Lady Emily's Guardian

Mr. Singer

I had always tried to make Wainwright Hall a safe, comfortable, and happy place for my Emily. That, combined with her presence there, made it so. Any squabbles within the household were quickly squashed, mainly through her patient and caring influence. Such a dear girl…I never did take her presence for granted, and I sorely missed her when she was gone.

I had had misgivings about keeping the Howard sisters in our home for an extended amount of time. I had allowed myself to forget that our past with them was a tumultuous one. But the past came back to haunt me the night that we heard them arguing loudly from our own bedchamber.

Sweet Emily was fat and ripe, pregnant with our son. Oh, God, she turned me on most when she was pregnant, and in the final months of her pregnancy, I only allowed her to play with me. And since I had vowed never to play with the sisters without her, they had been neglected. This bothered me little as I held her close, rubbing her bare, pregnant belly with the palm of my hand as I rubbed my cock, preparing myself for her. She sighed and rubbed herself against me (she never wanted it more than when she was pregnant), and I was so ready to slide into her and fuck her slowly, feeling her soft pussy and her fat thighs against me, when we heard Miss Howard yelling (unintelligibly, to us) from the east wing.

Emily stopped rubbing against me, putting her hand over mine to stay me. We both listened, and heard another cry ring out. Emily gasped. “Oh, sir,” she said, sounding quite distressed. I couldn’t have that, not in her home, especially while she was in a delicate state. Besides, it would put her out of the mood. I vowed to go and investigate, only after tying her up securely, smiling at her as I left the room. I wrapped myself in my housecoat and stalked through the upper halls, walking right into the suite shared by the sisters, without knocking to announce my presence.

The sisters turned to me in surprise. Mrs. Gainsley sat in a loveseat next to the fireplace. She had clearly been crying. Miss Howard was standing. Before either one could say anything, I scolded them, “My dear young ladies, it is quite late in the evening. Mina is sleeping, as are the servants, and my wife and I are trying to have some quiet time together.”

Miss Howard, wearing her undergarments with her long hair loosened, smirked. “I’m quite sure.”

Ignoring her jest, I demanded, “What is going on here?”

Mrs. Gainsley spoke up. “I might as well confess to you, Sir Aaron…I know the truth about my husband’s death.”

I was taken aback. “Do…do you?”

Mrs. Gainsley nodded. I did not know what to say. I looked at Miss Howard, the murderess, for guidance. Surprisingly, she looked rather annoyed.

“Sir Aaron,” Mrs. Gainsley finally said, “I…I must admit that I understand my sister’s reasoning behind her actions. Though I certainly do not agree with them…I…well, I will admit that after a time, I was rather…relieved…” She looked away from me for a moment. The poor young lady.

“Beatrice,” I said softly, “I am sorry…”

“I certainly hope you are sorry,” she suddenly burst out. “I feel like quite the fool, Aaron, having been tricked by you all this time. You…and Lady Emily!”

“Oh, Beatrice, please,” I said, but I did not know what to say.

Miss Howard, the voice of reason, spoke up. “No one meant you any harm by it, Bea.”

“How did you find out?” I asked.

Mrs. Gainsley flushed. “I am ashamed to admit this,” she said, “but I read it in your wife’s diary.”

I thought of where my wife kept her cherished and (mostly) private diary. On a shelf in her wardrobe…one would have to go looking for it to find it. It was my turn to flush. “How did it come into your possession?” I asked, trying to maintain calm.

“I…found it in the wardrobe…”

“How dare you?” I burst. “Who are you to go sneaking through my wife’s things?”

“Oh, Aaron,” Mrs. Gainsley cried, sobbing again. I am usually moved by the tears of a woman, particularly the delicate Mrs. Gainsley, but that evening, I strode forth, raising my hand. Had I meant to strike her?

Miss Howard rushed forward and grabbed my arm. “Sir Aaron, she told me that she was retrieving an object that Lady Emily had requested. She did not go in there without permission.”

I lowered my voice, trembling with anger. “But still…”

“I meant no harm by it,” Mrs. Gainsley pleaded. “I am sorry, Aaron, do forgive me.” And in an instant, I did. I felt that our crime against her outweighed hers. I took a deep breath to calm myself and sat beside Mrs. Gainsley on the small loveseat.

“Can we come to an agreement?” I asked calmly, taking Mrs. Gainsley gently by the hand. She nodded, and I reached out and tenderly wiped the tears from her face. “Let’s not fight. We are all friends here. I hope you understand that what Lady Emily and I did, we did because we care for your sister very much.”

Mrs. Gainsley nodded again and did not speak. “Beatrice,” I said gently, “I hope you are happy here at Wainwright Hall. Are you, my dear?”

“Yes, Aaron,” she said softly. “And I am so grateful to you and Lady Emily, for all you have done for me…”

“I know,” I said with a wave of my hand. I had heard about enough of her praise over our ‘generosity’ those past two years. “You give us much in return, Beatrice. My wife is particularly fond of you, and having you here adds to her happiness. Which adds to mine. We both care for you.”

