Lord Carey's Inheritance

This place is cold and the people are uncouth. The days are interminable but the nights are longer. At dusk a dank, chill air creeps in from the estuary, heavy with the stink of rot that rises from the marshes. Who knows what bones and flesh lie mouldering there?

Last night, I did not sleep. At midnight there began a howling - whether human or animal I cannot say. It only ceased with the dawn, which seeped in grey and dismal. There followed an angry sun, rising red as an unburst blister through tatters of crow-black cloud.

I sat on my bed and wept, my head in my hands. What desperate pass have I come to? Can I ever hope for relief?

But I must think on happier matters. Yesterday, I wrote an account of my journey from Venice to Mountjoy – the journey I made post-haste to claim my inheritance on receiving news of my father's demise. I wrote of meeting the Lady Arabella, my father's widow, as soon as I arrived - and of my passage of arms with her upon my bed while her debauched maid, Dotty, looked on and frigged herself. And then, exhausted, I fell into a deep, unbroken sleep, from which I only awoke in the small hours of the following morning.

~

I came to myself both muzzy and confused, and it took me some time to realise that I was not in the Venetian palazzo I had so recently vacated but in my room at Mountjoy Hall – of which I was now sole lord and master. I lay for moments longer, intending to sleep again, but it came to me that I was gripped by a powerful hunger. I had not eaten, I realised, for more than a day.

I rolled out of bed, donned a dressing gown and lit a candle. Then I made my way down to the kitchens, where I roused the sleeping scullions with kicks and curses. The wretches were damnably tardy but I was brought meat and drink at last – a plate of cold beef with horseradish and a flagon of indifferent wine. I cursed them again for furnishing me with such paltry fare, but set to with a relish, and soon had devoured all.

Having eaten, I bethought me of the future and, to make a start, I called for Hodge, the major-domo. It took him some time to appear and, when he did so – still wearing night-gown and cap, his habitual obsequiousness much over-bleared with sleep - I was in no mood for further delay.

"My father's keys? Where are they?" I snapped at him.

"The Lady Arabella has them, my Lord," he replied with quavering voice.

"Are those the only keys in the house?"

Hesitation betrayed his duplicity outright.

"Come, you old thief," I roared. "You have a set as well. Deliver them instanter or I swear I'll break every bone in your miserable, scrofulous frame."

He bowed his head and crept off. Minutes later he was back, the keys in his hand. I took them from him. It was a fine, heavy bunch, all threaded on an iron ring. I put the keys in my pocket, and then, thinking to retire to my bed again until the new day broke, I told Hodge to send Dotty to me. Then I returned to my room.

When the maid arrived I was already abed. She looked attractively dishevelled in the candle-light, with stray locks of hair escaping from her mobcap. I threw off my bedcovers to expose my rampant prick.

"Suck that 'til I spend," I said, "or 'til I sleep – whichever is the sooner."

She smiled and bent to her task. I closed my eyes. My father had been right, as was the Lady Arabella: Dotty had the tongue of an angel, but with all the devil's tricks. Her lips mumbled delicately upon my cock and her tongue flicked naughtily at my naked helm. I remember I tried to hold off but all too soon I was jerking and gushing. Dotty continued to suck as my prick subsided. I drifted into sleep like that – with my now limp member ensheathed in her liquid mouth.

When I woke again I was alone. First light was trickling through the curtains. I stretched and yawned, then got out of bed and dressed. I felt refreshed and glad to be alive. And I was eager to survey my new domain.

Outside my room, to the left, lay my sisters' chamber – the room they shared – and beyond that my father's study. I went there now, reaching for the keys Hodge had surrendered to me in the night. But I had no need of them. The door was open.

I went in. The room was as I remembered it: Turkey rugs on the floor, two armchairs by the fire, a huge globe of the world in one corner, a day bed, a chest and a bureau. I went to the bureau first, rolled up the shutter and tried the drawers. All opened without resistance. Inside I found papers, both single and bundled, but all promiscuously heaped. My father, it seemed, had little method in keeping his correspondence.

I rifled through what was there but found little of interest. Most were documents to do with the estate, and other legal-looking things I had no patience to scrutinize at length. There were also a number of IOUs – from gambling, I fancied, most written at White's in London, the famous gaming club. These interested me more and I made a mental note to call in those debts. Money in others' pockets, after all, is money one cannot spend oneself.

