego and drew him into her. There followed a furious session of pounding that made the table rock from side to side as he thrust into her with his whole weight. His final spendings were accompanied by groans and roars such as might have come from a bull or a stallion, and on withdrawing his still tumescent member from her, he curiously scooped up some of their combined fluids and massaged them into the adjacent cucumber. Observing its shiny skin, he merely remarked ‘Mistress, I think, will enjoy this in her salad tomorrow’. Kissings and caressings followed, and some then minutes later they left the kitchen dressed and behaving as if nothing had happened whatsoever. Mistress, I am sure, ate that unwashed but well-polished cucumber the next day – though I was relieved to see both carrot and parsnip peeled before they entered the servants’ hall stockpot at lunchtime.
I was entranced and caught up in this unprecedented world of lubricity and pleasure, but Edith cautioned me not to give my favours away so easily. As she confessed, she had lost her virginity to a tradesman in her first job and had found infamy following her until she changed her name and sought out a new character and a new position. Discretion in the present, she assured me, would bring greater rewards than I could ever imagine in the present. How right she was.
Still, my education continued visually though not physically, and I was soon introduced to another aspect of love by Edith who, having seduced me on the very table upon which the cook and the butler had disported themselves, suddenly bundled me naked into the cupboard, my clothes flung in a heap at my feet. I knew she had arranged something and so, with my fingers toying with that sensitive bud so recently teased by her tongue, I awaited the arrival of her sturdy footman. To my surprise it was not he who entered, but the under footman – followed by the footman and one of the grooms from the stables. I wondered what on earth this might mean and, indeed, whether my friend might have betrayed me in my nakedness and my naïveté to the caresses of the men servants. They seemed, thankfully, unaware of my presence, though, and quickly set to stripping themselves before lavishing their attentions upon the waiting Edith. And what attentions she received. With one man tonguing between her open thighs, she alternately sucked the erect cockalorums of the other two, taking each deeper into her throat than I had ever yet seen her do. At one stage she even had two bulbous heads distending her cheeks, to the obvious pleasure of the men, while her hands massaged their hanging bags of fertility. This went on for a good half hour, the men regularly changing places so that each had licked that precious spot where my tongue had but recently been at play. I watched, frigging myself in silent pleasure, as Edith, who had thoughtfully positioned her womanhood immediately in front of my vantage point, mounted the groom slowly, his girthy member distending and opening her cunny. I thought their intention was to take her in turn, but to my surprise I saw the footman move to Edith’s face and – unseen to my eyes, but evident from the sighs of his pleasure – apply his cockalorum to her waiting mouth. What fun this all looked – but my surprise was amplified when I realised that the under footman, a young and slim lad of just 16, spat upon his hand, caressed his manhood in its moist embrace and then ease himself slowly into Edith’s brown star. This really shocked me, for I knew this really was sinful and I remembered the story of Sodom and Gomorrah … but seeing her taking three men at once brought a sudden gush of liquid to my loins and I spent copiously, biting my lip to repress the moan of ecstasy as I watched her body being so beautifully used. Oh, I imagined that it was me being the centre of so much loving attention, my own virginal body being filled and fulfilled at the same time, being mastered by those men and made to feel nothing more than a container of their liquid pleasure. I almost fainted with the joy, and closing my eyes came into pleasure once more without the use of my fingers. I opened them to see three eager cockalorums discharging their salty loads across the kneeling girl’s face, bathing her in the very essence of man. After they had left, you can be sure that I cleaned Edith’s darling visage thoroughly with my tongue. Oh, the lubricity of it all – and in a respectable bourgeois household too!
A few weeks after this most enlightening evening the house was in a state of excitement. Master John, the son of the household, it was announced, was to return from Oxford with his college tutor, the Reverend Dr Greatorex. Master John was engaged to be married, and his fiancée was to join the family a week or two after he had re-established himself in the household. His tutor was to stay only two or three days, but we could anticipate our young master’s presence for at least a month before his return to Balliol and his final term at the University. The house was polished and cleaned with alacrity, and Edith and I were given the task of preparing the master’s rooms. The bedding and carpet were but small jobs, though that of arranging the five travelling trunks of books which he had sent on by carrier in advance was considerably more serious. As we were both literate – very few of our fellow servants could read, and many signed their names with a simple cross – we shelved the books according to his written instructions, in alphabetical order, across five bookcases. At the bottom of the final trunk we found a small packet of books – some twenty in number – parcelled in paper and labelled ‘Private Case’. This we understood to be the small locked section at the foot of the final bookcase, so we set to work to arrange these in order. This presented little difficulty, as most were labelled simply ‘Anonymous’ on the spine. Edith, though, smiled and handed me a small yellow bound volume. ‘These are naughty books’, she laughed. ‘Look’. And so it was – ‘Salome’ and ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by the scandalous Irishman, Oscar Wilde; ‘Dracula’ by Bram Stoker, another writer from Trinity College Dublin and ‘Carmilla’ by their fellow graduate J. S. Le Fanu. ‘Ghost stories?’ I said, looking at the latter. ‘Edith pointed me to a page in which the vampires appeared to be doing something other than kissing in ‘Dracula’, and alerted me to the two revenants being female in the latter. ‘These others are even better, though!’ And what titles ‘Anonymous’ had written! ‘The Lustful Turk’, ‘A Night in a Moorish Harem’, ‘Love’s Tell-Tale’, ‘A Discourse on the Worship of Priapus’ and ‘The New Epicurean’ were lascivious tales, sometimes illustrated, which described in graphic detail the way of a man with a maid – or with several maids – or several men with a single maid. There were a few volumes whose authors were named – Edward Sellon’s ‘The Yellow Room’ seemed to be about going to the lavatory in public, while Walter’s ‘My Secret Life’ seemed to show a whole lifetime of delicious debauchery. I watched as Edith made an impression of the key in wax and pocketed ‘The Lustful Turk’. It could easily be returned when we next came to dust, and we now had our own private library of licentiousness.
Our master arrived a few days later, a handsome but shadowy presence as he was swept through the hall and into the private family rooms on the first floor. His attendants would be the butler and his own groom: we would never see him. The Reverend Greatorex, though, we would see. A kindly and elderly man, he enquired of all the servants, expressing a genuine concern for our spiritual wellbeing. Mine was well and truly under siege, as Edith had read to me from ‘The Lustful Turk’, and its description of the abducting and despoiling of a polite English maiden by the Dey of Tunis. From her initial shame at being his ‘polluted concubine’ she comes to revel in her debasement, in his insistence upon her nudity and his constant ministrations of his always erect organ. Oh, how I longed to be like her: ‘motionless, pleasure -filled – stretched and drenched’ by a masterful owner who could subdue my body and tame my will!
