Lady Emily's Guardian

Lady Emily’s Diary

28 November, 18—

It’s snowing heavily outside today, for the first time this season. I have been housebound (practically bed-bound) on the orders of my husband, who is so protective of me. In only a few weeks, I will have our child, and my poor dear husband is quite worried. He does not vocalize his concerns, but it is quite obvious. I humor him by staying in my bed all day, allowing him to personally cater to my needs and desires.

So here I sit, alone in our large bed, enjoying the fire and having yet another lazy afternoon. Our good friend Miss Howard comes to visit me, though she is not as interested in playing around anymore now that my stomach is enormous. “You know I adore you,” she said about a month ago, kissing my cheek, “but I do not adore the extra obstacle.” All the better for my husband, who is thoroughly enjoying my expanding body, especially my tits. They’ve already gotten bigger (though they will really swell after the baby is born, and I begin breast-feeding), and they are a little sore. My husband is aware of this, and enjoys tormenting them, squeezing them until they turn blue in his grip, and I scream for him to stop. I still enjoy the pain, and my husband knows better than to stop the first time I ask him to.

As a whole, my pregnancy has been a happy time for me. Like my husband, I had my worries when I first realized that I was with child. But all I’ve been able to think about is how lovely it will be to have a baby, a lovely soft baby to hold and to love. I have a few friends who have married and borne their first (if not second, or in the case of Mrs. Steepleton, third) child, and I have seen how radiant these new mothers are as I’ve visited them. They have no mind or eye for anyone other than their precious little ones, so wrapped up are they in that perfect love of a mother and child. I do wonder about my mother at times like these. Did she have a feeling, during her pregnancy, that my birth would be the end of her? Or did she feel just as I do: excited and motherly and thrilled, thinking only of the future, with no idea of her fate? Am I clueless as to the risks? Will my death sneak up on me as I labor to bring my child into this world?

Dr. Yates has assured myself and my husband that he will come right away upon word that I have gone into labor. My husband is taking no risks; he has even asked Dr. Yates to “not be afraid to look at what you’re doing” as he helps to deliver my child. You see, it is a common practice amongst the physicians of our country to avoid eye contact with a woman’s “nether-regions,” and they tend to blindly feel their way through a birth. We will have a midwife present (or rather, three midwives…as I said, my husband is taking no risks), and it’s considered acceptable for them to look. But as my husband explained, “I want Dr. Yates to be fully aware of what is happening to you. I don’t want to risk anything happening to you, or the baby, just because he was following some prudish tradition.”

I am certain that I am in capable hands. I do not allow myself to worry; my baby can sense when I am troubled, and it begins to kick violently, as if to scold me for having dark thoughts. I rub my belly and take deep breaths when this happens, willing myself calm, for the sake of the baby as well as myself.

My dear husband is not afraid of pregnancy, like most men that I know. Besides taking an erotic pleasure in my metamorphosis, he takes a genuine joy in the development of the baby. Just a fortnight past, we were sitting together in his office, having a quiet afternoon of reading, when I felt my baby stir inside of me. “Sir?” I whispered. He looked up at me over his book. “The baby moves. Come and feel.”

With a curious smile, my husband leaned close to me and placed both hands on my stomach. His eyes welled with tears. “I feel it,” he said softly.

I placed my hands over his. He took my hands and squeezed them, our clasped hands resting on top of the baby. We sat in silence, feeling our baby inside of me. My husband put his lips to my clothed belly and gave me a soft kiss, and of course, this led to him tearing off my tent-like dress and moving inside of me himself. When Mr. Singer and I have made love during my pregnancy, I have fancied the thought of having both of my loves so close to me.

My husband scolds me for being so socially minded, but throughout my happy pregnancy, I cannot help but think about all of the women (particularly poor women) who have to hide their baby bellies out of shame. These poor women, raped or abused or used by men, often abandon their poor babies out of desperation. London orphanages are filled with such ill-fated children. My emotions got the best of me one day, and I couldn’t stop crying about it. My husband laughed at me, but held me close regardless, comforting me.

“What do you intend to do about the poor little orphaned bastard children?” he teased me as he held me close, rubbing my belly in a comforting way.

I sniffled and said, “I could make a donation.”

“Indeed?” My husband grinned at me. “You could spend your entire fortune feeding all the orphans…for a day. Who would take up the cause and waste their fortune tomorrow?”

“I don’t have to feed everyone,” I said, defensive. “Perhaps I could make a donation to one orphanage. One large donation.”

My husband could tell that I was serious, and as my financial advisor and attorney, he aided me in my endeavor. My fortune has remained untouched for years; my Mr. Singer has supported me from his own pocket (so grateful am I to his generosity!), and with the help of some clients, has found smart ways to invest my fortune. I become wealthier and wealthier by the day, without doing a single thing. It’s extraordinary, really. I should note that now the fortune really belongs to my husband, but he continues to regard it as being mine alone.

I made a personal donation to a large orphanage in London a few months back, and received a lovely thank-you letter in return, from the head of the orphanage and personal messages from the older children who knew how to write. I was told that my donation would go to purchase more books for the school, and to buy heavier cloth for winter clothing for the poor children. I waved my letter in my husband’s face triumphantly. “Do you see?” I said. “It’s made a difference.”