I soon tired of the bureau, and the chest was no better. When I lifted the lid I found only clothes. At the side of the room, however, lay a door I knew to lead to my father's 'Cabinet' – a chamber that had always intrigued me, since, as a boy, I had been forbidden to enter it.

I tried it now. The door was locked.

Undeterred, my first recourse was to the keys. But none fitted the lock, which was small and fine. Having tried them all, I stood for a moment in thought, then went back to the bureau and examined it again – tapping and searching now for a hidden compartment.

It took some time, but I discovered it. If one removed a certain drawer, one found a space behind it. And in the wall of that space was a lever. I pressed it and another drawer sprang out. I heard it first, but had to search to locate it. It was underneath the bureau's writing ledge. Inside this hidden drawer, I found a key – delicate, small and silvery. This key I tried in the Cabinet's lock. It fitted. The tumblers turned. I pushed and the door swung open. I had penetrated my father's secret lair.

To many people, I suppose, a cabinet is a mere cupboard, but my father's Cabinet was a room in its own right. In fact, I realised as soon as I entered it that the Cabinet was only a little smaller than the study I had just vacated. But, unlike the study, this room was packed with treasures. Books loaded oaken shelves, which were protected behind glass doors, and wide wooden drawers were arranged below them, each with an engraved plaque affixed, to indicate its contents.

I looked around me with a sort of wonder. On the wall to my left was a picture – the famous Rokeby Venus. It was only, of course, a copy, but the sight of that magnificent female arse still sent a shiver through me. So this, I thought, was what my father gazed on when he sequestered himself from the world.

I hurried to the bookshelves. Every volume, I soon realised, was erotic in nature. There was, I remember, Cleland's 'Fanny Hill', bound in fetching red morocco, and 'The Lustful Turk, or Lascivious Scenes from a Harem', by John Benjamin Brookes, leather-cased in simple black. Both of these I had read already at my boarding school, there having been a brisk trade in erotic literature between the boys during my sojourn there. But others I had never seen before: 'Gamiani, or Two Nights of Excess' by de Musset, for example, and 'Venus in the Cloister or The Nun in her Smock', by the admirably named Abbé du Prat. There were, in fact, too many books to mention; my father's shelves almost groaned beneath their load of forbidden delights.

One title, however, caught my eye especially: 'The Exhibition of Female Flagellants' by Theresa Berkley. Although I did not know the book, I had heard of Mrs. Berkley, who ran, I had been told, a house of particular pleasure somewhere near London's Portland Place. I put the volume aside, with a view to perusing it later.

Then I turned my attention to the drawers. These contained pictures - both sketches and engravings. There were hundreds of them, large and small. Their subjects ranged from single depictions of the female form – mostly déshabillé and many in lewd poses - to detailed representations of the orgiastic, with men and women entangled in multiple embraces, some of such fiendish complexity that I was at first unsure who did what to whom.

I spent a long time leafing through those pictures, and I confess I was aroused by what I saw. And when I opened the fifth or sixth drawer in the series I received an agreeable surprise. In that drawer lay a full set of engravings of the Sixteen Postures of Raimondi, with the appropriate part of Aretino's 'Sonnetti Lussuriosi' printed beneath each one. I knew them, of course, from my recent journeys through Europe with Dr. Meecham, whose passion, nay obsession, those engravings were.

All sixteen were there: Venus Genetrix, Paris and Oenone, Angelique and Medor, The Satyr and the Nymph, Messalina in the Booth of Lisica, and so on. I chuckled to myself. Perhaps, I thought, my father had chosen Dr. Meecham for my tutor as a result of a mutual interest. He certainly appeared to have been a connoisseur. I knew from Meecham that few of Raimondi's originals had survived. My father, it seemed, had acquired a set of excellent reproductions.

I confess, however, that the Postures did little to augment my already burgeoning lust. There was a brutish directness to them, I grant you, but their classical settings made them somewhat cold for me. I was more drawn to the Modern than the Ancient, so I closed the drawer that contained those pictures and turned once more to Theresa Berkley's volume - 'The Exhibition of Female Flagellants'. However, in doing so I noticed a slight indentation in the wall to my left and, investigating further, discovered a disguised screen, perhaps six inches by six, which, though set almost flush with the wall, could, with a little patience, be pried aside. The thought was no sooner formed than the action ensued and, on sliding it sideways thus, a slit was revealed. I put my eye to the slit with avid curiosity, and was rewarded with a clear view into my twin sisters' sumptuous bedroom.