On Sunday I was summoned to the Reverend Greatorex, who enquired regarding my soul. Being still rather ambivalent about my awakened senses, I made the mistake of telling him of my impure thoughts. Expecting to find myself banished from his presence, and also from my position in the house, he was instead kindly and stoked my hair. He asked me to tell him my imaginings, and so I told him some of the scenarios I had learned from that wicked book. To my horror, he became aroused, and released his erect member from the front of his trousers.’ ‘Sir, please, I am a virgin, for all my impure thoughts’, I pleaded, fearing that I might be roughly taken and ruined like the two heroines of ‘The Lustful Turk’. He meekly replied that he would not harm me, but that he was celibate because of being a clergyman, and that he thought the sin of Onan was less than that of adultery. He begged me continue, and so at close quarters I saw the issue of his hot and copious sperm, and learned much about how a man might pleasure himself, for he was certainly no amateur at onanism. He bought my silence with a guinea – a great deal more than a week’s wages for me, once board and lodging had been extracted from my allowance. I was not surprised when I was called to his chamber again the next day. On this occasion I regaled him with a story from ‘My Secret Life’, and seeing a pleading look in his elderly eyes – for he was more than three times my own age – I cradled the weight of his heavy stones in my one hand, whilst caressing the smooth skin of his shaft in the other. He sighed with pleasure, and as I told my story, made a pistoning motion between the root and the base of his purple-headed mountain. Twenty minutes of this stimulation, accompanied by the lascivious story, brought a river of hot essence across my small and youthful hand and another guinea to my pocket. I genuinely feared that the next day might bring an assault on my treasured pearl of virginity, but no – he did not even ask to see my body, but merely wished me again to bring him to pleasure with my delicate hands. Assured of his gentlemanly nature, I embellished my new story by making him the protagonist and me the object of his lust and as I felt the tensing of his sinewy rod I did something I had not even myself anticipated: I took his engorged member into my mouth and received the tribute of his desire for me in long, salty spurts that crossed my tongue and hit the back of my throat. As I tried to draw back his hands cradled my young head and gently forced me to swallow every drop. The look on his face was bliss. He blessed me with a clergyman’s sincerity, and wished me well for my future – and then placed into my hands ten whole guineas. I bade him farewell, feeling that I had sincerely found both a friend and benefits the like of which I had never known before.
As I said earlier, I had seen very little of my young Master, even though I had been somewhat more intimate with his tutor during the week of his first staying at the house. When the Reverend Greatorex left the house, though, I was instructed to prepare the Master’s dressing room every morning before his valet (who had travelled with him from Oxford) came to wake and then shave him. The dressing room was a room joined by a sliding double door to the Master’s bedroom, and had its own fire, which I made and lit every morning at 6.45, to have it – and the water that was warmed in the kettle upon its hearth – ready for his shave at 7.45. I had no duties in the bedroom itself, this being the preserve of the valet – though I was engaged to dust it whilst the Master was at breakfast.
On the first morning of this new duty, I entered the dressing room a little before the appointed hour, as I was unfamiliar with the task in hand. I was surprised to hear two voices taking within the Master’s bedchamber. Curiosity got the better of me so, having silently made and lit the fire, I stole to the double door to listen. Listen I could – the talk was salacious, and the second voice was female. Feeling a draught on my face, I realised that the door was incompletely closed and, adjusting my eyes to the light within, I was able to espy those within with tolerable clarity. What a shock greeted my eyes! The bed, which presented its foot to me, was occupied by my young Master, in a state of tumescent nakedness and by none other than his haughty fiancée, the young Miss Braithwaite. She, I noted was not naked … but her clothing was minimal to say the least. Clad only in a pair of pearlescent grey silk stockings she displayed her womanly charms like a shameless harlot in an Amsterdam window – I had learned a lot from reading Master’s naughty books – and it was quite clear that she was handling his engorged member with the familiarity of a woman long tutored in the arts of love. This haughty maiden – I could call her that no more, to be sure – who looked down on servants with a steely and dismissive haughtiness was, in my eyes, the equal of Edith, who would be branded a common whore should she be caught in the same posture.
I enjoyed feasting on the sight of her uncovered body, and felt myself becoming both warm and wet as she bent her head, like a common whore, to take my Master’s rampant cockalorum into her superior mouth, that mouth which I had seen delicately eating asparagus and sweetmeats but the day before. She was clearly an expert to be sure, and her ministrations kept him on the point of spending his essence, with her breaking off at the very point at which I thought she must have her mouth flooded with creamy fluid. But no, I came to understand that she had other plans, for he turned to face me – I was invisible through the gap – and I saw that she had denuded herself of maiden hair down below, and then sank her gaping cunny down upon his member until he was fully enveloped within her body. Riding him, she writhed in ecstasy and reached her own climax of pleasure before taking his heavy stones in hand and squeezing them in order to control his own manly emission and bring it spurting, I was sure, into the deepest recesses of her womanhood. As she lifted herself from him I saw his deposit surge out of her private orifice and onto the bed. I quietly withdrew, knowing that she must leave discreetly before the arrival of the valet, and from my coign of vantage at the top of the stairs was able to observe her rush down the servants’ stairway to her own room on the floor below. She believed she was unobserved. I, though, now knew her secret and that, morally, I was her superior, still being a virgin. While the Master was at breakfast I ventured into his bedchamber to clean it, and was surprised to find Miss Braithwaite’s discarded stockings, hastily bundled beneath the bed. I secreted them about my person – for the pleasure they gave me as a silky and transparent substance, as much as to save my Master from having to hide them from the valet – and retreated to the servants’ hall to tell Edith my secret.
Edith was delighted, and my minute recollection of what I had seen thrilled her. I mentioned that I could not understand why my Master’s fiancée was wearing stockings when she had clearly not got dressed, as there was no sign of her clothing in the room, only her bathrobe, which I had espied as she retreated down the back stairs. Edith laughed and called me a goose, and told me that some men regarded stockings on a woman as being rather like a piquant sauce on a dish of food: they added something, in other words, a flavour that was not there – or, in the case of the human body, a texture and a colour. I had only ever worn the thick black stockings of a servant, held up with study garters, so I did not understand. Edith, locking the bedroom door, bade me strip naked and then – wearing cotton gloves to protect the fine material – rolled the stockings up my shapely legs. I understood immediately what she meant. The sensation of their gliding motion as they lid up my thighs, and the feeling of them encasing my limbs made me wet and open – a situation that made Edith eager to taste my molten core. Her tongue brought me to a shuddering ecstasy – though for the first time I thought not about my girlish lover as I trembled but rather imagined myself in the place of the haughty Miss Braithwaite, being rogered by a rampant aristocratic male.
With Miss Braithwaite only due to stay a further four days, and our young Master set to return to Balliol but two days after that, we knew that we had but scant time to enjoy our private theatre of erotic bliss. The first thing was to ascertain when Miss Braithwaite actually began her amours: this was not hard, as we knew the time at which her maid customarily left her chamber. Positioning herself in a convenient linen cupboard, Edith saw the haughty girl steal silently from her chamber at just after midnight. We understood then that she sojourned the night in his chamber, and possibly slept in his arms before engaging in the marital act before breakfast. Thrillingly, we contemplated that they might indeed commit the carnal communication before they slept. Giving them a hour to become interested in each other we stole to the Master’s dressing room via the back stairs utilised by his fiancée, and were not disappointed.
