I first saw her during my morning walk; it was along the path to Nettlebed. There was light rain, as there so often is in June, and the poor young woman, who looked as if she had slept under a hedge, was damp through. I tipped my hat, as she stepped aside to let me pass.
“Good morning to you, Sir.” she said boldly. Our eyes met, and I paused in my progress. Her hair was straggly and her face was dirty, but under it all she was a comely lass — thin, even malnourished looking, but there was something attractive to me. There was something about the lilt of her voice; she was not a local girl.
“Good morning to you, Miss. Are you going far?” I said, foolishly.
“As far as need be, Sir, even to London.” I knew in an instant her circumstance. The war between the American states was choking off the supply of cotton. Tens of thousands of spinners and weavers, throughout the North, were unemployed. Some had family to help. Some went to the poorhouse or sank to prostitution. Others, of necessity, took to the road in search of work.
“You are looking for work.”
“I cannot offer you employment, but as a Christian, I will at least offer you breakfast and a warm fire, to ease your journey.”
“I would be most grateful, Sir,” she replied, and it seemed to me she emphasized “most.”
“Come along, then. It’s not far. My name is James Fairfax, Major Fairfax.”
“I’m most grateful to you, Major Fairfax, Sir. My name is Marie-Cecile Stewart.”
I am not a handsome man. My face is scarred, my nose broken, my hair graying, and my speech is somewhat impaired, so I am not attractive to women. I was wounded out in India, and I sold out of the army in ’57. Nor am I a wealthy man. I have an income, a few pounds annually, which would pay the rent for my little cottage and pay Mrs. Trumble, my housekeeper, who came with the cottage. I keep no horse. I dress plainly, and whatever money is left over I generally squander on books and newspapers. White Ladies Bottom is a small village, and I seldom attend the local church. Everything considered, it may be the only female I have occasion to speak to, for weeks on end, is Mrs. Trumble. You will understand, therefore, that I was intrigued by this strange young woman who disturbed the routine of my retirement.
My home is on the edge of the village, the first cottage one comes to, coming down the Nettlebed footpath. Marie-Cecile followed me through the low front door. “Back so soon, Captain Fairfax?” said Mrs. Trumble.
“Yes, I have brought a guest. Mrs. Trumble, this is Mary.”
“Marie-Cecile, Sir,” she corrected me. “It’s all one name.”
“Umph,” I said, momentarily at a loss. “At any rate, Mrs. Trumble, I should be obliged if you would feed this young person some breakfast and let her warm herself by the fire. Not just porridge, Mrs. Trumble, a real, nourishing breakfast.”
Mrs. Trumble said, “Yes, Sir.” and led the young woman into the kitchen. I retired to the front room, sat by the fire, and tried to resume reading a novel, but I could not, for some reason, concentrate on it. I kept thinking of that young woman in my kitchen. I had never married. I had, of course, in India, a concubine. The Hindus have a real appreciation for the sins of the flesh; some of the low-caste women are shameless. Back in England, all these years, now, I had been deprived of female companionship. The social gulf between myself and the farmers of White Ladies Bottom is unbridgeable, and I seldom get into the city. Even had I found a suitable wife, I felt I could not afford to keep her in the proper style. I confess, thinking about the young woman had aroused sexual yearnings that I had tried hard to suppress.
It was almost midday, and I had read but a hundred pages, when Mrs. Trumble announced that the young lady was ready to depart. “Leave us a moment.” I said, as she ushered the woman into the room. Marie-Cecile had greatly improved in her appearance. Her face was clean, her hair combed and pinned up. I had meant to give her a shilling and send her on her way, but I could not bring myself to give up looking at her. For all that she was fully mature, her thinness and frailty gave her a childlike appearance. Her small breasts, hardly filling the bodice of her simple dress, would not have been out of place on a girl of sixteen who had not yet begun her menses, which, as I understand, is usually at seventeen or eighteen, in these parts. I’ve no idea how long I stared, but at last I said, “Won’t you sit down, Marie-Cecile?” She sat gracefully, sitting primly on the edge of the chair.
“I wish to thank you, Sir, from the bottom of my heart, for your charity toward a homeless woman. It may be that you have saved my life, for I was chilled through when you found me.”
“Umph,” I replied.
The wind had picked up, and it dashed rain against the window, made the fire flicker in the grate. Our eyes met, her blue eyes shamelessly engaging mine. “Captain Fairfax, Sir, could I ask you, please, if you might employ me as a domestic servant? I would work for food. Mrs. Trumble is getting very old. She could use some help.”