Both were asleep. Although they were now in their twenty-second year, they still shared a bed. I saw on the pillow their two heads with tousled locks - fine gold beside fine gold - as they lay there, side by side. Juliet's arm lay limp across her sister, Julia's, shoulder. The covers had a fallen away. I saw the rise and fall of Juliet's breast beneath her chemise as she breathed.

I was lost in contemplation for some time, and my father's motive in manufacturing this peep-hole was not the least of my imaginings. Were my sisters unaware of this puncture to their privacy? Did they have any inkling at all that my father had watched them so?

So rapt was I, in fact, that I was taken unawares when suddenly, and seemingly from nowhere, two smooth arms snaked in about my waist. I felt her breasts press warm against my back. Then Lady Arabella breathed into my open ear.

"So you have found it, my Lord," she whispered. "I often performed a service for your father as he stood here, watching thus."

I gulped, I fancy. "What service, madam?" I asked her – and in reply she fumbled at my breeches, unfastening the buttons and delving for my prick.

I tried to turn, but she restrained me.

"Peep in upon them, Jonathan," she said. "Peep on them as I work." And, saying that, she began to stroke my tarse, sliding her practised fingers up and down the length.

The joys of the voyeur, the Peeping Tom, had hitherto been foreign to me, but now, with Arabella pressing against my back - her warm breath in my ear, her bosom heaving - I was seized by a species of excitement I had never known before. Her fingers urged me to ecstasy, and that ecstasy was doubled by the fact that she shared it with me – that we were equally immersed in this furtive, breathless scene.

I do not know how long I stood there, with Arabella's hand so obligingly squeezing my shaft. Certainly, it cannot have been very long; my seed was rising urgently almost as soon as she began. But, however long it took, I remember the intensity of the moment when my sperm shot forth and spattered on the wall before me. I swear I nearly swooned from the sheer passion of it!

When I had finished, she turned me round and, dropping to her knees, put lips to prick. She cleansed me for a moment with her tongue, then, gently, tenderly, tucked my member back inside my breeches and refastened them. Then she stood up.

"Will you have breakfast now, my Lord?" she asked. "The servants have prepared all. It waits below."

I heaved a contented sigh, then, pausing only to take Mrs Berkley's book from where I had left it, I locked the Cabinet door and followed my stepmother down the stairs to break my fast for the second time that morning.

*

After I had breakfasted, I spent the forenoon riding round the estate, inspecting the Home Farm and checking on my tenants. They were, altogether, a surly, ill-favoured lot. They bowed and tugged their forelocks well enough, but there was no warmth in their greeting. Many scowled, in fact, and I saw one spit on the ground. I vowed to raise their rents forthwith, to encourage a greater respect.

I visited McCallum, too – my father's steward. Red-faced and flustered at my unannounced arrival, he ushered me into his cottage with much bowing and scraping. I wondered how many guineas a year he had stolen from my father and now planned to purloin from me.

In his parlour, he pulled down a dusty tome from an equally dusty shelf and proposed to review the accounts with me then and there. It seemed a dull task, but we made a start on it. I leafed through some pages for appearance's sake, but the spidery writing and the columns of tiny figures were no better than Greek to my eyes. I left off staring at his crabbed ledger after a little while, but warned him I would be back to scrutinize his work more thoroughly as soon as I had the time. Then, released from that arithmetical tedium, I mounted my horse and cantered back to the Hall.

Once there, I repaired immediately to my chamber and spent the remainder of the day reading Theresa Berkley's book. I found her style exquisite and the illustrations more than arousing. It was only with the greatest difficulty that I tore myself away when the time for Supper came.

We were four at Supper – myself, Julia, Juliet, and Arabella. My sisters greeted me as sisters should, with respectful kisses on the cheek and inquiries about my time abroad. I recounted my travels to them and observed them in turn as I ate. Both were now in full womanly bloom, with their hair piled up as if for a ball. They were dressed in matching ivory silks, set off by glistening pearls. Lady Arabella, in contrast, wore red and black. There were diamonds at her throat and her auburn hair cascaded to her naked shoulders in a proudly riotous fall. I was in the company, I realised, of the three most desirable women in the county.

