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Dear Betsy

By: gauchecritic



Dear Betsy,

I have done something terrible. I'm not exactly sure how it will be terrible, but which ever way it turns out I know that terror will follow.

As you know (as everyone knows by now) my reaction was purely instinctive and of course immediate. What you may not know is how much less than immediate it actually was. I knew the girl for about three months prior to her demise (I seem to recall you commented on my new found vitality in the bedroom and, as you rightly surmised, it was due to my new mistress). A little chit of a thing she was, tomboyish even. Howthorpe was always goading me about her manish good looks, which, as you are aware, are where certain of my tendencies lay.

Perhaps I had best start from the beginning.

You may or may not be aware of the phrase "six degrees of separation". In today's modern world it seems, what with steam ships, railway engines, dirigibles and the like, each and every one of us is merely six friendships away from every other person in the modern world. (not including of course the Africas or our Oriental friends) By way of explanation let me give you this example.

I have never met your mother's friend Elise Beauchamp (I have had certain investigations made by the way and it seems my first assumptions were entirely correct concerning her family) But this Elise creature has, by dint of my own maneuvering, never actually met neither myself nor you. So from her to your mother, on to you and thence to myself is four degrees. Now I have quite regular if cumbersome conversation by way of telegraph and letter and have met on at least four state occasions Prince Hadjit Saheem, another degree, and the Prince (a wonderful jovial chap with a whole host of amusing stories about his estate set in the darker forests of Ranjipoor) has the acquaintance of one extraordinary chap who goes by the name of Marachaivo Machiavelli (who claims Nicollo as direct antecedent).

So there you have your six degrees, Elise Beauchamp to Marachaivo Machiavelli, neither of whom (I presume) has met the other but are none-the-less merely five handshakes away, across the known world.

And how, you may ask, does this have any bearing on my own imminent destruction at the gallows on Tuesday week? As it happens, a great deal.

Georgie Lane, that poor unfortunate who met her ultimate fate at my own hands, came into my life some four short months ago. She was a tempestuous lover, enjoying variance such as I have never before laid eyes upon, willing and more often promoting greater debauches amongst our company than heretofore witnessed, by myself or any of my comrades (including Paul and John who I know you have sampled for your own pleasures)

I remember as clearly as yesterday that night of the twentieth (you remember when you were visiting with George and he had persuaded you to embroidery rather than the tawse he had promised) I know how much you enjoy these stories so I will enliven this narrative with some few descriptions as may lift your spirits before I must confess that terror I have wrought.

The evening of the twentieth was to be a Roundhouse, as previously declared and to that end we each were to bring along an acquaintance rather than a common seamstress. (It strikes me with some amusement now that George did actually have you for a seamstress whilst the fellows and I had eschewed them for that night) Be that as it may.

I had long been entertaining the notion that perhaps Betty Hardcastle, now that she has been in her majority (such as it is) for some six months, might benefit from having her bastions, if not broached then at the very least secured into some kind of service. I had high hopes that her battlements would not prove insurmountable.

I am of the opinion that little Betty was actually awaiting her birthday in order that she may bloom. For bloom she has, and in a mere handful of months. Her chests have grown seemingly overnight as it were and her delicious bottom and hips widened considerably, so much so that I think you would be overawed were you to meet with her at this time after how long? Two years since?

After some considerable persuasion on my part (not with her parents you understand, who were only too willing to see their daughter introduced into our society) little Betty reluctantly agreed to accompany me to our monthly gathering, where naturally as introduction, the men at the table played fondly and with little reticence amongst the clothing of the serving maids.

As you may recall from your own introduction there was some shock and some slight indignation on the part of one or two of our lady guests, as their colour heightened and they attempted to ignore or rise above such ribaldry. But naturally by the middle of the fowl course (pheasant if I remember aright) all but one of our female company could be seen to be in some form of mild arousal. (Extreme in the case of at least three girls who were taking an enthusiastic part in the now saucy goings on.)

Then it was time for the meat. The conversation at this point, as planned, was now concerned almost entirely with bedroom matters and fully half of our guests admitted to having no previous knowledge of such whilst half of the rest had only witnessed rather than partaken of any sexual matters whatsoever. Those three girls that had taken an interest in the underthings of the wenches were, to a man, farmer's daughters and had the build and ruddiness of complexion so associated. Being daily close to nature had made them closer to nature than our other city raised girls and it was these three that took an active lead when the meat was served. And one particular, but not particular girl even before the plates had been cleared.

I seem to recall that it was you yourself that introduced the present configuration of the meat course, having the maids take wall spaces and having boys do the serving at this time. I shall take this opportunity to once again praise your female prescience as to the timing and effect of this happy, albeit contrived, circumstance.

As I have said, those three farmer's daughters were very willing parties to the many leads and suggestions of their gentlemen sponsors, taking great delight it seemed, I may say hunger, in their delight at a handful of maid servant's titty or a daring snatch of snatch, as the current saying has it. One of the ruddy daughters even took to slavering her palm with girl juice and quite deliberately making a show (to Paine seated opposite) of licking and sucking on each wet finger with an avid, it seemed unquenchable, appetite.

My own gaze, as you must well know, was centred always on the wenches' faces, for signal cues of pleasure. My vigilance that night was well rewarded. Before even the maids had cleared the previous course I had my trumpet (you may call it a bassoon but believe me, you would call it a piccolo if you had agreed to share Benjamin with me that other memorable night) as I say I had my trumpet in hand playing a well rehearsed solo beneath the table cloth. Certainly all my compatriots and at least four or five lady guests were well aware of my fingering exercise. And this before the meat!

Here was something with which you would have been delighted. Virginia, she of the stern countenance, dark ravishing eyes and darker hair, she whom you have delighted in attempting to trick, seduce and ravish since first you set eyes upon, it was she upon whom this grease-fingered farmer's daughter set her own sights. This next, which was what led me to pre-arousal, would have had you willingly stricken and prone under fat Alfonse (I see you shiver with disgust and feel your flesh crawl as you read the name).

