Lady Emily's Guardian

Lady Emily’s Diary

3 June, 18—

It is the loveliest summer in years, the weather is so mild and comfortable, such appropriate weather to match the easy birth of my second child. A son. My husband, it being his turn to name our child, decided that our boy so resembled his late grandfather Sir Peter that he ought to bear his name. It is true that our son has my father’s light hair and complexion, and his cool green eyes. My Mr. Singer claims that my eyes take on a greenish hue when I cry, and he does enjoy looking at me with tears in my eyes. Particularly when the tears have been drawn through our rough play.

Or in times of great joy, like the birth of our sweet little Peter. He is the newest addition to our happy household, which now consists of myself, my wonderful Mr. Singer, our two perfect children, and two loving nannies to play with. I do enjoy having my two friends around, and they have been such a help since the birth of our boy. It is because of them that I even have time to write of more exciting news now.

My dear old friends Mr. and Mrs. Morrison are coming for a visit! I have kept correspondence with the dear lady over these years since my beautiful wedding in Calcutta, and she has often written of her desire to come and spend some time in her homeland. “I am particularly eager to visit with you, and to see your beautiful children,” she had written in her last letter, the one announcing their visit. “And,” she had added, “I cannot wait to play with you again, my sweet little pet.”

I do address her as “Mother” in these letters, I must confess. I do not fear them falling into the wrong hands, though our letters do often take on a sexual tone. I have been with several women over the years, and have spent much time with the sisters. But no woman has ever made me feel like Mrs. Morrison has. I confess that I have longed to be with her again, to take her brutally gentle (or gently brutal, pick your preference) treatment.

She and her husband (that dear, funny man) will not arrive for another four months, so I am certain that I will be recovered enough to my husband’s satisfaction for him to allow me to enjoy myself fully. He is ever careful with me now, just as he was for the first few months after the birth of our Mina. But he still enjoys suckling from my nipples, nibbling on me gently as he takes my milk. He never enjoys my milk in front of the sisters; no, only our sleeping child is present in the darkness of the nursery, as my husband kneels before me and takes my nipple in his mouth, squeezing my tit gently as he suckles.

I confess (again, such wicked confessions I must make!) that I would allow my dear “Mother” to drink from my breast. Oh, my dear husband, do forgive me if you happen to read this. I am ever devoted to you. You may punish me however you like for this.

One last confession, I am afraid. I do adore the sisters, I truly do. They are my very best friends, and their presence makes Wainwright Hall an even happier place, more full of love. But I do have some apprehensions about Mrs. Gainsley’s participation in our little games. She is not afraid to be with me; she gives and receives pleasure quite willingly (sometimes with a little persuasion from my dear Mr. Singer), but I feel that she does it more to please him than out of enjoyment for herself (or for me…after all, my husband believes that we all must have our share of pleasure). Mainly, I feel that she is not truly happy with us, but she feels that she has no place to go. I wish to set her up with someone, a nice man, but she politely puts each one of them off.

My husband tells me to be patient. “If our dear Mrs. Gainsley were not happy with us, she would leave,” he says confidently. “She knows what her place is in this household, and if she desires more, she will have to look elsewhere.” I did not understand my husband’s meaning at first, but then I realized. She is resentful that she is not the lady of the house. Not outwardly, oh no. She is my very good friend, and has never treated me unkindly. Indeed, she falls all over herself to show me gratitude for my “kindness and generosity” in taking her in. But still…I get a strange feeling around her at times. I try to push it off and trust in my husband’s words.

Miss Howard is as fun and carefree as ever, laughing with us and with the children. She can become passionately angry at times, though this is rare. Mr. Singer insists that we maintain a household free of tension (sexual or otherwise), and arguments do not often erupt amongst us. But sometimes, late in the evening, my husband and I can hear from our bedchamber fervent voices coming from the east wing. We cannot often distinguish the words (the east wing being on the other side of the large manor), and my husband insists that we not pry in the quarrellings the sisters. It does not happen very often, perhaps a handful of times since the sisters moved in with us.

But only a couple of months before, the angry cries of Miss Howard rang so through the house that my husband felt compelled to see to it. I was in my final month of pregnancy with Peter, and he was angry that they were disturbing my sleep. “You stay right here, Emily, and I will try to restore peace,” he said, and to ensure that I would not follow him, he tied my wrists to the bedposts with a wicked smile on his face.

I was surprised, at one point, to hear my husband’s voice rise briefly in anger. I cannot recall ever hearing him yell so loudly in anger before, never, not in my entire life, and I feared that the argument had taken a turn for the worse. But the voices soon quieted, and near a half hour later, my husband returned to me, looking utterly exhausted.

“What happened?” I asked eagerly.

My husband gave me a reassuring smile. “Just a fight between sisters in close quarters, my dear. Siblings are that way at times, and our dear Miss Howard and Mrs. Gainsley sometimes succumb to their childish instincts. Not to worry, my dear,” he said, laughing softly at the worried look on my face. “Everything is fine.”

I know that I cannot understand the ways of brothers and sisters, as I grew up without any, but I cannot help but feel that my dear husband is keeping something from me. But I will have to wait and see; time has a way of revealing all truths, one way or another. For now, I will spend my energy preparing for the arrival of our dear friends. I will begin planning a big party for them, just as they threw one for Mr. Singer and me when we were visiting them in their home. I do intend to welcome them properly, and to show them what a lovely place Wainwright Hall really is.

I hear my Mina calling to me from the stairs. It’s such a lovely afternoon, I will join her and the sisters in the garden for a while, until Mr. Singer calls me to his service.

13 October, 18—

While everyone in the household finally goes to bed after a night of rough play, I will take some quiet time to recount the events of the past week thus far. I am not completely alone in the nursery. Little Peter, my sweet boy, sleeps quietly in his crib. He does not wake in the night near as often as his sister did at his age. He already sleeps soundly and untroubled.

I am quite troubled, I am afraid. I will lay it all out here, and try to make some sense. Perhaps in my writing, my thoughts will straighten themselves out, as they often do.

Just a few short days ago, I was so looking forward to the arrival of our old friends. But I was quite nervous as well. You see, in all of the time that I’ve spent corresponding with my old friend, I did not confess to her my relationship with the sisters. She is aware of their presence, but only as help for the children. She does not know of our other activities, and I thought that it might be a shock for her, to walk right into the situation. I suggested to my husband that we meet the Morrisons’ ship in London, and spend a couple of nights there “catching up” before bringing them home. Perhaps sensing my true purpose, my husband conceded.

I was determined to break it gently to Mrs. Morrison while we were all in London together, reliving the old days when the four of us would play together in Calcutta. I was so excited and nervous to see them again! My husband held my hand as we traveled by train. “Anxious to see your dear old ‘Mother’ again?” he teased gently. I could only nod and smile.