“Just be careful, my dear,” my husband said. “This could open up a whole can of worms for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You helped one orphanage tremendously. Those children will be more comfortable this winter, and will have a better education, thanks to your generosity. I sincerely say well done to you; I do not mean to downplay your actions. But,” he added knowingly, “this will not be enough for you. What about the other children? What about next year? There’s only so much that one little woman can do, Emily. Please do not fail to remember this.”

Annoyed as I was, I knew that my husband was right. I had already been thinking of ways to make other donations. It was true; if my husband had not been there to rein me in, I might have wasted my entire fortune out of sentimentality. But, not ready to give up, I started an organization, dedicated to aiding the orphanages of London. I call it the Sir Peter Wainwright Foundation, in honor of my late father, and when word got out, I began to receive donations from many of my friends and admirers. Mr. Singer is currently running the whole production, on his insistence, and more money has been sent to more orphanages since (though my husband deals with the paperwork, I always have the final word). He admitted to me that I was brilliant, and that’s all I really wanted to hear from him.

I have been further occupying my time by helping my husband to find a nurse for our child. I still doubt that anyone can care for our child better than I, but my husband insists that we must be prepared. He at first suggested that we call back my old Nanny. I did not tell him the truth; I had written to Nanny when we first returned to Wainwright Hall as newlyweds, telling her of our wedding. I never received a response, nor was my letter returned to me. I hate to think of what this means. Has my Nanny passed away? Or worse, does she disapprove of my union with Mr. Singer? I am afraid that I will never know the truth.

I put my husband off from this idea. “Perhaps we might seek out a younger woman to help us,” I said. My husband took this to mean that I wanted to seek a nurse who would also be willing to join us in our bedchamber escapades, and perhaps that was my intention. We have received applications from our ad put out in London, and I’ve been helping my husband go through these carefully. Mr. Singer makes a game of it; he claims that if a woman’s lettering is curly and fanciful, that she is a whore who opens her legs on command. If her lettering is wide and curvy, she has large tits. And on like that; we laugh so, imagining the women behind the applications, but have yet to respond to any.

Though I am mainly bedridden, I find myself tiring easily. I believe I will take a nap; if there is anything exciting to report, I will write again soon.

16 December, 18—

I awoke to a wonderful surprise yesterday morning. I found myself tied to the bed. This was not so unusual during the first few months of my marriage; my husband would tie me up in the morning, and would spend the entire day tormenting me. He hadn’t done this since my belly really started to show, so it was certainly a surprise, indeed.

I was naked, of course; even in my pregnancy, I do not dress for bed. I struggled against my bindings, and my heart leapt. I could hardly move at all; my master wasn’t going to be easy on me, even in my delicate state. I smiled to myself and closed my eyes, thinking of what my husband had in mind for me that day.

He came back into the room a short time later, with breakfast on a tray. He was only wearing his housecoat, which he quickly threw off his shoulders after setting down the serving tray. He came to me and sat on the bed, leaning down to kiss me lovingly.

“Good morning, my dear,” he purred in my ear, nibbling my earlobe.

“Morning, sir,” I managed, biting back a sigh as his lips found the sensitive place on my neck.

Mr. Singer touched my cheek. “I know I’ve been neglecting some of your needs lately,” he said. He kissed the tip of my nose. “Today is all about your desires, my precious cow. I’m going to make you feel so, so good.” He laughed at me softly as I struggled against my wrist bindings…I wanted to touch his face so badly. “Patience, my dear. You need your strength, and our baby needs nutrition.”

Mr. Singer propped me up enough to feed me, and I ate quickly, hardly tasting the food, so eager was I to begin our game. Reading my impatience, my husband laughed at me again and insisted on taking the dirty dishes back to the kitchen himself, leaving me to wriggle and moan in longing. When he finally returned, after what felt like several days (but was probably only fifteen minutes), he removed his housecoat again and sat beside me on the bed once more.

“What shall we do first, Emily?” my husband asked, rubbing my swollen belly. “Do you want me to beat your calves with a broom handle? Clean out your dirty little asshole with my tongue? Or perhaps you’d like to try a new toy that I ordered for you?”

I wiggled my toes in excitement. “A new toy?”

Mr. Singer grinned. “I put the package under the bed. I’m glad that you didn’t notice it there.” He pulled out a small box and I watched as he opened it slowly (so agonizingly slow!). He pulled out a strange object, but I knew what it was. It was a phallus, covered in leather. It was longer than Mr. Singer’s cock (by several inches!), and almost twice the width. I gasped as he held it up for me to see.

“Pretty whore, I know you’ve missed the attentions of another man’s cock,” Mr. Singer explained. “I had this specially made, just for you. Care to try it out on your cunt?”

I was nervous, thinking about how such a long, hard thing would feel going inside of me, but I nodded. Mr. Singer smiled as he covered the phallus in lotion, lubricating it so that it would slide in with a bit more ease. As he positioned himself between my spread legs, he said, “Now, lift your hips the best you can for me, my fat little cow…that’s it.”

I couldn’t see what was happening, as my large belly obstructed my view. That made it all the more exciting as Mr. Singer worked the phallus slowly inside of me. I relaxed, but it still hurt, stretching and tearing me. It almost hurt as much as our first night together, when Mr. Singer tied me up and raped me.

