Lady Emily's Guardian

Lady Emily’s Letters

16 November, 18—

My dearest sir,

I have not written in quite some time, and though I am ashamed of this, do not take it to mean that I have not been thinking of you. When I have a moment to myself (which is rare anymore, as I will explain), I cannot stop myself from thinking of you, and our children, and our home. I recently begged Lydia to give me some news of Wainwright Hall. I know that she has been in touch with her coconspirator; I do not know how often, and I still do not have any clues as to who the traitor may be.

Without revealing the villain’s identity, Lydia told me of some happy news, that our dear Miss Howard has wed. Glad as I am for her (though surprised, sir, quite surprised; I never thought that Miss Howard ever desired to be a wife!), I asked, “And what of my family?”

“Your husband and children are healthy and well,” Lydia said, rather flippantly, and would say no more on the subject. It was enough to give me the relief that I have needed, so I am able to carry on with one less trouble on my mind. I do hope that what Lydia claims is so, and that you and our children are well, and happy. Even without me, I hope you are all happy.

Lydia’s business venture has kept me quite busy. We reside and run our business (officially a “social club,” but I will give you the details on our many specialty services) in a handsome Victorian-style house, three floors. Though it is located in a moderately busy section of San Francisco (with an enormous new bank located just a few blocks away), the property is surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence, and the front yard is so filled with trees that the house can hardly be viewed from the street.

The trees are necessary to ensure privacy. Our house (called ‘Lydie Smithwick’s Place’ by our clients, as Lydia, for obvious reasons, goes by her first married name) is also the home to five young ladies who are under Lydia’s employ. The simplest way to put it, sir, is that these girls are prostitutes, and their various talents for giving or receiving pleasure and pain keep the bills paid and food on our table.

I wish to note that I am not one of Lydia’s whores. You may say that I am more of a business manager. As I began in New York with Lydia’s personal finances, I keep books for the house, and I personally take care of all of the expenses: various bills, groceries, payment to the employees, police bribes.

Oh, yes! Imagine my fear, sir, when two San Francisco police officers first showed on our doorstep. The house had been open but a month; only three of the girls worked there at that point. Lydia was surprising cool. She knew that they only sought to line their pockets, and did not hesitate to smilingly hand over a handsome amount from the vault. She was entertaining a group of men in the large parlor (the décor is ghastly, sir, all soft pinks and silk and enormous pillows…you would certainly laugh, sir, but it is no longer amusing to me), wearing only a black corset under her open silk robe, with high-heeled shoes. I was a stark contrast in a more conservative dress. I find it necessary to take on a stern, almost schoolmarmish appearance, so that the drunken clients may not confuse me with one of the girls-for-hire. Not that this has stopped some of them giving me their attentions. I am interested in none of them.

I am not without my sexual urges, sir, and Lydia gives me more attention than I need to be satisfied. My satisfaction is mixed with terrible guilt, of course, sir, and for the longest time I have been terribly confused. But I think you will understand…I hope you will understand…that though my love for you is unwavering, I do have my physical desires. Of course I know you do not begrudge me this, though I do belong to you, but even your imagined forgiveness is of little comfort to me. And yet…

In the presence of the employees and the clients, Lydia always treats me as she did in public. She addresses me as “Emily,” and in front of the girls, I call her “Mrs. Smithwick.” The girls call me “Mrs. Singer,” though I do not wish to begin naming the ugly names that they call Lydia behind her back. They are not fond of their madam, who seems to save all of her kindness for the paying clients (and for me, of course). She is quite rude to them, at best, and almost abusive at worst. Under my influence, she does not treat them as badly as she might if I were not present. The girls view me as a protector, a confidante, and though I did not strive for their affections, I do treat them with kindness, if I am somewhat distant.

In spite of myself, sir, I have grown fond of these girls. They are no playmates of mine (except for an incident with Natasha, which I will recount to you in the detail that you deserve), though they are all attractive girls, in their own right. I should note, sir, that around here, people do not like to discuss their pasts. It is considered to be quite rude to question a person about family or former occupations, a social rule that Lydia in particular has taken quite a liking to. Yet all of these girls, one by one, have shared with me their stories. You might imagine, sir, that their lives must have been quite wretched for them to have come to work in such a place as ours, and you would be most correct.

Nancy and Maggie are, as they might put it, “skinny little white girls” from Missouri. They came together from a small town along the Mississippi river, and are quite uneducated and poor (though they are now some of the best paid whores in San Francisco). Lydia often scolds them for walking about the first level or in the yard without shoes, but as Nancy explained to me, “For the longest time, we didn’t have no shoes to wear at all.”

The girls claim to be cousins, and while this may be so (they do bear some resemblance to one another, with the same long build, and the same long blonde hair and smattering of freckles below their eyes), I know them also to be lovers. They do not keep this a secret among the other girls, and how could they? The five young ladies stay on the third floor, in the rooms that once served as servants’ quarters, so I don’t imagine that their private activities would go unnoticed.

They both were not unfamiliar with the sort of master-slave games that Lydie’s Place specializes in. Nancy, the more talkative of the two, most often serves the submissive clients, and though she is always gentle with the meek Maggie (who was abused terribly by the man who was supposed to be her guardian…her story makes me ever the more grateful that I’ve always had you, sir), I have witnessed Nancy treat some high-paying clients with startling brutality, as though she were unleashing her rage upon them. Well…these men enjoy it, they pay more, and everyone gets what they need from the bargain, I suppose. Nancy takes no real pleasure in it, slumping down beside me in the office in exhaustion after such an encounter with a client, too weary even to move.