“You are my family,” Mrs. Gainsley whispered, and I nodded in agreement. We were a strange family, certainly, but we were happy. Emily was happy, with her ‘sisters’ and with me. At least, I truly believed that she was. “Aaron,” she said, “I hold no grudge against you or Lady Emily for what happened with my husband. I hope you will forgive me for invading the lady’s privacy.”

I gave her a wicked little grin. “Well, Beatrice,” I said, “I think that you will need to be punished for it. Eventually. But for now, I have to ask a favor, of both of you.” I turned to address Miss Howard, who had been standing by, silently regarding us with folded arms. “Do not speak of any of this to Lady Emily. I don’t want to keep any more secrets among us…but she is in a delicate state right now. Will you ladies do me this favor?”

Both agreed, and we left on generally decent terms. The ladies agreed to stop their fighting (though I am sure that they continued to bicker, much more quietly, throughout the night), and I bade them goodnight. As I said goodnight to Mrs. Gainsley, I gently touched her face as she stood to see me out.

“May I kiss you, Beatrice?” I asked quietly. She nodded, smiling for the first time that evening, and I kissed her softly. I gave a much filthier kiss to her sister, whispering in her ear, “Look at all the trouble you’ve caused, Tatiana.” I grabbed her tight ass briefly. “When Lady Emily feels up for it, I’ll have to teach you a lesson.”

“Oh, sure,” Miss Howard said facetiously, “I am always the one to blame. It has been like that all of my life, has it not, Bea?” To this, her sister had not response. I took that as my cue to depart.

I kept that conversation a secret from my wife. I would sometimes think of it, and promise myself, yet again, that I would tell her everything…another time. I always had an excuse. The drama with the Morrisons was enough of an excuse for a while; that entire visit had been a mistake, as it had only left my wife more troubled than I had ever seen her.

It was only after she was gone that I thought about that week with the Morrisons again. I had gotten so angry with Emily for caring so much about their marital woes. It wasn’t until after Emily was gone, and I’d read through her diary again (something I had not done in years, though she did not know this) that I realized the full extent of the situation. It all made sense then.

For the first few months, I went over that first (and only) day together in Spain, over and over again, trying to find answers. Emily disappeared on New Years Eve in Barcelona. She didn’t leave a note, nothing. She took nothing with her but the clothing she’d been wearing that night. There was no sign of a struggle. She was simply…gone.

On our arrival in Barcelona that morning, Emily had smiled brightly as we’d left the ship. She looked happier than she had in months, since the Morrisons had left us. She had been her smiling, cheerful self since their departure, but I could tell that she was left troubled by their visit. Worse, she would not discuss it with me. I could not blame her, after I had snapped at her in London, and I hoped to restore her feelings toward me on this trip.

I did not allow myself to admit it, but I was jealous of Mrs. Morrison. I knew how much my wife adored her, but it wasn’t just that. My wife gave love to many people, the ‘sisters,’ and our children, and all of her friends, and I never felt that she loved me any less for loving them as well. No; I knew that Mrs. Morrison fulfilled a need in Emily, a need that, try as I might, I could never satisfy for her on my own. I try to tell myself that I did not begrudge Emily for having these needs (for who I am, a man of such depraved needs myself, to judge the needs of anyone else, particularly my dear, lovely wife?), but I believe that I did. And even if I didn’t realize it, she knew.

But she was genuinely happy that morning in Barcelona. I know her well enough to tell. She held my hand tightly as I led her from the ship. She was eager to have the chance to try out her Spanish, a language she had been trying to learn on her own (along with Hindi, having already conquered German and French). She spoke earnestly with the carriage driver, who smiled at her and spoke slowly to accommodate her, before revealing that he was proficient in English.

Our rented chateau stood on a cliff overlooking the sea. Emily was dazzled by the view, standing in the sunny garden and looking out onto the sparkling waters. I would stand in the same spot only hours later, and wonder if Emily’s body were floating around in the beautiful, dark sea. But that morning, no such thoughts crossed my mind as I embraced my dear wife in that seaside garden, leading her to a sunny patch of grass, hidden from the house by a row of neatly trimmed bushes.

We sat on the grass, and I loosed Emily’s hair, letting it fall, so long and dark, down her back and arms. She sat still as I gently touched her face and ran my hands through her soft hair. “Are you glad we are here, Emily?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, sir,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome, my love,” I said, kissing her softly, briefly. “I only want you to be happy.”

“I am, sir,” she said, and she smiled, and I almost believed her. Well, if she were not completely happy, I would change that. I knew how to take care of my Emily. That’s why she belonged to me. If anything, I was confident in that fact. It was all shattered after that night, but even in the garden that morning, as I slowly seduced my wife, I still believed it. I believe she did as well.