Virginia found herself the seemingly willing target (a shock I know) to Irene's ( the farmer's daughter) ministering. As you have found to our pleasure and quick mockery and your own disappointment, Virginia whilst apparently oblivious to the source of any cock-thrust was cold to the softness of the female touch. Cold and dry. Not so to Irene.

As the Fowl course platters were removed, Virginia taking it upon herself to confine her duties to Irene's place at the long table, a silence descended upon the party, almost every eye eventually drawn to the look of concentration on the farm girl's face and the rapt dissociation lingering on Virginia's statue like visage.

Virginia was visibly trembling, the largely untouched pheasant on it's silver salver seeming to dance it's secret feathered dance, as it jiggled and jumped across her tight fisted hold of the plate. The ordinarily staid servant seemed to shrink by some inches as if her knees had buckled when she unexpectedly issued forth a trembling mew of obvious lust and thenceforward a rising moan guaranteed to harden the manliness of every spectator thereat.

Hancock (who was sponsoring Irene) leant forward at this point and reached for Virginia's skirts and raised them inch by careful inch into bunches in his hand. The effect was mesmeric. The skirts rose unbearably slowly, in the fashion of a stage curtain, revealing pallid, quavering knees and the gentlest rhythm of Irene's forearm rising and descending with delicate precision between Virginia's firm white thighs.

Jackson and his consort (Emily Buck I believe) were the very last to notice the performance and broke off their hasty selfish snoggery with a gasp as echo to Virginia's own when Irene's tender motion was raised apace.

The serving girl's eyes had reared into their sockets at this increase in pace, now showing only the whites like some ghoul. The silver platter weaved and bobbed in time with Virginia's hoarse breathing and threatened to tumble instantly.

Of course the whole assembly were quite agog, the gentlemen waiting for the inevitable crash of plate (which I know is what you await also) and the ladies the unobstructed view of skewered maidservant. (which would also have delighted you no doubt)

Hancock, with his usual artistry, timed the spectacle to perfection. On each leisurely thrust of Irene's arm, Hancock would raise the skirt hem a matter of an inch or two, following the wrist and revealing just how deeply the thrust was, without showing the actuality.

A rather sudden and shocking scrape of chair to one side of the table told me that (probably Essie, that slut with the pendulous bussoms) could take no more spectacle without some willing stiffening inside of her. I risked a glance and indeed it was Essie the under stairs girl, bottom rising vigorously and with both naked titties deeply ensconced each in still quite hot sautéed potatoes and creamed cabbage in their separate serving bowls, pounding with urgency onto the lap of Thomas. Obviously willing and probably wanting of the delights of the chamber on this night.

When I looked back, we could detect the long straightness of Virginia's nether hair obscuring Irene's forearm which was now coated with a glistening melt of lady grease and here is the point at which your delight would have been complete.

Hancock finally raised the skirt fully to Virginia's waist to show Irene's finger tips followed by the knuckle of each and then the palm and then even the wrist sink (or rise in this case) completely into Virginia's fulsome kitty. A prolonged howl issued forth from the maid's lips as she was fully impaled, seemingly to bear her entire weight on Irene's upthrust and then it happened.

I'm sure you remember the many and varied attempts (no fewer than seven on your own account) to send this most severe and stoic of women to the chamber. Not a drop splashed from the gallon tureen of soup when Alexander invaded her dry, from the rear without pre-amble or warning, neither scale nor fin misplaced as she served trout with Robert hanging from her nipple by his teeth and even the marvelous spectacle of Samuel and John each thrusting with abandon into her hot and dirty places, sandwiched between them, as she held a steaming pudding above her head without so much as a tremble.

But now (I'm sure you'll wish you were there as witness) Virginia roared her fulfillment at Irene's hand and, greeted with a rousing cheer from the assembled, actually dropped the silver platter with it's burden whereupon three of the menfolk rushed to carry her, still wailing to the chamber.

As I am quite sure that you will curse my self interest I both apologise to and forgive you. I am unable to bring you any keenly awaited details whatsoever about Virginia's adventures in the chamber.

When the cheering had quieted somewhat and the gentlemen and guests had resumed their seats to explain in some detail the consequence of Virginia's (un)fortunate mishap, we finally came around to the meat course.

The buttoned breeks which you designed for this particular entertainment came into their own (as usual) at this time. As you know, the spoilage of menservants at the house is quite remarkable and you will, no doubt, be envious to hear that for this evening we had a wholly new stable of servingboys with which to delight our lady guests. Unbelievable as it may seem, fully one third of the new intake were virginal and the whole assemblage of them virginal in that particular way which provides entertainment for some three or four of our company myself included.

When the servingmen took the place of the wenches, it was immediately apparent that they were, without exception, aware of not only their specific duties but also ready and able to assume their especial duties.

No sooner had they taken their various places, between each gentleman and his lady guest, than any number of previously embarrassed eyes and indeed lap held fingers were finding their way to the obvious and some quite remarkable appendages in concealed display at very handily placed shoulder height.

Indeed, another of the farm girl's hands (Emma I think) immediately went to the buttons of the breeks at her side in order to take a first hand at the available meat. With the flap down and far less than flaccid member given air, Emma immediately contrived to envelop the entire thing between her lips and teeth. Her sponsor, Andrew, took this as implicit invitation and without so much as a by your leave, pulled her to a bending stance, whipped out his own stick, and made of her a spit-roast to be greeted by roars and calls of approval from all at the table.

To the embarrassment and regret of Josiah, the organiser of the event, one of the new staff unfortunately over stepped his mark and with arrogance and less than civil behaviour undid the buttons of his own clout and proceeded to press his advances onto Charlotte Heydal. The silly girl merely opened her mouth and began sucking with some enthusiasm on the proffered object whereupon two of the liveried butlers extracted the new man and dragged him away with pinioned arms by the length of his indiscretion to the chamber. More fortunately this was the only faux pas of an otherwise delightful evening.

Eventually the gentlemen had enjoyed their meat course (Venison if memory serves) and the lady guests had all enjoyed their own with varying degrees of trepidation and reluctance but at the end all had partaken.

