Virgin Escapade (Virgin Series Book 2)

by Louisa Trent

  No more delay! The children needed larger accommodations as soon as possible. The North Street Asylum had outgrown its occupancy.

  On that note, I arose from the tub. Turning slightly, I took a hand mirror from its shelf and held it up to my hindquarters.

  Indecent or not, I would look at myself there.

  My assuredy had been late in arriving, but no less rewarding for its delay. Single or wed, a woman should be her own person, with the courage of her convictions.

  My bottom was rather…well…compelling. Where my bosom was nicely shaped but dainty, my buttocks were nicely shaped and anything but dainty. The two halves were plump, unreasonably endowed given the small size of the rest of me. Were plump buttocks the reason why the stranger had ejaculated there? Had the cushiony contours of my derriere spurred on his lust? Did their welcoming depths and round silhouette explain the fast return of his male hardness? Or had something else – the moon perhaps – triggered his appetites three successive times?

  Had I been the same self-effacing spinster as before, I would have denied his lust having anything at all to do with me. But tonight had changed me, and I smiled wickedly in acceptance of my own womanly powers of seduction.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning during breakfast and before setting off on my trip to the seamstress, Irene sought me out.

  “Miss Malone?”

  Since the loss of my parents, I only observed the custom of eating. I hardly noticed that every morning, I awakened to the same menu – a hard-boiled egg accompanied by two slices of white bread, cut paper-thin, toasted, and served dry. Not a pat of butter or a swipe of spread jam to be seen anywhere. My belly roiled at the thought.

  As far as I recalled from earlier and happier times, Mrs. Collins was an acceptable, if uncreative cook in the kitchen. The same breakfast, followed by the same lunch of unseasoned baked fish and carrots, topped off in the evening with a boiled potato and a slice of whatever lean meat the butcher happened to have on hand made up the bulk of my diet. Normally, I had no complaints with plainer fare. Indeed, I preferred it. So much less complicated than having to think of what I would like better. But the previous night’s escapade had awakened my dormant taste buds as well as my fashion consciousness, and I now found myself longing for something on the spicier side of the dead-dull I had lately only pretended to eat.

  With something akin to gratitude, I placed the precisely cut triangle of toast I was apathetically nibbling aside. “Yes, Irene. Anything wrong?”

  “Not exactly, Miss, only different.”

  Nothing different ever happened around here. Tragic, yes. But changes, especially those for the better? They rarely occurred.

  My brows lifted. “Do go on.”

  “For a while now, I have thought to leave domestic service.”

  News to me.

  I removed the napkin from my lap and placed the linen on the table beside my china plate. “You have?”

  “Yes, miss. But you needed me, my companionship and keeping things normal as possible, so I put my sister off. Seeing your change of mood this morning, an improvement that bodes well for your return to full health, I figured this was as good a time as any to tell you – I should like to join Agnes on the seashore. I should like to retire.”

  I stuttered, “Of…of course. Of course, you must.”

  “I mean, how many good years do I have left to enjoy a robust constitution?”

  “Many good years,” I reassured her forcefully, my heart singing with the opportunity this was. For both of us. “Of course you must go. You must retire immediately.”

  “My valise is already packed. No time to waste, Miss Malone. Best get on with it. Life, that is.”

  “The best advice I have ever received. And, of course, you will find yourself financially independent with the amount I intend to settle on you.”

  She offered me a brisk nod. “I thought no less, Miss.”

  “Irene, you have been a loyal and dedicated servant to myself and my parents. I shall miss you.” Hopping up from my chair, I flew to her side, and warmly embraced my maid of longstanding.

  Showing more control than myself, the pensioner pulled away first and then patted my shoulder consolingly. “There, there, Miss. You will be fine, deary, you just wait and see.”

  Offering her a sunny smile, truer than only the brave front she would take it for, I shrugged. As was to be expected, I said pathetically, “Perhaps.”

  My over-acting?

