Lady Emily's Guardian

Lady Emily’s Diary

15 July, 18—

Finally, finally, we have arrived in Bangalore! The train ride took nearly three whole days, and I must admit that I have been going a little stir-crazy in our tiny (but thankfully private) compartment. The train was twice delayed on the tracks due to the heavy rains; Mr. Singer gave me a little book about the climate of India, and I have learned that we have arrived in the middle of what is known as the “monsoon season.” How dreadful! And as I write this, in our little (and most authentically Indian) quarters, the rain continues to pound against the windows, so violently that I am afraid they will shatter.

But Mr. Singer reassures me. “These happen every year. The people are prepared for them.” Still, I had read in the little book that if the monsoons are too heavy, it could have devastating effects on the local economy. I suppose this does not concern me personally, but still…I do worry.

Mr. Singer is troubled as well, but it is not from the strange weather. We are going to visit his father’s gravesite tomorrow, and he has realized that he does not know exactly where it is located. I suggested contacting one of his father’s old friends. “Did he give you any names in his correspondence to you?” I asked. “Were any names mentioned in the message you received upon his death?”

Mr. Singer kissed me heartily, declared me a genius, and has been combing through the letters (which he brought with him, to reference any interesting points to visit), and jotting down names as he has come upon them. I am glad to have been helpful, especially to my dear old friend. I was afraid, as we started on our way to Bangalore, that he was displeased with me. His teasing about Mrs. Morrison troubled me all the way here.

I have avoided writing much on the topic of Mrs. Morrison in here as of yet. But now that I have some quiet time to myself, and have been out of Calcutta for a few days now, I can reflect on my experiences with a clearer mind. I do think that she is a dear woman, and I cannot deny that I have had lots of fun with her, her kind husband, and my Mr. Singer these past few days. However, I am…dare I admit this?...I am a little frightened of her.

Oh, yes! I am afraid of that tiny, lovely woman. Can I even begin to explain? There is a look in her eyes, a very intense look, whenever we are playing together. My Mr. Singer gets a similar look, but I feel so different with him. When Mr. Singer looks at me hungrily, I feel wanted, and I feel excited. But with Mrs. Morrison…her looks of lust cause me to tremble in fear.

I’m not entirely certain why, really. She is rougher with me than my Mr. Singer, but I do enjoy the rough treatment. What made me cry the most, after she whipped me on our last night in Calcutta, was the idea that the marks of the whip on my back would never go away, that I would be scarred and hideous forever. But even now, I can see them fading away quickly. Mr. Singer spreads a lotion on them, several times daily, and they are now a light pink. I enjoyed the pain of being whipped…what is the matter with me, that I want to take such punishment? I am so lucky to be with a man who will indulge my dark fantasies…and who will introduce me to people who wish to do the same.

I am still reeling from the news of my mother’s separate affairs with both Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. She must have been quite young when she was with Mr. Morrison! I do know that she was a couple of years older than Mrs. Morrison, who married very young herself. I think back to two years ago, when Mr. Singer refused to allow me to hastily marry Mr. Gainsley. I am so glad, so so glad, that he did so! I cannot begin to think that Mr. Gainsley would be so understanding of my needs as my dear old friend.

Mr. Singer expressed some jealousy of my friendship with Mrs. Morrison. I reassured him, and while I did not lie to him, I did keep a small bit of truth from him. That is why I was so bothered after he teased me on the train; I thought that he had found out my dishonesty.

I did not tell Mr. Singer of a conversation that I’d had with Mrs. Morrison. It was two days after our first night together; we’d only been in Calcutta less than a week, but already we were very close. She and I were walking together in the gardens on her estate; we had just taken tea on the patio, and she was showing me the exotic flowers growing all around the back of their vast property.

At one point, Mrs. Morrison took my hand. I did not wretch mine away; perfectly innocent to hold hands, I thought. We continued along for a short while, when Mrs. Morrison asked, “Lady Emily, would you like to stay here with me?”

I looked at her, surprised into silence. She smiled at me kindly. “I know we have only just become friends, but I adore you, Lady Emily. You remind me of that loving friend that I lost so long ago. Were you ever lonely for your mother as a child, my dear? You never got to know her at all.”

The sting of losing my mother at a young age had left me long ago. I answered honestly. “Yes, at times, I was,” I said. “But I always had my Mr. Singer. He was always good to me.”

“He is a good man,” Mrs. Morrison agreed. “Very handsome, very wealthy…and very sexy.”

The bedchamber talk seemed out of place in the bright lovely garden, and I know that I blushed a little. “Yes,” I agreed.

“I can tell how much he loves you,” Mrs. Morrison continued as we walked along. “He’ll give you anything you want, won’t he?”

I nodded. “I believe he will,” I said, and I knew this to be true.

