by Iona Blair
“Take him over a beaker of tea,” I instructed a less than willing Mattie. “Say that you’ve noticed him standing there and thought that he must be cold. See what you can find out.”
I then began to pace up and down, my nervousness increasing by the minute. Could that monster that had so abused my poor body have somehow discovered my whereabouts? And could he impel me by the strong arm of the law to return to his matrimonial bed of such pain and shame?
“He’s not watching our house at all, Madam,” Mattie informed me upon her return. Now obviously pleased to be the center of attention, and rubbing her hands together towards the fire as she held court.
“But what is he doing loitering on the corner and looking this way?”
“Waiting for his daughter, who works in the haberdashery store,” she replied triumphantly, and with a slowness of delivery that one uses to an imbecile or child.
I poked at the fire; relief flooding over me like a welcome tide. Yet, the incident had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. For my sense of safety from the evil clutches of Ned Beasley had now been sorely tried.
What if that stranger on the corner had been from a private detective agency? I tormented myself in this fashion until I thought I’d go mad. And how well had I covered our tracks against just such a calamity?
It was around this time that a Mr. Jeffrey Sutton, a most handsome and pleasant-mannered widower moved into the house next door.
“Would you care to take tea with me, Madam,” he invited one radiant day in early spring. Mattie and I were playing a game of croquet on our back lawn. I noticed with pleasure his warm hazel eyes and the laughing tilt to his lips.
It had been a long time––too long––since I had been with a man, and my body ached for the comfort only a hard member impaling my cunny could bring. Any hopes that this service would be performed by Tom had long since vanished, as I had not had a letter from him in many months. I, therefore, had to accept the fact that he was no longer interested in me.
Jeffrey was a retired stockbroker, and from him I learned how to better manage my finances. For it was a fact, that I had not been utilizing my resources to their full potential.
“You’re a pretty little thing that needs a man in your life,” he told me with much affection. And soon he was gamahuching me on the chaise longue in his parlor while his pet parrot flew around the room squawking “fuckee…fuckee…fuckee.”
“Where did he learn such language?” I asked demurely, straightening my petticoats after enjoying a long and most delicious orgasm.
“I rescued him from a bawdy house.” Jeffrey laughed in unison with the bird’s rude rantings. “Some of the clients didn’t like him, and they were going to throw him out.”
“And how was it that you were acquainted with such a place?” I asked in mock surprise, my eyes suitably wide for the occasion.
“Oh, I wasn’t a client if that’s what concerns you,” Jeffrey assured me most forcefully. “No, indeed, not that. I knew the Madam on a strictly business basis, and was able to assist her in making some very wise investments.”
As an especially torrid summer moved sluggishly by, I spent more and more time with Jeffrey. “Are you going to marry Mr. Sutton, Madam?” Mattie asked me more than once, her face strained with anxiety.
“All in good time,” I replied evasively. “One cannot rush affairs of the heart, and in fact, can never know quite where they will lead.”
Although, I knew full well that there had been no divorce from Ned Beasley, and therefore, could not undertake to become someone else’s wife.
Or could I?
After all, I’d been passing myself off as a widow, ever since leaving the salty breezes of Vancouver.
Chapter Three
Interesting, April thought, as she settled down to enjoy the next chapter in the erotic adventures of Hannah Wilks. For here was Hannah accepting a proposal of marriage from Jeffrey Sutton. The fact that she was still married to the sadistic Ned Beasley did not seem to bother her.
We now reside at the other side of the continent from the Beast, she wrote in her elegant handwriting. Therefore, the chances of my being found out and prosecuted as a bigamist are very slim.
She had, it seemed, taken great pains to tell Mattie that a bolting horse had killed Ned Beasley. Thus leaving her free, as a widow, to marry again.
She had even typewritten a letter to herself in the public library, ostensibly from a Vancouver law firm, explaining in detail how this demise had occurred.
