The Diary of Cozette

by Amanda McIntyre

  I pressed into his hand with a sigh. “I need you to feel your skin to mine, Ernest. I no longer care what is proper.” Propriety, from what I’d seen thus far in my life, was meant for those living a life I would likely never see.

  His hand brushed over my shoulder, drawing free the ribbons that held my soaked blouse in place. It fell around my waist, where it hung, still tucked in my skirt.

  I stood before him, unafraid, and proud of my young breasts, plump and untouched awaiting only his pleasure.

  As though mesmerized, he cradled each in his palms, his thumbs raking light over my soft rosy nubs, causing them to pucker tight, further arousing the desire quaking deep inside me. He cradled one breast and lowered his mouth to run the tip of his tongue over one pert nipple. My breath caught for the sheer pleasure it gave, so strong that it threatened to buckle my knees. I grasped his head to hold me upright as he continued his divine attention to my breasts. My fingers threaded through his dark curls, flexing with each nip of his mouth, caught between bliss and curiosity at what exquisite transformations were taking place in my body.

  Liquid heat seeped from my quiver and I sensed a trickle running slow and cool down the inside of my fevered thigh. He cupped my bottom through my skirts, holding me in place so he could sample my breasts without reservation. A need so fierce built inside me that it caused my skin to perspire and chill all at once.

  “My sweet little bird,” he whispered between my breasts where he had so lavished his attention.

  “I must have you, Ernest, quell this desire with your member, I beg you.” I had no idea if I should faint or be ill, but I knew the desperate call of my body to mate with his.

  Even as his mouth crushed against my lips, bruising them with ardent kisses, his hands pulled up my skirts and his fingers parted my rose. I wanted to weep for the pleasure it gave me. I yearned for more. I wanted him most desperately, though I had no idea of how to appease my desire.

  His touch stroked me unhurriedly, until I squirmed against his hand, in need of greater fulfillment. I gasped, begging him to stop the insistent stroke of my sensitive bud that tormented me.

  “I feel dizzy, Ernest, I fear I do not know what is happening to me. How can I relieve the need building in me? How can I desire your touch and yet want to be free of it at the same time?”

  “And does my touch please you, my little bird?”

  “Indeed, my dearest Ernest, but I feel faint. What shall I do?”

  “Only trust me,” he whispered.

  He picked me up, kissing me once as he lifted me to sit upon a table facing him. Holding my gaze, he lifted my skirts over my knees and pressed his body between my legs.

  At first I was keenly aware of my exposed womanhood, and perhaps on another occasion, his bended knee would have signaled a proposal.

  I knew the risk of a child existed, but I cared not at the moment. I leaned back, braced on my arms and invited him to my quiver with a smile. “I pray sir, whatever you have in mind, do not stop. My body craves you alone and I will not be denied.”

  His grin, white and even, shone in the darkness. It was no longer the shy smile of a boy, but filled with the passion and lust of a man. He leaned forward and captured my mouth in a searing kiss as he drew my hips toward him.

  Each time our bodies parted for an instant a wave of cool air would rush my quiver. His head between my breasts, he left warm, wet kisses over my stomach and ribs even as he bunched my skirt higher around my hips. His kisses led him to the secret garden between my legs. I could not see his expression, but I sensed the intensity of his desire.

  “I want you to know that it would give me no greater pleasure than to bury myself inside you and claim you as mine. Do not think that I have not burned for you every night.”

  I reached for him in response, pulling him into a long ardent kiss.

  “Lie back,” he whispered against my mouth as he brushed his fingers over my wet peach. I shuddered once, nearly coming undone.

  “I want you to remember this, remember always how much you mean to me, little bird.”

  His dark head nudged between my legs and he kissed my inner thigh, working his way deliciously to my waiting opening. I lay back, staring at the dark ceiling above, my hands resting gently atop his head as his tongue entered my secret garden, teasing and giving me greater torment. My knees pressed against his shoulders, my hips rocked gently against his mouth, his tongue darting repeatedly over a spot that caused me to become dizzy with a most delicious but unbearable need for release.