Maggie, shy as she is (particularly around Lydia; she practically cowers whenever she comes into a room), is more than willing to satisfy the needs of clients who enjoy abusing and tormenting her. I worried (and still do) about leaving her alone with some crazed, drunken man in one of the second floor rooms, or in the basement ‘dungeon,’ and having the client lose control and really do something to harm her. But Lydia laughed off my concerns. “If you are worried about it, my pet, why don’t you watch over these sessions yourself?” She is always trying to get me to participate, even in some small way. There is one client who pays double just to have me watch Lydia give him a beating, but I only sit solemnly and watch, no longer impressed with Lydia’s power.

I did witness Maggie with one of the clients once, in stealth. I hid in a closet in an upper room, where I knew Maggie would be bringing a man. As I watched the fat banker bend her over the back of a chair and beat her on the ass with his belt, I watched Maggie’s face. It was clear that she actually enjoyed what he was doing to her, much the way that I enjoyed taking punishment from you. So I do try not to worry about her so.

There is one other girl who plays the submissive role in our group. That would be the aforementioned Natasha, who is a beautiful Native American woman. She told me that she is of the Dine tribe, and that when she was very young, there had been much violence between her people and white soldiers. She and her mother had fled to San Francisco with a missionary group, but when her mother died, Natasha had started working at a brothel nearby, and had come to work for us for more money.

Natasha explained to me why so many of the clients love to dominate her. “It’s the fantasy of conquest, and with me, they feel that they are not just conquering a woman, but an entire people.” It makes her smile when she says this, because in the end, she feels like she’s really the one in control. She truly is a powerful woman, with striking features. Her brown skin is beautiful, and her long, straight hair is so black that it almost looks blue in the sun.

Natasha came to work for us after we had been open for a few months, so she has been with us for about a year now. It was a few months ago that she and I had our little encounter, and though we are still friendly, there is tension between us, and I am afraid that I am to blame for this. But before I tell all, I must describe the other “girls” and employees of our brothel.

Amalia and Jiao (though Lydia forces her to go by “June,” I address her by her proper name) are mostly dominant whores. They are closer to my own age, but I still lump them together with the younger ladies and call them “girls.” They’re both small, but are capable of satisfying the needs of the wealthy clients who crave being controlled. Jiao is especially popular with the handful of Chinese businessmen who frequent the place. Amalia, a sweet-tempered Mexican girl who was raised in a family of migrant workers, turns on the clients with her lovely accent and flirtatious mannerisms, but in the ‘dungeon’ or the bedrooms, she is quite voracious. She’s so popular that I do believe Lydia is jealous of her.

However, Lydia is quite proud of the diversity in her place. “Our own American smelting pot,” she recently joked, to quote Emerson. “Something for every taste…as long as they can pay.” And pay they do, sir, and I am quite busy keeping the books, and…well, the rest.

There was some trouble, in the first couple of months, with a couple of clients who tried to skip out on paying their tabs. I almost got into a scrap myself, sir, though I believe that you would be proud of the way that I handled myself. I approached one client as he was leaving (after having his way with Maggie), holding up the written charges that he’d accumulated over five weeks. He was a regular at the place, and he had not only racked up quite a charge for “services rendered,” but a considerable bill for drinks consumed as well (Lydia serves as the “bartender” herself). “I am calling your tab, Mr. Lynch,” I said as the red-faced Irishman made for the door.

He barely glanced at the bill, and he did not take it. “I will have to pay when I return on Friday,” he said quickly. I dared to grab his arm to stay him.

“Sir,” I said, calmly but sternly, “You gave the same excuse on your last visit. The time has come to pay up, or you will not be welcome to return.”

He grew angry and wretched his arm away. He called me all sorts of ugly names, which I do not wish to recount here. Such verbal abuse would have once reduced me to tears, sir, as you have always thought me to be a delicate thing. I am hardened a little by my experiences, sir, and though I trembled in indignation, I did not cry or shout.

I was afraid, sir, that the large man would hit me. He was quite drunk. I did not know how capable he was of making his payment. Though he was a wealthy businessman, he owed more gambling debts than he did to our place. I insisted that he leave and not return without the full payment in cash, and I was fortunate that, as he made to strike me, a couple of clients intervened, hearing his cursing from the parlor.

Lydia came up behind them, and as the clients threw the man out of the door, she wrapped me in a tight embrace. “Poor pet,” she murmured softly, so that the girls and clients, watching with curious eyes from the now-open parlor, could not hear. “You needn’t worry about collecting payments, dear. We are doing quite well.”

“But these men must pay,” I insisted. “If we allow them to walk out on their tabs, we will go under.” We were only beginning to be established, and though our “specialty services” brought in more money than most well established whorehouses in town, we had many expenses. And I always insisted that our girls be reasonably paid.

One of the clients who threw out the troublemaker suggested that we hire a strong-arm, a man who would ensure the protection of the house, girls, and money, and I found this to be an agreeable idea. I am not entirely sure how word of our need got around, but two days later, in the late morning, a young man arrived at our door. I was the only one up and about at that time, save the maid Mary who was busily cleaning the mess in the second floor rooms from the previous night’s debauchery.

Lydia was resting in the room that we shared on the first floor, connected to the house only through our office, our little haven away from the rest of the house’s activities. She is in the habit of sleeping late after a night of “business,” and she does not like that I rise early. I am glad that she does not (usually) tie me down and force me to stay by her side; as a matter of fact, sir, it is morning now as I write this, and I am the only one awake on the property. Mornings are my favorite and least favorite times, both for the reason that it allows me time to think.

I answered the knock at the door, and found the young man. I do blush to admit to you, sir, that he is most handsome. Almost adorable in a way, with a cherubic face, but a strong body. He smiled politely, and addressed me in a London accent. “You must be Mrs. Singer?” he asked. “I hear that you are looking for security here?”