Mr. Singer slowly slid the phallus inside of me, until it bottomed out in my cervix. I gasped as he began to move the phallus. He did not thrust it; no, he kept it deep inside of me as he began to turn it slowly, counterclockwise. The walls of my pussy stretched awkwardly at the strange motion, and Mr. Singer stroked my clit the same way as he turned the phallus. When he switched and started turning it clockwise, violent chills ran all through my body. I groaned as he changed the direction of his rubbing against my clit.

Because the phallus was so huge, and because of his own concerns for my body and health, when Mr. Singer finally began thrusting the phallus, he was gentle. I wasn’t getting into it as much as I usually did, when he was pounding into me like I was his whore. I arched my back and cried, “Oh, sir, harder please. I want it to hurt.” I was shocked at what I was saying. Though I could not see him, I knew Mr. Singer was smiling.

He granted my request, fucking me with the huge phallus harder than I would have dared to do to myself. I struggled to raise my hips higher, so weighed down was I by my baby belly. For a brief moment, I worried about the phallus harming our baby. But Mr. Singer had provided me with a number of scientific readings on pregnancy, and I knew that our child was all right. Our frequent fucking will not harm it, although we are extra careful about cleaning afterward.

Mr. Singer noticed my struggle, and he removed the phallus. I dropped my hips in relief, but looked at him in surprise. “No,” he said, holding up the phallus (now soaked in my juices, along with streaks of lotion). “Let’s find you a more comfortable position, shall we, my dear?”

I nodded, and Mr. Singer unchained me, helping me to roll over on my side. He stroked my belly lovingly and smiled gently. “That better, my love?”

“Yes, sir,” I said softly.

He stroked my soaking pussy, inserting his fingers briefly. “Do you want the phallus, my dear? Or would you prefer to have me?”

“Oh, you, sir,” I said without hesitation. He would not hurt me so much (which I mean to note in the negative), but nothing compares to how wonderful it feels to be so close to him. And he knows how to make me feel so good.

And he added, “You’ll have the phallus in your ass?” I nodded eagerly, giggling like a little girl. Oh, my dear husband can still make me giddy. I had taken nothing larger than Mr. Singer’s old friend, the Colonel, in my ass, and that was quite a long time ago now. But Mr. Singer did not hesitate in wrapping his arm around my hip (which required him to reach a bit more than it used to) and shoved the phallus into my waiting asshole. I groaned as he entered me from the front, rubbing against my belly as he fucked me hard from both ends.

“That’s right, my whore,” Mr. Singer hissed as he kept perfect rhythm with his own thrusting and that of the huge phallus. “My little wife loves to get fucked in all her holes, doesn’t she? My precious whore, my little cow, come for me.”

I put my mouth to his shoulder and screamed against him. The phallus tore up my ass, it hurt worse than anything we’d ever done before, but it felt incredible. And my husband was fucking my cunt and playing with my clit, and waves of pleasure, mixing with the pain, made my body tingle, and my enlarged nipples harden…I screamed again and threw my head back, pressing my belly against him as I came. Oh, God, I’m playing with myself now just thinking on it. It was the best, the very best climax of my life. So far, of course…I couldn’t move when Mr. Singer removed himself from me, though I was no longer chained. I trembled violently, feeling the burning pain of my violated ass and coming down from the intense high of my orgasm.

Mr. Singer held me while I cried. Oh, God, it had moved me to tears. I sobbed and sobbed, and Mr. Singer stroked my hair and whispered to me lovingly. I was bursting with joy, just bursting with it, and I couldn’t hold it in. My sobbing gave way to giggling, and Mr. Singer held my head against his chest, shushing me and laughing himself as I burst into hysterical laughter, my belly shaking against him, as though our baby were sharing in our joy.

When I was calm, I lifted my head and looked my husband in the eye. Mr. Singer is a beautiful man, and is most wonderful to behold when he was happy. And never in my life have I seen a happier man than my husband at that moment, as he touched my face and smiled at me. “We do have fun, don’t we, Emily?” he whispered.

I nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, no, my dear,” he said. “What I give to you, you give me back a hundredfold.” He kissed me sweetly, running his hands through my sweat-soaked hair. It made me feel so good to hear him say that. I have tried so hard, in the months that we have been together, to be worthy of him. And he more than thinks me so.

My husband allowed me to rest quietly for a short time. He understands that my stamina is not what it used to be before I got so large. He is patient as ever, perhaps moreso, and waited for me to let him know that I was ready to continue to play.

I touched my husband’s face. “Sir,” I said, “Would you believe that you have given me the best experience of my life?”

He nodded. “I could tell, Emily. You know how well I know your body.” He touched my belly. “This experience will be trounced in only a few short weeks, I am afraid.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant at first, then I realized. Of course; the birth of our child. That would truly be the very best experience. But I smiled at him and said, “Well, you’re giving me that experience, too.” I put my arms around my husband, embracing him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Emily. Do you feel like playing anymore?”

“May I thank you, sir?” I asked, and he knew what I meant. He nodded, and helped me out of bed and to my knees. My belly jutted out in front of me, and I held on to my husband’s thighs to steady myself as I sucked his cock. He was not gentle as he fucked my mouth roughly, forcing his member down my throat. But I’m so good at cocksucking now, and I so enjoy doing it. Of course, my husband is my favorite one to please, but I have fantasized lately about sucking the cocks of many of the men in the area. As I’ve stood in public places and had pleasant and polite conversations with one of my former suitors or old friends, I would imagine taking him by the hand and leading him into a closet or behind a building, and going down on my knees for him to offer him pleasure that he’s never known. Of course, I would never do such a thing without my husband’s permission!