When we arrived in London, Mr. Singer and I hired a carriage and rode to the docks, where we expected the ship to come in. It had already arrived, still docking when we pulled up, and we stepped out into the drizzling afternoon and stood by to wait on them. When the passengers finally began to climb down from the enormous ship, I carefully watched for my dear old friends. I spotted Mrs. Morrison, with her fair hair and fine clothes, almost right away among the other passengers. My husband, sensing my urge to go to her, released my hand from his. “I’ll wait here,” he simply said, and I hurried through the crowd to greet them warmly.

I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Morrison only a few feet away from me, and was almost taken aback by the sight of them. Mr. Morrison, the once-jolly man, looked sour-faced and much heavier than our last meeting. And my dear Mrs. Morrison, still lovely, was showing her age in lines and wrinkles. But still, I attributed this to the long trip (I remember how exhausting the travel could be), and rushed forward, smiling, to greet them.

“Welcome home, my dear friends,” I declared, and Mr. Morrison forced a smile, reaching to take my hand as his wife sprang forward to intercept me first. I found myself wrapped in her warm embrace.

“My dear, sweet Lady Emily,” Mrs. Morrison declared. She held me by the shoulders and smiled at me lovingly. “You look so beautiful, my dear. How are you?”

“I’m very well,” I said, a little surprised as Mrs. Morrison, completely disregarding her husband’s presence, asked of the children, of my husband, looking ahead in the crowd to wave at him as she took me by the arm and rushed me forward. I looked back at Mr. Morrison as we left him behind, to trudge slowly after us. Poor, dear man!

Mrs. Morrison greeted my husband with enthusiasm, but immediately gave all of her attention back to me as her husband approached. Mr. Singer gave his friend a proper welcome, and I saw the poor man smile genuinely for the first time. I found a way to interrupt Mrs. Morrison politely and extended my hand out in greeting. “How do you do, Mr. Morrison? It is so wonderful to see you again,” I said.

He kissed my hand. “I am well, my lady,” he said, but his pale continence suggested otherwise. “Tired from the journey, I am afraid…”

“Oh, of course,” I said. “You poor dears. We must get you to the hotel and get you well-rested. We’ve gotten reservations at a wonderful place. Don’t you worry; we will take care of everything.” Mr. Morrison smiled at that.

“I’m not tired,” his wife declared. “Oh, I haven’t been to London in so long! I am ready to see everything.” She laughed at her husband, and though she tried to mask it in jest, it seemed more than a bit mean to me. “Let this old man rest up while we enjoy ourselves on the town. What say you, Sir Aaron?”

“We have plenty of time in London to make sure that all of our…needs…are met,” my husband said calmly. He gave me a brief look. He could sense the tension as well as I. I realized then that in my frequent correspondence with my friend, I had been hinted to some turbulence in their marriage. I could not place the source, and she had not gone into very much detail. I made the decision, at that moment, to try to help my friends through their trouble during the time with us. I will recount here how I have failed thus far.

We took the carriage to our hotel, a newly-built place. We had two suites reserved, right next to one another, which would make our nighttime activities a bit more private. My husband and I left the Morrisons at their room and went into our own. As soon as the bellhop left our bags, my husband said, “Tell me what you are thinking, Emily.”

With my husband, I can be as candid as I like, so I did not try to pretend that everything was fine. “Something is different with him,” I said. “He looks so…old.”

My husband smiled, but it was a sad smile. “We’re all old, compared to you, my young one.”

“You know what I mean, though,” I insisted, and he nodded. “They’re different with each other, too.”

“I daresay,” my husband mused, “that they are not in love anymore.”

“How sad!” I declared.

“Unfortunately, my dear, it happens all the time,” my husband said. He put his arms around me. “People fall out of love with one another, and spend the rest of their lives loathing the other’s existence.”

“But why, sir?” I asked.

My husband shook his head. “Who’s to say? Love takes work, Emily, and some people get tired and don’t want to put in the effort anymore.” He kissed me in a comforting way, a way that told me that he’d never stop working, that we would never be so unhappy together.

“Can we fix it?” I asked.

My husband shook his head and stepped back from me. “It’s up to them, Emily. All we can do is show our friends a good time while they’re here. You’re very good at that.”

I nodded, but I was determined that I would find some way to solve this problem. As I wondered what to do, I unpacked the luggage that my husband and I packed. I decided that the following day, I would discuss the matter privately with my friend Mrs. Morrison. I had no doubt that she would confess herself to me.

Mrs. Morrison wasted no time in joining us, leaving her husband alone in their suite. “Mr. Morrison wishes to have his rest,” she said, rolling her eyes a bit. She grinned at me. “What do we have planned for this evening?”

My husband was very calm and friendly. He did not address Mrs. Morrison’s remarks about her husband. He suggested that the three of us take in dinner and a theater show, as we were staying quite close to the West End district. “Afterwards, we can come back here for a little fun,” Mr. Singer said, throwing me a little wink.

Mrs. Morrison looked at me as well. “I can’t wait,” she said.

We all changed for dinner, and while we were alone, I briefly served my husband with my mouth. Taking me gently by the hair, he remarked, “I won’t have you all to myself much longer, my dear. Our friends are going to keep you quite busy this next fortnight.”

So far, that has certainly been the case. That evening, we had a lovely dinner at the hotel, and Mrs. Morrison was her cheerful, talkative self at dinner, entertaining us with various stories of life in Calcutta. She then bombarded us with questions about the children. “Whom do they most resemble?” she asked at one point.

“Our little Mina has the features of my family,” Mr. Singer said. “And Peter looks like Emily’s father.”

“Neither of them resemble their mother?” Mrs. Morrison asked, looking a bit disappointed.

“They’re lovely children,” I added, feeling a little bit defensive. My children, in my eyes, are flawless.

“Oh, to be sure,” Mrs. Morrison agreed readily. “I cannot wait to meet them. Are they well-behaved children, or naughty little things?”

“Peter is still an infant yet,” I said. “He sleeps peacefully; I suppose that is as well-behaved as one so young could be, is it not?”

“Mina takes after her mother, in some ways,” my husband added. He gave me a mischievous look. “She is a good girl, but very inquisitive, and bold.”

I was surprised to hear these traits attributed to me. “I am this way, sir?”

“Most certainly,” Mr. Singer said affectionately, and I smiled at him. My dear husband is the most thoughtful man I’ve ever known. It is moments like these that allow me to remember, all over again, why I have given my life to worshipping and serving him. I know that he will always fulfill my needs.

I almost forgot that our friend was with us. I gave her a guilty smile, and we resumed our conversation. We went on to the show in another rented carriage, and it was delightful, but nothing special. My husband secured us the best seats in the theater. He did not do this by dropping his title (which, as he never fails to remember, came from me), or by putting down money (though he did tip the theater staff generously). Mr. Singer has such an impressive carriage. He just looks like an important man. He is so sexy, and has gotten even sexier as his hair has started to gray. His dark hair is graying evenly at his temples, and though he laments his aging, I find him more irresistible than ever.

