“Which woman did you love the most?”
“Your mother.”
“My mother? Were you two lovers?”
“In my mind, yes, but in person, no.”
“Did you two ever have sex?”
“In my dreams.”
“So why do you love her so?”
“Because she gave birth to you, my Olivia,” I confessed. “And because she’s the most powerful woman I’ve ever met. She is good, but wicked and cruel. She’s everything I wished I could be if I was a noble-lady. She’s loved as much as she is feared. She is adored as much as she is hated. That, my dear, is as close to having a Goddess on Earth if there ever was one.”
“Do you think I am like her?”
“In some ways, you are.”
“Well I don’t want to be exactly like her. I want to be better.”
“What are you talking about child?”
“Show me where you sleep,” she whispered in my ear. “In the servant’s quarters.”
“What?” I looked at her in fright.
“Take me there so we can make love on it.”
“It’s not much of a bed.”
“I don’t care. Let’s do it there.”
“I’m afraid that will be too much of a risk, Olivia.”
“We won’t do it for long. It will be quick; we will be in and out just in time! No one will know.”
“But Mademoiselle - ”
“That’s Madame to you,” she glared at me. With a similar tone of voice to you, I actually saw your Highness’s facial expressions of evil emerge from her. “You will do as I say, as you always do.”
“As you wish, Madame,” my lips, as well as my pussy, quivered lustfully.
I lit an electric candle for us, leading us the way through the dark, downstairs where the servant’s quarters are. Olivia shivered, surprised at how it was darker down there and as cold as winter with cobwebs and spiders all around. Quietly, I opened the door to my sleeping quarters, the creaking of the door having me shake in nervousness and fright, for it was indeed loud.
“This is where you sleep?” she asked when we stepped inside.
What she saw was a room so small that having one was a crowd, but two? It was claustrophobic. There wasn’t a bed. Just a dirty and flat pillow, the stuffing having long lost its comfort. The sheets were thin like tablecloth.
“You sleep on the floor?”
“That I do Madame.”
“Is it uncomfortable?”
“It is better than sleeping outside.”
“But our dogs sleep more comfortably than you do. They have their own beds and sleep with warmth and heat and even blankets of their own. Why not you?”
“There are some things, my Olivia, that I don’t have answers for.”
She walked towards the drawer, the only piece of furniture that was in my room. I started to worry as she opened it. Inside it contains all the letters that I have written to you Madame, that I, of course, never intend on you or anyone else reading, especially not your daughter.
“What’s all this?” she asked, pulling out one of them.
“It’s nothing,” I hurried towards her, taking it from her and stuffing it back inside. “Just junk.”
“Oh, what’s this?” Her inquisitive eyes and snooping hands seized my most prized possession out from its sheltered hiding spot. “Is this a dildo?” she held it, shaking it, hypnotized by the way it swayed side to side. “It’s about as big as Georgie. You’ve used this on all your lovers?”
I nodded. “On all of them.”
“Will you use it on me?”
“It’s quite big and long.”
“If I can take Georgie than I sure can handle this.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back upstairs? Your room is far more comfortable.”
“No, I want to do it here, right now!” she stomped her feet. “I’m horny. Hurry up.”
I hurried and grabbed the strap for my dong, lifting up my dress and attaching it around my waist. I then slid the dong into its hole, my Olivia staring at it, in awe of this foreign contraption.
“You look beautiful with a cock!” she declared.
“Shh, not so loud Madame.” I walked towards her, the dong bouncing up and down.
“I will show you how I did it with Georgie.” She sounded excited as she went down on her knees, grabbing my cock, her mouth already puckered to kiss the head. “I did it exactly like this.”
What an impressive prick sucker she was. What skill, what mastery, what showmanship it was! Her head bounced up and down on it, slow and steady and then fast and furious. She let it slide down her throat many times without gagging. This action produced a copious amount of mucus, making my dong glisten in what little light there was.
“I will show you how I can fuck like Georgie,” I purred at her. “Exactly like this.”
I laid her on her back against the cold floor, spreading her legs . I grabbed them, pushing her knees up against her shoulders, exactly as how her Georgie did it that one time in the study. With my hands wrapped around her ankles, I held on tight as I pushed my dong-head inside of her. I immediately had to cover her mouth; she unleashed such a moan! My hips went back and forth, rhythmically gyrating into her. Every inch of my plunged inside of her. That pussy of hers, how it sang for me and gaped for me and whistled for me as the air rushed inside of it, creating the most funny but pleasant sound that my ear has ever heard. As I went faster and faster, my cock was even more wet, not with her saliva, but with her come, her delicious milk. I was dripping from down below too; I could feel my juices trickling down my thigh. She opened her eyes, and looked at me - I mean really looked deeply into me Madame - as if searching for my soul.
“I love you Angelique!” she squealed. “I love you!”
That was the first time she ever said that she loved me. She had shown it all this time, but it was the first evidence that indeed, we weren’t only playmates and sinners, but true lovers.