The fact alone that he was from our home country made me invite him in quickly. “I would invite you into the parlor, but it has not been cleaned since last night,” I explained as I led him to the surprisingly small dining room. We do not often serve food to our “guests,” but every once in a while Lydia will be in the mood for a large party, and will have food catered to the place in the early afternoon, having it spread out like a buffet for the clients (the girls are not allowed to have any while they are “working”). But that sunny morning, it was bare, and he sat and I offered him a drink. He declined and we sat and talked for quite some time.

His name is Joseph. Everyone calls him Joe but I. He was a poor young man from London, orphaned as a boy (you know my feelings toward fellow orphans, and at that moment I decided to hire him). His siblings had been separated, his youngest sister sent to live with a moderately wealthy family. He kept close tabs on the young girl, and when he became convinced that she was being abused by her caretakers, he was determined to protect her. He learned that they were planning a trip to America, and his little sister Alice, only seven at the time, would be going along.

Joseph was frantic with worry about how he would watch over his sister, for he only worked odd jobs for the owner of a local pub, and had some of his pay docked for the use of the back storage room for his home. But he managed to secure passage on the same boat on which his sister would be traveling…as an employee. He worked below the decks, rarely coming up before dark, but he was still comforted in knowing that his sister was on the same ship. When the ship arrived in New York, he’d gotten his pay and rushed away with only his few possessions, and managed to find his sister in the crowd. He followed closely, and when the dreadful guardians were distracted, he took his sister’s hand and led her away in the crowd, never to see those people again.

I found his story to be poignant, but I was suspicious of this tale of kidnapping. “Where is your sister now?” I asked sharply.

“Why, she’s right outside, waiting for me,” Joseph said.

“I should like to meet this girl,” I said. “No, no…she needn’t come inside. I will come out with you.” I did not want to expose a young girl to the influences of our house.

She was waiting outside of the wrought iron gate. The dark-haired, dark-eyed girl is quite sweet, a little shy, but very polite. She had been traveling with her brother for the past four years. He worked very hard to take care of her and protect her, “She’s a bright girl,” Joseph said as his sister flushed. “I want to settle down and allow her to go to school.” They’d only just arrived in San Francisco, after spending a little more than a year traveling with a camp of migrant workers (Alice attending the half-hearted schools in place for these children while Joseph worked all day in various fields). Joseph did not want his sister to come of age in such places.

“And do you think that this place is good for a young girl?” I asked carefully. But I was determined to hire them. I had an idea, and I led them both to the back of the property, showing them the guest cottage in the back. “It has not been cleaned out properly, I’m afraid,” I said, showing them around. “But if you make it habitable yourselves, you are welcome to it.” Alice could come through the back door to the kitchen for her meals, and would not be overly exposed to the activities in the place, and that’s exactly how her arrangement has worked.

A couple of the girls, upon learning of this arrangement, grumbled, for they had admired the cottage when they’d arrived. But I had extended to them the same offer, and they instead chose the lazy comfort of the servants’ quarters. To maintain peace, it was decided that Joseph, with Alice’s help, would also tend to the gardening on the grounds. A beautiful garden once grew in the back, around the cottage, but when we’d arrived it was overgrown with weeds, and since the clients would not be served in the garden, Lydia did not bother to invest in having it cleared out. I made some half-hearted attempts at it in the first few months myself, sir, but I am lacking in the skill. I blame you in this regard, for you never forced me to work or complete any household duties, so my efforts were most useless. (I only jest, sir, and love you ever the more for allowing me a childhood of comfort).

Joseph is well-liked by the girls, and even Lydia favors him, though she was annoyed at first by my hiring him without consulting her. “You dragged me out here and expect me to keep track of the expenses for your business,” I snapped at her in private. “Therefore, I have the authority to make such decisions.” Lydia was shocked by my audacity, but she let it go, and Joseph has fit in quite well. Because the place is never overly crowded, except when large parties are thrown, it is not often that he has to break up fights. His main duties involve presenting the clients with their tabs (and they do not dare refuse to pay him…sweet as he is, his physique is quite intimidating) and “escorting” any clients to the door that have become too belligerent in their drunkenness. If Lydia had the good sense to stop serving them drinks past a certain point, this would not be necessary. When Joseph is not busy, he and I talk together in the office.

I must admit, sir, that I do like Joseph quite a bit. As far as I can tell, the boy is most monk-like in his sexual activities. He is friendly with the girls, joking with them. With me, he was overly polite at first, but over time we have become good friends. I would not feel that I was being entirely truthful if I did not admit, sir, that I am attracted to him. But our relationship has never been anything more than friendly, and I know that he is not involved with any of the girls (though Amalia especially has her sights on him). He spends much of his time working, taking care of his sister, working in the garden (which has been restored beyond its former glory, I believe), and painting. You would not tell by looking at him, but he is an artist, and quite a talented one at that. He painted the obscenely huge portrait of Lydia that currently hangs in the parlor, and has been working on portraits of the other girls as well.

Though Lydia mostly ignores the girl, I have become close with young Alice as well. Her brother is quite strict with her with regards to her schoolwork, and she rarely goes out and about with children her own age. On Sunday mornings, she joins me for church. I attend services at a nearby Catholic chapel, a small building with a congregation comprised mostly of Mexicans. There are no Anglican churches in the area, and though I tried out a couple of Protestant ones, I was not well received. All of us associated with any of the brothels have a bad reputation among the “good” ladies in town (though they are few and far between), and the Mexican chapel, recommended to me by Amalia, is the only one that will receive me. Well, damn the hypocrites, anyway. The minister of the first Protestant church that rejected me is a frequent client at our place. If the Mexican Catholics continue to accept me in their congregation, then they will continue to receive my generous donations each week (and I make sure to hand them the money that I had received from the Protestant minister the night before).