As we waited briefly for our carriage outside of the theater, a beggar woman approached us. Mrs. Morrison, having years of practice ignoring raggedy beggars in the streets of Calcutta, did so here, but I cannot ignore the plight of a poor person. This girl looked to be my own age, and I wondered, as she implored us for a little spare change, if she were not an orphan like I. If I didn’t have my Mr. Singer to protect me all of my life, to keep me (and my fortune and title and home) safe from greedy hands, I might have lived this young woman’s life. I gave her a 10-pound note, an amount that my husband considered to be extravagant, and the poor woman kissed my hands.

“Ye are a fine lady, miss,” she said, tears running down her grubby face. “God bless ye, miss.” She hurried away with her newfound fortune, and I prayed that it would be of significant use.

My husband looked ready to scold me, but he must have read something in my face, and he softened. “Silly thing,” he said lovingly, putting his arm around me as the carriage pulled up to receive us.

As we rode back to the hotel, Mrs. Morrison expressed her surprise by my behavior. “My dear lady,” she said, “I know you mean well, but what do you think she will do with that money?”

“Perhaps she will purchase some food,” I said. “Or some temporary lodging. She was clearly in need.”

“Now, now, my ladies,” Mr. Singer said lightly. “None of that. As soon as we get back to the hotel, we should see to Mr. Morrison. Perhaps we’d all enjoy a little time together. It’s been so long.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Morrison agreed sincerely, giving me another dirty look. I tried to put aside my annoyance and put my mind to the task ahead. I looked forward to having the chance to please my dear old friends again, and I smiled.

My husband and I went into our room while Mrs. Morrison saw to her husband. She joined us quickly, reporting that he was not feeling well.

“Oh, dear,” I said. “Perhaps we should call in a doctor for him.”

“He only requires rest, the old thing,” Mrs. Morrison said. “He’s quite all right.”

I wanted to protest. I did not like the idea of poor Mr. Morrison, all alone and sick in a strange room. I wondered how his own wife, who had loved him so much, could be so cold to him now.

My husband, sensing my discomfort, rubbed the back of my neck to distract me. “We’ll see to our friend in the morning,” he whispered in my ear. “Relax, my dear. Aren’t you in the mood to play tonight?”

If I had reported that I was not, my husband would have certainly granted me a reprieve. But I looked at Mrs. Morrison, my dear friend, and I had missed being with her so much. Yet again, I pushed my troubles aside, and resumed my role as ‘Mother’s naughty little pet.’

We had such fun that evening! As before, Mr. Singer first sat back and watched us together before joining in. Mrs. Morrison tore off my dress, and while she was still clothed, forced me to my knees before her. “Have you missed me, my pet?” she asked softly, stroking my face and looking down at me affectionately.

“Yes, Mother,” I answered, my voice naturally becoming smaller and more child-like.

“Mother’s missed you too, little pet,” Mrs. Morrison cooed. It was just like old times. She lifted up her dress and instructed me to crawl beneath her, allowing the dress to hide my crouching form as I located her pussy. Mrs. Morrison wore no other undergarments under her petticoat, so it was easy to find. She let out a squeal of surprise as I began licking her enthusiastically.

“Slowly, my pet,” Mrs. Morrison instructed. “Nice and slow…oh, yes, my pet, good girl.” She squatted on my face, as she had before, and I was completely blinded by her thighs and her skirt as I followed her orders. My heart began to race as I lapped at her, stopping occasionally to tease her hole with my tongue.

“Naughty thing!” Mrs. Morrison scolded me. “This little pet loves to taste her mother. Such a good little whore. Lick Mother’s ass, now, that’s it.”

I don’t enjoy licking ass as much as others (like my dear friend Miss Howard, who cleans me out quite often), but I did so gladly, fingering Mrs. Morrison’s cunt (surprising tight; I wondered if she hadn’t been getting her share of pleasure lately). All I could hear were her moans of pleasure through the skirt. As I took in the smell of her clean ass, I wanted to make her come quickly. I was starting to feel a little cramped under her skirt, so I pleased her as my own master would please me, and got her to orgasm with relative haste. As my husband never fails to remind me, I am quite skilled when it comes to pleasing others. I have never failed to not only get someone off, but to give that person the best experience of his or her life. I take great pride in this.

When I was out from under Mrs. Morrison’s skirt again, I stayed on my knees and looked up at her, awaiting the next orders. She smiled down at me. “Still a good little girl, are you?”

“Yes, Mother,” I said. I watched as she began peeling off her dress.

“Sir Aaron,” Mrs. Morrison addressed my husband, “Is this young lady’s cunt still off-limits?”

“As it always will be,” my husband replied calmly. I glanced over my shoulder at him briefly. He was sitting back, a very relaxed look on his face, stroking his cock. “But have you noticed her tits, Mrs. Morrison?”

“They’re glorious,” Mrs. Morrison declared. She had stripped naked now. She put her hand under my chin, softly. “Stand up, my pet.”

I rose slowly and stood before her. Mrs. Morrison is a small woman, but I am always surprised by this when I am standing close to her. I am only a little taller than she, but I’m hardly ever taller than anybody. It feels more natural to sit beside her…or at her feet, or to be on my knees before her.

Mrs. Morrison smiled at me and began groping my breasts. “You haven’t breast-fed all day,” Mrs. Morrison observed.  “How are your tits feeling, my pet?”

“A little sore, Mother,” I answered truthfully. I was looking forward to some relief, and I have already confessed that I have fantasized about my dear ‘Mother’ drinking from me. My nipples hardened at the thought, and Mrs. Morrison rubbed my nipples with her thumbs, a little too roughly.

“How does it feel?” Mrs. Morrison asked softly.

“It feels good, Mother,” I answered, pressing my tits against her, encouraging her to rub me harder.

Mrs. Morrison smiled at me, her groping changed to a soft nipple rubbing. “No, my naughty little pet. How does it feel to breast-feed a child?”

I was taken aback by the question. It seemed out of place during our playtime. “Oh,” I said, pausing for a moment. “Why…it feels really nice.” I was not at all certain how to put it into words, and I was terribly caught off guard.

Mrs. Morrison smiled at my discomfort. “You know that your dear Mother has no milk for you to drink, my pet.” I nodded uncertainly. “We’ll have to do this the other way around…if your husband will allow it.”

I glanced over my shoulder again, looking at my dear Mr. Singer expectedly. He seemed surprised for a moment, before he smiled. “My little cow has the freshest, sweetest milk,” he bragged, and I giggled before turning my attention back to my dear friend.

Mrs. Morrison decided that she wanted to tie me up and suckle from me, and I was not at all opposed to this idea. With my husband’s silk ropes, she tied me to one of the armchairs. My arms were up, my elbows bent, and my wrists tied behind my neck (and attached to my collar, which Mr. Singer kindly provided). This caused my engorged breasts to stand up a little taller. Another rope bound my torso to the back of the chair, just under my tits. My legs, of course, were spread wide and bound, allowing Mrs. Morrison to easily slide between them and take my left nipple in her greedy mouth.

