Lady Emily's Guardian

Mr. Singer

As I sat on her bed and watched her finish packing her last trunk, I observed a change in my Lady Emily. She has always been lovely, but right then, after several thrilling weeks together on the voyage to India, she looked radiant. She carried herself differently; she’d always walked with confidence and grace, but now she almost seemed to float. She smiled so easily…but hadn’t she always done so? And yet, a difference. She was more beautiful than ever.

She caught me staring at her, and turned to me with a smile. “I’m all ready, sir,” she declared, closing her trunk with a little difficulty. She looked elegant that morning, wearing a dark green velvet traveling dress and a matching hat. She was always an exquisite, fashionable young lady.

I smiled and took the trunk to load on the trolley. “Would you like to go and say goodbye to our friend the Captain?” I asked. I had not planned on sharing her with the Captain, or with any other man. But as I’d watched her flirt lightly with him, I had not been able to resist. I don’t know why, but it thrilled me to see her pleasing another man.

Perhaps the idea had been put into my head by my friend Morrison, our host in Calcutta. Months before, even before Emily knew my plans for her, I had written to him, informing him that I would be bringing Lady Emily Wainwright to India and we would be wed. My friend had written back, and had mentioned that as much as he looked forward to seeing me again after all these years, he was especially eager to meet the young lady. He had written, in some detail, of how he had known Emily’s mother very well. I knew that my Emily would be surprised to learn all of this, and I decided to wait to inform her of this until she’d gotten to know Morrison and his wife a little better.

We only spent a few minutes saying goodbye to the Captain. I watched my Emily please him with her mouth once more. After they kissed goodbye, I caught a glimpse of the Captain’s face. He looked quite sad; he knew that he would never be with a woman as beautiful, adventurous or as sweet as my Lady Emily ever again. I shook his hand, and my beloved and I departed.

On the crowded piers of Calcutta, I held tight to Emily’s gloved hand and led her through the crowds of passengers, servants, traders, and sailors. I glanced at her, and she was looking around in awe at the sights. I had been planning an excursion to India long before I’d planned to make her mine, and I could scarcely hide my excitement myself. My father, Avery Singer III (my elder brother, who was Avery the IV, had died in boyhood), had left for India when I was a boy in school. He would write me letters and send postcards and fascinating gifts from the strange foreign land, and I had always imagined going there and joining him.

It was not meant to be. While in South Africa as a young man, making my considerable fortune with Sir Peter and Mr. Morrison by my side, I received word that my father had died in Bangalore. He had been buried with honor but in haste, and I was of course unable to attend services. I would be visiting my father’s gravesite for the very first time, with my sweet Lady Emily by my side.

As we made our way to the street, I quickly spotted my old friend Morrison among the sailors and Indian people. He stood up straight, a shock of thick red hair neatly slicked back on his head. He had a small red beard, in the same style that he had worn it in when we were but young men. He was smiling at us, and he approached quickly, his eyes on the pretty young lady.

“The Lady Emily Wainwright,” he said. “I would know you anywhere; you look very much like your dear mother Lady Anne, God rest her soul.”

Lady Emily offered her hand, and Morrison stooped to kiss it. I held back a laugh; he was certainly eager for her. And I could not blame him. Emily blushed prettily and said, “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Morrison. Mr. Singer tells me that you knew both of my parents. I should very much like to hear all of your memories of them.” I had to laugh a little then; my little whore was curious to hear about Mr. Morrison’s past relations with her mother, which I had hinted subtly at just days before.

“And so you shall,” Morrison said, and Emily smiled. My friend turned his attention to me, and gave me a hearty handshake. Morrison is a strong man, stocky and wide. He had hardly changed since our days in South Africa; he was still the loud, good-humored man that I’d shared many a pint with.

Morrison led us to his waiting carriage. “My wife is waiting for our arrival, so we best not keep her long,” he said. As we rode away from the piers and toward his estate, he asked about our voyage. I looked out of the carriage and watched the people as we rode along, allowing Emily to take the conversation. She gladly did so, telling Morrison that our voyage had been pleasant.

“How long have you lived in Calcutta, Mr. Morrison?” Emily asked politely. I smiled to myself, half-listening to their conversation as I stared in fascination at the streets of Calcutta. Emily would leave her own questions for later; she knew how to charm people, men and women alike, simply by asking them genuine questions and showing a sincere interest. And Morrison, an attention-grabber himself, would play right into her hands.

“Near a decade now,” he said. “I came after some of the violence had died down. Things have been fairly peaceful here since then. I cannot imagine myself living anywhere else.”

“Did you meet your wife here?” Emily asked.

“No,” Morrison answered, “she is from my home village. As a matter of fact, Lady Emily, she knew your mother as well.”