I am not baptized Catholic, and I don’t believe that young Alice is, either (though I haven’t thought to ask the girl). The priest has not made an issue of this, though I have been attending confession. I am certain that you would laugh at this, sir, you would find the whole thing to be quite silly, but though I do not confess myself often, I find that after I do, and solemnly recite the prescribed prayers, I feel a little less burdened. In the same way, I feel that now I am confessing my sins to you.

The principle actors have been explained, so on with the drama. My encounter with Natasha occurred on the night of our wedding anniversary this past August. The significance of the date was in the back of my mind for much of the day and evening. Lydia, perhaps mindful of the day herself, kept me busy with errands: going to the bank, going down to the wharf to procure a particular type of fish, picking up a dress that she had ordered in for me. I did not complain at being given these tasks; on the contrary, during our first few months in San Francisco, I had to beg her to give me more to do around the place. I do enjoy the fresh air, and I find myself walking much of the time. I do acknowledge, sir, that these private sojourns about the city would be opportunities for me to stop by a post office and send word to you, and yet...I do fear that someone is watching the post, that any correspondence I send your way would not necessarily be secure. You will not read these words until I feel certain that they will be viewed by you, and only you.

It was a lovely summer day. The weather in San Francisco, and all around the bay, is typically mild all year. For a short time, I forgot myself in my chores and in enjoying the beautiful day, but as I walked toward home in the later part of the afternoon, carrying the heavy dress bag (having signed for the large order of fish and had it sent ahead in a delivery wagon), I felt deeply troubled. So much time has passed since we were parted, sir, and though I am told that you all are well, I do worry. For a moment, I considered dropping my burden and taking a carriage to the train station, getting on and heading back East, not stopping in my travels until I arrived home again. I even stood on the sidewalk a moment and contemplated this, and for a moment I was hopeful and happy again, thinking of our children and of you, my dearest sir. But I felt sick as I considered the consequences, for I know that Lydia would not fail to follow through on her threats, and for a moment, I imagined that my happy homecoming would be a horrifying scene: our children, dead or taken away by a terrible villain; you, arrested, with the police waiting for me as well.

Oh, sir, I know you would not want me to dwell on such dark and terrible thoughts. These images creep into my nightmares, and more. I admit that I go through spells of insomnia, staying up all night while Lydia conducts her “business,” having “playtime” with her in our private quarters in the early morning, and lying awake while she rests, knowing that to attempt sleep will be futile, before rising with the sun to begin another lonely day. Well, you know of my insomnia. It comes and it goes, but more often than not, I am lacking in sleep. My concern for the girls, and the need to satisfy Lydia enough to keep our family safe, are the only things driving me to live now. That, and the hope (though it fades, sir, I admit it fades a little bit more with each passing day) that I will be with you and our children again.

So I was in quite a dark mood when I returned to the place. I found Lydia in our quarters, preening at the vanity. She was cheerful when I came in. “Oh, my sweet little pet, you’re such a good girl for helping me with the chores today,” she said, coming to me and kissing me softly. She ignored my sullen countenance. “Try on your new dress for me, show Mother how pretty you look.”

Wordlessly, I put on the gown, which reminded me so much of the fancy dresses that I wore in my previous life. I have no need for such finery now. An ordinary skirt with a blouse is good enough for me now. I have no life outside of the place and the church; there is no one for whom I am dressing or trying to impress. Lydia loved it, though, and she gushed, “Oh, my pet, you must wear this tonight,” she declared.

I forced a wane smile. “I don’t think it will be necessary for me to dress up to sit in the office, Lydia,” I said kindly.

“But you must join us tonight,” Lydia insisted. “I’ve decided to have a party, my pet, and I want you right by my side. We’re going to have such fun tonight.” I feared that she would finally force me to join her with a client, but this was not so.

Lydia had hired two young cooks for the evening to fry up all of the fish that I had purchased. Now that the garden was in presentable condition, Lydia had decided to host the party out back, it being such a lovely evening, with ‘guests’ able to slip into the house to engage in their acts of debauchery. Champagne flowed freely, and Lydia was in such a festive mood that she even allowed the girls to partake. You know that I have rarely been drunk, but I’m afraid that that night, I drank as much as many of the sodden clients.

For a short while, I was not a solemn drunk, but was quite merry. I believe that I talked and laughed with everyone, and perhaps in my altered mind I thought I was at a neighbor’s party, socializing as I always did. As it grew dark, the party moved indoors, and one client sat at the piano (in the parlor more for show than anything else, and it is terribly out of tune) and played the jaunty dancehall songs. I danced for what felt like hours, I danced with everyone, and at one point I found myself with Lydia yet again. “Why, Mother!” I cried. “There you are.”

Lydia grinned and pulled me aside. “You’re having a good time, my pet?” I nodded and she smiled, touching my face. “See, Emily? You can be happy with me.”

This reminder of the situation ruined my mood. I even felt guilty; I was carelessly indulging myself, on the day of our wedding anniversary! I soon quitted the party and returned to the office with a pot of strong tea, and I changed out of that horrid gown and into a high-necked dress, and sat brooding for some time. After about an hour, Lydia came to find me.

“What is the matter, my pet?” she asked. “Did you drink too much?”

I nodded. “Yes,” I said, “But that is not the problem.” With great difficulty, I looked into her eyes. “I have no doubt that you remember the date.”

Lydia sighed impatiently, as I expected her to. “This again, my little pet? What do you want of me? What can I do to make you happy?”

“You know what I want,” I said, my voice trembling. “But I know that you are not willing to give it to me. So there we are.”