She suckled me harder than anyone has, even nibbling on me a bit as she drank my milk. She was not able to extract much milk, so I timidly said, “Mother, you must squeeze my breast a little while you suckle.”

“Thank you, my sweet pet,” Mrs. Morrison said, and after taking my suggestion, she drank of me easily. She sucked so hard, it hurt. I grimaced and moaned, and she squeezed my tit harder. I don’t think she so much enjoyed the taste of my milk (as my husband genuinely does), but more the erotic experience of drinking from me.

My husband soon stripped and joined her. He took my other nipple in his mouth, and though he did not squeeze or suckle as hard as Mrs. Morrison, he was a bit rougher on me than usual. As he drank, he fingered my clit, stroking me. I squirmed in my awkward position, trying to raise my hips to meet his gentle stroking, but the rope around my torso constrained me.

I’d never had two mouths drink of me at once. Mr. Singer only drank from me when we were alone, never sharing the time that I spent bonding with our children. As they wrapped their warm lips around my nipples and pulled and sucked and licked me, I felt a sudden need to be fucked hard. I’d never needed it more in my life. I moaned, longing for my husband’s cock inside of me. “Oh, sir,” I murmured as he fingered me. “Oh, please…” I could feel that my inner thighs were already slicked wet with my own juices.

“What do you think, Mrs. Morrison?” Mr. Singer asked. “Has Lady Emily been a good little girl?”

Mrs. Morrison stopped suckling for a moment and looked thoughtful. “Perhaps she’d like Mother to play with her ass while her husband fucks her?” My toes curled with excitement at the thought. What did my wicked friend have in mind for me?

“I have just the thing for her,” my husband said, and he left briefly (while Mrs. Morrison stroked my aching nipple and eyed my cunt enviously) to retrieve the same large leather phallus that is so much a part of our bedroom play. Mrs. Morrison looked delighted.

“Mother’s going to tear up your ass with that monster,” she mused playfully, and she untied me from the chair as my husband prepared the bed. I was dismayed when Mrs. Morrison left my arms in their uncomfortable position as she led me in to the bedchamber portion of my suite, where Mr. Singer was waiting. They decided to attach my bound wrists and elbows to the ceiling, the room having low beams.

When I was strung up securely, standing almost up on my toes, Mrs. Morrison showed me a surprise gift. It was a metal bar, about three feet in length, to which shackles were attached at the end. “You’ll wear this to keep yourself wide for Mother, little pet,” she explained, and as she forced my legs apart she said, “I picked this up at a quirky estate auction in Calcutta. It was from the home of this reclusive British widow, who only had the company of her Indian manservant. When she died, they found the man, thirty years her junior, chained up in the basement! He’d been her willing sex-slave, and they were legally married, too. The poor man.”

“Perhaps they should have had more playmates,” Mr. Singer mused, and I smiled. Before they fucked me, Mrs. Morrison expressed a desire to gag me, and my husband produced one of our many gag-balls, shoving it kindly into my mouth and fastening it carefully behind my head.

My husband stood before me, stroking his cock. He touched my face, stroking my skin around the leather harness. “Good little girl,” he purred softly, and I trembled. He continued to tease me, stroking my slit softly, as Mrs. Morrison prepared the phallus. They entered me simultaneously, and my dear husband kept pace with Mrs. Morrison’s rough fucking of my ass.

It still makes me flush to admit this, but I do love being fucked and used, especially by my dear husband. I love pleasing him in every possible way, giving him everything that he wants. I would do anything for him, anything at all. I wanted desperately to express this to him as he fucked me that night, pulling my hair and kissing me roughly as he wrapped his legs around me and thrust into me. I could only tell him this by my compliance…and by my moans of pain and satisfaction.

As Mrs. Morrison abused my ass with the phallus, she slapped my thighs and ass cheeks with her free hand, leaving me quite bruised and sore the following day. She can be quite vicious to me at times, but I find that I love it. I imagine my mother and young Lydia together, playing their whorish games, with my mother taking the abuse and loving it as I do. My longing for pain and punishment is the only real link that I have to my mother.

I threw my head back as Mr. Singer began stroking my clit, not ceasing in his hard, fast fucking. Waves of pleasure ran through my body. Mrs. Morrison, still thrusting the phallus into my ass (and sending waves of pain through me with the pleasure, simultaneously, it was so indescribably delicious), grabbed my hair and forced my head back. She kissed my neck, nibbling at me roughly in my sensitive places, biting me softly around my collar.

I screamed into the huge gag, my bound body shaking in mad spasms as I came. My husband grabbed my shoulders and thrust into me one last time, releasing into me. I found myself hoping that I would get pregnant that very night, it had been so wonderful and intense. As my husband released from me, our juices spilled down my thighs, trickling onto the floor.

My husband kissed my cheek softly, caressing my rock-hard nipple. He whispered in my ear, “Good girl, Emily. Did you enjoy your playtime tonight?”

I nodded, letting out a muffled sound. I’m not sure what I was trying to say. Perhaps I was trying to thank him, for allowing me to be his whore, and for allowing me to play with others. He smiled at me lovingly, he was so handsome, and I was bursting with love for him.

My cruel master and my dear friend left me strung up for a short while, as they sat at the small table in the bedchamber and enjoyed another drink. My husband, looking my way with that same wonderful, wicked glint in his eye, held up his glass of whiskey and declared, “Let us drink a toast to our dear Lady Emily. She is our sweet little dear, is she not?”

“The sweetest,” Mrs. Morrison agreed, and they drank to me, laughing softly as I squirmed. My arms felt most uncomfortable, and my husband eventually took pity on me and untied me. But, in keeping with our play, he secured my arms behind my back, tying my wrists again in a much more comfortable position, and had me crawl on my knees to sit at their feet at the table. I still wore my gag as Mrs. Morrison reached down to stroke my hair.

“Such pretty hair,” she mused. “Your mother used to wear her hair shorter, but it was dark and wavy like yours, my pet. So pretty.”

After their nightcap, Mrs. Morrison departed to her room, but only after removing my gag and kissing me softly on the lips. “I’m so glad I’m here with you, my sweet little pet,” she murmured in my ear.

“I am, too, Mother,” I whispered, my voice still trembling from the intensity of our play. Mr. Singer kissed Mrs. Morrison goodnight before she dressed hastily and departed to her room. I wondered briefly, as my husband untied me, how Mr. Morrison was feeling.

We fell into our bed, both naked, holding each other close. My husband stroked the soft skin of my breasts, avoiding my sensitive nipples. “Glad your ‘Mother’ is here, Emily?” he asked softly.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I have missed her.”

“I know, my dear,” my husband said, sounding a little sad for a moment.

“Sir,” I whispered, “I’m terribly worried about Mr. Morrison.”