“Did she?” Emily asked, unable to hide her excitement.

Morrison nodded. “They were good friends. Like sisters when they were growing up. In fact, Lady Emily, I am the one who introduced your parents. Your father came to stay with me for a few months after your grandmother died, and they fell in love when I introduced them.”

“Oh!” Emily said in surprise. “Why, I thank you for doing so. I suppose I may owe my existence to you.”

Morrison laughed loudly. He clearly liked my Emily very much. I smiled again and turned back to them as Morrison said, “My Lydia…Mrs. Morrison…is very much looking forward to meeting you. Do you know, in all of my years of correspondence with your Mr. Singer, she always bade me to enquire of you. I do wonder why she did not just write to you herself.”

“I would have been happy to receive it,” Emily said. “I do hope that she and I will become good friends as well.”

“I believe you will,” Morrison said, and he and I exchanged a knowing glance. We had some wonderful, awful plans for both of our ladies.

We arrived at the lovely manor. It was a fairly new house, built to Morrison’s own specifications just a few years before, after he had married and brought his wife back with him. The manor was surrounded by a high brick wall, and the attached wrought iron fence opened to allow our carriage to enter. The front grounds were filled with exotic flowers, and I could tell that Emily was as fascinated as I was by all the strange beauty.

Mrs. Morrison, a small woman with very pale skin and very pale hair (which made her blue eyes all the more shockingly bright), met us at the front doors. She was dressed in a light-colored dress and a wide-brimmed hat. “Hello!” she called enthusiastically. Though I knew she was hardly younger than her husband or I, she looked to be nearly as young as my Lady Emily.

The carriage driver helped Lady Emily from the carriage first. Mrs. Morrison dashed over to her, and wrapped her in a tight embrace. “My dear Lady Emily,” she cried (as small and fragile-looking as she was, she was just as loud as her husband). “Oh, you look so much like your mother. Doesn’t she, Mr. Morrison?”

“That’s just what I said, Mrs. Morrison,” her husband said, coming out of the carriage. I followed and we stood beside the ladies. Emily looked surprised by Mrs. Morrison’s immediate affection, but she was smiling broadly.

“Yes,” she said, “Mr. Morrison says that you and my mother grew up together.”

“We did!” Mrs. Morrison said. “We were the best of friends in girlhood. Anne was so much fun, such an adventurous and imaginative girl. We started to grow apart as we grew older, but I was heartbroken when I heard of her death, I really was. Oh, you poor child!” Mrs. Morrison declared.

Emily looked a little uncomfortable. I stood by her side as she said, “I look forward to learning more about my mother. Mr. Singer has been able to tell me about my father, but my mother feels like a stranger to me. She did not grow up near Wainwright Hall.”

“We had some wild times as girls!” Mrs. Morrison laughed. She took Emily gently by the arm. “Come in to the house, come in, please.” She hurried away with Emily.

Mr. Morrison shook his head after his wife. “I bring my old friend for a visit, and she ignores you. I apologize for her.”

“Unnecessary,” I said with an amused smile. “Lady Emily has that effect on people sometimes.”

“She is something, isn’t she?” Morrison asked, as we slowly followed the women inside.

I nodded. “She’s very special.”

“I don’t blame you for taking claim of her,” Morrison said in a low voice. “If I were in your position, I certainly would have done the same. She’s a beauty.”

“She’s very precious to me,” I said. “As she grew up, I treated her the way that I thought our friend, Sir Peter, would treat her.”

Morrison laughed. “I guess that’s gone out the window! Sir Peter had some wild ways about him at times, but not like this!” And we both laughed together. It was certainly true; my transition from viewing Emily as my goddaughter to seeing her as my lover had been swift.

Morrison and I didn’t say anything more, for fear of Lady Emily hearing of our plans. It seemed to me that Mrs. Morrison had some designs of her own, as she kept the young lady occupied all afternoon. I did not see my young lady again until we all met for dinner in the large dining hall. A traditional Indian feast was served. Emily and I had tried some Indian food once in London, and I remembered some of the strange dishes described in my father’s correspondence. But we both marveled at the unfamiliar, strong-smelling spread laid before us.

“Our cook is incredible,” Mrs. Morrison said as she heaped some rice onto Lady Emily’s plate. “He is Indian himself, but he has spent some time in Liverpool, so when we are homesick, he can make anything that might ease the ache.”

“Do you often miss England?” Emily asked kindly.

Morrison answered for his wife. “We are not able to get home as often as we might like…only once since we wed, isn’t that so, Mrs. Morrison?”

