by Emily Tilton
“But,” Sir Gerald finally said, “even if we reject marriage—and, Charlie, I see your point there, as you well know—by your reasoning, should we not be getting our girls with child, rather than spending in their mouths or bottoms, as your policy dictates?”
If the strictures of conventional morality, still loosely attached to Sir Gerald’s mind, represented Vance’s worthiest challenge, Vance’s policy for his life with Sir Charles and the girls constituted his magnum opus. Someday, Vance thought, he would draw up the policy in writing, and have it bound in leather embossed with gold leaf. Until then, like the laws of the Spartans, it lived in the memories of those who practiced it.
One of Vance’s policy’s great dictates was that a man’s seed not be spilled in a girl’s womb, in order that the pleasures of the household might continue indefinitely. Another held that a girl’s bottom’s true natural function was to provide pleasure to the cock of a man. Both these dictates, of course, contravened nature, and at least in appearance contradicted Vance’s elaborate, nearly metaphysical, argument in favor of his and Sir Gerald’s social and erotic arrangements.
“Do you not see, Gerrie,” Vance said, in his excitement calling Sir Gerald by the school nickname that had been his friend’s moniker when they had met as boys, “that by our example we inspire other men to make more babies—men whose lives are not well-regimented, as ours are by our household policy?”
Sir Gerald’s brow creased.
“And,” Vance continued, “if Anne and Charlotte should become mothers, how could we go on so inspiring the men we know? We know that our policy requires of us great feats of discipline, for not to spend inside a pretty girl’s cunt, when you have enjoyed your ride there so very much, and her feminine nature makes her beg you to give her the precious balm of your seed, needs all one’s fortitude.”
Sir Gerald had looked uncomfortable at this, and Vance wondered—as he did rather often—whether his friend did manage to keep from yielding to the very impulse he had just described. It made him glad that he had also instituted, as part of his policy, that the girls should drink rue tea on a regular schedule.
“But,” Sir Gerald said, “if I should make a mother of Anne, could I not find another girl—another piece, as you like to call them? Is that not also part of your policy?”
“Indeed,” Vance replied patiently. “If that should be necessary. But do you not have in Anne a girl so well suited to your pleasures, and so well trained now, that you would rather not endure that sort of separation, even should you find another fuckable girl? That is why we must find a place far from here as soon as ever we can. There no one will disturb us, no matter how many girls we keep, and exercise our masculine rights upon.”
That conversation in Sir Gerald’s library had happened perhaps two years before, when Caroline Hollins was still away at school. Now, with the problem of Caroline confronting them, Vance felt great pride in the theory of voluptuous inspiration he had advanced that evening, for it let him say to Sir Gerald now in the smoking room of their club, “You must see, Carruthers, how by keeping Anne as you have, free from the threat of motherhood, you have provided Caroline with the perfect instructress in the pleasures of your boudoir, and the perfect duenna, when your ward comes to your bed at last.”
“Vance, this is simply depraved,” Sir Gerald said, “and I will not listen to any more of it.”
“Can you honestly tell me, Carruthers, that you have not thought of marrying the girl yourself? She comes with a few thousand at least, does she not?”
Sir Gerald shifted in his seat again. “Of course I have considered it, because it could well be the best situation for her.”
“As from the point of view of security, Carruthers, or from that of lust?”
Sir Gerald turned positively beet red at the accusation, but he remained silent. The ground, Vance saw, could perhaps not be better prepared.
“Promise me you will listen to what Dr. Brown has to say, at least.”
“You cannot truly mean, can you, that you think Brown will tell me that I should… have her, thus?”
“Carruthers, I do not believe you know what advances are being made every day in the science of eroticism. Frankly, I have no idea what Brown will say.” This was a lie, but one that Vance deemed entirely necessary to the advancement of the human species. “But I do believe that there is a fair chance he might tell you that the very best thing for Caroline would be to become a full member, so to speak, of our household, with the privilege of her initiation per orem, per cunnum, et per anum posteriorem falling of course to you.”
Sir Gerald snorted, “Give me none of that Latin, Charlie. You know how often old our Latin master caned me for not knowing a declension from a conjugation.”