Despite my father's recent death, there was no solemnity about us. We drank freely during the meal and soon became jolly. We began with champagne, then took Sancerre with our fish, a claret with the beef that followed, and sweet sherry with the syllabub. I completed the meal with brandy, in which Arabella joined me. My sisters continued to sip their wine.

When we were finished and the table had been cleared, Arabella dismissed the servants but called for Dotty. My sisters, I noticed, exchanged a knowing look. This piqued my curiosity.

"Why so arch?" I asked them. "What is it you know that I do not?"

"All will be revealed, Brother," answered Julia. "But you should be informed that there have been changes to our routine since last you were at Mountjoy. When Lady Arabella joined us, our father instituted, at her urging, a tradition of evening entertainments, which have brightened our existence immeasurably. I hope they are to your liking. At present, we see no reason to discontinue the practice, notwithstanding our father's death."

I glanced at Arabella and saw her smile. Juliet, I noticed, squirmed a little in her seat, as if barely able to conceal some deep excitement. I wondered what lay in store. At that moment, Dotty entered.

She came to the table and curtsied, then stood there silent, her hands folded demurely before her and her eyes cast down. Despite her humble demeanour, however, I discerned the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. Her cheeks were rosy and had dimples in them.

Arabella looked round the assembled company.

"As Lord Jonathan knows," she told my sisters, "Dotty has once again been impertinent. It is, as you aware, her constant failing. Yesterday, she performed her habitual act of lewdness in my presence. I have no need," she added to my sisters, "to remind you of what that is."

Julia smiled. Juliet gave out a little gasp and buried her hands in her lap beneath the table.

Arabella went on: "During the execution of the act, Dotty brought herself to climax. And that, of course, was against my express wishes, since I had given her no permission to complete her pleasure. Consequently she must be punished. I hope you all agree?"

"Oh, yes!" breathed Juliet. "She must be punished!" A flush, I saw, had risen to her cheek. Her eyes were shining.

"Indeed," said Julia, "the hussy must be whipped. Otherwise, the servants will lose all sense of order."

Arabella glanced at me, with an eyebrow raised. "And you, Lord Jonathan? Do you concur?" she asked.

I felt a deep pang rising from bowels to prick.

"If this is now the custom of the house," I answered, "I see no reason to deny it."

Arabella clapped her hands. "Very well," she said. "Then we are agreed. Dotty, go and fetch the apparatus!"

The maid curtsied again and, with a broad smile now – no longer, it seemed, concealing her complicity in what was about to transpire –, she went to the farthest corner of the room and dragged out a trestle made of polished wood. It was luxuriously padded, I saw, in fine red leather, with iron manacles attached to the legs. She brought this object to the table and unfolded it before us. Then, unbidden, Dotty bent across the trestle and, reaching behind her, abruptly flipped up her skirts. The round globes of her buttocks were revealed in all their glory. Pertly plump, they gleamed an invitation in the candlelight.

"Perhaps," said Arabella, "you ladies will oblige with the restraints?"

Julia and Juliet stood up instantly and, each taking an arm, they manacled Dotty's wrists to the far legs of the trestle, then did the same with those that fitted round her ankles. Julia bent down and stroked the maid's face. "I hope," she told her, "that you derive as much instruction from tonight as I believe we shall."

"Oh yes, Miss Julia," breathed the girl, so low I could barely hear it. "I hope to receive as much instruction as my Lady is pleased to grant me."

"Then let us begin," said Arabella and, rising, she strode towards her maid.

I do not know where the riding crop had come from, but suddenly it was in her right hand. She raised it above Dotty's buttocks, then, pausing, reached down with her left and stroked those lustrous globes with her fingertips. Even at that delicate touch, Dotty let out a startled gasp.

Arabella, crop still in hand, now took a grip on both cheeks and pried them apart, revealing the hidden star and, lower down, the pink, bifurcate swell of Dotty's sex.

"Is that not a fine, luscious cunt, Lord Jonathan?" asked Arabella. "Is it not a rich furrow for pleasuring?"

I agreed. Julia leant towards me.

"Soon, Brother," she told me, "you will see how hot she becomes under our stepmother's ministrations. Her little twot releases a fine stream I can assure you. She is as juicy as a tender peach in summer."

Arabella now was angling the crop. She stood for a moment, taking aim, with the leather tongue at the crop's end dangling limp. Then she snapped it suddenly on Dotty's buttocks with a penetrating crack that split the air. The girl yelped and her body arched in protest. She would, I am sure, have risen to her feet had the manacles not held her tight in place.

