Lady Emily's Guardian

Mr. Singer

I was taking a leisurely stroll down a busy street in London. It was a late summer afternoon, and though the talk of war with Germany had been increasing over the past months, everyone on the streets that afternoon was carefree, enjoying a lovely Sunday. I had just come from a meeting with my son-in-law, my late Charlotte’s husband, always an exhausting affair.

I had approved of Geoffrey Winslow when he had come to Wainwright Hall to ask Emily and me for Charlotte’s hand in marriage. He had been a young, lower-ranking government official at the time, but he came from a wealthy family, and he had many prospects. Though Charlotte was barely 18, Emily had given her consent, and I always left such matters to her. Besides, I knew that our Charlotte, my favorite child, would be in good hands, and she truly seemed to love him. Her sister and lifelong competitor, Beatrice, married an extremely wealthy and spoiled young man only months later.

Though I had initially approved of, and even liked, Geoffrey Winslow, I had grown to dislike him as the years passed, and even more so after my dear Charlotte’s passing. The steady loss of his family’s fortune, through poor investments and the negligent spending of Winslow’s sisters and in-laws, was only one reason for his ill manners. He had called upon me at my townhouse, on the pretense of a friendly visit, but of course, talk had turned to the will. The will, the damned inheritance…I had been saying the same thing to my impatient in-laws for the past decade. “Lady Emily decided all of those matters prior to her death. She arranged that her fortune be split evenly between all of her successors. My fortune is pooled with hers; the details will be given by the executor of our estate upon my death. And, as I do not intend to die for some time yet, let us put this tedious subject aside.”

It angered me to no end that Lady Emily’s judgment should be questioned, even posthumously. I had been quite impressed with the way she’d handled finances for Mrs. Morrison’s whorehouse, and had allowed her to take over our personal finances herself. She had decided the matter of the estate as fairly as she could, and had included all of the children and grandchildren (even Beatrice and her three, though they were not technically her family by blood). What more did those people want?

And so, annoyed at the conversation, I had set out for a relaxing walk to ease my nerves. I still walk about easily, with the assistance of a cane, even at my age. Well into my 80s, I’m always mistaken for a man at least 20 years younger. I might attribute my graceful aging to the activities that I’d always found such pleasure in, for I had been active right up until Mrs. Shelton’s death (not quite a year past by that summer afternoon). Yes, in the end she had been my only one, and while I sometimes still loved her, I would often grow resentful that she, and not Emily, were still with me, after so long. Emily had gone too soon, and even after a decade, I felt the sharp sting of her loss. Mrs. Shelton’s presence had been some comfort to me, I suppose, because after her death, I was lonelier than I’d ever been.

That afternoon, I walked along a busy shopping district. I noticed a pretty young woman, her curvy hips and ass visible under her form-fitting dress, wearing a wide-brimmed, fancy hat as she examined the contents of a department store window. I stopped and held my breath in anticipation, and the girl finally looked in my direction. It was she, certainly. Sweet little Emily, 18-years-old, window-shopping on the streets of London.

I smiled and approached her as she recognized me. “Why, it’s my dear old Papa!” she declared, and she stepped into my embrace, kissing my withered old cheek.

“I just met with your father, not an hour ago,” I said. “He did not mention that you were in London.”

“I am visiting with a friend before I go to Cambridge,” she admitted. Young Emily, the namesake of her grandmother, would be starting her first year at school. Her cousin and lifelong competitor, Monica Almond (daughter of Beatrice and her late husband), only several months older, was starting her first year at Oxford. Their rivalry was certainly like that of their mothers’, and it seemed to me that Monica, sensing that her cousin bested her in nearly every way, perpetuated much of the competition.

I noted that young Emily’s cheeks were flushed; she was hiding something. “Your father does not know that you are in town?” She shook her head. Young Emily did not have a very good relationship with her overbearing father. When she was a child, especially after the death of her mother, she loved to spend her summers and holidays with me at Wainwright Hall. Though her two younger brothers, Edwin and Edgar, got on well with their father, young Emily had a much closer relationship with me. And because she was the exact image of her late grandmother, I favored her openly.

I did not question Emily deceiving her father, for I’ve always understood the nature of their relationship. She respects him, though now that she is a young woman, she does not feel that it is necessary to inform him of her every move. She added, “Papa, I rather thought you’d be in the country. I certainly would have called on you by now had I known you were about.”

“No matter, my dear. I have not yet had my lunch; would you care to let me treat you?” Young Emily took my proffered arm, and we strolled together to a nearby hotel. We had a leisurely lunch, and as she chattered on about how excited she was to begin school, I could still tell that she was hiding something, even from her dear old Papa. But it would be several months before I would learn all.

I only stayed in London until the middle of October. Many were in a panic over the possibility of the Kaiser’s “zeppelin raids,” and so, more to appease my family than for my own personal safety, I retreated back to Wainwright Hall. Though I had not stayed there much since the death of my wife, I still had not allowed Avery and his family to move in. Avery is the rightful heir to the Wainwright title and estate, and these will go to him upon my death. But until that day, I cannot bear to think of his brash wife and their two bratty daughters reigning over Lady Emily’s peaceful home. My son’s resemblance to me ends with his looks, as he allows his wife to walk all over him. I have given up trying to advise him on that front, but I can see that he is most unhappy.

Of all my children, Mina seemed to marry most happily. My eldest is like me in many ways. She is also the dominant one in her relationship. She is married to a modest but well-educated businessman named Thomas Reinhold, whom I have always genuinely liked. He makes my Mina very happy, and together they had four healthy children, three big young men and one tiny girl. My wife, to whom the children spoke more openly about their sexual encounters, revealed to me that Mina was her husband’s mistress, and that he happily served her as she’d always served me. Emily had been so proud of Mina.