I looked out at the atrocious weather. “Well,” I said, “I can hardly turn you out into the rain. You may stay until the weather clears. But then, I’m afraid you will have to go.” “Thank you, Sir,” she replied. “I will do anything to please you.” Anything?, I thought.
“Mrs. Trumble,” I said, “Marie-Cecile will be staying until the weather clears. She has offered to be useful. Can you find her work to do? I cannot get my tongue around that name. I think we shall call her Em-See.”
“Very well, Sir,” both replied.
Well, I had not noticed how Mrs. Trumble had been aging. With MC around the place, it improved visibly. The fireplaces were swept out, the furniture dusted, and my clothes, such as they were, brushed and pressed, mended and hung neatly. Come nightfall, it was still raining. Mrs. Trumble came into the front room to clear my supper tray. The servants, of course, had eaten in the kitchen. “Major Fairfax, Sir,” she said, “where is MC to sleep? Surely, you don’t expect me to share my bed, do you?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Trumble. Cannot you fix her a pallet in the kitchen, where she can be warm, near the fire?”
“Well, I suppose so,” she said. My humble cottage had only the two bedrooms, mine and Mrs. Trumble’s, and only the two beds. It was the middle of the night, when I was awakened by the sound of my door softly closing. The rain clouds had blown away, and moonlight illuminated my room. MC stood there, wearing one of my old shirts, which Mrs. Trumble must have given her to sleep in. The sight of her, there in the dim light, her hair down, the shirt tented by her upstanding little breasts, instantly aroused my lust. She came and stood, quite close to me, and said, “The rain has stopped, Sir. Does that mean that I must leave, come morning?”
“Umph. I suppose . . . ” The thought of driving her away was depressing.
“If you keep me, I will serve you well, Major, Sir. There are many ways I can serve you.” She lifted the tail of the shirt, revealing more of her lean, thin legs.
“You have no references,” I said, stupidly.
“Cannot you judge me by my performance? Do I not work hard? As well, I offer you my body, to do with as you will.”
“If you have sold your body, why are you here, in White Ladies Bottom?”
“Sir, you misjudge me. I have never sold my body. I am not a prostitute. I offer myself out of gratitude, and affection, Sir. You have been most kind.”
“But, surely, you are not a virgin.”
“No, I have not been a virgin these past ten years, since I was twelve.”
“Twelve!” I knew that things like that happened, but they are not supposed to happen in civilized, Nineteenth-Century England, a Christian nation.
“I have two older brothers. They began to use me when I was twelve. No more, of course. One is in the army, the other at sea. No man has used my body since I was sixteen.”
“And now you offer yourself to me.”
“Sir, I feel the time has come to do this.” She pulled the shirt up over her head, shamelessly exposing her most private parts to my gaze, and she turned back the coverlet of my bed. She climbed in beside me and snuggled close. “Oh, Major, Sir, this is nice. It’s nice to be warm.” She reached out and placed her hand on my erect organ, stroking it through the cloth of my night shirt.
I rolled on my side and ran my hand along her naked body. I could feel her ribs, and I made a mental note to fatten her up a bit. I had not held a woman in my arms since ’57, and I was overcome with lust. She kissed me, passionately, and I kissed back, relishing feelings I had not felt for years. Then she was pulling my nightshirt up and begging me to use her.
I made to put her on her back, to service her in the usual way, but she got up on her hands and knees, throwing back the bedclothes, and presented her behind to me. I felt the lips of her womanly cleft, covered with silky short hairs, and tried to insinuate my tumescent organ between them, but without much success. “Wrong hole, Sir,” she whispered. She reached back and guided the tip of my tool toward the anal orifice. I recoiled. “Major Fairfax, Sir, why do you hesitate?” she said. “I put some butter on it, to make it easier for you.” You must appreciate what a shock this was to me. Buggery, sodomy, is a capital crime in the British Army. I had never thought of using a woman in such a way. “Please, Sir,” she said. “I want to give myself to you. I want to please you.” “Is this how men have used you? They place their organs there?” I fingered the buttered orifice.
“Isn’t that what all men do? I have known only my brothers, and one friend of my father’s, but I had supposed that husbands and wives couple so. I have seen dogs in the street mount a bitch as my brothers mounted me.”
“MC,” I tried to explain, “that is the wrong hole. Here –” I fingered her maidenly cleft, “is where I should plant my seed.” She was silent for some moments, as I stroked her, as my Hindu concubine had taught me, and felt her nether lips respond and dampen.
“Mmmm. That is nice, Sir, but surely, with an organ the size of yours, you could never put it inside the hole where I make water. It is too small.”