“I’m sure,” Mrs. Morrison said, “that if you told him that you wanted to stay here, he’d let you. He would not deny your wishes, would he?”

I did yank my hand from hers then. “But Mrs. Morrison,” I said, “I love Mr. Singer. I’m going to be his wife; I belong to him.”

She looked about to cry then. “You know, my dear, before I married Mr. Morrison I tried to forget about your mother. And I almost did. But being with him again, and remembering that he had been with her, and I had been with her…since we came here, I have wondered, what would our lives have been like if she were still alive? What if she were here with us? You do like me and Mr. Morrison, don’t you, Lady Emily?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “But I cannot stay. I do not wish to stay.” Before Mrs. Morrison could say anything else, I said, “I am not my mother, Mrs. Morrison.”

I felt guilty for being so blunt with the dear woman, who is clearly still heartbroken over losing my mother. Perhaps that is what frightens me; she does not see me as myself, but as a substitute for my mother. As much as I adore Mrs. Morrison (and I do, I really do), I know that she could never care for me for who I really am. Not like my Mr. Singer, who knows me so well, who knows me better than I even know myself.

I begged Mrs. Morrison to forget our conversation in the garden. “We are friends, and I do adore you,” I assured her. “Please, don’t be upset.” And she had smiled, and apologized, and we did not speak of it again. But when Mr. Singer teased about selling me to her as we began our trip to Bangalore, it made me remember the conversation, and I felt awful again.

But Mr. Singer is not upset with me. No…he just returned to the room, after sending out his inquiries about three men he thought may still be Bangalore, and he has had success. An old friend of his father’s, a Colonel Phineas Faulkner (we shared a giggle at the name), is retired and living only a few blocks from our lodging. We are to call on him late in the morning tomorrow, and he will guide us to the late Mr. Avery Singer III’s gravesite. Mr. Singer seems so much happier now than he did when we arrived just hours ago. I will give him extra attention this evening, to ensure his happy mood for tomorrow.

16 July, 18—

Such a long day! But I am not tired yet; for once, Mr. Singer has retired to bed before me. I do not wish to forget the events of this day, so I will write them out now, until I am too tired to go on. As I write this, the clock strikes midnight, so we have technically entered into a new day.

We woke early in the morning. In fact, I awoke as the sun was just rising; Mr. Singer was already up, and dressed in a fine suit, sipping his morning tea. “Good morning, my dear,” he said.

I sat up. “Have you been awake long?” I asked.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I hardly slept.”

Poor man! The fatigue showed on his face. I rose from bed and went to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “It is early yet,” I said. “You could lie down for a while; I will make sure that everything is ready for us to see Colonel Faulkner.”

Mr. Singer smiled. “I’m sure that you would, my dear, but I’m not tired. I have much on my mind today.”

“Tell me,” I said, and I sat on his knee. He put his arms around me and held me close; I was naked, as I always am when we go to bed together. He loves to run his hands over my soft body, and I love letting him do so. His touch is both comforting and electrifying. It makes me feel both safe and excited…I cannot explain it more succinctly than that.

He told me about his father. Some things, I already knew; his father had left for India only a few months after his eldest son, Avery Singer IV, died of an illness. He had not seen his father since; all he had were the correspondences over the years, and the strange gifts. His mother had been heartbroken over the abandonment, but had not remarried until his father’s death years later. She and her new husband had moved to America together (we had visited them in Boston, years ago; I remember hearing talk of war at that time, but Mr. Singer had reassured me that the fighting was not quite as north as we were).

“But even before he left,” Mr. Singer said, “I did not feel like I knew my father. He and my brother were close, and Avery’s death really hurt my father, probably even moreso than it hurt me or my mother. I can’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t have gone, if Avery had lived.” He sighed, and looked so sad at that moment, that I wanted to make him feel better. I slipped off of his lap and went to my knees. Without a word, I pulled down his trousers and began to stroke his cock to hardness.

He smiled at me, his wicked glint back in his eye. “Trying to distract me, my dear?” I nodded and he grinned.

“Oh, sir,” I sighed, “you do have the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. May I please you, sir?”

“Of course,” he said, and when he was sufficiently hard, I took him in my mouth, slowly. I sucked him at a leisurely pace, lingering my tongue across his shaft, even leaning down to take his balls in my mouth. He loved that; he groaned loudly, but sat back and allowed me to do all of the work. I took my time. As I write this, I have pleasured four different men: Mr. Singer, the Captain, Mr. Morrison, and the nameless Indian conductor on the train (who had the loveliest eyelashes I’ve seen on anyone, man or woman), and while I enjoy the feeling that I can give to them, I only truly enjoy the feel of my master’s cock in my mouth. I could suck him all day long, like a child with a hard candy. I’m sure he’d let me, too, if it were possible.

