Mr. Singer

I sat quietly at the office desk, gazing out of the large window at the snow-covered grounds of Wainwright Hall. The sloping acres were spotted with trees, now bare in the mid-winter chill. I had made Wainwright Hall my home for the past 12 years, but I still marveled at its beauty all year round. In the spring, the hills were covered in yellow and white wildflowers, and the trees were lush and green. Beyond the hills there was a small valley and a pond, a pleasant place in the warm summer. In autumn, the trees turned gold, and shed all upon the hills. And even in the dead of winter, the frost-covered trees and white hills had their own kind of haunting beauty.

I should have been working that cold afternoon. I was an attorney, and though I mostly served the sparsely populated villages surrounding Wainwright Hall, I was kept plenty busy by the wealthy neighbors and local businesses. I had a successful practice, and adding that income to the small fortune that I had earned years ago in South Africa, I could afford to live comfortably enough. The fact that I lived for free in Wainwright Hall, a place that I did not own, made amassing my fortune all the easier. I owned my own estate, further south, but leased it to various tenants, which was enough to keep the house staffed and maintained in my absence. I had my practice near Wainwright Hall, and my own responsibilities right there at the place that I called home.

I had come to live at Wainwright Hall after the death of my good friend, Sir Peter Wainwright. He and I had been close friends since our boyhood at school, and had gone together to South Africa to secure our fortunes. Sir Peter came from wealthy noble stock, and when we returned from our fruitful endeavors, he married a young woman of equally good standing and decent looks. Sir Peter and his wife Anne had one daughter, the young Lady Emily. Lady Anne died in childbirth, and though my friend was a fine-looking and wealthy young man, certainly an eligible bachelor, I don’t believe he ever desired to find another wife. He confessed to me that he had loved his wife very much, and had taken her death very hard. He turned all his love to his young daughter, a lovely child.

I figured that in time, my friend would come to terms his wife’s passing and find another wife. I was ready to settle down myself. But Sir Peter’s illness changed everything. He wrote to me, requesting that I come to him as quickly as I could. Though I had been living on my own since we’d returned to England, Wainwright Hall was only a day’s train ride away, and I spent many holidays there throughout the year. I enjoyed the time with my friend, who had been very depressed since his wife’s untimely passing, and was quite fond of little Lady Emily, a polite but precocious girl.

Of course, I went to Sir Peter’s side quickly. He had been struck by a mysterious and deadly illness, and was surely hours from death. Pale-faced and gaunt, he grabbed me by the arm and made me promise to care for my young goddaughter. “She has no family in this world to speak of,” he said. “And there would be many people eager to manipulate a child who has such a fortune in her name. You are the closest that I’ve ever had to a brother, Aaron…will you care for my daughter like your own?”

I gave him my solemn word, and he died the next morning. I held his sad child, the poor little orphan, in my arms as she cried, her mournful wailing dissolving into fearful whimpers until she fell into an exhausted sleep. She was only four-years-old. She needed protection, and I swore, to my departed friend and to myself, that I would be the one to provide it.

And so, I stayed on at Wainwright Hall. Young Lady Emily already had a nanny, so I kept the kindly old lady on to take care of the child’s day-to-day care and needs as I worked on building my practice. I had tried, and ultimately failed, to start up a business law practice in the south, and so I relocated and expanded my expertise to personal law as well. Though I stayed busy, I made the time to help educate the young girl. Like her father, she was intelligent, and could pick up new skills and information very quickly. She amazed me by learning how to read before the passing of her father; with my help, she mastered speaking, writing, and reading in French by the age of six. And though most people would say that it was unnecessary for a young lady to learn about math and sciences, I taught her in those subjects as well, keeping her up to date on new advances in science and medicine while teaching her arithmetic and even more complex mathematics. She was so incredibly bright, and I even debated sending her off to school to further her education. But she was a young lady, and the last of the Wainwright line, and her place was at Wainwright Hall.

Though she has always treated me with the respect of a daughter to her father, I have always emphasized that Wainwright Hall was her home. “I am only here to help you,” I would say. “I am your guardian, Emily, but I am also your friend.” By her teenage years, she was my most trusted confidant. Though I had a few friends with whom I enjoyed a drink or two at one of the village pubs on a weekend evening, Emily was the one that I trusted and cared for the most. Emily and I had always gotten along famously, and I can recall few disagreements between us. My plans to find a wife and settle down were put on hold, but I did not mind. I was happy enough at Wainwright Hall, and very comfortable indeed.

That snowy afternoon, Emily and I would have one of our few disagreements. As I sat daydreaming, gazing out at the gorgeous wintry scene before me, I heard a soft tapping at the open door. I turned in my seat to see the young lady herself, standing there patiently. At 16, she was the loveliest young lady in the area. I had thrown her an appropriately extravagant debutant ball only a few months before, and since then, she had received countless invitations to parties, some as far away as London. I rarely allowed her to make the trip just to attend a party, but I had accompanied her to a particularly lavish New Year’s Eve ball just the month before.

The pretty girl had also been entertaining a few suitors, many of them eligible young men of fine birth. I did not object to the courting, but I had feared where it might lead. My fears had come to fruition just a couple of days before, and I was sure that this was what my serious-faced goddaughter wished to discuss.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, ever polite when speaking to me, “I don’t wish to disturb you, but there is an urgent matter that we need to address.”

“You’re not disturbing me at all, Emily,” I said. “You have my full attention.”

I did not invite Emily into the room, but that would have been an unnecessary gesture. It was her house, after all. But she nodded and came in slowly, taking a seat across the desk from where I sat.

“I do not want to throw any accusations at you until I’ve heard your side,” she began. I nodded and she continued. “I was just visiting with Miss Catherine Gainsley. You know that her older brother Mr. Maxwell Gainsley has been courting me for several months?”

I nodded. “I do.”

“When you and I have spoken of him, you were very complimentary of his character and social standing,” Emily said.

“Indeed I was,” I agreed. “He is a respectful young gentleman, not unintelligent, and his family has a fortune that is comparable to your own.”

“Some would say that Mr. Gainsley and I are evenly matched,” Emily pressed.

I nodded again. “I suppose they would.”

“But you do not think so,” Emily said, and it was not a question. “That is why, when he requested you for my hand in marriage, you refused him.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. I examined Emily’s face. She is usually a carefree girl, not usually so serious. Her father had been the same way, always joking around, taking almost everything as sport. I enjoyed talking and joking with Emily as much as I had with her father. I had never seen her looking so serious, angry, even, as she did that afternoon in my office. I had to explain my reasoning to her calmly and carefully. I felt certain that she would see things my way when we were through.

“That is what happened, according to my friend Miss Gainsley,” Emily continued. “Can you explain this to me, sir?”

“Emily,” I said, “you’re absolutely right. I don’t think that you and the young Mr. Gainsley are a good match for each other.”

“Why not?” Emily asked.

“Do you remember last autumn, when you and I spent a month in South Africa? That was very exciting for you, wasn’t it? And when you came back, you wanted to tell all of your friends and suitors about the strange and interesting things you’d seen and done there, didn’t you?”

She nodded at the memory. I had taken Emily on a few trips away from her home, always using my own money to finance these excursions. I had taken her to Paris, America, South Africa, and to visit some friends of mine in Germany. She loved to travel. She was a modern woman, a bit before her time, but wealthy enough to do whatever she wanted to do.

“I remember,” I continued, “walking past the parlor while you were entertaining young Mr. Gainsley, only a few days after we had returned. You were telling the story of how we had taken that tour in the jungle, and the strange monkey that had stolen your hat, do you remember? And you told that story so well, each time with more and more enthusiasm. I daresay that you saved your best performance for him. But he could not be more disinterested in what you had to say. I found that very odd. Didn’t you?”

“I…” Emily paused for a moment. “I don’t remember.” But she did remember, I could tell that she did, and I smiled.

“This young man does not share your interests,” I said.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t get married,” Emily argued, her voice hinting to whine. She was never a whiney or bratty child, so I knew she wouldn’t pout as I calmly explained my position.

“No, but it means that you shouldn’t. Emily, you cannot really love someone unless you have something in common with him. What do you and Mr. Gainsley have in common?”

“We both like riding,” Emily said firmly.

“Ah,” I said, “and how many times have you and Mr. Gainsley shared an afternoon ride together?”

“I like to ride alone,” Emily said.

I shook my head. “Not always. You’ve ridden with me countless times, and you meet your friend Miss Tatiana Howard every other week to take your horses to an open pasture. And the only time I’ve see young Mr. Gainsley on a horse is during the annual fox hunt, and his riding skills leave much to be desired.”

“You just don’t like him,” Emily accused me.

“Not so,” I said, still as calm as ever as she began to boil. “I have no issue with the young Mr. Gainsley. And I meant all the complimentary things that I said. I do think he’s a fine young man…I simply don’t feel like the two of you are well-suited.”

Emily changed tactics. “But sir,” she said, “I’m 16. It’s time for me to get married.”

“You’re too young,” I said simply.

She practically did pout this time. “I’m not too young,” she huffed. “Mary Steepleton got married when she was 15, and had her first child at 16.”

“That’s all well and good for Mrs. Steepleton,” I said. “It was an appropriate time for her to marry. Her family was in financial trouble, and Mr. Steepleton was a wealthy widow. She married advantageously, saved the family name and property, and will live more happily than she might have. Good for her.”

“What difference does it make?” Emily asked.

“It makes all the difference, my dear,” I said. “You, Emily, are a very wealthy and intelligent young woman. You have a sense of adventure, and if you were to marry now, you would never get to see all the places or do all of the things that you’ve talked of doing.”

“We could travel,” Emily said, but her argument was weakening.

“I don’t know the Gainsleys to travel much,” I remarked.

Poor Lady Emily looked to be on the verge of tears. I had been relentless in my counterarguments, but she is typically a more worthy opponent. Her emotions had gotten the best of her. “Emily,” I said, more gently than before, “why do you love this young man?”

She looked at me, confused for a moment, her eyes brimming with unfallen tears. “Well,” she said, “he…he’s handsome, and kind, and he comes from a good family.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “you are buckling under some pressure that has been placed on you by some our well-meaning friends and neighbors. They may think that they know what is best for you, that you should marry young and well, and that will be your key to happiness. But my dear Emily, the times are changing, and our old-fashioned neighbors do not know what is best for you. They do not know what is in your heart. You are still so young, even if you don’t think so. Take it from an old man, Emily. You are wealthy enough to take care of yourself, and to do everything that you want to do in life. Marriage can wait.”

“All right,” she caved, “I acknowledge that Mr. Gainsley may not be the best match for me. But what if I do find the right one? Would you grant me permission then?”

I looked at my beautiful goddaughter carefully again. She could have any man she wanted. There would come a time when I would not be able to stop her from marrying. But, for the time being, I still had influence over her. “I’ll make you a deal, Emily,” I said. “When you turn 18, you may marry whomever you like, if you wish. Until that time comes, I will not allow you to marry…unless I feel absolutely certain that the young man is the best match for you.”

Emily nodded. She did not argue this. She thought that I was only looking out for her best interests. She trusted me.

“Can we consider the matter settled?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” Emily said.

“Good,” I said. “Why don’t we step into the parlor and have our afternoon tea? I don’t imagine that we’ll receive any more callers today, with the snow picking up.”

And we continued our afternoon pleasantly enough. Emily forgot her troubles, and was fully herself again as we had our tea. We spent the afternoon reading quietly in the study, as was our custom when going outside was impossible. But as I stared at my text, I was now the one with a troubled mind.

I had lied to my young Emily. Oh, I had not lied about thinking that young Mr. Gainsley was not a good match for her. That was the truth. But I had told her that at 18, I would allow her to marry. This was not entirely the truth. She would marry at 18, but it would be to the man that I had already selected for her personally. That man was me.

Yes, I had fallen in love with my young charge, but she did not know it. She may have suspected it, but I never asked her, and I will never know if this was the case. But I had been falling in love with her since she had started to become a woman. I would lie awake in bed at night, and would fantasize about going to her, climbing into her bed and waking her gently before giving her all of my love.

Such thoughts disturbed me at first. I had never looked at Emily with anything but fatherly love since the day she was born. I was not a lonely man; I had a couple of women in the villages that I would see regularly, and my whores kept me satisfied enough. But I began to think of Emily constantly, thinking about her soft dark hair and her lovely light skin. She looked quite a bit like her mother, as far as her features went, but while Anne had been passably pretty, Emily was stunningly beautiful. She had a special glow to her, and I was convinced that she had inherited that from her father. Like his daughter, he had been irresistible to the opposite sex.

As time passed, and I saw Emily with her suitors, I began to think of what life would be like with Emily as my bride. And over time, I began to realize that I didn’t want my life any other way. I needed my sweet Emily, my little girl, to be mine forever. Even then, as we sat together on that stormy yet pleasant afternoon, I was formulating a plan for her. The plan would go into effect on her 18th birthday; for the time being, all I would have to do was keep her unmarried and virginal. She was a virtuous young woman, and would not give herself away to just any suitor. She would be mine, all mine, on her 18th birthday.

My plans for Emily had started to take form during a trip to Paris. It was our third visit, and Emily knew all of her favorite shops to visit. I would give her money and send her along with her nanny; I financed her little shopping excursions, not wanting her to dip into her family fortune just to satisfy her girlish whims. She was much more conservative with my money; if I had allowed her free reign over what was rightfully hers, I was afraid that she would not be so responsible. She was still able to get everything she wanted; I ensured that she was a spoiled child.

She was 15 on that trip, and just starting to come into her womanhood. Her little breasts were forming nicely, and she kept a slim but womanly shape under a tight corset. I found myself looking her over much more than I had when she was young and undeveloped, and I would look away, embarrassed, hoping she had not noticed the extra attention. She knew she was pretty, and she was vain enough already, always glancing at herself briefly in any reflective surface.

Little Lady Emily enjoyed staying with the latest fashions, and that trip, her mission was to find the perfect gown for her debutante ball, which, as she did not fail to remind me several times, was only two short months away. She succeeded on our fourth day there, and that evening, she excitedly modeled her evening gown for me in our large hotel suite. The gown was silk, a lovely sage green that complimented her light grey eyes. The neckline of the dress was almost scandalously low, and the straps upon her shoulders were thinner than was the style, decorated with silk flowers that draped around her upper arms. The gown flowed out only slightly, creating a slimmer silhouette than most ball gowns of the time. The train spread behind her elegantly.

Had I viewed little Lady Emily as just my little goddaughter, I would have insisted that she return the gown and would have exchanged harsh words with her nanny for allowing her to make such a reckless purchase. But sweet Emily looked so beautiful and elegant, and I had to fight the urge to sweep her into my arms and kiss her deeply. The sudden urge made me flush, and she smiled.

“Is it too ‘Paris’ for Wainwright Hall?” she asked anxiously. I could tell that she really liked the dress. It was forward, certainly, and might draw a few judgmental glares. I warned her of this, but she smiled. “Who cares? The sort of people who might judge this gown harshly are not the sort of people whose attentions I require, anyway.”

I grinned at her. “I think it’s lovely. To hell with the conservatives.” She laughed at my declaration, and because we were in Paris, we enjoyed a glass of champagne together while she strutted around the hotel suite in her gown.

It was not at that moment that I decided to make her mine, however. This came very shortly after. After we had taken our dinner at the hotel and taken in a show, we went back up to the suite for the evening. The nanny, staying two floors below, had already finished putting Lady Emily’s new things away and had retired to her quarters. As Emily occupied the lavatory, I noticed one of her little shopping bags had been left out.

I went to the bag and took a peek inside. I was more than a little surprised at what I found. I recognized what they were immediately, for I am no stranger to sexual activities that many would call “deviant.” But to see them in my little Emily’s shopping bag was quite a shock. Inside the bag were little metal nipple clips. It was unmistakable. She could have picked them up at any number of back-alley shops specializing in such wares; I had visited a few myself. But how had she slipped away from her nanny long enough to procure them?

I was not to find out. I quickly put the clips back in the bag and sat down in an armchair, pretending to ignore the bag as Emily came back into the room. She had gone out in a more conservative dress that evening, but she still looked lovely, her dark hair styled in neat curls around her prettily flushed face. She smiled at me. “I think I will retire for the evening. Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Emily.”

She spotted the bag on the floor. “Hallo! Nanny must have forgotten to put this one away.” I noticed that her cheeks took on a deeper shade of red as she left the room with her taboo purchase. “Goodnight,” she said again, a bit awkwardly, as she went into her private quarters, closing the door.

I stayed up for a while. It was a cool spring evening, and it had started to rain. I lit the fireplace and sat in my armchair, enjoying a generous glass of brandy. As I stared at the fire and listened to the pattering of the cold steady rain against the windows, I thought about the events of the evening. First that sexy little debutante gown; she certainly would draw a number of disapproving stares, but she would draw many more appreciative ones. Then, on our evening out on the town, she had been just as charming and lovely as she always has been. A perfect companion in every way. Then the biggest shock of all, finding the nipple clamps.

I wondered what it could mean. Why would a girl so young have interest in such forbidden things? Perhaps for just that reason, just for the fact that they were forbidden. I remembered a conversation that I’d had with Sir Peter, before his wife’s death and his daughter’s birth. Over a private smoke in his library, the same room that later served as my office, he had revealed that the Lady Anne was a very sexually adventurous woman. Sir Peter, a gentleman, did not divulge any more details than that. Perhaps Lady Emily had inherited that trait from her mother. The thought made me smile.

I indulged my sexual fantasies about her, allowing myself to lie in bed and rub my stiff cock as I thought of sweet Emily, wearing her nipple clips under her pretty clothes. Over the next few months, I began to form my plans for her. But I decided to wait until she turned 18; it seemed appropriate, considering that it was the same age that her mother had been when she married. Yes; when she turned 18, she would be mine. Until then, I would simply have to wait.

But it proved to be very difficult, especially after her big debut into society. Her party was a smashing success, and surprisingly, her dress received rave reviews from all in attendance. She looked “sophisticated and lovely,” and she certainly did, wearing her gown and her mother’s jewels (and her own nipple clips, I hoped). I watched her dance with so many young men that evening. She saved one dance for me, and as we faced each other in our row, I couldn’t help smiling at her. She looked so happy and beautiful.

And I certainly wasn’t the only one who thought so. It was painful to see her flirting pleasantly with her many suitors. I could tell right away that she preferred the young Mr. Gainsley, though she frequently hosted other young men in the parlor as well. But I figured it was a necessary process. I would allow her a couple of years to be a young available lady, before making her my own. That was my gift to her. And during that time, I continued to provide her with the same care and loving guidance that I always had. She did not know that I was guiding her to my bedroom, to my arms.

After I got little Lady Emily to agree to hold off on marriage, I was faced with one last obstacle: the presence of her loving nanny. I considered dismissing her, providing her with a generous amount of money to retire on. But to do so would hurt Emily; she was so attached to her nanny, who had been with her since she was born.

I was spared having to make this difficult decision. Nanny came to me and reported that her sister, a widow, was in failing health. “I must go to her,” she said urgently. “I don’t wish to leave Lady Emily alone, but…”

“She is practically a woman now,” I finished for her. “It will be painful for everyone to lose you, Nanny. Wainwright Hall will not be the same without you.” And Lady Emily had certainly been upset, but she understood that her nanny needed to go. I gave her nanny money, as I’d originally planned, and she was out of our lives. That would make things so much easier.

A couple of months before the big event, I went to visit my friend, Dr. Yates. I complained of insomnia, and after reporting that my diet and amount of physical activity had not changed as of late, I admitted that there were circumstances that weighed heavily on my mind. “I find that I cannot sleep. My troubles crowd my mind; I can hardly get any relief.”

My sympathetic friend gave me a bottle of sleeping medicine, guaranteeing that a spoonful in a drink before bed would grant me a full night’s sleep. I thanked him sincerely and left after a cigar and pleasant conversation, and more than once on the way home, I reached into my coat pocket and felt the small bottle. I had pretended my symptoms; I slept like a rock. But the medicine would factor in to my plans for my sweet little Emily.

Her 18th birthday came. We had a private dinner at home, but she still wore one of her lovely new gowns from our most recent trip to Paris. She looked irresistible in the candlelight; as I gave her a glass of wine (with an extra special ingredient just for her), I reminded myself that in just a few short hours, she would be mine forever.

After dinner, we sat together in the study. She played on her piano for a little while. She took lessons when she was young, but had never kept to her practicing. So she only tinkered, until her groggy head forced her to sit heavily in the armchair opposite mine. “Oh, my,” she declared, “I feel so tired all of a sudden.”

“Close your eyes for a moment, my dear,” I said softly. “We’ll be retiring to bed soon. Would you like me to read to you?”

“Mmmm, yes, please,” she sighed. The drug was taking over. I picked up a book of poems by Alfred Lord Tennyson and began to read, glancing over the top of the book occasionally to see Emily’s progression into unconsciousness. The moment that I noticed that her eyes were closed and her breathing had gone shallow in sleep, I put down the book and gathered her in my arms. She is a light girl, having inherited her mother’s little physique, and I easily carried her to my bedroom, the master bedchamber of Wainwright Hall.

I would rape my sweet little Lady Emily that night. I knew that it was what she wanted; I knew her secret desires. Besides the nipple clips from Paris, I had found two other pieces of evidence that led me to my conclusion. I am still ashamed to admit that I went into her bedchamber, without her permission, when she was out calling on a friend. I did this on several occasions.

The first time, I found a piece of literature that startled and pleased me. It was a work by the controversial and perverted writer Marquis de Sade, his La Philosophie dans le boudoir. I found the book under her pillow, and it was clearly well-thumbed. I was not unfamiliar with the author, but I was fascinated by the content of the book. I so forgot myself in reading that when I heard the Lady Emily greeting her nanny downstairs, I swiftly replaced the book and hurried out of her bedchamber just in time to go unnoticed. I would later procure my own copy and would have various scenes selected, to try on her when the right time came.

On my second trip to her bedchamber, I found her personal diary. I sat at her vanity and flipped through it. Much of it was trivial and girlish, but there were some interesting entries. She would write out her sexual fantasies. She wanted to be tied up and taken by a strong, dark man. I remembered her flirting with a small group of black laborers in Paris, only briefly smiling and waving at them as we passed by. I knew she had enjoyed their appreciative stares. The memory made me smile.

I was pleased to see a couple of comments in her diary regarding feelings of sexual tension around me. She had written: “Mr. Singer, my guardian, is so kind to me. He is such a handsome and good man, and I hope that he will marry well. I will admit, only in this my private diary, that I have had forbidden thoughts about my dear old friend. Such an idea is a silly one, I know. And still…” Another comment in similar form, made just a fortnight before my reading, was found. Though I had often joked with Emily, referring to myself as “an old man” over the years, in actuality I was only 38 when I claimed her. I liked to think of myself as an attractive man still, and I was happy that my sweet girl felt the same. I left little Lady Emily’s bedchamber feeling very pleased, and set in my plans.

And so, on her 18th birthday, I carried Lady Emily into my bedchamber to rape her, just as I knew she craved. She would be in deep sleep for hours; I had given her a double-dose of Dr. Yates’s medicine, to ensure that I would have plenty of time to set my plans into motion. I laid her gently on the large bed, and slowly removed her gown. Her corset was tricky, as tight as she liked to pull it, but I’d had some experience undressing a woman before.

I was pleased to see her wearing the nipple clips under her corset. No, no…they were different ones. I smiled, wondering what sort of collection of taboo accessories she had been gathering over the years. I kept the nipple clips on, and nothing else, as I prepared her.

Before restraining her tightly to the bedposts, I brushed out her hair carefully. She wore it in tight curls, as was the fashion, but I preferred her hair long and loose. I didn’t often see her hair undone, but seeing her that evening, naked with her hair looking so wild and lovely, was nearly enough to stop my heart.

I tied her tightly but carefully, using silk ropes that I had purchased years ago for just this sort of activity. The bedposts were tall and sturdy in the four corners of the bed, made for tying up little girls, I suppose. She was spread-eagle, lying on top of the covers, completely exposed to me.

I examined her naked form carefully. Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, forming a neat little triangle over her cunt. I was so tempted to touch her, to finger her virgin pussy. Because in spite of all of her sexual urges, I knew that she was still a virgin. She had kept her dark desires a secret, as far as she knew. A recent diary reading had confirmed this. She was certainly all mine.

I restrained my urges, and after shoving a wadded handkerchief into her mouth to serve as a gag, I prepared the room. I lit several candles on the bedside table and on the table by the large windows. I lit the fireplace; it was a chilly evening, unusually so for May, and I did not want my sweet little Emily to be cold in her nakedness. She would be spending quite a lot of time naked.

I sat and read another Marquis de Sade work as I waited for Emily to awaken. I looked forward to being able to share the book with her. She finally began to stir just after the clock struck 2. I put the book aside and sat at her hip on the bed, as naked as she, waiting for her to open her eyes.

When she finally looked up at me, she was confused at first. Then, her confusion quickly turned to fear as she weakly struggled against her restraints, letting out a tiny muffled cry. “Don’t be afraid, Emily,” I whispered, touching her face softly. “Happy birthday, my dear. I have a surprise for you. A very big surprise.” I stroked my cock, already hardening. Oh, God, I would have her so soon.

She let out another muffled cry, and I shushed her. “I know what you want, Emily,” I said. “I know what’s in your heart. You’re a dirty little girl, aren’t you, Emily?” She shook her head, clearly distressed. “Yes, yes, you want to be naughty. I know everything, Emily. I’m going to give you what you want tonight, my dear, because…I love you.”

She was quiet then. I had never said the words to her, nor she to me. We had always cared for each other. But this was so different. I loved her passionately, and I would make love to her passionately. I touched her face again, and I was surprised and displeased to see tears in her eyes. “Oh, no, my Emily, what’s the matter?” I removed the handkerchief from her mouth.

“Oh, please, sir,” she sobbed. “Please, please, I’m sorry, don’t do this.”

“Emily,” I said tenderly, “I’d like you to call me by my name.”

“Mr. Singer…”

“No, my dear,” I said, still patient. “My Christian name.” Though I’d known the girl her entire life, and had raised her for most of it, she had never addressed me as anything other than ‘sir.’ Never ‘Uncle Aaron,’ as her father had called me in her presence when she was a young child, and only ‘Mr. Singer’ to friends and acquaintances, and even in her own diary.

“Aaron,” she said hesitantly. “Please, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, Emily?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I know it’s bad to have the nipple clips,” she said. “I…I was just playing with them. I only just bought them in Paris last month, and was just trying them out…”

“That is a lie, Emily,” I snapped. I’d never known my sweet Emily to lie to me before. “I know that you bought your first pair of clips over two years ago. And it was not the same pair as the one you are wearing now.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Please, sir, I’m not…I mean, I don’t…”

“Emily, I may as well be honest with you,” I said. “Since I saw that first pair of clips, I’ve been doing a little spying on you. I know that you are interested in sexually deviant activities. You blush, even now, only enjoying your private little thoughts by yourself in your own bedchamber. You need not be ashamed of your desires, Emily. Just as it says in your favorite book, you should enjoy your body. And as I am your oldest and dearest friend, I wish to aid you in that endeavor.”

She was certainly shocked. She was speechless. I slowly and gently began to touch her left breast, only stroking her soft skin with the tips of my fingers. Vain little Emily, the outdoorswoman that she was, kept her skin well protected from the sun, so her skin was pale and silky to the touch. She shuddered slightly, and her clamped nipples hardened, causing her to moan softly and arch her back very slightly. She was already reacting so well to my touch.

But she snapped out of her shock and declared, “Please, sir, we cannot do this!”

I stopped touching her, withdrawing my hand. I could indulge her for a while yet. I would have her soon enough, whether she was willing or not. “Why not, Emily?” I asked patiently.

She said in a hurried panic, “You are my father’s oldest friend. Don’t you feel that this is not right?”

“Absolutely not,” I said confidently. “I have thought this over for years, Emily. Your father is long gone; I am the one who has taken care of you. I have told you that I wanted to find the right match for you. All things considered, I believe that you and I are very well matched.”

