0 comments/ 92714 views/ 9 favorites Victorian Diaries Ch. 01 By: drysi Entry I Dear Diary, Today is a new day for the rest of my life, a whirlwind of changes. Even you are new, bound in leather with a lock to make you mine alone; just as I am his, now. Bought and paid for. I'm still terrified, I tell you only. But I suppose it was inevitable, and mother prepared me as best she can. She should not have had me, she always said. The Duke could not afford embarrassments such as an illegitimate child would cause, and so I grew up alone in the attic, surrounded by books and what delights mother could sneak up to me. Do not pity me, for mother was beautiful and her gentlemen very generous. Still, after she broke with the Duke things were never quite as grand, she said. And used to cry late at night, whispering his name when she thought no one could hear. All my life I know she loved him, though circumstances compelled her to ask him to leave for his own sake and the Duchess. It was last Tuesday, the end of my childhood and a rather abrupt transition into womanhood. Her current lover entered without sending that he was coming, something she asked of all her lovers for my sake. And found me there, playing dress up in her finest gown while mother was out visiting the bakery for the evening's rendezvous. I never liked him, this one, for there was always something cold in his eyes and mother never sang anymore. I cannot and will not write of how it happened, dear Diary. Some pains are only to be held within, in the dark places of your mind and soul. Mother arrived home in the middle of it, and I think saved me as she sent him away for good and held me while I cried. She sent for the doctor, and another note to an old friend that showed up and helped her deal with the inevitable troubles with the solicitor and constabulary. But at length she was free, though even more poorly off, and I acquired through her something in a kindly uncle. It was he that suggested delicately to us both that perhaps it was time I found my own way in the world. That at his club there was a yearly event, where young ladies might find "protectors". Mother wanted to protest, and even more so did I. Still, he took me for a carriage ride that afternoon and explained matters to me. That he would attend, with a few likely acquaintances of his that had no mistresses. He promised I’d be well treated with whomever he would find, and want for nothing. I had to believe him, dear diary. He truly meant kindly, seeing this as the only decent future for one that had already lost what I had lost. Certainly considering my parentage and bastardy. Still, I feared. My mother dressed me, helped me do my hair with some little makeup. The last of her lessons for me, she tried to smile, and I found myself reassuring her. That it was all right, would be all right, and that I was ready to be out in the world. (I lied, and still it hurt.. No, mustn't show her that.) With a simple white dressing gown over corset and stockings, she saw me to the door as the carriage arrived. I hugged her hard, not knowing whether I'd see her again, and there were tears in my eyes as I started down the steps. The footman handed me in like a grand lady, and my spirits raised a little to see my "uncle". He told me what would happen that evening, what would be expected. That whatever happened, I should try to smile and be pleasant. I resolved to be brave, not to disgrace his kindness or efforts. He saw me to the back room of the club, patted my cheek, and was gone. And I was alone with a group of strange women, all in various degrees of dishabille. Some were as young as I, some even younger and a little thin and shabby, which made me sad they must be even more poorly off than my Mother and myself. Some of the women were much older, brazen and painted in ways Mother would have laughed at and called the cheapest artifice. But suffice it to say that none stared overmuch, and we all waited there in the back either frightened or eager as one by one a butler type fellow came to take us out into the main club. When it was my turn, the white gloved man paused to whisper to me that tonight my name was Pansy, and I should say so to any but the man who finally won the auction to take me home. And he led me out onto a dais in a room too warm that seemed full of smoke and the reflected glow of gaslights. I grew a little frantic that I couldn't see my benefactor, and the butler had to shake my arm twice before I could respond to his questions. I said my name, and he bade me walk about the stage before coming back to have him remove my outer robes. There were many hoots and catcalls as I was left standing so near naked, and I blushed all over with my hand over my breasts. One by one I was made to answer questions shouted from the audience, humiliations galore as some seemed merely designed to embarrass me and amuse their friends. Still, the bids started, and I endured it well enough until I heard a voice that made my blood freeze. It was he, that horrid man that hurt me, and cost my mother so much money. And the bid he made my knees go to water with fear, for who would pay so much? There was silence for a few moments before another voice countered it. Deeper, this voice, and stronger, and without seeing I longed for whomever it was not to give up as the Bastard bid again. And again. The price reached so high the Butler bid me go out into the crowds so that the bidders could see the merchandise up close, and the Bastard rose to pull me onto his lap. Cruelly hard he pinched my nipple where it just showed over my mother's too small corset, laughing with the rest when I cried out. He licked the tear off my face, and I cringed from his breath and memory both. More tears, and the Butler kindly enough lifted me to lead me to the other man. He sat with my Uncle in a semi circle of chairs, and his countenance almost made me lose heart. So angry he looked, so disdainful. Still, as I was led between his legs to stand, the sheer clean smell of him made me fall to my knees and beg him not to let the other man win. I felt his hand at my throat, lifting my chin as he looked long into my tearstained eyes. Idly he asked my "uncle" if I was a bright girl, and obedient. I confess I would have promised anything at that moment, and perhaps I even did. It’s all a blur. Slipping down, I knelt before him to beg in a low voice, and perhaps something in that pleased him for his final bid silenced all. Even the Bastard dared not bid again, though I could feel his glare on my back and I shivered in fear. Sold, it was declared, a symbolic rope draped about my neck with one end placed in my new owner's hand. He nodded, and the next girl was brought out as I remained there on the carpet between his knees. I heard my "uncle" then quietly promise to reimburse Him for part of my price, but he shook his head. ‘She's mine,’ he said quietly, his hand still about my throat. ‘You arranged it, you will live with it.’ And the rest of the auction I remained there with my head against his knee. Eventually things began to break up. Or in truth, some men left with their acquisitions while others began to share them about their table and friends, then and there. I averted my eyes. My new.. Employer? Owner? Master, he bade me call him, and did not ask my name; he rose in time, saying that he'd be taking me away for the night. Reaching the cloakroom he put his own about my shoulders, for which I was grateful for my shivering. He said very little on the trip a few blocks to a Hotel, and led me upstairs to a room for which he had the key. Inside, and he pressed me down into a chair and sat across from me staring for long enough that I began to be worried again. Finally did he ask me my name, my age, my general health and education. I answered with more and more confidence, something of his general reserve more comforting than the debauchery back at the club. He told me his name, his marital situation in very terse terms, and what I could not expect. And what I could. He would be very demanding, he said, and as I was his I would obey always without question. I would not see anyone without his leave, would not leave the hotel for now without his presence at my side. On and on it went, how I would dress when I was waiting for him, how I would groom myself and keep myself. How to sit, even. Now and again I would blush, but he was very matter of fact about it all. When again he rose, he bade me stand and removed my corset and stockings with his own hands. Turning me, he began to examine me much like the doctor had. Only it was not like the doctor, Diary, something in his eyes like water held back behind a dam. A flood, and I was nervous about it. I'm not sure if he was pleased or angry to find that I was not a virgin, though the ways that I *was* still a virgin he seemed satisfied about. The touching changed, subtly, almost gentle when I confessed what had happened for my first time. Was it his lips in my hair I felt? Something of the fear in me melted at that small gesture. Settling back in his chair, he found a small pillow to put down between his legs, and commanded me to come take him out and do the duty he'd described. The moment of truth, I suppose, and there was only the faintest hesitation in my obedience. I'd seen Mother perform this act a hundred times, even practiced when I was younger on the end of my hairbrush. Though he was nothing in shape like my hairbrush! I nearly choked when I tried to do what she did so easily, and his hand in my hair was gentle as he started to talk, guiding me through it. And so I learned from his quiet instructions, finding my own pleasure from the way his voice started to catch. Such a sense of accomplishment when I finally heard him moan, and say that yes, I'd gotten it. It did take me by surprise how much squirted when he finally came in my mouth, and I couldn't swallow quickly enough the musky, sour stuff. Despite his instructions, some of it escaped my lips and down my chin, nearly going out my nose as I fought to breathe and choke it down. He wiped my face with his kerchief, and kissed my hair before gently slipping his fingers through the braids to tug me upward as he stood. I'd done well, he said, but I still let some spill. And he'd told me not to. Almost kindly was his voice, as he pulled me over to the bed with him to push me over the edge to lie face down. The first slap caught me by surprise, yelping as his hand warmed my ass. Ten times, and it was the shock that made me cry more than the pain. Afterward he gathered me into his arms, lying with me there on the bed. He stroked my hair and dried my tears, and told me that he was proud of the way I did for my first try. And that I'd get better, and he'd never punish me too hard if I truly did try to do what he wished. I fell asleep like that, my cheek against the linen of his shirt, as he stroked my hair long into the night. A new mistress Entry II Dear Diary, Three days, and it seems like an hour passed, no more. I awoke to a note, that morning I was his, and I confess that briefly it shook me. What had I hoped for, I scolded myself? That the strict and yet oddly gentle man who now owned the lease on my life would move in for some semblance of wedded bliss? I knew he was married. I saw the ring on his hand. I should not feel a twinge in my stomach. It must be gratitude, this swelling of the heart. I feel almost giddy, to be my own woman in some ways. A very sober solicitor came by that first afternoon, sitting down with me to explain and draw up terms. What my new Master would provide for me, while I was his. More than once I wished my mother or "uncle" were there, to guide me through the strange waters of legalities and accounts. Still, I now seem to have a line of credit in my own name. Modest, but still quite exciting! And accounts at two modistes, as well as with the grocer. I even signed papers that, though I was warned were provisionary, meant that he was pleased enough I would have my own small flat and in my own name. I didn't need him to explain to me why it was my name, not his. And yet I floated through the rest of that day. A woman of property, as mother would laugh at herself. Even if that property exists on the whim of another. The solicitor didn't even stare much at the collar I still wore about my neck, as He had ordered. (As if I needed the reminder of him.) So often I find my fingers touching it still, even now as I write to you. Leather, soft even with its thickness, my finger curls about the ring in front idly to hold it. But so many details to remember! I write them for you, here, so that I can remember always. I am not to wear undergarments, save when it is needed to be sanitary. I will always face him when I sit, and my knees will be always apart. If greeting him at home, I will be on my knees, and always offer first to take him in my mouth. I am to swallow, and spill nothing. (Which I won't fail again!) Corsets I must go and acquire from the modiste, to be worn waking or sleeping, save when he removes them. And stockings, always silk. When in the bedroom I am not to raise my eyes to his until he bids me, and I will always do my best to be graceful under all circumstances. I will keep clean and well shaven of all hair not on my head, and always wear the right makeup so as to be appropriate for the occasion. This he says is a beginning! I'm so nervous of failing. Still, when he arrived the at last, I was ready. He knocked and waited a moment before entering, giving me time to move a cushion to the entryway and kneel there with my knees slightly parted as ordered. He praised my downcast eyes, and I felt his hand on my hair like a blessing that relieved and thrilled me such that when I felt his cock touching my lips I opened to him without thought. I was more ready this time, having practiced on any appropriately shaped object. Still I gagged very slightly when he pulled my face forward, forcing himself deep into my throat. But he kept murmuring his encouragement, easing my flashes of fear at suffocation. He'd let me breathe a moment through my nose before gently pushing, over and over until the sensation of the thickness back against my throat wasn't quite so frightening. Feeling my easing, the pace increased, never more than I could handle, but always pushing, until I felt him swell between my lips. This time I remembered my mother's advice, and held