“Clever wench, and so devious,” April said to Spice, shifting his considerable weight from her leg as she did so.
I have chosen a peach silk dress for the big day. Which, is to take place on the first Sunday of June. While Mattie, although I have given her an extra allowance for suitable clothing, continues to pout her displeasure. So determined is she to keep our present status unchanged.
Jeffrey is a virtuoso between the bed covers. A thoughtful and experienced lover, who delights in bringing me right to the precipice of fulfillment, then pulling me back at the last excruciating moment.
He has a large florid-headed cock that is long enough to bang against my womb as he quickens at the final moments of bliss.
I am well satisfied with the choice I have made. Not only will my new husband be of great satisfaction to me sexually, but financially, and I will be secure for life.
And while it is true, that with the investments Jeffrey has made with my own money I would be comfortable, as his wife we will be downright wealthy.
There is also the improved social status to celebrate as well. The wife of a successful stockbroker holds an infinitely more elevated position in society, than a widow trying to supplement what small resources she has by taking in other people’s sewing. And my sorely pricked fingers and tired eyes rejoice at the reprieve.
As a blossom dappled May draws to a close we spend idyllic days in the garden, followed by sizzling nights in Jeffrey’s bed.
One of his favorite positions (and now mine also) is A la Negresse––from behind. So with the oil lamp burning low in the corner and the hypnotic clip clop of horses’ hooves echoing from the street below, I kneel with my hands clasped behind my neck, and with my breasts and face resting on the bed.
When Jeffrey kneels behind me, I hook my legs over his and pull him to me with them. I hear his deep moan of satisfaction and my nipples tingle with excitement. He then puts a hand on each of my shoulders and presses down. This is a very deep position and as such wholly satisfactory. However, there is one aspect of it that is mildly disconcerting. Being deep in nature, it is also inclined to pump one full of air, which escapes like a volley of little farts––without the odor––at the end of the session.
For many days now, I have been watching the activities of a red-tailed hawk, a most majestic looking bird with an exceedingly loud voice. He has taken to sitting for many long hours in the branches of the cypress tree, and then suddenly soaring in swift flight to surprise a squirrel, lizard, or other ground dwelling prey.
Jeffrey tells me this bird is an unusual find indeed in these parts. This makes me all the more appreciative of the moments I spend spying on him through my field glasses.
The weather remains warm with a cooling breeze as soft as angel’s breath. And as we picnic in the meadow on crisp fried chicken and peach pie, I lift my dazzled eyes to the heavens and exalt in the sheer unbridled joy that god has seen fit to bestow upon me.
There is then a long period of silence from the elated Hannah. And, as April thumbs through the fragile pages looking for the next entry, she feels the icy hand of foreboding clutching at her heart.
And here it is. Dated November thirteenth.
As the gloom of another wet day draws to a close, I pull the draperies across the rain-glazed windows and poke at the fire in the grate.
It is almost six months now since my great happiness was so cruelly shattered, and my fortunes dashed on the hard unforgiving face of fate.
For not only did Jeffrey Sutton turn out to be a bounder who deserted me on the very eve of our wedding, but a scoundrel who absconded with all my invested resources as well.
I took all of this exceedingly hard, and retreated to my bedchamber for weeks. The shock and disappointment gnawed at my insides like flittermice feeding on the carcasses of cattle.
How could he use me so cruel? I sobbed inconsolably, refusing to eat the meals that Mattie brought up for me. And indeed, often sweeping the tray from the bedside table in my state of misery and rage.
But on the day when there was no more coal for the fire, and the larder was depressingly bare, I had no choice but to rise up, wash my tear-ravaged face and soldier on.
Unable to pay the rent, we moved to smaller, meaner accommodations on Parliament Street. What followed was a long and bitter winter. Every bit of jewelry and furniture that would fetch a half-decent price was sold. Even my trousseau went on the public auction block.