So I took my time, and when Mr. Singer came messily into my mouth, I took my time cleaning him as well, licking the cum from his cock and swallowing it dutifully (I can even taste the difference between my Mr. Singer and other men, and I crave him all the time). For a couple of minutes, we sat just that way, me kneeling before him, he smiling and touching my face, until he said, “Bath time, my dear.”

He did not bathe with me, as he was already up and dressed, but he did fill the tub for me and wash me himself. We were silent as he washed me, and I knew that he was distracted by the events of the day. So I tried to distract him again by making a small request. “I really need to come, sir,” I whispered as he washed my thighs gently. “Will you help me, please?”

He put a hand to my cunt. “Indeed, you do. Your little clit is quite swollen.” He smiled and took his hand away from me. “Have you been a good girl, Emily? Do you deserve release?”

“I think I do, sir,” I said softly. I pretended to beg. “Please, sir? I need you so much.”

“You have been good, my Emily,” he admitted. He tickled my clit lightly, but even that touch made me squirm. With his free hand, he grabbed my wrist. “Hold still and relax for your friend, little girl. That’s right…”

I leaned my head back against the rim of the tub and closed my eyes, raising my hips to meet his touch as he stroked me, taking as much time on me as I had with him. I shuddered as he took two fingers and shoved them into my cunt. “Oh, Emily,” he said, “you’re still so tight for me. Your little cunt is mine only, isn’t it, my dear?”

“Yes, sir,” I moaned as he slowly thrust his fingers in and out of me, stabbing the walls of my pussy roughly. He shoved his fingers in again and held them, before spreading them apart. I moaned as he twisted his wrist, back and forth, slowly, widening the span of his fingers and forcing me to stretch to accommodate him.

He removed his fingers abruptly, and I let out a scream as I came. I had not even felt myself coming, so swept up was I in what he was doing to me. Mr. Singer loves to surprise me, and he certainly keeps me on my toes (sometimes literally) when it comes to our sexual activities.

“Was that nice for you, Lady Emily?” he asked mildly as he stirred my cum-tainted water with his hand.

I managed to nod, panting as I was from the intense, unexpected orgasm. He smiled slowly at me, a wicked grin. He knows my body so well. I wonder how long I will continue to be amazed by this fact. I hope that I never take it for granted; I hope I always remember what good my dear old friend does for me everyday.

Mr. Singer finished bathing me, and I put on a demure dress and a long, dark coat. The sky was grey, but it was not raining again…yet. We had breakfast at a small restaurant (eating sweet sabudana vada, which left me feeling quite full for most of the day), and then, armed with umbrellas, we made our way towards Colonel Faulkner’s residence, stopping to pick up a bouquet of exotic flowers from a tiny shop run by a wrinkled old Indian woman.

Mr. Singer handed me the flowers. “You don’t mind holding these, do you, my dear?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“You may lay them on my father’s grave for me,” he said with a distant smile, and I nodded. I hooked my umbrella over my arm and held Mr. Singer’s gloved hand in mine as we made our way up the crowded streets. We were accosted by beggars, particularly young children, but I had grown used to this in Calcutta. That is one thing I have not enjoyed about this trip, the number of poor little children that I’ve seen running around with no shoes and shabby clothing. I wish to stop and give bank notes to them all; I could certainly afford to. When I expressed my wish to Mr. Singer after our second day in Calcutta, he had shaken his head at me. “You wouldn’t be doing as much good as you might think,” he’d said, and we left it at that, and I forced myself to ignore the little children and to focus on Mr. Singer.

Colonel Faulkner’s gate was guarded by a young Englishman, who scared off a small group of beggars who had followed us there. He eyed us carefully, but without disdain or suspicion. “Mr. Aaron Singer?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Singer replied. “And my betrothed, the Lady Emily Wainwright.”

“Welcome,” the young man (practically a boy, really) said, opening the gate to admit us. “The Colonel has been expecting you.”

I felt the boy’s eyes on me as Mr. Singer and I walked up the drive leading to Colonel Faulkner’s front door. We were greeted by the man himself, a big man with a barrel-sized chest and a carefully sculpted white beard. “Aaron Singer,” he boomed, “Put it here, young man.” I was surprised that the man had an American accent.

Mr. Singer shook hands with the big old man, then placed a gentle hand on the small of my back. “Colonel, this is my fiancée, Lady Emily Wainwright.”

“My lady,” the Colonel said, and I gave him my hand. He kissed it much more gently than I thought a big man like him might. He smiled at me briefly before leading us into his parlor. “It’s not too early for a drink, is it? Hell, since I’ve retired, it doesn’t really matter. Join me, Singer?”

I was surprised when Mr. Singer said, “I believe I will. Considering the occasion, I think it is only appropriate.”