  With expertise that I had no idea he possessed he lavished my rose, nipping my sensitive bud, bringing my hips off the table. My pleasure increased to where I wanted to scream for release. My fingers, woven through his dark curls, clenched and unclenched riding the intensity building inside me. At once, my body broke free and a wave of thunder rolled over me, taking me high upon a euphoric crest until I thought I could no longer breathe. Unable to quell the sensations overtaking me, I pressed my fist to my mouth to keep from screaming from the exquisite pleasure.

  Blindly, I reached for Ernest, only to have another mysterious wave crash over me. Overwhelmed, I fell to my back, fisting my skirts. Ernest’s fingers dug into my flesh, his mouth sucking my sweetness with each precious shudder. At last the exquisite sensation subsided so that I was able to breathe. I held my hands to my stomach, legs parted still and took a cleansing breath.

  I smiled.

  Ernest raised his head and I braced on my arms as our eyes met. His gaze glittered in the dim light of the cellar. I was utterly exhausted, but no less alert. I sat upright and cupped his sweet face in my hands, smiling down at him with full affection. “Wherever did you learn to do that, Mr. Henley?” “It would seem that my friend was right. It does help to practice on a pomegranate.” He offered me a broad grin, most thoroughly satisfied with his performance.

  “You must have eaten a good number of them,” I responded, “for your skill is most evident. Indeed, what else has this friend taught you?”

  He straightened his gaze to mine. “It isn’t polite to speak of such things with a woman, Cozette.”

  “Ernest, surely you aren’t serious? You’ve but feasted quite arduously on my most personal jewel, how absurd that we cannot speak of it, or of the utter joy you have given me?”

  He grinned and tapped my nose. “It pleased you then?”

  He pulled my blouse back in place, carefully tying the ribbons at my shoulders, dotting each with a lingering kiss. I glanced down, keenly aware of the bulge straining against his breeches.

  “On the contrary, I am not only pleased, but inspired. Shall I not have the good fortune to return the pleasure?” I slid my hand over his crotch, following the hard line of his firm erection and rubbed my thumb over his smooth crown pressing against the fabric. Wetness pricked through the cloth where my thumb skimmed and I smiled.

  He covered my hand with his and kissed me slow and thorough, before placing my hand aside. My juices lingered still on his tongue, causing the need to grow again inside me.

  “I shall appease my body with a brisk walk in the night air.” He kissed my nose.

  “But Ernest, I want to appease—”

  He touched his finger to my lips, halting my words. I could not express the turmoil raging inside me. I wanted to turn him onto his back and ride him like a wild horse. However, a true woman wouldn’t dream of such a thing, would she?

  “Do not leave me in this state, I beg you, Ernest.”

  “Promise me, Cozette, that you will meet my driver at midnight. I have paid him handsomely to see your safe passage.”

  Resigned that I was not to lose my virginity this night to Ernest I touched his face, tracing my fingers over his brow, immortalizing a fond memory of his face. I was nauseous thinking I might never see him again, to experience his exquisite touch.

  He touched his forehead to mine.

  “I have something for you.” He held out a book, its binding hand-sewn. Inside the pages were b
lank.

  “It is a journal.”

  I looked up at him, despondent that I had nothing but my virginity to offer in return.

  “I have nothing for you to remember me by,” I replied, my fingers skimming over the worn corduroy cover. I thought of a jacket I’d seen him in once, and wondered if he’d used it to fashion the book.

  “You have given me your friendship and your trust, Cozette. That is more precious than any possession. I will sorely miss our conversations, so write to me in this book, so I will know of your days and nights, until we meet again.”

  “I will wait for you.” I croaked my oath though the emotion clogging my throat, saying it loud to make it real.