"It must be demeaning, must it not, to be bound just so across a whipping horse?" mused Julia coolly. "To have, that is, one's nether parts exposed to any who care to look, while one is helpless to prevent it all the while."

I was about to answer but, hearing a rustling to my left, looked round instead. There, Juliet was hitching up her skirt and petticoats. Even as I watched, her hand reached in beneath the layered folds.

Julia laid her hand on mine.

"Our sister becomes quite heated by entertainments of this sort," she told me with a smile. "Her fingers are her faithful accomplices on these occasions."

I looked back at Arabella. Sure again of our attention, she delivered a second blow to Dotty's vulnerable behind. The leather snapped and the girl gave another cry.

"Six more, I think," said Arabella. "Then we move on to something more ... amusing."

Those flicks with the crop, I came to realise, were just a simple entrée - a foretaste of the richer pleasures to come. When six more blows had been administered, my sister Julia rose and fetched a second implement from the armoire at the end of the room. This was not the birch bundle I had been expecting, having myself been subjected to beatings at school. It was, instead, a slender rod, some three feet or more in length. Julia swished it through the air as she carried it back to us.

"It is, in fact, a willow branch," explained Lady Arabella, "soaked for a day and a night in brine, to give added weight and suppleness. I think you, and Dotty here, will find it most effective."

She took the rod from Julia and laid it against Dotty's rear.

"Are you ready, girl?" she asked her, and Dotty murmured "Yes."

"Louder!" commanded Arabella. "Are you ready?"

"Yes!" cried Dotty. "Oh, yes!"

And at that Arabella set to.

I had, of course, seen servants whipped before – and a whore once, too, at a show in a Naples brothel. But never had I seen such artistry. Arabella wielded the switch with such precision, with such delicate changes of tempo and such terrible power, that I swear I flinched from every stroke myself, even as they fell on Dotty's delicious posterior.

She gave her four at first, in swift succession. So fast was the rain of blows that Dotty's cries merged into one another, there being no time for her to recover from one before the next assault began. Then Arabella paused. She stood a while with her head on one side, smiling, and listening to Dotty's gasps and moans. Arabella then glanced at me and inserted a single digit between the maid's still quivering thighs. Still holding my eye, she traced with her finger gently down Dotty's slit, causing the girl to shiver with delight. And, when Arabella drew away that finger, we saw in the candlelight a silver, gossamer string, which stretched, fine and beaded, like a spider's thread in dew, from fingertip to open cunt.

"You see, my Lord, how mouillée she becomes?" asked Arabella. "The whipping excites her so, her juice leaks out."

"She has the juiciest cunt in all creation!" cried Juliet suddenly. I could not help but look at her and saw that her face was pink. The hand between her thighs was feverish now. She fairly bounced on her seat as she frigged herself. Everyone laughed.

"Oh, Sister!" said Julia. "You may not be ladylike but you are completely natural!"

But Juliet paid no attention. "Flog her some more!" she commanded Arabella. "Make the little bitch beg for mercy! Do it to her!"

And Arabella, with smiling eyes, obliged.

It took some time to complete the dozen strokes. Arabella teased her victim without mercy, tricking her into thinking a stroke would land when no blow came, then striking suddenly when the maid had relaxed a little. By the end, Dotty was wriggling and gasping in an obscure mélange of pain and ecstasy – and her behind was very sore.

When the final blow had landed, Julia and Juliet hurried over to inspect the wheals that had sprung up on Dotty's rump. They seemed expert in the art, and both congratulated Arabella on the proximity of the stripes. Then, the inspection over, they undid the manacles and released the maid. Dotty stood up and curtsied, and Arabella, with generous condescension, told her she might sit on the floor and frig for the remainder of the evening.

"And tonight you may climax as often as you wish," she added, kindly.

I first thought Dotty would be incapable of anything more that night, on account of the sting in her tail, but she sat herself down forthwith and, gathering up her skirts, bared her damp quim and began to play upon it. She closed her eyes as she frigged and soon was lost in a world of private delights.

Meanwhile, Julia and Juliet were unhooking Arabella's dress. I looked at them askance, but when they caught my eye they only smiled to themselves. I held my peace, waiting to see what would come of it.