“And the lady?” the Colonel asked as he went to his mini bar and began to pour scotch for himself and Mr. Singer.

I shook my head, biting back a smile. “No, thank you, Colonel. Perhaps just a glass of water?”

“All the better,” the Colonel said, bringing Mr. Singer his scotch. “Better that someone in this little party keeps their wits about them. I’ll get a water from the kitchen.”

“I don’t wish to impose…”

“Nonsense, my lady,” the Colonel boomed jovially. “I won’t be but a moment. And here,” he said, carefully taking the bouquet of flowers from my arms, “I’ll put these in water for you until we depart.”

As soon as he left the room, Mr. Singer leaned towards me. He whispered, “What do you think of my father’s old friend?”

“He seems very nice,” I said.

“You think everyone is nice,” Mr. Singer teased, and I suppose that this is true. Or, to be more accurate, most people are typically nice to me. I know it is because I am pretty, and because I am wealthy and carry a title of nobility. Mr. Singer taught me, when I was young, that I had stumbled upon these by luck, not because I deserved them. “You have no right to be impolite to anyone. Even if they believe, for some reason, that you are better than they, that does not make it so. You are to treat everyone with respect; particularly myself, and the other adults who take care of you. Do you understand me, my child?”

“Yes, sir,” I had said in a small voice. I was being lectured for having a tantrum while we were in town. I was only four; my father had been dead but a month, and I had behaved like a brat. Mr. Singer had patted my head gently.

“You are a sweet little girl,” he had said. “You were not yourself today. I expect that you will not behave that way again, will you?”

“No, sir,” I said, and had earned a smile from him.

Just as Mr. Singer had taught me to be kindly to everyone as a child, so he was teaching me to be an indiscriminate whore.  He would choose the men (and women) that I would pleasure, not I, though my opinion comes into play. Truthfully, I would not have chosen to be with the Colonel if I were given the choice. But I knew that my master would have me do it, and so I did. And all the better; it certainly was a strange and exciting experience, unlike any I’ve had so far!

Goodness, I think I have finally worn myself out. I will pick this up tomorrow; undoubtedly, Mr. Singer will have a long rest, so I will rise before he and give a more detailed description of my encounter with the Colonel in the morning. Goodnight!

19 July, 18—

Well, I have been more distracted these past few days than I had anticipated. But it has been so wonderful. Mr. Singer and I have seen so many exciting things together, like the beautiful Lalbagh Botanical Gardens, the lovely sultan’s palace, several Buddhist temples, and the Jumma Masji mosque (my personal favorite sight in Bangalore thus far). But I will not write at length of those; I do not believe that my words are adequate to describe the beauty and wonder of these places. I have never seen anything like it; everything in India makes Western Culture seem so bland, and dark, and grey.

Though the weather has been grey since our arrival, it is sunny today. But we are on a train again; we are leaving Bangalore and heading west, to Mumbai. It will be nearly two days on board the train again, but I finally have time to think again. Mr. Singer has left me alone in our private compartment; he is buying a drink for another Western traveler, a single woman whom he hopes to coax back to play with us. I am leaving him to it, as he instructed, and having a little time alone. I do not doubt his ability to seduce her, so I will get down to it.

When the Colonel returned to the room with my glass of water, he handed it to me and I thanked him sweetly. He raised his scotch in a toast. “To Avery Singer III, his fine son, and the young man’s lovely bride-to-be,” the Colonel declared, and we drank to that.

Mr. Singer and the Colonel spoke on for a time about the late man, and I listened politely, having no need to interject. I am usually the center of conversation (I do not plan it out this way; it is just so), so I actually find it nice to be able to just listen to the conversation, instead of having to move it along.

Inevitably, the conversation came to sex. How does my Mr. Singer do that, I wonder? Such subjects are so taboo, and yet people are so open with him. Perhaps he has an effect on people, the way that he does on me. I find him irresistible; it would be no wonder if it were the same for others.

The Colonel said, with another hearty laugh, “Your father and I enjoyed some wild times together, my boy! There are so many lovely young women in this city, and I daresay I have had my share of them.” He suddenly gave me a startled look. “I beg your pardon, my lady!” He declared this as though he only realized I were in his presence. Perhaps, if I were not accustomed to such talk, I would have gasped aloud to alert him of the presence of dainty ears.

I smiled. “Not at all, Colonel.”

“Lady Emily is not exactly an innocent little thing,” Mr. Singer explained. He turned to me briefly, giving me a wink. At that moment, the heavens opened up and the rain began to pour. It had been still only seconds before; now, the rain pounded against the enormous windows of the Colonel’s airy house.

“Well,” the Colonel said, his face deeply red (either from embarrassment or from drink, it was difficult to tell), “this ought to pass quickly. We won’t be able to be off to the graveyard ‘til then.”