  A ghastly mistake.

  At her look of concern, I thought she might change her mind in the interests of self-sacrifice. This would never do.

  Making a great deal of bucking up, I said, “Of course, in due course, I shall be absolutely fine, Irene. Give me not a second thought.”

  “Small chance of that,” she scoffed as she folded her thin arms over her old lady’s rounded belly. “There are taverns by the seaside you will not find here in Boston. And pensioned-off codgers drinking at them. I mean to get me one before it is too late.”

  “Oh? Well…sound plan, Irene. There you go!”

  “And Miss – my second piece of advice to you this morning is this – whatever fish you reeled in last night, keep him on the hook.”

  But I had not kept him. Indeed, I had already cut the line and thrown him back! And not knowing his name or where to find him, he was gone for good, swimming upstream, leaving me not nearly as “nice” as before and craving what he had initiated.

  * * * *

  “Come back here, you,” I yelled like a fishwife.

  A lad had just robbed me! The young thief raced off down the alleyway, my purloined reticule tucked firmly under his arm.

  Some Boston ladies took a leisurely stroll through the Public Gardens at least once a week…admiring the landscape and the flowers, watching Swan Boats glide elegantly across the pond, feeding breadcrumbs to pigeons, wheeling baby carriages along well-tended, winding paths.

  Not me. I partook of none of those socially acceptable occupations. Plants of all varieties brought on my sneezes. Severe sea sickness attacked when I so much as gazed upon paper sailboats floating along the water. Furthermore, I detested pigeons, filthy pests in my admittedly uninformed opinion, unlike mourning doves which were sweet and refined. As to baby carriages – who knew?

  Not me. Not yet. My monthlie was not due for another two weeks or so. My wearing of the rag had never been a timely event.

  I may have conceived a child from my single carnal escapade, intercourse which I could only call unrestrained. Although…now that I thought about it…and I did all the time…the idea of restraints did intrigue me.

  Oh dear. I seemed to have developed a natural affinity for the illicit. The stranger’s impact on me, I presumed. At night in my bed…and other places as well now that my maid had dismissed me and I had most of the house to myself after dinner…I experimented. This adventuring informed me that I preferred less than a genteel stroke. Indeed I craved one lacking in all subtlety.

  Rough, in other words.

  Once again – who knew?

  The stranger. He had known.

  Also, the dressmaker. While measuring me for a new wardrobe, she saw what she called love bites, fading but still obvious on my flesh.

  Afterwards, the seamstress – a Frenchwoman with a worldly manner – had treated me differently. Almost enviously. She even asked:

  “Shall I bill your lover for your new ensembles, mademoiselle?”

  The stranger was not my lover. Still, it amused me that the French modiste thought him so.

  Long and short, I had not corrected her mistake. Rather, for the rest of the fitting, I became that woman, a kept mademoiselle with a protector who footed her tailoring bills.

  All pretend, but why ever not act out the fantasy?

  When I saw my reflection in the dressing room mirror, I looked different. Dewy. My skin glowing. My breasts praiseworthy for their perky compact size. No longer did I view them as flat and ridiculously lad-
like.

  “You are a petite bon-bon, mademoiselle, easily popped in the mouth.” The seamstress chuckled. “Though – with an ample derriere. Men enjoy such inconsistencies in their mistresses.”

  The stranger had referred to me as little peeper. Now this! I was not a person who normally inspired nicknames or such frank, if incorrect, conversations. Quite a departure from reality for me.

  “I see your skin is inflamed, mademoiselle. Does your gentleman’s attentions leave you distressed other places, as well?”

  I swallowed. “Other places?”

  “Between the legs,” she explained. “Tender?”

  “Yes,” I answered, because even walking chafed those other places, and I was indeed tender there.

  “I have a cream for your very complaint. It will soothe and replenish the folds. When they finally find the right femme, men are so greedy.”

  “Oh, I am not complaining, madam.”

