Memoir of a Lady Pt. 03: Sex , Politics

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Ah yes, Fortescue, or, to give him his full name and position, Fortescue Smythe-Chichester MP, Secretary of State for the Colonies. Not, I admit, the grandest of positions, but not bad for the youngest son of a minor country gentleman from Antrim with more acres and daughters than money. Why he married me was all too obvious – “gold-digger” was one of the kinder criticisms made. Jem Salisbury could, at seventy, marry the nineteen year old Kate and be thought of as a fine randy fellow, but if Forty, at thirty, married the forty-five year old Lady Frances, then I was a “cradle-snatcher” and he was a fortune-hunter. Typical. And typically wrong. Forty wanted a political career more than he wanted money or my body, and I wanted him for the same reason. The fact was that having attained great wealth, I wanted what men of wealth got with it – power. As a woman I could not do that by myself – it was the only use I ever found for a man. Women were another matter.

Having won a position in Society, I intended to retain it. At Turnberry Pike the political soirées continued successfully despite the absence of dear old GV. The Sapphist meetings after hours added extra value for me and others, as some of the younger wives discovered the joy of the love button. Grace Granville made us laugh when she said that she was sure that pressing there would help, because once, when she had ridden without a side-saddle she had wet her drawers.

As we discovered our bodies and helped ourselves to achieve pleasure from sexual congress with each other, we came to the conclusion that aristocratic men were largely a waste of space. To a woman we confirmed that men liked to mount us, spurt in us and move on. Kate Salisbury had tried to initiate her husband into the use of the love button, but once he had seeded her, he lost interest. It was hopeless. The only variations were buggery and sucking the truncheon. Male desire was all.

This made my Sapphist soirées popular among the cognoscenti. We agreed that much as some of them loved the walk up cock lane, the softness of a wet cunny and of a sweet pair of titties was equally desirable, and more so when the love button was pressed into service.

Fond of categorisation as I am, it seemed to me there were three types of Sapphist: those who tolerated cock and cunt; those like myself who were exclusively cunt-eaters; then a third group who loved sporting male attire. Once equipped with a facsimile of a truncheon and trained in love buttoning, this last group were in demand. For those of a docile nature it gave all the pleasure to be had from a woman with the rough treatment they craved from men. What’s a girl to do? Lie back and think of cunt.

Craving power, such a road was not for me. No woman was going to mount my fleshy orbs and fuck me. It was that craving, power, that prevented my settling for Turnberry Pike and soirées.

I had noticed how, when any women made a comment on politics it was ignored, but when a man repeated it, other men would acknowledge and praise it. It was clear to me that Kate Salisbury and myself were far cleverer than most of the men round the table. Disraeli took note of us not only because we were titled ladies, but also because we had ideas. No wonder we liked him.

Kate did her best to get old Jem Salisbury to do things, but he was like a dim candle with a faulty wick; flickering to no great effect. No, what was needed was a young man we could train up. There was nothing for it, I should have to wed again. At “forty something” the odds would have been against me, but with a fortune at my disposal, a grand house near London, and hostess to the most important political parties, my only problem was being spoiled for choice.

The right young man could be moulded – by me. I was old enough to have gained an air of authority, something I had noticed that some men liked in a woman. I did not want a swain or someone to woo me, or even someone who looked handsome on my arm; what were those things to me? I liked women, I would continue with that hobby, but for politics I needed a man.

I discussed our needs with Kate Salisbury, to whom I was increasingly attracted. Unrigged we would massage each other’s cunts, and the way she used her tongue on my love button was an utter delight. But what I loved about her was her mind. Kate had twice the intellect illegal bahis of her aged husband and four times his skill with words. I loved listening to her discuss the “condition of England” question, and we both liked Mr Ruskin and his ideas for combatting the evils of industrialisation.

Kate had thought long and hard. It was, she argued, absurd to reduce life to labour. Man did not live by bread alone, and he should have the leisure to improve his mind. We both supported the idea of a Workers’ Educational Association to improve the lot of the labourer. But we also argued in favour of educating girls. If the first was looked at by our menfolk with an air of wonder, the second led them to dismiss us as silly women.

One evening I could not resist responding, to the amusement of Mr. Disraeli. Jem Salisbury (a man to whom logical thinking was as foreign as teetotalism) dismissed the suggestion that girls should be educated with the comment:

“They are all silly chits, they know nothing and need know nothing save obedience.”

The men, by now on their sixth course with much wine taken, nodded sagely in approval. I looked at Kate, who was seething, and waded in.

“My lord, if we are silly, how will not educating us help?”

Jem looked as though he had smelt a fart, his mouth making a moue of distaste.

“Milady, you, like my wife, are exceptions. Surely you would not educate a working girl?”

“My lord,” I replied with a deference I was very far from feeling, “if we are exceptions, how can one be sure there are not others? Would you really want a wife who was no more than a doll?”