With a sigh his wife answered, “Oh, yes. But we do keep ourselves occupied. Mr. Morrison is very busy with government affairs, you know, la-di-da, and I have my companions among the ambassadors’ wives and traders’ wives and such.” She turned to Emily, her blue eyes nearly ablaze. “Oh, I cannot wait for you to meet the other ladies at the party we’re throwing Saturday night.”

“A party?” Emily asked with great interest. I smiled at her; Emily loved nothing better than a party.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Morrison said. “In honor of you and Mr. Singer’s arrival. You know, we have never had family nor friends from home visit us here before, not in seven years, and we are so honored.” Mrs. Morrison took my Emily suddenly by the hand. “I have wanted to meet you. I’m so very glad you are here.”

I felt a very strong twinge at my crotch. Goodness, this was all going to turn out much better than expected. Morrison stood and loudly proposed a toast to myself and Lady Emily, and we all drank our home-brewed hadia and enjoyed the rest of our dinner.

Emily and I said goodnight immediately after dinner, and went to the guest bedchamber set aside for us. We did not have to worry about separate arrangements; the Morrisons both knew that we were betrothed, and we did not intend to go through the charade of having separate rooms, only to end up in bed together, anyway. Poor Emily was exhausted, having spent the day with the fast-paced Mrs. Morrison. Emily collapsed, clothed, onto the bed, and I sat beside her.

“Tell me honestly,” I said. “What do you think of Mr. Morrison?”

Emily sat up and smiled. “He’s very nice,” she said. “He has a sense of humor. I feel quite at ease around him.”

I nodded in agreement. “Your father and I met him on our way to South Africa, and by the time we made it to Johannesburg, we were all the best of friends. He has that way about him. Well,” I added, “What are your impressions of Mrs. Morrison?”

Emily giggled. “She is very energetic. Very talkative.”

“That is so.”

“I thought her to be somewhat glib, but I like her,” Emily concluded. “She is so friendly. She has been so welcoming to me all afternoon.”

“She likes you,” I said mildly, and decided to leave it at that for the time being.

Emily looked thoughtful for a moment. “They have only been married these seven years,” she said.

I nodded. “Yes. From what I understand, they had been ‘nearly’ betrothed when Morrison left for South Africa years ago. Something prevented their marriage, and she wed another. She was widowed when he was home for a visit from his station here, and they married and returned together.”

Emily sighed. “That is romantic,” she declared. “Long-lost lovers. But I do wonder what prevented them from marrying the first time.”

I could not resist. “I will tell you,” I said. “It was your mother.”

Her shocked face amused me. How I love to surprise her. “My mother?”

“Yes,” I said. “Though I am sketchy on the details. You may want to ask them about it yourself; I’m sure that they would be most candid with you.”

“I believe I shall,” Emily said faintly, and nothing more was said on the topic that night. It would trouble my dear Lady Emily’s mind, but she would have all of her answers soon.

As we were both tired from our long day, we fell asleep without our usual nightly lovemaking. All the better; just as I had plans for my beloved, I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Morrison had their own respective plans for my sweet little whore. She would certainly need all of her rest.

The party, thrown in honor of myself and Lady Emily (moreso for her, really), was two nights after our arrival in Calcutta. In that time, Mrs. Morrison had invaded Emily’s wardrobe, and had lightly upbraided me for not ensuring that my beloved was properly clothed for tropical climates. “But,” Mrs. Morrison trilled, “all the more reason to shop!” Emily was eagerly indoctrinated into the world of Calcutta fashion among the females of British society, and by Saturday she was well-equipped with dresses of light-colored cotton and a couple of gowns (which I felt were unnecessary, until Mrs. Morrison explained that her husband was footing the bill).

In the privacy of our bedchamber, Emily put on one of her new gowns, a rose-colored off-the-shoulder number that fitted well around her perky little tits and flowed away from her hips and legs. When she came to help me knot my necktie, I put my hands lightly on her waist and was surprised by the absence of whalebone. “Mrs. Morrison said that it is not fashionable to wear corsets here,” Emily said simply. I approved of this immensely. Emily’s slim little body would be that much easier to access. Of course, that would wait until after the official party ended and the real party began.

“I have a surprise for you,” I said, and Emily beamed with pleasure as I took a rectangular gift box from my pocket. “Open it,” I whispered.

With trembling hands, she opened the top of the box, revealing a diamond choker. “Oh, sir,” she sighed. “It’s extravagant.”

“It would not be proper for you to wear your leather collar at all times,” I remarked, reaching from behind her and taking the diamond choker. As I clasped it around her neck, I said, “I think this is a lovely substitute, don’t you?” It fit just right, snug against her neck, but not too tight. Only the clasp (which contained a tiny hidden lock, which I had had specially made) would leave a small imprint on her skin after a night of use.

Emily turned to face me, smiling in her radiant way. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered, standing on her toes to kiss me softly.

