by Iona Blair
April wound her muffler tighter against the damp and moved closer to the forbidding mansion. So, this was the scene of Hannah’s sexual torment at the hands of the sadistic Ned Beasley.
She had wondered if it still stood. And had felt compelled to drive over to see, when she reached the pivotal point in the old manuscript. For this was where Hannah had spent a miserable Christmas season so many decades ago.
It seems that my husband is sinking ever lower in his depraved behavior towards me. No longer content to merely strap me sorely and fuck me most cruelly in the ass, he has now insisted that as part of the seasonal celebration, I put myself on par with the turkey. This I am forced to accomplish by keeping a piece of liverwurst, which is used as stuffing for the festive bird, stuck up my cunny and in my back passage at all times.
This is uncomfortable, but afraid to enrage him further thereby causing him to abuse me even more, I am complying.
“Does it make you horny, wife?” he whispers to me lewdly, as we sit at a neighbor’s table on a foggy Christmas Eve. I am wearing an emerald satin gown with a matching comb in my hair.
I ignore him, but can feel his lecherous eyes glued to my bottom as I walk towards the card tables for the evening’s play. I smooth the material over it with my hands prior to taking my seat, more as a gesture of protection than to prevent creases from forming while I sit.
All the time very much aware of the chunky sausages that are residing snugly in my most private of orifices and causing me, despite my best efforts, to feel exceedingly randy and desirous of a good rutting.
Upon arriving home, Ned Beasley wastes no time in throwing me to the bed and hiking up my skirts. Removing the liverwurst from my cunny and nudging his steely cock into its place.
“Ah that’s good,” he rasps approvingly. “We’ll keep your bum filled up for now.” Then as a feverish afterthought: “What does it feel like anyway? A meaty sausage in your ass while I’m fucking you?”
“Full-up,” I reply tersely, and indeed it does. For with every thrust of Ned’s cock, friction is created through the thin dividing wall separating my cunny from my back passage.
The hypnotic clip-clop of horses’ hooves passes slowly by on the cobblestones beneath our window.
“You’re wet as a sluice-gate,” Ned remarks with a strange mixture of disapproval and delight. He tweaks my swollen clit between his thumb and forefinger while increasing the tempo of the fucking.
I can feel the towering orgasm begin deep within my womb and as I writhe and pant and move my hips spasmodically it crashes over me with all the power of a typhoon.
“You dirty wee slut, you prefer Mr. Liverwurst to me,” Ned gasps only half in jest as he ruts his way to a similarly crushing climax of his own.
Then he removes the sausage from my bum and jiggers me in that much snugger orifice with such brutal abandon that I scream out in pain.
“Be quiet you noisy little bitch,” he scolds and stuffs a gag in my mouth before continuing with his assault on my person. “Prepare yourself for a good spanking my girl, for you’ve certainly earned it.”
Spank…spank…spank…spank…Ned has me positioned across his lap and is whopping me hard with the palm of his bony hand, while I twist and turn and try to escape, but to no avail…
Then he picks up his shoe and slippers me quite brutally until my poor bottom is scalded and fiery with welts.
“I’m going to fuck you again in both holes,” he announces with venomous lechery, and then we’ll pop the sausages back in.
April had shuddered through this harrowing account of spousal abuse, nineteenth century style. Perhaps Nuns had had the right idea after all. For in a time when husbands ruled over their wives absolutely, and were permitted by law to chastise them with a rod, albeit no wider than a thumb, marriage was a risky business.
Yet, the vivid descriptions of the liverwurst sausages being thrust into Hannah’s cunt and ass had inflamed April sexually. I must feel what it’s like for myself, she decided.
“And how does it feel?” Holt’s blue eyes were hot with passion.
“Full,” she replied with a mischievous grin. “Interesting as well…”
Village Antiques was having a Boxing Day Sale, and was thronged by a motley group of shoppers, elbowing each other ruthlessly for the bargains.