Peeping through the crack in the door from the darkened ante-room, we gazed into a brightly illuminated bedchamber, the velvet curtains of which were tightly closed against the night. We realised now why these curtains were always open in the morning. Our Master obviously opened them after his pleasures to allow the light to waken him and his illicit lover before the servants were active. Our Master was engaged in undressing his mistress, and was slowly opening the front of her pale green silken dressing gown. Easing it over her shoulders and downwards, he bared the upper part of her pale bosom, the lower part of which was encased within a tightly laced corset of dark red satin. We were a little shocked – this was not what we expected: we assumed she would be naked or in her nightgown, but this was a daytime undergarment – and moreover its colour was not that associated with a maiden but rather was that of the courtesan. We wondered, indeed, whether she wore such a scandalous undergarment beneath her demure daytime dresses, thrilling herself with the secret knowledge of her sin. His lips, though, addressed those constrained globes whilst his hands aided gravity in pushing the remainder of her house coat to the floor. She was clad, as I said, in a red corset, tightly front-laced, from which depended long black stockings in fine cotton, her feet being clad in black ankle boots. Like a gourmet or a roué, our master contemplated his fleshly dish, and his tongue and lips nibbled her neck as he began to unlace her corset. Miss Braithwaite’s breasts, released from the constraint of tight lacing and restrictive whalebone, bobbled into view, her nipples clearly enhanced by some rouge. His hands mauled them mercilessly, contorting their yielding fleshiness into fantastic shapes as he kissed her open mouth with astonishing fervour. Pushing her back onto the bed, he feasted upon her exposed womanhood, almost burrowing into the space between her widely spread thighs. Their passion was evident and uncontrolled, but we were shocked when she said, quite plainly – ‘I want you to FUCK me!’ We never imagined that we might hear such language from a genteel lady, but fuck her he did. Ripping open his trousers to reveal a massive member, he plunged it straight into her dripping centre. She clamped her black-clad thighs and calves around his pale, naked lower torso – I could now see, once more, what Edith had explained regarding the texture as well as the colour of stockings – and as he thrust mercilessly into her, she speared his arse with the heels of her boots as if he were a horse and she a wild huntress. And all the time he was impaling her she maintained a tirade of filth, calling his member a cock, her womanly orifice a cunt, their intercourse fucking. He maintained his pace for some considerable time and finally released his passion deep within her, remaining in embedded within her body for some time thereafter.
We were both as exhausted as them, and Edith squeezed my hand as she retreated silently through the darkened room. I followed her, but in my haste toppled some small object. I froze. I heard a movement in the next room and the door opened projecting a ray of light into the room. I made eye contact with my Master, who presented a warning finger to his lips and, returning, said to his fiancée ‘It was nothing, dear – the wind blew a book from the console table’. I was safe, for the moment – but my secret was now his secret. I hurried, silently, from the room, not forgetting to ease open the window and lower one of the Master’s French novels to the floor beside the table, to confirm his story. Then I hastened to tell Edith who, thankfully, I knew he had not observed.
Clearly, there was no possibility of our observing the two at play the next morning. I therefore proceeded to the Master’s chamber at my usual hour to clean the grate, light the fire and do those other menial tasks allotted. I kept well away from the door – though there was no sound within. Believing that I had managed my tasks undetected, and that possibly my Master had not recognised such a lowly member of this large establishment, I tuned to leave as silently as I believe I had entered. My hand was poised upon the door when a single word stopped me dead in my tracks. ‘Girl!’ came the command. I knew it was my Master. I turned and curtseyed, feigning innocence of my crime, keeping my eyes downcast. He was naked, needless to say. I expected that. He was tumescent too: I expected that as well. But he was neither stern nor threatening.
‘Can you explain yourself?’ he asked, not unkindly. I shook my head. ‘You can speak’, he continued ‘Miss Braithwaite has returned to her chamber’. I nodded. ‘Why were you watching?’
I told him I was curious. I asked him if I had done something very bad. He laughed.
‘On your first visit, two mornings ago, yes – but after I realised you had been there I tried the experiment of leaving a little more of a gap in the door. I didn’t anticipate you in the evening, mind you – only the morning. In that you caught me out!’ He laughed. ‘You were alone?’ I nodded ‘Good. Then it’s our secret, and as we are each capable of being exposed by the other, I suggest we both keep silent.’ I nodded. ‘By the way: the stockings?’ He queried. I nodded. ‘Why?’
I told him that I feared that his valet would find them or one of the other servants. He nodded again. ‘That was wise. You have saved both Miss Braithwaite and I some little embarrassment. For that I am grateful.’ He paused. ‘However, you must be punished, still, you jade. Come here.’
Fearfully, knowing that I was in his power as my employer, I approached him. He sat down and bade me lie face down across his knee. His phallus projected, hard and unyielding, against the stiff front of my plain black dress and white apron. His hands lifted my skirts, exposing the paleness of my thighs against the black of my gartered lisle stockings and the inner side of my dress. My buttocks were bare: servants wore no underwear. His left hand came down upon the globe of my arse with unexpected force. Once, twice, three times. A pause. Then again, twice more. A pause. Four more thwacks, the sound of flesh upon flesh sharp and raw. I was crying yet strangely aroused. I felt owned, used, a chattel not a person, even. I began to enjoy it. The fingers of his right hand eased the lower part of my stinging buttocks apart, forcing me even to relax the instinctive clenching that had kept my thighs together throughout his assault. His fingers bared the tight brown star of my fundament, their tips grazing its entry – so, so sensitive; so untouched, so ripe for an exploration that I as yet knew nothing of. Then they delved lower, gently, finding moistness and space between the nether edges of the tender lips of my virgin hole. He seemed satisfied. ‘Now kneel’, he said. Dutifully I knelt between his sportsman’s thighs and without being asked caressed his member as I had done that of his elderly tutor. He closed his eyes as I stroked and caressed his tumescence, easing back his foreskin and teasing beneath the engorged warrior’s helmet. As large as a plum, and similar in hue, its silky surface aroused my growing pleasure until I could no longer hold myself and I bent forward to receive him into my maidenly mouth. His bliss was evident as my tongue began to execute the moves that my fingers had but recently engaged in, and as the tip of it teased his opening I tasted a hint of salt. I knew what was coming, and moving my head in a to-and-from rhythm I brought him to final release, my mouth receiving his salty tribute, which I swallowed willingly and happily. Certainly, I thought, he has no intention of being loyal to his future wife, the rather surprising Miss Braithwaite!
Receiving his thanks, and ten shillings beside, I retreated to tell Edith of my latest adventure.
Dear reader, as you might have guessed, I had set my heart on being seduced by my master. I cherished all sorts of girlish fantasies – being showered with diamonds, becoming a duchess on marriage to him, meeting Queen Victoria with a curtsey at some levee at Windsor Castle. My head swam until Edith brought me down with a bump. Of course. My best hope was – cynically – to sell to him what I would have given willingly, and to aspire to being his mistress – a rather lesser status than the church-sanctioned whoredom that awaited the surprisingly forward Miss Braithwaite. In accordance with my desires, and encouraged by the more experienced Edith, I therefore set about plotting my ruin.