I resisted the sudden but strong urge to throw her to the bed. I returned her sweet kiss. My lovely Emily, my good little girl, my obedient whore. How I adored her.

It should be understood that if my dear Lady Emily had not wanted to do the things that I forced her to do, I would not have been leading her down that path. If she had said “no,” we would have stopped. Granted, I had raped her on our first night together, but that had been necessary. Even then I’d known that she wanted it.

“Emily,” I said, “You do enjoy belonging to me, don’t you, my dear?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she said eagerly. “I love you very much, sir.”

I kissed her again. “I love you, too, my Emily. I cannot wait until you are my wife.”

We went downstairs before we could become swept up in our passions. We found our host and hostess at the foot of the staircase, in a prime spot to greet guests while awaiting our arrival. When the Morrisons spotted us, Mrs. Morrison came and took Emily by the arm. “My dear Lady Emily, you look so beautiful tonight.” Mrs. Morrison looked lovely herself, in a blue gown that matched her bright eyes.

Mrs. Morrison immediately led Emily to a small group of her lady friends. I would not see her again for a couple of hours, as Morrison led me to a group of gentlemen, and we took our places at a large table on the patio to puff on our cigars and a large hookah set up in the middle of the table. We talked of politics in India and at home, trade prices and taxes and laws (where I could, at least, offer my expertise), while drinking strong Indian beer and wine. I was feeling a little tipsy when my Emily joined us briefly.

“Ooh, is that a hookah?” she asked, eyeing the contraption with curiosity.

“Here, my lady,” Morrison, red-faced with drink, said, offering his hose. “Take a puff.”

She took a small pull through her hose, only enough to make the water in the hookah bubble briefly. She let out her smoke slowly before smacking her lips, a quizzical look on her face. “It tastes like shoe leather,” she observed.

The men all laughed heartily, and I beamed at her. Such a charming little thing. “How are you enjoying the party, Lady Emily?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m having a lovely time. Everyone has been so kind.”

“Would you like to join us, my lady?” Morrison asked. A couple of our companions even stood to offer their seats.

“No, thank you, gentlemen,” Emily said, and I could read disappointment on the faces of the men in attendance. “Mrs. Morrison believes I’ve only slipped away for another drink, and I’m sure she is expecting me.” She gave me a little wink before strutting away.

I had the attention of every man at the table. “You are betrothed to her?” One of the government officials, a fat gentleman named Albert Norman, ventured to ask. “She seems quite young.”

“She is 18,” I said proudly. “I raised her up by hand when she was orphaned as a young girl, and we have fallen in love.”

This story spread quickly through the party. The women in attendance thought it sweet; the men were clearly jealous as they compared their own wives (most of them withering, even just at the edges) to my fresh flower of a bride-to-be. If these men had known the truth, they would have positively burst with envy…and would have clamored for a chance with her. But I would not offer her to just anyone.

The party finally died down after midnight. The four of us all convened on the patio when the last of the guests had departed. The ladies were wrapped in shawls as we took a drink together in the cool night air.

“Lady Emily,” Mrs. Morrison said, “We have some topics to discuss with you.”

“About my mother?” Emily asked softly. She had confessed to me that she had not yet questioned Mrs. Morrison. She would have all of her inquiries answered now, for better or for worse.

Mrs. Morrison nodded. “Yes, my dear. You see, Lady Emily, Mr. Morrison has given me some interesting information about the nature of your relationship with Mr. Singer.”

Though her face flushed slightly, my Emily did not seem too surprised. “Oh,” she said. I took her hand as Mrs. Morrison continued.

“Lady Emily, you know that your mother and I were quite close. But I would not say that we were as close as sisters. No,” Mrs. Morrison said, “It would be more accurate to say that we were more like…lovers.”

My sweet Emily was certainly shocked now. “You and my mother?” she asked.

Mrs. Morrison nodded. As her husband sat close to her and put his arm around her shoulders, she explained. Even as young girls, little Lydia and Anne would secretly play their “tie-me-up” game. One girl would be tied up while the other girl tickled and touched and tormented her. The game grew more sexual in nature as the girls grew older, with Anne more often playing the “prisoner” while Lydia played the “mistress.”

Both girls, being pretty enough and from wealthy families, became swept up in the rituals of courting. Mr. Morrison, prior to his excursion to South Africa, had been a favorite suitor of young Lydia. “But he knew Anne for what she was,” Mrs. Morrison said. “A whore. I do not mean that in a bad way,” she added hastily, for fear of offending my dear whore. “Bu they began having an affair. I adored them both…but I was young, I was confused.

“When Charles…Mr. Morrison…left for South Africa, I married my first husband and ceased my friendship with Anne.” Mrs. Morrison went on with teary eyes. “I was much too young to marry. But I was frightened, because I did not think that my feelings for your mother were natural.