“Stubborn pet,” Lydia scolded me. “I used to pity your sorrow, I truly did.” (I do not believe that for a moment, sir). “But now you are being willful. You know that you would be happy if you tried.” She angrily went to the door; she was returning to the party, and would leave me blessedly alone. But she stopped to say, “You loved me once, my pet, I know you did. Can you not find a way to love me again? You have so much love in your heart…let me have it, Emily.” For a moment, only a moment, she seemed helpless. It is rare that I have seen her look this way. “I need your love.”

“I do love you,” I said dully, and this is no lie, sir. “And I do everything that you ask of me. I can do no more.”

Lydia cut her eyes at me, but left with a sharp slam of the door. I would have to pay for it later, I knew (and I definitely did). But certainly it was not the idea of brutal punishment that made me lay my head on the desk and cry so.

The party kept the girls and Joseph so busy that I was completely alone for the evening. I retired to bed and did not sleep. When Lydia came in, perhaps a bit after three, she was quite drunk herself. I feigned sleep as she tenderly but clumsily touched my face. “Pretty pet,” she slurred, “Mother does love you, even when you’re a naughty girl.” She was out cold only a few seconds later.

I rose in the dark and looked at my captor for a moment. Lydia is still beautiful, sir. You would think that her erratic schedule would show on her face, but she looks as young as ever. She is truly happy with this life, just as I was truly happy with you. I thought it terribly unfair that I had to sacrifice my happiness for hers. You would not believe your gentle Emily to be capable of murderous thoughts, but sir, for the briefest of moments I considered smothering her in her helpless state. But I did not do so, of course. In fact, I undressed her tenderly, leaving her only in her slip, and tucked her in gently, as though I were tucking in our children. I left her to sleep into the late morning.

The house was quiet now, the last of the ‘guests’ gone, Joseph back in the cottage with Alice and the girls all asleep upstairs (or so I thought). As exhausted as I was, I knew I could not sleep, especially in the bed with Lydia. I turned on the light on my desk in the office and attempted to read, but the words blurred in front of my face. My stomach rumbled, and I made my way to the kitchen to find the leftover fish wrapped neatly. Believing myself to be completely alone, I dug into a fried fillet without even using utensils. I heard laughter behind me from the small entrance.

“So this is what a proper Englishwoman does when she is alone.”

I turned and found Natasha, wearing her night slip, grinning at me. I smiled sheepishly as she joined me at the counter. “I thought everyone was in bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Natasha said. “And I was hoping you would be up in the night, as usual. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Of course,” I said with genuine concern. Still a bit drunk, I fumbled as I started a pot of tea for us. “Is everything all right, Natasha?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Singer,” Natasha said. “You looked upset when you left the party this evening. Did you and Mrs. Smithwick have a fight?”

At that moment, I wondered what the girls knew of my relationship with ‘Mrs. Smithwick.’ We never quarreled in their presence. “We did have a bit of a disagreement,” I admitted carefully. I tried to laugh it off. “Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t go into business with a friend.”

“She’s not really a ‘friend’ of yours, is she?” Natasha asked, and from her tone, I knew that she knew, at least some of the nature of our relationship. “Mrs. Singer, if you don’t mind my asking…how did you end up here?”

All of the girls, as well as Joseph, had told me their stories. They did not know mine. I didn’t want to lie to Natasha…I hate to lie to anyone, ever, and I respected her. But of course, I could not reveal to her our secrets. When I said nothing, Natasha added, “Where is Mr. Singer?”

Mr. Singer. Hearing your name made me cry, and Natasha tried to console me. “Mr. Singer,” I finally managed, “Is alive and well, in England. With our children.”

“Was he cruel to you?”

“Oh, heavens, no!” I cried, springing to your defense. “My husband is the gentlest, kindest man in the world.” I told her how you raised me, sir, and how you treated me as though I were your own child…until my 18th birthday. I told her this as well, how you gave me the greatest gift in the world, your love and devotion, and how I gave you the same. Natasha was silent as I told her all of this, and my voice trembled, and my tears did not stop flowing. But it felt wonderful to be able to speak of you again. Lydia scorns any mention of you, and I’ve only had my sweet memories to comfort me.

“Mrs. Singer,” Natasha finally said, “If your husband was so good to you, why did you leave?”

This is when I was forced to lie. “Poor Mrs. Smithwick was a friend of my mother’s,” I said, that in itself a truth. “She was recently widowed, and so terribly lonely. I agreed to come away with her” (there’s the lie) “and help her begin her life anew.”

“So you won’t be staying with us?” Natasha asked. I wished I could tell her that, no, unfortunately I would be leaving San Francisco by the next train and would never return. I smiled and gave her the truth, at least as I know it to be.

“I will stay as long as Mrs. Smithwick needs me to,” I said. “But then I will have to go.”

Natasha gave me a suspicious look. I had left too many holes in my story. Why would a wife and mother leave her loving family to help some mean old lady? I knew she could tell that I was hiding the truth. But when I asked her to keep the information to herself, she agreed, and so far she has kept her word.

“But you and Mrs. Smithwick,” Natasha added, “You’re not just friends, isn’t that so?”

I did admit to her our sexual relationship, feeling very little shame in that. None of the girls seem to mind Maggie and Nancy’s relationship, nor do they treat them any differently for it. One thing to be said for prostitutes (at least the ones I’ve met) is that they’re not surprised by anything, nor are they very judgmental. I even admitted to Natasha that you, my dear husband, had not only given me permission to serve Lydia, but that you had been the one to introduce us in the first place.

Natasha said, “Among my people, you would be called nádleehí,” she said. “My grandmother was a warrior, and she lived with my grandfather and her female lover in their hut. I could see you as a warrior, Mrs. Singer.”