I fucked her gently in that garden, holding down her wrists and nibbling on her neck as I slowly thrust into her. She kept the rhythm as she rocked her hips slowly, raising her legs to allow me to plunge deep inside of her. I gave in to the temptation to tear away her traveling gown, revealing her glorious (and sore, quite sore) tits. I’d been neglecting them, waiting for her to beg me to suckle, as she did that morning as I began squeezing them.

“Oh, please, sir, drink of me,” she gasped. “I have so much milk for you, sir.”

I would not have relished it if I’d known that my son would never suckle from his mother’s tit again. But I drank of her greedily, nibbling on her nipples, not very roughly, but enough to make her gasp and wriggle beneath me. And all that time, I did not cease in my thrusting, and I filled her with my milk as I enjoyed hers.

That would be the last time, before her disappearance, that I would ever make love to my wife alone. We left the garden (Emily, blushing as she pulled on her undergarments and held the tattered remains of her gown to her chest), and began to make our plans for the day, as though disaster were not about to strike. Emily had plans to meet with Señora Vivian Santos, the hostess of the lavish party that we would attend that evening to celebrate the New Year. Sra. Santos was an Englishwoman, and the niece of our neighbor Mr. Steepleton. Apparently, I had met Sra. Santos (then Miss Steepleton) some years ago at a party held by her uncle and aunt, but I did not remember her. Emily kept some light correspondence with her over the years (in fact, after my wife’s disappearance, I marveled at the number of people with whom she’d been in contact), and when she’d written of our plans to come to Barcelona for the New Year, Sra. Santos had not hesitated in extending an invitation to her party.

Sra. Santos and Emily would be meeting for lunch, so I gave my wife the use of the rented carriage and decided to spend the afternoon relaxing. Had I known it would be our final day together, I would have wanted to spend those hours with her right by my side. Hell, had I any idea of what was to happen, I would never have allowed my wife to leave my side again.

Unsurprisingly, my wife came back from her luncheon with a new gown for that evening. It was red silk, embroidered all over with an intricate design. It was a close-fitting gown, with black lace at the bottom and a short black lace train in the back. It bared her shoulders, and when she modeled it for me with her favorite corset, I was pleased to see more than a hint of her soft, white cleavage. I plunged my head into her chest and kissed her, making her gasp. “Oh, sir, please don’t leave any marks on me, they will show…”

And so, I left a small love-bite on her chest, just low enough to tell if one were looking carefully. But we did not play again that afternoon. Emily hung up her gown, and we had a short siesta. I ran my hands over her soft stomach, not as toned as it used to be (to my delight), though my Emily was still quite lean. Her tits, though…her tits were just perfect, sagging heavily with milk, her nipples hard and red constantly, the white skin silky soft to the touch. So deliciously swollen, and begging to be squeezed and teased and tormented. But I did nothing more than rub her tits softly that afternoon, and we did fall asleep for a short time.

We arrived at the Santos estate around eleven o’clock (the times would become significant to me as I frantically recalled the events of the night), and were greeted by Sra. Santos herself, and her husband Señor Andres Santos, a wealthy businessman who invested in trading companies and ships. Sra. Santos was not a remarkable-looking woman. I knew that, like her uncle our neighbor, she had inherited a sizable fortune, enough to attract the still-young and quite handsome Sr. Santos.

Sr. Santos, a short, lean, and swarthy gentleman, had a thin mustache. I could see that my wife found him interesting, if not attractive, and they flirted mildly, of course. I made small talk with Sra Santos, but she was very distracted by the goings-on of her fiesta, and very quickly dismissed herself to greet other guests. She seemed rather stiff, and I wondered briefly if Emily and I might find a way to spend some time with Sr. Santos alone…

After greeting the host and hostess, we mingled for a time among the wealthiest people in Barcelona. Emily timidly tried out her Spanish, and she charmed everyone she met, of course. She has always been this way, even before she came under my care. I wondered if she did not come by her charming ways honestly (as I felt certain she came by her whorish ways, inheriting them from her mother), or if it were not somehow taught and practiced in her early years. Dear, sweet Emily never seemed to feel awkward or intimidated around anyone. I never did ask her how she did it. Of course, I had taught her to be polite and kindly to everyone, but her charm and sweetness…that was all her.

None of the other guests caught our interest quite so much as Sr. Santos himself. I questioned my wife teasingly. “Would you like to become better acquainted with our host?” After her disappearance, I felt terrible guilt over the need I’d had to whore her out. My own wife…the child whom I had raised by my own hand. Why had it pleased me so to see her with others? To see others rule over her, coaxing her to fulfill their lewd fantasies? But I reminded myself that she enjoyed the attention. She did it to please me, but she enjoyed it herself, and I thought nothing of it if all were getting pleasure out of it. But after she was gone, I swore to myself that if I ever got her back, she would be mine alone for the rest of our lives. I sorely regretted permitting her promiscuity, and unknowingly placing her in harm’s way.