“When my first husband died and Mr. Morrison and I were reunited, he gave me pleasure I had not known since I was with your mother,” Mrs. Morrison concluded.

We were all surprised when my sweet little Emily burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands and cried. Mrs. Morrison put her hand to her mouth, clearly distressed. She and her husband both leaned toward Emily, but I was the one who put a comforting arm around her. “My dear Lady Emily, what is the matter?” I asked.

Emily removed her hands from her face. She was actually smiling! “Nothing, sir,” she said, and she laughed. The tears spilling down her face were of joy. “I am so relieved! I…” She turned to Mrs. Morrison. “I thought that I was wicked and bad for some of the thoughts I’ve had, but to know that my mother was like me, and that she had wonderful friends who loved her for it…it’s so wonderful.”

Mrs. Morrison was glowing. She took Emily gently by the hand. “I loved your mother very much,” she said softly. “I knew that you were a special girl from the moment I laid eyes on you. Would you like to play with me tonight, Lady Emily?”

“Yes, please,” my beloved said softly, and Mrs. Morrison leaned toward her, kissing her softly on the lips.

I looked forward to seeing my whore with a woman. Mrs. Morrison was a lovely, attractive lady. Her body, like her face, appeared 20 years younger than her actual age. The ladies clasped hands, giggling, and Morrison and I followed them up to the master bedchamber. Morrison and I sat in armchairs, while Mrs. Morrison and Emily stood before us.

“You may remove your clothing and go to your knees, Lady Emily,” I instructed, and took another sip of my beer.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and did as she was told without hesitation. I halted Mrs. Morrison as she reached out to touch her.

“There are some rules for playing with my whore,” I said. “I am to witness any and all sexual activities that this girl participates in. And her cunt is my personal property; no one else may touch or have her there.”

Mrs. Morrison was ready to protest, but her husband cut in. “Your terms are fair,” he said, giving his wife a pointed look.

“Also,” I added, “and I know that this may be unnecessary to state, but do not be brutal to her, please.”

“Oh, of course not,” Mrs. Morrison said softly, advancing to Emily. Addressing her, she said, “Lady Emily, while we play, I’d like you to call me ‘Mother.’ Can you do that, please?”

“Yes, Mother,” Emily said in a tiny voice.

“Hands behind your back, my pet,” Mrs. Morrison said kindly, and Emily swiftly obeyed her new mistress. “Mr. Morrison, can you fetch two lengths of soft rope, please?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Morrison,” my old friend said, rising to accommodate his wife’s request. He and his wife kissed briefly before Mrs. Morrison tied up Emily’s wrists and ankles. I involuntarily stroked my cock through my trousers, eager to see what would be done to my whore.

Mrs. Morrison touched Emily’s face. “Do you like to be tied up?” she asked.

“Yes, Mother,” Emily said.

“Have you ever pleasured a woman before, my pet?” Mrs. Morrison asked as she began slipping out of her own gown.

“No, Mother,” Emily admitted.

“Come, then, Mother’s going to teach her little pet how to do it just right,” Mrs. Morrison cooed. She beckoned to Emily. Emily awkwardly shuffled on her knees to her new mistress, who now stood as naked as she. Mrs. Morrison’s body had no sagging or wrinkles to betray her age; I wondered how she had kept her body as tight as a teenage girl’s.

Mrs. Morrison put her hand on the back of Emily’s head. “Head back, my pet. Mother’s going to let you lick her pussy, won’t it be nice?”

“Yes, Mother,” Emily said, and I could tell she was excited as Mrs. Morrison stood directly over her, straddling her head and lowering her pussy onto the little whore’s face.

Mrs. Morrison’s cunt was covered in neatly-groomed, fine hair, so fine that it was almost transparent. “Use your tongue to lick Mother’s pussy, my pet. Oh, yes…” Mrs. Morrison put her hands on Emily’s shoulders to steady herself as my beloved went to work. As Emily wriggled her tongue into Mrs. Morrison’s hole and the older woman let out a series of loud, appreciative moans, I had taken my cock from my trousers and was stroking myself. Only a little; my turn with the girl would come soon, as Mrs. Morrison came quickly.

“Lick Mother clean, my pet,” Mrs. Morrison panted, squatting on Emily’s face. By the time Emily was through and Mrs. Morrison had climbed off of her, the lower half of her face was covered in pussy juices. “What do we say, pet?” Mrs. Morrison asked, as though she were speaking to a small child.

“Thank you, Mother,” Emily recited.