My husband chuckled softly. “Not to worry, Emily. Morrison is a strong man. He was a little shaky like this after our trip to Africa years ago, but he recovered just fine. Perhaps you might see to him yourself in the morning?”

I smiled, knowing what my husband intended for me to do. “Yes, sir,” I said.

I fell asleep happily (I think it was the last time I’ve done so since then) in my husband’s arms, thoroughly exhausted and feeling much better.

I wish to continue my narrative, but my husband is calling me back to bed. He and I have been quarreling, I’m afraid, but I will have to explain when I have another free moment. I do not wish to displease him any further.

15 October, 18—

As a couple of days have passed since I have last written, I do not feel much more at ease about the current happenings at Wainwright Hall. Let me write hastily and explain, though there is so much to be told! I have feigned exhaustion, and my husband has granted me a private nap, though I believe he knows my true intention. He scolded me lightly when I came back to bed the other night, after having stayed up writing for over two hours.

“You think I do not notice when you are not by my side?” he asked me as I slid in beside him. “The loss of your warmth beside me never fails to awaken me.”

I had not been aware of this. “I’m sorry, sir,” I whispered.

My husband kissed my forehead. “Poor, dear little Emily. Are you still troubled, my love?”

“Yes, sir,” I admitted timidly.

“Emily,” my husband said, almost sitting up a little in the dark, looking down at me, “This is why I ask you not to involve yourself in the troubles of others. It only causes you grief, especially if you are not able to provide them with your help.”

I was ready to protest, but this had led to our previous fight, the worst we’d ever had (not just as man and wife, but in all our time together as dear friends and companions). I swallowed slowly and whispered, “Yes, sir.”

“Do I need to tie you to the bed at night?” Mr. Singer continued to scold. “You are a nursing little mother. You need your rest.”

“Yes, sir,” I said again. “I’m sorry, sir.” I just wanted him to hold me and not be upset with me.

“Do not placate me, little girl,” my husband said, a bit more harshly than before. I wondered why he was so quick to anger.

“I’m not, sir,” I said desperately. I sat up with him and looked at him imploringly in the dark. “I know that you know what is best for me, sir. Please understand that I cannot help my meddlesome nature. Please do not be angry with me for it, sir. I do not wish to defy you.”

My husband softened, and he held me close then, as I wanted him to. “I know it, Emily,” he whispered. “You just care too much.” Oh, if he only knew the horrible truth!

I was relieved that another fight had not erupted, and my husband has been gentler with me since. I believe he feels guilty for exploding at me in London…allow me to explain what happened.

The morning after our first night in London, my husband and I woke early to bathe each other, making love in the large tub. We went down to breakfast, and were surprised to find Mrs. Morrison already sitting alone. Before she spotted us, Mr. Singer pulled me aside. “Emily,” he said, “You should go and see to our friend now. I will keep Mrs. Morrison company for breakfast. I’ll have a tray brought up for you.”

I kissed him softly. “Yes, sir,” I said, and went back upstairs. I knocked softly on the door to the Morrisons’ room.

“It is open,” Mr. Morrison called, sounding better than he had the day before. I entered and locked the door behind me, and found him sitting up on the lounge chair, covered in a blanket and propped up with a pillow, but smiling as he set the newspaper aside. “My dear Lady Emily! Good morning, my lady.”

He still looked pale, but some of his reddish color was coming back to his face. Smiling, I approached him. “I’ve been worried about you, Mr. Morrison,” I said.

“Come and sit with me, Lady Emily,” Mr. Morrison said. “It’s very kind of you to come and see me before you’ve had your breakfast.”

“I’m having something brought up for us,” I said, sitting at the end of the lounge chair, by his feet. “Could you eat?”

“Certainly, my lady,” he said.

“You are feeling much better?” I asked.

“Well enough,” Mr. Morrison said, and for a moment, his smile almost resembled a grimace. Seeing my concerned look, he smiled again. “Now, my dear lady, I assure you that I’m quite fine. Just a touch of seasickness.”

I nodded and forced a smile. “We missed you last night,” I said. I hoped that Mr. Morrison would pick up on my advances, but he kept his light, conversational tone.

“Well, I’m feeling well-rested now, and I’m eager to see some old friends today,” Mr. Morrison said, almost in a rushed manner.

“How wonderful!” I declared, just as I heard a knocking on the door. I shot up to retrieve the breakfast tray, tipping the server generously before laying out the spread. I served Mr. Morrison his plate before going for my own.

“Thank you, Lady Emily,” Mr. Morrison said when I joined him. He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know, you do not seem like a spoiled little rich girl.”

“I most certainly am spoiled,” I said with a smile, thinking of my generous husband, “But I was raised not to act like it.”

“It’s no wonder…” I looked at Mr. Morrison, waiting for him to complete his thought. But he merely smiled and dug into his breakfast, thankfully with a veracious appetite.

I hoped that after he’d had his fill, he would be in the mood to play. I still felt the tension in the room, though we conversed as easily as ever. But the conversation became serious when I put the dirty plates aside and served more tea. Mr. Morrison began telling me of the days in Africa with my father and Mr. Singer, speaking with such longing. He even said, “Those were the best days of my life. What I wouldn’t give to relive those!” He looked so sad all of a sudden, I wanted to find some way to cheer him up.

“Mr. Morrison, there are many happy days to come,” I said reassuringly, placing my hand on his leg.

“Yes,” he said, in a tone that conveyed quite the opposite meaning.

“Come now, my dear friend,” I said kindly, running my hand up his thigh, feeling him through the blanket. He was wearing only his bedclothes. “I was so glad at heart to see you and your dear wife again, but to see you so sad…Come now,” I purred, “let me make you feel better.”

“No, my lady,” Mr. Morrison said, with such firmness that I removed my hand and stood. He looked up at me, a darkened look on his face. “I’m sorry, Lady Emily, but I cannot be a playmate of yours any more.”

“But why, Mr. Morrison?”

He looked on the verge of tears! The poor man. But he pulled himself together. “I cannot say, Lady Emily,” he said, his voice determined. “I am afraid that that is between myself and my wife.”

“Do you…” I swallowed for a moment, afraid to ask. “Do you wish for me to stop seeing her as well?”

He almost smiled at that. “Please forget we had this discussion, my lady. Please do not speak of it to my wife or your husband.”

I nodded, uncertain of what to say.

“I’m going to get myself together,” Mr. Morrison said. “Thank you for seeing to me, my friend, and for breakfast. No, no,” he said as I reached for the dirty dishes, “Leave those.”

“I…I will see you later, then,” I said hesitantly, stepping toward the door. Mr. Morrison nodded. “Goodbye, then,” I said, and stepped out into the hallway. I nearly ran right into my husband, as he stood waiting for me.

“Well!” he said, a smile on his face. “Is our friend feeling better, then? What’s the matter, my Emily?” he asked, a concerned look on his face, having noticed the look of shook on mine.

“Oh! Oh, nothing, sir,” I said, forcing a smile. “Mr. Morrison is ready to see the city today.”