“You do?”

I nodded. “Oh, yes, Emily. Have we not always gotten along well? We have many of the same interests in music, sport, and literature. We both enjoy traveling. And we both happen to have an interest in strange sexual activities.”

“I’m a virgin, sir,” Emily whimpered, and I smiled.

“I know it, my dear, and I’m so glad,” I said. I kissed her softly on the forehead. “Not to worry, my sweet little Emily. I will be so gentle with you.” I whispered in her ear. “I am your friend, Emily. I am only here to help you.”

I climbed on top of her, straddling her waist. She began to sputter weak protests, and I smiled and shoved the handkerchief back into her mouth after planting a kiss on her sweet lips. After gagging her, I kissed her neck softly, nibbling at the sensitive place between her neck and shoulder. I have found this to be a pleasure spot for some women, and was pleased to find it so for my Emily. Her muffled little cries of fear turned to soft moans as I kissed my way down her neck and to her chest.

I licked and teased her nipples through her clips, and she arched her back again beneath me. This gave me an idea. I left her briefly and retrieved a thin chain from my own collection of toys. I was able to easily link the ends of the chain to the clips. I planned to grab hold of the chain and tug softly (and perhaps less than softly) while I rode her, but for the time being, I let it sit and kissed my way down her soft little stomach. She was such a tiny girl, but she had a delicious set of hips and a tight, shapely ass. I reached beneath her and grabbed at her ass; I felt her tighten against me, and I laughed softly. “Relax for me, Emily. I will know your ass very well, soon.”

She let out another muffled cry, but relaxed again as I slid down between her legs. I first explored her virgin territory with my tongue. I found her hymen to be broken, but I was not displeased. This meant that she liked to play with herself, a fact that I had already verified in her secret diary. I found her little clitoris and took it gently in my mouth, sucking on the sweet bud. Emily shuddered wildly, moaning much more loudly than before.

I brought her to the brink of climax, but I wanted her to experience it with me inside of her. I brought the tip of my ready cock to the opening of her cunt. She was mine, mine, mine. She looked up at me with fearful eyes. I touched her face tenderly as I began to slide into her. “Relax, Emily,” I repeated, and I felt her do so. She had been training her little cunt, and it was about to pay off for her. “That’s it, my dear, very good.” I thrust into her, full hilt, smashing the tip of my cock into her cervix as I fucked her as deeply as possible. Her virgin cunt was so tight and lovely around my suffering cock. I had not had a woman in weeks, in anticipation of my little prize, and the wait had been worth it.

I held myself inside of her for a moment. Emily moaned in pain, but relaxed after the initial shock. I began to thrust in and out of her, slowly but deeply, enjoying the feel of her. I watched her face for reaction. She winced as I stretched the walls of her virgin pussy, but again, began to relax under my prompting. I spoke to her as I raped her. “Emily, my sweet Emily, you are such a good fuck. I’ve never had a sweet little virgin like you. I’m going to give you everything, my lady, just relax for your friend and let me make you feel wonderful.”

I put my hands on her hips and raised them slightly, angling her so that I could go deeper. I felt the walls of her pussy quiver wildly around my cock. Her breathing was becoming more and more rapid, wild moans escaping her lips, her chest heaving. I grabbed the chain in one hand and kept hold of her hips with the other. As I pulled on her tortured nipples, she let out a scream into her gag. Drool ran ungracefully down the corners of her mouth as she arched her back, raising her hips even higher for me. “Relax for me, my dear, and let yourself lose control,” I instructed, sensing that she was going to orgasm. I felt it the moment that she did; she screamed even louder, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. At the same moment, I allowed myself to release into her, filling her with my own cum. When I finally removed my cock from her, my semen leaked slowly from her now-gaping hole.

I smiled at my sweaty, panting Emily. I reached over and removed her gag. She only gasped for breath for a moment, saying nothing, and neither did I as I sat by her side, waiting patiently. She stared into my eyes. She still looked fearful, but there was something else there, a glint of desire. I had been right; she had wanted this, and she was so glad to have gotten it.

We talked it over as she lay, still restrained to what would now be our bed. We came to an agreement: she would be my submissive little whore. We would go away for a while, and while we were abroad, we would marry. We would return to Wainwright Hall and resume our lives, as husband and wife. She would be Lady Emily Singer of Wainwright, and I would be her adoring husband, Sir Aaron. She did not hesitate to agree to any of my terms, and seemed especially enthusiastic about serving me as my little sex slave.

I had her once more that night. After kissing her roughly for a time, I untied her and turned her around, her ass facing me. I tied her wrists together, binding them to an opening in the headboard. I had her bend her knees and tuck them under herself, so she was kneeling with her head down. I spread her legs and tied her ankles loosely.

Kneeling behind her, I rested the tip of my already hardening cock against her ass. Her cheeks were forced wide by her position, but her little hole was quite small. Some lubrication, and a lot of brute force, would be required.

I spoke to my Emily gently as I stroked her ass with my fingertips. “Your favorite book features many scenes of sodomy,” I said. “Is that something you’ve been wanting to try?”

“Yes, sir,” she said shyly. In spite of my request for her to call me by name, she would never do so again after her first nervous attempt. I would always be ‘sir,’ and given our situation, it only seemed appropriate.

I stroked her ass cheeks softly. “You have a pretty little ass, my Emily. I am going to sodomize you. It will hurt, but I have a feeling that you will like it.”

“Yes, sir,” she said again, and I laughed softly. I lubricated my cock with lotion, and spread some onto my fingers. I would take my time and prepare her. I kneeled behind her again and raised my hand, smacking her ass hard enough to leave a red imprint of my hand. She yowled in pain, and I decided that I would leave her without her gag for this part. I had no fear of the servants hearing our activities; the married couple in our service lived in a cottage nearly a kilometer from the main house, and our other maid resided in town with her family. Her screams would only fall on my appreciative ears.

I smacked her again, harder this time, before shoving two lubricated fingers into her asshole. She yelled and writhed in pain, but did not beg me to stop, which prompted me to spank her even harder. Between blows, I would thrust my fingers into her, lubing her little asshole and stretching her in preparation for my cock. I am not a small man, by any means.

I said nasty things to her as I spanked her ass. “You are my dirty little whore, Lady Emily,” I hissed, spanking her again. I was leaving her ass red and raw, and it felt so hot to the touch. “You’re going to be a hot little fuck for your good friend.” I grabbed her hair and yanked her head back roughly. She gasped at this harsh handling as I nibbled on her neck, guiding my cock to her asshole and thrusting into her. She screamed, a little, a halted gasp of a scream as I thrust into her again, and began to fuck her roughly. She screamed for me, saying things that pressed me on and on.

“Oh, God, sir!” she cried, as I pounded into her. “Oh, it hurts! You’re so huge, sir! Oh, God!”

I reached down and found her clit, rubbing roughly as I continued to fuck her. She moved her hips with me, getting into a rhythm as I stroked her off. She came before I did, screaming and coating my eager fingers with her rich juices. As I licked her sweetness from my fingers, I groaned and came, filling her once again. When I removed myself from her, I licked her raw asshole, cleaning some of the semen that was leaking from her hole. She shuddered and moaned, and I knew she was feeling the pleasure and pain. Exactly what she wanted.

I groped her tortured tits as I came down from my orgasm-induced high. I felt dizzy as I leaned in to kiss her neck again. She smelled so sweet. I buried my face in the wild tangles of her dark hair. “I love you, my Emily,” I murmured in her ear.

“I love you, too, sir,” she whispered, and I turned her head to me and kissed her softly.

I eventually untied her and took her into my private bathroom. We bathed together in the large tub, and as I washed her back gently, she confessed all of her desires to me. She even admitted that, in her little fantasies, I was usually the one she was with. “It all shamed me,” she said. “I thought that having such forbidden thoughts about my guardian was…immoral.”

“And what is morality, anyway?” I asked, and to this she had no reply. I continued, “We have but one life. That is all we are guaranteed, is it not? There is not guarantee of any sort of afterlife, or reincarnation, or any of those religious ideas about what happens after death. This is all. Why not live for pleasure? Who would it harm?”

My sweet Emily had no response to that, either, and was silent as I bathed her gently. Her body quivered at the slightest touch, so sensitive from the shock of our rough lovemaking. She whimpered and cried a little as I finished washing her. Poor child; she was physically and emotionally exhausted. After our bath I dried her quickly, and took her by the hand, gently leading her back to my bed.

I brushed her hair before tucking her under the covers. As I sat against the headboard, I wrapped my bare legs around her, and she sat with her lower back against my crotch. As I carefully combed through her tangles, she said, “Oh, sir, I’m so afraid.”

“Why, Emily?” She could not say. “Don’t be afraid,” I said gently. “Tell me honestly, Emily. Did you enjoy what I did to you tonight?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered without hesitation.

“Did you like when I spanked you, Emily?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and I could tell that saying so embarrassed her. “It hurt, but I did enjoy it. Yes.”

“So you would want to do more of those things with me?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “But I…I cannot put it to words, but it scares me so.”

I set the brush on the bedside table and wrapped my arms around her tightly. I kissed the top of her head. “My dear,” I said, “You have no reason to be afraid. You know that I care for you very much…I do love you, Emily. We will do things together that will be frightening, but I will be careful with you. You are so, so precious to me.” I kissed her again.

I tucked her beneath the covers and blew out all of the candles. The only light in the large bedchamber came from the glowing embers of the dying fire. I climbed under the covers and wrapped my arms around her quivering naked body. I dimly heard the clock striking four when we finally fell asleep. I was satisfied; it had been a very successful first night together. And over time, I would soothe my little girl’s fears, and she would learn to find joy in serving me. The next morning, she would shyly offer her mouth to me upon noticing my painful erection. She was already learning; and I would have much more to teach her in the week leading to our departure for India.

Lady Emily’s Diary

17 May, 18—

So many strange, terrifying, and wonderful things have happened here at Wainwright Hall these last few days! In my wildest dreams, I never believed that my dear Mr. Singer, my guardian and beloved friend, would also become my master. Since he gave me my first sexual encounter as a birthday gift, he has been leading me down a strange and dark path of pleasure and submission. As terrified as I was at the start (and I will admit, I am still quite afraid), I am excited for what our future together will bring.

Mr. Singer has arranged for us to go away to India for a month-long tour. A friend of his and Father’s from their South Africa days will host us in Calcutta, and we will use that as our home base as we explore the country hand-in-hand. He says that we will marry during our time there. I have so longed to be a wife, so that I may know the forbidden love between a man and a woman.

I must confess that I carry a heavy burden of guilt in my heart, that I am deflowered before my marriage. My betrothed comforts me; I had not been given a choice. “If your god wishes to judge you for it, you may explain to him that you were forced,” he teased me, and I suppose that it is technically the truth. Oh, I was so afraid when I woke tied to his bed, with him leering hungrily over me. Had he given me the choice, I would have run from there and locked myself in the bedchamber. But I enjoyed it…so much, more than I can attempt to put into words. I find lately that words escape me in describing my emotions in this new situation. I may say that I am terrified and excited, but I do not feel that those words adequately illustrate the feelings that weigh on me. I can scarcely sleep (not that my new master has allowed me to do much of that lately), and every time I think about it, I feel nauseous.

Mr. Singer is not a religious man, and has never made a point in hiding this fact. I had always attended church services in the village with Nanny every Sunday, but I had always viewed this as an opportunity to socialize with the other young ladies and steal flirtatious glances at my many suitors. I have stopped attending since Nanny’s departure months ago. I suppose that the teachings of the church have had some effect on me, as a part of me fears that I will burn in hellfire for indulging in these forbidden passions.

But it is not so much that which is bothering me. No; I cannot help but think of how my parents would feel about this situation. My father would most certainly be unhappy; I cannot think how he would approve of my fornicating with a man more than twice my age, his own friend and the man who raised me from the tender age of four. I was so young when I lost Father, but I remember him well. Or perhaps my hazy memories have been supplemented by my good friend, Mr. Singer. I do know that my father was a handsome man, and very intelligent. Mr. Singer has often remarked that I remind him of my father, and I have always taken pride in that fact.

My mother’s feelings on the situation would be more difficult to guess. She died birthing me. I have never felt guilt about this fact; it is unfortunate, but women die in childbirth quite often, and I had not done anything to cause her harm myself. Terrible circumstances, that is all. Anyway, I never knew her at all, and I don’t remember much that Father may have told me of her when I was so young. Mr. Singer did not know her very well at all, so he is no help in preserving her memory. I have, however, learned some things about my mother while exploring the house as a child. I will never forget the day that I found that curious, forbidden book among her things in a spare room, off the unoccupied east wing. I was twelve when I found that book, and I read it privately in my room, blushing at the lewd descriptions. I hid the book and referenced it often, when I was alone at night, touching myself under the covers…

I have a strong feeling that my mother would not necessarily disapprove of my activities. If she could enjoy a book so perverted (and it had been well-read, even before I laid my eager hands upon it), then she could certainly understand the desires that it stirred in me. But I did not know that my seemingly innocent little foray into nipple torture would lead to this.

But I have expressed my feelings of guilt, and even now, as I write this, I feel unburdened. I feel much more ready to enjoy the life that Mr. Singer is so graciously offering to me. And every day since the first has been more exciting. It has only been four days since we began our journey (I of course mean this metaphorically; our actual journey will not begin for a few days yet), but I feel as though we have lived this way for years, and we have always been meant to live this way.

The day after our first encounter, Mr. Singer was gentle with me. He wanted to spend the day getting ahead on his work, closing out some cases, in anticipation of our long excursion. I spent the day alone, catching up on my reading and reflecting on the events of the previous night. We did not meet again until we dined together in the evening. Then, he took me by the hand and led me up to our bedchamber, and gently made love to me for the next couple of hours. Oh, it was heavenly. He restrained me, as he had the previous night, which made it all the more exciting. I’d had fantasies about being tied up, as I have laid out here in this very diary. But the reality of being completely at another’s mercy is quite a different thing from the fantasies, and my body shook uncontrollably with fear and anticipation.

I of course have no basis for comparison, but my dear old friend is an expert lover. He has already brought me to the heights of pleasure countless times. I know that Mr. Singer has spent much time with other women over the years; every few weeks or so, he would stay out so late with one of his “lady friends” that he wouldn’t return to Wainwright Hall until the early hours of the morning. But he says that he is saving all of his love for me from now on, and that I am his one. I have never felt insignificant in my life; I have always been petted and adored by the people around me, Mr. Singer included. But to know that I am his only love, the object of his strange desires, makes me feel so special. I will give him everything that I have to offer.

I perform fallacio on him willingly. I remember giggling about this lewd act with two of my friends, Miss Tatiana Howard and Miss Victoria Simonson. One of them had read about it in a strange book, and we all laughed and swore that we would never lower ourselves to such a degrading act, never. But I remember thinking, at the time, that I could do that. I would, possibly, to my husband, if he so desired. The idea even made me feel a little hot, so much so that I had to excuse myself from the conversation and find the nearest lavatory. I was so pleased when Mr. Singer allowed me to do it. It was a bit frightening at first; I wondered how I would fit his large cock down my little throat.

But my dear patient friend, he helped me, putting a hand on the back of my head and guiding his cock to my waiting, wide-open mouth. He slowly forced himself deeper and deeper down my throat, and I worked to relax my throat muscles and not gag on him. Eventually, I began to bob my head, wrapping my lips tightly around his shaft and sucking him with enthusiasm. His moaning and the tightening of his hand in my hair assured me that I was doing it right.

The taste of his semen was a shock, but he instructed me to swallow, and I obeyed. On my knees before him, I looked up at him eagerly, and he lightly touched my face. I could see the adoration in his eyes. I know that he loves me. He told me that I was a good girl, his good little whore, before helping me to my feet and allowing me to dress for the day.

Our second day was relatively tame compared to yesterday’s adventures. I still blush, thinking of how my master degraded me in the horse stables. I did not know his plans when we sat down to breakfast. He declared that it would be a lovely day to take a long ride on the grounds, and I eagerly agreed. After changing into my riding gear (which I would soon find out was unnecessary), I met Mr. Singer down in the stables. I own four fine horses, and they all get frequent use. Though I am a young lady, I do not ride side-saddle daintily unless I am in town amongst many people. With friends, like my dear Mr. Singer, I may ride as I please.

But Mr. Singer had his own intentions in the stable that lovely morning. When I entered, the horses were still waiting in their stalls. He was examining the small collection of whips and riding crops on the far wall. We have them, but we do not use them much. I do not use them at all; my horses respond to gentle handling. The only fall I’ve ever taken from a horse was not from one of my own; as a matter of fact, it was one of the horses owned by my friend Miss Catherine Gainsley, near two years ago. Not a bad fall, but I swore never to ride any horse but my own ever again.

Mr. Singer turned when he heard me enter the stable. He smiled, and I immediately recognized the wicked glint in his eye. He had plans for me; my eyes fell on the riding crop in his hand. He beckoned to me. “Come here, Emily,” he said with a smirk.

I had no choice but to slowly walk to the other end of the stable, trembling in anticipation. I have found that I enjoy the physical punishments. I know that most children are punished this way for their childish crimes, but I have not experienced such treatment. I find that it excites me, perhaps even moreso than the sex itself. As I approached Mr. Singer, I eyed him fearfully. He playfully slapped the riding crop against his open palm.

“Lady Emily,” he said, “Take off your clothes. You may leave your boots on, but that is all.”

I nodded and did as my master instructed. I slowly removed my riding dress, and he took it from my hands, draping it carefully over the empty stall. I was not wearing a tight corset that day, just a form-fitting slip, which I handed over as well. This left me in my near-nakedness, except for my brown leather riding boots and my nipple clips. Mr. Singer eyed me with approval, and I blushed. It was certainly one thing to be naked in our bedchamber, but it was yet another to be naked in the stable, with the door wide open. If any of the servants happened along…

“I have a surprise for you, Emily,” Mr. Singer said, and I couldn’t help smiling. His surprises these last few days have been so wonderful and awful, and yesterday’s gift in the stable was certainly so. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a short strip of leather. It was fashioned like a small belt, and even had a small brass buckle. Mr. Singer beckoned to me, and I stood before him, holding still as he fastened this homemade collar around my neck, buckling it at my throat. “Not too tight, is it, my dear?”

“No, sir,” I said. I trembled as he ran his hands down my shoulders, staring into my eyes. My nipples hardened, and the pressure against my clips made me moan. I wanted Mr. Singer to grope my chest, and I even pushed my breasts towards him, inviting him. He smiled, but instead reached around the back of my head, untying the haphazard knot that I’d tied. He let my hair flow down my back. He likes my hair worn loose, and has ordered me not to wear it in tight curls at home any more.

Mr. Singer ran his strong hands through my hair, pulling me to him in a tight embrace. He cupped my chin in his hand and kissed me roughly, his tongue plunging into the depths of my mouth. Before our first night together, the only kiss I’d given to a man was a small, shy peck on the lips to my former suitor, Mr. Gainsley. We had been walking in his family’s orchard. He had been talking about something…I don’t remember what, but I remember that he liked to ramble on about boring topics. I think I kissed him just to shut him up. I stood on my toes and kissed him quickly. We had stared at each other in surprise, and as my cheeks flared up, I turned and ran all the way to Wainwright Hall. I would not receive Mr. Gainsley for another week, and when I finally did, we did not speak of the incident. I was afraid that he would find me too audacious to wed.

But Mr. Singer encourages audacity, and so I reached for his riding jacket, pulling it down his shoulders before he reached up and seized my wrists. He grinned in my face. “Eager for me, my Emily? Would you like to play a game?”

I nodded, and he instructed me to stand facing the door to the empty horse stall. I did this, and listened to him walk away from me. When he returned, he lashed my wrists to the bars of the stall door. He used a leather strip to restrain me, and it dug into my skin. I still have the ugly marks on my wrists. But that was nothing compared to what the riding crop did. Mr. Singer had dropped it while playing with me. I watched him over my shoulder as he picked it up and stood behind me. “Face forward,” he snapped, and I turned my head, staring into the empty horse stall through the bars.

Mr. Singer came behind me and whispered, “Open your mouth.” I did, and he shoved his handkerchief in, to muffle my cries that his punishment would certainly elicit. I gasped as Mr. Singer kissed and nibbled on my neck. He has already found the places on my body that are the most sensitive, and he gives them attention whenever he can. I shuddered as he stepped back from me. I felt the tip of the riding crop against my back as he teasingly traced it over my bare skin.

“Spread your legs, Emily,” Mr. Singer instructed, and I did so, without hesitation. “Emily,” he said, continuing to trace the riding crop against me, “Is your little ass feeling all right?”

Truthfully, it had been a little difficult to sit since Mr. Singer’s rough treatment of me on our first night together.  He had left my ass alone since then, but I knew that he wanted to have me again. I was determined to prove to him that I could handle him, so I nodded.

“Good,” he said, and the first blow of the riding crop was delivered to my ass. I didn’t scream that first time so much as let out a gasp into my gag. But as Mr. Singer continued to rain blows on my ass and back, my groaning turned to dull screams, especially as he quickened the pace. It is difficult to describe, because as badly as the beating hurt, I wanted it. I forced myself to hold still, but I was shaking uncontrollably when Mr. Singer finally tossed aside the riding crop.

He quickly came behind me, pushing me against the stall door. With one hand, he reached around and groped my breasts; with the other, he pulled down his trousers. He forced me to bow my head and bend forward, so that my back was in-line with my restrained wrists. Mr. Singer put his hands on my hips and began to rub his cock against my cunt. I realized then that I was very wet down there; he was using my pussy juices to lubricate his cock for my ass. I held my breath as he took his cock away from me. Then, he shoved himself into my asshole, full hilt. Though he’d taken me there before, I swore that I could hear the lining of my asshole tearing to accommodate him.

He fucked me quickly. His hands stayed at my hips. I longed for him to stroke and rub my clitoris, but he was waiting to please me. For now, it was about his pleasure. He has explained to me that it may be this way at times. That is what it means for me to be his sex slave; his needs always come first, before my own. I find that I like it this way. I enjoy pleasing this man who has given me so much over the years.

He thrust into me once more as he came, holding himself inside of me as he started to go limp. I groaned, gripping the bars to which I was restrained as he removed himself from me. He stood beside me for a moment, rubbing the cuts and bruises that his beating had left on my back and ass. “Ready to ride?” he asked.

I nodded, and Mr. Singer untied me and removed the gag from my mouth. He kissed me softly. “Go saddle up your horse.”

I reached for my clothing, but Mr. Singer seized my arm. He did not grip me too tightly; besides his rough treatment of me just a few moments ago, he is usually quite gentle. “Did I say that you could put on your clothes?”

“No, sir,” I said, and suddenly realized what he would have me do. I blushed at the idea, even after what he’d just done to me. “Oh, sir,” I said, “please…”

He spanked me once on my bare ass, and I yelped out in pain. “Saddle up now, or you will get another punishment.”

I had no choice. The idea both excited and terrified me. “Yes, sir,” I said helplessly as I went to retrieve my favorite horse, a gorgeous black stallion. As I’ve written before, I do not name my horses. I don’t find it necessary to do so; they respond to my touch and to the sound of my voice, not the words spoken. I opened the black stallion’s stall door and coaxed him to me.

As I prepared my horse’s saddle, I wondered how the saddle would feel on my bare, beaten ass. Not pleasant, I knew. But as I mounted my black stallion (after an approving nod from Mr. Singer), I found that if I leaned forward, putting the pressure on my pussy, then I felt better. Much better, in fact.

Mr. Singer had chosen the other stallion, the chestnut. He rode slowly up beside me. “Emily,” he said, “is this not a dream come true for you?”

And so it was. I had forgotten the dream that I’d had years ago, which I had recorded in this very diary. I dreamed that I was riding naked through the fields, past the villages, just riding on and on. No one was around; it was just me, in my nakedness, and the horse. Mr. Singer confessed to me that he has read this diary, and that he will probably do so again, with my permission or no. He is welcome to it; I will even insert a personal greeting just for him right here. Hello, sir. I hope you enjoy reading my recollections of our lovemaking.

Mr. Singer led the way as we rode from the stable. He had allowed me to place a blanket under my ass, to further ease the pressure there. It could also prove useful on the slim chance that we encountered anyone. I could not recall one time, in all of our years of riding on the grounds of Wainwright Hall, having ever come upon another person. At the very least, I’d be able to draw the blanket around my nakedness before riding quickly away. I prayed that it would not be necessary, as it would not do much to lessen my humiliation.

We rode slowly at first, as we usually do. We rode silently up the first steep hill, which leads out to a small valley and more hills for several acres. The hills beyond the pond slope gently, creating a pleasant ride. I found that this is especially so when each step of the horse set waves of pleasure through me. Mr. Singer noticed this, and he smiled at me.

“Enjoying your ride, Emily?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yes, sir,” I managed, and I bit back a moan.

Mr. Singer laughed and urged his horse faster. I followed suit and we quickened the pace to a full-out gallop. My breasts bounced freely, the clips pinching my nipples more than ever as the steady motion brought me to an intense climax. I screamed, resisting the urge to pull the reigns. The horse seemed to sense that it was time to slow down, and as he slowed to a gentler speed, I nearly collapsed on top of him.

Mr. Singer, several yards ahead, noticed that I had not kept pace with him. He turned around, and we stopped, meeting at the top of a larger hill overlooking much of the yard. Mr. Singer climbed quickly from his horse, a look of mixed amusement and concern on his face as he helped me (nearly pulled me) from my saddle. I weakly fell into his arms and he swept me up, he was so strong, and held me tight, kissing me.

I will have to continue my narrative at another time; even now, Mr. Singer calls me to his side. We have not played as much today, and I am eager to see what surprises he has in store for me now.

19 May, 18—

I’ve had hardly a spare moment these past couple of days. Between preparing for the trip to India and paying last visits to my friends in the area as a single woman (won’t they all be surprised when I return as a married woman?), as well as spending time (lots and lots of time) with my dear Mr. Singer, I’ve hardly had time to even think. But Wainwright Hall is quiet now. Mr. Singer has gone to visit with a client, and now that all of my trunks are packed for the trip, I think this would be a good time to sit quietly and reflect on the last few days.

When I left my previous entry, I was describing my pleasurable ride on the grounds. When Mr. Singer and I stopped, we left the horses to run as they pleased (knowing they would quickly come back when summoned), and Mr. Singer spread the blanket out on the grass. He motioned for me to lie down, and he did, he lying beside me as we touched hands and looked up at the clear blue sky. A light spring breeze was in the air, and I shivered slightly, my nipples hardening again. I felt chilly between my legs, and realized that I was very messy from my climax on the black stallion.

Mr. Singer noticed my trembling, and he removed his riding jacket, wrapping it gently around my shoulders. “Better?” he asked. I nodded, and he kissed my forehead softly. We sat together, and I rested my head on his chest and closed my eyes. I felt wonderful. Mr. Singer ran his fingers softly through my hair. We sat this way for quite some time, enjoying the comfort of each other’s bodies. As my guardian, Mr. Singer had not doled out much physical affection. This is not so unusual; indeed, it would have been seen as improper if he had given me the hugs and kisses of an affectionate father. But how I craved it as a young girl, ever since he’d held me in his arms and comforted me after Father’s death. It is different now. I will get all the love that I need from my dear old friend.

After a time, Mr. Singer whispered in my ear. “I want you, Emily. Lie down.” I slowly but eagerly obeyed. Mr. Singer got up on his knees and smiled down at me as he slowly removed his shirt. I returned his smile, anticipating the pleasure that he would deliver. He did not fully remove his trousers, and he kept his boots on as he straddled my hips. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and as he fucked me, the heels of my riding boots tapped against each other. I rose up on my elbows and raised my hips higher to allow Mr. Singer to fuck me as deep as he could. I wanted to feel him all the way up inside of me.

Mr. Singer grabbed me by the front of the leather collar and pulled my face to his, kissing me roughly as he pounded me. He breathlessly whispered in my ear. “You’re my whore, aren’t you, Lady Emily?”