“You’re welcome, my pet. You are a dirty, messy little pet, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mrs. Morrison retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the cum from Emily’s face before kissing her softly. “That’s a good little pet,” Mrs. Morrison whispered. She got down on her knees, and taking Emily by the shoulders, kissed her deeply. My cock was throbbing by then.

Morrison, in a similar state of arousal, asked, “May I have a crack at her?” He grinned wickedly. “I will not ask her to call me ‘Father.’”

“Certainly,” I said with a wave of my hand. Morrison stood and quickly disrobed. He had a paunchy gut, but otherwise had muscular features. Mrs. Morrison stood and kissed her husband with the same passion that she had my beloved.

“May I show my appreciation to our guest?” Mrs. Morrison asked her husband.

“Yes, dear,” Mr. Morrison said, as he positioned himself to be pleasured by my whore, Mrs. Morrison came and stood before me.

“May I suck your cock, Mr. Singer?” she asked.

“Yes, please, Mrs. Morrison,” I said, as she settled on her knees before me, eagerly taking my throbbing member in her hot little mouth. I put my hands on the back of her head, mussing her fancy up-do as I fucked her mouth quickly. Over her head, I watched my one please my old friend. He had his hands tangled in her hair, but was not forcing himself down her throat. He was groaning as Emily took him deep. She had become an expert cocksucker in the past few weeks, after spending so much time pleasing me and the Captain on our voyage.

I fucked Mrs. Morrison’s mouth harder, knowing that my balls would leave some evidence on her chin. No matter; she put her hands on around my waist and prompted me to fuck her harder and harder. She was a whore, too; Morrison had hinted as much in our correspondence, but I had no idea of her past with Lady Anne. The thought of watching Mrs. Morrison have her way with sweet Lady Emily, her former lover’s daughter, made me come quicker than I might have.

Mrs. Morrison cleaned my cock with eager strokes of her tongue. She was smiling up at me, I knew, but my attention was focused on Mr. Morrison and my Emily. He was allowing her to take her time, and she was bobbing her head, taking his stubby cock as deeply as she could each time.

Mrs. Morrison stood and went behind her husband. I watched her put two of her fingers into her mouth, then stick them into her husband’s ass. He grunted loudly, grabbing Emily by the back of the head as he came down her throat. I smiled to myself, proud of her for taking his cum so willingly. She grinned up at him as he gently wiped some stray cum from her chin. “Thank you, my lady,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Morrison,” she chirped happily.

Our play continued throughout the night, with the four of us ending up on the Morrisons oversized bed. Morrison and I fucked my whore simultaneously, while Mrs. Morrison fingered her husband’s ass from behind. Mrs. Morrison tortured Emily’s clamped nipples, nibbling her so hard at one point that she drew blood (for which she apologized profusely, saying, “Mother didn’t mean to hurt her poor little pet, poor dear,”). Looking back on that wicked night in Calcutta, it was the most fun that my Lady Emily and I had with other people involved. We could surpass it on our own, and we often did, but we enjoyed that night with the Morrisons.

When Emily and I were alone again in our bedchamber that morning, I held her close and we discussed the events of the night. “Did you enjoy being with Mrs. Morrison?” I asked her as I stroked her back.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ve had thoughts about women, and…it was even better than I ever imagined. Thank you for allowing me to do that, sir.”

“You’re welcome, my dear. And what did you think about calling Mrs. Morrison ‘Mother’?”

Emily confessed, “I thought it strange at first. But…I started to like it. It made me really excited.” Her tone became a bit more serious. “You know, she told me that she was never able to have any children of her own. Poor dear.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “But I should hope that she wouldn’t do these sort of things with her own children.”

“No,” Emily agreed faintly, and we fell asleep soon after, not waking again until late morning. We would have a few more days of fun with our host and hostess before beginning the next part of our trip, taking the train down to Bangalore to visit my father’s gravesite. After that, we would travel a bit around the country before returning to Calcutta to be wed. Each day with my little Emily was sweeter as I led her further and further down a dark and exciting path. She wanted to be my slave, my whore, and I was more than willing to give that life to her.

The morning that we departed for Bangalore, Emily looked lovely but exhausted as we stood on the platform and waited for the train. And well she might; she had been put through her paces the previous night by myself and our host and hostess. We had spent a little more time in the “dungeon” that the Morrisons had set up in their basement, for their own personal activities. Emily, chained standing and spread-eagle to a tall rack set up in the middle of the cellar room, had been tortured, pleasured, and had done much pleasing throughout the entire night.

I had continued to push Emily’s boundaries of tolerance for punishment. She had asked me to do this. “Please sir,” she had said, kneeling before me in our bedchamber, completely in the nude. “I know you like to be rough. You may do whatever you like to me; I want to please you.”