I was fretful, but Mattie at least proved loyal and remained with me, although I could no longer afford to pay her wages.
I tried to get as much sewing as I could to see us through until spring, but the work was slow in coming, and what pittance I did receive for my efforts was immediately gobbled up by our meager expenditures.
“The butcher says he won’t give us any more credit until the bill is paid.” Mattie informed me one snowbound January day, when icicles dangled from the rooftops like candles.
I cursed Jeffrey Sutton for a heartless rogue and scoundrel, as we huddled around a mean fire in the ugly broken grate.
There was only one thing for it, I decided bitterly. And it was an action I had resisted taking from the outset of our present problems. I would have to go back to work in a bawdy house.
So it was that I dressed carefully in the freezing bedroom, my hands blue from cold as I applied a liberal coating of powder and rouge. I had heard of a house of ill repute over on Jarvis Street. And that’s where I made for, shivering both from fear and the elements, through the premature dusk of a frigid and ice-bound afternoon.
“Well, I think you’ll do nicely, dearie.” The pock-faced old Madam looked me over like a prime piece of meat. “The house keeps fifty-percent, remember, and don’t try to gyp me, sweetheart, or you’ll be sorry, if you get my meaning?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cloud,” I replied obediently, transfixed by her sharp black eyes and raddled features. For I was certain that a disease contacted through sexual intercourse had left her thus. And dreaded that some such awful sickness would also do for me in the end.
“I run a class establishment here,” she informed me flintily. And indeed, as I looked around at the plush upholstery and thick Turkish carpets, I had to agree.
She then gave me something of a guided tour of the premises. On the ground floor, there was a spacious red velvet lounge where the women greeted their clients. A nude statue of Aphrodite holding Eros stood in the far corner.
There were about a dozen bedrooms or “knocking-shops” as they were popularly called, upstairs. Then, with a significant amount of pride and an air of mystery, Mrs. Cloud opened the double red doors at the end of the hallway.
“And this is where we keep the specialty of the house,” she informed me proudly, stepping to one side, so I could enter.
It was a medium-sized chamber hung with rich draperies, and devoid of all furnishings save for a strange looking contraption sitting directly in the middle of the room, a plush and well-padded red velvet horse, the type of thing that acrobats vault over at the circus.
“The girls call him Neddy.” Mrs. Cloud had an unpleasant leer as she gave the lewd looking thingy a suggestive pat. “He’s used for a score of kinky goings-on, like birchings, bondage and bum fuckings.”
* * * *
“Wow,” April whistled. The Red Velvet Horse sounded like a raunchy piece of property. An absolute must have for the connoisseur of the erotic and taboo.
She recalled a basement sexarium that an old friend of hers had had. Complete with wall manacles, whipping stool, and ceiling mirrors. But this horse––Neddy––was at once so classy and verboten that all the usual standard type of sexual equipment would pale by comparison.
Quickly leafing through a Collector’s Guide to the Erotic, which featured such items as a bench with handcuffs, and two-way mirrors, she came across a similar device, although not as opulent looking as the plush velvet horse of Hannah’s experience.
By golly I’m going to order it, she decided on impulse. Compelled by a force stronger than time, to act out the sexual adventures of a nineteenth-century femme fatale.
* * * *
The western horizon was streaked with bands of pink, gold and purple, as twilight descended.
April turned down the oil lamp in the small room off the kitchen, which she had furnished in authentic nineteenth century style. She even had a recording of horses’ hooves playing on the stereo to add to the atmosphere. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate bun and she wore a sequined black dress trimmed with ermine and buttoned high-heel boots.
“Let’s have a glass of sherry while we’re waiting for dinner,” she suggested to Holt, who was also dressed for the part in a high-necked pin striped shirt with matching cravat.
Clinking their glasses together, they drank to Hannah’s memory. The glow from the candles on the rosewood table reflected in the rich amber liquid.