Eleven living grandchildren (for Edwin had died the previous year of an illness, and I suspect it to be the same that struck down his Uncle Peter and great-grandfather), and three living children, yet none of them came to see me in the months that I lived at Wainwright Hall alone. Mina and two of her boys came briefly for Christmas, only staying a couple of days. As I spent my New Year alone, wearing my housecoat as I drank watered down whiskey in my old study, I thought of the Christmases of years past, when my Emily was living. She especially enjoyed the holidays with the younger children, and the grandchildren who were born when she was still living, and she always made the holidays special for everyone. Christmas at Wainwright Hall had been a family tradition, but it had ended abruptly after Emily and Charlotte’s deaths.

Mother and daughter had died only a few months apart. Emily had been sick with a lung infection for months before her death. She had been steadily weakening during all that time, but until she was on her deathbed, coughing so hard that it broke my heart, I did not allow myself to believe that she would die. As I sat beside her, comforting her after her coughing fit, she’d smiled weakly at me, her eyes bleary. “Poor sir,” she said softly.

I laughed humorlessly at that. “Poor me!” I cried.

She nodded, taking my hand and settling back on her pillows. “Very soon, sir, I will have nothing left to worry about,” she said. “But I will be leaving you behind. I’m sorry.” The tears in her eyes now were not just brought on by the intensity of her coughing.

“Don’t talk that way,” I said. “It’s not supposed to be that way, my Emily. I’m supposed to be the one leaving you behind.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be able to bear it!” she cried. She squeezed my hand as hard as she could (no more than a gentle squeeze, so weak she was). “That’s why I must go first, sir. I could not be without you. But you…”

“No, Emily, I need you,” I insisted. But I realized that I was only distressing her. So I tried to comfort her, as best I could. She died a few days later, calm and happy, a little smile on her lips. I was the only one at her side. I knew that my wife did not die with any regrets, and as glad as I was of that, I still wished that I could have gone first.

Only months after Emily’s death, poor Charlotte succumbed to an illness. Her husband sent her to a hospital in London, but it was too late; she died quite suddenly, leaving behind three little children. In keeping my promise to Emily to take care of all of our descendents, I took an especial interest in Charlotte’s poor children, seeing to their care and education. Their father was not exactly negligent, but he was not a very warm person, not the sort of loving man that I would have wanted my Charlotte to be with.

But there had been many happy times amongst our family. While in London, I could keep close contact with Mina and most of her children, and the Winslows. Beatrice Almond lived in her late husband’s estate in the country, hosting many male callers (taking after her Auntie Ana for certain), but she made her way to London frequently. She is a lazy socialite, enjoying her money and her lovers. But she is happy, and I am certain that Lady Emily would be glad to see it. I saw much of my family in London, and back at Wainwright Hall, I felt very much cut off, though I received frequent letters from young Beatrice, and Mina and her two eldest sons, Byron and Stephen, and young Emily. My favorite granddaughter’s letters talked of her studies, the friends she’d made in school, and made inquiries about my health and well-being. She wrote that she regretted not being able to come for Christmas, but she had a prior engagement in London.

Young Emily’s secret was revealed early that spring. It started with a trip that I made to London. Going stir-crazy after a lonely and inactive winter, I spent a fortnight in the city. Winslow came to see me during that time, and it took nearly an hour of enduring his boring stories about his work in the government before he got to his true purpose. He hated to ask for money, though I’d never denied it to any of the children or grandchildren who asked. There was more than enough to go around; my smart investments and Emily’s careful planning had seen to that. Still, my son-in-law is a prideful man, and his face turned red with indignation as he revealed the truth about his debts. He was not entirely responsible with his money, but he was no cad, and without putting too much of a point on it, I offered up the money.

Still glowing, Winslow snarled, “Goodness knows all the money I’ve given to Cambridge has been a waste!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Winslow sighed. “I received word that Emily’s grades have plummeted this term. Nearly failing all of her courses…she almost managed straight A’s last term! I could bash that foolish little ninny.”

I frowned to hear such violent talk directed at my sweet young Emily, but I was distressed to hear the news. “What was her behavior, her mood, during her winter holidays?”

“I’d have no way of knowing that,” Winslow spat in annoyance. “I haven’t seen her since this past summer.”

I was shocked. “She told me that she spent her holiday in London.”

Winslow gave me a helpless look. “If she did, I knew nothing of it. Her communication with me has been minimal.” We did not delve into the topic of their suffering relationship, though I had to wonder why it only now seemed to be bothering him. Perhaps his remorse had been triggered by the loss of Edwin. But I shared his anxiety; what was happening with young Emily, that she would feel the need to lie to and deceive her family?

I waited until my return to Wainwright Hall before contacting her. I revealed that I knew of her troubles at school, and, motivated more than a little by my loneliness, I prompted her to take time off and come see me. I mentioned that I had been lacking in visitors, to stir her conscience. Be a good girl and come pay your Papa a visit, I’d written. Your presence would be such a comfort to me. A week later, she was at my doorstep.

When I invited her to stay with me at Wainwright Hall, I had fantasized about our becoming lovers. After all, she was so young and pretty, a little replica of my dear late wife. And this pretty young woman was not really my blood relation. But I had not imagined that it would really be so. Still, old man that I am, it seems that I have not lost my charms. The poor girl had also inherited her grandmother’s bouts of insomnia, and I noticed in the first week (as she stayed in her grandmother’s childhood room) that she was restless in the night. I am often awoken in the night by my various little aches and pains, particularly the ones in my hands. Since my wife’s death, my arthritis has become more burdensome, to the point where I can hardly tie or tighten any knots…quite inconvenient when it came to my sexual activities with the widowed Mrs. Shelton.