During our first week in Calcutta, I had encouraged Morrison and his little wife to play a little rough with Lady Emily as well. I was amazed at the sadistic side of her dear ‘Mother’; that final night in Calcutta, after we finished chaining the young lady to the rack, Mrs. Morrison had ducked briefly into a small root cellar, returning with a long leather whip. “May I use this on her, Mr. Singer?” she asked sweetly, twirling the whip in the air expertly. Her husband was eyeing her with admiration; I wondered if she was often the one wielding that whip in their private time.

“What do you think, Lady Emily?” I asked. I had not used anything more brutal than a riding crop on her tender skin, but the thought of watching her take a beating from her mistress turned me on.

She could see it in my eyes, just as easily as I could read the fear (and the excitement) in hers. “All right, sir,” she said, without hesitation, and only the slightest hint of apprehension in her voice. I nodded to Mrs. Morrison, and I stood by and watched the show for a bit.

Mrs. Morrison stood before Lady Emily, touching her face softly before kissing her briefly. “Have you been a bad little pet?” she asked.

“Yes, Mother,” Emily chirped, and I noted the way that her toes curled. Her nipples were hardening against a new pair of nipple clips, a gift from her dear ‘Mother.’ These clips dug painfully into her nipples whenever she became aroused…which was often. For a long time, she would refuse to wear any other pair.

“Mother has to punish her naughty little pet,” Mrs. Morrison said. She grabbed one of Emily’s tits briefly, causing Emily to yell out. Mrs. Morrison walked around behind Lady Emily, and, standing a few feet behind her, raised the whip expertly and lashed it against my beloved’s ass. Emily screamed out louder, and I watched small drops of blood begin to drip from the first wound.

Mrs. Morrison spent a few minutes beating my whore’s back and ass, allowing her time to feel the pain from each new would before delivering another. She stopped at ten; I might have stopped her at that moment, if she didn’t toss the whip aside herself. I was tempted to comfort my girl, as she whimpered and cried on the rack. But she had asked for this; I stood by, rubbing my crotch, standing beside my old friend as we watched our women play.

Mrs. Morrison stepped right behind Emily, tracing her fingers across the fresh wounds. “Good little pet,” she murmured. “Would you like a treat, pet?”

“Yes, Mother,” Emily whimpered. Mrs. Morrison began kissing and licking the girl’s neck. I watched her lube her two fingers in her mouth, and I grabbed my cock, knowing what she would do. Emily whimpered louder as Mrs. Morrison shoved her fingers into Emily’s asshole, and began fucking her roughly.

“That’s it, pet…you like it when Mother plays with your ass, don’t you?”

“Oh, God…yes, Mother,” Emily moaned. I took that as my cue to join in on the fun. I stepped forward, and stood in front of Emily. She smiled at me; her lovely face was soaked in tears. Returning her grin, I took two hooked fingers and shoved them into her cunt, clawing at the walls of her dripping-wet pussy as I dug deeper and deeper inside of her. I stroked her throbbing clit with my thumb, and she shuddered as she was finger-fucked in her holes, moaning loudly.

I could feel her coming against my fingers as I shoved a third one into her cunt. I felt the walls of her pussy flutter madly around me as she coated my fingers in her juices. I kissed her roughly before putting my fingers to her lips. “Clean them, my dear.”

She did so, and Mrs. Morrison stopped fucking her ass with her fingers, and kissed Emily softly on the back of the neck. She stepped aside and allowed her husband to take her spot behind Emily. We fucked her at the same time, and I allowed her to scream to her heart’s content as her ass was shredded by Morrison’s thick member. He grabbed her hair roughly and yanked her head back, and we both bit and nibbled at her neck as she cried out.

“Oh, Christ!” she yelled out. “Oh, God, oh, please, sir, oh Goooood!” she screamed, letting out an animal shriek as we pounded into her as hard as we could. I loved fucking her rough, feeling her tearing around me with each ungraceful thrust. After Morrison had come and released from her, I grabbed her by the thighs and rammed into her one last time, balls-deep as I came with a loud moan. The chains offered little slack, so I nearly threw my back out with the effort of holding her close to me. I released her quickly, and her three tormentors left her to drip for a moment as we regained ourselves.

At that point, we convened to the parlor upstairs. Lady Emily walked with much difficulty, wincing with each step, so Mrs. Morrison helped her along, wrapped her arm around her waist as we went up. We had cake and coffee, and Emily sat at her mistress’s feet, as her ‘Mother’ fed her small bites from her own plate. But the young whore’s real dessert came after we had finished our coffee. Mrs. Morrison, still nude (as we all were) from our escapades in the basement, had taken a swipe of frosting from the top of the remaining cake, and had spread it on her pussy.