Near midnight, my wife and I had made our way into the back yard, essentially a patio and small garden overlooking the sea. The view was dizzying, the estate being located on a seaside cliff even higher than the one on which our chateau was situated. Emily gasped and looked out over the dark sea. Far below, lights from boats along the coast were visible.

At that moment, Sr. Santos came upon us. “Your wife appreciates the view,” he observed, his English heavily accented. I nodded.

Emily turned and smiled at our host. “It is amazing,” she declared. “You and Sra. Santos are quite fortunate to wake up to it each day.”

“It is even lovelier in the evening, when the sun is setting,” Sr. Santos said, gesturing out toward the dark horizon. “You will want to stay right here until midnight. This is a good spot to see the fireworks over the sea.”

“Goodness!” Emily cried, unable to hide her excitement. Sr. Santos went to get drinks for us, and I put my arm around her. She giggled and I hugged her briefly.

“You are attracted to him,” I accused her kindly. “You’d like him to have you tonight, wouldn’t you, my sweet little whore?”

But Emily lifted her head from my chest. “Oh, but sir,” she said, “He is married. I don’t think I could play with him without his wife present…or at least without her permission.”

I frowned at her. “Do you see that happening?”

“No, sir.”

I sighed and planted a discreet kiss on her forehead. “Well, my love, I guess I will have to try to change that.” When Sr. Santos joined us again, I said, “Señor, where is your wife? I would like our old friend to join us for a toast.”

Sr. Santos unenthusiastically waved his hand toward the house, and I took my drink and went in to retrieve her, throwing a wink at my wife as I left her with our host. I found Sra. Santos with a couple of other ladies (both older than she), and she smiled at me as I joined them, taking another champagne from a servant before coming to her side.

“Your home is lovely, Señora,” I said kindly, turning on my own (and certainly practiced) charm. We flirted lightly for a minute, before I said, “Lady Emily and I have procured a wonderful spot to observe the fireworks. It is very close to midnight. Why don’t you join us?”

And she came along, and the four of us stood together. All were silent when the midnight church bells tolled, and on the final strike, loud cheering rang up, and all toasted and drank of their champagne. I grabbed my wife and kissed her deeply as the first fireworks went off above the seashore. Emily was dazzled by it, the whole display left her as giddy as a young girl, and I was thrilled to see her so carefree and happy once again.

After the impressive fireworks show, the band began playing again, and many of the guests began dancing. We joined in, and I found myself dancing with the hostess, while my wife worked her charms on the host. After a time, the four of us found ourselves in the study as the Santos gave us a ‘tour’ of their seaside estate.

The study had large windows overlooking the garden and the sea. Down below, we could see the other guests dancing and mingling. Sr. Santos poured us another round of drinks. And, well…it was not long before we were getting down to it. After a time (I will confess, after a few drinks I do not remember how we got to that point), Emily stood and stripped, revealing her red undergarments beneath her gown. I looked at Sra. Santos especially for a reaction, and it seemed that she was even more excited than her husband.

“Gentlemen,” Emily said suddenly, “We ladies must confess that there is a conspiracy afoot.” I was puzzled (and thrilled) as Emily giggled and Sra. Santos (suddenly much more attractive to me) stood and stripped down to her corset (also a deep shade of red). I glanced over at Sr. Santos, who looked shocked but not displeased as he took a trembling sip of his drink.

“Explain yourself, my ladies,” I said calmly.

“Well, sir,” Emily confessed, “Sra. Santos is no stranger to our good friend, Alfonso Beaumont.”

“Oh,” I said. “It is a small world, isn’t it?”

“Who is this Alfonso Beaumont?” Sr. Santos demanded, though he did not seem entirely upset by this information.

“You remember Alfonso, darling,” Sra. Santos said. “My uncle’s driver, the strong African man.”

Sr. Santos nodded in remembrance, smiling slowly. I glanced at my wife, and she smiled knowingly. The truth was revealed, then. Sr. Santos enjoyed the company of men. And the ladies intended for me to use him for my own pleasure. Realizing this, I stood and went to Emily as Sra. Santos straddled her own husband. I put my hands on Emily’s tiny waist (such a small girl!) and pulled her to me, scowling in her giggling face. “Naughty whore,” I scolded. “It pleases you to see me with men?” The only man that I’d ever played with (in Emily’s presence) was my father’s old friend Colonel Faulkner.

Emily shrugged. “It is a fantasy that Sra. Santos and I have built up for some months now…I admit it would excite me to see it come to fruition, if it pleases you, sir.”

Well! It certainly did please me. It is obvious that I much prefer the company of women (particularly soft, nubile women), but I did not hesitate to join in with the ladies’ little game that night. My wife really asked so little of me, and to fulfill her desires would have been enough of a motivation alone. And looking back, I do not regret making my wife happy on our last night together.