Mr. Singer polished off his scotch before saying, “Why don’t we pour another drink and have a little fun, Colonel. You have shown us so much hospitality, and I’d like to repay you by helping you relive some of the good old days with my father. Would you like to play around with my young lady?”

The Colonel looked surprised for a moment, then thoughtful. He silently took Mr. Singer’s glass, and filled it, and his own. In fact, he drank back his entire glass and poured himself a third before bringing Mr. Singer his drink. But when he finally spoke, it was directed to me.

“May I show you something upstairs, my lady?” His face was so serious; prior to that moment, I had been uncertain if such a good-humored, flamboyant old man could ever be so serious.

I waited for Mr. Singer to respond for me, but he did not. I said, “I will…but Mr. Singer must come along as well. He always accompanies me.”

“Come along,” the Colonel said, offering me his arm. I looked at Mr. Singer briefly, and he nodded his approval and stood up. He walked behind us as the Colonel and I walked arm-in-arm to his bedroom upstairs. Unlike the rest of the house (decorated in animal heads from many a hunting expedition), it was plainly furnished, with a large bed. The Colonel released my arm, put down his drink, and went to his closet.

I was not too surprised when the Colonel brought out a riding crop. I wanted to laugh; goodness, Mr. Singer knew a lot of people who kept implements of torment in their bedrooms! But I was surprised with what he said next. “Would you use this on me, my lady?”

I was shocked. Such a big, strong man wanted to be dominated? By a little tiny girl? I even asked, “You want me to punish you?”

The Colonel nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, my lady. I have been a bad, dirty old man. You can give me what I need.”

I looked at Mr. Singer again. Would he approve of my doing this? I will admit, the thought excited me, but I had come to terms with the fact that Mr. Singer would never allow me to have control of him. Would he allow me to do this to others?

When he nodded, I couldn’t help smiling. He stood back and leaned against the closed door, casually watching as I took the riding crop from the Colonel’s hand. “Strip, old man,” I snarled, surprising myself with my viciousness.

Mr. Singer came up behind me, holding two neckties that he’d taken from the Colonel’s drawer. “Here, Lady Emily. Tie his wrists to the bedposts with these. Nice and tight, now.” I turned to him, and Mr. Singer grabbed me and kissed me. “When you’re done tying him up, strip for me, my dear.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I turned my attention back to the Colonel. “Turn around and face your bed,” I told him. “Put your hands up on the bedposts…higher!” I lashed his wrists to the posts, slowly tying knots that I’d noticed Mr. Singer using on me. When the Colonel struggled, he was unable to loosen them, strong as he was.

I stood back a moment and examined the old man. He had a hairy back, covered in moles and sunspots. His ass and thighs were wrinkly and saggy. But I had caught a glimpse of his hard cock, and he was enormous. Bigger than Mr. Singer, even!

On my master’s instructions, I stripped naked. I still wore the nipple clips gifted to me by Mrs. Morrison. The sharp edges dug into my nipples painfully; I was aroused at the sight of this sagging old man! I slapped the riding crop against my open palm. “Old man,” I said, “perhaps if you are very good, I’ll let you take me in my ass. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, dirty old man?”

“Oh, yes, my lady,” he said breathlessly, and I snapped the riding crop against his sagging ass. He let out a howl of pain (almost exaggerated), and just as I was thinking of gagging him, Mr. Singer came behind me and handed me another tie, this one waded up.

“Go ahead, Lady Emily,” he prompted me, and I went to face the Colonel, jumping up onto the bed to shove the tie into his waiting mouth.

“You’re going to take your punishment,” I snarled, grabbing his cock roughly. He moaned into his gag, and I looked over his shoulder at Mr. Singer. He was grinning at me.

“Lady Emily, I daresay that you are quite mean,” he said, looking most pleased. I will confess that most of the pleasure in abusing that old man came from knowing that I was impressing my master. I wanted him to be proud of me.

I delivered twenty or so stinging blows to the old man’s back. The riding crop left ugly cuts and bruises on his already rough skin. I would have perhaps beaten him longer, relishing his muffled cries, if Mr. Singer had not gently taken the crop from my hand.

“My lady,” he said, “do you think that your old man has earned his reward?”

I jumped up onto the bed again, removing the makeshift gag from the Colonel’s mouth. “Dirty old man,” I said, “would you still like to have me in my ass?”

“Yes, my lady,” the Colonel declared. It was so strange and exciting to see a big, strong man whimpering and begging in his restraints. “Please, my lady, let me have you. This dirty old man needs you.”

“Very well,” I said, “so you shall.” I untied his wrists, and got down on my hands and knees on the bed. The Colonel positioned himself behind me, standing at the foot of the bed, his huge cock (already sufficiently soaked in his own pre-cum) just touching my asshole. At that moment, I had a sudden realization; I had offered my ass to a man with an enormous cock! I’d never taken anything bigger than Mr. Singer, and though he was quite huge himself, the Colonel had him beaten by a large margin. But there was no backing out, now.