“Oh, no,” I laughed, briefly imagining myself in war paint, astride my chestnut stallion. Natasha smiled, and she took me gently by the hand. Her hands are large, sir, almost masculine, and I remember briefly wondering how they would feel on my body. I would soon find out, sir, I assure you.

“Mrs. Singer,” Natasha said, “You are a kind woman, but you are strong. I can see it. You’d have to be strong to deal with a woman like Mrs. Smithwick.”

I was tempted to come to Lydia’s defense. Or perhaps to tell Natasha that I was not so tough, that I was, in actuality, a prisoner, a hostage, very weak in my position, in fact. But I could not say it. It felt nice to have Natasha’s respect. I have always been adored, sir, by you and many others, but have I ever been respected? By you, certainly…you respect me enough to give me everything that I need. Lydia certainly does not respect me at all.

I did not defend Lydia, and I certainly did not tell Natasha the truth. I merely nodded and smiled, and we enjoyed our tea as Natasha told me more stories of her grandmother the warrior. After we’d finished our tea, we were not eager to return to our respective rooms for the night. As I rinsed and set aside our tea things, Natasha suddenly said, “You have a lot on your mind, Mrs. Singer. Isn’t that why you don’t sleep well at night?”

I turned to her and nodded, comfortable enough with her to admit that much. “You need to find some clarity for your thoughts…you need to take on another perspective,” Natasha continued. She approached me slowly, almost seductively. “I have to admit that I have the same problem sometimes. There’s something that I like to do…a ritual, I guess you could say, and it helps me to think much more clearly.”

I was intrigued, sir, and I allowed Natasha to lead me up to the third floor, where the girls stayed. Natasha had her own small room, and she had pushed the two smaller beds together to create a large one just for herself.

I perched on the bed as Natasha went to her dresser. “Do not be shocked, Mrs. Singer,” she said sheepishly as she retrieved a small snuffbox. “I do not do this often. But every once in a while, I partake. It clears my head. Jiao introduced me to it.” She opened the box to reveal fragrant green buds.

“Oh,” I said, in faint surprise. “It’s marijuana.” I had seen some men (and Lydia) partaking in it in New York; I had declined. But sir (and I do imagine, if you are given the chance to read this, that you would smile and be most amused), I did smoke a little with Natasha in her bedroom. It made me feel light-headed, particularly since I was still recovering from drink, I believe, and I lay back luxuriously on the pillows. I had personally supplied the girls with comfortable bedding; I did not allow Lydia to be as stingy with them as she might have been.

Natasha smiled and lay on her stomach beside me. “Feeling better, Mrs. Singer?” she asked, smiling gently and laying a hand on my stomach.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Thank you, Natasha. You’re very kind.”

She sat up a little, her hand snaking up to my chest. We didn’t say anything more; I don’t believe that we knew what to say, but so giddy from smoking were we that we did not resist our carnal urges. Though Natasha plays the submissive whore with her clientele, she was the one to unclothe me and feel me up. I was not restrained, though I did grab hold of the pillow behind my head, and quite imagined that I were as she went down on me.

Oh, sir, I admit that I felt some guilt later on, knowing that being with Natasha, without your presence or approval, were my choice alone. With Lydia, I have been forced, as we both know and have acknowledged. It was my guilt that made me react as I did the following day, but that night, high and happy, we pleasured each other in her bed. I did not ask her to tie me up, nor did I do so to her.

She tasted wonderful, sir, so wonderful! You know how much pussy I have tasted (for now I cannot even begin to remember all of the women that I have pleasured!), but I daresay that Natasha was the sweetest. I imagined, as I lapped at her (and she cried out in surprise, not expecting even sweet and prim little Mrs. Singer to be so skilled) that you were watching me, with approval, and I delivered the same pleasure to her that I have given to so many others. Natasha, panting in exhaustion afterwards, kissed me softly and thanked me, and we held each other, naked, and fell asleep, under the spell of the drug. I felt better than I had since being taken from you, sir.

Which brought on the guilt as I arose in the late morning. I dressed in haste and left Natasha alone. I blushed furiously when I came upon Maggie in the hallway, but the timid thing was too surprised at seeing me to interrogate me. I bade her a kind good morning and hurried down the stairs.

I smelled breakfast in the kitchen. Curious, I made my way back, and found Lydia herself, wearing only her little robe, humming cheerfully and frying sausages. “Oh!” she said upon seeing me enter. “Good morning, my pet. I did miss you when I awoke.”

“Good morning, Lydia,” I said carefully.

“Cup of tea, my pet?” she offered sweetly. I came to her, still wary (for, as you well know, sir, she never cooks). She kissed me softly before handing me a cup. As way of explanation, she said, “Our maid is still at her errands, so I thought I would make a late breakfast for you. I am sorry for upsetting you last night, Emily,” she said, smiling gently.

Oh, sir, I could not help but soften a little. It is not often when Lydia will admit herself at fault in any situation. “Thank you, Lydia,” I said.

“Have a seat, and Mother will serve you,” Lydia said cheerfully, and I did so. I sat at the same table at which I’d sat and talked with Natasha the night before. Lydia continued to talk as she prepared the eggs. “My pet,” she said casually, not looking at me, “Perhaps next time you play with one of the girls, you’ll consider doing so for the sake of one of the paying clients? Or myself?”

I was most surprised that she had learned of my transgression (had I committed a transgression? Even then, I was not certain) so soon; I had not meant to keep it from her, by any means. “Are you upset, Lydia?” I asked.

Lydia laughed gaily, and I knew she was not at all upset. But she said, sweetly but seriously, “I do want you to be happy with me, my dear pet. And if playing with the girls makes you happy, then by all means, play. But do remember the welfare of my business,” she added.