I groaned. “Oh, yes, sir!” I cried.

“Say it, Emily!” he cried, tightening his grip on my collar. I stared into his eyes; he looked crazed and wild, and I feared and adored him.

“I am your whore, sir! Oh, sir!” He released my collar and grabbed me under my knees, forcing me to put my legs straight in the air. It was difficult to hold them up with the heavy boots on, but I spread wide and allowed him to slide between them, fucking me harder and harder, and closer and closer to another climax.

It was almost, though not quite, as intense as the climax on the horse. We came simultaneously; it was beautiful to feel him relax inside of me. He carefully helped me to lower my legs. I felt weak, and I trembled slightly and closed my eyes, laying back and relaxing as Mr. Singer pulled off my boots and gently rubbed my feet. His hands did not travel up any further than my ankles as he worked them, but even that touch made me sigh contentedly.

When Mr. Singer stopped rubbing my feet, I opened my eyes and gazed up at him. He was kneeling beside my feet, looking back at me with a smile. I always thought he was handsome, but at that moment, he was almost blindingly beautiful to me. It really is no wonder that my good friend Miss Tatiana Howard has been infatuated with him since we were young girls. Even now, the thought of her jealousy upon my return as Lady Emily Singer makes me smile. I am afraid that I am turning into a petty, wicked thing…and worse, I am enjoying it very much.

“Well, my lady,” Mr. Singer said, “are you ready to go home?”

I felt so exhausted. All I wanted to do was collapse onto my bed (or rather, our bed) and sleep the afternoon away. I nodded weakly, and he whistled for the horses while I pulled on my boots. I was still wearing Mr. Singer’s riding jacket, and he allowed me to keep it on as we traveled slowly back to the stables. I found that the ride back was much more uncomfortable than the ride out, since my pussy had gotten such a workout at that point.

Mr. Singer allowed me to dress while he put the stallions back into their stalls. I realized, as I finished pulling on my dress, that nobody had seen us. I’d ridden around the grounds naked, and nobody was the wiser. Mr. Singer and I had committed lewd acts, right there in the open, and only God was there to witness, if He cared to do so. The idea made me giggle uncontrollably, and I was in near hysterics by the time an amused Mr. Singer came to my side.

He wrapped his arms around me, and I calmed, my laughter dying down to a girlish giggle as he kissed me softly. “You had lots of fun today, Lady Emily, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “Oh, yes, sir,” I said, and I knew that the insane grin on my face told him everything that he needed to know.

“Good girl,” Mr. Singer said softly, and he kissed me on the forehead. “Would you like to take a quiet nap before lunch?”

I nodded. By now, I know the difference between a “nap” and a “quiet nap.” A quiet nap is just that, a quiet little afternoon snooze in each other’s arms. A “nap” is something entirely different, and much resembles the activities we’d just performed in the field. It’s hard for me to believe that our affair began less than a week ago; we’ve already gotten into the habit of “napping” after tea every afternoon, the time that I would normally reserve for receiving gentleman callers.

I told Mr. Gainsley of my betrothal this very afternoon. I would not say to whom, and he was terribly upset. It was quite an ordeal, actually; after explaining to him that I was going to India to make arrangements for my marriage, he nearly flew into a rage. Mr. Gainsley, usually so mild-mannered, stood from his seat and accused me of leaving him on a hook. “I was denied when I first proposed marriage to you, but I had hope that, when your guardian granted you freedom to marry, that you would choose me. I have waited for you, lady, and you care nothing for my feelings.”

I was very upset by then. I truly did not think that Mr. Gainsley would take the news so hard. I felt it only right to tell him, because he has courted me for so long. But since Mr. Singer first denied his request for marriage, his visits to me have been much fewer. I am surprised that he has not yet proposed marriage to Miss Beatrice Howard, whom he has been courting for some months. I told him as much, and he snapped back, “I care nothing for any other girl. I had to pass the time somehow while you…led me on.”

I had dissolved into tears, I am ashamed to say. Mr. Singer came to my rescue; he was preparing to leave for the village, and when he heard Mr. Gainsley’s shouting and my distress, he came into the parlor. In his calm way, but with anger in his eyes, he ordered Mr. Gainsley out. “You will not speak to the lady of this house in such a impudent manner. Especially after she has confided information to you, as a friend. Leave here now; do not return, or you will meet with the end of my revolver.”

Mr. Gainsley did not dare challenge my brave Mr. Singer, and with one last, contemptuous glance in my direction, he left Wainwright Hall. Undoubtedly, he will tell his sister all about the incident. Fortunately, the information will be delayed, as she is away visiting relatives in the south. I do not think he would risk hurting his pride by announcing it to anyone else. By the time the news gets around that I am betrothed to a mysterious man, we will be well on our way.

Mr. Singer kissed me softly before departing to town. “You’re not upset, are you, my dear?” He always cares for me so. I assured him that I was all right. I was shook up by the confrontation, but otherwise, my feelings were intact. And so, Mr. Singer departed.

I am planning a surprise for him this evening. Rarely do I spend time in the kitchen, as we’ve always had a cook on hand, but when I was young, my nanny taught me how to make the most sumptuous tipsy laird, a Scottish variety of trifle. My nanny is Scottish, and I think of her now, far off in the Highlands, tending to her ailing sister. I do not know how I will break the news to her that I am going to marry Mr. Singer. I will wait to write to her upon our return from India, but I do not know what she will make of the situation. The odds are against my ever seeing her sweet old face again, anyway, but still, I do not want her to remember me ill.

But I will not worry. I will be happy in my newfound love. I cannot believe that, in just a few short days, I will be on my way to India, and on my way to becoming Lady Singer. My heart races just thinking of it.

22 May, 18—

We depart for India on the morrow. Mr. Singer and I came by train to London this very afternoon, and are only staying the night at the home of an old friend. We will set sail very early. I have been on ships for several weeks at a time, our longest trip being to America some years ago, but I am nervous. I don’t believe that it is the possibility of seasickness that worries me, but rather what awaits us in this mysterious land.

Mr. Singer knows that I am anxious, and he attends to me with kind patience. Our sleeping arrangements are separate tonight; our host, of course, does not know the nature of our relationship. But Mr. Singer has assured me that he will creep to my bedside in the night, and will hold me gently and listen to all of my concerns. He constantly reassures me that what we are doing is right. I am ashamed that he knows that I still have my thoughts of doubt, try as I might to hide these from him. But he knows me so well. He knows what is in my heart.

At times I feel that I may burst with love for him. Oh, my Mr. Singer is such a goodly, handsome, wonderful man, and I fear that I am not worthy of his worshipful love. I try so very hard to please him. Last night, after he finished tying me down and having his way with me for a time, I couldn’t stop crying, and I had no answers to his questions of why. I still am not certain of the cause of my outburst; my emotions are out of control as of late. I am usually a very controlled person, so this frightens me more than anything else. But around others, such as our host here in London, I am myself, smiling and polite and occasionally witty. It comforts me to know that I may show my true feelings to Mr. Singer. Even if we don’t understand them, he does not judge me harshly. He is still my friend.

I am exhausted, so I will leave this tonight. When I write again, we will be on the ship and on our way to India. Perhaps by then, the excitement of our adventure will overtake my apprehensions.

My Mr. Singer is at the door! Out with the light, and into bed we go.

30 May, 18—

My head still spins with the events of last night, of the past week! My dear Mr. Singer is a wicked and wonderful man, and under his influence, I have done things that only a fortnight ago, would have made me dissolve into screams of horror. I do love him so, for he challenges me and gives me the wildest and most wonderful pleasure. I tremble now to think of it all.

I will come to the events of last night in a moment. Our first few days on board were not out of the ordinary, but were wonderful in themselves. We are onboard a small passenger vessel; there are perhaps 150 on board, not including the crew and the captain (oh, that wicked Captain! On that in a moment). Mr. Singer and I technically have separate quarters, but he does not fail to come to me in the night. His room is a decoy, really, as it would be most improper for an unmarried man and woman to share a room. During those first few days onboard, when we would sit amongst the other wealthy passengers at dinner, Mr. Singer would give me the most secretive, dirty little glances, enough to make me blush and giggle briefly behind my napkin.

We do not know anyone on board, but Mr. Singer has quickly become a favorite among the ladies, married and single alike. It has always been this way; Mr. Singer is so handsome and charming, yet he does not become inflated with the praise as a lesser man might. I remember feeling a little jealous before, when I would see him flirt mildly with a lady at one of our neighbor’s balls. But it does not bother me now to see him talking with other women; indeed, it is all the better, as I know that I am the only one who belongs to him.

Last night, we had the honor of dining at the Captain’s table. The Captain (whose name, for reasons that will soon be obvious, I do not wish to commit to paper) is a young man, perhaps even a bit younger than Mr. Singer himself. He is Portuguese, but his English is very good. I was seated right beside him, and I could not help but notice how handsome he was. He is tall, like my Mr. Singer, but has a more solid, wide build. He has a lovely dark complexion…oh, goodness! I blush to think of him.

He regaled our small party with stories of trips he’d made all over the world. All the while, he would specifically address me, giving me flirtacious glances, and at one point, he reached over and lightly brushed my hand. I am no stranger to the advances of men; if you ask my dear Mr. Singer, I am the most beautiful girl in the world. I am not so convinced of that, but I know I am pretty. I am not blind.

I cannot help myself; I do so enjoy the attention of men. I returned his attentions, but glanced frequently at Mr. Singer. He was attending to the lady beside him, and when our eyes met, he gave him a little wink and a nod. He approved of my accepting the attentions of the handsome Captain. And so I fully enjoyed what I had thought would be an innocent flirtation.

After dinner, the other ladies and the older gentleman in our party departed for their rooms. The Captain invited Mr. Singer and me back to his private chambers for a nightcap. I was surprised by the invitation; it is not customary for women to enjoy a drink after dinner with the men (though Mr. Singer and I had always done that, well before we were lovers). I looked at my master nervously, but he was nodding his head. “I’m game,” he said. “What say you, Lady Emily?”

“All right,” I said. I smiled at the Captain. “Thank you.”

He took us to his large chambers. His bedroom was separate from his sitting room, and that is where we sat, in high-backed chairs, enjoying coffee mixed with whiskey and cream, a drink that the Captain had been introduced to in Ireland.

“Lady Emily has done quite a bit of traveling herself,” Mr. Singer said. I gave him a look of surprise; it was almost as though he were trying to set me up with the Captain! He had a wicked glint in his eye, a look that, by now, I am very familiar with. What was he up to?

But the Captain began to question me with earnest, and I told him about the excursions that Mr. Singer and I had made to various points in the world. “I have never been to Asia before,” I admitted.

“This will be my third voyage to India,” the Captain said. “There is much profit to be made these days. This will be my last voyage as captain of this passenger vessel. I have been appointed to a trade ship.”

“Which do you prefer?” I asked. And the Captain and I talked on for nearly a half hour. I had almost forgotten that Mr. Singer was in the room, until he cut in. And his comment was most unexpected.

“Captain,” he said, “I do believe that you are attracted to Lady Emily.”

I nearly gasped. I glanced at the Captain, but he did not look at all fazed. He even laughed a little. “I can’t deny that,” he said. He gave me a familiar look, a look of longing. I had seen that look more than once, and on more than one man. “She is not only beautiful, but intelligent and fun.”

“She certainly is,” Mr. Singer agreed. “She is a lot of fun.”

I sat in shocked silence as Mr. Singer revealed our secret to the Captain. “Lady Emily is my whore, Captain. She does anything that I ask her to. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

I swallowed quickly. “Yes, sir,” I said quietly. Mr. Singer grinned.

“Captain,” he went on, “You are an attractive man yourself. I’m sure that you’ve had a few romps with some female passengers.”

“Well,” the Captain admitted, “Not as often as you might think. Many of the ladies on these voyages are stuck-up and pampered.”

“Lady Emily is pampered, to be sure, but she is anything but stuck-up,” Mr. Singer said proudly, and I could not help smiling at that, as mortified as I was. “Captain,” he said, “you have been very kind to us since we arrived on this ship. And I can tell that my Lady Emily, as devoted as she is to me, is quite taken with you as well. Isn’t that true, my lady?”

I had to confess; I had no choice. “Yes, sir,” I said, my voice faltering.

“Captain,” Mr. Singer said, “I would like to properly thank you by offering my whore to you for use. What would you like to do to this pretty young lady?”

I looked at the Captain as he eyed me. He looked both lustful and contemplative. “Would she…would she suck my cock?” he asked, addressing the question to my master, as was appropriate.

Mr. Singer nodded. “Certainly. Lady Emily, stand up and remove your clothes, please.”

I did so; the thought never even occurred to me to resist. I looked at the Captain as I removed my evening gown. When I was down to my corset, I turned around. “Will you give me a hand, please?” I asked. As the Captain awkwardly untied my corset, Mr. Singer gave me a smile of approval.

Completely naked (save for my nipple clips, which the Captain eyed with curiosity), I stood before the Captain. I wasn’t certain what he would have me do next. Did he want me to remove his clothes? Get right down to it?

He looked a bit uncertain himself, until Mr. Singer resolved the issue. “She can take a little rough handling, Captain, but do not be brutal to her.”

The Captain nodded and advanced towards me, an eager look in his eyes and a grin on his face. He seized my shoulders and forced me to my knees. He pulled down his trousers, only enough to reveal his huge, stiff cock. Oh, God! He was even bigger than my Mr. Singer. The Captain seized the back of my head, and I knew what to do. I quickly swallowed his engorged member, deep-throating him with only a little difficulty. He fucked my mouth quickly, but I’d had enough practice with Mr. Singer at that point that I knew how to breathe properly. As he fucked me, he moaned in ecstasy; it had been a long time since he’d had it like this. As apprehensive as I’d been about my task, I felt good, knowing that I was giving the Captain this pleasure.

The Captain did not hold out as long as Mr. Singer, and he gripped my hair harder and grunted as he came. I swallowed him with his member still lodged down my throat; this was a trick I’d perfected with Mr. Singer, and the Captain moaned one last time, stroking my hair as he removed himself from me. He looked down at me, looking surprised and grateful for what had just happened.

“Thank you, my lady,” he managed. He helped me to my feet.

“You’re welcome, Captain,” I said. He leaned in and kissed me roughly, grabbing my face in his hands. I did not stop him; I leaned in to his kiss. His tongue was a little too active for my taste, probing my mouth intrusively.

I felt a pair of hands on my waist; Mr. Singer had come up behind me. As the Captain kissed my mouth, Mr. Singer kissed the back of my neck, left exposed by my elegant hairdo. He briefly addressed the Captain as he gave my neck some attention with his teeth. “Captain, you may have her ass while I take her cunt. You game?”

The Captain responded by grabbing my hand and leading us into his bedchamber. His bed was quite large. He grabbed my other arm and threw me on the bed roughly.

Almost in an instant, he and Mr. Singer were on me. I did not know how to position myself to accommodate both gentlemen, but they resolved this for me by putting me on my side. Mr. Singer positioned himself to face me. “You’ll need lubricant, Captain,” he said. He addressed me next; “Spread wide, Lady Emily.”

The Captain seemed to be prepared for an impromptu sexual encounter, because he had a jar of lotion in his bedside drawer. He lubed up quickly, and positioned himself behind me. The men entered me simultaneously; I yelled out in pain before Mr. Singer put his mouth on mine, kissing me roughly.

The Captain’s huge cock tore up my ass; it is still in pain as I write this, laying on my stomach on my bed. I have not sat down all day; I don’t know how I will get through dinner tonight. To muffle my moans of pain and pleasure, Mr. Singer pushed my head against his shoulder, allowing me to scream against him. Oh, God, that Captain was very rough with me. He had seen the bruises on my back, and he knew what kind of treatment I was accustomed to. He came only moments before Mr. Singer and I; for a few moments, the three of us lay in our cum-soaked mess, sweating and panting. Mr. Singer reached for me, kissing me softly, and the Captain reached over and played with my nipples, fascinated with the metal clips.

Mr. Singer and I departed soon after. The Captain kissed me once more after I’d dressed. “We will have to do this again, very soon,” he said to me and Mr. Singer, as though we’d just enjoyed an evening of cigars and drinks, nothing more.

“That would be nice,” Mr. Singer said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Goodnight, Captain.”

Because it was so late, and the only passengers still up and awake would be too drunk to notice us, we walked hand-in-hand back to my room. We said nothing, though, until we were in my room, with the door closed. Mr. Singer pushed me against the door and kissed me roughly. But as I thought he would reach for my dress to rip it off, he stopped and stepped back. “Did you enjoy yourself this evening, Emily?”

I must confess, I did not know what to say. I felt my face flush, as though I’d only suddenly realized what had happened. “Yes, sir,” I had to admit, but I was burning with humiliation.

Mr. Singer smiled. “You are an adventurous little whore, Emily. I like that. It turns me on to see you with another man.”

I had figured this much, but hearing him say so was still surprising. “Really, sir?”

He nodded. “You’re a very special girl, Emily. You enjoyed giving the Captain pleasure, didn’t you?” I nodded; goodness, it was as though he had read my mind! Mr. Singer smiled. “From now on, you may give pleasure to any man that you please…with my approval, and while I am present, of course. I will protect you from harm, and we’ll all get to enjoy ourselves.”

I nodded, not certain of what to say. My master would offer me to other men? The possibilities were nearly unimaginable; it frightened and thrilled me. “And,” Mr. Singer added, that wicked grin on his face, “Perhaps we might invite women to join as well.”

I giggled at the idea, and instantly, one woman came to mind. My very good friend, Miss Tatiana Howard. I’ve always thought she was so beautiful, and she was very attracted to Mr. Singer. It had also been rumored that she had had a brief affair with a young gentleman in London; though she had denied it publicly, she had confessed it to me in confidence. If any woman I knew would be willing to join us in our bedchamber, it would be my whorish friend.

The rest of our voyage will be very exciting. Though I don’t see any other men on board who would be much fun to play with, I know that my Mr. Singer and the Captain will keep me plenty busy. For now, though, I will enjoy my quiet time alone. I am quite exhausted from last night, and I want to be well-rested for the next time my master and I meet with our new friend.

1 July, 18 –

I have neglected my writing this past month, but I have been as busy as I previously predicted. My days and nights have been spent serving Mr. Singer and the Captain, ensuring that both men are fully satisfied at all times. They are never shy about returning the favor; however, Mr. Singer does not allow the Captain to have me in my pussy. “This little whore is to be my wife, and her cunt is my property,” he explained to our friend. Still, the Captain adores my ass. He has become fond of spanking me, while Mr. Singer watches. He has a heavier hand than my master, leaving me sore for days on end after a night together.

But now, my mind is preoccupied. We will be in Calcutta the day after tomorrow, and I am very excited to begin the next part of our journey! Mr. Singer has told me a little of his old friend, our host. Mr. Charles Morrison works for the British government. He and his young wife live on a large estate. As I previously noted, Mr. Morrison knew my father. But Mr. Singer recently revealed to me that he also knew my mother. In fact, “he knew her very well,” Mr. Singer said, with a wicked look in his eyes. I am eager to know exactly what he means.

This morning, Mr. Singer and I sat down with a large map of India. He pointed to all of the places where we would travel. He has been eager to travel to India himself, and I am so honored to be taking this trip with him. He is especially eager to view the Buddhist temples; though he is not a religious man, he has a fascination with religions of the world, particular the eastern ones. His excitement is contagious, and I cannot wait to see all of these exciting things with him.

Tomorrow night, there will be a feast at dinner. I know that the Captain will host Mr. Singer and me in his chambers when the party is over. I am surprised that the other people on the ship do not even seem to suspect our activities; indeed, the other women (most of them older, and, as the Captain observed, snobbish) are impressed that I am such a frequent guest at his table. I fabricated a tale, that he and my father had served in the naval forces together. It makes me laugh to think of it; I do not know these people, and whether or not I encounter them again is of no consequence.

I will probably never see the Captain again, either, but I do not leave our voyage with any regrets. We have had our fun with him, but I will always have my Mr. Singer. I will confess, I have fantasized about being with him and a lovely Indian woman. I believe that Indian women are some of the most beautiful in the entire world, and if I am able to strike a friendship with a woman there, I may be bold enough to invite her to our bedchamber. Mr. Singer would be so pleased.

I think about my life two short months ago. I was a virgin then; though I was not innocent, I could not imagine that I would ever do the things that I have done. I find that my shame is leaving me; I no longer blush so easily when I stand naked before a man. I can hear Mr. Singer’s dirty remarks to me, and can answer him in kind. I am finding that my Mr. Singer is right: I am a whore, and I love it.

I will rest tonight, to be fully prepared for a full night with the Captain and Mr. Singer tomorrow. The day after that, we will be in India…and my new life will really begin.

Mr. Singer

As I sat on her bed and watched her finish packing her last trunk, I observed a change in my Lady Emily. She has always been lovely, but right then, after several thrilling weeks together on the voyage to India, she looked radiant. She carried herself differently; she’d always walked with confidence and grace, but now she almost seemed to float. She smiled so easily…but hadn’t she always done so? And yet, a difference. She was more beautiful than ever.

She caught me staring at her, and turned to me with a smile. “I’m all ready, sir,” she declared, closing her trunk with a little difficulty. She looked elegant that morning, wearing a dark green velvet traveling dress and a matching hat. She was always an exquisite, fashionable young lady.

I smiled and took the trunk to load on the trolley. “Would you like to go and say goodbye to our friend the Captain?” I asked. I had not planned on sharing her with the Captain, or with any other man. But as I’d watched her flirt lightly with him, I had not been able to resist. I don’t know why, but it thrilled me to see her pleasing another man.

Perhaps the idea had been put into my head by my friend Morrison, our host in Calcutta. Months before, even before Emily knew my plans for her, I had written to him, informing him that I would be bringing Lady Emily Wainwright to India and we would be wed. My friend had written back, and had mentioned that as much as he looked forward to seeing me again after all these years, he was especially eager to meet the young lady. He had written, in some detail, of how he had known Emily’s mother very well. I knew that my Emily would be surprised to learn all of this, and I decided to wait to inform her of this until she’d gotten to know Morrison and his wife a little better.

We only spent a few minutes saying goodbye to the Captain. I watched my Emily please him with her mouth once more. After they kissed goodbye, I caught a glimpse of the Captain’s face. He looked quite sad; he knew that he would never be with a woman as beautiful, adventurous or as sweet as my Lady Emily ever again. I shook his hand, and my beloved and I departed.

On the crowded piers of Calcutta, I held tight to Emily’s gloved hand and led her through the crowds of passengers, servants, traders, and sailors. I glanced at her, and she was looking around in awe at the sights. I had been planning an excursion to India long before I’d planned to make her mine, and I could scarcely hide my excitement myself. My father, Avery Singer III (my elder brother, who was Avery the IV, had died in boyhood), had left for India when I was a boy in school. He would write me letters and send postcards and fascinating gifts from the strange foreign land, and I had always imagined going there and joining him.

It was not meant to be. While in South Africa as a young man, making my considerable fortune with Sir Peter and Mr. Morrison by my side, I received word that my father had died in Bangalore. He had been buried with honor but in haste, and I was of course unable to attend services. I would be visiting my father’s gravesite for the very first time, with my sweet Lady Emily by my side.

As we made our way to the street, I quickly spotted my old friend Morrison among the sailors and Indian people. He stood up straight, a shock of thick red hair neatly slicked back on his head. He had a small red beard, in the same style that he had worn it in when we were but young men. He was smiling at us, and he approached quickly, his eyes on the pretty young lady.

“The Lady Emily Wainwright,” he said. “I would know you anywhere; you look very much like your dear mother Lady Anne, God rest her soul.”

Lady Emily offered her hand, and Morrison stooped to kiss it. I held back a laugh; he was certainly eager for her. And I could not blame him. Emily blushed prettily and said, “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Morrison. Mr. Singer tells me that you knew both of my parents. I should very much like to hear all of your memories of them.” I had to laugh a little then; my little whore was curious to hear about Mr. Morrison’s past relations with her mother, which I had hinted subtly at just days before.

“And so you shall,” Morrison said, and Emily smiled. My friend turned his attention to me, and gave me a hearty handshake. Morrison is a strong man, stocky and wide. He had hardly changed since our days in South Africa; he was still the loud, good-humored man that I’d shared many a pint with.

Morrison led us to his waiting carriage. “My wife is waiting for our arrival, so we best not keep her long,” he said. As we rode away from the piers and toward his estate, he asked about our voyage. I looked out of the carriage and watched the people as we rode along, allowing Emily to take the conversation. She gladly did so, telling Morrison that our voyage had been pleasant.

“How long have you lived in Calcutta, Mr. Morrison?” Emily asked politely. I smiled to myself, half-listening to their conversation as I stared in fascination at the streets of Calcutta. Emily would leave her own questions for later; she knew how to charm people, men and women alike, simply by asking them genuine questions and showing a sincere interest. And Morrison, an attention-grabber himself, would play right into her hands.

“Near a decade now,” he said. “I came after some of the violence had died down. Things have been fairly peaceful here since then. I cannot imagine myself living anywhere else.”

“Did you meet your wife here?” Emily asked.

“No,” Morrison answered, “she is from my home village. As a matter of fact, Lady Emily, she knew your mother as well.”

“Did she?” Emily asked, unable to hide her excitement.

Morrison nodded. “They were good friends. Like sisters when they were growing up. In fact, Lady Emily, I am the one who introduced your parents. Your father came to stay with me for a few months after your grandmother died, and they fell in love when I introduced them.”

“Oh!” Emily said in surprise. “Why, I thank you for doing so. I suppose I may owe my existence to you.”

Morrison laughed loudly. He clearly liked my Emily very much. I smiled again and turned back to them as Morrison said, “My Lydia…Mrs. Morrison…is very much looking forward to meeting you. Do you know, in all of my years of correspondence with your Mr. Singer, she always bade me to enquire of you. I do wonder why she did not just write to you herself.”

“I would have been happy to receive it,” Emily said. “I do hope that she and I will become good friends as well.”

“I believe you will,” Morrison said, and he and I exchanged a knowing glance. We had some wonderful, awful plans for both of our ladies.

We arrived at the lovely manor. It was a fairly new house, built to Morrison’s own specifications just a few years before, after he had married and brought his wife back with him. The manor was surrounded by a high brick wall, and the attached wrought iron fence opened to allow our carriage to enter. The front grounds were filled with exotic flowers, and I could tell that Emily was as fascinated as I was by all the strange beauty.

Mrs. Morrison, a small woman with very pale skin and very pale hair (which made her blue eyes all the more shockingly bright), met us at the front doors. She was dressed in a light-colored dress and a wide-brimmed hat. “Hello!” she called enthusiastically. Though I knew she was hardly younger than her husband or I, she looked to be nearly as young as my Lady Emily.

The carriage driver helped Lady Emily from the carriage first. Mrs. Morrison dashed over to her, and wrapped her in a tight embrace. “My dear Lady Emily,” she cried (as small and fragile-looking as she was, she was just as loud as her husband). “Oh, you look so much like your mother. Doesn’t she, Mr. Morrison?”

“That’s just what I said, Mrs. Morrison,” her husband said, coming out of the carriage. I followed and we stood beside the ladies. Emily looked surprised by Mrs. Morrison’s immediate affection, but she was smiling broadly.

“Yes,” she said, “Mr. Morrison says that you and my mother grew up together.”

“We did!” Mrs. Morrison said. “We were the best of friends in girlhood. Anne was so much fun, such an adventurous and imaginative girl. We started to grow apart as we grew older, but I was heartbroken when I heard of her death, I really was. Oh, you poor child!” Mrs. Morrison declared.

Emily looked a little uncomfortable. I stood by her side as she said, “I look forward to learning more about my mother. Mr. Singer has been able to tell me about my father, but my mother feels like a stranger to me. She did not grow up near Wainwright Hall.”

“We had some wild times as girls!” Mrs. Morrison laughed. She took Emily gently by the arm. “Come in to the house, come in, please.” She hurried away with Emily.