his jism on my tongue to evaluate it for a moment before swallowing. This way there seemed less, and swallowing was easier. He called me his good girl, kissing my forehead and, for the first time, my lips, and there was such warmth inside. With a finger in my collar he tugged me upward and to follow him over to the bed. The pillows he arranged on the side, and very gently pressed my face down into them so that I was bent over there. A hand on my back held my wrists there, and he started to feel me again, exploring more than before. He laughed to feel the liquid in my cunt, I hope teasing when he called me a willing slut. And more, as his fingers started to slip in and out, arousing me. Stranger yet, he started to ask me what felt good, harder or softer. Trying to please me? I answered, and he did as I said, until shortly my legs were shaking and near to collapsing. I felt such a rush that I was nearly faint, whimpering for I knew not what. And with a final flick along my pearl, he stopped. Or rather, he let one wet finger trail backward, until it just rested against my arsehole. Breathe, he advised, pressing in without stopping. Pleasure gave way to shock, and were it not for his other fingers teasing at me his thumb might have been more than I could deal with. Still, he kept it up, until I was begging, pleading for I knew not what. He found a rhythm of stroking with that invasive digit, thrumming along my clit with his fingertips and demanding that I let go, let it happen, until the world exploded behind my eyes. My whimpers turned into cries, louder than I would have thought for how startled I was. A flood of quivering delight, and I nearly collapsed off the edge of the bed but for his hands holding me. Or rather, still holding my wrists, with his thumb and hand underneath, supporting me. He held me still there until the shivering stopped, slowly pulling his finger out and letting go so that I could slide to the ground at his feet. I kissed his shoe, and he smiled, patting my hair. Turning, he left directions for me to dress for dinner, and off he went to make reservations at a restaurant even mother had never afforded. His Mistress Entry III Dear Diary, Two days he spent with me. Two whole days! At dinner he treated me like a fine lady, save once when he reached out underneath the table to be sure I was sitting as he had bade me. I was, of course, so new and paranoid at the mere thought of disappointing him. His smile was warm, his hand briefly touching me familiar before withdrawing to go on eating. He asked about my studies more, and seemed to actually have some interest in my words and thoughts. It was flattering, and I think banished the last of my fear of him. Now there is only eagerness, for all that he has given me. Happiness in how he treats me. I think sometimes of my mother and the Duke, (whom I must not think of as Father,) and how she described their time together. He is my Duke, my Master, though lacking the title. When we returned from dinner back to the Hotel, he had me strip for him. A new experience, he told me to imagine music in my thoughts, and to move with it, through it as a dance. I was nervous, but tried to do as he asked. He laughed partway through and gestured me over, saying I should practice perhaps when he was not around. He himself undid the buttons of my gown, sliding the silk and brocade down slowly as though unwrapping a Christmas gift. Down to my stockings and corset, he turned me between his legs, lost in a pool of my dress as his hands roamed over my thighs, hips, knees, up over my breasts. My knees grew a little weak, and I asked if I should fellate him, only to be told it would wait upon his pleasure. Always, on his pleasure. He settled onto the loveseat, pulling me with him. His hands were everywhere, feeling, caressing, weighing my breasts in his hands as he pulled them out of the top of the leather corset. He pinched my nipples to fullness, none too gently though he pulled me closer to suckle upon them, one arm about my waist. I kissed his hair, and he moved me a little so that I would straddle one of his legs. Thus parted, his hand slipped down to feel my freshly shaved cunt and lightly tickle me there. Then indeed did I understand what he meant when he said shaving would make me more sensitive! His fingers were like fire, and I think if not for his arm still about my waist I might have slipped and fallen against him. He found me wet and smiled, lifting his fingers to my lips so that I would taste myself. Our eyes met, and there was for a moment perfect understanding. Please, I whispered then. Let me taste you. And he nodded, letting me go to slide down to my knees. This time I felt I understood. This time I wanted the taste of him on my tongue. Wanted to hear his breath go short, and know I was the cause. Wanted so badly to please him that the ache in my jaw was just another gift for him. He stopped me though, this time, when he had swollen to fill my mouth and press against my throat. For a moment I was disappointed and afraid that I had failed, not pleased him. But he stood then, and stripped off his own clothes letting me see him fully. And there was the faintest hint of diffidence in his own gaze, letting me with wonder realize that perhaps he truly did care what I thought. Hoping I would find him attractive. Once again, my feelings seemed to matter to him. I took his hand, then, and in silence we walked to the bed. He took me in his arms, lifting me to the middle only to follow. His mouth. Oh, he made me sing, tasting my skin and juices, sliding down to do for me what I had only heard described. I was still whimpering when I felt him enter me, felt the full weight of him bearing down on me to press me into the mattress. Dear Diary, is it foolish to fall in love with a man just for joining with you? There was something.. I cannot describe it. Like a blaze of light behind my eyes, and I realized I would do anything, everything for this man. And like a fool I could say nothing, but kissed him over and over, urging him on with soft noises. Victorian Diaries Ch. 01 He came inside me then, crying out my name. I nearly wept with the beauty of it. He held me close, just so, shuddering for a long while. ‘I should not have done that,’ he said, and I knew what he meant. Children are not possible for us. My mother lost her love by having me, and I would do nothing to lose this man that has become my center. I know, I whispered, and perhaps there was a little sadness in my voice. He said we would visit the apothecary in the morning. I slept in his arms, and woke many times to him taking me. Once he had shifted, and I tasted us both upon him as I suckled long and slow until he came like a gentle stream into my mouth. He called me his precious as he thought I slept and kissed my hair. Does he know I love him? His Mistress Victorian Diaries Ch. 02 ***Months Later*** Entry IV Dear Diary, He's coming this afternoon! Oh, I thought the waiting would never end! That business trip to France; I have been going mad left alone, with only his little notes and presents arriving by poste. I've cleaned the flat and filled it with flowers, and laid out His robe by the door. Oh, diary, I am like