“I love you!” I quivered. “I love you, my Olivia!”
As I write the final lines to this letter, Madame, my heart softens at just the thought of it.
After I pulled out of her and lay on top of her, we kissed madly, our bodies wrapped around each other so tightly, not wanting to separate from our warmth, to no longer feel the blasted cold in the room.
We looked into each others eyes, and found it: ultimate freedom.
I never wanted us to leave that room, a room that I so often dreaded and hated sleeping in - the loneliness, the cold, the rats and the roaches; it’s oh so horrible and frightful. Not anymore, not with Olivia there. It was her that made it Paradise. It was our love that made it a Home.
To have her sleep beside me until the morning sun rose up, not wanting to leave me alone down there. It brings a tear to my eye Madame. Your Olivia - my Olivia - she is my aristocracy. She is my riches, my fortune, my luxury. I know what we did was wrong Madame. Taboo. Dangerous. Irresponsible. Criminal. I do not care. What we did was right - so right.
Olivia Catherine Blake, the love of my life, was worth it.
Chapter 8
Dear Diary,
I cannot stop crying. As I write on these pages, the water in my eyes won’t stop flowing. My head is spinning around and around, making me dizzy and making my brain hurt. I’m aching everywhere, even in the places where I didn’t think I could feel such a pain. My chest feels as if my heart is trying to escape from it. If it could, if it did, it would shatter into pieces like broken glass.
It was my fault. I should have never had Angelique take me to her room. I should have never had us make love, not just one night, but five nights in a row, at that place. We were heard by everyone, and someone - who, I don’t know, but if I did, I’d kill them with this ve
ry pen that I’m holding, stabbing them in the same place where I’m hurting the most: my heart - told my MOTHER! My mother caught us. Me - wearing the strap and dong, making love to my lady maid. Diary, the evil in her eyes, it was like that of the Devil. Her breath was so hot as if she were a dragon like the ones in the children storybooks I read. I almost thought that I’d see steam coming out of her ears and fire bursting out from her mouth. I tried to explain, but how could I?
I was the one on Top. Angelique was at the bottom. She pulled me from her, and what she did Diary, it had me scream like murder. She slapped me in the face, over and over, and she spat at me! She grabbed Angelique, threw her to the ground, and viciously kicked her as if she were one of the coach roaches that dwell there. I screamed for her to stop as she kept kicking at Angelique’s ribs, trying to break her bones. Authorities were rushed in; they dragged her away. Mother locked me in my room and left me there to starve for I don’t know how long. When she finally let me free from my prison, I asked, “Where is she? What did you do with her?”
“She’s in jail. She’s going to be put to death. Hung.”
I kept screaming NO! She slapped me, and said “If you dare mention her name in this house again, I will have you sent to an insane asylum where you will rot and perish in your madness, like your father.” I fell to the floor and wailed to the sky, my guts spilling out of me.
My Angelique to be put to death? The last I experienced such a cruel death was with my papa.
His corpse still haunts me. Now awaits another that will spook me for the rest of my life, hanging by a rope. The corpse of my forbidden lover. What we did should never have happened. But why if it is wrong did it feel so good? Why did it feel so right for us to be together? To hold hands, to kiss, to have our bodies close, to make love, to sleep by side by side.
Why does that make me insane? Why does that make her a criminal? We are only human, dear Diary. We are creatures of lust and love and sin. It’s what makes us beautiful.
The tears keep on flowing as I’m thinking about it. Although I have a plan. I know precisely which jail cell Angelique is, who told me, I won’t even say to you, Diary, but I owe my very life to that person. I’m going to get her out of there. She’ll be free, and she’ll be mine. Don’t believe me? Mark my words Diary. In my next entry to you, there will be a happy ending.
Chapter 9
Dear Diary,
I did it!. I got Angelique out of her cell. It wasn’t that hard, actually. I told the guards that my mother changed her mind, that she forgave Angelique for what she done and wanted her to be free. Then just like that, she was out, but we aren’t free from the storm just yet. She is safely in a shelter for women of her occupation, away from my mother’s palace, and most importantly, away from my mother. I’ll come back to her, and together, Angelique and I will run away and start a new life together. She’ll be the wife that I always wanted. I know that will come true. Maybe not today, next month, or next year, but mark my words again Diary, it will happen.
When I returned home, while everybody was still sleeping, I snuck back into Angelique’s sleeping quarters, going to the drawer. Diary, that junk she once spoke of, it was not trash. They were letters that she had addressed to my mother. They sound like love letters. She talks about me in them, of the naughty indecencies I had with George and what she read from my diary. She confesses her love for me in them. I gathered every single one of them. I lit the fireplace, watching the roaring flames as they made the loudest snap and crackle sound from the wood burning into cinders. I threw all the letters in there. Angelique will never know. It had to be done. I did this because I didn’t want mother or anyone else seeing them besides me. It was a miracle that my mother and her guards hadn’t seen them but I guess they overlooked it in the heat of the rage. At least there was a blessing somewhere in the curse. I’d rather be damned than to ever let a curse ruin someone I loved again. Like my father. He was never a monster. He only had sex with a man. That doesn’t mean he deserved to die from a bleeding heart. My father and I are more alike than anyone will ever know. We have the capability to love our own sex and would die in the name of our love for them. No one will be dying this time. Angelique and me, we are alive. I couldn’t ask for a better happy ending than that. Can you?