As I straddled a naked Sr. Santos (who lay on his belly on the floor of his study), guiding my stiff cock to the opening of his asshole (I do remember that he had a small, tight little ass), I grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. I kissed him once, only once. I do not like kissing men, but I shoved my tongue down his throat and felt his thin mustache against my upper lip. I heard my wife giggling uncontrollably, and I knew that she loved this. She would have been stroking herself if I had not ordered her to sit still and enjoy the show. She would be needed to thank our host and hostess for their generosity.

I pumped into Sr. Santos roughly, pulling his head back and allowing him to grunt aloud with each deep, swift stroke. His ass was tight, tighter than my Emily’s, but he’d clearly been taken there before (by our own friend, no less…truly a small world). Sra. Santos joined us, wearing only her red corset top, her pussy (with a scarce tangle of hair as red as the wild hair that now fell past her pale shoulders) exposed. She lowered it onto her husband’s face, forcing him to lick and please her as I fucked him roughly. I looked over at my wife, saw her glowing, smiling face. Yes, she was quite pleased. I gave her a wicked smile, winking as Sra. Santos moaned loudly.

I held out until I sensed that our hostess was coming, before I allowed myself to release into Sr. Santos’s ass. I climbed off of the small man swiftly and went to my wife, and she stood, allowing me to sweep her into my arms. I kissed her deeply, and whispered in her ear, “You enjoyed that, my lady? Are you ready for your turn, whore?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she sighed, and I set her down. Sr. Santos, standing uneasily with the help of his smiling wife, came to us. I nodded.

“You may do anything that you like to this lady,” I said. “Her cunt is off-limits, but her ass and mouth are very accommodating.”

Sra. Santos, spent, poured herself another drink and sat by to watch as her husband pumped his stubby cock down my wife’s throat. Taking the drink that the hostess offered, I stood by and watched with approval, my cock in one hand and my drink in the other, and when my drink was finished and my cock was sufficiently hard, I set my glass down and positioned myself behind my wife. She was knelt on the floor, on her knees (such a natural position for her), expertly sucking our host’s member. She probably noticed me approach, but she still cried out in surprise as I swiftly stood behind her and entered her cunt smoothly.

Having fucked our host quite roughly, and wanting to allow Emily to focus on her other task, I fucked my wife slowly, though I still came very quickly after Sr. Santos. After Emily had finished cleaning our host’s cock, I wrapped my arms around her neck and hold her tightly, whispering in her ear. “What think you, whore? Has this been a fun party?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she murmured, and I squeezed her once more, before we stood and joined our host and hostess for one more drink. They did not seem to be in any hurry to return to their own party. Indeed, when we had all straightened ourselves out and joined the party a short time later, it seemed that no one had noticed our absence.

After midnight, more guests arrived. As my wife and I danced, we met more interesting people, some who even flirted openly with us. Having lost our host and hostess in the crowd, I could only wonder if our sort of activities were normal amongst their social circle. I smiled to imagine such a scenario among the neighbors of Wainwright Hall. We had formed our own little social circle, certainly, but on the whole, our friends and neighbors were quite conservative.

We had intended to remain at the party until dawn, as was tradition in Spain on New Year’s. Our host and hostess would be serving a large breakfast, and I was excited by the prospect of having more ‘playtime’ before going back to our chateau. But not long after the clock struck three, I noticed that Emily’s countenance had taken on a pale shade. Poor dear, she was exhausted but smiling as I pulled her aside.

“My darling,” I said, “You are in need of rest. Shall we go back to our chateau together and retire for the evening?”

“I am quite tired,” Emily confessed. “But sir, I do not wish to drag you away. You’re not at all tired, and you’re having a wonderful time, aren’t you?”

It was true. I had not had such fun in a long time. All of the dancing, and the luscious Spanish women in their bright dresses, and the flowing drinks. I was quite drunk by  then…I would later curse my drunkenness. What sort of old man such as I would indulge in this way, when I had such a precious girl in my care? But I thought nothing of it; I agreed to stay until after the breakfast had been served, with the goal of perhaps bringing a pretty señorita home to play with my rested wife.

I walked my wife to our rented carriage, would stood by on the street crowded with like carriages. Our driver hastened over from where he’d been huddled with a group of drivers, who were having their own sort of party as they waited on their employers. I only allowed Emily to ride in the carriage alone with him after determining that he was most sober.

I kissed my wife goodbye. “Rest up, my love,” I ordered gently. “I feel that I will want to play when I come to you.”

“Goodnight, sir,” my wife giggled, and I watched the carriage drive away. I did not feel at all troubled as I went back into the party. I was a clueless fool, completely unaware that my wife would not be waiting for me upon my return.

I left after breakfast, as planned, and though no ladies (or gentlemen) accompanied me, I was expecting more than a couple of ladies to call on us quite soon. The driver took me home, and I was finally overcome with fatigue from our travels and the long, exciting night. I longed only to climb into bed with my wife, my dearest, and wrap my arms around her warm little body, and fall asleep for the remainder for the morning.