Mr. Morrison shook his head after his wife. “I bring my old friend for a visit, and she ignores you. I apologize for her.”

“Unnecessary,” I said with an amused smile. “Lady Emily has that effect on people sometimes.”

“She is something, isn’t she?” Morrison asked, as we slowly followed the women inside.

I nodded. “She’s very special.”

“I don’t blame you for taking claim of her,” Morrison said in a low voice. “If I were in your position, I certainly would have done the same. She’s a beauty.”

“She’s very precious to me,” I said. “As she grew up, I treated her the way that I thought our friend, Sir Peter, would treat her.”

Morrison laughed. “I guess that’s gone out the window! Sir Peter had some wild ways about him at times, but not like this!” And we both laughed together. It was certainly true; my transition from viewing Emily as my goddaughter to seeing her as my lover had been swift.

Morrison and I didn’t say anything more, for fear of Lady Emily hearing of our plans. It seemed to me that Mrs. Morrison had some designs of her own, as she kept the young lady occupied all afternoon. I did not see my young lady again until we all met for dinner in the large dining hall. A traditional Indian feast was served. Emily and I had tried some Indian food once in London, and I remembered some of the strange dishes described in my father’s correspondence. But we both marveled at the unfamiliar, strong-smelling spread laid before us.

“Our cook is incredible,” Mrs. Morrison said as she heaped some rice onto Lady Emily’s plate. “He is Indian himself, but he has spent some time in Liverpool, so when we are homesick, he can make anything that might ease the ache.”

“Do you often miss England?” Emily asked kindly.

Morrison answered for his wife. “We are not able to get home as often as we might like…only once since we wed, isn’t that so, Mrs. Morrison?”

With a sigh his wife answered, “Oh, yes. But we do keep ourselves occupied. Mr. Morrison is very busy with government affairs, you know, la-di-da, and I have my companions among the ambassadors’ wives and traders’ wives and such.” She turned to Emily, her blue eyes nearly ablaze. “Oh, I cannot wait for you to meet the other ladies at the party we’re throwing Saturday night.”

“A party?” Emily asked with great interest. I smiled at her; Emily loved nothing better than a party.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Morrison said. “In honor of you and Mr. Singer’s arrival. You know, we have never had family nor friends from home visit us here before, not in seven years, and we are so honored.” Mrs. Morrison took my Emily suddenly by the hand. “I have wanted to meet you. I’m so very glad you are here.”

I felt a very strong twinge at my crotch. Goodness, this was all going to turn out much better than expected. Morrison stood and loudly proposed a toast to myself and Lady Emily, and we all drank our home-brewed hadia and enjoyed the rest of our dinner.

Emily and I said goodnight immediately after dinner, and went to the guest bedchamber set aside for us. We did not have to worry about separate arrangements; the Morrisons both knew that we were betrothed, and we did not intend to go through the charade of having separate rooms, only to end up in bed together, anyway. Poor Emily was exhausted, having spent the day with the fast-paced Mrs. Morrison. Emily collapsed, clothed, onto the bed, and I sat beside her.

“Tell me honestly,” I said. “What do you think of Mr. Morrison?”

Emily sat up and smiled. “He’s very nice,” she said. “He has a sense of humor. I feel quite at ease around him.”

I nodded in agreement. “Your father and I met him on our way to South Africa, and by the time we made it to Johannesburg, we were all the best of friends. He has that way about him. Well,” I added, “What are your impressions of Mrs. Morrison?”

Emily giggled. “She is very energetic. Very talkative.”

“That is so.”

“I thought her to be somewhat glib, but I like her,” Emily concluded. “She is so friendly. She has been so welcoming to me all afternoon.”

“She likes you,” I said mildly, and decided to leave it at that for the time being.

Emily looked thoughtful for a moment. “They have only been married these seven years,” she said.

I nodded. “Yes. From what I understand, they had been ‘nearly’ betrothed when Morrison left for South Africa years ago. Something prevented their marriage, and she wed another. She was widowed when he was home for a visit from his station here, and they married and returned together.”

Emily sighed. “That is romantic,” she declared. “Long-lost lovers. But I do wonder what prevented them from marrying the first time.”

I could not resist. “I will tell you,” I said. “It was your mother.”

Her shocked face amused me. How I love to surprise her. “My mother?”

“Yes,” I said. “Though I am sketchy on the details. You may want to ask them about it yourself; I’m sure that they would be most candid with you.”

“I believe I shall,” Emily said faintly, and nothing more was said on the topic that night. It would trouble my dear Lady Emily’s mind, but she would have all of her answers soon.

As we were both tired from our long day, we fell asleep without our usual nightly lovemaking. All the better; just as I had plans for my beloved, I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Morrison had their own respective plans for my sweet little whore. She would certainly need all of her rest.

The party, thrown in honor of myself and Lady Emily (moreso for her, really), was two nights after our arrival in Calcutta. In that time, Mrs. Morrison had invaded Emily’s wardrobe, and had lightly upbraided me for not ensuring that my beloved was properly clothed for tropical climates. “But,” Mrs. Morrison trilled, “all the more reason to shop!” Emily was eagerly indoctrinated into the world of Calcutta fashion among the females of British society, and by Saturday she was well-equipped with dresses of light-colored cotton and a couple of gowns (which I felt were unnecessary, until Mrs. Morrison explained that her husband was footing the bill).

In the privacy of our bedchamber, Emily put on one of her new gowns, a rose-colored off-the-shoulder number that fitted well around her perky little tits and flowed away from her hips and legs. When she came to help me knot my necktie, I put my hands lightly on her waist and was surprised by the absence of whalebone. “Mrs. Morrison said that it is not fashionable to wear corsets here,” Emily said simply. I approved of this immensely. Emily’s slim little body would be that much easier to access. Of course, that would wait until after the official party ended and the real party began.

“I have a surprise for you,” I said, and Emily beamed with pleasure as I took a rectangular gift box from my pocket. “Open it,” I whispered.

With trembling hands, she opened the top of the box, revealing a diamond choker. “Oh, sir,” she sighed. “It’s extravagant.”

“It would not be proper for you to wear your leather collar at all times,” I remarked, reaching from behind her and taking the diamond choker. As I clasped it around her neck, I said, “I think this is a lovely substitute, don’t you?” It fit just right, snug against her neck, but not too tight. Only the clasp (which contained a tiny hidden lock, which I had had specially made) would leave a small imprint on her skin after a night of use.

Emily turned to face me, smiling in her radiant way. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered, standing on her toes to kiss me softly.

I resisted the sudden but strong urge to throw her to the bed. I returned her sweet kiss. My lovely Emily, my good little girl, my obedient whore. How I adored her.

It should be understood that if my dear Lady Emily had not wanted to do the things that I forced her to do, I would not have been leading her down that path. If she had said “no,” we would have stopped. Granted, I had raped her on our first night together, but that had been necessary. Even then I’d known that she wanted it.

“Emily,” I said, “You do enjoy belonging to me, don’t you, my dear?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she said eagerly. “I love you very much, sir.”

I kissed her again. “I love you, too, my Emily. I cannot wait until you are my wife.”

We went downstairs before we could become swept up in our passions. We found our host and hostess at the foot of the staircase, in a prime spot to greet guests while awaiting our arrival. When the Morrisons spotted us, Mrs. Morrison came and took Emily by the arm. “My dear Lady Emily, you look so beautiful tonight.” Mrs. Morrison looked lovely herself, in a blue gown that matched her bright eyes.

Mrs. Morrison immediately led Emily to a small group of her lady friends. I would not see her again for a couple of hours, as Morrison led me to a group of gentlemen, and we took our places at a large table on the patio to puff on our cigars and a large hookah set up in the middle of the table. We talked of politics in India and at home, trade prices and taxes and laws (where I could, at least, offer my expertise), while drinking strong Indian beer and wine. I was feeling a little tipsy when my Emily joined us briefly.

“Ooh, is that a hookah?” she asked, eyeing the contraption with curiosity.

“Here, my lady,” Morrison, red-faced with drink, said, offering his hose. “Take a puff.”

She took a small pull through her hose, only enough to make the water in the hookah bubble briefly. She let out her smoke slowly before smacking her lips, a quizzical look on her face. “It tastes like shoe leather,” she observed.

The men all laughed heartily, and I beamed at her. Such a charming little thing. “How are you enjoying the party, Lady Emily?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m having a lovely time. Everyone has been so kind.”

“Would you like to join us, my lady?” Morrison asked. A couple of our companions even stood to offer their seats.

“No, thank you, gentlemen,” Emily said, and I could read disappointment on the faces of the men in attendance. “Mrs. Morrison believes I’ve only slipped away for another drink, and I’m sure she is expecting me.” She gave me a little wink before strutting away.

I had the attention of every man at the table. “You are betrothed to her?” One of the government officials, a fat gentleman named Albert Norman, ventured to ask. “She seems quite young.”

“She is 18,” I said proudly. “I raised her up by hand when she was orphaned as a young girl, and we have fallen in love.”

This story spread quickly through the party. The women in attendance thought it sweet; the men were clearly jealous as they compared their own wives (most of them withering, even just at the edges) to my fresh flower of a bride-to-be. If these men had known the truth, they would have positively burst with envy…and would have clamored for a chance with her. But I would not offer her to just anyone.

The party finally died down after midnight. The four of us all convened on the patio when the last of the guests had departed. The ladies were wrapped in shawls as we took a drink together in the cool night air.

“Lady Emily,” Mrs. Morrison said, “We have some topics to discuss with you.”

“About my mother?” Emily asked softly. She had confessed to me that she had not yet questioned Mrs. Morrison. She would have all of her inquiries answered now, for better or for worse.

Mrs. Morrison nodded. “Yes, my dear. You see, Lady Emily, Mr. Morrison has given me some interesting information about the nature of your relationship with Mr. Singer.”

Though her face flushed slightly, my Emily did not seem too surprised. “Oh,” she said. I took her hand as Mrs. Morrison continued.

“Lady Emily, you know that your mother and I were quite close. But I would not say that we were as close as sisters. No,” Mrs. Morrison said, “It would be more accurate to say that we were more like…lovers.”

My sweet Emily was certainly shocked now. “You and my mother?” she asked.

Mrs. Morrison nodded. As her husband sat close to her and put his arm around her shoulders, she explained. Even as young girls, little Lydia and Anne would secretly play their “tie-me-up” game. One girl would be tied up while the other girl tickled and touched and tormented her. The game grew more sexual in nature as the girls grew older, with Anne more often playing the “prisoner” while Lydia played the “mistress.”

Both girls, being pretty enough and from wealthy families, became swept up in the rituals of courting. Mr. Morrison, prior to his excursion to South Africa, had been a favorite suitor of young Lydia. “But he knew Anne for what she was,” Mrs. Morrison said. “A whore. I do not mean that in a bad way,” she added hastily, for fear of offending my dear whore. “Bu they began having an affair. I adored them both…but I was young, I was confused.

“When Charles…Mr. Morrison…left for South Africa, I married my first husband and ceased my friendship with Anne.” Mrs. Morrison went on with teary eyes. “I was much too young to marry. But I was frightened, because I did not think that my feelings for your mother were natural.

“When my first husband died and Mr. Morrison and I were reunited, he gave me pleasure I had not known since I was with your mother,” Mrs. Morrison concluded.

We were all surprised when my sweet little Emily burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands and cried. Mrs. Morrison put her hand to her mouth, clearly distressed. She and her husband both leaned toward Emily, but I was the one who put a comforting arm around her. “My dear Lady Emily, what is the matter?” I asked.

Emily removed her hands from her face. She was actually smiling! “Nothing, sir,” she said, and she laughed. The tears spilling down her face were of joy. “I am so relieved! I…” She turned to Mrs. Morrison. “I thought that I was wicked and bad for some of the thoughts I’ve had, but to know that my mother was like me, and that she had wonderful friends who loved her for it…it’s so wonderful.”

Mrs. Morrison was glowing. She took Emily gently by the hand. “I loved your mother very much,” she said softly. “I knew that you were a special girl from the moment I laid eyes on you. Would you like to play with me tonight, Lady Emily?”

“Yes, please,” my beloved said softly, and Mrs. Morrison leaned toward her, kissing her softly on the lips.

I looked forward to seeing my whore with a woman. Mrs. Morrison was a lovely, attractive lady. Her body, like her face, appeared 20 years younger than her actual age. The ladies clasped hands, giggling, and Morrison and I followed them up to the master bedchamber. Morrison and I sat in armchairs, while Mrs. Morrison and Emily stood before us.

“You may remove your clothing and go to your knees, Lady Emily,” I instructed, and took another sip of my beer.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and did as she was told without hesitation. I halted Mrs. Morrison as she reached out to touch her.

“There are some rules for playing with my whore,” I said. “I am to witness any and all sexual activities that this girl participates in. And her cunt is my personal property; no one else may touch or have her there.”

Mrs. Morrison was ready to protest, but her husband cut in. “Your terms are fair,” he said, giving his wife a pointed look.

“Also,” I added, “and I know that this may be unnecessary to state, but do not be brutal to her, please.”

“Oh, of course not,” Mrs. Morrison said softly, advancing to Emily. Addressing her, she said, “Lady Emily, while we play, I’d like you to call me ‘Mother.’ Can you do that, please?”

“Yes, Mother,” Emily said in a tiny voice.

“Hands behind your back, my pet,” Mrs. Morrison said kindly, and Emily swiftly obeyed her new mistress. “Mr. Morrison, can you fetch two lengths of soft rope, please?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Morrison,” my old friend said, rising to accommodate his wife’s request. He and his wife kissed briefly before Mrs. Morrison tied up Emily’s wrists and ankles. I involuntarily stroked my cock through my trousers, eager to see what would be done to my whore.

Mrs. Morrison touched Emily’s face. “Do you like to be tied up?” she asked.

“Yes, Mother,” Emily said.

“Have you ever pleasured a woman before, my pet?” Mrs. Morrison asked as she began slipping out of her own gown.

“No, Mother,” Emily admitted.

“Come, then, Mother’s going to teach her little pet how to do it just right,” Mrs. Morrison cooed. She beckoned to Emily. Emily awkwardly shuffled on her knees to her new mistress, who now stood as naked as she. Mrs. Morrison’s body had no sagging or wrinkles to betray her age; I wondered how she had kept her body as tight as a teenage girl’s.

Mrs. Morrison put her hand on the back of Emily’s head. “Head back, my pet. Mother’s going to let you lick her pussy, won’t it be nice?”

“Yes, Mother,” Emily said, and I could tell she was excited as Mrs. Morrison stood directly over her, straddling her head and lowering her pussy onto the little whore’s face.

Mrs. Morrison’s cunt was covered in neatly-groomed, fine hair, so fine that it was almost transparent. “Use your tongue to lick Mother’s pussy, my pet. Oh, yes…” Mrs. Morrison put her hands on Emily’s shoulders to steady herself as my beloved went to work. As Emily wriggled her tongue into Mrs. Morrison’s hole and the older woman let out a series of loud, appreciative moans, I had taken my cock from my trousers and was stroking myself. Only a little; my turn with the girl would come soon, as Mrs. Morrison came quickly.

“Lick Mother clean, my pet,” Mrs. Morrison panted, squatting on Emily’s face. By the time Emily was through and Mrs. Morrison had climbed off of her, the lower half of her face was covered in pussy juices. “What do we say, pet?” Mrs. Morrison asked, as though she were speaking to a small child.

“Thank you, Mother,” Emily recited.

“You’re welcome, my pet. You are a dirty, messy little pet, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mrs. Morrison retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the cum from Emily’s face before kissing her softly. “That’s a good little pet,” Mrs. Morrison whispered. She got down on her knees, and taking Emily by the shoulders, kissed her deeply. My cock was throbbing by then.

Morrison, in a similar state of arousal, asked, “May I have a crack at her?” He grinned wickedly. “I will not ask her to call me ‘Father.’”

“Certainly,” I said with a wave of my hand. Morrison stood and quickly disrobed. He had a paunchy gut, but otherwise had muscular features. Mrs. Morrison stood and kissed her husband with the same passion that she had my beloved.

“May I show my appreciation to our guest?” Mrs. Morrison asked her husband.

“Yes, dear,” Mr. Morrison said, as he positioned himself to be pleasured by my whore, Mrs. Morrison came and stood before me.

“May I suck your cock, Mr. Singer?” she asked.

“Yes, please, Mrs. Morrison,” I said, as she settled on her knees before me, eagerly taking my throbbing member in her hot little mouth. I put my hands on the back of her head, mussing her fancy up-do as I fucked her mouth quickly. Over her head, I watched my one please my old friend. He had his hands tangled in her hair, but was not forcing himself down her throat. He was groaning as Emily took him deep. She had become an expert cocksucker in the past few weeks, after spending so much time pleasing me and the Captain on our voyage.

I fucked Mrs. Morrison’s mouth harder, knowing that my balls would leave some evidence on her chin. No matter; she put her hands on around my waist and prompted me to fuck her harder and harder. She was a whore, too; Morrison had hinted as much in our correspondence, but I had no idea of her past with Lady Anne. The thought of watching Mrs. Morrison have her way with sweet Lady Emily, her former lover’s daughter, made me come quicker than I might have.

Mrs. Morrison cleaned my cock with eager strokes of her tongue. She was smiling up at me, I knew, but my attention was focused on Mr. Morrison and my Emily. He was allowing her to take her time, and she was bobbing her head, taking his stubby cock as deeply as she could each time.

Mrs. Morrison stood and went behind her husband. I watched her put two of her fingers into her mouth, then stick them into her husband’s ass. He grunted loudly, grabbing Emily by the back of the head as he came down her throat. I smiled to myself, proud of her for taking his cum so willingly. She grinned up at him as he gently wiped some stray cum from her chin. “Thank you, my lady,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Morrison,” she chirped happily.

Our play continued throughout the night, with the four of us ending up on the Morrisons oversized bed. Morrison and I fucked my whore simultaneously, while Mrs. Morrison fingered her husband’s ass from behind. Mrs. Morrison tortured Emily’s clamped nipples, nibbling her so hard at one point that she drew blood (for which she apologized profusely, saying, “Mother didn’t mean to hurt her poor little pet, poor dear,”). Looking back on that wicked night in Calcutta, it was the most fun that my Lady Emily and I had with other people involved. We could surpass it on our own, and we often did, but we enjoyed that night with the Morrisons.

When Emily and I were alone again in our bedchamber that morning, I held her close and we discussed the events of the night. “Did you enjoy being with Mrs. Morrison?” I asked her as I stroked her back.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ve had thoughts about women, and…it was even better than I ever imagined. Thank you for allowing me to do that, sir.”

“You’re welcome, my dear. And what did you think about calling Mrs. Morrison ‘Mother’?”

Emily confessed, “I thought it strange at first. But…I started to like it. It made me really excited.” Her tone became a bit more serious. “You know, she told me that she was never able to have any children of her own. Poor dear.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “But I should hope that she wouldn’t do these sort of things with her own children.”

“No,” Emily agreed faintly, and we fell asleep soon after, not waking again until late morning. We would have a few more days of fun with our host and hostess before beginning the next part of our trip, taking the train down to Bangalore to visit my father’s gravesite. After that, we would travel a bit around the country before returning to Calcutta to be wed. Each day with my little Emily was sweeter as I led her further and further down a dark and exciting path. She wanted to be my slave, my whore, and I was more than willing to give that life to her.

The morning that we departed for Bangalore, Emily looked lovely but exhausted as we stood on the platform and waited for the train. And well she might; she had been put through her paces the previous night by myself and our host and hostess. We had spent a little more time in the “dungeon” that the Morrisons had set up in their basement, for their own personal activities. Emily, chained standing and spread-eagle to a tall rack set up in the middle of the cellar room, had been tortured, pleasured, and had done much pleasing throughout the entire night.

I had continued to push Emily’s boundaries of tolerance for punishment. She had asked me to do this. “Please sir,” she had said, kneeling before me in our bedchamber, completely in the nude. “I know you like to be rough. You may do whatever you like to me; I want to please you.”

During our first week in Calcutta, I had encouraged Morrison and his little wife to play a little rough with Lady Emily as well. I was amazed at the sadistic side of her dear ‘Mother’; that final night in Calcutta, after we finished chaining the young lady to the rack, Mrs. Morrison had ducked briefly into a small root cellar, returning with a long leather whip. “May I use this on her, Mr. Singer?” she asked sweetly, twirling the whip in the air expertly. Her husband was eyeing her with admiration; I wondered if she was often the one wielding that whip in their private time.

“What do you think, Lady Emily?” I asked. I had not used anything more brutal than a riding crop on her tender skin, but the thought of watching her take a beating from her mistress turned me on.

She could see it in my eyes, just as easily as I could read the fear (and the excitement) in hers. “All right, sir,” she said, without hesitation, and only the slightest hint of apprehension in her voice. I nodded to Mrs. Morrison, and I stood by and watched the show for a bit.

Mrs. Morrison stood before Lady Emily, touching her face softly before kissing her briefly. “Have you been a bad little pet?” she asked.

“Yes, Mother,” Emily chirped, and I noted the way that her toes curled. Her nipples were hardening against a new pair of nipple clips, a gift from her dear ‘Mother.’ These clips dug painfully into her nipples whenever she became aroused…which was often. For a long time, she would refuse to wear any other pair.

“Mother has to punish her naughty little pet,” Mrs. Morrison said. She grabbed one of Emily’s tits briefly, causing Emily to yell out. Mrs. Morrison walked around behind Lady Emily, and, standing a few feet behind her, raised the whip expertly and lashed it against my beloved’s ass. Emily screamed out louder, and I watched small drops of blood begin to drip from the first wound.

Mrs. Morrison spent a few minutes beating my whore’s back and ass, allowing her time to feel the pain from each new would before delivering another. She stopped at ten; I might have stopped her at that moment, if she didn’t toss the whip aside herself. I was tempted to comfort my girl, as she whimpered and cried on the rack. But she had asked for this; I stood by, rubbing my crotch, standing beside my old friend as we watched our women play.

Mrs. Morrison stepped right behind Emily, tracing her fingers across the fresh wounds. “Good little pet,” she murmured. “Would you like a treat, pet?”

“Yes, Mother,” Emily whimpered. Mrs. Morrison began kissing and licking the girl’s neck. I watched her lube her two fingers in her mouth, and I grabbed my cock, knowing what she would do. Emily whimpered louder as Mrs. Morrison shoved her fingers into Emily’s asshole, and began fucking her roughly.

“That’s it, pet…you like it when Mother plays with your ass, don’t you?”

“Oh, God…yes, Mother,” Emily moaned. I took that as my cue to join in on the fun. I stepped forward, and stood in front of Emily. She smiled at me; her lovely face was soaked in tears. Returning her grin, I took two hooked fingers and shoved them into her cunt, clawing at the walls of her dripping-wet pussy as I dug deeper and deeper inside of her. I stroked her throbbing clit with my thumb, and she shuddered as she was finger-fucked in her holes, moaning loudly.

I could feel her coming against my fingers as I shoved a third one into her cunt. I felt the walls of her pussy flutter madly around me as she coated my fingers in her juices. I kissed her roughly before putting my fingers to her lips. “Clean them, my dear.”

She did so, and Mrs. Morrison stopped fucking her ass with her fingers, and kissed Emily softly on the back of the neck. She stepped aside and allowed her husband to take her spot behind Emily. We fucked her at the same time, and I allowed her to scream to her heart’s content as her ass was shredded by Morrison’s thick member. He grabbed her hair roughly and yanked her head back, and we both bit and nibbled at her neck as she cried out.

“Oh, Christ!” she yelled out. “Oh, God, oh, please, sir, oh Goooood!” she screamed, letting out an animal shriek as we pounded into her as hard as we could. I loved fucking her rough, feeling her tearing around me with each ungraceful thrust. After Morrison had come and released from her, I grabbed her by the thighs and rammed into her one last time, balls-deep as I came with a loud moan. The chains offered little slack, so I nearly threw my back out with the effort of holding her close to me. I released her quickly, and her three tormentors left her to drip for a moment as we regained ourselves.

At that point, we convened to the parlor upstairs. Lady Emily walked with much difficulty, wincing with each step, so Mrs. Morrison helped her along, wrapped her arm around her waist as we went up. We had cake and coffee, and Emily sat at her mistress’s feet, as her ‘Mother’ fed her small bites from her own plate. But the young whore’s real dessert came after we had finished our coffee. Mrs. Morrison, still nude (as we all were) from our escapades in the basement, had taken a swipe of frosting from the top of the remaining cake, and had spread it on her pussy.

“Go ahead, my pet, lick Mother clean,” she coaxed Emily, and I watched my girl eagerly lap up the frosting from Mrs. Morrison’s cunt. After pleasing ‘Mother’ thoroughly, Morrison followed suit, spreading frosting on his cock and allowing Emily to have at it.

She pleasured me next, but I did not coat my cock for her. “My cock is sweet enough for you as it is, isn’t it, my dear?” I asked.

She eyed my throbbing member hungrily. “Yes, sir.”

“All yours, Lady Emily.” And she gobbled me up, fondling my testicles (she always made sure to give them their due) with her soft hands as she sucked me. Having already come into her once in the past hour (and a few more times already that day), I held out for quite some time, and when I finally sent my seed down her slender little throat, she was utterly exhausted.

We allowed her a break as Morrison and I had our turns with his wife (he did not insist that I leave her pussy be, so I made some use of it), and our play continued thus throughout the night, ending only as the sun began to rise. Mrs. Morrison had made another pot of coffee, and we all put on silk robes and took it on the patio, watching the sunrise.

After packing enough of our things for the next fortnight of our trip (as we would be returning to Calcutta, the Morrisons had kindly allowed us to board the rest of our things with them during our absence), we departed for the train station. Mrs. Morrison had given Lady Emily a tearful goodbye. “I know you will be back soon,” she said as she embraced my whore, “but I can’t help thinking how difficult it will be to let you go when you leave us again.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Morrison,” Emily said kindly (she only called her ‘Mother’ during playtime), kissing the woman softly on the cheek. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

Morrison saw us to the train station in his carriage, and even waited with us until the train arrived. He kissed Emily briefly before we boarded. “Goodbye, my lady,” he said, without the emotion of his wife. He liked Emily very much, but he viewed his time with her as play, and nothing more. He certainly was not attached to her the way that his wife was.

I shook my friend’s hand, and Emily and I boarded the train. We were led to our private compartment, and as soon as we were inside, I pulled the blinds over all of the windows facing out into the narrow corridor. My beloved had already sprawled out onto one of the bench seats.

I smiled at her and sat next to her head. “Tired, my dear?” I teased.

Her eyes closed, she smiled a little and nodded. She moved back so that her head was resting in my lap. I stroked her hair, and we were silent until the train began to move. I could tell by her breathing pattern that she was not asleep yet.

“Emily,” I said, “I do wonder how much Mrs. Morrison would pay to own you.”

Her eyes snapped open. She looked up at me in surprise. “What do you mean, sir?”

I grinned down at her. Her cheeks were beginning to glow. “Your dear ‘Mother’ adores you, doesn’t she?”

“I…I suppose she does, sir.”

“I bet she’d pay a whole lot of money to have you all to herself,” I mused. “I know how much she wants to play with your cunt. If I really wanted to, I could sell you off to her and add a considerable amount to my fortune.”

Emily’s eyes widened. “Oh, but…you…you wouldn’t do that, sir. You’re teasing.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Oh, sir,” Emily said, looking distressed, “do not tease me so.”

“You mean you would not want to stay with your dear ‘Mother’?” I asked, almost mocking.

“Please, sir,” she said. “You’re the one that I love.” I smiled down at her, and assured her that I was only kidding. “Oh, sir, you are cruel,” she said, and I kissed her softly before she closed her eyes again, this time achieving sleep in a relatively short amount of time.

I thought of our past week in Calcutta. I had to admit; though I enjoyed watching my whore with another woman (particularly one as sexy as Mrs. Morrison), I was a little jealous of how close they’d become in such a short period to time. I had even worried about the time that they spent alone together; would Emily be able to stop her if she wanted to break the rules? Would my little whore even want to stop her?