My young master was, putting it mildly, rather surprised on learning of my virginal state but more than willing to enter into negotiation for the price of my irreplaceable treasure. True, he wished to see me absolutely naked and to examine that guarded part of my body – which he did, refraining from touching me whilst I held wide open that secret place with its visible and fragile membrane of living flesh. True, also, that he desired not one short dalliance with me but a whole evening and most of a day after: this meant, of course, that my ruin could not take place at home but would, rather, need to be conducted at some discreet place. A price was fixed – by him, and at a far higher rate than I would have suggested – and a date set for the coming weekend when, conveniently, I had intended to visit my parents and he was, supposedly, engaged with college friends at his club in Mayfair. All was arranged, Edith appraised of my plans. I awaited the weekend – and my ruin!
On the Morning of my ruin, I watched my Master depart by hansom cab supposedly to his club but – as only I knew – to the Cadwallader Hotel. I was to follow him around an hour later, ostensibly walking to Paddington for my train but, in reality, taking an omnibus from the station to the hotel. My departure, was rather suddenly interrupted by the Housekeeper who bundled a large, white cardboard box into my hands. ‘Come for the master’, she grunted with a porcine grace. ‘Take it to his Club, girl’. She gave me the address and two pennies. ‘Get a cab, and walk from the club to the station. It’s not further than from here.’ I knew I wasn’t going anywhere near the Club, so I hailed a hansom from the corner, took my bag and the extraordinary box, and directed the driver to the Cadwallader, where he dropped me at the servants’ entrance. The concierge admitted me, gave me my Master’s room number, and sent me upstairs with a bad grace. I was an inconvenience, and for that reason I knew my absence would be welcomed and my exit from the hotel not enquired about. Trembling inside, and wet in the intricate folds of my womanhood, I climbed the back stairs.
My quiet tap on the servant’s entrance to my master’s boudoir was answered immediately. He was alone, dressed in his evening tails, and his smile on my entry was gratifying. My girlish hopes returned that he might see me as something more than a common slut to be used and then discarded. His embrace, though, was forceful and I felt the ardour of his loins as he pressed me to him and his tongue parted my lips to tease my palate and teeth. I feared that he would take me there and then, nut he released me, and holding me at arm’s length looked me up and down.
‘You are far too beautiful to be confined to that servant’s dress’, he said. ‘But for that common garb you could pass as a lady – and I have a fancy to prove that point!’ His eyes sparkled. He handed me the box I had so laboriously carried up the back stairs. ‘For you, dear’, was all he said, and he motioned me to take the container into the small dressing room that adjoined his hotel sitting room.
What lay within took my breath away. A full-length gown in cream silk, as beautiful a anything Miss Braithwaite had worn in my sight. The material was soft and dazzlingly shiny beneath the gaslight of the dressing room. But there was more. As I moved the tissue paper aside to lift out that fair and costly garment I found – to my amazement – silken underwear. You must remember that we servants seldom wore drawers – they were inconvenient and, in any case, expensive. But the price of these drawers alone was surely more than my entire dress and coat. With the underwear were white silk stockings, shimmering white, with neat blue-ribboned garters, and even a pair of dainty kid-leather pumps with heels that fully increased my height by two inches. I almost wept with you at his generosity – before realising, of course, that this beneficence was for his own lewd gratification. Dear reader, if you have read ‘Jane Eyre’ you will know that the bigamous Mr Rochester was similarly generous to poor, plain Jane, when trying to ensnare that passionate virgin into moral infamy. My qualms were momentary. With care I dressed myself, the dress, with its low neckline and boning that thrust my tender breasts upwards and outwards, making me feel the duchess I might have been had I born to a greater station in life. Admiring my now stately form, I walked – a little uneasily, as I had never worn heeled shoes, into my Master’s sitting room. His appreciation was genuine. ‘With but a veil’, he said, ‘I could gladly walk you down the aisle as my bride!’ I blushed. ‘In your case, you would keep your veil down and not be a hypocrite. You look like a lady in the first rank of life. There are two things I must do to complete your masquerade, however!’ With that, he reached into a shagreen case upon his cigar table and removed a precious chain o gold and diamonds, which he ceremoniously passed around my neck. Smiling, and with mock gravity, he slipped a bejewelled ring on my wedding finger – my shock was palpable. ‘We travel incognito’, he said. ‘If you keep your travelling veil down any passer by will believe you to be my fiancée, and we shall be left well alone in lovers’ dalliance!’ He smiled. ‘We go to the Café Royal!’
I almost fainted. Taking my arm in his, as a gentleman of rank should a lady of his own status, he led me through the other door of his sitting room to the main hall of the hotel and from thence to the foyer, where we descended the grand staircase. The servants bowed, as did many ladies and gentlemen of status, my almost opaque travelling veil serving exactly the purpose he had described. A private carriage conveyed us to the Café Royal, its closed and shuttered windows permitting us to kiss intimately and with ardour. On admission to the Café Royal we were shown to a private room where we dined on oysters and champagne. We then returned to the Cadwallader Hotel, where my girlhood was to be translated into womanhood by the swift action of his manly organ. I was intoxicated, literally and figuratively – a willing participant in my own degradation from maiden to whore.
In the closed carriage we kissed urgently and with the wildness of lovers. It was by then late in the afternoon, and he intimated to me a further element of our masquerade which I had not anticipated. Removing the diamond ring from my finger, he replaced it with a plain gold wedding band. His explanation was simple. At the Café Royal he was known, so the subterfuge of keeping me modestly veiled and wearing an engagement ring was necessary for us to be together in such a public place: to all intents and purposes he had just taken luncheon with his fiancée. At the Cadwallader, though, he was not known and had booked in under a false ducal title. His game was to intimate to the whole hotel that we had been quietly married in a London parish church and that we were returning to his hotel suite as newlyweds, with I as the new Duchess of ––––. It was delicious and, as my Master said, a beautiful conceit under which I might lose my virginity elegantly as a bride rather than hastily as a seduced Trollope. As he handed me down from the carriage, he ensure that my veil was thrown fully back, and on his arm we processed through the most public rooms of the hotel, attracting admiring glances from the men, and envious ones from the women, for I was – for this day at least – the new Duchess of ––––!
More champagne awaited us in the hotel room, and then I understood the import of our peculiar luncheon. The oysters were a powerful aphrodisiac, and both of us were afire with desire as the servant closed the door on the happy couple. Seated on the sofa in the sitting room, my husband handed his new bride a delicate glass of champagne and then proceeded to prepare her for the ritual sacrifice of her maidenhead. As we kissed, our tongues entwining with abandonment, I felt his hand move to raise my skirts and with delicacy he lifted them to my knees. This exposure of privy flesh was immodest, as you can imagine, for the period, but I resisted not, my desire, the alcohol and the oysters having numbed any moral qualm I might otherwise have had. I desperately wanted him to make me a woman, and if I could not be his duchess then I was quite content to be his mistress, the recipient of his passion rather than his familial duty. With one arm encircling my tiny waist, my Master’s other hand dropped to tease and stoke my calf through the white silk of my stocking. ‘So much like a bride’, he murmured ‘So innocent, so virginal’. I sighed. ‘I never had the joy of Miss Braithwaite’s innocence’, he continued ‘She was soiled goods long before I took her to bed, let alone placed that ring on her finger’. He paused ‘But you, though…’ Taking his lead, I continued, my words enflaming him yet more ‘I am pure’, I said, ‘I am virginal. Today you will have your true wedding night and I shall have mine.’ I teased his fantasy of conquest a little further: ‘My husband’. ‘My wife’, he returned.