There are no men around whom I would feel comfortable inviting to my marriage bed. All of them are too close to us; it is for them that I must be virtuous Lady Emily Singer of Wainwright. Mr. Singer has promised that, after I have given birth and recovered, he will introduce me to a local man he has met who is guaranteed to be discreet. I do wonder whom he has chosen!

But for now, I will give my all to pleasing my master, my dear husband. I pleased him to the best of my abilities, straining to hold myself up. I tightened my grip on his thighs, my knees trembling under my extra weight, and my husband, sensing my discomfort, took pity on me and began thrusting more frantically, grabbing me by the back of my head and forcing himself down my throat so deep, I nearly did gag (but of course, I did not). He came, it seemed, directly into my stomach. I cleaned his dick not out of duty, but out of desire. I cannot explain it, but I do love the taste of his cum. Even Miss Howard, my equally whorish friend, does not understand it.

My husband helped me to my feet. “Sir,” I said, “Did you mention something about a broom handle earlier?”

“Whore,” my husband purred in my ear. “Have you been a naughty little cow? Are you looking for a punishment?”

“Oh, yes,” I sighed. Weak as I felt, I wanted to keep playing. My husband led me to one of the armchairs by the fireplace in our huge bedchamber. I was walking awkwardly, lumbering with my huge belly, but trying to keep my legs apart. The phallus had left me sore in my cunt and my asshole. My husband had me bend over the side of the armchair. He left me bent over awkwardly, my belly resting on the seat, as he retrieved a couple of ropes. He tied the ropes to the chair legs, and tied the other ends to my wrists. My head bowed over the side of the chair, I could not watch my husband as he walked to the other side of the chair, facing my ass as it stuck up straight in the air.

He grabbed a broom from the closet and brought it over to me. He touched my calves with the tip of the broom handle, poking me. “Up on your toes, whore,” he ordered, and I obeyed. I heard the sound of the broom handle slice through the air as my husband drew it back and hit me across my calves. He allowed me to yelp in pain, rising up higher on my toes.

I expected the next hit to be in the same spot, so I was surprised when he smacked the back of my knees. They buckled, and if I hadn’t been tied to the opposite end of the chair, I would have toppled over to the floor. “Up, up your toes,” my master said, and I obeyed before he hit me again, across the calves again. He delivered several blows to my calves, thighs, and the back of my knees one more time (which made me buckle again). I gasped as my husband knelt behind me and touched my burning skin, tracing his fingers over the forming welts.

That would be the extent of our play that morning, as my husband untied me and tucked me back into bed on my side, to alleviate the pressure on my back and my beaten legs. He climbed into bed with me and held me close, touching my face and my belly at the same time. He was wiping away the tears that I’d cried during my beating. “Eight months pregnant, and you’re still a tasty little whore,” my husband praised me. I closed my eyes and rested my head on his chest again. He ran a gentle hand through my hair. “I love you, Emily.”

I am becoming redundant, I know, but I cannot help but mention that I am so, so happy. I never believed that anyone could be as happy as I am. I am with the man of my dreams, I feel wonderful every second of the day, and I’m going to be a mother in only a few short weeks. I do hope that I am not tempting fate. I cannot forget that perfect happiness cannot last. No one has ever been that fortunate. But I will not worry; I will simply enjoy it while I have it.

25 December, 18—

Happy, blessed Christmas!

I am so close to giving birth that my husband almost would not allow me to attend church services this morning. But I begged him, and he relented. I did not argue about not being able to attend any of the numerous parties to which we’d been invited (it would be inappropriate for me to be there, with my hugely pregnant belly, anyhow), and I know that my husband would never deny me.

He accompanied me to church, just as he has every Sunday and religious holiday during our marriage. He does not believe in it, I know, but he comes because he knows I want him to. He talks politely with our friends and the other parishioners, keeping me close at hand. I think he secretly fears that I will flirt with some of my old suitors, and while I wouldn’t ever do anything to betray him (at least, I hope he does…do you, sir?), I do enjoy that he is so jealous and protective.

I am huge now, and I move with much difficulty. Mr. Singer had to enlist the aid of our driver just to get me up into the carriage, which humiliated me indescribably. But when my husband climbed in after me, he put his arm around me and kissed me softly. “Poor little fat cow,” he soothed me. “Do you miss being so lithe and graceful?”

“No, sir,” I said, and that was true. Fat as I am (my husband has calls me this with affection), I love my body. I am a vessel of love and protection for our dear child.

At church, the women fawned over my huge belly, while the men politely ignored it. “Lady Emily,” Mrs. Gainsley said, “You must be very close to giving birth.”

Mrs. Gainsley is pregnant herself, not quite so far along as I, but her small baby belly was noticeable under her Christmas dress. I hope that her new baby will bring happiness to her; poor Miss Howard, her sister, is more and more worried for her all the time, reporting her husband’s ill treatment of her. I couldn’t help but notice a small bruise on poor Mrs. Gainsley’s cheek. As much as my husband enjoys beating me on the back, legs, and tits, he’s never hit me in the face (and I believe he never would). We have an understanding that it would be of the utmost disrespect for him to hit me there. He may treat the rest of my body any way he likes (and I want him to do so, of course), but he is so tender to my face.