“Do you plan to leave them in all day?” Holt’s cock bulged against his pants.
“Uh huh.” April moved a valuable Dresden Shepherdess out of harm’s way, as a group of boisterous children filed into the shop.
“Let me take them out for you and fill you up with my cock,” he offered, as the last of the shoppers finally left and they locked the door behind them.
April knew he had built up a veritable dam of desire, watching her ass moving around throughout the duration of the afternoon, and knowing what was tucked into it.
“You’re on.” She chuckled lustfully, trembling with anticipation as he hiked up her skirt, and removed the sausages from their genitalia prison. Her cunt pulsated as he finger fucked her, letting the passion build, before mounting her with a cock that would not quit.
“ Oh yes…yes…” she moaned as the great well of desire that had been building in her all day, was suddenly released by the eagerly rutting cock into a throbbing, shuddering climax.
“I bet you never thought that a nineteenth century Englishwoman could teach you so much about the pleasures of the flesh?” he joked to her afterwards, as they lay exhausted on the bed in the storage room.
“Well actually, that was her monster of a husband’s idea,” she explained sleepily. “He made her stuff a piece of liverwurst up her cunt and ass, and keep it there throughout the Christmas season.”
“Ho ho ho, and a Merry Christmas to all.” Holt licked April’s slippery cunt and declared it tasted deliciously of liver and pork.
In the heaven of the post coitus calm, she thanked her great good fortune in finding someone as wonderful as Holt.
* * * *
I am helping a servant make lacy hearts for Saint. Valentine’s Day. Her name is Mattie Gwyn, a plump gingery-haired girl with pale eyelashes and slightly protruding teeth. Not long up from the country, she’s a good worker and anxious to please.
I am debating whether to take her with me when I go. On one hand, she would be a great help to me. But whether or not she can be trusted is another kettle of fish entirely.
Ned Beasley has been generous, in the adorning of my person with expensive jewels. This is not from affection, I fear, but the festooning up of a prized possession, to better show off his wealth and success.
Nevertheless, this is now working to my advantage, as I go about turning these expensive gems and paste into the hard currency of the land. Soon I will have sufficient funds to make my much longed for escape, a reality.
I am looking for a metropolis large enough to conceal me from the wrath of Ned Beasley. And have decided to set my sights on Toronto, more than two thousand miles away. It is reached by a long grueling rail journey of several days.
Still, endure it I must. For I am not sure whether what I do is legal or not, despite the brutality from which I flee. While it is true that the jewels I have sold were my own, I still feel uneasy about how this would be regarded by the powers-that-be. I would prefer not to tempt fate by testing these particular shark-infested waters.
Ned Beasley forced my head down on his thick cock last night and made me suck long and hard, while, all the while, I gagged and choked. When he finally erupted in a great long spurt of bitter tasting cum, it was a great relief.
But that was not the end of my travails.
No sooner had I wretched into the washbasin and washed my mouth out with a peppermint rinse than he grabbed my head most roughly from behind, and then bending over with his ass beaming into my face, ordered me to lick him well and save him pence on soap.
And much though this tongue bathing of Beasley’s rectum was the worst abomination I’d been forced to perform to date, I knew b
etter than to refuse even this most vile of practices.
On Saturday he leaves the city to go on a short business trip to Victoria, and that’s when I’ll make my bid for freedom. May God bless my flight.
* * * *
“Oh darling.” April ran her hands through Holt’s flaxen hair.
An unexpected snowfall had blanketed the streets and muffled the traffic noise. This added to their sense of total isolation from the rest of humanity.
“I could never get enough of you,” she added lustfully, admiring his hard body. “You’re beautiful…”
They reminisced about the first time they had made love, in the back seat of the cinema.
“It was the most exciting piece of ass I’ve ever had,” Holt declared. “It was the moxie it took to fuck in a public place that truly made it zing.”