I had expressed my concerns to Emily, but she had reassured me. “Sir, if she ever tries to touch me when we are alone, I will…I will scream,” she promised. “No matter where we are. And I’ll try to run away. I don’t want to break your rules, sir.”

I had kissed her softly. “I know you don’t, my dear.” And I realized why my sweet Emily was so special. It was not because she was so pretty; she certainly was beautiful, but there are beautiful girls everywhere. And it was definitely not because she was of the noble class; there are plenty of Lords and Ladies and Dukes and Duchesses and such who are not at all worthwhile human beings. No…what made my little Emily special was her unwavering loyalty. She was obedient and sincere; she had always been this way. This is why I loved her so.

As I stroked her hair and we began our long trip to Bangalore, I thought of the weeks ahead of us. My father’s gravesite…then many exciting sites around the strange foreign land…then back to Calcutta to be wed. I looked down at Emily’s face. My beautiful bride. My sweet, obedient, perfect little slave. I don’t remember ever being happier than I was at that moment, on the train to Bangalore, knowing that even though many men and women would admire and fuck and love her, she would always be all mine.

Lady Emily’s Diary

15 July, 18—

Finally, finally, we have arrived in Bangalore! The train ride took nearly three whole days, and I must admit that I have been going a little stir-crazy in our tiny (but thankfully private) compartment. The train was twice delayed on the tracks due to the heavy rains; Mr. Singer gave me a little book about the climate of India, and I have learned that we have arrived in the middle of what is known as the “monsoon season.” How dreadful! And as I write this, in our little (and most authentically Indian) quarters, the rain continues to pound against the windows, so violently that I am afraid they will shatter.

But Mr. Singer reassures me. “These happen every year. The people are prepared for them.” Still, I had read in the little book that if the monsoons are too heavy, it could have devastating effects on the local economy. I suppose this does not concern me personally, but still…I do worry.

Mr. Singer is troubled as well, but it is not from the strange weather. We are going to visit his father’s gravesite tomorrow, and he has realized that he does not know exactly where it is located. I suggested contacting one of his father’s old friends. “Did he give you any names in his correspondence to you?” I asked. “Were any names mentioned in the message you received upon his death?”

Mr. Singer kissed me heartily, declared me a genius, and has been combing through the letters (which he brought with him, to reference any interesting points to visit), and jotting down names as he has come upon them. I am glad to have been helpful, especially to my dear old friend. I was afraid, as we started on our way to Bangalore, that he was displeased with me. His teasing about Mrs. Morrison troubled me all the way here.

I have avoided writing much on the topic of Mrs. Morrison in here as of yet. But now that I have some quiet time to myself, and have been out of Calcutta for a few days now, I can reflect on my experiences with a clearer mind. I do think that she is a dear woman, and I cannot deny that I have had lots of fun with her, her kind husband, and my Mr. Singer these past few days. However, I am…dare I admit this?...I am a little frightened of her.

Oh, yes! I am afraid of that tiny, lovely woman. Can I even begin to explain? There is a look in her eyes, a very intense look, whenever we are playing together. My Mr. Singer gets a similar look, but I feel so different with him. When Mr. Singer looks at me hungrily, I feel wanted, and I feel excited. But with Mrs. Morrison…her looks of lust cause me to tremble in fear.

I’m not entirely certain why, really. She is rougher with me than my Mr. Singer, but I do enjoy the rough treatment. What made me cry the most, after she whipped me on our last night in Calcutta, was the idea that the marks of the whip on my back would never go away, that I would be scarred and hideous forever. But even now, I can see them fading away quickly. Mr. Singer spreads a lotion on them, several times daily, and they are now a light pink. I enjoyed the pain of being whipped…what is the matter with me, that I want to take such punishment? I am so lucky to be with a man who will indulge my dark fantasies…and who will introduce me to people who wish to do the same.

I am still reeling from the news of my mother’s separate affairs with both Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. She must have been quite young when she was with Mr. Morrison! I do know that she was a couple of years older than Mrs. Morrison, who married very young herself. I think back to two years ago, when Mr. Singer refused to allow me to hastily marry Mr. Gainsley. I am so glad, so so glad, that he did so! I cannot begin to think that Mr. Gainsley would be so understanding of my needs as my dear old friend.

Mr. Singer expressed some jealousy of my friendship with Mrs. Morrison. I reassured him, and while I did not lie to him, I did keep a small bit of truth from him. That is why I was so bothered after he teased me on the train; I thought that he had found out my dishonesty.

I did not tell Mr. Singer of a conversation that I’d had with Mrs. Morrison. It was two days after our first night together; we’d only been in Calcutta less than a week, but already we were very close. She and I were walking together in the gardens on her estate; we had just taken tea on the patio, and she was showing me the exotic flowers growing all around the back of their vast property.

At one point, Mrs. Morrison took my hand. I did not wretch mine away; perfectly innocent to hold hands, I thought. We continued along for a short while, when Mrs. Morrison asked, “Lady Emily, would you like to stay here with me?”

I looked at her, surprised into silence. She smiled at me kindly. “I know we have only just become friends, but I adore you, Lady Emily. You remind me of that loving friend that I lost so long ago. Were you ever lonely for your mother as a child, my dear? You never got to know her at all.”

The sting of losing my mother at a young age had left me long ago. I answered honestly. “Yes, at times, I was,” I said. “But I always had my Mr. Singer. He was always good to me.”

“He is a good man,” Mrs. Morrison agreed. “Very handsome, very wealthy…and very sexy.”

The bedchamber talk seemed out of place in the bright lovely garden, and I know that I blushed a little. “Yes,” I agreed.

“I can tell how much he loves you,” Mrs. Morrison continued as we walked along. “He’ll give you anything you want, won’t he?”

I nodded. “I believe he will,” I said, and I knew this to be true.

“I’m sure,” Mrs. Morrison said, “that if you told him that you wanted to stay here, he’d let you. He would not deny your wishes, would he?”

I did yank my hand from hers then. “But Mrs. Morrison,” I said, “I love Mr. Singer. I’m going to be his wife; I belong to him.”

She looked about to cry then. “You know, my dear, before I married Mr. Morrison I tried to forget about your mother. And I almost did. But being with him again, and remembering that he had been with her, and I had been with her…since we came here, I have wondered, what would our lives have been like if she were still alive? What if she were here with us? You do like me and Mr. Morrison, don’t you, Lady Emily?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “But I cannot stay. I do not wish to stay.” Before Mrs. Morrison could say anything else, I said, “I am not my mother, Mrs. Morrison.”

I felt guilty for being so blunt with the dear woman, who is clearly still heartbroken over losing my mother. Perhaps that is what frightens me; she does not see me as myself, but as a substitute for my mother. As much as I adore Mrs. Morrison (and I do, I really do), I know that she could never care for me for who I really am. Not like my Mr. Singer, who knows me so well, who knows me better than I even know myself.

I begged Mrs. Morrison to forget our conversation in the garden. “We are friends, and I do adore you,” I assured her. “Please, don’t be upset.” And she had smiled, and apologized, and we did not speak of it again. But when Mr. Singer teased about selling me to her as we began our trip to Bangalore, it made me remember the conversation, and I felt awful again.

But Mr. Singer is not upset with me. No…he just returned to the room, after sending out his inquiries about three men he thought may still be Bangalore, and he has had success. An old friend of his father’s, a Colonel Phineas Faulkner (we shared a giggle at the name), is retired and living only a few blocks from our lodging. We are to call on him late in the morning tomorrow, and he will guide us to the late Mr. Avery Singer III’s gravesite. Mr. Singer seems so much happier now than he did when we arrived just hours ago. I will give him extra attention this evening, to ensure his happy mood for tomorrow.

16 July, 18—

Such a long day! But I am not tired yet; for once, Mr. Singer has retired to bed before me. I do not wish to forget the events of this day, so I will write them out now, until I am too tired to go on. As I write this, the clock strikes midnight, so we have technically entered into a new day.

We woke early in the morning. In fact, I awoke as the sun was just rising; Mr. Singer was already up, and dressed in a fine suit, sipping his morning tea. “Good morning, my dear,” he said.

I sat up. “Have you been awake long?” I asked.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I hardly slept.”

Poor man! The fatigue showed on his face. I rose from bed and went to him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “It is early yet,” I said. “You could lie down for a while; I will make sure that everything is ready for us to see Colonel Faulkner.”

Mr. Singer smiled. “I’m sure that you would, my dear, but I’m not tired. I have much on my mind today.”

“Tell me,” I said, and I sat on his knee. He put his arms around me and held me close; I was naked, as I always am when we go to bed together. He loves to run his hands over my soft body, and I love letting him do so. His touch is both comforting and electrifying. It makes me feel both safe and excited…I cannot explain it more succinctly than that.

He told me about his father. Some things, I already knew; his father had left for India only a few months after his eldest son, Avery Singer IV, died of an illness. He had not seen his father since; all he had were the correspondences over the years, and the strange gifts. His mother had been heartbroken over the abandonment, but had not remarried until his father’s death years later. She and her new husband had moved to America together (we had visited them in Boston, years ago; I remember hearing talk of war at that time, but Mr. Singer had reassured me that the fighting was not quite as north as we were).

“But even before he left,” Mr. Singer said, “I did not feel like I knew my father. He and my brother were close, and Avery’s death really hurt my father, probably even moreso than it hurt me or my mother. I can’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t have gone, if Avery had lived.” He sighed, and looked so sad at that moment, that I wanted to make him feel better. I slipped off of his lap and went to my knees. Without a word, I pulled down his trousers and began to stroke his cock to hardness.

He smiled at me, his wicked glint back in his eye. “Trying to distract me, my dear?” I nodded and he grinned.

“Oh, sir,” I sighed, “you do have the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. May I please you, sir?”

“Of course,” he said, and when he was sufficiently hard, I took him in my mouth, slowly. I sucked him at a leisurely pace, lingering my tongue across his shaft, even leaning down to take his balls in my mouth. He loved that; he groaned loudly, but sat back and allowed me to do all of the work. I took my time. As I write this, I have pleasured four different men: Mr. Singer, the Captain, Mr. Morrison, and the nameless Indian conductor on the train (who had the loveliest eyelashes I’ve seen on anyone, man or woman), and while I enjoy the feeling that I can give to them, I only truly enjoy the feel of my master’s cock in my mouth. I could suck him all day long, like a child with a hard candy. I’m sure he’d let me, too, if it were possible.

So I took my time, and when Mr. Singer came messily into my mouth, I took my time cleaning him as well, licking the cum from his cock and swallowing it dutifully (I can even taste the difference between my Mr. Singer and other men, and I crave him all the time). For a couple of minutes, we sat just that way, me kneeling before him, he smiling and touching my face, until he said, “Bath time, my dear.”

He did not bathe with me, as he was already up and dressed, but he did fill the tub for me and wash me himself. We were silent as he washed me, and I knew that he was distracted by the events of the day. So I tried to distract him again by making a small request. “I really need to come, sir,” I whispered as he washed my thighs gently. “Will you help me, please?”

He put a hand to my cunt. “Indeed, you do. Your little clit is quite swollen.” He smiled and took his hand away from me. “Have you been a good girl, Emily? Do you deserve release?”

“I think I do, sir,” I said softly. I pretended to beg. “Please, sir? I need you so much.”

“You have been good, my Emily,” he admitted. He tickled my clit lightly, but even that touch made me squirm. With his free hand, he grabbed my wrist. “Hold still and relax for your friend, little girl. That’s right…”

I leaned my head back against the rim of the tub and closed my eyes, raising my hips to meet his touch as he stroked me, taking as much time on me as I had with him. I shuddered as he took two fingers and shoved them into my cunt. “Oh, Emily,” he said, “you’re still so tight for me. Your little cunt is mine only, isn’t it, my dear?”

“Yes, sir,” I moaned as he slowly thrust his fingers in and out of me, stabbing the walls of my pussy roughly. He shoved his fingers in again and held them, before spreading them apart. I moaned as he twisted his wrist, back and forth, slowly, widening the span of his fingers and forcing me to stretch to accommodate him.

He removed his fingers abruptly, and I let out a scream as I came. I had not even felt myself coming, so swept up was I in what he was doing to me. Mr. Singer loves to surprise me, and he certainly keeps me on my toes (sometimes literally) when it comes to our sexual activities.

“Was that nice for you, Lady Emily?” he asked mildly as he stirred my cum-tainted water with his hand.

I managed to nod, panting as I was from the intense, unexpected orgasm. He smiled slowly at me, a wicked grin. He knows my body so well. I wonder how long I will continue to be amazed by this fact. I hope that I never take it for granted; I hope I always remember what good my dear old friend does for me everyday.

Mr. Singer finished bathing me, and I put on a demure dress and a long, dark coat. The sky was grey, but it was not raining again…yet. We had breakfast at a small restaurant (eating sweet sabudana vada, which left me feeling quite full for most of the day), and then, armed with umbrellas, we made our way towards Colonel Faulkner’s residence, stopping to pick up a bouquet of exotic flowers from a tiny shop run by a wrinkled old Indian woman.

Mr. Singer handed me the flowers. “You don’t mind holding these, do you, my dear?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“You may lay them on my father’s grave for me,” he said with a distant smile, and I nodded. I hooked my umbrella over my arm and held Mr. Singer’s gloved hand in mine as we made our way up the crowded streets. We were accosted by beggars, particularly young children, but I had grown used to this in Calcutta. That is one thing I have not enjoyed about this trip, the number of poor little children that I’ve seen running around with no shoes and shabby clothing. I wish to stop and give bank notes to them all; I could certainly afford to. When I expressed my wish to Mr. Singer after our second day in Calcutta, he had shaken his head at me. “You wouldn’t be doing as much good as you might think,” he’d said, and we left it at that, and I forced myself to ignore the little children and to focus on Mr. Singer.

Colonel Faulkner’s gate was guarded by a young Englishman, who scared off a small group of beggars who had followed us there. He eyed us carefully, but without disdain or suspicion. “Mr. Aaron Singer?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Singer replied. “And my betrothed, the Lady Emily Wainwright.”

“Welcome,” the young man (practically a boy, really) said, opening the gate to admit us. “The Colonel has been expecting you.”

I felt the boy’s eyes on me as Mr. Singer and I walked up the drive leading to Colonel Faulkner’s front door. We were greeted by the man himself, a big man with a barrel-sized chest and a carefully sculpted white beard. “Aaron Singer,” he boomed, “Put it here, young man.” I was surprised that the man had an American accent.

Mr. Singer shook hands with the big old man, then placed a gentle hand on the small of my back. “Colonel, this is my fiancée, Lady Emily Wainwright.”

“My lady,” the Colonel said, and I gave him my hand. He kissed it much more gently than I thought a big man like him might. He smiled at me briefly before leading us into his parlor. “It’s not too early for a drink, is it? Hell, since I’ve retired, it doesn’t really matter. Join me, Singer?”

I was surprised when Mr. Singer said, “I believe I will. Considering the occasion, I think it is only appropriate.”

“And the lady?” the Colonel asked as he went to his mini bar and began to pour scotch for himself and Mr. Singer.

I shook my head, biting back a smile. “No, thank you, Colonel. Perhaps just a glass of water?”

“All the better,” the Colonel said, bringing Mr. Singer his scotch. “Better that someone in this little party keeps their wits about them. I’ll get a water from the kitchen.”

“I don’t wish to impose…”

“Nonsense, my lady,” the Colonel boomed jovially. “I won’t be but a moment. And here,” he said, carefully taking the bouquet of flowers from my arms, “I’ll put these in water for you until we depart.”

As soon as he left the room, Mr. Singer leaned towards me. He whispered, “What do you think of my father’s old friend?”

“He seems very nice,” I said.

“You think everyone is nice,” Mr. Singer teased, and I suppose that this is true. Or, to be more accurate, most people are typically nice to me. I know it is because I am pretty, and because I am wealthy and carry a title of nobility. Mr. Singer taught me, when I was young, that I had stumbled upon these by luck, not because I deserved them. “You have no right to be impolite to anyone. Even if they believe, for some reason, that you are better than they, that does not make it so. You are to treat everyone with respect; particularly myself, and the other adults who take care of you. Do you understand me, my child?”

“Yes, sir,” I had said in a small voice. I was being lectured for having a tantrum while we were in town. I was only four; my father had been dead but a month, and I had behaved like a brat. Mr. Singer had patted my head gently.

“You are a sweet little girl,” he had said. “You were not yourself today. I expect that you will not behave that way again, will you?”

“No, sir,” I said, and had earned a smile from him.

Just as Mr. Singer had taught me to be kindly to everyone as a child, so he was teaching me to be an indiscriminate whore.  He would choose the men (and women) that I would pleasure, not I, though my opinion comes into play. Truthfully, I would not have chosen to be with the Colonel if I were given the choice. But I knew that my master would have me do it, and so I did. And all the better; it certainly was a strange and exciting experience, unlike any I’ve had so far!

Goodness, I think I have finally worn myself out. I will pick this up tomorrow; undoubtedly, Mr. Singer will have a long rest, so I will rise before he and give a more detailed description of my encounter with the Colonel in the morning. Goodnight!

19 July, 18—

Well, I have been more distracted these past few days than I had anticipated. But it has been so wonderful. Mr. Singer and I have seen so many exciting things together, like the beautiful Lalbagh Botanical Gardens, the lovely sultan’s palace, several Buddhist temples, and the Jumma Masji mosque (my personal favorite sight in Bangalore thus far). But I will not write at length of those; I do not believe that my words are adequate to describe the beauty and wonder of these places. I have never seen anything like it; everything in India makes Western Culture seem so bland, and dark, and grey.

Though the weather has been grey since our arrival, it is sunny today. But we are on a train again; we are leaving Bangalore and heading west, to Mumbai. It will be nearly two days on board the train again, but I finally have time to think again. Mr. Singer has left me alone in our private compartment; he is buying a drink for another Western traveler, a single woman whom he hopes to coax back to play with us. I am leaving him to it, as he instructed, and having a little time alone. I do not doubt his ability to seduce her, so I will get down to it.

When the Colonel returned to the room with my glass of water, he handed it to me and I thanked him sweetly. He raised his scotch in a toast. “To Avery Singer III, his fine son, and the young man’s lovely bride-to-be,” the Colonel declared, and we drank to that.

Mr. Singer and the Colonel spoke on for a time about the late man, and I listened politely, having no need to interject. I am usually the center of conversation (I do not plan it out this way; it is just so), so I actually find it nice to be able to just listen to the conversation, instead of having to move it along.

Inevitably, the conversation came to sex. How does my Mr. Singer do that, I wonder? Such subjects are so taboo, and yet people are so open with him. Perhaps he has an effect on people, the way that he does on me. I find him irresistible; it would be no wonder if it were the same for others.

The Colonel said, with another hearty laugh, “Your father and I enjoyed some wild times together, my boy! There are so many lovely young women in this city, and I daresay I have had my share of them.” He suddenly gave me a startled look. “I beg your pardon, my lady!” He declared this as though he only realized I were in his presence. Perhaps, if I were not accustomed to such talk, I would have gasped aloud to alert him of the presence of dainty ears.

I smiled. “Not at all, Colonel.”

“Lady Emily is not exactly an innocent little thing,” Mr. Singer explained. He turned to me briefly, giving me a wink. At that moment, the heavens opened up and the rain began to pour. It had been still only seconds before; now, the rain pounded against the enormous windows of the Colonel’s airy house.

“Well,” the Colonel said, his face deeply red (either from embarrassment or from drink, it was difficult to tell), “this ought to pass quickly. We won’t be able to be off to the graveyard ‘til then.”

Mr. Singer polished off his scotch before saying, “Why don’t we pour another drink and have a little fun, Colonel. You have shown us so much hospitality, and I’d like to repay you by helping you relive some of the good old days with my father. Would you like to play around with my young lady?”

The Colonel looked surprised for a moment, then thoughtful. He silently took Mr. Singer’s glass, and filled it, and his own. In fact, he drank back his entire glass and poured himself a third before bringing Mr. Singer his drink. But when he finally spoke, it was directed to me.

“May I show you something upstairs, my lady?” His face was so serious; prior to that moment, I had been uncertain if such a good-humored, flamboyant old man could ever be so serious.

I waited for Mr. Singer to respond for me, but he did not. I said, “I will…but Mr. Singer must come along as well. He always accompanies me.”

“Come along,” the Colonel said, offering me his arm. I looked at Mr. Singer briefly, and he nodded his approval and stood up. He walked behind us as the Colonel and I walked arm-in-arm to his bedroom upstairs. Unlike the rest of the house (decorated in animal heads from many a hunting expedition), it was plainly furnished, with a large bed. The Colonel released my arm, put down his drink, and went to his closet.

I was not too surprised when the Colonel brought out a riding crop. I wanted to laugh; goodness, Mr. Singer knew a lot of people who kept implements of torment in their bedrooms! But I was surprised with what he said next. “Would you use this on me, my lady?”

I was shocked. Such a big, strong man wanted to be dominated? By a little tiny girl? I even asked, “You want me to punish you?”

The Colonel nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, my lady. I have been a bad, dirty old man. You can give me what I need.”

I looked at Mr. Singer again. Would he approve of my doing this? I will admit, the thought excited me, but I had come to terms with the fact that Mr. Singer would never allow me to have control of him. Would he allow me to do this to others?

When he nodded, I couldn’t help smiling. He stood back and leaned against the closed door, casually watching as I took the riding crop from the Colonel’s hand. “Strip, old man,” I snarled, surprising myself with my viciousness.

Mr. Singer came up behind me, holding two neckties that he’d taken from the Colonel’s drawer. “Here, Lady Emily. Tie his wrists to the bedposts with these. Nice and tight, now.” I turned to him, and Mr. Singer grabbed me and kissed me. “When you’re done tying him up, strip for me, my dear.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I turned my attention back to the Colonel. “Turn around and face your bed,” I told him. “Put your hands up on the bedposts…higher!” I lashed his wrists to the posts, slowly tying knots that I’d noticed Mr. Singer using on me. When the Colonel struggled, he was unable to loosen them, strong as he was.

I stood back a moment and examined the old man. He had a hairy back, covered in moles and sunspots. His ass and thighs were wrinkly and saggy. But I had caught a glimpse of his hard cock, and he was enormous. Bigger than Mr. Singer, even!

On my master’s instructions, I stripped naked. I still wore the nipple clips gifted to me by Mrs. Morrison. The sharp edges dug into my nipples painfully; I was aroused at the sight of this sagging old man! I slapped the riding crop against my open palm. “Old man,” I said, “perhaps if you are very good, I’ll let you take me in my ass. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, dirty old man?”

“Oh, yes, my lady,” he said breathlessly, and I snapped the riding crop against his sagging ass. He let out a howl of pain (almost exaggerated), and just as I was thinking of gagging him, Mr. Singer came behind me and handed me another tie, this one waded up.

“Go ahead, Lady Emily,” he prompted me, and I went to face the Colonel, jumping up onto the bed to shove the tie into his waiting mouth.

“You’re going to take your punishment,” I snarled, grabbing his cock roughly. He moaned into his gag, and I looked over his shoulder at Mr. Singer. He was grinning at me.

“Lady Emily, I daresay that you are quite mean,” he said, looking most pleased. I will confess that most of the pleasure in abusing that old man came from knowing that I was impressing my master. I wanted him to be proud of me.

I delivered twenty or so stinging blows to the old man’s back. The riding crop left ugly cuts and bruises on his already rough skin. I would have perhaps beaten him longer, relishing his muffled cries, if Mr. Singer had not gently taken the crop from my hand.

“My lady,” he said, “do you think that your old man has earned his reward?”

I jumped up onto the bed again, removing the makeshift gag from the Colonel’s mouth. “Dirty old man,” I said, “would you still like to have me in my ass?”

“Yes, my lady,” the Colonel declared. It was so strange and exciting to see a big, strong man whimpering and begging in his restraints. “Please, my lady, let me have you. This dirty old man needs you.”

“Very well,” I said, “so you shall.” I untied his wrists, and got down on my hands and knees on the bed. The Colonel positioned himself behind me, standing at the foot of the bed, his huge cock (already sufficiently soaked in his own pre-cum) just touching my asshole. At that moment, I had a sudden realization; I had offered my ass to a man with an enormous cock! I’d never taken anything bigger than Mr. Singer, and though he was quite huge himself, the Colonel had him beaten by a large margin. But there was no backing out, now.

I bit back a scream as the old man entered me. I couldn’t stop myself from letting out ragged grunts as he grabbed my hips and pounded into me. As my ass burned in pain, I feared that I would lose consciousness; my vision was beginning to blur, and I saw black spots with each vicious stab of his cock.

Thankfully, so turned on was the Colonel by the beating I’d administered that he came with relative haste. When he finally released from me, I collapsed onto the bed, my chest heaving as I lay on my stomach, my face buried in the Colonel’s thick feathery pillows. I heard Mr. Singer and the Colonel talk briefly, but I did not hear what they said. Someone left the room.

I felt a gentle hand on my ass, and knew it to be the touch of my master. I forced myself, with great difficult due to the burning of my ass, to roll over onto my back and look up at him. “Good job, my dear,” he praised me, stroking my nipple. “This day is going to be as special for the Colonel as it is for us. I think you’ve given the old man pleasure that he hasn’t known in years. He’ll never forget it, I’m certain.”

“Where did he go, sir?”

“I asked him to go and retrieve his boy from the gate,” Mr. Singer said. “I saw him looking at you as we came up the drive. Since it’s still pouring rain, I thought we’d invite him to play along with us. Think you could take a little boy in your ass after having the Colonel?”

I was tempted to cry out, absolutely not! But of course, I didn’t. I even managed to convince myself that it wouldn’t be that bad as I said, “All right, sir.”

“It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had a man suck my cock,” Mr. Singer said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’ll allow the Colonel to have a go at it…he confessed that he used to suck my father’s cock on occasion as well.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Singer said. Looking thoughtful again, he said, “I guess he is to me what Mrs. Morrison is to you.”

“Yes,” I agreed, sitting up a little. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Except,” Mr. Singer added, “that I would certainly not allow her access to that cunt of yours.” He reached down and touched me briefly. I was dripping wet, with my own juices and the Colonel’s cum as it leaked from my ass.

Mr. Singer stopped touching me as the Colonel entered with his boy. The young man, perhaps my age or only a year older, was tall but gangly. His face was not unpleasant, but his long nose was crocked, as though he’d been in (and lost) his share of fistfights. His blond hair was a wet mess on top of his head. He smiled uncertainly, looking me over as I sat up.

“My little whore loves to play,” Mr. Singer said, running a gentle hand through my hair. “I’m sure you’d like to play with her, wouldn’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said.

“What is your name, boy?” Mr. Singer asked.

“William Mosley, sir,” the boy responded, not taking his eyes off of me. I stretched luxuriously, allowing him a generous view of my pert (but small, too small for Mr. Singer’s taste, I fear) breasts. I noted the generous bulge in his trousers; he was not such a little boy, after all.

“Billy,” Mr. Singer said, “why don’t you come over here and spend a little time with my whore? Lady Emily would love to make your acquaintance.”

Young Billy approached me slowly, his clumsy, large hand absently rubbing his crotch as he advanced. Mr. Singer and the Colonel watched for a time as I beckoned the boy to me. “Come here, young man,” I said, cocking my finger. When he stood beside the bed, I got up on my knees and wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him deeply.

The clumsy boy was as inexperienced as I had anticipated, but I kissed him slowly, enjoying the way that his hands trembled as he carefully touched my waist. I touched his face and smiled at him. “Want to fuck me, Billy?” I asked softly.

He stammered unintelligibly, and I put two gentle fingers to his lips, laughing softly at him. He reminded me of myself, just a few months ago, when I was so innocent. I thought I knew the ways of love and sex, but having experienced it (time and again) these past few months, I know how ignorant I really was. I would gently indoctrinate this young man.

“You can fuck me in my ass, Billy,” I said sweetly. “Would you like that?”