  “Be well, little bird. I promise I will work hard and come to you soon. Do not forget me.”

  He kissed me once again with such gentleness that it caused tears to merge from my closed lids. As if forgetting would be so easy a task.

  I knew he was gone before I opened my eyes, my heart bereft of its soul mate, even as I opened my lids to see him departing into the shadows. I shivered with the fear that I might never see him again.

  As I prepare my few possessions, I cannot let any of the younger girls know of my departure, for their own safety. I will wait until they are asleep and then slip from the house. Ernest has said his goodbyes and I know he will not risk meeting me again. However, our hearts are bound by far greater substance than what distance or time can sever. I go because he has asked me, and with hope that he will be true and come to me soon.

  ~A.C.B.

  October 3, 1871

  It is approaching dawn and I write this before I journey onward. With this book clutched to my breast, I stepped from the farmer’s ramshackle wagon into the chilly mist-shrouded morning. I turned my gaze to the strange city that was to become my home. From the dirt road at the edge of London, I noted the rows of buildings, stretching for blocks, and my attention was drawn to the bustle of the early morning market vendors preparing for the day. In the distance, the deep blast of a ship’s whistle declared its arrival into port.

  My thoughts leapt immediately to Ernest and I wondered where he was at this precise moment. Was he thinking of me? Is he at this moment busy at work, trying to avoid the inevitable anger that Mr. Abbot will unleash once he finds I am gone? My heart fears what might happen if he finds out that Ernest has helped me to escape.

  It occurs most painfully to me that I never revealed to Ernest my deep feelings for him. Perhaps it is best to leave in this way, for it fills me with determination and hope that I can tell him when he comes for me.

  The road is like a quagmire, thick and gray, and my slippers sink to my ankles so that I must struggle to free my foot.

  My stockings are mud-caked and cold, sodden against my skin and my stomach growls pitifully from lack of food. I have just enough for a loaf of bread, and perhaps an apple if I can find an agreeable, compassionate farmer.

  I remind myself that it is my dearest Ernest, who in his wisdom procured my safe passage, thinking it best for me. To that belief, I will endeavor to be strong. Still, I pray that he will come soon. I must find shelter before night falls.

  ~A.C.B.

  October 30, 1872

  It has been over a year since I left Foxhead and Ernest. There is still no word from him and my heart fears the worst. The journal he gave me has accompanied me though remains silent after I lost my writing tools in the streets. For a time I lived among other vagrants like me, wandering the back alleys, finding shelter near crates or locked entryways. A good day was finding a rain barrel where I could wash my face and hands, and use my fingers to scrub my teeth. I do not stay in one spot for long, but keep moving, searching for work, if only temporary to allow me to buy a piece of fruit or some warm ale from a cart on the street. I stay keen to the roving eyes of degenerate men who see me as fresh meat for their physical hunger.

  As winter settles over the city, I find ways to stay warm, stuffing my coat with old paper against the bitter wind. The nights are unbearable and I search the dark streets, keeping my face turned from the lights of the small campfires burning in the alleyways.

  There was a woman I met, whose attitude was much stronger and determined than mine. She could see that I was weak from hunger and shivering against the cold of my now threadbare coat. She shared a piece of bread and a bit of moldy cheese with me as we sat in the alcove of a warehouse service entrance and spoke about her time on the streets.

  “I’ve been out here for almost three years.” The woman glanced at me. At first one wouldn’t recognize the woman beneath the tweed hat. She was dressed like a man, and I would not have known otherwise, except when she removed her cap. Her face with filthy pale skin had expressive brown eyes and she had the innocent appeal of a young lad. She saw my perplexed look.

  “This disguise has been my survival, of that I am certain. Were I still in my skirts, I likely would be dead, pregnant or both.”

  Given her experience and survival instincts, I listened attentively as we walked.

  We ended up near the docks, for the most part deserted at that time of night. I began to fear that my eagerness to trust her was premature.