I bit back a scream as the old man entered me. I couldn’t stop myself from letting out ragged grunts as he grabbed my hips and pounded into me. As my ass burned in pain, I feared that I would lose consciousness; my vision was beginning to blur, and I saw black spots with each vicious stab of his cock.

Thankfully, so turned on was the Colonel by the beating I’d administered that he came with relative haste. When he finally released from me, I collapsed onto the bed, my chest heaving as I lay on my stomach, my face buried in the Colonel’s thick feathery pillows. I heard Mr. Singer and the Colonel talk briefly, but I did not hear what they said. Someone left the room.

I felt a gentle hand on my ass, and knew it to be the touch of my master. I forced myself, with great difficult due to the burning of my ass, to roll over onto my back and look up at him. “Good job, my dear,” he praised me, stroking my nipple. “This day is going to be as special for the Colonel as it is for us. I think you’ve given the old man pleasure that he hasn’t known in years. He’ll never forget it, I’m certain.”

“Where did he go, sir?”

“I asked him to go and retrieve his boy from the gate,” Mr. Singer said. “I saw him looking at you as we came up the drive. Since it’s still pouring rain, I thought we’d invite him to play along with us. Think you could take a little boy in your ass after having the Colonel?”

I was tempted to cry out, absolutely not! But of course, I didn’t. I even managed to convince myself that it wouldn’t be that bad as I said, “All right, sir.”

“It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had a man suck my cock,” Mr. Singer said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’ll allow the Colonel to have a go at it…he confessed that he used to suck my father’s cock on occasion as well.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Singer said. Looking thoughtful again, he said, “I guess he is to me what Mrs. Morrison is to you.”

“Yes,” I agreed, sitting up a little. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Except,” Mr. Singer added, “that I would certainly not allow her access to that cunt of yours.” He reached down and touched me briefly. I was dripping wet, with my own juices and the Colonel’s cum as it leaked from my ass.

Mr. Singer stopped touching me as the Colonel entered with his boy. The young man, perhaps my age or only a year older, was tall but gangly. His face was not unpleasant, but his long nose was crocked, as though he’d been in (and lost) his share of fistfights. His blond hair was a wet mess on top of his head. He smiled uncertainly, looking me over as I sat up.

“My little whore loves to play,” Mr. Singer said, running a gentle hand through my hair. “I’m sure you’d like to play with her, wouldn’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said.

“What is your name, boy?” Mr. Singer asked.

“William Mosley, sir,” the boy responded, not taking his eyes off of me. I stretched luxuriously, allowing him a generous view of my pert (but small, too small for Mr. Singer’s taste, I fear) breasts. I noted the generous bulge in his trousers; he was not such a little boy, after all.

“Billy,” Mr. Singer said, “why don’t you come over here and spend a little time with my whore? Lady Emily would love to make your acquaintance.”

Young Billy approached me slowly, his clumsy, large hand absently rubbing his crotch as he advanced. Mr. Singer and the Colonel watched for a time as I beckoned the boy to me. “Come here, young man,” I said, cocking my finger. When he stood beside the bed, I got up on my knees and wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him deeply.

The clumsy boy was as inexperienced as I had anticipated, but I kissed him slowly, enjoying the way that his hands trembled as he carefully touched my waist. I touched his face and smiled at him. “Want to fuck me, Billy?” I asked softly.

He stammered unintelligibly, and I put two gentle fingers to his lips, laughing softly at him. He reminded me of myself, just a few months ago, when I was so innocent. I thought I knew the ways of love and sex, but having experienced it (time and again) these past few months, I know how ignorant I really was. I would gently indoctrinate this young man.

“You can fuck me in my ass, Billy,” I said sweetly. “Would you like that?”

“Y-yes, my l-l-lady,” he stammered uneasily. I pulled down his trousers and grabbed his cock (fair-sized; it certainly would add to my discomfort) in my hand and gave it a gentle tug.

“Big boy,” I whispered. I unbuttoned the jacket of his uniform, and he grabbed the bottom and tore it quickly off of his arms, tossing it aside. He seemed to realize what he was being offered, and he was eager to begin. I allowed him to prepare himself as I got down on all four again. I briefly spotted Mr. Singer and the Colonel; my master had, indeed, decided to take fallacio from the old man, and when he saw me glancing over at him, he grinned and threw me a wink.

I assumed the position, and the boy got behind me. “Take your time, Billy,” I said, sensing his hesitation. “I’m ready for you when you are.”