The strong tingle of excitement that had been spiraling from deep within April’s groin all evening had now spread tantalizingly throughout her entire body. And, as she eyed Holt from beneath curling lashes, she fantasized wickedly about what the grand finale was going to be.
For the vaulting horse designed for sexual high jinks had arrived, and was now set up ready and waiting for them in the darkened far corner of the room.
“You’re looking absolutely ravishing tonight.” Holt sat down beside her on the striped Regency sofa. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards him, a great passion smoldered in his devastatingly blue eyes.
“Mmm...yes…” April moaned with pleasure as his tongue found hers and explored it with a rhythmic tension that left her breathless with desire.
Then he ran his hand under her dress and caressed her black-stocking clad leg from calf to thigh. “You smell so good,” he murmured hotly, referring to the lavender water she had dabbed on her wrists, neck and behind her knees.
She raked her fingernails down his buttoned crotch and twisted her leg over his in an uninhibited gesture of raw desire. “I think it’s time for Neddy.” It was the erotic session she had been looking forward to for weeks.
With the hypnotic clip-clop of horses’ hooves playing softly in the background, and the flaring of the oil lamp sending eerie shadows up the walls, April climbed up on the padded horse, then prostrated herself across it with her bottom raised high in the air.
“God, but you have a lovely ass.” Holt’s voice cracked with passion. He tossed her skirts over her head, yanked down her under-drawers, and grasped her firmly by the waist.
He stood on a small stool to the rear of the horse that brought him up to an ideal level for entering her smoothly and masterfully.
“Oh God,” she groaned as if in pain, as his rigid cock poked deep within her gurgling sluice gate of a cunt. “Oh my lord…”
Then he rode her with superhuman energy until they both convulsed in one great hammer blow of a climax.
“This Neddy is one neat idea.” Holt’s fair skin looked flushed in the flickering light from the log fire.
April moaned and swished her bottom around, willing him to lick her with his tongue and crying out in joy when he did so.
“Oh yes…oh yes…” she repeated like one in a trance as the piercing flames of passion seared through her dripping cunt.
He tongue bathed her from clit to rectum, in a long slow lapping movement that drove her wild with desire.
“Oh please…please…” she raved on like a madwoman, clutching Neddy
with trembling hands, her tingling nipples rubbing against his back with tantalizing friction.
Holt inserted two fingers into her cunt and fucked her diligently, while tongue fucking her anus to the same torrid beat.
“Wow, you can really see all the action with this old horse,” he commented later. “I never knew you had such a pretty little rosebud of a bum.”
“Until I was astride Neddy with it up in the air…” April laughed, feeling wonderfully sated yet still pleasantly sexual. “How would you like to trade places and I’ll see what I can do for you?”
He needed no second invitation.
Now both completely naked with the firelight playing softly on their skin, April started out by rubbing oil over Holt’s back and legs, paying special attention to his inner thighs and crotch.
“Ah yes...that’s great…” he whispered as she fondled his balls, and rectum, entering him with two fingers, and driving him simply gaga when she tapped against his prostate gland.
“Now is that ever a little goody that I don’t have,” she murmured sensuously, noticing with approval how he reared up and almost neighed like the horse he was on, when she applied pressure to this super sensitive A-Spot.
“But you have the G-Spot…” he groaned. And when she persisted with her rhythmic fucking of his anus, soon burst forth in a highly charged blowout of an orgasm.
* * * *
Spice had taken a liking to Neddy, and would lie across the horse, kneading his claws into the deep velvet.
“Out of here toots, it’s my turn,” April chased him away good-naturedly. She had added a new and extremely exciting feature to Neddy that kept her lustfully enthralled for many blissful hours. A large rubber dong strapped around the horse’s back, that she would squat over and impale her hungry cunt on.
Thrilling over and over again as this erotic delight brought her to an exquisite paradise of the senses that was peerless in its intensity. And gave a whole new meaning to the joys of riding.