  “Ye almost always find one down here,” she commented.

  “Find what?” I queried, adjusting my papers in my coat to provide warmth or protection, at present, I wasn’t sure.

  “The dead.”

  I stared at her wide-eyed, shocked in the manner in which she spoke of the dead, as if it was an everyday occurrence. My gaze was drawn to the darkness around me. The dim glow of the lamplights in this part of town gave an eerie sense of danger lurking in the shadows. Fearful I might stumble over something…or someone, I stood my ground, hugging my arms and barely breathing. She ambled along the edge of the dock and around the corner of the empty warehouse behind us.

  “Here’s one, come on, over here,” she called from a few hundred feet.

  My feet would not move, for the fear holding them in place. Was this how my life would end, penniless and left to rot on a deserted dock?

  “Well, are ye comin’ or not? Someone else’ll find him sooner than not. It’s now we need to strike. Ye don’t need to be so proud missy. He ain’t goin’ to mind.”

  I forced one foot in front of the other, the sound of my breathing echoing in my ears with each step. As I rounded the corner, I saw her silhouette standing over the lifeless body of a man.

  “Likely just died a’hunger.” She tapped the corpse with her boot. His shoulder rolled listless, before falling back to the dock.

  “Come on now, it’s you ’er him now. What use is his warm jacket and pants where he is?”

  I held down the vomit threatening to climb out of my throat as I hastily disrobed him. I made a vow that should I survive I would pledge to help those less fortunate. Once complete, I held back the tears stinging the back of my eyes as we rolled his cold corpse to the edge of the dock and tossed him into the bay.

  My new companion, who would only refer to herself as Tony, then wrapped my old clothes secure around a rusty piece of ship metal and tossed it in after the dead man.

  I stood there watching my clothes sink into the black, murky waters and knew then that for those on the street, survival is our greatest possession.

  “Come on, we’ll bunk in here for the night.”

  She ushered me to the abandoned warehouse. With most of its windows broken, the night wind howled menacingly through the cavernous interior.

  “There is one more thing.”

  She pulled a long-bladed fish knife from her boot and held it up, its sharp edge glinting in the light of the winter moon. I was faint from hunger and the sight of her knife made me stumble backward, tripping over my feet and landing in a broken pile of crates in a feeble attempt to escape. “Please don’t—” I whispered, knowing I didn’t have the strength to climb to my feet and fight her off.

  She reached out her hand to mine.

  “Don’t be a fool. I mean you no harm. But to com
plete yer look, you’ll need to cut yer hair.”

  She helped me to my feet and searched until she found an unbroken crate.

  “There, sit down, miss. I plan to cut those fine locks to complete your disguise.”

  She must have seen the shimmer of tears in my eyes. “Must we cut my hair?”

  “Now, don’t get all weepy, it’ll grow back one day. There are times when a woman must use her wits. Not all of us have a man to take care of us.”

  I blinked away my fear as she sawed the blunt knife through my tresses, dropping great handfuls of my hair at my feet.

  “Was there a man once?” I asked, trying to take my mind off the knife precariously close to my neck.

  “Aye lass, a scoundrel to be sure, but I finally learned my lesson with that one.”

  I wanted to ask how, but feared her emotional stability on the subject.

  “I have found, in my few experiences, that men can be most unreliable.” I lifted my hand to the side she’d completed and found no more than a handful of ragged sections.

  “You best lose that high-brow tone, missy. Out here, most folks are common. They can spot an imposter with but one word uttered from yer mouth.”

  “How I speak?” I turned my head to meet her gaze.

  “Aye lass, if you are to be an actor playing this part, for your survival, then be warned to leave yer book learnin’ behind. You’ll be better for it, trust me.”

  She tucked the knife inside her boot and brushed off her hands.

  “There now, there’s a proper bloke if ever I saw one.”

  “I have nothing to give you in return,” I whispered.