I would not know her warming comfort. I entered the chateau and went immediately to the master bedchamber. I was surprised, but not yet troubled, to not see Emily in the bed (though I would note, after finding that she was not in the chateau at all, that the bed was still made from after our nap that afternoon). She was not in the bathroom, nor in the kitchen getting breakfast. Only then, as I glanced out into the dewy garden, did I begin calling for her.

She was gone. I searched the entire chateau (I cursed how large it was as I became frantic). No note had been left. I went out to the carriage house and found the driver, who was still putting the horses away, and questioned him. He claimed that he had brought Emily back, as arranged, and had seen her into the chateau himself. He had noticed nothing strange, and on Emily’s insistence he had returned to the party to wait on me.

I was tempted to thrash the man, but I felt that he was truthful, and I left him alone. I searched the streets and the beach below the chateau and the cliff briefly, but I panicked that Emily might return to the chateau and find me out and leave again. As midmorning drew and the sun shown brightly, I returned to the chateau and searched it again, my heart sinking as I finally sat heavily on the (still perfectly made) bed. Emily was gone.

When Emily did not return by afternoon, I went to the police and put in a report. There was an investigation, and I myself spent tireless days and nights searching the streets of Barcelona, armed with a recently drawn picture of Emily, taking it from my pocket and showing it to strangers, questioning them desperately in the broken Spanish that I had picked up. No one had seen her.

The police questioned the people who had attended the Santos’s New Years fiesta, but could find nothing to lead them to believe that anyone would have been involved in Emily’s disappearance. When they dropped the investigation after a month, I was despondent.

I had written home and explained the events to the sisters. I had promised not to return until I had Emily safely in my care. But one evening, I sat alone, wondering what I might do. What had happened to Emily? Had she run away from me? Been kidnapped? Had she been murdered, her body still unfound as it floated in the sea? I was beginning to think that I should head back to England, and find a private investigator in London to take the case. I was completely lost…it had been six weeks. Was it too late?

There was a knocking at the door. I imagined that it was the police, with the news that Emily’s body had been found…or that it was Emily herself, locked out and only longing to be with me again. I hurried to the door, desperate hope filling my heart, and flung it open to see a sight that first disappointed, then elated me.

At the door, a calm but concerned look on her face, was my dear friend Mrs. Gainsley. “Sir Aaron!” she declared lovingly. “Oh, my poor sir.” I allowed her to wrap her arms around me and hug me close, not too tightly, but comfortingly. For the first time, I cried, and she led me into the chateau, closing the door behind us as I clung to her.

Struggling to regain some composure, I stammered, “Beatrice, my dear…how…”

She smiled kindly, taking my hand and leading me to the table in the small breakfast nook. “We had not heard from you again,” she said softly. “Your daughter is most worried.”

Poor child. I remembered the anxiety that Emily used to suffer from in my absence. I recalled this to Mrs. Gainsley then, explaining how Emily had becoming my traveling companion at a young age. I had previously taken an excursion to South Africa. The dear girl was seven at that time, an intelligent but delicate little thing. I had thought nothing of leaving her in the care of her beloved Nanny, though I had not left her alone since the death of her father.

When I returned to Wainwright Hall some three months later, I noticed a change in my dear girl. Certainly she was smiling and cheerful, quite happy to have me home again. But she looked pale, her pretty little cheeks shrunken and colorless. In private, her Nanny revealed that while I was away, the poor girl had hardly eaten and had fallen into a state of unnatural melancholy. She had not been sleeping properly. Some of her hair had even started to fall out. Dr. Yates had declared it a slight nervous condition, odd for a child so small, but perhaps not for one who had already lost so much.

Poor Emily! I swore never to leave her alone again…but how could I, a young single gentleman, remain bound to our rural home forever?

I found a solution, one that might be thought unorthodox by some, a few months later. After our German lesson (a language that the girl was picking up almost as quickly as she had French) one afternoon, Emily and I had tea in my study. “Emily,” I said suddenly, “I have been invited to join a friend of mine at a law university in Germany for a month-long guest lectureship.”

Emily, who had been smiling cheerfully only a moment before, frowned. “You’re going away, sir?” she asked quietly.

“I am,” I said. “I almost turned down the offer, though.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because I don’t want to distress you again.” Emily and I had never spoken of her illness during my previous extended absence. She blushed deeply as I went on. “I am most impressed with how quickly you’ve learned the language, my dear. I’m quite pleased. I was hoping this would be so, so that you might accompany me on my trip.”

“Go with you, sir?” She looked very puzzled. She’d never gone further than London in all of her young life.

“You’d like to, wouldn’t you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, sir!” she declared, her grey eyes shining happily at the news. “I would love to go with you. Oh, thank you, sir!”