Jem smiled, and the other men seemed quite attracted to the idea.

“As long as she was an obedient one milday, I doubt any man here would have a problem. Am I or am I not correct gentlemen?”

The desire to throw the contents of my wine glass all over his smug faced being resisted, I contented myself with the obvious retort:

“And of what use would such a consort be in bearing the heir my lord? If there was no sense in the mother, would the child not risk being one of those congenital idiots I have heard you complain about in the Lords?”

Mr. Disraeli, with that tact he could exercise when he chose, intervened to save the day:

“My lord, as the exemplar du jour of the parfait chévalier, I feel sure you will allow the field to our beautiful hostess!”

How could even Jem Salisbury resist that one? I could see a brief struggle on his wrinkled visage as he wrestled with the idea of thinking, but as Dizzy had done that for him, he relaxed and smiled.

“Why Dizzy, as the descendant of the great Burleigh, like him with Bess, I yield the day to milady. Your charm and wit,” he said turning to me, “are famous throughout the land, and I yield the palm to you.”

Kate Salisbury breathed an almost audible sigh of relief. Jem could be a cantankerous old bugger, and having been let off the hook, his post-prandial mood would be better.

“Why my lord,” I smiled, partaking of the play-acting, “you are a very Lancelot.”

And with that, the spat was over. It made my mind up – it was time to find a man to mould.

As the wives of peers of the realm (or in my case a widow), Kate and I had the right to watch debates in the Chamber of the Commons; we used this spectator sport as a talent-spotting opportunity. We used the evenings to compare notes – but not simply on men.

Kate’s tongue on my cunny was a delight which never wearied. The sight of her delicate face wet and red with my juices aroused my passions. To have such a woman subject herself to the task of pleasuring me sent shivers of excitement through my body. There seemed to be a connection between my titties and my love button, and while Lady Kate tongued me, I pressed and pulled on my nipples which were stiff and aching. When the sweet short death overtook me, my cunt squirted its juices all over her face. The task of licking her clean added to our passion.

We agreed it was so different from what we had experience of with men. There was passion without the rough urge to take and own. She liked that on occasion, but the speed of the release of the pearly liquid often meant women got little by way of pleasure. It was not so with our soft and sensuous exploration of our bodies. Where men took illegal bahis siteleri aim, shot and then retired from the fray, a woman could go on for hours. What’s a girl to do? Become a sapphist Topper.

Lady’s Kate’s step-son, Lord Robert, was a serious young man. Bald and bearded in his early thirties, his passions were for the Church and the rights of property. A keen opponent of any idea of extension to the suffrage, Robert was the hope of those stern and unbending Tories who found Mr Disraeli too accommodating to the forces of democracy. She wondered if one of his friends would do for our task of finding a man to be moulded.

I had to explain to the chatelaine of Hatfield that such views, while no doubt very “clever,” were not the wave of the future. I had confidence that our parliamentary system would adapt itself, but if men like Lord Robert had their way, they would end by provoking a revolution. Who, in their right mind, would want the French Revolution in England’s green and pleasant land?

It was, as things worked out, through Robert that we found our man. Tall and almost painfully thin, his lordship had a manner which commanded attention in the Commons. For those happily ignorant of our system of government, it might be explained that the House of Lords was composed of peers of the realm who were unelected, while the Commons was full of Members of Parliament who had to be elected. As the younger son of a peer, Lord Robert was eligible to be an MP. It makes its own sort of sense if you think of men of power wanting to keep most of it for themselves.

After a witty, sarcastic and deeply reactionary speech, Robert sat, and the Speaker called a fresh-faced young MP for an Irish seat, Fortescue Smythe-Chichester. New to the House, the usual hubbub continued as he launched into an impassioned speech. It was so good that others stopped to listen. Young Fortescue knew his subject, and quoting Homer and Cicero, he took on Lord Robert, arguing the case for reform to avert revolution.

“He’s a brave man, Frances,” Kate whispered, “few take Bob on.”

I liked that. Courage was a quality I valued. The quality of his argument, allied with his parliamentary courage appealed to me. I made sure he received an invitation to my next soirée.

I watched him carefully from a distance. He mixed easily. People seemed to like him. He had charm. These were good qualities. I needed a protegé who had a good chance of being able to take advantage of the opportunities I could provide. I knew all the leading politicians, and Turnberry Pike provided the perfect setting for a salon. If I had a new wing built, I could provide a ball room, a billiard room for the men, and a grand dining room which could host larger gatherings than the old eighteenth century one I currently used. I had the thing in my head. But I needed the right man.

I am sure that my nieces would think this a dreadfully utilitarian way of thinking about men. It is no more so than how they think about us. They want to fuck us, breed us and have us organise their domestic comfort. I wanted none of that. I wanted power, and given the right man, I could exercise it by proxy.