Finally the sweet course was to be served. For only the second time in my memory each and every gentlemen got the sweet of his first choice. There were no clashes, no arguments, no envious glances. Each gentleman chose his particular favourite of the assembled guests and indulged himself pleasantly with that most intoxicating wine known to man. You have of course witnessed the scene yourself many times, ladies upon cushions upon the table with legs akimbo in front of each gentleman delivering of herself that nectar.

This, of course, is how I came to be acquainted with Georgie Lane. This then, I was to learn, was the fourth handshake. The fifth degree.

You have no doubt seen photographic likenesses of Miss Lane and I can assure you that her beauty is no less than that captured by the silver nitrate than it is in the flesh. This next, considering the news sheet coverage of the trial and subsequent sentence may be of some surprise.

At the table, for the sweet course, fresh and as inviting as morning dew to a desert crossed nomad sat our plumptious requisite. Glancing around I noted: plump duff, hair pie, shaved chick, slits with sauce, goulash of gash- I apologise, I was taken away with the remembrance.

As you are aware Betsy, I much prefer to take my pudding en prive, by the simple expedient of snuffling through underclothing like a pig after truffles. Imagine my surprise and delight then (and I am imagining your own when you read this next) when after I had left a silvered trail of kisses, tiny nibbles and slavering tongue along her smooth alabaster thighs, I worked my way around the pudenda (after a quick gasp inducing flick of the anal cavity) and on reaching for the apex of her cunny I encountered not the fount of sweetness I had expected but rather a roll of banana surprise. And what a surprise. My head and shoulders reacted of their own accord and let in the light of the dining room before I recovered my senses enough to cease my upward leap in order that this "lady's" blushes be spared by any ungallant and gauche act of my own.

Manners and my libido overcame my first shock and I stood there bent over this Georgie's crotch examining my prize. This apparent anomaly required some investigation and with great deliberation I extricated myself from beneath the folds of her (or his) dresses keeping her secret undiscovered to the present company and raised my eyes to lock her gaze in silent question. She merely lifted the corners of her full lips in an inviting smile.

Naturally my fingers sought her bodice and knowing I would thereby give the game away I expected Miss Georgie Lane to stay my hands. To my utter astonishment she simply smiled all the wider. Was she depending on the kindness of this stranger, relying on my gentlemanly behaviour to not betray her counterfeit? Her chests from this vantage certainly seemed womanly as they had seemed all through the previous evening. Flushing with amour, heaving when petted and bouncing with laughter. To my mind no amount of sticking tape or bandaging could produce this effect even on one less slim than the lady before me.

You will no doubt recall our several occasional visits to the theatre and that particular house in that specific town when we both took an interest in those "secret" ladies at that time. Do you recall Gertrude Grey? We neither of us could say one way or the other about 'her' But I will tell you now, even Gertrude's expertise paled into insignificance, yes, even those glorious counterweights were nothing compared to our Georgie's delightful bosom.

What I now took to be some skilful artistic decoration, to wit: the areolae of Georgie's 'breasts', the very edge of which were tastefully apparent to the naked eye I determined to investigate. As the flat palms of both my hands caressed along the contours of her hips, waist and torso, her smile became somewhat challenging. I was intrigued beyond measure at each further upward turn of her lips, now showing very dainty pearl white teeth, which she snapped at me as I reached nearer my goal.

To show this impossible girl my intent, whether female or no, I swiftly placed my hands on the tops of her thighs, whilst at the same moment releasing my rod from its delightful frotting place beneath the edge of the dining table, which quite made me gasp with painful pleasure, as I dragged her bottom by main force to the very edge of the linen cloth, whereupon I poked it delicately but with deliberation, at the only hole available.

You can imagine my delight then, when Georgie, upon perceiving my intent, instead of attempting to scuttle backwards, which is nearly always tiresome and leads to placement in the chamber, for which on this night my interests were something more than jaded, when she felt my path she stuck the tip of her pink tongue between her teeth, biting downwards, and actually pushed towards me, impressing the rounded point of my thrust almost to insinuation.


Dear Betsy



The first thought that crossed my mind was that the little minx was attempting to distract me from my investigation. I could not have been more wrong. She took my hands, all the while wriggling her hips and very inviting bottom, so much so that before she had actually placed my fingers upon her titties she had ensconced the shaft head rather neatly into the first fold.

Naturally my concentration was somewhat less than it should have been at this point and I was finding it quite difficult to proceed with my original intended purpose. Miss Lane, however was more alert to the situation at this time and ceased her wiggling so that I might continue upon my path.

Now, how to ascertain that which I believed, without embarrassment to Georgie's sensibility? The nipple, of course. Keeping my eyes locked on her own, my thumbs began their own journey of discovery around and about the already mentioned display of areolae. The bodice as is fashionable, did not reach more than half way around the underside of the globe of the breasts, leaving the nipple itself covered only with silk, cotton or whatever that décolletage might be.

You will recall that it was this very area that Gertrude Grey had the devil's job itself to dissemble. Here then, was the test. (rather than the testes which were elsewhere!) I first came upon the soft nubs, which obviously heightened my suspicion immediately. Although they were in the right place they were, even being impaled below and tenderly handled above, they were still soft! You of course, would not have been so eager to fall upon this further clue, being as it were living evidence that they (as yours) will stiffen or blossom only upon manipulation. Having found them I tested this very idea almost automatically. Georgie indeed, flashed her lashes to signal or dare me to do exactly that.

I did so and elicited from her a hiss of indrawn breath. I continued. Pulling and tugging, rolling them between thumb and finger for quite some time before I noticed in fact that they had stiffened and were distended. During the course of this manipulation Georgie, between gasps and sighs, had striven to completely envelop my shaft entirely within her and with smooth undulations was gently fucking my rod.

At this soft insistence I straightened my back and took some short while to indulge that for which we had initially gathered. I lifted Georgie's legs, with my hands supporting beneath her knees and gave her reason to gasp. My strokes were many and varied, slow and long, tiny stabbing efforts with only the glans intruding, short pumping strokes with sacs slapping the table edge and occasionally a single hard driving thrust from tip to stem in one quick motion.