Poor Mrs. Gainsley. I can understand Miss Howard’s rage toward her brother-in-law. When I noticed the bruise, I wanted to find him and hit him myself. But I merely smiled and complimented Mrs. Gainsley on her dress before waddling back to my husband and finding our pew. Miss Howard sat with us, rather then her parents or sister. She rarely attends services; perhaps on Easter and Christmas, and that is the extent of it. As the vicar began the service, Miss Howard took my hand and whispered to me, “Did you see it?”

I nodded, and my friend clenched her teeth. “I could kill him,” she snarled, so that only myself and Mr. Singer could hear.

Teasingly, Mr. Singer leaned over my belly and said to her, “Miss Howard, that is slanderous language to use in the house of the Lord. Especially on the baby Jesus’s birthday. Shame on you, sinner.”

I nudged them both. “Your souls are in peril,” I said with a straight face, and we three giggled most inappropriately.

I was tired after the long Christmas service, so after briefly greeting the friends we had missed before church, my husband took me home. We have agreed that I will not leave Wainwright Manor again until after our baby is born. It will not be much longer now!

We settled into the parlor, where the servants had set up and decorated a Christmas tree the day before, before going off on their own Christmas holidays. We are without servants until after the New Year’s celebrations, but I know that my Mr. Singer will take good care of me.

I knew that my husband would have gifts for me, and he did not let me down. He presented me with package after package, wrapped in gold paper. He gave me new books, a new pair of diamond earrings, and many items for the baby. Then, he presented me with one last package. It was shaped like a jewelry case, and inside, I found a new leather collar. This one was much, much finer than the first. In fact, I had defied my master by hiding the ugly, uncomfortable collar that he’d given me in our first days together. It chafes my skin terribly when I wear it; though I love it when my husband grabs the front of the collar and pulls me to him, it left terrible red marks on my neck. I believe that my husband knew this, and therefore did not make an issue out of it.

The new collar was made of smooth, dark green leather. The inside was lined with silk. As Mr. Singer fitted it around my neck, he said, “I think you’ll find this one quite a bit more comfortable than the other. I daresay this one will not go missing, will it, my dear?”

I giggled and blushed, my deception revealed. “Yes, sir,” I agreed.

He did grab the collar and pull me to him then, kissing me roughly. “You will wear this new collar all the time at home, from now on, unless we are entertaining any guests who are not our playmates. Are we agreed, Emily?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and he kissed me again, gripping the front of the collar.

I wear it now, even alone, as I rest in bed. Mr. Singer took me upstairs and made me take an afternoon nap before supper. He is making a sizable feast for us, all on his own. He has cooked for me before, but I am still anxious to see how it turns out. I will not hurt his feelings and criticize him if it is sub par; he fancies the idea of being able to take care of all of my needs, so I will let him.

I did not give my Mr. Singer a present this year. Mr. Singer does not allow me to buy him gifts; he says that I give him enough, every single day. “I want nothing but your body and your heart, my sweet whore,” he told me last Christmas, our first Christmas together as man and wife. But his gift is coming, and very soon. It will be a couple of weeks late for Christmas, but our baby will bring us more joy than any amount of money or presents ever could.

I hear my master coming up the stairs. Happy Christmas yet again; I must pretend that I have been sleeping, so that my husband will give me a night of wonderful sex. I cannot wait for the excitement that the new year will bring to Wainwright Hall.

10 January, 18—

All of the months of loving and worrying and preparing have come to fruition at last. I awoke two nights before in pain, and I instantly knew what was happening. My husband, a light sleeper, woke with me. “Emily?” he asked, reaching for me in the dark. “Is it time for the baby to come, Emily?” His voice was shaking.

“Not yet,” I said knowingly as the pain faded quickly. I remembered what the books said; I was only at the beginning of my labors yet.

Mr. Singer rubbed my stomach, frowning at me in the dark. “Should I send for the doctor? Do you need anything, my dear?”

“No, sir,” I said. “Let us lie still and go back to sleep.”

He wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my hair and rubbing my belly as we fell back to sleep. The pain of my contractions woke me a couple of times before morning, and by dawn, Mr. Singer was out of bed and dressed. He helped me into a conservative nightgown, one that he’d purchased just for the occasion of the birth of our child. He made sure that I was comfortable, fluffing the pillows and wrapping me up gently.

He kissed my forehead tenderly. “I’m going to send for Dr. Yates now,” he said.

“Sir, it’s still a bit soon,” I said patiently, but my husband insisted, and I knew he would have his way.

But my husband had good foresight, because by the time the doctor and the midwives arrived (only two out of three in attendance, to my husband’s chagrin), my water had already broken. My husband was ushered from the room as I began going into labor. I could sense his presence just outside of the bedchamber doors as I screamed and pushed out our child.

The pain of child labor is a blessed, faded memory. When I think back to it, only two days ago, I remember the labor as a blur. Dr. Yates and the midwives’ faces are unclear in my memory, and I do not remember the pain. And then, when the baby was out, everything was clear again. And so bright; the lights and colors of the room were radiant as Dr. Yates handed my baby over to one of the midwives.

“A baby girl,” Dr. Yates said. I heard the first cries of my child as air came into her lungs. “Congratulations, Lady Emily.”