a schoolgirl again. See how my hands tremble as I write this! I spent the morning in the bath, with lemon juice and milk to whiten my skin even more the way he likes it. And shaved. I confess I will not miss shaving myself with that straight razor, now he is home to do it for me! He is home! Oh, I am singing to myself again. My hair is up and curled, the hairdresser smiling knowingly at the brightness in my eyes, the easy colour in my lips and cheeks. She told me I look like a woman waiting for her lover. How perspicacious! Dressing now even as I write - oh, what to wear. I know that I will greet him at the door on my knees as he enters, for after being away from he so long all he will be thinking of is the feel of my mouth on his prick. The way I suckle him, fondling his balls... He loves that, he says. I love it too, though I shall look forward to doing it later by the fire when it will last longer. If he does not cum quickly the first time, I shall not think he missed me! He likes the coral colour on me, he says. He admires the contrast with my hair and skin. I shall wear his favourite corset in that specially dyed Cordoba leather, with the rings. Since he's not expected home until Friday, I shall have him all to myself and I know he will want to play. (And, no doubt, to see if I have been following his orders while he has been gone.) And stockings - the new silk ones he sent. And where did he find these clever heels with the strap and ring about the ankle? I hold them tight to my chest, imagining him in the shops of Paris, finding what he wants to see me in and sending it. To know that he truly thinks of me as I do him! I shall have to purchase a bottle of champagne, and another of ruby port. Mm..I hope he lets me taste it on his skin. I purchased a bottle of sweet almond oil, for after his games are done to massage him and soothe the aches of traveling and exertion. I so love it when he falls asleep in my arms, still holding my leash. That smile on his face; oh, Diary, I am so much in love with him. It has been just over a year. The best of my life. But I must go. I cannot have him catch me unprepared! His Mistress Entry V Dear Diary, Well, here we all are in Bath. Unexpected, I know. He has arranged for this lovely hotel for me, nicer than the first place he found last year when we came. I signed in, noting with pleased delight that he had used his own patronym, leaving the maitre d'hotel to presume I am a sister or cousin, perhaps. Not that I care what the man thinks, as I am sure that these sorts of arrangements are commonplace. But it was a thrill to sign my name with his, and I think a tacit apology on his part that our time together was cut short by this sudden trip. I love Bath. I know he does not, but there is something in the holiday atmosphere, with children playing and smiles everywhere.. I go walking every morning, just to look at all the people smiling and be one of them. The gardens, the air of hope that the waters will be beneficial, even the looks of relief on the faces of the old as the warm soakings offer ease from joint troubles. The buildings are long and elegant, the streets so much cleaner than London. This morning I walked by the cafe where we met for luncheon last May upon the first trip. I hope we can meet here again some time this journey. I stopped and looked over the wrought iron fence into the outdoor dining area, remembering that tea. We were like children, playing at being adults because it kept us from sinking then and there onto the bricks of the terrace. I remember his laughter at my attempt to eat strawberries and clotted cream in an exaggeratedly lascivious fashion. Later that boat ride down the Avon, where I acquired my first and worst sunburn in years. Rowing the small punt down to a nice place to anchor. Of straddling his cock with my skirts pulled up as he sat on the bench. Oh, so slow and gentle we had to be, with the boat rocking so! Afterward shifting to the bank where I gathered moss stains on my favourite ivory crinoline as I lay back and let his tongue and fingers drive me to frighten the birds away with my cries. It was a springtime idyll so soft and perfect. But I should come back to the present, Diary, and tell you of the train ride. He secured for me a berth in a sleeping car not far from the club car. I ate in my room, of course, to avoid meeting up with the family, then dressed in the simple silk robe and dark blue corset only he says he prefers when traveling for simplicity. My collar around my neck, I left the leash hanging over the door latch as I was unable to gauge his mood from the brief glance upon boarding as he shepherded the masses into their family car. A click, and the berth door slid open. He entered quietly, latching the entrance behind him before turning in the limited space to look at me. I greeted him quietly, rising from the bunk to slip my arms about him in a long embrace, which he returned. He inquired about my dinner and accommodations, and I reassured him that as ever, his choices for me were to my complete satisfaction. He sat down on the bunk, but as I knelt before him to perform my usual first service he shook his head no and pulled me down to sit beside him. Oh, Diary, he looked so tired and strained to be traveling again so soon after returning from Paris. I brushed my fingers lightly through his short dark hair, before slipping behind him. Carefully I removed his Norfolk jacket and waistcoat, and receiving permission the masher and tie as well. Folding them aside, I began to work at the knots in his neck and shoulders. He likes my strong hands, and I enjoy touching him this way, too. Oh, to be honest I crave any contact at all with him. He leaned back against me, and I reveled in the feeling of his solidity against my softness as my hands continued to press. I whispered finally that I would like to just give to him tonight, if he would let me. He smiled, 'I am in your hands, my Lady.' Trousers, socks and boots joined the neat pile on the chair, and I urged him to lie face down on the bunk as I rummaged through my valise for the almond oil. (Along with two other items I thoughtfully pulled out and placed out of view.) The oil warmed between my hands, I straddled his ass and leaned over to begin stroking the muscles more deeply. I think he chuckled a little to feel the dampness I cannot hide against his skin, and I bit the back of his shoulder in quiet retribution for the teasing. He relaxed slowly and I took my time, working along down his arms out to each finger, leaving a kiss on the fingertip before moving on to the next. The constant rumbling of the train began to work with me, and he was lulled to nearly sleeping as I slipped down along his thighs to start working at his buttocks. I love the flare of his lower back, the rounded curve of his arse where it meets his thighs. More oil, and he moaned a bit as I parted his legs to kneel between them and worked out still more knots in his arse and hips. A brief clenching of the cheeks, and I smiled as I knew his arousal was starting to stir more fully. I parted, kneaded, stroked his cheeks, until my touch lightened from the constitutional to the more enticing, letting a thin short stream of oil drip down along the crack to tease along down to the scrotum. My finger followed the stream, pausing to rest upon the puckered star in a silent question. 