As I half turned to pick up my champagne glass, he began the slow process of disrobing me. His hands moved to the back of my bodice and began to loosen the lattice of silk ribbon that clinched my cream silk dress in tightly to the boned corset that lay beneath. These were uncomfortable garments, but they were luxuries such as I had never known, and I was determined to enjoy what they did to me – and to him – for as long as I should possess them. The dress being loosened he bade me stand, and then with his hands eased it across my shoulders, exposing yet more of my white bosom, slowly revealing what lay beneath. As I freed my wedding dress from my arms, gravity took over from the caresses of my husband, and the garment slipped to the floor like a second skin suddenly discarded. I felt dreadfully exposed at this moment, but not immodest. For his sharp intake of breath told me that he was truly bewitched by the vision before him: I stood, radiant, bridal, virginal, my pale skin only slightly darker than the silken corset that supported my heavy breasts that were concealed only by a transparent shield of fine lace, my drawers visibly wet with maidenly anticipation, my legs encased in white silk, my feet presented to his gaze in those adorable white shoes with the heels that exaggerated so much my swaying gait. My master gazed at his prize for some minutes and then silently gathered me into his arms, carrying me to the bedroom as if I were Miss Braithwaite on their forthcoming honeymoon. I was to be deflowered.
Laying me across the bed he began his caresses anew, his mouth on mine, his tongue probing its interior with masterly skill. He had me exactly where he wanted me, and I was likewise exactly where I wished to be: to be owned, cherished, loved fulfilled and – ultimately – filled with his love. I had already determined that I would receive his seed within me, whatever the risk. To return, though, to the delicate preamble to my defloration: My Master – my husband – took possession of my body with a loving, lingering slowness that was truly exquisite. Concentrating all of my senses upon my mouth, he kissed me into submission, rendered me his possession, his chattel, a mere object that existed only for his pleasure – whilst, in the taking of that pleasure, he brought wonderful feelings to my whole essential being. And then, when I thought that his tongue and lips were all that I could ever desire, his hands began a mobile dance of pleasure across my upper body, caressing my hair, softly grazing the sensitive, smooth, pale skin of my neck and shoulders, his fingertips lingering in exquisite circles of sensation upon my nape. As I gasped with trembling pleasure he removed his mouth from mine and I felt him kiss all around my next and shoulders. His tenth nibbled my earlobes, his tongue probing the inside of my ear in a place where I had truly never been kissed before. His intimacy with my body, which he owned by his caresses, was literally breath-taking.
But then his hands moved lower, and as his lips and tongue continued their mapping of my skin, and his teeth nipped my flesh in a series of tender bites that marked but did not damage my pale skin, they caressed my swelling mounds beneath the lace cover that scarcely concealed their darkening nipples. Massaging my ripe breasts through the material, he rendered me even more his willing slave, and when he gently pulled aside the covering I felt the cool air refresh their heated surface. His head dipped down and I writhed with sheer pleasure as he took my right nipple into his mouth, and suckled on it as if it had been the sweetest delicacy that might ever have been presented at table. His hand caressed my other swelling orb, and I spent gloriously as he took almost half of my yielding breast into his mouth, his teeth clenching the nipple with a firm but utterly commanding pressure. If this were not sufficient, he repeated that joyous process upon my other breast, as I fell deeper and deeper into languorous bliss.
Easing himself back and away from me, he surveyed his conquest, the virgin field whose furrow he was to plough and seed. Pleasure and anticipation were written over his visage, and his hand reached forward to untie the pale blue ribbons – matched in colour to the garters which held my stockings tightly in place – which maintained my corset in its place. Unlacing these with tantalising slowness he exposed the remainder of my body, its pale flat belly and the last piece of protection that my virginity might rely upon – those exquisite white silk French knickers. I sat upright to strip myself of the corset which now lay beneath me – a garment that probably cost more than all the clothe I owned, but now discarded as an obstacle to my sacrifice upon the altar of Priapus – and reached forward in order to slip off my pumps. He stopped me. I was to keep them on specifically for his pleasure, whatever small pain their pinching might bring to my little feet. He gazed upon me for some minutes in silence. I was owned by the male Gaze, defined by it: I was an object englobed in his eye, and I revelled in my submission. I could see the monumental swelling in his trousers. I knew it would not be long before he took me. My knickers were almost transparent with the juices he had caused to flow from the fountain of my womanhood through his caresses. I watched him strip, silently, until he was naked, erect and truly threatening in his tumescence. His eyes were kindly and his face loving, but there was authority and command in this man which I instinctively yielded to. He reached forward and, taking my exquisite undergarment in each hand at the hip, literally ripped them apart, the stitches yielding to leave the final protection afforded to my hymen in a mass of silken rags. Save for my stockings and shoes I had been made naked and ready for my ravisher. I was to be deflowered.
Truthfully, it was all I wanted – to be a woman, to be his, to be taken and changed utterly. In my innermost heart I knew that this whole masquerade of a false wedding and an equally pretend wedding night had been imposed so that he could enjoy with me that first time which he could never share with the much-used Miss Braithwaite. But I knew also that, whatever its focus, it was my body that the fantasy was most closely affecting, that it was me who felt like a bride, a duchess, a woman worthy of a man in the prime of life and in the most noble of families. My whole body was quivering, receptive. My breath came fast. My most intimate and private space was to become his space too, not merely hared by him but in a way owned by him too. Forever. Think of that word that we use to describe sexual congress: possession. It means exactly what it says. By that unique act my body ceases to be exclusively my own. I am owned by the man who possesses me. I submit to his will. I glory in my submission and that makes me feel truly womanly.
As I waited, breathless, he approached me. Opening my thighs with his hands he bent his head downwards and I felt his tongue and lips make first contact with my virgin orifice. I will admit that on the first tender touch of his lips on my own second mouth I spent gloriously, and this time – like I did on that first morning when Edith introduced me to the delights of cunnilingus – I projected my rich juices across his face. As I had done with Edith, I came to taste myself once more, for he kissed me and tongued my own substance, tangy, hot, liquid, back into my waiting mouth. How I wanted that hard member that grazed my thigh deep inside of me – but he was still yet to take his pleasure, and returning to my special place he brought me to a succession of spendings that made me truly believe that pleasure could never again be so great in my life. There was still more, though, for he bade me straddle his face and then lower my own head to the level of his erect and waiting phallus. As I rolled back his foreskin and exposed the bulbous engine of my destruction I felt his tongue again tease the bud of pleasure that crested my virgin crevice. I knew instinctively what to do, and lowered my head, thus completing the magical circle of our intimacy. I felt him grow stiffer and expand, and his hands on my bare buttocks cautioned me to withdraw my mouth. His manhood quivered and relaxed. All was not lost. We continued, and each time I felt the cork ready to pop from his fleshly magnum, I with drew my head. The frothy champagne of his seed remained very much in its impressive bottle.