“Go ahead, my pet, lick Mother clean,” she coaxed Emily, and I watched my girl eagerly lap up the frosting from Mrs. Morrison’s cunt. After pleasing ‘Mother’ thoroughly, Morrison followed suit, spreading frosting on his cock and allowing Emily to have at it.

She pleasured me next, but I did not coat my cock for her. “My cock is sweet enough for you as it is, isn’t it, my dear?” I asked.

She eyed my throbbing member hungrily. “Yes, sir.”

“All yours, Lady Emily.” And she gobbled me up, fondling my testicles (she always made sure to give them their due) with her soft hands as she sucked me. Having already come into her once in the past hour (and a few more times already that day), I held out for quite some time, and when I finally sent my seed down her slender little throat, she was utterly exhausted.

We allowed her a break as Morrison and I had our turns with his wife (he did not insist that I leave her pussy be, so I made some use of it), and our play continued thus throughout the night, ending only as the sun began to rise. Mrs. Morrison had made another pot of coffee, and we all put on silk robes and took it on the patio, watching the sunrise.

After packing enough of our things for the next fortnight of our trip (as we would be returning to Calcutta, the Morrisons had kindly allowed us to board the rest of our things with them during our absence), we departed for the train station. Mrs. Morrison had given Lady Emily a tearful goodbye. “I know you will be back soon,” she said as she embraced my whore, “but I can’t help thinking how difficult it will be to let you go when you leave us again.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Morrison,” Emily said kindly (she only called her ‘Mother’ during playtime), kissing the woman softly on the cheek. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

Morrison saw us to the train station in his carriage, and even waited with us until the train arrived. He kissed Emily briefly before we boarded. “Goodbye, my lady,” he said, without the emotion of his wife. He liked Emily very much, but he viewed his time with her as play, and nothing more. He certainly was not attached to her the way that his wife was.

I shook my friend’s hand, and Emily and I boarded the train. We were led to our private compartment, and as soon as we were inside, I pulled the blinds over all of the windows facing out into the narrow corridor. My beloved had already sprawled out onto one of the bench seats.

I smiled at her and sat next to her head. “Tired, my dear?” I teased.

Her eyes closed, she smiled a little and nodded. She moved back so that her head was resting in my lap. I stroked her hair, and we were silent until the train began to move. I could tell by her breathing pattern that she was not asleep yet.

“Emily,” I said, “I do wonder how much Mrs. Morrison would pay to own you.”

Her eyes snapped open. She looked up at me in surprise. “What do you mean, sir?”

I grinned down at her. Her cheeks were beginning to glow. “Your dear ‘Mother’ adores you, doesn’t she?”

“I…I suppose she does, sir.”

“I bet she’d pay a whole lot of money to have you all to herself,” I mused. “I know how much she wants to play with your cunt. If I really wanted to, I could sell you off to her and add a considerable amount to my fortune.”

Emily’s eyes widened. “Oh, but…you…you wouldn’t do that, sir. You’re teasing.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Oh, sir,” Emily said, looking distressed, “do not tease me so.”

“You mean you would not want to stay with your dear ‘Mother’?” I asked, almost mocking.

“Please, sir,” she said. “You’re the one that I love.” I smiled down at her, and assured her that I was only kidding. “Oh, sir, you are cruel,” she said, and I kissed her softly before she closed her eyes again, this time achieving sleep in a relatively short amount of time.

I thought of our past week in Calcutta. I had to admit; though I enjoyed watching my whore with another woman (particularly one as sexy as Mrs. Morrison), I was a little jealous of how close they’d become in such a short period to time. I had even worried about the time that they spent alone together; would Emily be able to stop her if she wanted to break the rules? Would my little whore even want to stop her?

I had expressed my concerns to Emily, but she had reassured me. “Sir, if she ever tries to touch me when we are alone, I will…I will scream,” she promised. “No matter where we are. And I’ll try to run away. I don’t want to break your rules, sir.”

I had kissed her softly. “I know you don’t, my dear.” And I realized why my sweet Emily was so special. It was not because she was so pretty; she certainly was beautiful, but there are beautiful girls everywhere. And it was definitely not because she was of the noble class; there are plenty of Lords and Ladies and Dukes and Duchesses and such who are not at all worthwhile human beings. No…what made my little Emily special was her unwavering loyalty. She was obedient and sincere; she had always been this way. This is why I loved her so.

As I stroked her hair and we began our long trip to Bangalore, I thought of the weeks ahead of us. My father’s gravesite…then many exciting sites around the strange foreign land…then back to Calcutta to be wed. I looked down at Emily’s face. My beautiful bride. My sweet, obedient, perfect little slave. I don’t remember ever being happier than I was at that moment, on the train to Bangalore, knowing that even though many men and women would admire and fuck and love her, she would always be all mine.