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What's a girl to do? Part one


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The memoirs of a lady

This is my second story, trying a different slant. The slang is authentic Victorian useage.

It began a longer time ago than I will admit; a lady does not want her age known. Apart from anything else, my fourth husband might take fright if he knew just how much older than him I am. That in itself was a change from the norm. But let me begin, if not at the beginning, near it.

It was not quite in good King George's days that I saw the light of day. The mad old king died in 1820, the year before I was born, and was succeeded by his fat rake of a son, George IV. The "Regency" as it has become known, was a time when vice engulfed creation; or so it seemed.

My mother was no better than she ought to have been, which is a typical modern euphemism for the old phrase "pity she's a whore." But the age of the young Queen will go down in history as one where euphemism ruled, which served only to disguise vice and its manifestations. My father was a singer, a fine tenor, who earned money on the boards, as my mother did on her back (though I once saw her on her hands and knees, but that's another tale).

Brought up in a theatrical atmosphere, and being a pretty sort of Toffer (that is a high class whore, as opposed to a Bunter, which was a word denoting a low-class whore, or a dollymop, which denoted a lady who might, given the right incentives, drop her drawers - so many euphemisms for whore, but then there were so many of us). I learned early that a girl situated as I was has two choices: succumb to vice as a victim; or use it. Never was it said that I was a victim. I wanted to get on in life, and as my mother used to say gaily: "what's girl to do?"

The things a girl does for advancement. It is not me boasting to say that I was pretty, I knew it from the number of older men who wanted to get up my skirts and join giblets with me. I may have been eighteen, but I was not some silly chit of a girl. Yes, men'll say anything until they tup you. Then, if you're lucky you get to be a mistress, and if unlucky, you get with a brat and end up as a Bunter or hedge whore (the lowest type of slut). Not me.

I had a head above these shapely paps, and there was a brain in there too. My body has always been desirable, and there are things I want. Sex isn't one of them. Position and power are what I want, men desire sex with me. It was a fair exchange. It would never do to paint it to men in that way. When they are young they have strange notions about "rescuing" one; when they are old they want "love." Love butters no parsnips.

My first dilemma came when the Waldy brothers paid suit to me. I preferred George Edward, the younger. But he was the heir, and Papa was not having him marrying the daughter of an "actress," though the dirty old bastard was not beneath putting his hands on my bubbies and giving them a good squeeze. So I settled for his elder half-brother, John James, or JJ as he was universally known.

Our wedding was not a grand affair, though JJ had enough money to keep me in a style to which I wanted to become accustomed, which was all that mattered to me. Our wedding night was a fiasco as JJ shot his pearly juices on my buttocks, prematurely misdirecting his white staff. It was only later I realised he was aiming to use me as he used his boys for rent; but what cared I? I had a nice house in Town, fine gowns and a carriage. He got what he wanted, cover for his frequenting the Molly Houses, and I got what I needed - a position. Usually, as it happened, with my arse up, but he liked taking that particular ride.

Perhaps it was not a good idea for a man in his fifties to marry a young wife with my energetic nature? If I was going to be married, I wanted to give something back. As he seemed to like a good ride, I made sure he got it.

"You are more like a Mistress than a wife," was my favourite comment from him. So I was. I would play the wanton regularly. Then six months later he dropped down dead. Thank God not when we were riding. I had retired to my chamber after a good gallop when I heard the moaning. Running to his room her was clutching his chest. By the time the physician arrived, JJ was dead.

Strange the way things work out. The sixth earl, JJ's and George Edward's father, died soon after JJ, which removed the one bar on my marrying George Edward; or so I thought. The Law had other ideas.

The same Law which said JJ could not inherit the estate because he was illegitimate, recognised him as a full brother in the sense that as his widow, I was covered by some ridiculous piece of nonsense called the deceased husband's wife provision. That meant George and I could not marry.

With the earl dead, I may have wanted to marry his successor; but the law would not let me. But there are always lawyers and therefore a way round things like that. It transpired that if we went to Scotland we could get married. We went to Scotland and got married.

The Law is written by men for men. I suppose men don't want their widows marrying their brothers and comparing notes. George Edward had his game book, I read it once. A record of slaughter and which coverts and stands were best for the slaughter. Mine serves a similar function. "JJ, lasted three minutes, lots of grunts, copious." Then, "George Edward, pearly-shower on my bubbies, groans a plenty, thin gruel." What's with the desire to rub his cock between my bubbies? I've a perfectly good quim, let him tup me there. His whore-pipe fires only once, so it seems. I can see why men might object to that book.