  “I would not either. So why curtail congress if you wish not to? Apply the cream before, during, and after the acts. In fact, allow him to do it for you, before he inserts your French pessary.”

  Lord, but I was ignorant. “Pessary?”

  “I shall give you the name of a midwife well-versed in such devises. By the look of your lover’s attentions, your womb will soon quicken without this protection. Unless – do you practice sodomy?”

  I gasped. I knew little about most carnal practices, but even I had heard about that sort of congress, and there were laws against the unnatural act.

  “I can see by your wide-eyed look that you have not yet allowed him that use of your body, mademoiselle. But if you wish to keep him happy, you will. You will take his cock in the mouth, and you will accept his cock in the arse. He will expect both accommodations of you. Men are les chiens in the boudoir, are they not?”

  “Dogs in the bedroom?” My lashes fluttered at the thought, the image of barking canines conjured up from her very French description.

  “I suspect yours is rather a wolf.”

  “No, no,” I exclaimed. “A tawny lion!”

  “And not only in the boudoir, am I correctement?”

  “Yes!”

  “Oh là là. Lucky woman,” the seamstress exclaimed. “Now you must tell me – does he like the unusual as well?”

  “It would appear so.” Then again, anything he did would have appeared so to me. I had been a complete dolt, had never done anything before him.

  “And you, mademoiselle, you like the unusual as well, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said, not at all mortified by the admission. Prideful, more than anything else.

  “Then, if you do enjoy the unusual, allow him his pleasure and receive yours also – without hesitancy, without guilt. Even if he suggests coupling together in the same bed with either another man or another woman, you must do it.”

  Here, my eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

  “Oui! You must show him your true self. He will only admire you more for your grand passions. I did so with my Pierre before his sad passing. I miss him so. Have no regrets, mademoiselle. Life is a gift and it is to be lived fully. If you have an untamed beast of the jungle, never try to domesticate him. Never attempt to make a pussy-cat out of him. Accept him as he is.”

  “Thank you, Madame. I shall take your words of wisdom to heart.”

  Easy for me to say, as I would never see my untamed beast of the jungle again.

  Chapter Ten

  Five days out from my escapade, the bruises on my body were just about gone. Not so those emblazoned in my memory. That brief time spent in a room little bigger than a wardrobe closet taunted me during the day and seduced me into furthering my self-exploration at night.

  After a particularly steamy dream, I practiced using my hand on myself beneath the chaste coverlet. Above the chaste covers, as well, when I grew too hot and throbbing. At such times, I would brazenly kick everything to the bedroom floor, including my nightgown. Too confining to wear anything against my flesh…save him, our sweaty limbs entwining.

  The first occasion of pleasuring myself occurred when I was still sore from the escapade, my folds bruised and swollen.

  I continued anyway.

  If he were still with me, I would never have denied him. So why deny myself due to a little discomfort?

  Sore or not, I proceeded.

  On my fourth attempt to duplicate some of the things he had done to me, I found that scrap of flesh at the top of the slit. Maneuvering it as he had maneuvered it proved more problematic. I could not manage to stroke between my legs as he had stroked between my legs, regardless of how earnestly I tried. I could not touch myself as he had touched me. For that I needed a man.

  The question was:

  Any man? Or just him?

  Much bumping into each other we had done there in that cramped room while soiree guests filed by, a single panel of oak only separating us from them. Had they heard the animalistic noises we made? Had they wondered over them?

  His cock! I would never forget the feel of his manhood, tremendously hard and meaty, aggressively pounding into me from the back. His powerful penetration would never leave me. For a wiry man, he had been so strong. I yearned to experience his strength that way…or any way…again.

  My frustration grew every day I passed without him.

  So as not to lose my mind, I kept to my usual schedule. Going through the motions, I did what I always did during the week. Normality was the key to sanity.