Awake one night, I found that I had forgotten my jar of pills in the parlor. I would not attribute this to oncoming senility, simply a moment of forgetfulness to which we are all prone. I put on my housecoat, took up my cane, and made my way down the hall. The idea of an extra trip up and downs the stairs made my knees ache, but I knew I would not sleep again without the aid of my medicine.

As I passed young Emily’s bedchamber, I noticed the light shining beneath the heavy door. I stopped and listened a moment…certainly the poor girl wasn’t crying into her pillow? My hearing has not failed me much, and I knocked lightly. The dear girl did not hesitate in answering, having pulled on her own housecoat, and was still wiping away tears as she smiled sadly.

“I’m sorry, Papa, have I wakened you?” she asked.

“No, dear. The walls and doors are thick,” I said kindly, to hide the fact that I knew she’d been up crying for the past few nights. “What is the matter, darling?”

“Oh, Papa,” she sighed in despair, and stepped into my welcoming arms. She cried quietly against me for a moment, and as I stroked her hair, I had my own Emily back in my arms, my darling, the love of my life, my universe.

But I came back to myself, and I comforted my beloved granddaughter. “It’s all right, Emily. Come now, love, I was going downstairs to retrieve my pills. Why don’t we sit in the parlor and have tea.”

The generous little dear was mindful of my knees, and she suggested, “Why don’t I get your medicine and the tea, Papa?”

I agreed, and went to wait for her in my own bedchamber. My intentions were not so scandalous, not yet. I merely intended to sit with her in the chairs before the fire, and have a long talk. I thought that the girl was distressed about her schooling, and I decided to find out what had happened at Cambridge. I did imagine that it could have something to do with a young man, a boyfriend, perhaps…I just did not imagine how tragic it was.

When young Emily returned, she poured the tea and dutifully brought me my pills with a glass of water. “Thank you, angel,” I said affectionately. She knelt and I touched her face gently. “Sit and tell your papa what is troubling you.”

She sighed deeply as took the armchair beside mine. She took a slow sip of her tea before she began her story. “Papa,” she said, “When you came upon me in London last summer, I…well, I was there in London to get married.”

“Married?” I cried in surprise.

Emily nodded. “I didn’t tell anyone about it.” She told me about how she had met Dr. Tristan McElder during her last year of boarding school. She had been on a break with some schoolmates in London, and had been attending lectures there. She and Dr. McElder crossed paths, and she had been smitten by his calm charm and patient ways, very unlike her father. “He reminded me in some ways of you, Papa,” she admitted, flushing brightly.

Dr. McElder was several years her senior. They wrote each other regularly while she was still in school, and upon her graduation, they began courting while she stayed in London with her father. Winslow never met Dr. McElder, as Emily knew that her overprotective father would not approve of the relationship. “He was so much older,” she said. “Also, his family isn’t very well established…”

“That snob,” I said in disgust. What would the high and mighty Winslow say if he knew that his late wife was a bastard? But I wanted her to continue her story. “What happened, Emily? Where is your husband now?”

Emily’s eyes filled with tears again. “He’s dead, Papa,” she said. She explained that before they had met, he was enlisted as a medic in the armed forces. They had decided to marry before he went to France. While he worked at a field hospital, they had written back and forth for several months. They’d even gotten to spend Christmas together in Paris. “It was the best time of my life,” she said, her tears flowing freely as she continued. “I loved Tristan so much, Papa.”

Not three weeks after they parted and she returned to school did she receive word of her husband’s death. He had died when their base was bombed. His body had been found, so there had been no hope that he was missing in action; he had been buried somewhere in France.

Poor widowed Emily, distraught, had given up on school and withdrawn. Only two months later, she was still in grief. Wanting to comfort her, I asked her questions about her late husband. Upon my questioning, Young Emily’s face brightened a little. “Oh, you would have liked him, Papa, I know you would have. I so wish you could have met him!”

“I do, too, darling,” I said with a smile. And she went on to describe her lost love’s qualities, and while they were undoubtedly and forevermore enhanced in her mind by his early death, he sounded like a suitable young man, just the sort of man I would want my favorite granddaughter to marry.

After a time, our topic of conversation turned to the late Lady Emily herself. “Papa,” young Emily asked timidly, “Is it true that I am not really your granddaughter?”

Charlotte had passed when the girl was still quite young, so I doubted that she’d ever had the chance to share our family history with her. Lady Emily and I had eventually discussed the matter with our three youngest children, so it was not exactly a family secret. Still, I could not think of how the girl would know this. “Where is that coming from, angel?” I asked carefully.

“It is something that Monica wrote, in a letter that she sent to me before I came here,” she confessed. I was both annoyed and amused at this. Undoubtedly, she was triumphant in her cousin’s failure in school, as she (according to her mother’s gushing letters to me) was excelling at Oxford.

“What did spiteful Monica say?” I asked.

“It was terribly cruel, Papa,” young Emily said. “She mocked me for coming to stay with you. She said that I was trying to worm my way into the inheritance, or some such nonsense, and that I didn’t deserve anything anyway, nor my brother, because we are not your relations.” The poor thing was distressed again.

I smiled warmly. “Oh, my dear child,” I said kindly. “Don’t you listen to a word that your cousin Monica says. She is envious of you. She always has been.” I thought of Monica’s real grandmother’s jealousy of her adopted grandmother…so intense had her jealousy been that she’d betrayed the very people who loved and cared for her. Was Monica capable of such treachery herself? I could not doubt it.