I cried tears of joy as my baby was swaddled and laid in my arms. She is such a perfect, beautiful baby. She looks so much like her father, with her sharp little nose and her dark eyes. I refused to stop holding her and staring into her eyes as the midwives cleaned the mess of the birthing and prepared me for my husband.

Finally, Mr. Singer was called into the room. He was not smiling, but I could see the joy in his wet eyes as he sat beside me. Only to him, I handed over our child. He looked on her with adoring eyes. “She’s lovely,” he said, and cooed to her sweetly. He kissed her softly as she fussed in his arms. “Oh, she wants her mummy,” Mr. Singer said, handing her back over to me so that I could feed her.

We still have not hired a nurse, having never actually responded to any of the applications or inquiries, so Mr. Singer is caring for us himself as I recover from giving birth. Mr. Singer is leaving my cunt alone, allowing it to heal from having our large baby rip through it, and is making use of my willing asshole and mouth for his pleasure. But mostly, we hold our baby together and talk about our plans for her.

Mr. Singer confessed that he was relieved that my pregnancy was over. “I hid it from you, my dear, but I have been worried for months. I’m so glad that I have two healthy girls today.” I smiled and said nothing, not wanting to disappoint him by telling him that I was well aware of his fears.

As a matter of fact, since I got through my labor with such surprising ease (even Dr. Yates commented that I was the easiest birth he’d aided in many years), Mr. Singer is already discussing having more children! “We have lots of time,” he said, “but I think it would be nice for us to have a large family. Do you agree, Emily?”

Having grown up an only child, I was sometimes lonely at Wainwright Hall, especially when Mr. Singer was working and Nanny was too tired to play or accompany me to call on any of my friends. I used to wish for a sibling, someone to play with all the time. And we have lots of room at Wainwright Hall for children. I love the idea of our children running around the grounds as we watch over them with loving protectiveness.

My real mother’s milk has started swelling my breasts. They are engorged, much to my husband’s delight. They are even larger than Miss Howard’s now, but they are quite sore. Mr. Singer has not yet sampled my milk, saving it all for our sweet little child. He watched me feed her this morning, and said that he would have a taste of me tonight. My nipples are already hardening at the thought of him wrapping his warm lips around my nipple, nibbling gently as he sucks and drinks from me.

I couldn’t help but remember today that I never did taste mother’s milk. My mother died, and my Nanny was no wet nurse. I was fed a nutrient formula mixture, and I suppose it was good enough. Still, I am glad to be giving my daughter, my sweet little baby, the very best that I have. I am more obsessive now about my diet than I was during my pregnancy, and poor Mr. Singer scrambles to see to my needs.

I must also note that my husband and I have settled on a name for our precious little one. We will call her Anne Wilhelmina, after my late mother. Mr. Singer is not fond of our daughter’s middle name, but I think it is a beautiful, strong name. It was my grandmother’s name, and my mother’s second, and so it will be our daughter’s name as well. Mr. Singer and I have agreed that we will name our children alternately; he will name the next (probably Avery, after his own late father and brother, should it be a boy; perhaps Gillian Margaret for his mother, though she still lives), then I will choose the next (I hope I will be able to use the name Peter), and on and on like that for as many children as we are able to produce.

I have found myself calling our child Mina as I whisper to her affectionately, and my husband has agreed that that is a lovely moniker. And Mina she shall be. Sweet little Mina, our precious child, created by our strange, forbidden passions. I already wonder if she will grow up with the same sexual appetites as I have. If she does, I do pray that she will have a husband as loving and understanding as her own father is to me.

3 March, 18—

After keeping me housebound since the last few weeks of my pregnancy, my husband allowed me to attend a party last night. I was eager to show off my shape, for I have successfully managed to tighten my corset almost as much as I could before my pregnancy began. Mr. Singer has allowed me walks around the grounds since the week after I gave birth, and I have enjoyed the brief solitude as Mr. Singer spent time bonding with our daughter alone. There has been little snow this year, so I could move with haste and ease, getting the exercise that has helped me to shed most of my extra weight.

When I was able to put on one of the gowns I had purchased before my pregnancy (never worn since the fitting), my husband put his hands on my waist and sighed. “You are my fat little cow no more,” he said regretfully, and I kissed him playfully.

“I will be fat again someday,” I said comfortingly.

Mr. Singer removed my green leather collar (we have decided that he is the only one allowed to do so), and put on the diamond choker that he’d gifted to me in Calcutta, just weeks before our wedding. He kissed my neck around the expensive collar, and I felt my pussy clench with desire. “I have a surprise for you tonight,” Mr. Singer whispered in my ear. “I’m going to introduce you to a new friend.”

I giggled at the thought, and after we left the baby with the new nanny (we finally broke down and hired a young woman from Liverpool…she seems very serious and not at all whorish, but Mr. Singer has taken on the challenge of turning her), we departed. I felt anxious about leaving Mina alone, but Mr. Singer kissed me and reassured me. “Not to worry, Mummy,” he said, “Our precious Mina is in good, loving hands.” Serious as Perpetua may be, she is very good with our child.

Mr. Singer would not allow me to receive any callers after the birth of our child, wanting me to focus on resting and recovering for him (as a matter of fact, he still has not fucked my cunt, though I crave him so badly). When we arrived at the Steepletons’ estate and walked through the doors, we were quickly greeted by all of the guests in attendance.