“Very good,” my husband said, still looking concerned. “Were you able to work your magic on him?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “He…he wasn’t feeling up for any of that today.”

Mr. Singer nodded, asking for no other explanation, and we went into our room briefly to prepare for the day. My husband and Mr. Morrison would go about visiting with old friends, and Mrs. Morrison and I would take in the city alone. After my discussion with her husband that morning, I was more determined than ever to unearth the cause of their marital strife.

We agreed to meet the men for dinner, and after our husbands left us, Mrs. Morrison took my arm and gushed, “Just the girls again, as it should be. Shall we spend a small fortune, my pet?”

I am still a discretionary shopper, as my husband has always encouraged me to be, but I was planning to pick up some gifts and things for the children and the sisters. I thought it might be a good opportunity to confess my involvement with them to my dear old friend. Perhaps then, I thought, she would be more apt to confess herself to me as well.

And so, Mrs. Morrison and I spent the morning shopping. As we browsed the stores, she was certainly her old self again, moving near a mile a minute and trilling loudly all the while, insisting that I try on this such thing and that such thing, insisting on paying for it all.

“Mrs. Morrison!” I finally cried, gasping at her decadence. “My dear, I assure you that I am in no need of new clothing.”

“Oh, but come now, you look so pretty in the well-fitting grey one,” Mrs. Morrison insisted. Softly she added, “Such a pretty little pet, come, let Mother spoil you.”

I shook my head and sighed, nearly resigned. “Mrs. Morrison…”

“Oh, please, Lady Emily?” Mrs. Morrison cried. “Nothing would make your old friend happier than to spend her husband’s money on you.”

There was no stopping her, and she arranged to have all of the items delivered to Wainwright Hall. I wondered how I might put a stop to it before the delivery came, fearing what my husband would say (here’s a hint: he wasn’t very happy). I came out of the trip with nothing for the children, so engrossed had I been in Mrs. Morrison’s little dress-up fantasy game. Exhausted, I suggested lunch, and we found a place and settled in to a small, private dining room.

Finally, I got down to admitting to Mrs. Morrison my involvement with the sisters. I had already explained to her how Mrs. Gainsley had come to stay with us (though I still had not confessed Miss Howard’s involvement in the murder of her sister’s husband…nor my own involvement in the cover-up), merely saying that her sister, my oldest friend, was there to care for the children as well. When I finally confessed that we were all playmates, and that we all took turns serving my husband and each other, Mrs. Morrison’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, taking my hand on top of the table. “I’m not at all surprised by this.”

“You’re not?”

Mrs. Morrison shook her head, laughing. “My sweet little pet,” she said, “You are a whore. You…you need to give and receive love. And you do love women, don’t you, my pet?”

I had to confess it. I love the soft skin of a woman’s breast (particularly Mrs. Gainsley’s, so full and fat her breasts are), and the sweet kiss of a woman (particularly Mrs. Morrison). And I do love eating pussy…I had confessed as much to my husband years ago, and he laughed at me softly, instantly turned on. A nod of agreement was all that Mrs. Morrison required of me then.

She grinned again and nodded. “I look forward to meeting your friends. But…” Her smile faded, and she looked troubled. “I do have one concern about this little…situation.”

“Do tell, Mrs. Morrison,” I said.

“Well, my dear,” Mrs. Morrison said, “It would seem to me that you have made your husband the luckiest man in the entire country.”

“That is my goal,” I said proudly. I did not see where the problem would lie in that.

“Do you not think, Emily, that you could make him happy on your own?”

Now, do not think that this thought has not crossed my mind, on occasion, over the last couple of years. I have sometimes found myself wondering why my husband sought the company of other women (though never without me by his side). But when my thoughts wandered there, I would remind myself how much I myself enjoy the company of others, men and women alike. I partake in their company willingly and gladly, knowing that it is my husband’s wish that I enjoy myself fully. This I explained to Mrs. Morrison at lunch that afternoon.

Mrs. Morrison nodded. “I have no doubt that your husband loves you, my dear. He worships you…I could tell, from the way he spoke of you at breakfast.”

I flushed to hear this. “He is very good to me,” I said.

“Only…do be cautious, my pet,” Mrs. Morrison said. “Your husband is a fine specimen of a man, and I daresay that many women would do most anything to get their claws into him.”

I nodded. I know this full and well. But I trust my friends. And I trust my husband, more than anyone else in the entire world. I decided to steer the conversation, and I said, “Mrs. Morrison…is everything all right with you and your husband?”

Mrs. Morrison said nothing for a moment, pausing to take a dainty bite of her quail, before looking at me again. She smiled slowly. “I did not want to tell you what had happened before we arrived,” she said. “I did not want you to think ill of him.”

“What happened?” I asked softly.

“Lady Emily,” Mrs. Morrison said, “You know better than anyone that my husband and I have some…unconventional ways about us. Sexually, I mean. But we had an agreement, you see, same as you and your husband, that we always play together. He broke our agreement. A few months ago, I found out that he was having an affair with a young Indian woman who worked in our kitchen. In our own damn house!” She cried this out loud, and I was grateful that we were in a private room.

“You poor dear,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry to hear this. And I am surprised at Mr. Morrison’s behavior. He always seemed so devoted to you.”

“I’m afraid, my dear, that it changes,” she said sourly. “With men, it changes. It happened with my first husband, and now it has happened to my second.”

I flushed at her words. She gave me a serious look, and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to upset you, my dear.”

“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “I’m quite fine. But I’m so, so sorry. What…what has happened, since you learned of the affair?”

“Well, I kicked her out, certainly,” Mrs. Morrison said. “As for him…it’s not the same now, my dear,” she said sadly. “I have been betrayed by him again.” I remembered then that when they had courted, years and years ago, Mr. Morrison had had an affair with my own mother. Somehow, it seemed that Mrs. Morrison had forgiven my mother…but I had a feeling (and I know it to be true, now!) that she will never forgive her husband.

“You both seem so miserable,” I said softly.

Mrs. Morrison laughed. “Me?” she said. “I am hurt by it, certainly, but I am far from miserable, my dear. I am happy right now, my dear. I’m very glad to be here with you.”

I forced a smile. “Yes,” I said. “But…I do believe that he is miserable. And…and he asked me not to say this to you, but he told me that he will not play with me anymore.” I looked at her carefully, but tried to make light of it. “No one has ever spurned my advances before, so I must admit that I am quite hurt.”

“Oh, you vain little thing,” Mrs. Morrison teased. She shook her head. “He has earned his misery. He knows what he can do to end it.” She would discuss it no more.

I was left with a slightly ill feeling in my stomach as we made our way back to the hotel for a nap. Mrs. Morrison invited me to cuddle in her bed with her, but I did not think that my husband would approve of it…and I did not necessarily trust her to show restraint. So I napped alone in my own room, and was awoken a couple of hours later by a pair of familiar lips on my forehead.

