Alexandra Guy: A Maiden's diary

Maytemper was amenable and trusted that I would recover my spirits in due course. I must say that he kept an adroitly straight face-it was common knowledge that I had consented to be Terstyke's mistress.

What nobody was privy to was that since Loki and Sir Lawrence had stoked my carnal fires, I was developing a libidinous-ness incapable of tenninal satisfaction. The onset was gradual, not sudden, and I first became aware of it when, late one evening, Sir Lawrence brought back to Merlin House an overgrown, lumbering youngster obviously addlepated and without average sense. The baronet explained that he had “borrowed” the hulking, smiling youth from one of his gambling friends, a farmer in the district. I was in our bedroom brushing my long black hair when Sir Lawrence appeared with the chap who was quite tall but misshapen, being small in the shoulder and wide in the hip.

“Borrowed you for some milking, eh?” Sir Lawrence said in an overly loud and drunken voice to the lad and proceeded to feel for the youth's phoenix through his strained trousers and then familiarly yanked at it, as though he were ringing for a servant. “Ay, that you done, m'lord,” the lad said, laughing oafishly and nodding his unkempt head, staring at me. I was in negligee and observing their actions in the mirror. I absolutely could not control myself. I turned on the vanity bench, not missing a stroke of the brushing, and slowly crossed my legs, squeezing my thighs together. Naturally the lad saw. I had put it in full view. His jaw lolled and he said to the baronet pitifully, “Pull me some more, m'lord.” I knew I had touched the primeval ooze and would be wallowing in it. It had taken nothing more than a vacant-skulled rustic to arouse me. And as I was aroused, I was descended-I could be as coarse as the most foul-mouthed slattern. “Come here,” I said to the boy. “I'll show you what pulling's like if you've got a cock bigger than a thimble.” Sir Lawrence laughed again, gently patting his own pipe and balls.

The boy approached me diffidently. His blue eyes were watery and there was a sort of whitish cottony fuzz growing on his head.

Altogether unprepossessing except for the doughy balls to be kneaded and the prick to be reamed. Indeed, a mere clod could set me afire. I licked my lips. He forgot to lick Ms-spittle was accumulating at his mouth comers. I grinned wryly- even that did not repel me-the spittle was an extension of semen. “I'll wager you an emerald to match your eyes, Victoria,” the baronet said hoarsely, “that the farmboy will outlast you.” “And if I lose?” I asked as the lumpish bumpkin gazed at us bewilderedly, one of my quivering breasts slipping outside the negligee. “I'll use you as equity at the gaming tables. If the cards come low, you will have a queue to service.”

“Done, m'lord,” I said mockingly. The amber eyes of the gray-haired man were feverish. “Get on with it, Victoria. I've never stood in the wings before. Most exhilarating, my dear, most exhilarating.” I calmly unbuttoned the boy's trousers-his knees were trembling, which only stoked me the more-and closed my sweaty fingers about his shillelagh, which my imagination labeled knobbed and doughy. But the piece wasn't that way at all-it was actually velvety to the touch, one of the smoothest and whitest pissers I've ever encountered, and I brought it out into the open to admire and hold on to as I asked him, “What do they call you, boy?” “It be Floyd Cunlippe, m'lady. I be a bastard,” he added with a sort of sad meditativeness, nodding his head gravely. I was touched, but not overly. I was far more touched in the groin where I felt a kind of mailed fist churning, grinding. I felt predatory, vicious. The clod called. Floyd must have sensed it because, suddenly, his watery eyes widened and he tried to pull away. “No,” I said. I shook my head and held on. The holding-on glazed the lad's expression because in a moment he had become very gross in my hand, like a fatted calf, and his big hips started to roll. Floyd Cunlippe had become a sacrifice, and he stood there on shaky legs. I swiftly kneeled and applied the nipple of one of my teats to Floyd's stiff white spar. “My darling,” the baronet said, teasing his own penis by pinching it gently, “you really are a prize cunt, you know? It wouldn't surprise me in the least to learn that that clitoris of yours has a little brain all by itself and has rather taken over your entire body-the slit revolution, so to speak-” “M'lady, m'lady,” Floyd cried out in an astonishingly high, womanish voice, “I be set to whitewash the barn!” And he fell back. Fortunately for him, the bed was directly behind and, as his body struck it, his priapus became a gusher and I, slamming down on him-to employ a vivid Americanism-capped him. While I did so, and he writhed beneath me, he kept yipping in that womanish register which he apparently had recourse to whenever overly excited that he was a foundling and undeserving. A foundling and undeserving, he kept repeating as I sucked greedily, greedily, as though I were an infant at my mother's breast, Louisa Quist-Hagen, the Marchioness of Portferrans herself, and simply couldn't get enough. You may think what you damned well please, dear reader, such as that I was too early weaned, and from thence stem all my difficulties-but I tell you there is nothing like the pump of the cock in the mouth, the warm semen washing away all mouth disorders, so to speak, and pouring calm, with its oiliness, on the troubled, turbid waters of the psyche. Lawrence Terstyke himself was moaning in bliss as he lay down beside Floyd and masturbated against him to a climax… As it turned out, the farmboy did not outlast me and neither did Sir Lawrence Terstyke because, on his subsequent trip to London to purchase me the emerald with which to pay off the bet, he became involved in a drunken brawl in Soho and was knifed to death. Mistresses, contrary to the sentimental bilge written about the matter, rarely mourn their lovers' demises, and I was not one of the rarities. Furthermore, I had mourned once and that, I vowed, was enough to last me a lifetime. True again, I do miss my brother and, occasionally, sharply so, but that's a special relationship and I confess I don't quite understand it. I had become Terstyke's mistress because he and the great Dane had rekindled my sexual fires, and had been one of the few men able to make a stab-if you'll forgive that play-at sexually satisfying me. The stab was now gone, quite permanently. There was no further reason for me to stay in Sussex and, as soon as I settled what I could of the baronet's affairs, I packed and was off by coach to London. I must add that Loki, the great Dane, was inconsolable, or I would have taken him with me. As it was, the beast would have wasted away-a most cruel fate-so I had him put to death. I had written George Maytemper, of course, and he had replied post-haste that I was welcome to rejoin his players at any time I chose, and that I had only to name the date and time of my arrival. He was about to cast Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest, and he thought I might be a redoubtable addition to the players. The furor over Wilde had long since been dissipated; he had suffered his gaol term and was now a broken man -and surely we English in our insufferable hypocrisy over sex had crucified the Irishman. The least we could do, in some recompense, was to keep playing his quite immortal comedies. At any rate, as it turned out, Maytemper did cast me in the Wilde and we opened to a good house at the Tarton, the theatre he had rented for the repertory group. My beauty was such, of course, that I required no starring roles to have a legion of admirers-and I confess I was indiscriminate in my choice of sleeping mates, which means, naturally enough, I had little choice at all. I debarred no male on account of the tint of his epidermis, requiring only that it be reasonably clean-a snobbery I learnt to dispense with.