“It is not true, then?”

I sighed, and tried to explain to her the complicated truth. “I’m sorry to have kept this from you,” I said. “I had always thought that your mother would tell you all about it. And after she was gone…”

Emily smiled at me. “Don’t be sorry, Papa,” she said. “So that means that Monica and Lucy and Timothy are not Lady Emily’s grandchildren?”

“Not by blood,” I said. “But Emily, your grandmother loved them as much as she loved you, and your brothers, and the rest of your cousins. And I love you as well. We are all family. Your grandmother wanted it to be that way.”

“She was such a good woman, wasn’t she, Papa?”

I sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for you to have known her better. She had the biggest heart. But angel, you remind me so much of her.” Young Emily flushed with pleasure.

“She used to tell me that,” young Emily said. “She called me her little doppelganger.”

I was inspired by a sudden idea. My medicine doing its job, I was able to stand more easily. “Let me show you something,” I said. I led a curious young Emily to the spare, unused bedroom, where the naughty portrait of Lady Emily, painted by young Emily’s true grandfather, still hung proudly. When I turned on the lights to show her, she gasped. Not so much in shock at the nudity of her grandmother, but in surprise at how much she resembled her. “Papa, it’s like looking in a mirror,” she exclaimed, and when I looked up at the portrait again, I saw more than ever how right she was. It really was my sweet, lovely Emily standing before me. I smiled at my granddaughter…who was not really my granddaughter…

“I loved Lady Emily very much,” I said softly, and those words were most inadequate in describing my feelings. It was then that I had the idea, that the young woman in my possession, my little Emily reincarnate, could be my lover, that she could fill that void in my heart for the rest of my days.

Perhaps she read my mind, for she held my hand and walked with me back to my bedchamber. Once there, I sat and she knelt at my feet, resting her head on my knee. “Papa, tell me about how you raised Lady Emily yourself,” she said softly. And though that story, the simplest version, was well-known in the family, I confessed to her how I had raped her grandmother, how I had made her my love slave. I began to tell her everything. As I spoke, she kept her head on my knee, looking up at me with such a familiar, adoring look. I would take a break in my storytelling to reach down and touch her face tenderly.

Near dawn, we were both too tired to talk anymore. I did not ask young Emily to stay with me, but she removed her housecoat and helped me into bed while wearing only her white silk slip. She climbed in beside me and I held her. That’s all we did that first time in bed together.

But the following night, I claimed her. I presented her with the box of Lady Emily’s personal documents, and she read the diary entries and letters with interest, often blushing and giggling at the lewd descriptions. As young Emily sat on the floor in front of the fire in my office, I sat on the couch and watched her, with an ignored book in my lap, pleased with her reactions.

Young Emily looked up at me once. “Papa,” she proclaimed, “I cannot believe how wild you and Lady Emily were!”

I laughed heartily. “We certainly had fun together, my dear. And all those ‘naughty’ things…that’s what made our marriage so happy, for all those years.”

Young Emily also read of Mrs. Gainsley’s betrayal. “So Mrs. Gainsley…Beatrice…she is my Auntie Beatrice’s mother?”

“Yes,” I said patiently. “But remember, my darling, you agreed that what we discuss here is between the two of us.”

“Yes, Papa,” Emily agreed readily. “I would not think to rub this in Monica’s face.”

“I certainly would think not.” Young Emily came and sat beside me on the couch. “That was a very dark time for our family. But it’s reminded me that everything happens for a reason. It’s really so. For if we had not been separated, we may not have had your Auntie Beatrice…and we certainly would not have had your mother.”

Young Emily was intrigued by the whole story, and she promised again to keep it to herself. When she had stopped her reading, and carefully put Lady Emily’s papers back into their box, she sat beside me again. I asked her frankly, “So, my dear, what did you think of all those stories? Of all the things that your grandmother and I did together?”

Again, she flushed (so pretty!). She didn’t seem to know what to say. I smiled at her encouragingly. Just as I’d always done with her grandmother, I allowed her to take her time to collect her thoughts. Finally, she whispered, “I feel curious, Papa. I wonder…” She had not the words to finish the thought; she flushed more deeply.

I assumed a stern expression. “Emily,” I said in a serious tone, “You know that you have been a bad girl, don’t you?”

She gave me a puzzled look. “What do you mean, Papa?”

“You were dishonest,” I said, and though I spoke the truth, I still had to stop myself from smiling. “You lied to your family, and caused your father to worry.” Her face flushed, this time in mortification, as I continued. “I was quite worried as well.”

“But, Papa…”

“Do not interrupt me,” I snapped. Her eyes wide with both fear and curiosity, she slid off of the couch and knelt at my feet. I seized her chin and looked into her eyes. “I was quite worried,” I repeated in a gentler tone. “You should not cause your old Papa to worry in such a way. It is bad for my heart.”

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

“I know,” I said, and I did allow myself to smile then, for her remorseful look reminded me so of Emily, in the rare moments when she would be chastised as a child for some small infraction. “I always thought you were just like Lady Emily, but I do not think she would have ever lied to me the way that you have.”

Though tears streamed down her face, she seemed to understand my intentions, and she almost smiled a little. “Must I be punished for it, Papa?”

“Certainly you must,” I said, “If you want atonement.”

“I do, Papa.” She was trembling, and I wondered if she would enjoy it as much as her grandmother had, if she were really that much like her.

“Emily,” I asked, “Do you wish for me to punish you properly?” Her permission was necessary. Though she resembled my own Emily so much, I could not be so certain about her willingness as I had been about my bride’s. My darling Emily…she had always been mine, and we had both known it.  But I could not take her granddaughter entirely by force; I had to hear her say it.