My husband sat beside me in bed, his face looming over mine, smiling lovingly. “Worn out already, my Emily?” he teased. “What were you up to today?”

“I just went shopping and had lunch with Mrs. Morrison,” I said innocently, and my husband laughed.

“That is enough to wear someone out,” he said.

“What time is it, sir?” I asked, sitting up slightly.

“Not quite four.”

“You are early,” I observed.

“Yes,” my husband said. “I am afraid that our friend Mr. Morrison has deserted us for the evening.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, alarmed as I sat up straight. My husband smiled kindly.

“Don’t worry, Emily. He’s merely spending some extra time with some old friends of his,” Mr. Singer explained. “We got wrapped up in drinks and talking, and it was just going on and on. I was finally able to kindly excuse myself.”

“You did not enjoy yourself today?”

Mr. Singer laughed. “You know, my dear, since I’ve been spending so much time with women lately, I find that I don’t converse as easily with men. But then, these men have a history together. They were friends of Morrison’s in his school days, and we just happened to run into them at a pub.”

“Amazing,” I said. Remembering my conversation with him that morning, and my discussion with his wife over lunch, I suddenly thought it was better that he leave us alone…for now. “Well,” I said, “it’s good that he’s seeing old friends. Since he’s been away for so long, you know…”

My husband said nothing for a moment. “Yes,” he finally agreed, his voice sounding almost hollow. He cleared his throat. “Emily,” he said, “Something is troubling you, my dear.”

I nodded. “You’re right, sir.”

“Then you must tell me what it is right away, my dear,” he said gently. “Let your friend make you feel better.”

I considered lying to my husband. I considered telling him that I merely missed the children, and that I couldn’t wait to be home with them the following afternoon. It was true enough, though not the source of my anguish. But I do not lie to my husband. There is still a part of me that wishes I had, in order to avoid the following discussion.

“Sir,” I said, “Did you know that Mr. Morrison was having an affair some months back?”

Mr. Singer looked puzzled for a moment. He frowned. “Of course not,” he said. “Such matters are none of my concern. Nor should they be yours.”

“But, sir!” I gasped. “They are our friends. Does it not make you sad at heart to hear this?”

“Emily,” my husband snapped, “Didn’t I advise you not to involve yourself in their personal matters?”

My heart sank. The aching in my stomach kicked in again. “But, sir…”

“No, Emily,” he said firmly. He grabbed me by the shoulders and peered down at me, and even in the dark I could see that he was quite angry. “Listen to me, my dear. I do not wish to speak harshly to you, so understand this now. You will not involve yourself in the Morrisons’ affairs. If you do so, your sexual involvement with your dear ‘Mother’ will cease. Tell me that you understand me.”

Though he spoke quietly, his tone was fierce, his eyes ablaze. Never had I seen him so angry. I trembled in his grasp, shrinking from him. He tightened his grip on me and shook me slightly. “Emily!” he snapped. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir!” I cried, and I was so frightened, I began to cry. My husband reached for me, his face softening, but I dodged him and hurried into the bathroom, locking myself inside. I sat on the edge of the tub, and listened silently as my husband spoke to me through the door.

“You may pout for a short while, my dear,” he said, his tone much lighter, though not quite mocking. “But please, my love, do not forget that I do know what is best for you. I only look out for your best interests.”

“I know, sir,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear. I was ashamed of my tears. I was tempted to open the door and beg him to forgive me, to forget the whole thing. I wanted to go home. I heard my husband leave the door and bedroom, probably to sit and relax before getting ready for dinner. I filled the tub, hoping that the rushing water would muffle my sobs.

As you might imagine, the rest of our time in London was quite awkward, but I smiled and laughed and pretended that everything was fine. Mr. Morrison never joined us at all that night, and I did not see him until breakfast the following morning. We were eating early, and heading right for the train station to go home. By teatime, I would have my children in my arms again.

At breakfast, Mrs. Morrison spoke on about how excited she was to see the children. I felt an old ache for her renewed that day, remembering how she had never been able to have her own. She had confided in me that she had suffered multiple miscarriages in her first marriage, some leaving her bed-bound for months on end. “It is a wonder that I’m the one who survived that marriage,” she had joked. Still, I knew how much she had wanted to be a mother, and now that I know the joy of it, I understand her pain all the more.

On the train, Mrs. Morrison and I sat away from the men. Before parting, my husband had kissed me on the forehead. “Still upset with me, Emily?” he asked softly.

“No, sir,” I answered truthfully.

“Do not let it worry you any longer, my dear,” he whispered. “Everything is fine. Let’s just have some fun with our friends this week.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. He kissed me again and we parted, to meet again only when the train pulled up to our stop.

I was disappointed to see that neither of the sisters had come to greet us. Then again, our nicest carriage isn’t all that big, and five people would be a tight squeeze. I was so anxious to get home and see the children that I hurried my friends straight to where our driver was waiting. “We will come and spend the afternoon in the village tomorrow,” I promised a curious Mrs. Morrison. “I am so looking forward to having you both see our home.”

As we rode the short distance to Wainwright Hall, I noticed that Mr. Morrison was looking a little pale again. “Feeling all right, Mr. Morrison?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.

Mr. Morrison forced a smile (it certainly looked forced). “Only a little tired, my lady,” he said.

“Yes,” his wife cut in. “Mr. Morrison did not return to our room until five o’clock this morning.” Her voice was dripping in distain.

“I was visiting with old friends, my dear Mrs. Morrison,” her husband protested. “You know that I would not, and could not, do anything more than that.” Husband and wife exchanged a heated glance then. My husband squeezed my hand slightly, and I worked to change the subject.

“Well, a room will be ready for you on our arrival, and we’ll all take a late lunch this afternoon,” I said kindly, and Mr. Morrison gave me a genuine smile.

When we arrived at Wainwright Hall, I restrained the urge to jump from the carriage, allowing my husband out before me to hand me down. I was pleased to see the sisters standing with Mina at the door. Mrs. Gainsley held sweet little Peter in her arms.

“Mummy!” Mina cried, rushing to me, and I gathered her up in my arms and held her close.

“Have you been a very good girl, sweetheart?” I asked, setting my daughter down.

“Yes, Mummy,” Mina said. She giggled. “We have a surprise for you! It’s…” She giggled as Miss Howard rushed forward and took her by the hand.

“No, no, Mina, no telling,” she said gently. My friend and I embraced and I kissed her cheek. After I had greeted Mrs. Gainsley and taken my little boy in my arms, I turned my attention to my friends.

“I’m so happy that we’re all here together!” I declared, and though there was much tension still between the Morrisons, I was very glad at heart. My dear husband and my oldest and dearest friends together at my home. I introduced everyone, and soon after, I led Mr. Morrison to his room upstairs, bringing Peter with me for a feeding before his nap.

“Lady Emily, your children are lovely,” Mr. Morrison said kindly as we walked through the upper hallway.