As the light decreased in the room I realised that we had played our lovers’ games for a full three hours, that a third of that had been spent in the simple process of disrobing, and the remainder in the pleasurable engagements of our moves with each other’s projections and orifices. As the sun began to set, with a glorious radiance from the east shading into blood red, he motioned me to take my place for the final consummation of our mock-marriage. I was to be deflowered.
Positioning me at the very centre of the bed, in the rays of the dying sun that came directly across it from the west-facing hotel window, he placed a white bolster beneath the globes of my buttocks. I felt so very naked and vulnerable within the fullness of his gaze, with nothing left to hide my maidenly modesty, the white stockings only emphasising my truly virgin state, my readiness and fitness to be deflowered. The warm tones of the late-afternoon sun-light did little to dispel the pallor of my youthful flesh, protected as it had been for so long under a servant’s thick clothing. That pallor was emphasised yet more by the stockings and by the snowy white of the bed’s coverlet. White for virginity. White for maidenhood. White and pure, vulnerable and ready to be despoiled, never to be that clean and innocent again.
Gently, as a groom should when approaching his virgin bride, my Master position ed himself between my waiting thighs. He paused, gazing upon what he was about to take and change forever, and then took the bulbous head of his manhood and positioned it at the very entrance to my unclaimed treasure. He paused there, his body positioned precisely over mine, supported on his hands, and in such a way that our faces were exactly opposite. Quietly, he murmured the following.
‘Repeat after me: “I, Charlotte Gould’. I complied, breathlessly…
‘Take thee, John de Montmorency’…
‘To be my lawful wedded husband’…
‘To have and to hold’…
‘From this day forward’..
‘To love, honour and obey..’ I complied, gladly, melting into his power.
‘Receive your husband!’, he said suddenly, departing from the liturgy, and I felt the bulk of his manhood suddenly slipping into my well-lubricated passage. He knew, of course, that the words he had made me repeat increased my anticipation and so the relaxation and moistness of my untried interior. His first thrust saw him a full two inches inside my body. There was discomfort but not pain, but I realised that I must brace myself for a further assault upon my fleshly integument as he withdrew and, teasing my sensitive bud with the tip of his pego, re-entered. He was calm but firm, and maintaining this easy motion to some small distance within my body kept me both relaxed and on the pint of anticipation. I did not expect him to act and of course surprise was that which proved my final undoing, for having subdued me into accommodating him thus far he suddenly thrust forward, utterly destroying my hymen with his rigid member, and plunging his full length to the very depths of my being. As he sank into me, and I felt his groin reach and crush my maiden-hair he cried, less respectfully ‘With this thrust I thee wed, and this cock thou wilt worship!’ He gasped for breath. ‘You are mine now, as much as if you really were my wife.’ And then, more kindly, ‘With my body, I thee worship, dear, lovely Charlotte. Charlotte de Montmorency. Charlotte, Duchess of Montclair.’ Though I knew these things could never be, I knew that they were said in passion not in jest. For tonight and till tomorrow I was all of these things. Lover. Wife. Duchess. I could be his mistress on Monday and still treasure those words in my heart as I was to treasure his seed within my body. My virginity now lost forever, he began to take his pleasure once more, and I to realise that pleasure can overcome pain and discomfort. My husband encouraged me to loop my stockinged calves across his back, and I felt his pego enter me even more deeply, owning my body in a way that even Edith’s skilful tongue had never been able to do. Each thrust made me more open, more even, and the moisture of my insides eased his passage deep into my very self. I felt him grow big and knew the end was coming. Adjusting himself hastily he pushed me more forcefully upon my back and, grabbing my ankles, held my legs wide apart as he pistoned his body into mine like some monstrous engine, curving himself backwards as he neared his release. I could see now that, even had I wanted him to withdraw, I had no chance of preventing him inseminating me, and so I lay back and absorbed every loving thrust with pleasure until, with a roar, he arched his back and exploded his essence deep into my waiting body. The husband had taken his wife, the right of the first night had been claimed, the marriage had been consummated: I had been deflowered. Of my being a virgin there could be no doubt: the white coverlet was encrimsoned with the blood of my lost innocence. ‘I will have them change the sheets before we are abed, my dear’, he smiled. ‘They will know that there is one less virgin in London this night!’ I had been deflowered.
My Master sent me into the adjoining bathroom whilst he called up the maids to change those bedsheets so richly stained with my virginal blood and his potent sperm. While the maids busied themselves I hastily inspected my ruined maidenhead and sponged the crimson of my lost innocence away from my pale flesh. ‘What had I become?’ I wondered. I was certainly no wife, for he had not married me, and I was, the strict sense of the term, a whore, because I had sold my maidenhead for money. But, I reassured myself, I had not slept with another man, and so my character was perhaps not as compromised as that of Edith who, I knew, had had several men in my sight, and sometimes more than one at the same time! What was I then? His mistress, at least for this weekend, and I could hope that he might retain my ‘services’ should I continue to please him with my girlish charms. Such thoughts were in my head when he called me back into the bedroom on the departure of the maids.
He prided himself, that was clear, on having ‘broken me in’, as he called it. He said the maids stared at the bloodstain, and he heard them giggle as he closed the door on their departure. You could be sure that the whole servants’ hall would know that the Duchess was no longer a virgin – even though none of them might suspect that the Duchess was actually a humble country girl of their own class!
There I stood, for the first time in my life not embarrassed by my nakedness, for of my former clothes I retained only my stockings and garters. He took me into his arms again and kissed me deeply, and his fingers rapidly found that exquisite place of pleasure and pain that his rampant member had so recently opened for the first time. ‘There are so many things I want to do to you, Charlotte’, he murmured… ‘and so many things I will do to you today and tomorrow’. He laid me down upon the bed, and caressed my delicate quim with his tongue until I spent again upon his very lips. He smiled, his fingers teasing my downy hair – and then he left the room, returning with his cut-throat razor and shaving bowl. I knew what was going to happen, as I had seen the state in which Edith’s womanhood had first been presented to me. Telling me to relax, my Master lathered my downy triange and then, with the skill of a practised barber, he drew the naked edge carefully across my flesh, creating a neat and smooth line of pinkness where his hand passed. Three or four strokes reduced the downy triangle at the front of my body to a soft absence, a sensitive mass of girl-flesh which, when he touched it, caused my very being to become liquid and ready for his advances. Neatly tidying up the stray hairs between my shapely legs, he towelled me clean of soap and moisture and invited me to view my denuded womanhood through his shaving mirror. I was astonished at how pink and fresh I looked below, and even more delighted at how much more sensitive my body had become. He bade me hold my very self open to his lustful gaze, something I had never done even in my most private moments. I felt so wanton, posed there on a rich man’s bed, naked but for my white silk stockings and blue bridal garters, not even a bush of hair to conceal my ruin. I was as fascinated as him, I suspect, and I played with my orifice, exciting myself all the more, thrilling he who now owned me to the extent that his hardening manhood suddenly protruded from his silken bathrobe.