Vance chuckled and said, “I mean young Caroline’s initiation by the mouth, by the cunt, and by the arsehole should by rights belong entirely to you.”
Chapter Four
When the gentlemen returned home at ten o’clock, Charlotte and Anne were there to meet them in the parlor, as they always were, according to the requirements of Charles’ policy. They had stripped down, as was also required, to their shifts. As soon as the butler, Martin, whose discretion was purchased with high wages and occasional glimpses of the gentlemen’s amours, had opened the door to Charles and Sir Gerald, Charlotte and Anne scampered off the settee where they had been sitting by the soft light of the whale-oil lamps, talking of this and that, to kneel upon the rug. They cast their eyes down to the oriental pattern and clasped their hands before their waists.
Charles was first to enter the parlor. Although Charlotte did not look up, she knew his shoes so very well, and the way his legs moved, that there was no doubt in her mind that it was he. “Carruthers,” he called, as if turning about to address Sir Gerald, still behind him, “I’m going to put my prick in Anne’s mouth, if you don’t mind.”
“No, no, go right ahead,” Sir Gerald said. “I must return that note from His Grace. Shan’t be a minute, but I’ll have Charlotte when I am at liberty, if you are still using Anne there.”
Charlotte flushed with the awful shame of it, but the exchange of their mistresses’ favors made a vital part of Sir Gerald’s and Charles’ amorous pursuits with them, and it was nothing new to have to wait, listening to the man who was supposed to be her own lover, the man who had stolen her virtue, enjoying himself in the mouth of another girl.
“Open that pretty little mouth, Miss Anne, if you please,” said Charles’ cultured voice. Charlotte heard him opening his trousers, and then the rustle of them down his strong legs. How could she still love him, she wondered, when he had not said a word to her, but instead was now grunting in satisfaction as he thrust in and out of Anne’s soft, wet lips?
“Good girl,” Charles said. “Charlotte, how are your lessons coming?”
Charlotte could hardly bear the shame of it, but she said, “They are… that is to say…”
“Well, let us see,” Charles said, interrupting her. “Open your mouth and put out your tongue.”
Then Charlotte knew she must lift her eyes to see Charles’ cock coming to enjoy her mouth now, and in a bare moment that cock, wet from her friend’s mouth, had plunged inside. Charles took the back of Charlotte’s head in his hands to still it, and began to fuck her face in the way he preferred greatly to the duty Charlotte found so much easier, of worshipping the cock she could not help finding lordly and beautiful; so much dearer to her than Sir Gerald’s, though at the command of either man, she and Anne must serve the cock they were told to serve.
But the lessons Charles had spoken of were lessons Anne had been instructed, by the gentlemen, to give Charlotte in suppressing her tendency to retch when she had her face fucked as Charles now fucked it. Anne had been too kindly to insist, when Charlotte had evinced a reluctance to undertake the course of study her friend had proposed, with carrots and cucumbers.
Charlotte reflected with sorrow, as she tried desperately to please her lover by openin
g her throat and letting him thrust all the way in as she knew he liked best, how truly she wished for that kind of lesson. She had not come to this terrible pass, the kept, degraded mistress of a man who seemed to all appearances to disregard her feelings so entirely, by chance. Charles Vance had not pretended to be a virtuous man, or even a kindly seducer, when he came to Norton to stay with the Dalrymples.
He had hunted with Charlotte’s brother, and smoked with Charlotte’s father. Then, when Charles had found himself alone with Charlotte in the knot-garden, through the design of her mother, who had a foolishly high regard for the appearance of good manners and worldly prosperity, he had forced her to her knees and shoved his cock in her mouth. He said that if she pleased him, he would take her away from the suffocating life she led, and she must start by opening her mouth and giving him the use of it, for his enjoyment.
Even then, he had said, “You must improve at this, my dear, if you wish to come away with me.” Charlotte had said that she would. Charles’ face had softened, he had kissed her and called her a good girl, and told her he would fetch her at the gate at ten o’clock.