My maid Fanny, an earthy girl if ever there was one, liked to joke that by the time a lady gets out of her clothing the man had either died of boredom or having shot his shower, was suffering from that sad condition known as lobcock, where the poor thing rises only to fall away again. What's a girl to do?

I loved my linen drawers with the broderie anglaise trimmings. I loathed the fashion of having the things baggy around the posteriors, leaving a hole for one's natch, and had my seamstress make them fit me better. Quite why we need two petticoats is a question not to be asked, though for some ladies the corset is the only thing standing between them and a whole new dress size. If they ate less and exercised more it would be better. But again what's a girl to do?

George used to say it all stopped me being the Bunter I really was. I objected:

"My dear, I may be a whore, but I am a Toffer, so get your truncheon out!"

He never objected to my wrapping my quail-pipe around it and licking away. It stopped him getting me with child. He also liked taking my fleshy orbs, so much so that I wondered if he too had not a touch of the gal-boy about him like JJ? He had not noticed that I had seen him give the eye to those telegraph boys. Anything that kept me from being with child was welcome.

I had seen so many married men immediately go on a dollymop hunt when their wife fell pregnant. If George Edward wanted a dollymop, I'd make bloody sure it was me or someone of whom I approved. Part of the difficulty was I seemed to be developing an increasing aversion to being prigged. Still, George liked my arse, and no one ever got with child though being buggered, so buggered I was.

Then came that awful night.

He'd been drinking, as usual, and at the train station a Peeler had asked if he was feeling "well." George Edward had "damned his impudence" and kicked the man up the arse before cuffing him. That, as I pointed out later, might have been allowed under the old king, but in this year of Grace 1846, it was not, and even a belted earl could not treat a Peeler as though he were his valet.  Even so, six months in the Newgate Gaol was a bit much.

There was naught to be done. I rented a place nearby and took the household to town. We missed leafy Turnberry Pike, but needs must, and absent my arse, George Edward would have found some strumpet to tup. If anyone was doing that, it would be me.

My Society friends were not sure whether to admire my wifely tenderness or marvel at my insouciance. It was not, to be honest, as though gaols were new to me, dear Papa had spent time in the sponging house for failure to pay his debts. One reason I did our accounts was I trusted no one except me. George Edward was a rich man, but I intended him to stay that way, despite his penchant for drink and whores.

Money allowed George Edward to live luxuriously, and apart from the inconvenience of not being able to go to balls and the House of Lords, he passed his time much as he might have done, simply swapping one set of scoundrels for another. The lack of privacy did not seem to bother him, but it did me.

However much the gaolers might have liked to have seen my bare arse, it was not for their gaze. But there were pinchcocks a-plenty down Seven Dials way, and the Butler seemed to enjoy the process of selecting them. I vetted them carefully, taking care that the prettier ones did not make the final cut. No use taking chances

That was the first time I encounter the queer thing. As the dollymops and Bunters showed me their quims, I found my own growing moist, and more than once in the aftermath I found myself rubbing myself until my wet quim exploded and I felt the sweet sting of pleasure. It seemed as though I was dabbling in being a Sapphist, which made me all the keener to ensure that George Edward kept his truncheon where I liked it. I found that using corks could keep my anal passage open for him.

The problem with the prison was lack of the sort of privacy we had at home. But, incredible as it would be now to the young like my niece Flora, back in the hungry forties, we thought nothing of carrying on with our jig when a maid or manservant came into the room. Somewhere or other there's an elderly retainer or two can say they've seen my pearl white arse taking the truncheon. One got used to it, But I can't say I wasn't relieved when the old bugger finished his sentence and we went back to Turnberry Pike.

George Edward took a turn for the worst six weeks after leaving gaol, and so once more, now at the age of twenty-six, I was a widow. But the joy of being a second widow was that I was an extremely rich one, with lands in Somerset, Hampshire and the Turnberry Pike estate on the Thames south of Richmond.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that woman in possession of an income of £30,000 a year and three estates is esteemed as a beauty and desired. So I was. A period of mourning saved me for a year from the worst of it, but after that the queue was like one for the most fashionable play. Come, see Lady Frances and woo her. It was a play in three acts. Confess your love; court her; be told she could not marry you. Within a year I had the part off to perfection.

From my father I'd inherited a love of the old Restoration comedies, and fancied myself a Lady Wishfort - but what I found myself wishing for was a wet quim. There Fanny came in useful. we would tip the velvet several times a week, and she became my sweet girl.