“Amen to that.” April traced the line of his breastbone with her fingertips. She recalled how they were both quite tipsy or they would never
have taken the risk.
* * * *
I cannot leave Vancouver without saying goodbye to Tom. For all through my travails he has been like a beacon that has shone for me in the darkness. Even although I have only seen him on a few occasions, the sweetness of these encounters is the nectar that has given me the strength to carry on.
However, save for that blissful evening spent in the Rose Café, we have never seen each other outside of the tramcar. That is what I am resolved to change.
As Tom lives with his widowed mother and sister, we cannot avail ourselves of his lodgings. Therefore, I rent a small room at the Bryce Hotel. And that is where I lead him after his long shift on the tram is over.
How many times have I dreamed of this moment? I ask myself that question many times during the long blissful hours that follow. After the bestial cruelty of my husband, this darkly handsome boy is of angelic proportions.
I keep the oil lamp turned down low to conceal the ugly marks that mar my pale skin. I feel a deep shame for having married such a brute, and then remained with him for the sake of financial security and social position.
“That’s wonderful,” I encourage Tom, who makes up for in deep affection what he lacks in experience.
“When will I see you again?” he asks anxiously, as the gray cloak of dawn sweeps over the eastern horizon.
“Not for a while,” I answer honestly. “But I will be in touch as soon as I’m able.”
“Look if you’re in any kind of trouble, Hannah, I’d like to help.”
But I don’t want him to be involved in my present affairs in any way.
“I will contact you,” I repeat a trifle tearfully. Then determined not to end this most idyllic of encounters on a gloomy note, decide to indulge myself in the most licentious of fantasies.
“This will put a smile on your face too,” I coax, making him stand against the far wall, looking so handsome and aloof in his smart navy-blue uniform.
Then as if in a dream, I seem to float towards him on buoyant air, unbuttoning his fly, then kneeling before him with eyes ablaze with longing.
I hear his sharp intake of breath as he starts to protest. He is shocked that a “lady” would elect to do something like this. But I learned a thing or two in Sophie’s dockside brothel, and now I’m eager to bathe the man I love with just such a bounty.
Despite Tom’s obvious discomfiture, I kneel before him and take his throbbing hardness into my mouth. I milk it in perfect tempo with my hand movements on his taut balls, until he convulses like a pillow hit by a cannonball.
* * * *
“You and Holt have the perfect relationship.” Fern Daniels unpacked a box of crystal goblets. An old friend, who helped out in the store when needed, she looked like everyone’s favorite Auntie, with wild white hair and a cheerful expression.
April smiled. “I wish he would commit though.” For Holt had been unresponsive to any attempt to formalize their relationship.
“Marriage could spoil everything,” he had insisted. “What we have going for us, April, is just too darned good to risk. Why take the chance?”
“Men,” Fern exclaimed in good-humored disgust.
But as long as they remained monogamous to each other, April was content to remain as they were, at least for the present.
It was an unusually quiet Saturday afternoon, perhaps due to the sweetness of the spring weather, with very few shoppers browsing through Village Antiques, or the Hermitage Quay Shopping Mall as a whole.
April left early, leaving Fern with the latest installment in Hannah Wilks’ erotic story. For she had been passing the pages along to her and Holt, after she had read them.
Hannah was now living in Toronto, a city she disliked, with Mattie Gwyn, her maid. She had rented a modest house on Simcoe Street, and started up a small dressmaking business out of the downstairs parlor.
Nothing here is to my liking and I long for the moderate temperatures and ocean breezes of Vancouver. I miss the mountains that hover like ancient sentries on the city’s North Shore, and the towering evergreens much in evidence everywhere.
It snowed here for the tenth straight night in a row, and it is so cold, the water is freezing solid in the pipes.
There is a disturbing atmosphere in the house, and Mattie, with the highly developed sixth sense of her Celtic ancestors, is uneasy and talks frequently about ghosts and evil spirits.