I was not so concerned with mixing business with pleasure (for what is it to me if the business fails? Though I will keep the books honestly and consistently until it does, or until I quit this wretched place), but I long considered Lydia’s permission, and what it meant. And I realized: she wants me to have emotional ties with the girls, or anyone connected to her “business,” and her new life, really. To further her hold on me. This is the conclusion that I came to by that evening, and I avoided Natasha for the next week or more. Cowardly, I know, and I believe you would be ashamed of me. I certainly am ashamed of myself.

I did eventually discuss the matter with Natasha, though it did not come out as I might have hoped. I asked her to come into the office one afternoon, and she was sullen and cold, too aware of my avoidance of her. I apologized for this, owning up to my behavior. “It is childish for me to have avoided you so,” I said. “I am quite sorry for it, Natasha, because I honor your friendship…”

“Oh,” Natasha said quickly. She flushed, and looked startled. She seemed to come to some sort of realization, and she rose. “Mrs. Singer,” she said, “You have nothing to apologize for. And if you wish, we may not discuss that night again.”

I readily agreed, and did not reflect on her reaction until much later. I am afraid, sir, that that situation has never been revisited or resolved, and so I have had no repeated episodes with Natasha. A part of me is relieved in this, for I do not want to establish any ties here; I want to have no regrets about dashing home to you the moment that I am able. But I do feel guilty for hurting Natasha’s feelings.

As I previously stated, we are cordial and kindly but no longer are we friends, which is worse than losing her as a lover, I believe. Ah, well. I tire of writing now, sir. My troubles with Lydia remain much the same, in spite of her kind behavior that noted morning. I have been at my writing for some hours now, sir, from the very earliest breaking of daylight, and I know that Lydia will be rising soon. Like it or not, I will have to see to her needs.

Love,

Your Emily

25 December, 18—

My most dearest sir,

A very happy Christmas to you and ours. My mood is heavy on this light-hearted, cheerful day. It is business as usual at our place, and the house is crowded with clients, rollicking with drink. I am hidden away in the office, of course. Though my entire day was not so lonely.

I started the morning by attending mass, at that same small Catholic chapel that I had previously mentioned. Young Alice accompanied me. The chapel was more crowded than usual, and I expected that we would be forced to stand at the rear. Holding fast to Alice’s hand, I began leading her to an open spot along the back wall.

“Mrs. Singer,” the priest, my confessor, called to me, approaching. “The front pew has been reserved for you.”

“Oh, bless you, Padre,” I said, surprised by the gesture (though I know I am, by far, the most generous benefactor of the congregation). As Alice and I made our way to the front of the small, crowded chapel, we were greeted politely by the other parishioners. “Yes, Merry Christmas,” I echoed their greetings. “Feliz Navidad. God bless you.” The warmth of the congregation (and the sizable feast of delicious Mexican food afterward, especially the incredible tamales made by a sweet elderly woman whom everyone calls Mamita), and the uplifting service did put me in a festive mood, and even serious young Alice was cheerful as we made our way home again.

“Mrs. Singer, do come into our cottage and try the bread pudding that I made,” Alice begged, and how could I refuse such an invitation? She reminded me of myself at her age, how I would occasionally make some sort of baked good and present it to you for your approval. You would politely partake in it and declare it delicious (always so generous to me, sir), and I would beam, so pleased to have your favor.

In spite of my decision to not encourage relationships with anyone here, I am still quite drawn to young Alice. She is so like myself, but she has not had my good fortune. She has suffered the hardships that I might have, had I not had your love and protection. Joseph does what he can for her, but I feel as though he is a lost child himself (though he is quite near my own age). I do what I can to help them both.

The young man was building the fire in the chimney when Alice and I entered. He turned and smiled. “Oh, happy Christmas, Mrs. Singer,”  he said, politely but nervously. I have not spent much time in their cottage.

“Happy Christmas, Joseph,” I returned, giving him my warmest smile, and he gestured for me to sit. He himself built the small table in their little kitchen, and his artistic inclinations are revealed in the little intricate carvings along the sides and on the chairs. I recently sat in and watched Joseph work on a portrait of Jiao in the parlor, and I must say, sir, he is most skilled. He has asked to paint my portrait, and as of yet, I have refused him. I am beginning to waver, and I feel that if he asks me again, I will have to accept. Perhaps it will be a nice gift for you, when we are reunited. How much longer must we wait for that day?

But the mood in the cottage was cheerful. Joseph served sweetened warm milk with cinnamon (and with a comical wink, added just a nip of liquor to his and mine), and passed around the mugs. We enjoyed ourselves for a short time, but when Joseph invited me for dinner, I had to decline. “Mrs. Smithwick is expecting my company,” I said. She would be opening up the place later in the evening, but she had granted the girls and Joseph the morning and afternoon off. Undoubtedly, none had opted to spend their free time with her.

So by early afternoon I was in the place again, and I found Lydia in our bedroom, sitting at her vanity. When she turned to me, she was not smiling at first, and for a moment it seemed she was quite upset indeed. But she seemed to return to herself, and she smiled and said, “Happy Christmas, pet. Mother has surprises for you.”

In the community, mainly at the Catholic chapel, and amongst the girls and clients, I have a somewhat respectable reputation. Serious but kind-hearted Mrs. Singer. Yet for Lydia, I am still her pet, and I stripped off my dress and went to my knees for her, trembling as she stood and approached me. She ran her hand gently down my cheek, allowing it to drape lazily over my chest, and shoulders, and lower back, as she circled around me, as though inspecting me. She came around to face me again, smiling brightly. “Pretty little pet,” she said, “Have you anything for Mother this Christmas?”

“Yes, Lydia,” I said, and I could not help it, sir, my voice was smaller and more childlike, as it always is when I am her pet.