We had no need of a truncheon, we could use our fingers and tongues to open our quims, and when we rubbed them together, the feeling made us both moan. We'd fuck till dawn some nights, and I never was so happy as with my sweet Fanny attending my quim. She had a delightful way of using her tongue to push my little love button upwards, which would make me moan far more than anything a man ever did to me. As my juices trickled into her mouth, she would use her fingers to fill my quim.

Thus occupied, we could pass the night away. My little Nug, as I called Fanny, would rub her paps against mine until our nipples ached with it. I would clutch her madge with my hand, curling my fingers into her and fucking her until her love juices would spurt onto me. I'd take the little Nug to me, and have her service my quim, her fingers in my madge until I could stand no more and the sting of pleasure would shoot through me.

They say all good things come to an end, and so did this Sapphist idyll when my second George hove into view.

Older men are on the whole easier for a lady to manage, or so I have found. JJ and George Edward were both in their fifties, and my second George, Vernon as he preferred to be called, was just sixty when we tied the knot.

I explained to Fanny, who came with me to High Wick Court, that repelling the borders was becoming a chore. At some point one of them was going to take me and get me with child. George was rich, his father was an Archbishop, and he was a gentleman. On our wedding night he explained that as his second wife I was not expected to submit to his desires, and in any event he was tired.

Such a darling, and such was my relief that I sank to my knees and pulled his truncheon between my lips and sucked. His moans suggested he enjoyed it but he seemed slow to pull the trigger. I discovered that sliding my tongue up the underside of the shaft did the trick, and my mouth soon filled with his seed. He seemed happy, and I was more than delighted to be able to go back to my own bed, where Fanny shared the fruits of my labours. As we kissed and lavered each other with his pearly essence, we felt deliciously decadent. Here, at least, women ruled.

George was a decent old stick. He was content with my quail pipe tonguing his truncheon, and as time passed required even that less and less. He became "Father of the House" in 1851, which required a deal of entertaining. Our town house in Grosvenor Gardens became one of the great foci of political and social life, and successive Prime Ministers from Lord Derby, through Lord John Russell to Lord Palmerston, graced my dining and drawing rooms.

This gave George far more pleasure than anything I could have done in the bedroom, and when he complimented me on becoming the "political hostess of the day," it gave me a great deal of pleasure. He kept me in the style to which I had become accustomed, and this was the dear man's reward.

There were, of course, the usual hazards of political dining. My nieces seem to think these consisted of political arguments between politicians of opposing parties, but that was seldom the case, even when that very naughty man Disraeli dined. He could no more keep a witty but barbed sentiment to himself than he could keep a hot coal in his mouth, but at dinner he liked to entertain, and did so.

I liked the old Jew. Unlike most men, he set out to charm women. I got the impression he actually liked women, and we responded by liking his company. The Queen found him frightfully amusing and just loved the way he flattered her. To listen to him, you'd have thought she was a cross between Helen of Troy and Homer, instead of a dumpy hausfrau with the literary talent of a puddle. "Dizzy," as she called him, was a firm favourite, despite being as reliable as a broken watch (he was right twice a day).

The other charmer was the Prime Minister for most of the decade after 1855 - Palmerston, or "Pam," as they called him. Pam also loved women, but he did it literally - and very physically. There was not a lot of use getting left with him at the end of the evening unless you intended to part your legs and let him pour his pearly shower in your quim. As he was particularly partial to taking one over the billiard table, arse up, he rather suited me.

Why did I let him you might ask? Because I'd heard he was a rattling good fuck and felt like finding out what that kind of man was like. Whatever the Archbishops and the Queen thought about our era being one of modesty and prudence, as long as Pam was alive, the Regency period had never ended - unlike me, whom he upended one Saturday night after a boozy feast to celebrate the Queen's birthday.

His method was direct. Loitering about in the gazebo was the signal that a lady was willing to play the dollymop; ladies of virtue retired early for Church. Those of us who needed Church more because we needed something else first, loitered with intent.

"You've given us a splendid supper m'dear, let's go for a walk down cock lane. I take it you're open and willing m'dear?"

It wasn't the most subtle approach, but then by loitering until last, I had rather been advertising my easy virtue.

"Why my Lord, my cloven inlet would welcome a visitor."

"Get those skirts up Madam and let me at you!"

I suddenly felt like a military campaign, but obliged the old boy.

Once bent over the table, he lifted my skirts and lowered my drawers.

As his hands explored my fleshy orbs, I could feel my quim grow wet, and as he parted my arse cheeks to expose my back garden, I felt his truncheon press between my lips.

"Oh my Lord!"

Not so much an imprecation of God, as an expression of the size of his weapon. I'd swear as he swived my from the back that there was a good twelve inches of the thing. He was a generous man and he eased his tree trunk of a truncheon slowly and surprising pleasantly into me.