“Yes, Papa,” she whispered, giving me a gaze that was both lustful and imploring. “Will you please punish me, the way that you used to punish Lady Emily?”

It was with some difficulty that I knelt down, slowly, and kissed her trembling lips. Soft little rosebud lips, just like my wife’s. My wife…Emily crawled up onto my lap, not resting too much of her weight on my fragile knees. I seized her little wrists and kissed her again, and as I trailed kisses down her neck, I heard her whimpering softly. Her little murmurs and moans…oh, Emily…

It should come as no surprise that, as an old man, my virility was not what it once was. Still, I already felt my cock stirring as I asked young Emily to undress. She removed her skirt and blouse, and I watched the sway of her little breasts and her wide hips as she peeled off her stockings. She gave me a teasing look as she wiggled a little for my benefit, giggling as I gave her an approving smile.

“Papa?” Young Emily stepped between my spread thighs, allowing me to put my withered hands on her tender skin. “Do I really remind you very much of Lady Emily?”

“Oh, yes, my child,” I murmured, as I began to grope her sweet little tits. Oh, God, so much like Emily’s before she was first pregnant! A sudden thought made me smile; the only thing that could have made that moment any more spectacular was if my young Emily were pregnant. Even with her late husband’s baby, for I knew that I could enjoy my fine pregnant bitch, regardless of who sired the child.

“You could pretend,” young Emily whispered. “You can pretend that I’m Lady Emily.”

I ran my hands down her sides and seized her hips, drawing her crotch to mine. I looked into her eyes, my own Emily’s same grey-green eyes, but I knew I could not pretend. I told her this. “I want you because you do remind me of her,” I confessed. “But I will not pretend. You are you…and I do want you, my sweet young Emily.” She flushed and I touched her face, kissing her again.

“I only want you to feel good, Papa. You deserve it,” she said sweetly.

“It would make me feel very good to give you the punishment that you’ve earned,” I said, and she flushed more deeply. “I think it will make you feel good, too, my dear.”

She nodded, and I had her go to one of the armchairs and bend over one of the arms. This was a familiar position for my own Emily. As I retrieved the familiar ropes and tied her up, I felt a renewed surge of energy, such as I hadn’t felt in years. And perhaps I was able to pretend, a little, as I touched young Emily’s unmarred back, thinking back to many many years ago, when my wife’s back was still a smooth white canvas. Perhaps I could pretend a little when I shoved a handkerchief into her sweet mouth, and beat her with a paddle.

Her pretty back and ass was a lovely shade of red, and burned to the touch when I stopped to stroke her. Young Emily cried, whimpering a little, shedding some tears. It was enough for the first punishment; if she would allow me, I would find ways to make her howl in delightful pain. I imagined having the chance to relive my own Emily’s first ass-whipping, in the horse stables…

My dear young Emily was very surprised when I offered to fuck her in her ass for the first time. Had she refused, I might have raped her; she was in no position to refuse me, with her arms and legs all bound to the legs of the chair, her tits pressed against the seat of the chair as her ass stuck up deliciously. But I wouldn’t do that, not to dear young Emily. I asked her if her precious doctor had ever fucked her in her ass, and she shook her head. I merely asked, “May I?’ For a moment, she made no sound. I waited patiently, and she slowly nodded. “Are you sure?” Another nod. “Very well, Emily. You know how much your grandmother enjoyed being sodomized; perhaps you will as well.”

I grinned to myself, my heart pounding and my old cock throbbing. I was ready for her, at last, but she wasn’t quite ready for me. My cock in one hand, I stuck two fingers of my other hand into my mouth before shoving them into young Emily’s waiting asshole. She was impossibly tight, and I knew that, if I were to fuck her ass properly, I would not be able to be gentle. I smiled as she moaned and wriggled a bit.

“Hold still, my little slut,” I instructed her, slapping her ass cheek once. Though her ass was already raw, I could see the faint outline of my handprint. “Now, relax your asshole for Papa, that’s a good girl.”

I lubed up for her, as I’d never failed to do for my own Emily. I took her by the hips and prepared to thrust into her, stopping only to briefly finger her cunt. Very, very wet, and when I drew my fingers away and stuck them in my mouth, I was pleasantly surprised at the taste. She almost tasted just as my own Emily had, she almost had that same tangy sweetness, almost…

I murmured my approval, so that she could hear me. “You are delicious, my sweet little girl.” I stroked her curved backside lovingly. “Do you understand, Emily, that you’re giving your Papa a very loving gift? You are an angel to do so much to make this old man happy. Thank you, darling.”

Emily nodded slightly, and I felt her tremble in anticipation as I took her by the hips again. “Now, relax for Papa again, Emily, that’s right…” I shoved into her, knowing that to go slowly would only prolong her pain. She screamed into the handkerchief gag, but I stayed inside of her until I felt her relax. I fingered her cunt again as I continued thrusting, first going at a moderate pace, as mindful of my heart rate as I was of the lining of her asshole. Ah, but I pushed the both of us, and as I pounded into her, I closed my eyes, and could see myself fucking my own Emily’s virgin asshole, as she knelt before me on my bed, the bed that had belonged to her own parents, the bed that she and I would share for so many years…

As I liked to do with my own Emily, I thrust as deep into the girl’s ass as I could whilst coming, filling her with a substantial load, though a fraction of the seed that I used to leave deep inside my wife. I had gotten into a nasty habit of comparing my old self with my younger self, and being with young Emily didn’t help that matter. Though she could sometimes make me feel as though I were young again, there were too many reminders to the contrary.