“Y-yes, my l-l-lady,” he stammered uneasily. I pulled down his trousers and grabbed his cock (fair-sized; it certainly would add to my discomfort) in my hand and gave it a gentle tug.

“Big boy,” I whispered. I unbuttoned the jacket of his uniform, and he grabbed the bottom and tore it quickly off of his arms, tossing it aside. He seemed to realize what he was being offered, and he was eager to begin. I allowed him to prepare himself as I got down on all four again. I briefly spotted Mr. Singer and the Colonel; my master had, indeed, decided to take fallacio from the old man, and when he saw me glancing over at him, he grinned and threw me a wink.

I assumed the position, and the boy got behind me. “Take your time, Billy,” I said, sensing his hesitation. “I’m ready for you when you are.”

He put his hands uneasily on my hips. I pushed back against him, encouraging him as I felt his cock tentatively entering my asshole. “Oh, God, Billy,” I moaned, “You are so huge. Fuck me hard, Billy!” I had forgotten my pain, so excited was I to claim the innocence of this young boy.

He thrust into me easily, going too slowly. “Oh, come, Billy, harder!” I encouraged him.

“I’m…I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” he confessed, continuing to thrust slowly, carefully.

I had to laugh. I had taken bigger than him in my ass…just minutes before! “Don’t worry, Billy, you’d never hurt me,” I cooed, and he began to get into it.

He did not last long…of course not, young boy that he was. I felt him come, and I said, “Billy, will you clean my asshole, please?”

“Of course, my lady, I’ll fetch a towel…”

“No, no, silly boy,” I said, pushing my ass towards him again. “With your tongue. It will make me feel so good. Please?”

“Yes, my lady.” The boy complied, putting his tongue to my asshole and lapping up the cum (now his, and the Colonel’s from before) with gentle laps, like a small dog. I giggled as he finished cleaning me, and I turned over again, leaning back and looking up at him with hooded eyes.

“Oh, that was so nice, Billy,” I said, smiling at the still-shocked look on his face. “Come here and give me a little kiss.”

He gave me a crooked grin, and fell upon me, kissing me a bit more roughly than before, his hands feeling the roundness of my small breasts, toying with the clips. As his hands snaked down my stomach, I said, “No, no, Billy. You can’t touch me there.”

He immediately put up his hands. “I’m sorry, my lady.” But I smiled at him and pulled him back down on me, kissing him deeply. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, the boy was gone. Then, I was being kissed again, this time by my Mr. Singer. I opened my eyes and smiled at him.

“Well, my lady,” he said, “we can be off now. Ready?”

I nodded, and he helped me to sit up. The boy was already gone from the room as I dressed hastily, ducking into the lavatory to check my hair. It amazed me how quickly we went from being in the throws of passion to being on our way. The Colonel, blushing still from the treatment, brought me the bouquet of flowers. “My carriage is waiting. It will take us to the gravesite, and I will direct you to the grave before I depart.”

“You will not join us?” I asked, and I had to admit, I was disappointed.

Mr. Singer smiled. “I think we’ll make this little visit on our own.” I nodded; he always knows what is best, and besides, it was his father’s grave.

The Colonel’s closed carriage took us to a crowded Christina graveyard, well landscaped. Most of the plots in the front were covered in bouquets of fresh flowers. “If my memory serves me, your father’s grave is under a large tree in the left corner,” the Colonel said, pointing toward the back of the cemetery.

The Colonel and Mr. Singer shook hands, and I said goodbye before Mr. Singer handed me down from the carriage. We watched them leave before Mr. Singer took me by the hand. “Thank you, Emily,” he said. “You have made me feel much better this morning. I’m very glad that you’re here with me.”

Silent and sober, we made our way as directed, and found the grave with much more ease than we had anticipated. Mr. Avery Singer III’s grave was simple, merely stating his name and the years of his life. But it was well-kept. I laid the flowers down on the grass before it as Mr. Singer stood in silence.

I said a quiet prayer for the soul of Mr. Singer’s father, but moreso for my master himself. He put an arm around me, and we stood that way for some time, not speaking. After a time, Mr. Singer said, “All right. I am through here.”

I was surprised, for I had expected Mr. Singer to give some sort of eulogy, or to make some sort of speech, about his late father. But it seemed that, between talking to me at dawn and the Colonel late in the morning, he had exhausted himself on the subject of his father. So I said nothing as we left the cemetery with relative haste, and when we were back on the streets again, Mr. Singer seemed to be in a much brighter mood. And this bright mood remained all through the day, as we toured the city, returning to our lodgings to dress for dinner with the Colonel. That evening was quite eventful (though the boy did not join us, much to my disappointment).

But it seems I have run out of time. The corridor of the train has been relatively quite outside my door for some time. But I can hear footsteps approaching, and perhaps the sound of a young woman giggling. My Mr. Singer was successful in acquiring the company of the woman he’d spotted in the dining car, then; I will have this pick this up another time.

4 August, 18—

I do not have much time to write, but I want to record this and remember it for all of my life. This evening, I married the only man whom I have ever loved, a man who has cared for me all of my life and would do anything to make me happy. And I am so happy. If my dear and loving husband reads this entry: I love you. I am yours for life.

7 August, 18—

I wish to record as many details of my wedding as I can remember, though my mind is muddled with the events leading to it, surround it, and following it. Goodness! I feel as though I’ve lived an entire life these past few days. But make no mistake: I am still as happy as I was when I wrote my last gushing entry.

After several days in Mumbai (where my master and I visited more Buddhist temples, the shrines of Elephanta Island, St. Thomas’s, and the High Court; we also viewed the glorious sunset off of the harbor, so indescribably beautiful it was! We also bedded two gorgeous Indian women whom I had seduced at a club near the harbor), we caught the train to Calcutta and were greeted, yet again, by Mr. Morrison and his carriage. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the rump. After he and Mr. Singer shook hands, we headed back to their now-familiar house.

Mrs. Morrison greeted me warmly, embracing me and kissing me on the cheek. “My dear, I have scheduled for a dressmaker to come and see us this afternoon. Have you been considering any designs for your dress?”

Mrs. Morrison had sent me away with several wedding dress design books, and I had looked through them dutifully to find my perfect wedding gown, promising to run my top choices past her. When I answered in the affirmative, she whisked me away to the parlor to comb over my choices.

I showed Mrs. Morrison my favorite cut, a long-sleeved gown with a sheer neckline that would be demure enough for a church ceremony, but chic enough to satisfy my tastes. Mrs. Morrison concurred that I had chosen well, and prior to the dressmaker’s arrival, she had a large lunch served to us right there in the parlor. “You’ll be wearing your dress at your wedding feast, so you’ll want to get a true size. Eat up, my dear,” Mrs. Morrison instructed, and I did so, hungry as I was from the train, and glad when Mrs. Morrison had English-style sandwiches served.

I was afraid that Mrs. Morrison would again declare her love for me, but all went smoothly until after the day of the wedding. The wedding was so lovely, a simple little affair, really. Mr. and Mrs. Morrison invited friends of theirs to attend, so the church was moderately filled with almost perfect strangers. Still, as I stood with Mr. Morrison at the alter, and looked into his loving eyes, I saw no one but him.

The ceremony itself, I can hardly recall. There were lilies at the front of the church, and candles lit throughout. The setting sun shown through the stain-glass windows, and the colored light was dancing on the opposite walls of the church. The vicar was a small British man, and his performance of the ceremony was not spectacular. But it did not matter. The moment that I remember most is when, after we were declared man and wife, Mr. Singer threw up my veil and kissed me deeply, much moreso than would typically be appropriate in a church.

Though I flushed, I was pleased as Mr. Singer and I departed from the church together. We took a private (and fortunately, closed) carriage back to the Morrisons’; but first, Mr. Singer instructed the driver to circle about the city, so that we could consummate our marriage right away. Mr. Singer pushed me against the side of the carriage, pulling down the shades to ensure our privacy.

“Well, my wife,” he said, wearing his wicked grin, “there is no backing out now. You are mine, forever.”

“As it should be,” I responded, and this pleased him. He kissed me roughly, pulling the long skirt of my wedding gown up. He battled with the petticoats and garters, but finally had sufficient access to my cunt. I was buried in a sea of white silk as my husband fucked me, forcing my thighs apart as he had his way with me. I was trapped beneath the dress, so it was up to my master to do the work. But he did not fail in pleasing me…I don’t think he ever could.

We finally arrived back at the Morrisons, and they were waiting with our guests and our feast. We ate and drank and laughed for hours. When the four of us were all alone again, I wondered if Mr. Singer would want us all to play together again. But no; he took me by the hand and said, “Come, my bride. Tonight is our night.”

And oh, it was our night!

Mr. Singer surprised me the next day with some news. “Our ship will be departing on Friday,” he said, as he lay beside me in bed.

“Yes, sir,” I said. I already knew this bit of information.

“We won’t be going right home,” Mr. Singer said, and that was the surprise.

“We’re not?”

Mr. Singer shook his head. “No, my dear. We’re going to take our honeymoon first.”

“This trip to India was not our honeymoon?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Singer said. “We’ve only just married, and our trip is about to end. No, Emily, I want to take you someplace very special. Would you like to spend a month in Greece?”

“Oh, yes!” I cried. “Sir, that would be wonderful.” Mr. Singer knew of my life-long interest in ancient Greek culture. He had fed me books on the subject of their mythology, their philosophers, their city-states and wars, and I was fascinated. Finally, I would get to see some of the places that I’d read about in the books. And I’d always imagined Greece to be so beautiful, especially after my good friend Miss Tatiana Howard (whose mother is half-Greek half-Russian) visited family there years ago and bragged all about it in my presence!

Oh! I shall write to my friend now. I am bursting to tell someone everything that has happened. I shall censor much of it for now, of course, but if I can trust anyone with the information, it is my good friend. And, she will have the benefit of learning the identity of my mysterious new husband before any of our other friends, and would so relish to be able to spread it all around, as I will give her leave to do that much.

One thing does weigh heavily on my mind now, and it is Mrs. Morrison. Since the wedding, she has been quiet, almost sullen, not at all her cheerful, chatty self. But I am determined not to take it to heart; I will focus on my happiness, at the beginning of what will (God willing) be a long and happy marriage.

Mr. Singer

During the first few months of marriage to my Lady Emily, I was happier than I ever thought I could be. She was sweeter than ever, and so willing and obedient. Any time I wanted her, she was ready and waiting for me. It was so tempting to push her boundaries everyday, but I knew that some days I had to be easy on her. But she never refused my requests; she performed well beyond my expectations of her, and I was quite proud.

Our honeymoon in Greece, in my memory, is a blur of sandy beaches, sights, and unbelievable sex. We met another honeymooning couple, from Holland, while we were staying in Crete. Lady Emily speaks a little Dutch, which they found charming, though they spoke English well enough. I do not remember their names, and we did not keep up correspondence with them, but it does not matter. That young married couple, both tall and lean and blonde, drank with us during and after dinner one warm evening, and we all went back to our honeymoon suite together. As Emily and the young woman took off their clothes and began kissing heavily, I turned to the young man and threw him a wink. He looked uncertain, but his cock certainly wasn’t; he had a generous bulge in his pants.

“What do you say?” I asked the young man. “Want to watch my wife pleasure your wife?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Emily eyeing me expectantly.

The young man was enthusiastically agreeable, and we watched Emily lay the other young bride down on the bed. “Just relax,” Emily said softly. “Has your husband given you an orgasm yet?” When the woman responded that she did not know, Emily smiled. “Then he has not; I may be able to show him a trick or two.” She turned and looked at us over her shoulder. She beckoned to the young groom. “Come and see,” she said invitingly.

We both stepped forward and watched Emily go down on the other woman. “Oh, your pussy has no hair on it!” Emily observed with a giggle. “So soft…” I grabbed my cock as I watched my wife stroke the lips of the bride’s pussy gently. After spending a minute or two fingering the bride (who was already breathing heavily, probably more in anticipation than pain, as her new husband had a generous sized cock himself), Emily put her head between the bride’s legs and lapped at her carefully, aiming at the bride’s clit. She swirled her tongue in slow, teasing circles before plunging it into the bride’s cunt, lapping at the walls of her pussy, pushing her head deeper and deeper into her crotch while prying her legs wider and wider apart.

The bride cried out in surprised pleasure, and I looked at her husband with a grin. “That’s how it’s done,” I said to him, as we watched Emily eat the other woman to an intense climax. As the bride came, Emily opened her mouth wide and covered her pussy with it, so that she took most of the bride’s cum in her mouth, licking her thoroughly to clean what was left.

As the bride recovered from her orgasm, I asked her husband if she had ever gone down on him. He answered that she had not, looking disappointed by this fact, perhaps wishing that his young bride were a whore like mine. “We can teach her,” I said. “My wife is quite an expert cocksucker, aren’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She had been wiping the cum from her face with a towel. She stood up and gave the groom a sweet smile. She brightened suddenly. “Oh, sir, I have an idea! I can show her how to suck cock by showing her on you, and she can copy what I’m doing on her husband.”

“Marvelous,” I said. I nodded to the groom, and we stood side by side, pulling down our trousers to reveal our hard cocks. I examined his, of course. Most men are not comfortable with this, but everyone looks; some people are just sneakier about it. I was pleased to see that while he had a generous-sized cock, perhaps good enough for his little wife, I was certainly the larger. I do not like that I need this reassurance about the size of my cock; the satisfied smile on my wife’s face every time I fucked her should have been enough.

Emily took the bride by the hand and led her to us, not hesitating to get down on her knees before me. The bride did hesitate, and Emily turned to look back at her. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

The bride frowned. “I don’t want to,” she said. “It…it’s disgusting.”

Emily frowned up at the bride and stood up. “That’s very selfish,” she said. “Your husband just allowed you to get pleasure. Didn’t you like what I did to you?”

The bride blushed. “Yes,” she said slowly.

“And your husband will be willing to do that to you, I’m sure, if you’ll do this for him,” Emily lectured. She gave me a smile. “Trust me, when you get better at it, it feels just as good to give as to receive.”

I reached out and grabbed Emily, pulling her to me and kissing her deeply. I touched her face before putting my hands on her shoulders, half-forcing her to her knees (she was already dropping to her subordinate position), and she took my cock in her mouth, sucking with more enthusiasm than ever. I have noticed that, when other people were around, Emily performed fallacio even better than when we were alone. It wasn’t that she was trying to show off; not exactly. It was more for the fact that having people watch her please me just excited her. If she didn’t get off on it so much, I perhaps would not have allowed so many people to join us in our activities.

I watched the bride hesitantly following suit, taking her husband’s cock in her mouth as she watched Emily out of the corner of her eye. Emily’s focus was on me, as it usually was when she pleasured me. I looked down at her and she was looking up at me, thoroughly enjoying her chore. I threw my head back and moaned as Emily took me as deep as she could; I could feel the tip of my cock lodging deep into her through, my balls against her chin. I put a hand to the back of her head, tempted to begin pumping into her frantically. But I held myself; Emily was teaching her new friend an important lesson.

The young man was groaning aloud as his wife got into her task. I smiled to myself. She had discovered the joy of being a cock-sucking whore, a joy that too few women experience. As the young man’s breathing grew heavier, I knew he would be coming soon. “Have your wife take it down her throat,” I instructed. “Don’t let her pull away; it’s good for her.”

The young man heeded my word, grabbing the back of his wife’s head and forcing himself deep into her as he moaned and came. “Now she is to clean you with her tongue,” I said, and as they finished up, I focused on my own whore, who needed no lessons or instruction anymore.

When Emily squeezed my testicles (the naughty girl had learned my weaknesses), I came. She cleaned me slowly, demonstrating for her student how to carefully lick up every drop of cum. When she was finished, she looked up at me with an expectant smile. I was pleased to see that her student was looking at her husband in the same way.

From Crete, Emily and I went on the Athens, and toured much of the country in that area. By the time we were on the ship, finally headed back to London, Emily looked tired from all of our adventures. “Oh, sir,” she said, on the first day of our voyage back, “I’ll be so glad to be home again.”

“Have you not thoroughly enjoyed yourself on this trip, my dear?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, sir, I certainly have,” she said. “But I miss Wainwright Hall. And I miss my friends. And I cannot wait to show you off to everyone!”

“Silly thing,” I said, “they all know me.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “but they do not know you as Sir Aaron Singer of Wainwright. And,” she added with a giggle, “I can’t wait to see how jealous all your admirers are that you are my husband.”

We made a couple of friends on our trip, two young cousins who were traveling to London to work in the shipping yards. They were traveling in the lower class of the passenger ship, and we might not have met them at all if my sweet Emily had not spotted them whilst taking a solitary walk on the deck. She saw these young men eyeing her, not daring to speak to a fine lady as she. So they had been surprised when she had turned and given them her attentions.

It was Emily’s first time with three men at once, and I surprised my little wife by having all three of us fuck her at once (me taking her cunt, of course; it was, and was meant to always be, mine and mine alone), filling her fuck-holes with our eager sex. I even allowed the young men to take turns taking my wife over their knees and spanking her. This inspired me to try a new, fun punishment for my girl. I pulled my belt from my trousers. She has been beaten with a belt before, but not quite the way I had intended. I sat beside one of the young men on the bed; the other stood by the watched.

“Lady Emily,” I said to my wife, whose ass was already sore from punishment, “lie across this young man’s lap and put your face to my crotch.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, almost cheerfully, doing as she was told. I handed the belt to the young man.

“Whip her ass,” I said. “Stop when I tell you to, or when you see blood. Understand?”

The young man nodded, and delivered the first blow to Emily’s ass. She screamed, and I put my hand on her head, pushing her face against my cock. I felt the vibrations of her screams against my hard member with each fresh scream. The young man showed no mercy on my whore, and as he continued to beat her, I allowed her to put her face up for a quick breath before pulling down my trousers, revealing my hard cock. “Suck, my lady,” I instructed, and she did so. She was unable to stop herself from moaning each time her ass was struck, and would scream with my cock in her mouth. I felt just the slightest brush of her teeth against my sensitive skin, enough to make me groan.

“Stop, stop,” I groaned to the young man, and he did, with some regret on his face, as I came into my wife’s mouth.

We had other times together such as that, which distracted Emily (a little) from her anxiousness to be home again. When we arrived in London, Emily convinced me to get us to the train station right away. We were very fortunate; a train that would be stopping in a village near Wainwright Hall was departing that very hour. We did not secure a first-class compartment, but Emily did not mind. She spent the entire trip looking out of the window, as though she couldn’t quite believe that she’d made it back to England.

I took her hand at one point and whispered in her ear, “It has not changed much since we’ve been away.”

She looked at me and smiled. “No,” she agreed. “But I have.” She squeezed my hand gently, and we sat hand-in-hand for the remainder of the train ride.

When we finally arrived, Emily nearly leapt from the train, so happy was she to see familiar sights again. Right way, she noticed people that she knew at the train station, who were already flocking to her just as I was climbing down from the train to join her. I came and put my arm around her waist, smiling for our acquaintances.

“We want to be the first to congratulate you on your marriage,” Miss Albertson, a wealthy middle-aged spinster known for her loose tongue, gushed to us. “Everyone has been saying what a wonderful match this is indeed.”

“Truly?” Emily said. “I rather thought that people would be surprised.”

“At first, many were,” Miss Albertson’s companion, the widow Garrett, said. “But the general consensus is that you have both married well. A successful, wealthy, charming man and his titled, beautiful, young wife.” She and Miss Albertson both sighed.

Emily seemed much relieved by this news as we made our way to the carriage station. We would have to rent a carriage to take us to Wainwright Hall, as our servants had been expecting us the following day. But before we made it inside, we were accosted by none other than Emily’s friend, Miss Tatiana Howard.

Ah, Miss Howard. My wife had told me many wild stories about that young lady, and I could verify for a fact that many of them were true. Only the fact that her father was very wealthy kept her reputation in tact; were she a common villager with her openly whorish habits, she would be shunned by the community. Not that she cared much for reputation, not like my Emily. I knew that we would not be able to be as open and free as we were on our trip, but perhaps we had at least one willing friend to join our fun…

“Well, well!” the young lady called, “if it isn’t Sir and Lady Singer of Wainwright!” She and my wife embraced warmly before she turned her flirtatious eyes upon me. All of Emily’s young lady friends have been friendly to me, but Miss Howard most of all. “When did these newlyweds get into town?” she asked.

“Just a moment ago,” Emily said. “We will need to rent a carriage to get home now.”

“Nonsense!” Miss Howard declared. “My carriage and driver are waiting for me. I’ve just been to see a friend,” she explained, pointing to what were clearly a bachelor’s quarters above the bakery. “Let me take you home. I’d love to hear all about your trip!”

So we took up Miss Howard’s offer, and we rode the six kilometers to Wainwright Hall together in her carriage. All the way, Emily chattered away happily with her friend, telling her of all of the sights of India and Greece, and telling about the wedding in Calcutta.

“There have been some exciting events here at home as well,” Miss Howard said. “My baby sister is wed!”

“Beatrice?” Emily asked. “To whom?”

“Why, to your old favorite suitor, Mr. Gainsley,” Miss Howard answered. I searched my wife’s face for her reaction; would she be upset? But no; her face even brightened at the news.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” Emily said. “They had courted for so long.”

“Well,” Miss Howard said, “I must be honest and tell you that I don’t like it one bit. And not just for the fact that my father is now asking me when I will finally be wed.”

“What’s the matter?” Emily asked.

“It happened so soon after you left,” Miss Howard explained. “When his sister returned from her trip, word got around that you were betrothed, but had not said to whom, only divulging this information to Mr. Gainsley.” Miss Howard said the last pointed, with a bit of hurt in her voice.

“We wanted to keep it a secret,” I explained. “My wife felt it necessary to tell Mr. Gainsley as a courtesy, so he would not waste time waiting for her hand any longer.”

Miss Howard nodded. “Well, he certainly did not wait any longer…not at all! He asked for my sister’s hand not a day after your departure; I did not even learn of your own engagement until after they’d already wed. I feel like my sister, and I, and our entire family, have been tricked.”

“Well,” Emily observed, “it’s not like there’s anything to be done for it now. I have seen the two of them together; he dotes on her. I’m sure it will all be well.”

But Miss Howard shook her head, her agitation deepening. “He is much changed since they have wed. I see the way that your husband looks on you with adoring eyes, Lady Emily, and it is not the same for them. No; he is rather rude to her. My fine baby sister does not deserve that treatment!”

Emily did not know what to say to that, nor did I. Emily would confess to me later that she was gladder than ever that she had not married Mr. Gainsley, if he would have been a negligent husband to her. I did not realize, at that time, that this would only be the start of a different kind of drama, but it would not come to its frightening conclusion for several more years. I only felt contempt in my heart for Mr. Gainsley; I knew that Mrs. Gainsley was as lovely as her elder sister, and her cad of a husband did not treasure her as he should have.

We invited Miss Howard for dinner, but she declined. “We are hosting a visiting cousin, and I am expected home to sup with them,” she said. “Oh! But I shall inform my parents of your arrival back in town. I’m sure that they will be eager to be the first to host the newlyweds.” In fact, when she sent her driver back with the message of our arrival, she received word back that we were absolutely to come to dinner that evening, and no excuse would be accepted for our absence.

I nearly declined, concerned as I was for my dear wife, but her energy seemed renewed. “May we go?” she asked softly. I answered in the affirmative, and we set out in our own carriage to the Howard family home. We had been there many times before, as guests for dinner or parties, but never as man and wife. We were making our debut into society so soon, and as we rode along (Miss Howard ahead of us, in her own carriage), my wife confessed her anxiety to me.

“Not to worry, my dear,” I said. “If those old biddies at the station could receive us so warmly, I’ve no doubt that our friends will be most welcoming.” She nodded and was silent for the remainder of the trip, but the worried expression remained on her face.

We arrived at the Howard estate, and I helped my wife down from our carriage. Miss Howard led the way into the house, and when we entered, we found a group of our old friends waiting for us in anticipation. Mr. and Mrs. Howard were close acquaintances of mine, especially since I had assisted Mr. Howard in some legal trouble years back. They smiled and greeted us. Mrs. Howard kissed Lady Emily’s cheek while Mr. Howard shook my hand.

“A good match, indeed,” Mrs. Howard said, echoing the sentiments of the ladies at the station. To Emily, she added, “You’ll never have any doubt that he can properly take care of you.”

“Well said,” Lady Emily replied.

“Lady Emily, Sir Aaron, you must remember my eldest nephew, Mr. Patrick Culver,” Mrs. Howard said, presenting the handsome, dark-haired young man. I did not remember him at all.

Emily, who always had very good memory for faces and names, said, “Yes, of course. We met here at the Christmas party last year. It is a pleasure to see you again,” she said, presenting her hand. I knew that she found him attractive, but I fought the urge to encourage a flirtation. We had to tread lightly, for the sake of our reputation.

The final members of the part were Mr. and Mrs. Gainsley themselves. Mr. Gainsley greeted my Emily with more warmth than I found to be appropriate, but I said nothing. Emily smiled, and allowed him to kiss her hand, but I could sense her discomfort. I stood close to her as I shook the man’s hand. He nodded to me coldly after speaking his congratulations; he had not forgotten that on our last meeting, I had threatened to shoot him.

Mrs. Gainsley greeted Lady Emily last of all. “It is so good to see you again,” the young newlywed said softly. I did remember the younger Howard sister being the quieter one, but she did seem sad. It was obvious to all in attendance, and I felt discomfort in the air, intensified with Mr. Gainsley’s attentions to my wife as he ignored his own.

Lady Emily remained cheerful in her greeting. “Mrs. Gainsley, I’m so thrilled for you. Congratulations, to the both of you,” she said.

We were led into the parlor for drinks. Hanging back, my wife put a hand on my shoulder to gain my attention. In my ear she whispered, “Do not leave me alone. I am afraid that Mr. Gainsley may wish to confront me.”

I nodded. “You just stay right by my side, my dear. I’ll protect you.”

She smiled a bit more easily. “Thank you, sir.”

It did seem that Mr. Gainsley was eager for my wife’s attentions, but as I remained at her side, he kept his distance, instead sitting on the other side of the room while Emily regaled the entire party with her stories of our travels. She chose the most charming, parlor-appropriate anecdotes, telling of the time we were lost in Mumbai on the way back to our hotel, how there were no carriage drivers in sight, and how no one on the street seemed to know a word of English. “Strangely,” she said in comical thoughtfulness, “some of them had no problem hurling insults at our backs in English as we hurried off to find someone more helpful.”

The evening continued without issue, and we enjoyed a pleasant meal among friends. Mr. Howard got me up-to-date on some business dealings in town that occurred during my absence, alerting me to a couple of possible clients. Things would be getting back to normal; I would go back to work, and Emily would continue to study and socialize (though without the courting, of course). We had been happy before. But, I reminded myself with a smile, things would be all the sweeter, now that we were truly together.

We begged off after dinner, and made our way home again. Emily seemed anxious again. “What troubles you now, my lady?” I asked patiently.

She shook her head. “That poor, dear girl,” she said. “I don’t believe that her husband looked at her once the entire time we were there. And when we were having a conversation, the three of us and Miss Howard, Mr. Gainsley made the most rude comment about a question that his wife asked of me. He called her ignorant. Right there, at the table. I never knew the man to be such a bully.”

“My dear,” I said, “I know that you do not wish to see your friend in such a position. But it is not your place to worry so. Mrs. Gainsley chose to marry him; she is the one who must deal with the consequences.”

“But if he showed her a false face whilst courting her,” she argued, “then it is not her fault.”

“Regardless,” I said, “it is still not your concern. Besides, Emily, you do not know what two people are like behind closed doors. He may be very sweet and kind to her when they are alone…you don’t really have a way of knowing this, do you?”

“No, sir,” my wife admitted.

“Consider ourselves as an example,” I continued (though I’d already won the argument). “You and I have a certain image that we wish to maintain in front of our friends here. Do you think that any of them would suspect, would even begin to dream, of our private activities? Of the things that we did on our little trip?”