“Let me see,” I said. I got out of bed and put a log on the fire, to take some of the chill off the room. I lighted a candle and held it close behind her, as she patiently stayed there on the bed, with her rump in the air. With my fingers, I explored the cleft, expecting to find, perhaps, an unusually tough maidenhead. Gently, I parted the inner lips and peered into the pinkness of her sex. To my surprise, I found that, in fact, her womanly sheath was very small. I could not insinuate a finger, and when I tried, with more force, MC cried out and begged me not to hurt her. To a certainty, this woman was a virgin.
I put the candle on the bedside table and tried to think, even as I pressed gently between her legs. My manly tool raged tall, lusting to be satisfied, but, clearly, there was nothing for me to do. Even if my moral sensibilities had not forbidden my deflowering an innocent virgin, it was a physical impossibility for me to sheath my sword in her minute vagina. And yet, the alternative presented to me was, it seemed, equally impossible, morally repugnant.
“Sir,” she said softly. “I am ready, whenever you are.” Her delicate fingers tried to guide my organ toward her anal opening. May The Almighty forgive me; lust overcame conscience, and I thrust against her. After a second’s effort, my organ slid into her warm back channel. It felt so good! Shamelessly, I thrust deep, then partially withdrew, to and fro, reveling in the tight warmth of her, and the incredible deliciousness as her muscles gripped my shaft. Too soon, I expelled my seed into her. For a moment, I was overcome with guilt, for I had ravished a virgin. And yet, I had not. And there could be no scandal, no love child, for, in truth, she was still a virgin! MC thanked me for my attentions, thanked me! I put her on her back and thanked her as best I could, by performing cunnilingus, another secret of the mysterious East.
Needless to say, I did not send MC away. She stayed on, to help Mrs. Trumble. It was so nice to have her around the house, sometimes singing in that strange north-country accent of hers. When Mrs. Trumble sickened, MC was an invaluable nurse. When the old woman passed on to her reward, in August, MC was promoted to become the new housekeeper, to be paid the same as Mrs. Trumble had been. Of course, as head housekeeper, she is entitled to be called, “Mrs. Stewart,” though she is, in actuality, Miss Stewart.
I had not, since that first night, permitted MC in my bed, though she was willing enough to come, had I asked. Somehow, shame, and the fear of discovery, had held my appetites in check. However, as soon as the watchful Mrs. Trumble was in the churchyard, Mrs. Stewart and I were overcome by debauchery. I have become a confirmed sodomite. Several times a week, sometimes even in the middle of the day, since no one can observe, Mrs. S. will confess to me that she has transgressed. Perhaps she has spilled the tea, or dropped a book and lost my place, or failed in the performance of one of her usual duties as my housekeeper. Well, of course, she must be punished, which she implores me to do, that she might be forgiven.
Somehow, in the context of my duty to discipline her, I can forget that I commit a mortal sin. It is always the same; she has prepared herself by cleansing her bowels and lubricating the orifice. She bends over the table, or the arm of my chair, or the foot of the bed. I throw her skirts over her head. The beautiful globes of her behind are presented to me — she has filled out a bit, with careful feeding — and I spank them, or even cane her, which excites her terribly. Inevitably, as the ultimate punishment, I beat her with my meaty club, burying my pillar in her forbidden pit, to our mutual relief. She dares not sleep in the dead woman’s room, so she shares my bed. Oft times, late at night, or even in the morning, I will devote myself to licking her naked body, all over, as if to bathe her with my saliva. Her little breasts, still girlish, are a perfect mouthful, and, when I lave her lower labia with my tongue, the taste of her juices is heavenly to me. She tells me I make her utterly content, and I have never been happier, never in my lifetime.
I have, from a physician in London, a mahogany case. It contains a graduated set of ebony rods, ranging in diameter from one eighth inch to an inch and a half. It is a medical appliance, specifically manufactured and widely used, I am told, to treat conditions such as the vaginal inadequacy of Mrs. Stewart.
All day, as she works in the kitchen or garden, my housekeeper carries within her, there, between her legs, one of the ebony rods, which I personally remove at night and replace in the morning. Already, she can contain the seven-eighths inch diameter rod, and tomorrow, perhaps, I will try to insert the one-inch rod. It will not be long before I will be able to couple with her as God intended.
The question is: will I want to? My intellect can rationalize our unnatural relationship as long as the natural sex act is impossible. Would it be fair to Mrs. S. to use her like a common whore? Dare I to expose her to the risk of a scandalous pregnancy? I think not. Dare I risk the possibility of her marrying one of the young lads she encounters when shopping in the village? I think not.
I think that, perhaps, tomorrow, I will “forget” to insert any ebony rod at all. May God forgive me.
– The End –