As I fucked her I took the opportunity to assess the state of play across the rest of the table. The farmer's daughters were all completely naked and stuffed to overflowing, teeth bared, gaping 'O' of rich red rimmed mouth or intense lip bitten concentration. The rest of the lady guests were for the most part in various stages of nakedness but all were sporting full and luxuriant quim coifs excepting for Betty, who was lightly covered with downy blonde fur. You would have enjoyed Betty I am sure.

When I at last looked back at Georgie she had taken the opportunity to convince me of her upper feminine attraction and laid open her bodice. There were indeed, dissolving my suspicions, a pair of very ripe jugs. In order to confirm what my eyes could see I stopped stroking into her backside in order to allow those mams settle into stillness. I then gave her the full length for two or three timely pushes making her titties wash along her ribs and almost to her chin. Then from a few short shoves I saw that they conformed to my experience and rippled across their circumference, hardened nipples dancing lightly on the wavelets. After which there was only the 'switchback' remaining as proof positive.

I began the preliminaries and noticed an audience of two or three fellows who were seemingly prepared to shoot at any time, waiting only for my finale. Without hesitation I pushed left, withdrew and pushed from the right and with great good fortune Georgie's assets took opposite motion, the nipple of each moving in contrary circles. Having established the rhythm all that remained was some concerted effort in order to maintain it. With cries of 'bravo' and 'well done' I had once more achieved the sexual equivalent of that music hall entertainment of plate spinning.

Georgie was in delirium as I sawed contentedly into her box, so much so that she instinctively reached for her cock in order to fully access her obviously verging orgasm. I forestalled her efforts and imminent unmasking by reaching beneath her skirts and taking a firm hold of her straining length. But now I was in a very specific quandary. Amidst many and varied cries and squeals, moans and screeches of female orgasm there was to be the final event. This is, I think, a new one to you Betsy. All shall be revealed.

It seemed as though the entire company were now awaiting my own lady's triumphal appearance at heaven's gate. That she was bound there could be no doubt, so why hadn't I delivered of her that far reach? To my shame I had not an inkling as to how we would finish the piece without giving away Miss Lane's secret.

This was the point at which I realised that (apart from the obvious) Georgie was much more than she seemed. She reached forward and pulled me down towards her, ostensibly to bite and nibble at my ears. Her first whispered words were "Keep fucking." This task was not exactly onerous.

"What's the problem?" she asked. I replied that she first had to orgasm before the final competition could begin. "What competition?" was her next question. I explained about the shooting contest which was the novel highlight to complete the repast. Her solution was both diabolical and simultaneously exquisite. A sleight of hand worthy of any prestidigitator.

I raised myself and surveyed my audience which was eagerly anticipating the gun. Two of the farm girls along with Betty and Sarah were in the throes of their fifth or fiftieth of multiple pleasures and all of the gentlemen were performing steady maintenance of their rigidity.

I put our plan into action as soon as Georgie began her first crooning note of verisimilitude. Following her fakery and orchestrated lead I was soon pounding into her dirt box with abandon whilst keeping a tight grip on her cock. As she began to convulse in her subtly underplayed performance I pressed home to the hilt and filled her guts with my seed and at the same time gave the appearance of energetic assistance. Now we had to switch roles in order to convince the onlookers.

Georgie lay gasping for breath as I feigned withdrawal from her and then slid sinuously home once again whilst at the same time revealing her tumescence as my own. For her part Miss Lane, still apparently in subsidence, pushed down her skirts to hide the fact that the stiff shaft in my fingers was her own. Simultaneously around the table eleven other cocks were cocked, withdrawn, slick with girl-grease and more than ready to unload.

At this our host Josiah issued the command: "Ladies, to your elbows if you please." With one or two exceptions and confusions all our ladies attained the necessary attitude. Shoulders raised and facing their several firing squads. "Gentlemen..." intoned Josiah "Beat. Your. Meat."

At the command each gentleman began the serious business of the vinegar stroke. The aim (if you'll pardon the pun) is to shoot our outpouring as near as possible straight between our ladies' eyes. Having curtailed our advancement for so long it was a mere matter of five or six hand's breadths before any one of us had pulled the trigger. Now came the switch and the next illusion. Whilst actually detumescing I had to appear 'en petite mort' and whilst orgasmic Georgie had to fake post climactic bliss. The one thing I was completely unprepared for however was volume. Which had two surprising and vastly entertaining outcomes.

Twixt grunts and groans, growls and yelps a cheer rose, marking not only a ladies face but the event of a close hit, indeed the farm girl (Emma once again) was celebrating with loud calls and laughter as man spume dripped delicately from the end of her upturned nose. With all but one girl now adorned with glistening trails it seemed the contest was all but over. I was, as you will understand, at something of a two-fold disadvantage, but after much urging and some small assistance from my companion I had Georgie at the brink and finally pushed her over.

To my astonishment (almost making me forget my supposed role as onanist) a great silvery stream of spunk erupted forth from my stand-in appendage, sailed in one long string over Georgie's head, across the width of the table and hit that communist Paine straight, smack, plumb between the eyes. Such was the erotic effect of the flying gout now pulsing in reducing streams covering Miss Lane's hair, face (left eye not central), her jiggling breasts and her skirts that I once again without so much as a thrust ejected another sacfull into her backside thus lending verisimilitude to our hoodwink.

Well Betsy, that was how we met. What I will now impart is even more fantastical.

Over the two months following our 'introduction' I met with Miss Georgie Lane on several occasions, almost every one of them being of an intimate affair. I say almost because I met with 'her' twice without my direct knowledge of her identity. These two meetings (I only now realise) were with her as a man. Not merely dressed in male clothing or with gummed moustaches or other such covert trickery but as a man. How can I be sure? Because the second time that I came upon Mr. Gregory Lancet (notice the similarity of name?) was at my own club, from where after lunch and at least a half bottle of fine port we went in search of amusement, which we found in the shape of three ladies of my sometime acquaintance of impeccable family and sound upbringing and fortunately well versed in the 'politics' of society.