He put his hands uneasily on my hips. I pushed back against him, encouraging him as I felt his cock tentatively entering my asshole. “Oh, God, Billy,” I moaned, “You are so huge. Fuck me hard, Billy!” I had forgotten my pain, so excited was I to claim the innocence of this young boy.

He thrust into me easily, going too slowly. “Oh, come, Billy, harder!” I encouraged him.

“I’m…I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” he confessed, continuing to thrust slowly, carefully.

I had to laugh. I had taken bigger than him in my ass…just minutes before! “Don’t worry, Billy, you’d never hurt me,” I cooed, and he began to get into it.

He did not last long…of course not, young boy that he was. I felt him come, and I said, “Billy, will you clean my asshole, please?”

“Of course, my lady, I’ll fetch a towel…”

“No, no, silly boy,” I said, pushing my ass towards him again. “With your tongue. It will make me feel so good. Please?”

“Yes, my lady.” The boy complied, putting his tongue to my asshole and lapping up the cum (now his, and the Colonel’s from before) with gentle laps, like a small dog. I giggled as he finished cleaning me, and I turned over again, leaning back and looking up at him with hooded eyes.

“Oh, that was so nice, Billy,” I said, smiling at the still-shocked look on his face. “Come here and give me a little kiss.”

He gave me a crooked grin, and fell upon me, kissing me a bit more roughly than before, his hands feeling the roundness of my small breasts, toying with the clips. As his hands snaked down my stomach, I said, “No, no, Billy. You can’t touch me there.”

He immediately put up his hands. “I’m sorry, my lady.” But I smiled at him and pulled him back down on me, kissing him deeply. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, the boy was gone. Then, I was being kissed again, this time by my Mr. Singer. I opened my eyes and smiled at him.

“Well, my lady,” he said, “we can be off now. Ready?”

I nodded, and he helped me to sit up. The boy was already gone from the room as I dressed hastily, ducking into the lavatory to check my hair. It amazed me how quickly we went from being in the throws of passion to being on our way. The Colonel, blushing still from the treatment, brought me the bouquet of flowers. “My carriage is waiting. It will take us to the gravesite, and I will direct you to the grave before I depart.”

“You will not join us?” I asked, and I had to admit, I was disappointed.

Mr. Singer smiled. “I think we’ll make this little visit on our own.” I nodded; he always knows what is best, and besides, it was his father’s grave.

The Colonel’s closed carriage took us to a crowded Christina graveyard, well landscaped. Most of the plots in the front were covered in bouquets of fresh flowers. “If my memory serves me, your father’s grave is under a large tree in the left corner,” the Colonel said, pointing toward the back of the cemetery.

The Colonel and Mr. Singer shook hands, and I said goodbye before Mr. Singer handed me down from the carriage. We watched them leave before Mr. Singer took me by the hand. “Thank you, Emily,” he said. “You have made me feel much better this morning. I’m very glad that you’re here with me.”

Silent and sober, we made our way as directed, and found the grave with much more ease than we had anticipated. Mr. Avery Singer III’s grave was simple, merely stating his name and the years of his life. But it was well-kept. I laid the flowers down on the grass before it as Mr. Singer stood in silence.

I said a quiet prayer for the soul of Mr. Singer’s father, but moreso for my master himself. He put an arm around me, and we stood that way for some time, not speaking. After a time, Mr. Singer said, “All right. I am through here.”

I was surprised, for I had expected Mr. Singer to give some sort of eulogy, or to make some sort of speech, about his late father. But it seemed that, between talking to me at dawn and the Colonel late in the morning, he had exhausted himself on the subject of his father. So I said nothing as we left the cemetery with relative haste, and when we were back on the streets again, Mr. Singer seemed to be in a much brighter mood. And this bright mood remained all through the day, as we toured the city, returning to our lodgings to dress for dinner with the Colonel. That evening was quite eventful (though the boy did not join us, much to my disappointment).

But it seems I have run out of time. The corridor of the train has been relatively quite outside my door for some time. But I can hear footsteps approaching, and perhaps the sound of a young woman giggling. My Mr. Singer was successful in acquiring the company of the woman he’d spotted in the dining car, then; I will have this pick this up another time.

4 August, 18—

I do not have much time to write, but I want to record this and remember it for all of my life. This evening, I married the only man whom I have ever loved, a man who has cared for me all of my life and would do anything to make me happy. And I am so happy. If my dear and loving husband reads this entry: I love you. I am yours for life.

7 August, 18—

I wish to record as many details of my wedding as I can remember, though my mind is muddled with the events leading to it, surround it, and following it. Goodness! I feel as though I’ve lived an entire life these past few days. But make no mistake: I am still as happy as I was when I wrote my last gushing entry.