Forty passed the first part of our test by showing himself an agreeable dining companion. I deliberately sat him next to me and Mr Disraeli, the latter being as good a judge of parliamentary talent as other men are of horseflesh. He and Forty talked easily about the question of reform, and about the Queen’s seclusion at Windsor following Prince Albert’s death, but they were also able to discourse on lighter topics such as the boat race and the price of oysters. It was fun to watch Dizzy put him through his paces. Oh how I could have done that but for the sex I was born in. Damned unfair.

Still, as Kate commented as she used her mouth to pleasure my aching wet cunny, we could be the puppet masters. I pulled her up to share my taste on her lips, and on a sudden had an urge for her.

“Kate, you are so beautiful, I want your back avenue, and I want it now. I have the fake truncheon here, belt it on me.”

“Oh Frances, please treat me as your bitch!”

I loved the way she caressed my arse with her hands and lips as she helped strap on the fake truncheon. We had them from a woman in Paris who kept an exclusive whore house where high-class canlı bahis siteleri pinchcocks dealt with the needs of those Englishmen who needed strict discipline. There were, it seemed, men who liked their arses impaled by women, and the Abbess (as we called Madams in those days) had found by trial and error a fool-proof way of equipping women with the desired equipment. Kate and I loved the ebony one she was strapping to my thighs and around my waist, her butterfly kisses on my arse globes.

I loved the way that, naked, she would present herself to me shamelessly. Her cloven inlet glistened with her gooey juices, while her arse-hole quivering in anticipation, lay displayed in its musky glory.

Slowly my fingers transferred her juices to her arse-hole, and my truncheon began to push and rim her there. But I had a surprise for her, knowing that her husband liked that place, I had decided to use her like a real man would – and even as she was moaning, my phallus slipped downwards and pushed firmly into her cunt. I had not seen her this wild.

Kate’s fleshy globes pushed back at me, engulfing my fake phallus, her swollen lips almost turning inside out with the thrust both ways. Winding my fingers in her long dark hair, I pulled her back, her neck snapping upwards as her back arched. She was lost, panting like a little bitch on heat and swearing like a bunter.

“Oh God, Oh God, use me like a Cheapside whore Frances, use me, fuck my dirty quim, take me!”

The last word came out like a long drawn out moan as I rammed into her fleshy arse. Her cheeks quivered as I slammed against them.

“Are you a lady or a whore, Kate?”

I growled the words, knowing what aroused her sexual ardour.

“A whore, Frances, a dirty Bunter, used by you whenever … oh fuck, fuck, take me!”

To hear Lady Kate swearing like a Bunter excited us both, and I redoubled my efforts, swiving her as her beau would, had she the taste for one. The exertion made me pant, but the wonderful think about the fake phallus was one never got a case of lobcock, it remained firm to the end.

As I plunged into her, she redoubled her efforts, pushing back and screaming about what a whore she was and how she needed to be treated like one. Happy to oblige my lady love, I drove deep as she fumbled with her love button before making a loud moan, which became almost a keening sounds as her sweet death overcame her and she collapsed, moaning, still impaled, onto our bed.

Our sweat mingled, and it felt as though we were one. I kissed the back of her neck and stroked her hair. How good this felt. The desires of men were urgent and forceful, and there were times when that was what a girl wanted; indeed, I had just delivered a version of that to Lady Kate. But now, as my phallus disengaged and she snuggled into my arms, came the love of women. There was a softness, and intimacy, a sharing. Unstrapping my appendage, I took her in my arms and we cuddled intimately.

At such moments I could begin to imagine a different world. Why should what we were doing now have some sort of taboo attached to it? It was love, and love in a pure form. It shared pleasure in a way women wanted it. Was the world so male-orientated that there was no room for it? Would we always have our bodies so wrapped away under layers of clothing, would we always be expected to “obey” as well as to “love” and to “honour?” Would we always lie outside the political world?

The world was what it was, and sighing, I slid my thigh between Kate’s legs and pressed, the way she loved it. Her sighs were my joy, and we fondled and touched and kissed. It was enough in itself and needed no destination. We stopped and started as we needed and felt the urge. Finally we decided that with evening approaching, we had best prepare for it, and, disentangling, looked lovingly at each other before dressing.

Such moments of intimacy created oases for us in what was in truth a desert. Jem Salisbury was hardly the only husband who thought a bit of rutting and spilling his seed in his wife’s cloven inlet was all that was needful. I never met a man, and I have been married four times, who realised that women have sexual needs, let alone that they are not the same as those of men. As receptacles for male potency we had our uses, but one only had to see the number of names for whores to know that for many men any woman would do. This was why I had created my own sapphist sisterhood.

But power was the strictest of mistresses, and it was, I concluded, time to move on Forty and use him to satisfy my real desire.

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