Without delving into great detail I shall say that this Gregory, myself and our good companions became involved throughout the night ending naked and wanton in the town house. We took turns with the girls, on two occasions I took Gregory as he spiked one or the other of them and in the morning I woke to find myself an integral part of an oral 'daisy chain'. This was to be our penultimate meeting in either guise because the next time we met he was she again and that is when I stopped her.

Now, how do I come to the conclusion that a man can turn himself into the very essence of femininity (appendages not withstanding) seemingly at will? The answer is that she told me and when she told me all the various clues of the previous seven or eight weeks fell into place, leaving me in no doubt whatsoever that a) she must not be allowed to continue and b) I have given this earth to an unknowable future.

This will be extremely difficult to grasp, but if anyone can I am sure that you will my dearest Betsy.

My last meeting with Georgie Lane was paradoxically her first meeting with me.

It took place in the park where I take my morning constitutional watching the horse-riders gallop and the children under their nanny's careful eye playing ducks and drakes with the various wildlife thereabouts, pigeons, squirrel etc. All at once, almost drowned by thundering hooves I was beset by a strident voice calling warning "Sir. Be careful Sir. Mind the way." Turning I was struck a glancing blow by the flank of a dappled hunter, spinning me about but causing no harm other than to lose my footing.

Before I could raise myself from the floor I found soft helping hands upon my shoulders and a concerned voice in my ringing ears. "Oh Sir." Cried the familiar and forlorn voice "I must apologise. I'm dreadfully sorry Sir." I made no bones about the incident other than to assure the blurred visage that I was unharmed and equally at fault. With soft apologies and heartfelt sorrow the girl turned to leave. Just as she was about to re-mount my vision cleared and I was struck an even fiercer blow when she turned to look once more and I recognised Georgie.

I called her name. "Sir?" she inquired and then a mask of dread fleetingly suffused her complexion before she cried "Oh" and "Oh. I didn't recognise you. What are you doing here?" and she began to gabble, in a seemingly worse state than when she thought I were injured. It seemed for all the world as though she had no recollection of who I was but was gamely attempting to hide the fact.

I put my fingers to her lips to quiet her near raving and asked simply "Georgie Lane?" She nodded her head. I gave her her own address as a question. She confirmed this too with a nod. "A crescent shaped birthmark here?" I lightly placed a finger below her ribs. She stood mute, terror and shame vying for show on her upturned face. "And this?" I asked pushing the palm of my hand between her legs and taking hold of her manhood.

"You know me." She stated simply.

"I do. But you it seems have no idea as to my identity."

My mind was awhirl. How could this be? We who had shared nights of passion, evenings of debauchery, early hours of revelry. Was she bewitched? Had she somehow lost her mind or memory? My rage had ebbed and I was left with a sadness at her plight then she seemed to come to a decision and, incredibly, she asked my name. I told her and then she began a story I still cannot fully convince myself is little more than fantasy, but which I acted upon instinctively.

She spoke with sure knowledge of times to be. Of war. Of fantastical invention, flying machines, far-speaking devices using the ether as medium, the whole world plunged not once but twice into bloody and bitter conflict, murdered Presidents, speaking pictures and machines with which to make the nations of the world a single country. These were inevitable events. Though our future, they were Georgie's history.

Imagine if you can Betsy that each and every beast, insect and bird in the whole world are dependant, in some respect or another, upon each and every other species and that each and every one of the creatures of the earth are actually physically changing their aspect with each succession of descendants. That which are inchworms today are butterflies tomorrow. The simple bulb planted today becomes the daffodil tomorrow. So it is with our children and grandchildren. They are taller, they are stronger they are as different from us as the tadpole is the frog.

In two hundred years our great grandchildren will be unrecognisable to us. In three hundred years they will be abominations.

As you are well aware, the population of our fair, young country grows apace. This growth requires greater and greater resources. It has been predicted in certain journals that before very long at all the whole population will be required to work on the land in order that we can feed and keep ourselves whole. With more and more land being used for cultivation there will be less area available to house ourselves. Worse, in the mid-west there are already whole tracts which can be farmed only every other year or two or even three years because the very earth itself has depleted.

Think how wondrous then if I tell you that there will grow naturally those cereals and plants which can be harvested not once but twice or three times in the space of the summer months and all with no loss to the ground in which they are planted! And that this will come about as a natural progression in development of these grasses and tubers.

And so I give you dire warning of coming arid wastes through reckless production and at the same time great hope through natural selection. Why then am I so excited? Because these two things are diametrical opposites. The one may happen only at the cost of the other. The bone dry wastelands are the inevitable conclusion of our rapid and happy growth. The marvellous thrice harvested corn comes at the price of war, famine, death and destruction.

Georgie Lane is (or was) a product of the second instance. She was a natural example of a world that carefully husbands its resources. A world that admits of no hunger. A place where the sex of a child is not fixed at birth but is fluid and changeable. A future time when all that we are now has never been!

Georgie Lane had been sent to destroy us.

As the sun rises, so shall it set and on the morning rise again. This is the order of things. The natural progression. Not so for Gregory Lancet.

I have mentioned, perhaps causing you some confusion Betsy, the idea of the six degrees of separation. I shall now elucidate. The conclusion of the Roundhouse, with which I began this story holds the final twist and last degree. One other of our guests that night was a certain Nancy Elliot of my acquaintance, a forebear I am given to understand of a particular inventor yet to come among us. It is she to whom I at last introduced Georgie Lane and who struck up a most convivial and desultory relationship that very night. Here was the fifth and final handshake. The immediate friendship that would seal our fate.

The medical officer here has informed me that I have a dose of the clap. A mild form and merely itchy rather than debilitating. I have declined treatment as I am in no position to seek better health after next Tuesday. The significance of this will become apparent.

In the middle of the park on that fateful day, the last for Georgie, surrounded by blossoming trees, shouting children and a grey hunter cropping peacefully at the grass she explained to me how she came to be at that event on that night.