As I reached for his manhood he withdrew, More oysters and champagne were procured from a corner of the room, and we feasted again. What happened next rather shocked me, for having consumed the wine, my Master dribbled the last few drops across my breasts and then sucked them off, causing me to squirm with unabashed delight. A few more droplets were deposited on my denuded triangle, and he allowed them to drop to my quim. They stung slightly on the newly naked flesh but all discomfort was forgotten when he tasted the wine and my very essence at the fountain of my womanhood. As I fell into rapture, I heard the sound of the foil closure of the bottle being removed and then, to my horror, felt the cold and unyielding mouth of the Veuve Cliquot being pushed against my tiny opening. I struggled, but his hand on my belly held me firmly in place. I was truly in his power and had to submit to that vessel, wider and more distended than his member and considerably harder, was forced a good four or five inches into my girlish body. I winced with pain, he looked at me with irritation and, having embedded the bottle within me, placed a firm hand over my mouth as, with the other, he manipulated the bottle back and forth. Against my will I began to become wetter and wetter, and the feeling of discomfort succeeded to one of pleasure – a pleasure which he recognised, for he took his hand from my mouth to allow me to express my wanton lubriciousness. In the adjacent mirror I saw what a whore I had become for the first time. A virgin only a few hours earlier I was now pleasuring myself with a bottle, with all the visible signs of enjoying my own degradation – and, indeed, of being thrilled by watching my own fall into venal sin. As If he realised this he came and knelt behind me, so that we were both framed in the mirror. ‘A lady in the drawing room’, he said, tenderly… and then, more lasciviously, ‘A whore in the bedroom!’, and with that he forced his engorged manhood into my mouth. His actions upon my tender mouth were little less rough that what he had done to my other opening, and he forced himself far further than five inches into that orifice. I watched myself degraded and utterly owned, my body used and bought. While he maintained a steady rhythm with his member into my mouth, pushing seemingly as deeply as my very tonsils, I myself continued the thrusting and withdrawing motion of the bottle in my recently opened furrow. He had the pleasured of seeing me succumb to my own degraded delight while I witnessed him lose all self-control when, as I sucked more voraciously on him at my own time of bliss, he released his precious seed into my mouth, its first urgent spurts hitting the back of my throat, the remainder falling short onto my tongue.
As he withdrew he inspected his salty tribute. ‘You truly are a whore’, he said. ‘I wish my bride to be were as depraved as I see you are’. I felt degraded, humbled and yet oddly exalted all at the same time. Clearly I had pleased him, and I had correctly estimated that though he might well tire of my virgin freshness, my sheer lustfulness could well keep me in his bed as his mistress. My mouth still filled with his hot, freshly expelled essence, I looked up adoringly at he that had ruined me for any decent husband and said ‘Master, you own me’. I kissed his drooping member with my seeded mouth, then kissed his feet also. I was owned, and ready to be used for his pleasure – and for my own comfort and well-being.
It was now late in the evening, and I felt as though my body had taken all that it could – for sure, I felt that he himself could not give further, for his proud member now drooped, its length and girth stretched by his ministrations upon my formerly virginal body, its head shiny and red and still moist. His lust, though, had not abated for sure, for his tongue probed my mouth continuously as his hands mauled and squeezed the soft flesh of my pale young breasts. Though I had known not a man, I was amazed at how much passion my Master seemingly had, for desire was there even where the ability to fulfil it was not. I fell asleep naked in his arms in that enormous bed, his softened member between the cheeks of my buttocks, his lips upon the sensitive skin of my fair neck.
I awoke early upon the Sunday morning to the sound of china being rattled nearby., The maid (my own social equal, as you will remember), was fulfilling her duties by laying out breakfast, and trying to keep her curious eyes away from the two naked forms scarce concealed by the bed sheet. I wondered if she had witnessed the amorous couplings of her betters, as I had, or if she had even given or sold her young body – she could not have been more than 20, I thought – and become such as I now was. Such thoughts, though, were dispelled by the stirring hardness of my Master’s pego, which was now rising to its accustomed girth and extent as he awoke from the deep and refreshing slumber that followed his conquest of my body. He threw back the sheet, exposing my pale nakedness to the cool morning air. His manly hand roamed to that hairless space between my legs and found it already wet in anticipation. It was but the effort of a muscle, the movement of a leg to expose my sex once more to his onslaught, and he was suddenly within me, one of his legs each side of my left legs, making my passage once more as tight as the virgin orifice her had claimed. He ravished my body with strength and purpose until, with a jerking spasm he unloaded, once more, his potent ducal sperm inside the body of his temporary duchess. We took to breakfast, with ravenous hunger, eating it naked as we were.
After breakfast he bade me dress, and – with my veil down to conceal my identity – we strolled in a nearby park, him holding my arms solicitously as if I were in deed my young Master’s wife and not his servant or his whore. Being Sunday, the park was empty, and he took advantage of that fact by leading me to ma secluded grove where, without warning, he bared my breasts in the open air and suckled voraciously upon them. The immodesty was shameful to me, but exhilarating also. Had he stripped me naked ‘en plein air’, I could not have resisted him. I would have gloried in him exposing my body and using it as his property. He might have led me naked through the streets, bare but for an ankle chain to show my subservience, so much was I willingly in his imperious power. As I sat with my breasts exposed, he produced his member, and I held and stimulated him almost to the point at which he might have spurted his hot essence into my gloved hand. I had other plans, though, and he knew it – though just how those plans were to be realised just sixty minutes later was something to be decided by his will rather than my desire. He already owned me: he was about to own me just a little more.
Leading me through the most public area of the hotel, he did something that shocked me: before entering the room, he raised my veil, so that two gentlemen and a lady who passed by saw my face. He greeted them as if he knew them, and then they passed on and down the stairs. I was mystified, but he said nothing. Inside the bedroom, my Master fell to reducing me to that state that nature intended us all to be, or nearly so, for her bade me again retain my stockings and shoes, and also to put on my wedding veil. He had me pose lasciviously in this state on the edge of the bed, caressing my aroused breasts, holding open my hairless quim, inserting my fingers and tasting my own juices. Lost in the ecstasy of the moment, and succumbing to those pleasures of self-induced pleasure I suddenly realised that he had not entirely closed the door and that there was someone without … I knew now what the secret words meant: he was parading my lubriciousness in front of his friends, just as he had displayed the unknowing Mis Braithwaite to my own prying eyes. I could not complain: if I had watched myself, then why should I not be watched? I was a servant who had seen my mistress behave like a whore: why should I not be a whore displayed as if she were a duchess? This delicious thought took me finally into bliss, and as I shrieked my pleasure I heard the door quietly click into the closed position. What was to follow was, by his imperious decree, strictly private and between us two.
Shall I tell you what transpired, dear reader?