Emily giggled this time, coming back to herself. “No, sir,” she repeated.

I put my arm around her and kissed her softly. “Emily,” I said, “I want to tie you up when we get home. I’m going to tie you to the bed and fuck you until you’re numb. Is that agreeable to you, my dear?”

She giggled again. “Yes, sir.”

A couple of months after our return to Wainwright Hall, I asked my wife at breakfast one morning, “My dear, when are you going to invite Miss Howard to play with us?”

Emily gave me a look of surprise. “You desire her, sir?”

“Not quite,” I said. “I desire to watch you with her. Do not tell me that the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”

“Yes, sir,” she admitted. “I’ve been mulling it over, sir. I just…I just do not know how to go about it.”

“Miss Howard is a straight-forward young woman,” I said. “I’m sure that if you just came out with it, she would be most willing.”

My wife nodded with resolve. “All right,” she said. “I’m going to be meeting her for our ride later in the morning. I shall discuss the matter with her then.”

I rose from my chair to go to my office for a few hours of work. I kissed my wife softly before departing. “Express to her that we are both most eager to have her company. Encourage her to come right away; I will be in my office.”

I certainly was not bored with my wife, but I had been noticing, when we were in the company of Miss Howard, that she would sometimes have a look of longing in her eyes. She wanted her friend; I wanted her to have her friend. I will not deny that I found Miss Howard to be a very sexy young woman. She had a full chest, almost the largest I’d ever seen on a girl with such a trim waist. She did not have my beloved’s full hips, and stood almost a head taller than she.

I never loved Miss Howard, but I did want to fuck her. I longed to shove my cock between her tits and cover her chest and face in my cum. A wild whore like her deserved such treatment. I wondered if she would take to be slapped around a bit.

Needless to say, I did not get much work completed in my office that morning, as I fantasized and waited for the girls to arrive. They did not keep me waiting for long; Emily’s familiar soft knocking stirred me from my thoughts at half-past ten, and I called them in.

My wife and Miss Howard entered the room. Emily looked a little flustered; Miss Howard looked excited. Neither said a thing as they approached my desk. I did not stand to greet them; I merely sat back and gave them a smile. “Good morning, ladies,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Sir Aaron, your wife has just informed me of your…invitation,” Miss Howard said. She narrowed her eyes and moistened her lips carefully. She knew exactly what she was doing, the little slut. “I am so honored…I only wish that the offer had been extended sooner.”

“My lady,” I said to my wife, “Would you mind going down to the kitchen and requesting tea?”

“Of course, sir,” Emily said, leaving the office briefly and closing the door behind her, leaving Miss Howard and I alone. I beckoned to the young lady, and she came and took a seat across from me at my desk, gazing at me steadily.

“Miss Howard,” I said, “what do you think of my wife?”

“Oh, Lady Emily is my very best friend,” Miss Howard said sincerely. “She is the kindest person that I know.”

“All true,” I agreed. “Do you find her attractive?”

Miss Howard blushed, her gaze shifting momentarily. “She is beautiful. I have always envied her little figure and her complexion.”

“Miss Howard,” I said, “has my wife explained to you how I have helped her to become a whore?”

Miss Howard brightened. “Oh, yes,” she said, laughing a little. Not a dainty giggle, like my Emily, but a hearty laugh. “I never would have thought! Sweet Lady Emily…but she was never scandalized by my stories. She is one of the few people that I trust.”

“And she trusts you,” I said softly. “I raised her to be proud, and she has enjoyed a spotless reputation in our community. She wishes to keep it so; I believe that to be the cause of her hesitation in inviting you to join us. So before I allow you to do so, would you swear to me that you will keep the activities performed and discussed in Wainwright Hall to yourself?”

Miss Howard looked a little startled by my serious tone, but she suddenly laughed again. “Of course,” she said. “I can be discreet when I wish to be.”

“You are not so discreet in many of your personal activities,” I noted, perhaps harshly. But she took it in stride.

“I choose to take the company of men who sometimes have loose lips,” she said. She shrugged carelessly. “It does me no good to practice discretion in some situations, when the truth will be known, anyway. I may not care for my reputation as my good friend does, but I understand her, Sir Aaron. Her secrets, as well as yours, are safe in my care.”

I had to smile. I could not wonder, then, why Miss Howard and my sweet Emily had been such close friends all of these years. “Very well,” I said, just as Emily came back into the room.

“Tea will be along, presently,” she said, perching herself on the arm of her friend’s chair.

“Well, my dear,” I said, “Miss Howard and I were having a nice little chat about some of the things that we may wish to do to you.”

“Have you?” Emily asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Miss Howard, why don’t you tell my wife what you have in mind for her?”

Miss Howard seemed to glow as she stroked Emily’s arm. “I’d like to tie her to a chair, and put her feet up over her head, so that I might lick her asshole thoroughly.”

We waited until the tea had been brought in before preparing Emily. She threw off her riding dress without hesitation. Miss Howard, still clothed, stepped forward and ran a gentle finger down her friend’s side as she leaned in and kissed her softly. I sat down on the couch and watched them for a couple of minutes as they made out in front of me. Then, Miss Howard took Emily by the hand and led her to one of the armchairs. Emily sat down and waited.

“Sir Aaron, do you have anything handy with which I might tie your wife up?” Miss Howard asked.

I stood. “I always have something handy,” I said, and went to the closet to get some soft rope. When I came back to the girls, Miss Howard was toying with Lady Emily’s nipple clips.

“These are even bigger than the ones I wear!” she remarked. I handed Miss Howard the rope and stood by to watch her tie up my wife. She tied my wife’s torso to the back of the armchair, with a length of rope above and directly below her chest, leaving her breasts beautifully exposed. My Emily smiled up at me, and I returned her look.

I helped Miss Howard to position Emily’s arms and legs. Emily put her arms straight up in the air, and with only a little difficulty, Miss Howard helped her to raise her legs up, so that her ankles were tied to her wrists. I stood behind the chair and put my hands around her bound wrist and ankles, helping her to hold them up with a bit more ease as Miss Howard went down on her.

Miss Howard wasted no time as she knelt in front of my wife, stabbing her tongue into her asshole. Emily gasped and squirmed, and as she began to pant heavily, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and shoved it into her mouth. We did not want to risk the housekeeper hearing us (though I knew, at that point, that our servants had to at least suspect our activities), but mostly, Emily’s muffled cries seemed to urge Miss Howard on and on as she continued to lick my wife’s ass crack, frequently wriggling her tongue back inside of her.

I snaked one hand down Emily’s thigh, and, leaning over the back of the chair, rubbed her clit roughly as her friend tongue-fucked her ass. Emily shuddered from the sensations, and from the strain of holding her arms and legs up so high, even with the help that I gave her. I slipped two fingers into her, and I watched the rhythm of Miss Howard’s tongue-thrusts, so that I could keep the same as I played with her cunt. As Miss Howard shoved her tongue in one last time, I did the same with three fingers; Emily screamed into her makeshift gag and came, just as Miss Howard pulled her tongue from her ass. Emily let out a small, almost dainty fart into her friend’s face, and as Emily moaned in embarrassment, I had to laugh.

I untied her wrists from her ankles and allowed her to relax…for the time being. Still restrained to the chair, but with her arms and legs free for movement, she wrapped her arms around Miss Howard as her friend climbed onto her lap. As they made out again, Miss Howard began to tear off her own dress. I helped her with the buttons in the back, and when she was naked, I stroked her back with my fingers.

Miss Howard’s complexion was a bit darker than most ladies in the area. Her skin was soft and well cared for, like my Emily’s, and I leaned in and kissed the back of her neck while the girls pressed their clipped tits together. I reached around and grabbed Miss Howard’s huge tits in my hands, groping and squeezing as I leaned over her shoulder and kissed my wife.

My wish to fuck Miss Howard’s tits came true as I pulled her down to the floor. I kept my suit on, only pulling down my pants as I straddled her waist and shoved my hard cock between her tits. I took her hands and put them to the sides of her breasts. “Squeeze them together,” I instructed, and grinning, the whore did so. I smashed into her tits, and with each thrust, she would squeeze them around my cock. Miss Howard started saying dirty things to me, but I didn’t find myself getting turned on by them as I did when my Emily is naughty. So I slapped a hand over her mouth and fucked her harder, relishing her muffled cries.

I turned to look up at my wife, who was fingering herself and watching us with great interest. “You need it, my dear?” I asked between ragged grunts.

“Oh, yes, sir,” she moaned, and I stood quickly from Miss Howard, forgetting her as I leaned into my wife. She wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck as I fucked her. She moaned in my ear, whispering, “Oh, sir, fuck me harder. Yes…thank you, sir, oh, fuck me.”

I was sweating, my eyes nearly bulging from my head with each hard, almost painful thrust. My wife screamed as she came, again, and I came heavily into her, filling her. I would give my cum to Miss Howard’s face another day.

Miss Howard, not accustomed to being ignored, was laying on her side, looking up at us with her sexiest look, one that I’m sure she’d practiced in the mirror many, many times. I motioned for her to stand, and I untied my wife from the chair, having her stand up as well.

“Miss Howard,” I said, “would you like Lady Emily to pleasure you?”

“Yes!” Miss Howard cried with enthusiasm, and I had her lie down on the couch before Emily positioned herself between her legs. As my Emily did her magic, I rubbed my cock until it was hard again (as I think back on it now, I do miss those days when my cock hardened so easily, on command; I am far from impotent, but I do lack the stamina now that I had years ago). I debated shoving my cock into Miss Howard’s waiting mouth, or my wife’s tight little ass. I decided to allow Miss Howard to please me; I knew she’d want to.

And she sucked me with enthusiasm, but with a surprising lack of skill, though perhaps this was due to the fact that my Emily was leading her to the most intense orgasm of her life yet. After she screamed around my cock and came in my wife’s face, I had to make her keep sucking until I was finished.

After everyone was clean and had come down from their respective orgasms, we all sat down for tea, still at a drinkable temperature as my naked wife served us. She sat upon my lap on the cum-stained armchair, while Miss Howard sat opposite us on the couch. After a minute or so, I said, “Well, Miss Howard? What did you think?”

Miss Howard looked at us both with that steady gaze. “That was quite fun,” she said, but her voice was not as steady as her look. “I, um…I would play with the two of you any time. Any time at all.” She furrowed her brow. “But I’m really not allowed to play with Lady Emily’s cunt?”

I shook my head. “Not you, or anyone else,” I said. “That is my rule.”

Miss Howard nodded. “Very well. But I’m happy to offer up my cunt to the both of you.”

“We appreciate the sentiment,” I said, and my wife nodded in agreement. “I’m sure that we’ll get much use out of you.” And so we did. For a while, Miss Howard’s frequent appearances in our home were a fun time for all of us. But after some time, I sensed that Miss Howard had an ulterior motive. Though she paid my wife as much attention as ever, I suspected that she was trying to get at me especially. She even tried hitting on me, several times, when Lady Emily wasn’t around. I had scolded her each time, reminding her that she was a playmate to both myself and my wife. “I do not allow her to play around without me, and I grant her the same courtesy,” I got tired of explaining.

Still, I did not suspect the hand that Miss Howard would have in later events. Had I suspected, had I known, would it have done any good? Perhaps…I will forever be haunted by the possibility. But I never did suspect; I was a blind fool.

Several months after we returned to Wainwright Hall, my wife and I had fallen into a comfortable routine. I was happy, thrilled, with the way things were going, and I didn’t want anything to change that. But there was one possibility that I had not considered, and when it happened, I reacted with less grace than I am proud to admit.

One afternoon, almost a year after my wife and I became lovers, she tapped on the door to my office. I called her in eagerly; I had been thinking of going off and finding her to take care of the erection that had crept upon me. As she entered, though, the troubled look on her face caused me to go limp. “My dear?” I asked. “Is something the matter?”

“Yes,” she said. She shook her head. “Well, no, I suppose nothing is the matter, but…something has happened.”

“Sit down, Emily,” I said, startled. “Tell me everything.”

But she did not sit. She came and stood in front of my desk. “I believe…I am certain…that I am with child.”

I do believe that my jaw dropped. “You’re pregnant?” I asked.

“You seem so surprised,” Emily teased, a smile on her face. “Come, sir, did your parents not teach you about…”

“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently, and the smile dropped from my pretty wife’s face. “I just don’t believe this,” I whispered.

“Well, sir, it was inevitable,” Emily said carefully, perching on the corner of my desk. “You are not pleased?”

I looked my wife square in the face. “I can say, with full honesty, that I am most certainly not pleased, my dear.”

Her face crumpled. “But, sir…”

I stood up and without a word, walked out of the room. I hurried up the stairs as my wife chased me, calling to me. “Sir! Please, sir, let’s sit down and discuss this. Sir, what are you doing?”

I went into our bedchamber and threw the lock. As my wife knocked on the door and pleaded with me to come out, I sought my riding boots in the closet. “Sir, please come out, please,” she called.

“Leave me be, Emily!” I called, with more venom in my voice then I intended. She was silent, but I felt her presence just outside the door as I pulled the boots on. Grabbing my jacket, and I went to the door. My wife looked startled. “I’m going for a ride,” I said. “I will be back soon.”

Tears filled my wife’s eyes. I was tempted to scoop her in my arms and carry her to bed, and confess to her all of my fears. But my stomach churned at the thought. I needed to get away, I needed to think. Before my wife could say anything, I added, “Do not follow me, Emily. I shall be very angry if you do. Stay here and wait for me.”

“Yes, sir,” she said helplessly as a tear slipped down her cheek. I wiped it away tenderly before turning away from her and storming out of the house.

As I rode Emily’s favorite black stallion away from the grounds of Wainwright Hall, I thought about the troubles that had crowded my mind since Emily had given her announcement. I had somehow allowed myself to be in denial, to believe that Emily was incapable of getting pregnant. Whatever had given me the idea? It was a secret wish of mine, that my wife would be infertile and could never have a pregnancy.

There was only one thing that I feared in the world, and it was losing my sweet little wife. As strong and healthy as she was, she was very small. And her mother, of a similar build, had died in childbirth. What would prevent the same from happening to Emily? I did not think that I could give the motherless child the same love that Sir Peter had given to his daughter. I knew that I would regard such child as a killer, the person who had stolen my beloved away from me.

I rode and rode for miles, stopping only to give the stallion a break. I tied him to a tree branch and sat beneath the same tree. It was a chilly afternoon for springtime, but the cool breeze felt refreshing as I sat and considered our new situation. There was nothing that I could do, I realized. Short of shoving her down the stairs and killing the child (and risking killing my dear wife in the process), the baby would come. When I forced myself to think on it, I realized that I’d suspected a pregnancy. I was, after all, very well in-touch with my wife’s body, including her menstrual cycles. Yes…she had skipped her time that past month, and very well could be pregnant.

As I looked up at the cloudy sky, I suddenly felt ashamed of myself. Poor Emily; she would have thought of all those things herself, surely. After all, her own birth had resulted in her own mother’s death, and she was well aware of the risks.

But little babies are born to healthy, living mothers every day, I reminded myself. And times had changed; it had been nearly 19 years since Lady Anne’s death, and Dr. Yates surely had ways to help my wife through her labor. And I began to think of what it would be like to have a baby. I imagined my wife breast-feeding, and I liked that imagine, I liked it quite a bit. We would be our own little family. Sweet Emily had never had a real family; she’d only ever had me, her good friend, to love and care for her. And I had lost my father to grief and adventure when I was still a boy; I would never leave my wife or child alone, never, I promised myself as I sat under that tree.

I went home, thoroughly ashamed of myself for my behavior. I found my wife waiting patiently in my office. I thought she would have been crying, but she was clear-eyed and calm as I came in. “Hello, sir,” she said pleasantly. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” I said. I beckoned her to the couch. “Come and sit with me, my dear.” She took a seat on my lap, and I wrapped my arms around her tightly. I kissed her neck. “I’m so sorry, Emily,” I whispered.

“Why were you so upset?” she asked.

“I’m afraid, Emily,” I said. I looked into her eyes, and I didn’t need to explain myself any further. She nodded.

“I’m afraid, too, sir,” she confessed. “And I’m not just afraid to die. What if I’m a terrible mother?”

“Oh, Emily,” I sighed, “that is impossible.”

“Perhaps not,” she said. “I’m spoiled, and I always have to be the center of attention.”

“And you’re also loving and sweet,” I said, kissing her again. “I wouldn’t want any other woman to bear my children.”

“I need you, sir,” she said quietly. “I need you to be strong for all of us.” She began to cry again, and she put her face to my chest. I stroked her hair and let her cry for a while before I soothed her with an image.

“Imagine, my dear,” I said. “Our beautiful baby, with your green eyes and your dark, lovely hair.”

“The baby will look like you as well,” Emily said.

“God willing, it will get most of its look from its mother,” I said, and she smiled at that. “And you’ll sit right here, with our beautiful baby in your arms, and you’ll feed our child while I watch. And when little baby has been put down to sleep, I’ll put my lips to your bare nipple, and I’ll begin to suck…”

Emily slowly pulled down the front of her dress, revealing her breasts. She had removed her nipple clips, in anticipation of her new role as a mother. I leaned down and, just as I said I would do, took her right nipple between my lips and sucked hungrily. It would be several months before her breasts would produce any milk, but I imagined drinking her sweetness, and I sucked harder. She sighed, running her hands through my hair as I sucked greedily, finally biting her nipple just a little. She moaned, and I bit her a little harder. Her grip on my hair tightened.

I planted kisses on the tops of her soft breasts. “Your tits will grow,” I observed.

“Yes,” Emily said. “That’s a good thing. I know you’re not fully satisfied with my breasts…”

“Foolish girl,” I scolded. “I am fully satisfied with you as you are. But,” I admitted, “it will be fun to have some larger breasts to knock around.” I reached out with both hands and groped her breasts, squeezing her in a clockwise motion as I kissed her mouth possessively. “You are my perfect little wife-slave, aren’t you, my dear?”

“Yes, sir,” she moaned, tilting her head back.

“You will feed our child well,” I said, “but you will save some milk for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” she moaned again, and I kissed her neck, drawing her to me. She straddled my waist and rode me right there on the couch, bouncing against my thighs faster and faster as she took me deep up inside of her. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, “I’m having your baby, sir. Oh, God, yes, I want your babies, sir. Let me have your babies,” she moaned.

I was pleased; pregnancy was making my little whore of a wife hornier than ever. And the next few months would be a lot of fun. Watching my wife’s stomach expand was an erotic experience, and I found her sexier and sexier as she got bigger and bigger with our child. In fact, our best sex was during her pregnancies; looking at her tied to our bed, with her huge pregnant belly sticking up, turned me on more than I can describe. I was easier on her when it came to punishments, only using my bare hand or a paddle to slap her ass and thighs. She asked me to use the riding crop, but I refused; it didn’t seem right to viciously whip a woman with child.

Still, as our child came closer to being born, I was troubled by the possibility of my wife dying in childbirth. I kept these thoughts to myself; Emily was so happy, glowing with excitement as she came to her last couple of months of pregnancy. So I bit back my fears, and sometimes had to force a smile to keep her happy, secretly wishing that the pregnancy were over and that both my wife and child were well. But I also prayed (yes, actually prayed) that if one of them had to die, to have it be the child. As long as Emily was alive, all would be well.

Lady Emily’s Diary

28 November, 18—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

16 December, 18—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir,” I said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

25 December, 18—

Happy, blessed Christmas!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 January, 18—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3 March, 18—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s happened?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

28 June, 18—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Singer

Poor Emily was distressed after Mr. Gainsley’s death. For some weeks, she had difficulty sleeping, creeping from our marriage bed and sitting in the nursery for hours in the night. She did not know that I was aware of her absence, but the loss of her warmth against me jerked me awake each time. Every night I debated going to her, but I never rose from bed. When she would finally return, I would pretend sleep as she slipped back into my arms.

I knew it was not so much the loss of the man himself (for though she’d had soft feelings for him before, she had come to despise him as his ill treatment of his poor wife became more and more obvious), but from her guilt for covering up the murder. The poor dear girl always had a heavy conscience. It caused her many sleepless nights when we were first together (though that was somewhat in part due to our activities together), but she had learned to be happy and free of her guilt in time. And so, I allowed her to pull herself from her depression. After a while, she was herself again.

Mr. Gainsley’s death also served to restore Emily’s friendship with the dead man’s sister. Miss Gainsley had been resentful of my wife since our return from India, and would treat her with stiff, cold politeness whenever they met. But at the visitation, held at her parents’ estate, their friendship was restored. As my wife and I, in our black mourning clothes, entered the parlor, Miss Gainsley excused herself from the company of her parents and came quickly to greet us.

“Oh, Lady Emily, I’m so glad that you are here!” she declared tearfully, throwing her arms around my beloved’s neck in a fit of uncharacteristic affection. “My brother’s horrible murder has given me a lot to consider, and one thing I’ve realized is that I’ve treated you ill. You are my dear friend, and I hope you will forgive me.”

“Of course,” Emily said, as surprised as I, but gracious as Miss Gainsley led her to speak with her parents. I stood behind and glanced around the room. Most of our social circle had arrived to pay their last respects to Mr. Gainsley, who was laid in a closed black coffin on the other end of the parlor. His wife, in her black mourning clothes, stood alone beside the coffin. I approached her.

“Mrs. Gainsley,” I said gently, and she smiled at me.

“Hello, Sir Aaron,” she said, offering her hands to me and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for coming today. You’ve always been so kind.”

I looked her over briefly. She resembled her older sister, but looked so different from her, at the same time. More innocent than Miss Howard, to be sure; no doubt she’d been a virgin on her wedding night. She still bore some of her pregnancy weight, but it was flattering on her. She had pleasantly full cheeks and full, soft lips, much like her sister’s. I had to wonder…

“How are you getting on, Mrs. Gainsley?” I asked kindly.

“As well as one might expect, I suppose,” she said, dropping her eyes sadly. “I have returned to my parents’ home for the time being.”

I put my hands gently on her upper arms, in a comforting but not too intimate gesture. “If there is anything that you ever need, do not hesitate to call on us at Wainwright Hall. My wife and I are at your service.”

She smiled up at me then. “Thank you, Sir Aaron.”

My wife approached us then and paid her respects to the young widow. The visitation was pleasant enough, but there was tension in the air between Mrs. Gainsley and her late husband’s parents. Mrs. Gainsley had briefly been suspected in the murder, but fortunately for her (and for the true murderess), she had been supping with her parents that evening.

Miss Howard had been questioned, of course, and subsequently, my wife and I were as well. Emily was very coy in her deception; she had turned on her charm for the investigators. As a matter of fact, one of the investigators stayed back and enjoyed the pleasure of my wife’s accommodating mouth. We were quite in the clear, especially when news came out that an escaped convict had been suspected to be hiding out in the area. It was concluded that the maniac had broken into the home, shot Mr. Gainsley in cold blood, and fled. Case closed.

Still, the tension was real, and Mrs. Gainsley stuck by the side of her parents and sister at the funeral the following morning. Who else but my dear Emily, nursing her own sadness, could be the one to break the tension and restore goodwill? She made it her mission, at the dinner held after the funeral service, to make things right between Mrs. Gainsley and her in-laws. I sat with Miss Howard and watched my wife talk quietly with the widow and the mourning parents, and saw the pleased look on her face when Mrs. Gainsley and her mother-in-law sobbed and embraced.

“I don’t know why she cares for those people,” Miss Howard said bitterly. “They knew what was going on, and did nothing to stop it. And that prude little bitch Miss Gainsley…”

“Enough of that,” I whispered as Emily approached us. I must admit, I found Miss Howard’s irreverence to be quite amusing, but I knew my Emily would not take to it on such a somber occasion.

Restoring the friendship between the Gainsley and Howard families was my wife’s penance for her part in the murder, I suppose. As time passed, we were perfectly happy again, watching our child grow along with our love. We frequently hosted Miss Howard and Alfonso Beaumont in our home, and Alfonso had even brought along his visiting brother for a play-date with my whorish wife. After taking both dark men at once (while fingering her untouched cunt; I still would not allow anyone else to have her there, as it was my property), she would later giggle and admit to me that Alfonso’s brother Claude was the most handsome man she’d ever been with. Sensing my jealousy, she kissed me softly and amended, “Besides you, of course, sir.”

I worried not about my wife straying. As the first years of our marriage slipped by happily, she was as devoted to me as ever. I never have blamed her for what happened later on. I understand now that she had no choice, and she did what she had to do to protect her family, to protect me. As a matter of fact, other issues aside, I’ve never been able to stop blaming myself for it all. If I had returned home with her that night…if I had done a better job of protecting my precious one…all would still be well.

About a year after Mr. Gainsley’s murder, our nanny left our home. I had been disappointed by her lack of interest in my subtle advances as she firmly put me off, and so I had bribed her to just go away.

Besides, what was I doing overpaying this woman, when my wife took care of our child most of the time, anyway? When she was not doing her duty by me, she was constantly with our Mina. I make it a point to state that I loved that child. I never stopped loving her. But I must confess, I did not love her as I might have if she had more resembled her mother. In the beginning, this did not matter quite as much. She did not have her mother’s natural curls or soft features, or her lovely grey eyes. Mina much more resembled my family. She was always just as pretty as her mother (especially as she’s gotten older), but not quite like her. So different. Too different.

We did not even put out an ad for another nanny, but one was delivered to our doorstep, anyhow. It was most unexpected. On a warm July afternoon, I was lounging with my wife on our back patio while Mina toddled around the garden. I had to put my hand on my wife’s arm more than once, to keep her from chasing after the child. “Let her pick herself up, should she fall,” I would remind her. “That’s how your father taught you to walk.”

The heat of the afternoon was about to drive us in, when our housekeeper came out of the back door. “Mrs. Gainsley here to see you,” she announced, and in came the young widow. In the past year, she had still carried the sadness of her unhappy marriage and its sudden end. That afternoon, she still wore one of her heavy mourning dresses, in spite of the heat.

Emily and I both stood to greet her. “Mrs. Gainsley, what a lovely surprise!” Emily declared, leading her to our small table. “Would you care for something cold to drink?”

“Oh, no. No, thank you,” Mrs. Gainsley said nervously as she sat. “I am sorry to come unexpectedly…”

“Nonsense,” I said. “You are always welcome in our home.”

“Yes,” my wife concurred.

“I am afraid that I come to ask a favor,” Mrs. Gainsley said quietly. She looked ashamed. “You see…my father is quite ill. He is very soon to die.”

“Oh, dear,” Emily said softly. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Gainsley.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Gainsley said. “I…well, Sir Aaron, you are aware of our situation with the property and will, are you not?”

As Mr. Howard’s attorney, I certainly was. By law, his property was to go to his late brother’s son, a young man named Trent Howard. The small fortune would be divided between Mrs. Howard and her two daughters, but they would be put out of their home. I had tried everything I could think of to put the property into Mrs. Howard’s name, but the law was not on our side. As I’d sweated through the unsuccessful case, I had thought how fortunate it had been for my Lady Emily, that her father had had no male relations to claim Wainwright Hall from her. The Howards were not so fortunate.

“My mother is going to London to stay with her uncle,” Mrs. Gainsley said. “She has invited me along, but I do not wish to leave the area. This is our home.” She was tearful then, and Emily put a comforting hand on her arm.

“Of course it is,” Emily said kindly. “We all adore you here.”

Mrs. Gainsley blushed. “I hate to bother you, as you’ve both been so kind to my sister,” she said. Miss Howard, our friend, was away in Greece visiting her relations, but no doubt would be called back before her father’s death. “I…I had heard around the village that you recently lost your nanny.”

“Why, yes,” Emily said. She realized Mrs. Gainsley’s intention. “Are you asking for the job, dear?”

Mrs. Gainsley nodded. “I am very good with children, you see, and…I don’t have anywhere to go, really. I would hate to be a burden to my in-laws, but they sold my husband’s house and he left me with nothing and…” The poor young woman burst into tears. I realized, as my Emily comforted her, how young she really was. She had married at 16, widowed at 17, and was only 18 as she sat sobbing helplessly on our patio.