Some 18 months ago Gregory Lancet befriended a 'lady of the night' Fraulein Giselle Wankel amongst whose clientele was a visiting Italian craftsman by the name of Cesare Pirelli whose peccadilloes included that love above others. This Cesare Pirelli had received a commission to work in Scotland for one Dougal MacHinery, a sometime engineer and Laird of Lochmannon, destined unfortunately to be the last of his line due to his aversion of 'the sulphurous pit'. A letter from Dougal introducing Georgina Lane was delivered into the hands of one Francis Hopkinson and it was he that sponsored Georgie Lane to the Roundhouse that night. I of course introduced Georgie to Nancy.

Some years later, and happily married, Nancy will give birth to a sickly child (no doubt due to the effects of the pox) who will suffer the handicap of almost total deafness and who will strive withal, in order that those suffering his same condition in its full strength, can learn to speak rather than use the animal like finger signs, he will strive his entire life to find a device whereby those unfortunates may hear. In so doing there will come about such devices of communication as will encompass the world in one community, but not before they have driven the world to the brink of disaster and forced mother nature herself to find new ways of keeping her children safe.

Do you believe me dear Betsy? I swear that every word is true and yet I have absolutely no proof of any of this save the words of a thin girl in the park. A thin, beautiful girl that may become a man at will, or something in-between, in order that she may cater to the taste of her newest lover and thereby inveigle herself into the company of her next.

After all this I may as well confound both yourself and my story to its fullest extent. How is it that a person may be in such raw and intimate contact with someone one day and be unknown to them the next? Here is the most difficult and the place at which you may consign me to madness.

Have you skipped flat stones across a pond? Across a wide stream to maybe reach the other bank. It is a silly and time-wasting effort but I'm sure you have witnessed boys attempting it. Each time that the stone dashes the water it slows before skipping on until eventually it stops and sinks. The greater the effort put into the first throw, the further the stone will skip. So it is with time travel! Three hundred years then one hundred then fifty and ten then one and 6 months then weeks then days until at last the traveller sinks into the past having tasted all those various centuries, years and days, in reverse!




Dear Betsy



Each time that I met with Georgie my memories of previous nights were fresh in my mind. Hannigan's bar in a private corner two nights after the Roundhouse, where she slipped beneath the table and took the full length of my hardness to the back of her throat and later asked if I had enjoyed it as much as she had when I'd done the same with her. When we rode home in a cab and she took it upon herself to raise her skirts and impale herself upon me remarking that she enjoyed this as much as when she did me. These remarks and utterances both confused and shocked me. One night when she recalled being had whilst poking some nubile thing I questioned her closely and she declared that she had been sleepy and dreaming I had no recollection of these events and now I know that she was remembering days to come.

In that park, on that spring afternoon, when her full intent and the minuscule detail with which her plan had been drawn finally sank in I acted at once. In the final analysis it wasn't the impending wars which horrified me, nor the planned privation that disgusted me, it wasn't the needless deaths nor unthinking cruelty by which power is granted that embittered me. It was Georgie's nonchalance and utter arrogance in her manipulation of millions with one small act that stultified my spirit and so I stopped her dead.

In this act, all was changed. I cannot know the future outcome Betsy and like any madman I cannot with certainty know if I am not insane. But these things I do know Betsy. At the Roundhouse on the twentieth, you were not with George sewing, you were opposite my station at that table. When your fingers were flying with needle and thread that was not you, your fingers were in Virginia. This I do know, I have pinched off that loop in time. George is no longer our king. Paine is no longer a reviled communist but a liberal thinker. I have delivered our selves and our future as pat. And I am for the gallows. 



Dear Betty



Dear Betty,

Maybe I'm crazy, or maybe I'm just a slut. Lately, I've become absolutely obsessed with giving blowjobs and having impromptu sex. I especially love to fuck male strangers that are well known by the friends that I know well. The thought of being together with someone like that and having on–the–spot–sex, gives me the "chills". My panties get so soaked with my juices, I have to change them or walk around with wet spots soaking through.

It was last week, the day after my nineteenth birthday that, my stepmother’s brother, Uncle Max, came to visit us from Lansing, Michigan. As soon as we met, he looked right at me, as if he had never seen a woman before. His eyes looked as though they were ready to pop out of his head. Over all, he was a reasonably handsome man about thirty five years old. His height was about five foot ten inches tall and his hair was light brown. His blue green eyes radiated total lust. Right away, my eyes fell on his crotch. I saw his magnificent "bulge" begin to grow more each second. Chills began coming over me. He sensed my delight.

He smiled ear to ear and said,

"I'm glad to meet you again, Amy. I'm looking forward to getting to know you…all over… again."

It took a second or two, but I finally got what he really meant. My heart was pounding. I felt a drop of moisture roll down my left leg. I realized he saw the drop exit the leg of my shorts. I could see his eyes light up at the same time he took deep breath. Even though my mother stood next to us during the introductions, she saw nothing. Well, at least I didn't think she did.

The door of opportunity flew wide open at her next statement.

"Listen, you two. I've got to go to the store to buy something for dinner. After that, I'll pick up Alan from his Soccer practice”.

Alan was my younger brother by three years.

“In the meantime Amy, why don't you show Max around the house and garden?"

"I'd like that, Amy.” Max cut in. “I'd love to see your place". 

His grin never left his face as he offered that second little zinger.

And I...I was on fire! At least three more drops of juice ran down my left leg. Immediately, two more drops ran down my right leg. I saw the bulge in his crotch standing tall. I fancied the idea of his dick being so hard, he could have used it for a third leg, had it been long enough. 

My Mother's car was in the driveway, about thirty feet to the left of us. Uncle Max and I smiled at each other as she climbed into the driver's side of her car and slammed the door. Before backing out of the driveway, she leaned over to her right and rolled down the right front passenger window.

“Max brought his swimming trunks,” she called out to us. “Why don't the two of you go for a swim… you know…after showing Max around."

She straightened her posture and turned over the engine. While ooking back through the rear window, she quickly backed the car out into the street. She stopped, turned the wheel to the left, put the car in gear and bolted down the street. After seeing her make a right turn at the corner and drive out of sight, I turned back to my Uncle Max and his mischievous grin. Of course, I was smiling just as big.

"What would you like to see first, Uncle Max?" I asked, hoping for another great come back.