'Yes,' he whispered. 'You may.' Permission enough for all my plans, I thought, as I pulled out a cushion to ease under his hips. One oil slick hand brushed along his prick, straightening the curve to lie against the cushion's surface, and it jumped slightly in my fingers. I rolled my thumb through the layer of oil glistening there, and laid a kiss at the apex of that valley as I pressed the pad and first joint of the digit into his tight heat. He clenched around me at the invasion and I left my finger still as I gently fondled and spread the oil lower and along his balls and thighs. His legs parted still further and he moaned my name as I pushed in a little further, beginning to tug slightly at the ring of muscle to stretch it. I withdrew once or twice, adding more oil to keep everything smooth and gentle, one more massage into laxity I was determined to use the toys I had pulled out. The first, a long and slender wand of Moroccan leather, replaced my finger unexpectedly, and he didn't seem to notice until it pressed in deeper than my thumb can reach. Another groan, lost in the noise of the train, and I worked him with the leather and my hand curled under between his legs. A finger joined the leather after a time, still slow and gentle though I could feel his excitement growing with the sheen of perspiration along the flesh of his back and legs. A kiss on each buttock, and the first dildo was slipped out. Don't stop, he commanded breathlessly, starting to push against the cushion beneath him. I'm not, I whispered. Just getting more oil. Spreading it along the carved ivory dildo of much greater thickness he had found I don't know where. Two fingers, three fingers, and then the head was slipped in before He knew what was happening. Three inches pushed in, and he froze in shock and erotic discomfort. 'Stop. Its too much.' Shh, I whispered, slipping a hand down to stroke at his stiffened cock again. Just relax. Let me make you feel good. Open to me.. I was half chanting this, over and over, by the time his head fell back to the bed and he called me a bitch in a very unconvincing voice. I chuckled, working the ivory in deeper. Matching the slow strokes with my hand. Kissing, licking, and biting at his ass cheeks, the oily taste of almonds heavy on my tongue. It was too much, and he shouted as he convulsed, spilling his seed in a river over my hand and soaking my pillow. The dildo I pulled out slowly, lest the pain of stretching overshadow the utter relaxation and limpness that overcame him. I dropped the two toys in the basin, and stoppered up the bottle before kneeling over him and nibbling at the back of his neck. He turned finally, his arms locking around me and pulling me to his chest in a vise like grip I had no desire to try to break. He held me like that for a long moment, before whispering that he should go. I nodded and let him rise, helping him dress again. The pillow he picked up and moved to the normal position, asking that I sleep with his spending there against my cheek. Then he kissed me long and deep, fingers locked in my hair before pulling abruptly away and disappearing out into the corridor. The rest of the trip was short, and I slept through it entirely with the smell of him in my nostrils. His Mistress Entry VI Dear Diary, I'm back in my room at Bath. Oh, what a morning! I received his note that I would be attending church, and which of my more respectable gowns he required me to wear. I dressed with great curiosity, for he has seldom wished me within line of sight when his family is about him. But I went and waited outside in the covered carriage as he asked as most of the people filtered in. I saw him through the curtains enter with his family early, then come out to mingle and chat with a few of the other gentlemen before breaking away to wander toward my carriage. He entered, demanding roughly that I kneel on the seat as he pushed my skirts up high to reveal my bare bottom. With a few sharp slaps he seemed to vent some inner turmoil, and I bit hard on the upholstery of the seat to keep from crying out. No sooner was my flesh throbbing from his hand than I heard the rustle and then felt his hard cock pushing into me from behind. No subtlety this time, diary, he was almost perfunctory as he pulled himself hard into me, grunting. He came in spurts and quickly, only to withdraw and wipe himself on my thighs. 'You will not clean yourself. I want you to feel me dripping between your legs through the entire service, and sit where I can watch you if I choose. We are on the back right.' And he was gone, climbing out as if nothing had happened. The smell of us was strong in the enclosed carriage, and I was sure the driver knew what had happened though he was paid well for his silence. Still, I entered after the last of the bells had ceased, and found my way to the left front on one of the side pews. I felt his eyes on me constantly, and it was an effort not to press my legs closely together to keep the oozing from pooling on my skirts dripping down into my stockings. I know I blushed, for the homily of the day was a directive to lead a virtuous life. The gentleman next to me took a decided interest in both my décolletage as well as my slightly mussed hair, and decided to lay his hand on my leg whenever we were seated. Or did he smell my Master's leavings upon me? It was mortifying! He whispered he would see me again, and I drew away as much as I could considering the way we were packed into the pews. And my Master started to glare from the back. I've a very bad feeling about things. His Mistress Entry VII Dear Diary, I write upon you sprawled across the bed in my room here at Bath, for there is no other comfortable way to recline or sit. I think I have for a while exorcised the demon riding my Master's shoulders, though this time the cost was high in discomfort after. Not during, though. No, then it was pain I endured gladly, knowing in the end it would bring him peace. I fear the man I sat with in Church is someone of great importance, whom my master will have to appease for some argument. He arrived at my rooms unexpectedly, and I hurried to throw myself at his feet, kneeling as he prefers with my legs spread. (At least I was appropriately attired, but I always am, while traveling with him. One never knows!) He closed the door and stared at me for a long while, and I kept my eyes lowered as I offered to take him in my mouth as usual for our greetings. He agreed, a hand in my hair, but started talking as I unfastened his trousers to free him. Saying such nonsense that I was too beautiful, he should hide me away that none might see or covet. Nor did he seem as eager as usual, worried distraction in his eyes. Still, I licked and suckled for a while until, dissatisfied with this, he let go and stepped back. Then indeed I knew something was wrong, Diary! Still I hurried to make him welcome in other ways, taking his coat and offering a soft robe in return. Putting out a small repast. Then it was that I came upon my plan, for how to truly help him find peace. And I became..disobedient in small ways. Subtle things, designed to build upon one another. I sat immediately as he did, as his equal. He frowned, but let it pass. I started a mindless chatter about the sermon that day, the people, and the dresses the ladies were wearing this season. More frowns, and his answers became monosyllabic. Still not enough. I closed my legs as I sat, turning away from him now and again to feign disinterest. This was the final straw, I think, for he stood abruptly, his chair falling back. A hand in my hair, and he dragged me down to the carpet. 