Everyone complimented me on how well I looked, how lovely my purple gown was. The ladies asked after the baby, and I reported that our little girl was healthy and wonderful. The men shook Mr. Singer’s hand, and as I watched my husband with our friends, I wondered which one of them he had selected for me. I had my favorites, but I would willingly please any man (or woman) that my master wants me to.

Miss Howard was in attendance, and I had not seen her since Christmas. When most of the crowd around me dissipated, she pulled me aside and congratulated me. But she looked troubled. “What’s the matter?” I asked kindly.

Miss Howard frowned. “What do you think? Nothing new; things are getting worse and worse for my sister.”

“What’s happened?” I asked.

Miss Howard sighed. “She is miserable,” she said. “She finally confessed to me everything that has been going on…everything. Oh, Lady Emily, her cad of a husband beats her mercilessly. Her eye was blackened when I last saw her a fortnight ago…and she, seven months on with child!” Miss Howard’s voice was rising, and some of the other guests turned to look at us. I got her to quiet down.

“You are fortunate not to have married him yourself,” Miss Howard said, but she almost sounded bitter. “Sir Aaron saved you a world of trouble.”

I nodded in agreement. I do not allow myself to forget how fortunate I am, everyday.

Mr. Singer pulled me away from Miss Howard not long after that conversation occurred. “No time for our gloomy friend tonight,” he said as he led me across the ballroom. “Very soon, it will be time for me to unveil your new friend.”

We socialized a bit, danced a little…just enough so that we were not missed when Mr. Singer took my hand and led me out of the ballroom and down a long hallway. I realized that we were headed for the servants’ quarters. I wondered why we were going there, but said nothing as Mr. Singer led me to a door at the end of the hallway. He knocked quietly.

Mr. Steepleton’s carriage driver, a young African man with very dark skin and very white teeth, answered and beckoned us in quickly, closing the door quietly behind us. The small room contained only a narrow bed, two sets of drawers, and a bedside table. A few of the servant’s possessions were strewn along the tops of the tables.

I stared at the man as Mr. Singer introduced him. “My dear, this is Alfonso Beaumont.”

“Hello,” I said shyly, offering my hand. Alfonso, educated to be a servant to gentry, kissed it with more grace than any other man ever has before.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady,” Alfonso said, in a voice as smooth and velvety as his skin. I longed to touch him, but I waited on my master’s orders.

He did not wait long to give them. “You may strip now, Lady Emily,” he said, and I did so, turning to allow Alfonso to struggle in untying my corset. I giggled gently at his clumsy attempts, but he managed. I turned to him and pressed my breasts (they are huge, and I longed for them to be squeezed and held) against his chest.

“Well done,” I purred, and I felt his cock harden against my leg. I asked the question that Mr. Singer usually asks our new playmates: “What would you like to do to me?”

Alfonso’s hand snaked around and rested on my ass cheek. “Your husband said, Lady Emily, that you like getting fucked in your ass.” I couldn’t help blushing, though I was very pleased as I nodded. Alfonso asked me to remove his clothes, and I carefully unbuttoned his work shirt, and he tossed it aside as I went for his pants.

Mr. Singer sat comfortably on the small bed, watching us with interest as I grabbed Alfonso’s huge, hard cock. Not exactly the size of the phallus, but quite enormous in its own right. Alfonso led me to his dressers and had me grip the back edge as he bent me over the cluttered dresser. As he had me spread my legs, I carefully pushed away some of his random items so that they would not impede with our fucking.

“Lube first, please,” Mr. Singer said from his place on the bed. “I don’t want you to tear up my wife’s ass…too much.” Alfonso complied, and when his cock was wet and slick with lotion, he rammed into me. Though he fucked me hard (obviously, he and Mr. Singer had talked quite extensively before this little play-date was arranged), he did so with as much grace as he’d kissed my hand. His hips bumped against mine, and I raised my ass higher, feeling his balls slap against my ass cheeks as he fucked me deep. I could swear that I felt him poking at my colon!

The burning pain nearly blinded me as Alfonso pounded me, but after taking the phallus in my ass more than once, I was well prepared. He kissed my neck (gracefully, with soft, full lips) as he fucked me, too, and I moaned, spreading wider and raising my hips higher, my head almost touching the top of the dresser as he came. I felt his engorged cock explode in my asshole, filling me with his cum.

He kept his limp dick inside of me as he helped me to stand up straight. When he finally removed himself, I farted loudly and voided cum and shit onto the floor. I gasped in mortification; this had never happened before. But Mr. Singer only laughed, and Alfonso smiled and said he would clean it up himself, thanking me for the pleasure of my company with a sweet kiss. I put my hands on the sides of his face. His skin was soft, so amazingly soft, and I ran my hands up and down his back for a moment, caressing him.

We did not stay much longer, only long enough for Mr. Singer to shake Alfonso’s hand and to grab my dress and my hand. He led me naked down the hallway, and at first, I feared that he would force me to parade my nude, post-pregnancy body in front of the entire party. But no; he led me to the servants’ bathroom and carefully cleaned my cunt and my asshole, wiping away the shit with a wet towel before helping me into my corset and dress once again.

We slipped back into the party, and our absence was unnoticed by all, so brief was our time with our new friend. I whispered to my husband that I longed to suck Alfonso’s cock. He laughed softly and said, “Another time, my dear. I’ve already arranged another play-date with our new friend. And perhaps Miss Howard would like to join us as well? We could double up on the fun.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” I agreed. “I think it would do wonders in cheering her up.”