"Please Amy, just call me Max. The ‘Uncle’ makes me feel old. Besides, we’re not blood related.”

"It’s respect Max. You should feel perverted...Uh...I mean privileged," I said accidentally on purpose.

"What? I, should feel perverted?"

"Just kidding Max."

"That's okay ‘cause…I am perverted. Not only that, I like it."

"I think we'll get it on...I mean, get along just fine." I purposely stammered, but continued to smile.

I could see him acting shocked at my words.

"To hell with the tour, lets go for a swim before mom gets back."

"Sounds great,” he said, smiling. "A dip would feel just fine."

I felt streamers of liquid running down both legs, as we walked into the front door of the house,. My pulse was pounding. I felt like my body was about to explode. This was the first time I was ever this hot.

Immediately, I escorted him to his bedroom.

"This is you room," I pointed out to him. "Behind that door, there in back, is your private bathroom."

"That'll work…thank you. Oh, one more thing."

I stood in front of him waiting as if something fantastic was about to happen. The suspense was killing me.

"Could you get me a glass of water?" he calmly asked.

"...Uh, what?" What a let down, I was shocked.

"Water…would you get me a glass of water, please?"

"Yeah, sure…right back." I answered, turning towards the kitchen.

I was a bit confused. I was so certain he was going to make his move right then. However, as it turned out, it was a good thing I didn't give up on him. What happened next was beyond anything I expected.

Walking across the carpet into his room, I saw the bathroom door opened about two and a half feet wide. My Uncle Max was standing stark naked in front of our full-length bathroom mirror. The opened bathroom door was to his left side and hinged towards his back side. With both hands, he covered and rubbed his face with a wash cloth. While he washed his face, he couldn't see me, and I was positive he didn't see or hear me walk in.

He had an average looking physique, no tattoos, and no suntan but, he was quite acceptable. What he did have was a dick, three quarters hard, swinging back and forth in rhythm as he rubbed his face. In my heart, I was screaming. I knew that if didn't get relief soon, I was going to pass out or explode. I was trembling. The insides of my thighs were coated with juice. My body was covered with sweat.

Not only could I see him slightly from behind and from the side but, I also saw his frontal reflection in the full-length mirror he had taken from the back of the bathroom door. Every time he moved the wash cloth over his face, his pecker swung back and forth. I was nearly out of my mind.

"Wait a minute." I thought. “He removed the full length mirror from the back of the bathroom door? He leaned the mirror against the bathroom sink to deliberately show his front reflection and left the bathroom door open. He's putting on a show."

I couldn't take my eyes away. To me he was a man to fuck and family second. He finished washing face and casually looked into the mirror. In an instant, I could see him turn towards me enough to have seen me from the corner of his eye. Instantly, acting as though he hadn’t seen me, he turned back facing the mirror. But, he must have seen me. How could he not have seen me? I then reached the point of no return. I couldn't take it any more.

I sat the glass of water on the chest of drawers next to me. I was insane, as I ripped off my clothes. No matter how fast I moved them, it wasn't fast enough. I had no concern about the fact my Mother could possibly come home early or that a neighbor could knock on the door.

In one quick move, pushed the bathroom door all the way opened, walked in, closed the door behind me, and looked him straight in the eye. The look on his face was priceless. Not only was I as naked as he was but, last night, I had completely shaved off my pubic hair. With the exception of his head and eyes, he stood there motionless. As the saying goes, he checked me out up one side and down the other. He saw me look at his dick that continued to sway back and forth from his jerky head and eye movements. He looked back at me and asked,

"Dressed for success, are we?"

"Yeah, ...custom made. I hope you like it?"

"We have matching outfits. Of course I like it."

"I'm sure these outfits will make a lasting impression out on the dance floor."

As I was talking, my right hand gently surrounded his pecker. His eyes slowly closed as he drew in a deep breath. After about two seconds, he opened his eyes about half way.

"Mmmm.…what brought this on? Your Mother said you were a such a good girl."

"She was wrong, Max. I'm great!”

I began stroking his pecker up and down, again and again.

“What brought this on?” I continued. “It was the hard on.” 

I paused for a second or two.

“Besides Max, something like this needs to be tested."

"Tested?"

"Yeah, you know....taste tested. We need to make sure it's not poison."

"You and I think a lot alike."

"I think we need to get busy. I don't want to be interrupted in the middle of a test."

"I'll bet this test will make you a straight A student."

"Nope," I had to have the last word. "This test will maintain my straight A status."

I bent over at my waist, flicked his dick head with my tongue. All around the head and upper shaft, I licked his dick like a lollipop and then, slowly dragged both my upper and lower lips over the head. I imagined I was eating a cock flavored ice cream cone. I heard Max gasp in pleasure with each new move. Flick, lick, suck and stroke, I never knew family could be like this. I caressed the skin of his dick just under the head as I licked on.

After a few minutes, I could feel back muscles being strained. Still holding his dong and pulling him with me, I stood up, turned both of us I and sat down on the closed toilet seat directly behind me. I placed each hand on the closest butt cheek, and resumed my oral extravaganza. 

The licking, sucking and stroking went on and on. In repeated motions, I pulled him to me, put my hands on his hips and pushed him back again causing his rod to slip in and out of my mouth…a true face fuck to behold. With every in and out motion, there was my tongue sliding back and forth, gently caressing the skin directly under his pecker head. I gave just enough suction to maintain firm mouth contact with his shaft. As I sucked, I made sure my tongue slipped back and forth on that same spot again and again. I could hear his gentle moans as his head and shoulders swayed slowly left then right. I was really glad he wasn't the Screamer type.

It was incredible. "Too bad," I thought to myself, "this can't be part of my diary."

I could feel his pecker in my mouth swelling and shrinking again, and again, as his dick muscle contracted and then relaxed again. Sucking, licking and stroking...it seemed endless. I felt him swell for one last time. His first shot of cum blasted to the rear of my mouth. It was so strong, I imagined his wad blasting out the back of my head. Lieutenant Columbo would have no trouble figuring out how this girl died. 