'How dare you,' he hissed. The look in his eyes daunted me for a moment, as I think he was seeing someone else. I hope he was. Still, I protested, lifting a hand to his to say him nay, stop. Like a whirlwind, his anger was unleashed. Pulling me by the hair, he dragged me over to the bed and bade me kneel beside it. Quickly were my wrists lashed together and to the bedpost, a wooden stick with rings and clips put between my ankles to spread them apart by the high shoes I wore for him. I trembled there a little, glad to be giving him an outlet he needed. Still, the first whack of the crop as it came down on my ass made me jump and cry out. Enough so that he found a gag for me, slipping the leather bulb inside my mouth before wrenching the buckle closed behind my head. Helpless and silenced but for moans, he rained down blows upon my ass and thighs, even upon the tops of my breasts where the corset leaves them exposed. Oh Diary, he has never punished me so hard. When I was red and sobbing, and I admit my tears freely, for the pain was like nothing ever before, he finally stopped to throw aside the crop. Lifting my hips then with his hands, he thrust hard, dry, into my ass, stretching and burning as he reamed me from behind. Deep down at the core of me I rejoiced, for even in this act I knew that the worst had passed. The anger was gone. Still, his short, sharp thrusts were another kind of pain until he stiffened, a couple jerks deep inside me heralding the spending deep into my bowels. I hung there, impaled for a moment before I felt him let go my hips and start to untie my hands. In silence he released me, keeping me with him as he made me bend so stiffly to undo the rings at my ankles. Walking me forward, the two of us eased onto the bed, my anus throbbing in dull pain about the thickness of his shaft. He laid on his back then, me half sprawled on top of him with tears still flowing. A soft kiss, then, on the side of my neck, and his hand started to caress. One freed the weight of my breasts from the top of the corset, starting to toy with the nipples as the other slipped down to fondle my clit. He knows so well how to touch me, Diary, finding traces of dampness between my legs to wet the pads of his fingers and so lightly stroke my pearl into a stiff peak and beyond. He knows I cum so quickly this way, with him buried in my fundament with soft forward stimulation. It took but a few minutes before I was trembling, quivering, while those feather light caresses combined with a hard pinching of my nipples. I came loud behind my gag, convulsing forward into his hands as he kept at it, bringing me over and over until I was limp and near crying again for different reasons. Then he released the gag, gently extricating himself. I lay there on the bed while he went to wash, and returned to gather me into his arms. Such peace then! There was nothing but soft silence, and he started to apologize to me. I stopped him with a hand to his lips, and whispered nothing but the truth, that I was glad he was more at ease, content now. At last he realized what I had done, that my driving him to madness was deliberate. And he held me very tightly for a long while, until I fell asleep with exhaustion. His Mistress Victorian Diaries Ch. 03 ***More Months Later*** Entry VIII Dear Diary, Even as I set pen to your much abused pages, I almost find myself weeping again for you. For myself. For all that happened, and how much has changed. I look back now on the past three months as a truer loss of innocence than anything else that has ever touched me. Though had any called me innocent before I would have laughed in light mockery. There are few certainties, and there is no safety. You whose leather is scorched and still stinks, your pages brittle and browning at the edges, you know of which I speak. Its why I can say it all to you, who nearly perished as I did. Bath is no sanctuary. He’s promised me we’ll never go there, that no mention of the events will ever touch his lips nor should they mine. But even such kindly sentiments have not purged the demons, and I think he returned you to me in silence with a prayer that confessions to you will ease what even his gentleness and embrace cannot. The pen is new, the garden is peaceful. It’s a day like any other day, at no particular hour of the clock. Listen then, old friend, and heal me if you can. He was to leave for a quick trip to London the next morning, a matter of a business telegram having reached his other hotel. As always, I was his last stop before departing and he forestalled any of our usual greetings to hold me tightly. I still bore the marks of his exorcism, and he kissed the rounded tops of my breasts in yet another silent apology. Caressing his cheek, I gave him warm smiles for my heart was lighter, and told him I would spend the next few days discovering the perfect place for a country ride and picnic and have all in readiness when he returned. The afternoon was perfect, sunny with gathering fluffy clouds that promised rain the next few days. Indeed by midnight it was pouring, and I was relaxing by the fire with a book and a glass of wine when I heard the key in the lock. Surprised but delighted, I dropped my book and set aside the glass with more care to hurry for the entrance to our room to kneel in preparation for my Master’s entrance. The voices and smells that greeted me with the yawning of the door made my blood run cold, for the drunken trio outside were made up of the man at the Church as well as a younger stamped version and a third I’d never seen before. I started to leap to my feet, yelling, but a fist darted out to grab my hair and pull me backward toward the bed with a second hand over my mouth. Fighting, kicking, trying to scream, I was no match for the three of them as they dragged me away from the door to the bed. A pillowcase was shoved into my mouth as they started commenting with delight on the slut they’d found. Free and clear, the leader of their little coterie declared, no holds barred. He it was that turned me over and decided I’d be ‘softer’ if I were slapped a few times. His son, I decided it must be a relation through my increasingly blurred vision, just stood and watched with eyes that seemed to glitter. It was the third stranger that discovered the carpet bag full of toys tucked away beside the headboard, and started pulling them out to throw onto the coverlet beside me. I was crying thoroughly by the time they manacled my hands behind my back, the pillowcase replaced with the leather bulb gag I’ve never hated so much as that moment. Again my hair was pulled, dragging me