Stripping himself wholly naked, he stood before me, erect and obscene and beckoned me to kiss and caress his throbbing member. I complied, willingly, and knelt submissively before him, my veil now thrown back so as not to impede my mouth’s urgent address of his rampant manhood. My tongue and lips travelled the full length of his curving shaft, caressing it from root to tip, before I took the bulbous, swollen head into that orifice which had now become its second home. With that bulky protuberance within my mouth I lovingly teased its single eye, the outlet for so much salty pleasure, with the tip of my tongue, appreciating how much pleasure I was giving to my Master by his momentary gasps and the sporadic and involuntary jerking of his pego. Slowly, achingly slowly, I began to take him deeper into my mouth, my tongue sliding beneath his shaft, caressing the veins which kept it hot and hard, while his manhood inched slowly towards the back of my throat. Breathing slowly, I consciously avoided the gagging sensation which comes with taking anything to that tender area of the inner neck, and sunk gradually to a pint at which my enrouged lips met with his body. My tongue now teased, as much as it could, the hairy space between his root and his appendant stones, whilst my hand held those pendulous orbs in which his store of ducal sperm was reserved. I prayed he would not spend at that moment, for I feared I would cough violently should he release his manly lava without warning. My Master’s self-control was admirable, however, and though I felt his shaft increase yet more in girth, I felt no salty flow reach my taste buds. Breathing now with a little difficulty I bade my mouth retreat and, guided by his hands, attended first to that shaft, now so slick with my spittle, and then to his stones. At his bidding I took first one, and latterly the other, into my youthful mouth, teasing their solid centres within the fleshly and mobile sacs which contained them. He was in ecstasy, but still held his seminal reserve within his body. I held his pego by the head now, and following his suggestion, ranged my tongue yet lower, exploring in swirling motions the flat space between his legs and then, at his prompting, taking my tongue to his very arsehole. Half-kneeling, half-lying between his open legs I verily shocked myself by licking and probing that forbidden orifice, holding even his buttocks open to allow my tongue to penetrate the dark star of his fundament. How much more could I lower myself, how further could I yet submit to this tyrant of my passions, this owner of my body? His strong arms reached down for me, and cradled in them I was carried to the bed so that he might pay his own peculiar attentions to his honeymoon prize.
Laying me down softly upon my belly, he began his ministrations to that most sinful orifice in a woman’s body, a place which I knew to be both dirty and forbidden in holy writ. But what sensations I received when he parted the globes of my buttocks and – I’m shocked to repeat this – applied to me what I had to him. My master’s very tongue, the tongue of an English nobleman, kissed and teased the virgin arsehole of Charlotte Gould, a poor servant girl and one now of dubious reputation, having lost her virginity before marriage. The Gould’s, I know, what brand me a whore for what I had done, but what on earth would the Montmorencey family think? They, too, would see me as a scarlet woman, and no doubt forgive their son and heir for his masculine excesses. Such is life at the fin de siècle. But if I thought of my infamy, then my body betrayed itself through nothing but sheer pleasure as my Master took possession of my sensitive arsehole, his tongue circling its brown star with ease and tenderness, before taking an exploratory dip inside the my last and most forbidden virginity. For a full ten minutes his tongue eased me into a languor of blissful relaxation. I did not believe that I could be so sensitive in such a lowly portion of my anatomy, and I felt, as my pleasure ebbed and flowed, that I could – and would – let my master do anything, however sinful, to my waiting and passive body. Truly, he owned me, more than he would ever own his icy fiancée, and I knew in my innermost soul that i could give him more pleasure in his loins than ever could that titled but snobbish trollope.
With my body so eased by his tongue, my Master set to probing my tender and unused orifice with his little finger. Aided by olive oil, he penetrated me easily, inserting the smallest of his digits comfortably up to his manicured fingernail, and then past the first and latterly second knuckle. Kissing my buttocks and biting them tenderly, he maintained a gentle piston-like motion until the muscles had relaxed., The finger was withdrawn, to be replaced by a larger one, and so on until he was penetrating me first with a lubricated thumb and latterly with thumb and forefinger. His attentions were now becoming just a little uncomfortable, and I begged him to desist, for I knew that his next move would surely be to introduce the swollen head of his tumescent cockalorum, a member far more bulbous and long than anything that had yet stretched the portal of my virgin arsehole. He would have me, though, and complete his possession of my womanly body, and as he withdrew finger and thumb he bad me to relax. The tight ring of muscle at the opening of my fundament prevented his cock the entry it so desired, and he whispered me to put my thumb in my mouth and remember the pleasure I had when sucking him. This I did, and as my vivid memories fell into place I felt my cunt become awash with desire. He felt this too, and joyously his thick cock slid into its proper receptacle and he began to fuck me deliciously from behind. As the Bible says, my desire was to my husband, as he gave me the proper attention, plunging into me to the very root of his cockalorum and then withdrawing so that it sat on the very edge of my pouting lips. As I entered into ecstasy and shuddered with pleasure he withdrew totally and, without warning, applied his battering ram to my unprotected back door. Not expecting him to knock thereon, the muscles of my arsehole were totally relaxed and his weapon, copiously lubricated by the juices of my body, slid without resistance into the depths of my fundament. He had sodomised me, and was now pounding that no-longer virgin orifice with the same passion as he had enjoyed my cunt but moments earlier. Forcing me down upon the bed with his body weight, he held my wrists at tension upon the counterpane as he fucked me with wildness and abandonment. Now feeling discomfort, I felt his shaft enwiden even more and knew that his final triumph was close at hand. With a roar, he spent his final reserves, flooding my arsehole with his hot seed and claiming me as all the things I had become in his eyes and my own – servant, bride, whore, chattel. Withdrawing from my stretched arsehole he presented his hard and seed-coated pego to my face for my final act of abasement. I dutifully cleaned him of all traces of his recent enjoyment, noting his pleasure not merely at the sensations my tongue and mouth gave to his exquisitely sensitive cockalorum but also at my willingness to do his bidding and be his dutiful possession. He had mastered me and I had no desire but to be owned, cherished and protected by him.
As we drank a final glass of champagne together, naked, I mused upon what might happen in the future. In an hour I would don my servant’s dress again, and leave the hotel silently through its back door, while he would leave through the front and be escorted to his carriage. The hotel would not trouble to enquire what had become of his bride, nor even notice that an additional servant had been somewhere in the building. That is the nature of high society. As I dressed, I realised that my Master was looking at me with intent. It was not that I was wearing the pale silk stockings that I had worn for my deflowering beneath my servant’s skirts that amused him, however. He smiled and simply said ‘When I am married, I will certainly have need for a mistress. Miss Braithwaite, after all, cannot possibly minister to all of my husbandly desires. I think, perhaps, you may need to visit me at Oxford – or rather, I will visit you in an hotel, fort women are not permitted within College. After that, perhaps, we may see about installing you in St John’s Wood – if you would like that, of course!’’ Dear reader, I think you may perceive my ready answer, given with a kiss and a promise before I made my way down the inglorious rear staircase and back to my life of servitude in my Master’s father’s house.
This, of course, could be the end of my story. Dear reader, I leave it, and my fate, to your favour.
Yours,
Charlotte Gould.
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