  It was Tuesday now. A whole nine days had crawled by since that night. And I had survived. Unfortunately, survival was not living. Simply drawing breath was not enough for me. Neither was counting each tic of the clock. Not anymore. Not since tasting a man’s tongue in my mouth.

  To be more specific…his ungentle tongue in my mouth, ramming for the back of my throat.

  Nevertheless, like a good little trooper, I did what was expected of me and carried on. As I did at every start of the weekend, I took my regular leisurely stroll through the Red-light District. I did this just as the sun went down, when “nightbirds” made their appearances in brothel doorways, singing their songs of seduction to whoremongers like diaphanous-clad Sirens called to seafarers out at sea. “Hey, Sailor! New in town? Care to have a go?”

  Sometimes, these prostitutes solicited stuffy Boston Brahmin gentleman too. If the gents answered and I caught them at it, I generally had another generous donation for the orphan’s building fund on my desk by Monday morning.

  Especially if the gents were married. Most especially if I had even a minimal acquaintance with their society-conscious wives. Usually, just a hint of that acquaintance to the stuffy Brahmin gentlemen was sufficient to fill an envelope with cash. The cheaters much preferred paying me to keep quiet than face the wrath of their wives.

  I employed another money-making device too. The Asylum was located on the upper portion of North Street, on the fringes of heavily frequented taverns. It was there that I often set myself up to be fleeced. I did this deliberately, by dressing well and expensively, while carelessly carrying – absentmindedly flaunting, really – a crocheted reticule. The string handles of that type of bag were more easily cut away by a blade-wielding thief. I kept a ready supply of this reticule style on-hand at the orphanage to bait the little criminals, daring their adult ring leaders to come out of hiding so I could give them a piece of my mind. In return, they paid me not to go to the authorities.

  I had caught myself a live one this time, a boy no more than seven years of age. He ran like greased lightning down the cobblestoned back street with me following at his heels. Most likely, the lad assumed, somewhere along the way, I would scream to law-enforcement officers for help.

  Not me. I had given up on the police long ago. City officials would only get in my way now.

  Despite my washed-out appearance, I had inherited fairly decent athleticism from my father’s side of the family. If well-motivated, I could run like the wind.

  I was well motivated here. Not th
at I sought my property’s return. The bag itself was cheap, and there was nothing of any value in it. The reticule, weighted with stones wrapped in newsprint, was what the bag contained.

  All it contained.

  The thief would be very disappointed when he learned I had beaten him at his own con game.

  The little pickpocket was unfamiliar to me, a surprise. After years of informally “working” the back streets of Boston, I knew most of the Red-light District’s adult regulars by sight. However, youth came and went. Some died before ever reaching their majority.

  One glance told me this one was probably a farming lad, the youngest of many hungry mouths to feed. His family had most likely abandoned him to the city when hard times hit and there was not enough food to go around. Not strapping enough to pay for his keep by doing chores, he was a drain on the rest of the children.

  Decisions like that one might sound hard-hearted, but I learned it was either the city streets or a country poor house for little scamps like him. At least here, an enterprising boy stood a chance of escaping disease and molestation that routinely went on in pauper institutions. Plus, plenty of perfectly edible food could be found behind city eateries and taverns, piled high there before going for slopping pigs.

  This lad looked as though he had not put that resource to full advantage. His loose breaches were falling over his skinny behind. Not even rough ropes served him as braces. As he kicked his knees high, desperately attempting to out-distance me, I thought for sure the slipping trousers would eventually fall to his ankles and trip him up. My long skirts were not nearly so great a handicap. Prepared for this situation and others just like it, I always wore gowns hemmed on the short side and boots with nary a heel.

  I laughed to myself as I gained on him, cobblestone by cobblestone, dodging garbage and excrement of every variety. As soon as I caught him – not one thieving scamp had slid through my gloved fingers since beginning this ruse a year prior – I would offer him a free meal at the Asylum, no buzzing flies and slimy maggots competing for each mouthful. If that proved insufficient inducement, I would threaten him with arrest.