Then the inn, the bed, and the pain of learning to fuck under the tutelage of a skilled, cruel master whose cruelty never failed to rouse a fire in Charlotte’s veins that could be satisfied only by further cruelty: further punishment and further humiliation. Face-fucking, cunt-fucking, and bottom-fucking: things Charlotte thought she could never admit to wanting, but to which, when Charles demanded if she wanted them, the punishment strap in his hand to chastise her for any lie, she could not help but whisper, “Yes.”
But she knew now that she could never submit, as Anne could, without reluctance and resistance. Charles must bend her to his will, whip her, and use her. Only then could she feel, as she saw that same softening in his face as when she had taken his cock in her mouth for the first time, that although the life she led in Cadogan Square was wicked, no other life was possible for her.
So Charlotte had refused the lessons in face-fucking. So now, she did retch, and Charles made a disgusted sound in his throat.
“Not well enough, it appears,” he said, as he pulled his cock out of Charlotte’s mouth and returned it to Anne’s, where the wet rhythm of the fucking resumed. “You shall both be punished tonight for Charlotte’s failing.”
Anne made a little sound of protest, despite the fullness of her mouth with the wicked morsel of Charles’ virility.
“Oh, no,” Charlotte said. “Please, Charles. Anne tried, but I refused.”
“Well, you have succeeded in earning a more severe punishment, my dear,” Charles replied, “but Anne, for her part, should have spanked you until you complied, or brought the matter to me, in order that I might cane you to ensure your obedience.”
Suddenly, a voice came from behind the settee. “That’s not fair!”
It was Caroline, of course. Charlotte turned her head to try to see her, but Charles put his hand on Charlotte’s head and turned it so that she must continue to face the door, where Sir Gerald now appeared. Anne, of course, could do nothing but please Charles as best she might.
“What have we here?” Charles said, his voice full of a lechery that made Charlotte’s cunny seem to melt despite the utterly wicked scene of debauchery she saw now through Caroline’s spying eyes.
“Vance,” Sir Gerald said. “Stop that this instant. We must not corrupt the girl.”
Charlotte had to keep her eyes fixed on the rug, but she imagined her lover turning his head to look at Sir Gerald with the insouciance his face always seemed to wear when his cock was out and being pleasured.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s obvious that she’s already managed to corrupt herself very thoroughly. Why shouldn’t she see how good a cocksucker Miss Anne here is, and learn of her better than my little Charlotte has?”
“Vance! Hold your tongue, if you please! Caroline, come here, and do not look at what Mr. Vance is doing.”
“But I already saw, Sir Gerald. I saw him put his thing in Miss Anne’s mouth, and then in Miss Charlotte’s, and tell Miss Charlotte that they would both be punished because her mouth didn’t please him enough.”
Charlotte knew that there was no true harm in Caroline, but she couldn’t help protesting, “Caroline, you wicked thing! Sir Gerald, Caroline spied on Anne and me this morning.” Charlotte turned her head to see the girl, and this time Charles seemed too distracted to enforce the position of her head. Caroline stood there in her nightshift and stamped her foot.
“Because you and Miss Anne were kissing, and then Miss Anne kissed you between your legs, and then Miss Anne spanked me for spying.”
Charles withdrew his cock from Anne’s mouth and raised his trousers, though Charlotte thought he did it in a way intended to let Caroline see just how it looked, and just how big it was.
“Charlotte,” he said, “you’re in a very great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, please,” Caroline cried. “I didn’t mean it… I don’t want Charlotte to be punished. Please.”
“I am afraid she and Anne must be, child,” Sir Gerald said. “We must be very strict with them.”
“And you will watch them be punished,” said Charles. “So that you learn not to spy like this.”
“Is that wise, Vance?” Sir Gerald asked.
“Indubitably. Nothing will cure this prurience in her better than a clear sight of the kind of punishment naughty girls get when they have come into the power of men like us. She will realize that she is better off not inquiring, for if she keeps her spying ways up, she will doubtless end in being thoroughly corrupted, run away with some unscrupulous man, and ruin her prospects.”
Charlotte could never help admiring how quick Charles’ tongue was when he had a pleasure in view. She knew that he must truly intend not Caroline’s reformation but rather her further corruption. She knew that he certainly wished to fuck Caroline himself. The terrible thought should make her run screaming out the door, and into the arms of whatever religious authorities still took in fallen women.