to my feet to be pushed across the back of the hump backed steamer chest, face down. My legs were kicked apart as I heard the other two encouraging the son (Yes, I know his name, Diary. I’ll not say it. None of them. If I do not give them names, they become less real. Fictional characters.) to take his first whore. Perhaps I could have laughed at his fumblings, for though clearly excited he was having a deuce of a time finding an angle that worked to penetrate me. A first time indeed, though if I’d been more aware the humiliation of his two ‘helpers’ would have quickly driven any humour from my thoughts. They moved my hips, humping them up and down until he’d found my slit and rammed home mostly dry. Though aware of the invasion, I found my thoughts narrowing onto small details. A splinter digging into the top of my thigh. The cold of the iron lock hitting my knee when he slammed me into it. The gag was removed from my mouth, and the cock of the third man presented to my lips as my nose was pinched so that I opened my mouth. I nearly gagged then and there… Your pardon, Diary, I must pause to drink tea with bergamot and honey that seems to wash a remembered taste out of my mouth. Still I had spirit to fight, and started to sink my teeth in before he pulled back with a yell. I tasted a hint of blood, and was glad though the fierce satisfaction lasted only as long as it took the father to unwind his thick belt and start using across my back. My face, my shoulders, nothing was reserved, with the horror of the never ending pounding for “Jr.” seemed to find it doubly exciting to have his receptacle covered in welts even as he pushed away. Even as the son finished and pulled away, the father was upon me to show his boy “the other useful holes”. Dry and hard he pushed into me, and I cried out weakly once more for I was still sore of the night previous for my Master’s pleasure. At least his size was less formidable, one small pathetic comfort as the boy and his friend began to speak low. My heart, already in my toes, sank through the floor when I realized that they didn’t really intend to let me live, discussing my ‘accident’. And to my shock, my Master. They did know him, it seems. I was merely a pawn to be used and broken, a lesson for some previous societal sin that I couldn’t follow. Pulling out, he jerked that last few ropy strands over my ass before taking belt in hand to start applying it to the areas previously blocked. I jerked and whimpered, lacking the strength to stand again even if the path to the door was open. Oh, Diary, even now I feel the self loathing for my weakness. How I just lay there, the world in a blood red haze of sharp pain on top of dull aching. The boy and his father had decided I was to be honoured with a King’s demise, and with many a joke about the buggering I had just received, put a poker in the fire to heat up. The man I’d bitten had long since abandoned anything like desire in favour of cruelty. (My penmanship fails, for my hand trembles to remember.) he wanted to see the poker go in and start to burn, he said, and announced his determination to ‘open me up’ with his fist. The two at the fire cheered him on as I felt four fingers start to rudely push in past the aching ring of muscle, lubricated by the spending of the last man. He was happy to hear I could still moan, and took delight in half lifting me just off my toes by his grip as I shrieked over and over. Balling his thumb in, I thought I would die from the agony as the door slammed open. One sharp rapport, and my agony ceased as the man fell away from me. A second filled the room and left my ears ringing, and I heard another thud followed by a high, thin screaming that I thought for a moment came from me before I realized I had screamed my throat out already and could only half croak, half moan. I do not know what words were exchanged, but feet ran out of the room, a voice gibbering something I could no longer understand. Eyes swollen nearly shut, it was the smell of my Master that I think made me faint dead away in relief. I awoke in a carriage, flames rising from the hotel behind us, never so aware of each bounce over the cobblestones as he hurried me to a doctor. I lay across his lap, truly wanting to either die or awaken from the nightmare. Only his voice was there, crooning to me as if those whimpering noises came from me and not some hidden, wounded dog under his feet. Surely one was there. The doctor’s visit I recall little of as well, for with the sting of alcohol on the red marks on my back the world became small and dark with a pinprick of light, and I was gone again. The days are a blur that brought us here, to a country bed and breakfast in Sherwood. He was frequently off to the telegram office, sending messages that he said would deal with the matter for good. In truth, I think I can finally write this now for seeing the anxious, fearful look upon his face. As if he worries that I shall never be myself again. How can I be? he touches me like a spun glass ballerina on a mirror lake, his voice hardly above a whisper. I couldn’t bear to be alone the first few days, and then more where I could not bear company. But now, sitting here under a blanket, I bring this all to the sunlight. The ones who hurt me most are dead, he says, the son ruined and forced into the Foreign Legion abroad by some old favours or strings pulled in. They had lured him away with false news, we know now, determined to strike at that which, apparently, too many knew he holds dear. He doesn’t apologize, for such apologies would ring hollow when there is no fault in Him, nor comfort in words when such deeds have been done. Only once did he offer to set me free, comfortable for life. That was yesterday, and finally the tears came again as I determined this, at least, I wanted not at all. I cannot bear for him to offer it again. Nor to see the pain and guilt in his eyes, for that I was hurt to hurt him. Its time, Diary, for me to grow up and accept that wrong was done, and righted, and cannot hurt me any longer save if I let it. And I am very tired of hurting. I touch my face to push the edges of my lips upward, remembering what it felt like to smile. My face is stiff, but I am determined. And if it takes a while to eagerly anticipate joining with my Love, at least I will not shrink from his arms. For that hurts far worse than what was done. And I am strong. He says so, and I will make him proud. He has delivered you to me, somehow rescued from the wreckage that was my room back at the hotel. You and I will be phoenixes, my dear. His Once and Future Mistress Entry XI Dear Diary, We are our own salvation, some say. And I believe it now, in this time of trial and recovery. The blue of the sky, the beauty of the flowers is no longer a mockery, for I have found a path. A way, at least. And my own dear Master urges me to pursue it, pleased without words to see me taking an interest in living and, just as importantly, Him. And I began it myself, which gives me strength. Two days ago I put you aside with my tears, and took a walk in the afternoon sun about the grounds of the Inn in which he has set us up for the season. When I returned he was in a state, collar