Still, I felt thoroughly satisfied after having my young not-granddaughter. I was highly amused when, after slowly drawing myself from her, she farted loudly and voided, liquid shit running down her thighs. She whimpered and sobbed, humiliated, and I laughed softly and left her tied while I cleaned her lovingly with a wet towel.

“Poor Emily,” I laughed, rubbing her cleaned thighs and calves. “Poor little darling, it’s all right. You know that your grandmother had her share of humiliations following ass play.” I cleaned her ass crack and hole thoroughly, and teased her. “You are Papa’s dirty little bitch, aren’t you?”

Young Emily nodded weakly, giggling a little into the handkerchief, and I finally untied her. She was trembling as she stood, and my aches and pains were beginning to return, so we sat together for a while, just as I used to hold my own Emily in my arms after playing with her. I did not realize that I was crying a little as I kissed the girl’s neck, until she gently brushed away my tears.

“Thank you, my dear,” I said, and she kissed me briefly on the lips.

“You’re welcome, Papa,” she said.

“So, what did you think, Emily?” I asked.

“Well, I think I did enjoy the punishment,” she said, flushing but a little, the same sweet way that my own Emily would blush for me. “I do not know about having my ass…” Her flush deepened.

I smiled patiently. “That’s quite all right, my dear. Not every woman takes to it.”

“Perhaps we might try again sometime?”

I gave her a questioning look. “Does this mean that you want to continue playing with me, Emily?”

“Of course, Papa,” Emily said, kissing me briefly again. “I’ll stay with you for the rest of your life…if you’ll have me.”

I held the dear girl close. “I love you very much, Emily.”

“I love you, too, Papa.”

“Shall we to bed, my love?”

Young Emily remembered to get my pills, and we went together to my bedchamber. She stayed with me again in my marriage bed, though we played no more that night. In my younger days, I would have had her again and again, all night. But I was spent, and after taking my medicine, I slept quite peacefully with the soft, warm young Emily in my arms. My dreams were very, very sweet that night.

Over the next few weeks, I would sometimes feel, upon waking, that I had died and was in heaven. What else could explain the presence of the angel in my bed, my sweet Emily, as she looked when I first made love to her, when I first made her my bride? But, coming to myself, I would remember the truth of my circumstances. I knew that I was quite fortunate.

Though young Emily expressed willingness in playing with me, I did not push her limits. The harshest punishment that I gave to her was the imagined beating in the horse stables, though I found it to be less enjoyable without any horses to watch us, nor any for her to ride naked upon afterward. Still, I enjoyed walking with my young Emily on the grounds of Wainwright Hall, or in the lovely garden, and laying her down on the grass to fuck her sweet young body. And when she would bite her lip, and tilt her head back and moan…she was my own Emily, for a short moment of ecstasy.

Having the girl in my home, and in my bed, reinvigorated me for a short time. But I found it difficult to keep up with her, and she was ever so playful, as my Emily had been, patting my crouch encouragingly when she wanted attention. She was patient with my old body, more patient than I myself could be, but by the beginning of summer, I was worn out. Receiving a letter from Winslow one morning (in which he inquired about his daughter, revealing that she had not written him directly herself), I was inspired with an idea.

Emily came to me while I sat in my old office. She looked especially fresh and youthful that day, wearing a light summer dress that fit quite well around her pert tits and shapely hips. She smiled warmly at me. “Good morning, Papa.”

She came to me and kissed me softly, and I resisted the urge to pull her onto my lap. She was so bright and pretty, and I knew that I truly loved her. So I knew that I did what was right when I told her about her father’s inquiry. “He is worried about you,” I said.

“But you will write to him and tell him that I’m quite well, won’t you?” Emily asked, perching on the corner of my desk.

“Don’t you think it would be better if you informed him yourself?” I asked gently. “Or better yet, Emily, don’t you think you should go and see your father?”

Young Emily bit her lip apprehensively. “I don’t know…”

“Darling,” I said, “I must say, if one of my children wouldn’t speak to me, or write to me at all, it would break my heart. Don’t you think that you’re hurting your father?”

“He doesn’t care.”

“Of course he does,” I insisted. “No, your father is not a warm man, and he does not easily express his love. I know that you’ve always needed that from him. But he does love you, and you must never doubt this, Emily. He misses you.”

The poor little dear began to cry. “I don’t want to hurt him…”

“Think of Lady Emily,” I urged her. “The poor thing was an orphan when she was but four years old. If she’d ever had a chance to know either of her parents, or to even just see them and speak to them one time, she would have given anything for it. She never had that chance, Emily. You lost your mother, but you still have him. Please, for my sake, and in the memory of Lady Emily and your dear mother, will you go to your father and make amends?”

I have rarely ever failed in getting someone to do what I wish, and I was most successful in convincing my young Emily to go to London, the very next day. I had one more night with her, and I made the most of it. I had found that I liked to hear her call out for me, “Oh, Papa!”, while I fucked her in ways that would have made her dearly departed doctor turn crimson. There was no denying that I was a dirty old man.

Young Emily was to be away a fortnight, but I was never to see her again. I perhaps felt this, as I kissed her on the cheek at the train station, having gathered up my strength to see her off myself. She noticed the troubled look in my eyes as she placed a soft, gentle hand on my withered cheek. “Are you all right, Papa? You look so tired.”

“I am, my dearest. You’ve worn out your poor old man.”