“Thank you, Mr. Morrison,” I said. “They are wonderful, and they complete my life.”

“Children are a blessing,” Mr. Morrison said. He paused for a moment. “You know, my lady, I had a child once.”

“You did?” I asked, completely surprised.

Mr. Morrison nodded. “It was before I was married. It was with an Indian girl…I am sure by now that my wife has shared my indiscretion with you?”

I swallowed, taken aback by his bluntness. We had reached the door to the guest room, and I showed him inside. “Yes,” I admitted.

“Are you terribly upset with me, my lady?” Mr. Morrison asked desperately. “I did not mean to hurt my wife. I…I do not wish to justify what I did, but I want you to understand that…things had changed with us.”

“Please, Mr. Morrison,” I said quickly, remembering my husband’s anger the previous afternoon. “I do not judge you. You are my friend.”

Mr. Morrison sat down heavily on the large bed. “The girl with whom I’d had the affair…she reminded me so much of the mother of my child, long ago. I’d met her…the mother, I mean, not the kitchen girl…at a pub. She worked there, serving drinks and food, you know. A flirtatious little thing, and we started seeing each other. I loved her, but I don’t think I knew it at the time.” Mr. Morrison smiled sadly. “I am quite a fool, my lady.”

I was silent as he continued. “She was gone from the pub one evening. No one would tell me where she had gone. Well, I dug for answers, and eventually located her on the other end of Calcutta. She was showing by then, my lady. She chased me away, and told me to leave her alone, that she would be dealing with it. I…I don’t know what she meant by that, my lady,” he admitted sadly. “Perhaps she had an abortion, or perhaps she simply…I do not know,” he said.

I sat beside him on the bed. With one arm, I held my son. The other, I wrapped around the shoulder of the grieving man. “You poor dear,” I said softly.

“Do not hate me, my lady,” Mr. Morrison said, tears in his eyes again. When I had first met him, years ago, he was so good-humored. I never imagined I would see him in such a state.

“I never could,” I said. I blurted, “Please, Mr. Morrison, let me help you and your wife. I adore you both so much. Isn’t there any way that I can help you both?” I reached for him again, taking my hand and running it slowly from his knee, up his thigh. I felt him trembling…but just as my hand just reached the tip of his cock, he jerked away from me.

“No, my lady,” he said, his voice panicky. “I cannot.”

“Oh, but, Mr. Morrison,” I said. “Do you not remember what fun we had before? And how happy you and your wife were then? Can’t I help you relive those days? Are we not friends?”

“It is not that I do not desire you,” Mr. Morrison said, standing from the bed and backing away from me. “I mean I cannot.”

“What mean you, sir?”

Mr. Morrison did not speak his response. Instead, he unbuttoned and pulled down his trousers, revealing his cock. His testicles, the large glorious testicles covered in red hair that I had once taken greedily into my mouth, were gone.

18 October, 18—

I was so upset recounting the shocking scene with Mr. Morrison that I could not write any longer. But now the Morrisons have gone. Their week with us is up, and they are now on their way to visit their old village, where they (and my mother) grew up together. Mrs. Morrison had asked me along, but my husband had refused. In light of recent discoveries, I am glad he did so.

I never confronted Mrs. Morrison about mutilating her husband. Mr. Morrison and I never spoke any more of it. After seeing it, I ran from the room, in a daze as I wandered to the nursery and began feeding Peter. I had barely come back to myself when I laid him down for his nap (my quite little boy drifts to sleep so easily!).

I wondered what I would say. Would I tell Mr. Singer? He had ordered me not to be involved, but this…this was insane. Something surely had to be done.

But so confused was I, my mind muddled, that I still did not know what to do as I wandered back downstairs. I found the sisters, Mrs. Morrison, and Mr. Singer chatting easily on the back patio, enjoying an unseasonably warm afternoon, while Mina wandered about in the garden.

I joined the party, and everyone greeted me warmly. My “surprise,” which Mina had spoken of, was a cake, which she had proudly baked with her beloved aunties. As we all sat and had cake and tea, I could tell that the ladies were all getting along well, and I was so pleased. Mrs. Gainsley and Miss Howard already knew of my relationship with Mrs. Morrison (Miss Howard had even teased me about going to see my dear old ‘Mother’ before we’d departed for London), so there was no need to introduce the topic. In fact, they were all easily conversing about our sexual exploits.

We soon found ourselves in the privacy of Mr. Singer’s study, playing heavily together. Mrs. Morrison demonstrated some of her brutality as she whipped me, using one of the riding crops from the stable, in front of my husband and our friends. I was the only one naked as all the others, clothed, stood around me and watched me take my punishment. Technically, I am not a slave to either Miss Howard or Mrs. Gainsley, though Miss Howard does often dominate me in play. Mrs. Gainsley, like myself, is naturally submissive. Still, to have my master, and three mistresses, to torment me that afternoon, certainly took my mind off of my troubles…for a time.

Still, all during the visit, I have been troubled by the mounting tension between the husband and wife. I never did share with Mr. Singer the awful truth…I guess he will have to find out by reading this diary, for I will not speak of it to anyone. I do wonder how Mrs. Morrison could do something so cruel and horrible. I know that she is a woman driven by her passions, but did the poor man really deserve that?

I find, however, that I do not hate her. My goodbye to her this morning was sincerely tearful, and she kissed me softly, neither of us caring that we were in public at the train station. “Goodbye, my dear little pet,” she whispered in my ear. “I will see you quite soon. I love you.”

“I love you, too, ‘Mother,’” I answered with a giggle, and she kissed me again and departed.

I said goodbye to Mr. Morrison. The poor man had spent much time making excuses for his absence during playtime…he was feeling tired, or ill, or he had some paperwork to go over. I wondered, as I watched the sad man shake hands with my husband, what it would be like to never be able to experience the pleasure of sexual intercourse again. I think it would be quite awful. I simply don’t know how I would live.

My dark mood has been lifted, somewhat, by the news that my husband gave me on the way home. “My darling,” he said, “After Christmas, I think that you and I should take a private little trip somewhere.”

“Truly, sir?” I asked. “Where will we go?”

“I was seeking advice from our dear friends,” Mr. Singer said, “And Mrs. Morrison suggested that we take a trip to Spain. Would you like to go there, my dear? We can leave right after Christmas and make it just in time for the New Year’s celebrations.”

I laughed and kissed my husband, and he wrapped his arms tightly around my waist, pushing me so that I was lying beneath him on the bench seat. “Shall I take that for a yes, then?” he snarled, and I nodded, biting my lip.

My dear husband fucked me in our carriage (certainly not the first time for that, of course!), making me orgasm twice before we arrived home again (not the first time for that, either!). I am excited about the prospect of taking a romantic trip with my husband. Though it worries me that leave my children for an extended time, particularly my nursing little Peter, I know that they will be in safe hands with the sisters. I realize now that I have not traveled since I became pregnant with Mina. It will be thrilling to be able to see the world again.