Lydia was eagerly pulling off her bedclothes (though it was after one o’clock, she still had not dressed for the day). Her breasts are still surprisingly pert for her age, and her nipples were hard, as mine were. I expected that she would squat down on my face, as she so enjoys doing, but instead she joined me on my knees, and kissed me softly. I followed her lead, as I always do, and allowed her to slowly seduce me, running her hands all over my tits and stomach, back and ass, but barely touching me with the tips of her fingers.

But her sensual touch became torturous, and I reached up and began to massage her tits, perhaps with a bit more aggression than I typically would. You remember, I am sure, how much I used to enjoy playing with our dear Mrs. Gainsley’s tits, slowly rubbing and squeezing them, and suckling ever so gently on her nipple. Lydia has not Mrs. Gainsley’s generous breasts, as you know, and I do miss the warmth of a full bosom. Oh, and I still do blush to confess it, too, sir!

Lydia seized my wrists. “Naughty pet,” she scolded. “So impatient to play. Will Mother have to punish this little pet?”

“Oh, yes, please,” I murmured, pushing myself against her as I tilted my head back. Oh, sir, the idea of punishment still turns me on so much. Lydia has become fond of not only tying me up but blindfolding me as well, and she knows how much I have enjoyed that. I do not tell her that, wearing the blindfold, I am better able to imagine you on the other end of the paddle or riding crop.

And so it was this afternoon, though in the position she tied me the blindfold proved to be most useless. She had me crotch down on the floor, with my knees tucked beneath me. She is so fond of folding me up in cruel positions and leaving me after a beating. She had my wrists bond behind my neck, and attached to the collar that she had gifted to me. You had given me a collar for Christmas as well, sir, as I did not fail to recall as she slipped it around my neck.

My head touched the floor in this position, and I struggled a little to breathe, to relax my body, as she bound my ankles, using that same spreader bar that she had used when we played together in London. My ass, back, and pussy were completely exposed to her, and these all received attention from her wooden paddle. This paddle was a gift from a grateful client, and is fashioned with various holes to reduce wind resistance as she swings it back. She hit me over and over again, giving particular notice to my cunt, and I screamed freely, not wearing a gag.

I heard the paddle smack wetly against my soaking pussy again. Oh, it burned sir, and I thought of you and I cried, “Oh, please, Lydia, oh God!”

“You need Mother, pet?” Lydia demanded. She smacked my ass this time, and I shook, having to clench my stomach to keep from toppling onto my side.

“Oh, yes, I need you,” I cried in agreement, and she smacked my ass and pussy again and again, laughing gleefully as I moaned and screamed. You know that I cannot resist her playful cruelty, and admit that I did enjoy myself this afternoon, particularly when she dropped the paddle and knelt down behind me, fingering my pussy and stroking my throbbing clit.

“You do need your dear Mother,” she observed teasingly. “But you remember the rule, don’t you little pet? Tell Mother the rule.”

“You first,” I said obediently, and she slapped my ass with her hand.

“That’s right, my whorish pet, Mother first,” she agreed, and without removing my restraints, she helped me to unfold my body so that I could crawl awkwardly across the floor, to where she sat comfortably in her armchair. How many times have I knelt before her as she has sat in that chair (in which I am not allowed to sit) and pleasured her? Countless, countless, and add another one on from this afternoon.

It was a terrible strain to lean in and lick her, as my wrists were still tied behind my neck, and I attempted to pleasure her quickly. She would not have that, and by the time I finally brought her to her climax (during which she squirted her thick juices all over my face), my neck and back were aching terribly.

Noticing my strain, Lydia was inspired to torment me further. She removed my restraints and allowed me to stretch uneasily. “Lie down on the bed, my pet, face down,” she instructed, and I knew what she would do to me. You see, sir, she so enjoyed playing with our leather phallus that she purchased one of her own (in fact, several, as she uses them on the clients as well), and this afternoon, she fucked my ass as she fingered my cunt teasingly, finally allowing me to come after I’d shat all over myself.

Playtime was exhausting, and after Lydia and I bathed together, I changed the bed sheets and we had a long nap. By the time I awoke, Lydia was gone, preparing for a night of business, and had left me a short note:

Happy Christmas, my lovely little pet. Mother is working now. Enjoy your quiet time, sweet pet…unless you wish to join the fun.

Well, of course I had no desire to do that, so I rose and dressed. I have been writing this letter to you, but have stopped occasionally to concentrate on my thoughts. It being Christmas, I cannot help but remember the lovely Christmases that we have always celebrated together, especially those after we were wed. Oh, sir, I am crying again now, I miss you and our children so terribly. I cannot stand it, so I will make one more confession to you. When I came out to my desk this evening, I found another note, along with a small, unwrapped box.

Mrs. Singer – In case you are lost in thought again. Merry Christmas.

Inside the box was a small pile of those same strong-smelling buds. Well, I’m afraid that I cannot resist, sir, and will partake privately. At the very least, the drug should put me to sleep.

Love,

Your Emily

26 December, 18—

Oh, sir, as dismal as my holiday may have seemed in my last letter, things became far, far worse after I wrote it! I’m trembling so much that I can scarcely write, but I promise that I will put it all down in detail. I’m sure it will all be on my mind for some time, and I am afraid, sir…I am terribly afraid…that I do hate myself. Damned day! Never in my life have I been so wretched! I cannot even put it to paper now…but sir, I will be willing to do anything, anything, anything for your forgiveness, which I am certain I will never deserve!

Love most sincerely,

Your Emily

P.S. I have made a resolution, sir; these letters will find their way to you, somehow. I cannot bear to be apart from you any longer. I will wait for you to come for me in San Francisco, if you feel it is prudent to make the trip. I love you most dearly, sir, and when you come for me, I shall tell you all!