We left the party not long after we made one final round to greet our friends. I blushed as I realized that I’d just allowed a servant to fuck me in the ass while all of our friends were only in the next room. Down a long hall, but still. But none of them had a clue, except perhaps Miss Howard, who winked at me as we said goodnight.

As soon as we got home, I went up to the nursery to check on Mina. She was sleeping peacefully, and I sent Perpetua off to bed. Though it is part of her job, I insist on caring for Mina myself in the night. Her nursery is right next to our master bedchamber, and I always hear her cries in the night, as does my husband. We sometimes rise together to go to her, and Mr. Singer will watch as I sit in the rocking chair in the corner of the nursery, feeding her until she is content. After Mr. Singer puts her back in her crib, he comes and kneels before me, sucking from one nipple while groping the opposite breast. He drinks from me hungrily, greedily; he cannot get enough of my milk.

I will be eager to play with Alfonso again, and with Miss Howard, my poor neglected friend. But my love and devotion to my husband and to my child are enough for me. If my master ordered me to never flirt with anyone again, let alone let them play with me, I would eager follow his command. He truly is the only man that I need.

28 June, 18—

Such horrors that have taken place tonight! Neither Mr. Singer nor myself had any idea of what would happen when we were relaxing in the parlor for the evening, enjoying chilled white wine and a comfortable breeze coming through the open windows. Little Mina was on her belly on the floor. She is crawling along now, and is a big, healthy baby. Dr. Yates says that she is in fine condition for her age. She spoke her first word very recently, a sound like “Mummy,” much to the delight of myself and my husband (who seems to want her to love me more than she does him…I don’t know why I sense this, but I feel that it is true).

Our peaceful evening ended with a rapid knocking on the parlor window. I looked up from my reading, alarmed, scooping up the baby as Mr. Singer went for his revolver in the bureau. “It’s me, Miss Howard!” We heard our friend call to us through the open window. “Do let me in the back way, please!” She sounded frantic, so I held Mina close as Mr. Singer (still holding his gun) hurried out of the room to let her in.

When Mr. Singer led a trembling Miss Howard into the room, I instantly noticed how disheveled and disturbed she looked…and that her white summer dress was spotted in blood. I gasped. “What’s happened?” I asked.

Mr. Singer helped Miss Howard to sit on the couch, and I sat beside her as she burst into sobs. Mr. Singer took Mina from me as I comforted our friend. After a minute of hysterics, Miss Howard whispered, “I killed him.”

My husband and I looked at each other, shocked into silence. Miss Howard continued. “Ever since my sister lost her baby, he’s been more cruel to her than ever, if you can believe it.” Poor Mrs. Gainsley had given birth to a dead baby, a new mother’s worst nightmare. Miss Howard was convinced that her brother-in-law’s rough treatment of his wife had resulted in the stillbirth, and with my knowledge of pregnancy, I couldn’t help agreeing. Miss Howard, trembling in my arms, explained that she had set out to even the score.

“I told you I would kill him,” she said to us. “And that’s what I’ve done. I walked all the way over there this evening, cornered him in his study, and shot him in the face. That bastard will never hurt my baby sister again.” She smirked now, but tears still ran down her cheeks.

“But Miss Howard,” I protested, shocked at what she had done, “What about your family?” I didn’t know what else to say. I was worried that she would be imprisoned for life.

Mr. Singer, holding sweet Mina, was pacing in front of us. “As your attorney and friend, I will vouch for you, Miss Howard,” he said after a moment of silence. “I do not agree with what you have done, but I see where you are justified. When the police question you…and they will question you, and soon…I am willing to tell them that you have been with us here at Wainwright Hall all evening.”

I was shocked at the horrible lie, but when I was asked if I were willing to participate in the cover-up, I relented. After all, Miss Howard is my oldest friend (besides Mr. Singer himself), and I do adore her. I know that, as violent as her actions were, she only did them out of love for her sister.

Mr. Singer questioned Miss Howard. Had anyone seen her go to the Gainsley estate? Had anyone seen her covered in blood as she ran over here? What time had she left home to go on her terrible errand? And where was the gun?

Miss Howard had a simple answer for the final question, lifting up the side of her dress to reveal a holster around her slim ankle. A small pistol was there. Mr. Singer took the pistol and hid it with his own weaponry, asking Miss Howard if anyone knew the existence of her gun.

I worry about the police. If Miss Howard is suspected (and her hatred for her brother-in-law is well-known in the area), the police may question myself and Mr. Singer as well, if we are to serve as her alibis. But Mr. Singer assures me that he will help me through, and all will be well. “We are doing a good thing for our friend,” he explained to me after we’d drawn a bath for Miss Howard and laid a dress out for her to wear home. She would go along in our carriage, to further drive the point that she had been our guest that evening. Mr. Singer could sense my trepidation, and he added, “I would certainly do the same for you.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But I would never kill anyone. Ever.”

Mr. Singer kissed my forehead. “I know it, my dear. You are so, so good.” He said this with only a hint of bitterness in his voice.

I am sitting in the nursery as I write this, with only the dim light of a candle to aid me. I will go back to bed and lay beside my husband and attempt sleep, but I know it will not come. I have not even lied yet, and already, I feel extraordinary guilt.