All was soon revealed. Once the hooks were undone, Arabella's garment fell from her and she stood in just her corset with the fallen dress at her feet. She was, as I already knew, a fine figure of a woman. The corset, like her dress, was black and red, studded here and there with rhinestones. But the most striking thing about it was its brevity. It ended at her waist. Below that, all was bare.

I could not keep myself from staring at her ginger muff. (And why, I thought, should I try to disguise my interest, when all was on open display?) Arabella, feeling my gaze upon her, looked straight at me and traced a finger down her sex, as she earlier had with Dotty's. Then Julia spoke:

"Do you desire, my Brother, to see the beater beaten?"

It took me a moment to understand her meaning. Then, when I did, my prick stood up to attention instantly.

"Do you mean -?" I gasped.

"Yes, Brother, I do mean it. Our stepmother is no hypocrite," said Julia. "She is not one to prescribe a medicine she will not take herself. The Lady Arabella revels in the lash's sting just as much as she relishes inflicting it."

And, with that, my sisters took Arabella by the arms and bent her headfirst over the whipping horse.

"Who will be first to try her?" asked Julia sweetly.

"I will! I will!" cried the breathless Juliet.

And Julia, smiling still, handed her the willow rod.

I have not said how I felt at discovering my sisters' attachment to these pleasures. When I had last been at Mountjoy they had comported themselves just as proper ladies do; but now they were furies, given over entirely to lust. That was a shock, I grant you – but a shock that stiffened my prick. I had no time for disapproval of their actions; I was all agog to see what they would do next.

Juliet took the willow rod from Julia and turned to me briefly.

"Now you will see, Brother, how Lady Arabella comports herself. You will see her soul – her very essence." And, with that, she brought the rod down on Arabella's naked buttocks in a swishing, crashing blow.

I flinched, as I had at Dotty's beating, but – remarkably - Arabella hardly moved. Unmanacled, she merely lounged across the horse, as if relaxing in her own boudoir. After the blow had landed she looked back over her shoulder and smiled at Juliet.

"Thank you, my dear," she said. "That was most stimulating. Perhaps you could oblige me with some more?"

And Juliet did oblige. She stood back and took aim at our stepmother's wonderful rump – round as twin melons with a valley of delight between - then let fly with the rod. The second blow landed smartly, and then a third, but Arabella continued nonchalant. After Juliet's fourth stroke she gave a little sigh; after the fifth, she purred. I saw red wheals begin to start out from her skin, but Arabella was not discomfited. After the sixth and final stroke, she rose and kissed Juliet on the lips, slowly and lingeringly.

"Thank you again, my dear," she said. "You did that prettily."

Then it was Julia's turn. I was struck by the contrast in their styles. Where Juliet was all heat – all fire and passion – Julia was coolly calculating; aloof and a little amused. She too took aim at Arabella's arse, but drew the moment out. There was a delicious hiatus of uncertainty, then, when the stroke was finally unleashed, it was sharp and deadly – a sudden harsh assault that gave no quarter. This time the victim gasped and her buttocks shook. I saw she was breathing hard and sweat stood out upon her back.

"Ha, Madam! I have found you out!" crowed Julia, smiling.

"Indeed you have," panted Arabella. "Pray, plumb me a little deeper, if you please."

Julia took her time. As Arabella had with Dotty, she tortured her with waiting. Each blow took an age to arrive – but when it did, each one evoked a more vigorous response from the lady who suffered it. Julia made our stepmother wriggle and groan; then she cried out at last - and finally she screamed. I saw the light of satisfaction rise in Julia's eyes.

After six strokes had been administered, Julia paused. Arabella began to stand upright, but Julia put a hand in the small of her back and pushed her firmly down.

"It is I who decides the punishment, my Lady," Julia told her. "Six may be customary, but customs may be broken."

Arabella meekly resumed her former position and presented her behind - and Julia administered three more strokes of such cruel force I thought real damage would be done. But Arabella stood up at the end with a smile - though her legs, I noticed, trembled. She embraced Julia and kissed her lovingly, as she had with Juliet. Then she turned her face to me.

"Do you, Lord Jonathan," she asked, "wish to essay this pleasure?"

At first I was uncertain as to her meaning. I knew for certain I was damned if I would submit to her lash – or to my sisters' either, for that matter. I paused a moment, then asked her to make her meaning plainer. In answer, she proffered me the rod and turned on her heel.

"I meant, my Lord," she said, "that you may like to play upon my derrière as the ladies have done. I would appreciate your masculine force. I am sure there is strength in your wrist."