Did she love Charles Vance? After two years with him, she hardly knew what that meant. Charlotte had certainly thought she was in love when she climbed into his carriage outside the gates of her family estate that night, but even then she had understood that the things she felt about men, and about Charles, were not such as she had been brought up reading about in the novels. When Charlotte had read Pamela, she had wanted Mr. B to take Pamela by force. When she read Clarissa, she wondered how Clarissa could make such a very great fuss about letting her seducer have his way. And when she had at last, given the book by Charles, read Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, she had thought, “Yes, indeed.”
Miss Austen’s novels had not caught Charlotte’s fancy at all. They reminded her of everything she was supposed to hold dear, and yet found that she could not. The idea that young women must not wish gentlemen to have their way, unless it were under sanction of holy wedlock, seemed cruel to Charlotte, for it appeared that men felt no such compunction. The crushing weight of social responsibility, of the absolute need to deny the way her cunny cried out at the sight of a man like Charles Vance, oppressed her despite its ineluctable hold upon her. When Charles Vance had told her to suck his cock, having already pressed her down, apparently without the slightest doubt that she would gratify him, the collapse of her morals had been immediate.
She had thought then that it would also be permanent, but to her grief it was not. Her morals returned every day, every hour, to make her miserable, and all she could do was let Anne console her, and hope that Charles’ face would soften that night—as it often did. When he reassured her that only the life they led, which looked so very depraved from the world’s point of view, was the only life that could give them a shred of happiness, she always did see again that he was right: church and domestic life were not for Charlotte Dalrymple and Charles Vance.
As ever, Charles’ glib reasoning won Sir Gerald over to the lewd scheme on offer.
“Wel
l, Vance, if you think it may help…” Sir Gerald said, pretending to hesitate. Charlotte could tell beyond a doubt that Charles’ notion of making Caroline watch the mistresses’ punishment had stiffened the baronet’s cock most effectively. It wasn’t that Sir Gerald was dimwitted, truly: Charles manipulated him by means of a surpassingly thorough knowledge of what would make a masterful man’s virility stand to attention, and thus influence him away from the moral notions that Charles considered silly relics of the superstitious past.
“I do,” Charles responded confidently. “Caroline must watch, and then she must comfort the girls afterward, so that they may warn her of the folly of her present course.”
Chapter Five
Caroline felt her eyes go very wide. Could she actually be about to watch Miss Anne and Miss Charlotte get the cane?
“Caroline,” said Mr. Vance, “please go get the cane from Sir Gerald’s study.”
Caroline always felt terribly disloyal to her guardian when she thought him, as she did now, a weaker sort of man than Mr. Vance. Mr. Vance made declarations and gave commands. Sir Gerald stood by—usually benevolently, but sometimes flashing into outrage as he had the day before when he had given Caroline that terrible birching.
What irony, then, that the birching had been so strangely welcome to her! After she had seen the remarkable thing Sir Gerald and Miss Anne were doing in his bedchamber, she had felt so stirred, and at the same time so ashamed of being stirred, that she had lain abed unable to stop herself thinking of the punishment Sir Gerald had promised her: of how the birch would feel against her bare bottom, of what it would be like to have Sir Gerald lift her skirts and open her drawers.
Since her governess Miss Standish had gone away to be wed, Caroline had been left much to her own devices, on the understanding that she would come out that winter and likely be engaged by spring. She knew that others found her very beautiful, for Miss Standish—and even Miss Anne and Miss Charlotte, though Caroline was not often allowed to talk with them—told her so. But she felt she did not know what her beauty was for. She loved to read: indeed with the exception of a daily walk or ride in Hyde Park, reading constituted almost the whole of her life’s activity. In the books of the ancient writers, and in the novels of her own day, Caroline found that she sought one truth above all—not love, as she knew other girls did, but whatever it was that lay behind love, or beneath it. Caroline read to discover the secret of what men and women did in private, that alone, she felt, could explain Miss Anne’s and Miss Charlotte’s place in Sir Gerald’s household.