I smiled gently. “Now, Emily, your Nanny will not be able to come with us on this trip. It is quite a long way to travel, and we must think of her health. So I am trusting that, on this trip, you will be on your very best behavior at all times. Do you understand, my child?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling still more brightly. The warning was unnecessary. We had a very pleasant time during our month in Berlin staying on the university campus, and during our fortnight-long trip to Brussels to visit with another old friend of mine. For the first time during that trip, I noticed what a charming effect Emily had on people. I had taken it for granted; I had loved my goddaughter all of her life, and the fact that all of our neighbors and friends loved her as well I had attributed to the love that they’d had for her late parents. But seeing her charm complete strangers, and not blush and turn away shyly, filled me with pride. My old friends and their acquaintances thought Emily a most precocious and lovely child.

As I recalled this story to Mrs. Gainsley, she nodded kindly and listened quietly. She only spoke when I had fallen into a melancholy silence again. “Sir Aaron,” she said, producing an envelope from her coat, “This letter came to you last week at home. It is in Lady Emily’s hand. I left right away to bring it to you in person.”

My hands trembling, I took the offered envelope. She was right; the handwriting was clearly Emily’s own script. I nearly cried with relief. She was alive! There was no return address on the envelope, but she was most certainly alive! I carefully but hastily tore the letter open and read quickly.

22 January, 18—

My dearest sir,

I apologize most sincerely for my hasty departure. My companion has allowed me to write a brief letter of explanation. I hope that this letter will quell some of your fears, and will keep the hope alive that I will return to you. I will come home, as soon as I am able.

My companion will be reading this letter, so I do not want to risk saying too much. Please, for the sake of yourself and for everyone at home, do not try to find me. My companion holds me under blackmail, and the information would be most damaging to someone at home…and to you, and to myself as well. I hope that will be sufficient explanation for why I was forced to leave.

I can give you no details. I cannot divulge the name of my companion (though this person believes that you already know), nor can I tell you where we are heading. I can tell you that I am safe. My companion means me no harm, I am sure, and assures me that while I am cooperative, no harm will befall me, nor anyone at home. I am warned, however, that there is a coconspirator closely connected to Wainwright Hall, whose identity I do not know and cannot think of. On the word of my companion, this person will strike and do harm…I am most afraid for the safety of the children, so do keep them close in your loving care.

I am going very far away, sir. My heart weeps. I wish to find a way to slip away, but I know that in doing so, I put myself and others in grave danger. I will assure you that I will do nothing rash. No matter how far away I go, and no matter what happens, I will forever be devoted to you. You alone are the master of my heart.

Sincerely,

Your Emily

I frantically read the letter over the first time, then more slowly the second, taking in each detail with confusion. Her “companion” (or rather, her captor) believed that I was aware of his identity. I shook my head…I could scarcely think of who it might be.

“My sister asked me to give this to you as well,” Mrs. Gainsley said suddenly, holding out a yellowed newspaper clipping. The story, dating around the same time as the letter, described how the body of an Englishman had washed upon an African shore, the man’s throat slash and his testicles mutilated. He had been identified as Mr. Charles Morrison. His wife Lydia was presumed dead, or perhaps captured by vicious pirates or natives, but I knew the truth. Clever Miss Howard had seen it as well.

So! Mrs. Morrison had killed her husband (presumably on their way back to Calcutta), and had blackmailed my wife into going away with her. With what information? Of course, Emily had been referring to the murder of Mr. Gainsley, and of our involvement in the cover-up for the true murderess, our friend who resided under our own roof. But how had Mrs. Morrison gained this knowledge? Who had entrusted her with it? As far as I could tell, only four of us were involved: my dear Emily, myself, and our friends the Howard sisters.

But for the time being, I was not so concerned with that particular piece of information. Mrs. Morrison had a coconspirator…someone close to Wainwright Hall, Emily had written. Who would plot against her, against our family and our loved ones? I racked my brain, but I had no enemies. Certainly gentle Emily, loved by all, had none.

I allowed myself to weep, so confused and frightened was I by all that I had learned. Mrs. Gainsley, the dear woman, again comforted me. “What am I to do, Beatrice?” I asked desperately.

“Come home,” she answered gently. “Your children need you. Do not suffer alone; allow me to shoulder some of your burden.”

Such a dear friend she was! She offered me such comfort that night in the dark chateau. For the first time since our relationship began, she offered no resistance to my advances as I kissed her slowly. As I peeled away her traveling gown, I briefly realized that she would be the first woman that I’d been with, without Emily present, since I had raped and enslaved my beloved years before. Nearly six years…it felt like a lifetime.

But though I felt some guilt, I fucked Mrs. Gainsley on the couch in the sitting room of the Spanish chateau. Her warm, soft body offered the comfort that I needed so badly. I straddled her and thrust into her slowly, enjoying her softness around me before pulling out and thrusting in again. Dear, sweet Mrs. Gainsley! I fucked her solemnly, without the playfulness that usually accompanied my lovemaking to Emily. Mrs. Gainsley could more than fulfill my needs, but not my deepest desires.