Eternally yours,
Olivia Catherine Blake.
Dr. Williams’ Discovery - The Curious Truth
By Zak Jane Keir
Croydon, 1919
What he would later regard as their decisive encounter took place in the small but comfortable tearoom adjacent to the landing field used mainly by independent aeronauts. Roger Williams had arrived there with the intention of meeting Montague Heathfield, who was apparently anxious to discuss a joint business venture with him. Heathfield however was unaccountably delayed and Williams, with nothing to do but wait, was at once delighted and cast down when he became aware that none other than Lady Isidore O’Brien was settling her account and making ready to depart.
As the hour was too early for there to be any other person taking refreshment, the young man decided that the opportunity to engage her in a proper conversation was not to be missed. He longed to further their acquaintance, yet feared it was unlikely to progress to greater intimacy without a little plain speaking on his part.
Thus resolved, he approached her, and began his attempt with a polite but banal remark about the weather. She did deign to reply, but without enthusiasm, and his subsequent overtures netted him an icy, contemptuous glance and a request that he cease and desist from speaking to her at all.
“But, Madame, I merely wish to know why you despise me,” Roger insisted. “My admiration for you is immense, yet you continue to treat me with contempt.”
Lady Isidore continued with the precise adjustment of her flying leathers, avoiding his eyes.
“I have no wish to associate with you,” she said, very clearly, and young Williams felt a faint stab of pain in the region of his heart. The Lady Isidore, so beautiful and fearless, had captured his affections from the moment he first saw her, climbing from the basket of her downed aeronautical balloon at the top of Elm Tree Hill during the annual Skyseeker challenge, alternately laughing and cursing. He had vaulted the fence from the spectators area and rushed across the intervening distance in order to be the first to offer her assistance in recharging the craft’s Williams Carnality-Pulsation cell, only to be rudely spurned by her. Perhaps unwisely, he had persisted, explaining that he was Carnality-Pulsation qualified, even if she was not. He had told her of his access to a private Pulsation booth, fully equipped, and made it clear that she was at liberty to make use of it alone if she preferred or had the capacity to do so. She had informed him that her balloon was not powered with Williams cells in the first place, and that if he continued to pester her, she would see that he was banished from the event. Since that day, their paths had crossed repeatedly, yet she continued to rebuff him with freezing disdain.
“But there must be a reason,” he persisted, perhaps foolishly. “If I have done you any offence, Madame, please state the truth of it so that I may make amends.”
Now she did fix her gaze on his.
“You, yourself, I should perhaps consider blameless,” she said. “However, you are a Williams, and I would be betraying my family should I consort with the likes of you.”
He gaped at her, realising belatedly that such slack-jawed astonishment was hardly the way to win her regard.
“What do you mean?”
Isidore drew on her soft, maroon leather gloves.
“Think on it,” she said. “Think my name, and on the fact that I spurn all Carnality-Pulsation technology. Has no one told you this? Consider Eileen O’Brien, and how she was cheated out of the acclaim that was rightfully hers.” She approached him now, almost touching him but not quite doing so.
“Eileen O’Brien was my great-aunt, and your g
randfather betrayed her,” she said, and then turned on her heel and walked away.
***
Southwark, 1885
Dr Richard Williams regarded the young woman who sat composedly on the other side of the desk. She met his eyes with no apparent fear, and little enough in the way of deference, but Dr Williams was not one to insist on craven subordination. Not even from a subordinate; so much more enjoyable to encounter a spirit of resistance, he thought, and ran a finger over his moustache to suppress an unwarranted smile. It was some time since he had allowed his mind to drift in such a direction. Perhaps it was the fact that she was remarkably beautiful, with abundant red hair and an impressively curvaceous body that her neat grey blouse and skirt did not unfairly disguise.
“I understand that you have undertaken this type of work before?” He said. “That you spent some time with Professor Eisenberg, and that you have studied electromagnetism and its specific applications with regard to the potential of the human mind?”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said. “My mother encouraged me to develop my aptitude for scientific research, though my father considered it scandalous. But that is probably of no relevance to you.”
Dr Williams waved a hand in a gesture that could have been either admonition or encouragement. He wasn’t entirely sure, himself. In truth, he sorely needed an assistant and held few of the prejudices so common among men of his class against the education or emancipation of women. His friend Mountcastle said that this was because Dr Williams knew next to nothing about women, and that he was married to his laboratory. Dr Williams was aware that this was partly said in jest and partly out of concern; both Mountcastle and the doctor had spent their share of time engaged in the pursuit of pleasure in previous years, but latterly Dr Williams had become devoted to his research to the exclusion of almost all else.
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