My quim felt as though it was being stuffed with something too large for it. It stretched me, and filled me and rubbed me delightfully in places others rarely reached.

"You've a nice tight madge there milady, thrust your arse back you Bunter, you're just another whore under it, aren't you?"

"Oh, oh fuck milord, yes, oh fuck, just a nasty Bunter, oh fuck, yes milord!"

It was not just that he was not bad for a man in his early seventies, it was that he was a thoroughly good fuck for a man of any age. I felt as though my white cliffs were turning red as he spanked me as he fucked me, He had unusually large whirlygigs which slammed against me as he pushed deep into my quim.

"Fuck milady, you're more a Toffer than a Bunter!" He grunted.

Well if I was going to be called a whore, I'd rather have been the high class one than the low class one. By this stage my cloven inlet felt cloved in twain, and it was all I could do not to scream as he emptied his mighty engine into me. As he pulled away, wiping himself on my underskirt, I was still moaning. There should, I thought, be an equivalent release for a lady when she was with a man; but I could remedy that.

As I pulled my drawers up I felt a soggy mess between my legs; my hairs would be matted with his seed. God, I hoped he'd not knocked me up. With a quick smack on my arse, he thanked me and departed upstairs, no doubt to tup Lady Palmerston,

As I got to my room, dear Fanny was there, so I set her to work undressing me, and once I was nude, she gathered the Palmerstonian harvest from between my thighs. She kissed me and we shared his gift. What a couple of depraved harlots we were. Little does Fortescue know it, but he's fucked the quim fucked by the truncheon of the man who fucked the woman fucked by the great Duke of Wellington himself, Why it almost makes me feel nostalgic.

Of course the old whoremaster passed as he would have wanted, swiving a serving wench over the billiard table at his town house. They don't make them like that anymore.

George Vernon gradually declined into decrepitude, and he passed to whatever eternal reward awaited him on my fortieth birthday in 1861. If I'd been a rich widow with the demise of the last George, I was an obscenely rich one now. Leaving High Wick and the Midlands of England for ever, I decided to take up residence at Turnberry Pike.

I was Mistress of all I surveyed. Estates in Somerset and Hampshire kept me well supplied with funds, and Turberry became what it had been in the days of its founder, Horatio Walpole, a Gothick fantasy house on the banks of the Thames. But where he'd attracted every Gal-boy in London, I attracted the best politicians - and their ladies.

It seemed as though I had stumbled upon a secret. Or rather, that Fanny had. Bunters and Toffers aside, it is hard to convey how little we knew about ourselves. Our very clothes seemed designed to make us strangers to our own bodies, and for all the names we had for our lady parts, it was a rare bird who knew how to use them. I was that rare bird.

The great secret lay between our thighs, near the top of the madge. There, if one hunted amidst the forest, one found the love button. Noticing the effect that Fanny licking it had on me, I tried it on her, with instantaneous and similar effects. That, it seemed, was our equivalent of what men got with their release; but who knew? I did

It transpired that there was value in such knowledge. When the young lady Salisbury visited just as George Vernon was laid to rest, we found ourselves in the garden talking of old lovers - hers was in his seventies.

"But what, darling Frances, is one to do? You've had three of them. Is it immodest of me to want my quim tupped?"

I explained it was perfectly natural, but that there were ways one could obtain such pleasure oneself, and indeed, better pleasure.

That was how she found herself in my bed chamber that Friday evening.

Unrigged, just in our underclothes, I persuaded her to let me remove her drawers. With the aid of a mirror, I showed her where her love button was. As she peered at it, I began to caress it, pushing it gently from one side to the other. Her arousal was instantaneous. Taking one of the candles, I showed her how to insert it into her wetness, and, pushing it in and pulling it out until she squelched, I continued to rub the love button.

Wondering whether she would like it, I unlaced her chemise and began to kiss her bubbies, taking the nipples into my mouth and sucking harder and harder and I rogered her quim.

When her blessed release came, it was as Noah's great flood, and I found my underwear soaked with her juices.

"Oh my goodness Frances, is that what it is like with a man?"

I laughed, told her fat chance, and explained how she could do this for me. Gingerly she found and touched my love button, and before long I too was candled. My quim exploded as violently, after which we fell together as lovers, kissing and cuddling.

"Oh Frances, this feels so good," she said as we lay together.

"Oh Kate, it is, and we can have this whenever we like."

And so we did. Others followed in her wake. So it was that while Turnberry Pike heaved with political intrigue by day, Sapphic passion flowed alongside the more usual fucking by night. What's a girl to do? Tip the velvet with another was my answer.

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