“My parents wanted me to find another husband,” Mrs. Gainsley sniffed as Emily put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m not like Tatiana, I’m not independent as she is, oh, I…” She stood suddenly from her chair, burning with humiliation. “I’m terribly sorry. It must be the heat…I don’t know what’s come over me…I’m sorry to have bothered you…”

“Oh, Mrs. Gainsley, please stay,” Emily said, rising with her.

“The job is yours, Mrs. Gainsley,” I said, and that halted her. My wife looked at me in surprise, but she did not look displeased.

“Yes…yes, of course it is,” Emily agreed, and led Mrs. Gainsley back to her seat. “My husband and I were just discussing how we’ll be desperate for a new nanny soon, as we are trying to have another child.” This was a lie, but as my wife spoke it, I liked the idea. She’d come out so well from her first pregnancy that all of my fears were cast away. More children…fill the house. And keep my wife looking fat and lovely just for me. How I adored her in her pregnancies! And how I missed her sweet milk. She had recently stopped breast-feeding, and as a result, had stopped lactating. How I craved her sweetness again.

“Oh, you are both the kindest and most wonderful…” Mrs. Gainsley was overcome with emotion yet again, and my wife and I patiently waited out her outburst. As my wife looked over at me with a smile, I threw her a little wink. “It is no wonder that my sister adores you both so.”

“Do you know where she intends to go, when all of this is settled?” I asked, but of course I knew. She would take up residence at Wainwright Hall as well. My cock twitched suddenly at the idea; my own little whore-wife, and two sister-whores to play with us. Mrs. Gainsley, so pleasantly chubby and innocent still, would be a lovely treat. I even rubbed myself under the table, as subtly as I could, as we continued our conversation.

It was decided that Mrs. Gainsley would stay with her parents until her father’s inevitable death. Then, she would move into Wainwright Hall and begin her duties as our nanny. We worked out a generous salary for her, one that she first tried to refuse. “Oh, no,” she said, “Being able to stay here is more than generous enough.”

Emily laughed kindly. “We wouldn’t just not pay you, my dear Mrs. Gainsley! And besides, you are quite worth the price. Mina knows you, and she already likes you, so there won’t be any problems with you bonding with her. We know that our dear child will be in good hands with you.”

Mrs. Gainsley, with tears of gratitude, bid us goodbye soon after. As soon as she departed, my wife went to scoop our daughter up and bring her inside. As I waited for her at the door, I watched her carry our growing child, laughing and kissing the child’s soft cheek. “Well, my dear,” I said, “we better start working on getting pregnant, then. I think it’s nap time.”

“No nap, Daddy!” Mina cried, and Emily and I laughed.

“Yes, yes, time for a nap, my little one,” I said, taking the child from my wife’s arms. And though she fussed and whined, she was asleep by the time I laid her down in her nursery.

When I went into the master bedchamber, my wife was already naked and waiting for me by the bed. “How will you have me, sir?” she asked sweetly.

“On your knees, whore,” I snarled, and I saw my wife’s eyes light up at the harsh language. As I stepped toward her with my cock out, I said, “What do you think, my dear? Want to invite Mrs. Gainsley into our bedchamber?”

“She’s very innocent,” Emily said hesitantly.

“Do you find her attractive?” I asked, as my wife began to stroke my throbbing cock.

“Oh, yes,” Emily said. “Mrs. Gainsley is beautiful.”

“You were innocent once, too,” I reminded her. “And now you’re a perfect little whore. Suck my cock, my dear.”

“Yes, sir,” and she did so, gobbling me hungrily. My incredible little wife could sense exactly how I wanted it. She knew when I wanted slow, sensual fallacio; she knew when I wanted to ram my cock down her throat; she had a sixth sense when it came to my sexual appetites.

She could tell that I was feeling adventurous that afternoon, so she spun around so that she was directly beneath me, putting her hands on my thighs as she took my testicles into her greedy mouth, sucking hard. I groaned, weak in the knees, as my wife encouraged me to squat down on the floor, where she laid herself down. I kept my balls in her mouth as she kept sucking sloppily and nibbling lightly, while jerking off my shaft with her sweet, soft hand. As she bit down on my testicles a little harder, she teased my asshole with the tip of her index finger. I have to be in a certain mood for ass-play, and I was in that mood that afternoon, so I cried out for her to shove her fingers in deeper. She obeyed, and as she wriggled her two fingers around in my asshole, I felt myself started to come.

Biting harder on my balls, my wife pointed my cock at her own stomach, so that I ejaculated all over her. When she removed her fingers from me, I let out a little fart into her pretty face. “Sorry, my dear,” I said, and she giggled.

When I stood up, she stayed on the floor, slowly tracing her finger over the cum-mess on her stomach, sensually licking my cream from her finger. “Mmmmm,” she murmured with each lick, like a child sneaking forbidden tastes from a jar of preserves. “Sir, you are delicious.”

When she finished cleaning herself, I grabbed her by the collar (which she had slipped on after stripping for me, like a good little slave) and by the hair, pulling her to her feet. “Wasteful little whore,” I scolded. “You wasted my seed. How am I supposed to get you pregnant if you eat all of it?”

Emily giggled. “I’m sorry, sir. I have been a very wasteful girl. Will you punish me, please?”

“Of course I will,” I snarled, and still holding her hair and collar, led her to the far wall of our bedchamber. Months before, I had fastened shackles to the walls, two for Emily’s wrists high up on the wall, and two near the ground for her ankles (about three feet apart, forcing her to spread her legs). The servants, well aware of our bedroom activities at that point, politely ignored them during their daily cleaning.

I fastened my wife in with her back to the wall. “Look at those little tits,” I teased, cupping her left breast in my hand. “No more milk for your old friend?”

“No, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She had even gone back to wearing her old nipple clips (just her very first pair, as her nipples were still sensitive from so many months of breast-feeding two hungry mouths).

“The only thing your tits are good for now,” I said, “are squeezing and flogging. Which shall it be today?”

“Oh, sir, use the cat-o-nine tails,” my wife begged, her nipples visibly hardening with excitement. In fact, her entire body had broken out in goose bumps, so excited was she. “Punish these useless tits, please, sir.”

“Very well,” I said, and retrieved the requested whip from our box of treasures in the closet. This was a new whip, one that we’d acquired from one of those taboo shops in London. I enjoyed taking my wife to those places, and having the raggedy perverts stare at the fine lady as she examined objects of torment and pleasure. When she had whispered to me how disgusted she was by the attention of these men, I made her offer her ass to one of them. Can’t have my sweet wife getting too uppity.

I also retrieved a blindfold and the handkerchief for a gag. We owned a few gags, but she enjoyed the handkerchief best. She said that it reminded her of our first night together, when I’d gagged her with it while sweetly raping her in our bed. I covered her eyes and shoved the gag in her mouth before delivering twenty painful blows to her tits, with a few on her stomach (now tight again, from her time outdoors walking and riding; I longed to see it bloated proudly with child again).

The vicious whip left bloody cuts all over my wife, and she sobbed as I finished beating her and cleaning up her wounds. I covered her injured tits and stomach with soft kisses, and her whimpers of pain turned to moans of desire. Without removing her blindfold or gag, I fucked her right there on the wall, grabbing her by the shoulder and the arm and angling myself to thrust inside of her as deep as I could. I smashed my cock into her, rubbing my balls against her engorged clit as I fucked her. After I came, I licked up the mess of cum from her pussy as she moaned…I had denied her release, and decided to deny her for a while yet, leaving her naked and shackled for a little while as I went downstairs to attend to some paperwork.

I kissed her softly on the cheek before departing. “You stay here and be good,” I whispered teasingly. “Your friend will return to take care of you.” She moaned a protest, and I touched her cheek and laughed. “Patience, my sweet love, patience.” And I left her to wriggle and moan helplessly against the wall.

When I returned to her less than an hour later, she was near to explode. She had rubbed herself desperately against the wall, smearing her juices, but when I touched her pulsing clit, I knew she had been unsuccessful in getting herself off. I scolded her, “You naughty, messy whore. You’ve left quite a mess on the wall.” I removed her gag.

“Oh, please, sir,” she begged. “Please, I need it…”

“Silence,” I ordered. “You will clean your mess first.” I unshackled her from the wall, and forced her to her knees, to lick up her juices from the wall. When she had finished, I took her by the hair and collar again and threw her to the bed. “Pleasure yourself,” I said. “I want to watch you.”

She bent her knees and lifted her hips, and began to rub her pussy desperately with one hand, while fingering her hole with the other. I grabbed my cock (not quite hard, not after two climaxes in the past couple of hours) and watched as Emily scrunched up her face in determination, finally giving herself an orgasm. An unsatisfying one at that; she sobbed in frustration, nearly having a temper-tantrum.

“Poor little Emily,” I teased. “She can please everyone but herself. Want your friend to help you?”

“Yes, sir. Please,” she sobbed, and I smiled and tied her up before eating her to a much more satisfying climax. I did not untie her, but did allow her to sleep when we were finished. I loved tormenting my little wife, and though she complained, she enjoyed it as well. Especially since she knew that she would get her pleasure in the end. As far as that went, I never let her down.

Following Mr. Howard’s death, Mrs. Gainsley and Miss Howard both came to stay at Wainwright Hall. They took rooms in the once-empty east wing, and I wasted no time in indoctrinating our new little friend into our routines.

Between the three ladies and myself, Mina was well cared for, and we all had our share of leisure time. When Mina was laid down for her nap the day after the sisters moved in, I requested that all three ladies join me in my office. They stood in line, my precious wife leading her friends, and awaited my orders. Emily and Miss Howard smiled knowingly, while Mrs. Gainsley looked puzzled.

“Well, ladies,” I said, pacing before them. “If we are all to be one happy family for the time being, we must establish order. Lady Emily, will you tell us who is the master of this house?”

“You are, sir, of course,” my wife answered promptly, and I nodded, addressing Mrs. Gainsley directly with my next words.

“My word is law in this house,” I explained. “I am a fair master, but I can be very tough as well. Now, my pretty ladies, off with your clothing.”

Mrs. Gainsley did not move except to open her mouth in shock as my wife and her sister quickly stripped off their summer dresses. “Well, Mrs. Gainsley?” I asked. “Are you part of this household?”

“Oh, sir, I don’t…”

“Silence,” I said, and glanced briefly at my wife, who was giggling with excitement. “You will do as I command, or you are welcome to leave here. It is your choice, Mrs. Gainsley.”

Mrs. Gainsley looked desperately at her sister. “You never said…”

Miss Howard laughed. “Don’t be naïve, Bea. Why else do you think I’ve spent so much time at Wainwright Hall these past couple of years? You know my ways.”

“Lady Emily…”

Emily kindly smiled at her shy friend. “Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Gainsley. We have a lot of fun here.”

“That’s right,” I said, stroking my wife’s neck affectionately. She had been wearing a high-necked dress that afternoon, so she already was wearing her collar. “I do enjoy an innocent young woman, Mrs. Gainsley. I have had my eye on you for some time now.”

The young lady blushed prettily, but said nothing, and made no move to remove her dress. I sighed, and decided to try another tactic. “Now, my dear Mrs. Gainsley,” I said softly, approaching her. “I want to make you feel good. Did your husband ever please you in bed?”

She flushed bright crimson, such a charming color on her, and shook her head. She looked more puzzled than ever. “I don’t…”

“What was sex like, with your husband?” I asked. She still blushed, so her sister prompted her.

“Go ahead, Bea,” Miss Howard said. “Tell Sir Aaron what you told me.”

Mrs. Gainsley closed her eyes and whispered, “It was just…unpleasant. I would lie there, and he would grunt and sweat and pump into me, and…that’s all.”

My wife and I exchanged knowing glances. “Mrs. Gainsley,” I said gently, “Your husband knew nothing about how to please a woman. You do not enjoy sex, because you’ve never had a man properly make love to you. You’re a lovely woman, Mrs. Gainsley,” I said, and she opened her eyes and looked at me then. She was trembling. “You deserve to have a man who will please you the right way. And if I do say so myself, I am an adequate lover.”

“He is the best!” Miss Howard declared, and my wife nodded in agreement.

The young lady was softening, but she still made no move. “I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Gainsley,” I said. “Why don’t you watch what I can do to your sister? You and Lady Emily can sit on the couch, right there, and watch. Would you like to try that?”

“All right,” Mrs. Gainsley said hesitantly. Emily took her hand and led her to the couch, and they sat side-by-side (Mrs. Gainsley, in her heavy mourning dress; my wife, in her glorious nakedness) as Miss Howard stepped close to me and ran a gentle finger up my arm. That sexy little whore always knew what she was doing.

“Sir Aaron,” she whispered, “I’ve missed you so much while I’ve been away. I thought of you every time I was with a man.”

“Lady Emily and I missed you, too,” I said. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

“Yes, sir,” my wife responded. She still held Mrs. Gainsley by the hand.

“Lie down on the floor,” I ordered, and Miss Howard did not hesitate to spread herself out on the expensive rug for me. I slowly removed my suit, and noticed that Mrs. Gainsley eyed my cock with curiosity (and just a touch of modest disgust). “Lady Emily,” I said to my wife, “Ask Mrs. Gainsley what you’ve wanted to know.”

Emily giggled and leaned close to Mrs. Gainsley to whisper in her ear. I knew what she was asking. Mrs. Gainsley, still blushing furiously, actually giggled. “Oh, goodness, no,” she declared out loud. “He was much, much smaller.”

The girls all laughed, and I grinned. “Well, Mrs. Gainsley,” I said, “Technique is often more important than size, but that does make an enormous difference. Watch.”

I climbed on top of Miss Howard, who stared up at me expectantly, biting her lower lip. I looked over at Mrs. Gainsley, who did not turn away as I plunged into her older sister. There was no need to prepare the whore with foreplay; she was more than ready. I held her wrists to the ground as she wrapped her legs around my waist and I knelt before her, fucking her with slow, deep strokes, getting into a steady rhythm. With my free hand, I groped her huge tits, squeezing them cruelly. And the entire time, I did not take my eyes off of Mrs. Gainsley, whose chest began to heave with excitement as she watched us.

I spoke to Mrs. Gainsley while I fucked her sister. “See how much she loves this, Mrs. Gainsley?” I grunted, pounding faster into Miss Howard. “I can do this to you, too, Mrs. Gainsley, I can fuck you like a whore and you’ll love it.”

“Oh, Aaron!” Miss Howard screamed, and I stopped groping her tits and slapped my hand over her mouth. I tore my eyes from Mrs. Gainsley for a moment to watch my wife, who was stroking herself with her free hand. I grinned at her.

“Lady Emily loves it to…she was an innocent girl like you, Mrs. Gainsley, and now she’s my good little whore.” As Emily grabbed Mrs. Gainsley and kissed her passionately, taking her hands and putting them on her clipped breasts, I thrust into Miss Howard frantically. I was about to explode…I had my own little harem of whores, it was a dream come true, my lovely wife and two beautiful sisters to play with us…Beneath my hand, Miss Howard screamed and groaned, and she lifted her legs higher, bending them back as far as she could, moaning as she came.

I kept thrusting, determined to hold out for a little while longer. I usually have good control; I can fuck my wife for well over an hour, but with three women present, I wouldn’t be able to go for long. Especially as my wife began slowly peeling off Mrs. Gainsley’s hideous dress, still kissing her roughly as she ran her hands down the younger woman’s shoulders.

I addressed Miss Howard directly for the first time since I’d started fucking her. “Relax for me, come now, Tatiana, come again for me…” And she did, so rapidly, screaming and drooling all over my hand as I released into her, groaning loudly myself. I kept my hand over Miss Howard’s mouth, even as I weakly removed myself from her. Her legs hit the floor and she did not move, only smiling at me as I sat up. We both stayed on the floor and watched the girls on the couch.

My Emily had successfully gotten Mrs. Gainsley naked, her black mourning dress in a discarded pile on the floor. Emily pushed her breasts against Mrs. Gainsley’s and began to finger her clit gently. I was amazed when Mrs. Gainsley began to open up her legs, slowly, to allow my wife access to her.

“Oh, Mrs. Gainsley, may I?” Emily asked softly. Mrs. Gainsley nodded fearfully, glancing over at me as my wife dropped off the couch and crawled between her legs. I smiled and nodded at Mrs. Gainsley.

“That’s it, let Lady Emily take good care of you,” I encouraged her. “She’s as good at pleasuring women as she is at pleasuring men, and she always leaves me satisfied.”

“Oh, God!” Mrs. Gainsley cried as my wife began lapping at her pussy with her greedy tongue. Her hands trembled visibly; she didn’t seem to know what to do with them as my wife began eating her cunt. I decided to help her, so I rose slowly from the floor and went behind the couch. I grabbed her by the elbows, and slowly ran my hands down her arms to her wrists, seizing them tightly and raising her arms over her head. I held her wrists with one hand and groped her large tits with the other as she moaned and shook.

“Come, now, Emily, really let her have it,” I encouraged my wife, and that prompted her to stab her tongue into Mrs. Gainsley’s cunt, wriggling it around as Mrs. Gainsley screamed in surprise and pleasure. Her screams took on a higher pitch as my wife tongue-fucked her and fingered her clit. Mrs. Gainsley’s nipples hardened, and I teased her left one, stroking it slowly before pinching it, just slightly, just twisting it enough to make her whimper between moans.

Mrs. Gainsley let out a whining scream, sounding almost pained as she had her very first orgasm. Tears ran down her plump cheeks as my wife lapped up her juices greedily. I let go of her wrists and went around to the front of the couch as my wife got to her feet. She offered me some of Mrs. Gainsley’s pussy juices that she’d wiped up with her fingers. I took my wife’s slender fingers in my mouth. “Mmmmm,” I sighed, and kissed my wife softly as Mrs. Gainsley trembled and sobbed before us.

I sent Emily to sit with Miss Howard in an armchair, and the girls sat together, their legs wrapped around each other as they watched me sit beside Mrs. Gainsley on the couch. When I put my arms around her, she laid her head on my chest, crying against me. I stroked her hair and comforted her, laughing softly. “There, there, Mrs. Gainsley,” I said. “Didn’t know it could be that wonderful, did you?”

“Oh, Sir Aaron, I never…” Mrs. Gainsley was at a loss for words. She looked up at me, a look of confusion in her dark eyes.

“It’s all right,” I said. “This is going to be a good thing, Mrs. Gainsley. We are all friends here, do you see? Me, and Lady Emily, and your sister and you. We’ll be a family, all of us together. And you’ll get to feel good like that every single day.”

“Are you going to…?” Again, the poor young woman didn’t know what to say.

I smiled at her. “If you want me to fuck you, Mrs. Gainsley, I’d certainly be happy to. I will tell you that I’m worn out now from your sister, and I want to save some love for my wife. We’ve all gotten pleasure here except for her. She certainly deserves it, don’t you think so?”

“Oh, yes, Sir Aaron,” Mrs. Gainsley agreed. I looked over at my wife, sitting so close to Miss Howard. She smiled over at me, looking expectant.

“After all,” I said softly, not taking my eyes off of my one love, “She is the reason we are all here together. It’s very important, Mrs. Gainsley, that you remember how much you owe to my wife, and that you think of her every time you get pleasure.”

When Mrs. Gainsley had calmed down a bit, I took my wife by the hand. “You ladies may have the rest of the afternoon to yourselves. We will tend to Mina when she wakes from her nap. My wife and I are going to spend some time alone now. Miss Howard?”

“Yes, Sir Aaron?”

“Gather up your sister’s mourning dresses and get rid of them.” I looked briefly at the two pretty, naked sisters before squeezing my wife’s hand and taking her upstairs. We walked naked through the house, not caring if the servants saw us, so high we were on our emotions. As I tied Emily to the bed, I whispered to her, “You have made all of my dreams come true, Emily.”

“You’ve done the same for me, sir,” she whispered back. I kissed her softly before gagging her and thanking her, the best way that I knew how, for giving me such a wonderful life.

The next couple of years with my little harem was like a dream come true. Instead of one little wife-slave to please me, I had three willing whores at my beck and call at all hours of the day and night. Mrs. Gainsley, such an innocent thing, was blossoming into a horny woman under our tutelage. What thrilled me most about her was that, even after all that time at Wainwright Hall, she still had an innocent way about her. She was certainly not an obvious whore, like her sister, nor an eager whore like my wife. She still blushed whenever I touched her breasts and whispered dirty things to her.

Mrs. Gainsley did not like physical punishment, and though I had threatened to throw her out if she did not participate during playtime, I did not push this issue. Emily was my one and only pain slut, so I saved it all for her. I never played with either Mrs. Gainsley or Miss Howard alone; Lady Emily was always present and active during our play. And my private time with my wife was more intense than ever.

The other ladies did not spend the night in bed with us; in fact, they never even entered the bedchamber. I often worried that my wife would become jealous about having two other women living with us and fucking me regularly, so I kept our bedchamber private. She never seemed discontented with our situation; indeed, when the three women were together (tending to the child, or tending to me), she looked happier than ever. She told me that she finally felt like she had real sisters of her own. “Except for the sex, of course,” she said with a giggle.

I should also note that Mrs. Gainsley and Miss Howard, being actual sisters themselves, did not play around with one another. In the beginning of our unconventional relationship, Miss Howard had teased her sister about this. If Mrs. Gainsley had not been so disgusted by the idea, I do believe that the sisters would have been together. The idea certainly turned me on, but sadly, it never happened. Still, we had plenty of fun together, and most importantly, with Alfonso occasionally thrown into the mix, I knew that my wife got all of the attention that she craved.

It would be a lie to say that I did not adore the sisters. I was particularly fond of Mrs. Gainsley, so sweet was she, and obedient (though it sometimes took a little prompting to get her to play along with some of our activities). And I loved her soft, chubby body. Sweet Emily had not been able to keep on any of her pregnancy weight, and though I always craved her little body and her tight ass, Mrs. Gainsley’s rolls and curves were a fascinating contrast. I particularly enjoyed watching my wife and Mrs. Gainsley, pleasuring each other on the couch in my office while Miss Howard sucked my cock.

Miss Howard was always a lot of fun, and very willing. I enjoyed her company, and found her to be amusing. But after everything that happened, I would find her presence to be an annoyance. I came to hate her, but I could see no way to be rid of her, and she would eventually become all that I had. Our happy times together, with my perfect wife and our two friends, would come to an end, much sooner than I ever would have feared. But, while it lasted, life was very good with my little harem.

A couple of months into my wife’s second pregnancy (it took her longer to become pregnant than we had anticipated), before she’d started to show, we were confronted with an awkward situation. One afternoon, while having some private time in our bedroom (I had Emily against the wall, her back and ass exposed to me as I whipped her with her favorite riding crop), we were interrupted by a tiny voice. “Daddy! What are you doing to Mummy?”

I turned, dropping the riding crop, and saw Mina standing in the doorway, tears in her big dark eyes. I scolded her. “Mina! You know the rules in this house. You are to knock before entering this bedchamber.”

“Why are you hurting Mummy?” Mina demanded fearfully.

“I’m not hurting her, Mina,” I said, a bit more gently. I removed the gag from her mother’s mouth.

“It’s all right, Mina,” Emily concurred. “Daddy and I are playing a game, that’s all.”

I took my wife from the wall, and we both put on our robes and sat with Mina for a long talk. Mina, just three-years-old, sat curled in her mother’s lap as we told her about sex and love. “When adults care for each other, they want to make each other feel good,” Emily explained patiently. “Daddy and I play lots of games like that. That’s how we have fun and show our love for one another.”

“Doesn’t it hurt, Mummy?” Mina asked, referring to the gashes she’d noticed on her mother’s back.

“Yes,” Emily said carefully. “It does hurt. But…I enjoy it, too. It’s a game, Mina. Daddy would never really hurt me.”

We also explained to her that we liked to have fun with other adults as well, including her Auntie Bea and Auntie Ana. “Daddy and I like to make them feel good, too,” Emily explained.

“Daddy,” Mina said, “Do you love Auntie Bea and Auntie Ana?”

“Yes, darling,” I said softly. “I do love them. Not like I love Mummy, though. Mummy is my wife, and she is my soul mate. Auntie Bea and Auntie Ana are our special friends.”

“Now, Mina,” Emily added, “It’s very important that you not talk about what we just told you to anyone outside of Wainwright Hall. The things that adults do in their bedchambers are secret, and it is not appropriate to discuss it with others. We’ve just told you now so that you will understand and not be afraid. Can you keep this a secret?”

“Yes, Mummy,” Mina said cheerfully, and we both gave her a kiss on her fat little cheeks. “Will I play like that? When I’m an adult?”

Emily and I looked at each other for a moment. Emily looked startled at the idea; I bit back a loud laugh. “Well, Mina,” I said gently, “If you meet the right man, and marry him, you may want to play like that with him. But only if you really, really want to. That’s why it’s fun, Mina. You should never let anyone make you do anything that you don’t want to do, or touch you if you don’t want to be touched. Do you understand?” I briefly remembered that I had forced her mother the very first time. Then again, I had plenty of evidence to show that in her heart, she had wanted to. If I’d never found those nipple clips…if I’d never read her secret diary or searched through her room…we never would have become lovers. I wondered what our lives would be like, if we were not together.

“Yes, Daddy,” Mina said. “I understand.”

“And from now on,” I added, “You must remember to knock before entering the bedchamber. Mummy and I do not wish to be disturbed during our private time together. All right, Mina?”

Mina nodded, and that was the end of it, for the time being. Mina would question her aunties on the subject later, and our friends recalled their own conversation to us (Miss Howard laughed hysterically as Mrs. Gainsley blushed with mortification). Though Mina’s interruption had caught us off guard, Emily and I had decided that, when she asked us about sex, we would be open and honest with her. That’s exactly what we had done, and we felt good about the discussion afterwards.

It would come back to haunt me, a few years later, after Emily was gone. Mina, nearly 10 at that point, had walked in on me and Mrs. Gainsley together, alone. I had chased after her, following the quick-footed child all the way to the stables before catching her by the arm and demanding an explanation for her invasion of my privacy.

“You don’t love Mummy anymore!” Mina accused me. Her words stabbed me in the heart; I slapped her, for the first and only time in her young life, and we’d stared at each other in shock before falling into each other’s arms and sobbing uncontrollably, right there on the grounds on Wainwright Hall.

“I do love Mummy,” I tried to explain. “I love her more than anything, Mina, I do, I’ve never stopped. I think about her all the time. But I’m lonely, Mina.”

“What about Mummy?” Mina demanded, but angry as she was, she still allowed me to hold her. “You said she’s thinking about us, and wishing she could be with us. How could you do this?”

“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly. “I’m sorry, Mina. I am a weak man.”

“When is Mummy coming home, Daddy?” Mina asked, and that was the question I’d been asking myself for over five years. When would she come home? When would our happy life together be able to continue? Life had gone on since her disappearance, and I wanted it all to stop, to stand still, until Emily came back to Wainwright Hall. I didn’t want her to miss her children growing up. I didn’t want her to miss anything at all.

“I don’t know, darling,” I answered truthfully, squeezing my daughter. “I don’t know. But I know that, wherever she is, she is trying to find the best and quickest way to get back to us. She never wanted to leave us, Mina, and when she comes home, we’ll all be a happy family again.” I desperately hoped…and I still desperately hope…that this was the truth.

Lady Emily’s Diary

3 June, 18—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” I asked eagerly.

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

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

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

13 October, 18—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How sad!” I declared.

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

“But why, sir?” I asked.

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

“Can we fix it?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

15 October, 18—

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir,” I admitted timidly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly, my lady,” he said.

“You are feeling much better?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why, Mr. Morrison?”

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

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

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

I nodded, uncertain of what to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not?”

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

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

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

“Do tell, Mrs. Morrison,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” I asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not quite four.”

“You are early,” I observed.

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

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

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

“You did not enjoy yourself today?”

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

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

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

I nodded. “You’re right, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir,” I answered truthfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did?” I asked, completely surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What mean you, sir?”

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

18 October, 18—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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