My only joy is from the letters that arrive from Tom, and I miss him sorely. While, all the while, dreading and fearful that my husband will find me. For I am sure there is insanity in that man that would drive him to murder me.
Yet, despite all my complaints, it is wonderful to have my body to call my own once again. With no mad rutting little bully to invade it at will, with his aggressive knobby-headed Mr. Cock-a-leekie.
But my body aches for some sexual comfort, nonetheless. The persistent ache in my groin becomes distracting in its determination to be answered.
I think of how physicians treat “hysteria” in women, by rubbing their pleasure knobs until paroxysm. I ponder wryly, whether I may become one of their number?
* * * *
“What you need is a massage.” Holt wiped his hands on a paper towel, and then threw it into the waste paper basket. “We’ll be closing in five minutes. Go into the back and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be in to do the honors as soon as I lock up.”
The lights in the storeroom were pleasantly dim, and as April positioned herself face down on the folding bed, she could hear the lonely wail of a foghorn from far out on the open sea.
“Well I can’t give you much of a massage with your clothes on,” he complained good-naturedly. He jacked up the dial on the space heater, before helping April out of her blouse.
Then he worked on her neck, shoulders, and upper back with fragrant oil. He kneaded well into the knotted muscles and briskly rubbed the skin surface until it was rosy.
“Mmm…feels good…” April helped him tug off her skirt, stockings, slip, and panties.
He started at her waist and worked his way down over her bottom and thighs to her calves and feet. When he slipped his oily fingers into the crack of her bum, she moaned her approval. The warmth from her skin and rectum spread tantalizingly to her cunt.
Then he rolled her over and worked on her breasts and tummy, before beginning to tease her clit.
“Oh yes…” she groaned ecstatically, as he inserted two fingers high up into her cunt while keeping his thumb positioned over her throbbing clit.
“Boy did you ever need that,” he exclaimed, while the walls of her cunt convulsed around his vigorously fucking fingers, and she burst forth in a violent orgasm that was almost painful in its intensity.
“Now it’s your turn Holt,” she whispered, after the strongest of the spasms had passed. She quickly stripped off his clothes, and reached for his pulsating cock. Then she formed a tight little cunt with her hands, moving them up and down rhythmically, until he too was transported to Shangri-La.
; * * * *
Our exile continues in Toronto, where I take in sewing to eke out a meager existence. But oh how I long for the ocean breezes and moderate temperatures of the pacific coast.
To make matters worse, the letters from Tom have stopped coming, and this fills me with angst and a great unhappiness of spirit.
Has he fallen ill? Or, had an accident?
Worry dogs my every waking minute and it’s hard sometimes not to snap at others in my present state.
But then the stress of another week going by and still no word from him, begins to turn the concern to suspicion and then to anger.
He has met someone else.
The idea, which was already half-formed in the back of my mind now moves to the forefront, and torments me both night and day. If only I was nearer, so I could go round to his home and see for myself. But the two thousand miles of frozen wilderness stretching between us weighs as heavily on my spirits as the burden Atlas bore on his shoulders.
In my misery, sometimes angry and at others tearful, I dispatch several emotional missives to him, demanding why he is ignoring me, but still he does not reply.
And it is around this time that another incident occurred that was so troubling it banished all thoughts of Tom from my mind.
“There’s a man watching the house, Madam.” Mattie announced excitedly, as she returned from posting a letter on a freezing evening in February. “I thought I saw him before, but I wasn’t sure. Now I am.”
“Shush,” I demand irritably, worried nearly witless that the “him” is none other than my brutal husband, Ned Beasley, whom I had long thought of as, the Beast.
I stride to the window and pull back the draperies. And sure enough, there standing on the corner opposite, by the haberdashery store, is a tall figure clad in a long black cape, much out of style in today’s fashions.
Well, at least it wasn’t the Beast himself, I consoled myself with some relief. Yet, whether or not it was an agent of his, I had no way of knowing.