She giggled a little and grinned. “Get plenty of rest, Papa. I will come back to you.” I forced a smile as I watched her board the train. But my melancholy was forgotten as I rode back to Wainwright Hall in the back of my new car. I actually looked forward to some solitary time. Perhaps I would read through my wife’s diary again, as I had not gone through it myself since right after her death…

I was not even given enough time to become lonely. Only two days after seeing young Emily off, a guest arrived at Wainwright Hall. I was in my office, reading (though not my wife’s private diary), when the young maid came in and announced that Contessa Garzelli had arrived. I smiled and stood, with a little difficulty, as a lovely middle-aged woman entered my office. She wore a very flattering traveling suit, in the latest fashion, and the dark hair under her hat had only a touch of grey. Her blue eyes sparkled, a little mischievously, as I came to greet her.

“My dear Alice,” I declared. “You look quite well.”

I took her offered hand and kissed it gallantly. She kissed my cheek. “I am sorry to drop in on you without warning, Mr. Singer.”

“It is a pleasant surprise,” I said, and it was certainly true. I had seen Alice only briefly the previous year, following her beloved sister-in-law’s funeral. I was always glad to see Alice, for I could never forget how much love my own Emily had had for her, and I knew that it would have pleased my wife that we maintained our friendship after her passing. I bade my guest to sit, and I poured drinks for us.

“My husband and I happened to be in London, and I called on my favorite little great-niece,” Alice revealed. She shared my affection for young Emily. Though she had lived abroad in Italy most of the girl’s life, she always made it a point to keep in touch with her. She had been close to Charlotte in the same way, for Alice had never had children of her own. I had boldly asked her once if she regretted it, not having her own children. She had responded, “I know how much motherhood has brought joy to Mrs. Singer, and to my dear Tatiana, but…I am content, Mr. Singer. Besides,” she had admitted with a smile, “I have gotten used to being a pampered, spoiled baby of the family, and my husband likes to treat me the same way.”

She’d been referring to her second husband, Conte Garzelli, whom she had met only a few months after the death of her first husband, Thurston Mangrich. I knew a little of the story of how she’d met the Conte whilst abroad, for my own Emily had been the one to introduce them. But I would learn more, much more, of the events surrounding that story soon enough…

Bringing Alice her drink, I said, “Your timing is excellent. Young Emily had been staying here with me, but is now in London seeing her father.”

“Yes,” Alice said. “She told me all about it.”

I eyed her carefully as we both sipped our drinks. She still had the mischievous look in her eyes. “All?” I finally asked with a little smile.

“Yes, you dirty all man. All.”

I laughed aloud. “Well, can you blame me?”

“Oh, Mr. Singer,” Alice sighed, smiling even as she reproached me. “What do you think your wife would say to it?”

“I would daresay she’d be quite flattered,” I said, her words affecting me but a little. “It is for her resemblance to my wife that I want the girl. I’ve always favored her for it, as have you, Contessa. And young Emily knows it well.”

Alice nodded, but her face looked suddenly grave. “She adores you, Mr. Singer, but…I am concerned. For both of you, for you know that I have always cared for you very much.” I nodded as she continued, “I think that the girl is confused about the whole situation. She loves you and wants to please you, for certain, but…”

I sighed, my heart sinking. “She does not want to come back to me.”

“She is eager to return to you,” Alice insisted.

“Has she made up with her father?” I asked.

Alice smiled at that. “They’re both trying at it. I spoke with Geoffrey briefly. He is still an insufferable bore, but he loves his child.” Her eyes brimmed with tears, for poor young Edwin, and I realized that the best place for young Emily was in her father’s home. When I admitted this to Alice, she said, “I advised the girl not to plan on coming back to you any time soon. I believe you will thank me for it, once I’ve shared with you my real reason for coming.”

I was intrigued as Alice took up her small traveling bag and took out a small notebook. She handed it over to me without a word, and nodded for me open it. As soon as my eyes swept across the first page, my heart leapt. It was my own Emily’s handwriting!

I gave Alice a questioning look, holding the book in my trembling, arthritic fingers as she explained. “Mrs. Singer kept that diary during our trip abroad, when she and Tatiana came out to meet me at the health spa in Italy. Do you remember that, Mr. Singer?”

I nodded. She’d taken that trip with Tatiana only a few years before her death. She had returned from her month abroad in high spirits, though she had missed me, and Wainwright Hall, terribly. I thought that the trip would be good for her, as we had just sent Avery, our youngest, to university the previous fall, and she’d been as a mother hen without her little chicks for months, at times more melancholy than I’d ever seen her.

“There were some events that occurred on this trip that Mrs. Singer wished to keep secret from you,” Alice said frankly. “She recorded them in this diary, and had resolved to give it to you upon her return, and to tell you all. But she found that she could not do it, and at the last moment, left the diary with me. Before she died, she sent me a letter, asking me to give this to you sometime…”

“And you waited 10 years?” I asked in disbelief. In my younger days, I would have raged. But as an old man, I was not so quick to anger. I merely shook my head. “What sort of events?” I asked weakly.

“You will know, if you read it,” she said. “You know how carefully Mrs. Singer kept her personal records.”

“Yes.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I stared at the first page of the diary, not reading it, my eyes blurring over the words. I flipped through it, and saw that the small notebook was nearly half filled with her words, with her secrets. Secrets that she wanted me to know, but could not share with me herself.

I gave Alice a desperate look. “I don’t know if I can read this.”

“It’s up to you, Mr. Singer,” Alice said, not unkindly. “She wanted you to read it.”

And so I did. Alice merely sat beside me, not saying a word, not moving, as I read through the entire little diary in silence. I never would have thought my sweet Emily capable of keeping such secrets from me, of betraying me in such ways. I trembled in anger, in deep sorrow, in remorse as I read it, but I could not stop until I reach the end, until I’d read Emily’s final apology to me, her begging for my forgiveness, even as she lay on her deathbed.