Immediately, the second shot fired. I attempted to swallow as fast as I could. It was no use. I felt his hot jizz running down both sides of my mouth. I could hear the drops hit the bathroom floor. I swallowed more and more as he came more and more. Finally, it was over.

"Ahhh…yeah…oooo, fuck me Agnes," his loud voice filled the house.

For a second or two, it looked like he was going to faint. I thought he was going to lose his balance. He stopped himself from falling by quickly catching and bracing himself against the wall behind me. I leaned back against the toilet seat to prevent his stomach from hitting me in the face.

"Yo…baby," he went on, "they didn't teach you that in college, did they?"

"Fuck no." I answered laughing at the same time, "I learned it in the Girl Scouts."

He stood up straight again. His cock had lost very little posture.

"I’ll bet there were many that got their cookies off of you.”

"I made the Scout Leaders List five years in a row."

To get the laugh I added another zinger. 

"...And I was a Girl Scout for only three years."

"Oh really, what made you quit the Girl Scouts?"

Just to see the look on his face, I replied with, "I started the Eleventh Grade."

My orgasm was yet to be fulfilled. He got on his knees and propped my legs up to my shoulder height with his hands. Knowing it would be awkward for him to continue holding them, I grasp my legs under each knee and held them apart just far enough for me to be comfortable, and still let him in. 

At first, he started licking my snatch covering as much area as he could with flat of his tongue. It was like a paintbrush adding paint to a wall.

"Ohhh.. yeah, yeah, yeah. Have the main course. Eat me alive." 

I was in ecstasy. His tongue came to a point. He went up the left side of my clit, then the left. I felt the pressure rising in me faster than it had ever done before. With the point of his tongue touching the hood of my clit, he began wiggling my clit back and forth, slowly at first, and then picked up speed. I took hold of a deep breath just before his tongue flicked the tip of my little button…and I exploded in ecstasy. Now my voice filled the house.

"Ahh, shit. That's it, that's it…ohh…fuck yeah.”

My eyes were closed as I rolled my head left and right. I struggled to remain conscious. But, I couldn’t get enough.

"Oh, yes. You’re just how I like 'em...an eight inch tongue and you can breathe through your ears."

He placed the tip of his tongue right over my hole and plunged in. From the shock, I gasped for air. He rapidly wiggled his tongue side to side, up and down, in and out and in little circular motions. I thought I could never let my breath out again. Oddly enough, I didn't care.

At the last moment, he curved the tip of his tongue slightly forward. Like a plow, he drove his tongue from the entrance of my fuck hole to the head of my clit. Once he made contact with his target, I thought I was going to pass out. He went on to completely cover my clitoris with his mouth and tongue and began to suck on me very gently. As he sucked, he gave me the same back and forth tongue action on my clit that I gave his dick. When I did cum, I actually did pass out for a fleeting moment. I reached a peak I felt would never end. I couldn’t utter a sound. 

My twat gushed. Never before, had I experienced a cum to match this one. The thrill of who I was fucking, coupled with the chance of getting caught, created a fantasy beyond belief. The fantasy added an extra orgasmic “bite”. He never lost contact with my snatch all the time I was cumming. I practically ripped his ears off..

It was over. I could breathe normal again, or so I thought. I opened my eyes to see Max standing in front of me with a dick still as hard as a baseball bat.

He looked down at me and said,

"Let's play hide the weenie".

"More?" as if I didn’t know.

"Hell yeah, it's been a long while since..."

"Okay, I could do for a little more myself,” I interrupted.

His pecker slid into me like a hot ice pick through warm butter. Again, I started gasping with excitement.

"We're both lucky, you know". I said, with my head tilted back and my eyes closed. "If I was a 'Screamer type' we'd have the Fire Department here by now".

"Fine. As long as they knew they couldn’t join in."

Not be out done, I answered with,

"At least not until their turn anyway."

Each thrust was totally captivating. This man was awesome. I could feel every bump on his rod. In and out it went, again and again. In a matter of a few minutes the tingling returned. It grew more and more intense…more and more exhilarating. It was hard to believe but, within seconds after it started, I came a third time.

“Oooh…hoo…yeah…definitely the kind.”

I could see the expression on Max's face. While holding his eyes closed, his breathing became more and more like huffing and puffing. His thrusts became faster and faster…harder and harder. For the forth time, the urge to cum completely took over my body. Gasping for his second wind, he was ready to cum too. Finally, got off together, big time. It was hell trying not to scream.

“Whew…shit. Fuck me dead,” Max belted out between breaths. He was a man of unique words.

I felt the inside of my snatch being loaded full to the top. I could feel some of it drip and roll down over my ass hole. For a man on his second come, he had a lot left over. I could hardly move. I let my legs down to touch the floor with my feet. It was a struggle to sit up right.

"Now that was worth writing the folks back home about.”

"Oh yeah," I agreed with a large smile, "Next time, let's take pictures. We can use them for Christmas Cards."

Then I remembered.

"Oh shit! My Mother."

Now all of a sudden, it did matter if we were caught. I ran into Max’s bed room, grabbed my clothes and ran into my own bedroom. Lucky for me, I left my two piece bathing suit lying on my bed. The bathing suit was a lot quicker to put on than the clothes I took off.

About five minutes later, Max and I dove into the swimming pool. Before I could get used to the water, my Mother appeared from inside the house. My sixteen-year-old brother, still in his Soccer uniform, followed close behind her.

“Hey you two, we're home. Everything fine?"

"Great Ma, great."

"Max, will Barbecued Spare Ribs be good enough for dinner?"

"Fabulous, Peggy, fabulous."

My mother looked me straight in the eye.

"Amy, is every thing okay?”

"Yeah, sure Ma. Why do you ask?"

"Well… ah…before I stepped outside, I looked in Max's bathroom to see if I had cleaned it. I saw a mess on the floor. It looked like someone had spilled a few drops of some kind of hand lotion, or something."

That's it Betty. What do you think? Am I crazy, or am I just a slut?

Signed,
Amy

ANSWER:

Dear Amy,

Based on what you wrote...You’re a slut.

Betty Blue, Editor