After several days in Mumbai (where my master and I visited more Buddhist temples, the shrines of Elephanta Island, St. Thomas’s, and the High Court; we also viewed the glorious sunset off of the harbor, so indescribably beautiful it was! We also bedded two gorgeous Indian women whom I had seduced at a club near the harbor), we caught the train to Calcutta and were greeted, yet again, by Mr. Morrison and his carriage. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the rump. After he and Mr. Singer shook hands, we headed back to their now-familiar house.

Mrs. Morrison greeted me warmly, embracing me and kissing me on the cheek. “My dear, I have scheduled for a dressmaker to come and see us this afternoon. Have you been considering any designs for your dress?”

Mrs. Morrison had sent me away with several wedding dress design books, and I had looked through them dutifully to find my perfect wedding gown, promising to run my top choices past her. When I answered in the affirmative, she whisked me away to the parlor to comb over my choices.

I showed Mrs. Morrison my favorite cut, a long-sleeved gown with a sheer neckline that would be demure enough for a church ceremony, but chic enough to satisfy my tastes. Mrs. Morrison concurred that I had chosen well, and prior to the dressmaker’s arrival, she had a large lunch served to us right there in the parlor. “You’ll be wearing your dress at your wedding feast, so you’ll want to get a true size. Eat up, my dear,” Mrs. Morrison instructed, and I did so, hungry as I was from the train, and glad when Mrs. Morrison had English-style sandwiches served.

I was afraid that Mrs. Morrison would again declare her love for me, but all went smoothly until after the day of the wedding. The wedding was so lovely, a simple little affair, really. Mr. and Mrs. Morrison invited friends of theirs to attend, so the church was moderately filled with almost perfect strangers. Still, as I stood with Mr. Morrison at the alter, and looked into his loving eyes, I saw no one but him.

The ceremony itself, I can hardly recall. There were lilies at the front of the church, and candles lit throughout. The setting sun shown through the stain-glass windows, and the colored light was dancing on the opposite walls of the church. The vicar was a small British man, and his performance of the ceremony was not spectacular. But it did not matter. The moment that I remember most is when, after we were declared man and wife, Mr. Singer threw up my veil and kissed me deeply, much moreso than would typically be appropriate in a church.

Though I flushed, I was pleased as Mr. Singer and I departed from the church together. We took a private (and fortunately, closed) carriage back to the Morrisons’; but first, Mr. Singer instructed the driver to circle about the city, so that we could consummate our marriage right away. Mr. Singer pushed me against the side of the carriage, pulling down the shades to ensure our privacy.

“Well, my wife,” he said, wearing his wicked grin, “there is no backing out now. You are mine, forever.”

“As it should be,” I responded, and this pleased him. He kissed me roughly, pulling the long skirt of my wedding gown up. He battled with the petticoats and garters, but finally had sufficient access to my cunt. I was buried in a sea of white silk as my husband fucked me, forcing my thighs apart as he had his way with me. I was trapped beneath the dress, so it was up to my master to do the work. But he did not fail in pleasing me…I don’t think he ever could.

We finally arrived back at the Morrisons, and they were waiting with our guests and our feast. We ate and drank and laughed for hours. When the four of us were all alone again, I wondered if Mr. Singer would want us all to play together again. But no; he took me by the hand and said, “Come, my bride. Tonight is our night.”

And oh, it was our night!

Mr. Singer surprised me the next day with some news. “Our ship will be departing on Friday,” he said, as he lay beside me in bed.

“Yes, sir,” I said. I already knew this bit of information.

“We won’t be going right home,” Mr. Singer said, and that was the surprise.

“We’re not?”

Mr. Singer shook his head. “No, my dear. We’re going to take our honeymoon first.”

“This trip to India was not our honeymoon?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Singer said. “We’ve only just married, and our trip is about to end. No, Emily, I want to take you someplace very special. Would you like to spend a month in Greece?”

“Oh, yes!” I cried. “Sir, that would be wonderful.” Mr. Singer knew of my life-long interest in ancient Greek culture. He had fed me books on the subject of their mythology, their philosophers, their city-states and wars, and I was fascinated. Finally, I would get to see some of the places that I’d read about in the books. And I’d always imagined Greece to be so beautiful, especially after my good friend Miss Tatiana Howard (whose mother is half-Greek half-Russian) visited family there years ago and bragged all about it in my presence!

Oh! I shall write to my friend now. I am bursting to tell someone everything that has happened. I shall censor much of it for now, of course, but if I can trust anyone with the information, it is my good friend. And, she will have the benefit of learning the identity of my mysterious new husband before any of our other friends, and would so relish to be able to spread it all around, as I will give her leave to do that much.

One thing does weigh heavily on my mind now, and it is Mrs. Morrison. Since the wedding, she has been quiet, almost sullen, not at all her cheerful, chatty self. But I am determined not to take it to heart; I will focus on my happiness, at the beginning of what will (God willing) be a long and happy marriage.