I could not speak for some time after reading of the events in Italy. I closed the diary and held it in my lap. I had nearly forgotten that Alice was beside me until I turned, and saw her sitting there, looking at me in concern. I surprised myself by chuckling a little, a bitter chuckle. “Well, I certainly am a delusional old man, aren’t I?”

“She never loved you any less than she claimed to,” Alice softly. She tapped the hardbound cover of the diary. “Do you love her any less for this?”

There it was. My Emily wanted to test my love from beyond the grave. She’d always tried so hard to be my good girl, my perfect little slave, my obedient darling. She’d never truly displeased me; I had never thought that it was possible. But she had proven that she was able to deceive me, and she had hidden feelings of bitterness towards me. The illusion of my perfect Emily, only strengthened in the decade since her passing, was shattered forever.

But no. I was relieved to find that I did not love her any less for it all, but perhaps more. Perhaps now, I could finally feel worthy of her, as I never truly had. In the back of my mind, I had always felt like a perverted man who had manipulated a young girl into loving me. She had served me and had allowed me to degrade her, and she had worshipped me. But Emily was intelligent, not naïve in the least, and she had loved me, in spite of my many many flaws, with her eyes wide open.

I spoke of all this with Alice, the only person who had loved my Emily as much as I, the only one who would understand. She was pleased that I had taken all of it so well. “Mr. Singer,” she said, “Your wife asked one more favor of me, and I am happy to do as she wished. She wanted me to finally offer myself up to you for your use.”

I laughed aloud at this. Alice, the one woman who had ever rejected me, the one woman that I could never have, was finally in my possession. And now, I was too exhausted to do anything about it. I admitted this to her. “I wish you had made this offer years ago, my friend. But it’s too late for any of that now.”

Alice stayed for an early dinner, as she had to be on the next train back to London. “I will stop in to see young Emily before we go back to Florence. Do you still think it is best for her to remain in London?”

I did. The delusion being shattered, I knew that I could not play pretend with my young Emily any more. And thinking on it, and talking it over with level-headed, Alice, I realized that my poor (not-)granddaughter was a very confused young lady. She’d suffered so much heartache, losing her dear younger brother and her husband within the span of a couple of years, and never having recovered the loss of her mother. And I, who had only ever wanted to take care of her and ensure her happiness, had manipulated her. I felt that there was no doubt in that.

“She loves you,” Alice assured me again. “She told me that you helped to heal her grief from losing her husband. I cannot believe that she got married behind everyone’s back, but I think that she is remorseful of her recklessness, and she wants to begin school again next year.”

I was glad to hear it, and resolved to write to young Emily the next day, to send her my sincere love, my blessing to go out and pursue her dreams and desires, but an open invitation to return to Wainwright Hall any time she pleased. It was the right thing to do. It was what I had sometimes regretted not doing for my own Emily…

In spite of my heavy thoughts, I felt strangely happy as I kissed Alice goodbye. “Mr. Singer, please, you must come and spend your winter with us in Florence. It is lovely there, and the weather would be good for your joints. Please say you will.”

It was a kind invitation, but we both knew that it was never to be. I said, “I am not traveling while there is a war is going on. And by the by, perhaps you might tell your husband that his people need to pick a side and stop wavering.”

“War!” Alice declared with a disgusted shake of her head. “We are neutral, and I hope it stays that way.”

“It won’t,” I said knowingly, and I would not live to learn that I was right. “Be safe in your travels, my friend.”

I kissed her goodbye again, and noted tears in her lovely eyes as she turned away. She got into the back of my car, and was off quickly to town to catch the next train. I slowly made my way back into my office.

Ignoring the coming of my usual aches and pains, I took up the small diary again, the one that Alice had brought to me, the one that had shattered all of my illusions. I smiled bitterly to myself, shaking my head. Foolish old man! As I made my way slowly up the stairs, I imagined what Emily, my own Emily, might say to all of this, had she had the nerve (the poor dear always had been more than a little afraid of me) to share it all with me herself.

What would I have said to it? I knew, honestly and truly, that I would have said, “I care about none of it, except that you would keep it from me for so long. And I am sorry for having lied to you…do forgive me, darling, and let’s forget it all. Our love is so perfect, my darling, so complete, and none of the rest of it matters.”

I realized with a start that I was mumbling these words as I went to my bedchamber door. But this is not where I wanted to be. I went instead to the room containing the portrait of Lady Emily, capturing her glorious beauty. I stood before it in the darkened room, looking up at her, asking her again to forgive me. “Forgive me, Emily,” I whispered, and I knew that she had.

Though the bed in that room had been unused in quite some time, the young maid kept fresh sheets on it, in case of the unexpected arrival of Mina, with or without her husband. I knew that they took some pleasure in the portrait themselves, so it never had to come down. And I was able to lie in a clean, not at all uncomfortable bed, and look at my lovely wife, and think of her, and our life together, and our children, as I lay in that dark room.

I forgot about our mistakes, about the lies that we’d told. It had all come out in the end, as it should have. Emily had played it all so well. “You always knew what was best, didn’t you, darling?” I whispered to her in the dark. She would never agree with such a statement, and I could almost see her lying beside me, blushing at my praise (“Oh, sir, really…”). I felt happy and comforted, knowing that when she died, she had not been troubled by anything, knowing that I would know the truth myself in time. Yes, the truth, and the only truth that really mattered was that I had loved her, and she had loved me and had wanted to belong to me all along. In that clean bed, before the glorious portrait of my almost-perfect wife, I could die remembering only our almost-perfect love.