She stroked her damaged behind in clear invitation. Julia turned to me.

"Our father used to beat her twice a week," she told me. "He said that it made her biddable."

"And so it does, my Lord," said Arabella. "So what you would you bid me do?"

I took the rod and gestured towards the trestle.

"Bend over, then," I said, and my voice was thick.

The lady complied at once. I took my stance behind her and, glancing at my sisters, saw the glee that sprang up in their eyes.

"Make her squeal, my Brother. Make it sting!" urged Julia softly.

I turned back to Arabella and addressed myself to my task.

You may be surprised to learn that I had never beaten a woman. I had been too busy fucking 'em to think of other pleasures. But now, with Arabella bending there before me, I felt a thrill of discovery: a vicious delight. I made her wait for a moment; all breaths were bated. Then I brought the rod down on her arse with a smack that rent the air.

I was pleased to hear her yelp, and even more to hear the low moan that followed it. I thought it strange how a woman like Arabella could find release in pain, but that moan, I knew, had no complaint about it. It was a moan like the sound a woman makes when fucked – when a hard prick stirs her centre and her soul rises into her mouth.

I glanced towards my sisters. Juliet, standing now, was once again pressing her hand in hard between her thighs. Julia too, I noticed, was fumbling at the self-same place. Her customary reserve seemed on the edge of shattering. But then I noticed Dotty – too long forgotten and abandoned in her personal, sensual world. The maid's eyes were now wide open and, though she still frigged herself, with her shameless twot on open display, she was staring avidly at her mistress on the flogging horse. Her lips were parted and her eyes were bright as stars. Some power, some terrible current, was passing from mistress to maid. Arabella's pains, I saw, increased Dotty's pleasure a thousand-fold. It was almost as if they were one: one frame, one mind, one cunt.

I gave her ten, and after each stroke I glanced back toward Dotty. Her frigging had caught the rhythm of my blows. Her breath was ragged. And Arabella registered each stroke with a grunt – a deep, low grunt like a prize sow far gone in rut.

I should say, as well, that my cock responded too. As I played upon her rump, each crack of the rod communicated itself to my member. It urged me on to more and more extravagant action. My prick was as hard as iron. It was as obdurate as a stone.

At last I had had my fill. I stood back with the rod at my side. Arabella remained where she was: her bottom glowed. Then Julia stepped forward and laid her hand firmly on our stepmother's cunt.

"Our father," she told me, "was not used to halting there. After she has been heated so, a lady needs more than anything to be fucked."

I swear, her words transported me to heaven.

"Is that your wish, my Lady?" I asked Arabella.

Her instant reply was: "Yes!"

I wasted no more time. I undid my breeches and let them fall to my knees. My prick was rigid. I shuffled towards her and placed my cockhead against her cunt. But:

"No, no, Brother!" cried Julia and Juliet in unison. "You are still ignorant of our father's tradition!"

Puzzled, I looked round, distracted at the very moment of penetration.

"What is it?" I asked them crossly. "What would you have me do?"

"Her fundament!" hissed Juliet excitedly. "On occasions such as this, the fundament is the orifice where Arabella craves indulgence. And that was always the hole our father took her by!"

I gasped and a wave of lust near overwhelmed me. "Is this true, Madam?" I asked.

Arabella was, I think, almost beyond speech. Nevertheless, she groaned some kind of answer.

"My arse!" she breathed. "Use it, Lord Jonathan!"

With trembling fingers I adjusted my aim and pressed my cock end to her lesser hole.

"Drive in, Brother," cried Juliet. "Push in and give no quarter!"

So I pushed myself in and entered with a pop. The hole was tight and warm. Arabella responded with yet more groans. I leaned in across her back and gripped her waist. I felt like a dog on a bitch, a bull on a cow, a stallion on a mare. I pumped my loins against her and my prick thrust in still deeper. She stiffened under me, then thrust back with her hips. And so we hit our rhythm. Dark music swelled. And when my seed at last exploded in her rectum, Arabella too cried out in ecstasy.

I had at that moment, I realised, arrived. I had claimed my inheritance.

*

I was, of course, mistaken. Dusk thickens now. It will soon be too dark to write. I must desist.

Despair returns to me like an unbidden friend – or a hated acquaintance, rather, who knows me only too well.

I must endure the night. When morning comes, I shall write more of this memoir. It is my only solace.

  *