She was, however, quite accommodating that night. After filling her on the couch (and noting that she had not reached an orgasm herself), I offered her dinner. After we ate (or rather, she ate while I picked at my food), I showed her upstairs to the master bedchamber. The bed was unmade; I had discontinued the housekeeping services that came with the rented chateau, and had been doing a haphazard job of maintaining the place myself. Mrs. Gainsley and I agreed that we would stay until we could procure travel back to England, but would do so as quickly as possible.

She stayed with me in that master bedchamber, allowing me to bend her over the foot of the bed and fuck her in her ass. It wasn’t the first time I’d enjoyed Mrs. Gainsley’s fat fleshy ass, but it was the first time that she allowed me to spank her lightly. Mrs. Gainsley was not one for discipline, and she never would be. I felt that forcing her to take on Emily’s role as my pain slut would not only be disrespectful to my wife, but unfair to Mrs. Gainsley. While she was my lover, we maintained our previous guidelines of equality, each getting our share. But like Emily, Mrs. Gainlsey was so willing to give…not even really caring if she got her pleasure, just enjoying the giving itself.

After a couple of days (and tireless nights of fucking) in Barcelona, we secured passage on a ship headed for London, which would depart the following morning. It pained me to leave Barcelona…a part of me still believed that in doing so, I would be leaving my Emily behind. But I remembered her letter (which I clutched on to through the duration of her absence), and how she had written that she would be going “far away.”

As Mrs. Gainsley and I boarded the ship that cold morning, I wondered where Emily was. Had Mrs. Morrison taken her back to India? Certainly not to her home in Calcutta…her servants there, having noted their employers’ prolonged absence, had been the ones to report them missing in the first place. Had she dragged my love to Asia? Africa? America? My poor Emily could be in any part of the world, I knew, and with the threat of imprisonment or death hanging over our heads, there was nothing we could do about it. At least, not for the time being.

On our arrival back to Wainwright Hall, I was determined to maintain a cheerful continence for the sake of the children. Poor little Peter, who would continue to get his nourishment from a mixture rather than from his own mother, was too young to note his mother’s absence consciously, but as he grew older it would have a more profound effect on him.

Mina questioned me right away, after greeting me with a kiss. “Where is Mummy?” she asked, innocent to the truth.

Forcing back tears, I gave her a smile. “Mummy went to go visit with some old friends.”

“When will she come home?” Mina asked, looking as frightened and confused as I remembered her mother being at that age, after being orphaned. I pulled my daughter to me in a tight hug, holding her close, not daring to let go.

“I don’t know, Mina,” I said truthfully. “But don’t worry. Mummy wrote a letter and said she’s having a lot of fun. She’ll be home soon.”

My innocent daughter accepted my lie, and when the children had been laid down to sleep, I sat alone with the sisters in my study and discussed the situation. “Ladies,” I said, “As you are my dearest friends, I am asking for your help. I…I cannot care for the children on my own.”

The sisters exchanged a glance. “Sir Aaron,” Mrs. Gainsley said kindly, “We have no intention of leaving you in your time of need.”

Miss Howard nodded in agreement. “Wainwright Hall is our home, Aaron. You cannot easily be rid of us.” She smiled in jest, and though I was in no mood to joke, I returned her smile.

“I hope you ladies understand how much I care for you,” I said, my head bowed almost shamefully. “While you are here, all of your needs will be met, I promise you this. And if you are so willing, I would like to continue our relationship as…as we had before.” Even as I said these words, I was shamed that I would continue seeing these two ladies out of wedlock…because without Emily around, it felt wrong. But would she begrudge me my needs? I certainly did not think it so. But this did not stop me from experiencing the guilt.

The nature of my relationship with the ladies changed a little. We did not all play together; I was either with one sister, or the other. I favored Miss Howard for afternoon fallacio and quick, ferocious fucks throughout the house. With Mrs. Gainsley, I was much more sensual. With both women, I continued to use restraints occasionally, as it excited Miss Howard and frightened Mrs. Gainsley, both emotions leading to more intense sex.

For several years, I kept my previous promise to not bring anyone into my bedchamber but my own wife. Allowing Mrs. Gainsley to join me there was a lapse of judgment, a weakness, and from there it seemed that there was no turning back. Still, even in the darkest of times, when I would think of my Emily and worry and miss her with a longing that ached, I held on to the hope that my Emily would return to me, would return to her home. It was that hope that kept me going, and that motivated me to continue making Wainwright Hall a happy and safe place, for the sake of the children. But my smiles were forced, and there were very few moments in Emily’s absence that I felt any real kind of joy, for even my sexual games with the sisters did not fulfill me. No…I knew, from the beginning, that nothing would make me truly happy until I had my Emily in my arms once again.