undone and a bit wild eyed with looking for me in fear of the worst. From his trouser cuffs I presumed he had even looked for me down by the stream, perhaps presuming I had wished to do some injury to myself. I touched his cheek, his lips, and told him clearly and firmly that I was hungry, could we go in for supper? Ah, the surprise, the cautious pleasure of his nod, taking my hand in his to kiss. It was a simple fare, for I’d been eating soup for days and my Master had not ordered anything stronger for himself in some odd misplaced penitence. But I sat up and fed myself, looking at Him now and again with what I considered to be my new eyes. He had not changed. And perhaps I had been hurt, but he had not done it. Still, to be in His arms? To kneel at His feet? Not yet. Not until I could look at him and see only him, until I craved the touch instead of bracing myself to endure it. I rose after dinner to go over and lock the door, and with its comforting solidity behind me turned to face my anxious Lord and love. He’d half risen, preparing to leave me, and stood then looking a touch confused. How much more confused then when I asked would he kindly take his shirt off! I shook off his questions, and merely repeated my question in a whisper. Perhaps he read something of my need in my eyes, for he nodded and slowly unbuttoned down the front. Sliding it down his shoulders, he folded it over one hand to lay it on the back of the chair. Standing with his arms down by his sides he merely faced me in silence, then held out his arms and turned slowly in place. There was a new scar on his forearm, a burn I had not seen before. A pink weal, and fading. He caught me staring, and simply nodded once more. This from the fire. Swallowing, I raised my chin a fraction and asked if he would kindly stoke up the fire and then remove his trousers. Another, lesser man might have been excited, hopeful of more than I could yet offer. He knew. He understood me, that this was no game of coy flirtation. Stooping, he moved the logs about with a poker, (and here I looked away, I’m afraid), and added two fresh ones. With the grate closed once more, he wiped his hands on a napkin and unbuckled His belt. This was coiled and set aside before setting hands to the buttons. Slowly he moved, though I could feel the panic rising in my throat. Once only he looked up at me, meeting my eyes before lowering His again in a flash. With still His knickers on he stopped again, once more turning in the fire’s light. And then stood quite still, His eyes on my boots. How long we stood there I know not. It was a bead of sweat rolling down his neck that broke my paralytic spell, like a blow to my psyche that he, my Lord and most undoubtedly a man, was a little bit afraid of me as well. Was it fear? My breath came a little quicker to think of it. He offered to let me go. He offered to set me free. And yet still he remained, praying that I would want him. I. Me, a nobody, broken and damaged goods. I wanted to cry, but there had been too many tears. I wanted to scream. And so I did neither, taking a deep breath to push away from the door and approach him. With my finger I pulled away the bit of sweat there on his skin, and licked it. And I swear, Diary, we both shivered a little. With me standing by he slowly bent and pushed down even His underclothes, leaving Him naked with painted fire on his skin. And still he would not look me in the eye. My hand was not entirely steady as I reached out to shape His shoulder, touch his breast and side, and His breath came shallow as well. Then, like a cliff face sliding down to the sea, he knelt there at my feet and offered in a whisper to serve me howsoever I wished. I was staggered, blindly backing away from Him to end up standing by the hearth with one hand gripping the bricks behind me. And he never moved from that position, His eyes down. Now the tears did start, but they were hot; burning my eyelids and cheeks. Not once did he move when I sobbed, though I could see His hands knot together. And I did not do so more than once or twice before a strange sort of peace came over me. I wiped at my eyes, and he whispered a plea to lick the tears from my fingers. It shocked me a little, and I found myself reaching out offering them before I thought another thing of it. Slowly he crawled, to kneel before me and take my hands to very carefully lick with the tiniest flicks of His tongue. When I pulled away he did nothing, simply letting His hands fall down to his sides again. He asked, though, if he could unbuckle my shoes for me, and see me set for the evening. Always in a whisper, but for so long now I had not wanted even this much. But tonight it was different. I knew, with a surety I had long been missing, that tonight I was safe. Perhaps I did not wish more yet, but that it would be all right to accept what was offered, for if I said a word I knew he would stop. And so I crossed to sit down on the bed, and hold out one foot, one part of me standing still there in the corner watching in fright. And like the perfect ladies’ maid, if a ladies’ made were to crawl, he actually crossed the carpet to kneel there beside me and very gently undo my shoe to set it aside. And then the other. Resting His hands then on His thighs, he asked if I wished Him to go, or whether he might braid my hair for bed. Again I argued silently with the shadow of a girl in the corner, watching us, before nodding very slightly. I held very still, nearly rigid through the creaking of the bed and the first ever so tentative touch to the pins in my hair. Slowly the weight of it came down, falling in thin tendrils over my shoulders as he chased down and found each crooked wire to set them aside. With my eyes on the fire, it was easy to imagine that it was another touching me; my maid, or a serving girl. Half lulled, it took an effort of will to make myself see it as Him. I turned, and quickly he lowered His eyes once more. So strange, so unlike my Master and yet… And yet. With only a glimpse of Him the room was full of His presence. Slowly, painstakingly, he brushed out my hair until I was nearly pliant in His hands, though they never touched my neck or shoulders. Braiding my hair, he tied it off to lay it like a sheaf of grain over my shoulder before asking in a low voice if there was anything else I required. I shook my head no, this peace and comfort too fragile to push too quickly. He didn’t even sigh, but waited a moment in silence before asking if he could sleep across the foot of my bed. At this I turned and stared at him, worried for I know not what. He lifted his eyes then. There was no flare of desire. No heat, no dominance. Only.. what was it that I saw? Need. Resignation. He would have gone without a word had I bid him. And somehow knowing it gave me the strength to nod. And again, no triumph. He merely rose, and waited for me to settle myself before curling up down by the footboard. He did not move for hours. I know this, for neither did I, as we listened to one another’s breathing in the dark. Finally, carefully, my feet found his chest. And his hand shifted to cover them for warmth. And there, at last, I found sleep. Because I was loved. His Mistress